One More Reason Wal-Mart is the Debil*

Let's get this out of the way up front--I do occasionally (two, maybe three times a year) shop at Wal-Mart and I do realize that the unfair business practices that Wal-Mart is so frequently accused of (and by all reports (except their own) guilty of) are "business as usual" across the discount retail board, at least to some extent. So yes. I believe Wal-Mart is the debil and I still shop there and I am also aware that shopping at Wal-Mart is probably not significantly worse than shopping at K-mart or Target or whatever. So I'm a hypocrite, but I'm a hypocrite with a strong distaste for Wal-Mart and everything they get away with.

Anyway, I found my hypocritical self in line at Wal-Mart a couple of months ago, chatting with a very friendly and pleasant cashier who was asking us about back-to-school purchases and when my daughter started back and so on. As she began to bag our purchases, she picked up a computer keyboard that Hubby had bought and asked us if we wanted it in a bag. It was long and probably wouldn't have fit all that well in a bag and was just as easy to carry without one so we said, "No, thanks, that's okay."

And she said, "Well, good, because they've told us to be really careful about using that size bag."

So I chuckled sympathetically and said, "Isn't it funny the things they want you to worry about?"

"Well, the bags are really expensive--they're thirty cents each." (I almost gasped out loud--they are sooooo not thirty cents each--I have worked in retail for 20+ years and even now I have access to suppliers of bags, etc. There is no way a see-through thin plastic bag is thirty cents and even if it were, you can bet your sweet ass Wal-Mart isn't going to pay that. They would "negotiate" a better price (by which I mean threaten and strongarm until they got the price they wanted).)

"Yeah, but you know they're not going to pass the savings along to you in your paycheck."

She was appalled that I had even suggested that. "No, but it will really have an effect on the shareholder's paychecks in March, though." Completely sincere. No trace of sarcasm. She's getting ulcers over the shareholder's checks in March when her check is probably barely enough to keep the lights on in her apartment--if she even has an apartment of her own and not a basement room with her parents. I wanted to cry a little.



*With thanks to Kathy Bates--whose pronouncement that every other thing is "the debil" was the only reason I made it all the way through The Waterboy.

First Desperate Housewives and Now This

I'm pretty sure my youngest son has been abducted by aliens and replaced with an almost identical replica. First he was watching Desperate Housewives (because his girlfriend told him to) and then, he says to me:

"Mom you can return that Stephen King book to the library for me*, I'm done with it. Oh and can you get out The Iliad and The Odyssey?"

The kicker? It's not even for a class. He just wants to read them. Aliens, has to be.


*I'm the library mule for my household. Everyone likes to read but no one (except occasionally Daughter-Only) likes to go the library. Part laziness and part not wanting to be seen there--not good for the "image", ya' know?

Just Wondering...

Have you ever wanted to grab hold of someone who totally doesn't have a clue and give her one? Forcibly?

Yeah, me too.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

For a long time growing up, I always zigged when others zagged--it wasn't about being myself so much as insisting on being different from everyone else. When it came to celebrity crushes, I always insisted on traveling a little off the beaten path. When all my friends were cooing and giggling over Shaun Cassidy, I was more of an Andy Gibb fan (Andy had chest hair!!!! So much more sophisticated!). And when all my friends were ooohing and aaahing over Leif Garrett, Willie Aames and Scott Baio, I had it bad (real, real bad) for a guy most of them had never heard of. His name was Rad Daly and he played Buford Pusser's son Michael on the very short-lived TV series version of Walking Tall. For a couple of months, I was madly, passionately in love with him. I fantasized that my parents were going to get me him for my thirteenth birthday--what I might do with him once I had him was kind of vague, but man, did I want to make it more specific.

The TV show was cancelled and I moved on (to soap hunks--that's a post for another day) and I haven't thought about Rad Daly for a bazillion years. Then one day, I was watching some sports thing with one of the boys (tennis? soccer? not sure) and saw this:

Yup. There he was--Rad Daly--hotter than ever--you know in a dressed in a totally dorky costume hawking men's undies kinda way. I have no idea what it was about his middle-aged face (especially set off by that ever-so-attractive apple costume) that clicked with me, but I checked him out on IMDB and we have a confirmed Rad Daly sighting. Once I'd confirmed it was him in the Fruit of the Loom commercial, it hit me that it's also him in the dippy Grape-Nuts commercial where his friend is being attacked by a bear but he is obliviously chowing down a bowl of the (loud) crunchy cereal.

Wow. I'm old.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Dave Barry's Book of Bad Songs

Read this over the weekend and it truly made me laugh so hard I cried. I laughed so hard stuff flew out my nose that I had no idea was up there. The only complaint I have is that it was published in 1997 and it has somehow escaped my attention all this time.

It is a collection of the worst songs ever recorded--between 1960 and 1990--as compiled by Dave and the readers of his syndicated column (the column he's no longer writing--oh, Dave, we miss you so much--the blog is cold comfort but I guess we'll take what we can get). My favorite part was the chapter "Songs People Get Wrong" in which Dave lists songs whose lyrics have often been misheard and misunderstood. Songs like the Beach Boys' "Help Me Rhonda," which Dave is pretty sure contains the lines "Well since she put me down/There's been owls pukin' in my bed" and Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean," which some astute reader claims goes "The chair is not my son."

Of course, this reminded me of songs I and those closest to me have gotten wrong. Here's my top three favorites:

1. When Little Sister and I were seven and eight (or six and seven or eight and nine), we were pretty sure that line in "You're So Vain" with Carly Simon about "You're where should be all the time/And when you're not you're with/Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend" actually said "Some underworld spy or the wife of a clothespin." I was never really sure why a clothespin would have a wife, but I thought it was just in keeping with the sophisticated vibe of the song.

2. When Rob Thomas released his first single from his solo album "Lonely No More," Son-One said, "Mom does he really say 'Open up to me so I can do your girlfriends'?" No, but that would be quite ballsy of him, wouldn't it? He actually says "Open up to me LIKE you do your girlfriends." I'm pretty sure. That's what the lyrics in the liner notes claim anyway.

3. It's kind of embarrassing to admit (probably as much for them as for me) but when Coyote Ugly came out, the kids and I watched it more than once. (Yes, I know my pubescent sons had ulterior motives, but hey, there's worse motives, right?) I also played the soundtrack a lot. There's this one song on there called "The Power" by a group called Snap, who I'd never heard of before and haven't heard of since. Over and over again, in the background, the words "It's gettin, it's gettin', it's gettin' kinda hectic" are repeated. At least that's what I think they're saying. The kids, however, voted for "Skinny, skinny, skinny diarrhea."

Runners-up: Don Henley's "New York Midget (Minute)" and Bruce Springsteen's "Blinded By The Light" with its immortal lines, "Wrapped up like a douche/ another boner in the night."

Anyway, get the book. Read it. It'll make you snort, I promise.

Masked-Mom's One-Word Review: Snort-worthy.

True Love or Truly Whipped?

I'm half-reading, half-listening to something mindless on television (so mindless, in fact, that I can't even vaguely remember what it might have been and it was only 2 hours ago), when Son-Three comes into the living room.

"Mom, are you watching anything?"

I snorted, "Um, no. Why, is something on you wanted to see?"

"Well, I was going to watch that show we watched last week at this time." He's hedging but I can't figure out why.

Okay, I can't remember what I was watching two hours ago, how the hell am I supposed to remember what we were watching a week ago? I said, "And what show was that?"

"Um...you know, that show that we watched last week at this time. Do you know where the phone is?" (Cordless phones are a true marvel in so many ways--I remember when you were stuck in one place while you were on the phone for hours on end, this is way better--but they have a tendency to go missing especially in a house full of teenagers desperately seeking some semblance of a quiet, private place to talk.)

