Scat

Things They Are (Always) A Changin'

2011-08-25T23:08:00.000-07:00

Where have I gone?

Nowhere, really, just to a different site, so here I be:

http://bramblescat.wordpress.com/

And with any luck all that is here will be shuffled over there, but you know how that goes with everything else going on.

Scat

The Important Finger

2011-05-11T19:04:00.000-07:00

I was getting ready on Mother's Day when this little incident occurred...

Me: Ow!
Squib: What happened?
Me: I burned my finger on my curling iron.

(Please don't ask why I was wrestling with that ancient thing and just go with it).

Squib: Which finger did you burn?

He was so interested at this point that he broke full contact with "Go, Diego, Go" to come and check this out. Level of importance = 10.

Me: This one. (I pointed to my ring finger).
Squib: Oh (relieved, his little chest deflated), that's not the important finger.

Wait, what?

The important finger?

I think I know which finger that is, but quite honestly I wasn't in the mood to have him share the "important finger" discovery at 7:15 on the morning of Mother's Day when I was quite obviously running late and not in a really good position to discuss whether or not five-year-old's should or should not be having "important fingers" at their ripe old age.

So...bad parenting moment #3,462. Shoot me.

And note to self: at some point get back to "the important finger."

The Family Jewels

2011-05-09T10:35:00.000-07:00

I was sitting here yesterday in all my mother's dailiness glorihoodification or whatever that was yesterday when Squib came running in from the bathroom in his t-shirt and underwear and lifted up the shirt to show me the underwear, did an uncanny pelvic...something...and said, "LOOK!"

"It glows!!!"

And, by golly, he was right. And that has to be wrong in more ways than I can express.

He dragged me into the darkest room we have, the bathroom, to show me the latest development in children's Spiderman underpants which is that--right where the jewels are so-to-speak--is a giant glow-in-the-dark spider.

It was a credit to exactly how hideously my noggin felt that I just stood there with bugged out eyes listening to him say, "Isn't-that-cool-mom-the-spider-glows-green-in-the-dark-I-love-these-underwear-they-are-my-favoritist-underwear-ever-I-am-never-taking-them-off-I-need-to-go-show-everybody-they-GLOW!!!"

The "go show everybody" part woke me up and I was about to slow him down because I know the humor of "everybody" and they needed fair warning about the ensuing spider jewel-marker pants lest they lose it completely or be horrified out of their socks. (That covers both factions of the "Big Red House" as Squib calls it, I think).

Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your viewpoint right now), fate intervened and Squib tripped over some...air, I guess...and need some consolation and time on his beanbag chair and some "memmalade" which I was out of...so I went to the Big Red House to borrow some. And while there I told Buddy about the glowing spider pants.

And was almost single-handedly responsible for his death due to hysterics.

Baba got the wicked wolf spider warning as well and was...amazed? Or horrified. I don't know. It was hard to tell. Having come from the era of whitey tighties I can only imagine her response to airbrushed undies with well-placed glow-in-the-dark...things...on them.

And about that time was when the Squiblet arrived to show off the spider. I can't even write this without it sounding bad. I tried "his spider," "the spider" and several permutations thereof and...all that's happening here is I'm losing ground faster than I start.

It doesn't help that someone told him that maybe if the pants were exposed to more light, they might glow better in the dark (there was some field testing). So he sat here in my office with a flashlight aimed at them and ran back and forth from the bathroom obsessively to "check on the spider."

Since he wore them home to his dad's I'm hoping that's the last of that particular pair and with any luck at all I can rotate all the Spiderman glow underwear home to daddy's where perhaps a saner head can prevail, but usually my luck isn't that good. I don't know what possessed the Fruit of the Loom people to put their glow-in-the-dark stuff exactly where they did, but they have certainly created some hilarity around here.

There's a lot more real estate on the rear end, why not there? Had there been a glowing spider on his bottom I'd not have had an issue....

...nor half the fun.

Scat.
(and NO there will NOT be any pictures of the glow underwear so don't even ask)

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T22:26:00.000-07:00

All I really wanted for Mother's Day was a nap. That was it. Squib got all tucked in to take a nap as well, sacked out when I did and I SWEAR he woke up about thirty minutes later with more energy than a kiloton of PowerBars.

So, thinking I could still grab a nap, I got him a snack, a drink, set him up with a movie, asked if he needed anything else (I was prepared to deal but he didn't know it--here kid, keys to the car!!!!), and then told him I'd like to sleep a little longer. He said he was "good" and I told him to come get me if he needed anything.

He needed something just about every five minutes. Actually, that's a generous estimate. It had to be less.

"Mom," he'd whisper with his face less than an inch from mine, "I need to know how to spell 'going'."

"G-O-I-N-G as in I'm going to kill you if you wake me up again."

"K. Thanks." And he'd trip off to the front room.

"Mom," he tapped me on the forehead between the eyes (!!!!!), "I need to spell 'when'."

"Like 'when' can I take a nap or I'd like to 'win' a million dollars and get a nanny?"

"The first one."

"W-H-E-N."

"K. Thanks." Pad, pad, pad...little feet leaving the room.

This happened several hundred times and with several hundred words. I have no idea what he wrote, but I think he was shooting for the second Gettysburg Address or something. After a while, he came into the bedroom and crawled up on the bed.

"Mom, are you ever getting up?"

"Squib, when do I ever take naps lately?"

"Never."

"What day is it?"

"Mother's Day."

I waved my arms around in some sort of "draw a conclusion here!!!" kind of gesture.

"So, are you getting up or what?" He is a persistent little devil.

"What time is it?"

"One-four-five." Thanks to the digital clock on his iPod this is how we tell time.

"WHAT??!? You mean you went to sleep, got up, have been trouping in and out of here and all the time that has passed is an hour?"

"I know," he sighed, "It's taking FOR-EV-ER." We obviously function on different perceptions of time.

I will admit that at this point I looked at my offspring with a glance slightly less than an outpouring of motherly love and adoration.

"Tell you what," I said, "You let me sleep until two-three-zero and I'll get up even though you usually sleep on Sundays a little longer."

"How long do I usually sleep?"

"Until you wake up."

"How long is that?"

"Usually some time around four-zero-zero." That got a horrified look and he scuttled off for the front room.

I think that made two-three-zero sound good enough to try. But apparently not good enough to actually come good on. And something happens to me when I get into a deep sleep--nap or otherwise--and don't quite get it out. I get a terrible headache. So two-three-zero arrived and I trudged out of the bedroom with a migraine the size of Dallas.

"I wrote forty-three emails." He said excitedly. Did I mention my five-year-old is an email mini mogul?

"I know, I was there." I said sourly.

But I really want to share with you what's happening with the Squiblet here! I was grumpy (still am...rawr) and tired and sleep-deprived from hours of studying for school. Finals week is here. But what I didn't miss this weekend was the cool thing that is starting to happen with my youngest child. For example (those of you with iDevices will appreciate the punctuation brought to you via autocorrect):

Dear. Mommy. I. Had.
Miss. You! now. Mommy. I
Can't. Wait. To. See. Axle.
Love. Squib.

Except for the alteration of his name, that is an email that he sent to me Friday night as we were sitting here doing various-and-sundry things and getting ready for Beanstalk's visit. Yes, you can now probably figure out Beanstalk's real name, but the misspelling of it was so cute I had to leave it.

Prior to this school year, the child (as I often refer to Squib) wasn't reading--much less writing. Now here he is writing expressively and writing about things that are, for a mom, just...special. He missed me. And he was excited about getting to see Beanstalk.

Buying him that nutty iPod was the best investment I ever made. He spends, on average, ten minutes every three days playing games and goofing off, but he spends HOURS writing to me, Buddy, and his dad about whatever comes to mind. And I do mean hours. I have to peel it out of his hands to bathe him. And I have to physically move the child closer to an outlet when it dies.

Yes, this does mean that I'm constantly spelling new things for him, but the note I posted above he did completely from memory. In fact, most emails are that long and perhaps one word per email is a new request. However, there are usually a lot of new words in them that I did NOT have to spell. And, frankly, I'm just wondering where they came from? That's kinda impressive to me. The kid's mind is turned on in a way I never imagined for his first year in school.

Quite a nice Mother's Day Gift after all...

So I'll still sit here with my splitting headache and several finals to work on (ah the misnomer of "open book" finals) and enjoy the fact that my kiddos are turning into interesting, loving, funny, and perceptive young men. And that's something any mother can be proud of.

But especially me.

Scat

The Scat Is Back: Tales of an electrode stealing broad.

2011-05-06T21:56:00.000-07:00

Only one person is really going to understand that title. If you are one of those people fortunate enough to Face-stalk me, you can get to the root of the story, but the REAL meaning of that title is that she (I have mentioned her before and when I look back and/or remember what I called her I shall then use her appropriately aforementioned pseudonym) and I are just people that do "stuff like that." Like making nachos and leaving the oven on 400 and just walking off. Because...

No reason. No reason at all. Not premeditated. Post-meditated. Duri-meditated (yep, making up words now, but you get the point). So when Buddy asked me if I "meant" to leave the oven on I stared at him like a cow munching grass and said, "oven?" Yes. Oh, THAT oven. (I'm not screaming I just lack italics. I LOVE italics).

This is also how one of my thumb drives got washed into oblivion. Whole. Other. Story. When computers really are the size of objects you can forget and leave in your pockets I am well and truly hosed. One day I could simply wash the server and then where would we be?

I should also mention I'm staging my return to the blogosphere to the tune of "Dora Best Friends"...can you say "circulo?'" I don't hear you!!!!! Yeah, me either, but Squib likes it so once a year or so we watch it. Usually during finals week so I can buy myself a little sanity time. Not exactly the sort of sanity time that restores your mind or anything, but it allows you to organize your notes, get all your binders together, fold the laundry, curl your hair, cut your nails, make dinner, and blog. The result is sanity later when said Squiblet is in a happy little nacho-and-Dora-induced coma on the world's most expensive toddler bed.

This deserves mention.

(I would set that off with arrows, but my whammy-dyne Kensington bluetooth iPad keyboard just...doesn't have them. I feel....like I'm in bondage. Use the keyboard, lose your expressivity. Nonetheless shilling for Kensington!)

Le Apartemente is well appointed. When the clan lived in another hacienda it was totally remodeled and this particular sofa cum toddler bed was specially ordered to match a rug that together (rug+sofa) cost more than my college education. No scat. Well, my first college education. Turns out that the sofa and it's larger match are the most comfortable things to sleep on ever invented. The totally serendipitous part is that once the back and side cushions are removed, the bottom cushion fits the Dora sheet set that Squib is so enamored with (see previous post that I will tag later on the purchase of "girl things" for boys and just get over it). This then leaves a perfect low rail around three sides which is wonderful because the Mixmaster still falls out of bed. Not an issue with the car bed at his dad's (just like on Silver Spoons, yes) as it has a low rail all around. Perfect! So Squib sleeps on an oriental silk-covered bed. How many toddlers can say that? Um....probably one in this country. And to further answer your next question, YES, it has already been desecrated. **sigh**

I know...mattress covers, right? Any mother can tell you about how well the mattress cover theory works and what inevitably happens when all the mattress covers have been consumed within the timespace of a single washer cycle. Especially during the horrifying combination of "I don't feel so good," "by the way I'm wearing underwear and not a pull-up" and "*********** gave me a big Dr. Pepper." (I love Fridays) So, what, get two washers? That I HAVE considered. I will just conclude with the suggestion that if you are toilet training...silk is a bad choice. Just. Putting. That. Out there.

So, finally, silence falls in the hovel and I reach over and take a big sip of what I thought to be my tea and what ended up being someone's sippy cup with the lid off. Such is life and thank God it was fresh milk, right?

Speaking of tea. I've been drinking tea lately and liking it. Not really sweet southern tea, but this chia spice tea that my dad makes and then wanders in the office with. He is notorious for making cups of things and leaving them places (now you see why I left the oven on?) and since the tea is so good and I've already scientifically proven that he will simply make more, I just drink it. This is in lieu of Dr. Pepper....I KNOW!

I am saying in public that I am thinking maybe that...

(***please hold while I disturb the slumber of the entire town...that's only 693 people...to kill the largest spider I've ever seen!!!!!***)

...I prefer the tea?

It just tastes fresher and gooder (I used that word on purpose and realize it to be poor English for those of you reading me for the first time, I do that in addition to long parenthetical explanations of my habits ;).

For additional insight into my growing weirdness, I have also been wearing these shoes called Vibram Five Fingers. They are rather unique and have TOES for those of you who don't know of what I speak and they are most wonderful. Props to my friend Bugsy from Cajunville for introducing them to me. You can find them at www.vibramfivefingers.com and the sizing is a tad odd. I usually wear a six-and-a-half women's shoe. Sometimes a seven and barely got onto the women's sizing chart at a 36. I might wear a 37 in another style. I'd advise going to a store that sells them so you can walk around in a pair before you buy them.

Here are my weird feet in my weird shoes:

Funky As Promised

Buddy has issued a dare and that dare is that I sing in them so those of you crawling about before noon on Sunday can witness the weirdness as I come good on the dare in the full glory of Mother's Day. <> (<--LOOK!!! I found the arrows :D) I am wearing my five-toed shoes to sing this Sunday. I figure it's Mother's Day and I'm a mom, right? I can wear what I please...and I shall!!! The real purpose of the shoes is for running. Yes, running. Aside from dancing, running was never a real hobby. I just danced a lot through high school. In my first years of college (despite small hiatus for a fouled ankle from --running--) I didn't do much until I transferred to UH my junior year and immediately funged up my knees so bad they needed reassembly. Well, one needed it twice. (I didn't fung them so much as they were born that way and then I put the screws to them via ballet). That was a REALLY bad year. LOTS of physical therapy. After that I got into swimming. Lots and lots of swimming and water aerobics. Somewhere in there I worked with a trainer for six months and did step aerobics which I still love. You can blame my grandmother for the step aerobics thing. She'd still be stepping if her balance would allow but I think at eighty-something years old you can hang up your aerobic togs for a pair of walking shoes, the local gym's treadmill, and a swimsuit. But blame it all on the local gym that everyone is back to-->running.

Buddy has been running two miles every day. Sort of boggles the mind. But for a sixty-something a heck of a great idea. As long as you have your feet and a road...you can go. Well, he uses a treadmill.

Now we're back to the shoes. They're for something I can only call not-so-barefoot runnning. Which is what I'm up to trying next. :) In lieu of hiking the Texas Lone Star trail...which is what I really want to do but lack a hiking buddy...I shall tackle this. Yay. I expect it to take a while as it has taken a bit just to get used to the silly shoes. I hear I need little toe-y socks, so I've acquired said socks.

They will be here as soon as UPS discovers my house for the 457th time. The link to that post will be -->here. I <3 UPS. There really is something seredipitous about the fact that heart-making on the internet--at least in this case--involves the "less than" symbol. Really.

Welcome to those joining me for the first time and HIYA to all those begging me to come back. I can only say...this semester almost killed me. My love-hate relationship with computers grew a tad more on the love AND the hate side. What can I say? They all belong in the lake. Period.

Except maybe my iPad which I will one day have affixed to my left hand.

Awkward.

Scat.

I Am In Computer Hell

2011-03-15T23:24:00.000-07:00

I have been there since January. Or is it I have been here since January? It's definitely here. Yes "here." I have learned more about networking, programming, and various and sundry software packages in the last two months than I have accumulated in a lifetime of knowledge, so yeah, that's good. What isn't so good is that this is like learning to speak for the first time or walk without ever having spoken or used my legs...ever. I've always done things computer-wise a certain way. So I'm unlearning everything and relearning it while using what I've learned (and some of what I already knew)...and right about now this is starting to sound as confusing as it really is.

Blogging was/is a hobby that quickly fell by the wayside not because I didn't want to do it, but in large part because it involves--and I'm chuckling while I write this--more time on a computer. EVERYTHING involves more time on a computer. And if I can neglect a computerized task, well then, I will.

Then there are other things like the fact that the new whammy-dyne printer acquired for Taplin, Corp. doesn't want to cooperate with Windows 7 and the server keeps appearing and disappearing from the network on a whim that also keep me busy now and again (mostly again).

So...update on the chitlins:

Beanstalk managed to go from June to March without a broken bone! Yay! Then he stopped walking altogether and a slight stress fracture was discovered. He most likely grew too fast for his slight bone structure and his tendons...just...broke...his tibia. Yeah. I'm considering changing his blog name to "Stretch" but it really isn't that funny. More like baffling. He is talking a LOT. And this is very, very good. It comes in fits and starts, but he'll go from "Yeeeeeeees." and "Nooooooo." to "I want to watch Cars, please and thank you!" So...it's all in there so-to-speak, which is, well, more yay!

On the short end of the stick (that was a kid comparison joke b/c Squib is the anti-Beanstalk heightwise), Squib is turning into a spelling and counting monster. He made it to 144 on his own the other day (by choice, I might add) and then literally got so stressed out about the next number that I had to force him to quit counting things and watch Thomas the Tank Engine. There are plenty of other things to do on his iPod OTHER than type out numbers and words and things, but no, that's what he'd rather do. I'm happy about that, yes. But the stress....aieeesh! He is five. It is not time to worry that you can't exactly get to 145 yet I don't think. Or that on occasion you get the two months that start with "a" reversed...considering you learned them last week and can spell them both without error. I mean, really...go throw something from here to there or tear something apart to see the insides already! He is also very interested in taking photographs and in being photographed which is what finally pushed me toward purchasing the iPod. Here is some of our work from this week (Spring Break):

Since you don't get to see me much, here are two that Squib took of me:

Here's one of Squib that I took. He has inhabited a box in my office that was vacated by a new file cabinet. If you have never given your child a large box or have never had a large box to play in yourself, then GET ONE! I do not care how old you are...you must need a bus, or a spaceship, or a time warp machine, or some other such large thing that is imagination-powered!! So:

Here we are goofing around today watching a movie and playing with his iPod and my iPhone:

We are not advertising for Dr.Pepper, but if they want to cut us a check we'll gladly take it (as if they don't owe the family a bit after all these years). A note on the photos, we use the Hipstamatic and Instagram apps for iPhone/iPod (I think they are for iPad as well...but, alas, I am still iPadless--there a parting shot for Apple as well).

Scat

Definitely Amongst The Living

2011-01-17T16:59:00.000-08:00

I have not posted since December 20th. Weird, I know.

I can't even really say that I have something to show for the passage of that month of time other than a few accomplishments here at home and work. Most of what I thought I'd taken care of got itself undone with a single phone call placed to me on Saturday when I was unavailable and of course cannot return and fix until tomorrow which is too late because of the MLK day holiday...blah blah blah. It just sort of got sucked away. Two months of driving around filling out paperwork and someone lobs a non-returnable phone call into your voice mail when they know it's too late, but says if you call them BEFORE the day they say you can call them...well, then, yes...they could do something about it then.

Wait, what?

Exactly.

As for the rest of my "free time" what happened was this...the work was finally done to complete the new office. That work included extra space in the back for a small apartment, so....

...for the first time since...

...geez I really don't know...

I've been sleeping in a real, honest-to-God bed!

No futon. No sofa. I can almost feel my ass again. I really thought I'd lost it. Problem is that any time I get near the thing I'm sucked in. An overwhelming sleep vortex claims me within five feet of approaching it regardless of whether I'm vertical and, say, folding laundry, or on the other side of the door. Perhaps it's just the knowledge that it's there. Psychosomatic. Yeah. Probably that. That and things are catching up with me...I do have a birthday coming up, but don't we all?

Ramble. Ramble. Ramble.

Scat

One Of Those Days

2010-12-20T20:34:00.000-08:00

I have really thick, curly, long hair. I was getting ready for bed this evening and combing my hair out when I ran against a tangle and the comb flipped out of my hands, lofted into the air, and plopped unceremoniously into the toilet. I could only stand there and contemplate the number of people who use that toilet and perhaps how long it had really been since I'd cleaned it last before I had to stick my hand in it.

That is the kind of day I have had.

Scat

Arming My Children Was Perhaps A Bad Idea

2010-12-19T17:25:00.000-08:00

Perhaps.

But I am glad I started with NERF gear. It is advisable. When I was a kid, we were armed with disk guns and/or BB guns at approximately the same time. I am really, really, really not sure why we were not more injured back then. Yesterday, Squib shot himself 3 out of 5 times. His learning curve is INCREDIBLE, though. Today he's almost as good a shot as I am.

And I am hurting!!! And not just because I am old...er and slightly creaky in new places and have been running about hell-bent on demolishing my offspring. But also 'cause those little NERF darts can smart a bit if they hit you in the wrong places...like the earlobe.

I specified all the appropriate "how to shoot" tips...but I didn't think either of them was quite the shot to zing me in the earlobe. Thrice now. And when being taught how to shoot...things...with things...I don't ever recall anyone saying anything about earlobes. Well...not in this context...

I was arming two people who still ask for pieces of "tandy" and three kisses at bedtime and every time I leave to go somewhere...

...and then...

...mid fight...

...this morning...

I was hiding behind the island in the kitchen and it occured to me that the smallest one had gone quiet. He's five. I thought he'd lost interest or found something he'd lost and forgotten we were waging war in the living areas, so I went out to search for him.

And found him.

He was stripping off his belt. He had already shed his shoes, dumped out his pockets, and was jumping up and down inside the closet listening to see if he made any noise. I asked what he was doing. He said, "I think I make too much noise, Momma, that's how you always find me. So I was making sure I was all quiet before I came back out to get you." He had the most focused and serious look on his face, too. It was downright terrifying.

Tomorrow he will have discovered grease paint and duct tape...I had better sleep with my dart rifle...

Scat

Oy! Kids These Days!

2010-12-06T20:31:00.000-08:00

You all know that I'm back in college. Again. For the second time. Soon to be in graduate school in some official capacity. Anyhow...

I am scavenging various and sundry requirements that have cropped up in the sfiahefieuhf years since I graduated the first time and one or two prerequisites that I do not yet have and in the mean time marvelling at how things have changed. For one thing...all my profs speak English. Clearly. Distinctly. Sometimes this fact alone makes me dissolve in hysterical fits of giggles. It's a luxury. A luxury I say!

Today, I was sitting in the hall...again...because now they lock everything up tight for our protection. We are so much safer sitting in large packs in the hallway should some rampaging half- (or fully-) crazed student barge in and try to shoot us all. Now we are fairly lined up like a shooting gallery with no doors to protect us. I'm off topic here, but since you aren't supposed to carry concealed on campus, well...I digress.

Where was I? I was sitting in the hall with the others marked for death. And they were discussing various professors they were going to have for next semester. Horrifying people those professors! One of them used TWO TEXTBOOKS! Another actually expected that you memorize all the metabolic reactions verbatim for the biochemistry section...of ...something. I lost interest at that point because I took not one, but two classes entitled Metabolism (I and II) where it was nothing but memorization of reactions and energy consumed or generated and the byproducts, etc. yada, yada, yada and had to keep track of the electrons much less the molecules...and I started to giggle. It was ok because they sort of expect this of me. Several of us study together and they often like to hear horror stories of the dark ages of the late eighties and early nineties before state mandates forced requirements on professors, etc.

Seriously, though. My first irrational professor really didn't speak English. At. All. Dr. Chen. The man most likely to be found napping in his office. His only coherent question was asked the first day. It was: "What is a function?" After many clear and logical answers including one read from the text, we found that the answer he required was: "An apple." There you have it. A function is an apple. And later he gifted us with the information that, "An apple is a machine." Right. This was Calc-based Physic I. I made a 57. Highest grade in the class. It took me no less that four or five hours a day of studying (one fax machine and a family physicist) to accomplish that. It ended up being the only A. Thanks be to God that they curved "back then." More about apples than you ever cared to know and then some. The tests were a bitch.

Botany, of all things, ate my lunch and gave me a life-long hatred of anything that manages to sprout from the dirt. I've since gotten over it, but it's been a tough row to hoe so-to-speak. It was a required biology credit when I was in the Biology/Chemistry dual major program at OBU and the instructor, Dr. Hurley, used it as a weed-out class. pun most definitely intended. Part of my difficulty with the class was my problem. I couldn't stand the arrogance of the good doctor. Inevitably, at student-faculty outings we seemed to get paired up for croquet (this was a small Bible-belt University...and I am not, how to say this, croquet capable). Football, basketball, frisbee, or anything else, but no-go on the croquet. We lost outright much to his chagrin and I believe it spilled over into the class. The pinnacle of the course was the plant collection. It required 1000 different plant samples. 25 families had to be represented and just to make it interesting 25 of your samples had to be unique from the rest of the class. The class size was 15. Big enough to make life difficult. Just prior to that semester, the good doctor broke his ankle when he slipped on some ice on the loading dock out back and so we also had to push him in his wheelchair to and fro throughout the following semester as he healed. Most of the students had a head start on the collection, but I came into it when I got the syllabus. Late bloomer. Uggghhhh. Long story short, we all worked our asses off and did unspeakable things including mouth pipetting salmonella (yes, I did that and acquired immunity along the way--go figure). Hours of work was spent driving all over Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, Missouri, and Louisiana looking for plant samples and in the end every single student was awarded a C. Yes, a C. One of the two C's I have ever "earned?" Whatever.

Then I transferred to University of Houston and the Biochemistry and Biophysics programs. Same song, different verse.

Biochem I and II weren't so bad once I figured out that the instructors were actually pulling from about three texts. So after acquiring all three and reading and studying all three I was golden. A's all around.

Biophysics was another story. It was like a no rules collegiate course. Three texts were recommended. That meant "buy them or else!" The first came in two volumes, the second came in three volumes, the third came in a three-inch (mercifully) single text. All of them were almost unintelligible to an undergraduate given the level of mathematics required to understand much of what was being discussed. I can understand them now that my mathematics education has caught up, but then, I was in Calc III...so...The instructor, Horace Gray (really the name should have flagged me off), had a fondness for Schrodinger's wave equation and used it in its entirety whenever possible. Ditto for other long and pretty much unsolvable equations. He also liked to invent words like "sereptation" to describe the movement of DNA molecules through a packed chromatography column...and the like. But he wouldn't define them as such. You just had to get the gist of things. My Chem prof from OBU and my father had long ago indoctrinated me in the ways of solving problems using dimensional analysis. If the units on both sides of the equation work out, you're golden. That saved my cookies in this class.

Taking tests in Dr. Gray's class was a campus-wide phenomenon. ANYTHING was allowed. He would reserve a room from 7:30 am until, well...until the janitors locked up the building and afterward. We were allowed to bring any and all resources (computers, calculators, texts, notes, other people's notes, other tests, etc. no limits) We could collaborate with other students and even collaborate as a class, but I soon found out that wasn't always a good idea. There was NO time limit. If his office building was locked, we could turn it in the next day. Do you know why? BECAUSE IT DIDN'T MATTER. Those were the hardest damned tests I'd ever taken. Ever. We'd bring coolers full of drinks and food and spend all day and into the night working on them. We'd skip what classes we had to skip (our other profs knew what was up and excused it), we'd miss work, we'd neglect everything just to work on those damned things in hopes of some inspiration or finding some little tidbit of knowledge in a source we'd brought with us. They were murder. In the end we knew it was every man for himself. I made a B in Biophysics I and a C in Biophysics II. Together with my C in Botany, those were my only non-A's in my collegiate history. Apparently I set a record for the highest grades in those classes.

One day I ran into him in the elevator. He greeted me by saying, "You made the highest grades ever in my biophysics classes! Anyone in their right mind would hire you on the spot!" If I had even an inkling of the presence of mind I have now, I'd have asked for a letter of recommendation to that effect. But I was shocked and mumbled a thank you and was rather mystified that he even knew my name much less my grades given his general absent-mindedness and tendency to wear the same outfit day after day. Teal-colored Sans-a-belt pants and matching plaid short-sleeved shirt. Ghastly.

So, to today's students who get a list of things they should know at the beginning of every topic and notes on PowerPoint that correspond to their one or two textbook(s) from their professor who speaks clear and understandable English and have available to them free tutors at a learning center that also offers a writing center to help them with papers and other written assignments, I say...COUNT YOUR FRICKIN' LUCKY STARS!

Scat

When The Bottom Falls Out

2010-11-17T17:49:00.000-08:00

Because, let's face it, it often does.

No, this is not an essay on life...though it could be...and may still be...we'll see...but more an essay on what generally happens to me when I am moving swiftly through an already cram-packed day and suddenly get ambushed by...by what? Fate, I guess?

I have a little Thanksgiving "thing" to go to tomorrow evening and was out looking for a little something to spice up the little black dress. So, I was in Wal-Mart. Yes. I go to Wal-Mart to spice up the little black dress. Get over it. Think what you will. Mostly just think how much better it is that I'm doing my shopping at Wal-Mart instead of, say, Ann Taylor where I could definitely do some damage. Lasting, permanent damage. Or Chico's. Aiieesh!! There were days long ago when I darkened those doors but I cannot now think why I ever did that other than perhaps because I could.

I digress.

The flipside benefit to shopping at Wal-Mart for wardrobe items is that you can also get your unhealthy Dr.Pepper fix there, too. So...

I got my little wardrobe agenda item crossed off and proceeded to the Dr.Pepper aisle where I picked up a 24-pack (there are quite a few D.P. drinkers at my house) by the handle and began to walk back to my cart when, promptly and quite spectacularly, the bottom fell out of the cardboard container like a reverse Jack-in-the-box.

Cans and cans and cans and endless cans of Dr.Pepper were liberated and went bouncing and erupting hither and yon about the soft drink aisle. I stood there stunned and mute holding what remained of the cardboard case while my mouth hung a bit askew.

