A Monster Ate My Socks

2011-07-18T07:15:00.004-04:00

This is making me crazy and quite frankly, I don't know where else to take it.

True Blood needs help, serious, serious help. And it has a whole host of books from which to pull, yet it opts not to do so. But Alan Ball, you are a talented and creative man, but dude, your writers suck. Your story lines suck. You are going to lose your audience and make True Blood go away.

It was bad enough when you devoted an entire season to Marianne, a character that is barely a blip in the books. But let's put that behind us and move on. Because that truly was unforgivable and I'm sure you must still feel shame when you think about that disaster.

Of course no one wants to watch the series as though it's a word-for-word play of the books. I get it. Lafayatte is a colorful character, it was smart to keep him instead of killing him off. I even can see why you have Tara on the show as Sookie needs a female friend in whom to confide. I think your decision to cast that particular actor as Tara was a crime against nature however and when she is on the screen must be watched with closed captioning and only one eye open. Perhaps we could have her killed off and reincarnated as a watchable actor without the grating voice and horrid faces?

And let's please leave Tara's mama dead where she belongs.

The whole Vampire League and King Bill and all--that's FINE. Wasn't in the books, but sure why not? It's interesting enough I suppose. But if I give you that plot line, you've got to sacrifice the Tommy/Sam plot. No one cares about Tommy. NO ONE. Put him and Joe Lee (Jolie?) and his mother in the ring and let them kill each other off. Cut your losses. Walk away. It's a waste of precious time. Alcide and Debbie are fine for now. The Jason story is grotesque and wrong. That is definitely one where you could have used a bit more book infusion.And let's dial down on the Jessica/Hoyt show. Jessica is cute, but let's put her more in the bit-player realm. And stop the nonsense with the fairies. There is a myriad of ways you could be going with that. Except for the one that you've chosen. It sucks. And Arlene--for the love of Pete-- she needs to be just the waitress at Merlotte's who says her goofy shite and that's that. A possessed baby? BORING. Because No One Cares.

Which brings me to the important part. You have a cult following with your casting of Eric. This season is supposed to be based on fan favorite Book Four. Yet the Eric/Sookie line has been downgraded to maybe 12 minutes per show. This entire season should be so heavily focused on that plot line that all other plots should be relegated to that lone 12 minutes. Every review is going nuts over Alexander whathisface's (let's just call him Eric) portrayal of a Ericless Eric. Let your actor fly, dude! Let he and Sookie play this out properly! And quit with the Marnie shit. She needs to stay hidden in the background where she belongs until the end.

Seriously dude, I can help you fix this mess. Call me.

2011-06-01T06:58:00.000-04:00

"The opposite of take your child to work day is Thanksgiving."

2011-03-05T09:31:00.003-05:00

So, I was in Boston a couple months ago(so, yes, that would be January. When there was 4+ feet of snow on the sidewalks.) and I noticed a trend we apparently don't have out here in the boonies. Which, quite frankly, I think makes us vastly superior because obviously WE know that leggings and tights and pantyhose are not pants. And no, these fashionistas weren't wearing thigh skimming shirts. They were wearing shirts that stopped at the waist. And then they pretended that tights or pantyhose or leggings were their pants. Yes, we saw many things we didn't need to see. And also...there was that whole snow issue. In addition to looking like you should be standing in a window with a red light on, were you not cold as all hell? I'm just saying.

And on the topic of fashion, I think Natalie Portman is beautiful, too. But let's stop pretending she looked good at the Oscars. Because she looked like a matronly old woman. Gwyenth Paltrow looked the best she's looked since she stopped being awesome and started being annoying. Also, Angelina Jolie in that sparkly green dress with the crazy shoulders looked like an alien. And not in a good way. That's all.

2011-02-08T17:10:00.003-05:00

It would appear that the marketing world has sunk to a new low.

I saw a commercial for a diet plan for dogs. It looks like it's dog food, but it's in individual packages complete with an appropriate amount of treats for one day. So that you know how much to feed your dog. Because you can't look on the bag and scoop out the appropriate amount, or ask your vet how much you should be feeding your dog.

Overweight pets make me insane as it is, as do overweight children. Because we, as the ADULTS, are wholly responsible for what our children and pets are eating. Unless your dog/5 year old has a job, a bank account and some special car they can drive, you buy the groceries, you prepare the meals, you dish out the amount that goes on everyone's plate (and or dog bowl).

Although statistically, I have read that most parents of not only overweight, but clinically obese children do not feel their child is even remotely overweight. So maybe it's the same for dogs. "What? Their bellies are supposed to scrape the ground!"

Let's look at Stella for an example. Lately we've noticed that Stella is looking a little porky. Hmm, how could this be? We feed her the same amount of food every day; she is exercised every day. Why is she suddenly boasting a spare tire? (Well, save for the course of allergy medicine she's on that is making her crazed with hunger to the point that she's horking down frozen green beans,. But that's another story) Ah-ha! The culprit would seem to be that we had changed her brand of food. And yet we had continued giving her the same amount, not thinking that this food may require a smaller or larger amount for her size. So we adjusted the amount of food appropriately and she's back to being healthy. See how easy that is? And I didn't even have to spring for undoubtedly expensive individually packaged diet dog food to correct the problem. I just had to be responsible for checking to make sure what our animal pal was eating was the proper amount for a dog of her size and age.

2011-02-02T08:24:00.002-05:00

I've gotten out of practice of having insomnia. Last night, however, it all came rushing back in one big sleepless mess. I tossed and turned before giving up and watching television until 1 am, only to re-awake at 3 and return to the couch before sleep took pity on me at 5.

Another snow day.

Mort needs a haircut.

I need to get the heck out of this house.

2011-02-01T07:06:00.003-05:00

I hope you can really see the careful placement of all the cigarette butts dotting the snow like tiny jewels in the first photo. What do you think all those stains are? Coffee?

Dogs with bladder infections?

107 years ago when I was in school, we used to sit in front of the black and white television set that sported the only three channels available, waiting for that lucky stike of the clock that would have the announcement of school delays and closings. Our school district was pretty much always open, even when all those around us were closed. Occasionally, we may have had a one hour delay, but those were few and far between.

So I don't really understand why schools now close before the first flake of snow has hit the ground. I've heard it's because parents are so litigious, but that seems a little excessive. And I would imagine with the amount of parents who both work full-time, more people would prefer their children have school so that they don't lose a day of pay.

This boring and insipid little post is my attempt to get back into the swing of writing on a semi regular basis. Mazel tov.

2010-12-28T10:34:00.003-05:00

Children really do watch what you do. For instance, perhaps you are always a wee bit befuddled and try to accomplish several things simultaneously and therefore never actually finish anything, but instead have many things halfway done. So, you just don't have much room left in your brain because you are never really in your brain in the moment. And so you make lists to try and stay on track. Lots and lots and lots of lists on scraps of paper everywhere. To-do lists. Grocery shopping lists. Dinner idea lists. Books to read lists. Things to look-up lists.

And then it should come as no surprise when your son presents to you, as though you are a twosome scheduled in a business meeting, his notebook filled with his agenda for the next week: the errands we have to run per my declarations, the play dates we have scheduled, the visitors we have coming ...

2010-12-21T13:32:00.003-05:00

Okay, well after posting my little temper tantrum yesterday, I power shopped and power wrapped and got everything done. And made cookies to boot.

Duke opened the door later that night to my beyond wonderful friends singing me Christmas carols and bearing gifts to thank-me for what they consider my kindness towards them. I was blown away. 100%. With everything they do for me, with all the unconditional love and support they send my way, to even fathom that they thought I was worthy of such a beautiful display when I could never thank them enough for all they do just blows my mind.

And then today I was at Mort's school and to see all those smiling, delighted little faces and hear a million high sweet voices singing Christmas carols...it's like my It's a Wonderful Life moment. Who am I to be so bah-humbug when I am so unbelievably blessed to be surround by such beauty and love?

2010-12-20T08:07:00.002-05:00

I have never before been this behind on Christmas. I still have presents to think up in addition to actually purchasing them. I haven't wrapped anything. I have no meal plans. No cookies. I don't know what I'm doing.

Luckily someone gifted Mort that Christmas countdown ornament so every two minutes or so he informs me of how much further I've fallen behind.

Someday I'm going to be old enough to go to an island for Christmas and not deal with any of this.

2010-12-15T10:05:00.002-05:00

Well, we'll see how this all turns out. The student teacher for Mort's classroom will soon be leaving. As such, his permanent teacher has arranged a surprise party for her. His teacher has stressed over and over that this is a secret and please remind your children to keep this a secret, etc etc.

Mort doesn't really do secrets. If you tell him something is a secret, it's a surefire way to make him blurt it out. So I've been dropping off supplies and gifts without his knowledge.

However, he did discover my volunteer time this week would be different due to the party. "But why?" he kept pressing. So I told him.

Immediately he worried, "But what if Ms.--- asks where you are?" In hindsight, I should have just instructed him to say he didn't know. It's believable and not a total lie. Instead I said, "Uh, just say I'm sick." Which is a lie and I instantly felt bad for instructing him to lie.

No worries though because Mort wanted to expand on that lie like nobodies' business. "I'll tell her you've been having headaches off and on and your stomach hurts!" he exclaimed.

"I doubt she'll even ask, sweetie, but if she does you can just say I'm sick."

"I'll tell her you just really wanted to sleep in today!"

"Honey, you can just say I'm sick, but really, I don't think you'll have to say anything."

I have a feeling that when I show-up, there will be surprises all around. His teacher will be surprised when I come in at all because he will have told her that I was sick and/or sleeping it off and his student teacher will know all about her surprise party because Mort will have told her he can't wait for her surprise party the minute he walked into the classroom.

2010-11-07T09:17:00.002-05:00

So, I work with children on a regular basis. And the reoccurring theme is, "My mom and dad don't live together." Hey, mine don't either, so no biggie. Except that they did when I was in first grade and I think Mort is one of the very few kids in his class that lives in a two parent family.

Anyway, the bigger fish to fry on this topic was that I was helping the kids write their autobiographies and they would draw pictures of the two, sometimes three houses that they split their times amongst: Mommy's, Daddy's, and Grandma's. Mommy and Grandma usually were depicted as having fairly small houses, while Daddy had a very large house. Whether this is because it was true or merely a child's perception, I don't know.

The other thematic common was that, "I like my dad better. Mommy is mean." Daddy in these books was depicted as playing frisbee and video games and visiting the playground with the kids. Mommy wasn't usually depicted at all.

Considering that Mommy is the custodial parent in these situations, I couldn't help but wonder at the child's perception of "mean." Because my guess is that Daddy sees the kids on weekend, maybe even more, but isn't responsible for the day-to-day raising of the child and so therefore has the luxury of playing with them to their child's hearts' content. Which is wonderful for the child and I applaud the dads who are doing this and making an effort to be a dad even though they may not live with their child full-time. I think it's rare in today's world , so rock on.

And I know that someday the kids will realize that their mom wasn't mean, but that she was probably working full-time and then juggling the day-to-day parenting responsibilities on her own. She's the one who has to enforce bedtime rules, help with homework, make sure you are eating well, and watching age-appropriate, limited amounts of TV. She has to make sure you have clean clothes, have brushed your teeth, played outside, cleaned your room, are using your manners, and while she is doing this and working outside the home, she has to do all the work inside the home as well, the cooking, the cleaning, the grocery shopping, the bill-paying, the keeping up with obligations to extended family members...

And she probably has to do all of this while being told that she's mean and daddy is fun.

I know that just by the nature of our personalities and my being the primary caregiver for Mort, Duke is much more fun then I and devotes a lot more time to playing with Mort than coaxing him to eat his vegetables. And that's okay, because we're a team. But for a single mom, I hope the time of their children thinking that they're mean, rather than a superwoman comes sooner rather than later.

2010-11-04T06:51:00.003-04:00

Well, I hate to be a quitter(actually, that's not true. I have no problem quitting things at the drop of a hat), but I may have to give up one of my volunteer positions at Mort's school. I love being in his classroom and helping the kids. That feels purposeful and good and I hope to do it for as long as his teachers welcome parent helpers.

I do not love the second volunteer position as book-putter-awayer. It was one thing in kindergarten to do that job: go to the teachers' classes, collect their books, re card and reshelve them alone int he book room for maybe an hour. But in first grade I'm spending anywhere from two to four hours doing this. At that point, I feel like I'm an aide and it should be paid work. Which it isn't. And in kindergarten, I have to say the teachers were so sweet and thanked me so profusely that it made me feel like I was truly doing something to help the kindergarten as a whole. And while there a re some first grade teachers who are just about as nice and grateful as anyone could be that warm my heart, there are an almost equal amount who scowl and frown and act as though I'm putting them out when I show up to collect their bins. It's just too much, I think. Ugh. How do you quit a volunteer position?

Funny Mort-isms I don't want to forget:

Duke was doing his P90X ab-ripper exercises when Mort walked in. Duke happened to be in the middle of a break before starting the next set.

"What are you doing?" asked Mort.

"Ab exercises," replied Duke.

"What do you call that one?" Mort asked. "Sit?"

Duke returned from a business trip last night looking very professional and businessy. After launching himself at him, Mort stepped back to study Duke's outfit. "You look all ...like a 'sir', " Mort remarked.

"That's because I am. When I'm in the office, everyone there calls me 'sir'," Duke told him.

"Why?" Mort asked "Because they don't know your name?"

I think the part we like best is that he isn't a kid making language faux pas anymore. He is funny. He makes actual snarky well-timed remarks. Love it.

2010-10-29T06:19:00.002-04:00

My aching shoulder and back (in the future I will not have a weight lifting day at the gym, cart around big crates of books at Mort's school, and pull weeds and cut back plants for the fall all on the same day and all without having remembered to do even one set of my 120 repetitions of physical therapy prescribed back exercises that keep my back from waking me up in the middle of the night)woke me at midnight. I watched Fashion Police and then the season finale of Project Runway. Except I had the television set to "sleep" and it turned off right before they announced who won. I'm thinking Mondo. He was the only one with real talent and vision this season.

I went back to bed around 3. Mort came in our room at 5, completely disorientated and not quite awake but insisting it was time to get up(too much trick or treating?). So I laid in bed with him until he fell back asleep. 5:30 a.m. And then of course, i got up. Because I couldn't go back to sleep.

At least it's a lay around kind of day today: grocery shopping, finding an easy costume for Mort's party at school today because Mort informed me last night that he broke mine last year's, hence why I couldn't find it. Helping 22 first graders get into their costumes. And helping to keep 22 first graders under control when they're overflowing with excitement and too much sugar. Perhaps my lack of sleep will give everything an air of surrealism....

2010-10-25T08:08:00.003-04:00

2010-10-21T07:39:00.002-04:00

Knowing I have complained and dreaded soccer season in years past, I would to take this opportunity to say what a pleasure this season has been. Mort tried really hard (no using his "magic powers" to move the ball, no cartwheels on the field, no climbing on the soccer net--- just good old fashioned running and kicking), no rabid parents screeching at their children and mine, (okay, maybe I yelled alot but it was all POSITIVE yelling), no coaches trying their best to reduce children to tears ("Sweep the leg, Johnny!") and we were fortunate enough to have coaches who actually coached and patiently explained positions and plays to the team. In addition to having such positive, kind coaches, we were also part of a team filled with really nice hard-working kids who had positive attitudes and supported each other whole-heartily.

I'll miss watching the team play soccer and I am thankful for such a heartening experience. Mort has already announced he wants to play again in the spring.

2010-10-15T14:23:00.004-04:00

I gots to rant. You don't gotta read.

I was dropping off Mort at school and walking back to my car when one of the women who works at the school gave me a big smile and said to another school employee with a sigh, "Wouldn't you love to have the day off? I'd love to have the day off from work and throw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats," all the while smiling at me in my hoodie and sweats.

And to her I have several points I'd like to make:

1) I was wearing gym clothes because I was going to the gym, not because I have "off from work." I do not wear gym clothes in real life as I do not deem them acceptable. Gym clothes are for the gym. Period. That is not to say that I won't throw on a hoodie, but it will not be in conjunction with any other clothes that could be worn to the gym.

2) I did not have "off work" because I am a lazy-ass, bon-bon popping, soap opera watching stay-at-home mom that you see driving her kid to and fro school every day. I have a paying job from which I telecommute and by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for that either.

3) Even if I didn't have a paying job, my job as a stay-at-home mom is a JOB. It is work. It is every bit as valid and infinitely more important than sitting in an office all day and collecting doctor's excuses or whatever it is that you do. I am raising my child to be the best, happiest version of himself he can be. And if you think for a second that isn't work, than you must not have children or else you aren't staying at home to raise them. And by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for my job as a mother, either.

P.S. Yes, I recognize that I'm bringing a bit of my own insecurities and defensiveness to a seemingly innocent remark...or WAS IT?

Next up on the rant list is also directed at a woman who works at Mort's school. Mort used to come home from school with his entire lunch box full. He was going 8 hours having eaten NOTHING. That, to me, is pretty horrifying. This year, however, we have had a break through. And Mort now comes home with an empty lunch box, save for the crusts of his sandwich, which we as a family, have decided is perfectly acceptable. He eats all his packed veggies, all his packed fruit and all the parts of his sandwich that aren't touched by crusts. And yet this woman has taken it upon herself to start chiding Mort for not "doing a good job" eating his sandwich.

