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.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: My New Alarm Clock

In 1988, 18 long and arduous years ago, I bought an alarm clock at J.J. Newberry's. I think it was $7 or $8. This clock and I had a love-hate relationship, but at the bottom of that was a true understanding of one another. For several years now, some of the buttons haven't been connected quite right and in order to set or change the time, I had to resort to odd contortions: turning the clock upside-down and twisting my hands around at odd angles to get enough leverage to make the buttons connect enough to actually work in any way. So, its death this week was neither sudden nor unexpected.

I could have--should have, probably--replaced it years ago, but as I've mentioned, I'm extremely resistant to change--even if that change is what most people would call "progress" or, at the very least, an improvement over the sad, old status quo. But instead I waited and put it off and did contortions. Friday night, even the contortions no longer worked--not even after twenty pathetic minutes of whining, twisting, and turning--and I knew it was time.

We've had an extra alarm clock sitting in a corner in our room this whole time--one that Hubby bought during a time when he was away from home a lot. It's fancy. It has two alarms instead of only one, it has a forward and a reverse for setting the time (shoot, it even has a fast forward for those impatient sorts), the display can be adjusted for brightness (or, as is much more likely around here, dimness). In short, it is altogether a much better clock than my poor, old J.J. Newberry special.

I hate it.

For one thing, the snooze alarm goes off every 7 minutes instead of every 9. Now, maybe I've been out of the loop (I have, after all, had the same alarm clock since 1988, but I did have a few different clocks in my teen years and I've occasionally stayed in hotels or at someone's house who had alarm clocks radically different than mine), but I've never even heard of a 7-minute snooze. It's just insanely wrong and forces me to recalculate my entire morning. Thanks to this alarm I've had to learn an entirely new set of mathematical formulas. Needless to say, I've got limited resources, especially anytime before, say, noon and I can really think of more important things to use them for--like being sure I have the right amount of clothing on before I wander out the door, just for example.

The shortened snooze is only the beginning--the noise this clock makes is not merely annoying (after all, any alarm clock that's doing its job pretty much has to be annoying), it is shockingly, horrifyingly, frighteningly, torturously cruel. It makes this little warning click about a half-second before the alarm goes off, but even though I know it's coming, I am still startled every, single time. So startled that I actually jump in the way that you jump at a particularly surprising scene in a scary movie. It goes: "Wah! Wah! [pause] Wah! Wah! [pause]..." and, first, I look as though I've been electrocuted and then I flail toward the damn snooze button, which I can't yet find on the first try so "Wah! Wah!" I have to listen to the clock for another round. Then, seven incredibly short minutes later, it happens all over again.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Pleh.*

*I don't remember how "pleh" came into my vocabulary--I think it was over a late night game of cards or something involving Hubby, Youngest Sister and I--but it's an incredibly useful (non) word.

I Got A Million of 'Em

The scene: in the car with Daughter-Only and my two youngest nieces (ages 6 & 9--damn does time fly or what?!). It's been a busy afternoon and I decide to take advantage of the McDonald's Dollar Menu to feed not only the three in the backseat but the five at home (including Hubby and Baby Brother). Wanting to skip any unnecessary whining, I warn them as we pull up to the drive-thru that I'm just getting double cheeseburgers for everyone.

Youngest Niece: But I want a Happy Meal.

Masked Mom: Well, we're not getting Happy Meals today so you're just gonna have to be happy with the meal you get.

So much for my reputation as the "nice aunt."

That's All It Takes?

Lots of experts will tell you that trying to impress or befriend your children should take a backseat to consistent authoritative parenting. Lots of experts are way more secure in their adulthood and authority than I am. Lots of experts have never lived with a bunch of teenage boys who, for days on end, will mock literally everything you do.

Whether or not you think impressing your children (especially those tough customers--the teenagers) is a worthy goal, you may someday find yourself delighted to have (even accidentally) made them laugh sincerely or better yet, to have stunned them out of mock-mode with your knowledge of (to them) incredibly obscure pop culture.

One of my boys' friends, G, is obsessed--insanely, hard-core, totally obsessed--with Dr. Pepper. He drinks gallons a day and has T-shirts and a can collection--truly, truly obsessed. Recently, he found the "I'm A Pepper" commercial (from the '70s) on the Internet and was sharing it with one or more of my sons over the phone and online.

