Fine Finned Friends

For Father's Day, Dave planned with his brother to take Vaughn fishing for the first time.

Now, it was some frustrated fisherman's bright inspiration to create these things called trout farms where little impatient kiddies could get their first taste of "real" fishing. The fish are practically jumping out of the water and landing in the boat, they are so easy to catch.

I remember the days when I'd go with my brothers, riding for hours in the backseat of a Bug on long windy roads, only to spend more hours "enjoying nature," waiting for the minutest of tugs on the line and then (only after it was pitch black. My brother is truly an optimist) to go home empty handed, with the exception of the multitude of mosquito bites as mementos of my Grand Fishing Adventure. *sigh* Those were the days.

Anyway, Vaughn was all excited about bringing the little trophies home to live because, you see, he was going to bring them back alive! None of this distasteful violent business of bashing in little fishie heads. No. He generously was volunteering to bring home these little orphan trouts to live in our 10-gallon fish tank, company for the goldfish. Thankfully, it is against state law to leave the fish farm with live catch (thank you State of Oregon!), but the fish farm does the distasteful business of executing the little buggers for you. They were also willing to clean, gut and behead them (Yes! Yes! So Mommies everywhere don't have to do this. Bless you.), but Dave decided it was a good compromise to leave the tail and head on for a more realistic effect. Since Vaughn couldn't bring them home alive, at least they'd look alive, except for the unblinking eyes that constantly stare at you accusingly--"Murderer!"

So it was that a very proud Vaughn came home after 15 minutes (okay that's an exaggeration, but not much) of fishing with 5 little trout in a gallon size Ziplock bag. Oh, they looked tasty. Little did I know that the trout saga had only begun. While I was planning recipes for these fresh juicy farmed fish, Vaughn was going to get his entertainment's worth out of these little guys. Fishing was only the beginning. We managed to initially wrest them out of his grubby little hands and deposit them in the freezer for frying the next day. However, not 20 minutes later, Vaughn is swinging them around, fish faces pressed tightly against the plastic, eyes bulging, telling me goodbye as he heads out to eat with Daddy and other assorted Hogues.

"Daddy said I can take them with me to the restaurant to show everybody!"

Say what?

"He did, did he?" Okay, this is the digital age. We could take a picture. This parenting thing would be so much easier if there were just one of us, and I'm volunteering to concede my role.

My mind is conjuring up images of half-frozen fish, basting in the warm sun in the van for untold hours while little microscopic anaerobes are multiplying at the rate of a hundred horny rabbits. So much for the fish feast.

"Okay. Whatever."

The next day...

"Where are my fish? I want to say good morning to them."

"They're in the freezer, but... Oh, forget it." Dave had still been holding out hope that the fish were still edible, so they had returned to their rightful place in the freezer. When it comes to food, that man is willing to literally risk his life.

Vaughn takes out what is now a great big fish ice cube. Oh, that's a problem.

"I want to hold one." Again?

"Well, they would have to be thawed out first."

"How do you do that?"

"You leave them out of the freezer and wait." I say this with clenched fists, eyes squeezed tight, teeth grinding, hoping against hope that this isn't that important and he'll decide to go torture the dog instead.

"Okay!" he chirps, and away he goes, spending the rest of the morning gallivanting around the house with the poor beleaguered fishcicle, happily showing it to the goldfish, the cats, the dog, waving his new found finned friends tauntingly in front of the animals' hungry eyes. Later adventures planned for the scaly chums were a "swim" in his kiddie pool (to speed the thawing process), followed by a good mud mask and consequent washing off in the bathroom sink. Vaughn was busying himself with all this fish recreation while I was outside, distracted with planting. I didn't fully realize what he was up to until I saw him happily trotting in and out of the house, conspicuously with fish in hand.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm washing the fish off. They're dirty. See? Look! They came apart."

It is at this point I realize he has successfully thawed the fish, and I seriously contemplate whether or not I should divulge this information to Dave before refreezing them. After all, he started this ride.

"You took those fish inside?"

"Yeah." Now, at this point the fish are starting to smell, well, fishy--that overpowering odor you get when passing the "iced" seafood section of your local discount grocery store.

I run in to see a lone trout laying, soaking on the bathroom sink counter. You can virtually see those little squiggly lines in cartoons wafting up from its bloated little body.

"Okay. No more fish in the house! They stay out here. FOREVER!"

Based on the look on Vaughn's face that followed, you would think I had just told him I don't love him, I've never loved him, and I'm dropping him off at the nearest foster home.

"But...*gulp*...how...*hiccup*...will...*tears*..they...*more tears*...get...*snort*...clean?" Now we're in full-on-heart-wrenching bawling mode. "They need to be clean!"

Now, I'm not sure when my son developed this obsessive-compulsive need for cleanliness, but this is the first time it's manifested itself, believe me.

In the end, the fish were cleaned, with the hose--outside. They then found their final resting place in the freezer, where they are to this day until enough time has passed that I can safely dispose of them without the topic rearing its stinky little fish head.

Mommy Dearest Disorder (MDD)

I think I've figured out what Angelina Jolie does with this adoption thing. Most people go to a country and they want to bring a souvenir back to their homeland to remember their lovely trip and to also have something cultural in their home that signifies that they are world travelers, wandering the globe, picking up knickknacks here and there. Only with Angie, this little cultural souvenir happens to be human, a sort of baby bauble to bring home to Papa.

"Surprise! Look what I brought back from Taiwan as a memento from the movie I filmed there. You're a grandpa! Again."

I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't have a serious problem emerging here, besides the anorexia. (Speaking of that, Barbara Walters interviewed Paris in jail. Her quote from Paris was she was not screaming and crying, but she wasn't eating or sleeping, so pretty close to the way she was living her life before she went in, sans the booze. Oooooo. Might we be able to see her coccyx through the front of her dress now?. Well, at least something good will have come out of her ordeal.)

Back to skeletal Angie, she's looking remarkably articulated and energetic for a lab specimen, and in great spirits. Must be the speed she is on that helps her feel no need to eat and yet gives her tons of endless energy for her compulsive shopping for orphans. In normal charitable circles that means going out and buying shoes, coats, and other essentials the foster homes run low on. Nope, none of that prosaic shopping for Angie. That's way too vulgar for the socially aware Jolie. She lines the little kiddies up like Julie Andrews in Sound of Music. "Now, let's see we have a white one here, 2 yellow ones here, and 1 black one here. No, no. This is ALL wrong. Something is missing. It seems off balance somehow. You. Yes, you, Tax? No, oh right, Pax, move over here next to the incredibly gorgeous white baby girl. Yes. That's it. HHmmmmmm. I think I have it...We need another white baby. I'll bring one back with me after my trip from doing that movie in the Czech Republic."

I definitely think she suffers from an new emerging disorder in Hollywood that they will have a special place for in rehab in about 10 years. They'll call it the Joan Crawford Ward, a.k.a., Mommy Dearest Wing.

I noticed in the bradgeline latest outing promoting a movie Angie has starred in about Daniel Pearl (that should be interesting) that Angie was a shining, smiling bag of skin held together with very taut, sinuous muscles while Brad looked distracted to say the least. I'd seen this in other photos and put it off as just wanting some private time, but this was an official publicity promotion of her new movie that she starred in and he produced, one would think there would be a little more enthusiasm displayed.


"So, Brad, does Angie have anything special planned for you on Father's Day?"

Disgruntled and distracted Brad, "What?"

"Are you going to be doing anything special on Father's Day?"

A bleary-eyed, hassled, and disheveled Brad looks at the TV camera while nervously rubbing the back of his neck and says, "Nope. Just gettin' up with my kids. That's enough." Indeed. Evidently, he's had a lot of practice over the last few months while Angie was filming the movie. This was largely part of his "producer" duties. "He's a good boss...uh, and a GREAT dad!"

Ah, the joys of being a father. Hey Brad, can you ever have enough kids? Angie doesn't think so!

