A little bit rock n roll

"Bullet With Butterfly Wings"

2012-01-28T06:51:00.003-05:00

I'm having a serious problem with one of the workers at our local Aldi, where we brazenly buy up loads of Casa Mamita Salsa Con Queso and Millville FIBER NOW* bars on a weekly basis. You're wondering if the queso is the reason we need the fiber bars. I'll never tell.

Every week, as I round the final stretch in the one-way maze that is the Aldi grocery aisle, I steel myself for what is to come. I close my eyes for a brief moment to seek my happy place, a place of inner calm and sanctuary, even as I hear the checkout scanner beeping quickly as if it's monitoring my rising heart rate. I hastily say a prayer for the Good Lord to be with me. My prayer usually goes like this, "Good Lord, please keep me from punching her in the face today."

And then it happens. I come face to face with my enemy.

Aldi shoppers never dress in suits where I come from.

This bouncy girl in her early twenties is the fastest scanner in the history of grocery shopping. She excels at her job. Before I can even unload my Michigan produce onto the conveyor belt, she's already scanned the Fit&Active 100 calorie packs and Friendly Farms French Vanilla** coffee creamer. As I struggle to retrieve the Willow Soft and Strong*** toilet paper from under the cart, she perches perkily on her stool behind the register and announces my total . . . in a sing-song voice. Her smile seems over-the-top considering she is a cashier at Aldi. I mean, I don't know anyone who smiles that much while they're at work. But she does. Every day.

The moment has arrived.

"Do you want cash back?" she sings, outrageously pleasant, the red bow in her hair bobbing back and forth as her face maintains the why-is-she-so-happy smile.

"Nope," I grumble, trying not to look her in the eye.

She fires.

"Awesome blossom with silly sauce," she chimes in a voice oozing with honey, a voice that makes me feel like I've suddenly found my way to an icky kindergarten classroom full of happy.

Awesome blossom with silly sauce.

Somehow this is her patented phrase. Not "have a good day" or "thanks for shopping at Aldi," but AWESOME BLOSSOM WITH SILLY SAUCE. To every single person in line, over and over, day after day. Is she for real? Or is this a tick? I can excuse a tick. In fact, I'd love for it to be a tick. No other explanation makes sense.

The first time I heard her say it, my six-year-old daughter leaned in to me and whispered loudly as a six-year-old does, "Did she just say silly sauce?" Even she was horrified, as evidenced by her raised eyebrow.

After the fifth or sixth awesome-blossom-with-silly-sauce encounter, I admitted to my children how much I dreaded hearing that phrase each week. I might have mentioned that I feared one day I would punch her in the face. They giggled for the entire ride home, joyous in the newfound knowledge that their mom might lose it in public some day soon and they'd be there to watch it unfold.

"Mom has a trigger phrase!" my son laughed. And I realized too late that my two children now had control of that trigger.

Now every week as we enter Aldi, my nine-year-old son peers across the aisle to see if she's working. If he sees her perched at her register, he starts clapping and jumping up and down ecstatically, laughing loudly and pointing from me to her and back again.

As we round the last aisle, his face grows red as he tries to contain his giggles. His eyes well up with the tears of stifled laughter. He stares at my face expectantly as I hand her my card and quickly pull my hood over my head to shield me from the crazy.

"Awesome blossom with silly sauce!"

Take comfort in the fact that I am not writing this from jail. I've restrained myself . . . this week.

*Casa Mamita Salsa Con Queso is the shizzle.
**I am fascinated by the brands Aldi carries, I think because they don't exist at any other store.
***And this is how you know who shops at Aldi: check their pantry. If you see Millville cereals and Clancy chips, you are in the home of an Aldi shopper. And they are probably cheap, so don't expect any fancy gifts for the holidays. Also? The wine you are drinking out of a plastic cup at their house cost $2.99.

"Bullet With Butterfly Wings" by The Smashing Pumpkins

Yogi

2012-01-16T16:15:00.002-05:00

Can you do this? Maybe you're just not trying hard enough.

See more on Q by Equinox >

I can't do it either. But I'm totally going to try it anyway when no one is looking (definitely with my clothes on). And then I'm probably going to seek some medical attention. And maybe a psych evaluation.

"Shake It Out"

2012-01-08T15:31:00.000-05:00

Trying to begin a new blog post after not blogging for, um, ever is nearly impossible. I don't really know why I haven't been publishing nonsense words in ridiculous sentences for some time. I think I was (and likely still am) having a blog identity crisis. I need a blog therapist.

Now it's been long enough that I don't even recognize this blog space. It's like opening a new present to play with. Common sense tells me to go somewhere else to pass meaningless hours online, but then again . . . there's this blank white space now in front of me waiting to be filled with words. You bloggers know that's a tough itch to ignore.

So, first things first. How the hell have you all been?? I hope you are well and have survived the holidays with less weight gain than I did. (Ok, if I'm being honest, I hope your pants are all pinching your waist like mine are right now. I was just trying to be pleasant. But I'd be happier knowing you're consumed with regret after hitting up the holiday goodies with complete abandon. Tell me you put on more than 6 lbs and you'll be my best friend. I'm an incredibly sympathetic best friend.)

After being blog-absent for so long, I hoped to return with some huge fanfare -- some kind of big news, like maybe that I'd spent the last months swashbuckling with a band of handsome pirates who mistook me for Keira Knightley. Or that the Rebel Alliance dropped by to fetch me and make me Captain of the Millenium Falcon (what? too nerdy?). At the very least I hoped to return with a new blog design. Or a new life philosophy. Or proper sentence structure. Or just . . . anything amazing to share/an alpaca farm business/a major positive change/a success story of any kind.

But NOTHING new has been happening on this side of the screen. My kids are both fine, if not slightly neurotic (though Emerson did have an impressive battle with pneumonia for 6 weeks or so, during which time I nearly lost my mind every single day). Nurse Bob is also great, even if he is still working too much. He did finally quit the weekend gig -- it was also causing me to lose my mind up in here, up in here. And I'm still shuttling kids, yelling at dogs, rolling my eyes at the antics of my students, and basically surviving.

Not one of her three different antibiotics prevented her hair from ratting into a disaster in the back.
What's the use of a perscription, I ask you?

My husband looks sweet in his 3-wolves-howling shirt I bought him for Christmas.
The beer in his hand is not meant to be ironic.

Did you get one of these for Christmas? I doubt it. It's ok to be jealous.
Oh? You also didn't get a Darth Vader gumball machine or a Death Star t-shirt? I pity you.

Christmas = crafts!
Hey, kid, pass me a sugar-coated treat. Even if it's gross, I'll probably eat it.

Absolutely nothing new. Ho-to-the-hum.

But you can still throw a parade in my honor if you'd like. Pretend like I just told you something really great? Throw your head back and laugh like I just wrote the funniest thing?

Or just tell me that your pants are uncomfortably tight and all will be right with the world again.

"Shake It Out" by Florence + The Machine

"Bicycle Race"

2011-10-16T09:16:00.001-04:00

So . . . blogging . . . yeah. It's like riding a bike, right? You don't forget how to do it after you've spent years documenting each mundane detail of your life.

Except I nearly have forgotten. Or, more accurately, I've forgotten how to make time for blogging.

I'm teaching an extra class this trimester in lieu of a prep/conference hour, and that means I stay after school later than I have in years. I rush from work to pick up my kids at school, and then it's dinner preparation, lunch packing, and carting kids around to their various activities. And once they're sleeping peacefully in bed (or demanding more water from bed because they're simply SO parched they cannot survive another breath without a sip of water to get them through the night of desert-like conditions that apparently exist in their bedrooms, dear GOD), I finally sit down . . . and fall asleep. Nurse Bob is working every other weekend plus 40 hours a week, so I'm soloing the parenting and housekeeping while he's working, and when he's home after working 12 days in a row, we're spending time as a family and trying to invade each others' personal space. Tell me your lives are just the same so I may feel slightly less pathetic.

All of this is true, and yet I have found loads of time to become hopelessly addicted to Pinterest. Holy shit. Forget about blogging. I must find a way to make a living pinning stuff I'll probably never use or do onto my Pinterest boards. Wanna see my boards? I'm warning you, run away now. Don't click on the links. Unless you don't mind losing hours of your life at a time.

I've also perhaps read every word ever written about the Occupy Wall Street movement. These last two activities seem to be in stark contrast with each other, I realize. I'm obsessed. I'm excited. I'm ever so hopeful. I'm probably a sucker.

And so, to distract you from the ridiculousness I have just written, I will glamor you with a photo of my son's new pet. Meet Mr. T, who was purchased with the sweat and tears of a 9-year-old boy who saved his allowance money forever.

"How YOU doin'?"
I had no idea turtles could be this charming.

This is where Mr. T can often be found channeling
his inner Jack Sparrow and swashbuckling.

Mr. T laughing at one of my many hilarious and clever jokes.

Mr. T when I threaten to flush him down the toilet if
he ever stops laughing at my many hilarious and clever jokes.

And that is all.
"Bicycle Race" by Queen

"I Will Survive" (Probably)

2011-09-30T22:10:00.011-04:00

Tired of the drudgery of correcting essays, differentiating instruction, standardized pre- and post-testing, ACT, MME, FRQs, DBQs, PowerSchool and Data Director, we teachers and friends find time to get together to parTAY. There's no other way to survive our careers.

It was another rock-n-roll weekend 'round here. My yearly sinus infection wanted to party too, so it came along, despite repeated Neti pot attempts to lose it. Yeah, sexy, I know. SNOT OUT with your socks out. \m/

And I have video to share.

The videos here are from our first event, the Cancer Bash in March. You may notice a strange high pitched, airy, whistling sound sometimes in the camera. And singing coming from someone who is not our singer. That's my drunk husband manning the video. He was fired from camera man for our second gig. Cinematography may not be his thing, but he's great to have along in the back of the tour bus, wink wink.

The first video is us testing our fancy new (borrowed) sound equipment:

Our opening number:

And props to my sister and sister-in-law for being the first ones on the dance floor. They're funking out in every way:

"Give a Little Bit"

2011-09-18T16:00:00.001-04:00

School is back in session, which means I am back to work. I'm also teaching an extra class this year. My husband is working overtime on the weekends, and I have a band gig coming up this weekend (woot!). Aidan's on the swim team and taking guitar lessons, and Emerson is taking dance lessons -- HIP HOP to be specific, which should help her get a start on her chosen career (from previous post) in the business. In other words, life is crazy and crazy busy right now.

But you know who is busier? My sister. You could probably insert any of their names there, but I'm speaking of my youngest sister, the baby of eight girls, Rebecca, whom we've always called Boo. Rebecca Boo finished nursing school recently and began working in the ER near her home in Port Orchard, Washington. Her husband is a State (super) Trooper. And they have two boys. Their lives are also quite busy.

Totally unrelated to this post, but Rebecca's son, Mason, had to keep a journal at school when he was in Kindergarten. The students wrote and illustrated daily in their journals, and at the end of the year, the journals were sent home to their parents. How cute, right? Rebecca thought so, until she found this page:

A young Mason wrote in his school journal, "My moms nacid,"
which does not mean she's on acid.
It means, "My mom's naked."
And also in need of a Brazilian, apparently?
Aren't kids great?

Yet in the middle of it all, Rebecca has taken the time to do two amazing things: she's lost a bunch of weight by eating healthy, and she's taken up running.

Rebecca before

Rebecca now -- wow!

My baby sis is also a giver. She has an enormous heart. So when she decided to run her first marathon, she chose to make it count. She is running for a cure. Check out her message below (that I stole right off her Facebook page):

Hi everyone! I am writing to give you a quick update and ask for your help. Over the past year, in addition to graduating from nursing school, I have been striving to lose weight and get healthy. I successfully lost (and have kept off) over 40 pounds and have begun my journey to do something known as... exercise. In June I began training with Team in Training to run my first marathon. In case you haven't heard of them, Team in Training raises money for the Leukemia and lymphoma society in hopes that we will someday find a cure for blood cancers. I have been doing their flex program due to my schedule as an ER RN and a mother of two boys. This program is on my own with some e-mails and phone calls from a coach and mentor. In just one month I will participate in the Nike Women's Marathon in San Francisco, California. I can't wait!

I have never been a "runner" but have transformed into one over the past several months, perhaps you have seen me running down the streets of Port Orchard with a big smile on my face. Running gives me a time to enjoy our beautiful state, listen to podcasts, have some time to think, and increase my cardiovascular health. Often when I am training, I think of those that can't run... the people suffering with cancer who would love to get out of bed and run through town or perhaps just walk out to the mailbox.

I am really looking forward to my first big race and I have gained so much through this training experience. Now, I am asking for your help... I still need to raise a lot of money to get to my minimum. If you are interested in supporting me and the fight to cure blood cancers you can visit my personal fundraising page to make a donation. No amount is too small, every dollar helps. Thank you so much and GO TEAM!

Sincerely, Rebecca Austin

I know money is tight for a lot of us these days, but if you can dig up some spare dollars to donate, it's a VERY worthy cause, and Rebecca will be an awesome representative. She's been training like a rock star, running for hours while working a full time job and taking care of a family. She has to reach a minimum dollar amount to participate. She's willing to RUN A MARATHON to help find a cure for cancer. I'd much rather donate money from my couch. So let's help her help find a cure! Please give!!

"Give a Little Bit" by Roger Hodsgon

Speechless Yet Again

2011-09-01T07:01:00.000-04:00

In an attempt to dislodge some of the bitterness I've been tasting about State changes to education, I will drop the political rant I keep writing, rewriting, and NOT publishing. For now.

Instead, I will treat you to the magical dreams and wishes of my first-grade daughter.

Emerson says odd things frequently, leaving me wondering what the hell might actually be going on inside her funny little head. Sometimes she's charming, sometimes devilish, sometimes completely whacky. Easy with your "apple doesn't fall far from the tree" comparisons, mkay?

She recently told me I look kind of Asian. She contemplated her statement for a moment before adding sweetly, EXCEPT ASIANS DON'T GET PIMPLES.

But the other night, she really caught my attention.

"Mom, is it possible for little kids to get THESE?" she asked, grinning and pointing to her chest.

"Boobs?" I replied, thinking I should have used the technical term breasts instead. "No, not really."

"Well it has to be possible. Some kids at my school have them!"

"Oh, yeah," I said, "like the sixth graders?"

"Nooooo," she said, her chocolate brown hair swinging side to side. "Fourth graders!"

"Ahh, yes," I said, not telling her that my own were impressive enough in the fourth grade to earn me the nickname D.P. for Dolly Parton. Sadly now those letters would probably stand for Downward Parading. "That's totally possible."

She made an emphatic fist and said, "YESSSSSS!!!"

I was in shock. I never wanted boobs when I was young, and when they showed up in full Dolly size, I was beyond mortified and thought about transferring schools. "Wait, you WANT them?"

"Mmmmhmmmm, I really do!" she grinned excitedly.

"What do you want those things for?" I asked, realizing I failed again to use the technical term as I cringed at the thought of buying bras for anyone but me.

"Well," her smile was now ear to ear, "I want to be able to spin them around and around in circles!" Her head rolled around in circles to show the rotation her future boobs would take.

"??!@#*^#?*!?" I said. "LISTEN. YOU DON'T EVER WANT TO DO THAT WITH YOUR BOOBS." As I was speaking, I was creating a mental list entitled "Why You Shouldn't Swing Your Boobs Around Like a Stripper" -- as a newly created file in my brain, it was pretty damn empty. "You'll HURT yourself doing that. You'll get all bruised. And it will HURT REALLY BAD. You HATE getting hurt, right? SO DON'T EVER DO IT."

She laughed like I had told her the funniest joke. "Really? OK, Mom. I didn't think it would hurt. I won't do it." But I could tell she didn't buy my rationale. And she kept giggling as I reached down to retrieve my jaw from the floor.

I wish I was making this shit up.

"Nice Guys Finish Last"

2011-08-25T11:34:00.000-04:00

I feel like a blogging failure, as I can go for weeks at a time without checking in to my lil' ole place here. Maybe I should change my perspective. Instead of seeing myself as a failure, I could imagine I am winning at not blogging or that I've conquered an addiction because I'm clearly so mentally strong. Maybe I should get a pin or a medal stating, "Two Weeks Blog Sobriety" or something similar. Only I don't think it works that way here.

But how can I blog when I have no words? I have no words. I have lots of ideas but my words are clouded. I think the Republicans stole my words. They're taking everything else of mine these days.

For example, starting with my next paycheck, I will be paying something like 556% more for my health insurance. That's not hyperbole -- I'm being literal. In my district, we are going from paying around $60 a month towards our insurance to paying $400 a month for our insurance. And our annual deductible is rising from $250 to $1000. That's now a $1000 bill I suddenly have, when I think about how many times my daughter had strep throat last year (and let's not forget about me and Hashimoto). And of course, our step increases (earned for years of experience) are frozen. This is happening in districts throughout the state of Michigan, at various degrees, all for the same reason.

Our governor, Rick Snyder, who ran on a campaign of being "one tough nerd," has been continuing to award businesses by cutting their taxes, balanced with huge decreases in funding towards education and increased taxes for the elderly. He has virtually wiped out any union rights workers have had in the past. In my opinion, that makes him one EVIL nerd. It's also noteworthy that he pays $20,000 a year to send his kid to a private school. So his kid is worth $20,000 a year to educate, but he'll take money away from public schools to educate kids. (The decrease in funds towards education also inspired one public school superintendent to write a letter asking for Snyder to treat our schools more like prisons, seeing as prisoners receive more funding than students.)

The thing is, I teach economics. When you cut business taxes, businesses have more money to invest in their companies and create jobs. OR NOT. There's no guarantee that a business with more money will spend that money on job creation. And if you look at the pay of the people at the top of corporations, perhaps the tax cuts provide them with more money to line their pockets. It's not like their workers are getting richer. (And how's that working for our state? Unemployment has increased. Way to go, Snyder.)

Any dummy who has studied economics can tell you -- consumption spending (that is, CONSUMER SPENDING) drives the economy. Consumption spending is the largest piece of our nation's GDP. When consumers spend more, businesses have an incentive to produce more. When businesses produce more, businesses need to hire more workers to cover the increase in demand for their product. There is more being produced, less unemployment, and GDP increases.

So when you take money away from consumers, you are taking money away from businesses because consumers have less money to spend in businesses. When you take money away from consumers, consumers panic and hold on to what they have left, so businesses have to deal with decreased demand for products, businesses produce less and lay off workers, unemployment rises, GDP decreases, and hello recession.

Here's an example. Our typical summers are spent touring our beautiful state on various camping trips, which contribute to our state's tourism and help local economies. Last year, we enjoyed three different camping trips. This summer, we had one quickie stay at an RV park near Michigan's Adventure. That was it. If many families across the state react the same way to their decreased paychecks, the state loses out on a lot of tourism revenue. Bad for the state, Snyder.

Or look at the hit local businesses are taking. Other teachers I know have handled the cut to their pay by switching from local grocers to Walmart. We're all grasping at any desperate way to make ends meet as our paychecks are suddenly much less and yet our bills and our debt remain the same. Ultimately, the local businesses lose . . . and close. Bad for the state, Snyder. It doesn't matter how many jobs a business could create with less taxation when large groups of consumers are losing money and not spending what they have. No business is going to create jobs to make products that consumers aren't buying.

I'm not crying poverty here. I know what we have and what we had, and what we had was a comfortable middle class lifestyle. It wasn't extravagant, but it was comfortable. We were frugal with our money, but we were able to afford vacations most years, even if it meant I wore the same work clothes until they wore out instead of buying new trendy duds. And it's not like we're suddenly poverty-stricken. I know there are a lot of people out there living with much less. I know we are blessed in many ways.

But the constant attack on teachers makes the work that I do feel valueless.

Due to our loss in pay, Bob is taking a second job. He currently works eight-hour days, M-F. He now will also work every other weekend, twelve-hour days on Saturday and Sunday, at a home health care provider. While it may be extra money, I can't see how this will be good for my family in any way.

