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...

when the mice are away...

Suffice it to say, we all need breaks from parenthood now and then. And I think I might be scalped if I don't cop to getting more than my fair share of time out, compared to my friends. This is not a rant about needing to get away. This is a strange confession that I am likely to regret. Thankfully, I have a pretty thick callous where shame and regret are concerned. The thing is, I have marginal anxiety about being away from my kids, we all know this. I am hugely fear-driven, and thusly worry endlessly about their safety, plus I just like having my little monsters around. Nevertheless, I do permit them to spend time with others, quite frequently actually, and I do derive pleasure from the chance to do some chillaxin with my grown-up homeys. This is especially true if there is alcohol involved. So I've learned to trust in the kids' security so that I might enjoy my adult time.

The nature of this confessional is that I am almost completely incapable of being in my house without them. So consumed with nerves when faced with having the house to myself, I go to absurd lengths never to be in that position. Sometimes I'll come home from errands and Todd will be loading Quinn and Reilly up in the truck to go bike riding or something, and they'll screech away before I have the chance to ask if maybe I could strap myself to the ski rack. So my eyes well up and I mope my way inside. I swear this time I will revel in the silence, take a hot bath, read, listen to my music, loud, with no guilt. Alas, I pace. I turn on iTunes, and immediately every tear-your-own-throat-out David Gray and/or Tracy Chapman song will play. Even though I put it on shuffle, it only plays songs that test my will to live. You know it's bad when Elton John's Sacrifice affords a little lilt. You're probably thinking one of two things: A) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself, or B) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself; why don't you just leave? I never leave because I always think this will be the time I can appreciate the moment. Typically I crank up some of my suicide prevention playlists, and start cleaning. Yes, when I follow my bliss, as Gabrielle puts it, I always end up holding lemon-scented Lysol. Now, if I truly follow the bliss, I might drink some of it, but that's a whole different post.

So I'm scrubbing away (things that are already clean, B will tell you), and my heart is racing because my kids are gone. The house isn't quiet, it's empty, and deafening. I'm okay laughing at Starbucks with you primo ladies, but stick me in my house with nary a soul and I am liable to freak right out. Invariably, B calls to ask what I'm up to, and I tell her I drew the short straw and wound up alone at home. She pauses (undoubtedly to curse the stupid ungrateful bitch who refuses to appreciate the time alone), and then gives thoughtful, helpful suggestions, such as, "Turn off Tracy Chapman, go to Borders, or come over." I'm usually too immersed in disquietude to understand her, and refuse all reasonable ideas in favor of scrubbing the bathtub, all the while knowing I am one second closer to my kids coming home to me.

Is this weird? I think it is.

Last night Quinn and Rei spent the night at my mom's, and for the first time ever, I awoke to an empty house. No competition for the shower (Quinn), no requests for cartoons (Reilly), no nothing. At first I was really panicked, but it occurred to me I could slip some flip flops on and drive to Starbucks, which I never do because, as you may have noticed, I would ever leave my kids for ten minutes. So I kicked off my solitary confinement with an Americano and a scone. Not too shabby for an unappreciative bitch, right? I proceeded to languish online, not something I'm prone to doing, fold nine (count 'em nine) baskets of laundry, clean the kitchen, post this blog, all the while blasting my music. Shuffle was decidedly kinder to me today. Not that Tracy doesn't hurt. She does.

So that's it. I just wanted to vent this, another oddity in the sea of oddities that is Cheyenne. I'm also curious if anyone else has a problem being home alone? I pose the question, in spite of fearing the onslaught of readers chomping at the bit to put me in my place. But go ahead. My music is too loud for me to hear you.

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.

going coastal

Todd's family has a shabby little bungalow at the beach. And by bungalow I mean rusted out 30-foot trailer held together by duct tape, memories, and scads of useless relics packed into dank corners. As you may have ascertained, this place holds virtually no endearment for me. Except that Todd and the kids love to go there. Ten times a year or so, he rattles off the weather report, at which point I pretty much flat-line, and tries to stir up a "go team go!" attitude about spending the weekend there. Immediately my gears begin whirring in an effort to get me out of it. Obligations? (Generally a series on dvd with B and A) Cramps? Hangnail? I absolutely dread being faced with this proposition. My kids dash into their rooms and pack immediately, and then serenade me with loves songs in hopes that I will drag my misery along. They know I hate it, and they have plenty of fun with just their dad, but you know, it's better when Mom's there. So they slather on the guilt and I dangle in torment until I either assert myself and stay home, or surrender. This past weekend I did the latter because I had skipped the past few trips, and the guilt was eating away my guts.

Suffice it to say, I get very little, well, no, sympathy from friends when I bemoan an impending trip to the beach. I quickly realized it's a bit like grousing about my fillet mignon to the starving man on the street. B offered to smack the scowl off my face, and ordered me to smile and refrain from all swearing and hissing for the entire trip. Talk about tough love.

