yet another pet peeve

I get so sick of people who ask for advice and then answer their own question with a refusal to fix the problem.  "How do I get my baby to go back to sleep? And don't say let her cry because I'm not willing to do that."  "Is there any reason I shouldn't marry my girlfriend and don't tell me 'because I'm too young' because that's not a reason."  "What's wrong with saying n***** and don't say it's racist because I don't use it that way."  Basically what they're saying, what they're all saying, is "How do I solve this problem and don't tell me how to solve it because I'm unwilling to solve it."  I especially hate this when I do it, because not only am I engaging in a practice that is completely ineffective and ignorant, but I'm being a total hypocrite by doing it.

mom body

If I were to wake up tomorrow and be 19 years old again, with tight skin and everything up where it used to be, I would not be thrilled.  I'd like being skinny, but I would miss my stretch marks and chewed on parts.

A loud day

Today is a loud day.  I don't have a headache, yet, but every sound just stabs into my ear like an ice pick. Tommy sounds louder, my cell phone rings louder, I've had to turn down the volume on everything I can.  I know I will have a headache by the end of the day, but right now it's just loud.  I do not like loud days because they make me a bad mom. To counteract this, I am trying to be a super-good mom today. I let Tommy make brownies, which invariably leads to powdered mix on the table, egg shells in the batter, and then somehow they turn out great anyway. But it's a mess and a hassle I usually try to avoid, plus it's jsut more chocolate and junk food in the house and who needs that?  Then I made him a big bowl of popcorn, which means he won't eat lunch, but he's only fed a couple handfuls to the cat and is watching Wall-E silently on the couch so it's okay for now.

generic

Ten things to never buy generic

1. KY jelly, Astroglide, etc.  I firmly believe that if you're looking over your budget trying to find places to cut back, and it's your lube expenses that are really killing you, you have issues bigger than buying generic. Also, generic stuff is sticky, which is the exact opposite of what you want in a lubricant.
2. Spaghetti sauce. It's all red and lumpy in a jar, but seasoning counts for something. Unless you want tomato paste with pepper, buy the Ragu.
3. Chocolate. Especially if it says "chocolately" instead.  Chocolately coated or chocolately flavored are just bad. Always. Without exception.
4. Diapers.  Plenty of people swear by store brand diapers but I've never been lucky enough to have a kid who can pee solely within the confines of a generic diaper's limited padding.
5. Tampons.  Whoever engineered Tampax must have been a genius, because getting the actual tampon to absorb rather than having the string just wick blood into clothing seems to be a very difficult feat.  Also, cotton must be woven just so to keep it from dissolving inside of body cavities.  No one wants to expel lint for a week post-menses.
6. Cheez-Its. Generic cheese crackers, and I've tried them all, are bad.  They're oily and taste bad.  
7. Laundry detergent.  I once loaned a 5 year old t shirt to a friend.  I got it back a month later completely faded because she washed it 3 times in generic detergent, as opposed to dozens (hundreds?) of times with my Tide.  
8. Toys. Fun Dough is not Play Doh. Transmorphers aren't Transformers.  Elmo doesn't have eyebrows. Kids know these things.  I think every girl my age received, at one point, a "fashion doll" as a gift with thin hollow limbs held on by very loosely molded ball and socket joints.  I think they still sell them at dollar stores.
9. Electronics.  A $200 big screen television probably won't save you money in the long run, not after you buy it, realize it's a cheap POS, and then go buy the full price one to replace it with anyway.
10. Ice cream. Vanilla should be beige, with flecks of black. If it's Clorox commercial white, it'll taste like shit and be a waste of empty calories. Splurge for the good stuff and just eat less.

Ten things to always buy generic

1.  Ibuprofen/acetaminophen.  There's no reason to pop for Motrin or Tylenol when the FDA ensures that it's all the same.  Plus, when's the last time you heard about a generic recall?
2. Paper.  Construction paper for the kids, notebooks, printer paper.  It's all pretty much the same. And if one generic "brand" sucks, just try another one next time.
3. Butter.  Most of us are so used to margarine that we aren't going to notice if one box of salted butter is less salty than another. Usually it's for baking anyway, so just buy generic. You can read the ingredients and make sure it's the same.
4. Saltines.  They're bisquick, water, and salt.  Kinda hard to mess up.
5. Bread.  With a few exceptions, store brand white bread is just like Wonder Bread, and whole wheat split top is the same as Sara Lee, but without the advertising budget.
6. Meat. Boneless skinless chicken breasts don't differ much, whether they're store brand or Tyson. Same with fish fillets, shrimp, ground beef, just about anything that just gets killed, butchered, and sold. Not a lot of room for error there.
7. Pasta. As much as they want you to believe otherwise, Creamette, Barilla, and Great Value are all pretty much the same.
8. Light bulbs. I suppose specialty bulbs might be different but regular 40 watt bulbs are differentiated by type (incandescent, LED, flourescent) rather than by brand quality.
9. Rubbing alcohol, peroxide, bandages, gauze.  Unless your wound really really requires Spongebob graphics, just about any bandage will work. There's no reason to spring for Band-Aid when Curad is the same. 
10. Kitty litter.  It's all basically clay with baking soda in it. They haven't yet invented the self-cleaning always-sterile kitty litter.

He's just odd

Tommy walks up to me, leans in really close, cups my face in his hands, and whispers, "Peeeeeeeeeeetsa."
"You want pizza?"
"Nooooooo. Meeeeeeeeeeeeelk."
"You want milk?"
"Nooooooo. Waaaaaaaaaaahyerrrrrrrrrrr."
"You want water?"
"Yessssssssssss."
I look over at the couch, at the water bottle he had to set down in order to come cup my face in his hands to ensure that I pay the utmost attention to his little toddler grocery list.  "Isn't that your water bottle right there?"
"Alright." And he walks away to go drink his water.  I have no idea what any of this accomplished.

Osama

Look at these men.  They just look different.  Probably the two most well known evil men in recent history, and only one looks the part.  Adolf Hitler just looks like a monster.  His expression is angry, severe, merciless.  He looks like the kind of guy to orchestrate a genocide.  Osama Bin Laden looks nice.  He looks like a guy who'd hand you a flower at the airport.  His expression is peaceful, serene, spiritual.  And yet he was a monster.  A monster in human form, who committed and orchestrated horrible atrocities against innocent people.  But in the eyes, he looked nice.  It's one thing that strikes me in the last few days, as the news is full of stories about his death.  In the history books my children, and all future generations, will see a serene face.  When I was in school and we saw a monster in the history book, he looked like a monster. He was Hitler, in stark black and white with his arm out in nazi salute.  He didn't look like a Mike Meyers movie.  I fear that the reality, the horror of the man, will be lost just because the worst monster of our time happened to have kind eyes. 

still yummy

I have decided that I loved my invention pasta dish so much that I am going to post the recipe. This would also be great with low carb pasta, especially Dreamfields.

one can diced tomatoes, drainied
one half polish sausage / kielbasa sliced into half inch sections
quarter cup fresh or frozen basil*
1T minced or chopped garlic
parsley to taste
salt & pepper
olive oil
spaghetti (I use thin spaghetti and I mix regular with whole wheat, but any kind would work.)

Cook spaghetti. When you put the pasta in the water, drizzle oil in a deep skillet (I use a chicken fryer) and brown sausage as evenly as possible, stirring occasionally.  Add tomatoes, garlic, basil, and parsley.  Warm through and turn heat to low/warm until pasta is done, stirring occasionally.  When done, strain pasta and stir together in skillet.  Serve hot.

yummy

Spaghetti pasta with tomatoes, garlic, sausage, and basil.  Roasted broccoli with salt and olive oil.  Tommy helped me stir everything and made sure the spaghetti water was salted every time I turned my back, and then he ate nothing.  Ryan ate the pasta, Danny ate/crumbled a little of everything and was carried directly from high chair to tub, and I stuffed myself.  Not a bad meal all in all.  At least, not until Danny sneezed in the tub and projectile spit a giant glob of chewed broccoli at me.

One bearded man was shot in the head yesterday

And today the same spot on the thermostat feels a little warmer. The breeze is more refreshing than chilly. The children are easier to tolerate, their incessant screaming not as piercing as before.  The sun is brighter, yet not as glaring. Even Squidward seems less annoyed/annoying in this rerun of Spongebob.  Today is better than yesterday.  Like in those allergy medicine commercials where the picture looks normal until they peel off the film of CGI allergies and the colors get brighter.

A rebuck gwoge

Tommy presses something small and brown into my hand. Maybe a piece of dead leaf or wet construction paper. 
"Mommy, a rebuck gwoge."
"A what what?"
"A rebuck!"
"What's a rebuck?"
buzzing sounds
"A bug?"
"A rebug"
"A real bug?" (he has toy bugs)
nods "Yes. A rebug gwoge."
"A real bug broke? How?"
holds up one finger "I poke a rebug."
Not construction paper. A smooshed bug. Ick.

wtf

Why is it that if I go around to the bathroom and laundry room trash cans and empty them all into one bag it's my job to take that bag to the trash, but if someone else empties them all into one bag and then sets it on the floor then the least I can do is take it the rest of the way to the trash? Tom left a bag of lint and tampons in front of my bathroom sink a week ago and wonders why I use his sink now.

