Shake Your Groove Thing

Playing on the living room floor with Wiggles in the background. Vaughn suddenly stands up, gets this trancelike look on his face, and starts shaking from the waist down in a weird vibrating/gyrating fashion.

"What's up?"

"I'm shaking my pee-pee."

"Do you need to go potty?"

"No."

"Are you naked under your pants?"

"No." [starts gyrating more intently with a stern look of concentration on his face]

"So, what are you doing?"

"I'm shaking my pee-pee."

So this is how males view dancing, huh?

Where Are You Christmas?

I hate Christmas. I find it totally ironic that the time of year that is supposed to signify the birth of the Savior of Mankind puts so many of Mankind into a deep depression, myself included. All I want for Christmas is to curl up into the fetal position under a down comforter and hibernate until May.

I don't know when I started hating Christmas, but it's been a long time. Without this time of year, I think my life would be much better. So, to punctuate this holiday season, I thought I would make a little (or a big) Christmas list of Why I Hate Christmas:

1. (These are all related so I decided to include them together) Traffic, reckless driving, and harried and rude shoppers, which begins 2 days prior to Thanksgiving and continues to progressively accelerate with each passing day of December until it peaks on Christmas day. I don't have a lot of faith in human charity anyway, and this time of year seems to remove what little faith I have. We've eliminated Christmas shopping for the adults in our family, but still I would rather stay homebound for the entire month of December because even though I'm not shopping for Christmas presents, everybody else is, and consequently, hordes of merry Christmas shoppers everywhere you go.

2. Next comes the Christmas cards, with each Christmas card I receive screaming at me my inadequacies because I know I'll add this to my To Do list, but as with most things on my To Do list, it will never get done. Yet another pound of guilt to add to my load. My Christmas cards will never get sent out because I'll have all these grandiose ideas about putting together a Christmas slideshow CD, and after spending countless hours that I do not have to spend, I will tally up just how many of these buggers I have to burn off, label, address and stamp, and my finished project will gather dust in my archive files on my computer. Actually, I think that's worth two pounds of guilt: One for not sending ANY Christmas cards out and two for having wasted the hours on a Christmas greeting I will never mail.

3. Then comes the money crunch because although we don't buy Christmas presents for the adults, somehow this has crept into giving "little things" to each family because they started giving "little things," and then, of course, parents don't count as adults because they still give an embarrassing amount of money every year, once at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas, to the "children," so with this big chunk of change comes the guilt-ridden obligation of giving them something fractionally equivalent. Of course, since they have everything, I inevitably end up buying them something that will sit on a shelf somewhere, like the MP3 player I bought my dad last year, and he STILL would like that portable CD player. And my mom, well, I still owe her a Mother's Day gift from last year.

So with this nice seasonal monetary grant from my parents we should be doing fine, and I should have plenty to spend; however, because it is such a generous amount, there is that impulse to squirrel it away because typically at this time of year my husband's work drops out, and we're left holding our breath for the first 4 months of the New Year wondering whether we're going to make the mortgage payment. So, consequently, I'm working my arse off doing what seems like an inordinate amount of overtime to make sure we have a "pad," but by the time my paycheck arrives, makes me wonder why I bothered.

4. The Christmas spirit. What the hell is that? I know what our impression of a Christmas spirit is, and consequently, what our expectations are, and there lies the problem. Frankly, watching "It's A Wonderful Life" once a year just doesn't seem to cancel out the thousands of holiday TV commercials beaming in a steady stream into your living room night after night, starting days before Thanksgiving. I know this is terribly cliché, but Christmas IS commercialism, and consequently, Christmas is all about THINGS. Things you get, things you give. The things you want and hope to get. The things you give or have to give or should give. If you want to give, why not give all year round? Why MUST we give this month? Give toys for the toy drive, give cans for the hungry, give blankets for the homeless, give presents to your family, give cards to our friends, give food for the Christmas party, give a Christmas party. Give, give, GIVE! (The whole month reminds of a never-ending PBS telethon.) I know this is the inverse of what you typically hear. Usually, people bemoan the getting, but I find that only truly applies, I think, to children. When you become an adult, it then is all about the giving, and not in a good way. I know typically giving is a good thing, but not through emotional blackmail, which is what I feel it comes down to this time of year. With all this giving, I still do not feel the Christmas Spirit. On the contrary, I feel guilt because I haven't given enough or I haven't given what I feel I SHOULD give.

Also, it is CHRISTmas. I was talking about this aspect with my husband. I told him, here I am helping out with the Christmas festivities at Vaughn's preschool, stuffing stockings, playing Christmas music, buying gifts, etc., and yet, I don't FEEL like it's Christmas. I don't FEEL in the Christmas spirit. Then it hit me. I guess it's a little difficult to feel the CHRISTmas spirit when you take the religion out of it. I mean, really. Then what is it all about? Christmas is a micro-example of having a faithless life and yet still trying to manufacture some kind of meaning and reason for existence. This all then forces me to reflect on the lack of spirituality in my own life, which further depresses me.

5. Christmas is for children, and as a result, Christmas is about me as a parent making this Christmas special, and in my efforts to make this Christmas special, my child is miserable because I'm so stressed out about needing to make this Christmas special.

