Who the Hell is Chris Dodd?

I answered a few questions about current issues at gotoquiz.com 2008 Presidential Candidate Matching Quiz. The answers matched me up with the following candidates according to how I feel about the issues.

I'm stunned to see Giuliani at the top of my list of Republicans. I'm not sure how that can be. Other than that, and the fact that I have no idea who Chris Dodd is, these results make sense.

P.S. Sorry about the blue font. It imported that way and I'm too lazy to figure out how to make it more readable.

84% Chris Dodd
84% Barack Obama
82% Hillary Clinton
81% John Edwards
78% Joe Biden
77% Bill Richardson
74% Mike Gravel
73% Dennis Kucinich
52% Rudy Giuliani
45% John McCain
35% Mitt Romney
34% Mike Huckabee
29% Tom Tancredo
27% Ron Paul
23% Fred Thompson

My family is CRAZEEEEEE

The following is an excerpt from an e-mail I got from a near relative. Believe it or not, it was part of a Christmas greeting. I love said relative, but let's just say we stand on very different sides of the political fence. He frequently regails me with new ideas and theories he has picked up from talk radio. Sometimes I'll take the bait and rebut, but more often I just let it go.

But I don't even know what to make of this one. For what it's worth, I've changed the names of his wife and daughters. "Alice" is the wife, "Suzi" is the 15-year-old daughter, and "Monica" is the 22-year-old daughter.

Taxi driver in San Diego yesterday morning was a "Political refugee" from some "Small Shad-Like country" Elytra?? in Africa,
He is one of the thousands that I question , worry about and let Suzi know she needs to worry when in large cities. He has been here since 1986 and before the priest signed his U S Immigration documents he had been in the "War' of that nation since 1970" had both parents and siblings murdered and burned; joined the "Rebel forces' and was a "Killing Machine" my interpretation of 50 questions he answered for me killing anyone his rebel leaders told him to kill prior to him being 20 years old. Back in his day there was no DOPE just guns and blood!
He was the third African, one Eithopian, one Sudanese and him all have been allow in the country since 1986, two from "Rebel armies"
That is one very simple reason I pick up my "Concealed weapon permit" tomorrow cause I have already done the first coarse, as Monica and Alice have, and plan to do 8 courses!

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Lordy. Methinks he forgot to take his crazy meds. . . Best I can tell, he's using an African immigrant taxi driver, who has apparently been in this country legally since 1986, as his justification for needing to carry a concealed weapon. But I can't be entirely sure.

And what, exactly, does "DOPE" have to do with any of it?

God help us all.

Fuck you, Rubik. And your damn cube.

Davy and I had a great time in Chicago. The weather was unseasonably warm while we were there and our hotel accomodations were AMAZING. I simply can't recommend the Palmer House Hilton highly enough--especially the executive level in the towers. It was fantastic!

My mom stayed in Austin to take care of the girls while we were gone, and they seem to have had a great time with minimal meltdowns, although that is surprising considering how much they did while we were gone.

Unfortunately, Mom took them to see Santa while we were away, which is always a disaster in the making after wishes have already been communicated and accomodated. But, well, what are you going to do?

Both girls had previously asked for Nintendo DS's and a couple of other small items, all of which had been purchased and prepared for Christmas Eve. But, as always happens when you let a child talk to Santa right before Christmas, they came up with some new ideas on Santa's lap.

In addition to the Nintendo DS, a certain Webkinz, and a skateboard, Mia suddenly developed a desperate need for a "real" magic wand. Can you imagine the havok that would be wrought if Santa were to go around giving out real magic wands? Oy ve. We pointed out that it could be very dangerous if a magic wand were to fall into the wrong hands. Mia agreed with this idea, but she pointed out that she was only planning to use it for two things: to get a cell phone and to fly.

She didn't get a real magic wand. . .

And then there was Zoe. Zoe wants to play the double bass (aka bass fiddle or string bass) and she's wanted to for years. Trouble is, the bass is an enormous instrument and miniature versions (1/8 scale) are relatively rare and quite expensive. Plus, kids outgrow them pretty quickly and have to move up to 1/4 scale and then 1/2 scale in a matter of a few years. So, with her agreement, we've put it off until she's a little bigger. However, while sitting on Santa's lap, she came up with a brilliant idea. "Santa," she said "I know it's kind of late notice, but I was thinking since miniature bass fiddles are so hard to find, maybe your elves could make me one."

Luckily, we were able to find a *really* miniature wooden bass in Chicago--two inches tall. . . We put it in her stocking and she thought it was very funny. She's not sure if Santa misunderstood or if he has a really good sense of humor. But she admitted that she got "exactly" what she asked for.

At least they didn't ask for a pony. . .

Experience is a strange word.

Think about it for awhile. Say it a few times. I think you'll see what I mean.

That's what it's like inside my head. . .

Ridiculous!

To my ever-growing list of things that drive me NUTS, I'd like to add the following: catsup.

I don't care if it IS a valid spelling. It's ridiculous. Ketchup is also a valid spelling, and much less ridiculous.

Use it.

Dumb Kids

I often forget how fortunate I am. All the children in my immediate circle of friends are very, very bright. They are, without exception, charming and fun kids with whom I enjoy spending time. However, they've spoiled me for "regular" kids. And I'm always stunned when I'm forced to face the reality of a child who is, um, not so smart.

For those of you who think every child is gifted, well, perhaps you should stop reading now. Or you and I could agree to disagree. Because I'm going to be blunt .

My daughter (and I'm not going to tell which one at the risk of outing the child in question) has a friend who is not smart. In fact, she's just plain dumb. I'd say she's dumb as a rock, but frankly, that would be giving her far too much credit and the rock far too little. This child is not developmentally delayed. Apparently she's perfectly average at school. She's hitting her benchmarks, blah, blah, blah. But she doesn't have the sense God gave an earthworm. Critical thinking skills? They must be banned at her house. Along with curiosity, humor, and books. She's perfectly nice, and I can take her in small doses, but after a few hours she tries the absolute limits of my patience.

Man. I love my kids. And if you're reading this and you have kids, I love yours too. But the dumb ones?

Not so much.

There's. A. Dead. Rat. In. Front. Of. My. House.

Legs up in the air.

Dead.

I'm afraid I have to move.

One Down

Thanksgiving is behind us, and for that I give thanks. The meal itself was good and my mom and I did much better than I expected in the kitchen. In fact, this visit has, across the board, gone much better than any in the recent past. And I'm thankful for that as well.

What I'm NOT so thankful for is the attitude my father gave me when he showed up yesterday. Davy and I had decided that we would eat around 2:30--so that we'd have time to get to the gym and I could prepare our meal in a comfortable time frame. Plus, we knew that Daddy would stay for the Cowboy game no matter what time we ate, so it made since to schedule dinner right before the game. So, we called Daddy and told him 2:30. "Okay, I'll be there at noon so we can do Zoe's birthday," he says. "Hmmm," says I. "I think it would make more sense to celebrate Zoe's birthday after Thanksgiving dinner, since I'll be busy cooking and getting everything ready. Why don't you come around 2:00."

So he shows up at 2:00 and he doesn't say a word to me, only I don't realize that because I'm busy finishing everything up for dinner. As we're getting ready to sit down at the table I ask how he had spent his morning. "I worked," he says, tersely. "You worked?" I replied, not quite *getting* it yet. "Why did you work?" "What else was I supposed to do?" he says. "I wasn't allowed to come over here until 2:00." "Are you pissed off?" I ask, as it finally seeps into my reluctant brain. Oh yeah. He was pissed, and the injustice of it made me so angry I just walked away. And I ate my dinner in silent fury. As I washed the dishes and drank half a bottle of wine, it faded into self pity.

You know, there's no way for me to win in the holiday battle between my parents. And I'm tired of it.

In other, absolutely terrifying news, Tom is very sick. Several of you have heard pieces of the story as I vented to you about his unexpected hospitalization (in Round Rock!) and our unexpected hosting of his rambunctious yellow lab, Boris. The news just keeps getting worse. The procedure they did last week to relieve his jaundice was not effective and will have to be redone on Monday. In fact, the doctor wanted to do it when he saw Tom on Wednesday, but because of the Thanksgiving holiday, he couldn't get the surgery scheduled. All signs point to cancer--and a shockingly dire prognosis if they're right. If his biliary tumor cannot be resected, the anticipated survival rate is less than one year. If it can be resected, the 5-year survival rate is 20%. But that's up from a whopping 0% survival rate 10 years ago. . .

With that elephant sitting in the middle of the table yesterday, I'm not quite sure how Davy was able to find the right words for the Thanksgiving blessing. Tom didn't eat much, and he slept through much of the football game. But he was here. And it is flat-out impossible for me to imagine that next year he might not be.

If this makes you laugh as hard as I did, you need a life, too.

Here is an excerpt from a recent instant message conversation in which I amused myself mightily.

