We are going into The City today. Mort likes the city. He likes to announce that is isn't "The Country". And he likes the skyscrapers. I like cities that are country-esque. And I like cities that have people I love dwelling within them. Someday we will take Mort to a horrid city proper that makes me freak out because you can't see the sun and the wind is always blowing. He will probably love it.

I am uncertain whether or not to be horrified or pleased by my son's faith. Or lack thereof.

We went through our usual ritual surrounding all meals and snacks.

"Mooooommmmmmmmy! I'm hungry!"

"Okay, what would you like?"

"I dunno. What do we have?"

This is the part where I list every food item in our home, a couple non-food items for my own amusement and all the possible ways in which one could combine them. And then he scrunches up his face in disgust and disappointment and asks, "That's IT?"

Except for the time I said, "How about some steamed broccoli?"

And he said, "That sounds nice!"

That was a good day.

Anyway, tonight when I landed on the chicken option, he paused and mulled it over. Then he said, "Do you promise it won't be the kind of chicken you gave me last time that made me throw-up?"

For the record, it was fish. I thought if I just didn't address the fact that it didn't look or smell like the chicken it was beside on the plate, he wouldn't notice and I would have successfully added another food to his repertoire. But he ate it and promptly gagged and threw-up. However, since he doesn't know it was fish, that means I can try again at a later date. Not that particular kind of fish, mind you. Just fish in general.

Dear Hartford Courant Newspaper,

    I have paid taxes in both New England and rural Pennsylvania, and it is with great conviction that I must inform you that both areas are of equal fashion triumphs and mishaps. To assume that anyone in rural Pennsylvania finds Kate Gosselin's (of Jon & Kate Plus 8 fame) goofy hair-don't "fancy" is grotesque.

    Save for Kate herself,I have never seen a woman anywhere--not in America or overseas--with that hot mess on her head. It is cruel and ignorant to blame an entire region for one fool's folly. After all, despite the fact that everyone in New England seems to be existing under the idea that Land's End is consistently being shown on the Paris runways, you don't see me vomiting all over your lame-ass lack of vision. Let's just keep pointing that  accusing finger squarely at the idiot who imagines that all of America is clamouring for her hair secrets. If anyone other than she finds that hair to be the next "Rachel" or Farrah", I would bet money that there are an equal number of misguided soccer moms in Connecticut and Pennsylvania and Massachusetts and Rhode Island and Arizona with that dead groundhog on their head. 

    Let us recall the adage about glass houses and stones and monogrammed Land's End and L.L. Bean tote bags and if we don't have anything nice to say, keep it to our non-ironic wearing Docksider selves.

    

    

Today is Stella's birthday. Even though we have it on the calendar every year, we usually forget it. It falls right in between a slew of other birthdays and an anniversary, and y'know...she's a dog.

Today, however, today with all of Stella's forgotten birthdays foremost in our minds and all of her ill health as of late, we had a family brainstorm on how to make this year stand out.

Mort was all for giving her one of her current half-chewed bones.

But we decided to splurge and give her what every dog really wants: meat. Organic, pure, right off the cow meat.

Mort set the floor for her with a napkin and place mat. She gobbled down her birthday meat, took a step off the place mat and regurgitated the birthday meat all over the kitchen. A successful birthday party enjoyed by all.

Exciting options in the world of allergy management. I can take a pill in the morning which does successfully alleviate my symptoms, but also successfully prevents any of my already limited sleep from happening which means I'm a stumbling zombie all day. OR I can take a pill in the evening which also seems to alleviate my symptoms, but knocks me out so much that I not only sleep through the night, but also through the morning and feel like I'm in a daze throughout the day. Such compelling choices. However shall I choose? Oh, and of course I mustn't forget option number 3: no allergy medication and just sheer misery. Considering how whacked-out tired I am, that's looking like an excellent choice. I am useless today. USELESS.

Apparently it is going to rain for the next 37 days or so. I have bought organic plant feed to help my wilting little sparrows better fight for their right to have roots in the soil against the weeds, and organic weed preventer that won't kill the weeds, but will prevent new ones from growing. And I got a phone call about buying the Brooklyn Bridge? Sounds like a great deal.

Anyway, so I was going to treadmill it with Pandora, but I think I had better garden. 

The mom who is under arrest because she isn't forcing her son to get chemo? Not thinking I'm on board with that.Granted, I get my back up when I read about moms whose children died from something utterly preventable like dehydration or a hangnail because they chose to pray over them instead. But leukemia? I dunno. Just because there's a very high rate of survival doesn't mean his survival can be guaranteed. And chemo is a lot for someone to go through. And when it comes down to it, that seems to me like the kind of thing that is up to the family, not the government. I don't know, I don't know. I don't have the answers. It's so sad. And now on top of everything, they are chasing down these poor people who have gone into hiding?Where do you draw the line?

And having said that, I'd like to bitch about people who cart their children around in very tight, crowded, public spaces with those enormous backpacks. I'm not talking about a sling or a wrap positioned so that the child is swaddled close to your back. I'm talking about those gigantic, hulking, going-to-hike-the-Appalachian-trail packs. I don't think they should be allowed in small indoor spaces. And if your kid is riding in one, he or she is too young to enjoy the sights you're viewing anyway. And my kid got whacked in the head by three different monstrosities such as those and the mom never even noticed. They are the yellow HumVee of the child toting world. And if you have a kid on a leash, in a backpack, in a front-riding carrier, and two by the hand and none of them are even muliples? You have too many kids.No one is going to offer you a television show about your experience or pay for your tummy tuck or your husband's hair plugs, so knock it off. And when I see you later with a cigarette in your hand? Seriously. You didn't get the memo on that one? Yeah. 

Shouldn't Mad Men Season 2 be on DVD by now? What are they waiting for?

What in the world is lovelier than this very morning?

Some days it is better not to think too much, to let thoughts float at the top of your head and refuse to bring them into focus for introspection. Because it will just make you sad for absolutely no reason except that you are all outta wack. I wish there was a chiropractor for thoughts. Just snap and bang; your head is a lovely screen call of pretty and mundane. Not that I believe in chiropractors. If it works for you, keep with it. I think they are tricksy, but that's me. I'd totally do acupuncture though.

GARDEN is planted. I'm adding another row of corn in two weeks so that we aren't overwhelmed with more corn than you can shake a stick at, but everything else is done. I found another giant hole chewed by my friendly neighborhood rabbits, so I put up yet another friendly piece of chicken wire. Chew on that, beyotch. I'd like to say that removing all the topsoil has solved my weed issue, but it has not. I need to newspaper and straw it. I feel like I'm building a house for one of the three little pigs.

Well, well, well. If it isn't my old friend Heating Pad.

It was so beautiful yesterday. The kind of spring day that cause me to wonder if it ever existed or is a memory I've stolen from a movie or an advertisement. Jeans and t-shirt weather. Glorious sunshine, blue skies and puffy white clouds. A little kid laughing and shrieking with the hose, drenching their sneakers and chasing daddy.

I couldn't stay away from the garden. I weeded and repaired four wheelbarrows worth of soil and rocks. I put-up chicken wire in my latest move against my rabbit foes. I planted marigolds and roma tomatoes, grape tomatoes and brandywine tomatoes. I planted yellow and green peppers. I planted oregano and basil. I cleaned-up the broccoli rabe, the broccoli, baby carrots, arugula, spinach and lettuce. I planted borage. I worked and worked and worked and it was outstanding. And then I realized my back hurt. And today I am in rehab-dictated position with a heating pad.