I wonder

There is no gay agenda and no one "promotes homosexuality" or tries to recruit anyone, but just for a second ignore that and ponder this. What if people did promote homosexuality, and try to recruit people to be gay? Why would that be bad?
Keeping in mind that you're either born gay or not, which is, you know, fact, why would people care if someone were to tilt at those particular windmills?  What if I decided to promote blue eyes, and recruit people to have blue eyes? It would be ridiculous and stupid, but who would it offend? I suppose if I got popular enough, people might notice and decide that I was unfairly discriminating and treating poorly those without blue eyes.  And that might hurt their feelings, to be told, however indirectly, that blue eyes are desirable over other colors.  Is that the problem? Are the straight people sad because no one wants to recruit them to be straight? Are they upset that no one is starting a straight straight alliance, or holding big leather boy parades for them? Are they sad because we get Rupaul and they get Ozzie and Harriet?  (After all these years, I still say we.  How quaint."

on zombies and eggs

So the Romans and Pharisees who killed Jesus are bad. We don't like them at all. No, Sir!
And Judas, who collected the bounty and turned him in was bad, and we absolutely hate him! Bad dude, evil all the way around.
But the day Jesus died is called Good Friday. What the fuck? It's my understanding that it's good because that's the day we got our salvation and all that, but then wouldn't the people who made that sacrifice possible, who actually martyred the man, be good too? If the death was good, the killers should be saints.Right?

Just another Thursday

Hah! No wet sheets today but both boys seem to be on a nap strike and I got 2 emails a minute apart about detentions for Ryan for not turning in homework. Ugh.

Mourn it and go on

Can we all just agree that guyliner's time has passed? It was an avante garde little rebellious phase but now it's been over done. So, could all the gender-bending nonconformist teens find a new way to collectively nonconform? Also, could they look up the words collectively and nonconform and then smack themselves in the head?

Just another Wednesday

7:00 the alarm goes off. Ugh, Danny was sitting up in the bed for half an hour at 5:00 trying to play. I fumble for the phone and hit snooze.
7:05 the alarm goes off again. Danny stirs and latches on. If I don't want him to wake up yet, if I want a moment's peace this morning, I have to stay until he's done. I hit snooze again.
7:10 the alarm goes off. I turn it off and sneak out of bed, propping pillows around him as I go so he doesn't roll or crawl over the side, and get dressed. I take out my earplugs (Tom snores like a Jake Brake) and drop them in the nightstand drawer, making sure to close it because if I don't the cat will get in there and cleaning up cat puke and earplugs is so gross.
7:12 I pee, texting Ryan from the toilet to get up and brush her teeth, and brush my own teeth, listening for Danny the whole time. She texts me back, "Okay."
7:15 I let myself out of the bedroom and into the hallway.  Ryan is coming out of her bedroom too and I whisper to her to hurry up.  I shuffle into the kitchen to start my breakfast. I need coffee.
7:20 I plug in the coffee grinder and hope it doesn't wake up Tommy. I should have ground the coffee yesterday but I never think about it until the morning. I open the coffee can and see that I'm almost out. I hope I can make it a week and a half until our next shopping trip. I grind the coffee and load the machine.
7:25 Coffee maker is started, oatmeal on the stove is cooking, and I hear Tommy yelling for me. "Mommy!"  Maybe he'll go back to sleep. Maybe this will be one of those mornings where both boys sleep until 8:30. "Mommy!" Maybe not. I turn off the stove and coffee pot and go to get Tommy out of bed.
7:30 "My potty." "You want to go potty? Okay, let's go." "My pants. My shirt." The Pull-Up leaked. He and the bed are soaked in cold, fragrant, urine.  I strip him down and take him to the bathroom. Ryan is still in it, about to start brushing her teeth.
7:45 We all emerge from the bathroom, teeth brushed, and go to the kitchen. I turn the stove and coffee maker back on and mix Tommy's breakfast drink, the only nutrition he gets these days since he refuses to eat actual food. Ryan takes her morning pill, swipes one of my caramel calcium supplements, and lounges against the counter to leisurely drink her juice.
7:52 "Ryan, go to school. No, you cannot brush your hair. You have had over 45 minutes to throw on an outfit, brush your teeth, pee, take a pill, and brush your hair. You are now out of time. Go to school." "But Mom, I'll hurry! I promise!" "No. Today you look like a hobo at school. That's the natural consequence of running out of time and hopefully it's the lesson that will teach you to hustle a little more in the mornings."
7:55 Ryan leaves for school, hobo hair and all. But she has a brush in her purse and I can only hope she doesn't slow-walk to school to get her hair brushed.

8:00 I sip my cold coffee and use it to wash down 800 mg of Motrin. I can feel a headache coming on. I sit at my desk and open up blogger. This is a live-blog kinda day.
8:15 My coffee is gone but hasn't kicked in yet, my oatmeal is lukewarm but edible, and Tommy is sitting on the couch in a clean Pull-Up, drinking his milk. Oh crap, I forgot to strip his bed!
8:20 The bed is stripped, Tommy is jumping on it because for some reason one can not jump on a bed with sheets but one must always jump on a bed without sheets. I have to get these through the wash before nap time because while I do have more sheets, I don't have another waterproof pad to go under them.
8:30 Danny wakes up. And if he were going to fall back to sleep that dream has been ruined by the screams of "Baby crying! Mommy! Baby crying get up!" that the first fussing sounds bring.  Tommy and I go to get Danny, who has wiggled out of the pillow-walls but not yet made it anywhere near the edges of the bed. I change his diaper and set him on the floor to play with his brother.
8:40 "Mommy! Potty!" We go to the potty and he pees a little. I empty the potty, let him flush the pee down the toilet and wash his hands, then drag him crying away from the sink.
8:50 I load the washer with sheets, turn it on hot (the cold water hasn't worked for a week and a half and the repair man told me yesterday that he won't fix it and thinks I should call a plumber), and then realize that my detergent is at my mother's house from when I did laundry there last weekend. Also there, a hamper, 2 loads of laundry, and a basket.  I dig around and find 2 cement-like Tide Tablets I got in the mail a decade ago and hope for the best.

9:00 My oatmeal is cold and solidified. I scrape it into the garbage disposal.
9:02 "Mommy! Potty!

9:15, the washer is stuck on the rinse cycle because there's no cold water. I turn it back to 'wash' and run it without soap.
9:16 I ignore the world and check my email (I can enlarge my penis, and David Plouffe needs my help.) and the news. A hooker in Seattle was tortured in a dungeon for hours, Charlie Sheen wants to run for President, something happened to the First Lady's plane and she had to circle before landing (this is a top story on every news feed I get) and the highway in town will be one lane for the next 6 months because they need to pave over the bumps to get on and off the 30 foot bridge they built for 9 months last year.
9:20  "Mommy! Potty!" We go to the potty and he farts twice before announcing that he's done. I drag him crying away from the sink.
9:30 Tommy tells me a story about the Staypuft Marshmallow Man fighting a robot and a superhero. The Marshmallow Man was on fire but he still broke the robot with his hand and then a superhero came in and hit him with more fire and the robot got back up and quite honestly, I don't know who won.
9:45 Tommy brings me a clean Pull-Up. I tell him he already has one and put this one on my desk.
9:47 Tommy brings me a clean Pull-Up and whispers "Mommy! Potty!" I take him to the potty and pull down his pants for him and find a 4 inch turd. I clean him up, he poops a little more, we flush it, wash his hands, leave crying. You know the drill.
9:55 Neither my coffee nor my Motrin has kicked in yet. I know that if I drink more coffee I'll only feel it in my stomach.  Tommy comes out of his room yelling that Danny is chewing on a block. I tell him that's okay, that they're chewy blocks, and to let the baby have one.  I receive a skeptical look in reply.

10:00 Tommy gives up on blocks and comes to climb on me. After poking me repeatedly in the kidneys with his bony knees, all while shouting "Mommy! Looka me!" in my ears, he runs off crying when I tell him that mommies aren't for climbing. As he runs away he yells "I naughty" and hits himself in the head. I shake my head and wonder how to fix that, and how much of his future sexuality will involve paying women in leather to slap him if we don't fix it. I pick up Danny and silently promise never to spank him.
10:10 "Mommy! Potty!" I tell him to go potty (I just left the door open and blocked the door with a roll of carpet to keep the baby out) and plan to meet him there. I put the baby down  and get up to go help Tommy and see him waving the potty bowl in the air. I choke on a lump of panic and hurry to see the mess. The toilet is running and he tells me he flushed it, so I thank him for his help and rinse the bowl out. He washes his hands while I reassemble the potty and then I drag him crying from the sink.
10:15 I gaze longingly at Disc 1 of Dexter Season 4, which has been sitting on my desk since Monday, unopened in its Netflix envelope. I throw the sheets in the dryer.
10:20 I start to think about lunch. Tommy isn't currently eating food so part of me sees no reason to make anything, but offering him food to turn his nose up at and maybe throw on the floor is a vital part of my job description so I decide to cook something. But what?
10:25 I hear the baby crying. He's outside the bathroom and Tommy is inside keeping him out by pushing the carpet roll at him. It has rolled onto the baby's legs. I rescue the (fortunately unharmed) baby, tell Tommy in my best stern voice "We do not crush people under home decorating supplies!" and (say it with me) drag him crying from the bathroom.
10:30 I get an email from my mother asking why she got an email from cafepress telling her the shirt she designed in ready for her to order. I go to her account and see that Ryan designed a shirt. I reply to Mom's email and ask if she's called the plumber yet. I hate calling the plumber and since she's the landlord, I make her do it. I can't understand the guy because his Puerto Rican accent is thick and I always feel vaguely racist when I try, and my mother is of the generation that refuses to acknowledge race or color at all and therefor never feels racist ("It's no different than being unable to understand a thick southern accent."), so she can call him.
10:45 I take the sheets out of the dryer and make the bed. As I leave the bedroom I see Tommy's blanket on the floor. The baby blanket I crocheted for him before he was even born, that he loves and carries with him, that he sleeps with, that I didn't wash. And I'm fresh out of ten year old detergent samples.  I throw it in the washer with a scoop of OxyClean and hope that'll get it clean enough to last until I can get my soap and laundry from my mother's.

