Monday, August 31, 2009

I Love, No Hate, No Love, No Hate, No Love... I am Ambivalent About September

Here is the deal with September. It has always been my favorite month. As a kid, I should have loved August (month of my birth and the beginning of school) but September was always a little better. A little cooler, a little more school-y, a little more like fall even though we've got another solid six weeks until it's really fall around here. September is peace to me. It's a feeling of being settled into a routine that you're still not sick of. It's all things good and peaceful.

Every year I look forward to September with an almost insane zeal. I start about January wanting September to be here. The other eleven months are preamble and epilogue to the glory of September. If there was a religion for September-lovers, I would become a nun.

I haven't grown out of that passion for September yet, but it's only because of this damn memory issue I have.

You see, I got married. And through no fault of my own, my beloved's birth occurred in September. Now, my uncle's birthday is in September too, so this wasn't exactly my first September birth, but it does have more impact. Also, his brother was born in September. This created a touch of strife for me, but mostly it added to the wondrous aura of September-ness.

Then, I spawned. In September, along (it seems) with half the planet. Brynna, her cousin and her best friend all have birthdays within 10 days of each other. So, there's this frantic birthday party run at the end of the month and it just so happens to usually coincide pretty precisely with my favorite autumnal small town festival. Which makes that kind of rough.

Additionally, I have a tendency to volunteer for things in September. 'Cause, yo, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but it's kinda my favorite month.

I am hosting my church group this Thursday for our September meeting, then, next weekend is The Husband's birthday, the big consignment sale I'm volunteering at, consigning in and shopping at, one of my very best friend's baby showers (for which I have not yet crocheted), I've got Scholastic orders for my daughter's school to deal with and that's all the first half of the month. I've mentioned, have I not, that the last half of the month is inherently crazy.

And then, it's October and my wonderful, glorious September is gone.

Every year it's like this and every year I forget that it's like this. Every year, I celebrate September coming and anticipate it's arrival like a kid anticipates their first trip to Disney. And every year, it gets here, I trudge through my to do list, barely looking up to appreciate the fun of all those birthday parties, my 17th guilt-free piece of birthday cake, the expression on my daughter's face as the leaves begin to change, that fall festival that I used to obsess so completely over that I walked to it the weekend before Brynna was born by myself, while The Husband was at work, without my cell phone.

Every year, I find myself trying to fit a few more pieces of pink plastic into my house and considering Halloween costumes and wondering where the crap September went.

And yet, by mid-November, I'll tell you once again that September is my favorite month, my favorite time of the year. I'll wax nostalgic about wearing shorts and flip-flops one day, a sweater and jeans the next, about standing out on the deck as the neighborhood across the street emerges from the summer foliage, as the leaves begin to change and fall, as Summer (that attention grabbing diva) takes one last bow and slips off stage allowing Autumn in her handkerchief hem and reds and oranges and browns and still greens move into the limelight for a few brief weeks. I'll tell you about how September makes me want to read outside, makes me want to walk miles and miles every day. About how September is always the month I make crazy decisions, like wanting to learn to kayak or thinking hiking while seven months pregnant sounds fun. About how September is, in it's essence, the geeky girl in me coming out to play. It's the month of TV premiers, of real back to school, of first tests and first papers, of new reading assignments, of bonfires, and field parties (even though I don't go to any anymore), of hot apple cider and heck, cold apple cider. A month of fair food and yes, birthday cake, now.

By January, I'm detoxing from Christmas and loving the winter, the snow (if there is any), but starting to think of September. And it's in that most terrible month of all, February, that I start to really wait for September all over again.

I know this is a whole lot of text to say that I have mixed feelings. That I am ambivalent. That again, I can't make up my freakin' mind. It's just who I am.

*Image by Ironshod (Anne Stokes). Check out more of Ironshod's work at her Deviant Art Gallery at http://ironshod.deviantart.com/gallery/. If you are a fan of fantasy art, this may make your day.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Woman, Wo-Man, Whoa-Man

Yesterday was Women's Equality Day. I missed it. As with most things in my life, it came at a time when I was already dealing with women's issues, internally if not externally.

