Partly Sunny, Chance of Rain

Pain, Pain, Go Away

2012-01-05T13:53:00.000-08:00

So two weeks ago, I was rear ended by a drunk driver (sorry -- timeliness has never been one of my strong suits).


My poor little hybrid

Actually, she wasn't a "drunk" driver. Turns out she was on a bunch of prescription drugs. Which makes more sense, seeing as it was 9:30 in the morning. As my husband says, you have to try really hard to be wasted and driving at 9:30 in the morning. But still, what the hell she was doing/thinking/not thinking is a mystery. And she's pretty frickin' lucky she didn't kill anybody. At least in the literal sense. . .

Because now, I'm a disaster. I feel like people have been hitting me with baseball bats. I can't seem to get my pain under control. I don't sleep unless I take something to make me sleep. And yesterday when I got home from the chiropractor (which is basically where I spend half my life), I was actually lying on my bed considering the idea that death probably wasn't going to come fast enough for me. That's not so good.

The thing is, I've been dealing with chronic pain for seventeen years. And it's had its ups and downs. Major downs, to be sure. I remember after my daughter was born and my atypical facial pain was completely out of control. I had to stop breast feeding her so we could try some anti-seizure meds to calm it down. But the meds made me feel like I was in a waking coma. I was so tired that I couldn't do anything -- even lie there and watch TV. But I was awake enough that I couldn't sleep. It was mini-torture (I say "mini" because it still wasn't Egyptian police station torture -- let's be fair). Watching the world go on around you and not being able to participate -- holding the kids, having extended conversations, even doing dishes -- is maddening. Oh, and still being in pain. Awesome.

But I finally figured out the right meds and the right amounts and got to the point of life being "doable." The last few years, I've been relatively good. Good enough that I've even considered trying to make my other blog, World's Worst Moms, an actual business. Which is amazing because I haven't had a job of any kind since the '90s.

And then I had my epiphany a couple of months ago that I've told everyone a shocking small amount about, given my excitement level -- I want to start a doll company. I am so into this. I don't think I've ever been able to see anything with so much clarity. It's actually creepy.

And now. . . I'm feeling completely derailed. For almost twenty years, I've had to wake up and push through my day. Now I feel like I'm crawling on my hands and knees, clawing at it with bloody fingernails. Last night, I almost starting crying because it hurt so bad to stand at the sink and do dishes. I mean, come on. . .

I'm just scared shitless that this is going to be "it." That we've used up all the magic tricks and there's no where else to go. And I can. not. handle. that.

The thing is, I think I've been a pretty good little trooper. I think I've done pretty well with what life's dealt me. I've really tried to not complain all the time and to make my kids' lives as good as possible and to do as much stuff as I could whenever I could. So I just don't know how much more I can buck up. I'm trying. But I just don't know how much more I can buck up.

A friend of mine sent me an article about choosing a word at the beginning of the year to sort of carry you through whatever you'd like to achieve. I keep coming back to "believe." Maybe because I have to believe that everything's going to be okay. And that I'm somehow going to be able to find that thing inside me again that balanced out all the pain the last time. And that my dream isn't even slightly close to dead because this too shall pass.

Because in the words of that creepy guy in Flash Dance (you know, the dancer's boyfriend who was way too old for her and also her boss so really it was wrong on so many levels), "When you give up your dream, you die."

As dismal as things are, checking out like that sounds like a truly terrible way to go.

The New Phone Book's Here! The New Phone Book's Here! No, Wait. It's Just the Holiday Letter.

2011-12-15T10:48:00.000-08:00

Happy Holidays one and all! Time for the yearly letter. For those of you who don't know, this is kind of how I got started with all the blogging stuff. Once a year, I'd send out a snarky little letter about the state of the world -- not much pressure, except for the fact that it was during the holidays, and I'm always sure to put plenty of pressure on myself during the holidays. Then one year, some sadistic jerk said, "It sure would be great if we could read your stuff all the time." And I actually believed him.

It's been something like 18 years since I've been writing these. Much as I'd like to believe I'm not getting old, the evidence is starting to stack up against me. Today while we were watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas, (the good one, not the Jim Carrey version), my 7-year-old daughter asked, "What's that stuff?"

"That's film," I said. "It's what we used to use to take pictures." Now excuse me while I go de-tangle my curly phone cord and buy some correction tape so I can type my Christmas letter.

But onto our year. We have a lot to report. A lot that will shock and awe even those people who would put us in the "close friend" circle on Google+, read this blog, and/or are blood relatives. So here goes. . .

1) We're ditching our house. Yes, that's right. We're so underwater that we finally decided it's absolutely ridiculous to continue pouring money into this sinking ship. If we thought for one second that a) this hadn't been caused by a corrupt banking industry that's been allowed to gamble with our money, destroy the world economy, and face absolutely zero consequences, and b) our government stood even a slight chance of acting with more maturity, intelligence and forethought than my 9-year-old son after he's whacked out from watching too much TV, well then we might reconsider.

So where are we going? Good question. Clearly we'll be renting unless one of us has an unknown, rich, close-to-death relative. I'm thinking adorable house in the cute "old" part of town. My husband, on the other hand, is thinking farm. Which brings us to. . .

2) Tenzin still wants to quit being a doctor and become a gardener. But now he's really getting into it and doing things like building greenhouses that stay warm enough with solar power to grow tomatoes. And speaking of hair-brained schemes. . .

3) We're starting a doll company. Ha ha! Funny. No, seriously. I'm so tired of seeing Barbie et al. running around looking like pole dancers even when they're supposed to be police officers or pediatricians. Clearly there are some kids (and parents) who'd like to play something other than rock star, mini-skirt shopping, or beach party. So stay tuned. Oh, and by the way, we'll need your money.

4) I've become a blogging slacker. I was doing so well for a while. Between this place and World's Worst Moms, I was cranking material out left and right (okay, mostly left). Then after I was struck (or cursed) with dolly inspiration, I completely fell off the wagon. I'm still going to write at Partly Sunny (I can't help myself). But for now, World's Worst Moms is on pause (which is really a bummer because I was just coming up with T-shirt slogans).

5) We still don't have a dog. Since Uno left us in April, we've had moments of "You know..." But nothing's really stuck. Unfortunately, both of our frogs committed suicide by jumping out of their tank and getting lost in the house, so now I think the kids are really jonesing for a pet.

And now it's time for "New Rules" -- our yearly rip-off of Bill Maher. There's just no better way to do this.

• The doll industry needs to stop pretending it's empowering little girls and just admit that it's trying to create future uber-consumers who believe their only true calling in life is to be eye-candy. Writing little blurbs about how the Barbie in the tiger-print mini-dress and platform heels "loves playing tennis, as long as she gets to do it in animal print," frankly doesn't make any girl aspire to be more. On second thought, please keep it on there -- it's helping me teach my daughter about satire.


Courtesy of Mattel

• And while we're on the subject of Barbie. . . any Barbie that attempts to step out of fashion world -- such as this "I Can Be a Baby Sitter" Barbie -- must have the approval of outside consultants before release. Because it's clear no one reviewed baby sitter Barbie since the baby looks like it's malnourished and Barbie has a trigger in her back that makes her shake the baby up and down. Maybe they can just repackage it as, "You Should Call Social Services" Barbie.

• The world needs to stop being "so" 1984. The book, not the music and fashion (although that's not a bad rule either). NPR is reporting the existence of software that allows your computer's camera and microphone to be turned on by an outside source. So theoretically, the government (or anyone else) can spy on you. NPR also did a report on the future of television, wherein your TV will be able to recognize you (versus your neighbor or cat) when you walk into the room, turn on your favorite shows, and then "take note" of when you are and are not paying attention to commericals. This is all just for "fun." Not, of course, to collect data on you in an effort to sell you more crap from China. So in a nutshell, we're all up a creek, sans paddle, with only a shit sandwich. And they forgot the mustard.

• No crazy, right-wing whack jobs named "Elfie" are allowed to run for president or any other major political office for the next 20 years. I can only handle one horrible coincidence in my life at a time (that would be giving my son the blogging name "Newt" -- I apologize if I'm being too cryptic). My only consolation is that I didn't give Tenzin the pseudonym "Mitt." Or "Santorum"(which I wouldn't I have done anyway because who names her husband after body fluids unless she's really, really mad at him).

• Veterans are not allowed to be homeless. Or hungry. Or short on health care. Or unemployed if they need a job. It's bad enough that we find it acceptable to let half the people in this country live below the poverty line. But the ones who go put their asses on the line while we sit in air conditioning and not eat sand? That's not only wrong, it's embarrassing.