11:00 Tommy asks me for crackers. I decide to be a negligent mom for one day and let him eat crackers and fruit snacks for lunch.  While I'm getting the crackers out of the cupboard he sees my Calcium chews and wants them. I tell him they're medicine, not candy, and he starts crying and chanting "medicine medicine" at me. I take him by the hand and tell him "No!" firmly. He looks me in the eye without blinking for a very long time. After about 60 seconds of this I realize he's peeing his pants at me in defiance. I take him out of the kitchen, hand him his crackers and milk, and silently beg him not to dump the milk.
11:10 "Blue straw! Mommy, bluuuuuuuue straaaaaaaw!" I take him to the drawer to pick a new straw (is straw color really the battle I want to pick here?) where he reaches immediately for an orange straw, declaring it to be blue (we need to work on colors more, kid.). He pulls the old straw out of the cup, plunges the new one in, and happily goes to watch Dora and eat crackers. I look down at the old straw in my hand and shake my head. It is orange.
11:15 "Mommy! My milk!" The baby has the milk cup and is chewing on the bottom of it, while the orange and upside down straw drips milk all over. I take the cup, clean up the milk, and realize that I'm starting to feel shaky from having eaten nothing since the half bowl of oatmeal this morning.
11:20 Danny is fussing and crawling toward me.  My meal will have to wait for his.  I nurse him.  "Mommy! Potty!"  I briefly wonder if the ad guy who coined the phrase, "Calgon, take me away!" 30 years ago was adequately compensated.
11:40 I sneak into the kitchen to toast myself a bagel for lunch. Tommy hears the toaster and yells, "My eat!" I let him in and he grabs more crackers and then jabs his finger into the cream cheese on my bagel. He looks at his finger, calls it yucky, and wipes it across his shirt, as I'm reaching for him with a towel.  Danny is at the gate so I bring him in too. I strap him in the high chair and open a fruit cup for him. I give Tommy one too, to keep him quiet.
11:50 Tommy has eaten all the cherries from his fruit cup and is now trying to get more out of the cupboard. "No!"

12:00 "Mommy, can I climb? Mommy let me up please." He is trying to climb onto me to get Danny's cherries. "No, Tommy. No! Mommies aren't for climbing. Get off!" He climbs up anyway, saying "Thank you, Mommy!" the whole time.
12:25 Lunch is over and we are back in the living room. I am still tired but know that more than one cup of coffee a day won't do anything but hurt my stomach.  Tom calls and asks how my day is. I growl into the phone. He laughs. Tommy and Danny scream in the background and he laughs harder. I hang up on him. He's so used to it that he won't be mad.
12:30 "Mommy potty!" He pees, flushes, washes, I drag him screaming. All in all a good trip.
12:45 My neighbor calls. The dog is running loose in the back yard. I call her into the kitchen (She smells like dog poo! She smells like dog poo in my kitchen!) I hook her to a leash, throw on a coat, and walk through the muddy yard to find her chain unharmed. Now how the hell did she get out and how the hell do I keep her from doing it again? I come inside and get yelled at by Tommy for taking the doggie away.
12:55 Danny crawls up to me and bites my ankle. When I yell "Ow!" and look down, he smiles and crawls away.

1:00 Nap time! Yay yay happy dance. But wait. I never threw the blanky in the dryer, did I? Don't swear in front of the kids, Charlie. Nap time shall be after Spongebob today.
1:05 I come out of the bedroom after turning on the dryer and watch the baby spit out a glob of Play-Doh.  I wonder how strict the laws are in china about tossing the term "Non-Toxic" around.  I decide that Play Doh feels pretty light and probably isn't made with lead.
1:10 The baby is rubbing his eyes. He's ready for a nap but I can't put him down until the blanket is dry. I nurse him instead, and hi kicks me for it.  "Mommy! Potty!"  Ugh.
1:15 check email and news again for a minute. Texas is on fire. I remember all the fundies ranting that Katrina was because God hates Mardi Gras. I wonder why He set Texas aflame, then. Suddenly I hear Tommy ask, "Hey! Where Ryan go?" Really, kid? She's been gone for five and a half hours! "She's at school, honey." I glance longingly at the coffee cup still sitting on the desk. I notice it is full. No wonder I'm so tired today.  It's too late for coffee now, though.
1:20 I check Tommy's Pull-Up to see if he actually peed at me before, and it's soaked. I sternly tell him that he is supposed to pee in the potty and NOT in his big boy pants. "Potty!" And we're off to the bathroom, where he pees approximately 3 drops, flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and screams as we leave.
1:25 I take the blanky out of the dryer and shake it to try and air dry the damp out of it. Thank God acrylic yarn doesn't actually absorb any water because the thing is pretty close to dry. I call Tommy to his room, "Tommy, the ghost just got out. They're flying around New York." He runs in from my bedroom to watch his movie.
1:30 "Baby coming! Baby coming!" Every once in a while Tommy pretends to be scared of Danny and treats his giggling crawl up the hallway as some sort of slow-mo horror movie chase scene. "The baby's okay, honey. Time for bed." I carry him in to bed and put a clean Pull Up on him. "Night night Mommy. Sweet Dreams."  At least he's good about going to bed. I grab the cat out of the crib on my way out of the room and notice that the baby, now at the bedroom door, no longer seems at all sleepy.
1:35 "Mommy! A towel, a towel!" Normally I don't go in when he yells, because if I did he'd yell the whole nap away, but today I'm afraid of leaky Pull Ups, so I do. "A towel, a towel. Baby chew blanky." Apparently the blanky wasn't as dry as I'd thought. I tell him it's wet from the wash, retuck him, and leave.
1:45 Danny is rubbing his eyes again so I hand him a toy and take him to bed. I come back out to the living room and decide to call Tom back.
1:55 Danny is crying in bed and Tom is telling me what a hard day he has had, sitting in a terminal waiting for the truck to get fixed. Three hours of doing nothing. I can only imagine the stress!

2:00 He tells me that upon frther consideration, he agrees with me and is reversing his point in an argument from last night. I roll my eyes. He does this all the time. I make my case and back up my opinion on something and he shoots it down and puts his foot down, then reverses his position a couple days later. It's as if the mere fact that my mouth is uttering the words makes me wrong until he decides to make him mouth utter the words instead. This is how we got married, too. He proposed to me 3 days after I proposed to him, almost word for word.
2:10 The shiny red Netflix envelope catches my eye. Dexter is dismembering someone in there and I can't see it. Rita was pregnant in the last envelope I returned. I wonder if they name the baby Lily Anne like they did in the book.
2:15 I get the mail. A letter from Ryan's clinic telling me they are terminating their relationship with her because of her unpaid bill. The letter is dated April 15. On April 18 they told me I was fine to make her an appointment. I taste panic because if I can't get her in to the doctor before her meds run out, she'll be thrown full-force into SSRI withdrawl and I can't let that happen. I get off the phone with Tom and call the collection agency mentioned in the letter. They have no record of Ryan at all. I call the outside billing company they were using and leave a message for them to call me back.
2:30 I call the clinic and explain myself and they say they've never heard of any legal filings and could I fax them a paper. They give me the fax number and I hang up.  I wonder who will prescribe Zoloft to a 12 year old just on her mother's word.
2:40 I call my lawyer's office and ask them to please fax the  paper to the clinic. They insist the clinic should already have it since the bill is on the filing, but I convince them to fax an extra one anyway.
2:45 The lawyer's office calls back. They had originally sent the letter to the outside billing company, not the clinic, but will fax it now.
2:50 My mother calls to talk about Ryan's birthday next month. Her groupon coupon is about to expire and we need to find something right now. I go to cafepress and try to guess what my own kid likes, because it changes week to week.

3:00 Danny wakes up. I toss the letter from the clinic on top of the Netflix envelope.
3:05 Nursing Danny. I call Tom back. His original plan to be home around 6:00 has been changed by traffic.  It'll be closer to 8:00 now. My day just got 2 hours longer.
3:15 Danny fell back to sleep. I lay him back down, practically jump on the cat to catch him and get him out of the room, and then go back to the living room. Ryan will be home any minute and she'll want a snack. Should I make her a bagel?
3:20 Ryan is home. She wants Cheerios, so it's best that I didn't make her a bagel. Danny is screaming again.
3:30 check facebook and email.  Ooh, Asian singles in my hometown want me. I live in freaking Mayberry. The only Asian single here is the old lady in the back of the Chinese Restaurant. I make a mental note to keep an eye on her, now that I know she wants me.
3:50 Read the news. The roommate videoing bully from Rutgers tried to hide evidence. Really? Did anyone expect integrity or a moral code there in the first place? I remember what it was like to be different and bullied, I feel sad for Tyler Clementi, and I remember to hate my high school guidance counselor a little if I find the time.