One last complaint about Hollywood mothers in general. This is how high they have now raised the bar for woman and gone into a territory they never should have entered. We hausfraus should have had this territory locked up:

First, it wasn't enough to not gain any more than 40 pounds with your pregnancy, then you had to wear sprayed on clothing to emphasize that it's ALL BABY! I was okay with that. I gained a reasonable amount during my pregnancy, unfortunately the majority of it all Ben&Jerry's and donuts. But no. That wasn't enough. Then we were required to come sprinting out of the delivery room 2 minutes after having plopped out our bundle of joy wearing the size 2 we wore before we even dreamed of getting pregnant. Now you have to wear sprayed on clothing that shows right up until you delivery that sweet little baby bump and nothing else. Your thighs and arms are still the size of sticks. Your butt still has it's lovely lifted rounded pertness, but your boobs have gained 2-3 cups and they're deliciously plump. Evidently all the fat in the body has miraculous self-contained itself to your boobs. When it's all over and your posing for your celebrity photos with baby, you have the luscious-still-breastfeeding boobs, but they look like they've been pasted on the body of some donated university cadaver.

Note: I understand Angie has been grieving her mother's death and that "I just finished breastfeeding and am having trouble getting my nutrition back on track." Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't your nutrition have been on track while you were breastfeeding? And, I don't know about you, but while I was breastfeeding I was eating for two. That's where my troubles began. I had a voracious appetite and no matter what I did, couldn't seem to lose that lovely extra fat insurance that your body stores for the baby in just about every other area but your breasts.

Here's a tip Ang, eat lots of Ben and Jerry's and you should have no trouble getting your figure back. Carrots and celery just doesn't pack on the pounds like you'd think.

The 80s Are Back!!!

My 15?-year-old niece at her high school "retro" 80s party. Oh my God. I cannot believe I have reached an age when my teen years are "coming back." Depressing. The only thing more depressing is the fashion from that era coming back and the idea that it's worth reviving.

I'm not sure what is more pathetic--that I dressed that hideously when I was 15 or now in my 30s I am once again buying leggings and flashdance tops, but I'll be damned if you'll see me with a sideways ponytail. However, in the off chance you do, just slap my head and call me silly.

PERSONAL

Okay, I just did something really stupid. I was so pleased with my previous post that I brilliantly thought I would share it with family and friends. So what did I do? I cut and paste it into an e-mail and sent it out in a group mailing. Cut and paste. Yep. The old C&P.

The beloved cut and paste, by friend, has betrayed me. As I'm passing this information along to Dave and forcing him to read a print out of my group e-mail, including to my parents, he says,

"You put this on your blog?"

"Yeah, but nobody reads my blog and I needed a bigger platform for my brilliant and scathing exposition (today's word of the day) on the latest Paris Hilton update, so I decided the best way to share it was to e-mail it."

"You didn't want to just send them a link to your blog?"

"Noooo. I don't want any of my family and friends reading my blog, especially if I'm going to get personal." (Duh.)

"Well, you know it's bound to reach them sometime."

"Ha! Possible but not probable." (I'm incredibly eloquent today. It's that time of the month.)

It suddenly dawns on me that the title in the body of the e-mail I sent out (Rich Bitch Syndrome) is the damn hyperlink to my blog, not just pretty green font. Great. Unfortunately, there is no way to correct this predicament without freezing my blog so essentially no one can read it but me, and as much as I enjoy onanism (yeah, that's right, you lazy butt. Yesterday's word of the day. Look it up, and I'm referring to the first definition, not the second. God, no, not the second. I mean, what would be the fun in that? Anyway, I digress...) it's much more fun with spectators and preferably strangers *heh, heh, heh* (yeah creepy, I know, and yet I still write it knowing my mom quite possibly could be reading this. Ugh! What's wrong with me?!)

Anyway, to any family or friends that may have meandered their way over here through the hyperlink in the e-mail:

STOP. STOP NOW! FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP. There is nothing to see here. Nothing interesting at all. Just close the window, delete this link, and pretend you never saw it. Back away slowly from the computer and just walk away, NOW. If you love me, if you truly, truly love me, you WILL do this.

Rich Bitch Syndrome

A few things:

First: Poverty does not cause people to commit acts of crime. Lack of values does.

Second: Entitlement is not just for the underprivileged.

Paris Hilton Is Ordered Back to Jail
By MARIA NEWMAN
Published: June 8, 2007
A judge today ordered a tearful (oh boo-hoo! I feel for ya, Par, I really, really do.) Paris Hilton back to jail, reversing a decision by the Los Angeles County sheriff to release her and keep her under house arrest after she had served only five days of a 45-day sentence.

Okay, first of all, by what authority does the Los Angeles sheriff override a prosecutor and a judge's sentencing? I read an article earlier today when Paris was first released quoting some yahoo in the Los Angeles "judicial system" stating that cutting sentences short like this and releasing people early was not unique to Paris. Because of overcrowding, the county jail released people all the time.

Really?! Because if that's so, why not bypass the court system all together. Let's just take a page from the mental health/medical system. Here's the scenario:

Cops intervene in a rape/robbery/assault/what have you. They call the admitting desk at the local county jail and ask if there are any current spaces open. The admitting desk clerk states that currently there is a 30-day-plus wait. The cops page a triage legal assistant from the DA's office. (There would be several of these available on an on-call basis.) Several hours later, the triage legal assistant arrives and interviews the perps (yeah, I'm down like that with legal lingo). They take into consideration the following in their evaluation:

1. How serious were the perps in executing their plan and did they succeed?

2. Were there any obvious victims, i.e., someone dead or seriously maimed?

3. Was it planned in advance?

4. Were they under the influence of an unnatural substance, something beyond Red Bull.

5. Do they have a record? (or maybe that isn't really relevant)

6. Are they poor/rich/celebrity/fat/minority/etc. (This would count in the perps favor.)

7. Was their mother/father/brother/aunt/uncle/sibling/priest/rabbi/pastor mean to them or molest them in any way, shape or form? In Paris's case, this could include her parents denying her a convertible until the age of 12.

8. Are they really sorry, or at least say they are, and/or do they accept the Lord Jesus/Allah/Krishna/Joseph Smith/or some facsimile of a religion (Al Gorism counts)?

After having input this information into a handy-dandy computerized sentence evaluator on their Blackberry, an estimated sentence is calculated by the software. If the sentence is estimated to be twice the amount of the wait time, then the cops can then proceed to the nearest county jail and then they can go through the traditional judicial system.

Unless, of course, you're a celebrity, in which case all of the above is moot.

Superior Court Judge Michael T. Sauer said that Ms. Hilton will have to serve the entire sentence he had handed down last month for repeatedly violating the terms of her probation on alcohol-related reckless driving charges stemming from an incident last year. (What a novel idea. Serving your entire sentence! Wow. What will they think of next?)

As Ms. Hilton was led away to await her trip back to jail (I wonder if they'll do a cavity search. There's no telling what she might have up her ass), she turned to her parents and said, "It’s not right!" (You're damn right it's not right. It's not right that you're back in court after having only served 5 days of your sentence. It's not right that your parents are so rich and influential that they can buy off anyone that crosses you, including the judicial system. It's not right that someone like you has come to believe your own press--that you're special and the usual nasty legal implications of actions don't apply to you.) The Associated Press reported.

The hearing had been delayed for more than an hour after Ms. Hilton and her lawyers insisted that she be allowed to talk to the judge by telephone, instead of appearing in person. (Indeed? Why bother making a trip to the court, when I'm only going to end up back here at home, right? Waste of gas. I'm environmentally conscious that way. I just hope I can be an inspiration for young people everywhere.) The judge would not allow it, and ordered a sheriff’s deputy to drive to Ms. Hilton’s mansion in the Hollywood Hills, where she was handcuffed and brought in. (Oh, to be the proverbial fly...)

As Ms. Hilton was driven back to court, her trip followed by news helicopters, she cried in the back seat of the police cruiser. When she entered the courtroom, where her parents were also waiting, she broke down and sobbed. (Again, boohoo. Wow, contrast this with her press announcement after the award show. What happened to the brave face, Par? Hmmmmm?? No deal waiting in the wings? )

Sheriff Lee Baca set off a furor in legal circles and beyond when his office announced on Thursday that Ms. Hilton would be allowed out of jail and instead put under house arrest because of an unspecified “medical condition.” (I have inside information that she has a serious case of Rich Bitch Syndrome "RBS". Highly contagious among millionairesses--more serious the bigger the bank account. Can be terminal when net worth reaches the billions. There is currently no known cure. Once infected, there is no antidote. Unfortunately for Paris, her case was genetic. She can't help it. She was born into it. It could have been prevented if her parents had taken the appropriate measures soon enough, but as in most genetic cases, it is often too late once it is diagnosed. Her case was further complicated by inexplicable celebrity. Tsk, tsk.)

