Today I am a man

Inspired by Neilocha, (on whom I have a bloggy crush) (see how I awkwardly didn't dangle one single participle there?) (I think?) who challenged us to write as if we were the opposite gender (or is it sex?) (I can never remember).

My girlfriend just won't let up.

It was great in the beginning...the sex was awesome.

She got me, you know? As if I'd known her forever. FOREVER.

We spent all of our time together; I never saw my roomates because I was always at her place, and that was cool because we were busy filling each other in on the details of our lives we'd missed, you know?

Did I mention the sex was awesome?

But after a few months, I started to FREAK. She wants to be with me ALL OF THE TIME. Sure, it was cool in the beginning, but now...come on! It's time for us to get back to normal, our normal routines. I need my dude time, and her friends are getting on my nerves.

I'm thinking that what we might need is to slow things down a bit here. Stop being so girlfriendy-boyfriendy and cool off a bit.

Yeah, I totally love her. But she's stifling me. I need some time off. Sure, the sex is still great and I don't want that to stop, but I need my days back. Maybe we could just spend our days apart and hook up at night.

That sounds like a great plan. I'm going to run that by her tomorrow.

Into the light of the dark, black night

The other day I was lounging on my sofa; it is next to a big window that faces the street. As I was reading, I heard the clip-clack sound of someone running in shoes not designed for said activity. I looked up, and one of the college students who lives next door was scurrying past.

"Huh," I thought, and went back to reading.

One and a half sentences later my doorbell rang. There she was, standing on our front porch.

"A baby bird fell and is in our driveway," she announced.

It honestly took me a split second to realize why she was telling me this. Oh, she wants me to come help her, I brilliantly deduced.

"Would you like me to come over and help you?"

A look of gratitude flashed across her face, "That would be great! It just fell onto my driveway. I don't know what to do. It's just laying there."

At this point I'm wondering what she thinks I can bring to the situation. Not that I mind helping, not at all, but I couldn't figure out why she needed assistance.

"Do you think we should put it back in it's nest?" I asked. "They say you're not supposed to do that because then the Mama bird will boot it."

She just looked at me with an uncertain look. I was thinking that was probably the best route to go...better than leaving it laying on the ground, right?

I wasn't prepared to see what I came across. I'd pictured a cute little birdy, unable to fly, confused and looking up at the branches from which he'd fallen.

Not. the. case.

This tiny little creature didn't even look much like a bird. It didn't have feathers...just pink skin with a few scattered tufts of down. The beak and legs looked soft, as if they were molded of orange jello. The poor thing was prone on the cement, its entire body struggling to gasp for breath. There was something trailing out of it; I wasn't sure if it was intestines or the poor thing had lost the contents of its bowels from the landing, or the stress.

It was clearly not going to make it.

I looked at the girl- well, woman really, she's probably twenty or twenty-one- and I knew I couldn't tell her that.

"Ummmmm, he looks pretty badly injured," I said. I looked up, trying to find the nest. "Where is the nest?"

"What nest?"

"The one he fell out of."

"Oh, he didn't fall out of a nest. His mom was carrying him and dropped him. He fell pretty far."

Ugh. Either a Mama bird is going to start dive-bombing us for hovering over her baby, or she's rolling her eyes at us for doting over the runt she dumped.

"Well, let's see..." I stammered.

She asked, "Should I get a box and some towels?"

I looked at her and realized that despite the fact that she's somewhere around twenty years old, she was looking at me with the same expression my four-year-old daughter does when she's got a boo-boo (medical term), Please, make it all better.

That's why she came to me...she needed a grown-up. Right now, even though she's technically an adult, she needs someone to take control.

"Yes, grab a box and some towels. He's going to need to go to a vet. Do you have a car? Can you take him? I can't, I have to get my son from school in a few minutes."

She said she could and ran off to get the emergency medical supplies for the bird, and I stood so that I blocked the sun beaming down on the poor bird. I imagined the bird being taken into a vet's by this sweet college student, and them graciously thanking her and telling her, Don't worry, we will take good care of him.

And then looking at each other after she left, wondering what they should really do.

I looked at the little orange beak, opening and closing as the bird tried to breath. I pictured a little dropper, guided by a vet's had, hydrating the bird drip by drip. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he'll be okay.

The student rushed back and handed me the box full of towels. I really, really didn't want to do this...but I crouched down and gingerly attempted to scoop him up. His little body was limp and I was horribly afraid I'd squish him, but after a couple of attempts I was successful and placed him in the box, his makeshift nest.

