fever

(dis)comfort levels

2012-01-24T13:36:00.000-05:00

On the day I got the Reiki Attunement, we had to do some group-type things that required us to close our eyes.

For ~~some~~ most people, closing eyes in a group can be very uncomfortable. Especially when you are closing your eyes and doing something you've never done before. There is that overwhelming temptation to peek, just to see if you are doing it right. And an even more overwhelming temptation to peek and look how stupid everyone else looks.

(hint: Never Peek. If you keep your eyes closed and just do what feels right and natural, you are doing everything correctly and the people who are peeking will think you are the bizzy and do exactly what you are doing, making everything that feels right and natural to you feel right and mostly natural to everyone who looked to you and saw you with your eyes shut and doing what your body does all by itself)

I was pretty lucky because I was in a room full of people that I sort of know. People who work in Parenting under the same City Money that I work under. People who I look up to, people who have the same underlying philosophies about being parenting professionals and parenting educators and just plain old parents.
And one other girl who was really cool and turns out she lives in my neighborhood so I can't wait to be better friends with her and I fingers-crossed hope she doesn't google my name and find this blog and read this and think I'm crazy because now I'm blogging about her and what if she never returns my calls or the email I sent to her saying I'm available for coffee or for lunch whenever she is because I'm pretty flexible especially if she doesn't mind an almost six year old tag along. Her hair was really pretty too, and she kept doing that thing where the pony tail goes out and the pony tail goes back in and sometimes it's up high and sometimes it's down low and it was really all just follicular magic.

Anyway. I'm usually pretty comfortable closing my eyes in front of people, thanks to improv and attending so many squishy warm warm professional development classes and City Funded parenting classes (I know I've reached a certain level of comfort within the universe when I can be locked into a room full of untethered maximum security prisoners and shut my face down completely. Good or bad, you be the judge) and other stuff where they make you close your eyes and last Saturday at the Reiki Attunement wasn't much different.

But I did something I've never done before there in a circle with my eyes closed and my hands clasped around two others'. I chanted, along with the entire group doing the same, my own name. Starting out really quietly, like a whisper. Then spoken, then sung.

Sung the way you might sing your baby's name, the way your name probably hasn't been sung since you were a baby.

It was pretty powerful. And really super unnatural for me and really hard to do and my voice choked up and hardly came out and I'd like to try it again but I want an empty house and a finger or two of something strong and I'd feel much better if maybe the neighbors aren't home either, just in case they hold glasses to the wall or whatever.

Honoring yourself as someone who is loved and cherished and wanted and valuable and precious and and and is really outside of the everyday spectrum of normalcy. For me at least.

happy new year, again.

2012-01-23T15:38:00.000-05:00

Today begins the Year of the Dragon.
I'm a Dragon. A Fire Dragon specifically, since I was born in 1976.
I'm a Dragon almost to the letter. Though I like to think I'm not quick tempered, I'll admit that I'm very knee-jerky.
I'm also a Leo, albeit a sort of self-conscious, but people are always surprised to learn that about me if they know me in real life.
So, you know. All that. Don't say I didn't warn you.
(you'll note the number of "I's" up there)

Just in case you're a dragon too, here is something I lifted off www.chinesezodiac.com. It's a little more in depth than the placemat at your local take out.

"Occupying the 5th position in the Chinese Zodiac, the Dragon is the mightiest of the signs. Dragons symbolize such character traits as dominance and ambition. Dragons prefer to live by their own rules and if left on their own, are usually successful. They’re driven, unafraid of challenges, and willing to take risks (eh- not so much me. I don't like risks). They’re passionate in all they do and they do things in grand fashion. Unfortunately, this passion and enthusiasm can leave Dragons feeling exhausted and interestingly, unfulfilled.

While Dragons frequently help others, rarely will they ask for help (ever see me receive something? I'm not good at it). Others are attracted to Dragons, especially their colorful personalities, but deep down, Dragons prefer to be alone. Perhaps that is because they’re most successful when working alone. Their preference to be alone can come across as arrogance or conceitedness, but these qualities aren’t applicable. Dragons have tempers that can flare fast!

Health
Considering their hard-working nature, Dragons are healthy overall. They do get stressed and suffer from periodic tension/headaches, likely because they take so many risks. Dragons could benefit from incorporating mild activity into their lives. Yoga or walking would be good as these activities can work both their minds and their bodies.

Career
Dragons prefer leading to being led. Jobs that allow them to express their creativity are good choices. Some good careers include: inventor, manager, computer analyst, lawyer, engineer, architect, broker, and sales person.

Relationships
Dragons will give into love, but won’t give up their independence. Because they have quick, sometimes vengeful tempers, their partners need to be tough-skinned. Dragons enjoy others who are intriguing, and when they find the right partners, they’ll usually commit to that person for life."

My child is a dog. And a fish.
Zodiacally speaking, of course.
He's got both right down to a t (tee? tea? T?) too. Funny how that works.
I guess some people are born with conflicting signs, but not us. Or maybe some of us are just so good at wanting to fit in that we read into these things with a mindset that can let us buy into anything we read.

You might not know this about me, but I'm a sucker for this mumbo jumbo. Not the daily blurbs you find in the paper, but birth signs and star charts and ancient wisdoms. When I was in between college and grad school, at the beginnings of a useful internet but while real library research was still en vogue, I spent months plotting out this personality chart based on the time and place of my birth and the moon hanging out in the seventh house and Jupiter aligning with Mars and when it was all done, for just that moment, peace guided the planet and love steered the stars.

science!

2012-01-19T08:59:00.005-05:00

On Saturday I became certified in Reiki.

Level one.

"Stand back, or I'll heal you", she said, with raised hands and waggley fingers.

That's what I like to do whenever I tell anyone.

I plan to take the second level sometime soon. For now I'm having fun with what I've got so far.

I've gotten Reiki a few times, nothing extensive. I know people who swear by it, I know people who swear it's a bunch of billshut. Sort of like prayer.
It's all about energy, and channeling energy, and using the energy that is around us with the intention to do good and wonderful things. I'm into it.

The proof I needed to know whether I was doing it "right" or not came from my cat, who won't leave me alone anymore. She gets really floppy and relaxed and stops purring normally and starts drooling and jumps up to smell my hands every couple minutes and lick my nose and then goes back to the floppiness.
Have you ever seen a horse fall down? She gets sort of like that, but not so heartwrenching and much more adorable.

And I tried it on Jake without telling him what I was doing and he closed his eyes and smiled and said, "Mom, what did you put on your hands? They are making my insides feel like fluffy clouds on a sunny day!". He loves it, and sits down next to me and puts my hand on his belly or his head way more than socially acceptable.

That's proof enough for me.

***

My improv team got a really exciting opportunity to be part of the Philadelphia Science Festival. There is a worth-watching Highlight Reel from last year's fest if you scroll down and look on the right hand side of the page. They did a pretty good job with it.

For our bit, we are teamed up with a historian/scientist and while he gives a lecture, we get to do some sort of comedy around it. The theme for our, um, I'm not even sure what to call it. Symposium? Is Life, Sex, Death, and Food.
We got sex.
Luckily we are a pretty tasteful bunch and are classy enough to not be raunchy, so it should be a pretty good show. Last year was the first year of the festival, and this year we get to be the first-ever-improvisers. It's nice to know that smart people trust us enough to let us do something totally off the cuff. We went in to the first meeting thinking they'd ask us to write a sketch or something that can be stamped with scientific approval by a bunch of whitecoated censors, but no. That feels good.
Click here for a You Tube of last year's Comedy Symposium.

Our show is Thursday, April 26th 7pm at the Chemical Heritage Foundation.
There will be beer. Yards is a co-sponsor, and will brew something special for the festival.

There's also lots of things for kids to do, it seems most of the program is geared for the K-12 set. Except for our show. Don't bring your K-12er to our show. I think there is an age clause on the bill.
18 to enter, 21 to drink.

***

Nothing much else is going on. Jake has a dentist appointment next week. For those keeping track, he has lost his two bottom teeth. They are mostly grown in, and crossed over one another. I'm keeping my fingers crossed over one another that it isn't indicative of the rest of his Big People Teeth.

I took him to the eye doctor months ago, I'm not sure if I wrote about that here but just in case I'll let you know that everything was fine. A note came home from the school nurse that he failed his vision test. He did fine with the distance stuff but not so well with the up close test. Which makes sense, because he's always complaining that he can't see the lines in his copy books or the small print in adult books and magazines.

Ohgodno. No, no, no. Not like adult adult magazines and books. I mean, like, books and magazines that aren't printed specifically for children. Small font. He has a problem with small font.

The eye doctor said that he does have a little bit of a prescription (there is a real word for that. Refraction, I think, but I'm not sure) but it isn't worth the hassle of making a five year old wear and take care of glasses. I was glad. Jacob was sad. He even picked out a pair before he went in for his exam:

Because I know the optician and I know I'd get a good deal, I just let Jake take a look and pick out whichever ones he wanted and he beelined to these.

Those are probably the same I'd have picked for him. He looks very Ben Folds-y.
Of course they were the most expensive in the box, so it's probably best he didn't need them.

Still no word on the summer camp issue, but my fingers are still crossed.

January is half over and I haven't cried because of the cold yet. Yet. It's pretty rough out there now but still no snow. You don't have to shovel wind and you can't slip and fall on the cold.

Say! Any of you guys know how to Madison?

2012-01-13T09:32:00.000-05:00

I watched a lot of television yesterday.
A. Lot.

I don't do that very often, but I'm a little distraught about something and it's a good way for me to be able to think and do nothing all at the same time.

Housework is another way to think, but the "do nothing" part was of utmost importance.
Although I did get the laundry done.
Reading is not a good way to think, but it is my favorite way to do nothing.

I watched the second half of season two of Eastbound and Down. One of my favorites. EVERYTHING in that show is funny. Every line, every plot, every thing. My problem with it is now that I know Will Ferrell has a heavy hand in it, all I can see is The Guy Who Plays Kenny Powers as Playing Will Ferrell Playing Kenny Powers. I like Will Ferrell. I think he is talented. Have you ever seen his SNL audition tape? Gold. So is Phil Hartman's, btw. But I've had more than enough Will Ferrell in my life for at least the next 50 years. I can't stand Old School, that's where he lost me. I hate that I feel like Kenny Powers is just another Frank the Tank. I wish I never let the DVD player run through the credits during the first episode of season two. I usually fast forward.
I had a track coach in high school who looked just like (and acted quite like) Kenny Powers. An internet stalk search shows that he works at a Buick dealer in my hometown. Gross.
I have a friend who's family sounds like they are saying "Buick" when they puke. My track coach in high school really makes me want to Buick every time I think of him.

Anyway.

The same thing happened with Curb Your Enthusiasm. I hear it's a great show, but I can't get through a single episode due to having watched Jerry Seinfeld play Larry David for ten years. Now when I watch Larry David, all I can see is Larry David playing Jerry Seinfeld playing Larry David. Larry David is his own Poor Man's Larry David. It's his own fault, really.
Plus that Cheryl Hines really grosses me out and I can't stand to look at her. When you Google Cheryl Hines, you get a lot of information about her feet, which are apparently the focus of a large number of fetishists. Who knew?

Feet fetishes are weird to me. I have an anti-foot fetish. The less I see of feet, the more turned on I am. It conflicts strongly with my anti-shoe and anti-sock fetish. If I see your socks I want to throw up. Especially if you are wearing shorts or your pant hems are too short and it goes shoe-sock-flesh-pant. OMGross. If your shoes look too tight or too loose or too anything other than perfect, I want to cry. I don't like to wear socks and shoes because I feel like I'm going to choke. I do like just socks, provided they have no seams and are either not textured at all or there is a perfect nubby-rubby texture, like cable knit or marled. Oh, marled. I think you are the focus of my fetish. I want the world to be marled.

I thought my universal remote wasn't compatible with my DVD player for about six months because I didn't understand why the buttons didn't work when I hit VCR then ff/rewind/play/pause/etc. I can't get used to the term DVD. It sounds like something contagious.

Did you hear about Sally?
No, what?
She has DVD
DVD!?!? OMG! What a slut!

Anything that includes the initials "VD" sounds scabby and itchy.

I also watched Rocky Horror in its entirety last night. If you've never seen it, please see it sometime between now and the end of the month. It is my favorite movie of all time, partly because of the acting (everyone is so committed and so on-point) but mostly because I'm a sucker for half-dressed transvestites. And Tim Curry.

I could go for some really good Thai ~~porn~~ food. There is this vegetable red curry at The Reading Terminal that is my most favorite food ever. It's all coconut milky and spicy and filling and has 8 or 9 different vegetables in it. And it's like five bucks.

Comfort food is good.
All of my present-day comfort food is food I never ate as a child.
Take from that what you will.

I'm a little upset about something.
A lot upset, really.
The community center where Jake attended pre-school and a summer program and now afterschool care and where I planned to send him this summer is closing. I have no idea what I'm going to do. The center is open from 7am until 6pm, which is perfect for people who work full-time. Everything else of value in South Philadelphia and downtown is only open from 9-3, with the exception of somewhere that is open 9-5. I work from 8.30-5. I'm going to try to pull some strings with people at my job who have jobs dealing with funding for programs providing child care when school isn't in session, but it looks bleak. Especially for summer. Afterschool I will deal with. I won't love it, but I'll deal with it. The place he is at now has all sorts of accreditations and a gym and a weight room and a pool and a computer lab and is attached to the public library and they have an outdoor space. It's perfect.
And $65 a week.
They are open when schools are closed. Most places aren't.

I know things will work out.
I also know that the only bid on the center is by Jake's school.
I'm going to write to the principal and ask her to consider running an afterschool and summer camp there. It would be great money for the school, provided she can get all the insurances and stuff together in time. It would provide extra income for the teachers during the summer. Or maybe she could keep some of the existing staff.

The Community Center is also a senior center. A place where they can exercise and socialize and eat. A place they can go to get out of the house. That's important when you're old. You need to exercise and socialize and eat and get out of the house. If not, you die.

I know the woman who runs the agency who runs the center and she is a terrible person. She's made a lot of really bad social work and public health decisions in the past. Some that I was directly involved with, some that I just heard through intra-office and inter-office chatter. But the center itself is great. Was great. Will hopefully continue to be great.

I love how I don't have to worry about good schools here in the big city, but I am sick over what will happen to my child when he isn't there. Being a working mom is hard for a lot of different reasons. This is one of them.

But, I have a great weekend planned out. Tonight I clean the house. Tomorrow day I have a class that I've been looking forward to for years, tomorrow night I have a show- we are doing an improvised B-movie, which is our favorite thing to do, and Sunday a good friend is coming up from Baltimore and we are hanging out late night since there is no work on Monday.
And Monday? I rest.

I can't wait.

tuesday

2012-01-10T11:04:00.003-05:00

Ever since the earthquake happened, a big chunk of the fire tower in my building between the mezzanine and second floor has been cracking and falling to the ground.
By "big", I mean about 20 inches by about five inches.
By "cracking and falling", I mean I've been picking at it very stealthily with outstretched fingers that traipse along the entire staircase wall and bumping my shoulder and rubbing my bag into it as I pass. I really needed to see if it was just surface damage to the plaster or real for serious damage to the concrete and I couldn't just stand there and wreck it worse because there are security cameras in there and even though I'm not really that afraid of our 67 year old lady security guard, I'm afraid of the people she might tell.

Maintenance finally got to it over the weekend and picked it apart in a for reals investigation and they haven't made it to the actual patching up part of the job yet so I can see that the foundation of the wall is doing just fine.

That's a load off my mind.

***

We didn't get a call back for the Olive Garden commercial, but it was a great experience. I've had two auditions in my whole life- one of them tanked and one of them went well. If I was a baseball player, I'd be batting .500 and riding high on my career so there is no room for complaints.

I sort of want to audition for something else now. Just so I can look into that camera and say my name and feel all those goosebumps and butterflies jumping around my body.

***

I read this article the other day that made cockroaches sound delicious and nutritious and shrimp sound like the most vile creatures in the universe. Something about eating whole grains in a kitchen verses poop on the (ocean) floor and a bunch of other stuff that supported the argument.
Me? I think cockroaches and shrimp are pretty much exactly alike and neither should be favored over the other.
The only difference for me is that I've eaten shrimp on purpose and shrimp never startle me when I take the trash out on a sticky summer night. I'm sure I've eaten (the equivalent of) at least one cockroach. See, I've also read this article about how the FDA allows so many bug parts in peanut butter and sacks of rice and flour and other dry goods.

***

I heard on television that the real danger of eating cookie dough is not the raw eggs (only one in every 30,000 eggs in the US is contaminated with salmonella. Or is it 300,000? Odds are good either way) but the uncooked flour. Lots of pesticides and bacteria and viruses and cockroach parts in uncooked flour.

***

A few co-workers found traces of mice in their desks last week.
By "traces", I mean poop pellets and chewed cardboard.
I didn't find any in mine, but I cleaned house really well just in case. I brought in a giant empty Scottish Butter Cookie tin in from home to hold my oatmeal and tea. Mice can't chew through metal according to the most recent scientific reports. The only problem is now it looks like I have 64.8 ounces of butter cookies on my desk and people keep asking for one but I have none to give.

***

When I was in college, I worked as a Pharmaceutical Tech. You didn't need a special license or degree to do that back then, and you made almost $10 an hour which was really good for back then.
$10 used to buy a lot more than it does now.
Like two red Solo cups on a Saturday night.
Two red Solo cups on a Saturday night used to guarantee you'd get laid sometime between midnight and the next morning.
Date night, indeed.
At my Pharmaceutical Tech job, the Real Pharmacists used to call me Lorna Doone. That's how it was recorded in the Pharmaceutical System and everything. You didn't need a real name, a special license or degree to fill prescriptions back then. Just the willingness to work under pressure while the Real Pharmacists smoked cigarettes out back and did the crossword puzzles in the break room.
I hope I didn't accidentally kill anyone.

***

On Christmas Eve, Dave, Jacob and I took a drive to our college town to buy a pizza. The pizza shop has the same name and location but looks a lot different. The town has the same name and location, but looks a lot different. The campus has the same name and (an expanded) location, but looks a lot different.
Old dorms have been torn down and rebuilt, but ours is still there. Dave and I were next door neighbors in the freshman dorms. Mothers and dads, don't let your babies live in co-ed dorms. New buildings have gone up where we used to be able to have catches and kicks and build snowmen and get a little bit of sun. The Quad is the same. Same trees, same buildings, same sidewalks. But it looks smaller now. And somehow more beautiful, despite the fact there is a Starbucks in the library. There was no one else there, we had the whole place to ourselves for the hour or so we spent walking around.

Something about watching your child run wild across your college campus makes your throat feel funny and your eyes get something in them.

Something about watching the man who, once upon a time, was just your college boyfriend run wild after your wildly running child across your college campus almost twenty years after it all first happened makes your throat feel funny and your eyes get something in them.

Damn suburbs and all the nature out there messing with my head holes.

Thursday Spaghetti

2012-01-05T15:08:00.001-05:00

I've been awful about Wednesday Spaghetti. Mostly because improv practice is on Wednesday nights, but partly because I've lazed up these past couple years. But Wednesday Spaghetti is still going awful strong in my heart.

Yesterday was National Spaghetti Day. I ate spaghetti, for the first time in a long time. All alone, as no one else wanted pasta. My cat licked the bowl. That has to count for some sort of sisterhood.

Angel hair with a cabernet sauce, scrambled eggs mixed in, parmesan and lots of black pepper and a bit of rosemary on top.

Nothing special, I assure you, to eat- but it was tasty and filling and it brought me to thinking of how much I miss my Wednesday Spaghetting and how proud I am of the ladies all over the country who are still keeping the torch lit.

I'll be doing at least quarterly spaghetti dinners this year. Probably on Thursdays.

***

In other Thursday Spaghetti news, I had an audition this morning for a nation-wide-televised Olive Garden commercial.
Me and a few other members of my improv team.
No biggie, just something that I've never ever done before and never ever thought of doing until less than 24 hours ago.
Carrying on as if I just walk around town with my head shots and drop in on this kind of stuff every day around lunchtime.

You know how I do.

New year, new stuff.
Start the year off like this is going to be the one where I'm going to make real changes.

I didn't puke. Or sweat. Or poop.
All things that I used to be really afraid of doing in conjunction with any sort of performance-based activity.

It was really fun, and after getting a few pictures taken and saying our names into a camera all we had to do is sit around and BS about a whole bunch of lightly-scripted stuff that I can almost remember but not really because I don't want to dwell on it too much. That's when the voices start, when I start dwelling.

It was weird because it was supposed to be dinner tabley talk, but we were sitting on stools in a row.
It was good because we are really comfortable with one another and have no problems going on and on about nothing in a natural sort of way no matter how awkward the seating arrangement.

Acting!

I've never done anything from a script before, save for elementary school plays. The thought terrifies me. I'm okay with making stuff up on the spot, but I feel like if I have to memorize anything I'll choke and get a brain block and everyone will laugh at me. I recently dreamed that I got a part in a local play and then they kicked me out because I flubbed everything. That and I didn't speak French or dance the Ballet and it was a French rendition of the Nutcracker, but I had no idea at the audition. I guess I just got in on my good looks.

Call backs are next week, and while I don't have High Apple Pie in the Sky hopes about it, it was a really good way to spend my lunchbreak on a random Thursday.

first in twelve

2012-01-03T08:50:00.000-05:00

Congratulations on making it halfway through the months that have R's in them. Those can be the toughest between the Back to Schooling, the Holidaying, the Seasonal Affective Depressioning, and the Holy Crap I'll Never Be Able to Feel my Toes Ever Againing.

Although, maybe you like to ski or something so there is a possibility you love this time of year.

Who am I to judge?

The best part of the R months for me is the food. (And blankets, scarves, and socks.) Soups and stews and all sorts of root vegetables.
The worst part of the R months for me is the grocery shopping. (And dry skin, freezing temps, and short days.) There aren't farmer's markets in every neighborhood anymore so you have to go to the actual supermarket to get your stuff and OMG, have you ever been inside a supermarket? GROSS.
There are all sorts of icky people there, dangerously close to the food you may or may not buy.
And sometimes you see someone really disgusting buying something that you would normally buy but you just can't because you don't want to be put in a class with the really disgusting person.
And you can smell the fish case. And the milk case. And the meat case.

One of my new year's resolutions is to Order Groceries Online.
It costs $1 and they bring it to your house.
Yes please.

Another one is to keep off the ten or so pounds I lost during the holidays. Don't ask how that happened. I'm either incredibly lucky or dying.
If you don't have a resolution tied to your weight you aren't normal, so they say.

The Mayans say that the world is ending this year. To that I say: Um, the Mayans ended too. Maybe they just didn't get a chance to finish their calendars. I'm still alive and I only finish about 35% of things I begin.
I'm not too worried about it now but if I know me (and I think I do) I'll probably get mildly freaked a few days beforehand but completely forget about it a few days afterhand.

Just like I do with everything else.

more useful than the Social Security list

2011-12-30T10:53:00.001-05:00

I flaked on Christmas cards this year. I love Christmas cards. I hate when I don't send them out.
Maybe I'll do Valentines like I did a few years ago. Who doesn't love getting Valentines in the mail? It's a dying art.

Most of my friends don't have kids. Or, well. I don't know. More and more of my friends are having kids. I guess that's what happens in your mid to late 30s in this modern life we are living. Your friends start having kids. And stop sending Christmas cards. Most of the Christmas cards came from families and friends without kids. But some moms and dads were very very good this year, and on top of their card-sending shiz.
Without further ado, here is a run down of the Names My Friends Picked for their Kids. (Writer's Note- if someone who remains childless sends a card out with a picture of a pet on it, the pet is listed here. Please do not try to publicly guess which ones are pet names. That's like asking a chubby girl when she is due. There are four pets listed here.)
I'm sensing that mothers of Liams' and of Henrys' are the most responsible moms of all. (Personal Aside- Tavia- using this logic, you win for Responsible Mother of the Year!!)

Aaron x2
Abigail
Adriana
Alec
Annarose
Arthur
Boaz
Brittany
Beau x2
Cameron
Camille
Carly x2
Cian
Elise
Finn
Francesco
Freddie
Halo
Henry x4
Isabelle x2
Isabella
Jack x2
Jackson x2
Jessica
Joey x2
Jonah
Joseph
Kani
Keira
Lauren
Liam x4
Lucy
Maggie
Nicholas
Olivia
Samuel x2
Sofia x2
Sonny
Sylus
Theo x2

If you didn't send me a card this year and you would like your child(ren)'s name added to the list. Leave it below. I love names.
Not included are Jake's little school friends who brought cards to school. I didn't want to put their names on the internet, even though I really really want to because a few of them are doozies. South Philly people love to make up words and slap them on children. The best (saddest) is the poor last-born girl-child with one or more big sisters and no brothers. They are the ones who usually get dad's name with an -anna or -ia tacked on to the end "to make it sound Italian". The machismo that goes on in our community is strong, my friends.

Jake did not bring cards to school. He brought Christmas pencils. I thought it was a greener, more consumable option. Probably not though, once you add production and packaging and shipping and I wonder how long it takes for the little metal band around the eraser to return to dust and I'm not sure what they use for lead these days, especially in dollar store pencils but I'm sure it has an obscene half life and whoa, speaking of lead I wonder where they were made, that could have been lead paint in there or maybe sweatshop babies had to make those, that's not good.
I have a friend who doesn't believe in giving gifts that cannot be consumed within one year's time. Lots of cosmetics, candles, food, drinks, etc. come my way from her. It's great because the gift says "I care about you enough to buy you something to pamper yourself" at the same time it says "I care about you enough to buy you something that won't kick around your house until the end of time".
If you are friends with me in real life I've probably given you soap, alcohol, or candles. It's my way of paying homage to consumability so you don't have some dumb piece of knick knack paddy crap taking up shelf space and collecting dust.

yule

2011-12-27T15:41:00.000-05:00

Well that happened.

Christmas.

And no one got hurt, and only a few tears were shed, and no one got drunk or punched or grounded or arrested.

I call that a true holiday miracle.

Jake slept in until almost 8am after a night out catching up over drinks and eating one thousand bites of food and lighting the menorah and sitting on Santa's lap at friends' out in the burbs the night before.
Presents lasted about 10 minutes or so and then we just sat and played with new toys for one million hours before heading over to Cherry Hill to see Arthur Christmas then back to Chinatown for dinner at Ho Sai Gai. Best crab rangoon you've ever had, or I'll eat my shoe.
The movie was fantastic too. You should see it. In 3D, and I would never recommend anything in 3D.
Except How to Train Your Dragon. That you should see in 3D.

I got a nook!
Now I never want to be inconvenienced ever again in my life by having to put out the effort it takes to hold a book open and manually turn pages. I'm sitting in front of a stack of homework right now, and I just can't do it with the old fashioned texts.
I'm getting a cramp down my wrist just thinking about it.

Getting gifts is very awkward for me. I don't really know how to act and I sort of freak the freak out and act like I have some sort of special needs diagnosis.
Dave bought me the nook, and luckily he has a good sense of humor about my reaction to things bought for me.
We never really exchanged gifts, save for a few birthdays and Christmases along the years. We say it's just something we don't really do, but I wonder if he's really just protecting me from myself...

Did you ever read the Five Love Languages? Or hear of it?
Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. Those are the five ways which most people show/give love or like to be shown/receive love.

To give love I'm a Physical Toucher, a Words of Affimationer, a Gift Giver, a Quality Timer, and a Acts of Servicer. In that order.
To get love I'm a Quality Timee, Physical Touchee, Words of Affirmationee, and Acts of Servicee. Gift Recipient is not anywhere on the list. It's off the chart. You won't find it here at all because it's so remote from what I'm comfortable with that I actually wrote it over on your blog.

But man do I love that nook.

