A Song, A Party, A Storm

Because I am sure you all are desperate to know, the singing in church went okay. I got to the church so nervous I felt faint. Then my brother and SIL weren't ready to practice, so I got to sit around making myself more nervous. How nervous? I hadn't eaten or had a single thing to drink all morning, and I still had to go to the bathroom three times before we sang! We practiced, I was ready, I had to sit through the whole service thinking about it. Finally, we sing and I totally blow the first chorus. Missed the harmony so bad I had to sing melody and pretend I was supposed to be. Then, I found the secret to singing in front of people. If I can't see you, you aren't looking at me. I squeezed my eyes shut and sang and viola! Rest of the song went just fine. Then, Eddie's first birthday party. It was exciting to say the least. Hot, sticky weather turned into scary thunderstorm, driving about 30 people, including 9 kids under age 6 into my not-that-big house. Then, just for fun, lightning blew up a local transformer, leaving us all in the dark. Oh, and I broke a jar in the kitchen, so we'd have some shards of broken glass around for the kids. But, eventually, the storm broke, we had cake outside, and hey, a great story. The lights came back on at 10:46 that evening, so I didn't even get to sleep in and claim that it was because we didn't have electricity. I'll post some pics once I figure out how to do that . ..

How Super Are You?

Stan Lee, God of Comics, has a new show on the SciFi network, called "Who Wants To Be a Superhero?" I'm not reviewing it here, I already reviewed it here. The show's okay, but the first challenge was a neat one. The wannabes were told that they'd have to change quickly and discreetly into their hero costumes in a crowded area and then race to a specific location. However, Mr. Lee had a bit of a twist in mind. The finish line was in a public park and near it, on the only path to it, he'd stationed a little girl, crying and saying "I'm lost! Someone help me!" and the like. Some of the heroes were so focused on the task that they clearly didn't even see her. One appeared to glance at her (though she claims she didn't see) and kept going. Several stopped to help - my favorite was Major Victory, who not only stopped and helped look for her mother, but then carried her to the security station after bellowing "LEAP INTO MY ARMS!" I wondered - would I stop? I mean, let's not kid around, I love to win. I'm all about winning. Even if you don't know we're competing, I'm going to win. But a crying kid. Gotta tell you, there's not much that upsets me more. Ask any friend or relative who's been embarrassed by me at a mall standing around by a small seemingly unattended child asking loudly "Who is this child's adult?" until one shows up. If I'm going to be honest with myself and my loyal blog readers, I'd have to admit that I'd most likely have been one of the ones who looked at the girl, looked at the finish line, then went back to the girl. I want to say I wouldn't even think of going on, but I might be just a little conflicted. Now, honestly, would you miss her completely when the finish line is in sight? Glance over and run on by? Stop, but not immediately? Or not even think of taking another step until she found her mommy? Would you have made Stan Lee proud?

Just One of Those Days, I Guess

Today, a coworker and I went to lunch at the Park House in the Strip a little place nearby we go once or twice a month. They have excellent, inexpensive food and generally friendly help. Today we went in and sat down. A waitress we'd never seen before who was the only other person in the room, hollered over "Yinz want menus?" (for non-Pittsburghers, 'Yinz' is the plural 'you' in Pittsburghese). We replied that we didn't; we already knew what we wanted. She then asked "Just hanging out then?" Coworker and I looked at each other confused, and repeated "No, we just already know what we want." She wandered off behind the bar and we waited. She didn't come back. A few minutes later, the cook came out. She saw us and said to the waitress "You waitin' on them?" "No." The waitress mumbled something I couldn't hear, then went about her business (she seemed to wiping the same can over and over while watching the TV). The cook shrugged and said "I'm gonna sit for a minute." She plopped down at the bar, lit up a cigarette and watched TV, too. We stared at them for about 5 minutes, incredulous, occasionally clearing our throats, then finally got up and walked out. We went to another place and got take out sandwiches - I had the ham and cheese sandwich and they forgot the cheese! We love the Park House and we'll go back; I'd recommend you try it out, but if it's just one large waitress and the guy's not in sight, come back some other time!

How Do You Know What You Know?

There are the things that we know, like if we drop something, it'll fall, and there are the things we know - the things we couldn't really prove if we tried, that we can't explain why we know or how we know, just that we do. Years ago a friend of our family was in a nursing home. She was in her 90s, but very healthy and generally in control of her faculties. She stayed in the part of the home where you dress yourself and walk down to the dining room for meals. One day she told my mother that the hardest part of living in the home was trying to figure out if she was losing her mind or not. See, she's talk to someone, maybe say "Yesterday when we were playing cards . . ." and the other person would say "We didn't play cards yesterday" and they'd discuss it, but they're both 90 and in a home, who knows which one is remembering wrong? I'd argue that for her to think of that, she must have a better grip on things, but she's right, how can she know that she's the one who remembers correctly? Two other quick examples, both dealing with women and their skin . . . In high school, my friend used a homemade skin cleaner that was a family secret recipe thing. Her mom taught her to make it/use it when she was 11 and she never had a pimple. Her mom told me, "For four generations of my family, every woman used this and not one ever had acne." Now, this leads me to wonder, was it the super-secret cleanser? Or just a family not prone to acne? A few years ago, I worked with a women in her 50s, who was telling the other women in the office that every night and every morning she splashes her face with cold water, as cold as she can get it from the sink. "It prevents wrinkles." Her mother told her that. One of the other women asked if it really works, probably because while the cold-splashing woman wasn't super-wrinkly, she also wasn't wrinkle-free. The first woman assured her it did - "If I didn't, I'd have more wrinkles." That was her evidence. She just knew it. There's nothing wrong with some faith, and there's plenty of things in this universe that I can't explain, even mundane ones like how radio waves make music come out of the stereo. Sometimes I wonder, though, what do I know, and what do I know?