I'm sure there are countless other reasons for my hating Christmas. Frankly, they are too numerous to enumerate, and I already feel like I've crossed that fine line into grinchy ramblings.
Once again, when all the wrapping is strewn across the floor and that feeling of relief settles in that Christmas has finally passed (and also that deep sense of loss and regret that we missed out on something better), I will make my yearly resolution to make NEXT year's Christmas better.

Oh, and lest I be remiss in my Yuletide obligations: Merry Christmas!

PS: I wonder if Jews go through this during Hanukkah? If not, I think that it just might be worth converting.

SOUR KITTY

Since our adult cat is so Vaughn-o-phobic and Vaughn is so crazy about cats, we decided a cute Christmas present would be a new addition to the family in the form of a kitten. Now, typically, I get my pets from the Human Society, but frankly, their prices have become exorbitant, and I decided to look elsewhere this time around. I found some kitties listed by a non-profit low-cost spaying and neutering clinic. They had cat pictures posted on Petfinder and they wanted a nominal fee, so I e-mailed an inquiry. It turned out that they were located in Eastern Oregon and there would be no way to meet the kitten before committing to it. I decided, probably unwisely, to trust the person I was corresponding with, and after e-mailing back and forth about what we were looking for (a sturdy, not-too-young, not hissy or wild kitten who likes to cuddle. Actually, that sounds like a description of my husband, except for the kitten part. Hmmm), we committed to a little tortoiseshell. She sounded great, except for the one small glaring word "shy." Now, shy can mean a whole host of things, but from my experience with kittens, it's rarely good. Going against my better judgment, I decided to commit and pick her up on the scheduled drop off date. She was so cute, but very tiny. I really have no idea how old she is (they didn't say), but she is most definitely not the recommended adoption age of 4 months old.

I got her home and put her in a room where she couldn't hide, or so I thought. She immediately leapt out of her carrier and lodged herself between the wall and the entertainment center, requiring me to move an 100+-pound entertainment center to extract her.

Two days later, she still hides the minute you come into the room and acts as if she's never met you before. Once you catch her, she does purr and cuddle, I'll give her that much. This whole time she rarely ate, and consequently never peed or pooped. Until today, that is. Evidently the litter box that is 20 times her size and we have strategically placed right next to her carrier where she sleeps was not enough of a hint. When she finally did poop, she pooped in the carrier, where she sleeps.

I have now come to the conclusion that we have a lemon (not, as my husband commented, "lemon-fresh") kitten. As disconcerted as I was about her waste drop-off point, Vaughn was excitedly commenting that the poop will "Grow bigger and bigger, and then it'll grow into poop flowers and we'll have a BIIIIGGGG CELEBRATION!" Not if these "poop flowers" blossom in my carpet.

As an early celebratory act, Vaughn decided he would poop as well to mark the occasion, resulting in one big poop-fest. Ah the stench. Fortunately, at least one preadolescent in this house knows where to put his poop.

The Fine Intricacies of Bowel Movements

"Mommy, hurry home."

"I can't, Vaughn. Look at all these cars in front of me?! Why? Don't tell me you need to pee again."

"No. Poop."

"Oh, great." [Sitting at a standstill, bumper-to-bumper traffic, in the fast lane with no exits to be seen.] Well, you'll just have to hold it."

"Poop can't hold."



"Mommy, what's so funny?"

"Nothing."

Prologue: Back at home after half an hour of white knuckling the steering wheel.

"Don't you have to poop?"

"No, the ear went away."

"What ear?"

"The poop ear. It went away."

Well, hallelujah.

CELEBRITIES AND POOP STEAK

We went to Vaughn's first attendance of a theatrical production last night. Christmas at the Pops or something. It was my mother-in-law's idea. We got there a little late because of the rare occurrence of a "snow storm," which generally entails some freezing rain and 1/8 inch of snow.

When they let us in for the next performance, our ears were assailed by this screeching of "O Holy Night." I'm sitting there thinking, "I majored in music around here. I went to student recitals that were stratospheres above this. This is the best they could come up with among classical singers in Portland? I guess Portland really is a small town." I'm scouring the program guide trying to find what the background on this person is, making a note to never bother getting season tickets for the Portland Opera. Then I see it, put two and two together, and realize this is their Featured Celebrity, some local media personality that has been around for decades. Okay. Pleeaaasseee tell me she paid to perform because otherwise she should be shot for subjecting us to not one but three agonizing performances (the first of which, thankfully, we were spared because we were late), ending with the butchering of "Baby It's Cold Outside." My mother-in-law was so suprised--"I didn't know she could sing!" Well, evidently, for good reason...She can't.

With the exception of these atrocities, the rest of the program was quite enjoyable, that is, when they brought out the REAL singers and professionals. There was an awesome performance of "Christmas Carol" where one actor did the narration (more like one-man performance) while various characters pantomimed his dialogue. I felt my thirst for theater reemerging, and I actually got a little choked up reminiscing about my thespian days. Yet another thing I abandoned when I got married. Ah well.

