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...

israel: a statehood

As many of you know, all of Todd's friends are named Todd. This is by no means relevant to this post, but it has an anecdotal appeal I couldn't resist, especially since the principal character is the son of one of the Todds. Todd F. to be specific.

We used to hang out with the F's and their six kids all the time. This was especially fun for Quinn, since the youngest four F. kids are boys. But he has always been especially close with Israel. In 2004 I had the grave misfortune of discovering that Mama F. is a Bush voter. A lively debate ensued, wherein I basically left nothing but the bones. Well? I couldn't help it, single-issue voters infuriate me, particularly when the issue is abortion. And how was I to know she was completely ill-equipped to legitimize her position? I haven't seen them since. Todd still takes Quinn over to see Israel, but I haven't laid eyes on an F. child since 2003. Cut to two days ago. The Todds, Quinn and Israel had gone out to do manly things like shoot 22s in the mountains, and Rei and I were at home. I was crashed out in bed, and suddenly Todd was shaking me awake to say that Todd and Israel were here and dinner was almost ready. Wiping the crust from my eyes, I was certain he was mistaken. I have long held a dear place in my heart for the impish F. children, and I couldn't believe I was about to see Israel for the first time since 2003. He the cutest, wittiest, shortest little guy, and has been a great friend to Quinn. I tried really hard not to stare at him across the dinner table, and he averted his eyes with the shy smile of a vague familiarity. After dinner I remembered that I had a picture of the boys from when they were little, and I cajoled them into bashfully posing for another so I could compare. I can't believe the difference, though Israel isn't much bigger than he was, lol.

Time really flies when you tell a tongue-tied Bush supporter where she has gone wrong and then don't see her kids for fifty years. Yes yes, in case you're wondering, I learned my lesson, and I'm thankful my tyranny didn't cost the boys their friendship.

Ain't they sweet?

2003 (Israel 5, Quinn 4):


2008 (Israel 11, Quinn 9):

it's always rush hour

Okay, I'm dog-tired, so don't expect to laugh. Or to be impressed. I just wanted to make sure I'm not embellishing all the things I did today. (I do that sometimes.)

*Awoke at 7-something to make cheese-less enchilada casserole for Marionette

*Did three loads of laundry

*Cleaned the kitchen

*Got kids ready to play at Grandma's so Mama could spread herself too thin, as per usual

*Showered with Reilly, which meant froze with very little water, and spent 79 minutes drying her gorgeous hair and was left with 9 seconds to do my own

*Accidentally put on the skin-tight, NON-forgiving jeans, before heading out the door

*Dropped kids off with Barbara, begged/threatened them regarding eating ice cream for breakfast

*Screeched into my 11:00 psych appointment with one second to spare, during which time I worked in a brilliant self-deprecating remark to the receptionist, punctuating my need for therapy...then, endured the session.

*Stopped at Safeway to buy some goodies to go with Marionette's dish

*Got a call from B as I was turning the wrong way into traffic coming out of Safeway, asking me to go back in and buy some ingredients for our lunch...I granted her request. One avocado, pepper, and diet Dr. Pepper later, I was back on the road

*Found Marionette's house, and got a call from her as I pulled in, asking if I happened to still be in the store, lol. Visited the new family

*Drove to B's and had the BEST lunch of my life. What that woman can do with a few veggies and some chicken would blow your mind

*Had an MRI and managed not to gouge out my jugular out of claustrophobic reflex...saw some ducklings born just outside the waiting room, noted their cuteness, while also noting that I am not typically an animal person. Even took pics.

*Drove back to B's to await dinner plans and squeeze in an episode of Six Feet Under with B and A.

*7:00, picked up Heather.

*10:00, dropped Heather off, was told by B that A would not likely be up for more episodes. Pouted.

*Drove home in time to kiss my kids and mediate a dispute about bunk bed right-of-way involving one nighttime reader and one picky sleeper who needs dark.

*Noticed my house is still spotless from last night, knew that I will wake up in such a great mood tomorrow.

*Left some messages for friends, tried to parlay my ridiculous day into a blog.

Any questions?

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

no laughing matter

I can't sleep, and it's going to cost you. B and I dined with the fabulous Ms. (K) tonight, and followed it up with late coffees with our bitches. By bitches, I mean, the absolute creme de la creme of friends, whose company we relish, yet seldom get to enjoy.