For myself, I bought some Nioxin shampoo. Better living through science. The natural approach at trying to prevent further hair loss isn't working, so I bought the big guns. My hair was doing so well for a few months. Then it decided to revolt again. So sad. I'm taking it better this time around though. I'm all cried out over it. Time to get proactive.

Proactive. I should probably pick some of that up too. 35 years old and I have the worst acne of my life. Everywhere you can get acne? I have acne.
I'm treating that with chemicals too. Hopefully it will clear up in a month or two or twelve.

Bras. Four of them. Buy 2 Get 2 at Macy's today.
Bra sizes are like mens' pants sizes. They should make a size 35. I go 34 and wear it on the last clasp. It screams bloody murder for a couple wears and then the elastic gives some and it's a smooth ride forever after.
And the letter thing is just gross. They need to come up with a fix for that too. It's like getting graded.
Like a school girl.
Or meat.
And the trail of letters behind the number is just insulting.
I feel like more than one letter is secret code for "Lay off the Cookies, Fatty". Or "People Think You're a Slut".
But it's not.
I just have issues.
I don't know if there are lots of people (I should probably say "women" instead of people, but I'm sticking with "people") with my bra size or not many at all because they never carry what I need.
And that's how I end up with so many nude colored bras.

Nude.
Nuuuuude.
Muuuuude.
Moooooooooo.
Duh.

Whose nude is that anyway? That is not the color of anyone I know, and my group of peers looks like the friggin United Nations.

Shoes too. Size 7s are always in short supply.

And time. Where the hell is all the time at these days?

Someday when I'm smarter and richer I'm going to launch a research campaign around my obsession with the Time Space Continuum. And I'm going to have it renamed the Time's Pace Continuum. Because that's all it really is, isn't it? A continuum of moments and distances passed past as experienced by each of us with respect to our own relativity, stretching from So Slow/Far I Feel Like I Might Die Here if I'm Not Already Dead <-----> Holy Crap Is My Watch/Calendar/Mileage/GPS Serious or am I Losing My GD Mind?

I hope your holidays are falling somewhere right in the middle.

the goose is getting fat

2011-12-14T09:33:00.002-05:00

Shopping for Jacob this Christmas was easy, he only wants one thing. A Nintendo 3DS. And while I'm not crazy about the video gaming and while I'm not crazy about a five year old having his very own video gaming thingy, I bought the Nintendo 3DS. In red. Because everything has to be red.
I got it at Target on sale plus they gave out a $50 gift card when you bought it so it covered most of the cost of the other gifts, so I feel like I won on some sort of level.

I also got him a hardcover copy of Jumanji.
And a Yellow Submarine clock for his room.
Scrabble and Parcheesi in hard wooden boxes- but those are really more house gifts than gifts for Jake. I only buy hardcover games. I hate those cheap soft boxes that never stack well anywhere and end up needing eight layers of scotch tape on the corners.
LEGOs, the kind that you don't have to make anything in particular.
And a couple Ninjago guys for his stocking.
And an eight ball, he's obsessed.
And a few more wooden train track pieces from Ikea. We never have enough to build the sort of track we want to build, and I'm assuming that won't change just because we are buying more.

And that's it.
I have a pair of socks to put in his stocking.

And a pair of rocket ship pajamas that I might wrap up or just give him to wear Christmas Eve. The last time I put Jake in a cute pair of jams the night before, he peed on them and had to change to something else and the Christmas morning pictures weren't as cute as they would have been and I just sort of flaked on it last year.

And summer clothes that I got for a steal- four pairs of shorts and four shirts, but I don't think I'll wrap them because I'm on the fence about Clothes for Christmas. It adds bulk under the tree for sure, but I think it raises quantitative expectations for Christmases to Come and disappoints qualitatively for the kiddo.
I'll probably just put them in a drawer and roll them out when the weather breaks in April.

Dave's mom might be getting Jake a telescope, he's really into space. We have an amazing picture encyclopedia I'd recommend to anyone who needs to pick up a gift for a little kid. The whole family will enjoy it and it's educational. Points. We are reading it for the second time, no breaks in between readings. It's that good.

I'm going to buy a game for the DS and my mom will pay me back. It's easier that way.
Blocks and trains and outer space and bugs and Super Mario brothers.
That's what little boys are made of.
Nice to know things haven't changed that much since I was little.

also, Jake has been a drawing fool lately. Which is a big step for him. It used to be like pulling teeth to get him to even try to draw.

that will be 5 cents, please

2011-12-12T16:13:00.003-05:00

I know that everyone who has ever been alive for more than 15 years is probably familiar with those Stages of Grief outlined by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross (insert umlaut appropriately). Those five stages we pass through with little regard to order/frequency/duration when we lose something or someone close.

Denial Anger Sadness Bargaining Acceptance Anger Bargaining Denial Sadness Acceptance Anger Sadness Denial Anger Anger Anger Acceptance Sadness Bargaining Dennniiiiaaaaaallllllll Acceptance Saaaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddddnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeessssssssssss Anger Acceptance.

You know the drill.

I'm not a grief counselor.
Nor do I want to be.
And I'm certainly not an expert in grief or grief counseling.

But I am taking all these trauma classes and grief comes into play with trauma. One of the principles of the program is that you can have grief without trauma but not trauma without grief. So there is a whole bunch of what-goes-where-and-how sort of reading.

Anyway, what I didn't know about those Five Stages is that there is some and/or's tied to the stages.

It's not just denial. It's denial or disbelief. Which are related, but they aren't the same thing. I'm good at denying that some things exist. Repressing, more likely. But denying is really easy for me. Much to the chagrin of others at times. But disbelief. Yes. Oh, right. How often have you just not believed that something is possible? Like it's a dream. Or someone is mistaken? Gotten their facts turned around?
Loss isn't always death, remember. It's loss of stuff. Loss of feeling. Loss of trust. Innocence. Expectation. Hope. Love.
Last year when I had something stolen out of my house (it was my engagement ring. I didn't really share that at the time) I just couldn't BELIEVE that happened. Did I misplace it? Did I just somehow miss it when I looked? As if it got mixed up with all those other diamond rings somehow? ha ha. I couldn't believe the person who took it would ever do that to me. I couldn't believe that any person would ever do that to any person.
I was in a total state of disbelief. For sort of a long time. Like, I still kind of am. As if it is going to just turn up one of these days.

And it just isn't sadness, it's sadness and grief. Grief is sadness times one hundred. And sometimes when we lose something, we flux between "upset" and "I wish I was dead". And that's okay. It's all okay. It's okay to feel this way, that way, and every way in between. We don't have to feel guilty if we are just a little bit upset one day after wishing we didn't ever exist the day before. Who knew? I didn't. I just sat there and felt guilty about the way I was feeling.

Anger is actually anger and resentment. This was the big one for me. I had what we call in the business "an ah-ha! moment". The heavens opened up and light shone down on the top of my head and my mind became full of information that it didn't have before. Resentment! Of course!
I'm famous for resentment. Resentment for the things I didn't do (i.e.- call and write and speak to and do things for and see more often) couples with resentment for the things the person who is lost to me didn't do and there is one giant eff show in my brain that makes me feel two inches big. I wish I would have known that resentment was part of it a long time ago. That would have helped me grieve a lot more things effectively and swiftly and thoroughly.
And isn't this the one we shut each other down on all the time? When we are ready to open up and say, "man I wish I wouldn't have skipped out of town that weekend/called him like I said I would/spent more time at home that last Christmas" to someone, what do they invariably say?
"Oh, come on now. You can't blame yourself. You can't change history. You had a really good reason not to."
And so on.
Right. I can't blame myself or dwell on past decisions. But I do. We all do, I think. We blame ourselves for things we know we should have could have would have done. And it doesn't ever seem to be honored so we bottle it up and let it fester and turn into something that affects us deeper than it was ever meant to. It can change who we are. How we see ourselves.
A terrible friend/daughter/lover/colleague. Heartless and cold and uncaring and self-absorbed.
Or is that just me?...
My new years resolution is to let people- including myself- wallow in the what could have should have would haves that come up surrounding death or loss. To honor that feeling as a real and valid and necessary feeling, just the way we are supposed to do for all the other feelings.

Bad feelings aren't bad to have. They are just icky to feel.

If that wasn't bad enough, sadness and/or grief is in bed with anger and/or resentment and they make all sorts of wonderful emotion-babies like frustration and emptiness and worry and fear and disappointment and irritability and all those things they make pills and therapists for.

Bargaining is really similar to denial. It's like denial that has stewed over and over in your head and mixed with blaming anyone who lies within a 50 mile radius of your loss and covered in a thick coat of guilt and tossed with a bit of shame just because who doesn't love to wallow in shame from time to time.
Guilt and shame walk side by side just like grief and trauma. I forget the exact wording that I've read one thousand times, but it's something like guilt is the feeling that the thing you did is shitty, shame is the feeling that YOU are shitty right through to the core. You can have guilt without shame but not shame without guilt.

And finally (and sometimes not finally) acceptance. It's okay to accept reality. Loss. It doesn't mean we have gotten over it. It doesn't mean we won't slip back in to one of the other four stages someday. It just means for right now, life will go on and will be enjoyed to the fullest possible extent we can possibly effing handle. For now. No promises for tomorrow. Or the next day.

It's okay to be a little further along- or further behind- in your grief than the rest of your family. Than the other person in your broken relationship. Than your friends who lost their friend too.
It doesn't mean you loved any less deeper or less harder or less intensely than everyone else. It just means you are moving along at your own pace.
And that is the best way to do it.

**A great, user-friendly book that I am reading right now is Trauma Through a Child's Eyes: Awakening the Ordinary Miracle of Healing by Peter A Levine and Maggie Kline.
It's written for parents, educators, and health professionals and it isn't techy or jargony or douchey and there is a lot of really good every day "what do I do if/when..." information that everyone can use. Not just parents of kids who are abused or trauma impacted. And there is some really good self-helpy sort of stuff in there just by nature of the material, which always scores points with me.

cookies!

2011-12-05T11:09:00.003-05:00

The tree is up. The construction-paper chains are linked and strewn. The stockings are hung. Now the cookie planning starts.

I'll be baking next Thursday night and Friday afternoon, for anyone who wants to stop by and take advantage of a hot oven.
I have found out the hard way that in tight times, heating up the oven can really do in your gas bill.

I think I have just about everything I need to bake except butter and flour.

And bourbon.

I mentioned it on Facebook back when I had Facebook, I've switched from vanilla extract to bourbon and OMG.
You wouldn't think that just a teaspoon of something would make much of a difference, but yes.
I've been using Woodford Reserve, just because that is what we had when we didn't have vanilla extract. And it is amazing. It adds a woody (does it really, or am I just thinking woody because of Woodford? I don't know.) sort of taste. A more complexity grownuppity sort of taste to the cookies. And it's such a small amount that you don't have to worry about the kiddies eating the cookies. There is probably more booze in a dose of Triaminic than there is in a teaspoon of baked bourbon, so let them eat the whole batch if they want.

Michelle at So Wonderful So Marvelous posted a recipe for DIY Bourbon Vanilla Extract. Which I'm going to use for the cut-out cookies.

My cut-out cookies are really good. I'm not sure where I got the recipe from, but it is time-tested and muchly-approved and you can find it here. It's sort of a pain in the ass, but it's totally worth it.

I'll be making the oatmeal cookies of course, which are my personal favorite. I will use Heath pieces in there this year. I used to use butterscotch chips but I've forgone them for the Heath. Again with the complexity grownuppitiness. And be sure to use the bourbon in this recipe!

And the cranberry almonds, but this year there will be real dried cherries in there instead of cherry-flavored cranberries because I got to Trader Joes after a delivery and they were in stock and I had just gotten a check from the auto insurance place after the car crash so I was rich that day. I think I'll do the vanilla bourbon here too.

And chocolate chips. Half with nuts and half without. Because everyone has a preference.

I don't like to use shortening in my cooking because I feel like it makes everything greasy and somehow plasticine (and if it touches my skin I alway gag and sometimes puke- depending on how much raw cookie dough I've already eaten. I have sensory issues), so I haven't been making peanut butter cookies or snickerdoodles for years. I'm looking for a non-shortening recipe for these two that isn't dry or crumbly. If you have one, please pass it along.

Also, I'm getting adventurous and making up a new cookie this year. I'm thinking it will be similar to those cookies with the Hershey Kiss on top, but no peanut butter and I will be using an Andes Candy (or maybe they make mint Kisses?) and mint-infused bourbon as the extract. Like a Mint Julep. We'll see. I'll keep you posted.

My cookie secrets are:
dark brown sugar instead of light brown
pecans instead of walnuts
gas oven instead of electric
bourbon instead of vanilla
butter instead of margarine or shortening
use LARGE eggs, not extra large.
make sure all ingredients are at room temperature, unless the recipe calls otherwise
knowing when to take the cookies out of the oven- they still bake after they are out!

What are yours?

Just jump on the hump of the Wump of Gump.

2011-12-02T14:42:00.002-05:00

If you've ever been to a strip club, you know the drill. You sit down with your drink and a girl comes up to you and pretends she really likes you and you either go in the back with her or you don't.

If you don't, she moves on to pretending she really likes the next person at the bar and the next girl moves on to you.

I really like strip clubs. I don't go often, but when I do I am happy.
Looking at Other Women Naked is liberating. It let's us (me) know that we all have pretty much the same lumps and bumps and humps and dumps and clumps as one another.
Sometimes my lumps and bumps and humps and dumps and clumps? They trump the lumps and bumps and humps and dumps and clumps of the Women Naked. And that feels really good.

No one is totally free of flaws.
You might not know that if you spend your time Looking in the Magazines. Or around people who are Fully Dressed at Work.

Plus you get to see different ways of moving your body to get your butt to wiggle and stuff.

So in Vegas, strip clubs work the same as they do in Yourtown.
You sit down with your drink and a girl comes up to you and pretends she really likes you and you either go in the back with her or you don't.
If you don't, she moves on to pretending she really likes the next person at the bar and the next girl moves on to you.

In Vegas we went to a strip club. Not the Spearmint Rhino. I've been there before. It was okay.
We went to Glitter Gulch.

Eww, right? Gulch.
Ain't enough glitter in the world to cover up something one would call a gulch.

Say it.
gulch.
Let the 'G' get stuck on the back of your tongue and really feel that 'ul' warm up your mouth and then come down really hard on the 'ch' sound while you think about vaginas.

It has two and a half stars on Yelp.

And we went.

The first girl came up to us and asked us with a really thick Russian accent if we were together, if we had children together. I barely got out the "a five year old" (and now I'm talking about my kid. In a titbar) before I heard all about her three year old and how hard it is to take care of him and be so far away from her family on the other side of the world and I look like a teacher, am I a teacher? and how much she misses her mother and what do you do sir? and she's all alone and then the tears started and she just kept going on and on and on but every time she took a breath she asked "are you ready for a dance yet?" and it was really sad and we were never ready for a dance.

There's a song by a band that's from here in Philadelphia but I think they are famous all over called "A lap dance is so much better when the stripper is crying". I'll leave you to google that one for yourself. I don't think I want that in my search history. The band is called Bloodhound Gang.

I didn't find out if it is better.
I'm not one for lap dances much anyway. I like the pole dancing.

The next girl took it upon herself to tell us that she doesn't know what we think about her, but she wants us to know that she plants herself at church all day every Sunday and she is alright with God and one time she saw this episode of Judge Judy where this man was trying to get his kids taken away from his ex who is a stripper and Judge Judy kicked him out of court because that mom is making money to feed and clothe and shelter her kids and that's more than the dad can say about himself these last five years so if that's what Judge Judy said than it must be right. Amen to Judge Judy. That girl lives her life by God and Judge Judy and everyone else can go to hell if they don't like it.

Um, we don't have a problem with what you do. We're paying customers here. We're here by choice.
We like what you do.

However, we don't like HOW you are doing it so we will politely suck down our watery over-priced drinks and take our business elsewhere.
Ladies.

the family that rocks out together...

2011-12-02T08:37:00.002-05:00

I guess to some people, it is very important that the person they choose to spend the rest (or at least a good portion) of their lives with shares the same faith or religion as they do.

I guess it makes it easier to keep the faith. Or something. I don't know. I never really thought about/got it, and we've never really done it at my house- where we can't even agree on food choices, so what do I know?

Nothing.

But we all knew that already.

Enter the Christian dating site that is advertised, like, All The Time. On Every Channel.

You have no idea how much I want them to use Night Ranger's Sister Christian as their background music.

So when they are saying that they have unlocked the secret to revealing who God has chosen for you, they'd ramp up the music right at that drum solo and you'd hear:

You're motorin'
What's your price for flight?
In finding Mr. Right
You'll be alright tonight....

I should seriously consider a career in advertising.
Until then, I will just have to go on singing my own theme songs to everything.

dabbledooya

2011-11-30T16:14:00.000-05:00

In Vegas they have a lot of places with signs outside that advertise Crapless Craps.

I don't know about you, but no matter where I go on a trip there are crapless craps for me.

I call it Vacation Guts.

Oy.

True story- I never said a curse word until I was in the seventh grade (due to my errant belief that God would strike me dead on the spot), and one time when I was about ten or so I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my dad and the word "craps" was in one of the Sports and Leisure Orange Chip questions I had to ask him and I got a case of the cold sweats because I thought I had to say a bad word so instead I played dumb and read the word as "crepes" and everyone was confused.

It was awkward, but not as awkward as the time I tried to read the bible the summer after second grade and kept getting hung up on the word "circumcision" and asked my dad about that one.

Listening to your dad talking about penis tips being cut off doesn't wash out of your brain. Ever.

Any time I see a penis there is a split second that flashes in the spot right behind my ears in the center of my brain of an image of my dad on our old plaid couch trying to pull the skin on his pointer finger over the tip of that pointer finger with the fingers on the same hand his pointer finger penis was on and make scissor fingers with his other hand while stammering about sacrifices for God.

There are a lot of awkward moments in a girl's life when she is being raised by a single dad.

See also: Using Brylcreme and a Curling Iron in an attempt to create Totally 80s hair on the first day of middle school, failing miserably but not having enough time to wash it out before the bus comes.
Smell also: Singed Brylcreme

Read also: this back log

on three

2011-11-29T09:06:00.001-05:00

When I was younger, I went to dancing school.
I'm not sure how long I went, but it's one of those memories that takes over other memories so it feels like I was there all the time. Just tap and ballet and jazz. Maybe a modern dance class. I don't remember which I liked best. Or least. They all sort of run together.

I remember being told that my boobs were too big and my feet were too small.

Over and over and over again.

Another instructor told me she doesn't know how I support myself. How I didn't fall over every time I tried to stand up.

Another told me that my hair was too thin for a proper bun.
She said I was too tall and probably wouldn't have a chance to ever Dance the Ballet with a boy because he wouldn't be able to support me.

Dancing class is supposed to be good for your self-esteem and self-discipline and stuff. I'm not so sure it helped me in those ways.

I still have hair/feet/chest/stature issues.
Some related to what I heard at dancing, some completely unrelated.
None of which I can really control by changing my habits.
That's a shitty feeling.

When you get to a certain level in dancing school, you have to do a tiny solo. On stage. In front of everyone.
There are other people on stage with you, behind you, but you have to do a little bit of something all by yourself.

"Your First Big Moment" is what the instructor called it. Our first time Up and Center in front of God and Everybody doing something that no one else is doing.

It was scary. The teacher was scary.
She's dead now.
But I still dream about her when I'm feeling Not Good Enough for Something I'm Trying to Do.

Right before the show that night, she pulled us all aside. She said to us that we can't screw something up if we are the only one doing it. We can't fall out of step because the only steps to be had are our own. We can only fall out of time but she has faith that we have enough training and experience to keep that from happening.

She said to let that be a lesson in life. As long as we aren't trying to be like everyone else, as long as we weren't working hard to fit in, as long as we are being true to ourselves, it is impossible to fall out of step.

Just watch your timing.

giving thanks and useless facts

2011-11-23T09:06:00.002-05:00

Things I don't like that a lot of people do like:
Cupcakes (unless they are cut in half)
Chocolate
Garlic (especially mixed with mashed potatoes)
Bacon
Popcorn
White bread
Salt
Baths
Buttered vegetables
Babies
Mixed drinks

Thing I wonder:
Do people sneeze in their sleep?

Things I did today:
Got mad at the cat for peeing outside her box then realized that the wall in the laundry room is leaking after smelling the wet paper towel.

The weather yesterday:
Torrential downpours

Thing I wonder:
Why do I compulsively smell everything?

Things I have to do today:
pack my bags
set out large bowls of food and water for the cat

Thing I have to do tomorrow:
Fly to Vegas

What I plan to eat for Thanksgiving dinner:
Fatburger

What I order at Fatburger:
Veggie burger with egg, cheese, mayo, ketchup, lettuce, tomato, pickle.

Thing I think is funny:
One of Jake's holiday spelling words this week at school is "Indian"

Thing I think sounds racist these days:
Asking a child to sit 'Indian Style'

Thing I'm trying to be in denial about:
My hair is falling out again.

Things I think sound inadvertently sexual:
Any sort of adjective in front of the word 'style'
Anything said with air quotes

Thing I think is hilarious but I haven't thought of in a long time:
Replacing the word "gas" with the word "pussy"
See here
See also here

Other thing I have to do today:
Take my child to the eye doctor because he failed his School Nurse Eye Exam
Also, he is 45 pounds and 44 3/4 inches.
He is taller than a lot of his classmates, which comes as a surprise to me but checking the CDC charts he is just above the 50th percentile for height and almost to the 75th percentile for height. Not bad for a kid who was born at the 50th for height and the 5th for weight.

Thing I know the hard way:
It's really hard on the heart to have a baby who is marked Failure to Thrive for the first six months of life.
Especially being in the field I work in and knowing what is implied by that label.

Thing I'm trying not to do but am failing miserably:
Mommy Blog

Things I'm thankful for:
Everything that I have and the ability to work for everything I need.
Also, I'm thankful for a lot of things I don't have, like bill collectors ringing me up and blood-born illnesses coursing through my body

Everybody have a happy and stress-free Thanksgiving.
If you are feeling overwhelmed by all the familial going-ons, eat more.
It always helps.

(so does running away to Vegas)

stars of the screen

2011-11-21T14:31:00.000-05:00

A few of us from my comedy team got together yesterday. Here is what we did all day. Caution, there are a few bad words in it. Well, one bad word but it comes a few times. And when they come it's the bad one.

The eff one.

You may recognize Rose, the make up artist, the T Rex, and Alexis. Those parts are all me.

belated

2011-11-18T09:34:00.000-05:00

I didn't do a Veteran's Day post this year. I meant to, I guess. I don't know. I did last year. I doubt I have any other year.

When I think of Veterans, I think of strong and handsome and grisled men. Mens' sort of men. Manly men. Our dads and uncles and grandads. Our brothers and husbands and friends who have lived long enough see life and death and war and peace and barracks and home over and over and over again.

Lately I've been running across a new sort of Veteran. A new-to-me sort of Veteran. I know they have been here before. More recent Veterans. Boy Veterans. Men-through -experience-but-not-through-age Veterans.
Hard looking, hard living, hard drinking, hard smoking, hard loving and especially-hard-on-themselves veterans.

The ones I'm seeing are in physical rehabilitation programs. Substance rehabilitation programs. Mental rehabilitation programs. In jobs programs. In group therapy programs. In jails.

I know it's the nature of my career to see these things. To see people in these situations. I know I shouldn't be surprised when their names end up on my paperwork. In my audits. In my life.
But it's once a day now. Not once a month. Once a week. Every single day it seems I look a Veteran in the eye and have a hard time keeping it together. A hard time finding the words to express my thanks. My sorrow. My guilt. I feel guilty for taking taking taking and having nothing to give back.

And they are so damned young. And so damned damaged. And so damned damned. All these programs are in place to help, but none of them seem to do much good. I don't know what is being done on the preventative end of things, but from what I see it isn't working well.

I'd like to think that things are different in other places. Might be different in other times.

It hurts to know that we haven't figured out much about taking care of our boys. Our men. Our Men.

The ones who give everything they have to take care of us.

sparing the rod

2011-11-16T09:30:00.003-05:00

When Jacob was born, I assumed that some day I would spank him. I wasn't sure when, wasn't sure why, and wasn't sure with what, but I assumed that some day I would spank him.

Yes, I said with what. I was spanked with stuff as a kid. Belts, spatulas, wooden spoons. Anything not bolted down or valuable and within arm's reach.

Then I got a job in the Parenting field, one where I have to stay well-read and up-to-date and generally on top of sciencey brain and hormone and development stuff that deals with babies and children and I decided that Jacob would not be spanked because of what I learned.

I decided that Dave would not spank Jacob either.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think he really loves it when I make major life decisions for him, especially regarding fatherhood.

So we came up with ways to deal with behavior that we don't approve of. Time Outs are good things for us. It gives everyone a chance to slow down and get out of the red and start to use the parts of our brains that we appreciate others to use with us when dealing with our behaviors that they don't approve of.

Because I don't know about you, but my brain shuts down and I'm not very logical when there is yelling or whining or crying or tantruming or carrying on. I need some time to boot it back up again or else I'll start yelling/whining/crying/tantruming/carrying on and I really don't want to show Jacob that is an acceptable way to act EVER. So I take a deep breath and say, "I think we really need a time out here". And he stomps off crying into the corner or up to his room and I sit on the couch or lie down in my bed until we are all back to earth from our amygdala hijackings and then we have a Time In.

Time Ins always follow Time Outs in our house. It's where we talk about why things got to the point that they did, how our bodies felt while they were getting to that point, what we were feeling emotionally, what we imagined the other person was feeling both physically and emotionally, and how next time we start to feel our bodies feel the way we did right before things exploded we are going to take our Time Outs then. Because if there is a mandatory non-voluntary Time Out, there is usually a consequence.

And the consequence is Taking Away Privileges. TV time, gone. Game time, gone. Favorite toy, gone. For a day, for two days, maybe for three days. Never much longer than that. It becomes a pain in the ass for everyone after three days. Something about fish and no privileges, three days something something houseguest. I don't know.

But no spanking. Or popping, pinching, slapping, biting, nothing. Never, not once.

And then we do some sort of teachable moment about why it isn't okay to _____ and "do you ever see normal grown ups doing _____? No, of course not because it's not okay and here is why...".

I feel that our job as parents is to get the kids ready for adulthood. In every way possible.
Violence and corporal punishment is not a part of adulthood. Shouldn't be.

When you are a grown up, no one in a position of authority is supposed to hit you when you are out of line. They can put you in Time Out at the County, State, or Federal Level.
They can take things away from you that you really really value. Like your job or your family or your money or your home.
But no one is likely to hit you.
Unless you live in Singapore or somewhere that sort of thing happens.

And I don't want to teach Jake that it is okay to hurt someone when they do something he doesn't like. Or holler. Or carry on. Or curse. Or whatever.

And it is hard not to do those things.

So incredibly effing ridiculously hard to not resort to those things.
Those things you can do once and it takes a minute and then it's over and life resumes somehow.

But I try my best not to, and it gets easier and easier as time goes on.

The No Spanking approach to parenting has mixed reviews among my peers. A lot of my friends spank. Yell. Carry on. A lot of them don't. Race doesn't play in. Faith. Wealth. Education. It's pretty much 50/50 across the board.
The spankers tell me I'm spoiling. That I should just wait and see what will explode out of Jacob when he gets a little older. When he hits that next stage.
The no spankers tell me I'm doing the right thing. That the exploding that is coming out of those other kids is a result of having explosive parents. Explosive childhoods. That it is learned behavior.
I tend to agree.

People tell Dave and I that we are too strict.
We are strict. The rules are the rules and they are only bent out of necessity or fun.
Bedtimes get extended when we are out running around or when we are doing awesome stuff at night.
Extended TV time happens when there is something really good on television. And so on.