Robyn: Does he still have the super-long hair? I'll be interested to see/hear what/if my girls have anything to say about it.
Innocent Friend: he does indeed still have super-long hair
Robyn: Notice I did not say super, long hair.
Robyn: Because I'm an editor.
Robyn: I pick and choose my punctuation carefully. . .
Innocent Friend: Nice use of the elipses there...
Innocent Friend: My punctuation would probably best be characterised as "random"
Robyn: There will be no mocking of my elipses usage.
Robyn: Although, jumping off my high-horse for a moment, I do note a certain unintended irony
Robyn: "I pick and choose my punctuation caefully. . ."
Robyn: That might be the most absurd sentence I've ever typed.
Robyn: Crap
Robyn: "carefully."
Robyn: Editorially speaking, I just get funnier and funnier.
Innocent Friend: Recursive editorial comedy. Pure gold, that is.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

This morning I'm editing a 2nd grade social studies reader and I come across the following line: "Our president makes important choices for our nation with help from Congress."

It sounds so innocuous when you put it that way.

Add this to the list

In case someone out there is keeping a list of words I hate, please add "pricey" to the list. As in, "the food at [name of restaurant here] is okay, but it's a little pricey" or "those new-fangled electronic toys are pricey, don't you think?"

There are real words to express that idea. You know them. Use them.

Just so we're clear. . .

I hate the holidays. I wake up the morning after Halloween with a pit in my stomach just thinking about what's coming. It's not that I hate the idea of the holidays. Not at all. I hate the reality--of juggling obligations with relatives and knowing that no matter what I do, there's no way to make everybody happy.

I'll exhale again on January 1st.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

This just isn't right. He's old enough to have seen her as baby Michelle on Full House.

Ick.

AWKWARD

So, in the industry (the publishing industry, that is), there's a term for all the stuff that comes at the beginning of a book. You know, it's the stuff on the pages that are numbered with Roman numerals instead of, um, regular numerals*. The term is "front matter." Similarly, the stuff printed in the back of the book, the glossary, the index, anything that comes after the "real" content of the book, is called "back matter." Also prevalent in the publishing industry is the use of alpha-abbreviations (Heh--I just made that word up, but it sounds GOOD, don't you think?) for everything. For example, text that is missing but will be inserted later is marked "TK" ("to come"--go figure). A table of contents is a TOC. And, as you can imagine, front matter is FM and back matter is BM. Unless you have a particularly sensitive client that prefers to use EM (endm atter). Which, apparently, I do.

Today my client pointed out to me that the publisher of a project I'm currently working on would prefer to use the term "end matter" for obvious reasons. Ever the professional, I popped off the following IMHO hilarious e-mail.

I'm disappointed that they're using EM instead of BM. It takes all the fun out of a hard day of work. "Someone is going to have to help me knock this BM out if we're going to make that deadline." "There's no way I'm going to finish this BM by the end of the day." "Could someone run to Starbucks and get me an espresso? I'm only halfway through this BM and I've been working on it for hours."

I could go on and on.

'Cause I'm so mature.

And you know what her response was? Nothin'. Nada. Stony electronic silence.
Man, I hope there wasn't a no-potty-talk clause in my contract, because if there was, I'm screwed!

I think I'll go take that shower now. . .

* Why can't I remember that word? There are Roman numerals and ??? numerals. Aggghhh. Once again, I place blame on the brain damage.

Ode to Dr. Bronner's

Okay, it's not really and ode at all but a declaration of love. I placed my annual Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap order last week, in honor of the cooler weather, and it arrived today. And this year I branched out, too. In addition to the peppermint, my old standby since college, I ordered eucalyptus and tea tree. I'm officially ready for winter and all the upper respiratory crap it wants to send my way, baby. I can't wait for my next shower.

Zombie Kid Likes Turtles

Happy Halloween!

Boring for You = Therapeutic for Me

I spend a little bit of time on a good-sized message board, the focus of which is healthy cooking and lifestyles. The board is frequented, in general, by a large number of intelligent, interesting people from all over the world, several of whom I've met in real life.

For the most part, people behave and are nice to one another, although sometimes discussions will disintegrate into ugly battles. The battles can be pretty entertaining, but sometimes they're just uncalled for. Instead of starting one of those battles, I'm going to vent here about two unrelated topics that have pushed my buttons over the past couple of days.

1) Maybe I'm wrong, it wouldn't be the first time, but I'm pretty sure that when someone with a terminal illness goes in to hospice, the idea is that they're not going to recover. A woman posted this week that her friend with recurrent breast cancer can't take any more treatments and is going into hospice care. She got lots of sympathetic and sweet responses, and one that was just stupid:

I am so sorry to hear about your friend's fight with breast cancer. She
will be a winner with your support and the support of the other supper club members. A positive outlook is key to her recovery. I wish her all the good things that are sure to come her way with your love and support.

While I'm certain the woman who posted this meant well, it makes me want to kick her in the cyber teeth. Did she not read the original post or is she simply ignorant? Either way, something about it annoyed the crap out of me and I just needed to say it out loud.

2) There's a guy who posts frequently and adds a lot to the discussion. He is friendly, helpful, and has a good online demeanor. He lives in San Diego, so he's had a lot to say about the fires in California this week. He's been very helpful to several people who were looking for information about people they haven't been able to reach. He seems to be a truly nice guy. But he posted this today and it really rubbed me the wrong way:

4 more bodies found. Although it sounds like they may have been illegals as border patrol agents found them. News is saying death toll is up to 10 as a result of firestorms. Sad.

"Although"? Although what? Four more people died, although they don't really count because they were here illegally? What the hell?

If it were any number of other people who regularly tick me off with careless shit like this, and I were in the mood for a fight, I'd call him on it. But he's a decent guy, and he CAN'T have meant that the way it sounded.

So, there you have it. I realize it's of no interest to anyone but me, but I had to get those two things off my chest before I got too much more worked up about it.

Now I'm off to eat Thai food with my husband. Anyone want to place bets on what he's going to say to tick me off? I seem to be ready for a fight!

Random Thoughts

1) I have huge respect for people who do this blog thing every day. As I've mentioned before I *thought* I had a lot to say, but I seem to have overestimated my need to express myself. It turns out that the longer you go between entries, the more difficult it is to dive in. It's sort of like when you put off returning a phone call, and then you realize it's been too long, and you can't call now because that would just be weird. . .

2) I've become inexplicably addicted to Dancing with the Stars. There's really no way to explain it. I don't like "reality" programming (well, except for Top Chef and Project Runway, and one other that I absolutely REFUSE to admit to publicly) but I started watching Dancing with the Stars last season with my kids and somehow I got hooked. I'm fascinated by the motivation of the celebrities who agree to do it, and by the skill of the professional dancers. I also love the fact that the show provides a lucrative and public outlet for professional ballroom dancers who have worked their butts off in an area that traditionally provides little (if any?) financial reward or notoriety.

3) Today, thanks to my infidel friend Jake, I've been thinking about toast. I love toast. I love the smell of toast toasting toastily. I love the scritchy scratchy sound a dull knife makes as I spread the butter on across the crumby golden surface. I love the slightly crunchy but still tender toothsomeness that indicates toasty perfection. I especially love a warm piece of nutty whole-grain toast topped immediately with a thin slice of mild white cheese--so the cheese softens slightly but does not truly melt. Toast, in the words of my 7-year-old, rocks.

For Sara. . .

Two things. . .

Today I discovered the fascinating tool that is the Stumbleupon toolbar. Available at stumbleupon.com, this cool toolbar gathers users' interests and offers up seemingly random websites based on those interests. The user then "rates" each site according to whether he or she likes it or not. This, in turn, allows the tool to fine-tune the data and provide more "relevant" sites.

First, let me say that I realize this is a real time killer. Nonetheless, it's oddly compelling. I've spent the last half hour surfing idly through the sites it's given me, and it's been fascinating, to say the least.

Transition now to the following List of unusual deaths from Wikipedia.

My first thought when this popped up was what the hell?? But then I started reading. It's rather like an accident you just can't turn away from. I couldn't make myself stop reading. I have no idea what among my interests lead me to this, but I've learned a lot. I can't decide, though, which are more interesting: the unusual deaths among the early Romans or those of today's men and women. I think this may be my personal favorite--207 BC: Chrysippus, a Greek stoic philosopher, is believed to have died of laughter after watching his drunken donkey attempt to eat figs.[2]

It Would Be a Better World If My Friends Were in Charge!

I just read a journal entry by my friend Jake that is, in my opinion, the best commentary I have read on the Jena 6 controversy. Here, in Jake's words, is my opinion of situation . . .

Drastically reduce the charges against the Jena 6!

Granted, that doesn't have quite the same ring as "Free the Jena 6", but I have difficulty believing the justice is served by freeing six men who are apparently guilty of beating a fellow student. It is my belief that justice is better served by charging, trying, and, if found guilty, sentencing these gents appropriately.

And then going after the authorities who let this happen. Going after them hard.

Let's go back to the start on this one. The tree incident. Or rather, the nooses hanging from the tree. I'm not aware of any cultural context in which nooses hanging from a tree constitutes a welcoming gesture, but in the south, they send a very specific and unmistakable message. I give credit to the school principal for not playing dumb and immediately recommending the expulsion of the three students involved. Unfortunately, he was overruled and the incident was labelled a "prank" by the authorities.

This is precisely the sort of things our hate crimes laws are for. They're not about punishing someone for being a racist or beating someone up because they're gay. Hate crimes are crimes that are intended to terrorise a targeted segment of the population. They send a Message. I think it's safe to say that the nooses sent a message that's so clear that it would be condescending to try to explain it. That's what a hate crime is.

