Doing My Part

So. One should be careful when she starts talking trash about the President's State of the Union Address. If she says things like, "The entire speech is nothing but Lies!, Lies!, (I tell you)" and that it's a "farce wherein The President will say Anything and Everything to raise his his approval rating" and that the "stupid, stupid President should not preempt House when he could be interrupting shows like Wife Swap or Fear Factor" then she should anticipate the wrath of the Super-Duper Protector of Family and Entire United States Navy-Hero Husband.

He just looked at me and said, "I fact-checked part of that speech. It is not lies."

He was not amused.

Can a wife still single-handedly end a Military Man's career?

Clearing Things Up

In adding my old posts, I've come to realize that if you are a new kid on the block, then you just might not know that I spent from 2000-2004 living in Japan. You just might think I've been hanging out here, in DC, for my whole entire life. And in that case, the posts titled things like, "The Day Winter Came to Tokyo", "The Day I Flew to Korea" (I mean, WHO flies from DC to Korea for one day of shopping?), "The Day Spring Came to Tokyo", and "False Advertizing in Kyoto" might not make any sense to you.

So now you know. I used to live in Japan.

James Brown? Why?

Japanese friends, look here:

Oh. My. God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tuesday Night Edit: Showed the kids the video. They both said, "HEY! I've seen this show." And then they got very nostalgic.

Dear Candi~

When you come here, we'll eat this:


(But you have to eat fast because the alcohol melts the ice cream.)

xoxoxoxoBrandi


(FYI - The Incomparable Jes is deprived of this particular product while exiled* to Japan.)
*Exile...Expat...whatever.

And On A Side Note:

While taking a mom quiz recommended by the Fabulous Evil Queen, I learned the following:

Your quiz results make you a "Pretty in the City Mom"

You might have a subscription to both Parenting Magazine and Vogue. While picking up a darling Easter outfit for your tyke at Bloomingdale's you're tempted to grab a pair of Manolo Blahniks for your own tootsies. You are a fabulous mom, and you take care of yourself fabulously, too.

Making me seriously question the credibility of this particular Quizmaster. I read National Geographic, never Vogue, and wear blue jeans with white t's and flip-flops. High heels hurt my feet. I NEVER buy Easter outfits (tho I do love Nordstrom) and my main food group is potato chips.

But I am pretty.

What Are Kids Good For, Anyway?

Comic Relief


He bought that hat at Salvation Army. It's pink.

And Fetching Me Wine


When I'm too lazy to get up myself and do it.

Dosvidanya, Diaryland

SLOOOOOOOOOOWLY, SLOOOOOOOOOOOOOWLY,

I'll be transferring all of my old (2003-2005) entries here to Blogger. It's time to pay my Diaryland Dues and I don't want to. I'm getting tired of that.

Dogblog Evidence That Winter Sucks

Dillon's Wall

Slowly but surely being painted with album covers. It should be done around Graduation next year...

Hmmm....

From this story:

"Maryland police are now reminding motorists that it is illegal in the state at any time to leave a vehicle running with the keys in the ignition."

Boy, I'm glad they clarified that. From now on, I'll take my keys out when I leave my car running.

Meme of Four Some*

I was tagged by the Dancer Girl...here it is!

Some Jobs I've Had:
-Salesgirl at department store jewelry counter
-Bank Teller
-Background Investigator - I investigated contractors who were going to work at Nuclear Power Plants
-Counselor in an Adult High School
-...and currently, a Phone Answering Goddess

Some Movies I Could (and Do) Watch Over & Over Again:
-Dirty Dancing (I know. Shut up.)
-Sweet Home Alabama
-Lethal Weapon (s) - Yup, all 4.
-Fried Green Tomatoes
-Breakfast At Tiffany's
-The Sound of Music
-Finding Nemo

Some Places I Have Lived:
-West Lafayette, Indiana
-Auburn, Alabama
-Pensacola
-San Diego
-Japan

Some TV Shows I Like:
-Sex and the City
-Smallville
-House
-Bones
-CSI
-I Love Lucy
-Gilligan's Island
-M*A*S*H - that didn't have to be CURRENT shows did it?