People say we are too easy.
We need to make him fear us.
We don't have enough rules.

Thinking about it, we actually don't have many rules, per se. More like parameters. Basically work hard, study hard, play hard, be fair, always share, respect your things, my things, their things and your body, my body and their body, and always consider your feelings, my feelings, and their feelings. That's it. Everything else falls into place pretty naturally when those things are happening.

People tell Dave and I that we are just lucky. That we lucked out with a good kid. I think that some of this is true. But we work really hard at parenting. It is the hardest thing we've ever done. It's supposed to be hard.

And it's paying off. In school is mostly where we can see it and measure it. Jacob is doing well. He hasn't ever had to "change his light to yellow or red" (they do this traffic light thing). His teachers like him. His peers like him. That's a good feeling. It's a good feeling to leave the Parent Teacher Report Card Conference smiling. To know that the teacher loves your child and appreciates his presence in the classroom. To see her start to cry when you mention that one little thing that has been bothering him and is keeping you up at night.

I'm proud of us.
All of us.

Does Jacob have his moments? Yes. He's five. He can be a real pain in the ass.
But so can I, and I have 30 years on him.

Writing this down and looking at things as a whole makes me feel better when someone says to me that I'm not doing things right. That I'm doing him a disservice. Doing myself a disservice. People can be such jerks.

It also makes me feel squishy warm warm Dr Leo Marvin handsy puppetsy hippie dippy. But I'm okay with that.

Almost.

Parenting is hard to come to terms with no matter what you are doing and how well you are doing it.

belated.

2011-11-14T09:02:00.000-05:00

Halloween happened, a few weeks ago. I was a little nervous how it would go with having school the next day and school the day of and school school school school school.

The kids had a Halloween party at school the Saturday before where they got to get dressed up and eat pizza and run around with all the other kids in their grade for an hour and a half before they had to clear out and let the next grade come in and do the same. They set up the (adjoining) ballet and violin studios (there's no gym at the school) and hired a DJ and everyone had a really good time.
I so want to comment on how a lot of the little girls wore latexish superherogirl costumes or corseted witch/animal/princess tutu ensembles. Corsets? Really? It's a little to burlesque for my taste. They weren't real corsets of course, but they were lacy and laced up and super shiny and it made me a little uncomfortable. But I'm not one to comment.

One of the moms at the party dressed up like a bunny. She was about 15 years and 15 pounds past her prime bunny days but that didn't stop her.

Sunday we went out to the burbs to some friends house for the Halloween Parade in their town. I expected a parade with fire trucks and Shriners and fancy olden timey cars and candy being thrown at the kids, but it turns out We Were the Parade. Everyone dresses up and walks through town and it's really dark and spooky because it's the suburbs and they don't believe in street lights at regular intervals. Jake had lots of fun, I would have preferred it to be in the daytime so you could see all the costumes, but what do I know? Nothing. We'll probably go back next year, provided they do it on a weekend again.

Monday the little kids had a Halloween Parade around the neighborhood at the school. Parents volunteered to hand out candy every few feet and the older kids lined the parade route and high fived and clapped and told the kids how awesome they looked. You have never seen sixty-some five- and six- year-olds look happier and more proud in your life.

I almost cried.

It was ridiculous.

I was ridiculous.

Jake was a ninja.

I wasn't thrilled with his choice, but he made a pretty adorable ninja. He took his ninjaing quite seriously and hardly broke character all night. We went down to his aunt's house like we always do. She lives less than a mile down our street but it's more fun there than it is in our neighborhood.

This one is my favorite:

At the end of the night I let him have five unadulterated minutes of candy snarfing,

but he gave up after about a minute and a half and went to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of soup.

That's Jacob for you.

cheese

2011-11-08T09:40:00.000-05:00

I've never been in lots and lots of pictures. I'm not incredibly photogenic so I try to avoid the camera most days. I have never seen a picture of me where I actually look like I look. It's weird.

I wasn't a cute kid so there aren't many adorable piggy tailed dolly dragging Polaroids around. I don't have tons of totally embarrassing high hair high school photos. Nor incriminating college dorm shots with beers and bongs and dirty hair and sweatpants. Most of the family pictures are taken by me so we don't really have those.

But more and more, popping up on the internets are pictures of me from the theater. It's hard to give up that sort of control that one (read: I) likes to have about weeding out all the ones with icky eyes and double chins and wonky smiles before they are posted to websites and Facebook. But it's interesting to see what I look like in the non-so-carefully-construed moments where I just look like I look when I'm doing what I'm doing.

We did a two weekend run of Improvised B-movies over Halloween. It was retro and different and true to the theme we came up with for ourselves a year and a half ago but never did anything with.

Here's us being scared in the green room:

Our green room is really green.

And me hiding behind the laundry I was hanging when a hobo drifted into my yard.

My name was Martha right there. That's my best friend from high school's name. It was easy to remember. Sometimes it's not easy for me to remember who I'm supposed to be from one minute to the next.

And oops. There goes my dress, all the way up to the control tops. See? That's what I mean about not being in charge of what goes out on the internet. It could have been worse. WAY worse.

Man, have I seen worse. Always go with a solid from at least the mid-thigh up. You never know what will happen on stage. By the way, I was being a duck there. I forget if that was before or after I almost fell on my face while trying to duck my way across the stage. It was really touch and go there for a minute.

Ugly/scary face.

I was being a squid monster.

And here I was just being ugly.

But funny.
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.
At least fun.
We always have fun.

repost

2011-11-08T09:01:00.001-05:00

That's Joe Frazier's Gym. Joe Frazier's Gym is for sale.

Who is Joe Frazier? An old prize fighter. I think he was famous back in the early 1970's. Whenever Muhammad Ali was around. And George Foreman. I don't know much about fighting, prize or otherwise, but I know that Joe and Geo and Muhammad were enemies. Or rivals. Or maybe friends who fought. I don't know. What do I know about that sort of thing?

Anyway. That's Joe Frazier's Gym. Or was. Or is but won't be when it's sold.

It's up there on North Broad. And Glenwood. Most people like you and me have no business up there. It's north of Temple U and sits amongst storefront churches and windowless mosques and sketchy funeral parlors and homeless shelters that smell like bleach and rehab clinics that smell like ammonia and I wonder if you left the clinic and went into the shelter without properly clearing your lungs you could die from the mix of fumes so I never risk it and always go once around the block before switching venues.

Then again, once around that block and I might get shot. Or stolen.
Do you know how much you can get for a cute white chick in those parts?
I don't know either. Mad cash, I'll bet.

***

About fifteen years ago I walked into Joe Frazier's Gym. I was twenty. Fresh faced. Armed with a case file and a bus pass and determination to make the world a little safer.

It was there I took on my first bad guy. My very own rapist and murderer.
A big black rapist and murderer.
Who boxed.
Professionally.
And taught boxing.
To professionals.
At Joe Frasier's Gym.

He didn't kill the girl he raped or anything.
He wasn't that sort of bad guy.
He was accused of raping a girl after he got her pregnant. A girl he later married.
And spent the rest of her life with.
It was some sort of statutory offense. She was almost 17 he was barely 18. He was sentenced to ten years in jail. Her daddy was a lawyer. A white lawyer. It was the early sixties.

Stuff like that happened back then.
I think there is a song about that or something.

Or something.

So, he got out of jail six years later on account of good behavior and being young and he married that girl and raised some babies. The baby they made together years before didn't survive. Her big shot daddy made her get an abortion.
He learned to box in prison and when he got out he was better than a lot of the guys who didn't spend their formative years in jail so he made a job of it and took his cute wife and kids all around the country and won some money and a little bit of fame and then when he got tired of that he moved back here and made a little life for himself.

And late one night after the kids were asleep and he and the wife went to bed, there was something going on in the neighborhood and he came outside to take a look around and decided to get involved and ended up punching out two people when they started walking up his front step and those two people never got up. On account of him being a prize fighter and them just being petty street thugs who didn't have time to pull their guns out of their waistband.

Because those dead guys were menaces and because they were on his steps and because they had unregistered guns the sentence was mitigated, but a murder sentence was a murder sentence and murderers go to jail.

So, off to jail. Again.
And in jail. Again.
And out. Again.

And by then his babies weren't babies anymore and they spent the time he was away growing up and having babies of their own.
And his wife, who got sick while he was in jail, died. Shortly after he got out.
Shortly before his name came across my desk.
The name of my very first bad guy. My very own rapist and murderer.

A big black rapist and murderer.
Who boxed.
Professionally.
Once upon a time.

So there I was, walking into Joe Frasier's Gym. I was twenty. And armed with a case file and a bus pass and determination to make the world a little safer. And Joe Frazier himself. And Joe asked me if I was ready, if I wanted him to stay with me, and I said, "no thank you Mr. Frazier, I think I'll be okay from here. I'll holler if I need you."

And I walked up to my very first bad guy and said, "hello there. Can we take a walk?" and we went once around that block.
And after the formalities and after the case assignment paperwork and parole agreement was filled out and after we shook hands my very first bad guy said something like this to me: "thank you, Miss Arrowsmith. Thank you for not talking about this stuff in front of everyone at the gym. Especially in front of those little boys playing in the ring. See, those're my grandsons and they don't know about my past. My kids are giving me the chance to watch them little boys grow up. To spend some time with them and let them see me do what I do best. Teaching people. To fight. Teaching people to fight... responsibly. Thank you for letting me be a Good Strong Guy in their eyes, even if just for one more day. Word'll get out sometime, I'm sure. But thank you for not making today be that day. Thank you for treating me so kindly."

And that's how I knew that no matter what, I'd be okay at this sort of work. That I'd be good at this sort of job. That I'd be good with people. Even if they were big and black and strong with a rape and a couple murders under their big old shiny gold prizebelts.

I'm sure a lot of people realized a lot of stuff there, at Joe Frazier's Gym. I'm sure a lot of people realized who they are and what they are capable of and how strong they are and where those strengths come from, at Joe Frazier's Gym.

I'm sure I did.

(originally posted 11/11/10)
Rest well, Old Joe.

tricks

2011-10-31T08:43:00.000-04:00

I try to be serious and grownuppity at work. Most of the time. I try. I really do.

Ten years in the running I've spidered everyone's keyboards with those cheapy dollar store spider rings. It's especially effective if they have the sort of keyboards that are on a drawer under the desk and they pull it out early in the morning before the sun comes up and the overhead lights turn on.

It's also especially effective if they're new here. And with the soaring rates of layovers and reduced-rate hires? There's a lot of new people.

I like to put it somewhere near the "s" key because there are lots of letters of the word spider clumped together there.
And all of the letters for the word "scared".

And, in possible related news, "scarred"

Also:
swear
fear

Happy Halloween!!

Thursday

2011-10-27T14:04:00.004-04:00

A lot of times when something crappy happens to a kid, we say something along the lines of "he'll get over it, he's just little" or "she won't even remember this" or "kids bounce back so fast"

Which is half true. He probably will get over it, provided he has the support he needs. And she probably won't remember the facts because her higher, logical brain isn't very developed. And kids do seem to bounce back fast, because one of the signs of not bouncing back? Is looking on the surface like they've bounced back.

But all that bad stuff gets stored down there in the bottom brain. The very bottom part- where we eat sleep trust breathe and (eventually) do sexy with. And the middle part- where we love emote touch and relate to one another. When something bad happens to us when we are little (and even when we are big) our eat sleep trust breathe sexy love emote touch relate signals get scrambled up and we don't really act in healthy ways around eating sleeping trusting breathing sexing loving emoting touching and relating anymore.

And we don't know why we do the things we are doing.
Because the part of our brain that stores facts and provides us with a reliable time-space continuum and lets us think through things logically isn't fully developed when we are kids and it shuts down during traumatic events at any age. That's why it's hard for us to reliably recount events when we've been in an accident or victimized.
Our brains will work hard to fill in the gaps by making up details and specifics. That's why two people who have been in an accident or victimized together just can't get their stories to jive.

Jive. That's a clinical term.

Also, kids haven't been alive for very long. They might not realize that the bad thing that happened (or worse, keeps happening) isn't "normal". They might think it's just a part of growing up. A part of life. Their little worlds can be shaken up so badly, and they don't have the sort of life experience to know that things can and probably will get better.

That life is a series of ups and downs.
To them, life might be a series of ups and one big down that will seemingly stay that way forever and ever.

Hopelessness and helplessness aren't very good feelings.

***

Jacob has been alive for about 5 and a half years now. The first six months he was very busy being a baby, and wasn't aware of much of anything outside of himself. So let's round to five.
In the past year, or for about 20% of his life we have had a death in the family once every sixish months. In October my grandmother passed. In March, Dave's father. And the other day, Dave's grandfather. Jacob knew my grandmother, but mostly through stories and pictures and pieced memories of short visits to the nursing home. He was very close with his grandfather, and quite close with his great-grand dad.
Oh, and the dog. How could I forget? Dave's parents' dog died last fall too. Which was a HUGE blow to Jake, because it was the first thing he has ever loved and lost. He still cries over that dog. He calls Freckle's death his "practice death" because it "taught him how to lose someone".

So four deaths in one year's time.

He said to me, "I know I'm getting older because people keep dying".
He probably heard that somewhere. An adult conversation that wasn't meant for him.

Little pitchers.

I said to him that in my whole life I have never lost as much as we had this past year.
This isn't normal.

Things will get better.
Less sad.
Less stress.
Less sickness.
Less loss.

We're doing our best to get him through it. Talking. Listening. Watching.
He seems to be doing pretty well.
He's worried that I'm going to die too soon.
Worried that his other grandparents are dying.
Wondering what it feels like to die.
Talking about where we go.
How we go.

Last night he reached his hands up to the night sky and said, "I need a minute before we get in the car. I'm touching the souls of the people who I love that are gone".

I gave him two minutes.

Wednesday (NSFW. Or children)

2011-10-26T10:53:00.003-04:00

Last Monday I was working out in West Philly at a women's homeless shelter. I was there to do some routine administrative stuff that comes part and parcel with my job, but there is a new director there who I had to meet. I'm supposed to be on familiar terms with everyone on the grant and it was a meeting that was about two months over due.

Things have been a bit hectic at work.
And in life.
Things get backed up from time to time.

The new director was (well, is) a man. Which I find weird. There are a handful of men in this field, but they usually work with fathers and other male caregivers. They don't usually run women's shelters.
So maybe I went in to this meeting a bit biased. Or weirded out. On edge. Or whatever. Who knows.

The guy was super friendly looking with just the right amount of toughness so that he was approachable in a sort of "I don't take shit so don't bother with trying to give me any" attitude. He looked just like Patrice O'Neal.

Holy crap. I just google imaged Patrice O'Neal and found out he just had a stroke. Like just just had a stroke and the news just broke about an hour ago.

I promise I will prevent you from having a stroke by not google imaging you this afternoon.

Anyway.

So this guy is running a women's shelter so we sit down in a conference room together with a woman who works there. She and I are close and had some major catching up to do (your tax dollars at work: me and this lady BSing for 20 minutes about things that have NOTHING to do with the job) and while we were talking about stuff that he had no idea about, he opened up his notebook and drew two of these:

My eyes got super big and I tried not to stare and I really wanted to run.
Then he wrote the word "hot" with flames coming up from it above one and "not" with icicles dripping (oh, god. the dripping) above the other.
OMG
OMG
He's drawing dicks.
Holy crap.
Fight or flight?
What the eff?
So I do this thing with my eyes where I look at the girl and I look at the notebook. Then I mouth "penis" over and over and over again but she's going on and on and on about something to do with her kids' school and uniforms or whatever and doesn't pick up on it.
So then he does one of these:

(mouthing): "Dicks. Dicks. He's drawing dicks. J_____. He's drawing dicks."
She says, "What's that? Sticks? I don't think they can carry sticks. Do you need a glass of water?"
I'm all, "What?"
I had stopped listening to her story.
Then this:

Then, inexplicably, this:

My brain's all like: WTF? Hot or not ribbed condoms? Hot or not vertical veins? Hot or not tribal tattoos? Hot or not maybe I just don't know a lot about penises and the way they look?

Then he said "Excuse me ladies, what do you think of this?"
And he turns them around and I stammer and J_____ says, "oh, are those the hot or not thermometers for the healthy relationship exercise about what is appropriate to wear in public or are they for what is okay and not okay for men to say to women one? That's cute. Are those little hearts at the bottom for the mercury bulb? That's great. Romantic!"

Oh, right. Thermometers. Hearts. Mercury. Temperature gauges.
Hot.
Not.
Not hot.

Who's the real sicko in the room?
The one thinking about penises during a business meeting.

Again.

Tuesday

2011-10-25T09:29:00.002-04:00

When I leave my office building, I like to sneak out the back alley that puts you out on 15th by Jose Pistola's and across the street from Buca de Beppo. It smells good out there if you're lucky. Like cumin and garlic.

Philadelphia has chain restaurants now. Ten years ago there were none, we are a big restaurant town but everything was privately owned. Something in our zoning made it impossible for chains to move in, but it seems that ordinance has been lifted because we have Buca and Five Guys and a Capital Grille and Ruby Tuesday's and Applebee's and Chili's and Fado and a Friday's and a Slainte. That's a lot.

When I was in Houston there was a Slainte, and the locals pronounced it "sl ain't".

Right there in the alley across from Buca and beside Pistola's someone let their dog poop without cleaning it up. And there was a pigeon standing over top of it doing that weird pigeon head bob thing and it looked like the pigeon was pooping out a giant poop and it made me laugh uncontrollably all the way to the el stop underneath the clothespin.

And when people see someone who doesn't look bitshat crazy laughing on an autumnal day when the air tastes like honeycrisp apples and the sun shines through the buildings like angel trails, they get happy and sometimes they laugh too. And then other people laugh when they laugh and pretty soon lots of people are laughing. That's exactly what happened along the half mile stretch between my office and my el stop and it was magical.

All because of a pigeon that looked like he dropped a giant load.

***

In other super funny news, Jake's eardrum ruptured last Tuesday in the middle of the night. It was so loud I heard it happen. Like Pop Rocks.

"Mommy, I think I need a rag because my ear just puked"

That's not the funny part. The funny part was when we were at the doctor's office Wednesday morning and the doc asked Jacob why he was there today and Jake said "It's because I have the drip". The doctor looked at me with her mouth wide open and I said that the drip was coming from his ear.

Have you ever taken a child with a bloody and pus-ridden ear downtown on the bus?

Well, it's uncomfortable but nine times out of ten he won't be the only person who has blood or pus draining from a hole in his head. Whether it's a hole one is born with or one that was put there in recent days.

He's doing better now but had to be switched from the pink Amoxicillin to the nasty white Augmentin because the pink stuff wasn't working. Now it's an exercise in getting the meds down with minimal vomiting twice per day.

Rough stuff.

***

The second tooth came out a couple weeks ago. I offered to buy it for five bucks.

"Yep. Sold. And we don't have to talk about what happened last time."

***

Soccer is almost over, thank all that is good. Three more games and then the parents vs. kids where the players get the trophies and we're done.

I'm about up to my neck with the Soccer Momming. And the other Soccer Moms.

Jacob will be playing in a different league next year instead of the South Philly Yo Bo league he's in now.

And that's all I have to say about that.

***

My dad took Jake to church on Sunday. Unless someone else has taken him in the past, it was his first time there.

"Mom, have you ever been to church? It's like the most boring place in the world. And people say a LOT of bad words."

"I've been there, and it is super boring. What kind of bad words did people say? You can tell me and you won't get in trouble"

"Hell. And damn. And Jesus. And Jesus Christ. Isn't it funny that Jesus' mom gave him a swear for a name? Like, if you know your last name is Christ, why would you name your kid Jesus? Why not something normal like John or something? John Christ is not a curse word. It just makes no sense."

"It's weird but we'll talk about that another time. When I go to church and I'm super bored I count all the bad words I hear. Also, the scary words like ghost and blood and evil and death and demon. One point for each bad or scary word. Five bonus points if there is a topless Jesus somewhere in the building and there are nipples drawn on his chest. I try to get to 25 points."

"I'm glad you're my mom. You give me lots of good ideas. I'm not bored when we're together. I love that about you."

And... scene

monday

2011-10-24T12:42:00.000-04:00

I bought some new eyeshadow this weekend. Drug store brand. Cue the horror music. I forgot how much makeup you have to use just for some to show up on your lid when you aren't using the "good" stuff. Gobs and gobs, to look like you are wearing just a little something.

Pigments. That's the difference. The expensive stuff is highly pigmented. Less filler.

You can have one tiny little speck of something you'll wear every day for two years with the pricier eyeshadow but it will go bad before you can use it up and then you are throwing away a lot of product. A lot like- more than half- a lot. With drug store brands you usually hit the silver at the bottom in six months or so of regular use.
At least I do.

That happens to me with Greek yogurt and heavy cream. Lots of good stuff in that carton, but I can't use it up fast enough and it ends up sour.
Unless I buy the ultra pasteurized stuff. But that doesn't taste as good.

I wonder if they have ultra preserved makeup. That would probably be so not healthy for your face.

Anyway. New eye makeup. Maybelline. Something Something Rose. Something Smokes. Rose Smokey. Something. I always avoided rose-colored eye make up because my eyes tend to get reddish around the rims. I thought I'd look like I have pink eye.
Or old. Ever notice that everyone older on television has a smokey rosy eye? Remember that movie Something Something Boys with Drew Barrymore? Not Boys on the Side. That was the one about AIDS. Also, it was the one where she lifted her shirt on David Letterman during the promo period. I saw that happen when it actually happened. One of the few nights in my life I stayed up late enough to see the headliner on the Late Show.

Riding in Cars with Boys. That's what it was. Where she plays the role that spans from pregnant teen to grown up lady and pretty much all they did to make her look like she was in her 40s was to give her a Smokey Rose eye.

Plum Smokes. That is the name of the pallet I bought.

Name recall is one of the things that is going in my older ages. Man did that burn me up when grownups couldn't remember the names of things and people when I was younger. I was great with names. Now I'm only good at names. Sometimes.

I am really happy with my Plum Smokes eye. It doesn't make me look like I have circles or some sort of conjunctivitis. It actually blends with my redness and darkness and makes it look like I want to look like that. In a good way.

It makes me look My Age. It is Age Appropriate. I'll keep it.

Also: never use those spongey applicator things that come for free. Always buy an eyeshadow brush.

Also: Any time you use the word "applicator" or "application" or even just "app" I will be thinking of tampons and vaginal creams. Even when you are talking about your iPhone or what you ate before your main course.

Also: The word "panty" creeps a lot of people out. I think it's weird when grown assed women use the word pantie, but find it even weirder when men talk about how sexy they think panties are. Little girls wear panties. Women wear underwear.
Under pants.
Under things.
Under pinnings.

All Saints

2011-10-14T16:17:00.000-04:00

This lion/dragon/pirate/superdog/vampire/kid is going to be a ninja for Halloween. A ninja with trident swords and Chinese stars and skulls on his costume and a black hood and all sorts of other non-cute stuff.
I guess that just sort of happens at some point, doesn't it?

(repost from11/1/10)

two for teeth

2011-10-07T09:12:00.002-04:00

Jake lost that bottom front tooth yesterday. At school. Which was to be expected since he has made just about every single "first" while with a caregiver rather than a parent. I was glad to have Charmaine, who was kind enough to keep quiet about the sitting up and step taking until he did it at home. And it actually wasn't her that told me he was practically running around her house before he took a few unassisted steps at home, it was her son's girlfriend who would help out on her days off.
But it does make sense, that kids would do things away from home before they do them at home. Mommies tend to baby their babies. Why walk when you can be held? Feed yourself when you can be fed? Lose a tooth when you can gross out your mother by flipping it in and out at rapid speed?

There is a book about the tooth fairy at Jacob's afterschool program that they read often. The book shows how she flies around, sneaks into bedrooms, collects teeth, takes a picture of the sleeping child for her scrapbook, leaves a coin, and flies home to her bed make of human teeth.
Um. Yeah. Sneaking into bedrooms, snapping souvenir photos, sleeping among body parts...

I was trying to avoid the tooth fairy. I offered to buy the tooth outright for $5 and put it in my jewelry box. $5 is steep. Way more than the tooth fairy would leave. But I felt it a viable alternative to hiding teeth from my child. If the tooth fairy is a major player, I have to put the too(ee)th somewhere secret. If I'm buying exposed bones on the blackmarket (read: in the hallway outside the bedrooms) I can just toss them in with my rings and call it a done deal.

Jacob didn't really believe in the tooth fairy, so he decided to put her up to a test. He put his tooth under his pillow. So I exchanged it for $2. Higher than I think is fair. Lower than the surveyed plummeting national average.

2am brought Jake into my bed. "She didn't come".
"Let's check it out"

Then the unthinkable happened. Ungratefulness like never before seen in our home. A temper tantrum that defied the odds. The two dollars thrown to the ground. The tears! The whining! The drama!

"Seriously dude? What did you expect?"
"The kids at school get toys like Power Rangers and video games. They go out for dinner and they get $10 bills."
"That's crazy. It's a tooth. Losing a tooth is a milestone, not an accomplishment. You're supposed to lose your teeth. It's nothing you earn, it's something you do. Go to bed. You aren't getting the $2. We are giving it to children who need dental care. Who don't have healthy teeth and access to good dentists. You are acting completely ungrateful and disgraceful. The bad word for the way you are acting is 'spoiled brat'. Good night."

And then I went to bed and hell continued to break loose from his room and no one slept.

And the worst of it? The ultimate worst of everything? My cat. MY cat. Mine in like, she only likes me and sleeps with me every night and hates Jacob and sleeps with him never? Slept in his room. On his bed. As if they were friends. As if he deserved camaraderie last night. Holy crap, you have no idea how this burned me up.

Then around 4am I heard her puking and I felt a little bit better about things. As if she was only in there because she knew she was going to yak all over the place and wanted to be there to do it.

This is how I know I'm going to hell.

Hell, and the laundry to get the puke out of his blanket and pillow sham before he goes to bed tonight.

My locally-trained/remotely-practicing dentist friend and my Appalachian-trained/hometown-bound hygienist cousin recommended Dentists without Borders for the donation. We'll be sending more than the $2, but I'll cut a check and Jake will have to put those two singles in the envelope. I'm sure they have some sort of policy about sending cash, but I'm disregarding the rule out of principle.

Also, I worked really hard on and was really proud of what I was originally going to put under the pillow. Even though I had decided $5 was way too much, the Georges on the ones were too tiny to fit the eyes:

Dave told me I should absolutely not put that under Jacob's pillow because he's too much of a sensitive child and it would probably scare the piss out of him.

I don't know. I think it's funny. How shocking would it be to find that under your head in the middle of the night?

You have no idea how much I now wish I would have put that bad boy under my 'sensitive child's' head.

broke busted disgusted

2011-10-06T09:31:00.005-04:00

Last Wednesday right around dinner time, a pickup truck sped through the intersection just north of us at about 50 miles per hour. Usual speed is 15 or 20 miles per hour. I'm sure there is some sort of city-wide speed limit, but considering you have to stop every 1/10 of a mile- literally- and there is on street parking and jaywalkers and bus routes and feral children playing all over the place, no one ever gets much above 15 or 20.

He swiped the front of a van that was coming through the east-bound street before losing control of the truck and taking out the first three cars parked on both sides of my street. We were second from the corner on the left.

Thankfully, no one was hurt. The driver was tanked, so he probably wasn't hurt bad. Physically. He was thirty or so years old and from Western Pennsylvania. Jake calls him "the drunk guy from Pittsburgh".

Our car didn't look so bad. The trunk wouldn't close, the rear quarter panel was banged in, the rear passenger side door. Those were the obvious spots. The car that took the worst of it was behind ours, and rearended us pretty good. There were some problems in our front, I'm guessing from the impact.

But everyone was okay.