There were not one, but three employees on the aisle already and all three leapt into action exclaiming all sorts of things at once--things one ought not to exclaim at work, perhaps--and pushing me around as they gathered cans and tried to aim the still-spurting ones away from the remaining customers and other items on the racks.

Spectacular. I. Mean. Awesome.

One of them probably realized that I was useless and, so, stuffed a new, healthy 24-pack into my arms and said, "Just go."

So I just went...

What a rush!!!! I should have done that YEARS AGO!!!! And maybe dropped them from a building!

It was even better than that tube of Desitin I stepped on that one time. A lot messier, though. My black shoes are going to need some work. They're leather and can't exactly be tossed in the washing machine...or can they?

And I'm not sure that there won't be a picture of me up in the soft drink aisle at Wal-Mart for the next ten years. So be it. I take my thrills where I can get them these days.

No, I am not taking this as a universal message to slow down. Pfft. I am, perhaps, suggesting that some things might fare better if they were NOT made from post-consumer products. Stone me, green people, go ahead...just sayin'. Recycled cardboard is all fine and good if the physics works out, but so far...hmmmm....

In real life, though, the bottom does fall out. Doesn't it? I would be lying if I said that the bottom hasn't fallen out in several areas over the last couple months. And when it fell out, it wasn't nearly so therapeutic as watching the explosion of 24 cans of Dr.Pepper. Nevertheless, the end result was the same. Pick up a new pack (to the extent that's possible) and "Just go." Go anywhere. Just don't sit here wallowing in it. Go. And go now.

Buddy, my dad, always has trouble executing plans. He finds formulating them to be easy. For me, it's just the opposite. I have trouble figuring out what the plan(s) should be, but once I have plans in place, I am the executioner--so-to-speak. I've been floundering for the last three plus weeks over what my plans should be. I had one over-arching plan and things seemed to be clicking with regard to that plan. Then the plan floundered and I knew I should continue with it, but it didn't seem sufficient on its own given a deadline further off in the distant future and I knew I needed something to do in the mean time to fill in the gaps. Then, slowly, other things started to fall apart and meaningful chunks of life were chipped away. That sucked. The bottom fell out. With a tad bit of fizzy eruptions here and there on my part.

Finally, someone came along and stuffed a 24-pack in my arms and said, "Just go." Once again, that person was Attrition. Sometimes I can't equate the encouragement and support he offers me with the wardrobe, friendship, and general professionalism consults I offer him. I guess rides to and from the airport may one day pay some of my debt of gratitude to him. I hope so. Something. Anything. Anything to demonstrate to him that there are little moments of time when he's the air in my lungs after weeks in outer space with no gear. I don't always understand him or the way he chooses to react to me, but in little bits I get to see the man he's become and the brother he's always been. He doesn't always have my back. He has his reasons. But he's always there with an idea about how to go on from here.

No matter where here may be.

Scat

Two Paths Diverged In A Wood...

2010-11-16T19:05:00.000-08:00

...and I definitely took the geekier one.

Once again, I have not disappeared. Nor am I dead, ill, resigned from blogging, extinct, wiped out, or dispossessed of my mind. Well, possibly the latter at times, but not at the moment.

I was in a funk. Trying to find my way. Things were cloudy. I needed a plan. And now I have one. Well, two. No, I am not going to go into the two-plan theory of Scatness right at this very second. It would take way too long and there are still details to work out. Suffice it to say that Scat has once again regained her...um, center? Whatever. Scat without a plan is not a Scat you want to behold or even be near. Scat totally derailed is even worse. But, the train is now back on the tracks and there are not one, but two plans in effect for the future of said Scat and she is greatly pleased. Rather than have plan A and plan B, I am proceeding with two plan A's. Yes. I am. Generally, whichever succeeds first wins. They are both equally pleasing and, in the long run, profitable. Yay. Great amounts of work will be involved (as usual), and there will be more school (big surprise), but it will be concurrent with work (yay).

In general, there is quite a bit of turnover happening family-wide, so I am not the only one with a new plan and new things, places, and ideas to get used to. There is a considerable amount of bumping into one another going on and quite a bit of who's going to ferry who to the airport when sorts of conversations happening, but such is our slice of life at the moment. No one who has known us for very long is surprised in the least. Most notably, Attrition and myself are doing a total turn-around in our day-to-day lives and this is, yes, causing some angst, but also causing some...joy! Out with the old, so-to-speak. And there was definitely some old to be had out with. And we are laying waste...to...that.

But for today, a total and complete display of geekiness.

There used to be a day when you had to buy an expensive contraption to adapt your camera (a special one at that) to fit to your microscope in order to get pictures of what you could see when you look through the eyepiece, but no more! Viola! Smartphones! Well smartphones, an understanding of focal lengths and a certain amount of steadying oneself and breatholding reveals things like this:

Transitional epithelial lining of the bladder! (Yes, inspiring subject matter, but we are, after all, studying the urinary system, so bear with me. Had I discovered my new-found talent during the chapter on blood or lymphatics this might have been more stimulating and less...weird).

Endothelial cells centrifuged from a sample of urine...yes MY URINE...are you grossed out NOW??

A bacterial crypt found in the sediment centrifuged from my urine...evidence of an attempted past infection.

Calcium oxalate crystals (more sediment from someone else's urine..even grosser, I suppose).

That really, really dark, black thing in the center is a tyrosine crystal (again, my urine sediment).

A mucosal thread (my sediment).

A section of kidney (not mine LOL) showing glomerular capsules (the white circles). The white circles are the Bowman's capsules and the red mass in the center is the glomerulus. This is where your kidney does it's filtration, well, in the capsules and the tubules surrounding them.

And all this done with my handy dandy iPhone.

Thus endeth the geek tour for the day.

Sleep well!

Scat

Geishas

2010-11-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

Twice a week I sit through three hours of anatomy and physiology. Anymore, it's pretty rare to take a college course with a professor who's first language is English. So you get used to hearing word like "remumber" (remember) and "yunnery" (pronounced like nunnery...but it really should be "urinary"). My first language is English and I sign American Sign Language and Signed Exact English. There are several versions of the English language that I've acquired simply by virtue of the fact that I've been in more college classes than are healthy for the normal individual that are taught with heavy accents.

Today I finally got in trouble. Over geishas.

To be fair, I was tired. Very tired. Not long ago, our topics for term papers were assigned. And, rather irrationally, our rough drafts were due just today. The real deal isn't due for another month, but the rough draft (which, too me, is pretty much the final minus the remaining edits and a bit of tweaking) was due today. Subtract out the weekends when I was with the boys and the time working and trying to pass the two classes I'm taking and I basically didn't sleep in order to write the silly paper.

So I was a little punchy. Perhaps slap-happy, even. When this little Indian woman turns from her PowerPoint presentation and says...

"Now dere are laws that govern behavior when tings are geishas."

Into my mind popped an image of a geisha girl.

Out of my mind popped all possible rational thought. And I'm certain there was a big smile on my face because she stopped the entire class to ask me if something was funny...oops. Did I chuckle? Out loud?

"Is there something funny?" She pointed at me. "Perhaps something you two were discussing?"

She pointed at the girl in front of me who I've never so much as spoken a single word to. We looked at each other then, but still had nothing to say. Frankly, I was still stuck on the geishas...

Gaseous...!! Geishas = gaseous!

I'm not always this slow, but yes, every class is this entertaining...

Scat

Sweet Relief

2010-10-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

November is National Novel Writing Month. Just FYI. This may not directly affect you, but it does now directly affect me as I have decided to turn all my copious writing efforts toward writing a work of fiction. NaNoWriMo occurs every November and many writers participate in it. If you would like to learn more about NaNoWriMo around the world and in your area, you can check in here. It isn't really a change of pace for me--as I write regularly and in volumes already--so much as it is a change of focus.

I haven't written fiction in a while. And I thought this would be fun. So that's why I'm doing this. For fun. For me. So pffft.

I had a problem, though. What to write about? It's quite a conundrum, really. Many of the writers posting in the forums are already developing characters and whatnot and here I am without even so much as a story idea. Well, not true. I have at least seventy of them, but not one that really peaks my interest. Not even so much as a single genre to hang my hat on!

But look no further! Sweet relief! I have decided! But you shall have to wait...for the book, of course. Suffice it to say that it is a science fiction thriller based on what might happen if it were possible to interrupt simple nuclear forces like electron repulsion...with a little bit of the hotly debated cranial nerve zero thrown in. Ooooo-eeeee-aaaa--ooooo. <-- That was the background music. Heavy on the theramin.

You had better keep a theramin handy for the next month.

Scat

What I Should Have Said...

2010-10-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

There's an elephant in the room. Most of you may not know it, but I know it and that's what matters. It's the elephant that's on my mind. Said elephant also happens to read this blog...sometimes. So it's entirely possible that he might read this. Part of me hopes he does. Part of me knows he won't.

This would be a good time to stop calling him "the elephant"--especially since I never really successfully came up with a name for him in the first place and this isn't a rant...so.... When La Fae used to ask me about him she would ask, "How is the jazz scene in Houston?" so...so be it...Jazz it is. The name lacks any sort of connotation whatsoever. I like it.

We were dating and now we're not. It happened about that quickly. Not yesterday when he actually told me, but a couple weeks ago when I felt the life fizzle out of his side of things and I heard the vault doors start to clang shut and just knew in the pit of my stomach that I was going to be stuck on the outside of them regardless of anything I said or did. So I waited...and it happened. How am I? Not good. Just not good at all.

And if another person tells me, "I want to tell you something..." again this week, I shall leap from a tall building (figuratively speaking). Perhaps I will merely roll off the bed with a fierce "Plop!" That sentence NEVER ends good. My dad always started the bad sentences out that way. Still does. So does everybody else. So if you dare comment on this, start with "I want to tell you something..." and end it with something nice. Or shut up! And now I'm way off topic...

The day of the breakup was a bit of a blur due to an all-nighter I pulled to study for a lab practical (with way too many dead cats) combined with a 4 a.m. trip to the airport to send Attrition off to D.C. for a job interview. So when Jazz caught me, I had just climbed in bed to reclaim some sleep (it was my third try) and I was caught off guard to say the least and struck almost non-verbal. Needless to say, the third attempt at sleep was also wholly unsuccessful. Instead, I lay there crying and wishing I'd had my wits about me to say the few things I wanted to say. So here are those things:

What we briefly had together was entirely worth it. Not sure it's worth what I'm feeling now, but I think it probably is. I think you probably are. I wish I'd had the time to find out. You are insanely gifted, intelligent, and funny among other things. You have a single-minded committment to pessimism that I actually do find humorous. Not many will. And if you never let anyone inside that vault where you keep your innermost thoughts and your heart...well I fear you may never be truly happy and that would make me sad. I will always be interested to see where you go with what you have and what you can do.

As for me...I just can't get behind "this has nothing to do with you (meaning me)." What do you mean? It was my relationship, too. It has everthing to do with me! "This has nothing to do with you." Feh...I believe that's code for "I just don't want to do this anymore." with a little "And I really don't want to talk about it." Two very legitimate, believable statements. Harsh, but with enough truth to hang on to. They may sound terrible to you, but sometimes (especially if what you say is true and it isn't the girl's problem) it's nice not to leave a girl wondering what the hell she did wrong. Girl minds...what can I say? They all work like this: You deliberately go out of your way to tell them something is not their fault and what do they immediately think? It's their fault. Now you know.

So this is the end of you in these pages...but you're always welcome to read.

Scat

A Whole Lot of Walking

2010-10-23T09:25:00.000-07:00

It's a slow day around here for some. Not for me, but all the male members of the household are chomping at the bit. There's a burn ban in effect and what the hell else is there to do 'round these parts but burn stuff? All those burrowing hornets have been dug up and gassed. The last stand of trees has been thinned out--don't get me started on how I feel about that--and all that's left is a great pile of debris that is crying out to be burned. It's fairly shrieking! Apparently.

For me, it's yet another weekend full of network maintenance and fixing a laundry list of strange and bizarre computer-related problems that seem to emerge when you leave a bevy of computers alone in the presence of an 84-yr-old geophysicist and a 61-yr-old physicist. Chaos. It's not just a theory anymore.

And these things are just normal, humdrum life. No big deal.

On occasion, for some, life becomes not-so-humdrum. Downright catastrophic and positively tragic. Things happen that you read about in novels or see on television shows...only this time it happens to people you know. You can see them, touch them, hear them, and the effects of these catastrophes are palpable, vivid, and shocking. Stuff the ancient Greeks would look at and be impressed by.

As these human dramas play out, one of two things occur. Option One: The victims take in the pain, suffering, and misery and do nothing with it. Option Two: The victims take in the pain, suffering, and misery. They decide that this is just not something they are OK with and they decide to do something about it.

I like Option Two people!!!

I have mentioned La Fae before, but never gone into her life or goings on. Several years ago, La Fae lost her husband to suicide. It was and still is...tragic...to say the very, very least. But now that I know there are people passing out awards for "Indomitable Spirit," well, one certainly should go to her. Hands down.

To tell you the truth, La Fae and I only knew each other around town, in passing, and on Facebook until the day she posted a random note on FB saying she needed someone to attend a funeral with her in Austin. I was free, so I volunteered. Why was she going? I'll tell you...because she wanted to be there for another woman who was surviving the loss of a spouse to suicide. She didn't want to go alone because she needed some support for herself. So we went. It was a most remarkable day. No really, it was! She is one of the most beautiful and resilient women I have ever met and to call her my friend is more than a mere honor. It's a luxury.

In addition to supporting people individually, La Fae also supports the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, so on November 6th we (yes, I am going too) are going to be walking in the Out Of The Darkness walk at Stude Park in Houston, Texas with the Station 74 Bulldog Walkers. Her husband, Tony, was a Houston Firefighter--hence the Station 74 team name. If you'd like to support us, go here.

Earlier this year, yet another friend who I'll just call J because it takes me such a long time to name everyone, lost her 14-yr-old son to juvenile diabetes. Yeah. His name was Josh. Josh's death actually ended up saving many other people through tissue and organ donation (be an organ donor!!!) and that was only the beginning of the choices J and her husband have made to continue taking what is undoubtedly a tragedy and turning it into something good...and even beautiful. My second award for "Indomitable Spirit" would go to her. Less than a year later, J has already organized a scholarship fund for the local school district and a local walk for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund.

Josh's walk takes place this coming week on October 27th. I encourage you to check out http://walk.jdrf.org to find a walk near you. They take place all throughout the year all over the place! Research on juvenile diabetes also benefits other types of diabetes as well. The extent to which this illness affects the general population is huge, so it's a cause that will benefit you or someone you love at some point in your life.

So I'm going to be doing a lot of extra walking...

Scat

I’m Just Broken

2010-10-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

And broken things just don’t work right. That's pretty much the only conclusion I can reach.

It’s like getting on a bicycle with a broken chain. You just can’t get anywhere. Only I feel like a bicycle that is apparently in great shape…but still isn’t getting anywhere. Everyone swears it’s a great bike. Awesome brand! Great tires! Sweet paint job! Nice seat! Comfortable ride!

“I’ve never ridden a better bicycle,” they say, “I love this bike!”

But when it’s time for the race, no one wants to ride it. And if anyone does, it never seems to go anywhere. So I take it to the shop and get the opinion of a bicycle repair guru.

“There’s not a damn thing wrong with this bicycle,” he says, “I’d give my eye teeth for a bike like this.”

But he doesn’t.

So there it is. Still parked in the garage where it will no doubt be the day it completely rusts and gets swept away.

Some bicycle.

Scat

Accidental Lab Happenings

2010-10-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

First of all, let me say that all the lab accidents I've been a...victim?...of have, so far, either been due to malfunctioning equipment or random acts of less-that-knowledgeable students. They do the weirdest stuff!!! Especially if you say, "Don't do THIS." Then THIS is the first thing they want to try.

Ok, so there were a few accidents due to one pack rat professor that took place in the process of rehabilitating a stockroom. I'm not sure where those mishaps fall at all. The entire 50-lb box full of ceramics that just willfully leapt from the top shelf was just waiting to happen since the 50's probably. That it waited for my term of office is significant and bears consideration. Then there was the nitrogen triiodide incident. As with most things, I wasn't entirely sure what he was hoping to accomplish there, but if he'd simply notified me of the contents of that beaker I'd have known to proceed carefully when the excess dried up. The excess that he left in the bottom of the beaker sitting in the sink with all the other beakers. Stuff looks like water when you're making it...but it ain't. We lost a janitor--a good one--over that.

Second of all, I admit that there is a certain quality that I seem to possess. Some people like this quality. Usually anyone who tests anything at all loves this quality because if anything at all is going to go wrong, I'll find it. Either I'll find it, or I'll be there when it happens, or I'm observant enough to see it, or crap just goes wrong in my presence. That latter one is, very often, how it feels. And, fortunately, something akin to the converse of that is also true. If I can get something to work correctly in my presence, then I can get it to do so reproducibly. Nice.

Today, though, it was mostly "crap just goes wrong in my presence." Sometimes crap goes wrong enough that you get a free shower in front of thirty of your peers.

Today's agenda: cat dissection. Let me tell you, dissection is no longer as bad as it used to be. You aren't in immediate contact with pools of formaldehyde. And your liver thanks you. I thought formaldehyde wasn't used at all anymore, but it turns out it is! Specimens are just rinsed in a glycol solution afterward to prevent (haha) the overwhelming odor of formaldehyde from permeating the lab and causing attrition among the ranks. So, it's more like an underwhelming overwhelming odor. And when you cut open your little kitty, after you've hacked through a considerable amount of adipose tissue, etc. there is still a pool of "stuff" to be drained off so that you can look at, in my case, the arteries and veins without going for a swim.

This is the point at which I approached the sink to rinse the gack DOWN the sink so that I could go on. I'll leave a side note here to say that the instructor did not think it necessary to wear a labcoat/apron or safety glasses. I have only one comment on that choice: stupid, stupid, stupid. Being blind, my safety glasses come with me. Yay! Still, when the fitting on the sink nozzle broke off, the spray pushed all that formaldehyde/glycol/adipose/gack stuff back UP the tray and all over my face, neck, and chest and even into my eyes despite the glasses. It was like someone had turned a disposal on in reverse. Yuck. And it started to burn.

And I started to curse.

And I don't honestly remember where Fred the cat went and I don't care.

Needless to say, I got a rather quick and decent eye rinse followed by a brutally cold shower of my upper body. Yes, with my clothes on. Perfect. No one really knows it, but this is why God really invented book stores and collegiate athletic wear. My one critique of the bookstore is that they don't sell bras. That spongy bra padding can soak up a lot of water. So, needless to say, there were two wet, round circles on the front of my brand new t-shirt before I even made it to the parking lot. I felt like I was nursing again. That hasn't happened in...years. Awkward.

And, yes, everyone thought it was very funny.

Except for me.

And really, think about it. In all your history of science classes and labs...exactly how many times have you EVER seen ANYBODY use an eyewash station or safety shower? This is my third time for the shower (and I'm pretty sure the shower wasn't necessary--overzealous lab people--it wasn't like my first two trips involving highly concentrated acids in the hands of students combined with explosions). First for the eyewash station.

I'm starting to develop a complex.

Scat

Absolutely Unforgettable

2010-10-16T20:33:00.000-07:00

I commit unpardonable motherly sins on a daily basis. I refuse to cut crusts off bread. I make Squib wear his Elmo pajamas now that he has learned at school that Elmo is stupid. I admit I'm happy about his enlightenment with regard to Elmo, but when it is late and the Elmo jammies are the only clean ones...practicality wins out. I would apologize in advance for violating the next taboo, but I'm not sorry. I know at least two mommybloggers who are already squirming in their comfy chairs. Sorry, ladies, but I am answering a direct question and that answer deliberately favors one of my children over the other. Eek. Can you believe it? Of course you can, who am I kidding? What a faux pas! How un-politically correct of me! Or is it politically un-correct? Wait, that's incorrect. I don't know. The point is, you should expect nothing less. If I had any sort of readership at all they'd be running in the proverbial streets of the Internet highway screaming for me to be thrown in the bad parent dungeon.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've gone there.

And now I've gone and insulted my readership, too. Bless you. All three of you...no seriously, bless ALL of you. I know there are way more than three. And I am grateful.

Back story: Yesterday a friend asked who the most unforgettable person in my life has been. My hero. The person I hold in greatest esteem. A great teacher. A good example. I answered, "Beanstalk." Unequivocally.

Yes. Beanstalk is eight. I have been counting. In his short eight years, Beanstalk has been through hell and back. Born with two extra parts of a chromosome, life didn't come easy to him at all. In fact, he started life off very much unalive. Some aggressive bagging both saved him and gave him a bit of a pneumothorax...which was the least of his worries. I only heard rumor of him for about twenty-four hours or so and the first I ever saw of him was this very wise pair of alien blue eyes peering out of a rather mashed-up head in a photograph that I taped to the wall in front of my bed. Up to that point, all I'd heard was subtle conversations in hallways...posteriorly rotated ears this...club foot that...oxygen...chromosomal testing...and of course the up front talk from Kathy, the best P.A. in the world and the neonatal team trying to keep the little tyke alive.

We all learned a lesson that week we should never have forgotten. Beanstalk is here to stay. He's one tough nut to crack. Keeping him down is next to impossible. So, killing him is even harder than that. Something like only 1 in 140,000 tetrasomy 18p babies survive birth. He's the one. Out of all the odds given for every ailment or congenital defect he's ever faced, he's the one. The one in 235,000...the one in 6,000...the one in 30,000. I'm serious about this. It's him. Every time.

It isn't really the surviving that makes him so special. It's the manner in which he survives. He pursues life with absolute, total, and complete exuberance. Joy. Happiness. Interest. Curiosity. Pleasure. Simplicity. And he's wholesome about it. Earnest. And to be quite frank, the circumstances that turned most of the adults in his life into quivering masses of protoplasm...he...well, he handled them. Yes, he cried when it hurt. He fussed at the physical therapists when they prodded him...but only then. The split second the prodding was over, he was too interested in them as an individual to really let all that crap persist and get in the way. So, he won hearts in record numbers. And people began to gravitate to him.

A Beanstalk fan club developed. My friend Sheryl was the president of said fan club. I would phone in or email in updates and she would email out regular updates on Beanstalk's progress with regard to hospitalizations, therapies, etc. The fan club list was long. Incredibly long. He even had a website. I kid you not. People would just show up at the hospital to hold him and sing to him or rock him and they would start telling him all sorts of things...about their day...their thoughts...all sorts of things. At first, I considered it bizarre that people were treating my son like he was the Pope. Some sort of infantile father confessor. But I swear to you he listened. To. Every. Word. And it was almost as if he knew when they were done and he could give them that all-knowing smile and a snugly sort of hug and everything would be OK. He was mesmerizing that way. Still is. And soon I found myself talking to him the same way. After all, I decided he probably did know about what it was like to have been stuck in that damned hospital for the better part of two years straight. Who better to tell?

Of course, I also knew what most did not know. He's extremely intelligent and perceptive. Now, he doesn't--or didn't--speak a word. Not a lick. One day, though, we were spinning through the TV channels down at TCH and a Victor Borge special came on PBS. Victor Borge is FUNNY. What I didn't know, though, was that Beanstalk thought he was funny, too. So...we're watching...and the funny stuff happens...and this kid starts guffawing from between the bars of the metal crib like he's going to bust a gut. Quick, that one. He never missed a beat.

His appreciation for music is also rather refined. Sometimes, it can be too refined for my tastes as it always persists toward the classical and operatic...but amazing in it's technicality and maturity. He doesn't merely sit back and listen to it, either. He directs it. Yes. With entrance ques and the whole bit.

I'm not arguing that he's inhuman or perfect because he's not. Having broken more bones than the average human has ever even witnessed being broken in the sum total of their lives, he greets that sort of misfortune with great frustration and a certain degree of anger. But here is what he doesn't do...he doesn't lash out. He isn't bitter. The anger doesn't consume him. It doesn't tie him down or hang there in his mind like a fog. He doesn't whine. It's simple. He falls. He breaks a bone. He gets pissed. They set the bone. He stumps off in whatever general direction he sees fit and carries on with life in the same blissful humor he was in to begin with. No "oh my gosh my broken femur!" No, "can you believe this is the fifth time I've broken this radius?"

Really, his attitude is more one of "OK! Here I have this brand new empty day! Let's fill it up with all this cool stuff!" And then he does exactly that pushing, shoving, or dragging whatever part of him is casted at the moment along with him. And drat on you if you stand in the way of clapping to the music or chiming in on the "Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey!" parts during Andre Rieu's Strauss program. What could possibly be better than directing Firebird? Or belting out Ave Maria? Really??!? OK, yes, we should make room for Where the Wild Things Are--at least five times--because that is quintessential childrens' literature right there. And any time the five little monkeys do anything you should read about that, too. And don't forget Madeline and her appendix. Important. And the day is never complete unless you have dragged a tree branch around somewhere, rolled in a pile of leaves, eaten dirt, chased your little brother (who asked for it...literally), and ridden around on everyone's shoulders screaming "Yay! Yay! Yay!" And, if he's really in the mood, you'll get a chorus of America the Beautiful as a treat because the boy is, to top it off, a flag-waving patriot. Who knew?

If I had half his positive energy, his ability to get up every time I was knocked down, his inability to complain, his unshakable joy, and his kind of whole-hearted love for real life and everyone in it, I would be unstoppable. Who doesn't need a hero like that?

Scat

The Eternal Afterthought

2010-10-11T15:16:00.000-07:00

I'm discovering several chronic problems in life. Ok, in my life...and am not entirely sure what to do about them. I believe they all stem from one, ok two fatal flaws. Those fatal flaws being: "I believe you" and it's close cousin, "I trust you." Yes, I realize I am a bit of an idealist/altruist. And, no, I'm not trusting just every Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks up to me on the street. But family, friends, and a few co-workers are, I think, reasonable. Or were, I thought, reasonable. I'm starting to lean toward adopting a very X-filian philosophy: "Trust No One." I am stuck consistently in the following situaitons:

1. "I'll bring that thing to you that I borrowed from so-and-so on thus-and-such a day." Never happens.

2. "Sure, I'd be glad to help. I'll take a look at that and get right back to you." Again no joy.

3. "We should..." followed closely by "You should..." Frankly, I'm weary of any sentences starting out this way 'cause maybe we should or maybe I should, but does anyone but me actually want to? Very hard to say 'cause mostly nothing ever comes out of it unless I kick the topic over like an anthill. And if the sentence really begins with "You should..." well, that automatically means I should do it because no one else wants to. Something wrong there.

And my personal favorite...

4. "I'm sorry wah wah wah wah (insert the teacher's voice from Peanut's here) but...." Yeah. The most overused phrase in the English language is "I'm sorry." People are rarely sorry. That's just the truth. They do what they do for selfish reasons and they'd darn well do it again. Pure and simple. They are not sorry. The phrase should be saved for people who are actually sorry about something. NOT JUST FEELING GUILTY and needing someone to soothe their ego.

And, for the record, as of 5:01 pm, I am officially NOT ok with it despite what might come out of my politely-trained mouth. Things like respect and consideration used to exist and they existed for a reason. I am one of those reasons. Somewhere in my addled brain, I think I deserve those two things. Respect, consideration, and even more than that on occasion--like nice treatment. Perhaps not being the official afterthought. I give those things to other people. It isn't so hard to return.

Or maybe it is.
Scat

Safe Harbors

2010-10-11T14:29:00.000-07:00

Everybody needs a safe harbor, an essential stronghold in which they are safe from the onslaught of the enemy. I'm not sure how others live their lives or exactly what their struggles are like, but when I need my safe harbor...THE safe harbor...I'm almost always running full out. Every muscle in my body is working in concert to propel me forward. I never slow down. I never look back. My bare feet meet the cool earth like they have a thousand times before leaving my small, hard footprints in my wake and a fine layer of dust over my feet and under my nails as I wind my way through the back alleys of the city toward the gate. My calves are smudged and the hardened rippling ridges of muscle carry smears of mud and scratches where I've ripped through the underbrush while tearing through the forest on my way here. My thin skirt is torn up the edge of my thigh but it makes no difference for it has made it easier to lengthen my stride as I finally break free of the city walls. This city where I have found no refuge. I'm in the open now. Vulnerable in this green pasture where animals graze idly by, ignorant of what comes their way. I bolt through the middle of the herd without slowing. Goats. My captors spill from the archways and gates on foot and on horseback, but I have a head start. And I know where I'm going. I recognize the terrain. I run even harder now. My lungs are tearing at my throat and my eyes water, but I must keep going. Arrows fall all around me--some glance off my skin drawing blood. I cry out, "Help me!" but the answer, it is not apparent. I see the river and make for it's banks, running through the water like a nymph. Clambering up the far, steep bank, I gain some ground and continue to run soaked and dripping wet, muddy rivulets of water coursing down my face. I see the cliff not ten yards away and increase my pace still more. A docile mass of sheep reclines in the lush grasses. Some sleep. Others eat. They pay no attention to me as I run to the edge of the cliff and without hesitation--I leap!! And land in the strong arms of the Protector who has been waiting for me on the ledge below. And that is how it has always been. I have always had a safe harbor...but it took some getting to. It wasn't without fighting a battle or two or taking a beating that I reached that stronghold. Nevertheless, the stronghold was always there and I've carried the hope of it with me in my heart wherever I go.

Scat

Got Monkey Butt?

2010-10-06T19:48:00.000-07:00

I have no idea what it is, either, but I was perusing the aisles of Sam's today looking for saline nasal mist when I came across this:

No, I'm not joking. This is an actual product, not a photo edit. To see it for yourself, head over to your neighborhood Sam's Discount Club and look in the health and beauty section. Apparently, Anti-Monkey Butt also comes in Lady and Baby, so you're in luck no matter your age or gender.