Over at his house, his mom walked into the room and began singing along with the commercial.

He yelled, in a voice bordering on awe, "Dude! My mom knows this song!"

Dude, if all it takes is being able to sing along with commercials from the '70s, I'm set for life.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: World Trade Center

As I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before, I read a lot--magazines, books, blogs, etc. So a lot of times before a movie comes out, I've heard/read a whole lot about it--enough to enter the theater with a popcorn bucketful of preconceived notions and preliminary judgments. Most movies are the opposite of a box of chocolates: you always know what you're gonna get. World Trade Center was not like that for me. I hadn't heard anything about it until I saw the previews about a week before Cranky Boss Lady asked me if I wanted to go with her.

My gut reaction after I'd seen the previews was that it was not a movie I wanted to see--mostly because 9/11 is too close in the hearts and minds of so many for it to really be bearable to watch. I didn't see United 93 for the same reason. I think, at the very least, it's too soon.

But Cranky Boss Lady saw Joel Siegel's review on Good Morning, America and needed no further convincing. She asked me if I would go with her and I didn't want her to have to go alone (actually, more to the point, I didn't want to be around her while she pouted about having to go alone), so I saw the movie--with CBL who brought a box of tissues (Joel told her to--and you know, what Joel says goes).

If this were any other movie, I would call it predictable and manipulative and unnecessarily drawn out. Because it's a movie about a very dark day in America's recent history, it seems almost unpatriotic not to mention just plain mean to say those things about it and for me, that's a big part of my problem with the film. To mix the attacks of 9/11 up in any way with "entertainment" feels incredibly wrong--distasteful, opportunistic, and just plain wrong--to me.

After I saw the movie, I came across interviews with Nicholas Cage, who plays John McLaughlin, and Oliver Stone, who directed the movie. (I was so out of the loop going into this movie that it wasn't until the end credits that I realized Oliver Stone directed it.) They both said all the right things about wanting to tell a story about the triumph of the human spirit in the face of enormous tragedy and I have no doubt that their hearts are mostly in the right place where this movie is concerned, but the bottom line is that this movie was packaged and sold as entertainment exactly the same way any other movie would be. In our local two-screen theater, it played (and is still playing, as a matter of fact) opposite Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby--I doubt I could explain why that's so offensive to me to anyone who isn't equally offended, but it's a revulsion I feel on an almost physical level.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Wrong.

Highlight Reel

So I spent last weekend at my father's house--camping on the cold, cold ground two nights in a row, with lots of other people, who were also camping on the cold, cold ground or sleeping in their cars, or totally cheating and driving into town to the (warm, warm) hotel. This is a family/friends gathering where Jell-o shots (with whipped cream!) have been considered a legitimate dish-to-pass in previous years.

There was so very much blog-worthy material, but lazy slug that I am, I failed to blog about any of it and most of it has evaporated into the ether between my ears--except for the following two things--one of which has already been repeated so many times, if I ever forget it, I'm sure I'll hear it again and the other of which was burned permanently into my brain so traumatic was it and the only way I'll ever forget it is with copious amounts of expensive electroshock therapy.

First, the tent, the first night. Son-One, Daughter-Only and I had long since gone to bed and were in various states of sleep when I heard Son-Three unzipping the tent. A second later, in a voice both panicked and annoyed he says to Son-One, "Cut it out! Cut it out!"

And Son-One mumbles, "Why? Why?"

And Son-Three yells, "Because you're scaring the f#$% out of me!"

Apparently, Son-One was sleepwalking (he doesn't do it often, but when he does it, he does it well) with his big black blanket draped over his shoulders and sort of lumbering right toward Son-Three who was reasonably certain Son-One had been zombified and was about to take a swing at him.

Added bonus? We were surrounded by tents containing family and friends, all of whom no doubt heard Fouly McFoulmouth* screaming at his brother. Ironically,** Son-One slept through the whole exchange and only woke up (back in his rightful corner of the tent) when the dogs in the next tent reached sheer hysteria brought on by my uncontrollable (and completely exhausted) laughter. (Anyone remember the cartoon Jabber Jaw? With the shark that had the weird-ass laugh that sounded more like a fat woman in anaphylactic shock than an appropriate way to express amusement? Yeah, that's how I was laughing, in a tent, in the dark at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night--of course the dogs thought some horrible crime was taking place. Speaking of dogs (not that you asked), but the puppies were so tired, they slept through the whole thing--and all the other various (loud) things that happened throughout the night.)