"Thank you so much," the student said with a huge sigh of relief.

One evening a couple of months ago I walked by her house while taking my dog for a walk. It was dark outside, so the large picture window facing the street glowed like a movie screen. The dining table was filled with laughing students, and the aroma of their meal reached me on the sidewalk. I smiled, remembering back a couple of decades to a dinner party I threw while at college. I got all nostalgic for those years of young adulthood....the burgeoning independence, the future wide open before me all full of hope and promise, the developing friendships you just know will last forever. I have to admit, I was a bit envious in that moment as I passed by.

Looking at the student before me, baby bird in hand, that memory flashed through my head. I realized how young she really is, how much I've grown in the past twenty years, and that no matter how enticing the trappings of her world might look from a brief outside glance, no way would I want to return to it.

"I'm really glad I could help," I answered.

Told you I'm shameless

Hey! I'm babysitting The Fabulous Mrs. Fussypants' blog today...come on over and check out my guest post! And please, leave a comment. Geeze, I'm looking like a LOSER over there.

Thanks!

Dare I hope?

The last few weeks, I've been feeling pretty down, my peeps.

Money's not been tight, it's been downright squeezing us dry.

We've had a few mechanical issues in our home...and by mechanical, I mean both of the human skeletal and the architectural plumbing sort.

And on the emotional front, things that had once kept psychic demons at bay have been threatening to no longer work.

As if that wasn't enough, my laptop has been finicky and thus my connection to the Internet (TO YOU!!!) has been sketchy at best. So I've been pretty much reliant on my husband's laptop. Which is with him 90% of the time. Niiiiice.

Oh, and I am due to have a repeat mammogram in the next couple of weeks because the one I had six months ago had some suspicious specks. *Gack*

I've been...scared. Unsure. Isolated. Fighting hopelessness. Broke.

Then, out of nowhere, a situation fell into our laps. One that would give me hope, and take away a lot of the crap I've feared the past few years...not that it would fix all of our problems, but one that would make a lot of things better.

I don't know if this situation will work out. I'm afraid to really hope, because what if I get too excited and positive and it all falls apart? What if I am left where I am, minus the dream of this new, most delicious carrot dangling before me?

So. I am trying to pretend the carrot doesn't exist, and fighting the urge to indulge in fantasies.

But should I be revelling in the dreams while they are possible? Is it better to indulge and have hope thus risking disappointment, or just pretend that hope doesn't exist?

Schmorgasboard...that's right. Schmorgasboard.

Things that have been going on in my little neck of the blogosphere:

1.) A few nights ago, while traversing the stairs, my feet forgot that they were navigating the darkness of our new home...muscle memory took over and they thought they were in our old house, which had far deeper steps. My heal landed on the step rather than my entire foot. I landed with a resounding THUD on my coccyx.

That's right, I bruised my tailbone. Man, it hurts to sneeze.

2.) My husband was out of town on Mother's Day (he was back in Detroit enjoying some quality time with his own Mama and siblings). My nine year-old son, being the sweetheart he is to the core, surprised me with breakfast in bed.

Now, honestly, it isn't a surprise when I get breakfast in bed from Hubby & kids on Mother's Day. They do surprise me randomly throughout the year, however. I KNOW! I am very lucky.

Anyway, my sweet boy brought me the most wonderful breakfast in bed EVER. Buttered toast, a waffle lovingly cut into bite-sized pieces with a lavish dose of syrup, and a big old glass of Ovaltine (yyyyuuuuummmmm...Ovaltine. I'll take that over chocolate milk any day).

Then my four year-old daughter wanted in on the action, so they went downstairs together and came back up with a tray with a glass of apple juice for each of us. On the count of three we toasted, "I love you!"

3.) I googled FBNOML's new boyfried while she and I were on the phone. She was fine with it, and expected no less of me. Sigh. I crazy miss her.

4.) Yesterday, I decided to splurge on myself for the first time since I bought those jeans, an took my kids to a bookstore with the intention of buying a book by an author I recently discovered (it seems I have been living under a bridge). I can't tell you what an indulgence this was...I just don't spend extraneous money ever. They had at least a half dozen of her novels, and I literally walked away with each one of them at one point or another during our time there; I couldn't decide which one I wanted.

Would you believe that today, I went to a friend's house and she handed me that book and told me she thought I'd like it? The same book I'd just bought? After a gut-wrenching decision to spend a measly fifteen bucks???