I should have skipped the aleve and gone straight for the prescription stuff.

And I see my garden out there, still needing me to finish weeding, still needing me to plant jalapenos, Thai chili peppers, orange peppers, cilantro, onions, soybean and corn. And I can't do a damn thing.

We visited my sister and her fiance at their Airstream yesterday, and now Mort is very vocal and intent on his desire for a "moving home." And really, no one could blame him, because it is super-cool, but eventually I had to tell him to get a job and start saving. And then Duke and I laughed and laughed.

Let's play guess what time I woke-up last night (this morning?) I will give you a hint: I watched back-to-back episodes of Roseanne. That is a darn good show. Do I hear 3 am? Cause if I do, we have a winner! 

Why does my internal clock feel that 3 am is an appropriate time to spring to life?

My garden is overrun and causing me great anxiety. My indoor seedlings are becoming leggy and nervous, looking to spread out. I have found not 1, not 2, not 3, but 5 holes chewed through the fence by my friendly neighborhood rabbits. And one tunnel dug beneath it. And I can't get out there to work because it will not stop raining.

Abrupt subject change.

I have a friend, Riley, who could truly teach Martha Stewart a thing or two. The woman is a full-time stay-at-home mom, who works outside the home in the evening and on weekends. She runs her household by herself for the most part as her husband travels nonstop for work. She is like a mythical figure blessed by the Greek gods. Her home is always always always immaculate. Eat off the floor immaculate. Her flower beds are always lush and overflowing with nary a weed. Her child just turned four and is already able to write. She does elaborate crafts. She changes the decor of her home for every holiday. And I'm not talking she strings up some lights. She creates her own garland with handmade snowflakes and hearts for Valentine's Day. And even though she just spent 5 hours in the emergency room with her wee one, who will be completely dependant on my friend for the next month or so, I just received a thank-you note for a birthday party that very recently took place. Handmade. Two paragraphs written in regards to the gifts we brought. With a picture. Seriously, Riley should run for State Senate. Or Ruler of the Free World. That woman can get some shit done.

I really need to remember to read the online discussions of the local newspaper. That is some damn funny stuff. Demented and sad, but funny nonetheless.

The axis of evil is alive and well and in my garden. Weeds, birds and rabbits. And there you have it. I haven't even fully planted yet due to this $#@% nonstop rain, and already the rabbits have chewed a hole through my fence. But y'know what rabbits? I KNOW people. People who deal in chicken wire. I didn't want to go there, but it's on. I made what I thought would be an annoyance to keep the birds aflutterin' on out of my plants and leave my strawberry blossoms alone, but as with all things scarecrow, they just sit on top of it. And the weeds. Ugh. WEll, I have reached the point of no return. The next day it is not pouring rain, I am starting over. I'm digging out every inch that isn't planted and then replacing the soil. Other than that, I'm at a complete loss.

I am so tired I feel like I'm trying to resurface from anesthesia.

Aren't baby ducks so dang cute that you could just pop them in your mouth?

I think I am officially old. (No comments from the peanut gallery, thank-you.) I would rather go hang out with my sister and have a "nice dinner" than go to a Dead show. The seats are "eh". There's that whole pesky "Dead Jerry" issue. And I'm tired. I'd rather just shoot the breeze with my sibling. A Dead show is a whole event. I have a birthday party for a 5 yr. old that morning. I think that's all the event I can take nowadays.Plus, there's not nearly enough time between now and then to fully grow-out my armpit hair and I have standards to uphold. I can't go bursting back onto the scene like a novice, you know.

That smell-I love it. The smell of outside, the smell of dirt and grass and flowers and air heavy with moisture. It feels so fresh and clean, it feels like towels rough from drying on the clothesline, it feels like the sunroof open and a good tune playing on a  winding country  back road. It feels like lying on a sheet in the front yard with my sister in the middle of the night, trying to escape the heat of the house, watching the bats' graceful swoop amongst the  insects  dancing in the street light. It smells like birdsong and the distant rumble of trucks and the warm air being pushed grudgingly by a fan.

 Around 5 pm, I shall loathe the heat with every fiber of my being, but with the morning dew still sparkling on the lawn, it is delicious.

Overnight my seedlings have been reaching towards the window like gangly adolescents, like rearing king cobras ready to strike. It seems as if I sit here long enough,if I am very very still, i will witness the turning of their heads to best catch the rays of the sun.

"What happens in the garden stays in the garden"--AP

All of my friends have their They Might Be Giants "birdhouse in my soul". 

Once upon a round robin flurry of e-mails, my brilliant friend S tossed out the idea of communal gardening. Everyone in our circle is planting a garden this year. We all have little kids who are only interested in gardening for 11 minutes or until a butterfly flutters through their field of vision. And we all gather together at least once a week. Why not join forces and tools and help a sista out?

And I will tell you what, it has been pretty darn fun. When there are that many hands and that much laughing and gabbing going on, suddenly all the weeds are pulled and the ground is cleared and it's time for lunch. 

Today my nose is sunburnt and my back is sore, but my heart is full.

 

Three minutes of complaints

Today marks day six of antibiotics, day nine of fever, aka day nine of feeling like ass. My doctor thinks I should wait it out a couple more days. Not exactly sure for what I am waiting. I guess I'll know when it happens. It's not like I've ever had a sinus infection before, so it's not like I know when an antibiotic is working. Is it time for the sinus surgery? Ugh. Probably. I am juggling working from home with my sahm work. I only slept four hours last night. My dog pees on her bed the minute I place it, freshly washed , upon the floor. I am congested to the point that I have to keep reminding myself to breathe because it's easier to hold my breath. Oh, and my new prescription from the eye doctor is off, so I have the choice of squinting or seeing through a tunnel. Good thing I'm not staring at a computer or looking things up in the 17 reference books piled amongst my Kleenex,coffee mugs, unwritten thank-you notes, germinating seedlings, and Star Wars coloring books. Oh, except that I am!

Damn you, Derek Zoolander!

Mort just asked me which belly I was in when I was a baby.

I am fairly certain that it is in the contract of the trash men (I'm not being politically incorrect. Our trash people happen to be men. I'm not saying they couldn't be women. In our house, for instance, the trash person is female 50 percent of the time.) to leave the lid open if it's a rainy day. "It's raining, Hugh! Don't forget to keep that lid up or else that trash can will not fill with water and keep us chuckling the rest of the day!" 

I don't know how closely you follow celebrity news, but I heard perhaps the single greatest thing ever on the radio the other day. I believe I was driving home from the eye doctor. Anyway, Woody Harrelson (He was on Cheers. I'm pretty sure he played someone named Woody.) attacked someone who took his picture. And his rationale for attacking the person was that he thought the photographer was a zombie. I mean, seriously, you would have to forgive someone if that was their excuse. And think of all the occasions on which you could use it! All of the following problems could be solved by replying, "I'm sorry, I thought you were a zombie." Excuse me, I was next in line! Our newspaper wasn't delivered this morning. You left the lid open on the trash can in the pouring rain!

sinusitis fever

am editing anyway

i like getting paid

p.s. obviously too feverish to be able to properly count syllables

I'm not Andy Rooney, I just play him on TV

I have so many plants and seedlings on my window sills in everything from proper containers to salsa bowls to Dixie cups that my house looks like a second grade classroom.

I don't know why people seem to think bluebirds are so rare. Our yard is littered with 'em.