And now, for the second highlight--the electroshock therapy worthy thing. Along with a vast array of people (there were always at least 20 people there and in the middle of the afternoon Saturday, the number was closer to 80), there were at least fifteen dogs running around. Some of the kids decided to put name tags on the dogs, which seemed kind of goofy at first but turned out to be a stroke of genius because it allowed you to yell at a specific dog, by name, and then, the dog could take great delight in knowing it was ignoring someone who actually knew its name.

During the volleyball games (kill or be killed volleyball, as usual, and I'll take this completely inappropriate moment to further interrupt myself by saying that my team was--and remains--undefeated!!!! The greatest backyard volleyball team EVER!!), the specific dog being the most annoying was Abby, a middle-aged and highly neurotic yellow lab. Abby's person was on my volleyball team and struggling nobly to ignore Abby who kept bringing balls, frisbees and assorted other throwable objects to her, usually in the middle of yet another Olympic-style volley. Many members of the audience also tried to help distract Abby by throwing stuff for her--Abby would bring it back to the thrower three or four times and then spot her person again and wander back on to the court.

Everyone on both sides of the net was getting very frustrated with Abby and her person assured us that if we all ignored her and just went on playing she would eventually get bored or stepped on and go away.

We tried to ignore her, but she didn't go away. She did get mighty quiet, though, and, between points I glanced over at her and she was standing over the biggest, most frightening pile of dog puke I've ever, ever seen. (Not that I'm a dog puke connoisseur, by the way, and no need to send me any photos of dog puke that you think might rival this dog puke because I'm telling you, if there's something out there grosser than this, I sure as hell don't want to know about it.)

The pile was the size of Abby's (very large) head. It was grayish and lumpy with pokey things clumped together near the top and, perhaps most alarming, what looked like a sock entangled in it. People on the other team were groaning and yelling, "What is it? Dear God, what is it?"

One of my teammates (a teenage boy, but for once, not one of my own teenage boys) said, "It looks like oatmeal and a dead bird***!"

And I said, "There's a sock in it! A sock and oatmeal and a dead bird!"

Then trying to keep the situation from getting farther out of control, I said, "Son-Two go grab a hammer!"

I meant a shovel, but in an instant a very clear image of Son-Two pounding this pile of puke with a hammer was in my brain (and out my mouth--of course, out my mouth), and I actually laughed so hard I ended up on the ground (six merciful feet from the Puke Pile), much to the amusement of the other team. I'll bet they thought I'd be too distracted to continue kicking their asses, but no such luck.

This whole episode has really been on my mind ever since. The most disturbing aspect was not the sight of the gigantic pile, nor was it the fact that Abby had somehow spewed a pile that size without a sound and without any outward distress, but the fact that all of that--the oatmeal, the dead-bird looking clump of grass, the sock****--had been inside Abby the whole time.


*When my sister and I were in our teens, swearing up a storm, my father once ended a lecture on our foul language with the line, "I don't know where you kids picked up that shit!" And then was stunned and confused by our giggles. Unlike my dad, I know exactly where my kids picked up that shit-- from their grandfather, of course.

**Or not, I've been kind of paranoid about using "ironic" since Alanis Morrissette's song by that name, when language sticklers everywhere criticized her for not knowing what ironic really means and then I got all paranoid thinking maybe I've never really known what "ironic" meant either--so maybe it's ironic, maybe it's just funny.

***No birds were harmed in the making of this blog. Turns out, the "bird" was actually a clump of grass that Abby had probably eaten in a futile attempt to help digest the rather large article of clothing she had swallowed.

****Can you believe there was a debate over whether it was actually a sock or a washcloth?! Of course you can believe it, you're reading a blog about dog puke.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Skechers

Granted, Skechers are not media, they're shoes, but the Masked Mom had a very long weekend with a very lot of family and friends and a little too much sleeping on the ground with the temperature in the 30s so Skechers will have to do.

I was given a pair of Skechers--it was like a gift from the gods. Little Sister had made the tragic error of buying them for her youngest daughter, who, of course, rejected them on the grounds that they were not "cool" enough or whatever the word for cool is now enough--the problem being mainly that mom picked them out while she was shopping without daughter.