Yeah, I'm returning the book. But now, I have to figure out if The Universe is telling me that I made a mistake to spend that money, giving me a mulligan, and thus I should take a refund, or giving me the thumbs up on indulging myself in this way by giving me a bonus novel.

5.) My daughter (the four year-old) broke her collarbone. Typing those words is like nails on a chalkboard to me. She was playing with her big brother and one of his friends. It seems his friend forgot that she is five years younger and fourty pounds lighter than he is. He's a sweet kid, but...anyway, one three hour ER trip later, and my princess (Is it horrible that I call her princess? I know it has all kinds of sexist over- and under-tones, yet I say it all the time. What can I say? She is my princess.) is sporting a sling. A sling we decorated with beads and hearts and all kinds of other wonderful stuff.

But still, it's a sling. On my little girl.

6.) I've wondered if I should have pseudonyms for my youngest kids...FBNOML has hers (although despite the fact neither one of us are certain as to how that would actually be pronounced), but the two young'uns have been outta luck.

7.) Three out of five Painted Lady butterflies in their little habitat on our counter prefer to be out of their chrysalis (including the one I thought would be the runt!). Thus far. I'll keep you posted.

Dream House

My son had a sleep-over last night in our old neighborhood.

Okay, I am going to let you in on a secret. I don't like going to our old neighborhood. I avoid it. I am still friends with a few of our neighbors, but I try to meet them at neutral spots. Or my new home, the modest rental.

Why?

Because it pains me to see our old home. I know I've droned on about this before, but that home haunts me. it was the culmination of months of honing my vision. It was is me, if my frame was wood and nails rather than bones and joints. From elevation to floor plan to details to landscaping, it was the architectural expression of my self-image.

And someone else is living there. They have the window treatments I designed, the backsplash I created, the landscaping I dreamed up...but, they don't know the story behind them. And there is a story.

When I was planning this home, somehow a narrative began to form in my mind. I wanted my house, despite the fact that it was a new construction, to feel as if it'd been there for years. Decades. Centuries. I also didn't want it to be a run-of-the-mill European knock-off that so many McMansions favor. Furthermore, our eclectic taste in furniture and art didn't lend itself to that style, even if that'd been our first choice.

I've never told anyone this before, because it sounds pompous and self-aggrandizing and silly and perhaps even annoying. But I need to get over this house, and maybe telling the sordid secrets we kept (keep?), us being the home and I, will help.

Whenever I was stumped with a decision regarding the house, no matter how major or minor the detail, I put myself into the following scenario:

I am a spoiled socialite from European old money stock, but the money is starting to run short. The family isn't yet actually budgeting with any sincerity, but we aren't spending as lavishly as we once did.

To that end, I am living in an old family home in X city; it used to be a pied-a-terre for the family's biannual weekend jaunts, but at 3,500+ square feet, it suits me just fine. It is full of architectural details that my ancestors would have chosen, but aren't in tune with my modern style. I can appreciate the beauty of the stones, the silks, the mosaics, the pedestal sinks, but frankly I have a more edgy bent.

So, as I can't afford to replace the hand-carved corbels or brocade draperies or anything, I decide to funk it up with color and artwork and furnishings. That is, I would infuse my personality onto the palette I was dealt.

What I was left with (actually, what I was striving for), is a home with an old-world backdrop full of tumbled marble, ivy-covered courtyards (well, it took a few years for that ivy to take off), formal furniture and medallioned ceilings...while at the same time sporting bursts of modern furniture, and non-traditional colors, avant-guard art, and a totally relaxed atmosphere.

The thing is, I am none of those things in my story. I come from old debt, not old money.

Maybe that's why it never worked. Why I always felt so fucking grateful to be in that house every single day of the five-plus years I called it home.

Maybe because while I created it from stem to stern, it wasn't my story. It was a fairytale I told myself, and I designed so I could live my dream.

Before my daughter was born, after I'd lived in my Dream House for less than a year, I bought a carved wooden placard for her nursery (whose room is now?). It said (and, still does, as it is in her new room), "Fairy tales do come true."

Do they?

Am I lying to her?

To myself?

Stranger Danger?

When my son, now closing in on ten, was three years old, I had many intense discussions with him about strangers.

Stay away from strangers.

Don't trust strangers.

If a stranger approaches you, run away YELLING even if they know your name!

We even did some role playing; my husband or I pretended that we were the stranger and we used all the best lines on him:

"Hey, kid, wants some candy?"