• And finally, anyone deciding the fate of social programs in this country is required to live with his/her family on a minimum wage salary during the entire legislative session. Voting to starve the poor and give the rich one more vacation home is so much harder on an empty stomach than a full one.

Have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Fabulous New Year. Dog bless us, everyone.

Fortified with Extra...Estrogen. Why it's Time to Can Most Canned Goods

2011-12-01T14:52:00.001-08:00

And I wonder why I'm never hungry.

So you've probably already heard about this, but if you haven't, I'll just go ahead and be the bearer of bad news. You know all that canned food you bought to get through the apocalypse? Or maybe just so you could make a quick lunch when you forgot it was lunch and the kid was suddenly hungry? Well it's probably going to kill you. Or at the very least, give your daughter boobs when she's ten.

No doubt you've heard of bisphenol A, also known as "BPA." Everyone I know has been diligently trying to avoid it by purchasing BPA-free containers to store food, pack lunches, and carry around drinking water. Well as it turns out, we've sort of been wasting our time because, surprise! It's lining the inside of cans!

That's right. There's a chance that every can of vegetable soup you've ever peeled open (thinking it was so much better than McDonald's) may make it harder for your daughter to have a baby some day. And that organic can of corn you busted out to create a more well-rounded dinner? It may have whacked out your son's memory. And those cans of soda or beer you and your husband drink out of? Cancer. Of course. Because it's always cancer.

I swear, it's getting to the point where the only thing we'll be able to eat is stuff grown in the backyard. And then we'll probably find out the house was built on an old dumping site for melamine.

The Food and Drug Administration says that despite new research showing that a person who eats just one can of soup a day ingests significantly higher amounts of BPA than someone who doesn't, the food from cans is safe. That's right -- the levels are safe. Remain calm. All is well.

Of course, there's no conclusive research linking BPA with any adverse health consequences. Even though it just happens to act like estrogen. Which, if given to humans, just happens to make girls hit puberty much earlier than they normally would. Which, incidentally, sets you up for a whole host of other health issues like heart disease and diabetes. And estrogen also just happens to fuels breast cancer (yes, it probably killed my mother -- so that's nice).

And I know -- correlation does not equal causation. But damn it, I'm just so sick and tired of yet another example of corporate greed. Because make no mistake, that's exactly what this is. Eden Foods, one of very few companies I could find that doesn't use cans lined with BPA, switched way back in 1999 when the owner found out about the potentially harmful effects. There IS a way to can without it. Canners haven't ALWAYS used it. It's just cheaper.

There is absolutely no way the food industry folks are going to make these changes on their own. They flat out deny the problem. The only way anything's going to change is through government intervention (oh, look at me holding my breath) or all of us voting with our wallets.

At our house, we'll be making a lot of soup this winter.

While Mac Was Sleeping

2011-11-26T21:14:00.001-08:00

Although it's true that 99.99 percent of the world doesn't give a damn what I'm doing, it's possible that the cherished few of you who actually keep up with me here or on Facebook are wondering what the hell happened to me. Did I die? Did I just throw in the towel? Did my computer blow up? All totally reasonable conclusions, but the answer was "c."

Yes, my third baby stopped working, and I've been computer-less for an entire week. I figured I'd have some great epiphanies to share with everyone about being more present and engaged or something deep like that, but I'm happy (I guess happy) to report that I'm as equally present and engaged even with a computer screen glued to my face for a good number of hours each day (after all, if I didn't pay some attention to the family, I wouldn't have anything to complain about). The one scary thing I did discover was that my brain is now hardwired to think in Facebook posts.

Anyway, I have mixed feelings about my little cyber vacation. On the one hand, it was a relief to have an excuse not to write, Facebook, or tweet incessantly. On the other, I missed not being able to write anything at all. I have a sappy Thanksgiving/Black Friday blog post about regret -- my grandma loved a certain sweet potato casserole, and I never made for her again before she died. And I never did go buy my mom a digital picture frame even though it was one of the few things she ever mentioned she wanted. So I could hit you all with that sad business. But instead, I'll show you what you missed while my computer was sleeping. . .

If only they'd come by once a week.*

• This time, a whole herd of wild horses ended up not just in our neighborhood, but on our lawn. About a dozen of them. Being the responsible mom that I am, I let the kids get unreasonably close to them until my husband came out and told them to back off so they wouldn't get kicked (the kids, not the horses). I get a little distracted when I'm taking movies.

No, Sarah Palin was not there.*

• We scarred the children for life by taking them out to watch turkeys get slaughtered. I know it's starting to sound like I'm really outdoorsy and rural and farmy with all the horses and the turkeys and whatnot, but I'm really, really not. I've never killed anything, and the fact that I could still eat Thanksgiving dinner after experiencing the whole blood draining, feather plucking, gut cleaning fiasco is really quite astounding. Especially when the smell of chicken being cooked sometimes makes me gag.

• I got crafty. Yes, I. Got crafty. We cored out mini pumpkins and stuck candles in them to decorate the tables (we had sixteen people for Thanksgiving). And then I started acting like someone from one of those blogs that always get tagged on Pinterest, and I made little root people-ish things out of parsnips and peppercorns.

Parsnip Pilgrims*

This is where we went a little bonkers. Someone said, "It would be so funny if we dressed them like Pilgrims." And no, we hadn't been drinking. So my brother-in-law (who is certifiable) made tiny pilgrim hats and outfits out of paper. And then, of course, we made a sign for the Mayflower.

It was all fine and good until today when we decided to use the parsnips in some soup. My husband peeled them, and we discovered the horrible truth -- the pilgrims were racists. Who knew the KKK went back that far.

We really had no choice but to chop them up and serve them for dinner. But we left one to warn the others. Because you should always leave one. . .

"Aw, he looks sad, Mommy."*

Happy Late Thanksgiving everybody. Hope it was a good one.

* I shouldn't HAVE to say it, but all photos are by me, Tammy Soong, a.k.a. PartlySunny. Don't steal. That's so uncool.

Occupy Congress, One Person at a Time

2011-11-18T00:14:00.001-08:00

So I didn't occupy anything today. At least not in the protesting sense. I was too busy figuring out how to make five zillion double-sided, three-hole-punch copies for my kid's teacher. So I suppose I was occupying space in the universe, just maybe not where it was most useful.

Although that's arguable. Here in Reno, the Occupy Movement has taken over the area in front of an abandoned indoor pool. With the exception of camping somewhere in the desert or up in the mountains, you couldn't pick a spot in this town to be less visible. Actually, more people would probably see you in the mountains -- we do like our hiking. . .

It's not that I don't respect our Reno Occupy group's dedication or what it's trying to do. It's just sort of tough to get too excited about it. Not that I wish I were being whacked by the NYPD or getting hit with pepper spray in Seattle. There's a better than average chance that I'd be too chicken to do any of that. But when it comes to "fightin' the power" here, I think we may need to switch gears. Actually, after today's big showing, I think it's time to switch gears everywhere.

You ma'am, are correct.

The people who are going to make the real changes for us and our country are sitting in that big, white, domed building in Washington. So as far as I'm concerned, we need to start occupying them.

I don't mean just a massive occupation of Washington itself (although that's still a good idea). I mean bugging the crap out of every single Congressperson and Senator individually. Where they live, where they work, where they buy their groceries, where they stop for Starbucks. Five-hundred and thirty-five mini-protests that just follow them around incessantly until they actually start doing their jobs.

People who enjoy tormenting preteens

I might feel sort of guilty about doing this sort of thing for about ten seconds if it weren't for people like the crazy anti-abortion activists who do stuff like find the landlord who rents the space for an abortion clinic and then stand outside his sixth-grade daughter's school with graphic pictures of fetuses. I figure if they can do that to a guy who just owns a building, we should be able to call out the people who've actively campaigned to represent us.

Our representatives are like kids in a candy store who've eaten too much sugar and gotten sick but still don't have the strength or maturity to stop themselves. The candy store owner certainly isn't going to try. So we're all going to have to step up and be the parents -- the grown ups -- and tell them the party's over. It was fun while it lasted, but it's time to get home, eat a healthy dinner, and clean up their toys.

Oh, and by the way -- no honey, pizza isn't a vegetable. You need to eat your broccoli.

I'm Mad as Hell, and I'm. . . Just Gonna Write About It!

2011-11-14T13:19:00.001-08:00


The "Scream" Tree

So for about the last 14 hours or so, all I've heard is crap. And I'm just so done. So, so done.

