Oh, For the Love of God!

Has it really been 28 days already?

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi He's Not

This particular configuration of everyday household items caused Dog to completely wig out this afternoon.

I came home from work and put my bag on the floor by that pile of books which won't fit into the bookcase. Then, I innocently threw my coat over the pile and dropped my keys on top like a cherry on a sundae.

Where they remained for well over an hour.

Until Dog was standing about 3 feet away from the pile and Gravity became too much for the Delicate Nordstrom Pink Wool to support the weight of the keys for one nanosecond longer and they shifted.

Just a smidge.

But Dog heard it and jumped to Red Alert Status immediately. He growled, he snuck up on them, he barked, he stood near me* and growled some more.

For 20 minutes he carried on.

That's 20 minutes after the keys stopped moving.

He finally only gave it up because I had to (take a photo and) pick up my keys to go get Mac from school.

*I'm not sure if he was protecting me or trying to get behind me so that I would take the brunt of the pain when the keys decided to rush us.

Thank God it wasn't a cobra.

Accutane's Bad Rap

So last night, as I'm climbing into bed, I hear a teaser for the 11pm news:

"Accutane linked to suicide. Tune in at 11 for details..."

So guess what I was doing at 11.

It's been 3 1/2 months since Dillon began his Accutane regimen and each month, the doctor has made it unquestionably clear that we need to keep an eye on Dillon's mood, as depression is one of the two serious side effects (Birth-defects being the other. But that's not an issue here.). Each month, after we have had a pre-appointment for bloodwork, we meet with the doctor and he sits down and looks us each in the eye:

"Do you have feelings of hurting yourself or others?"

"No."

"Mom? Does he seem normal?"

"Yes."

"Mackenzie? (If she's with us.) Does Dillon seem different?"

"No."

And then he enters Dillon's information into a special computer database that tracks Accutane users, called iPledge. When we started this in November, he informed me that there were some people who believed there was a correlation between Accutane and suicide. As far as the FDA is concerned, they are "still assessing reports of suicide or suicide attempts".

I watched the news report, but came away from it feeling like I missed something. There was no new evidence... they interviewed parents of 2 boys who had committed suicide while on Accutane, both several years ago. I couldn't understand why they even wasted their time putting together that story so this morning, I got online at News 9. The story didn't even make it to their online edition.

Still unsatisfied (I wanted to know if there was actually new evidence), I Googled "accutane suicide". Most hits are law firms wanting to represent me if my son kills himself. It takes hours to wade through the junk to find factual evidence and even then, most of the evidence is anecdotal. This senator's son got a lot of press, simply because he's a senators son. But the fact that his son was "happy" and then took Accutane and then committed suicide is not empirical evidence. He asked for more information for patients and I agree that is a good thing. But to present his case as proof that Accutane causes suicide is simply not true. The news report stated that two-hundred and some (I forget the actual number) of teens on Accutane have committed suicide. And that over 13 million (again, a guesstimate) teens have taken Accutane. Now. Its been a LONG time since I Aced statistics at Purdue, but I'm just guessing that the incidence of suicide among teens on Accutane is less than that in the general teen population. Also, isn't it probably a fact that the kids with the most severe acne might have a greater incidence of depression than those kids who haven't been humiliated and scorned by their peers while the medical profession spent years crossing every other therapy off their list before finally prescribing Accutane?

So I looked it up. I was right:

According to Wikipedia: Several studies have emerged suggesting a possible link between isotretinoin and depression. It must however be acknowledged that its primary use is for the treatment of the most severe acne. The possibility that this severe acne is causing the depression is therefore not to be ruled out. Moreover, improvement of a patient's acne by successful treatment with isotretinoin can actually reduce symptoms of anxiety and depression. Statistical evidence shows that the suicide rate among Accutane users is actually lower than average.

