The Ratio of Failures

Did You Miss Me? I Miss You! And You, Over There? Not Missing You So Much!

2012-02-13T18:12:00.000-06:00

I've been a bad, bad blogger. Negligent in my duties. I've missed reading blogs and leaving comments. I get inspiration from all of you...don't go away, I'll be back.

This freelance stuff is kickin' my butt. I have thirty (yes, 30) 800-word articles to research and write by the end of the month.

I've wanted to post about lots of things, but the initial idea soon flies from head. Some of it is dark and depressing (mostly about The Boy's continual struggles at home) or whiny (simply because I feel like being a big sissy); I don't want to be known as a gloomy Gertrude, or a drama queen.

I've purchased a program to help me deal with my out-of-control kid, yet have no time to read it yet. I have a psychiatrist-imposed deadline; three weeks to come up with a plan for what happens to The Boy in crisis, or she won't see him anymore.

That would mean no drugs...that just cannot happen.

And the shrink is dropping The Boy's insurance in April, so if I don't switch to another plan, then she won't see him anyway.

So I either have to find a new psychiatrist (no easy feat, there aren't many) who takes his insurance, OR find a new pediatrician/family doctor who takes his insurance.

I know 16 is kinda old for a pediatrician, but do GPs really know anything about bipolar and Asperger's? Ahh, more stuff to figure out.

And I only have ten more days of my wifely vacation - and then The Mister will be laid off, and my eighteen months of nearly-perpetual slackerdom comes to an end.

I can only imagine how The Mister's constant presence will affect The Boy's attitude (scary for me to even think about).

Come on in, EXPECTATIONS. I can't say I've missed you. You and DOMESTIC RESPONSIBILITIES can just climb on my shoulders...damn, you're heavier than I remember. And you, CONFLICT - try to keep it down, will you?

Let's Be Inspiring, Shall We?

2012-02-06T08:19:00.002-06:00

Courtesy of peevee@ds, Creative Commons

I've decided that 2012 is The Year of Inspiration...and I've already declared it to be the Year of Mentoring.

Maybe it's because I'm in need of some advice and inspiration, like those days when I'm all "meh", and can't find something worth writing about. Or I need to hear some words of encouragement and advice to be my best, in all areas of my life.

Specifically, I think I need inspiration in my writing, and in my dealings with The Boy.

I think we all could use some inspiration from time to time. It's often helpful to get advice from someone who's been there.

“To know the road ahead, ask those coming back."

Chinese Proverb

Twitter can be a great place for inspiration. Short, concise, witty tweets on any manner of subjects. @TheCoffeeKlatch, which includes a site about topics for parents of children with special needs, had a TweetChat the other night asking what advice and tips for parents whose child had just received an Autism diagnosis.

I participated along with many others. Some of my tweets were heartfelt and hopeful; a few were humorous and/or snarky, because sometimes, using humor/snark is the only way to keep from having my own meltdown.

Here's a tweet I got from @CoffeeKlatch yesterday:

email me to be on my new show - Inspiring Special Needs Parents

When I read the tweet, I called The Mister to the computer. He needed to see this.

Me? Inspiring?

Most days, I feel like I just muddle through with The Boy. Once in a while, I feel like I have handled a situation pretty well. There's no instruction manual here, I just do what I can, in each situation. Sometimes it works - other times, not so much.

Per the request from Marianne@The Coffee Klatch, I sent an email, and am waiting to hear what's next.

Here's a link to Inspiring Special Needs Parents post on The Coffee Klatch.

To follow me on Twitter, follow @FlirtingwNormal.

What/who inspires you?

Eight is GREAT!

2012-02-02T08:34:00.000-06:00

Eight years ago today, in Punxatawney, PA, Phil popped out of his dark home and his shadow indicated six additional weeks of winter.

But Phil wasn't the only creature to pop out of a dark hole and see the light on Feb. 2, 2004:

Granddaughter Jordyn turns 8 today! She's skipping school and will spend some time at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique at Disney World so she can get her princess-y self dolled up. She doesn't know about the Boutique visit, only that she's going to the happiest place on Earth.

That's how I'd describe our house when they come to visit this June!

Shannon and family have a season pass to DW. Thanks, Florida-resident discount!

There was talk of blindfolding Jordyn until they walk to their destination, but I think that may be a bit extreme, not to mention weird.

In anticipation of the trip, Shannon and Aaron bought our little princess a Rapunzel dress.

Who knows? Maybe Jordyn will come home as a blonde with long, flowing locks!

But even without all the Disney pampering and paraphenalia, Jordyn will always be Grandma Kim's princess, for sure.

I better get myself dolled up in case she calls me to jet down to FL for a career-making photo shoot.

Now where did I put those bagpipes?

I Came Late to the Dance, And Didn't Know the Steps - Linda, Dave and Jack Taught Me to Do the Office Fandango

2012-01-30T22:38:00.000-06:00

I don't know where my head has been this month.

Well, maybe I do. I've been busy procrastinating with my freelance writing, and doing all the wifely/motherly/grandmotherly stuff I usually do.

But I darn near missed an important event for January.

An event that is so important that it deserves more than one month.

January 2012 is/was National Mentoring Month.

I know I've written before about this mother and this mother who showed me how I wanted to behave when I married and had children.

And in my professional life, I can name three mentors without any hesitation.

I really needed a work mentor. I came late to that dance; I was 30 before I had a full-time job. My confidence was in the crapper. I had spent all of my adult life up to that point as a mother, and didn't spend all that much time speaking to adults.

Then I met Linda.

My first boss.

My first mentor.

She took me under her wing (as did her husband, Dave). They nurtured me; I gained confidence with every small success that they noticed. After a time, I could recognize positive qualities in myself.

They helped me to shine. They helped me to smile, even when my life was difficult. I still showed up every day - I had a job to do.

And somehow in that office, wearing those ugly skirt/suit outfits, and with that horrendous perm - I found myself.

Then, we all found ourselves unpaid and unemployed. Still, they encouraged me. Dave set up an interview for me, and I ended up with a job in the San Diego area. I packed up the car and my girls and I began our new adventure. I had enough confidence to start over in a new place. Flying solo for the first time was scary...but because of Linda and Dave, I knew I would make it.

Here's something extra nice Linda said about me. Go ahead, read it - you'll begin to see why she's so special.

I learned lots. I found other jobs in other states. I made more money every time. We were no longer just surviving - we began to thrive.

Then The Boy was born, and I had to learn how to leave this precious baby with a sitter and go to work. At that time, it was the hardest thing I had ever done. I felt such guilt; I had stayed at home until after my girls were in elementary school, and here I was, putting my ten-week old son into someone else's arms so I could earn a living.

And we moved again. I eventually got a job in Northern Virginia. That's where I met Jack. CEO of the company, and my mentor (I always told him I was his TORMENTEE). He saw promise in me. He was very encouraging and is one of the nicest persons I've ever had the pleasure to know. He would actually bring his correspondence to me and ask me for suggestions on how to improve it before he sent it out. He trusted my instincts...little did he know I learned how to judge others' actions by watching him.

I learned how to treat others with respect, even if I didn't agree with their position on a subject. I wish everyone could work for a company like the one Jack ran. It was an incredible experience, and a blessing to me.

I played office cynic; I asked the tough questions in staff meetings that everyone else was afraid to ask.

I was unafraid. I felt safe and valued. But life stepped in, and I left that job.

Jack said he'd hold my position for one year, as he wanted me to return. He even invited me and The Boy to his 50th birthday extravaganza, and to the company picnic during that first year I was gone.

Jack's company suffered along with many other tech companies after September 11, but nobody lost their job. Everyone took a pay cut - even Jack, because he found value in all of his employees. And when things got better, their salaries increased.

IBM bought his company, and I told him that I hoped he made an obscene amount of cash in the transaction.

My mentors had such a significant effect on my life, in and out of the office. There is no way for me to ever repay them for their kindness and trust; for seeing the Kim that was inside me all along.

I would be happy if I could have that kind of impact on someone, for just one day.

Thank Your Mentor Day was January 26. Better late than never.

Thank you Linda, Dave and Jack. You have meant the world to me.

Who inspires YOU?

Who will YOU inspire today? This year?

Wouldn't this world be wonderful if we all made 2012 National Mentoring YEAR?

Lets, shall we?

To find out about National Mentoring Month, click here.

I As Victim

2012-01-30T00:01:00.000-06:00

I am the only one awake now. It is quiet. I sit here, holding a single sheet of paper and read the following:

You have certain judicial remedies for relief if you have been subjected to abuse.

Domestic "abuse" is a special statutory term that focuses on acts, attempts or threats by one "family or household member" against another.

I was pushed,my shoulders were grabbed and shaken, my arm was twisted and I was screamed at, directly into my ear (who knew that could hurt so much?).

Does it matter what set him off?

I feared that this day would occur - that The Boy would do me harm. My sister-in-law has been afraid of this for a long time.

I guess I've been in denial.

HE called the police from the neighbor's house and said that WE attempted to kill him.

I waited outside with The Boy, he told me that "I should look afraid" - so that The Mister would be arrested. The Mister never touched him. I never touched him.

I wondered if The Boy had moved from illness to evil with his lies.

I am the victim.

I did not press charges - it was surreal. It was sad. I'm not sure I did the right thing.

As victim, it was my decision.

My hand was shaking when I signed the police report.

The Boy helped me clean up glass shards - he had thrown a decorative dish across the room. The glass was spread through the living room, kitchen and hallway. I still haven't found the screwdriver he threw after he used it to slash a lampshade.

The police officer's shoes crunched on glass in the kitchen.

I just couldn't send The Boy to detention, he would not receive the care he needs.

He said that he doesn't deserve to live.

I do deserve to live. I crave peace.

The Mister doesn't agree with my decision - he fears that he'll come home and I'll be dead. I had to promise that I'd do what I need to do to stay safe.

Nobody should ever have to make that promise about their own child.

I don't know where to go from here, other than I want to never be in this position again.

Maybe the day has come that The Boy can't live here anymore.

My muscles ache, as does my heart. I am sad.