Have you ever been thanked for something you've done but didn't do for that person? Say, bought whole wheat tortillas for a dinner you were making, for instance , but were thanked as though you had bought them for someone's lunch? Is it best to just smile and nod?

Sometimes I renew my library books because I'm too lazy to return them.

My eyesight has reached the point where there is just no seeing that bedside clock, no matter how hard I squint.

I like to eat less dinner so that I can have more dessert.

I had a nightmare about working in retail. Although at least nowdays there's no such thing as customer service. 

I try on heels all the time.I wore them  consistently for so long that wearing flat shoes used to cause me to trip and make my legs and feet hurt.  I thought I would return to them when Jay was too big to carry and my back didn't cause me such grief. But now I am a sucker for comfort and even the best 4 inch heel in the world can't compete with Birkenstocks. It's like wearing make-up. Now that I've reached an age where I  really,truly, no getting around it, look better with it than without, I really can't be bothered to wear it. My mom used to tell me I didn't need to wear all that make-up. And surprise, surprise, she was right again.

Did you ever see the episode of South Park where it is revealed that Earth is just a reality show? Our world is comprised of creatures that have been plucked from their respective planets all over the universe and thrown together for the amusement and viewing pleasure of a dominant alien species. Some days, that explanation is the only one that makes any sense.

I feel compelled to remove the 927 weeds that have hijacked my garden, despite the fact that I will need to wear my ski jacket and snow pants to do so. Okay, it's not actually snowing today. But it did snow yesterday.

I had hoped for a brief spell that the weeds were really some unknown vegetable I had planted, but as they are all over the garden and in spots that I have not yet planted, I guess I need to let that thought go. Aside from the weeds, things seem to be steadily progressing in GardenWorld. Arugula is up. Broccoli rabe is up. Spinach is up. Strawberries are growing. My housebound plants are making progress: four tomato plants, two jalapeno plants and three yellow pepper plants.

This whole growing thing just doesn't get old. Each little shoot of unfurling green is as thrilling as the one before it. It's a good spot to focus my hope. Especially as there is seemingly no rhyme or reason to it. They all have the same soil, the same amount of sunlight, the same amount of water. Who is to say why four tomato plants are reaching for the sky while six remain locked in the dirt?

I hope that when the Easter Bunny arrives, it is unable to sneak under the staked fence barricade in the garden over which Mortslaved. I am fairly certain that everything within that fence is frozen at this point, but you never know. And while I have little doubt that the Eater (ha! I meant to type Easter, but instead I typed Eater. That, my friends, is a good 'ol Freudian slip.) Bunny could chew its way through the fence, I do not think it would have time to chew a hole large enough for its basket of goodies. I also hope that it is not 31 degrees on Easter. Because that will probably make it chilly for the Easter egg hunt I have planned. Oh, I'll be fine, because I can watch from the window. But it might be tricky for Mort. Especially as I have already put away the winter coats.

Well, I am not going to lie. Things have been a little crazy around here. Or I've been a little crazy around here. Either/or. Take your pick. I won't be offended.

I tried to cram in a week's worth of stuff into yesterday. Why? Yeah, I don't really know. Probably because I spent the earlier part of the week mindlessly washing the kitchen floor over and over again in a vain attempt to eradicate the sticky spots that emerged post-Monday dinner. Oh, and I was able to sucker Mort into gardening with me by pretending I didn't want him to. I can't believe I didn't think of that earlier! Lately our conversations have been a broken record:

Me, "Want to work in the garden with me?"

Mort, "No."

Me, "Please?"

Mort, "No, thank-you."

Me, "C'mon, it will be fun!"

Mort, "No thanks."

Me, "Well, you have to come outside because it's a nice day and you need fresh air and you aren't sitting inside all day and I'm going outside and so are you."

However, this week I have merely pulled on my Wellies and announced, "I''ll be in the garden if you need anything."

Darn if I barely unearth my trowel before he marches outside with his Wellies and gardening tools announcing that he came to help. And help he does! He pulls weeds and digs holes and pounds in fence stakes and spreads seeds and looks for any gaps where the rabbits might slip in and then he goes and plays with his friends. Win/win.

And my yellow peppers are up! Things are really trucking along.

What was my point? Oh, yes, so yesterday I tried to get going on preliminary plans for two bridal showers, send out the invitations to Mort's birthday party, buy all the ingredients for Duke's birthday dinner and cake, wash eight loads of laundry, wash the dog (third time this week, but I'll get to that in a minute), clean the bathrooms, organize Mort's stuff for consignment, schedule Mort's physical, look at houses for our annual mommy beach week, seek out a new safe-for -Earth-humans-and-pets floor cleaner since the kitchen floor was still sticky(Ecover Floor Soap did the trick!) and make a complicated dinner that I will not again make. If something has that many steps, it should be super good. But it was only okay. Yeah.

So, Stella. Oh, Stella. Stella has been suffering from some type of allergy for at least six months at this point. Probably longer. It feels like longer. We have been to the vet so often they now know our voice on the telephone. Just like the pizza place. The vet has been through many trial and tribulations over the ill-bred mess that is Stella, but this one has really taken the cake. He finally decided to go to our last resort : a round of steroids. He was trying to avoid this as it would trigger one of her other issues we had finally cleared--her leaky bladder. And I am not exaggerating when I say I have been scrubbing the carpet at least 20 times a day. Not including the scrubbing M does.

One of my friends suggested doggie diapers. They are eco-friendly ones that you just wash. Aren't friends wonderful? My hands were starting to cramp between all the scrubbing and gardening. And God love that little dog, because she did submit to wearing them. She was fairly horrified, but she did it. However, she was

laying on M's legs later that evening and peed all over him. But, it was worth a try. And it's not like she peed on me. Another unfortunate side effect of her steroid use is Stella's insatiable appetite. I do believe I was just singing her praises about how great she is around food that is not hers. Now she has become a bottomless pit. Yesterday she tried to choke down the crust from Mort's pb &j that was ON HIS PLATE. ON THE TABLE. She refused to give-up even when I caught her. Luckily, her sheer greed in attempting to swallow it whole without chewing gave me the time to yank it from her mouth. Later on, she was quicker and snatched and swallowed an entire organic turkey sandwich on whole wheat. I mean, the dog is nine years old and she has never even sniffed hopefully around our people food. Duke is convinced it's some type of roid rage. Maybe she's eating to ease the shame of the diaper.

And Duke had an excellent point regarding Madonna's failed adoption attempt. If you are a child who will be raised in an orphanage, how pissed will you be upon learning that one of the wealthiest women in the world wanted to adopt you and make you her heir and someone decided stamp a big red "NO" on that? Granted you can't watch television if you're one of Madonna's kids. But you could probably get some pretty decent meals and learn yoga. And have access to clean water. I'm just sayin'.

I see that Japan has plans for a robot to walk on the moon. Can we maybe get cracking on that library book returning robot I'm hoping for?

Being privy to all these blots of green emerging from hibernation just does my soul good. It's so darn exciting. The arugula is up, the roma tomatoes have sprouted, the magnolia is moments away from unfurling its petals. The strawberries with which I blindly stumbled and dismissed as an error on the trial and error part of gardening appear determined to prove me wrong, are sending out runners and making their way through the wet earth. I never cease to be amazed at the miracles of Spring.

Movie Review Monday on Wednesday

I did not like Marley & Me , Sam I am. I love dogs. I like Jennifer Aniston. I like Owen Wilson. I did not get the hoopla over this movie.