4:00 Walmart calls my phone. My prescription is ready to be picked up. I wish it were here in town so I could send Ryan on her bike but Tom filled it the first time so the refills are all at Walmart, 20 miles away. I should watch Dexter while I have the chance.
4:05 Crap! I left the lunch mess out. I clean up the kitchen and wash my oatmeal pot.
4:10 My friend calls. I am speaking to an adult. She has baby ducks in her chimney. I tell her I want one and she promises, through her laughter, to save the next one for me. Psssht. She'll probably get her chimney capped with no regard to my baby duck needs. I shouldn't kid about animals. I did that once with Tom and he kidnapped a baby turtle from its flock in the New Mexico desert. Spike is still in a Rubbermaid tote in my hallway, five years later.
4:30 I wander the kitchen, peering into cupboards, looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I decide on Rice a Roni and set 2 boxes by the stove.  I put beer in the fridge just in case, because it's been that kind of day.
4:45 I get off the phone. Fuck it, I'm watching Dexter. I tear open the red envelope, put the disc in the machine, and realize I have no idea where the remote is. Gaaaah! I find it under a cushion, play the dvd, skip the yucky breakfast in the opening credits (they make ham look so visceral) and watch Dexter!
4:55 Danny wakes up. I pause the dvd and go to get him.

5:00  He nurses to sleep and I decide to watch Dexter anyway. Oh my god, they made the baby a boy and named him Harrison! wtf?
5:30 I should make supper soon. Ryan has her church group at 6:30 and supper can't be late today.
5:40 I call her as loudly as I can without waking Danny and ask her to sit with him so I can make supper.
5:45 The Rice a Roni is browning when I hear Tommy calling. I turn the heat down and run to get him up. His bed is soaked again. Damn Pull Ups! If we need any after this case is done we're going back to the Easy Ups we had before. I call my mother to ask if she can bring my detergent down and drive Ryan to church group. Ryan tells me church group is at 6:15 this week. I tell her no it isn't and my homicidal expression  causes her to agree that no, it really isn't.
5:50 I add the water and powder to the skillet, put a lid on it, and come to the computer. How is it I don't even have time to narrate?
5:55 Ryan asks to play outside. Danny is awake and doesn't need to be held anymore so I say yes. What I really want to do is make her help me, but Tom and I don't like to use her as nanny so she's outside until supper.
6:00 I strip Tommy's bed and put the sheets in the washer to wait for the soap.
6:03 "Mommy! Potty!"
6:05 Tom on the phone. "You know, hon. I was a bit of a bed wetter when I was little. So it might not stop too soon."
6:06 I hang up on Tom.
6:15 Dinner is done so I yell out the door at Ryan and get the boys up to the table. Tommy scoops his own dinner, so I'll have some spillage to clean up later from that. Danny grabs the bowl I'm feeding him from and pulls it to him, reaching in with the other hand to crush a fistful of rice in his lap.
6:45 Dinner is over. My mother came and got Ryan at 6:30 and brought me my laundry soap, so now I can wash the sheets. Am I going to have to wash the sheets after every night and nap? I start the washer.
6:50 "Mommy! Potty!"  pee, flush, wash, scream, drag. I catch a whiff on myself; I need a shower. I'll add it to my to-do list.
6:55 Danny ate well at supper and there's yogurt he can have for a snack later. I crack a beer. Tom says he'll be home arounf 8:00 so there should only be about an hour left until I can (hopefully) have a break.


7:00 I hear a splashing sound and come into the living room. Tommy is squatting over a couch pillow, peeing. I scream and burst into tears. "Why would you do that?" I ask, sobbing, over and over.  "Mommy. What happened?"
7:10 I guzzle the rest of that beer and play Born This Way on the computer. Both boys dance and bounce and forget to be terrorists for a while.
7:15 the song is over. Now what?
7:20 the song is over again. I hope Tom is driving fast.
7:21 "Mommy! Potty!" Danny starts crying and I don't know why because they're both in the bedroom.
7:30 I play random disco songs at full volume. It seems to work.
7:40 "Mommy! My weiner!" What's wrong? "It broke!" "It didn't break; it's fine." "It's stuck!" "It's fine. You just have to pee." Seriously, though. How do you explain an erection to a 2 year old? And who wants to?
7:45 I swear to God, if Tom is late tonight I will punch him in the head.
7:50 Wow. The deafening music is working. They're relatively calm, dancing. This is good.
7:51 Gaaaah! Tommy's sheets!  I run to load the dryer.

8:00 Danny is crying nonstop. I decide it's teething and dope him up with Tylenol. He's a junkie for his Nol.

8:10 Ever see a kid poop while running full speed? I have. He's off like a shot into the bathroom while I try to get to the rolling turds before Danny does.
8:20 Tom is home! Yayyyyyyy! He picked Ryan up from church group and also stopped at my mother's and got the hamper full of clothes.
8:35 Tom has fed the dog and is ready to make himself supper now.
8:40 "Daddy! Potty!" I smile. I make Tommy's bed for the second time today, but I put a doubled up quilt between the sheets, just in case.

9:00 "Daddy! Potty! Daddy,come on!"
9:05 "Daddy! Mommy! Potty!" Tom is watching people argue over abandoned L.A. storage lockers on TV.  I wonder how that episode of Dexter ends. Tommy does nothing in the bathroom.
9:15 "Potty potty potty!"
9:17 Brandy bought a locker with hair in it but Dave thinks his is better, and Barry is hoping the car in his unit has an engine. Why does Tom watch this stuff when there is a homicidal forensics expert in the dvd player on pause?!
9:20 "Mommy Daddy Potty!" I tell him to just go and I'll meet him there. He yells for me a couple seconds later and I go in and he has pooped in the potty! Awesome! I high five him and let him dump it and flush it and he doesn't even cry after washing his hands.
9:25 "Potty!" Okay now when will this end? He pees.
9:30 Bedtime! Which Pull Up does he want, Rocketship or Car? Rocketship. I put it on him, and then jammy pants to hold the thing against him and hopefully stop leaks. He throws a fit because he can't see the rocketship and wants another pair on over his pants. Fine. Whatever. But then he wants them under his pants and I leave it to Tom to deal with. Finally we get him to go to bed. "Night night! Sweet dreams! Bye!"
9:40 Danny is fussy and rubbing his eyes. I nurse him to sleep, and then take him to bed.  Finally. Peace. Except for the Storage Wars on the TV.
9:50 I put water on to boil for tomorrow's oatmeal and carry the bowl for the ice cream maker down to the basement freezer. I plan to make ice cream on Saturday and say a silent plea that no one else decides to make ice cream before then.

10:00 OMG there's a show on about old people arguing with traffic cops. I married a yokel in a trailer, didn't I?
10:10 "The kids are in bed. What are you writing about now?" "You." "What?! I need to read this!" So I post the blog, he looks it up. "Oh My God it's three pages long!"  tee hee hee  He reads it.
10:15 People are getting up in the meter maids' faces. You parked in front of a hydrant, you played the game, they ticketed you, you lost the game. That's a fair assessment of it, so why are you screaming at them? Oh frak, he's got me watching the stupid show! I stand up and change the station on him.
10:20 I read the news headlines. A war reporter was killed yesterday. I feel bad for his family, but this couldn't have been a huge surprise to them. I mean, he went into wars he didn't need to be in, and took pictures of violence. I would imagine this would fall under then "Well he died doing what he loved" category and not the "It came from out of nowhere" category. Dead lion, live sheep, that kind of thing. And Weird Al remade a Lady Gaga song.  I listen to it; it's pretty good.
10:30 I post my final version of this blog, put the address up on a message board I'm on, and log off the computer for the day. I know some people will think I posted too many minor details, but I did leave things out. I mean, I did use the bathroom myself today, and I changed Danny's diaper a few times too.  And while he nursed, I gazed down at Danny and hoped he'd always look at me so trustingly, and wondered what he'll be like as an adult.  And Tommy drew me a picture of the Staypuft Marshmallow Man after supper and he put the fire from the proton packs on it too, and even though it looks like squiggles to everyone else I will still have that piece of construction paper when he turns 50.  And I swelled with pride every time he used the potty, as though my son were the first human ever to control his own bowels. But the blog was about frustrations today, so I left out the mushy stuff. It's there, it just isn't written out today.

But for the most part, this is an average day for me, for just about any stay at home mom. And this is why we alternately laugh and cry when we hear the term "Working mother" and know that it doesn't apply to us.  Not because working mothers do less necessarily, but because they get coffee breaks and adult conversation throughout the day.  So I put this out as an open call to every mom who reads this (all 3 of you) to post in the comments section. And I hope that maybe someone will read it and realize that she isn't the only mom who goes crazy, or bursts into tears, or hopes that the next ear infection comes with a prescription listing drowsiness as a side effect. (Hey, I'd never drug my kids to make them sleep. But I would certainly defer to the wisdom of any doctor willing to.) It's not only the moms on the news who reach the end of their ropes. Good moms get fed up too.

My secret

I have a secret, one I rarely tell people and avoid talking about. I am anti-abortion. People just tend to assume that if you're a liberal woman, you aren't, so I nod and let them assume that, but I secretly don't approve of abortion.

Politically, as a matter of what legislation I favor, I'm pro-choice. But when people say things like "My body, my choice", I shake my head. And when when they say it's not a person yet, it's a woman's right to decide when to have a baby, women denied abortions are forced to become incubators, I hum to drown them out. Because I really am anti-abortion.

I believe that the reproductive systems of two homo sapiens are incapable of producing anything but another homo sapien, and that therefore any embryo or fetus is a person. I believe sperm and eggs are potential people, but the creatures they combine to produce are people.

I believe that a fetus is not a body part. A parasite, perhaps, but not a tumor or organ, or other body part of the mother. For that reason, I do not believe it's merely a matter of allowing women to do what they want to their own bodies. But even if it were, a transgendered person has to jump through a thousand loopholes just to remove an unwanted penis, which is inarguably one person doing what they want, surgically, to their own body. So it's easier when there's an argument to be made that it could end another life than when there isn't?