I was not afraid for myself while this was going on.

But I am afraid for him, and for his future...and I fear what would become of me if he has to be taken away.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop - 01-26-12 Storm

2012-01-26T07:49:00.000-06:00

Mama Kat inspired my poem this week with her prompt:

Write a poem about inspired by the word: Storm

White Matter

Snow swirling as the winds howled

Stranded vehicles littering the interstate

like Hot Wheels forgotten after play.

Roads thickened by ice,

driving on a wintry washboard;

A final Christmas celebration

in the house where I learned to tie my shoes.

Unshoveled sidewalk, icicles glistening in the sun -

she wouldn’t remember that we came.

Two days later, awakened from her nap,

questions gushed forth, like water from burst water mains

as the frigid temperatures continued.

“Did you just get here?”

“Where do you live now?”

“Is Shannon married? Does she have any kids?”

After she held that great-grandchild on her lap

Brain shrinking, like melting snowpiles

Hopeful as blades of grass poke up

White blanket diminishing,

Lucidity makes a brief appearance

as we prepare to drive home.

The sun reappears;

memories drip like icicles on the eaves

Family stories written in invisible ink

Working From Home is WORK

2012-01-24T00:06:00.002-06:00

Photo courtesy of tar0
Too clean to be MY desk

I'm doing freelance writing from home. It doesn't pay a bundle, but it's still better than zero.

I am a master procrastinator - I put off doing stuff until the very last minute. I tell myself that I love a deadline.

I'm full of crap.

I missed my first deadline of my twenty plus year professional writing career last week. If it happens again, I'm done. Canned. Kaput.

There is plenty of blame to go around. It's not all me...trust me on that.

Okay, it's mostly me.

Monday through Thursday, from 7:15 am until 3:30 pm, I am alone. It is quiet here. I should be able to crank out this stuff during the day.

Have I mentioned that in addition to being a procrastinator, I'm lazy? And easily distracted by bright, shiny objects like Facebook and Twitter? Oh, and I have email -ooohh, that looks like a good recipe!

Shame on me.

But it's not all my fault...it's genetics.

Have I mentioned that I have frequent bouts of insomnia? Yeah, sleep is optional around here...until I crash and fall into a coma-like state. I usually wake up by yelling The Boy's name, thinking that he didn't get on the bus.

The yelling usually occurs at about 1:00 in the afternoon...a full six hours after The Boy has left for school.

Anyway, I'll wake up all disoriented and drooling and really needing to pee.

After I take care of business, then I sit down to write. Before I know it, The Boy is home, and my solitude is gone.

Does he greet me warmly? Ask me if I've had a good day?

"Hey Mom, log me in!"

I've discovered that I have difficulty writing when he's home. He drinks...loudly. And he eats...loudly and often.

And then there's the "HEY MOM, LOOK AT THIS T-SHIRT I JUST FOUND ONLINE! IT'S THE BEST SHIRT EVER!"

I wish he'd take his headset off before speaking - he has no idea how LOUD he is.

Then it's, "HEY MOM, WHAT ARE YOU MAKING FOR DINNER? I'M HUNGRY!"

Or, "HEY MOM, LOOK AT WHAT I FOUND ONLINE ABOUT (insert his latest obsession)!"

This goes on until he goes to bed at 8pm. Then it's quiet again - but there are dishes to clean up and OMG, did you see what she just posted on Facebook?

I have a big question: Do any of you do your housework at work? Don't you go to work to get away from housework?

I can't imagine dropping the dirty laundry on The Mister's desk and asking him to get it done in the middle of his work day.

Something's wrong with this whole work FROM home setup. I still have work AT home!

But I digress. Have I mentioned that I'm easily distracted?

And don't even get me started about the anxiety that was created when The Boy's busmate had a pocketknife on the bus...or the number of phone calls I had to make after that went down.

Don't fret, nobody got hurt.

On Thursday, I clean enough to make it look like I didn't goof off constantly Monday through Thursday. I can't write much on Thursday.

I blame that on The Mister, and his insistence that we don't live in abject squalor.

The Mister comes home on Thursday evening at about 6:45pm after working out of town during the week. He eats dinner (that I have lovingly prepared, in lieu of writing). He gets his laptop out and sits oh, about eight feet from me and watches anime on Hulu.

It's in Japanese, with English subtitles.

Yet he still has the sound on...kinda loud. I get distracted by the characters speaking Japanese, and often think they are saying words in English.

Why doesn't he mute the sound? He likes the music.

See, how some of this is The Mister's fault?

I try again to write after he goes to bed (maybe about 10:30 pm). If Thursday wasn't a coma/nap day, I've been up since 5:45 am. I am tired - too tired to focus on writing.

I'm only human...don't let my super hero exterior fool you.

But I'm not too tired to play Bejeweled Blitz or Pet LLK on Facebook, or maybe watch some of my favorite TV shows online...

or write a blog post. Totally not my fault. The one site I need for research takes ten minutes to load. Stupid internet.

And there are still dishes to do and laundry to do.

And then, this past weekend? I spent Friday at a car dealership...and I missed my deadline.

Totally not my fault...again.

We also had Eli spend the night on Saturday. I sure couldn't write while I was driving to pick him up and bring him here.

Once here, he never stopped talking. He stayed up until 11:30 pm.

And I did neighbor Marcia's taxes because she needs the money pronto.

On Sunday, I finally lost my mind and freaked out a little bit.

I hate missing deadlines. I am ashamed.

I needed QUIET. But I had to yell to get it.

I sat down and focused on the task at hand.

I tell ya, it was painful.

But I'm happy to report that I'm pretty much back on track for this Wednesday's deadline. I'll finish everything today (Tuesday), since I have a meeting at school on Wednesday.

not my fault.

Tonight, I was assigned 20 additional articles to write by 2/1.

Yikes.

I promise to do better. I must keep on track; I must write every day, no matter what is going on, or who is yelling at me. It is crucial. We have a car to pay for now.

A car that I have no time to drive, because I'm writing.

The irony of that fact is not lost on me at all.

Saying Goodbye Should Always Be this Easy

2012-01-22T13:12:00.000-06:00

The Death Machine has left the driveway...permanently.

It never looked this good when I got it!

I cleaned out the car and threw away all the trash that had accumulated (most of it located where The Boy sits).

I lovingly patted the car bra that probably hid untold damage (I'd never removed it the entire time we owned the car); The Mister only drove it once or twice - said that it was a "girl car" because it wore a bra.

I drove the car to its final destination (The Mister followed, lest it not make it the 47 miles).

I waved at the car as we left the dealership. Bye bye, Taurus. Thanks for getting me most of the places I needed to go. It was real. It was fun. It just sometimes wasn't real fun.

Like the fact that we've spent three times your book value on repairs in the last three years. Good riddance, money pit.

I'm mobile again - in a safe, reliable vehicle - and when I say reliable, I really mean "under warranty").

It's not my dream car (I longed for the Alien Green Kia Soul, so ugly it was cute) - but that was not in the budget.

Isn't that charmingly ugly?

So I had to put on my granny panties and find a compromise vehicle - that had to both speak to me AND not send us to the poorhouse.

My new ride - 2010 Kia Optima

Pretty, isn't it?

I think the Optima is awesome in both regards - and what's more, even The Mister likes it.

It's Midnight Blue, which looks almost black. I imagine I'll walk right past it in parking lots, thinking it IS black.

Now I'll be able to venture beyond my neighborhood when necessary. I'll have A/C when it's hot and muggy this summer, and a working fuel gauge (so I no longer have to fill up every 200 miles to avoid running out of gas).

I can once again go to my writers' meeting on the last Saturday of the month (100 miles, round trip), and can drive The Boy to his appointments (70 miles, round trip) without having to justify the money spent on gas to The ~~Miser~~ Mister, or having to borrow a car during the week.

I won't have to wonder if today's trip will result in a breakdown of one of the many internal systems that are failing.

Since Friday, songs about hitting the road have been running through my head - what's YOUR favorite car song?

This Year, I Qualify for the Senior Discount at Denny's...and Not a Moment Too Soon!

2012-01-10T23:19:00.000-06:00

Linda O'Connell's post inspired today's poem. Go ahead, read her post first - it's way funnier than this stuff.

Oh, If I'd Only Purchased the Extended Warranty
My joints are sometimes creaky
my hip joint is the worst
My right knee aches,
my skin - it flakes,
I'm sure I must be cursed

My body's thermostat is broken
Oh, I'm hot! No, now I'm cold!
I turn down the heat
Then I've got cold feet
It's not easy getting old

My eyesight's going bonkers
These bifocals have lost their charm
Take 'em off to read,
but to type? There's a need
Maybe I should invest in longer arms

I dribble when I'm coughing
I trickle when I sneeze
A jumping jack?
Oh no, step back!
As wetness spreads down to my knees

I forget where I have put things
I can't find my keys, my coat
Some days I can't fathom
Library books? I know I had 'em!
And where's the grocery list I just wrote?

I make sure I know the location
of the restrooms when I shop
When I cough or sneeze,
it's my thighs I squeeze
'Fore the pee - it goes, plip plop!

So if you see me buying groceries
Squinting so I can see the price
Wave and give me a wide berth
'Cuz for what it's worth,
I'll be headed to the bathroom - twice!

Walking stiff-legged through the canned goods
And lurching past Aisles 9 and 10
My sights set on the goal
Yes, the store's bathroom bowl
Hoping I don't tinkle in my pants, my friend!

As more parts of me are failing,
and the age spots line my skin
I am sure that middle age is crap
And I'd like to give it such a slap
But that won't fix the fix I'm in.

I guess I am determined
to live with these minor flaws
What did you say, my dear?
Oh no, now I've got bum ears!
On my aging body, can I just press PAUSE?

Book Blurb Friday - 01/06/12

2012-01-05T23:41:00.000-06:00

Time for Book Blurb Friday! Today's inspiration is courtesy of Tammy Goodsell. Visit Lisa Ricard Claro at Writing in the Buff for the rules and take a gander at all of the great submissions.