So we pile in the Jeep, and several of our various familial idiosyncrasies emerge immediately. Reilly got carsick, I forgot my iPod, skipped breakfast, hate the roaring engine of Todd's Jeep, and lament the fact that for him, music while driving is not a given. Then of course, I am further dismayed to discover that our option is a boxed set of Jimi Hendrix. For shame. So roaring engine it was. That is, until Reilly boldly asked Todd to put in her cd, an assortment of music much-maligned by Todd. You know, a little Daft Punk, some Eagle Eye Cherry, Bill Withers, and Shania Twain, for whom Todd has an inexplicable tolerance. In every other capacity, he is the Grinch of music.

We ate at Burgerville, and no sooner did I place my order and B texted to remind me "no soda, no fries...not even one." We're dieting you see, so she was being helpful, but it felt like the kind of help where someone twists the knife once you've jammed it into your heart.

I should mention that in addition to not needing music on a trip, Todd also doesn't speak. Can you see how paradise was unfolding before my eyes? We finally make it to Newport, at which point I will cop to feeling a surge of nostalgia, having grown up there. We hit Starbucks, and I was recognized by the barista from the Obama video, I asked T if we could drive up 101 to see what has changed. He flatly denied my request and we headed south. Destination: rusty lean to. Hoo-fucking-ray!

I must qualify this whole excessive tirade by adding that I have torn the meniscus in my left knee, on top of the arthritis I already have in both knees, and am currently undergoing a battery of testing to determine whether I am candidate for...you guessed it! Another surgery! Anyway, I was in agony, and I should mention the 208 stairs that separate the dungalo from the sand. Just what the doctor ordered. When we first arrived, Todd spent ten minutes trying to get his key to work, worried that his sister may have changed the locks. I fell to my shattered knees and prayed that we'd be forced to go home. (Mother of the Year, I'm telling you.) It might help for you to know that I have a weird form of beach narcolepsy, and the minute my feet hit the sand I fall asleep for two hours. No matter what. Todd and several others theorize that it's because in my real life, the life wherein there is no sand in one's unmentionables, I am always running, always going, always in search of new ways to busy myself. So at the beach, stripped of these diversions, I go into a coma. Anyway, I finally awoke, and gave my Rip Van Winkle beard a good swipe before joining my kids at the shoreline. After frolicking happily, despite the shards of glass that had become my knees, we were ravenous. We favor a particular eatery in Waldport, called Grand Central, and we were all eager to get there. In an effort to win the prize for most qualifications ever in a story, I must interject a bit more back story. My best friend in high school, Zach, still lives at the coast. We had a bitter divorce wherein I abandoned him with no warning. And, he is just petty and malicious enough that he would relish seeing me with sandy wind-swept hair, 100 pounds overweight, with wet jeans rolled up and my mascara running down my face. So I make a point never to venture out unless my clothes are impeccable and my hair is straightened, make-up perfect, etc.


WARNING: Don't read what's next while drinking a beverage. Gail, I'm sorry.

Once at Grand Central, Todd and Rei scurried inside and Quinn waited for me. As I manipulated my knee-like things out of the car, and stood up, I felt a rock hit my head and shatter, like clay. Alarmed, I looked up, only to find a motherfucking seagull swooping past, smirking. That's right, it was not a rock. And it was not a rock running down my head. It was not a rock that I reached up and touched with the very hands I was planning to wrap around a veggie grinder. Quinn was horrified, alternately laughing and crying. Seriously. I ordered him into the restaurant to fetch his dad, who was less than pleased to be pulled out of line for yet another Cheyenne drama. And I was equally jubilant to have to say to him, "Um. A seagull shit on my head." I must confess, that despite wanting to curl up and drown myself in a scalding hot bath full of Ajax, it was satisfying to see him smile. Well, guffaw, actually. Sprinting to the car dodging imaginary birds as though they were torpedoes, we got back in the car so I could go wash my hair before Zach sauntered out from behind from corner all sparklingly, gay-ly clean. We've now reached the 4,085th reason I hate the coast: The microscopic bathtub/shower at the lean to. I swear it was built for a doll house. It is the length of a bread box, the height of a space heater, and as inviting as a fucking cactus. I wasn't about to disrobe and stuff myself into this Houdini chamber, so I bent down on my former knees, and scrubbed my hair until it was nearly gone. I then had to put it up wet, as I'd forgotten my straightener, and resign myself to seeing Zach (though I never did). We sped back to the restaurant and devoured our sublime food, then headed to the store for s'more fixins, snacks for later, and some movies.

Back at the beach, I managed to stay awake, and in spite of my prediction, my knees did not fall out. I read the local paper, watched my kids run, and ate my very first s'more, which I must say was so scrumptious I immediately ate another. I don't like chocolate, nor gooey marshmallow oozing out onto my hand, nor graham cracker crumbs running down my shirt, so I've avoided these absurd things for 30 years. Man was I wrong. The smoky marshmallow flavor, with the thin, cold layer of chocolate snapping in the middle. OMG. I'd have given both knees for a third.

