It's Going Around

Justin Timberlake's newest "What Goes Around...Comes Around" is in heavy rotation on the new radio station. (Have I mentioned there's a new radio station in town? I was positively giddy when I heard about it--it plays Top 40 "the best of the '80s, '90s, and now" instead of country or "oldies" like the other two stations. Now I don't have to listen to the staticky Buffalo stations!!!) I hope I'm not the only one to ever be spun into a whirlwind of philosophical thought by the lyrics of a pop song, but if I am, so be it.

I've been thinking all week about that saying, "What goes around, comes around." meaning "he'll get his" or "she'll get hers." It's commonly accepted as fact--and karma, boiled down to its essence and stripped of all subtlety, is just another version of "what goes around, comes around" on a grander, more cosmic scale.

When someone has been cheated on or stolen from or otherwise done wrong, it's practically a reflex to say "what goes around, comes around," as though there is some comfort in the thought that the one who hurt you will someday be hurt, and maybe, deliciously, in exactly the same way he or she hurt you. In the human nature laboratory of the flower shop, where who's done wrong and been done to around town and around the world is the most frequent topic of conversation, I wouldn't doubt I've heard that phrase at least once a day for the past eight years.

I've never been much of a believer in it myself. It seems to me there are lots of people who are perfectly miserable human beings--who treat others with disrespect or outright disdain, who cause others pain as a matter of course--who are walking around, fine and dandy, in some cases (corporate honchos, for instance) they've actually profited from their evil ways and their lives seem measurably better.

There is one particular person I know who seems to have gotten away with being vile on a fairly regular basis. She is routinely nasty to everyone around her--even when she seems to be trying to be nice or generous, there is a pushy element about her generosity (and her expectation of your gratitude). She is two-faced and completely unable to keep a secret. She's bossy and certain her opinion matters significantly more than anyone else's. She delights in other's troubles. (I once saw her call her neighbor's teenage son first thing in the morning--knowing she would wake him up--just to let him know he had a parking ticket on his windshield. She was that eager to be the one to break the "bad news.") All this and yet, nothing disproportionately bad has happened to her. I keep waiting for something heavy to fall on her from way up high, but nothing...

Then it hit me--thanks in part to the prompting of Justin's new song--her punishment for being the way she is is being the way she is. I can't think of anything worse than going through life with a shriveled up and nasty little soul. She's missing so much by being the way she is that there really doesn't need to be any further punishment.

So sing on, Justin, because not only does it come around, sometimes it's already here.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Too Cold

After lulling us into complacency with temps that barely dipped into the teens at night and highs in the 30s and 40s during the day for much of January, we've been hit by temps below zero with windchills in the HOLY CRAP area. (Seriously, our town had the coldest windchills in the viewing area of the Buffalo TV station--we were at negative 31 degrees this morning. I've resolved not to look tomorrow morning.)

I was at the grocery store this evening, hastily throwing my groceries in the car and I went, "Errggghhhh!" because I was cold and just as I did a girl walking up the sidewalk toward the store made exactly the same noise. And we both looked at each other in sympathy and I said, "It's the only logical response."

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Errgghhhh!

PS--It's supposed to break tomorrow. Let's hope so...

Perfect Post For January: "...an oncoming train of painful insight"

January is typically the month of the year when resolutions are made and, all too often, broken. The month when, if we're not careful, we will descend into a pit of introspection from which we might never escape. Self-awareness is generally a good thing, but there's a point at which your brain begins to chase its own tail. I remember, during a particularly fruitless and melodramatic time, thinking of all that soul-searching as being lost in a wilderness of mirrors where you can't find the path home because all you can see are facets of yourself reflected back at you.

Lucky for me that at the beginning of this month, I came across "choo" at tuckova. There is a lesson to be learned (admittedly at tuckova's expense) there. I will, of course, not learn it, but it sure was nice to see the raging battle between self-assurance and self-doubt spelled out in a post so short and sweet and sneakily brilliant.

So here's my button:



And, tuckova, it's all yours!

Other winners at Petroville and Suburban Turmoil.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: One Punk Under God

I'm not sure how I'm going to talk about a mini-series called One Punk Under God about Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker (Messner)'s son Jay, without getting into a discussion of religion in general, but that's my goal. Religion, like anything we are passionate about, can rarely be discussed calmly and rationally--perhaps because so much of faith and belief comes from some place not entirely rational--and while it's possible for people who care about one another to agree to disagree, the Internet is full of people who don't really care about each other and many who are just looking for a fight and the opportunity to flaunt their own faith or belief (usually in the form of harshly judging those who dare to be different from themselves).*

As so often happens, I found the mini-series One Punk Under God purely by accident. Our cable package includes a Sundance Channel "sampler" where you can watch selected shows "on demand" for free and I was flipping idly through one afternoon and thought the title was intriguing.

Five minutes in, I was completely charmed by Jay Bakker, who may look a little "punk"--tattooed and pierced, but who is soft-spoken and utterly sincere in his religious searching and in the comfort he tries to provide for the members of his own church Revolution. (During one sermon, he says, "We're not here to judge you, we're just here to love on you.") The piercings and the tattoos as well as his prematurely balding head are a contrast to his little boy lost manner. He is human and vulnerable and uncertain and completely unafraid to show it. Like his father, he is a minister. Unlike his father, he was not called to the sterile world of TV studios but to the streets.

We also get to see glimpses of his relationship with his father, who has a new show of his own, and his mother, who suffers from Stage 4 cancer. He is extremely close to his mom, visiting her often and speaking to her regularly. His relationship with his father is more strained and restrained.

The six episodes of the series show Jay and his wife Amanda preparing to move from Atlanta to New York where she will continue her education as well as Tammy Faye's worsening health and Jay's attempts to reconnect with his father.

Considering it was something I never meant to watch, I found the show fascinating and, dorky as it sounds, touching.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Surprising.

PS--If you're interested, clips from the episodes are available at Sundance.com and can be purchased and downloaded from iTunes.

*The harsh judgment isn't in any way one-sided. I've seen atheists who are just as judgmental in their own way as the rabid fundamentalists. It goes back to wanting everyone else to believe what you believe, I guess.

If I Were You: Some Free Advice About Free Advice

I have mentioned before that the flower shop where I work is a magnet for folks with nothing better to do--I call them the shop groupies. They're people who stop by and linger for a few minutes or an hour or, in the case of K, the unemployed Drama Queen, all day several days a week. Some days, I want to crawl under the futon we keep in the office and hide from them all. But most days, they're a big part of what makes my job tolerable at all.

In our office, my chair is tucked into a corner behind my desk, which has shelves that provide something of a hiding place for me. And I will often hide there, tucked away, not commenting on the subject of choice--politics, religion, celebrity gossip, exes, in-laws, ex-in-laws--but definitely taking notes. I don't comment mostly because the issues are often the sort that boil down to a matter of opinion and I don't believe it's my job to change someone else's opinion--plus, even after eight years on the job (and therefore in most of these people's lives), I'm a little shy.

One afternoon, we had several people gathered in the tiny office and one of them was ranting on and on about her sister-in-law, a woman who by all accounts is extremely annoying--self-centered, rude, argumentative, whiny. Another person spoke up and said, "I would tell my brother that bitch isn't welcome in my house."*

Now, there's little doubt in my mind that this particular person would tell her brother that--and she would be proud of it and she would probably enjoy it thoroughly--effects on the rest of the family be damned. But, I also look at this person's life--and the fact that she has three brothers who are in no way part of her daily (or even weekly) life--and I think to myself, "Okay, here are the results of being the sort of person who tells her brother that his bitchy wife isn't welcome in her house."

Maybe Advice Giver in this situation is content with being contacted by one of her three brothers once a year and by the other two even less often--maybe a close relationship with her siblings isn't a priority to her--and that's certainly her perogative. But let's leave room for the Ranter in the above situation to want a different outcome--let's let Ranter rant safely in the relative privacy of the office of the flower shop so that she has some hope of continuing to fake it with her Psycho Sister-in-Law and thereby maintain her relationship with her brother which may be more important to her than the momentary satisfaction of telling the brother what she really thinks of his wife.