Fields of White
by Hoyt Guignard

Rookie EMT Sarah Teasdale was Sumter’s newest, and most eager, city employee. For her first call, she was dispatched to the Macomber homestead after a hang up call to 911. The house, a lovely Greek Revival on the better side of town, sat silent, the front door ajar. Miss Macomber had been Sarah’s third grade teacher – from now on, Sarah would remember her as her first homicide victim.

After Miss Macomber retired from teaching, she became a recluse. Her well-manicured lawn was rarely walked on by anyone but the landscapers hired to tend the yard and rose gardens. Though her sidewalk hadn’t been shoveled, Sarah’s were the only footprints leading to or from the house.

Who killed Henrietta Macomber? How did they escape without leaving any tracks in the snow? Sheriff Cecil Fields, privy to the secrets of this small Southern town, was determined to find out.

Mr. De Mille, I'm Ready for My Closeup

2012-01-05T02:32:00.001-06:00

Today is Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop! The prompt I chose this week:

Your life is being turned into a movie...who will play your cast of characters?

What a timely prompt! I might as well let the cat out of the bag!

Coming soon to a theater near you, the harrowing yet heartwarming tale of Kim and her band of (not so) merry men!

Too Cheap to Pay a Decent Wage Productions presents...

Starring Kathy Bates as Kim,

Brian Dennehy as The Mister,

and Erik Per Sullivan (Dewey from Malcolm in the Middle fame) as The Boy.

Directed by Hambriento Peligro, ~~the guy who wanted to be the~~ director of Eating Raoul

These actors are perfectly cast for these roles.

If you've seen Kathy Bates in Misery, you know she can do batshit crazy like nobody's business. What better actress than she to portray my frequent mood swings? I bet she can stop The Boy's constant refrigerator raiding!

Just read her trademark (according to imdb.com):

"Often portrays kind-hearted or cold-hearted characters" - that means that she can handle my mood swings. Let me tell you, that's sayin' something.

Brian Dennehy has a take-charge attitude just like The Mister (not that it does him any good living here).

Dennehy's trademark, "Playing men of power who in addition to being corrupt, are just plain mean" (according to imdb.com), assures that he'll be able to play The Mister perfectly.

Erik per Sullivan was the delightfully wacky Dewey on 'Malcolm in the Middle'. Now if he can ratchet that wackiness up full-throttle, he should be able to portray The Boy in all his glory.

I just know it will be a blockbuster hit! In fact, in previews, here's what some reviewers have said about The Teenager Always Eats Twice:

"Bates has a field day with her role, creating a quirky, memorable object of hate."

"Horrifying tale with deserved Oscar performance by Kathy Bates."

"The darker tone, somber subtext, and generally non-exploitative violence allow viewers to enjoy the film not only as an action/thriller but as something with a degree of intelligence and substance."

"Even though it's rather corny and sentimental, this colourful comedy-drama holds our interest mainly because it's about a subject we'd never imagine watching a film about."

What's not to like? Get to your local theater to see why The Teenager Always Eats Twice!

Remember the Time I Visited a Psychic? Let's Check the Scoreboard, Shall We?

2012-01-04T02:28:00.000-06:00

Back in August, 2010, I attended my very first psychic reading. I've never really sat down and figured out how right or how wrong Reba was when she was flipping over those Tarot cards.

She did better than I imagined:

If Reba indicated a number for an event to occur (two [2], for example), that meant that it would occur in either two days, two weeks or two months.

Here's what Reba said:

I will get a job - and the number 8 (see what the number means, above, in bold).

FAIL/WIN. Eight months from August would have been April of 2011. I did start a short freelance job in July of 2011 (and am now doing a year-long project for the same person). So even though she got the month wrong, I did get a job.

The Mister will get a job - number 6.

WIN. The Mister started his contract job about six weeks after my visit. It was supposed to last three months. He's still doing the job; it's due to end February 29, 2012.

The name Terry will be important to me - number 5 (I have a brother and a nephew both named Terry).

WIN, I guess. I still have a brother and nephew named Terry.

We will buy furniture for a room.

FAILURE. We did not purchase any furniture.

The Mister and I are healthy...gee, guess I had no reason to worry about not having health insurance after all.

WIN. We're still relatively healthy.

I will attend one wedding in the next year.

FAILURE. No wedding invitations came for us.

A friend will get divorced in the next year.

WIN, if you can call a divorce a win. And in the case of our friend, yes, it was a big win.

I will get a different ring on my finger in the next year. I'm thinkin', of course, the engagement ring I never got, but that isn't happening without the jobs.

WIN, sort of. When my mother's house was sold, the new homeowner found a ring that my first husband and I bought her for Christmas decades ago. At my mother's funeral, a friend of the homeowner (and a former co-worker of my mom) brought the ring to the funeral home. I had the funeral director place it on my mom's finger.

We will take a car trip next year - I'm campaigning for Raleigh, NC and the Orlando, FL areas, to see my daughters and families.

WIN. We drove to PA to attend my mother's funeral. Not exactly the trip I had hoped for, but it was indeed a car trip.

Someone in the family is having a baby...AND IT'S A GIRL! News to arrive...number 3. Yay, more grandkids! Also, Tammy is supposed to have Irish twins...so more babies, baby!

WIN/FAIL. Tammy and Frank had Baby Russ in June of 2011. And they announced his impending arrival on Thanksgiving Day, but we were too dense to decode the "I'm the Big Brother" message on Seth's t-shirt without prompting. Reba was right on with her number 3 on that flip of the card, but got it totally wrong on the gender of the baby.

As far as the Irish twins are concerned - Tammy and Frank have not ruled out trying for a third child in the near future (this type of thinking happens when you have already given birth to two of the most good-natured babies in the history of mankind).

I'll Take 'The Boy's Future for 500, Reba
One of the questions I asked (after she pushed the cards around on the table, Go Fish style) after picking one of the cards...

What do you see in The Boy's future? I told her he's 15. No further info was given.

Reba's answer (or should I say, this is what the card indicated):

In two years, The Boy will figure out what he wants to do with his life.
THE JURY IS STILL OUT. Two years haven't gone by yet, perhaps he will know what he wants to do by this August.

He will have a 'morbid' (her word) profession: perhaps he'll get into forensics, or embalm bodies, or be the person to pick up dead bodies. He will get jobs making great money, and will someday be the director of a company.

Ya know, the dead don't care if you insult them, and they won't groan at The Boy's corny jokes...Reba may have something there!

IFFY. Here's The Boy with his new "friend" - it's not living, though he does pick up its body, and bring it to life (oh, doesn't that sound creepy?):

Jeff Muppetstein and The Boy

The two party poopers crashed at 10pm on New Year's Eve

Jeff whipping something up in the kitchen

Would you ever visit a psychic? And if you have, how accurate were the predictions?

And how can I get paid for playing with cards and making up stuff?

And do you think I can add Jeff as a dependent on our income taxes for 2011?

Visualize Whirled Peas...Or Something Like That

2012-01-03T13:09:00.000-06:00

On New Year's Day, Tammy brought Seth and baby Russ to our house to eat some Hoppin' John. I'd searched off and on for a recipe over the years; I used to eat Hoppin' John when I worked at an Air Force base hospital in SC.

It was my first time living in the South, and I had never eaten black-eyed peas before. I kinda fell in love with the dish.

I found a recipe that I thought was close to the flavors that I remembered.

Seth was not impressed by what he saw in his bowl. "Grandma, I want vegetables! I want peasandcorn!"

So being the big softie, I steamed up some peas and corn for Seth.

I tricked him to try a black-eyed pea or two by telling him they were special, just for New Year's Day, and he tried a few grains of rice...one grain and one black-eyed pea at a time. I copied what he ate - I'd put just one black-eyed pea and one grain of rice on my fork, and we'd both take a taste.

Then he got down to business with his peas and corn. While he was eating, he sneezed - bright green pea fragments ended up on the table.

And, through the magic of the human body, one bright green pea traveled from his mouth...

and ended up in his right nostril.

Funny how the throat and sinuses are connected like that.

It was kinda pretty, a shiny green pea visible from inside his nose. I'd heard of kids putting dried peas and beans (or toys) up their noses - but they used their fingers; all Seth did was sneeze, and voila!

This was better than watching David Copperfield make a building disappear, IMO.

You can find out how to get peas out of a toddler's nose here.

Again, Seth was not impressed. He wanted that pea out of there. The pea was blocking his nostril, and he sounded congested.

We sat at the table and discussed removal methods. The Mister shot down my suggestion to use tweezers, afraid that it might poke him (Have I told you how I hate it when he's right?).

Tammy said that it would not be a good idea to tell him to blow his nose because he usually inhales rather than exhales.

Nice to know that The Boy and Seth have something in common.

I wanted another look at that pea, just for curiosity's sake.

"Seth, turn your head toward me, and look up at the ceiling."

I ever so gently touched the right side of his nose. He quickly turned his head back...

and that pea rolled right out of his nostril and onto his shirt before it fell down to the floor!

It was pretty magical.

Afterward, I lamented that we didn't have a video camera during the expulsion of the seed of the Pisum Sativum.

When Seth went home, he kept telling his daddy, "The pea landed in Baby Russ' mouth!" (since Russ was on the floor in his infant seat).

Yuck.

That Seth is quite a kidder, just like his dad.

I swept up that pea later that night. It had lost its cylindrical shape and its bright green color...and most of its magic by then.

And the song I was humming when I swept?

Give Peas a Chance

And here's a picture of Seth playing Just Dance 3 on the Wii, none the worse for wear after his encounter with killer vegetables.

Adios, 2011...Don't Let the Door Hit Your Butt on the Way Out

2011-12-31T20:51:00.002-06:00

Creative Commons by Creativity103

Ahh, 2011, you're almost gone. Some people would say that you've worn out your welcome. I hate to admit it, but I've always been partial to even-numbered years, so I can't say that I'm not sorry to see you go.

“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.”
*Bill Vaughn*

I'll miss some of your fun...but am glad that I can put you behind me. We've had good times and bad; we welcomed baby Russ in June (here he is, ready to celebrate).