After that, my mother-in-law had the truly ludicrous idea of finishing the evening with an intimate dinner at an expensive posh restaurant, you know, just the place you take a 3-year-old. She's always coming up with stuff like this. I really don't get it. Were her mothering days so in the distant past that she doesn't realize that rather than a nice adult treat this is cruel and unusual punishment to subject us and, consequently, all the other ADULT diners to---a tired, hungry, hyperactive 3-year-old?

So, I'm scanning the menu looking for something--anything--that my son will at least attempt to eat. Of course, this is after he has made his order of chicken nuggets and fries. Fortunately, the waiter did offer that there was a burger they could come up with that wasn't listed on the menu. Of course.

In the meantime, to keep Vaughn entertained while we were waiting for our meals, I decided to grab him for a photo op in front of the restaurant's Christmas tree. At that point, evidently inspired by the Christmas program we'd just seen, he decided to give me an encore performance from his preschool Christmas pageant, singing the ever popular "O Come Let Us Adore Him," complete with hand motions, which included his Baby Jesus Boogie--the sign language for Jesus, but adding in the hips, boogying down with the driving in of each nail sign into his palm.

So...He does know how to move his hips.

Thankfully, after what seemed like several hours of corralling Vaughn, our meals arrived. I had ordered the aged Black Angus steak. Now, this is the second time I've eaten in this restaurant and had to choke down what I ordered. What is it about aged Black Angus that tastes like what I imagine feces would taste like? Anyway, I made up for it by getting blitzed on martinis and left the rest of the childcare to Daddy.

Of course, no expensive meal can be complete without a little voice announcing loudly, "I NEED TO GO POOP!" And then, after returning from completing his task, loudly giving us a full detailed description of the product of his efforts, "IT WAS A REALLLYYY BIIGGGGG, LOONNGGGG POOP!"

All things considered, Vaughn did amazingly well; nevertheless, the bites on my tongue are still healing from my chewing the inside of my mouth from anxiety. At least the alcohol deadened it.

Spanking

I've now had my hand slapped twice this week by people who have never even seen me, much less met me. Once was in the form of a handwritten note left underneath my windshield in an outdoor store's parking lot because I was not perfectly aligned in my parking space. NO. I was not over the line, this being the first thing my husband asked. That was not what this person spent an unknown about of time writing a tablet page's worth of criticism about. No the complaint was that I was not perfectly spaced in my parking area. Hmmm. I wonder if he got out his (no, I don't know the sex of the person, but based on the handwriting, I'd say it's a good bet it was a neurotic man) handy-dandy measuring tape that I'm sure accompanies him everywhere and measured the exact dimensions.

The second time was from a potential buyer. I posted some things on the Internet for sale, outgrown baby stuff, etc., and I get umpteen inquiries on his car seat. Of course, every one of them wants it REALLY bad, but then none of them ever want it bad enough to actually come pick it up. So, I have learned to re-post and continue to re-post until I have cash in hand while I watch them leave my house with said item. So, I get a nasty e-mail. One of those "but" ones that I've talked about previously. You know, "I don't mean to be rude but..." then the person proceeds to verbally assault you.

Anyway, evidently she had been e-mailing me to set up a time to come "see" it. Okay, I've got a ridiculous amount of people that are making bids on it and wanting to come get it sight unseen, nothing committed, and I'm supposed to set up a time with you to come "see" it? Evidently in this case, a picture is not worth a thousand words. At any rate, she "know you've been on line" because "I've seen you re-post the car seat twice since I've e-mailed you." Oh, so now you're cyber stalking me?

Long story short, (Reader's Digest version: computer worked on, reloading browser software, e-mail f----d) I didn't get any of these e-mails. Well, not until the last "not rude" one that ended with "you lost out and I lost out." We-hell, not exactly. The car seat was picked up last night and they paid $5 bucks more than you were willing to pay. La-whoo. Sa-her.

Oh, I kid, because I hate. These incidents actually really unreasonably upset me. I guess the irony is, I try to go out of my way to be considerate--thanking cashier's profusely for ringing up my candy bar and telling them to have a nice day, opening doors for shoppers, giving to every friggin' bell ringer I pass, letting cars in my lane, etc., etc., etc. Of course, it still boils down to: I'm just a cold-hearted, thoughtless bitch. Bah-humbug.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

I feel extreme guilt for not keeping up the recommended two-entries-per-week blogging. Well, if anybody ever read/is still reading, my deepest apologies. So I'm now doing yet another taboo--writing in here when I have nothing to say. Well, nothing terribly clever. Let's face it. I just don't have the energy to be riveting ALL the time.

My son had his first Christmas program last night. Unbelievable. Preschools have Christmas programs. My husband and I found ourselves entering that bizarre vortex that we used to mock: The school-program-audience proud parent. Yes, there we were. I with my digital camera and he with the antiquated video camera recording for posterity every grimace, wiggle, nose pick, and raspberry that emitted from our darling budding performer. And there were plenty. They had the "4's" class performing alongside the "3's," which was a good thing because they seemed to be the equalizing force on the stage. Amazing what a difference one year can make. It gave me hope.

