The Normanist Theory

new blog

2009-12-31T10:04:00.000-08:00

I'm attempting to start and keep up with a new blog:
http://twogirlsandaroad.wordpress.com

I hope you will visit and read and comment and all that jazz...

If you don't follow me, that's cool. I will, however, still be following you. :)

Year in Review - 2009

2009-12-30T21:10:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of year again. But, please, hold your applause until the very end. Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office deputies could shoot more people by the time I finish writing this post.

January: I totally kick ass in court! (Sadly, Mr. Dumas is dragging me back in January 2010) However, I do feel like I lose big in the White House. I’ll proudly admit that I voted for McCain/Palin because, while I like Barack well enough, I strongly believe our Commander in Chief should have some military experience. Another big win for me was finding my personal pilot in Captain Sully! I have a sickeningly phobic reaction at the thought of even getting into an airplane and the thought of it leaving the ground makes me feel…well, I dunno. I just sort of tend to black out. The good news in January is that I don’t end up in a river after I meet that creepy guy named Dole in Brunswick. Captain Sully would’ve rescued me. Maybe. Eh, probably not. Sadly, my grandmother passes away while my brother is visiting. He’s the same brother who was visiting when my other grandmother passed away in October of 2008. He’s not cursed, though, because he isn’t visiting when my house gets sprayed with shotgun shells. Or maybe I have that backwards…

February: Not even a full two weeks into the month and JSO shoots suspect #5. President Obama promises me money – it isn’t anything like what the Bank of America dudes are getting, but I’ll take whatever pennies he’s willing to shove into my cupped and begging hands. This month seems a little uneventful, though, as proven by my own personal 2009 wall calendar that screams out (with much red-inked importance!) that Elle visits the dentist twice. Nothin’ to see here, folks. Move along…

March: Does anything exciting happen during the cold months? Nope, not really. Unless you count President Obama comparing his bowling scores to those from the Special Olympics team. On late-night TV. Dumbass. There is a rather aggressive reaction by the American public when we learn just how our taxpayer-funded bank bailout is really being divvied up. And you thought your refund goodies were a bonus! It’s around this time that I publicly acknowledge on my blog how much I ******g hate my job and vow to do something about it. So, because I’m about 34% insane, I decide to go back to school and look into a useful Bachelor’s program, because working on my first degree with a full-time job and full-time mom duties didn’t make me apeshit crazy enough. My family now has only 9 months to prepare for spring semester 2010…

April: I can’t get my hands on any Purell for the office and it’s really starting to piss me off. H1N1, I just call it Piggy Flu or Hiney Flu, makes everyone absolutely batty and all of a sudden people worry about hand washing. Whatever. Nobody gave a crap about it before and I’m sure 99.9% of men still don’t wash up after touching their no-no place in the bathroom. But I brave the public and immerse myself in a crowd of a few thousand to watch Ben Folds git jiggy wit his piano. It is badass. Even better is his opening band, Jukebox the Ghost. Immediately after the show, I buy a CD and each band member signs it, except it gets hijacked by my then-7-year-old daughter. I haven’t seen this CD since May, but at least my kid isn’t listening to Hannah Montana.

May: DeAnna and Delilah visit us but I sure wish it was under better circumstances. Elle and I later visit them in York, South Carolina, where we also stop overnight at my brother’s new place in Rock Hill. It is here in the apartment complex’s pool that Elle decides to give swimming a good college try. Or even a good elementary try. She fails. Miserably. One the way home, we stop off in Pooler, Georgia, to visit the Mighty 8th Air Force Museum on Memorial Day. My grandfather was part of this and I recommend it to everyone! I can’t be more proud of Elle when she very carefully and respectfully places a small American flag near a veteran’s memorial. Well, that's not entirely true – I am extremely proud of her when she participates in her gymnastics club’s annual Flip Fest, konks her head on the uneven bars, and earns the nickname “Bar Girl”. I hope this name doesn’t follow her into her high school years…

June: On the 2nd day of the month, JSO shoots a suspect. On the 12th day of the month, JSO shoots another suspect. I lose count. Anyway, Jacksonville is hit by a MONSTER KILLER WATERSPOUT!! Just kidding, but they talk about it on the news for like five straight days and you think it takes out half of downtown or something. JSO should’ve shot it. I celebrate Father’s Day by patting myself on the back because not only am I mom, I am dad. The girl at Cold Stone Creamery puts me on hold for a good 8 minutes while I have an allergic reaction to some ingredient but instead of insisting the doctor feed me allergy pills, I beg for Yaz. It’s been a happier household ever since! Unfortunately, my 1-year Quit Anniversary is overshadowed by Farrah Fawcett’s death, which is overshadowed by Michael Jackson’s death, which is overshadowed by disbelief over Michael Jackson’s death, which is overshadowed by…oh, nevermind.

July: I drive to Savannah to meet some friends for the weekend and we decide to make another long drive to Asheville the following weekend as well. That’s a lot of driving. I do not, however, blog about my Asheville experience because, well…I couldn’t get the hell out of there quickly enough! Asheville is not the Hell of Brunswick, so I’ll give Asheville another try but I have yet to recover from Round One. Anyway, I return home eager for hurricane season, only to be disappointed months later. You’re welcome, New England.

August: I ship my daughter off to South Florida for an entire week and sit around wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do by myself for an entire week. By the time I figure it out, it’s time to go pick her up and bring her home to a redecorated bedroom and half-dead fish. At least she finally learns how to swim while she is in Fort Myers! Ted Kennedy passes away, Elle ends up hating the Edison House tour in Fort Myers, and JSO shoots another suspect. I’m beginning to detect a problem here. School starts back up again for the kid (hallelujah!) and my child care bills go waaaay down!

September: Oh my word – she’s a Girl Scout! Elle becomes a Brownie and I’m suddenly bombarded by cookie requests. Hold your fur, people. I’ll let you know when it’s cookie order day. One of my directors at work involves me in a very sexually explicit conversation about bunnies (and I had no idea!), but I will never look at her the same way again. I slam the door in the face of a would-be Senator and I FEEL NO SHAME…well, months later, at least. I did feel bad for a while, though. Art Graham is a huge supporter of JSO, our lovely police organization that manages to shoot yet another couple of suspects throughout the month of September. Maybe government-run healthcare will work for them.

October: IT’S MAH BIRTHDAY!! Guess who gets a big present on mah birthday? Obama – he’s get a damn Nobel Peace Prize! I got…a supercool insulated lunch bag. Betches!!! It’s Elle’s birthday, too. She gets earrings. That’s more bling than your stupid prize, Barack. Anyway, I survive a terribly violent and bloody cat attack and a painful yoga session with Rodney Yee, who’s been shelved since mid-October on account of me being lazy. I end up going camping with the Girl Scouts and freeze my ass off. However, with the upcoming holiday season, there is no concern about my ass not coming back.

November: I spend an entire day breathing the same recycled air as my black, married, political boyfriend – Colin Powell (squee!!!). I spend another entire week recovering from some freaky ass quasi-cold/flu (not Hiney!) and somehow manage to teach a few little Girl Scouts how to rollerskate. For FOUR FREAKIN’ HOURS. The bad germs aren’t finished with us yet. While we drive to Rock Hill, South Carolina, on Thanksgiving morning, Elle complains of a tummy ache. I should have known as soon as we hit Brunswick that the demons within the city limits would unleash themselves on us. Elle hurls all the way through Brunswick and all the way back home. Thanksgiving officially SUCKS. Wouldn’t you say so, Tiger Woods?

December: I think Tiger’s Christmas is gonna suck, too. Mine is great! I’m officially a full-time college student once again and I haven’t been shot by JSO. The kid develops a mysterious case of hives (which disappears just as mysteriously), I manage to buy four Christmas gifts for Elle while she stands right next to me, and I don’t know anyone who personally thinks putting explosives in their underpants is a good idea. However, I don’t even think flying is a good idea. Or government-run healthcare, for that matter. And, for the record, my ass came back. Mmm…cookies, cakes, pie!

JSO police shootings count as of 12/30/09: 15

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The Mighty Explosion of Tangerine Chaos!! With a matching area rug!!

2009-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

Calm.

This is how my boss views me.

“You keep me focused and you don’t feed into the chaos. How do you stay so calm?”

I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. Hell, I even quit smoking eighteen months ago. Yet I told her something like, “Well, if nobody’s bleeding profusely or dying because something has gone wrong, why worry?”

That’s pretty awesome advice, isn’t it? Too bad I can’t follow it. Although my years on Wellbutrin following my yet-to-be-shared-with-the-general-public battle with post-partum depression are far behind me, I still can’t forget how unbelievably and undeniably terrified I was of being uncomfortable.

Yep. I said uncomfortable.

Just yesterday, I removed my writing desk from my bedroom and put it in my daughter’s room. It will become her homework station/art project table/writing desk. That is our intention, at least. But if she’s anything like me, it will become another flat surface on which to throw and stack useless crap. I have to monitor this very carefully. As a result of losing a piece of furniture, I have gained an extra three feet of wall space and rearranged my own bedroom furniture to give myself even more floor space, you know, so I can do my yoga (that I’ve been talking about doing for over two months now).

The bed is now against the wall, on my left side. Positioning the bed against this wall totally opens my window and I love that! But, like I said, the bed is against the wall on my left side. This is a problem. I am left-handed and I feel absolutely crippled by the fact that everything within reach of the bed is also what is in reach of my right hand. I’m so out of whack right now. My world is jerky, uneven, severely unbalanced, and right-handed.

How freakin’ lame is that?!

As if that wasn’t neurotic enough, wait’ll I tell you about my nervous stomach, my rapid/non-existent breathing patterns, the lightheadedness, the tingly sensation in my extremities, the dry mouth that I’m convinced will make me swallow my own tongue before the week is over. There, I guess I just told you about it.

And how freakin’ lame is it that right now, at this very moment, I’m having one of the most intense anxiety attacks I’ve had all year…over a new comforter.

This new comforter, which I will refer to from now on as The Mighty Explosion of Tangerine Chaos, is on my bed. I am also on my bed, trying to absorb the good vibes that everyone else has been able to pick up from The Mighty Explosion of Tangerine Chaos’ feel-good aura. If comforters could have auras.

I am all about color, don’t get me wrong. I even had to be the one to convince my mother to paint the living room in a terracotta shade. I am the one who chose to cover my own bedroom walls in a deep, dark purple and then, just last year, turn it around into a cake-batter yellow – the current wall color. It’s gray and cold and miserably wintery outside and I need, desperately need, warm colors. The cranberry reds, the chocolate browns, the cozy caramels – the tangerines?

It’s a beautiful color and The Mighty Explosion of Tangerine Chaos is a lovely comforter. Really, it is. Did I mention that it is striped? Yes, it does somewhat remind me of those ten cent candy sticks in the general store section of a Cracker Barrel and I feel like I’m living in Lollipop Land.

My parents like it, my daughter likes it, my cat likes it, the mother/daughter duo from Target liked it, and even the lady at Sears who sold it to me liked it. I like it, too. I think. No, no…I do. The Mighty Explosion of Tangerine Chaos is the warm, summery color I needed in this bedroom to get me through the next few months. Is it the color? Would I not be so screwed up if I was right-handed? Is that what’s causing this feeling of being so uprooted and unsettled?

Why, oh why, can’t I just be $%^#^!@ normal?

The Christmas Hangover

2009-12-26T09:22:00.000-08:00

Santa was good to us this year.

Elle woke me up around 7:30 on Christmas morning and was quick to rally the troops around the tree. It was full of gifts and the kid had contained her excitement for as long as was humanly possible. Which, in all honesty (and in the mind of anyone who cares for small children), means she lasted about three full minutes after getting out of bed.

The gifts were opened very carefully, not as violently as when I was a kid...surprise, surprise. In fact, we had to tell Elle to hurry it up since we were all getting hungry (and in this family, hunger leads to grouchiness - like houseplants, we wither without food first thing in the morning). I love how everyone got what they wanted and I'm especially proud of how grateful my daughter is for everything she received. Even the dogs got gifts.

However, Jack Mikerson (the dachsund) became a little greedy after his first taste of PPPPRRREEESSSEEENNTTTSS!!! and we found him nibbling on the other dog's gift, Elle's new latte scented lip glosses, or my brother's Vanilla Cupcake candle. Jack eventually got what was coming when Elle chased him around the house with her remote control car, aptly named The Sorceror, the master of mobile magic, the protector of yummy-scented Christmas gifts, the wizard of I'ma kick dat dog's ass!!

Oh, the things that make us smile.

I fell asleep at 10:30 last night (I don't usually go to bed until midnight). Considering I sat on my ass all day yesterday, I did find myself involved in physical activities - such as unwrapping gifts, shoveling food into my mouth, crossing and uncrossing my legs while watching "Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian", and shoveling even more food into my mouth. Let's not forget when the pies and pannetone were unveiled since this led to yet another round of shoveling food into my mouth.

And to my own amazement, I can still type this blog on account of my arms staying intact. Forks are not that heavy. I did play with a Bow & Arrow set in between rounds of stuffing my face and that's considered a sport. Thank goodness, I have that to feed my self-esteem. (Again with the feeding)

So Elle and I sit here today, in a quiet house due to the Crazy After-Christmas Sales Extravaganza for which I did not get an invitation. Only crazy people get this invitation. I have all week to make returns and go shopping since I do not have to return to work until Monday, January 4th. So while the wackadoos duke it out for parking spaces and test their own stamina in the return lanes, I am home watching "Chowder" and listening to baby animals cry and burp on Elle's new Nintendo DS game.

Jack Mikerson is snuggled up right next to me, afraid of leaving the couch for fear that The Sorceror (aaaahhh!!!) will chase him down once again. Little does he know the battery died an hour ago.

One more year

2009-12-18T17:45:00.000-08:00

Elle's at that age when she's beginning to question Santa's existence. She is asking if he's a real person or a spirit, if he brings gifts to little girls who backtalk their moms, and if he might have a tummy ache from all the cookies he eats before he gets to her house. She has even written him a Christmas list with a P.S. at the end explaining that her friends think he's a fakey but that she still thinks he's real.

I think this is our last year of Santa. Or of believing in a child's Santa, at least. And it makes me a little sad. Our children have to grow up so quickly these days and it's just not fair. To them or to us.

They can't rides their bikes around the neighborhood alone anymore. They can't play dodgeball at school anymore. They can't go to music class, or art class, or P.E. anymore. They can't even watch Cookie Monster anymore because Cookie Monster teaches them bad eating habits and will make them fat. They can't go to the toy section alone in a department store anymore while their parents shop for barbecue grills, bathroom towels, or something else equally boring. They can't come directly home from school anymore because both of their parents work (if they're lucky enough to have two parents). They can't listen to the radio anymore without hearing "ass", "crap", or "damn". They can't watch a television show with their parents anymore without being reminded that an erection lasting more than 4 hours requires emergency medical intervention.

STOP IT. Just stop it. Can't they just be kids, for cryin' out loud?

And this is why it makes me a little bit sad. I was into the whole Santa thing for a long time and would have continued to be had my older brother not shown me the stash in Mom and Dad's closet. And it probably happened at a reasonable age...eleven or twelve. An age when I had yet to learn about birth control (or even birth, for that matter) and had probably just seen my first boob on TV.

"Mommy, do you believe in Santa?"

And I told her the story, a very true story, of when I was in a panic about being able to get her what she really wanted for Christmas one year: The Disney Princess Vanity Table.

"Would you believe that I didn't have enough money to buy you that gift? That I was around $50 short of being able to afford it? And that a very generous man I worked with handed out gift cards to our entire staff? That my gift card was worth $50?"

She smiled..."So, what happened?"

"Of course, I got you that vanity table!"

"I remember that!"

"And just a few days ago, I got an unexpected bill in the mail. But I also received an unexpected gift yesterday that included a $100 bill."

She put two and two together. "Santa did that?"

"I think so."

And she believes. And so do I. It's hard for me to not look at each coincidence as of late. The fact that financial aid paid for my APA Manual. The fact that Elle's school daycare waived the December fees. The fact that my lawyer didn't ask for a $5000 (yes, folks - five thousand dollars) re-hire fee. The fact that so many of my co-workers were kind enough to send me home with gifts for myself and my daughter.

My obvious issue is money. But around this time of year, it's not the money, or lack of money, that bothers me. I live year-round with very little of it, as it is. It's the stress that having no money puts on me by forcing me to choose between two gifts I know she really wants and can only be justified by wrapping it in Christmas paper and ribbon. It's that time of year when I can give her all the things that she wants because she already has everything she needs. It's the joy I see on her face when she opens the box and looks at me with a smile and talks to me with her eyes..."I've waited all year for this. Thank you, Mommy."

That is what Santa gave me this year. A worry-free Christmas.

So, yes. She still believes. And even decades after being shown the stash in Mom and Dad's closet, I still believe, too.

Itch. Scratch. Worry. Repeat.

2009-12-16T18:41:00.000-08:00

For a week, Elle's been complaining of being itchy. It started a few weeks ago, actually, with a bottle of cotton candy scented body wash. I thought that was the culprit originally. I was wrong. She would still complain of being itchy even when she hadn't used the body wash. And to quell the complaining, I drugged her with Benadryl to "either make you stop itching or make you fall asleep. Win-Win!"

Elle was awake until 10:30 last night (against my wishes as I'd been in a meeting from 6-9pm and specifically instructed my mother to have Elle in bed, under the covers, by 9pm. Yeah, right.) I got home around 9:30 and tried to make a sandwich for nearly 45 minutes (I hadn't had dinner yet).

"I'm all itchy!!!!!" Whiiiiine...Oh, god I hate whine.

(I sound like such a horrible parent, mocking my child who is obviously experiencing some discomfort, but seriously - I believe if you feed a child's ridiculous claims with honest-to-goodness attention that the ridiculous claims will never go away and the whine will never stop.)

But suddenly there were welts. What the hell?

"Stop scratching!"
"I can't!!!"

That's not imaginary. Now I wonder, where did they come from?

There is only one answer (and no, I haven't consulted a doctor yet but I will when we're both out of work/school for Christmas break - I'd like to find out if I'm right!)

Stress.

Yes...stress. My kid is stressed.

Mostly because her dumbass father explained the events of September 11th as follows:

"There is a war going on in another country because the American soldiers chose to fight over there instead of fighting over here. If the snipers get over here, they'll try to take you from your bedroom and make you one of them. They tried to get into America once before and they killed alot of people that day. They'll try it again."
~~~ obviously, not word for word but you get the idea.

Thank you, ASSHAT. Ahem...I mean, Mr. Dumas. So now instead of worrying about the standard Monster-In-My-Closet mystery, she is also on the lookout for Al-Qaeda terrorists roaming the Oceanway community in the city of Jacksonville, looking to snatch little girls and whisk them away to Iraq.

So, yeah - my kid worries about "snipers" coming to take her away and fluff off into another country with her to make her "one of them". I had to explain to her how safe our neighborhood is because of all the cops who live here. I swear, on my block alone there have got to be four or five. And let's not forget about the Angry Marine who lives around the corner. He is humongo and angry that his deployment is over. He looks forward to returning to the land of terrorism and kicking terrorists' bums. But, back to the cops. They're every-freakin'-where in this neighborhood.

"Even Papa was a cop once, Elle. He knows how to protect us."
"Yeah, but really he's just a security guard now."

Uh...okay, you got me there. But have him tell you about the time he tackled a foreign country's Prime Minister to the ground because Papa thought the PM was the bad guy. See, Papa would be willing to take down a world leader in the name of America's security. Imagine what he'd do to keep his grandchild safe.

But, anyway, this whole "worry" business is a family thing. We are reallllly good at it, too! I once worried so badly that I stopped breathing and passed out!! My mother used to worry so badly that she'd throw up!! Our new family symptom: HIVES.

I have passed the gene to my daughter. You, dear Elle, are one lucky, lucky girl. Welcome to a life of tummy aches, social awkwardness, lightheadedness, and an overall feeling of discomfort. 24/7!! And like I said, Nana and I are the Queens of Worry and we know all the tricks to making your brain stop worrying. Ask us, we'll share our tricks. Nothing is too "silly", as you say, to worry about. Because when you're a worrier, everything matters...nothing is silly because it's all too real.

Hives, huh? That's a humdinger. I think I'd rather pass out.

The Rejects

2009-12-12T16:08:00.000-08:00

There's only so much fun to be had in the rain when a car accident on the Dames Point bridge halts traffic. After about 10 minutes of cursing at drivers who use the right lane to pass stopped traffic (and subsequently making fun of them when nobody lets them in), I was stumped by a Kid Question.

Elle wanted to know:
a)more about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and,
b)more specifically, if he had brothers or sisters and
c)if so, why Rudolph was deemed The Chosen One.

"Well, would you want some reindeer named Gluedolph in charge? I mean, he has to glue his nose on and sometimes it doesn't stick. He's completely unreliable."

So, in no particular order (except probably alphabetically, because I can't remember all of them), Elle and I would like to introduce to you Rudolph's brothers and sisters:

Bluedolph: He's, uh...well, he's blue.
Cluedolph: Now a detective with the North Pole Police Department.
Doodolph: I think the name says it all.
Goodolph: A total drip.
Whodolph: Who? Yeah, exactly.
Jewdolph: The convert.
Loodolph: Spend most of his time in the loo.
Boodolph: Obviously, he scares the children by peeping in windows, as shown in the picture below:

Moodolph: An adopted sibling who is not like the others. Moooo!
Newdolph: Oh, this one will throw you off because he's not the newest member. That title goes to...
Brand Newdolph: The brand newest member of the family.
Poodolph: Has a close relationship with Doodolph and Loodolph.
Suedolph: Works with Cluedolph.
Twodolph: The conjoined twins.
Woodolph: Enjoys going to concerts, bars, graduation parties, etc...and screaming Woo!!!
Zoodolph: He's locked up, thanks to Cluedolph and Suedolph.
Choodolph: A train conductor on the Polar Express.
Shoedolph: Running out of closet space.
Achoodolph: stays home from school alot with...
Fludolph: Ick. And...
Spewdolph: Ickier.

And my personal favorite:

Kung Fudolph: He's one bad ass reindeer.

(I totally high-fived Elle after that one. My kid, she's clever)

How I turned someone's home into an even BIGGER castle!

2009-12-10T16:09:00.000-08:00

"Nothing will turn a man's home into a castle more quickly and effectively than a dachshund."-Queen Victoria

My neighbors across the street have three dachshunds, all black and tans. There's Milo, Trixie, and the new addition, Sookie. They bark alot and they get loose alot. It's not uncommon to see the three of them raising hell in the 'hood - traveling the paved circular street like a gang of mini-thugs.

I wasn't entirely surprised to hear little doggie nails scrapping up my driveway when I pulled in after work tonight. I thought it was my dachshund, Jack. I turned around to see not my own Piebald doxie, but a little male mini black and tan.

"Oh, Milo! You got out again? Where are you sisters?"

He didn't answer me.

I had all of my stuff from work in my arms - a huge tote bag, my lunch bag, my jacket, my purse, my Vanilla Coke - and Elle had her arms full with her bookbag and jacket and a drawing she was working on. But instead of putting our things away, I decided we could just walk Milo home and have a good chuckle with Brenda (the neighbor) about her dogs and how I surprisingly was able to wrangle this one home without having to grab him in a chokehold. When the three of them are running the streets together, they're impossible to catch. Tonight was too easy. I was only responsible for the one.

Ding-Dong!

Elle and I stood on Brenda's porch with Milo and waited. And waited. And waited. Nobody answered the door.

"Elle, hit the doorbell again."

Ding-Dong!

"Milo, where's your mother? And are the other two running around, too? Goodness, where is everyone?"

Milo, at this point, got very cuddly with me. Like a cat, he started rubbing on my leg, begging for physical contact and dying for some cuddles. I knelt down, put my bags on the porch, and rubbed his back. Poor little guy - who knows how long he had been loose! He enjoyed the cuddles and he even propped his little front paws on my leg.

Elle cooed. I just melted.

It was obvious nobody was home. Jack would never allow me to bring in Milo, even just to babysit until Brenda made it home from work. But I decided to try to get into the backyard - I wasn't about to break down the fence, but this dog is a mini and could probably fit through the slats. Elle and I moved around to the side of the house, jiggled the gate, and I was able to walk Milo into his yard where I happened upon two other dachshunds. I was relieved to find the other two safely at home and not running amok. They seemed to be happy to see Milo, too. One of them even went straight for Milo, very happy-like, and the two dogs ended up in a friendly wrestling match.

There. Problem solved.

I finally walked into my own house and started putting my things away, all the while I relayed to my family how I had come across this lone dachshund and had to put Milo back in his yard for the umpteenth time. What a cuddly puppy, so well-behaved! Then it hit me...

Oh, shit.

Milo is NOT a mini dachshund.

RING-RING (damn, voicemail):

"Hi, Brenda. It's Dena from across the street. Um, I found a dachshund in my front yard when I got home from work tonight. It was about 5:45. Anyway, I tried your doorbell and nobody answered, but I was able to open your back gate and put the dachshund in the yard. I really hope it's yours. The other dogs seemed to be okay with him. So call me back if there's a problem. Oh, my goodness - I hope it's yours."

Maybe Sookie is a boy. I truly hope Sookie is a boy. And if Sookie is not a boy, well, then...so sorry, Brenda.

"We just thought you were okay."

2009-12-09T18:24:00.001-08:00

Tonight my mother and I had a discussion about our family and our two families. Our two families that live under this one roof. We talked about how she never imagined having to consider what her life with be like with two adult children still living at home, one of whom has a child. Or of how difficult it would be to live in the same home with her granddaughter, never expecting that this is how it would be. Mom and I have butted heads many times, usually over her expectations of how I would raise my child. Proud of herself when she sees me use some of her parenting tools and offended at times, even hurt, when I argue that something she did to me as a child made me feel awful and I vowed to never do that with my own daughter. I think all of us, when faced with the real possibilty of parenthood, flash back to a moment or an emotion in our childhoods that had such a lasting impact on our self-esteem, self-acceptance, or any other measurement of our own self-worth, that we shudder at the thought of making our own child live that same awfulness or awkwardness or whatever you have flashed back to.

Our conversation tonight led to some openings of sorts, some insights into each other's worlds and why we choose to parent our children the way we do. There were no parenting books involved in our decisions that led us down two different parenting paths. It was pretty much simple observations and how what we lacked during our childhoods was what we wanted to provide the most of in our children's lives.

My mother, as a child, lacked stability. I can't get into any more detail than that. However, those exact details are what drove her to provide for her three children the way she did: we had clean clothes, clean beds, three meals a day, discipline, hugs, and the basic comforts of daily life. We never thought we were missing anything. She did everything she could for us. She still does.

But there is one thing she feels she didn't have with me and that's a close relationship similar to the one I have with my own daughter. I don't tend to beat around the bush often, but I had to tread these waters carefully because, in no way, shape, or form, did I want my mother to feel like any blame has been pushed onto her for our lack of communication during my teenage years. As a toddler and elementary school-aged kid, I was a pain in the ass. It took until the age of eight to actually detach myself from her leg and learn to function as my own person. From that point on, she was lost to me.

When I was a teenager, our family struggled for a few years with a number of issues, mostly because of us kids. Again, I refuse to go into further detail, but my youngest brother had overwhelmingly won the "Hey, ALL EYES ON ME!" contest around the same time my oldest brother up and joined the Air Force. I soon became stricken with Middle Child Syndrome and did what any other mopey teenager would have done - I pretended there was nothing wrong. It was too late for me, though. Depression had kicked in and was accompanied by its dirty little friend, Anxiety. Except I didn't know what was wrong, I just knew that I hated it. And I hated me.

On my own, I fought through it. My emotional outbursts were blamed on my teenage hormones and the ever popular 1992 version of angst. I spent alot of time in my room and I spent alot of nights awake. Insomnia got into my bloodstream and created even more frustration in me. I sought out a diagnosis and, eventually, a support group, on my own. I started having difficulty just leaving my house. I'd had a gun pulled on me in my own backyard and I was convinced that someone was out to kill me. The mail could wait to be picked up - I wasn't going out there in that big, scary world! I skipped so much school, but enough to pass, and I remember my mother saying, "I don't care what you do anymore. I just don't want them to call me about it." And I had nobody to tell. Or so I thought. My folks didn't seem to be worried about me. As a pissed off teenager, I took that to mean, "They don't care."

And this is what I use to drive my parenting choices.

My mother pointed out how close Elle and I actually are. And it's true, we are very close. Our relationship is all I have to hold on to right now, while she still trusts me and values my opinion. This kid is a true individual, so I don't have to be too concerned about her losing herself completely even though I do admit she's a worrier with some social anxiety. I try to encourage her to be different, to be herself, to be as goofy as she wants to be so she will never feel like she's not enough for me. Or for anyone else. The geeks run the world and everyone looks back fondly on the "weird" kid and wishes they'd had the balls to be their own person back then, too. I have to convince her that it's okay to stand up to her father when he insults her or makes her feel like she's a disappointment. It's my job as her mother to make her feel safe and secure in this world. To make sure she knows that I DO CARE.

Mom: "You never told us you had these problems. We just thought you were okay."
Me: "You never asked. And I wasn't okay."

I still believe my mother had too much on her plate when I was a teenager (my father was in the military and not home too often) and, to be honest, my antics were kept quiet for the most part and I got away with alot. Until just a few years ago, I was convinced that if they'd paid more attention to me, my parents would have been able to just know that I was not in a good place, mentally and emotionally. I shouldn't have to tell them. Believe me, I know better now.

Amazingly, there were no tears and no accusations - just realizations. This is why this...this is why that...and so on. It explains why I like to bake with and take road trips with my daughter - because spending time with her is what makes her continue to trust me, to know I'll always be there. It also explains why cleaning my room has never been a priority. That was my mother's concern, to keep things clean and orderly.

That is her definition of a safe and secure childhood, for us. Mine is just different.

Fortunately and Unfortunately

2009-12-05T17:20:00.000-08:00

It's beginning to feel alot like winter here in Florida. Our version of winter, at least. The dullness tends to stick around all day and wraps the whole city in a blanket of gray. The air is chilled and moist, sunset happens before dinner, steam rises from the sun-warmed ponds and puddles, hot chocolate becomes a staple in the pantry, and my flip-flops are restricted to indoor use only. It's like North Florida goes into a hibernation of sorts. Life, in general, seems to slow down.

And I don't normally react to the change so agreeably.

For some reason, this year is different. I'm taking this punch of cold air with a bit more enthusiasm than usual. I am finding myself quite contented to huddle on the couch in my Winthrop University hoodie, laptop at the ready, with a big cup of hot tea and honey. At bedtime, I sleep with the window cracked to let in the cool air and I turn the heating pad to low before I slide it under my blankets. It only takes a few minutes to warm up the exact spot where I'll eventually fall sleep.

Most of the lights are off and have been replaced by the comforting glow of candles all around my house. At this moment, French Vanilla is in the living room, Almond Cookie is in the kitchen, Cinnamon Apple is in the main bath, and Apple & Warm Caramel is in my bedroom. I love the warm glimmering of candlelight. It just makes everything, well...warm. Needless to say, I have a newly discovered aversion to lights. I'll tolerate lamplight, but I prefer my Lemon Cake & Vanilla candle over the blinding glare of a stale 60-watt bulb. It smells better, too.

I'm simply shocked. Early in the fall season, I submissively accepted summer's end, although I had no idea what was happening to me at the time. My instincts to bake kicked in and since the beginning of September I've been fulfilling myself with cookies and cakes, much to the enjoyment of my We-can't-eat-that,-we're-on-a-diet family. Actually, it's more like my If-you-bake-it,-we'll-eat-it family. Nothing gets wasted in this house.

However, winter in North Florida doesn't last very long. I say However only because I can't decide between Fortunately and Unfortunately. I'm enjoying this weather but I'm not in love with it. Because, deep down inside, I truly believe there is no such thing as too much summer.

Oh, that's just laughable.

MISSING!: An aging woman's desperate tale of losing her mind and her Friskies Party Mix in the Walmart makeup aisle

2009-11-28T19:46:00.000-08:00

Elle was finally feeling well enough to leave the house today. She wasn't feeling well enough to travel the 20 minutes to Target, so we had to suck up our pride and go to Wally World. It wasn't entirely horrible.

(I tend to connect all references to Walmart with "It wasn't entirely horrible" only to justify why I stayed, once I actually walked into the place.)

After picking up a digital thermometer, a hairbrush, and a pouch of cat food, we went to the makeup aisle. Elle was responsibly crafty enough to bring with her a notepad, a pen, and a bottle of water - all in her cute little pink purse. This worried me because the display of supplies showed that she had every intention of setting up camp and doing some kind of project.

Oh. We're gonna be here for awhile.

While Elle made a "birthday/Christmas" shopping list that included the makeup item's company/maker, item description, and price, I stayed in the same aisle and looked at face creams. I had nothing better to do, but hey - I'm getting old, I just might learn something.

And here is what I learned:

* I was a cute kid. I never thought about that overpriced face cream crap.
* I was a cute teenager. I wish I would have recognized that back then. Instead, I worried about my hair and my glasses and how I could afford my next pack of Marlboro Lights. I never thought about that overpriced face cream crap.
* I was a cute twenty-something. I never had to work hard to keep myself thin and looking fit. I say "looking fit" because that's exactly it - I looked fit. That doesn't mean I was fit. I started wearing makeup. I never thought about that overpriced face cream crap.
* I was a cute new mom in my mid-twenties. Or, I could have been if I'd stopped crying, screaming, yelling, and carrying a grudge. I suffered from post-partum depression and never thought about that overpriced face cream crap.
* I am in my thirties. I have gray hair and crow's feet. I have a brown splotch on my forehead from the one summer of weekend beach-going during which I was completely slathered in 80 spf waterproof sunscreen. I am constantly thinking about that overpriced face cream crap.

I grabbed a package of Olay Firming Moisturizer. It was on sale for $6.00, which I still believe to be overpriced face cream crap. I have one bottle of Olay cream at home already and I use it around my eyes every morning. Problem is - it's expired.

Or is it?

Seriously, I'm not treating the signs of aging on my face as a medical condition. It's part of my Life Contract under the section called "Getting Old". I didn't have wrinkles until I had children. Same with my gray hair. And I'm not racing to cover those up, either (although, I do have a box of Natural Instincts in dark brown under my bathroom sink).

I put the $6.00 Olay Firming Moisturizer back on the shelf. If anything, it'll give me something to write about when I'm in my forties - one of those "Oh, I should've bought that $6.00 jar of Olay Firming Moisturizer! Look at my wrinkles!!"

However, it's doubtful that I'll even remember that $6.00 bottle of face cream crap. I hardly remember anything these days. Especially because I lost my package of cat food while I was looking at all that face cream crap. Somewhere, within three feet of my daughter (who was still so diligently writing out her list of "makeup must-haves"), I set down the cat food to look at jars of face cream crap. Then I lost it.

I freakin' lost the cat food. A shiny package that screamed the words "Wild West Crunch!" and had a picture of a cat throwing the niblets all over the damn place, about the size of a bag of donuts and totally out of place on the shelf with Burt's Bees. I searched for a good twenty minutes, looking up and down and all around, making sure I didn't put it in my purse or my daughter's purse and getting funny looks from other Wally World shoppers who made the mistake of walking down the makeup aisle as I mumbled, rather loudly, "Where the hell is the cat food!?!?"

And I'm worried about wrinkles? Ha...my kid should be happy I remembered to bring her home with me.

Brunswick Strikes Again!

2009-11-26T07:58:00.000-08:00

Oh. My. God.

The town of Brunswick still exists, people. I don't know who keeps this running joke afloat, but Elle got even with that place this morning by getting sick all over it. Ha!

And what makes it worse is the one person who had an opportunity to make Elle feel better (besides me, of course!) was the cashier at the gas station where we stopped for a little "clean up", if you will.

Me: Can we have an empty cup, preferably bigger than a coffee cup?
Her: That'll be $1.27.
Me: No, we don't want to get a drink. I need it to make sure my daughter can make it back home alright without being sick all over herself.
Her: That'll be $1.27.
Me: Wow. So it's Thanksgiving and my daughter is sick and you can't spare a cup? One cup? With no ice or soda or anything in it?
Her: It would cost the same if you wanted ice.
Me: I don't want ice. I want NOTHING in the cup. I'm sure it'll get filled soon (har har har!).
Her: I can give you a plastic bag.

Brunswick. Aaaaah, f$%#^$g Brunswick.

I paid my $1.27 and thought it wasteful by the time I made it to my own exit in Jacksonville, 89 miles later, with no further issues. Well, good thing we had that cup. That's all I can really say. The left turn I made to get home didn't do us any favors. But that cup sure did.

Which reminds me - on the way home, after exiting and re-entering I-95 going in the other direction, my daughter asked me to drive slowly so the bumps associated with The Brunswick Infinite Construction Project didn't make her tummy hurt even more. So I did. Folks, I drove 60 miles an hour. I didn't know I was even capable of that. And the world looks strangely hectic from the slow lane...all that merging going on and dumbasses with trash flying out of their pickup trucks. And sewer grates. Lots and lots of sewer grates.

Elle: What are those? I've never seen those anywhere but here.
Me: Those, my dearest daughter, are the portals to Hell. Because Brunswick was apparently constructed over Hell itself.
Elle: (giggles)
Me: What's so funny? Hell isn't funny. That's why we have to hurry up and get out of this town. It's Hell on Earth.
Elle: We shouldn't ever drive through here again!
Me: Smells funny, yeah?
Elle: (pointing to the paper mill just east of I-95) Is that the Fart Factory? 'Cause that's what this town smells like.

So, to end it all on a nice note, I present to you:

THINGS I AM THANKFUL FOR

1. I do not live in Brunswick.
2. That my parents were able to go to my brother's apartment in South Carolina (in my place) and that they made a second turkey for us here at home.
3. I have pie.
4. I am no longer in a moving vehicle with the A/C blasting to keep the little one feeling well enough to continue living. That was flippin' COLD!
5. My house is warm.
6. I live in Florida. Florida is warm(er than anywhere else I could be today).
7. Forgotten cookies.

8. A beautiful daughter who is still worried about everyone else while her head's in a bucket.
9. Redbox. Thank You (insert higher being's name here) for Redbox.
10. 32 ounce styrofoam cups.

Poetry for Thanksgiving Day

2009-11-25T16:31:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving Poetry by Elle

Pilgrims ate some corn and some bread
Love is a thing they like to spread
Then they lay on a wooden bed
They have good dreams in every head

Indians taught them how to grow food
And turkey feathers, they all glued (*not true, I just made it up to rhyme)
These are things I am thankful for:
Teachers
My family
and many more...

Thanksgiving is my favorite day
So let's give Thanksgiving a BIG BIG YAY!

Elle and I are heading up to Rock Hill, South Carolina tomorrow. With the Five-Oh in full force, my 6-hour trip will probably turn into 7 hours. We are packing extra tissues, some antibiotics, allergy medicine, and plenty of Tylenol to dope ourselves into a stupor. Let's add some tryptophan and ice-skating to the mix and you've got yourself a disaster waiting to happen.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone I know and love in Internet Land. And who knows? Maybe the pilgrims did like to glue turkey feathers to stuff.

It can't always be sunshine and Whoppers

2009-11-21T20:13:00.000-08:00

The sore throat started on Sunday. The sniffles kicked in on Monday. The sore throat and sniffles double-teamed me on Tuesday. The sinus pressure presented itself on Wednesday morning and later treated me with an afternoon of watery eyes and "Damn, Dena...you don't look good. Why don't you just go home?" And because I'm a big baby when I'm sick, I really wanted to prove to everyone, especially myself, that I'm NOT a big baby when I'm sick. My body, energetic and screaming, "Go!!!" was being contradicted by everything from my neck up screaming, "Nooo!!!".

The body aches took over on Thursday and I finally gave up, collapsed, admitted defeat, and called in sick.

Because while I spent the earlier part of the week trying to prove that I'm not a big baby when I'm sick, I really only ended up driving what little energy I had to survive straight into a big hole in the ground and wearing myself down into a big ol' bag of uselessness. Somehow over the past few days, I had managed to drive myself and my daughter to two separate doctors appointments (where we were diagnosed with the same virus yet treated with different meds - I received antibiotics whereas she received allergy tablets), drop her off and pick her up from school (all while appropriately dressed in un-pajama-like clothing) and spend more time than humanly necessary stalking my Facebook friends.

Last night, Elle and I had a "Sick Girls Sleepover" by confining the hack-and-snotfest to my room. I was sprawled on my bed with a sick tummy, the result of an Azithromycin-Delsym-Sudafed-Yaz cocktail, while Elle's little belly grumbled with an overabundance of too many snacks. After days of eating little else but pasta and rice, I was craving some meat (and I'm not one to eat meat, nothing vegetarian about it - just simply not a taste/texture I particularly like in my mouth).

"Tomorrow, we're going to feel better. And I'm going to take us to Burger King so we can have a hamburger. No, no, no. A cheeseburger. No, no, no. A Whopper. With meat and cheese and tomato and onion and lettuce and ketchup and mayonnaise...", and so on.

*****************************************************

Well, howdy doo. I sprung out of bed this morning with a still hacking cough but none of the "oh, god, my skin hurts when the wind blows" kind of cold/flu pain. I prepared the little one her favorite breakfast of french toast, helped her clean off her wagon in order to load it up and deliver the Girl Scout candy orders, walked the neighborhood in the sunny warmth of this beautiful day - the first day I could actually walk outside and not have to shield my eyes from the blessed sunshine that had been making my congested head throb with explosive pains since Tuesday.

And what a day to really wake up to it all! I couldn't help but take pictures of how extraordinarily glorious my own backyard looked to me after having emerged from my week-long cocoon of bedding, tissues, and even more tissues. Oh, dear Florida. I talk smack about you alot, but seriously - I couldn't imagine waking up to gray, cold skies or bitter cold winds. That would only send me back to bed! And how can I get my Whopper from bed!?!? Mmmm...that was the best damn Whopper I ever had, by the way.

My cat, Polly Esther Pooper Hemingway. The Pooper. Poopie, Poophead, Da Poops...you get the idea.

Flowers. In November. Eat your hearts out, Northerners.

Aaaah...palms.

Our tangerine tree. The Tree of Vitamin C. $4.00 orange juice? Pttth...I get it for free (technically not until January - they're not quite ready for plucking!)

Polly Esther - check out her fists. Six-toed cats rule my world. Too bad they can't clean their own litter boxes, which is why she's called Pooper - she spends most of her time outside but still manages to muck up an indoor litter box.

Another beautiful palm tree.

My little Girl Scout Elle...wagon washin'!

More flowers...purple ones! Me likey the purple ones!

The grapefruit tree...

Here, have a closer look!

Sunshine and Whoppers do a body good.

My love affair with Chuck

2009-11-14T15:24:00.000-08:00

My best friend and I were discussing shoes today. Not like girly shoes, high heels and "oh, those are SOOO cute!" kind of shoes. Just shoes. I mentioned how badly I need to get my feet in a pair of real shoes. My doctor warned me a few weeks ago that my flat feet could potentially cause alot of pain in my near future and I need to slip into some comfortable shoes with good arch support.

Chuck Taylors are NOT known for their good arch support. But Jessie and I agreed that we love our Chucks. I am a flip flops and Chinese slippers kinda girl. Tennis shoes, sneakers, boots - ugh! No!!! Those are like a straightjackets to our precious little puppies. But I desperately need a real pair of shoes. Ever since I walked the craggy path up to Chimney Rock in my Converse sneakers, I have fallen in love with walking craggy paths to other incredibly beautiful natural wonders. It looks like my 20-year relationship with Chucks might be coming to an end. But not quite yet. Soon, though. I think I'd like to reflect:

This is the pair that started it all. I really thought I was something special by slapping a few pairs of different colored socks over my french-rolled jeans and shouldering a boombox down the road to Rhondra's house. There, in her bedroom, we'd practice our dance moves to New Edition and The Jets, then I'd go home and paint a face on my knee, a la Debbie Gibson's "Out of the Blue" album cover. Styled with my 4-inch bangs and shredded jeans (and my awesomely sexy plastic rose pink eyeglasses), Kris Peterson asked me to go out with him. I said no. My years as a heartbreaker were just beginning.

Pink was so immature and rural Upper Michigan. I had graduated to blue and burgundy by the time I entered high school in the gang-infested Washington, DC suburb known as Prince Georges' County, Maryland. That burgundy pair you see up there - those babies helped me escape a gang of thugs hellbent on beating the shirt out of a white person. Because, you see, I was personally responsible for handing the whacking sticks to the LAPD and clubbing Rodney King to a bloody pulp. It was that afternoon, on the second floor near my history class, that I learned how fast a white girl could run. And to never, I repeat - NEVER!! - proclaim your loyalty to any one particular color. I'm sure this is why the grunge movement made such an impact on my fashion choices. Gang members are easily confused by plaid.

An honest-to-goodness staple in any teenager's closet. The beloved black Chucks. I've had this pair since my last year of high school (black was neutral, you see, and I was pretty much ignored by gang members at this point). My friend, Brendan, always had a pair of black Chucks on his big ol' feet. Even when he graduated from Crossland High School in 1992, two years before I would walk across the stage for my own diploma, Brendan's black Chucks poked out from underneath his graduation gown. He defied the "dress shoes" policy and we all loved him even more. Brendan passed away in 1996, at about this time of year. I don't have it in me to get rid of my black Chucks just yet.

Aaaah...my navy pair of Chucks. I love them but they look awkward because this particular shade of blue conflicts with any other shade of blue denim. I still have them in my closet, taking up space and quietly promising that one day they will either match with something or I'll just grow so old that I won't give a shit about matching anything. Except maybe one shoe with another. We'll see.

BLANK SPACE (NO PICTURE PROVIDED)
It's a shame I couldn't find a photograph of my first "real" pair of shoes. It's been around 10 years that I've had this pair of suede One Stars, light brown - bone, is what Converse calls it - and they match with everything. And they're suede! I remember opening this box on a long-ago Christmas morning and thinking, "Wow, this is probably the most expensive pair of shoes I own!" I was right, they weren't cheap. But they're beautiful and still have the original laces. But because I'm a flip flops and Chinese slippers kinda girl, they haven't been worn out. Just worn. They've been loved.

This is my most recently acquired pair - aren't they cute!?!? Chocolate brown suede, plaid in the star and stripe. Just adorable. They were a gift from a friend, a friend I had shared nearly everything with since we met in 1990, a friend I no longer have. I won't exactly blame the shoes but they had a part in the overall demise of our relationship. Do I love these shoes? YES! Would I happily give them back in return for my friend's trust and respect again? Yes. Yes. Yes. I miss you, Doug.

So, folks, there you have it. I know other people have a story of their own and you are welcome to share yours in the comments.

The Bonfire

2009-11-12T17:43:00.000-08:00

The first time I went to the Bonfire, my friends and I had to hold each other's hands to keep from losing anyone in the pitch-black darkness of the woods. Tree roots snaked out of the ground and tripped up every single one of us, even after we warned the person behind us, "Whoa! There's a root. Be careful." THUD. And because we were all joined by hand, the rest of the group was pulled off balance by the first man to go down. It probably looked like a train derailment, our little group of hikers, but it was too dark to see the mass of bodies sprawled on the forest floor and all you heard was the thump of knees hitting dirt and someone say "Whoops!" and, after the initial shock of discovering a bloodied elbow, alot of giggling.

Eventually, after a 15-minute walk or so, we came across a rickety wooden bridge that could really only hold the weight of a newborn kitten. Hand in hand, we helped each other slowly cross the planks, careful to mind the planks that were missing. Those were the ones to watch out for as we were reminded each time Little Dave tried to cross the bridge himself only to fall into the small creek below. Pissed off and wet, Little Dave would curse loudly and take off into the woods, when we would hear another thump, another curse word, and finally, more cursing.

This, my friends, was just to get to the Bonfire. This is nothing like trying to find the way out, you know...when some of us were no longer sober. I think Little Dave made it to the Bonfire and stayed long enough to dry off, have some beers, and fall into the creek again as he made a drunken attempt to cross the broken bridge alone. Half the time I don't think anybody ever knew how he made it home. But he always made it home. We all did.

The path was obvious to those who'd been there before. I remember stepping very carefully around tree trunks and dirtholes and wondering how in the hell this place was ever discovered. The drive to this particular neighborhood wasn't too far away from our homebase but I was a mess of nerves each and every time I agreed to go to the Bonfire. Not only did we have to trespass through strangers' backyards and avoid the motion sensor lights we set off in the process, but sometimes a cop would hang around nearby, behind a bush or something, and wait for the moment he saw any movement from within our clump of trees so he could shine his authoritative spotlight on us. We never got caught. At least, I never did. Perhaps this is how Little Dave made it home every night. We'll never know.

The Bonfire was a place to meet new people. Usually someone brought a case of beer (and things that weren't beer) and a couple of guitars. A big campfire, good conversation, and a jam session pretty much equalled a good night. I was with friends and so content to just sit on my happy little log. The occasional argument erupted, fueled by alcohol and macho pride, but for the most part it was just a meeting place for the rich kids, the poor kids, the military kids, the civilian kids, the white kids, the black kids, and the younger crowd who wanted to hang out with the older crowd. Your typical teenage scene.

My last night at the Bonfire was in May of 1994, Graduation Night. We made the usual precarious trek over tree roots and half-exposed rocks, watched Little Dave fall into the creek, and I found my place on my happy little log. I sat next to my friend Sean, a gentle giant of a man and quite capable, I'm sure, of snapping someone's neck with his bare hands. Suddenly, we heard the sounds of motorbike engines coming up quickly from the opposite side of our entry path. Everyone stopped what they were doing at once. The conversations grew silent, the musicians stopped playing, even the drunks stood still. Since I had never walked past the firepit, I didn't know what was beyond the Bonfire and looked to Sean for some sort of guidance. He whispered, "Shhhh..." to me at least once and stared straight ahead, as if he could telepathically convince whoever was headed in our direction to make a u-turn and go back home. I continued to stare at him and everyone around the Bonfire collectively took in a deep breath.

Who were those bikers? Were they pissed because we were here? Was it the cops? What do we do?

Finally, three bikes peaked at the top of the small hill and drove straight for us.

Sean screamed, "Run!!!!" I thought, Run? Okay!!! But wait...RUN? Where??!

And so my plan of escape had been hatched!

I ran into the darkness of the woods, a few yards behind Sean but in a totally different direction. I soon found myself alone and terrified and freakin' lost. In the woods. The woods are dark at night, you know. And while that might not surprise any of you, maybe you'd be interested in knowing that when you are alone and terrified in the dark woods, they get darker. I'm thoroughly convinced that it's scientifically possible.

I eventually found my way back to the party. The Three Bikers brought a case of beer with them and hung out with us all. My own personal party started to wane and I was ready to go home. I was freaked out, exhausted, and I had to pee. No, I didn't want to pee in the woods. That, of course, would require me to be alone in the dark, dark woods again and I was in no hurry to do that.

Where this story came from, I have no idea. It's been over fifteen years and I found myself thinking about that place tonight. I found myself thinking about that night tonight. I wonder why. Those days were cake compared to my real life today. Those were the careless days before my friends and I were separated by our parents' military retirements or our own eventual deployments, before we were gifted with the responsibilities of raising children and fulfulling college requirements and working full-time jobs. Those were the days before we essentially grew up.

