the best spent $20 ever...

I know the hazards of feeding an addiction, but Lord Almighty, I deserve these.

Details will be forthcoming as soon as I can muster the concentration to describe the cataclysm that has been my life. Hurricane Ike's got nothin' on me.

Stay tuned...

viewer discretion

Okay I'm taking a major risk by even mentioning this, but as a parent, I am compelled to share a little landmark occasion in the life and consciousness of my first born.

I'm certain 99% of you will storm my house, torches ablaze, but sometimes I let my kids stay up and watch a little grown-up prime time tv with me. Our favorite shows in syndication are Will & Grace and Frasier, the latter being the drier and more cerebral of the two. I have very specific reasons for allowing my kids to view these programs, and I always love to hear them chuckling over the subtleties and soaking in whatever cultural/social diversity they can.

We have this rule in our house, though I LOATHE television in the daytime, as well as most other times, especially Disney Channel propaganda bullshit, but we have this rule that if for some reason I oversleep, my kids can watch tv until I wake up. This rarely happens, as I am a serious early bird. But this morning, as well as a couple weeks ago, I did oversleep, and Quinn was watching the tube. As I fumbled around for my coffee, I noticed he was watching Frasier, as opposed to the various "children's" channels. This morning, in fact, he was suffering through ten minutes of the Golden Girls just waiting for Frasier to start. Strike me down, but it warmed my heart. I still hate tv, but it signifies that his sensibilities are becoming more sophisticated, and frankly, I think the "kid" channels are more damaging for them than anything aimed at adults. The way in which these children speak to adults, and to each other, as well as their obsession with drama, fashion, and status, makes me want to bomb the networks, whereas the well-scripted, adult debauchery seems better suited to its cast(s), and of course, its audience.

It's not so much that I'm proud of my son watching adult programming, it's that his preference is showing some refinement, and exquisite taste I might add. I know most of you will disagree with me on principle, and I can take it, mostly because there's a Frasier marathon on...

surreality tv

I read a statistic that said something like 35% of battered women return to their abusers. Well, I've done nothing to put a dent in this figure. After six months of freedom, I made my way back. First I began seeing my ex at the gym, and would try not to make eye contact, but invariably, I'd end up engaged in some witty thing that was said, and before I knew, I was seeking out interaction. Ultimately, Wednesday morning, we made a full reconciliation. Now, I don't expect you to understand, and I know it will nauseate most of you to learn that we are quite happy, and that things will be different this time. For those of who have not met my companion, who's really a home body, here's a picture:

Come on, tell me you can't see the allure:


Six months ago, when I was on the verge of setting fire to the production lots of the Disney Channel and Nickelodeon, I knew it was time for a clean break. So we disconnected our cable, and I immediately felt myself ascend to a higher rank of parent. After initial protests about the cruel inhumanity of it, which lasted like a day, my kids adjusted fine, and the quiet in the house was orgasmic. No more 12 year old bitches like, totally dissing their families, and like, no more of that flippy wanna-be surfer shag haircut that all the boys are wearing. Unfortunately Quinn got caught in the snares of that one, and we tried letting him grow his hair out, but ultimately, I was starting to love him less so we cut it. Anyway, no TV was working really well. My mom was recording my beloved Jon & Kate Plus 8, and Lost, and we were getting serious mileage out of our Netflix membership (watching, what else? Lost reruns!)

But then the election crept up on us, and I quickly came to realize that the internet wasn't really cutting it. I like to be saturated in coverage. Every sound bite, every speech, every pundit weighing in, and all the crawls along the bottom, letting us know how many bombs went off in Jerusalem that day. While CNN was a great motivator to get to the gym, one can never count on getting a TV to his/herself, and I was frequently stuck watching Law & Order and/or fucking golf. So the seed of getting reconnected was planted.

I suspected that convincing Todd would be of greater difficulty than climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, so I chipped away slowly, patiently. Finally, with Oregon's primary looming large, I blurted out one day, "I have to have the TV back. I just have to." To which he replied, "Hey, if we can come up with a way to keep the kids from Disney and Ickalodeon, go for it."

Sweet sweet success.