My son even had an impromptu solo, well sort of a recitative. After performing one song, as all the 3's proudly applauded themselves (which they did after every song) for the remarkable feat of not wetting themselves while singing "Away in a Manger," my son waited until the clapping died down, at which time he said in a loud voice, "I can clap reallllyyy hard, see?" and then proceeded to demonstrate just how loudly he could congratulate himself. Ahhhhh. Proud moment.

Impulse Buying

So I'm in Safeway (buying much needed wine after this hellish week) and the whirling dervish is uncontrollably spinning away from me. I catch up with him, pinning him up against a magazine rack that is strategically placed at child's eye level, and I see Sheryl Crow staring back at me with her iron abs on the cover of Shape magazine. As I'm lecturing my son about coming when called and doing as I say, I am simultaneously (almost subconsciously) pulling the magazine off the rack (I'm a multi-tasker). We continue to the checkout with one bottle of wine and now one Shape magazine (something a little incongruous there) with a 43-year-old singer on the cover with less fat on her entire body than what is in my little finger. Anyway, the little sideline on the cover is "Sheryl Crow's Body Secrets" or some other such nonsense. I have no idea what compelled me to buy this thing, knowing full well that between the depressant of alcohol and the onslaught of perfect body images, I'll be in a deep depression by the time the night is through. At least I was inexplicably relieved to read that she "RUNS" at least an hour every day, and if she's not doing that, she's biking 40-55 miles with Lance the Adulterer. (I don't know what it is, but their whole relationship just ticks me off. Admittedly I do not know the details, but it just HAS to be wrong.)

Anyway, I find it refreshing when these celebrities are at least honest about the sacrifices and work they have to do to keep up these faultless bodies. I was reading in TV Guide one time about Kelly Ripa and how she doesn't really exercise. Yeah, right. Listen, you don't get that bony, defined chest by, as she put it, "pushing the kids in swings." Let me tell ya, I've done PLENTY of pushing swings, and my chest never ends up looking like I do 58 chest presses a day.

Back to the adulterer and his band whore. Sheryl's newly diamond-bedecked finger was prominently displayed on the cover. Do you notice how in interviews there's never mention of his kids? What is the deal anyway? Oh, but they're in love. I guess his previous wife just wasn't supportive enough, what with the cancer and all. Sheryl will stand by her man. Oh, wait. That was the FIRST wife. He's in remission now, right? Rough.

TURKEY, CRANBERRIES, AND OTHER MUNDANITIES

What can I say? It's the holidays. The absolute worst time to keep up a blog, for me anyway; however, one would think the holidays would give me plenty of fodder to fill each day with new antics of a dysfunctional family. I guess my immediate family just isn't that dysfunctional. Our family events are relatively uneventful.

Now, when my mother's side of the family used to get together for the holidays... Now, there's a book that could write itself. One schizophrenic (maybe two), a druggie, a recovering alcoholic and ex-convict, a meth-head (recovering?), a pedophile, two welfare mommies, unknown quantities of illegitimate children, two bipolars "and a partridge in a pear tree." If my Southern gay cousin had ever made it to these holidays, we would have fulfilled our holiday fruits and nuts requirement. Ah, the good ole days.

My time currently is being spent rushing around frantically trying to make this holiday memorable for my son so his head can be filled with false memories of what a good childhood he had. Unfortunately, these machinations usually end up becoming more traumatic memories for him than happy, with me screaming at him that he is using too much glue on his crafts and wasting glitter. Ah, the holidays. Add to this stress the fact that I'm putting in as much overtime as I can at work while trying to intersperse my time with these "precious moments." As if that isn't stressful enough, my husband and I have absolutely no time to practice music for my niece's wedding that is coming up the first weekend in January in which I will yet again have a happy reunion with all my husband's ex's who will undoubtedly be scrutinizing every thing I do. MERRYYYYYY CHRISTMASSSSSS!!! (Happy Holidays, for those of you who are easily offended).

Tomorrow I take the yearly trek downtown with my son to get a picture of him with Santa Claus, which probably isn't going to happen this year because evidently with all the threats of naughty and niceness, he believes Santa Claus is just one big tease and he has absolutely no interest in meeting with the jolly fellow.

"Aren't you excited about Santa Claus coming."

"Well, not really."

"What?!"

"Not really because he'll just tease me."

Okay...I guess we'd better lay off the whole coal-in-the-stocking bit. Not that that really works. Since my son is so into trains, he actually WANTS coal in his stocking. Add to that the fact that he is still on Halloween. Everything is "this is the best Halloween Christmas party ever!" I wish I had a sense of time like that.

Hallmark: When You Care Enough

I remember when Vaughn was just a wee one and a friend of ours (the same friend who said pick your children's friends, The Analyst, emphasis on Anal) talking about the "Hallmark Parents" in a derisive tone, if you couldn't guess. He went on to talk about a book about parenting that was refreshing and validating because it wasn't about Hallmark parenting, and that it felt good to hear about another parent who had felt like tossing their newborn out the window during a particularly lustful sceamfest. At the time he was saying these things, in my foggy-progesterone-ridden-just-fell-in-love-breast-feeding state, I listened in horror as I gazed adoringly down upon my angel's glowing countenance.

