Another Suburban Family Morning...

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Mags Hartman! Mags Hartman!

So, I went to the gynecologist yesterday to find out why Aunt Flo is nearly two weeks overdue.

No, I'm not pregnant. As it turns out, I am actually a WIZENED OLD CRONE.

I mean, I found out that I was perimenopausal a year ago, but I wasn't really thinking that it would, you know, begin to GO AWAY all that fast. (To quote the inestimable Michael Palin from Holy Grail, "I'm 37! I'm not OLD!")

Sigh.

You know, I always used to watch those old comedy shows - "Soap," "Maude," "All in the Family," and the like, and they were always making jokes about women and taking "the hormones."

Though I got the gist of the jokes then, I didn't really laugh at them. But now - now, I'm sure I would find all that humor just freakin' hysterical. Yes, folks, I'm now on the estrogen.

Hey, you kids, stop all that racket! I gotta go take my hormones, 'lessen I go crazy.

Things You Need To Know RIGHT NOW

First:
For those of you who are committed to going to ACL Fest next year - or for those like me who are looking for an excuse not to be so fucking old and tired and lame all the time - at their website, they are taking names for a lottery-style chance at buying $50 tickets for next year.

You have to do it pretty quickly after they notify you, so I guess you have to be pretty convinced that you either a) want to go, or b) can sell your tickets to someone next year if you don't. Probably the last one is a safe bet, especially if you're only asking for what you paid for them.

(Note...if that link to the ACL fest doesn't work, you may have to sign up to be on their e-mail list before you get the chance to enter.)


Second:
It is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Darrrr!


Third:
I learned that, if one wants to, one can buy perfume that smells like a woman's va-jay-jay. (And, um, if it weren't already fairly evident, don't click on this link at work.)

And that is all.

A conversation with the OG yesterday

We were sitting at the table, having lunch, alternately eating and reading, as we are wont to do.

OG (suddenly, out of nowhere, snickering slightly): "I can see your boobs."

Me (in a sleeveless top and jog bra, replying wittily): "Huh?"

OG: "I can see your boobs. That means 'armpits.'"

Me: "Errrm...no, it doesn't."

OG: "Then what does it mean?"

Me: "Errrm...it means 'breasts.'"

OG (pensively, with a look of slowly dawning comprehension): "Oh."

Me: "But that is NOT a term you use with your teachers, grandparents, or other authority figures, OK?"

OG: "OK. But I still see your armpits."

Me: "Duly noted."

Not At ACL Fest

Hello, I'm Mags, and I'm not at the Austin City Limits Music Festival.

I'm not seeing Dylan, or Crowded House, or Bjork, the Killers, Reverend Horton Heat, the Arctic Monkeys, Robert Earl Keen, The Decemberists, Spoon, Yo La Tengo, Steve Earle, Raul Malo, or Arcade Fire.

And, though I sound it, I'm not particularly bitter. It was hot, expensive, and - the presence of The Jelly Dots notwithstanding - not particularly kid friendly. (See "hot." And "expensive.")

But - as in the previous "If I Were at South By Southwest" post - I do reserve the right to daydream about the bands that I WOULD have seen. And to make a mental "fantasy schedule" of the whole three-day festival.

Sad and lame? Yes. But at least I know I'm sad and lame. Which makes it OK, and much hipper than being sad and lame AND uninformed about how sad and lame I am.
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At some point within the last month, YG has become a completely-formed three-year-old, shrieking temper tantrums at all. I thought I had skipped this phase with this one, but apparently not.

The upside of all this is that OG has realized that she has suddenly graduated to the status of the "less stressful" child. And she is pretty damned gleeful about it, let me tell you. When I'm hauling YG off for a time-out because she's having a wall-eyed screaming fit about the amount of milk in her bowl of Cream of Wheat, it is all the OG can do to not dance about the living room in joy.

Though I admonish her for taking pleasure in her sister's pain, it's pretty damned funny, I have to admit.
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So, I'm making 10th anniversary plans, for me and The Man, already. They're very exciting and secret. And perhaps premature, since it's not until next June. A lot can happen in 9 months. (But not THAT. I hope. Anything going on down there yet? Helloooo?)

In that amount of time, he could totally ditch me for some hot, beer-and-track-and-field-loving, politically far-left-wing, mass-transit-espousing, Tina-Fey-looking chick with perkier breasts and less ass fat.

But, hey, dude? If you do, then you won't get to do this kick-ass anniversary thing with me. So think about THAT, why don't you, you cheating bastard!

Things I Cannot Live Without Right Now

• Flight of the Conchords
• Freshly made peanut butter - PARTICULARLY the "Honey Roasted Peanut Butter" from Whole Foods. Damn you, Weight Watchers! (shakes pudgy fist in the air)
  
• The oddly compelling video for the (lovely) Shins song "Phantom Limb"
• 
  
• Morning Edition
• My cell phone (which has been missing for five days now, and is presumed stolen, according to my phone company. DAMMIT!)
• Double, half-caf, skim-milk lattes from Sorrento's on Anderson Lane in Austin
• New TV seasons of Heroes, The Office, My Name is Earl, and 30 Rock
• Reasonably nice EVOO
• Burt's Bees Evening Primrose Overnight Cream
• My new, super-comfortable-but-good-for-work, slate-greyish-silver, short-heeled, open-toe-but!-fine-for-fall-'cause-hey!-it's-Texas! - Josef Seibel "Zina" sandals from Nordstrom
• Various soundtracks from musicals (e.g. Godspell, Evita, Rocky Horror,) played at top volume in my car, ven I vant to be ALONE
• The big, juicy pluots that they've been selling at Central Market the past few weeks
• Aveda Lip Glaze in melon. I've decided that lipstick ages me. It makes me look like I'm in my late thirties.
  
• Eddie Bauer jeans, hemmed (thanks, Connie!) because I'm apparently somewhere between a "regular" and a "tall." Wear with snug-fitting "boob shirt."
  
• My period, which I never thought I'd be happy to see. (You scamp; you're getting so unpredictable these days! First I see you every two weeks, and now it's been six, and nothing! And Mr. EPT says no, no, no...so, where are you?)

(insert clever title here)

Jeez...what on earth did I do with my weekend? I swear to GOD, and I am not exaggerating AT ALL, that if I DON'T write this shit down, it is GONE from my head by the next week. Just gone.

I am sure that the aluminum in my anti-perspirant is giving me Alzheimer's Disease. Sadly, I am DOUBLY sure that just using hippie-dippy Tom's Deodorant is going to ruin my career and every one of my friendships.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, I was moaning about being sick on Friday. (I can't believe I forgot to mention my Marky Mark lookalike gutter man who came over on Friday. I must have been sick. I must say, when he was working on my roof with his shirt off, I was tempted to use one of those lines that I'm sure many a bored housewife has used on him. "Hey, you. Can you come tend MY gutter?")

Saturday:

9:50 AM - Went to YG's first music class with her on Saturday morning, snuffling and coughing. It was cute, all the little three-year-old girls dancing and singing little songs with the charming French music teacher. I enjoyed myself, but am feeling anxiety that I now have the responsibility to ensure that yet another child does her homework.

10:30 AM - Ran to see 15 minutes of OG's soccer game. Still the fastest on her team; still hanging back in the backfield. The Man has angst about this. (I try to let him own this one.)

12:30 PM - I refused to succumb to my cold, and went out on the Leftover Bobnoxious Birthday Dregs Party Barge Party Part 2 on Saturday. (Damn if I was going to miss another trip to the lake due to illness. I would have gone even if I had been bleeding from both ears.) Tylenol Allergy Sinus and cheap box wine saved the day. I have a great time. Later on, I have mysterious bruises and a nagging sense that I looked less than dignified hauling my tipsified ass up onto the boat, both of which confirm that I did indeed have a great time. (But my gauge of whether I drank TOO much - which is a horrible fear that I made out with someone not my husband - did not go off. So, yay for me.)