Suddenly it clicked. Desperate Housewives. Last week was the first time any of us had watched an episode and the reason we watched it last week? Son-Three has got a girlfriend and she told him to watch it. They watched it "together" over the phone last week and this week as well.

So, in case you were wondering what could possibly drive a fifteen-year-old boy to watch a chick show, it's a chick, naturally.

In Honor of Veteran's Day, I'm Gonna Pick On Darryl Worley Again*

Actually, I don't mean to attack Darryl, who very likely had good intentions of honoring the sacrifices made by our soldiers in times of war when he recorded his latest single "I Just Came Back (From a War)." Nor am I really attacking the song itself--instead, I am concerned with the unexamined ideas behind the song. The chorus in particular is very upsetting to me:

"...I just came back from a place where they hated me
and everything I stand for
A land where our brothers are dying for others
who don't even care anymore."

I am certain that there are many American soldiers in Iraq who really do feel hated and feel that they are risking (and, frighteningly often, losing) their lives for people who don't care. I am sure, too, that the hatred our soldiers feel from Iraqis in general is very real and not imagined--the Iraqis "not caring" is a whole other matter, but we'll get to that in a moment.

Let's consider the hatred first. Let's ask ourselves why our soldiers are so hated in Iraq. Let's do something those in secure government offices in peaceful neighborhoods seem incapable of or unwilling to do. Let's put ourselves in the Iraqis' position.

How would we feel about an uninvited foreign military crashing through our borders, killing (if not indiscriminately than not quite discriminatingly enough) our friends and family members, toppling our government with no satisfactory, workable plan for replacing that government. (Listen, no one thinks Sadaam was a nice guy (for example, I wouldn't want to have a beer with him), but there is ample evidence that the quality of life in Iraq--especially in its cities--has dropped drastically since the U.S. forces arrived.)

How would we feel hearing the government behind that invading force repeatedly justify the violence and destruction with ever more transparent lies? Wouldn't hate be a mild word for what we would feel toward those soldiers--the only representatives of that government with whom we would ever be face-to-face?

And what is it that our soldiers "stand for" that Iraqis hate so much? Is it our freedom, our liberty, that they hate--as this song seems to imply and as our national leaders have said over and over again? Does that make even the remotest bit of sense?

If it makes sense to you, my apologies, but to me it sounds like empty-headed paranoia at best and a hollow excuse for reprehensible behavior at worst. Maybe the Iraqis actually hate us for something the vast majority of Americans never meant to stand for--opportunistic bullying? Intolerance in the world arena? Condescending and incompetent (not to mention violent and destructive) foreign policy?

As for the Iraqis "not caring" anymore...um, I just don't see any truth in that idea at all. What I see in that kind of thinking is an effort to dehumanize Iraqis, to pretend that they are somehow less fearful or desperate than we would be in their situations. It shows a lack of compassion and inability to empathize that's not only cold-hearted and dysfunctional, but outright dangerous in the world today.

So, now, I'll stumble down off the soapbox before Rummy comes and kicks me off--I hear he's gonna have some free time on his hands.



*Previous attacks on Darryl, among others, can be found here.

Maybe It's Just Me

Blurt Alert! Attention James Blunt fans, if you don't want your feelings hurt, please skip this entire post.* Thanks.

Am I the only one who completely doesn't get James Blunt's appeal? Am I the only one who thinks he sounds like Carol Channing with tonsilitis or like Meatloaf as a preoperative transsexual with his/her foot wedged under something heavy? Am I the only one who finds the lyrics to "You're Beautiful"--a song of devotion to a woman he's seen once and is NEVER GOING TO SEE AGAIN--pathetic and pointless?

If I am the only one, if I am alone in my firm belief that this guy is some sort of joke being perpetrated by the music industry upon an unsuspecting public, then so be it. Taste wouldn't be special if everyone had it.

*It seems sort of a shame to "waste" the inaugural blurt alert on something so minor, but something tells me that James Blunt's fans may get their feelings hurt pretty easily. After all, they like a guy who can whine like a girl over a hot chick he saw on the subway.

Possible Side Effects...

NaBloPoMo participants may suffer from dizziness, nausea, heartburn, and panic attacks (particularly in the form of sitting bolt upright in bed at 4:16 a.m. thinking, "I forgot to post! I can't believe I forgot to post!" Only to crawl out of bed, stumble to the computer and realize that a post has indeed been made. Crisis averted--this time!). Participants may also experience sweaty palms and increased anxiety and be prone to obsessive thoughts such as "Did I post? When can I post? What the hell am I gonna post about?" Paranoia about posting is rare but has occurred in a small number of participants.

NaBloPoMo should not be combined with hormonal fluctuations of any sort and should, therefore, be avoided by pregnant or nursing women or those who may become pregnant, and those with PMS.

PMS combined with NaBloPoMo pressure is especially dangerous and may lead to bouts of uncontrollable rage. Should this occur, you should post about it because you have to post every single friggin' day.

Almost Twenty Years Later & The Romance Isn't Dead

Phone rings this morning, just as I'm on my way out the door. It's so-and-so with the County Health Department wanting to let me know that the dogs that bit me while I was out on deliveries a week and a half ago finished their "confinement" yesterday and they're both fine so there's no need to worry about rabies. I hadn't actually been worried about rabies since the dogs' owner had supplied the emergency room with the dogs' vaccination records, but I told Mr. So-and-So that I appreciated the call.

When I hung up, Hubby said, "What was that?"

I said, "That was the Health Department letting me know I don't have rabies."

He said, "Well, then, we need to figure out what is wrong with you."

(A confidential PS to Rummy: I always thought my fondest wish regarding you was that you would resign, but now that that wish has been fulfilled I realize that my true fondest wish for you is that you will live long enough to suffer as much heartbreak and endure as many sleepless nights as your irresponsible and thoughtless actions have caused so many others. I realize this is statistically unlikely and pretty close to mathematically impossible--given your advanced age and the large number of lives you've ruined, but a girl can hope, right?Don't let the door hit ya' in the ass on the way out.)

Didja Vote?

"Didja vote?" is how I was greeted this morning when I walked in the door at work. I hadn't yet, as a matter of fact--and there was something about the tone of Cranky Boss Lady's words that just struck me as wrong. She's one of those people for whom voting is not merely a right or even a responsibility but some kind of contest--she actually asks people, "What number were you?" And when they say, "117" (or "I have no friggin' idea nor do I give a crap 'cuz I didn't know there was gonna be a quiz") she will say in this boastful voice, "Well, I was 64." (Or whatever.)

She's one of those overenthusiastic voters who not only make speeches about the importance of voting but actively nag people around them to vote. (I was far from the last person greeted with "Didja vote?") I'm all for getting out the vote but there seems to be a fine line between encouraging voters and haranguing them. Of course, Cranky Boss Lady is often on the harangue-side of the line in this and other matters (hence the Cranky nickname), so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

I guess one of the things that gets me about Cranky Boss Lady in particular is that she seems to take such deep (and competitive) pride in voting even though it is her only involvement in politics and in her community. She's not signing petitions or staging demonstrations or even answering the surveys her elected representatives send to her house. Basically she thinks she can vote once or twice a year and wash her hands of it--content in the knowledge that she's done her share.

The other thing that bugs me about CBL is that her education on political matters is built on a foundation of political ads and gut instincts--this guy looks "nicer" or more "honest" than that one; that gal (yes, she actually uses that word and no, she's not 86, only 55, so I have no idea...) has a better commercial, etc. Forgive me, but that gut instinct thing, especially, is dangerous--wasn't there a poll a few years ago saying that more people would want to have a beer with George W. than his opponent and that a stunning (and frightening) number of people actually took that into consideration at the polls?