My point is not to deny that there may be a link between Accutane and suicide, but to stress that it does no one any good to sensationalize the situation. An infinitely more helpful news story would have been to educate adults with facts and refer them to sources for further information on this serious, perhaps deadly, issue.

(PS - Here's how it all turned out.)

Bleeding Heart, Weeping Eyes

OK! This was The Weekend of Dead Pets!

Beth, Mac and I went to see 8 Below on Saturday.

I am not allowed to see movies where animals die or are hungry or are in any other manner of harm. It makes me cry and I try to avoid being a blubbering idiot in public. But by the end of the movie, my eyes were red, my sinuses were clogged, and I was in a serious funk.

So after we got something to eat and came home, I finished reading Mackenzie's book, A Mango Shaped Space. The REASON it's called A Mango Shaped Space is because the cat, named Mango, DIES, thereby leaving a Mango shaped space in the main character's life. So then I cried while reading the last 25 pages of that.

Then on Sunday, while ironing, I happened to catch one of those ASPCA shows on Animal Planet. Short story: No tears, but super-crappy-feelings. Now I have a ban on ALL Bambi-Where the Red Fern Grows-Old Yeller-Dead-Pet Media.

But dead fish, no problem:

So I just fed my kids fishsticks for dinner. Throw in some RC Cola and Cheez Doodles with some Rod Stewart on the radio and cigarette smoke in the air and I'd be having a 1974 flashback.

Damn, the Hormones!

At the risk of sounding redundant...

(redundant and pathetic)

...it's Friday night. Tater's at work, Dillon's out at a movie with his friends (something with a "3" in it. I asked him to repeat it twice but each time I only caught the "3". I gather it's something I wouldn't watch anyway), and Mackenzie's at Brittany's house, where she went after school. I'm home alone. Well, home alone except for the dog. But there's only so much time a girl can kill playing "Fetch the Little Man". Even "Fetch the Little Man" after two margaritas has a limited fun-factor.

I noticed this week that my little tomboy has turned into a full-fledged girl. For years, all she would wear was shorts or jeans with t-shirts. And NO pink. Pink was for the devil and anything that touched her body must have no pink on it. Last fall she started wearing skirts. Even a pink skirt. And then I noticed that she actually washed her hair every day, instead of covering it up with ponytails and do-rags. Now she's taken to adorning it with sparkly heart barrettes or colorful clips. She's been shaping her nails (!). And the make-up*. I bought her some fun yellow-green eye shadow last year and it's been making an appearance on her eyes some mornings.

But the worst of the worst is the talking on the phone. About nothing. Literally nothing. I've seen them run out of things to say in 5 minutes and then spend the next hour watching the same Full House rerun while commenting on it when things got too awkwardly quiet. In her defense, I haven't actually seen her doing the calling, but she doesn't say "bye" and hang up either...

And then she's developed a bit of a funk-factor. But I don't mind that so much. Like wearing 2 completely different earrings or 2 different color eyeshadows, a scarf as accessory or belt, stickers on her cheeks, or 2 different patterned socks. These, I can appreciate.

I didn't realize it would happen so soon. I really expected another 2-3 years before this happened and I wasn't prepared. She's actually starting to like shopping! And she gets up early to take a shower every day. This is the girl that I tried to get into afternoon kindergarten so I could avoid a fight every weekday morning for an entire year. And now she actually is working at looking like a girl. I'll be damned.

It's actually pretty cool. I've been outnumbered around here for far too long.

*I was always one of those who said, "No makeup until she's 16. Natural beauty is best. Blah, blah, blah." But it turns out that her wearing a bit of eye shadow and some lip gloss isn't hurting anyone or anything. And it makes her happy. No harm, no foul.

My Life, In Musical Revue

I'm glad my inner monologue is private.