I believe that it is very simplistic and short-sided to make it a woman's right when it involves another person. If a pair of conjoined twins exists where one depends on the other for some vital function, does the one capable of living independently have the right to kill the other? No, being physically dependent does not equal being un-alive.

I believe that a woman has a right to choose when to become an incubator, and that choice (like the choice to become a father or not) happens pre-implantation. Birth control, condoms, (or better yet, both), and even the morning after pill, all exist to make it possible to avoid both pregnancy and abortion.

But I believe that I could, under extreme circumstances, seek an abortion. If I were raped, or if I had a reasonable fear that there would be something terribly wrong with the baby, or if some other horrible, drastic, tragic thing happened, I might want to go terminate a pregnancy. It would be ending a life. It would be killing a person (remember, I think fetuses are people, and they don't survive abortions). It would be doing what was best for me, not for anyone else. In fact, it would very much be doing something very bad for someone else (the fetus). It would be selfish. But I believe that I could make that selfish choice, if I felt I had no other option. And as long as I could see myself doing it then I don't believe it's right to declare that no one else should be able to. But I thin they should be honest enough to say that it is a killing (not murder, perhaps, but somewhere up the ladder from killing a bug, which people freely admit is killing), that it is selfish, and that it is drastic. I don't believe it is a right, but I believe I should be allowed to do it if I so choose. There are lots of things I want to be allowed to do that I never plan to do and do not consider a right. Learning to fly, taxidermy, clown college. Not necessarily human rights, but things I don't want to be banned from doing. This is just a little more serious than those.

Small comforts

I want to surround myself with things I love, one tiny item at a time. I have a purse that I love, and now I can stop searching for a purse, for a while. I have a coffee mug that I use every day. And a pot in which to cook my oatmeal every morning. And a tote bag to bring with me on days out. And an old lady cardigan sweater I wear when I get chilled. I like these little familiar comforts. I plan to eventually have everything around me just so and perfect. And when that happens, I can die.

If my kids bury me in a new outfit, an outfit that is not just so and perfect, I will haunt them.

first complex sentence

Danny! Dis nake, it issid your nake!

(Danny! This snake, it isn't your snake.)

Potty Training

I have dreaded it for over a year now, and put it off because of it. But finally, we decided to just do it, because it has to be done. And after washing urine out of 20 pairs of tiny jockey shorts emblazoned with cartoon characters in 2 days, he got it. I finally stopped putting the underwear on him at all, but he got it. He crapped his shorts, I dumped it in the potty chair, made him look at it, and the next time he pooped he sat on the potty to do it. He stretched his first morning's pee into 4 sessions, collected 4 candies for it, but ever since all of his pee has been in the potty, without prompting. For 2 days now I have occasionally heard, "Mommy! Chocket!" and been shown a potty in need of cleaning, and handed over the chocolate accordingly. Another few days of this and I might let the kid wear clothes. A week after that, maybe he can leave the house. And after a couple weeks of waking up dry (he is not doing that now), he can sleep in underwear. And then, God-willing, he will be potty trained. I am so very proud of him. He is so good with human waste.

I pee pure vitamin D now

So, my old lady calcium supplements (I went with vaguely caramel flavored chews rather than suppository sized pills) have 50% of my daily value of calcium, and 125% of my daily value of vitamin D, and instructions to take twice a day. So my question is, why do I need 250% of my daily value of vitamin D, or is it really impossible to make vaguely caramel flavored chews with any less vitamin D than these? I could be a photophobic albino and these pills would keep me swimming in vitamin D.

aging

I bought a pair of reading glasses yesterday, to help me with small print. I'm old. I also bought calcium supplements, to try and stop my shoulders from sloping any further.

Shame

I once read that shame serves no useful purpose. That guilt can keep a person from repeating a mistake, but shame does nothing but make you miserable. But, since I've been married, I've learned that that's not true. Shame, self-hatred, they are the get out of jail free cards of marriage.

I am fat. Not obese, but bigger than I really need to be. And, to tell the truth, I'm okay with that. I'd like to tighten my abs a little so I don't look pregnant, but I could be a size 14 forever and have no problem with that. But I have to hate it. I have to be ashamed of it and make myself miserable trying to change it. Because then, I at least know there's a problem. If I hate myself for my size and shape, it can be said "Well, she got up around 140, but at least she knew there was a problem. At least she knew it was bad." Because, somehow, to accept and like myself at this size would be to let myself go. And there's nothing worse than having let yourself go. Women get divorced for having let themselves go. Men leave over that shit. So, you see, self-hatred serves a purpose. Shame has a reason for being. It shows that we still want to impress. Being willing to spend the rest of one's life in a futile struggle against inevitability shows that we care. It shows that at least we haven't let ourselves go.

more linguistic peeves

realtor, not relater
nuclear, not nuculer
february, not febuary
warrior, not woyer
padlock, not paddle lock

advise/advice
then/than
person who/thing that
they're/their/there
boys/boy's/boys'
affect/effect
ambivalent/indifferent

I could care less
It's water over the bridge
six or one half dozen or another

shame and patriotism

We are the United States of America. We support human rights all over the world. We are a moral high ground with a determined purpose to help end atrocities globally. We grant asylum to people who live in countries which do unspeakable things. We guarantee religious freedom, freedom from unreasonable search and seizure, from police and government brutality, from cruel and unusual punishment.

I feel shame when our president won't sign declarations against discrimination because it would interfere with our ability to deny marriage rights to gays. I feel the same sadness and shame when we can't sign a pledge against genital mutilation because we want to be able to routinely circumcise boys. We won't decry atrocities because we want to continue to commit them. That makes me sad.

then stop eating crap

I just read a comment on this article about healthy eating, and it made me laugh. This is what it said:

to comment about "what's in your cart?"....all of those choices that the dietician made are definitely a better and healthier choice, but let's be realistic here. the cost of those foods is nearly double the cost of the other foods and, when you have a big family like mine, you simply cannot afford to buy half a package of something to feed the whole family. it is sad that, in today's society, healthy eating is so darn expensive, we are forced into buying cheaper junk foods for our families. maybe obamacare should start by making healthier food more readily available to families at an affordable price...maybe we wouldn't be in such a bad health crisis if we had the right resources....
lindawcb 8:53 AM

Now, the lady has a point; healthy food costs more than crap. But I love the line about buying cheaper junk foods for the family, because they have to have junk food and it's just a matter of what junk food, right? Because it's a choice of high fat vs low fat empty calories. What about not buying junk food? What about making a sandwich instead of eating chips for a snack? And while we're at it, a bag of popped popcorn may cost as much as a bag of chips, but a bag of generic popcorn kernels is much cheaper, and goes much farther.

They still can die, and they still probably wouldn't

Every single time you take your child in a car, they are traveling at high speeds on hard pavement in metal and plastic canisters of flammable liquids. That is a fact. It is also a fact that if you thought about the thousands of ways a child could die in an auto accident every time you got in the car, you'd never leave the house and probably have the kid taken by the state due to your emotional and mental issues over it. When people say "I could be hit by a bus tomorrow" they really mean "I know logically that I am mortal", not that they fully accept the gravity of the truth that they could be hit by a bus tomorrow, but they could. Why do I say this? Because people need to stop believing, and I mean this literally, that rules will make them immortal.

I know parents who are just anal about the rules. Never put a baby in a car seat in a coat, stay rear-facing as long as possible (ever known a mother to fold her kid's legs together to keep the car seat rear-facing longer? I have), never allow a baby to sleep on their tummy (I've heard of moms who rolled babies over who flipped on their own during the night), never let a baby have a blanket in the crib (why do sleep sacks come in toddler sizes?), never give a baby under x months old anything over stage 2 baby food. And what does all this boil down to? A belief that if they follow all the rules and never deviate, nothing can happen to their babies. And if something bad happens to someone else's baby, that person must have done something wrong. The car seat straps weren't tight enough, or there wasn't a fan in the baby's bedroom, or they are a cheerio before they were old enough. Every baby death must be avoidable because if not, then how can I be absolutely sure to avoid my baby's death?

You can't. You can minimize risk but never avoid it altogether. Last fall a kid at a school here in town was struck by lightning. The fiery hand of fucking God hit this kid in the parking lot of the elementary school. This is the textbook definition of random! And I heard parents rant about how the school had no lightning rod, and the kid had a skateboard, and my favorite: school should not have let out if there was a storm. Because what I want is for the school to hold the kids hostage until the rain stops, which often takes hours. But this accident must have been preventable and avoidable, or else we have no power. And if we have no power, then we are powerless, adrift on an ocean with our kids, unable to control the waves or the tides or the currents. And that just scares the fuck out of everyone. And rather than live with that reality, they hide behind their rules. And we all do it, to an extent. We all try to minimize risks (as we should), and we all somehow convince ourselves that a car cannot drive through the wall of our house and run over our children while they sleep, that organic food can never make us sick, and sometimes even that if we make our kids dress conservatively, they cannot be raped. But it leads to some harsh behavior too. Parents treating other parents like monsters and murderers for fastening the car seat straps over the coat rather than inside it (read that link, it's really good), or for giving a baby a blanket, or letting a toddler have m&ms (choking hazard, you know). But the fact is that we are all blood bags waiting to be popped, and nobody is running around with needles, poking their kids.

For the record, my 12 year old gets to ride in the front seat, my sons wear coats in the car seats, my babies have blankets, Danny gums table food, I absolutely love the BundleMe in the winter (and it's a death trap the likes of which will surely kill my child, another good link), and I consider myself to be a pretty good mom. But then, I also let my daughter ride her bike to the store by herself, so I'm obviously the most passive-aggressive murderer ever.