There comes a point where you start to wonder if there are any decent, reasonable people left in the world. If anyone's thinking about their actions and how they'll affect other people. Or if they're just throwin' it out there and seeing what'll stick.

Anyway, if you don't want to hear cussing and what most of you probably consider blasphemy, I'd quit reading here.

• I'm pissed at the drunk driver who killed JK Metzker, a local newscaster who a bunch of my friends know (because I used to be in the news, too). He had a wife and three little kids. And the driver just left him in the street like a dog. Worse than a dog. Decent people stop for dogs.

• I'm pissed at every moronic, bandwagon-jumping twit from Penn State who rioted because their beloved coach got fired for not turning in a rapist. You dumb-ass students are our future. Pull it together.

• I'm pissed at Penn State, the Catholic Church, and every other institution that's covered up a rape or assault of any kind because they care more about the name that gets printed on some god damn letterhead than they do about people.

• I'm pissed at the Pope, who apparently thinks raping kids was normal back in his day. And it's something that doesn't even really fall into the "evil" category. I actually hope there is a god so he can do this guy up the ass when he meets him at the pearly gates. Then he can make a more "up-close and personal" decision about how evil it actually is (hey, I warned you about the blasphemy).

• I'm pissed that a 10-year-old girl in Mexico just had to have a C-section because she came into a hospital with life-threatening complications due to the fact that. . . she was pregnant and ten frickin' years old! And young women can't have abortions unless they can prove they were sexually assaulted! Or they can go to prison! I don't even know where to start because there are so many parts of this story that are wrong!!!

• I'm pissed because in some states, felons apparently have an easier time regaining the right to own a firearm than they do the right to vote. Sometimes they don't even have to do anything at all. Sometimes it's just some paperwork. But hey, NRA, I'm glad you have that awesome philosophy that you're constantly badgering us with about wanting to make sure only law-abiding people get to have guns. Clearly your lobbying efforts are skewing things in the right direction. Nice job. Because guns don't kill people, and all that bullshit.

• And I'm pissed that there's something terrible happening to my friend Kelly, and there's nothing I can do to help.

Argh!!! This has just been the most frustrating day. I know -- I know -- that there are good things happening. I know there are good people out there. But being barraged by this many stand-out stories of pure, unadulterated insanity has just made me. . . insane. And I didn't even include Target deciding to open for Black Friday at midnight on Thanksgiving (not that it's much worse than the idiots who opened their doors at 2 a.m. last year -- Yay employees! Two more hours with family!). I'm already boycotting Walmart. Now where the hell am I supposed to shop?

Okay, I'm done (breathing in, breathing out). And I really do need to get out of here and go to Costco. I just hope they don't do anything to piss me off or we really are going to have to start growing all our own food.

Stay

2011-11-12T22:46:00.001-08:00

I've been sad a lot this week. Some of it has to do with my son, Newt, turning nine years old. All I can think is that nine is half of eighteen, so mathematically speaking, we're half done (although in reality, I'm sure he'll be sick of me long before that). And then there's the guilt. Because like many moms who get annoyed on a regular basis, I constantly fluctuate between wishing the kids would leave me alone and agonizing over the fact that my time with them is quickly slipping away (I'd say all moms do this, not most, but I read certain blogs and am convinced that some people must either be way nicer than I am or on much better meds).

Anyway, what's really got me down this week is my mom. I miss my mom. This is the third birthday Newt will be celebrating without her. He was five when we first heard the news that her cancer was back. I can still remember her, standing in my family room at Newt's party and reassuring my husband and me. I remember what she was wearing. I remember how she looked when we all sang "Happy Birthday" in a whisper because the party wasn't on Newt's actual birth day, so he thought we should sing it "small."

Yesterday, I took the kids to some loud, bouncy, arcade-y place that's meant to torture sane, adult humans. Anyway, as I sat there, waiting for them to finally drop dead from hypoglycemia and fluid loss (I really didn't feed them much in the morning), I watched a grandmother with her grandson. She didn't do anything remarkable that anyone else would've noticed. She just hugged him in a way that my mom would've hugged my kids. And damn. It really hurt.

I don't think I realize how much I block out the fact that my mom is gone until something slaps me in the face like that. I just go along my day, pretending I haven't called her in a while. And then I get some tiny reminder that she'll never be calling me back. She'll never know what an amazing kid Newt's become. She'll never see his comics or hear him sing or read his stories about robots. She'll never come to another birthday party.

And worst of all, Newt will never see her face light up when he walks into a room to let him know that he's the most special boy in the world.

So that's why I'm sad this week. Memories that I assumed would be fading away by now have managed to stay as fresh and vivid as the day they happened. But I'm grateful. I don't want to forget. In many ways, it's the forgetting that makes me saddest of all.

Because really, I don't want her to go away again.

The Sappy Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree (Crying it Out Before the Boy's Ninth Birthday)

2011-11-07T00:40:00.000-08:00

Tonight it dawned on me that Newt, my "little guy," is going to be 9-years-old in less than a week.

Newt was lying on his bed and doing the usual -- drawing comics -- when I had this realization, announced it with a dramatic, "Oh my gosh!" and then proceeded to feign tears into the sweatshirt that I'd pulled up over my eyes.

Elfie, his little sister, immediately alerted him to my distress, and when I looked up to see his face, I knew that Newt and I were screwed. See, we're the sappy ones in the family. If there's a sad, moving, sentimental, patriotic, or just plain beautiful part in a movie, a TV show, or even a commercial, I'll guarantee you that Newt and I are crying at the exact same time.

So when our eyes met tonight and we realized that yes, he was going to be nine, and yes, he was growing up really quickly, and yes, our time together was slipping away faster than we'd realized, the two of us had one of our "moments." He jumped off the bed and into my arms. I caught him and held him tight.

"You know, no matter how old you get, you'll always be my baby. Even when you're all grown up."

I was already tearing up so I knew he was crying into the crook of my neck. He spoke so softly that I was the only other person who could hear him.

"I just always want to be able to jump into your arms."

Photo by PartlySunny

So happy to see you grow. So sad to watch you go.

Mojo on the Run -- Waiting for the Dark Days to Pass

2011-11-02T22:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't been around much in Internet land. Last weekend, I took the kids to Monterey (which was quite the haul in a three-day span). Then they had to do Nevada Day reports (Sarah Winnemucca and the Hoover Dam, if you're just crazy curious). And, of course, there was Halloween. And yes, all of that stuff made me exhausted and frantic and at one point paralyzed by the inability to get anything crossed off of a laughably-long to-do list. But truth be told, the reason for the radio silence? I sort of flipped out and decided to give up on blogging.

I should know from years of experience that these dark moments will pass, but when I'm in them, they really don't feel like they've just stopped by and set up a tent for a few days. They seem more like they're building a four bedroom house with a finished basement. This particular "construction project" was ushered in by our trip, which pretty much depleted most of my energy reserves. I'm not in the best shape to begin with -- if you read this blog, you already know all of this drama. If you don't, in a nutshell I have fibromyalgia and atypical facial pain -- welcome to the diagnosis wastebasket. Anyway, I'm not an idiot. After a three-day driving trip, I knew I was screwed.

Then came the day before Halloween. The kids needed to finish their Nevada Day reports and we needed to get everything ready for the next day. We have a bunch of friends and family over for dinner every year because Halloween is big on our street. Our neighbor starts decorating at the end of August (he has a graveyard on his lawn and a haunted house in his garage). So my kids now feel the need to be the second biggest game in town.

Run Joan! Run!

Everything was going well until I ran into my arch nemesis: the printer. Printers hate me. Seriously hate me. I can't begin to catalog the number of times throughout my life when a printer has screwed me over and made me look and/or feel like Joan Cusack running through the halls in that scene from Broadcast News.

To be fair, our printer is about a hundred years old. And we've known that it needs to be replaced for about fifty. But I swear, every frickin' time I go to print one of the kids' projects that's due the next day, the damn thing is out of ink. Every. Single. Time.

But I keep my cool. We decide to go out and get ink, stuff for the Halloween party, and lunch (three birds, one stone -- very tricky). And so off we go to Costco (two kids, on a Sunday -- not very tricky).

I survive this. Not only survive but shine. All's well. We're on schedule. We're crossing things off the list. We're smiling. And then I go to print again. . .

This is when things start to go badly. It quickly becomes apparent that the printer will soon become spare parts for my son's robot experiment. But in the meantime, I start freaking out. Like, really freaking out. Because I do NOT want to research, go out, and buy a printer TODAY. And come home and hook it up TODAY. And make it talk to my computer, which always takes about ten times longer than anyone thinks it will, TODAY.