Anyway, they're the best damn pair of sneakers I've ever owned--and I hate shoes--which I think is a well-established fact. So my passion for these shoes should not be taken lightly.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Perfection.

Apparently A Sister-In-Law's Work Is Also Never Done

I'm pulling out of the driveway Sunday evening when Daughter-Only shouts to me, "Where are you going?"

"To go help your aunt open a coconut!"

Truly, the fun never ends.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: August Books of the Month

I'm not sure I've mentioned this before*, but I'm a book geek. Ever since I figured out how to tinker (a little) with my blog template, I've had a "Book of the Month" there in the sidebar. I've chosen it by looking over what I read the previous month (I keep a list--of course, I keep a list) and picking the one book that I felt really moved me in some way. (Even if, as in the case of Love and Other Near-Death Experiences by Mil Millington, that movement was almost entirely hysterical giggles.) This month, I didn't get a lot of reading done, but of the five books I did read, two really stood out, and I was having a hard time narrowing it down.

On the surface, Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott's Which Brings Me To You and Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love have very little in common. The first is a novel about a man and a woman who meet at a wedding and rather than give in to the temptation of a one-night stand, decide instead to "confess" to one another, by mail (real mail--with paper and envelopes and stamps and everything) the stories of all their previous romantic relationships and decide where to go from there. The second is a memoir by a woman on a spiritual quest--a woman who has been devastated by a divorce, among other things, who feels lost in the world--who travels to Italy, India, and Indonesia in her search for herself and for a greater sense of meaning.

Though seemingly very different, both books really stuck with me. In the end, they are both about the ways in which our experiences inform and shape who we are--and also, how who we are shapes and informs our experiences. I'm glad I read both of them and I couldn't decide which one I wanted there in the sidebar or which I would recommend more to friends. So there it is--read one, read them both. They both definitely have something to offer.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Searching.

*;o)

Signs Your Husband Is Feeling Neglected

Sign #1: You're in bed, asleep, when he comes to bed and cuddles in and then he starts rubbing. You make a whiny, growly sort of protest noise because the heat index is off the charts and has been for a week and for the weeks before that a variety of stresses--some everyday and some out of the ordinary--have sucked the life out of you and really you are beyond not interested. He laughs and continues rubbing. You say, "Listen, I love you, but if you don't stop that I'm really going to have no choice but to punch you."

He says, "Well, at least then I'd be getting some attention from you."

Sign #2 You and the Hubby are on an excursion to buy new collars for the puppies (one--or two--of the aforementioned stresses are the puppies, but you struggle mightily not to throw that in his face--even though he made a unilateral decision to bring two additional living things into the home without fully considering the effect or consulting with any of the other members of the family). As you walk into Tractor Supply (which carries better made and less expensive pet supplies than either pet store in town) with its concrete floors and farm machinery parts and practical, no-nonsense atmosphere, Hubby reaches over to give you a squeeze (it's almost innocent, but a little too much boob-grab in it to be completely chaste), and says, "I can't believe I've got you to myself for all of ten minutes!"*

Poor guy.

*Before you feel too bad for him, please note that just before he made this remark he had been criticizing my parking/driving skills--so when he said this, I did feel a little bad for him for having neglected him so much lately, but then I said, "Yeah, you've got me for ten minutes and you want to spend it all telling me what a bad driver I am."

An Aunt's Work Is Never Done

We're at the local swimming hole (sounds like something out of a Kenny Chesney song, but there's definitely no better description), I'm sitting on the retaining wall, ten feet above the water when I hear my nine-year-old niece, waist deep in the water below, calling my name. I lean over and say, "What?"

She says, "Can you come here a minute? I need your help." Now, clearly, she's not in dire need of help--she's only waist-deep, she's not struggling to breathe, she's in no obvious distress.

I say, "What do you need, honey?"

"I need your help, can you come down here?"

"Um, why?"

"Will you come pick my wedgie?"

I was hoping to wrap this post up with some clever comeback or punchline, but really, I think that line speaks for itself.

Vicarious Virtual Vacationing: Perfect Post For July

Summer is a pretty quiet time on most of the blogs I read and it seems like the few posts that do get put up are all about fabulous vacations that I'm insanely jealous over. Instead of stewing in my jealousy, I decided to start enjoying other people's vacations--I mean, why not? It's cheaper, more convenient, and the risks of sunburn, bug bites, and encounters with annoying fellow travelers (not to mention in-laws) are significantly reduced if you never actually leave your house.