The main problem was THERE WAS NO PLOT. There was no actual story being unfolded. It was not the tale of a marriage. It was not the tale of a boy and his dog. So in order to make up for the whole lack of reason to make this movie, the viewer is made to watch two bumbling idiots who have no business being a dog's human pals. Who fail on their whole use of birth control, not once, but twice. Who somehow manage to buy a crazy five or six million dollar estate outside of Philadelphia on a reporter's salary where it is ALWAYS fall. Except for one perfect snowy day. And then it's fall again. And then there's a montage of scenes with the 72 yellow labs who look nothing like each other that played Marley. Yep, that about sums it up.

That whole adage of there are no bad dogs, only bad owners? Yeah, I buy into that. I'm sure that there are cases where genetics prevail and there are canines who have dismal personalities. In fact, I have lived with a couple. Mookie, I'm thinking of you. But for the most part, if a dog is a jerk, it's because its people aren't giving it what it needs.

Dogs can be trained. Dogs want to be a part of the pack. It is not always easy. It takes time and endless repetition. Dogs need exercise. Dogs need consistency. Dogs need proper outlets for their desire to chew. Dogs need attention and stimulation. I do not have a perfect dog. She isn't one of those amazing creatures who does my bidding at the smallest twitch of my pinkie or who knows to never leave my side. She is convinced the UPS man is a serial killer that only she can outwit. She has a thyroid condition and more allergies than I. She has a weak bladder. She like to roll in dead stuff. She likes to bark and is in constant fight or flight mode.

However, she is a truly great dog. We very rarely have to kennel her because she is so well-behaved that she is welcome in everyone's home. She is housebroken (and we make certain to take her out like clockwork). She does not jump on the furniture (and we always bring her bed with us wherever we go). She does not chew inappropriate items (and we always have a nylabone on hand for her to gnaw). She comes when she is called and knows to sit, stay, shake, roll over and play dead (and that took two separate rounds of training sessions with a trainer--Puppy Kindergarten and Basic Manners-- and 30 minutes of practice time per day for weeks on end). She is gentle with children(and we make damn sure children are respectful of her). She doesn't get bored and trash the house (and we make sure she has daily exercise). She doesn't snatch food from the table or beg when we eat(and we never feed her table scraps.) Honest, I do have an actual point.

None of these are occurrences that happen in Marley & Me. The dog is a terror. Because its humans are sucky dog friends. And what's more, no other sides to the dog are shown. There are a couple mentions and/or scenes where the dog has his head in a human lap, but there is nothing given to the viewer to find the dog endearing despite its lack of training.

I may be the only person who saw this movie and didn't find it heartwrenching. Yes, I cried A LITTLE. But I also cry if someone flashes their lights at me on the road to warn me of a speedtrap. The fact that I shed only three stingy tears is proof that the movie was a dud. The End.

When I read too much, which has been of late, I think and dream and move in prose. I am an observer even as I participate, I am writing in my mind as I dodge the earthworms to retrieve the mail. I need to return to this world, the world where I am not drifting languid in a sea of words, but rather smelling the tea that steams before me and feeling the hand so small and warm in my own.

Just so you know, this entry is not going to be anything worth reading. It's pure mind jumble spew stew. So, if you continue on, don't blame me.

I woke in a panic, heart seemingly racing even though my pulse was normal. I suspect it was the wind rattling both the house and my subconscious through the night.

And when I am anxious I generally manage to accomplish quite a bit in an effort to restore inner serenity by putting my surroundings in order. Although today it hasn't worked thus far, I have managed to fill three trash bags with needless junk as I cleaned out the utility closet, pantry, junk drawer and office drawer. I started out by looking for my not one, but two packs of rechargeable batteries that have somehow made a break for it into the big bad world.

They have disappeared into the black hole, that Bermuda triangle of things that you know you have but cannot find. There was a book I loved as a child called "The Borrowers" about mouse sized humans who lived in people's walls and existed off of all those "misplaced" items that they "borrowed" from their average sized human counterparts. Isn't that just such a great concept? That we don't lose all those things, but rather there are entire communities of teensy people who have made use of the random spools of thread or rechargeable batteries or new bottles of shampoo that have disappeared into the ether? I forgot about that book. Anyway.

So, yes, usually I can make sense of my world by letting my OCD rear its freaky head and organizing the heck out of our house. But today I may have to move onto the kava tea. And simply accept that the moment I purchase rechargeable batteries and throw away the receipt, the ones that I have lost will suddenly reemerge in the most obnoxious of places, like in the middle of the kitchen table.

Duke and I celebrated our joint birthdays this weekend. Mort headed off to his grandparents' home and I took a nap and read a book. Duke played the piano. We then went to the movies and out to dinner. In our pre-child world, that would have ranked right up there with Most Boring Weekend Ever. In our post-child world, it is marked as Heaven on a stick. We got massages and had brunch. In a grown-up restaurant. With tablecloths and bloody marys.

Of course, my back is all out of whack from getting a massage. Oh well, as long as it doesn't go out on me completely, it was worth it.

Existentialism and the pre-schooler

"How do we know that this is real and that we aren't dreaming right now?" Mort asked.

Quite frankly, we did not have an answer to that and for all we know, we are indeed dreaming. Or plugged in to the Matrix. So, because we couldn't answer, we sent Jack Handey to his room.

No, just kidding, we didn't really do that. But we did distract him with something shiny.

AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

Those  *@!^$&#!  tomato hornworms!!! They have made their mission in life to torment me!I knew it! I knew such a grotesque chrysalis could only contain something equally horrifying. 

As it has been so cold at night, I was concerned as to the fate of our chrysalis. I began another earnest search on the World Wide Web looking for information as to how best protect it from the elements. Damn if I didn't stumble across the fact that I have been harboring the enemy in our salad spinner. Oh the bitter, bitter irony at my discovery that I am cultivating the moth from which the most disgusting of creatures will be hatched. And now I have to throw out a perfectly good salad spinner because I will gag and dry heave every time I look at it.

That tomato hornworm is pure evil genius at its best, I tell you. Oh, but it did not count on having an insomniac bleeding heart mistress, did it? One who would be awake and searching the Internet at 4 am looking for how to best care for it? Game, Match and Point, ME, you revolting little pupa. It is ON. I am going out and getting a fleet of bracnoid wasps to greet you when you awaken from your slumber. And guess who is going to dig the hell out of that garden today in search of your brethren? That's right, bitches. You are all going DOWN. No moth stage for your life cycle.

WARNING: If you are this type of moth and come anywhere near my garden, 

your offspring will be making their exit from this world covered in gestating wasp eggs. Now go tell your friends.

Green

I just woke-up. Duke and Mort are watching a cartoon in which the bad guys are bad because they waste electricity and natural resources. That's the kind of cartoon I can get behind.
It's no Jem and the Holograms, mind you, but I like it.

What are the chances of a chrysalis surviving a frost? The salad spinner has to stay on the deck in case it is not a butterfly cocoon after all, but rather some gelatinous mass of scary insect that would become entangled in my hair. Because that's what bugs do. 

I am feeling the love! I have had three days straight of some of my favorite people. And tea. And espresso martinis. And apples and garlic bread and hot dogs. And laughing. 

What do you do if one of the plants in a terrarium starts trying to overthrow the others? I admire its dedication to survival, but I may have to put it in solitary confinement.

In the car yesterday.

Me: "I'm so glad it's raining!" Translation--I planted arugula, spinach and broccoli rabe and didn't feel like getting out the hose to water them. Thank-you, Mother Nature, for picking up the slack .