Have you ever noticed that the most avid advice givers--the ones who give it whether it's asked for or not--are often the most outwardly miserable people among us? Advice Giver above may never admit that she regrets driving so many people from her life (it's certainly not limited to her siblings), but from the outside, it's not hard to see the result of offering unsolicited and often unconsidered--she's a good one for popping off in the heat of the moment, but too stubborn to go back later and admit she was wrong--opinions to everyone around you.

My advice on advice? Consider the source--look at your advisor's life. When they say, "If I were you--" their own lives are, at least theoretically, where they put their "wisdom" to work. If they don't live by their own wisdom, that says something quite clearly about the value of that wisdom or at least about the advisor's tendency toward hypocrisy.

Unsolicited advice is especially suspect. In general, people content with their own lives don't feel compelled to meddle in other's lives.** In other words, the people with some real wisdom are more likely to mind their own business while those a little too confident in their own common sense are all too often happy to share the wealth.

So look at the person whose advice you're considering--is her life something worth emulating? Or is she alone more often than not? Unhappy as a matter of habit? Is she the sort of person you duck down the dairy aisle to avoid in the grocery store? Is she someone worthy of your respect and admiration? If not, then she probably doesn't know any better than you do. All this advisory meddling is probably just a ploy to distract herself from her own bitter and hollow life.

*There are doubtless circumstances in which a bitch, be she my brother's wife or not, would not be welcome in my house as well and I would definitely say so, if for instance, she were a threat to my children or my sanity, etc. But the bitchy, psycho sister-in-law in question is bitchy more in petty and silly ways--ways that I would just try to see as the price we pay for having people other than ourselves in our lives.

**The exception is professional advice givers like Dr. Phil, who's a favorite of mine--if by favorite you mean someone whom I would duck down the dairy aisle to avoid in the grocery store. Dr. Phil is clearly not an unhappy man and yet he continues to spew advice on a regular basis--and why shouldn't he? He's become fabulously wealthy by pointing out the obvious to people too dense to figure it out for themselves.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Cell Phone Manners

I'm not going to talk about cell phone etiquette and I'm not going to rant about cell phone junkies in general. First because "etiquette" is one of those things people often convince themselves (probably wrongly) only applies in formal or business situations--not, say, in the line at the grocery store or in the back row of the movie theater and so on. And second because, living in the teeny town I live in, I've been relatively sheltered from the really rude cell phone junkies that seem to plague major metropolitan areas.

But I am going to talk about a cell phone crime so heinous that I may need therapy to recover from it.

I was browsing at the library this afternoon--a thing we know I dearly love to do. I only had ten minutes I could steal away from work and so I was sort of speed-browsing. In that ten minutes, three patrons received cell phone calls. All three of them answered their phones and carried on conversations right there in the library!

Now, our library strives to be a casual and comfortable sort of place, I think. None of the librarians are of the "shushing" persuasion. There are often quiet (and even not so quiet) conversations taking place in every corner. But c'mon! Taking a phone call?! In the library!? Nearly shouting to be heard over static, telling your husband or your sister or your mom--along with every other patron in the library--what's for dinner or where you are or what movie you're trying to check out?!

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Uncivilized.

Driving Lessons

In October, Son-Two got his learner's permit and promptly (well, within the week) drove the car over a curb and came to rest along a line of trees. All sorts of things contributed to this minor accident--I didn't give him enough warning to make the turn, he made the turn anyway (even though he was obviously going too fast), the grassy area on the other side of the curb was soft and wet from a week of rain causing us to slide much further than we would've otherwise and to be more thoroughly stuck once we stopped, we went over the curb at the top of a steep hill so even gravity played a part. There was no damage to our vehicle--nor to the trees--and while waiting for the tow truck to pull us out, two friendly town cops regaled us with stories of other drivers (many with much more experience) who had "failed to negotiate" (as the radio newscasters are fond of saying) this particular turn.

So we were none the worse for wear, except for $50 for the tow truck and a hit to Son-Two's driving confidence which was already sort of unstable. Sitting beside him when he's behind the wheel, it's obvious he's not convinced he's in control of the vehicle--even when all outward signs are good--speed reasonable, fully in his own lane, no weaving or wheel yanking, no gear grinding--Son-Two still radiates a discomfort bordering on outright fear that does nothing to calm his mother's frazzled nerves.

Daily practice for a few weeks made both of us feel a little better. Then he backed out of the driveway into a minister's car. (The GEICO is my hero accident.)

About a week after the accident--more of an incident really (other than the way in which it illustrated to me (not for the first time) that being a "man of the cloth" is no guarantee of a person's character)--we stopped at the landfill transfer station on the way to the boys volleyball practice. There are two bays there, where you back in so you can just toss your garbage out the back of your vehicle. One of the bays is deeper than the other and that's the one I usually use. On this particular day, though, it was occupied so I backed into the other one and promptly forgot (dragged into a debate on the relative merits of Scrubs vs. The Office or something equally earth-shattering) which bay I was in.

The bumper of the van connected--loudly--with the metal barrier designed to stop people (idiots like me) from driving their vehicles directly into the gigantic trash compactors. And Son-Two says, "Wow! Wonder where I get it from?"

Ha. Ha. But it made me think--and not for the first time--about whether I have any business trying to teach anyone how to drive. I've mentioned my stellar driving record--and it is, of course, family lore--so there have been occasional teasing questions, "You're teaching him to drive?!"

Well, yes I am. For a variety of reasons--including but not limited to temperament--Hubby is not an option in the driving teacher department. The school driver's education program is underfunded and understaffed and the waiting list is long and in any case, some parent-guided driving time would be necessary to supplement whatever time he could squeeze out with three other students in the car every time they went out.

Regardless of how bad a driver I am, he's stuck with me. Wondering how qualified I really am to teach Son-Two how to drive led me to wondering how qualified I am to teach any of them anything.

Little Sister and I used to joke that we were going to write a self-help book covering all the major life topics--parenting, marriage, career, family relationships--and call it What Not To Do because even though we had no idea how to do any of it right, through years and years of personal experience, we knew all about how not to do it.

I started getting depressed--thinking all I could pass along to my kids was a long list of things to avoid--when I remembered that my own mother had tried to pass along much the same list to me. Did I listen? No. Would I have listened even if she had nailed down the secrets of the universe? No. Would my kids listen to me? Probably not.

And thank goodness. Wisdom is non-transferable--there's no way to get it except by getting out there and figuring out all the ways there are to be unwise. And maybe knowing what not to do isn't such a small thing...we've definitely earned it...and my kids will have to earn it too.

Here's hoping Son-Two is soon done learning how not to drive.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: What It Used To Be Like

Raymond Carver is one of those authors who's been on my List for years--that List I keep of books and authors I plan on getting around to sooner or later. I've never actually read any of his short stories or poetry, but I've read quite a bit about the man himself.

Recently, I came across a piece in The Sun by his second wife, Tess Gallagher, about his hard-won sobriety. The piece included some of his poems and my interest in him became even greater. Before I had a chance to dig around in the stacks for a short story collection, I stumbled on a book by his first wife, Maryann Burk Carver.

What It Used To Be Like is the story of their marriage--beginning in their teens and lasting twenty-five years. When I first started reading the book, it was out of curiosity about Ray Carver, but a few chapters in, I realized I was just as fascinated by this woman who, while she was still a girl, made a commitment to a man, who was still in many ways a boy and how the two of them fought so hard for so long to make their marriage work--against incredible odds.

It helps that the book reads as though Maryann is sitting across the table from you with a cup of coffee reminiscing about her life with one of America's greatest writers. Writing was central to Ray's life and, therefore, to Maryann's and while it's never far from the surface, I don't think you have to be a full-out bibliophile to really appreciate this book.

It's about much more than writing--it's about all the intricacies and complexities of trying to build a life together under extraordinary circumstances and I would recommend it to anyone who's interested in the thousand and one ways husbands and wives prop each other up and let each other down.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Valuable.

Signs From The Powers That Be

I'm always on the lookout for signs from the universe, messages from beyond, you know any hint I can gather to make life a little easier or safer or just more understandable. Once you start looking, you find they're everywhere--songs on the radio, fortune cookies, conversational coincidences--of course figuring out what they mean is a whole other thing.