Pushing My Limits

Everyone who knows me well knows that I dig being the center of attention. If you let me, I'll tell you stories all night, entertain a crowd, etc. I'm in a singing group, because I love to sing. We basically only sing at my church, and I'm nicely blended in a group of 6 women. As much as I love to sing and love to be in the spotlight, I'm not a soloist. I have pretty good voice for blending, but I'm unsure of myself, plus, I just started learning to sing alto - I was a first soprano all through high school, for those who know music, and this not-singing-the-melody thing is all kinda new. My voice dropped to alto in college, and then I didn't get back into really singing for several years. This comes up because Sunday I am singing backup to my sister-in-law during church service. Just me and her and there is no one else singing my part AND I basically had to figure it out myself because she didn't have music. Of course, this is on top of the fact that my SIL is: 1. Gorgeous 2. A fantastic singer 3. Also playing the guitar Which means dumpy, uncertain singing, untalented in the instrument department me will be right next to Perfect Music Girl, trying not to mess her up too bad. I'm so nervous that I am trying to decide whether I am going to puke or faint (or, hey, maybe both!) and just praying I don't make a giant fool of us all. If you want to come see what happens, it's at my church (link on the right) this Sunday. I actually invited people because my brother will also be delivering the message, but now I am worried that people I know will just make me nervous-er. Sigh. It's tough to be me ...

Coming Soon to a Toy Store Near You . . .

My first reaction to the new Monopoly with a debit card instead of money was that this is a sign of the end of the world as we know it. Monopoly WITHOUT money. Just wrong. I'm not the kind of person who thinks that the classic games should never be tampered with. I have Simpsons Monopoly and Star Wars Monopoly and I play them whenever I can actually find someone willing to play. I think it's funny to be Homer or Han Solo and to be buying Moe's Tavern or a spot on the Death Star. But Monopoly, like most real games, is about winning, and man, when you have that big colorful pile of money in front of you and your opponent has a twenty and a few ones, you know you're winning. My coworker Greg pointed out that many children learn or practice counting skills with Monopoly, and that is absolutely true. Not much math needed when you just swipe your card. Of course maybe this is more "real" but come on, it's a game! And what about "house rules" like the Free Parking Money? Everyone plays that unofficial rule differently, can you even do that with the debit card? You wouldn't get the joy of raking that pile of cash over to your side after triumphantly counting yourself onto Free Parking. Now, the one upside might be that it's gotta be harder to slip an extra $500 from the bank when no one's looking. Still I don't know if a reduction in cheating possibilities is worth losing the glorious feel of taking your opponents last few paper dollars, or of learning to deal with the anguish of mortgaging something, and watching that money go directly to someone else. What's next - hide and seek using GPS? BTW - please come over and play Simpsons Monopoly with me. I promise not to steal from the bank . . ..

The Lie of the Land

I hate liars. I know, it's cliche, everyone hates liars, being lied to, etc. I am sure that's on 3/4 of the Match.com profiles - "Turnoffs: Lying, bad breath, rude people", but I think I may hate it more than usual. Someone lying, even if it's not to me or about me, just boils my blood. This came up recently because a good friend of mine is being lied about in a MySpace blog. Her ex-husband is saying completely untrue things about her (not using her real name, but still using his, so . . .) that make her sound evil and vindictive and worse of all, like a bad mother. Nothing he says is true. This doesn't really involve me in any way. I mean, I know it's all lies, the people who know her know it's all lies, the people who read and believe this idiot's lies don't know her and can't do much that effects her life, but man - I'm soooo mad. I tried to tell myself that it doesn't matter, and it's certainly not a surprise. He lies basically as a hobby and he's darn good at it. So why does it make me want to scream? Because he's lying!! I don't know if this has something to do with it, but I am an excellent liar. I learned at an early age all the little tricks to make it believable, how much truth to put in your lie, to eliminate (almost) all of my tells. I'm a great liar - I can even tell a lie and make you think I don't know that you can tell I'm lying, so when I tell a real lie, you'll believe it. I could be a really, really terrible person. And because of that, I just plain don't do it. If I tell a little teeny "white" lie, I feel sick to my stomach, because I know it's like an alcoholic taking just a little sip of scotch. It's not the size of that sip, it's what it represents. I don't want to be a liar, no matter what the cost. I will admit that I do sometimes embellish when telling a story, but even then, I have rules I don't cross, too complex to go into here. Part of my problem with blogs like the one posted about my friend is that there is no way to rebut. This vile person can paint whatever hideous picture he wants to about the woman struggling to raise his son while he cons more victims, and the best she could do is post a comment that he'd immediately delete. She could write a competing blog, but to what point? The people who read his aren't going to know to look for hers, and even still, who would they believe? They already think they know him. It's lying with no chance for the truth to come out, which just makes me madder. If you get a chance, watch the Penn and Teller TV series called Bullsh*t. It's a series exposing, well, you can guess. I can't watch it without getting all riled up and saying to the Husband "But how can they do that? They're lying!!" And that's the truth. :P