I have recently been reminded that there are people who genuinely don't believe in equality for women. I tend to believe that most people who seem fight against it just don't realize how great the divide still is, not that they want women to be oppressed. Occassionally, I am reminded that most is not the same thing as all.

As I listened to this woman speak (yes, woman, I know) about women's issues, I was overcome with a desperate need to tell her. To tell her about laws that prevented women from leaving abusive relationship, that prevented women from prosecuting their rapists, that forced women into marriage before they were old enough to understand what marriage meant. Tell her about customs that mandated that women be treated like property, that women not be allowed to hold property, that widows faced starvation because of their inability to earn a wage. Tell her about lives spent, wasted, lost fighting for women, fighting for our daughters, fighting for a life without fear for women.

But I couldn't. I won't go into detail, but the time and the place was dreadfully wrong and the fact is that I am sure she has heard it.

Looking back at the women who were brutally murdered fighting for our right to vote, to own property, to marry as we please, to seek help when hurt by our spouses, it seems that we have come so far. Virginia Slims ads (does anyone remember these?) used to espouse that "We've come a long way, baby," showing ads and old photographs. They were a look into a cute, nostalgic past. A past that some experienced, and some did not.

It's true, we've come a long way. And my question is, "Does that mean that we stop now?" When Moses and the Israelites wandered in the desert, did they say, after 39 years, "We've come a long way, baby and this looks good?" When Clark W. Grisswold drove his family from Chicago to California, did he, without a working car, money or any hope of vacation, say, "We've come a long way, baby, let's go home?"

The fight is not over. The fight will not be over until women earn equal pay for equal work. Until women have as much health care coverage as men. Until women are just as likely to be hired as men. Until women do not make up the lion's share of our nation's poverty. Until child care, and health care, and early childhood education are treated like real issues in this country. Until women can do anything they want, anything they are gifted at, anything that inspires them professionally.

Today, I will remember the holiday that I missed and wonder how much longer a way we have to go. And whether it is possible to reach your destination when some in your party won't admit it exists.

It's not enough to say that we have come a long way when there is still such a long way to go. It's not enough to shrug our shoulders and say that it's better than it was. Our victories must be celebrated, but not the detriment of our future.

What I want for my daughters is for them to never be treated as inferior. For them to follow the life-path that they desire, without fear, resentment or desperation. I want them to earn as much as the men in their same positions, to not feel like a pantsuit and a bun might make them more hireable, to write letters to their congresspeople and fight for their beliefs and know that their opinions are weighed as voters, not as women.

*I just thought I would point out that opinions are like, well, you know the end of that one. It's always easiest to see your point of view and to demonize someone else's. This wasn't meant to be an indictment or an acusation, more a rambling from within.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Conversations with a Four Year Old

Me: I'm just saying...

The Husband: I know, I was being a dick.

Brynna: You shouldn't say "dick" daddy.

TH: Look of horror. You're right. I shouldn't say that word.

Brynna: Because it's not nice to make fun of people.

TH: Who am I making fun of?

Brynna: Granddaddy. His name is Dick.

TH: Well, actually...

Jessi: That's right, Daddy was making fun of Granddaddy and that's not very nice. Thank you Brynna.

______________

Jessi: Look, Brynna, we're in line behind Andrew.

Brynna: Oh, cool. Say "hi" for me.

Jessi: Okay Waits for Andrew to get out of his car. In the meantime, teacher comes to our car.

Brynna: I'm not getting out because you didn't say hi to Andrew for me.

Jessi: But, if you get out right now, you can say hi to him yourself.

Brynna: Oooh! Love you mommy, bye.

_________________

Brynna: I need a jacket.

Jessi: I know it's chilly right now, but it's going to get hot and then you'll be stuck dragging around a jacket all day. Are you sure that's what you want?