Some Favorite Books:
-To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee
-Rebecca, Daphne DuMaurier
-Roots, Alex Haley
-Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë
-The Notebook, Nicholas Sparks
-The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger
-Milkweed, Jerry Spinelli
-Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl
-Green Eggs and Ham, Dr. Seuss

Some Places I Have Vacationed:
-Maine
-Blue Ridge Mountains
-Portland
-Orlando
-Oaxaca & Ixtapa, Mexico
-Hong Kong
-Sydney, Australia/Queenstown, New Zealand
-Nagano, Kyoto & Sapporo, Japan

4 Websites I Read Every Day:
-Evil Queen
-Candi with an i
-Dooce
-Engrish.com
OR! You could just read that list of linkity-goodness over there to the right (and up a bit).

Some Favorite Foods:
-Potato Chips
-Pizza
-Lobster
-Crabcakes
-White Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting & Fresh Fruit on Top
-BLT's
-Rubio's Fish Tacos

*Turns out I'm not so good at following directions. Who knew?

Oh, For Christ's Sake...

Immediately after publishing that last post, I received a comment from a Concerned Christian Citizen who feels that if I just trust in God, He will see me through. Or something like that...whenever the subject of God comes up, my mind starts to wander and, quite frankly, I wasn't really paying attention*. This is probably why all those Priests and Nuns in my childhood thought I was "special".

For those of you who are concerned that I may, perhaps, be going to Hell, I didn't REALLY put that sign on my door - I just wanted to. I did leave early. I had had it. With a woman who insisted that I speak with her since her husband wasn't home and then not only refused to listen to the reasons that we were excluding her from getting a new roof this year, abused me and interrupted me mid-explanation and then spat at me to email her husband. In a word, she was a Bitch.

Now. Back to the sorry state of my Eternal Salvation. It's not that I don't believe in a higher power. I do believe that there is something greater than humankind. I DON'T believe in the infallibility of the Bible. I DO believe in the Theory of Evolution. I am Pro-Choice and completely support same-sex marriages. I do not think that Christians have the only ticket to heaven. I think there will be Buddhists, Jews, Hindus, Islamics, Native Americans, Rastafarians, and even Ancient Pagans in the hereafter. All getting along beautifully. Hopefully dancing to Tom Jones and drinking Pina Coladas on a tropical island with everlasting bowls of potato chips. And Ding-Dongs. And no whiners or negativity-spewers will be allowed.

I am a nice person. I am a better-than-average Mother. I treat others like I would like them to treat me. I am happy and responsible, I say hello to strangers and I am not in the least bit worried should the Rapture transpire tomorrow.

I have faith it will all work out.

*Just remembered. It was in my deleted mail. Here it is in it's entirety:

all i have to say is trust in God he is the answer to all your questions. If you believe he will take all your pains away.

For the record- I do trust in a "higher power", I don't have any questions, and I'm certainly not in pain. I am annoyed from being treated poorly by yet another old biddy at work.

Question.....

It is ok to get completely fed up with your stupid, stupid job by 12:50 and post a sign on the door saying:

"Left early because you people are assholes."

...Right?

It's 11:56 and My Brain Hurts. Don't Expect Too Much Here.

Well. I was REALLY busy this evening*.

-Doing a couple loads of laundry.

-Talking to Annie on the phone.

-Blog-Surfing.

-Making the kids quesadillas (because the dad's working until 10pm tonight and why cook dinner if I don't HAVE to).

-Watching Madagascar.

-And frying my brain trying to write an essay about my faith - tested, lost, renewed or found. And I was drawing a blank. I mean, actually LOSING your faith is serious stuff. I don't mean "going to hell" serious, I mean "getting out of bed every day" serious. And I just don't do that - lose faith, that is. Maybe it's naive of me, but I ALWAYS, ALWAYS have faith that everything will work out in the end, and if it doesn't, then maybe it wasn't meant to be in the first place. And not in a "God pointing his finger" way, but in a "that's just the way it goes" way. Of course, I've never experienced any truly devastating events in my life - loss of a parent or child, tsunami, crime victim, so perhaps I truly am wide-eyed and innocent (at 38 - cough). But I do think in the event of any of these things happening to me there would surely be a period that I wouldn't comprehend how something so heinous could occur and try desperately to assign reason to it, but I do HAVE FAITH that in the end, I would prevail and my life would continue. Perhaps changed, but still worthy.

And if now you are as confused as I and your brain is staring to get a pinch just behind your left temple, and you want to go downstairs and take a swig right out of the bottle of Shiraz that's perched on the counter, then you know just how my evening has gone.

Back to Madagascar. It was cute. It made us laugh. Laughing is good... 3 thumbs up.

