Did You Berate or Relate to the Debate?

Doggone it folks, I've been itchin' to talk about the debate since it wrapped up last night! In the face of such low expectations, it's not surprising that Sarah Palin did better than expected. I don't think either candidate did extremely well or very badly, but here are my initial impressions of both.

Sarah Palin is "g" averse to a fault. She's talkin' to folks, workin' with McCain, listenin' to ideas. If this accent was consistent, it would be more believable, but at the moments when she has little of substance to say, she falls back into this speaking style, apparently to connect to those folks at home who have no clue that the need for foreign policy extends beyond the war in Eye-raq. Her folksy speaking style does nothing for me, but sadly there are probably many Americans that it really resonates with.

I was also struck by her scripted answers, particularly when questioned about foreign policy. She had a two-minute sound bite to deliver and gave the impression that beyond what was on those cue cards she had nothing else to add. When asked a question she was not prepared to answer, the cue cards were her life line. She simply looked down and delivered another one of her party's talking points with her point blank gaze drilling into the camera.

By repeatedly using the phrase "up there is Alaska" Palin gives the impression that her home state is a foreign country. To those of us who feel that being the governor of this remote state with its sparse population leaves her woefully underqualified to step into John McCain' shoes, this does little to alley our concerns. She tries, but fails to portray Wasilla as a town just like yours and mine. I'm here to tell you Sarah, gee whiz, Wasilla Alaska ain't no Silicon Valley.

She winked. Not once but twice. To convince me that she has moved beyond her beauty queen past and is ready to interact with foreign heads of state, she needs to leave that schtick behind. She is an attractive woman whose manner of dress, makeup, and behavior will always be scrutinized more closely than that of her male counterparts (although hopefully McCain doesn't wear makeup.... at least publicly). In order to be taken seriously as a politician she's going to have to behave like a serious political figure. Have you ever seen Condaleezza Rice, Hilary Clinton, or Ruth Bader Ginsburg resort to winking? With that said, her experience as a television anchor served her well. Her eye contact with the camera certainly gave the impression that she cared about her audience.

I know her mannerisms help "Joe Sixpack" and his wife "Wendy Wal-mart" relate to her, want to have a beer with her, and feel like she's just one of us. But this country is going through one of the worst economic crises in its history. We are involved in two wars, and our nation's approval rating around the world is heading south almost as quickly as George W. Bush's. I don't want "one of us" as our Commander in Chief or even as our VP. What I want is someone who doesn't require cue cards to talk about foreign policy.

Palin took Joe Biden to task on several occasions for looking backwards and dwelling on the mistakes of the Bush administration. She and McCain paint themselves as mavericks who will shake things up with their fresh focus and new ideas. Perhaps it is time to recall the words of George Santayana who said, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

In conclusion, Sarah Palin didn't do or say anything that was truly horrible or frightening during the debate as many of us who support the Obama/Biden ticket hoped she would in our secret heart-of-hearts. That in itself was scary though because it means that her handlers have coached her well enough that her bald ignorance and wrong-headed policies have just gone into hiding until after the election.

Now for Joe Biden. He came across as warm and friendly towards Sarah Palin which was key. If he had appeared hostile, he would have been criticized in the same manner in which McCain was, following the first presidential debates, for sounding "angry". When Biden spoke about foreign policy he sounded knowledgeable. One got the impression that he had a great deal more to say on the subject but was constrained by his two-minute response time limit. He made some small gaffs during the debate, including almost referring to his running mate as McCain, and occasionally resorting to wagging his finger at the camera. I noticed that he and Palin had both been coached in the fine art of the Bill Clinton bent finger wag,but that Biden slipped up and forgot to reel in that digit in a couple of times. I am unabashedly biased, and am struggling for objective criticisms of Biden's performance, so I'm just going to give up now. One positive thing I will say about Sarah Palin is that she has brought politics back into fashion. She's got people talking and feeling they need to get involved and be informed. If she can do that for this country, then she's not all bad.

Spray Paint! That'll Fix It! Yeah!

Every few months, Weston comes to us and asks for new shoes. Not because his feet are growing so fast (which they are, but not THAT fast) but because the last pair of shoes we have bought him are destroyed. Skateboarding is hard on shoes. At the beginning of summer we bought him some expensive Nikes (I was going to call them Nike shoes but it came of sounding unbelievably stuffy) that are designed to withstand the rigors of multiple attempts at landing kick flips, backside nollies, and pop shove-its. He wore them on and off throughout the summer but once school started, he couldn't wear them because they have blue (Gang Color!!!) on them. Plus, he couldn't land any of his tricks in them and claims to have outgrown them. Blame it on the equipment.

With school about to start, Steve's parents kindly offered to take the boys out shopping for new shoes, clothes, and backpacks. After trying on about 6 different styles, Weston finally found a pair that met his stringent style requirements and that the store still had in his enormous size 10s. A scant five weeks in to the school year, and these shoes are already in sorry shape. The right front side of the right shoe has been worn down to the fabric by the grip tape on Weston's skateboard. That's OK though. I'm glad he's getting the exercise, not playing video games, and working on getting better at something that he feels passionate about. What bugs me though is that The Punk took his shoes yesterday (why they were off his feet I have yet to determine) and spray painted them purple and gold. I've not seen the shoes, and never heard about the spray painting until 8:38 this morning when a shoeless Weston was scuttling out the door to leave for school, quickly explaining that he had fixed the whole thing by spray painting the shoes gray at his friend's house across the street. He was headed there this morning because his friend's mother drives him to school each day.

I am willing to bet a goodly sum of money that Weston will be less than satisfied with the spray paint solution. Dollars to donuts, he comes to me within the next 24 hours announcing that he needs new shoes, pronto. When he does, I will offer him four choices: 1) Get The Punk or his parents to pay for your new shoes (if you chose this kid as your friend, it will come at certain costs to you). 2) Sure I will buy you new shoes..... from Target. 3) Keep wearing the spray painted ones. 4) Go out and do some babysitting, yard cleaning, any kind of work to earn the money to buy your own new shoes. Do you suppose that will fix him?

Parenting - Just Hard, Or Is It Hell?

I just overheard one side of the following cell phone conversation while waiting in line at Panda Express for my cheap Chinese food fix. The caller was a girl of about 20 years of age who had probably been dumped by "Kevin". Perhaps she was even dumped in favor of the new mother. In any case, by the end of the conversation, I was pretty sure Kevin was better off without this nasty piece of work.

Vindictive Girl on Phone (VGOP) – So, Kevin just had his baby.

Me (Talking to the voices in my head) – Wha? How does a guy have a baby?

VGOP – (With delight) Yeah she was in labor for like 12 hours. I like, smiled all through practice on Saturday. Now his life is finally going to go to hell. I just wanted to call and tell you because I was so happy. You know, I’m spreading the word.

At this point the person on the other end of the call must have said something that made her feel like the vindictive bitch she sounded like, because her end of the conversation suddenly turned defensive.

VGOP – Well, Charlotte deserves it. She was dumb and she got with Kevin……(here I like to imagine that the caller called her something that rhymes with snitch, and told her to shut up). OK. OK. Well, bye.

At that point I felt the need to shower an excessive amount of public affection on Garrett who had also heard this exchange. I wanted both him and the twit on the phone to understand that becoming a parent does not equate with taking up residence in H-E-double hockey sticks. What a nasty thing to say front of a little kid. I realize that when teenagers become parents (and I'm assuming the parents in question were teenagers), its not an ideal situation and the going is likely to be extremely rough for everyone involved. I am not in favor of kids having kids. Babies born into this kind of situation are often better off when given up for adoption. Publicly gloating that the birth of a child is cursing the teen parents to an existence in hell, is just really callous.

Missing Cat Returns Not Unscathed

We are a pet-loving household. I warned Steve, long before we were married that part of the deal should he decide to spend the rest of his life with me, would be a menagerie of pets. Now that I'm in charge of cleaning up after all of the animals we currently possess, I have scaled my needs back to include just two dogs and a cat. Last night, I worried that we might be down to just two dogs.