4:30 PM - back in the car. Listened to Mizzou kick Ole Miss's dixie butt on the satellite radio. Sweet.

5:00 PM - We race to Wonder Boy's birthday party. Poor OG, who has been making such enormous social progress, hit a snag with another guest, and I don't think she ever really got past it until the party was over. Though I was stressed at the time, I was very happy that she did not appear to be the instigator, and - honestly - I didn't think she was completely overreacting! For once, I was totally, and completely, empathetic with her - to the point that I even teared up a bit myself. (I believe that I have some old birthday party tears still lurking around the back corners of my psyche somewhere.) I think I decided, right then and there, that she's going to be OK in the world, and that I'm OK with her.

7:00 - Watch/listen to UT with The Man. They have a hard first half. I am secretly pleased. (I love The Man, and Austin, and even went there for grad school, but part of me hates the big UT monolith. I don't necessarily want them to lose all the time; I just want them to realize that they're a college, and not a fucking professional football team. And, I find it highly amusing that their fans start bitching and beating up on their team when they win.)

9:30 - Call my sister, wish her a happy birthday. Try to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone with OG, but my voice has finally given up the ghost. Suck on the Liquid Benadryl teat. Watch 15 minutes of SNL before dropping into a stupor.

Sunday:

8:00 AM - Hoarse, slightly hung over. I drink several cups of coffee, but still make The Man fix me a cappucino. He makes the best foam. No, that's not a euphemism.

10:00 AM - Bill and Julie have us over for their daughter's four-year-old birthday party. Jokes are made about getting started drinking early. I am not amused; yea, I am in fact, slightly sickened by these jokes. I drink a whole lot of water and eat one more piece of pizza than Weight Watchers suggests is appropriate. Urg.

1:00 - I embark upon installing Elfa shelving to create a home office for the man. I invent a new slogan: "Elfa! It's cheaper than a divorce!" which is quickly modified to "Elfa! Where the fuck is that little bag of screws?"

7:00 - It's done, with only one trip back to The Container Store. It looks fabulous. I am an awesome wife. (Not so sure about being an awesome mother though. Can't remember at all what my kids were doing for those six hours.)

8:00 - kid bedtime. There, I can't be that bad; I did find them in time to put them to bed. So there.

9:00 - I watch the new HBO series, Tell Me You Love Me. I am more or less unimpressed. If I wanted to watch thirtysomething couples ragging at each other, well, then, I'd just go hang out with my friends. (Kidding! That's a joke. LAUGH, DAMMIT, LAUGH.) The main reason to watch appears to be "Are they really doing it or not?" To me, it appears that there may be prosthetics in play, but they're clearly doing enough to where it doesn't seem to matter. But it's really, really not erotic at all. It was weirdly depressing. I will give it two episodes, like I did "John From Cincinnati," but if nobody has smiled or made any more interesting conversational interjections than "I just don't know you!" by the end of the second episode, I'm done, full-frontal and junk viewings notwithstanding.

10:00 - Damnit, there's still laundry on the bed. Why is there always laundry on my bed on Sunday nights?

11:30 - I really need to go to bed earlier.

Monday:

6:00 - Jesus, school starts early.

7:17 - I try to open up a bottle of red nail polish to do a quick touch-up. The lid is stuck. I try to jimmy it open with a pair of nail scissors, and BAM - the neck of the bottle breaks. My hands, the sink, and the floor are covered with red nail polish. FLY. ING. FUCK. There is not enough nail polish remover in the house to deal with this. I suddenly sympathize with what serial killers go through when they have to clean up a crime scene. OG yells from the next room: "MOOOOM! IT's SEVEN SEVENTEEN! WE HAVE TO GO OR I'LL BE TAAARDY!"

7:22 - I take OG to school. My hands are still covered with red nail polish, and I stink of acetate. Yay, Monday!

7:30 - I decide it's not that bad. I go on to work. Maybe they'll just think it's dry-erase marker.

10:00 AM - I trip over the legs of a table and come down onto my knees on the tile floor. Hard. More large and unsightly bruises on my legs, now.

Rest of day: Reasonably uneventful. The Man likes his office. I am good on my diet. There's still fucking laundry on the bed.

10:00 - Stewart. Colbert. Bed.

11:00 - Oooh! Reno 911 is on! I haven't seen that in months!

12:00 - I really need to go to bed earlier.
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So...on this topic, I ask this: When do I get to pull a rock star, an Amy Winehouse, and get to take time off for "exhaustion?" Would someone send me to a spa if I developed a nasty drug habit?

Because, I can, if necessary! I'm already halfway to freebasing the Benadryl...

I'b sorry...

...but I cabn't post. Because I hab a bad cod. And I cabn't breathe.

And I just swigged four teaspoonsful of liquid Benadryl, so, night night, world. Night night, you stupid, stinky, germ-and-allergen-filled world.

*sniffle*

- Mabgs

Crank That, Soulja Boy!

Wait, not Soulja Boy....



um...Crank That...um, Tim, Kevin, and Blaine?

(And, am I odd that I think that they are just too cute?)

And so it begins...

This afternoon, on the drive home from school, OG was in a great mood, and was uncharacteristically forthcoming about the events of her day.

I, pleased, kept up a fairly lengthy conversation with her about who she was playing with now, who her friends are in the classroom, how she feels about boys ("Nothing!" was that answer, so we're good there for the moment,) that sort of thing.

She brought up the subject of the little girl - we'll refer to her as "Bella," for no other reason than she's pretty - that she's been OBSESSED with for two years, but who has never returned her feelings in a manner satisfactory to OG. The poor thing is just a quiet, shy little girl who I'm sure is completely freaked out by my in-your-face daughter. I'm glad they're not in the same class, now, but they still see each other on the playground.

Anyway, OG has decided that she totally hates Bella now. (Except when Bella decides to be nice to her, at which point OG would stomp a kitten in her mad rush to be by her side. But that's another matter.) Happily, OG and another girl - "Frieda," have bonded over their mutual hurt feelings from Bella, and they seem to have formed a friendship that was at first based on this, but that is now also because they identify as "tomboys" (the diametric opposite of Bella, who is very feminine).

I like all these girls, I will venture. It's not Bella's fault that my kid gets intensely fixated on people, and that she is not easily reasoned with. But I especially like OG and Frieda making friends, and I see in them the hope for a real, true, friendship for my girl, based on equal participation and trust rather than the whole "girl" experience, what with the backstabbing and friend-taking, and all that. But I digress.

Anyway, OG said today - and I have never used this word to her - "Bella has gone over to be on the popular team. Frieda and I hate the POPULAR team!"

I was briefly amused - I had no idea that it had become a team sport - but quickly saddened. I didn't remember that it started so young.

I mean, we talked a bit about it...I wondered what "popular" meant to her, and I think she defines it as "girly," as in the girls with painted fingernails and who wear dresses. (OG complained a bit about another girl, saying "She used to have normal fingernails, but now she paints them so that she can be with the populars.")

But, really, what was I to say? That this isn't real, that it is a false construct set up by insecure people? That women trying to prove themselves better than other women just serve the nefarious purposes of those who would keep us down? That her class, surely, would not divide into these subgroups, in this, the supposedly enlightened twenty-first century?

I didn't. I wish that I could have given her a lie that she would believe, for a little bit longer. Sadly, OG knows a dissembler when she sees one, and I just didn't have one in me.

Well, honey...I will tell you this; we, the non-populars, turned out to be not a bad subgroup, when it's all said and done. I like us. I always have.

My mantra for you, now and always: GET. THROUGH. HIGH. SCHOOL.