Brynna: I'm cold and I'm going to turn into a Popsicle if I don't get a jacket.

Jessi: Okay, okay, I'll get you a jacket. Wait here.

Brynna: Noooo. It's cold out here and I'll turn into a Popsicle and my lunch will turn into a Popsicle and then I won't be able to eat it.

Jessi: It's fine. You'll be fine.

Brynna: Noooooo.

Jessi: Okay, come in the kitchen, but don't go past the kitchen.

Brynna: Okay.

Jessi: goes to get jacket, returns Why are you in the living room playing with toys when I specifically said not to go past the kitchen?

Brynna: But I'm ready. Let's go. Oh, is that the jacket you want me to wear?

Jessi: Yes, why?

Brynna: It's kinda warm. It's gonna get hot today and then I'll be stuck dragging around that super-warmy jacket all day.

Jessi: Yes, yes you will.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Not a Meme - But Still Friday

There Was Drama

As a few of you may know, my husband, bless his annoying soul, likes to mess with me. (You know that when a Southerner says "bless his soul" it forgives everything you are going to say afterward, right? Like "Bless her soul, she's a heartless, bottom feeding, miserable waste of oxygen" should not be taken as an insult and can't be considered negative or gossipy. FYI)

The other day he was working on my car. I had a flat tire. My tires have all simultaneously decided to explode and I've been having massive problems with all of them. Certain family members I have believe that I have suddenly developed a penchant for driving over shards of acid-coated glass, but I believe it is more likely that rubber has decided it hates me. Bless it's soul.

Anyway, I had gotten myself stranded at the post office and walked home, so The Husband went to the Post Office to fix my van. After he had been gone for a few days, or maybe an hour or so, he called and told me, fairly calmly that he was worried and might run to the hospital.

"Why?"

"Well... I don't want you to worry."

"Why?"

"I sort of, well, I was working on the van, and I had the jack in the wrong place and the car fell and it didn't so much crush my hand, but a little it did and it's kinda swollen and it hurts to move."

There was a naggling voice in the back of my head telling me that I would have heard his screams all the way up the hill. Another naggling voice informed me that if I believed him, I would, once again, be playing into his sadistic little hand.

Unfortunately, the voice in the front of my head was busy figuring out how I was going to get to the hospital, stranded without a car, and who was home to watch the kids so I didn't have to take them with me and what was still packed from last night's diaper bag, so I wouldn't have to spend too much time running around the house frantically trying to find a bib. A bib, a bib, my freakin' nation for a freakin' bib.

I panicked. I freaked. I totally flipped out. Brynna started crying because I was so obviously upset and I wondered if I could fit both kids into the stroller and walk back to the post office so I could drive him myself, and OH NO!! The stroller's still in the back of the van.

Then, he laughed. The psychopath laughed and told me it was all a joke. A cruel, awful joke. And, you know, I had taken it before. I had taken it and taken it and taken it and I just couldn't take it no more.

So, when he came home I was ready.


I was ready to make him pay. Pay big time. It wasn't pretty. And then I had to run.










But, you know, as ole Johnnny said. I made a good run, but I run too slow.













Prison was not good for me. But, there was time. Oh the time. Glorious time. Tons of time. And I wrote. I finally finished the Great American Novel, and it was as great as I'd always hoped it would be. Upon it's publishing, the movement started to get me released. There were letters and celebrity endorsements and, of course, a vigil.





Finally, I was released. Dane Cook fell madly in love with me. And I lived happily ever after.

















So, not a meme, but a fun idea, inspired by The Bloggess. I really, really want to turn this into an assignment, because it sounds like fun and I'd like to see this be the next big thing. Anyway, you people don't seem especially good at assignments. You know, only three people signed up for the Crafting thing and it didn't hurt my feelings at all. Only, you know. A little.

If you want to participate, fine. If you don't, FINE. Visit photofunia, for all the well... fun...