After our initial plan sputtered and flopped around like a popped tire, we nestled in happily at Starbucks, approximately 85 miles away from where we had intended to meet. No matter, we made ourselves right at home doing what we do best, which, in my case, means scraping the very bottom of the etiquette bucket in order to procure as much laughter as possible. Tonight, I kicked the freaking bucket right out the door. I was so loud I was told my voice could be heard in the restrooms, and I spoke in the most unfiltered, deviant manner imaginable. All night long. It's worth mentioning that the Lancaster Starbucks doubles as a Bible study paradise. It's often hard to find a table because so many of these nice kids are there, praising The Lord and whatnot. But even their presence didn't deter my wickedness tonight. Even as I felt these tender young vessels recoiling, I squawked my obscenities, and cackled at my own depravity.

In fairness, one can hardly distinguish this night from any other, based upon my description. What makes tonight different is that I am having an acute case of morning-afters, the likes of which I've never known. As we were leaving, I asked the staff if we had been offensive, and two of them uttered an irrepressible "yes." My mind is replaying this on continuous loop. Normally I adhere to our covenant, "the joke is sacred," and shake off the scorn, or perceived scorn, of those nearby. I must tell you that it is never my intention to pollute my social environment, nor to make anyone ill-at-ease. On the contrary, my chief objective at all times is to make people laugh, and I will seemingly go to any lengths to secure a favorable reaction. But inflicting misery upon our staff and fellow diners is not my only regret tonight. I came home and read all my friends' blogs, and was swift to realize that I scarcely allow these glorious women to shine when we're together, because I'm always so busy trying to out-blaspheme myself, or reenact someone falling down the stairs, in hopes that they will perhaps, pee themselves, just a little. Karen never gets to talk about her herb expertise, because I will cut her off to honk like a goose, and Sam's voice is an endangered species because I'm too busy exaggerating the shit out of everything to let her speak. B can hold her own, so I have no regrets there, but poor Megan isn't apt to interrupt my rendition of a one-man-band, or whatever else I'm doing. So basically, I'm a solar eclipse, and I owe my friends an apology. Because they are sublime, they will never admit that I am a shameless glory hog, but we all know it's true.

Here is where I ought to vow to be more conscientious of my friends, and of innocent passers-by, but I think we all know what my vows are worth. I'd horrify those baristas again in a heartbeat if I thought one of you would shoot coffee out of your nose.

Some friend I am...

not your grandmother's bingo

Today I need to lament that my once promising cerebral cortex has atrophied into a pitiful little blob I have come to accept as my latent mind. You see, my exceptional children, tender little parasites that they are, managed to bilk me out of virtually all the functioning brain cells I'd worked so hard to amass during my formative years. It's not enough that they left me with a gelatinous alien flap for a stomach, oh no, they had to suck every cognizant molecule out of my grey matter as well.

They say that a mother loses brain power with every birth, but I only have two children, and am lucky if I can string together words with more than three syllables. So either my precious bundles were particularly greedy, or I wasn't as smart as I thought I was to begin with. Obviously, I refuse to believe the latter.

It is true that I speak with less confidence, for I know that key words will elude me at critical moments, and as anyone can tell you, I forget everything I see/hear/read/say/buy/etc. I was never like this before. I competed on the varsity Street Law team in high school, got a free ride to Willamette University, and could annihilate almost anyone in a verbal confrontation. Sadly, I took great joy in this and did so often. But I digress.

One thing that reminds me daily of my ever-dwindling brainpower is our Scrabble Deluxe game. It beckons me with its swirly letters, burgundy tiles, and velvet pouch. But ours is an affair best forgotten, for I can no longer score even a fraction of what I used to. My mom taught me how to play when I was very young, and I fancied myself somewhat of a natural. I've only bingoed twice, and I'm semi-ashamed to confess that I've phoneyed zillions of times (typically with lesser-known proper nouns--like cheeses and such). I'm an excellent blocker, and I even admit to some brailing in my younger days, but payback is a bitch when you're staring at a hopeless nongo.

God how I miss it.

My mom always has her Scrabble welcome out for me, but we have a fairly fierce rivalry, and I don't think my ego could withstand being trounced right out of the gate after five years. But I see certain word orders everywhere I look. License plates, babies' blocks, things my children write that are words, unbeknownst to them. I've slayed people using AA, AI, HM, and JO. I am reminded of a time my mom got like a thousand points playing DOJO on a triple. I naively thought there was no way she could play off of a hanging J with only one square open. Drats! Of course, nothing beats SUPERNOVA. See why I can't play her when I'm so raw? I seem to recall sticking my neck and playing her a couple years ago, and she QAT-ed me twice, and drew most, if not all, of the ten powers. (The two blanks, four esses, J, Q, X, and Z)

You all know that Q is typically the coveted letter, right? And that people will hold onto a U even if it's their only vowel, in hopes of drawing the Q. It's worth mentioning that, as one of only two letters worth ten points (the other being Z), naming my son Quinn was no coincidence.

