Momglomerate

Love is a Meatless Ball...

2012-05-08T08:03:00.000-07:00

Alyssa, my eight-year-old, is way into writing and publishing stories right now. She brought home several funny, creative, and well-written stories yesterday, and she begged me to write some stories of my own. Considering her budding interest in writing and two-year-old Brooke's great interest in listening to stories, I have created this based-on-real-life-events story for my daughters (and for you!)...

Mom’s Spaghetti and Meatless Balls

It was 3:58 PM on a sunny Wednesday in May. A mother and one little girl sat in their car, parked along the side of the road, watching cars go by. One minute later, the little girl called out, “SKOO BUS!”

A bigger little girl, the one little girl’s big sister, jumped off of bus 4, looked both ways, and raced across the street. She opened the door to the car, and got in, asking, “What are we having for dinner?” before she even said, “Hi, Mom and Brooke.”

“Spaghetti and meatless balls,” was Mom’s response to her bigger little daughter, Alyssa.

“Bee-balls! Bee-balls!” little Brooke chanted happily.

“Ugh,” was all Alyssa could muster. Her mom was forever trying to make her eat weird things—from chocolate-zucchini muffins to ricemellow fluff. Now meatless balls?! Why couldn’t she just serve fluorescent orange mac’n cheese like the cool moms?

Mom even managed to make Alyssa’s school lunches embarrassing. While the other kids were eating Lunchables, chips, and cookies, Alyssa was forced to eat things like yogurt, banana-flaxseed muffins, carrots, and strawberries. It was torture.

Later that evening in the kitchen, Alyssa was working on her Rocket Math homework and Brooke was choloring in her Hello Kitty activity book. Mom was boiling green lentils and simmering brown rice. An oddly meaty smell filled the kitchen as some garlic, scallions, and mini Portobello mushrooms cooked in a skillet.

Then, Mom interrupted Alyssa’s silent reading of Yoko’s World of Kindness when she began to chop up the meatless…sigh…ingredients in the food processor. She formed the strange-looking mixture of veggies, beans, grains, and spices into sixteen ping pong sized balls, which she placed in rows on a shiny foil-lined cookie sheet. Into the oven they went. Oh, joy.

As Mom boiled water for the spaghetti in a big steel pot, Alyssa surveyed the pile of cooking debris on the counter around the sink—mixing bowls, knives, food processor parts, measuring cups and spoons, the green tops of some stinky scallions, mushroom stems, and the box from the organic spaghetti. The long, skinny noodles were brown and apparently “eight whole grain with milled flaxseed,” whatever that meant. Was it too much to ask that our spaghetti noodles, at least, be normal and white like everyone else’s?

It was hopeless. Even the tomato sauce was strange. As if plain old tomatoes weren’t bad enough, this stuff was Organic Garden Vegetable! The addition of more vegetables took this sauce from a moderate inconvenience to a serious problem. “Can I just have my spaghetti plain?” Alyssa ventured.

“No, you need to have tomato sauce…and at least try a meatless ball,” Mom replied with a sigh, as she stirred the spaghetti noodles into the boiling water. Why did she look so sad? Alyssa was the one who was going to have to eat this crazy vegetable-filled meal, after all.

Later, Dad and Alyssa were in their usual seats at the island counter, bowls of spaghetti and sauce topped with the odd-little meatless balls in front of them. Brooke was seated at her own little toddler person-sized table with a fishy plate covered with cut up meatless balls and tomato sauce “dip.” Brooke was a big fan of good food presentation, and so Mom sprinkled some grated Parmesan cheese “sparklers” over the meatless balls. Brooke was thrilled by this, and after asking for a “fork, peez!” began to gobble up her sparkly bee-balls and dip. Show off.

The rest of the family began to carve up their meatless balls and twirl up saucy spaghetti. Mom and Dad tried their meatless balls and made comments about the texture and spice profile. Alyssa ate the spaghetti, carefully circumnavigating the meatless ball chunks. Mom noticed. She picked a lentil-(if you know what that is, it’s smaller than a green pea) sized piece of meatless ball out and put it right on Alyssa’s tongue. It fell off. Right onto the floor. Mom picked it up within five seconds, so she put it back in Alyssa’s mouth, and this time she chewed and swallowed it with a grimace.

“I think they’re as good as a regular meat meatball,” Mom said triumphantly.

“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Dad said, although he had cleaned out his whole bowl of spaghetti and meatless balls already.

“Das gooood, liddle Mama,” Brooke added. Brown-noser.

In stark contrast to the face Alyssa had made while ingesting the probably dog-hair covered microscopic piece of meatless ball that Mom had force-fed her, she generously stated, “It was okay. I wouldn’t eat it again, but…” Alyssa just knew that Mom was going to make it again. And chick-pea falafels. And red lentil dal. And carrot spice muffins and so on and so forth.

Alyssa also knew, somewhere deep down, that Mom wasn’t making these foods to make her bigger little daughter the laughingstock of the Cheeto-eating, Hi-C-sipping kids in the lunchroom. She was going to the trouble of making these vegetable-based, whole food meals because she cared so much about making sure her family was healthy!

Yeah, the little girls’ mom was weird, but she was the little girls’ mom, meatless balls and all. Forever.

The End.

This Lemming, Right Here.

2012-04-19T19:34:00.000-07:00

I live a charmed life.

Unfortunately, my forte in writing seems to be sarcastic diatribes about the mundane, a la Jerry Seinfeld. Truth be told, I am a little bit afraid to write in my favored genre; it seems irreverent to complain—however comically—about my life when I am so blessed.

Being so unbelievably fortunate makes it much more difficult to come up with good material for my notoriously bitter, bad-natured, self-obsessed rants. Nevertheless, I will preserve. I will push on and find something to complain about:

And 2.5 seconds later…

My neighborhood. God help us (and our grey-haired, respectable neighbors), we are a young family living in what was originally intended to be a retirement community for senior citizens. Quiet. Civilized. By its definition, free of free-ranging, shrieking children and lawless, leashless, yapping dogs and noisy friends and rusted cars and parties with DJs and loud trucks and dirt bikes and chainsaws and sidewalk chalk and battery-operated pink toddler-sized Hummers. And free of Greg—yelling and singing and loud-talking Greg, especially.

Yep, there goes the neighborhood.

I read the HOA documents before we signed the contract to move into this community. Honestly, I thought they were a joke. Owners can’t park on the street or plant a plant? Clearly those forty-something pages of rules akin to these are meant to be pulled out in extreme cases…like, say, for that hard-partying, boom box with bass turned all the way up-blaring neighbor who builds a fence out of tie-dyed car tires and uses an old toilet as a flower planter for marijuana and parks fifteen junked cars inhabited by drunken hobos in his yard which is also home to a flock of lice-infested, 4AM-crowing chickens, fifty-two feral cats, a blind, three-legged mutt chained to a half-eaten, hot pink dog igloo, and a rabid, stolen Bengal tiger who frequently gnaws its way lose and mauls visiting grandchildren.

But they were deadly serious about all of them. A week ago, I got an e-mail from the HOA detailing exactly what grade of black-dyed, hardwood mulch must be used to spruce up any planting areas, and just today I got a “spring reminder” e-mail today from the HOA stating that both a written proposal and a pictorial plan needed to be submitted to the property management group if a resident planned to plant anything in “their” gardens.

A month ago—after I accidentally slammed Brooke’s fingers in the door trying to let my dogs out and became distracted by assuring that none of those fingers had been crushed or severed—the dogs started running from the yard. Just as soon as it was clear to me that Brooke was going to survive, I shut her into the house (yes, I shut her alone in the house—please don’t call child services—because I was frantic about keeping track of the dogs, and I couldn’t pick her up and run with her because I had a hernia—see? charmed life!) and tried to run after them while clutching aforementioned hernia. As you can imagine, I wasn’t very fast, and so they reached the down-the-street neighbor’s yard before me. I was hot on their heels, though, and as I reached the yard, calling their names in my most stern dog-mother voice, my gleeful dogs were barking, and the furious neighbor was rounding the corner, clutching to her chest her small, brown dog (who, in Ringo’s defense, did resemble a groundhog, and you know how Jack Russells feel about groundhogs) and screaming the word, “LEASH!” into my face. I was not given a chance to explain my situation or to apologize. “LEASH!” (Translation: “There is a strict leash law in the neighborhood. It is enforced, and a fine is forthcoming.”)