Sometimes, it's not too bad. Like, when I see a Mazda, I automatically sing, "Zoom, zoom, zoom." Or if I see a pink Cadillac, I hear Springsteen singing, what else, "Pink Cadillac". A mom with a baby evokes, "Oh, look at the baby." When the coral bells are blooming (Girl Scouts, join in!), "White coral bells, upon a slender stalk, lilies of the valley deck my garden walk..." Whenever I cross the Indiana State line, "Back home again, in Indiana, and it seems that I can see a gleaming candle light still shining bright, through the sycamores for me..." (if you're not a Hoosier or an Indy 500 fan then I'm guessing the tune is lost on you).

But then there are the thoughts that aren't so diplomatic. Every. Single. Time., I see a woman with a big butt, I hear in my head, "I like big BUTTS and I cannot lie..." And then I giggle. It's gotten so that Dillon knows exactly what I'm thinking and he looks at me and then we start laughing and then I'm twice as horrified. When someone calls my office with a complaint, sometimes I forget to listen to what they're saying and instead hear, a la Charlie Brown's teacher, "Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah." And then I have to ask them to repeat themselves. Someone droning on with a too long story, Black Eyed Peas..."Shut Up". If I come across a snooty sales girl in the mall..."Cold Hard Bitch".

On retrospect, it's more of an inner soundtrack.

At my high school reunion last fall, most songs were a mix-tape of classic 80's. I showed up singing, Violent Femmes, "Let me go wiiiiild, like a blister in the sun...", then there was some Bob Marley, John Cougar, Springsteen played when I saw Matt, Tom Petty = John, and Gretchen evokes Sting... Those were the days...

Imagine, if everyone could hear the speakers in my head. I would leave a trail of 40-year-olds bobbing their heads to the beat, Girl Scouts singing along, enemies with big butts and indignant homeowners in my wake. I have tried to hit the "stop" button... sometimes "pause" works, but In the end, I'll probably go out singing, "It's the end of the world, as we know it..."!

For Emily:

Self Portrait:


Slowly but surely. If it weren't for all that damn homework*, he'd have more time to paint!

*And napping...

So Tired I Can't Even Think Up a Clever Title

I have recently learned that 2 Sudafed, 800 mg of Motrin and trace amounts of Novacaine equals Mommy-crack.

While lying awake last night sometime after "Holy Fuck It's Late" but before "No Fuckin' Way Do I Have to Go to Work In An Hour", I thought up 2 great ideas for a post. Do you think I have any clue what either of them might have been now?

I also learned how to make $1,000,000 by Labor Day and that a Sealy Posturepedic mattress will get me a better night's sleep. I watched two Paramedic Shows, The History Channel and The Weather Channel for a really long time. I hear our snowstorm is over.

Instead of coming home after work at 1pm, I went to lunch with Beth. I think I was actually pretty coherent too. But really, you'd have to ask her.

I made Tater his favorite dinner tonight since he showed up with 2 bouquets and a Starbucks after forgetting to turn off his alarm and scaring another couple of years off my life. Then the kids cleaned up so I could go to bed.

Paige, in a loud squeaky voice at 8:30pm from deep under her down blanket and flannel sheets, "What? Your Tuesday Folder? I'm too tired to deal with a Tuesday Folder."

Mac, "Shh. Relax. Just sign here."

Clearly, only one hour of sleep every 38 hours will Fuck Me Up.

And give me a potty-mouth.

St.Valentine's Day Massacre

It's 8:27am. I am headed to work on one hour of sleep.

From 5am-6am, when Tater's alarm clock woke me up.

He was already up.

Today will be hell. Crazy bitches best watch out today.

Grass With a Side of Weed

Dear Crazy Grass Lady~
Please stop calling me. Yes, I am sitting at the desk at the Homeowners Association. Yes, my Title, Unfortunate Though It May Be, is Customer Service Representative*. This does not mean that I share in your landscaping obsession. I have 500 units to worry about with only 4 hours per day to deal with them. The fact that you are tormented by the less than perfect lawn near your house is miniscule compared to the fact that Mr. Disney's roof may cave in if we have too much snow or that Ms. Whiskey's shed roof was damaged by our employee.