(And watch some Monty Python movies. Couldn't hurt your team any.)

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YG, on the other hand, appears destined for Cute Fairy Princess Girl School. (Todd helpfully pointed out that she is very reminiscent of Dawn Weiner's little sister in the tutu from "Welcome to the Dollhouse.")

The other day, I asked her if she wanted to get her hair cut short, like her sister's (and mine, for that matter). She replied, "No, I want it long like Ariel's. Princesses have long hair. I want to be able to do this " - at which point she tossed her head back and flipped her hair around with her hand, as if she were posing for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated.

Fine. OG and I will reserve the right to mock her if she becomes a cheerleader, though.

Not to her face.

(OK, just a little bit to her face.)

The Mags List of Instructions for Your Life

It's Sunday...no, wait, it's Monday. But, it feels like Sunday, so it stands to reason that I'm feeling preachy.

Hey, everyone else has done it...I feel a sense of entitlement to do so as well. So, here 'tis: The Mags List of Life Lessons - Guaran-Goddamn-Teed to Make YOUR Life Worth Living.

Oh, and, you're welcome.

• People don't change. Oh, they'll quit habits, lose weight, get/lose religion, smooth out the rough edges of their personality, etc., but fundamentally, they don't change. And - more importantly - YOU will never change someone else. So, love, accept, even grit your teeth sometimes; but don't believe, for one second, that a person will change for you.
  

• Regarding marriages: See above. Don't expect anyone to change, and you will be happier. They will, too, knowing you accept them for exactly what they are. That's where all that trust stuff starts, you know?

• Also, regarding marriages: Try to have lots of sex, even if you think you don't want to, or you're too tired. I read somewhere that orgasms are self-perpetuating; the more you have, the more you will want...plus, they have the nice side-effect of creating a more relaxed and confident person in the daylight as well. So, if there's a stagnant spot here or there, get it moving - force the issue with yourself, if necessary - and it will get better with practice.

• For women: Don't sweat the porn issue. You know your man looks at it. It's OK. You have your fantasies, too, and that's all it is. He's not comparing their bodies to yours, and he doesn't want those women in his bed. (And, just a suggestion...if you will venture so far as to occasionally look at it with him, he will think you are totally scandalous and dangerous, and thus smokin' hot. Word.) I think - and this is my opinion only - that husbands viewing internet porn is the thing that we just have to accept, like the way previous generations accepted that men would visit prostitutes or have affairs with their secretaries. I don't know about you, but I'm better with it this way.
  

• For men: Don't sweat the "ex-boyfriend" issue. You know your wife has them. It's OK. She doesn't want them. I swear. Emotionally, physically, mentally, she made the vow to you, and she bloody well meant it. If there are thoughts of her past lurking in her head, they are just special memories, that she might pull out like a photo album from time to time. These have as much real, substantive meaning as your feelings toward that girl on that website you were looking at last night. (Hey, I have an idea...can we just consider these two issues a trade-off?) And - talk about your self-fulfilling prophecies - if you are more confident in your woman's love for you, that confidence radiates from you, and makes you more attractive to her. Thus, more trust, and more sex! (See above.)
  

• Try to eat something new, and listen to new music, at least once a month. I read a study somewhere that suggested that, if you have not tried something by the time you are 40, statistically speaking, it is highly unlikely that you will ever try it. Break that pattern. Stay interesting, even if it's only to yourself.

• Moderation, moderation, moderation. Except for occasionally. Which is FUN. (To quote the eminently succinct and correct Dr. Seuss: "If you don't/You should/These things are fun/And fun is good.")

• Go dancing. (Yes, men, I'm talking to you, too. The psychic penance you feel for possibly looking like a dork will be more than repaid by the happiness of your partner for getting out there with them.)

• Your kids - if you have them - are clearly your biggest responsibility in your life, and you must give them an enormous part of your being in order to raise them well. Do this - but do your utmost not to give short shrift to yourself and your relationships with your significant other and your friends. Resist being subsumed into their lives completely, or when they've moved out, you may be left with nothing.

• Don't be a hypocrite. Don't go screaming about family values if you're fucking another woman (or other men). Don't go on about the horrors of illegal immigration if you didn't screen that cheap roofing company's employee roster to make sure they all had green cards. People can handle your transgressions far better than your hypocrisy, and the cognitive dissonance in your brain will not clang as loudly.
  

• Along those lines, do your best not to judge others. That horribly behaved child in your kid's class may have a nightmarish family life. Same with that bitch in your office, or the guy that yelled at you in front of your boss. Sure, be angry; you're human. But just remember that there may be another story of which you are unaware.

• Your life is too short to hold on to hate or grudges. Learn from your mistakes, of course, and withdraw from "crazymakers." But, holding onto bad experiences in your heart is like sucking on poison. Try to let it go. Don't let your anger define you.
  

• Have animals in your life, in some way. Sometimes furry unconditional acceptance is the only kind you're going to get. (Even if that acceptance does admittedly smell pretty foul sometimes, and occasionally licks its anus prior to unexpectedly french-kissing you.)

and, last, but most certainly not least:

• Never, ever, underestimate the value of a good haircut and color. If you take nothing else away from this discussion, hear me on this, my children. If you are feeling down, get thee hence to the nearest swanky salon. There, prostrate yourself at the Aveda altar, and pray for your floral-scented deliverance from shag, frizz, and two-inch long, disturbingly gray roots. Amen.
  

Porn! Foot Fetish! Lindsay Lohan! Scrapbooking!

(shhh...I'm trying to get my hits counter to 10,000 by September 9, which is one year from when I started counting.)

And, no, I don't want to hear about all your damn hits per day, superbloggers. The ones that get mentioned in magazines and recognized in public.

Some of us just have a small, quiet, dignified readership. Hmph.
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According to SiteMeter, my most accidental hits come from these two posts:

Keira Knightley's Jaw
My accidental - and I'll swear to that on a stack of Monty Python and Mel Brooks movies - hit on the GrannyRiders website

So, now that you're here...first group, isn't Keira Knightley's jaw very attractive, and strong, for a thin girl?

And second group....EWWWW!!!

GAAAAAAAAAAAA

Republican Senator Larry Craig was arrested today in the Minneapolis airport for "lewd sexual conduct" in the men's room.

Word from the senator's camp is that it was a "he said/he said" misunderstanding.

OK, I'm giving up on this thread. It's just getting repetitive now. I guess that we can just assume that if you're a gay Republican, you will get your karmic comeuppance, after you do something really really friggin' stupid.

Be warned.

Ted Nugent on Sean Hannity from July

From Salon:

"Hannity had Nugent on his Fox Show in July to discuss a blog post in which a writer said he had 'dibs' on Rush Limbaugh if it ever became legal to shoot him, and that others would be 'welcome to' Nugent if they wanted him. Hannity said he took such threats seriously, and he asked Nugent if people who make them ought to be arrested. Nugent's answer: Yes.

'You know, I'm an American. I love all Americans. And I would help any American pursue their dreams and their pursuit of happiness,' Nugent told Hannity. 'But you find that the left, there's a lunatic fringe on the left that literally are trying to force us to comply to their outline of life. And I find it just reprehensible that they would recommend violence, not to mention murder and shooting people and assassinating people. This is bizarre.'

More Gay Republican Tragedy

See? SEE?

I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of murder/suicide. I cannot imagine the pain that the families of these men are going through, and I wish with all my heart that it had not happened.

BUT.

I believe that there is a cautionary tale here, one that keeps playing out, over and over again.

For the record:

If you are gay, do not, I repeat, DO NOT, join the Republican Party. They preach hatred and discrimination against you and others like you. (Yes, many are secretly gay themselves, and this may lend itself to fun, hot, "taboo" sexual encounters, but this is not enough of a reason to enmesh yourselves with people who will only cause you to HATE YOURSELF and thus to make extremely poor life decisions.)