To which I would like to say, "Step off, yo." If you have a serious concern with what my child is eating, please schedule a meeting with his father and I and do not berate him for eating what we have decided will best work for him to provide him with a balanced lunch while he is at school. He is 6 and he just hears your criticism, not realizing you clearly have your own food demons. His crusts will not help the starving children in Africa or whatever your rationale may be.

Perhaps you could spend your lunch duty policing the kids who are buying their "lunches" and scooping up three desserts and nothing else. Or perhaps you could worry about the parents who are bringing large Cokes and a bag of fast food into school for lunch for their 6 year olds?

And now I feel better. Thank-you for your time.

2010-10-11T07:39:00.002-04:00

We got a new front door. Not because we wanted to, but because we're grown-ups. And sometimes after living for five years with a door that is peeling (okay, more like vomiting)paint and literally rotting around the edges and sagging in its frame, it's time to take a tremendous amount of money that could have been used on something fun like a vacation or groceries or puppies or new socks for Mort who seems to make holes in socks just by looking at them and agree that the door has to be replaced.

And see kids, those are the things that you think you can't wait for when you're all yelling about how you can't wait to be a grown-up and eat ice cream for breakfast every day. It comes down to buying new doors, learning to reset your car's computer every season because you drive such a specialized car that it needs to know that the weather has changed and therefore the tire pressure will be a little different and when you call the people at the dealership and ask them to do it, they insist it's easy and you can put on your big girl panties and do it yourself. Which is absolutely true, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't want to do those things.

Nor do I want to have to hunt around for the fancy pants impossible to find oil that my high performance car eats like I'm driving on the Autobahn and have to learn to check a dipstick and put in more oil, when in reality I'm just a mom driving her kid to school in a teeny station wagon and going to the gym. Can't relate? Oh, it will happen to you, too.

Just like 107 years ago when I went to the Homecoming Dance my senior year, I wore an extremely daring off the shoulder dress that reached the middle of my calves. And flat shoes. But it was off the shoulder, people. Scandalous. And then this weekend I saw oodles of kids going to their Homecoming Dance, and even though I could swear some of them are in Mort's 1st grade class, the girls were wearing dresses that made me oh so glad I have a boy.

Except someone's mom bought those dresses for them, so I guess their moms were okay with their daughters looking like that. And by that, I mean whores. Do I have to spell out everything? I have a rule of thumb(terrible expression if you know its origins, but you probably don't and I don't feel like going into it right now) and it's pretty simple: if your underwear shows when you bend over, it's not a dress. It's a shirt. And you need to wear pants with it. Apparently high school girls do not share this rule. Also, if you have to wear double stick tape so that your still undeveloped cleavage isn't on display but you aren't on MTV, you shouldn't be wearing it. Again, I am obviously an old fogie in this department as well.

Also, I like freedom of speech very very much, but if you're going to hold up horrible signs while people bury their children, shouldn't you as a grieving parent have a right to freely shoot those people with rubber bullets at the very least? Or taser them? How about BB guns and attack dogs? Vats of boiling oil?

I have to go clean the woodwork and help Mort make a boat for Columbus Day now.

2010-10-10T11:42:00.004-04:00

Well, in the obscene amount of time that has passed since I last wrote, quite a bit has happened. I found my new favorite nail polish. I did all the weeding and cutting back of our outdoor area. I installed a new door knob in the mud room. I reached my weight loss goal of the ten pounds needed to fit into my clothes, only to discover that going to the gym means that my clothes I've been longing to wear again are now all too big because despite being back at the same weight I've been since 1998, I guess I am now more compact. So I look like I'm an Olsen twin. Not because I look child-like, homeless and simian, just because I look like my clothes are too big in an unflattering way.

And best of all, I watched my sister bring her son into the world. And I'm not going to get all double rainbow on you and weep about how magical it was. Except of course I AM going to do that because it was beyond amazing. And she was amazing and her son is amazing. And I could stare at his little face with its ever-changing expressions all day and smell his little baby scent and feel his little heartbeat. He is better than any double rainbow. No matter how many drugs you've taken.

2010-09-12T08:11:00.011-04:00

August 16

Our day started yesterday with a lovely way to round up supplies. We went into town, where one store sold produce, another sold charcoal and lighter fluid, and still another was the friendly neighborhood butcher. I am going to suspect I am bearing witness as to why the food smells and tastes so much better in Italy. Well, the whole grow local/shop local thing and the lack of genetically modified food.

Ever since Duke and I have been traveling to Sabaudia(doesn't that make us sound worldly, like we're there all the time instead of having gone three times over seven years? Well, except for Duke who has been there five times. I think.), we have been wanting to walk the beach to what we always refer to as the castle, but it turns out was really just a watchtower commissioned by the pope in the 1600s. We generally get so far before we get tired and quit.

Today, however, Nick informed us it the walk was a mere 5k. We can do that! Duke runs more than that on a daily basis! And I...uh... go the gym and lift weights! Okay! So, we set off on our walk.

I noticed that 1) I easily have the most covered ass on the beach. And I thought I had brought a very daring swimsuit for me. Let's just say it showed a lot more of my behind than granny panties. But All the other women of every single age were showcasing either their entire heiney or the vast majority or it from the 80 somethings to the 7 year olds. wow. And that's not even taking into account all the tops that are M.I.A. Or the fact that all the men are wearing speedos. Except Duke. And Nick.

Oh and 2) Everyone is so tan that THEY ARE PURPLE. It's pretty impressive. I didn't even know people could be that tan. I certainly never achieved that color when I was slathered in baby oil and lying on a roof. The tanners get very defensive when they are questioned and will quickly spout off facts as to how vitamin D is a necessity and rickets is making a comeback. Just for the record, not one of these purple folk need worry about vitamin D deficiency.

Also worth noting is the amount of compliments I have received for my desperate-to-not-achieve tan that I developed this summer despite wearing a hat, SPF 100 (my SPF 100 got huge laughs from the Italian crowd by the way) applied every 1/2 hour, and sitting in the shade. The Italians and Australians react with big smiles and admiring, "OH! You're so tan!" Americans react with exaggerated frowns of faux concern, horror and reproaching tones of "Ohhhh. Geez. You're so tan."

So, we made it to the watchtower ruins and they are pretty cool. Certainly not something we have littering any beaches in Maryland or Jersey. And speaking of Jersey: If the Italian-Americans who were up in arms about the Jersey Shore and their portrayal of Italians, they can put their fears to rest. Proper Italians are so far removed from Italian-Americans and certainly any member of the Jersey Shore cast(or The Real Housewives of New Jersey for that matter) that they may as well be an entirely different species. They just are. Sorry.

So, along the way to the ruins, Duke and Nick stopped to get an almond flavored Italian ice from the vendor who PUSHES A GIANT CART OF ICE BLOCKS up and down the sand all day long, scraping off the ice for the syrupy treat with a machete.

And then let's just say that only two of us made the return walk back to the beach towels. We walked from 1:30 until 4:30.One of us took the bus. (It was Nick). Post beach time but pre-barbeque time, we walked back to the beach and had mojitos and watched the sun set. In the eternal words of Ice-Cube, "Today was a good day."

2010-09-07T07:21:00.007-04:00

Aug 15 Part II

I slept until noon. I could have slept longer, but Duke woke me up because the sun is poring over everything and the day is gorgeous and we have to buy supplies for tonight's barbecue before we lay ourselves down on the beach.

Last night we went to San Felice Circeo with DJ Nicky Nick and had appertivos and met-up with his sister Natalia and two of her Australian pals. And quite selfishly, I was glad that they were Australian because Nick and Natalia both speak perfect English in the way that many Europeans do, and I speak nothing but English in the way that many self-centered, ill-educated Americans do. So English speaking Australians were a lovely addition. And I do so admire and love how fluidly everyone is able to switch from language to language (I once got to witness a conversation between Nick and a French friend in which they used Italian, German, French, and English all effortlessly jumbled up in the same several sentences. Wouldn't that be an amazing thing to be able to do? )

There was shoe shopping amongst the females and easily the most stunning girl I have ever seen in real life at dinner. She made the Victoria Secret models look like The Real Housewives of NJ. It was like staring at living art--I couldn't look away. Natalia and Barbara were speaking in Italian and then explained that they had been questioning the same thing I wondered: Why was a girl that looked like that having dinner with a guy who was so drippy? Was he a cousin? A gay friend? But then they started holding hands and we all just had to shake our heads and surmise that he was either in possession of the most amazing personality in the world and/or she had no idea what she looked like.

I also noticed a new bra with which to wear strapless dresses and backless shirts: that would be any old bra. No need to use backless, strapless, taped-up contraptions. You just wear your bra and whatever shirt you want can go on top of it. My female peeps didn't seems to bat an eye at this, so I just had to be bitchy and puritanical to myself. And try to take pictures because I knew my fellow Americans would be as dismayed as I. Because they make racerback and strapless and backless bras. Yes, they do.

I was unfortunately still a zombie from the jet-lag, but we did get to see a Ricky Martin/Enrique Iglesias type singer do the single worst renditions of American songs in the square. Even his bandmates seemed disgusted. The crowd seemed to be laughing heartily, and yet, the show must go on as he wiggled and gyrated his way through Sting's "Fragile", Joan Osbourn's "What if God was One of Us?" and Pink Floyd's "The Wall." I have pictures, so I know that I wasn't just having jet-lagged hallucinations.

2010-09-06T08:47:00.003-04:00

I know that in recounting my Italian journey, I haven't even yet made it successfully through the jet lag portion of the trip, but there's so much going on real time, that I haven't been able to travel back and recreate.

Mort has started first grade. If you do not have a school-age child, this will not seem monumental. But it really really is.I thought once I had accepted and adapted to kindergarten, I would be okay. But the beginning of first grade brought an equal amount of tears (from me, not him--he was excited to begin anew) and an equal feeling of loss and worry and fear and sorrow. He is doing what he should be doing:creating his own life, beginning the process of moving away from me. I suffer the emotions of every mother in that I want him back so that I can better appreciate and savor those moments of him learning to lift his head and discovering his feet and the sound of his baby laughter at a dozing, sun-soaked Stella.

I read somewhere that the first 20 years of your life are the longest. And I can still recall the agonizing slowness with which those years did seem to trickle. Each month was an eternity, always waiting and waiting for that next milestone. But as a parent, these past six years have literally passed(cliche alert) in the blink of an eye;overnight I awoke and no longer was I pregnant, but instead I had a first grader.

He loves school. He loves his teacher. He starts every day with a smile and ends every day with a smile. But my heart hurts with every lunch I pack. Last year he automatically held my hand as we crossed the parking lot and hugged me and kissed me and waved until I couldn't see him anymore. This year he runs through the doors with barely a good-bye and certainly does not have time to spare a backward glance for me, not knowing or caring that I watch until I know he is safe. And I do know intellectually that this means we are doing a good job, Duke and I. That Mort is secure and content. But finally I understand that quote that having children is to have your heart forever walking around outside of your body.

2010-08-27T07:18:00.003-04:00

August 15 A.M.

I'm sitting on the roof deck looking at the mountain view profile of the witch Circe. Everyone is sleeping, as I should be, but maybe eight hours was enough? I'm a little wacky with the jet lag, but I did get to eat some of the mozzarella di bufalo yesterday. That is some seriously good sh*&. It rained off and on (?????) I didn't even know it could do that in the summer in Italy, but we sat on the beach anyway because Sabaudia is just that beautiful. I can see the sun trying to bust through the overcast clouds; hopefully it will be successful.

There are a stack of Italian magazines inside on the table: one is a Vanity Fair with a pretty blond (she's a television hostess? I don't think that translates into American?) on the cover, one is a tabloid with Italian soccer star Francesco Totti and the same pretty blond strolling hand-in-hand on the beach. They own the beach house next door and last night I could see the soccer guy sitting on the curb watching his son ride his bike. In front of his Ferrari. Duke is very very very excited about the Ferrari. I don't know who they are, seeing as how I'm American and all, but because there is paparazzi on the beach who follow them around and magazine covers with their smiling faces, I've decided they are the Italian Posh and Becks (Victoria and David Beckham). Although I will not voice that opinion aloud for fear that the Italians will kick me out of the country and never let me return.

I think I need to go back to bed.

2010-08-26T15:00:00.011-04:00

August 14

I closed my eyes on the plane at 5:30p.m. (Chicago time; 6:30 East Coast style; 12:30 Roma flava) and didn't open them again until 9:00 p.m.(I couldn't even begin to translate that time for you) It was at that point that my i-pod slipped from my grasp and bounced off my eye mask, giant neck pillow, blanket and possibly even my don't-leave-home-without-'em fuzzy socks. I took off my handful of cocktail rings to blindly slide my hand between the seat and the armrest of the plane in search of said i-pod, thus losing all the rings that were piled upon my lap. I had neither contacts nor glasses on, so I truly couldn't see. All of my scrabbling awoke Duke, who was kind enough to use the flashlight app on his i-phone while I poked around under the seat and tried not to hit the feet of the man snoring behind me. I-pod was found. One ring was found. One ring was missing.

Back to sleep (I know,I know who would have thought a wee bit of an obsessive such as I could sleep when one of my rings was MIA?) and awoke again at 8:30 am Rome time, just as the breakfast cart was making its way down the aisle. I gulped down weak coffee and OJ. I had slept through dinner and my ever-loving Duke had saved me his brownie for several hours before giving in and eating it himself. Why he felt he should share this with me was anyone's guess.

As we were waiting to deboard the plane, Duke tore my airline seat apart with the zeal of one who was looking for that seat cushion floatation device. And damned if he didn't find my other ring. Yes he did. And that's why he rocks.

Our wonderfulest, beautiful Italian friend was waiting patiently for us at the airport, dressed appropriately for the 90 degree weather in long pants, a long sleeve shirt and a scarf. Should anyone need proof as to our Italian pal's level of awesomeness: he was fine to sit in the airport cafeteria while we shoveled in proper Italian espresso(oh my good Lord it tasted goooood) and pastries. He refrained from having any as, "It tastes like shit, man. It's airport food." But I know that I would be reluctant to hang out at all in an airport waiting for people to eat that grossy food in that grossy atmosphere. But he did it for us. That's what you call a good friend.

2010-08-25T10:05:00.006-04:00

August 13

*In case you missed my previous musings on the subject, I am headed to Italy for the third time. In my previous visits, I've seen the must-see and off-the-beaten-path sights, hit the major cities, did the museums, etc, etc, etc and even ate at the places recommended in The Lonely Planet. This trip was all about just enjoying Italy and NOT feeling compelled to make the trip enlightening or educational in any way. The plan for this trip was just to be.

First leg of Italian journey has begun. My bag only weighed 32 pounds. Must be a record for me as I usually either pay a fine for going over or am forced at the last minute to try and frantically cram shoes and books into Duke's bag. Wicked tired. Was awake from 2-4 in the morning and up at 6:30. Hopefully this will translate into sleeping soundly throughout the transatlantic portion of the flight. Mort told me that he bets God and Jesus can run as fast as the speed of light. I'm trying to recall how to say "please", "thank-you" and "you're welcome." Going to read Sookie Stackhouse. No real Italians on this flight. You can always tell because their clothes just fit a bit differently than ours. In a better way.

Okay, lady. I've flown with a kid too. It is what it is. What I don't do is proactively go over all the terrible things that could possibly ever happen on a plane with my child. I'm not talking about explaining what to do in an emergency in response to a kid's query while the flight attendant reviews the emergency procedures. I'm talking about a mom who is just causally running through things that might happen: the plane might catch on fire and they (the kid and mom) would be engulfed in flames; the plane might run out of gas and crash to the ground; the plane might lose an engine and fall from the sky. And then ending that bit of cheeriness is the mom's admonishment, "Miranda! Put your shoes back on. The floor is all dirty." Maybe the nice cleansing plane fire will take care of all that dirt.

I'm a grown-up and that mom has me scared out of my mind. I'd better ask her what I should do if everyone is sleeping and there's lighting and I look out the window and see a demon ripping apart the airplane and no one will believe me. (Old Twilight Zone episode.)

Surprisingly, Miranda is now freaking out as the plane taxis down the runway. And she has spilled her juice. And her mom has made the announcement that if Miranda closes the window shade, mom is "going to throw up all over the place." This may be a very long flight.

I thought it was currently 1:30, but now I've just discovered Chicago is an hour behind the east coast and it's really only 12:30. How did I not know that? Do other people know these things? Of course they do. But do they know when it's appropriate to use an apostrophe with an "s?" No, no they do not.

And also, I know that the body of water near Chicago isn't an ocean, unlike that dumb-ass Miranda in the seat behind me who keeps yelling, "Look at the ocean!" It's a freaking lake, kid. Why don't you look at a damn map? See how I'm so much smarter than a 4 year old?

2010-08-22T09:00:00.001-04:00

I am truly shattered with jet lag. Twenty hours of travel. I keep misspelling my own name. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will think.

2010-08-02T08:12:00.002-04:00

Wheeee! I just found out that I am going to be thanked by name in a book I co-edited. And the author is even a little bit famous in certain circles (but not as an author). That's all I'm saying on the subject, but this is the first time that has ever happened to me and I'm all giddy! Mort is super impressed. He said, "Mommy, you're going to be famous!" I had to let him down easy with a "Yes, I suspect I am." No, I actually replied, that I wasn't, but that I was very excited to have been mentioned since editing is typically very behind the scenes and only a being a wack-o OCD person and a paycheck really make it all worthwhile. "You're still famous to me," Mort replied solemnly.