"Hi, little boy, your Mommy is sick and she wanted me to drive you home."

"Hi there, your Daddy wanted me to pick you up, because he and your Mommy had to take your cat to the doctor."

"Remember me? I work with your Daddy! He wanted me to pick you up and bring you to his office so that you can hang out with him! How fun is THAT?!?!?"

"Hey! I can't find my puppy! He's probably scared; can you help me find my lost puppy?"

After a bit of work, and a few tears, he got it. He learned to be wary of strangers. I was ever so proud of my parenting.

But months after we started our indoctrination, I had a very interesting discussion with a trusted friend of mine. It was one of those moments, one where in one concise statement on her part, I realized that a lot of the "truths" I'd held dear were actually never thoroughly examined.

My friend said, "I don't believe in teaching stranger danger; it's more probable that my kids will need the help of a stranger than it is they will be approached by someone malevolent. It's a more likely a scenario that one of my kids will get lost in a grocery store and need to find an adult to help them."

Whoa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was in preschool, I remember being very comforted by the fact that my mom or dad always picked me up early. For whatever reason, I dreaded the idea of being the last kid waiting for their parents.

And then, one day, it happened. Not only was I the last child waiting, but pick-up time came and went. The sun started setting, and I sat at the big window facing the street waiting for my ride. Eventually the teachers left me in the care of the cleaning lady who'd recently arrived.

(I know this sounds unbelievable by today's standards, but this was the early seventies...times were different.)

It was dark outside, and I continued staring out the window, willing my ride to arrive. I was over the burning shame of being the last one picked up, and starting to be afraid that I was forever forgotten. The cleaning woman was done cleaning the facility and ready to go home.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We were both confused as to how to proceed.

I don't remember much of the ride in her car to her home, other than thinking that my mom would never find me now. When we walked from her front walk into her home and directly into her kitchen, she asked me if I wanted a cookie.

"What kind?" I asked. Even then I was.

"Lorna Dunes," she answered.

Yippee! Lorna Dunes were and are my favorite cookie (I know...BORING).

Once I had my Lorna stash, she asked me if I wanted to watch television.

Uuuuuummm, yeah.

Guess what was on?

MARY TYLER MOORE! Yes, my favorite show. I don't know what it says about me that I was a preschooler whose favorite cookie was (is) Lorna Dunes, and that my fave show was Mary Tyler Moore (okay, that's not true...she was (is) second to Mister Rogers).

Nevertheless, I was a happy little lost girl. I had my favorite cookie and my (second) favorite show. Not long after the show started, my mom arrived. My reaction?

Oh, no, now I can't watch MARY TYLER MOORE!

Turns out that the person who was supposed to pick me up...well, forgot. When this was discovered, a bunch of freaked out adults converged on my preschool. They found a note taped to the front door by the cleaning woman detailing what had happened, and where they could find me.

Find me, they did. They found me all happy with my Lorna Dunes and Mary Tyler Moore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, anyway, after the discussion with my friend, and upon some reflection, I started to wonder how much of a disservice I had done to my son over the past months, what with teaching him that the world is full of bad people that he should avoid.

After that, my stranger danger talks with him (and in more recently, with my daughter) have been far more precise. I haven't taught them that every stranger is dangerous.

I've taught them that, if they are ever in a situation where they need help, there are the strangers they should seek out first.

In my opinion, they should first look for someone in a uniform. For example: policeman, grocery bagger, postal worker, crossing guard, whatever. In all likelihood that person is working, has many eyes on them, and will readily be able to guide a child to a safe place that is set up to help lost children.

My second stringers, so to speak, are moms with kids...especially, moms with strollers and babies. Nothing is a sure bet, but I'd rather my lost child reach out to another mom (in the absence of a person in uniform) with her own passel of kids than the lone person sitting on the park bench reading a novel. For one thing, that mom is probably the safer bet. Also, they are probably more familiar with the procedures for taking care of a lost child, and will know how to comfort them as well.

But I comfort myself by knowing it is far more likely that they will experience the kindness of strangers than the worst that humankind has to offer.

Linking it forward...Suri Cruise ladybug shoes style

This blogger's story has been knocking about my head the past twenty-four hours.