Anyway, I really miss Scrabble, and I REALLY miss being able to play Scrabble. I was never going to play in a tournament or anything, but one can derive a lot of confidence from throwing down BANJAX to an unsuspecting opponent, and cresting 300 points.

Then again, one can also derive pleasure listening to Raffi sing Les Petites Marionettes. All I know is, Quinn and Reilly had better put my brain to good use!

bowing out

So it turns out I'm not of the blogging ilk. You don't have to act surprised. I've seen real blogs, in fact there are scores of blogs I enjoy daily, and mine is by far the runt, and perhaps handicapped to boot.

It's not enough to be verbose. I am reminded everyday, many times, that my writing is sub-par, and let me just be frank.: Trying to write after reading one of Adam's essays is like having to heat up fish sticks the night after Wolfgang Puck cooked you dinner. I also lack the technical prowess to keep my blog groomed and show-worthy like the others I admire. While some blogs feature type and pictures in coordinating colors, mine offers a scheme-less array of mismatched imagery that I may have picked up at a yard sale.

If blogs were lawns, mine would have plywood stacked atop cinder blocks, a broken-down Chevy Nova, and maybe that wet couch I lifted from B's neighbor. It really lacks an aesthetic, and that fact assaults me every time I log in.

Furthermore, I am always simultaneously winded trying to keep up, and acutely aware that my prolificacy, or lack thereof, is wholly irrelevant.

Since I can't afford to have my blog landscaped, and since having someone write for me defeats the whole purpose (and since the two people I would hire already have beautiful, shiny, well-written blogs of their own), I'm letting it go to seed. Maybe a thousand years from now when my life is my own and I can learn me some technological skills, or maybe when Adam's laptop breaks and the bar isn't so goddamned high, I will try again. But for now, I'm tapping out.

it's in the blood

Having officially survived the grueling demands of this weekend, I am finally at liberty to address the weight pressing on my heart. It's a text Brandy sent me from the doctor's office Friday, and I haven't been free to contemplate it until just this minute.

"Insulin."

I won't soon forget the expression on her face as she walked in with a tester, needles, a handful of prescriptions, and the knowledge that, at thirty, she was insulin dependent. But the look was fleeting, for she immediately set to work on all of the madness to which we had committed ourselves this weekend. To say that B is stoic is to say that the ocean is big. She is a warrior. When gang members bludgeoned someone to death on her street, she chased them away without pause. When I got a tumor last year, she carried my entire family through the week during which we didn't know if it was cancer. She even goes after those meaty, hairy-ass spiders, when I vote to call 911. But this was a blow. A big one. Insulin. Forever.

A lot of people are diabetic and have to take insulin shots. But a lot of people aren't important to me. Sorry, but they're not. She is.

As if insulin weren't bad enough, she has inherited a little collection of setbacks from her parents that makes things even harder, though she'll never complain. She will henceforth be adhering to a diet so strict as to make you cry, all the while whipping up a magnificent, indulgent dinner for the rest of us. And with a smile.

Later she disappeared into her room to puncture herself for the first of a million times, and I admit to feeling really sad seeing her bleed. Worse yet is the sight of her sticking a needle into her stomach. I could easily have passed out, but not B. She was singing a lullabye to Maia the entire time, cool as a proverbial cucumber. I am a huge needle-phobe, so I'm sure my reaction was extreme, but it's still hard to know that she'll be enslaved to this ritual for most of forever.

I know this has jarred her, but not because she has said so. She's shaking it off and moving on, and I am immensely proud of her. As an act of solidarity, I've given up sugar, which I know doesn't compare to a needle, but it's my way of sharing in the sacrifice. I suppose I could also let her stick me... She swears it's no biggie, and she really wants to. Something about the new needles being so small, blah blah blah (feeling faint). Okay B, what I'm trying to say is that I'm so impressed with your strength, resiliency, and good attitude that I'M GOING TO LET YOU STICK ME WITH YOUR NEEDLE!

Hope it helps.

Love you.

(Can I have a cupcake when you do it?)

seeing red

For reasons I cannot explain, I have always had a moderate aversion to the color red. In light of our political climate, I'd like to say it's because I'm quite enlightened and it's my subconscious way of subverting oppression and Republicans, but that may be stretching it.

When my kids were little, and I controlled what they wore, I didn't buy them red, and I've never been attracted to all the classic red things we are supposed to hold dear, like '57 Chevys, Kitchen Aid mixers (mine is white), and apple motifs in the kitchen.

But from time to time, starting a couple years ago, I have been compelled from somewhere deep within to buy the red version of something. Case in point.: In 2005, when treating myself to a very expensive pair of black and brown loafers at Nordstrom (albeit it was back when the juxtaposition of black and brown was still frowned upon), I suddenly became obsessed with the red pair, and bought them instead. They matched nothing I owned, but I didn't care. Most of my clothing is black, so I made it work.