We also said goodbye to my mom in July.

The Boy had lots of success in school, but had a rough stretch of behavior and legal problems in September.

The Mister worked for the entire year (yay!) - but will find himself among the unemployed at the end of February, 2012.

Can you imagine how optimistic we'd all be if we held hands in one big circle and danced around a New Year Pole (if there were such a thing) and thought like this:

“Another fresh new year is here . . . Another year to live! To banish worry, doubt, and fear, To love and laugh and give! This bright new year is given me To live each day with zest . . . To daily grow and try to be My highest and my best! I have the opportunity Once more to right some wrongs, To pray for peace, to plant a tree, And sing more joyful songs!”
*William Arthur Ward*

Back to you, 2011: Face it, your weather containment skills were non-existent as the world had tornadoes and floods and snow and ice and droughts and the accompanying wildfires.

Let's hope 2012 is calmer, weather-wise.

Dictators were overthrown, Osama bin Laden and Gaddafi were killed, governments are in turmoil worldwide, and common sense and cooperation have been absent in our own Congress.

Civility has left the building. Let's try to get that back, 2012, okay?

2012, I know we haven't met yet, but I imagine we'll also have our ups and downs.

And since you're a Leap Year and all, we'll have 366 brand spankin' new opportunities for excellence!

I welcome you with hope and optimism.

Since I'm planning on writing more in the coming year (both in my personal writing, and in my freelance project), I thought I'd end with this quote:

“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day.”
Edith Lovejoy Pierce May you all find 2012 to be filled with love, joy and prosperity.

Book Blurb Friday - 12/30/11 Come On, Sit Down and Read a Spell

2011-12-30T09:15:00.000-06:00

Lisa Ricard Claro is hosting the final Book Blurb Friday of 2011 today. Kay Davies has supplied our book cover picture which is our inspiration. Just add up to 150 words, and you have an instant book blurb! Be sure to click the link for Lisa's blog to see all the submissions.

Porch Swings and Honeysuckle Wine
by Adrianna Govero

Mavis Detwiler was a statistic: fifty, unemployed, single and needing rescue. Mavis’ country cousin, Frieda Smithton, urges Mavis to visit her in Gobbler’s Gulch to forget about her problems. Eager to escape her situation, Mavis packs her bags and loads up the trunk of her Miata for the summer of her life.

Who knew that getting off the grid could cure what ails you?

Gobbler’s Gulch is the small town that time forgot. And its mix of folk, from friendly and eccentric to downright cantankerous, may make you wish you lived there. When Mavis meets Clint Speckman, the county’s only mortician – she stops dead in her tracks (which is one surefire way to get any man's attention).

Join Mavis as she learns about forgiveness, and the importance of forgiving herself, while swingin’ on the porch swing and sippin’ Frieda’s honeysuckle wine.

Eliminating the Bad Eggs - A Serious Discussion

2011-12-29T00:58:00.002-06:00

When you're the parent of a child with special needs, your one constant worry is how your child will be cared for after you're dead and gone.

Will anyone love him like I do? Will they be kind to him? Will they "get" him? Will he have a life of possibility, or be warehoused away from the rest of society?

I'll be 55 in a few months. The Boy will be 17; he has a lot more life left than I do. This worry about the quality of his life in the future occupies my mind all.the.time.

And the worst part about it? Realistically, I have no control over his future - it'll be up to him and whomever is acting as his advocate. With mental health budgets being slashed across the nation, I don't know what kind of services will be available to him when he's an adult.

Will he be able to live independently? We don't know that yet.
Will he be able to earn enough money to support himself? I dunno.
Will he seek out help and support? Will he take his medication?

Will he end up in prison? (That's the thought that plagues me most, especially after the recent macing and arrest adventure).

I guess I just need to count our blessings right now, and not fret about what we can't control.

I know I'm glad that we are living now - where we know more about the treatments and services that help the most (although there is a zillion things we don't know yet).

Here's some information that will keep you awake for nights on end.

See, there is a point to this post.

Eugenics is the study of hereditary improvement of the human race by controlled selective breeding.

I automatically think of Hitler, and how he killed mentally ill and physically disabled children and adults in his effort to create a master race.

But eugenics was also carried out in the United States, long before Hitler came to power in Europe.

If you were an inmate of a prison or mental asylum, (like the Pennsylvania Training School for Feeble-minded Children, for example) and were diagnosed with a mental illness or physical or mental challenge, or have a child or sibling who has one of these challenges, thank your lucky stars that you didn't live in the late nineteenth or early- to mid-twentieth centuries.

In the US, some 60,000 Americans (mostly female) were sterilized during that time. Compulsory sterilization was carried out in thirty-two states. To see how your state fared, click here.

California had the highest number of sterilizations at 20,108; Virginia performed sterilizations until 1979...whoa.

And the U.S. Supreme Court said it was okey dokey.

Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes said, in his written argument:

It is better for all the world, instead of waiting to execute degenerate offspring for crime, or to let them starve for their imbecility, society can prevent those who are manifestly unfit from continuing their kind.

At the time, it was believed that a "germ plasm" would be passed from one generation to the next, resulting in more feeble-minded offspring. So it was decided that it was a good idea to sterilize young girls, young women, and young men - to prevent them from procreating.

Thanks to prison and mental health reformers like Dorothea Dix, more progressive and humane ways of housing and treating the mentally ill and the incarcerated were enacted.

I am putting my faith in our health care system, governmental agencies and non-profit organizations to continue the strides that have been made in treatment, services and research.

May they never resort to thinking that the world would be better off without children with special needs. I can only hope that they'll treat my son like he was theirs.

Thank God we don't automatically eliminate the children who don't conform to the norm.

The past seventeen years would have been a lot less . Depending on the day, or the mood or the adventure, I could fill in the blank numerous ways.

I know it would have been a life filled with less love...and who wants that?

The impetus for this post was NPR. You are free to blame them for bumming you out.

Cautiously Optimistic - The Boy and the Absolute Magnificence

2011-12-27T08:57:00.001-06:00

Christmas came early this year.

And the spirit is still here.

We're into Day 10 of the Absolute Magnificence.

The Boy has transformed himself.

He hasn't yelled at me, not once. He hasn't insulted The Mister, which has been his automatic response for over three years of interactions.

He does chores without much complaint.

When his time is up on the computer, he actually logs out.

He's been downright pleasant to live with.

I was worried that the hullabaloo surrounding Christmas might cause him to have a meltdown.

He's been calm and cooperative. Pleasant, even.

Not.a.single.meltdown.among.the.wrapping.paper.and.tinsel.and.family.gathering.

Oh sure, he gobbled up the holiday trifle before Desiree could get some.

Baby steps, people. But it feels like giant steps in a game of 'Mother, May I' to me.

He had campaigned heavily among family members and asked for gift cards to ToysRUs.

He wanted this:

We were at ToysRUs Monday by 7am to snag the last Muppet WhatNot on the shelf.

Meet Jeff.

Note: The Boy did NOT name his Muppet WhatNot after his cousin Jeff. I guess he just liked the name. I thought he looked like a Zeke. I guess I'll have to get my own WhatNot to use the name.

Yesterday, he spent a lot of time in his room, getting the hang of manipulating Jeff's mouth and moving his arm rod. Working on his voice and his schtick.

We bought him a Wii and the game that he has coveted for nearly a year - Epic Mickey.

"I got everything I ever wanted."

I was reminded of these lines from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory:

Willy Wonka: But Charlie, don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted.
Charlie Bucket: What happened?
Willy Wonka: He lived happily ever after.

From Willy Wonka's mouth to God's ears.

Let the Absolute Magnificence continue.

My Face-to-Face Encounter with Santa

2011-12-24T22:12:00.001-06:00

Creative Commons, courtesy of Joseph Jayanth

I was seven the year my brother and I met Santa at our front door. We had no fireplace, so coming down the chimney was impossible.

Our mom woke us up from our sugarplum-enhanced dreams. "Quick, get up! Santa is here!"

We ran out of our bedrooms, clad in our new pajamas. Still groggy from sleep, we stumbled to the storm door and saw the red-suited man himself, standing on our stoop.

He turned toward the door and waved. His face was bathed in the glow of the Christmas lights my dad had strung along the roofline and the lights wrapped around the shrubs that fronted the house.

Eager to complete his scheduled deliveries, he had no time to stop and chat with us.

I couldn't believe our luck! We got to see the real deal Santa! He was clad in the finest red suit, and his beard was truly as white as the snow.

Our mom shepherded us back to our beds...and we stumbled right past the lighted Christmas tree in the living room - and never saw any of our presents that were already piled 'neath the tree.

Surprisingly, we both fell right back to sleep - but we remembered seeing Santa Claus when we awoke early Christmas morning. The half-empty glass of milk and missing cookies were additional proof that the jolly old elf had been to our house.

Years later, when my brother and I had left the innocence of childhood (and the magic of Christmas) behind, Mom told me that Mr. Dinatti, our neighbor from down the street, was the man inside the suit.

I'm sure she made that part up...she couldn't fool me - it was Santa waving at us that night, I'm sure of it, even to this day.

May all of you rediscover and retain the wonder and magic of Christmas this year.

Merry Christmas!

Do You Live in Spoiledtown During the Holidays?

2011-12-24T00:05:00.000-06:00

Courtesy of pmecologic, Creative Commons

A Spoiledtown Christmas

Christmas break’s no more, ‘tis Winter break

Their school is so PC

The kids rush home, and soon they moan,

“I’m bored! Nothing good’s on TV!”

The children wait for old St. Nick

To bring them loads of swag

“No clothes! No books! No stupid junk!”

The rotten children nag.

The tree is lit, the gifts are wrapped

The pile covers half the floor

Heard ‘round the town, on Christmas morn

“Is that all there is? I want MORE!”

“My iPhone’s broken!”, “This Xbox won’t work!”

Decorations have lost their sheen

Parents in debt, they have no cash

“No movie? Oh mom, you’re so mean!”

The needles drop upon the rug,

The Christmas tree has died

“We are so sad, no fun we’ve had”

The whining children cried.