Simply put, those were the days!

Homework buddies

2009-11-09T18:41:00.000-08:00

Elle was really excited when I told her I was going to start college in January.

"Ooooh, Mom! That's wonderful that you're going to college for the first time!"

The first time?? Child, where have you been since you were...um, born? Do you not remember the tears and screams and bloody clumps of hair in my fists as I struggled with Algebra at the breakfast table two years ago? Do you not remember the twirly-eyed zombie look on my face as I fought off writer's block for a 6-page research paper in World Religions? What about the first four years of your life as you spent every Saturday afternoon at the Regency Mall's Playplace where you barreled your way through the day, exerting a ton of energy and content to jump on plastic dolphins while I pretended to watch you very carefully (when I was really studying Early American Literature)? Thankfully you were such a well-behaved little girl and surrounded by a waist-high wall with only one exit. That mall helped me earn a spot on the Dean's List.

Life has been good since last December when I got my Associates's Degree. I buy books because I want to. And I read them for fun. I started a blog so I could write about whatever I felt like writing about. And I write for fun. I learned how to enjoy going to bed before 2am. Sleeping is very fun.

I'm not looking forward to this whole school thing again.

I'm broke and tired. But mostly tired. Financial aid decided I was poor enough so they're helping out a bit. A big bit. My decision to go back to school was pretty much decided by my ability to obtain financial aid. I've paid out of pocket for classes before so that I didn't lose momentum. Let's hope I don't have to do that again. But I think I would if I had to.

Two more years, I'm telling myself. Two more years of being tired. I'm going to be tired anyway so I might as well do something useful while the insomnia cranks away at me. If I can knock this whole program out in 6 semesters, I'll have a Bachelor's Degree under my Christmas tree in 2011.

I think it's good for us, both of us. Elle will see me working hard for this degree, she'll see me struggle and get pissed off and want to quit. Of this, I'm sure. And she'll see me walk away, take a break, grab a coffee, and fight my way back in. She's at that age level when schoolwork becomes more challenging, difficult and seems nearly impossible sometimes to understand. She'll know it's okay for her to walk away, take a break, get her mom some more coffee, and fight her way back in.

Anxiety has already reared its ugly head and I'm already in the process of grieving. Yes, it sounds dramatic, but I'll be losing the freedoms that I've known in my life for the last twelve months. My life of studying, crying, catnapping, and studying some more is returning and I'm not looking forward to it.

My mother mentioned over the weekend that she doesn't think I'll be able to handle school with everything going on in my life: full-time job, single motherhood, Tuesday night gymnastics, Thursday night Girl Scouts. I did it before and I have no choice but to do it again. Time will be strictly monitored, each hour of my day will have to be devoted to one thing and one thing only so that nothing gets thrown aside, forgotten, or neglected. I defended my decision to return to school for my Bachelor's degree by reminding my mother that, at my current rate of stalled success, I'll be living with her forever.

"No," she said. "I'm not worried about your abilities to get this done. I'm concerned with your personality."

My personality?

Apparently, nobody likes me when I'm in college since I tend to become overwhelmed, short-tempered, and just an overall bitch. So believe it or not, this last year may have possibly been the most pleasant I've ever been to my family since 1997.

"It's only for two more years. I'll try to be nicer to everyone and then I can move out," I promised.

Just the prospect alone of me moving out of their house has my parents putting on their Tolerant faces and replaying the moment in their heads when I said "...I can move out."

This can only end well for all of us. And Elle will now have a homework buddy.

The deepest wounds

2009-11-06T17:08:00.000-08:00

"They weren't in Iraq," author Dinesh D'Souza said on television Thursday night, analyzing the culprit. "They were living a normal, everyday life."

Oh, Mr. D'Souza, I beg to differ.

Major Nidal Hasan may not have been in Iraq, he may have never been placed in the center of combat, and he may have spent his working hours in the so-called comfort and safety of Walter Reed Army Hospital, but he was certainly not living a normal, everyday life. And because of his actions yesterday, he most certainly never will.

What, may I ask, is normal about Major Hasan's life? Is it his committed objection to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that makes him so normal? Possibly. Lots of people proudly object. Is it his past desire to enlist in the military against his parents' wishes and proclaim his love for this great country that gave his immigrant family a chance at success and happiness? Could be. Lots of military members have proudly expressed this as reason enough to enlist. Is it his love of God as a Muslim and not as a Christian that enabled him to live a relatively quiet life in America? Sure. Lots of people live this way and enjoy their normal, everyday lives. It doesn't make them any more spectacular than the next guy.

But Major Hasan wasn't your normal, everyday guy. He was a psychiatrist who cared for those returning from the horrors of war. Imagine the stories, the tears, the rage his patients must have carried. The separation experienced by these young men and women from their families - sometimes over a year's worth of a normal, everyday life must be recovered - and their fear of adjusting to a normal, everyday life. A car backfiring can ignite the memory of a roadside bomb that killed two of their buddies. That's not normal. Learning how to eat with their left hand because their right hand was blown off. That's not normal. Listening to these soldiers, day in and day out, trying to help them process the worst time of their lives even as they fear the worst is yet to come. That's not normal, either. Just how heavy is the weight of the world? Ask one of those guys, they'll tell you.

Unfortunately, Major Hasan was also a man who initially became a pysychiatrist to help returning soldiers but whose intentions trumped his ability to do just that. His personal and spiritual objections against the wars fueled his failed attempts to stay out of the warzone as a conscientious objector. And this, understandably so, pissed him off. His performance on the job suffered and his personal views became so distorted that he eventually snapped.

SNAPPED.

Major Hasan seemed to be carrying the weight of the world. Nobody asked him how heavy it was but he was obviously hellbent on telling us. He was the psychiatrist who needed a psychiatrist, not a lawyer. He was the psychiatrist who needed a pyschiatrist, not a transfer from Walter Reed to Fort Hood. He was a soldier who needed the Army to protect him just as he was assigned to protect the mental health of other soldiers. Where the hell was the Army?

I'm not defending him. Not completely, at least. Maybe it's the soft spot in my heart for anyone who has the balls to join the military. Maybe it's the hardened spot in my heart for the politicians who've decided that the mental health of our troops should take a backseat to lining their own pockets with a pay raise. Either way, there are so many elements involved in this disaster. Too many of them were obvious signs of distress.

So as Fox News and CNN declare NEW DETAILS EMERGE!, keep in mind that these so-called NEW details were witnessed by Army officials long before the tragedy in Fort Hood. They gave Major Hasan a poor performace evaluation. He was overheard making comments about "the enemy" and it was assumed "the enemy" meant the terrorists. He was accused of sharing his anti-war views with his patients. Why did nobody follow up? Why was he shifted from one post to another and not dealt with? Why was he deemed unable to perform his duties on American soil but then given a stamp of approval to perform his duties in the field?

Unless the mental health of our returning troops and their families becomes a priority, it's possible this could happen again. We've already chosen to ignore the increase in soldier suicides and domestic violence and it took us years to recognize the shoddy conditions in our country's VA Hospitals.

We can't ignore this.

"The soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war." ~~ General Douglas MacArthur

**************************************
UPDATE:

November 11, 2009: Wow. Was I ever wrong in assuming that Major Hasan was a victim of the system, too. I am, however, leaving this post up because I still strongly believe that the Army missed alot of signs. Or did they? Did these signs get swept under the rug? Did they get thrown to the wayside in order to make sure enough mental health specialists would be available for placement in the field?

I'll be honest here. I don't see the good in people. I'm not a forgiving person. I rarely extend sympathy to anyone who has committed such an atrocious crime, for whatever reason. And for me to actually defend this man is way out of my character. Immediately I was sure the perpetrator was a military member who didn't want to be deployed. I looked at my father and said, "How horrible would that be if the shooter was a Muslim?" I'm quick to assume and I'm difficult to convince otherwise. So, I guess I've learned a lesson here. But I still think this could have been prevented and this incident casts a heavy shadow over the Army.

Got kids?

2009-11-03T19:12:00.000-08:00

This evening has not gone well. When I took Elle to gymnastics, I actually had to stay outside in the cool air so the chill would lessen my desire to projectile vomit (Got kids? You know the morning sickness tricks! and NO I'M NOT PREGNANT JUSTNOTFEELINGWELL!!!!) and ended up missing my daughter being singled out as the best straddle-handstander in the class. But as my mother was checking me for lice tonight (Got kids? Don't judge! You'll end up getting pinworms if you judge me!), my mini-me threw this little gem in front of me:

"Dear Mom,
I am sorry you are feeling ill and having a bad day but something is hidden in my haert and it's called love and care. I love you.
Love,
Elle"

Please, oh please, tell me that she'll always be my biggest, most adoring fan! No? Okay, then lie to me. Seriously, folks. When does this stop? Not that I want it to. I simply want to know when to expect these less and less frequently. Because at our current rate, I'm getting two letters a week. It's become easier to organize her paper-gifts since she no longer draws me one thousand pictures a week and orders me to hang them on the refrigerator and then store them in the "pretty box" for all of eternity. Or until she deems them too ugly to keep as mementos. No, no, no more of that. We've graduated to real letters. With WORDS!

Screaming obscenities makes me feel good

2009-10-28T18:44:00.001-07:00

You'd think he would have figured it out by now. He being the ex, very lovingly referred to in our household as "Mr. Dumas" (as in Dumbass). It being that I just don't give a shit about his excuses.

My day had already started to fall apart. Mostly because of my horrible attitude as of late, but also because...well, okay, fine. My horrible attitude. Anyway, I can usually keep my cool with Mr. Dumas, having learned a few years ago that everything I do and say is a reflection of my character in the court and also a test of my own patience and action/reaction skills. I play nice now. Even when he's hurling insults at me and telling me I'm a money-grubbing, pathetic excuse for a mother because I created a broken home for "our" child, I play nice. Even when he tells "our" child that I'm only using her to get money out of him, I play nice. Even when he calls me for the umpteenth time to cry about how his stellar Master's degree in Physics prevents him from getting any kind of job worthy of his academic background, I play nice. And laugh, because how can I possibly get money from someone who has no job?

Today's phone call registered as number umpteenth + 1, the number of times he's called to whine about not being able to find a job.

"It's a tough market out there," he said.

"Fuck you," I said back.

"What?" he said, a little shocked that my sympathy cup hath runneth dry.

So I repeated myself. Again. And again. And again. He kept trying to nudge into my rant, like he was cutting in line or something and that pissed me off even more. This called for more - "Fuck You". I lost count of how many times those two words flew out of my mouth. The red light at New Berlin Road kept me stationary for a minute or two, resulting in more naughties than you could imagine spewing from my lips.

Boy, you done pissed me off.

At some point I stopped, but only long enough to hear him threaten me with more legal action. He asked me if I was prepared for a legal battle. Another legal battle. I reminded him that he's already dumped my sorry ass into the debt pool, so what's one more go-around? Then he felt compelled to tell me about his wonderful new lawyer. He works pro bono.

"And he's Jewish!"

Huh? What does that have to do with anything?

Mr. Dumas and I. We went back and forth, up and down, east to west, north to south, roundabout, and back around again. All the while, the little slips jerked off my tongue ("Fuck you!!!"), and I'd take a deep breath just so I could say it again, and louder. With more ooomph! Because a pissed-off single mom dealing with a deadbeat dad has alot of oooomph. Then it was over.

Twenty seconds later, I was in my daughter's school parking lot and shaking from so much adrenaline. Wow. Did I just hold all that in for the last three years? Did I just get three-years' worth of "Fuck You!" out of my system in a matter of minutes? Why, yes! Yes, I did! And, dammit, it felt good!! I almost can't wait to do it again!

But I must go back to playing nice now. It was fun while it lasted and I deserved the enjoyment it gave me. Countdown to October 28, 2012.

The Not-So-Great Outdoors

2009-10-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

I spent the night outside last night. A very miserable, cold, sleepless night. Because, contrary to popular belief, Florida is not always warm this time of year. It may be warm to some of you who live in the Midwest or New England, but you have not been schooled in the ways of humidity and the misery it can inflict upon those of us who are forced to sleep outside with air temperatures in the 50s and high levels of humidity. Not only is it cold, it's wet. It's a wet cold. Ugh.

Two months ago, I was notified of this big Girl Scout camp-out. Elle was really excited, to the point of wiggling on the day of. The day temps were in the 80s and the sun was shining - perfect weather for 20+ little girls to play off their energy with games of Tug-Of-War, sack races, bobbing for apples, and generally running 'til they dropped. Elle was warned months ago that I would NOT be sleeping over (my mother never stayed over with me during camp-outs) and she was overheard telling her friends that "It's much more funner when your mom's not there!", referring to me and her ability to get away with things during my absence (and earning her the nickname More Eller). Because I wasn't going to spend the night, I did volunteer to attend the daytime activities. By 9:30 I was wiped out and could feel the temperature and Elle's confidence in sleeping in a tent without me take a drastic turn downward.

"Please, please spend the night with me!", she cried. Yep, CRIED.

Freakin' guilt trips.

Elle had my only sleeping bag so I had to drive home to pull a comforter out of my closet, throw a pillow in the car, and scramble for some cozy socks to wear to sleep. I packed an unopened bottle of Scope and a warm, fleece hoodie. I was good to go. By the time I returned to the camp-out, the kids were in their pajamas and had their sleeping areas all set up. They are all as cute as buttons but, dammit, can they ever be territorial! My littlest tentmates showed me where I was going to be sleeping for the night and tried to make me feel better by telling me that I had windows in my room.

My room? Yeah, it was basically the front porch section of the four-person tent. And, yes, I did have windows but they had no zipper closures. The windows didn't close. Fat chance, kiddos. I'm moving' in with you!!!

So I did. When the girls fell asleep after 12:30 (!!!), I hung out by the fire to absorb as much warmth as possible (those of you who know me well know that I am NEVER warm) and braved the bedtime blues by pulling my hoodie over my head and tightening the strings around my face so that only my nose was exposed. I folded my comforter in two (for poofiness!) next to my daughter and clutched onto my little fleece blankie for dear life. Then I spent the next 6 hours wide awake, shivering and mumbling about what a ****ing nightmare this was and...

What the hell? Why is Leticia sitting straight up and yelling about "Those darn kids!" while ruffling through her overnight bag? Why is Leticia digging through her loud, crinkly sleeping bag and arguing with it because it made her forget something at home? Oh, crap - she's one of those kids. One of those kids who should be tied to her bed when she's asleep at home to prevent her from running around the house at night building robots or making cheesecake in her sleep or some shit. So when I wasn't freaking out about the owls hovering and hooting overhead, I was keeping a watchful eye on Leticia and trying to keep her from unzipping the tent and wandering into the woods. Oy!

The campfire was still burning when I finally climbed out of the tent around 7am. Our girls stayed asleep for another hour or so and the troop leader was wonderful to have the coffee/creamer/sugar all prepared for us. The kids woke up and immediately hit the hot chocolate (another wonderful troop leader idea) with marshmallows (self-serve!) and they were just so cute. So, so cute!! Breakfast was amazing and I'm pretty sure everyone had a great time.

Yes, even I did. I'm sure Elle will always remember her first time camping and that her mom was there with her. She'll also always remember her first time burning a marshmallow and making a real s'more, or painting pumpkins with twenty of her closest friends, and having the biggest damn slumber party of her life! Seriously, as miserable as I was, I do believe it was worth it.

My "room", with windows!

Sack races!

Elle. Pumpking painting.

Bobbing for apples!

And, finally...how cute!

Cat Fight!

2009-10-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago my cat returned home with a swollen back leg. Polly (a polydactyl, hence her name) hobbled along for the night, licking and tending to her wounded back leg. There were two puncture wounds and I assumed that one of the non-venomous snakes in our area finally got a good whack at her. A much-deserved victory for the snakes, in my opinion. I do get tired of her bringing them onto our back porch and flinging them around like jumpropes. Not cool. So, score for the snakes.

I decided to take her to the vet on Friday, the day after we noticed the swelling, and it turns out that it wasn't a snake bite. The doctor shaved the wound and cleaned it up and explained to me that the three slice marks on the pad of her foot were more likely from another animal, even another cat. That's believable. Polly, she's a ruffian, a scrappy little cat who spent her first weeks of life without a mother and defending herself from the grabby hands of a pre-teen girl who didn't know how to take care of her. My cat is 'hood.

His suggestion? I'm to give her .02 mLs of "Cat Advil" in the morning and, for 4-6 days, soak her wound in a betadine/water solution, then an epsom salt/water solution, then rinse completely with running tap water to remove any risk of Polly licking the epsom salt clean off and developing a monster case of diarrhea. He was concerned that I wouldn't be able to handle this. I told him there are five people in my household and if we can't handle one little cat...

Well, let's flash-forward to explain why I am sporting a greasy coat of Neosporin on over 50% of my back and about 20% of my front. I have holes in me. Not scratches. HOLES. And this sordid tale pretty much proves that at least two people in my household can't handle one little cat.

I grabbed Polly's front legs and back legs to gently set her in the warm water soak of betadine I'd prepared in the bathroom sink. After a brief struggle, I sternly explained to the cat that I would win. I always win. Elle giggled because she probably knew, in the back of her mind, that she was about to witness her mother get busted up by a cat. Polly made some noises I can't duplicate or spell out, so just imagine a low-key cat fight in your backyard. Now involve water and 20-something claws. My assistant, Elle, calmly stepped back and giggled some more. Then she popped the drain after a few minutes and we started prepping the epsom salt soak.

The epsom salt soak went rather well, I think. I held the cat in a headlock pretty much at this point and just stuck her bottom half in the water. She fought me again until I reminded her that I always win. I should have known that, with those words having been said, my cat would begin to channel Satan (or Satan's cat). Her eyes glazed over and she stared right through me, but quietly endured the epsom salt soak. I was good for about two minutes until I told Elle how freaky it was that Polly was looking at me like that, with her eyes so big and her mouth wide open. The second Polly let out a low growl, Elle hopped into the bathtub for safety and just watched me from the mirror. Elle kept saying, "ooooh, oooh!! Ooooooooh!! (giggle, giggle) Oooooh!!" It was annoying. I'd been given very specific instructions by the vet to rinse as much epsom salt off of Polly's leg as possible to prevent her from developing a bad case of cat-diarrhea if she licked it off, so my assistant popped the drain and I started running the tap water.

Yeah, okay. People, don't ever do that. Seriously, if the cat gets diarrhea you've got to admit it's better than losing an eye. Or two!! Polly freaked the hell out and instead of jumping out of my arms and tearing down the hallway in a panic, she decided to climb me like a tree. Claws were suddenly in my back and in my front and in my arms and in my scalp! Elle jumped in the bathtub again and nervously screamed, "I wanna leave!" and I screamed, "Get the cat off me!! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!!" and she screamed, "Polly's ripping holes in your shirt, Mommy!" and I continued to scream, "Get the cat off me!! Aaaaaaaaah!!!!"

Meanwhile, my parents were watching a rerun of The Locator and left me to depend on an 8-year old to answer my increasingly desperate pleas for help. The same 8-year old who was hiding in the bathtub!

I finally grabbed Polly's arm or tail or something and yanked her off of me and threw a towel over her, much like Steve Irwin used to do when he would catch man-eating alligators. The towel was rigged to swaddle her and prevent her from sticking a rogue claw in me again. I took her back to her crate and locked her in. Polly instinctively started to lick her leg and since I never got the epsom salt rinsed completely away, I reminded her that I won. There's a kitty litter box in there with her. She'll be needing it soon.

breathe

2009-10-15T19:02:00.000-07:00

For three consecutive nights, I woke up choking and gasping and nearly suffocating in my sleep. My previous erratic breathing patterns had led me to take a class where I was taught how to use my diaphragm, and not my lungs, to draw in oxygen. A more relaxed rhythym, a natural rise and fall of air being absorbed and forced back out from my lungs, was the only was to keep me from becoming lightheaded and tingly-faced. That's easy to do when you're awake, when you're aware of your breaths falling out of step with the others. But you can't keep time like that when you're asleep and your brain takes over completely, leaving your conscious self outside to wait to hold the reigns during your waking hours. I was completely alone in the house for an entire week so after three nights, I moved into my parents' bed and hoped the scent of their familiarity would comfort me at least through the night.

I woke up again, this time worse than the others. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning and I hated that I was awake to experience what I thought was my death. Why couldn't I have just stayed asleep? Why couldn't I have simply slept my way through the ungodly pain and fear associated with running out of oxygen? I was drowning, it felt like, and nobody was home to save me. Convinced that I was dying, I struggled to force my lungs open and succeeded, drawing in a breath so deep that I could have made the walls bend inward. My parents' bedroom provided me with no comfort, after all. I decided to go to the emergency room.

It's embarrassing for me to admit that I was probably around eighteen or nineteen years old when I climbed into my parents' bed that night. I'd never been alone for that long before and, to be honest, I was very lonely. It was my first real taste of absolute quiet and I didn't like it. I called my friend's mom and, through tears of frustration, exhaustion, and near-panic, convinced her to drive me to the hospital herself instead of run me via ambulance. This dear woman was at my front door in less than ten minutes. She proceeded to drive me to the emergency room, park the car (not a dropoff), and sit next to me in the waiting room for four hours.

"If this were my daughter, I'd expect someone to stay with her if I couldn't be there myself."

Around 8:30 that morning, the nurses took me to an exam room and I was poked and prodded with needles and cuffs and quickly prepped for the heart monitor. I was lying on the bed's loud and crackly paper, with my top off and an enormous amount of round white stickers stuck on my chest, nipples and all. Some stickers had wires, some had none. When the technician on-call came in, she gasped loudly enough to get everyone's attention and practically diagnosed me on the spot: Anxiety.

I'll be the first to tell you that anxiety sucks. It sucks hard, too. Anxiety disorders are often coupled with depression and the whole thing has become a "What came first - the chicken or the egg?" discussion. Imagine my surprise when I was given a diagnosis and I immediately started to feel better. The hidden triggers started becoming more well-known to me and I learned how to stay one step ahead of my attacks alot of the time. Not each and every time, but enough that I can step back and breathe my little rhythmic routine just well enough to prevent hyperventilation. Hyperventilating is another thing that sucks hard, too.

It turns out that the technician who recognized me did so with a sharp eye and an even sharper memory of my frequent visits over the last few months. She had treated me when I'd found my way to the ER many times in the previous weeks, each time while complaining of breathing, swallowing, heart palpitations. face tingling, and nearly blacking out.

"I'll bet there isn't a physical thing wrong with you. It's all in your head." And she was right.

Anxiety is not a fun disorder. It's crippling, in fact, and can hijack your life with no warning whatsoever. It can hold you hostage. It messes with your personality in so many ways that you lose yourself. After so many years of struggling to stay calm in everyday situations, and surrendering parts of your character over to this anxiety, you just become exhausted. You're drained and just plain ol' tired.

Rodney Yee makes me cry

2009-10-12T18:49:00.000-07:00

For my birthday, I asked for a Rodney Yee yoga DVD. I know there are a bazillion yoga DVDs to choose from and that it probably doesn't matter whose DVD you have when you're just beginning, but let's face it - the guy is HOT.

Years ago, my friend Wendy and I used to meet up every Wednesday night for yoga night. We'd spend the first hour or so huffing and puffing our way through Rodney Yee's Flexibility VHS tape. The second hour was Recovery Hour which we spent on the couch watching John Cusack films and stuffing our faces with pizza. Or tacos. Whichever. We did fondue night once, too. It's obvious that we weren't in it for the reasons most people are in it for. We just wanted something fun to do and that's what we did.

This was before my Mommy Years. I recently picked up yoga again when I quit smoking last summer. I needed something to help pull the stress out of me once I noticed how the tensed-up muscles tightened until they came close to snapping. Kickboxing was too expensive and too physical. And since I have a bad back, I needed something that was soothing but that would kick my ass at the same time. This, technically, amounts to any activity requiring movement. So I chose yoga. And I chose Rodney. Because the man is delicious. Here, look again:

And then I got lazy for a few months. Until tonight.

Elle wanted to do some yoga with me. She's in gymnastics and can do all kinds of stretchy things with her young, limber body, but she'd like to be able to one day do the splits. I was in gymnastics once upon a time and would like to be able to one day touch my toes again without groaning. Same rainbow, different pot o' gold. I slid the new DVD in my laptop and placed it on the floor. Elle was all giggly because she's been wanting to do this yoga thing for quite some time. She liked the soothing water sounds and how Rodney Yee looks like our friend, Daniel. And she likes that Rodney Yee does his yoga at the beach.

And she likes how Mommy says, "What the shit is he doing!? I can't do that!", while grimacing because Mommy's hamstring just snapped in half and her face is turning purple because being in the downward dog position cuts off circulation to Mommy's head. Elle also thinks it's funny that I have to say "Oh my god!" every time I collapse onto the floor in a heap of sore muscles and oxygen deprivation because...well, yoga hurts when you haven't done a lick of exercise in...say, six months! After I found my way back up to a standing position, I decided I was tired of being laughed at and sent the kid to bed, where she continued to poke fun at me about how I was constantly falling over during the Centering chapter.

Believe it or not, after I read Elle her bedtime story, I came back and tried one more chapter. It was called Surrender and I honestly thought it would be the chapter during which I could be flat on my back on a mat and just do leg work, because that's easy! Man, was I wrong. At least, I think I was. The chapter started with him in some sideways pose with his legs facing one way, his chest facing the other, and his hand and face upward.

Ha! You're crazy. Eject.

My back is still tingly and my right leg is wobbly. But oxygen has found its way back to my brain. And Elle has finally stopped laughing at me.

Flunkies

2009-10-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

The little Italian boy sat next to me at lunch everyday. I was the only American kid there and the only person in the entire building who spoke English, otherwise I would have been able to tell my preschool teachers why I cried every afternoon and wanted to go home to my mom.

Because my mom doesn't take her plastic lunchtime fork and jab it into my leg and drag it up and down until my tights are completely destroyed.

I didn't know my family was poor. I only knew my family couldn't afford to buy me a new pair of tights after every mid-afternoon assault. It was frustrating, being there in that school, with such wonderful, loving, dark-haired Italian women who obviously cared about me. It was frustrating because, even though I could point at things and demonstrate with my hands and tell a story with my body language and facial expressions, my teachers and I just couldn't talk to each other.

I eventually learned Italian and became quite fluent. I did so well in my language class, in fact, that my teacher selected me to learn American Sign Language, too. Boy, oh boy, did I ever think I was the bee's knees. Living in Italy came with some perks. The DoD school I attended even thought I was pretty damn special. They invited me to join the Talented and Gifted program. TAG, we called it. It was like being in a club. A special club.

I moved back to the states and had myself set up to test into the district's TAG program in my new school. Oh, wait until they hear my resume! I'll tell them about the time I visited a nursing home at Christmas time and sang "Buon Natale" at the top of my lungs while signing in ASL for those who couldn't hear me singing at the top of my lungs. They were probably the lucky ones that night.

To make a long story short, I failed. I failed the test. I wasn't considered Talented and Gifted enough for the United States. The cultural differences made no difference to them at all.

What cultural differences, exactly? Well, for example, school buses are blue and fire hydrants are brown. And cheese comes from goats. Right?

No. Not right!

This story reminds me of the time I took my daughter to a speech therapy consultation. She was three-years old at the time and it was in the middle of a scorching hot summer. To get a starting point to measure her developmental progress, the therapist showed her a series of pictures and asked her to name each one.

(picture of a dog) = Puppy!
(picture of an apple) = Apple!
(picture of a bed) = Night Night!

And so on...

(picture of a house) = House!
(picture of a book) = Story!
(picture of a cow) = Moo!

Until we hit a few roadblocks...

(picture of a knife) = ......uh, I can't play with those.
(picture of a winter coat) = ....Mommy, what is that?
(picture of mittens) = ....ugh, forget it.

Therapist: "You can't help her."
Me: "But she's never even seen one of those before. This is Florida."
Therapist (to Elle): "What do you wear when it's cold outside?"
Elle: "A sweater."
Me: "*snort* Well, Therapist, what did you expect? Good job, Elle. We're all done here."

Ha. Another Talented and Gifted flunkie is in our midst.

33

2009-10-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

After dragging my bottom half out of bed this morning, I hit the snooze button to give myself twenty extra minutes and crawled back under the covers to stretch out my muscles in a spread-eagle sprawl very similar to the chalk outline of a dead body. You know, belly down with my face in one direction and one arm down my side with the other curved up close to my nose and a knee pulled up halfway into my chest cavity.

Before showering, I spent seven minutes plucking gray hairs out of my head, parting my hair and forcing it to go in unnatural directions just so I could catch a glimpse of any gray hairs that got away. There are always gray hairs that got away and this bothers me, but not as much as I used to think it would.

As I was showering (don't worry, we'll keep it clean...heh, clean...puns are fun), I considered shaving my legs but soon realized that nobody's feeling me up anyway. I also don't like the fact that I have a splotch of something big on the back of my left leg and people like to call it vericose veins. I don't like to call it that so I just call it my splotch. I've had it since before I was a teenager. I guess if I really looked at it closely, I could map all the cities of West Virginia with much geographical accuracy because it is such a weird shape, but really it's just a splotch.

After showering, I plucked my eyebrows and slathered my face with some expired Nivea anti-wrinkle cream, paying special attention to the crow's feet, my sun-damaged forehead, the new freckles on the bridge of my nose, my "parentheses" around my mouth, and the dry patches of skin that have become my cheeks. Okay, fine. I slapped that damn cream all over my face.

Since I quit smoking last year while I was a relative newbie to my dirty thirties, my ass has expanded and my tummy pudges out. My pants size has climbed from sparkly-butterflies-on-the-ass size 16 girls' to a whopping women's size 2. Because the weight gain is something I've welcomed, I usually rejoice in the need to buy underwear that fits me and makes me feel like that infamous line from Steel Magnolias wasn't captured on film just for me. C'mon, you know the one..."Looks like two pigs fightin' under a blanket!" Yep, that's the one.

My feet are so sore that I stick light-absorbency pantiliners in the soles for some cheap cushion. My body screams for coffee every morning because it cannot fall asleep every night. If I take a sip of water at 9:33pm, you can bet I'll be awake at 3:17am, muttering curses about my effing bladder while blindly groping my way to the bathroom with eyes half-open and hoping I'll be able to fall back asleep, if I can even remember how to get back to bed.

Tomorrow's my birthday. I'm turning thirty-three. Maybe the birthday fairy will gift me with a bone-shattering calcium deficiency or...oh, better yet...hot flashes. To be honest with you, though, I'm most looking forward to being spoiled by my daughter and eating carrot cake and not having to do laundry. I'm hoping to unwrap a Rodney Yee DVD so I can finally get my sore body into some kind of working order again. I'm even planning on splurging at Starbucks by upsizing to a grande...with 2 shots of espresso!

See, I'm not one of those women who complains about getting older because getting older upsets me. No, no, no. I have a pretty clear, although basic, understanding that the human body changes with age, both internally and externally, and there's not a damn thing we can do to stop it. Science provides us with the chemicals to cover it up - the Botox, the laser skin removal, the surgical remodeling of one's face - and that's fine for some people. Not for me, though. I'd rather be accepting of what's to come than add one more worry to my already stressful life.

When I wake up tomorrow, I'll have endured yet another year of triumphs and heartaches, of successes and failures, of embarrassments and admiration, of motherhood and friendships. My daughter will probably overwhelm me with hugs and kisses and "I love you, Mom", and present me with one handmade card after another (because, sometimes, she's just downright uncontrollably crafty). My co-workers will ask me if I have any special plans for the evening and I'll say, "Yep, I'm eating cake!" I'll open the birthday cards that arrived in the mail and share a dinner at home with my family.

It will be as simple as that. No tears. No depression. No anxieties about growing old and lonely. Besides, I only have one cat and I need to hold on to some emotional breakdown symptoms for when I turn 40.

I follow recipes. Sometimes.

2009-10-06T08:42:00.000-07:00

I received this on the couch this morning:

All About My Mom