And plus I just got up and went to the gym, coffee mug and straw in hand before my body was even aware of what I was doing. All of the sudden I looked around and was like,Wait, how did I get here and why am I doing seated leg presses? So I also have a bit of that already got my exercise for the day accomplished high going on.

What is this strange emotion? Could I possibly be... happy?!?

2010-08-01T18:20:00.002-04:00

So, my darling Duke has come up with an idea for a small offshoot of this blog involving our travels to Italy this summer.

The first time we (well, I, Duke was a repeat visitor) went to Italy we went whole hog. I cross-referenced every bit of architecture, sculpture, cathedrals, and work of art I could find between my college art history book and the travel guides. We threw coins in the Trevi Fountain; we took the train from Rome to Florence to Venice. We saw the pope's summer home; the Pantheon; the Piazza della Rotonda; the Vatican; the Sistine Chapel; St. Peter's Basilica; the aqueducts;the fields of sunflowers; the Duomo; the Uffizi; we climber the 414 steps to see the view from the top of the Campanile;we lit candles in the cathedrals and watched rats swimming in the canals; we saw the Bridge of Sighs; the Appian Way. We received four parking tickets in six days and swam in the Mediterranean Sea.We ate at restaurants that were recommended in the fancy part of the travel guides. We went to an Italian birthday party and delighted everyone with the singing candle we had brought from Target.It was the best darn vacation anyone could ever have.

(On a side note, I learned that American fashion does not translate to Italian fashion because those women are clearly another species. People took one look at my jean shorts and Diesel slides and immediately addressed me in English. I gaped in admiration as I watched gorgeous creature after gorgeous creature walk by on an average morning, teetering in stilettos on the cobblestones, pushing baby carriages, all while wearing outfits I would only wear to a wedding. And they looked as casual and comfortable as if they were wearing flip-flops and cut-offs and an Old Navy tank top. )

The next time we went to Italy, I felt a small personal triumph when someone spoke to me in Italian. By wearing full-length white pants in 102 degree heat and every piece of jewelry I owned, I managed to pass for a native for one brief, glorious moment. We chilled in Rome and went to the beach. However, we then flew to Paris and did all the sights there. All of them. Paris is darn big. And cold. And not the friendliest. And we witnessed the biggest scam of all time: a steak house that only Parisians knew about. (We were with a Parisian.) We waited in line for an hour watching car after car pull-up to drop-off insanely chic people who all seemed fine to glamour around waiting in this absurd line. And when we sat down to eat, there was no menu. The server brought us each a steak and some french fries. Duke and I were positive our friends were pulling one over on us. But they asked eagerly, "It is fantastic, no?" It was steak. With french fries. That was all. I was eavesdropping my head off, but I didn't hear any language other than French. I even went to the restroom to try and see if this was some kind of tourist joke, but as I passed table after table of well-preserved older women dripping in diamonds and cooing to small dogs in expensive bags, I had to accept that for some reason, this was The Hot Spot in Paris. Go figure.

Anyway, so we are returning to Italy this summer and we are doing nothing. I am going to blog about a typical Italian experience through the eyes of an American. Like the coffee table books that were popular in the 80s "A Day in The Life of America, Ireland, etc" Except I'll be in one region and I'll be blogging more than coffee-table book making. We are staying with Italians who will be on that month-long vacation that all of Europe seems to enjoy in August and we are just living Italian life. We aren't eating at chic places or seeing any sights. We are just going to the grocery store and using a garden hose to rinse off sand from the beach. We will drink espresso in the obscene heat and marvel at how much better an actor Keanu Reeves is when he has an Italian voice-over. We will get to be frustrated by shopkeepers who won't make sandwiches because they don't feel like slicing the bread. It will be lovely. And much different from our previous experiences. I mean, that's the idea now. But if I happen to open an art history book between now and then...

2010-07-19T07:37:00.006-04:00

My garden is a teensy bit overgrown. I just don't have the gumption to garden when it's 90 degrees before 8 a.m. and our days have been a whirlwind of camps and swimming and trips to the beach and to visit dear friends and baby showers and bowling and skee ball and trips to the aquarium and theater and library and the making of zucchini bread and repeated showings of Eclipse and suddenly I'm staring down more peppers than I thought a plant could produce and I still don't know how to can them. I've found a website that advises storing things in vinegar for well-intentioned but ultimately half-assed gardeners such as moi. So much to do. Each day rushes into the next before.

Anyway, I didn't want to get into that so much as I wanted to note that my garden is not unlike a tropical jungle swimming with giant plants and requiring one to don hip waders and mosquito netting to repair the plants that keep being knocked to the ground during storms. During one such tentative outing, I was wrestling with one my tomato plants (and for the amount of space they take up, these dang Brandywine tomatoes better be beyond compare for flavor) and trying to get it to agree to not lay on the ground where it will rot, I cam across my old nemesis. I have a lot of nemeses in the garden world, it would seem. Just when one has been duly subdued, another rises to challenge my dictatorship. And since I've been fighting off the mammals for the past couple seasons, I suppose it's only fair that the insect world resume its quest for domination. First we had the great potato bug plague of 2010 and now, now the tomato horn worm has made a reappearance.

Oh the irony. Oh the humanity. Because I took a chance on the rave reviews of the heirloom brandywine tomato plant, I was forced to pull my borage, as the tomato plant went all jack-in-the-beanstalk on me. It needed more room and so I pulled the one thing that has stood between my garden's tomatoes and the hornworm who wants to destroy them. And so the hornworm obviously took this removal of the borage as a vacancy sign and set-up shop.

In case you are new here let's just say in previous pre-borage years I have railed about how I loathe those puffy, squiggly overgrown bits 'o grossness. But I am also scared of them. And so I have waited for the wasps to come and save me by laying their eggs in the worms, thus causing them to die while I stand around with my martini and laugh. But this year, I am fueled by rage.This year, I have come to the realization that they cannot fly into my hair and become entangled (childhood trauma involving a fly apparently) because they cannot fly. And so I have been pulling those mo-fos off my plants and either popping them into a nice bucket of soapy water to drown a hopefully slow painful death or storing them in containers to give to my friend's chickens where she has assured me she is videotaping the torment of the worm as it is ripped to shreds by beaks and claws. It is on.

2010-07-06T08:14:00.003-04:00

I'm going to go ahead and hazard a guess as to why today's youngsters seem to have a certain sense of entitlement: because we applaud their every move.

Once upon a time, I moved on to each grade from kindergarten up until my junior year of high school without any graduation ceremony. No one gave me a kindergarten diploma or gave me a plaque for being able to zip-up my pants. It was expected that I would show-up to school, do my best (or enough to get by) and move on. It was what was done. Sometimes I did well and was proud of myself. Sometimes I did poorly and was told to study harder. No one raced into school to chastise the teacher for grading me too harshly. It was my responsibility to pass or fail on my own merit.

When I played the equivalent of little league and then high school sports, I didn't end each season with a giant trophy and a signed certificate lauding my ability to have a positive attitude or cheer the loudest. Because only the player (note the lack of plural--that's right boys and girls, once upon a time ONE person was deemed to be the best) who truly out-performed everyone else was crowned MVP. And quite frankly, it never bothered me that that person was never me. Because I was not the best. And it never occurred to me to be upset about it. It was okay that others were better. I just enjoyed playing for the sake of playing.

And so with this attitude I went to Mort's recent camp Awards Ceremony with puzzled trepidation. Mort had gone to a three day bug camp, spending two hours there each day--save of course for the last day in which a half-hour of the camp was devoted to praising our children for existing. What exactly was being awarded? Showing up? Having parents who put on your sunscreen? I deserved an award because it took me longer to drive him to and fro than it did for him to participate. So, yes, I thought the whole thing was a bunch of hooey. And I'm sad to report that I was in the vast minority. My friend and I were the only two parents who arrived sans cameras and/or video cameras. Out of probably thirty or so moms. We rolled our eyes and muttered under our breath as little Susie and Johnny(not their real names. Kids today are never named Susie or Johnny because then they wouldn't stand out. Kids' names are so over the top that a girl named Sue would be a freak show.) were loaded down with certificates and ribbons and walked across the room to shake hands with the director of the program and their individual counselor. And the parents were eating it up.

I can only imagine the families sitting around 15 years from now, watching these videos and the children asking what they were being awarded for. I'd love to hear their parents' answers: "Why, for showing up, of course!"

People. You are not doing your children any favors. You cannot make them the best at everything by saying so or fighting their battles or insisting that everyone is special in the same way in every aspect. It's like the movie The Incredibles: "We're going to make everyone special so that no one is." At some point, your child is going to live on their own. You may be able to bully your child's teachers and coaches and even professors into awarding their averageness for much of their life. But at some point, they are going to be passed over for a promotion or they are going to want to date someone who doesn't return their affection.They are going to bid on a house that is beyond their means or want a raise and not get one. They may fall prey to any of the absolutely normal crappy things that happen to humans because of the whole we're human deal. You will be unable to prevent their illness or car accident or disappointment at not winning the lottery. And if you haven't taught them how to persevere, they will be screwed. It will happen. And you can't threaten to sue someone because they don't want to date or hire your 24 year old or cast them in a movie or publish their book or make them president of the world. Although I'm pretty sure at least one parent has tried.

Of course no one wants to see their child suffer or fail or falter. But how will they ever know what it is like to achieve something or succeed or even feel truly happy if they are never allowed to experience the opposite? How will they grow? How will they learn empathy or sympathy or strength of character? What do parents hope to achieve by making certain there are no bumps in the road?

What exactly are we trying to protect our children from? It is okay to do something for the sake of doing it. It is okay to enjoy something even if you aren't The Best at it. It's okay to work hard. Let's not set-up our children to be the ones who get eaten by zombies. Thank-you.

2010-06-30T05:49:00.002-04:00

New horror in the hood: My potatoes are swamped with potato bugs. Why do all garden pests have to be so dang gross? Why must they all be so seemingly ripe and squishy and on the verge of oozing/ splitting through their gross bug skin? And I know Mort would be quick to point out that bugs don't have skin, but I don't care. Gross by any other name is what I'd say to that. And supposedly, save for a flame thrower, the best way to be rid of these little beasts is to hand pick them off and then squish them. That is not going to happen. (On a side note, I have a friend who has chickens and she said even the chickens won't touch them. that is how nasty these things are.) The World Wide Web claims that dusting them with wheat bran will cause them to explode when they eat it and then swell. I know it sounds like an Internet hoax, but I'm desperate. I have also been advised to litter the garden with ladybugs because they will eat them. I don't know what would keep the ladybugs from flying away and I can't imagine a ladybug taking down one of these suckers, but it's worth a try.

I can't even weed int hat area because they make me sick. How can I be an organic gardener and be so squeamish with the pests that go hand-in-hand with it?

In other garden news, I noticed the remains of a rabbit scattered amongst the corn. Either a very large cat jumped the fence with said rabbit , or perhaps a hawk? Owl? We have a lot of all of those. But dead bunny parts is not nearly as bad as bugs.

Also, I seem to have developed laryngitis. Day three. And I awoke at 4am. Good times.

2010-06-26T11:04:00.002-04:00

I'm a wee bit obsessed with this Sookie Sackhouse series. Much more involved and out there than even True Blood. I'm averaging two books a day. Soon I will have devoured them all and will be forced to wait for the author to write more. Which, she at least is willing to do. (Yes, Stephenie Meyer, I'm looking at you.)

Although quite frankly, I re-read Eclipse to be on track for the movie's release, and I kind of hated Bella. I think it's because the actor who plays her has the contractual obligation to promote the movie and so I keep having the misfortune of seeing her twitching around with her extreme social disorder. She acts like an ass. C'mon now toots; you are an actor. At least act like giving interviews and waving to fans doesn't make you want to rip off your skin in horror. As far as jobs go, yours doesn't come across as one that would make the top 1000 of Worst Jobs in the World. Suck it up. You are getting paid for this, y'know. You aren't on Oprah out of the kindness of your stingy heart. Get a grip.

2010-06-24T06:40:00.004-04:00

I had to get rid of the borage. It did its job well in that I haven't seen any tomato horn worms since I began planting it with the tomatoes, but this year it got a wee bit too big for its britches and it's not like I can eat it. Actually, maybe I can but I don't know how. It's listed as a herb, but it's very spiky. Hmm. Anyway, it was growing all over the place and crowding out the tomatoes and strawberries and cilantro and a pepper plant I couldn't identify because I couldn't see it. So, now I've dismissed the garden bodyguard. I feel like the tomato hornworms are Victoria from Twilight, just circling and waiting until there is a break int he defense so that they can strike.

I do realize that if you aren't a Twihard, that analogy will make little to no sense.

And speaking of Twilight...I have a bit of a bone to pick with Stephenie Meyer. I've been reading the Sookie Stackhouse series and although Stephanie claims all her ideas came to her in a dream, it's amazing how many of her ideas were written in books published four years prior to Twilight. Quite frankly, I can't believe Charlaine Harris hasn't sued. For instance, human female Sookie can read people's minds. Except for her boyfriend, Vampire Bill. Well, hey now, in Stephanie's dream, the vampire Edward can read minds, all except for his human girlfriend Bella's.

Additionally, Sookie is the object of desire and protection of both a werewolf and a vampire. Hey, now, so is Bella! The werewolves in Harris's tales run hotter in temperature than a human and throw off tons 'o heat. Um, yeah, Stephenie's dream had that too. Harris' vamps have a glowy sheen to their skin that identifies them as Not Human. And we've all seen how the skin of Meyer's vamps sparkle. And yes, there's more "coincidences," but I have a cold and I'm only 1/2 a cup of coffee into my day, so you'll have to read the books and figure out the rip-offs on your own.

Quite frankly, I like both series of books in different ways for different reasons, but give credit where credit is due. At the very least, Stepheine Meyer should be saying she was "inspired" by Charlaine Harris's series. Because she claim she's never read a vampire book until the cows come home, but unless she can touch a book and absorb its words without opening it, she read the Sookie Stackhouse series.

2010-06-14T08:40:00.003-04:00

So by the grace of Mort's grandparents(thanks Mom!!!), Duke and I were able to see not one, but two movies in the theater this weekend. May not sound like a wild weekend to you, but wait until you have kids and then you will recognize the exquisite thrill of going to see a movie that does not contain talking animals and/or fart jokes.

Prior to one of the movies, there was a trailer of some sort for a movie(?) video journey (?) just plain 'ol bad idea. A seemingly teenager (I've reached a point where a certain demographic has become the "I dunno, I think s/he's somewhere between 15 and 25?" age group.) has over 800 friends on facebook. Which, yes, I recognize is not a lot anymore. I think most of my somewhere between 15-25 year old cousins have at least double that amount. But this girl is making going to film herself flying around the country meeting these people to see if they can be friends in real life. Some immediate questions that arise may be: What the hell kind of allowance does this kid have that she can afford all these plane tickets? Why in the world would you waste money and time meeting people you don't know when you could spend that money and time visiting the people you know and love? Or perhaps the one that dominates my thoughts: So, is she hoping to get killed on film? Because I can't imagine this is going to end well.

First of all, I don't think it's very smart to be friends with people online that you don't know in real life. If you wouldn't go up to the creepiest person you can conjure up, yes, you know, the one who looks like a stereotypical serial killer, and invite them to spend the night in your home (just the two of you!), then don't allow people you don't know to have access to you online. Be paranoid. It's much, much smarter. Have the rule that if it's not someone you would be happy to see and interact with in real life, it's not someone you need to be friends with online. And even amongst those people, be very judicious in what kind of information you're allowing them to have access to. Just because you both know how to use a computer doesn't mean you are friends.

Which I gather is the whole point of her "movie." She's ambushing these virtual friends/strangers and seeing if they can be friends in real life. I can only hope that this will be a huge cautionary tale to all the 15-25 year olds out there and not a story of insrpiration. ("Dude! We should totally do that this summer!") And I also hope that off camera this girl is traveling with some armed guards. And men with white jackets and big nets. Because this sounds like a truly terrible idea. And if it weren't so worrisome, I would be very eager to throw around words like "heartbreaking" and "pathetic" and "Where the f*%# are this girl's parents?"

2010-06-11T08:18:00.002-04:00

The other day Mort and I were eating lunch in a restaurant. I idly watched an elderly couple exiting, the shuffling husband opening the door for his wife before offering her the crook of his elbow, into which she slipped her knobby hand , looking for all the world to see like a dainty bride on her wedding day. They very slowly made their way to their waiting car in the parking lot, where the husband opened his wife's car door on the passenger side, ensuring she was settled before gently closing it and getting himself in the driver's side.

It was such a lovely scene because they weren't yet so incapacitated by their body's betrayals that they had to lean on each other for support, nor were they loudly making an obnoxious show with their actions, hoping those around them would notice their display of love. Instead it was quiet and real and small, obviously everyday practices of kindness toward one another. Sure, it was possible that they had only recently found one another in their 80s and so still were in the first heady rush of love. But it seemed more likely that they had been together for well over half their lifetimes, that they had defied all the odds and still held fast to their love for one another, that even though to the world at large his wife may appear interchangeable with any elderly woman with cotton floss hair, to him she would always be the beauty he had married.

Perhaps it is a bit of sad commentary on our society that I was so moved by a couple's kindness toward one another, but it was a beautiful sight to see. We should all be so lucky to be so loved and cherished. I only wish I had seen their quiet acts of affection toward one another prior to their leaving. I would have liked to have anonymously paid their lunch bill to celebrate them for holding true where so many fail.