And if you REALLY want to bust a gut, go to their website: http://www.antimonkeybutt.com/

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Scat

Flashback

2010-10-03T16:40:00.000-07:00

This is a little something inspired by the prompt from Sunday Scribblings. It's my first contribution there...and wee tad dark. But all me just the same! Inspired, as usual, by my life.

It's the same.
Exactly, precisely, eerily the same.
It slid right on.
Over all my barriers.
My carefully prepared defenses.
My safeties.
My strongholds.
Like a glove.
Still warm from previous wear.
Just my size.
In fact, made just for me.
How did I miss it?
The granted I was taken for.
The advantage I was taken of.
A carefully woven cacoon of aspersions from which no butterfly can ever emerge.
I held its weight in my hand like a familiar thing.
Rolled it over my palm.
Tossed it through my fingers.
Played with it.
Welcomed it.
Fascinating in its superficial beauty.
Possesing qualities my altruism must have given it.
For when the dull, wet, hot impact landed home,
I felt again what I thought I'd left behind.
That warm, metallic taste of a dying world.
Dead and gone running down the back of my throat.

Scat

They're Killing Him

2010-09-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

I remember kindergarten.

It was sort of magical. Like a bottomless toy box. School intrigued me. For a bit. My teacher's name was Ms. Cunningham. She had a broken kneecap on the first day of school. My memory says it was due to a skiing accident...would have to be water skiing I guess. That was quite the deal to me. My best school friend's name was Angela. We used to hunt aliens on the playground. Not kidding. That's exactly what the world needs, right? More proof that I'm stark raving nuts and have been since birth. Add that to the ever-growing pile of nut-farm fodder. School was mostly like playing the whole time and I already knew the things we were supposed to be "learning" so there was no real work. They taught us letters using things like Mr. M and his "munching mouth"...come on now!!! I hate to say this, but with the exception of one history teacher in fourth grade (Mrs. Corn was her name)...yeah that's really it...it pretty much continued that way with maybe one or two exceptions in high school. You can blame all that on my parents and their obsession with the library. Ok, MY obsession with the library.

The downside to kindergarten (and school in general) was that I learned that my rainbows were, in fact, NOT rainbows because--while they did include every color I had in my box--they were not in the proper order nor were they limited to the standard ROY G. BIV color scheme that apparently every young girl was trained to make their rainbows out of before they showed up. AAAACK! What an insult to my artistic temperament! Between this lesson and Mrs. Thomas in third grade, who told me my drawing wasn't very good because I hadn't outlined everything in black like everyone else, I learned two things very, very quickly. One: I don't really like being like everyone else which is good 'cause I kinda stink at it for some obvious reasons. Two: There was clearly going to be a lot of "art" (and other things) made simply for the purpose of making teachers happy and it was going to have to be burnt later or signed with a name other than mine. And it was. That is basically the story of me and school. And pretty much is to this day.

The exception being my history in the orchestra/band program which was altogether different from my otherwise school experience. Completely.

As you know, Squib started school this fall. For some reason, though I'm not sure what that reason was because they are so different, I think I expected him to react more like Beanstalk. Excitement, enthusiasm, joy, exuberance, etc. Yay, school! Like he had begun a glorious new adventure. But it doesn't seem that way for Squib at all. It seems like a daily marathon. Or triathlon. Before it all started, I admit, I was, in the back of my mind, a little worried about that. How was he going to make it through the entire day? Every day? All week? He was still taking daily three hour naps, after all. No, I'm not joking. And, no, I wasn't forcing him. He simply trouped off after lunch every day like it was just the next thing to do. He's never argued about sleeping a day in his life. He takes after his mother in this way. He's always been a little guy as well. I've attributed this to his heart condition which has been resolved, but he is, after all five years old and really just now wearing clothes sized for three and four-year-olds. So...

So, how does he make it through the day? Answer? He doesn't.

This constitutes our quality time together of late:

The sum total of our conversation from 3:45 pm-6:00 pm today was, "Mom I want a snack," delivered through a rain-streaked face and water-plastered hair. He could barely keep his eyes open and there was really no arguing with him. He's very close to irrational at that time of day. So, we got a snack, he took a drink, and not thirty seconds later I snapped this picture before we were even three blocks from the convenience store. I would say that Barbara at the store was slipping him something other than a sucker, but she just wouldn't do that, I don't think. She makes a killing off all us Friday afternoon snackers.

He did surface briefly when I was on the phone to turn his head to the right and repeat a word after me..."but"...and then he didn't even move except to snore until we made it out to the house two hours later.

When we arrived, all he said was, "carry me." He was still soaking wet from the downpour we were in when I carried him to the car, but he didn't even want me to change his clothes. He flat-out refused.

I carried him in, stuffed him full of corndogs (gross!), drew a couple of pictures for him on demand, and he lasted all of one-and-one-half total hours out of bed (what with dinner and a shower crammed in there) and is now snoring (again) in his bed where he will, no doubt, be until I wake him up tomorrow. Last weekend he'd have slept through lunch if I'd let him. And why didn't I? Really? Mean ogre mother.

I do, on occasion, attempt to ask him about school. So far, all he does is shake his head back and forth in a most bewildered manner and say, "I don't know." Or, my personal favorites, "I can't talk about it."--and--"I can't tell you."--which still comes out--"I can't teww yew." (So cute). Like he works for the CIA and really can't talk about it. Those answers make me giggle because he's so damn serious when he uses them. Really. School is a state secret around here. So, I have to turn my head or put my hand on my mouth because he hates it when I look like I'm laughing even just a little bit. Not even a smirk. And with my sense of humor, this can be impossible.

Rarely, he'll come up with something like, "We had chicken nuggets." -or- "We ate pancakes." That gives me hope because at least I know he's not lost touch with his favorite thing--food. But it isn't at all satisfying from an academic or investigative perspective. At this point, I whole-heartedly admit to being a wee bit jealous that the school folk are now getting the best conscious hours of my baby's time! Grrr.

I miss the days when he used to speak to me in full sentences instead of grunts and whimpers. And I'm a wee bit concerned that they're gonna wipe the poor kid out before he gets to Thanksgiving or Christmas and has some time to recover. I suppose my only real hope is that by the time he gets out of all this in, say, 2024...OMG!...and somewhere in there goes to college or whatever kids are doing by that time (Starfleet Academy, knowing my luck) perhaps we can have a lucid conversation about how he's doing, what he likes, what he wants to do, how he feels, and what's important to him before he ships off for gamma quadrant for the rest of his known life.

Gosh I miss that kid sometimes...even when he's right here in the house.

Scat

"Fucking"

2010-09-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

Last night, as Squib was stepping out of the bath, he dumped his wet toys out all over the bath mat and said, "Squib, that's a big fucking mess."

I stared at him, a little agape, wondering if I really heard that word come out in his still little-toddler voice. Maybe I didn't? Maybe he didn't hear the word right from wherever he'd heard it and doesn't really know what he's saying and he's saying "bucking" which is a much better word to get to explain?

Then, he said plain as day, "Momma, what is fucking?"

He stared at me without blinking. Innocent. I blinked, like, seventy-three and one-half billion times, got lost in some not-so-random thoughts, came back, and asked a very dumb question.

"Uh. Are you asking what it is or what the word means?" Both of those questions are the same thing. I know. He gave me the same look that you, no doubt, have on your face right now. The "what is wrong with her?!" look.

"I don't understand." He said.

"OK. Let's back up. Where did you hear that word?" I asked him.

"Squib you've made a big fucking mess!" he did an excellent impression of Squid. It was shocking.

So I explained that it was a curse word or slang term that did describe something real, but was most often used when swearing, etc,. etc,. blah, blah, blah. His eyes glazed over and rolled back in his head. And he had one more legitimate question (I think).

"Why is it you're never going to tell me what it means?" And he took it one step further, "You explained 'shit' and 'bitch' and 'god damn.' Not this. Why?" More innocent blue-eyed gazing.

The reason I gave him was that the explanation of the word had to do with something I didn't know if he was ready to discuss and understand. He caught the vibe that this topic was off-limits at the moment and we were going no further. I'm not sure I like my answer. And what I don't like even more is the idea that topics such as these should be avoided. This is officially the third time that the topic of sex has come up and been deferred in one way or another. The last time, I did, actually, talk about it pretty openly--not excessively, mind you--but I didn't avoid it. Last night I avoided it. I don't know why. Tired? Who can say. The one thing that concerns me, though, is that my sons not grow up thinking the topic is strictly verbotten and off-limits. Heck, if we lived as most families around the world do--in a single-room mud hud of sorts--they'd already have had a front row seat, right? It would be normal. Us sophisticated first worlders have civilized ourselves out of so much humanity that our kids might as well have been raised each inside their own ziploc baggie. Where's the fun, the life, the love, or the pleasure in that?

Why do parents live in fear of discussing sex with their children? Really?! Shouldn't it be a wonderful, exciting thing they get to help their children prepare for and discover? Don't you hope in you heart of hearts that your kids discover great love in their lives and that love brings with it a fabulous physical relationship, too? Gosh I hope so! And how are my kids going to do that if they aren't prepared? What if they never see it or know what to look for or at the very least have no one to ask questions of?

That would break my heart.
Scat

Something Runneth Over

2010-09-13T22:16:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant with Beanstalk in 2001/2002, I had a house.

I know! It's so shocking!

I had a house and it was mine. Well, not exactly. Technically, it was a tax shelter for Buddy. Whole other story. But it was my domain--all three bedrooms , etc. I also slept in a real king sized bed. Mostly. There were a few very overburdened moments there when I slept in a recliner. Meh. I painted the walls, hung up my art, had my very own furniture and dishes and such, and ran around in various states of undress. Beanstalk had a nursery. Not even kidding. (Someone out there is wheezing with laughter). And only my husband at the time lived there--that's a marked decrease in population compared to my average situation now, huh? But he traveled extensively...so. My kingdom...or was it a queendom?

Attrition and Mystery lived only a couple blocks away in a monstrosity of a house. When they moved in, they put in a gorgeous pool. After I "retired" for the first time, it was the highlight of my day to put on my ugly polka-dot swim suit with the patronizing bow tie between the boobs (such is the state of most maternity swimsuits) and go clean the pool and get in my work out. I also had a pretty killer tan. It was my reward for giving up caffeine. Or something.

One day, it had rained heavily, and after sweeping and skimming the pool, I finally got in. My first thought was a rather incoherent, "Oh criminy, I've finally gained enough weight with this kid to overflow the pool." and then a split second later I realized that rain actually fell in the pool. I was slow. Hormones, right? Something.

I remember bobbing there as the water lapped over the edge of the pool and enjoying what a cool effect that made. Less like a bathtub and more like a mountain lake with a shore. Full to the brim. It was a very fitting metaphor for what I felt was happening in my life at the time, too.

About three or four months later--when Beanstalk was born and diagnosed--a war of attrition began for my life, all that I loved, and even my soul. I only started coming out of it a little over a year ago in some ways. After it started, life was like watching a setup of dominoes after the first domino has been knocked over. Almost fascinating in a horrifying way. Inevitable. Bit by bit everything that filled me up was ripped apart, taken away, broken, injured, or spilled out. I felt gutted and wasn't even sure I could get up any more. So I fought sitting down. Until all I could do was throw rocks while curled up in the fetal position of my mind. Beaten. Perhaps I had run out of luck? Maybe that God I thought had been helping me out all that time really wasn't? Well, hell. That would suck. I couldn't even follow that thought through. The possibility was abysmally terrifying. How did I get here from there? I'm the same person! I did what I was supposed to do, right? Followed all the rules. Whatever those are. I know I made bad decisions. Sometimes I just had to make a decision. Any decision. And the options weren't always that great. What exactly were my options? I wasn't sure at all anymore.

But about two years ago, I decided to renew the fight for myself. It was an uphill battle entirely. All the way. I discovered a unique opinion about how I was supposed to live my life for every person on earth. Some people developed a new unique opinion about how I should do things every third day (conservative estimate). They had free-flowing opinions about many other things as well. "Ooooh. You're going to try that again. That didn't go so well for you before. Maybe you should give up." That's the short version. Pick a topic. I "should" probably not try it.

The understood portion of that statement is: "YOU SHOULD NOT TRY THAT BECAUSE YOU'LL JUST FAIL."

I would even go so far as to say there is an additional sentence to tag onto that: "AGAIN."

Hogwash. Who falls in a mud puddle and doesn't get out of it because they might fall into another mud puddle again if they were to get back up? Um, no one. So, I would look like a dumb shit to cozy up in my mud puddle for life. I just would.

And since when did six years of, well, very dark and difficult times mean that the rest of my life is going to reek as well? You know what? I've pretty much figured out that no single day is necessarily a precedent for any other day. The same goes for weeks, months, and years.

Do you know how I know that?

'Cause lately? I find I'm full to the brim again. Life is not perfect by any means. Who would expect that? But it's good enough for me to open my arms wide in the car and scream "woo hoo!" for joy or even spin around in circles on the lawn until I fall over dizzy (I take a five-year-old with me as an excuse--they are convenient that way). Sometimes I even blow bubbles in my milk with a straw (bendy straws work best as does chocolate milk, really). Other times I sing really loudly along with the music. Or I dance however I want to dance. I write in this blog. I send random texts to friends. Even stay in the bathtub until the water is ice cold. Or I strut my bizarre t-shirt collection. And more. Really.

Scat

Crazy Days

2010-09-12T00:15:00.000-07:00

It wasn't until a few moments ago that I passed the natural gas company in town and saw their flags at half mast and remembered where I was nine years ago today at just about this time. Not September 11th, but the 12th at around 1:30 a.m. In particular, I was face down on the floor of the living room in my parents' house in a "name witheld" city in Texas absolutely dry of tears and staring at the phone. You see, my husband at the time was stranded in Phoenix at the airport and trying to find a car to drive home. That was not a big deal.

Yes, there was the whole "towers" thing going on in New York...and that was a huge deal for sure, historically speaking, but not to diminish what was going on for the country and for many individuals, the real question for me was, "How big is this for me personally?"

You see, my father had been in Japan for something in excess of 160 days or so. He was supposed to catch a flight back to the states and either land in New York the morning of the 11th--or--catch a meeting with some folks at Morgan Stanley. Who just happen(ed) to be IN the towers. Yes, they do make intineraries, don't they? But the real truth is that many times a seasoned traveller used to call you from an airphone and say, "This is the flight I'm on."

I was academic dean at a private school in this same unnamed community and after the initial news hit the school, I had to deal with ferrying news back and forth to and from several students who were in the exact same predicament I was in...including a diplomatic family who came and scooped their kids up and disappeared. That was comforting. And, after a while, we were consumed with terrified kids, what to do, and closing the school, etc. After about an hour-and-a-half, a friend and the wife of our president of the board of directors showed up at my office door and very politely said, "Um, where is your dad?"

"In Japan. No. Shit!"

Using telephones at that time was about as effective as trying to throw a rock and hit someone's house...so my friend very nicely volunteered to drive to my mother's and check in with/on her and then get back to me.

And now you are caught up. We heard nothing for over twelve or so hours. It was a long ass wait. I crawled in my mother's bed with her and there was some weeping. That we did it together is saying a lot. A lot a lot. That was the night I met my friend Sharon...I have three friends "Sharon," so mentioning her here doesn't necessarily require a unique name...at a prayer service at our church. She goes by Aunt Sharon to my oldest. She spoils him mercilessly and I love her dearly. Anyhow...the long ass wait...

...it ended in the early hours of the morning when dad called home to say he had missed his flight (short version is he just missed it--there was much confusion during that day and gathering of American nationals, etc. in the embassy and that kind of thing always gives dad a sour stomach, so he bailed for his apartment). And, therefore, was not anywhere near Morgan Stanley. As soon as flying was once again ok'd, he hopped right on a plane for New York and met with them in a hotel where they were using post-it notes for just about everything. He said it was spooky. And they shook his hand a lot.

We would have met him at the airport, but that was just about impossible. And his car was there anyway...so...what can you say. He's never really been accomodating with regard to welcome homes.

Several times this last week, I've wanted to kill him myself with my bare hands. We have both been under enormous amounts of pressure for...well, years now? He has a unique gift for getting under my skin--which is easy to do since I am now so conveniently located in the living room--as I'm sure I do the same for him at times. Two people so alike are bound to do so. Several things about this week--ok, one really--stank big time for me and he seemed to miss it entirely. He was torqued up about something all week (ok, the last two weeks) that went down today and I seemed to missed it entirely. Truth is, I was wound about it, too. I just had no idea what to do about it other than make sure he had a nice haircut. Really. That was my giant contribution. Short of, well, nothing, I could do no more. Killer hair, honestly, but I doubt it was noticed. Don't tell him.

In any case, "the presentation" went well today. ALL DAY. Oy. From 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. Like a marathon or something. Very well. Well enough to exhale a bit. Tomorrow we may even inhale. Maybe we'll splurge and inhale twice. Dare I say we are looking at having actual investors if we decide this is the final deal to take? This would be the second and final round of investing and God only knows how very long we have been working toward this. There are always details to hash out and things no one likes, but that everyone would have to get used to, etc. I think every deal is like that.

Did anyone here celebrate? No. They never do. Family motto: never let up? I don't know.

So, Attrition and myself did it for them. We met Widowmaker, his wife, and a whole cast of other characters at Baker's Street Pub, listened to "Shinola" (seriously...that was the band's name and I did not make it up) and had a great time. I drank a beer (write that down as you know I hate the stuff) and Widow introduced us to something I believe he called a "Surfer on Acid." Coconutty. As if suntan lotion had a taste...

And later this morning I must up and do my church thing...and defend Galveston from the insurgent plague. A simple day's work.

Scat

Frankly, I'm Kinda Hopin' Those Are Shorts...

2010-09-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

Really, I am...but I had to walk behind this girl all the way from the book store in the commons by the learning center, past the biology building, and into the library. I could never really tell. And I was really looking. This must be the new fashion trend...the 80's shirt dress returns. With a vengeance.

Scat

Rogue's Gallery

2010-08-26T18:13:00.000-07:00

There seems to be quite a bit of confusion as to who I’m talking about half the time. Understandably so. Most everyone I mention repeatedly has been introduced over a long period of time and I’ve never sat down and explained everything in one single post, so here goes. The whole big confusing mess:

Bramble Scat…later shortened to just plain, old Scat…that’s me, the author and instigator of this blog. Bramble is a name I picked up over at CafeMom back in 2008 when everyone was into fairies and there was some website where you could go see what your fairy name would be. Mine was Bramble Rainbowfly. The last name sounded abysmally like “blowfly,” so I abandoned it immediately, but kept Bramble. Scat is animal poop. Squib has an entire book about it. He is the one who suggested that name. That the initials of said name are B.S. and I am, coincidentally, a writer is serendipitous.

I have two sons, Beanstalk and Squib (See? More B.S. Totally unplanned, too!), Beanstalk is now eight and Squib is now five. Their fathers are, respectively, Beanstack (who was Warhol for hair reasons) and Squid (B.S. again…). I know, those names do sound a bit derogatory, but really all I wanted to do was change one letter so you could easily associate them with the appropriate child. I swear. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t have a vindictive bone in my body…no matter how hard I wish I did. Believe me, there are times when I wish HARD.

I split my time between two locations in Texas. If you read carefully, you can figure out what major city I’m in. It isn’t hard. When I’m in/near that major city, I stay at the Bunker with Attrition and Mystery. When I’m out of that major city, I’m in my tiny little town that Squib seriously does call Radiator Springs (like in the movie Cars) because the resemblance is uncanny. I call our little compound there Green Acres.

Attrition is my b-r-o-t-h-e-r. Brother. Not boyfriend. Not husband. He really cringes when people don’t make that distinction. And no, we are not twins. No. Nope. Nada. Gross!! Not a post with him in it goes by when I don’t get asked some “who is he really?” type question by somebody. Yes, he is my sometimes partner in crime. Yes, we have a regular Sunday a.m. gig together. Yes, we have a Saturday night ritual—at least we did before the mold thing destroyed my little office getaway. But, read it now and remember….Attrition is married to Mystery. For something like seventeen years now. Eighteen coming up in January. Like half his life. True story. For those of you needing help adding two and two together and getting four: Mystery is therefore my sister-in-law. I didn’t name either of them. I don’t know why either of them chose the names they have. Attrition uses his name over at Ace of Spades, Turf Wars, and elsewhere. Mystery is also a Turf Wars junkie. In fact, she got the rest of us hooked.

This next batch of folk appear here by their grandparent names as given to them by Squib: Buddy is my dad (and Attrition’s). Mimi is my mother (and Attrition’s). Baba is my grandmother (and Attrition’s) and Buddy’s mother. Clanpaw is my grandfather (and Attrition’s) and Buddy’s father. Rhythm is my father’s sister (my aunt) and Blues is her husband. They appear at least twice…or so.

Other things I refer to: If I make mention to the Scat Family Trio, I’m not referring to any sort of musical group (thank God!) but to our little oil and gas prospecting venture that Buddy, Clanpaw, and myself have been slaving away at for the last thirty months. Only thirty months? Seems longer. Hey, we’re not doing so bad for thirty months! Whitey is my old, white, decrepit Mountaineer. Bless his soul, he is still going strong at 186,000 miles…and come to think of it, he needs an oil change (oh, and brakes…minor detail). The Purple Slug is my dad’s purple van. Screwy is Squib’s first baseball. Screwy the Baseball Winner is Squib’s second baseball (I had no part in naming that last one).

Rene the AT&T store salesperson appears as himself. Long live Rene who snatched my iPhone from the very jaws of FedEx and God knows who else (really)! My friend Dana (long A) appears as herself as well. Brave, brave, crazy woman. Short A Dana doesn’t appear at all—yet—by some strange quirk of fate (because she is primo writing fodder), but her mom makes a brief reference as TKG I believe as the source of the Red Earth Cake recipe. My second recipe, but really the first recipe that’s actually, well, food—and the LAST recipe because I am not THAT sort of mommyblogger (no offense intended). TKB appears briefly and may have disappeared…I can’t remember. He’s the one with the Duramax sticker on his behind. Random. My friend Michelle appears as herself in one quick reference to underwear. She is always so proud when I finally learn something from her. Andrew the waiter appears as himself but was never asked permission. He’s the only person ever to have his privacy violated by my blog (in that I never asked if I could write about him directly). Next time, Andrew, don’t give us BOTH your phone number. Though I doubt there will ever be a next time. Your secret is out. Lady Gag-Gag is that woman wearing only a shirt. Yeah. She makes only a single appearance, but I feel her coming back for a second appearance soon (and lo-and-behold she sort of did!). Merriwether named her. Merriwether is another blogger. You should read him --> here because he is interesting. La Fae is my friend from Radiator Springs. She is so named in a round-a-bout way by her daughter. It is not a name she likes (another story for another time), but at the time I was writing it was the only thing I could think of. Sorry, La Fae, but like I said before…I like it. Judge is on the vocal team with me and appears by virtue of the fact that I accidently hit her on occasion when I am not paying attention and really get into my singing (when I am not lofting plants from the steps). Things get cramped on that tiny stage. Together, we keep each other from coming in at the wrong time. We are roughly 85% accurate in that department with respect to each other and 0% accurate with respect to staring down anyone else. It really does take two of us sometimes. Yes, she is really a judge.

In general, my convention is first, to make up a name for recurring people. Second, if I think they’re just here for a single entry, I’ll use their first and last initial with a “K” for the middle initial. Arbitrary, I know, but that’s really the point of the exercise. However, since just about every girl/woman in Radiator Springs is named Faith and practically every boy/man is named David, I’m thinking of going with that from here on out. Fair warning.

Scat

Prayer

2010-08-26T07:17:00.000-07:00

Prayer, for me, can be like a full contact sport. Often it's merely like a one-on-one wrestling match over an issue I'm carrying around with me or some request a person has asked that I remember. I'll be quite honest when I say that there are a lot of things I pray about but don't really sense any urgency about them. This is either because those things are not that urgent or because I'm learning to trust that God will really do what I ask Him to do. I choose to believe the latter.

Lately, though, there have been several issues that have made my prayer life feel like a no-rules game of capture the flag with no pads and perhaps swords or something like that. Somewhere in there, I think someone is carrying a sledge hammer, but that someone isn't me. Hours have been spent defending that flag (flags...multiple games going on here) and wrestling with enemies.

There have been many players on the field, with regard to one issue in particular, all fighting their hardest with great commitment over a long period of time. We were warring just this morning when suddenly our flag, that thing we've so desperately been praying for, evaporated. And now here we stand bloodied and panting bodies shaken and shocked. Just staring at the spot where the flag used to be. When you pray for something, you can't hold back your belief. You have to believe that God will do this thing that you are asking Him for. It's like jumping off a cliff. You can't do it half way. The caveat there is that He doesn't always answer in the way that you expect--or the way that you request.

K died this morning. It was a merciful thing, if you ask me. That doesn't make the fact that a husband is now without a wife and three kids are now without a mother any more palatable. It does answer the request of healing, though, in my book. Not in others, I realize. I've always had a different book in that respect. But regardless of how I see it, my mind and my heart still seek some sort of cosmic justice when it comes to suffering and death. We all seem to have some notion of "fairness" about it because she was "so young," or "she was a mother" then she should have been spared. In favor of who?

And now comes the hardest part, I believe. Resist the temptation to leave the field of battle altogether and, instead, remain there to fight for those left behind. This is when attrition really wreaks its havoc. Can we keep it together when the thing we're fighting for is not quite so dramatic? Can the siege continue if we perceive no change or if, perhaps, we never see the outcome? Is it not more important--now more than ever--to ask for guidance and support for that family? I would think yes.

On another note, this cancer...stuff...is really starting to get to me. This makes, I think, a grand total of eleven losses with four still fighting. I watch gpa deteriorating more and more each week and wonder if we'll make it until Christmas. Easter? Next year this time? I'm the only one that leaves and comes back each week, so the others don't see the decline. It's the little things, really. He's no longer outdoors a lot. He's sleeping more. Eating less. In pain more. Talking less. Working less. Thinking less.

I'm not even really sure how to pray on that front anymore and today there isn't much fight left in me.

But maybe a little.

Scat

Foiled Again!!! Lady Gag-Gag the Second Escapes Me!

2010-08-24T16:45:00.000-07:00

Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh!

Drat! Foiled once again by a conglomeration of push notifications. This iPhone definitely has its limits.

OK, so...I was pulling up to an intersection by the mall near the Bunker when I spied this lady wearing a halter top and white daisy dukes. And nothing else. By nothing else, I mean no shoes and it was pretty much obvious that there was nothing under the outfit. It was disgusting. And wickedly fascinating, right? Because you just don't see that sort of thing "around here." Which would only make sense if you knew where I was. And some of you do. So there you have it.

I immediately remember the lady in the AT&T store that Merriwether subsequently dubbed "Lady Gag-Gag" and thought to myself, "Apparently there is competition for that title. I SHOULD TAKE A PICTURE WITH MY PHONE THIS TIME!!!!"

So...I get my phone out. It was perfect. She was crossing traffic right in front of me. I had my camera at the ready. She was right in front of the car. I pressed the button.

And maybe a femtosecond before the camera actually took the pic, this barrage of push notifications attacked my phone. For those of you who don't speak iPhone, a push notification is just a little blue (ANNOYING) notification that you've received a message, text, or some other sort of incoming data from one of your apps (like a text, email, IM, whatever). The unfortunate thing is that push notifications interrupt whatever you are doing and you have to press "close," "reply," "ignore," or something like that to get them to go away BEFORE you can actually do what you were originally doing (unless you're on the phone...then you just listen to that horrid plunk noise as they come in). This can be ANNOYING (which I have already stated, but it bears repeating). If you ignore them, they keep coming. If you turn them off, you never know about incoming "stuff," people get ignored, and you end up having to grovel and scrape. It's not pretty. My real point here is that there is NO happy medium.

Meanwhile, the woman is walking away to the south and I am headed west and not in the left turn lane.

More push notifications come cascading in. Apparently something untoward has happened with the internet connection somewhere. Can I solve that in the car? No I cannot. Can I get the picture I so desperately need for my outrageous blog entry......perhaps.

So, yes, I press "close" five times, procede through the intersection and hang a U-turn back to the intersection, turn right and THERE SHE IS! This would probably be considered stalking. But my weird people photo collection is begging for an addition and I soooooooo failed you a week-and-a-half ago. She turns into one of the more popular shopping areas. I follow. Camera is ready. I press the magic button and viola!

Another push notification.

She enters a building and I reach the point where I realize pursuing her further would truly be creepy.

Dang it. **sad face**

Scat.

Squib Attacks Kindergarten

2010-08-23T08:36:00.000-07:00

This morning came SO early! I'm not sure what my major malfunction was--worry?--but I couldn't sleep last night. Anxiety over my youngest entering kindergarten? Surely not. That really wouldn't be like me. In any event, after falling asleep some time after midnight, I did manage to drag myself out of bed and make it over to Squid's house (Squib's dad) to go with them for the first day.

I know! I know! Some of you are astonished that I am still doing "this." "This" being my personal pet theory that divorced parents owe it to the well-being of their children to make a show of solidarity on occasion in support of their kid(s). Nothing communicates to your child that you both love them like your ability to get over the worst thing that happened to you long enough to put the spotlight on them for a few minutes. It also goes a long way toward demonstrating that they, in fact, were not the reason you broke up. Kids worry about that a lot. Even if you tell them that isn't the case.