For example, yesterday morning, I nudged hubby awake because his dogs were whining. He immediately mumbled what sounded like: "It's not going to be a tuba."

"It's not going to be a tuba."

Or maybe he said tuna. "It's not going to be a tuna."

Later, while I was trying to decipher the meaning of this profound statement, Son-One suggested that maybe Hubby had said, "It's not going to be a tumor."

So, now I'm sitting here wondering how tunas, tubas, or (non)tumors may fit into our immediate future. Maybe it's better just not knowing...

A Post About A Comment--Now I Know I've Gone Too Far...

Fellow bloggers out there, have you ever read a post on someone else's blog and then, say, at some time nearing one a.m., left a comment and then stared at the ceiling half the night thinking about that comment and even though you stand by everything you said in the original comment, you also feel like you didn't say quite enough or quite what you meant to say and there's really, surprisingly, a lot more to say on the topic?

No?

Well, I guess I'm just more of a freak than even I thought, huh?

Last night (this morning?), I read Lindsay's post over at Suburban Turmoil titled "To Snip or Not to Snip. That Is The Question." Lindsay is pregnant with a baby boy and is mulling over the circumcision issue--and finding the conflicting "advice," so much of it militant, a little overwhelming. By the time I read the post, Lindsay had 111 comments on the subject, only some of which I read and which seemed to run about half for, half against circumcision. For every commenter who had a scary story about an unsnipped guy there was a commenter who had scary stories about snipped ones. For every commenter who said not being snipped was no big deal--not a health or social impediment as some of the pro-snippers implied, there was someone who countered that being snipped is also no big deal--the baby doesn't remember the pain or doesn't feel it the same way or whatever.

In short, if Lindsay was looking for a definitive answer or even some sort of general consensus, she wasn't going to get it. So instead of commenting specifically to the issue of circumcision, here's what I said:

~My husband and all three of my sons are uncircumcised. It has not yet been an issue for any of them.(Medically at least. I have my doubts about whether my teenage sons would share any emotional or psychological discomfort, but I'm hopeful that because it hasn't come up, it hasn't been too much of an issue.)

~I think we all get a little wrapped up in seeing someone else's choice as a judgement of our own choice: If you decide not to do it, it's a comment on my decision to do it. Despite all the bluster and insistence that our way is the only way, I think what lies at the core of these raging battles between parents (work/SAHM, breast/bottle, snip/not), is a deep insecurity and uncertainty on each side.

~Ultimately, like so much of parenting, I think it comes down to making a choice in good faith and hoping that whichever way you go you don't scar your kid (emotionally or otherwise) for life. As the comments here from/about both circumcised and uncircumcised men clearly show, there's no way of predicting every possible outcome or side effect from either decision so, once you've done all the research, you just kinda have to cross your fingers and pick one. (Oh, and blog about it--don't forget to blog about it.)

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I started thinking about what a wimp I am and how I should've defended the unsnipped position, because it is something I obviously felt strongly enough about to go against the prevailing tide. The doctor who delivered Son-One eighteen years ago made no comment on our decision not to snip, but some of the nurses did and my mother did. My mother had a lot of comments to make on the subject--she was convinced I was making a terrible mistake that would doom my son to a life of both social and physical discomfort. Son-Two's doctor--a different doctor in a much smaller town--was also very accepting of our choice. My mother still had lots of comments to make. Son-Three's doctor was a little less accepting and asked me five or six times at the hospital if I was sure I didn't want it done. I had a three-year-old and an eighteen-month-old "undone" at home and had never regretted the choice, so, yeah, I was pretty sure. My mother? Still not sure and still there with the comments.

My distress at my failure to defend my position led me right back to the "meat" of my comment which is that we all are entirely too defensive on these sorts of subjects. To me, the issue of circumcision is fairly cut (or not cut) and dried--much of what I've read indicates that there are no compelling reasons to do it. But there is an equal number of (theoretically) equally convincing arguments to do it. What I'm interested in is why these either/or decisions have to be so divisive.

In my comment, I wrote that I think the vehemence often comes from our insecurities about our own choices. I say that not in some abstract way but as a wife and mother who scrolled through a hundred-some comments, cringing at the ones made by women who called intact penises "icky" and other really mature stuff, and not thinking to myself, "Wow, those are some really immature and shallow women," but "Wow, I made a huge mistake and have doomed my sons to a lifetime of having their man-parts mocked by shallow women."

I felt a sudden urge to climb up on a soapbox and start spouting statistics and spewing anecdotes and hurling words like "barbaric" and "unnecessary" and "antiquated." I fought the urge because I'm pretty sure it was coming as much from a desire to convince myself I'd done the right thing than from any desire to convince Lindsay (or anyone) what to do about her son's foreskin.

Obviously, not everyone with a strong opinion is using it to hide their own deep-rooted insecurities. But, I think some of us are and I think we'd all be a lot better off if we could remember that--whichever side of the debate (whatever debate it happens to be) we're on.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: GEICO

Hands down, GEICO has the best commercials in the insurance industry--even though the celebrity ones have started to grate on my nerves a little and I'm not sure how much further they can go with the cave man ones and I'm a little afraid to see how long they'll continue them after they stop being funny. But that's not why I became a GEICO customer--I became a GEICO customer in August of last year, when I realized that I could pay half what the next lowest competitor was charging for the exact same coverage.

I did the whole thing on-line, printed out proof of insurance that came with scannable bar codes for the DMV and it all took less than half an hour. I'll admit I was a little concerned about customer service--despite Charo's* assurances--but I went ahead and signed up anyway figuring that when and if I did have to file a claim, if things didn't go well, I could always switch.

When and if came a lot sooner than I would've hoped. In December (a scant five months after my coverage began), Son-Two backed out of our driveway and into the side of a car belonging to a visitor across the street. Our car was undamaged but the other car was hit just in front of the front driver door and there was a dent in the front fender. To me, it looked like the kind of thing that could be popped out by a clever guy with a deft hand and a plunger. But the estimate was in the neighborhood of $1400.

I filed my claim on-line at 8:12 a.m. I immediately receive an automated e-mail confirming my claim and providing a claim number. The e-mail said I would be contacted within 48 hours. I was contacted well within 48 hours--in fact, I got a call from GEICO at around 8:23 the same morning. More importantly, I was off the phone by 8:35--the whole thing taken care of.

The best part? Friday I received the bill for my next six months of coverage. I was afraid to open the e-mail, because I hadn't even made it through my first six months with the company without having to file a claim. I fully expected my premium to go up. It went down. Down! Down! Can you believe it?

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: I-just-saved-a-buncha-money-on-my-car-insurance.

*The funniest thing about those commercials is trying to explain to your kids who the hell Charo is. Even if you remember her from the Seventies (which I do because my grandfather had a thing for her, among other reasons), you can't really say who she is. She sings, she dances, she tries to act (Love Boat, anyone?) but she's not really what you'd call a singer or a dancer or--even less--an actor. She's an entertainer, sort of, but really just a personality. One of the boys saw the commercial, with her broken English and weird-ass noises and jiggling, and said, "Mom, who is she?" I tried to explain and he cut in, "Yeah, but what did she do?" I said, "You're pretty much lookin' at it." She wiggled, she made weird noises and she talked nonsense and gibberish--in two languages.

Another (Missed) Shot At Fame And Fortune

So Daughter-Only and I are in the bleachers at the boys' volleyball game when the opposing team hits the ball straight into the floor where it bounces up and hits one of our players, Player 8, in a sensitive spot.

Daughter-Only and I were chuckling sympathetically (we were sympathetic, but, regardless of how sympathetic you are, there's still something funny about it--witness America's Funniest Videos) when all of a sudden, Daughter-Only says, "That reminds me of the time Player 8's little brother [who is also on the team], Player 5 and I were on the trampoline together..."

And she proceeds to tell me a story about two summers ago, when Player 5 & 8 lived two houses over, and Player 5 had come over to play on the trampoline. Despite safety warnings to never allow more than one person on the trampoline, there were frequently five or six people on the trampoline. On this particular day, there were only two--or at least only two who mattered.