Hence, my perfect post award for this month goes to Cary at ellipsis ellipsis ellipsis... for her post Whooohooo....., a post which I only just now realized was actually written in the end of June. Ah, well, it's perfect anyway, even if I'm not.

So, here's my button--


And, Cary, it's all yours!

PS--Cary, e-mail me for the code, if ya' want! :)
PPS--Other winners can be found at Petroville & Suburban Turmoil

Masked Mom's Media Monday: My Fair Brady: We're Getting Married

As is required by law in the United States, I have seen every single episode of The Brady Bunch at least once--some of them I've probably seen ten or twelve times but there's no way of knowing since I don't remember the first time I saw any of them. I just know that around the age of eight or nine, I realized there was never an episode on that I hadn't already seen.

I wasn't exactly a Brady Bunch fan--it was on TV, the TV was on and I was in front of it--often with a book or notebook open on my lap. It was harmless, the lesser of any number of after school TV evils (Woody Woodpecker Hour or Dialing For Dollars Movie, anyone?)

I feel sort of the same way about My Fair Brady: We're Getting Married, the reality TV show covering the engagement and wedding of Adrianne Curry and Christopher Knight (a.k.a. Peter Brady). I've never watched it on purpose--just caught a snippet here or there while aimlessly channel surfing. In great Brady tradition, all of the episodes have a mindless--and somehow comforting--similarity to one another. There is, however, considerably more screeching, door-slamming, tear-shedding and alcohol consuming than on your average episode of The Brady Bunch. (There's practically as much of those things as on your average episode of The Sopranos, but without all the mafia intrigue to spice things up.)

Anyway, this weekend, I watched the episode in which Chris and Adrianne, at long last, got married. Like everything else this couple has done--they met and fell in love on The Surreal Life, just for starters--the wedding and reception were loud, expensive and very, very public.

There was much bickering about inane details--the kind of bickering that, as a flower shop manager, I am regularly witness to. I have seen couples, both in my job and in my personal life, who have their very first argument over wedding details, leading me to my belief (which I've shared with a number of overwhelmed brides and their stressed out attendants) that a wedding is a terrible way to start a marriage.

Of course, this isn't your average couple and all the squabbling over the wedding was only a natural--and almost romantic--extension of their mostly charming everyday dysfunction. The wedding was actually a perfect reflection of their relationship, but still, I couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief as Chris and Adrianne drove away in their decked out limo (one window read: "I bagged my Brady!").

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Romantic (in a morbidly fascinating train wreck kinda way).

Rollercoaster

The funeral was Monday. Mr. High School wore camouflage, held a turkey call and hunting trophies hung on the walls at the funeral home. There were so many people there for the service that twenty minutes before it was scheduled to start, the funeral home staff was meeting people at the door and saying, "We've got some standing room in the casket room." The minister's wife, tucked into a seat behind MommaCW (a.k.a. Blonde Best Friend From High School), Little Sister and I, whispered with a rueful chuckle, "Usually the people in the casket room are lying down."

Jokes at a funeral? I'm pretty sure Mr. High School would've approved.

When I got the phone call about the accident last Wednesday night, my first instinct was that I should go to the funeral--I felt I absolutely had to be there at least partly because if I didn't see it for myself, I wasn't sure I could ever believe he was gone. (By it, I mean the service and not the open casket. I could only take the quickest glance in that direction. I realize and respect that a lot of people find the comfort of closure in the hard reality of an open casket, but that reality is just a little too hard for me to handle. That probably makes me weak and immature, but there you go.)

By Monday morning, I had second-guessed myself a hundred thousand times. Should I go? Could I go? Would I regret going more than I would regret not going? Sunday night, I was pretty sure that chickening out was the only viable option.

I'm so glad I didn't chicken out. It meant so much to me to see so many people whose lives he had touched--some of them were old friends from high school, who even under such horrible circumstances I was still somehow delighted to see. By the end of the day, I felt I'd been yanked in a hundred different directions, but I knew without a doubt that going had been the right thing.

In the coming weeks, my thoughts will be with his family, his girlfriend and his closest friend, all of whom have a difficult time ahead.