Accidents be damned.

And fences, apparently~well, "dividing instrumentalities" they are considered by the HOA. Never wanting to replay the horrors depicted in that story just now, we promptly requested permission to construct a fence to corral our ferocious, lawless, monstrous, 20-pound attack dogs (and equally terrifying children). Permission denied.

And play areas: “No temporary or permanent play areas are permitted.” So, we can just forget about leaving that two-foot Little Tykes plastic sliding board outside overnight.

And, same goes for the one-foot diameter circular satellite dishes that the non-cable half of America uses. We requested permission to put a one in “our” garden because DirecTV is way cheaper than cable. Denied. Satellite dishes are a blight on the “excellent outward appearance” of the neighborhood, as are burned out lightbulbs in exterior lights, grills, big trucks, boats, campers, ATVs, livestock, poultry, basketball hoops, skateboards, kiddie pools, actual pools, motorized vehicles parked outside of the garage, signs, flags, lawn ornaments, garbage containers, dividing instrumentalities, paint, laundry, tents, shacks, sheds, construction materials, screen doors that aren’t full-view style, and so on and so forth ad nauseum.

There are exactly two floorplans of houses in this community (all of the two-stories have the same hunter-colored shutters and door, and all of the ranchers have the same burgundy-colored shutters and door). ALL of the houses are clad in the exact same stone facing and the exact same BEIGE siding. All of the trim is painted the in the same shade of beige. The same landscaper installed all of the gardens in the same general layout with plant media from a list of approved vegetation. Homogenous. I would invoke plain vanilla, but boring beige is much more appropriate in this situation. Changing the outward appearance of the home in any way is disallowed without board approval.

And since no one has any power over their property, I guess they divert their attentions to imposing rules, watching for infractions, making formal complaints, and determining enforcement actions to ensure compliance.

What kind of lemming signs up to be part of something like this? This lemming, right here. And her husband lemming.

Greg is a man (to clarify: not actually a lemming...but is there a difference?). He didn’t read the HOA documents before he signed the papers. If he had, which he wouldn’t have and didn’t (restatement for added emphasis), he wouldn’t have intended to follow the rules anyway. He is a renegade. I didn’t think that I was rebellious or confrontational before I moved here, but now I’m downright oppositional-defiant. I realize, rationally, that since I signed up to live in this neighborhood despite having read ALLLLL of its rules, I really have no right to complain about or rebel against them. I'm choosing to ignore that rational line of thought for this one. There’s just something really unsettling about being the least anal, OCD person in the group for the first time in nearly thirty years. And it makes me want to SCREAM! (But I can’t because “[n]o noxious, unsightly or offensive activity shall be conducted on any Lots or on the streets…[and] No annoying or nuisance activity which is offensive to other Owners will be tolerated.")

So, now I am quietly whispering to no one in particular: Darn it all to heck.

Never On My Own

2012-04-11T13:55:00.001-07:00

I was just reading my friend's blog, Never On My Own. I like the duplicity of that name.

In one respect, it expresses the exasperation and over-exposure of the mother of young children; as in: Will I ever be able to use the bathroom alone AGAIN?

In another respect all together, it relates to the overwhelming loneliness that can be felt simultaneously in the same role: Will I ever speak to another adult (about anything other than children) AGAIN?

After being on Facebook for a few months, I am RELIEVED to be on Momglomerate again. Facebook is an assault of private information and oversharing. Blogging, by comparison, seems so much more intimate. I am still able to share my thoughts with the wider world so that I feel less alone, but I can enjoy some of the relative "silence" of blogspot. On Facebook, I was never on my own in a bad way--like an unhealthy, seizure-inducing way. On Momglomerate, I am never on my own in a good way--like that I have valid thoughts worthy to be shared with others who might appreciate them.

Good work, Laura. Thanks for writing and giving me so much to consider!

So Far, So Good: I'm Scheming "Something" Mightily

2012-01-03T17:30:00.000-08:00

It has been three days since the start of 2012, and so far, so good!

Reflecting on some scripture and commentary (from my Advent "Blue Book"), I was struck by these words: "So what am I to do? I am free to do what I can do...something, just not everything...I can do something." I often feel stymied by my limited ability to DO anything, as a stay-at-home mom. I want to do something AWESOME, but how with so little free time or extra resources? This commentary seemed to speak to that exact feeling. No, I'm not free to do much at this time. But that doesn't mean that I can't do anything. Even if it's something small, it is still something, and every little bit helps.

On that note, I've been pretty productive here. Mostly I'm trying to determine how to use space at the farm to do the most good. No one wants to hear any of my ideas until they are fully formed, so my mind is basically a whirling chaotic mess! I have written down my ideas in various notebooks and scraps of paper which litter my desk (basically a tangible version of what's going on inside my brain).

My current "master plan" is basically to consolidate the horses in a smaller area that is more centrally located to the houses. The horses all require very little pasture at this point, so moving them to a more confined area would make it easier to manage their weight and easier to care for them in general, as water and electricity are already present*.

(*A big deal, as tonight I spent more than an hour fighting with the hose, which is basically the singular plot or at least the most commonly recurring theme of all of my winters. Eventually, I was forced to give up on the hose, which froze shut immediately after being attached to the carefully winterized faucet. Therefore, I was resigned to clumsily filling and transporting and lugging and pouring a 5-gallon water tank repeatedly from the basement of the barn to the top of the property where the horses currently reside...until it broke, sloshing me with water in the 23 degree night air!)

So, in order to determine whether my "master plan" is at all feasible, I have been collecting estimates from a variety of contractors--excavating, wood construction, metal construction, concrete construction, fencing, etc. If it is allowable by the township, I'd like to fortify and expand a barn that currently exists and replace some decrepit fencing that has been removed.

And...if I already have an excavator leveling a spot for an enlarged barn structure, maybe--just maybe--it would be the right time to level a spot to ride (dare I say it, an "arena")? After all, there is already a flood light lighting the old "riding" area... Oh, to have an arena after all of these years!! A level spot with footing and lights would take my enjoyment of the horses to a new stratosphere.

If the horses were removed from the upper fields to the central spot, by way of my "master plan," less mowing and maintenance would be required in that area. Efficiency: check! We would be able to ride whenever--darkness, rain, freezing weather. Efficiency: check! And, we would have a large acreage of pasture that was not in use. Efficiency: Zero~ especially as we have been mowing it several times during the summer, which is not a blast, and then allowing the cut grass to rot. So...wait for it!...we have a service come to custom bale those pastures, thusly, gaining a supply of hay for our horses at a much-reduced price and also creating a surplus of hay that could be sold or donated (to the SPCA Equine Fund!!) Efficiency: check, check! Not to mention a GREAT BIG SOMETHING for starving horses!

Add that planning and scheming to my ideas for additional fundraising for the SPCA horses--tack sale, sponsorships, market stands, horsey pillows--oh, and my thoughts on a free-range, organic-egg-laying chicken flock--oh, and a non-profit horse sanctuary or foster home--and I'm on a major role! I'M FINALLY DOING SOMETHING...or at least scheming mightily to do something!

But can she keep up this level of spastic mental activity? That remains to be seen...

One More New-Year Thing

2012-01-01T19:29:00.000-08:00

I was reading my horoscope in the local newspaper. It said something to the effect of: Your work is taking up a lot of your time and emotional energy. If you follow through with your dreams, this could be the year that they come true. I was super-happy to read this. In fact, I cut it out to tape somewhere for inspiration. I can't find it now, as evidenced by my ugly paraphrase above, because Brooke can reach my desk now and robs me of my things and then squirrels them away in or under furniture for me to randomly find later...

As I was searching for the scrap and considering my euphoria at it's initial reading, it occurred to me that it is a really generic horoscope. I mean, isn't it always the case that if you follow through with your dreams, they will come true...for anyone...anywhere...anytime?

Our failings don't occur because the stars didn't align. They occur because we give up on the dream. Or we didn't fully form the dream.

I give up on my "dreams" when my reality doesn't immediately (or eventually) match the dreaminess. I give up if things are hard or if the next step isn't obvious or if I get overwhelmed or if I feel tired or if I'm afraid people will see that I'm not as smart, cool, talented, or capable as I'd had them convinced previously.