As Daughter-Only was bouncing up, Player 5 was coming down and somehow (and here is where video would come in handy & not just because I think we'd be finalists on AFV but because I'm all about the how and the why of things), somehow Player 5's braces became entangled in Daughter-Only's zipper--her pants zipper.

She immediately began laughing hysterically, though Player 5 was considerably less amused. He tried to yell at her, saying, "It's not funny." but with his braces stuck in her zipper, of course he couldn't talk right so he said, "isssht nossht fusshny" or something similar which only made Daughter-Only laugh even harder, which made Player 5 even angrier.

He was trying to work his way loose but not having any luck and he somehow communicated to Daughter-Only they were going to have to go over to his house so his mom could help get them untangled. As Daughter-Only tells it, "I was this-close to having to walk across the yards with Player 5 hooked to my zipper, when he popped off his rubber bands and that got him loose."

Yeah, and I was this-close to winning $10,000 but no one had a video camera.

Perfect Post for December: My Job

Daughter-Only is in sixth grade this year and recently finished up her marking period of "Family and Consumer Sciences" which is just the fancy, modern name for Home Ec. Each day she had FCS, she would come home stunned. "Mom! There are kids in my class who don't know how to use a washer and aren't even allowed to use it!" "Mom! There are kids in my class who have never even made themselves toast!"

I shared with her the story of when her aunt, my Youngest Sister, went off to college at a small, private university and many of her classmates--18, 19 year olds from fabulously wealthy families--still couldn't use a washer or dryer or cook for themselves. YS was also suitably stunned. I also lost no time in pointing out to Daughter-Only that despite all the complaining that gets done around here regarding chores, perhaps she was beginning to understand the purpose of all of them.

I am too disorganized and wishy-washy to have an actual chore chart, but my kids are expected to contribute to the household. When I get tired of all the whining and groaning and the "it's not fair" and all that, I sometimes snap at them, "It's not my job to provide a wonderful childhood* for you, it's my job to create functioning adults."

I'm only too aware that I may very well be failing at even that job--that there are things as important and more so than being able to wash laundry or scrub a pot or make simple meals--but it's the point I try to keep in mind as I make my way through the labyrinth that is parenting teenagers. It's my parenting philosophy, however I may fail to live up to it.

Of course, there are as many parenting philosophies as there are parents--more even, since any honest parent who's child is no longer in utero will tell you that their philosophy often changes from moment to moment and more so from year to year. That evolution is part of what December's Perfect Post is about.

Julie over at Ravin' Picture Maven discusses parenting philosophy along with the differences between Mom parenting and Dad parenting among many other things in her post Parenting As If I Might Get Hit By A Bus Tomorrow. My favorite part of course was when she talks about not wanting her kids to grow up, move out on their own and realize that they completely lack basic skills--judging from my daughter's and my sister's experience, this is a very real concern and it's so nice to have my position validated so that I can feel like a little less of the raging lunatic bitch my kids often clearly see me as.

So, for making me feel like less of a b-word, here's my button:



And, Julie, it's all yours!

See other winners over at Lindsay's and MommaK's.

*I would like the record to show that when they were younger children--still in the childhood part of their childhoods rather than in the adolescent part of their childhoods--I made real efforts to give them arts and crafts and days at the park and cookie-making and all those other fun childhood things. I just didn't want anyone thinkin' I've treated them like free labor their whole lives--it's just been the past coupla years.

PS--Happy B-day to Blonde Best Friend From High School! May this coming year be your best ever.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Oops

Due to a whirlwind of festivities and extended exposure to family (both extended and immediate), Masked Mom's Media Monday took the day off.

We will return next Monday with insightful reviews on a variety of "media" subjects. (Okay, maybe not "insightful" but we will return.)

A Belated Christmas Present--Sort Of

When the incident I am about to share first happened, I was going to post about it--I could hardly wait to get home and post about it, in fact. But then, I talked myself out of it--because I wasn't sure what I would say about it and how it would come off. Then last night, I'm catching up on blog-browsing and come across a post about a similar incident at Jenandtonic and I figure if it's good enough for Jen, it's good enough for me.

All this is a long-winded way of introducing a story about how the day after Christmas, I was out to lunch (literally, which is rarer than the metaphorical way I am so often "out to lunch") with my three youngest (Son-One is antisocial and recovering from a nasty sinus infection) children. The place was packed--it's one of those regional greasy spoons that people go back to more for the nostalgia than for the food and during the holidays, everyone who's home from somewhere else crams themselves in there--my kids and I have no such excuse.

Anyway, as we were getting up to leave, an older woman* at the next booth patted me on the arm and said, "Are you their mother?" Apparently her companion, who looked to be about my age was convinced I was their sister. I mean, maybe she meant their MUCH older sister, who knows?

The older lady said, "I told her it would make your day to hear that."

I thanked her profusely but as I told Hubby, when I got home, "Why would it make my day that a total stranger was so badly in need of an eye exam?"

*This woman had already drawn the attention of our table when Son-Three noticed her putting salt and pepper in her glass of milk. Maybe we all need to get out more but this was a new one on me.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: A Holiday Tune

(Sung to the tune of "O, Christmas Tree")

Ne-glected blogs, ne-glected blogs,
We're sorry we've ignored you,
No time to post, no time to browse,
No time for clever commenting.
With gifts to wrap and trees to trim,
Our blogging time has been slim.
But January's almost here
With its holiday-free days
And we'll all be back to babbling.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Exhausting.

Ho Ho How The Hell Did It Get To Be December 21?

Last year for Christmas, one of my gifts was a Trivial Pursuit page-a-day calendar. Once in a while during the year, I couldn't help thinking that Trivial Pursuit was not merely the trademarked game the calendar was based upon but also some sort of philosophical commentary on the state of my life.

As I ripped off pages, I began thinking that a page-a-day calendar is a concrete reminder of how fast the days really pass. Somewhere around November 10, I began focusing on how few days remained to be torn off. It seemed like we were zipping through the year at an unprecendented pace.

And now here we are four days before Christmas. My gift-buying not quite complete, a few straggling cards left behind still awaiting their personal notes, some baking left to do, extra hours at the shop to fill up what little time there's left between now and the Big Day...

Ah, crap, just call me Ebenita Scrooge.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Inflatables

They are a fungus upon the land.

The end.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Fungal.

(Exceptions can be made for people with children under, say, seven in their lives. Everyone else--cut it out!!!! I mean seriously--I've seen yards with 18 or 20 of the damn things. Wouldn't it be way more time, energy and cost efficient to just put a big billboard up that says, "I have way too much money and way too few brains." Shoot, we can do it in neon if it'll make 'em feel better.)

The Hard Sell (& I Ain't Buyin')

So, remember how I said Wal-Mart's the Debil? Well, at the moment, that other big (well, used to be big and now has been in and back out of bankruptcy) mart is on my list. I went in last week and as I stepped through the second set of sliding doors, I spotted the dreaded Olan Mills hard sell table set up right in the middle of the path to the rest of the store.

They do this every once in a while--set up a table with all these sample portraits of other people's children and man it with some barely out of adolescence girl who can rattle off whatever special they're pushing all in one breath. I do whatever I can to avoid it--because it's a waste of my time and theirs and I also bitterly resent the feeling that listening to the spiel is a requirement for the privilege of buying socks at buy one, get one 50% off.

This time was no different, with Son-Three in tow, I executed my patented duck left and across the line of registers and up past the one-hour photo counter and on into the safety of the store (where, for goodness sake, I just wanted to buy a printer cartridge, some cheapo Christmas cards and a little bunny food). So Son-Three and I are perusing the Christmas card selections on the $2.99 a box rack when we're joined by Daughter-Only (who'd been at the store next-door) and, right behind her is the Olan Mills Chick, who immediately begins giving me the breathless spiel.

At the end of each of her sentences (which I could spot only by context, because as I said, she never paused for breath), I said, "Okay." In what I hoped was a civilized but clear-cut signal that I wasn't interested. She persisted through a paragraph of information as though I had never spoken and then walked off.