Wednesday was the magic reunion. I instantly fantasized about wrapping up in my magic blanket and watching TV for a week, but immediately realized there was nothing on worth watching, just like there wasn't six months ago. The commercials are so fast they're like an assault. Animal Planet had the same anaconda as it did last October. And the "kid" shows, well, they're the perfect primer for a future on Jerry Springer. The guy eating snakes and sparrows and giant lice was fascinating until I vomited in my mouth, but all in all, TV is only worth it in election years, and, some would argue, Olympics years.

We did encounter one program, following the palate-of-steel idiot, called Nanny 911, akin to Super Nanny, which I love. We watched three children, er, spawns of satan, biting, kicking, scratching their parents, each other, while screaming, "I hate my mommy and wish she was dead!" The wispy, pansy-assed feather-haired, soft-spoken, chi-seeking, mealy-mouthed, LOSER of a husband would just go for a bike ride whenever the climate in the house started rising, which was every ten minutes. Needless to say, he was in great shape. But the poor, ineffectual mom got no breaks. These freaks were of the mindset that they were there to allow their children to be who they are, to find their own light, their own mystic purpose. Or some bullshit like that. I'm telling you, the only light in these kids' future was the explosions they were certain to cause someday soon. As the scenes played out, and the tension rose to a crescendo, to illustrate just how badly this family needed Nanny Stella, Quinn buried his face in my chest, tears streaming down his reddened face. "What happened honey?" "I HATE THOSE KIDS MOM! I HATE THEM!" Todd and I shot each other a glance and instantly realized we had no cause to complain about our kids every again. Seriously. These kids were murderers in the making, making all of our kids honorary angels.

I'm very wary of the TV becoming our default activity, so I'm kind of a Nazi about it. When it is on, I am really unaccustomed to the noise of it. It seems absurd. A complete and total waste of our time. Except to watch my boyfriend, Barack Obama. He's literally the reason we're shelling out 55 clams a month for this mind-numbing bullshit. And he's worth every penny. But we're making some real changes too. We're locking all the kids' channels, restricting their use to one (combined) hour a day, and of course, my most rigid rule: no TV in the daytime, unless you have vomited.

So judge me if you must for going back. I expect a certain amount of scorn. "What about the kids?" you'll ask. "Won't you be breaking it off again in six months?" Maybe, but in six months I will be so elated about President-Elect Obama that I'll be too busy singing in the streets to watch Nanny 911.

(PS--Brandy is considering turning her TV too, so nanny nanny nanny.)

twisted

Let there be no ambiguity here, I hate streamers. Hate them. I hate taping their unsightly tattered edges to various moldings around the house, I hate trying to perfect the aesthetic of beautifully, seemingly effortless twists, and I hate the way they taste, since I am so retarded as to still taste them every time, in hopes that the battery acid flavor has suddenly been replaced by strawberry shortcake.

Thanks to the loving dedication of my own mother, there is a certain birthday ritual that I've carried out for each of my children's combined 17 birthdays. Sometimes we have a party and sometimes we don't, but they always wake up to a house full of balloons, a few wrapped gifts, and goddamned streamers. Not just one or two strands mind you, but sometimes as many as six, all coordinated with the wrapping paper and balloons.

Also in the "poor me" category, my kids are nightowls like their mama, so I must outlast them every year in order to decorate. This makes me resent streamers even more. Poor Reilly could not fall asleep last night, and was even crying because she just couldn't get sleepy. So I, along with my elf, Quinn, had to creep around, trying not to crinkle packages or rub balloons, knowing Rei was trying so hard not to hear anything.

At last we got everything wrapped, twisted, taped, and brought the balloons in to fill the living room (my favorite part). I'm happy to report that Reilly was really impressed by the presentation, and adored the wrapping paper, the pattern of which I found equal parts super-cute and pimento loaf.
I have only just granted myself (and Sam) permission not to kill ourselves having parties every year, but I think it will take some serious reconditioning to skip the streamers. They're just so gratifying. So glorious. No true party is complete without them. I'd just rather eat them than hang them.

seriously

BEEFore and after

As most of you know, B and I have resumed our hard-core starvation and exercise regimen, in hopes of ... LOSING WEIGHT YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!

Sorry, I'm a little tense.