And I am praying that I can pick up an overload this year, teaching an extra class on top of my full schedule, something I have NEVER taken before because the extra money didn't seem worth all the extra work. I'll also be taking two graduate courses this fall and two more in the spring, which I'll be paying for (as I've paid for all of my graduate classes), to keep my certificate current and work towards my second masters degree. We've become a dual-income middle class family who now also works overtime and second jobs.

What makes it most difficult though is when community members, friends, and even family members applaud while we go through this, cheering that it's about time for teachers (and nurses too) to take a hit because we've had it too good for too long. Politics aside, when I see a friend or family member losing money or struggling, I have the decency to say, "Man, that sucks."

And so it's back to work for me next week. And I'll be asked to do more with less in the classroom AND in my family's budget.

And this is why I have no words.

"Nice Guys Finish Last" by Green Day

Looks like I have plans on October 29th.

2011-08-13T08:28:00.001-04:00

LOOK. AT. THIS.

How could I have lived in Michigan my whole life and never heard of the ANNUAL ALPACA FEST???

Apparently I've missed it for the last 15 years, but I'm not about to make that same mistake in 2011.

And? There's a "performance show" . . . I didn't know alpacas could perform. Do you think they'll have an alpaca kickline? Or maybe breakdancing? Please be breakdancing.

I just thought you should know.

"The Distance"

2011-08-09T09:20:00.000-04:00

Bedtime can be so magical. Hey, pervs. I'm talking about my KIDS' bedtime here.

Every night, as daylight dwindles and darkness finally moves across the sky, the children here in this house become possessed. They leave all of their usual odd behaviors behind and adopt completely new odd behaviors. They beg for water as if they've spent the day crossing the Sahara or maybe performing back-breaking manual labor. They need music playing in their rooms, not THAT station but THIS one. No, not THAT one either. THE OTHER ONE. They need various lights left on placed strategically to scare away the boogeyman, a stuffed animal to sleep with, a live animal to sleep with, a special blankie they've never seen before, a parental blood sacrifice or deal with the devil before finally giving up ~~their dream of making me crazy~~ and lying quietly in their beds.

Truly, it's Emerson who is the needy one. Aidan, now nearly a man at 9 years old, stoically hops into bed so long as his radio is turned on to the club mix channel and his fan is on. Then he requests a smooch, and he's off to sleep. Once I was lazy and blew him a kiss down the hallway. He rolled his eyes from his bed and said, "Mom, you can do better than that." My laziness is shameful.

Emerson, at 6 years old, is much more difficult. When bedtime goes smoothly with her, I feel like my parenting skillz are superior to anyone. I am a genius and I have conquered parenting. I should be awarded a Parent-of-the-Year blazer and my name should be engraved on a plaque somewhere. But Emerson is a master of the Bed Time Stall technique, as if she's taken detailed workshops on precisely how to draw out getting into bed while simultaneously making me forget I've ever known patience.

"My adorableness is also my Darwinian survival tool."

It doesn't matter how many times we've discussed rules for bedtime. The rules are -- I will tuck you in once, touch your radio once, and you get water on your way to bed. She knows I will say no when she calls me back in. But she also holds out hope for what might happen if she asks one more time. And then one more time. And another time after that. She is a persistently hopeful child. She always asks me to check on her again in three minutes, and I say yes because she's always asleep the minute after she stops asking for things. The other night, she called me into her room to hug her for the 30th time and turn off her light and turn on her fan and bring her more water. I gave her my usual response of NO, as I sat on the couch flipping through channels. But moments later, as I walked past her door, she called out to me again.

Em: Mom, I have a question for you. Why did you marry Dad? IT'S JUST A QUESTION.

Me, stopping in her doorway: Uh, well, we were in love, and we had been dating a long time, and it's what we wanted to do . . . . WHY?

Em: It's not like I don't LIKE him [yes, this is her father she's talking about], Mom, but . . . didn't you have any other options?

Me: What? Ha. Well. Um. Not really? We had been dating forever. I wasn't dating anyone else. Because I loved him. And we were in love, and . . .

Em: Mom! So you never had any other boyfriends?!?

Me: Yeah, in high school. But they weren't very important to me. And I LOVED YOUR DAD.

Em, grinning: What were their names?

Me: What?? Emerson! Good NIGHT.

Em, smiling: Don't forget my water!

"The Distance" by CAKE

"Tainted Love"

2011-08-02T11:27:00.000-04:00

I have traveled to New York City with some girlfriends, and I have lived to tell about it. Later.

Today, I shall regale you with stories of meat and cake. It might help if you're wearing pants with an elastic waist. I'll wait while you go change.

Ready? Nooo, those pants don't make your ass look big, I swear. You look hot. Really.

My sister Jess recently planned a birthday dinner for her hubby John at the newly opened Texas de Brazil in Detroit. I've never been to a Texas de Brazil before, so when she explained the concept, I was both intrigued and disturbed. The restaurant is a Brazilian-style all-you-can-eat steakhouse (a churrascaria, if you will, which loosely translates to scary meats, I believe) buffet, only instead of walking around the buffet and trying to see through the sneeze-shield, waiters dressed as Brazilian cowboys in funny Z. Cavaricci-like pleated pants walk around with swords full of different meats. They stop at your table and carve a slice of flesh right off the sword and onto your plate. Or sometimes onto your lap on accident, as happened once or twice at our table.

Now, I've been a vegetarian for five years, but hey, it's not my birthday. It's John's. So a steakhouse was fine with me. And I was promised they have a really good salad bar. (I wondered if that was like telling the friend you are setting up for a blind date that she has a really good personality. Or like telling a friend their ass doesn't look big in elastic-waisted pants.)

When we arrived at Texas de Brazil, Jess mentioned, "I think John is kind of hoping to make this an intervention for you, to save you from your vegetarian lifestyle."

John the meat lover is so sneaky.

"Don't mind me while I place this bacon wrapped chicken on a
sword directly in front of your nose for a moment. Tempted? Hmmm?"

My sister has a thing for Brazilian sausage. Trust me.

Being vegetarian does not keep me from admitting . . . the meat smelled amazing. Fifteen different cuts of meat moved around the room, while everyone ('cept me) sampled. Bob was particularly drawn to the red meats. Living with a vegetarian wife has been hard on him.

"Mmmm, me and a plate full of BEEF. Can I have a moment alone here?"

Bob's dream come true

But the salad bar was where it was at, my friends. Fresh asparagus with raspberry sauce, herbed apricot goat cheese, grilled provolone, fresh balls of mozzarella, olives the size of my eyeballs, grape and blue cheese salad, mushrooms that turned out to be small tasty onions, beets, marinated hearts of palm, tabouleh, chewy sun-dried tomatoes and more kept me deliciously full while the rest of the group engaged in their endless meat-a-thon.

Then there was dessert.

I'm sure cheesecake chaser is a perfectly good idea after ingesting 12 pounds of meat.

MINE. And yes, I ate it all.

By the end of the night, I was stuffed. But everyone else was starting to have the meat sweats. And some abdominal cramping. And some intestinal discomfort. I think there were tears and regrets.

At this point, I was thinking, "This is gonna be a long drive home."

Intervention fail. Vegetarian win.

Quote from my sister Jess later that evening: "So much for John's plan of a meat intervention. Now that we are all toxic with bowel obstructions from overload of carnage, you will never have any interest in 'going back' (to meat)."

I will totally go back to that salad bar though. And next time, I'll be wearing the elastic-waisted pants.

"Tainted Love" by ~~Soft Cell~~ Marilyn Manson (Ohmigoodness, why didn't I know Manson remade this song? It's dark and twisted and painful . . . just like meat sitting in your colon.)

"Sail"

2011-07-22T10:23:00.001-04:00

The garden experiment is in full swing. We have more lettuce than we know what to do with, and the zucchini and summer squashes are not yet annoying. We had to pull out the spinach after it flowered early, and our broccoli only produced very pathetic tiny heads (making my kids cheer for not having a crisper full of their least favorite green stuff). But otherwise, it's on.

Check it out -- how does my garden grow?

May 28th-ish

June 23rd-ish

July 18th-ish

July 18th-ish -- the vines are Aidan's pumpkins,
and they're on a mission to take over our yard

Spinach

LOADS of lettuce

Zucchini and summer squash

I'm not the best food photographer, but that zuke and squash ended up as a roasted layer
in this here delicious lasagna with some of our garden basil as well. YUM.
Ok, maybe it looks like snot but it tasted REALLY good.

Our container tomatoes

Grow, babies, grow! So I can eat you.

So YAY for produce, especially when it comes from our own back yard.

(If this post seems particularly pathetic or uninteresting, I blame the fact that I have a paper due for a class AND a spontaneous Saturday garage sale to prepare for, the proceeds of which I hope will at least buy me some Starbucks while I am gone to NYC with some friends Sunday. See y'all back here later next week! In the meantine, listen to my new song obsession, "Sail" by AWOL Nation. TURN IT UP.)

"Bicycle Song"

2011-07-18T13:29:00.000-04:00

The day after our return from Chicago, our kids were invited to go to their grandparents' house. For the week. I consider myself very fortunate to have in-laws who look forward to hanging out with our kids, taking them fishing and to the beach and out for ice cream. They are also wonderful enough to have voluntarily taken our non-stop-barking dog Roo earlier in the summer, just to give us some peace for a couple of weeks. I mean, who willingly takes a loud, shedding, LOUD, hungry beast into their home? My in-laws, that's who.

And so I am recharged after a very quiet week at my house. Ahhh, can you feel the peace rolling off of me? Probably not, because as soon as the kids and the LOUD BARKING dog returned home, it was right back to things as usual. And things as usual means yelling at the dog to shut up and yelling at the kids to stop fighting.

But it was beautifully quiet in this house for about five or six days.

Bob still had to work, but I talked him into taking last Friday off so we could have a day together while the kids were away. We slept in, ate a late breakfast, and then headed out on the bike path that runs near our home. After about a mile and a half, the intercity bike path opens up to the Falling Waters Trail, a scenic trail that cuts through all kinds of nature and several small communities for nearly 11 miles. We've been wanting to check out that ride for some time now. We've biked short distances along the trail, but our kids can't bike far, tired out after a short distance as they pedal four times faster than we do just to keep up. Whiners.

So off we went, kidless.

What a view.

We passed several tractor crossing signs as we moved beyond the city.
The trail would open up to reveal enormous fields of corn.

Now that's a lot of HFCS

I love bike rides in the summer. Every time I'm on my bike, I feel like I'm ten years old again. I was ten years old in 1985, right at the height of the BMX craze. And when I was ten, my parents bought me a BMX bike. Yeah, baby. It was silver and my favorite color of electric blue. I was certain I would become the next BMX star, until I popped a wheelie in our steep driveway and landed on my elbow. The scar remains today, mocking me, reminding me that failure has become sort of a trend of mine.

The Falling Waters Trail was beautiful. Shady wooded areas would slide into swampy green marshes before displaying stunningly clear lakes. We saw six deer, one of which bounded right in front of us, elliciting a yelp from me that cut through the quiet and nearly landed me on my BMX elbow again (as it shall now be called). Round trip, our ride was approximately 24 miles, definitely farther than I've ever ridden. The ride out was no problem. The ride in? Ummm . . . ouch, especially the last six miles. There just is no reason why bike seats need to be that uncomfortable. Even with the cushy gel pad on my seat, after ten miles, it feels like I'm sitting on a cinderblock. If I were ever in a beauty pageant, my platform would be to make bike seats more comfortable. What? It's an important issue. Oh, you're laughing at the beauty pageant part. Gotcha.

Somewhere along the trail, Bob's second cup of coffee kicked in.

Bob: You're not taking a picture of me, are you?
Me: What? Haha, that's ridiculous! Why would I do that?

I prefer to keep my socks dry.

The lake at the end of the trail.

The gorgeous weather is locked away in my heart to feed me in times of dreary gray days ahead.

I love where my trail ends.

On our way back, a bright blue beetle flew along side me for a while, whispering secret stories of kids and BMX bikes and hope from long ago.

"Bicycle Song" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

"Chicago" or "Go! Chicago! Go! Yeah!"

2011-07-14T11:20:00.000-04:00

I have returned safely from the land of Chicago where I learned about things like the Economic Demise of the Soviet Union, Issues of Water and the Environment, International Trade, and Is Capitalism Good for the Poor? I'm sure my future students will love all my new knowledge (and I may try to blog about some of that knowledge later, so be forewarned). The conference was good. The food was great. The people were nice. I have no other adjectives, and that makes my blogging as dull as my brain.

The reason why my brain is dull(er than usual) is because I have been at war for the last few days. Upon returning home, I discovered that the ants, the fruit flies, and the earwigs had organized and were under the leadership of some very ugly spiders in efforts of taking over our home. I was gone for five days, but Bob and the kids were only gone for three. That was all it took. Three days. In three days, the insects developed inflated egos and felt like they could accomplish anything, much like seniors in high school.

You would think our pets whom remained here with a petsitter would have at least helped defend our home. Apparently, they adopted a "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" attitude, for which I may not forgive them. We have since handled the insurrection and punished the pets by staring at them and shaking our heads in dispappointment, and I have survived to tell about it. There were no casualties on the human/pet side, but the insect side took a serious hit. We won't see them around here again. At least until the next time we leave our home.

The Chicago trip was perfect, despite the slow start thanks to Amtrak. After being trapped on the train for SEVEN HOURS, I learned the problem was not a bridge. Nope. The problem is that Amtrak doesn't own the tracks from here to Chicago. They lease the tracks, and a freight company owns the tracks. So any time a freight train comes by, Amtrak must stop and let the freight pass. There was enough freight last Wednesday to turn my three hour trip into a seven hour nightmare. Too bad my economics conference didn't address property rights more explicitly. It sounds like Amtrak could use a little economic advice. Until they figure that out, I will not recommend riding Amtrak from here to Chicago, unless I really don't like you.

While in Chicago, I was able to meet up with this famous blogger. I felt like I was on my first blind date (and also like I was a stalker) but it was a lovely date, and I hope to do it again. Everything you've probably already heard about her is true. She's beautiful, genius, generous, and wonderfully funny while also adorably humble. I hope I didn't talk total gibberish the whole time, as I tend to do when I feel shy and have had some wine. Or like I do when I blog.

I had the Low Down Dirty Red wine flight. WOW.

She had the Reisling and a side of my blah, blah, blah.

Then Bob and the kids met me so we could take on the touristy aspects of the city. You know, American Girl Doll store (aka MY HELL) and Macy's and Navy Pier and pizza and museums and such. Don't worry, my fingers have since lost the Garrett's Popcorn orange color from the cheddar, though it did take a day or two.

Aidan with a MILLION dollars at the Federal Reserve.

Giordano's. Yum.

Emerson's favorite mode of transportation in the city.

Cute boys at the beach.

City girls.

Plastinated giraffe at the Museum of Science and Industry

You know you're from a prison city when your kids think
this is a prison jumpsuit, NOT a NASA flightsuit.

My son insists on giving me heart attacks.

Fireworks at Navy Pier

I do so love Chicago. I love the business, the buildings, the music, the intention. Bob and I both noticed that 95% of the people in Chicago are more beautiful than the top 5% of beautiful people here. And that's reason enough to go back soon.

"Chicago" or "Go! Chicago! Go! Yeah!" by Sufjan Stevens

Nerd Alert

2011-07-06T22:45:00.001-04:00

I'm blogging at you from a train this morning, kids, heading to Chicago (woot!). By myself (woot! woot!). For an economics conference for teachers (awwww . . . man . . .).

Because despite popular opinion, teachers don't exactly get summers off.

I keep imagining the conference will be run by Ben Stein's character, the economics teacher, from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "Anyone? Anyone?" Just imagine it -- a room full of economics teachers. And I'm one of them.

Did you know that teachers make the worst students? Possibly because we're so used to some qualified and all kinds of UNqualified people judging our performance, we are very harsh critics. At a teaching conference, I want to be wow-ed. I want to be amused. I want to be fed good food. And I don't want to be forced into group work because I don't really want to talk to anyone else.

We'll see how it goes.

But for now, I'm on the train. And I've been looking forward to this little escape of mine. My family will be joining me for the weekend, but the first couple of days are mine, all mine. Alone time is a rare treat for me, and I hope to make good use of it. Too often, when I'm alone, I spend all my alone time trying to decide what exactly I want to do, to the point that I end up doing nothing interesting at all.

My wallet tells me I likely won't be doing anything interesting on this trip either. I hope to do some serious window shopping, at least. Or maybe even read! Without interruptions!

And. If plans don't change, I may be meeting up with another (amazingly wonderfully awesome) blogger! But I don't want to ruin it by saying it out loud. So that is all I have to say about that.

While it's true that I've been looking forward to this trip, something came over me yesterday that was close to panic. I hate packing. I am an overpacker. I take everything I can possibly carry and then twelve more items I have no use for whatsoever. I just like to have options. And there's an effin' DRESS CODE at the hotel. Teachers, especially in the summer, don't really do dress codes. So I packed my entire closet, mostly. Which fits into one large duffel bag. I also packed entire shelves of beauty products so no one will know my real age or that I'm actually human. Despite the beauty products, I will still manage to look like I've been staying with boars in the wilderness in any pictures taken of me.

Besides hating packing, I was astonished at a realization yesterday. While I luvs me some alone time, I dread leaving my family. I couldn't get enough squeezes and kisses from my kids, when normally, I'm pushing them off of me into any stranger's care. The house won't function any worse with me not there, trust me. I just don't like to leave my family. Huh.

But then Emerson puked all over the bathroom minutes before I had to leave this morning. It was like a gift from the universe, telling me to go, to enjoy time away from cleaning puke for at least a couple of days.

Sometimes a bathroom splattered in puke is all it takes to set you free.

**************************************************************************************

UPDATE: I typed the above in the first few moments of what turned into SEVEN HOURS on the train. The train that should take four hours tops from my town to Chicago? It took seven. Because Amtrak doesn't own the track. So any freight that comes along gets dibs on the track, even over passengers. We got stuck somewhere about 30 miles outside of Chicago, behind 13 other trains, and they were suggesting reversing us back to Michigan! And there was no food or water, but I lived through it. AND THERE WAS NO WI-FI, which made for a really long SEVEN HOUR train ride. I made it to my conference just in time (or a little late, but I was done caring). And now, after sitting for another six hours in class, I can tell you all about the Economic Demise of the Soviet Union. And I think Amtrak maybe should be paying attention to lessons learned from the demise of the Soviet Union. I can also tell you, my ass may not recover, ever. And Amtrak should pay attention to that too.

What kind of lesson is it from the universe to set me free by puke only to make me insane by train?

- Posted using BlogPress

"Every Teardrop is a Waterfall"

2011-07-01T08:06:00.001-04:00

Alright, I just really need to get this off my chest. Confession is good for the soul, right? I hope it doesn't change the way you all think of me.

I LOVE COLDPLAY. Ok? What?

I don't care if they are somewhat cliche. I don't care if Chris Martin's ego is as big as Gwyneth Paltrow's bank account. It should be. He is entitled. I don't even care if they plagiarize whatever they create. Just please, keep it coming.

Bob usually has some influence on my musical choices. I mean, when you spend a lot of time with someone, you usually end up listening to their music. And when you love that someone, there's a positive association there, and by the laws of behaviorism, you may end up loving their musical selections as well. Bob was the first to introduce me to Coldplay many years ago.

I bought him concert tickets for Christmas maybe four or five years ago. Before the concert, I liked Coldplay. But after? After, I was in band worship. If you've ever seen Chris Martin run his nimble body all over a stage and into the audience, you might join me and the rest of the fan club. But what really did me in was seeing him play the piano. When I play, all my focus is on what my hands are doing. There's no room for any other movement. Or singing. I will never understand how people can play AND sing at the same time. It's impossible. And if you can do it, I probably have enormous ~~seriously ugly and envious hatred~~ respect for you. When Chris Martin plays, he's rocking around like the piano may not contain him. Catch a glimpse about two minutes in in this clip of one of my favorite Coldplay songs.

Two summers ago, my kids became obsessed with the video for "Life in Technicolor II," and it became our song for the entire summer. They giggled every time they watched the video, and they begged for the song on every car trip. And ya know? I'll take Coldplay over Yo Gabba Gabba any damn day.