Even though Jake and Dave didn't get to go out for Wednesday Night Guys' Night to see Dolphin Tale. Because nothing says Guys' Night like Disabled Dolphins.
And I couldn't go to practice that night and then had to get up on stage last Saturday after having been out of the improv loop for almost a month. How that happened I have no idea.

Long story short, there was $7500 worth of damage to our car and they didn't total it. Yeah, um. It's a Hyundai Elantra. It's four years old. Who knew it was even worth $7500? That's about $4.25 more than we paid for it. If there was a venti latte in the cup holder it would have been worth the same as we paid for it. Close to it, at least. The insurance guy said expect to have the rental car for awhile.
"Awhile like two weeks?"
"ha ha ha ha ((silly girly, no!)). More like two or three months. We hope to get you guys back in your car by Christmas."

We got a Prius. Which is cool. I guess. We should at least save on gas money. I filled it up on September 30th and there's still a half a tank left after putting at least 200 miles on it since then. We drive a lot. Dave drives a lot. For work. Sometimes I go to Target or Shoprite on a Saturday and I'll take the car. I guess I log about eight or ten miles a month behind the wheel.

***

A couple days later, after game one of Phillies/Cardinals (or was it the next day? My time-space continuum is a bit off) we were in the house and heard glass break. Loudly. Crashing. It didn't sound like auto glass and I thought maybe it was the front window of the house where no one lives anymore because the old lady got carted off to a home a month or so ago. Dave ran out and saw the kids who did it. Drunk kids. Laughing and running down the street until they jumped in their car and sped off. In their car with out of state plates.
It wasn't the old lady's house, it was our next door neighbors' basement windows.

Our next door neighbors are the best neighbors you can ask for. They are Vietnamese immigrants who own an Asian supermarket up on Washington Avenue. The big kind where you can buy six foot tall sugarcane stalks and 50lb bags of rice and fishheads for a dime and all sorts of things you've never seen before unless, of course, you've seen them before. They love Jacob and he loves them and they give him things he loves like those Hershey Treasures and we give them things they aren't familiar with like oatmeal cookies and rosemary.

Cây mê điệt. Rosemary.

Bột yến mạch. Oatmeal

Cookie. Cookie.

The wife is so friendly but not so good with English. The husband's English is much better, and we talk a lot about things he isn't sure of. Things like "is _____ happening to me because I'm a Vietnamese immigrant, or is this happening to me because I'm an American now?". Things like census information gathering and income tax reviews and ultra-conservative anti-immigration door-to-door political campaigning and Lower! Your! Electricity! Bill! canvassing. Stuff that seems very intrusive and confusing to all of us, let alone to someone who doesn't really speak the language and wonders why the government needs so much information when all papers and taxes and such are in impeccable order.

I saw him yesterday and said I was very sorry this happened to him. I noticed the day before that he put a new American flag in his window. There is always an American flag in his window, but the last one was getting a bit faded. He told me he was scared, and I told him that Dave saw the people who did it.
"Were they angry?"
"No, drunk"
"Were they Asian?"
"No, white"
"Do they live near here? Did you know them?
"No, they got in a car with Jersey plates. They were probably at the bar watching the Phillies game"
"Why? Why would they be at that bar? Why would they do this? Why my house?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry."

I was sorry. Am sorry. I don't know why they were at the bar. That bar is no place for anyone but old men and coke dealers and their customers. It's a terrible place. I don't know why they did this. Why his house. Why any of it. I am so sorry that he and his wife are so scared. Feel so targeted. Hated. Different.

Jacob was scared too.
He felt overwhelmed. "First the car, and now this?"
Confused. "Why do people from other places come here, get drunk, and do bad things?"
Superstitious. "What does 'bad things happen in threes' mean? I heard that on iCarly. Does that mean another bad thing will happen here?"

Being five is hard.
Being thirty five is hard too.

But everyone is okay.

***

People come here and do bad things. I know that's true in most cities, that a good chunk of the crime is committed by out-of towners. As if you can drive in and once you cross the city borders it's lawless and anything goes and no one will notice if you break something or take something.
Be bad in your own hometown. Leave mine alone. We have plenty of problems already.

It's especially bad on days the sports teams are playing. It makes me want the Phillies to lose Game 5 so all this can be over. When the Phillies won the World Series all hell broke loose. The news was careful to report that the arrests for the worst of it were made up of people from out of town. Not that you need a police report to tell you that. It's mostly kids from suburban high schools, and they love to wear their Letter Jackets. One look into the helicopter aerial views of the masses and security cam stills and you can see who is causing the trouble.

It makes me want the Eagles to suck it. The Sixers to, um, is it basketball season? Yes. No. I'm not sure. I am basketbally challenged. Sixers fans don't tend to cause a ruckus. As you were, Sixers. Flyers, please crap out sometime during your 80 month long season.

***

I saw a homeless man peeing right in front of Southern's (High School) front doors this morning. While the kids were going in.
He had an enormous wiener. And not just for a white guy either.
I'm betting he could have capitalized on that thing a few years ago and maybe done a little bit better for himself. Now it, and him, is sorta covered in grime and MRSA.

***

I really like the soundtrack to Boogie Nights.

Library

2011-10-03T12:09:00.001-04:00

I found out that Jacob's school has a Parenting Resource office. Or guide. Or something.
I'm not sure if it's a who or a room or a binder or what, but I'm taking it upon myself to get in there and evaluate what they are doing so I'm working on putting together my parenting resume with all my experience and training and reading and stuff to give to the Principal to show her that I'm probably pretty damned qualified to make sure what they have is valid and sound and, well, just plain good and that I have lots to offer, just in case anyone is going through anything that I can help out with. Because what good am I to anyone if I can't help out?

But then I get all nervous because what if they go ahead and put the eagle eye on Jake because he has a mom who works in Parenting and they want to be sure he doesn't (read: I don't) royally screw up.

That's a fear of parenting professionals everywhere. That someone will catch on that our kids are just like all the other kids and make a big stink about it.
Of course they are. Kids are kids. They do what kids do. Every single one of them.
It's how the parents/teachers/caregivers react that (is ideally but not always) a little different. That is (ideally but not always) what we teach to other parents, what we try to learn for ourselves and our children.

Anyway, I'm putting together my parenting resume and have added a book list of all the relevant books I read, cover to cover, and keep within arms reach of my kitchen table just in case I need to make myself a bowl of mashed potatoes and sit down and look into something that is driving me batty.

In case you are the sort of mom or dad who likes books here is the list. I made the ones I really like red. Feel free to ask any questions about the books or topics or anything related to parenting advice and I'll do my best to answer it or find someone who can.
Because I need some practice just in case they take me seriously and someone asks me something at the school.

Destroying Sanctuary -Sandra Bloom

Creating Sanctuary -Sandra Bloom

Neuroscience of Psychotherapy -Louis Cozolino

Neuroscience of Human Relationships: Attachment & the Developing Social Brain -Cozolino

Trauma Through a Child’s Eyes -Peter A. Levine
Life After Trauma: A Workbook for Healing -Rosenbloom, Williams and Watkins

The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog -Perry and Szalavitz

Working with Traumatized Children -Brohl

Liberated Parents, Liberated Children -Adele Faber & Elaine Mazlish

How to Talk so Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk - Faber & Mazlish

Kids Are Worth It -Barbara Coloroso

Growing Up Again -Jean Illsley Clarke

Connections - Illsley Clarke

Who Me, Lead a Group? - Illsley Clarke

Black Parenting Book -A.C. Beal, L. Villarosa, and A. Abner

Emotional Intelligence -Daniel Goleman

Your Child’s Self Esteem -Dorothy Corkille Briggs

Six Stages of Parenthood -Ellen Galinski

Without Spanking or Spoiling -Elizabeth Crary

You Can Go Home Again -Monica McGoldrick

Family Virtues Guide -Linda Kavelin Popov

The Shelter of Each Other -Mary Pipher

Code of the Street -Elijah Anderson

Bradshaw on the Family -John Bradshaw

The Anger Control Workbook -Matthew McKay and Peter Rogers

Anger Management Sourcebook -Glenn Schiraldi and Melissa Hallmark Kerr

The Explosive Child -R. Green

Ghosts From the Nursery -R. Karr-Morse and M. Wiley

When Anger Hurts Your Kids -P. Fanning

Groups: Theory and Experience -R. Napier, M. Gershenfled

Active Learning: 101 Strategies to Teach Any Subject -Mel Silberman

Secrets of the Teenage Brain -Sheryl Feinstein

Yes, Your Teen is Crazy: Loving Your Kid Without Losing Your Mind -Michael Bradley

Strength for their Journey -R. Johnson, P. Stanford

preparedness

2011-09-27T09:12:00.001-04:00

I love fall. Autumn. Fall sounds dangerous. Autumn sounds beautiful.

But it means winter is coming, I know I have about 33 days before I start to get really wrackittey. What does that mean? I don't know. But it's the only word that I can think of that describes how I feel in November and December. Between Halloween and Christmas. I'm usually pretty okay until January 2nd or 3rd. I resolve each year to go into winter with a Good Attitude. But it lasts about a day or two until I am convinced that the world will never warm up and I will have to live a Siberian Existence forever and ever.

But this year will be different. This year I will have a Real Winter Coat. Not like those fake ones I've had before.
That gorgeous red tweed one that my grandmother loved more than anything near the end of her life. That I threw out because I wore it through pregnancy and beyond and it sort of made me look like I was in some sort of pregnant or beyond state and I only kept it last year because my grandmother loved it so much and she died in October and I felt like if I was throwing away something of mine that she loved, it was like throwing her away.
The liner was shredded. And the tweed was starting to twiddle. The buttons were starting to buckle. It was the best $89 ever spent at H&M. I wish they would bring it back. I'll check again this year, just like I do every year.
That navy blue sleeping bag thing I bought at Burlington on a day that started out at 70 and landed at 30. I needed something warm and under $100. The tag said Michael Kors but you can never be too sure at Burlington. It held up for about six months. I had it for three years. The second year I supplemented with a North Face vest. Last year I kept the vest (totally worth the dollars, if you are a coldie like me because you never have to take it off because it doesn't restrict movement. I sleep in mine sometimes.) and added another NF layer. A Redpoint Jacket. Do I love North Face? Not particularly, but I love that jacket. And these mittens. It looks springish and light, but it has some real heft. They update it (read: increase the price and cuteness) every year, and mine was under $100 and not nearly as adorable as they are now. I need a winter coat anytime the temps drop below 65, and this allows me to look like a sane person and keep warm all at the same time.

One of the things that I have taught Jacob is to avoid people who wear winter coats in the summer, despite my affection for winter coats outside of winter days. And also to avoid people with no coats in the winter. And bare feet in the city. And snots on their face/puke in their beards. And ladies with no bras. And men with no shirt away from the beach or home. And people who talk to themselves and aren't wearing a Bluetooth. And people who wear Blueteeth when they aren't using them. Bluetooths. Those douchey things in their ears.
I think I have most avoidances covered.

Also important to note, I bought a Redpoint for Dave too, who is always hot and needed something lighter for days when it is super cold outside. I love mine in October and November and March and April, he loves his in December and January and February. Everyone wins. They should be paying me to tell you this.

This year winter will be different because I have a real wintercoat that doesn't need to be supplemented by any other number of wintercoats. And it was on major sale. With free shipping. From Land's End. Which you can also buy at Sears. And any time you buy something that is available at Sears, you are making a very Grown Up and Responsible Purchase.

I bought it in Autumn Brick.

I love autumn.

isn't it weird...

2011-09-24T19:59:00.000-04:00

That we keep our trash and our food in the same room?

2011-09-23T08:51:00.002-04:00

I am not, by any means, a young mom.
When my parents were my age I was in the ninth grade.

There is something about having a kindergarten child that makes me feel like a freshman. When I meet parents of older kids (there is a lot of meeting other parents at Jacob's school, there is always something for parents to do, so you can drop by on your lunch break or comp time or day off and do something for/at the school) I feel new and inexperienced and raw and a little bit stupid and a lot bit green around the edges. Not because anyone makes me feel that way, really. Everyone has been really nice and open and "we're a big family"ish. It's just me. My issue. I'm not all that mentally great at being new at anything. I like to be seasoned and practiced and ripe. In charge. There isn't a whole lot of competency or versedness or familiarity involved when your kid is just starting his school-aged years.

When people find out how old I am, they are usually surprised. I don't look my age I guess. I'm pretty sure I act my age. Sometimes people tell me I'm really mature for my age. That's a weird sort of complement, because I think I act my age and assume they just don't know what that is.
I get hung up on this sort of stuff, and feel like my head gets patted in that "good girl" way by older adults. The patting probably is more inside my head than on top of it. An insecurity or something else left over from childhood.

I don't like to be/feel patronized.
I usually tell people I'm three years older than I actually am.

So when I am in Jacob's school, surrounded by moms of 1st - 8th graders who have been there and done this and gotten through what I'm getting through, I feel very young. Figuratively speaking.

And literally.

I assumed that most of the moms in Jacob's class would be somewhere between 25 and 30. Moms who had their kids around the time when moms from my neighborhood have their kids. But they aren't. I am young. -er. Younger.
Less old than the other moms.
Or else they just look rough for their ages.
Like they sleep in tanning beds (wholly possible) and forgo fresh produce and water sort of rough.
And that makes me feel sort of credulous and callow and I need another c-word synonym too.
I'm surprised how many moms from the older grades are well into their forties. Some in their fifties. And some of the dads are older than my dad. It's weird.
Not all of them, of course. But enough that it's worth writing about. I guess the ones I don't see are probably younger. Working jobs that don't allow for the flexibility that lets you jump in to the school for an hour to help out with the Scholastic book fair or to stuff Communication Envelopes that get sent home with every kid every Wednesday or monitor the lunchroom or help the littler kids into their ballet slippers or take their violins down from the shelves.

These are the people living in my neighborhood now. Not necessarily the people who are from my neighborhood. Times are certainly changing.
Which is probably really superty good for my property value.

I will be forty when Jake is in fifth grade.
47 when he graduates high school.

But I'll tell people I'm fifty, because I will look great for fifty.

2011-09-21T09:41:00.000-04:00

I'm a fan of the school uniform.

Monday through Thursday the boys wear charcoal grey slacks (there is no better word for this type of pant, with it's pleats and creases and reinforced knees) and navy polo shirts. Fridays it's black sweat pants and white t-shirts. I bought 4 polo shirts, 3 pairs of slacks, and a navy cardigan- which will be required after October 1st. If a shirt isn't dirty it gets hung up for tomorrow. Same goes for the slacks. Thank all that is holy that these kids don't wear khaki pants and white shirts like the Catholic kids up the street. I'd be living in the laundry room and advising you to buy stock in Oxyclean.

***

I asked Jacob if they have to say the pledge each day, and he answered, "yes, but it's a weird one. They make us say 'God Bless America' afterwards". I almost puked. I didn't say anything, because I don't want him to know I have an opinion on that whole matter, but the idea of my baby heiling the flag and asking God to Bless America makes me a little dizzy.
If you saw a bunch of three to four foot tall (insert ethnic enemy of choice here) children standing in formation and reciting something to (insert symbol of enemy here) and asking (insert diety of choice here) to bless (insert country enemy of choice here), how would you feel?
The idea creeps me out, no matter what flag/god/country we are dealing with.

God bless my underwear, my only pair.
Stand beside them, and guide them,
Through the rips, through the holes, through the tears.
From the washer, to the dryer, to the clothesline in the air.
God bless my underwear, my only pair.

I'll get over it. And if Al Jazeera has set up cameras in the classroom and uses what they see to promote an Anti-American sentiment video that portrays our children as hate-filled loyalists, I guess we have bigger problems.

***

I snuck down into the pool yesterday to watch the kids swim, and was absolutely tickled to see Jake on the pool deck with the other boys, holding one another's ankles during sit ups and doing ten pushups with their feet against the wall and their arms on the dive bars (I guess they are dive bars, they are built into the deck on the edge of the pool, about four inches off the floor) and ten jumping jacks and getting back down and doing it again. Their little selves working hard in the equatorial temperatures down there in the pool area. Jake has one of those Abercrombie teen sort of bodies. Long arms and legs and torso that never had chubby rolls or paunches of babyness to them. It's weird to see him use all those tiny muscles that would photograph well in a controversial catalog. It's weird to describe your child's body on the internet.

***

I found a really good pizza place in University City. By "really good" I mean the pizza is less than $3 a slice and I can hide out there between appointments and catch up on paperwork and Sudokus.

I feel like a racist if I do Sudokus in front of Asian people.

***

I just finished up 15 hours of training on Group Facilitation, and my 45th hour of Trauma Awareness. I start my final 30 hours of trauma training next week. I'm tired. But smarter than I was 60 hours ago. Classes are in 2.5 hour blocks, meeting every two weeks with about 3 hours of reading and writing between classes. It's a lot. The organization that hosts the classes has a blog that I have in my reader and have been meaning to check out. Maybe you'll beat me to it by clicking here. I'm hoping it is user friendly and people who aren't in the field can get lots of information from it.

***

Autumn starts on Friday, and I usually cut my hair on the solstices and equinoxes but I'm letting it grow out. I got it cut super short on the first day of winter and again on the first day of summer and I don't plan to cut it again until December 22nd. I did trim some ratty ends a few weeks ago. It's getting longer. For the first time since right after I had Jake, my hair is past my chin all the way around my head.
And it's not falling out anymore. I don't know what made it stop, but I'm glad it did. A year ago I had half the hair I had a year and a half ago. Today I have about 75% of the hair I had a year and a half ago.

I'll take it.

***

Isn't it weird that if you burp, fart, cough, sniffle, whatever it is your responsibility to excuse yourself to those around you but if you sneeze everyone around you is responsible for excusing the sneeze by making a big blessing and offering you a tissue and saying things like 'my goodness!' and asking if you are okay? I call shenanigans. I'm done taking on the onus of other people's sneezes. The sneeze is seriously like, the most revolting and violent of all bodily expulsions. Germs and spit and snots come rushing out of your head faster than a locomotive engine and it's MY job to clear all that up for you?

No thank you.

God Bless Your Own Damned Self.
Dammit.

bells

2011-09-20T09:03:00.000-04:00

I think I'm almost ready to sit down and write about last week. Jake started kindergarten. Or, as the locals put it- Kiddie Garden. As if there is some sort of top soil involved. Or chicken wire.

It was bigger than I thought it would be. This whole school thing. I thought I would be fine. I have been working full time since my 12 week maternity leave was up. Jake was at Charmaine's until six weeks shy of five years old. Then at preschool and summer camp since January. I didn't think kindergarten would be all that different until we got about four blocks away from kindergarten last Monday when Jake stopped walking and said, "Mom. Mom. This is it, isn't it? This is like, real life. Mom. This is the first day of my real life, Mom, and every Monday from now on I'm going to put on my clothes and head out to school. And then work when I get big. And that's how you know you've started real life"

And he was right.

And now we are a week and two days into real life.

Leaving Jake at kindergarten was more emotional than I thought it would be. I didn't cry at the door, or even at home but I miss him in a whole different way than I missed him when he was at daycare/preschool/summer camp. Parents aren't allowed in the school in the morning, which took me by surprise. But I guess in places where there are school buses parents don't even see the school in the morning. It could be burning down and surrounded by snipers for all anyone would know. You just put your kid on a bus with one grown up and fifty kids and no seatbelts and hope for the best. My mental health does not allow me to think about school buses. Anything bad that ever happened to me at school happened to me on a school bus, not at actual school.
One plus of not being allowed in the school is that the other parents aren't allowed in the school either. Especially that junkie looking dad I saw at kindergarten parent's orientation. Or the Jersey Shore Wannabes who clamor and fuss outside the doors.

One of Dave's cousins just finished up at Parris Island and has been shipped off to wherever Marines go after a week home after Parris Island yesterday, so we went over to the house on Sunday afternoon. The idea of anyone's child going to wherever Marines go after a week home makes me want to throw up, and I almost passed out when I saw his battalion class picture. Is that what it is called? I don't know. I don't want to know. They all looked like babies. Scared babies trying to look brave.
I've never seen a military photo of anyone where I can see anything but a scared kid trying to figure out what a brave face and stiff upper lip is supposed to look like. What a soldier is supposed to look like. I'd rather see the candid photographs taken around the base or in the camps. I'd rather see what a soldier actually does look like. Rarely does a soldier look like himself in his formal military photo.
But the point of this isn't about kids joining up, it's about that we were at the house and one of Dave's uncles brought his new girlfriend and she is a first grade teacher at Jake's school. And she went to high school with Dave. And she's good friends with Jake's kindergarten teacher. And Jacob fell in love with her. And that's why living in a small town has its perks. This week is easier than last for lots of reasons, a big one being that there is someone who is practically family working down the hall from the kindergarteners.

Hopefully she sticks around for awhile.

The minutes go by so slowly when Jake is at school. I wonder what he is doing all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I get jealous when I see moms on the street during school hours with their kids that are just not quite old enough to go to school. Especially those kids who missed the birthday cutoff. Those just-turned-fivers who are probably heartbroken they aren't in school. Unlike my just-turned-five-and-one-halfer. My five-point-fiver. My "I'm-going-to-be-six-pretty-soon-well,I-mean-soon-like-in-March"er.

Jacob got his first loose tooth on Sunday. It's hardly loose. I think it's less loose today than it was then so it might be a fluke. But don't tell him that.
It's a lower left incisor, and that might have been the first one to come in too. I don't think I kept track, but I know those bottom teeth were in first.
Jake knows the story of my first lost tooth. I've shared it before, but I'll recap in fifty words or less:
Swallowed it while eating cinnamon toast. Thought the tooth fairy would have to reach up my butt to pull it out. Grandma died that day/night, and I swore I saw the tooth fairy in my room but now I believe it was her saying goodbye.

Did I make it? I didn't count.

Jake's kindergarten is full day. 7.45am-3.15pm full. And then he has afterschool care until 6. But I try to get him by 5 because they start in on homework at 5 and I don't want him doing his homework without me.

Homework. Now there's where those tears will eventually fall. It's frustrating. We are all tired. And hungry. Or full. Depending on whether we just ate or not.

Eating dinner. It's like a new adventure. Kids get hungry at school, even when you pack them a lunch that is twice what a grownup would eat during the day. A drink and a peanut butter and honey, carrots/grapes/tomatoes/pears/whatever, a grahamish or cheesish sort of cracker snack, something that resembles a chewy fruitish thing, and two Hershey Kisses.

Two Hershey Kisses that the boy kisses before he opens because he believes I kiss them before I put them in his bag.

Can you stand it?

2011-09-09T22:54:00.000-04:00

I love to crack my living room windows and watch for the bus to drive by. The way they are lit up so brightly inside, you can see what everyone is doing in there during the two seconds it takes for the bus to pass by. Looking at the lives of people who aren't sitting at home on their couch.

Though, we are so far down near the end of the line that they most likely will be in the next fifteen/twenty. There's not much to do down on that end of town most nights. Just live.

Living room. Living room life. Life in the living room. It's funny how much of life happens in the living room and most of what we do in there is considered to be "nothing". My living room is my child's favorite place in the whole world. Everything he loves ends up there eventually. Especially people.

That's what he says, at least.

"Everything I love ends up here."

Last night we sat on the couch and read Nursery Rhymes for an hour or so. I have two old Nursery Rhyme books. Old old books, from when I was little. One is a Dean's Mother Goose. I keep it on the bookshelf so people can see it and the ones who had it when they were little get really excited to see it.

Something like 93% of all Nursery Rhymes include the word "pussy" or "cock". That's science. Go ahead and look it up.

I think I'm going to ask Santa for a Kindle. I have an unhealthy attachment to real books, but I think I'm ready to move past it. Almost. A few months ago I was straightening and dusting my books on the shelves and Jake said, "mom, why don't you just get a Kindle like a lot of people have? It's cleaner and takes up less space."
"Well, I like my books."
"Mom, you know that people will still think you are smart even if they can't see all the books you've read, don't you? And you can always let them browse through your reading list on your reader."

What?
What?
Okay.
Five year old.

He's right.

But man alive do I love my books.
And I really love when you look over my books when we are hanging out.
And I love when you've read some of those books up there and I love when some of those books used to be your books and we traded so some of my books are at your house now and I love to say "yes" if you ask if you can borrow one of them.

My favorite science is Quantum Entanglement. This week. It might be different next week.

I had an ah-ha moment about cows making cheese and moons made of cheese and cows jumping over the moon and now I want to write a children's story about cows making moons and stars and planets by jumping up really high.

That might be the basis of Hinduism. I'm not sure. I should probably look into that before I get started. See why cows are so sacred.

I'm usually pretty worldly about cheese. Not so much about major faith practices.

You know it has been the longest hottest wettest American summer when you think you see a rainbow on a stormy day so you reach down to grab your phone and when you look back up you realize that it's not a rainbow at all, but the emissions release from the smokestack at that factory thing down there near the river by Ikea and Target and Shoprite. Grey on grey on grey on sticky on sweaty. There has been a lot of that these past few weeks. I haven't gotten out much.

Friends is on Nick at Nite. That's how you know you're getting old. Used to be the only shows that came on Nick at Nite was Hazel and Car 54 and My Three Sons.
You'll feel a lot better about your body if you look at Jennifer Aniston circa 1993 than you will looking at Jennifer Aniston today.
The early nineties were fun because no one thought having a healthy body weight was unattractive. Then something called "Heroin Chic" happened. HEROIN CHIC. So disgusting.

I made cookies tonight. Chocolate chip. My secret ingredient is bourbon instead of vanilla.
And pecans instead of walnuts.
And of course real butter. Room temperature.
Dark brown sugar instead of light brown sugar.
Course ground sea salt (pink is the most adorable) instead of table salt.
And "large" sized eggs are more important than most people think. It's all part of the chemistry.
So is cold cookie sheets. I put them in the freezer between their turns in the oven.
A little cinnamon is good, when the weather gets cold.
Other than that they are just Toll House.
I guess I have lots of secret ingredients.

And now they aren't so secret.

rolling

2011-09-07T09:48:00.000-04:00

I'm not a conspiracy theorist. I don't think. I don't know.

I'm not a conspiracy theorist, per se. But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.

Lots of people are opening up about their September 11ths this week. Sharing stories that they haven't shared in ten years. Trying to let go of things or move on from things or figure out some things that have been keeping them in knots for a decade now.

I was lucky. I didn't lose anyone. I didn't lose anything in the resulting econ-crash because I didn't have anything to lose.

My September 11th was probably like most people's September 11th. Horrifying and terrible and life-altering in the way it happens once every generation or so when you get a giant shake-up in the way things are.

My September 12th was a little different. There's a story there that I only tell in small circles.

I went to work that morning and tried my best to be normal but the girl I was working with was shaken. Crying. Nervous. I asked her if she was okay and she said no- that her uncle, who serves as a fighter pilot in our military, called the house in hysterics late last night and told her and her grandmother that he killed people that day. That he had orders to shoot down a plane over Pennsylvania and though he knew he was likely saving the lives of several important people, he killed innocent people in the process.

And then I understood why people spend time wondering about men walking on the moon and the JFK assassination and AIDS and crack being invented by governments and stuff.

Do I believe that he shot it down?

I don't know.

But I do believe that we aren't told everything there is to tell about lots of things, and that is fine by me. My brain is already so full of crap that keeps me up at night. I don't need anything else in there.

2011-08-30T12:17:00.003-04:00

The air is so good and crisp and clean that I want to buy new shoes.

I won't though. I don't need new shoes. I have two pairs of old Danskos that I love and they love me back, even though I totally busted up the toes on my brown clogs when I fell smack on my face in the middle of the ghetto a few months ago. Did I tell that story here?