A happy New Year in Spoiledtown

The parents grin with glee

The kids get dressed, and leave the house

In school from nine ‘til three!

86,400 Times a Day, You Could be Missing an Opportunity to be Grateful

2011-12-21T01:04:00.000-06:00

Have you ever met someone whose life is so wonderful that they can't help but tell you about it?

Their spouse is wonderful, their children are well-behaved and thriving. They love their job, their house, their car...their life positively rocks.

They glow with positive energy and thrum with optimism.

Doesn't that kind of person make you want to puke?

No?

Oh, maybe it's just me.

During this holiday season, those positive people can be a bit hard to take when you are having struggles just to get through each day. When small irritations grate on your nerves - when your temper gets the best of you.

It's hard not to let loose a verbal shitstorm of why they are full of it.

Oh, maybe that's just me again.

My life is good. It's not where I want it to be, but it sure could be worse.

I started thinking that I could use an adjustment in my attitude.

Then, I ran across this quote today:

God gave you a gift of 86,400 seconds today. Have you used one to say "thank you?" ~William A. Ward

It was an 'aha' moment.

It takes just one second to say 'Thank you'.

Are you grateful to the salesclerk who waits on you even though she's been on her feet for nine hours and she really needs to pee, but it's not time for her break? Do you greet her warmly and thank her when you've completed your transaction?

It only takes one second out of the 86,400 you have today.

Do you thank your children for picking up their toys? Or say "thanks" when they say "please" when they ask for something?

The seconds are ticking...don't wait.

Here's the biggie. Do you thank your spouse for going to work he/she doesn't like so that there's enough money (hopefully) to keep you all afloat? How about when they help to get dinner on the table even though they had a rough day at work and a bitch of a commute?

One.second.

And if you're the spouse that is working while your mate is at home watching the children and holding down the fort? Are you the least bit grateful for a clean kitchen floor or that pile of folded laundry that just appears like magic in your dresser drawers?

I figure that for every positive interaction we have each day, for every promise kept and obligation fulfilled, a thank you is in order.

Courtesy of hellojenuine, Creative Commons

Will you deliver that gift this holiday season?

Now I don't want you to go all Pollyanna on everyone - that would be disingenuous. Fake.

But try it my way, sometime during this weekend of Christmas.

You already know you should say 'Thank you', no matter how hideous the gift. Someone who cares about you went to the trouble of picking out a gift. Of course smile and you thank them...then you think about what closet it will fit in, or how soon you can re-gift it or sell it in a garage sale.

I'm talking about being grateful for the ordinary things...because they aren't that ordinary after all.

I'm talking myself into this as I write this post.

I know I need to work on my gratitude regarding all that The Mister does for us. I get to sit on my butt and under-perform in my domestic duties because he's out of town, working.

The bad news is that I'm much more likely to bitch about the ONE thing he didn't do (my way), rather than comment positively on any one of the FIVE things he did that were thoughtful.

I know he likes it when I compliment or thank him.

Words of Affirmation is one of his five Love Languages.

I'm much more likely to thank The Boy for every little thing he does.

It's all about expectations, methinks. I figure that The Mister is an adult, and he should know what needs to be done.

Silly me.

I'm considering this to be my social experiment.

During this holiday weekend, when I'm sure we'll have periods of joy as well as periods of stress, I'm going to remember to take one second to say 'Thank you'.

I'm betting it has positive repercussions.

No guarantees, of course.

Will you join me in this experiment?

Will you focus on the good things that happen all the time in your life, and show some gratitude? A smile, a word of thanks, a pat on the shoulder. Show that you are appreciative.

This could change the whole way we look at the phrase "it'll only take a second".

Can I count on you?

Would you let me know how it works for you?

No pressure, honest.

I realize I'd be remiss if I didn't add my sincere thanks to all of you who read and comment on my blog.

Thank you. Without you, I'd be sitting here writing to myself and wondering if anyone cared.

Because of you, I know.

Thank you.

There is no such thing as gratitude unexpressed. If it is unexpressed, it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude. ~Robert Brault

Why I Moved the Christmas Tree Today...Meddling, Masturbation and Muppets

2011-12-20T15:14:00.001-06:00

Before the move

I've been pissed off since last night. Happy effin' holidays.

This afternoon, I grabbed the artificial tree at its metal trunk and ever so gently wiggled it foot to the right. Not one ornament broke.

True, the tree's not centered in front of the window anymore, but apparently, it was too far left of center when we put it up.

Want to know how I found out?

Last night:

Ring, ring.
"Hello?"

"Hi, Kim. Were you home all night tonight?"

"Hi, Marcia. We didn't go anywhere...why?"

"Well, I got a phone call from Jessie (one of the teenaged girls who live next to us)".

These are the same girls who thought it would be fun to get all affectionate with The Boy so he'd do what they wanted. He thought he was in love. Theirs was the door he pounded on the day he went totally out of control and ended up getting arrested.

Back to the conversation...
"She wanted to know where The Boy's parents were. She said that she and her sisters saw The Boy..."

Here's where I'll edit the conversation to make it PG-rated. My changes are in italics.

"He was sitting at the computer, with a headset on, and he was um, practicing self-love."

"What time was this? I've been sitting in the same room with him the whole time (except when I put clothes in the dryer)."

"Oh, about an hour ago (which would have made it 6:20 pm)."

"Oh, at 6:20, I told him he had ten minutes to finish his game of Toontown and get in the shower."

"I could check the time Jessie called if I hang up. Kim, they said they could see him from their deck."

"Marcia, he wouldn't do that with me in the same room! He even closes the bathroom door when he puts on deodorant! He doesn't even walk around here shirtless! And he had his new Muppets fleece draped on his lap. There's no way!"

There's no way he'd defile his beloved Muppets fleece, which he wouldn't even let me turn into a no-sew blanket.

"Well, Jessie said she didn't want her sisters watching that, so she made them go inside. Her grandma came out on the deck to smoke, but she didn't look through the window."

Tree from outside the window, before the move

The Boy was very upset that they'd accuse him of that. He shut the blinds and vehemently denied it.

I don't think he did it either. That would be so gross. But I asked anyway.

"Mom, I haven't done that in a long time."

"Boy, I don't care if you do that, but it's a private thing, you need to do that in your room, with the door closed."

"Mom, I haven't done that in the living room since you installed the porn blocker. "

"Good thing I did. Don't ever do that in the living room again."

And I never do it anymore, because I don't have any sexy pictures to look at. And I can't do it - you're always wanting me for something. You never let me alone."

So it's my fault that he can't experiment.

Tonight, both blinds will be open.

Bet those girls can't see The Boy now...but they'll be able to see me, sitting not more than seven feet or so from The Boy, just like I do every night.

Finally, Medical Science Has Proven that My Laziness is a Sign of Mental Health

2011-12-19T00:10:00.000-06:00

There are times where I feel compelled to write - that there are words that MUST be put onto paper. Usually, these words take the form of a poem (typically angst-driven).

Extremely prolific writers may actually have had a condition called hypergraphia.

And all along, I thought they were just far less lazy than I am - but no, they were sick in the head.

Somehow, that makes me feel better about myself and my penchant for procrastination.

You can read more about hypergraphia here.

And an example of angst-driven poetry I recently felt compelled to write:

Midwestern Melancholia Amid the Twelve Days of Christmas

The wind picked up today

trash and brown oak leaves rushing against the chain link fence

like tweens at a Justin Bieber concert,

Eager to see their adolescent Adonis.

The winter holidays, but a week away.

The neighbor’s inflatable Santa and Mrs. Claus, festive through the night

Have lost their luster in the light of the day

Now laying dormant on the ground, mounds of red and white

Fallen soldiers in the war on Christmas.

A single strand of lights ‘round the kitchen window still shine

Weakened by the sun’s own light.

I wonder how I’ve come to be here, now, in this place

As the cat mews from the roof, unable to get down

An accounting of the sum total of decisions made in haste

And repented in leisure

Looking for that exit ramp, or that ladder

(in the case of the cat)

From which to make our escape.

Saturday Centus - 12/17/11 Ripped from the Imaginary Headlines

2011-12-17T22:45:00.000-06:00

Jenny Matlock is at it again! Another picture prompt, and in the spirit of Christmas, our word count is 50% OFF TODAY!

Holiday Celebration Marred by Violence; Meat to Blame
AP, Phoenix
Fifteen PETA protestors jumped to their deaths from the balcony of the Phoenix Hilton when they saw the food that had been laid out in the Mesa Conference Room for Wilson's Furs annual employee Christmas Party.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop - 12/15/11 The Meal Not Wanting to be Eaten

2011-12-14T21:37:00.001-06:00

The prompt I chose this week:

Describe your least favorite meal growing up.

Everyone loves a good steak, right?

Not when it's really liver. Take my word on that.

My brother and I spent lots of time with our grandparents. They lived through the Great Depression. They rinsed out plastic bags and reused them. They caught rainwater in barrels and used the water for the outside flowers.

They lived "waste not, want not" every day of their lives.

When the garden's bounty of vegetables was ripe for picking, we went to work. We'd sit under the toby tree (really it was a catalpa tree - sometimes named toby for the long, cigar-like seed pods it produces). That tree provided the most shade while we snapped beans or shucked corn in the hot summer sun. My grandparents worked together to blanch and freeze the beans and corn. If the crop was plentiful, they could forget about buying them in the store for an entire year.

My grandparents bought groceries only once a month. During the summer, Greg and I went with them. My grandmother would push the cart. She'd see some food she liked and throw it in; my grandfather would check the price and put the item back. Somehow, they managed to end up with a cartful of food that satisfied both her tastebuds and his wallet.

I pretty much ignored them until they got to the meat counter. If I saw a white plastic deli container being placed into the cart, I knew we were going to have "steak" for supper.

My grandfather cooked most of the meals during the week. In fact, he did most of the housework, other than laundry.

I've been looking for a husband like that my entire life...and The Mister shows real promise at times.

But I digress.

Have you ever really looked at liver? It's an INTERNAL ORGAN, FOR GOD'S SAKE (oh, how I wanted to say that back then!) - but I knew better than to be disrespectful.