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Firsts and Lasts

I may have said this before, but I believe that the great conundrum of parenting is that we miss the lasts. We are so focused on the next big thing, first tooth, first steps, first words, first day of school, that we miss the things that are slipping by, the last time she called me Mum-Mum, the last sloppy open-mouthed cheek kiss, the last tearful tickle smile, the last public hug, the last time I get to help pick her first day of school outfit.

Today was the first day of school for my Brynna. And the last first day of Montessori. The next first day will be in big kid school and the rules will be different, the clothes will be different, the stuff carried in will be different.

She didn't give me a goodbye kiss, but I think it's just because she was so excited she forgot. But, who knows, maybe the last day of school last year, was my last goodbye morning kiss. And I may have just missed it. Not realized how important it was. You can't live in fear of these things, but still...

She loves school. Like I loved school. She couldn't wait to go. She couldn't wait to get there. To run in and see her friends and her teacher and most importantly, if there were new works!! She is ready to go. Ready to work. Ready to learn. There was no fear, trepidation, concern, sadness, none. Just sheer, unfettered excitement and happiness. Soon, I'll go pick her up (there are only half days for the first week) and she'll be sad and upset to leave. At some point this year, I'll pick her up at school (which I only do rarely, because she goes to afterschool) and it will be the last time I ever pick her up at Montessori. And I may miss that, too.

Because you always believe there will be more. More sloppy open-mouthed kisses. More goodbye hugs. More days of fighting over whether or not it's appropriate to wear a short top with leggings. I want to say it's hard to let those days go, but the problem is that it isn't hard. It just happens, and one day you think, "Crap. When was the last time she slobbered all over my face when she kissed me?" And it's gone.

First days are the best. And she'll never realize that this was a last, too. I'm grateful for that. Grateful that this is a happy day for her, and a little grateful this is a bittersweet day for me. I may have missed the last day she looked too young for school, but I didn't miss the last first day.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

What's In My Crochet Bag - Maria's Baby Blanket

Yes, I'm late. Have I really led you to expect anything else? Didn't think so.

Maria's Baby Blanket

Maria is having a baby boy in... um... September, I think. Her shower was this last weekend. It kinda snuck up on me. I had planned on making something really nice. Intense was the word I kept using in my head. But then intense takes time and I barely got this done, which is not intense at all. But nice, all the same. I used Red Hart SuperSaver yarn in Lt. Blue and Ocean. I used about 13 oz. of each color. I liked this combo because it seemed boyish to me, without being overwhelmingly so. Maria seemed to concur and thought that if the next one was a girl, it would work for her, too. So there's that.

It's also huge. Too big, according to The Husband. According to Jessi, there is no such thing as too big blankets which is why we have a rainbow granny square afghan in our basement that would cover a king sized bed with a twin bed shoved up against it and still be too big. It's about 48x40, which, okay, pretty big for a baby blanket, but I like it. I did a gauge, but I must have messed it up, because my 48 edge was supposed to be 36.

This is one of my favorite patterns and I've made it two or three times. It's quick. Probably this one was about eight hours start to finish and like I said, it's bigger than it should be. You use a super-giant hook (Q) and work two pieces of yarn at the same time. To keep it from being too lacy, the pattern is based on a single crochet stitch, but it still works super-quick. Really, there's not much to it, but it looks different because of the mega size of the stitches. The double yarn keeps it from being too lacy, too. You can find this pattern in "More Double Quick Afghans for Baby." Also, please let me know if you find the original Double Quick Afghans for Baby because I love this book, but I'm just wondering what the first string looked like.