This summer, I've already become obsessed with their latest release, "Every Teardrop is a Waterfall." It's my new song of the summer. I can shake serious booty to the beat, and the soulful and intelligent lyrics strum my heartstrings into a perfect and happy harmony. I mean, who doesn't have cathedrals in their heart? I know I do. Entire cities of cathedrals, really, right there in my heart, some of them likely in ruins.

Turn it UP and take a listen. But try not to be distracted by their video.

The video may be as childish as Life in Technicolor ii (one writer even amusingly compares it to something out of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood mixed with a rave full of feelings, and ok, I can see that and I like the joke, but the critique does not diminish my adoration), but that just means my kids can add it to their favorites as well. I'm cool sharing with them. Unless it's ice cream.

So I love Coldplay! And I don't care who knows it!

"Safety Dance"

2011-06-28T00:14:00.001-04:00

It's morning, but already the sun is relentlessly scorching the pavement as our truck pulls into a designated parking space. The kids are bubbling with excitement, talking in nonstop streams of plans and hopes and wishes to be fulfilled, while I grow ever more quiet.

We open the truck doors, and the kids leap out of their seats while still chattering excitedly. I can't focus on what they're saying though. Each muscle is tensed, anxiously primed, like a cornered animal alerting to danger and ready to unleash fury on anyone. My eyes shift quickly back and forth, my heart picks up pace to match my kids' skips. Adrenaline is flowing through my arms, making me mean, and if someone gets in my way, I will likely punch them.

Ok, even feeling like a cornered animal with adrenaline pumping, you and I both know I won't hit anyone. But I'll go off on them. No? Fine, no. But I feel like I could. All I can hear is a deafening "chug-chug, chug-chug, chug-chug" followed by earpiercing screams of victims.

Amusement parks are just too much for me.

I hate them.

I suffer from the fear that someone will force into doing something I don't want to do, like I don't know, say a roller coaster? And it would be the end of me. Not that I would die. But just that I would wet myself, cry like a baby, and puke for hours after. And that's not my kind of "amusement," see.

So when we went camping just two weeks ago and spent a day at Michigan's Adventure (a great park with wallet-friendly prices and virtually NO LINES), I became designated photographer of my family having fun. And I made some friends -- other losers or old ladies who carry the bags and swelter on the benches while their loved ones are talking about each death defying loop or high speed drop. And I tweeted out of nervousness and because I had no one else to engage me.

My stream vaguely resmebles the Kubler-Ross model for stages of grief.

Denial

Michigan's Adventure park. Trying not to panic as kids line up for terror-inducing coasters tho I've spent yrs on their very survival.
I'll just be over here. With the other bag-carriers. And the funnel cakes.

Anger

Oh thank God. They survived the roller coaster. Assholes. My adrenaline is still kickin. Now we move out of the kiddy area.

Bargaining

I survived!!!!! . . . the Tilt-A-Whirl.
I should probably buy some pooka bead necklaces since I'm at an amusement park and all.
Or maybe have an antique portrait done?

Depression

I'm starting to form relationships with the other non-riders at the amusement park. They are my fellow hostages, my brethren, my kin.

Acceptance

Gorgeous day! I'd pay admission to get more days like this. http://t.co/udaVUhd
Oh, Lazy River, you are my soul twin. Now where are the margaritas to complete our threesome?

As my exhausted family climbed back in the truck that evening, I felt like I'd survived a major trauma, proud to have made it out alive, battle scars from the bumper cars and all.

They are having fun?

Aidan and Bob on the Swing of Doom and Terror

"Thunder Bolt" is what might come out of me when the ride starts moving.

Bob and Aidan rode that treacherous Puke Dragon

I totally made Aidan ride this.

Bob's on the kiddie coaster

The pig was her choice.

I was just a smidge too big to fit in Winky the Whale. :(

"Hi Mom! I'm having the best time ever putting my life on the line!"

Even my six-year-old was daring enough for the Ferris Wheel.
The photographer was not.

"Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats. But please do watch the literal version of this video.

"We Are Family"

2011-06-24T10:21:00.000-04:00

I am Number Six out of eight daughters in my family. We all were born and raised in the Great Lakes State, and five of us still remain here in Michigan, all under a two hour drive from each other. At 18-months younger than me, Number Seven sister followed me to the town I found myself living in, and now she lives within a mile of me. We had always planned to live down the street from each other, and we came pretty damn close. Number Eight was supposed to live down the street too, but she joined the Air Force and moved from Texas to Hawaii. She's no longer in the Air Force, but she resides near Seattle, near her husband's family. Traitor. (Hi Boo! Love you!)

We Michigan sisters get together with some regularity (though not as much as we'd like), but we don't get to see the out-of-state sisters often. Number Three lives in Alaska, and Number Four lives in New Mexico. It's awful, but when my own family can't bear the disappointing Michigan weather and can afford a vacation, we run like maniacs for somewhere tropical. But I miss my sisters.

Earlier this week, Number Five from New Mexico came home with her husband, one of her daughters and son, for her mother-in-law's memorial service. Instead of holing up at one of our houses, she found a home to rent in South Haven, along the beautiful and sandy western coast of Michigan, and she invited us to join her. Her last visit was two years ago, so we couldn't wait to see her and her exceptional family.

Some of my posse

My nephew and I share a common interest.

This is how the beach makes us feel

Cousins in Lake Michigan

Lots of silliness when the kids are around

The kids feast on s'mores

And so I found myself in an enormous five-bedroom Victorian built in 1899. It was big enough to comfortably hold the four families who were able to come, with plenty of room for outrageous games of hide-n-seek. And it was only a few blocks from the beach.

I even could keep up on my practicing, not that it improves my playing, mind you.

The attic looked creepy, like it might be the inspiration behind some V.C. Andrews novels.

But it was fantastic to poke around in the attic.
There were four separate alcoves like this. I could have easily ~~locked~~ lost my children in there.

Living with my sisters for a few days reminded me of our growing up. There's a 19 year span between the oldest and youngest of my sisters, but there was always a house full of sisters. Imagine living with seven sisters for a moment. It was somewhat like growing up in a commune. The Duggars make big family life look easy -- we were nowhere near that organized or efficient. Living with so many women maybe caused me to seek a more quiet existence in my grown-up life, but no holiday ever feels right without an army of kids and family to create chaos and memories. We sisters are perfectly at home in a house full of running and screaming children. We thrive in it, or at least for a few days. And, importantly, when we are all together, my feet don't look nearly so weird.

"ONE BILLION ORGANISMS" straight from New Mexico!

"We Are Family" by Sister Sledge, who are definitely leggier than me and my sisters, but we have better dance moves.

"Your Touch"

2011-06-16T07:46:00.000-04:00

I am always amused at how much stuff we bring with us when we go camping. I mean, is it roughing it if we have a coffee maker? fans to keep us cool and heaters to keep us warm? Nintendo DSs for the kids? free wi-fi at the campgrounds?? One year as we were packing, Bob asked if I wanted to bring some of our other battery powered . . . ahem . . . equipment. The kind we keep hidden away in a remote location in our bedroom? After some thought, I declined. That unnatural hum can be heard for miles in the quiet wilderness. Might disturb the wildlife or the other campers, you know. I mean, there's camping etiquette that must be followed.

But is it roughing it if I can tweet about each mosquito bite? I say it's not, and I wouldn't have it any other way. And compared to the other enormous motor homes and giant trailers at the RV Resort, our pop-up made us look like trashy Cousin Eddie in the National Lampoons movies anyway.

That's just because they couldn't see all the fancy shmancy electronics we brought along on our camping trip. iPhones, (new!) iPad, and perhaps the most important electronic contraption we own -- the one that saves my husband's life each and every night -- his sleep apnea mask.

After the kids were fast asleep on their side of the camper with the acorn-printed curtains pulled closed for privacy, I finished checking my pathetic updates on various unnecessary accounts before crawling over Bob into bed on our side of the camper. Bob reached for his sleep mask, putting all the straps in place around his head before turning the machine on. The first breath into the machine made an amazingly deep "shooosh" sound, and I laughed.

"You sound just like Darth Vader in that thing," I marveled again.

Shoooosh.

How YOU doin'?

"You know, shooosh, you could always pretend, shoooosh, that I AM Darth Vader, shooosh," Bob said in a sultry behind-the-sleep-mask voice. "And, shooosh, you could be Princess Leia."

"Bob! That's disturbing! Princess Leia was his DAUGHTER!" I said, horrified.

"Oh yeah, shooosh, that's right, she was, shooosh. Well . . . shooosh, then you could be . . . uh . . . shooosh . . . uh . . ." he stammered.

"Queen Amidala??" I offered.

"But, shoooosh, that would be weird too because, shooosh, she was his . . . uh . . . she was his . . . ?" shoooosh.

"She was his WIFE, Bob."

"Oh?" shoooosh, "Oh yeah."

"Uh huh. Goodnight, Darth."

Shooosh.

"Your Touch" by The Black Keys

Live From a Campsite in Michigan

2011-06-14T09:36:00.001-04:00

This is a live post from Whitehall? Montague? Muskegon? Michigan, where my family kidnapped me for our first camping trip of the summer. We hadn't planned on going camping, but Bob has this week off of work, and it's the official first week of summer vacation at my house, and we usually go camping the first week of summer, so he packed us all up and here we are.

While I consider myself more of a city girl (with a heart for alpacas), I do love camping in our pop-up. I love waking up in the early morning and drinking my coffee in the Great Outdoors. But . . . it's a hell of a lot of work to take a family camping. Have you done it? If you camp in Michigan, you have to pack for every possible weather scenario known to man. Warm weather clothes for when it hits 90 degrees, thermal sleeping bags for when the weather forecasters fail to mention it will be 30 degrees overnight. And you'd better bring rain gear or have a back up plan for the event that it rains ALL DAY, lest you be trapped in a small camper with your children and without your sanity. Usually we don't have the room to even pack my sanity, as it takes up so much room these days.

Last summer, Bob had to work and I was supposed to meet the rest of my family for our camping trip to the Yogi Bear Jellystone Park in Indiana. Jellystone Park is pure kitschy, campy, kid fun. So we adults bring alcohol. But last summer, I had to drive the truck with our pop-up attached. Me. I had to. Drive it AND park it. I hate to live up to a stereotype, but I'm 5'2" and can barely touch the floor of the truck with my platforms on. So the truck and I are not really friends. I left the house, kids in the back seat, pop-up in tow, and I was miles away when I noticed people kept honking their horns at me. I thought it was because they were cheering me on, saying, "You go, sister! Drive that truck!" and of course also, "Wow! You're hot!" But upon turning onto the highway, I noticed a long thick black cord trailing behind our camper, throwing sparks as metal dragged along pavement. It was the power cord to our camper. No power = no light, no fan, no iPhone charger = HELL.

We made it to our site, and I parked the camper, only hitting one fire pit in the process (and leaving ONLY one fire pit sized dent in our pop-up). Luckily, there was an RV store at the park, and Bob (after he arrived from work) and my brother-in-law were able to replace the cord before I went completely insane. The rest of the trip was fine -- until our small terrier Felix fell ill and died upon our return home. I since suffer a little PTSD when it comes to camping trips. But Bob just bought me an iPad 2, both as an anniversary present and as a security blanket, and I feel much better.

So here I find myself on our first camping trip of the summer. We are staying at Duck Creek RV Resort in Muskegon. It's the newest and cleanest campground I've ever stayed at. Because it's an RV resort (oxymoron, perhaps?), there are no tent campers and thus no drunken college or high school kids. It's quiet here, there's a lot of grass and virtually NO DIRT. And the bathrooms are really clean, the mosquitos aren't biting, and there are rainbows and unicorns around every bend in the road. I haven't seen a single duck, but the pool is shaped like a duck, so I guess that counts. We have brought our Fiona, and she is enjoying herself enormously. We left our asshole dog, Roo, at home to bark at everyone who gets within 500 yards of our home. Don't try to get near our house, if you are thinking of burglarizing, because he will kill you. And if I've ever written otherwise, I was then lying.

Now I must leave you to shower before we head across the street to Michigan Adventure, a small amusement park here on the west side of our great (poorly run) state. I don't really enjoy amusement parks, as I get NO amusement from roller coasters, but they also have a water park when the temperature gets over 65, which is considered hot in Michigan. And my kids are thrilled. Last night, Emerson even wrapped her arms sweetly around me and said, "I love you more for bringing us here." So that's where we find ourselves.

I'll maybe add some pics or links when we return home. But for now, please say a prayer that I will survive the amusement park and return to my regular schedule of not posting from home soon.

"Young Folks"

2011-06-07T05:58:00.000-04:00

Sunday marked my 12th wedding anniversary. I decided to throw a little parade on our cross-street in celebration of our years together, with each parade participant representing our lives together in some deeply meaningful way.

Since we live in a prison city, I thought it was important to begin the parade with a nod to the fine establishment that puts our city on the map. Thanks to you, Prison, several of my former students have a roof over their heads and three squares a day. Not joking.

Here is a float of beautiful young women for Bob to not touch. I think it really drives home the idea that he's stuck with me. Forever.

Discoverers represent my early marital discovery that Bob does not always remember to put the toilet seat down.

Corvettes for our mid-life crises (in the not-too-distant future)? Or because Bob wants a fast car. Fast enough so he can fly away.

And what parade is complete without a few marching bands? The tubas sound just like Bob when he's . . . um . . . well . . . and sometimes he forgets to put the toilet seat down!

A harem of bellydancers who balance swords on their heads and smell a bit musty could represent all kinds of romantic things.

A mile of antique tractors to represent Bob's farming roots.

And the Shriners just because Bob should wear a fez. Because I love a fez. But how can you take anyone seriously in a fez? Or in a diminutive purple car?

Civil War re-enactors because when Bob leaves the toilet seat up, it's war.

The Red Hat Society ladies because one day I just might be that kooky. And Bob will still be married to me.

Zumba dancers to spice things up. Muy caliente, chicas! (That's all the Spanish I remember after four years of it in high school.)

Hula hoopers to help us stay young. Or to represent the size of my waist while I was pregnant.

Oodles of kids to remind Bob why he got a vascectomy.

Roller derby girls so Bob will know that I could stop shaving my legs if I wanted to, so he'd better just count his blessings.

And a superhero to come to our rescue in times of trouble. (It should be noted this particular superhero goes around town like this ALL THE TIME. Until he was arrested for drunk driving. Then he kind of laid low for a while. But he was also just featured in a French photography festival. In France. We're classy like that here.)

So happy anniversary, baby! I hope being married to me is greater than the musty smell of a bellydancer.

"Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn & John

It's A Little Bit Banjo Today

2011-06-05T12:33:00.001-04:00

I have one full day and two half days of school left, kids. That's it. Usually it takes me a while to get into my summer groove, but I think I'm 100% ready for lazy days in our backyard. After a little impromptu gathering at my house Friday night, I want each summer night to be just like this --

(video by Jessica, who requested ownership)

-- only probably without my sister Jessica spilling delicious homemade tomato soup all over my swim skirt she borrowed . . . and my walls . . . and my refrigerator . . . my sliding glass door . . . and yes, even my ceiling.

Though, honestly? Tomato soup cleans up really easily when you have dogs. Roo and Fiona have been licking the walls non-stop since then, like Willy Wonka's lickable wallpaper ("The shnozberries taste like shnozberries!"). I think it was actually before the spill when Jess started laughing and said, "Remember how you used to get mad when I'd borrow your clothes in high school because I'd always spill something on them?" Hahaha, chuckle, giggle, snort. Now she's perfected the spill into more of an explosion. It's an art, really. I'm proud of her.

In other news, my love for banjos continues. The banjo player is a friend of a friend who visited with his lovely wife and adorable tiny daughter. Jess decided a banjo should always be playing, as a soundtrack to our lives. And I'm good with that. Banjos no longer sound like Deliverance to me.

P.S. Where have my followers gone? It seems Blogger has eaten them. Where they used to be, there's now only blank space. I hope that's not a metaphor.

"With My Own Two Hands"

2011-05-30T11:18:00.000-04:00

After reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, and then falling in love with The Fabulous Beekman Boys, and then reading and loving The Bucolic Plague by Josh Kilmer-Purcell of the Beekman Boys, I became fired up to garden this year. Normally, Bob takes on the garden with the passion and frugal practicality of generations of farmers flowing through his veins, even if it sometimes means the accidental sacrifice of a few innocent baby bunnies. (And yes, there are a lot of links in this first paragraph. They're designed to distract you from my poor writing and to make you forget I have been absent from the blogonet.) (Also, it should be noted that Bob accidentally ran over a bunny on his scooter a few weeks ago. How is that even possible? Do you know how many times I've accidentally hit a bunny with my car? Never. That's how many times. His cycle of springtime death continues.) (And, I refuse to get over my love of parantheses.) (Ok, I'm done.)

I even met Beekman Boy Josh at his book signing!
It was all I could do to refrain from showing him my picture of
six-year-old me with my goat. But I managed Sort of.

In the past, the only part of gardening I've participated in was the occasional when-I-feel-like-it-or-have-nothing-else-to-do moments of harvesting -- and eating -- the produce. Two summers ago, I planted herbs and then never did much with them but marvel at how quickly they took over the garden box. But not this year. This year, I'm diving in. Or at least I will attempt to dive in. I can't really say I'll be successful, and if not, I probably won't even blog about my failure so as to give you all the illusion that I'm awesome at every crazed idea that flits through my spacey cranium.

Please be advised: I know nothing about growing things. And I'm slow to research it. It's all experimental. And I'm not very good at making detailed notes of what does or does not work well. So if I do something wrong this year, I'll likely repeat the same mistake for years to come until it forms a solid memory from which I can tweak my later attempts.

Kingsolver mentions several leafy vegetables may be planted early and tolerate frost. Seeing as how we haven't had much spring here, I figured I'd start with those. In April, I planted spinach, broccoli, and lettuce. Sure enough, the seeds fought through our multiple-personality season that couldn't decide whether to rain, snow, or sunburn us all in random days of heat. The seeds actually sprouted. They grew. I weeded a little.

Spinach to the far left, broccoli, and lovely flourescent lettuce with chives in the front right corner. Emerson helped me plant the lettuce seeds which explains why they're all over the place. Yes, I'm blaming my six-year-old.

My sister told me yesterday the spinach looked like it was already too big for eating, because at a certain point, garden foods get bitter if not cut in time. When I planted, I hadn't even considered when they would be ready to, you know, harvest. In my excitement and relief that the plants were growing, I hadn't thought ahead to what comes next. Suddenly I was afraid I had already missed my opportunity to take part in the best part of gardening -- the eating. I looked online and discovered my spinach leaves will actually grow and taste perfectly wonderful up to around 12 inches (don't say it) (and the internet saves the day AGAIN) (hi there, parentheses, won't you stay a while?). Ha. Nature hasn't beaten this clueless city gardener yet.

But just in case, this morning I proudly marched out in my pajamas to cut some of the spinach leaves to use in our breakfast omelettes. They were quite delicious.

Nom nom nom.

We went out on Saturday to purchase seedlings to grow. Bob built both of the kids their very own garden boxes this year at their request. We planted sweet potatoes (for the first time ever), garden salsa peppers, green peppers, banana peppers (we love to eat on pizza), zucchini, summer squash, cilantro, orange thyme (which smells like heaven), chocolate mint (which I can't stop eating right off the plant), and garlic chives (and just like that, the parantheses are back, kindly hugging my mindlessness, see?). We planted heirloom rainbow and brandywine tomatoes in containers on our deck. Aidan planted basil, green beans, and pumpkins in his garden. Emerson opted for watermelons, cantaloupe, and red bell peppers for her garden.

A tiny spider wanted to come home on our mint,
but I thought he'd be happier in the greenhouse.

As they planted, I was reminded of my sister, Taresa. When her kids were young, they excitedly planted pumpkins, hoping to have their own for carving at Halloween. The plants grew but never sprouted. Each day, the kids ran out to the garden hoping for some blossoms, some sprouts, some hint of orange. Day after day, they returned to the house decrying their garden failure, until my sister snuck outside in the middle of the night and left tiny pumpkins under the vines that had gone on strike. The kids happily brought in their harvest the next morning. They assumed the small pumpkins grew overnight and dropped right off the vine, and they never knew the difference. It's one of my favorite gardening/deceitful mother stories.