The city attorney whose office prosecuted her case, Rocky Delgadillo, said it was a case of preferential treatment for a celebrity. (Ya think?) He asked the judge to order Ms. Hilton back to jail and asked the sheriff’s department to show why it should not be held in contempt of court for letting her go in the first place. (Well, that ought to be good. Do you think a precipitous 6-digit rise in the sheriff's bank account is sufficient reason? And, no, there is no decimal, only comma. Beautiful, beautiful comma. It's like winning the jail lottery!)

“We cannot tolerate a two-tiered jail system where the rich and powerful receive special treatment,” Mr. Delgadillo said after learning of the release. (Here, here. Bully, bully. *clearing of throat*)

Officials had said Ms. Hilton, a hotel heiress and cable television star, (about time you should have to pay to see "Simple Life." Hey, Paris, look up! You could do a sequel sans Nicole. "Simple Prison Life." See--you can do this! After all, prison is just "a simple life," right? Just pretend there are cameras, muck it up, and play dumb or be dumb or whatever that dumb thing is that you do) would probably spend only about 23 days behind bars because of automatic credits for good behavior (Ah yes, the well known good-behavior-automatic credits, riiiigghhtttt), but prosecutors had not expected her to serve only five days. (Huh. Fancy that.)

Najee Ali, a community activist in South Los Angeles who heads Project Islamic Hope, said he was disappointed in the sheriff’s decision. (Disappointed? I'm disappointed when my dog barfs on my shoes. This? This was not disappointment.)

“It’s shocking that we’re living in a star struck judicial system,” he said. “Sheriff Baca caved in to the star power, the celebrity and wealth of the Hilton family. What happened is unprecedented. (OJ Simpson anyone?)

“There are hundreds and perhaps thousands of inmates in Los Angeles County jails who have much more serious illnesses like AIDs, heart problems and they have never been released to go home.” (Oh, you silly, innocent immigrant. You don't understand. Nothing is as serious as RBS--Nothing.)

The county supervisor, Don Knabe, told The Associated Press: “What transpired here is outrageous.” He said he received more than 400 angry e-mails and hundreds more phone calls from around the country. Ms. Hilton’s return home gives the impression of “celebrity justice being handed out,” he said. (I just don't see how you can make that conclusion based on the facts.)

City attorney spokesman Nick Velasquez said earlier Thursday that the office had been “inundated with calls and emails from people,” with “100 percent of them” angry (What? 100 percent? Not 99.9 or 99.98 or 99.999?) about Hilton’s release.

Mr. Delgadillo said that no one had shown that Ms. Hilton suffered from any malady that could not be treated while she was serving her sentence. “Los Angeles County Jail medical facilities are well-equipped to deal with medical situations involving inmates,” he added. (You don't understand!!!! This is RBS we're talking about. You don't have the capacity to treat this kind of malady! You just don't!!!! You just don't! You...just.. don't... *sob*)

Meanwhile, sheriff’s department spokesman Steve Whitmore told KNBC-TV that the contempt accusation “appears to be another Rocky Delgadillo press stunt.” (Yea. Obviously. What a bozo suggestion you should be held in contempt. Please.)

“We’ve examined documents (passport) and will respond accordingly in court,” he said. (Yeah, court--as in the court-yard of my hotel in a beautiful tropical area with a fun name like...Tahiti!)

But even within the sheriff’s department, others disagreed. (*sigh* Some people will just not listen to reason.) Steve Remige, president of the Association of Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriffs, told KNBC that the system definitely worked in Ms. Hilton’s favor. (Wow. It's just amazing how they always manage to come up with the obvious.)

“It appears that in Los Angeles County, if you are a wealthy individual or famous individual, that you are getting preferential treatment in the county jail system, in the county criminal system,” Remige said. (Yes. It appears. We've never seen anything quite like this before in Los Angeles. It is truly an anomaly.)

The news about Ms. Hilton dominated news coverage today. At CNN, the news was breaking during the cable news network’s daily CNN International news hour. The Paris story led the show after one commercial break, coming even before updates on the G8 Summit and Italy’s Rendition Trial.

“It’s the kind of day where we’ll always have Paris,” Stephen Frazier, one of the anchors, said, trying for a wry delivery.

I don't generally make a habit of commenting on or paying (much) attention to celebrities and their naughty escapades, but this just goes beyond your common celebrity gossip. There are just so many things wrong with this story I can't begin to comment. Suffice it to say, I am disgusted with our justice system in general and this was just one more straw.

Inspiration

I started getting that weird inner restless feeling lately and realized it's been quite some time since I've read something other than a how-to or self-improvement book. So I just got from the libary what is turning out to be a lovely book. I don't know if it'll end up on my recommended list, but it is witty enough that I find it inspiring and a good chuckle. "We're Just Like You--Only Prettier." Written from a "Southern Belle's" perspective, they're little essays of just observing the eccentrities of Southern life and life in general. It's only made me laugh out loud once, but I'm only on the third essay.

I do have one little criticism, though, and it isn't unique to this book but an observation of my own. Why must Democrats/Liberals/Leftists always end up in one way or another bashing those they don't agree with? I'm getting to the point of feeling that if it's a left-leaning person writing a food review, I expect them to somehow politisize it and use it as an opportunity to slam a Republican/Christian/Bush. "The beet tartar was divine, and I devoured it as if it were a Bush-loving Christian Republican slathered in honey, bound and dropped on a fire ant hill, savoring each writhing and shrieking bite until the end." You get the general idea. I have always found it fascinating that my liberal leaning friends can send e-mails and make comments that are basically insulting my intelligence and questioning my moral integrity, yet they still want to hang out with me. I'm a dumb slimy snake but make good company, evidently.

I, on the other hand, am acutely aware of who my liberal friends are and purposely stay away from any topic remotely close to politics, although that's a real challenge because it seems that everything is somehow connected to politics, even tampons.

"Are those fair trade tampons?"

"Um, I'm not sure, let me pull it out and check, k?"

I'm also amused by the fact that these incredibly judgmental people are so "tolerant." That's quite a balancing act. Bush is the Devil and should die a slow painful death, but Sadam had a bad childhood, and we must understand where he's coming from and what made him do what he did, cause we know down deep he's a really good person. He was a baby once, just like you. Bush, on the other hand, is the Devil's spawn--pure and simple. Ah yes, let us not forget that they are also not concrete like those idiot Republicans. Nothing is ever just black and white. Life is just too complex. It's all various shades of gray. However, Bush is evil and must die. That is not gray.

Phantom Voices

One interesting thing I've discovered about parenting is this weird phenomenon of hearing echos of your child calling for you. I wonder if that lasts for as long as you are a parent (or for that matter, even after. Maybe it's worse when you lose a child)? It used to be, obviously, phantom cries. Actually, earlier than that, in the first year or so, it was phantom kicks. Yeah, very odd. I would actually feel him kicking inside me, even though I was looking right at him very much on the outside of me.

Later it was the phantom cries, usually late at night, of course, when you are just starting to relax and you're almost positive he's finally asleep, which, as it turns out, he is.

Now, it's him calling out "Mommy." I just heard it this morning. It's 6 in the morning and I was pretty sure he was asleep, and yet, there it was, very faintly, sleepily, "Mommy is that you?" I checked on him, and low and behold, fast asleep. Weird.

Aaahhhh

Deep breath. I love parent getaways. Unfortunately, they are just too few and too far between. We're vegetating at the lovely Salishan Lodge. The weather is beautiful. I'm sitting out on the little balcony overlooking the lush green manicured golf course. There is no one around and here I am out in the fresh sea air, smokin' a stogie, and blogging on my laptop. Ah life is good. I could almost imagine that I have no parental obligations whatsoever, except for the nightmares I have of arriving back to my parents' house without Vaughn's special surprise of a dead crab. I kid you not. That is what he wants as his payoff for enduring my parents while we get a much needed break. And I am also not kidding about having a nightmare last night about arriving back empty handed.

Today's to-do list:
Get dead crab.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, etc.

We bought Vaughn his first big boy bed today, as in big boy into college bed--full twin. More importantly, we have moved him into his own room!!!!!!!!!! I would go on with the exclamation marks, but fear it would become annoying. Anyhoo. We met my goal, sort of. I said no later than 5 years he's out of our bedroom (Dave with his foolish optimism said 3. Ha!). We're several months past the 5-year mark, but hey, it's not 6 yet! That's beating some third world countries! Now maybe we'll have sex more often. Well, maybe...