I now completely understand what he meant by Hallmark Parents. I derive guilty pleasure when I read another parent writing in less than positive tones about their bouncing bundle of joy. Which brings me to a wonderful, and evidently popular, blog site: Dooce.com This woman is hilarious. I tire so listening to other moms and their seemingly endless patience and adoration of their children. It makes me wonder, "What the heck is wrong with me?" To further add to my guilt is all the time, energy (emotional and physical), money, pain, etc., that we went through to conceive our little Popsicle tot, only to have days when I'm actually thinking of listing him on Craigslist.

The majority of the time I feel I am the anti-Hallmark parent, which completely baffles me when for the first year of Vaughn's life I was utterly enamored with my son. Looking back on it, of course, it seemed so much easier. For one thing, he couldn't talk, so I never heard the words "Go Away!," when telling him he can't have yet another box juice or "Icky" when serving him his favorite food, which has now, inexplicably, become his UNfavorite food. Or deciding that he must be dressed in yellow from head to toe because this is his favorite color (after I have purchased an obscene amount of Gymboree-coordinated outfits, no yellow among them). When he was 6 months, he never threw a tantrum in Costco because he didn't get his OWN receipt. (This new fascination with receipts is a complete mystery to me.) I never winced, bracing myself for the inevitable "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" when I forget and accidentally open the front door, instead of letting His Majesty do it. Everything was blissfully predictable. Now I never know who I'll be speaking to: Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde.

I think the other thing that makes this job particularly difficult is the fact that it's forever changing. This is the one job that I have had in my life that I am incapable of mastering and excelling at. I remember the thing I always hated about a new job was the training. It was a constant struggle smashing in all the new polices and procedures into my brain. Then finally I got beyond the training, and things started to settle and pretty soon I didn't even have to think about it and I would "exceed expectations." Not so with this parenting job. Just when I think I've got it down and I've figured out how to handle one phase, it ends and the next one comes along. I keep approaching parenting with this thought that eventually I'll get through the training phase and things will get easier and I'll finally master these parenting skills. I'm now starting to resolve myself to the fact that it's never going to happen, and I find that extremely frustrating. I don't deal well with failure, and I feel like I'm failing dismally at this job. Now I have to bask in those few moments when I can think, "Wow, that was very smart of you. Well done. You actually were a good parent just now."

I think I must be some kind of weird evolutionary anomaly. I mean, aren't we supposed to be better parents than our parents? But my mom was a loving, patient, caring mother. That I remember anyway. I mean there was the bipolar part, but hey, she had three kids. I'm on antidepressants already and I only have one child. Those manic phases are some of my fondest memories, at least before she started becoming psychotic. That part wasn't as much fun. However, having a mother that thinks she has hypersonic hearing is entertaining.

*sigh*

Good times, good times.

Expired

I did a report today on a man who "expired" at the age of 50. What an odd expression for someone dying. Expired. He was past his date of freshness. It has such a lactose sound to it. Wow--50. And it was unexpected. Massive MI. Harsh. It's always depressing when I get reports like this. Fortunately, they are remarkably infrequent.

Fifty years old does not sound that old to me. I wonder when my date of expiration is... Happy thoughts.

Oh, Angie

Watching a movie last night. Angelina Jolie is so hot. I wonder what it's like to be so hot that men AND women want to screw you. But what's with the cleft in her bottom lip? I sat through the whole movie distracted by this cleft. It's like her bottom lip is SO big, it has cleavage. Has she always had this cleavage? Did she cut her lip or something, some chafing perhaps? I mean, is it cleavage--true cleavage--or just an optical illusion? Huh. Never noticed it before. Lip cleavage. I think I've coined a new term. But will it catch on...?

A Tribute Or Was It An Assassination?

I have a confession: I watched the Tribute to Johnny Cash, a.k.a., An Excuse to Brazenly Promote "I Walk the Line." I couldn't help it. It was like a train wreck, and I couldn't turn away from the bloody gore and wreckage of what was Johnny Cash's music. That and sentimentality. My mom always loved Johnny Cash, as does my brother, so I grew up being forced to listen to his music. (Okay, I admit. Not too long ago I downloaded his song "Hurt," but c'mon, that's a classic.) I didn't actually turn the sound up until Martina McBride showed up on the screen with her skeleton thighs. (My husband said that sounded like a good title for a country song.) She performed a June Carter song (don't ask me which one). It was pleasant, but honestly, you could put a stump on stage and that would be an improvement over the original. When I was but a young girl, I thought June sang with Johnny by default. You know, kind of a Paul/Linda McCartney kind of thing. "Hey, luv, 'ere's an idea. You could get on stage WITH me. It'l be fun. Somethin' we can do as a cuple" (add Liverpool accent). It wasn't until recent years that I found out that June was a "success" long before Johnny came on the scene. Who knew? I mean, the woman barely stayed on pitch. Weird. That's country.

Moving on, they had Kid Rock and Jerry Lee Lewis (who looked barely conscious and like they had to pump him full of steroids and prop him up to perform ) butchering "I Walk the Line."
Next was U2--Bono--need I say more?