And yes I was in among the mindless droves of GAP-lings lining up last year to shell out $40 for the (red) t-shirts.

Meanwhile, I have pined for this particular red colander at Fred Meyer for about six years. One might see nothing wrong with just satisfying the impulse to buy such in an innocuous object, but we already own two perfectly good colanders, and I think $20.00 is outlandish for something that will totally clash with everything in my black, white, and chrome kitchen, not to mention, not fit anywhere. And yet I have made a ritual of visiting the red colanders for years. To look, to yearn, never to buy. Until last Monday.

Over the course of holiday returns/exchanges, I wound up with a $12.00 gift card to Fred Meyer, for which I had no particular plan, and it rested comfortably in my wallet for weeks. Then last Monday, I had a little time to kill and went to visit the red colanders, and blow me down, they were on sale for 50% off! They've never been on sale in six years, so I felt like this was the universe's way of insisting that I have one, and I whipped out my gift card and beamed as I toted my shiny new, cumbersome, unnecessary red colander to my car. I passed my green colander along to someone else, and hung the new red one in its place, so everyone can see my perfect inability to color coordinate my kitchenware, lol.

Perhaps this intermittent attraction to red is hereditary, because Reilly, who shares my low opinion of the color, fell in love with a pair of red valentine pajamas at Old Navy the other night, and was so adamant about having them, she offered to pay for them herself. They are very cute, but nothing I ever would have suspected her of liking, let alone loving.

So here it is, our odd assortment of red must-haves, a collection unto itself.

let there be light

The depth of my candor in last night's post has given me a case of the morning-afters, but I'm resisting the urge to delete it, hoping that all my squirming signifies some measure of personal growth. No pain no gain right?

The fact is, in spite of my misgivings, I'd have to say the process was at least 25% cathartic, if for no other reason than an obsessive mind such as my own loves to have messy things such as thoughts neatly compartmentalized into crisp white bins, or in this case, paragraphs.

Today things are markedly better, and I woke up ready to reclaim my life, even as I stepped over, and on, the sea of wayward kid bedroom overflow, toys displaced by the bunk beds. For the past week I've been cowering at the sight of this heap, but today I am ready to kick some ass.

I'm hopeful that with another coffee, (that's right, I'm back on coffee, I told you I live in the danger zone) and some Footloose, I can show this house who's boss.

blahg

After my major crash-and-burn at (last night's gathering), I've been forced to take inventory of the repertoire on which I've relied for so long to see me through the social seas I so often sail.

It seems I've been failing to impress for several weeks now, and I'm at somewhat of a loss for solutions. My phone only rings a paltry twelve times each day, I'm no longer c-r-a-m-m-i-n-g events into miniscule margins of my calendar, leaving scant seconds to get from one function to the next, and I'm not overbooking myself for so many coffees a day that there's enough of a current running through me to power a locomotive. On several occasions recently I have reduced friends to silence upon my arrival, generating about as much interest and merriment as a giant slab of meat, and let's face it, my Myspace page has tumbleweeds blowing across it. If you listen closely, you can hear that whistling theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly when you're there. A few of you have been forced to seek refuge in reading when in my company so as not to fall asleep. Superficially this is of great offense to me of course, but the truth is, the blame is mine alone. The old nuts and bolts got sent in for some cranking last month and somehow I emerged only vaguely resembling myself. I am the same heap of junk you'd better watch out for, lest you cut your foot, but I'll apparently never be able to make a joke again in my life. Sure I'll take up the same amount of space in your living room, eat the same amount of your dinner, and, if you're my mom, charge the same amount, if not more, onto your Old Navy credit card, but there will be nothing in it for you. And, because of my size, the absence of a personality is painfully conspicuous, and will only to serve to make us all itch with awkwardness. So really, I don't begrudge you guys not calling, and/or not knowing what to say when you see me. But I'd be lying if I said there weren't moments when this didn't cause me gallons of embarrassment. Thus far, my reactions to this stark new reality have been utterly unimaginative, and even less constructive. Aside from shopping, I'm afraid I have pretty much kept it to a) crying, and b) crying and apologizing.

(Sound of welcome mats being whisked inside all over town.)

Give up on me if you must folks, but I have other things to offer besides busting your guts. I make good omelettes, though I loathe eggs to such a degree that I will usually pull up a stool beside you and tell you about it while you eat, I give killer back massages, I can literally return any physical item to any retail store, I can do 55 errands in one day, including clean your house, which I enjoy, and am learning to knit, which is both charming and practical.

So stick around.