The poor kids. Now I can see exactly where they get all of their mannerisms from whenever they throw fits (their father -- it's all from their father).

So already-long story short, I ended up going out and buying a new printer. This after I laid down on the bathroom floor for a while to collect my thoughts. Which is where, incidentally, my son also found me and was nice enough to lie down next to me in solidarity (or maybe just to make sure I wasn't going to off myself).

Anyway, that's what started the steady descent downward. The final nail in the coffin had something to do with a Native American Halloween costume and the inability to find a properly-sized Tupperware container to hold Greek yogurt. But that's not important right now. . .

What is important is that I pretty much lost the will to go on. It was a "nobody likes me, everybody hates me, think I'm gonna eat some worms" moment. A moment that just happened to last about three days or so.

Photo by PartlySunny

But I'm better now. Not "Woo Hoo!" better, but better. Today I threw the printer in my trunk like a dead body and took it to school for "disassembly" (my son did this voice the whole time: "Please! Please! I'll be better! Don't put me in the trunk! I promise I'll work this time! Boo hoo hoo!"). And then I wrote this positively adorable, totally engaging post (it sounds a lot wittier if you read the whole thing in an English accent). And I'll find something to post tomorrow at World's Worst Moms (yet another neglected child).

The thing is, getting your mojo back isn't easy. It's not just a matter of putting on your stilettos, strutting into a bar, grabbing it off a table, flipping your hair, and walking out. Sometimes you have to sit quietly and wait for it to come back to you.

So I'll give my mojo and myself a little more time. If for no other reason because I really don't want to bust out the heels. They really hurt my feet.

Where Will You be When They Come for You?

2011-10-26T23:24:00.000-07:00

I didn't get very much sleep last night. I was up until almost 1 a.m., watching news come in from Occupy Oakland. If you didn't already hear, a bunch of protesters were injured last night, including Iraqi war veteran, Scott Olsen. In the greatest of ironies, Scott survived two tours of duty and is now in the hospital with a possible brain injury.

Today, one of my Facebook followers wrote that she basically couldn't get behind the protesters because they were breaking the law, messing up the park, and protesting for no good reason. I tried to respond to her, but let's face it -- this is a complex issue with a bunch of layers. So let's try this. . .

There's a family with two kids, Johnny and Frankie. From the very beginning, Johnny not only got some boots with straps -- he got someone to help pull them up. His parents called it "boys will be boys" when he got caught cheating on a test. They always let him cut the cupcake and pick the half he wanted. And they didn't even make him pay them back when he borrowed money to start his "Hats for Cats" business that went under when social services busted the sweatshop he was running with kindergarten labor at the local aftercare program (not to mention, cats hate hats, so it was basically doomed to begin with).

Frankie, on the other hand, always had to play by the rules. Not to mention, he never even got boots, let alone straps. He was grounded if it even looked like he'd done something wrong. He was lucky if he ever ended up with part of the cupcake. And even though he worked hard, doing every crappy, scut-work job in the house, his parents pretty much laughed in his face when he asked them for an advance on his allowance. "Don't even think about getting something for nothing -- there's no such thing as a free lunch, mister."

Now imagine that one day, Johnny accidentally starts a fire in his room while trying out a new product for his latest leveraged business, "Saunas for Iguanas." His parents feel terrible for the poor little guy and move him into the guest room while they apply to Extreme Home Makeover (because Johnny is such a deserving candidate). Meanwhile, Frankie's room has become uninhabitable because of Johnny's recklessness. But his parents decide it's best for Frankie to sleep in the garage. After all, it was his fault for choosing that particular room in the first place (he really should've read the paperwork more closely).

Finally, Frankie just gets fed up. He stops doing his crappy chores. He sets up a sleeping bag in the front yard, sits there all day, and tells the neighbors what a lousy family he has.

So in response, his parents believe their best course of action is to wake Frankie up at 4 a.m. one morning and yank him out of his sleeping bag (as my husband says, he wouldn't even be happy to see someone with beer and pizza at 4 a.m.). This would piss most people off, but Frankie keeps his cool. Then throughout the day, his parents keep pushing and pushing and pushing, trying to get a rise out of him. They don't listen to anything he has to say. Every time he tries to talk to someone who's walking by, his parents tell him he's violating one of the neighborhood CC and R's. They don't notice that he isn't pushing back. Then finally, as evening comes along and he tries to go back to his sleeping bag. They push him back. He tries again. They push back harder. Now there's yelling. And shoving. And scuffling. And eventually -- rather than realizing they're having an argument over something really ridiculous that's not worth someone actually getting physically injured over -- Mom, Dad, and Johnny gang up on Frankie and throw him a nice blanket party ("It's just a bad dream, fat boy.").

Now I know there were problems with the Oakland Occupiers. I've heard the stories about problems with sanitation and drugs in the park. Truth be told, that stuff is there all the time anyway (add more bodies, you do the math). But the bigger issue is this: if you want people to act like respectful citizens, you treat them respectfully. If you want to start a fight, you come out in riot gear, ready to beat the crap out of someone.

The Occupy protesters weren't looting or rioting or tearing stuff up when police started shooting them with rubber bullets, tear gas, and flash grenades. Sure, they were pissed. I would've been pissed, too, after repeatedly losing my right to free assembly over the course of the day. And we all should be pissed that the video coming out of there looks like something from one of the Arab uprisings.

I don't know about you, but there's no way I can find justification for shooting people with rubber bullets because they camped in a park, walked down the "wrong" street near the "wrong" buildings with "too many" people, and then stood up for themselves. And the fact is, there are great examples of police using restraint and humanity in similar situations. They de-escalate. They protect and defend all of us.

And we should all remember that agree or disagree with the protesters, these were American citizens. American citizens. On American soil. Exercising their First Amendment rights.

And there's no way we shouldn't all be angry about that.

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

--Martin Niemöller

The Artist Presently Known as Newt

2011-10-23T23:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday started out so well. The kids and I slept in (my husband’s working -- lately it feels like that’s all he does). The kids ate dry cereal for breakfast so I didn’t even have to make anything. And I read the paper while they read books. It was dreamy.

Photo by PartlySunny

Then I gave them the lowdown on the week. They both have to do Nevada Day reports on whatever Nevada-y topic they feel like picking. Newt’s doing the Hoover Dam -- a report plus drawing a bunch of pictures because that’s what Newt’s all about. Elfie’s doing Sarah Winnemucca -- a report plus making a crazy hat because that’s what Elfie’s all about.

So good. . . everyone’s on track. I hate doing this stuff because I’m constantly reminding certain people (who will not be named but just happen to be the first born and have a penis) that there is a timetable for these projects and that on the night before, say, a presentation on China is due, the last-minute, fantastical plan of creating a family tree -- with photos that date back five generations -- may not turn out exactly as envisioned.

Anyway, everyone’s cruising along until I decide to talk and all hell breaks loose. Newt is working on his rough draft and drawing some pictures of dam workers underneath what he's already written. He does this sort of thing on every single thing he writes. But because all I'm thinking about is Señor Procrastinator, I'm focused on the best and most efficient use of time. So I say, “Maybe you should draw those on a piece of paper that you can actually use for your final presentation.”

This sets off an hour-long, back-and-forth argument/stand-off/crying jag/personality analysis/literary critique that gives both of us a headache and makes me wish I were the Christopher Reeves Superman who could fly around the world and turn back time.

The problem is, Newt and I clearly do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the creative process. He draws not to get something accomplished. He just draws to draw. You’d think I’d be a little more sensitive to this sort of thing, being who I am and doing what I do. But in addition to being “creative” and semi “artsy,” I’m also the “Come on people! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” person at my house. And today, those things clashed.

It all ended up just fine -- diffused, of course, by his little sister who saves us from these things most of the time. She has a knack for putting people back together (which is a good thing, since her mother is constantly nit-picking something apart).

Not the best “Sunday in My City.” But at least the majority of the "dams" that came out of anyone's mouths referred to barriers that hold back water.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Bread-Holder

2011-10-20T00:25:00.000-07:00

My husband, Tenzin, likes messing around with bread recipes. When we weren't eating gluten for a few painful months, he was convinced that he'd be the one to come up with the magic recipe for gluten-free bread that didn't taste like crap. So now we have approximately fifteen different bags of flour in our pantry.

Incidentally, he never did come up with the recipe. So if you were looking for it and your google search brought you here, uh, sorry.