Improve Your Putting in 1 Easy Step

So, this weekend my family went to Presque Isle (Lake Erie) for a weekend of beach bumming and family bonding. While there, we decided to play a round of Mini-Golf, or Putt-Putt, which ever you prefer to call it. I love mini-golf. Those who know you might be surprised seeing as I am a very competitive person, and I reek mightily at putting. So you'd think I'd despise the whole thing, but for some reason, even though I always, always lose, I enjoy a good night of mini-golf. This time however, I had my best round EVER!! I didn't have ANY of those ones where you get 6 because you've hit it 7 times and still aren't even close. I had no real 6s, no 5s only two 4s!! I was UNDER 3 strokes per hole as an average!! What did I do differently, you may ask? What is the secret to the sudden dramatic improvement in my game? A toddler strapped to my back. That's right. I had my son in the Snugli - 20-pounds of squirm, attached to my back, occasionally kicking me in the butt or yanking on my hair. Apparently, this is what was missing from my swing. I don't know, maybe having him back there forced me to balance more carefully or keep my head up. Maybe I've been leaning too far forward, or having to ignore repeated butt-kicks made me concentrate harder. I still didn't win, but for the first time in a long time, possibly ever, I didn't lose, either. I think the improvement was so dramatic that as soon as word gets out, you'll see pro golfers wearing all different children, for different situations: "Vijay's in the rough and he still has a good distance to the green, I'd say for this he'll want a crying 3-year-old, or possibly a very fat 2-year-old, with a lolly."

A Weekend of Firsts

I've been out of town a few days, on vacation with the family. One of the best parts of the weekend was watching my son with some firsts. He went to the beach for the first time (loved the rocks, okay with the sand, didn't mind the water). He went to an amusement park, played mini-golf (sort of), and generally had a good time. Traveling with an infant isn't easy, and somehow this less-than-one-year-old doubled our luggage, but we had a great time and got to see some old familiar things through the new eyes of our son.

Happy Birthday, Pop-Pop

Today my maternal grandfather is turning 80 years old. EDW's post about her grandmother inspired me to post about my Pop-Pop. Pop-Pop is the nicest person I have ever met. In all my 30+ years, I've never heard him say a bad word about anyone. On the day my mother and I went to Glamour Shots, got all dolled up, had our pictures made and then dropped by to show off our helmet-hard Beauty Queen hair and our Malaysian whore make-up job, my grandfather took a good look at us and said, "Well, your lipstick doesn't look too bad." He found the nicest thing he could honestly say, and said it. Pop-Pop just "retired" from his volunteer work. He played the piano, once a week for years and years at a retirement home. Just because he knows they enjoy it. He worked hard, working a full-time job and two part-time jobs at one point to support his wife and two girls. He helped found a church, always lent a hand where needed. He started the strawberry picking tradition in our family (see On June 24th, Strawberries Mean I Love You) Pop-Pop loves to golf and bike, neither one he can really do anymore. He bowls and plays dominos. He plays the piano totally by ear, any song he's heard enough to learn the melody. At bumper boats, he's a ruthless competitor and will soak you even if you are his 10-year-old granddaughter. The thing most people think of when they think of him are his jokes. Pop-Pop loves a good groaner - the kind that is so silly or dumb that you have to laugh, even though you're saying "oh, is THAT bad. . ." Always clean of course, he'd probably find my last post a little blue. Happy Birthday, Pop-Pop. I am so glad you can see and hold and know my son. I'm so blessed to have you in my life. In honor of Pop-Pop's birthday: An atheist was walking through the woods, when he heard a terrific roar. He looked up to see a bear charging at him, claws and teeth at the ready. He calls out "God, if you're real, make this bear a Christian!" The bear drops to his knees in front of the atheist, folds his paws and says "Lord, for this meal I am about to receive I give you great thanks . . ."

Excuse Me, Butt . ..

Okay, I'm going to have to warn you that this post will contain liberal usage of the word "butt" and possibly others which refer to that general area. Why is it wrong to scratch our butts in public? This thought occurred to me because I have dry skin. My skin, perverse organ that it is, dries out to itchy-flakiness at the mere suggestion of anything remotely skin-drying, such as swimming pool water, air-conditioned air, a glimpse of the sun, whatever. Meanwhile, my face skin is producing enough oil to make me a future focus of research for the renewable-energy-source set. The end result is I am itchy all over most of the time and have a nice shiny nose. Sunday, I went swimming. As predicted, the chlorine dried my skin. Monday, I was itching like crazy, though lucky for me, it was a work-from-home day, so I could scratch like a fiend all day while flakes of me fell off. Then I thought: so what if I scratched my butt? I guarantee you, it's clean. I wash it in the shower and then it wears pants all day. It doesn't even touch half as much stuff as my hands do, but I can scratch one hand with the other in front of you and you'd never think twice about it. My butt (and yours) are basically just nice big fleshy parts on the back. I'm going to take some liberty here and assume you wash yours and normally cover it with something for most of the day. So why can I scratch my knee, my shoulder, my side, even ask YOU to scratch my back, but scratching the old behind is deplorable? I just don't know. There are plenty of non-gross reasons a butt could itch, like dry skin, rough undies, a mosquito bite - what's the problem? Is it because of the proximity to the, uh, body's sewer? Certainly digging around in one's crotch-region is yucky, considering that all sorts of bacteria and sweat are going on down there, besides your other basic reasons. Does your butt even sweat? Now, I'll continue to follow the social more of not satisfying that itch when other folks are around, though believe me, I know that you scratch and even the Queen of England takes care of that when her servants aren't around. BTW - whose job is it to scratch the royal heiny?