It's a blood-red slab of meat, shiny and slimy looking. My grandfather would dredge it in flour and then fry it with some onions and a big 'ole dollop of Crisco.

Are your arteries hardening just imagining that?

Have you ever smelled liver and onions frying in a cast iron skillet?

The scent of the iron-rich blood of the beef combines with the iron in the skillet. Added to the stench is the greasy scent of Crisco sizzling and melting. The smell of onions turning at first translucent, then browning in the oil adds to the overall aroma of doom.

My grandfather would smile while cooking, and would repeatedly ask us if we were ready for steak.

"Grandpap, that's not steak -that's LIVER!"

"And you'll eat it, too...or get nothing."

Supper was served at about 4pm on those summer days. There were no after-dinner snacks. The kitchen was closed. Period. No alternate meal was ever cooked. If you didn't like what was served, you didn't eat...until breakfast the next morning. And really, NOT eating was NOT an option. If the plate was set before you, you ate what was given.

The dreaded main dish was usually served with mashed potatoes and a vegetable, or a dandelion salad (picked from the yard) with a warm bacon dressing.

Hannibal Lecter was wrong - Fava beans and a nice Chianti couldn't improve this meal.

The liver tasted awful. But I choked down my "steak" each and every time it was served. I'd sit at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table and eat every bite of my supper. And I WAS grateful for it, really.

I just wished he didn't feel like he had to lie to us about it. We weren't dumb, we knew it was liver.

I almost cried when my first husband told me he liked liver and onions.

I bought that vile organ meat and grimacing, dredged it in flour. I cut the onions into rings. And I cooked it for him, the same way Grandpap cooked it for me.

I cooked it exactly ONCE. Obligation fulfilled. Check THAT wifely duty off the list.

But there was no way in Hell that I was going to eat any of it.

I like my steak to be steak. Medium rare, if you please. I like to see the pink middle - and make sure it isn't that solid, brownish-grayish crap they call liver.

I Am Certain I Will Die During This Cold and Flu Season

2011-12-13T22:13:00.001-06:00

Courtesy of ghindo - Creative Commons

And it will most likely be by my own hand.

I'm not physically ill...yet. Unless you count nausea that's induced by listening to the sounds emanating from The Boy (who is across the room from me).

Let me give you a descriptive sample (but without the sounds):

Long, snot-inhaling sniff
two seconds pass

Loud, maniacal laughter

Note: All laughter of this type is due to viewing inappropriate, yet humorous, internet content. If he ventures into 'dirty old man heheheh' laughter, he's most likely viewing porn.

one second passes
Loud, open-mouthed cough

What happened to coughing into the crook of your arm?

two seconds pass
Two snot-inhaling sniffs
Snicker, loud guffaw

four seconds pass - now, in quick succession
Gulping from swallowing twelve ounces of soda in a millisecond
Grunting from pain from soda burning throat
Two ear-splitting burps
Three snot-inhaling sniffs (I was so tempted to write this to the melody of the '12 Days of Christmas'!)
Chortle
One open-mouthed cough
Loud, uproarious laughter

Repeat sequence (except for the soda, it's gone)

It's a good thing we don't own firearms.

This 'concert' will play on a loop from 3:30 pm until 8:00 pm weekdays, and will be on 24/7 on weekends.

Dear God, please let this be some quirky thing; let him be well enough to go to school tomorrow.

What do you think will kill me first - the insanity, or the germs wafting through the air?

I considered throwing the box of Kleenex at him (you know, merely as a cue); instead, I told him I'd make him dinner AFTER he blew his nose. He made a feeble attempt and returned to his usual sniffing a minute or so later.

Do you think it's possible to mask the taste of Nyquil in hamburgers?

Bedtime update: I hooked him up with his own box of Kleenes, cough medicine and a cool mist humidifier.

First, he spilled half the humidifier water in his room (glug, glug glug), when he attempted to place the unit on the floor. Lucky for us, it was on the oh-so-very-uneven mountain of dirty laundry, and not the carpet.

He's asleep and not coughing or sniffing, thankyouJesus.

Guess who's doing laundry tonight?

Defensive Food Storage and Ingestion - Or How I Live With the Bottomless Pit

2011-12-13T00:01:00.004-06:00

On Twitter, I've been reading all of the posts from #youmightbeanautismparentif. Many of them describe the particular (and peculiar) eating habits of their children on the autism spectrum.

I read about how their child will only eat chicken nuggets and applesauce; others only like food of a particular color, or texture.

I want to trade their children with The Boy for just one day, and then we can discuss which problem is more aggravating.

Sure, he's picky about some stuff. The only vegetables he eats are peas. He abhors pasta of all shapes and sizes. Macaroni and cheese never crosses his lips.

Apples, cherries and grapes are the only fruit he'll eat.

Despite these limitations, The Boy is a bottomless pit. He eats cereal (sure, he's picky about what kind, and he never uses milk) - but he eats it out of a quart-sized bowl. And it's full. That's about six to eight servings of cereal for breakfast.

He often has a pre-breakfast meal. He'll get up at 4 or 5 AM and eat whatever tasty leftovers are in the fridge - or eat one third of a dessert I had prepared for a Christmas party. He helped make the dessert, and knew that it was for the party last Saturday (that he was also attending); that wasn't enough to stop him from digging in.

Last year, he ate three batches of Christmas cookies in two days - including cookies I had made for a cookie exchange.

If I don't monitor his school lunch preparation activities, he'll put half a pound of lunch meat on a single sandwich.

He has a lactose-intolerance issue, but that doesn't prevent him from taking his new favorite food - cheese - and melting a bowlful of shredded cheddar to eat. But don't ask him to eat a slice of cold cheese because it's gross.

He can eat a large pizza by himself in a single setting. If he uses utensils when he eats, sparks fly, because he eats almost at the speed of light. A dinner plate filled with food is downed in about fifteen seconds.

He doesn't really chew - he inhales and swallows loudly.

You'd think he'd be full after these mega meals...you'd be wrong. He eats so fast that fifteen minutes after finishing dinner, he complains that he hasn't had dinner yet (but it often sounds like "Get in the kitchen, woman, and cook me something to eat").

If I go to the bathroom, I hear him running to find more to eat.

I've started eating dinner when I'm not hungry, just so there is some food for me to eat. I'll gorge on something I like because I'll never get more than what I sample in my initial attempt.

The Mister loves a food bargain, and often buys things in bulk. Many times, that bulk is now attached to The Boy's body. He has a muffin top, and the beginnings of a beer gut.

We hide food - and he finds it and gets rid of it for us.

In addition to food, he can drink a 2-liter bottle of soda in minutes. The last time I ventured into his bedroom (oh, what a scary place THAT is), I picked up TEN empty 2-liter soda bottles. Another favorite trash heap is the crevices of the sofa (great for candy wrappers), and under the sofa.

I assume his digestive system is made of some space-age material that can handle the large quantities of food and drink.

I shudder to think what a potential girlfriend will think of his atrocious eating habits (and hope that she doesn't leave the table for the bathroom and return to an empty plate).

He's about 5'11" and weighs over 200 pounds right now. If he's ever able to live on his own, there's no way his income would be able to pay for food and living expenses. Maybe then, he'll learn to cut back.

Or he'll come home to mom for a home-cooked meal - and slip me some Ex-Lax so I'll be forced to leave my post as kitchen guard.

Of course, by then, he'll probably weigh 400 pounds, so that should slow him down some.

Succinctly Yours - 12/12/11

2011-12-12T06:39:00.000-06:00

Grandma's Goulash hosts Succinctly Yours every Monday, giving us an opportunity to fashion 140-character microfiction from a photo. In addition, she provides an optional key word (appearing below, in bold text) to add a wrinkle to the endeavor.

Key Findings

Despite being diligent in their search, the Cleary family neglected to find their house keys after attending Snowapalooza.

Neglected Needs Analysis

Though diligent in their efforts, the entire Cubetronic sales team, now dejected, was unsuccessful in selling their icemakers to Eskimos.

Saturday Centus - 12/10/11 Not As Advertised

2011-12-12T00:26:00.001-06:00

Jenny Matlock has returned to her senses - she's back to a normal prompt (appearing below, in bold text); the word limit has been restored to a respectable 100.

Oh, still no smut, but all in all, a welcome reprieve from the craziness she's displayed in recent weeks!

Unfortunately, I am resistant to change (or maybe I'm just plain disobedient) - I could not get my entry down to the 100 word limit...and I'm not one bit sorry for it.

Okay, maybe I'm a wee bit sorry...but I'm not changing a single word!

Ch-ch-ch Changes!

George was desperately trying to line up a date for New Year's Eve. Ah, Danielle Forrester! We had been Prom King and Queen in 2006 – right before we broke up.

Yes! I'll give Danielle a call. Mom said that she had moved back in with her folks to recover from some cosmetic surgery. Wow, I wonder if she got that nose fixed. What a honker!

Danielle answered on the second ring.

"Hello, Danielle? This is George. Merry Christmas! How have you been?"

"Hello, George." Danielle's voice sounded huskier - George hoped she didn't have a cold. "Why are you calling me?"

Hearing the curt tone in her voice, George said, “Come on, Danielle, it doesn't have to be that way. I was hoping we could get together over the holidays."

"No, George. I can't. And, George? I'm Daniel now."

George dropped the phone with a clunk.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop - Point/Counterpoint: Snow

2011-12-07T23:22:00.001-06:00

I'm honored to make Mama Kat's short list of favorites from last week. Thanks, Mama Kat! Please check out all the great responses to the writing prompts.

The Writer's Workshop prompt I chose this week:

Write a poem about a snow memory.

Disobedient to the core, I've written two poems which help to illustrate my love/hate relationship with the fluffy white stuff that falls from the sky.

Quiet During the Storm
Miniscule flakes, softly falling
Everything they touch turned white as cotton.
I stand outside, chilled, my hair damp from the glistening crystals
Marveling at the silence.
Sounds muffled, cars parked
Families ensconced in their domiciles, safe.