Anyway, it's been a while since he's made bread, so the other day, he decided to slap some together in the bread maker, without the instructions. The result was this:

Photo by PartlySunny

We called it "Monkey Brain Bread." When he first brought it toward me, I thought it was a roasted chicken.

It may be because I'm a visual person and on some level I need my food to be aesthetically pleasing, but this bread was nasty. With three-fourths butter and one-fourth bread, it was edible. The kids, however, chowed it down.

A couple of days later, we decided to try out a recipe for "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day" that my friend turned me on to. You basically make up the dough, leave it in the fridge, and then pull some off whenever you need it and bake it up. Easy peasy.

So Tenzin and the girl made the dough (Tenzin had to change the recipe because Tenzin can't not change a recipe).

Photo by PartlySunny

Then I shaped it, popped it in the oven, and voile! It was super cute. It belonged in a bakery. As Mary Poppins would say, it was practically perfect.

Photo by PartlySunny

And the kids? They hated it. Said it tasted terrible. They liked the Monkey Brain.

So as far as I'm concerned, kale is getting a makeover. I'm thinking "Alligator Ears." Or maybe "Lizard Tale."

Air Supply

2011-10-19T01:24:00.000-07:00

So today (actually yesterday since it's after midnight as I'm writing this), I spent the morning at yet another marathon dentist appointment. Then I had a mammogram and a bone density scan. And then I came home and fell asleep for three hours.

I haven't been feeling very well. In typical fashion, I like to pretend I'm feeling just fine and go on with my daily life. But I've been seeing a chiropractor who has slowly been taking me "back in time" through the last 17 years that I've been messed up (at least I sure as hell hope that's what's happening). Plus the grand, two-year experiment with the neuromuscular dentist to change my bite and miraculously cure my atypical facial pain has failed, and we're now in back-tracking mode. So I'm experiencing all of these whacky symptoms that I either had a long time ago or actually never had at all (at least I don't remember them).

Anyway, blame it on the "fibro fog" (this great little side symptom of fibromyalgia that makes you put your keys in the refrigerator) or the pain meds or the sleep deprivation. Whatever it is, I've been feeling awful. Not to mention doing things like leaving the mailbox key hanging in the lock. And forgetting to close the garage door. And suddenly falling asleep for three hours...

All I can say is that I hope this is one of those short-lived dives and I get to come up soon. Because, damn it, I'm running out of air.

At Least It's Not Macaroni

2011-10-16T14:14:00.000-07:00

Photo by PartlySunny

This is my latest "happy" thing to do -- a meme through Unknown Mami called "Sundays In My City." Fairly self-explanatory. I like this because even though I'm capable of taking pretty nice photos, I've decided not to put any artsy-fartsy, perfectionist pressure on myself when it comes to this. In fact, both this week and last week were shot on my iPhone.

So feast your eyes on my self-portrait (well, not exactly since you can only see my chest) to spotlight the lovely necklace my 7-year-old daughter made and is determined to see me wear. All over. Even to the grocery store today. Which is why, in hindsight, some random mother, whom I didn't even know, may have given me a hearty, "Hi! How's it going?" as though we hadn't seen each other in weeks.

So there you have it. Sunday in Reno. Hope yours is a good one.

Putting the Pieces Together -- Why People Stare At Mixed-Race Families

2011-10-15T23:27:00.000-07:00

The other day, I read an article in the New York Times about Heather Greenwood, a woman from a mixed-race family in Toms River, New Jersey. She basically described a life filled with relentless confrontation from strangers about her family. In the article, they recounted an incident when a woman in a store saw Heather with her daughter and asked, "How come she's so white and you're so dark?" and then -- and this is the NYTimes describing it -- "It's just not possible," she charged indignantly. "You're so...dark!"

I know that words can hurt. I mean, let's face it. I'm female. Girls grow up learning how to sting with a phrase as soon as they can string a few words together. And it's not just the words we speak -- it's the tone and the pauses and the body language. We're all about the subtle turn of the cheek during a group conversation or the quick "up-and-down" look to make someone feel uncomfortable. It's how we mark our territory (yes, very uplifting, I know...).

Anyway, as I was reading this story, it suddenly made me think -- why do we naturally assume that people are trying to be mean?

I wanted to make sure to put in the "indignantly" and the exclamation point when I quoted the NYTimes article because I wasn't there and I have no idea how this lady sounded. She very well could've been a complete, inappropriate jerk. True, the "It's just not possible," doesn't do her any favors, but as far as tone goes, sometimes I think we hear what we go out looking to hear (and yes, I know you can't see hearing -- you people know what I mean).

My dad is of Chinese descent, and my mother's family was German, Polish and Czechoslovakian. When were were kids, my mom was asked on multiple occasions if my brother and I were adopted. It was after the Vietnam War, and it wasn't a completely ridiculous question because people were adopting Vietnamese kids and we really didn't look anything like her.

My mom would tell this story all the time. But I never heard her tell it in a way that made you think she was pissed off about it. And now, with my blond-haired kids, I don't get pissed off when people say, "Wow, how'd she end up with those blue eyes?" or "He must look an awful lot like his father."

And the reason I don't get pissed? Because I don't think people are being mean. I think they're intrigued. Physical traits are interesting, and when you combine different races, you get some really cool outcomes. Imagine this:

My brother and I, who have dark brown hair and brown eyes, are married to people with blond hair and blue eyes. His kids leaned more toward his looks and have dark brown hair (his son has brown eyes, his daughter's are an amazing dark blue). But my kids leaned toward my husband's looks and have light brownish/dark blond hair (my son has green eyes, my daughter's are blue).

Incidentally, if you didn't already know this, kids tend to look more like their dads so they won't be killed. Because in the animal kingdom, the mother is positive the offspring is hers, but the father needs a little more conformation. Babies that looked more like the fathers tended to not be eaten or whacked. It's just all evolution.

But moving on. When my family went out, especially in the old days when my mom was still around, I always wondered what people were thinking. Were my husband and sister-in-law somehow related to my mom? Were my nephew and niece actually my kids, or did my kids really belong to my sister-in-law? And at some point, wasn't this all kind of sick or illegal? It was like one of those unsolvable brainteasers.

Anyway, I don't know how things are for the woman in the NYTimes article. She could be surrounded by complete asshats who hate interracial marriage and think mixed-race children are the devil's spawn. And I'll admit that growing up in a basically all-white community, I had my fair share of moments when we felt very "stared at." But maybe, just maybe, people think her family is just plain interesting. And her children are beautiful.

And the real reason they're staring so hard or furrowing their brows is because they just can't come up with the answer to that damn unsolvable puzzle.

Peeling the Onion, Part 5: Desperation and the Autism Parent

2011-10-14T00:38:00.000-07:00

This is an ongoing series about my 8-year-old son, Newt, who was diagnosed with high-functioning autism when he was three. Since that time, he's tested off the spectrum. We think some of this is why. . .

Okay, I'm going to try to make this quick because I've sort of been feeling like crap. Which kind of leads to today's topic: desperation.

I tend to be very vocal about all of the expensive treatments that are getting thrown around when it comes to helping kids with autism. My main beef with all of them is that I'm more than a little convinced that we're all going to look back on this time and see what snake oil salesmen so many of these people actually were.

The thing is, I feel like "autism" wasn't our first rodeo. With me having a chronic pain condition (fibromyalgia and atypical facial pain) that no one really knows anything about or how to fix, we've basically done it all (and when I say "we," I mean my husband, Tenzin, and me because he basically has to go through all of this, too). What's pathetic is that even though we've been able to go for semi-long stretches where we've managed to "hold off" trying anything new, we're like junkies -- we always seem to go back for more. After almost two decades of trying to alleviate my pain, one thing we've discovered is that there are people out there who believe with all of their hearts and souls that they can help. They may even care about you as a person. But at the end of the day, they will also want your money.

For some reason, we were able to "stay off the drugs" a little better when it came to autism treatments. But we know. It's hard. You're kid is messed up. You want to help him any way you can. And every "expert" is telling you -- the uninformed -- exactly what you're supposed to do. And it is literally the most sinking feeling you've ever had in your life. Because there are no do-overs. If only you could try two different paths and get a do-over. . .

And desperation is a powerful force. It makes a person do things they never thought they'd do. Spend money, time, and energy they didn't think they had. Bend their minds in ways they never thought they would. Move their moral compasses in directions they never thought they'd go. In the best of times, it helps you figure out what's important. In the worst, it breaks you into pieces.