Conclusion to Wrong but Right.

Not long ago I posted a theoretical question. Basically, if someone is doing good things for selfish reasons, does that make the things being done of less value? Or, does it matter if someone does the right thing, but for the wrong reason? I admit I was a little disappointed on how few of you weighed in, but pondering the comments from those who did, I agree. It may be a slight, almost unnoticeable lower level of enthusiasm. It might just be that something just feels wrong about it. Whether you believe it or not, I think that our souls tell us that motive matters. It's not more or less important than our actions. Wrong actions for the right reasons also give us that same indescribable "off" feeling. I'd hope that someone doing good from a selfish motive would learn the value and the joy of being a benefit to the others and would continue on the right path, even if it started from a less-than-honest place.

Join the Circle

Hi Friends, Just a quick post for now. Thought it might be fun to start a little review group, for movies, TV shows, books, CDs, whatever. I'm hoping you'll all contribute, and invite your friends to as well, so we can all find out about good entertainment, and what to avoid! Check it out: Circle Of Friends Reviews Look forward to seeing your reviews!

Memories Made

Forgive me if this post is a little meandering, I'm slightly buzzed thanks to "Liz Strength Margaritas". Tonight I spent the day with the family of my Bestest Friend. Said BF and I have been friends 2 decades now, and, as I told the hubby on the way home - they're family. Sitting at the table, passing food and reaching across each other, I thought to myself "This really is what it's all about." Life, I mean. It's about eating barbecue chicken around a crowded picnic table with people you've known and loved almost as long as you can remember. It's about the time last week when the Husband, the Baby and I sat on a blanket at the Drive In and ate KFC while we watched the people around us and waiting for the sun to go down, then cuddled up and watched a movie together (well, Eddie fell asleep, but that's good, too). We all have the big moments, the big memories, good, bad, embarrassing, heartbreaking, and life-changing, But today, I had the kind that really makes up our lives, that really matter. Life isn't the big "oo-ah" moments, it's the Liz Strength Margaritas and the splashing in the pool. It's licking your fingers as the previews roll. It's a hug, a silly pun, an IM friend. Go make some memories.

Groundhog Day

This afternoon my fierce and vicious dog Joxer went out into the backyard to discover a giant groundhog. This must have been the world's biggest scariest groundhog ever; honestly, he was more than twice as wide as my dog(not that that's saying much) and longer. Joxer, neighborly fellow that he is, wanted to play. He ran up to Huge Monster Groundhog and did his version of tag - hit it with his front paws and ran off. Apparently groundhogs don't know how to play tag, because the groundhog didn't give chase, he just bared his teeth, no lie, and hissed which I didn't know groundhogs could do. By this point, I'd made it out to where the dog was to rescue him from the beast before it ate him. I dragged him back to the house (he was still trying to engage the groundhog in the game), and watched it through the screen door for a few minutes. Normally, I'd just let the thing wander off, but it was having a hard time find its way out of the yard and since I have a dog and baby to think about and didn't want to spend the rest of the day in the house, I did what any educated, independent, competent woman does when faced with the unknown. I called my Daddy. Dad said Animal Control no longer cares about groundhogs, assured me that they are generally non-violent and told me to just wait him out. As usual, Dad was right, and eventually the groundhog did find his escape and mosey away. But beware, he's still out there.

What'd I Miss?

I always seem to walk into the ladies' room at the office in the middle of a conversation that either I really don't want to know about or I missed something vital. I had mentioned before that I'd post some of the lines I've walked in on, so here goes: "And that's why I always wash my dishes with bleach." And that's why your pets and children are dead. "I love this job, you don't have to touch anyone." What did you do before?? "Every time I go to Children's I get pink eye." Maybe you should stop going there and putting germy things in your eyes. "That lady is so needy, every time I call her, she wants to talk to me." Yeah, I hate it when I call someone on the phone and they want to talk to me. "I'm PEEING! Yeah, I'm in the bathroom. I'm on break, I only get like three breaks a day." I sure hope you're on the cell phone, lady, although really, couldn't this conversation wait two minutes? So that's a random sample of things I hear right here, in the bathroom our office shares with a couple other companies. It's possible that these conversations were totally rational if I'd heard the whole thing. But probably not.

Things That Make You Go - hmmmm?