I love it when they work together. And when no one gets a garden tool injury.

Bob is the manure master. You know it.

Suddenly, it tastes like summer around here.

"With My Own Two Hands" by Ben Harper, who also sounds like summer.

"Your Mama Don't Dance"

2011-05-19T07:31:00.000-04:00

When my nurse husband switched from working three nights a week to five days a week, a few things had to change for me. Suddenly, I went from dropping off the kids twice a week to dropping off every day. And I never had to pick up the kids from school before Bob switched shifts. Now that's part of my every day also.

I became a normal mom, a mom who drops off and picks up. Before, I was a mom who went to the gym to workout immediately after work and came home to my husband making dinner. Now I'm a mom who fights off the other bitches for a good parking spot in front of the elementary and does Zumba on the Wii at home while hoping a dinner inspiration will hit me in the Cumbia.

I moaned and I grumbled and I whined and bitched, online and to everyone I know. That's my general approach to change.

Then I got on with it. There's never any other choice, really.

And now I must admit (online and to everyone I know), two of my favorite moments in the day are dropping off my kids at my sister's house on my way to work and picking up my kids at the end of their school day. Let me be clear -- I don't like the "on my way to work" part (it is still me writing this). But I love the moment when I pull in front of my sister's house and I say goodbye . . . because these kids squeeze me with sweetness and love in their eyes. Eight-year-old Aidan always hugs my arm, pats my head, and blows me a kiss with a look on his face like he feels a little sorry for me, like he understands I'd rather not be going to work and leaving them, like the world just doesn't make sense if we can't all just stay on the couch covered with a worn blanket, watching Phineas and Ferb. This is a big change from when he was two and I dropped him off screaming and kicking at daycare while I left sobbing and vowing to quit my job.

Laura Ingalls and Willie in the background

When I pick the kids up, the kindgergarten teacher standing just inside the doors nods to Emerson, and Emerson comes running out of the building through a field of dandelions, her arms spread wide, grinning and ready to tackle me. Each time I see her skipping towards me, the theme song from the Little House on the Prairie credits starts playing in my mind. I can melt into this sincerely delicious moment in life -- at least until we get in the car and the brats start arguing and tattling and bothering each other again.

If our lives have become Little House on the Prairie, I'm in trouble because I can't sew, I don't bake often, and I'm generally not industrious. But I think Bob would make an excellent "Ma" based on his canning abilities alone.

"Your Mama Don't Dance" by Poison

"Under Cover of Darkness"

2011-05-11T06:31:00.000-04:00

Somehow over the weekend,

miracles unfolded before I could notice.

We went from this . . .

On the bike trail, only two weeks ago.

Needs some color, no?

straight to this.

It's not warm enough to start heating . . . yet.

GREEN!

Looking up from the hammock -- my summer happy place.

The view from my classroom window,
which would be lovelier if there weren't 35 desks
preventing me from seeing it.

"Under Cover of Darkness" by The Strokes

"Radioactive"

2011-05-08T17:29:00.061-04:00

Happy belated Mother's Day to you mothers, you husbands of mothers, you kids of mothers. I think that includes most people, though perhaps not your boss who probably does not seem human.

On this fine Mother's Day, I was awarded several wonderful prizes for my years of living with stretch marks. My son made a handmade card as well as a design of the breakfast (which he still aptly writes as "breakfeast") he would like to cook me, if only he was able, proving indeed, it is the thought that counts. Instead of letting him destroy the kitchen and such, I made stuffed French toast, which left us an hour of delicious snuggle time as it took at least that long to digest afterward.

A map of my would-be breakfeast

At school, my daughter made a popsicle-stick picture frame magnet, complete with her grinning dimpled face in the center. She also delivered a card with her smallish handprint inside, which I shall keep forever. I always marvel at the handprinted crafts the kids bring home. I tuck the images away into special places in my treasure-box heart so I may quickly retrieve my memories of their smallness as they grow taller than I ever will be.

In her reading group, Emerson created an "All About My Mom" card. Now, last year she brought home papers from pre-school that all the kids created about their moms. Emerson dictated, and her teacher dutifully wrote down her answers so I could read them at home. I have not yet forgotten (or forgiven?) how Emerson indicated one of her mom's favorite hobbies was to lay on the couch and eat grapes. This year though, she wrote that her mom is best at cooking and painting. Clearly, over the course of the year, Emerson has developed reading and writing skills while also honing the art of when it's best to lie.

I love that my phone pics are always a little blurry.
The effect disguises my wrinkles and makes my face look quite like silly putty.

My kids and husband also purchased the gift I'd been subtly hinting about wanting. And by subtle, I mean I told my kids all week, "When dad takes you shopping for Mother's Day, I want Zumba for the Wii. Got it? Now what do I want?" And I'd ask them to repeat it back to me each day.

Gratuitous Easter Bunny pic for an Easter post I never wrote.

They delivered. And Wii Zumba can now be added to my long list of talents. But it's only my talent here in cyberworld where no one is watching to see how I actually match the instructor. My hips don't lie, but they do manage to travel in the direction exactly opposite from where they are meant to be, according to the nimble Zumba instructors on the Wii. So while I am convinced I look muy caliente while doing Zumba, I'm pretty sure the effect is much like Ben Stiller's salsa in Along Came Polly -- sincere, but absolutely ridiculous (about 1:30 into the video).

I'll keep working on it. Arriba!

"Radioactive" by Kings of Leon

"Just Breathe"

2011-04-26T10:06:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday left me feeling quite bipolar. I watched my son accept his long-awaited Student of the Month award at the end of the school day, and he sat proudly next to me, grinning like he'd won the lottery. He looked so pleased with himself, as if all his hard work finally paid off. When you're student of the month, you get an Otis Spunkmeyer muffin, a pencil, and a gift certificate to Wendy's for a free burger. You wouldn't believe how those rewards will motivate my third-grade nerd-in-training.

We all scream for ice cream.

Later on in the evening, we attended the elementary school's ice cream social. The ice cream is a gimmick to get you to in the gym to spend a bunch of money on raffle tickets which you drop in buckets in front of baskets of goodies you hope to win. And win we did. Emerson won the "Family Fun" basket, complete with dozens of games, cookies and cakes to make, DVDs, kites, and all kinds of goodness. She was all kinds of excited. Aidan was too. That basket happened to be designed by his grade. He had spent his own $20 allowance money on a popcorn maker to contribute to the basket (because he loves popcorn so much, he feels every family should have a popcorn maker). If you love something, set it free, and if it returns to you . . . . Well, his popcorn maker came running back to us. And even though we already have one, Aidan refuses to return it and get his allowance back because he loves popcorn so.

Winning!

The excitement of a winning day quickly crashed to sorrow when we learned that Bob's uncle Greg had died unexpectedly and tragically in a motorcycle crash. He was 50 years old. Greg and his family have been pretty awesome to have as relatives. We stayed with him and his wife, Lisa, a couple of times on vacations over recent years in Florida. On one trip when Aidan was young, Greg gave him the nickname "Screech." If you've had the misfortune of hearing Aidan's wretched cry when he was small, you will understand the appropriateness of the moniker. My kids still talk about the time Greg let one of those adorable tiny lizards (that are everywhere in Florida) bite his ear and hang from it like an earring. While he had donned this look many times for kids, this time the lizard was a bit larger and possibly a vampire. It bit the hell out of his ear, leaving blood dripping onto his shoulder while my kids' expressions turned from amusement to horror to an impressed awe as the adults chuckled endlessly at his misfortune.

Greg and Lisa were a matching set. They made every event a celebration. From drunken Christmas Karaoke to spontaneous pool parties, you knew it would be a riot if they were around. A night out with them could land you at the country club or the strip club, but wherever you ended up, it would be a night worthy of retelling many times. They were also one of those couples whom you know were made for each other. Both were honestly and unapologetically their own unique selves, and both loved the other with obvious passion. They were soul twins and soulmates. My heart is broken for Lisa and their boys, and for Bob's dad who has lost his little brother and best friend.

Greg's death also holds the uniquely odd role of being the first person I know who has died and had a Facebook page. I never before considered how strange Facebook would be after someone dies. How can they be dead when they just posted those pictures last week? How can he be dead when he just commented on your wall? It makes death even more surreal and unbelievable. After death, your Facebook page becomes an online memorial, and everything you've written there is poured over by friends and family.  I'd like to get on there right now and post how much I love all of you, so that should something unexpected happen to me, you all will see it there forever and ever.

But it's easy to shine things up on Facebook. How about my real life? Do people know how they're engraved in my heart?  If I was suddenly gone, would they know how precious they all are to me? Would they ever question my love for them? I want to make it known beyond any doubt. It's another reminder of how beautiful - and how frail - life is, how it's over in a breath, and how tragically lucky we are to love each other so much we're forever changed by each other's lives and deaths.

Tonight is Greg's memorial service. If you are a drinker, raise a glass of Crown (or whatever you have on hand) in his honor. He would love that. And if you pray, please spend a moment on his family.

Much love and pathetically inadequate internet hugs to you all.

"Just Breathe" by Pearl Jam

"Kiss With A Fist"

2011-04-18T06:29:00.000-04:00

My dear blog,

If you were a house plant, you'd be shriveled, starved, and dead. (And I would feel like a failure, and I would immediately buy a new one with the false but well-intended promise to do better.)

But luckily, you're not a house plant. And I can leave you for great expanses of time and return and you're still holding my place on the Internet, beckoning to me to jot down the ridiculous nothings that roll about my mind.

So while I'd love to say I've just been incredibly busy DOING things, I think they only thing I've been truly busy doing is contributing to a well worn groove in my favorite spot on our couch while making out a bit with Hashimoto again.

I had an entire week off for spring break. And my family spent two very cold nights away at the Double JJ (and were annoyed it's called the redundant Double JJ -- is it the Double J? Or the Quadruple J, which is what the Double JJ seems to be saying?) Ranch and Waterpark. While everyone else bolted south for break, we made the mistake of traveling north through freezing rain. Though we enjoyed the company of those who came with us, I can say there is nothing right about being in swimwear when it's 30 degrees outside (even if it's 86 inside).

Spring Break '11

"Mom, I think I have frostbite?"

A very distrustful llama on the ranch (NOT an alpaca, folks)

And then I read for days on end, as if in one setting I was making up for my unintentional fasting from books that sometimes spans the school year. I finished An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin, It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. I'll keep my book reviews short: Steve Martin makes beautiful sentences about the art world, though I didn't really love the story (even though I do really love Steve Martin). Vizzini writes from a teen perspective on depression, and his descriptions of the depressed thought process make perfect sense (almost too much sense), but the ending wrapped up a little too neatly. And after reading Kingsolver, I immediately baked my own bread and planted broccoli and spinach in our garden, even though I know I will neglect them some time through the summer. It must be the nature of my love -- I show a lot of interest at first, and then I neglect and beg you to stay with me. Stay with me? I'm batting my eyelashes over here. Hell, it's worked for nearly 18 years on Bob.

I also caught up on a few tv series and fell in love with a show I just discovered on the Planet Green channel, The Fabulous Beekman Boys. Dr. Brent Ridge and Josh Kilmer-Purcell (who is an author and former drag queen) are a couple who moved from the Big Apple to a gorgeous historical farm, the Beekman farm, established in 1802 in Sharon Springs, upstate New York. Now they raise 80 goats, make goat cheese and fancy bath soaps, pamper a diva llama named PolkaSpot (whom you can follow on Twitter), and make farming look adorable. I can't wait to read Josh's take on their first year of farming, The Bucolic Plague. It's next on my book binge.

I don't know if you know this about me, but I lived on a farm until I was 7 years old, and we had many goats. I was once even in a goat-milking contest, but my goat kicked over the bucket of milk, and I lost. I still haven't quite forgiven her. My mom used to warn my high school boyfriends that she castrated the male goats herself. Somehow in spite of this, I still had a few boys stick around.

That's a 6-year-old me with my beautiful goat, Falicia. That might be my nipple in this pic, but I don't remember them ever being placed that high up on my body, so it must just be a shadow.

I think alpacas will be much easier than goats. Probably. And I do not intend to castrate them, I swear. Although I can't even tend to a blog, so these alpacas had better be fairly hardy if they hope to survive my love-neglect cycle. Do you know if you can milk an alpaca? Just curious.

"Kiss With A Fist" by Florence and the Machine (I love this song. Listen to it. Now.)

"Been Caught Stealing"

2011-04-01T07:32:00.001-04:00

Roo: So you back, huh? How ya feelin'?

Fiona: Eh, not so great. I feel a little woozy. Like how The Mom felt when she came home from Oktoberfest.

Roo: Yo, shawty -- you look ridiculous in that cone, fo' shizzle. How they treat you?

The Cone of Shame

Fiona: Oh, they were all so fabulous. The doctors and student doctors were just adorable! They massaged me and clipped me and showered me with love and affection. I felt like the princess I am. No one yelled GET DOWN or NO BITE or GET DOWN or DROP IT to me the whole time! But don't get me started on the cone. I am humiliated! I cannot be seen like this. The shame! And now The Kids here keep laughing at me and shouting, "THE CONE OF SHAME! THE CONE OF SHAME!" Why are they so amused by my humiliation?

Roo: Mos def cuz you just cost them a shit-ton of dough, and it's the only way they know how to cope around here, lil' g. The Dad was not even cool with that. But I heard The Mom tell him something about how he just found the money to buy a scooter, and so he should also be able to find the money to save yo' damn life.

Fiona: Save my life? It was that bad?

Roo: Did you see what they found in your colon, bitch?

Fiona: Oh, I'm afraid to look. Also, I can't really turn my head with this cone on. But I was on quite the binge. I saw the door to the garbage was cracked open, and I was powerless to stop myself. I have no control when it comes to the garbage! Or the Sweet Girl's toys. Or the paper. Or the books. Or the toilet paper rolls. Or the sticks and pinecones. Or the plastic. I really love plastic. My God, why is plastic so good? Plastic is to dogs as chocolate is to humans.

Some of the contents removed from Fiona's colon

Roo: You crazy, girl. Hit me up with the chocolate, and I'll be straight. But yeah, they found paper towel roll in there, as well as some big ol' flat pieces of black plastic - that was the real problem, yo - and pink metallic beads, a band aid, an entire foam ring The Kids brought home from school, and a chunk of a foam bookmark. Take a lesson from the O.G. around here and stick to the food items, homegirl. Or the tasty kitty litter buffet. No bitch needs to have plastic in their colon.

On really good pain meds

Fiona: I heard plastic acts as a great detox cleanse though. And look -- surely it worked! After all that vomiting, I'll look svelte for swimsuit season by the pool. Except for this enormous scar. Guess I won't be wearing a two-piece after all. Unless I grow out my fur. Hmmm . . . I don't think the hairy look is "in" this season, however.

Roo: Better tell The Mom that.

*inspired by Tom G's dogs who often converse over at his blog, 20 Prospect

"Been Caught Stealing" by Jane's Addiction

"Born to be Wild"

2011-03-29T06:24:00.000-04:00

Ohmygoodness, my husband just bought a scooter. A scooter. I like to call it a "mo-ped," but apparently that leaves one with a retro 80s vision that is incorrect, though amusing.

I pictured a scooter like this.

Bob brought home this instead.

The kids think it's AWESOME. I'll never let them ride it.

Bob started talking about a scooter, oh, only a week ago. I laughed it off. I didn't realize that by the time he brought it up to me, he had been researching scooters for weeks.

Bob: "I've been thinking of buying a scooter."

Me: "Like a razor? Can't you use the kids'?" And wtf?

Bob: "No, a scooter . . . like a mo-ped? I used to have one when I was 12 or 13."

Me, giggling at the mental image of a skinny, knobby-kneed, pre-adolescent Bob terrorizing the neighborhood on a mo-ped: "Uh . . . what did you do with a mo-ped in your neighborhood? And for real? Why would you want one now?"

Bob: "I used it for my paper route. I could deliver papers faster than any kid in the neighborhood. It was sweet! Now I'd ride it to the van pool. They're very green - they get about 110 miles to the gallon!" Since Bob's work is about an hour away and gas prices are ridiculous, a group of nurses commute from our area using the MichiVan system.

Here's the thing. I'm all for green living. But I'm also for BOB living. As an ER nurse, he saw his share of car vs. motorcycle accidents. He says helmets only allow you to identify the body. I said as much to him. To which he replied he would not be riding on highways, only back roads (this doesn't make me feel better), and scooters don't go very fast (this doesn't make me feel better), AND he'd nerd it up in a bright orange vest and a flag on the scooter (this is pure gold). I can't wait.

Bob: "They're very European. Cities all over Europe rely on scooters instead of cars because they're so environmentally friendly."

Me: "Need I remind you of your former forays into European culture, Bob?"

Two years ago, Bob decided to get a "European" swimsuit. Not a Speedo, but close enough. While the swimwear style for men in these parts is a knee-length baggy surfer look, Bob purchased a very short black suit -- with an inseam of about three inches. Supposedly this type of swim trunk is used for triathalons and also serves as running shorts. Bob has never competed in a triathalon, but I see the appeal. I like to buy yoga clothes without actually attending a yoga class.

Bob wore the European swim trunks on our spring break Caribbean cruise. And he continued to wear the mini swimsuit around our pool, until he appeared in it last summer and our children and young niece and nephew started pointing at him and laughing. My 8-year-old nephew shouted, "Hey, Uncle Bob -- did you borrow Aidan's suit or something?" I haven't seen the sexy trunks since.

So now it's a scooter. As far as mid-life crises go, I'd say this one is mild. So long as he doesn't start using it to pick up all the bitches in the neighborhood.

"Born to be Wild" by Steppenwolf

"Fat Bottomed Girls"

2011-03-26T09:48:00.001-04:00

Spring is here, supposedly. Shut up, I know you visit here for my announcements of the seasons. No one would know what time of year it was if I didn't blog about it.

I know spring is here because our yard - again - is covered in mud and a winter's worth of dog poop. As the snow melts away, layer upon layer of dog poop is revealed. It's like a poop parfait right here in our yard. Or maybe trifle? And there's nothing like the smell of dog poop to make me nostalgic for spring and summer by the pool. (Reason #796 why you don't want a dog.)

With the arrival of spring comes the dreaded swimsuit season. Do you get depressed too when trying on swimsuits? Luckily the depression wears off when I eat Maggie Moo's ice cream, so it doesn't last long.

Over the last two years or so, I have somehow put on around 12 lbs while I wasn't paying attention (see last sentence regarding Maggie Moo's). I typically eat a lot of healthy foods, but my constant snacking between lunch and dinner has become out of control.  I get home from work at 3 and eat nonstop until dinner at 6. By dinner, I'm not even hungry, but it would be rude not to eat with the family, right? At a Snookie-esque 5'2", 12 lbs looks a lot worse than it sounds. So. I have downloaded a calorie counter (Lose It!) to my phone. Time to get serious.

The Lose It app is pretty amazing. It keeps track of every morsel I admit to putting in my mouth. And it allows the user to set a goal to lose either 1, 1.5, or 2 lbs a week. I went for the 2 lbs a week program because I am a masochist. Right now, based on my current weight and fitness level, the program has me budgeting only 818 net calories. A day.

Whimper. See that? My stomach just blogged that whimper.

I know 818 calories a day sounds absurd, but that's net calories, so if I work out and burn an additional 400 calories, I can eat 1218 calories, see.    (And I've checked out other programs, and they're all similar in the number of calories I should eat in day based on my size and fitness level.)

I hate counting calories because ~~it's lame and makes me feel insanely boring and I hate even talking about it but here I am blogging about it~~ it becomes clear quickly that one cannot eat chocolate AND ANY OTHER FOOD and stay within the recommended calorie allowance. I can eat broccoli until I turn green (at a mere 30 calories a cup), but a decent serving of chocolate takes up most of my daily calories.

Five little puny Hershey's miniatures? 230 calories.