I'm not advocating destructive behavior, though, so if you want to really pull this off you're going to have to resist the urge to say a lot of things and/or do a lot of things. If you can't put down the animosity even for a very short period of time, then don't even try it. I'll be quite honest when I say that this morning pushed me to my limit. I probably could have stood one minute more, but I was exercising every iota of my self-control. Not good. This isn't a long-term thing, either. At most it lasts minutes to an hour...so, breathe!

End of rabbit trail!

Squibs first day:

A boy and his life-sized back pack. Really, it's one of those miniature kid-sized back packs, but it looks so HUGE! And he looks so tiny. Here he is enjoying some last moments playing with the Mystery Machine and "the guys" while Blue looks on from a discarded position at right. Poor Blue didn't even get to ride along today. This is a sure sign that someone is growing up.

We (Squid and myself) pulled him to school in his wagon. They had him down as a "walker." That's two miles for a just-barely-5-yr-old. I'm not so much concerned with the distance as the expectation that he could do that all by himself? Uh....nope. Notice the looooooooonnnnnnnggggggg shadows! It is too early to be awake much less pulling wagons full of boys!

"Are you sure we're at my school?"

"Are you sure we're going the right way? Are you sure...? Are you sure....?"

Squib tests all the water fountains. There are six. He opens his mouth like a lion and growls before taking a drink. I think this all started when he saw his first water fountain at the Lufkin zoo. It was a lion with the fountain inside it's mouth...hence the growling? He also explored the music room and the library on the way to his classroom. He was most impressed with the library. "Look at all the books, momma!" This is a good omen!

Hanging up his back pack on his peg. "I have my own peg!" He is starting to feel special now...yay! This is about when my insides started to catch a bit. Squid was already a pile by now.

At first, he saw blocks and ran straight in and started to play while I talked to his teacher and filled out forms. Then he came back and made this face. The stress face. Notice the chin. He's about to cry. If he cries, then I cry. If we cry, Squid cries--wait, I think Squid was already crying. If we all cry the whole room will probably disintegrate. But all he wants is the "three kisses" ritual....so...three for him (one on each cheek and one on the forehead), three for me, hug for him, hug for me, I find dad, three for him from dad, three for dad, hug for him from dad, hug for dad, and off he goes! Dad exits like Speedy Gonzalez to cry in the hall. I am left to finish with the teacher.

Here he is happily playing. "I think I'm going to like this," he says and waggles his eyebrows at me. And, yes, all those kids look like giants compared to him. Let's hope the "Little M******" name doesn't carry over into elementary school. That kind of thing could stick.

A very good start for such a cautious kid!

And my-oh-my was that walk back to Squid's house ever LONG!

Scat

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

2010-08-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

So. Remember that welcome mat that I rather unceremoniously withdrew? This welcome mat. Right. Well, I sorta rolled it back out for this one guy. He's been rather unexpected (in a good way) and frankly one of those that's usually ummm...

**crickets chirp loudly as toe scuffs dirt and I bite bottom lip**

...taken. And usually blissfully so in a way that I look at and wonder "where exactly did I miss the boat?" Twice. Self-defeating question, I know. But it's fact that I've missed the boat. Twice. So I am a little concerned about my boat-catching skills.

Well...last night we had this a-maz-ing date during which I confessed I married a Nazi. Tragic. All true. Awesome date. That's all you're getting. We pull up to my house and I reach into the back to get my leftover food which was in a bag with his and I did blurt this out verbatim:

"Do you need your meatballs?"

Immediately, I was flooded by the horror of my verbal innuendo.

I'm not even sure the awkward pause lasted a femtosecond before the gut-splitting laughter started. Maybe. I tried to recover by saying something that I don't even hardly remember. It was probably, "I meant your food!" and thusly dug the hole deeper.

Smart, funny, talented, fabulous sense of humor (thank heavens), nice looking. And that's the list I knew about before I started really talking to him.

And I said, "Do you need your meatballs?" (Need? Really?)

**hand smacks forehead**

What exactly is my problem with the King's spoken English? Not even, "Do you want your spaghetti and meatballs?" I went right for the meatballs without even thinking. Albeit unintentional, it was funny. Hurt yourself laughing kind of funny. Fortunately, it was dark and not quite so obvious that my face was the same cherry red as my shirt.

Thankfully, I am "mesmerizing," which is good 'cause I am also a dork and even more so in his presence when that curious (but very nice) fluttery feeling takes over and I seem to turn into a levitating twitter-pated idiot whose brain-to-mouth filter on occasion seems to completely get lodged in the "off" position.

I am seriously going to have to practice my lines (sarcasm).

This great! (not sarcasm)

Scat

Homicidal Water Bottles

2010-08-19T17:40:00.000-07:00

They're after me.

Attacking from all corners of my vehicle.

And I don't even really drink water from bottles, so I'm not sure how they got there.

I started this morning when I rocketed out of bed at 6 am. YES. 6 A.M. to go get Squib and hang out for a bit before registering him for school. Wheeeeeeere do you hang out from 6 to 8 a.m. on a Thursday morning? I'll tell you. NOWHERE. One (water bottle, that is) rolled out from under my seat and lodged itself under my brake pedal. Yes, under. Freakish! I reached down (with good aim, for once) and yanked it out and hurled it into the back--the back back. You know, the back behind the back seat. I briefly wondered how it got there, but chalked it up to a random driver using my car on the weekend while I was at Green Acres. Random, you know.

Moving on.

At the elementary school, I discovered that after six months of phone calls and testing, they still had no clue who my son was. He wasn't even "that kid we tested in July." Or even "the one with neurofibromatosis." Or any other label. So...I spoke to the diagnostician. She assured me we would schedule an ARD soon. Probably tomorrow.

Got in the truck after giving Squib the "we don't holler like monkeys in the African jungles while mom is trying to speak to your future teachers" speech. Son.

Water bottle number two rolled out the door and landed on my foot before I could even get in. I should have recognized the metaphor at this point but I did not. I mused on it for a split second before chucking bottle number two in the back with the other.

Arrived at Green Acres just as Buddy was summoning the biggest rain storm of all time by cleaning the entire length of the driveway with the water hose. This is a surefire technique. Better than a naked rain dance. One hour later, after I realized my phone was getting no service, I was driving into the grocery store parking lot to boost some wifi off The Hop (local free-wifi burger joint) and do my work while hoping to hear from the school. Water bottle number three rolls out from under my seat as I slide into the parking lot.

I'm sure you're asking two questions right now. First, why am I sliding? I'll tell you. Two words: tar and gravel. It's our county's road repair policy. It gets hot and therefore slick. Add water and it's like an ice skating rink for cars. Add a free-floating water bottle about your feet and it gets...funner. Second, why the heck have I not checked under my seat for water bottles??!? I have. They are either materializing there as needed or by some act of procreation. Both would be a sight to behold.

That's all I have to say about that.

I chuck the next half liter into the back with the first liter and proceed to camp out in the parking lot...

...where the diagnostician inflames me to the point of distraction and near tears. This makes me angry. This is also a gross understatement. I am giving her a wee bit of credit because I could have children her age (maybe) and because I think she may have me confused with someone else (sorta) who has a completely different kid (possibly). And now I have to go back there (hour-and-a-half drive) tomorrow to avenge my younger son's education (arrrrrrrrggggg).

And then, in the course of doing my normal daily investigation of "stuff," I discover that a company we are thinking of doing business with is involved as a defendant in a RICO case. That's the Racketeering Act (racketeering influenced corrupt organizations), people. REALLY? Yes, really. And I have to take that news home with me.

Then the door started leaking. Yay.

More water.

This is a scene right out of my very own Scat and the No Good, Horrible, Very Bad Day. And on top of it, somewhere in there, I went to the gym and got waylaid before I ever got to the shower...so I STINK!

Maybe the water is a hint. I don't know.

The truck has now been thoroughly checked for any rolling, liquid-loaded objects. They have all been exterminated. I have had a few moments...maybe even an hour to check my sanity and speak to other adults who have their heads screwed on mostly straight, so I think I shall survive the day.

But, fair warning! I am fully armed with three lethal half-liter bottles of water!!

And I'm no longer afraid to use them. :)
Scat.

Yep, I'm A Liar...Among Other Things

2010-08-17T20:08:00.000-07:00

Sort of.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was talking to "someone who probably doesn't want to admit this" about salad dressing and she happened to comment on Newman's Own salad dressings which she LUUUUUVVVS. In her very next breath, she said, "I just can't wait for another movie with Paul Newman in it." To which I responded, "You're going to have to wait a very, very impossibly long time." She asked why. I replied, "He died two years ago."

"Now, Scat!! That is just a LIE!"

This is a typical response from "this person." If she disagrees with me, I am lying. I have learned to take it in stride because she is my elder and she is, well, slightly nuts. I encouraged her to Google it before accusing anyone else of lying because there aren't as many people out there who are as willing to accept the mantle of "liar" as I am. Of course, I don't think she would argue it with anyone else. Nevertheless, she did look it up. Lo-and-behold I was right. Her conclusion of the matter was, "Hmmph."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other news, today saw the reappearance of that distasteful human being, Jack. This Jack. And this Jack. I was minding my own business seated here in my corner of the bunker working on a web page when I saw the email notification pop up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen: David Jackley Smith re: My Dear Sweet.

GAG ME!!!

We have gone after this guy twice. TWICE, I tell you! He is the king of the Nigerian 419 scam and I haven't heard from him in almost a year. Thought we'd taken care of that. Apparently not. Or he just got turned loose. That's possible, too. Nevertheless, a chill crawled uneasily up my spine as I read (his poor English words), "hello ****, How you doing? I still love to meet you in this live. I need you so much."

Attrition is going o s*** a brick. Maybe enough bricks to put an addition onto the house. That could prove to be the only useful thing to come out of this effort.

It really is just a matter of time until this creephead is able to physically find me and that chills me to the bone. He is persistent to say the very, very least. I am literally praying that he is trapped in Nigeria where we found him the last time. Should he ever make it onto American soil, I will be a very worried person. I have two fears given that possible scenario. The first fear is for my personal safety. The second fear is for Attrition given what he might do should Mr. Smith make an appearance.

I really hate that some jerk has made me sit here for an hour contemplating how to protect myself once I leave the safety of my home. For the first time since I've dealt with him, I admit to being a little scared. OK, a lot scared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In other news, the wait to see if Squib's heart repair is truly complete is over! Yay! No scar tissue. No minor holes. No nothing (except the reversed aortic arch). It's functioning perfectly (Dr.'s words, not mine). This is nothing short of miraculous and I am, to say the least, relieved.

Would you believe this is just a typical day?

Scat

Lunch for the Mind

2010-08-16T14:36:00.000-07:00

...or is it food for thought? Whichever it is, I could certainly use some.

Website design causes uncontrollable brain leakage from my left ear. What remains is a quivering mass of dehydrating protoplasm devoid of all thought.

Turnips have more brain function than I do right now.

Scat

5 Year Olds With Questions

2010-08-15T16:13:00.000-07:00

Once again the 5-year-old has almost stumped me.

It started last night at bedtime. We have a bedtime ritual that includes singing, praying, and a specific regimen of kisses. We sang the songs specifically selected by Squib and then he fell into silence. After this pause, he said, "We need to pray for Daddy."

My first thought was, "No joke."

I curbed my sarcasm and asked him why. His furtive reply was, "Because he needs it."

Oy vey.

Don't misunderstand me. I pray for both the fathers of my children. A lot. I have seen some of those prayers answered in dramatic ways, so I have no doubt that the prayer works. I pray for lots of things. In the case of Squib's father, his salvation is foremost on my mind. His satisfaction with his life is second-most, I think. This isn't really anything I would share with a young one yet. Perhaps, though, Squib has some sense that there is something missing in his father that would, in someways, complete him? I don't know. But, he was urgent about it. "We have to pray for Daddy." So I did.

And evening and morning...the second day.

Upon which Squib asked about the meaning of "love" and "family." What are they? Do I have them?

On love: I said that a lot of people confuse love with the emotions and feelings they have when they are "in love." And, to be sure, love is accompanied by many emotions and feelings. But, I was taught a simple truth early on: "God is love." And then there is the Walker Moore version: "Love is not a feeling or emotion, but a person, Jesus Christ, who came as love incarnate and sacrificed himself for us on the cross." That's a little over Squib's head, so I saved that one. I did say, though, that love is better expressed as a verb (an action word) than a noun (a person, place, or thing). Rather than having it or giving it, doing it seems to make a bigger and more lasting impression. If I have love for you, showing it lets you know the true depths of my love for you.

Dictionary.com says this about love:

     1. a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.

     2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or
     friend.

     3. sexual passion or desire.

     4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.

     5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would
     you like to see a movie, love?

     6. a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.

     7. sexual intercourse; copulation.

     8. ( initial capital letter ) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.

     9. affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.

     10. strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.

     11. the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.

     12. the benevolent affection of god for His creatures, or the reverent affection due
     from them to God.

     13. Chiefly Tennis . a score of zero; nothing.

     14. a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.

That should show you what I mean about the things that we often associate with love. But know this, if your love doesn't originate from the Father, it has no firm foundation. It is a house built upon the sand and will not be able to stand firm during the storms of life.

"Family" was actually a little harder to explain if you can believe that. This was probably true because we have "family" that aren't actually blood relatives. I stuck to blood relatives when explaining to Squib, but nevertheless I explained it something like this: "Family is a group of people bound closely by ties such as love, marriage, blood, and commitment. We celebrate the good times together. We help each other through the bad times. No matter what, we are always available to one another--ready to walk through fire and various other tortures."

I felt that description was lame. So, once again, here's what dictionary.com has to say on "family."

     1. a basic social unit consisting of parents and their children, considered as a
     group, whether dwelling together or not: the traditional family.

     b. a social unit consisting of one or more adults together with the children they care
     for: a single-parent family.

     2. the children of one person or one couple collectively: We want a large family.

     3. the spouse and children of one person: We're taking the family on vacation next
     week.

     4. any group of persons closely related by blood, as parents, children, uncles,
     aunts, and cousins: to marry into a socially prominent family.

     5. all those persons considered as descendants of a common progenitor.

     6. Chiefly British . approved lineage, esp. noble, titled, famous, or wealthy ancestry:
     young men of family.

     7. a group of persons who form a household under one head, including parents,
     children, and servants.

     8. the staff, or body of assistants, of an official: the office family.

     9. a group of related things or people: the family of romantic poets; the halogen
     family of elements.

     10. a group of people who are generally not blood relations but who share common
     attitudes, interests, or goals and, frequently, live together: Many hippie communes
     of the sixties regarded themselves as families.

     11. a group of products or product models made by the same manufacturer or
     producer.

     12. Biology . the usual major subdivision of an order or suborder in the classification
     of plants, animals, fungi, etc., usually consisting of several genera.

     13. Slang . a unit of the Mafia or Cosa Nostra operating in one area under a local
     leader.

     14. Linguistics . the largest category into which languages related by common
     origin can be classified with certainty: Indo-European, Sino-Tibetan, and
     Austronesian are the most widely spoken families of languages. Compare
     stock ( def. 12 ) , subfamily ( def. 2 ) .

     15. Mathematics .

     a. a given class of solutions of the same basic equation, differing from one another
     only by the different values assigned to the constants in the equation.

     b. a class of functions or the like defined by an expression containing a parameter.

     c. a set.

So bland. Bah.

This helped me nada. Just so many words about something I feel so strongly about. It's more than a blood tie. It's a commitment. If a family member needs something, I'd pretty much drop everything to help them. Why? Well, that goes back to love. It also taps into loyalty, respect, service, and several other things. My love for them bears itself out in the actions I am willing to take on their behalf or in their interest.

The family concept extends to include my church family and certain friends. They may or may not know it, but my love for them is fierce. As it should be. And I would fight for them--I am not a physical fighter, but a spiritual one--as though they were my very own blood. It is who and how I am. I am not willing to settle when it comes to bad circumstances, be it illness, financial woes, job loss, etc. when there is something to be done. When you are still able to pray, there is always still something to be done.

Frankly, I thought sex would be a harder topic, but so far it has not proven to be so. And, yes, he has asked about that, too.

Scat

Four Hours of Wonderful

2010-08-14T20:53:00.000-07:00

I promised you didn't I? Just yesterday. I promised "happiness, sweetness, and light."

I'll be honest. I'm having trouble scraping that up without talking about something I'm just not ready to talk about with you or anybody else. What I AM ready to talk about is the ridiculousness of my day because yet another one of those things has happened to me. But what preceded the precipitating event of this ridiculous day was, actually, four contiguous, uninterrupted hours (maybe more) of wonderful. And that's all you get to know about that. So there. **pfffftt**

So, imagine if you will, four uninterrupted hours of pleasantness, happiness, sweetness, light, what have you...and then you discover that you are suddenly without phone. Your iPhone to be exact. The brains of your operation. The one that you have provided to you for work. And now you get to replace it on your dime. Ouch.

Before you all shriek and ask if I tried to track it, yes I did. First, it was fully charged only a few hours before I noticed it missing. So...plenty of battery. Also, location services, mobile me, etc. were all on. When I tried to call it, it mysteriously kicked straight over to voicemail. Shouldn't have done that at all. By the time I got to tracking it, it didn't even show. Hmmmm.

I'm not sure what chapped me most. It's either the loss of the phone -or- the fact that I had finally found an Otter box case that came in pink and they only make them for the iPhone 3GS and now I have an iPhone 4. To heck with the phone! I want my pink case! **momentary pout** Now, all I have is this pitifully empty pink belt clip that is totally useless. I probably won't ever be able to throw it away because it is the "accessory that could have been." I searched for a pink accessory for a FULL YEAR. Found it. Promptly lost phone. Now the search must begin again. **whine** Buddy says, "Good. Pink is gross and unprofessional." I say, "Stick it where the sun don't shine. If they came in Monet or Renoir or Degas, then I would look for THAT. But, lets get real here."

So...this morning I woke up (without an alarm clock--which is on my iPhone) and began to retrace my steps of the night before in broad daylight. I returned to the restaurant where I ate. Gave a wary eye to the staff. Pleaded. Begged. Talked to the very busboy who bussed my table. Stared hard at him, but, alas, I am not threatening in the least. Not. One. Bit. I considered tackling him right there and pinning him to the ground and simply beating a phone out of him, but he may not have had it. Besides, he was huge and in addition to not being scary or the least bit threatening, I am a tad short.

Long story short--ok perhaps long. After scouring the golf course, I headed first to the AT&T store where Rene just loves to see me coming. Bless his tidy little slacks and wingtips. He was wearing a T-shirt!! After I peeled myself off the floor boards because I thought Rene was born in a long-sleeved shirt and tie (which always tend toward shades of purple), I wanted to take a pic, but was without camera (that, too resides on said phone). The first words out of his mouth were, "FedEx isn't even coming here today." This is a bit of a private joke and a bit of a threat. So...

They were out of iPhones. Still. He gave the tracking thing a whirl. Nada. I asked about the likelihood the phone would be returned. He snorted. I reported it missing "officially." We couldn't do a remote wipe...probably because the phone was either dead by then or the sim card was missing...which means I spent two hours this evening changing every password I know. And that's a lot. We niggled around with the account and figured out which number was eligible for an upgrade so that I could save some money, blah, blah, blah, and then I set out in search of an iPhone.

And ended up at the apple store in the mall.

I abhor the mall.

It isn't that I don't like new things or buying stuff. It's the salespeople, I guess. Taken individually and off work, they are probably tolerable people (everyone has to make money sometimes), but when they leap out at you from behind every kiosk telling you how beautiful your skin is and that they could take care of that dead skin that is only enhancing your wrinkles, you really want to come off half-cocked and clobber one of them. Hard. Right in the powder puff.

I finally made it through the onslaught and into the store. It was like Bastogne. When the apple store looks like the aid station, there is a problem.

It took a full ten minutes just to get in the right line. The line was so long that it stretched around the iPads (danger!!!) through the macbooks (not a temptation) and all the way around the iPhone table. So I played with everything for upwards of an hour. Or so. Made the high score on Skee-ball on seven different iPhones. Go me! Started playing some other games opposite another customer waiting in line ahead of me. He trounced me best 3 out of 5. Left some blatant messages advertising Turf Wars...because more players is just more fun. Took some strange pics. Saved the other customer's place while he bought drinks for him, his wife and myself. Celebrated Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, they had a child, and shortly before the young one entered kindergarten two spots opened and it became our turn.

It took them all of five seconds to actually sell me the phone. Which they could have done an hour or so earlier.

Now is when things get surreal. The line that could be upgraded didn't belong to me...sooooo...I had to go and get the phone that could be upgraded (another iPhone, but a 3GS not a 4) and drag it back to the AT&T store with me. This involves two-and-a-half hours of driving, pleading and begging on the part of the five-yr-old, and blood-sworn promises, etc. He is quite the negotiator.

When I get to the store, they are hip-deep in people. And some of those people are a sight to behold. I couldn't help but watch one woman in particular. She had to be every bit as old as I am. Blonde, in shape, tan, and dressed only in a man's dress shirt that has everyone in the place staring at her backside because we're not altogether sure it's gonna stay covered. That thing had to be glued into place. Add to that the fact that she is hanging off a guy that I would have thought was her son if she hadn't been fawning all over him the whole time.

I am not knocking fawning. It has it's place. But that place is not the AT&T store for and hour-and-a-half! With no britches. Holy smokes. Serious cougar problems up in there.

Finally, Rene is free. Yippee. First he says, "You see that old lady with the shirt?" I contemplate "old" with respect to my aged frame of reference. "You mean withOUT the pants?" "That's the one," and I do believe he giggled.

It was at this point that I looked down and realized that I was walking about (for God knows how long!) with a button undone on my blouse at chest-level. So, I casually button it and look for an escape hatch in the wood floor. There is none. I am forced to continue as though nothing has happened. Rene looks like he swallowed a live chicken.

And this is basically what takes place next: First, new phone is given Buddy's phone number. Second, Buddy's old phone (which I drove so far to get) is given my number. Third, new phone is then given my number (yeah...why?). And finally, old phone is then given Buddy's phone number (Again. Just like it was before). So...$64,000 question: Exactly why did I have to drive all the way out to Green Acres to get Buddy's phone???!!!???

In between the second and third sentence was a slight skirmish over the fact that the phones in question were insured to the teeth and that said insurance was purchased with this very scenario in mind and since I had shelled out the dough to get the phone, the least they could do would be to give me the iPhone 4 with my own number and Buddy the 3GS with his number because Buddy will have a hissy fit over the 4 because of this one thing he read on the Internet...even though it isn't really true.

Having lived through Bastogne to reach the apple store, this skirmish was nothing and I probably was very, very scary at this point. That, or Rene was very grateful for the peek at my purple bra before I decided to button my blouse. Who can say?

The coolest part about this whole thing was that just yesterday I found a child support check for $412.50 that I had never deposited. And today I really needed that.

Kinda cool how things work out like that sometimes...with half left over!
Scat

Don't You Love It...

2010-08-13T12:28:00.000-07:00

...when someone takes it upon themselves to remind you of the single worst thing that ever happened to you. Again. And again. And again.

It happened again today. Again.

Did I mention it happened AGAIN? The reminder, I mean...not the event.

And since it is something I've alluded to in previous posts, I suppose it is something I should just tell you because it might be helpful for you to know that all kinds of things happen to all kinds of people and they live to tell about it. And no matter how bad those things may SEEM, they are in no way defining unless you choose them to be. Also, I did at least one thing that you should never do. At the time, I had no idea it was illegal to do it. You should know. That and having it out in the open means there are fewer people who can wave the "you're so terrible" flag in my face. I do enough of that on my own and the rest I get at home, thank you very much.

The only reason I have not written about it before is that I have this humongous emotional upheaval every time I think about it and my greatest fear is that anyone (and everyone) who discovers this about me will eventually run away. But, quite frankly, it is tiring to have it all scrunched away back in there (in my mind, that is). And I've already done the weeping girl thing once today when Buddy brought it up--especially given the context--so what do I have to lose?

Yes, it has to do with that jail thing I mentioned in the toilet post.

Here's what I remember:

I woke up early on a Friday morning and needed to get Beanstalk to the doc really quickly. But, I felt worse than crap. I have seizures. I can sort of tell when they are coming and I sort of felt that way on that morning. Light headed, nauseated, etc. I do get a funky taste in my mouth, but only in the seconds before the actual seizure.

Knowing this, I woke Buddy up and said I needed a ride and explained why. For whatever reason, he said no. There was a bit of an argument. Eh. This is a simple pattern for the bad things of my life that I have since learned to avoid: Scat has a problem. Scat asks for help. Help is denied. Scat proceeds anyway because she has no choice in the matter. Bad thing happens.

So, I pack some extra seizure meds (this is the thing that I screwed up!) and pile Beanstalk and all his crap into the car and head for town against my own will because this doctor thing is pretty important. We arrive in town. I'm approaching a light when I get the funky taste in my mouth and then I'm outta there like someone turned off a light switch.

Here's the part everyone else but me remembers:

Apparently, I seized before I could put on the brakes and hit another car. I have felt bad about this for years even though I've made peace with the woman I hit and she has been very gracious about the whole thing. Everyone was fine but me (concussion and hairline skull fracture from the air bags and, well, the whole seizure thing). I was coherent enough to give them all my information and Beanstalk's information. I called Beanstalk's dad to alert him to the problem--that was probably a mistake, but he would have wondered why we weren't at the doc's office.

Highway patrol shows up. Normal. I consent to everything: search of me and the car, Breathalyzer, blood test, etc. Everything comes back clean, but he finds my seizure meds which are not in the original bottle from the pharmacy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. For future reference: those little pill fobs they sell for key chains? Don't ever use them!!!!!!!! Even if your medicine is prescribed for you, if it isn't in the original bottle from the pharmacy, then you are carrying it illegally. NOW I know this...and now you know. Learn this the easy way, please. Trust me, the hard way sucks.

So...having just had a seizure, I of course am not real good on my feet and I have a kid in my car plus those dang unbottled pills. Can I say STUPID one more time?

So, we go off to the hospital where everyone is checked out, blood work is run, etc. Everything is clear, but in Texas if a person is simply behaving intoxicated (and this can be a matter of opinion regardless of blood levels or Breathalyzers or seizures) combined with those awful unbottled pills, then they get arrested and carted off to county jail where they wait for their very pissed off father to bail them out.

This is about where my memory kicks in:

It isn't like waking up. It's like being in the car, blinking, and then you're in a holding tank wearing striped pajamas with thirty other women waiting in line for the telephone and wondering where your underwear went (yes, they took my underwear because it wasn't white). Even though I was coherent enough to communicate immediately after the seizure, there's a window of time that eventually just gets lost. I remember nothing. I have no idea where I am or why. I know I've had a seizure...but nothing more. I deduced the whole jail thing almost immediately, but had no idea why because as far as I knew at that point I hadn't broken any laws.

So, of course, I call my father to see if he knows how I got in there. He does know and he's highly irked at me. Par for the course. And we start working on how to get me out.

Most people in my situation just bail out and spend no more that an hour or so there. Most people don't have highly pissed off fathers. Let's just say that he was sooooooooo pissed that he refused to bail me out. And I got to wait a very long time (without food I might add because they didn't really believe that anyone would leave me in there so they never brought me any) on a stainless steel bench.

And then the fun really started.

Because I wasn't getting my seizure meds.

So I started having more. I must have lost several million billion brain cells before I made it to the infirmary and they called my dad to give him what for. Finally, he showed up with my seizure meds. And I did eventually get bailed out. And I went straight to the neurologist. And got better meds (I was on some weaker stuff b/c he wasn't sure I needed any). Meh.

It was my own personal nightmare. Made even more so by the fact that the evidence in the case was "lost." The Breathalyzer (0%) and the blood work (clean) and the meds (reunited with their prescription) were all misplaced. That evidence would have excused me almost immediately. So it was my word against the word of the arresting officer (who had neglected to take any video). And my lawyer said I could try to fight it--for a mere $25,000--or take the deal offered me by the DA. But the caveat to the whole thing was that this particular officer was known for getting away with this sort of thing--I didn't really ask what he meant by "this sort of thing."

The decision was a no-brainer because I didn't have the $25,000. So I took the deal. Hence, the class B misdemeanor DUI and the general feeling of hopelessness and disgust and weeping when I think about that whole monstrosity of a moment.

Dad says something to this effect: "One day, you'll look back on this as a valuable lesson in which you've learned more about yourself than you can possibly imagine." I feel like kicking his teeth in every time he says it. Perhaps he's right, but at the same time I wish he'd just drop it. But he can't just let it be. It has to be brought up in the course of discussing absolutely everything, it seems.

And, lately, he's of the mind that I should "go on the offensive" by telling absolutely everyone that this happened to me. When I think of it that way, I'm not really certain of the purpose of "going on the offensive." This isn't a football game or a war or a political race I'm living. That was a circumstance. A big one, granted, but seriously? Just randomly offer that information in situations where it will never come into play? Should I tell the check-out lady at the grocery store, too?

I'm being facetious, of course. My point is that there is a time and place for everything. There are people in my life who need to know these things and people who don't. NOT telling some people isn't dishonesty. There are simply hundreds of things that I don't volunteer to some folks with very good reason.

Still, I've had enough now. That's my dirty laundry. There. Now you know. Absolutely everything.
And I realize this has been rant week. Tomorrow: Happiness, Sweetness, and Light. I promise you.
Scat

Wire Ties In My Office--Make Me Happy

2010-08-12T19:26:00.000-07:00

(A little too much John Denver, sorry).