The rest of the story isn't very complicated. Race relations deteriorated and, in every incident, if a white person beat up or pulled a gun on a black person, they were either not prosecuted or else given probation. If a black person beat up a white person or had the audicity to wrestle away a gun that had been pulled on them, the prosecutor threw to book at them. It's really that simple.

And, when I say "threw the book", understand this: The white kid was beaten unconscious. It was not an inconsequential beating, although it wasn't serious enough to keep him from attending a function later that night. However, the prosecutor insisted on trying the men for attempted murder. Aside from the fact that, in a six on one fight, any serious "attempt" at murder is going to be more than just an attempt, the prosecutor had to claim that a tennis shoe was a "deadly weapon" in order to make the charge.

The Jena 6 face decades in jail. Obviously, that isn't right. I'm all for reducing the charge to simple battery, the same thing that the white kid who beat one of the Jena 6 not long before was charged with. Give them probation, or a few days in jail, or what ever is appropriate. That strikes me as more just than just letting them free.

I don't even really care about the noose-hangers at this point. They are effectively damned to their own pissant little lives of fear and stupidity. Sure, they probably should go to prison for what they did, but I'm not certain that's any worse than just letting them be who they are.

But the law enforcement community in Jena? Oh yeah, nail those bastards. One thing that has been made abundantly clear by this episode is that there are two justice systems in Jena, separate but not remotely equal. These folks are entrusted with serving the community and they have failed. They're like a priest who diddles choirboys, or a soldier who changes sides, or anyone else in a postion of trust who abuses and corrupts that trust. There's supposedly a special place in Hell for these types, but I don't have much faith in Hell. I am quite certain, however, that there's a special place in prison for them.

Leonard Pitts, if you ever need a smart white apprentice, I know just the right guy for the job. . .

Thanks, Jake, for letting me quote you.

My Geriatric Moment

This evening I was at a local restaurant with Davy and the girls. The chatty young server (her name was Synthia--with an "S") told us this story about one time when she was at Applebees playing Dungeons and Dragons with some friends. The point of the story is irrelevant, but I was fascinated by the idea of this group of people going to Applebees, of all places, to play D&D. Even more than that, I was surprised by the fact that people were still playing Dungeons and Dragons. And we're not talking about people my age.

So I ask Synthia how old she is. "Twenty-one," she tells me. To which I reply, "Wow. I didn't realize kids were still playing Dungeons and Dragons." KIDS???? WTF? Who am I, George Burns? Next thing you know I'm going to be out on the lawn with my Sansabelts hiked up to my chest, hollering at the neighborhood kids for riding their bikes in my grass.

When, exactly, did I turn 70?

I'm certainly not doing a very good job at keep up with this blog. I'm not a "blogger" by any means. But I'm determined to keep it, and here's why. Every now and then I feel like I have something important to say. Something absolutely worth the effort that I make by posting the entry and the effort that you make by logging in to read it.

Now is not one of those times.

And yet, I continue to type.

The incident that compelled me to post for the first time in a month is that I read a funny word--an insult, actually--on a comment to a blog entry at bravotv.com. In reaction to a blog entry about last night's Top Chef elimination, a viewer referred to a particulary dickish judge as a "jackhole."

Hah! Jackhole.

That made me laugh.

And that, my friends, is the end of this entry. . .

That took way too long. . .

Gonzales Resigns

Although I feel a little bit sorry for him. It's got to blow when you screw something up as badly as he has and everybody knows about it.

Just to get that other post off the top, I have one thing to say. . .

I hate mosquitoes.

The One Where I Talk About My Weight

Yeah. I know. It's the elephant in the room (ha--I'm still so clever, even through this veil of virtual tears). Those of you who know me in person know I busted my ass and lost a bunch of weight two years ago. 63 pounds, to be specific, which is no paltry amount when we're talking about a 5 foot frame. I spent, what, maybe 3 days at my goal weight? And then it started creeping back. I weighed myself yesterday after making the disturbing discovery that very little in my closet fits me. And here's the disappointing truth. Over the past two years, I've gained back 40 of the 63 pounds I'd lost.

Crap!

To anyone who feels compelled to think "Well, duh, if you go back to your old lazy-ass, eat-anything-you-want ways, of course you're going to gain it back," I would like to point out that I have not, in fact, returned to my old, lazy-ass, eat-anything-I-want ways. In fact, I'm still working out regularly and I'm still trying to be aware of everything I eat and make good choices each day. There is no question that I'm doing things better than I was before. But obviously it's not enough.

So, in the inspiring words of Sean (who, I'm quite sure was NOT referring to his weight when he posted these thoughts in his blog):

"hmmm...

what am i doing

i think something needs to change"

Yes, that much is clear. But what?

Figs for Sale!

Fresh, ripe, juicy, drippy figs for sale.

Not really. I'll give them to you for free. Show up with a ladder and help yourself.

Seriously!!!

My top-notch, high-$$$ education fails me. Again.

More often than I care to consider, my education proves itself to have giant, gaping holes. Or maybe it's my brain. Either way, it's actually quite shocking how much I don't know.

Heracles = Hercules.

I wonder if there is more than one way to spell "duh"?

Mika Brzezinski of MNSBC rips Paris report

Testing, testing. Testing my ability to add a video directly to my blog.
How fancy am I?

Mika Brzezinski is my hero

I never heard of her before today, but if you haven't seen this clip of Mika Brzezinski refusing to report entertainment gossip as news, you should watch it. The whole thing. It's only about 3 minutes long, although the clock in the bottom right-hand corner shows that this took place over several hours. This woman deserves a Pulitzer Prize or something!

Mika Takes a Stand

Green Snakes, and Brown Snakes, and Possums, Oh MY

This morning I went out to put the grill cover back on the grill (yummy fajitas last night, but that's a different post altogether) and I saw a sweet green grass snake sunning itself on my fence. I saw sweet, because compared the the giant rat snake from a month or so ago, this guy was a kitten. And then I gathered up all my courage (because even though I know little green snakes are harmless, they all give me the heebie jeebies) and I decided to continue on my mission. So, I lifted up the grill cover and what was underneath it, but ANOTHER snake. This one, I can tell you with some confidence, was a baby rat snake. Whether it's the offspring of our friend the gigatic monster rat snake, I can't say, but it was small. And get this. I took a deep breath, shook myself off, and continued with the job at hand. Albeit with one eye constantly roving between the two snakes.

So, then, proud of myself for doing what needed to be done in the face of adversity, I rewarded myself with a tour around my yard to inspect the bird feeders and see what was blooming, what needed pruning, etc. And what did I find, lying DEAD under my peanut feeder, but a young (did I mention dead?) opossum---with ants crawling out of its eye sockets, nostrills, and mouth.

Blech.

All of which begs the question: why the hell can't my husband put the grill cover back on the grill when he's done? This is really ALL his fault.

I need a drink!

Another in the series of amusing quotes from my delicate six-year-old daughter

Mia (face red with effort): Pfffjfffffhhhhhttttthhhhhh.
Jenny (concerned): Gosh, Mia. Do you need to poop?
Mia (casually): Nope. It was just a toot. It was a good one, though. Kind of relaxing. Like Yoga.

My Crappy Day

Lots of crappy stuff happened today. Nothing major, but little, niggly, crappy stuff. I sent Jenny and the girls to the neighborhood pool so I could work this morning. They showed up at the door 10 minutes after they left because the pool was closed because of some strange chemical imbalance. Mia took it as a personal affront and spent the next several hours moaning about how it wasn't fair. Well, most of the next several hours. She spent some of that time fighting with her sister and some of that time crying because I didn't plan the right lunch.

I'm tired. I need a vacation from summer vacation. And we're only in week 2. . .

Pleh.

And then there was the news that my beautiful and beloved personal trainer has been promoted and is leaving my gym to become the fitness manager at another location. He told me today, and I swear to you, it was all I could do not to cry. How pathetic is that? I really like the guy he's set me up with, and change is good, and blah, blah, blah. But I'm really, really, really going to miss Russell. Not to mention his fine, fine ass.

Sigh.

My favorite image of the week

I read a blog called b.rox by a guy who lives in Mid-City New Orleans. The writer, a guy named Bart, has become a somewhat reluctant community leader in post-Katrina New Orleans. He works at a university in NO and his wife is a public school teacher. They live in a predominately minority area, and they're trying to stay there. But few of their neighbors returned after the storm, and the neighborhood, as I understand it, is still in pretty bad shape.

His entries are sometimes funny, sometimes painful, but always insightful. It's been a rough couple of years for Bart, but it's people like him who are keeping New Orleans alive.

That was a long introduction to the following excerpt from his 5/31 entry:

On our side of the street, two teenage boys are lounging atop a car. They’re acting all thuggish and hard, as teenage boys are wont to do, but they’re playing Connect Four. That cracks me up.

I just love this. This is what New Orleans means to me. It is a city of such dichotomy that it's hard to get your head around it sometimes. But the mental image of two tough thugs on top of a car playing a kids' game is going to stick with me for a long time.

Sensitive Issues

If you're reading this, you probably know what I do for a living. And many of you do the same thing. While I wouldn't say it's a passion, creating educational materials (that's mainly textbooks and testing materials, for those of you not up on the industry jargon) is definitely a good gig that allows me a great deal of flexibility--and the money's not bad, either. Every once in a while I get to work on a project that I believe is really effective and meaningful, but for the most part, most of the big publishers are producing the same mediocre stuff under different titles. As they try to maximize profits by meeting the needs of a huge audience, they often miss the mark completely.