*...She stated, tongue-in-cheek.

The Headline Read:

Mom survives 11th Birthday Sleepover!
But if you knew these girls, it wouldn't be a surprise. There were 7 girls. There was cake and pizza and karaoke, dancing and games and giggling. They played Scattergories, tried to sing some Classic Rock (but it turns out they don't know the words), and once, when it got too quiet, I went down to see what was up. It was girl-talk pow-wow time. I learned that Jessie McCartney is "sizzlin'", and Matt likes Mackenzie (she does not return the sentiment), that Shahida smells bad, and their teacher is a "dumb blonde".

The only glitch in the night was when we pulled the candles out of Mackenzie's birthday cake and it was chocolate. Oops! We're a white-cake sort of family around here. But they didn't care. Marissa & Emily ate two pieces, Brittany ate only the frosting.

Not once did I hear any dissention in the pack. This group of girls is a mom's dream. When we got here last year, they accepted Mac within the first week and I've never heard them bicker or fight.

They actually slept last night. I went to bed around 1am and didn't have to get up once to quiet them down (of course, that could have had more to do with the 2 glasses of wine I had than the quietude of the Tweens...well, that and the two floors separating us). I think they went to sleep around 2am and I didn't hear them up and about until almost nine.


By 11:15 they were all gone and our Lazy Sunday could commence. It's 1:58, we're still in our comfy-clothes, and we're eating Fritos, watching Simon Birch, and generally being completely useless.

A perfect ending to Mackenzie's Week-Long Birthday Extravaganza.

Parenting 201

When you work late*, then run errands, the dad's not coming home 'til 10, and it's Thursday, which is Right Next to Friday, you may not want to make an entire meal. Eat this:



But substitute soda for the vodka for those under 21. (Unless, you know, you want them to sleep.)

*Whatever... 3:00 is late for me.

My Feckless Forefathers

Really.

I am not joking here.

I was not meant to live in a place where Winter comes consistently every 9 months to torment and taunt me. Winter makes me miserable. It's hideous. There is nothing redeeming about biting wind and freezing rain and snow that turns to filthy gray slush in hours. A beautiful, silent, snowfall is not enough to make up for the rest of the disaster that is Winter.

When my ancestors washed ashore on the East Coast and started across the Great Interior, I don't understand why they only made it to Indiana and stopped. I'm actually pretty disappointed with them. They weren't particularly ambitious. They came from Ireland and Sweden, Germany and England, presumably on a filthy, overcrowded ship where even the rats had scurvy . They could have gone anywhere! The US was a vast expanse of land, offering endless possibilities! But they traveled for, what, 2 weeks? And stopped in Indiana. Not even Southern Indiana, where the tulips bloom earlier and the lush rolling hills outclass the farmland by a mile.

I got a little spoiled in San Diego. I saw what life with perfect weather could do to my psyche and I liked it. And I want more. In San Diego, I woke up happy every day. I didn't even own a winter coat until we moved to Tokyo. In San Diego, you can sit in the hot tub on Christmas Day. In San Diego, you can enjoy Balboa Park in January. In San Diego, you can eat dinner on a patio if the heat lamps are burning and garden year-round.

But here. It is cold. The forecast for today was almost 50 with sunshine. So I wore my jean jacket with a long sleeve T and sweatshirt under it.

And froze my ass off.

They apparently forgot to mention the wind chill in that downright balmy prediction for today.

So now I'm cranky.

Dogs! "Just Say No"!

NEWS ALERT!!!

Whole Foods Market Dark Belgian Chocolate = Doggy Crack
His Royal Highness Taiko, who won't push open a door to get to the man-boy and stands outside of it scratching and sitting and cocking his head until someone gets up to admit him, somehow unzipped Tater's bag and ate a hunk of chocolate about the size of a racquetball ball. When we walked in the door, he was pushing the remains of it around on the almost-white carpet, leaving a nasty brown aftermath, trying to get a bite off it here and there. (At first I thought it was poop. I was almost relieved to find out it was chocolate.) If he'd had opposable thumbs, it might have been all over for the little guy, but as it was, I think we got home just in the nick of time.

As he had already scavenged most of a bag of Halloween candy a couple of years ago, I knew his system could probably handle this, so don't go getting all nervous and belligerent at me for making a joke out of a potentially deadly situation. He's a trooper - he's got the Mills-choco-metabolism gene.