I don't want you to come into my office with your bugged-out eyes and your musty, dog-furry clothes and explain to me for an hour how YOU think we should route the drainage near your house. I couldn't care less. And while you are in my office, do not so blatantly try to read the papers on my desk or tell me how you think that building 8 got better dirt for their regrading than your building.

You cannot bully me into giving you the plans for the project. It was approvd by the Committee and is a Go. The specifics are none of your business.

It is not my responsibility to call you to tell you what will be discussed at any meeting. It's a public forum and if you had any concerns, you knew this project was coming up and you should have gotten off your fat ass and attended the meeting.

And for the record:

• I don't have a "Poison Ivy File" in which to put your 4 hours of "Poison Ivy Research". You are the only one who cares.

• I will not make a public service announcement for the others on your block to "secure their peanuts" when they throw out their trash. I am not a babysitter.

• You are saying V's name wrong. How many times to I have to slip it into general conversation for you to hear that you are mispronouncing it? It makes you sound like an idiot.

• When you tell me that you "don't want to toot your own horn", but that you "used to be a researcher for congress"...no worries! That doesn't impress me.

• I will not call the landscapers to tell them how you think the leaves should be blown. You are not an expert. I don't believe you've ever blown anything in your life.

• Do not bring me a 5 month old chocolate favor from Stephanie and Bill's wedding. God only knows where it's been since last September. That is NOT the way to bribe me. Try tequila next time. In a sealed bottle.

*Recently changed, by the way, to Phone Answering Goddess. Makes my boss a little uncomfortable when I make her address me as such.

Speaking of Grass!
V burst into the office yesterday amid a billow of smoke. So I let him flit about for a few minutes until he actually sat down and shut up. Then I asked him. "Why do you smell like Weed?"

Shocked the hell out of him. I only look like a virtuous-country-club-cheerleader-sorority-type-doe-eyed-princess.

But don't fuck with me. I've been around the block a few times.

Rachael Ray is Well Done.

Direct quote from Rachael Ray:

"Nothing will do ya like a chocolate dipped banana."

Hi.

You guys are looking for me, aren't you?

Forget it. How could I follow the genius that is Man-Boy?

I'm having a margarita and slinking away with my tail between my legs.

Dillon As Guest Blogger

Ridiculous Hits An Historical High
By Dillon
Rules are a primary factor in every human being's life; there are rules at home, there are rules at the office, there are rules in the grocery store, and there are rules at school. They are guidelines on how we need to live and are put into effect to maintain order in society. For this reason I whole-heartedly agree with the placement of these regulations, but it is when those in power abuse their right to make rules that a problem occurs.

High Schools are the development centers for teenagers to prepare them with the cruel facts of life outside dependent living. So in order to keep these lost and helpless souls from going astray, the rules must be enforced; no graffiti, no smoking on campus, no drugs, no alcohol, no savagery. To these rules I agree. Without these regulations all hell would most certainly break loose; I know how often I get the urge to unsheathe my broadsword to battle a peer to the bloody end. Without these rules being enforced the place we know as High School would resemble Tiananmen Square in full-fledged rebellion.

These rules, however, do not seem to be the ones of most concern, and the most commonly implemented by faculty. The insignificant, futile rules are the ones that seem to be bellowing through the halls from an administrator. The bearing of headgear appears to be of great concern to hall monitors; "“Take off the hat!" is an automatic response from admin to a teen with a desire for head covering.

Recently, a special notice from Dr. Principal droned through the P.A. system on morning announcements concerning the safety and order that needs to be kept in the halls. Apparently, there has been wide disarray about handheld electronics in school during class hours. It seems as though the administrators fear the impedance of maturation that my iPod inflicts on myself, and everyone around me. I do understand that portable music and handheld video games may be a distraction in class, however I do not understand how using them in the halls and during lunch or break can hinder my learning capability. Passing time in the halls and lunch are periods for relaxation and preparation for my oncoming academic challenge, and I can think of nothing better to relax to then a little Led Zeppelin. My listening to music during my break does no harm to anyone or anything in the school.