Kacey the cat's typical routine, for summer at least (she spends all winter impersonating a sofa cushion), is to spend her nights out roaming the neighborhood, to come home briefly to eat breakfast, spend the day asleep, eat dinner, and then head out again. She was in yesterday morning, went out, and then she disappeared. As most cat owners know, when kitty doesn't show up for a regular meal, one of two things has happened: a) something bad or; b) your neighbor is trying to steal your cat away by giving it better treats.

I realized something was up when I started preparing soup for dinner, including a savory broth, and cut up chunks of chicken. Typically the sound of the cutting board being placed on the counter top and the knife being unsheathed from the block is the animals' equivalent to sounding a dinner bell. They come running from all corners of the house. Once I got all the ingredients in the pot, I went outside to see if Kacey was hanging out with the kids while they skated. No cat. Dinner came and went, the dogs got fed, the kids were put to bed, and still she had not appeared. Finally around 10:30 I went to bed, certain that I would spend the next day scouring the neighborhood for her lifeless body.

At 3:30 I got up to see if Steve had let her in after I had gone to bed. Still no Kacey. I lay awake for a couple of hours, mentally composing a missing cat flier and figuring out where I would place them. Telephone poles, light posts, or trees? Which would get more exposure? Eventually I drifted off into a fitful sleep, full of dreams of the dogs finding Kacey dead on the lawn, or trying to introduce a new kitten to the family. Dramatic, aren't I? At first light, I headed out to the sliding glass door, expecting to see her sitting there in the spot she assumes when she has spent the night out. Still no cat. I opened the door and called to her, and almost immediately heard her meow from up on the roof. Nearly 24 hours after we had last seen her, she was back. Unscathed? Of course not.

Poor Kacey has sustained some sort of mysterious injury to her right front paw. I have not yet assessed the extent of the damage but she has an exaggerated limp and the foot looks swollen. She is, at the moment, sleeping on her favorite fleecy robe on my bed. I'm relieved that she has returned, but am dreading the veterinary bill that may accompany this injury.

Punk vs. Parent

Doesn't being a parent suck sometimes? My son is outside skating by himself right now. Why? Because I'm being the tough parent and he's being the kid that listens to his parents. Here is how this situation came about.

Tuesday night he was outside skating with a group of friends. One of these kids is a punk whose parents have pushed away from the meal of parenting like they had a twelve-course helping and can't jam down another bite. At 14 he is not in school. Word on the street says he'll be sent to a boarding school sometime "before Halloween". Meanwhile he spends his waking hours totally unsupervised. While they were skating, the punk refused to move out of the street to make way for a car. When the driver opened her window and made a comment, f-bombs began to drop like rain. I should add here that Weston had JUST come in the house as this went down, so avoided the whole situation by literally seconds. Steve and I were in the kitchen getting dinner on the table and saw all of the action. When the swear words began to fly, the driver made a u-turn and gave chase to the kids, who had taken off running. At that point Steve ran out to intervene*.

Naturally, being caring parents, we had to explain to Weston that he could no longer hang out with the punk. We told him we were worried he would end up getting stabbed or shot by some wacko who didn't appreciate being mouthed off to (excuse my dangling preposition). He has been forbidden to skate anywhere but outside our house if this boy is around. The problem is this kid pretty much stalks Weston and his best friend and fellow skating buddy across the street. Weston's friend cannot always resist the allure of punkdome and sometimes, against his parents' wishes, takes off to skate with the punk, leaving my parent-abiding son alone, feeling like a sap for listening to his mom and making me look like an asshole for trying to be a responsible parent.

*I think I shall buy Steve a white horse**, because he does some serious rescuing when the need arises.

** Actually, I think he might prefer something more along the lines of a BMW. Note to self: Research whether heroing can be accomplished on motorcycle as well as horseback.

Where's Moose Killer?

I'm going to beat a dead horse here and talk a little bit more about the presidential race. Why, if we're in the middle of a great economic upheaval, does John McCain have to suspend his campaign? What good does running back to Washington do? How is John McCain going to save us all? And in the unlikely event that he can save us all, what is Moose Killer doing right now? Where has she vanished to, and shouldn't she as his running mate still be on the campaign trail? Isn't this her big opportunity to show us all how she can handle herself in a crisis? What, doesn't McCain trust his own running mate to carry on with the show? My personal feeling is that the Republicans are running a campaign consisting entirely of PR, smoke and mirrors, and the fewer debates they have to participate in the better off they know they'll be. C'mon McCain, you're supposed to be a national hero. Come back out and play fair.

Addendum as of September 26th:

Oh, here she is (Katie Couric sounds like she is interviewing a terrified debutant here, not a candidate for VP of the most powerful nation in the world). And here. And oh, sorry, just had to throw this one in. Holy cow. Could we just keep the McCain campaign suspended for a while because if Obama doesn't get a boost in the polls after this interview, I have got some serious questions to ask about the collective intelligence of the American people.

Maimed Middle Finger Thanks to Pit Bull Attack

Back in April of this year a very sad story came to light involving yet another pit bull attack. On April 11, 2008, Steve Belsley was out walking his shiba inu, Bella when they were attacked by a pit bull that was loose in their San Jose neighborhood. Steve suffered multiple wounds to his hands while trying to defend his dog, but ultimately found himself unable to keep both Bella and himself from being injured. Bella ran away to escape the pit bull and they have not seen her since.

Steve and his wife Terri initiated a massive effort to find Bella and between April and July one could not drive through our area of San Jose without seeing multiple copies of their flier attached to trees and light poles. They even went as far as to set up trail cameras and were able to catch photos of what appeared to be their dog along Coyote Creek. Steve and Terri are still looking for Bella, who continues to be spotted from time to time.

Today, an article came out in our local newspaper, The Mercury News, reporting that the pit bull's owner is facing charges that may ultimately result in him spending up to three years in jail. Steve Belsley is still struggling with his injuries. The paper attributes the following quote to Terri Belsley. "[Steve's] doctor said Monday that he may not be able to fully extend his left middle finger again." Friends, if you can't extend your middle finger to flip off the asshole whose dog caused your hands to be maimed, your pet to run away, and your future as an engineer to be jeopardized, I say three years in jail is way too lenient.

Marinating in Wine in Paso Robles

In the face of destruction in the stock market, a teen son boiling over, and all of the stress that inevitably follows back-to-school time, I took off for the weekend with Joanna to do a little (OK maybe a lot of) wine tasting in Paso Robles. Poor Steve got left behind to tend to the kids, but before we left was able to score us a free place to stay in Cayucos. In case you aren't familiar with San Luis Obispo County (Pismo Beach and ALL the clams you can eat!) Cayucos is a little beach town just off Highway 101 that you could glance east to take in the view of the hillsides and miss all together. The breathtaking view of Morro Bay from 101 makes is pretty unlikely that you would look anywhere but west (or southwest for those of you analyzing my post with compass and map in hand (Julia!)).

On the way in on Saturday we stopped first in Paso Robles to pick up six bottles of wine from a tiny winery in an industrial complex. Joanna belongs to the wine club at Hug Cellars and rather than pay for shipping, she had opted for this road trip as a good excuse to get out of town and do a little tasting. Armed with all the El Pape and Pinot Noir we could carry, we headed off to Tablas Creek where the pours were generous, the list was long, and the wine was incredible. Since it was early in the weekend we managed to walk a straight line back to Joanna's little Subaru with a couple of bottles of Cotes de Tables. Our next and final stop was Dover Canyon where many of the lables feature the winery dog. Pours were also generous and the list was equally long, so after tasting here we were a bit unsteady on our pins as we headed to the car with a couple bottles of Cujo Zinfandel and some old vine zinfandel.

At this point it was clear that our tasting day was over and we headed, carefully, down the hill to Cayucos where we spent the rest of the afternoon warbling drunkenly along with SingStar 80's for the PlayStation. We made it through almost the entire song list by the time we needed to get our faces on and head to dinner. A bit more sober, we headed to Hoppe's for some more fine wine and some grub. The food was great, and the locals were drunk and friendly to a fault. Nothing like hearing about someone's colonoscopy to work up an appetite for something chocolaty for dessert!