So I let him out just in case the chocolate snaked through his interior lightning fast, and commenced the close watching in case he took a turn for the worse.

At first, he just seemed really playful. He wanted to chase his rope-toy, he chewed on his squeaky-man, he met everyone coming up and down the stairs, but then he got his freak on. He would lie down for a couple of minutes and then jump up and run the circle made by the dining room, kitchen and living room. He grabbed one toy and then the other! He randomly ran around in tight circles, one way then the other!

And then he laid down.

For two minutes.

And then he jumped up!

And he ran to the kitchen! And he ran back to the couch! He rebounded off the couch with 2 paws! He grabbed the rope and jumped on the ottoman! He ran upstairs and said hi to Dillon! He ran downstairs and randomly barked at me.

I had to stay up until almost midnight until he settled down enough to go to sleep.

This is Dog:



This is Dog on crack:

Mackenzie

In exactly 12 hours, this child will turn 11 years old:



It seems like just yesterday she was a baby. I can still remember the baby-scent of her head. I can still feel her arm around my back, playing with my long hair as she nursed at my breast. I can still remember the sunshine of her smile when her brother walked into the room. Eleven years have passed since she was delivered to our lives, but I remember each second of each year like it was a gift from God.

She is the child we planned for but is so much more than we could have designed. She is beautiful. And funny. And bright. She has crazy curly hair. She loves to read and garden. She likes science and hip-hop music. She loves to dance and cook. Her laugh makes angels weep. She is perceptive and caring; accepting and welcoming. She is shy. But once she knows you, look out. She can talk a blue streak.



She helps with domestic chores without needing prompting. She feeds the dog, dusts and cleans bathrooms.

She is hard for me to shake. I haven't rented rated R movies in years. She sits Right Next to Me on the couch and follows me from room to room, floor to floor, chatting all the while. She is me. Only shorter. ( Barely.) And younger. (Muchly.)



I am so blessed to have her in my life. I am honored that God included her in my existence and entrusted her to my care and peculiar style of parenting.

She makes me proud to be her mother every single day.

This Made me Laugh Out Loud

Found & took this quiz today (it's a slow morning in La Casa) while random blog-surfing. Keep in mind that I was born in Indiana and spent the next 23 years there...

Your Linguistic Profile:

60% General American English

20% Dixie

15% Yankee

5% Upper Midwestern

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

Orrrrrrr....

How about Volva?

The female of Volvo...

I Concede To Emily

The final word:

In lieu of taking it* to the body shop and dissecting the engine to see if the heads (gaskets...whatever) were actually blown, Tater took it to have the oil changed, cleaned out and a bunch of other stuff I didn't really listen to. We're going to go ahead and drive it and "see what happens". Sounds risky to me, but I defer to the Y Chromosome where cars are concerned.

I hereby bow to Your Youngness and TOTALLY concur. You win.

*Dang, I feel she needs a name, now. I like Vivian. She's long and lean and classy. Maybe Audrey...

Fast Forward to 1975

Dear Mama~

Remember when I was little and I would hold your hand and play with the veins on the back of it? I would ask you why you had them and where mine were. You told me that I would get them when I got older and let me poke them again.

Mackenzie did that tonight. She held my hand while we watched the movie and I noticed she was playing with my veins. She asked why I had them and when I looked down, I saw your hands holding my seven year old baby-hands. Thirty-one years melted away as I told her she would get them when she got older.

And it made me smile.

Thanks for the memory, simple as it is.

I love you,
Paige

By the Way...

There was no oil in the car.

Don't EVEN ask. The answer is not pretty.

Bring It On, Baby

I spent this entire week on the verge of tears.

I just didn't feel good and I was swamped at work and my car broke down, I was fighting with the Tater, hadn't been to the grocery, the dentist mutilated my mouth, I needed to balance my checkbook, send out thank you notes and buy stuff for Mackenzie's birthday. I found another gray hair, had to postpone Mackenzie's Saturday sleepover because all her friends were going out of town this weekend and she cried because they couldn't come, I murdered another plant and broke a nail.

And then I cried.

Actually, I cried at work this morning, and that is NOT cool. I called Beth to let her know I had to meet her a little bit later than we planned and when she asked me how I was, I started crying. I do that. I can hold it together until someone says, "How are you doing?" So then I cried and then she knew. Which then freaked out my co-worker, a macho Puerto-Rican maintenance man - he totally didn't know what to do with me but gave it his best shot.