We settled back into the boxcar, watched a movie, and then went to bed. The next day we hit our favorite breakfast place, where I promised B I'd be good, and only ate four bites of French toast, along with my vegetable hash. Onto Starbucks, and then next stop: the outlet mall. With the trip mostly behind us, and the mall around the corner, I was in pretty good spirits, except that we had just learned of the circumstances surrounding the birth Pam had been attending all night. The baby was not doing well at all, and I couldn't shake the gravity of the situation. At the GAP, as I schlepped 75 pounds of clothes around, a text came in saying the parents had opted to let their new baby boy go, and I literally collapsed to the ground sobbing. I didn't know these people, but it really struck a cord. Clothes went flying, people were staring, and I had been under fluorescent lights so long I had lost all concept of time or reason. Not to mention that my knees were the size of watermelons. After a 45-minute debacle at the register, wherein the new girl had been deprived of food for too long to know how to do her job, and with Todd this close to slitting his throat, we left the mall.

The drive home was uneventful, with the one Shania Twain song we could all agree on on continual loop. We pulled into Chez Fitzpatrick, which I hate almost as much as the bungalow (I know I know, I am a wretched, unfathomable ingrate). Got everything unpacked, some laundry going, and met B at the gym for a MUCH-needed swim and soak in the hot tub. As we sat, in our redunkulous matching Fantasia bathing suits, I pleaded with my knees not to ditch me just yet, that I needed them, that I would be more attentive from now on, and say kinder things to them. Suddenly, B pierced the serenity by asking what my worst indulgence was on the trip. A film strip of coffees, s'mores, and various bites of things played in my head. With my head lowered, I confessed that my "bites" of French Toast were the size of footballs.

"Hm." She said. "That's okay. You earned it. I mean, a bird shit on your head."

(I wish I had known she'd be that understanding. I'd have eaten all the French Toast, and the bacon!)

Now can I get a little more understanding next time Todd turns to me and says, "Hey the weather is supposed to be 75 at the coast this weekend?"

couldn't have said it better

I've just guzzled my 99th ounce of espresso today, and as such, I'm very excited to give you way too much back story for the priceless little anecdote at the end.

Mornings at our house are a roll of the dice. Sometimes everyone does just what s/he is supposed to do, and sometimes I have to threaten to burn their toys in a burn barrel to get some cooperation. I myself am the model of misbehavior, so I certainly don't blame my kids when they stray from the perfectly-straight line I've etched into our lives. Today was just fine. We all got showered, dressed, and fed without incident. (Unless you count me calling my 15th low-cal smoothie in a row a "son of a bitch" as an incident...) Long story short, I get my gas money on Friday mornings, so our tank was bone dry today. Thus, we were house-bound, and I think that's when we began to deteriorate. No sooner had my kids exchanged one too many barbs in that shitty Disney Channel tone of voice, and I lost it. I yelled that they were obviously too immature to have their own computer (the object of their duel), and banished them to their beds for 15 minutes. This gave us all plenty of time to calm down, and when they emerged, we had a clean slate, which lasted all day. I was so encouraged by the sudden about-face in our collective mood, I threw myself into a full-fledged mania, and designed an incredibly ingenious (and horrifyingly stupid) plan. I decided we would get into our sputtering jalopy and seeing just how many errands we could accomplish on the atom of gas we had left.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the dismal schematic of my plan, and ended up taking the LONGEST way possible to Mission street to get a blood draw. (Note: Don't ever wear flip flops to a blood lab. You can literally feel the hepatitis crawl up your feet.) Then we took several wrong turns on a street we drive daily, and finally got to Blockbuster to return a movie. Next up was a two mile double-back to Del Taco, where I treated my kids to a much deserved lunch. (And, because I couldn't have any, I upped the ante and called my earlier smoothie a "mother fucker.") The kids were happily unwrapping their tacos, and oblivious to the fact that I would have slit my own jugular to have one, when my sweet Quinny piped up with, "Hey Mama I'm really glad we turned our morning around, and that you're feeling better." To this I responded, "Me too honey. I'm sorry I got so upset. You guys know I take a lot of medications to prevent that from happening, but every now and then it creeps up on me. Again, I'm really sorry."

"Oh that's okay Mama," said Quinn seriously, "I know you have Random Fireworks Syndrome."



When I stopped laughing three hours later, I wondered if maybe "Dynamite Syndrome" wasn't slightly more accurate. After all, fireworks have a certain aesthetic that my outbursts sorely lack.

i crown thee fat

You may have noticed, I am rarely mistaken for Heidi Klum, or any of her uber-glam friends. Despite the euphemisms you've all been so gracious as to extend, the plain and simple and bitter truth is, I am fat. Obese, if you want to be technical. I have only dwelled within the plus-sized realm in the years since Reilly's birth, and I think subconsciously I've been expecting to just shrink back down to my pre-baby size, which was quite thin. To expedite the process, and as a pre-celebration, I've indulged in 500 calorie coffees, and entire boxes of donuts, just knowing my old body was right around the corner, when in fact, my current body reaches around the corner, lol.