Yeah, well, I fell flat on my face when I tripped on a piece of nothing over in Point Breeze and a big old prostitute (she was big, and she was old. For a prostitute. I'm guessing 55? 60? Or maybe just a really rough-looking thirty-something) started running (read: braless in a miniskirt) across the street screaming "girl! You best get up off the street like that! You can't just be laying in the street over here. They come and lock you up for sure you just keep laying on the street like that" and then a handful of teen aged boys came across from the other corner yelling at the big old prostitute "don't you touch that girl in the street! Don't let her touch you! You gonna get AIDS or something for sure if you let her help you up". And I stood up and brushed myself off and rubbed my knee and picked up my phone that flew out of my bag and said thank you to everyone and went home.
All in a day's work.

So I don't need new shoes. Which is good because I just bought school shoes for the boy. And soccer cleats. And ballet slippers.
When you buy ballet slippers for your boy at Payless during BOGO, the sales associate will pick up the slippers and point them at your child and suggest that you "pick up the stockings that go with these for her" but luckily your boy will be too obsessed with the security cameras that display on the cctv that is hung above the registers to notice that someone just asked you if you wanted to buy him pantyhose. And called him a her.

Jacob would make a funny looking her.
Not really.
He would make a beautiful her. Who am I kidding?
But with his hair cut shortish and his clothes, he makes a funny looking her.

There's no difference between boys' ballet slippers and girls' ballet slippers, just that boys wear black. I'll sew them up for him tonight or sometime this week and put them with his ninja suit so they're all ready for school.

When I was newly pregnant and envisioning late nights spent sewing up ballet slippers, they were pink. But this is okay too.

Something I do to teenaged (and sadly sometimes beyond) boys who wear their waistband below their butt cheeks is pull them aside and whisper in their ear that they "must have sat in something because there is a mark on their undershorts that looks like-um- you know" and then they get embarrassed and say thanks or say nothing but they always pull up their pants.

Soccer started last night. Dave is coaching, he sort of got roped in to it. Jacob seems to listen to Dave as Coach miles better than he listens to Dave as Dad. We might have to work that in to homelife somehow. The jerseys this year are a weird celery color that would make a great bridesmaid dress but don't scream "SPORTS!!" in any sort of way.
The girls who I can't stand are on Jake's team. Of course. I can't STAND these kids. Or their parents. And I feel bad because I know that all three of the children in the family are diagnosable but they don't go to a school/ have a mom and dad that really supports or encourages treating diagnoses so they are sort of screwed. It's not the kids' faults that they aren't getting the help they need. And you should see how gorgeous the girls would be if their mother would wash and brush their long thick curly blonde hair and scrub the snots off their adorable faces. They'd be like little Gap Kids. But instead they look like Walmart Brats. So sad. I know some of the guidance department at their school (last spring at tee ball I asked the mom where the kids go to school, I wanted to be sure it wasn't the same as Jake's) and I think I might call in a favor. Is that wrong? I don't think so. But what do I know? Ethics? Bah!

Two weeks from yesterday until school starts up. I think I might take the whole day off. And get a massage or have my feet professionally cleaned or something. I can make it an annual ritual. All I need to do is find a spa open on Mondays.

2011-08-28T14:29:00.000-04:00

I gave myself a hangnail carrying a case of water from the car to the house.

Other than that, Irene didn't put out too much hardship in Philadelphia despite what the news had us thinking we might get. The lights didn't even flicker and there isn't anything in the basement the dehumidifier won't take care of for me. Thank goodness for all that, others weren't so lucky.

Add up the earthshake and the hurrican't and the two crickets I found in the yard this morning and the tickle in my throat and you've got real end of times stuff on your hands.

先生

2011-08-25T10:02:00.003-04:00

I'm going to go ahead and admit that there are a few things I miss about Facebook. Mostly just the availability of the status update for a good old fashioned brain-dump. There is a back up in there now that should probably be getting out somehow.

Sometimes things that get posted there- like when my status update read "I'm going to stop judging people who leave Christmas decorations up all year long as 'lazy' and start classifying them as 'really into Jesus'"- can be followed up with something funny that the kid says like the other day when we passed someone's backyard that was totally (I mean TOTALLY) decked out for year-round Christmas and he said "people who leave their Christmas decorations up all year long work for Santa. That's where he hides the spy cameras".

But then you are that person who just posts things that her kids say because they are way funnier than she is and we all get tired hearing about the kids.

Is it just my town where people don't feel a need to take down the mangers and the garland and the angels?

Also in funny kid news, we were talking about some of our neighbors awhile back and Jake asked me if they come from a different country since they have an accent and I said, "yes, Italy, the one that's shaped like a boot" and he said "Mom, you say 'off the boat' not 'like a boot'. It's not nice to say someone is shaped like a boot". How he knows about being off the boat I have no idea, but it was really hard not to laugh.

I need to get out of the house so I stop talking about my child all the time. As funny and adorable as he is. And full of attitude lately. Godalmighty, the attitude. And the impatience. And the bossiness. I sat him down last night and told him that the number one most important skill of the ninja is patience. Ninjas know how to wait quietly for the exact right time to spring into action and they never need to ask questions they already know the answer to and even though ninjas are strong and smart and skilled in a lot of ways, they still need a sensei to guide them and provide them with the skills they will need to one day become a sensei themselves.

We'll see how well that works. Relating thing to ninjas is one of the best ways to get through to him these days.

Also, kindergarten in two weeks and four days. Ack. I'm not sure if there is a word that says how I feel about it. I swing between excited and, well, I can't say sad. Just emotional. I may or may not have teared up at the JCPenney's back-to-school denim commercial the other day. Yeah? So what. I forgot this emotion- the same one you get when you see Johnson&Johnson commercials when you are in your last trimester of pregnancy.

You know something big is about to happen but you aren't too sure exactly how it's going to change your life.

flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder

2011-08-24T16:09:00.000-04:00

Ever been in a skyscraper during an earthquake?
I guess my building is a skyscraper. Maybe not. It's only 21 floors.

We tell the new people that there is a company lounge, health club, and pool on 22, which is funnier than it sounds because the elevators only reach to 20 so new people have to walk up the flight of stairs that takes them to 21 and the HR offices and if you accompany them they almost always ask if they are the same stairs that keep going up to the pool. They don't. They just give roof access and no one but maintenance can go up there.

Ever been in a high rise building during an earthquake?

I'm only on the second floor so my first thought was subway disaster.
The subway runs right under my building and every once in awhile the universe collides in a way that puts the Northbound and Southbound and the Express turn-around under me all at once. And you can sort of kind of hear and feel the tracks rattle. But this was bigger than that ever was. Everything shook. Even our jiggly parts. I crossed my arms because there are men that sit near me.

My second thought was elevator catastrophe because the back wall of my space is the elevator shaft.
< < shaft!! > >
Then someone mentioned earthquake and someone else laughed and someone else said EARTHquake!?!?! and I got my bag and started to jet.

That fight or flight or freeze thing? I'm a flighter. At the first sign of trouble, I'm out. I'm never not prepared to run. That's what a decade in social work will teach you. Get da fug out. Wear shoes you can run in or kick off in an instant.

But no one moved.
I'm a flighter but I'm not a deserter. Dammit, people.

They just sat there.
So I waited until the freezers warmed up and we all went outside.

I would make a terrible soldier. I don't deal with authority very well, I need to be in charge of everything- and I hear you have to work hard and wait awhile before they put you in charge of anything more than potatoes or latrines. I run away from adverse situations. And I can't leave anyone behind, even if I don't like them so much. I'd likely be charged with enemy sympathizing or something. I'm bossy, so I am good at rounding up troops and getting them to do what I think is the right thing to do. Which is not always the right thing to do, but I've never lost a comrade yet.
I would make an excellent person-to-be-seated-by-the-emergency-exit on a flight going down. I'm sure of it.

I have this 9-5 safety plan in my head that requires me to travel about 4 blocks south of my office where all the tall buildings end just in case something decides to collapse. Skyscraper or high rise, I don't want to be underneath it. But we had to stay on the corner because no one knew what to tell us to do because none of us has an earthquake safety plan and despite the looming buildings and my issues with authority (I'm working on it) I listened and stayed put. This is Philadelphia. We don't have natural disasters so we don't prepare much. Man-made, plenty. Acts of God? Apparently God doesn't like to come around here often. Or she really likes us.

And then it was over and the phones started connecting again and the internet started back up and everything was okay. It was unnerving for a few minutes. You couldn't call your people. You couldn't make sure they were okay. It was a glimpse into what it must feel like if there is a real emergency.

I have this thing about working far from home. Unless I'm in the field, I am never more than three miles from my house. And my child. I can run three miles at a pretty steady clip, with the help of fear and adrenaline. Jacob's preschool is within panic distance and his kindergarten is a stone's throw from that and his afterschool program will be where his preschool is.

Seeing people gridlocked after 9-11 scared me. Scarred me. Even here in Philadelphia, people couldn't get out to the burbs and outlying areas of the City and phone lines were tied up and there was this sense of helplessness<->hopelessness that spread across the faces of people who didn't know what to do and it scared me. The adults didn't know what to do. The police didn't know what to do. No one knew what to do. No one could hold their babies. We were all just stuck. So I resolved to never work more than three miles from my house when I grew up and got a real job. And my child once he came along (unless he is in Jersey with my mother-in-law. Or at my parents'. Or anywhere else he vacations from time to time). I try to be within running distance at almost all times.

I guess I have about a baker's dozen more years to hold true to that last part. I'm guessing that by the time Jake is 18 his emergency plan will be to be as far away from his mother as possible.

position

2011-08-19T09:57:00.000-04:00

Now I'm willing to bet that I'm a pretty progressive person. A progressive parent. I guess. I'm not sure what the benchmark of progression is or anything, but I'm pretty sure that I'm above it.

But when I was reviewing Jacob's summer reading list and saw a book called Hooray for Ballet that wasn't at the library and wasn't in the bookstore and wasn't online for anywhere cheaper than $155, I tanked the whole thing. No way in double hockey sticks am I shelling out $155 for a ballet book. For my son. My boy child.

I begrudgingly got the other books for him, I bought them rather than got them from the library. Books are pretty important in our house, and he has projects to do based on the books and I figured they would probably reference them throughout the year. I say begrudgingly because it was mostly Eric Carle stuff. I don't know why this guy is a famous writer/artist. The books are terrible and the art is creepy and ugly. Mostly the eyes and the people. Jake likes the books but I think it's because he has them all memorized. It isn't hard. Most of the books have one or two sentences that repeat twenty times, the only thing that changes is the noun.

Does a horse have a mother?
Does a cat have a mother?
Does a rabbit have a mother?
Brown bear brown bear what do you see?
Red bird red bird what do you see?
White dog, white dog what do you see?

Oh, and a children's book about Georgia O'Keefe. Right. I bought my five year old a book about Georgia O'Keefe. And I bought it online so I didn't know what I was getting until I got it home. Luckily it wasn't vaginal in the least bit.

So, $155 ballet book. One of the little boys in the preschool will be going to kindergarten with Jacob and his mom searched the burbs for this book because she couldn't imagine paying for it either. She found it in Norristown and color copied it for me. Sweet.
Now the biggest problem was sitting my boychild down to read a ballet book.
Last night, after some attitude and arm crossing and huffs and puffs I got Jake to read it.

Dave and I have been pushing the "everything that you have is a direct result of us going to school and doing our homework" card with Jake the past week or so. It seems to be working. For now.
"You can buy Lego guys with homework", is what Jake hears.

Three sentences into "Hooray for Ballet" and Jake is totally psyched that he has to take ballet in school. Oh yeah, did I tell you that? All kids from K-5 absolutely have to take ballet. Each day if I'm not mistaken.

The book talked about how it makes you better at sports and how danseurs wear pants instead of pink tights and how ballet is a lot of jumping up in the air. I showed Jake his dance uniform and he was thrilled that he gets to wear "ninja pants" and if I would have told him that "the ballet is actually just acrobatic ninja-ing he wouldn't have given me such a hard time about it".

The book talked about Swan Lake, which I thought he would be totally bored with but apparently he's familiar with is.
"Swan Lake! That says Swan Lake, doesn't it? I love Swan Lake. It is a very famous movie staring Barbie and all her friends. But boys can like it too. It's not like other Barbie stuff. Oh wow. Swan Lake. I love Swan Lake."

Right, Swan Lake. A famous Barbie movie. For boys. He loves it.

Unlike the very famous Barbie movie, they put the real ending in the book, and he was totally thrilled with it.
I was uncomfortable.
The moment passed.

And when Jake woke up this morning he told me he had a nightmare about scary dogs, but he fought them off using ballet.

English is hard.

2011-08-18T19:43:00.000-04:00

You never realize how complicated the word "operation" is until a five year old asks you to explain everything can it mean without putting it into any sort of context for you. I started with surgery and ended with a brief discussion on special military strategies and still didn't get everything in there.

I'm exhausted.

"Each man reads his own meaning into New York"- Meyer Berger

2011-08-17T09:55:00.001-04:00

Saturday morning I got off a MegaBus there at the corner of 7th and 28th in Midtown Manhattan and walked over to 26th between 8th and 9th.

To pick up a performer's pass.
In New York City.
Where I would be performing.
On stage.
In New York City.

Saturday morning, almost exactly 30 years after the horrifying incident* that rendered me stage frighty for what I thought would be the rest of my life, I walked into a New York City mainstage and said to the girl behind the ticket counter, "hello, I'd like to pick up my performer's pass".
Things got swimmy for a few seconds. It was all pretty surreal and totally not something I would have ever said that I could have ever done in a million years.

Sure it wasn't Broadway. We didn't pack the house like we do in Philadelphia. There were no names in lights or flowers thrown onstage or leafing through the Entertainment Section the next morning over coffee and toast to see what people had to say. But it was pretty effing special.

That's me in the black and purple dress. Our performer's passes were just wristbands- those orange things we are all wearing. I cut mine off and put it in my grandmother's sewing box which I guess is my sewing box now.
This is the part of the show where Caroline and I were chain-smoking Schnauzers named Cookie and Tootsie who worked on the docks and ate scraps from back alleys in Little Italy. No one knew which one was Cookie and which was Tootsie. Including us. But we pretended like we did and gave everyone else a really hard time about thinking that all Schnauzers look alike.

*that horrifying incident was me being switched last minute from an elephant to a camel in the preschool rendition of some play about animals and I came out trunk swinging and trumpeting like a pro (I can still do that, it's incredibly life-like) with the camels. I was an elephant when I should have been a camel. Everyone laughed. I was convinced I ruined the play, and when the teacher gave me a jar of bubbles afterwards, I gave them back and said I didn't deserve them. I still remember what I was wearing. A plaid romper that tied at the shoulders. Purple and teal and cream. With some magenta strung through. I remember it because I spent a lot of time that night looking down at it.
That night ruined my confidence for a long, long time.

Logging out.

2011-08-16T11:47:00.000-04:00

My birthday present to myself this year is to get off Facebook. I've been there for a bit over a year, which is long enough to know it gets in the way of me writing, blogging, reading, cleaning, working, playing, and actually sitting down with the people I love and having real life conversations about things that don't involve what we are having for lunch and how annoying traffic, grocery shopping, weather, working, neighbors, housework, whining, and getting older is.

Negativity and ennui tend to go viral on the Facebook. And false cheer. And pictures of teenaged cousins and nieces in tiny bathing suits and too much makeup.

So, if I'm not there it's not because I hate you or you said something wrong or anything else.

It's a process, this getting off of the Facebook. I'm collecting telephone numbers and emails and addresses. Checking out photos one last time. Seeing what people are doing this fall. Seeing what the kids are up to. Re-adding blog feeds to my Google Reader. Sending out disclaimers of why I'm pushing "unfriend". "Unfriend" sounds so unfriendly. I wish there was another term used.

"Refriend", maybe. Like an "I want to be your friend again because I feel like we are keeping up with one another but really all we are doing is looking at three sentence status updates twice daily and I really don't know what is going on in your life" button.

The Facebook has put me back in touch with people I haven't seen in awhile. In decades. Some for the good, some for the bad. The good ones I'll stay in touch with. The bad ones will float back into the ether.

It has put me in touch with family that I have never known as adults. I mean, me being an adult and they being an adult. It's different than being kids. Or adult and kid. I'll miss that connection, but hope to keep it up in real life. And if not, well. Okay.

It has informed me of things that make me very very sad that I would not have known about otherwise. Things that could have passed by without my knowledge. Without my emotions. Without making a difference in my life. Dead friends, sick extended family members, deformed babies, dying babies, dead babies, benefits for deformed/dying/dead babies that I don't know and will never find it in the budget to send dollars to.
Things that happen on the fringe of my existence, far enough away that no one would stop to think "I better call Lora on this one". And I would have been happier that way.
I'm trying to think of happy things I learned on Facebook that I wouldn't have learned of otherwise. I can't think of one. Of course there have been babies born and degrees earned and parties announced. But I'd like to think that I'd have gotten birth announcements and word and invitations via mail or phone or conversation.

It has taught me things about friends and family that I didn't want to know. Things that friends and families shouldn't really be saying to one another. Things that friends should only tell their families and things that families should only tell their friends.
There are quite a few people who I will never look at the same again.
That sucks.

I will keep my account open. I have admin rights on quite a few sites. I do things in places that require a Facebook log in to do. I may keep a close circle of friends on my page. No friends of friends or obligatory family or spouses of friends or second cousins or any of the such. I may drop or add from time to time. Not because of love lost or love gained (well, maybe love gained) but because sometimes it's easier to stay in touch with a group over there.

I have a photo blog for Jacob, for those who are close enough to want to see his photos all the time. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and friends close enough to be considered those things may ask for the site. Those who are not will be politely declined.

I have a You Tube account, for those who are close enough to want to see silly family videos. All those interested may have access. It is a public account.

Improv videos I can post here, and anyone may follow along on the fansite for the team.

And there's blogs. And Skype. And Google+. And email. And text messaging. And I hear that with all these new technologies coming out, there's an app that lets you use your phone to speak to another person. With voices that you hear in real time. You just punch in a code with the buttons you usually use for texting and a tone sounds and the other person pushes the "send" button and says hello and you can talk for as long as you'd like. And lunches, shared in the same place at the same time. Dinner guests! Saturday outings! Happy hours! Many many happy hours spent with people you care about today.
Amazing.
Absolutely amazing what we have these days but rarely use.

frontiers

2011-07-22T12:27:00.003-04:00

I was born in the mid-70s, grew up in the 80s. We all thought we'd be astronauts. We all thought we'd be able to go to space whenever we wanted some day.

I was up yesterday when the space shuttle landed. It was hot. I couldn't sleep. I wanted to watch it.
It was sad. For me, probably for a lot of people.

In Jacob's school they are focusing on planets and stars this month. He draws me solar systems. A circle for the sun and eight loops with little planets on each on one side of the paper. On the other side, he draws me a circle for the sun and nine loops with little planets on each. "This side has old-fashioned science", he tells me. "So you don't get confused because I know in the olden days they thought there were nine planets, so that's probably what you learned".

Research methods change. The way we go about things changes. Science changes.

Not actual science, of course, that never changes. But our knowledge and scope and understanding of it. And that's okay. It keeps us going. Learning. Wondering. Guessing. Thinking eggs are good for us or terrible. That sort of thing.

My child was born in the mid-00s and will grow up in the 10s. He will probably not grow up thinking he'll be an astronaut some day. Won't think he'll be able to go to space whenever he wants some day.

When you get big you'll understand...

2011-07-18T13:08:00.000-04:00

why I keep "takin' pikchurs of yer feet". And the nape of your neck, and the curl of your eyelashes.

why I don't want you in my bed but I don't kick you out either.

why sometimes I cry when we are having a fun time.

why I can't stop staring.

why I put your hands in my mouth.

why we can't touch our tongues together.

why we go to bed when it gets dark and we get up when it gets light.

why I like to read you the same books my mom and dad read me when I was little.

why we make chains out of strips of colored paper.

why all I want for my birthday is a big huge giant most enormous really good great hug.

why I count the hairs on your head.

why we bend the rules sometimes.

why boys and girls have different parts. And where babies come from.

why I have to go to work to get the monies.

why you have to sit in the back seat where it's safe.

why I still hold you like a baby.

why I need you to go to sleep so I can go to sleep too.

why sometimes it has to rain.

why we eat vegetables before we eat anything else.

why you can't play out front by yourself.

why good people can do bad things. And the other way around.

why sometimes we don't share.

why my little brother is bigger than me.

why I'm still Mimi's baby even though I'm bigger than her.

why you'll be my baby even when you're not a baby.

why I kiss you a bazillion times before bed.

why I thank you for today.

why some people live far far away.

why your cat never came home.

why I do.

why we both need a time out every now and then.

why you can look, but not touch.

why there are some things that I just don't have an answer for.

why me and daddy made you.

why big people don't take naps.

why some books don't have pictures.

why I don't let you watch the news "like a man does".

why we have to be gentle with other people's feelings and bodies.

why candy apples aren't healthy even though there is an apple in there.

why some people don't speak English.

why I never tell you to stop asking why.

(originally posted 8/31/09)

justice

2011-07-08T09:19:00.001-04:00

Just about everything there is to be said has been said about the Florida mom and her little girl. It's sad. And unfair that she recieved so much attention when there are so many other children who are killed by their parents or die mysteriously every year we never hear of. Little CA gets to carry the cross for them all. Her tiny life stands for so many lives lost. I think the stats are something like 100 mothers kill their children in the US each year. Add fathers and other caregivers to the mix and the number skyrockets. How many have you heard of? Thought of? Mourned?

Did you know that most children who are severely abused or die at the hands of their parents are abused or killed over potty training issues? Potty training is rough stuff. Add caring for other children (potty training coincides with new babies in a lot of families. Fun times in parenting for sure) and housework and relationships and the job and and and and you have a lot on your plate. If you don't have support or stability in your life, things can go south real quick.

***

There's a case going on in Philadelphia right now that blows the Orlando one out of the water. You probably haven't heard about it. The child was 14 and had Cerebral Palsy and weighed all of 40 pounds and was stuck to her bed and had maggots in her bedsores and was living in filth and had social workers who never went to see her and a father who abandoned her and after the dust settled nine people were charged related to her murder. Nine. NINE.

The little girl was much less than adorable, save for a picture taken of her on one of her birthdays where she looked happy and gorgeous and full of life. That's the one you'll see in the paper. Normally she was bobble-headed and her body curled up in strange ways. Her mouth didn't shut and her hair wasn't combed. No one wants to see that. It makes us uncomfortable. So they don't put it on television because we would turn away. Turn the channel. And there aren't nationwide prayer vigils for the little girl who lived and died in horrifying ways. No one is tuned into the courtroom proceedings. It isn't even front page news here.

***

There is this thing Ghandi (I think it was Ghandi) said about if you have to eat meat, you should eat beef. Because one cow can feed many people and people can use just about every single part of a cow after it is killed. You certainly shouldn't eat shrimp because it takes a dozen or more to fill the belly of one man.

I'm not sure how that ties in.

***

I feel for the little girl who died in Orlando. I also feel for her mother. That's an unpopular stance to take. Compassion. Care. Understanding.

Normal people who are mentally well do not allow their children to die or go missing without reaching for help. Normal people who are mentally well do not fabricate people's lives. People who are damaged, traumatized, fearful, unbalanced, desperate, and alone do. Ruined people. Broken people.

Instead of asking what is wrong with the mother, we should ask "what happened to her that made her the way she is?". Something happened to her to make her the way she is.

Awful things happen to an awful lot of people to make them the way they are. We should all learn, and do our bests to be sure it doesn't happen to us. To our children. To the children in our family. The children who play with our children. The children in our communities. All children.

***

I didn't watch the trial. I didn't need to. The case has no bearing on my life. But cases like it do.

Cases that touch me personally. Children that touch me personally. Children that are scared of their parents and cling to me, a stranger, for dear life so that they may have just a few seconds of human touch that isn't hurtful, vengeful, hateful. Children that hold on to me tight and whisper in my ear that they hate their mommies and wish Jesus would come and take them away. Children that pray to a God for death every night. Pray to a God that never seems to listen. Never seems to save them.

Pray for those children.
Leave your porch light on for those children.

And for their children. Because chances are, they will grow up to be just like their parents. Sick. Angry. Abusive.

Apples don't fall far, no matter how beautiful the blossom, how sweet the fresh fruit.

***

Please let go of your anger towards a woman you don't know. Her life will be a punishment unto itself. Use that passion you may feel to love and protect yourself and your family.

dogshow

2011-07-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

I don't know if it is through parenthood or through nature, but I tend to get all Mama Bear up in some places sometimes. I try to keep it to a low growl. Claws in. I try to put some time between the event and my reaction because I know I have a mouth on me.

I know this because I've been hearing it my whole life. Almost 35 years of "that one sure does have a mouth on her, doesn't she?" flying at and around me. I get it.

Growing up with Mostly Boys, I needed a mouth on me. It's a defense mechanism. Or something.

There's this thing I tell Jake. This thing about the difference between Tattling and Telling.
You tattle to get someone in trouble.
You tell to get someone out of trouble.

I feel like I've been telling a lot lately.
It's hard to tell. Hard on the psyche. The moral compass spins quick. Especially when telling can cost someone their pride. Their job. Their license.
It's hard even when you are a professional Teller and you've had lots of practice.
There can be a lot of telling at my job, and while that has been (thankfully) down these past few months, it seems that telling in my life is up.

There was the thing with the doctor, in March. That's over. We're sticking with the practice and barring emergency, we'll only see our regular physician.

Then there was this thing that happened at a playground near the house a few months ago. I witnessed a mother verbally abusing her children (calling them bitches and fucking morons, etc.) and overheard her speaking about some of the issues that she was having with her oldest daughter and how she dealt with these issues. She said she has been "beating the shit out of her a few times a day" and nothing is getting better and she doesn't know what else to do. She went on to say about how her daughter went from top honors in the first half of the year to getting a conduct disorder report and being barred from the class trip at the end of the year. She said she doesn't have time for this because she's trying to get her new boyfriend to propose. She said she had a meeting with the principal and was going to bring a knife, just in case the principal gave her a problem.

Red flags. All of it.

This is usually just the sort of stuff that gets to me. You hear someone speak like that, you see them abusing their kid, and you can't do a lick about it because you have no idea who they are. "Walmart moms", I like to call them. You see a lot of stuff you can't do jack about at Walmart.

But the little girl was wearing her school uniform and her mother called her by her real name a bunch of times so I called the school and spoke with the guidance counselor. The guidance counselor, despite having been a guidance counselor for decades, shared that she had never reported an incident of child abuse. Scary. She demanded my credentials (which I understand) and told me they suspected some issues with this family. Blah, blah, blah... Long story short she didn't have the tits to call this in so she wanted to give me the family information and make the call. NO WAY. I should NOT have this family's information. So we role-played calling children's services a few times and then she said she would make the call. She never followed up with me but I'm glad I contacted her.
I'm also glad that we got a rejection letter from this school during the nightmarish Kindergarten Application Process. While I should think that no reports of neglect or abuse from a Guidance Counselor is the mark of a great pool of families who have children attending this school, my experience/cynicism says something else.

***

Most recently I observed a staff person repeatedly (like, every day repeatedly) speaking to some children in a way children ought not to be spoken to at Jake's pre-K/daycare/summer camp place. While I'm sure she spoke this way out of frustration and stress and fatigue, I don't think it's okay. The staff:kids ratio was way off, and there were little ones of all ages (1-5) all jammed in one room together. The kids go there if they are dropped off earlier than the curriculum programs start. That makes for a mess, no matter who you are. Cranky parents who are rushing around and dumping off cranky kids early in the morning is no fun for anyone. People who aren't good at mornings like to ruin other people's mornings. Even if it's their children and the people who take care of their children. Morning mayhem is contagious. I understand that. I fight that inner fight every morning.