One of the big issues in educational publishing is "sensitivity." It's been an issue as long as I've been in the business. For a long time now certain topics have been off limits. Obviously, you can't write stories about sex and violence. You can't write about religious holidays or Halloween because someone might be offended. Minorities and the elderly must be shown in a positive light--they can't be depicted as criminal or feeble, respectively. Children on bikes must always wear helmets and people in cars must have on their seat belts. Physical handicaps must be depicted with regularity, but, for the most part, the handicap must not be an issue. Fictional characters must represent people from a variety of ethnic and social groups. Magic and magical creatures are completely off limits, as are witches, ghosts, demons, and vampires; although, strangely, trolls and goblins are okey dokey.

There are some sensitivity issues that might surprise you. Children must not be depicted playing cards or using dice as a part of a board game--because cards and dice can be used in gambling. In math activities, children may use number cubes, but you may never ever call them dice. Children shouldn't be depicted consuming foods of little nutritional value, such as ice cream, candy, or chips. And they definitely shouldn't drink cola. Many publishers try to stay away from anthropomorphism although some will allow talking animals in stories for Kindergarten and first grade.

Again, these are issues I've been aware of for a long time; they're part of the educational publishing culture, so to speak, and they don't surprise me any more. At least they didn't surprise me until I received a document from a client today that left me almost speechless. In addition to the things I've mentioned above, and a bevy of other similar issues, the following are off limits:
* References to animals mating (Hmmm. That's going to make teaching life sciences a little tricky, but I'm not working on science right now, so okay. I resolve to avoid writing about mating animals!)
* People throwing up (Frankly, this doesn't come up much in the materials I've worked on, but still, this one surprised me. Does some group have religious objections to throwing up? Is it political? I don't get it!)
* Embarrassing words, such as "breast," "brassiere," and (I'm not making this up) "toilet" (What the hell?)
* Physical unattractiveness (such as obesity) as the focus of a selection if the issue is not resolved positively
* Men wearing earrings
* Biographies about people shown to have led less than exemplary lives (Whom does that leave, exactly?) or about living people who may not continue to lead exemplary lives (I'd pull out my crystal ball for that one, but I'm pretty sure crystal balls are off limits, too.)

But here's my absolute favorite "sensitive issue" from the new list:
* Classification of people as animals (e.g., "People, like other animals, need food to live.")
Seriously? How can this be a "sensitive issue"? People *are* animals. Where's the controversy?

These things make me insane. I completely understand that in order to stay in business, educational publishers have to sell textbooks. And in order to sell textbooks, publishers have to make sure they're not pissing anyone off. But when we get to the point that we're avoiding actual basic facts, like the fact that people are animals, in mass market products, I don't really see the point.

Missed Opportunities

I have official confirmation. The rumors are true. My beautiful and talented FedEx guy has gotten married. Work-at-home moms all over Southwest Austin are in mourning.

Why? Just Why?

Despite the bizarre portrait on the cover, I thought I wanted this CD:



In fact, I've been thinking I wanted it for a while. Tony Bennett with Sting? Cool! James Taylor? Oh yeah! k.d. lang? Definitely! But when I went to amazon.com to place my order this evening, I was stopped dead in my (mouse)tracks. Tony Bennett and Celine Dion? Shitbucket!! What am I going to do now? I simply can not, will not, must not purchase anything by Celine Dion. I *KNOW* some people really like her. Yes, I'm sure she's very talented, blah, blah, blah. And if I'd never actually seen her move or heard her speak, I might be able to live with it. But I have and I can't.

Sooooo, if I'm serious about this Tony Bennett thing, I'm going to have to pull myself together, make a flying leap into the new millenium (yeah, I know I'm running a couple years late), and learn how to buy individual tunes online. But frankly, I'm still recovering from figuring out how to get the free podcasts of Fresh Air and This American Life. Bleh. Anyone know a teenager who'd do it for me? Without bitching about Tony Bennett?

Or maybe I should just forget about it and go listen to some old Lyle Lovett.

The State of the (local) Media

I present to you the following "story," which was posted on KXAN's website Sunday evening. I'm posting the story in its entirety, completely unedited or excerpted.

*The Austin Symphony Serves Up The Sounds For Mother's Day*
May 13, 2007 10:05 PM

Sunday several Austin families came out to celebrate Mother's Day at the Austin Symphony.
The annual outdoor concert featured some well known tunes and musical numbers.
The concert was held at Zilker's Hillside Theatre.

That's it. I happened across this on Sunday evening, and I've been thinking about it ever since. Why did the "journalists" at KXAN post this on their website? The story is neither accurate, well-written, nor is it of any interest whatsoever.

Let's start with accuracy. The Austin Symphony did not play at Zilker Park on Mother's Day. The Austin Symphonic Band did. Different organizations altogether. I recognize that this distinction is not important to anyone other than the members of the two separate organizations (and probably more important to the actual Austin Symphony Orchestra since they, as professional musicians, probably don't appreciate being compared to a bunch of wannabes), but the fact remains that the subject of the story is inaccurate. The "several families" bit is misleading too--unless they were really, really big families, as there were several hundred people there. I'd estimate there were 350 to 400 on the hillside this year. There are only two other facts presented in the story: music was played (true) and the concert was at the Zilker Hillside Theatre (also true). So, this article, such as it is, is 50% wrong.

But let's move away from the accuracy to another journalistic issue: quality of writing. Whoever wrote this only had to generate three sentence and a headline, and this is the best he or she could give us? "The annual outdoor concert featured some well known tunes and musical numbers." Yep, we played tunes and musical numbers? You didn't know we had it in us, did you? Which did you like best? Myself, I preferred playing the tunes.

Finally, why the hell did they even post this story? There was, in effect, NO story. There was not even a picture that might make it an interesting human interest space filler.

The more I think about this (and clearly, the fact that I'm thinking about it at all is probably good evidence that I'm avoiding something much more important), the more flabbergasted I am. It makes me wonder what the real purpose of local "news" coverage is.

I love all the nature in my backyard (owls, hummingbirds, various other birds, butterflies, etc.) and I've worked hard to attract all that nature TO my backyard. But today's nature sighting has left me considering a different approach. Namely, a cement highrise in the middle of a busy cement city. This is what we discovered in a tree in the backyard today:

I don' t know if you can tell from the photo, but it's a four-foot long rat snake. Here's a close-up of his/her head. I'm moving to Manhattan. Or maybe the Antarctic. ASAP.

Dear Everyone Who Lives In My House,

Have you ever noticed how when you open the refrigerator door, you always find things in the same place? Beverages are on the top shelf; everything in tubs (margarine, cream cheese, yogurt, etc) is on the second shelf next to the eggs; cheese and lunchmeats are in the drawer; leftovers are on the third shelf; bread products (tortillas included!) are on the forth shelf; fruit is in the fruit draw; vegetables are in the veggie drawer; condiments (i.e., everything in jars and bottles) are in the door.

Easy peasy, right? Everytime you open the door, you know right where to look for what you want. Amazingly, you grasp the inherent order when you are LOOKING for something, but it completely escapes you when it comes time to put something back. How can that be?

I know I don't have to rearrange the damn refrigerator every single day. I realize it's my choice to do it and we'd all live if I left it in disarray. But come on, people, how freaking hard would it be to put something back where you found it? Even you, orderly little German girl. You can spend 2 minutes each evening pairing up our shoes and lining them up in size order every evening, but you can't put the ketchup back in the empty spot in the door? You can do it. I know you can!

Sincerely,
Me

CREEPY!!!!

Yep. That's the theme of my week. C R E E P Y! It all started with a bizarre passive agressive e-mail from my longtime kinda stalker. If you know me well, you know the story, and I'm not going to rehash it here. But suffice it to say, those of you who helped me compose my response, that he didn't reply to it. I'm hoping that whole phase of my life is tied up with a bow--all official- like. (YIKES!)
(edited: I've just returned to revisit the above paragraph because if my alleged longtime kinda stalker were to read this, the wording would be unnecessarily cruel. in truth, he never technically stalked me--it was just an awkward and one-sided friendship. However, I decided on second thought to leave it as is, because in the event he does read this, he might be stalking me after all, and that changes everything. . .)

But that's not the creepiest thing that happened at the Czarnecki house his week. No it's not! However, since I can never tell a short story, I'll have to provide a little background.

A couple of weeks ago, Davy, the girls, and I were out trying to fly a kite when we discovered a big patch of milkweed. I thought it would be fun to see if we could find piece with a couple of monarch eggs on it that the we could raise and release. I spied a piece with an egg, picked it, and took it home. Little did I know, the plant was host to several already hatched microscopic caterpillars and we ended up with seven of the suckers. It might not sound like that many, but until you've tried to keep seven hungry monarch caterpillars supplied with fresh milkweed, I respectfully ask you to withhold your judgement!

In order to raise the seven cats, which turned out to be at different points in their development, I had to go out and buy several additional containers. I've also been making daily trips to random fields to gather more milkweed. Finally, yesterday, we had our first pupation! The two larger caterpillars attached themselves to the top of the container and formed the tell-tale "J" that monarchs make before they split off their skin for the last time and form their chrysallis. We were actually able to watch one of them do it, and it was bizarre, to say the least. The hanging caterpillar writhes and wiggles and pulses for about five minutes as its skin splits off. Then the caterpillar innards emerge in a gelatinous green glop that somehow hardens into a glittering chrysalis over the next hour or so.