Nobody's perfect. Well, there was this one guy, but we killed him....

I have been thinking a lot about religion lately, and I'm not sure why. A large part of my brain still tells me that it's bunk. God is right up there with unicorns, in odds of existing. There are a hundred reasons mankind would make up a god and no real reason to believe one exists. But still, it's in my head. I come across articles like this, and this, that make me think maybe it's possible to believe in God without being a Christian. The reason I don't want to be called a Christian, even if I end up believing in Jesus in the end, is the same reason I don't want to be called bi, even though I like both guys and girls; too many people have their own definitions for the label. I think Ghandi said it best when he said, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

My family is, if you go back far enough on my father's side, Amish. I think that must be mapped into my brain because big shiny churches with flashy gymnasiums and sound systems just strike me as being too Earthly, too materialistic, for God. Spend the money on charity and get yourself one room full of pews with an altar at the front. Let people come in who want to talk about God, and stop trying to lure kids in against their wills with basketball games and rec rooms. I think religion and prayer should be solemn, and I think trying to make it fun is a little undignified. But then, I don't believe people have to be Christian to get into Heaven (assuming Heaven and God exist). In my world, God doesn't discriminate based on geography, and if you boil it down that's what it comes to when you say a person has to pay lip service to Jesus to get in. (After all, what's worshiping but paying lip service?) It's saying that Hindu children raised in India by Hindu parents, taught from birth that Hindu beliefs are the immutable truth, are going to be sent to Hell through no fault of their own while Christian kids raised by Christian parents in the US will get into Heaven. It's luck of the draw and it sucks and it's not how my God, if I had one, would act.

My God also wouldn't make gay people and then send them to Hell. Either he wouldn't fuck with them that way, or he's that callous and then doesn't really give a shit who we want to fuck. And don't give me the Loving Father BS. My mother loves the hell out of me and only has 2 kids, and she doesn't care what movie stars I think are hot, yet God has billions of children and is deeply concerned with who wants Brad vs who wants Angelina. I don't buy it.

That brings me to a book. A friend of mine went out a got me a book, and then hand-delivered it to my house, that really helped her out. This book gave her something she really needed, and I thought "Great, I'll read it and see if it doesn't help me out, too." And I think I got maybe 3 pages into it, which made me sad because I had high hopes, even after I recognized the author's name. But I couldn't get past the intro because the basic premise seemed to throw me off. The book said that God had planned for that moment to happen, for me to be sitting their reading that book (did God know I was going to be on the toilet at the time, or was that just a surprise?), and that God planned for me to heed the words in the book. God designed that moment of my life.

And.... that's when he lost me. Right there, right away. Because even though I can kind of believe in a God who cares how people are, and even though I can sort of nod at the notion of a God who might hear me if I pray, I can't swallow the idea that God cares about every moment of my life, or every opinion I form, or even every choice I make. Because what a colossal waste of time that would be for God! I mean, there are tides of corpses washing ashore in Japan right now, nuclear plants are popping like popcorn, and God cares what I read on the crapper? Sorry, I can't buy it. I'm more of a blurry vision, cynical, sort of theologist. I believe that God (again, if there is one) waits until you're dead and then sort of takes in the whole picture, not the individual moments. You know those pictures they do where it looks like a vaguely pixelated photo of someone but when you look closer it's a thousand little photos of them? I think God looks at the overall collage, not the thousand little photos. Stole gum once? Cured cancer? Never baptised? I don't think it's a hard call for God to make, and I don't think he's sending cancer-guy to Hell. But I do think that some sins are bad enough, over arching and far reaching enough, to be noticed individually. I think some sins become character traits and for that reason color the whole collage. And I think, in a religious sense, that Pride is the worst.

Not Pride as in "I did a really good job on that; I'm proud of it" but rather the Pride that leads people to believe that they can speak for God, that they know His plan and that they share His opinions. No one, even preachers, knows God's plan. And I have the greatest respect for those people who honestly can say, "I don't know why God made this or did this, but I have faith that He has His reasons." And I have no respect for those who say, "God doesn't do those things and He wouldn't approve of it." But then, that's the Amish in me. They believe that hard times are God's way of making us strong, and that His complications and contradictions are to keep us humble and remind us that we can't see His mind.

I don't like mean set your ass on fire God. I like loving just be nice to each other God. And hopefully someday I'll find him. But not today, and not in the book my friend was so nice as to give to me. Too bad no Quakers are Prideful enough to take it upon themselves to write a book about God. Oh, Irony, thou art annoying.

teething and daylight savings time

It's so much easier to take a screaming, cranky, over-tired baby and nurse him to sleep before he gets teeth. My maternal urge to take him to my breast and offer comfort has been tempered by an even stronger urge not to have my nipples sheared off. Ahhh, they grow so quickly.

I used to be young, but I'm too old to remember it any more

I am 34 years old. I am not old, or elderly, or geriatric, but I am aging. In a year, if I were to get pregnant, I would be classified as being "of advanced maternal age", which means there would be an increased risk of birth defects due to old eggs. My hair is turning silver (and it looks so good, I figure I'm about a year away from cutting the colored length off), I find myself holding papers away to read them, and my shoulders are sloping to the point where my bra strap keeps slipping off and I'm shopping around for tiny calcium supplements. And that little line between my eyebrows that comes from furrowing my brow at stupid people is now about as deep as a bullet hole.

When I was young I was so stupid. Seriously, I can look back on just about any moment of my life and feel embarrassed for myself. But I was young, and thin, and carefree. I wish I'd realized it. I wish I'd worn bikinis, and taken compliments better. I wish I'd enjoyed it before it was gone. Self-esteem should exist in the present tense and not just in hind sight.

by definition, an idiot

Can I just give in to my cynicism and point out that suffixing words with "ers" pretty much just tattoos your IQ on your forehead, and it's not a 3 digit number? If you're expecting a baby and you announce that you're "preggers", you're auditioning for Teen Mom, regardless of your age. And if you do it with your name? Oh my God, you're now about to be court-ordered into a group home somewhere! Aimers, Jenners, Vickers. All of those girls drive 97 Toyotas with pink squiggly pin striping, and wear frosted pink lip gloss. I just had to throw that out there.

A small distinction

There's a big nationwide news story about a group of up to 28 guys (older teens) who gang-raped an 11 year old girl. It's a horrible thing that, sadly, happens far too much these days. A large part of the story now seems to be how it was reported. The New York Times story made it seem as though it was the victim's fault, using phrases like "dressed older than her age" and that the men were "drawn into the act". Lots of outrage for the NYT, and rightly so. The thing I have a bit of confusion over, is the constant assertion that an eleven year old cannot consent to sex. Or more specifically, that anyone under the age of consent cannot consent to sex.

Don't get me wrong, at all. I believe in statutory rape laws. I believe that an 18 year old who has sex with a 15 year old is in the wrong, regardless of circumstances. I once was that 15 year old and I can tell you from experience that it is easy for an older person to take advantage of a kid, to convince her (or him, I guess) to do something she/he might not really want to do. Adults are clever and can manipulate kids; the law has to reflect that reality. That adults can talk kids into just about anything. That is, that they can talk kids into consenting to just about anything. And that's where I get the confusion about statutory rape victims being unable to consent. Not, of course, eleven year olds with 28 men on them, but the average 'he was 18 she was 15' kind of victim.

I read an article that pointed out just how wrong and misleading it is to claim that a statutory rape victim had sex with an adult. Because the kid can't have sex, can only be raped. Any person under the age of consent is legally unable to consent, unable to willingly have sex. And since the kid legally cannot be willing, by definition they were actually unwilling. So, by virtue of birthday, my teenage boyfriend forcibly raped me over and over, right? See, I thought he was just a dick to talked me into it and manipulated my emotions, but apparently I was unwilling the whole time. So, in fact, the guy I thought I loved when I was 15 was way worse than the guy who pinned me down and tore my insides up in a closet after a party 3 years later. Right?

If we dilute the word rape to mean people who legally couldn't consent as opposed to just people who actually didn't consent, we do a disservice to all the women who know what it's like to be forced, physically overpowered and forced. Too drunk to consent is not the same as drugged and raped. Too young to consent is not the same as tried to refuse. And when we equate it all we don't elevate the severity and anger of the legal definition up to the level of the standard, we undermine the standard. When I first read about an 11 year old in Texas gang-raped by 28 men, I assumed an 11 year old in Texas was forced by a gang of men. Now, with all the dickering over terminology, I wonder if maybe she was only "legally" raped. You can argue that there's no difference all you want, and at age 11 there probably isn't much of one, but if you've ever fought against rape you will know that there is a big difference between being forced and being talked into something. Which is kind of odd, since if I put a gun to some 15 year old kid's head and march him into a liquor store and tell him to rob it, he probably won't do any time. But if I tell him all the cool kids are doing it and it's so mature, and then he goes and does it, no one stands there and says he's too young to willingly rob a place. No, he'd go to juvie, if they didn't try him as an adult anyway. Because kids can consent to all sorts of things, as proven by the fact that they do them, but somehow not sex. And like I said, I think adults who fuck kids need to be arrested. I'm stricter on that than most of my friends. I honestly think a senior sleeping with a sophomore should be arrested. Maybe not put on the registry list, but arrested and fined and shit. But I don't think that being 15 is the same as screaming "No!" and raking your nails down some guy's face.