My personal favorite of all lame school rules is one passed at my temporary school in Indiana just prior to moving here. It seems as though tie-dye "is distracting to students"” so, naturally, administrators banned the wear of tie-dye in the school. First of all, it is obvious that the administration did not ban the wear of tie-dye because it was distracting, but because they thought it attracting the wrong crowd. According to this mentality, all rebellious nature and pot smoking can be completely eliminated from society by simply banning the wardrobe associated with it; the next measure should be to completely forbid anal-retentive and uptight nature by banning loafers and pleated pants. The irony in this is not only that changing the appearance of the person does not change the personality, but that the administrators enforcing this decree were the same trippers of the sixties and seventies.

Academic administration has crossed the line from safe to ridiculous without hesitation. I highly doubt that showing up to school with my headphones, a beanie, and a tie-dye shirt I made myself is going to possess me to cause torment and anguish to the people around me. It is safe to say that the time has come to lighten up.

Exasperated

Tater went to the store last weekend.

He bought Regular Edy's Vanilla and Edy's Light Vanilla. Half the fat!

And then proceeded to eat all the Good Ice Cream. Now there's only Light! left in the freezer.

I don't eat Light! ice cream. (I mean, I do, I just don't want to.) I want all the fat to remain in my ice cream. And my potato chips.

So I asked him tonight, "Why did you buy Diet Ice Cream?"

"Because Men's Health said it was good."

"Then why aren't you eating it?"

Silence.

No, Thank You, Post

Here's the thing.

We've been here in DC for a little over a year. For most of that year, I kept thinking, "Hmm. I need to subscribe to The Post". But instead, I just kept putting it off (Paige M****, "Master Procrastinator") and occasionally picking up a paper and a dozen doughnuts on those odd Sunday mornings when I'd actually put on some clothes and drive to the store.

But last week I finally filled out that little card, "Bill Me", and sent it in. And they sent me a paper. So I added it to the unread pile of papers from the Previous Sunday, when I went to Giant and picked up a paper and a dozen doughnuts. Ate the doughnuts, left the paper.

But last night I read them.

And the only thing I found even remotely interesting was an article in "Parade" on Sarah Jessica Parker, an article on NRA classes for women, and the comics.

There was a section on the 5 Best Burrito Joints, but they were all too far to drive for just a burrito. There was an article on the best hair salons, but... seriously? have you seen my hair? There were 4 pounds of articles on politics or political leaders or children of political leaders (and which celebrity said children resemble - are they SERIOUS?), but otherwise, Snorapalooza.

I'm having buyers remorse. I haven't even gotten the bill yet and I'm bored to tears with what others in our Nation's Capital find riveting Sunday Morning journalism.

So now I wonder. Am I that shallow? That apathetic? I know other people, friends, who adore The Post. They are informed and current and can have scintillating conversations regarding public affairs. I can't and don't and don't really care. I can talk about books and movies and parenting. Blogging! And Apple and touring in Japan. Dogs, decorating, and jewelry-making. But not politics. Don't even bother.

I'm Just Not That Into You

Is it ok to tell this week that I'm just not that into it and ignore it 'til it goes away?

Beauty, Defined

Dillon As Frisbee

Yay! Friday Night!

The good news is that I am apparently hydrated, as my urine is clear.

The bad news is that I'm drinking alone.

Such is the life, mothering a teen and a tween.

Mac went to Brittany's house after school and never came home. She did call. To ask if she could stay over.

I vaguely remember Dillon coming home from practice and asking if he could take the Shagin' Wagon. I was dozing on the sofa with a migraine. I said yes. I have no idea where he is.

Tater called to say he was playing with Bushey. There is probably Scotch involved.