Mort: "I'm kind of glad that it's raining and kind of not glad."

Me: "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Mort, puzzled: "I know what I mean, too."

Now, what in the world are those strange creatures you may be asking? Well, one is Stella. You may not recognize her because she has her game face on. She is anticipating all the rabbits she will not see and not catch during this year's gardening session. She is calculating how many times she has to give chase and/or toss out a couple of barks and growls in order to make it seem as though she is part of the family and earning her keep so that she can trot off to a warm patch of grass and snooze it up.

The other creature is apparently a butterfly chrysalis. Mort and I were working on preparing the garden yesterday and stumbled across this. At first I thought it was-well, no need to go into that. Let's just say I was ready to be angry at one smallish dog. She knows the garden is off-limits! But then I saw it move. My reaction was a bit of a gag reflex. However, I am a woman of the earth this year! I am not fooling around. I rescued every worm from the wheelbarrow and put them back in the dirt. I chucked out every grub my hoe unturned. I can handle a freaking cocoon. Even if it's moving.

I had a bit of a raging fear that it was not a butterfly or moth, but some other type of horror that I had not known existed, like that tomato horn worm. But the Internet did indeed pull-up a picture of that chrysalis as a butterfly. So, Mort and I decided to take a leap of faith and see if we could bear witness to a butterfly emerging from this otherworldly sack. I was rooting around in the cabinets for a proper butterfly W Hotel when Mort seized upon the salad spinner. "Hey! What about this? This has a lot of air holes!" So, the cocoon is safe from birds and insects in our salad spinner; a handful of organic greens and capful of water and some sticks in its shelter.

In case you were huffing, Okay , well that's all well and good, but what about your cleaning saga?! I'm right there with you. Let's begin. So, I have begun the search for a cleaner. I feel completely bizarre and spoiled and pretty much like a jerk from the jerk store, but it is what it is. However, before I can pay someone else to clean my house, I need it to be clean. It took me 2 1/2 hours to do our living room. I was choking on the dust. I took a Zyrtec(hateful stuff that is, I am so cranky when I take it) and opened all the windows and made Mort play upstairs. Ugh. I only finished one other room that day. Yesterday, I preemptively took Zyrtec (surprisingly I was once again snappy and short-tempered) and wore a dust mask. The bedrooms that I tackled did not have nearly the dust content that plagued the living room. And then I felt I had put in enough time to head outside.

What a difference a year makes! Hopefully I will be able to whip out some other cliches for you. Last spring I was still forced to rototill the dirt. This year we were able to do it by hand. Mort was Mr. Muscle. He is my new back. While I was ripping out the dead grass choking the borders, he was using his shovel to dig out the weeds, chucking rocks into the wheelbarrow and pushing the cultivator like it was going out of style. Ooo! Cliche number two. So, today I am getting good soil to mix into the existing stuff and it should just about be ready. I'm having a really hard time finding organic seeds, however. Every place is sold out. I have read that the amount of people growing their own food has dramatically increased this year, but wow. Although that's good for us all. The greater the demand for organic seeds, the less people will use ones that derive from genetically modified plants and unnatural hybrids and the better our food will be.

I read a headline this morning that asked, "When will robots do all of our chores?" I think that is perhaps one of the greatest questions ever asked and I eagerly await the answer. I hope that robots have the same chore list that I do. Like putting gas in the car and returning library books.

We have rented and watched two movies this weekend that fall hard into the "suck" category. Having a small child that cannot be trusted to effectively lie about his age in order to get into R movies has put a real damper on our movie-going experience.And most decent movies are not released in our area anyway. And so we depend on Netflix. And Rotten Tomatoes. And what is written on the back of the box.

Both movies we watched this weekend were touted as amazing pieces of treasure and won awards for their sheer level of fantastic-ness. And it is not exactly like we are movie snobs. Granted, it's not like we will see anything that starts with "Tyler Perry" or has Ashton Kutcher in it. But I have seen Roadhouse more times than I can count. Duke will watch pretty much anything. He loves truly good movies, his favorites being fairly highbrow affairs that are too upsetting for me to watch, but probably still including Lord of the Rings. And I like anything that is good and doesn't include anyone being mean to children or animals. My favorite movie is Out of Sight. But we both loved Anchorman and thought Zach and Miri Make a Porno was hysterical and vastly under appreciated. (And yes, I am paid to edit, and no, I can't recall what one does with movie titles and I don't feel like looking it up. Hence the italics. Deal with it.)

Why am I telling you all of this? To set up a firm basis that movies at our home are highly appreciated and widely embraced, regardless of genre. So, we settled in to watch Happy-Go-Lucky. And we ended up having to turn it off. How the heroine won a Golden Globe for Best Actress is anyone's guess. Because I cannot speak for Duke, but I kept hoping a meteor would fall upon her in order to stop from hearing the sound of her voice. It takes a lot for us to stop watching a movie. I think in 13 years, we have walked out of two. That's how bad this movie was.

Last night we popped in Synecdoche, New York. Hard to go wrong with that, right? Every actor who has won an award in the past ten years is in it. Award-winning writer/director. However, the description blurb should have read "A truly pretentious piece of shite that will keep you watching until the very end in order to satisfy your immense desire that the main character dies."

So, that was my morning movie critique. I'm pretty sure we are now going to be late for pre-school.

I am a haphazard housekeeper at best. I'm more on the slovenly side of things. It's not like you can't sit on the couch for all the old newspapers or that you can't use the sink for all the dishes. And I never skimp on the bathrooms. You kind of can't when you live with boys. So, what's the problem? you are probably thinking. Doesn't sound too bad.

The problem is dust. I hate hate hate to dust. It is a double-edged sword because I loathe dusting as I'm highly allergic to it and I am always suffering from allergies because there's too much dust.I also hate to vacuum. And then you throw in the ridiculous amount of shedding my dog and I do and ugh. Our house is a dust and tumbleweed shrine. Pah, you are thinking. Suck it up and just fricking dust. What's the big whoop?

I like chores that have an end result. A gleaming counter. A sparkling sink. Dusting is a thankless task. By the time you have finished the last room, the first room already has dreaded dust sprinkles resettling onto every imaginable surface. 

This has never before been such a problem for me. We first lived in a teensy three room apartment that I could thoroughly clean-including scrubbing floors on hands and knees- every day in about 9 minutes. Our additional rentals were of a similar fashion. We built our first house and we still were childless and it was half the size of this one, so even with the extra room, it was still a joy to clean. As much as cleaning can be a joy. I mean,I was on top of things. I removed entire light fixtures on a regular basis to get in all the nooks and crannies.

But now. Jayzuss. I don't know if it's living in the country proper or the house itself or having a small person child or just sheer laziness. I am perpetually overwhelmed. 

I have new found admiration for my mother, who worked full-time outside the home-- at night no less-- so that she could work full-time in our home during the day and had to swaddle my bedroom in plastic and dust it twice a day because of my allergies. How in the world did she do it? And in between her current very busy, high-pressure job that starts at 6am and ends about 8 pm and million and one friends and social outings and 4am trips to the gym, could I somehow entice her to come to my house twice a day and do it again?  Kidding, kidding. But seriously, I will pay someone. I will. Send me an e-mail. I am accepting applications. You don't have to dust twice a day like my mom, but it would definitely move your resume to the top of the pile.

Mort is drawing elaborate pictures and then telling me the story of the picture. I remember doing that when I was a wee lass. In fact, I can recall rushing through the drawing, impatient and eager to get to the part involving words.