Nora Jones performance was very lackluster and monotonous (surprise, surprise), seemingly interminably plodding along until, thankfully, the end. You just wanted to slap her for the newly recovered "country twang" she adopted for the tune. Just sing the damn song. If you're going to add something, add DYNAMICS. SOMETHING! Anything beyond the usual mind-numbing dullness of your usual tripe. And her music is often compared to Billy Holiday and Nina Simone? Yeah, compared and found profoundly lacking. Please. Her name should not be SPOKEN in the same UNIVERSE as Billy Holiday and Nina Simone, much less compared. Oh, and headline "Jerry Lee Lewis stole the show from Norah Jones..." (See above) Nuf said.

Onward and upward: Kris Kristopherson and the Foo Fighters. Now, when I heard Foo Fighters, I must admit, I was a little frightened. But thankfully, they kept their dignity and didn't try to infuse their music genre into the song or do something cutesy with it. One of the few.
I always find these tributes so amusing. Generally, you can translate tribute to mean a slaughtering of the tributee's songs. But I do think there is a lesson to be learned from this travesty:

Rockers/Faux jazzers, leave country music to the people who know it best: Country music performers. They were the only ones that didn't totally slay the tunes.

Another evening well spent.

Alternate Universe

I experienced a Twilight Zone moment today. I took his Royal Highness to the zoo as a reward for not making me want a quick and painless death grocery shopping today. Vaughn wanted to sit to have a snack so we decided to sit at one of the few tables that was in the sun right next to another woman and her son. As we were sitting down, I heard this woman call to her son, and I could have sworn she said "Vaughn." I figured my ears were tricking me, could have been "Ron" after all. I mean, what are the odds?

As we're sitting there, another woman comes up, who obviously was with them. They are chit-chatting asking the little boy what he was going to call this woman. The little boy said what sounded like "Auntie Mimi." Huh?

Then the mother said, "No, you already call A--- Auntie Mimi. This is Amy; what are you going to call her?"

Now, once again, I figured I misheard. Vaughn calls his Aunt Mary, "Auntie Mimi." He came up with it when he just started talking, all on his own mind you. I figured maybe it was just Auntie Amy they were saying and the other woman he calls Auntie Amy, and so, obviously, he must come up with another name for this Amy.

As they're leaving, the little boy is doddling behind, and she calls to him, unmistakably calling him "Vaughn."

What exactly are the odds? Here's this little table. It's an extremely unbusy day at the zoo due to freezing cold, and we just happen to sit beside the one little boy that has an extremely rare name, the same name as my son, and this little boy happens to call his aunt," Auntie Mimi." Bizarre.

Now, Vaughn was the older of the two, so I named him Vaughn FIRST-- nah-nah-nah-nah-nah. I immediately get on the phone with my husband, bemoaning the fact that we went to all this effort to find a unique name that has NEVER been popular, and now I see it popping up everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. Last week it was a character's name on "Cold Case," a YOUNG character.

So, in a panic, I get home and search the Social Security records of names and what do I find? Hmmm? Hmmmm? Vaughn's name has been steadily gaining in popularity since when you ask? Since 2002. How ironic. The year he was born. It's made a huge leap in popularity from just barely making the top 1000 since 1999 to jumping up to 787 in 2004. Now, as my husband says, we're still safe from it being a David name, but how safe and for how long? THAT is the question.
On a different note, are construction signs becoming politically correct now? They now say "No Entry." What? "Keep Out" was too authoritative and offended people who wanted to be able to be flattened by a steamroller or drive their car off a half-built bridge? Ah, the delicateness of the American self-esteem.

Chief Cook and Bottle Washer

So I'm standing in front of the fridge, and I'm thinking: We have nothing good to eat--and I just shopped today. At least when I lived with my parents, I could blame them for never having anything good to eat. Now I have only myself to blame, although not completely. I couldn't help not buying anything good because every time I looked at something remotely scrumptious, I had Martina McBride's thighs floating in front of me, clattering together, scolding me in their bone-clanking fashion to not buy the vodka-filled chocolates.

Space: The Final Frontier

"I hate her."

"You hate who?"

"Martina McBride."

"What?"

"Martina McBride. She's on "The View." I mean, my God, she is 5 months postpartum and she has like 3 inches of space between her legs."

"She has space between her legs?"

"Yeah, you know. When her legs are together you can see through her legs. She has space between her legs. As in: You-could-watch-your-32-inch-TV-between-her-legs space."

"Oh. I guess I never paid attention as to whether women had space between their legs."

"Only the ones who don't eat."

"Huh."

"I mean, 5 months postpartum?! I'm almost 4 YEARS postpartum and rice paper wouldn't fit between my legs. I ADDED 3 inches to my thighs, EACH, when I was pregnant. What?! Did she not gain any weight when she was pregnant? I'm just relieved that the last few months of my pregnancy were in the winter rather than during fire season, there was so much friction. Disgusting. 5 MONTHS POSTPARTUM!!"

"Well, Sweetie, you look good to me."

"Humph. I wonder if Denise Austin has space between her legs."

FGM

Today was a first. I transcribed a report on a woman who, as the doctor so benignly put it, was "circumcised," or had undergone FGM (freakingly gory maleficence or, technically, female genital mutilation).