This woman is a care giver with the little ones all day. Ones who are one. Years old. One-year-olds can't generally communicate if they are being spoken harshly to, but they will suffer from it. Their tiny brains get washed with stress hormones all day and their tiny cortexes can't grow and wrinkle and fold very well if they are under stress. Cortisol inhibits upper-brain development. Then we get a bunch of kids growing up in their lower-brain and that's tantamount to raising a pack of wild dogs. I don't want to see these kids grow up to be big dogs. No one wants that. (fact: yelling at your kids all day will turn them into dogs. science!!)

I went to the higher ups at the place. Told them I was coming there as a parent, but if I was there on a professional site visit- they know what I do, I used to work with this center a few years ago- I would have to report what I saw. I told them I wasn't going to report what I saw, but if I walked in on a caregiver treating my child that way I would raise hell.
I explained that many parents speak to their children the way the woman spoke to these children. Some of these kids need a break from the chaos, they need the time spent away from home. And if another parent saw her speaking that way, and they speak that way, they probably wouldn't raise it as an issue because it would be "normal" to them.
I explained that my child, though never spoken to by this woman- not even in a positive light- was upset by her tone and her way of speaking. I don't like it when my kid is upset or uncomfortable at school. I will do everything in my power to be sure that my kid isn't upset or uncomfortable at school.
I explained that I understand that funding is low and pressure is high and resources are down and demands are up, but something had to be done.
And while no one in the "back office" will look me in the face anymore, things are better. There are more staff people handling the early drop-offs. There is music and singing and dancing and crafts in the morning room. It seems that they gave the one lady a few days off, or at least let her come in late.

Sigh.

I don't want to be That Mom. Or That Lady. That Person. I really don't. But sometimes it's hard not to speak up, especially when it is children who are at the heart of things.

Speaking of dogs, I really wish that someone would put pictures of burned and battered children in a commercial with a back drop of Sarah McLaughlin like the SPCA does with animals. Maybe then people would see what is really going on and then we'd rally around the issue and children would have equal rights and respectability as kitties and puppies.
What's that saying? If you hit an adult it's assault. If you hit an animal it's abuse. If you hit a child it's for their own good? Yeah. That one.
It's easy to feel bad for abused animals because they are so cute and cuddly and easy to turn away from abused children because they are often dirty little spaz bastards who no one can stand. But it isn't their fault. You'd be an asshole too if you were treated like shit at home.

happy new (fiscal) year!!

2011-07-01T10:26:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I work in places that have co-ed bathrooms.

Very Euro. Boys and girls! Men and women! Not at all separate but totally equal!

Most of these places have a "ahem, anyone in here?" sort of manner about them, but not all. Which is fine. I have the same issues going in front of men as I do women. (Issue Numero Uno = what if I fart and someone recognizes my shoes or what if I fart and the person in the stall next to me comes out at the same time I do and sees me and tells everyone that I farted? Fart fart fart fart fart fart fart).

I think that men are generally less nasty with the bathroom habits than women. If you've never been in a women's room you have no idea how disgusting they are. Sometimes it looks like a crime scene. A stabby, stabby crime scene in some of those stalls. Like slaughterhouses where bowels get torn open with a dull knife and no one has been through with the bleach hose type of nasty. Co-ed bathrooms can cut down the filth by half. At least.

There's just one thing that really icks me out about men and women sharing stalls. And it's the same thing that icks me out about all men's room with stalls. One thing that makes me wish that there was a law that all men's and co-ed bathrooms have a row of urinals rather than stalls. That thing is this: when women go to the bathroom, there is no (or should be no) hand-to-genital contact without a protective barrier of toilet paper. When men go to the bathroom, there is much hand-to-genital contact with little to no protective barrier.

And if you are waiting on a stall that a man is using, there is only a few seconds of turnover between the time his hand is on his penis and the time your hand is on the lock.

His hand is all:
Penis
Zipper
Lock

Then he walks out and nods to you and you nod to him and your hand is all:
Lock
Zipper
Toilet paper dispenser.

So tiny microscopic pieces of his penis stay on your zipper all day long. And on the toilet paper dispenser. And if you don't wash under your fingernails and rings and watch you have penis under there for an indefinite amount of time.

And then you have to go sit in a meeting with these people and wonder who's penis is all over who's hands and pants and you can't concentrate on the agenda and you miss really important points and then you risk losing your job because you can't get those TPS reports out ASAP.

hitting the road

2011-06-24T09:13:00.001-04:00

Below you'll find a picture of me.

A picture of me on stage.

On stage having fun.

Having fun and being funny.

You can tell I'm being funny because Bert and Brent are laughing big belly laughs.
Laughing big belly laughs at me/with me/near me is pretty much the highest compliment you can give me.

I like this picture, even though my face is wonky and the picture is blurry.
Especially though my face is wonky and the picture is blurry.
I like this picture because it's me doing something I love to do.

Making people laugh in a fancy theater (okay, the attic of a fancy theater) at a comedy festival.

Right there I'm talking about those hand-puppets that therapists use so people who aren't comfortable talking about their emotions can get a buffer. So it's like the bear/doll/sock is going through it instead of the person connected to the hand up in the guts of the bear/doll/sock.
Most, I think, are familiar with the concept. Especially thanks to Dr. Marvin. Dr. Leo Marvin.
I like making light of concepts that aren't really all that light.

There are lots of not light things happening with those hand-puppets that therapists use, but they are so damned funny to me.

Play therapy is really cool. And effective. Did you know that if you leave a kid- any kid- alone to play with a bunch of different kinds of toys they will pick certain ones and play out things that bother them or things they can't quite figure out, and they will manipulate the toys and the situation until they solve their problem and give it an ending where they are in control of things? It's pretty cool. Your own kids do it while you put them down in front of their things so you can poop or get the dishes done or whatever it is you need to do. You can sneak and watch them if you want. Calmly and slowly intervene if the Barbies start getting extremely violent or humpy.

Oh, and speaking of comedy festivals, you'll be able to catch us in New York City at the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater on August 14th at 11:30 am (sorry, you'll have to skip church. God will understand, and most likely even encourage). Asteroid! was accepted into the Del Close Marathon, which is pretty much the highest compliment you can give an improv team.

gap

2011-06-17T12:27:00.001-04:00

I rode the bus in to work this morning, something that rarely happens these days.

On the corner of Broad Street closest to my house, right where I was waiting for the bus, a lady in a really shiny new Corolla was driving down the street with a flat tire. She looked confused, but no more than any other well-coiffed, pressed-powdered, middle-aged lady who probably lives in Packer Park or somewhere down there (isn't it funny how you can pinpoint someone's neighborhood just by how they look and what they drive?) looks driving up Broad at eight o'clock in the morning. She had her head cocked like a puppy, so I'm assuming she heard the thumping noise, but maybe she figured it was coming from outside the car.

So the fancy lady in her fancy car with the flat tire stopped at a red light and I thought for a second that maybe I should tell her but then as soon as I almost considered it another Corolla drove between me and the lady.

A different kind of Corolla.
Brownish, with gold flecks.
Not new.
Car probably older than the driver.
Blackened windows.
Virgin of Guadalupe on the dash under the PR flag hanging from the mirror.
"Rims", I think the kids are calling them these days, four of them that are probably worth more than the car.
Hydraulics. Hydraulics!
The windows rolled down and a kid with tattoos on his face and a bandana around his neck asked the fancy lady to roll down her window.

She did.
An inch.

And he told her about her flat. So she pulled over. And he pulled over behind her and they both got out of their cars and when she saw he was there she put her purse back in her car and locked it and held her keys like claws and he pulled a big dirty bag out of his trunk and said "don't worry, I can have this fixed in no time. I know a lot about Corollas".

And before the bus came the tire was fixed and the lady was on her way to wherever ladies like her go on a Friday morning and the guy was on his way to wherever guys like him go on a Friday morning and before they went on their way she gave him a big hug and he called her mamacita and all was right in the world.

sheath

2011-06-09T17:02:00.002-04:00

I've found my self shocked! and appalled! at the number of women my age who wear panty hose these days. I thought that we, as a society, were past that.

Panty hose with shorts and panty hose with open toed shoes. Barf. It's like wearing condoms on your legs. All day. Webbed up toes and compression in weird places. Seam running up your belly like a worm. Leaves a mark like you are too fat for your pants.
I know I need to cut back on the snacking if I can tell where my pants have been after I take them off.

I can't handle it.

Panty hose sounds like an insult.
"Sheila?
Man... shit. I hear she's one of them panty hoes.
You best steer clear of that one.
Get you in trouble, them panty hoes."

I'm weirded out by socks in general. Socks that are visible when wearing shorts are creepy. German tourist creepy. The tiniest peek out the top of the shoe and it's totally over for me.
Ankle socks under long pants with visible ankle skin makes me wish we had decency laws about something like that.
I can't stop staring and wondering how that feels okay.
The odd gap in cotton.
And toe seams?
And sock heels that don't cup your heel just right?
OMG stop.

I buy these amazing shoes for Jake each summer. They aren't open toe, they have a great sole, they are rugged, they don't have laces he can trip on, they are machine washable and can handle once weekly washings all summer long and still be good enough to pass down to someone else for another summer of wear. He calls his pair his "strap shoes" and calls the ones I have my "camping shoes".

His school calls them inappropriate.
He has to wear "real sneakers" or put socks under his strap shoes.
Did you just puke a little?
Me too.

He doesn't have "real sneakers" (never mind that the girls can wear little Mary Janes or flats) and he isn't about to get any. Strap shoes are fifty bucks and that about does it for the shoe allowance.
He didn't have anything other than white crew socks left over from winter.

So there went my child yesterday. To school. Wearing white socks and sandals.

I tried to fold them down and make them invisible, but white under red and black strap shoes are anything but invisible.

I tried.

And when I picked him up from school, he had them pulled up practically around his neck. He knew he could take them off when he saw me, so they were off right away. And I threw them out.

I bought two 3paks of little black Peds socks at Payless yesterday afternoon. That helps. A bit. Plus they were on BOGO. Score.

I didn't tell him I have this problem. I don't want to pass the crazy on down or anything. But he's 5. And 5 knows there is something wrong with socks and strap shoes.

I never wore socks as a kid. My 6th grade English teacher, Mrs. Brown, told me I'd get arthritis if I kept it up. My ankles are one of the only places where I don't get arthritis pain. So I'm guessing not wearing socks actually behooves an individual.

My grandfather used to tell me I'd get piles if I sat on cold concrete, so I should stay off the step unless I had a blanket under me.
Piles of what?
Hemorrhoids.

We learned in seventh grade sex ed that the birthing process gives you hemorrhoids. In the car that night I asked my mom if I had hemorrhoids when I was born.
I was confused.
She thought maybe there was something wrong with my butt.
There wasn't.

akimbo

2011-06-07T13:07:00.000-04:00

Someday when I'm independently wealthy and have government health benefits and lots of free time on my hands, I'm going to roam the country and perform monologues on big stages with fancy velvet curtains and small ones with no curtains at all.
I think I'd be good at standing around and talking and talking and talking. About any old thing. Audience choice. I think I'd be okay with whatever was thrown at me, I have lots of crap in my head.

I used to have a blog called "tell me the one about..." where all posts were done by reader request, but no one read it and after the first three posts were done I ran out of readers so I closed the blog.

I went to an improv workshop last weekend and got to do a little alone-on-the-stage time.
That's super awkward for me, but I like it. I think I like it even better than doing things up there in groups, and I love doing that.
Being alone up there is great, once I figure out where to put my hands.

My hands are always getting in the way of me appearing to be calm and comfortable. I like to cross my arms, but that pushes my boobs up and together and then I feel like everyone is staring at my boobs. I don't know whether clasping them together is supposed to be done in the front or the back, and putting them on my hips makes me feel angry. I like to hold one elbow and push my bottom lip up with my index finger when I'm listening to something, but I feel like that's maybe why I get clogged pores under my lip and sometimes they get so clogged that my skin gets dark and I'm afraid people will think I'm growing a soul patch. (have you seen those Hanes commercials where Michael Jordon has a Hitler-stache? I don't think that's something you can bring back. Too soon, Michael, too soon) I rub my thumb nail with my other thumb when I'm feeling looked at. Watch me for a little while and you'll be able to tell when I'm uncomfortable. It's really bad when I start pinching the pads of my fingers until my nails leave little marks that look like the pause button. Or the number 11.

I wasn't prepared to talk about the topic I got to talk about, and there was some major sweating involved. A moment of "I could either lie about this stuff, or just go tits deep and tell the truth". I almost cried. I got goosebumps. But I got some laughs, some applause, and when we were done I was stopped by people I didn't even know who wanted to tell me that they've been through some of the things I spoke of. One person told me she thought she was the only person in the world who ___ and feels better now that she knows she's not. Another said that he never realized why he ___ but all of a sudden he remembered that when he was a kid ___ happened to him too and it all makes sense now. A third person gave me a big hug and said "thank you".

I like that feeling. I like making people feel less alone.

What did I talk about? All sorts of stuff. From shag carpeting to calling Laura Ingalls Wilder a dirty prairie calico see-you. I'm still mad at her over the whole The Little House Books Are Fiction thing.
All very personal accounts of some very personal things.
Me.
On Stage.
Disclosing.

If you would have told me a year ago that I would be able to do that today I would have laughed at you. Then excused myself to the bathroom because I would have gotten the feeling that pants pooping is imminent. But today I am starting to do it, and I like it.

Improv-type monologues might be my next big project, so watch out for that. As soon as I find the time. Time is in short supply these days.

***

I'm sick. Boo to that. But I get to eat my favorite sickfood- those little star noodles in spinach and carrots with just a little bit of broth and lots of black pepper straight out of the grinder. I make my broth out of Knorr vegetable bouillon cubes. I used to use the canned stuff, and opened it by poking two triangle holes in the top with one of those oldenfashioned can openers, but the last time I used canned broth I couldn't find the can puncher and used the regular opener that takes off the whole top and I found mold in all six of my broth cans. Three different brands, all different lot numbers, all moldy. Black, slimey mold. I called the companies and they offered me coupons for free cans of broth and said they know that can happen, but I shouldn't have a problem if I "boil the broth for ten minutes, which shouldn't be a problem if I'm making soup". Ick.

What brands were they? I don't know if I can use real brand names here but I'll just say this:
College Out
Swandaughters
Trader Shmo's

I probably should have told you that story six months ago during soup season when you could have used the information.

and...go

2011-05-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

It wasn't too long ago when I was ready to start letting go of some of the rules and practices and neuroses of Jake's babyhood. Wasn't too long ago when the first day of summer was the day I was going to mark time with having more fun and less establishment. Past the worries of major developmental delays, food allergies, and meltdowns due to schedule disruptions.

And now I'm starting to get ready to set up more rules and practices and establishments.

This is the Summer Before School Starts. One hundred and eight days before the first day of kindergarten. Kindergarten starts September 12th. Kindergarten starts at seven forty-five in the morning. On September twelfth. In one hundred and eight days.

It's time to curb the bad habits (the current one I can't stand is "yeah" instead of "yes". Pronounced "yee-ah" or just "yee". We aren't gangsters at home, he picked this up at school), start eating breakfast at home (Jake's preschool serves breakfast, kindergarten doesn't), getting up earlier (my alarm is currently set for 6:20, and even that is hard), get out of the house earlier (before 8am by mid-June, by 7:30 by mid-August is my goal), get to bed on time every night (7:30-8pm is what we try for, but things have been sort of inside out at the house for the past few months), and most importantly sort out all the emotions that go along with having a kindergartener in the house. That is proving to be quite a task for both Jake and I. More him.

Oh, and trying to remember to have a fun summer.

The last summer before the first day of kindergarten is weird for me. I guess it's summer vacation, but one with a lot of stuff to be done. Jake will stay at the same preschool all summer, though I think it's run more like camp than school after June 15th. I'm not sure. They have a curriculum and the price doesn't change and he stays with the same teachers, so I'm okay with whatever as long as he's having fun.

I have over 100 vacation hours saved up at work, and though I'm not under any sort of pressure to use them, I'm going to try and take at least two days a month off. Preferably Tuesdays or Thursdays. I'm probably the only person in the world who hates long weekends. I also have about 75 sick hours waiting for me. I think I am feeling a little greenish right now, as a matter of fact.

Cough, cough.

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/family

2011-05-18T12:39:00.002-04:00

Funny how in politics "pro-family" doesn't necessarily mean "let's fight to keep all of our families- no matter what that family looks like- safe and healthy and educated and stable and clothed and fed and housed".

Budget cuts are frustrating. Abortion and homosexuality and employment status and marital status and education level and home address and all sorts of other nasties have taken the stage and have taken to defining what "family" actually means and our families are suffering for it.

Pro-family becomes more about being
anti-___.

or more about being
___-phobic.

My definition of family comes in all shapes and sizes and colors and preferences and places.
Two or more people brought together somehow, somewhy, somewhere.
We are related by blood, by union, by circumstance, by life.

We have the right to love who we love.
We have the right to be married or single.
Live together or live alone.
Live with or without cats.

We have the right to chose when and if we have children, how we become parents, with whom we have children, and where those children will live.
We decide how many children we will have.
Zero or six, it's up to us.

We all have a right to speak up and be heard no matter if we are one or one hundred years old.
Whether we haven't ever been to school for a day or we have a string of letters after our name.

My family can decide whether they are willing or able to stay home with the children or whether they go back to work as soon as possible after the children are born.
After our children come home.
Sometimes our children don't come home right after they are born.
Sometimes they aren't born to us, rather for us.
And we for them.

My family can apply for financial or housing assistance if they would like to stay home with the children but there isn't enough money coming in to make ends meet.

My family is strong enough to ask for help.
To admit we can't do this all by ourselves.

My family changes over time.
We shrink, we grow, we create, we disband, we adapt.
We come together when the timing is right for everyone.
We keep distance we keep touch.

We love. We hate.
We take sides. We build fortresses.
Over under around and through.
No matter what life brings, we have at it together.

That is what pro-family means to me.

"Let there be zombies", and there was.

2011-05-17T11:47:00.001-04:00

Sometime in the middle of the night last night, the IT department at work decided we shouldn't be checking into Family Radio anymore so they blocked us from accessing the site.

Sad.
Because that shiz? Is damned entertaining.

Can you believe that there are people out there who haven't heard of the whole rapture on Saturday thing?
Can you believe that there are people out there who actually believe in the whole rapture on Saturday thing?
Can you believe that there are people who actually don't?
Disbelief tends to side with one's own personal standing.

I guess not everyone has the experience of dodging evangelists on every other street corner or of seeing the cars detailed all special-like to promote the idea that Jesus is coming in a few days or of the internet and cable and radio and stuff.

Sometimes my jokes about how Christian ladies should all be wearing pants on Saturday (and everyday, because you just never know!) so the heathens can't look up their skirts upon ascension fall on deaf ears. Or offended ones.
It's really fun to make fun of this stuff until you think about what this might mean for all the people who actually do believe this.

I'm afraid for the people who are set to be Camping with Camping (get it? Camping with Camping? Like hanging out with the guy who made all this stuff up? I wonder if anyone else thought of that joke yet. If not, I'm buying the rights. Proceeds will go to something good and sensical). I'm afraid for what he might do to himself, to them. I'm afraid for another Jonestown. I'm afraid he might actually convince these people that they need to fight in Christ's Army in order to be saved come October. He's gotten most of them to sell their possessions and drain their bank accounts. Come Sunday morning, assuming there will be no end of days scenario, they will have nothing but each other. And I guess some government-subsidized disaster relief aid.

I'm afraid for the children who are brought up in this church. Children whose lives are totally wrapped up in this belief system. What will happen to them? When a child is raised in a church, the entire basis of a his or her life is rooted in the teachings of that church. When they expect to be raised up to heaven and it doesn't happen, what do they believe? That they were "left behind"? That they aren't good enough? That they are evil? What is the long-term effect this stuff will have on their trust? Their spirituality? Their ability to function normally?
How long does it take to undo the damage done? I have a friend who was raised in a cult. She's still undoing the damage done. She may never be able to undo all the damage done. It's awful.

Anyway, good luck and godspeed to everyone this weekend. There's lots of fun apocalypse parties going on Saturday night. I'm going to a wedding. A Catholic wedding with a full mass. If you've ever had the pleasure, you know that somewhere in the middle you pray for a rapture. Or a fire drill. Or anything to get you out of there.
And I know of lots of post-apocalyptic Sunday brunches on the 22nd, so I might hit up one of those.

No one should be bored this weekend and Facebook statuses should be epic. I'll be checking in with my friends on the other side of the globe first thing in the morning, to see how their Judgement Day is going. Sort of like CNN covered the world hour-by-hour, time zone-by-time zone on January 1, 2000 when we were all supposed to die/go broke because missile safeguards would fail/bank logs would reset. It's supposed to hit Philadelphia around 6pm, according to Harold Camping.

I have some Christian friends who are leaving their doors unlocked all weekend, just in case, so the pagans and Jews and other non-saved folks can come in and take what they need without breaking windows. I think that's adorable. And mighty Christ-like.
(While you're at it, please fill your bathtubs with water too! K! Thx!)

word

2011-05-06T11:56:00.000-04:00

While I'm not entirely sold on the whole "power of prayer and positivity" idea as it stands alone, I do believe that when we know people are pulling for us, be it through prayer or meditation or positive energy or not sticking dolls that look like us with needles, it helps us be stronger and more determined and more confident and more able.
If we have healthy positive attitudes regarding ourselves and our lives and our tasks, I'm pretty sure that makes it easier to get up in the morning and get the proverbial balls rolling.
I'm one of those "God helps those that helps themselves" girls.

I'm also a staunch supporter of the idea that if we do good things in our community, sometimes good things come back to us in return. Same goes for individual people. And dogs and stuff. If we treat them nice, they are more likely to lick our faces when we need our face licked. Usually.
I'm a "do unto others" sort of person. I think it gets us really far in life.

But what I really really really believe in, is nepotism.

A sweet combination of positive whodoo, good karma, and knowing the right people can get you just about anything that needs gotten.

Like getting your kid into a choice kindergarten where you are quite sure that he will be safe and happy and well taken care of from now until we have to go through the Urban School Experience when he goes to high school.

Thank you to all that sent out goodness and light
and told me that no matter what everything would be alright
and especially those who put in a good word to the top brass over there.
You have no idea how much it means to me.

And, breathe.

Small town living

2011-05-04T09:23:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was a nice hot day. Warm enough that everything is warm, no creepycold breezes. Not so warm that you can smell the dumpsters behind the fancy fish and meat restaurants.
Warm enough that it's good to be out but not so warm that people are cranky. Or naked.
A perfect day for being downtown.
With a five year old.

Jake and I hopped on the subway after work and school and rode to Walnut Locust, the first subway stop that is really and truly downtown when coming up from the south. At the top of the stairs, Jake asked if we can just stand and watch. So we did. Pointing out hawks circling the buildings and angels in the architecture. We saw some people I know from work. People who haven't seen Jake in years. And some moms that Jake knows from school. And then some more people. And another who knows someone I know and don't I know you?

Then down Walnut to Rittenhouse, to play with the statues and throw pennies in the fountain and quarters in the guitar cases and have a good run with the dogs and the rich kids. The people who work in the stores between here and there where I sometimes shop come out and say "hello, Lora" and "you must be Jacob".

Over to the coffee shop on 12th and Locust for a lemonade, which we drank on the front steps because all the tables and couches were taken. There goes some more people I know, headed to my gym next door or the bar up the street for a quick cold one.

Around to the burrito place on 11th and Walnut for dinner where we saw Amelia's mom- Amelia took swim class with Jake a couple years ago. Swim class around the corner at my gym next to the coffee shop a few doors down from the bar where people were headed for a quick cold one. A bar that Dave's friend owns. A bar where I have a show in two weeks from today.

Catch the bus back home again. With the neighbors who we haven't seen since the last time it was warm enough that it is good to be out.

As Jake went to sleep last night he said, "Mom, I love living in our little town. Everything is interesting and right where I need it to be and we all walk along the same paths. If you stand still long enough your friends come to you. If they stand in one place for the right amount of time, you will find them".

I got some groceries, some peanut butter

2011-05-03T10:09:00.001-04:00

How to explain the death of Bin Laden to a child who has only lived during wartime, not even knowing he is living during wartime?

"American soldiers, the people who fight to keep us safe, found and killed the number one bad guy they've been looking for for ten years."
"Oh wow, mom. That's awesome."

And that was that.
For him.
I am having a hard time sleeping.

Dead Bin Laden scares me more than Hidden Bin Laden.
Seeing Americans revel in our streets scares me more than seeing Islamic Militants revel in their streets.

Security is up in our schools and buildings. I work in lots of schools and buildings. Trying to get in is a reminder that we are "cracking down". Whatever that means.

I'm carrying ID with me where ever I go this week. Two forms. Because sometimes you need two forms. I remember that from the last time we cracked down. I forget why we cracked down a few years ago, but I remember that we did.

It's only Tuesday and I've been asked for my passport twice.
Odd, this life.
If I didn't have my passport I wouldn't have been able to get my job done. I lost my photo work ID years ago.
Eight?
Nine?
Maybe I should go up to HR and have another one run off. Then maybe I could show my license and my work ID rather than my passport.

My passport is expired.
No one noticed.

stormy weather

2011-04-27T09:29:00.003-04:00

I love a good storm. Thunder and lightening and pelting rain. Hail. An inch of water running down city streets like a little river. Never going above the curb, of course. Never leaking into our foundations.

Provided it's night. And I'm inside. And east of the Alleghenys. And north of the Mason Dixon. And south of the Hudson Bay.

We are pretty sheltered here in these parts. A rogue hurricane once in awhile. Winds don't go much above 40 but so often. Hail smaller than the diamond on your finger. Storms are in and out in a half hour, usually less.

***

Growing up in Erie, we had tornado drills. I'm guessing they closely resembled the air raid drills from a generation before. Tuck under the desk. Tuck behind the coats. Tuck under the lunch tables.

Tuck.
Always tuck.
One must tuck to keep safe.

I've never been in a real tornado, but I've watched plenty skies turn green. Plenty waterspouts form over the lake to the north, pick up to travel over the city and touch as a twister out down south in the county where there is some open space.

North
Always north.
One must look north to keep safe.

In grade school, the brother of a pair of sisters- one a grade up from and one a grade lower than me- died in a tornado. The girls said they were tucked in the basement, eyes to the (north) window, when it happened. A wind whipped around and took a hubcap off the wall. It sliced through the little boys neck, practically taking his head clean off.

I have two deep seated fears.
Tornadoes.
Severed heads.

I never realized where they came from until ten days ago.

***

Ten days ago, I was supposed to be in North Carolina at a good friend's wedding. We were going to drop Jacob at my dad's in Raleigh and drive out to the Outer Banks for a few days. A nice trip for everyone. Much needed after the way the first third of the year has gone. But we couldn't go. Couldn't do it. Too exhausted.

A tornado hit Raleigh-Durham that weekend, and cleared just about everything a few miles down a piece from dad's. You probably heard the story about the Lowes being leveled. That's the one. That's the tornado that would have passed by my son.

They are fine. The house is fine. Jake would have been fine, assuming they would have been home. But I would have been a mess. The thought of Jake being that close to a tornado, without me, without power, without telephone lines, without his dad, without his stuff, without without without (his head) has me dry heaving.
Just
the
thought
of
it.

***

I was upset we didn't go down for the wedding. Upset we were so put out by life that a 400 mile drive felt like it would break us. Upset. Upset. Upset.

But I'm glad we didn't go.

Glad I've discovered the root of my anxiety over heads and tornadoes. Because before I just couldn't figure out why. All these years.
Now I know that tornadoes+heads are the reason I discovered that children could die. I could die. My little friends could die.
Those phobias came back in full force after becoming a mother. I didn't know why. Now I do. Children die. My son could die.
That's a step. Knowing is half the battle. Moving on.

***

There's a lot of shit weather happening in our country now. Lots of people being displaced. Being hurt. Being dead.