Last night Mort asked to write on the card I was using as a bookmark and when he returned it to me, he had scrawled "I love Mommy" and drawn a heart. Needless to say, I am using that as a bookmark for the rest of my life. I 'll probably get it laminated.

And for prosperity, I need to document a conversation between two boys sitting in the back of my car. Can I just tell you how having someone else's kid in your car really cements your role as mommy?

Chance: I caught a fish. It was really big.

Mort: Really really big?

Chance: Yeah! Really really big.

Mort: Maybe it was a grouper!

Chance: It was! It was a grouper!

Passing a creek...

Chance: Hey, that's where I caught my big fish!

Mort: The grouper?

Chance: Yeah!

Me (trying very hard not to laugh): Did you catch any trout?

Chance: Yeah, I caught three trout and a grouper.

Later in the day.

Mort: Mommy! Chance said people eat deer!

Yesterday was a jam-packed day. With events. Not jam. Dukehad returned from his business trip the night before and it was a whirlwind to get the family ready the next morning to make the hike to our nation's capital where a very dear friend was visiting from Italy on her business trip. And so, we got pulled over on the way there. It's amazing how much less traumatic that is when you are an adult and you don't have to tell your parents about it. Although explaining to our five year old why the policeman was talking to us was interesting. We had to keep reiterating that we were wrong and had broken the law and that the policeman was doing his job in keeping us all safe. I really hope that story doesn't resurface for Monday's show and tell at pre-school.

We had a lovely morning with our Italian pal. She wanted to eat an "American breakfast, something with the how do you say it? Seer-rup?" so, she had a Belgain waffle loaded with whipped cream and syrup on the side. "How long does it take to burn off the calories of something like this?" she asked. "Um...a week?" I guessed. She was also disappointed that some places posted the calorie content of their food because she said it took all the joy out of eating. And she bought an Obama beach bag for her brother. Duke got him a Bush key chain.

Which is a funny thing about food. People are all anti-carbs. Or at least they were. Maybe they aren't anymore since the anti-carb guy died. I don't know. But in Italy they eat carbs at every meal, and what's more, they have full MEALS at every meal. On the beaches, everyone traipse up at lunchtime to enjoy plates of cold pasta. In bikinis and speedos. Anyway, no one in Italy is obese. They may be tan beyond anything you ever knew to be humanly possible, but as a country, they seem to have a pretty unified and healthy BMI. So, I am kind of going to go out on a limb and suggest that carbs are not the issue.

Anyway, is there anything that doesn't sound gorgeous with an Italian accent? Plus,our friend has a fantastic laugh, the kind of laugh that gives life to the words "peals of laughter" and she just rocks.

And then went to see the dinosaur bones and then as we were headed for home, Duke made the fatal mistake of mentioning how he has never successfully exited DC on the first try. Nor have I.We were totally jinxed from that moment on. My attempts to exit the city have involved a trip to the police station to get directions after a Dead show and paying for directions from the man who tried to get into my locked car at a gas station. Our combined forces resulted in a trip through the part of DC you don't want to be in with your kid, who luckily was asleep and we were therefore spared from having to answer his questions. "What are those people buying?" "Why are those women dressed up?" Good times, good times.

In case you are curious, I recognize that this entry is not one of my very very very best. But we found out far too late last night that we were down to the dregs of our coffee can and as a result I am drinking coffee flavored water this morning. Out of cream as well. And my brain is not really interested in pursuing basic functions without proper coffee.

Sun is shining. Birds are singing. Crocuses are blooming in the yard.My roots are freshly dyed a lovely color. Kindergarten registration is behind me.

Ah, kindergarten registration. I won't get into the whole thing because I have to treadmill it this morning and quite frankly, there is not enough coffee in this house to get through that saga. There were screaming children clinging to their parents' legs. There were parents crying. And they weren't even crying over their child's inability to go read a chart and get a cookie without them! Yeesh. If my kid pulled that, I would be crying with the relief that someone else had to deal with that mess for 10 minutes. I mean, I've been joking about the whole thing, but wtf? Yes, I felt a pang over how tiny my very tall for his age little guy seemed in that school. Yes, I felt a wave of tenderness when he solemnly shook hands with the principal using his left hand. And I have no doubt that come fall I will be lucky to make it inside before I vomit as the bus pulls away.

However. If you are crying while you are signing your kid up for school, do ya think there's any particular reason why your child is lying on the floor with a death grip around your ankles screaming their head off? I mean, it's not exactly like you're on the Titanic here.

Anyway, our particular situation had to do with the student helper, the dangerous people in the school she informed my son he had to make sure to never talk to because they would get him and how she told him not to tell anyone. Let's just say it was a very good day to be wearing pointy toed boots with four inch heels. They hurt your target alot more than Birkenstocks when you're doing some ass kicking. 

I will have two five year old boys tearing down my house today. Do I have time to hit Lowe's and get them shovels so that they can get cooking in the garden? I'm thinking yes.

If you are a stay-at-home mom whose only child will be in school full-time come fall, is it wrong to want a cleaning person? Because I really do. One might think, Hey, lazy ass, okay, whatever, you're too busy being a mom right now to bother with trivialities like the fact that your windows are so dirty they appear frosted, (although strangely enough you have time to update on facebook and crank out a blog or two a day) but what will you be doing in the fall when your job is elsewhere for eight hours a day?

I wish I had an answer for you. I really do. All I know is that whatever I will be doing, I will still not have the time needed to devote to scrubbing the woodwork. Maybe I can juggle just enough freelance work to cover the expense of a cleaning person and still have time to chaperone field trips and sit in my car with high powered binoculars at recess and cry when Mort is having fun without me. We shall see.

Wind is to trash day what the UPS person is to Stella. All around our neighborhood, recycling bins have been upended and lawns are strewn with newspapers and cans and plastic containers. Luckily, Duke and I foresaw such a problem and weighted down our recycling with empty high quality beer bottles. Who's laughing now? Okay, well, we were laughing then, too.

I just read a woman's account with the struggle that is making mommy friends. It did indeed ring true and clear. Perhaps if you're a work-outside-the-home mommy, the situation isn't so dire. You still have that whole connection to the adult world. But for stay-at-home moms, friends are the balm to your sanity.

I had a lot of things going against me in this arena. I am an introvert by nature. I am incapable of making small talk. I did not have work force friends, as I have been in college since we moved here from Boston. I did not have college friends because I went to college with kids who were 10 years younger than I. They were getting busted in the dorm for smoking the pot. I was clipping coupons and making dinner. And then when I was a became a mom, I realized I didn't know any other moms that lived in the same state as I.

And trying to befriend like-minded moms was akin to trying to get a date with the most popular girl in school. If there was a mom who had a kid roughly your kid's age, wasn't pregnant, stayed at home full-time, was even remotely friendly and/or interesting, they had been snatched up long ago. Just when you would think you were making some headway and trying to get up the nerve to ask her out, her betrothed would appear and the two would push their strollers into the sunset, laughing and drinking water from eco-friendly containers and feeding their kids broccoli--all the very things that you had leaped ahead and envisioned doing with your brand-new best friend while you were introducing yourself. Sigh.

When Mort had just turned three, I was engaging in chitchat at the library with a pair of cute moms. I had no hope for them to be my friends. They were already a unit. One had rhinestones on her flip flops. The other had great hair. They had adorable, funny kids. I knew at any moment they would leave for lunch together.