If you're not inclined to follow the linky (but I recommend you do), it's about Katja Presnal, a blogger and mompreneur who owns an upscale children's boutique in Colorado called Simbaco. It seems that not too long ago a friend of Tom Cruise was in her shop, and purchased some gifts for Suri Cruise, including a pair of ladybug shoes,

That would be pretty cool in and of itself, no? Knowing that TomKat's kid was running about with some of your shop's shoes on her celebaby tootsies?

How about when Tom Cruise mentions to Oprah during his recent interview at his home that those ladybug shoes are Suri's favorite.

Can you image THAT kind of unexpected publicity for your wares? I mean, geeze, does it get much better than that?

The thing is, Katja is making it better.

She's spreading the love to other mommy bloggers...rather than having a huge giveaway carnival driving traffic to her blog, she's linking it forward and having giveaways of some of her fabulous boutique items on the blogs of some of her friends. Aaaaaaaaaand, here they are:

The Daily Grind of a Work @ Home Mom
A Cowboy's Wife
Ultra Beauty Boutique
Notes From My Nest
New Urban Mom
Hello Happy Pittbulls
Celebrity Baby Blog
So A Blonde Walks Into a Review
Baby Gear Today
Mamanista
A Girl's Gotta Spa
Bambina Ballerina
Superdumb Supervillain

So, in tribute to mommy blogger/mompreneurs everywhere, happy clicking and I hope YOU are one of the winners of some Katja's stuff.

These are the days of our lives

Earlier today, I was IM'ing with a good friend who lives on the other side of the country, and I was asking her advice about another friend, whom she's never met. More specifically, how I should be responding to a particular situation in which I find myself regarding this friend. A situation that has slowly devolved and become potentially insurmountable to our friendship, unless we suddenly are able to turn back the hands of time. I'm still working on that Master of Time, Space, and Dimension thing.

Then later I was talking on the phone (sooooo last millennium *yawn*) to another friend who also lives far away, about another friend who lives even further away. This phone conversation revolved around our concern for this friend and his declining mental and physical health. We spoke for nearly an hour, while his friends in the background chastised him for not hanging up and enjoying a Cinqo de Mayo drink with them.

(I must stop right here and emphasize that both of these conversations revolved around helping the party about whom we were speaking...this wasn't just idle gossip, people...it was very, very busy and industrious gossip.)

Anyway, these two conversations left me feeling strangely happy yet unsettled.

I love that I have friends in my life, however frequently we talk, that are part of my chosen, extended family. I revel in the fact that our stories are woven together inextricably, and that the fabric that is created will keep us warm in our coldest moments, and serve as a hammock when we want to kick back and relax.

But these two conversations today also reminded me of others that were once a large part of my life whose thread, for whatever reason, frayed away forever from the fabric that is my story.

And I worry that the two people about whom we spoke will also, one day, be a part of my history instead of my present.

Belly up and hit the tap

Not long ago I was at a friend's house, and my four year-old asked me for a glass of water. I grabbed a cup and headed over to the sink.

"*GASP,*" my friend exclaimed. "Don't use that water, use the drinking water!"

"Oh, yeah, right, I don't know what I was thinking," I mumbled as I made my way towards the water tank I'd use countless times over the years I've known her.

Mere months ago I would have had the same reaction as her. In our last home, we had a state-of-the-art reverse osmosis water filtration system; only the purest of H's and O's made it through to our drinking water. When we moved to our rental home, it didn't have any filtration system at all, so we switched to bottled water.

But the thing is, we are on a budget. A serious budget. The paycheck-to-paycheck kind of budget (and sometimes we don't make it that far). Things have to give; items that were once necessities become luxuries.

Like bottled water.

At first I did the Sacrificial Mom thing and saved the bottled water for my kids, and I started to drink *gasp* tap water. It tasted...weird. Then I thought of how I grew up drinking municipal water (except for those years we had our own well), and how that water probably tasted very similar to what I was presently attempting to choke down.

Then I had a very interesting conversation with a friend in town whose husband is an environmental engineer; he just happens to study water. Guess what he drinks? And his kids?

Water from the tap.

He emphatically states our tap water is perfectly fine, and he knows it as well as anybody, and certainly better than most. He is so confident that it is safe his children have been drinking it from the moment they first swallowed something other than breast milk.

He's not alone; as much as forty percent of bottled water's source is from municipal taps. Furthermore, municipal water is regulated by the EPA...not so with some bottled water. So I started to feel better about drinking tap water and giving it to my kids.

Then I noticed how our recycling container wasn't as full as it had been, and how when I threw a container into it (our city provides each house with 65 gallon curbside recycling bins, half for paper products and half for plastic and glass containers) it tended to crash against glass rather than bounce off plastic. Hmmmmm...