It happens. John Denver, that is. Like natural disasters and other acts of God. Buddy is a John Denver addict, sorry, fan. I am sorry to say that when given the chance to demonstrate his vocal skills at a karaoke bar in Tokyo, the man chose "Rocky Mountain High" as a representation of our country. 'Nuff said. I think he also did "Hey Jude" as a tribute to my mother. Excrutiating. Not his voice or anything. His voice is lovely. It's just...his selections.

Back to the wire ties.

That office wall I mentioned? It's coming out. This weekend. Along with a portion of the ceiling and a section of the opposite wall. I waited until our builder left to hurl completely. Twice. I came up with a plan in my mind yesterday to move the entire operation (computerwise, that is) into our house. Baba is understandably horrified. She should be. I am. I stood in the office in my mask and very sexy mold remediation outfit clutching my tool bag like a life preserver for a full fifteen minutes before I could move.

"Anything I can do?" Buddy was trying cautiously to be helpful, I think. Bless his big fat socks. And crocs (rhyming...couldn't resist...cackle). Treating me like a ticking time bomb today was prudent, to say the least.

"Wire ties. Lots and lots of wire ties." I said bleary-eyed, "And...uh...yeah. Wire ties. Probably a Sharpie."

(Always, always, always, always ask for Sharpies because you just never know what you'll need them for).

And he got them. Tout de suite. Plus an extension cord since there's an entire wall in our dining room with nary a plug in it (why?) where I was going to have to locate a workstation and a plotter.

1000 wire ties! No, I haven't used them all yet. Yet. But the odds are good that at least half of them will be gone by tomorrow.

I finally got down to replacing labels on some of the ethernet cable, etc. and decided to just screw it and rip the whole thing (network, that is) out and move it in one foul swoop. Which I did. Broke it down, carted it into the house losing one toe in the process, plugged it all back in, and booted it up. For the first time in my entire experience with computers of any sort it worked the first time. Right off. No joke. I almost passed out. I wasn't sure what to do next.

Bathing would have been the best choice. But I had all these wire ties....waaaaah.

So I did some more therapeutic wire tying. Until I could no longer move...or breathe through my mask. Then I gave up for the night and came inside where there is other work to do and...

...where I was told that "we" are gonna have those...items (YES, those items)..."done" after all...could I please call them back and get that rolling? Go ahead, office chick...move it.

Scat

P.S. The apparent downside to relocating the network to my erstwhile bedroom is that it now closely resembles the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Complete with drifting-in-space noise.

Well, then you should have told me that...in "WEnglish"...(rant)

2010-08-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

In the course of my day-to-day work, one of my job requirements is to "find people" to "do stuff." That was one of my tasks today. I had a list of specs for...an item...and went to three, no four, different places in person only to find out that only one place could do it like "we" (in the royal sense) wanted it done. This is typical.

"We" like things done in particular ways. So, I spoke to "we" about our options, etc. and "we" said "let's have ten of them done," so I went ahead and got the ball rolling to "have ten of them done." This requires getting a load of printed materials together, shipping them to another location over an hour away where a special machine exists to do what "we" want done, and then shipping them back. A pretty tall order. Then I called "we" back and let "we" know what the total price was and "we" said...and I quote..."Ooooh, weeell, that gives us an option to consider, now doesn't it?"

"Wha...?"

"An...option? You told me to have ten of them done."

(I start wondering at this point about the semantics of construing the meaning of "done" to equate to the meaning of "made." "We" like to argue semantics when these situations crop up. Was I taking it too far? I don't think so. I mean, we need these, right? Yes, yes we do. So..."Have ten of them done." = "Have ten of them made." Right? Like a direct order type of thingy. At least I thought so at the time. Huh.)

I obviously misinterpreted "Let's have ten of them done." Because I, like, had ten of them "done."

And now we are just considering? "We" are probably REconsidering because "we" are cheap. "We" want it done for less than a dollar an item (when no one will even do it for less than $10 in the cheapest possible way) is what "we" want and "we" don't want to be the ones to tell anyone..."We" want to send our sys admin/tech writer/office minion to do it because "we" don't mind if she makes an ass of herself. Because, you know, "we" could have done this little fact-finding mission over the phone. So, scurry off little office babe and clean up after ourselves! Which is exactly what I did.

Again.

Gah. I really hate looking like a moron. Or a muppet. Or worse, BOTH.

So, in honor of this little escapade, I am dedicating this little song to the work days, or parts of work days, that really stink. And I'm not even gonna tell you who/whose it is.

Scat

P.S. If you haven't checked out Chris at Notes From the Trenches, you really should...her Aug 10th/11th entries I can sooooo identify with!

We Interrupt This Program To Tear A Wall Out Of Your Office

2010-08-10T09:38:00.000-07:00

I am just sitting here in bewildered shock, so I thought I'd tell you about my lovely morning because I know how much some of you like the weird things that seem to only happen to me. Here's the gist of the conversation I had with Buddy...

Buddy: You're going to have to cancel the LOH board meeting on the 15th.

Me: **Silence because it's still too early to speak and because rerouting board meetings is like derailing a train.**

Buddy: We have a major mold problem in the garage.

Me: You mean the leaky air conditioner that I told you about in October (yes, I really did warn him about this in October--maybe earlier--when it was a simple project).

Buddy: Uh, yeah. That's the one.

Me: **brain makes a creaking and popping sound**

I admit to slight irritation at this point.

Buddy: Well, it's starting to stink out there.

I need to pause and explain that my dad has no sense of smell. He suffers from really, really bad sinus infections and has had lots of surgeries for sinus windows, etc. It destroyed his sense of smell. He can't even smell a fully crap-loaded diaper (which you can smell from California if said diaper is in Texas). So, when I originally told him about the problem, he said, "I don't smell anything." There you go. Must not stink, then. This is exactly what happens when you tell Clanpaw you're hearing a funny noise. He's stone cold deaf. He knows it. But if he doesn't hear it, there is no noise (remind me to tell you about the washing machine some day).

So, I went about my business because arguing with brick walls about the stench in the office was accomplishing nothing. If Buddy smells it now, though, you know it's bad. I admit to a bit of office avoidance lately due to the unpleasantness (mold makes it hard for me to breathe)...and have been doing things remotely...even when I'm there. I only go in when I have to physically touch something.

Me: No, it's not "starting to." It's been gradually stinking more and more for months. Attrition and I have been losing the battle trying to keep it clean, dry and aired out. We quit about two weeks ago.

Buddy: Well, it looks like we're going to have to take out (the outside) wall.

At this point, stark terror erupts in the pit of my stomach. The outside wall...as in open the office to the elements in the middle of the summer and allergy season in Texas??!? Over half the network is in there. And tons of maps. Usually, these pronouncements come about two or three hours after the first sledge hammer has hit. And then, I have to hop in my car (because my phone is screaming by then), drive like a banshee, and spend an hour explaining something like why computers and sheet rock dust do not make good bedfellows.

Me: Please, please, please swear on your grave that you will not lay a finger on the wall or the network until I can get there and relocate all the computers. Don't even move a keyboard. Swear it. Or I'll put you in it. Swear. Now. I mean NOW.

Buddy: I would never do that.

Me: (thinking) Uh oh. He has obviously forgotten some past history here. Crap.

So, how to tear down the network strategically and keep it mostly running at the same time...a sys admin nightmare only because people (even family people) expect the network to mostly run even when you tear it down. Bizarre. The good thing this demolition will accomplish is hopefully the rewiring of that awful outlet that keeps shorting out and ruining UPS's. And maybe a window in that wall? I could stand to stare at a tree now and then.

OH WAIT! I suddenly had a vision of myself wielding a sledgehammer or some other kind of destructive implement on the office wall. THERAPY! Should I be worried at how much I like that idea? Quite possibly, yes. But if I have to get involved in yet another colossal DIY project, I might as well enjoy myself, right? Especially if it's going to involve sweat and gypsum dust in the ninety degree heat. We really should have built that outdoor shower...this will involve more streaking.

Squib will love it, though. More DAAAMMMMMAAAAAAGGGGGGEEEEEEE! **growl**

And, perhaps, this time we can do this without electrocuting anybody?

Shenanigans!!!!!!!
Attrition's gonna puke.

Scat

Dedicated to My Class of 1990

2010-08-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

This entry is dedicated the my (OMG I'm suddenly feeling oldish) twentieth year HS reunion coming right up on September 11th. Alas, it looks as though I shall not be there. Meh.

That in combination with a question I was asked via the laundrette commenting service, or laundromat (my email), which was, "what are you listening to right now?"

So tonight, an artist that will appeal to others of you like myself who grew up in the eighties when we ate, drank, slept, and breathed pop music. John Mayer's stuff is not all pop, but you'll recognize several covers of eighties tunes, like "Message In A Bottle," (which was actually out in October 1979 on Regatta de Blanc by The Police...but most of us graciously included it in our eighties repertoire) amongst his work. You'll also notice other covers of other (distinctly not pop) artists like Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Lenny." But the song I picked out for you for its reference to our upcoming reunioun is "No Such Thing" from his live recording Any Given Thursday.

No Such Thing

"Welcome to the real world", she said to me

Condescendingly

Take a seat

Take your life

Plot it out in black and white

Well I never lived the dreams of the prom kings

And the drama queens

I'd like to think the best of me

Is still hiding

Up my sleeve

They love to tell you

Stay inside the lines

That something's better

On the other side

I wanna run through the halls of my high school

I wanna scream at the

Top of my lungs

I just found out there's no such thing as the real world

just a lie you've got to rise above

So the good boys and girls take the so called right track

Faded white hats

Grabbing credits

Maybe transfers

They read all the books but they can't find the answers

And all of our parents

They're getting older

I wonder if they've wished for anything better

While in their memories

Tiny tragedies

They love to tell you

Stay inside the lines

But something's better

On the other side

I wanna run through the halls of my high school

I wanna scream at the
Top of my lungs

I just found out there's no such thing as the real world

Just a lie you got to rise above

I am invincible (x3)

As long as I'm alive

I wanna run through the halls of my high school

I wanna scream at the

Top of my lungs

I just found out there's no such thing as the real world

Just a lie you've got to rise above

I just can't wait til my 10 year reunion

I'm gonna bust down the double doors

And when I stand on these tables before you

You will know what all this time was for

Admittedly, the lyrics apply to a time in life I am distinctly out of...but I totally identify with the gist of them. Fun little song. You can get to Mayer's site here where there is a player at the top of the page. It's got music from his Battle Studies album. If you want to hear "No Such Thing," preview it on iTunes or somewhere like that. You know how I feel about thieving music...and...frankly, too lazy at the moment to go looking to see if it's on his website somewhere.

Scat

Proof That I Shouldn't Ever Speak Again (and Laurie Berkner)

2010-08-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

Truly. This happened just this morning.

Other Person: So, did you get everything all settled?

Me: Yes, I'm all screwed away.

**hand smacks forehead**
(Squared! I'm all SQUARED away!)

Where were we? Ah yes, Seal. But I don't want to finish that today. Instead, I was thinking about the boys today and what fun we have with our music. Beanstalk is a musical connoisseur at eight. He, too, listens to a wide variety of music but comes down hard on the side of classical music and opera. Yes, opera. I can fend for myself in the classical music arena, but unless the opera spilled over into the dance world and I experienced it there, well then, I'm at best a noob. So I shall not go there. I will hit classical at later dates. We do agree on any manner of instrumental music, Sting, Norah Jones, Sarah Brightman, Steve Miller, Steven Stills (love Stills Alone), Dave Matthews, and a handful of others, but he is a purist at heart. If you need to discipline the child, just put his Andre Rieu on Strauss video on top of the fridge. Disaster!

Squib listens to whatever I listen to, but he's starting to show preferences himself. His preference is distinctly slanted in a single direction...Laurie Berkner (who is sometimes The Laurie Berkner Band). Fortunately both little guys worship her equally and at the same time. I've mentioned her in a previous entry because it amazes me that at 38 I like her, too! She has a lot of work out there, but the three albums we listen to the most are (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER) Victor Vito, Buzz Buzz, and Rocketship Run. I don't own Whaddya Think of That, but have heard several of the songs ad nauseum on noggin...and they are every bit as good as the rest. Wait, those are in order!!! By date of publication--go me! Her music is wordy and complex enough to entertain an adult, but catchy enough that any child listens, learns, and repeats. It's also impossible--seriously--to listen to her music and not get happy. Our favorites are as follows:

1. "Victor Vito" from the album of the same name. Beanstalk's first fave.
2. "Moon Moon Moon" from Victor Vito (the favored bedtime song of Squib...yes I have sung it every night for three years now.
3. "I Really Love to Dance" from Buzz Buzz
4. "Pig on Her Head" from Buzz Buzz (which inevitably got changed to "Mommy's got a pig on her head...and she keeps it there all day." instead of "Laurie's got a pig on her head...").
5. "Mouse in My Toolbox" from Rocketship Run.
6. "Candy Cane Jane" from Rocketship Run.
7. "Pigbasket" from Rocketship Run (it took me forEVER to learn all those words)!
8. "Five Days Old" from Rocketship Run
9. "Winter Lullaby" from Rocketship Run (this is what Squib is asking for when he says "Momma, sing me a baby song).
10. "Nona" from Rocketship Run (another "baby song" according to Squib).
11. And finally my all-time favorite: "Walk Along the River" from Rocketship Run.

There are other favorites, but these are the special requests from the kids plus my one "most favoritists" to borrow a phrase.

If you want to hear before you buy, you can hear samples of these songs at iTunes before you purchase and download and that's just all I'm gonna give you on this one (I know...stingy blogger woman). They just really are that good.

You can see videos for "Bumblebee" and "I'm Gonna Catch You" here...but seriously if you have kids, they need music like this! It's fun, intelligent, full of many musical styles, some old songs but mostly original compositions by Berkner, and guaranteed happiness in a very small package. Also, for a while now, The Laurie Berkner Band is a featured artist at amazon.com (Amazon August Artist)--so things are on sale. Sales are good for people!!

Laurie Berkner's official site is here. She posts all her lyrics here (thank God for large favors!). Laurie's musical nightlight is here and it's cool. My kids eat it up. They. Get. 2. C. Laurie. (junkies).

Scat

Life Is Short

2010-08-06T17:49:00.000-07:00

And so is this entry...

Sometimes I don't have the wherewithal to get my collective moon over the mountain and today is one of those days. Ok, this week is one of those weeks. So, here is an artist I love for his voice...furry chocolate with a hint of sandpaper? Hard to say...my verbal skills are exiting my left ear at an alarming rate. I will do him better service at a later date. So, without further adieu...some Seal. Not all of these are original to him, obviously, but I like his versions. I think I would prefer to hear them with a live band/orchestra/choir/whatever he's singing with at the time. It's over the top.

The first is "I Can't Stand the Rain," which he recorded on his Soul album. It's been recorded for a long time by many artists (too many to really get into in a limited time) and I have several versions that I like. This is one.

"Waiting For You" is another favorite from his Seal IV album and this version of it is OK, though, I have to say GO HEAR IT LIVE. Whole other ballgame, my friends. Whole other ballgame (which is usually true of the best artists IMO).

"Crazy" and "Future Love Paradise" were my first two favorites of his from Seal [1991] and that is where I will have to stop for the night because....well...Meh. Is. Tired. Of. Writing. I haven't seen that vid of "Crazy" in, well twenty years. I wonder what I was thinking back then?

You can read more about Seal here and get to his official website here.

And, no there were not any scorpions in my bed...last night.
Scat

Helicopters Are Circling My House: Time For Some Hip-Hop?

2010-08-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

Uh, nope.

This is normal and very much in keeping with my whacky day. Our little “area” is home to a helicopter pilot and local rumor is that on occasion he thinks it’s fun to fly over at the lowest safe distance. At least I hope it’s the lowest safe distance. It feels like he’s gonna fly through my house. The pots and pans are rattling together where they hang on the rack from the ceiling. It’s hard to concentrate on this whole music extravaganza I’m trying to have here. And it has been a looooooong day…so…long day music?

Maybe.

I shall consult with my iTunes and return in five.

(OK….thirty).

And this is what I came up with!

Well, for those of you who thought you really knew me, this ought to crack your noodle wide open. Normally, I don’t ever find albums that I recommend in their entirety. Now I’m doing it two nights in a row and…not only am I going to recommend The In Sound From Way Out…its by the Beastie Boys.

**gasp**

(I probably just lost over half of you. Which isn't saying much. I take that back, laundrettes! I value your readership highly!...Uh, how do I get out of this faux pas in a PC way without...oh heck..just keep reading).

Surprise!!

This is where some musical confusion may ensue. This is not the original The In Sound From Way Out! by Perrey and Kingsley—pioneers of electronic music—published in 1966. It’s an instrumental album by the same name (I guess you could argue in the same vein especially if you compare it to the rest of the Boys’ music) composed of cuts from the Beastie Boys’ albums Check Your Head and Ill Communication and their singles “Sure Shot” and “Jimmie James.”

I was introduced to the Beastie Boys in the eighties and hated them. There. The truth (I just heard one of my good HS buddies hit the dirt and probably Attrition right beside him and probably the remaining half of you knowing my exceptional luck on this day--why do Thursdays reek). Then one day, some fifteen or maybe twenty years later, I was in the car with Attrition listening to this funky acoustic stuff and thinking “this is cool” when he said, “Guess who this is?” I couldn’t guess. When he told me, I thought, “wow, they can actually play” or something to that effect.

Sorry, no lyrics because, well, there aren’t any. This is a pure funky feast for the ears. Unfortunately, you are going to have to take my word on most of that ‘cause the best listening just isn’t out there unless I give you links that point you to free download spots and I simply won’t do that. Already walking a fine line here. If you want to try before you buy, iTunes will let you listen to samples of each song on this particular album to see if you like it. My personal favorites are “Groove Holmes,” “Pow” (my absolute fave…watch..the..tempo), “In 3’s,” and “Eugene’s Lament.” What’s out there to listen to are “Namaste,” “Sure Shot,” and “Shambala.” They are decidedly off the beaten path from my favorites, but oh well. They're still good, just not my faves...eh.

The official group website is seemingly down (http://www.beastieboys.com/) but you can reach the message board which has links to the homepage and everywhere else here. You’ll find that they produced another instrumental album in 2007 called The Mix-Up. I have no personal preference for most of their other music, though I like “Sabotage,” and I’ve not heard The Mix-Up, so I can’t weigh in there...yet. You can learn more about the band here.

Off to rid my bed of scorpions, yes scorpions. Who said I sleep alone??!?
Scat

Tour Date Number Three: Age Two, Stevie Wonder—Not Just Another Sesame Street Character

2010-08-04T21:21:00.000-07:00

Today we travel back to my roots. And we’re talking the very root of my roots here. In order to stave off stark terror, you should breathe a sigh of relief when I tell you that I am sparing you many of the musical influences of my youth. That includes Captain and Tennille and a certain gospel artist named Mary John who makes my mother vomit at the very sound (true story). I could sing every word of “Do That To Me One More Time,” but that doesn’t make it something to build my musical history on, now does it?

This is the very first album I ever laid ears on and the first album I will recommend in its entirety. Stevie Wonder’s (yes I know that’s not his real name) Fulfilingness’ First Finale. It came out in 1974 when I was but two years old. My parents, well, probably mostly my mother, listened to it incessantly and I soon had it committed to memory before I could even understand most of the words. But I did understand the music. Music like his rarely finds its equivalent for me. Every time I hear it I want to get up and moooove. That’s what makes it great. So…my faves. **drum roll** IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER!

Too Shy To Say

You make me smile

You make me sing

You make me feel good everything

You bring me up

When I've been down

This only happens when you're around

And I can't go on this way...

With it stronger every day...

But being too shy to say

That I really love you...

I wanna fly

Away with you

Until there's nothing more for us to do

I wanna be

More than a friend

Until the end of an endless end

And I can't go on this way...

With it stronger every day...

But being too shy to say

That I really love you...

And I can't go on this way...

Feelin' it stronger every day...

But being too shy to say

That I really love you

Ohh.. ooh...

I... do...

Too Shy To Say is the quintessential love song. Simple, passionate, sweet…and it really sums things up nicely if you’re one of those tongue-tied sorts when it comes to love (like me).

Listen to it here.

They Won’t Go When I Go

No more lying friends

Wanting tragic ends

Though they do pretend

They won't go when I go

All those bleeding hearts

With sorrows to impart

Were right here from the start

And they won't go when I go

And I'll go where I've longed

To go so long

Away from tears

Gone from painful cries

Away from saddened eyes

Along with him I'll bide

Because they won't go when I go

Big men feeling small

Weak ones standing tall

I will watch them fall

They won't go when I go

And I'll go where I've longed

To go so long

Away from tears

Unclean minds mislead the pure

The innocent will leave for sure

For them there is a resting place

People sinning just for fun

They will never see the sun

For they can never show their faces

There ain't no room for

the hopeless sinner

Who will take more

than he will give

He ain't hardly gonna give

The greed of man will be

Far away from me

And my soul will be free

They won't go when I go

Since my soul conceived

All that I believe

The kingdom I will see

'Cause they won't go when I go

When I go

Where I'll go

No one can keep me

From my destiny.

As my son used to say (much to my chagrin)… “Dang, boy!” Those are some lyrics. Seriously. If I were to attempt to go into all that was implied by the poetry here I would have to allot at least a week of blogging to it. So…I’ll let you ponder it yourself. I’ve loved this song from the start and then when I knew the words and their meaning I loved it even more. My mother had the sheet music for the album and we played it on the piano and sang…loved it even more. And then, being a child of the eighties, I even liked the George Michael cover of this particular song that was released in September 1990 on his Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1 album (though, admittedly, Michael was no doubt invoking the meaning of the song for different reasons).

Listen to it here.

“Heaven is 10 Zillion Light Years Away” is the third place winner, but I can only post so many lyrics before people start getting glassy-eyed and all that. I also really like “Creepin’” and “Boogie on Reggae Woman” for no particular reason. It is absolutely crucial to your musical appetite to have songs that you like for no particular reason.

On another note, I have chosen to start with larger artists whose albums I own (several times over now--cassette, CD, CD, CD, iTunes--what, you never destroyed that many CD's?) and support rather than some of the smaller ones that I also listen to because I have my own internal struggles about how exactly to pass on my likes and dislikes without stealing their music--or by proxy encouraging the theft of their music. I really don’t like using the YouTube links, but, meh. I want you to hear, like, and buy. Where the artist has links/mp3’s on their website I will use that, of course. Some of you, I know, have no problems, but simply put…if someone wanted to come draw off ten or so free barrels of oil from my well, I’d be a bit tweaked at ‘em. So buy the albums and support the artist. That’s all I’m sayin’.

Fulfillingness' First Finale and all of Stevie Wonder's music is available in it's entirety on iTunes (who is not paying me, asking me, or giving me permission to mention them here). To learn more about the artist and his other music go here. To get to his official website go here.

Scat

Another Slice of Cake

2010-08-03T19:25:00.000-07:00

After introducing Cake yesterday, I decided to try and keep all my mentions from their albums together, so here come a few more from one of their other albums. This is not to say I won’t remember some in the future and add them. You know me, I always reserve the right to come back and change entries or add to them :).

The coolest thing about Cake is their lack of adherence to any one particular style. You’ll hear country, jazz, pop, alternative, and many other styles in their music. You can read more about their styles, band members, etc. here. Their lyrics are always quirky and it’s sometimes difficult to determine what they are really singing about. Often, I like a song for its feel, but there are a few—like “Love You Madly”—that I like for the lyrics as well.

Here’s their cover of “I Will Survive” originally by Gloria Gaynor. This is their video. I won’t reproduce the lyrics here because most of you probably know them. They did this cover on their album Fashion Nugget. The first copy of that album I owned had all the f-words rubbed out. They were done so well that I hardly noticed (well, I noticed on "Nugget") and since Gaynor’s version used “stupid” I always sang “stupid.” My CD was damaged one day and I had to replace it. It was a bit of a rude awakening when I popped it into the CD player in the car with my 2-yr-old in the back seat and the F-word was everywhere (yet another shining moment of motherhood), so…language warning. There's a rubbed out version and a bleeped out version if you prefer that.

My history with “I Will Survive” is this: I discovered this version of the song in 2002. That was when Beanstalk was going through the worst of his health problem which continued through, well, several years. After any particular stay in Texas Childrens’ Hospital, we would pack our car to the gills with all the gear we had accumulated during our stay (he had a lot of equipment) and high-tail it out of there. This was our victory song. We played it as we exited parking garage 16 under the Clinical Care Center and drove down W. Holcombe toward 288. Sometimes twice. He loved it!

If you don’t have a victory song, you should get one. It's OK to be cheesy.

From the same album comes “Stick Shifts and Safety Belts.” I wasn’t such a big fan of this song initially, but it grew on me fast. It was also one of Beanstalk's faves and he liked to have it sung to him as he went to sleep or was comforted. It’s a simple song with a sweet message.

Stickshifts and Safetybelts

Stickshifts and safety belts

Bucket-seats have all got to go

When we're driving in the car

It makes my baby seem so far

I need you here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

I need you to be here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

But when were driving in my Malibu

It's easy to get right next to you

I say "Baby, scoot over please"

And then she's right there next to me

I need you here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

I need you to be here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

Well a lot of good cars are Japanese

Yea but when we're driving far

I need my baby

I need my baby next to me

Well

Stickshifts and safety belts

Bucket-seats have all got to go

When we're driving in the car

It makes my baby seem so far

I need you here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

I need you to be here with me

Not way over in a bucket-seat

You can listen to “Stickshifts and Safetybelts” here. Sorry, couldn’t find a video with good enough sound quality to really let you hear the song.

Tomorrow we’ll take a trip down memory lane and visit the very first recording artist I ever heard…Stevie Wonder and his Fulfillingness’ First Finale album.

Yeeeeesssss...the seventies.
Scat

Magical Mystery Tour: First Stop, Cake

2010-08-02T20:08:00.000-07:00

OK, a “long” time ago, I wrote this post about finding my voice. In it, I mentioned I had no luck really coming up with a single topic I wanted to write about. In the end, I came up with the fact that I really write best about me. One o’ the launderettes suggested that they would like to know more about what makes me…well, me.

As you know, life would cease to exist if I were, say, suddenly devoid of my iPod. Not because of the device itself, but because of the music contained on it. For me, music is currency of the soul. It expresses things I do not have words for. Even when lyrics are involved, the actual music adds some inarticulate thing to it that, well, I have no words to describe.

I was listening to music before I was born. My mother was a pianist and I used to lay on the floor beneath the piano (yes, the one that is now in my closet) and close my eyes and let the music wash over me. My uncles and aunt were pianists and composers as well and I was more of a drinker of music. I took piano over the years. I also learned to play clarinet, flute, piccolo, viola briefly, dabbled with a guitar, and begrudgingly played the drums for a few weeks so my little brother could have some rhythm for his blues so-to-speak but it was always a means to an end and what I really enjoyed doing was singing, directing, and listening. Add in the ballet and life was complete. The scientist part didn’t really kick in until later.

So, here goes…with my characteristic disclaimer: IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER!!!!

My very own magical mystery tour of music. We shall begin with a piece of CAKE (see what I did there?).

This is “Love You Madly” from their Comfort Eagle album. I include the lyrics because I like them. You’ll have to get used to the fact that I sometimes quote lyrics if I like them. No set of song lyrics ever hits my personal philosophy of love or life bang on, so usually you have to go with the gist of things in that department, but always the feel of the song is really to my liking. So, where possible I am including links so that you can actually hear the song or see the video when possible.

Oh, and I’ve learned to say something to the effect that these lyrics and music are the sole property of the artist, etc. etc. Actually, the real blah (edited by me to be presentable and accurate in English) is this : Love You Madly Lyrics by Cake are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels. Love You Madly Lyrics by Cake are provided for educational purposes only. If you like the song, please buy the relative CD. (Which I have).

Love You Madly

I don’t want to wonder

If this is a blunder

I don’t want to worry whether

We’re gonna stay together
’till we die

I don’t want to jump in

Unless this music’s thumping

All the dishes rattle in the cupboards

When the elephants arrive

I want to love you madly

I want to love you now

I want to love you madly, way

I want to love you, love you

Love you madly

I don’t want to fake it

I just want to make it

The ornaments look pretty

But they’re pulling down the branches

Of the tree

I don’t want to think about it

I don’t want to talk about it

When I kiss your lips

I want to sink down to the bottom

Of the sea

I want to love you madly

I want to love you now, yeah

I want to love you madly, way

I want to love you, love you

Love you madly

I don’t want to hold back

I don’t want to slip down

I don’t want to think back to the one thing that I know I

Should have done

I don’t want to doubt you

Know everything about you

I don’t want to sit across the table from you

Wishing I could run

I want to love you madly

I want to love you now

I want to love you madly, way

I want to love you, love you

Love you madly

I found this song at a weird time in life. It was at a time when I did love some one madly, but they did not love me. And they should have. I knew it. So. Life is like that sometimes. Oddly enough, the song cheered me up. It was weird. I still had/have hope that I could find someone I could love like that. Madly.

Listen to it here. And enjoy the vid of Pete McNeal (Cake's drummer) and Vince DiFiore (Cake's trumpeter) battling it out in the kitchen.

You can find Cake's official site here.

Scat

A Sneaky Theif Is After Your Birthday Cake

2010-08-02T01:36:00.000-07:00

OK. So admittedly sometimes I do not sleep well. I have theories on this, but the long and short of it is that left alone I gravitate toward a night owl type schedule. I change it back to fit the lives of my non-night owly children, but at the expense of a bit of my creativity.