Daughter-Only actually stood there with her mouth hanging open. "Mom, you kept saying 'okay' like you were wanting her to stop talking and she totally ignored you, like completely, just ignored you. Wow." (Why the person who ignores me like no one has ever ignored me before would be so amazed that someone else would ignore me is completely beyond me.)

I have never seen anything like it in my life. I would've thought she was wandering around giving her spiel to everyone, but, no, she didn't stop anyone else. That little twit had seen me execute my patented move and come after me.

Listen, I work retail. I know it's tough out there. Okay? I get that she's trying to earn commissions and how much it must annoy her that people don't even give her the time of day. But guess what? It's not my job to humor her. It's my job to go to the discount store and buy socks, and printer cartridges and electronics made in China with a lead content long ago deemed unsafe in the US*. So here's what I'm gonna do instead of taking her up on her breathless offer of overpriced portraits...I'm gonna write on my blog what an idiot she was and how I will never, ever, no matter what use Olan Mills in this town again.


*It's not only electronics of course. Have you checked out your Christmas lights--do they have that fancy sticker that warns you to wash your hands after touching them? Isn't that nice of them? You know, if we're going to allow unsafe lead into our country and into our homes, at least we're gonna put a teeny, tiny sticker on it with a barely legible warning. That oughta keep people safe, huh?

Benefits Package, Or One Reason I Haven't Quit My Job Even Though I'm Often Sorely Tempted To Do So

Customer calls today, says she wants to send flowers to her "natural mother," who lives in a town several hours from here.

I start to take the information but when we get to the natural mother's phone number, the customer says, "Well, I don't actually have it. See, I met her in person when I was in my mid-twenties and now every year I send her flowers at Christmas, but the only time we ever talk on the phone is after she gets the flowers and she calls me to thank me when she's five sheets to the wind*."

Now, where else are you going to get to hear stories like that without a degree in psychology or having to stand all night behind a bar?

*There ensued, as there so often will at my place of employment, a mini-debate over whether the actual expression is "three sheets to the wind" as I thought, in which case five sheets to the wind is an extra two sheets drunk, or "six sheets to the wind" as Cranky Boss Lady thought, in which case (as CBL said) the natural mother's "missing a sheet." This evening, Hubby came down on the "six sheets" side and, as he's no stranger to either drunkenness or sailing, I was willing to concede defeat--but a quick Google check reveals that although both "three" and "six" are used, "three" is far more common. I say we quit all the bickering and just start using "sheets" as a unit of measurement for drunkeness. So you can be one sheet to the wind or six sheets to the wind. It's not as scientific as a blood alcohol level but it's way more poetic and colorful.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Celebrity Gossip

Cranky Boss Lady: Did I tell you Kimberly Williams-Paisley is pregnant?

Masked Mom: Yes, you did (...what you neglected to tell me is why I should give one teeny, tiny crap about someone I've never met).

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Overrated. (Celebrity gossip, that is, not Kimberly Williams-Paisley, who seems very likable except for the fact that if the song Brad Paisley wrote about her is anywhere near accurate, she's setting the bar a little high for all the rest of us. And, truthfully, I'm not entirely against celebrity gossip, and may even occasionally indulge in it myself. It's just that early on a Monday morning is probably not the right time to be asking me (for the third time) if you've told me Kimberly Williams is pregnant because A) It's Monday morning. B) I find your "pronouncement from the mount" voice especially annoying and intolerable on Mondays. C) I can barely care about people I know well and in some cases am related to by blood early on Monday. Hell, maybe it's not even Celebrity Gossip that's overrated so much as Cranky Boss Lady, (unpaid, unacknowledged, unauthorized, unwelcome and unnecessary) publicist to the stars.)

Weather Report

Cranky Boss Lady (looking out the back door): Hey, we have a little flake activity out here.

Masked Mom (looking around the shop at assorted shop groupies): Yeah, we've got some flake activity in here too but you don't hear us bragging about it.

He Just Doesn't Get It*

[Blurt Alert: It's pretty much all TMI here today.]
After twenty years of marriage, you would think Hubby and I would know one another pretty well. And it's true that he can tell you lots of things about me--that I hate canned peas (they are vile and I hope they die**), love Diet Dr. Pepper, read an insane number of books, magazines, etc on a wide variety of subjects, have a fantasy of opening a writer's retreat out in the back woods somewhere and raking in big bucks to hang out with people I'd gladly hang out with for free (and that my alternative fantasty is to drive an ice cream truck--not to make my living that way, but to be independently wealthy and drive an ice cream truck for a hobby).

He can accurately predict that four out of ten times when he tells me, "I'm going to go jump in the shower," I will say, "Be careful not to slip and fall." Neither of us can tell you why this remains funny to me, but it's probably related more to his consistently giving me that opening than to the fact that I am in dire need of psychiatric attention. (Have no doubt, I am in dire need, just not about this particular thing.)

So, yes, he knows some stuff about me.

How, then, can he fail to notice that by the end of many days, I feel rubbed raw--emotionally, physically--so that any touch, any contact feels like bare hands on scraped skin? Ever stick your finger in the middle of a fresh brush burn when you were a kid, just to see how it felt? Yeah, it's like that.

And why, oh why, does he insist on taking it personally when my response isn't entirely positive?

In addition to all the stesses of the day that make hiding under the bed sound way more appealing than rolling around on top of it, Hubby and I have always been on different schedules. He's naturally programmed to stay up late--really late, like 2 a.m. is average bedtime for him--in fact when Daughter-Only was in first grade and they were learning about nighttime animals versus daytime animals, she came home and said, "Mommy, Daddy is nocturnal, isn't he?"

Though I have struggled with bouts of insomnia, my ideal bedtime is in the 11 o'clock range. So by the time Hubby comes to bed, I'm usually (ideally) not at all conscious so these moves he's hoping to impress me with are way less impressive. The rare nights I happen to be conscious when he comes in, I am usually bitterly resentful about being awake in the middle of the night and, therefore, not interested in anything that might keep me awake in the middle of the night even longer. None of this seems reasonable to him.

Not only does the "I'm asleep" argument not move him (or stop him moving?), but my being in the throes of a life-threatening (or so it seemed) cold also didn't sway him. One night a few weeks ago, he came to bed and there I was hacking away, obviously tubercular and typhoidal or at the very least cranky and uncomfortable and it didn't even slow him down. I think I croaked, "Are you kidding me?" before he rolled over in a huff that night.

I guess I should take it as a compliment***, and I try, I really do, but I also feel misunderstood at a fundamental level. Like somehow, even twenty years in, he really doesn't know me or see me at all.

*Pun acknowledged though not entirely intended.
**YS--I'd spare the asparagus if someone could just take out the peas.
***That's a lot easier on the nights like the one last week when we'd been bickering most of the day and he came to bed at 1:30 or so and began his "vigorous cuddling" routine and I said, "What the hell planet do you live on?" And he said, "I live on the Damn You Smell Good Planet." It was kinda cute. Woulda been way cuter at a decent hour, but hey you take what you can get, right?

Masked Mom's Media Monday: This I Believe

The library is automated now--all fancy, shmancy and I can search from my bedroom while still in my pajamas for books and authors I'm trying to track down. Then I can go to the library, directly to the shelf they are on and pick them up and be in and out in a few minutes. (Or if the book is interloan, from another library, I can just walk to the desk and have it handed to me practically on a silver platter.) It's all very modern and convenient, but sometimes I miss the Library Accidents that used to happen while doing a card catalog search. I'd flip through the little cards looking for a specific book or author and stumble across an intriguing title. (I'm pretty sure this is how I ended up reading Saddles For Breakfast in fourth or fifth grade. I mean who could resist that title? And who knows how many other books I would never have had the pleasure of without the act of flipping through title after title in the catalog?)

I do keep lists of books I want to read--lists I compile by reading book reviews and taking recommendations, but I don't kid myself that every good book somehow magically makes it to my list. So, every once in a while, I set aside time for Library Accidents to happen and wander around the shelves and stop to look at the books on the new non-fiction tables just inside the library door and just wait for something to catch my eye. Suffering, as I do, from some sort of compulsive reading disorder, it never takes long.