I ran across a poem yesterday in a book I'm reading for class. The book is called Ghosts from the Nursery. The poem is this:

Do Lawd, come down here and walk amongst yo people
And tek 'em by the hand and telt 'em
That yo ain't hex wid 'em
And do Lawd come yoself,
Don't send yo son
'Cause dis ain't no place fo chillen

It's an old slave poem, written following the 1866 earthquake in Charleston, but it's just as good today as it was then.

Love and prayers and thoughts and energy and positive whodoo to all in the wake of a storm.
Whatever your storm may be.

Be good.

2011-04-22T08:35:00.000-04:00

the bunnies are watching

policing

2011-04-20T09:10:00.001-04:00

Two weeks ago I instilled a new house rule:
No eating in the living room.

All food must be eaten in the dining room, kitchen, or yard.

Two weeks ago I instilled a new rule in the house for two reasons:
Food messes in the living room
Mindless television eating.

In two weeks I've had to vacuum lots less, the snacks have lasted lots longer, and I'm down 5 pounds.

Yikes.

I think I found my bad eating habit.

if you give a kid a camera-phone...

2011-04-19T09:55:00.000-04:00

and free reign over the Broad Street median just north of the stadiums

Also of note, I found out I'm horribly allergic to dandelions.

melting. pot.

2011-04-15T14:38:00.005-04:00

Class started this week. My "Deepening Trauma Awareness" class. Because if there is anything I need in life, it's to be more deeply aware of trauma.

There's lots and lots of reading. HEAVY reading. But good reading. All about what trauma is and what it does to your brain and body and behavior. And family and community and world.

Something struck me in one of the readings, something about how American family life has changed over the last 200 years, and we are living in opposition to our evolutionary and biological wiring. How we went from surrounding ourselves with our families, how we were typically ten or twenty relatives deep in a town or on a farm or in a clearing in the woods and as we married and had children, it got bigger and bigger and bigger and we always had someone to help out with whatever it was we needed help with. Then people started branching out and moving away and today the average American household is less than four people and 26% of us live alone. Cats notwithstanding.

♪♫Cue Carole King.♫♪

My grandparents' families were immigrant families. Only my dad's dad lived and died in the town where he grew up. The town he grew up in isn't the one he was born in, but it was where I was born. And subsequently moved from a week or so after my 18th birthday.

So what about that?
What about the fact that we aren't so cohesive anymore, we've all been moved around and shuffled about? That we continue to move around and shuffle about?
That we don't feel a need to be close to our families?
Air travel and telephones and internet service and social networks let us feel so connected that we are free to go.

But this movement and shufflement is older than technology.

Most of us, as Americans- by virtue of being American- come from uprooted and broken families. Uprooted and broken ancestries. No matter if our families got here by choice or by chance or by desperation or by force- by immigration or by exile or by slavery- they got here uprooted and broken and confused and probably more than a bit apprehensive. Afraid.

Our parents or grandparents (or great grandparents, or great great, or great great great, depending on how long your people have been here) left their moms and dads.
And maybe their siblings.
And maybe some of their children.
And their friends
and their stuff
and their fellowship
and their community.
And their foods
and their houses
and their customs
and their land
and their clothes
and their animals
and everything heavy
and unnecessary
and bolted down.
Everyone sick
and everyone weak
and everyone resistant.
Everything and everyone anyone ever knew.

Leave.
Left behind.
Break away.
Broken.

Imagine the feelings they must have had. The frustration. The grief. The anticipation and excitement. The newness of it all. The strangeness. This foreign place. Imagine the effect all those feelings had on the way they lived out their lives here. Depending on where and when they landed, weather was a challenge. Germs. Employment. Language. Education. Wildlife. Savages.
How did it effect their physical health? Their mental health? Emotional health? Marriage? Family ties? Parenting practices? Social life? Levels of faith and love and trust and hope?

Imagine the desperation to uphold traditions. All that dumb stuff grandma made you do because 'that's just what people do, that's just what we do'.
Imagine grasping for shreds of comfort. Shreds of familiarity. A sense of home. Whatever that means, whatever that meant. No amount of property or success or wealth could save anyone from feeling homesick. Lost. New.

Old people are so crazy.
And their children are crazy and their children's children are crazy.
We are all so crazy.
Lots and lots of newness and getting-used-to-stuffness and craziness getting passed down as we all try to heal ourselves from our family breaks, from our own breaks. As we try to make up for the sacrifices made for us. To be good enough. To make it worth it. To keep our family identities. To create our own. To make way for ourselves, our children. Catching up with the past while the future spirals before us. Ever changing, never slowing.

It's a damned big job and it's taking hundreds of years, without an end in sight.

resolved

2011-04-15T09:50:00.002-04:00

The head physician, who is also Jacob's regular doctor, called me yesterday and thanked me one thousand times for calling and told me they are going to be much more strict regarding adherence to procedure and going to re-instill best practices in everyone's brain.

I can't imagine that checking children's genitals is ever comfortable for anyone, but it needs to be done. Kids get STD's and infections and abnormalities and other nasties down there, and sometimes the only way to be sure that your kid doesn't have a case of ick is to have the doctor check it out.

Children need shots, but they don't need to be told they are getting shots fifteen minutes before they get shots. That makes sense to anyone. Or should.

The developmental stuff supposedly was supposed to happen, but it didn't. For one reason or another.

So that's over.

I debated whether to tell Jake I spoke to the doc, I was afraid of:
1) bringing it up and reminding him of it, and having to go through the emotions again.
2) making a bigger deal out of it than I should with a 5 year old. Parents' reactions to events can be more likely to traumatize a child than actual events. It's something to be aware of when helping your kid through stuff.
3) beating a dead horse. We've been over it, Jake seems over it.

In the end I chose to tell him. I told him that I talked to the doctor and no one will ever get their pants pulled down without being asked first and no one will ever be left in a room waiting for a long time waiting to get shots.
He said, "thanks for doing that for me, Mom. For me and all the other kids who go there. I don't ever want to feel like that again, and I don't want any other kids to feel that way. Especially babies who might not be able to handle it very well".

And, that's my Jacob.
Jacob, who with every passing day is becoming less mine and more his own.

doctory

2011-04-12T12:06:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I took Jake in for a pediatric appointment. He's healthy. 43 inches and 40 pounds. Vision 20/30 (which is okay because eyes aren't fully developed until age 8), perfect hearing, exemplary blood pressure.

I like the office and the people that work there. I really do. We've been going there since Jake was born. The office is really easy to get to by bus, subway, car, and if we are feeling well enough to do so, foot from the house. It's around the corner from my office if I need to run in to schedule something or cancel something or drop off something or pick up something. School-aged children who play sports need lots of somethings dropped off or picked up.

The clientele is the sort that you'd want waiting in the waiting room. We're like the poorest kids there, but that's okay.

The office is closely connected with one of the best children's hospitals in the world. That's always comforting.

The standard procedures for a 5 year old's Well Child visit? Let's just say that I hope we didn't get the standard procedure. The nurse stuff went swimmingly. The height weight bp vision stuff. Even the shots were quick. It was the check up that went sour.

The best of the worst was that there was no developmental assessment. No name recognition, hopping on one foot, asking about bedtime routines or how mornings were. No asking what he did during the day, no asking if he can ride a bike or what the best and worst things about school or home or in the neighborhood are. Nothing.

The worst of the worst was pulling his underwear down to check his penis and testicles while saying "it's okay if I pull your pants down, I'm a doctor. I need to check your area down here to see if it works". Jake was terrified, and went stiff as a board as tears filled his eyes. He asked me if it was okay, and I asked him if it was okay with him and he said yes, as long as I hold his hand.

And "to see if it works"? Seriously? To a five year old child, the genitals "work" if they can pee. What the hell is he supposed to do to prove whether they "work"?

After the check up Jake was told to put his pants and undershirt on, and "(she) hates being the bearer of bad news, but he had to get a few shots". Then she left and we waited for 15 minutes until the nurse came in to give him his shots.

Well.

You can imagine how those 15 minutes went.

I took a few days to calm down before calling the office to set up an appointment with the office manager. I needed a few days to calm down before calling the office to set up an appointment with the office manager. It's one thing to be a Mama Bear, it's another thing to be a spastic asshole.

The woman who heads up the practice was genuinely appalled and contacted the lead physicians and the lead nurse and the lead lady with the alligator purse.
And she had Jake's school physical form, which usually takes 10 dollars and 10 days filled out in 10 minutes for free, so bonus points for that.

And then we sat and talked for a half hour. I don't generally talk about my job in conversation, but I did tell her that as someone who does what I do, I am probably 100 times more sensitive to certain issues than someone who has a different job, so while most parents wouldn't be upset if the doctor didn't ask their child to write his or her name, or draw a person, or ask him to skip from the exam room to the scale, I'm the sort who wonders why they don't. It's so simple, and it can save so much heartache and so many headaches for everyone in the future.
I shared that I think it's very important for the doctors and nurses at this practice to remember that they may be the primary point of entry into early childhood services for most of the children seen there. The parents who bring their kids to that office aren't the same parents who have social workers or nurses in the house. They aren't the ones who attend community centers or Early Head Start programs or day cares who are federally or locally mandated to hire someone to be on the look out for developmental delays. They need the doctor to be that person for them. That gate keeper. That whatever.

It's fun to do developmental assessments on kids. It takes a little practice, but it's worth it. It's fun for them because they get to show off what they know and it's fun for grown ups because you get to play a little while you work. It's easy enough to hit the major stuff that just about anyone can do it while they do other stuff. Even doctors. Even doctors checking ear holes and nose holes and knee jerks and stuff.

And the pulling down of the pants thing?
Holy
Crap.
Any mother or father should freak. And child should freak. If your child doesn't freak, you need to sit down with your child and have a very poignant discussion with your child about his penis or her vagina and who is or is not allowed to touch it. A five year old boy should be the only one touching his penis, unless there is a medical reason for a parent/caregiver or doctor to touch it and the parent/caregiver or doctor must have that child's permission first.

And the thing with the shots? How about telling Jacob that the nurse will be in to finish up in a few minutes, and if you must tell someone about shots tell me that Jake needs a couple vaccinations or immunizations. Don't ever use the word "shot". Ever. Shots fall right under Closet Monsters on the "What Scares Small Children Most" scale. We could have spent those 15 minutes playing with the cars I had jammed in my pockets. Or drawing on the table paper with the crayons in my bag.

Or processing through the underpants incident.

Instead it was spent screaming and crying and trying to hide and running in circles and spinning on the floor and snotting all over the place. Not fun.

Take home message: be sure that the people who are supposed to be taking care of your child's medical needs are taking care of his developmental and emotional needs too. And his or her need to feel safe. And his or her need to feel respected. And anything else that may come up, like your developmental and emotional needs. And your need to feel safe and respected.

what? you can't see him? he's sitting right here...

2011-04-07T14:29:00.000-04:00

A few days/weeks/months/(who can keep track?) ago I read something and followed up with the smart people on my job about pre-school aged children making up imaginary friends or siblings as a way to fantasize about things they have sudden or natural urges to do, but know is wrong.

Not as a scapegoat for the wrong things they do based upon their natural urges- that's totally different.

But as a way to process the ideas, actions, and consequences of stuff that seems really fun, stuff that they see on television, watch other kids do, think about sometimes, or hear about prefaced with things like "so help me God" and "don't even think about it".

Man alive, do I wish I would have read that before Jake started talking about his twin brother who goes by various names such as but not limited to: Spitty Brother, Cutty Brother, Turn on the Stove Brother, Stabby Brother, Hitty Brother, Touch Poop Brother, Pee on the Wall Brother, Play with Matches Brother, Taste Pee Brother, Finger in the Butt Brother, Eat Snot Brother, Break Glass Brother, Pencil in the Nose Brother, Microwave Cat Brother, Clothes Dryer the Cat Brother, and Write on the Walls Brother.

It's perfectly normal and healthy and sane and doesn't mean your kid is seriously contemplating any of this or has a trio of sixes under that crazy mop of hair or that you are failing miserably as a parent/role model/television screener. It doesn't mean that the kids at school and the cousins and the neighbors are devilspawn influencing your child. It's just a part of normal, healthy early childhood development. Part of sorting out good from bad and right from wrong and left from right and up from down.

So you can breathe now.

Or panic.

Whichever you chose.

seat belts and car seats

2011-04-06T11:32:00.002-04:00

I volunteered my time and voice to do a presentation on the current car safety seat and seatbelt recommendations last night at Jake's school.

Note I said recommendations, and not regulations. And not laws. Because laws and regulations? Wow. They vary from state to state and they are becoming less strict as time goes by. Probably because of people fighting to make their own choices for their children, infringement of rights kind of stuff. My baby belongs to me and I'll do what I want with it kind of stuff.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that you keep your infants and toddlers facing backwards until they are 2, provided they do not outgrow the height and weight limitations of the seat. Convertible car seats are better for accommodating this recommendation than are those infant carrier seats. Your kid might look crunched up, but his joints are still pliable enough that getting crunched doesn't make him stiff or uncomfortable.

All toddlers and preschoolers should use a forward- facing car seat in the back seat with the five-point harness provided with the seat for as long as possible, usually up to age 5 if your kid is of normal size.

A child has outgrown his or her forward facing seat when:

He or she reaches the top weight or height allowed for his seat

His or her shoulders are above the top harness slots

His or her ears have reached the top of the seat

All school age children should use a booster in the backseat with the shoulder belt over the mid-point of their shoulders and across their lap until they are 4' 9" (57") tall. A child usually reaches 57 inches tall somewhere between the ages of 8 and 14 years. If you look at those CDC growth charts, you'll see that the 8 year olds in the 95th percentile are 57" tall while 14 year olds in the 5th percentile are 57".

My mother-in-law is only 59 inches tall. She is 19 apples big.

I am almost 23 apples big.

You could make a half way decent sized pie with the number of apples between us.

Jacob measured 14 1/3 apples, or 43 inches at his last doctor's appointment.

I was as many apples as my grandma in 4th grade.

Children younger than 13 years or smaller than 57 inches should always sit in the back seat. Airbags may inflate in any crash and can cause serious injury or death. The serious injury is usually brain damage. The death often is caused by decapitation. Most parents would not want to hold their child's detached head in their lap. That last sentence is an opinion, not fact, but I can probably find something to back that up.

Car seats expire! Check the date on the back or throw them away after a car accident or 5 years after purchase. You may want to write your purchase date on the back of the seat.

Never use a cracked car seat, a seat with missing parts, or a recalled car seat (you can check by calling the manufacturer or by calling the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration Vehicle Safety Hotline at 888.327.4269

Speak with your obstetrician, pediatrician, school guidance counselors and social workers, local fire departments, local police departments, community centers, places of worship, and the United Way regarding free or low-cost car seats. Buying a car seat should be a priority in your budget. Children who need one should get a new car seat before they get the new toys, sneakers, or outfits. REPEAT: Children who need one should get a new car seat before they get the new toys, sneakers, or outfits

A police officer can pull you over if he or she sees that your children are sitting in the front seat or sitting in the back without a car seat or with ill-fitting seat belts. You can be ticketed and fined. In some cases, you may be charged with child endangerment and you AND your children can be taken into custody. Sometimes it's hard to get your kids back once they've been taken.

***Seatbelts and car seats save lives***

This is basically the information that I shared with the parents. I gave them a hand out. I shared with them that in my profession, I have worked with several parents who are now parenting a special-needs child because the child was not buckled in or they weren't in their seats correctly. I offered information for special harnesses that help hold kids who are famous for unbuckling themselves. I said that it isn't like when we were kids, our parents aren't driving metal tanks and other kids don't make fun of each other if they wear belts or have booster seats (or helmets for bike-riding). I said that caregivers should know all about car seat and seat belt use and installation. I let them know that when I am in the prisons, I have met with parents who are there because their kid died in a car crash because the child was not buckled in or they weren't in their seats correctly. They lost their child and their freedom. They are now a criminal. I shared that these are not generally cracked out parents, or crazy people. They are normal parents, just like us who didn't have their kids buckled in the way they should have been buckled in.

I had to stop for a second to keep from crying. Because you don't know what it's like to see a brain damaged child who used to be perfect unless you've seen one. Because you don't know what it's like to see a mother dressed in orange because she killed her child in her haste to get the kid to school on time unless you've seen one. Because you don't know what it's like to watch a father cry because his baby is dead because he didn't know the buckle on the five point harness needed to be pulled up rather than pushed down near the waist unless you've watched him.

I hope you never see it. My job has a lot of perks. Stuff like that isn't one of them.

Upon leaving the Parent-Teacher Meeting last night, a mother who was in attendance got into her car with her preschool aged child and they drove off together. He was sitting in her lap.

bark.

2011-03-30T14:26:00.003-04:00

Holy crap, guys.

I just saw the best dog ever. It was a Dachshund-Rottweiler mix.
A Dachweiler.
A Rottshund.
A Rattsheild.
A Rottenweiner.
The tiny legs ending in huge paws and giant head and long tail and burnt sepia eyes and burnt sepia fur and floppy old ears and uberlong body killed me. It was seriously the most unnatural thing I've ever seen in my life.

I want one.

In other feel good news, Jake started tee ball last night. He's on the "Braves". It went as well as expected, and they play a couple blocks away from the Phillies stadium and the Phillies were there for their first pre-season home game and the lights were on and the crowd was roary and the sun was setty and the jet trails were orange and pink and the kids' pantlegs were dusty and everyone was excited and all was right with the world.

If I had one wish it would to hold a baby giraffe.

I didn't hate Disney World. I wouldn't go back any time soon, but we all had a good time. Especially Jake. He liked the Dumbo ride and the Buzz Lightyear Astro Blaster Experience. Or whatever it was called. And the light parade at night. A girl next to him had one of those "It's My Birthday" pins on, so all the characters wished her a happy birthday from up on their floats. Jake thought they were wishing him a happy birthday. Everybody plays, everybody wins.

We had a really awesome show Saturday night and it's on tape. It should be ready to see tomorrow. I'm guessing it will be up on our YouTube channel. I have a hard time getting used to watching stuff on the computer. I guess it's the way of the future, I don't know why I'm so down on it.

A sonic toothbrush and dish soap is an amazing way to clean your jewelry.

Cats can go for a long time without food or water in their bowls, as long as you let them have at the toilet and leave the cellar door open. Science.

I got super upset the other day when I had to poop at work and a co-worker who is always fully covered took off her face veil to apply blush and lipstick and wouldn't leave the bathroom for what seemed like ever so I had to pretend I was in there to blow my nose and wash my hands. I feel kinda like a hate-filled anti-Muslim extremist but really I just had to go bad and was confused about the urgency for make up. I didn't poop my pants or anything, but it was a close one. For the record, I have no problems with burqas or Muslims or lipstick. I feel really shitty that I got angry, and called faith and personal care routine into it. Maybe shitty is a bad choice of words. My problem lies with the fact that I'm not successful enough to have my own bathroom no matter where I go.

I wonder if I'll ever have my very own toilet. Is that an acceptable goal? Me thinks, yes.

My favorite funeral joke from last week was telling people to have a Good Mourning. They thought I was wishing them an enjoyable morning. It's the little things that help you pull through.
That's a homophone, not a homonym.

I'm almost done with my Understanding Teens and Enhancing Trauma Awareness classes. I still don't fully understand teens, but I've become acutely aware of trauma. Mid-April marks the beginning of my Understanding Anger Part 2 and Deepening Trauma Awareness classes. If the Part One's were any indication, I may be a bit angry and/or traumatized over the next few months. Don't say you haven't been warned.

The downtown Borders Books is closing. Oh, noes! Where will the mothers who are too good for the public library nurse their six year old children?!? Where will the toddlers disrespect things their mother has no intention of buying until they are allowed "just one more game" of Angry Birds? The horror!

My Uncle Charley, who got all the brains in the family, wrote this on his blog yesterday:

In the evening at the beginning of March, Leo the Lion rises in the east just after dusk to bring March in.

After the vernal equinox, the Sun is in Aries the Ram (lamb), the first sign of the zodiac. Therefore, at the end of March "the lamb" is setting in the west at dusk, and taking March out with it.

So from an astronomical point of view, the saying more correctly would be, "March comes in with the lion, and out with the lamb." However in this case meteorology trumps astronomy and so we say, "March comes in like a lion, and out like a lamb."

That all makes me feel better since our Pennsylvania Marches are typically lion and lion, through and through, coming and going. Turns out no matter what, there's a lamb out there somewhere.

Cue Fievel.

I had to wait for a bagel at the Starbucks on Broad and Pine for minutes upon minutes upon minutes a while back. I got a voucher for a free drink of my choice that can be cashed in any time. I'm saving it for an emergency, most likely a Wednesday before a Thursday when I get paid sometime in June.

I wonder what life will be like in June?

Thinking about the future is fun.
Maybe there will be flying cars.

art after death

2011-03-27T22:38:00.003-04:00

Jake is doing well, all things considered.
But that doesn't surprise me.

Two nights after his grandfather died, he said that he knows that Pop's body is back with the Earth (it's not, it's in a really nice little box over at the house- or will be shortly) and that his energy has gone into the universe and every time he misses his Pop all he needs to do is go outside to be part of nature and they will be together again.

That boy knows more than I ever will.

Jacob turned 5 on the 17th. We took him to Disney as a surprise. He woke up that morning and came downstairs and rather than finding presents and balloons at the breakfast table as in years past, he found two packed duffle bags. He took the no-present thing pretty well, after we told him that really soon we'd be getting on a plane headed to Florida.

More on that later.

Right now he is angry.
Not right right now.
But at moments.
He's aggressive with his toys.
He's crashing into my arms then kissing my hands and asking if I'm okay.

I'm okay.

When he asks me what I'm doing, I tell him that I'm remembering good stuff about his Pop, and ask him what his favorite times with him are. Or ask him what he'll miss most. Or ask him how his heart feels. And we tell funny stories until Jake gets up to go play.

Or draw.

Things like this:

That's a "Rust Bus. It used to be able to go places and help people get where they needed to go but now it can't anymore".

And that's a "Fifty Thousand Blaster. It messes normal stuff up so it isn't normal anymore".

And that.

That's, well, that's that.

2011-03-15T18:35:00.002-04:00

I have a funeral dress.

No wait. First: I've been all but dark over here. Not dark like grim. But dark like silent. I've been all but silent over here.

I stop to check in. To let people know I'm still breathing. I read news feeds and blog feeds and status feeds. I text my friends once in awhile. Pick up the phone if absolutely vital. But I've been quiet.

Sometimes things happen around me that I think aren't really appropriate to write about. As Jacob gets older I feel that his life is like that. His life is happening around me, near me, with me but not necessarily to me. His life is his life and mine is mine and they wrap themselves tight around one another but they are separate things.
That happened this year. This year that he was four. This year that ends in two days when he turns five. FIVE. 5ive. That separation happened this year. I like it. I hate it. I love that we are strong enough to go through it gently and effectively and togetherly.

Sometimes things happen around me that I think aren't mine to write about. Things like Dave's dad getting sick. It was happening, but I didn't feel like I owned a part of it. He's been a huge part of my life for nearly twenty years, but he isn't my dad. He's Dave's dad. Jake's grandad. So when he got sick, I felt on the outside of it all. I didn't know I'd feel like that. I didn't expect it.

Several of my friends lost their fathers over the past two years. Lots. So many that it really shook me up. Made me realize that we are grown ups who go through grown up things. Things like losing parents. Not just kids who were too young to have grown up things happen to us and when they did it was labled a "shame" because we were "so young". I prepared myself to lose my own dad. Made peace with a few things in our relationship.  Within myself. With him.
Let go.
Just.
Let.
Go.
Because life is too short.

I prepared myself to lose my dad. My healthy, young, active dad. Who is probably not going to die any time soon. Who hasn't even turned 60 yet.
When I was all done with that I rested. Waited.

And nothing happened.

And I stopped preparing. Stopped thinking about it.

And while all this was going on, Dave's dad- who hasn't really ever been the pinnacle of health- got sick. Sometime after Christmas I guess. Maybe a little before. Thanksgiving? I don't remember.  But it wasn't terrible until it got bad a month or so ago. And he didn't get better. And he got pneumonia. And he didn't get better. And he got admitted to the hospital. And he got a chest scan. And he got diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer.

That? That I was not prepared for.

Not his sickness. I was prepared for that.  I'm pretty sure we all were. It was really just a matter of time. I wasn't prepared for losing my father-in-law. I forgot to do that.  To prepare for that.

I am really really good at helping people. At supporting people. At doing something to make things better or make people more comfortable. At finding the right words. The right gesture. The right thing.
I've made a career of it.
For a decade I've gotten paid to help people. To support people. To do something to make things better or make people more comfortable.

I was no good at watching Dave watch his dad get sick. I was no good at watching Jake watch his grandpa get sick.
I acted good.
Sort of.
Not really.
I tried.
Inside I felt like a failure.
Sometimes outside I acted like a failure.
Usually while I was alone.
One time at a restaurant.
Probably in the car a couple times.
Support: fail.

I was good at watching Dave's dad be sick. Good at sitting with him. Good at keeping the spit and vinegar in our relationship. Good at listening. Good at finding the right words. The right gesture. The right thing.
But I was no good at watching Dave watch his dad get sick. At watching Jake watch his grandpa get sick.

I was angry. Angry that he got sick, that he didn't take better care of himself. Angry that he was putting his son through that. Angry that he was putting my son through that.
And sad. Sad that the rest of his life- whether it was a year or ten or a week- would be spent dying. Sad for him. Sad for the family. Sad for myself.
Anger and sadness go hand in hand for me. When I'm mad, I'm sad I'm mad. When I'm sad, I'm mad I'm sad.
Feeling helpless made it worse.
Sad, mad, bad.

And then he got chemo. And he seemed to get a little better. And last Friday was his birthday. And we had a big party. And every one came. We had a great time. Party party party into the next day. And he seemed to get a little better.
And Saturday happened and everything was normal. And Sunday was Sunday and we didn't go over there for dinner like we have been because he went to Dave's baseball game that afternoon and everything was normal and Monday was Monday and everything was normal until it wasn't anymore and he was gone.

I have a funeral dress. I thought it would be prudent to buy something appropriate for all these funerals I keep getting invited to and there is nothing worse than having to decide what to wear to a funeral. It's black, with white polka dots. Short sleeved, button down, full skirted, past the knee, sash waisted, and collared. A size too big. Sometimes two. Bought large so the spaces between the buttons don't gap and show my tits or my belly. Sensible and neat, stylish but not a bit sexy. It goes well with my black high heeled, round toed, silver buckled, all seasons Mary Jane shoes. Everyone likes it. Getting complimented at a funeral is strange, but something I'm used to these days. These days since I bought the funeral dress. It won't go out of style. I'll wear it until it falls apart. It always fits- thanks to that sashed waist- it always will. Old reliable.

sporting news

2011-03-14T11:50:00.000-04:00

Spring is almost here.
We're going through allergy meds like no one's business.
No one except the business of the people who make Benedryl and Sudafed and Mucinex and Motrin (and their generic counterparts), that is. They are in the business plenty these days.
The fruit trucks are back out in the street.
The crocuses (croci?) are popping through, and so are the jonquils and daffodils and tulips.
The cat is frisky.
The college kids are stripping down.
The new tree in front of the house is budding.
The clocks are sprung.
The boy is turning another year older this week.
Now we just wait.

And while we do?

NCAA Brackets, baby.

Mine is filled out. Using science and age-old technique.
And pink ink.
I usually do pretty well on these things.
Pretty well for a girl.
Or a white person.
Or maybe college basketball is a white thing? And it's the NBA that white people aren't in to? I forget.
Does that sounds racist? Because it sounds like I'm assuming college and white people are correlated. Or that professional basketball is only for black people. I don't mean that at all. I'm just saying that I do okay for someone who doesn't know anything about basketball.