My mom is a exelent baker cause she sometimes follows recipes. An some just pop out of her mind. My mom is very very funny but I dont know where she gets this from? And especially she takes good care of me. An most of all moms birthday is only 3 more days is'nt that cool! huh? is it? Well mom I love you.

Love,
Elle

Awwww, shucks. I love you, too.

Differences

2009-10-04T18:39:00.000-07:00

(Elle - the birthday girl!)

Finally, after two years, Elle got her ears pierced. For two years, I've had to listen to the "...because it's gonna hurt" or the "...just do it next year" and it really started to get to me. Each time Elle walked away and backed out was just another invitation for disappointment and frustration. She would kick herself and tell herself that if she had just done it, it would be over with already. Smart kid.

This afternoon, Elle climbed into that chair, chose her earrings (called Pink Ice for the October birthstone), and immediately froze. I could see by the expression on her face that she had already mentally checked out. If I tried to talk to her she would roll her eyes in my general direction and stare right through me. It was freaky.

She woke up as soon as the first post was thrust into her earlobe. Aaaaaah....tears!! Shit!!! What do I do? What do I doooo? The last time I made her go through a procedure against her own will was when she was catheterized by a group of nurses and it took five of them just to pin her down! (Elle was three years old but she has the strength of a pissed-off pitbull terrier. And, apparently, the memory of an elephant. She still brings up that incident in the hospital.) So I regrouped and looked Elle straight in the eyes and said, "Well, now you have to do the other one or you'll just look ridiculous!"

She took a deep breath and kind of smarted off to me. "Fine! I just want to get this over with!" Yes, my threats of social awkwardness worked! Way to go, Mom. I patted myself on the back and admired my beautiful, evenly pierced daughter.

After that traumatic experience, I bought myself an iced hazelnut latte and told Elle about the time my parents tricked me into getting my ears pierced. I was five years old and hardly a girly girl. And I screamed. Man, did I scream! And my parents kept telling me that I looked like such a pretty little girl because of my new earrings and I wanted to punch them because I didn't want to be a pretty little girl!!

That's one of the differences between Elle and me. That she does want to be a pretty little girl. And she is. Oh, she is!

Rant with no title...but plenty of anger

2009-09-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

Florida lost today. Florida lost BIG today. Even if I wasn't a mother, I would feel the same way about the sadness that hangs over the state of Florida today. Missing children. Murdered children. Piece of crap human beings who are allowed to breathe, eat, sleep, live. LIVE, I said. All this is punishment for slapping some duct tape over your own child's mouth and stuffing her dead, bloodied body in your trunk? All this is punishment for snatching your neighbor's little girl from her bedroom in the middle of the night, raping her, and burying her alive in your backyard? All this is punishment for waking up at 3am to find your boyfriend's child missing from her bed...from a trailer...and you heard nothing?

Caylee Anthony's mother still will not admit to murdering her daughter. They've found her body, they've found holes in Mom's story, and today they found an outline of a child's body in the trunk of Mom's car. But because of some FBI contamination mistake, it's very possible that the duct tape used to cover little Caylee's mouth could be thrown out as evidence.

John Evander Couey, Jessica Lunsford's killer, died today of natural causes. Natural causes! Hmmm, that's quite a treat! Sure beats the hell out of dying the way little Jessica died, doesn't it!? I don't care if your IQ is 78 and places you on the cusp of comprehending the severity of what kind of crime has just been committed, because when you bury a little girl alive you're kind of admitting that you know what you did was wrong.

Misty Croslin. Misty, Misty, Misty. I don't quite know what to say about you. I can't believe you haven't cracked yet. Don't underestimate the Putnam County Sheriff's Department...they're just getting started on you. And you can bet that little Haleigh's mom isn't going to forget how you were the last one to see her daughter alive and yet didn't hear a single sound before 3am when you noticed Haleigh wasn't in her bed. I've been in a few trailers myself...you can hear everything. The cops are smarter than you are.

All of these people have committed crimes against children. The most heinous, sickening crimes you can imagine. These children were with people they trusted or people they knew and it makes me fall apart just thinking about their last moments. Can you feel it? Can you feel that fear? That terror that something bad is happening and something worse is going to happen and you can't stop it. Only the bad person can stop it.

One of Christopher Barrios' killers is on trial right now up in Brunswick, Georgia. Testimony proves that Christopher asked his killers to let him go, asked them to let him go home to his parents. Yes, you read that correctly. There were more than one. They were his neighbors. Christopher was 6 when they snatched him from his yard where he was playing with a Star Wars toy. He wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was exactly where he was supposed to be - playing in his yard with his toys and acting like a 6-year old boy. But plea bargains and He-Said-She-Said could end up sparing the life of one of his murderers. Ain't the justice system fantabulous!?

Yeah, I know. This post is pretty heavy, it's not like anything I've ever expressed an opinion about before. But I can't help it. These stories have taken over the local evening news and have made me confront my feelings on God, on society, on human nature altogether. Without sharing my rants on the three subjects I've just mentioned, I will admit that I have lost alot of faith in all of them.

I've heard stories of parents of murdered children attacking their children's attackers. Bravo!, I say. I don't know a single parent who wouldn't want to take a swing at the sick bastard who killed their child. It doesn't happen often but just to know it's happened at least once is a score for the Good Guys. The punishments imposed on such criminals are light, even if it's life without parole. The inmates are fed, clothed, given medical and dental care, and, in some cases, they win an early release or parole. They get to go home to their families, to their lives, to breathe fresh air and hug the people they love.

At this point, I can only hope that these child killers get the death penalty. Me, personally, I'm a grudge-holder. I have no sympathy for people like this. I don't care if you were beaten as a child or had to watch your mother drink herself into a stupor every day after you came home from school - I just don't care. You can call me heartless, you can call me a cold-hearted bitch, because, quite honestly, I don't care about that either. What I do care about it that these kids, and the thousands more that are abused, tortured, and killed in this country every year, are not forgotten and that the crimes committed against them are not downplayed by plea bargains and contaminated evidence.

Obviously, I am a strong supporter of the death penalty. This might have something to do with my relationship with God, or lack thereof, but to punish a child rapist/killer with a life sentence interrupted by parole hearings and meetings with psychiatrists trying to determine if the criminal was treated badly as a child...you're wasting my time.

It's time to bring back Ol' Sparky.

And, for the record, both Florida and Georgia impose the death penalty. At least they got something right.

*Because I'm on a roll here, I'd like to publicly state my opinion on Hollywood and their little project to save Roman Polanski from the American justice system. What's that, you said? Woody Allen is leading the charge? Wait...the same guy who made dreamy eyes at his own adopted daughter and ended up marrying her and fathering children with her and ewww!!! WTF? Hollywood - stick to making movies and shut the hell up about everything else. By the way, Whoopi, rape-rape is still rape. And I don't understand why Roman Polanski is the one receiving all the sympathy. Wow...it must be difficult to be pushed around and bullied by someone who is bigger than you, like, say, the United States. But at least they didn't have to drug you and rape you to make you comply. It's a rough life for these fellas, Woody and Roman. Here...have a seat and take a rest. I have the perfect chair for you!

A big hole in the ground

2009-09-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

What's better than forgetting to take your car back to the mechanic the morning after an oil change because there's shit dripping all over your driveway? How about driving 200 miles to go see a big, lush, green, peaceful, beautiful, eye-poppingly gorgeous hole in the ground?

Yep, that IS better than forgetting to take your car back to the mechanic the morning after an oil change because there's shit dripping all over your driveway!
(and I did manage to make it back to Jacksonville 25 minutes before the mechanic closed up for the night)

My daughter had never been there before. Devil's Millhopper is located in Gainesville, Florida, and is a 120-foot deep sinkhole that leads down into one of the most peaceful spots I've ever found in Florida. And it's not like some of those other places, like Ginnie Springs, that lead you into and through the middle of nowhere after driving 20 miles east and 16 miles north on dirt roads. Nope, Devil's Millhopper is 1000 feet to the west of NW 43rd Avenue. There's a Starbucks just down the road.

All visitors are asked to use the honor system and pay $4.00 upon entry at the unmanned post. There's not much to this park. Seriously. You walk through a small visitors center and onto the trail. Go to the right to walk the nature trail or go to the left to walk down to the bottom of the sinkhole. Since I wore flip flops, our decision was made for us.

We walked down the steps. Lots and lots and lots of steps! Which aren't so bad on the way down. And it's a long way down. It's only discouraging when you hear a small boy scream from the top after a climb out of the sink, "Yeeees!! NO MORE STEPS!!" That's youthful energy talking and it's just plumb wore out. Of course, it's a beautiful view from the bottom but that little boy from way up there - he's still singing about how happy he is to not have to climb any more steps - well, that keeps you at the bottom of the sink for just a little longer. So rest up! Just as it's a long way down, it's an even longer way back up!

The day was uneventful, really. Elle loved Millhopper and became more excited with every new waterfall discovery. But the heat punched us in the face after a while and our stomachs began eating themselves. It was a 2-hour drive home and I decided to stop off at Publix to pick up something inexpensive for lunch.

We ended up dining outside in the car, parked under a tree with all four windows rolled down. Lunchables, baby. A few minutes later, we took off for home. On the way, Elle mentioned how she'd just had one of the best days ever.

Me: "So, what was your favorite part about today?"
Elle: "The waterfalls, the sinkhole, and being allowed to eat in the car!"

Being allowed to eat in the car? Really?

Wow. That just opened up a whole new world of ideas for "Fun Time With The Kid!"...you know, just park the kid in the car under a tree, roll the windows down, and throw some turkey, white american cheese, and hoagie bread at her.

Or take her for a walk in the woods...(whatever makes them smile, right?)

Conversations from a First Grade classroom (2008)

2009-09-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

My daughter just relayed this hilarious story to me tonight. Here is proof that I am not the only one on Planet Earth to use the term "happy camper". However, it's refreshing to see that our children, at least while in the classroom, are receiving a quality FCAT-worthy education AND mastering the art of smartassery.

Mrs. Rice: I am NOT a happy camper!

Kids: What about if we roast some marshmallows?

Mrs. Rice: No, I'm not really talking about camping. It's just another way of saying you're mad.

Kids: Ooooooh, so then you're a mad camper?

Mad Chatters

2009-09-19T20:27:00.000-07:00

I honestly haven't been on the Internet very long. Ten, eleven, twelve years max. I signed up for my first email address back in 1998 or 1999. For the sake of argument, let's just say 1998. It's an even number and I'm slow when it comes to math.

I moved from DC to Florida in 1996. I was turning 20 that year and had left my friends and my life as a military dependent. Having been thrust into the world of civilians who don't give a crap that you're moving in except that your Mayflower Movers truck is blocking their driveway, I became acutely aware of how socially inept I really was and made a conscious decision to blow every penny of my nearly $6,000 savings. I had no friends and nothing better to do. I couldn't even get a job.

Over the next few years, not much changed. I did get a job and I managed to stay there for almost six years. But during those years, I had a hard time making friends with people from work, mainly because they were people from work. My job required me to be friendly and helpful. This exhausted me. I stayed friendly and helpful well enough to be promoted. This exhausted me even more. My somewhat-friendly relationships with the people from work cooled as I began acting like their boss. Suddenly, those employees who'd already earned my trust could no longer be trusted. There were no friendships, only Shhhh! Here comes the boss! After a year, I quit that position.

During that year as the Boss, I had gained access to the Internet. I could email my oldest and dearest friends whenever I felt like it. And they would email me back whenever they felt like it. And it was great! I loved clicking that "inbox" and seeing (4) New Messages off to the side. It was always a confirmation to me that someone, anyone, cared enough to think of me that day. I didn't care if it was an ad for a penis enlargement or my best friend emailing me pictures of her son's birthday party, someone was thinking of me! I was encouraged to join a Yahoo! Chat room, so I did. And I was welcomed every single time I logged in. I was celebrated, people laughed at my jokes, fellow chatters (whose personalities and lifestyles couldn't be any more different yet they embraced each other regardless) invited me to join them at their next Chat Party. Exhale! I'd finally found a social life on the Internet.

Of course, I know that some people just troll the Internet with such heinous intentions that my skin crawls. But I also know that some people on the Internet are honest, hard-working, friendly, give-a-stranger-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of people who suffer from the same detrimental personality disorder as I do: social ineptitude. Aaaah, relief. I'd found my kind. And I've been kind of attached to this here Internet thingy ever since.

Those two kinds of Internet people have made their way into my life. Nothing horribly criminal or even newsworthy to report from the Troll Encounter, but just knowing they're out there and that I've actually exchanged words with one of them makes me think twice about who I talk to now. And I did happen to meet a few of the non-Troll kind during a well-planned trip to DC for an aforementioned Chat Party in Crystal City. It was so nice to finally put a face to a (screen)name and enjoy each other's company based solely on personality, not on appearances. Another chatter had planned a trip to DC from her native Madrid. I can't tell you how exciting it was to meet her in our nation's capital and be a part of her first trip to the United States. I'll always remember her and, while she and I are no longer in touch with each other, I know she'll always remember me, the girl who drove all the way from Florida to meet her. And, of course, the others. A once-in-a-lifetime adventure is what that was.

The nightly chatroom socials ended almost as abruptly as they'd started. For me, at least. Life came at me, unexpectedly, and I made real friends. They actually lived less than five miles away (as opposed to the 600 miles to DC). And away I went, into the real world. I was armed with a social facade and it seemed to get me far enough. I wasn't exuberant and giddy, but I was less lonely and happier than I'd been in years. I was invited over, I was invited out to dinner, I was invited to the movies, I was invited on road trips. Then life came at me again and I had a baby and all those friends left me. I wasn't invited anywhere anymore.

I started this blog nearly a year ago. Since that first blog post, I've developed a sort of rapport with some of my own readers and fellow bloggers that I follow. My daughter and I have been invited to playtime at the beach in Pensacola and dinner in Knoxville by some very talented individuals who enjoy what I write and know that I enjoy what they write. I don't think online relationships are really any different from those that developed between pen pals so many decades ago. And at this point in my life as a full-time working mom and student, I don't have much time to worry about how socially awkward I am. There's homework to check and expired orange juice to return and laundry from two days ago that needs to get pulled from the dryer and blogs to write and blogs to read and...and...and...there's always something. Because life comes at you.

So, to Becca, Dawn, and Chris: Thank you for the invitations. I will show up one day, hungry and ready to be entertained. Don't worry - I'll give you ample warning.

And to Henry: I'm still waiting to hear about your adventures in Asheville. Mine sucked. Except for the bookstore. We must dish.

P.S. Each time I read this post back to myself, I worry that it makes me sound like have no friends...like real friends. I cannot fix this. But the good news is that I obviously have the time to worry about such a frivolous misconception and that means there is no homework to check or expired orange juice to return or laundry from two days ago that needs to get pulled from the dryer. Sure, it's sitting in a basket next to me waiting to be folded, but whatever. I'm going to bed.

And then one day...

2009-09-17T19:43:00.000-07:00

I wasn't a mother until my daughter was eight months old. Up until that point I didn't think I could be credited with more than carrying her through a successful (though horrific) pregnancy and buying the things she needed before and after she was born. I would wake up when she would wake up and we'd have a snack around 3am with the Golden Girls. I would strap her into her stroller and wheel her around my apartment complex at least once a day. In the summer I would take her down to the pool where she would immediately fall asleep so I could finally have a few minutes by myself to sit in the hot tub and wonder how in the hell my life had come to that moment. Then she would cry and I'd have to stop thinking and take her on another walk around the complex. During these times, I never connected with her. I don't remember much else about the first eight months of my daughter's life except that she never slept. This also meant that I never slept.

My shift was coming to an end at the hotel. I had walked back into the sales office to pick up my stuff and head home when a coworker came to tell me that a police officer was up front and and waiting to speak with me.

"It's probably my brother."

"Is your brother black?"

"Uh, no."

"He's not your brother."

I walked up to the officer and introduced myself. I don't remember if he introduced himself or not, though I'm sure he had to on account of his job. The officer handed me some paperwork and explained to me that I'd just been served. The paper said that I was being sued by Mr. Dumas and that he was taking me to court to fight me for custody of this eight month old baby he had yet to acknowledge. All I remember about that moment was running back to my boss' office and telling him I would need the following day off from work.

"Why? Is everything okay?"

"No. I'm being sued. And I'm going to fight this son of a bitch to the end if he ever thinks he's getting his fucking hands on my daughter!"

There. I'd said it. And, most importantly, I'd felt it. I became her mother. And I knew that I would have to play tug-of-war with him and I tried desperately to not use her as the fraying rope between her father and me because I knew her father would pull on her until she finally came to pieces. He'd done it to me and I'd left his sorry ass because of it. This man, who called himself her father on a legal document to sue me, had made a decision to join the military and head to bootcamp four days before she was to be born, had never signed her birth certificate, and had seen her only once. He wasn't good enough to be her father. And I had a feeling he never would be.

That was nearly eight years ago. In the room next to mine sleeps a beautiful little girl who just attended her first Girl Scout meeting last night and is on her way to perfecting a backward kickover in her gymnastics class. She rarely talks about her father and when she does it isn't in a positive light. I did everything I could (and things I never wanted to do) in order to encourage some kind of relationship between these two strong-willed individuals. He blames me for her stubborness. I pat myself on the back for teaching her to not bend to his will because I know, firsthand, that his will could potentially turn into abuse. He tells my daughter that she should make more of an effort to be in touch with him. I console my daughter and remind her that he's the adult and even she says he should act like one. He says I feed things into her brain. I tell myself that schizophrenia runs in his family and I shouldn't take all of these hurtful comments personally. But I do.

He has so many issues to work out. None of which are because of me. All of which combined at some point in his life before he even met me. But why confront those demons when I'm the one with a name? Scream at me, yell at me, curse at me, and tell me I'm going to hell. It's easier, I guess. I have a name. Those other issues also have names but to call them by name would only confirm their existence. They'd be outed. They'd become real and have to be dealt with. It's easier to deal with me.

By dealing with me, he ignores me just like he ignores his daughter. But every now and then I get a phone call from him asking how I am. I tell him that we are fine. He begins talking about God and how I'll be forgiven and how he (Mr. Dumas) has forgiven me. During the most recent call, he talked about all the incredible jobs he was offered and asked me what I think he should do. I didn't give him my opinion. He decided to take the job in England. It's a safe distance for him to not ever have to interact with his daughter and still use his job location as an excuse. She's not clueless. She knows he's not around. She sees her friends play with their daddies and she joins in. She doesn't want her daddy around because he's weird, he says creepy things, and he makes her feel like she's disappointing him. My child told me this. My heart broke for her but I couldn't let her know. I wouldn't want her to think she's disappointing me, too.

The judge agreed with me. About everything. The judge gave him too many chances to redeem himself, to admit he'd made some mistakes, to say he was willing to try to fix his life. But all he could do was talk about me and what a horrible person I was and how my family was brainwashing my child. The judge got fed up and called out his decision right then and there, in the courtroom in mid-January of this year. All visits with her father are to be supervised and I was even sensible enough to choose his parents as the supervisors. I couldn't imagine my daughter making her monthly appearance at a state visitation center and I hoped her paternal grandparents would encourage some sort of contact. My daughter hasn't seen her father's face or heard her father's voice (or those of her grandparents) in nearly ten months.

My daughter and I are each other's best friend. Not a good idea, you say? Yeah, I said that once, too. But that was before her father turned her into a game piece. And that was before he told her that terrorists were trying to break into our house and steal her away. And that was before he started to cancel visits and forget birthdays and nearly drink himself to death and expect her to feel comfortable around him after no contact for eight months last year. I've had to help her put herself together after nearly every encounter with her father. Of course we're each other's best friend.

I raise her with my own beliefs, some of which I never knew I had. Most of my decisions are in agreement with the way I was raised. Some of my child-rearing decisions leave my parents shaking their heads and talking at me about consequences and the tragic effect my decision could have on her future. I sit around wondering when I'll ever feel comfortable in my own skin, knowing that I am my own worst critic but still feeling like I'm constantly being scrutinized by people who have no idea what it's like to have to do it alone. But any time I see my daughter worrying about what others think, I remind her that quirky people rule the world and that I wish I was as brave as she is when I was a kid. Sometimes I wish I was as brave as she is even now that I'm an adult. That makes her smile.

And isn't that what a mom is supposed to do?

We are talking about laptops, right?

2009-09-16T18:50:00.000-07:00

This is quite possibly the most horrific conversation I have ever taken part in. In fact, I was the star of this conversation. Completely by accident, but I just wouldn't shut the hell up. Try to follow along and please don't think any less of me. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if this post makes you think about me even more (*wink*).

Cast of characters:
Me - the clueless secretary
Kelly - a very experienced...ahem, non-secretary type (?)
Dr. W. - a quirky researcher/office director who enjoys a fun conversation

The setting:
My desk. Near the front entrance of our office. The figurative "water cooler" since we don't really have one.

The conversation:

Dr. W: I need to get the Little Bunny ready to take home. The matrix is so big, like 43,000 bits of information. Big Bunny takes too long to calculate it. Little Bunny does it much faster. In about 22 minutes.

Kelly: What's the little bunny?

DW: Well, it's the little one. The big one at home is just so slow. It takes 35 minutes to do what this little bunny can do in 22 minutes.

Me: Oooh! Oooh! I got a little bunny for myself this weekend. It's my new boyfriend. I practically spent all my time with it!

Kelly: (There are no words coming from her mouth - just high pitched giggles. These, I learned, are the intro to her uncontrollable fits of laughter.)

DW: You, my dear, have said some strange things to me but that, by far, is the strangest thing ever.

Me: What? What did I say? Is there a problem with me talking about my new boyfriend?

Kelly: (Still no words, only howling and a quick wipe of a tear from her eye.)

DW: This is just weird.

Me: Yeah, it is! What is so darn funny??! Will someone tell me, please? Dr. W., you started it by talking about your Big Bunny and your Little Bunny and I'm the one who is saying strange things because I called mine my new boyfriend?

Kelly: (Nothing but howling laughter, tears, and oh my god...is she even breathing? Kelly? KELLY? Are you okay?)

DW: I'm going home now.

Me: This isn't fair. Why am I the weirdo all of a sudden? Dr. W, you, of ALL people, should be appreciative of what is strange and weird. You're the one who starts odd conversation with me everyday!

DW: Yeah, but even THIS is too weird for me. See you tomorrow.

Kelly: (Slump. She finally hit the floor and died from a lack of oxygen, probably from laughing so hard.)

Dr. W. went home with her Little Bunny. I sat at my desk, looking for someone to tell me what just happened. Suddenly, Kelly was miraculously brought back from the dead, even though she was still wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

She whispered something to me and I couldn't hear. I scooted closer in my little wheely office chair and caught most of what she was repeating to me.

Kelly: Pssst! Did you know there is a vibrator called a Bunny?

Me: WHAAAAAATT!!?????????????? OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!! And I was calling it my new boyfriend!?! OH GOD...THIS IS SO....OH MY GOD!

Kelly started laughing again. I turned a strange shade of red and green...I couldn't decide if I should be embarrassed by what had just happened and what Dr. W. might have thought I was talking about OR if I should be disgusted that one of my directors (a woman in her 60s, maybe even 70s) could possibly know what a Bunny vibrator was.

Here it is, folks. In case you were wondering, too:

The art of writing and avoiding hand cramps

2009-09-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

My handwriting is atrocious. Years of typing on a keyboard have morphed me into some kind of lobster-clawed freak before I've even finished signing my name with a pen. No more gold stars for me. No more "Great penmanship!" or big smiley faces on the top right-hand corner of my handwritten work. No more requests to send thank you notes in my cursive lettering. What should be an R is now a K. What should be a D is now an O. What should be an N is now a...well, there is no such symbol or character for it on my keyboard so that just proves my point.

People say I still have beautiful handwriting. They must be affected by the cryptic messages I'm sending via Post-It notes. Nobody is aware of the number of times I have to write out a message just so I can be sure someone else will be able to read it. Sometimes I get discouraged and simply send them an email. Please don't think I'm obsessive about this because I really only write a note out 2 or 3 times...max! But, for some reason, I have developed a doctor's scribble.

I have also noticed that I can't write out a word in just print or in just cursive. My words on paper are a marriage of the two. Take Florida: cursive F - cursive L - O - printed R - printed I - cursive D - cursive A. My hand cannot master the cursive B, E, G, R, or W. I will subconsciously stop in the middle of a word, switch out from cursive to print or print to cursive, then continue as I was before I hit the mental railroad crossbars and drove around them.

My words are written very quickly but it's physically painful for me to finish an entire word in cursive. Could you imagine a word like claustrophobia? The pure agony of gripping the pen, hearing my 2nd grade teacher nagging "Don't pinch the pencil's nose!" while pushing it across the paper like a lopsided wheelbarrow full of bricks, never allowing the ink to leave the page or risk losing the fluid look of a handwritten word. It's alot of pressure! Especially since the written word isn't really written anymore (it's typed!), so we should want to preserve the beauty of a word that's been properly showcased...pen to ink, no breaks or spaces, from beginning to end. You'll never get it out of me!

*If you think this post about cursive lettering is anal rententive, allow me to continue my anal retentiveness by explaining my issue with the number 8: I simply cannot put it on paper - my hand goes all squirrelly just to the left of the bottom loop and then it shoots off like rocket, making my 8 look like a dead dog hanging vertically with its leash around its neck and....dammit, I have to write it all over again!

Fall will only happen in Tallahassee this year (and it's not even because of the budget crisis)

2009-09-13T19:07:00.000-07:00

Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Oh, boy! Fall starts next week! Well, for most of the country, at least. Here in Florida, it doesn't really begin until November but it's only visible in Tallahassee. Monroe Street to be exact. I think it's because they have the right kind of trees.

It's sad, really. Fall doesn't happen here in Jacksonville. Or any other part of Florida that I've seen. My friend has a theory about the seasons of Florida: "There's spring, summer, and next summer." Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. Except for Hurricane Season and "Holy crap, why the f*** is there frost on my windshield if I live in Florida!?" Season, too. We all know who's stealing whose thunder there.

So, back to fall. Our trees go naked, just like everyone else's. And we rake the leaves that fall and smother the grass that we've been trying to cover for months because the HOA hates the fact that drought makes the 'hood look like shit. (Dead leaves give Floridians a reason to have shitty looking lawns even though drought conditions weren't a valid excuse.) Sadly, you can't even playfully dive into your pile of raked leaves. Why not, you ask? Imagine fifty spiky walnut-sized pine cones hiding in there, just waiting to puncture your skin like stationary darts. Now imagine landing on them. You catch one in your forearm, a pair of thorns pierce through your jeans and stab you in the thigh, and yes - you're bleeding, just a little bit - but, hey, blood is blood, right?

I don't think I've ever experienced a real fall season. Living in Upper Michigan only means the snow melts long enough in June for the family to go camping in the woods and not have to worry about pissing icicles because it's so cold outside. I know I never even had a full Halloween costume...what was the point of it if you had to cover it up with a snowsuit? In Maryland, it's blazing hot and then it's just plain cold. I'm sure the leaves change into the beautiful colors I've heard so much about but when you're living outside of Washington, DC, trees are hard to come by as most of the them have either been shot, mugged, or they've just flat out packed up and decided to move to Southern Maryland.

How do we function here in Florida when the rest of the country is experiencing Mother Nature at her finest?

1. We buy candles. Just this afternoon, I spent $40 at Yankee Candle Company and brought home some decent loot. Candied Apple, Autumn Fruit, Cafe Au Lait, and Buttercream (for the kid). And a huge tote bag for $5. Shake a stick at that.

2. We bake. Alot. Seventy-four recipes in one book? Sure, I'll buy it! And what's this? Scream Cheese Swirled Brownies! Layered Pumpkin Cheesecake! And, yes, that really is called Scream Cheese...Halloween is just around the corner and I don't have to buy my kid a snowsuit! I can buy her an honest-to-goodness Halloween costume! Just wait till I tell her about the goold ol' days when I had to walk uphill both ways in the snow just to get to school.

3. We turn our calendars to pages that look like this (and dream of seeing a place like this with our own eyes):

4. We visit our friends who live near places that look like this (and plan to move there one day ourselves):

5. We go to Tallahassee in November!

College plans

2009-09-12T17:28:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I obtained financial aid so I could go back to college. A few weeks ago, I settled on a major. It's not the one I wanted, or any of the ones I wanted, for that matter. There's no English degree or History degree forthcoming. Hell, I couldn't even manage to pull off changing my entire life in order to get a degree in Hospitality and Tourism, seeing as they wanted me in too many places on too many different days working through too many different schedules.

I'm returning to the college that gave me my first degree - my A.A. It took me 15 years to get that baby and it's not doing much in the way of making me look uberspecial in the pool of overqualified applicants for any job in the world. One of the reasons it took me so long to get this degree is because I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I've been a waitress, a hotel know-it-all, an accountant, a call center punching bag, a student, and a mom. But what I'd really like to be is a legal assistant specializing in family law, a writer, a tutor, a cross-country traveler, a contestant on The Great American Road Trip, and a hotel know-it-all again. And because of my inability to make a decision and stick with it (though I blame this more on my desire to know about everything and not spend so much time focusing on one thing), I chose to pursue a degree in Supervision and Management.

Does it sound generic and bland? Yep. But I'll learn so much about alot of things like marketing, human resources, customer service, accounting, computer programming, business ethics and law, technical writing, and a host of other things. Enough to keep me busy for the next two years. And I expect I'll not be bored but only because I'll have my attention shifting from one field to another.

Unfortunately, I have to write an essay about why I think this degree will help me in my career. I've considered a couple of different themes. The first being "This Degree Will Help Me In My Career By Hopefully Making Me Stop Job-hopping So I Can Stick Around Long Enough To GET A Career." My coworker advised me that sarcasm is not necessarily the way to go. So I thought being a straight shooter would grab their attention by giving my essay a title such as "I'm Tired of Being Everyone's Bitch". I haven't thrown this particular idea out for discussion but I have a feeling it won't fly.

But, really, no matter what field I choose to work in I will have at least a little bit of street cred with a four-year degree. I already have experience in finance and accounting, property management, customer service, front desk management, sales and marketing, military billeting, making a badass pot of coffee for my directors, and wrangling a gaggle of eight-year old girls away from birthday cake candles that could light them up in flames in a matter of seconds if they don't get their faces away from that cake right now!

If only I knew how to word it.

Imagine

2009-09-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

It's still hard to turn away from the television.

Eight years later, I'm sitting on my couch watching the same scenes playing over and over and over again. I'm listening to the same voices from the ground screaming in disbelief at the bodies coming toward them from above. I'm witnessing the same firefighters solemnly walking into the South Tower with a uniform expression on their faces, the look of knowing they are going to die.

I watched a home video that was recorded by someone who lived just a few blocks from the twin towers. The one thing I noticed in the moments after the second tower collapsed was how quiet the city had become. Gusts of wind, but no birds. Near silence. A cough here and there. But otherwise, nothing.

It wasn't that quiet where I was.