My ultimate dream is to do something AWESOME. For the wider world. For my family. For my own sense of self-worth. I want to find fulfilling work. It would be a bonus if that work was gainful (in the financial sense).

2012: Eat, Pray, Love. (Better.)

2012-01-01T19:15:00.000-08:00

Eat: I am so thankful for my health. I am aware that I do not deserve to be as thin or as healthy as I am based on my current diet. I need to eat better--you know, as if I love and respect my body. It would also be the best example for healthy, conscientious eating that my daughters will have.

Pray: I believe in God. I am thankful for the Bible; I feel re-energized and re-affirmed by reading it, listening to it, or discussing it. I kind of wish we had a church community that fit us as a family. We haven't been attending a church regularly, and I don't miss our church...I feel guilty, but I don't feel like going back there either. Nevertheless, I would like to spend more time in prayer and meditation and reading the Bible because it makes me happy and content. I become fully aware of my many blessings and overwhelmed with thankfulness. By feeling happy, content, thankful, and blessed, I will be able to better serve others...and maybe meet people to serve as my formal or informal "church." I'd also like to provide more of a faith-full example to my kids.

Love: Our new family motto is, "You are kind. You are smart. You are important." I will tell my family members this. I will make them repeat it to me. I will use my actions to assure that they believe it! I will continue to volunteer at Alyssa's school because it makes her feel special and loved. I will work to be the best wife and mother that I can be, and when I mess up, I will apologize. I will continue to multiply the collective peace and happiness that comes from being a member of our horse-human-canine herd! I will try every day to do something to serve others--no matter how small--donating, volunteering, working for the SPCA Equine Program, researching ways to start my own non-profit venture.

And...I can only hope that if I pour myself into all of this eating, praying, and loving that this will lead to the only thing that I (feel that I) lack--fulfilling work for me that allows me to contribute to our family financially.

Although, they didn't call the book, Eat, Pray, Love, Work, did they? Maybe that's the secret? We shall see. On with the NEW YEAR!

A Follow-Up to Previous Post (Anti Christmas Gift B-Word)--Yes, It's Long, But You Need to Read This....After All, WE All Did...

2011-12-04T07:06:00.000-08:00

The following is a (circular and random) open e-mail chain to-and-from my family members regarding our annual Christmas debate: to gift or not to gift. What an stupid question? We all find it very amusing now that we are finished writing it...and have decided, heretoforth, to agree to disagree on the topic.

For your entertainment and enlightenment... (As our non-Chinese, local, charitable gift to you, please feel free to cut/paste any of our more acerbic zingers into your own emails on this topic~ we know you're writing them too! 'Tis the season...)

And So It Begins....

From: Beth

Hi Jane ~

I was wondering if you have heard anything from your kids about what they would like to do about Christmas gift giving. I was going to send this out to all, but thought best of that thinking you and I should be the "decidinators" . .. What do you think should be the protocol for gifts-giving this year? Or should we not do gifts and just treat Christmas as a great time to get together and share our time - kinda like thanksgiving, but on Dec, 25th? Let's keep an open dialogue...

On Nov 26, 2011, at 12:51 PM, Beth wrote:

Hi Everyone ~

Does ANYONE have any ideas/thoughts on Christmas gift giving this year? Should we forgo gifts altogether and and just spend time together? I am at a loss . . .
Hugs and love to all,
Crazy Beth

A TIME FOR NEW TRADITIONS?

As the holidays approach, the giant Asian factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods - merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor. This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans.
There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands. Yes there is!

It's time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper? (Even most Hallmark products are made in China). Everyone -- yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificate from your local American hair salon or barber? Gym membership?
It's appropriate for all ages who are thinking about some health improvement.

Who wouldn't appreciate getting their car detailed? Small, American owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a gift certificate or a book of gift certificates.

Are you one of those extravagant givers who think nothing of plonking down
the Benjamines on a Chinese made flat-screen?
Perhaps that grateful gift receiver would like his driveway sealed, or lawn
mowed for the summer, or driveway plowed all
winter, or games at the local golf course.

There are a bazillion owner-run restaurants -- all offering gift
certificates. And, if your intended isn't the fancy eatery
sort, what about a half dozen breakfasts at the local breakfast joint.
Remember, folks this isn't about big National chains --
this is about supporting your home town Americans with their financial lives
on the line to keep their doors open.

How many people couldn't use an oil change for their car, truck or
motorcycle, done at a shop run by the American working guy?

How about the services of a local cleaning lady for a day?

My computer could use a tune-up, and I KNOW I can find some young guy who is
struggling to get his repair business up and
running.

OK, you were looking for something more personal. Local crafts people spin
their own wool and knit them into scarves. They make jewelry, and pottery and

beautiful wooden boxes.

Plan your holiday outings at local, owner operated restaurants and leave
your server a nice tip. And, how about going out to
see a play or ballet at your hometown theatre.

Musicians need love too, so find a venue showcasing local bands.

Honestly, people, do you REALLY need to buy another ten thousand Chinese
lights for the house? When you buy a five dollar
string of light, about fifty cents stays in the community (not 50%, but 50 cents).

If you have those kinds of bucks to burn, leave the mailman, trash
guy or babysitter a nice BIG tip.

You see, Christmas is no longer about draining American pockets so that
China can build another glittering city. Christmas is
now about caring about US, encouraging American small businesses to keep
plugging away to follow their dreams. And, when we
care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits
come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine.

THIS is the new American Christmas tradition.

From: Jane Subject: Re: Christmas 2011

OK, sorry I didn't get back to you right away Beth. What I honestly think about Christmas, is it's nice to give at least one gift to each other, (did i really say that???) whether it be big or small, and that really doesn't matter because it's just an expression of love in the giving itself, not the size of the gift (even if it's zero size, i think i meant to say!). Everyone has different financial constraints. Whether the giver is an individual or a family, that doesn't matter either. But I personally don't think I could handle a Christmas without the ritual of gifts, unwrapping, and pets sitting in all the paper and ribbon mess.

However, having said that, I personally don't need anything, and would be most happy to follow the basic tenets of the "new American Christmas" tradition (attached below for the edification of those unfamiliar with it!). And I think I'll give along those lines too ... (except for those gifts I already have from "other" places :) ...

At this point I think we may be having the company of one extra person for Christmas, Cari, dear friend, and daughter of dear friends in Phoenix (her dad was who i went to see just before he passed away about 3 years ago, if you remember that trip i made). Do you think you could handle an extra at your house? I will provide appropriately. If not, then she'll just have to sit up at our house while we're at yours.

Sorry if my views are disagreeable with everyone else, but you asked. Hopefully I wont be the only one to weigh in now ... HINT HINT!

love, jane xx

From: Jenna

i would not be upset if there were no gifts (except for the little ones of course). Alex will be joining me.... we just like sitting by the fire and eating with everyone :)

On Nov 27, 2011, at 9:35 PM, Aubrey wrote:

Wellll, since we are being honest, everyone knows that I am a Scroogey anti-Christmas gift proponent, and our family is amply blessed, and while I love everyone sincerely, I do not necessarily believe that presents given equals or even approximates an expression of love.

Anti-gifting point 1: I find it hard to come up with personal, meaningful gifts--expensive or otherwise--when we really don't know that much about each others' wants and/or needs... This is why we, at least, usually end up doing silly, junky Chinese gifts---remember the bacon strip band-aids anyone?

Anti-gifting point 2: For me, the expression of love is in choosing to spend the holiday in each others' company....eating good food, watching silly movies, and the like are "Christmas" to me.

So, being that we really and truly don't know each other that well, I propose (A) a practical handmade gift exchange. This would fit the "American-made Christmas" facet (which I think is awesome) and be budget friendly (because, yes, some of us are definitely definitely on a budget!) and actually show genuine love and care for the recipient of the gift. (As one of Brooke's books says, "Where is love, Biscuit?' "It's in the soft sweaters Grandma knits especially for us...") Or, I propose (B) a charitable gift or contribution in the honor of gift recipient.