I don't care much about the World Cup Soccer, just not my thing. But by now probably everyone in the world knows that a Crazy French Soccer Dude (CFSD) head-butted a Rude Italian Opponent (RIO) who he claims was saying not nice things about his mum and sister; CFSD was thrown out and the French lost. He's retiring, it was his last game and apparently he was a fairly big deal, so what a stupid way to end your career. Here's the part that's worth my blog space - CFSD has since apologized, sort of, and also said "I tell myself that if things happened this way, it's because somewhere up there it was decided that way, and I don't regret anything that happened, I accept it." Okay, first off, I do believe that God can and does get involved in our lives, but I also believe we have free will. God has the power to make us little automatons for his amusement (like a giant version of the Sims) but He doesn't. Don't want to get into a big theological debate, just stating my beliefs. Therefore, I don't think that "somewhere up there it was decided" that CFSD would head-butt RIO. If a meteor the size of a chihuahua head had fallen from space and beaned him, causing him to miss the end of the game -then you can blame God. Second, CFSD should regret what happened. He made a bad choice, and his team losing the world championship may very well have been a direct result of that. It's dumb to regret things that you did without being able to know all the relevant info, like "If I'd've known the cook had SARS, I wouldn't have eaten there" but regrets are called for when you decide to do something when you know it will end badly. He had to have a pretty good idea that ramming one's head into another player is cause for ejection. To say "I accept it" means that it is something that happened to you, and you know that you couldn't have done anything about it, and that it wasn't your fault. This was totally his fault. Did RIO make unsavory comments about his family? Sure, why not, let's assume he did - so what? It's called "trash talking" and if can get the other team's best player to attack you and therefore be pitched from the game, then it's called "strategy". Whatever RIO said about his mum, who cares? No one heard it but CFSD and no one would really take that as fact any. This is part of the continuing Nothing-Is-My-Fault mentality that is really starting to cheese me off. An apology goes like this "I was wrong. I am sorry. It was my fault and I will make an honest attempt to not do that ever again." It does not sound like "Hey, it's too bad that happened, but here are the 15 reasons it's not my fault. . . " So sorry if this blog offended you, but I know that somewhere up there it was decided that I'd write it and also, CFSD made me. PS - after I posted this initially, I went to Scott Adam's blog and wouldn't you know he has a post on the same subject, but funnier. . . .

Timing Is Everything

Two quick funny stories about coincidence in timing This weekend we were out at lunch. I was feeding the baby cheese and turkey from a sandwich. The menu made a big deal out of the cheese and bread being organic. I told the baby "This is organic cheese, honey. That means it's made by hippies." My son, who isn't even a year, right on cue stuck out his tongue until the cheese fell out of his mouth and went "baaah!" He did finish it later though. I ordered something from Amazon last night. This morning while working from home, I got an email that my order had shipped. As I clicked the email window closed, my dog went nuts, I glanced up - the UPS truck had pulled up in front of our house! I thought "Now that's service!" Wasn't for us, though.

My New Friend, the Girl in the Red Hoodie

This is just a brief plug for Mon Aimee Chocolat. Having a ridiculously dumb and annoying day, I decided (and announced) "I need dark chocolate." I prefer dark chocolate and recently had a disappointing episode with supposedly "dark chocolate" raisinets, which have milk(!) in the dark chocolate. I walked into Mon Aimee and the nice girl in the red hoodie asked "Looking for something in particular?" Me: "Yes, I need dark chocolate. Bad day. Need chocolate." Her: "Anything in that? Or just plain?" Me: "Hmm, plain is fine, or basically anything but nuts - raisins maybe?" Dare I hope? Her: "I know just what you need" She gets a jar down "Whole Strawberries in Dark Chocolate!" She gives me a sample. YES!! This is what I wanted. I am munching on them, slowly savoring them, right now. And I am so much happier. I like her - Red Hoodie Girl is my friend.

You Down With N-A-P?