Mini-Me Not

I read time and time again how parents supposedly want their children to be little mirror images of themselves. First off, I don't know how accurate this statement is. I think parents want children that are like themselves in that they can understand them. Or perhaps people want their children to be the best of themselves, if that makes any sense. Themselves idealized. I mean, really. Do you really want a little mini-you? I don't. Maybe a mini-new-and-improved me. Or a mini-the-best-parts-of-me-but-none-of-the-bad. Probably the aspects of Vaughn I dislike the most are the mirrored parts of me--the nail-biting, temperamental, easily frustrated, mercurial, moody, hyper-sensitive, oh God, I could go on. I see those parts of myself, and I find them most disturbing. I feel no pride in thinking, "That's MY boy." However, there are obviously those parts that I can't relate to. That I don't understand fully. I'm not sure which I find more frustrating. Probably the warped reflection, if it is warped. I like to think it's warped, but maybe that's the most disturbing thing of all. It's not as warped as I'd like it to be. Perhaps it's too crystal clear. I want my son to be wholly different from me or the best me, and unfortunately, he only has me and his father as his examples, and who do you think he's going to relate to the most? I am fighting my shadow.

Paradise Lost

I'm back to reality, with a flu/cold as a souvenir. I feel, if possible, less rested than I did when I left, more stressed out, and bitchier than ever. Wow. How's that for a break? Of course, it doesn't help that I have Aunt Flo's cramps on top of it all.

I did manage to get the iPod back in working order in time for the trip back home. I tried all the reboot advice I could find on the Internet to no avail. I didn't have the cord, but thankfully, I did have an adapter for the car, which did the trick. I still curse Apple and all those who birthed them, but at least I had something to listen to besides Vaughn's whine-curse fest on the way home. You name it, he was screaming about it. Wow, 5 weeks, 5 months, and now 5 years, and nothing has changed, he's just gotten louder and better at it. Speaking of cursing those who birthed them...

May Apple Fry in Hell Forever and Ever

So I'm trotting down my parents' mile long forested driveway, doin' a little jog, doin' a little dance, gettin' down with my little iPod, thinking, "I don't know what the heck these reviewers are talking about that the iPod couldn't take a little jostling. I should have gotten one sooner. They don't know what they're talking about." The song ends. I go to the menu to change the mood. Pick a new song and boom. Nothing. It displays the song but no sound. I can't turn it off. I can't change songs. It's just frozen. And of course, I didn't bring the cord with me, so now I'm stuck with a frozen iPod. Arugghhhhh!!!!

Musings

Wow. This has got to be some kind of record posting two days in a row. I guess I solved my dilemma with that last post regarding how public I was going to be with my private life.

I really have nothing witty or profound to report. I am taking a much needed break up at my mom's, killing several birds with one stone--celebrating a belated Mother's Day with my mom and celebrating my dad's BD today. A rather pathetic celebration, if it can be called that, involving picking up a cake and cards last minute at Albertson's on my way up here. At least the gift was good, and given that my brothers barely ever remember my dad's BD, I'm already ahead of the game. We gave my mom and dad a joint present of a digital photo frame. Those things are awesome and I so want one now. It would take care of the fact that I haven't updated the photos on display in our house for the last 2 years.

Crap. That reminds me. I knew I'd forget something, the external hard drive with all our photos. I could be spending this time catching up. Oh, well. Maybe I'll be caught up by June, which will be about a year's worth of photos. Such is my life.

Delimma

So I still struggle with the subject of my first post I ever put here, which is: Just how public do I want to be about my private life? Since I now have virtually all my family members on myspace and I've linked this to myspace, I'm not sure just how much I'm willing to reveal. The odds are pretty good no one related to me or who knows me will ever read this. However, I'm too aware of just how small a world we live in, especially with the Internet, and the horror stories of people losing their jobs because they posted in their blog all the gory details of their office politics. Of course, now that particular person makes a living blogging, so I guess things could be worse.

Being an introvert, I do still want to have a private life, which is extensive. However, this is the closest I've come since Vaughn was born to keeping a regular journal, and I'd like to have something for prosterity purposes.

Remove link from myspace? Reveal all? Hmmmm.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Why is it always like this? Whenever I get an opportunity to get away and get some much needed "me" time, the last day I get the crappiest sleep?

So, here I am at 4 in the morning, seeking something to help me get maybe a few more precious hours before I have to face the reality that is my life. Of course, I cannot escape the whole reality entirely when I'm on my mini-vacations these days because of the new addition to the family. I swear it is just like having another kid. She was a large contributor to my crappy sleep last night. I am completely out of earplugs at the moment (I knew there was something else I was suppose to pick up at the store today), and so with every grunt, groan, squeak, gnaw, scratch, rustle, sneeze, I wake up. I can't put her in another room because then she goes into her incessant screech-howl sessions. What happened to the near mute mutt we brought home?

I tried reading, but I'm starting to get truly depressed about the seeming dearth of entertaining modern reading material these days. I used to masochistically stick to a book, no matter how awful, due to some misguided idea that once I picked it up and started reading I had made some kind of binding agreement to finish it. Ah, the luxuries of youth. Now, I apply the 50-page rule (I'm starting to think that's too much). If the thing isn't a page turner by then, I'm on to the next one. As a result, I'm making my way through a shocking quantity of books. I'm currently in a horror/fantasy mood, and that particular genre seems to be especially lacking. Where have all the good authors gone? Even the authors that had established themselves as the "masters of horror" are a disappointment. I can't remember the last time I read a Stephen King novel. I think one of his last readable books was "Salem's Lot." Most everything after that seems to have been written with the primary goal of fulfilling his publisher's 10-books-a-year requirement. That reminds me of some song. Who did that? Something about churning out crap... Anyway, it seems to be pretty common. An author puts out a really good debut, and thereafter, it's all a variation on the theme, if that.

Well, it seems the sleep club has finally whacked me. Now if the dog will just stay quiet for the next few hours...

Day of Dread

My New Year's resolution is to be the best mediocre mom. I will never be the best mom, and I don't think I want to compete to be the worst, so an attainable goal seems to be mediocrity. I already have a good start on it. As I type, my son is watching a Clifford video for the umpteenth time while munching on caramel-flavored rice cakes for breakfast. Yep, I'd say this is a goal I most certainly can achieve.

Along those lines (and maybe I'm tipping into the worst category here), one of the days I dread is coming upon us--Vaughn's birthday. Now, it's not that I am loath to celebrate the birth of my son. It is what that entails that I dread. It's the celebration part. Being the introvert that I am and my son being the extravert that I suspect he is, is where we run into problems.

This year, for the third time in a row, he wants a train party, and he wants all the family and friends he doesn't really have to come to our house to celebrate it. I would be more than willing to shell out a couple hundred bucks to just have some children's gym host it and supply cake and ice cream, but noooooo, we have to have yet again a train party. So, here I am, less than 30 days away, wracking my brain as to what we're going to do this year for a train party and how I'm going to accommodate all these people.

Well, this morning, he announces he wants a cat party for his birthday (music to my ears).

"So you want a cat party for your birthday instead of a train party?"

"Well, I want both."

"You can't have both. It's one or the other. Since you have had a train party the last 2 years, how about having a cat party this year?" (desperation dripping from each syllable.)

"Hey, how about we have a cat-driving-a-train party?!"

Great.

Happy New Year, blah, blah, blah

So, here we are. 007. As usual, I am totally overwhelmed with all the things that I have to do at the beginning of the year and will probably take me the next half of the year to complete. Yeah, I also make the inevitable New Year resolutions, too, on top of it all, as if the first is not enough to make me feel like an utter and complete failure.

On the up side, this year we decided to use our Christmas presents from my parents to finally buy a laptop computer. I feel like I'm some prehistoric discovering the wheel or fire. I haven't gotten beyond the sense of surrealism. The other thing was I was totally hunting and pecking (my niece found this quite amusing, given my occupation) on the laptop keyboard (so excuse any typos here, but that's my excuse). I'm now getting a little better hang of it where I'm actually able to get into my usual "sensing" the keys mode. I should now have absolutely no excuse not to continue a daily blog, except for lack of inspiration of which I never seem to lack and is sufficient enough of an excuse.

So, write/read you next month/year.