So here I am at 3 a.m. being a night owl. You can hear a pin drop. For whatever reason, I did not go back into town today. I really wish I had. Pulling this stunt at the Bunker would have gone over much better. So. It's three. A.M. I decide to tuck myself in. Inevitably, Dad's laptop is still on and open so I have to deal with it. So I close it and start looking around for something to cover the HP icon that continues to glaringly light the room. Must. Have. Darkness! I don't have any glasses on. It's late. I find a cardboard feeling thingy and pick it up.

A voice screeches into the slumbering darkness, "A SNEAKY THEIF IS STEALING YOUR BIRTHDAY CAKE!" and it isn't one voice but a chorus of out-of-sync voices rolling around demonically and laughing as they talk. I have never heard anything so deafening in all my life!

I let out what can only be honestly described as a very girly scream, levitated, and began flapping about trying to shut down what I finally realized was...

...one of Squib's talking birthday cards.

Suffice it to say the whole house is awake.
This is sooooo me.

Scat

Tales of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

2010-07-31T11:27:00.000-07:00

I just fell into a bit of a writing funk. And I was always on my iPhone and to be quite honest there isn't a way to backtrack and edit your posts after they've reached a certain length when you're using Blogger in Safari on an iPhone--that I know of. So please pipe up and correct me if I'm wrong. I'd love to be wrong. The perfectionist in me likes to edit. Combine that with the fact that I haven't really hit the rack before midnight in several weeks and you probably get the picture.

What have I been doing exactly? Everything and nothing. Work, study, play. In equal measure I guess, but in general LIVING. And it feels really, really good. I've seen a couple movies. I went to see my friend and his jazz band play at a wine bar in town and enjoyed that immensely. I took Squib to the zoo. I survived the onslaught of July birthday week and the accompanying eBay fest. I made the first of two turf-planting expeditions and will make the second one today. I got the network converted to Windows 7 and all the machines are now in agreement and the bugs have been worked out. A little more tweaking of the firewall and I'll have 100% remote access to all our machines/workstations/servers. This will give me a certain amount of freedom and the rest of the company a greater degree of security and service. I took Squib in for some testing prior to his first year of school (that boy is STILL growing--amazing). He was "precious." And he knew it. Every time someone calls him "precious" a brain cell dies. I swear it. I've been working on some music to do with Bob L. It should be fun. He picked something really challenging. Yay! There was a week of VBS in there somewhere, a lot of subbing on Sundays for other people. Texting back and forth with Jess because it really is just the pits that my BFF is in New York. Hanging out with Attrition and watching movies, seasons of TV that I miss b/c we have no cable, etc. Code punching, laundry washing, google earthing, GRE studying, presentation editing...and editing...and editing...and editing, reading stuff, "working" things when they're "broke," hauling furniture, feeding Beanstalk's Andre Rieu appetite (truly), bearing the brunt of some things, ducking the flak from others, laughing myself silly at most things, and in general enjoying all the people-watching.

So you see...LIFE! It can be exhausting, but always worth it. I really don't have it in me to stand on the sidelines. I'll tell you my favorite part of this last week...well, one of my favorite parts...was sitting with friends listening to great music and having great conversation (though I'd rather listen mostly) and soaking up the ambiance. It was like a little taste of travelling again. Something I've not done in so long. Going to a new place. Seeing new things. Meeting new people. Starting new conversations. Making new discoveries. It's like a door into another world. It's a risk, but one worth taking I think. I am not content to settle into a habitual life where each day is like the next with nothing ventured. It would be like marking time until I died. Burying my talents for fear that someone might steal them. I would only ever have what I started out with--maybe not even that. Instead I take them and invest them, risk them, put them out there in hopes that they are returned tenfold.

I gotta run. Literally.
Scat

Zoo Day

2010-07-23T19:16:00.000-07:00

After much debate about the security of cages and responsibilities of zookeepers, Dad and I finally packed Squib into the car today and headed for the Ellen Trout Zoo in Lufkin. It was Squib's first trip to a zoo and his first ride on a train, so he was levitating the entire time. It was wonderful! You should always take an excited kid with you to the zoo. It makes it twice the fun. Ok, three times.

The zoo has somewhere around seven hundred animals. It's heavy on birds, turtles/tortoises, and reptiles. It has a great African exhibit with an underwater viewing deck for the hippos (if they are accommodating). The alligators were HUGE and "very stary" and I missed them while I was buying a map so I had to see them alone 'cause Squib didn't want to walk by them a second time. I second the "very stary" vote.

It was completely shaded and well organized. If you've got a five-year-old it's about all they can handle in one day. I would have spent more time seeing each animal, but I am...me. I like to see, watch, photograph, and write about. Squib is not there yet.

After two train rides, Squib said, "I think I'm ready to go home now, Momma."

Perfect timing.
Pictures tomorrow.
Scat

What A Week!

2010-07-16T20:28:00.000-07:00

In short, it was a blast. I taught the 5th and 6th grade class at our church's Bible day camp and we had a great time. Sometimes it was like corralling eleven Energizer bunnies. Or nailing Jell-O to a tree. Other times, we were having top notch theological discussions that would make some adults twitch. OK, most adults. Fabulous kids. Great thinkers. And very serious about water fights. I was nearly drowned. All in good fun--and I quite deserved it after hunting one student down and pouring a bucket of water over his head (which was the point of the exercise). It was repayed to me in kind tenfold (at least).

Squib was also there the last two days. Had I known he'd enjoy it so much, I'd have taken him the whole week. When his class got up to do their little song for the parents, he immediately went AWOL behind the stage decorations. He returned with a fistful of hay and proceeded to hop around (not swishing his tail like a horse as the song suggested). This is a new phase in Squib behavior. Not malicious intent or anything, but he definitely has his own agenda. He keeps it private and borrows heavily from the George W. Bush "shock and awe" school of demonstration. Lovely. What a proud Mommy I am. I sooooooo deserve him.

And finally! You will have no idea what I'm talking about, but the Exectutive Summary has been written. Buddy finished it today while Squib and I were in our post-bible camp coma. Yay! I am terrified to edit the darn thing because it's been such a long and hard time coming. But edit I shall. With great mercy and probably more latitude than usual. I am growing soft. But out the hyphens shall go! Be warned!

Then, coming up Sunday, Watershed Week! The boys turn five and eight! Where does the time go? Squib starts school in the fall. I am sooo weepy about that. My baby! It is so true, though, he will always be my baby!

Lotsa cake to make tomorrow! Red Earth Cake (it's a food group) in the shape of Thomas the Tank Engine--not so sure how I'm gonna pull that off.
Scat

A Return to Old Things

2010-07-12T20:32:00.000-07:00

From the time I exited the womb, there was a pattern to life. There was a way we (and by we I mean my family) approached academic pursuits. There was a way we approached relationships. There was a way we approached play. There was a way we approached spiritual things, finances, etc. There was a way for all things...

It was not a rut by any stretch of the imagination. It was more like a general philosophy of life. First, everything was prioritized. That didn't necessarily mean that #9 on the list automatically always came after #2. It meant that we thought long and hard about what was really important overall and at the moment. We considered our options and made choices based on what was important to us and where we were versus where we wanted to be. Second, it was generally assumed that anything worth doing was worth doing well. I know I later learned to take this too far and eventually was able to suck the fun out of just about anything. Now, though, I understand balance better (not best) and I can see that some things are a work-in-progress while other things should be done well because it is well within my ability to do so. Third, once a committment was made it was kept. Period. Fourth, we were careful what we exposed ourselves to--this is the one I've been thinking about most lately.

Prioritizing isn't difficult for me. In fact, I can be rather cold and calculating about that one and often have to let go of it a little bit. Doing the things I committ to doing well is something I've come back around to lately. I wasn't running about willy-nilly doing things half-assed. Just over-committing and giving things just enough attention to be well done, but not well-remembered (by me). As for what I expose myself to...well I watch, lisen to, and read anything and everything. And perhaps I should. But perhaps I shouldn't.

I went to a book study last night that reminded me that I had gotten away from studying things because I WANTED TO. Yes, I am in school. That is because I want to. But, it is also because I HAVE TO. This was different. It was thought-provoking, moving, challenging, altering, and real. Questions were asked that I didn't have good answers to. I should have. We were asked to discuss things that are pretty relevant to daily life and I found that on some issues I knew next to nothing. Hmmmm...

Challenging.

So, a return to old things. First, I'm simplifying. I'm removing from my life some superfluous things that are of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. Second, in their place I am adding back things that I once used to do as a matter of fact that ARE of consequence in the grand scheme of things.

Let's see where it leads...
Scat

Peaceful, Easy Feelin

2010-07-08T18:17:00.000-07:00

Sorta.

All is not perfect. Things are still ragged at the seams. But a full day was met head-on with success. Everything that could get done was done. One more ugly circumstance reared it's head, but an even bigger one has gone by the wayside. So, all in all, you'd have to call it a win for the day.

Heck, UPS made a delivery and I didn't have to do the 100 yard dash to catch the truck! I loaded new operating systems on new hard drives in two computers without event. It was downright spooky. I'll take it!

My best friend had a really rotten day and I would fly to New York and change that right this second if I could. I really would, J. If you're reading this, know I am thinking about you and love you and really wish I could undo the events of today. But I can't. Grrrr.

Still, life does go on. We learn things and sometimes the days that mean the most aren't the big watershed moments in our lives, but the well-lived days in between that can only be taken one at a time.

Scat

I Totally Missed It!

2010-07-06T19:32:00.000-07:00

The first anniversary of my blog passed and I barely noticed! I had planned on continuing my NaBloPoMo goal of posting each day during July, but then I lost **another** hard drive on Saturday (as you may have read) and Squib had a firework-induced meltdown on Sunday. He was terrified. And by the time his dad came to rescue him from what was, admittedly, the most explosive 4th of my thirty-five year history here, I was exhausted and when I made it to the computer it was after midnight and already July 5. Humph.

Since then, I have been reading my entries and considering where to take all this. I am still considering. What's interesting is that I have actually been enjoying what I wrote. I like me. I find me interesting. I would read me. And that's a good thing. A great thing. Almost a shocking thing. Something worth reading. What a surprise.

And tonight I'm gonna leave it at that.
Scat

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

2010-07-05T18:06:00.000-07:00

It's a phrase I heard once. It was part of a monologue/poem (Dylan Thomas--see Merriwether's comment below--thanx!) that I can't scrape up right this instant or even find the correct reference to. I wrote it down in a journal that has been gathering dust in the boys' bedroom. I don't normally condone rage. In fact rage, in and of itself, isn't usually productive. Used in this sense, though, it has another meaning. A use, in fact.

In my world I see the light dying left and right. People all around me are fighting a battle against the darkness and they even name it thus specifically. Some have named it directly. "Darkness." Others call it cancer, illness, death, handicap, divorce, separation, infidelity, marital problems, affairs, depression, anxiety, addiction, unemployment, salary cuts, disagreements, fighting, interpersonal struggles, pettiness, hatred, scorn, judgement, ignorance, racism, poverty, or just plain old pain (physical or mental). And that is the short list. Take a look at the short list. You'll find enough rage there to power a large city until the year 5000 if we could find a way to harness it, couldn't you? It tells me something. We were made for that kind of passion. Were we made for that kind of rage? Perhaps. But not to due harm. Not originally.

We were made to rage against the dying of the light. We were made to persevere. We cannot do it alone, but we were created to do whatever we must to survive and we were created to muster our passions to fight. Fight for what is good and right and necessary to end the reign of darkness first in our own lives and then in the lives of others. The difficult thing is that this battle doesn't look like the battles we are used to fighting--WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, etc. But it takes more concentrated effort, involves more risk, and has the potential for world-wide casualties. There is a timeline and there is a distinct enemy. The overall war has been won, but the real battles are being fought to determine what I call the "collateral damage."

For eight years, I've felt buried up to my eyeballs in the sludge of darkness. Of the twenty-six issues listed above, at least twenty-one have applied to me--some at least twice. At the very least. For the first two years of this era I call "The Great Depression" (because it was), I was "fine" (I hope you know what that really means). And then I wasn't. It REALLY wasn't. In short, a nose dive of epic proportions. I went from being a highly educated, well-mannered housewife who was active in her local church. A believer. A Christian. To....well....still highly educated, still a Christian, but very short on belief and activity. There were reasons for it. Big reasons. Some were under my control. Some were not. Long and short of it was that the darkness got to me. And it's damn hard to escape once the darkness has hold of you. Even if you're definitely fighting for the light.

But it can be done. This month is an important landmark for me. About three years ago, something happened that forced a change. I had a decision to make. Get my stuff together, scrape my life up off the highway where it had been splattered by a Mack truck or move on. And by move on, I mean leave everyone behind and MOVE ON. I wanted (and still want at times) to move on. It always has been and always will be true that no one will understand the events of the past eight years as I see them. That's the truth of experiencing darkness. There isn't another human being alive (or dead for that matter) that can see it through your eyes. It isn't an excuse, just an observation. They can only see it from their perspective. And if you expect their help, you have to accept it from their perspective whether or not you agree with it. You have to listen to their opinions about you, your kids, your ex, your choices. If you live in the same house with them, you have to listen to them tell their friends all about it on the phone. You see it in their email that they forget to close when they ask you to work on their computer. It slips out of their mouth when they aren't thinking and they try to say "I was only kidding," but it's a subject no one in their right mind would ever kid about. You overhear it when they think you can't hear them through the bedroom door or the porch windows. That can be a lot to carry around. You will have to carry it around the rest of your life. You will have to come to grips with the fact that what they've told you to your face is not really how they feel behind closed doors.

Sometimes people are far more willing to discuss the bad than the good. Sometimes when you're caught in that battle with the darkness it's easier to hear the bad. So if you want to see the good in yourself then YOU are going to have to go looking for it because no one else is going to do it for you. I'm guilty of this...my blog is hardly ever sweetness and light. What a pity because that's hardly ever a good sample of how I think all the time. Weird. In short, this month proves to me that I really can do what I put my mind to. And I can do it in spite of all evidence to the contrary. Yay me!! I did it.

I did it with very little human support (Buddy and Attrition only). I did it when some people told me I would fail. I definitely did it without any encouragement. I did it with A LOT of discouragement. All the mental wrestling and cheer leading was mine and mine alone. I saw the head shaking, heard the name-calling, and the discussions in low tones and I did it anyway. Was there rage? Yes there was. A lot of it. Very much rage against many people who seemed to think that there was no reason for me to succeed. Call it righteous anger. Anger towards darkness in it's most elemental form. Often I thought I would fail just because there were people who wanted me to (not many, but then it doesn't always take many does it). I felt that helpless. For years. But that anger...it gave me focus. Something to fight against. Opposition for my moral compass, I guess. And suddenly, it was no longer anger but peace.

For the first time in a long time I had that sense of being able to look at something and say this...this right here is not right. It shouldn't be. Someone should do something. And the thought crossed my mind that maybe that someone should be me. Because it's all fine and good to use the word "someone," but never to actually be that someone is kind of cheating. It's our way of shovelling our real job here off onto humanity in general and avoiding our true responsibility. We're actually responsible for the light while we're here. It's our job to help bring it. Carry it. Nurture it. We want the luxury of saying "that's not right" or "someone should do something" with out actually doing anything to make it right.

What good is the darkness if you learn nothing from it? It's going to come. It gets around to everyone sooner or later. Usually sooner. And you pretty much have three choices. You can let it mow you over flat and never get up again. You can let it hit you and give in to it--there are more ways of doing this than you can shake a stick at. Sneaky stuff, that darkness. Or, you can rage against the dying of the light. I'm pretty sure there's no clean way of doing this. There's no way of doing it without "getting it on you," but as long as you believe and persevere I am certain that the darkness cannot overcome the light

Very sure.
Scat

Epic Fails

2010-07-02T07:53:00.000-07:00

New spiffy laptop died again today. I say again because I have repaired the  thing four times since I chased the UPS truck down the street to get it off the truck. And by repair I mean totally restore the operating system to the original factory settings. No, my backup disks did not help. The recovery disk set did not work and even though I personally made a point of establishing "last known good configuration"s, well they were never actually saved. Makes me . For those of you without emoji's, that's mad x 9. You don't want to hear or read the actual translation to English so my emoji's are sparing you the "local color." You can't see them unless you are reading this via an emoji-apped device. Must be an iSomething. Sorry, but I need my emoji's right now.

It's an ASUS laptop. They make excellent motherboards--I put them in all the workstations, desktops, netserver, and the server we built (OK, rebuilt). You could safely say I'm their  to the tune of several thousand dollars. So the price was right and the specs were awesome and I now have ANOTHER large, silicon desk ornament..ahem..target. Don't think I wouldn't do it, either. Question is, what to shoot it with? Whole other post there. Actually two whole posts there.

Post One: Before: What to Shoot My Laptop With and Why.
Post Two: After: Attrition and Scat Go Laptop Hunting.

Fortunately, there is a smidgen of hope. This plasticated LED coaster has a warranty and since it has basically never worked--well, OK, it does great as long as you don't put any more than say 50 M of data on that 500 G hard drive--I want a brand spanking new one.

So I called and asked for that very thing. Had to go through the looooong list of steps (again) to prove it wasn't working. The tech services guy didn't really listen to what I was telling him AND he kept calling me "honey" which infuriates me when it really means "you poor little ignorant woman." I was nice. Took every inch of self-control I had. But I was nice. And I fought the urge to call him "dear." But when he asked if I was satisfied with my service, I did say, "no." Budy's eyebrows shot up in the air and I think he was about to take away my phone, but I didn't call anyone an asshat until I hung up.

If the tech guy had been listening, I could have saved everyone some trouble. I have a copy of Windows 7 that I know to be good. I just needed to know if my warranty would still be good if I loaded a different copy of Win 7 from the one it came with. I know the problem is the operating system or the hard drive. If it's the OS, I can fix that here. I do it all the time. But I need the warranty to keep. Easy enough question. Can I or can't I?



See? Emoji's are therapeutic (if you have an iPhone). Only one infraction of the moral code.

Part of what I am calling "the major malfunction" is the inability to backup data after a certain point. So here I am at 3 am  trying to eke out that last document plus my iTunes backup which is an esoteric thing at best. There are all sorts of limitations on how you transfer your iTunes files and the major one is you can only download from phone to computer once. There are others and the long and short of it is that my music collection (my favorite thing in the world) is now spread over three auxiliary drives and four computers at two different houses and one office like so many Easter eggs 'cause I just never knew when this thing would crap out again.

How psychotic!! It takes at least a week to get all my backups (music and data) synced on one machine again...then it dies before I can make a single, coherent copy. Every. Last. Time. For. The. Last. Two. Months.

So once again I have to sing the praises of the almighty Apple iPhone for continuously saving my keester while I'm without laptop. Singing the praises of Apple just chafes on general principle. This blasted thing does it all and I'm not having much trouble rationalizing the upgrade to iPhone 4 with as much memory as I can afford (OK now that the have to have that "bumper" case thing, yeah, problem there--I'll wait). I'm already running the software on my 3G and it's slick. Server maintenance and virtual terminal services take care of network sysadmin stuff. You'd be surprised what you can do WITHOUT the Office suite these days. I have only two complaints. First, low battery life!!  It's a power hog. That and it can't spell for . Lately it has changed "not" to "mot" every time. "Disk" becomes "Fisk" with a capital "F." Who's that? It also changes "desktop" to "despot" and you gotta wonder where it's comin' from on that one. I've know a few despotic desktops in my day. The last indignity of spellhelp is that it keeps changing "him" to "Jim" which is my ex's name. That's. Just. Weird.

The iPhone 4 allows for multitasking which solves my third and final issue. So, yeah, I'm ing for Apple as well. Just the phones, though!! I'd be toast without mine. But even the iPad is starting to look appetizing. (Did I just say that out loud??!?)

We'll see what ASUS can do for me on the laptop front. Hopefully it will be  and not . I hate when that happens. And I've made it 38 years without calling someone an asshat to their face. What if it kinda leaked out on the poor phone guy? Just sitting over there in India working his butt off at a job that he loves and really, really needs (we had our software branch there--great people, tough lives) and totally not expecting a nutso sysadmin lady. Maybe he doesn't know what an asshat is? Let's hope.

I already beat the hooey out of some folks in Turf Wars to blow off steam. That IS the point of the game, but today I REALLY liked it. I intend to like it MORE later on today. And then they complained in my comments about me fighting them (which is the point of the game). Meh.

Me before computers:  (angel)
Me after computers:  (devil)

It can happen to you.
Scat

P.S. After going to bed at 5 a.m. totally foiled again, I remembered another problem. Proprietary information. This has been an ongoing theme in Scat family history since about 1994 for various reasons. Things being what they are and me doing some of the things I do, I have eyes-only stuff on that machine and am bound by confidentiality agreements with teeth--the oil business is worse than the government ever thought of being. I'm supposed to destroy all the proprietary junk before any outside parties see the machine. Great. So here I am again. Trying to format an unresponsive hard drive and wondering what kind of pickle I'm in if I can't send it to be repaired because of the type of consulting work I do. Somewhere, somehow, a lawyer is laughing his or her head off. When I called ASUS, they asked that I format the hard drive if possible before shipping. They had no answer for "What if I can't?"

Lawyers. And Teeth. Bleh.

P.P.S. That thing I wrote about being able to curse in other languages more forgiveably would come in handy right about now as I try NOT to appear like a sailor in the mouth department.

Addendum: Confidentiality issues apparently nullify warranties. So...had to buy a new hard drive. Mrrrfffff.

Plonker! A General Discussion of Household Languages

2010-07-01T12:52:00.000-07:00

Isn't that a great term? You plonker!! If only I had the accent to pull it off, then I could use "tosser," "bugger," and "bloody" with equal effect. My US friends/coworkers/co-students don't seem to mind those words so much as they would others. And, yes, I did ask them. I ask about almost everything. Don't get me wrong, I do not go around calling people names. I'm probably the most quiet and polite person you'll ever meet. Still, the English/Scottish/Irish have some of the greatest turns of phrase for being the opposite of quiet and polite. On occasion, and usually just in my head or in my car, I find I need phrases like that. Most of the Americans I asked said they wouldn't be offended in the least if such terms of non-endearment were used to their face. Even my mother concurred--and it's quite a feat to keep from offending my mother! Just think of it: the therapeutic value of having cursed an English blue streak without all the collateral emotional damage.

This language/accent revelation came to me (at first) as I was watching an episode of Lie To Me with Booger--Attrition is really a better sounding name for him though its connotations are, well, rough--and we got to talking about all the phraseology we loved in the English English language (and it's near island influences). We came up with quite a list.

I'd love to stroll into our country bumpkin bank and say, "I keep trying to order computer parts online with my business debit, but you lot keep putting a hold on each transaction until I call you or show up personally. Was atta 'bout? "You lot" is another fave of mine. It is especially effective when referring to a group of tossers or plonkers. That the bank has presented itself as a willing target for initial testing runs is, well, serendipitous.

There are other good words they use often, like "love." Everyone gets called "love." I don't think I'd need the grammatically incorrect ones like "me" for "my" or "nuffin" for "nothing" or "fing" for "thing." Those are mostly regional dialects and I'm not really in it to identify with a subset of the population.

The point is, it would be like having the ability to speak a second language without actually having to learn an entire second language (or third-and-a-half).

My Spanish has done NOTHING for me. Well, I shouldn't be so hasty. I live in Texas. Every third person speaks Spanish and I do understand them fluently. Replying fluently (especially with technical language) is another matter, but I can generally make my point and/or order dinner and shop. My ability to sign is incredibly functional--that was totally surprising--I do translate on occasion for the deaf in our community, but most everyone in the house that once signed now reads lips or has adaptive devices and so signing is reserved for **special** occasions. Plus, it is not an expressive outlet for me at all.

Beanstalk signs when he is angry. It's humorous. Big, wide, flailing signs that say, "I ALREADY WENT TO THE POTTY!!!!!!" as dramatically as possible. Squib will make signs when he is patronizing me with small, curt motions saying: "More, little girl." He acts as if I cannot see it. That is not so humorous. EVERYONE signs when they need to curse and we sign across rooms when speaking out loud would be rude or an interruption. I used to consider that an interruption, but no one really notices if you keep your signs efficient and small and as long as they do not know sign language themselves. Bizarre what people don't notice right under their noses. Sometimes we must just look like we've got an itch we just can't scratch. Especially when finger-spelling.

Squib's school sent a "Home Language Survey" to us (the second thing that prompted this entry). I have yet to decide how to answer it. I am certain I will just put "English" and send it back with them none the wiser for not recognizing sign language as a "real" language. Answering "English," however, will not help his teacher understand his tendency to look like a third base coach during the World Series.

Scat

P.S. I made it through June!!!! One post every day! Let's see if I can make it through July......(NOTE: July didn't exactly happen, now, did it? Ha!)

Hi, my name is Scat and I'm a Turf Wars addict...

2010-06-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

  I'm *this* far from referring to my family members by their Turf Wars username, too.

  It started like this...Mystery (SIL) started playing back in March. She got Attrition (the brother formerly known as Booger) stuck on it soon thereafter. Two-and-a-half weeks ago in an effort to create another player to add to their mob and their area, Attrition started an account for me on my iPhone. Turf Wars is an iPhone/iPod/iPad game only. And it is **slightly** addictive.

  In a matter of two weeks, I have maxed out my turf and grown my mob to over 1300 players (4,650 August 1st!!). The game involves missions, fights against other mobsters, vendettas, and attempts to capture their turf. Outside the game proper, there are alliances between players in certain areas/states and all sorts of politics worked out on-the-side. And there are also a fair amount of whiners. I mean, really, it's Turf Wars--you're supposed to fight each other. So, why gripe!

  To gain one mob member, you have to type in their invite code...so by now you can imagine that I have typed in over 1300 invite codes. And there are more to come. It is, of course, easier to get ahead if you have $$$ to buy Don points and purchase your way through the game, but to me that is a little bit like cheating. I get my mob fair-and-square and not by purchasing henchmen. And once you have all those mob members, you have to use the income from your turfs to arm them so that you actually win the fights you start.

  I haven't played so hard at a game since I went through all the Zorks many years ago. I haven't found a game so stimulating since then...so, kudos to Turf Wars.

  But my hands are cramping!!!! Code punching is tedious. But, in a way...fun

Gotta fly...a war is on.
Scat

Migraine!!!!

2010-06-29T19:00:00.001-07:00

Just to say I have posted every day of June, here is my feeble excuse for a post. Am currently experiencing one heck of a migraine and can think of nothing the least bit useful, funny, rewarding, or worthwhile to say other than that this reeks.

My mother would love that.

Scat

OFFICE TAKEOVER: Step Two and Ten Powers I'd Like to Have

2010-06-28T17:39:00.000-07:00

Office Takeover Update: Night one went well. Yesterday's post was probably confusing. We have an office outside the house. It is a separate building. We all used it actively for two years and in January of this year everyone (but me) just stopped going out there. They resumed working in the "indoor office" which is really our house. The "indoor office" consists of the dining room and living room and study. The living room is also doubling as my bedroom until we figure out what to do with me. The most obvious choice (since the outdoor office doubles as guest quarters) is move me out there because there is just something odd about waking up to deafening discussions of 2D seismic analysis and/or gas chimneys (yes!) at 6:30am every morning. In your jammies.

Fatal Flaw In Plan: The outdoor office is still an office--at least to some folks. So, here I was, decent and all, but in my jammies (crazy hair and day-old make-up), nonetheless, studying and listening to some quiet music when there was a bold knock at the door. No one, and I mean NO ONE, ever shows up out here ('cause it's just WAY OUT HERE) until today. But, show up they did and here I was discussing their desire to bid on the 3D seismic survey job we **may or may not** have in **a state of the Union**. Say what? They were "in the neighborhood?" Right. And they obviously ignored the makeshift "The doctor is OUT" sign (a la Peanuts by Charles Schulz--you know, Lucy would sit and give advice when the doctor was "IN") that is clearly posted on the door. I am the doctor--it's a very long story.

Let me tell you right now that even though I keep my location mostly secret for the purposes of safety I could tell you where I am right now and you still probably wouldn't find me. The roads on all the maps aren't actually there and some are, but parts of the actual road in the middle are missing. It's delightful. I give people instructions on how to get here repeatedly and they still have trouble finding it--especially if they're using GPS. OK, not so delightful if I actually need that laptop coming via UPS. So....not in the neighborhood. And they WORKED on finding us. And parked a seismic crew in my driveway. They are doing surveys in the area. Nevertheless, I had **the conversation** and answered their questions without saying anything at all. It is a gift. I inherited it. It also works better since I'm female. Men naturally assume I know less (sorry guys, but it's true). It is one of my best qualities as an employee. I was once referred to as the protocol droid (someone said I should mention that is a reference to Star Wars, but then I thought you knew that).

Step Two: Reorganization and infiltration of book collection. This place is positively teeming with maps. Most of them can be archived (read: stored in garage). We've finished those projects and have no plans of going back, so no need for them to be piled up willy-nilly, right. Then there's the issue of my book collection that has been travelling about with me in the rear end of my Mountaineer. I use it all the time and have been running back and forth on a daily basis for years now. So...in they go. I have created space just for them by removing unneeded (and unwanted) detritus from projects past. Carefully stored in their plastic containers they will be safe for many years. AND...we can actually use the outdoor office for meetings and such now should the need arise....again.

New subject!