My head still hurts

My headache is worse, and now, in addition to the tension headache, I have a migraine as well. I know it is a migraine because I see lights that aren't there, little blue specks of light like the dots PacMan eats. And I smell eww. It's a specific bleach-like scent of eww and it's as clear as if some dude walked up and stuck is special sock under my nose. So yeah, it's a migraine.
My son, interestingly enough, has mastered hitting the one perfect note that shoots into your ear like an ice pick and then explodes to fill your skull like spray-foam. And he can sustain that note for a very long time.

I need medical help. I fear I will never get it.

these are a few of my favorite things 2

• my morning coffee
• my daily bowl of oatmeal
• the seat warmer in the van
• emptying the dryer and changing into a hot shirt for no reason
• conspicuously bring a book into the bathroom with me when I pee because I know Tom will think something else and I can buy myself 20 minutes of peace
• the rare occasion when both boys are asleep at the same time and I can watch a full episode of Dexter on Netflix uninterrupted.
• when Danny is nursing and he's half asleep and he reaches up to rest his hand on the side of my face

my head hurts

I have headaches. Horrible headaches that feel like a balloon is inside my head, being inflated with cement, and pushing outward against my skull, in varying spots every day. I get migraines preceeded by flashing lights (so pretty, in an 80s video game graphics kind of way) but these are usually tension headaches and I get them at least once a day. I know why I get them, from clenching my jaw. I even know why I clench my jaw, from biting my tongue, figuratively speaking. I feel like I am constantly keeping my comments to myself, because my comments are usually less that helpful and more than rude. It's just that I am a very opinionated person, and I generally like to think about things before forming my opinions, and it pisses me off when people blurt out the first fool thing that pops into their head and have never put a second of thought into it. "I think everyone with AIDS should have to wear a bracelet to warn everyone else." "How are you gonna enforce that and why would anyone go get tested if there was a chance they'd have to tell the world?" "I don't know, but they should have to wear a bracelet." And then I clench my jaw, and then I get a headache, and then someone else says something stupid, or Tommy throws a plastic sheep into the fish tank, and then I swallow a giant Motrin and try to pretend it's Vicodin.

A woman online is complaining that her daughter isn't on a sleep schedule, that the 2 year old wakes up at a different time every day. This bothers the mom because she personally needs a schedule and cannot function without it. This is the same woman who was complaining a few months ago that her husband wants to make her do unspeakably kinky things like have sex at the foot of the bed. She also can't buy her own maxi pads without blushing and refuses to buy condoms at all. She also calls her daughter Sissy and dresses her up in little ruffled and lace dresses. And then she asks for advice, and I can't give it. Because any comment I would make would start with the words "What, are you nine?!"

The church is still playing DJ to the world, and I know they'll never stop, and when I called to ask them if they're ever going to stop I made reference to the music outside and the lady who answered the phone inside the church didn't know what I was talking about, because they can't hear it inside the church. But I don't call because who am I to assume that the rest of the town shares my preference to not hear the music?

Last July the dog's rabies shot and county registration expired, and we got a postcard from Animal Control about it, which I gave to Tom. He said "okay" and never did anything about it. So in January we got a second Animal Control postcard, which I also gave to Tom, which he also ignored. So last week Animal Control came by and told me that I was facing a $200 fine for not registering the dog in July. A $200 fine for each day I went past due. For 7 months. So I told Tom and he told me to make a vet appointment for the dog and take her to get her shot. So I had to leave the baby in his bed, go drag the dog into my house, give her a bath, load her into my new minivan, have Ryan watch two teething boys while I took the dog to the vet, and then have my mother take off work to watch the boys the next morning so I could go pay off Animal Control (they cut me a deal so the fine was only $60). Had Tom paid attention to the first post card, the dog could have gotten her bath outside in the summer heat, Tom could have done the running while I was home and he was on vacation for Danny's birth, and we would not have been facing a potential fine of several thousand dollars.

There are easily 2 dozen more instances of things that have caused me to clench my teeth just in the last 2 days, but typing out these so far has given me a headache, so I have to go swallow my Motrin and pretend it's Vicodin, and begin the countdown to when Tom comes home tonight. Like every day, I plan to drink a beer and go to bed the instant he walks in the door. I plan that every day, and have since December, at least. I have yet to actually do it.

My husband, Betty Crocker

"I think next time I make chocolate chip cookies I'm going to add maybe a half teaspoon of cinnamon."

"Wow, hon. A secret ingredient in your own cookie recipe. You're really gay, aren't you."





*it's an ongoing joke that Tom is gay, which he's not. A joke he just keeps fueling.

They're soft already, just smash them with a fork!

It used to be, if you wanted to feed your baby mashed peas, you had to actually cook peas and then mash them (or just open a can and mash them). But then came jarred baby food, a convenience product, which eliminated the bother of pushing a button on a food processor. But now we have dehydrated powdered peas, which are supposed to be more convenient, by adding assembly to the process. So whereas you used to have to mash peas, now you only have to mix peas. Peas. A one-step food all by itself.

Have people gone mad, or are mothers this easily fooled?

It fucked up my day

Ever wake up in a fine mood - I mean a normal morning shuffling-your-feet eyes-barely-open mood - only to see something so innocuous yet wrong as to have it just completely fuck up the day right from the beginning? Maybe it's a glob of toothpaste spit in the bathroom sink, or pee dribbles on the toilet seat, or just a cereal bowl with flakes cemented to the inside of it on the counter, or maybe even something far worse, but it grosses you out, you have to clean it up, and you know that the responsible party will never do anything more than laugh it off. That's my morning today. Before even making my coffee, before even setting eyes on my coffee pot, my day started with having to clean up yuck, somebody else's yuck that somebody else should have cleaned up his own damn self. And it fucked up my day. And I know damn well that he is out there, in the world, driving his little semi around, waiting for me to call him, and I'm not going to do it. Because I am still shuffling my feet with my eyes barely open, wishing my migraine pills were opiate based rather than NSAID, and completely unwilling at this point to hear a half-hearted chuckling "Sorry, hon." I am just not in the mood for it, in large part because my day has been fucked up. Can I say that again? Tom fucked up my day.

It tastes better than it sounds

You know that thing where you look up one thing (usually for me on wikipedia) and then click a related link to read something else, then click a related link, and on and on, until you end up on an unrelated or minimally related topic? Everyone does that, right? It's not just me. Anyway, I looked up the word hotdish (Minnesotan for a type of casserole), then had to compare hotdish to casserole (all hotdishes are casseroles but not all casseroles are hotdishes), then ended up looking up comfort food, and I realized that there is no specific list of comfort foods. It's very subjective.

I guess comfort food, as a general term, refers to things like meatloaf and pot roast and mac & cheese. But it also varies by region, by family, and by person. In my family, believe it or not, a biggie is macaroni milk & butter. That's what comes out of the depression when you have a chicken for eggs (to make noodles) and a cow (for milk and butter) and it literally is just cooked macaroni, a stick of butter melted on it, and then milk. Like a soup, but not. Odd, I know.

I like comfort food. I've never really been one to eat for comfort, but there's something about sitting down to a big plate of parsley noodles (it's what you eat for dinner when you can't stand Mom's stroganoff) or some Rice A Roni (fine, my mom sucked at cooking). I make more classic comfort food now, like baked mac and cheese where the top gets all brown and bubbly, and red wine pot roast, and every morning I sit down with a hot bowl of cinnamon oatmeal. But on nights when Tom's out on the road, I still fall back on the food from my family, the things I remember from when I was a kid. I still pour milk on my macaroni.

Honda Odyssey

I got a new minivan yesterday. Well, a used one, but new to me. It's so nice. It has built in window screens in the back (in addition to tinted windows), a dvd player that flips out of the ceiling, heated seats to warm my tushy, automatic doors I can open with my keychain, all sorts of bells and whistles. And what's best, is that it looks nothing like an SUV! (total irony, we bought it at the Hummer dealership.)

I think I've figured out what my problem is with the SUV craze. My problem is that I am minivan. I am 100% the target minivan demographic. I have 3 kids, I'm a stay at home mom, most of my driving is to take kids places. And I absolutely resent the implication, by car designers and society at large, that I should be ashamed of this. That I should try to hide my life and pretend that I'm going off-roading instead of to the pediatrician's office. I like my life. I love my family and my life, and I don't take too kindly to hearing people say that minivans are so soccer mom, or that they'd never be caught dead driving a minivan because vans are just for pudgy housewives with spit-up stained sweat pants. Well first off, that's not true. But more importantly, I am a pudgy housewife who owns spit-up stained sweats. And I'm not ashamed of that. I mean, maybe if driving a Trailblazer would make me skinnier, or buy me nicer clothes, I would consider it an upgrade. But all it would do is tell the world that I'm ashamed of who and what I am, and I'm not.

it IS judgment

Imagine you hear some one say this, or imagine someone says it to you.

I have friends who are bad mothers. I don't judge them for it at all, but I can see they are bad mothers.

What if the person said it about you. Would you feel unjudged? Or would you feel very much judged and very much insulted? That is exactly what it's like when religious people say they don't judge gays, even maybe have gay friends, but that they still know gay people are living sinful lives. What they're really saying is that they do judge, but they know they aren't supposed to. Or maybe they aren't clear on the meaning of the word judge. Remaining friends with someone, even though you know deep down that they or their life are bad or wrong or sinful, isn't the same as not judging. Not judging means not forming an opinion either way about it. Like this:

I trust that God has a plan for everything and everyone, and that I am in no way on a level to be able to know or understand God's plan. If HE sees fit to let me know why some people are gay, He'll tell me. But until then I will just trust that God knows what he's doing and it's not my place to try and figure out what that is. Gay, like blond or freckled or tall or left-handed, is just a human variable that I can't understand. A human variable so inconsequential as to not be worth an opinion at all.