The silence is broken only by the approach of the plow truck,
That single reminder of the busyness of modern life.
Children's dreams filled with hope of the snow day that will greet them when they wake,
Parents gaze at the news reports, anxious about commutes and childcare.
Time seems to slow, anticipation building
While the world is bundled in Winter's blanket.

My reverie is disturbed by the ringing of the phone,
Alerting me that there will be no school tomorrow.
Sighing, I rise from my chair to search for the solace of hot chocolate and silence.

WTF, Old Man Winter?
Sure, it looks pretty, the first inch or two
Driving in the white stuff will make a man of you
You'll be cursing like a sailor, and praying like a nun
While cars and buses slide down hills - and uphill, tires have spun

The sidewalk still needs cleaning
The driveway is all white
My lips are chapped, my back aches bad
I'll be shoveling here all night

When I finally reach the mailbox
And my shovel hits the street
I start to grin, I think "I win!"
"Hey Mom, the weatherman says two FEET!"

A blizzard is upon us,
we have no need to fear
We're warm inside, we have TV
The fridge is stocked with beer

The shoveling marathon continues
My boots will never dry
When the temperature drops, and ice pellets plop
I shake my fist and cry

The branches, they all glitter
As ice falls from the sky
Transformers pop as limbs fall down
Dark and cold, we just might die

Another week of snow days
Where the kids can drive me nuts
We're cold and hungry, we're on edge
I want to kick their little butts

Snowplow's scrapings have blocked our driveway
Snow wall is six feet high
We live with mud, we deal with slush
Parking lot piles stay 'til July

I should have moved to Texas
I should have moved where it is warm
Four seasons have their beauty
But this shit's lost its charm

"Hey Mother Nature, kiss my ass
And Old Man Winter, too!
I think six months of winter sucks!
I'm moving south - eff YOU!"

Red Writing Hood - 12/7/11 - The Doorbell

2011-12-07T03:18:00.000-06:00

This week's assignment:

We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.

The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”

The middle is up to you, and the entire thing should be under 300 words.

Familial Obligation - Check

The doorbell rang – Westminster chimes breaking the silence. I could imagine Mary composing herself as she approached. She’d managed to display her ‘happy to see you’ expression upon opening the door.

“Merry Christmas, come in!” Translation: Come in, but don’t let those brats of yours touch any of these priceless antiques.

“Merry Christmas, I replied. How are you tonight?” A bit tipsy?

I hoped dinner was ready to be put on the table, so we could get this evening over and done with. I mean, I love my brother, and I tolerate his wife, but the stress of containing two active preschoolers in House Beautiful is more ‘Fa la la la la’ than I can stand.

Gary was sitting in the parlor, watching The Golf Channel on his gigantic TV. He had a nice fire going in the woodstove; this was the only room in the house that looked lived-in (not that I’d been invited into the rooms upstairs; I assumed they were also filled with treasures from estate sales). Mary should have been born in the 19^th century, and her wardrobe matched the era. All she needed was a bonnet and she’d have been right at home at a WCTU meeting – except that she’d have a buzz on, unlike the other teetotalers.

Dinner was as bland and unimaginative, like always. We exchanged pleasantries, like acquaintances who meet on the street after a long absence. After twenty-five years of these get-togethers, Mary still remained a stranger to me.

After dinner, we returned to the parlor, and Gary turned on the news. Lucky for us, the meteorologist described slick travel conditions. We thanked Mary and Gary for their hospitality, and hurriedly got dressed to face the inclement weather.

Now free, the children clapped as snow began to fall.

When The Mister Says Dumb Stuff: Childbirth

2011-12-05T07:51:00.000-06:00

The first time I met The Mister in person (we met online), he said, and I quote, "I say dumb stuff all the time."

Prophetic, that.

I may just have to turn this into a regular blog feature, because the man comes up with some doozies.

The other night, while lying in bed, we were talking about, of all things, childbirth.

Oh, don't fret. My eggs have left the building, so to speak. There will not be the pitterpat of little feet here, unless the grandkids come for a visit.

We were talking about the pain associated with pregnancy and childbirth - specifically about that magical time spent in labor and delivery.

A truly special, unforgettable event, no?

Based on my explanation of how childbirth feels, I attempted to explain the pain involved.

The Mister said, "I am sure it hurts, but not as much as you women make it out to be."

He may have also said something about women being sissies (but that could have been another conversation) - like he said, he says dumb stuff all the time.

He quoted something from Bill Cosby about grabbing your lower lip and pulling it over your head.

You know, the usual crap men spout when bitching about how women play up this whole pain thing.

Would any of you want The Mister's work address or phone number so you could "discuss" this issue?

I'm sure he wouldn't mind.

Then I got to thinking what life would be like if MEN had the babies.

Cue the dream sequence music.

Deliveries would never occur during major sporting events, the NFL draft or the day that Transformers movies were released.

Painkillers would be administered the moment the man-mother enters the hospital.

It would suddenly become manly to scream and cry in pain.

Father's Day would be a month-long celebration of the bravery and goodness that men-mothers possess. Medals would be dispensed for each man-mother, and if twins were born, the formerly laboring father would be the recipient of invitations to the Playboy mansion as well as a shopping spree at Home Depot or the local car dealership.

Governments would insist that men stay home with their children - at full pay and benefits - until the kids are ready to go to school. And all men would be issued perky-breasted au pairs to assist in the childbearing activities.

Health insurance would include benefits for tummy tucks and breast lifts to get the men-mothers back in shape.

Stretchmarks would become badges of courage. People magazine would insist that its '50 Sexiest Men' issue feature only the bravest of the childbearers.

What do YOU think would happen if men did the pregnancy thing?

How much ya wanna bet that women would still get to change the stinky diapers?

Sweet Sixteen - Saturday Centus 12/03/11

2011-12-03T07:40:00.000-06:00

It's obvious that Jenny Matlock is feeling nostalgic for her misspent youth. She's wanting to know what we were like at the ripe old age of 16.

THE PROMPT THIS WEEK IS THEMED ALL AROUND THE NUMBER SIXTEEN!
WORD COUNT - Not to exceed 16 words and please write about when you were sixteen.
STYLE OF WRITING - Autobiographical
ADDITIONAL PICTURES IF YOU LIKE!

Lies
When I was sixteen
I knew all the answers...and Nixon was "not a crook".

Book Blurb Friday - 12/02/11

2011-12-02T04:24:00.001-06:00

Lisa Ricard Claro, still Writing in the Buff, is hopefully rested up from the rigors of NaNoWriMo. Today, she is back at the helm of Book Blurb Friday.

Because I am just naturally disobedient, I decided to do TWO blurbs today.

Our pictorial inspiration is from Sandra Davies of Lines of Communication.

Driven to the Drink
by Henry Morgan, Captain, USN, Ret.

It all started on the Aloha deck. A band of happy tourists offered an off-duty Captain Henry Morgan a rum and Coke. Previously a teetotaler, the captain found that he had a taste for alcohol. Soon he was belly to the bar every time his shift ended. At port of calls, he smuggled liters of rum into his quarters; even when he was on duty, he was in an alcoholic-induced haze.

It was smooth sailing for Henry – until the night he was discovered sleeping it off in one of the cruise ship’s lifeboats – when he should have been at the helm. Now hopelessly lost at sea, Captain Morgan literally needed to get his bearings and set his ship, and his life, on the right course.

Henry Morgan’s story of determination upon the high seas will float your boat! - Gavin McLeod

I’ll never drink a Margarita again! - Jimmy Buffett

Murder at the Marina
by May Day

It’s not unusual for Oakhaven Yacht Club members to host lavish dinner parties on their boats while local fisherman watch from their dinghies. Catered affairs complete with string quartets enable the guests to indulge in all manner of food, drink and illicit drugs. It’s common knowledge that the yacht club is a prime location for gamblers, drug smugglers and other ne’er-do-wells.

When a wealthy socialite shows up dead at Oakhaven Marina, her death is ruled as an accidental drowning. The investigation changes course when a yacht is found drifting seaward, and harbor police discover several dead bodies aboard.

Were the deaths simply a case of overindulgence, or something more sinister? Read as Detective Polney unravels the secrets of Oakhaven’s elite, and sifts through the motivations and jealousies held by all who work and play on Crystal Bay.

The Time I Had an Exit Strategy

2011-11-30T23:05:00.001-06:00

The prompt I chose this week: What did you go through in order to get out?

When you're in a bad marriage, you just want it to end.

At least I did.

After twenty months of matrimonial chaos, I was ready to call it quits. My husband was clueless as to my desires - I'm not even sure he cared. He was glad that he could stay home all day and neglect The Boy while I was out earning a paycheck.

His days were filled with letting The Boy stay in his PJs all day and letting him cry in his crib while HE was napping and eating and making messes...and looking for women online.

Apparently, I was a bitch (that's what one woman told me).

Seems he WAS paying attention after all.

The whole soliciting women for sex online was the straw that broke this camel's back.

I spoke to my oldest stepson who told me that his dad beat his mom with a baseball bat when she attempted to leave - and he did it in front of the children.

Not wanting to be a victim of his rage (and not wanting my two-year old to witness a beating), I had to carefully plan my exit.

After work, I stared looking at apartments closer to my job.

At home, in the evenings, I organized "my" stuff. I rearranged bookshelves so that all of my books were in one section. I packed non-seasonal clothing into a suitcase in the closet. In a fake attempt to organize the kitchen, I suggested that I pack up "my" dishes, since they were taking up too much space.

I had one big problem - he didn't work. He was home all the time. How was I going to safely leave with The Boy?

Medical science came to my rescue. My husband wanted to have a gastric bypass operation in lieu of trying diet and exercise. His doctor scheduled some tests at a local hospital, so I had a date to work with.

I found an apartment and a daycare. I scheduled a moving truck. A couple of guys I worked with volunteered to drive the truck and help me load/unload.

We knew we had a small window of opportunity. The day of the tests, I drove my husband to the hospital. I rushed home and called my co-workers.

While I was waiting for them to arrive with the truck, I started throwing stuff in boxes and Hefty bags.