Hee, Hee, You Said Poop

I must say the part of my job that I hate the most are the dictations that involve fecal disimpaction. Now, if you can't decipher from that what that exactly entails, allow me to further elaborate. It's having someone pick your butt for poop. It's poop scooping from its original source. It's a finger up where the sun don't shine, scraping away the poop plug. Ugh. I don't know who this is worse for, the patient or the practitioner. I mean, can you imagine? "I went through 12 years of schooling to pick shit from someone's ass." Actually, I asked my nurse sister-in-law about this one time, thinking how noble of doctors to actually perform this distasteful task themselves, but she told me usually the nurses do it. Yet another reason I did not become a nurse. Nurses are the janitors of the health profession. Really. They do all the "menial" jobs doctors don't want to tackle. However, listening to the doctors dictations, one would think they did it. I think they should actually have to do it so they can give a real first-hand account, so to speak, of the situation. Really get in there and get their hands dirty. *snicker* (Can you imagine the smell?)

On the other hand, we have the patient. Now, just how bad does it have to get that you go to the ER to get someone's finger up your butt? I did one report where the woman had not had a bowel movement for 17 days. Yeah, I guess I'd be lookin' for someone's finger, maybe hand, up my butt at that point, too. But, really, wouldn't you rather handle this kind of situation early and
yourself? I think I'd go mining around day 2 or 3. Hey, just a thought for the next time you're not so "regular."

Happily Ever After--Not

The new "It" couple.

Hollywood marriages make me think of those bug zappers. Here are all the bugs impulsively drawn to this bright, warm image, and even as they are being sucked into its aura, they can see their fellow buggies dropping, literally, like flies one after the other, sometimes 5 or more at a time, struck down by the deadly zap. Yet, you can bet that if the first encounter didn't get them, they're on the ground on their backs, shaking off the stun and struggling to get back on their feet so they can once again make that pilgrimage back up to the light.

Dumb bugs.

What's In A Name?

I wonder what it's like having a name like Theodora? Would you be constantly haunted by self-doubt about whether your parents really loved you?

"Oh no, we always wanted a girl, Ted! How could you even ask such a question?"

Speaking of sadistic parents, I came across a guy whose name is Harold Bottom. I wonder if he goes by Harry?

"Don't be ridiculous, Maude. It's funny and it'll build character!"

Like the boy named Sue.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

"Now, can you play with me?"

"Babe, I just got off work. It's late. I'm tired. I know you don't understand that concept, having never expierenced it, but I just don't have the energy right now."

"Why? Just for a little while. Please?"

(Dave) "Mommies and Daddies don't have the energy that you have, Vaughn. You're a kid. You have lots of energy. We just don't have that kind of energy."

"Then why did you make one?"

"Why did we make one what?"

"A kid."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why did you make a kid if you don't have the energy to play with them?"

"Good point. Very good point."

Ouch

Thanksgiving

So Thanksgiving has almost passed once again for the year. Met up with the family for a bit. Feeling a little empty. Can't quite explain it, except that I am literally empty because the food tasted like crap. I absolutely hate it when we go to a restaurant for the holidays, and Shari's, no less. Woohoo! Really going all out there. What? No Denny's? Can someone please tell me how it is possible to screw up mashed potatoes, without actually burning them, of course? I mean, what one would think of as absolutely can't-go-wrong food, and it tasted like plastic. The turkey was rubbery, the potatoes watery, and I can't even begin to describe the dressing that was buried underneath all that slop. Ugh.

Nevertheless, we took a whole buttload of it home because of that wholly inexplicable knee-jerk reaction that overtakes one at a restaurant when you're leaving a half-full plate of food. What is that? Does everyone suffer from that? You have a half-full plate of food because it tasted like dog shit, and then you ask for a "doggie bag." Actually, come to think it, it's rather appropriate isn't it? Isn't there some kind of fine if you don't pick up your dog's shit? Wow, I'm actually performing a public service. Now, excuse while I go clear out some space in my fridge.

Happy Turkey Day

Hope you have a wonderful day stuffing your gizzard. You murderer, you.

That is one big baby

Now that is one big baby!

His mother. Now wouldn't you like to have a little elf like that do your hair too?

Baby all grown up.

Imagine buying the shoes for this kid. I thought having to buy Vaughn's at Stride Rite was bad!

His dad's face at the delivery. Yeah, YOU did that. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Well, he just fell asleep and the rest is history.








































Actually all of these are sculptures (if you can believe it) from the Richard Mueck exhibition. Wild, awesome, cool, and just a wee bit creepy.

Oh, Sally

Every Sunday night is Movie Night, and I am the designated movie picker. Well, this last Sunday, not yesterday Sunday but the Sunday before, I picked out the newly released "Cars." We didn't bother seeing it at the movies because after a few times of spending an obscene amount of money only to spend the next 2 hours grinding our teeth and clutching the armrests next to a maniacally hyper and supernaturally active 4-year-old we decided Movie Night was best spent in-house.

I had no idea whether Vaughn would like "Cars," considering he starts squawking once he hears there aren't any trains in it, but I have begun to leave his preferences out of my decision-making process because frankly, they only make so many movies for 4-year-olds about trains or with trains and about 85% of those are unwatchable.

Anyway, long story short, he is now obsessed with race cars. Oh, he hasn't given up trains, but now I get to have the lovely ambient sounds of him racing frantically through the house while I’m downstairs trying to decipher a doctor’s mangled mumbling. Vaughn’s energy level is something the car manufacturers should really analyze. I think we would be independent of oil within the next year. Just strap a bunch of preschoolers to the bumper and “up yours, Saudi Arabia.”

Vaughn was still going at it around 8 last night, whipping around the corners of the house, making a circuitous route through all 4 rooms in his own personal Indie 500. He told me he was racing the Naughty Vaughn (also known as Mean Vaughn). Now, I don’t know if it’s healthy for a 4-year-old to have an alter ego or if this is the early manifestations of schizophrenia rearing its ugly head, but when I wake up in the middle of the night and see the Mean Vaughn standing over us with an axe, I’ll know to worry.

Babe

I really want a pot belly pig. We took Vaughn to the Holiday Kidfest this last weekend. This was the first time we’ve gone, and I must admit, I was a little disappointed. It did not live up to my expectations, but then again, things rarely do. I’m an idealist, you know? But, frankly, really. If you’re going to call something Kidfest!!! one infers a certain festival-like excitement in store. Instead, it was just a large gymnasium with a lot of out of work clowns hawking their wares, trying to look excited about doing the millionth balloon hat for one of Satan’s little minions, a preschooler.

Anyway, they had a petting zoo there, which cost money, of course, (not all were out of work). I use the term “petting” here loosely because it basically entailed having to pay an additional buck or so to get the cone with farm animal Kibbles and Bits to even get close to the animals. They had a barred fence between the animals and the kids (probably a smart litigious protection, but not as fun), so the animals wouldn’t give you the time of day unless you had something for them, and then you could only get close to the big ugly ones that managed to bully their way to the front. Vaughn seemed to enjoy himself, though, with the exception of when he started crying inexplicably and I stupidly thought he was upset because one of the thug goats had muscled his way in front of a little lamb and got a chunk of cone. I finally got him calmed down enough to enable me to translate the blubbereeze (a mccoyism. Definition: the coughs, spits and gags heard in between sobs that serves as a means of communication), that he wasn’t upset about the injustice of the food distribution. No, he was upset because HE wanted the cone. Ah, of course. Stupid me, expecting empathy for animals from a child who literally scares the piss and poop out of our cat. (ah, you know I love him)

Back to the pot belly pig. So there was this little pot belly pig in the corner of the enclosure in his own personal pen (I don’t know. I guess pigs don’t play well with sheep.) who was getting completely ignored. I have not had any particular affinity for pigs in the past, and was roundly disgusted with the whole pot belly pig fad back in the _____ (was it 80s? 90s?), but even I was feeling a little for the guy. I didn’t even think of giving him any food because, once again, stupidly I thought this was uniquely goat and sheep cuisine. It was only after the food was gone, and I saw the pig frantically trying to get some that I had the epiphany that pigs eat EVERYTHING. Anyway, because of the pig’s obvious deficits in the cute and cuddly department, Vaughn and the rest of the kids didn’t have any particular interest in petting the little guy. I suppose it was all that and then the little wet nose and soulful look in the eyes that created this sudden impulse to want to go out and buy a pig. I shared this newly formed enthusiasm with Dave, extolling the virtues of a pig over a dog, who just looked at me and shook his head and got that painfully patient look on his face that he always gets when I have one of my inspirations.