Which brings me to what will no doubt be a spectacularly unpopular opinion on this fine Election Day--I said earlier that I'm all for getting out the vote, which is only partly true because I think the last thing we need is more voters who are chosing candidates for the sorts of reasons CBL is choosing hers.

When I called home this afternoon to ask Hubby if he wanted to go vote with me, he said, "Well, honestly, I know I should, but I don't feel I know enough about the candidates in most of the races to make a really informed choice so not this time." When I got done teasing him for shirking his civic duty and offering to give him a cheat sheet so he could vote for all the people I was voting for so I could get two votes for the price of one without having to resort to Ann Coulter's tactics, I realized he was actually making a noble and sensible decision.

The fact is that not only do not enough people vote, but way too many people vote as well. This is by no means a partisan statement--just an obvious truth.* As for the people who are eligible and educated and don't vote anyway, I have a theory about them as well (surprise, surprise).

Much is made of "voter apathy" (328,000 hits on Google), but I think we might not all be as apathetic as we're made out to be. I think a lot of people care but are at a loss--look at the candidates, look at the lack of quality debate, look at the ads that seem to talk only about how unqualified the other candidate is rather than talk about how qualified the touted candidate is--I think what we feel is "voter despair."

I know that part of the reason I didn't vote this morning before I went to work was I thought, "What the hell's the point?" (That and I hit the snooze alarm way too many times.) I know that a lot of my friends and family who vote do so with a sort of "I did it, but I'm not sure it really means anything" feeling. Imagine how many more people are thinking it doesn't mean anything and then not showing up. But that's not the same as not caring--that's something else altogether. It's knowing the system is broken and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

Once, a couple of years ago, I saw a debate on CNN between a group of pundits and the chairperson of some state's lottery commission. They were talking about how irresponsible it was of the state to sponsor something that causes so much financial and emotional hardship for so many.

The chairperson spoke up about the importance of differentiating between chronic gambling addicts and your average citizen who just buys a couple of tickets a week--for that sort of person, she said, lottery tickets provided entertainment and a sense of hope. One of the pundits retorted: "Yes, but look at the odds--it's false hope."

The chairperson said, "Well, sometimes false hope is better than no hope at all." That struck me as both callous and profound.

So I voted. And I voted because I guess false power is better than no power at all.


*If you made even a cursory attempt to educate yourself on the issues, and you still want to vote Republican, have at it, baby. I personally don't understand it, but that's the way things work in our great land.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: PostSecret

I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume most of you have seen PostSecret--the site where people send in their secrets on 4" x 6" cards, which may or may not get posted to the site and/or included in a book (there have been two books so far and a third is on its way). For those who haven't, check it out. It's disturbing and fascinating and awe-inspiring and sometimes you can't look away from it even if you want nothing more than to not look at it at all.

The secrets are updated on Sundays--at least in theory, though it's quite often updated by Saturday evening, when I log on to begin obsessively checking to see the new secrets. Every week, I scroll down the entire page and by the time I get to the bottom, I think, "What the hell do I do this for?" and I make a half-hearted pledge to not be sitting there the following Saturday evening, obsessively refreshing. I never promise not to check back, but you know, there's no reason it can't wait 'til Monday or whatever--the secrets are up all week.

What's even more fascinating to me than the individual secrets (which themselves range from the fascinating to the mundane), is the impulse so many people have to make a card and send it in. Is it that confession is good for the soul? Is it that there are that many people hoping for their fifteen minutes (or week) of anonymous fame?

Are there people who send in secrets not sincerely, but ironically, as a prank? There's no doubt in my mind, but the interesting thing is that these people are revealing something just as intimate about themselves as the people who send in sincere secrets--they're revealing their cynicism, their mean-spiritedness, their (perhaps misguided) faith in their own superiority, their willingness to put in a relatively large effort for what I can only imagine is minimal reward. In their insincerity, they are just as revealing as others are in their sincerity.

The fact that there's absolutely no way to tell if a person is sincerely revealing a deep (often, though not always, dark) secret about himself or just goofing on us all is part of the bargain you make in scrolling through all those secrets. I like to think most of the postcards we see--and the e-mails in response to them--are sincerely meant and that there is some comfort to be found in finding you're less alone in your little secrets than you might've imagined. And until the site collapses under the weight of its own fame, or I just get bored of it, you know where to find me Saturday evenings between 9 and midnight. (Jeez, I need to get a life.)

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Fascinating.

How Much "I" is "TMI"?

When I'm not toiling away in BlogLand, I'm at my Day Job in the retail flower business. Like a lot of people employed in small businesses (teeny, tiny might be more accurate), I cover more than one base. Part of what I do is bookkeeping, part flower arranging, part running interference between Cranky Boss Lady and the rest of the world, and part fielding an enormous amount of incredibly personal information from complete strangers and almost acquaintances alike.

For most people, flowers are a major event sort of purchase--birth, death, marriage, new job--and for whatever reason, people have a tendency to chatter on about whatever major event provoked them to purchase flowers. (Pointless aside: one of my favorite customer babble moments can be found here.) I've heard about pancreatitis and apendectomies and other more "intimate" medical problems. I know about people who have died at home alone and not been found for weeks and about a man who died the way Elvis did--on the toilet--but ended up wedged between the potty and the wall so that his wife had to call the plumber to remove the toilet so the coroner could remove the body. I know way too many husbands/boyfriends and a few wives who think it's easier to make amends with a couple of roses than to just act like a civilized (and loyal and faithful) human being in the first place.

Mostly, I think of these glimpses (deep) into other people's lives as a privilege--an opportunity to study human nature, to take notes, to gather material. Occasionally, though, I find myself struggling to maintain professional composure while someone rambles on about something I find disturbing, offensive or just plain gross.

The only thing worse than being on the receiving end of TMI is unknowingly dishing it out. I imagine each of our TMI indicators is modulated to a different sensitivity--something that makes you blush may barely register with me.

So in the interest of protecting the faint-hearted or squeamish among you (those few faint-hearted or squemish who haven't already run screaming from their monitors), Masked Mom will be utilizing the "Blurt Alert" in future posts--a warning that will appear before potentially offensive, distressing or just plain icky information, letting the sensitive types know how many paragraphs to skip ahead.

So read at your own risk--no crying, no whining and don't say I didn't warn you. I have a feeling a post a day is going to require a whole lot of "I."

A Cop-Out? (Already?!)

I came, I saw, I posted (sort of).

I'll try harder tomorrow.

(Even though the rules don't mention a minimum word count, I do feel a certain pressure to produce more than just a line or two. It kind of reminds me of those essay questions on tests in high school, where you felt you had to fill a certain amount of space (or worse, the teacher had actually printed ten or fifteen lines you felt compelled to fill). In my humanities class senior year, this resulted in one of the best opening lines ever--so good the teacher read it out loud (laughing hysterically the entire time) to the class & I have quoted it for years as an example of blatantly obvious bullshit*. The question was something like "Explain the basis of classical Greek architecture." Allen H's reply began: "The basis of the basis is based on the basis that...")

*The reasons I might need to have an example of blatant bullshit on hand are numerous and varied and something we can use to fill space some other time.

At Long Last

So, I'm gonna talk about boobs, now. Anyone who might be offended or uncomfortable with the topic is hereby excused. Feel free to return tomorrow when we may or may not have a more wholesome topic.

I wasn't one of those girls who anxiously awaited my first "real" bra. I was in no hurry to grow up, or for that matter out, and in a brilliant stroke of biological irony, I was a C-cup by eighth grade. As an early bloomer--one who kept right on blooming so that at this point, I have to buy the bras that come in boxes, not the pretty lacy ones that hang on dainty hangers--I never really understood what the fuss was about.

With the exception of the time I spent nursing my four children (which, granted, was a considerable amount of time), I've never really understood what my boobs were for--what purpose they possibly served. Sure, they've earned Hubby's undying affection and puerile admiration, but, I somehow felt that I was failing to use them to their full potential.