As I've said before, me no cook, so I am wholly reliant upon the culinary talents/generosity of others, and dining out. Now, I'm a confessed take-out whore, but sometimes, a person has a craving rise up from within for a home-cooked meal. Last night happened to be a free-for-all at my house, which typically means I eat my weight in pasta, followed by a romp in the treat cupboard. Oh how the winds of change have swept through my life, my friends. B and I were at the gym, busting our asses, and all the while I knew I was going home to nothing but Lindt chocolate (which I don't even like, which is why I usually only eat fifteen or so squares) and toast. Neither of which I can have. B, on the other hand, had a beef roast cooking at her house, and I could smell it all through my work out. When she dropped me off, I got tears in my eyes knowing she was going to feast on two succulent ounces of roast, while I was hoping to ignore the cat calls of the ravioli, and the parmesan cheese making eyes at me. At one point I was going to drive to B's and demand some roast, which would have been absurd since I had already been invited. But I couldn't justify the gas. (It's $4.00/gallon, thank you Mr. President. I'm glad I was denied beef, and had to eat flax cereal, so that you could keep lining those neo-con pockets.) I suffered through the night without so much as an Omega-3 Fruit Fish to console me. These are vitamins you see. They are no more special than any others, but when one is significantly restricted in what s/he is able to eat, these Fruity Fish may as well be creme brulee. (Yes Adam, I know you know how to apply the accents.) Last night B challenged me to only eat three fish a day, which is roughly 3/100ths what I was eating. The point is, I suffered all night, and today came my sweet reward. After running some errands downtown, Quinn and I stopped by B's Cafe and she brought me some roast and carrots. I took one bite and screeched out of the driveway so I could get home and heat it up, running down an old lady on the way I think. This picture is multi-faceted. It shows how blessed I was to be spared flax cereal for lunch. It shows B's skill as well as her giving nature. It shows that I stopped at Starbucks for an iced tea. It shows that I really do use the ugly goose-in-a-bonnet dishes I swore I never used in a previous post. And, it shows that ketchup should never, ever, be photographed.


Thanks B. Tres magnifique.

do yourself a favor...

...and eat an entire paddle of this chocolate before you die:


Todd, life-long health nut who treats himself to a stalk of wheatgrass for dessert, and is an infuriating size small, has a fascinating weakness for the candy at Grocery Outlet. He doesn't really buy anything else there, save for obscure frozen entrees that I would never touch (braised gluten clumps with mystery sauce). But he comes homes with BAGS of gourmet chocolate in every variety. Now, being that I don't like chocolate, I am fairly immune to the appeal of these bags, but yesterday I discovered the miracle pictured above. First I nibbled one square, and then I plowed through man, woman, and child to get my hands on the rest. It was a smooth, coconutty heaven, and I ate the entire package. T remarked later that there is actually no chocolate in this product, which might explain its intoxicating effect. Nevertheless, I am here to extol its virtues and demand that everyone try it. Just do me a favor and buy it somewhere other than Grocery Outlet, for I've asked T to go buy them out after work.

i'm into chicks

I've been wondering, amidst the flurry of excitement surrounding my recent engagement to Barack Obama, what on earth I would write about next. What could possibly distract me from our courtship?

You're thinking, tender reflections of motherhood, perhaps?

Think again.

It's these:



That's right. Brach's Chicks and Rabbits. I have been obsessed with these since I was six years old, and my grandmother made sure my Easter basket was bursting with them, as well as their obese, FAS cousins, Peeps, whose blank stare never changes, even as you bite their stomachs off. Creepy. But delicious. Still though, it's the Chicks and Rabbits that transport me straight to my grandma's house 24 years ago, where I would find a corner, and hork out until my hippie mama came to offer something sensible like sprouts or the dreaded falafel. I couldn't tell you why this queer confection has won my heart over such obvious contenders as Lindt chocolate and Reese's peanut butter eggs. After all, they're just a shriveled old circus peanut dressed up for Easter. But I love them. I do.

Most of you know that yadda yadd yadda, we don't celebrate Easter with the kids. This isn't particularly difficult for any of us. That is, until I find myself unexpectedly roaming the candy aisle like a lioness, waiting to devour the weakest specimen. Believe it or not, I always hold strong, resisting jelly beans, chocolate carrots, even Peeps. But then I spot the Chicks and Rabbits. They're always in the ghetto of the aisle, far away from Reese's, Lindt, Hershey's, and Cadbury, and there are seldom more than five bags, because I am, apparently, the only wretch alive who wants to eat them. Every year I weave some bullshit story in my mind about how it is an homage to my grandma to consume them, and every goddamned year I get so sick on them that I pray, with my head in the toilet, to join her in the afterlife. I should mention I have always had really bad luck with Easter candy. I have eaten crates of Peeps until I threw them up out of my nose, and become so sick thinking that the inside of a Cadbury creme egg was like mucus, it makes me gag to this day. But somehow I will always find it in my heart to give the Chicks and Rabbits another chance. I'm nothing if not a good glutton.