Sunday, after downing a couple of Alka-Seltzers and a protein-packed breakfast to line the stomach, we were back in fighting form. On the way back to San Jose we stopped at Hunt Wine Cellars where the prices were high, the bottle jockey was enthusiastic, but we were very underwhelmed. After divesting ourselves of our $10 tasting fee we left empty handed for Booker Vineyard. The wines were expensive here as well, but of a much higher quality, so we ended up purchasing a bottle of their cheapest offering, a "pink" wine consisting of a Syrah, Grenache blend. With tired palates our final stop was Terry Hoage Vineyards, owned by a former football player turned wine maker. Like our earlier stops the wines at Terry Hoage (all named with football themes such as Hangtime and 5 Blocks) were very pricey, but good so my final purchase of the day was a "Skins" Grenache.

Back in San Jose now and wringing my liver out for a few days. If we had a bunch of extra cash on hand or won the lottery, I think Steve and I would spend next weekend looking at real estate in coastal SLO County. The only question would be beach, or inland where we could plant some vines, buy some goats, and start making wine and fine cheese. Cheers!

The Shrug

I have decided to learn sign language. Why? Because I need to be able to interpret all of the subtle meanings contained in one gesture. The shrug. From time to time Weston morphs into a sullen teen. Typically he wakes up in a pretty loquacious mood and is able to communicate with us in monosyllabic grunts. Spending a day at school seems to rob him of all ability to speak however, and upon being asked any question his response is limited to a shrug of his shoulders. When he does decide to speak what does come out of his mouth would probably have been better off staying put. Apparently everyone he goes to school with, excepting perhaps his two best friends, is an idiot. School administrators, staff and teachers are equally gifted with the added benefit of not giving a crap about anything, at all, ever. Except maybe for the hair-phobic gym teacher who vomited in front of her students upon seeing a glob or hair in a cup next to the pool.

I think I understand though. I still remember just how much junior high/middle school sucked. It was a huge popularity game that could be won pretty much only by stomping on someone else's soul, beating up someone younger and smaller, or getting in trouble for something that could be considered cool. As a girl you could choose your identity from a small set of equally unappealing personae. There was the the űber-bitchy girl whose small circle of BFFs was determined by their loyalty when she felt the need to pick on someone less fortunate, usually cursed with braces and a poor fashion sense. Or you could be one of the stoners, the kids who had given up on academics in favor of smoking pot and using that cool droning voice made popular in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Or you could be the slutty girl who was rumored to have let a boy grope around under her shirt. Oh and don't forget the nerdy smart girl. You know, the one getting picked on by űber-bitch and her posse. I'm sure that choices were and still are just as appealing for boys, and that Weston is currently wrestling with the same angst, trying to figure out how to walk that fine line between tough and compliant.

Fortunately we are only a year away from high school during which some better sense seems to begin to prevail. Maybe then my son will have more to offer up than a shrug when I ask how his day was.

I Can't Stay Quiet About Palin Any Longer

I have never intended this blog to be a forum for political discussion, but I think it’s time for me to break away from my typical topics. The blind support I have seen forthe McCain/Palin ticket which seems to stem mostly from the fact that the Vice Presidential candidate is in possession of a pair of ovaries has driven me to comment. I, like most women would be thrilled to have a female hold the highest elected office in our country. But can’t people see that by supporting the wrong woman, just because she is a woman, could set our cause back years, even decades? I don’t dislike Sarah Palin as a candidate because she is a Republican. In fact, I have always felt that if Barack Obama was not elected President I could actually be pretty comfortable with McCain. That is until he chose Palin as his running mate. I could support a woman if she were more like Condoleezza Rice and less like the lovechild of Martha Stewart and the Terminator. Following are several reasons why Sarah Palin scares me. Please note that much of the following is quoted directly from On The Issues. On The Issues is a website which provides a detailed history of each candidate's voting record as well as their public stances on issues. It can be accessed at http://www.issues2000.org/default.htm

Sarah Palin On Abortion:

During the Alaska Governors debate in 2006 candidates were asked what they would do if their own daughters were raped and became pregnant.

Palin said she would support abortion only if the mother's life was in danger. When it came to her daughter, she said, "I would choose life."

Sarah Palin On Equal Rights for Same Sex Couples:

Ms. Palin said she supported Alaska's decision to amend its Constitution to ban same-sex marriage. But she used her first veto as governor to block a bill that would have prohibited the state from granting health benefits to same-sex partners of public employees. Ms. Palin said she vetoed the bill because it was unconstitutional, but raised the possibility of amending the state Constitution so the ban could pass muster.

Elected officials can't defy the court when it comes to how rights are applied, she said, but she would support a ballot question that would deny benefits to homosexual couples. "I believe that honoring the family structure is that important," Palin said. She said she doesn't know if people choose to be gay.

On Education:

Earlier this year, she told the Anchorage Daily News that schools should not fear teaching creationism alongside evolution. "Teach both. You know, don't be afraid of information.... Healthy debate is so important and it's so valuable in our schools. I am a proponent of teaching both. And you know, I say this too as a daughter of a science teacher."

On The Environment:

Governor Sarah Palin announced today the State of Alaska has filed a lawsuit in U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia seeking to overturn Interior Secretary Dirk Kempthorne's decision to list the polar bear as threatened under the Endangered Species Act.

This action follows written notice given more than 60 days ago, asking that the regulation listing the polar bear as threatened be withdrawn. "We believe that the Service's decision to list the polar bear was not based on the best scientific and commercial data available," Governor Palin said.

The Service's analysis failed to adequately consider the polar bears' survival through prior warming periods, and its findings that the polar bear is threatened by sea-ice habitat loss are not warranted. The Service also failed to adequately consider the existing regulatory mechanisms which have resulted in a sustainable worldwide polar bear population that has more than doubled in number over the last 40 years to 20,000-25,000 bears.

Palin On Stem Cell Research:

Palin told ABC’s Charles Gibson that “we should not create human life, create an embryo and then destroy it for research, if there are other options out there.”

But now the McCain/Palin campaign now has a radio spot that enthusiastically supports stem cell research.

To see a full accounting of Sarah Palin’s voting record please take the time to visit http://www.issues2000.org/Sarah_Palin.htm and decide for yourself. Then vote. Conversely, if you aren't going to take the time to get educated on where this woman stands stay home on November 4th. Many of these issues pertain directly to you, as a woman, a mother, a daughter, and a citizen of this country. Please don't just vote your emotions, take time to figure out if, woman or not, she is qualified to represent all of us, and to lead this country in the event that McCain cannot. To paraphrase the candidates' favorite quote, just because it wears lipstick doesn't mean it isn't a pig.

Follow Up to Earth, Flat, Hook, Sharp

In an earlier post I posed the following question: Earth, flat, hook, sharp. Which does not belong and why? As promised I am posting a follow up which contains my own answer to the riddle which I now believe to be wrong.

My theory was that Earth didn't belong because flat, hook, and sharp are all words that could be used to described the appearance or shape of an object. Take a look at the comments that follow the original post to find what I believe to be the correct answer as provided by my sister Hilary.

Be Careful What You Don't Wish For

So all that crap I posted a couple of weeks ago about girls, and Weston, and not interested and blah, blah, blah? Total horse shit. I just found out yesterday that my son officially has a girlfriend and holy mother of pearl am I not happy about it. It’s not the fact that he HAS a girlfriend that has my panties all in a bundle, what is upsetting me is…. wait for it…. the girl he chose. Oh God people, listen to me. I sound like one of those overbearing, she’s not good enough for my little darling mothers. OK, deep breaths.

Girlfriend lives around the corner from us, and we’ve known her and her family since she was two. We are casually friendly with the parents, stopping to chat if we are walking the dogs. Weston is friends with the older brother as well, and from what we’ve seen, neither one of the kids should be given the freedom that the parents allow. I won’t laundry list their faults here, but suffice it to say, impressionable little Garrett has learned some pretty colorful language and undesirable behaviors from both of these older kids. On more that one occasion Garrett has said or done something that has left me open-jawed in shock (like referring to the police as “pigs”), and when I asked where he learned it, he has cited one or the other of the siblings as his source.