I understood that there were other women out there putting theirs to much better use than I was putting mine, but I was at a loss. Help finally came from those friendly folks at Hasbro in the instructions for their game "Upwords:"

And I tried, I really did, but those damned tiles slipped off every single time.

A Thing No One Should Ever Have To Hear Or Say But Which Is So Much Fun To Say I've Repeated It To Everyone I Know & A Few People I Don't

"Your uvula is stuck to your tonsil!"

This was said upon inspecting Daughter-Only's throat last week, three days after the provisional strep diagnosis, that, as it turned out, was incorrect. Three days into treatment, she wasn't showing any real improvement (and in some ways--in the uvula stuck to the tonsil, adhered there by mucus and/or pus way, for example--she was worse) so I called the doctor's office to double check on the strep culture they'd taken Monday morning. Secretary says, "Nurse says it came back negative, so there's nothing to worry about and you're all set. Thanks for calling!" To which I said, "No, um, wait, she's not any better so the fact that it's not strep really makes me concerned about what it might be. Can I set up an appointment?" all the while thinking, "No, um, having your uvula stuck to your tonsil is not my idea of 'all set.'"

During the initial uvula conversation, Daughter-Only had what can only be adequately described as a spaz attack. "Mom! Why did you tell me that? It's going to drive me crazy now." Despite the fact that she wasn't suffering any physical discomfort from her uvula being stuck to her tonsil, the mere thought of something being someplace it isn't technically supposed to be was making her extremely emotionally uncomfortable. She tried gargling to get it to pop loose and drinking lots of water and jumping up and down the way you would to dislodge water stuck in your ear. I wasn't actually in the same room while she did all this, which kind of makes me sad, because I'm pretty sure if I'd had a video camera rolling we'd have been $10,000 richer.

Finally, she resorted to going to the bathroom and unhooking her uvula herself with her finger. After which it immediately latched on to the opposite tonsil sending her into yet another spaz attack.

I'm happy to report that, although we never did receive a definitive diagnosis, Daughter-Only and her uvula have made a full recovery. The downside of that is that I've lost my excuse to say the word "uvula," which really is one of my favorite words--easily in the Top Ten. I know I'm a word geek, but aren't some words just way more fun than others?

PS--Anyone seen Monster House? I haven't, but this moment in the trailer makes me want to pretty bad: Jenny: [waves flashlight at chandelier] Look! That must be its uvula! Chowder: Oh. So its a GIRL house Jenny: What?

PPS--Second day in on the NaBloPoMo thing and I've already gratuitously used the word "uvula" nine times. I'm not sure that's a good sign.

Perfect Post for October: A Higher Level of Breast Cancer Awareness

I've had mixed feelings about Breast Cancer Awareness Month for years now--partly because it doesn't seem like enough, but still somehow seems like too much (Where is colon cancer awareness month? Ovarian? Lung? Are these not pretty-pink enough?) and partly because it, like so much else in our fair land, seems to have been hijacked by corporations for their own greedy interests. But, mostly, I'm uncomfortable with it because I don't like that corporations and individuals can pat themselves on the back for being "aware" once a year, while there are so many people living right in the middle of the cancer day in and day out the whole rest of the time.

Minerva is one of those people. I "met" her last October, when she visited my blog (my last year's post about Breast Cancer Awareness is what brought her here) and have been following her battle with cancer ever since. She has been so open and generous as she has made her way through treatment and finally, there's this.

So, for being more aware of breast cancer than you ever meant to be, and for having the generosity and strength to share your journey with the rest of us, here's my button:



And, Minerva, it's all yours!

Browse other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville, homes of the creators of these awards.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Some Company For My Misery

I've been a blogger since May of 2005--going on 18 months now. Sometimes I've been lucky to post three or four times a month, others I've managed a few a week. I've never been a blog every day kind of blogger, but all that's about to change, thanks to NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, the illegitimate* half-sister of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, which has been around to torture motivate fiction writers since 1999).

National Blog Posting Month is a challenge to write a blog post of some sort every single day in the month of November. Not only does participating give you a great sense of accomplishment and community, there are neat-o buttons to post on your blog.

I was going to go with this one:



Yoda's great, right? He's got The Force and he can use it without lifting a finger but when it comes time to lift fingers, he's all over your ass. (Or so I've heard since I've not actually seen any but the first two Star Wars movie (by which I mean Episode 5 and 6, which is reason #1, I stoppped trying to see Star Wars movies: what's with the funky numbering system? I don't want to have to pass a math test to get in to see a movie.) )

Yeah, Yoda's a bad-ass. But is he bad-ass enough to get me (lazy, disorganized, overworked, understaffed me) to write a post every day? Isn't he a little too, um, Ghandi-like to really be scary? Now, don't get me wrong, I think Ghandi was bad-ass and amazing in all sorts of ways, but I don't think I really would've been afraid of Ghandi and fear is where it's at for motivating someone like me.

So, I'm going with this button:









'Cuz nothin' says motivation like a firearm pointed right at your head. Of course, motivation and material are two totally different things...it should be an interesting month--interesting in a just-how-boring-can-this-bitch-possibly-get? way.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Challenge.

*I mean that in the nicest way possible.

Always Something...

Quick! Why did the turkey cross the road?

To remind me of Mr. High School, of course. I was out on a back road when a chattering, fluttering group of turkeys crossed in front of me. I caught myself making mental notes--how many there were, where I saw them, how healthy they were--so I could tell Mr. High School, the hunter man, the next time he called.

Don't blame the birds, though. If it weren't them, it would be something else. A brief (and by no means complete) list of things that remind me of Mr. High School: a hundred or so songs,including pretty much anything at all by Journey, Foreigner, or Credence Clearwater Revival; big trucks and heavy machinery (especially pavers); camouflage; a car dealership a county and a half away that sells a stunning number of vechicles to people in our area and on every car they sell is a metal plate bearing Mr. High School's first name, which happens to be the name of the car dealership; the bread delivery truck from the company headquartered in his hometown; Ford Mustangs (Mr. High School, a confirmed Chevy (or at least non-Ford) man conceded that the newer Mustangs looked so sharp as to be worth owning even though they were likely to be pieces of shit, mechanically speaking*); Millard Fillmore**; antidepressants; NASCAR...

And on and on and on.

It's a funny thing, grief. The experts will tell you it happens in stages, neatly numbered like an emotional To-do list, you can feel a little sense of achievement as you mark off each one.

Here's something those experts don't want you to know: When you reach that final step of "acceptance," and come to terms, at least intellectually, with the idea of the loss, the person you miss is no less gone.

*Ford Motor Company and its legal department should note that not all opinions expressed by Mr. High School were shared by the author of this blog.
**Millard Fillmore? I know you're thinking, "How often could that possibly come up?" Well, pretty damned often, as it happens, since an old guy mentions Millard Fillmore in a Coke Zero commercial. What it has to do with Mr. High School was that we had a history class together in 8th grade and were part of a group of four people studying together for a test. I said, "Millard Fillmore had no..." foolishly waiting for the correct answer ("vice president") from three thirteen-year-old boys. Instead, GW, a blond and chubby pervert, blurted, "Dick!" And for the rest of the year the four of us talked long and often about how Millard Fillmore had no dick.

Three for the Duh! File

--Taking an order on the phone, customer's giving me the list of names she wants on the card: "Becky, Mark, Kelly..." I say, "Is that Mark with a 'C' or with a 'K'?" In a totally disgusted voice, she says, "It's with an 'M.'"

--From a local radio news report Tuesday morning, regarding a drunk driver, "The arrest was made after police reported following an EROTIC driver on Rt. 417 West..." I've heard of drunk drivers driving "erratically," I'm wondering just how drunk you have to be to drive "erotically." And what, exactly, constitutes erotic driving--I've had some weird pictures in my head for the past day or so...not that that's anything new but at least this time I've got someone else to blame them on.