Half a cup (HALF A CUP) of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby? 330 calories.

This detail has definitely upped my workout regiment -- because I like to eat. And I like to eat onion rings. And cupcakes. But it's working. Over the last 7 weeks, the scale has been showing lower numbers. Not quite 2-lbs-a-week lower numbers (I blame the cupcakes), but I'm getting there.

You can probably tell I'm a lot of fun to be around these days. I am basically a walking calculator of nutritional information.  But the Lose It app has me looking for all kinds of ways to burn calories too. Both weight lifting and circuit training torch enough calories in 30 - 45 minutes to allow me some grub, so I choose those regularly, but house cleaning, playing the piano, and walking the dog all burn considerable calories as well. The app even offers luge as a calorie burner. Now I'm trying to figure out how to incorporate luging into my workout schedule.

Sex is also listed as a calorie burner. Oh goody. You can choose three levels of intensity under "sexual activity" for exercise.  The modest Amish-sounding option of "passive, light, kissing" burns exactly 0 calories, go figure.  And that's fine because we've been married for 11 years and that option sounds like foreplay, which, come on.

The second choice ~~for losers~~ under sexual activity is called "general, moderate intensity" and burns 10 calories per 30 minutes. Probably because one of the partners is sleeping during "general, moderate intensity," I'd guess.

And the third choice (the now-we're-talking option) is labeled "active, vigorous intensity." Yeah, baby. And it burns up . . . huh??  Only 16 calories per 30 minutes! That means half an hour of active vigorous intensity doesn't even burn off 3 peanuts (at 6 calories a peanut)! Not that I'm comparing anyone to a peanut, I promise you.  I'm also not admitting to how long our "active vigorous intensity" actually goes on, but um . . . we're old and married . . . um . . . and we are tired and have kids . . . and, um, so.

Superstar trainer Jillian Michaels is a big advocate of combining big and small muscle groups while exercising to burn mega calories -- for example, doing squats while doing shoulder presses. Maybe the "sexual activity" exercises could be paired with some weight lifting? Maybe some dead lifts or rows (shown below)? Or maybe bicep curls in bed?

Back it up.

"Fat Bottomed Girls" by Queen (maybe one of my all-time favorite lyrics -- "I got mortgages and homes, I got stiffness in my bones, ain't no beauty queen in this locality." Sing it, Freddy!)

"Long Train Running"

2011-03-21T06:33:00.000-04:00

The last two weeks have been a haze, allowing me very few moments to read your blogs or even consider mine -- a haze tinged in nervous energy as I began to panic about the fact that we were finally about to perform . . . live! . . . even if for an awesome purpose. (Hey new readers - welcome! And you can read about the Cancer Bash here.)But any event requires preparation, and even thinking about the preparation begins to wear me out.

So I found myself rather worn out even before my children both magically contracted the dreaded Norwalk virus days before the Cancer Bash, leaving them exploding out both ends on Thursday and Friday, into toilets but also buckets and bedding. The virus did not help soothe my nerves, and soon the entire band was starting to worry -- what if that super-contagious high-speed-spreading virus decided it was hungry for a keyboardist, a drummer, a guitarist, or a singer? The Norwalk virus is SO not rock n' roll (and neither is cleaning vomit, I tell you).

But . . . we made it.

And it was awesome.

I did feel like a rock star for a day, beginning with Emerson waking up and saying, "Today's the day! Today's the day!" and begging to help me with anything, including rubbing my feet (now that's love, and if you saw my feet you'd understand). Aidan was trying to figure out ways he could sneak in to the concert to hear us play, and Bob was a solid pillar of calm and support while my stomach was doing back-handsprings. And we had a sound guy - a sound guy! A friend of our singer who has more sound equipment than I have black shirts hooked us up, set us up, and stayed to make us sound better than we ever anticipated, with speakers taller than me pumping our sound all over the place.

Somehow, everything came together in ways we could never have imagined. There was the perfect mix of really fun people (many wearing our t-shirts!), tons of amazing donations for our silent auction, yummy cake, just the right amount of alcohol (rum still has not failed me pre-performance), and then it began and we were playing and people were bidding and dancing and grinning and singing and shouting, "ENCORE!" when we were suddenly done with our two song sets, and we were wishing it hadn't gone so quickly. It was the most fun I have had in a long time -- definitely WAY more fun than cleaning puke off the walls, if you can imagine that.

The awesome cake had ribbons representing different cancers.

I play with them! Can you believe it?

There's the proof.

I have a secret fantasy to sing. However, you probably do not want to be sickened by a lack of talent at a rock show, right? The two cannot go together.

Bob's bro and his wife came early to help set up. They are two of the most fun, spontaneous, loving peoples I know. They outbid each other on several auction items. And, they left the auction with a men's pink cowboy shirt. Giddy-up!

Two of my sisters. I'm the tall one in the family. And the brown one.

There were so many wonderful moments I want to remember -- the feeling of playing, of looking around at my bandmates and thinking, "Holy shit, we're really doing it!" was something I will tuck away for safe keeping into my heart. I'm also still laughing at the moment my sister grabbed the mic while we were between sets and lip synced "Gonna Make You Sweat" with complete sincerity and booty-shaking abandon from start to finish.

But more than all that, the love and support of all the friends and family who were there not just to cheer us on but to celebrate life and love, to honor those we know who have been touched by cancer -- it was enough to fill me with enormous adoration for the people in my life.

Between ticket sales, monetary donations, a 50/50 raffle, and the silent auction, we brought in over $1900 to bash cancer! Now that is rock n' roll.

Without love, where would you be now?

Long Train Running by the Doobie Brothers (one of my favorite songs we played Saturday night)

P.S. I don't have a video to post. Yet. But I hope to soon.

"Proud Mary"

2011-03-13T20:39:00.000-04:00

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned. It has been 8 days since I last blogged. SisterMerryHellish believes I am trapped somewhere in a chocolate fountain, and I am now fantasizing about how to make that happen. But no, this weekend I was trapped in my daughter's room.

Emerson is notorious for shirking chores and other responsibilities. At 5 years of age, she doesn't really have many responsibilities to shirk, but she finds a way to get out of any task she finds less interesting than iCarly.

Lessons learned while "helping" my daughter clean her room:

Little girls' toys have an infinite number of pieces. Yeah, Aidan has Legos and K'Nex with limitless combinations of ways to injure my feet, but Legos are no match for what lurks in Emerson's room. Polly Pockets, Littlest Pet Shops, Squinkies, Barbie (whore) shoes and tiny plastic purses, as well as countless tiny fairies (I think their role is to whisk Barbie away to the gay bar after giving her fashion advice) and princess jewels and crowns and necklaces and rings and other baubles all torment me. Add to that her ever-growing hoards of art supplies for her easel and we have a serious problem on our hands.

Messages from the easel: "I want to learn about time and money
and to know why Mom & Dad don't give me and Aidan our allowance.
Why WHY WHY (sad face)."

Messages from the easel: "I like big butts and I cannot lie. My fave song."
And "Love is not bad, it's good."

Girls talk. A lot. I've heard that female babies begin to move their mandibles in utero much earlier than males. They're practicing, getting ready to numb your brain with endless hours of incredible details about every moment in the lives of their dollies and Barbies. Before our cleaning expedition, I had no idea Emerson's dolls all have middle names. Heidi's middle name is my favorite: Heidi LimaBeansAndLicorice. Doesn't that just roll off the tongue? And since Emerson can't talk and clean at the same time, but I can listen and clean at the same time, guess who was busiest (and considering sneaking in some earbuds)?

We are probably doll racists. Emerson's dolls are photgraphed below. Hmmmm. She did have a white doll once. Her name was Twinkie. I rest my case.

From left to right: Lacey, June, Sasha, Heidi, Jeni, Emma,
and Caleb who was once named Louis
(Note: Lacey's toothy grin looks dangerous to me. I'm watching you, Lacey.)

Even 5-year-olds procrastinate by deflecting to Google. While I swept mountains of debris and doll clothes from under her bed, Emerson grabbed my phone.
"Hey, what are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm googling 'how to clean your room,'" she replied.
"Does it tell you to just let your mom clean and you pretend to help while talking and playing with my phone instead?" I asked her.
"Haha, Mom! You're funny! No, it says you'll need to get a trash bag though. So probably you should do that."

"Proud Mary" by Ike and Tina Turner

"Fire Burning"

2011-03-05T08:25:00.002-05:00

Aidan and I have have attended the Mother/Son Dance for a few years now, since he was in Kindergarten and bought a blazer because he really wanted to look "fabulous" for the event. I love hanging out with this kid because he's so easy to be with -- I mean, when he's not demanding things or disowning his sister. He's getting older now, nearly a man in 3rd grade, and I wasn't sure if he would still be up for the dance. But he was. It seems this kid is still loving his mother, and I know these years are short, so I'll soak it up now. The other night, as he was all snuggled in bed, I walked past his room in the hallway and blew him a kiss. "Aw, mom," he said smiling, "you can do better than that." And he was right. He's still kissable at 8-years-old. I hope that never changes, but I know better.

This year, the only reason he wanted to attend the dance was for the Chocolate Fountain. And that's reason enough for me. But I also go because it's way too easy to judge the other parents and feel superior.

He'll be taller than me before his 9th birthday.

For such a special event, I let him choose where we should first have dinner. He picked the Olive Garden, and I felt a hint of pride as I realized how well we had already prepared him for life in Suburbia. I ordered the minestrone soup because they like to serve it fresh at our Olive Garden. I know it's fresh because a server there once told me, "Oh, the soup is going to taste really good. The cook just opened the bag, so it's fresh!" Mmmmm. Aidan was all about the breadsticks and salad (see? Well trained! He also loves trips to Home Depot).

Then we headed to the dance. Let the party begin.

On our way into the dance (fashionably late), we had to walk through a pack of six mothers huddled outside the door, smoking. They looked like we had just caught them doing something naughty, which was entertaining enough for me. Because that's exactly why cigarettes -- and flasks -- are fun, right? Not that I brought either to the dance, but I know these things.

With the price of the ticket, you get to stand in line forever waiting for a professional photo of you and your son. It's best to do this first before your kid has a chance to meet up with the Chocolate Fountain. We stood in line behind a group of four women dressed in serious prom attire, their hair-dids in twists and updos covered in jewels. Between the four of them, there were nine small boys, all dressed in pin-striped suits. They had their pictures with their boys, and then they posed for a picture of just the women, while screaming at the boys to NOT MOVE as they spent fifteen minutes posing like they were America's Next Top Models. This was their night out, after all. I kind of hoped they were sister-wives.

Primping before our professional photo.

One of the prom queens in front of us.
We got glimpses of her back cleavage AND her ass crack.
Mama mia!

After our photo, we headed into the dance/food area. Holy shit. Aidan looked a little frightened as we gazed at a crowded roomful of boys running, shoving, pushing, dancing spastically, cartwheeling, and dance-humping the floor (not kidding) while their mothers either joined them or hid at the tables around the perimeter of the room. At one point, the DJ begged, "Moms, we've had several running accidents, kids smashing into each other and getting hurt. PLEASE watch your kids!" I know one mom whose son didn't want to attend the dance this year becaue last year another boy punched him in the face. Probably while his mom was outside smoking.

Yes

Marshmellows, Rice Krispie treats, and pretzel rods for smothering in chocolate.

We beelined for the Chocolate Fountain then found a few chairs against a wall to watch the ~~show~~ dancefloor. I asked Aidan if he wanted to dance, and he said, "No, not really. But if you really want to, I will." Which is the sweetest thing for a boy to say, especially because whenever I want to dance with his father, the response I get is more like, "Hell no." So we didn't dance. We ate chocolate-covered yummies, drank lemonade, and amused ourselves watching the dancing and admiring the attire.

The pirate theme explains her bandana. I think.
BTW, this is a different mom than the other red dress photo.

As we drove home, Aidan said in his old-man tone while rolling his eyes, "Mom, that was really crazy in there."

I agreed. "That was madness, Aidan. Madness."

And then we giggled all the way home.

"Fire Burning" by Sean Kingston, even though I didn't get to pop it, drop it, or lock it.

"Boulevard of Broken Dreams"

2011-03-01T09:16:00.000-05:00

Dinner is over, the kids have cleared their places leaving me and Bob at the table alone. Outside, the snow turned to ice hours ago, and many people in our county are without power as a result.

Me, shuddering: Man, what would we do right now if we lost power?

Bob, waggling his eyebrows at me suggestively: We'd be huddled up around the fireplace.

Me, rolling my eyes: With the kids. Does our home phone work without power?

(We're still one of the few people who have not let go of their land lines.  We make up for that by almost never answering it though.)

Bob: Yeah, I think it does.

Me: Good, because our iPhones wouldn't cut it for long. I'd wear the battery out in half an hour, checking people's Facebook or Twitter updates about the power situation.  I think tomorrow will be a snow day for us. It's like the apocalypse out there.

Bob, grumbling: I'll still have to work.

Me: What if you had to work, and it really was the apocalypse? What if . . . you had to work . . . and it was the zombie apocalypse? OhmyGod, what would we do? Is it better to stay here and hole up somewhere? Or should we get in the car and drive to meet you somewhere?

(Bob's survival instinct is much stronger than mine. It's good to question him about these things. It's important to have a plan.)

Bob: I'd think you should stay here. Who knows what it would be like if you left?  Besides, this is the first place I would come to find you.

Me: Yeah, but our house! We have like 14 different points of entry! All they'd have to do is break a little glass, and it would be all over for us! There's no way we could bar all the windows. Maybe in the basement. Should we hide in the basement?

Bob: I'd think it would be best to stay on this floor, where you have access to food and supplies.

Me: I don't know. It would be really easy for zombies to find us here. Oh! The dogs! Roo would be barking like a maniac, and he'd give our location away! There'd be zombies swarming this house!

Bob: Let him out front the second there's a zombie apocalypse, Andrea. Just let him out. If nothing else, the zombies will be so distracted munching away on him, it will give you guys a few minutes to get out of here.* Or you could climb on the roof. Zombies can't climb.

Me: It's a one-story house, Bob. Anyone can get to our roof off the deck.

Bob: What? I can't.

Me: A zombie could totally push our lawn furniture up to the side of the house and climb right up!

Bob: Well, knock the lawn furniture off the deck first. They'll never figure that out. Zombies are pretty dim.

Me: Not those zombies in that book we read. They hunted in packs and even used guns! Holy shit. You need to show me how to use your guns.

Bob: Now we're talking.

Me: So you think me and the kids should wait for you on the roof? You think we'd survive?

Bob: Yeah. Probably your best bet. But . . . you know in all the zombie books and movies, people with kids never make it. It's always the person who is alone who survives.

Me: We'd be toast. Holy shit.

Bob, smirking: You'd be toast. I'd be at work.

And this is why I think Bob should be a stay-at-home dad.

* Let it be noted here that Bob does not have large amounts of fondness for this beast. Clearly.

"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day

"Pumped Up Kicks"

2011-02-21T20:24:00.001-05:00

Seeing as how I have been a lazy poster of late, I shall return to something I meant to post a month ago.

Over the long Martin Luther King Day weekend in January, Bob and I grew tired of the snow and began wishing we were somewhere else (much like today). So we drove north because we can't really afford to drive far enough south for some sunshine.

We didn't tell the kids where we were going, hoping they would find the suspense a part of a grand adventure. Consequently, they hoped we were whisking them away to the Kalahari water park, when really we were only whisking them to Frankenmuth, MI, a certain disappointment when compared to the Kalahari.

I thought I had fond memories of going to Frankenmuth as a child. But after arriving in Frankenmuth, what I remembered is the place always creeped me out as a kid -- between the glockenspiel playing the Pied Piper and their abundance of odd dolls and elves around town, I always felt suspicious while visiting Frankenmuth. I haven't been there in ages, unless you count Oktoberfest (sigh) a few months ago and I don't think it really counts because Bob and I didn't leave the beer pavilion (we did really love the beer pavilion though).

So off to exotic Frankenmuth! Frankenmuth is a small town near the thumb of Michigan, a few hours drive for us. Settled by Germans, the people of Frankenmuth maintained their heritage and traditions, and the town is a little touristy piece of Bavaria (which means there's accordion music piped throughout the town, and you can find beer and sausage just about everywhere, and beer and more beer, making Frankenmuth much better as an adult). Our kids were crazy excited by the time we pulled into the hotel and told them it had five pools and put-putt. That's all it takes to become parents of the year -- mini-golf.

Our Gernan hotel had decorations and activities
to celebrate the Chinese New Year.

One reason why I found Frankenmuth slightly odd as a child -- there are weird dolls decorating many places.
Are creepy dolls considered an important piece of German tradition?
Someone please tell me.

Pure genius -- heated sidewalks means never needing to shovel.

My daughter, Ponyo

Mini-golf for mini-people

Emerson wouldn't go near this play land in the hotel. She thought there could be a witch living in it.
Apparently I'm not the only child creeped out in Frankenmuth.

As we set out to find dinner on Friday night, Aidan announced, "Mom, I don't want to eat any of that British food. I don't like British food."

"You mean German food? What German food do you know of?"

"Oh, German food, yeah. I dunno what German food is, but I am NOT trying it, so don't even think of convincing me. I only want American food."

Emerson joined in with her brother. "Yeah, yuck! I hate Russian food! I'm not eating it! I want American food!"

After a long conversation about what is German, Russian, and British, and cultural foods they eat and love and what German foods they eat and love pretty regularly without even knowing they're eating German food, we convinced them to eat local. But the local restaurant was so busy, we ended up eating pizza instead. Drat. But it was really excellent pizza.

There are generally two required activities when you go to Frankenmuth. You must stop at Bronner's Christmas Wonderland. They are open 361 days a year, and they stock all things Christmas. They even have a drive-through Christmas light display that is lit every night. It's fun to go in July, when you're not really thinking of Christmas, and it's fun to go in November, when you're really starting to feel the Christmas spirit. January at a Christmas super store was just eh for me, though the kids loved it.

Look out, Aidan! There's a creepy elf behind you!
Creepy elves are another point of Frankenmuth nostalgia for me.

Our favorite display at the Christmas store was the Halloween village.

A Vader cookie jar! What are you doing here in the Christmas Wonderland?

The other big deal in Frankenmuth is Zehnder's chicken dinners. At Zehnder's restaurant and bakery, they serve up chicken dinners family-style, with mashed potatoes and gravy, breads and rolls and cherry jam, soup, cabbage salad, cranberry relish, and buttery noodles, with ice cream for dessert. My family ate well, and we had enough leftovers for a complete dinner the next night. I was quite pleased with their vegetarian menu, and while my omniverous kids gnawed on chicken legs, I feasted on mushroom empanadas.

She's an animal.

I am seriously regretting that we walked away
from the chocolate-covered Twinkies.

I did enjoy the Cheese Haus, where we sampled many cheeses.
The strawberry cheese was a favorite, though the chocolate cheese left me conflicted.

Peace, dude.

Aidan minus his tooth that fell out in Frankenmuth.

Probably a bad tourist caption:
"Come to Frankenmuth, where you will lose your teeth!"

We did get to laze around a bit in the pools and hot tubs. And it was nice to spend some time with my family without having anything scheduled, without ignoring the whiny children to wash dishes or fold laundry or pack lunches. We all slept in, and I awoke to a 5-year-old planting tiny kisses on my cheeks. Aidan jumped up and down when we got to the hotel and said it was the nicest hotel he'd ever stayed in (even though I found it to be too quaint and village-y). Forget our trip to Disney last year or our Carnival cruise the year before -- when you're 5 and 8, I guess Frankenmuth is where it's at.

"Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People (an appropriate song for this post because at first I loved it, but then it creeped me out once I paid attention to the lyrics) (still, I keep listening to it) (and dancing)

"Dirty Boots"

2011-02-15T06:34:00.000-05:00

So, first this:

I WON RHODA THE SOCK ZOMBIE! It's truly one moment in my life where I can look at my hours spent blogging and baking Amish Frankenstein Bread and think there really IS a payoff to all this nonsense (which is kind of how I think of heaven, coincidentally). So yay! And thank you to Chelle for such a fun yet also horrific contest. My Franken Bread was probably less scary than some of her entries. Eeeek.