As both EDW and Paperback Writer discussed receiving unsolicited advice, I will put off my thoughts on that until we've all forgotten about their posts so mine will seem fresh and original, though I do have some things to say about it. Instead, today we will cover an important topic - napping. It's something I'm good at and have almost made into an art form. Today we discuss various types of naps, and their pros and cons. Couch Nap: Generally done in front of a TV, this nap requires a couch long enough to be stretched out on. You can also start a couch nap by reading and drifting off, dropping the book is optional. Couch naps rarely last more than an hour, and usually not even that long. They can cause neck pain without proper pillows. Restfulness: B Comfort: B Standard Duration: 20-40 minutes Recommended for: Before/after dinner snoozing, recovering from minor illnesses, rainy days Recliner Nap: Similar to the couch nap, although never done on one's side, recliner naps are almost never with a book - TV or music only. Normally shorter than couch naps, they also have less chance of neck injury. Restfulness: B- Comfort: B Standard Duration: 15-30 minutes Recommended for: Immediately after large meals, accidental naps (I was just going to rest my eyes) and "Baby" napping (falling asleep because you are holding a sleeping baby). Floor Naps: One of my personal favorites, floor naps tend to be short, restorative naps. Almost always with the TV on, floor naps are best accomplished with a fluffy comforter and one couch pillow. Floor napping seems to relieve my back pain, though usually causes at least one arm to fall asleep. The best way to start a floor nap is to watch a Law and Order you've seen before, and don't zip through the commercials - that seems to be when I usually drift off. Restfulness: B+ Comfort: B(with comforter), C (without) Recommended for: napping with limited time, relieving lower back pain, really hot days. Car Naps: Napping in the car is a time-honored tradition started in the 50s when people began inexplicably taking their families on road trips across the country. As a child, I most enjoyed car napping on the floor of the back seat where it was warm and the motion very soothing. Since this is now completely illegal for children, and I'm waaay too big to fit, I generally stick to napping in the passenger seat. This almost always leads to a super-stiff neck, and the sleep is not great, but the urge to nap is over-powering. Restfulness: C- Comfort: D Duration: 2 or 3 bursts of 10-15 minutes Recommended for: Long trips, providing you are not the driver. Bed Naps: The most desirable of the naps, if the least practical, bed naps are the kind where you turn out the lights, pull down the shade and snuggle down into your bed (or, I guess someone else's, I generally stick with mine). Bed naps are rare indeed and can unintentionally last longer than expected. Do not expect to take a 15 minute bed nap, it won't work, and if you do only sleep for 15 minutes, you'll have a hard time getting up. Restfulness: A Comfort: A Duration: 30 minutes - 2 hours. Recommend for: Making up for a late night, recovering from illness, dealing with stress, just because you feel like it. There are certainly other kinds of naps, but these are the major ones. In a future post I can teach you how to train yourself to nap, best napping times and all about the new "caffeine" naps.

Permanence Marker

NOTE: This is a response to Whining Stranger's summer writing contest, so it's just some fiction. According to Word, it's 500 words on the nose, including the title . . . Permanence Marker Many things called permanent aren’t. My mother's “permanents” from the salon - gone in a matter of weeks. Your permanent record may exist after graduation, but no one cares. Permanent teeth can be knocked out. My dad left the summer I was 10, while I made friends at Camp Shenandoah. I came home full of stories, which I soon forgot. My mom hadn’t found the words to tell me. Still in shock, she let me into the half-empty house. Dad and his favorite things, gone. Wordlessly mom handed me a note: “Sorry, honey. It didn’t work out. Nothing lasts forever.” Didn’t work out? Mom hadn’t been hard to live with before, for me, anyway. After, things changed. My life’s two chapters: “Before” and “After”. After, I never went to camp. Though employed as a receptionist, Mom feared we’d be starving and homeless without dad’s paycheck; she scrimped and hoarded – reused plastic baggies, made toothpaste from salt and baking soda (tasted awful, but “We saved $1.50 per tube!”), cut our hair herself, and worst for me, bought our clothes at Goodwill (even our undies – yuck!!). She sold anything we didn’t “need” (her opinion) at ever-more-frequent yard sales. My camp-friends, faraway girls I could vaguely picture, became my only friends. In junior high, kids didn’t want a friend in outdated clothing who couldn’t go to the movies. Embarrassment prevented me inviting kids over, we never even had soda. Emailing from the library turned into my social life. The emails, at least, I could be sure wouldn’t be sold. Mom discovered eBay - our house grew emptier. At 15, I started waitressing. Half my tips went to mom. I saved some, but indulged occasionally on new clothes or a movie. Slightly more “normal” now, I made a few real-life friends. One day, I came home to a For Sale sign. Mom said she’d take the first offer. She’d warned me this might come, but after all I’d lost, I couldn’t bear to see my home go, too. Alone in my room, I shook, cold, because we rarely turned on the heat. Scared, because soon we’d have nothing. Not even our house. I crept to the closet, where I’d hidden as a child. But this would be gone, soon, too. Still in my uniform, I drew my Sharpie from my apron. I scrawled on the floor “Sharon lived here. It didn’t work out. Nothing lasts forever.” Mom died 3 years later. She wouldn’t go to the doctors because of the $10 copay; a simple infection killed her. Packing up her few things, I found a key. It didn’t fit anything in the apartment, nor at her job. The key opened a security deposit box. Inside piles of cash stared up at me, under her journal, entries for hundreds of checks Dad sent, and matching entries, where she’d added the same amount. I don’t know why. I bought our house two years later. Paid cash. I may sell it someday. Nothing lasts forever.

Lucy In Disguise with Diamonds

If you've ever been sure you knew the lyrics to a song only to find out you were totally wrong, you'll want to check out The Archive of Misheard Lyrics. Some are funny, some are just dumb, and I'm fairly sure some are made-up. But this happens to me all the time - I hear something and what I hear isn't anything like what was said or sung. When I half-hear something, my brain apparently fills in seemingly random sounds until it makes words. For example, I once "heard" an hockey announcer say that the game was saved by a "brave pelican". I figured it must be a hockey expression I wasn't familiar with. So I ask the husband, and the conversation goes - Me: "What's a brave pelican?" Husband: "What?" Me: "Brave pelican, what's a 'brave pelican'? Like the announcer said." Husband: "What are you talking about? Who said that?" Thanks to TiVo, we discovered I was talking about Craig Billington, the goalie for the Colorado Avalanche. My favorite of these was a real Emily Litella moment. Chas was watching ESPN and I was dozing on the couch. In and out of a light sleep, I woke up a little when I heard the announcer say that the Fornicators won a college football game. "FORNICATORS?!? That's terrible. I mean, I thought the Gamecocks was bad. Even if it's true, what kind school uses that for their team name?? What's their mascot?? Eeeeewww!!" I probably would have gone on some more except the Husband interrupted me "FLOR-I-DA GA-TORS. Florida Gators." Never mind.