I don't know why, really, we do this email discussion every year, because each of our feelings are essentially the same from year to year, and everyone pretty much does whatever they feel like doing anyway. I mean this: I don't need anything for Christmas and I can't even think of anything I want for Christmas (except for to stop having this repetitive annual email conversation). I am disgusted by the consumerism surrounding stupid Black Friday and the whole starts-in-November Christmas shopping season. People are starving! People are homeless! I would like to provide more groceries or clothing donations to local families through the office at Ore Valley or the church. I feel like a turd for even spending time talking about a gift exchange when I know that right here in York (not to mention the surrounding world) people are hungry and cold right this very second. It makes me feel dirty.

So, for me, no gifts please. Or if you feel you must, some boxed food items. Or, since I feel dirty, maybe some homemade soap. We could still wrap that stuff in paper and ribbons and thusly tick off the mess for dogs that feels like Christmas for Jane.

Aren't you glad you asked? ;-)

Love (and respect, even if that isn't coming across in my tirade),

Apparently Freaking Insane Aubrey

P.S. It should be noted that every God-blessed one of my families (remember, I go to Greg's mom's, Greg's dad's, Greg's grandma's, the Keffer grandparents, the Keffer parents, and the Yosts'...maybe Naylors?) is having a version of this same debate about gift-giving in a changing world and family climate... so I very well may be a LOT "over" it. Multiply holiday shopping list exponentially by 2 for Greg's mom-parents, 6 for Greg's dad-parents/family, 4 for Greg's grandma's pollyannas, 4 for Keffer grandparent pollyannas, 4 for Keffer parents, 8 for Yosts, plus our independent family Christmas, Naylor stocking stuffers times 20 (maybe?). Sorry for bitching, but bitch or no bitch, the above is my uncensored opinion.

From: Aubrey

I have an instantaneous bout of sender's remorse. I know that that was bitchy. I stand by what I said, but I also want to say: I really do love you all, and if I won the lottery, I would buy a bunch of food for the food pantry AND really amazing presents that you guys would genuinely want! As it is here in reality, in lieu of the usual Chinese junk that I usually buy to make you laugh, you will probably be receiving a gift that I handmake just for you with love (like the Grandma in the Biscuit book that Brooke loves). Boy, I do hope you guys like felted soaps!! Last thing: even though I don't love the gift tradition, I do really love YOU all, and I am very happy to spend Christmas as we do.

So, as the Jamaicans say, "respect mon, all 'de time."

On Nov 27, 2011, at 11:08 PM, Jane wrote:

LOL! Shame on me! I must be the most self-centered person in the world! Not ..... but Aubrey, we definitely come from opposite sides of the fence ... you've got all those families, and all my families are back in Australia. I guess i like giving at Christmas because it reminds me of what we all did back "home" (minus swimming in the pool after Xmas lunch of course), and ... because i hardly have anyone here to give anything to. Granted it's therefore much easier for me than for you ... well, as far as giving goes, that is.

This re-checking every year about what Christmas should look like is indeed a bit unnecessary ... so why don't we just leave it at give what you can, don't give what you can't, shake hands, kiss each other, enjoy dinner together, watch silly movies, get drunk, fall asleep, and so be it.

So here's to charity, silver nixleys, soaps, knits, golden wait-awhiles, laughter, love, dogs, and recycled paper. (yay! vindication at last!)

love you too.

jane.

On Nov 28, 2011, at 12:21 AM, Beth wrote:

Let it forever be closed from this day forward : Yost Family Christmas Gift Exchange shall be "do what you want/can/feel like!!"

THWACK!! Beth

On Nov 28, 2011, at 12:37 PM, Jane wrote:

Booya!

On Nov 28, 2011, at 11:05 AM, Skyler wrote:
I'm not sure 'Booya!' really fits that situation, deary...

From: Beth

What actually is "booya"?

On Nov 28, 2011, at 7:15 PM, Jane wrote:

I dunno, but it sounds great when you say it with gusto. Emphasize the B and the oo and say it as loud as possible ... it's fun! (Yeah Skyler, what DOES it mean, anyway?) Jane

From: Skyler

It's more of an "IN YOUR FACE!" than anything. It would be appropriate if you were attempting to tell Aubrey "Take that, mofo!", but not if you were trying to say "Well that's the end of that conversation!" Oh, you oldies.

On Nov 28, 2011, at 6:33 PM, Aubrey wrote:

Now that we have a definition, I'm going to go ahead and decide not to take it as a "take that, mofo" but more of a "well, now that we are all still completely unclear on that and deciding to agree to disagree...TADA!" I like Crazy Beth's plan to just do whatever the hell we feel like doing every year since that seems to be what we always do anyway.

Love to all,

On Nov 28, 2011, at 6:50 PM, Jane wrote:
Oh, no ... There was definitely no mofo-ing in my booya. It was more meant as a "well so be it!" or "great! We've found a solution!"
you youngies are always changing the traditiinal meaning of older words, so why can't us oldies change the (ha ha traditional) meaning of new words (that have no apparent connection with any other known word in the language)? Booya!

On Nov 29, 2011, at 10:31 AM, Jenna wrote:
Ahem, I would like to clarify the booya/booyow thing. In America, it is just a silly word for "wham!," "that's right!," or even "in your face mofo!"
But in china, it is actually the word you say to pesky vendors who are desperate for a sale (which is all of them) that means, "I don't want it." Try it out sometime in a chinatown somewhere. They will both get the picture and be stunned that you spoke Chinese :)
Moral of the story: let's all say booyow to Chinese gifts and hello to the inappropriate Christmas movie of the year. Ideas anyone?
Love, Jenna

Life-Affirming Dream

2011-12-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to me!

I just woke up from the most life-affirming dream! Maybe I've been watching too much holiday-themed Lifetime television for women, but...in my dream sequence...

I was sitting at a happy gathering of all of my family members, maybe a holiday party or a birthday party. Greg and our kids were there, as were my in-laws, and (wait for it!) so were my "new" dream mother- and sister-in-law.

Apparently, all four of my parents had cohesively arranged a new marriage for me--honestly, the one I kind of always expected myself to have in my deepest inner conscience, if I'm being totally honest.

The dream mother- and sister-in-law were impeccably dresssed and well-mannered and friendly enough, interacting, if minimally, with my strange (real-life) family. (No offense!) I recall the dream mother-in-law watching Grandma Becky cuddle Brooke and saying, "The children do like to be touched a lot. It's a good thing that you'll only be a few hours away from your family."

It seemed that I had been re-married off to some "J-named" (fuzzy on the details there) husband who was handsome and successful (according to dream in-laws, but too busy to come and pick me and the kids up). My parents were accepting of this arrangement, although they were sad that the girls and I would be moving away. It was, after all, the situation they had always imagined for me.

The dream in-laws and the real-life family members and I looked over paperwork about the dream house that we'd be moving into with dream future husband. It was magnificent, water-front (I think on a tributary river to the Bay), and had a $10,000 master suite with black-out curtains. I know this because the dream family's realtor was, for some reason, on hand to discuss the details of the house with all of us. Greg and I linked hands as we watched this presentation, as if even he, too, supported this move.

I would be allowed to see Greg when I wanted to, and he'd be able to visit the kids. I remember feeling relieved that I'd still be able to know him (and to love him), although I feared that he'd eventually move on and fall in love with someone else...as I knew he had the right to do. And I felt guilty about divorcing again and then being unfaithful to dream future husband--even if he knew about it and pre-approved the situation.

Dream mother-in-law handed me a folded up paper with my dream new married name on it, "Aubrey Something-Starting-With-A-'D.'" It was a volunteer sign-up sheet, and I'd been signed up to make banana nut muffins for some future charitable event. I felt a vague sense of confidence, as I knew that I can make banana nut muffins well; I could make my dream family proud. Greg always liked my banana nut muffins...

(Gnawing sense of despair.) And then I woke up with a headache and a churning stomach.

Why am I happy with this dream/nightmare? Because it has been re-affirmed that I'm where I should be! Even if it's not where I thought I'd be--or where my parents might have put me if they'd had been in control of my destiny--even if it's not in a water-front mansion with a mega-rich family and a hot-shot businessman husband--I'm where I belong. I'm in the home of my heart's desire, with the imperfect, wonderful man of my literal dreams.

In the face of being given the choice to transport myself and my girls (with everyone's blessing, including Greg's and without even having to give him up entirely) into my subconscious' reckoning of the PERFECT life of over-the-top luxury, absolutely no worries, and--my Achille's heel--complete parental approval, I was sickened. I dreaded leaving my marriage with Greg.