And now this:

I promised you all a GIVEAWAY, didn't I? Well, yes, yes I did. And I'm having one, dammit.

Never mind that my daughter had strep throat that wouldn't go away for a month, during which time she had three trips to the doctor and they changed her meds twice, and all of that resulted in her getting the flu - Influenza Type A, to be specific.

You know what flu means? Flu means not sleeping for days as you hear your daughter coughing that terrible croupy cough that wants to take over her lungs. Flu means jumping out of bed on command to retrieve water and assist in the bathroom. Flu means booking your ass to the bathroom in the middle of the night while holding your kid in front of you because she is about to hurl. And for me specifically, flu meant cleaning puke out of my car on a freezing Friday morning after she puked while we dropped her brother off at school.

Oh yeah -- flu meant badness for my daughter too. But mostly it was bad for us as her parents. And it's damn hard to look like a rockstar when your kid has the flu. I'm so tired, people may confuse Rhoda for me.

Are you still sure you want me to send you something? I swear I will sterilize it in the dishwasher before I send it your way. Promise!

So being new to this whole GIVEAWAY process, I used random.org to generate my many numbers. I wanted to be all fancy and tech savvy and put the screen shot on my blog, but I am an idiot. So, to vouch for me, Bob is standing here to tell you the lucky winner.

Bob, what number just came up here on the random.org screen?

Bob (sounding very official and also slightly annoyed): Three. The number three. As in 3.

You have to believe a guy who looks like this.

There you have it. The third comment on my GIVEAWAY post is from . . . the exceptional ELLY from Bugginword! WOOO! What are the chances, huh? Well, they were pretty good considering I don't have many commenters. So hooray for Elly! And hooray for our nerdy band photos to be worn all over Hoboken. Next time, if I have any say in it, we're doing glamor shots as band pics.

Elly, email me (ajmckay65@yahoo.com) and tell me the size you would like and the photo you hope to see on the front of your new band shirt (check out the Meet the Band page at the top of my blog for options).

Rock on!

"Dirty Boots" by Sonic Youth

"More Human Than Human"

2011-02-09T23:13:00.002-05:00

This post is written directly to compete in the 2011 Sock Zombie Giveaway, created by Chelle over at the excellent blog, Coffee & Zombie Movies. The prize is Rhoda the Sock Zombie, and I want to win her so I can put her in a front row seat in my classroom next to my other ~~zombies~~ students.

A couple of weeks ago at work, I noticed one of the secretaries had been bringing in Amish Friendship Bread starter bags and leaving them for the taking in the mailroom. I've never had Amish Friendship Bread, and I was instantly drawn to the sweetness of the idea. I mean, who doesn't love freshly baked bread? And who doesn't love the Amish? Actually, a friend of mine tells his daughters that the Amish shoot lasers out of their fingers and can also breath underwater. If that were true, I would love the Amish even more.

So I brought home a starter. For a few days, the directions were simple: mush the bag. That's it. Then it gets slightly more complicated when you add some flour, sugar and milk to the bag and mush it some more. But on day 10 of mushing, it's time to party like the Amish. You add some more flour, sugar, and milk to the starter. You blend! Then you divide the mixture into four other starter bags -- three to pass to friends, and a new starter to keep to begin the process again. You add some other baking ingredients to your original starter mixutre and bake. You can bake new loaves of Amish Friendship Bread every ten days as long as you keep a starter. How charming! How quaint! How delightfully Amish!

So cute and friendly.
(But I quickly learned the liquidy bread starter is like superglue.
Don't drip it on your counters.
Our dogs have been trying to lick it off the countertops for weeks.)

I told my sister Jess I had some Amish Friendship Bread starter to pass along to her.

Jess: Oh shit.

Me: Huh? What? Huh?

Jess: That fucking friendship bread? That shit is terrifying! It takes on a life of it's own, I tell you. It comes alive.

Amish Frankenstein Bread

Me: Eh?

Jess: I'm serious. Once you start it, you can't stop. It takes over your life. And then you run out of people to give it to, and you're left tending to all these orphan starters. And they need your attention all the time. You're living by the calendar trying to figure out, is it day 5 or day 6 for this bag? And I swear, the stuff moves. It crawls on it's own. I watched it creep slowly to the edge of my counter and roll off once! The Amish Friendship Bread tried to run away, do you hear me? And your forearms cramp from the mushing. And then the bags get all puffy with air and fermentation, and you have to let the air out, like a colostomy bag. It's such a commitment.

Jess is a nurse. She has to bring up colostomy bags.

I was perplexed. Here I was excited to celebrate the friendship of the Amish, and instead, I felt like I was inviting gremlins into my home. But I forged ahead with my first batch of bread making anyway.

It probably doesn't look right because I don't have laser fingers like the Amish.

It tasted delicious.

I may be doing an Amish Friendship Bread starter giveaway/adoption soon.

(And don't forget: Friday is the last day to leave a comment on my previous post for a chance at the hottest new band t-shirts!)

"More Human Than Human" by White Zombie

"Runaway" Part II

2011-02-07T05:22:00.000-05:00

As promised, here it is -- Part II. No teasing this time. Probably. Who is ready for my FIRST EVER GIVEAWAY?? (I definitely heard you scream that time!)

So, there we were -- a keyboardist and a guitarist -- without a band. But we're not the only teachers in our district who dream of leaving behind the glamorous life of grading papers for a rock n' roll tour on stage, nooooo. Unbeknownst to some, Erik's gorgeous wife Jill (who teaches at our middle school), had taken up drum lessons. And she's good. If you've ever seen Jill, you would intuitively understand she should be a drummer. She looks like a rockstar on any average day. And she has a rockstar personality. Only not in a slobbery drunken kind of way, but in a way that makes people want to know her because she's just that wonderful. With Jill on drums and Erik on guitar, they could be an all new White Stripes. Except both of them refuse to sing.

We heard rumors of a young English teacher in our building who auditioned for American Idol one year. American Idol! And he tried out with actual talent, not with the goal of making an ass of himself on tv. Luckily for us, he didn't make it through on American Idol, so his talent is still relatively undiscovered. I'm a little bit rock n' roll, Erik and Jill are a lot heavy metal, and Aaron . . . Aaron is definitely a lot Michael Buble. Over time, we somehow talked Aaron into joining our merry band of teacher-rockers. The rest, as they say, is enough fodder for a VH1 Behind the Music.

Teacher's pet

We're just four teachers who like to rock! Please pass a donut.

We went for a more folksy look for this tour, considering this is how our students likely perceive us.

We are available to perform at school assemblies!

We practice nearly every week. So if you wonder why I'm not blogging, it's because I'm practicing (or more likely, packing lunches, making dinners, doing laundries, running children to extracurriculars, OR playing watching crap tv before passing out on the couch at 8:30 -- just the sort of life most rockstars live, I'm sure). Playing together took some navigating, but our efforts are beginning to pay off. We've had some awesome practices, where we've looked at each other stunned and grinning like idiots, throwing compliments back and forth as we realize we are really doing this. And we've had some practices where, instead of compliments, drumsticks were thrown, the guitarist nearly quit, the singer wondered why he ever agreed to this, and the keyboardist became really quiet and internalized everything. As long as we dedicate ourselves to our instruments just a little more than we blog, play video games, sit on the couch, or eat, we might even pull off our next venue. Which is the exciting news.

Show time is coming, my friends.

Now that I see that in writing, I kind of want to puke.

But I know we'll be ready to play as a band. (And I feel strong in the knowledge that I sound better after some rum. Maybe the audience will think so too after they have some rum. Rum for everyone!) Sixteen songs, two sets, music from rock n' roll to funk to disco to 80s ballads. Just us, no back up. And this event will be the most specialest, awesomest, magicalest event yet.

Because we are going to bash cancer.

In the past three years, two members of our illustrious Social Studies department have fought cancer and won. Too many other teachers in our district have had their personal cancer battles too. And we've all had students who have somehow managed to bravely face cancer. We all know someone. You all know someone. And everyone knows CANCER SUCKS.

Our next performance is the Cancer Bash, and proceeds from ticket sales and t-shirt sales are going to be donated to the Relay for Life event in which our district participates. We will also be holding a silent auction with goodies from local community members, with all money raised going to bash cancer.

So now, faithful readers, my FIRST EVER GIVEAWAY! To kick off our adventure and celebrate our cause, I am going to provide one of our fancy upcoming concert t-shirts to ONE LUCKY WINNER.

I'll make it easy for you. All you have to do is leave a comment telling me your all-time favorite rock n' roll song from any era by FRIDAY FEBRUARY 12th. Then lean back in your chair and scream "LET'S BASH CANCER!!!" while throwing the devil horns followed by your best air guitar solo.

Hahaha, you look really badass when you do that. Do it again! I swear I'm not laughing at you. Ok. Leave a comment and I will use the randomizer and all that shizzle. I'll provide the winner (chosen Saturday morning) with the t-shirt of their choice in the size of their request.

Shirts availabe in unisex sizes S - XXL.
Or you may choose a women's style t-shirt (more fitted, shorter sleeves) in sizes S - XL, available only in white with your choice of picture.

Different fonts available for your choice

Want a different image? Check out more pics at the top of the blog under the "Meet the Band" tab.

Rock out with your socks out! Or, huh?

Want to help us bash cancer? If you would like to participate in our Cancer Bash, here are some ideas:
1. Come to the Cancer Bash! March 19, right here in lower Michigan. Tickets are $15 each and must be bought in advance, by March 1st. No young'uns here (because the audience should drink mightily before I play) - 21 and older only, please. Email me at ajmckay65@yahoo.com if you're in the area and would like to come.

2. Buy a t-shirt for $25. The t-shirts will up your sex appeal by hundreds of percents, I swear. As awesome as the t-shirts look, they are a gimmick, and if you would prefer, you could simply make a donation. Email me and I'll provide the information.

3. Have any unused items you want to donate to our silent auction? Any leftover Christmas presents you would like to regift? Or maybe you're crafty and you'd like to make something to donate that people might like to bid on? Email me and I'll tell you where to send it. All money from the auction goes to the fundraiser!

Meet the band . . . DisChord.
I may remain in this bathroom stall during our performance.

Rock on, blog world!

"Runaway"

2011-02-02T18:15:00.003-05:00

It seems I only get to blog anymore on snow days and weekends. Sheesh. So what the hell am I doing during the week that has me so busy? I'm so glad you asked, because I am really excited to tell you.

And? Get ready . . . because with this announcement comes my FIRST EVER GIVEAWAY!!!! (Insert sound of applause and excited screaming here.) (Ooh, I think that was just me clapping and screaming, sorry.)

But . . . I must give you a little back story first.  Stay with me. Did you just start to snore? Your attention span is about as long as my students'! Hey, I said there will be a GIVEAWAY (oh, I just screamed again!) here, so shut it and read on.

A few years ago, my dear friend and colleague in the coolest department at our school (Social Studies, aw yeah, where we are all either vegetarians or hippies or too young to know the difference) emailed me with an idea.  Erik plays guitar, took lessons for a while, and dedicates himself to regular practices with the goal of improving his skills. He's good, for real. He also likes to go head-to-head with 12-year-olds all over the world killing zombies on PS3. I hear he's pretty good at that too. See, teachers do actually have interests outside of school.

Erik and his wife, Jill, are huge heavy metal fans. They are also two of the best people I know -- generous and kind with enormous hearts and also really fun. They've seen Iron Maiden in concert more times than I can count on my fingers (Jill even has kick-ass Iron Maiden tattoos on each shoulder). They accompanied me and Bob to two Disturbed concerts (the first - and thankfully ONLY - concert we've attended where a full cup of tobacco spit was thrown in the air near us, splashing all over our clothes and my hair, and as disgusting as that was, it in no way ruined the experience of hearing Disturbed play live) (okay, maybe it ruined it just a little). Erik and Jill love all kinds of music though, including some old-school 80s jams.

So Erik emailed me one day with this idea. He knew I had some experience playing piano, so he suggested we play an old Bon Jovi song together, just for fun. I had to remind him of my limited experience with piano -- I'd taken lessons from the ages of 4 through 12, and then I quit because I wanted to spend more time on a competitive dance squad. A lot of good THAT did me. But I did have an old, out-of-tune piano in my house, and though I hadn't really played one in 20 years or so, I wanted to get back to it. He suggested we try Runaway because it's the most ridiculous song ever, and I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, that song is a perfect 80s song, all drama and synthesizer and cheese. I was totally up to the challenge, and we got to work.

Are your eyes drooping? Is that drool I see?? Stay with me! GIVEAWAY!

Once we surpised ourselves and realized we could actually play Runaway, we had the ridiculous inspiration to form a band. We asked one of the music teachers to play drums for us, and a business teacher, who was the only person brave enough to karaoke, joined in as our vocalist. We were a band! We were a joke. But we were a band!  Some of us were parents and actually rocked out in the 80s. Our band slogan became, "The kids are in bed . . . it's time to ROCK!" And a band this ridiculous needed an awesome name -- Nocturnal Mission.

Now that we were a band, we needed to buy an audience. We decided to throw a party so people would come hear us play. So we put together an 80s-themed costume shindig. We had a small playlist of 80s songs. I borrowed a keyboard. To make the band illusion more complete, we had a photoshoot and printed t-shirts, posters, and coffee mugs. We made a VH1-style rockumentary. We will go to any lengths to ~~make fools of ourselves~~ entertain.

But there was just one thing. None of us (except for maybe the music teacher drummer) were at all confident in our skills. We mostly sucked and we knew it. I mean, we're full of shit . . . but we're not delusional. So instead of playing alone as a band, we played along with the real music in the background. It was more like we were Bon Jovi's accompaniment. Whatever. We looked the part and we had a blast doing it. Fans came in ~~dozens~~ droves. We signed autographs. They even bought and wore our t-shirts. (It came as a shock to me when, earlier this year, a student of mine proudly wore our t-shirt to school. His dad is a teacher at our middle school . . . and also a fan. Although we're all teachers in this band of ours, we try to keep our work and music lives separate, lest anyone get the wrong idea -- that teachers have lives.)

WE are the teachers standing in front of your children.

We like to rock n' roll all night. And party every day.

This is what rock n' roll looks like. Or something.

Word spread of our (fake) talent, and fans began demanding another concert. We obliged - we're in it for the fans - and we learned another playlist of songs to accompany. I bought my own awesome keyboard, and Erik added to his guitar collection. We rented out a room in a local bar, and we threw a Homecoming celebration. Everyone knows Homecoming must have a theme, so we had a vote and went with a "Walk Like an Egyptian" theme. Our friends and fans dressed in their finest Homecoming attire, we had a dance-off, and we even crowned a Homecoming king and queen. I learned that I play best after exactly two strong rum-and-Cokes. Or was it three? I forget. Apparently I need a manager to remember these details for me. But our second show was every bit as much fun as the first time.

Making sweet music, or beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

One of my sisters and our brother-in-law won the dance-off. The dancing gene is strong in this family.

Keeping it real.

Bob's brother and sister-in-law -- an authentic Homecoming King!

Our fans are fancy and pretty in their Homecoming attire.

Like any rock n' roll band, we had our ups and downs. Fame comes at a price, you see. Our drummer became too busy to rock out with us, as music teachers have hectic extracurricular schedules. We took a long hiatus searching for inspiration. But our dedication to ~~make fools of ourselves~~ the music never really expired. We had to find a way to make a comeback. We'd had a taste of success as musicians -- the fans screaming our names, our faces on t-shirts, hot women taking their tops off (okay, that probably never happened, but it's my story, so play along) -- and we wanted more.

Erik and I, as founding members of the band, decided we wanted to really play. Our vocalist decided he wasn't really up for singing. So we formed a new band.

And I hate to be a tease (heheh, not really) . . . but you'll have to wait for Part II to hear about our new band and my FIRST EVER GIVEAWAY!!!!! (Now scream along with me so I don't feel lonely.)

"Fame"

2011-01-28T16:53:00.000-05:00

I am a ~~weiner~~ winner! No, really. Just ask SisterMerryHellish over at Inside Out & Backwards. She, being of sound mind (mostly), has bestowed a lovely award upon this here blog. For those of you non-bloggers out there, blog awards are powerful ego-building tools. An award from another blogger brings a certain head-rush as you see your name in print on someone else's excellent blog. Yes! you think, finally! Victory is MINE! Someone out there LURVES me!

This is the award I've earned after years of hard work. I've made room on my shelf for it and everything.

But it's a slippery slope once you're catapulted to fame. For a day, your blog stats shoot through the moon (my moon hangs really embarrassingly low, but I'm short so that's ok). You think you've finally made it big! People will say they knew you when, and all that. You wait for your name to be announced on major news networks. And then you wait for someone to contact you about a book deal. You suspect you'll at least read about yourself in your local newspaper. Then you wait less patiently for at least a couple of the high school newspaper kids to call for an interview. Finally, hope dissipates and you continue to shuffle around the house in your torn fat pants, hitting the boxed wine a little harder than usual. At least if you become an alcoholic, maybe you can get on Celebrity Rehab. Shit, except for that celebrity part. Don't they know who I am? I WON A BLOG AWARD. Maybe Dr. Phil? I'd settle for Jerry. I have dreams . . . but no standards.

Along with the fame of most blogging awards comes the Barbara Walters-esque acceptance interview, where the questions get all deep into your psyche and make you think about things. Everyone wants a piece of you when you're famous. And after the interview, you have to pass on the award to other deserving bloggers -- which is akin to choosing players for a team sport and stresses me out because I think everyone deserves a chance to play, and I hate competitive anything unless I'm really good at it.

So in case you miss this on a major tv network, here's my interview:

1. If you blog anonymously, are you happy doing this? If you aren’t anonymous, do you wish you’d started out anonymously, so that you could be anonymous now?
I wish I blogged anonymously. Unless of course I was making dough off my blog -- then I'd plaster my face everywhere. But I'd love to bitch about my school district and some other madness in my life, and I can't do that safely on this blog. Maybe one day, I'll recommend a really amazing (wink wink) anonymous blog you all should follow.

2. Describe an incident that shows your inner stubborn side.
I don't have a stubborn side, at all. I'll cave in an instant. Unless I'm right, and I usually am.

3. What do you see when you really look at yourself in the mirror?
The "before" image on a wrinkle cream infomercial.

4. What is your favorite summer cold drink?
Mojitos, baby! The lime! The mint! The I-don't-have-to-work-for-the-next-10-weeks! Please pass another.

5. When you take time for yourself, what do you do?
I dabble. I'm a dabbler. I've taken jewelry-making classes and painting classes. I mess with the piano. I read. I lay. I love all of these things, but I've only really mastered the laying.

6. Is there something that you still want to accomplish in life?
Two things immediately come to mind. I want my alpaca/lavender farm. Really and with my whole heart. And . . . I also want to play in a band that plays gigs. Gigs! Even if the gig is a crummy local bar. I want to put in the work, get over the nerves, and say I've done it. And I like to pretend I'm getting close to this goal. More on that soon!

7. When you attended school, were you the class clown, the class overachiever, the shy person or always ditching?
I am too lazy to be an overachiever, even though my grades were always stellar. I wouldn't say I was shy in school, but I was quiet. I didn't need to be the clown as long as I could watch someone else clowning. I observed the clowns and loved their foolishness, and I laughed equally as hard when they got busted. I never ditched school -- not even once. Damn, I'm embarrassed for myself. But I make up for it now, as a teacher.

8. If you closed your eyes and wanted to visualize a very poignant moment in your life, what would you see?
There goes Barbara! Trying to make me cry! Nice try, you old coot! *sniffles*

9. Is it easy to share your true self in your blog, or are you more comfortable writing posts about other people and events?
This is me. Parts of me remain hidden, I suppose, just as they do in real life. I am cautious by nature. I hold much of my ugliness close, pushed deep down into the far corners of my heart. But much of what's in my heart usually leaks out here.

10. If you had the choice to sit down and read a book or talk on the phone, which would you do and why?
READ. I hate talking on the phone. HATE IT. If you call, I may not answer. But I'll text ya right back. Give me a book any day. But please, also babysit my kids and dogs so I can actually sit down and enjoy it.