In other crochet news: my friend Nicole is also pregnant. Due in December. She isn't going to find out the gender. I am flummoxed by this and am amazed that anyone can handle that kind of suspense, and to choose to... Well, let's just say that I don't get it. Anyway, she is a crocheter, too, and so I feel like there will be plenty of hand made blankets and afghans around, so I was thinking of making a little sweater and hat combo. I can easily do a newborn size for travel in January, or I can do a 12 month-ish size for the next winter. Either way. My question is... what color? I hate pastels in general, and especially baby green and yellow, which are just so insipid to me. I was thinking about brights as gender-ambiguous, rather than pastels... But brights just seem less baby, which could be good if I do a 12 month-ish thing. Or, I could do white. Which is always nice for baby stuff, but I don't know, it just seems done. To death. By me. I guess I'm getting tired of white yarn. My other question is, Are cherries for girls only? I have a really cute pattern for a hat with little two little cherries on it and I could easily adapt a sweater pattern to match, but I think cherries are girly. Am I right? I mean, fruit, right? Shouldn't be, but seems like it is.

In other non-crochet news: My house will kill you. Or maybe it's me. In any case, while we are still reeling from the loss of our fabulous dog, the fish up and dies too. Goldie is no longer with us and is in fishy heaven. She lived a long, almost two year life, which is good when you come from the fair, yo. And, I'd be sad, but this part of me says, Yippee, I can take a break from fish tank cleaning. I must be evil.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Pets Are People Too

I've been trying to write a post all day. I have been crying off and on, though, which makes it harder. Because my doggie died this morning. She was a sweet, sweet thing. She was a black lab/border collie mix with endless patience and expressive eyes. We've been through a lot with that girl and she went through a whole lot before she found us. She will be missed. She will be mourned.

She is in a better place. I know that our living room with open access to a couch and cool water and petting children must have felt like heaven after years of homeless living, but she's in the real thing, now.

It will be the first time that Brynna has lost a pet. Well, she lost three goldfish a couple of years back, but really, goldfish.

Services will be held tonight in my back yard and I am dreading them like the plague. I don't want to stand there and cry. I don't want to feel like the house is too empty and too quiet. I don't want to wonder what it will be like to not have to drag a 70 lb. dog off of Brynna every time a storm hits. I don't want to pick up her food and water and look at the empty place where they so obviously belong.

I don't like living without a dog. Because it makes everything seem sadder and less sure. Dogs are the glue that holds a home together, it seems to me. But I don't want to replace her, either. I don't want to see another dog running in my yard, circling the floor in my bedroom, running to the bowl in my kitchen. Although, I'm sure I'll get there.

I wanted to post a picture of her, but I don't seem to have one. At least not at work. I'm hoping that I have one at home, because while I knew that Davey was dying before he went and could snap away, I didn't know that Marley was going to go and I didn't snap away. I don't keep most of the pictures I take of the pets, because they always get demon-eyed and I can't fix it and it just ruins the picture for me.

I am sad. And I am worried about my big girl who is about to learn an important and horrible lesson. I am conflicted and guilty feeling and lonely, even though I am at work and she was never here anyway. Tonight will be too quiet, too empty, too lonely.

Tomorrow morning will be worse. There won't be anybody under my feet trying to trip me, to let out, to let in, to feed and water, to stare at the door while we are leaving. But, the next day will be better, and the next and the next and the next.

Go in peace, Marley-Bones, you will be missed.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Your Friday Meme - Crafting is for Everyone

This is more of a "game" than a "meme," but I know I've got some crafty mommas (and nonmommas) on here and I'd like to play a little.

The first five (5) people to respond to this post will get something made by me.

This offer does have some restrictions and limitations, so please read carefully:

1. I make no guarantees that you will like what I make.
2. What I create will be just for you, with love.
3. It'll be done this year (2009).
4. I will not give you any clue what it's going to be. It will be something made in the real world and not something cyber. It may be weird or beautiful. I might bake something for you and mail it to you when you least expect it. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!
5. I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.
6. In return, all you need to do is post this text into a note of your own and make 5 things for the first 5 to respond to your note.

IMPORTANT: This offer is null and void if I do not see you post your own note to pay this forward.

So, there you go: You have been tasked. First five... And... GO!