I loves me the gays. Oh, my friends, please, please, abandon this Republican culture that hates you. Head on over to some of their websites...say, Free Republic...and search for the term "faggot," and prepare for a pretty huge number of hits. They won't even make you richer, like some of you think they will. Look at the economy for the past eight years, and compare it to the previous eight, if you think I'm lying.

Quit hiding in self-loathing isolation. Cross over, children! Come into the light! Come out, come over, and join our ranks. We need you, your activism, your culture, your passion, and your contributions. When we take back over - the presidency, for starters, and the Supreme Court, as soon as we bloody well can - it's going to be all good.
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Speaking of outrage...who's going to go arrest Ted Nugent for getting caught on video waving a machine gun around and saying that Barack Obama (the "piece of shit") and Hillary Clinton (the "worthless bitch") should "suck on it" and "ride it," respectively?

Now, if I can't bring a goddamn water bottle on an airplane - and I've never fired so much as a BB gun - surely this merits some involvement from Homeland Security, doesn't it?
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OK, Mister Digital Scale. (I assume you are a man, because you are a dick.) Two days, scrupulous point-counting, and exercise, and all you give me is a half-pound off so far*?

You want to play it that way? Fine. Oh, we'll play, mofo; we'll play.

Egg Beaters for breakfast, and pea pods and tuna for lunch. Fucker.

*I swear, I can remember, in college, that I once lost 17 pounds in three weeks. And I think all I did was give up beer and pizza.

Really!?!

I stepped on the scale this morning.

Really!?!

I admit to having eaten and drunk with semi-abandon while on vacation, but that was for the sum total of like 17 days, out of 90. I eat egg beaters and sliced turkey for approximately 75% of the summer, and I still weigh this, this horrifying amount, that I have not weighed in several years? Really?

This is completely impossible. Really. I did let the exercise slip...a bit...OK, a lot...but this cannot be possible; I didn't STOP exercising, refuse to leave the couch, and eat whole sticks of butter while watching "World Series of Pop Culture" marathons! Really!

I was hoping to avoid this, but I have to go back to Weight Watchers.

Really.

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That was, of course, stolen from one of the few funny things I've seen on "SNL" this year, back when all Michael Vick had to worry about was being caught with a little pot on a plane: "'Really!?!' with Seth and Amy."

Working is hard!

So sorry I haven't posted...I've had to return to work, after 12 weeks off.

And, it's soooo hard!

Your condolences are greatly appreciated at this time.

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From Badger...

God, I will never get any respect if I don't start scoring significantly better on these things. I'm totally not trying to lie on them, either!

There's Not a Violent Bone in Your Body

You're cool and collected, even when someone really gets under your skin. And while you don't blow up when you're angry, you know how to express your anger calmly. You don't bottle emotions up or let them get out of control. For you, violence would never be an option.

Could You Be Violent?

Your Personality is 56% Addictive

You may have an addictive personality, but you have it mostly under check. Just don't start any new bad habits, okay?

Do You Have an Addictive Personality?

In Which The Man is An Ass

So, since I've been diagnosed with the Meneire's Disease, I requested a formal, retroactive apology for the 13 years of teasing for being clumsy that I've endured from The Man.

He responded, "No, because you're still clumsy, there's just a reason for it!"
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McJo's Poker Tournament results: I came in seventh, out of 32 people. The top five got money, starting at like $30 and going up to like $450.

In a nutshell, I played Texas Hold-Em poker for 10 1/2 hours - in my house, which is of course wrecked due to 32 people traipsing through it all day - and I got jack shit for the effort, except for the pride of being the last woman at the final table.

It's two in the morning, more than 12 hours since we started, and the game is still going on, outside my bedroom door. And, if you can believe this...I am so pissed that I'm not still playing right now, I cannot even begin to tell you. (I'm oddly competitive, for a pacifist.)

Wah, yes, I do b'lieve I'd love an Ambien, thank yew very much! And, good night! Bastards!

It's a Bloggerspiracy!

They will NOT let my link about purple plates work! I've tried to link to several different sites, and it will absolutely not work.

WHY, I ask you, WHY, do they NOT want you to know about this?

Fine. You will just have to go to your Google - or try www.purpleplates.com - to learn about how, and I quote:

"The atoms and electrons of the aluminum have been altered so that the plates are in resonance, or in tune, with the basic energy of the Universe. They function as transceivers of the Earth's paramagnetic force...creating a field of energy around themselves that will penetrate any material substance by osmosis. This energy is very beneficial (the life-force energy) to all life...plant, animal, or human. It might be considered as Positive Energy, or as God power. Love is "positive energy". God is Love. God is Energy.

The websites say that they give you energy, improve your sleep patterns, make produce last longer, attract money, and keep your pets safe if you put one on their collar. (Probably especially safe if you use the angel one, don't you think?)

Now, aren't you sorry that you don't have one? I thought so! And I know that they have to work, because Nikola Tesla said they would! Or he said something about electromagnetic energy once! And I know he was a really really smart guy!

In fact, I KNOW they work, because my MRI came back with no brain tumors on it. So...yay! It's just Meneire's Disease, which is annoying but decidedly un-fatal.

Thanks, Mr. Tesla! And you, the little purple plate in the side pocket of my station wagon!

----------------------------------------
Oh, no; how will I ever show my face amongst my friends again?

You Are 44% Evil

You are evil, but you haven't yet mastered the dark side. Fear not though - you are on your way to world domination.

How Evil Are You?

Damn! Damn! Damn! It's not true! I'm super-evil! I fantasized about elbowing a slow person out of my way at Target today! So there!

5 Random Things You Don't Know About Me

I keep meaning to get back to telling y'all the story of the Older Girl. I promise, I'll do it soon. It's still evolving...case in point, the neurologist has now referred us to the infectious disease specialist...so it doesn't have an ending, yet. However, the major events of this summer bear documenting, and I'll try to get to it within the next week...probably after I get beat out of the Annual McJo's Poker Tournament this Saturday.

So, a bunch of bulleted non-sequiturs is all you get. So sorry.

• I read Free Republic online - the horrible horrible vicious right-wing discussion forum - like it is secret porn. I mean it; I'll flip away from the window if The Man comes home and sees me doing it. I am secretly fascinated by their abject, wanton, evil ignorance, and I turn it on every time a Republican fucks up, just so I can gloat in their pain. (After the 2006 election, I read it like six times a day for a week.)

• I carry a metaphysical, protective purple plate in both cars at all times. (My mother gave them to me, so shut it.) Hey, say what you will; I've never had an accident since I put them in my car, and believe me, I used to have plenty of them.

• I looove fruit, but am fairly leery of fruit-flavored anything. Jelly, strawberry ice cream if it's a premium brand or Bluebell, banana bread - that's all good, but when you get anywhere close to an artificial fruit flavor, I am probably not going to touch it. And if you put anything near me along the lines of a Marshmallow Peep, a Circus Peanut, those pink wafer cookies with the vile cream-like substance in the middle, or a Banana Moon Pie, then you will likely be wearing them.

• Nine days out of ten, when I am peering in the mirror in the morning, I silently curse whoever it was that told me that I'd grow out of having zits when I wasn't a teenage anymore.

• I just threw some pills out of my medicine cabinet that expired ten years ago. So, the official transformation into my mother is apparently underway. (And, I was still looking at the 2002 Midol, going, "Well, at least it's within this century, it's probably OK, isn't it?

Awesome Bit of Awesomeness

I'm just loving the newest gay Republican story.