And now . . . I'll generously share my fame with two deserving bloggers. The award goes to . . . drumroll, please . . . . ah, shit, I can't do it. I can't single anyone out and make the rest of you feel like chumps! So YOU get an award! And YOU get an award! And YOU get an award! If you want to play along, take the award, answer the questions, and pass it on. I'm too busy getting ready for my own television network.

"Fame" by Irene Cara

"Pennies from Heaven"

2011-01-22T21:21:00.004-05:00

"Mom, I know where Boppa's soul is," my sweet-faced daughter said to me recently, her grin exposing her delicious dimple and her eyes sparkling with secrets.

"Oh yeah? Where is his soul?" I asked her, wondering what would come of this conversation. We recently began attending church regularly, which is feeling less odd and more comfortable to all of us. Maybe they've spoken of heaven in Sunday school?

"It's right here, in Fat Charlie," she said, picking up the odd little man-shaped tobacco container resting on the bookshelf in the den.

Fat Charlie -- the holder of my dad's soul? It could be.

I don't know when or where my dad found Fat Charlie. He may have been a gag gift from someone as impressed as we daughters all were at the remarkable likeness between Fat Charlie and our father. Dad was as rotund at various points in his life, balding in the same way, had the same mischievious eyes, long nose and moustache, and frequently smoked a pipe when I was young. Fat Charlie looks like a caricature of my dad. He was given a place of honor atop my dad's bedroom dresser for much of my life, filled with coins from Dad's pockets. When we kids needed a few dollars for pizza or snacks, we always ran to Fat Charlie. Sometimes Fat Charlie accompanied our mom for days in her car, paying for odds and ends.

Fat Charlie

That's me and my dad, circa 1992 (which explains my Fly Girl hair). Why yes, I am wearing a Sex Wax t-shirt . . . and also a gold cross around my neck. Because I love Jesus. And Sex Wax. My poor poor father.

Seymour with his pipe. Yes, my dad's name was Seymour. You got something to say about that? (flexing fists)

When our dad died, now three and a half years ago, Fat Charlie was one of his few possessions we eight daughters all secretly hoped to keep. One of my sisters started searching online, found several Fat Charlies on ebay, and purchased one for each of us. It turns out Fat Charlie is actually known as the Roly Poly Businessman and is dated 1979 by Bristol Ware, made as a replica of an antique tin. There are other similar Roly Poly tins in the collection, but none are quite as adorable as the Businessman.

"So his soul is in Fat Charlie?" I asked Emerson.

"Yeah . . . or maybe it's in that box at Taresa's house? What's that box about anyway?"

Man, my daughter doesn't forget a thing.

At the time of our dad's death, we daughters respected his wish to donate his body to the University of Michigan for research. He was suffering from the beginning stages of Alzheimer's, he loved and valued education, and he thought doctors might learn a thing or two studying him. He was also an enormous flirt, and he not-so-secretly hoped a beautiful female doctor might be the one studying him. I kind of wish I could have some details of his cadaver's experience (as Mary Roach documents in her book, Stiff, a great read), to know if it did in fact encounter a gorgeous doctor, which would make him very happy.

My kids both know because they've asked -- the remains of their grandfather's body are stored in a neat little box on my sister Taresa's bookshelf.

"Well, that box holds what's left of Boppa's body," I explained again to my five-year-old.

"Yeah, well, what I'm wondering," she pondered, "is what parts of his body are in that box? Like some fingers? Or his nose?" She wriggled her fingers in front of her eyes and mine.

Ack! I guess we never really explained cremation. Shit.

"No, his body was cremated?" I tried to explain delicately. "It was burned until all that was left was ashes? But only after he had been long dead and his soul had moved on." My God, this sounds awful. Three years, and it still sounds ridiculous.

"What are ashes?" Emerson continued with the damn questions.

"Like dust, like sand. Bodies turn back into dust eventually after they go in the ground. Cremation . . . speeds that process up. So that box holds the ashes of his body -- dust only, like powder. No pieces or parts. Any other questions?" I braced myself, hoping the investigation was over.

"Yeah, Mom?"

Arg! No! No more questions! "Uh huh?"

"When can I get a Snuggie? Please?? I really want one!" said my darling daughter, as she skipped away towards her Barbies.

Snuggies are every bit as important as the afterlife when you are five years old.

"Pennies from Heaven" by Louis Prima

"Can't Stop"

2011-01-18T08:05:00.003-05:00

It always starts as speculation, which builds and grows and changes into something palpable -- hope. The hope takes root and is vocalized often. "Did you hear? We may get a ton of snow on Monday!" "We're supposed to get some serious snow coming our way -- LATE in the night!" "I heard we're supposed to get freezing rain! The roads will be covered in ice!" The stalking of the weather channel begins.

I can't help it, I'm a sucker for hope and I let it build in my heart until I am almost (but not quite) planning on what I'll do if we have the good fortune of a snow day. I make promises to myself and to a higher power. If only we have a snow day . . . I'll be productive! I'll practice the piano! I'll exercise! I'll read! I'll paint! I'll make dog hair removal my mission! I'll get dinner going in the crock pot before noon! I'll play games with the children! I will be grateful all day! If only we have a snow day. I begin calling out to God and the universe, asking politely while trying to control the desperation, pleading ever so gently, whispering please.

But so as not to be stuck with pieces of my shattered heart mixed with chunks of angst and regret covered in a thick cloud of rage, I envision the school day ahead of me. I remind myself I can do it, I can march through another day at work. I can take it. I am strong. I shudder and set myself on a practical path, packing the kids' lunches the night before, making sure everyone has clean laundry, putting shoes and hats and gloves into backpacks. I only stay up a little bit later than normal so as not to tempt the fates.

When my husband wakes me in the morning, the first words out of my mouth are full of hope. "Any school closings?" He shakes his head. The weather forecasters seem to again be wrong . . . or maybe a pocket of clear weather opened up just above our city, allowing for good driving conditions here while the rest of the county is buried in snow or freezing rain. Curses. I press my nose to the window in the living room. Is that . . . is that ice gleaming in the street lights? I flip on the tv. One district on a two-hour delay and another nearby district closed. Hope, hope, plead, plead. But time isn't stopping. I jump in the shower and complete the necessary ablutions.

As I shuffle into the kitchen for breakfast, I stare at the tv again. A few more districts in our county are jumping on the closings. But not our district, not yet. The only thing worse than the sinking feeling that you must go to work is the knowledge that you're going to work while neighboring districts are not. I eat breakfast with a sour stomach.

But then . . . wait . . . more school districts are closing, all around us. We can't possibly be the only school district open in the county. Come on . . . come on . . . can it be? Has the tide shifted in my favor? Has the universe provided a gift? Is it??

SNOW DAY!!!!!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some promises to fulfill.

"Can't Stop" by Red Hot Chili Peppers

"The Cave"

2011-01-13T09:48:00.000-05:00

At this age, I would say I know myself really well. Most of my thoughts and actions fail to surprise me --even though they might shock the hell out of you. Ah, shit, I just put that last bit in for effect - I wish they would shock the hell out of you, but I'm ~~probably~~ certainly predictable. And boring. I'm sure you could guess with great accuracy what I'm donning on my side of the computer screen at this very moment. What's that you say? You think I have likely foregone any respectable clothing for fat pants and a comfortable hoodie, a glass of red wine in hand, while sitting criss-cross-applesauce on my computer chair? Haha! Well then, you lose. It's white wine tonight. Surprised you, didn't I? Exactly.

But I take comfort in knowing the ins and outs and ripples of my heart, the dark corners and hidden compartments, the wide bright spaces that sometimes illuminate a fine sprinkling of dust. And I generally have first-hand knowledge of what is going on inside of my head, Freud be damned. I am intimate with my deepest fears and my secret wishes. I hold hands with my likes and keep my dislikes at arm's length. There are a lot of likes, not so many dislikes. No surprises.

Until recently, when I discovered there was some banjo in my heart.

I know, it's creepy.

If anyone had ever suggested I listen to banjo music, I would have nodded politely while envisioning the sound a banjo would make smacked into their head. Seriously, banjo?? I hate country music. Notice I'm "a little bit rock n roll," NOT "a little bit country." But we have two shitty radio stations out here (don't get me started -- I love getting in the car and heading east where we can pick up some real radio as we near Ann Arbor and Detroit), and one kept playing that Mumford & Sons song, Little Lion Man (we're also about a decade behind everywhere else, so likely you've already heard all of their songs, and you already know all of what I'm about to tell you). I'm only ever in my car for 15 minutes at a time, but every time I was in the car, I heard that song. And I loved it.

My five-year-old daughter knows the music I hold in my heart better than anyone -- I think we may have the same soundtrack going on in there. And there's plenty of booty-shaking songs on that line-up, right next to the angsty hard rock, the emotional indie and alternative, the sweet blues, the classic Michael Jackson and 80s hair bands, and a little old-school rap and R&B. And the ABBA. There's no room for Hee Haw in here. As we drove home after school one day, Little Lion Man came on the radio again, and Emerson said, "Oh Mom, you are going to love this song. I just can't get that beat out of my head!" Me too, girl.

So I've been listening to Mumford & Sons and really digging their sound, even the banjo. Their music has such texture. Played directly into my heart through my ear buds, the galluping banjo has been carrying me away on top of their soulful lyrics:

Cause I have other things to fill my time / You take what is yours and I'll take mine / Now let me at the truth which will refresh my broken mind / So tie me to a post and block my ears / I can see widows and orphans through my tears / I know my call despite my faults and despite my growing fears / But I will hold on hope / And I won't let you choke / On the noose around your neck / And I'll find strength in pain / And I will change my ways / I'll know my name as it's called again (The Cave)

Weep for yourself, my man / You'll never be what is in your heart / Weep little lion man /You're not as brave as you were at the start / Rate yourself and rake yourself / Take all the courage you have left / Wasted on fixing all the problems / That you made in your own head (Little Lion Man)

The music has an epic build, fitting perfectly into the moments of my life, even if those moments are not epic but rather ordinary. They make me want to grab a pint at my local pub and sing along, only their local pub is probably full of fantastic Brits, where mine is full of the People of Walmart (I may shop at Aldi, but I draw the line at Walmart).

So give them a listen. Turn it up really loud and sing. Let it find the way to your soul too. I dare ya.

"Busted"

2011-01-10T06:23:00.000-05:00

It's good I never made "BLOG MORE FREQUENTLY" a New Year's resolution, huh? Because it done been broken already.

Pathetic fact of my life #1: Saturday grocery shopping with my husband is all too often the only date we get.

Pathetic fact of my life #2: We grocery shop at Aldi.

Do you have an Aldi near you? Ever been in one? We don't have a Costco in this small city (and if you mention Costco in my presence, my face turns red, I beat my head against a wall, and I whine in anguish, "NO COSTCO?!!!"). Costco is way too elite for our working class city, I guess. And Whole Foods or Trader Joe's? HA! A fantasy. Intsead, we have an Aldi, a dirty Walmart, a Meijer here and there, a Big Lots, and more dollar stores per capita than anywhere else in the universe. Probably.

The only big draw to Aldi is their admittedly low prices. And you all know my husband is pulled to low prices like meat-eaters to bacon.

Our local Aldi is a fascinating place, though I was hesitant to venture in at first. I don't like to be in new environments where I don't know what is expected of me, and Aldi has all these unwritten rules. Take the carts, for example. You can't just walk up to the carts and snag one quickly for your shopping adventure, nooooo. The carts are all chained together near the entrance, and to unchain one, you place a quarter into the slot on the cart. When you are finished with your cart, you chain it back up, and the chain pushes the quarter back into your sweaty little palm.

That quarter idea is pure genius. Every shopper returns their carts for that one quarter. Aldi does not pay some poor kid to shlep the carts from the cold and slushy parking lot, translating into much lower prices than the average grocery. But if you're new to Aldi, and you ask a kindly-looking older woman parked next to you if you might take her cart in the parking lot to save her the trouble of racking it? Look out, because granny will give you an icy glare as if you had instead asked her if you could borrow her dentures to give to your dog as a chew toy.

Another tip for shopping at Aldi (if your Aldi is like our Aldi): the shopping traffic flows in only one direction. The aisles are small, and there's virtually no turning back if you miss an item. If you arrive at the cash register and realize you have forgotten your Casa Mamita Queso Con Salsa, you're screwed for Taco Tuesdays. (Pathetic fact of my life #3: I love Casa Mamita Queso Con Salsa.)

Once you make it through the checkout line, which is forever long because the economy is tough and everyone now shops at Aldi, your groceries are not bagged. Instead, you bring your own bags (or buy them there) and bag them yourself at a bagging station. The bagging station is another brilliant idea in cutting costs, and reusing bags is environmentally friendly, so go Aldi.

But one of my favorite things about Aldi? The people. They provide plenty of entertainment for a Saturday shopping date. We can easily walk through a crowded Aldi and play our favorite game, "Carny or Local?" (though that's an awfully tough call in our town as it is). Many of the shoppers have teeth arranged in a lovely checkerboard pattern. This weekend, Bob and I had to muffle our laughter as a large woman in a leopard print moo-moo and leggings walked in and shouted in her I've-smoked-12-packs-of-Reds-a-day-since-I-was-10-don't-fuck-with-me voice, "OH MY SWEET JESUS!! THEY RAISED THE PRICE OF MILK AGAIN! SONOFABITCH, IT WAS JUST $1.70 LAST WEEK AND NOW IT'S $1.85!" I'm sure she still had plenty of dough for her cigs though. And maybe my favorite Aldi story was when Bob talked a friend into giving Aldi a try. On our friend's first trip through Aldi, a large woman farted right in front of him. And remember, you can't turn around? Heh heh heh.

All in the name of low prices. I should start a People of Aldi site. But shit, I shop there too. I am one of them.

I will say, though, Aldi always carries plenty of fresh Michigan produce for great prices. But they don't have a consistent selection of food products, so we always have to finish up our shopping elsewhere. We have to go to another store to get our real food, like fake meat for this vegetarian. You never really know what you'll find there. There's always plenty of palattes of canned foods and cooking staples, but there's not a lot of unprocessed options. And just as soon as you come to depend on their frozen teryaki stir-fry vegetables, they'll be taken off the shelves forever.

But . . . Bob swears it's cut our grocery bill in half. And our kids love the Honey Nut Crunch O's every bit as much as they love Honey Nut Cheerios (and the O's are $3 less!).

So if you haven't yet ventured into an Aldi, I double dare you to go check one out. If nothing else, call it a date and pick up some Casa Mamita Queso Con Salsa. You might want to bring your camera. It will be worth it.

"Busted" by Ray Charles

"The Game"

2011-01-04T21:40:00.002-05:00

Oh, the cursed Angry Birds. Not to be confused with the freaky dead birds falling from the sky. No, I'm talking about the Rovio Angry Birds game that you all are talking about already. I am always late for these trends.

I've never been much of a gamer. Once Playstation was created with the joysticks with all the buttons and do-hickeys? I knew my time playing video games was over. I mean, are they even called joysticks today? They look like the control panel for the next mission to Mars. Nintendo was as far as I made it as a gamer, to which I graduated after an appropriate amount of time building my skill level on Atari and ColecoVision. Thank God the Wii came along and made it safe for us old people to play video games again. Shoot.

But now I can play Angry Birds on my iPhone (also known as My Preciousssss). And the Angry Birds have hijacked any free time in my life. While I'm making dinner? Playing Angry Birds. While I'm watching tv?  Shooting Angry Birds. While I'm watching my kid at swim practice? Cursing Angry Birds under my breath. Those tiny pigs deserve to DIE! (says the vegetarian)

Recently, I was playing as I was cleaning up the kitchen. See, I can multitask too, just like all those other women out there. Sometimes. I set My Preciousssss down for just one moment, and when I reached to retrieve it, it was GONE. What? How? Huh?? I spent several minutes looking for it and anxiously questioning whether this was, in fact, the beginning of Old Timer's. I began to panic. I finally remembered I could call my phone from our land line.

I dialed my number, listening carefully for the sound of a vibrating phone around the house.

To my surprise, Bob answered. "Hello?" Relief deflated all the tension in my body, like air rushing out of a balloon.

"Hey, uh . . . what are you doing with my phone??"

"Playing Angry Birds," he replied.

"What? Man, I just set it down for a second. Wait a minute . . . where are you? Are you ON THE TOILET??"  As the obvious realization set in, my shoulders began migrating towards my ears again.

"Uh, yeah. So?"

And what he heard in reply was one very Angry Wife. If only I had a slingshot . . .

"The Game" by Disturbed

I would title this post, "Who Let the Dogs Out," but I just can't bring myself to do it.

2011-01-02T21:00:00.000-05:00

Did you all go out and party like rock stars Friday night? Tell me you did so I may live vicariously and then laugh at you for being so foolish.

My New Year's Eve was wonderful and odd all at the same time, as seems to be the theme of my life. Bob's brother Erik and Erik's wife Yvette came for the night with their two young foster boys (ages 17 months and 3 years) whom they are hoping to adopt if the universe works in their favor and the mother's parental rights are terminated. That sounds like a horrible thing to say - to wish for a mother to lose rights, I know - but Erik and Yvette are the best people ever ever. And these boys would bloom with their love in ways that otherwise wouldn't be possible. And that's all I can say about that for now.

So, four extra people at our house for a sleepover. Oh, plus their three dogs. And my niece Blair (age 6) and nephew Ben (age 9). And one more dog, my sister-in-law Jeni's Great Dane, Lucy, whom we were dogsitting while Jeni was away for the weekend.

Me and Lucy -- we are both petite for our breeds.

Are you counting? I'm not a math teacher, but if my calculations are correct, that totals an extra six humans and four dogs in our house, accompanying the four humans and two dogs and one cat and two fish whom already live here in a modest sized ranch. At one point, the delicate Lucy became disenchanted with our ruffian dogs, and she opted to find a quiet place away from them. I entered my room and found her snuggling in my bed. Have you ever walked into your room and found a Great Dane in your bed? I left her with a Snuggy, a cup of tea and a fashion magazine and backed away quietly.

So the count brings us to ten humans, six dogs, a cat, and two fish on New Year's Eve. And a partridge in a pear tree. Is this wonderful? Or is it odd? I can only say it was both. The people are some of the best people I know, and the dogs are amazing creatures in their own right. Of course the snow had melted into a pile of mud in our yard, and it was raining, which meant every time we released the dog party into our back yard, they were wet and muddy and extra excited to rejoin the humans.

We played Just Dance 2 (where Bob and Erik took home the Fancy Footwork Award for Viva Las Vegas, at least in my mind), watched movies, ate and ate some more. In fact, I've eaten so much over this holiday, I haven't actually felt hungry once. And don't you know I signed up for a weight loss challenge at work, because I am really really excellent at failure? I don't even think I'll be able to fit into my usual work clothes. Consider this a formal apology to my weight loss team. We're going to lose. Because of me - and the rum and the M&Ms, the cheesecake, the peanut butter bars - but mostly because of me.

On New Year's Eve, I noticed as I leaned to pet our lab, Roo, that he wasn't having it. As I gazed at his square head, his nose was clearly off center, with a large lump on one side of his mouth, and he was drooling ever so much more than normal. Of course. Because kids and dogs only get sick when 1) there's a party or some kind of event going on, and 2) there's no doctor available because it's a holiday. Damn dog. As much as he pisses us off with his barking, his bodily odor and his food addiction, the moment he seems vulnerable, we all begin to worry and fuss over him.

I called every vet in town and left messages at our regular vet's office, but it was New Year's Eve, so no place was open. The nearest emergency vet clinic is over 40 minutes away, and I had been enjoying a triple rum drink of some sort, a recipe sent straight from the gods and passed on through Yvette because she loves me. Luckily, our vet called me back from a Michigan State basketball game, listened carefully to the beast's symptoms, and suspected he had a tooth abscess. She suggested we start him on any extra antibiotics we had to get him through the weekend. And she called back on Saturday to see if he had improved, which he had greatly. I now adore this vet more than ever before, and I'm contemplating stalking her to show her my appreciation.