Eight years ago, I huddled with a group of strangers in the lobby of my hotel where I worked as a sales rep. Our hotel guests looked to us, the staff, for comfort. While at the time I found this odd, I can now go back to that morning and understand that we were the closest thing they had to familiarity. Some of them had been regular guests for years and felt like our hotel was their second home. Others were visiting with us for the first time and needed someone they knew, even if only since checking into their rooms the night before. We all found each other in the lobby and became the family we all so desperately needed. The world stopped turning, in a sense, and we did what we could to keep each other standing, even if our whole bodies were trembling.

I thought long and hard today about whether or not I would post something about 9/11. Earlier I decided that I would not. But my father said something to me tonight that made me reconsider. When I told my father to pay attention to how quiet New York City had become once the second tower had fallen, he replied, "Imagine how quiet the entire nation was at that moment."

So I tried. It's not easy. I still can't do it.

Ever wanted to know how to make love like a porn star AND be the boss of lunch?

2009-09-08T18:51:00.000-07:00

My daughter and I go to the public library alot. She has her own library bag and library card and everything. Apparently, her card (for an minor, obviously) was incorrectly entered into the public library's system and allowed someone (read as not us) to check out a book with the word "PORN" in the title.

After I found this renewal ticket in Elle's library bag, I laughed so hard I hurt myself. Then I showed everyone I know and we all laughed some more. Then I worried about what if someone/not us didn't return the book on time. Did I incur late fees? So I called the library and asked the assistant to look up my daughter's ticket.

"Magic Tree House....blahblahblah...Junie B. Jones...blahblahblah (all, I might add, completely appropriate for her age group)...that's all."

There was no sign of the porn star book. Someone/not us had been a responsible patron and returned the book on time. So I explained to the assistant what had happened and I could tell she was stifling a laugh, probably on the other end of the line shaking her head and thinking, "Oh, lord..." and trying to stay professional. I, on the other hand, was at work and whispering the words "porn star" into the telephone because those two words are not on my list of words to shout out randomly while at work. But, in the end, we just couldn't help ourselves.

Honestly, I haven't looked it up yet. This book. Some coworkers and I were trying to figure out if it is a memoir, a how-to instruction guide, or a lame story about a guy who once banged a porn star and is trying to get rich by selling dirt on her. I'll go look it up now, but before I go - thank you, Jacksonville Public Library, for brightening my day (and, more than likely, somebody else's day, too!).

Like shootin' puppies with a bb gun

2009-09-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

Do you remember that line? From the Dentist Song in Little Shop of Horrors?

It's a catchy little song. So catchy, in fact, that I have in on my MySpace playlist. I figure anyone who chooses a profession for which they'll make more enemies than friends deserves a catchy song and...ugh, I hate dentists!

Unfortunately, I'll be visiting mine before my scheduled cleaning in late October. I have a toothache and now that I've acknowledged it, it won't go away. It's all I think about. throb throb throb.

And I know exactly what I did to get this toothache - it has nothing to do with my addiction to gum, or my lack of milk as a child, or the absence of fluoride in the tap water of Northern Italy. It does, however, have everything to do with this phrase that I made the mistake of saying out loud today: "I think I would like to buy a new computer!"

It's okay, Fate. Florida doubled every DMV fee you can imagine and both my registration and license are up for renewal but not until next month. Elle's birthday is 5 weeks away and she wants a birthday cheesecake but, hey, they come in a $3 box now. My online classes don't begin until January and that writing class I was going to take that starts later this week...well, hobby schmobby. Right? My computer has suffered through a few months of "You piece of shit!"-type verbal abuse from me as it is. What's a few more months? Unless Santa gets laid off, in which case I'd just lose all hope. throb throb throb

Isn't it always this way? You want something but then you need something more. And the need should trump the want.

But really, who am I kidding?!?! I'm pissed! And when I'm pissed, my blood pressure rises (as does most others') and it makes my pulse shoot out through my achy tooth and...oh god, throb throb throb. I've just remembered the hooks...you can read all about my freaky-deeky dental adventures (complete with illustrations!). throb throb throb.

Yep. This one's gonna be a doozy.

throb throb throb.

Hello, could-be Senator Art Graham! Let me introduce you to my door. SLAM!

2009-09-05T17:33:00.000-07:00

You know that T-Mobile commercial? The one that shows the executives attempting to make contact with their customers only to have their customers turn on them by spraying them with the gardening hose or hiding in the dark corners of their own homes? It's been like that around here but with politicians instead of...well, anyone else, really.

Things have been so crazy here in Florida with this campaign to fill the Senate seat (and oodles of thanks goes out to Mel Martinez for leaving his position in the middle of what could have been considered a campaign-free and enjoyably quiet summer after the mayhem of Obamafying everything last year). Our craziness includes political mailbox stuffers, door hangers, newspaper inserts, and our family's unfortunate verbal attacks on the poor souls who decide to call our house during the last 10 minutes of Top Chef or Hell's Kitchen, which means to say our phone rings incessantly between 8:30-9:00 at night.

My father has decided to answer the phone and make funny noises, like the loolooloolooloolooloolooloo salute that Spongebob Squarepants sometimes gives. Brian, my oldest brother, was visiting from South Carolina when he answered our phone and told the caller that the person he wished to speak with "is no longer with us." My mother and I have decided to just be rude. It's part of my character, anyway, so it's not like having fun with the telephone campaigners takes too much out of my creativity pool. After two late night phone calls last night, I decided I'd had it. The next campaigner was going to pay for all the grief my family has put up with over the last few weeks.

My morning started off with a request for my yummy chocolate & powdered sugar french toast and after eating breakfast, I immediately jumped in the shower. I might have been out of the shower for 10 minutes when the knock on the door prompted my dachsund to bark himself senseless and ignore threats of "pulling your tongue out through your ass if you don't shut up!". It's a favorite of my father's. Anyway, I quieted the dog (very nicely, I promise) and opened the door. On the other side was a man and a woman holding campaign cards and eyeing the "No Solicitors" sign located just above the doorknocker.

Strange man at my door: "Hi! My name is (blah blah blah, I wasn't listening) and I'm running for (blah blah blah, I'm still not listening). I'd like to encourage you to go to the polls and vote for me."

Me: "Yeah, thanks. It's kind of early."

Door: SLAM!!!!

Then I looked at the flyer. That was Art Graham at my front door. Ah...dammit. I just slammed my front door in the face of a could-be Senator. One of the front-runners, for that matter. And my father admitted to me that he is voting for him. This made me want to run down the street and apologize to the guy. Or at least bring him back to my house so my dad could meet him and explain to him that I'm not grouchy 24/7 and if he'd brought some Starbucks for me, I'd listen to anything he had to say. But I didn't.

Instead, I took it out on the next campaigner who came knocking on my door not even a half-hour later!

Strange woman at my door: "Hi! I hope I'm not considered a solicitor (giggle!)."

Me: "Yeah, you are (giggle!)."

Door: SLAM!!!!

On my honor, I will try...

2009-09-03T18:56:00.000-07:00

Crap.

She's a Girl Scout.

Tonight I was coerced into taking Elle to a Girl Scout round-up (yep, that's what they call it these days) to get some information on the new modern Girl Scouts organization. I had been warned by some co-workers that the Scouts are mostly a sales machine, pimping out the kids and their cuteness to sell stuff. Thrilled to be there, I was not.

I asked one particular GS leader/recruiter to explain to me how the Scouts had changed over the last 20 years. This was a big deal to me. While growing up in the deserted woods known as Upper Michigan, I, too, was a Girl Scout. Most of my memories take me back to being in my troop leader's kitchen and making homemade fruit roll-ups, volunteering with the Special Olympics, and camping at the state fairgrounds in Escanaba while fighting off food poisoning and heatstroke (we're talking Upper Michigan hitting 80 degrees,folks. That's hot!). I learned how to build a snow den if I ever got lost in the forest in winter. I learned how to identify edible berries if I ever got lost in the forest during the short season that wasn't winter. I learned how to spot a funnel cloud after puking my guts out all night and opting to hang out with the Red Cross nurses instead of my own troop. Even the Red Cross nurses plopped me in a bed in front of a window and told me to keep an eye out for funnel clouds.***

So I could probably blame the Girl Scouts for my irrational fear of wind. Even on a clear, sunny day. I hate wind.

The GS leader/recruiter insisted that, while the organization has evolved from my own experience from 20 years ago, the basics were still there. The girls would learn to work together, to help each other, and they would experience things with other girls their own age that they might not ever get to experience otherwise. Things like camping, horseback riding, community projects, stuff like that. I know I won't be roughing it in the woods anytime soon. I know I can't afford horseback riding. And I don't involve myself in any community projects. But that doesn't mean I don't want Elle to do those things. And let's face it, Mom can sometimes be the one person to sink the fun boat. Elle's a wonderful kid and she deserves to have fun with other girls who are, in turn, having fun with her. It makes me sad to think that, because she is an only child, she probably has very few of those memories.

So, off she goes...

Oh, and the best part? IRON-ON PATCHES, baby!

(Though I would not be opposed to family-member discounts on Girl Scout cookies. In fact, I truly believe this would boost membership because everyone wants to get some cookies on the cheap.)

*** This particular Girl Scout Jubilee/Jamboree (I don't even remember what they're called anymore!) did end up being struck by a tornado. After my parents drove all the way to Escanaba to pick me up (remember, food poisoning and heatstroke...ugh!), they gave me the unfortunate job of "tornado spotter". As I moaned and groaned in the backseat for what seemed like hours, my troop and the others were surprised by a small tornado that managed to take nearly everyone's tents and inconveniently drop them anywhere else but where they needed to be. Nobody was injured, probably because nobody else was dumb enough to eat Arby's the day before.

Teenagers are stupid. I know from personal experience.

2009-08-28T19:16:00.000-07:00

I'm not one to weave in and out of traffic and I don't believe I'm a menace to other drivers on the road. Quite the opposite, in fact. I use my blinkers, my headlights, my seat belt, and my middle finger when conditions call for it. I, however, do not use my horn since I drive a Hyundai Accent and people would just laugh at me because my little horn just sounds like a squeaky fart.

My driving record is blemished only slightly and nothing of great importance stands out. I've never hit a pole, another vehicle, or a pedestrian (on foot or on bicycle) though it is quite tempting seeing as how I work on a University campus and these students often think they own the damn place. Which, when you think about it, they kind of do. And I received a ticket today for parking in my own parking lot with an expired permit. I have a strong feeling that plowing into a jaywalking freshman who never learned to look both ways before running out in front of traffic would only get me another ticket. I can't afford any more tickets.

Getting any kind of ticket always reminds me of the first ticket I ever received. It was quite memorable. I was fifteen, unlicensed/without a permit, and driving in an empty parking lot with the owner of the car sitting in the passenger seat. It was after midnight so the darkness of the parking lot lit up like a Christmas tree when the police officer flipped on his red and blue lights. I pulled over and tried to not pee all over myself. I wasn't afraid of the officer. I was afraid of my father who happened to be the officer's boss and would find out about this little oops of mine when he went to work in a few hours.

Shit.

In all honesty, I had never pulled my father's name and status to get myself out of trouble. Until this night.

Ssgt. Jabar detained me for two hours. I was never arrested, never handcuffed, and never given the opportunity to call my parents (critical mistake number one). Remember, I was only fifteen. A minor out after curfew on a military base.

I kept saying to Ssgt. Jabar, "Look, you really should let me call my father. Do you know who my father is? You don't want to do this without calling my father."

His response was, "I don't really care who your father is. I don't know him." (critical mistake number two)

Oh, but you will. Yes, sir. You soon will. And, by the way, I'm sorry my friends won't get their butts off this nearby curb and stop singing "Pigs" by Cypress Hill.

I was eventually released around 3 am to another minor and was never offered a ride home from Ssgt. Jabar. My citation was for $267.00. To a fifteen year old, that was practically my life savings. So I found a ride home, as a passenger, and walked into my house just before 3:30 in the morning. My father would be waking up in two hours to get ready for work and I figured I'd let him know the trouble I'd gotten the two of us into before he headed into the office at 7 am.

(If you know the military then you understand what I mean by "the trouble I'd gotten the two of us into". Sure, I'd been the one to get pulled over by the cops for driving without a license and being out past curfew. But everything I did reflected on my father. This was one of those infractions that would get his ass chewed out by his Commanding Officer. Military personnel have lost on-base housing privileges because of the dumb shit their kids have done. This was one of those things that fell under that category.)

I woke up my dad and he didn't seem to care. I was the only teenager living in his house at the time and, quite honestly, I was his biggest pain in the ass. He asked how much the citation was written for. I told him. He snickered at me. He then asked what was I cited for. I responded, "Driving without a license on a federal highway."

My dad jumped out of the bed and screamed, "Fuck!" and I knew I was in big trouble.

In the end, my father didn't kill me and I'm eternally grateful for that. We didn't lose our housing privileges and my father wasn't demoted. Ssgt. Jabar was invited to my house around 4 am by my father personally so that they could be formally introduced.

Ssgt. Jabar, meet your boss. I told you you'd want to give him a call. Aaaah, consequences, consequences. Ssgt. Jabar learned a lesson that night, too.

The state of Maryland didn't allow me to obtain a driver's license until I was over the age of 18. I paid the $267 to my parents since they'd paid my original citation in full. On Christmas morning in 1991, I opened a small box containing my original citation with the word "VOID" written in red ink and block letters across the entire ticket.

Awesome!, I thought.

"So when can I get my $267.00 back?", I asked my parents.

"Never! We're opening it. Merry Christmas!"

Ugh.

Maryland has been kind enough to erase this tiny snafu from my record. Actually, this is the only public mention of the incident and because there is nothing to back it up, officially, I could totally be making this up.

Planes, trains, and automobiles

2009-08-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

My parents always said I was a good traveler. When I was three weeks old my father graduated from Air Force bootcamp and earned some leave time before heading to his first duty station in Lower Michigan. The drive from San Antonio to South Florida consisted of quite a few stops - not only to feed me my many bottles of the day but to also cool the radiator. This radiator was my warm bottled milk's heat source. Their stop-n-go system seemed to work out well for them (including my older brother who was about 2 1/2 years old at the time). It was my first travel experience.

Later my family would take advantage of our close proximity to the Milwaukee area by floating over to Wisconsin via the Lake Michigan ferry to visit my mother's side of the family. From what my mom tells me, she and my father spent most of the ferry ride in bed or hovering head first over a toilet from motion sickness. The rocking of the boat affected my brother, too. Apparently I was superhuman and spent many hours running around the lobby-type area of the floor while other adults played with and took care of me. It is my first travel memory.

I don't remember the flight to Italy, but the country became my home for the next four years. It was fairly cheap in those days to take the train into Venice (or anywhere in Italy, really) and spend a day walking around the city, visiting the square and listening to the string quartet while trying to avoid getting crapped on by pigeons. You were always exhausting yourself by shoving one foot in front of the other for what was probably miles and miles. The train ride home was always expected to be a time for relaxation and recovery. At least for my parents, it was expected to be. That is until I was allowed to use the train's tiny little restroom all by myself. Like a big girl. I was five years old. Damn right. I was independent and about to experience my first travel mishap.

The toilet was metal and filled with blue stuff, much like a toilet on an airplane. I remember sitting very comfortably and humming a song, because that's what cute little girls do when they're trying to be big girls by going potty all by themselves. My dress was a red and white checkered thingamabob and my shoes were brown walking shoes. Boy, I sure was cute. Especially when the train hit a bump and the metal toilet lid came down on me and pinched my ass so hard that I went tearing out of the restroom, underpants tripping me up at my ankles as I tore down the center of the train screaming for my mother and declaring, "The toilet bit me!!"

Yep, that's cute. And I haven't been on a train since.

We eventually left Italy and flew back to the United States. I was about eight years old and very attached to my Strawberry Shortcake dolls so my parents allowed me to pack them and their little pets into a carry-on case. This would obviously give me something to play with during the hours-long flight from Frankfurt, Germany, to Philadelphia. But when I say "very attached" what I really mean is "obsessed". And when the heavily armed guard at the Frankfurt airport asked me to hand over my case, I gave him a very stern "No." I even remember my father trying to coax me into handing over my dolls and I freaked out. NOBODY.TOUCHES.THE.DOLLS! After a few minutes, I won and we boarded the plane. Somehow I was seated next to an older gentleman who I found to be very nice. Until he asked to see what was in my carry-on case. Look, the guy with the high-powered rifle and ammo strapped across his chest didn't get in and neither are you, Mister!

Unfortunately, that kind of behavior would get me arrested today. I'm pretty sure the TSA and local authorities wouldn't give a rat's ass if I was only eight years old and protecting my dolls.

I've only flown twice since then. When I was fourteen, my parents booked us all on a flight to Milwaukee from Washington, DC (my then home). Because I'm obviously an anxiety-riddled traveler, my inner senses told my brain to shut down completely and, as a result, I don't remember a damn thing for nearly that entire week. Except for walking out of the Milwaukee airport after we arrived. Or drinking with my cousin and his friend one night. Or the man sitting next to me on the flight home to DC asking if I'd like to look out the window. I was so freaked out about flying that I completely blacked out (in a sense) and my body ran on auto-pilot.

That sucks. And I haven't been on a plane since.

My next opportunity did come in the form of a gift. My aunt had paid for a non-refundable ticket to fly me to Milwaukee and stay for an entire week. Another cousin of mine was getting married and I had arranged for my best friend (who'd recently moved from DC to Milwaukee) to be my "guest". I was excited. No, really, I was! My first time on a plane without my parents. ALONE. Then I remembered: I don't like planes. My anxiety attack led me to the garage at 1pm where I proceeded to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes over the next two hours. When my mother came home from work, she didn't hide how eager she was to be rid of me for the week (in that loving "Mommy will miss you but you need to go away" kind of way) by announcing we'd be leaving at four o'clock to take me to the airport.

Oh, no you won't. I could already see the little gremlin pulling apart the wires from the plane's engines and sparks were flying and setting off fires that were blowing out the power source to the plane and I was totally becoming John Lithgow. You know, from The Twilight Zone: The Movie? My parents watched me fall apart in their garage and I smoked another pack of cigarettes as I took those deep breaths that my psychiatrist had instructed me to take in between my hysterical sobbing. It was pretty evident that I wasn't getting on a plane. So I didn't.

My mother went in my place. She visited with her family, her brothers and their wives, their kids, their kids' kids. Mom had a great time. And for sixteen years I've kicked myself for not just getting on the damn plane. But you know what? I still can't do it.

So I drive. Everywhere. And I love it!

Welcome Home!

2009-08-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

I painted my daughter's room while she was in Fort Myers. It was supposed to be a surprise. She figured it out even though I tried to play dumb and Elle wasn't the least bit surprised that I had actually done it. She was surprised, however, by the little aquarium I put in her room. Of course, there were fish in it. Guppies. Three gorgeous guppies.

One morning, about two days after she returned home, I was awakened by the sound of my bedroom door being blasted open (seemingly by bombs, but really just by a panicked little girl who tends to throw doors into walls) and the following statement being shouted into the room: "Mommy, someone chopped Tiny's tail in half!!!!!!!!"

Tiny had developed fin rot and rather than allow my daughter to feel guilty that she hadn't been a good enough Fish Mom, we took Tiny back to the pet store and exchanged him for Superman. It was Elle's first major life-or-death decision and she handled it very well. Sure, she cried. But she was promised that Tiny would receive medicine for his tail and, once he recovered in approximately two days, he would be put back into a tank and ready to be sent home with another Fish Mom.

Elle: "Will he get better if I leave him here with the Fish Doctor?"
Me: "Probably."
Elle: "Will he get better if I take him home with me?"
Me: "Probably not."
Elle: "Okay, he should stay here with the Fish Doctor."

Tears. Broken heart. Time to take Superman home.

Superman is rooming with two other guys named Manny and Happy. Those two guppies love swimming where they can be seen and they eat like they're related to cows or something. And they poop unbelievably long strands of poop that Elle and I have constantly joked that if fish could be walked around the block then they have already provided a leash. I know, gross. But the worst part is watching Superman hanging out at the bottom of the tank, getting crapped on and missing out on the comaraderie between Happy and Manny. Even when I feed them, Superman just sits in another side of the tank with his back turned to Manny and Happy while they eat and eat and eat and eat. Then poop.

I'm not quite sure what to do about Superman. And after the very recent emotional decision Elle had to make regarding Tiny, I'm concerned that something may also be wrong with Superman. His top fin looks a bit mangled and I'm convinced that he has also developed fin rot. So I've explained to Elle that Superman might be sick and that's why he isn't eating or trying to make new friends with Manny and Happy.

And if that isn't enough misery for a child, throw on top of that a stomach flu that results in three separate loads of laundry, her best friend moving away to Virginia, and not being able to go to Adventure Landing with her Uncle Buck because, well...I can hardly get her to move fast enough to make it to the toilet. So now she's back in her bed watching VeggieTales and worrying about her half-dead fish.

Oh, and school starts Monday.

A letter to y'all

2009-08-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

My daughter is in Fort Myers for the rest of the week. It's the first time she's been away from me for more than two days and as far away as a six-hour drive. My aunt and I decided to meet halfway in Orlando so that neither of us would be stuck with the twelve hour round-trip.

During our drive from Jacksonville to Orlando this past Saturday, Elle reminded me that she had written the family a letter. Before we left the house, all of us were given strict instructions not to open it until she was long gone. I promised her that we would wait until dinner. But in the car she felt she needed to explain one part of the letter.

Elle: "I don't want Uncle and Papa in my room playing with my dolls!" *
Me: "I don't want Uncle and Papa in your room playing with your dolls either."
Elle: "Well, I'll tell you a little bit about my letter. Nana's in charge of everyone. Except for you, Mommy. You don't do anything wrong."
Me: "Thank you, dear."

The kid-exchange went rather smoothly considering I was a total trainwreck on the inside. It was all I could do to keep from flooding the city of Orlando with my anxiety-ridden tears when Elle rolled down the window to blow me a kiss and remind me to "Have fun, Mommy!"

(sniffle, sniffle)

After bawling my eyes out through downtown Orlando traffic (note to self: don't drive I-4 ever again if it can be avoided) and having a delicious mexican lunch (made by real mexicans) with my good childhood friend named Fuz (who is neither fuzzy nor mexican), I made it home. Childless. It's an odd feeling.

But...aha! She wrote us a letter!

It says:

Dear, Papa, nana, uncle and mom.
I am gonna miss yall. and I (heart) yall wen I come back. I will tell yall about My Adventures an trips. an papa an uncle. Nana will be in charge of everything exept mom. cause she does anything wrong.
Love,
Elle

I'm fixin' to teach her t'add the apostrophay to yall since she likes to use it so dern much. Phew...I sure do miss that kid, even though she insists I'll do anything wrong. Good thing she explained it all to me in the car first...y'know, so my feelin's an' such woon't be hurtin' an' all.

* My brother and father don't play with Elle's dolls. It's an inside joke. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's an inside joke. *

Is there a "How To Deal With A Pervert" manual out there?

2009-08-05T18:37:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I worked part-time at the local college library. They paid me a decent hourly wage, gave me $65,000 to spend on books and materials to fill their shelves, and handed me the opportunity to go to college for free. This particular library was both a college library and a public library so not only did I get to interact with students, I had the pleasure of working with many different types of people.

Ken and his wife were avid kayakers and constantly visited with one of our library employees (also named Ken) to share their kayaking tales. Lynnette was like Supermom to her three young children in tow (and one on the way) who always returned their books on time and never failed to use their manners. Brandon, one of our nicest college students, was constantly getting failing grades on his composition assignments and visited with our tutor nearly everyday. There was a Sunday School teacher who liked to scream obscenities at our computers alot. Then there was Rinaldo.

Rinaldo was very friendly but a little different, though how different we wouldn't know until much later. For months he would bring in his little girl (we'll call her Jenny) and chat with the staff for a bit before taking Jenny to the children's section. Jenny would collect a few books for herself and sit patiently, usually for hours at a time, while Rinaldo used one of the public library's computers and wasted the day away.

Now I feel I can justifiably say that Rinaldo wasted his day because he had already explained to me many, many times that his wife was the breadwinner and they comfortably decided he would be the one to stay home with the kids (besides Jenny, there were two older boys). His wife also spent alot of time out of town on business but during her periods of in-town business, Rinaldo took advantage of his free time and opted to volunteer as a nude model at Jacksonville University. He oftentimes apologized for forgetting his portfolio as he believed that I, a fellow creative-type, would be highly interested in seeing him in his birthday suit.

Um, no thanks. For the tenth time.

Eventually, the library staff began to notice some questionable content popping up on the corner-facing computers he preferred to use (location, location, location!) and decided to start checking each computer's history after he left every day. There was alot of PORN and nobody was really surprised. However, politics came into play as we had to report these findings to the public library staff. Other public library branches would not allow such generous access on their computers but because our library also served the college population, no blocks were ever permitted to be installed. The reason being this: If a nursing student needs to look up sexually transmitted disease, then that student needs to see and read everything related to sexually transmitted diseases. This includes pictures of boobies and vajayjays.

We warned Rinaldo that he really needed to cut the crap, to be a little more considerate of the fact that other people were being exposed to the same perverted scenes he so thoroughly enjoyed watching on the computer. He would become embarrassed, apologize profusely, then take his little girl home until the next day. This went on for about a week. Finally, we did another history search and found a porn site that just sent our head librarian over the edge. It wasn't kiddie porn but it may as well have been. The adults involved in this porn site were dressed up as if they were little kids. And that's sick as shit. When Rinaldo and Jenny showed up the next day, they were turned away and told to never return or he would be trespassed. I hated to send that little girl home with him as our suspicions had worsened, but there was nothing we could do.

So you can imagine my disgust when I took my daughter to her gymnastics class on Tuesday night and saw him, Rinaldo, sitting on the waiting room couch, watching Jenny (and every other little girl, including my daughter!) do her warm-ups. We quickly acknowledged each other's presence but didn't exchange a word. He knew better. I bit my tongue and wondered what I should do about this, if anything. Of course he has every right to be there, to watch his daughter enjoy the companionship and plain good fun of learning gymnastics with other little girls. Except I have already seen what goes through this man's mind when he sees other little girls, or legal-aged girls pretending to be little girls. I wanted to kick him in the nads and drag his ass into the parking lot and let every mother in the room have a swing at him. It will be interesting to see if he returns next week.

What would you do? I'm really curious to know how other people might react to something like this. While a part of me wants to tell every parent who is also there with their child, another part of me wants to believe that he simply leaves his fantasies at the computer. Am I overreacting? Am I giving him too much of the benefit of the doubt?

Fists o' Fury!

2009-07-31T18:45:00.000-07:00

If I could choose my fantasy son-in-law, I'd choose this guy:

Zac Efron. Oh, Zac Efron. Has anyone ever told you how dreamy you are? I mean, besides your twerpy little girlfriend? Ditch Vanessa. Seriously. Nobody likes her anyway. And now that I think about it, we should really ditch the son-in-law part of your title and acknowledge that you are just my fantasy. Period.

And, so...ladies and gentlemen, I'm pleased (oh, not really) to present to you my daughter's fantasy husband. My fantasy (by proxy) son-in-law:

Jeff Hardy. Oh, Jeff Hardy. Has anyone ever told you how creepy looking you are? I mean, without getting pounded into the cement by your fluorescent green Fists o' Fury? Or even your fluorescent pink Fists o' Fury? Is there a set of neon orange Fists o' Fury? I bet there is!! Because you are Just. That. Awesome.

Oh, wait! How did this not occur to me?

Check it: the Rainbow Fists o' Fury! (or, really, the singular Fist)

I'm not quite sure what's going on, but when I was eight years old I was writing love letters to Jon Bon Jovi (Jon, I'm still waiting for a response...ahem!!). But every other 2nd- or 3rd-grader I knew back then was joining the Bon Jovi fan club. Or the New Edition fan club. Or even writing such letters of devotion to one of the Coreys.

But, this...

...I just don't get it.

Maybe it's his jazz hands.

Trust me, I'm the patient

2009-07-26T19:16:00.000-07:00

When my daughter has a fever, I usually wait until her temperature reaches 100 before I start giving her a fever reducer. Other parents (and non-parents) might disagree with me on this, but I believe that a fever is a fever for a reason and it should run its course, unless my child's comfort is being greatly compromised. I'll also treat a stye with a warm water compress, a sore throat with a salt water rinse, and basically every other minor injury/illness with common sense and tender loving care. I also like to think that I know when something has gone beyond my ability to treat with hugs and kisses and I call the doctor.

I treat myself the same way. I hate taking medicine and prescription medicines are the worst, maybe because the military doctors shoved antibiotics down my throat like candy and because of the miserable schedules and side effects associated with an RX dosing: TAKE WITH FOOD (may cause vomiting), TAKE ONE HOUR BEFORE BEDTIME (may cause abdominal cramping), TAKE WITH BREAD OR MILK (may cause blurred vision and suicidal thoughts).

What the hell? It's an allergy pill!

Okay, okay...I'm going a little overboard here. But it worries me that each time I've gone to the doctor this year I've been encouraged to take a prescription in order to help me live life comfortably.

That allergic reaction I had was followed by a prescription of Xyzal which made my heart pound so strongly that I was honestly afraid to move for fear that any extra strain on my heart (like getting out of a chair) would make it blow out of my chest. It was not a comfortable feeling. When I told the doctor about the side effect I was experiencing, he gave me Singular and said it wouldn't have any side effects unless I believed it would have side effects. Funny, that's how my high school friends described an acid trip. So my solution? Stay away from flower shops and keep my Benadryl handy.

There was also that time I started feeling fearful of bridges (and living in Jacksonville doesn't allow such fears) and my anxiety issue was threatening to rear its ugly head at me once again. My friend suggested Paxil (as she suffered from some pretty serious anxiety) so I asked my doctor for some. After a three-minute consultation with my brand-new doctor (never before seen!), I was sent home with a prescription for Paxil and a pat on the back for recognizing the return of my anxiety disorder. I popped a pill around 9pm and sat motionless on my couch until 3am, daring anyone who told me to go to bed to move me themselves because I had lost not only the ability to move myself but also any ability to give a crap about anything. I never took those pills again and quickly realized how wonderful life really can be when I have complete control over my own limbs. And control over my own fears. It was definitely too strong a pill for me. I'm surprised the doctor went along with my idea. While I don't blame him completely (I accept some blame, too), I do think he should have known better and suggested something like Paxil Lite.

Just recently I went to see the nurse practitioner about some pain I was experiencing on my left side. I walked in convinced that I had another ovarian cyst and figured since I'd lived through a pretty painful cyst that ruptured two years ago that I knew what I was talking about. Like a cult leader who converts followers in a matter of minutes, the RNP quickly had me convinced that I was wrong and I was probably dealing with diverticulitis (which is not a pretty disease to talk about so I won't). He prescribed me a pill (surprise!) and told me to take this strength first...then take this strength after 3 days...then take this strength until the day I die.

When I refused, he was pissed. I flat out told him I wasn't going to take the prescription and that he should provide me with a drug-free alternative. To this, he replied, "Well, I figured you would have already tried a drug-free alternative and that's why you're here now. If this pain doesn't clear up, I'll prescribe a colonoscopy."

*TMI ALERT* *TMI ALERT* *TMI ALERT*

WHAT!?! I went in thinking it was an ovarian cyst and was sent home with the threat of a lubed tube up my pooper. He didn't even mention an ultrasound first and that's what would probably diagnose the ovarian cyst, or rule it out altogether. Another suggestion? Just stick your fingers in my hoohah like the last doctor did and say, "Yep, I feel something" or "Nope, I don't feel anything." But a colonoscopy? That really made me mad. And while my pain hasn't disappeared, it has lessened. I still don't think it's serious enough to warrant a colonoscopy but sure, I'll feel like an asshole if I'm wrong (no pun intended, really).

*END OF TMI* *END OF TMI* *END OF TMI*