Instead, it was the beginning of my venture into the wonderful world of girlfriends. For all these charming women that I met changed and enriched my life beyond anything I had known to even dream. We got together for the kids and stayed for the moms. They are a group straight out of a mommy lit novel, straight out of a chick flick. We watch each others' kids and we go out for dinner without them, we bolster and support and laugh and vacation and drink wine and eat Thai and see movies and get ice cream. When I am out of town, they invite Duke and Mort on their excursions. When my life hits a bump or I worry about Mort, they close ranks around me.We are safe within that circle. When we are together, everyone's child is our own.

So in reading that mother's article, I both felt terrible for her in her plight, because it is a real one and I felt grateful, so very grateful that I know what life is within your family of friends.

I have found that whenever I have a gigantic mess of paperwork to go through, it is much less daunting if I shove it in a cabinet for a month or so. When the deadline is approaching and I am nearly faint with anxiety, I tend to discover it is no big deal and sail through it in minutes, wondering why I was sweating it in the first place.

This morning's slew of forms was KINDERGARTEN REGISTRATION. When the manila folder arrived in the mail, even seven cups of kava tea couldn't quell my shaking hand long enough to answer the repetitive questions. Cell phone number?!? I don't know that! I don't even know how to find out what it is! "What are your child's interests?" Is that a trick question? Are they secretly trying to figure out whether or not you have a kid that is already bright enough so that he or she can be dumped into the classroom of the teacher who is unable to properly use an apostrophe? Why do they need to know that? Are they planning a class devoted to what my kid wants to do that day? Dentist forms? Are they in cahoots with the insurance companies? "How do you feel about your child beginning kindergarten?" I feel like that is none of your dang business! So what if I throw-up whenever I picture the bus driving out of sight and he doesn't even turn around to wave because he's so happy and i have to go inside and spend the day in a haze of smeary mascara and empty vodka bottles and whatever passes for daytime television on non PBS channels that I haven't seen in the past five years?

Anyway, this morning I was able to whip through those forms in three minutes flat.

And now I am trying to scientifically approach my garden's layout for the year. Which is tricky because my brain doesn't do science and math. It only does words. So reading about pH balances is akin to asking me to explain string theory. I am doing companion planting this year. Supposedly if I plant borage and marigolds, it will deter those God-awful tomato hornworms I was

 plagued with last year. Don't remember them? Oh, okay. Here's a picture. Also, lavendar will apparently confuse pests, but it also attracts bees, which while good for the garden, are not so good for the allergic gardener. I need to figure out which plants are beneficial to each other so that I can have a better crop and better quality of soil. I think I liked this better when I just shoved a bunch of stuff in the ground and hoped for the best. No, that's not true. It's actually very exciting to be plotting this. Because what if it works? How great would that be? And I want to add a strawberry patch this year, because someone in our house can tear through a pound a day. However, if I plant them in our existing garden, I need to look for a certain strain of strawberry that can handle vegetable stripped soil. If I eck out a new garden for them, I don't know that the soil will support the crop this year. Do you see the world's weight I carry on my shoulders? Believe me, I count my blessings that I get to worry about this stuff.

I am making beer bread this weekend. I will have the answer to my question: will it taste like beer?

I have always been partial to Janice from The Muppet Show. If she didn't epitomize  chic, I don't know who did. I think the sax player looked an awful lot like Frank Stallone.

The problem with writing a blog is that sometimes people start reading it. And then you start censoring yourself. Maybe I need to start another one so that I can really let the freak flag fly without risk.

People who use football analogies for everyday life should be stopped.

Andy Rooney is so old he wore a full-length wool bathing suit. It's true! His column this week started with that little nugget. I couldn't read further because my head stopped working at that unfortunate image. But really, how old is he? Isn't that what Laura Ingalls Wilder wore?

Sometimes I am fearful that we are raising our son in a 70s time warp. He can reel off the name of every special guest star on The Muppet Show, complete with title: "Miss Rita Moreno! Miss Valerie Harper! Mr. Joel Grey!" He reads books that don't read back to him.  He walks around the house turning off lights and scolding people for wasting water. He likes the original Star Wars but is less than impressed with the ones George Lucas vomited for sheer profit(okay, maybe he likes them all just fine and that one is really me).  He enjoys a  good bowl of chicken corn soup.  I mean, it's not like he's holding up his tape player to get songs off the radio. But it's also not like he has ever watched a DVD in the car or played an electronic game at the dinner table. I am a big fan of that type of life. But I am also an adult who has chosen this path. If you raise your kid like it's 1978 but it's really 2009, will they be able to relate to their peers? Will they have common ground?Are our choices making our kid an anomaly? 

I can't help but wonder about that. We're definitely doing something wrong. Everyone does. But what will it be? What will be our mistake that he holds tightly as proof of our inadequacy? Will it be something we currently agonize over or will it be something we cannot even begin to imagine? I guess you just have to hope that in the end, the good you do outweighs the bad.

I believe that we are biologically driven to reproduce, to become parents, to raise children, although, certainly some are able to allow logic to prevail. Who would sanely choose such a ferocious undertaking? But when we do have these little lives in our care, what are we doing? Are we trying to right the wrongs in our own childhoods? Are we trying to recreate what we deem idyllic? Are we raising soldiers to carry out our version of values into the world at large?

Unrelated-or maybe not. What kind of asshole punches McGruff the Crime Dog because he "thought it would be funny"? What is wrong with people?!

Mort has declared that he is staying in his pjs the whole day. Fine by me. I just got out of mine and it's 1 in the afternoon. I was rearranging things in our home (OCD and/or favorite pasttime. Mort: "What are you doing? Are you rearranging? You always do that.") and switching out pictures and suddenly I looked-up and it was after 12.

The morning was devoted to the wonder that is my new camera. I begged my family to jump up and down so that I could marvel at the crystal clear mid-air shots it produced.I then went outside to gawk at the crazy powerful zoom. I was able to better see a far-away hawk's nest through my lens than when I have out the binoculars. Great great stuff. Very

exciting.

But a little sad as we spent time in Florida with a crappy throw away camera in which I inadvertently ruined the film by sending it through the x-ray machine. And we saw bird there that I have have never before seen in real life: ospreys, bald eagles and birds that are just plain old cool: pelicans, egrets, great blue herons, scarlet ibis--oh man, the shots I could have taken had I not been dithering around weighing one camera against another like they were dogs up for adoption and had that camera then.

Instead, I have these useless beauties:

In touring the kindergarten classrooms on parents' night, I noticed that one of the teachers had made a large poster containing the rules for the class. And amongst those words, one contained an INCORRECTLY used apostrophe. Ah, the future of our children...I think I shall donate a copy of "Eats Shoots and Leaves" to the school.

Sometimes you get a friend request on facebook and you don't really know who the person is, but you think you recognize the name and are too lazy to further investigate, so you shrug and put them on a limited access list. However, at some point you may be shopping and think that person might be in line behind you. However, since you never knew them in the first place, you really really don't know if that is he or she. And then you have to weigh what is better, greeting a complete stranger and having them wonder why the hell you're talking to them or ignoring someone who you accepted as a "friend"  in cyberspace. And then you have to think, Well they sent me a request, if they knew me, they'd probably say hi, right? So it probably isn't them. But what if they're waiting for me to say hi first?

And then you realize these are the problems that one has when you are on facebook and accept friend requests from people you don't really know. Which is a whole other issue. 

If you ever have an opportunity to visit the Naples Zoo, I highly recommend it.  It was at this location that my husband and son were peed on by a lion. Yes, that's right. Peed on by a lion.