Cut to tonight. I spent some time fondling the 50% off candy at Fred Meyer today, texting B furiously, begging for justification to buy a bag. No, she lovingly reminded me, we're fat, and trying to do something about it. Have fruit. Obviously that answer sucked really bad. I tried bribery, bringing her down with me, everything, to get her endorsement, but she wasn't budging. I had even inspected the bags to see which had the most yellows, in case she relented, but she ordered me out of the store, and I slumped out, knowing she was right. Then tonight, when she picked me up to go to the gym, what did I behold on the car seat? This:


She and Adam had conspired to bring me some! I squeezed the bag like it was a long lost relative, and decided to eat them after our work out. They were all I could think about during our mile hike, weight training, sauna, and showers, and when we got back in the car I ripped them open like the lioness I am and began mangling their carcasses.

But it didn't stop there. I kept eating them long after they stopped tasting good, which is only ever the first one, until they were a knotted cluster in my mouth. I couldn't get enough saliva going to break the mass down, so I started to choke. B asked if I was okay and I managed to gulp it down the way a python eats a rabbit. When she suggested she take the bag, I snatched it away like Gollum, and immediately ate more. She dropped me off feeling disbelief, pity, and disgust, but I didn't care. I staggered inside, on the brink of a coma, and sat down to answer email. At one point I started to cry because I felt so sick. The next thing I knew, Reilly had spirited away the bag and hid them in recesses unknown. I begged her for them, and she just smiled. Later, when my head is in the toilet, she will bring me a washcloth and remind me that this has happened every year of her life. I will moan some flimsy excuse between heaves, and thank her for being there, like a heroin addict in withdrawal. Then she will tuck me into bed, and heat up my rice bag-thing, and kiss me goodnight. Quinn will kiss me too, and refrain from asking what the fuck is wrong with me, lol.

Then I will drift off, and dream of Barack Obama, serving me Chicks and Rabbits on a silver platter.

(Followed by Michelle Obama kicking my ass. Yeah, I'm a realist.)

emoticons, check!

This morning I was starting a list of things to discuss with my psychiatrist later, and the first thing I jotted down was that I didn't get my labs done. I instinctively put a frowny face next to this, for I am chagrined to have forgotten. The funny part, though, is that I put the frown sideways, the way it appears when one is typing. I think I may need to talk to him about my excessive computer use as well. :)

my purse: take 2

Seriously, I wouldn't usually post a repeat, but the disbelief I feel when itemizing the guts of my purse is so overwhelming I just need other mamas to come forth to either A) exonerate me, or B) corroborate that I have a disease... Please someone, say something.

3 new packs of Wet Ones
bottle of Tylenol
bottle of Excedrin
bottle for overnights
bottle of Xanax (you can't say you're surprised)
same old wallet
same new wallet
a book (not sayin' which, but I hate Middlesex!)
phone
sunglasses
4 pens
2 new packs of gum
bag of 5 new lip balms (yes, all the same flavor)
2 lb. bag of cashews
ridiculously dyke-ish carabiner full o'keys
B's simple and elegant keys
a mutilated but usable Morningstar Farms coupon
6 bobby pins
30-odd business cards
spare buttons to unknown garment
Ziploc baggie of Kleenex (hard day)
3 Netflix envelopes
Strunk & White's Elements of Style (so I can correct everyone's speech!)

What is wrong with me? (Please form orderly single-file line to answer that. Everyone will get his/her turn.)

the final straw

All too often I find myself posting about some debacle or other, so I thought tonight I'd see if my Obsessive-Compulsive jubilation is transferable...

We buy these enormous boxes of fat straws from this wretched Costco-wannabe called Cash & Carry. (My bad luck is such that some reader is the owner, in which case please accept my standard-issue apology for being a hostile careless bitch whose top priority is making people laugh.)