That's right, now that we aren't buying bottled water by the gross we have greatly reduced not only our cash outflow, but also our plastic consumption. And that alone can't be a bad thing.

An Engineer's Guide to Cats

In case you haven't seen this one...if you're a cat lover (or not) you'll laugh. Unless you are dead inside.

BTW, here are my three hairball factories:

WWYD?

So, today I was at the grocery store with my four year-old daughter, and my mom. Three generations tooling around the aisles, grabbing at things and yelling at each other to PUT them back!

At one point I was price shopping for cheap selecting the perfect vintage Pinot Noir for our dinner, when this young dude glides past me and scoops up a bottle of Jäger without even slowing down. I smiled, thinking of some (mommy?) blogger I'd read earlier today who'd talked about doing a few too many Jager shots with her husband (Dang? Who was it? Help me out!!!).

It's Thursday night in a college town, nothing odd about someone grabbing some Jäger...what was impressive is that he just stroooooooooooode on while fluidly whipping a bottle from the shelf without disturbing its neighbors.

A minute or so later I met back up with my mom and daughter, and suddenly there was that Smooth Dude walking past us. Chattin' on his cell phone and walking towards the exit. Still sailing smoothly, but his gait was also somewhat less...effortless.

And the Jäger bottle? Nowhere to be seen.

I stopped and watched him and Smooth Dude just continued sailing right out the door. Buh-bye, SD. Buh-bye, bottle of Jäger.

I said to my mom, before SD was out the door, "He is stealing a bottle of Jäger." I thought about running after him. I thought about contacting a Sales Associate. As I stood there I thought a lot of things in a millisecond.

But, you know what? I didn't know for sure he stole anything. For all I know, he's a David Blaine in training and one of his skills is Being Smooth and Non-Bottle Moving Whilst Drifting Through Grocery Store Aisles.

Or maybe he realized he didn't have the cash and randomly dropped the Jäger off somewhere.

Perhaps the person he was talking to on the phone had just told him, "Smooth Dude, my roommate just totally bought some Jäger. No worries. Time to party on and you don't need to buy any Jäger (because in my head Smooth Dudes and friends all talk like characters from Wayne's World)(Party ON!) !"

It could be that elves scurried out from the dairy section and stole the bottle from him and threatened him with a fortnight of bad luck if he didn't vamoose immediately.

Who knows what really happened. It just seemed pretty certain to me that I'd just witnessed a theft.

I looked at my daughter (who had, by the way, been a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I looked at my mom (who probably, by the way, thought I was being a very reluctant shopper this entire expedition).

I thought about what it would entail to chase SD down, accuse him, call the cops, who knows what. Yowsa, but I just thought, "Forget it. It's not worth it if I'm wrong."

Honestly, part of me thought it wouldn't be worth it if I was right. I know that was lame and weak of me, because morally and socially and economically and theoretically and realistically and fiscally and...deep breath...legally it's just wrong to steal. But when I thought of the flipping hoops I'd have to go through, and what if I were wrong (but I know I wasn't)? Forget it.

It didn't seem worth it.

Was I wrong?

What would you have done?

An open mind is a terrible thing to waste

Last night my husband and I were at an association meeting for our daughter's preschool. There was a wonderful guest speaker who talked about how to foster our children's innate talents in the arts...specifically, music and the visual arts.

This woman has had decades of practical experience with preschoolers; she owns and runs a fabulous preschool (in an adjacent town) that is super sought after because it is play-based, loving, sweet, and inspirational. Honestly, she was wonderful. I love my daughter's preschool but I, for a brief moment, wished she went to this woman's.

Not only that, but this speaker is uber (don't have an umlaut key) well versed in her research. Not only is she kind and sparkly and funny and engaging, but she is also smart. CrAzY smart.

Honestly, I am not usually into this kind of thing. There was an autoharp and I was cajoled into making a church and steeple with my fingers. With no children present. Seriously, not me.

Yet, this woman was so charming and full of wisdom pearls that I resisted slipping out the back door and listened. Really listened. I was getting into it.

But then the speaker said something that not only did not resonate with me, it was so discordant that internally I eye-rolled and thought, "Pffffft."

(There is no uglier response than, "Pffffft.")

But I decided to let that go, and keep my heart and mind open for what she might offer up next.