Every time my kids have an experience where they "feel weird" about someone or some situation, I encourage them to go with that feeling. Stay away from the guy who creeps you out. He's more than likely creepy. The reason I do this is, if it weren't for us going with our gut feelings, we would have given in to desperation when we got Newt's diagnosis and panicked. We would have ignored everything deep down inside that told us our son wasn't the kid they were telling us he was. We would have tortured him with 40 hours of Applied Behavioral Analysis a week, put ourselves in debt, and made someone else a whole lot of money.

By the way, I know that ABA works for some people. And I'll explain myself next time when I (hopefully) feel less like crap. But for now, I'll just end with this -- please keep in mind that there is a business end to every treatment. If you must press the "buy now" button for the gluten-free food, weighted blanket, supplement package, therapy swing, prism glasses, iPad app, computer program, or specialized learning program, then please push it with the commitment that you'll receive your package with a skeptic's eye.

Because as I'm sure you already know, they're on the other end with the solid commitment to empty your wallet.

Table for 99?

2011-10-11T01:02:00.000-07:00

When my grandfather was a young man in the late 1930s, he left his home in Chicago and went to plant trees in Oregon for the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). It was the Great Depression, he was unemployed, and his family was poor. Dirt poor. I remember him talking about how excited he was to get an orange for Christmas. I have to admit, given the current economic climate, that story doesn't sound nearly as quaint.

If it weren't for that incredibly ambitious program, along with all the other parts of the New Deal, my grandfather may well have died. Seriously. People were starving. Families were living on the streets and in boxcars. And if you didn't have money, you couldn't see a doctor (unless you found one who happened to feel sorry for you). Anyway, looking at it all that way, yours truly wouldn't be here either. So thanks FDR.

I bring all this up because today, the Senate failed to garner 60 votes so that the American Jobs Act could get to the floor. This wasn't even a vote on whether or not to pass the actual bill. It was just a vote so they could talk about it.

Put it this way: say your car's broken. So you take it to a mechanic. The mechanic says he needs to look under the hood to see what's wrong. But you say, "No chance." And he says, "Well, I can't really even start to fix the problem if you won't even let me get in there and try." And you say, "Absolutely not." So he says, "Well sorry then, I can't fix it." And you cry, "Rat Bastard! I can't believe you won't even TRY to fix it! You just sit there and let the problem get worse and worse! See, everything would've been so much better if I'd just taken my car to a white guy."

But I digress. The American Jobs Bill isn't completely dead. It'll get thrown around and chopped up and futzed with until no one's particularly happy. Most of all, you and me. What it should have done is put a bunch of teachers, cops, and fire fighters back to work. And cut payroll taxes so small businesses could hire more people. And rebuild some of our crumbling infrastructure (so the Chinese would stop coming over and laughing at us).

But the larger, much more important issue is this (dear lord, does she ever get to the point?): the reason the jobs bill didn't pass was because it asked for a 5.6 percent tax on income over $1 million. And every single Republican voted against it. Every. Single. One.

Just to put that in perspective -- if you make a million dollars, this doesn't affect you. If you make $1,100,000, you have to cough up a measly $5,600. That's less than Paris Hilton spends on cocktails in one evening. And if you make $2,000,000, you owe $56,000. Which may sound like a lot to you and me (because it is). But keep in mind that this is off of $2 million in income. And don't forget that most of this money is just coming from capital gains off of massive amounts of net worth.

A staggering 1 percent of the population holds almost 35 percent of the wealth in our country. And 20 percent of the people hold 85 percent. Put another way, if you went to a big party with 100 people and 9 pieces of pizza, one guy would get 3 slices. Which is bad enough when you think of splitting the other 6 slices between 99 people. But it gets worse. Twenty of those people (including the first guy) actually get more than seven-and-a-half pieces of pizza. The other 80 people get less than a piece-and-a-half to share.

That's the kind of greed we're dealing with. And that's what our Republican (and two Democratic) senators are expecting us to tolerate. So we have a choice. We can continue to lick up the crumbs and hope that someone will toss us a piece of crust once in a while. Or we can tell them they'd better find a new caterer with better plating skills. And fast.

Until then. . . bon appetit! I mean, if you can find it.

Please Curb Your Horse

2011-10-09T15:39:00.000-07:00

You always hear about people being ticked off about dogs crapping on their lawns or on the sidewalks. And they should be ticked off. If you're a dog owner, you shouldn't be an asshole and leave a big pile for someone to step in. But if you live where I live, that whole problem kind of gets put into perspective when you come home and find this:

Now THAT'S a big dog.

We have wild horses that come down from the hills and cruise around our neighborhood. They leave nice presents on everyone's lawns. And in the middle of the street. And on the walking paths.

iPhone shot -- not the best, but you get the idea.

One of the funniest things we saw last year was some dumb bastard who'd obviously just moved into the area and had attempted to put a laughably short, temporary fence around his front yard. Clearly because the horses had come through and "visited" it so many times. My guess was that he didn't realize where he'd moved to.

There are always people who will hate any given "fill in the blank." But for me, there's nothing cooler than driving along and suddenly spotting a random group of horses hanging out in a cul-de-sac. So I'll deal with the road -- or lawn -- apples.

That's my Nevada. Sunday in my city.

Shirt Hunting -- and Other Saturday Morning Sports

2011-10-08T23:36:00.000-07:00

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I don't like rushing around like a crazy person. I like being prepared the night before, having enough time to get ready, and then walking out the door in a controlled, leisurely fashion. And even though I try so very hard to do this every single day, it practically never happens.

Even this morning, when my son had a 12:30 soccer game. True, we needed to get there an hour early to take team pictures and warm up and all that, but you'd think that getting somewhere by midday would be a reasonably simple thing to do. But no.

I slept in. Because now that the children can get up, retrieve cereal from the top shelf of the pantry, and make their own breakfast, weekends are when I catch up on sleep (incidentally, I'm still not sure why I haven't moved the cereal down to a more manageable shelf -- maybe I just want them to be challenged). So after hanging out, reading the paper, and messing around on the computer, I got into the shower at around 10. Plenty of time. Plenty of time. Until I stepped out of the shower and heard this. . .

"I can't find my shirt."

I ignored it at first while I listened to my husband help my son look through drawers. Then the questions started.

"Do you know where. . ."

"Try the laundry basket."

"Which one."

"The one with all the clean, folded clothes in it that haven't been put away" (gritting teeth slightly because still haven't required children to do this).

Not there. So wearing my bathrobe and sporting wet hair that I now know will have to get dried really, really quickly because this is going to be a "deal," I started searching. Not in the hamper. Or in the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room. Or in the washer. Or the dryer. Or under the couch. Or in the gym bag. Or in the hundred fifty other obscure places I looked, all the while with my son following me around saying, "Sorry Mom," and me saying, "Okay, that's not really helping, because I'm trying to concentrate on finding your shirt, so it would really just be better if you'd look for it or leave me alone."

Now I know this is a First World problem. I know not having his shirt for pictures (pictures that, incidentally, I was frickin' taking) wouldn't be the end of the world. But it was the problem of the moment. And the questions remained: how long do I keep searching? Until it's time to leave? When do I quit so I can get dressed? How much time do I allot to get my own damn self ready so I don't look like a freakin' psycho who comes to her kid's soccer game with wet, matted hair?

Then finally, like the end of a bad Easter egg hunt, we found the shirt. It was in a box of Halloween costumes that we'd taken out last Saturday when we'd gotten out all the decorations. Apparently someone had decided that since it was orange, it belonged in there.

I barely spoke to anyone from that moment until we got to the field. Truth be told, I was mentally implementing my "Black Garbage Bag Policy," wherein anything that isn't put away gets stuck in a bag and thrown in the garage. They're frankly all lucky I wasn't mulling over the "bodies in garbage bags, buried in the backyard" plan.

Unfortunately, by the time we got there, my pain meds had kicked in, which always makes me feel more generous that I actually am. And then I started talking to people other than my family, which makes me have to pretend like I'm a nice person. So I forgot the whole thing. Until now.

If only I could stay pissed off til morning. . .

Peeling the Onion, Part 4: For Autistic Kids, It's all in the Details

2011-10-07T01:16:00.000-07:00

This is an ongoing series about my 8-year-old son, Newt, who was diagnosed with high-functioning autism when he was three. Since that time, he's tested off the spectrum. We think some of this is why. . .

So yesterday I was at my friend's house -- the friend who basically got our family in the course of two weeks when they adopted a newborn and one-and-a-half-year-old. The baby girl is now one and the boy is two-plus. I'd say it's like deja vu except that my kids were completely freaking out at that time and nowhere near as well adjusted.