They are the same straws used by Dutch Bros. (Starbucks rules!), and I've come to discover that I cannot drink coffee, tea, smoothies, or anything, without one. Ideally, I like a pink straw, but the color assortment also includes green, orange, and yellow, so it's my own little neurotic lottery each morning. I pretend not to pick a pink one on purpose, and as if that's not bad enough, I am always really surprised and delighted to get pink. (Yes B, I know you're calling Scott.) I've gone the past few days with no straws, and let me just say I have lost all ability to drink without one, and have soiled like eight shirts. It's a retardation.

Believe it or not, we haven't even arrived at the weird part. Today when I went to Cash & Carry to buy more, I saw that they have boxes of all pink ones. Wow! I had no idea. I immediately reached for it, but then I saw my old humble assorted box staring longingly at me as well. Talk about Sophie's Choice right? The all-pink box filled me with joy, but I knew I wouldn't enjoy them as much if I was guaranteed pink. (This just gets weirder and weirder.) I ended up buying both, and when Todd asked why I did that (he's been instructed a thousand times to buy the assortment), I stuttered that I prefer pink, but I also like the chance factor. When he asked which kind I would use first, I explained that I would put a fistful of the assorteds into our cup, and then a fistful of pinks, to, um, increase my odds.

it'sy bit'sy nightmare

As I mentioned, last night B and I had dinner with (K), a college professor who teaches writing locally. We revered and dissected writing and grammar (convention) every which way, over margaritas, in hopes of gleaning useful ideas for teaching our kids at home.

This meeting has inspired me to say two things.:

A) Brandy is officially debuting as "B," which I have always called her, and which she has readily accepted as an alternative to/antidote for, her long-detested Brandy. So please join me in bidding adieu to the moniker that has brought her so much loathing, and let us celebrate the uber-cool B. (I hope I haven't cheapened the hype by not knowing how to use umlauts on a computer. I should have called Adam...)

B) If I were a super hero, I would be Picky Grammar Bitch. (I know I know, I wouldn't be very popular.) I see rampant and flagrant misuse of everything from spelling, to diction, to punctuation, everywhere I look, and I just have to vent a little, lest I resort to cutting. Now, I am, by no means, an expert, but I inarguably care more about this than virtually anyone else within a hundred, er, million mile radius. I am not out to embarrass or scold anyone, I just want to spruce things up a bit, in a helpful way.

Okay, so the most pervasive problem I see is the use or non-use of an apostrophe in the words its and it's. Here's your out.: The confusion lies in the fact that its is one word that is not made possessive by an apostrophe. If one were talking about Bob, and his books, one would say Bob's books. But if one were referencing the library, and its books, there would be no apostrophe, even though it's (it is) possessive. The apostrophe is used as a contraction, not for possession. Does that make sense? Am I a bitch? Wait don't answer. They are both rhetorical.

It's rude and ego-centric of me to post this.
But that doesn't minimize its validity.
It's something I will likely regret.
And its relevance only matters to me.

Feel free to hack apart my writing and show me what a hypocrite I am.

It's only fair.

watch out gail, they're sharp!

In honour of our mutual obsession with Sharpie pens (a rapidly growing trend, I'm afraid), I'm posting a picture of all the Sharpies I can find in my house. Mind you, there are more, in the recesses of my purse, and in my car, various pockets, etc., but I hoped this picture would bring a smile to your face.

Surely it will heighten your sense of delight to know that the fine-tips are kept in a Starbucks mug B got for me a couple years ago. A proud monument indeed.

Enjoy, friend!

perspective

There's a bit of notoriety surrounding the coffees I drink each day, and I wanted to show everyone why. I start out each morning with a tumbler full of joe, that is, when I can't get to Starbucks to settle for their meager portions.

In my heyday (of mania in full-swing), I was drinking two or three of these a day, and was always delighted to have Brandy over because she'd match me gallon-to-gallon, until we were both writhing on the floor with coffee heart attacks.

So here it is, my morning ritual, the jolt that enables me to make beds, start laundry, do dishes, roust sleepy munchkins from their beds, and, when I'm lucky, take a shower and run 665 errands.

You should try it. I'll even make you your first one for free...

eating crow never tasted so good...