(And after reading this blog entry about her doggy vet holiday, I also think this is proof that Sister Merry Hellish and I are in fact long lost siblings. If she lived closer than Texas, we could have playdates with the dogs where they could build their weak immune systems by being exposed to each other's diseases. Besides the dogs, we also have other things in common. Namely our love of alpacas, Star Wars and people named Bob. See? Obviously sisters.)

Cheesecake and SpongeBob jammies -- all the best life has to offer

This much sugar is sure to keep me up to midnight!

How many dogs do you see here? It's hard to tell because we are racist when it comes to dogs and only adopt black or black and tan dogs.

The cat stayed hidden in the basement. Can't imagine why.

And so I have now recovered from our New Year's weekend, just in time to panic about returning to work on Monday. After two weeks off, I likely will not remember the names of my students. Shoot, at this point, I'm not even sure what subjects I teach anymore. Wish me luck.

"Don't Stop Believin'"

2010-12-31T01:07:00.000-05:00

I'm not really big on the whole New Year's resolutions thing. I think it's because I resolve things all year long, and then I quickly drop those resolutions when I realize a) I'm bad at the task, or b) it takes work or planning, or c) it requires me to get off the couch or computer. I've learned not to voice my resolutions because I know I'm going to fail even before I start, and at least if I don't tell anyone what I resolve, they can't roll their eyes when I give it up soon thereafter. Examples? I have plenty.

1. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to makeover my happy vegetarian self into a vegan. Yep, watch me, bitches." And I did. For exactly three weeks. And then for a few more weeks after my first lapse with dairy. And then even for a few more weeks after my next couple of run-ins with cheese and real chocolate. And now? I'm shoveling cheese, yogurt, and other dairy treats into my chocolate-lined piehole whenever I desire or all the time.

2. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to learn how to paint. Yes I am. Watch me, bitches." And I signed up for a paint class. I even went to the paint class, though it met late on Monday evenings, and I hate to leave the house, ever. I really enjoyed painting, and I left the Monday night class energized and relaxed at the same time. We were supposed to complete two paintings. Paint class is long over, and I have yet to complete my first painting. It's currently shoved in a drawer, where it sits near the cobwebs of my subconscious, reminding me of my failure.

3. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to sign up for some piano lessons. Really, I am. I'll call today. You wait and see. Bitches." I took piano lessons from the time I was four years old until I was twelve. And then I quit and didn't look at a piano again for the next 20 years. Now I'm trying to pull off playing the instrument like I know what I'm doing. It takes me hours to decipher sheet music. And all the basic scales, chords, keys? Clueless. So I did call, weeks ago. And I got an answering machine. And I haven't called back.

4. "Alright, dammit, this time I'm serious. Know what I'm going to do? I'm going to ~~lose these extra 15 lbs that are keeping me from being everything I want to be~~ eat healthier. For realz. I mean it this time. Heh heh, really." Uh, see #1 for reference to cheese and chocolate. Toss some rum and vodka in there as well, but with diet soda please, ooh yes and a lime. I need a serving of fruit today to balance out the French fries.

5. "Okay, it would be nice to earn a little extra cash writing for a website. I know, I'll try that Suite101 site. I've heard you can make some money there. I'm on it! I'm going to be writing day and night! I'm going to bring in the dough! Watch me be a writer, bitches." And I wrote a couple of articles. The end.

The list goes on, and it even includes alpacas. So New Year's resolutions? Nah, I have plenty of other ideas to work on. I do hope to blog more regularly in 2011 (but that's a wish, NOT a resolution, so suck it), purely for my own sanity.

But I do love a fresh start. I love that New Year's is all about beginnings. And 2011 already has the beginnings of greatness in place. Wait and see, bitches, wait and see.

"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey (For the record, I love this video. I am fascinated every time I imagine Steve Perry thinking about his wardrobe options and choosing that one. Perhaps Perry should have made a resolution regarding moose knuckles?)

"That's Not My Name"

2010-12-26T20:17:00.001-05:00

Hello! And welcome back to my blog. This is where I would like to insert a smiley face, but I shall refrain lest you think I am less than a serious writer. Because serious writers do not insert emoticons into their writings, right? God, it's so difficult for me to leave out emoticons. The way I use emoticons, you'd think I walk around grinning like an idiot and shooting winks from my hip with every other sentence. I need to get a grip.

And just so we're clear, I'm welcoming myself back to my blog, because I can't remember the last time I blogged. The last week has been a frenzy of shopping, wrapping, and visiting family, while also screaming at my children and shoving chocolate down my gob faster than you can say, "Ho Ho Ho!" In fact, while you just read, "Ho Ho Ho!" I shoved an entire chocolatey peanut buttery treat into my mouth and washed it down with a glass of Merlot.

Ahhh, Christmas break.

Merlot! I was going to write about wine! That's what I'm doing here at my blog. Ok. Maybe I should write this post after the dazzling effects of wine wear off. Eh. You've been forewarned. If you plan on reading the rest of this, you should know I'm a few glasses into this bottle my sister Jess gave me for Christmas.

This wine is so stinkin' perfect and cute, it demands a blog post. An unpaid, unsponsored blog post. (So you know it's good.)

My sister, Jess, being the generous sister that she is, bought the Michigan chapter of my sisters each a bottle of wine. If you three out-of-state sisters are reading this post, first of all, I love you and miss you and you should move home or at least come visit. And second, we shall be looking for the other bottles of wine to send to you. No, we did not drink them. Just listen.

Jess bought us each an adorable wine called Middle Sister Wine. That's fine enough, and I've only met a few wines I didn't like, so allow me a moment to toast to family and friends and the New Year and world peace while I enjoy this glass. But here's what is so magical about the Middle Sister Wine. Each flavor is a different sister. And I'll be damned if they don't fit me and my seven sisters perfectly and sweetly.

Jess' husband bought her the first bottle of Middle Sister, called Rebel Red. Besides being generous, Jess is exactly a rebel. In fact, for her birthday, I bought her a necklace charm that says simply, "REBEL."

Inspired by the first bottle, Jess found four more bottles. My sister Lee was awarded Mischief Maker (heeheehee). Taresa was affectionately given the Goodie Two-Shoes (the other sisters used to even sing the Adam Ant song to her). Missy took home Wicked White (while she was bragging about how she outbitched a customer at her work). And tonight I am proudly drinking the Forever Cool, because duh.

Excuse me while I pour another glass. Cheers!

Yummmmm. How did that peanut butter get in my glass?

The back of the Forever Cool bottle says,

The Age of Aquarius has come and gone, but some things never go out of style. Like flowers, peace, and a nice glass of Merlot. Let's take a moment to toast the sisters who march on to the beat of a different drummer. Nobody stays young forever. But you will always be forever cool. And for that, we salute you. Sip on!

I love it. And? When I opened the bottle, I discovered eight tiny women printed across the cork, just like the eight of us sisters. It's like it was made for us. (And they have a very cool website here.) Merry Christmas, sisters! And merry Christmas to you blog readers as well. I'm raising this glass for you, even if it causes me to later trip down the stairs.

So which Middle Sister are you? Or, if you are of the handsome male gender, which Middle Sister do you wish you were drinking tonight? And no, there is not a "Slutty Sister" wine. Though that's not a bad idea. It's just probably not one I'd give any of my sisters for Christmas.

"That's Not My Name" by the Ting Tings

"Ring My Bell"

2010-12-23T07:59:00.000-05:00

My sister brought Just Dance for the Wii over on Thanksgiving. Have you played it? The kids loved it. I wish I could lie and say I wasn't immediately drawn to it myself. Flashing lights, pumping music, and screen confirmation of how awesome you are? Oh yeah, it's all me. I had a little difficulty handing the remote over to my 8-year-old niece to try.

My sister left the game at my house that weekend too. Haha! Pretty soon, I was taking over the tv and Just Dance-ing every chance I had. Bob kept looking at me like I'd lost my mind. Emerson kept encouraging me though. "Mom, try this song! You'll love it. It has A LOT of booty shaking." She knows me so well.

And so it was that Aidan's young friend came over to play that weekend. And he just so happened to walk (and then quickly sprint) through the living room as I was really getting into the booty shaking song Emerson recommended for me. The poor kid caught me smacking my ass to Ring My Bell. I could tell from the look on his face his mom probably doesn't dance much?

Since then, Emerson starts her mornings with her "favorites" from Just Dance on Youtube. While you can't get confirmation of how awesome you are (as if I really need that), you can still follow the moves. After a cup of coffee, I might just bump her tiny ass out of the way so I have more room to move. Because ~~maybe I have a little something to prove after over a decade of dance lessons in my youth~~ I like to exercise. Watch out.

Under the guise of Christmas, I bought Just Dance for Emerson. I can't wait ~~for her~~ to open it.

"Ring My Bell" by Anita Ward

"Sick of You"

2010-12-18T21:30:00.001-05:00

Remember all my hormonal fussings and whinings a few weeks ago? If you say you don't remember, I will hug you and love you for all time. Because about a day after I wrote a blog post about potentially being menopausal, I kind of freaked out and realized I had just told the Internet (or both of you reading this) that I may be MENOPAUSAL. And then a part of me died inside. And then I cried for a few days because I'm 35 and MENOPAUSAL.

The endocrinologist's office called recently and said my doctor told them it was very important they see me as soon as possible (probably because I started sobbing about how awful I was feeling in his office, and the poor man didn't know what hit him). Instead of waiting three months, they squeezed me in on a Saturday. Today.

But not long after my menopausal Internet musings, I started feeling normal again. And while feeling normal is an enormous relief, it doesn't really provide any answers about what was going on with me. So. I saw the endocrinologist today. And now I have an actual diagnosis.

It seems I have Hashimoto's thyroiditis. I am rather surprised. I mean, I think I would remember sleeping with this Hashimoto, and how dare he leave me with this disease?!? Though forgetfulness is one of the symptoms, so I suppose it's possible. Time to look him up on Facebook. And when I find him, man, do I have a thing or two to say to him.

But at least I'm not menopausal. DO YOU HEAR THAT, INTERNET?? I'M STILL YOUNG AND HEALTHY AND FULL OF VIGOR! MY OVARIES ARE STILL KICKING! I'M IN THE PRIME OF MY LIFE! MY SKIN IS ~~SMOOTH AND SUPPLE~~ NOT OLD AND MY FACE EXUDES THE GLOW OF ~~YOUTH~~ RETIN-A PRODUCTS! Menopause be damned. I'm DECADES away from menopause, says I.

Actually, Hashimoto's seems right on and is a very common thyroid condition. With Hashimoto's thyroiditis, your body's immune system attacks the thyroid and eventually weakens it, causing hypothyroid symptoms. It often goes undiagnosed because the symptoms can come and go. It seems my thyroid issues in 2001 could certainly have been my first flare up, followed by years of normal function and a recent period of symptoms again. The symptoms can slowly get worse over time, and eventually treatment with thyroid hormone replacement may be necessary.

All of the symptoms I've had fit the diagnosis. Fatigue and drowsiness, forgetfulness, sore muscles and joints, depression, yes. And while I now HATE blogging about shitty health issues, I do think it's an issue that's important to bring to your attention (and not just because my ego craves your attention). I just figure I'm an average woman of average health with an average blog, and if it happened to me, it could happen to anyone. How many times do women explain away their fatigue or their moodiness on any number of womanly problems? Check yo thyroids, ladies. And if you feel like shit and your thyroid function is normal, know there still may be thyroid issues at work.

And for those men out there who were bravely able to continue reading after seeing the word MENOPAUSE -- if your special lady suddenly becomes abnormally bitchy, yelly, and cry-y for an extended period of time, bring them blankets and their favorite drink and rent them their favorite movies to watch in bed. Then suggest a little light reading about their thyroid when they feel up to it. DO NOT complain to them about ANYTHING regarding their unusual behavior.

And if you happen to see Hashimoto . . . tell him I'm looking for him.

"Sick of You" by Cake

"White Christmas"

2010-12-15T06:16:00.000-05:00

We had a snow day on Monday. HOORAY! A double miracle -- on a Monday AND on the week before winter vacation?? It was a gift sent straight from the God of Snow Days (we'll call him GSD). My kids slept with their pajamas on inside out, of course, as is the necessary traditional sacrifice for the GSD. Aidan even flushed a handful of ice cubes down the toilet too, just to be on the safe side. You never really know what the GSD is looking for on any given blustery day.

We made good use of it too. First, I cleaned an entire roll of shredded toilet paper off the floor. Aren't puppies cute?

Not my kind of White Christmas

Then Aidan was ready to make his favorite holiday treat to freeze and have ready for our family get-togethers. Baking is fine and everything, but these are SO simple and SO delicious that I don't mind when my kids demand them. And Aidan is old enough to oversee production. Perhaps the Christmas spirit has tagged me and I'm feeling generous, so I'll even share the "recipe" with you. Ready?

Step 1: Have your kids unwrap a bunch of Rolos after you've asked them 17 times if they've washed their hands. Bake them in the oven (the Rolos, not the kids) on a very low heat -- 200 degrees is our lowest setting on our oven -- for just a moment until they begin to soften.

Step 2: Using a fork, place the soft Rolos on a pretzel.

Step 3: Top with a pecan and squish. Try not to freak out on your kids as they lick their fingers each time a smidge of chocolate finds it's way there during the pecan placement. (Besides, they've both just completed medication for strep, so it's all fine, right?) Allow to cool (or who cares, just eat 'em now). Enjoy! Yum.

After the pretzel/Rolo/pecan wonder, we tried a new recipe we saw online for Oreo Truffles. Emerson calls them "shuffles." To make the shuffle, first get your kids hyped up on sugar (see above treat). Then let them wildly hit a bag of Oreos (or use the generic brand from Aldi if your husband is ~~a miser~~ price-conscious like mine) until the cookies turn to crumbs or one of the children begins to cry. Mix in 3 cups of crumbs with one package of cream cheese. Yell at children for whatever reason and huff loudly and tell them they're ungrateful. Form cookie mixture into small balls and cover in melted semi-sweet chocolate (also from Aldi). Place them in your fridge or on top of your car in the garage to set (the truffles, not the children).

The shuffles were a bit messier, and I don't know . . . this is really difficult for me to say so I'll just put it out there . . . I didn't love them. They were . . . again, this is tough to get out . . . but they were too rich? Dare I say too chocolatey? Is this even me typing these words right now? They needed something to cut the sweet. Like maybe some vodka. But my kids found them to be delicious. And I think they look rather like reindeer droppings, so they're super festive.

Now let the weight gain commence!

"White Christmas" by Snowden

"Scary Christmas"

2010-12-12T15:41:00.002-05:00

It's difficult to remember my life BC (Before Children). What the hell did I do with all that spare time I had? And where did the money go before I was sinking it into violin lessons, aquatic club, gymnastics and guitar? Or, you know what's ridiculously expensive with kids? SCHOOL PICTURES. Or ANY pictures not taken by you. And you have to buy them, because. Any parent knows you would be tortured with guilt for the rest of your child's life if you somehow ignored that one instance when someone other than you took your child's picture and you didn't buy it. Oh, the shame!

When Aidan's first Christmas came around, he was six months old. I knew the parenting law about having your child's picture taken with Santa. I mean, Aidan is my first child, but I wasn't a complete idiot about kids -- I already had dozens of nieces and nephews at this point. You get their picture taken with Santa, the end.

We waited in line at our crappy mall with other mothers and small children dressed in their finest -- boys in mini-tuxedos, girls with ribbons in their hair -- all eager for their shot at whispering their most treasured material wish into the jolly man's ear. I had dressed Aidan in this Santa suit someone had given us. He looked hilarious. Then it was his turn:

His expression clearly says, "Mom. What the F?? And? Thanks for the comb-over, asshole."

I bought it. There was no other choice. And it is rather adorable. I giggle every year when we bring it out with the Christmas ~~trash~~ decor.

That first photo with Santa should have been a clue for me. But I have a stubborn learning curve, and so the next year when Aidan was 18 months old, we tried again. Nevermind that we had driven five hours in the car on a trip to the Great Wolf Lodge in Traverse City (the same trip where we discovered that Aidan pukes after the first hour in the car and also every subsequent hour). Nevermind the fortune we were paying to stay at a waterpark with our toddler son. He HAD to have his picture taken with Santa. Nevermind that this Santa is the freakiest Santa we have ever seen. MUST. TAKE. PICTURE.

Aidan: "My parents hate me! HALP! They're giving me to this creeper with rouge on his cheeks!
Someone save me! HALP!!!"
Santa: "Hey, kid, better not kick me in the chestnuts!"

And that was it. Our last attempt at the great Santa photo. We still ask every year. Not because we hope for our kids to have their picture with Santa. No, we only ask as insurance against the future guilt trip they'll try to lay on us. And depending on our mood and their behavior, sometimes Bob and I will grin as we walk past Santa at the mall, and then we'll say, "Hey kids! Ready to have your pictures taken with Santa?" And then we'll laugh wickedly as we watch the panic cross their faces.

"Scary Christmas" from The Nightmare Before Christmas

"Go To Sleep"

2010-12-11T07:04:00.001-05:00

I have just returned from a torture chamber, the likes of which I cannot describe. Because I'm too hazy to describe it. But for you, I'll give it a shot.

Anyone out there have a sleep study before? Fun, no? NO. After complaining of fatigue to my doctor, he scheduled me for a sleep study to rule out sleep apnea or other sleep disorders. I wanted to laugh because usually I really excel at sleeping, but ok, I'll play along.

I arrived at the sleep clinic at my appointment time of 10:00 p.m. On a Friday night. Now, while you and I know I'm a rock star, I moonlight as a teacher and a mom so as not to reveal my secret rock star identity. So my Friday nights, though vividly interesting and wild in my mind, are usually spent dozing on the couch by 8 o'clock. Even as excited as I am for any glorious weekend ahead of me, the weight of the entire week sits upon my eyelids on Friday nights. I was ready to drift away by 7 but managed to force myself to stay awake until time for the appointment.

The woman working at the sleep clinic chatted pleasantly about Christmas shopping as she hooked me up to wires that ran the length of my shirt and pants and were taped to my calves to monitor leg movement. She spent some time gluing various electrodes to my head and sticking tiny breath monitors in my nose. Even as she was hooking me up, I was forcing my eyelids to remain open. I couldn't wait to get to sleep.

My strange bed partner

I crawled into bed, declined watching television, and began drifting off even while tethered by a dozen colorful wires. Suddenly a soccer ball was rushing to my face, and I jerked abruptly awake. Impressive, I thought, considering my mind would conjure a soccer ball when in my daily life I never see one. What would Freud say? Was it an unconscious fear of being labeled a soccer mom that influenced that particular dream image? Or could balls flying at my face possibly have any other meaning? I wondered if the woman watching the monitors was snickering like I do when my students start to doze in class and then violently twitch awake as they dream of falling off a cliff.

I didn't fall gently back to sleep as I hoped. Instead, I tossed and turned in limited movements for a distorted amount of time. I would sleep for a bit, and then wake fully, realize my surroundings, curse the wires, and eventually find sleep again. That unfortunate cycle repeated itself throughout the night. At one point, the woman brought me an extra blanket -- I assume she must have noticed me shivering or my body temperature dropping on the monitor.  By this time, I was becoming worried that I may actually have sleep apnea. Each time I awoke, I couldn't tell if it was because I had stopped breathing or not.

And then, at 5:30 a.m., she returned to wake me up and remove all of the tape and wires from my head, chest, and legs, and I was free to go home to wash all of the glue out of my hair.  My doctor should have my results in about a week. She gave no indication of whether I may have sleep apnea, though she did say it can be inherited and it can cause symptoms similar to the ones I had been experiencing -- from fatigue to depression to anxiety to weight gain. She also mentioned that they make some sleep masks with women in mind.

"Oh really?" I asked, wondering how they girl up a sleep mask. "Are they somehow cuter than the masks the men wear?"

"Yeah," she smiled. "They're pink."

Wonderful.  So now when I imagine a new nighttime ritual with me and Bob and our sleep masks, I shall envision mine in pink.

I'd rather dream of balls.

"Go To Sleep" by Radiohead