Now, maybe you think that's the creepy part, but you'd be wrong. While those two big guys were forming their "J" and shedding their skins, a much smaller caterpillar started the same process. He attached himself to the top of the container and formed his "J" and . . . then . . . nothing. Normally, if you approach a monarch caterpillar in the "J," he will wiggle and do what appear to be little caterpillar sit-ups. But not this guy. He just hung there. After awhile, his "J" became and "I" and we were pretty sure he was dead. We considered a few possible explanations for his demise (maybe he attached himself too soon and he still needed to eat, but he couldn't move so he starved?) and then decided to check the Internet. After a few fruitless Google searches ("monarch caterpillar J too soon" "little monarch caterpillar J") I finally hit gold with "monarch caterpillar J dead." It turns out there's a parasitic fly called the tachnid fly that lays its eggs on the skin of very young butterfly and moth larvae. The resulting fly larvae burrow into the caterpillar's skin and wait there. They feed on non-essential tissues and grow with the host. The host continues to live normally until the tachinid fly larvae begin to feed on essential tissues and kill the host. Somehow the larvae cue the caterpillar to begin his pupation early. After the caterpillar dies, they emerge from the caterpillar's body.

After I read this, I immediately removed the dead hanging caterpillar from the communal container and stuck him in something else, just in case. And this morning we awoke just in time to watch as the tachnid maggot emerged from the caterpillar's dead body. Blech, blech, blech. Yes, I understand all about the circle of life, but that, my friends, was truly creepy.

Can't Stop Laughing. . . .

I posted the following on a message board I frequent. My sentiment was, as I think you'll recognize, somewhat facetious.

"I've reached an all-time personal low. Yes, I know it's completely pathetic.Yes, I know I'm part of the problem.But I actually just logged on to the internet to find out whether Anna Nicole Smith's daughter's paternity results have been announced.I can't believe the depths to which I have sunk."

Okay, well, it was mostly facetious. I did actually log on to find out the results (which have not yet been posted), and I am not proud of it. But as for it being my all-time personal low? Well that may have been an exaggeration.

In any event, I received the following response almost immediately:

"You sound bored with your life. I was telling my dd yesterday that as she goes through this life, she needs to live it not just sit back and watch it go by but participate in it. I suggested keeping a list, or jar, or whatever, with a list of things that she wants to do and picking one thing each year and accomplishing that thing. Maybe that way she would spend more time trying to accomplish the things that she wants to do and therefore will be living her life. Just a thought."

Oh my. I guess I need to go get a jar. Or whatever.

Damn, it's been an exhausting week at the Czarnecki house, and I just realized it's only Wednesday.

1 really sick kitty + 1 depressed and unhappy exchange student + 1 oversensitive 7-year old in existential crisis + a shitload of oak pollen = 1 tired me.

Home again!

LOST!
One eastern screech owl. Grey morph.

Maybe she's sitting on her eggs and not coming up to be seen. Maybe she's off visiting friends and will be back tomorrow. Maybe she's gone to South Padre for spring break.

Who the hell knows? All I know is I want my owl back!

Are you fucking kidding me?
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17527506/

How in the hell do these people live with themselves? The hypocrisy is STAGGERING.

Yet another picture. Trying to get it in the right light. I badly need a new camera!

A bigger picture.

My dad gave me an Owl Shack for my birthday. If you don't know what that is, you should check them out at www.owlshack.com

We put our owl shack up on last Tuesday, and yesterday morning we discovered we had a tenant. We named her (we think it's a her, but really, who knows?!?) Owla Fitzgerald in honor of Zoe's new passion for 20th century jazz. If it turns out she's actually a he, his name will become Duke Owlington.

I wish I could take a better picture, but for now, I don't want to get to close. I'd hate to scare her off when she's just getting comfortable.

I just realized I've gone two or three days without hearing or reading a single Anna Nicole Smith story, and that's just freaking me out.

Or maybe the fact that our exchange student may have whooping cough is freaking me out.

Or maybe I'm just a freak.

Either way, I need to get my universerse back in balance, and ASAP!

Please excuse me while I vent for a minute. . .

Never mind. I'm too annoyed even to vent rationally. So I'll just break it down to the basics. Everybody sucks. Especially the people who live in my house. Most especially the ones under the age of 18.

That's all. I'll get over it soon, I'm sure.

If you are my friend (and clearly you are, or you wouldn't be reading this) please, please, please don't ever "shoot" me an e-mail. And if I ever "shoot" you and e-mail, feel free to just shoot me.

The love-obsessed astronaut mom charged with attempted kidnapping and murder earlier this week should probably send some flowers to Anna Nicole's funeral. I've never seen a story disappear so quickly and completely.

This is a rhetorical question, but what the hell happened to the news in this country? I took a much greater interest in each of these stories than I should have, so I know I'm part of the problem, but damn. Our news coverage is completely out of control.

Mia had a hard time getting to sleep last night. She had had a bad dream the night before and she was afraid that it was going to come back if she went to sleep. As Mia tells it, "There was this evil puffball. His name was Fluffy. And he kept tricking me into his evil traps." What the hell? What kind of nightmare is that? You know, she used to be terrified of a singing puppet from Teletubbies. She saw it once and had nightmares about it for years. It was this bizarre little puppet guy with a bun on his head that went from window to window in a computer animated pink house singing a horrible little song. She saw the guy once for maybe 10 seconds and the image haunted her for, literally, three years. She even knew his name (although I'm certain he was nameless on Teletubbies). She called him Ihavin. I have a kid who is terrified of puffballs and singing puppets. What's up with that?

In other kid news, we ended up talking about Latin American while we were sitting around the dinner table last night. As you may or may not know, we have an exchange student from Germany living with us right now. Jenny (that's her) is taking, among other things, Latin American Studies at Austin High, which led to the following conversation. . .
Zoe: What's Latin American Studies?
Jenny: Well, do you know what Latin American is?
Zoe: Nope.
Me: Latin America is a bunch of countries to the south of the United States where the people mostly speak Spanish.
Zoe: Oh, like Mexico?
Me: That's right. And Guatemala, El Salvador, Chile, etc.
Mia: Oh yeah. And India.
Zoe: No, silly. They don't speak Spanish in India. They speak Curry.

Oh my. So much for multiculturally-sensitive parenting. . .

I subscribed to Prevention magazine recently. I needed to subscribe to *something* as a friend's kid was fundraising for preschool playground equipment or an orchestra trip, or whatever. In any case, I already receive all two magazines I'm interested in reading (The Week and less consistently, Texas Monthly) as well as a couple I don't read.

I chose Prevention because a couple of my friends get it. And these happen to be my most health conscious, fit friends. And they're smart, too. Really, really smart. So, rather than ASKING what they thought of the magazine, I figured they must like it. And wanting to be health conscious, fit, and smart, I subscribed.

But guess what!?! It SUCKS! It's like a health and nutrition tabloid. Seriously. I'd say it's about 50% pharmaceutical advertising, 15% other advertising, and maybe 15% useful information. The remaining 20% consists of bogus and/or hyped up health claims, such as how to Lower Your Blood Pressure with Celery! or how to Choose Fat-Blocker Foods!! Or my all-time favorite, "Doctors' Top Ten Secrets for Preventing Heart Disease! What?!? Doctors keep the good stuff secret and then publish it in Prevention magazine? Yeah, I didn't buy it either.

So, if you love Prevention and I've hurt your feelings, I apologize. Especially if you're the friend whom I love and respect who unwittingly tricked me into buying the damn thing. But I really had to get that off my chest.

Now I'm going to go find out how to Ward Off Cancer with Cherries!

I'm going to lay my political biases right out on the table (as if I haven't already). What I'm about to say is pathetic, but it's honest.

If we had discussed the issue a week ago, before any of this happened, and assuming the vaccine has been well-tested and is safe and effective, I'd very likely have thought that adding this to the list of mandatory vaccines would be a good idea. BUT as soon as I heard Perry had issued an executive order making the vaccine mandatory, I was suspicious. We are on completely opposite sides of the spectrum on most every issue of substance, and that makes me wonder what his motives are. Plus, the idea that he completely avoided any kind of debate about the issue by issuing the executive order really rankles me. Any time any political figure does something like that, I think it should raise flags.

All that being said, I think it is ridiculous to argue that giving a young girl a vaccine to protect her against a potentially life-threatening disease STD is somehow promoting promiscuity. If we were to apply the same argument, we shouldn't vaccinate children against hepatitis because it could promote promiscuity, intravenous drug use, and blood transfusions. The argument just doesn't make sense!

It absolutely sucks that we live in a time where everything out of the ordinary can be interpreted as potential terrorism. A bunch of birds die near the capitol in Austin, and we assume someone has released something dangerous into the air. An irreverent tv show initiates a stealth marketing campaign, and some passerby panics and calls the police, who shut down parts of a major US city.

What the hell?

I've been thinking about all the hubbub caused by the "terrorist scare" in Boston. (You can read up on it here http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16921137/ if you're not up to speed.) Is it possible that the government really intends to hold the marketing people responsible for the goverment's own overreaction?