Suffice it to say, my grand departure didn't stick. Instead I just hurt people's feelings and made a jerk of myself. Around here we call that "the usual."

But on a brighter note, I was welcomed back (or, in some cases forced back at knife point) into open, loving arms, and I think that's worthy of a celebration. Of sorts.

I have discovered the most decadent treat on earth, and I'm indulging today in honor of A) my return to the grind, and B) the fact that I am 30 years old and can eat whatever I want. Officially I gave up sugar to support B, but she gave me her full blessing on this one.

Introducing the vanilla cupcake from Starbucks. Words can't describe it, other than to say, the frosting is as tall as the cake! I recommend this above all other desserts.

On second thought, they tend to be pretty scarce, so would you mind ordering the coffee cake instead? Thanks.

cuckoo for those castaways!

Listen, if you're not offering your theory as to the sixth survivor, or as to why Sayid is apparently working for Ben, then I'll have to catch you later, because my brain is permanently locked on Lost, in all of its painfully implausible splendor. Nevermind that the women seems to get makeovers everyday, and that the men's facial hair only grows to a rugged stubble, and nevermind the fact that each of the 46 survivors managed to locate a vast wardrobe upon crashing. Let's look past the endless supply of food that was miraculously acquired, and the other resources which appear to be multiplying (most notably: axes, shovels, hammers, and nails). I can even forgive them their romances despite not having brushed their teeth in 100 days, because, I am sickeningly, rip-your-hair-out-in-anticipation, speak-of-nothing-else, in love with each of these ridiculous people. Even bug-eyed Ben, whose death I have been yearning for.

It's likely that I never would have bonded with these supremely unrealistic characters had I not had my appendectomy last year, for it was during my convalescence (once again at) Kinch Manor that Adam happened to rent the series on DVD. Thus we became hooked. I tried to resist, on the grounds that I abhor sci-fi, and did dutifully sleep through the first few episodes, but all it took was one close-up of Sayid and I was down for the count. I'm ready to go toe to toe with anyone who suggests that he is not the finest specimen on the island. Right now. But Jack is a very close second. I'm having a hard time awarding third prize because I'm ashamed to like Sawyer, not because he is a homicidal con man, but because his hair is positively unforgivable. And because I am also swooning over Desmond, with his lovely brogue and habit of calling everyone "brotha." Honorable mention must also go to Charlie, who can never be handsome because he is A) 4'11" and B) forever a hobbit, and Hurley, who won't be crowned king because his hair is a triangle. Jesus. I could go on all night about these fictional folks, and already have.

As long as I'm being honest, I have to confess that I also have a crush on Locke, but he is in a league of his own because I can't decide if he's the savior or the freaking anti-Christ, but his eyes are mesmerizing and he's awfully spry for a man his age. One thing though, when they crashed, he wore those awful peg-legged sheeny-type slacks, and in subsequent episodes he has had several pairs of regular trendy cargos. Hmmm...

This brings me to one of my most frustrating puzzles.: Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a backpack, which I find patently ridiculous. It's as if everyone packed for a plane crash.

Also, how did Claire trim her bangs? With one of the myriad axes?

It just seems like they went from hunkering together under pieces of refuse, to enjoying a shangri-la beach-front getaway.

But who cares?!?!? I'm dying to know if Juliet is good or bad, same with Locke, and the most elusive tidbit of all, who is Ben?

After tonight's episode, I'm wondering if Kate's baby is deformed, I couldn't quite tell, and the thought of the rescued six leaving the 40-something others to rot on the island is gnawing at my brain.

Clearly I'm in some trouble with this show. I fake injuries so I have an excuse to watch the reruns, and our regular lessons have been replaced by continuous pop quizzes about various plot lines, character histories, and essay questions speculating on the future.

You could say that my kids will have PhDs in Lost. I'm not proud of this, in case you were wondering, but it can't be helped. I know of no antidote. Perhaps there's a patch to curb the craving...In my mind, it has a big picture of Sayid on it.

death by dexter

For anyone who has emerged from their cave after I did, and has yet to discover Showtime's critically acclaimed drama Dexter, I am here to laud its genius from the rooftop. Except, I am actually under my bed, shaking uncontrollably, with images from this brilliant show flashing through my mind, and I have no idea when I will be able to come out. You see, embedded into the series' wickedly smart plotline are ghastly crime scenes, which render me almost catatonic for days and days. Each time I watch an episode, and then spend the night rocking in the fetal position, I vow never to watch again. This resolve lasts until daybreak, when I become so preoccupied with the storyline that I find myself back at Blockbuster, shelling out four dollars to scare the (beep) out of myself yet again.