Last night at dinner I got my revenge though. Garrett doesn’t know about his older brother having a girlfriend. I figured I keep mum about that to save Weston a whole ration of teasing. From our dinner discussion Garrett caught enough information to realize that I had used Girlfriend’s name and the word “like” in the same sentence. “Mom,” Garrett said, “I don’t think Weston would ever actually “like” Girlfriend because she swears worse than her brother.” “I’m sure you’re right, Garrett. Weston has impeccable taste in girls and would never choose to have a girlfriend with a potty mouth.” I answered. It was awesome watching Weston squirm.

The Pampered Pooch

I have said before that some of the best observations on the human condition can be made at the grocery store. This weekend's grocery shopping trip was no exception. I shop at Safeway, which although it has soul-crushingly poor customer service (more on that later), I continue to patronize because it is conveniently located, and carries most of the things that I need at an acceptable price.

On my shopping list this week were dog food, rawhide bones, and what we refer to as "crate-up treats." One need only rattle the Snausages bag and the dogs both dive for their crates in anticipation of clamping their jaws around the sausage treats. As I lingered in the Pet Needs aisle of Safeway, my eye was caught by a new refrigerated display featuring gourmet meats for the dog that just can't subsist on plain dry kibble. While not something that I personally intend to do, I congratulate those that will take the time and money to prepare so-called raw foods for their dog in order to maximize their nutrition. If you think about it, wild canids don't subsist on a diet of little dry nuggets of God-knows-what. They eat hunks of raw meat that they tear off of the bones of freshly killed mammals and birds. If you recreate that at home, more power to you.

What I don't understand is this:

In natural spearmint and lemongrass flavors! That's where, as a dog-owner you loose me. What dog, even those ultra-pampered rat-sized purse dogs, needs anything other than a clean bowl of city tap water to satisfy its thirst? Correct me if I'm wrong, but wild dogs aren't stopping at Starbucks to purchase and sip an expensive filtered water after their meal of caribou. Even the most spoiled pooch is happy to lap muddy water out of a curbside puddle or even your open toilet if it gets a dry mouth.

And while I'm on the subject of pet diets, does it strike you as a little odd that PETA wants people want to feed their dogs and cats vegetarian food? If you want to practice a vegan lifestyle, why not choose a naturally herbivorous animal like a canary or a hamster as a companion, rather that trying to impose your doctrine on your carnivorous pet. If you believe in avoiding cruelty to animals, maybe you should look into what malnutrition does to an animal.

And finally, on the subject of customer service. While I was at the checkout stand, the lackadaisical checkout clerk ran my Tide and my free range chicken broth over the scanner and found that they did not have prices encoded in the system. Being the enthusiastic employee he was, he turned to me and in an irritated tone of voice asked, "Do you know how much these cost?" I answered that I did not, thinking to myself that as an employee of this grocery store, isn't it YOUR job to know how much the items cost? By the time he has scanned the rest of my items, the bagger had placed all of my items in my cart. The checkout clerk turned to me again, looking more irritated, and asked, "Where did that stuff come from? I tried to scan the organic juice and the other stuff. Do you know where you got it?" Flustered, I scanned my mind for exactly which organic juice I had purchased. After feverishly rummaging through the bags in my cart, we were able to locate the Tide and broth (which he had mistaken for juice) and I directed the bagger to where, in the store at which both of these people are paid to work, I had found the items. A full five minutes later, the line of impatient people behind me getting longer all the while, the bagger strolled back with my items and their prices. This is only one of a long string of incidents at Safeway that have demonstrated that customer service is a very low priority at this store. And having the checkout clerks struggle each week to pronounce my name (Mrs..... Darken??? ThankyouforshoppingatSafewayhaveaniceday.) does nothing to change my mind.

How Many of Your Brand of Muffins Equal One Colon Blow?

OK I know I'm going a little overboard with the embedded video thing, but now that I figured out how to do it, it's just so much fun! With the exception of the last one, of course, which once embedded, somehow hijacked the entire contents of my post from the editing window so that I could not go back in and put in a little NSFW warning. Sorry 'bout that! I tried!

I dredged this video up this morning to show to Garrett after he casually strolled into the kitchen this morning and asked Steve to put a colon blow muffin in the toaster for him. As with all things outrageous that come out of my children's mouths (ie. Garrett singing Do Your Balls Hang Low in the shower yesterday morning) this is my fault, and up 'til this morning, Garrett had no idea what colon blow referred to. He just thought that was what the English muffins with all the extra fiber in them were called.

Colon Blow Classic SNL commercial.

Warning, may cause abdominal distention!

Earth, Flat, Hook, Sharp

Meredith's anthropology professor posed the following question:

Of the following choices, which does not belong: Earth, Flat, Hook, Sharp. Why?

I have no idea what the correct answer is or even if there is one. I will explain my own theory in a follow-up post. What's your answer?

Edited to Add: Formulate your own theory first before peeking at the comments!

Odd Things That End Up in Ears, Part II

Odd Things That End Up in Ears, Part II
In a classic case of you always find out more than you want when you Google for information, I found the following video on Oxygen while trying to figure out how to get rid of that troublesome waxy buildup that can accumulate in your ears.



The poor caller is clearly on the verge of breaking down in tears as this call progresses. You can tell she has spent at least 24 hours feeling a sense of horror similar to one you might experience upon getting caught snooping in a friend's medicine cabinet whist searching for something to rid yourself of her boyfriend's brand of condom which has mysteriously become embedded in your nose. And the way she upspeaks reveals she is probably of an age that prevents her from asking her mother for advice. "My boyfriend's really....... adventurous?"

The T.S. Elliot Equation

Without mentioning any names, someone I know is about to acquire a very large number of cats. This is a case of sever overuse of LOL in emails. Watch and learn:



Don't let this happen to you!

Who Most Deserves a Helping Hand?

What is the proper etiquette when donating to another person's cause, be it multiple sclerosis, diabetes, or breast cancer? If you are like me, you have several organizations that you donate to each year, be they environmental, medical, or even your local humane society. You may also get involved in your own fund raising efforts like Steve and the boys and I did this summer. You will probably be approached by at least one friend, acquaintance or relative who is trying to launch a similar fund raising effort. This can add up to a lot of money by the end of the year, tax write-off or not.

How do you decide which, if any of those fund raising efforts you will support? Do you support any and all requests for help for help raising money, or just donate to the causes that have personal meaning for you? I feel really strongly about finding a cure for cancer, so should I always support requests to help fight cancer? What about requests from people who are fundraising for a cancer cure, but that chose not to donate when Steve or I asked for help with the Livestrong event? Tit for tat seems pretty shallow when it's a worthy cause, but if you choose not to donate to others, what can you reasonably expect in return? What say you?

Michael!

My friend Amy wears a perfume that all of her friends love. It's called Michael and if you've spent much time around Amy, you will associate that perfume with her. She says she wears it because it covers the smell of the kitchen in which she spends all day working as a pastry chef, but whatever the reason, she just smells SO good.

This weekend, Steve and I went into Nordstrom with a $125 store credit burning a hole in our pocket. Steve (who is pretty much every woman's ideal mate) insisted that I find something to spend the store credit on. As we walked into the store, I saw a really nice men's shirt with a Michael Kors tag in the collar. "I know who Michael Kors is!" I said. "He makes the perfume that Amy wears that smells SOOO good!" Intrigued, Steve steered me to the perfume department so he could get a whiff of this elixir. The sales lady sprayed a little on the crease of my elbow and made up a small sample, encouraging me to wear it for a few hours to see how it reacted with my body chemistry. She also gave me a sample of a similar scent by Marc Jacobs. We left Nordstrom empty handed, and moved on to shop at a couple of other stores.

As we browsed the racks of The Gap, I remarked to Steve that I felt strange wearing Amy's signature scent. "I smell great and I love it, but I keep expecting to turn around and see Amy standing next to me!" Steve assured me that I smelled wonderful, and that surely Amy hadn't spent hours laboring over this particular perfume and that if I bought it and wore it, it couldn't be THAT big of a deal. "You don't understand." I protested., "If I bought this, everyone would say I was wearing Amy's perfume." In the end, we spent the Nordstrom credit on a pair of shoes to match an outfit I put together from the Gap and Banana Republic.