Seems this Bob Allen, a Florida State Representative, was arrested after he offered an undercover officer $20 to blow him in a public bathroom. No surprises there, right? I'm starting to think that being gay is a prerequisite to being a Republican. (What's that you say, Denney Hastert? Oh, yes, I did go there!)

But, get this...his excuse - for paying a man to receive a blow job from him - is that the cop was a big black guy, and there were other big black guys around, so he felt intimidated!

Soooo. In a nutshell, this guy would rather look like a racist than a faggot. AND A WIMPY RACIST AT THAT, who'd give a guy a blow job rather than say "No, thanks."

Seriously. I know some of you are Republicans out there. Are you the constituency that this man represents? Do you feel better about having racists than queers in our government? Do you sleep well at night, knowing that these people, up there in Washington or down here in Texas or wherever you might be, stand up and endorse measures of intolerance that effectively remove the civil rights of American citizens - all in the name of "family values," - when they're secretly sucking cock in public bathrooms, screwing hookers, soliciting underage boys, cheating on their wives, and happily co-habitating with their aides instead of their wives?
AND, does it register to you that these self-same lying, hypocritical assfaces made me listen to the gory details of ONE DEMOCRAT'S marital infidelity for a fucking YEAR? (I wonder if the right wing's going to be a bit more forgiving about all those little bits on the side this year, what with Rudy, John, and Newt all being front-runners?)

Again, having trouble with the "why do I even get up in the morning" thing.
---------------------------
I had an MRI tonight. Wheee! That radiologist guy, boy, he and I had tons of laughs.

Dr. Hunkalicious says he's pretty sure it's Meniere's, but he needs to rule out tumors and whatnot. So, in the tube I went.

I was initially regretting not lying about being claustrophobic - so they'd give me the Valium, right? - but it wasn't that bad. It was an open MRI, so I was only in the tube up until like my ribcage, and the opening in the machine was as lot bigger than the one I had about 10 years ago (which was kind of freaky, and made me wish I were on Valium, not because I'm claustrophobic, but really just for something to do.)
---------------------------
To bed, now. I must begin keeping normal work hours again. Fuck, I hate the end of summer vacation. I want to stay up all night long watching cable TV and web-surfing on the topic of Republican fuck-ups.

Furshunslinger wombat

Shramish. Haargh. Dirigible?

This is the best approximation of my speech patterns right this second, due to the after-effects of the Second Annual Long Beach Weekend in Port Aransas.

SOMEONE - either The Man, Bookhart, Pod, Clark, or Milena - convinced me to have WAAAAY too much to drink, for THREE NIGHTS STRAIGHT. And, I tell you, they OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED of themselves.

The Reader's Digest summary:

• In a happy coincidence, the Perseid meteors were peaking this weekend. They were incredible over the ocean, like roman candles, streaking from one end of the sky to the other.
  
• There were board games.
• And pitchers of pina coladas.
• And margaritas.
  
• And a whole motherfucking lot of beer and wine.
• We caught crabs.
• The good kind. (I'm speaking for myself only, of course.)
  
• Six kids ran around like shrieking little heathens, and it was OK.
• My friends react overly harshly when I force them to sing along to "Sister Christian."
• I didn't find my fucking camera until 1:30 A.M. last night, when God knows the last thing in the world that any of us wanted was to have our picture taken in the godawful state we were in.
• I wasn't dizzy at all, until the drive home today, and there were probably 10 good reasons for that besides nystagmus.

OK, that was exhausting. I have to go to bed now.

Nystagmograms, et al

I had my inner ear testing done yesterday, after three days of no meds, alcohol, caffeine, and a half-day fast. So, I was clearly in a joyous mood to begin with.

First of all, the lady (stylish, nice, a bit older than me) stuck some electrodes all over my face. (I had been directed not to wear makeup, and as this is summertime, in which I don't work and let myself go to sloth, this was not even remotely possible.) Next, the lady asked me to sit on the table and focus my eyes on a neon side with a dot of red light, which moved around to various positions. I did this with no prob. Even a bit of flair, if I do say so myself.

Next, she asked me me to lie down on the table and turn my head in varying positions, and count by twos, starting with random numbers. I rocked at this. I tell you, I can count by twos, people, even when you tell me to start at sixty. That college education really comes in handy sometimes. I'm thinking, hey, I'm passing this test by leaps and bounds; nothing is wrong with me, as my ability to count by twos and look at a dot is completely unimpaired.

But, not so fast! She looks at me and says, "Wow. You're a really dizzy person."

Turns out I have nystagmus - lots of jiggly eye movements - which the little electrodes were measuring when I was concentrating on counting by twos. (Sneaky!)

She then did a horrible little test in which she shot cold and then warm water into my ears, altertating left and right. During this odd and uncomfortable little bit of weirdness, she asked me to name things...e.g. names of women, in alphabetical order, names of men, names of geographic locations, and names of animals. And - people, this is so freaky - when she filled up my left ear with water, so I only had my right ear to work with, I COULD NOT name animals. AT ALL. And that room was spinning like I was on a centrifuge.

Totally wild. She says there's something really wrong with the balance system in my right ear. Could be a virus that's trapped in there, or it could very well be this Meneire's Disease, or it could be something totally different.

I'm guessing a consult with Dr. Hunkalicious, ENT, will be next. Yay!
-----------------------------------
I shall take time out from moaning about my inner ear dysfunction to share with you a hilarious phone interchange I had with Trish the other day.

She called to ask how I was doing, and I yammered on and on about - well, the same stuff I've been yammering on about here - for a while.

Then, she graciously interjects, "Well, I'm so sorry I haven't called earlier to see how you were doing." I'm all magnanimous, and I'm like, "Oh, no, that's fine. No big deal." She then continues, "See, I've been laid up because I had to have emergency gall bladder surgery."

That bitch ALWAYS has to do one better than me. Honestly.

(Just kiddin', Trish. I love you dearly. Glad you're better. I hope your bile is dripping happily from its new venue.)

Read this story from the Nation...

and be very, very afraid.

Last year, I wrote a post mocking the "Left Behind" videogame....you know, the one in which you get to play evangelist Christian warriors blowing away the non-believers? Or, in the height of Strangelovian absurdity, you can switch sides over to the Antichrist, and mow down the Christians instead?

The fact that this crap - denounced by everyone from the Anti-Defamation League to the author of Bush's "compassionate conservatism," Marvin fucking Olasky - exists in Bush's world does not faze me; but, get this: It's about to become part of a sanctioned Department of Defense initiative in Iraq, which encourages playing this game as part of its PROSELYTIZING movement towards the evangelical Christianization of the fighting forces. (See, it helps making all that murder of Muslims more fun! 'Cause you get a high score! And it says "Praise the Lord!" every time you blow one of their heathen fucking heads off!)

We - yes, you, and me - are sending our taxes for an "entertainment force" - so that fucking Billy Baldwin and Evander Holyfeld can go to Iraq and go on...their words, and the words of their psychotic founder...a "crusade."

OK, let this sink in. Our government. Is supporting. A CRUSADE. IN THE MIDDLE EAST.

God, why do I even get up anymore?

Portland recap

I am reasonably well enough now to recap the vacation...though I am at present not allowed to not take any of my meds for THREE WHOLE DAYS whilst I wait for this inner ear test that I'm going to have on Wednesday.

(This made for a rather funny interlude with a neighbor lady down the street that I was just having a conversation with. Right in the middle of it, I just kind of fell backwards and staggered to keep my balance, and I had to utter some lame-ass statement like "No, I'm not drunk, I just have vertigo. Really." But I digress.)