When they showed up, we moved into high gear and loaded the truck with the bare essentials. I left most of the furniture behind. I took only what The Boy and I absolutely needed.

We had the majority of the stuff packed in two and a half hours. When we were finishing up, the phone rang. I shushed the guys and answered.

My husband's testing was completed, he was ready to be picked up. I couldn't get him in my car - it was filled with our clothes.

I yelled, "Oh no! The Boy just spilled a pitcher of tea. I gotta go!"...and hung up the phone.

I then took said phone off the wall and put it in a box, and we left.

My husband waited for me. And waited...for five hours.

He had no cash. He bummed some money from people at the hospital and rode the bus home.

When he came in, he saw that things were gone. He actually called the police at this point. The officer came in and said, "It looks like your wife left you."

Sure did, Officer.

I don't recommend this approach. It was one of the most stressful things that I've ever done.

But a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do.

Lock Up Your Unmentionables! A Laundry Crime Spree is Taking Place!

2011-11-30T06:39:00.000-06:00

Something strange is happening here, specifically to The Boy.

I always considered myself a light sleeper, but a nefarious stranger must be entering our home at night.

Jeans that fit last month are too tight and too short.

Single socks are littered along the hallway and scattered in the living room.

Long sleeve shirts? Missing in action.

Jeans, too. Gone. Every morning, The Boy gets dressed and comes into the living room in shorts - even when there is frost on the windshield, like this morning. He swears that there are no long pants in the laundry basket or in the dresser.

He insists that no dirty clothes are in his room.

I've done all the laundry, there are no jeans languishing in the washer or dryer.

Who would take The Boy's jeans? Who is altering the hems and/or stealing laundry and leaving socks behind as evidence of the theft?

The culprits?

The Boy's bedroom is eating clothes.

I'm too afraid to enter, lest I come out in just my birthday suit.

The Boy's eating habits are making his pants too tight.

And the socks?

The cat has some Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb fixation, as she finds single socks to mark her path from litter box to living room.

We apparently need a Clapper to home in on the location of The Boy's clothes, a lock on the refrigerator to ensure that said clothes fit, and lead weights in all the socks to prevent the cat from picking them up in her teeth.

I think it's time for The Boy to do his own laundry - but I fear he'd just go to school in his swim shorts in the middle of a snowstorm.

I'm going into The Boy's room today - if I don't post in the next three days, send help...and a nice bathrobe. I'll be the naked one shivering in the corner.

If You Grew Up in Western Pennsylvania, Family Life Sounded Like This

2011-11-29T00:01:00.003-06:00

Western Pennsylvanians have their own dialect called 'Pittsburghese'.

I posted before how I unlearned my Pittsburghese in favor of English (people used to laugh at me in other parts of this great land).

During the holiday season, I find I may wax nostalgic for home.

Thanks to YouTube, now I can sit in MO and get a slice o' Pittsburgh:

Meet Pittsburgh Dad:

There's something about basement pop that causes Dad to mean business:

Nothing like a Pittsburgh family Thanksgiving:

Now I think I'll redd up da haus and have me a snicksnak and an arn. It's cole tonight, it's a good night to stay in. If it freezes, da roads may git slippy.

Translation to normal English:
Now I think I'll clean the house and have me a snack and an Iron City beer. It's cold tonight, it's a good night to stay in. If it freezes, the roads may get slippery.

Do you have a dialect from your neck o' the woods? Care to share?

I Met the Mother of All Mothers...and I Don't Mean That in a Good Way

2011-11-28T00:01:00.002-06:00

There have only been a few times in my life when I've felt sorry for children I've known (other than my own).

The other night I met the queen of know-it-all mothers.

I wanted to smack the smug look off her face.

She has an infant son, one month old. He's her first child - and at twenty years of age, she knows everything there is to know about childcare.

"Everyone wants to hold him, he's going to get spoiled."
"He is just crying for attention - I'm going to let him cry."

She props up a bottle with a pillow - because she doesn't think he needs to be held so much.

She doesn't wash, let alone sterilize, bottles. She rinses the old one out and refills it with formula.

While I was there, she fed him until he spit up, then wondered why he was hungry an hour or so later. She didn't feed him again, even though he was putting his fist in his mouth and crying.

In lieu of burping him, she sort of bounced him on her leg while he cried.

She's twenty, and if my neighbor Marcia hadn't taken her in for this weekend, they'd be homeless.

She had been staying with her boyfriend and his mom - the boyfriend who is one of two guys in the running for baby daddy. The maybe grandma couldn't stand having her in their home anymore. Mom lets the baby cry for hours (apparently, it's good for him).

Last night, when mom was holding him, she said, "Well, your infant days are over now."

She's already thinking about feeding him solid food, because she thinks he takes too many bottles.

I bet she expects him to feed himself, too.

I'm not a violent person, nor have I ever wanted to kidnap a child - but I wanted to last night.

This girl's mother wants nothing to do with her - or her baby.

She won't listen to anybody - she knows more than them, and is packing quite an attitude.

I had to come home to de-stress after my visit.

Baby Chase is a lovely little boy, I hope he turns out okay.

The Opinion Not Given

2011-11-27T00:30:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, I wrote about my pre-haircut anxiety.

And Josh at Kink Salon was a good guy. Not the least bit scary.

But he did tell me about a phone call he got about whether he offered alternative lifestyle hair services.

See, I'm not the only one who thought the name Kink sounded, well, kinky.

And no, he won't do a shave with a straight razor, no matter how much the customer asks.

And he isn't into doing a cut on a submissive who's dominant has forced them to come in for a haircut.

And no, he doesn't have "themed" capes - was the caller looking for leather or vinyl, or something like a straitjacket? Nice and snug and restraining?

Then I told him about Spanksgiving - I bet they Googled it after I left.

Anyway, Josh did his magic on my hair.

The deed has been done; the locks have been shorn (thank God).

I hated my hair...but not today.

The Mister likes me with long hair. I think he would be happiest if I never cut it. Maybe it goes back to some cave man primitive brain thing. How can he drag me back to the cave without my hair?

Actually, he prefers all women to have long hair. He believes the verse in the Bible about long hair being a woman's glory.

He thinks women with short hair want to look like men.

I just prefer not to look like a tired old mop with eyeglasses. I did not feel glorious; I felt I looked old and haggard and hag-like. Witchy, even.

When I returned from my appointment, The Boy said, "You look good!" - without prompting from me.

When I told The Mister I was getting my hair cut, he asked me not to ask him how it looked.

I can only assume he didn't not want to give me negative comments.

His silence speaks volumes.

Here's the before:

Always in a ponytail. All that real estate on my high forehead (I considered renting it out for advertising space). Boring. Yucky. Ick - although Baby Russ, just a few hours old, was looking mighty fetching!

So after caramel-colored highlights and a cut with bangs, here's the new do:

I know it's just hair, but I feel more alive somehow. Who knows, maybe one morning I'll go hog wild and put on makeup.

Vanity, thy name is Kim.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2011-11-26T08:08:00.000-06:00

I'm not talking Christmas, people.

It's time for my semi-annual haircut...and I ain't talking kitchen cut here.

At a silent auction at Saturday Writers mini-conference, I bid $30 on $100 worth of hairstyling excellence (I hope).

Wish me luck.

I have said prayers that I recognize myself when I'm done. Please pray that I don't look like the feminine incarnation of Frankenstein - it's happened before.

I am sore afraid.

I sure hope that this trendy salon that donated this gift is able to handle this old lady's head of hair.

Why am I afraid? I know I shouldn't judge an establishment by it's name, but...

Destination: Kink Salon.

This is Where I Say I'm Thankful and Stuff

2011-11-23T00:58:00.000-06:00

It's the day before Thanksgiving, when we take time to ponder all people/things for which we are grateful.

I'm thankful for all of the usual reasons: A home, abundant food, relatively good health. I'm grateful for The Mister (he'd be annoyed if he wasn't first in my list) children and grandchildren, for extended family.

Since last year, we welcomed baby Russ into the family, and said farewell to my mom. I am thankful that her death was quick, and that she didn't suffer for an extended period of time.

I'm thankful for my friends, even those who nominated me (and then had the audacity to vote) for president of my writers' group in the coming year.

I'm thankful for the many freedoms I enjoy.

I'm really thankful for The Boy's school.

Drugs - I'm awfully thankful for them. They usually keep The Boy manageable.

I'm grateful for the doctors and therapist that helps The Boy. May his psychiatrist be cured of her cancer, so that she can enjoy her own children, and still have the energy to care for mine.

The Internet - oh yes, I'm thankful for the information superhighway. It's how I get my news, my kicks and get to write my blog, and read and interact with other blogs/bloggers.

Coke Zero, you are my nectar. Don't ever leave me.

Libraries and books and my Kindle (which I really shouldn't be thankful for until Christmas, since it's supposed to be my gift) - thanks for being there for me. You educate and entertain me. You keep me from letting my mind wander into dark places as I sit in waiting rooms or in my car outside of stores and office buildings in my roles as patient, chauffeur or passenger.

I'm grateful that I have housekeeping appliances that make dreaded domestic duties easier. May you never break down and need costly repairs until you are obsolete - so we can replace you with new models.

Chocolate, that dark brown manna from the gods Hershey, Lindt and Mars. May you always be available in stores to satisfy my cravings.

I've been exceptionally thankful for The Mister's job, and the fact that his contract was extended numerous times. Unfortunately, he will finish his assignment on December 22.

Oh, how I'll miss you, wifely vacations.

Daily housework? You and I need to get reacquainted.

Internet, don't let me down now. All three of us will be home, most of the time - may all of our wireless connections function without fail, and may The Boy's headset continue to work, so I don't have to listen to the crap he finds on Youtube.

As we venture into the annual season of overindulging and conspicuous consumption, may we all have safe travels and be left with a feeling of gratitude and wonder for all of the magnificent things that we have right now, and look toward what our future brings.

May your family enjoy each other's company and take the time to reflect upon all that is good in your lives.

And let the little kids have the wishbone...it's the right thing to do.