This I Believe was one of those Accidental Books. It is full of essays from the NPR project of the same name, which was originally begun in the 1950s and was restarted in April 2005. Being from my media-deprived little corner of the world, I didn't know anything about the radio show (of course we don't have a local NPR station!) so the book was an eye-opener for me and led me down the rabbit hole of the website, where I've spent some time happily clicking from one essay to another.

The project asks participants to write short essays stating their core beliefs--the essays are a few hundred words in most cases and both the book and the site showcase a wide variety of people from well-known to unknown. What's amazing to me is how much true wisdom is out there in the minds of otherwise very ordinary people. I can't help but think that having a forum where people can discuss their personal philosophies can only be beneficial. It's also comforting to see essays from the 1950s reflecting some of the same issues we are facing now--it helps soothe that panicked feeling I sometimes get in thinking that things are dramatically worse at the moment than they've been in a while.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Extraordinary.

Perfect Post for November

Son-Two had to go to the doctor last week--he had some virulent varient of whatever had Daughter-Only's uvula stuck to her tonsil a few weeks before that and after three weeks of suffering and hacking and looking all the wrong colors--gray and green and yellowish--I finally convinced him that going to the doctor didn't make him a wuss in any way. At the doctor's office, she pronounced his lungs a little "tight" and asked if he'd ever had an inhaler and if he was allergic to any antibiotics.

She was stunned that he'd never had either an inhaler or any antibiotics. I said, "We've been very lucky in the antibiotic department especially--I have four kids and we've had three prescriptions for antibiotics in 18 years."

"Wow, that's really impressive but it's probably not just luck. I'm sure hygeine played a role as well."

Well.

Anyone who's ever been inside my house knows that anti-hygeine is way more at work around here than hygeine. Chaos reigns--mess and untidiness and clutter and, even sometimes things that would be called "filfth" by other, more fastidious, moms than me reign. We don't roll with the antibacterial stuff around here. Look under my kitchen sink (if you dare), there's not a single product that promises to kill 99.9% of anything.

I have a theory (don't I always) that by attempting to provide a nearly bacteria-free environment for our children, we're actually doing them a disservice. There's some support for this theory--science says that the more antibacterial products (including antibiotics) that we use, the more quickly bacteria are going to adapt and become resistant to the products and to our natural defenses. So what we're doing by being too fastitidious is helping to create a super race of mega-bacteria that will probably start carting us all off in our sleep.

I believe that by exposing children to small amounts of a variety of pathogens at an early age, we can build their immune systems to be better, stronger, faster...I also believe that I would way rather curl up with a good book or go to the park with the kids or, or, or, or than make sure every nook and cranny in my house is germ-free.

Sometimes I hate myself for not trying harder, for not being a "better" example for the kids, for failing to provide a floor clean enough to eat off of (though why eating off the floor is some kind of gold standard in cleanliness, I'm not sure--I mean we have a table, after all. I'm perfectly content--ecstatic some days--to just provide a floor clean enough to walk over.). But still, I think my way is really the only way for me.

While browsing blogs this month, I found my sloppy soul sister over at 24/7. In her post, "What Do You Do When Your Dishwasher Stops Working," ECR speaks to the pressure of outside expectations and the desire to live by her own priorities and she wraps it all up with a Phyllis Diller quote--as someone who collects notebooks full of quotes to support my "unsupportable" positions that spoke directly to my heart.

So, here's my button:



And, ECR, it's all yours!

(Browse other winners at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville.)

NaBloPoMo-ver

It's over and I'm glad, but I'm also glad I did it. It made me realize what might be possible in my "real" writing (this is fake, right?)--that I can make myself write something every day--even when I think I can't, even when I don't want to, even when the thought of sitting in front of the computer for even two seconds makes me want to cry, I can write anyway. (Now, whether that's useful knowledge or not--and whether what I'm likely to produce under that kind of duress is really worthwhile or not is a whole other question and one for a time when I'm not so tired and cranky.)

See, I've always meant to be the kind of writer who writes every day. I've read expert after expert who swears daily (or at least very regular) writing is key to your development as a writer--Natalie Goldberg, Julia Cameron, Anne Lamott. Shoot, even Mr. High School used to tell me, "I think you'd be so much better off if you just wrote a little every day--ten or fifteen minutes. It would be good for you."

But I've never been able to manage it for any length of time. No matter how much time I spend on the pep talks and the "Just do it" speeches in my head, I spend just as much time talking myself out of it, "There isn't time. You're too tired. You don't have anything to say. You're not in the mood." It's always something.

For NaBloPoMo, maybe because "someone" was looking over my shoulder, I didn't let any of those somethings get in the way of writing every single day (writing crap some days, maybe even most days, but writing something). Now I know that not only can it be done, I can do it.

Getting My Hopes Up And Right Back Down

So I'm flipping through Reader's Digest and I see this:




"Get rich quick," it says. Right away, there's visions of touring the world on the competetive Boggle circuit dancing in my head. I mean, get rich, playing Boggle--a game my sisters, mother and I played until we had writer's cramp? A game Hubby refuses to even play with me anymore? I am soooo in.

But, no, they just mean you can spell "rich" in the cubes. (You can also spell: fast, cast, rib, bat, chat, clue, saw, was, lab and a whole bunch of other words, but none of them are gonna get me the big bucks either, huh?)

Guess it's back to playing the lottery for me.

Too Bad I Wasted The Basis of the Basis Four Days In...

...because I could use a good cop-out tonight.

Practically every night since the beginning of NaBloPoMo, I have wandered into my bedroom knowing I "had" to post and having only the vaguest idea of what the hell I was going to write, but then I sat down and somehow the babble began flowing.

Tonight? No babble.

Well, maybe a little.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Steven Wright

I was first introduced to Steven Wright's deadpan humor in an HBO special in the '80s. I was babysitting for this lady and she had the special on while she was waiting for her (very late) date to show up.

Steven Wright, if you've never seen him, has a delivery that takes some getting used to--and there are probably a few people who never do get used to it. The lady (I use the term somewhat loosely as later that evening I would stand in the hallway outside her room while she vomited in a bowl. I was concerned she might asphyxiate on her own vomit and then I would be forced to decide between saving her with my Red Cross CPR skills and saving my sanity by not having to give mouth-to-mouth to a recently vomiting person. She made the decision somewhat easier by drunkenly screaming, "Get away from here!" between heaves, but anyway while the HBO special was on) the "lady" sat there, nervously tapping her foot and never cracked a smile. Just before her date showed up, she said, "Wow, this guy isn't funny at all."

Well, I thought she was wrong and I used the money she paid me for the evening to buy a comedy album (on cassette) of Steven's called I Have a Pony. I loved that tape to death, literally, memorized whole portions of it, forced everyone I know to listen to it and made quite a few converts along the way. Eventually, I replaced it with a CD version as I waited impatiently for new Steven Wright material.

I had just about given up hope when I was channel-surfing last month and came across a new special (new to me anyway) called When The Leaves Blow Away on Comedy Central. I watched it twice the first time and then recorded it so I could watch it some more.

Highlights:

--"A friend of mine has a trophy wife, but apparently it wasn't first place."

--"I have to be asleep by one in the morning because my dreams are going to start then whether I'm sleeping or not."

--"I asked my girlfriend if she ever had sex with a woman. She said, 'No.' I said, 'It's fun, you should try it.' So she did, and now she's gone."

--"My doctor told me I shouldn't work out anymore until I was in better shape. I said, all right--don't send me a bill until I pay you."

--"In school, they told me practice makes perfect and then they told me nobody's perfect so I quit practicing."

...all of this delivered in Steven's signature monotone--rarely do you see him even start to crack a smile. Some people may find his delivery distracting, but to me it's part of the package--and, in a weird way, his jokes have to be stronger because he doesn't use any of the bells and whistles other comedians rely on.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Long-awaited. (And worth the wait, I'd like to add, but can't 'cuz that's just way over the word limit--I was probably cheating a little just using a hyphen, but, hell, Steven's worth it.)