A couple hours later we got home and I opened the door to the office to say hi to the kids who were playing in there on their computers. "Weston" I said, 'do you like my perfume?" Offering an arm for him to smell. "Yeah. You smell like Amy." "See???" I shrieked at Steve. Then I marched over to Garrett. Again offering my arm, I asked, "Do you like my perfume?" Garrett sniffed. "Does it remind you of anyone?" Garrett answered, "It smells like Bailey!" Bailey is Amy's daughter. Clearly, Michael is spoken for. I think I'll go with the Marc Jacobs.

Rawhide!

When you get a new puppy, one of the things you worry the most about (along with puddles and piles on your floor) is your valued posessions getting chewed up. As small puppies, Bo and Luke both got ahold of things they shouldn't have, but by the time we got Luke, I got savvy to the need to have rawhide bones around at all times. It has become part of my daily dog routine to give the dogs each a rawhide strip to chew on.

Both of the dogs get pretty compulsive, once handed a bone. From that moment on, their aim in life is to guarantee that not a crumb of their bone gets down the other dog's throat, and to that end, they must get said bone down their own gullet post hast. Luke in particular is a bone gobbler, which led to a very messy barfing incident last week that I detailed in the following tweet:

Luke just barfed up a half-gallon pile of warm foamy, partially digested rawhide which reeked of sour pork product. Yargh!!!!

Nice, hmm? That particular incident is the closest I have been to coming emotionally unhinged by a mess made by any member of my family, human or canine. Since then I have become a bit more cautious about freely handing out rawhides to Luke and try to limit him to small pieces.

This morning, I gave each dog a strip of rawhide, and Luke grabbed the smaller of the two that fell out of the bag. Five minutes later there was not a trace of it left, and Bo, was still happily ensconced on the floor of the great room, gnawing at his. Luke trundled off to find Bo in his chewing spot, and proceeded to sit about a foot from his nose alertly watching as Bo masticated the bit of dried pig. Occasionally Luke would inch forward and Bo would emit a low warning rumble from deep in his chest. I got distracted with my usual Saturday morning load of laundry, but this is what I found about 15 minutes later:

Luke is the picture of resignation and sadness, while Bo studiously ignores him, savoring his bone all the more because he knows how much Luke wants it. Later while I was writing this, and Luke had wandered off to lie at my feet, and Bo actually came in to the office and positioned himself with the bone so that he was inches from Luke's face. If they were any more like real children I'd be yelling at Luke for teasing, and at Bo for punching his little brother.

Various Meanderings of My Mind

To the Doctor Today

Weston has been complaining for a while that he feels as though he has something lodged in his throat that makes it uncomfortable to breath. I suggested that maybe it had something to do with his larynx changing size. Over the summer his voice went from slightly gravelly to a baritone that I can no longer distinguish from Steve's when I am a couple of rooms away. He looked alarmed at my suggestion, complaining that if his voice gets any deeper, he'll sound like Shaq. To rule out the possibility that he has been afflicted with something more sinister that laryngioshaqolitis, I took him to the doctor today. Turns out it may be caused by either acid reflux or post nasal drip. Either one sounds equally unappealing and involves the taking of medications for a month.

Should You Dress Your Age?

So I keep seeing this lady at Weston's school who is about 5'7" and around 130 lbs. with a very dark tan, heavily bleached blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, big boobs, body skimming shirt/job-bra, and some sort of athletic-looking shorts. The way I describe her she sounds similar to Pamela Anderson, and she does. Like Pammy, she looks like she is clutching desperately to her lost youth. She has a very nice, lean, fit body and an attractive face, but all you see is her mutton dressed as lamb. Now in the interest of practicing what I preach, I'm not going to start crabbing about how women of a certain age should hang up their assets and quit trying to look sexy. That would not be using my blog to promote women. Now would it? But maybe there comes a time when dressing like your daughter only points out to the world how much better that youthful style looks on her. I'm not for rushing out to buy calf tans, and polyester the minute you hit 50. If you have the body, flaunt it. But how about flaunting it Helen Mirren style rather than the way Cher does it? Or better yet, the way Cher did it back in 1998?

Yin and Yang

We just got Weston and Garrett's test scores in the mail and their scores looked like mirror images of each other. Overall they both scored in the proficient to advanced area, but Weston does really well in Language Arts but not as well in math. Garrett struggles a bit with Language Arts and great in math. Genetics is a funny thing. Steve is a math whiz but doesn't like to write. (He won't agree with me, but I think he writes pretty well.) Faced with a math problem, I break out in a flop sweat, but I love to write. It's a good thing that neither one of us is an ax-murderer because it seems at least one of the kids would be firing up the blade sharpener in a year or two.

Gustav Doesn't Scare the Gay Community

I just read the following excerpt from an article in the Chicago Tribune about hurricane Gustav bearing down on Louisiana. I love the gay community:

In New Orleans, although a handful of stragglers vowed to stay--a few dozen scantily-clad participants went ahead with an annual gay parade in the French Quarter--every
neighborhood of the city of 310,000 looked like a ghost town in advance of Gustav's arrival.

I just picture the empty streets of New Orleans with nothing save a tumbleweed or two knocking around the place. A half-dozen intrepid gay guys in drag, complete with hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, freshening breeze whipping the bangs of their long blond wigs as they march down Bourbon Street, arms linked in intrepid defiance. Fuck that Gustav! He's such a queen!

And in other news.... Strange doings are afoot in the town of Modesto.

Ditch the Banana Sling. Please!

Dear Guy at Raging Waters -

Thanks for wearing that banana sling-style bathing suit the other day. That was really special. You, along with the guy sporting a pelt of back-hair that would have had Sasquatch gnashing his teeth in a jealous rage, really made my day memorable. Your reproductive organs wobbling jauntily with each step was about as sexy as watching a little kid pick their nose in public. Presented with your twig and berries so ineffectually covered by that thin layer of nylon, the doctor behind you in line had to restrain himself from asking you to turn your head and cough. Had I a small daughter, I believe the urge to shrink back in horror while shielding her eyes would have been overwhelming. Instead I got to watch my sons exchanging not so subtle snickers and elbow nudgings. Here's a thought. Next time you stand mired in a state of indecision in the swimwear aisle, board shorts in one hand and Speedo in the other, go with the board shorts.

-IFO

As Seen on TV!!!

Seniors, are you tired of not being able to hear, but looking so uncool to the under-30 crowd with that discrete little hearing aid perched in your ear? Well now there's this abomination!!! The hearing aid that's disguised as (wait for it.....) a cell phone hands-free headset!!! Amaze your grandchildren, impress your lover! Operators are standing by so CALL NOW!!!

Are you kidding me? Now people that are hard of hearing have to worry that enhancing their ability to live normally, carry on a conversation, and watch TV at a normal volume with the use of a hearing aid is only for the old and irrelevant? Apparently, going around with a hearing aid, masquerading as a hands-free headset will "improve your image". I mean who doesn't wear their headset during a quiet dinner date, while watching football with friends, or at their granddaughter's dance recital? Wouldn't YOU find it much less "embarrassing" to be seen with your headset in your ear at a weekend barbecue or wedding than one of those little hearing aids.

Have you tried wearing your wireless headset for more than an hour? Ouch, major ear ache. The device, which is shown both larger and smaller than, but never actual size in the mailer, measures somewhere between 2 and 2 and 5/8 inches long. My own hands-free device (a real one, not a hearing aid) is exactly two inches long, and gives me an ear ache very quickly. For just $29.95 plus shipping and handling it promises to look like an "expensive" cell-phone headset, but work just as well as conventional hearing aids which cost between $1,500 and $2,000. So apparently if you are hard of hearing, you must not only be totally insecure about how you look, but be pathologically gullible as well. Don't think I don't see you guys rushing to your phones to order one!

Open Your Frog To Me, Baby

Dear Madonna,

You are in amazing physical condition. There is no doubt about it. But this:
is just a little too reminiscent of this:
to be sexy.