So I pulled it together to finish the workday (1:00 for me), ran some errands, came home and talked to Tater. And cried again. But he held me and told me it would be ok and we took a walk to get my car from my office and I made dinner. He left for work, I made myself a Cosmo in a pint glass and sat down with Mac to watch Princess Diaries.

And here I am. Thankful that this week is over, cleansed by tears, and fortified (with vodka) for whatever Life will fling at me next.

Huh.

But on the bright side, I can have a Happy Hour drink or two tomorrow night since I clearly won't be driving anywhere...

Stupidity Reigns Supreme

I have nothing good to say about today.

My car broke down and the reason for it's infirmity is so outrageous that I am too embarrassed to tell you what happened.

Me, who just admitted to a Pooh tattoo and perpetual morning diahrrea. Me, who confesses ugly hangovers and french-kissing other girls on a dare. Who loves flamingos and Dirty Dancing, wears tiara's on occasion and...

Huh. There is one thing that happened last winter that I think just may be my most embarrassing moment yet that I conveniently didn't tell you. Maybe later, if you're good.

So. The car. It's sitting in the lot at my office. It must be towed to the shop where they will surely want mucho dinero to fix it. It's a 12 year old Volvo, with almost 99,800 miles on it, and not worth a whole lot, but it was to be Dillon's car. Now we are faced with the decision: to fix or not to fix.

We SO didn't need this right now.

Really, I Prefer Quirky.

Today I was tagged by Emily to list 5 weird things about myself. I have to say this came at a great time, because the fog hasn't yet lifted from my brain and ideas are slow in coming. I have to wonder, though, where does Weird leave off and Embarrassing take over? I guess we'll see:

1) I love that last scene in Dirty Dancing and when I finish watching it, will rewind to the point where Patrick Swayze says, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" and view it through to the end with tears in my eyes. A couple times.

See... now I'm embarrassed.

2) I really do dance with the dog. When I start bustin' a move, he starts jumping around and barking. I'm not sure if he's telling me, "Go, Mom, go! Shake that booty!" or if he's saying, "Stop, you crazy bitch! The curtains are open and my canine peers will see you!"

3) I have a Winnie-the-Pooh tattoo. On my right hip. I know that's weird. It not pretty, it's not cool, it's a cartoon. But Pooh runs pretty deep in my veins. He is accepting and happy and trusting and only sees the best in people. Plus, he was on my blankie.

4) I giggle at wholly inappropriate moments. I'm a nervous giggler, and I tend to find humor in places that others don't. Your appendix burst? Giggle. You got fired? Giggle. You're having an affair? Giggle. Allow me to apologize in advance...

5) I don't eat breakfast because it gives me diarrhea. I swear. I have no idea why that is, but it started in Jr. High or High School and hasn't let up since. If I wait a few hours after I wake up, all is good, but if I eat before my stomach has a chance to catch up with the rest of my body, all Hell will break loose. Literally.

That might have been an over-share.

And may I present the Tag to:

1) Annie
2) Jes
3) Bec

No Jell-O, Please

I found something I can eat.

It needed to be not chewy, not crunchy, not frozen, not spicy... It could have been applesauce or cottage cheese, but I don't have that as I haven't been to the store since before Christmas; it could have been Jell-O, but ewww; it could have been soup, but I'm all souped-out, thankyouverymuch, so I foraged around behind the venison and under the venison and obscured by the venison, I found a Trader Joe's Pumpkin Cheesecake. I bought it for Christmas, but when Christmas finally got here, we had enough food to sustain an entire pack of teenagers and I left it off the menu as I was not feeding an entire pack of teenagers (I have a round of brie aging in the fridge, too).

But today, it came in handy. Do you know you can eat an entire piece of cheesecake without using your teeth? You can mush it up with your tongue and swallow it right down (FYI - if you put some Redi-Whip on it, it slides down even easier). And I'm assuming that fat calories aside, a cheesecake has more nutritional value than Jell-O. It has "cheese" right in the title, duh.

Unfortunately, I can't really taste it with the cold and all.

In the Company of Misery

I went to the dentist today intensifying yesterday's misery to pure wretchedness. I hate going to the dentist. When I was 9 years old, we were in West Virginia with my dad at a golf tournament and while taking an after-dinner dip in the pool, I dove into the shallow end. When I came up for a breath, I was missing my two front teeth. Since then, I've been in and out of the dentist office getting them replaced, tweaked and renewed. It's traumatic. Dentists smother me with a dental dam. I choke, drown, and gag, only to be released with a lop-sided and tingly face. But that's not the end of the mortification. When the Novocaine wears off, my face hurts. My entire face. I can't eat, I can't smile, I can't think straight. For a couple days.