Ten Powers I Would Like To Have In Random Order:

I was thinking today about what I would like to be able to do if I could have ten totally random powers. Here they are without any explanation whatsoever (well, some explanation):

1. I would like the power to make it snow.

2. I would like the power to make a person comfortable with who they are.

3. I would like the power to give everyone an imagination. There are many who lack one, you know.

4. I would like the power to bring personal peace. Not like world peace, ending wars, etc. Personal peace. From anxiety, fear, mourning etc. I wouldn't end those feelings because they tell us important things, but once they are recognized, it would be nice to be able to resolve them at times.

5. I would like the power to clean the toilet mentally. No physical effort expended. This one's personal. Just for me, really, though I'd be glad to think your toilet clean if you like. Of course, I could potentially be sitting here all day thinking people's toilets clean. Not what I had in mind. OK, 10 toilet limit. First ten callers only.

6. I would like the power to fall asleep within three minutes of laying my head on the pillow. Again, a personal one.

7. I would like my eidetic memory to be "full strength" so-to-speak. The numbers thing is a bit annoying. I really don't need all those SSN's, phone numbers, and addresses. I'd like to remember other stuff, too--like I remember music. I'd like to remember my anatomy texts that way. It'd save time. Just saying. Being my father's personal Rolodex is, well, weird. If I could, say, access any page of the NSM Pediatrics manual, now, THAT would be helpful!

8. I would like to be more patient. Anyone who knows me knows that this would require abnormal powers on my part. Not the most patient woman in the world. Though I've had to be--and the wait is not over.

9. I would like the power to reveal my true heart to other people in a way they would see as truthful. Or at least unfettered by their preconceived notions.

10. I would like the power to find humidity pleasant. This requires POWER. And I am stuck in Texas.

Thus endeth this looooong entry.
Scat

OFFICE TAKEOVER: Step One

2010-06-27T20:57:00.000-07:00

I did make this threat, after all, so I am making good. Things being what they are, Clanpaw has moved his base of working operations back into the house thus vacating the drafting table (which I use) and the large conference table. With Clanpaw back in the house, Buddy relocated back to the house as well. So, Baba lost turf in the dining room--ok, the entire dining room--and half the living room. Again. Not to mention the indoor office that she had hoped to regain in the building of the outdoor office. So, when we built the outdoor office, we all moved out here and she had a brief two years of joy during which the house looked like a house. No longer.

Suddenly, after I exited Squib's room (he finally got too old to be sharing a room with his female parent) and found myself sleeping nights on the sofa, I woke up one morning in the office so-to-speak with a real live meeting going on. That was the day that I made the threat to move into the office and use it as my own apartment. Not just so I could sleep, but also so I could work and study without all the hollering. You see, not everyone likes to wear their hearing aids in the morning. I couldn't tell you why. Opinions differ. You can ask, but the answers vary. Long and short of it is ear device wearers just don't like to wear their devices and so, well, they don't. So...hollering. "One" could potentially go nuts if "one" was trying to figure things out and remember them at the same time.

So I unpacked my bed stuff from when I had my previous house eons ago and started moving in :). Not a word from anyone. Yet. Had a nap. A blessed uninterrupted period of--yes, count it--four hours!!! I had no intention of sleeping that long and I even had music and lights on, but I have NOT been sleeping and was very much almost in a coma and took a death nap. It was glorious. No one woke me for computer errors or "features", trouble setting the air conditioner (it is not a standard thermostat), lost socks, lemonade, or other earth-shattering emergencies. The boys are at their dads' so all was quiet on those fronts as well. And, aside from the whole blogging thing, I've had several hours of unadulterated studying. And now for a couple hours of unadulterated Doctor Who watching...I missed a few from the first season.

Wondering if I could get away with paint?
Scat

Victorius Car Repair

2010-06-26T21:22:00.000-07:00

So much for being confounded by the $300 estimate for fixing/replacing the van's jerry-rigged wiring harness. We sat down and put our heads together and decided that if some yahoos who repair cars cheap and on-the-fly can put this fourth-rate wad of wires in and actually get the vehicle to run for who knows how long, then two scientifically educated college grads with umpteen circuits classes can do at least the same. Or better.

Answer is: BETTER. Yay us. Buddy and myself, that is.

As the gofer, the automotive and hardware folks know what to expect when they see me coming. I know my science, theoretically speaking, but I often have to use the word "doohickey" when I mean "crimping tool" or something like that. I know what things look like, but if we're not talking wire, alligator clips, fuses, or electrodes, I have to take one with me and say "I need one of these." At first they would quiz me about what I was doing, suggest other things, blah blah blah, but now they know I know what I'm doing electrically or automotively speaking...I'm just not always up on my terminology unless I've needed it to calculate a physics problem or read a diagram. I understand what the parts do and how they need to work...thank goodness for that. Today took only one trip to the hardware store (wire, splicing clips, and a crimping tool) and one to the automotive store (fuses). This is a record. Still, they DO look at me like I'm going to walk in and request a live pygmy goat one day.

After digging about under the hood and turning the car on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off, on, off, and then getting stung by a wasp (a freebie!) we finally finished. Wasp notwithstanding, we all collapsed and relaxed after working through the heat of the afternoon.

In other news, Squib had his first face-plant incident today. He was walking around in his pillow case (yes, he was supervised). He was actually standing stock-still and saying "Where's Squib?" I was playing along. Then, in a move only he could pull off, he face-planted with arms slack at his side. He busted his bottom lip something good and bruised his nose and cheekbones. It was a right bloody mess and he was all wound up in his Dora the Explorer pillow case. By the time I got him undone he looked like a red monster and he'd already decided I was NOT the one to console him. So, he wadded himself up in Buddy's lap and howled like a wounded monkey even past the point when he wanted to--he forced it. He even visited all the other family members to show off his boo-boos and reproduce the howling. Melodrama much? Then, he fell asleep in my lap again--early. What's up with that?

Full day.
Scat

Yes, Tonight We Have Gutterbrain

2010-06-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

Some things speak for themselves. Tonight, Squib absolutely could not go to sleep until I had taken dictation of this note. He did not finish his late snack of peanuts and, fearing that these were the last peanuts on the face of the earth, he wanted to make sure no one ate them or threw them out. This is a legitimate concern in this household for any object--even if you put it where it belongs in your very own room. So, perhaps his fears are well-founded. These are his words. I tried as hard as I could to copy them down with a straight face.

When he solemnly peaked out from the bed covers and suggested that we include this note in our prayers so that it would really work, I lost it. Weeping, I prayed for his nuts because that's what good, faithful moms do. When he asked, "What's so funny about my nuts?" I had to leave the room.

Nay, the house.
Scat

Bad Juju

2010-06-24T18:01:00.000-07:00

Bad Universal Omen: When mechanic calls in a panic and says, "You gotta come see this right now. I mean, like, now now."

So, off to the shop...

Mechanic: You're not going to believe this.
Scat: Try me (this week I might believe pigs can fly, but he would be hard pressed to believe me).
Mechanic: This is your wiring harness. Well, sort of...

He opens the hood of the van where he has exposed the radiator which has little pieces of wire and fuses and odds'n'ends soldered to it. Wires are piled everywhere inside. Many are broken. Most only have bare, metal ends twisted together with no insulating caps and are frayed or rusted. It looks like its been assembled by seven-year-olds with their daddy's spare cast-off wire clippings and the odd switch or fuse welded wherever it seemed to fit. Not control boxes, nothing. A virtual spaghetti pile of disaster. One's first thought is, "How did this vehicle ever run?" One's second thought is, "Calling this a wiring harness is an insult to wiring harnesses."

Mechanic: Do you have any idea who did this to your vehicle?
Scat: (stunned silence)
Mechanic: Guess not. Well, to tell you the truth, I really can't even work on this car. Not at all. They don't sell the entire wiring harness and this one has obviously been yanked out and very, very, very poorly replaced. It's like every wire and every fuse and it seems to bypass the cooling fans so I'm not sure where they're plugged into the system at all. Not even really sure how long it would take me to figure it out so its sort of cost-prohibitive to even try to figure it out. (Translation: It's time to let it go and at best euthanize it for parts).

Scat: (drool)
Mechanic: Yeah...see, I'm gonna see if I can get it to run well enough to get it off my lot, but I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with this, uh...
Scat:...sabotage. You had nothing to do with this sabotage. Isn't there a version of that by the Beastie Boys? Very appropriate background track.
Mechanic: (He smiles. He is relieved). Yes. Phew.

He meets the wild-eyed Scat stare and stops looking quite so relieved and more like he's at a funeral. This is appropriate because it is fact that this car was "born" with the correct wiring harness. It is also fact that one of his brothers-in-arms did this to our van.

Or that a pack of evil tinker fairies descended on it in the night after be-spelling us all and they did it. Yeah. The lasting effects of the spell would account for the fact that Buddy's mouth has been slack and his head tilted at an odd angle ever since the return from the shop. Dang fairies.

Scat

A Funny Little Day

2010-06-23T16:56:00.001-07:00

I took Clanpaw and Baba Scat to radiation today. Well, Clanpaw was having a radiation treatment. Baba believes it is her bound duty to drag her tired self around with us. We all know not to argue, so we don't and after only three days, she is already getting too tired for things like manners and tact toward even perfect strangers. Usually they benefit more from manners than we do so you can only imagine the fun and antics at home.

For whatever reason, they have decided the only reasonable place to eat is the hospital cafeteria (two enthusiastic thumbs down except for the gummy bears which are exquisite). The hospital cafeteria at lunch time is interesting because most of the tables are round or long and seat six or more and if there are only three of you, you end up sitting with people you don't know. Fostering community interaction or some such rot, perhaps. I think this secretly horrifies Baba and we try to insulate her from "the others" by sitting her between us and keeping the conversation between us as much as possible but I foiled that by commenting on someone else's back pack. Yes, yes I did. To be sure, the pack was a Swiss Army pack identical to mine with no distinguishing marks (like mine) and a white iPhone in the cell phone pouch (like mine). I did almost feel the compunction to pick up said pack and walk away. I continued conversing with the owner of said pack, Ira. Ira was a nice man waiting for his physical therapy appointment. After a brief chat, I finished my lunch and we got up to leave. Very minor interaction amongst humans.

We were still within reach (and definitely earshot) of Ira when Baba shouted, "Scat, I think he's in love!" Just dig a hole and bury me. She's gonna ride that horse into her grave.

Reminds me of when we had a 60th birthday party for her and she started every conversation with "Oh my God, how fat you are!!!"

After an eternity of waiting and driving about in circles, I had finally collected everyone from the far reaches of Spring proper and we were once again lake-bound. Baba decided to teach Squib how to play white-car-black-car. It went something like this.

Clanpaw: I see one black car!

Baba: One white car. One for us!

Squib: We have one!

Baba: Two, three, four...

Clanpaw: Two, three...

Squib: Clanpaw is losing.

Baba: Yes, he is.

Clanpaw: Four! We're tied!!!

Squib: Tied to what?

(he doesn't even know he's so funny)

And it went spiraling downhill from there...

Clanpaw is the only human alive who with play "tell me what else I did yesterday" with Squib. Yes, that's the name of the game and the rules all in one. Squib says, "tell me what I did yesterday!" You tell him one thing. He says, "tell me what else I did yesterday!" You tell him another thing (of course, you might be guessing or being obscure--like using breathing or respirating as an answer). He repeats ad nauseum as long as you humor him. Clanpaw has the heart of a 4-yr-old and thinks this game is fun and funny. They played this game for 45 minutes straight. Thankfully, we pulled into the Post Office about the time I was going to call the game in the interest of sanity.

Meanwhile, after leaving the house at 5:30am, Buddy and Mimi made it to Palladium hospital for some outpatient surgery only to have the van overheat on the way home. Buddy had to half-carry/half-drag a still slightly-shnockered Mimi into a Whataburger and get her "situated" while he tried to fix the vehicle in the parking lot. No joy. The cooling fans would not come on. Soooo....they let it cool down and made a run for the freeway. What a pleasant trip.

So, in short, every day this week we have taken a trip to radiation treatment and a car to the shop. E. Gads.

Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars. Dollars.

Dollars that we just don't have.

Scat

Black Noise?

2010-06-22T18:59:00.000-07:00

I think white noise is more or less ambient. The sound the dishwasher, the air conditioning circulation fan, and the dryer make. They are all running right now. Lots of white. Green noise, I guess, might be the happy sounds of kids giggling and talking in whispers and imaginary voices with splashes of yellow and orange when cars crash and buildings tumble as they so inevitably do. My mother is an endless fount of red noise--criticism of Baba, she's on a tear about how we maintain the septic, she doesn't approve of using food after it's been frozen, and other low-but-not-so-low-I-can't-hear-them-three-rooms-away comments that I wish I didn't have to hear. Some of that is a swirling, churning multi-colored mass that creeps along the floor. Add the blood-red sound of gun shots erupting from the study behind me where Baba is watching a movie on her computer (no one has cottoned to the idea of headphones yet) and combine it with the dirt brown of added made-for-movie drama I hear leaking out with the sound of voices and music. Shades of blue drone full, rich, and mesmerizing from the master suite where Clanpaw listens to FoxNews online.

In my head, where I am trying to review obscure pieces of geometry and laws of exponents and rare vocabulary, the whole thing is quite a cacophony of color and sound and it's making me quite buggy.

So, I study when they are silent, which is never--or--when they are asleep.

This is not working out.

Ideas?

Scat

Finding My Voice

2010-06-21T20:45:00.000-07:00

  I think a lot about finding my voice which, in simpler terms, refers to what I want to focus on when I write. The problem is two-fold. First, I am interested and involved in a lot of things. Second, a lot of special interest areas overlap my life and I have a heart for all of them. I just don't seem to have the nerve to turn off all interest in some of those areas to write about one or a few of the others. This blog was formed primarily as an outlet for my writing as I made a very major life change. I moved into my grandparents' household with my two young sons and my parents. That's five adults and two children (then 1.5 and 4.5 yrs) in a single household. Everyone was getting older. My father, grandfather, and I were working together. I was getting divorced. We were expanding to create a company. It was the thing to do. It was (and, believe me, IS) crazy-making. Nevertheless, it was the best decision I've ever made. Being able to write about it here has been a great relief.

  Like I said, though, there are other things that spark my interest. Here they are in no particular order (I'm big on no particular order):

1. Being a mother.

2. Chromosomal disorders and/or special needs children (I have two. Emphasis on special. One is probably a musical savant. The other is, well, probably best characterized here except for the fact that he is wildly compassionate and artistic--not autistic).

3. Hiking. Though, lately I have become interested in an old idea my father had to take a month and canoe the Boundary Waters. I don't really have a month and neither does he, but we can dream. Anything is possible after that first oil well, right?

4. Caring for family members with cancer (breast and prostate/bone). Baba is in remission at the moment but continuing hormone treatment and getting her new pair a week from tomorrow. Clanpaw started radiation for a lesion on his pelvis today and is taking high-dose ketaconazole for the prostate cancer. It has been a rocky roller coaster ride that continues to this day. I'd love to say we've had a wonderful experience, but frankly, we've had to fight tooth and nail every day for treatment that's simply humane. Ridiculous.

5. I'm a divorcee. That is a topic no one ever really blogs about which is a pity because it's somewhat of a social, emotional, and spiritual abyss for many.

6. I have health problems of my own if we're just listing things to brainstorm, but I really don't care about those as long as I'm alive. Seizures and Crohn's disease. Pain in the rear, mostly.

7. Music. Love it.

8. Outdoors. Love that, too, but my work and educational lifestyle virtually cancels that out unless you include the walk to the garden and back to harvest and move the sprinklers (which I don't).

(pause to consider other writing prompt-related interests)

9. Faith/religion?

10. Medicine. Current area of study, future area of work.

  See. In list form, it all gets very, very, very, very antiseptic and dry. I could add techno stuff, but it's like Sominex to go any further. The only thing that is good about my blog is me, I think. That, and the weird things that happen to me.

And the laundrettes. So, normal stuff tomorrow. No more soul searching.
Scat

Happy Camper Number One

2010-06-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

This is the face of 103 degrees Fahrenheit. Just a wee touch hot, that one. It's all I can do to get him to relax much less respond to the presence of Motrin or Tylenol. Often, Buddy and I are taking turns wiping him down with cold (not cool) washrags. He's one of those kids that gets more active when he runs fever until all-of-a-sudden he's absolutely immobile somewhere around 104.5 or so. It's scary. So in the dead of summer heat, this is my sweaty little bed partner. Sweet thang...

Scat

Telltale Signs That I Am Here

2010-06-19T20:22:00.000-07:00

An undisclosed (because if I disclosed even her fake name she'd think I thought she was nuts which I don't but you know how that goes) member of the family walked into the living room (aka my bedroom when I'm at the lake) today around three and said in a shocked voice, "I had no idea you were here!"

She does this quite a lot and I am truly at a loss for how to respond. I literally haven't left the grounds since last Wednesday, so I haven't had reason to announce my departure or arrival and announcing "I'm still here!" seems sort of odd. Still, though, I have a tendency to go quiet and I think she interprets that to mean I've left and she is therefore shocked at my return? Don't really know. This has happened enough times that I have had opportunity to test drive several responses to her exclamation and none has hit her quite right, so I'm feeling a bit off.

I started to wonder why it looks like I'm not here (never mind my physical presence). And, in truth, there are only a few signs that I am actually in residence as opposed to being in residence elsewhere.

This is my bed. It doesn't look like much, but you'll usually see it over the end of the sofa when I'm here versus over the foot of Squib's bed.

You'd have to check the closet for this, but there's just no way on God's green earth the black flip flops would ever, I mean EVER, not be in the same house with me. Purple, yeah. Black, nope. (Oh, and there are my toes in the bottom right-hand corner. Those generally come with me, too, but it's already been proven that my physical presence is not a significant enough indicator on its own).

This one is the dead give away. I never ever ever never ever leave the house without my essential oils. Just never. You'll just have to forgive my Ziploc chic, 'cause I'm into the see-through plastic action. Still, those babies travel on the seat next to me or in my backpack within reach. If they're in the house, so am I.

And last, but not least, this can is open. Not a single soul in the house would touch a D.P. but me.

Sadly, with the exception of my pack, that is it. Everything else stays as is. Not a sign to let you know whether I'm coming, going, or somewhere in between. One day I suppose I shall settle down. Sprout my own bedroom. Buy "stuff" and have a closet.

Just not today.

Scat

Where did I put my brain?

2010-06-18T20:53:00.000-07:00

I swear it was around here somewhere. I see the telltale signs of it having been here like the remaining stem and basal structures that seem to keep my heart beating and lungs inhaling. But the rest...those "higher brain functions"...what the heck happened? I am still reviewing for the GRE and it seems that, while I am accomplishing much, I am merely reminding myself of how much has been forgotten. Maybe not forgotten, but permanently locked away in some deep, dark hole never to be accessed again without serious poking and prodding. So, poke, poke, poke...I am working my fingers to the proverbial nub trying to make sure I expose my unweildy nut to things long lost.

I'll tell you, though, the actual testing conditions will be positively blissful! Like a vacation! I look so forward to it that I may take the test twice just to enjoy the time to myself. I can't even imagine the silence! Really, I can't. Squib is, well, very four. Much hollering and crashing and constantly "needing" (I am hoping this self-insufficient phase will PASS). The two octogenarians are dearly loved, but are quite frankly a constant source of humor. They spend most of their time wandering about and forgetting (not their fault). But they are always having to get "things" straight again--like how to "work stuff" (email, gtalk, the Internet--darn thing just doesn't ever work, the VCR and DVD players and how to switch between them and the washing machine--which has decided to take a walk now and then). Then they are scheduling this, that, and the other without regard to much of anything else so it all must be done several times and sometimes all over again when they realize the two drivers (of which I am one) also have other committments. Of course there is the endless question of where did Squib put this or that??!!?? He didn't actually put anything anywhere, but they have lost it and, "How dare he!" (and the like) Add communications between the deaf and quasi-deaf population (there are one and two-halves of those)(deaf people, that is). Side note: these deaf people are LOUD but don't actually know it. Combine this "normal" family mess with the day-to-day family "work" (laundry, dishes, chores) and then with the actual work going on (yes, there is an office, but no one is really using it despite my threat to turn it in to my personal apartment--I will be moving in on Monday) and this place quickly becomes a CIRCUS with at least four overlapping rings in which the only way to hear yourself think is to scream your thoughts at yourself (hence all the capitalization--it's like I'm from Jersey).

NOW TRY TO STUDY!!!!!!

Insanity!! I give up on a regular basis. At least five times an hour, but usually I recommit myself to my goals a little more often than that, so I'm ok. Poor Squib does bear the brunt of things. I did almost try to tear his head off, but his sheer cuteness saved him and then when I crawl in bed every night and see him passed out and curled up in sleep each evening, the slate seems to wipe itself clean.

I did, however, make an interesting and shocking discovery today. I was talking to Mimi about a friend whose son developed cancer and Squib, with his usual lack of aplomb, came up to interrupt us with something soooooo important that his tail end was just almost literally on fire. I asked him to wait. He errupted and lost his mind. I said "Fine. Wait for me in the chair....we are going to have a time out."

Like, the first one EVER. We use other things. A variety, really, because I think time out chairs are pointless. At least, they always were for me and my sibling and for Beanstalk, so....they are new to Squib.

You would have thought I had skinned him alive, strapped him naked to the hood of my car and left him to bake in the sun from all the screaming!!! REALLY!! All I asked was for one minute (literally 60 seconds) of silence in the air conditioned cool of the living room in the padded safety of the recliner in which he had no less than SIX TOYS!!!!! And he was screaming like I had bashed his teeth in. I thought he had hurt himself. Really, I did. And when I ascertained he had not, I started thinking about school and the impending doom of time-outs to come (cause they seem to use that a lot at least in Beanstalk's school environment) and thought, "Oh, crap." Lucky teacher. So, perhaps we shall have to practice this time-out thing so's he don't slip a psychological gasket from actually having to take like a real "two-minute, hard-surface chair time out" or whatever the hard core time-outers do. God forbid they stick him in a corner or write his name on a board. His heart may stop. And that was one expensive heart. Would he actually make the entire walk to the principal's office? Without screaming?

Maybe I should tell them he had a heart defect. And that a little pop on the rear doesn't seem to alter his psyche, but the chair....oh, GOD....NOT the CHAIR!!!!!!

I even sat in it afterward and checked it for tacks, nails, electrification, snakes, spiders, and anything else that might be creepy, crawly, biting, stinging, or otherwise painful. Nope, nuthin'. Still..."No, mommy, don't make me sit here I'll be quiet if I get down I promise I'll be a good boy really I won't say anything I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet I can be quiet really I promise don't make me sit herreeerreerrereerererrrreee....etc." Me: (in my head) "What is the MATTER with him?"

Ok, now I'm starting to clue in as to what happened to my brain.

Still, DISCLAIMER: Despite today's events, children are amazing and totally worth having. Usually, they are pretty creative and interesting, but ALWAYS they are masters at pressing your buttons. This particular one (Squib) was born to drive me nuts, but he is also my baby. The cutest, most lovable human alive. Mostly. We spent a large part of the day working "together." He worked on his train book that he is illustrating and writing with help from me and I did some work and studied (by turns). It is very easy for a single episode of non-silence to eclipse the entire day--especially when it is accompanied by a ground zero freak-out. Those are a sight to behold, but I have to admit that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I have my moments. Hopefully, he learns to adapt quicker and better than I did. Hopefully. Hopefully tomorrow is better than today. Hopefully.

At least he wasn't prancing around the house screaming "Dang it, butthead!" (Please see the "Dang it, butthead entry here for context.)

Right?

Scat

The "Dang it, Butthead!" Episode

2010-06-17T20:18:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I take my children out in public. Quite a lot, actually, but lately they are actually using those minds of their own and it can be wonderful, funny, creative, and then altogether terrifying. Lately, mostly terrifying.

I took Squib to Kroger after going to the doc for his last round of shots and they are **still** remodeling. For the safety of their patrons, they are using cones to direct traffic and alert those of us not sure of our footing to various hazards along the way, but to tell the truth, it really does look like a race track for four-year-olds. So, we enter Kroger and Squib gets glassy-eyed and says, "Mommy, it's like Cars!!!! Vroom-vroom!!!" And he's off...No matter how many times we go in there he reacts the same every time and I keep discussing it with him and we lock eyes and I say "repeat after me...no running away in the store" and he repeats and swears and crosses his heart and everything except an actual exchange of blood (which is coming next).

Needless to say, he zoomed off and I had to firmly buckle him into that plastic truck-cart-thing again. I think he actually mumbled something to the effect of, "Mommy is never going to trust me again." And I said, "You are right about that, sir."

On to the deli section where they are creating what can only be described as a cavernous void where the ceiling once was. It is the same size with regard to square footage, but works far better as an echo chamber (chamber...chamber.......chamber.............chamber). Am I annoying you yet? Good, because as we pulled into the produce section behind the deli, Squib began his cavernous void testing protocol which includes a range of varying frequency beeps, blips, and eeps designed to test resonance, echo, reverberation, and general maximum effect. Meanwhile, little did I know, he was pondering what thought to throw into the cavernous void because, after all, cavernous voids must be filled. So...there I was picking through the romaine to the tune of happy chirping and tweeting and wondering how soon I could get through the spelunking part of my shopping trip when Squib erupted with his profound thought--the profound thought to be cast into the cavernous void.

And it was:

"Dang it, Butthead!!!!!"

Only he gave it more depth, breadth and syllables than it was ever meant to have and I turned into a pillar of salt and blew under the cantaloupe mound so no one could see this heathen's mother. When I emerged, my first question was "That was all you could think of? Very eloquent. You have these fantabulous acoustics and all you can come up with is dang it, butthead--which I don't approve of you saying at all for any reason you-are-grounded-from-television-until-the-cows-come-home, by the way--for your personal three-word statement. Not "I am the king!" or "Let the wild rumpus start!" or "Behold Prince M****** G****** M******* (name withheld) the Prince of the East Texas Pine Forest!" but "Dang it, butthead!" ??? ? ?

He actually did think about it, but all he could come up with as an alternate was, "I lost my baseball?" Yes, he said it with the question mark. And then timidly, "What would you say, Mommy?" I replied, "I am Mommy, the destroyer of worlds...get back in your plastic truck."

Profound silence reigned for at least three whole minutes (this is an eternity...well, three of them) until the timid voice asked again, "Are the cows coming home before or after Dr. Who?"

So cute I could squeeze him...and squeeze him...and squeeze him :)
Scat

NOW for some random "A" words...

2010-06-16T19:36:00.000-07:00

I am reviewing for the GRE general test. No, I never took it. I'm not sure how I got out of it, but I managed to. Well, no longer. Here it comes...

So, at the advice of my sister-in-law, I have purchased some review materials and am reviewing my verbal and quantitative skills. One of said materials is this fabulous box of words--500 of them--that are touted to be the "500 hardest GRE words and their synonyms." Oh, joy! I'm being serious. This is like a box of candy. I go through about four words before I hit one that I recognize but cannot outright define or synonimize (is that a word, synonimize?). "Abeyance" was the first word: "temporary suppression or suspension" meaning the same as "deferral, delay, dormancy, postponement, or remission." "Abstemious" was next followed by "Acidulous" which brought up "acetous" (which isn't in the box, but is equally wonderful). "Accretion," "Aggrandize" I knew but it's synonyms included "apotheosize" which is delightful.

But you'll have to help me out and explain why/how "conviviality" is a synonym for "amortize." That I don't quite get. Yet. And I thought I knew what both those words meant. Ah, what a "conundrum." And just under "A" there are two words for "pain relief" (analgesia and anodyne)--that's a bit odd if you think about it. Where do they get these words?

Oh, yeah, the dictionary...
Scat

Now the fun starts...

2010-06-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

Not really.

I mentioned yesterday my two biggest problems/fears/concerns. Let us just say that it bears consideration that on the list of stressors, Clanpaw's radiation (45 days starting next Monday) and our continued efforts to get our company sold and off the ground are only coming in at two and three. The final arrival of grandma's new pair (the 28th after all that stretching and an agreement to accept B's rather than C's) is barely a blip with mom's radio ablation of a cervical nerve as a brief interlude next week.

I have had a migraine every day this week. Gee, I wonder why?

I did get registered for fall, though and made a teeny baby step toward getting things settled for Squib with his Dad's help.

Looking very much forward to picking him up at oh-God-thirty tomorrow and heading to points north. We have a book on trains to write and much running about in our PJ's to do. Important stuff.

I shall think of something wonderful to write about, but on occasion the truth shall have to do...
Scat

It's time to put my money where my mouth is...

2010-06-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

There are two situations (not only two, but two that are in the forefront of my mind) that are really trying the extent of my faith in--well--God, the universe, and everything in it. The first has to do with my youngest son and getting circumstances arranged for his schooling in the fall and the second has to do with my own schooling in the upcoming year.

The changes that will occur are enough to invoke stark, raving terror. Usually, I deal with this via avoidance, but I have been dealing with this via head-on confrontation as I should, but I am still getting nowhere. This is when my father would say "perhaps God is trying to tell you something." And I would reply, "and what if I am just not doing what I am supposed to be doing?" And then Dad is all, "Well you still have to try every possible thing you can think of and beat your head over a rock like it's what you need to do to get things accomplished, but in the end you trust God to carry you through it." And then I'm all, "Well, on occasion I'd like not to have to hold my brains in after the rock-bashing and get to enjoy the carry-me-through-it part just a little more."

'Cause, like, my brains are hanging out and leaking a bit on the floor here.
Scat

Now that's a toilet...

2010-06-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

Have I told you about the bed sheet? Probably, but it came up again tonight...the bed sheet I flushed down a toilet while in jail. Totally true story. No, I am not proud of having spent time in jail. I have a past. Who doesn't? It is a long story, but I was there and it was a part of my life and I am, quite frankly, **tired** of all the dancing around the subject. Even years later. So, now you know. I was in jail. County jail. Very, very briefly.