I dragged myself to the kitchen to scavenge for one last Imitrex.

I was unsuccessful.

I took 3 Bayer and 1 bottle of wine.

Now I don't care that my head is killing me.

Bronwyn, Revisited

Last night at Dillon's final wrestling meet (Yay!), every once in a while, above the bouquet of Eau de Teen-Age Wrestler hanging heavy in the air, I caught just a whiff of my girlfriend Bronwyn who (whom?) I haven't seen in over a year. I don't know if it was the perfume or shampoo or soap of the woman in front of me, but I caught myself breathing deeply of the sweat-humid air in the gym, just to have that one recollection-synapse fire in my brain. For that one brief second, the 4 years Bronwyn & I played together in Japan flooded back to me: tambourines and Tom Jones, Tequila Shots and Tiaras; the Electric Slide and Girl-Talk, Hawaii and Nagano.

And then the woman got up and moved.

Do you suppose I was being creepy? I don't remember actually leaning in to sniff her hair... I'm sure Tater would have stopped me before I got to that point.

But it got me to thinking: How powerfully linked to memory is our sense of smell that it can instantly transport us to another time and place?

Boxwoods always remind me of living in San Diego on A St., on the corner of Balboa Park (not in UTC or Chula Vista, just downtown).

Perm solution always reminds me of visiting my mom's shop when I was a girl.

Gun cleaning fluids are a Saturday afternoon at home in the family room with Dad.

Chorine in an indoor pool takes me back to high school dive practice and Gretchen and Shelly.

Peach candles remind me of the Hallmark store I worked at in Alabama.

Whisky = Grandpa

Grey Flannel Cologne = Dale

Apricots = Japan in the fall

Pier One spicy red candles = Annie

And there's a spicy/salty scent in the air when you live close to the ocean. That smell always takes me back to my grandma's house in Orlando.

I love the flood of memories that ride upon the waves of scent. It links us to our past in tangible and unexpected ways. It opens the door to memories that I might not have recalled otherwise, or not recalled as vividly perhaps. Last night at the meet, I almost surely wouldn't have reminisced about Bronwyn and Japan, and even if I did think about her, it would have been in a much more superficial "Damn, I should call her" kind-of-way. But it was the intense memory of her perfume that brought her flooding back to me and made the memory of her Real and Absolute and it made our Fun Time together seem not so very long ago.

And that was nice. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy and smiley inside.

I miss you, Girlfriend.

Fair Warning. This Is an Overshare...

I am weak and lethargic. If you don't hear from me tomorrow, it's because I'm in the hospital getting a corpuscle cocktail.

(Male readers may want to bow out now before I repulse you with the details of the Girlie Plumbing. Or not. Whatever.)

I am no Trained Medical Professional, but I am somewhat an expert on menstruation*. My qualifications? Intensive research 7 days every month for the past 26 years. Sooooooo... 7x12, blah, blah, blah, 26... I have spent over 2,184 days of my life engaged in grueling field research.

And in my expert opinion, I feel that soaking through 3 super-plus tampons in 1 hour is not ok. Gigantic clots are not ok. Debilitating cramps...not ok.

In light of these unfortunate symptoms, I had a D&C and a polyp removed last July in an attempt to suppress the blood-letting, which helped for a couple of months, but now I'm starting to lose control of the uterus again (really, I'm pretty much done with it... it's all just gratuitous at this point) and I don't know exactly what to do about it.

I really don't want to call the doctor. No reason. I just don't like going to the doctor. Especially if he's looking at my Hoo-Ha. But. Not only is this a huge inconvenience, running to the bathroom every 20 minutes and changing clothes almost that often, I'm tearing through my supplies and will have to make a run to the drugstore (or Costco) tomorrow for more Feminine Hygiene Products.

Tip: Buy stock in Kotex!

*For some reason, on re-read, I keep seeing this as "masturbation". Heh.