'Scuse Me While I Crawl Into the Dairy Case and Hide Behind the Hummus and the Swiss Miss Puddings

I come from a steadfastly unsqueamish family, most of whom aren't afraid to cross the occasional "gross" line in pursuit of a laugh. Many years ago, a friend gave me a "recipe" for a cracker spread composed of tiny shrimp, seafood cocktail sauce (which I swear is just ketchup with horseradish in it, but maybe it's just me), and cream cheese. Served with crackers, it's quick, easy, and pretty tasty, but kind of funny looking.

[Blurt Alert! Pretty much the rest of this post.] The first time my father saw it he said, "What the hell is this? It looks like afterbirth!"

My family being the family we are, the name stuck--not only was it memorable but it was a much more succinct name than "that stuff with shrimp and cream cheese and cocktail sauce that you spread on crackers."

So, many years later--this weekend in fact--Daugther-Only and I are standing in front of the display of crackers in our local grocery store. Undecided on the best crackers to serve and wanting not to alarm nearby shoppers, I leaned in to whisper to Daughter-Only, "I'm trying to decide which crackers would go best with afterbirth."

Apparently, my attempts at subtlety were a bit too, um, subtle and Daughter-Only shouted, "Afterbirth!? We're having afterbirth!? Wow! I love that stuff!"

A word to the wise: If you ever need to hide in the dairy case (and if you have kids it's a safe bet you someday will), the milk section provides considerably better coverage than puddings and hummus.

The Best Advice I Never Took

My first year of high school Spanish was taught by a fresh-from-Spain import named Fidel Roderigues. He spoke English with a thick accent, had the stereotypical swarthy complexion and thick, dark mustache of a cartoon Spaniard--the kind of Spaniard you could easily imagine running from the bulls in Pomplona or some other equally stereotypical Spanish enterprise. He would also often scratch his butt while writing on the blackboard at the front of the room--and he wasn't delicate or subtle about it either: he stuck his hand right in his pants (one unforgettable time I swear it was in there up to his elbow) and scratched merrily away. Needless to say, this did nothing to make us take him more seriously.

Anyway, in addition to all his other charming characteristics, Senor Roderigues had a short temper and was given to barely intelligible outbursts that often seemed completely unprovoked.

One morning during a vocabularly drill, he called on a kid named Bill.* When Bill didn't immediately respond, Senor Roderigues shouted, "What is wrong with you, Bill?" (Only Bill came out "Beeel," of course.)

Bill mumbled, "I'm thinking."

And then the fine Senor uttered something I've been quoting for twenty-odd (very odd) years now: "Bill, don't think too much because chances are you will understand nothing and your head will explode." Maybe it loses something in the translation--you know without the thick accent and the visual image of a dark, lanky, poorly-dressed immigrant whose hand was often down his pants--but I think it holds up pretty well. Granted, it's kind of fatalistic to assume that we'll never understand anything, but the truth is a lot of people do way too much thinking to no avail. I know I overthink practically every aspect of my life. (For example, I spent the afternoon with my siblings and their significants and my dad and his significant and for the last two hours, I have been replaying moment after moment from the afternoon wondering if I was too loud or too brash or too pushy or talked too much or not enough, or, or...And what's the point because even if I do come to some worthwhile conclusion, the afternoon can't be redone?)

So, I'm going to say it again: "Don't think too much because chances are you will understand nothing and your head will explode." and hope maybe this time, it will take.


*Though Bill was pretty innocent the morning in question, Roderigues's attack on him couldn't be considered completely unprokoved as the two of them had an intense and ongoing mutual provocation that lasted the whole year. An example of one of Bill's offenses: for an assignment we were told to "create" something that illustrated our knowledge of Spanish culture. Some people made salt clay models of famous Spanish buildings or drew maps of Spain, that kind of thing. Bill brought in a gigantic pile of brown modeling clay in a pie plate. When Roderigues snapped, "What is that?" Bill said, "It's bull shit--you know from a bullfighting ring?" Is it any wonder that the following year found Mr. Roderigues out of the classroom and on a sales floor at Sears? The pay was probably almost as good and the grief considerably less.

Perspective, Courtesy Of The Guy From The Bridge Crew

I live on what is basically a dead end street--there are two side streets off of my street, but both of them come to a quick halt, ending just before the banks of a creek. The second of the two streets used to continue across the creek, but that bridge was washed out in the flood of '72 and never replaced, which really has nothing to do with my story but is a fact I find sort of interesting as a comment on governmental inefficiency--governmental inefficiency which in this case I'm actually quite grateful for because I'm sure my kids couldn't have played so much street hockey safely or uninterrupted if the bridge had been replaced.

But the washed-out-in-the-flood-of-'72 bridge isn't my subject for the evening. It's the other bridge I want to talk about. When I first moved to this street, there was a steel deck bridge I crossed every day to get home. Writing for the county paper, I had covered town meetings in which the state of this bridge was discussed and weight limits imposed--basically, only passenger vehicles were light enough--no garbage trucks, no ambulances or fire trucks. These meetings included speculation on what would happen if the bridge were to collapse and someone were to file suit against the town. (This is how the phrase "non-specific migrating back pain" came into my vocabularly--a phrase I love but (fortunately, I guess) don't get to use often.)

Finally, a year or so after I moved in, state funding came through, and the bridge was scheduled to be replaced. In order to re-route traffic, the town appropriated an access road that a business at the dead end end of the street had put in place when the weight limits were imposed--this business had heavy trucks coming and going and no way to get them there without cutting a path through the woods. So this path through the woods--literally a rutted dirt road on which I regularly saw deer right in the middle of town--was how all the cars on our street were supposed to connect with the rest of town. We were all okay with it, though--sacrifice in the name of progress and improvement--it could only be a good thing that fire trucks might now be able to reach us without falling into the creek--and, anyway, they said it was going to take six weeks.

Six weeks. Well, the first four weeks, they were right on schedule. The weather cooperated, the old bridge came apart and was carted off without a hitch, the footers (or whatever they are) were placed without a problem. Then came time to lay the deck pieces. We heard they were very fancy, made of some composite material, the wave of the future--long-lasting, easy to work with, on and on and on. They were also cut to the wrong size. It would be at least another six weeks--more likely twelve before the replacements could be manufactured and shipped.

It went on like this. The new pieces were finally shipped and placed but by then it was too cold to apply the (also experimental) surface material so they had to build a gigantic tent and bring in those big heaters that look like jet engines and try to warm it up enough in there to spread this miracle material. Material which, once spread and set, began chipping up in gigantic pieces within a few days. So six months after the first six weeks which had become close to six months, there was a crew again, spreading what looked to the untrained eye like plain, old traditional asphalt. And that crew has been back three or four times a year in the four years since the bridge was "completed" to fix "mushy spots" and all sorts of other fun stuff like that.

One day last spring, I was walking to work and there were the poor bridge guys again*. As I passed the one directing traffic, I smiled sympathetically and said, "This bridge must be such a nightmare for you guys."

And, he said, "Oh I don't know, we sure have learned a lot about how not to build a bridge."

When I grow up, I want to be just like the bridge crew guy. I want to not only learn from my mistakes, but to be able to embrace those mistakes for the opportunities they are--opportunities to understand more about myself and everyone else, about the world and my place in it.

*It's been a good year--they've only been back once since then. Of course, that time, they were here for a week and a half and had to dig two six-foot squares all the way down to the deck level, but still.

Thankful But

I'm thankful that I have the ingredients to prepare a nice meal for my family...but not really looking forward to spending half the day in the kitchen.

I'm thankful that I have four mostly happy, mostly healthy children...but I wish they bickered less, and worked to their full potential at school (or at least met their potential halfway), and helped a little more around the house without arguing over every single chore.

I'm thankful for my almost twenty-year-old marriage...but I wish there were fewer days when I thought to myself, "Why is this still so hard? When is it gonna get easier?"

I'm thankful for my job--in this economy (nationwide, but especially our little corner of New York State) any job is a blessing, but...I wish my boss was a little less psycho and less needy and that she understood boundaries a little more and that she maybe could stop calling me at 7:13 a.m. to tell about the story she's watching on Good Morning, America at that very moment, failing to understand that a) if I gave one good crap about Good Morning, America, I'd find some way to watch it myself, b) I have four children to get out the door on time so don't have time for GMA or her phone calls regarding it, and c) at 9 a.m., I will be her captive audience for eight full hours so why can't she save it until then?