And today he was finally fixing a broken tooth (remember this fiasco?). I'm finally getting the permanent crown on it which, A) is really, really expensive, and 2) hurts like a motherfucker. Today, he ground down what was left of my tooth to little nubs (the choking), made 2 molds (the gagging), and fitted them with a temporary crown until the porcelain one can be made (and thus, the drowning). I ate soup before I left (because remember, I'm coming down with a cold too) and tried to eat a piece of bread and butter for dinner. No dice. I can't put my teeth together at all without a firebolt of agony making it's way out the top of my head. And I have a very high tolerance for pain. (Really, I have Proof - 2 babies, no drugs, no epidural. All the proof I need.) But today, my face hurts from my eyesocket all the way down to the middle of my chin. And it's turning me into a quivering puddle of woe.

So while I'm lying there, I'm trying to analyze why I hate going to the dentist even more than going to the gynecologist, and I think I figured it out: It's too intimate. On the surface, what could be more intimate than having your legs up in stirrups, talking to a man-stranger, while only his eyes and forehead are showing above the sheet separating your exposed hoo-ha from the rest of the world? But laying back in the chair for two hours, with my head basically in his lap, while his face is only about 6 inches away from mine, while I try to see the reflection of my teeth in his glasses, not having to make senseless small talk, is a much more personal encounter for me. And it makes me uncomfortable.

And then he hurts me. And I don't like that.

And On Top Of That...

GOD! It's Sunday night already? That is SO not fair! This weekend sucked. Not only was I cheated out of Friday Night Happy Hour by that old buzz-kill Responsibility, but then, after sleeping in (that was nice) on Saturday, I spent 8 (YES, EIGHT) hours cleaning up my Christmas Accoutrements. In my defense, I have more ornaments than several Normal households put together (and then there's my village...) but I kept getting distracted and found myself cleaning out the closet, vacuuming the stairs, watching a Lifetime movie, and twice, I came-to to find myself sitting in my computer chair checking out my favorite blogs. But FINALLY, finally, it is over and done with and all put to rest for yet another 11 months.

I did finally get to tip a bottle too, but just some old Pinot Grigio, and just because I couldn't sleep last night circa midnight. Drinking as Medication. Nope...no problems here!

On top of that, my hamstrings are KILLING me today. All that squatting and bending yesterday while cleaning Christmas. Really. I realize how pathetic that is and it renews my determination to get back to the gym. Really....

And on top of all that (!) I think I'm catching a cold. My sinuses are tickley and my head is floaty and there's gunk draining down my throat. Gross.

Also, Dillon is sad because Girlfriend broke up with him. Her reason? "He deserved better than her." Ugh. Teenage girls and drama. But we'll see. I'm not so sure it's over yet.

Furthermore, Tater just started his first day of a 6-day swing shift (10pm-6am), and this is the hardest shift for us all to handle.

So my shoulders are heavy and tomorrow is Monday and I have a full In-Box awaiting me in the office.

I am Shlumpy tonight and I don't like it. Shlumpy on me feels like an itchy wool sweater, too tight in the neck, that I can't take off. It makes me fidgety and headachy and sad.

Brandi On Hiatus

Having a kid that drives is cool. You can send him to the grocery when you need ice for the margaritas... You can have him drop his sister off at a friend's house when you want a night of hedonism and debauchery... You can send him out for pizza when it's too cold for you to go out yourself... And he can run his own errands to buy crickets and jock straps and whatnot.

Finally, Tater and I have our very own designated driver. And THAT is cool*.

Except on Friday nights.

On Friday nights, a girl likes to indulge in a little Happy-Hour Happiness. Especially if she's had a hard week dealing with health-challenged pubescents and respect-challenged old witches. That girl needs a martini. Or some Crown & ginger ale. Wine. A margarita ... even Listerine. But with a teenager out on the streets, the responsible parent abstains until said teen is safely home. It would be totally uncool to have him call me after being in an accident and have me be completely useless due to a good buzz. What would I do in that situation? Call the elderly neighbors to give me a ride? "Hey Maude, put your wig on! I need a ride!"... Call the police station, "Uh, sir, I'm sorry, but I'm toasted and I need a ride to the site of my son's accident. Could you hook me up?" If that's not a crime then it should be. So now, my only recourse is to start drinking when he's home. Like on Sunday mornings. "Honey, would you like a beer with that Bear Claw?"