I’m going to get me a pig.

Eight is the loneliest number

Eight. Eight!! Eight views of my profile. Am I just that pathetic? That boring? I need to put up something more titilating, I guess. I need to pimp up my blog or something. That's just sad. So, so sad.

Serendipity

Ah, it's cosmic destiny. I was up on the treadmill just thinking about how I should get back to blogging, except for the fact that I have not felt any inspiration of late (well of the last 3 months) to blog about. I think that's a commentary on 2 things: that I need to get out more and I'm a mediocre writer because good writers can write about nothing and make it sound like something.

Anyhoo, I was looking up a coffee place in the Pearl District (yet another fantasy of a place that I think I will take Vaughn and yet never will because it actually requires me to venture more than 3 miles from my house). I googled it and low and behold someone had blogged about it on Blogger, so here I am. Now that's exciting!

Well, I did have one thing happen that I suppose would be considered a big thing. My nephew was stabbed 7 times and came very close to dying. A long story with sordid details that I'm sure would be considered salacious (do blogs have sweeps weeks?), but since I still haven’t decided who I’m actually going to invite to my blog at any given moment (so far no one), I really would rather not go into a blow-by-blow, so to speak. Suffice it to say that some good things came out of it--bringing the family closer together, at least at the moment, and the confirmation that I truly suck in crisis situations. God forbid anything happens to Vaughn because I would be babbling for the first hour or so of the critical event. With this realization, I can no longer be left alone with Vaughn. *snicker*

So that’s the big update. I’m still debating the idea of connecting this blog with myspace, but now with the big incident involving my nephew, I have discovered that I have yet more of my family on there; so frankly, I’m just not sure how well I want my family to know me. Now strangers, that’s entirely a different thing.

Tuesdays with Morrie

My husband and I have been watching the Last Comic Standing (I know. Our lives are pathetic.) and it got me to thinking. Is it a foregone conclusion that all people that have a horrible disease or illness befall them become more enlightened than the rest of us? I was thinking about how I would deal with having MS or cerebral palsy or cancer or take your pick. Would I suddenly be struck with a sudden sense of meaning and understanding of life? I wonder if anyone has done a study on this. What percentage of people that have some disabling illnesses are profoundly optimistic and suddenly become "centered," as it were, and aware of what is truly meaningful?

Somehow I don't think I would go through this metamorphosis. If anything, I would probably become more bitter, cursing a God I don't believe in and wanting my life to end quickly and painlessly. Oh well. Something to think about. By the way, I found the book Tuesdays With Morrie annoying, sappy and never finished it. The profundity spouted by Morrie was trite and would only be considered deep by someone who had never done any self-analysis whatsoever (such as the author, evidently).

PS: I am feeling much better. Finally found the perfect antidepressant combination. I no longer want to pummel my child or fantasize about a semi flattening me. *Kidding*

Kodak Moments

Is there anyone else who hates motherhood as much as I do, I mean, with the exception of the crack whore who finds herself in the family way? These days I find the only way I can truly enjoy my son is through pictures. Pictures are such great things, aren’t they? I mean, the experience could have been something awful, but a few cheerful moments captured on film is all we need to manufacture a whole new reality, a whole new false memory that gives us pleasant thoughts about the event after we’ve gotten over the trauma of it. We don’t usually photograph the child thrashing on the ground in a grand mal tantrum. We’re too busy trying to avoid the flailing appendages. Besides, who wants that in their photo album? No, we want the cute, albeit phony, pose that shows our child grinning from ear to ear, even if we had to launch a thousand threats to get that “precious moment.”

The Hawaii Experiment (as it has come to be known) was honestly a truly horrendous exercise in human torture, but I look back at the pictures, and I’m awash with all these warm fuzzy feelings of sentimentality, actually dreaming about when we can return. Yes, the memories are still there of our first night with Vaughn scream-whining in the bathtub for literally hours (well, not all the time in the bathtub), begging us to go back home, the echoes amplified by the bathroom acoustics and traveling up and down the hallway of the hotel for our fellow lodgers’ listening pleasure. And that was the FIRST day. We were there for 6 days and (lest us not forget) NIGHTS and MORNINGS. But the pictures. Ah, the pictures. Set a little James Blunt to the slideshow and you’ve got yourself a truly beautifully fabricated memory of warm sun (it was overcast the majority of the time, with side dishes of rain), water frolicking (until it literally made me seasick), and joyful faces (which the next minute had brows furrowed [mine] or scrunched up ready to launch into one of many whinefests [Vaughn’s]). *sigh* Memories.

Springing ahead

I didn’t do my usual crabbing about the time change this season (even though this is my most hated one. There is absolutely nothing worse than “losing an hour,” especially of sleep.). For one thing, it gets a bit redundant, and for another, I actually, for once did not have the difficulty with it that I usually do. Of course, it helped a lot that my son went into this weird hibernation mode and starting sleeping in until 9 for a few days. My God, that has GOT to be some kind of record. Now he’s back to his chirpy 6:30. I loathe morning people. Well, except my son, of course.

This is the first year that I have actually started swapping out wardrobe for the seasons. Uncharacteristically organized of me, I know, but hey, baby steps. I have concluded a few things from this exercise:

1. I am way too far in debt due to manic purchases of clothing for me and my son. My poor husband gets the short end of the stick on this one.

2. There is something to be said for having 2 or 3 rotating outfits, which is my husband’s creed; hence, why he has not benefited from my clothing expenditures.

3. I have added yet another pro to my list of reasons to move to a static tropical climate. Frankly, I do not enjoy the changing of the seasons and would be quite content to forever live in eternal sunshine and the warmth of summer. It’s the kind of monotony I could thoroughly enjoy.

4. Bottom line: Rotating clothing every season is a pain in the ass.

Mangled Monikers

Okay, I just have to vent here about people giving their children weirdass spellings for ordinary names. This is one of my greatest pet peeves, especially given my occupation. I hate, absolutely hate having to verify spellings on names like Alexandra, Kira, Karen, Steve, Robert, Bill, George, etc., but I HAVE to because you have these idiot parents that don't have the balls to actually name their child something unique, so instead, they give them a boring, common name and give it a "unique" spelling, so that the poor kid is forever having to go through life spelling David. "That's David with a D-e-a-v-y-y-d-d." Unfortunately, I am not exaggerating here. I came across a woman who was very "creative" in naming her kids; that is, with the spellings, not the names--Elexzendryia, Korbin, Caydence, and Hayleigh. I think this woman should get a special place in Hell just for the Elexzendryia name. Even if the child wants to shorten the name and go by the nickname, she will be constantly spelling it--"No, not Alex. Elex." Yeah, but sounds the same. Jeez.

Oh, and then there are some spellings that are so odd that you know when someone sees it spelled they're going to totally mutilate the pronunciation because they don't recognize that Alyszandra is just Alexandra.

You know, I think it's been worse just this last generation, too. Perhaps, I'm completely misreading (no pun intended) the situation. Maybe it's just a product of our very deteriorating public school system: These parents just don't know how to spell or they were taught that spelling is subjective. Or maybe pop culture is to blame for adding a "y" in place of every "i" and a "z" in place of every "s" just to add that extra pizzazz!!! Or is it pysass. Or pissass. I mean Byll is just ever so much more hip than plain old Bill! Never mind the fact that unless you see it written, the kid is still Bill.

This whole epidemic of "original" spelling of children's names is the epitome of narcissism, and I think there should be a penalty for this child abuse (because it is abuse. Would you want to constantly have to spell the name Donna for people? Never mind the fact that you know their name is always going to be misspelled on just about every written material they receive for which they were not personally there to verify the spelling). I haven't quite come up with an appropriate punishment yet, other than burning in Hell for the next 1000 years, which might be a tad harsh (assuming there is a Hell). The best alternative I can come up with right now is that the parents should be "pounded" (as my son puts it, courtesy Charlie Brown) by the victim of this selfishness each and every time the child has to spell their uniquely common name.

So here is my final comment to these imaginative and original parents on the subject of distinctively ordinary christenings: The only thing that's going to be exceptional about your child's name to other people is that it's going to be exceptionally annoying because they are never going to know how to spell what is otherwise a commonplace name. Inuf sayd.