2010-06-09T08:00:00.002-04:00

So, I have successfully made my own strawberry jam. And it's really, really good. I need to think of a vehicle worthy of it. Peanut butter would only dilute it. Bread seems too mushy. Maybe an outstanding cracker. Or Duke suggested ice cream... And now that I have the canning supplies and have tackled that project, I can't help but turn an inquisitive eye toward my garden. At some point we begin to burst at the seams with tomatoes and peppers. This year may be more plentiful then years past as I was concerned a late frost had killed off many plants and so I replanted my favorites...and everything is flourishing. We easily go through a jar of jalapenos a week...maybe I can can them and have our own supply on hand? And we certainly love salsa and I just came across a seemingly easy recipe in my canning booklet...slap a bonnet on my head and call me Ma Ingalls!

2010-06-07T09:08:00.006-04:00

I'm thinking of starting a facebook group entitled : I remember when someone saying "You're so tan!" was a compliment, not an admonishment and/or I swear I wore SPF 70, a hat, some heavy duty-European sunblock that isn't even available in the States, and sat in the shade.

So, yes, a week later and I'm peeling. Big time. Like a snake shedding its skin. I would have said that was impossible considering all the precautions I took and the small fact that I didn't get burned, but I would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant getting to have the vacation from which I've returned. Relax-o-rama and drinks served in coconuts.

And hey, what's a little more sun damage on someone who is already suffering the cosmetic decline of one who spent her youth frying in the sun? In for a penny, in for a pound. But truly, the irony of it all doesn't escape me as I know I ranted on this f

orum last year. Had I only

known the secret to a deep, dark, raging tan was sunblock reapplied every two hours, a hat and staying in the shade, just think of all the time I could have saved laying out...

2010-06-05T17:42:00.004-04:00

I'd like to offer a big shout-out (is that still a relevant term? How about mad props? I'll have to check in with my significantly younger cousins who complain to me about how all the "old women" ruin the Twilight movies. I was able to reply with a straight face how those old women with their "Bite Me, Edward" t-shirts just ruin it for everyone. Thank goodness my friends and I don't do such silly things. None of us would ever take pictures of the Twilight dolls on our phones or have kids who point out Robert Pattison as "Mommy's boyfriend." Anyway! back to the shout-out) to Covergirl mascara for coming clean in their ads that the models WEAR FALSE EYELASHES.

Unless of course that whole truth in advertising thing caught up with them and they were somehow made to come clean. But seriously, to all the cosmetics companies, you have to knock that stuff off. I first noticed this trend several years ago and I was as outraged as a half-Italian girl with some of the most pitiful eyelashes in the world could be. Is it not bad enough that I fall prey to every claim of long, thick lashes and own about 724 mascaras? Is it not bad enough that for Christmas I asked Duke to buy me the Sephora mascaras sampler? And then you had to go ahead and put false eyelashes on women whose real eyelashes are like expensive sooty paintbrushes? It's not enough to make an undereyelashed girl drool over real eyelashes she'll never have?Have you no shame? So, yes, I just noticed that in their latest ad campaign, Covergirl copped to the fact that Drew Barrymore is wearing eyelash inserts. To which I say No duh. And thank-you for admitting that no, there is no way you the average woman can achieve this with our product. And please believe me when I say that your honesty will in no way stop me from trying every new mascara that hits the shelves.

So, my garden this year is really flourishing! Must be the mushroom mulch. I have big 'ol stalks of corn and jalapenos and green peppers and green tomatoes and oregano, basil, cilantro, lettuce, arugula, spent spinach,sugar snap peas, potatoes, more strawberries than we can eat, and I just replanted the edamame and added a peanut plant. Who knew you could grow peanuts? How awesome is that? Apparently in the fall I can dig that sucker up and its roots will be littered with peanuts! I am also venturing into crazy territory: I'm going to try my hand at making strawberry jam. Mort has eaten so many strawberries that he's fallen onto the "I hate them!" wagon and quite frankly, even I am getting a wee bit weary of them.I'm freezing some, but going for jam with the others. That's right, it's the big time around here.

2010-05-23T07:54:00.004-04:00

It's amazing how much I don't hate rabbits when they aren't eating the fruits and vegetables of my labor. I've seen a couple bunnies lurking outside the garden fence, but they have been unable to breach the barrier to reach the goodies on the other side. And so I don't really care about them.

Stella, however, has a much less forgiving nature than I. And she remembers all too well how those rabbits decimated the garden last year and how deeply it pained me. She probably also recalls that the garden breaching often happened on her watch and how we all made fun of her and despaired over her laziness and lack of good terrier breeding.

So yesterday when she uncovered the warren of bunnies that some not-the-brightest rodent decided to bring into the world beside our deck, she showed no mercy. She killed four before Duke saw what she was up to and stopped her. Three remain. I hope that either a hawk or fox or jellyfish gets them or that they hop away into the world asap because Stella is quivering and salivating all over the place. It's causing some problems in our house as she is being pretty vocal about the scorn she feels for us for having gone all soft.

All 10 of our painted lady butterflies successfully emerged from their cocoons, however. So it's a real cycle of life here. Unless, y'know, Stella kills the butterflies too.

2010-04-26T06:58:00.002-04:00

I've seen quite a few movies as of late, but I don't have time to review them all in depth. I can mention however, that I can't believe that there are two men who go check out a movie together in this day and age that STILL make certain to leave one empty seat in between them so that no one will suspect that they're gay. Really? Has anyone ever seen two people sitting together in a movie theater and even had a thought about those two people cross their mind at all? I mean, it's one thing if it's someone who has lugged a wee child to watch a movie that is inappropriate for children. Because then I am all about judging them.

But any other match-up of folks just doesn't interest me. Unless they do something ridiculous like leave an empty seat between them, thus making it obvious that they are terrified that someone will think they don't like girls. Because they do! See! That empty seat vouches for them! Now as a girl type person, I can assure them that any female worth her salt (is that an expression?) will absolutely see that empty seat and never ever give them the time of day. Because who the heck would want to interact with someone that grotesquely insecure with a faint whiff of homophobia?

So: Date Night is terrible. I know, I know, it seems like you can't lose with a Tina Fey/Steve Carrell match-up. Trust me. You lose big time bad.

An Education: Slow. Boring. Duke likened it to Vision Quest without the thematic music.

How to Train Your Dragon: really really good--until it's way too harsh and cruel for the age set they are looking to attract (and their moms who may have sobbed uncontrollably).

Where the Wild Things Are: I had to turn it off after approximately four minutes. I saw two scenes. Both were disturbing to the point that I couldn't do it. I don't like suffering in my entertainment! I don't like animals to suffer or children or animated dragons. And y'know what else: I know everyone makes a big ta do about this book but I never liked it! So there!

Afghan Star: Really, really good. With the added bonus of making me better appreciate how fortunate I am to have been born in this country.Sometimes with all the other stuff that makes me crazy, I forget that there are rights that I have that I take for granted. Like dancing. Or showing my hair. Or getting an education. Also, the song lyrics in the movie are outstanding. Such as: The curve of your eyebrow stings like a scorpion. As Duke pointed out, however, it's no: She's got dumps like a truck (The Thong Song).

2010-04-20T14:59:00.006-04:00

Generally, I no longer read the big glossy magazines that have very little in the way of articles but quite a bit in the way of fashion. I used to read them because at one point, I felt that I really really really needed to know what was in and what was out. I wanted to remain abreast of these things for when I was grown-up and had a life that might necessitate me wearing a t-shirt that cost $1000 instead of buying the $11 Target knock-off. And then I turned 20.(And no , we didn't really have Target back then. Nor did we have the Internet, hence my dependence on actual periodicals for my connection to the world beyond my town.)

And then at some point I realized it was fine to like what I like when I like it, regardless of whether it was in style. Last year I was desperate for a jumpsuit. Desperate. I made several trips to Big Cities in search of one. I contemplated buying one that was a truly indecent sum of money just because I couldn't imagine living another minute without one. I finally found one at a brand-names-for-less store that cost but a song. And I've worn it once. Who knew that a jumpsuit would not be exactly what I needed to run errands and go to the gym and volunteer at kindergarten and work from home? It seemed so all-purpose at the time.

And fast-forward one year later, jumpsuits and their cousin the romper are in every store, including my favorite staple for all things: Target. And I live in a pair of yoga pants and sports bra/tank-top not-cute sneakers combo just like every other mom who drives her child to school. We are fashion forward, you see. My look is totally ironic. It's a social commentary on the state of the nation.Wait until Anna Wintour catches on to the tongue-in-cheek suburban mommy look! I'm just ahead of the curve. Although I could really use a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress for my gardening purposes.

I did have a point. An almost related one. So, I wanted to look at the pretty pictures of the pretty people and I checked out a slew of fat, non reading magazines from the library. And discovered that the latest way to wear a purse is apparently to be naked in bed, save for jewelry or perhaps a fur and to languidly brandish your pocketbook. I'm so behind the times! Kate Moss and Julianne Moore are all glamour in bed with their bags. But I am going to have to guess that their purses do not contain crayons and old lists and Purell and child-friendly snacks and weigh as much as a small dog. They probably don't toss their purse into a gross gym locker or set it down on the floor or grass or classroom desk. In other words, I am not the target market for these designer bags. Because I look at those ads and I don't even see the bags in question. I see instead how silly it looks to be naked in bed with your purse. And how potentially unsanitary.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't a related point exactly.

Although yesterday a stranger behind me in line at the grocery store noticed I was buying a product for which she had a coupon and she insisted I use it. How nice is that?

2010-04-19T06:21:00.002-04:00

You would think I'd have a lot to say. Obviously at least some part of my subconscious has a lot on its mind because my sleep is averaging out to one night of sleep per every three or four nights without, but I just don't. I wish I did, but I wish I was getting a good night's sleep every night even more. Soon I will be making soap and thinking I'm in cahoots with Tyler Durden.

2010-04-11T07:26:00.002-04:00

I seem to be talking about television shows an awful lot lately. Having dvr has really changed my life. I can watch whatever I want whenever I want during those hours between 2 and 6 when I don't sleep. (Which is pretty great seeing as how Roseanne reruns no longer dominate during those hours.)I can find out who won Shear Genius (a totally travesty!), or who is going to be showing at Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. However, I'm afraid that Real Housewives of New York will no longer be making my insomnia cut. They are just too mean this year and it gives me too much anxiety.

So in closing, I'd like to do a little wrap-up of each woman. Seeing as how they are my close personal friends and all.

Ramona is bat-shit crazy. Clearly she has a mental disorder and should be on medication. My guess would be manic depressive? Or whatever the kids are calling it nowadays. Or just manic?. Also, she has no barrier between her thoughts and her words and under this guise of honesty, she says very cruel things. Plus, her husband is so freaking sleazy he's like a caricature. I know he's going to be arrested for something really bad at some point. However, I don't really mind her, because she is obviously a bit off her rocker and would probably be a very nice person with some of "mommy's little helpers." (the tranquilizer kinds)

Hate is still probably too strong a word for how I feel about the countess. But I do think she is a giant ass and truly horrible person. Who, as a side note and unrelated to my disgust at her behaviors, may have a penis. She is really stomach turning.

I am thankful that I've never actually met anyone who is as dumb as Kelly. I mean, have they checked her IQ to see if she should be allowed out in public without a helper?How in the world is she trusted to be a mother? I hope she has a really good nanny. She is seriously painful to watch as she tries to navigate the world of the thinking. Again, it makes my stomach hurt.

Who knew Alex would emerge as the reasonable one? Kudos to you, Alex. You act like a person who cares about others.

Oh, Jill and Bethenny. What a travesty. I can't believe they haven't made-up. Bethenny obviously knew she was wrong for not reaching out more when Bobby was sick and is defensive about her shortcomings in that area. Jill is nursing that wound too much. Especially as it becomes more apparent all the time that Bethenny is truly sorry and wants to make amends and Jill wants to accept her apology but can't swallow her pride. I can't watch this as entertainment. it's just sad.

Bring on The Jersey Housewives. There is no one to feel sorry for on that show. Cause they'll shank you. That's just pure voyeuristic enjoyment!

And in an unrelated note, my garden is really coming along! Peas, strawberries, arugula, lettuce, potatoes, edamame and oregano are all planted. Just waiting for it to warm-up before getting the rest in the ground. And two flowers on the magnolia tree defied all logic and bloomed. They've been waiting to do this for four years. Well-done Magnolia tree. Well-done.

2010-04-08T14:16:00.003-04:00

Tonight is Survivor. I'm not sure how the rest of this season is going to go as everyone I liked has now been voted off the island. Are the kids still using that catch phrase or am I just showing that I am perpetually stuck in the 90s? I still really cannot believe that Boston Rob was double-crossed by his team. I hope everyone feels like big dummies when they see how they were manipulated by Russell! Do you hear that, Team Villain? You are dummies! And from now on you will be known not as the Heroes and Villains, but as the Heroes and Zeros. Goodness, I am clever.

I have decided that in addition to the pregnancy parking spaces and spaces reserved for patrons with small children, I would like stores to add "I feel lazy" parking spots. Because that would be funny. And that would make me want to shop there just so I could park in that spot.

I also would like to propose an idea for gym motivation: Someone needs to figure out a way that just when you think you're done with your workout, or feel like you can't do another rep or keep running on the treadmill at that incline, you could try on all the clothes in your closet. Because I'm pretty sure it would be great incentive to keep going. At least for me it would.

Despite the fact that I've been going to the gym pretty religiously, I have yet to lose any weight.(The Easter candy is obviously not being negated by an extra 10 minutes tacked onto my workout) I have gotten stronger, but it doesn't make my clothes fit any better. Today it took me 23 minutes to find a pair of shorts I would wear out of the house. And so I went to a local chain store in the hopes of finding a pair of shorts that transformed me into being ten pounds thinner and four inches taller. Now I think every woman in the world is well-aware that the mirrors and lighting in the dressing rooms outside your home are rigged. Hence the phenomenon of loving something in the store and hating it when you put it on at home. So having lovely lighting and tricksy mirrors is smart business for a store. But today, today their trickery failed them!

I had a slew of shorts in hand, closed the door to the dressing room and caught a glimpse of myself from behind in one of the mirrored walls. And I was shocked to see that I did not look as horrible in my current shorts as I had thought. Or at least I did not look as squat and wide in the kind lighting and elongating mirror as I did in my more honest mirror at home. This is not to say I look good, but rather that I did not look as bad as I had originally feared. I think I may have even caught the briefest glimpse of a possible muscle on the back of my leg. And so I didn't even try on any shorts because I don't need another pair of transition shorts until that wonderful day arrives when I am able to fit into my "real" clothes. My current transition shorts will do just fine. Thank-you fun-house mirrors!

2010-04-03T09:20:00.002-04:00

I think I am a gym addict. Because I have not been to the gym since this whole spring break thing began and I had to resume life as a stay at home mom and I have yet to sleep through the night. From 2:30 to 5 or 6, you can find me clicking through the free movies on On Demand. Where the heck has my beloved Roseanne gone? Last night Duke joined me and we watched Chelsea Lately and laughed and laughed. Because she is damn funny.

Now it's not like I haven't been working out. In fact, I can barely type because my forearms feel as useless as if I was a Tyrannosaurus. Because it's gardening time, y'all. And I am in it to win it this year. I tend to always talk a big game, but this year I have the backing of a friend who actually follows through. And she is lending that talent to me.

Me: "Yeah, I need to order some good soil this year."

My friend, "I just ordered my soil and it's being delivered tomorrow. You should call now before they close." And I did! And then to top it all off, I was forced to weed and de-rock my garden so that said soil could be placed on it. Which took about 36 trips with the wheelbarrow by Duke and 3 trips with a bucket whilst wearing bunny ears by Mort. Granted we still have another two tons on our driveway, but that is not the point.

Me: "I think I need to rent a rototiller."

My friend: " Let's both go in on it and get both our gardens done. How about Thursday?"

And then she was so charming to the rototiller rental men that they got big goofy grins on their faces and they gave us a discount. And free gas. And free ramps to get it in and out of the car because it weighed 742 pounds. Between two moms and three children, two proper shovels, two snow shovels, one child's shovel and a rake, my garden is ready to plant!

And I know you will all be excited to hear that my back doesn't even hurt. So I think I'm on the right track at the gym with building this back of steel to keep all the discs where God put 'em. Because I have never before gardened without back pain. This is my year. Do you hear me rabbits and tomato hornworms and grossy bugs being milked by ants? This is my year! I will not have you ruining this for me.

Today I'm planting spinach and sunflowers. And potato. It's not a word that starts with "s" so it doesn't really flow as smoothly. But that's what's going down.

2010-03-29T14:40:00.002-04:00

So, I finished The Help and am now reading The Happiness Project. I'm barely three chapters in and I already love the author as she has admitted that she hates to shower long and that she postpones going to bed because getting ready with all the face washing and teeth brushing is so much bother. And I really couldn't agree more.

Another item that made me feel I may secretly be normal is that I wrote an e-mail to a friend noting a seemingly mundane thing I'm doing. I'm trying to be less negative (although if I was succeeding, I probably would have phrased that as trying to be more positive), so I didn't state any of the things that were bothering me about said thing. But darn if she didn't write back with her hackles raised over the very same things that ticked me off me but that I didn't put into writing lest I infect her day with my ire. I love my friends. They are really really really worth the wait it took me to find them.