Farewell

I've mentioned more than once what a word geek I am and it probably can't be overstated how big a part of my life both reading and writing have always been. I've kept a journal or diary of some sort since I was 8 and in addition I've scribbled countless stories and lame poems and long, babbling letters to friends for at least that long. Words are how I understand everything--I scribble (or type) about every problem or issue I've faced or I pore over words scribbled (or typed) by someone else and, almost always, sooner or later, something clicks and I figure things out or at least learn to live with not being able to figure it out.

Almost always--because I've found that the big, big things defy explanation, defy understanding no matter how much you poke at them with words. Words fail you just when you need them most.

On Wednesday, July 19, Mr. High School*, was killed in an accident on the job. This doesn't seem possible or logical or fair at all. There seems to be no way to wrap my brain--let alone my heart--around the idea that he's really gone. It feels huge to me and my heart goes out to his family--his parents and younger brother--and to his girlfriend, who had such a short time with him and to all the many others who will miss him as well.

*Speaking of words being inadequate, you can't imagine how stupid I feel calling him that right now but, here on the blog, that's who he was.

Masked Mom's Media Monday (Special Tuesday Edition): Little House In The Ozarks

In March of my freshman year of high school, I moved from a school in Pennsylvania to one in New Hampshire. Shortly after arriving, I was assigned a speech in English class. It's hard to imagine anything I wanted to do less than give that speech, in front of a room full of total strangers--in addition to being new in school, I was pathologically shy and would've much preferred hiding at the back of the class until the school year was over.

I channeled that anxiety and chose for my topic Laura Ingalls Wilder and the parallels I saw between her childhood and mine: we both moved around a lot, though admittedly, Laura got the rawer end of the deal since her moving involved covered wagons and unsettled territories and occasionally living in a dugout in a hillside. I had been a Laura fan from way back--I read all the Little House books the summer between fourth and fifth grade and read them all again between sixth and seventh grade. Books in general, but these books in particular, were comfortingly familiar when everything else was up in the air. I searched out other books that would let me know what happened to Laura after the end of the last book in my boxed Little House collection, The First Four Years--which was an incomplete manuscript when Laura died in 1957. I found West From Home, which was a collection of letters Laura wrote home to her husband Almanzo while visiting her daughter Rose in 1915 and On The Way Home, which was the diary of the Wilder's trip from South Dakota to Mansfield, Missouri where they would live for the rest of their lives.

Fast forward a few years to the early '90s, I'm working in a small local bookstore (still the best job I ever had and I miss it) and I open a box of new books to find Little House In The Ozarks: The Rediscovered Writings. Needless to say, that copy never made it to the shelf. That's one thing I don't miss about working at the bookstore--even with my 25% employee discount I was spending entirely too much on books.

The book is a collection of short nonfiction pieces that ran in local, regional and national newspapers and magazines between 1911 and 1925. There are glimpses into Laura's life and time--she was a farm wife in a small Missouri community--but the thing that is endlessly fascinating to me is how much her concerns still resonate almost a hundred years later. She talks often and openly about her relationships with her family and friends, about her place in town and in the world at large. It's a little scary, but somehow also comforting that she and her contemporaries faced so many of the same issues that my friends and I face now. Scary because if these amazing women a hundred years ago didn't have it figured out what are the odds that I'll be figuring it all out anytime soon? And comforting because, clearly, they survived not figuring it all out.

I still keep this book next to my bed and dip into it when whatever I'm currently reading isn't holding my attention. The pieces are all short--the longest only a few pages--and can be read in any order or in no order at all. Seems each time I pick it up, I find something that somehow slipped my attention before. For example, this weekend, I found this quote:

 Why should we need extra time to enjoy ourselves? If we expect to enjoy our life, we will have to learn to be joyful in all of it, not just at stated intervals when we can get time or when we have nothing else to do.It may well be that it is not our work that is so hard for us as the dread of it and our often expressed hatred of it. Perhaps it is our spirit and attitude toward life, and its conditions that are giving us trouble instead of a shortage of time. Surely the days and nights are as long as they ever were.*

I had spent the weekend running around trying to do too much and whining (mostly in my own sad, little head but out loud some, too) about how I barely have time to catch my breath let alone enjoy a moment's peace and something definitely needs to change. Yeah, um, maybe what needs to change is my approach--maybe if I'd spent a little less time and energy whining, I'd have had more of both left for the fun stuff. Ah, Laura to the rescue again. And I swear when I read those words, it was like Laura herself was speaking them directly in my ear.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Connection.