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Way We Were

I've been feeling oddly nostalgic about high school lately. Which is weird considering that I don't believe those were the best years of my life and I tend to come down on the "If those were the best years of your life, then you need a new life." side of the fence.

But, I've been doing this thing where I completely eschew new music and only listen to the gems that we screamed out the window of my '82 Bick SkyHawk in 1995. And, no, that is not a typo. The U fell out of my BUICK and so I drove a Bick. Like the lighters but with a K. It was funny when I was 15.

I've been watching Dazed and Confused over and over again. I've even gone so far as to get online and re-watch all 7 episodes of My So-Called Life, the shortest run TV show in history to still be referred to over ten years later.

The other day the intern in my office (21 years old) and I were talking about music. My Pandora was playing Pearl Jam. She mentioned that she hates Pearl Jam. Now, I was always more of a Nirvana kind of girl and while Pearl Jam was definitely on my radar, they were no where in my top ten. But, come on, Pearl Jam.

"How do you hate Pearl Jam if you love grunge?" I should insert here that I was totally weirded out by this conversation anyway because she was talking about loving grunge the way I talked about loving Led Zeplin. I am not this girl's mother and that is just not fair.

"Well, okay, I don't know much of their music, but I hate 'Jeremy's Spoken.'" Herm. Shall I correct her and tell her the name of the song is just "Jeremy" or ignore that completely?

"Well, 'Jeremy' was arguably the song that made them a phenomena. It was pretty big and it's a pretty good song. Why do you hate 'Jeremy'?" There, don't correct, just say it a bunch. Good compromise.

"Well, okay, I mostly hate the video. Have you seen the video?" Have I seen the video? Do you even know what 120 Minutes is, baby?

"Yes."

"There's a kid. Like a high school kid. And he brings and gun to school and kills himself. I just think it's kinda in bad taste."

So, I spent the next 20 minutes explaining that number 1: it was pre-Columbine, so it wasn't quite the bad taste issue it is today. And more importantly number 2: back, way back, in the stone age of the '90's, bands sang about real stuff. Stuff that was happening, stuff that mattered. It was just how it was and if someone hadn't done a song about school shootings in all the minor ones that led up to Columbine it would have been weird. Because it mattered.

I was upset. Justifying my generation. Explaining (like every generation before me) why mine is better than yours. I pointed to early U2 that was about war and religion and hatred and stupidity. And new U2 which is about... Well, to tell you the truth, I can't listen to them anymore because it's just not the same so I don't know what it's about, except not war and religion and hatred and stupidity. And yes, Bono rocks. But he does it in his private life now and not on his albums. And I can't help but think that sucks, even if he's getting more done this way.

And maybe I'm wrong. Maybe music isn't about real life but escaping. Maybe Fergie's onto something with her made up words and "Hey look at my butt!" But I still look at all her craptacular music and then look at that one song by the Black Eyed Peas that was about something and wonder if that was a fluke or if there is somewhere a member of the band going, "C'mon guys. Another dance hit?!?"

It feels to me that we were more real than this generation. And I don't know how to put it better than that. I know that everyone feels like that, by the way, so I'm nothing special. In fact, one of my friends, a 50 year old Deadhead with a daughter my age, doesn't get my generation at all. "Let's all conform to the same nonconformity," she says, "Let's walk around in our flannel shirts and our torn jeans and pretend we aren't all trying desperately to be the same as everyone else." And, I can see her point. I can see how we were all just followers, claiming to hate followers.

But at least we were claiming. At least we were trying. To be different, to be real, to care about things and change things and hate the status quo. We rebelled. Even if we all did it together in weird socially-approved ways. This generation, with its pop music and no underground, its preppy chic clothes and perfect hair, its SUV's filling the high school parking lot and movies making fun of movies. This generation isn't even trying.

Except maybe they are. Maybe they're rebelling against my generation and our dirty, uncombed hair and untucked shirts and torn jeans. Our out of tune singers mumbling to off-kilter guitar licks. Our underground being bigger than the aboveground. The clunkier the car, the cooler attitude and watching Trainspotting in the "artsy" theatre.