This may be a dramatic oversharing. You may feel sad that I react so happily to this kind-of random form of affirmation. But marriage is hard. I don't necessarily feel every day that our marriage is ideal. Sometimes I wonder... ***especially after a night with the in-laws that involved them being two hours late*** And, I am always ultimately reminded that this is meant to be. Not meant to be perfect. But it's meant to be mine.

And that is what it's all about, isn't it?

OMG! Someboday Stop Me-- I Am The Anti-Christmas-Gift B*tch

2011-11-27T19:38:00.000-08:00

I just closed a email response to all of my family members with this:

"Love (and respect, even if it doesn't come across in this tirade),
Clearly Freaking Insane Aubrey"

Never good. Never good.

It was in response to a "Christmas 2011" (are-we-exchanging-gifts-this-year) email...that is a dead-ringer for the "Christmas 2010" one and the "Christmas 2009" one...ad nauseum. I'm not sure about your extended family, but here's the thing about ours, while we love each other and have a really nice time spending Christmas together, that's about the extent of our cuddly togetherness time. So it is really impossible to know what meaningful and useful item to give a person that you don't really know on a deeper-than-superficial-level.

If a gift isn't personal, I don't really get the point. Isn't it just a mindless, heartless exchange? (Been accused of that one in the past, too...) Various people in my various family groups love, love, love giving and receiving gifts. To them, that's Christmas: There is an expression of love in the act of giving--even if it is a random token gift...that's probably been made in China...and may or may not be bacon strip band-aids or fart-flavored tootpaste...

To me, and call me cheap or Scroogey if you must, but Christmas is about spending time with the ones that you love (the ones that you maybe don't get to spend enough time with the rest of the year) and, well, hello!, Christ. I love the decorations, the music, the food, the fireplace, and the movies. I do! I really love Christmas...the spirit of it, the stories that go along with it, and of course the traditions--with the marked exception of superfluous gift-giving for the sake of gift-giving.

Is anybody with me? Or do I stand alone in my disgust for Black Friday's consumer frenzy? Do I stand alone wishing that preparing for Christmas involved something more genuine than purchasing STUFF? I feel dirty making a "Christmas list" or shopping for trinkets when so many go hungry or are cold...or are lacking the most basic essentials. It feels so wrong to me.

And yet, I feel very much like "Clearly Freaking Insane Aubrey," as the rest of the world bustles past me with bags busting with stuff....like I'm the crazy one...

I Have an Idea...Is it Stupid?

2011-11-01T14:31:00.000-07:00

It is no secret that I spend a lot of time fantasizing about doing something (beyond my house) that is good and important and fulfilling and respectable and also gainful monetarily.

As soon as our house was painted, clean, and unpacked, I started looking for work-at-home opportunities again. It's an addiction.

I realized that I don't just want to do something that makes us some extra money...although some extra money would be really, really nice. It has to be something that is "overall good." (Darn it, that rules out street walking!) I want to do something that is enjoyable for me and also provides a benefit to others. Since I don't have the ability to do a large animal rescue (which would be the ultimate!) because of liability issues, I was thinking of helping other moms. Back to the "MOMGLOMERATE" ideal.

These are tough times for families...parents, children, pets...and we need to band together to make it through (and come out better for it!). I was thinking of some sort of "swap shop" where families can bring any sort of home goods that they aren't using or have outgrown and receive credits to shop for new things. Less consignment store and more not-for-profit in nature. It would be eco-friendly and community-friendly. If it had a sort of boutiquey, high-end feel, it would be a comfortable environment for any shopper.

Is this a stupid idealist sort of idea? Does it already exist? I do know that some women do clothing swaps with groups of friends a couple of times a year... Hmmmm.

Glue Guns, Rice Crispy Cereal, Orange Food Coloring, and SUGAR: Happy Halloween!

2011-11-01T13:56:00.000-07:00

How was your Halloween weekend? Ours was jam-packed full of festive festivities: finishing the fish/fishbowl/fish store employee IDs for Brooke, Alyssa, me, and Greg, respectively; making orange-tinted Rice Crispy holiday figurines like they do on the television commercial; playing in the SNOW?!; carving pumpkins; roasting pumpkin seeds; having a Halloween dinner fiesta complete with Mexican food (Dia de los Muertes), Halloween tunes, Halloween plates, and Halloween sprinkles for our applesauce; and of course, trick-or-treating.

We were making memories, my friends. Mostly good ones...but a few crazy, frantic ones mixed in to be sure.

As I type this, both kids are taking naps (shocking! rare! fantastic!!), clearly hung over from our busy schedule of memory-making and from trick-or-treating gluttony.

How were your memories? What was your ratio of good:bad? Hope it was happy overall :-)

(That last line should be my motto for motherhood/life in general...Stop expecting things to be perfect/trying to make things perfect/trying to be perfect, and just shoot for "happy overall.")

New House, New Rule? (And, a Special Sidenote: Unfazed by Feces)

2011-10-30T14:52:00.000-07:00

Well, we have finally moved into our new house! Yay!!

All of the months and months of planning and preparation...finding all of the most eco-friendly, green sourced, recycled, renewable, sustainable, chemical-free, indoor air quality boosting materials...led up to this great house, which we are now enjoying.

This tree-hugging behavior of mine has been ingrained in me: my dad didn't like for me to waste water by flushing the toilet too often or running water while I was brushing my teeth; my mom has always been very eco-conscious, composting in her garden; my step-dad has been an organic fanatic since way before it was cool.

I have always been taught to recycle as much as possible, and for years have been trying to use as much organic food as possible. In more recent years, I have decided to forgo chemical cleansers and fragrances. I drive a hybrid car.

And, as we spent so much time trying to keep toxins out of our house structure throughout the build and out of our bodies all of the time, I didn't think it would come as too much of a shock when we instituted a no-shoe rule in our new house--our untainted space! Most of our guests in the first weeks were our subcontractors, who were burly and in and out of the house a bazillion times a day; they didn't bat an eye at leaving their boots at the door time after time. Our contractor removed his shoes before he entered without being asked. Our foreman and coordinator did the same. Our friends removed their shoes without batting an eyelash--several of them have no-shoe rules in their homes, and another was a nanny in Hawaii where it is customary to leave shoes at the door.

The no-shoe rule transition was going quite swimmingly until I asked my dad to remove his shoes. He blindsided me by becoming really angry, as if I was being super-rude by requesting this. He questioned my motivation to institute the rule--as if it were something like, I don't want you to sully the white carpets (we don't even have any carpet, and our rugs are all quite old...and not in an expensive antique kind of way). When I responded that it was a concern for chemicals and toxins (solvents, gasoline, exhaust debris, pesticides/herbicides, germs) and not dirt that I was concerned about, he said under his breath that this was ridiculous since I have dogs in my house (who do sometimes do the old butt-surfing-on-the-carpet thing, in his defense--I'm trying to stand in his socks for a moment, here.)

Is it really too much to ask for guests to remove their shoes? Is it rude? I am just really shocked by the reaction and wondering if I've finally gone too far with my desire to have an eco-friendly family home...

And, on another tangent of this situation, is it normal for a mom (of human- and fur-babies) to become so un-fazed by feces that a dog dragging its butt on the carpet doesn't seem nearly as gross as chemical solvents and lead dust transferring from shoes to the floor?? It is also important to note, on the subject of feces and my relationship with it, that I also have horses who poop, stand in poop, and roll in poop, so in addition to wiping poopy butts, dealing with poopy diapers, and collecting dog poop, I also pick poop out of hooves, pitchfork it off the ground, and brush it out of horse fur. That is a lot of poop, people, so it is true: a few microbes of poop transferring from a semi-clean dog butt onto my (again, not priceless) area rug, just doesn't get me that worked up at this point...

Long story very short (don't you wish you could've just started here?): I think poop is way less yucky than chemicals. Period.

I'd love to hear what you guys think!

Bits of Funny from Assassination Vacation (by Sarah Vowell)

2011-09-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

"There is no evidence of its past charm," announces Bennett. Barren and blank, it has what he accurately describes as "an Eastern bloc vibe." A bland concrete hotel that looks like a Soviet apartment building (and not in a good way) hovers over a boardwalk scattered with benches, also concrete, which sounds cordial enough, except these benches, also concrete, look like you are supposed to rest on them on the walk home from standing in a nine-hour bread line while being tailed by the KGB."