Bad Boys, Bad Boys

Vaughn had his first trip to Chuck E. Cheese today. We went with Party Girl and her daughter. It almost looked like it wasn’t going to happen because Party Girl’s daughter evidently has issues with the big mouse. When we pulled into the parking lot, she started having a panic attack, jabbering on about all the unimaginable things the giant furry rodent would do to her. We basically dragged her kicking and screaming into the place (yes, we’re of the compassionate parenting philosophy), with Party Girl promising her that she would perform scout duties in our covert operation to spot the mouse. Having given the all clear, we proceeded to pay for our meals. Of course, right after having done this, the big rat showed his grotesquely huge head and Party Girl had to be defense, blocking his approach as we weaved and dodged our way to a table. He did finally leave after making his short obligatory appearance, and things went fairly smoothly after that. A good time was had by all, with the exception of the fact that just before we left my son apparently bitch-slapped Party Girl’s daughter. She had this big red mark on her cheek with a complimentary scratch (because I’m too darn lazy to keep my son’s nails trimmed). Fortunately, Party Girl was pretty cool about it. I felt mortified that my son is evidently developing into a future wife-beater. On the way home, I asked him why he did it. Of course, then it comes out that she smacked him first, which is probably true. I was wondering why she seemed so nonchalant about this big red mark on her cheek. Anyway, we’ll see if we get invited to any more “play dates.”

The Next Mozart?

Vaughn, of late, has really showed little interest in pursuing a future in music, being primarily concerned with conducting trains, engineering train landscapes and becoming a kitty when he grows up. He still sings when he's playing and likes listening to music, but doesn't really show much interest beyond that. Both being musicians, we have decided not to push it. My husband believes if one has a passion for it, then one will pursue it on one's own with no coercion. I'm more of a mind to induce the passion, but thus far, keeping with my current apathy, have really done nothing to influence him. Okay, he's enrolled in one "music" class, but it's once a week for 45 minutes and to call it a music class is really stretching the definition of music. It pretty much entails a bunch of preschoolers running around with scarves singing some ditty hastily composed by the teacher.

Well, yesterday, when I was downstairs working, I could hearing vigorous pounding of the piano up above, which isn't that unusual. Vaughn usually likes to use it to punctuate his mood or periodic outburst. My husban told me later that Vaugh was looking at his (my husband's) music and asked what the treble clef was. My husband told him, and then Vaughn wanted my husband to draw one. So my husband got some music paper and started to draw one, but Vaughn then insisted that he could do it. He then evidently scratched out a few other things and then proceeded to perform his "compositions." As I understand it, he's quite prolific and composed 2 or 3 within 10 minutes. I believe the first one was titled "Boats on the Water," and the second one, predictably, had something about a train in the title. I'm not sure what the third one was. My husband said he performed them with feeling and dynamics with good articulation of his fingers. Unfortunately, much to my dismay, they were purely instrumental, but it's a start.

I'm still kicking Dave for not grabbing the videocamera.

Mundane

I have been totally uninspired lately and thus have had very little to say. I'm going through one of my periodic funks again and feel bored and restless with my life. I have no idea what precipitates these episodes. I feel in great need of a change. A BIG change. When anybody asks what's new, I can honestly say, "Absolutely nothing." There lies the problem. I have nothing happening in my life. Zilch. Everyday is the same walk on the treadmill. I've heard people say that the only reason a person has to be bored is because they are boring. I confess: I'm guilty. I'm wallowing in a puddle of my own apathy to the point of drowning.

Is That All There Is?

Oh, wallowing in melancholy. Probably the result of too much leftover whiskey from St. Patty's. Feeling meaningless and very unpithy. I wish I had the guts to make a change and do something drastic. I absolutely abhor the grey of the Northwest. Always have. It's too accommodating to my mood. Well, thought I'd brighten your day.

Big Brother?

My friend the Party Girl told me she is finally pregnant with number 2 son/daughter. Shortly after I first met her, I knew they had plans of trying that year. That was probably over 2 years ago. I had kind of lulled myself into believing perhaps I would have company in being an onlie's mother. I have to admit. I had about 2 minutes of disappointment and depression. It more or less passed. However, I have been thinking about this more and more lately. I am, of course, certifiably crazy. My husband is not opposed to the idea, but thinks I'm delusional. Besides the fact that this is probably not my choice anyway. I haven't been on contraceptives for about 2-3 years now. Not that we have sex enough to actually make this a viable fact (my husband reminds me daily). I think he isn't opposed to the idea for the very reason that it means more nookie.

Vaughn thinks nobody likes him because "I don't have a brother or sister." God knows where this is coming from. I'm starting to look at babies longingly, but not in the way you think. Longingly as in "God, I so wish Vaughn were that size again and couldn't talk or have opinions."

All the reasons for having another one are just completely wrong, but of course, this doesn't keep me from seriously entertaining the idea of buying a ovulation predictor on Ebay and seeing if I can actually get pregnant.

I need to be institutionalized.

This Makes It All Worth It

Ah, that day has finally come. My son told me today he didn't love me, twice. Yep. These are those fuzzy warm moments that make you realize it was totally worth the 9 months of heartburn, constipation and hemorrhoids, 24-plus-hour labor, several hours of pushing, countless nights of sleeplessness, dirty diapers and spit up, mastitis, the extra 10 postpartum pounds, premature sagging breasts, and permanent flabby belly and downunder damage. Ah, ain't parenting grand?

On The Bright Side

I was lying waiting for the boy to finally pass out for the night when he says, "Maybe someday I'll have a new mommy and daddy."

What with all the continued death talk, I thought maybe he was now worrying about our future welfare.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just because. Maybe someday I'll have a mommy and daddy that don't count and give time-outs."

"Are you saying you WANT a new mommy and daddy that don't count and give time-outs?"

"Yes."

Speechless.

Deadly Observations and Ruminations

I read that because I do not have 6 female friends outside the home that I contact on a regular basis I will die at an early age. I shared this with my niece (one of the four females I count as friends), and she told me if that was the case, she will be dying young as well, except that this news doesn't make her want to reach out more to females for friendship but rather makes her get "cozy with the fact that I'll die in my 70s." She doesn't have kids yet. As for me, I've been racking my brain trying to manufacture females that I know that I can remotely construe as regularly contacted friends.

On an aside observation, I have noticed that people who say they "don't read" (not because of illiteracy but by choice) tend to be optimistic. Hmmm. I wonder if there has been a study done on that.

Speaking of death, my 4-year-old has been asking a lot of questions about this. Frankly, I was thinking this was something that would come along later down the road when his goldfish or something died. I first attributed it to my horse dying, but I didn't think it would impact him THAT much. After all, my horse has been up at my mom's since Vaughn's been alive. I did break the news to Vaughn, thinking since he has absolutely no concept of what the meaning of death is, this would be a fairly easy and passing thing.

However, then he started asking questions like, "Mommy, are you going to die?" (No. This was not after him having a time-out, although I did initially wonder about the motivation behind the query.) I stupidly initially answered this question with "Honey, everybody dies" (with the same emotion as "everybody poops"). To which he replied, "But then I won't have a mommy!" (Oh, boy.) "Sweetie, you will grow up, become a daddy, and then a grandpa and then a great-grandpa and you will have grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Then I will die." This seemed to satisfy him; although, given the above information, I'll be lucky if I make it to him being a daddy.

See-ya

I just put in an application at a new preschool for Vaughn. Admittedly, I only looked at two this time again, but The Analyst convinced me that you can only research preschools so much and then the rest is largely luck and chance.

With that sage advice, I decided, "Screw it," very much reminiscent of how he got into his current preschool. Probably not the best sign. I did check this place out. I'm not knocked out by it (however, my standards are considerably higher this time round), but there are more kids, it's nonco-op, two caring teachers, fairly structured, a big huge gymnasium for recess, and a large campus for outdoor play. Plus, as Vaughn put it, the view is "beautiful." Hey, can't argue with that.

This all of course came on the heels of me picking Vaughn up from school and finding out that they watched a video, AGAIN, for recess. Lord God Almighty, these kids would never see the outdoors if we kept them in every time it drizzled. We live in OREGON, for God's sake. As one person put it, "The armpit of the United States," and I would add to that, "The very cold and clammy armpit of the United States."