Anyway, while I was there, the little boy kicked his sister off the couch, so he got himself a quick trip to time-out land. After we got her calmed down, my friend went and got him, brought him over to his sister, told him to apologize, and said he had to "give her loves" because he hurt her. And THAT'S when things got familiar. Because everybody just disintegrated into crying.

The unfamiliar part was that it stopped quickly. Let's just say that there was a lot of extended screaming and crying at my house for quite a few years. Like, five.

But I digress. I don't know if my friend uses this technique because she learned it from us or because she's just brilliant (sarcasm -- hoping everyone hears the sarcasm). I forgot to ask. There are, I know, different schools of thought when it comes to making kids apologize versus having them actually mean it. And fine -- argue away. What I do know is that this was sort of the precursor to what I like to think of as our "Method of Over-explanation."

We Come In Peace

All parents, to some extent, have to approach their kids as aliens. They're beings who are new to the planet. They don't know our ways. They need an introduction to everything. With an autistic kid, it's even more complicated because it's like dealing with an alien who's way more Mr. Spock than E.T.

E.T. could tease out the relevant information that would help him understand why life was warm and fuzzy. Mr. Spock, not so much.

So from a very early age with our son, we became over-explainers. Incidentally, this may have been due more to our own annoying, tedious, semi-obsessive personalities than his autistic traits.

• If he hurt his sister, he got a rather detailed description of what just happened, why she was crying, how she was feeling, how he probably should be feeling, what he could say to her, and how he could make her feel better.

• If Grandma and Grandpa were leaving, he was told -- okay, usually forced -- to say goodbye to them. And reminded to look them in the eye and give them a hug. And this usually led to a long discussion about why we say goodbye to people, what everyone's doing as they're leaving your house, and why it's not polite to hide in your room or stand on the stairs and wave.

• And when he started saying funny stuff that he realized was funny and therefore wanted to milk and say over and over, we had long discussions about "what is funny." And timing. And how you can maybe get a laugh out of something twice, but by the third time, it's just annoying. And what irritates people. And how to move on quickly when a joke just falls flat. And how to tell if people think you're amusing or if they're just humoring you. And excessive use of the word "and."

Do Sweat the Small Stuff
It's possible that Newt would've been this kind of thinker anyway, but I think that all of our over-analyzing has gotten him in the habit of studying people. And it's not meaningless. He came home one day, upset because a friend had said some things that hurt his feelings. First we dissected what was said to make sense of why the words were hurtful (because sometimes that's confusing). Then we talked about why the friend might have said those things, and basically we came to the conclusion that he was jealous of Newt. This led to yet another long discussion of why people act a certain way when they're jealous. Anyway, the end result was that Newt didn't feel bullied or upset about it anymore. When he went back to school, he felt. . . powerful.

So, yes, we are the detail-oriented, over-analyzing, talk-you-to-death family. But I think it's how we helped Newt learn to navigate the world. How to look people in the eye. How to read the sarcasm under a frown and the frustration under a smile. How to make someone laugh.

The funny thing is that a lot of this stuff is information that I wish someone had sat down and told me when I was a kid. Maybe they did and I was too dense to take it all in. But I think when it comes down to it, talking in detail with all our little aliens is valuable.

I'm sure it'd help everyone live long and prosper.

Third Grade Lessons on the C-Word

2011-10-04T22:20:00.000-07:00

We've tried pretty hard not to cuss around the kids. In part because my now-8-year-old son, Newt, had a mimicking issue as a younger child. When he started saying, "Shit," we blamed it on my mom. When he pointed out the semi "Frucks" -- with a very soft "r" -- as we were driving down the road, I could always blame bad annunciation. Unfortunately, when he picked up, "Damn it," I pretty much had nowhere else to go (incidentally, it was pretty amusing when he adjusted it to, "Damgit" in an effort to make it socially acceptable).

So tonight, while I was quietly sitting on the couch, the boy suddenly popped up out of nowhere with this bit of news.

Photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski

Newt: "I know the S-word. And the F-word. And the H-word."

Me: "Yeah?" Great.

Newt: "Yeah. Oh, and the C-word."

Me: Oh dear lord. "The C-word. Okaaaay."

Newt: "Yeah. Wanna hear them."

Me: "Uh, sure. Fire away."

Newt: "Okay. The S-word is shit."

Me: "Yeah."

Newt: "The F-word is. . . fitch."

Me: "Nope."

Newt: "No, no, wait. . . futch."

Me: "Not quite."

Newt: "I don't know. I can't remember that one."

Me: "Probably best. It's a bad one."

Newt: "Anyway, the H-word is hell. Which. . . I don't even understand why that's a bad word."

Me: "Well, yeah, I mean, theoretically it's a place, but if you use it in context, it becomes a problem."

Newt: "Right. And then the C-word. . . is crap."

Me: Oh thank you baby Jebus. "Ah. Yes."

Newt: "So today, I told Matthew to go to the H-word!" Laughs maniacally.

Me: "Uh huh. Very funny. Okay, just as long you know you're not supposed to actually use any of those. And they sound really tacky coming out of kids' mouths."

Newt: "No -- yeah, I know."

Oh well. Damgit. I'm sure this is just the futchin' beginning.

An Ole Fashioned Greenhouse Raisin'

2011-10-03T21:10:00.000-07:00

Photo by Partly Sunny

Winter is apparently coming tomorrow, and even though I'll be more than happy to say goodbye to allergy season, I'll be sad to see my morning glories bite the dust. Every day I walk downstairs, look outside, and smile when I see the bright, blue flowers. And then later, sometime in the afternoon, I'll suddenly look over and they'll all be closed up and hiding. Crazy plants -- they're like little props from Alice in Wonderland.

We got the Halloween decorations down yesterday, and my house is now awash in plastic in the form of bones, stones, and sparkling pumpkins (it's an eclectic mix -- no one can decide if we're "cute" or "scary"). So I guess it's really time to suck it up and admit we're into fall. Which means I need to go shopping for clothes. And it's officially the holidays. And there will be no more sunny evenings.

Photo by Partly Sunny

But it also means my husband's been given a deadline to finish his greenhouse. And a deadline is sometimes the only thing that makes him (me) get anything done. So this weekend, he finally got his homemade, self-designed greenhouse up and running. Minus half the plexiglass, thanks to Home Depot shorting us and then claiming they didn't (thanks Home Depot!). He's just in time to put our last tomatoes in so they can ripen up.

Photo by Partly Sunny

So goodbye morning glories, hello winter veggies. Glad someone in my family doesn't kill every green thing he looks at.

Haven't Heard About "Occupy Wall Street"? It's Time to Start Listening.

2011-10-02T13:51:00.000-07:00

If you haven't heard -- and there's a very good chance you haven't -- a growing number of people are gathering in New York to "Occupy Wall Street." I say there's a good reason you haven't heard because the media has done a crap-ass job of covering the whole thing. Finally, sixteen days after it started, the reporting by mainstream news sources has sort of kicked in. And that's only because 700 people were arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge.

When I first heard about it on September 22nd, I told my husband, "I think the revolution has begun." And I meant it. Our country is at a tipping point. If you're one of the 99 percent of people who don't have their own lobbyist, pay more in taxes than Warren Buffet, and neither drive a Bentley nor vacation in the Hamptons, I figure we have two choices: 1) keep spiraling downward, or 2) push back and say. . .

"No, we actually aren't cool with becoming serfs. We want our government to increase taxes on the wealthy, who've clearly gotten away with murder over the last few decades since the top 20 percent have a staggering 85 percent of the pie. Which is just ridiculous because if you ever went to a dinner party and cut up a pie that way, people would be totally pissed and think you were a complete jerk.

"And we want the bankers -- who are, let's not mince words, criminals -- to actually be prosecuted and tossed in a not nice prison. Just like the rest of us little people who'd get thrown in jail for life if we did anything remotely close to what they've done.

"And we want some regulations on these greedy jerks. Because they're not good people. And they won't do the right thing. And we know they give you tons of money for your campaigns, but tough shit. We're over it.

"We don't need to be rich. But we don't want to be part of a society that maintains a slice of wealthy, all-powerful people at the top while the rest of us slowly descend into a life of mere sustenance."

We've tried pushing back with elections. And while I won't give up on trying to keep the crazier elements from governing, let's face it -- that's sort of become a joke. I'm starting to believe this is the logical next step.

I'm really not being hyperbolic here. Statistically speaking, we're all getting poorer and losing our influence while the upper crust is getting richer and more powerful. If you want to depress yourself (but get a good education), read this article, "Who Rules America," by G. William Domhoff -- it's all about exciting stuff like wealth and income distribution.