An what do you know? Not long after my pffffft moment, there were beautiful words of wisdom that I absorbed and will implement for the rest of my life. I tucked away a few pearls for future reference, and I realized that this wasn't a wasted two hours after all.

Wow.

So that worked for me...I let go of some of my knee-jerk reactions and allowed myself to listen. It was awesome!

I forced myself outside of my comfort zone and I will be forever thankful.

Coming out

About three and a half years ago, a friend called me to wish me a happy birthday. We giggled together as she tried to make it through the birthday song, and we chatted about my plans for the day.

Then she asked me if I'd voted. It also happened to be our last presidential election day. I had voted, and just to keep the silly going I told her I'd voted for the candidate she hated, the one she'd lobbied hard against. I thought she knew me well enough to know I was pulling her leg, but I was wrong.

"I have to tell you, I voted for X."

There was dead silence on the other end of the line for a beat, then she shrieked, "You WHAT?"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I didn't vote for him."

"Who did you vote for?"

The thing is, I didn't want to tell her who I voted for, because I didn't vote for her favorite candidate. I voted third party, like I often do. So I tried to switch it up and distract her, "Don't worry, I didn't vote for X."

She wouldn't let it go, "Who did you vote for?"

"Forget it. When do you want to get the kids together?"

"Who did you vote for?"

"Honestly, I didn't vote for him. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Who did you vote for?"

It went on like that for a while, and finally I capitulated.

"YOU WHAT!?!? You voted third party? You might as well have voted for X. You wasted your vote! I cannot believe you did this! How could you? HOW COULD YOU?!?"

And she went on. And on. Berating me for my (very well considered) decision, that if X won I'd deserve what I got, etc. Pretty much put a damper on that birthday, let me tell you.

I'm fairly well versed in politics; I follow the issues as best I can in between empty sound bites that the media likes to serve up to us. I read a lot, listen a lot, watch a lot.

And I love discussing politics. The problem is, most people seem to react like my Birthday Friend. It's their way or nothing. There is no discussing, there is no room for debate or free thinking. If you don't agree with them, you are wrong. Period. End of discussion. Except for the berating bit.

Yesterday Megan at Velveteen Mind wrote quite the thought-provoking post about a similar topic. She's dipping her toes into the political, and has a lot of questions. The problem is, sometimes asking a question can be as heretical to those who are firmly entrenched in their belief system as openly opposing them.

I know that all too well. I have had friendships become strained because I asked questions, for the very act of asking made me suspect in their eyes. People have attempted to pigeon-hole me into a category, accusing me of being one of Them (that is, the enemy in their eyes) for daring to even question their tightly held beliefs.

I've been told that I can't be who I say I am politically. That it's impossible. I must be lying or stupid. Which I find odd, because this is who and how I've been my entire voting career.

Who am I politically?

Socially liberal.

Fiscally conservative.

There. I said it.

*crickets*

Am I alone in this? Am I the only Mommyblogger who isn't a registered Democrat?

Destroy Words

My four year-old is soooo post-modern.

Earlier today I was on my elliptical, and my four year-old daughter kept asking me how to spell the words "destroy" and "words." She was playing on Word Paint, and frankly I was getting a bit annoyed having to spell and respell the same words over and over.

Hours later, I found this on my laptop screen:



See what she did there? She destroyed words. Including the words "destroy words."

In the words of a former filibusterous acquaintance (who unendingly bragged about how advanced her children were, but would cut you off and roll her eyes when you mentioned the fact that your kid, oh I don't know, stopped eating their own boogers), "Oh, Chris, I'm sure your kid is a genius."

(She still eats her boogers. I'm proud of that, too.)

Rob Lowe needs my help

Rob Lowe...



Plus his former nanny...




EQUALS...



Case closed.

Pass me the Awesome

In honor of their fiftieth anniversary, Crayola gave kids the opportunity to rename some of the colors in their big 64 box (the one with the sharpener in the back!).

Ready to vomit? Here they are...

Yellow is now Super Happy.
Orange has been renamed Fun in the Sun.
Green isn't green anymore; call it Giving Tree.
Brown? Bear hug.
Dust Pink shall henceforth be called Awesome!
Blue...Happy Ever After.
Hot pink is Famous. That's hot.
Purple will now only answer to Best Friends.

Something about this makes me want to kick a puppy.

If at first you don't succeed...

I've moaned about it here before, but the problem remains.

In fact, it's worse than ever.

I can't fit into most of my clothes. ARRRRRGH.