2010-03-29T13:19:00.003-04:00

I hope the gym doesn't again show Little Miss Sunshine during the time frame I am there. It's very difficult to work out at an optimum level and cry at the same time. Sure, sure I could have looked away and watched Fox News (although it's hard to work out at an optimum level while you're vomiting ) and/or just turned up the volume on "Head Like a Hole", but it was the pagaent scene. Where that poor little girl is being booed off the stage and her up-to-that-point crappy dad and her suicidal uncle and her brother all jump on stage with her and refuse to let them kick her out. Good golly, I'm crying just writing about it.

2010-03-27T08:10:00.003-04:00

Goodness. Well, I'll chalk it up to getting old. Remember when you could do anything and never think about it because nothing hurt the next day?No, no, not just because you were whooping it up the night before, but rather because you were engaging in feats of physical strength like lifting weights. Or walking to the mailbox.

I'd finally stopped hurting after going to the gym for a couple of weeks. I think it was a couple of weeks. (It felt like longer, but I suspect it was shorter.) And then we went away for a bit. Now while visiting family out of town, I did go to the gym twice. And then I resumed my usual workout yesterday. And today I feel like a little old lady. Even my elbows hurt. But not as much as my triceps and my chest and my thighs and my calves. I even doubled my amount of time stretching before and after, knowing it was my first day back. I remember a time, long long ago, when I could just open the door and run for a while and never consider stretching. Not that that was smart, but it was something I could do. Youth! Youth is wasted on the young! I am so original this morning! Except not really!

I was stretching while a woman one mat over was working with a personal trainer. He was helping her keep good form and encouraging her while she did something on an exercise ball. Suddenly, she got up and returned the ball to its spot against the wall. "Hey," the trainer called, smiling and puzzled, "We're not done."

"Oh yes we are!" snapped the woman and she walked away. And then I think she went out to her car and ate a Twinkie that she had shoved under the front seat. But really, if you are paying someone to help you make your body strong and efficient, doesn't it seem logical that you would, I don't know, listen to what they're saying? Or at the very least, if you have to quit, can't you be polite and say Sorry, this isn't going to work for me. Thanks for your time. ? Also, I know starting an excercise program sucks. It really truly does. Sometimes I just close my eyes and pretend I'm not really attempting to lift weight over my head and concentrate on the melodic sounds of Will Smith gettin jiggy with it. But the hard part is actually getting started. Once you're there, it seems like you owe it to yourself to do something, anything, even if it isn't the workout you anticipated you would be able to do. And let's just say that this woman had not yet even broken a sweat.

Huh. Who knew twinkie was spelled with a capital T? Thanks Spellcheck.

2010-03-25T14:56:00.005-04:00

So, as it turns out, Florida has an impressive amount of wildlife. I also saw but was unable to document: a bald eagle, various raccoons, and an armadillo. And no, I would still not want to live there. Ever. Under any circumstances.

2010-03-25T14:31:00.002-04:00

Dear Rabbits,
Well, it's spring again, when a young rodent's thoughts turn to eating gardens and knocking boots(yes, that was me last night imploring you to turn down Barry White's Greatest Hits. It was 3 am for the love of Pete!). I know things were rocky between us last year, but I'd like to think we can begin anew and put all that behind us. Sure, you destroyed my garden, my fence and negated all my back-breaking hours of hard work. But to be fair, my dog killed off your entire family. So, I think we're even. Let's have a fresh start.

In that spirit of wiping the slate clean, I'm going to have to remind you that it is NOT a good idea to build your nest in the fenced-in part of the yard. That is the part of the yard in which Stella roams free. That is the part of the yard in which eight of your brethren met with their demise. If you insist on making your home near my home, please do it beyond the unmistakable DogLivesHere part. Like maybe in a neighbor's yard. Because Stella has got the blood lust. She's a terrier. She must follow her heart. And her heart wants to kill you with a sharp shake of her head and a quick snap of your neck.

And I must confess that if you disregard the whole dog territory thing and build your nest here anyway, then I have to question whether or not you really have the type of genes that are worth passing on. Because clearly they are a bit on the... how shall I say...less than smart side of things. (No offense.)

Best of luck to you in your endeavors this year. Please keep in mind that there are many other gardens in the area other than mine, should you get hungry. And to answer your question,no, of course those aren't rabbit skulls littering my garden! No, no. Those are...eggshells! Yes, eggshells. They're for the soil. Okay, then. Cheers!

2010-03-10T14:46:00.003-05:00

While having lunch at school, another child in Mort's class (let's call him Dennis) left no doubt in my mind as to where Mort has been learning his new vocabulary. Dennis asked me if I knew what licking a beaver meant (before I could formulate a response to that through my stunned brain, he assured me it meant you were licking your butt.); told the table he would grow hair on his "pee pee"(really? you can't teach your child the proper name for penis?); and used the words "butt" "poop" "fart" "boobie" and "nipples" more times in a half-hour than I believe I have heard those words used in the last three years.

And this was before Dennis gulped the rest of his juice and announced he was "drunk."

What in the world is this kid being exposed to at home?

And please, please, please do not let him be in the same class as Mort next year.

2010-03-06T07:28:00.002-05:00

Seeing as how it took me seven tries to stand-up this morning because my calves hurt so badly that I couldn't put any weight on them, I may as well come clean: I've joined a gym. I'm trying to become long-term healthy and fit.

On the plus-side, I have thus far been successful in protecting my back from even the slightest twinge.

On the negative side, I obviously have no idea what is a proper amount of weight to lift or how many times said weight should be lifted. Because my calves have hurt for three days and they feel like I have surgically inserted softballs into them.

Now of course I could do the obvious and meet with the personal trainer to get myself set-up on a program. After all, I know nothing other than now that I'm doing this, I want to be ripped and I don't want to wait. I have a friend who did just this and she is very happy with the results as seen by the program suggested by said personal trainer to the degree that she is looking into hiring her on for more sessions.

I think I must just like to make things hard on myself. And I'm too embarrassed to admit I have no idea what I'm doing. I've been switching between doing cardio and weight--one day upper body, another day lower body. And I've gained 4 pounds.

And no, I don't believe that it's because I'm building muscle. Because even though we've all heard that adage that a pound of muscle weighs more than a pound of fat, I don't buy it. Because a pound weighs a pound regardless of what is being weighed. It's like that feathers and bricks: if you drop a pound of bricks and a pound of feathers from the top of a building, which will hit the ground first? Theoretically, they should hit the ground at the same time because they both weigh a pound. (See how I used italics for emphasis?)

Yes, I do believe that a pound of muscle is more streamlined and compact and more effective for your body's functions than a pound of fat.

So we will have to chalk my weight gain up to me not watching what I'm eating. Because yesterday I made a smoothie: low-fat yogurt, blueberries and a banana. It was awesome. And then I wondered how many calories were in it. I checked out the amount of calories in a couple handful of blueberries and a banana. My seemingly healthy breakfast had more calories in it than I had just burned on the elliptical machine.

Yeah, maybe I need to meet with the personal trainer.

2010-03-05T18:40:00.002-05:00

If I titled my posts, which I do not, this one would be called Reality Television.

Except for this part where I implore you to watch Breaking Bad. There are very few television shows that are watchable and dare I say, awesome. One is Breaking Bad. One is Weeds. One is Mad Men. And one is 30 Rock.

And now I must say that I have never seen Dancing With the Used-to-Be and/or Almost Were and/or want to become Stars. But I will be tuning in this year. Why? Because Brenda will be on it. That's right BRENDA from Beverly Hills 90210, possibly the only show I know better than the back of my hand, the show that enables me to win trivia games in which I have no business even participating. Because I LOVED that show. I didn't love that show in the same way I worshipped at the altar of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's not like the writing was decent or the actors were talented or the costume department knew their stuff. But I loved it just the same. And any other BH90210 devotee out there is totally hoping Luke Perry will guest star as Brenda's dance partner only to be swept away by Jennie Garth to the strains of Sophie B Hawkins' "Damn I Wish I was Your Lover."

Also in the world of Reality TeeVee: Survivor is still on. Who knew? I saw the first season. I knew there was another season because that's how the chick with hate in her heart who doesn't believe children should be breastfed on demand got her job on the View. But wasn't that like 10 years ago? Anyway, it's on. And I'm hooked. I'm totally rooting for Tom because he's from Boston and seems like a such a good guy and he reminds me so much of our friend Tom from Boston that I jumped up and down last night when he was safe from elimination. (Yeah, no real excuses there--I was sober. I'm just apparently a big drip.)

Which brings me to The Real Housewives franchise. Goodness. I watched the Jersey season with a passion because it coincided with my mommy beach week and my friends and I would hustle those kids into bed, make chocolate chip cookies, pour some wine and watch the RH of NJ marathons, culminating in the table flipping episode. Outstanding. I started watching the New York season last year because we were visiting my in-laws and my mother-in-law was watching. The friendship between Jill and Bethenny seemed genuine and kind and so if the reruns were on, I watched it whilst folding laundry and doing dishes. (Don't be jealous of my glamorous life. It's just like Sheila E was singing about. )

HOWEVER. Today I saw the season 3(?) opener, and all heck has broken lose. It looks like it' s up to me to put things in order.

We won't concentrate on LuAnne or Ramona because they are delusional. We won't concentrate on Kelly because she is not only delusional , but God help her, I truly hope she's on drugs, because if she isn't, she is too stupid to be allowed to tie her own shoes.

But Bethenny and Jill...they've had a falling out. And geez louise ladies, hello! We can all see why. Last year, Bethenny was a single person who was extremely close to Jill and her family. This year, Bethenny has a boyfriend. And not just any old boyfriend: an he's-the-one-I'm-dropping-everyone-who-isn't-him-please-let me-work-his-name-into-every-conversation-I-live-or-breathe-all-things-boyfriend. Annoying under any circumstances. She should have gotten this out of her system in 7th grade, but maybe she's a late bloomer. And Jill feels left out. And Bethenny feels like Jill isn't her boyfriend, so she doesn't really exist anymore. So, I would just like to put this out there: give this a year, maybe a bit more and when Bethenny comes up for air and stops being selfish and all the sudden wants to hang with someone who isn't her boyfriend, if Jill is willing to overlook this and remember what it was like to be 17 and have your first love; I think these two crazy gals can work it out. Because I really do like them both(seeing as how I know them from TV and all). But right now Bethenny is being a little wonk wonk and Jill is being a little what the what. Hang in there, my women! Friends are life's battery rechargers!

And yes, I am available for hire should the network need me to get them back on track.

2010-03-05T06:58:00.003-05:00

Herbs are growing, flowers are making their way through the earth and we had a great blue heron hunting in our yard. I shall take these all as signs of spring. Even though the herbs are inside and I see herons hunting all winter long. Two out of three ain't bad. Just ask Meatloaf.

2010-03-01T11:34:00.002-05:00

While Mort was eating his breakfast, he asked me to read him a book about whales. So I did. And then I remembered I had pictures of real, live whales from 73 years ago when the economy was a bit different and Duke worked for a company that out of the blue said, "Hey! You're doing a great job! Here's an all-expenses paid trip to the Cape for a weekend."

And so we went on a whale watch and got to see two mother and calf whale combos. It was very exciting. And Mort thought it was pretty cool that we had pictures of whales in our photo album.

And that led to Mort looking through our photo album and marvelling at these strange creatures who are now his family. "Who is that?" he asked pointing to almost every picture of Duke, of my Mom, and of various dear friends he calls Uncles. A picture of my sister with very short platinum(well, we thought so at the time) blonde hair produced the gasp of, "She looks like a super pop star!" And no, Mort is not 109. I'm not really certain where the phrase super pop star originated.

And in an almost tie-in, have you ever seen the website myparentswereawesome? Because it's pretty awesome. People have uploaded pictures of their parents back in the day before they were parents, back in the day before they were stressed and weighed down by worry and responsibility and age and became bewildered by the crappy bands being played on the radio. (I mean, have you heard that ridonkulous Owl City song Fireflies? It makes me want to punch something every time it comes on.)

But that's what looking through the photo album with Mort reminded me of this morning. Because those pictures are only 12 or 13 years ago, but life was so different for us then, and we seem so young and bright-eyed and fresh and unencumbered that Mort could barely identify us as those nice, albeit slightly greying and crinkly-eyed folks who feed him and clothe him and read to him over breakfast. Goodness. So much nostalgia for a Monday morning.

2010-02-19T11:59:00.005-05:00

I know that I was just ranting about this, but since every media outlet is fixated on it, I can't take it for one more second. It is absolutely bizarre that a press conference had to be called so that Tiger Woods could apologize to the nation for being unfaithful to his wife. I certainly didn't exchange marriage vows with this man, and unless his wife is a secret reader of my blog, neither did any of you. How has society reached a place where we need an apology from him? Is this not completely insane? I apologize to you all for cheating on my wife. Seriously, do we as a society have nothing else going on in our lives? There are so many things we should care deeply about and so many things that should raise our hackles. This isn't one of them. WE DON'T KNOW HIM. It doesn't affect us. Truly, it doesn't. I promise. Your life is going to continue on in the same way whether you accept Tiger's apology or not. Let's instead emotionally invest ourselves in the simple fact that I couldn't buy hot dog buns this morning because I couldn't find one single brand that was made without high fructose corn syrup.

2010-02-18T06:47:00.002-05:00

Well fantastic. Tiger Woods is going to re-emerge and speak on Friday. Thank goodness. What do you think he'll talk about? Do you think it will be about...golf?

Because I don't really give a hoot about any other thing he has to say. (Don't get me wrong, I couldn't give a hoot about golf either, but at least he's qualified to speak on that subject.)

Aren't we all tired of this yet? We all need to get on the same page here or else we will continue to be inundated with people's personal failings. Guess how much I don't care that he's a crappy husband and lousy father. And guess why I don't care: because I don't know him. I'm not married to him. I'm not friends with him. I'm not related to him.

Oh, but he's a role model. For whom? Who cares? Who is looking at someone who plays a mean game of golf and tries to model their life after theirs? I think that's weird. And the whole will-he-or-won't-he lose his endorsement deals---really? Who really buys a product based on whether or not some guy you don't know is standing beside said product and smiling? Now, to be fair, I am the first one in line to buy any mascara that promises it will make my eyelashes look so lush they must be false. But I'm not going to buy my cell phone based on which one is being touted by Luke Wilson or Catherine Zeta Jones. And event though I am still mournign the demise of the marriage between my dear friends Brad and Jen, I don't drink water or wear jewelry endorsed by either of them. Just because someone collects a paycheck from a company doesn't mean the product is worth anything. People do know that, right?

2010-02-18T06:06:00.003-05:00

I took the real age test on realage.com. I'm 4 months older than my biological age. Not too shabby, you may be thinking. At least in my head, that's what you may be thinking. In reality you may be thinking, Damn! Someone isn't taking care of themselves! And that would be correct. Because the things I have going for me are the things that can't be changed: I have good genes. But the things that stop me from being a decade or so younger than my actual age are entirely under my control and I am pretty disappointed in myself that I've been given the gift of good health from a genetic standpoint and I don't do anything to hold up my end of the bargain. I just coast along.

I don't exercise on a regular basis, especially in the winter. I may go for fits and spurts of trying to get in 30 minutes of cardio every day, but it eventually tapers off at some point. I have a healthy BMI and so it's easy to forgo a little thing like making sure the vehicle that carts you around is in good working order.

I don't eat as well as I should. Shocker, huh? But wait aren't you always yammering on about food safety and organic this and grow your own food that? Well...yes. But yesterday, for instance, I had two yogurts and a veggie burger. Not as bad as say a bag of jellybeans and three trips to McDonald's, but notice the suspicious lack of fruits and vegetables. Not good.

I get points for having a happy marriage, a good support system of family and friends,"owning" a dog, not smoking, and being a healthy weight. But I lose points for not belonging to any organizations and not attending church on a regular basis.(By which I mean I go at Christmas.)

I have to say, I'm feeling pretty ashamed of myself. (Hence the public outing in a public forum.) I do all the maintenance to keep my faulty disc in place, and I do the maintenance to be able to breathe with my 9237 allergies. It's incorporated as part of my day because those things have a minute by minute effect on how I am able to live my life. I can't even walk around for too long in the mornign without doing my back exercises because I will experience pain. But if I would do the maintenance in all the other areas, I will be much less likely to ever even have to know how they could negatively impact my life. I don't really want to get to the point where I have to be in pain to make changes, or where all the changes in the world won't help me regain my lost health.

2010-02-16T09:52:00.002-05:00

As I was driving Mort to school this morning, I marvelled at the wealth of deer and other animal tracks crisscrossing the otherwise untouched snow. All of the freshly tossed beer cans and bottles that littered the landscape? Not so much marvelling, more of the shuddering. It's pretty frightening to realize just how many people are obviously drinking and driving. Or driving whilst drinking. During a snowstorm. Before the plows have even been out. Because if those yahoos are out and about during those conditions, how many of them are steering with one hand and knocking back a beer with the other when the driving conditions are good? Scary stuff. I have to say, it does make me wonder why there is no law in effect requiring car companies to proactively install those contraptions mandated for repeat drunk drivers where you have to blow into the tube and if you're over the legal limit, your car won't start. I mean, who wouldn't be willing to pay an extra $100 for a car if it meant keeping drunk drivers off the road?Granted, people started crying about personal freedom when wearing a seat belt was required, but I think considering drunk driving is already illegal, proactively enforcing that overrides the personal freedom argument. And besides, your freedom to drive while drunk takes away everyone else's freedom to be safe from you on the roads.

Do you see how I can fix everything if given a chance?