(Actually, that whole conversation was kind of funny, because, I was looking for my cat Hank, who has been missing for three weeks, presumed lost forever, and I just happened to mention this to this woman, who was, like, "Hmm...do you mean the little brown tabby that's been coming over here forever, and we've been feeding for some time?" And I'm all, like, erm, "YEAH, THAT ONE." What a disloyal little shit! She just couldn't stand the puppy, and got a better gig! But, no, she doesn't get to stay there. I'm forcing the bitch home, and I'm going to let the damn dog lick her all over as punishment. But, I'm still digressing.)

1) YG in the blueberry patch.


2) Blackberries.

3. The MotherLode.
OMFG, people, these were the most fantastic FUCKING berries I have ever had in my LIFE. (All that, by the way? Twelve bucks.) I ate them plain, in my cereal, in a rather amazing cobbler...any way they serve them, I'll put them into my body somehow. I am still having sex dreams about them.)

4) Some drunk-ass motherfucker at the Portland Brewer's Festival:

5) More of the same, but with our dear friends Todd and Bill, whom were gracious enough to haul our drunk (in his case) and dizzy (in mine) asses around town for a week:

6) The cutest damn kid ever who isn't related to my children, but damn well could be, couldn't he?
(Yeah, there's mine, in the background, trying to take the balloon away from the baby. I raise 'em right, don't I?)

7) YG, eating some fair food heretofore unknown to me - and how could this be, I'm not sure - called an "Elephant Ear." It's a ginormous slab of dough that is fried, and then dusted in sugar and cinnamon. And then it is shoved into our mouths. A lot.

8) OG on the Oregon coast.

It's beautiful. And it's really really really cold. That's as far as any of us got into the ocean, by a long shot. (And she doesn't have any nerve endings, so that's saying something.)

9) A starfish.

I don't think I've ever seen a live one. And now, I have. And really cool, bright-green anemones.

10) A view from Mt. Hood, of Mt. Ranier and Mt. St. Helens in the waaaay back background, with the lovely daughters of our friends, with the added benefit of my older child being rather pissy:


11) Just for Karla, a Big Head OG from Mt. Hood, with Mt. Ranier in the background:


-----------------------------
We did tons of other stuff, too...we went to the beautiful Rose Garden, rode the cable car up the big hospital hill, went to Stumptown Roasters and attended the bizarre "cupping" service (and got a little snobbiness, but, damn if the coffee doesn't back it up. It totally rocks!) The Man went on a bicycle brewery tour, which I'm sure he'll be raving about over at his blog any day now.

Oh, and we went to the Body Worlds exhibit - where they have all the plasticized dead bodies splayed out in funky poses- which was super-cool, and really not even the slightest bit disturbing. (Except having to listen to the OG exclaim "Look, I see his PENIS!" several times, LOUDLY.)

------------------------------------
And now? Off to bed with my Valium-less, mildly-dizzy-but-not-sick self. Jeebus, it's been a long two weeks. (I think my husband is also now shopping for a new sister-wife, if you get my meaning.)

I...

am upright again.

I still stagger a little when I walk, but it's improved greatly. Now, it's more like a tipsy Vegas maven havin' a watered-down cocktail at the slots. Previously, it resembled a spring break co-ed sloshed on Coco Locos headed for a wet t-shirt contest in Cancun.

Praise be to ye trio of gods: Antivert (prescription,) the motion sickness patch placed stylishly behind my ear, and the almighty Zeus of prescription drugs, Lord Valium (of which my hunky ENT increased my dosage, because it simply weren't workin' before tonight. Have I mentioned that I love him?)

Sadly, I can't access the big computer - where my pictures are stored - to show you our lovely Portland vacation, as The Man has commandeered it to watch some damn track meet. But I shall, in good time, do so.

Lord Valium says for me to tell you "Peace out" now. Because everything? Is O.K.

Back from Portland

I'm back from a lovely, week-long visit to Portland, wherein we - the whole fam damily - visited two sets of very dear friends and saw all of the sights.

Our hosts and hostesses provided an impeccable good time. The weather was gorgeous - warm and sunny during the day, window-open cool at night (with no screens, because they don't have any bugs! Not even mosquitos!) We drove to the coast one day, up to the top of Mount Hood another day, visited many many many brew pubs for The Man (all in the name of research, you know,) and even got to attend the big annual beer festival.

And - oh, god - the berry picking day - now THAT was incredible. I have never, EVER, in my life, had fruit that good. Blackberries, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries...we went absolutely insane. (OG was on a mission to denude the entire orchard. YG was very like the little girl in Blueberries for Sal. Pick one, eat three, pick another, then eat the two in her bucket. So damn cute.)

The only drawback to the whole weekend was me, sadly. I've still got whatever it is that I have, and even medicated to the hilt, I was still really dizzy and sick to my stomach. (I felt like some Victorian woman, having to take to the couch because I had the vapors.)

I'm also still experiencing this odd blurry vision. Though I have been blessed with perfect vision - and yes, I know that I'm very lucky, but you may check out my ass and thighs if you want to know where my comeuppance lies - I now know what it must feel like to need glasses, because I have to squint to make out print, both near and far.

Sadly, I'm too wiped to post the pictures tonight - 6:00 A.M. flight this morning, whee! - and I'm, predictably, nauseated and can't focus on the typing...so I'm off to bed tonight. I'll try to get some up tomorrow.

(Oh, and by the way, thanks for all the notes and phone calls. I'm very touched! I'll keep you posted as the puzzle comes together more...)

Feelin' down-n-dirty, feeling kind of mean

Fill my eyes with that... double vision!

It hasn't gone away yet - and neither has the dizziness - even with prescription Atavert, Valium, and a motion-sickness patch behind my ear.

I can't read the letters on the computer screen to do a decent post, and it's making me kind of sick to even try.

This sucks ass.

Update

My hunky ENT doctor says that it's probably not ear rocks. Due to the severity of my attack, and the fact that similar things have been happening for several years, it looks to him like Meniere's Disease, a non-fatal but highly annoying pathology with no known cause or really good cure. (Though he did give me a Valium prescription. Score!)

A bit of internet research suggests that my best bet is to cut back on (or totally give up) salt, alcohol, and caffeine.

So, welcome to the rest of my life...you know, the part in which there is no joy. Whatsoever.

Getting my rocks off

I've had to take time out from recanting stories about my older child, because...dudes! I have been so sick since I posted last!

I was SO sick. How sick was I?

• I missed the Big BobNoxious Birthday Lake Bash on Saturday night;
• I missed Toya's birthday/Karla's going-away bruncheon at Threadgill's on Sunday morning;
• I could not sit up for approximately 24 hours; but instead had to lie on my back, in the dark, with my eyes closed;
  

and, to rub salt in the wound,

• I was EVEN completely unable to read the new Harry Potter book, because the words swam around so much on the page that I had to go throw up every time I tried!

In a nutshell, I was totally fine until about three o'clock on Saturday. I was happily making seven-layer dip for the big party, and I was just about to get out the sour cream, when - BAM - double vision, nausea, and big-time vertigo just slapped me across the face. I crumpled to the couch, and then to the bed, where I stayed except for periodic trips to the bathroom to vomit, hold my swimming head, moan, and then vomit again.

And, what was it? Flu, maybe, or a bad bug? Perhaps an underdone bit of potato? No, silly, it was ear rocks, of course! Otherwise known as "Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo," - although I fail to see how something can at once be simultaneously "benign" and "paroxysmal" - this apparently common phenomenon occurs when these little bits of particulate matter, which normally float around in your inner ear, get dislodged from their proper floaty position, and start bumping up against the little hairs that help you stay balanced. The result, as my doctor told me, is like "being on a really really fast, intense, merry-go-round. Except it doesn't stop." (He's a really cheerful man. He then just as cheerfully told me that "It'll probably get better in a few days. If it doesn't, come back to see me so we can make sure it wasn't a stroke.")

So, to treat this - it hasn't gone away, mind you, although I'm not vomiting anymore - I take motion-sickness drugs, and have to do some sort of head-positioning exercises to move my little rocks back around where they should be.