Sincerely,

IFO

The Meredith Post

This post is about Meredith, who says she'd be more likely to stop by a read if her name was casually mentioned every now and again. Meredith, this is for you:

I've known Meredith for less time than her dog, Tigger. When Weston was in 5th grade, I was taking him home from school, and we saw two kids walking a strange dog, with a pronounced under bite and tabby markings. "There's Tigger, Mom!" I asked who Tigger was. "Joey and Marissa's dog!" I asked who Joey and Marissa were. They are Meredith's older twins. She has given birth to twins twice. Later I heard about another member of her family. Kaylie. Kaylie, Kaylie, Kaylie, Kaylie. She was all Garrett talked about in kindergarten, and she HAD to be at his birthday party. Or he would die. Since then Garrett and Kaylie have been pretty much joined at the hip. Unless they are fighting, which is pretty much always. Even then they just stick together to spite one another.

I think it was towards the end of Weston's 5th grade year that Meredith and I finally became acquainted. Marissa was in Weston's class and she and Joey and Weston were all headed to the same middle school. Then came the Mom's Night Outs when Meredith, Amy, Lori, Susan (Susan was definitely there and shaking her booty) and I got smashed and sang karaoke, or got smashed and bowled (and danced a little, and bowled TWO balls down the lane at one time), and just plain old got smashed too soon before we had to run the Muddy Buddy. There was a drink that came my way that night that contained a suspiciously LARGE amount of alcohol..... Meredith!

I'm sure Meredith can't forget the time she called me nearly speechless (Meredith is never completely speechless) because Weston, having been looking for a date to his first middle school dance, asked Marissa to go with him. "Next time give me warning!", she begged, having cracked up when Marissa told her! She is never one to mince words or beat around the bush, so my kids like Meredith, but have a deep-seated terror of her as well. This is good.

In short, Meredith is one of my BFFs! She is a total bad ass ice hockey player, has five kids, has red hair that is the envy of all her friends, and a sarcastic sense of humor that could cut glass. Also she has a great ass, always wins at canasta, and cooks up a mean pot roast. How's that, Mer?

Boyfriends and Girlfriends and Pregnancy, Oh My!

OK, break out the Geritol, I'm going to say it! What is with kids today? When did it become totally commonplace for kids that are really young to have girlfriends and boyfriends? I don't mean 15-year olds. I'm referring to kids as young as nine. When Weston started middle school he was 10, and I admit I was excited for him to start that next big grown-up phase. I thought it was cool that he had started showing some interest in the opposite sex. And not just in a phew, my strapping young lad isn't gay, kind of way. When a thirteen-year-old in his Language Arts class turned up pregnant last year, that really dampened my enthusiasm.

I'm willing to concede that maybe it's just the grumpy jealous lady in me crabbing about this because girls show a limited interest in my son. He's good-looking and pretty cool so they aren't totally indifferent, but we don't get the giggling phone calls that other moms complain so bitterly (and probably disingenuously) about. Would I be "complaining" (Oh, that Weston. He's just so darned popular with the girls. Good luck getting through on our phone lines with all the calls he gets.) about those phone calls if we were getting them? Yeah, probably. Who doesn't want their son or daughter to be wildly popular and successful with the opposite sex? (He gets that from my side of the family, you know!)

It seems like a lot of the shows on Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon have all of these characters with high squeaky baby voices it hot pursuit of the opposite sex. I wonder if kids watch these shows and start to feel like they aren't normal if they haven't got a girlfriend or boyfriend by the time they're eleven. Putting a total ban on dating isn't a good idea either. In fact, taking the mystique away from the opposite sex is a good thing. Of course by twelve, most boys and girls have morphed into hormonal zombies, so that slack-jawed amazement with boys and girls isn't going to go away, at least for a while. What level of involvement is appropriate at what age though? My approach, for now goes like this. If Weston wants to have a girlfriend I'm not going to put the kibosh on it. But until he's a little older, I'd prefer that he admire from afar (although an occasional giggly phone call would be nice).

Mr. Bluebird On My Shoulder

Again, at the risk of turning this into a crafty blog (shudder) I am including a couple of pictures of my newest needle felted creations. The first is a second rendition of the bunny that was requested by my friend Marie. I told her I would give her a bunny only when I had achieved a "Bunny of Perfection". After felting a couple of creatures, I realized that the longer you look at these the worse they look to the person who created them. I am always surprised and taken aback at how much people like these because, frankly, I only see all of the little details that didn't quite come out how I wanted them to. So here, with no further ado, is Marie's bunny:

The next creation is supposed to be a robin, and was requested by Joanna. I told her I would make it as a housewarming gift. May I say again Joanna, how pleased I am to have to back in San Jose!!? The reason I say it is "supposed" to be a robin, is that the picture in the book shows this bird felted up in what could only be described as blue. I loved its colors and wanted to do it exactly as it appeared in the book. The instructions say to use gray roving, which is a more accurate portrayal of how the critter would look in real life. Screw reality, I say. Blue and orange look great together, so I prefer to think of him as the Bluebird of Happiness, and as such, he was posed for his photo on Weston's shoulder:

Salsa Anaranjada. Mmmmm!!!

I am excited! "Why are you so excited?", you ask. My very favorite Mexican restaurant, La Victoria, has opened less than a mile from my house on Almaden Expressway near Cherry Avenue. We are also fortunate to have Super Taqueria close to us, but while tasty, Super Taqueria does not boast the magical Orange Sauce (is that the sound of angels singing???) that La Victoria does. Orange Sauce (again with the angels!) is a mysterious concoction that appears to be the love child of something creamy and white and another ingredient which is both hot and Tabasco-licious. Picture something that, while suffering from PMS you might consider spackling onto popcorn, sandwiches, or even sprucing up a little cheese and crackers should you be really desperate for those all important Calories From Fat.

Monday, on the way to buy the boys some new school clothes, I drove by the new location (the original, which Steve and I visit often when we meet for lunch, is in downtown San Jose) and nearly gave myself whiplash, doing a double take. I popped in today to get myself a super taco and a quesadilla for Weston, and the place was jam-packed. Apparently they JUST opened on Friday. If you live near San Jose, be sure to stop in, and don't forget to heap on the Orange Sauce!

Dog Envy No More

One of my earliest posts to this blog was about dog envy. Now I can imagine this being a bit of a controversial statement, particularly among dog owners, but how my dog looks, matters. In my earlier post I bemoaned the fact that Bo, instead of looking like this, (which is a photo of the Jack Russell terriers the breeding was hawking):

looks like this:

Which, while adorable in its own right, is very reminiscent of this:
I love Bo. I really do. I love him like a dog. Luke, I love so much I have to restrain the urge to maul him with kisses and eat his big ears with chocolate sauce.

Now I think I know why. Last night just before I was going to bed, Luke flopped down on a small red pillow that one of the boys had left on the floor. I immediately ran to get my iPhone so I could snap a picture of him. Then I sent it to all of my relatives. Then I set it as my iPhone wallpaper. Then I showed it to Steve. Then to both of the kids. Does this:remind you a little of one "Elvis", pictured above? Note that the picture of Bo above was taken moments afterward, with the same small red pillow in the background. His refusal to look fierce, as Luke did, are going to cause him to be voted off this cycle of America's Next Top Dogel.

Teacher Don't You Fill Me Up With Your Rules

School starts next week, which means that we're back to following all of the arcane rules that our admininstrators have dug up for the kids to follow. Here are the three that bug me the most:

1. No running on the blacktop. What? Aren't skinned knees pretty much a right of passage for kids in elementary school? Furthermore, how are kids supposed to learn their limits if somebody is always stepping in to save them before they discover how fast they can run, how high they can climb, or how big of a kid they can bully before they get hurt?

2. No red or blue. Middle schools don't allow red or blue clothing because they are gang colors. Red for the Bloods, blue for the Crips. Or if you're from California, red for Nortenos and blue for Surenos. I support the school's need to prevent gang activity in schools, but are the light blue accents on my middle-class white son's shoes really going to suck him into a swirling vortex of gang violence?

3. No skateboarding. Again, I understand the need for limits, but in a society where children being 20 to 30 pounds overweight is completely normal, shouldn't we be encouraging them do be more physically active?

What dumb school rules can you think of?

Is Silence Golden?