Maybe I'm missing a key piece of the puzzle, but it seems to me that intent has to play a role. From what I've read, what I know about the show the devices were marketing, and the images I've seen, it's hard for me to imagine that the people who placed the devices intended for them to be interpreted as dangerous. It may have been misadvised (although, really, I'm not even sure about that), but I don't think there was an intention to do harm. Yes, someone panicked and set the department of homeland security in motion. But whose fault is it really?

Which brings me to the lame and incomplete hypothetical scenario I've been considering. Let's say I take my minivan full of kids to the mall. As they're climbing out, someone unknowingly knocks the remote control to my on-board DVD player out of the van and we head into the mall. When we return, the parking lot has been overtaken by police and homeland security, and MOPAC has been shut down because somebody walking by saw a strange electronic device in a place it shouldn't have been.

Would this all be my fault? Could I actually be held financially and even *criminally* responsible for someone else's misperception of the situation? 'Cause that's what it sounds like is happening in Boston.

And that's just NUTS!

Somebody please tell me this is a joke. Maybe this guy was being tongue-in-cheek and I am missing the subtle cues. If not, this is seriously one of the stupidest letters to the editor I've ever read in the Austin American Statesman:


"How insulting, how sad, the powers that be would have us take seriously a man running for president whose name is Barack HUSSEIN Obama.

I wonder how many well educated, well informed, above average Austinites are even aware of this tiny tidbit. Now that's weird.--HP BRADISH"

If he's for real, HP Bradish is a complete moron.

Man, how I love weather-related housebound days. Gray and cold outside, warm and cosy inside, snuggled up in a blanket on a sofa reading a great book or watching an old black and white movie about nuns running an orphanage, a pot of chili simmering on the stove. It just doesn't get much better for me.

Now, if I could only get my dagblamed children to play along. They need "something to do." They want to "go out and play." They're "bored." Damn them and their developmentally appropriate desire for mental and physical stimulation.

Honestly, these girls are gonna ruin my snow day. . .

Beckham signs with the Los Angeles Galaxy.

There are few sports headlines that grab my attention, but this did. I mentioned it to Davy, who is so good at seeing through these things. While I figured Beckham had lost his mind (or at least his magic touch), Davy sees things differently. It's a win-win, he says (well, he didn't actually say "win-win" but that's my interpretation). Beckham's no fool. His brand goes way up in value if he increases his recognition over here. He can't play forever, and the celebrity prospects in the U.S. are pretty high. Plus, where else would Whoever Spice (sorry, I can't remember--was she posh? was she sporty? was she the smart one?) rather be for her career than L.A.?

And what if it all has the side effect of raising soccer consiousness in the US? It's all good, right?

On a much more somber note, I just realized that today, 1/10/07, marks five years since Rachel Cooke disappeared while jogging in her neighborhood near Georgetown. Five years, and Robert still has no definitive answers about what happened to his daughter.

For one day back in November (I think) it looked the Cookes might finally know who was responsible for Rachel's disappearance and likely murder, but that all fell apart when Michael Moore unexpectedly plead not guilty at his hearing. There's still no public word as to what direction the investigation has taken now, but I hope someone is getting closer to the truth.

What the Cooke family has gone through over the past five years is simply unthinkable. Today I pray for Robert, Janet, and Joanne, and hope for the best possible future for all of them.

Hmmmmmm. I wonder what an ultra unhip 30-something minivan driving soccermom type with absolutely no connections would have to do to see one particular band at SXSW? A band that is technically not even scheduled to play, but who, according to my clever friend Jake, has clearly arranged their international touring schedule to be in Texas with a free week the same week as SXSW? (I mean, really, who goes from Houston, TX on 3/16 to Milan, Italy on 4/5?)

But I digress. My real question is how do regular people get into these things? Damn, I wish I had some strings to pull.

There are not many bands I would brave a busy club to see, especially during SXSW. But I'd give my left anything to see Scissor Sisters. . .

Plumbing update.

The plumber just left. He used a cool little camera device to inspect our pipes. His diagnosis: Nothing Is Wrong.

It feels very much like taking the car to the mechanic. But sir, it was SMOKING yesterday. How can nothing be wrong?????

Anyway, it seems that either the blockage resolved itself or it was actually the city sewer that stopped up and flowed back into our pipes. We'll never know. Unless it happens again. God forbid.

Here's the best part. He charged us. . .

Wait for it. . . .

Nothing.

The man inspected our pipes for an hour. Changed a flapper on the upstairs toilet.

And charged us $0.00.

That has never happened to me in my life. We've been using this plumber for a couple of years, and I can't speak highly enough of him. It's David at Plumb Good. If you ever need a plumber, I'll gladly pass his contact information along. Best. Plumber. Ever.

Happy New Year. And Happy Major Plumbing Expenses!

Thursday night the kitchen sink backed up for no apparent reason. Well, except for the absurd quantity of lettuce that I put through the disposal because it had been sitting in the refrigerator since Christmas. . . Davy was gone and I had to have a neighbor come help me. I had plunged the sink, but to no avail. It turns out you have to block air from entering the drain from the other side by filling it with water. Who knew? I don't have a master's degree in linguistics for nothin, baby!

Fast forward to Sunday morning. Davy and Mia are out, and Zoe and I are having a relaxing hour alone. I'm cleaning out the guest room closet in preparation for Jenny, our German friend who will be joining us later this month to spend a semester at Austin High School. But I digress. I walk into the laundry room to get something and realize my socks are wet. Crap, is the washing machine leaking? Nope. Laundry room is completely dry. Walk back out into the hall to realize the carpet is squishing. It is literally soaked with water!?! So I pivot to the right and look into the bathroom. Double crap! But really this time. The floor is covered in some kind of sludge. And so is the bathtub. What the hell? This must have happened in the last 5 minutes because the last time I walked through here, everything was fine.

Where ever the water came from (the floor under to toilet and the bathtub drain? there's no sign of nastiness on the actual toilet bowl, so I'm stymied), it has stopped. I get everything cleaned up and cautiously flush the toilet. Nothing out of the ordinary. I run the washing machine and the dishwasher (which were both running during the debacle), and again, nothing. Still, I leave a message with the plumber, set up fans to dry the carpet, and get on with my day.

Monday morning, Mia flushes the toilet upstairs and then yells that it is leaking. What the hell? She "may have used too much toilet paper." So this may or may not be related to the mess from yesterday. Call the plumber again. They're coming this afternoon. This can't be good!!!!

The coming execution of Saddam Hussein makes me uneasy. I can't really put words to it. It's not that he didn't do some really bad things. I imagine he probably did. I also understand that his death sentence was technically passed by the Iraqi justice system, and so officially, it's not the U.S. executing a foreign leader. But people worldwide are going to blame the U.S. nonetheless. And really, isn't this the most honorable thing that could possibly happen to him? To die a martyr for the anti-U.S. cause? Isn't it going to simply inflame the insurgency and put U.S. forces further in the hole (speaking in terms of both military logistics and public relations) than they already are?

I honestly don't see what point it serves. Does it deter other bad guys from doing bad stuff? Probably not so much. I guess it ensures that he can never escape and do more bad stuff, but that was a pretty unlikely proposition anyway.

Just thinking out loud (kind of). . .

Oh yeah!

You know you're getting old when you have a little celebration because it's "only" an endometrial polyp.

I don't have cancer. At least not of the uterus. And not right now.

Happy, happy day!

Random stuff

I played a concert at the Paramount last night. That was a lot of fun. It was definitely the oldest and most historic stage I can remember playing on. The dressing rooms are underground--pretty much right below the stage--and they're crazy small. We imagine performers' lives being exciting and glamorous, but I've sat in the same dressing room as David Sedaris and Jerry Seinfeld, and I've gotta tell you, it wasn't so glamorous!
*********************
I've got some weird health stuff going on. I actually feel great. I'm fitter and generally healthier than ever. But I've had some funny "girl" problems lately that inspired my doctor to do a endometrial biopsy to rule out uterine cancer. Now I get to wait 4-5 days for the results--which I'm sure are going to be fine. But really I'm just saying that. I'm not so sure at all. How ironic would it be for me to have lost all this weight and gotten fit and healthy--just to get cancer? That would really piss me off. . .
*********************
I like not working better than working. If only I could find a way to earn money while not working. Well, then I'd be rich! In a perfect world, I'd sleep as late as I wanted to, read for at least 2 hours every day, ride my bike more, and play with my kids without being distracted by a bunch of stuff on my to-do list.
*********************
Also in my perfect world??? I'd be able to think of something interesting to write about. . .

Robyn's question for the day:

Do the people at Fox News actually, honestly believe that they are "journalists"? If so, I want some of their denial meds.

Really.

What a bastard. So apparently he had a plea agreement. In exchange for a guilty plea, this guy was going to get to serve concurrent life sentences. The DA's office, the sherrif's office, his own attorney, the Cooke family, everyone sitting in the court room expected a guilty plea. And he says "not guilty."

Are you fucking kidding me? Sure in principal he deserves a fair trial and he's not guilty until proven guilty and all that really important stuff that makes our justice system work (when it does work). But right now all I can think about is Robert and Janet and the rest of the family. They've been through so much, and to think it was over and to end up on a roller coaster like this--it's just not right.

I simply can't imagine. . .

Rachel. . .