It began innocently enough. Brandy, Adam and I were looking for a new series to watch, as Big Love failed to win us over, and all of our friends were raving about Dexter. We were told, correctly, that he is a blood spatter expert who is also a serial killer. And we were told it was pretty graphic. I'm rather sensitive when it comes to grisly murder scenes, being that I wrestle with a vast array of phobias, but this wasn't always the case. I was heavy into true crime back in the day, devouring every Ann Rule book ever written. I even considered forensics as a career after visiting the Oregon Crime Lab in high school, and being fascinated by the severed hands in plastic bags, and how they linked the perpetrator to his crime. But halfway through my first pregnancy, I became pathologically averse to all things macabre and beyond. I theorize that my maternal instinct kicked in, and tried to insulate my baby from the unconscionable atrocities running rampant in the world. I then had another baby, and became completely unable to stomach any gore (except Al Gore in 2000).

This makes Dexter a dicey little dilemma. The tautness of the story is enthralling, but when I watch it, it's all I can do not to pee my pants. I've lost hours of sleep revisiting his crime scenes and murderous pasttime, only to find myself tingling in anticipation of the next episode. Last night I bravely endured the horror for two solid hours, and then spent the next four trying to find a happy place so I could get some sleep. Making matters worse is the fact that the storyline has just taken a hair-raising twist and I will think of nothing else until I can watch more. On the other hand, the sun is starting to set, and palpitations are starting. The ones borne of my fear of this show. I'm so afraid I'm going to pick up the next disc tonight, binding myself to another four-episode minimum commitment. My co-viewers aren't fazed by the barrage of severed parts, nor by the copious amounts of blood, so I suspect I will just have to be big and soldier on. So please don't judge if you see me sucking my thumb, or dragging a blanky around. And whatever you do, don't spoil the ending!

to bean or not to bean

There is no way to euphamize this, I am a Starbucks devotee. If I had the time, I might flit through airports in a green robe banging a tambourine to spread the good news. (I can borrow this description because my dearest auntie is a hare krishna devotee, and she wouldn't mind.) The moment I toss my beautifully-labeled cup into the garbage, I become envious of anyone who has one, even if I am no longer in the mood for coffee, to the extend that I have almost entertained the thought of carrying my empty cup, like Linus with his blanket. Almost. But come one. Who does that?

As a measure of my addiction to their coffee, which I concede isn't even the best I've ever had, I will confess that I own a very nice Krups espresso maker, as well as a regular coffee maker, and every morning, I pretend not to see them, the way a senior in high school pretends not to notice passing freshmen, and I begin to plot a way to get a Starbucks coffee instead. My greatest obstacle is that, while I only live a mile from the nearest drive-thru, I refuse to leave my seven and nine year olds alone while I make the run, whether they are sleeping or awake. The law says that because Quinn is nine, I can leave him in charge of his sibling for up to an hour, a fact of which he is keenly aware and desperate to try. But I am just not ready. We live in town, northeast to be exact, and my mind can't help but conjure up all sorts of hazards that might arise in that fifteen minutes. But, my kids sleep in quite a bit longer than I, so if I let them sleep, I am forced to wait an eternity to get my fix. So I crash around in the mornings biding my time until they wake up. My friends think I am absurd and ought to make the run while they're asleep, but I just can't bring myself to do it. Can you see my dilemma?

Fortunately I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough. The kids have been staying up way too late, and now that we've moved them to their new bunk beds, we've also implemented an earlier bed time, and one of the ways I hope to tire them out for this is to WAKE THEM UP EARLY! The sooner they rise, the sooner they fall right? One of the main reasons I homeschool my kids is so they have the option of getting enough sleep, so it seems a little hypocritical to be ripping them from their sheets because I am brainwashed and need my Americano right now. On the other hand, it sure is nice to have them tired at 9:30pm, rather than asking for popcorn at 12:30am... Wow. Perhaps the answer lies in the question. It seems getting up earlier is a win-win-win situation.

Who knew that foaming at the mouth could lead to such clarity?