The stupid crap that happens to your body as you get older, I tell you. (I also pulled a muscle the other day...in my TONGUE. While YAWNING.)

A True Story, Part One

It all began when she was a baby, about two months old.

She was born healthy and strong. She nursed like a champ, and almost instantly had those gorgeous, enormous breast-milk thighs, like Virginia hams. From the get-go, she was as powerful as her red hair and her regal name would suggest. Her eyes, bright and clever, surveyed everything in the room, and all five senses were completely alive, so quickly, and so acutely.

One little, tiny thing, though; she couldn't sit still in a restaurant, like all those other babies, resting placidly by the side of the table in their little buckets. Even as a two-month-old, she cried and fussed if left sitting, unstimulated, even for a few minutes. When picked up, she wiggled and squirmed until one of us picked her up and carried her around the restaurant or outside, bouncing her on our shoulders, singing, and talking. We joked that Lee would never get to sit through a meal again, but figured, hey - that's what babies are.

As she grew, and learned to crawl, then walk, her need for movement was shifted, naturally, to her own motor skills. Not just in restaurants, now, but everywhere, it was noticeable that she was different from even other very young children in this respect. She demanded interaction with others at all times. She could not sit for more than a minute or two at a time without jumping up to run around. She was bigger, louder, and more forceful than most children, and as a result, began to sort of mow them down (unintentionally) when interacting with them. In a nutshell, she just moved more than they did.

And, with us, she demanded that we be there, always. Our bedtime ritual, for example, always resulted in our holding her, in a tight bear hug, until that rigid little body softened, finally, into relaxation. (Thankfully, that's never taken very long; something about racing at 60 mph all day long makes a body tired at night, apparently.)

Her clear intelligence was startling. As a barely two-year-old child, she walked around the world pointing out hexagons, pentagons, octagons, and quatrefoils. Also at two, she knew all of her letters on sight, after I showed them to her on her alphabet puzzle maybe twice. She wrote her name right after her third birthday (I still have it, with the date).

However, there was a significant downside to this combination of intelligence and freakish energy; the tantrums. When events did not work out to her expectations - no matter how well spelled-out beforehand - she would engage in the most violent meltdowns that you have ever seen. As a baby, her fists and feet would fly, to the point that I had to physically restrain her. (And, as a two-year-old, she was the height and weight of an average four or five-year-old, and a wall of sheer, aerobically-exercised muscle to boot.)

Thankfully, the physical part of her tantrums didn't last much past the age of two. The last time I restrained her - I've had multiple hours of training in how to do this safely; don't try it at home if you're not - I was murmuring, as I always did, "I'm only controlling your body until you can control it yourself." She then looked me dead in the eye and said, "Don't under control me anymore." I said "OK, then, we're done." She's never hit or kicked since.

But oh, though, she had hundreds of meltdowns. You could see them coming. That wild-eyed energy, building up until she was too loud or ran around or grabbed something or knocked a kid down, or whatever, until one of us decided to step in and remove her. Then, there was screaming and sobbing, resulting in carrying or dragging out (it's hard to carry or drag a forty-pound three-year-old when you're pregnant, as it turns out,) and then a lengthy battle of enforcing a "time-out" with an enormously strong banshee who is flinging herself at her bedroom door.

Now, in the interests of full disclosure, I know something about child development and behavioral intervention. I know a great deal about it, actually. However, putting the wealth of behavioral theory that I knew into actual action was proving more difficult than I would have expected. It was about that time, right before the birth of YG, when OG had just turned four, that I figured I needed to start finding out what we were doing wrong.

So, I started reading, and began talking to my then-incredible-pediatrician, who had been observing her behavior in his quiet, inimitable way, for quite some time. We suspected sensory integration disorder, perhaps high-functioning autism. But most of all, clearly, she had severe ADHD. And, oddly enough, she began complaining of violent itching in her genital and anal area, and she started squinting when she watched television or movies. Dermatalogical and opthamalogical exams revealed no physical or vision problems whatsoever. The opthamologist, however, took one look at her and said "She has tics."

The birth of the younger girl temporarily took precedence over the pursuit of diagnoses or solutions for my dear OG. But not for long.

The YG arrived - also healthy, also strong, not as big, also with red hair - in April of 2004. Almost immediately, she was worlds apart from her older sister. This one WAS one of those babies who sat placidly in their buckets at a restaurant! She COULD sit and play by herself, and for hours at a time! She sang to her toys, cuddled her dolls, and put herself to sleep at night. And - oddly enough - we weren't raising her any differently than the other child.

So, maybe, just maybe, it wasn't all our fault.

And maybe there was a pill, or combination of pills, that could fix this.

Summer Niii---hiiiights!

(What, you say? Tell you more, tell you more?)

Erm, actually, not much to tell. The Mags family gets themselves into quite the piggish summer vacation lazies every year. We stay up way too late watching old movies and various HBO programming*, and then all sleep in until 9:00 (me) and 10:00 (the children, and lately, the husband). And, thus, as OG is hard to get started on the best of days, we don't physically MOVE from the house until about noon, when, of course, it is already time for lunch.

Today, we JUST made it to the free Alamo Drafthouse kids' movie showing at 11:00 - and that was with a significant amount of cajoling and threatening. (It's "The Iron Giant" this week, which I had forgotten was really good. It was Brad Bird's first big animated feature, and it deserved way more press than it got. I also forgot that it made me cry when I first saw it, and thus will always make me cry, even in public movie theaters, much to the embarrassment of my oldest child.)

After that, there was...well, home time, more movies and computer games, and then a brief jaunt off to the neighborhood pool before dinner, which was thrown together hastily, as I had my eyes on the bigger prize - a HUGE vat of homemade salsa, from my garden tomato-and-jalapeno haul.

I hadn't ever made salsa before, really - no, wait, I have made tomatillo salsa several times, and lots of Hatch chile enchilada sauce, but every time I've tried making just straight-up red salsa, it hasn't come out very good. Usually, it's really watery, and not a lot of flavor compared to the bottled ones.

But, this time, I took the time to roast, peel, and seed the jalapenos beforehand, and I also blanched the tomatoes to get the skins off correctly. Since that seemed to work out well, I briefly parboiled the red onions and a serious mess o' garlic, too. Then I just threw it all into the food processor with some lime juice, salt, pepper, and oregano, and after it was nearly pureed, I threw in a bunch of cilantro.

And, children - it was GOOD this time. There are three largish ziplock bags in my freezer that I shall look forward to thawing for quite some time.

So, the sum total of activity for my day was: waking up, driving to and summarily watching a movie, idly picking random objects up around the house while my children played video games and/or watched another movie, walking to the pool and briefly standing around therein, and then making salsa. And now, I blog.

Goddamn, I love summer.
------------------------------------------
*So, is anyone else besides me really into "Big Love?" And, if you are, do you feel as conflicted as I do about liking it? Because you KNOW in your heart that it's a really unrealistic, sanitized view of polygamy, which is REALLY a horrible practice that victimizes and infantilizes women, and yet THIS SHOW makes you kinda, sorta, want a sister-wife or two to babysit the kids and cook dinner for you when you get home, and have kinky sex with your husband when you're just not in the mood?

Seriously. I'm half-shopping for one.

This one goes to eleven!

Hey now, there, y'all, it's been almost a week since I've been here. I believe I have been actually, for reals, busy for several days.

Oddly, though, now that I'm sitting down at Ms. HotSexyNew iMac to write...suddenly, I cannot remember one thing that I've done recently. Age? Writer's block? Cheap Merlot? You decide.

I think I must list. Perhaps I will also cluster. It's my only hope. (Warning, I sense exclamation points ahead. I cannot summon the words to express myself tonight, so thus I shall rely upon punctuation marks to convey my meaning. OK!! Yeah!!)