The Optimism of my FlipFlop

While we're on the subject of shoes, let me tell you about my black flip-flop. It's a cheap one, black, that foamy-rubbery substance, no patterns or sparklies or flowers. The kind we used to call "thongs" before that word referred the visible underwear of choice for hoochies. It's on my front porch, and it's all alone. Last year in the Whatever Floats Your Boat race at the Lake Arthur Regatta, I wore my black flip-flops into the water. I'd worn them the year before with no problems. Last year, however, we had a minor problem - we sank. Sank before we even reached the "Start" line, no kidding. So we swam, dragging our "boat" behind us, through the whole course. It was grueling, and at some point, my flip flops fell off. At the end of the race, such as it was, we dragged our weary selves and waterlogged former boat from the water and a woman came up and handed me a flip flop. "This floated by us when we passed you, so we rescued it." Nice of them, to save my shoe. No one had found or rescued the other. It didn't wash ashore while I waited, but I brought the saved one home. And it's been sitting on the porch ever since. I don't know why, but I just can't bring myself to pitch it. What if the other one shoes up this year? Or, what if I get another pair and lose the opposite one? Or maybe it's just the fact that it makes me smile when I think of us, struggling, gulping water, gasping, dragging that ridiculously heavy contraption through the S curve, while my shoe floated happily to another boat and was pulled aboard. It may be smarter than us. By the way, we won the Spirit Award. Come see us this year, we plan to not sink this time.

The Other Shoe Diaries

I spend a lot of time looking for a shoe. Not one shoe in particular, but just the one that matches whichever one I am currently holding. This is truly a puzzle to me - how do my shoes get so badly separated? I don't come home, take off the left one and wander around for awhile before slipping out of the right. I don't see my shoes sitting together in front of the door and think I'll just take this one upstairs and put it away, and get the other one later. So how is it that they often end up in different rooms or on completely different stories of the house? I just don't get it. The dog doesn't carry them around and this happened long before the baby arrived. The worst is when I find the missing one, only to realize I have set the first one down somewhere and I no longer recall where. Usually I find it later and then remember why I put it there: "I'll set it on this dining chair so that if I see it, I'll know it's the one I already found, and then when I find the other one, I'll come to this chair to put them both on." I think if I could gather and "take back" all the time I've spent looking for a missing shoe, I could probably have done something impressive, like written a book or knitted 50 blankets for foster kids or something. Am I the only one who has this problem? I can't be, but I sometimes suspect I am.

By Popular Request - My Yahoo Avatar

I say, she looks shockingly like me. But, you know, skinnier. And I almost never go to the movies with penguins.

Tragically Hype

"A link between hair dye and lymphatic cancer? A new study suggests there might be! Stay tuned, we have that story coming up after this break." This is what I heard when I turned the TV on this morning; it was the Today Show and they love to put the fear of God into you so you don't change the channel. What could I do? I admit, I cover a few gray hairs - tons of my friends dye their hair various colors and what woman hasn't dyed her hair for no apparent reason? I nervously brush my teeth through commercials for various things (no hair dyes this break, though) and finally, finally we come back so they can tell me how I'm going to die because I've dyed. First, the big scary numbers - women who dye regularly (which, of course they don't define - once a year?) have a 17 percent increase. Do it once a month? 26 percent!!! Dyed your hair before 1980? (my mom wouldn't let me for kindergarten.) A whopping 37 percent increase in your risk!!! Pretty scary right? THEN the very end of the report, by which time most women who are regular hair-dyers have freaked out and are running around screaming, they mention that - and pay clooooose attention now - your risk of getting lymphatic cancer is less than ONE percent to begin with and even with the 37 percent increase, it doesn't get to 2 percent. That's right. This whole big terrifying report is to inform you that if you dyed your hair 12 times a year, starting in 1979, you move your chances of getting lymphatic cancer slightly closer to 1.5 percent. How is this even news? My eyes rolled so hard, I probably increased my risk of getting eyeball cancer. It'll be on the news tomorrow.

Weather or Not

Maybe I'm just nebby (Pittsburgheese for nosy, for those outside the 'Burgh), but I seem to overhear the most bizarre conversations everywhere I go. At the library the other day, a cranky old lady was complaining to the librarian behind the checkout desk about random things, but what caught my ear was: "When I was young, you could count on the seasons. It went Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter" (sharp hand gestures accompanied each season name) "just like that, every year, no question. Not anymore." Did I miss a meeting? Are the seasons in a different order now? "And we never had any of the confusion like there is now - a cold day in May, a warm day in January. That just didn't happen." Yes it did. In our memories, every Christmas was white, every 4th of July clear and warm and sunny, but that's just not the truth. "You just don't know what to expect. Someone should do something about that." We'll get right on it. Props to the librarian who managed to nod politely and not roll his eyes. I don't think I could've done it.