On a Sunday evening in early January of 2002, just as we were sitting down to dinner, the phone rang. It was one of Davy's coworkers telling him that his friend and coworker, Robert, needed help. Robert's daughter had disappeared. He knew something was wrong, but he was having trouble getting law enforcement to take it seriously. Davy, like the rest of his team, immediately offered to help look for her, and he and scores of others spent the next week scouring the areas around her neighborhood and beyond. After she'd been missing for a couple of days, if I remember correctly, police finally took notice, but it was too late. Rachel was gone, and nobody who knew what had happened to her was talking.

It's been four and a half years since Rachel disappeared. Robert and Janet have divorced, and Robert was laid off from his job. They're entire lives have fallen apart. Robert has spent the past four and a half years searching for Rachel and helping other families in similar situations. He has participated in several searches for missing people, and spoken at conferences and before government committees. I read his online journal and visit rachel's site www.rachelcookesearch.org regularly, but I can't imagine the hell he's been through.

Tomorrow the Williamson County Sherrif's Department is going to make an announcement about an important new development in the case. The announcement is linked to court procedings scheduled for 10:00 a.m. I imagine charges are going to be filed, and I wouldn't be surprised if they had something to do with the remains that were found in a barrell in Lake Buchanan in September. No announcement was ever made about them. . .

No matter what, I can't imagine that it's good news. Although I suppose that on some level getting answers is better than not knowing. Or then again, maybe not. I just don't know. What I do know is that my heart is breaking for Robert and the entire Cooke family all over again. It's going to be a long night.

Editing to say that my barrel theory was off the mark. Rachel's remains have not been found. But a suspect, who is already serving a life sentence for the murder of another woman in the north Austin area, has been charged with her murder.

Just in case anyone was holding their breath or unable to sleep, I'm back to report that the Scissor Sisters new CD Ta-Dah does not disappoint.

I LOVE these guys!

Random Observations. . .

Expressing one's dislike of the current president of the United States does NOT make said person a "communist." Do a little reading people. Democracy is ABOUT dissent. And besides that, the cold war is over. If you're going to dehumanize everyone who disagrees with you by classifying them as your most terrifying enemy, you might as well choose a relevant enemy. IDIOTS!
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If you're in charge of the jack-o-lantern pumpkin display at the local grocery story, and you actually WANT to sell some pumpkins, don't stack them in huge boxes, in a corner, behind a bunch of bales of hay. Here's an idea---make them accessible to your customers.
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I've finally done some research and despite the fact that he is the most entertaining candidate running for Texas, I'm not going to be able to vote for Kinky. His stance on immigration seems to be, well, a punchline more than the skeleton of any sort of workable policy. And a bad punchline at that. Too bad, though. Texas could use a character. Sadly it looks like Rick Perry is going to take this one. Again. It will be interesting to see which way Austin votes, though.
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On a lighter, and happier, note, my Scissor Sisters CD has arrived and is sitting on my desk as I type. For some reason I haven't put it in the player yet. Perhaps I'm afraid it won't live up to my expectations. I guess it's time to take a risk.
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Oh, and one other thing I need to get off my chest. Rush Limbaugh is a prick. And anyone who is still listening to him is an idiot. What the fuck is wrong with you people???? Seriously!

Hooray!!! The new Scissor Sisters CD is out. I can't wait to get my hands on it!
It's not often these days that I actually get excited about new music, but these guys are so much fun!

We're heading to Plano tomorrow after school and the State Fair of Texas on Friday. I hope it doesn't rain on us. There's just nothing quite as depressing as a soggy Fletcher's Corndog. . .

Today's entry from the department of You Had to Spend Money on a Study to Figure That Out?!?!

Bike Lanes Are Good For Cyclists

A reminder that there are idiots all over the world--not just in America!

Panda Bites Man; Man Bites Panda

One thing nobody tells you about having kids is that they are going to make you sick. I don't mean "that nose ring makes me want to throw up" sick. I'm talking fevery, shivering, "I can't remember what it was like to feel normal" miserable. The thing is, once they get to school, they spend all day with kids from all over the place, coughing and sneezing on each other. Lots of parents send their sick kids to school because they have no other options. Other parents send sick kids to school because the schools are so damned hard-assed nowadays about absences and losing out on state funds.

In any event, my kids are bringing home ebola-strength colds on a pretty regular basis. They recover from them quickly, but I seem to catch every third or fourth virus that passes through, and periodically one of those will knock me flat on my ass. Which is where you'll find me right now. Flat on my coughing, sneezing, achy, stuffy head, sore throat, fever-y ass. Feeling sorry for myself.

If this is my last post ever, well you'll know why.

Willie's still got it!

According to an AP report. . .

"Willie Nelson and four others were issued misdemeanor citations for possession of narcotic mushrooms and marijuana after a traffic stop Monday morning on a Louisiana highway, state police said.
The citations were issued after a commercial vehicle inspection of the country music star’s tour bus, state police said in a news release.
“When the door was opened and the trooper began to speak to the driver, he smelled the strong odor of marijuana,” the news release said. A search of the bus produced 1½ pounds of marijuana and 0.2 pounds of narcotic mushrooms, according to state police."

DAMN!

I was so sad when I woke up this morning to the news that Ann Richards had died. I first met her when I was a delegate to Texas Girls' State over 20 years ago. That was before she became governor of Texas--I can't remember exactly what, if any, public office she held at the time--but she definitely made an impression on me. I didn't see her again until her brilliant address at the 1988 National Democratic Convention, when she nominated Bill Clinton for president. WOW!

I registered to vote via absentee ballot from Germany in 1990, just so I could cast my vote in the Texas governor's election. Thank God she beat that buffoon, Clayton Williams. Sadly, there would be other buffoons to come that put Williams's buffoonedness to shame, but that's another entry.

The last time I met Ann Richards was almost exactly a year ago. I was walking through Nordstroms when I saw a woman I knew. Based on a lightening-quick assessment of her age and wardrobe, I guessed it was probably one of my mom's country club friends--but one I knew pretty well. Maybe even one who had come to my wedding 10 years earlier. As my brain sorted all of this out in a second or less, my body went into auto mode. I greeted the woman with a friendly "hey!", smiled a wide, familiar smile appropriate for a chance meeting with an old family friend, and threw my arms open for a hug--all in the same moment that I realized this was NOT one of my mom's friends; it was Ann Richards. Ms. Richards didn't look too surprised. She smiled with some amusement and said a friendly hello as I stammered and kept on walking. The whole thing literally took less than two seconds to transpire. I was simultaneously mortified and thrilled. I spent the rest of the day thinking about what I *wish* I would have said to her--but I never quite got it right. "Thank you for being so amazing!" "Did you really ride that Harley?" "How in the hell did you, Texas's very own Wonder Woman, lose to Stupid Boy George W. Bush? Were you even trying?"

I showed her picture to my girls this morning and told them all about her.

Rest in peace, Ann Richards. . .

Ya know, I've been on the fence about Kinky. But not anymore. If Chris Bell had a snowball's chance in hell, I might be persuaded to vote Dem, but as it is, I am honestly starting to believe that Kinky is the best choice.

So there.

Five years ago today. . .

Mia was 4 months old. Zoe was almost 2. We were up and getting ready to go to Jazzercise when Tom D. called and asked me if I had the tv on. I did, but it was tuned to Sesame Street, very likely the one program that wouldn't be interrupted with coverage of what was going on in New York (and later, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania). As I had flipped through the channels to get to PBS, I had noticed the same image of a smoking building on every channel, but considering the ridiculous over-coverage the media had given to every real and imagined crisis since O.J. Simson's famous car chase, I assumed it was nothing important and just kept flipping up to more appropriate programming for toddlers.

Tom told me that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, and just as I was tuning in to see what was going on, the second plane hit the second tower. Unbelievable.

What I remember most about that day--and the days that followed-- is being completely numb. I don't remember crying; I didn't feel angry; I didn't feel afraid; I was empty. I realize now that I couldn't make any sense out of what happened. It was so big in that moment, that I simply couldn't grasp it.

With Zoe being much too young to understand what was going on, but plenty old enough to be disturbed by the awful images being broadcast, there was no question of me watching the days-long coverage out of New York, Washington, DC, and Pennsylvania. Besides that, our house was scheduled to go on the market on Friday. We'd already signed the papers to buy a new house, and there was no time to spare. So I was forced, for better or for worse, to keep myself pretty removed from the whole thing. I knew what had happened, but I was not inundated with the images and speculation that many others experienced. In fact, today I have watched much more coverage of the events that unfolded on September 11, 2001 than I did five years ago. With both girls at school I felt like I could safely turn it on. MSNBC ran the original 9/11 tape of the Today Show from from about 7:30 until 11:00 CST and I watched the whole thing. Like most everyone else who watched what happened that morning, I couldn't turn away.

I don't know when it happened, but somehow my girls have gotten old enough to invite friends over to play--and they don't need me to entertain them, or really even to watch them. So I'm sitting downstairs, trying to read, while they romp around upstairs. It's so hard for me to stay away, when I really want to sneak upstairs to see what they're up to. Thump, bump, bang, giggle. Their laughter a fairy tinkle of absolute innocent delight.

My wish is that it would always be this way. That they would always be able to romp and play and whisper and laugh with no inhibitions or concerns.

Although Mia just called down, "Don't come upstairs." So now I'm thinking that fairy laughter might not have been so innocent afterall. . .