"He [the author's 3-year-old nephew, Owen] means tombstones," I told her. "When you were off parking the car at the cemetery in Cleveland, Owen and I walked around looking for John Hay's grave. Owen climbed on top of it and hollered, 'This is a nice Halloween park!' "(That's what he calls cemeteries.)"

"Owen is the most Hitchcockian preschooler I ever met. He's three. He knows maybe ninety words and one of them is "crypt"?"

Shockingly Funny: The Book, Assasination Vacation, by Sarah Vowell

2011-09-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

To say that I love to read would be a complete understatement. I am obsessed with reading. There is just something about escaping into other people's writing... Obviously, you guys get it, because you like to read blogs. (Thanks again!)

I pretty much enjoy everything that I read in one way or another. To me, reading is like eating--all foods have their place. Sometimes I desire a cheap-o, preservative-laden, orange cheese-y Cheetos puff with the same voracity that I might crave a perfectly marbled, finely prepared fillet mignon. Don't scoff! You know you like Cheetos, too!!

Anyway~I recently saw a random book lying on my mom's bedspread. I had no idea where it came from, whose it was (except that it sure wasn't mine)... It's topic--presidential assassination--wasn't even of initial interest to me, or seemingly anyone in our household. Buuuut, it did have pages...with words written on them, and so I picked it up and begin to read it. Finders keepers, losers weepers.

This book is "[p]art history lesson, part hilarious travelogue," according to one reviewer, Elissa Schappell of Vanity Fair. The author is obsessed with dead presidents and basically goes on pilgrimages to visit the locations of various presidential assassinations and subsequent memorials. Sounds hysterical, right? But, it so is!! She discusses the friends and family members that she ropes into these journeys and the people that she meets along the way, and her sense of humor is just perfect. Her enthusiasm for the subject, and especially the witty, pithy way that she describes both historical information and the details of her trips makes this book so, so funny.

Sarah Vowell, as a writer, is such an inspiration to me. Her passion for the subject on which she writes is not unlike mine here on this little bloggy. I can only hope to make you laugh the way she made me laugh...and to think of things in a new light as this book made me do. Presentation really is everything: If you can entertain as you instruct or inform or impart, you really have done a great service to others.

I'm so glad that I found that book! I still wonder how it got there...? Such an inspiring little nugget of good writing, right when I needed it... Very mysterious indeed.

Grand Gestures Are Overrated

2011-09-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

Some women (and men) crave grand romantic gestures: dozens of red roses, champagne, stretch limousines, gourmet dinners eaten by candlelight, bedspreads covered in flower petals, sky-writing, Jumbotron proposals, and so on and so forth. Call me low-maintenance, but what really gets me are the simple gestures of love and partnership. Case in point, in our household, nothing is more of a turn-on to me than waking up to an unstacked dishwasher and a hastily scrawled note: "Already fed the CAT! Love you."

Back off ladies!! He's mine, all mine. ;-)

But seriously. I cherish that note, written on a scrap of recyclable paper sitting on top of the dog's crate. That is REAL love. Just like the note I received almost four years ago (just before our wedding) that said, in foam kids shower-wall letters sticking on the wall of my shower: CANT WAIT 2 WED U.

Well, today, I'd marry him all over again!

(...He doesn't even like the cat!)

Needles on Beaches and Whiskers on Kittens!! My Parents Are Celebrities!

2011-09-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

Please visit this link to an article that features a picture of my mom, Beth Yost, and quotes http://www.wboc.com/story/15516126/needles-on-beaches.

Why Am I Applying for Jobs When I'm Double-Booked for the Next EIGHTEEN ODD YEARS??

2011-09-21T09:03:00.000-07:00

Someone call Dr. Phil--and Debi Pearl--STAT!

All moms work 24/7, whether they stay at home or have jobs outside of the home. It is, I'd wager, the hardest job and also the most rewarding. (I feel more like Oprah, right now, than Debi or Phil....but O.W. is off the air, and therefore, no longer able to assist me.)

It logically follows that, since I'm a mom, I, too, am working around the clock for my family in one way or another. What I do has value. It is not easy raising kids well, especially if they are BROOKE. I have little to no "down time." Why is it then, that I have been applying for jobs lately?

Count 'em: I have applied for two transcribing jobs, one editing job (for an erotic novel, no less!), and one job as a part-time support instructor at Alyssa's school. (All over the proverbial map, no?) It should be noted that I have heard nothing back from any, but still... I'm basically applying for positions that I cannot possibly fill. Who is going to wrangle Brooke-the-destroyer while I'm working? Who will drop off and pick up Alyssa...and volunteer in her classroom in between?

The sickest part is that I'm disappointed that I'm not getting calls for these jobs, even though I'd be in serious trouble if I did get a call back for an interview. What is wrong with me???

I clearly have a raging guilt-complex about staying home and thusly not "contributing" to the family funds, that's what's freaking wrong with me! I value the hard work of all mothers...unless that mother is me, it would seem... :-( I'm losing my marbles, here.

Does anyone else make a hobby of applying for jobs that are untenable? Is there a scientific name for this sickness yet? How many steps away am I from making up a 22-year-old, Harvard-educated, double D, single, childless pseudo-me on eHarmony and fake dating?

It is a slippery slope. S C A R Y.

A Hair Off Plumb

2011-09-19T11:48:00.000-07:00

Well, it's official: Pretty much my whole home-to-be is now painted yellow; and if a yellow house is a crazy house, then ours is going to be committed!!

At first, it is a little bit shocking. I'll give you that. But~ it is a very pretty, very unique, and very cheerful color. I think that a little extra dose (or SO) of sunshine could do everyone* in my family some good! *Especially me in the winter...I am such a seasonal affect dysphoric disorder poster-child!

Today the hardwood floors arrived to acclimate to our house. They are GORGEOUS! reclaimed red oak barn flooring, complete with knots, swirls, and worm holes. I am thrilled with them; to me, they are the highlight of the house. They will give our brand-spanking-new house some much needed homey character and charm.

I can tell that some of the guys who are working on the house think that my bubble is a hair off plumb. They are used to working in houses that are painted pristine contractor's white--off-white if the owner is really adventurous. In those houses, if there was an imperfection on the freshly milled and sanded hardwood, it would be a disaster. Here in my house....the world is yellow-licious and the floors are second-hand. I actually got excited about the "worm holes" and other *authentic* dings and patinas from the planks' previous lives as a barn floor.

"Perhaps yellow is the favorite color of insane people," they must be thinking. "And that lady (me!) is exhibit A."

(I am going to try to take pictures and send them to the blog.)

The Nurse Doctor-Sausage-Fingers "Clinical Scenario" Continued

2011-09-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

Today I took Brooke for a follow up at a pediatric ophthalmologist. The doctor and her staff were absolutely lovely. They were--gasp--polite to us! They were also familiar with retinal blastoma and considered our concerns quite reasonable and valid. After all, we are talking about the vision of a CHILD! We spent two hours having a very thorough exam that relieved our fears about retinal blastoma~ but that showed astigmatism. We are due back in a year to begin an early course of treatment for that. (It's not like Brooke's going to wear a pair of glasses...heck, I can't even keep a sunhat--with a chin strap--on her head or shoes--with double knots--on her feet!)

The experience of actually receiving thoughtful, caring service at the ophthalmologist's was a stark contrast to our visit to the ER, where Nurse Doctor-Sausage-Fingers was dismissive and careless. When I was reviewing our discharge summary before taking it along to the ophthalmologist appointment today, I discovered that he simply gave us a templated form for a "WELL BABY EXAM" for "[under 2 years of age]." It was completely impersonal to Brooke and our concerns, and it made no mention of an eye exam at all. Nothing about red reflexes, tracking, alignment, anything! To my surprise, the packet also contained an x-ray of a joint. Brooke, obviously, did not get an x-ray during her so-called "eye exam." No...It was another patient's x-ray! The page contained her name, birthdate, and account number (in addition to a lovely picture of her fractured joint, of course). Hello, HIPAA, anyone??