2010-02-15T18:00:00.003-05:00

I would be terribly remiss if I didn't mention that I've now seen another Best Picture Contender. (at last count, I'd seen Inglorious Basterds[outstanding] Up in the Air[outstanding] and Crazy Heart[really really damn good]---wait are they all up for best picture? Well, they should be.Anyway.)

So, we rented A Serious Man. Do not waste one moment of your life watching this. It will lure you in, you will spend the first 20 minutes marvelling over the movie making genius that is the Cohen bothers and it will let you down worse than being stood up at the altar. I won't say too much in case my warning has only made some of you out there in computer land want to see see it for yourself, but I will say that Joel and Ethan owe me some damn money and an explanation. The only thing I can come up with is sheer laziness. And maybe a desire to see if anyone would would call them out on their Emperor's New Clothes.

In fact, maybe that is just it. Maybe when everyone goes ga-ga over your work and thinks everything you do is praise-worthy, maybe you start wondering if people really like what you're doing or is they just see your name and throw awards at you. Maybe you would have a small niggling fear that people weren't watching your movies and really appreciating them anymore. Maybe you would decide to test them and just see what would happen if you gave them a big old steaming pile of manure and then sit back and wait for people to notice that you were Just Kidding. That obviously you weren't serious with this horrid piece of malarkey. And then you would reward them for noticing with one of your usual genius creations.

But America, you have failed the Cohen brothers test! You have showered them with praise instead of scorn! You have given them four stars and nominated them for prizes instead of crying that they've lost their touch.You have demonstrated to them that you are not watching their movies, you are just seeing their name and applauding. Now, to punish us for accepting such drivel, they may never again make another good movie.

2010-02-15T17:33:00.004-05:00

Seeing as how I'm a female and all, of course I am a feminist. And as such, I had always had the intention that Mort and I would not play the card game, "Old Maid,"(And yes, as improbable as it seems, not only do they still make that card game, but they even still call it that. And yes, I just checked and it is 2010.) but rather Crazy Dog, or whichever other person in the pack I picked out for the hot potato. Today, however, after Mort being sick and inside for a week, I just played straight Old Maid. Because some days you are just too tired to fight every fight and it seemed easier to go with the card of the old woman that was on top of the pile rather than sort through and remove the matching football player card and have the object of scorn be the football player. Anyway. Mort, however, is such a wonderful little creature that when he saw the picture of the card we would be avoiding, he exclaimed, "Well, that's a beautiful old lady!" And then I felt guilty for making that card be the bad one and I said, Yes, she sure is. It's silly that no one would want that card, isn't it?" And then Mort looked at it a little longer and asked, "So she's a maid? Like Amelia Bedelia?"

2010-02-14T13:59:00.002-05:00

Saw Crazy Heart. Rather, I sobbed my way through Crazy Heart. By the time we got home, my eyes were sore and swollen. However, it was a good movie, albeit obviously very emotional. (Not that you can really go by my usually overflowing feelings. I also cried through Bend It Like Beckham and a myriad of other movies simply because they were nice. If someone onscreen cries, so do I.) The writers and Jeff Bridges managed to accomplish the feat of creating a character who is not necessarily a particularly likable person, and yet the audience still is pulling for him. Good music, too. In fact, despite some questionable judgement on the part of the character played by Maggie Gyllenhal, the only flaw was the casting of Colin Farrell. Just did not make any sense. I can't fathom why they made that call unless there was some type of contractual obligation to fulfill. Really could not have been more miscast. That's all.

2010-02-13T07:36:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was the Valentine's Day Party at kindergarten. I love those kids. Most of them. Who else is so thrilled to make crowns from paper plates? Who else so delights in seeing their name on a BINGO sheet and immediately hangs glow sticks from their ears? Who is else is so unselfconscious(is that a real word? You may think I should know, but I don't) that they clamour for hugs and line up to give them?

Mort and I have been making Valentines over the past week or so. Save for the last two that became a struggle of me begging, bribing and coaxing him to write his name until he suddenly had a happy change of heart and decided to turn them into baseballs and footballs, we had a lot of fun. We grabbed a pile of scrap paper and construction paper and we cut hearts of every shape, size and color. (Oh, yes, when you have the two of us crafting, hearts can take on varied shapes). We glued on wrapping paper and letters. Mort drew and colored and wrote across them. We giggled. We marveled. It was a nice time.

And yet I was surprised when he opened his bag 'o Valentines last night and discovered all the other cards were store-bought. And that made me sad. Not because the other kids didn't hand make their Valentines, because that doesn't matter, but rather because it made me wonder if next year Mort wouldn't want to make his either . Will he want to skip it and pick out his favorite super hero cards instead? Did we just have our last year of making Valentines and I didn't even know it? I hope not. I hope it was fun enough to him that we have more years of doing this before he finally looks around and announces he wants to do what everyone else is doing.

And yes, I fully recognize that will happen at some point. Obviously it happens to everyone or else all these people wouldn't be wearing skinny jeans when I have come across only two people in all of America who actually look decent while doing so. I thought the extra big pants were a silly trend, but skinny jeans---no one looks good. And all the kids are wearing them. Have been wearing them for years. It's time to face facts and make this go away. In fact, I was complaining about this to my sister and loudly declaring how no one can look good in skinny jeans (are we sensing I may have the teeniest bit of I-look-like-an-overstuffed-sausage-in-skinny-jeans envy? Yes, make no mistake about it. There has never been a day in my life where I could have acceptably donned skinny jeans without ending up in the pages of Vice.) Anyway, my sister seemed puzzled by my claim and replied that she's seen people who look great in them. I just assumed she was lying. And then later that day I met two of her friends. Both of whom were so tall I looked directly at their shoulders. Both of whom seemed to be wearing no make-up and yet looked like they had stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. They were jaw-dropping, double-take gorgeous. They weren't even related to each other. Two different families of gene pools had the capacity to produce this kind of phenomenon. And needless to say, they both wore skinny jeans. As they well should.

Sometimes I like to step back and marvel at how I started writing about Valentines in the world of kindergarten and finished up with how amazing skinny jeans look on some of my sister's friends.

Duke and I rented a movie last night. We both fell asleep during it. And then Mort beat us both at Go Fish this morning. We suspect he cheated, but we were too not-yet-caffeined to figure out the scam.

2010-02-10T15:25:00.002-05:00

Wow. Three posts in one day. I must be snowed-in.

My to-do list isn't going so well. I got some unexpected, but very welcome editing work this morning. Check. I made chocolate chip cookies. Check. I used the snow blower on the driveway and shovelled out the garage and shovelled out a Stella spot twice. And lured her outside with a cookie to use it. Check. Mort and I colored, but he is adamant about not doing any Valentines today. Laundry is almost done. Check. I did get Mort outside for a bit, but it's blowing pretty hard. Mmm. Not a full-check on that one.

How many chocolate chip cookies does two hours of snow blowing and shovelling burn off? One and a half?

I am honestly too tired to clean. I was all ready to go. Took an allergy pill and everything this morning. But it is going to have to wait until tomorrow. Please. Please let them have school tomorrow. Thank-you.

2010-02-10T08:58:00.003-05:00

I found SUCH a great bathing suit. It is so retro Barbie. But it has a price-tag that is a bit hard to justify. Must mull it over. Maybe.... Oh, who am I kidding? I'm totally getting it.

The other shame of this is that I actually HAD that Barbie Doll. My aunt had the whole original collection and passed them our way. I think we got rid of/donated them when my mom moved and thought it was time for my sister and I to get our stuffed animal and magazine collections out of her attic. And in my sister's case, her 17 boxes of trophies. And in my case, a pair of mud-encrusted Birkenstocks from the last Grateful Dead I concert I attended before Jerry died. Just because we own our own homes and can store our own junk. Selfish. Anyway, who knew that there would one day be such a thing as e-bay and Craig's list and we could have sold that collection for a zillion dollars and never told my aunt and instead bought a storage facility to cram all the new junk we bought with our windfall.

2010-02-10T08:25:00.002-05:00

Today's Lofty Goals:

1) Sew patches on Mort's jeans because the iron-on ones are already curling at the edges. In trying to not be wasteful, I sure am creating alot of extra work for myself.

2) Laundry. How have we depleted the napkin supply so quickly? I'm guessing it revolves around the increase in Mort's cocoa intake aka chocolate mouth and chocolate all over the table and whatever clothes he happens to be wearing.

3) Cleaning. I know I just did it two weeks ago, but somehow the bathrooms are grimy and dust reigns. Yes, I am well-aware that many many many people clean a bit more regularly than this. I prefer to think of it not as being a slovenly housekeeper, but rather as purposefully building up my family's immunity.

4)Baking chocolate chip cookies.

5)Helping Mort finish-up his Valentines for his party at school.

6)I'm hoping to sneak outside at some point and shovel so that Duke doesn't get to end his already jam-packed workday with some additional work. I'd like to take Mort outside with me for fresh air and exercise and comic relief but he seems to be on the verge of a cold, so I'll have to do the old wait-and-see on that one.

Hmm. If I had started the list out with "Making a list of today's activities," I'd already be done with one of them.

2010-02-09T07:06:00.009-05:00

Why must I have a romantic notion about how delightful it is to live where there are four seasons? Two of which I don't really enjoy? Yes, winter and summer, I'm looking at you. You are just too long. I like the transition seasons that appear with an infusion of hope just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore. A small shoot of green appearing through the snow, waiting impatiently to unfurl into a daffodil. A cool breeze and smell of turning leaves snaking through the oppressive heat. So, I live where I live because I enjoy the weather for 1.7 months out of the year. I may want to rethink things.

We all know the snow this year has been horrid. It's so snowy, it's not even fun as those of us who are only four feet tall or less disappear into the white stuff and reemerge missing a glove and/or boot that will not be found until the spring. And shoveling the yard for the Princess Bear is a bit ridiculous. But no one said having a dog friend was easy.

The township supervisor released an interesting statement yesterday with the claim that all the roads had been cleared of snow. But that is a big fat lie. Because I live in the township and I have to drive for about ten miles in every direction before I can see any road poking through the snow. If I am driving at 15 mph with 4 wheel drive on and I'm still fishtailing and slipping all over the place, I'm going to go ahead and make the statement: The roads are not clear. Because clear would insinuate that they are easily drivable. And they really really aren't.

Not that you would know that by the piles of teenagers in SUVs driving like it's a joy ride on a summer evening in a stolen car. Or the school bus drivers! Yikes. Because our roads have been so woefully not plowed and cleared, I actually mulled over the possibility of Mort taking the bus to school. I thought perhaps it would be safer for him to be in a large bus than in a small SUV. But then Mort and I saw a bus that was obviously racing the joy-riding teenagers. Or maybe trying to outrun the

cops. Because it was flying. Maybe it had hit a patch of back ice?

"That bus is going so fast!" Mort gasped. "I hope those kids don't fall out of their seats!"

Because he had. Quite a few times. And thus ended his bus-riding career. I just can't put my child on a bus when he is sitting three to a seat with no seat belts and he tells me he falls onto the ground whenever they go over a bump and/or pothole. Plus, we live ten minutes from the school and his commute was an hour one way and forty-five minutes the other. I do know some of the school bus drivers and if he had one of them, I would feel a million times more comfortable. But he didn't and so I don't.

How did I get on this topic?

Some mornings, isn't my blog just too fun and cheery for words? Do you think you've stumbled upon the laundry list of complaints as compiled by your friendly neighborhood of angry old people with no lives? Would you like to hear about my horror at discovering the bread I've been buying ("Because I don't like seeds!!!" Mort shrieked, thus leaving me no choice but to seek out whole wheat bread that does not look like whole wheat bread.) has high fructose corn syrup in it? Or how our house humidifier isn't working and you get zapped every time you come in contact with any object in the home? And Mort was waking up with a sore throat? And Stella's allergies are flaring up? And Duke and I look like our skin is peeling? Or how my car's computer is channeling HAL and going stir-crazy from being in space too long and is insisting my tire pressure is low(it isn't) and my taillight is out(it's not)?

But we did make this while we were snowed in. So that will be lovely in about a week to 10 days. Check back with me then. I may be in a better mood.

And in the life lesson of Listen to Your Mother! Mort was walking down an ice covered ramp, purposefully trying to step on every patch of ice. "Try to avoid the ice," I kept saying in that broken record way mothers so often have. "My shoes are ice-proof!" he insisted. "Nothing is ice-proof and your feet will shoot out from under you and you could get really hurt, so I need you to be careful and listen tome and try NOT to step on the ice." Can you guess where this is going? Luckily, it was jean-patching day and what's another hole to patch amongst moms? And in case you were curious as to whether or not this little lesson has taught Mort that ice is better avoided, it has not. "Don't you remember that the last time you were fooling around on the ice, you fell?" I asked just this morning as he purposefully leaped from ice patch to ice patch. "Yeah, I remember," Mort replied, puzzled. "I didn't mind."

And one last noteworthy item on today's agenda: I was looking at Valentine's Day cards when I noticed the "From the dog" section of cards. That in and of itself is not noteworthy.What I was struck by however, was that some of the cards were labeled"From the Dog: Funny" but not all of them. Is that because some of them are serious? Some of the Valentine's Days cards that one may buy and give to someone else, pretending that they are FROM YOUR DOG are not supposed to be funny? Dear Human Companion, On Valentine's Day, I would like to take the opportunity to tell you how I really feel... Goodness. What will they think of next?

2010-02-07T10:20:00.003-05:00

I want to start composting (yes, I am aware I've been talking about this for several years now. And so of course it's normal for you to be all, What the what? Why don't you stop flapping your keyboard, get off your duff and do it already?!?) but it just seems so daunting. Even with the lovely step-by-step picture book my sister gave me for Christmas. I can figure out the inside part. Instead of scraping plates into the trash and/or garbage disposal, you scrape them into a small covered container on your counter. I've seen people do it. I can do that. It's just the next part that confuses me. What do you do next? Build a contraption in your yard? How do you prevent flies from littering it with maggots? How do you prevent it from smelling? What about the whole turning business? And then what do you do? Spread it in your garden? Isn't that kin of gross? I mean, eggshell and leaves in my garden are fine, but Mort's leftover sandwich crusts from September might be a little nasty.

So very done with the snow. It's not fun. It's not good snow. Spring. Please. spring.

Hmm. I had a very funny photo of our half-buried snowman (I'm not being politically incorrect and/or using sexist language, it really was a snowman) that looked as though it was waving its stick arms and yelling for help, but all of my thousands of photos in iphoto seem to have disappeared. I think this is a job for Duke.

2010-02-01T07:11:00.005-05:00

Well, so I saw Food Inc. I'd been avoiding it because I knew it would be depressing and upsetting and make me privy to things I'd like to pretend weren't happening.

And although I did cry through a good bit of it, it did strengthen my resolve to be even more pro-active about the food I bring into this house, to be even more hyper-vigilant, to stop buying foods that are out of season, to absolutely 100% boycott certain brands, and to go out of my way to hit farmer's markets over grocery stores. I think I'm going to ask around and look into local farms that I can actually go to to buy things because after seeing the way chickens are treated, I am beyond glad that I buy our eggs from a friend who raises her own chickens that have the run of the yard, eat insects, grass, clover, organic feed, have names, can be held by the children...I'm not a vegetarian anymore, but still, there is a way animals can be treated with respect and kindness during their lifespan, even if you are going to eat them eventually.

I think my biggest shocks (which will undoubtedly paint me as woefully naive) were how deeply entrenched in this mess was not just the government, but the FDA, the people I thought tried to protect us and keep us safe. And I was definitely bummed to learn that what I think of as "safe" companies, like Tom's of Maine and Kashi are owned by giant corporations who most definitely do not give a rat's if our food is safe or comes from a sustainable-practicing source. But then again, how in the world did I think these brands were suddenly mainstream in our grocery stores and no longer simply dusty brands at the local health food market? How did I think they were competing with the big kids? Of course they were owned by their competitors. Dumb me for thinking otherwise.

So, in hindsight, even though it was extremely sad, I'm glad I saw it because I want to be an informed consumer. I don't want to keep on the blinders and pretend that our food is safe when deep down, I know that it isn't.

Our visit from our Italian pal last year confirmed it, as I have written before but will subject you all to again. he was here for a week, eating standard American take-out food (ie NOT food that I cooked) and while Duke didn't gain any weight, our friend's pants got so tight he couldn't button them and he gained six pounds. In a week. Because there's something f*ed up with our food! It's not fresh. In Italy, our friend's family goes to the market every day or every other day to pick-up fresh produce, fresh cheese, fresh pasta, and fresh bread. Everything is fresh. It doesn't have preservatives. It's not genetically modified.It's not meant to travel. It's not meant to hang out on the grocery shelves. It's not meant to languish in your kitchen. It's meant to be eaten. And it truly does taste different and better and is better received by your body because they eat giant portions of what we deem "bad" food and people simply aren't overweight as they are here.

Anyway, so there's that.

Also, a story I sent out for publication was REJECTED. Ugh. I haven't submitted anything for so long, I forgot how terrible it feels to receive a rejection letter.

Time to thwart the food companies and make a healthy breakfast.

2010-01-29T09:04:00.006-05:00

Wow. It is Charles-Ingalls-would-have-to-chip-the-ice-from-the-horse's-nose-cold today. I read Melissa Gilbert's autobiography. not that she was any relation to Charles Ingalls per se, but she did play Half-Pint on T.V. And, hey, I forgot about her whole Tiger Beat with Rob Lowe relationship. And who knew she did drugs on the prairie?