God Bless America

It's the Fourth of July, and like most holidays in our modern times, it's become a day to be off work, to party, to eat. We've even lost the name Independence Day, when was the last time you heard it referred to that way? I'm not going to bore you with a lecture of What Freedom Means to Me or preach a sermon on the rights we take for granted. I am going to say that I love America and I am sad when people who live here and enjoy her freedoms, privileges and almost ridiculous fortune put down and embarrass her. You have the absolute right to criticize our government, our leaders, our policies, but I hope you'll do it with the knowledge that that too is a privilege only dreamed of elsewhere. I hope even more that instead of griping or whining you'll work for change. God bless America, where I can ask the God of my choice to bless my country. God bless America, where I can drive and get an education, regardless of my gender or race. God bless America, where I can work where I choose, live where I want, love, hate, dress, and vote however I desire. God bless America, and our leaders, our land and our freedoms. May we use them all wisely.

Truth, Justice and the Jami Way

Reading EDW's blog post from yesterday, I was thinking about how much my true self I am most of the time. The point I made in her comment section is that I generally am the authentic me that I am at that moment - and that, my friends, is imminently changeable. There was a quote I read years ago, which I can't find at the moment, which was something like "I am the most of me, when I am the least replete of me". This strikes a chord for me - if you want to see ME, come with me on the camping trips with my teens in the fall. I am too busy thinking of them to be concerned with me - and that's the most me I can be. A few days ago, I subtley, steathily mentioned my blog to a friend. I believe it was something like "So, uh, read my blog yet? I noticed you haven't commented." My friend's reply was "Yes. I read it." Blink. Blink. This person, let's call him/her Jordan, since it's non-gender-specific and I don't know anyone named Jordan, this is someone who's opinion I value. Clearly, Jordan went to the school of "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything." Jordan, I hope you're still reading and you'll let me know why you didn't like it. Now, maybe Jordan didn't want to say why s/he didn't care for it; we were in a public place and perhaps s/he wanted to spare my feelings in front of our other friends, should they be listening. Or maybe Jordan thinks blogs are ridiculous, a paean to our own egos (yes indeedy!) and has no time to waste on other's thoughts. I tried hard to figure if I'd said something that would be offensive to Jordan (or really anyone). Couldn't think of anything. The thing is, I'm not going to change much, even if Jordan does eventually tell me what the problem is. I didn't use any profanity, because I can write without it, and I do have friends who don't care to read that. It might be boring, I suspect it is, but it's not to me, and really, as much as I want others to enjoy it, this really is for me. It's a brain-dump that I used to do in email, in a forum where I get a little feedback, and you get better insights into my inner-workings. I'll change the picture if that's what offending. Maybe add a link if Jordan thinks I should've linked to his homepage or something. But to change much more - that just wouldn't be honest. And if I'm not going to be an honest me on my own blog - when will I?

Sassy Baby

My almost-11-month-old son has started sassing me. It's not just my imagination, like I thought the first couple of times. I see him doing something he's not supposed to and say "No." He knows "no"; it means "stop what you're doing briefly, look at mom and go back to what you were doing". Now, however, when I say "no", he pauses what he's doing, looks me in the eye and says "Da!" before going back to what he was doing! If I say no again, he says da again, with the same amount of force I say no. "Da" is a word he uses to mean "dog", "Dad" and, when pointing "that" or "there". I'm not sure if it also means "yes" or if he's telling me that the dog or Chas would let him. The reason for this was right beneath my nose - Sassy brand toys. I registered for these toys and even bought him a couple, but they must have subliminal messages telling children to disrespect their parents. That's why they chose Sassy as a brand name. I can't imagine there's any other reason.

We Survive a Crisis

Well, it finally happened, one of my worst parenting fears came to pass. Don't worry, we all survived with no visible injuries. Other parents warned me it would happen, but I took all possible precautions, and I really thought it would never happen to me. The baby pooped in the tub. I've done so well with diapers, I really thought I'd gotten over my reactive gagging and fear/loathing of all things bodily. Maybe, I thought, because it's my child, I can handle it. He'd just been changed- it had to be safe to bathe, the change wasn't even a 1/2 hour before. He needed a bath; he loves baths; he'd just, uh, eliminated - what could go wrong? 25 minutes into the bath (I told you he loves them) little bubbles escape up behind him. He looks shocked and somewhat amused. Not sure what that was, Mommy, but it was funny . . . Then, he leans up against my arm and goes "UUURRRRRGGGNNNNNNGGHHH!!" and a much BIGGER bubble appears. I laugh, thinking he must have figured out what made the first bubbles, when a tiny piece of poo floats to the surface. I say "NOOOOOOOOOO! NO POOPING IN THE TUB!!" But, alas and alack, it was too late. I'll spare you the rest of the details, but suffice it to say, I rinsed off the baby, threw a diaper on him and spent the next 10 minutes gagging while trying to deal with the offending waste. Chas ended up having to clean the tub and toys later (after the tub drained) because I'd dry-heaved so hard I thought my eyes might pop out. But we all survived, and I even was able to bring myself to give him another bath tonight (after giving him a stern talking to) and all went well. One major parenting crisis down, only 999,999,999 to go . . .