--Here's a bit of random advice that has come to mind in my recent dealings with a certain person*: If you think the majority of people in your life are "too defensive," it might be time to consider the possibility that you are offensive.

*A person, it's important to note, who doesn't have Internet access at this time, but who will nonetheless remain nameless in case she/he ever does join this century. Worry not that the person in question may recognize him/herself without a name because this is truly one of the least self-aware people I've ever, ever, ever met.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Public School

Have I mentioned my belief that public education, including "preschool" and even "day care," is merely a petri dish for viruses and bacteria? The whole thing is obviously a plot for the nasty buggers to spread themselves to as many humans as possible with the least effort on their part. And we stupid humans have fallen right into their trap!

Daughter-Only has strep throat. Everyone else just has a nasty cold--so far. You know when one of them has strep, you're just on the edge of your seat waiting for someone else to develop those lovely symptoms.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Diabolical.

(Young & Immature) Men At Work

Don't worry, it's not another '80s music reference...

It's a trebuchet-in-progress reference:














Yes, that's Son-One being held aloft (twelve to fifteen feet aloft) during today's "weight test." Now I'm no physics expert (I think I have traumatic amnesia regarding most of the science I learned (or failed to learn) in high school), but I'm pretty sure that hoisting a 140 lb. 18-year-old (especially my 140 lb. 18-year-old) to test a trebuchet designed to fling small- to medium-sized pumpkins* might be overkill.

But what do I know? I'm just the mom. And anyway, no one was hurt--not even when the fools managed to rip the trebuchet's arm from its socket during even more rigorous "testing" (it involved jumping off ladders while holding the trigger ropy things (did I mention I remember next to nothing about physics?)):

*Granted, if they're actually going through with hurl-flinging the TV as previously mentioned, then a 140 lb. boy/man is a closer match.

Fill In The Blanks: Lame Joke From the Eighties

The radio station I listen to in the van while out on flower deliveries has a "9 to 5 No-Repeat Workday" program--where they make sure they don't play the same song twice between 9 and 5. Great, good, wonderful--of course, they have nothing at all against playing the same eight hours of music five days in a row so, consequently, when you're only listening to the radio for the same hour or so each day, you hear the same DAMN songs over and over from one day to the next.

One of those songs is "Come On, Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners--one of those totally pointless songs that you could understand maybe two or three lines from but which nevertheless got stuck in your head and you'd find yourself trying to sing it and going, "ooooh--tooolooo-hmmm--C'mon Eileen--humpa--humpa--somepin'-else-far-too-young-and-clever" all damn day long and you kept thinking, maybe I'd understand it better if I knew all the words. To which I say, yeah, right, I understand it way worse now that I've seen all the words, but I seem to have strayed far, far, far from whatever sorry little point I've come here to make...

Every time I hear "Come On, Eileen" (which, I hope I've established, is entirely too often), I keep almost remembering a joke from the early '80s, the punchline of which was "come on Eileen." It went, I think, something like:

Q: What's worse (or better) than ______ on _______?
A: Come on Eileen! (Ah ha ha ha ha ha.)

Further complicating my search is that there was no doubt more than one variation on that theme. So does anyone remember any of those variations? Or have a guess that might quiet my geeky mind?

Mixed Messages

--While out on deliveries last week, I noticed a large sign hanging over the main entrance of a local school. In letters about two and a half feet tall, it proclaimed: "All kinds of minds walk these halls." Now, I applaud what I assume is supposed to be a message of tolerance and inclusion (though I should mention that I do wonder how much difference this sign actually makes in, say, the cafeteria when a geek wants to sit at the cool kids table or vice versa. I mean, if it were making a big difference, there might not even be a "cool kids" table, but at least they're trying right?), but, especially in light of the recent school shootings, doesn't this message take on (an entirely unintended, but nevertheless powerful) ominous cast? Is it just me? Doesn't it seem like it could be just as much a warning as a welcome? "All kinds of minds walk these halls," so look out.

--On the same delivery trip, I was behind a car with the bumper sticker: "The Earth does not belong to us. We belong to the Earth. --Chief Seattle." Great sentiment--would've meant a lot more were it not tacked to the back of a gas-guzzling SUV. At least it wasn't a Hummer, right?

--Meanwhile, over on Daughter-Only's planet...She says to me, in her best freaked out little kid voice: "Mommy...sometimes Nomi really scares me. I mean she really freaks me out. Every time I look directly at her face, she winks at me! With her right eye! Every time!" The sad part was I wasn't sure who I should call first: the vet or the psychiatrist.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Ghosthunters is back!

Need I say more?

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Addictive (still).

You Will Be Hungry Again In Thirty Minutes, A Post Composed Entirely Of Cookie Fortunes

Change is happening in your life, so go with the flow! If your desires are not extravagant, they will be granted. You will soon discover how truly fortunate you really are.

Luck is coming your way. Luck is the by-product of busting your fanny. The man on top of the mountain did not fall there. Each day, compel yourself to do something you would rather not do.

Well-arranged time is the surest sign of a well-arranged mind. There is no education like adversity. It's at the worst of times that you need to summon your optimism. All the water in the world can't sink a ship unless it gets inside. Never quit! Never give up. Bide your time, for success is near. There is no time like the pleasant.

You will become more passionate and determined about your convictions. Your determination will bring you much success. Know and believe in yourself, and what others think won't disturb you. Do not be overly judgmental of your loved one's intentions or actions. If you judge people, you have no time to love them. There is no substitute for good manners except, maybe, fast reflexes.

Many admire your social and physical appearance. You make people realize that there exist other beauties in the world. Maxim for life: You get treated in life the way you teach people to treat you. A kind word warms for three winters. Great acts of kindness will befall you in coming months.

You don't have to be perfect to fulfill your dream. Mediocrity is self-inflicted; genius is self-bestowed. Don't be surpised by the emergence of undiscovered talents! We must have old memories and young hopes. Strong lives are motivated by dynamic purposes.

Cultivation to the mind is as necessary as food to the body. Man is what he believes. The book should be a ball of light in one's hand. A feeling is an idea with roots. It's not what you know but what you USE of what you know that counts. Imagination is everything--it is the preview of coming attractions.

Rest is a good thing, but boredom is its brother. You won't be bored for long! New adventures are on their way. You achieve great peace of mind when you talk with an old friend. Old friends make the best friends. The person who learns to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused. One joy will scatter a hundred sorrows. True love is only found in the heart.

You love Chinese food.

Things No One Should Ever Have To Hear (I'm Starting a Collection...)

"Mom, I'm going over to D's house to build a trebuchet."

For those of you lucky enough to be uninitiated in, as www.trebuchet.com calls it, "the art of hurling," a trebuchet looks like this:

I have been assured that this is a sanctioned (required, even) physics project and it may actually be, which leads me to wonder: Don't physics teachers have children, too?

The goal is to create a trebuchet capable of flinging--oops, hurling--a small to medium-sized pumpkin. Son-One is aiming a little higher. We have an old (no longer functioning) 19" TV which he has deemed badly in need of hurling.

Hey, physics teachers, I can hurl without a trebuchet. Wanna see?

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Dating Is Murder

As a geeky, introverted teenager who spent a great deal of time at her grandparents' three-channel-cableless house in the summers, I was beyond addicted to the soaps. In fact, I remember once my mother was arguing with me about my "attitude"* and, since I rarely left the house for anything but school, she had nothing to take away from me but Guiding Light. (I also remember writing an impassioned "speech" in my journal about how I wouldn't let her take that away from me since it was the only thing I had in my life, but that's a topic for a whole other sort of post, one which it's probably in everyone's best interest for me to avoid writing.)