B and I lost 30 pounds apiece last spring, just eating with common sense and dancing. (Please, no one conjure up an image of me dancing. I shall be forced to kill us both.) So we know we can do it. We just always cave in situations wherein we are: A) out and about, B) in, C) sad, D) happy, E) deserving. So you can see our dilemma. B has joked, after so many false starts, that "We need a ceremony or something." So this is it. I'm announcing in front of all our friends/enemies/lurkers, that as of now we are 100% committed to dropping some serious weight. No excuses.

In lieu of the gifts lavished upon royalty at a real ceremony such as this, all we ask is that none of you nosh anything sweet/salty/bready/carby/delicious/marginally palatable in our presence. We'll be eating lettuce wrapped in lettuce, and it would really mean a lot to us if you'd do so in solidarity. No seriously, break out the Twinkies if you must. We're going hard-core, and we won't even wince.

(But I might slash your tire...)

yo ho homeschooling

There is always much interest surrounding the various methods of homeschooling practiced by those of us crazy enough to have chosen that path. I have friends who use Sonlight, Abeka, the Charlotte Mason approach, The Well-Trained Mind, and many many others.

The truth is, I can scarcely even say we homeschool with a straight face. So delinquent are we that even the unschoolers are on their way to my house to issue a misspelled demerit. I have a ready supply of disclaimers, depending on the skeptic with whom I am talking, but they're all bullshit. The truth is, I don't particularly relish doing lessons, and I am really lazy about them. We have spurts of shining productivity, and then droughts that resemble the great potato famine. I console myself with various lies, and some cherished truths, like, my kids are learning all kinds of things each day, whether they're doing drills or depositing money into their savings accounts. (They certainly know how to make withdrawals!) They're excellent readers, which is the most important thing to me, and they're right on target (or a little ahead) in math. Those are kind of my fundamentals, and the rest is gravy. I know, I know, I can't wait to polish my Cop-Out of the Year trophy. (Also, mmmm...gravy...)

If pressed to claim one method over the others, I'd have to go with ... the piracy method, I think. For the first two years, Brandy, goddess of all things homeschooling, tailored a curriculum specifically for my kids, and we adhered to that for dear life. That is, on the days we did anything. Her material was mostly aligned with The Well-Trained Mind, as well as her own seasonings mixed in. It suited us beautifully. My kids learned to read quickly, and the math program (Singapore) couldn't be going better. But I've grown complacent.

Hence having resorted to piracy. Since we roam the homeschooling seas with no place to call home, we dabble in a little bit of everything, and lots of nothing. If I find myself in a group of moms chirping about various successes, I make mental notes and see what of their regimen I might steal. When two of my friends happen to be reading The Secret Garden to their kids, I race to Borders to buy it too. When Brandy is tiring of her military-style routine, and wants to become all artsy in her instruction, I declare an indefinite holiday for my kids, and wait to see what the changing tide will bring. Everything intrigues me, and everything overwhelms me, so each day is a roll of the dice. We're still using B's outline as our trusted standard, though it is subject to my vigilantism. Sometimes, our lessons are folding laundry and learning how to bake biscuits, other days find us learning just how many miles we can eke out of $4.55 worth of gas, while other times we do a unit study on all six seasons of Northern Exposure. (It took 6 weeks!) And yes, for the stickler types, my kids know the parts of speech and their times tables. Reilly can count/divide/save/convert money like nobody's business, and Quinn's penmanship and spelling are virtually error-free. (And as a bonus, his hair is short again, which I know is OT but it makes me so happy to report it!)

While our lackluster attitude may seem unschooly to you, I am pretty fiercely opposed to being called an unschooler. We know and love plenty of them, but I am far too controlling, neurotic, and competitive to have a hands-off approach. But we're no beacons for homeschooling either. We're just a roving band of semi-schoolers. Some days kick our asses and some days we're kicking ass, just depends. I usually issue days off for things like rain, sunshine, wind, definitely hail, and those cozy grey days, but we've also been known to stay up until midnight finishing books, correcting math, and preparing displays for the various fairs for which B is constantly signing us up.

(I can just feel all my libra friends grinning and nodding at the dichotomy that is our education process. Except for Gail, who sets her curriculum in a stone tablet and follows it with careful precision, and by the way, was an actual teacher, so we can all feel just a trifle less inferior, lol.)

There is a modicum of guilt and shame that comes with being unaffiliated, as it were. I definitely know what we're not, I just don't know what we are. Some days it's liberating, while others find us searching for any port in the storm, you know? I assume my little buccaneers will embark upon adulthood with at least one or two marketable skills with which to earn enough doubloons, and they'll always have the warm memories of being wanted and home with me everyday. If it doesn't pan out, I guess I'll be walkin' the plank...


Blimey! We all showed up for school wearing the same thing.

got irony?

So, um, I've been wanting to tell you guys this for a couple days, but have been too nervous. No, I'm not having another nervous breakdown, it's more serious than that.