I'm thankful for my extended family--my dad and siblings and my nieces and nephews (not my aunts, uncles, cousins)--and that we are all close and mostly get along...but sometimes it's a little overwhelming to be in the same room with all of them and sometimes I wish that Baby Brother (who doesn't have Internet access and wouldn't be surprised or (I hope) offended to read this even if he did) could ask a little less of me, for his sake as well as my own.

I'm thankful for the blog world and the opportunity for connection that it provides free of charge...but how come everyone got more comments than me today?

I'm thankful for my ability to write...but frustrated by my inability to manage my time and energies better so that I actually could write for extended periods (somewhere other than the blog) and overwhelmed by the odds (glutted markets, cranky editors) against writing ever being anything more than an elaborate and all-consuming hobby for me.

I'm thankful for the library and all the books in it...but I think my chronic reading habit really eats into what could be my writing time and, on the more philosophical side, the long list of books I want to read has a tendency to remind me of my mortality--'cuz there ain't no way I'm ever getting to the bottom of that list.

I'm greatful* for so much to be thankful for...but wish I could be more of a grown-up and just be thankful with no strings attached.

*That one's for Daniel.

Be Careful What You Whine About Wish For

Dear Star 102.5 in Buffalo:

If I promise never, ever to complain about your 9-to-5 No-Repeat Workday (and how repetitive the work week ends up being), will you please, please, please, oh, please lay off the Christmas/holiday* music?

I guess I understand trying to get folks in the Christmas/holiday spirit--though I'm not quite sure why it's so damned important to you. Are you getting kick-backs from Santa Claus or the major retailers? I can even see sneaking the occasional Christmas tune in a week or so after Thanksgiving. But 24/7 Christmas tunes beginning a week before Thanksgiving is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Sadistic and wrong and horrible. Add to that the fact that this is at least the third year in a row you've done it and I think you're really building up some bad karma.

I know what you're thinking--no one is making me listen to your station and you're right and, honestly, I haven't been listening to your station. But yours is my station of choice the whole rest of the year and when I can't listen to it, my choices here in my rural county are extremely limited (two country stations--one of which is "The Big Pig" WPIG, because "size matters"; one "oldies;" and one religious). Not having satisfying musical accompaniment in the delivery van and in the car makes whole portions of my day significantly less bearable. And I'll bet you a copy of Britney's "My Only Wish (This Year)" that I'm not the only one.

As Bruce Springsteen says (and says and says and says, especially on your station), "Santa Claus is comin' to town" and I bet there's some folks in programming that ain't gettin' nothin' but coal.

MM

*It's not straight Christmas--they throw in Adam Sandler's "The Hanukkah Song" occasionally.

If I Could Be Two Places At One Time...

I left work for a few minutes this afternoon to pick up the boys at volleyball practice (it's a weird affliction--they're capable of practicing volleyball for hours on end but completely incapable of walking a couple of blocks home) and when I returned, I went to park in the same space I had been parked in before I went to get them. That was foolishly optimistic since I park in the muncipal parking lot and the good spots always fill up fast, but I wasn't really paying attention and started to turn into the spot I'd been in only to find a car the exact same model, make and color as mine already parked there.

My brain processed that as, "Wow, I'm already there." and immediately leapt to the (incorrect) conclusion that I must be driving the shop van and I started to back into the place directly behind the shop (just off the muncipal parking lot) where we park the van only to find the van already there. My helpful brain's take on this? "Wow, I'm there too."

Okay, I'm there twice, but still I'm somehow out in the middle of the parking lot without a parking space and just for a split second I lose complete track of what I'm driving and, practically, who I am.

It passed quickly, but while it lasted, damn it was weird.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Heroes

At first glance NBC's Heroes isn't the kind of show I would usually get into. Oh, I might sit in the room while the kids or Hubby watched it, but I'd have a book open on my lap and if anyone asked my opinion of something that just happened or was about to happen, my answer would most likely be, "Huh?" Actually, that's exactly what happened through the first episode and a half and then, all of a sudden, with no conscious thought on my part, I realized I was actually paying attention to the show.

Sure, it's got a science fiction bent with a Japanese guy who bends the space-time continuum (simply by thinking hard about it) and a heroin addict whose paintings (under the influence) are prophesies of a coming apocalypse and, of course, the flying politician (c'mon now, tell the truth, who hasn't wanted to see a politician take a flying leap?), but it's got just enough campiness to let you know it doesn't take itself seriously.

One of the best characters is single mom Niki Sanders whose "power" is an ass-kicking alter ego who does a lot of very dirty work protecting Niki and her son, Micah (who may or may not have powers). It remains to be seen whether Jessica, the alternate, is a good or bad guy in the grand scheme, but what mother hasn't wished for a stunt double to do the dirty work--of course in most of our cases, the dirty work is dishes, laundry and groceries while in Niki's case the dirty work is killing off loan sharks and other nasty types, but still.

The character I most identify with, though, is Hiro, the one who can bend the space-time continuum. On the one hand, he takes his responsibility very seriously but is positively gleeful at moments, bringing a boyish charm sorely lacking from most "End of the World" scenarios. It's not Hiro's charm I can identify with, though, it's his power.

You see, I, too can bend the space-time continuum. Witness: I left my house at 8:47 this morning, dropped the boys off at volleyball practice, swung back around for Baby Brother, made a pit stop for Diet Dr. Pepper (Breakfast of Champions, I'm tellin' ya'), dropped Hubby and Baby Brother at work, and still was only three minutes late for my 9:00 job. And I did all of it without Hiro's scrunchy-faced trademark bending the space-time continuum expression--a look which Matt Lauer described this morning as "like you just ate a bad oyster." Well, I didn't look like that at all--I'm sure I looked like I ate something much worse than merely a bad oyster--this was pre-Diet Dr. Pepper, after all.

Anyway, yes, there are some science fiction elements, but there's also humor, and intelligence and enough suspense to keep you guessing. And then there's the catchphrase: "Save the cheerleader; save the world." How can you not love the show that gave us those immortal words?

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Fun. (On Monday--now that is heroic!)

Hardly Worth The Effort

Brilliant* observation:

You know what gets me is all those people who talk about "killing two birds with one stone" like it's a good thing. You know what you get when you kill two birds with one stone?

Two dead birds and a rock.


*Masked Mom cannot guarantee that this observation will appear brilliant to everyone. Brilliance is yet another thing that is in the eye of the beholder.

Thanks for the Memories

When you have a mind like a lint trap, a mind that catches meaningless bits of fluff and saves them forever and ever and ever, hardly anything happens to you that doesn't remind you of something else. Two examples:

--This morning I read in the newspaper that there is supposed to be a meteor shower visible from New England and parts of New York State tonight. This reminded me of being twelve, the summer between sixth and seventh grade and going over to my friend Tracy Thomason's house where we laid out on those lounge-type lawn chairs for half the night, bundled in blankets (even though it was August--it was damp and chilly) counting meteors together. Then I tried to imagine staying up late enough tonight (they start at around 11:45--but they could be late and who knows what time the "peak" will actually be?) to see the meteor shower and I knew I could try but odds were there was no way I would be able to keep my eyes open. (In fact, I tried to stay awake for a meteor shower at a family campout/get-together over the summer and failed miserably.) As if Rad Daly in an apple suit weren't evidence enough--I am soooo old.

--Daughter-Only told me a long and breathless story about a kid on a school bus mooning everyone driving and walking by. She found it a little gross but she was less traumatized by the exposed flesh than she was by the concept that the kid might have gotten paid to do it (she was convinced he did get paid). Just before the conversation devolved into a debate about why she thought someone must've paid him and who the hell would pay someone to drop their pants, etc, I was reminded of a time when Little Sister was a senior and I was just out of high school. We had gone into town and were coming out of Burger King when a flasher came around the corner of the building. [Blurt Alert! The rest of this post!]

He had his fly unzipped and his erection (let's hope it was his--if it was someone else's that's a whole other level of disturbing) in his hand. Before I could even register what I was seeing, my sister said, "Okay, so where's the rest of it?"