People watching is as much of a habit for me as nail biting is for others, and some of the best people watching can be done at the grocery store. For instance there are few things as entertaining as that little kid that is way overdue for his nap, pitching the mother of all fits because his mother has denied him the box of fruity snacks with Lighting McQueen on the box. Mothers usually react in one of two ways. Some grind their teeth and quietly threaten death and dismemberment upon arrival at a less public venue, while others loudly discipline their children right there in the store. When my kids were that age I tried to avoid trips to the grocery store all together, instead leaving them at home with Steve. When I had to bring them, I was of the quiet threatening camp. Neither method is all that effective which is why I was so struck by a family I saw at Safeway yesterday.

As I was picking out just the right onion and potato to put in soup later this week, I became aware of a group of three people who were collecting various items in complete silence. A deaf mother and her two children. Being careful not to stare, I watched as they moved through the store, communicating with gestures alone. Wordlessly, they managed to converse just as well as all of their fellow shoppers who were still able to hear. The older son, goofed with his mother, taunting her with a selection of junk food she clearly did not sanction by holding it out and shaking his head near her face. Surrounded by the dissatisfied sounds of greedy toddlers, and overtired babies, this family seemed to exist in their own little tight, happy, but silent bubble.

This brought me to wonder, how the rest of us could manage in our day to day lives, if we were forced to interact with our children silently. Would children continue to pitch those ear-splitting fits in the grocery cart if their parents couldn't hear their shrieks? If we could never raise our voices in anger, would we form a stronger family bond? A few months ago I saw a little boy, no more than seven years old, signing into his deaf, blind mother's hand as he helped her across a busy street. If I was disabled, I wondered, would my kids do that for me?

A Cautionary Tale About Choosing the Right Orthodontist

Yesterday was traumatic. I won't over-chew the scenery here, but after I got home from taking the kids to their orthodontist appointments, I was ready to sob quietly into my hands for a hour or so. Weston started orthodontic treatment at around age 9 at the recommendation of our family dentist, for a "deep bite". I think this is basically a nice way of saying my handsome young son is a bit week-jawed. Nine is the perfect age to start treatment, because the jaw is still growing and developing, and some relatively minor intervention can save a lot of work down the road. Our dentist had recommended a good, but expensive associate of his, but lacking dental insurance at the time, I decided to go with a cheaper recommendation I got through 1-800-DENTIST. We'll call him Dr. Crackjaw. If this was a novel, this is point in the story at which there would occur some ominous foreshadowing.

Flash forward a couple of years, to my dentist looking sceptically into Weston's mouth and asking, who, in fact, had we chosen for his orthodontist. Unwilling to suspend treatment with Dr. Crackjaw, I soldiered on. Then, at the beginning of this summer, Dr. Crackjaw announced that Weston either needed two more years with his current appliance, or several years of braces. It didn't take an expert to see that Weston still had his deep bite. Time for a second opinion.

Yesterday's appointment was actually a third opinion, since the second orthodontist suggested that Weston needed surgical intervention to correct his problem. So there were were, having gone full circle, finally in the office of the orthodontist that our dentist suggested we see in the first place. And what did he say? Weston needs a surgical procedure to fix his jaw, and if that's not enough, it'll cost us about three times as much as it would have had if we had started him down the correct path three to four years ago. So essentially, I spent a couple thousand dollars to have Weston's teeth completely unimproved, perhaps made worse by the wrong treatment, but also missing the window of opportunity to have the problems easily corrected.

The good news is that Garrett's little jaw is actually in a better position than in older brother's, despite having a very prominent set of bunny seat perched on his lower lip. He is young enough that fixing his teeth will be relatively cheap and straightforward. I am done flagellating myself over this now, but let me just put this out there. When choosing an orthodontist for your child, chose an orthodontist, NOT a dentist who apparently just dabbles in orthodontia. And for those of you that live in the San Jose area, feel free to contact me by email if you want Dr. Crackjaw's real name. The temptation to use my blog to smear this quack is overcome by my fear of his superior financial ability to hire a lawyer. All our spare change is going to go toward fixing his mistakes!

Beyond Glory Hole

Nothing like a little buildup to get a good vacation started:


Once you're both good and ready, your next stop will be in:



And in case you get bored with conventional travel, maybe you'll want to bob around here a bit:



Of course all the best vacations end with a:



And as an alternative to the traditional, after-travel cigarette:

Citius, Altius, Legous

My husband is a total Lego nut. We have more Lego in our house than any one household should reasonably have. My husband is also an Olympics nut, so this is for you Steve. Somebody took the time to create the Olympic village out of Lego. The multiple times I have stepped on a sharp piece of plastic in the middle of the night while attempting to rehydrate a small child not withstanding, this is actually really cool. I think the water cube is my favorite:


Check out Design You Trust for more pictures.

Working vs. Stay-at-Home

I just finished watching something on a vlog that really pissed me off. I'm not going to link to it, because, this was the first time I ever visited this woman's vlog, and now I hate her. I don't want to send any traffic her way. Why in the hell do women create and lovingly maintain this big divide between "working" and "stay at home" moms? Why is it an us vs. them thing?

I think because I work part-time, I'm better able than some to see both sides of the issue. Women with children have a very tough job. Period (and sometimes because of their period it's even harder). Mothering is already a more-or-less thankless job. That alone is enough to make it tough. Add to that all of the little jobs that are a part of being a mother, like helping with homework, picking out the right clothes, packing just the right lunch, and dealing with teachers, and even the best days can leave you feeling like an empty husk of your pre-parent self. What really sucks though, is knowing that many of the moms you see standing around in tight little packs at your child's school are busy criticizing every other mother they can get their nasty little talons into.

Take for example the vlog that raised my ire. She's bitching about working mothers that don't "make it" to their kid's classrooms, whatever that means. I have a piece of advice for her and every other woman to feels the need to be critical. Hey, how 'bout rather that talking crap about other women, we offer them a little support. Maybe some of those mothers that don't "make it" to class, CAN'T in fact "make it". This lady even comes out and smugly admits she and her friends are gossiping about other mothers, as if staying on the good side of such a nasty, negative individual would be the proper motivation for someone with an ounce of self-respect.

Then on the other hand, we have the working mothers that.... oh hell. I'm totally biased. I really can't think of any shit I have ever heard working moms talk about a stay at home moms. They have so much on their plate, they don't have time to even consider how well someone else is dealing with their child. The most I have ever heard a working mom say is, "I don't know how they deal with their kids all day long with no break." So here is my message to those self-righteous, stay-at-home mothers who must have nothing better to do at home while their kids are at school, that to sit on their asses and think of things to be critical about. Rather than making yourself feel better about your own inadequacies by critiquing mothers that work, why not realize that working or not, we all have something in common. We are all women. Have you heard of the Women's Movement? It's about creating conditions in society, in and out of the workplace that foster the success of ALL women. Regardless of their childbearing status or their choice to work or stay at home with their kids. So rather than sniping about another mother not "making it" to her child's class, try using your vlog as a forum for building women up, rather than tearing them down.

Lazy Days of Summer

Yesterday was one of those rare and wonderful days during which there were no scheduled activities. No music lessons or play dates, and most importantly, no work. With my new zen-like attitude intact, I puzzled over what to do to fill the time. The boys wanted to go to Raging Waters, but unless the weather is really hot, the exposed plateau on which the water park sits can get unpleasantly chilly as you wait on those stairs, stiff breeze whipping at your wet swimsuit, to get on the rides. Besides, we're going on the 16th for Weston's birthday. In any case, while we pondered, Garrett and Weston got involved in whacking pop gun caps and other boyish pursuits, and I whiled away the day with various activities.

I spent about an hour scuttling around taking photos of my felted creations for yesterday's blog post, then composing (I keep reading that as "composting") the post. Then I spent another hour schedule-wrangling four different families in order to find a day where all the appropriate friends and relatives could attend Weston's Official Birthday Party at Boomer's. I like places like Boomer's for the activities, but there is something unspeakably grim about sitting around those "party rooms", eating bad pizza, drinking warm soda, and trying to drum up a festive attitude. Mini golf, laser tag, bumper boats, and go carts should more than make up for the uncomfortable "party room" moments.