I'm 99% certain I'm changing my vote to Hillary Clinton. Whew. I said it. There was no one thing that changed my mind, and I still think Barack Obama will make a supreme president, just maybe next time around. This is a gut-thing.

I've read some things recently, and have really given thought to what Bill Clinton had to say yesterday at Chemeketa, and I kind of got a pang of nostalgia, and yearned for the familiarity of the Clintons. She's already been president, for the most part, and I feel I know what we're getting into with her. She has been much maligned, but there's something greatly satisfying about a woman president.

Please don't hate me. I would have kept it under wraps but even a skilled liar such as myself would be hard pressed to keep this a secret, especially since I've started phone banking for Hillary. Anyway, I hope we can all still be friends. I hope you know will happily vote for Obama if he wins the nomination.

And I hope you know I wish you all...


...


...


...

...a happy April Fools Day!

BARACK THE VOTE!!!!!

OBAMA '08

noprah

Since I'm already being filleted for my hatred of Once, the muppets, and egregious grammatical errors, I may as well climb out on the nearest limb and really bear my soul.

I hate Oprah Winfrey. No, just let me finish. It's not because she's a pompous, self-important megalomaniac, it's because she interrupts constantly. Pathologically. And she always redirects the conversation to herself. One time she interviewed a woman with terminal cancer, who had just suffered the indignity of shaving her hair, to which Oprah blurted out, before the woman was finished speaking, "I know just how you feel, I got a terrible perm one time and had to cut my hair really short." This pretty well epitomizes my beef with her.

Now, I'm not marching in any anti-Oprah parades or anything, but I'm really firm in my opinion, and the margin for changing my mind is razor-thin. While I do offer half-hearted applause for her Angel Network, and her impact on literacy, I cannot help but think that the underlying, possibly overriding, purpose behind these endeavors was to send her ego soaring to new heights. Okay, I digress.

Getting back to that razor-thin margin, Oprah has recently done two things that have given me pause in my loathing.

First, she endorsed Barack Obama for president.

And second, she launched a new reality television show, The Big Give. To summarize, the show's contestants compete to see who can give away Oprah's (or the network's--whatever) money in the most grandiose and meaningful ways. Back story: When I was very young I told my mom my life's ambition was to save all the kids. I even used to cry seeing stop signs in the rain. I have a deep-seated need to know that everyone is warm, safe, and fed. But I lack the means to make this possible, a fact which has fractured my seemingly black heart. But we'll delve into my overly sentimental side another time. So I have a soft spot for virtually everyone. That is, everyone I don't hate, lol. I knew this show would touch me, and I was right on the money (no pun intended). The challenges have ranged from making the best use of $1,000 in 24 hours, to remodeling an entire inner-city school with only a few thousand dollars on which to build. Once the catty, in-fighting, camera-whore players are done hustling to complete their tasks, we get to see the big reveal. I could never convey in words the power of these moments. I know they are edited to pack a greater punch, and I know that ultimately, it's entertainment, but these are real people whose schools are being rebuilt, whose disabled children are being given the treatment and equipment they so desperately need, and real wounded soldiers, who have been cut off by the VA, whose mortgages are being paid. I don't have television, because everything on TV is shit, but my mom records this and, okay, I'll admit it, Lost and Jon & Kate Plus 8. Yesterday I watched two episodes of The Big Give, and I was sobbing like a child, absolutely racked, a worn-out husk of myself. The emotional cord struck by these people in need being relieved of their financial burdens was almost more than I could bear. I don't care about the motives for the show, or who is getting richer, or whose celebrity status is elevated into outer space. I'm in it for the people. I suspect this comes as a surprise. Underneath this caustic, venomous exterior, is a hopeless old softie who wants to heal the world. So I am forced, in spite of myself, to confess that my hat is off to Oprah.

Now, if only she created a show wherein the teams covered all the stop signs with blankies...

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.)

fist fight, in theaters now

Okay the straws were just a decoy so I could construct this seething, hate-filled post. I am livid. Trembling.

I think a little back story is warranted. Todd and I took Quinn to the movies tonight, and I was really looking forward to some face time with my secret boyfriend, Matthew Fox. His hair was freshly shorn, his clothes crisp, eyes squinty, stubble perfect. The mood was set. Quinn was next to me, happily horking down a shitload of candy that Todd surprisingly A) consented to, and B) snuck into the theater. Anyway, things were great until about half way through the movie when I carefully opened the pocket of my pea coat to check the time on my cell phone. Instantly I felt a hand clenched on my shoulder, and heard a loud, raspy, entitled, "Turn that light off!" so close to my ear I felt the spittle. I was shocked. It harkened back to being scolded in school, and I was too intimidated to turn around and look at the guy. Todd was on the other side of Quinn, so I couldn't ask him for help, and it's just as well, for it's likely he would have quoted me a Scripture about either peace or endurance. I wanted uh, a gun. Several minutes later the guy and the woman I presumed to be his wife, shouted in unison at some other people behind us, "STOP TALKING!" There were also intermittent "shushs." But the worst part, the part where I may have ended up in jail tonight, was that every time Quinn leaned over to whisper something to Todd, and I assure you, this movie theater regular was totally inaudible, the man would KICK OUR SEAT! The movie was nearing the end, and I wasn't sure how just how to confront these shitheads, so I just waited for it to be over. Once it was, I stood and looked into their pathetic, pasty white faces, and the 40 year old man was boring holes right through me. "Fucking thanks for kicking our chair through the entire movie," I said as I imagined ramming his glasses down his throat. Mrs. Shithead hissed that I deserved it because I opened my cell phone (in my pocket!). People were watching at this point, including my nine year old, so the best I could do was to say, loudly, "Nazis are so 1940's." I don't know why I said that, especially since they aren't sophisticated enough to know that that sentence is meant as an uber-cool insult, but I really emphasized Nazi, so that was satisfying.