So, I await a bill in the mail from the Emergency Room for their *awesome* services. I'm sure it will be jaw-dropping. And, maybe, instead of paying it, I will (as my mom suggested after a glass of her "special water," I'm guessing) write on it: "NOT PAYING. DID NOT DO SQUAT." Perhaps I will accompany my unpaid bill with a formal complaint letter...and a carbon copy of the letter that I send to x-ray lady, whose protected health information I am now privvy to thanks to carelessness in the ER.

I get that the ER is a tough place to work. I understand that people probably come in there all of the time faking injury/illness to score prescription drugs. But honestly people, let's do a little profiling: when a panicky mother comes in with a squirmy 16-month-old at naptime requesting treatment (after being referred by another doctor, mind you), I doubt she is trying to buck the system to get a fix! Did they think that I brought her in there for attention? For my health? Because I had money burning a hole in my pocket? Because maybe, just maybe they were going to prescribe my 20-pound freaking baby Percocets, steroids, Oxycodone, Valium, or Xanax?? I think no-ot! Trust me: IT WOULDN'T BE NEARLY WORTH THE TROUBLE OF WRANGLING AN OVERLY-TIRED BABY-MONSTER FOR 3 HOURS IN A GERM-INFESTED CUBICLE FILLED WITH SHARP AND POINTY "DANGER!" BREAKABLES TO SCORE SOME BLANKITY-BLANK DRUGS. (Yes, ALL CAPS!)

Dr. CRNP? Paging Dr. Holler? Hmmm...

2011-09-11T20:05:00.000-07:00

Ok. Here's what the research says about my Dr. Sausage-Fingers internal dilemma: While it is possible that "Doctor" Sausage-Fingers has a PhD...as I could obtain a Doctoral degree after a Master's degree in English to become a professor, "Dr. Holler"-style...he is not a Medical Doctor, which makes his "Doctor" nomenclature kind of misleading in his position within the medical field. So, it is likely that Dr. Sausage-Fingers calls himself Dr. Sausage-Fingers in order to command more respect from patients. Maybe he thinks we would think less of him if he called himself Nurse Sausage-Fingers. Maybe he watched the Focker movies and was traumatized by George Burns' treatment of Gaylord "Greg" Focker, the male nurse.

The bottom line: I am no closer to knowing the truth about the state of Doctor Sausage-Fingers doctoriness. Maybe Dr. Sausage Fingers has a PhD--and a right to the title of "Doctor." Or maybe he just prefers the sound of his name with Doctor in front of it. It's a crap shoot.

What do I know for sure? Well, I know that I used the word "maybe" a lot of times in this post. I also know that I would sure like to be "Doctor Holler" someday. Paging Dr. Holler. Are you in Dr. Holler's class this semester? Pause. *Repeating mentally.* That is actually the worst Doctor name ever! Doctor Holler?!...that is like Doctor Pain...or Doctor Love. It's like a bad joke. Students would make a mockery of me (even moreso than poor Nurse Focker).

Life's dreams...up in smoke. Thanks a lot Greg. (Greg Holler, that is. Not Greg Focker.)

Diary of a Wimpy Rider

2011-09-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

I have been riding horses since I was five years old. From the time I stepped foot in a stirrup, it was clear that I was meant to move on four legs, not my own two. For me, riding was instinctive: my instructors told my mother that I was a natural. Everyone just sort of knew and accepted--some grudgingly, some fearfully, and some proudly--that I was born to ride.

From that young age, I was fearless. I rode full-sized horses--fiery, flighty Saddlebreds, no less--in the beginning. Later, I began to ride horses and ponies over fences at a hunter stable. I acquired my first horse at the age of eight, an adopted Mustang named Wildfire--appropriately. My parents rethought that decision when 1,000 pound Wildfire took off with 75 pound me around our farm as they stood by/ran after helplessly, and that's when Zephyr came into the picture. Zephyr was an athletic and spirited (but very kind-hearted in a gruff, manly sort of way) Connemara pony, and we raced around the farm and over tall jumps in....I'm not going to go so far as to call it a controlled way, but...a way that I was comfortable with at the time. I was so confident when I rode Zephyr: I never had a worry about him missing a stride or refusing a jump. With him, I was bulletproof.

As an adult, with brittle bones, more experience, and infinitely more to lose upon injury/death, I am becoming a wimpier rider. Every time I ride, I do so with the knowledge that this one could be my last--and though I guess it is healthy to grip reality in this way and calculate my risks, it also takes something fundamental away from the experience. I can't lose myself fully in a rip-tearing gallop the way I did with Zephyr day-after-day: I now wonder if there are holes or rocks in my path, I wonder if Finn will get hurt, I wonder if I will fall, and I wonder if it is worth these risks to let loose. So I rarely do.

In fact, the last time I galloped until I was exhilarated and couldn't see a thing through the tears of joy (and wind-sheer) streaming down my face, I did so on a borrowed horse (thank you sincerely, Melvin)--and it was (a.) half an accident, as I believed Melvin to be the slowest horse in the world, and (b.) before I met Greg, and (c.) years before I had Brooke.

I value my life, and my horse, and both of our soundness so much now--I am acutely aware that he is the past, present, and future of my riding life. He is my equine soulmate, I am quite lucky to say, and I fear injuring him because I am not certain that I'd want to ride another horse at this point--I mean really ride. I trust my horse. He takes care of me. We understand each other, and partnering with him is a calculated risk that is still worthwhile. He is my "me time." Sitting on his back, I am graceful and daring and confident and happy and myself in a way that I cannnot achieve independently. He is kind and gentle with my little children. He understands our situation and his role in it.

So, now that you understand my crazy adoration and dependence on this horse...which borders on insanity and is certainly way past obsessive...I tell you that his back has been sore. I have been riding him regularly, if not intensely, all summer, and recently I began jumping him again. It seems that he may not have been fit enough to hit the course with as much gusto as I did-- But what can I say in my defense? He is so fun to jump, that I have trouble controlling my urge to jump everything in sight (a couple of times!). I feel terrible for being inconsiderate to him now, of course. I have been stretching him, massaging him, doing acupressure on him....giving him baths with liniment. I have given him days off, but still I can tell that he is sore.

I have a show planned for September 17 as my birthday present to myself. I wonder if I should take him, or if I'm being selfish?

Somewhere even deeper inside my consciousness: I wonder if I'm just being wimpy?

WebMD or Real M.D. or Neither?

2011-09-10T14:17:00.000-07:00

When I was trying to get pregnant with Brooke, my friend, Laura, made me promise to quit Googling or WebMDing (I am taking artistic license to make these verbs) physical conditions. It was becoming an unhealthy habit to say the very least. Thankfully, I managed to curb my addiction to random and useless self-diagnosis... Yep, I left that up to the professionals who had us spend thousands and thousands of dollars to bypass our 99.9% infertility rate and help us conceive. (We underwent months of cycle-charting, pill-taking, failed IUIs, hormone protocols--shots!!, and failed IVF, only to conceive Brooke naturally after we were told it was impossible. In yo' faces doctors!! *with all due respect, of course*)

Wow, that was the longest lead in ever... Anyway, today WebMD reared its ugly head again, only this time, I was not the sole perpetrator. Here's what happened: Brooke has, in the past few weeks, begun to "watch" Baby Einstein developmental DVDs for about three point five minutes at a time. She looked so cute this morning, propped against a "husband" pillow, cuddling her "ni-night" blankey, watching her DVD like a big girl. So cute, in fact, that my mom--Brooke's "BeeBee"--had to take her picture. The resulting image on the iPhone showed a white reflection on Brooke's right pupil.

Mass hysteria ensued, as my mom recalled reading an article on WebMD about infantile retinal blastoma (cancer of the retina), the main symptom of which is this weird reaction to flash photography, as the light bounces off the irregularity in the inner eye. (The fact that my mom remembered this random medical factoid was in itself disconcerting, since she can rarely recall what she ate the previous meal...or what she was going to say when she decided to call...etcetera.) So, we did what any loving guardian with internet access would do: we Googled the heck out of it.

A number of frighteningly serious, scholarly medical articles confirmed her concerns. Retinal blastoma is usually diagnosed in children under the age of 2 (Brooke is 16 months), it will cause a white distortion on photographs where red-eye is often an issue, and it is often accompanied by fever (Brooke's had a bit of a fever for a few days). So, I began to call every local eye doctor listed in the phone book; since it is Saturday, however, few were in. Of those offices that were open, some had no doctor on duty, some were double-booked, some didn't see patients as young as Brooke... Finally, I found a place with a pediatric specialist in the office: he told us to take Brooke straight to the emergency room.