*From "The Man of the Place," page 65.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Brain, Child Magazine

There is no shortage of parenting magazines out there--glossy ones full of helpful advice on the pros and cons of breast vs. bottle, age-appropriate activities, maps of milestones and when your child should be hitting each one. There's nothing wrong with those magazines--they can be a real comfort, especially to new moms. But Brain, Child is not that kind of magazine--if those magazines are travel guides to the trip that is motherhood, Brain, Child is more a collection of gritty, real-life stories of the women who have been there and made it back to tell the tale.

Each issue has news snippets, book reviews and a feature-length article on an issue of importance to moms. There's always pages of reader letters which give you glimpses into the lives and thoughts of women around the country (and even outside it) and a section called "Backtalk," in which moms share their stories on a previously announced (and often hysterically funny) subject. But the main attraction, as far as I'm concerned, are the pages and pages of first-person essays on all things motherhood.

No subject is too far "out there." In the current issue there is an honest and oh-so-funny essay on a woman's search for a sperm donor. Another woman's tolerance and protective nature are put to the test when her young son begins wanting to dress in "girl" clothes. "Helpful" advice from strangers is the subject of yet another essay--and as anyone who's ever left the house with a child in tow can attest, there's quite a few parenting "experts" out there willing to selflessly offer you their advice. And, in one of the most heartwrenching essays I've read yet, a woman is forced to decide between her relationship with her sister, who is unstable in a variety of ways, and the safety of her sister's children.

Brain, Child is quarterly--so I have to wait three months between issues and when a new one comes, I snatch it out of the mailbox and hole up somewhere with it. Even when I don't agree with the points of view presented, I feel better for knowing another side to whatever the story is.

Masked-Mom's One-Word Review: Enriching.

How Was Your Weekend?

"Brilliant" observation that occurred to me around midnight last night:

Parenting is being absolutely certain that you would die to protect people whom you regularly have to restrain yourself from killing.

Fireworks

When your anniversary is on the 4th of July (as mine & Hubby's is), you will sooner or later hear some form of the question: "Did you plan it that way so you could have fireworks every year on your anniversary?"

The short answer is no. And, no, we weren't being ultra-patriotic nor were we trying to make an ironic statement by declaring our dependence upon each other on Independence Day. The reason we were married on the 4th of July was much simpler and less creative. My father was in the Army--a recruiter at that time--and it was the only Saturday that summer he was sure he would have off.

Still, there's been no shortage of fireworks over the years of both the pyrotechnic and interpersonal variety--some of them the colorful, celebratory, entertaining kind and some of them just the loud, explosive, migraine-inducing kind.

As I've mentioned before, we were very young when we got married--him 19 1/2 and me not quite 19--and it's tempting to say it's a miracle that we're still together, but crediting it to divine intervention or supernatural accident overlooks the just plain hard work that has gone into our nineteen years together. And it hasn't only been Hubby and I hard at work--there are friends and family members who have seen us, individually and as a couple, through some pretty rough times.

So, yes, it's miraculous but it's a lot more than that, too. To Hubby and all the rest of you--thanks for stickin'.

Masked Mom's Media Monday: Cage of Stars

Jacquelyn Mitchard is the author of The Deep End of the Ocean, an Oprah pick (the first Oprah pick, I believe--though I read it before Oprah picked it so I'm not entirely sure) and the basis for a movie starring Michelle Pfeiffer. I've read most of her stuff--including The Rest of Us: Dispatches From The Mother Ship, which is a collection (now out-of-print, I assume, since it's no longer listed on her website) of her newspaper columns and worth tracking down at the library or online.

Anyway, her newest--Cage of Stars--was released in May. It is the story of Ronnie Swan, who at the age of 12 witnesses the murder of her younger sisters and spends the next decade or so trying to come to terms with that. Mitchard covers matters of faith and forgiveness, revenge and redemption in a non-preachy and wholly entertaining way. I would say that I couldn't put it down, but the truth is I had to put it down--it's been a long time since I've had the peace and freedom to finish a book in one sitting. This is one of those books that I would've read that way, if I did still have that luxury.

Masked Mom's One-Word Review: Breathtaking.