I feel good that I trusted my instincts and that's probably how I'll deal with most medical personnel from here on out. After surviving the military medical system (one gallon of Amoxil at a time), I walked away with an immunity to most antibiotics that lasted for 7 years, courtesy of recurring bouts of strep throat that didn't get better during my years of immunity. So yeah, I have issues with medicine and the people who prescribe them. But I'm not a fanatic about refusing treatment. I question why I need it, what can help prevent my need for it, and how I can make sure I don't need it forever.

Isn't that the doctor's job?

Quite possibly the most responsible thing I've done all year

2009-07-22T18:36:00.000-07:00

Today's grocery list:
toothbrush
french toast sticks - Elle
* bacon *

Bacon. I eat bacon almost every morning. Usually at least once every day. When I don't have bacon in the morning, I put some on my grilled cheese sandwich for lunch or break up bits of bacon and sprinkle it into my pasta with sun-dried tomato alfredo sauce for dinner.

And, yeah - sometimes I eat it for a snack. Mmmm...Mmmm...bacon!

I was introduced to bacon as an adult. It had probably always been in my house as a child but I never ate it. Only when I was recovering from my c-section did I finally understand the enormous wonderment of bacon. My hospital roommate was non-existent and the nurses not only gave me my own breakfast plate, they also gave me hers...whoever she was supposed to be. (You snooze, you lose, lady. Ha! I got your breakfast!) I'm sure the nurses were trying to fatten me up before I was discharged (I'd been admitted as a pregnant 132-pounder and immediately lost all the extra pounds, falling close to my original pre-preggo weight before leaving the hospital, to my disappointment). Eggs, toast, jellies and butter, biscuits with gravy, sausage links, orange juice, chocolate milk, and this magical treat called bacon. Times TWO!

So began my love affair with bacon.

If you take another look at today's grocery list, you'll see toothbrush. But I don't use a regular toothbrush. I'm addicted to those $7.99 toothbrushes. Why? Because they work better. I'm totally convinced.

I'm also convinced that the $7.99 toothbrush is way more important than the $5.99 pound of bacon. In a long-term situation, the toothbrush will probably also provide me with more comfort. Plus I found one for $4.59 at Publix. I guess that means I did two responsible things today: chose the toothbrush (necessity) over the bacon (it's making me cry!!) AND went for the cheaper model of toothbrush.

My mother would be so proud.

'Tis the season for Jim Cantore!

2009-07-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

Ah, the hurricane. The mighty, mighty hurricane. The season is upon us and it never fails to end up being the exact opposite, in terms of activity, of what the experts predict/suggest by pulling a random number out of a hat and then calling Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel to report it as OFFICIAL!

With this official information, Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel can be seen (about two days before landfall) patrolling the shores of some unsuspecting Florida beach town, stalking the locals with stupid, overdramatic questions and basically behaving like a really bad weather reporter who is way too excited to be reporting on anything. He's obnoxious, half crazy, and loud enough to host WWE's Monday Night Raw. I mean, let's face it: he's no Walter Cronkite. Besides, I can't imagine Walter Cronkite getting so overly theatrical with his interrogation tactics against the local beachwalkers that he trips over his own microphone cord while doing an interview and exclaims "Shit!!" on live television.

Picturing it...picturing it...straining my imagination beyond its borders - can't see Cronkite saying "Shit!" on live TV...nope, can't do it.

So I guess hurricane season is what Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel lives for. And I think that's cool. Yes, he's annoying, but I fall for it during every single hurricane update.

Here's to you, Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel. While the majority of Floridians who will be directly affected by any forthcoming hurricanes no longer have access to your live reports (thanks to the DTV switch), we will be thinking of you fondly as we board up our windows and listen to ancient oak trees come crashing down around us. For as we hide in our closets to wait out yet another tornado warning and stay up late into the night convincing our children that the walls are in fact not moving inward against the pressure of 80 mph wind gusts, you Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel will probably be frolicking on our lovely beaches and enjoying the silence of our cities left abandoned by frightened evacuees.

Welcome to The Sunshine State, Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel. We hope you have a wonderful time!

(Jim Cantore of The Jim Cantore Show About Hurricanes Starring Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel)

The GAY question

2009-07-15T17:22:00.000-07:00

I was making some tuna noodle crap for dinner and the rest of the family was watching Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood on the DVR. Every now and then, Tori's friend Mehran (her gay husband) would throw out some funny observation about his gayness or other people's gayness. I don't usually pay attention to gay people talking about their gayness (because I just don't give a crap) except my ears did perk up a tad when I heard Mehran exclaim to Tori and Dean that they had a gay baby.

Huh!!!??!

At first my daughter seemed more excited about the fact that little Liam kissed an Asian baby (because she's all about Asians now - thanks, Delilah). But after the two little babies gave each other a peck, Mehran felt it was absolutely necessary to declare on a national level that Tori and Dean had a gay baby. Or was it more like, "OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE A GAAAAAY BABYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Yeah, it was probably more like that.

So, okay. I thought that was a little weird. And it wasn't a few seconds later while I was stirring my tuna noodle crap (and wondering how truly crappy it was going to taste) that I felt a slight tug on my left side. I turned to see my daughter staring at me with that I've-got-something-to-ask-you look on her face.

Me: What?
Her: What does it mean when they say you're gay?

Um.....(phew)...well, um...yeah, how do I answer this? Take a deep breath, Dena, because just last week didn't you convince her to stop laughing about the fact that boobies are a food source? And didn't you explain to her that some babies come from a mommy's belly (because, technically, she was born via c-section and came directly from my belly) and then thanked your lucky stars that she didn't ask about the rest of the babies that don't come from a mommy's belly?

Suck it up, Mom!! You can do this! Sure, she's almost 8 years old, and at the rate kids are growing up these days, it's very possible she'll be asking for a bra and starting her period in the next two years and then you'll really have some 'splainin' to do!

Me: Well, sometimes boys fall in love with boys and girls fall in love with girls.
Her: So?
Me: Usually you hear about boys falling in love with girls, right?
Her: Yeah. So why do they get a special word?
Me: Uh...I don't know. Here, you want some ice cream?

It was that easy. But almost immediately, I thought it was strange that my daughter had asked me about the gay word before she's even asked me about the sex word. Then I realized that most people who are gay probably recognize that within/about themselves before they even start dealing with the sexual aspect. And I actually prefer it that way. At least now Elle knows that people just fall in love with people. But I am sooo dreading the sex talk.

Brunswick

2009-07-06T17:38:00.000-07:00

Back in January, Elle and I visited a quaint little hell-on-Earth called Woodbine (and you can read all about that creepy little adventure here). Woodbine is ass-backwards redneckery filled with Ebenezer Church-stalkin' cops and is also not too far from Brunswick, my newest town that I love to hate. I have driven thousands of miles between Jacksonville, Florida and Emporia, Virginia, over the last 8 years or so only to find myself trapped in a sea of orange cones and construction zone signs beginning south of Brunswick, Georgia, and finally ending somewhere near...oh, the South Carolina state line.

God, does Brunswick really have to exist? I mean, can't you just blow up the paper mill that smells up the joint and the surrounding 30-mile area and be done with it? Then there will be no need for those orange cones that have been plowed over by speeding drivers, lane shifts that freak out the vacationers driving on I-95 South for the first time ever, or squeezing three lanes into one. Because even though the guy directing traffic is probably laughing his ass off at all the road ragers who are screaming obscenities at him when they finally pass, it's not really a grand idea on a holiday weekend to add another hour to one's commute. I think the Brunswickians put him up to it. And they probably pay him generously. It's their way of subjecting the rest of the road-trippin' country to that stench they call oxygen.

I had no way around Brunswick last week when I decided to meet up with some South Carolina-based friends of mine in Savannah, Georgia (one of my favorite cities ever, by the way!). What should have been a 90-minute trip was delayed by a massive interstate project in...you guessed it, Brunswick. In the middle of navigating this highway overhaul, the storm of the century was unleashed upon all the unsuspecting travelers in my cluster of vehicles. This 15-minute lightning/thunder/DEATH-IS-NEAR storm stole from us our ability to see, to hear, and to hold one's bladder due to being overcome with fear and concern for nearly hitting all those dumbasses who like to drive with their flashers on. And because I was on vacation (albeit only 1 hour into my vacation), I had brought a change of pants but never had to use it. Phew!

This all happened before I even reached mile marker 49. I had sixty miles to go to get to my friends and my hotel and my hot tub. Sixty miles of uneventful highway travel. Until I headed home...ugh.

This Wednesday I will be heading back up I-95 North on my way to Ridgeland, South Carolina to stop overnight, only to wake up and drive some more until I reach Asheville. If Atlanta wasn't rumored to be an even bigger nightmare than Brunswick, I'd actually consider the two hours that would be added to my drive. Yes, I hate Brunswick that much but not enough to fight with Atlanta.

Florida will be gone altogether, the whole damned place, in not too long.

2009-06-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

So says James Lovelock. It's not too farfetched of an idea considering the crazy weather we here in Jacksonville have dealt with in just the past five days. But then again, it's Mother Nature and she likes to show off sometimes.

A massive storm pushed through this past Monday night and the glow from outside was so intense that every room in our house took on a yellowish hue. When we walked outside, everything was glowing blue. It's too bad that couldn't have been caught on camera, but this shot of the sky was pretty incredible.

I spent this afternoon in a medical building rushing from the pediatrician on one side (for my daughter's swollen eyelid appointment at 3:00) to my own doctor on the other side (to get the 411 on my allergy test at 3:45) and totally missed the excitement that went down only 8 miles from my office (which is a good thing since I hadn't brought a change of underpants for myself).

I've seen all kinds of things happen from the top of my favorite bridge (the Dames Point Bridge) that connects Jacksonville's Northside to the Arlington neighborhood on the other side of the St. John's River. Things like car accidents that leave vehicles piled on top of one another in positions that put the kama sutra to shame. Then there's the bohemoth of a cruise ship that threatens to topple the bridge with its barely-existent clearance (at low tide!). I've even called 911 in hopes that a would-be jumper could be convinced to give himself another chance at life. But that waterspout eventually made it to land and took out a couple of trees. It even threw some powerlines down with enough force to cause an explosion and burn a 3-foot hole in the asphalt.

Hurricane season? BRING IT ON.

Happy Father Figure's Day!

2009-06-21T15:36:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm a parent, Father's Day is different. My own father is spoiled by his granddaughter who has nobody else to spoil on Father's Day. I think my dad enjoys it. Being spoiled, that is.

Elle questions the obvious sometimes, but not so much that I have to shed too much light on the situation. The situation being that her dad isn't around. My side of the story would say that it was and still is and always will be her father's choice to be around. It's like any other relationship, with the give and the take and the compromise and the problem-solving until a agreement has been made. People divorce over this very issue and it's unfortunate that children can't have the same right. And while it's usually when one feels unappreciated or unloved or overpowered by the other, no relationship between two people should ever be forced.

My daughter struggles with the reality of her father not being actively involved. Her friends have fathers who attend birthday parties and school functions. And while I've never missed a single event, I often wonder if she will she remember that or will she only remember that her dad never showed up? I'm not sure. But I can't really worry about that stuff right now.

Although she has no father in her life, she has other father-type figures. My dad and two brothers are involved every day and pretty much have been since the minute she was born. It was her Uncle Brian (Uncle Monkey) who followed me around the hospital room with his two hands cradled beneath her just in case I dropped her while shuffling around in my post-surgical state. Uncle Nick (Uncle Buck) is her babysitter (during those last-minute "oh, hey - can someone watch her for about an hour?") and her partner in crime when it comes to convincing Mommy to let her do something because she'll be with Uncle Buck. It always works. Always.

I've also been given the opportunity to choose her family. That is an enormous and trusting task so I've been careful to choose the men who have shown my daughter an insane amount of love and attention and have given her that feeling of self-importance. Sure, they have children of their own, but that only makes my daughter more aware of how a father should be towards his child. It's hard to watch my daughter's face when she sees Mr. Sean or Danny the Manny playing with their kids, hugging them and high-fiving them, cooing at them and their stinky diapers, or just sitting around enjoying their time together. Her father doesn't do that. But Mr. Sean and Danny the Manny don't just share those things with their children. They've shared those things with my child.

And for that, I'm forever grateful.

Real horror movies

2009-06-19T19:44:00.000-07:00

The Wizard of Oz was finally being shown on television and my parents made a really big deal about it. We lived in Italy at the time and it was being televised in english. Halle-freakin'-lujah! I don't know how old I was, maybe 5 or 6. Having a pair of red ruby slippers just like Dorothy's suddenly became the priority in my life. My need for these shoes eclipsed my need to own every Strawberry Shortcake character doll ever made (which says alot considering I still have all of my Strawberry Shortcake collectibles). I imagined having a Toto of my very own to haul around in a cute little picnic basket until I saw the horse of another color and then I imagined having one of those instead! Everything was peaceful and serene and hopeful and then, seemingly out of nowhere, I screamed in terror and cried and cried and cried (I was a big crybaby as a child but I totally outdid myself with this one) and cried and cried at the sight of flying monkeys.

And after talking to a few people at work, I discovered I'm not the only one who was completely freaked out by those things! Seriously, it was years before I attempted to watch The Wizard of Oz for a second time. I was successful but the experience left me scarred.

Here are a few other films that left my childhood brain saying, "WTF!!!":

Nightmare on Elm Street
How old was I? 9, 10?...old enough to have listened to my mother. But, noooOOOooo, I just had to watch it! The scene in which the bodybag is trailing blood through the halls of the high school should have been my first clue. But because I was a well-behaved Girl Scout who decided to rebel by sneaking in some HBO late at night, I continued to watch good-looking teenagers (Johnny *GASP!* Depp) get chased and slashed before I fell asleep. The result? I refused to take a bath with the door closed for months. Y'know, in case Freddie's knifey-fingers came up to the surface. Another result? My mother's infamous, "I told you so."

(the only thing worse than this would be sharing the bathtub with a sloth)

Adam
I don't remember much about this movie except my parents telling me it was a true story. We lived in Upper Michigan at the time (anyone ever heard of Gwinn? Marquette? Didn't think so...) and our big stores were Shopko and Woolworth's. My brother and I would head directly for the toy aisle while our parents did their shopping, just like Adam Walsh did. I mean, it was the mid-80s. In Marquette, Michigan. People in Michigan don't even know the town exists and I'm sure the crime rate is still low and virtually non-existent. However, this is when kidnappings became real to me and I was introduced to the fact that people kill young, innocent children. For fun. It still gives me chills.

The Blue Lagoon
Okay. If you're a woman, you might laugh at this. If you're a man, you'll never understand it so don't even try. Remember that scene in which Brooke Shields discovers blood? Coming from her hoohah? This is the scary part I'm talking about! I was watching this at a friend's house when I was 8 years old.
"Did she cut herself?", my friend asked her mother.
"No, she didn't cut herself. But that happens to all girls when they grow up. It'll happen to both of you one day!"
And this was all I knew about becoming a woman. That I would someday be in a lagoon with a cute boy and start bleeding. Thank goodness I developed boobs early and started asking some questions.

There's a pill for that

2009-06-16T09:35:00.001-07:00

I went to see my doctor today about my continuing allergic reaction and stumbled sorely away with a hiney-shot of Solumedrol and a prescription for Yaz birth control. The Solumedrol was obviously given to clear up my itchy head and spotty throat. The Yaz was given to clear up my bitchy disposition once a month.

It's a win-win, I say. For you, for me, and for anyone I could possibly ever come into contact with during PMS week.

For years I have fought against medicine and pain relievers, except in the event of near-asphyxiation by orchids or that pesky ovarian cyst (I named her Cyssie) that crawled into my fallopian tube and threatened massive internal bleeding. And while Wellbutrin played a huge role in my postpartum care and attacked my anxiety levels to the point that I could drive across bridges, I still took myself off of it by believing I could get over my own problems by fixing my own problems. For the most part, it worked.

Yet I still walked away wondering why doctors don't first recommend other solutions. When I was pregnant, I was scheduled to take the glucose test and argued with the nurses that I could not possibly down that much syrup in so little time. I ended up waiving the test only to later be notified that a certain brand of jellybeans contains just as much sugar as the glucose drink if eaten in large amounts. A few years after that, I suffered from dangerously low blood pressure to the point of passing out. It happened at the copy machine, in the parking lot, and at the coffee stand inside the mall. The doctor's solution? DRUGS!!! I refused and demanded he find another solution. I am skinny enough and healthy enough at this point to medicate myself with potato chips since a high-sodium diet was recommended.

Not too long ago, I noticed my personality becoming aggressive and downright mean during PMS week. I eat everything in sight (after I yell at it, of course). My jaws are sore in the morning from clenching all throughout the night before and I cry alot. CRY CRY CRY CRY CRY!!! Irrational decisions are made, feelings are hurt (mine and others'), simple things are forgotten, people get screamed at, and I just stop giving a crap. When the kid yells, I yell back. When the dog barks, I bark back. I beat myself up emotionally by calling myself names, I criticize my accomplishments and my bank account, and generally stop caring about myself. But, so far, I've been able to convince myself not to run dumbass drivers off the road, even if they do deserve it! Then it all goes away, until next month. Ugh! The worst part about it is knowing it's going to keep coming back.

No wonder I'm single. I'm a freakin' psycho.

Let's hope this Yaz stuff works because we all deserve some happiness. Especially the people who have to deal with me during PMS week. See how selfless I can be??

Chillaxin' and Anaphylaxin'

2009-06-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

Benadryl is an allergic woman's best friend. Over the years I've developed an allergy to artificial sweeteners, sulfa-based drugs, flowers, and latex. Each one of those triggers a different reaction and all are pretty disgusting, but on different levels. The artificial sweeteners give me mouth sores and I can usually hide those from public view. How my body reacts to latex and flowers is a different story, however, and may actually result in my grotesquely swollen face scaring small children. Or even big children. Or my dog.

As I type this, I'm beginning to feel the sleep-inducing effects of two Benadryl pills slowly pulsing through my itching body. My head feels like it is crawling with bugs, my body is spotted with small red splotches, and I have dry-mouth, which makes the ever-dreaded throat closure difficult to diagnose. I'm trying not to panic. About 30 minutes ago I called Cold Stone Creamery to talk with a manager about the ingredients in a Milk Caramel Latte that I drank 2 hours ago. I explained my urgency to the girl who answered the phone before being placed on hold so she could "finish making someone's order".

It's okay. I'm dying slowly anyway.

The first time it ever happened to me, I woke up with what felt like my head on fire. My daughter assured me that she didn't have an itchy head but I didn't believe her, so I checked her for lice. Nope. No lice. I couldn't open my eyes and thought I was just exhausted. Until I walked into the bathroom to splash water on my face (to help wake myself up) and noticed my eyelids were humongo!!! They were so fat that I barely had eyelashes! While I was smart enough to take a Benadryl pill, I stil sat around for about an hour expecting it all to go away. After spending nearly the entire day watching my hands turn into clubby fists and calling various people who I hoped could help me uncover the mysterious origins of my first-ever serious allergic reaction, my friend Martin, a horticulturalist, assured me that I was probably one of the few people he knew to develop an allergy to orchids. So I opted to take a shot of something in the asscheek and thanked my lucky stars I didn't die.

FYI, in case you didn't know, orchids are like poodles of the houseplant world. People who are allergic to most flowers are big fans of orchids. They are low-allergen and a handy excuse for any future boyfriend/husband of mine to never present me with flowers.

FOR THE RECORD: I AM NOT ALLERGIC TO CHOCOLATE OR VACATIONS.

The day I gave birth to a second-grader

2009-06-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

Today was my daughter's last day as a first-grader and her first day as a second-grader. Which only means that she's that much closer to legally dropping out of school when she turns 18 during her senior year. Yes, I worry about this already. And I can't stop looking at her and thinking, "Oh, god. You're not a baby anymore, yet you still cannot tie your own shoes, or ride a bike, or properly floss your teeth." Then I do a little jig inside because I still have some time left with her before she starts sneaking cigarettes, skipping school, and kissing sleazy boys named Vic and giving me ammunition (read as guilt) as I remind her of the day she was born (and the day she was almost born).

My pregnancy was not an easy one. Aside from the stress of a broken engagement and an already damaged relationship with BabyDaddy (in this household, we refer to him as Mr. Dumas), my baby was not positioned correctly. EVER. It was confirmed that she was being carried in a breach position and that I would never be able to give birth naturally (and here is where I must argue that if a baby is coming out my body, she is being born naturally - she was not manufactured at the Ben & Jerry's in Vermont). My baby decided to ride the wave of the womb in a standing position with one foot in my ass and the other foot in my hoohah. The nurses didn't believe me when I told them there was a foot down there and I demanded an internal ultrasound. Behold!! Five toes!! In my hoohah! And she was a kicker! I suffered massive bouts of dehydration and consumed approximately 2.5 tons of Wendy's chicken nuggets, per month. I also developed an expensive habit of paying for the buffet at Shoney's on Thursday nights solely for unlimited access to fried chicken. And I didn't even eat the chicken. Just the fried chicken skin.

Forty-two pounds later, I watched two planes crash into the World Trade Center towers. Because I'd been raised in the military and grew up outside of Washington, DC, I was appointed "All-Knowing Expert on Terrorist Activities" by my fellow hotel coworkers and found myself answering every question with, "I wouldn't worry unless a plane actually hits the White House or the Capitol Building. Now let's go watch some TV!!" Then my father's best friend went missing in the Pentagon and my whole world changed. I grabbed my stomach and clenched my teeth in pain and found myself in the emergency room 4 hours later with a few bags of fluids going through my body. Whatever it took to keep my baby inside until after midnight. Whatever it took to not allow her to be born on this day that would carry the burden of increased cultural and religious intolerance and the heightened opportunity for historians to tell more lies. I held out until 12:04am on Wednesday, September 12, 2001, and was released from the hospital at 4:00 that morning. I was still pregnant.

For the next three weeks I stayed in bed. I was 30 minutes from the hospital and afraid of going into labor again with a breached baby. My c-section was scheduled for October 5th at 8am but because someone believed that my body hadn't been through enough already, the real labor pains kicked in at 3am. I clawed my way out the front door, clutching my belly with one hand as the other hand grabbed onto the brick exterior of my house, all while my father told me to get a move on (note to all men: saying this to any pregnant woman is a sure-fire way to get your ass kicked). Once I arrived at the hospital, I was told to practice my breathing exercises since the drug guy wouldn't be in until 7am.

Uh...what? #@&$**@!!!! Aaaaaaaaarrrrggggggg!!!!! Tears!!! Whining!!! More tears and whining!!!!!

My strategy worked and within an hour I had a good dose of Stadol. Wow! is all I can say about that stuff.

Over the next few hours, I was cared for by a sweet Scottish nurse who made sure I was drugged and happy (the opposite of the terrifying Nurse Ratchet, my post-natal nurse). The epidural only numbed my left side and didn't take very well the first time around so the doctor strapped me to the table (all One-Flew-Over-the-Cuckoo's-Nest-like), flipped me over sideways to the right (hoping to drain some more to my right side), and pumped me with some more drugs. My mother said I looked like Jesus on the cross. Except I might have been drooling.

After a few test pinches on my not-completely-numbed belly, I fought against general anesthesia and waived my right to sue them if they would just hurry the hell up and get this baby outta me! Like I said, I was drugged and anxious and probably having an out-of-body experience, but the doctors agreed with me, called me "one tough woman!" and went in for prize.

Hello, baby!

And that is the story of my daughter's birth (and almost-birth). And in case anyone was wondering, our good friend John survived the attack on the Pentagon. Another miracle of September 11th.

What NOT to listen to when you're sad (besides Tori Amos)

2009-06-03T16:20:00.000-07:00

The snooze button came in handy this morning. I couldn't pull myself out of bed without dragging some emotional burden around with me. Here it is, nearly 8pm, and I can't quite put my finger on it. This feeling of...what? What is this? I'm not hopeless, I'm not depressed, I'm not crying (but I want to). In fact, I probably should. The unfortunate part about it is that I only cry when I'm angry. Or when someone dies. Or, sometimes, when someone comes back.

You know how the memory of a person can take the air out of you and leave you with an involuntary urge to hunch over forward into a fetal position just to keep in what air you have left? It's exhausting to me. My ribs will hurt. My back will ache. And then I'll lose my breath just when the lyrics of an incredibly beautiful song I've listened to hundreds of times finally make sense at exactly the right moment (or wrong moment, depending on how you look at it).

I'm not the guy in this song. I'm not even the girl in this song. I'm the girl who was with the guy who really wanted to be with the other girl. This was his song for her and I had to listen to it. It's a year of my life that I wouldn't mind forgetting, only because I was never really a huge part of his life. He said I was, but in the end I discovered (or finally realized, as the case may be) that I was only there until she chose to be there. That's when I walked away and learned that sometimes doing the right thing doesn't always mean doing the easiest thing.

And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that’s when you lose yourself
for a minute or two.
As you stand, under the bar lights.
And the band plays some song
about forgetting yourself for a while.
And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.
And that white dress she’s wearing
you haven’t seen her for a while.

But you know, that she’s watching.
She’s laughing, she’s turning.
She’s holding her tonic like a cross*.
The room’s suddenly spinning.
She walks up and asks how you are.
So you can smell her perfume.
You can see her lying naked in your arms.

And so there’s a change, in your emotions.
And all these memories come rushing
like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies,
like two perfect circles entwined.
And you feel hopeless and homeless
and lost in the haze of the wine.

Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.
As she walks out the door,
your blood boiling
your stomach in ropes.
Oh and when your friends say,
“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Then you walk, under the streetlights.
And you’re too drunk to notice,
that everyone is staring at you.
You just don’t care what you look like,
the world is falling around you.

You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You know that she’ll break you in two.
The Airborne Toxic Event - "Sometime Around Midnight"

I still can't cry.

This isn't why I woke up this morning with a black cloud hovering over me. And like I said, I've heard this song hundreds of times and it never hit me like that before. Maybe I needed it to so I could listen to what someone else is saying, in someone else's words. It's not even that I have feelings for this person anymore. I think what grabbed me the most in these lyrics was there are no fluffy puppies and sparkly butterflies. I mean, how fluffy-puppies-and-sparkly-butterflies are these words:

Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.

It is such a beautiful song, though.

700 miles

2009-05-29T18:24:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I packed the kid and two suitcases into my little Hyundai Accent and prayed that she could maintain a speed of at least 50 mph while climbing a hill. Between Jacksonville and Rock Hill, South Carolina, there are alot of hills. Personally, I like to call them mountains but I know that real mountain people would laugh at me. To my surprise, Ramona handled the mountains quite well.

(Ramona is my car. Of course, I name them. My last one was Carmen Elantra. Her mileage was running pretty high and she was on the verge of being dragged into the woods and shot but, because I'm a decent person, I decided to trade her in for loyalty points with the local Hyundai dealer.)

When I left Jacksonville on Saturday the 23rd, most of Florida had already endured 10 straight days of rain. And while the majority of the year is devoted to hurricane survival and fire prevention, nobody quite knew how to handle the 10+ inches of rain that inundated the city without a break in the weather. No sunshine, no blue skies. Just a constant cloud of depression and mood-altering grayness and the self-realization that one could never live in the Pacific Northwest. We are Floridians, for cryin' out loud!!! We need our sunshine! So I, along with my favorite roadtripping co-pilot (the Kid), gassed up the Little Engine That Could and got the hell outta Dodge.

I was greeted with a 3-minute display of sunshine in Walterboro, South Carolina. That's it. And by the time I arrived in Rock Hill, it was decided that I was the bearer of bad weather. Never in my three visits to Rock Hill (so far) has the weather been enjoyable. It's either warm and rainy or 40 degrees and rainy. My best friend declared, "I'm starting to think it's you."

After spending the weekend with my best friend, my brother, and the only guy I could possibly get a date with within 350 miles, I packed up the kid again and we said our goodbyes. With the entire day all to ourselves and three interstate changes in our future, there was no telling where we'd decide to park the car and explore the treasures of some unknown small town. My XM Radio trial period had ended that morning and I was suddenly the Trivia Master to my daughter's Quiz Machine.

"Mommy, tell me about China."
"Mommy, tell me about Texas."
"Mommy, tell me about Abrahan Lincoln."
"Mommy, tell me about Hitler."

What? Well, okay. I decided she was old enough to know the basics of world history and how tyrannical leaders have been found hiding in poorly dug holes with bags of Doritos and their bodies sore from trembling at the thought of being confronted by The American Soldier. Yes, she asked about Saddam Hussein. Or, specifically, Saddamassan, but I knew who she was talking about.

Because it was Memorial Day, we decided to stop in Pooler, Georgia, to visit the Mighty 8th Air Force Museum. I can't begin to describe the atmosphere in that building, even though, at the time, I was completely unaware that my grandfather was a part of this. Military veterans from every branch volunteer their time and knowledge (and, if you're lucky, a story of their own personal war experience) to guide visitors through what has been called one of the "most powerful museum experiences" in the country. I will agree with that as I had to offer a tissue to the crying woman who sat next to me in what was known as the simulator. She thanked me for my kindness and introduced herself to me as "a widow".

It's hard to complain about anything after meeting someone who lost her everything.

(Mighty 8th Air Force Memorial Gardens - Pooler, Georgia)

They're ALL created from nonsense!

2009-05-19T17:57:00.000-07:00

My daughter's homework assignment was to write a story using her spelling words. For some reason, Elle didn't want to show me.

So I whipped out ye olde "Because I said so!!" command and she allowed me to read her story. Aaaah, the power of parenthood!

It's wonderful. (The story and the power of parenthood!)

"But, mommy, it sounds like nonsense!"

"Elle, have you ever heard of two parents who leave their children in the woods with a loaf of bread so they can be eaten by some endangered bear species only to end up discovering a house made out of delicious gingerbread and inhabited by some crazy old bat!?!?!"

Blank stare.

My point has been made.

Behold!!!

The Skunk and The Lost Key

Once upon a time there was a skunk who lost his key so he couldn't hop anymore and he wouldn't lose anything. When he heard an odd sound he sang along. He followed the voice and went the wrong way. It was a lady. An evil lady. She sleeps on a cot. She was the one who was holding the key and she called it a jobkey. The evil lady dropped the key in the lake and the skunk caught it. He lived happily ever after.

Pool. Eat. Sleep. Hug. Cry. Drive home.

2009-05-17T15:17:00.000-07:00

A sad event brought a friend of mine down to Jacksonville this weekend. A friend whom I've known for sixteen years, as she reminded me around midnight on Night 1 of our weekend of slack. We didn't completely engage in slack. She has a baby to care for and I have a seven-year-old to care for. And I did come home while DeAnna and Delilah went to the funeral so I could get the oil changed in my car and finish a few loads of laundry. So, no...there probably was no slacking going on. But with all of our time in the pool and hanging out with cute kids and enjoying the company of my ever-elusive friend, Carolina, it is hard to remember that I did anything remotely productive this weekend.

Delilah & Elle

Elle & Delilah

Carolina, DeAnna, Delilah, and me (Elle was the photographer!)

There are a million reasons to feel old. Here are a few:

2009-05-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

Elle: "Mommy, maybe you have lines on your butt 'cause you're old."
(No. I have lines on my butt because I gave you precious life while you sucked away at my insides for nine months.)

Elle: "Mommy, you put colors in your hair because you don't want to look old because you are old. But it works and I think you're pretty."
(I can't argue with this. Putting color in my hair does make me feel pretty.)

Elle: "Mommy, your butt is getting big."
(Thank you, Elle. After having spent thirty years at a weight of ninety-five pounds or below, being told my butt is getting bigger is quite the compliment.)

Elle: "Mommy, sometimes you act like your sixty years old."
(Well, after coloring my hair and admiring my widening, stretchmarked ass, I'm allowed to take a break.)

DeAnna: "Wow. Sixteen years. I met you when I was fourteen."
(Oh. My. God. Has it been that long? At least we can grow old together.)

Have you washed your hands today?

2009-05-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