My dad (abrupt subject change) always exchanges some type of acknowledgement with people who drive the same car as he. A lift of the index finger, a small nod. I used to think he knew all these people. Then I thought perhaps that was simply what one did when you spied someone with the same automobile. And then I chalked it up to just another random dad quirk. However, every morning I pass someone who drives the sedan version of the same car I drive. We both even picked the same color. And I'm beginning to think we should start with a finger lift salute or something. Because it seems like we should.

Abrupt subject change again. Mort has discovered "Smells Like Teen Spirit." (You would think I would know whether a song title should be italicized or in quotes, but I don't and I don't really feel like looking it up. We'll just have to deal with my decision to use quotation marks. )Except he does not call it that. He calls it the "Insert 5-year- old making guitar noise riff" song. (And again, can't recall if this is an instance where 5 year old is joined by hyphens or not. Good thing I'm not getting paid to write this.) I like Dave Grohl. Not that I know him, but speaking of Nirvana. Because he seems like he has a quick wit. And who wouldn't feel warmly towards someone that makes you laugh? I wonder if the Foo Fighters ever play Nirvana songs? Probably not.

I know this is not a popular view, but I didn't like Catcher in the Rye. I really really really wanted to. Who wouldn't want to love a book by someone who popularized the name Zooey? But I didn't love it. Or like it. I read it five or six times to make certain I wasn't missing something or that it wouldn't grow on me. I thought Holden was a bit of a whiny-pants ass. Along the train of thought of classics, I thought I would hate the The Sun Also Rises just because Hemingway was so heavily lauded. But that I ended-up really liking. We studied it in a class in college, and I was the only one who liked it. Everyone else thought Jake and co. were a bunch of self-indulgent drunk asshats. I guess it just goes to show that you like what you like and that's that. Or there's no accounting for taste. Or some other cliche. A stitch in time saves nine?

I read an article last night about a woman who was a reluctant stepmother. It musty have been fantastically written, because the author was a bit horrifying.(She flung cottage cheese in anger at her two-year-old stepson because he wanted Daddy to open it, not her.) And yet I found her to be sympathetic. And the only way that is possible is that she wrote so well that I found her more appealing than the helpless child. Interesting.

Neti-pot time.

2010-01-25T07:06:00.002-05:00

I saw the documentary No Impact Man last night. In conclusion, I think it was a good documentary because I'm still thinking about it. However, I did find myself getting annoyed as I watched their journey and I think a conversation between Michelle(the wife) and a friend probably summed up part of it. As the project gathered steam and therefore press, Michelle was wondering why so many people hated them. Which is indeed a strange thing because after all, they weren't asking anyone else to make the choices they were making. They weren't preaching. They were just trying something out for themselves and if it inspired you to make changes in your own life, hey it was a bonus. Michelle's friend replied that she thought it was possibly because so many groups had been working to save the environment and promoting a sustainable way to live for a long time and yet Colin (the husband) seemed mainly to be doing it to write a book (and I'll fill in those blanks...become rich and famous?) Additionally, the friend suggested that people reading about this project felt guilty about their own lives. And i think that's true. Because I did. Which is good. Because it can lead to change and therefore a more sustainable lifestyle that benefits all. But I'll get back to that. Maybe.

I think another problem with the dislike towards the project was simply Colin, despite his all-over positive journey that he was undertaking.He just doesn't come across as a likable person. He seems very selfish. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that my guess is that Michelle's work makes it possible for them to afford their lives because Colin is a writer who hasn't written any blockbusters that Oprah has touted, and doesn't seem to have any other source of income as most writers do. And yet when Michelle wants to have a baby, he doesn't want to because it will negatively impact his time. I'm pretty sure they have someone who cares for their daughter as she wasn't in a lot of the scenes, so I would take that to mean he is not a stay-at-home-dad and therefore has the length of the workday to write, which again, I don't think most writers have that type of luxury of time. I'm not saying that wanting only one child isn't a legitimate choice, I'm just saying that in the context of the movie and their life and his wife's amazing willingness to give-up everything consumerism in order to embark on this experiment with him, discovering that she had to talk him into marrying her and talk him into having a child with her seems pretty what the what?

Because dude, she is a gem and a half. She is clearly not a crunchy granola type woman. She readily admits she doesn't like nature. This is a woman who can afford to buy boots that cost $950 and she does. She has a closet full of designer clothes. She can identify the name of a Marc Jacobs bag at 100 paces. And she gives up everything that hints at consumerism, including toilet paper, in order to support your project. Additionally, she does so with grace and humor. And perhaps the way the movie was edited has something to do with this, but Colin just does not seem to appreciate it or her. When she's suffering from caffeine withdrawal(and that really hurts--anyone who has given up caffeine can attest that it causes migraine like headaches that SUCK) he seems disgusted and annoyed that they are even conversing about her trivial pain.

Anyway, so it is an interesting documentary. And i hope that in their private lives, he recognizes what a wonderful partner he has. Gotta make the doughnuts.

2010-01-19T14:50:00.004-05:00

A Story in three parts.

Part 1: I went out to breakfast with my girlfriends. Because it was at a diner, we all left happy, our hair smelling like bacon.

Part 2: On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store to buy bread because Mort has become finicky to the point where he can now tell if I am using the "wrong" brand of bread to make his sandwich, in which case he cannot eat it.

Part 3: A man in the bread aisle lifted his head sharply as I approached and smiled almost to himself. "That perfume smells great!" he exclaimed.

Conclusion: Men love the smell of bacon.

2010-01-18T05:19:00.003-05:00

Much amusement and merriment is made at Stella's expense around these parts. I would therefore like to take this opportunity to let her know that I do appreciate her willingness to jump-up at 4:30 a.m. when the printer is resetting itself for reasons unknown to humankind, in order to go scope out the situation.

Some may shrug off this type of behavior because she is a dog. That's what dogs are supposed to do. I know that Stella would strongly disagree with that statement, however. She feels that dogs exist to put the color in an otherwise black and white existence. (No pun intended, seeing as how Stella is, y'know, black and white. Oh, and probably at least partially color blind, right? I forget what the latest thought is on that.)

And so when I'm woken to weird noises, it's nice to have a little ball of muscle go rushing past as a first line of defense to see whether the printer is spitting out a repeat for a fish taco recipe or directions to a place I've been many times, but can never find. Thank-you Stella.

2010-01-17T10:39:00.003-05:00

So, I suspect that I have the "lob." Also known as the "long bob" the groundbreaking haircut that revolutionized the nation by the likes of Gwyenth Paltrow and maybe even someone else. To break it down, you take fairly long hair and cut it off to right below the shoulders. I know, I know, it's pretty dang radical. And while I generally think it looks fine on...Gwyneth Paltrow (the magazines tend to make it sound as though it's sweeping the country ala the Farrah or the Rachel but I think pretty much just Gwyneth Paltrow has it), I have suspected that on a civilian it looks like a mom cut. And yeah, it pretty much does.

And yet, I keep waiting for my shock and horror portion of my brain to kick in and notice that I'm not even close to being able to sit on my hair and that you can see my entire shirt from the back, unencumbered by a curtain of hair, and y'know I guess I just don't care. My hair was still damaged beyond belief from the blonde to black to copper to black to brown to brownish fiasco and now it seemingly so healthy that I can actually get a comb through it (okay, I don't use a comb. I use a pick. A giant pick. From 1982 when we used Dippity-do. I have a lot of hair. Combs break really easily. And quite frankly, my pick is missing a couple of teeth as well.) Huh. Maybe...I don't need quite THAT much hair to hide behind? Who knew? Or maybe I'm just really tired.

2010-01-16T07:14:00.002-05:00

Five years ago...was it five years? Four and a half? Hmm. Anyway, I ended-up in an emergency room in excruciating pain and it turned out I had a good old-fashioned bulging disc. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of out-of-pocket physical therapy sessions later, I hobbled on my way. Since that day, I have never, and I do mean never, nit when I have a raging fever, or am on vacation or just plain old don't feel like it, have I missed one day of doing the back exercises that will supposedly keep all and sundry in place. Like putting on a girdle (or Spanx for you young ones) of muscle for my back. I mention this because every doctor with whom I spoke or who wanted to see how I can't raise my leg or touch my toes kept murmuring that if I was diligent about my exercises, this shouldn't have happened.

And yet a couple of weeks ago, I leaned over to spit out my toothpaste foam and ta-da! My back went out. I tried the things that have worked in the past, absolute rest in the form of lying in a contorted position bolstered by cushions ala the physical therapist's suggestion for putting the least amount of pressure on it. I tried not driving, not walking, not lifting. But,dang. It was bad. So, I was forced to resort to the doctor prescribed anti-inflammitories and painkillers and class 3 narcotics. And still the pain persisted to the point that last weekend I found myself in a public place with a floor so filthy that had one of Mort's mittens fell upon it, I would not have let him pick it-up. We would have bought new ones. And yet my back gave me no choice.I laid on the floor. In the filth. No questions as to why I was out and about, because isn't it obvious? I was on medication. I was better.

And then the doctor tried to sell me on the wonders of another round of physical therapy. Which was fine the first time around. And helpful. But unless you are hurt on the job, insurance companies seem to deem all back problems pre-existing conditions. Even if you are relatively young and healthy. Bitter, party of one. And unless they've come up with some brand new exercises, I'd just as soon move on to something else.

So now I am on the juice. The steroids. And they seem to be working, thank you Jesus. The side effects are a bit interesting. As in, for someone with insomnia and various anxiety induced issues, probably not the best mix. But really, who knew I could talk this fast for this long? It's amazing! I feel like an after-school special warning against speed. In a point of interest, the steroids are the same ones our darling Stella had to take when it turned out she had hurt her back to the point that her discs were fused together. Stella's advice is, "Don't play fetch on the stairs."

And I don't know about you, but there are many the day that is so hectic that I sometimes long for just a teensy illlness that would require me to lay around all day, sniffling delicately and reading and watching crap television. In reality, that sucks. It is so boring you can't believe it.

Whoa--just big time excitement while we rushed to get Stella outside before she threw-up.

And so, while I was laid-up, I wrote. And I completed a piece. And I submitted it. And that is all I will say about that until I get my rejection letter. I'm big on the jinxing.

2009-12-24T08:16:00.004-05:00

I forgot how much fun antiquing can be! What had once been a weekly scour had turned into a distant memory. But dang if I didn't score some treasures right away; including what I anticipate to be a welcome addition to someone's pile of Christmas presents. Woo-hoo!

And I'd also like to add how lovely it is to spend time alone with friends, be they relatively new, or hail from such days of yore that you can speak in shorthand. And sitting in my Mom's kitchen while she bakes Christmas cookies never loses its charm. And my new favorite drink just may be the winterberry mojito.

Merry Christmas.

2009-12-15T08:24:00.003-05:00

Morning Mort

"Mommy, do people turn into angels when they die?"

"Well, no one knows exactly what happens, but I believe they do, "I replied. "What do you think?"

"I think it would be really cool! You'd get to fly! And be magic! And turn invisible! And shoot lasers!"

2009-12-11T06:59:00.002-05:00

So, I yelled at a kid other than my own during practice for a Christmas play last night. In a church. Is your karma better or worse if you do something like that in a church? But wait--listen to how I have justified it! If my child was doing something like that, I would have yelled at him. So, since there was no other mom available to yell at this little boy, I was doing everyone a favor.

Mort is playing Joseph. What's that you say? That you thought we didn't attend any particular church on a steady basis so how the heck is Mort portraying Joseph in a church play? Well, true enough my friend. Furthermore, aren't you Catholic? True again. And I don't know what kind of Catholic you are, but I come from the school of Catholicism that would never want kids to enjoy God to such a degree that they deface the altar by having fun near it in a Christmas play. Just sit in your pew and pray that the devil doesn't possess you for sinning. And fork over some dough while you're at it. The priest needs a new Caddy.

Anyway, we have lovely friends who do attend church regularly and their play was short a Joseph. And Mort hear the words "costume" and "stage" and he was on that like white on rice. Win-win.

Anyway, one of the three kings kept standing behind Joseph and tapping him on the head and then pointing at an innocent shepard when Joseph turned his head to see what was up. And under normal circumstances, that would have ticked me off, but Mort would have handled it, so I would have been forced to defer to what he deemed appropriate. It could have been anything from laughing to hitting back to a verbal lashing that would have shut that kind DOWN.

However, Mort was in zombie land. If that boy misses his bedtime by even a few minutes, his eyes glaze over and he goes somewhere else inside his head. And last night he missed his bedtime by an hour and a half. Even someone who doesn't know the signs couldn't miss the fact that he was not all there. And so I had to sternly tell the king to keep his grubby hands to himself. And to also chide him for bringing a shivering baby sleeping in a manger some freaking frankincense and gold. Bring the Son of God a blanket, big shot, okay? Don't be dumb.

2009-12-09T07:29:00.004-05:00

No one enjoys waking-up at 5:30 am to the sound of a ringing telephone and their former typing teacher's voice on the other end announcing there is a two-hour delay.

Perhaps under other circumstances, I'd welcome the heads-up. But I don't have other circumstances. If I awake prior to 7:30, it's a very early day. And also, we are denying our children the excitement of watching the very slow school postings on television. The waiting with bated breath to see if our school district is one of the lucky few to get the small reprieve. Inevitably, you would have narrowly missed whether or not you won the delay lottery and you would have to sit through the entire alphabet of schools, only to have it confirmed that per usual, your school district was the only one operating on a regular schedule.

Spell-check sometimes baffles me. The solutions offered seem to bear(bare? No, bear.) little resemblance to actual words. Do they have it programed to make themselves laugh? Haha! When they type in "hve," I'm going to put up "hippocratic" as a possible spelling solution! And yes, I cannot spell and I cannot type. So how my typing teacher has ended-up in such an exulted position is indeed puzzling.

Wow. I am a rusty writer this morning.

I didn't want to have to address this, but I also don't want to get on the treadmill. So, here goes:

Dear makers of the brassiere,

Once upon a time, bras did the job they were made to do. Period. No one had to give them a second thought except to make sure you weren't wearing a black one under a white shirt and vice versa. Now, however, I can not find a good old-fashioned bra to save my life. I do not want to "increase your bust by a full cup size!" I do not want to look as though I have gotten implants. I do not want to jack my chest-up to such ridiculous proportions that I cannot button a shirt. (That one is a true story, by the way, and should demonstrate how ridiculous the padding in bras has become.) Dude. I am fine with my natural self. Luckily, I have 107 years (in bra years that is) of wearing normal pre-Wonderbra, pre-Victoria's Secret proportioned bras. So, I know there was indeed a time when it was considered okay to look like yourself. Please, please, please can one stinking company return to that time? Or at least make a line of bras that hearkens back to the early 90s? You can call it The Prude line. For women who want to button their shirts.

On one of my marathon bra searches, I thought i had finally found normal bras, tucked away down in the corner of the store, closest to the floor. I laid flat on my stomach and reached back into he bowels of the bra rack, finally extracting what I thought was my size. Just a bra. No padding. No enhancing. No looking like I'm saving my pennies until I can finally afford those implants.

However, my hand emerged grasping...a training bra. The only bra that wasn't padded to high heaven was a mofo training bra. Good grief.

2009-12-05T12:52:00.001-05:00

And the best tale from the Secret Santa Shop is courtesy of Mort.

Volunteer: "What do you want to buy for your mommy?What does she like to do?"

Mort: "Well, she likes to go out at night and get her hair colored."

2009-12-03T16:48:00.002-05:00

Highlights from the Secret Santa Shop:

Volunteer: "What do you think your daddy would like for Christmas?"

Kid:"My mommy and daddy don't live together."

Volunteer:"Well, that happens. Do you think he'd like a coffee mug?"

Volunteer: "Let's look for something for your cousin Sherman."

Kid:"I just want to buy things for myself."

Volunteer: "What does your Grandpa like to do?"

Kid:"Mainly play whatever I like to play. We should probably get him stuff for me."

2009-11-30T17:21:00.002-05:00

Hi! I know that you are reading this blog because the large sign outside your business stated that you are a psychic advisor. Therefore, I feel certain that you could feel the grave disturbance in the force that occurred when I saw your sign proclaiming, "Walk-in's Welcome!"

Now, because you are psychic, please either read my mind and/or look into your crystal ball and repair this crime against grammar. I can't trust you to advise me on how to best live my life if you can't fix this. Thanks!

2009-11-25T11:43:00.002-05:00

Final exam is submitted. Cookies are baked and decorated. Flour has been removed from the floor. Some cookies look suspiciously like blobs with icing squiggles, but it was our first time using a rolling pin and cookie cutters for dough rather than play-doh.

Waiting on an author to fill in some blanks.

A shower is looking like a real possibility.

2009-11-17T06:27:00.002-05:00

I'm very full of Mort tales, apparently.

Mort walks into a bar...except it was really the living room of our house and he and Duke were wearing vampire teeth. Duke decided that given the choice, he would not want to be a vampire because he wouldn't want to drink blood.

"But if you were a vampire," Mort explained earnestly, "you would think blood tasted really yummy!"

Correct, as usual, King Friday.

2009-11-16T20:30:00.002-05:00

Another Mort-ism.

He wanted to know what my job was and he wasn't pleased when I replied, "Mommy."

"No," he said with exasperation, "your real job."

"That is my real job. That's my most important job. Ever."

Stony silence.

"The one I get paid for?" I asked.

"Yes."

So, I tried to explain to him what I did as an editor and how I fixed other people's words.

Mort was nodding sagely. "Like if someone wrote 'dog' but they meant 'cat,' you would put a red X over 'dog.'"