No one told me that as the kids got older, I'd have to be sensible again. When they're babies, you run on hyper-nurturing-mode. But as they get older, you're able to relax and let them find their own way for a time. I didn't realize that at the end, in those crucial few years before they leave my reach, I would need to return to being super-vigilant. Super-aware, super-protective, super-there.

I can wait another 18 months. I'll pour myself a drink at his graduation. Until then, keep a Coke in the fridge for me, will ya?

*Now we don't have to depend on pregnant friends, which is a good thing, considering we're not getting any younger and pregnant friends are growing more and more scarce every year...

Rant for the Aged

Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be an adult. Tonight was one of those nights.

I was sitting in the bleachers at Dillon's wrestling meet, minding my own business... actually, I was reading. Is that rude? It's just that I don't have the faintest glimmer of interest in the sport unless it's Dillon out there on the mat. Before November I had never been to a wrestling meet in my life and I don't have the slightest idea how it all works - the scoring and the pinning and the timing. For example, tonight I thought D was kicking some serious ass out there. He was on top most of the time, was throwing that guy around like a Raggedy Ann, and even made him bleed - yet he lost. I just can't make heads or tails of it and quickly get the glazed-over eyes and then can't stop thinking about how badly my butt is killing me. So I figure if I have to be sitting there for 3 1/2 hours, only 5 minutes of which he is wrestling, then I might as well be amusing myself. I mean really, it could be worse than a book, eh?

So.......... There I am, minding my own business when my peace is assaulted by the Dad sitting behind me suffering from an inexcusable case of Assholeyness. When there wasn't a new pair of wrestlers out on the mat quickly enough, he hollered, "Come on! Let's get someone out there!" "What are you waiting for?" "Hey! Why isn't everyone ready?" and then, when the kids were wrestling, "What are you doing?" "Who taught them that?" and my personal favorite, "Come on! Do something!"

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. Who died and made him Oh Exalted Ruler of the Wrestling Meet? So after the last particularly obnoxious opinion-spewage, I gathered up my book and my camera and my coat and my water, and as I stepped down off the bleachers, I looked behind me to see how the Supreme Being of the Meet appears to mere mortals, and it was a Grandpa. A Grandpa. Not a Dad. Can you imagine the sheer volume of excrement that has gushed out of his mouth since the mid 70's? He's probably irritated a lenghy trail of spectators and participants during the past 30-ish years. And I'm guessing that was his son, the Wrestling-Dad, sitting right next to him, who gave me a sheepish look as I gave them the Stink-Eye.

I am torn between disgust at the Dad for letting the Grandpa be so socially inappropriate and pity for what must have been a horribly humiliating childhood.

But mostly, I'm indignant over his behavior. It's adults like that who make teenagers look at us and think that we all suck. I guarantee there was not ONE kid in that gym tonight that would have thought, "Gee, Grandpa, thanks for pointing out all those shortcomings to us. It will help us grow to be successful and happy!" Whenever I see adults being such assholes I just think, "WHY?" Don't they remember being a kid with zero rights and having some bastard adult be completely unreasonable or mean and just by virtue of their being an "adult", there was Nothing you could do or say?

I don't know how you could forget that. I remember clearly the teachers I loved, but I remember just as clearly those I hated for being so inexcusably mean... Mrs. Brown, 4th grade. Mrs. Stout, 7th grade science. The old biddies made their mark on me, but not the one I'm sure they intended when they chose teaching as a profession.

Adults need to check themselves when interacting with kids, whether 8 months or 18 years. They make more of an impression than they realize and children have a very, very long memory.

Out-Out, Damn Tree!

So. I'm home with Mackenzie who has the flu, the spousal unit is off on a hunting trip (bears...WHY?), Dillon's at wrestling practice, and my Christmas tree is still up and mocking me with all it's Sparkly Hominess:



In the dining room, my Tippecanoe County Christmas Village looks like a Lilliputian ghost town:



There is still a garland wrapped around my staircase and 2 of the 4 stockings hanging forlornly on the banister:



And for the past couple of days I've been randomly collecting Christmas Crap from bathrooms and side tables and bells off doors and piling it all on the dining room table for streamlined packing-away whenever it chances to happen.