But this is really about toilets and bed sheets and totally has to do with my toilet frustration. I am a frustrated toilet user. Outdoor latrines are unseemly and a real pain to dig, but in the end (see how I made a joke, there?) the issue of flushing is moot. When flushing is required, my personal preference is that massive amounts of water be available through a large pipe at high pressure. Now you can start laughing. I mean, you saw our last plumbing job with the water well.

With the advent of water conservation, "we" (in the royal sense) decided that using less water per flush would be a great idea. Academically, I whole-heartedly agree. Unfortunately, when I notified the persons in my household that they would have to consequently increase their urine output and decrease their fecal output--or decrease the consistency of their fecal output--they have been, well, less than cooperative. Buggers.

And plungers? Well, those aren't getting any better now that they have plastic handles, either.

And I swear the plumbing is shrinking...

And (here you should forgo any thoughts of me ever being ladylike about this) all I really want to be able to do is make a deposit and flush it and move on with my life. And the same for the rest of these yahoos 'cause I really hate having to plunge someone else's drift before I can use the facilities. Rule #4376 seems to be: NO, it NEVER goes down with the next flush. Meh...

Being the hyper-conscious and (believe-it-or-not) embarrassed sort, I tend to hover and see if all goes down the hole and even see if detritus remains and flush that before exiting the toilette. Not everyone has been raised this way. In fact, no one in generations contemporaneous or previous with/to mine in my household seems to have learned this in any permanent fashion. Or they are forgetting. Squib has been duly instructed and as a maniacal flusher he is quick to tell me the status of the flush whether successful or not.

The great thing about jail was the flushing. In fact, it was the only good or even remotely redeeming thing. I stood stock still in amazement when my cellmate said, "watch this!" She dipped a corner of a twin bed sheet in the toilet and flushed it in its entirety. It proceeded to suck the entire bed sheet down the stool in one furious, sucking roar magnificent to behold. My only response to that was, "I've got to try that!" I proceeded to flush my bed sheet down the stool. Two bed sheets (four bed sheets come to think of it) later, that toilet never sneezed or batted an eyelash. It was a beautiful thing to behold. Fantabulous. THAT's plumbing. And very little water involved in the process. None, in fact, in the bowl until you actually flushed--using, in part, the grey water from the sink and fountain above the stool.

These wishy-washy little three teaspoon flushers we have are really starting to irk me in a real and meaningful way. So far, no one thinks a sink/fountain/stool combo in a handsome stainless steel would quite keep up with the decor. I can't think why not...it's very SubZero...

I suppose you no longer want me as either your plumber or interior decorator...
Scat

Now, with feeling!!

2010-06-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

Ten "Little" Things That Absolutely Keep Me Alive:
(in no order of priority...as usual)

1. Cold Dr.Pepper over crushed ice with a bendy straw. Bendy straws are an important part of that equation.

2. "Three Kisses." No matter what, coming or going, morning or night, happy or sad, I always get three kisses from Squib. Three for him (one on the right cheek, one on the forehead, one on the left cheek), three for me, and three for Blue (the dog). They often come with a hug.

3. Slobbery, open-mouth kisses from Beanstalk that come with hugs so tight I have to ask him to quit so I can breathe. They are actually becoming painful, but I don't have the heart to make him stop, so I won't.

4. Waltzing with Beanstalk. This begins normally and increases in tempo until you crash in a heap on the ground. Good technique, a little maniacal with the pace. Done with a big grin and much shrieking. He has great promise as a dancer. Warms the cockles of my heart. (cockles?--spelling?)

5. My iPod/iPhone and my cool earplug headphones.

6. Sweaty boys cuddling in bed at night because they are "stared." When they learn to pronounce their "k" sounds I shall miss their mangled pronounciations.

7. Making music and watching shows with Attrition. Best brother in the world. We just started "Lie to Me."

8. Reading stuff. Anything, everything, lots, and often.

9. Water. In lakes, rivers, pools, bathtubs, showers, and water hoses.

10. Thunder storms. Big, rollicking, rip-roaring, ground-shaking boomers. They "stare" Squib to death, but they make me feel really peaceful and sort of in awe of nature.

Only ten things this time...there are so many more!!!
Scat

Now what's he up to??!? Ah, BOYS!!

2010-06-11T20:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just never know what he's up to.

Come to find out...neither does he. Fortunately, Pampers thought of him when making the grippers for those diapies. I grabbed the diaper as he started to go over...lo and behold they held...thank you, Pampers!

Yes, that's a perfectly thrown spiral (I taught him that)...directed right at Baba's car (I didn't teach him that).

What was he thinking? I don't know.

What was I thinking? Well, believe it or not, the throw started out with him facing me...then there was this split-second ballet turn thing. Yeah...

And that one, there. Through the geraniums in our potting area...yeah...well, we need to work on that.

That I managed to teach him to throw was a miracle.

Direction seems to me a lot much to ask right now.

And these...these are amazing...(they really are...my boys at their best and most beautiful, but oh how the mighty can fall...)

The innocence. Those limpid blue pools you could just dive into. Such sweetness and light. How do they DO that??! It is more natural from Beanstalk. He really does exude happiness and light most of the time. Well, OK, he has his moments (the exclamations in Klingon with the protrusion of the bottom lip). But that second one...boy is he full of it. What you can't get a picture of are his LUNGS!!!!! And persistent....how do you get a picture of persistence.....maybe this:

Repeat fifty times every day times God-only-knows how many 20-lb bags of sand and you'll only begin to grasp a scintilla of the problem we are having with the sandbar in the side yard. As they say in Meet Joe Black, "Multiply that by infinity and take it to the depths of forever" and you will just begin to grasp my problem.

Boys can be a challenge. They take words like shriek, shred, disintegrate, and pulverize to heart. They like to run around in various states of undress (which I think is cute). And, NO he is not toilet trained yet--another story for another time. Gentility is not their strong suit but they really do try to be careful in their way. And, at the end of the day, when they curl up in your bed and put their sweaty foreheads in your lap and their slobbery mouths on your neck and whisper things like "did you lock the doors so the dogs can't push them open and get me in my sleep?" and they look at you with those big, drowning, blue eyes and they trust you completely to save them from a dog the size of a green pea, well, then somehow it's all worth it.

Except maybe that football dent in Baba's car. I'm gonna hear about that every day.
Scat

Now bleep it.

2010-06-10T18:45:00.000-07:00

Bleeeeeep.

Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Some days, people, plans, feelings, etc. are just like that.

Time to go to bed early so I can wake up with a head full of new thoughts 'cause the ones I have right now are darn sure not working out for me. I'm pretty sure an armload of happy pills couldn't improve my outlook right now, but the Publisher's Clearinghouse van showing up at my door would make a pretty good start.

Squib asks, "What are you thinking, mama?"

I think I shall not tell him. He is four and doesn't need words like these in his limited vocabulary. Especially since "butthead" exited his mouth in my direction and echoed from the walls of Kroger today. What was I thinking? They had cones up due to construction. It was for four-year-olds to do time trials through, right? Obviously! Any butthead could see that. He set me straight. Then I buckled him back into that plastic truck-cart and told him to zip it. He was properly offended.

Squib persists, "Are you thinking like I am thinking?"

Gosh I hope not!!!! I mean, yes to the thinking, but no to the thinking what he's thinking. Or, I should say no to the thinking what I'm thinking?

Squib continues undaunted, "Aren't you happy we are going to bed together?" He forgot to add (and you are not able to study because I threw such a wall-eyed fit with company here that you volunteered to fail an exam to make me happy?)

Truth is, life is pretty sad when a stupid test makes you wish you didn't have to lay down with your youngest until he falls asleep (while you still have the chance) to allay his fears and snuggle a little in the process. The truth is also that I can be a real creep on occasion.

Good night. May your tomorrow be better than today and any of your yesterdays and most of of your right nows.

(And let's just keep the toddler pee on the couch between us, OK? Yes, I cleaned it, but..gah.)
Scat

And now, a little about Attrition...

2010-06-09T15:19:00.000-07:00

Booger is really not the best name for him (hence the reason I changed it to his chosen name and replaced it everywhere else, but I left it here because this post is about him). It is truly not a name worthy of such an individual. It was just the only thing I could think of at the time that wasn't his actual name. He might approve more of something like "Tesla" or "Boyd" though there are issues with Boyd that aren't the case with Booger, but I think they are on par with one another genius-wise. He deserves a name hard-won and distinguished yet youthful and slightly sarcastic--maybe a little devious. Wouldn't want to be too serious. I shall leave it up to him. If Booger wants a new name, he shall have a new name of his choosing and I shall call him by it in my blog from this day forward. It is the least I can do. (NOTE: As of the remodeling of my entries on August 1st Booger is hereby going by his otherwise Internet presence, Attrition.)

Attrition, for those of you who don't know and don't wish to backtrack, is my younger brother. He is in most ways my equal and, in many ways, my superior, but in every way he is my friend. For me, there is no "friend that is closer than a brother." I have a brother that will always be closer than any friend. I have met many people in my life, but few have loved with the fierce tenacity of this one and we have stood together through trials that would turn any ordinary folk to a quivering mass of protoplasm. He has had my back (literally) for years even when I didn't know it, often when he didn't realize it, sometimes when I didn't ask for it, and even before he was old enough to really pull it off.

Today is his birthday and he is an undisclosed number of years old. I think thirty-four...I think. Yes, I could count and all that, but I write in this blog for fun and I've been "spreadsheeting" and editing presentations all day and do not wish to be anything but my true self. Thirty-four is close enough--a sufficient number of spankings, I think, and definitely enough candles on the cake. I would love to tell you that if I were a millionaire we would be dining out at some expensive restaurant, taking in a play or concert, and maybe a vacation. No...if anything I would be taking him an extra large Caprise from Russo's Pizzeria and some beer. We'd spend the evening watching Dr. Who or WWII movies. But I am here sitting with mom after her surgery and he is there sitting with his wife who is also ill. So, rain check brother. Big, fat rain check.

Thirty-four years ago today I was taken in to see him and my first words were "what's the matter with his face?" Labor and delivery in 45 minutes after being head-down for six weeks had left him a little creased and he was a little odd-looking. But, he outgrew that. In fact, he outgrew everything. Despite the four year difference, we were thought to be twins within 5-7 years of his birth. Our family moved often and we were frequently the only kids we knew, so we were each other's playmates and fellow explorers. When mom got sick, my role shifted a little and I took care of him. Later, during times I needed him, he took care of me. It is still that way. We make music together. We play together, laugh together, plot together, kill pigs together (really long story but I just couldn't let that go since the story of Cosmo the pig came up in casual conversation about town today). We hang out together. Talk about stuff. Encourage each other. He teaches me things. I try to learn them the first time. He tries to have patience with me.

My life is good today in part because I know that no matter what, if I needed him, I could call him at any time of the day or night and he'd pick up the phone and, more than likely, show up. At the worst times I can make it because I know he's out there if I need him. He believes in me. He loves me. I don't deserve it, but he doesn't really care about that. At all. What more can you ask? Not very darn much. Compassion and love do NOT grow on trees and are to be valued more than gold or silver.

I was upset about something several months ago. I had a very difficult decision to make. Yes, I was crying. Very infuriating that crying business. We talked about the decision. He was honest about his thoughts and agreed with my approach (though, believe me, he would have said if he disagreed--I like that about him). But then there I was...simply upset with life in general. I explained that it is just my female plight that I cry about things until such time as I do not cry about things and he should go to bed. He understood that, but said something I will always treasure in both my head and my heart: "I do not like the idea that you cry and no one knows or that you fear and no one sees." I'm not sure he'll even remember saying that. But in a single sentence he summed up the hardest thing about being a single person (who is also a parent and a woman). So much of what upsets me or I fear--even what makes me happiest for that matter!--no one sees or knows. Not being known by another human being is hard and on some level, Attrition always gets that about me. It's what I appreciate about him the most. He's such an intuitive/perceptive person that I doubt he's thought of it that way, but that is the gift he's given me.

And I hope some day in some way to be able to return it.
Scat

And now I feel "this" big...

2010-06-08T20:09:00.000-07:00

Squib has many favorite things to do, but one of his most favorite things to do is to make the trek to the mail box with Buddy. He likes to do this because he gets mail. He doesn't really get any mail addressed to him, but we give him all the junk mail. Now that he is more proficient at opening envelopes, he has started examining the contents and the subject of return envelopes came up and the conversation went something like this:

SQ: Momma? What's this?

Me: That is a return envelope.

SQ: What is it for?

Me: Well, if you decide to apply for that company's credit card you put your application in that envelope and it is already addressed and the postage is already paid. All you have to do is put it in the mail box.

SQ: All my mail has these envelopes.

Me: Yes, most of the mail we give you asks for a membership in a club or an application for a card or a donation to a charity. We don't choose to do that, so we give the mail to you so that you can have fun opening it.

SQ: But they never get any mail back from us. Won't they be sad?

Me: Honey, to tell you the truth, I'm pretty sure they never notice.

(mystified silence from the wee one)

SQ: They send us a letter and ask for a letter back, but they don't even notice if we send it back or not?

Me: That's probably right.

SQ: Is it someone's job to open the mail?

Me: Yes, I'm sure each of those companies has someone whose job it is to open the mail.

SQ: And they won't miss our letter?

Me: I don't think so, no.

SQ: That's sad.

Me: (silence)

SQ: What if they got a happy letter from us?

Me: What do you mean? Mommy really doesn't want to sign up for every card, club, and charity that sends her an application.

SQ: (after some eye-rolling) What do you think would happen if I sent them a happy letter? (He nods like "You know a happy letter.")

(silence while I imagine this--I'm starting to feel a little unobservant and a lot callous)

SQ: It would go to the right person, right? It has the address and the postage, right?

Me: Yeah, it would go to the person who opens the mail.

SQ: So? Can I send happy letters?

Now, think with me for a second. Go back to that altruistic happy-and-light part of you that just wants to give peace a chance and have-a-Coke-and-a-smile or whatever and really think about this. You're a no-doubt down-trodden minimum wager sitting in a cube opening return mail and probably filing it. You probably get mostly replies that you expect. I bet you even get a few hateful ones from people who want you to stop flooding their mailbox with dead tree parts or something along those lines. But really, if you are that letter-opener and you open the next envelope and you see a hand-drawn picture of a rainbow with a scrawled note at the bottom saying "Love, Squib." Wouldn't your world get just a little bit better? Even if it was for just a second? You might even be tempted to show someone else and pass it on or put it on the wall of your cubicle.
We write letters to the editor, have letters sent from our lawyers, write notes to the teacher, and all sorts of other correspondence, but quite frankly I rarely set pen to paper unless something has gone awry. I just don't sit down and think "can I send happy letters?" More's the pity.
The postage is already paid. The envelope is already addressed. What's the harm?

Who am I to say no? Thus beginneth the "Happy Letter Project."
Scat

Now that's talent!

2010-06-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, we've been bulldozing through every male developmental milestone we can come up with. Today, we crashed through two: licking his own toes was first. The second milestone was figuring out how to get the bathroom lights on by himself. You see, Squib is too short to reach them even while standing on his stool, but he told me he figured out how to do it. I let it go and didn't investigate. Until today. So, without further adieu...

How does he reach the switch?

He uses Mommy's toothbrush.

Time to get a new toothbrush...
Scat

Now I'm Confused

2010-06-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

I really hate the phone...and the cell phone. I've learned to tolerate them, but I have a new and special place in my heart for "live chat" help sessions. They are either really helpful or really, really NOT helpful. The main problem seems to be that they require the participants to be able to read written English. Holy cow. That's a bigger issue than I ever realized.

The conversation will start out like this: "Hi, my name is Timothy, how can I help you?" To this I reply "Hello, I placed an order on Thursday. My order number is 87654, I would like to know why the order has not shipped yet." Timothy replies "I can help you with that. What is your order number?" Silence from me and a little bit of wonder. Definite awe. I reply clearly and slowly, "87654." From Timothy: "Thank You. I see that your order has not shipped yet." Oh, God help me (to myself). To Timothy: "Yes, I know...do you know why?"

We have now had this conversation twice. I'm beginning to accept this as normal in live Internet chat help world. The next part is my favorite. From Timothy: "I see the order is being processed, during this time we could be processing your credit card information or preparing your order. This takes 24-48 hours. Contact us in 24-48 hours and we will have more information." To which I reply: "It has already been four days. I was previously told to contact you today after another 24-48 hours." From Timothy: "We will know more in 24-48 hours." I call this the 24-48 hour information wall of silence. I have yet to get past it. It is tall, dark, and mysterious and hiding behind it are any number of electronic devices I am waiting to receive. So I reply: "OK." It's not actually OK, I just am still in that shock and awe stage and OK seems safe to say. To which Timothy replies "Have I been able to answer all your questions this evening?" To which I reply "No." To which Timothy has the nerve to offer into the void: "HOW MAY I BE OF HELP?"

Blink.....blink.

Isn't that like starting all over again?

I call it the new Internet Helpless Desk. I'm not honestly too sure who is the helpless party. Me or them. I realize they're working from a script. They're too accurate to doing anything else. Still...an occasional use of brains would help. Even if it's to admit that there's something a little off and they can't quite tell what. It would be a great relief if the service person would just lapse into their native language...whatever that may be. Oy vey. Any indication of humanity would work.

A well typed "huh?" would suffice.
Scat

I'm tired now...

2010-06-05T20:10:00.000-07:00

This morning was Beanstalk's play group. Normally, he's very active and runs about playing ball and dancing and singing. I usually have trouble keeping up with him. This time, though, he was unable to supply the action. The broken femur has seriously slowed him down and on top of being bored, he is about to jump out of his skin. Surrounded by so many kids running about, he was ready to levitate, so what was I to do? Apparently, I was to buckle him into his wheelchair tight and become the movement he so desperately wanted.

So we ran...

We chased bubbles and popped them. We ran around the basketball court. We chased a butterfly. We ran with Squib...then we ran after Squib. That turned into some fun! And I pushed that chair the whole way. Squib is faaaaaasssssst. But mommy is faster...ha ha ha haaaaa!

Mommy is older!!!!! Egads, am I older. Creakier, too.

Geez...let me posit that if you truly desire to get in shape you should spend your mornings chasing a four-year old while pushing a seven-year-old in a wheelchair. If you truly want to bulk up, though, you'd have to add a little weight to the chair. Beanstalk is nothing but a feather-weight--even with the toe-to-hip cast.

We had fun, though. And upon arriving back at our humble abode, we all promptly collapsed in a large pile and took a three hour nap like a bunch of dead people. Dead people naps are great...it felt like a whole day had passed. Phew.

One great day...
Scat

P.S. The "NOW" theme is the the monthly theme for NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month)...which is why I'm using it. Do you really think I came up with this on my own?

Now And Then

2010-06-04T18:21:00.000-07:00

I distinctly remember the first time I learned that my father was fallible. That maybe, just maybe, he had chinks in his armor. I was in my bathroom trying to get myself together. My mother was in the hospital dying (no, she's not dead, but not for lack of trying) and I had put my little brother to bed and was going about my nightly routine of packing for the next day before I left to stay the night at the hospital. I was sixteen and a junior in high school. My father had returned from work and his evening stop at the hospital and we had fought. I don't remember what the fight was over. I just remember trying to hold him up to my perfect ideal and he finally explained his humanity in a way that hit home.

My earth shifted a little on its axis. If he wasn't perfect, then no one was perfect. If he couldn't help me then I was alone in this. I didn't understand yet. My world had been built on his perfection. He would always take care of me. I could always depend on him. He would always be there. He would always be strong enough--or so I thought until that moment. If he wasn't perfect, then mom could really die and I could be stuck in this rut of raising a young boy before I'd even graduated high school. Don't get me wrong. I loved (and still love) that boy more than life, but it was no life for a teenager.

I didn't understand that the chinks in one persons armor were like the teeth in a zipper. They meshed perfectly with another person's chinks so that together they we were stronger. Life is just a process of finding the people that have the pieces that fit in your empty spots and who have empty spots that you can fill. Yes, I believe in God. I believe He can fill the empty spots all by himself, but I really don't think that's what He does. He leaves us vulnerable on purpose. He leaves us open with our wounded parts hanging out for other people to come along and make well. In doing so, we learn love. It's why we're here.

If God was just going to swoop down and solve all our problems all the time without asking us to learn anything or grow, what would be the point? If we weren't meant to need one another, why create more than one person?

I get that.

Now.

Scat

Thank You, Texas

2010-06-03T19:42:00.000-07:00

Well, color me befuddled. I made the mistake of opening my mail today to discover yet another of those random acts of unkindness our lovely state has blessed me with. An official driver license suspension reminder. A reminder, mind you. No warning. No initial notice. No ticket. No offense. Nothing. Just a reminder that my license was suspended in November of last year and oh-by-the-way would I please pay the $260? I thought reminders came after other things, but apparently you now need to be prepared for them to come first. And very, very, very, very late. I abhor lateness.

Huh?

Come to find out Texas Department of Public Safety doesn't actually do their own work any more (which is laughable, but I swear I laughed at no one). They hire a private company to do it for them. The private company has the power to suspend or reinstate my license (they say), but doesn't have access to any records to tell me why this blessed event has occurred. So, if I would just pay the money, in about eight days this would all go away and that would be the easiest thing to do. I was assured of this by a polite young gentleman who could probably be my son. When I asked him why I should pay it if I had done nothing he said "so you can get your license back." Excellent point, that.

I said OK and hung up.

I called back.

I was actually hoping that the next customer service person would not be, well, different? I didn't want to argue, I just wanted to talk to someone who could help. They don't seem to know who that might be. But if I had a debit card, they'd be glad to handle this over the phone! I finally had to ask that they stop saying that. I explained very, very slowly and very, very sweetly that they weren't going to get any money. I needed help. I wanted to know why my license had been suspended. That was all. I just don't have $260 lying around every time they want to randomly suspend my license. I need to know that it was for a legitimate reason--which I have been wracking my brain for and cannot come up with.

They hung up on me.

Huh?

All the information on the notice leads only to this private corporation whose name I am very nicely withholding from my post. And NO I don't want to pay a lawyer to figure this out. And talk about cramping my style...dad and I are THE drivers for all the people in our family. Now Dad is the chauffeur until I guess I just pay off TxDPS because they want the money?

You see, to me this is roughly equivalent to some random guy that I don't know showing up at my door and saying "You HAVE to pay me $260 dollars or you're not allowed to leave your house except on foot--just because I want the money." My response would be "Let me get my shoes." (Little do they know the backpack is already packed, but that is a story for another time). I don't hand out random money. Do you? Apparently someone does. Actually, a lot of people must because this company seemed to think that no one would need a reason for paying them exorbitant amounts of cash (they actually did tell me I didn't have to pay MUCH compared to SOME PEOPLE). You mean people just pay out MORE than $260 without knowing why???!! I mean, really??!! Even if you knew you had done something, wouldn't you want to know what it was so you would know how NOT to do it again? I would.

But then I am a strange creature that counts my money and balances my checkbook, etc. I know exactly how much I can spend and on what. Right down to the $10 data package on my iPhone. Yes, I even know the items on my cell-phone bill. I have to...

Welcome to my strange and bizarre life...
Scat

NOW I know how to make Red Earth Cake...Yum!

2010-06-02T18:58:00.000-07:00

Buddy's birthday is today! He is a ripe "young" 61. And I did not humiliate him this year by inviting 100 of his nearest and dearest friends to our house as a surprise. You're welcome, dad. Not bad for a dad/grandpa/son/business-owner/gardner/well-digger on-the-go. It is customary in our family for the birthday person to make their request for a meal of their choice and a cake of their choice and I, being the crafty baker and sometimes gourmet cook, will make whatever it is on demand.

Over the last two years, we have come to know the Gingles family (yes that is their real name) and their family's traditional birthday cake is this wondrous creation called a Red Earth Cake. It is famous. It originated in Cleveland, Texas years ago and was passed on through a church cook book and the family picked it up there and brought it to our community where it has reached fame of untold proportions. So, naturally, last night at ten-thirty Dad decided he wanted a Red Earth cake for his birthday. Who am I to argue with such a tradition?

Anything, and I do mean anything, with that much sugar, coffee (yes, coffee), cocoa, butter, buttermilk, and shortening just has to be good, right? Oh, yeah. It's like red velvet cake taken to a whole new level. I had no idea it was going to be this good. WOW. Here's the finished product....well, minus a little piece :) OK, minus a BIG piece.

After a dinner of pan-fried veggies from our garden, this homemade cake really hit the spot with a little Blue Bell natural vanilla bean ice cream.

That is how we do THAT...

Scat

Now we have water!!!

2010-06-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

Yes, for a time we did not. That was ever-so-NOT-pleasant. It started as a slow leak and we couldn't use our well-water for drinking, cooking, tooth-brushing, etc. Then it got worse.

It is, technically, my summer vacation. I am still working, but my work is done at home and no one really cares that I usually do it starting at about 10:00 a.m. until late, late, late at night. Then I read a little and go to sleep. So, you see, I had only been asleep for about three hours when the pounding started on the door at 7:45 a.m. All boys were with their Dads. I was snuggled away in a room that nobody needed to enter. I did this on purpose. On purpose, I say!!

Again, with the pounding!!

Then, my father's voice: "Get up and get dressed and meet me on the porch. I want to talk to you."

Why is it that this sentence can still strike fear deep in my soul even when I have done nothing and am thirty-eight years old? Why, I ask you??!! He does this just about every other day and I've almost decided to start doing guilt-worthy things so that at least I can have enjoyed myself a little for the terror I feel.

I dressed, bleary-eyed, and stumbled out onto the porch to find a giant trench dug from the pump house to the driveway and another all the way from the front of the pump house to the back of the pump house. And we had no water in the house. No one told me that part, I just flushed the toilet and watched the last of it go down. Lovely. The disaster looked like this:

My whole day flashed before my eyes and my body spasmed in pain as if to predict how I would be feeling after this was all over. Dad and I are the only drivers, so I had been kicked out of bed to go to the hardware store and get all the PVC parts we needed to fix a cracked pipe in our water well system.

The hardware store didn't open until 9:00 and he got me up at 7:45 and there was no water for a shower, so I'm not certain what the lead time was for, but nevertheless I was up and out of there and back by 11:00. The store is NOT close. Then there was one little, tiny, but crucial piece that I got wrong so I got to go back to the hardware store...yay.

In my absence, Dad discovered this:

Yes, that would be the main electrical wire coming into the pump house buried directly OVER the water pipe itself. Can you say "STOOPID?" Dad nicked it with a shovel and it blew him onto his butt a couple feet away. THEN Clanpaw remembered that he buried it there with no conduit. Geez. OH-and-by-the-way they share the SAME conduit underneath the driveway and down underneath the house. There, I have recorded it for posterity.

By 3:00 p.m. we had cut out all the bad pipe and created a bypass with several valves:

And saved ourselves who knows how many hundreds of dollars that the well services guy would no doubt have charged us on a holiday. Sheesh. And he wouldn't have done the bypass with the valves for easier repair next time around. They always figure there won't be a next time around, but there are at least two "next times" every year with a well buried in clay that experiences a drought. In fact, just about everyone in the terrace has been repairing their buried pipes within the last week. 'Course...none of them seem to have been buried straight. Then the ground dries and puts more strain on the pipe...eventually it breaks. Seems like you'd bury them straight, but they didn't/don't. I can't figure that one out at all. And perhaps it doesn't matter.
The "little" electrocution event turned Mimi into a screaming lunatic for a bit. She is...well...an invalid to sum it up nicely. She is also my mother, so I try to respect her authority. Her greatest fear is being without my father--as though I would go hang her by her toenails from a tree? I think her greatest fear is that no one would care for her if my father was no longer around. This is, well, a silly notion to say the least. Attrition and I would never think of not caring for her, but there you have it...it is a mystery.
I have no illusions about what it would be like to care for her without Dad, though. I wish I knew where the joyful parts of her have gone and why she sometimes chooses sadness and depression. Her life consists of watching House episodes on DVD ad nauseum and sleeping. No music. No music for her is like no water for fish.

We didn't rush right in and tell her that Dad had gotten shocked and she took that personally. However, whenever you enter her room she doesn't like it and takes that personally. Catch 22, you see. Dad was fine, so I thought I'd let it go. Tell her later. Well, later was when she threw the fit. My bad. Dad wasn't going to tell her at all. I wasn't either, but Clanpaw wanted to discuss scenarios for repairing the nicked power cable over lunch, so the truth outed itself right there. Ooops.

I still ardently advocate living together as a family! I just don't know how to live through this season of aging we are in. It is new to me. I've lost members of my family, but it has been to freak accidents and one drug overdose--tragic, but not slow, progressive deaths. Life has been kind to us in the aging department as a whole. Not to my mother, but my grandparents are 83 and only this last year did they encounter their cancers. My grandmother is in remission (and the new pair is on its way, BTW--lots of skin-stretching to be done), my grandfather is losing ground. My mother is, perhaps, altered in a way that is not recoverable. Admittedly, my father is 61. Not old, but older. My greatest fear, if I have any fear (which I really don't), is that I will lose them all in close proximity to one another...like within ten years of each other.

It is silly to fear. I always remember Dune when I think about fear. Yes, I am a geek. In Dune, Paul Atreides quotes a saying when he encounters things he fears: "Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration." That isn't the entire quote, but it is the part that I use to remind myself of what fear can do to me if I allow it to eat me up. I shall look that one up and quote it in full here at some point...

Good afternoon, good evening, and good night!
Scat