This whole JonBenet Ramsey circus makes me sick. Of course, her family deserves justice and the law and order folks should be doing whatever they need to do find the bad guy. But why is this "news"? Until he is charged and tried, coverage of this clown they caught in Thailand should consist of nothing more than a short blurb on the third page of the newspaper. It is absolutely beyond me how a "serious" news show can justify interviewing random people who happened to be on the same plane as the suspect--and playing it off as serious analysis.

That's not news. That's uninformed gossip. And if I want gossip, I'll get it from the Star, thank you very much. I expect NEWS from the "news." Call me naive. . .

I think I'll get all my news from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert from now on. The stories on The Daily Show and The Colbert Report are at least as well researched as the garbage I've seen on the network news shows lately and at least they're up front about pretending to be journalists.

Bleh!

Today I hit a deer. I guess technically the deer hit my car, but in terms of pure force, the poor deer ended up the worse for it. I'm fine. Zoe and her friend who was in the car with us are both fine (although pretty startled), but my car's gonna need some work.

I was only about a minute from home when it happened, so I was able to bring the girls home and return to deal with the deer. It was clearly dead, but I couldn't move it out of the road by myself. Thankfully, a nice man pulled up and helped me move it. Two other people pulled up to see if I needed help in the hour I stood there. To the other 5,000 people who passed by a woman standing on the side of the road in 100 degree heat next to a dead deer and a disabled vehicle, I'd like to say fuck you!

That's all. I need a drink.

And the correct answer is---

KITTEN.

She's a sweet, frisky little siamese mix, and her name is Blue Jade, Jade for short.

I once had a friend (at one time he was much more than a friend) who made me feel more alive than anyone I've ever known. It might have been the timing--I was young, and invincible, and ready to tie the world up in a kerchief and sling it over my shoulder. But the way he looked at me made me beautiful. And the way he talked to me made me interesting. And the way he touched me made me real.

The "relationship" part of our relationship didn't last long--no more than a month at the most. We had very different goals and ambitions (in that I actually had goals and ambitions) and we also had very different ideas of what it meant to be faithful to one another. But the real part of our relationship lasted for years. He saved me when John F. destroyed me during college--quit his job, dropped everything, and spent the only money he had on an airplane ticket to come rescue me from myself. And then he stayed with me, literally wrapped himself around me, until I was ready to go on. He disappeared for a few years and then reappeared unexpectedly in Austin. I was at his wedding and he was at mine. Davy and I sometimes took care of his beautiful son. And then he and K split up (I'm guessing it was that faithfulness thing again). And then he was gone. I realized tonight that it's been close to five years since I've heard from him. I miss Jeff. But mostly I miss the me I was when I knew him.

Kitten or guinea pigs? That is the question. . .

Ode to Trudy's Fish Tacos


Well nevermind. I can't seem to come up with anything, but damn they're good. A perfect combination of flavors and textures. YUMMMMMMMM.

My tummy is comfortably full and I'm enjoying some terrifically bad TV alone in my clean house. I love my husband and kids, but I'm really, really enjoying my weekend home alone. I've gotten a ton of work done and caught up on my sleep. I've done things on my own time and have not had to consider the needs or desires of anyone but myself for the past 48 hours. This is the life!!!

Of course, it's only so good because I know they'll be home and everything will be back to chaotic normal tomorrow afternoon. But in the meantime, back to the sofa for some more awful television.

Overheard. . .

A conversation I overheard tonight between my two angelic little girls. Really--if you've never seen them--they're as cute as kids get.

Mia: Wow. Are you pooping?
Zoe: (with obvious effort) Yes.
Mia: Gosh. That was a really big plop.
Zoe: Oh yeah! I think I just pooped a manatee.
Mia: Let me see. Oh yeah, that's big! But I think Mama could make a bigger manatee.
Zoe: Oh yeah. Definitely!!

Sigh. . . They make me so proud.

Shades of Gray

There's a big controversy in Austin right now concerning a high school art teacher who is facing termination for posing (sometimes nude or semi-nude) in some photographs that were posted on the Internet and discovered by students. All of the media coverage seems to take the side of the teacher, namely that the photos were artistic in nature, and that they have no bearing on her ability as a teacher.

On the other side of the controversy, the AISD, who has been relatively closed-mouth about the whole issue, is taking the position that appearing in the photos violates the moral turpitude clause in the contract that all teachers sign.

Needless to say, the whole thing has people up in arms--and mainly on the side of the teacher who, in their opinion, has been unjustly punished for taking part in an artistic endeavor.

I haven't seen the contract. I have no personal connections with the photographer, the model, or the AISD. But I accidentally know more about the story because before any of this happened, I had been to the photographer's website and I've seen many of the photos. I saw them in a completely different context. I wasn't there to view art. I certainly wasn't there looking for photos of a cute naked art teacher. I was there because I was curious about the source of an interesting photo on a good friend's soon-to-be-ex-husband's my space page. And that's a whole story in itself. But what I found on the photographer's website was a lot of beautiful and edgy portraiture. And a lot of what I would consider pornography.

As defined in Miriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (10th edition), pornography is the depiction of erotic behavior intended to cause sexual excitement (definition 1) or the depiction of acts in a sensational manner so as to arouse a quick intense emotional reaction (definition 3). Completely withholding all moral judgement, I would have to say objectively that many of the images I saw on the photographer's website fit one or both of these definitions. They weren't the in-your-face trashy sex pictures that one might find in Hustler or its ilk, but they were definitely and explicitly erotic. Incidentally, some the photos of my friend's soon-to-be-ex-husband were in-your-face trashy sex pictures like the ones in mainstream sex magazines--and, well, ick.

But back to my point, most of the photos I saw originally are gone. They featured both nudity and sexual activity, involving heterosexual and homosexual couples. The photos that remain are very, very tame in comparison. The photos you can see on the photographer's website are very likely NOT the photos on which the AISD is basing its decision. But they are the photos on which the public is basing its outrage against the AISD. And upon which the media seems to be basing its coverage.

Seeing what I've seen, I can't decide where I stand. On the one hand, I think it is pretty clear that this teacher exercised some extremely poor judgement (as did, I would argue, my friend's soon-to-be-ex-husband--who actually has a child old enough to accidentally find him on the Internet--double ick!) and I'm guessing the AISD is well within its rights to terminate her. On the other hand, she was apparently a good teacher, and bad teachers do much more harm every day than exposing teenagers to nudity or sensuality. AND, she's apparently NOT even the teacher who exposed the kids at all. Allegedly, another teacher with whom she had a disagreement is the one who visited the website--AT SCHOOL and WITH STUDENTS. Is she in trouble too? I wonder.

Anyway, I'm glad I'm not the one making the decisions. I don't know what the answer is. . .

I think my DNA made me stupid.

National Geographic and IBM have teamed up for the Genographic Project https://www3.nationalgeographic.com/genographic/index.html a "landmark study of the human journey." I got all excited when I heard about it, so Davy bought me a participation kit for my birthday. I swabbed my cheeks and sent in my samples and I waited, and waited, and waited. And while I waited, I fantasized about what my results would tell me. Mainly, I couldn't wait to find out about my racial makeup, which would tell me once and for all whether the story my Nana liked to tell about some ancestor (Her grandmother? Her aunt? Why can't I remember to write the important stuff down???) being part Cherokee had any truth to it at all.

Well my results came, and WTF? I don't understand a freaking word of it. Apparently my mitochondrial HVR I sequence varies from the Cambridge Reference Sequence at two points by a nucleotide base mutation in which a pyrimidine base is exchanged for another pyrimidine or a purine base is replaced with another purine. Like me, you'll be comforted to know that this mutation, called a transition substitution, is the most common type of single point mutation.

Oh yeah, and this mutation apparently means that I'm a part of Haplogroup H--which I think means my ancestors came from somewhere in Europe. See for yourself: https://www3.nationalgeographic.com/genographic/report.html

(Really. Log in as fwn95d6c9v and see what you can make of it--free lunch to anyone who can 'splain it to me. . . )

So anyway, I could have told you without a DNA test that I had ancestors from somewhere in Europe. Now, finding out where in Europe I originally came from would have been of interest to me. Finding out whether my I was part Cherokee would have been way cool. But finding out I have ancestors from somewhere in Europe was not what I was hoping for.

Maybe there's more there and I'm just too thick to figure it out. On the bright side, I've never been more sure that skipping a career in genetics was the right move for me. . .

Zoe has a rash. A bizarre, non-itchy, bumpy, red rash that is now covering most of her body. The doctors don't know what it is, and, unbelievably, they don't seem too concerned about it--mainly because it doesn't itch and she doesn't have a fever. But it scares me. It scares me like all her little health idiosyncracies scare me. I worry that they're all interconnected in ways that the doctors can't understand because they won't put it all together. Perhaps it is because I've watched her almost die twice, but I often fear for this child's life. Most of the time I'm able to push the fear aside. But sometimes the most minor fever, cough, or non-specific viral full-body rash brings the fear screaming back to my consciousness. Especially late at night, when I've spent too much time online looking for an explanation. And then I go sit on the side of her bed to make sure she doesn't, in fact, have a fever. And she wakes up and smiles at me and goes back to sleep holding my hand. And I think about what a force she is, and how different she is from most children her age, how much more she sees and understands, and I become convinced that it's all because she's meant to force her whole life into a shorter span. The thought is almost too much for me to bear.

Six years into this gig, I should really know better by now.