But I am suffering a serious lack of oomph. I WANT my tree down and all my decorations safely tucked up in the attic awaiting yet another Season of Joy and Stress, but I don't want to DO it. My goal is always January 4th at the LATEST to get all this Christmas paraphanalia out of my hair. Today is the 4th. It's not done and it's not going to be done. But I'm tired of looking at it all and the thought of packing it all away is overwhelming me to the point of denial. "TREE? What tree? That's a new.... light in the corner. Pottery Barn says they're all the rage."

I have cleaned bathrooms, washed sheets, balanced checkbooks, vacuumed, written and read all to avoid The Tree.

But soon, it's going to turn into kindling and be a safety issue. And then I'll HAVE to do something. What I'd LIKE to do is pay someone $100 to take it down. Now THERE's a business idea. Forget the cleaning lady. I don't like strangers cleaning my stuff. But I have no problem paying a stranger to pack away my ornaments, wind up the lights....

Who am I kidding? That would kill me. My OCD would kick into high gear and I'd end up getting them a Coke and sitting them on the couch while I took it down because God knows that no one can do it The Right Way like I can.

Except my Mom.

Now THERE'S an Idea...

Hey, Mom?

It's In the Shoes

I don't really like DC (or, more accurately, Northern Virginia).

It's ok for now, but I don't see this as a place where I could live forever and ever until the end of time. There is a vibe here that rubs me the wrong way. People here are impatient. They dress in black and scurry around with their heads down. They speak harshly and don't smile. I don't know why they are in such a hurry. Where are they all going that is so important? They don't all work at the White House (now there are some guys with a serious lack of humor), or for Homeland Security or somewhere else that holds an equally inflated status.

They claim that they are Southerners, but I have lived in the Deep South. Twice. They don't hold a candle to what is really, truly Southern. They lack the Charm and Simplicity and Ease with which Southerners glide through life. These Mid-Atlantic-ers have efficiently eradicated the appearance of Joy from their tough veneers.

My heart feels constricted here. Like I'm afraid to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I am loathe to even make eye-contact, lest I come, literally, face-to-face with their vacancy.

Though raised in Indiana, I'm a West Coast girl at heart. I loved the atmosphere in Southern California. We were there for 6 years, but I could happily spend another 60 there. People in Southern California are Happy and Relaxed. They realize there is more to life than The Job. They walk down the street with a Smile even Downtown. They wear colors and don't rush everywhere. They spend their weekends outside - biking, beaching, hiking, antiquing...


I do have a theory:

The women in DC are wearing pointy-toed, high heeled pumps.

The women in SoCal are wearing sandals and clogs.

You do the math.

Scientist-Lisa

This is Scientist-Lisa and me...




...and Mackenzie and me...



yesterday when we drove up for a visit. We picked up an antique bed I bought for Mac a couple of weeks ago and stayed for some Hoppin' John and greens for Good Luck in the New Year. It was nice.

Answer: Alternative Parenting 101

Question: What do you call this?...

When you're drinking coffee and eating a doughnut and you reach over to touch your daughter (who's been complaining of a stomachache for the last 2 days) on the leg and it's burning up like fire. So you touch her forehead. And as you focus your attention back to the stand-up comic on TV, just before you tip your blue coffee cup to your lips, you say, "Hmm. You've got a fever."







In my defense, after I finished my coffee and doughnut, and during the next commercial, I got up and took her temp. It was 104.1.






Shut up. She's still alive.

Reading List 2006

• The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
• Pictures of Hollis Woods by Patricia Reilly Giff
• The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle by Avi
• Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult
• The Last Girls by Lee Smith
• A Mango-Shaped Space by Wendy Mass
• How to Be Lost by Amanda Eyre Ward
• The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson
• The Dress Lodger by Sherri Holman
• The Probable Future by Alice Hoffman
• The Doctor's Wife By Elizabeth Brundage
• The Witch of Blackbird Pond by Elizabeth George Speare
• So B. It by Sarah Weeks
• The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific by J. Maarten Troost
• Luna by Julie Ann Peters
• The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
• Predator by Patricia Cornwell
• The Book of Bright Ideas by Sandra Kring
• Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynne Truss
• The Ice Queen by Alice Hoffman
• An Ocean In Iowa by Peter Hedges

...and due to inner turmoil and personal stress, I became incapable of concentrating on a book circa August and didn't read again until February 2007.