I decided on our way out to wait for them, filling Todd in on their behavior as we walked. I was shocked that he agreed to a confrontation. He was really not happy that the guy kicked Quinn's seat, but let's face it, I'm a much scarier sight to behold than Todd could ever be, so we agreed that I would accost them. I wanted blood you guys, I'm not kidding. We waited for about twenty minutes, but they never came. They either slipped out another door without me seeing, or they stayed in their for an hour, correctly assessing that any number of people might be waiting to bash their brains in upon their exit. The longer we waited the more obscenities and sweat poured out of me, and Todd ultimately expressed a fear that I might actually decimate someone, and he tugged at me to leave. I can not recall being this angry ever before in my life. I was shaking, my blood was ice, and I felt that I could never resume being human until I had annihilated something. I texted Sam, and she ordered me to breathe, and not kill anyone. Then she pointed out that my blinding rage was only hurting me at this point, and to try to let it go. Slowly, my need to destroy something began to fade, until finally, I was at B's doorstep, trying like hell to jam the wrong key into the door, and in the process of finding the right one, got to slam the screen a lot. I was there to let Tawney out, while they were out of town, and the good old dog was so excited to see me, one of the icicles in my heart started to melt.

I didn't get a good enough look to ever recognize The Shitheads again, and it's probably for the best. I'll just be content with my image of them kicking some other kid's seat, and that parent carrying out what I wish I could have done. And I'll do my best to limit my violence to uncooperative screen doors.

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.

what begins with B?

An excellent speller though I may be, I am a shitty cook. For real. My life is a series of cleverly planned encounters wherein I and my poor children can benefit from someone else's cuisine. That is, when Todd's not home. He is the cook around here. I confess to allowing Quinn and Reilly more mac & cheese than they ought, and I have bent "moderation" beyond recognition where fast food is concerned. I just hate cooking. I can never think of anything, despite having a refrigerator full of wonderful, mostly organic, options.

Enter B. When she's not cooking for my pitiful ass outright, she is helping me see what I have, and how it can all be combined to make delicious meals, albeit simple ones, because I am retarded. (I know I'm not supposed to say retarded, but I mean it in its intended use as opposed to its malicious use.) ANYWAY, she has taught me to make several delightful snacks, and I made one today. I used leftover bell peppers, onions, and zucchini from the other night, and cooked them up in a pan. I then placed them atop a baked potato, and a little cheese. Lemme tell ya, for a mama who's used to eating mac & cheese from a ladle, this is heaven. (And likely the closest I'll ever get.)


Please don't look closely at my plate. Despite its distinct WalMart chic pattern, I do not have geese in my kitchen. As ever, I am sorry if you do, and are offended.

Thanks B. What am I having for dinner?

my purse-nality

When I was a kid, I once saw an episode of Leave it to Beaver wherein The Beave emptied his pockets, and after amassing quite a heap of this and that, he finally pulled out a tennis racket. I knew this was impossible.

Or was it?

Yesterday as I was skulking about Borders, I began to wonder why my purse weighs fifteen pounds, so I decided to go excavating to find out just how many anvils were in there. Mind you, my purse isn't very big, so I was more than a little surprised to discover the following.:

A copy of The Secret Garden--because all the co-op moms are reading it to their kids

A pair of clean underwear. ???

Notes for a blog idea I got while driving

a four-foot ethernet cable, but of course

two wallets--one that I use, and the one I need to move everything into

two pill bottles (I'm crazy, remember?)

an undelivered greeting card, in pristine condition, though it's a moot point

the iPod with the pink arm band

a protein bar with a shopping list stuck to it

Wet Wipes--don't leave home without them

three pens

two kinds of lip balm

two more protein bars

my checkbook

an Always pad factory,

notes from a therapy appointment, stuck to one of the pads

my phone

and the requisite padlock hanging off my purse strap

aerial view:


the whole shebang (note padlock):


Sadly, I put it all right back in.

we're fraternal

We've had lots of fun in the past with celebrity look-alike posts, so I thought I'd offer up mine.