So keep an eye on Occupy Wall Street. I know I'll be supporting these guys. And, if I'm brave enough, maybe even joining them. I think this is our time to stand up. Either that, or just be prepared to lie down for good.

Peeling the Onion, Part 3: Get of the Autism Comfort Cocoon

2011-09-29T00:33:00.000-07:00

This is an ongoing series about my 8-year-old son, Newt, who was diagnosed with high-functioning autism when he was three. Since that time, he's tested off the spectrum. We think some of this is why. . .

One of the first things you hear about autistic children is that they're "inflexible." There are stories upon horror stories about epic meltdowns over a button that went un-pushed or a cup that was the wrong color or a toy train that got moved.

Autistic kids are just like any other kids -- they want what they want when they want it. Unfortunately, it's to the Nth degree. When we were deep in the trenches with Newt, I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut when people complained about their "difficult" or "high spirited" children. Because come on. Did they wanna come over to my house?

The thing is, whether you decide that your kid is "difficult" or "autistic" or whatever, the goals are still the same -- raising a person who is capable of independently and confidently making their way through life. Hopefully with a big dash of compassion thrown in there. And let's face it -- part of being able to get through the world without going completely bonkers is. . . flexibility.

Because the end goal is really this: you'll never (okay maybe you will) see a guy in a business suit at a nice restaurant saying he can't drink out of a certain glass because it's the wrong shape. Sure he might send his steak back five times because it's cooked the wrong way. But no one would think of that guy as autistic. They'd just think he was an asshole. It's just not practical in grown-up world for a person to expect to have things happen the same way all the time.

I hear all the time about schedules and routines and consistency with autistic kids. While this will make life calmer, quieter, and less messy, it won't help. It will softly and securely cocoon your child in his current state.

But he doesn't need a cocoon. He needs you to bust him out. He needs you to slowly but surely add chaos, disruption, and disorganization to his world. Because he needs to be forced (lovingly, but forced nonetheless) to adapt to your world, rather than the other way around.

Just to clarify, I'm not talking about taking the kid on a whirlwind vacation to a foreign country where he's sleeping in a different bed, eating different food, and missing his toys. This process is incremental. Think, "A journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step" (or don't since that's kind of depressing).

Anyway, with Newt, one of his obsessions was Thomas trains. He'd set them up and push them around and around the track in the same order. He could hang out there for hours. So I'd sit down with him and talk about what the trains were doing. I'd ask questions and tell him how he "could" answer them (since he certainly wouldn't). Then I'd act like one of the trains and go the opposite direction. Then I'd use his blanket and pretend it was snow that had fallen and blocked the track.

Again, this was slow. He'd tell me no. He'd pull the blanket off. I'd go back to playing his way. Then I'd mess with him again. I'd change the order of the cars. Next thing you know, Percy was pulling Gordon. And everybody was driving off the tracks. It was pure madness!

And then there was food. We cooked food and gave it to him. Most of the time he ate it. Sometimes, he didn't. We weren't jerks about it -- we didn't cook with super hot spices or only kale, but he had to deal. And miraculously, he didn't starve.

I know there's a large faction out there that believes in the whole inability of certain children to eat certain foods due to physiological problems. And I'm not saying some kids don't have that. But it is incredibly rare. Super, duper rare. Why do I know this? Because we haven't been able to evolve quickly enough to produce a gene mutation that makes people capable of tolerating only mac and cheese, french fries, and chicken nuggets.

So, again, flexibility.

We didn't intentionally set up situations to push Newt's buttons, but we also didn't go out of our way to make Newt's life easier. If we had the chance to nudge him out of his autism comfort zone, we'd take it. If there was something that needed to get done, it got done, whether he liked it or not. If we saw an opportunity, we poked the beehive. And that's when his life got difficult.

Like if we needed to take something away. Which meant change. And Newt hated change. H-A-T-E-D it. We're fairly certain he would actually wake up from naps having meltdowns because he'd "changed" from being asleep to being awake (at first we thought they were some sort of night terror).

Or when he was 9 months old and we needed to get him used to drinking breast milk from a bottle so I could be away from him for more than four hours at a time. He held out for 19 hours without anything to drink. But the more important part of the story is, so did we.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is, it's just so easy to fall into the autism trap. In order to avoid the meltdowns, parents will pay any price. If they had a "typical" child, more than likely that kid would have to cry it out, go to their room, or deal with it (at least I hope that's what people do). But once you get that diagnosis, the kid gloves go on.

The problem is, if you approach everything you do with your kid from that perspective, he'll never bust out of the cocoon. He'll safely stay in that place where everyone tiptoes around him and makes sure dinner is on time, his cup is the right color, and his trains are in the right place. And when something doesn't go his way, there will always be a reason why. And it will always be. . . autism.

I do want to make sure to say this: in a perfect world, I would've been an energetic mom who was always patient and never got angry or frustrated. In a perfect world, I would've sweetly and gently put my son to bed every night and not gone downstairs, sat on the couch, and cried. Every. Single. Night. This was so difficult. For years we just hunkered down and didn't do a whole lot of traveling, eating out, or attending big, public events. For the most part, we tried to keep life really mellow. Fortunately, that's us, so it worked.

My point is, I know how hard this is. I know how hard it is to watch your kid cry and scream and literally look tormented and tortured by the world around him and what you're subjecting him to. But consider this. Tonight at dinner, my kids were talking about a boy who left their school because he was having so many behavioral problems. Newt said, "I sure am glad I don't act like that."

And my daughter replied, "Pshh, yeah, you definitely don't act like that."

We so easily could be that family. The fact that we're not may have a lot to do with the luck of the draw. But I think a great deal of it has to do with what you've read here. Doing all of this is difficult. And exhausting. And will most definitely make you cry on a regular basis. But what the hell -- life with your child is going to be hard, tiring and emotionally draining anyway.

So if you've got no other choice but to take a long, bumpy, winding ride, you might as well shoot for the spot on the mountain with the best view you can possibly find.

Money Can Buy You. . . Shoes

2011-09-28T23:56:00.000-07:00

My 7-year-old daughter, Elfie, is a bit of an enigma to me (I'm sure that'll get a lot better as the hormones kick in). One thing that confuses me the most is her preferences when it comes to clothes. Just when I think I've got it nailed down, she pulls the sparkle shoes out from under me.

Elfie has been known to combine every pattern, color, and seasonal accessory known to woman (and not necessarily donned during the appropriate season) in her fashion choices. I almost never say anything about what she wears. I'm trying really, really (really, really, really) hard to just let her do her own thing and not get all wrapped up in her appearance. We have enough stories about moms shooting their daughters up with Botox or first graders on diets or the dreaded Toddlers and Tiaras. I just want my kid to be a kid.

Anyway, like I said, Elfie's tastes are "eclectic." She's always loved pink, sparkly, ruffly things. But her favorite piece of clothing right now is an over-sized T-shirt that she wrote "Money can't buy you love" on with puffy paint. And while she does have some froofy princess nightgowns (that look more formal than some of the bridesmaids dresses I've owned), her usual sleeping attire is one of my dad's white undershirts that she's "stolen" from his house.

And as for shoes, she's always been a fan of slip-ons. I could never get her interested in wearing tennis shoes. But here's the thing -- Elfie's never been much of a runner. She's a run-around kid, but she's always had a difficult time actually running. I finally had my chiropractor take a look at her because she was complaining about her hip hurting all the time. And lo and behold, a couple of months later, Elfie's all interested in wearing tennis shoes and running everywhere. Correlation? Causation? Who knows. Who freaking cares?

Anyway, last week, while we were in Portland, Elfie basically did a final thrashing on her already old pair of red sparkle shoes (apparently they are not waterproof). So while I was cruising Target today, I ran into a new, suped-up, nuclear pair of sparkle shoes that seriously had me standing in the aisle like an idiot for about five minutes. Because I couldn't decide whether or not these things were just too over the top.

I get very torn about this sort of thing. I know it's lame. I know I should just relax and buy the frickin' shoes. Because they're fun, damn it. But the fact is, if it were up to me, she'd probably be wearing something brown or black and. . . coordinated.

But that's not Elfie. So I grabbed the shoes, not knowing for sure if she'd think they were over the top (because remember, I never really know when it comes to that kid). But of course she liked them. They're hot pink. They have jewels. And they go perfectly with the shirt she made with puffy paint.

Money can't buy you love. She's already got that right. But it can, on occasion, buy you some pretty sweet sparkle shoes.