Huh. Just read about a Dutch scientist who is testing a pill that helps to erase bad memories. I suppose that for people who suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome, that would bring blessed relief. Especially if it allows you to retain all your memories save that particular event. I know people who have suffered from that and it destroys you. It eats you alive. If something could give you back your life...is that a bad thing?

 But what about the rest of us? What if the average joe could do that, erase memories you deemed painful, would you do it? 

I wouldn't. I have a memory for life events that I often wish would be faulty.  My sister is able to put things behind her and get about her day. Sometimes I wish I could do that. But i can't. My memories are like a shield of armor and the weight of lead. I can lie awake for half the night rueing something that happened in 5th grade. As much as I think it would be nice to be able to forget things that haunt me or torment me, I think I need those memories in my life. It helps to keep me in check and to keep me as the person I am and not the person I was. It reminds me to be grateful for kindness when and where I find it. It helps me to determine what behavior I can accept and what I cannot. And quite frankly, I need my past in order to live my present. As painful as some things may be, they have helped to shape who I am. I would not be as strong or as empathetic or insightful or appreciative or grateful if I did not have times of strife from which to draw. I don't know if you can ever appreciate how truly amazing is the emotion of happiness  if you have not experienced its counterpart.

And today's grocery store saga.

As we approach the cashier, I said to my son, "Don't let me forget the stamps." He has a much better memory than I with my poor old multi-tasking noggin.

Me to the cashier, "I need a book of stamps, please."

Mort, "You remembered! Good job, Mommy!"

Cashier to me, " Do you usually forget the stamps?"

Me, "Oh yeah, even if I write 'stamps' across the back of my hand I forget."

Cashier, "Don't feel bad. I forget too and I'm half your age."

I stared at her in complete bewilderment, unsure of how to answer. I pegged her at mid-thirties, so one of us was drastically off our age-o-meter.

She went on to say, "You're in your 40s, right?"

Me, "No..."

Her, "Well, how old are you then?"

Me, probably having a bright red face at this point, "36."

Her, waving a hand dismissively, "Okay, so you're pretty much 40."

Me, still staring at her in abject horror.

Her, "Well, you've got 16 years on me."

Me. Please stop talking. Please stop talking. Please stop talking. Please do not continue with your observations on how much older I look than my actual age.

That is the first time anyone has ever said it. I guess I'm in that bracket now. Man. wow. What a blow! I have heard that it happens around now, but still. I guess I thought I could keep the aging process at bay for a little longer.

I was hoping my mom's good genes were running rampant through my DNA. Ugh.

Not that it makes me feel great when people think I'm significantly younger than I am, either. Getting carded is silly, but I assume they have a strict boss who has gotten busted by undercover underagers. Late 20s and I appreciate your kind but inaccurate eye. Early 20s and I worry that I come across as dippy or that I dress too young for my age.

I didn't know it at the time, but I would gladly take worrying about that as opposed to being thought older than I am. And no, it shouldn't make me feel weird. But yes, it does.

I know in my heart of hearts that my inside (27) and outside (apparently in my 40s)no longer match. But for Pete's sake, you don't need to point it out!

I love my funny little kid. I laid out his clothes for him to get dressed while I was in the shower and for the first time, he had his own ideas about his outfit. " I thought I could wear my tie for the party today," he said. Of course I acquiesced.  Not only is it good for kids to feel control and make choices, I love that he decided upon such a rocking outfit for the day. Makes his momma proud.

Being driven insane by the wind. What makes the sound of wind so eerie and annoying? Lost power at 3 am, which surprisingly enough, woke me up. And then I felt compelled to stay awake to listen to the gusts and protect our home from it with my vigilance. 

i have been trying to stop taking Zyrtec. I can't imagine that it is good for the body to be so consistently on medication. I only lasted two days before my allergies took a turn for the worse. Maybe I can try again once the warm snap is over.

so weary today. I am having a hard time getting the party started.

Nights out sans the four foot person in the family are always exciting. Nothing actually has to happen in order for this to be so, it's just the act of venturing into the world with a bag that contains only your own essentials and not a jumble of snacks and kleenex and crayons and odd scraps of paper and Backugans. It's exciting to use a public restroom on your own, without having first to encase said restroom in Purell coated bubblewrap, screeching, "Don't touch that!" on an endless loop. It's exciting to not have to remind anyone about indoor voices and to be able to freely swear and/or use words like stupid without cringing and having anyone remind you that those are not very kind words.

It's enjoyable to just be able to concentrate on making fun of the people around you. Case in point, there were a gaggle of 50 somethings sitting behind us at Revolutionary Road last night who may or may not have imbibed too many glasses of Zima spritzers before hitting the road. Their voices overroad all other sounds. They had horrific cigarette and whiskey infused laughs. Their conversation was peppered with inanities such as, " I think that texting during a movie is so annoying! I think it's just the rudest thing anyone can do! Kids have no idea that the light from their phones ruins the movie for everyone! I just want to snatch the phone right out of their hands!" Yes, yes, texting is almost as annoying as...loud boozy women sitting behind you and not using their inside voices perhaps? A picture of Daniel Craig flashed upon the screen and one of the lovlies moaned, "MMMMMM! Look at him." Shudder. Another interrupted herself to ask, "What movie are we seeing again?" Cue laughter.

Also enjoyable are the never fail people who come in late to an almost full theater, yelling in a whisper, "I can't see a thing!" Well...yes. That's because it's a movie. Movies are viewed in the dark. The movie has already begun, hence the lack of lights. We're very sorry. Had we known you were coming, we would have waited. These people then must march up and own the stairs, "There's no seats! I don't see anywhere to sit!" before finally admitting defeat and slinking into the front row.

However, when you do not go out at night very often, these things become more of a fascination and less of an annoyance. It's like a play being performed for your own amusement.

Next up: people who wait in a very long line at the grocery store with their very full carts and then chose to pay with a check that they can only begin to fill out once all of their groceries have been packed and placed in their cart. They cannot have filled out their check at home, or while waiting in line because the date or the name of the grocery store may change. And they have to use checks because they have never heard of these new-fangled things called debit cards and/or cash. For some reason, people who pay with checks are also unable to write their check amount properly on the first try and must go through at least three checks and many questions before settling on a figure they deem acceptable.

Good stuff. Humans are immensely fascinating creatures.

How exactly does one suffer from allergies in the middle of winter? This is ridiculous.

Oh, give me a mofo Michael Phelps break. Uh-oh! A 23 yr. old smoked pot!?!? YIKES! That's never before happened to a 23 yr. old. I'm sorry....and this is news, why? Because he swims really fast? Unless he was babysitting your 2 year old at the time, hozabout you shut the hell up. In fact, an entire generation  of children born to parents who came of age in the 60s and 70s shows that even if he WAS babysitting your 2 year old, it would probably have been okay.

Oh, but he's a role model! Yeah? Says who? He's a guy who worked really hard and did really well at the Olympics. That's all he signed-up for. Why do people insist on making these people they don't even know into "role models"? Do you know who my role model was when I was growing-up? No one. Who the fuck has a role model? Sure, I thought Wonder Woman and Daisy Duke were pretty cool, but I didn't try to fly an invisible jet and I didn't try to get a job wearing short-shorts at the Boar's Nest.

What is this role model shit? Who looks up to athletes and celebrities? Isn't is silly to lament that Led Zeppelin spent their time rocking and throwing shit out of windows instead of mentoring children? 'Cause parents, that one is pretty much your job and no one else's. Now hand me my bong.