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1) Baby! Erin had her baby, three and a half weeks early...and...it's a boy! His name is Dean, an homage to both Ben's middle name and the Rat Pack. (Had I known, I would have sent them lil' sippy martini cups.)

I have not seen photographic evidence of this baby thus far, but I see no reason to doubt her story. Mom and baby are reportedly well - no word on how Ben is doing; I'm suspecting either "giddy" or "stupefied" - and hopefully all are home by this evening.

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2) Schlitterbahn! We went to Schlitterbahn on Sunday! Opened it and closed it, even; 10:00 AM to 9:00 PM. Both girls went with, as did our good friends Eric and Christie, who had never been.

A time was had, my friends, a time was had. It was the perfect day: coolish (for July in Texas,) slightly overcast, rainy early in the morning so many folks were scared off. During the day, it only rained lightly for about half an hour, and that was timed nicely right at the dinner hour. OG and Eric were their energetic selves and rode everything. Even YG, formerly assumed to be a complete pantywaist, rode some pretty hardcore slides. (She also proudly displayed her new "dunk her head underwater" skills, newly learned in swim lessons, about 50 times throughout the day, causing me to fear for her brain cells by a certain point.)

There are many things about Schlitterbahn that make it way cooler than other water parks, first and foremost being the use of real (and cold as fuck) Comal river water in the rides in the older section, and the several tube chutes that just dump your ass into the actual river. But, also great is the fact that they let you bring in coolers, so you aren't forced to spend scads of money on shitty hamburgers and funnel cakes.

But, this time, I finally got to do the coolest thing at Schlitterbahn...the Master Blaster! ('Cause, see, someone chose the perfect day to go, when the lines for it weren't four hours long! Wait, who was that brilliant person? Oh, yes, it was ME!) For those who have not tasted the joy, the Master Blaster is an uphill, water, roller coaster. It's fuckin' sweet. And, I'm glad I finally got to do it, because I am absolutely unwilling to wait in the ungodly lines for it on a typical day.

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3) IKEA! I hate IKEA! Did I ever say that I loved IKEA? I don't! I absolutely fucking loathe them!

See, I bought this bookshelf there a few weeks ago. (Note: It is not actually a cheap piece of crap from IKEA, it is a reasonably expensive piece of crap from IKEA. This fact will come into importance later in the story.) I don't have a truck, so I got Cristen to watch the kids, took out the carseats, folded all the seats flat in the Pussy Wagon, and drove 20 minutes up the highway to get there.

It lay around my house tripping us, in its ginormous boxes, for about two weeks, but I finally got to work on it and finished it a few days ago. It was not mentally challenging - assembling IKEA furniture isn't, generally - but it was time-consuming, and did involve another slog back up there to get a missing bolty thing.

This thing, by the way, not being a cheap piece of crap from IKEA, is actually pretty solid, and pretty heavy. Though I put it together myself, I did some back hurting picking some of the pieces up, and it took two of us working substantially to lift it up to the wall after I was finished.

So, I'm up on the ladder, just about to fasten it to the wall - last step, you know - when The Man comes through, points to the side panel, and says, "Did you know this is cracked?"

Herm?

No, goddamn it, I did NOT know it was cracked, splintered, right down the middle of the wood, with no relation to any screw or anything that I had done during the assembly. Fucking fuck.

But, you know, I can handle defective merchandise. What, as it turns out, I CANNOT handle, is IKEA's return policy. It spaketh thus: You may pick up this extremely heavy fucking thing and put it back on the ground, turn it back upside down, disassemble three quarters of the entire bloody thing so that you may bring in a SIDE PANEL TO A BOOKSHELF, and bring that one piece in to be replaced. Or, you may disassemble the ENTIRE THING and return it to us IN ITS ORIGINAL PACKAGING, to return it to us. (Which was already cut up in the recycling pile, because we are GOOD ANAL RETENTIVE LIBERALS.)

And do you know what they do to those folks who send bitchy e-mails about this policy? They send them auto replies! Several!

The upshot of all this is that I am in no way, shape, or form, disassembling this stupid thing. So, tonight, we lay it back on my floor, and I attempted to wood-glue the crack into stubborn submission...and of COURSE, I rubbed my index finger along the crack to schmear the glue in, and of COURSE I ripped an inch-long gash in it on the razor-sharp splinter.

I tell you, folks, I've decided IKEA is not worth the hassle. For a few dollars more, I could have driven two minutes away to about twenty good furniture places near to my neighborhood and had a nice bookshelf delivered and installed for me. AND, I'm guessing, if a big crack developed down the side of said bookshelf, someone might, just might, have said, oh, "Sorry?" Or, "Hey, you get a new one, since that one's broken! And we'll bring it out to you!"

For the moment, I'm swearing off IKEA, 59-cent stoneware bowls or not.

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4) I saw the new Harry Potter movie at a sneak preview on Monday! It was...pretty good! The kids have all learned to act, and their real-life friendship is apparent. All the supporting cast is as fantastic as usual...god, I love Alan Rickman, as previously noted, and Imelda Staunton as Delores Umbridge was an inspired bit of casting. But, the plot of the movies is getting pretty familiar by now, and this one didn't have the wonderous imagery that Alfonso Cuaron put into the third one, or the character development that Mike Newell put into the last one. And, it seemed woefully abridged - that's probably to be expected, as it was an 800-page book - but some major plot points were left out.

However, I did enjoy it. I'm certain that you will, as well.
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5) Give yourself over to absolute pleasure, bitches...it's your lucky bun day!

It's Spinal Tap, at Live Earth, and....the Army of Bass Players...O.M.F....G.
No words. No words at all. Can describe. How cool. THIS IS.



Stonehenge was pretty effing funny, too...




Yes. You're welcome.

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6) Your Simpsons Self! You should, by all means, go to the Simpsons Movie Website and create your own Simpsons Avatar, like THIS ONE:


...and you should then thus post them on your blog. Or send them to me.*

Because they are awesome.

(As is John, yet again a source of all things cool.)

*I couldn't save mine to my computer, for some reason. I had to print it out and then scan it.

A sucky Fourth

Dang, the Fourth of July cake was kind of a bust. The icing was awesome and it looked very pretty, but the cake itself was dry. I don't know how that's possible, as it had half a pound of butter and a cup of sour cream in it, but dry it was.

Maybe a better baker than I has a suggestion on what may have happened, or how to improve it? Maybe I should have added some milk or buttermilk or something? The batter looked good, and it wasn't burned or anything like that.

All around, this is not turning out to be the holiday that I had planned. The cake was underwhelming, our planned annual trip to Schlitterbahn today is officially rained out, and - while not actually raining at present - it's just too damned gloomy outside to muster up the energy to do much else besides hoist the coffee cup to the lips and watch "Spongebob" with the kids.

Bleah. You?
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The upside of the rain:


Look at my grass! And it's JULY!

And, the downside:


There are little fungi growing on my back porch.

Fourth of July Flag Cake!

Oh, my god, people, you need to go make this cake RIGHT. NOW.

Don't worry yourself about the four sticks of butter and the three boxes of cream cheese that goes into the icing! Or about the half-pound of butter and cup of sour cream that goes into the cake! That's not important! Because you'll burn calories just picking this fucker up after you're done with it, as it weighs about 50 pounds!

Mine doesn't look as good as the one on the recipe, of course, because I'm not all that patient, and raspberries were too expensive. But it's going to taste INCREDIBLE.

What Kind of Liberal are You?

I'm a hippie. Go figure.

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Peace Patroller, also known as an anti-war liberal or hippie. You believe in stopping American imperial conquest and supporting our troops by bringing them home.

Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com