Now, the picture I took with my phone of a National Enquirer cover last month was too distorted to use in the blog, so I was forced to scour the internet for images that will confirm my twindom with Kirstie Alley. Mind you, I only resemble her when she weighs 260+ pounds. When she's thin she is quite beautiful. And I definitely don't fancy myself having her kick-ass hairline. But there is an undeniable similarity when she's heavy.

See for yourself.:


this one captures my ever-present scowl


this could be either of us

i might rather pour honey on my head

Late at night I become susceptible to a sort of ethereal reasoning and say and do things that feel monumentally wise at the time, and then in the morning I want to slit my throat.

Tonight, I'm copping to the fact that I hate the Gilbert House. That's right, I hate it. I know my crunch factor just dropped by ten thousand recycled hemp points, and I don't even care. I know I'm supposed to dress my kids in uncoordinating Hanna Andersson sweat suits until they are fifteen, and encourage them to memorize every exhibit, if not create some of them, and I know I ought to spend every sunny day there. But I just can't. Because I hate it. I'll try to restrict my explanation, as I've already hogged most of cyberspace tonight, but okay, I can't handle not being able to see my kids for thirty minutes at a time. Nor am I fond of them disappearing into some labyrinth of broken necks, into which I could not fit if I tried, and would therefore fail at rescuing them. (If you're wondering if know I'm crazy, I do, and I take a lot of pills, but I can't shake the pervasive safety phobia.)

Fortunately for my kids, we have a lot of friends who guilt me into going, paying little mind to my delicate mental state. The kids instantly enter that cage/maze/chamber, and are not be seen for half an hour, when they emerge asking for hot dogs, another fear of mine. So we go, and they run, which is wonderful, and they visit the exhibits and punch and choke each other in the shadow room, and I try to get a colorful educational vibe rather than a dank desperate vibe. I know one mom who agrees with me, and she had BETTER come forth in unity, for I fear after this gets posted, she may be my only friend left.

I don't want to get too detailed about why I'm uncomfortable there, because 40% of my friends either built it, or run it, or consider it a member of their family, and I'm not aiming to hurt anyone. But it's specifically configured to choke and/or hide your child(ren). I always want to take everyone into the baby room and sit safely amongst the shape sorters, but nine year olds are prohibited, and they get pissed when you try to hold them there. They want to be slopping around in that sticky bubble bullshit, or assembling people's garbage into crafts that must be brought home and cherished forever. I just can't take it. But, I'm a mom, first and foremost, and I shan't deny my kids these liberties just because I'm scaredy cat with ocd. So, if you're not busy setting fire to my house for this act of treason, and you happen to be headed to AC Gilbert's soon, and everyone else on your list turned you down, and you hate me, go ahead and call me. We'll probably come.

blogical

A friend and new blogger recently posted a question to our moms' group about so-called blogging etiquette, how personal to get, etc. And since I have three minutes to kill before rushing to my mom's to watch Lost, I thought I'd give it a vast deal of thought and bore the shit out of all of you with my musings.

First of all, newsflash: discretion is not my strong suit, so most things are going in. I yam what I yam and everything. Obviously I make an effort not to upset the people I care about, though I must confess to using far less caution not to offend the people I don't care about. It goes without saying that private things are private, be they actions or opinions, and I don't reveal these truisms unless I drink .000005 ounces of alcohol, or unless I'm emotional and call Sam, or if it will make someone laugh, or like me better, or be my friend, or get me invited to a party. In short, the real dirt gets dished in person.

But my method isn't as haphazard as it seems. I am fairly calculated about who is reading my blog, and what they see, but I deal in probabilities rather than exactitudes. My mother-in-law, age 79, is probably never going to suddenly stop grooming cats everyday and buy a computer and learn to use it and intuit the name brilliant monster and catch up on years worth of posts, and happen to see that I've maligned the clothes she picks for my kids. Probably.

That said, my high school best friend/current persona non grata is quite likely to have patchworked his way here via B's MySpace blog announcement, and I'm sure he's delighting in what he sees as my fat, ordinary, non-flying-to-Beliz, life. Though sickly, he's jealous of my nervous breakdown because he always wanted to have one, and he'll mask his envy with a slathering of judgement.

OMG, what am I talking about?

Speaking of high school, I am reminded of a time wherein I was really burdened everyday by a friend's chronic bad breath. It was a quality of life thing. I could think of no acceptable way of alerting her to this problem (and frankly, was flabbergasted that she didn't know), so I sat our entire group of friends down and announced that "one of us has bad breath." Appropriately shamed, I promise never to do that in my blog. ("Ahem, ONE of us is always late. Or for that matter, never shows up at all, and doesn't even answer her phone. Or care. Deborah!" Again, she'll never see that.)

Good Christ, am I still writing? Sorry, I got a late energy spurt. (note to self: I hate the word spurt.) The good news is I'm going to throw in the towel on this roving post. The bad news is, I'm going to blog something else.