As another example of my addiction--I was in seventh grade when President Reagan was shot. I have a very vivid memory of rushing in the door after school, and being totally traumatized by the footage of the shooting. No, not by the violence of it, or the possible ramifications for world politics--no I was traumatized by the fact that As The World Turns and Guiding Light had been preempted by that coverage. I mean, c'mon! The guy was already in surgery, replaying the footage over and over again wasn't going to help anything and playing the soaps at their regularly scheduled times, in their entirety sure as hell wasn't going to hurt anything, right?

So, my purpose in revealing yet another freakishly geeky aspect of my personality wasn't merely to make all those other freakish geeks feel a little less alone but to lead into the story of a related freakishly geeky habit of mine. I have a startlingly good memory for faces and characters from the soaps in the early '80s--soaps, I feel it's important to note, that I haven't watched on any kind of regular basis since the '80s Not only do I know Meg Ryan was on As The World Turns as Betsy Stewart Montgomery Andropoulos, I vividly remember many of her scenes. It's actually kind of alarming to me how much of the stuff I can recall from soaps during that time period--not least because it makes me wonder how much of my brain space is being used up by such useless crap when it could be used for significantly more important things.

Anyway, I feel a sort of proprietary attachment to the actors I remember from back in those days. When I see Julianne Moore in a movie, I will say with a completely undeserved sense of pride (as though I "knew her when..."), "She used to play identical half-sisters on As The World Turns!" And don't even get me started on Kevin Bacon, who (briefly, but memorably, at least to me, not that that's saying anything) played bad boy Tim Werner on Guiding Light...

Imagine my delight when a few months ago, I found a short story in Ms. magazine written by Harley Jane Kozak, who a million years ago, played Annabelle Simms Reardon on Guiding Light. Even though her character eventually faded away into domestic boredom--um, bliss--with Tony Reardon, she was introduced to the show in dramatic fashion as the Mystery Woman in a decades-old photo featuring the patriarchs of all the town's Big, Rich, Powerful Families (as well as their "help," the poor beleagured Reardons)**. Harley went on to a career in movies, including Arachnaphobia and Parenthood.

So I read the story with the same propietary (undeserved) pride I usually feel toward my wayward soap buddies--and with maybe a little apprehension because, after all, writing and acting aren't at all the same thing. Turns out she's good at both and I was delighted, at the end of the story, to find a plug for not one, but two books she'd written.

I've since read both the books--which aren't really my kind of book (to the extent that I can be said to have "kind of book" since I read an absurd amount of books in a wide variety of categories) and the truth is, if it weren't for Harley Jane Kozak's name on the cover and my borderline obsession with former soap stars, I'd never have picked up Dating Dead Men. But, by the time I was finished with it, I couldn't wait to read the sequel, Dating Is Murder.

The main character, Wollie Shelley is the kind of accidental heroine who finds herself embroiled in murder mysteries and weird dating scams. She's so smart about so many things and so very dumb about men. In short, she's like a lot of women you know. And, really, the plots are interesting but what's going to keep me coming back is the goofily complex character that Harley Jane Kozak has created on the page.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Fun.

*I'm not sure whether I put "attitude" in quotes because what my mother perceived as my "attitude" still seems to me to be simply my personality at that shining moment in time and, therefore, not a deliberate attempt to drive my mother insane or if I put it in quotes because "attitude" didn't even begin to cover the challenge I probably presented my poor mother in those days.

**I'm not sure who this could possibly matter to (but me), but I feel the need to add that the woman in the photo wasn't Annabelle at all, but her long-dead mother, in whose death all those rich powerful patriarchs were somehow (though, lucky for all concerned, I don't remember how) implicated.

Weight Control or Mind Control?

Have you seen Quaker's new Weight Control Oatmeal ads? They feature pictures like this:

And this is their tagline: "Take weight off your mind with Weight Control Oatmeal from Quaker."

I don't know about you, but keeping weight off my mind is the least of my problems--keeping it off my ass, now that I could use a little help with.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Perfect Post For September

Before I started a blog, I was a blog stalker. For weeks, I hopped from one blog to another. It was during all this stalking (I think) that I discovered Iowadrift, a blog written by Bihari, a writer and a nurse practioner with a lot of international experience under her belt who (much to her occasional confusion) has ended up living in Iowa, mothering two sons. Many of her posts are fascinating for their "what's it all mean?" quality--her search to define herself as both a mother and a contributing member of the medical community while still trying to find time to allow her creative side to shine is one that so very many of us can identify with--even if the specifics of our particular battle are different.

Specifics are something Bihari is really good at. This month, she wrote "One Day. Just One Day." about the overwhelming and unending demands of mothering small children. And, even if you've never been there, you can feel her pain--because this is not some abstract post about, wow, it's really hard being there all day with them--it's full of the kinds of details that really put you in her shoes. For those of us who have been there, the post hits home even more. We're right there with her, just wishing for one day of peace. I can't give her the peace she wants, but I've got a fancy little Perfect Post button!

So, here's my button:



And, Bihari, it's all yours!

Check out other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.

What Goes Around Comes Around--Though It Might Take a Very Long Time

A million, bazillion years ago, Little Sister and I, ages 12 and 13 went to see a movie with assorted aunts and cousins. The movie, to give you an idea exactly HOW long ago it was, was Blue Lagoon, which we didn't actually get to see because there was a line at the theater all the way around the corner and the aunts weren't at all interested in standing in line for an hour or so to find out all the seats were sold. Instead, they tried to distract us from our catastrophic disappointment by taking us out for pizza.

As we were walking down the street, Little Sister, Cousin L (at the ripe and impossibly mature age of 14), and I tried to distance ourselves from our hopelessly uncool mother/aunts. A carload of hooting and hollering boys went by and Cousin L whistled or shouted something back to them--something somewhat encouraging, though I no longer remember exactly what.

Cousin L's mother (who I uncharitably called--at least in my head--Fat Aunt M the whole time I was in high school*) shouted, "Keep that up and you're not going to have a ride home!"

"Oh, I'll have a ride home," Cousin L laughed, "Maybe not my home, but I'll definitely have a ride home."

Funniest thing I ever heard, I'm tellin' ya'. Little Sister and I have even said it to each other for absolutely no reason once in a while over the years. "Maybe not my home..." heh, heh, heh.

Payback sometimes come in strange and indirect packages.

Last night, Son-Two and I were discussing computer time (which is at a premium around here even though we have three computers, because we have six people--all of whom have various Internet addictions to feed--except me of course. I'm not addicted...I can quit anytime I want...), or some other privilege (again, can't remember and this time it was only last night--not a million, bazillion years ago--how scary is that?) and I thought it was the perfect time to bring up his school performance--to remind him of the connection between good work and rewards.

"When the progress reports come out in a few weeks, I'm not going to find any nasty surprises in the mailbox am I?"

"Weeellll...by now, they shouldn't be surprises, they may be nasty, but they definitely shouldn't be surprising."


*Speaking of karmic retribution--I think I just realized why I'm Fat Aunt S.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

The Masked Mom household is enrolled in Blockbuster Online--it's like Netflix, which all the cool families have, only not cool simply by virtue of the fact that I'm a member. Anyway, the way it works is you have a queue of movies you want to see and when you send back one movie you get the next one from your list. With six people in the household, all of whom have the password for the account, some weird things end up in the queue and because the queue is so long, sometimes it takes a while to get something you want and, by then, you might have no idea that you wanted it.

Consequently, sometimes movies show up in the mailbox that absolutely no one in the house wants to take credit/blame for*. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang was one of those movies. The description on the wrapper (as always) was cut off mid-way through and the part that was included seemed none too promising, but it seemed stupid to send it back without at least giving it a try.