Later, I popped in on a couple of my favorite bloggers and happened on this fascinating link at Dooce.com. Amazing what people get away with, particularly in light of those shows on Animal Planet in which the authorities swoop in to prosecute the owners when they find a dog with mange and it's ribs showing in their yard. Don't get me wrong, I am a dog lover and feel that animal abusers should get the book thrown at them. I guess I just wonder why it's so easy and obvious to remove an animal from a home where it's being abused, but put a human child in the same situation and Child Protective Services bends over backward to avoid stepping in to save her. So that was about an hour and a half of my afternoon spent in horrified fascination.

By 2:00 it was pretty apparent that the day was not going to amount to a hill of beans, so I went to Michael's to buy beads to make eyes, and spent the rest of the afternoon felting a penguin. Et voila!



I don't like it as much as the bunny. I put the feet too close together and made its bum too slim so it wants to topple over or balance drunkenly on one wing. Also, I think I should have chosen red beads for the eyes, but I'm a biologist and I KNOW penguins don't have red eyes. Overall, I think it's pretty good, and that I'm getting better at this felting thing. As a hobby, it is totally absorbing. Even with complete focus on what I was doing, I managed to give myself three or four good hard jabs in the finger. This is not one of those things you do casually while watching an episode of CSI. Thanks is owed to Steve for refusing to give up until he had snapped JUST the right photograph of my latest creation rather than relaxing when he got home, like he probably wanted to.

Of Fluffy Bunnies and Disproportionate Penguins

I have no interest in making this blog about any sort of craft or hobby, but I figured since my newest hobby is in its infancy, I would interject a post every now and then that would document my burgeoning skill (in case it actually does burgeon, that is). Not long ago I taught myself to knit and really enjoyed doing it, but ever since I took a hard spill playing ice hockey and dislocated my shoulder, extended periods of knitting result in my waking the next day unable to turn my head to the left. Trawling around for something to fill the creative void, I stumbled on this book:


Follow the link if you dare, and I defy you to resist these adorable creations.

I discovered Little Felted Animals back in March, but wasn't released until July, so was forced to wait for a while to try it out. In the meantime, Steve got me this little kit, which is available (among other cute patterns) through an Etsy shop:



My first attempt came out looking a little squashed and google-eyed, but cute.

Inspired, I purchase a little kit from Ebay with a pattern to make a yorkie dog. Instead of making the yorkie, I decided I would try and felt a corgi. This was the result:


Impressive, no? Instead of resembling a corgi, it looks more like a road-killed, quadruple amputee, black lab. Thankfully, I got Little Felted Animals in the mail a couple of weeks ago and found that it actually has a corgi pattern in it. Rather than launch straight into the corgi, I thought I'd warm up on a simple but cute bunny. As I am wont to do, I took a few liberties with the pattern, mostly because I didn't have the little beads necessary for the eyes or pink roving for the inside of the ears. The result? Not bad, I think:



What say you? Should I hang up my felting needles, or do I show some promise?

New Rules in My House

If you bring your kids to my house and they are not old enough to know better, please stop them from doing the following things:

1. Using my furniture as a jungle gym. It's clear that you think it's adorable when they somersault off of and stomp all over my sofa, whilst simultaneously flinging the cushions this way and that, but I don't. I promise not to laugh when your adorable moppet flips backward off of the chair.

2. Using my furniture as a ladder to my valuables. Yes, it's fun for you to watch your child scatter the potting soil from my plants all over my piano bench and floor, but if you aren't going offer to clean it up, I won't offer to have you come back to stay.

3. Running around my house with a drippy peach. I realize you a busy with your other child and don't have time to supervise your toddler's every move, but how 'bout giving the child a napkin and telling it to stay put while you attend to number two.

4. Taking my stuff (kitting projects, ornaments, child's art projects, cups, glasses, etc.) and wandering around the house with them until one falls on the floor and breaks. And should your child break something of mine (say a cherished art project of my child's) please don't make me feel like a shit when I take my stuff away from your little darling. "Can he/she at least still have the ______?", is NOT an appropriate response.

After you have arrived at my house and been presented with a room to stay in, a cupboard full of food, gifts for your two children, and a meal slaved over for two hours by yours truly, it's nice to reciprocate a little bit in kind. The next night when we go out to dinner, maybe offer to pick up the tab. A nice bottle of wine to sooth my shattered nerves would be another idea. Hell, maybe both! While you are here, please don't gripe that we have run out of the one cereal your child likes. God knows, we tried to anticipate every one of your needs, but apparently we fell a little short. Oh, and guess what..... I'm not so secretly laughing that your child managed to become intimate with the one pile of dog shit we missed in the yard we tried are damnedest to keep scrupulously clean.

I'm Doomed

Steve has been talking about getting a motorcycle for a while now. I may get this wrong, but I think he wants the BMW 1200GS. Like my deciding I wanted the Volvo XC90, this isn't going to go away. I can tell. Steve visits his bike online often, and has taken a trip to the dealership to sit on it. He has signed up for a motorcycle safety class, and will no-doubt be taking the DMV test to get the proper license shortly. Last night only made it worse. Steve stumbled across a one-night-only viewing of a movie called The Long Way Down, a documentary about a motorcycle trip in which Ewan McGregor (of Obi-Wan fame) and his friend Charley Boorman travel 15,000 (!!!) miles from Scotland to Cape Town. We sat with a moderate-sized crowd of people (most who had arrived there by motorcycle, judging by their carrying helmets) for two hours watching Ewan and Charley battle heavy rain, extreme heat, motorcycle-eating mud, attacks by everything from ants to elephants, and upending in multiple heavy spills from their BMW bikes. I thought it was great to watch, but Steve? Steve leaned into every curve in the road with a blissful smile playing across his face. He glanced out of the corner of his eye for my reaction when Ewan's wife joined them on her bike for a portion of the trip, and left the theater all but crouched into riding position. So I am doomed to being the bitch of a bike dude. I have accepted my fate.

More Signs of Doggy Intelligence

Bo just showed another glimmer of understanding. While Luke was distracted, Bo wandered over and picked up the stub of rawhide that Luke had been gnawing, and carried it under a desk to enjoy for himself. Luke, ready to get back to his rawhide began turning his head this way and that, trying to figure out where it had disappeared to. "Bo" I said, "did you steal Luke's bone?" Bo immediately got up, walked over to Luke and kind of pitched the bone so it landed at Luke's feet. It was probably just coincidence, but sometimes Bo acts like a really smart dog. Maybe he's just playing dumb so we don't catch on to his evil plan for world domination.

To Be

I finished my last project on Thursday of last week. Friday I took the kids to Great America. It was great. I could enjoy the feeling of having nothing I had to do with no guilt because I've been justifying my existence on this planet and in this family by Earning. Monday was good too. I had errands to do. Lots of stuff I had to get done. Again I could justify my existence by Doing. Today I woke up with no work, no real plans, and my first instinct was to start scouring the job postings. I tried very hard to resist that urge, but failed. Then the draggy desperate feeling I got when I thought about applying for the jobs that I was qualified for set off an internal alarm system.

I started the summer off with this great sense of liberation. The world was my oyster. The kids were without camps, I was going to be out of work, Steve was between big projects. We would go places, be spontaneous, take a road trip. Then I got slammed with work. Since June 17th (my birthday) I have been wading through projects, feeling this vague sense of loss. Where did my oyster go? I promised myself I'd get to it when I was done with the last project. Now here I am at that point finally, and rather than take a deep breath and enjoy my freedom, my first instinct was to jump right back into the fray.

So here is what I'm NOT going to do. I am not going to apply for any jobs. I am not going to make any calls to drum up more work. Today, and for an indefinite amount of time, I am just going to be. I am going to enjoy what I have and what I am. What I have is a husband who will support me financially and emotionally in absolutely any crazy scheme I come up with, money-making or not. Steve is my single greatest asset. I have time too. Time to figure out what I want to do with myself, be it full-time mother to my kids, single greatest asset to my husband, blogger, biologist, or some other choice I haven't thought of yet. So this is me, stopping to just let life unfurl in front of me.