But brackets, I know about. Brackets are easy.
First I find all the colleges I know someone who went to and pick them to win.
Then colleges in Pennsylvania.
Then colleges playing against colleges located in Texas.
Then ones with the names of states where my family lives.
Then ones in places I've visited.
Then I pick all the ones with cool sounding names and pick them to win. Hello, Gonzaga. Vanderbilt.
Then I pick colleges that cute boys in high school wore sweatshirts for and I pick them to win. Duke, check. Michigan, check. Notre Dame, check.
That pretty much fills the first columns out- or is it the second? I mean, the first one that you have to fill out all by yourself- but just in case there is a blank I go with school colors. Like Syracuse because I love orange and blue together.

Next round gets filled mostly with schools where I know someone who went and places I've visited, with family residence pulling up the slack.

Then it's just guessing. My final four is Villanova because it's close to home, and Pittsburgh because I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, Temple because I went there, and UNLV because I think the LV stands for Las Vegas and I've been there twice and I thought it would be a lucky guess. Because luck and Vegas go together. Temple and Pittsburgh will play the championship game and Temple will win.

Because it's the only school on the list from which I have a degree.

Science.

for the pleasure of ages

2011-03-04T18:52:00.002-05:00

break fast.

2011-02-25T09:19:00.002-05:00

My workplace used to do all sorts of morale boosting stuff. Staff appreciation days. Little gifts with our pay checks. Candles, candies.

Little gifts.

Then it stopped.

But we still had parties. Birthday cakes. Baby showers. Moving upward and onward celebrations.

Then eventually, layoff sendoffs.
Awkward.
"Sorry about your job. Here's some cake. In a room full of decorations you'll recognize from every other event we've ever had in here. We bought you a card at the Dollar General. And we all contributed a couple bucks to stuff in there. You know, since we all still get paychecks."
That dwindled too. There aren't enough Friday afternoons in the year for everyone to get their own layoff sendoff.

Now the admin tries. A ~~Christmas~~ ~~Holiday~~ Winter ~~party~~ ~~celebration~~ ~~luncheon~~ potluck
And today there is a breakfast. A potluck breakfast.

There is lots of potluck stuff in social work. And man alive, people can cook.

Sometimes we eat to cope.
Sometimes we cook to eat.
Sometimes we cope alot.

Years ago there was a lady who worked with us who was an AMAZING cook. Anything that came out of her kitchen would be gone in three minutes. She owned a catering business, ran it out of her house. AMAZING. Cakes pies casseroles side dishes cookies main dishes candies. You couldn't go wrong.

Then one day a grant came out from the City. Something about home repairs for Philadelphia home owners who's homes were in serious disrepair. It was along side the time when they were demolishing abandoned and dilapidated homes. I guess it was cheaper to fix some of them than it was to buy them to knock them down.

I love that you can raise a house, and also raze a house. English is fun.

This woman applied for the grant. And turned in her grant application to the office, as it had a better chance of getting in the right hands that way. And the application wasn't in an envelope.
And the application clearly stated that her house was next to an abandoned house. And there were holes in her house that opened up into the abandoned house. And rats and mice and roaches and centipedes poured into her house from the broken house. And her son could climb in the holes and into the abandoned house. Where there were rats and mice and roaches and centipedes. And squatters.

And that pretty much put an end to me eating at potlucks.

I gave our secretary $10 and took the morning off.
I hope everyone at the office is enjoying their breakfast.

ketchup.

2011-02-24T21:49:00.001-05:00

I miss writing. A lot. So much so that I just typo'ed alot.

I could write about work. But right now it is going that sort of way that if I'm not doing it, I don't want to be thinking about it. As social service dollars fall away, families fall apart. Taking away programs from grown ups who people don't necessarily like (crackheads and crazies and such) hurts so many children. You know the crackheads and the crazies love to have a million babies. Imagine what those babies are going through these days.
It's really sad what people do to other people. What politicians do to children. And then wonder why they grow up to be crackheads and crazies, just like their parents and grandparents and and and.

I could write about the weather. I'm no good with temps under 75. And temps are under 75.

I could write about my Upcoming! Vacation!. But I think that puts my house at risk for breakins.
I'm going to (insert destination here) on (insert date here) and not coming back until (insert date here)! I'm pretty excited, especially now that the trip is shaping up to be less (insert attraction here) and more (insert activity here).
Or about my other Upcoming! Vacation! which will happen exactly (#) days after the first one.

I love having two things to look forward too. Especially when work is work and weather is weather.

I could write about improv. We practice weekly, and have shows the first and last Saturday of each month, though that will probably be increasing as the months go by. There is a video camera installed in the theater now, so there should be some video sometime soon.

I could tell you how much I enjoy starting sentences and paragraphs with I, and how sometimes I edit things to take out the I's so I don't sound like a jerk.

I want to write about Jake and his school and his jokes and how fun he is lately, but I don't want to be a gushy momblogger. But this kid? Is hilarious. And smart. And a good buddy to have kicking around the house. Remember how I was so worried about the pajama party? Yeah, well, later that week on a non-pj party day, there was gross miscommunication between Dave and I on a morning I had to leave super early and Dave took Jake to school and Jake ended up going to school in his pajamas.
His pajamas that he wore the night before. His pajamas that weren't pajamas. His pajamas that weren't pajamas but the clothes he wore the day before. To school.
My boy was the boy who wore the same thing to school two days in a row.

Tonight to put off going to bed, Jake asked me deep questions. That is such an awesome kid trick. I don't know where they learn it, but they do.

Question 1: Mom, what is a soul?
Answer 1: um, erm, mumble jumble love, forever, essense of self, and so on and so forth.
Response 1: Mom, it's actually the bottom of your foot. Your sole. See? Sole. I was testing you. Did you know your teeth are bones?

Question 2: Mom, can you tell me all about Black History?
Answer 1: um, erm, mumble jumble, slavery, freedom, oppression, inventions, essense of self, and so on and so forth.
Response 2: Mom, is there a such thing as White History? Because I'm a little worried that we come from nowhere and nothing and nobody and we are responsible for planting the seeds of the history of white people and that's a really big job.

Jake, Jake, Jacob. Who will only be four years old for three more weeks.

He will probably lose a tooth when he's five. Not that any are loose now, but I think that's when kids lose teeth. I ate my first tooth I lost. Swallowed it with my cinnamon toast. I was worried the Tooth Fairy would have to reach up my butt to get it out. My parents never said she wouldn't have to.
Also, my grandmother died the same day, and I thought I saw the Tooth Fairy that night, but I still wonder if it was my grandma. Coming to say goodbye.

I love a good ghost story.

I could update about the inner turmoil I'm having with finding a kindergarten after they scrambled the catchment areas on us since we moved here. Switching us from one of the best public elementary schools to one of the worst. We've already gotten one rejection letter from a Charter School. One down.

I started watching Lost! It's a show about a plane crash. And an island. And I like it a whole lot more since finding out that I'm not supposed to know what is going on. Because I was lost. That's not a pun. I felt really stupid and wondered if I was so pre-occupied with life that I couldn't even understand television. But then I learned it's not me, it's Lost.

I'm taking classes at work. One on Teens. One on Trauma. Luckily it's on work time and work dollar, but there is lots of homework about brain function and emoneurophysiopsychobio stuff. LOTS. And after these are done, I start the second level of the Trauma class and the second level of an Understanding Anger class. I took the first part a few years ago. I learned that I was angry. Which doesn't sound all that groundbreaking, but I was surprised.

And that's about it. Well, it's not, but that's about it for now, for here. I think I'm going to schedule in some writing time. Get back into it. Block out a lunchtime or something.

Plus, it's one more reason to skip the gym.

2011-02-24T13:19:00.008-05:00

I sat in on a parenting class a few weeks ago and the topic was:
(in jargon)
-improving parents' ability to identify, express, process and manage feelings such as anger, stress, loss, grief and guilt
-increasing parents' understanding of varied approaches to positive parenting including discipline, setting structure, child rearing, conflict resolution and problem-solving
-increasing parents' knowledge of nurturing and responsive parenting interactions, including empathy, caring, and respect for self and others.
(in lay terms)
should you let your boy cry or should you tell him to sack up and be a man?

Those top three things are three of the six objectives of all parenting programs funded under the parenting program for which I work.
That bottom one thing is something that haunts parents of boychildren everywhere.

The class was broken into two parts.
Part one:
Do we let our sons cry? Do we set emotional standards for our boys that we wouldn't hold our daughters to? Are boys allowed to be upset? Emotional? Sad? Weak? Where do we draw the line?
Like most of our classes, the majority of parents were moms with a few dads thrown in. Most admitted to being harsher on their sons than their daughters. The ban on crying starts when their sons are toddlers, some said when their sons are preschoolers, but not many. I'm guessing it's a common age. No matter who you are, where you live.
"It's important that we teach our boys to be men", they said. "We can't raise them in this world to be soft. To be vulnerable. To be pussies."

Part two:
Ladies, what do you look for in a partner? A husband? A male friend?
Hands flew up. Someone who is in touch with himself. Someone who is in touch with me. With my children. With our children. Someone who isn't hard. Isn't grizzled. Isn't street.
Men, what do you wish you would have gotten from your fathers when you were young?
Hands didn't fly up. Eyes teared up.
Understanding
Love
Empathy
Sympathy
Affection
Feeling
Emotion
Patience

Part important:
When are we going to start raising our boys to be the men we wish the men in our lives to be?

2011-02-15T09:15:00.001-05:00

The Valentine's Day pajama party went off without a hitch. Jake wore his pajamas that were a little too big and the world didn't shatter around his slippered feet.

He took his nineteen carefully-written, sticker-sealed, Disney-Pixar, faux-foiled Valentines to school and passed them out to all his little friends.
And brought home nineteen bags of candy and trinkets and parent-designed pieces of puppy love.

Sandwich bags full of candy. From each child. More candy than he brought home from trick-or-treating. For a school that doesn't allow outside food to be brought in, there sure was a lot of outside food brought in.

Stupid over-achieving parents. Contributing to the detriment of my Jacob's teeth and my waistline.

Dammit.

Jake didn't care that he didn't give out candy, he was just happy to get some. I don't care that he didn't give out candy, I'm just happy that I can take the Reese's before anyone else sees them.

Being a mom and the primary curator of the kitchen has its perks.

Valentine's Day, in the can

2011-02-11T18:38:00.001-05:00

More video of me and my improv team, Asteroid!

The ! is part of our name. Not part of the sentence.

More video of me and my improv team, Asteroid!!

Click here for the You Tube version.

And here is the Facebook view:

I hope all of you have an amazing and love-filled Valentine's Day weekend.
Heck, I hope all of you have an amazing and love-filled life.

2011-02-11T14:09:00.003-05:00

When I get upset about something or stressed out or I want to deny that reality exists, I focus on some minute detail of nothingness and drill it into the ground as if it is a major life event.

Enter Jake's pajama party at school next week.

Now, we aren't so much a pajama family. Too often, bedtime routines fall by the wayside and we sleep where we fall.
Most times we fall in our clothes.

We have sweatpants.
And t-shirts.
But we aren't so much a pajama family as a family who enjoys a good set of eating clothes.

Someone was nice and gave Jake a pair of jams for Christmas, but they are too big and I don't know if they are all that class(room worth)y.

So what do I do? Do I go buy him a pair? No. I just can't.
I can't spend dollars on something that is just for show. Something that will just sit in a drawer/laundry pile.
Do I let him wear his sweats? No.
No one should ever leave the house without beltloops.
Plus, lots of kids wear sweatpants to school every day and someone will think I'm a negligent mother who failed to look at the school calendar.

BTW, when is the official cutoff line for sweatpants in school?
Because as far back as I can remember, sweatpants kids are, well, they are the kids that wear sweatpants to school.

I shudder.

One time in second grade, a girl accidentally wore her pajamas to school. Rather, her brother's pajamas. She cried and cried and was red as a beet all day, and no one teased her because we all felt really bad for her.
She is the same girl that on Guidance Counselor in the Classroom Day, when the GC brought a pencil box and told us that inside we'd find an image of the most important person in the world, and after we guessed our little guesses (President Reagan! The teacher! Mork!) we lined up and looked in that box. One by one. And when it was her turn, she looked inside- the box held a mirror- and ran out of the room gasping for breath.
She always smelled like animals.
No one ever teased her about that, either.
No one ever teased her about much, but no one ever was real friendly to her either.
I think of her all the time.

So what am I to do? Pajamas pajamas pajamas. I guess maybe I'll throw a hem in the ones that are too big and call it a day.

Also?
The kids are supposed to wear slippers.
Jake's slippers?
Dirty McQueens that should be relegated to the scrap yard.
Dirty McQueens that make taking your shoes off in the house moot because these things are so gross that you may as well just track in whatever it is you stepped in outside because it can't be worse than what is stuck to the bottom of the Dirty McQueens.

My kid is about to become the pigpen of the class. I just know it.
And I'm about to become the pigpen mom.

These are the types of things I never thought about when I thought about what to think about Jake going to school.

2011-02-06T11:22:00.002-05:00

I love to make soup on Sundays. Fry down the onion and celery and maybe garlic and toss whatever is in the fridge into the stockpot and let it cook for a couple hours. Makes the whole house smell amazing and makes food for a week.

Bowl after bowl after bowl of soup.
Ssssoooooooouuppppppppp.
Same soup again and again and again and again.

So I came up with a solution. I call it Soup That is Based on that Story in the Bible Where the Lady Keeps Taking a Coin from Her Purse or Maybe it was Wheat from a Sack or Water from a Well or Fish from a Barrel but the Purse/Sack/Well/Barrel Never Runs Empty but Whatever the Story is, My Brain Automatically Tells Me it's Pickles from a Jar, Most Likely because I Haven't Heard nor Read the Story in Thirty Years and I Loved Pickles as a Small Child and I'm Not Motivated to Check the Facts because I don't Care because it's the Moral that Counts.

-or-

"Pickle Soup"

Pickle Soup is simple. You start with the basic-est of basic soup on Sunday, and then every day you add something else so it's a little different each time you eat it.

Today I made potato soup. Tomorrow I'll probably add broccoli. Cheese the next day. Then carrots the following. A can of corn. Dice up those tomatoes. The halfabagga frozen peas that's in the back of the freezer. Some crab, maybe.

It's a good way to use up what you have, eat something that doesn't come off a lunch truck, feel creative in the kitchen, and make up your own bible stories upon which to base your life.

2011-01-28T07:16:00.002-05:00

Well, if today is the 25th anniversary of the Challenger exploding, I'm guessing Monday or Tuesday is the anniversary of all the fifth graders asking one another, "What does NASA stand for?" and everyone answering, "Need Another Seven Astronauts".

Makes me wonder what Jake's first in-school live-televised disaster will be and how the kids will deal.

resolutions

2011-01-22T18:33:00.004-05:00

My son has a rather unique
idea of
relationship with
theory regarding
God.

I don't contradict anything he believes to be true about God. I don't tell him anything I believe to be true about God. We don't go to church together, nor do we read the Bible or the Torah or the Koran together.

But he has this
idea of
relationship with
theory regarding
God.

He tells me about God. About what God tells him. About what he feels in his heart to be the truth. And I listen.

I never contradict him. Or tell him what other people believe. All I ask is that he shares his beliefs with me when he feels moved to do so and request that if anyone tells him that what he believes is false that he tell them to go shove it. In gentler terms, of course. But I don't want him to feel that what he thinks that God is telling him is wrong. Because the stuff he says God tells him? Is pretty damned mindblowing. Or, not damned. I think that's probably a poor word choice.

Jacob's basic theory is that God is the energy present in the whole wide universe. The energy that our souls are made of, the energy that makes the grass grow, the energy that keeps the planets spinning and the universe expanding. And here on Earth, every thing that we do and feel contributes to the energy that is God. And if we do and feel good things, God is able to send good energy back our way. If we do and feel shitty things, the shittiness comes back to us. In order for there to be a healthy and loving Earth, there has to be a healthy and loving God. In order for there to be a healthy and loving God, there has to be a healthy and loving Earth. Each one makes the other.

He uses those words to describe it, and he shows what he means by linking his hands in a twisty yin yang ball thing.

He came up with that- rather- "God told him that". A little over a year ago. When he was three.
And I think it's genius. So that's what God is in our house. Because it's
better than
as sensible as
just as believable as
anything I've ever heard regarding the subject.

Jake has a bevy of ways to talk to God. He says that God talks directly to him, but there are also a few "dead people" who are go-betweens. Sometimes Jake calls them "spirits" or "ghosts" or "angels", but sometimes they are just "the dead people". When I asked who they were, he said that they (and I quote) "aren't people exactly, but voices that make up his subconcisous", that "it's easiest to hear God when you listen with your subconscious so all the other stuff in the world doesn't get in the way".

Okay.
Sure.
Run with it.
Why not?

Last week Jake waited up late for me to come home from rehearsal and asked me to come up to his room. He asked me to sit down and he held my hands and he said that we have to start taking excellent care of each other and the people around us because things are going to get real weird because God is dead.

Then he gave me a hug and told me that things are going to be okay. That everything always turns out to be okay, but sometimes it takes a really long time for things to work out.

He explained to me the next day that the dead people told him that God isn't totally dead, but the good parts of him are dying. That there wasn't enough love in the world and people aren't taking care of others both inside and outside of their families and we all aren't taking care of nature and the energy that we are making on Earth is destroying the energy that makes God. And once that energy turns bad, things get really scary here. And up there. Out there. Where ever.

The dead people told him that we can turn things around by being kind to one another and taking care of the Earth. That we can make better energy here and with God by doing and feeling better things. And they would appreciate if we helped out making the Godenergy a more pleasant place to be, because that's where a person's energy goes after we die.

So.

Whether you prescribe to the testament of Jacob or not, maybe do what you can to make things a little bit better?
Because my poor boy's heart is broken over all this.
And I don't know what to tell him to make it all better.
Whether it's the word of God or the overactive imagination of a little boy, it seems like a good thing for us all to work on.

2011-01-14T10:43:00.002-05:00

I am in flux.
Flux at work.
Flux of the body.
Flux with the child going to school this week.
The only thing that isn't in flux is my hometime and I want to curl up and hibernate and wait for everything to settle down and work itself out.

We got new doors yesterday. Now that they are in I feel comfortable telling you that our back door has been held shut by various implements such as trashbags, recycling bins, Coleman coolers for the past year or so. It was so bad that the lock didn't work and the catch didn't catch and if a bird flapped it's wings the sheer force would blow the door right open. It wasn't even a real exterior door. It was something that you'd put in a breezeway or veranda or something. It was probably 40 years old. It was bad. Ugly. Not safe.

So, we got one of those industrial strength security doors and a big old super-insulated steel door that I would call a "man-door" but that just seems to be a term local to where I grew up because no one says "man-door" out here in these parts and a new super-insulated steel door for the front that I wouldn't call a "man-door" because it's sort of pretty with it's four little cut-out windows up top.

Staying home while the men come in to do the work is always uncomfortable for me. The just walk in and out of the house with their big old boots and tools and stuff and I don't know whether to look up and smile or just ignore them or what. I go for the ignore, and then ask them if they need anything when they seem to be slowing down.
Then there's the matter of the tip. I always tip. Especially when it involves strange men who have access to the keys to my house.
$25 in exchange for not raping me and leaving with my trust that they aren't coming back unless I need them and my assumption that they didn't take anything while they were here.
Maybe it would have been $30 if the one didn't pee on the seat (I know it was him because I cleaned the seat before they got there) and the other didn't put his used coffee spoon down on the counter rather than on the napkin I provided expressly for that purpose. He could have at least licked the bottom like I did that morning. Right before I stuck it back in the loop on the sugar bowl, hours before he used it.

What?

***

Jake is loving school by the way. Today is pool day, and I'm hoping it makes him tired and cuddly this evening. He's done a bit of regressing, as I expected he would. It makes bedtime a bit trying, but it really isn't so bad. He sticks his thumb in his mouth now. He was never a thumb sucker ever before in his whole life. He whines. But hey, he was doing his fair share of that before school. The best part is that when he goes to sleep he wants to "sleep on my belly" which I secretly love. So, just about every night this week he has fallen asleep with his head in my neck, telling me all about how happy his heart is when it is beating against mine and how nice his dreams are when he can smell my hair. That kid. I tell you.

Oh, and he hasn't picked up any bad words or nasty habits from his classmates. Three cheers for that.

***

Next week begins the process for kindergarten admissions. Somewhere along the line from the time we moved to now they switched the cutoff streets for the elementary schools and now we are zoned for a school that Jake will absolutely not be going to. Sucks. But, we would rather him in a Charter School anyway so now begins the blood and the sweat and the tears to make sure the "lottery" works in our favor.

Sure there are always the eighty billion Catholic Schools in the neighborhood, but that isn't really an option for us.

Home school? As a last resort.

I'm not so much the home schooler type.

Moving to a new district?

I'd rather home school than move.

I had two days off in the middle of the week this week. Wednesday was a snow day and I spent it home with Jake. I try. I really do. I try to like staying at home with my child, whom I love more than anything in this world. I tried playing games, going out in the snow, getting stuff done around the house. I just can't do it.

Well, I did. And damned well.

But I just can't love it.

Thursday was the doors day and I got to spend it with my books and Netflix. I got things done around the house. It was glorious. I crave solitude and when I get it I eat up every single moment.

I could be a housewife long before I could be a stay at home mom. That makes me feel shitty, but less shitty than it used to.

I think the balance would be a part time job while Jake is in school. I could run errands and get groceries and prep dinner and do room mother/chauffeur stuff and still log hours in the workforce.

Chances of that all actually happening?

Well, don't bet anything valuable on it.

***

In an effort to feel that Yes! I am capable of making a difference in the world! And every little thing I do matters! I'm reading The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. I've only recently ever even heard of Malcolm Gladwell and I haven't read any of this other stuff, but this is pretty interesting. Being a connector and collector of people myself it's fun to read about what someone else has to say on the subject. Who knew being that was an actual concept? Who doesn't love something that makes them feel self-important?

I'm on the fence about buying a Kindle/Nook/whatever. I think it's definitely a space saver, and a paper saver, but I don't love buying one more thing that will end up in a landfill forever once it's done for. I mean, paper at least recycles.
But is all the energy required to make and distribute a paper book multiplied by all the books I read greater than the manufacturing and recharging and disposal of something the size of a scientific calculator?
And I like passing my books along to someone else after I'm finished. Is there a pass-along option on these things?
I have my own tiny laptop, and I'm sure that I can download the free reader apps, but I don't lug my netbook around with me. Battery life isn't very long and I get a headache from the screen.

This is why my life is so hard.
This is why I find myself in various stages of flux.
Because nothing is ever simple.

2011-01-10T09:31:00.000-05:00

Two years ago I would have never thought I would be performing with an improv troupe, getting up on stage in front of people. The mention of the idea would have made my guts wrench. But, here I am.

My stage fright is non-existent. It took me a few months of classes before getting up on a stage and when it was time, I was ready. I don't get clammy, I don't get gassy, I don't get pulsey. It's amazing.

But there was still one thing that I wasn't ready to do, to get on camera. On film, I mean. Oh, I'm okay if our shows are being taped. That doesn't bother me. But to sit down in front of a camera and look into it and open my mouth and say something?

Barf.
Double barf.
Barfing accompanied by lower intestinal distress. Asspissing even.
A case of the P&Ps. The pukes and the poops.

So at practice the other night someone comes up with the idea to take a video of us. A New Years spot that would go out to people who care about us enough to watch a video. An improvised listing of resolutions. Not our real resolutions, of course. But improvised resolutions. Each one of us sitting in a chair in front of a video camera and rambling on and on for a couple minutes to get some stuff out that can be edited in to a short something and put out on You Tube and Facebook and junk. And it just so happened that one of the guys had his FlipCam (is that what those things are called? I'm such a techtard) in his car.

Of course, I was badly in need of a shower. No make up, dirty hair, my favorite sweatshirt that has this way of making me look 6 months pregnant. The way I roll on a Wednesday night. Practice ain't no pageant, that's for sure. And, I was going to be on tape. Face to face with a camera
For what is probably the third time in my natural born life.
Trial by fire.

And you know what? It wasn't bad.
I didn't poop.
I didn't even throw up in my mouth a little bit.

I'm getting a handle on these things.
It only took 34 years.

Progress, my friends.
I am progressing.

Here is the You Tube link

2011-01-10T09:06:00.001-05:00

Jake is officially a preschooler. I'm a mom with a kid in school. The pre- is just a formality. It's school, for all intents and purposes.

He has a cubby, with his name on it.

It's cubby hole number 7.

When we spoke about his cubby hole (he thought he might be getting a locker) the other day, he said he didn't like the sound of it. I asked him why, and he said something about how a pit full of baby bears doesn't sound like something they should have in a school.
I laughed, he got upset at me for laughing at him.

I would never laugh at him, but I'm often laughing with him. He just doesn't know he's funny.

Yet.

He picked out his clothes all by himself. That generally works out well, everything in his closet matches everything else. Purposely and by design. It's a secret that I learned from an old client. She was addicted to crack, but in a sort of functional way. She hid it for a long time by making sure that her children and herself were never mismatched or messy. The trick is to stick to either black and grey or brown and tan for the base colors and no patterned pants or skirts. Everything matches black or brown, but black and brown and plaid and stripes together can make one look color blind. Or crazy. Or cracky.

Jake is excited about Show and Tell, and wants to take his General Lee.
Jake will not be taking his General Lee.
One because it is loud.
Two because it is loud due to buttons that, when pressed, make a yee-haw noise and play the Dixieland horn noise.
Three because there is a Confederate flag on top of it.
The General Lee will be staying in the house. I've learned my lesson about that one.

He missed Show and Tell anyway. It was last Wednesday. Today they go to the Public Library.

This month focuses on Self-Help skills, like buttoning and zipping and snapping. Jake is a terrible buttoner and zipperer and snapper. He hates those things on his clothes so I respect that by not buying things that button or zipper or snap. But now he can't do that stuff so well. It was something I worried about regarding his going to school. Probably the first thing, actually. I even lost a bit of sleep wondering if they will think I'm a terrible mother because my kid can't zip his coat or if they will think he is somehow mechanically delayed because he only wears elastic waisted pants that don't button.
I do that. I push the normal worry stuffs out of my brain and focus on something irrational or inconsequential so that I don't dwell on the real scary stuff.

They feed him there. Breakfast and lunch. I don't need to pack anything. I am not allowed to pack anything. No more little Rubbermaid containers of Cheerios or asking Jake whether he wants peanut butter and honey or jelly (or on rare occasion, fluff) and him telling me that Charmaine makes him ham and cheese or hotdogs if I don't pack him a sandwich so maybe I can pick what I want with peanut butter and put it in my bag instead so he can get something he actually wants for lunch. The kitchen is on-site, and everything is prepared fresh.

Which is more than I can say for my kitchen.

Dave and I dropped him off this morning, very early. Earlier than we will normally drop him off. Earlier than most kids get dropped off. There were two little girls in the "breakfast room" who were about his age. I'm guessing that they will be in his class. They walked right up to him together and introduced themselves and he seemed okay with the whole thing. I'm glad we were early so he can see the kids as they file in rather than him walking into a full room of kids that already know one another.
The lunchlady- well- breakfastlady was sort of a crank, but it was 7am and I try not to judge anyone before 9.

I used to hold rank in this school when the organization that runs the building and the programs was under the contract that I work for, but they are no longer part of my program. Everyone who I've had any contact with over there knows what I do, and that's good because it gives me a bit of an insider's edge.
Not that I'd ever pull that card, but it's in my back pocket if I ever need it.
Why does that matter? It doesn't. I know that this place is super and one of the best around.
But just in case.
Not that there should ever be a case.

I think I'm okay with all this. It's exciting. We're all ready. There were no tears. Not from Jake, not from me. A lump, perhaps. But maybe I'm just coming down with something.