No one was in any hurry to try it, though, which is how the best movie I've seen all year ended up sitting on top of the entertainment stand for a week and a half, unseen by anyone. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, described as an "offbeat action comedy" on the Blockbuster site, stars Robert Downey, Jr. and Val Kilmer as accidental partners trying to solve a murder. It's full of memorable one-liners (and lots of foul language--at the end of the movie, Val Kilmer's character even says, "...and to all you good people in the Midwest, sorry we said fuck so much.") and scenes in which both Val Kilmer and Robert Downey, Jr.'s talents are used to great advantage. I realize they've both had a spotty record** in the acting department, but as far as I'm concerned, they were perfect in these roles and this movie redeems any misjudgments in their pasts.

Word of warning: it's definitely not for everyone. There is a lot of violence, most of it is not graphic, but there are a few "ewwww" moments. And, as both Val and I mentioned, lots of swear words. But if you like dark comedy--think Grosse Pointe Blank or The Ice Harvest, but dial them both up a couple of notches--it's one you don't want to miss.

Another sort of warning: I laughed so hard that by the end of the movie, I had a headache. You might want to pop a few ibuprofen and head your headache off at the pass.

Masked Mom One-Word Review: Hysterical.



*Partway through the movie, I vaguely remembered reading an interview in Esquire (or maybe it was GQ) in which the interviewer described this role as some of Val Kilmer's best work ever. So, maybe, just maybe, I was the one who put it in the queue. Wow, confession really is good for the soul.
**When I told Baby Brother that this was the best role I'd ever seen Val Kilmer in, he smirked, "Better than Batman, even?"

It Takes a Village...

...and they all need to buy stuff from my kids. School means fundraising and fundraising means big, fat headaches for the Masked Mom.

I know a whole lot of moms who feel the same way I do. In fact, Crazy MomCat recently wrote a very well thought-out argument against school fundraising in general and against making us try to sell such useless crap in particular. I agree with practically everything she said and I would like to add a few points of my own:

---When you live in a very small town, especially in the poorest (or second poorest, depending on who you ask) county in the state, everyone reaches their purchasing saturation point much sooner than they might elsewhere. Go the first day of the fundraiser and you'll invariably find that half (or more) of the people have already been hit up by their neighbor or their nephew or some other kid canvassing the neighborhood.

---I've mentioned before that I have no contact with my mother's side of the family and basically haven't since she passed away. Fundraising is the absolutely only time I regret that lack of contact. My mother was one of eleven children--when we had fundraising to do as kids, all we had to do was put the order form on the middle of my grandmother's kitchen table and come back a few hours later. Bam--goal met, if not exceeded.

---Which brings me to my final point--in MomCat's post (as well as in other posts I've read on the subject) she mentions that most parents would probably be much happier just writing out a check than getting stuck with a bunch of ugly, overpriced, totally useless crap not to mention having to sell ugly, overpriced, totally useless crap to our nearest and dearest. I agree that most parents would prefer to do that--the problem is there are parents who don't have the extra cash to write the check (especially in the itty-bitty, poverty-stricken county I live in). And, right there, for me, is the Catch-22 of the fundraising thing. Presumably the idea of fundraising is to help out the parents and students without the extra cash, but the parents who don't have the money are far less likely to have a bunch of friends who have extra money to buy ugly, overpriced, totally useless crap. This becomes especially important in situations where the amount your child sells dictates how much you end up spending out of pocket (as with class trips in our school district).

At the moment, I'm just recovering from a pizza sale for Son-Three's soccer team (quota met, but only through the generosity (and love of pizza) of Other Kid's parents). And still embroiled in a magazine sale for Son-One's senior trip--the goal on this one is $850 in magazine subscriptions. Yeah, wish me luck.

Masked Mom, putting the F-U in fundraising since 1993-94.

Things No One Should Ever Have To Hear

"Your backseat might smell like kimchi. Sorry."

My sister-in-law, Baby Brother's Wife, is Korean-American. We were in Buffalo yesterday for BB's doctor's appointment and there's an Asian market on the same street as the hospital so BBW likes to stock up on all those Asian necessities while we're in the "big city." Apparently, sometime during the two-hour drive home, the lid popped off the kimchi and the bag was full of kimchi juice, which may or may not have leaked out on to my backseat.

Even though I'm pretty sure it didn't actually spill on the backseat, I'm a little scared to go out to the car this morning...Do you think I could call in sick due to possible kimchi contamination?

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Wite-Out Tape

I have occasionally mentioned Cranky Boss Lady--and as her name would imply she's a Cranky sort. My job title at the flower shop is "manager," but my duties consist almost entirely of running interference between CBL and customers, sales reps, and even her family and friends. I need a raise, I think I've mentioned that before as well. I could probably make more in fast food management than I bring home every week from the flower shop.

But I don't quit because, every once in a while, Cranky Boss Lady does something to redeem herself. At Easter, she bought me a Madagascar giraffe (haven't seen the movie, just love giraffes--so no idea what his/her/its name is) basket full of PEEPS! (I'm a Peeps freak from way back--I understand absolutely nothing about why I like them since I hate marshmallows and they're sort of disgusting looking, but hey, there it is). She does this kind of thing once in a while--randomly buys me something--I'm still trying to decide if it's out of some generosity of spirit or if she's just a shopping addict and I'm one of her many "excuses." Regardless, I get the bounty.

This time the bounty was this:

It's amazing stuff. It goes on smooth and dry--you can write on it immediately. Maybe this stuff has been around for ages and I've just never noticed it, but I have to say I'm thrilled that it's finally come into my life.

Yes, I'm a total geek, but I'm passionately in love with Wite-Out Tape and I don't care who knows it.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Brilliant!

Soccer In The Olden Days...

Son-Three has had four home games since Saturday--that's a lot of soccer and I've noticed a funny thing happening as I sit on the sidelines watching the game and all the activity going on both on and off the field (and the surrounding fields). Though they're all dressed a little differently, the cliques of girls and the packs of boys are still divided into fairly recognizable groups--the jocks, the punks, the preps. I can't help getting the feeling that high school hasn't changed all that much. On the one hand, it's kind of comforting--maybe the world isn't hurtling straight into the toilet as I sometimes suspect--but on the other hand, it's sort of terrifying because who would wish high school on their own children?

Remembering high school and soccer games past, a story of Baby Brother's soccer-playing days came to mind. His goal (ha ha--get it?) was to guard a particular player on the opposing team. Apparently, he was staying right on top of the guy and the guy, frustrated and annoyed, finally blurted out, "Are you gay or what?"

Baby Brother, without hesitation, said, "Yeah, you busy tonight?"

Masked Mom's Media Monday: "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)"

On the fifth anniversary of the September 11 attacks, as we all reflect on the ways our country changed and grew from the suffering of that day, Alan Jackson's song "Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)" remains in my mind as the best, truest tale of that day. I still cannot hear it without getting chills--especially today of all days. It is a sincere man's well-thought-out reaction to horrible, horrible events.

I couldn't have said it better than Alan does (and if anyone else could, they haven't yet). So I'll leave you with my favorite lines: "Faith, hope, and love are some good things He gave us/And the greatest is love."

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Moving.

Don't Judge A Post By Its Title (Or Lack Thereof)

My paternal grandmother, my Nan, used to break into song right in the midst of her daily routine for no apparent reason. Often she would sing one or two lines of some off the wall (at least to me) song and then go back to whatever she was doing without even acknowledging (or even seeming to realize) that she'd been singing for five or ten seconds. It was like a mild and musical version of Tourette's syndrome--kind of.

In the past few years, I've found myself doing the same thing--humming "In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida" for no logical reason (as if there exists a logical reason to hum it), singing (in my best operatic voice--which is not operatic at all but more like the sounds a bull walrus would make if someone had him by the balls), "Way down upon the Sewanee river/Far, far, far away," and on really bad days belting out an original (if very short and somewhat foul (or fowl as the case may be)) composition: "Fa-la-la-la-la-fuck-a-duck."