I had it together enough to pack books, diapers, a drink, and some snacks for Brooke, and off we went to the ER. Upon arrival, I realized that I had forgotten my purse--which obviously contains my wallet and insurance cards. We had to double-back home to collect that. Upon our second arrival to the ER, we were checked in and taken directly to an exam room. Thank Goodness, right?

I was telling my mom how lucky we were to be seen so quickly and joked about how the one time when I was prepared for the long haul was the one time that it wasn't going to be a torturous wait. Guess again. Almost three hours later (three hours trapped in a 10 x 10 room filled with medical equipment and a hospital bed and a germy, germy floor...with Brooke and some books and snacks), a CRNP--not an MD--who had an immediately dislikeable nature came in. By this point, Brooke was beyond control...as in, I could barely hold on to her, let alone subdue her and restrain her in such a way that a person could peer intelligibly into her pupils with a minute flashlight.

He performed an eye exam that my 7-year-old could have come up with and basically disregarded our photograph, our WebMD information, and our referral from the pediatric eye doctor. From his 30-second exam on my highly uncooperative toddler, he was convinced that she was fine...and seemingly from his tone and commentary, that we (her guardians) were completely nutters. "So there was no trauma to the eye? And, she hasn't been presenting any symptoms?" he said. "And you brought her to the ER because she took a bad photo?" he implied very clearly without saying a word. Needless to say, our protests about our online searches made us seem even nuttier...as for our pleading at him to look at the photo? Well, we seemed completely wackadoo in the face of his resolute scientific physical proof burden. Even we could tell that we seemed loco.

All we managed to successfully impart--that seemed to matter a whit to him--was that a doctor had told us to bring her directly to the ER. But apparently he was an optometrist and not an ophthalmologist, so we were still screwed. Nevertheless, he grudgingly agreed to call the place to speak to the "doctor" to find out what had had him concerned enough to send us to the hospital. It seemed that he was doing it because we were crazy, and he was maybe a teensie bit scared of us... Too bad the office was now closed. Saturday!!

Crazy BeeBee went on the warpath. She wanted to break every one of our non-doctors sausage-like fingers off (and this was an exact quote). So, she marched right up to non-doctor-sausage-fingers' desk, and she told him to look up retinal blastoma for himself. He explained to her in his soothing, calming, patient voice reserved for crazy people in the ER that he had very sophisticated software for cross-referencing systems, and she told him to shove his system up his behind and GOOGLE IT! (Only in nicer language, I'm guessing. I wasn't there. I was in our exam cage trying to subdue our irate little patient.) Now definitely very afraid of BeeBee, he did indeed Google our condition. He was suitably concerned by it that he called the on-call ophthalmologist. (All along there was an on-call ophthalmologist, yes.) Thank you very much.

After consulting with the on-call doctor and doing some more examination, he did not think that the symptoms matched retinal blastoma THANKFULLY! He thanked us for giving him the opportunity to learn something new and encouraged us to get a second opinion from an expert on Monday. And, so, we were discharged. We were extremely relieved, and we appreciated that he finally took the time to listen to what we had to say instead of dismissing us willy-nilly, but we still decided that he was not our favorite non-doctor. And his fingers really did look sausage-y.

So, chalk one up for WebMD.

Kind of.

But just one.

**Update: I am feeling guilty about calling our ER medical professional a "non-doctor" today. I don't want to be mean or catty, I suppose I was just a little overly emotional at the time of writing this, and I guess my Mama Bear claws came out a little. Or a lot. However, upon further investigation, it is now clear that Mister Sausage-Fingers was actually a resident CRNP (certified registered nurse practitioner). Not only, therefore, is he not an M.D., he is still a resident C.R.N.P. He called himself "Dr. _________." Is that kosher? Is a CRNP to be referred to as "Dr. __________?" Can anyone elucidate?

**Second update: Again, I don't mean to disrespect Mr. Sausage-Fingers. Truly. Even if he is only a resident CRNP. He has a lot more education (specifically in the medical specialty) than I do. I am actually quite jealous of his level of expertise. I just really didn't enjoy his company in the ER yesterday...especially if he was calling himself "Doctor" without justification. Because that would just be ever-so irksome.

For Kateri: Another Public Potty Misadventure (...You Guys Can Read It Too)

2011-09-09T17:36:00.000-07:00

So, about three months ago, I went antiquing with my mom. I found myself in desperate need of a bathroom (soda induced pee emergency, thankfully), while she was desperately in love with an old glass buoy and net... I wanted to leave the store and book it home, but she loved this thing, and she was determined to find out how much it cost and hopefully purchase it. The shop owners were busy ringing out and helping other customers, so I faced the music, handed Brooke to my mom, and went in search of the antique shop's quaint little antique bathroom.

And not to be disappointed! This public bathroom was pretty cute and super-old, tucked into the space beneath the stairs. It had a decrepit, miniature toilet--the kind with the (unsanitary) wooden seat--and a the tiniest porcelain sink that I'd ever seen. The room also featured hand-stenciling along the top of its bead-boarded walls.

I used the bathroom (#1 only) and used a modest amount of t.p.

I flushed.

The water in the toilet rose...AND ROSE....AND ROSE...and toilet paper shreds began to explode from the drain of the toilet like sewage seaweed. PANIC!! Nightmare!! The water began to overflow the toilet bowl and cascade onto the floor! A noisy waterfall of filthy torrents!

In a state of shock, I reached my bare hand into the toilet--I didn't know what else to do and was spazzing--and grabbed this huge wad of sodden t.p. that the toilet drain had regurgitated... I threw it into the trash... I tried opening the back of the toilet and jiggling the mechanisms. After what seemed like an eternity, the toilet finally ceased its geyser impression, but the damage was done. The whole ENTIRE floor was covered in toilet water.

I used paper towels and t.p. to try to sop up the mess and got the whole place reasonably clean--if you consider toilet water to be an acceptable cleaning agent, I guess. Upon closer inspection, as I dried it, I noticed that the flooring appeared to be water-damaged and warped.

I can only hope that this indicates that I'm not the first person to flood the bathroom!!

Humilated and with skin damp with toilet water, I left the bathroom, my dignity shredded like the toilet paper that gurgled out of the toilet. As I said, the evil potty had ceased its attack. The floor was reasonably dry. I am ashamed to admit that I didn't notify the gentleman who seemed to own the store of my mishap, but I was just too mortified. My mom bought the antique buoy...so at least one of us did something positive for the store during our visit to make up for my inadvertent vandalization...

When we got to the car, I scrubbed my hands with antibacterial gel and baby wipes out, out darned spot-style. YUUUCK... I still feel dirty. Stupid old toilet! (One time when you definitely don't appreciate an antique, right?)

Confusion: My BAD!

2011-09-09T17:21:00.000-07:00

Guys, I was adding tags to some old posts, and they got scooted up to the present and reposted as "edited" posts. I'm sorry!

She Works Hard for Her Money

2011-09-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

Momglomerate readers, I know that I have been posting much less prolifically lately, and for this I do apologize.

Oh, how I love this blog! Unfortunately, while I enjoy writing my posts, and am just ecstatic with the increasing readership, I am not finding the blogging to be very lucrative at this early stage. And by "not very lucrative," I mean not. at. all. lucrative. At all!

So, in order to bring home the eggs to go with Greg(apostrophe)s proverbial bacon, I am spending less time blogging and more time working (...on things that pay more than $18 per six weeks--thank you, Google ads). In addition to trying to keep the house and yard looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens 24-7, I have taken on some editing and typing assignments.

You know how these momglomerates are. Always changing.

I must go now. I need to try to translate the wording on a W-4 (the hardest part about starting a new job; I swear that you need an advanced dual degree in economics and law with a minor in philosophy just to fill out one of these darned worksheets correctly!) Then I need to photocopy my passport photo to prove that I am a citizen of the USA. Then I need to do some laundry, followed by a bout of serious weed killing--using vinegar and soap!

Could my day BE any more wildly-varied and exciting?? What did YOU do today? Haha :-)