My friend Mrs. Flinger has written a great article over at Blissfully Domestic about her fitness struggles. In it, she suggests we simplify things by making two basic lists...one of five goals, and one of five means to meet that goal.

So here goes:

Goals:
1. Lose 15-20 pounds
2. Tone core
3. Gain muscle definition in upper arms and back
4. Fit into summer clothes
5. Say good-by to muffin-top

Means:
1. Elliptical 2-3 times per week 30-45 minutes
2. Walk or bike ride 1-2 times per week 60 minutes
3. Pilates/Yoga/something like that focusing on upper body for at least 2-3 times per week at least 20 mins
4. Play outside with my kids (walks, parks, kicking ball, etc.)
5. Cook organic, whole foods as much as possible

So, I am going to try, try again.

***********************************************

By the way, if I owe you an email or PM or money, my apologies. My internet has been on and off this past week, mostly off (we considered claiming the Comcast service guy on our taxes). I did get my article up at Blissfully Domestic, though! Check it out, won't you? Anyway, it seems that my internet is back on now, and I'll get back to you ASAP.

Unless I owe you money. In which case *static* what? I think I'm *static* losing my *static* connection again *static.*

Good-bye, Yellow Brick Road

Dear Sir Elton John,

I’d like to thank you for helping me when I was in third grade.

There was this talent show thing. I fiercely wanted to be in it, but I didn’t know what my talent might be. I settled on baton twirling, as it was something I had recently taken up and it made me feel kinda cool.

A friend and I decided to try out together, and we chose your song "Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)" as our background music. We rocked! AND we were chosen to be in the talent show. Woohoo! Throwing that baton up into the air as I spun around and caught it, while hearing you croon, “Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, Saaaaaturday, Saturday, that’s all riiiiiiiight!” is truly one of my favorite memories of my school days.

Suffice it to say, I have quite the soft spot for you in my heart.

So, back in 2004, when you accused (United States) American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” because an African American had been eliminated from American Idol Three, I shrugged it off and made apologies for you. I figured your heart was in the right place, and hey! You had my back in third grade.

I know, you don’t need me to make apologies for you, but I did anyway. I’m pretty loyal that way.

Later, when an African American ended up winning that same year you called us racist, I thought you’d retract your accusation. You didn’t. I assumed you were on to better and bigger things.

Fast forward to today. Rather, yesterday. Nearly four years to the day that you accused the American Idol voters of being “incredibly racist” (really, a pretty heavy accusation, I must say), you have leveled a new charge against the people of the United States.

So, now, you are calling the people of the United States misogynists. Why? Because Hillary Rodham Clinton isn’t kicking Barack Obama’s ass in the Democratic Primary?

A bit ironic, no? Because, what if she were ahead in the delegate count? Would we then be incredibly racist because Barack is African American?

Sorry, but your accusations are starting to ring hollow, Sir.

But we still have Paris our baton twirling rendez-vous. That was all good. Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,
Christine

Breaking up is hard to do

This week Mrs. Flinger posted a picture of her office. So being the lemming I am (I am not)I decided to do the same (happily I took a photo of my workspace before my camera went caput):



I've been living in this rental for about half a year now. You'd think I would have my shit together by now. I don't. This house is so much smaller than the one we sold I just can't find room for the stuff.

Here's my old living room:



Here's my new one:



And, just for fun, here is my old dining room:



And kitchen nook:


And cooktop:


It's weird to me that someone else is living in that house. I flipping designed it, you know? I spent hours on drawing out everything from the elevation to the cabinetries for the architect. See those glass cabinets at the top of the uppers? That was me. See the various tilework? My designs, my selections. My vision realized.

And the colors...oh, how I loved those colors.

That house was a labor of love, a culmination of years of images ripped from magazines and drawings on napkins. That was the house I thought my children would come home to from college, and where my grandchildren would visit us. Maybe stay with us for a week while their parents, our children, enjoyed a second honeymoon.

And someone else is calling that place THEIRS. I know, they bought it, it IS theirs. It's just hard for me to accept that. The other day my former next door neighbor told me that the new owners just love it. I know she wanted me to know it is loved. Yes, I am glad for that.

But it's like when you break up with someone you care about but know it's not meant to be, and later you spot them with someone else. That punch in the gut feeling, that loss of breath, that lingering longing and feeling of possession. That's how I feel about that house.

But part of it, it's soul, will always be mine. Or maybe what I'm saying, what is really accurate, is that part of my heart will always be there.