There Kendra, if I can post this horse shit, you have carte blanche.

don't fence me in

It must be in the air. B is tiring of her homeschooling routine, and I am once again straddling the homeschool/public school fence, and let me tell you, the fence post is, well, right up my arse. (Sorry Gail)

I go through this approximately 85 times a day, but every so often I start to lend serious thought to the notion of sending my kids to school. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that I spend an equal amount of days unschooling as I do teaching, and I am fundamentally NOT an unschooler. I too am bored with our lessons, and I am easily swayed off course by factors such as rainy days, sunny days, and windy days. And the first sign of sniffles entitles us to at least five days off. But there are other reasons too. My kids desire to be around other kids. We have a little co-op, and those nine kids are pretty tight, but (insert reason here), and we don't see them as often as we used to. Also, I think the structure might be good for them. I think my unpredictability renders them somewhat frazzled, and never knowing what to expect. I make up for this with Ambitious Mondays, whereupon I announce that we will be completing 105 pages of math, to compensate for my complete and utter failure.

I assuage my guilt and shame by reassuring myself that my kids are bright, and learning a vast array of things even when we're not slaving away at formal lessons. But come on. Even I know it's a cop-out.

The school my kids would go to if we went that route, is Pratum, a tiny two-room country schoolhouse with two teachers per grade, and three grades per room. So, six teachers in each room. A dear and trusted friend, whose son has attended Pratum since kindergarten, and who is also a teacher there, was just telling Todd how the kids are very close-knit, welcoming of newcomers, not prone to bullying or other loathsome public school behavior, and that she thinks Quinn and Reilly would do very well there if we opted to try it.

The post up the arse is really starting to ache now.

And, in what is both a blessing and a curse, this decision is mine alone. Todd has always entrusted me with the choice of where and how to school the kids. And while I appreciate the privilege, I am drowning in indecision and doubt. B, my most revered and trusted advisor on the subject, says to make a decision and stick with it boldly and with confidence. Sometimes I wonder if she's ever met me. It's very difficult to act with such resolve when everyone in my life, and their grandmothers, are telling me what I ought to do, and all the input is conflicting. Todd's a libra, and even though he doesn't believe in being a libra, his position is at a solid 50/50. My mom, libra. Sam, libra who knows this internal tug-of-war better than anyone. My mother-in-law never fails to espouse the virtues of public school, and wonders when, if ever, I will outgrow this phase she no doubt attributes to my wacky hippie upbringing. My beloved homeschool friends insist that we're doing fine and should stay the course (in the non-President Bush sense). And I remain adrift in the midst of all these opinions, with little hope of relief from this fence post. I just keep weighing every option, every factor, every outcome, every everything, hoping and praying that one scenario will emerge clearly enough to persuade me.

Hmmm...I must have libra rising...

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.

ducks, dares, and dexter, mr. president

I may as well just confess it. I don't feel compelled to spend sunny days outdoors. While my friends are taking the day off work and whisking their kids off to various parks, I am at home, utilizing the extra rays to kick my cleaning into overdrive.

So yesterday, Presidents' Day, was no exception. Todd got off early and swooped home to take the kids to Silver Falls, and I was muy contenta to fold Mt. St. Laundry and watch reruns of Lost. But no. Having heard of my abandonment, those kindly Kinches took pity on me once again and invited me to join their duck-feeding excursion. Even with all the ambiance of the state penitentiary, I had serious misgivings.

You see, I fell for this once before, about five years ago. A friend cajoled me to bring my kids to feed these same disease-riddled fowl, and, long story short, we slogged through five-inch bird shit until my kids' Brazilian-made Nubuck suede shoes were ruined, as were their pants, and I was reduced to a thumb-sucking infant for days. (I have OCD remember?)

So I was hardly clicking my heels to meet B & Co. at what I have come to call Duck Shit Acres. But I didn't have my kids, and I felt I could safely roam the outskirts without spoiling their fun, so I went. No sooner had I pulled in than a dreadful scowl etched itself onto my face. My reward for this immature behavior? Adam used his high-powered camera lens to capture it. I could feel the stench being absorbed by my pores, and my shoes were literally sticking with each step, and I had to peel them off. (Imagine a loud sucking sound.) I did my best not to tarnish their fun, but failed miserably, and we left rather soon.

Back at chez Kinch, I was confronted by Brandy with my promise to let her stick me with her new insulin needles. True to my cowardly form, I grabbed Adam's arm and offered him up first. After a little squirming, he let her do it, which pretty much set me swaying. Then they both turned to me expectantly. The periphery turned black, and I was too dizzy to run. B had that needle screwed in in about .00001 seconds, and began grabbing for my arm. She was serious about getting down to business. My short data file of plausible excuses shuffled through my brain, but alas, I was left with no choice. I'd love to make a big fat deal of how brave I was, but the truth is, the science behind these syringes is phenomenal, and it didn't hurt at all. 0%. This makes me feel so much better for B, but a little sad for myself that I lost out on any kind of courage award.

As if frolicking in seagull shit and getting stabbed with needles wasn't macabre enough, next we rented some Dexter, and settled in for a little homicide at sunset. Maybe on Memorial Day we can swim in the Willamette River and then engage in a little group cutting...