And so I agreed that that was pretty much the gist of it.

A couple of months later, Mort was telling people he was an author (he's very busy writing books that have chapters, so I'm going to have to agree with him on this one).

"You're a writer like your Mommy!" a lovely grown-up said to him.

"No. My Mommy is a fixer."

2009-11-16T19:38:00.001-05:00

Duke and I had an event to attend this weekend that required us to don dress-up clothes. Mort studied me for a bit and then asked, "Why do you look so beautiful? And clean?"

2009-11-12T09:23:00.002-05:00

I am so close to finishing my current job, so close to finishing my last exam before the final...I know that this is true because I am wearing my glasses and working on this year's Christmas card. And checking to see if the Foo Fighters are touring anytime soon.

2009-11-11T14:12:00.003-05:00

I must take a moment to post a note of happiness. You may suspect that this is because I'm thinking I can convince everyone to have pizza for dinner. You would be partially correct.

I am happy because I have a job that I love. A job in which I can work whatever hours I choose so long as I get said work accomplished. And that means that today I got to help out in Mort's classroom. And I love doing that. I love the kids that pass me in the hallway yelling, "Hi, Mort's Mommy!" I love the kids who respond so joyously to the slightest amount of encouragement and praise. I love the kids who look worried and watch their faces shine when they realize they have correctly sounded out and spelled every word on their own with no hinting on my part. I love their sticky little hands waving good-bye. I know that I do not have what it takes to be a teacher, but when everything goes as it should, what a rewarding job that must be.

And then I went shopping for the 742 upcoming birthday parties Mort is attending. And then I received the results of my latest exam and I finally did well. Maybe because it was the closest thing to actual editing that we have done this semester and I wasn't required to identity any phrase or clauses or parts of speech. The professor actually wrote "Good job" on my exam. You are never too old to be immune to the smiley face sticker equivalent. And as much as I've wrung my hands over this course, it has absolutely improved my skill set.

And then I worked. I caught errors and rewrote sentences and marveled at my good fortune. I'm nearly done with this particular job and I'm feeling confident that I will be hired again by this client. At least I feel that way today. Because today is the day that I shall suggest pizza for dinner. A very good day indeed.

2009-11-09T18:26:00.002-05:00

wow. Wacky tired today. went grocery shopping and then worked my editing arse off for hours upon hours. I honestly thought at one point that the book I'm editing was a joke, like maybe it's really some kind of editing test. because that is the only reasonable explanation. and the when I was done, I went to pick-up Mort. We drove home behind a car that bore a sticker reading: Jesus May Come Today. Were will you be?

Apparently my life is one bad editing joke today.

1)It's WHERE, not were.

2) Do they mean to say "where will you be going?"

Because if Jesus came right then, I would be sitting in the car behind someone lacking in basic English and I would probably get to see Him shake His head in disbelief.

And while I was laughing, Mort, of course, wanted to know what was so funny. So, I tried to convey my amusement to him, ie, I read the bumper sticker and explained that it wasn't even close to proper English and I had been editing all day and it struck me as funny. As in , on the verge of hysteria funny.

Mort thought it over for a bit and then said"Oh! I know; you'd be going to Heaven. Is that what they're asking?"

I agreed that pretty much, yes it was. I left out the part where the person who has that kind of sticker on their car obviously feels that THEY are going to Heaven; the rest of us, probably not so much.

"Why do they have that on their car?" Mort asked. How much do I love my son?

I actually tried to explain about fanaticism before just downgrading it to a lyric in a Beck song: Some people just like to get crazy with the cheeze whiz.

And then we went home and cut back the fall foliage and made a turkey-in-disguise for school.

2009-11-02T16:47:00.002-05:00

Have I shared with you all my dictionary woes?

I have had the same dictionary since I received it for Christmas when I was in...7th grade or so? To be more accurate, let's just note that is a fourth edition and currently they are up to the fifteenth edition. Which I needed for my class. I've been wanting to invest in a new dictionary anyway, as mine is in two halves since the spine fell off. A couple of pages have floated away as a result of this, as well. But really, who wants to buy a dictionary when there are much better ways to spend your money? yes, I know that in my line of work, a dictionary is a tax write-off. I still don't want to spend $42 on one when I could buy a new outfit and pair of earrings, magazines, 12 pack of socks, and giant coffee at Target for the same price.

Anyway, I had to have an updated edition for my class. So I went to Amazon. Because I'm lazy. Plus, it's fun to have things delivered to your house. Breaks up the monotony of the day and is like receiving presents. A secondary bookseller on Amazon offered a slightly damaged/used dictionary for significantly less. As the damage was a mangled corner, I accepted. Hell, I've lived with a dictionary that is in two separate halves. I can handle a dented corner.

So, I was flipping through the new slightly banged-up dictionary trying to determine if the word I thought I wanted to use was the correct one, and I came across a picture shoved into the middle of the pages. It was obviously from someone's vacation as everyone was wearing those wrist bands you sometimes have to wear at certain resorts so that you can eat at the buffet and get into the comedy club and use the snorkeling equipment. And apparently it was a "clothes-optional" resort because all the people were enjoying their water sports sans bathing suits.

Needless to say, Duke and I got weeks of entertainment by hiding that picture in each other's shoes and under the toothpaste and on each other's windshields.

Today, I went to look up a word in my dictionary and it wasn't listed. It wasn't listed because it falls somewhere between page 281 and page 344, all of which are missing.

If I am able to successfully have the secondary seller pay my shipping and handling costs and refund me my money, I will be buying a new dictionary at full price. Or at least out of the discount bin where I can scan it for miscellaneous pictures and missing pages before I buy it.

2009-11-02T16:38:00.003-05:00

I am going to go out on a limb and suggest that perhaps caterpillars were not meant to live with our family. That's right all; we lost FuzzBall. And by lost I mean that when I picked-up his jar today to change his grass and leaves, he was lying on his back with all his grossy legs pointing in the air.

2009-10-30T07:36:00.002-04:00

Oh the return of insomnia! Grrr. I have so much to do today. I suspect a link.

I also just had a minor heart attack when Mort told me his apple "had blue spots inside."

At first I brushed it aside, but then I went over to look and it truly did have blue spots. And then I started thinking of all the various horrors and poison possibilities. And then I noticed he had blue marker on his fingers that was transferring onto the apple.

2009-10-29T12:11:00.003-04:00

I'm waiting for my 60 second nail polish to dry so that I can start chopping up green peppers to use as fingernails atop the mozzarella " fingers" I'm making. I just had a flash in my head of how I used to assume mozzarella sticks were always deep-fried, because why wouldn't they be? But then I became a mom and now I assume they are just sticks of pure cheese with no funny business. You should see all the typos I've got going on because of my probably-not-wet-anymore nails. Yay spellcheck.

What I really wanted to document was the card Mort had made for me that read: "Friends forever, Mort and Mommy." Yeah, I got all choked-up, too.

Hmm. you would think that 60 seconds would be over by now. Maybe I should have done all my important stuff BEFORE painting my nails.

2009-10-27T09:32:00.004-04:00

Also, Courtney Cox really needs to lay off the Botox or plastic surgery or whatever it is that has made her face so immobile and waxy.

And if you are going to plaster your automobile with a giant banner that reads "JEEP GIRLS DO IT ON ALL 4'S," please note that fours does not have an apostrophe and should be spelled out. I will be using that as an example when I'm helping with the literacy centers in Mort's classroom.

2009-10-27T09:27:00.003-04:00

I'm interrupting my exam to bring you this very important news: Fuzzy Wuzzy has been replaced by Fuzz Ball. I thought Mort took the news of Fuzzy Wuzzy's demise rather well. Except the first thing he asks upon seeing me is, "How is Fuzz Ball?!" Like I'm some kind of caterpillar killer. Um.

2009-10-25T11:42:00.002-04:00

Reason # 4,723,982,135 that I love Duke: When he goes for a run, he stops to pick-up any snakes that are sunning themselves on the road and deposits them safely away from traffic.

2009-10-22T06:44:00.002-04:00

Today's Benjamin Franklin words of wisdom: When it rains, it pours. And no, I don't know if we can attribute that one to BF, but I think it was in The Little House on the Prairie series, so I know that we can NOT attribute it to my mom.

Hey, speaking of series, I saw that Diablo Cody (Juno) is in talks to write a Sweet Valley High movie!!! If you don't know how awesome that is, you are significantly younger than I and/or a boy.

I guess I should have made this my headline: And scene. Fuzzy Wuzzy is full-on dead.(I know, right? After all the work I put into that freaking bug?) Now the big dilemma is do I tell Mort or just replace it? Either way, Mort will eventually notice and blame me and have to be in therapy when he's 32.

Oh, and back to the rain and pour, (which it is actually beautiful outside as of late in the most amazing fall way and I have blisters from walking so much with Stella) so, my steady editing gig has kicked back in. A new editing gig is currently on my table(the world of books, holy guacamole!). Those two things alone would be enough to freak me out with the amount of work, but wait, for an additional $19.95, you can have volunteered to spend one day a week helping out in your son's classroom! We'll also throw in having volunteered to assist an additional day at school for the Halloween party/parade! and to bring in healthy snacks! Because your son is only young once! You're making memories! And don't forget your class with its weekly exam, the two after school Halloween parties, the night of trick or treat, and the normal things like cooking, cleaning, running errands, paying bills, spending time with the fam, possibly talking to my friends every now and then? Keeping abreast of the Christmas decorations at Target...so much to do. So little time. And I forgot that I need to scour the countryside for the piece de resistance of Duke's Halloween costume. And I made the mistake of sewing part of Mort's costume (and when I say sew, I mean I have a needle, I have thread. That's it.)So now Mort is under the impression that I know what I'm doing and he wants me to sew everything. EVERYTHING. Why use a tape or a paper clip or staple when you can sew?

Time to do other stuff. Ain't nuthin but a g thang baby. How thrilled would Dr Dre be to know that a suburban housewife quotes him on her blog?

2009-10-20T12:18:00.002-04:00

Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

It's possible that that quote may be attributed to someone else, but I always attribute it to my Mom.

On today's first day of the rest of my life, I dropped Mort off at school and then agonized over whether or not he was dressed warmly enough for today's field trip. But first I stopped the car in the middle of the road and gasped, "I forgot your lunch!"

Mort calmly started to unzipper his backpack. (Yes, this is why I was blessed with a laid back child. If the entire house consisted of the high-octane fuel of Stella and me it would implode.) "No, it's in here," he called and went back to singing Blondie.

And then Stella and I went for a walk. When she and I were in our primes, we used to be able to tear-up 3.5 miles in just over 30 minutes. Walking. You don't have to be impressed. I'm impressed enough for us both.

Today, we did it in 45. Which is not too bad, all things considered.

I cleaned-out Fuzzy Wuzzy's jar and gave him fresh grass.

I got the go-ahead to be a parent volunteer once a week in Mort's classroom where I will undoubtedly be known as Mrs. Mort's Mommy.

And now I'm going to try and cram in an entire week's worth of classwork into this afternoon so that my schedule is clear to do actual paid editing work. It's really a very good thing I already have a year's worth of copy editing under my belt, because this class would have convinced me that I just couldn't cut it. Luckily I know that there is not a client int he world who is going to ask me to identify the indirect object in a sentence. Because they don't care, as long as I fix it.

And at some point I plan filling up my bike tires with air so that Mort can not go bike riding with me after school. Life. First day.

2009-10-19T11:18:00.003-04:00

F you Fuzzy Wuzzy! F YOU.

I had no idea how much poop a caterpillar could generate. It makes a rabbit look like it's constipated.

So, yes. I had my brilliant idea yesterday of popping a caterpillar Mort found into his bug container. It seemed like a thing one does with her son. Except Mort really really likes Fuzzy Wuzzy. And has deemed him his new best friend. And he talks to the thing like it's Stella. I overheard him explaining stuff to the caterpillar. He told him he would really like our friends because "they're really nice and really funny." He takes it places with us. And he admonishes the caterpillar to be on his best behavior.

"What are we going to do with that thing?" Duke asked.

"I'm thinking a re-release into the wild tomorrow is a good idea," I replied.

"Yeah. I thought that too. Until I broached the idea with Mort and he said we should absolutely release Fuzzy Wuzzy. After he turns into a butterfly."

Shit.

If Mort didn't speak so nicely with that little bug and didn't make a sign for his bug carrier bearing Fuzzy Wuzzy's name and if he didn't love the damn thing so much and we didn't love Mort so damn much, I wouldn't have a fricking caterpillar in my house.

So, last night I looked up how one cares for a caterpillar. That's right. We've got a new pet until spring.

Apparently Fuzzy Wuzzy will require fresh grass every day. Hence my soaking wet socks as I hobbled around in the frost filled yard trying to get Fuzzy Wuzzy's ration for the morning. It will need sticks on which to crawl and later make a chrysalis. It will need to be tricked into hibernation by storing it in the garage. It will need a glass jar with holes punched in the lid.

And since I haven't had an ice pick since I used it to pierce my nose, ear, and belly button, I tried to punch holes in the lid with: a knife. a corkscrew. A bottle opener. And finally under Duke's suggestion, a hammer and nail. Sure.

And then came time to move Fuzzy Wuzzy from his bug habitat into his new glass home. I feng shuied the sticks and grass and it was time. Except that when I opened the door to the bug house, black something smeared across the wood. Of course I screamed because i thought it was Fuzzy Wuzzy's gross little head. Duke yelled down to ask if I was okay. I yelled back NO as I think I just killed Fuzzy Wuzzy. However, apparently it was just more caterpillar poop. Oh. My. God.

By then I was thoroughly disgusted and done being a cool mom and asked Duke to handle it. However, Fuzzy Wuzzy apparently really likes his bug habitat. And he refused to budge. We tried shaking him out. We tried poking him out. We tried bonking him out. Fuzzy Wuzzy would not be evicted. He was holding a sit-in and was waiting for a return call from his lawyer. He would not curl up into a ball and practice passive resistance. He was holding a sign that read "Hell no, we won't go." He held onto the screen in his habitat with all 13 sets of his grossy insect legs. (No, I have no idea how many sets of legs he has. Nor do I care.) What did come out of his bug habitat was poop. Lots and lots of poop. (Care to wager how many times I have washed that are with bleach since this incident?)

Apparently when you make a bug habitat at Home Depot, you are really making a more attractive roach motel. They go in, but they don't come out. So we got out scissors. And we cut open the netting. And that mofo caterpillar walked himself on out the front door of the bug carrier. Now I'm going to have to explain to Mort why we destroyed the netting. Let's just say Fuzzy Wuzzy will be receiving the full blame.

I feel like the entire house smells of caterpillar poop.

2009-10-18T18:04:00.002-04:00

So. I used to be fairly scared of the swine 11H% flu. We can give it whatever titles we want. It will still be called the swine flu. You should have named it H1N2T$ or whatever in the first place because you cannot give the public a name like swine flu and then try to take it away. Really, how many times has Jennifer Lopez said she doesn't want to be called JLO? And that she doesn't want her husband to be referred to as Skeletor?

So, much like the West Nile Virus and SARS and uh...various bacterial food outbreaks, I tucked the swine flu away in my constant bag of looming anxieties to be pulled out and mulled over when things seem to be going too well.

But then it was helpfully pointed out to me by a non-American that statistically, the swine flu just doesn't have much on the regular flu. No real leaps in deaths, or outbreaks. Which is not to say that I don't make everyone who enters our house immediately remove their shoes and wash their hands. But how much of this is media driven great white shark attacks? Did you know that more people die each year of bee stings than shark attacks? But that's not making the cover of the magazines and newspapers.

Yes. By all means, cough into your elbow. Stay home when you're sick. Wash your hands until the skin cracks and bleeds(uhh, not that I've done that.) But I'm not going to inject my kid or myself with some rushed through "vaccine" that is unproven and contains live flu. And I'm not going to stay indoors. Because I've gotten alot of mosquito bites and no West Nile Virus. And I think there is still a shortage on face masks after SARS. And have we ever again heard of SARS? Until it shows up on VH1's "Where are they now?" I think it was a one hit wonder.

Time to feed the caterpillar.

2009-10-18T14:45:00.002-04:00

My hands really hurt because I was using the giant chomper scissor type thingys to cut down weeds. Alot of them. Because Mort wanted to cut stuff. So I tried to kill two birds with one stone. Also, we found a woolly bear caterpillar. It's definitely a woolly bear caterpillar and NOT a tomato horn worm. Don't worry. So we(I) immediately ran and grabbed Mort's bug catcher that he had made at Home Depot and put in a nice bed of grass and basil leaves and a couple of sticks and popped in said caterpillar. And he(she?) seems happy enough. It's crawling on the stick and eating some basil.

I have had many firsts since becoming a mommy. First middle of the night trip to the ER...oh, well, okay maybe that one has happened a time or two prior to being a mom. First time using spit to clean someone's face...um, okay, no that wasn't a first either. Well, the point isn't what I HAVE done, the point is what I HAVEN'T done. And that included bowling. I had never been bowling. Yesterday, however, it was a gross and yucky endless seeming type of day. And it ended up rocking. Mort and Duke (the) and I went out for really ridiculously good burgers. And then we went bowling. And then we had ice cream. It was a super fun time. And I wasn't even horrible at bowling. Typically I don't like to broaden my horizons because I am very competitive, yet can't do much well. So it's sometimes better to just not do anything. But I beat Mort. So, not too bad, Mommy. Not too bad at all.