That is what it's like not to judge. And for the record, I judge people all the time. I shouldn't, but I do. And I do know some people who are bad parents, at least in my opinion. And while I try not to judge them to be terrible people because they lose their tempers or feed their kids crap or neglect their kids or whatever, I still admit freely that I am judging them as parents. I believe most people do this. Maybe it's easier to use spouse as an example. How many people who are absolutely morally opposed to adultery have friends who have cheated on their spouses? And they still stay friends. But they also still judge, not just the behavior but also the person capable of the behavior. The thing that makes being gay different from cheating or being a bad parent, is that being gay doesn't necessitate a victim.

Childhood freedom

The crime rate overall in the US is lower today than it was when I was a kid. [source] In all honestly, it was more dangerous for us to play outside and ride our bikes in the 80s than it is for our kids to do the same now. And yet, I hear from a lot of parents that they just cannot conceive of letting their kids do the same things they did, the same things they remember fondly as integral parts of their childhood. Sure I have friends who are helicopter parents, overprotective and proud of it. But I have friends who are fairly reasonable people, who still worry that letting their children go on unscripted bike rides will somehow give permission to wandering herds of pedophiles (they travel in herds, right?) to snatch their children.

I remember when my daughter was ten and was supposed to meet me at a friend's house. I showed up alone and then told the woman that Ryan would be there shortly; she was riding her bike over from a sleepover at her friend's. This woman, whose own daughter was nine at the time, asked me when I had started letting Ryan ride her bike by herself, like just off down the street alone. I can't remember now what I answered, but I do remember that this lady, an oddly optimistic woman usually, was just shocked because she didn't let her kids ride their bikes by themselves. They went on family bike rides together, but no one could just go to their friend's house or to the park or even just ride around aimlessly. And this woman even said that when she was a kid she rode her bike all over town, from morning until dusk.

It's hard for me to let my kids go. At just about every stage of my kids' development, some part of me rebels. I cried the first time Ryan went to preschool. And even last year when she started junior high. But I had to leave her at preschool, and let her go to junior high. And I made the conscious decision, at several points, to think back to my own childhood in this same small town, and set reasonable boundaries for her. She could ride her bike anywhere south of the tracks and north of the high school. A couple years later she could cross the tracks but not the highway. Now, at almost 13, she can ride her bike (or new electric scooter from Santa) all over town.

In case you're thinking I am just ridiculously permissive, keep in mind that my daughter has her cell phone on her at all times. Twenty years ago I had no cell phone, no way for my mother to find me if I was out of earshot. She told me to be home at 6:00 and I came home at 6:00, but she never knew where I was until then. And that was fine. It was great! I went on long bike rides, wandered through parks, found toads in the back of the cemetery, sat and read at the library, lots of fun stuff. And I want my kids to come up with their own fun memories of bike rides and toad hunting and neighborhood exploring. I want to raise free range kids.

I respectfully disagree

I recently read this article on Slog (my favorite blog ever) all about how limiting abortion funding is anti-woman and cuts a woman's basic right to decide whether or not to have a child and how to take care of her own body, and about how "conscience" laws are unethical and doctors should have to be required to practice abortions (it even says that conscience laws are only ever invoked about abortion, which isn't true) and that these attacks on women are attempts to push women into the "housewife and mother" role. I have to disagree.

First of all, there are a lot of things you have the right to that the government doesn't have to pay for. I have the legal right to go get a nose job if I want, but the government doesn't have to fund it and that lack of funding doesn't translate to government trying to infringe upon my basic right to decide how to present myself. I happen to disagree with the decision to cut funding for pap smears and birth control just because abortions are performed in the same building, but I'm not going to rant about how great and wonderful and All-American abortions are to make my point.

When I was 15 my gynecologist refused to implant my Norplant birth control due to his Catholic beliefs. This is how such a terrible travesty went down. I went in for my pap, answered the informed consent questions (You're doing this on your own, right? Your mother isn't forcing you to go on it?) and then the doctor told me he was Catholic and couldn't prescribe birth control and he left and another doctor came in. The new doctor introduced himself, asked if I'd read the information packet, and then put in the Norplant. Terrible, right? I do happen to believe that doctors and pharmacists should be able to opt out of personally providing services they object to. But I think that if you are going to take advantage of that ability, you should have to provide a partner willing to perform the services in question. My Catholic pharmacist wouldn't have to personally sell me the morning after pill, but he'd have to have a second pharmacist on duty who would. Yes, it would cost more for him to pay a second pharmacist, but that's the flip side of being allowed to refuse. As for Catholic hospitals refusing to dispense morning after pills to rape victims in their ER, they can either become private hospitals or they can keep one protestant doctor on duty.

I believe abortion is bad. But I can see, however vaguely, circumstances where it might be the lesser of 2 evils, the least bad option. If I were leaving an abusive husband and found out I was pregnant, I don't think I would want to share a child with him. If I were raped, I wouldn't want to carry that violation around for 9 months and I wouldn't want a blend of myself and a rapist to exist. And as long as I could see some instances where I would get an abortion I don't feel it is my place to tell anyone else they can't have those circumstances, too. So I am anti-abortion and pro-choice. Because women should be able to make horrible wrenching choices. But so should doctors.

Because it's as pointless and entertaining as this blog is

My daughter has a blog. She rarely writes anything on it because she thinks no one reads it, which may be true. But she is a gifted writer and has a way with words: the same way people say I have. She can make ordinary things seem funny. So I would like, if I may, to ask all of my readers to shoot over to her blog and read a few posts, and then comment on one or two so she knows people who never gave birth to her have read it. And a super bonus is that it's actually funny once in a while. So here's the link: http://totally-random-url.blogspot.com/

Yummy Sunday

Steel cut oats and cappuccino for breakfast.

Homemade poutine for lunch.

Pot roast and roasted brussel sprouts for dinner tonight.

I'm eating good but Ryan hates me.

It just can't be right.

I just read this on facebook; it was a friend's status update.

Your name is a strong and mighty tower! Your name is a shelter like no other! Your name... let the nations sing it louder, 'cause nothing has the power to save but Your name!!!

This is part of my problem with modern Christianity. This belief (and even if the friend who wrote this on facebook doesn't believe it literally, there are people who do) that it's the conversion, the worship, the praise in God and Jesus itself that matters. Not doing good or being good or trying to make the world a better place for day to day life, but the singing and praying that really counts. I once met a woman who told me, in all seriousness, that the true message of the Bible is to believe in and worship Jesus. She said this because when she told me that our boss (a Jew) and a coworker (who was Hindu) *gasp!* didn't believe in Jesus! My response was that they could still be good people and probably be rewarded for that, but she was quick to point out that it doesn't matter what or how you are, if you don't believe in Jesus you will go to Hell. In other words, a Jewish person who devotes their entire life to bettering the world will go straight to Hell while a serial killer who finds Jesus and repents in prison will walk through the Pearly Gates unhampered. Because it's the name, the worlds, that matter. I've even been told that the problem with churches these days is that some of them put more value on being a good person than on praying and worshipping and sucking up to the deity. That they do a disservice by encouraging people to do charitable works and improve the world more than to sit in a church and play mindless yes-man to God.

Mommy Badges

I was inspired recently by another mommy to think of some "Mommy badges". Mommy badges are like Girl Scout badges. They commemorate milestones that every (or most) mommies go through. A good baby shower game would be for all of the guest mommies to make badges for the guest of honor, to let her know what she can look forward to. Here are some badges I've earned, and I encourage you to leave yours in the comment section.

1. the "Is there a baby in your tummy?" "No, I'm just fat" badge
2. the walked in on during sex badge
3. the loud in public "Who farted?!" badge
4. the puked on at the grocery store badge
5. the Oh my god what are you eating badge (could be a crumb from the floor, could be a cricket, you don't know)
6. the "I'm going to enjoy this moment of peace because when I go see what he's up to I'll blow my top" badge
7. the trip to the doctor because some non-food item has been swallowed badge (pennies, rocks, whatever)
8. the swearing toddler in public badge
9. the "Why aren't Barbie's boobs long like yours?" badge
10. the "I hate you" badge (every mother's version of an Eagle Scout badge)
    

Everything's exaggerated because I'm not that stupid.

Ever disagree with your husband about something important to him, something close to him? It's even worse when it's a family thing because then it become an in-law thing and those never end well.

It absolutely sucks. Can I say that again? Disagreeing with one's husband about his own family is a no-win situation. Literally every direction you turn you just lose. One degree angle turns all around and you're screwed at every one. It's a statistical anomaly. I mean, somewhere out there is a woman who is somehow by marriage related to a serial killer and she gets in trouble when she says "Your cousin the serial killer, not so much on the list for godparent". And for every teenage school shooter there's one parent out there who was stupid enough to say, "He got that from your side of the family." And then the other parent stormed off to the sofa and took the comfy blanket with them.

You can't even have a valid point. It's like, if the conversation veers into the in-law zone, the road is full of land mines and no concern or argument can survive, no matter how wily it may be. "But your sister is a porn star and maybe shouldn't speak at career day" becomes, somehow, "Your sister is evil incarnate and must not come near the children for fear that legions of crabs might leap from her onto their vulnerable heads."

And while we're at it, when do men learn the silent treatment? Is it that day in elementary school when they separate us and tell us all about periods and boobs? Because I really fell for the line that they got a similar chest hair and boner talk. If you get in a fight with a man and try to resolve it, they just shut down. They instantly decide that you are unworthy of any attention at all and refuse to even nod or blink in response. It is a bafflingly spot-on way to humiliate and crush someone. If only they'd just discussed chest hair and boners.