My own outbursts of pointless (not to mention tone deaf and tuneless) music have me a little paranoid about what other genetic time bombs my grandmother has left behind. Will I soon start eating kidney beans straight out of the can while watching People's Court and Entertainment Tonight? Will I shave my legs with a dry razor while sitting on a lawn chair in the front yard? Will I discover my inner kleptomaniac--and begin filching worthless and completely useless items because I can't stop myself?

Anyway, my grandmother's been on my mind this week because one of the songs she would sing was "School Days." You know "School days, school days, dear old Golden Rule days?" Sometimes she would sing it right in the middle of asking one of us how school was going--which at least made a little sense--and sometimes she would sing it for absolutely no discernible reason. I'm happy to report that I haven't sung it yet, but it's been on the tip of my tongue and in the back of my mind all week.

Our first day back to school was Tuesday. For Son-One it was the first day of his senior year. Son-Two's a junior, Son-Three, a sophomore. And Daughter-Only? Well, she's in the Middle School this year.

Given her penchant for freaking out about the smallest things, I was really amazed at how calm she seemed as the new year--in a new building--approached. Even on Monday, with the Big Day less than 24 hours away, she seemed fine. By bedtime, the nerves were starting to show a little--she was studying the map of the building (a building, which, by the way, she's been in a number of times for plays, games, etc) as if her life depended on it, but still, she was doing better than I'd expected (and dreaded) she would.

Tuesday morning, she was ready and waiting long before any of her brothers. When we pulled up to the school, the boys all got out and there was Daughter-Only in the middle of the backseat, looking lost and tiny and just not at all ready to be going to sixth grade (SIXTH!!!) and she says, in her lost, tiny voice, "I don't wanna go."

The truth? I totally sympathize--more than she can possibly know. My first day of sixth grade was in a completely new school where I knew not a single soul and sixth grade is just this gigantic time--the cusp of something, I guess--and it still stands out as the first time (but not the last) in my life that I remember facing a new school with something close to abject terror. I didn't sleep a wink the night before and I can clearly remember being tempted to throw myself at my mother's feet and beg for a reprieve.

My mother wouldn't have given me that reprieve anymore than I could give Daughter-Only the reprieve she was meekly asking for. She got out without further protest and my pride in her at that moment was all tangled up with my sympathy, my empathy, my hopes that things will go smoother for her than they did for me.

"...dear old Golden Rule days..." my ass.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: US Open Tennis

I'm not a big televised sports fan. And I'm definitely not a night owl--I've lost track of how many movies (movies everyone assures me are fantastic, must-see sorts of movies) that I've fallen asleep in front of--if I sit still after 8:34 p.m. I'm very likely to be asleep within minutes. Yet, there I was last Thursday night at sometime obscenely close to midnight when I realized I was not only awake, I was enthralled by a televised sporting event.

Actually, tennis has always been my one televised sport weakness--that and the US Men's Olympic gymnastic team in 1984 (dang, they were hot!!!). The first match I really remember seeing was Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe playing the Wimbledon finals sometime in the early '80s. I was rooting for Jimmy, who seemed so much more mature and refined than John (and you know how important maturity is in a man--especially to a 12-year-old). For both the tennis addiction and the men's gymnastic team lust we have my grandparents to thank--I was staying with them both summers and they got three TV channels with their roof antenna (and those they got only when weather didn't interfere). (I also sat through good portions of the Iran-Contra hearings for the very same reason--though I'm happy to say no lust or lifelong interest in televised Congressional hearings developed from that exposure.)

Anyway, Thursday night, around 10:15, I was aimlessly flipping through channels (we have more than three, but a lot of times it just seems like more channels on which there's nothing at all worth watching) and Son-Two comes in to the living room to say, "Agassi's playing."

So Agassi's playing and it's his last U.S. Open and I ended up not just awake, but enthralled until the middle of the friggin' night watching him beat Marcos Baghdatis. It was one of the best matches I've ever seen--not that I can tell you much about the technical aspects of the sport, just that there was so much heart on both sides of the court that it was inspirational to watch.

And of course, I was right there, Saturday afternoon when Agassi lost to Benjamin Becker--who I actually feel kind of bad for since the first thing they asked him was not how great it was to win, but how it felt to beat Agassi in his final game. Dang, that's cold.

Agassi definitely brought something pretty rare to the sport and he will definitely be missed, but there's some real up-and-comers out there who I'll be keeping an eye on. And, I hear my old buddy Jimmy Connors (who turned 54 a few days ago) is coaching Andy Roddick, so I'll keep watching if only to catch a glimpse of Jimmy in the stands...'cuz you know you never forget your first love.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Riveting.

Perfect Post For August: Special Limited Edition Blogger Barbie!

Just before my ninth birthday, I fell in love. It was spring and the object of my affection was on display outside Montgomery Ward's at the mall across town. (It was called the MJ Mall and it was in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. I have a vision in my mind of how to get there from the house we lived in then--we used to go so often. Of course, whether the vision would hold up in reality, I have no idea and I'm not particularly interested in finding out.)

It was a beautiful bicycle called the Strawberry Dream. It was gorgeous and designed long before that annoying freckle-faced Strawberry Shortcake doll came on the scene so it was covered in actual strawberries and strawberry flowers and leaves and the seat was the cutest pink-and-cream checkered pattern--it was just gorgeous.

I was with my father when I first saw it. I oohed and aahed and he said, "Well your old bike is looking kind of old...and you do have a birthday coming up, maybe you should talk to your mother."

So I talked (okay, whined a little) to my mother and she said, "We could get it for you as an early birthday present, but...we're going to be moving next month and our new house is way out in the country and we thought you might want a pony instead!"

Well, the choice was obvious, I guess, but I did hesitate, believe it or not, fixated a little on the squiggly little plants and the adorable strawberries sprinkled all over the bike--my bike, I already called it--but, in the end, with my mother's assurances that I would get a pony--a real, live pony!!!--for my birthday, I relented and let go of the (Strawberry) Dream.

So, in May, we moved and in July, along came my birthday. Of course, there was no pony--as a parent (especially one on a limited budget), I completely understand how these things happen--how a plan, a "promise," even, can fall apart in the face of unexpected fiscal realities--but as a nine-year-old who unwrapped Ballerina Barbie and her Dream Plaza, I was a bitter little kid.

Ballerina Barbie was the first--and only--Barbie I ever owned. It probably broke some Federal Trade Commission* guidelines for an American girl to make it to the age of nine without owning a Barbie, but I'd never wanted one. I just wasn't a Barbie sort of girl, which made my mother's choice all the more confounding.

Little Sister was of course delighted by the three-story mall with its working elevator and her Barbies couldn't wait to shop there. My Barbie? She owned the mall and on the rare afternoons I spent "playing Barbie," my Barbie went to her day job (as a brain surgeon--her office was in the linen closet--where I chucked her so I could sit in the hall with a book across my knees, while my sister's Barbies shopped to their hearts' content).

Needless to say, Barbie is a subject fraught with lots of angst for me--and apparently, I'm not the only one. I found this month's perfect post over at Suburban Bliss. In Mammoth Barbie, Melissa writes of her own thwarted dreams where Barbie was concerned. And though her take is much different than mine, the emotions--especially those "my parents sooo don't get it" feelings--really struck a chord. As with any "perfect post" or other piece of quality writing, this one is about more than just what it's about, if that makes any sense.

So here's my button--



And, Melissa, it's all yours.

Check out other winners at Suburban Turmoil and/or Petroville.


*These rules have changed but not been abandoned completely: now they apply not to Barbie but to Bratz dolls and Disney Princess crap.