Now, I've heard of this practice, of course. Who hasn't? But I didn't know, exactly, what this entailed; so, as is my habit, I researched it. Evidently, there are several different forms, graded up to a type IV. The higher the number, the worse the mutilation, essentially. This particular patient is pregnant. Depending on the "form" of her mutilation, the delivery could be very interesting. Humans, man. Sick minds.

My husband was gone last night on a DJ job and Vaughn was up at my parents', so I had a rare blissful evening of solitude. The only thing is every bump, creak, and bang I hear in This Old House gets my heart thumping nearly out of my chest. I was just thinking last night that despite the horror movies, ghost stories, demonic shows I watch/read, the one thing that I find frightening far more than anything else (even if I were to believe that these supernatural things existed) is a human. When you think of all the things that humans are capable of and have thought up to do to one another over all the years that we have existed, THAT is the creepiest horror of them all.

What's In A Name?

There's a little game I call "If I were to have another child" aka "If Hell were to freeze over." One aspect of this game is wondering what we would name this mythical being. I honestly have not come up with a good name for a boy or girl so far (and all things considered, I have spent an inordinate amount of time on this) since I feel we have picked THE perfect name for Vaughn.
There are some self-limiting factors to what type of name it could be. I love one syllable. There are so many trendy two-syllable names among his peers that that is one of the many things that makes his name unique. The problem is so many one-syllable names are so blunt sounding: Blair, Blaine, Blah (that's what they sound like). Unlike Vaughn. Vaughn is like a sigh: Vaauughn.
Also, there is the musical nod to Sarah, inspiration for Vaughn's name. It's difficult to come up with other jazz musicians' names that (a) aren't already popular--Ella, (b) too obvious--Coltrane, (c) too ordinary---Charlie, (d) too odd---Dizzy. Although that last one might be kind of fun, except that I just remembered Bob the Builder's cement mixer's name is Dizzy.

And then there is the most important: Unpopular. It has to be a name that has never even glimpsed the 1000 Most Popular Names list. I once got a book called something like "Unique Baby Names." It was research for my "If I were to have another baby" game. (I told you I've spent a lot of time on this.) They had names that are hip or so uncool they're hip, like Homer. (Sorry, but this still does not seem hip to me.) There was also a section about names that are uncool and will NEVER be hip and are only fitting people over 90. Vaughn was in this category. Humph. Well, he will be 90 someday, God willing.

Sensitivity Training for Preschoolers

After losing a ridiculous amount of sleep and suffering much anxiety over this whole unwanted affection business, the day was coming when Vaughn would have to return to his preschool after my having "talked to him." I talked this thing to death with every friend and family member I could find, alienated one of them (The Analyst), and did hours of research on the Internet trying to find where someone else was having this problem with their child or where this was a normal "phase" for 3-year-olds to go through.

The Plan: After much ruminating, we decided we would focus on the issue of Vaughn not listening and doing as asked, rather than the actual hugging itself. I plotted a whole puppet show for him with some of his favorite puppets (why didn't Mr. Rogers ever address this?) as a way of introducing the subject. I don't really know how effective this was since every 2 minutes (of an overly long play. I get caught up) he would come over to the puppets and want to introduce them to another stuffed animal or talk to them about his Legos.

The Play: Porky, the porcupine, likes to give hugs, but Kitty, the kitty, doesn't like hugs. Teacher Ella, the elephant, explains to Porky that not everyone likes hugs, just like there are some things that Porky might not like. As it turns out, Porky is afraid of ghosts. Teacher Ella asks Porky how he would feel if someone dressed up as a ghost and was always scaring him (at which time Vaughn missed the whole point and proceeded to "Boo" Porky. Not boo, as in bad performance, but boo as in scare, although either probably would have applied). Porky agreed that he would not like this. Teacher Ella explained that some people think it's fun to scare other people, and how would Porky feel if he asked the person to stop scaring him, but the person continued because they were having fun? Porky said he would not like this, and he now understood why Kitty gets upset when he hugs her, and she doesn't like it.

I really think this has potential and could be made into a TV movie, or at the very least a corporate movie for sensitivity training. It's a thought.

In the end, I explained to him that he needed to ask the huggee if he could hug them first, and if they said no, he was to not hug them. If he didn't ask or hugged when asked not to hug, the teacher would put him on the time-out chair to help remind him. The look on his face crushed my heart, and when I was leaving him for preschool, I felt like I was handing my lamb over to the slaughter.

Needless to say, as with most things, I overblow and overanticipate the outcome. He was fine. He has now gone through two days of preschool without ever being on the time-out chair and asks to hug. I'm sure this will still require me to go through the whole "what-do-we-do-before-we-hug" speech, but he seems to be fine with the whole thing, and I have significantly calmed down over the whole issue. Another crisis averted.

Won't You Be My Friend?

I have observed that finding a friend is very similar to dating and actually harder. Now that I'm a mommy, my friend requirements have somewhat changed. It's easier to keep up relationships with other mommies than with prior friends without children. This way your time is double duty. You get a play date for your child, and you get to visit with an adult you, hopefully, enjoy spending time with. At least that's the goal. Unfortunately, it rarely turns out this way.
I had a friend once tell me that it was best to pick friends for your child while you could (in other words, children with parents you like spending time with) before they start picking their own friends, and consequently, you're stuck with those friends' parents.