Then Vaughn told me that they had "treats" for snacks--gummies and punch. Is it any wonder these kids are sick all the time and will eat absolutely nothing that even slightly sniffs of any nutritional value? This was on Tuesday and he informed me that they again had gummies on Thursday for lunch. I don't know if the parents have just resigned themselves to catering to the depraved appetites of these little anorexics or what. I bring in fruit cups for my days and only one kid will eat them. That's right: Vaughn. The rest of the kids shove their fruit cups over to "Mikey" for consumption. This is fruit in syrup, people. But oh, what's that? They detect trace vitamins in there, so it is not fit for their discriminating palates.

On top of this, I did my "job" at the spaghetti feed under the preschool administrator's watch (a.k.a. the Preschool Nazi). My shift was supposed to go from 4-6:30, but around 6:30, when I'm getting ready to depart with my family, she informs me that I'll be there until 7-ish. Ish? Ish!!!!????? I guess this was her way of penalizing me for getting to my shift late, but in my defense, I wasn't even supposed to have to do a full shift. This was the conversation back in December:

I was doing the stocking stuffer job at the time and was goodnaturedly bitching to another mother in front of the Preschool Nazi's office (admittedly unwisely) about how time consuming this co-op thing was. When we'd registered, I had stupidly signed up for every job available over the year, not understanding that I only had to do one 3-hour job for the year. After the mother left, the Preschool Nazi calls me into her office and said she couldn't help overhearing (yeah, what with the bat ears and all) my conversation and that she wanted to clear up any confusion I might have. I told her that it was my stupidity that caused the confusion and that I was perfectly prepared to keep my commitment. She told me that she keeps track of all the hours the parents put in and that she "wouldn't allow anyone to go over their 3 hours." She asked how much time the stocking stuffing had taken me, and I stood there calculating outloud, coming to the conclusion that it was about 2-1/2 hours. She said that in that case, I could probably just do 1/2 hour on the cash register for the rummage sale and my commitment would be fulfilled. Of course, at the end of this conversation, as I'm leaving, she adds, "Let me know for sure how much time the stocking stuffing took you." Jeez. I'm sorry. I thought I just did that? Whatever.

Fast forward 2 months, and here I am slopping overcooked spaghetti and serving senior citizens last Thanksgiving's pumpkin pie, chanting over and over in my brain, "Vaughn's outta here. Vaughn's outta here."

Now I just have to break the news that he's not coming back next year to the Preschool Nazi. *shiver*

Apology

Okay, so now I feel like a real poopiehead [trying to clean up the language for the boy. I said trying]. After my scathing comments about Sheryl Crow and Lancelot and gloating over their breakup, I now hear she has breast cancer. A thousand apologies, Sheryl, for calling you a band whore. Clearly, I was wrong to say that, and again, sorry [Band Slut].

See Spot

I think it is truly a toss up whether Walmart or Target attracts the most odd people. My latest excursion to Target (blissfully childfree) is at the top of the list currently, though.

I'm in the makeup section, and I can hear this woman over on the other aisle keeping up this constant chatter:

"I know, Honey. Mamma just needs to get this one little thing. I know you're tired, Baby, but Mamma's almost done. Okay, Baby, I just need you to move over here. Okay, move for Mamma, Sweetie. I know, you're tired, Baby, but just move for Mamma."

I'm hearing none of the squeals and screeches that one would usually associate with a tired and irritated child; so, I take a peek. I see this woman with her back to me in a scooter (need I say more?) with a golden retriever at her side. Okay, I've heard of those helper dogs, so I figure that's what this dog is. You know how people in scooters need a dog to retrieve their blush and what not. Help with the infinite choices between Loreal and Cover Girl. I see none of the typical alerts on the dog indicating that it is one of these animals, but whatever.

The one-sided conversation continues along the same lines (Mamma chastising her wayward pup), and despite the scooter, I continue to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, thinking she is in her right mind and these helper dogs are just very intelligent and can understand these very subtle "commands."

"Move to Mamma's right, Baby. No, Mamma's RIGHT, Baby."

I then finally hear another voice, male, begin to converse with her. Now assuming this isn't a talking dog, which would really make a lot more sense based on the way she was talking to it, I figure another human has now joined her, and I hear her telling him in an exasperated voice just how stressed out the dog is making her. Jeez, lady, you need a kid! I'd take a mute dog over a belligerent preschooler ANY day.

Okay, exit Lulu Land. I move on to another part of the store. Unfortunately, so do they. We're both in the pet section. Surprise, surprise! Evidently, Baby needs a new leash. I now see that this woman has a Chihuahua perched in her lap besides "Baby" at her side.

Okay, now as far as I know, Chihuahuas are not one of the top breeds for assistants to the disabled. I'm a big fan of the whole Taco Dog and all, but come on! I now have given up the benefit and come to the conclusion that this woman is pure, unadulterated nuts. As for her significant other--likewise.

The really weird thing is here's this woman spending all this time in Target with two dogs, and not exactly being subtle, and nobody is saying a word about it. I then start thinking, "Wait a minute. Is this one of those hoax things?" You know, they hire some actors to behave outrageously and at times insane and then film your average bystander's reaction for millions of viewers to see and scoff.

If you see me on 20/20 or one of those shows, I'll be the woman who is pretending to not notice the two freaks and their doggy companions shopping in a Target store.

More Restaurant Adventures

Once again we had another restaurant invitation to a totally inappropriate site for a soon-to-be-4-year-old. Fortunately, my mother-in-law reserved one of the back rooms, so it actually worked out pretty well. This time I came prepared with various distractions for Vaughn to keep him from using the table as a trampoline, but let's face it, coloring can only enrapture a preschooler for so long. Certainly, not long enough to make it through an adult dining experience. At the very end, Vaughn decides he's had enough and thinks it is a very good idea indeed to go out and meet the people. So, he makes a mad dash out to the dimly lit, very populated, intimate main dining area. Once he catches a glimpse of me in the Crouching Tiger position, he screams, "You can't catch me!" Oh, the game is on.

We enter into our Monday night football moves, weaving between tables and astonished looking diners, and I tackle him, now kicking and screaming (him not me). Trying to maintain what little composure I have, I kneel down into the "I'm-now-going-to-reason-with-you-you-little-maniacal banshee" posture, all the while gritting my teeth so hard, I know at any moment they will shatter, sprinkling Vaughn with little shards of sparkling white enamel.

After the hissing of many threats, I calmly escort him back into the room full of family members (cousins, grandmother, aunt and uncle) at which point Vaughn (arms crossed and in a very huffy tone) loudly announces, "I'm not very happy with your behavior, Mommy."

Of course everyone thought this was very cute and entertaining, as my blood pressure peaked and my head exploded.

PRESCHOOL VERBIAGE

One of the few things I enjoy about this stage between 3 and 4 are the attempts at mastering the adult turn of phrase. This particular episode was over the fact that my son took a handful of shredded cheese and placed it in the remains of a peeled onion, and I took said "cheese onion roll" away from him, telling him he was wasting good cheese by playing with it and he has plenty of pretend food that he can "pretend" eat. So my 3-3/4-year-old proceeds to "tell me off." It essentially involves him parroting bits and pieces of things he's heard us saying, well more or less.

"You ruined my dinner! I'm telling you, if I see you doing that again, I'll just take it away! You took my dinner!" etc., etc. As my blood pressure is rising listening to this, wondering if I should put a halt to this verbal barrage, in the middle of all these "insults" he throws in for good measure "I'M KIDDING YOU!!!" in the same manner you might say "F--- OFF." Yeah, not quite what I think you were going for.

It's these little moments of absurdity that keep me from strangling him.

Blast From The Past

A friend from long ago (actually the reason my husband and I are together), dropped in unexpectedly (my favorite thing). Aside from him insulting my housekeeping skills:

"Wow, this house sure looks different."

"Really? How so?"

"Well, remember how neat it used to be? It's not all immaculate like it used to be, what with the kid and all."

"Heh, heh. Yeah, I guess so."

and insulting my husband's house painting job

"Noticed the peeling paint outside, figured you're in the business for a new paint job." My husband just painted about 5 years ago.

within the first 15 minutes of visiting, it was nice to see him. He brought his new significant other (I assume) with him. During the uncomfortable obligatory small talk, I asked his girlfriend (?) if she had kids. She said, "No," to which, alarmingly, I found myself physically having to bite my tongue from blurting out, "Lucky you!"

Now, that can't be a good sign. This parenting gig is definitely wearing on me.