Because I am the Senior Secretary/Glorified Coffee-Maker/Under-appreciated Master of Office Supplies for my department, I get to choose who gets what color Post-It notes, how many reams of paper will be available on any given day, and how many toner cartridges are kept on the top of the cabinet or the side of the cabinet.

(I know. It's so easy to be jealous of me. But you, too, can be this successful one day!)

Other fun things about my job (other than, of course, the gobs and gobs and gobs of respect I'm given (she says sarcastically)) include my frequent dealings with the dreamy FedEx delivery guy and my absolute control over whether I'll be ordering Ocean Mist or Spring Bloom scented Purell hand sanitizer from OfficeMax.

Except OfficeMax emailed me last week to tell me the Ocean Mist scented hand sanitizer is out of stock and on backorder. For up to three weeks! Ok, this isn't a big deal as OfficeMax is loaded with other scents and brands of hand sanitizer. So I cancelled my backorder for Ocean Mist and re-ordered with the Spring Bloom, which I preferred anyway because it's a really pretty shade of pink. But then OfficeMax emailed me again to tell me the Spring Bloom scented hand sanitizer is out of stock and on backorder. For up to two weeks!

Wait. What? Why? Oh...(groan), that's why.

Yes, folks. The OfficeMax representative informed me that their warehouses are completely sold out of all brands/sizes/scents of hand sanitizer since the Pigs in Space have unleashed their deadly strain of nuclear Swine Flu on the masses of unsuspecting (and easily panicked!) Americans and other Earthlings.

Let's keep in mind that your normal, run-of-the-mill strain of influenza kills tens of thousands of Americans every year. But swine flu? This calls for a National Handwashing Day. Whatever it takes...whatever it takes.

Perseverance

2009-05-09T19:42:00.001-07:00

A 7-year-old placed in a class with teenagers, an unfortunate meeting between her head and a bar, and a heartbreaking display of stress at the overwhelming nature of the balance beam during her gymnastics presentation...and yet she wiped her tears, walked right over to the bars, and pulled it off like a champ.

Her coach even called Elle her "little bar girl".

I'm so proud!

Destination Unknown

2009-05-08T20:08:00.000-07:00

Oh, c'mon! Sing along...

Life is so strange
Destination unknown
When you don't know
Your destination
Something could change
It's unknown
And then you won't know
Destination unknown
-Missing Persons

I love that song.

Anyway, I have a problem. Our little circle of friends tries to get together whenever the opportunity presents itself (You're driving through Virginia? Stay at my place! OR When you pass through Columbia, South Carolina, call me. We'll have breakfast!). Because of my nomadic childhood in the military, I made friends that eventually had to move away. Then I moved away. Go figure, now we're everywhere. It's hard to get us all in one place. But, it happens. With some work and some organization and some kind of plan.

The plan. Oh, yeah. A plan. Did anyone this year put one together? Not really. Well, yes. But did we stick to the plan? Nope. Now there's a problem.

PLANS THAT WORKED
The plan in 2006: Savannah, Georgia. Friends from Florida, Maryland, and South Carolina.
The plan in 2007: Charleston, South Carolina. Friends from Florida, Maryland and South Carolina.
The plan in 2007 (PART II!): Savannah, Georgia. Again. Just friends from Florida and South Carolina.
(Are you seeing a pattern here? We needed to step up the number of participants.)
The plan in 2008: York, South Carolina. Friends from Florida and Virginia.
The plan in 2008 (PART II!): Byron, Georgia: Friends from Florida and Maryland.
The plan in 2008 (PART III!): York, South Carolina. Friends from Florida and DeAnna's womb (Delilah was born in May of 2008.)

PLANS THAT ARE NOT WORKING OUT SO WELL
The plan for summer 2009: Jekyll Island, Georgia. Friends from Florida, South Carolina, Maryland, and Texas. Five adults and seven kids.

Oh, yeah. We forgot to book the rooms a few months ago. Actually, we didn't forget. I just put it off. "Let's wait to see if anyone else can make it!" Now the rooms are running at least $169 per night. And because there are so many of us, we cannot just book two rooms like we originally planned (there's that damn plan again!). Now we have to book three rooms and split that cost four ways (two of the five adults are married to each other), but Jekyll Island is too much money.

So I've thrown a few options out to my high school pals to see if they're open to moving to a new location. Suggestions include Tybee Island, Ga., St. Augustine, Fl., Savannah, Ga. (been there, done that 3 times), or Helen, Ga. - a small Bavarian mountain village north of Atlanta. It totally goes against the whole We Don't Live in Florida Like Dena Does So We Want The Beach vacation that we all had in mind a few months ago but it's inexpensive, has tons of water fun, and actually has quite a few activities for families. And if you forgot how many kids were going to be there, here's a reminder: seven. SEVEN!! All between the ages of 1 and 13.

Does anyone else have any other suggestions? We're looking for a family-friendly vacation area (east coast/southeast) that offers lodging for regular people. No resorts or week-long condo rentals here. We're of the hotel/motel crowd. Of course we won't sleep in a hotel that rents by the hour. We do have standards.

On a semi-related note, check out the website for Destination Unknown Journals. I came across this site when I was looking up the song lyrics and fell in love with some of these designs. $40 for a journal is craaazaaay, but they're pretty. This one's my fave:

Anyway, I'd love to hear your suggestions!

Threetoedslothaphobia

2009-05-05T18:20:00.000-07:00

I recently read some quote about facing one's fears, to not let the things we are afraid of run our lives. I'm afraid of things. We all are. Some of those things are understandable (flying, falling, drowning) while others are slightly...well, irrational, such as my fear of throwing up (nobody likes that!) and, phew...

Oh, this is hard, folks. Really. Because this thing freaks me the f$*! out.

Do you remember wondering what it was that really lurked under your bed when you were a child? Can you recall that sick feeling that completely overwhelmed your insides and made your body so tense that it was actually hard to breathe without crying or calling for your mommy?

(Ok, so stay with me here! Because this thing I fear actually gives me that sick feeling in my stomach. And I probably won't be able to sleep tonight, but I'm trying to be a big girl.) So here goes:

three-toed sloth

Sweet Jaysus!!!!!! I'm 32 and that still makes me want to cry. My stomach is in knots just having to search through images of those damn things (thankfully I can't see the picture while I'm writing this - it's only HTML code I'm staring at). I'd rather walk barefoot in a room thick with slithery snakes than have one of these things anywhere near me. Looking at me. I mean, look at it! It's got this creepy little face and this body that is so....God, I don't know. This thing reminds me of that little black-haired girl from The Ring when she began crawling out of the TV.

I'm gonna go watch Ace of Cakes and get my Duff-on. Hopefully that will settle my stomach.

I know, it's silly. But I remember some television therapist saying that the best way to start confronting your fears is to speak the word, then look at pictures, then video...yaddayaddayadda. I stop at the pictures.

Finding my roots

2009-05-04T17:48:00.000-07:00

Sure. You can laugh at my picture. I suck at technical stuff and quite honestly don't know any other way to show you what I'm talking about in this here post without drudging up actual tooth pictures from the Internets. And, trust me, those actual tooth pictures can be downright disgusting.

So I drew a picture for you instead.

See the Normal Tooth? He's the Happy Tooth (that's why he's smiling!). He is normal because he has three roots like any normal molar has. Three. And they're straight. Three straight roots. Normal. Happy.

See the Freak Tooth? He's the Grumpy Tooth (that's why he's frowning!). He is grumpy because he has the normal three roots plus an extra root that magically fused with one of the other three roots and they had a baby root and somehow there's a straight, parallel root that runs along the top where the jawline meets the palate and...LET'S STOP AND DO A RECOUNT!! 3 + extra + baby + parallel = 6. Six. And they're not straight. They're HOOKED. Except for the parallel root that totally stumped the dentist who said he's "pretty sure" it won't cause a problem later on(because he can't get to it on the roof of my mouth - he's an endodontist, not a magician!).

Well, I'm "pretty sure" that root canal was the most painful, traumatic experience of my life. Three entire thingies (I don't know what they're called) of the numbing gun and then direct injections of lidocaine into each root as the drilling required. Drilling. Into roots! That weren't NUMB!!!!!!

And because my teeth are freaks of nature, I'm thinking of donating my body (at least my mouth) to the University of Florida's College of Dentistry when I die. Which I actually wished for more than once today.

Has anyone seen my Lortab???!!

The view from here...

2009-05-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

Well, it ain't so bad!!!!

The kids and I headed out at 9 o'clock IN THE MORNING! This guaranteed me a good seat on the beach and a good chance of getting home early enough to do other things today. Like sit in front of my computer and type! I am listening to some really good music right now so it's not a bad thing being right here.

We were lucky enough to show up when the tide was out and it had left a wonderful little pool (more like a small stream as it even had a northward current and little tiny fishies!) for the girls to play in.

This meant that I could turn my chair toward the beach and the sun and close my eyes...except when those two really nice looking tattooed guys had to chase after the runaway football. I promise I didn't take pictures of them because that would just be weird. But I should have.

It was just a beautiful day.

Could it get any better?!?!!

Why, yes. Yes it can!

Ha! They fell asleep. Now it's my turn.

I should probably tell this kid's mother

2009-05-02T20:53:00.000-07:00

Sleep is not going to happen tonight. For me, for Elle, for anyone in this house, including her. Her being my daughter's sleepover guest.

Poor Little J. Her mother dropped her off at my house around dinnertime and reminded me of Little J's odd sleeping behaviors, such as talking, screaming, mumbling, giggling, and sometimes even hysterically laughing. I was told to just ignore it. It happens most nights (one of the above behaviors or a combination of some). Okay, I can deal with that.

That is, unfortunately, not what I'm dealing with tonight. Little J is fast asleep and coughing like mad. I noticed her coughing alot just a few minutes after her mother left and I had to ask her if she was sick. Little J said no. So I did a rundown of basic cold/flu symptoms:

headache - no
sneezing - no
runny nose - no
sensitive skin - no
itchy eyes - no
just the cough - check

What gives? She was fine when she got here. I remember asking Little J's mom if she was allergic to anything (I'm never in the mood to deal with anaphylactic shock) and the answer was no. But soon after another one of Little J's coughing spells, a little lightbulb flickered above my head and I asked her another very important question: Do you have any pets?

Yes. She does have pets. No. They don't make her cough like this. Holy crap, is this kid allergic to my house? I mean, she's still coughing. And sleeping through it (which is really weird because these are some hardcore coughing spasms, methinks). I'm even checking on her every 20 minutes or so to make sure she hasn't thrown up from coughing so hard. When I took Elle and Little J to the park earlier this evening, Little J was fine. She was running and laughing and playing chase and...oh my goodness, she was not coughing.

Until we came back home. To my three pets and all of their fur. Like I said, the girls are having a sleepover and, to keep them both together, I have them camped out on the living room floor with tons of blankets and pillows to make it all soft and cushiony (as soft and cushiony as a carpeted living room floor can be). Floor. FLOOR!! Where the fur is resting. Next to my girls' heads.

I vaguely remember she told me about her hamster (he's dead now), then she told me about her toy poodle.

Poodle! You mean, the hypoallergenic breed? I think our mystery is solved.

How to waste a beautiful day

2009-05-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

1. Wake up late.

2. Spend 10 minutes in the bathroom wondering if the Nair for Sensitive Skin will work better than last year's attempt at hair removal with regular Nair.

3. Spend 10 minutes in the shower blasting cold water on your legs that were literally set on fire by Nair for Sensitive Skin (which, obviously, does not work better than regular Nair).

4. Spend 10 minutes trying to shave your legs with a razor and sensitive skin shave gel before you remember that your skin was burned off completely.

5. Spend an hour caressing your smooth legs. Beauty equals pain, people.

6. Go to Starbucks with a headache and order a grande Iced Caramel Macchiato for yourself and a box of organic chocolate milk for the kid. Squeal in delight when the barista gives you your drink for free because you're "always here and we don't want you to go broke."

7. Fire up the Internet with a renewed hope in mankind and the job market.

8. Sigh in despair as the clock creeps closer and closer to nighttime which, on this night, will be spent with your daughter and her best friend. Remember last time how giggly they were? Yeah, they're older now. And louder. And gigglier.

9. Realize after 3 hours of internet job hunting that you will be stuck in your current job until retirement age.

10. Blog while the sun is still out and the air is still warm and remember where the sidewalk chalk is. Go outside and enjoy what's left of the day.

Tomorrow: THE BEACH.

When I am the leader of my own island, these people (and others like them) will not be allowed to live there

2009-05-01T17:33:00.000-07:00

My daughter wasn't allowed to pick out her own clothes until she was halfway through Kindergarten and even then I had the last word. That sleeveless camo dress with the bedazzled black leggings? No, ma'am! In fact, just this past weekend, Elle was given the opportunity for the first time ever to choose the haircut & style of her choice (pending my approval, of course). My daughter's going into the 2nd grade and, while I think I have given her many of the freedoms that I was never given as a child, I still believe there are just some decisions that should be left to me. Her mother, the adult (stop laughing!!). The one who is so undeserving of this awesome job of making sure she stays happy, healthy, and safe.

Maybe I'm stirring up a hornet's nest with what I'm about to say but why, oh why, are we letting our kids behave like grownups? And not only that, but why are we encouraging them to behave like grownups? I was recently confronted with the fact that not all parents are on the same parenting page as I am. Actually, we're not even in the same book.

As it turns out, Elle's been handing out our phone number to her little girlfriends at school and one of her friends actually called. When her mother was told that I do not allow my daughter to talk on the telephone because I think she's too young, she asked, "Well, how old is she?"

"She's only seven."

"My daughter's seven and I let her talk on the phone," said the mom.

Well, damn! Do you make sure she fills up the gas tank when she borrows the car, too?

My point is that I cannot possibly imagine what two 7-year-old girls would need to discuss over the phone that cannot be discussed at school.

RING!!! RING!!! (...says the imaginary phone!)
Little Girl #1: "Hi."
Little Girl #2: "Hi!"
LG #1: "What are you doing?"
LG #2: "Nothing. What are you doing?"
LG #1: "Nothing."
LG #2: "Are you gonna wear your pink capris tomorrow? I'll wear mine if you do. Then we can be twins."
LG #1: "Okay."
LG #2: "I gotta go."
LG #1: "Okay. Bye."
Lg #2: "Bye."

Now wasn't that fascinating?

This phone call thing actually happened a few weeks ago. I didn't really think too much about it until this morning, though, when I read about this woman in England who allowed her 10-year-old daughter to act like she wasn't 10-years-old by sticking her in an unmanned tanning bed. Why? Because her daughter wanted to know what is was like. Well, what was it like? It's a little bit like this: 70% of her body was burned, nearly to the point of requiring skin grafts. The worst part is that this little girl has been advised - NO! instructed - to stay out of direct sunlight for the...next...10...years.

So much for her childhood. Good job, Mom!

Now I understand, as I am also a parent (a clueless parent), that we sometimes make poor decisions, bad decisions, really stupid decisions. But I try to never forget that I am her mother (not the other way around!).

Unfortunately, this woman in England is asking the public to join her while she sees to it to have all unmanned tanning salons shut down. You know what else needs to be shut down? Parents who don't take responsibility for their own stupidity.

Ripped from the headlines!

2009-04-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

"With Swine Flu on the Rise, Should We Stop Shaking Hands?"
Are we really a bunch of pansies? I've been a nailbiter my whole life (I'm currently in recovery, but much like alcoholism and gas huffing, it's an addiction I struggle with daily (not that I have an alcohol or gas huffing problem, it's just a comparison!)), so sticking my fingers in my mouth after touching God-knows-what has probably made me immune to...well, alot of things, one of which I hope is this piggy flu. But seriously, this will surely support my argument for not hugging strangers when I actually go to church on holidays.

"Heidi, Spencer Avoid Swine Flu on Honeymoon"
Well, ain't that a crying shame? I wonder what kind of photos this pair is going to sell off after Honeymoon #2 (or is it #3?..I can't keep track anymore). Besides, Mother Nature might be trying to tell those two crazy kids a thing or two. Like, GET OUT. A killer virus and an earthquake since they've been in the country? The good news is that by the time Speidi returns to the United States, it will be the peak of tornado season and she'll decide to film her new music video in the heart of Oklahoma at 4 o'clock in the afternoon directly underneath one of those supercells. Not that I'm wishing death and destruction on the people of Oklahoma (Hello! to my good friends Tanya and Matt!), but they should really consider taking one for the team.

"Woman Claims Her Father Was Zodiac Killer"
Why is she coming forward? Oh, she's making a documentary. I hate people like this.

"'Jon & Kate': Jon Gosselin says photo of him with another woman 'showed poor judgment on my part'"
Say whaaaaat?! You know, Jon Gosselin could be the reincarnate of the Zodiac Killer and I'd still love the guy. My favorite episode ever? One of the six little ones loses a ball and it goes bouncing down the road. Jon goes to chase it and jokingly comments, "I'd keep running but I can't afford the child support." Meanwhile, the little one asks Kate, "Is Daddy coming back?" to which Kate replies, "Daddy is smart enough to not run away from home while we're all watching." I want them to adopt me.

"Starbucks Profits Decline by 77%"
Ok, I admit that ever since I've had to hand over my life savings and every penny earned since 2006 to my Gainesville-based lawyer, my visits to Starbucks have been cut in half. I refuse, absolutely refuse, to take responsibility for this loss. The baristas at my local Starbucks know my name and have a one in three shot at guessing which beverage I'm about to order. So, I will not take the blame for this. Although I did choose Taco Bell over Starbucks last night because I was hungry...but now I'm remembering that a body can't survive on just food alone. Wow, I really screwed this one up. Sorry, coffee drinkers...I'm so sorry. I'm going to Starbucks right now.

Nature. On my TV!

2009-04-25T09:13:00.000-07:00

After work last night, I was exhausted. Exhaustion usually leads me to falling down face-first on my bed but only after I've turned on the television to babysit my 7-year-old daughter. Instead of the same old Spongebob Squarepants cartoon that I've seen 17 times, I made her watch the Travel Channel. Alaska's Arctic Wildlife, to be exact. It was the kind of hour-long show from 1987 that a former substitute teacher in my 6th grade science class would have used to justify turning off the lights and allowing us to fall asleep if it was the only way to shut us up.

Don't get me wrong. I love this stuff! My stomach turns a little bit when I'm bombarded with human blood and guts from Trauma: Life in the ER, but animals hunting other animals has never bothered me. A lion's claws ripping through the flesh of a panicked zebra that knows it isn't nearly fast enough to escape but keeps running with eyes-wide-open in terror just seconds before its painful and ghastly death...aaaah, nope - it doesn't bother me. Never has, never will. Why? Because it is the way it is. It's what they do, these animals. It's the only thing they can do.

My daughter also loves this stuff. Elle's been watching these nature and travel shows with me for quite some time. She knows all too well that a polar bear will shred a cute little seal cub to pieces or that a crocodile will hide below the water line just to pull a surprise-attack on some poor, thirsty gazelle. So allowing her to watch an arctic fox dig for and catch a lemming on Alaska's North Slope is not a big deal. There were some intense moments, such as when the polar bear began dragging the body of a seal onto the ice and leaving a trail of blood to mark the path, but I asked her if she wanted me to change the channel.

She said, "Nope, it's okay. It's just nature, Mom."

But later on in the show, nature started to confuse her. We watched a group of natives set up their hunting grounds on an ice flow as they plotted the best way to spear and kill a kind of migratory whale (I can't remember the name of the tribe or the whale) and this made Elle very concerned. The whale came into view and the natives deftly hopped into their handmade boat and paddled quietly and closer to the whale with huge, long spears at the ready. She didn't like this one bit.

"Are they gonna kill the whale?"

Well, yeah. I explained to her that it is their livelihood, that their survival depends on those very animals. The true natives of Alaska (or the Arctic, in general) don't just kill whales for fun, it's not a sport to them. It's their survival. It is the way it is. It's the only thing they can do. So I asked her, again, if she wanted me to change the channel.

"Wait, so they don't have a grocery store there?"

Nope.

"Okay, I see now. No, you don't have to change the channel."

Simple as that.

About Florida's wildlife...

2009-04-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Let me start off by declaring how much I really do love living in Florida. Now that I've lived in the state for nearly 13 years, it has become my home. The beach, Disney World, the absence of snow - I love it here. I complained for years about the heat, about the sad state of the Department of Children & Families, and then about the heat some more, but I'm used to it now. I tend to get chill bumps and wear sweaters if the temperature is below 85 degrees, so I really can't see myself moving too far north. Besides, I wouldn't get the chance to tell you all about my wonderful encounters with things that come from nature (the kind of nature that exists only in Florida or in the Southeastern U.S., generally).

*Did you know that Florida homebuilders will build an entire house around a spider? A large spider? A large brown spider that will have babies inside your bathroom light switch plate during the very first shower you ever take in your new home? And did you also know that when you walk out of your tub without your contacts in and see black dots covering three entire bathroom walls that those black dots are not just floaters in your eyes. They are spiders. Baby spiders. They have just hatched from the egg sac that is behind your bathroom light switch plate. This also means that the Mama Spider is behind your bathroom light switch plate. She is dead (as you will discover once you remove the switchplate) but she is the size of your fist. Even a grown man (aka Your Father) is too squeamish to pull the dead spider out so you must call the Florida Homebuilder to come back and remove the spider.

*Did you know that armadillos will scare the bejeezus out of you when they come charging in your direction at full-speed in the middle of the night? Especially if they can sense that you've never encountered one of their kind before. It's a trick they like to play on young women who go outside to smoke on their back porches and don't turn on the porch light (Floridians do anything they can to not attract more bugs). So if you hear a rustling noise deep in the trees behind your house, you can almost be positive that a gang of roughneck armadillos are playing Rock-Paper-Scissors to determine which one of them will be the lucky sonofagun to flash its ugly little face from the darkness of the woods and make a human squeal in disgust, throw down her cigarette, and run inside shaking with fear. I can hear my local armadillo gang giggling right now. They must have caught my neighbor by surprise.

*Did you know that scorpions thrive in Florida? Neither did I! And did you know that they can also climb walls. Neither did I! That's just freaky...

*Did you know that rat snakes can grow to be nearly 8 feet long!?!? No, not really. They only look like they're 8 feet long after they've found a buddy and made a pact to terrorize a single family (such as mine) by climbing the screen door as a pair. This buddy-system enables the rat snakes to double in size and scare the crap out of the poor girl (uh...me in particular) who makes the unfortunate discovery of this rat snake stalking incident. Just because a grown man (aka Your Father) has spent a good portion of his career protecting the President and hiding in bunkers to avoid chemical attacks in the Middle East does not mean that he has the balls to protect his family from these snakes. In fact, a grown man just might ask his wife to take care of these troublemakers by giving her a pair of gardening shears and instructing her on how to cut off their heads. Their babies will soon be born to carry on the family's tradition of domestic terrorism.

*Did you know that roaches can fly? It's disgusting so we won't talk about it.

*Did you know that baby coral snakes get a thrill out of slithering up to barefoot pregnant women who naively believe they are relatively safe while in the comfort of their own homes? Maybe not necessarily inside the home, but inside the enclosed back porch. Apparently, enclosed is not an appropriate way to describe this back porch. Anyway, once the barefoot pregnant woman has noticed this venomous snake it is not really worth it for her to ask her younger (and, obviously, not pregnant) brother to find a stick, pick up the coral snake with the stick, and toss it gently into the woods. Let it be known that the younger brother will return from his stick-hunting duties with a twig that appears to be 3-inches long. The pregnant woman will have to dispose of the coral snake herself.

There are also black and red grasshoppers that grow to be the size of your shoe, and banana spiders as big as your face that can whip up a web the length of a truck in nearly 48.2 seconds flat, and squirrels covered in such grotesque tumors that they look like they've been foraging for walnuts and sticking them up their asses for safekeeping. And don't get me started on that swamp rat on Amelia Island (here's a hint: it's almost the size of a terrier) ...

Coffee & Socks

2009-04-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

The little things in life are what can lead to the big things in life. Depending on who you are and what you want out of life will probably determine your idea of what the little and the big things in life really are. Today, for me, those little things were coffee with a friend and a six year old's pair of socks.

I met a former co-worker for coffee this morning to catch up on each other's lives as well as the goings-on in my old office. My daughter colored her pictures very quietly at the table next to us while we chatted away like old hens for over two hours. Elle was on her best behavior and barely made a peep to interrupt the grown-ups, except to show us her beautiful drawings. My friend, Sandy, complimented me on how well-behaved my daughter was and how I was doing such a great job with her. To any parent, hearing such a thing makes us gush inside. Thanks, Sandy.

Oh, and I can't forget to thank Sandy for inviting me on a 3-DAY, 2-NIGHT VACATION PACKAGE TO AN UNKNOWN DESTINATION ON SOME LUSH, TROPICAL ISLAND LOCATED OFF THE COAST OF SOUTHWEST FLORIDA THAT IS ONLY ACCESSIBLE BY FERRY BOAT!

Gaaaaah - how did this happen?!?!?! Who knows, who cares. I'm going on a vacation to an unknown destination on some lush, tropical island located off the coast of Southwest Florida that is only accessible by ferry boat! (and the only reason I call the destination "unknown" is because she simply can't remember the name of the island.)

Coffee = Free Vacation!

It took me a few hours to recover from that news, which was just as well because I had to bring myself back down to earth and prepare to spend the next few hours with a room full of screaming children at a birthday party. I'm not much of a social butterfly. In fact, I prefer to not have to socialize at all. But the birthday girl is such a sweetheart and her family is wonderful and my daughter just loves her. So, yes, I was a little excited. And it was at Pump It Up! Elle had never been there before but was squealing with all kinds of happy when she learned it was a place full of bounce houses and blow-up slides. There's no better way to wear out kids then to let them run, jump, bounce, and laugh for two hours.

After watching the kids play for about a half hour, I wanted to try. I never had a bounce house on my birthday and I never got a mega-slide, either. I'm thirty-two years old and I wanted to play in the bounce house! The birthday girl's mom told me that she had an extra pair of socks just in case someone forget theirs. Like, one of the kids. But I asked her if I could borrow her six-year-old daughter's socks. She said...yes!

Have you ever gone down the mega-slide? Better yet, have you ever gone down the mega-slide with little girls holding onto your arms and dragging you down while flopping all over each other's limbs and giggling like...well, little girls? It is SO MUCH FUN!

Socks = Fun With Your Kid! (and other people's kids, too!)

I need to start paying attention to the little things again.

The skinny on being skinny

2009-04-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I was unfortunate enough to catch a stomach flu just a few weeks after having my wisdom teeth removed. I drove my sorry ass to the doctor for a fever that wouldn't go away and was promptly taken into the back room to be weighed, poked, and prodded. The poking and the prodding were a piece of cake. It always is. It's the weigh-in that freaks me out. Especially then, right after barely surviving on applesauce and scrambled eggs for about 3 weeks. But mostly because I've spent my entire life getting dirty looks and wagging fingers from the doctors.

"Do you enjoy food?"
"How many calories do you consume in a day?"
"Did your parents show you affection when you were a child?"
"How do you feel about your weight?"
"Did your parents feed you?"
"Are you on drugs?"

See, I'm a skinny girl. I've always been a skinny girl. Other girls would stare at me and point at me and say, "God, I wish I was as skinny as you are!". Do you really? Do you really wish you could be this skinny? Do you really know what you're wishing for? Probably not.

I didn't grow up with a positive self-image. When a part of you is constantly being called into question, it starts to become a part of you that you wish would go away. Sometimes being called into your 7th grade advisor's office to be counseled on your weight isn't fun. And being followed into the restroom by your teacher or co-worker who suspects you're throwing up your lunch isn't fun, either. Oh, no - wait! There's those people who whisper behind your back about your anorexic body or the snobby girls who always feel threatened by you because you're skinny and refuse to become your friend. Or having to shop in the little girls' department at any given store where the only jeans available in your size have the words CUTE or DIVA across the bum or sparkly butterflies sewn on the ass! Hi, I'm in my thirties!

Now I am happy to report that I've gained some weight over the last ten months. That whole rumor about gaining weight after you quit smoking is true. For me, it was. I've finally broken past and maintained my weight above 100 pounds. And while my body is still small, I can tell where that extra cushion has gone. And I don't like it! But this doesn't mean that I'm a complete freak about my body because I never was. It only means that I have to adjust to seeing pudge in places I've never had pudge before.

So please don't be so quick to judge a skinny girl. I remember how much I appreciated concerns about my weight when those concerns were being voiced by someone I trusted or someone I respected. Not by someone who just thought that my weight was a wonderful topic of conversation because, well, let's face it - they were either jealous or completely in favor of making me uncomfortable.

Sometimes a skinny girl is just a skinny girl.

a depressing little soundtrack

2009-04-14T19:40:00.000-07:00

I’m five years old and my rollerskating coach, Glenda, has me practicing my backwards scissors. Everyone is always telling me how cute I am or that I’m such a good skater for my age. I’ve been learning jumps and spins. Eventually, I’ll be paired with a boy and we’ll both have to practice for our skating showcase at the Aviano air show. But for now, I’m weaving my skates in and out, out and in, wide and closed, until I’m moving at a pretty decent speed.

Then it happens. I stop my skates with my little rubber stoppers and just stand there. My little brown teddy bear is dangling just inches from the floor. (I named her Bubble Gum and she has a bell in her ear. My coach lets me skate with her sometimes.) Instead of skating, though, I’m frozen in the middle of the skating rink. John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over” is playing over the sound system and it makes me sad. So sad that I just stand there and cry. Though I’m not just crying, I’m bawling…like howls, and sniffles, and my chest is heaving so badly that it’s hard to breathe. My mom is coming over to comfort me and I can see by the look on her face that she doesn’t understand what’s wrong. Unfortunately, she can’t see the look on my face that says the same thing. I don’t even know what’s wrong. The song reminds me of something mean I’ve said to my brother and now the song makes me cry. That’s all I know.

It’s quite a few years later and I still cry when I hear certain songs. Any ballad by Journey sets me off and reminds me of walking my dog for the last time ever, just hours before he was put to sleep for biting my mother and, basically, being a crazed psycho-chihuahua who would take off anyone’s face in a heartbeat. Morrissey’s Come Back to Camden is a really good song that threw me into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing as I crossed the bridge from Southern Maryland to Virginia, leaving my best friend behind. It was just the beginning of my 12-hour drive home to Florida and I didn’t want to leave. Or Pretty Good Year by Tori Amos. The lyrics make me think of the nameless soldiers who fought in Desert Storm but didn’t make it home alive. I don’t know why. It only takes one verse and I’m blubbering. And I love the song Bury Me With It by Modest Mouse. All that screaming reminds me of a really cool guy I worked for once. I always thought it would be fun to drag Don out to a karaoke bar and sing that song with him. Don was in his 70s and died last year. I miss his enthusiasm for life. I miss him.

Music is supposed to be emotional. I can remember back to almost every coming-of-age moment in my life by the song that was playing at that exact moment. Who was singing? Pupo, Three Dog Night, John Lennon, Prince, Rush, Jesus Jones, Depeche Mode, Cypress Hill (long story), Death Angel, Boa, the Cure, Faith & Disease, REM, K’s Choice…it’s all there. And not every song is one that will make me cry, but most of them are. Especially Taps. The first note will render me an emotional basketcase who must be scooped up and carried off, preferably far, far away. Clutching my teddy bear, of course.

On a somewhat-related note, everyone should read the book Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield. It's a love story. With a soundtrack. And it's heartbreaking.

The lady with the orange hair

2009-04-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I saw someone who was really different from me. My family was in a Pizza Hut in Marquette, Michigan, when I walked past a little boy whose left arm ended just below the elbow. What came out of my 9-year-old mouth was..."OH MY GOSH, MOM! THAT KID IS MISSING AN ARM!LOOOOOOOOOOK!!!"...or something like that. I made sure that everyone in the restaurant was aware of my discovery, in case they themselves hadn't noticed the boy with one arm, and my mother grabbed me by the wrist and rushed me the hell out of there. I was sure she hadn't heard the news because she wasn't acknowledging what I'd just told everyone, so I kept saying it over and over and over again. I was disciplined in the parking lot and instructed to never do anything like that again.

The roles have been switched and now I am the mother of a very honest little girl. She calls it like she sees it, is very observant, but is also very in tune with the emotional vibes of the people around her. Obviously she is nothing like my child-self. So when her uncle introduced her to one of his very good friends (I'll call him Pete), Elle was very curious about the way he walked. She constantly asked me what was wrong with Pete's legs. I know Pete has cerebral palsy and thought that he was probably better suited to answer that question. I had to trust that he'd answered that question many times before.

"Mr. Pete, what's wrong with your walk?"

"Well, Elle, this is how I was born. These are the legs I got when I was born."

"Oh. Okay."

Yes, it was that simple.

Not too long after that exchange between Elle and Mr. Pete, she and I were in the grocery store when we passed a little boy in a wheelchair. Even I couldn't help but take a quick look because this litte boy seemed to be suffering from progeria, that disease that turns a child's body into that of an elderly person. He carried the face of an old man and I had to make myself stop staring. Then I heard it...