My son's taste in friends is relatively vast at this point: Basically, any one that is breathing and will pay attention to him. Sometimes he just settles for the breathing part. Therefore, I still have this window of opportunity to pick his playmates, as well as mine. Unfortunately, this is easier said than done, being that I am not the most outgoing of people.

Getting back to the dating similarities, I've met mommies who picked me up, as it were, that are fun to be around but aren't particularly deep friendship material. Conversations revolve still around superficial matters and our kids, of course, and we've know each other for over a year now. We have nothing in common but our kids.

On the other hand, I've met mommies who I'm interested in, but it's like the good-looking guy who doesn't know you exist and you're the fat pimply girl who tries to make conversation with him when you can. "Hey! How's it going? Um, are you going to the Halloween party tonight? Maybe we'll see you there. Okay, well. Bye." All of this is said in an off-hand, casual way because you don't want them to get too scared by the desperation in your eyes.

I thought once Vaughn was in preschool this would be easier, but still, it's kind of like high school. You see each other Tuesdays and Thursdays, exchange pleasantries, and then you frantically hurry off on your merry way to try to cram in all the "me-time" you can between 9 and 11:30. You have your beginning clicks, people who know each other from the neighborhood, ones you jealously wish to be a part of. You want be in with the "cool" mommies. The ones who are chicly fashionable and haven't let themselves go down the mommy road of big hips, fat thighs, and pot belly. The ones who listen to something beyond the Wiggles and top 40 (or worse, country) and actually pick up an occasional book.

I hated dating, and finding a mommy-friend is even more humiliating. I hate putting myself "out there." What do you do to entice a mommy, anyway? I mean, I know the basics of seducing a guy: bat your eyes, play with your hair, lick your lips, show a little leg/boob. Hmmmm. I wonder if the same applies to mommies?

Back On The Treadmill Again

I'm back to sweatin' to the newbies again. Love Andromeda Skin. Great bass groove. Let's you get into that necessary trance hypnotic semi-conscious state needed to get beyond the pain and exhaustion. I use it for my warmup.

I still have My Humps on my MP3. I just can't bring myself to take it off. I'm cursed with good taste (or bad taste, however you may view it). I have the uncanny ability to take to songs that will inevitably become nauseatingly popular. Wish I could make money off this ability.
Anyway, I'm huffing away thinking about the BEP lead singer Fergie and what a tight body she has. (No, I am not a closet lesbian. Not that I'm aware of anyway.) Not one ounce of fat. Of course, when I think about these things, I go into the "wish I had that body" mode, but then I remind myself that if part of my living was seeing myself splashed all over MTV jiggling my "lady lumps," that would be great motivation to be in the gym 8 hours a day and feasting on salads with nonfat dressing.

This brings me to my current motivation to get back to exercising after a 3-week sabbatical: The Hawaiian pictures. There is nothing like seeing yourself in the most unrevealing bathing suit and still having love handles lapping over the side. Ugh. My sister-in-law, who is 15-plus years my senior, looked better than I did. I also have to say thank God for the cloning feature on photo editing programs. Baby, I shaved off 10 pounds in a matter of minutes. I know. It's terribly pathetic when you're airbrushing your vacation pics, but hey, I admit it. I'm vain. Now, if I could just get my hands on the originals that everyone else was taking...

A 3-year-old Harasser

Today when I picked my son up from preschool, the teacher asked me to talk to him about keeping his hands to himself because some of the girls are getting upset. Okay, don't get me started on my gender. All I can say is: We start young.

Anyway, this has been an ongoing issue with my son ever since he was big enough to give hugs. He is an incredibly affectionate little boy. Most parents "ahhhh" about it and think it's cute. However, in our overly politically correct society, it seems that we are concerned about sexual harassment in preschool. Now, if my son were displaying the stereotypical male behavior of smacking other kids around, then he'd get a time-out and somehow other people seem to be more tolerant of this than of a child that gives unwanted kisses and pats. I've gone over and over this with him, but honestly, how do you explain to a 3-year-old the sophisticated intricacies of appropriate affection and inappropriate affection? I do not want to squelch this part of my child's temperament just because other people's kids have a stick up their butt. I mean I really don't even know how to approach this beyond talking to him, which obviously does very little good. As a matter of fact, this morning before I took him to go to preschool we went over "The Rules": No running (this is something they also asked me to talk to him about). Listen and obey the teacher. Hands to self.

I don't want to punish him for behavior that most people deem admirable in a child. I remember when he was 2 years old and he was in a toddler gym class giving out hugs. I groaned and said something, and one of the mothers said,"To have such a problem." Exactly.

Obviously, I'm just a wee bit annoyed by this and feel my "Mother Bear" emerging. Deep breath. Suck it up. Exhale. Peeeaaaacccceee. (If only it were that easy.)

By the way, I just read on another blog that "you cannot hug in preschool, by the way." Say what?! Yeah, take out a gun and blow your chums away, but God forbid you hug them. Okay. I'm done. *deep breath, suck it up, exhale* I think I'm hyperventilating.