"OH MY GOSH, MOM! DID YOU SEE THAT???" (no, no, no, make it stop, no, no, no, Elle...please shuddup.....!!). "LOOK, MOMMY!"

"Elle, it's not nice to point. I'm sure he knows he looks different."

"Not the little boy, Mommy, the lady with the orange hair!"

Orange hair? Where? What?

And this just goes to show you how in tune some kids can be with other people's emotions. While I was busy gawking at the little boy out of the corner of my eye, my daughter was looking at the woman pushing his wheelchair. The woman with the orange hair. Elle told me that she did look at the little boy but just thought he was born that way, though she really liked that lady's orange hair.

Olives. Just olives.

2009-04-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently asked me to help her figure out what’s going on inside her grandson’s head.

Friend: “It’s like he gets all confused when I tell him it’s time to put away his crayons because he's been coloring for too long and he needs to do something else.”

Me: “Why are you asking me to analyze the behavior of your 7-year-old grandson?”

Friend: “Cause you’re a Libra, too.”

Me: “In that case, I can answer your question. Not only because I’m a Libra but also because I can relate to almost all 7-year-olds.”

It’s not the first time this week that my astrological sign has been the subject of discussion. The sign of the scales, of balance and justice, plays a huge part in my real life. The characteristics of a Libra are pretty accurate. In my case, at least.

Libras are:
Diplomatic, urbane, romantic, charming, easygoing, sociable, idealistic, and peaceable.

We are also:
Indecisive, changeable, gullible, easily influenced, flirtatious, and self-indulgent.

I won’t claim to be all of those things, but I will claim to be most. There are a few others that I would like to explain, though. Namely the term indecisive. It makes us sound wishy-washy. We’re not wishy-washy. We are simply overwhelmed. Easily. Let me give you an example:

A few months ago, I found this great Italian pasta dish that I wanted to make. I had all of the necessary ingredients, except for the olives. My heart was in it…all the way (because that’s how we Librans get when we actually make a decision). It was off to the grocery store and down the condiments aisle, all the way to the back where they keep the olives.

Olives. Olives. Olives everywhere. Holy shit! Do you know how many freakin’ kinds of olives there are?!?!?!

I stood there, drooling perhaps, in awe at the enormity of my task. My brain had imploded and all abilities to rationalize had collapsed somewhere in my head when I realized I was staring into an entire galaxy of olives. And we’re not just talking name brands here, but I’m also talking variety. Oh, so much variety. Does the world really need that much variety? I know I don’t need that much variety. I only know I need olives. I couldn’t handle it. So I shifted all responsibility to the stranger next to me.

“Excuse me, um…what kind of olives should I get?”

“Well, what kind do you want?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you. It’s for a pasta dish.”

“Oh, you can use any one of those for a pasta dish. They all have a unique flavor.”

“But I don’t want a unique flavor, I just want some olives for my pasta dish.”

“I think any one of those will work for you.”

“You’re pretty damn useless.”

Okay, I didn’t say that to her, but I wanted to. Anyway, I gave up. I quit. I went home and made my pasta dish without the olives. And it tasted like shit.

So, back to my friend.

Me: “When you tell him it’s time to do something else, do you tell him what that ‘something else’ is?”

Friend: “Oh yeah, we give him all kinds of ideas. He gets choices.”

Gah! Choices.

Me: “Yeah, we don’t do well with choices. Especially when we’re given too many choices. Don’t give us too many choices. Either give us two to pick from or just tell us what to do and, eventually, we’ll come up with other choices for ourselves and bring it up to you. No, choices are overwhelming sometimes.”

My friend realizes that I’ve hit the nail on the head, at least when it comes to her grandson. She also tells me that he’s easily frustrated because he sometimes has too much to do and can’t decide which task he wants to do first. Or that he has a difficult time transitioning from one activity to another. This I find to be very true of myself. As long as I know a transition is coming up, I can mentally prepare myself for it and, therefore, not get overwhelmed when I’m bombarded by forty different kinds of fucking olives that I was never told would appear after the transition.

*********************************************

Now just because I’ve written about being a Libra and all the traits that go along with it doesn’t mean that I believe in all of this stuff. I’ll admit, I do read my horoscope daily. It’s really just for fun, though, like the way I read TMZ or the covers of trashy magazines to find out who has the cottage-cheesiest beach thighs and how many times Liza Minelli kicked her ex-husband’s ass.

It’s just for fun.

But, no, I have never returned to buy olives.

homeboys

2009-04-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

A last minute invitation landed me at a Ben Folds concert Saturday night. For ten bucks, I got to watch Ben's hands fly across the piano (he even plays with his forearms, I didn't know that). Then there was the trick with the Altoid tin cans. Along with lots of hand-clapping, knee-slapping, and thumb-snapping, I was unfortunate enough to sit next to the "Wooooo!!!" girl. I hate Woogirls. Especially when they have their camera set on the atomic-blast-brightness flash setting. She apologized for blinding me though, in between her woos. Ben Folds was great. Not only does he have a wonderful sense of humor, but also a real sense of how he is no longer the draw he used to be ten years ago. That was apparent in his comment about how some of his songs are better performed "in a gymnasium".

What impressed me more than Ben's mad piano skillz was the opening band, Jukebox the Ghost. No, I'd never heard of them either. Mostly because I live under a rock and usually spend my nights watching Chowder on the Cartoon Network.

Jukebox the Ghost is a very talented trio from Washington, D.C. After the show, I went to their tiny little card table and bought their cd, got it signed, and introduced myself as a fellow DC'er...of sorts. From the Maryland side. Prince George's County.

"Oh, yeah," said one of them, "Maryland! How's it going!?"

And that was about all the conversation I could handle because, let's face it, I'm too old for this loud music nonsense and staying up past 10:30. I even walked out during the Ben Folds encore, found my car, and drove straight home to my leftover chinese food and the comfort of my bed. I was asleep by midnight.

For those of you who might be interested, the music below is just a taste of what I was enjoying Saturday night. It reminds me of being happy. Their entire cd reminds me of being happy. Even that song about the end of the world. They make me want to book my next vacation for a balcony view of an apocalyptic throwdown.

Bristol, I got your back.

2009-04-03T15:42:00.000-07:00

It looks like there is more than one Mr. Dumas at large. A twerpy little whiner claiming innocence and prying pity out of the misinformed few who might actually hold his ex-girlfriend responsible for the hand this kid was dealt. I’ll admit I’m probably just as misinformed as anyone else out there, seeing as I don’t live with the Palin family, but this just crosses the line with me.

Levi – call me. Come to my house. Allow me to slap you silly for so ridiculously deciding to appear on…ahem, The Tyra Banks Show. You know you might have actually maintained a little credibility, or even saved some face, if you would have just kept your little flapper shut. But there you are on television with the Goddess of Fierce running your mouth about how Bristol Palin is in a bad mood and is “short” with you.

And announcing this on national television to an audience with a combined I.Q. of 14 is going to help your case? You’re pretty dumb.

I am a fan of the Palin family. I’m drawn to their accent because I have the same accent. Especially when I’m either really excited, really angry, or I’ve just ended a phone conversation with my best friend/favorite Wisconsineer, Nikki. When Sarah Palin announced that her teenage daughter was pregnant, that pretty much sealed the deal for me. This family is functionally dysfunctional. Just like everyone else’s family that I know. I voted for McCain/Palin and totally looked forward to some normalcy in the White House. And while the country seeks to move our culture forward with legalized abortion and medicinal marijuana, some people are still shocked by the fact that a teenage mother almost made it to Washington, DC. Hello! Been to high school lately?

Let me put it to you this way: I am Bristol Palin. I understand your comment about wanting to grow up a little bit before actually getting married because I actually requested the same from my daughter’s father, and I was in my twenties. But instead of appearing on one of the tackiest talk shows in history, he sued me. Twice. And he lost. Twice. Are you catching the hints I'm throwing your way?

Levi, do you wonder why Bristol is in a “pretty bad mood”? Have you ever asked her? I mean, you yourself have said, “Moms are pretty smart”. Yes, we are. We are also fiercely protective of our children. Give your child’s mother some credit. Sometimes, it’s all we ask for.

Geese. I hate them.

2009-04-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

I work in a building surrounded by geese. They crap all over the parking lot, block traffic, and basically stop being cute by the time you realize they would do minor damage to your car if you actually hit one. Which is tempting...

But I'm an animal lover. Being an animal lover, in general, is easy to do. But just because I'm an animal lover doesn't mean I love geese. In fact, I hate geese. There is a good reason behind my hatred of geese.

His name was Ollie.

When I was a kid, my family spent a lot of time visiting with my mother's side of the family in Wisconsin. The five-hour drive from Upper Michigan to my uncle's farmhouse in Slinger was sprinkled with fun memories like Nick throwing up in my dad's new car or hitting a deer that was running across the highway (probably being chased by a vicious, bloodthirsty goose). I loved being at the farmhouse. My Aunt Janice always seemed surprised that I didn't like strawberries, her favorite but my least (a very unfortunate heatstroke incident involving projectile vomit). My Uncle Larry sometimes hung me upside down by the heels and threatened to throw me away with the trash all the while convincing me that his real name was Uncle Stinker. Cousin Mike (aka Runt) fitting himself in the dryer during a game of Hide & Seek and me testing the true electrical current of the electric fence (it wasn't turned on - thank goodness).

Aaaah, memories.

Like I said, I loved being at the farmhouse. It was getting into the farmhouse that caused the most trouble. As soon as my family's station wagon was parked in the gravel in front of the house, Ollie would make his presence known. Honking. Honking. Honking. HONKING!!! Then, I could swear, he would charge. Like a bull. But he wasn't a bull. He was a goose. A scary, scary goose. My dad would honk the horn (which would make Ollie honk, too) to alert someone, anyone, in the house that we were being held hostage outside. In the car. By a goose. Named after Oliver North, I believe.

Ollie made vacation time at the farm difficult sometimes. I remember I would actually have to have a chaperone just to get me from Point A to Point B if I was going to be playing outside, lest I be chased, abducted, and brutally assaulted by some crazy goose. God, I hate geese.

I don't know if this is actually true or not, but I heard that Ollie took a swing at the mailman, who'd had enough of Ollie's threats, and he ran him over with the mail truck. I hope it's true. Only because it's a really awesome story. And it proves my point that geese are dangerous, hideous, vicious, mean little f***ers!! If it isn't true, well...then, it should be. So, there.

Which brings me back to my building's geese problem. These geese leave bombs everywhere and have had the pleasure of laughing at many a human who has stepped in a pile of goosepoop and walked it into our building. An adult goose is practically the size of a toddler (and just as mean, probably), so when a group (a gaggle?) of geese are walking in my direction, I hightail it the other way. They're like your run-of-the-mill street thugs. Loud, obnoxious, walking around like their shit don't stink. I can't really tell if it does or not, but it's freakin' everywhere...I mean, sweet Jesus - have you seen our parking lot?

Anyway, our building also has a retention pond and a resident alligator. He doesn't mess with the geese either. He probably knows they'd kick his ass, too.

UPDATE: Cousin Jim tells me that Ollie was hit by a car in the middle of the night. So the Federal Government had nothing to do with it.

hocus pocus mucus!

2009-03-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

This picture is such a lie. First of all, this kid is certainly old enough to wipe her own nose. Secondly, who the hell looks that happy when they're dealing with gallons of snot, especially when it isn't even their own!!??

I don't like mommies like this. And I'm sure nobody would be offended by my statement because mommies like this don't exist. Unless they're aliens, then this sort of snot accumulation is magical and mysterious and awesomely worthy of otherworldly scientific collection & study. Yeah. Not in my house.

My poor baby is loaded with goo this week. I kept her home on Monday due to a fever and dry cough. This morning her cough was so thick, she was gagging. When I picked her up from school tonight, I was greeted with a bag of ice to her left ear and a tear-streaked face, begging me to make the pain stop. Oh, I hate the snot! The congestion has totally taken over and I had to rush my daughter to the Urgent Care clinic at 6pm. No dinner, no medicine, no nothing. And she shrieked the whole time, clutching her ear as if to rip it off. Which actually might have been less painful, for both of us.

So two hours later, we were home and I had her fully drugged with decongestant, advil, and a liquid Z-pak that is sure to give her diarrhea which, in turn, is sure to give me another round of shrieking about stuff coming out of her body that cannot be controlled. You can't win for losing.

Elle is finally asleep and snuggling with her two favorite stuffed animals, Big Peki and Black Peki, while enjoying the mist of the humidifier and the company of her new best friend - the heating pad.

This reminds me of when my older brother cried so hard as a baby that my mother was prescribed Valium. Valium!!!!

Moving on...and up...or out

2009-03-23T11:07:00.001-07:00

In about an hour, I'll be heading to the local college to meet with a program director about obtaining my Hospitality and Tourism Management degree. In about two months, I plan on taking my first class to be counted as a core class credit. In about a year, I plan on having that degree in my hand. In the meantime, I want to be working at one of two brand new hotels that are scheduled to open by mid-summer. I'm afraid to admit this: I'm excited.

I've been excited about things before. Like moving to Florida in 1996. Or discovering how much I liked Columbia, South Carolina, enough to consider moving there. Or even the possibility of taking a dream job at the Chesapeake Beach Resort in Maryland after being away for 11 years. Every time I get excited about something, it fails. I fail. Something fails. Usually it's my own confidence.

And here's why: I've never had to take care of myself completely. Back in 1999, I moved into an apartment with a friend of mine in Gainesville, Florida. Seven months later, I moved back in with my parents to save up the money I would need to move back to Maryland, into a quaint little 2 bedroom apartment in downtown Annapolis. A few months after that, I met a guy. We all know how that ended. And I've never left my parents' home since then.

I've had offers from girlfriends who needed a roommate, but I always felt that I would impede on their life as a single woman. My number one rule has always been that no man would ever be allowed to stay the night, as my guest or as hers. I didn't want my child to see that. But I also didn't want to be the girl that wouldn't allow her roommate to have a romantic social life.

I've had offers to move to other states when other girlfriends were in a position to help me. I never took anyone up on those offers, either. Usually because the state of Florida won't allow me to, but also because I was just plain terrified. What if I finally moved out of my parents' house but couldn't move out of their house? I would be right back where I started, with another host to suck from. Yes, I would feel like a parasite.

So, post-court trial, here I am. In my parents' house, still. The debt is no longer mounting and is gradually being paid down. However, I am no more employable than I was, let's say, three years ago. And this is why I feel I have to do this. This meeting means more to me than just getting back into school. It means more to me than just having something in the world that is all mine, and mine alone (some people have their pilates class, some people have social time in college!). It means making myself useful, making myself needed, making myself...well, myself.

Over the years, and over the past few hours, I have asked myself numerous times if I am actually trying hard enough. The answer? Probably not. Do other women have the same struggles, raising one or more children without the support of their parents? Do other women manage to work full-time and continue their education without the support of their extended family? The answer is yes. However, some women don't have the choice to stay in a safe, comfortable neighborhood until they can afford to move to a different safe, comfortable neighborhood. And I do. I refuse to gather up my measly monthly wages and rent a place with bars on the windows and condoms on the sidewalk. Because I don't have to. Not yet, at least.

But my welcome is wearing thin, on my family, on my daughter, on myself. It's been a great relief to know that I would only have to worry about paying for daycare, food, and legal bills, instead of all three + rent and utilities. Because not only would I be living in an apartment with bars on the windows and condoms on the sidewalk, so would my daughter. And that's just not good enough for her.

Wish me luck.

Ohhhh-bama

2009-03-19T19:30:00.000-07:00

Did Obama really say that?

Wait a minute...where's the ACLU? Why isn't this the top story on the evening news? (Well, I know it isn't the top story here in Jacksonville because the local newscasts always open with somebody having been shot and killed on the Northside. Tonight's count: only 1, so far!) If I was joking that I'd only bowled a score of 129, I wouldn't compare it to the Special Olympics. I would flat out admit that it's because I'm not as good as I thought I was.

Face it, Barack. That was one jacked-up comment.

And here's something else that's pretty jacked-up: How you plan to take care of the men and women who are taking care of you. You know those security police officers who stand at the foot of the steps of Air Force One? They are there to take a bullet for you. You know those 18-year-old kids you promised the world to and then shipped them off to get their legs blown up and amputated? They are there to take a bullet for you. You remember those men and women who came back from Vietnam when you were a wee young lad living in another country, only to be spat upon by an ungrateful nation? Tens of thousands didn't come home to get spat upon because they died taking a bullet for you. And now you want to take away their healthcare, too?

Hmmm, I got off on a tangent, but now that I think about it, the soldiers returning home with untreated traumatic brain injuries and PTSD could possibly lead to an increase in numbers for the Special Olympics army.

So, President Obama, I suggest you keep your lame jokes about the Special Olympics to yourself. As you are probably aware, we are fighting a bloody war on terrorism in Afghanistan. This is a country that, as a whole, feels the hopelessness of its daily existence by constantly being interrupted with explosions and pesky reports of mass death. The Special Olympics organization has been doing some wonderful work with disabled persons in Afghanistan. Most of the Middle East already thinks America is a country full of warmongering assholes. The Special Olympics has, at least in some way, helped reshape their thinking, especially in the country of Afghanistan, by converting their awful bowling scores into super-awesome-hero powers to be used for the good of mankind, instead of making fun of people who can't bowl.

Basically, you work for us, Mr. President. If you were just some guy who worked at the local hardware store and made a stupid comment like that, you would have very easily been fired. And if you really want to get into the business of taking away VA benefits, I think we should all sit down and talk about how great the healthcare system is for our elected officials. Sacrifices, sacrifices. Isn't that right?

But first, you should know that here's this guy named Myles Barman who bowled a 14-game average of 132. So, no...your bowling skills are not comparable to the Special Olympics. There's at least one guy from Plano, Texas, who is better than you. Just this week, he met with his state's Representatives in the hopes of securing Congressional funds for the organization.

I think an apology is in order. As well as a major push for some serious funding.

UPDATE: Thank you, Fox News. I knew I could count on you, seeing as it is now the morning after I added this blog post and Obama's bowling score is front page news on foxnews.com. Thank you.

Happy 80th Birthday, Mrs. Doe

2009-03-17T19:02:00.000-07:00

Dear Dennis Norman,

Congratulations on a great season for the Jaguars! I think we're all set for an even greater season this fall.

I'm writing you because March 31st is my mother's 80th birthday. She and us have been solid Jaguars fans ever since we moved here in 1997. It would mean the world to my mother if you sent her a birthday card, even if it's late, that would make her day!!!

Her information is:

Mrs. Jane Doe
10 Main Street
Lake Charles, LA 70605

Thanks so much for considering my request!

Sincerely,

Mrs. Doe's daughter
(904) 555-5555

Okay. So my dad's a rock star...of sorts. We get phone calls every so often, people (usually giggly girls) asking if they can speak with NFL Dennis Norman, and groaning in defeated disappointment when they find out my dad isn't the Dennis Norman. He's just my dad. A middle-aged white dude with a normal job, the White Guy Dennis Norman. Not the bohemoth NFL player who likely spends his days crushing bones and cracking skulls. And getting paid phat money to do that.

Nope. Not my dad.

The above letter is the most recent contact my father has made with one of his "fans". Mrs. Doe's daughter wrote that letter with so much hope, an expectation that maybe, just maybe, NFL Dennis Norman would take the time out of his day to send Mrs. Doe a birthday card. Well, my father, White Guy Dennis Norman, actually called Mrs. Doe's daughter to break the news to her. They both had a good laugh and he offered to send her mother a birthday card anyway. He's had a lot of practice at this, what with all the phone calls and all.

Last Christmas, even, we received a package from UPS for Dennis Norman. Our dad, or so we thought. Until we opened the box and found a stash of baby clothes and bottles, nipples and pacifiers. And a cute teething toy. Hey, White Guy Dennis Norman...got something you wanna tell us? This was the first big thing that ever made its way into our lives (beside the phone calls) and we were so trying to take advantage of it once we figured out the package was actually for NFL Dennis Norman. We googled the sender's name and found their phone number. After a few calls, we discovered that NFL Dennis Norman's Auntie had sent some gifts for his new baby. We asked Auntie to have NFL Dennis Norman call White Guy Dennis Norman and arrange for a pickup at our house.

And just like those freaky fans who look up celebrity athletes' phone numbers in the phone book, my whole family waited on our figurative tippy-toes hoping to catch a glimpse of the NFL Dennis Norman (and maybe even the NFL Baby!) when he decided to make a house call and pick up his baby's package from Auntie (that would be such an awesome PR move, dude). A few days later, the doorbell rang!!!

It was UPS. They wanted their package back.

So here's to you, Mrs. Doe! Happy 80th Birthday!!

Karate People

2009-03-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

Having spent seven years of my life in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., I'd seen plenty of seedy characters, and I'm not talking about the District's elite (though I did once meet Vice President Quayle).

Homeless people in the District are a gentle breed. At least the ones with whom I've had any contact. I don't remember having ever been verbally attacked or particularly weirded out by any one of them. Even if they followed you around for a block or two begging for money, you could be certain that few of them would continue to follow you for too long. My favorite was the one who followed my family and I to the Capitol Building and then proceeded to piss on it. His own personal protest, perhaps.

So you can imagine my surprise when I had my first ever Crazy Bum experience in Gainesville, Florida, of all places. Known as a peaceful, laid back town hopped up on way too much Gator football (and populated with many stupid, drunken college students), Gainesville is actually a safe and family-friendly area with little violent crime to speak of. And this is why I had no problem waiting in the car, which was parked behind a bike shop, for my mother to finish up inside.

This would be a good time to explain the car. I was test-driving it and ready to buy it, having just left the bank and pulled $2,000 from my account. That means I had $2,000 on my person. In cash. The Crazy Bum musta smelled it when the wind shifted.

As I was totally unfamiliar with the car and all it's buttons and flashy thingies, I did manage to leave the window down before I gave my mother the keys (for what reason, I cannot remember). I can still smell the air. It was a gorgeous day and sunny, and being parked behind the bike shop took all the noise of University Avenue's traffic away from me. And like a dumbass, with $2,000 in cash in my pocket, I closed my eyes to rest.

Crazy Bum showed up not too long after and demanded I give him a quarter.
"Sorry, I don't have a quarter."
"Bitch, gimme a quarter."

(Mommy??)

I never give bums money, but this back-and-forth went on for maybe a minute and I considered giving him a quarter just to shut him up. Plus he was freakin' me out. I desperately wished that I had parked in front of the bike shop, where all of University Avenue's traffic could see me getting accosted by Crazy Bum. Yeah, I was getting nervous, especially because I had no way of giving him a quarter without digging through my phat pockets full of two grand.

"Now I want a fucking dollar 'cause you waitin' too damn long to give me a quarter!"

And I decided, right then and there, that I would die before I ever let Crazy Bum know I had $2,000 in cash on me. Plus my mother would show up soon and she would so kick his ass. Especially after she found out he had stuck his arm through the window and grabbed my wrist, all this to pry off my Hello Kitty watch. Oh, that's it, Crazy Bum!

I vowed to take his ass down.

But I didn't have to. Out of nowhere, the Karate People appeared. There was only one, at first. He was a good distance away and I couldn't see his face, but I knew he was watching Crazy Bum come after me. Then he went back inside. A few seconds later, there was an entire class of Karate People. They all stood watching, quietly threatening Crazy Bum with their body language and possibly saving me from bodily harm or the embarrassment of peeing all over myself in absolute fear. Crazy Bum took the hint, muttered some obscenity to me, spit off to the side of the car, and walked away. The Karate People went back inside and called Ralph Macchio, just to brag. I'm certain of this.

As soon as Crazy Bum was no longer around, I ran into the bike shop like a little girl crying for her mommy. Because I was crying for my mommy. Through controlled tears, I explained to my mother what had just happened and in great detail, too, down to the smudge on the window left by Crazy Bum's oily arm.

An hour later, I bought the car.

I had totally forgotten about my story until I read this story from the Milwaukee area. Milwaukee is another city that I hold near and dear to my heart and I'm happy to see the Karate People have expanded their crimefighting services into other parts of the country.

I'm not in the business of business

2009-03-13T20:23:00.001-07:00

Education is key, I believe. My high school records don't necessarily reflect that, but I'm older and wiser now (and a mother) so that makes me an expert.

I'm not a politician nor am I someone who pretends to understand the politics of business. And let's face it, the public school system is a business. Parents provide the children, the state promises a standard comprehension and level of knowledge as a result, the end result is disappointing and this results in even more results. Such a mudslinging, finger-pointing, name-calling, cursing the Florida Lottery, gangs and violence, underpaid teachers and School Resource Officers, and finally, a lack of parent involvement.

So, how's about reading this and wondering exactly...why couldn't the public school system receive a bailout? Because throwing together a group of hormonal, angsty teenagers into a massive new world called "The Bigger High School" while packing heat in their pants is such a terrific idea.

The 17,000-student district also is looking into increasing class sizes, shortening the school year and laying off nearly 10 percent of its 900 teachers.
China and India: Watch out for the smart Americans! I'm just sayin'...

A PigBearDragonfly!

2009-03-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

First, I have to brag about my daughter. She's awesome. Why is she awesome? Well, 'cause she is. And because last year she not only won the first annual Peterbrooke Chocolatier Easter coloring contest for our neighborhood shop, but she also won the top prize in the region! That includes the City of Jacksonville, the rest of Duval County, and all of Nassau County. Elle was all of six plucky and creative years old.

She's finally taking her artwork public and entered a contest by submitting her own version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar to the Florida Times-Union newspaper. At last she has decided to allow a picture of her own design to leave the house, not to be hung on the walls of her dentist's office or to grace the refrigerators of my friends and family. This time, she's fo' real, yo.

And now a story. Meet PigBearDragonfly:
(I'm just copying it, word or word)

This is a PigBearDragonfly.
It eats deer and flys.
It lives in the wild.
It can kill 100,000 of people.
It can live for 4100 years.
It can die in the cold.
They are reptiles.
It drinks blood.
It is spicky.
It is dangerouse so be carful.
Its a girl.
They have ugly babys.
They are like vampires.
They are nockturnle.

My initiative must be stopped!!

2009-03-11T17:37:00.000-07:00

There are two kinds of people in this world: me and everyone else. And I don't say this to isolate myself in a bubble of superiority. Quite the opposite. I say this because I am me. Everyone else is not me. See, two kinds.

I have always been one of those employees who received excellent reviews and merit raises, one of the few who could be called upon in a moment of crisis, someone who could rig a hair weave out of some puppy chow and a straw. Because, while I'm not the most out-of-the-box thinker, I am a thinker, nonetheless. My creativity and ability to think for myself has usually been appreciated, if not celebrated. We can always go back to my days in the No-Tell Motel business to relive the excitement of the entire staff when I nabbed a huge contract to bring to town the Wings Over Williston Air Show. Because I was given the liberty to work around certain restrictions, I negotiated a hell of a deal that brought my hotel's revenue up in just one weekend by tens of thousands of dollars.

And then for some reason, I decided to try something new. I didn't want to be 40 years old (one day, many years from now!) wishing I had made an attempt at some other career. I was fortunate enough to work in a bookstore and a college library, all the while working on my degree. Over the past few years, I learned the best way to obtain a college education was to work for a college. Having been denied financial aid a few times, I applied for a job as a secretary at a local university and was hired with the promise of state benefits and paid tuition. Hallelujah, my prayers were answered. Or so I thought.

And that's where the problems began. My thoughts. If I have a thought, this means I am thinking. Apparently, in my office, thinking is highly overrated and strongly discouraged. If you are thinking about something, it means that you could possibly come up with a better solution than someone else. That someone else's feelings will be hurt and their ego will feel displaced.

In my office, I don't know how many people are allowed to think. I only know that I am not one of them. There was actually a closed-door meeting today (the second such meeting in three months with the first being conducted completely in the open and proof that professionalism is not my department's specialty) involving my two directors and myself, chockfull of assumptions, inflated egos, and plenty of yelling. The topic of discussion was my "initiative". Or rather their appreciation, as unwelcome as it may be, of my initiative and how it must be stopped in its tracks!!!! Why? I'm guessing because I learned something my director was not aware of and did what I thought was the right thing by informing her of this information.

Nope. Bad idea. And this was one of those moments that left me wondering...Is this job really worth it? The unprovoked verbal attacks, the obvious confusion that affects most who are involved in a single project because nobody seems to know the answers (and, quite possibly, aren't comfortable trying to obtain the answers!), and the constantly being thrown under the bus. Which, by the way, I've been run over by at least four times, usually by the same driver. Oh yes, I'm counting.

Unfortunately, this leaves me in a not-so-sweet position. I've tried to comfort myself over the past few months with thoughts of others' misfortunes, such as joblessness and subsequent home foreclosure and homelessness, and how millions of Americans are willing to do any job and are proving so by standing in line for hours at the local job fair. And I'll admit it - I'm slightly jealous. I am lucky enough to not have to pay a monthly rent and my credit score is spectacular so if I really needed to, I'm sure I could get a loan. My tax refund is usually a few thousand dollars so, again, cha-ching - yippy yay for me. Oh, what I wouldn't give to have my job cut due to budget restraints.

(I've actually prayed over this. My mother, who was very recently baptized, promised to pray for me, also. Which is a great idea since she now has a closer bond to the man or woman upstairs.)

The economy sucks, this I know. How could one not know? Ironic how I now have to use every ounce of creativity in my being to just get through each day in a place that does not, will not, allow me to think. It's kind of like getting your soul sucked out of you, seriously, but you're not allowed to stop it. At least, you don't want to be caught trying to stop it because that would mean you're swimming in the opposite direction of the team.

I miss my old self, the self that could make co-workers survive the same kind of verbal beating I received today. That self is gone. This worries me.

Hello, apathy.

the ultimate road trip accessory

2009-03-07T19:15:00.000-08:00

You gotta admit - it's cute! And while the idea of "camping" probably doesn't conjure up visions of little teardrop trailers (such as the one pictured above), it is still a lifestyle within a lifestyle. I, for one, love this little teardrop. I also love the $583,000 monster of a RV that came equipped with...get this...a doorbell! The only problem with an RV that large is that I'm constantly reminded of:

a) what it's like to have all kinds of ridiculous dollars to waste (yes, waste!) on this monstrosity, complete with marble countertops, three big-screen TVs, and a second floor.
b) Bret Michaels and those nasty girls he hangs out with on a tour bus almost like this very one.

Eeew.

So Dad and I took my daughter to the RV Show here in downtown Jacksonville. It's a fun thing my dad and I do every year (and probably the only thing we do together at all). In the parkng lot of Jacksonville Municipal Stadium, we think of all kinds of ways he can quit his job, sell the house, and convince my mother that it was a great idea for my father to quit his job and sell the house. Oh, he'd also have to trade in his Honda CRV since it can't tow anything over 1,500 pounds. And that's too bad because that means he'd have to buy a new truck to tow the new camper and that would totally make my mother go apeshit and she'd never buy the whole "it's a great idea!" idea.

So we dream.

I grew up camping in tents and scaling my own fish if I wanted to eat that night. My childhood is full of memories of the orange/brown tent, the pop-up camper, and finally, the RV. It was small, but it got my family from Upper Michigan to South Florida. Our neighbors would all go camping with us so I usually had a playmate to go swimming with. My mother would cook pasties and parmesan fish over the campfire and the grownups would help us catch fireflies in old Mason jars. Then after dinner, our parents would send us into the woods to collect sticks for roasting marshmallows so we could make s'mores. My daughter knows how to make s'mores - in the microwave (I know I should at least teach her how to roast marshmallows over a Yankee candle flame).

Elle was getting caught up in the fun of it all, too. She declared herself the "bed-tester" and would let us know how the sleep comfort rated for every RV or pop-up we visited. Even those campers that came equipped with a Sleep Number mattress had to be tested. Eventually we made our way into the big ones, the monstrosities, the RVs that were the size of Bret Michaels' Rock of Love tour bus. Elle declared herself the "drivers-seat-tester".

Don't fear, America. She is at least nine years from obtaining her driver's license.