I wonder if this is how the hippies felt about disco.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

The Controversial Nature of Disney

I have just finished reading my 748th blog post on why people hate Disney and it is the metaphorical straw that broke my back. I am ready to rail, rant and rave. Are you ready to listen? Too bad, because here it comes:

I don't get it. I don't get how so many people are so deathly opposed to Disney. I married one of you freaks and I would just like to say to the masses of Disney haters: I don't get you.

I, frankly, love Disney. I have Disney trivia games in my game closet and they are not for the kids. In fact, I get kinda pissy when Brynna wants to play one because she loses game pieces, and I love my little pewter Alice. I could spend all day making a list of arguments I've read in favor of hating Disney and try to debunk them. I really could, but that sounds boring to me. Instead, I'm making a list of things that I, personally, think are really, really great about Disney.

1. The lack of commercials on Disney Channel. Okay, so I'll admit that the commercials on DX are a little overwhelming, but it's only because we spend hours watching Disney East and Disney West and when we flip over it's like walking out of a dark movie theatre. But, seriously, I spent years prohibiting Brynna from watching channels that have commercials. At the time, that meant she could watch Disney or PBS. And only PBS for about a half hour after we got home, because then it switched over to the earn-your-GED shows, which are great, but not for a 2 year old. In any case, now that I have loosened the rule, with the understanding that we will talk about advertising and it's impact at regular intervals, I get asked for every freakin' toy that is peddled on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network.

2. Phineas and Ferb. I may have sung my praises to this show previously in this forum, but here it comes again. I freakin' love Phineas and Ferb and I truly think that it wouldn't be a bad idea for Disney to create a channel completely dedicated to these guys. Without commercials, of course.

3. Diversity. Okay, I know a lot of you are spazzing out because diversity is a relatively new idea for Disney and hey, there still isn't a black Princess and don't think I haven't noticed that. But, let's talk about the varied levels of diversity. Yes, racial diversity is important and I would like to see a little more of it on some of the older kid shows. Like Hannah. Hannah could use some kids of color. And mean, racially ambiguous Ashley doesn't count. But, there is more to diversity than skin tone and Disney does get this. There are a ton of Disney characters, for instance, living in nontraditional homes. Like Hannah, living with her widowed dad and her best friend Lily living with her divorced mother. Or, let's talk about Higglytown Heroes. Kip is the only kid with a nuclear family and he has like 19 sisters, so it's not exactly normal, is it. Eubie lives with an aunt and uncle and Wayne and Twinkle live with a single mother. Now, Brynna has a "nuclear" family and a pretty normal homelife, but I grew up living with my mom and my grandparents and I wish there had been more of this when I was a kid.

4. Princesses. Okay, I'll admit it. I hate the freakin' princesses and their freakin' pink world of exploding prettiness. I could do with less play makeup and tiaras and more play... well... anything. But a few things the Princesses have done for us: a. de-emphasize Barbie and her fashionista, big boobied, always wearing high heels self. Brynna's princess dolls look much more like real people and only have a few outfits, because guess what, none of them have more than a couple costume changes in their movies. b. expand the definition of princess. Princesses used to be the daughters of royalty. Period. Now, Belle can be a princess even though her father (hey another widower, there) is a poor, misunderstood inventor. Cinderella can pull herself out of the muck and dust herself off and be a princess. Mulan, my husband pointed out to me is neither a princess by birth or by marriage and sits in that castle on the poster in Brynna's room anyway. What makes these girls princesses isn't good marriage or breeding or even those stupid tiaras, it's who they are. They are charming, nice, kind, thoughtful girls who win in the end because they are not spoiled whiney brats. A lesson a lot of little "princesses" out there could stand to learn.

5. The superb animation. Face it. Turn on Oswald. Now flip to Roly Poly Olie and tell me that it's even comparable.

6. The Disney stars. When was the last time that a Disney star got her little 16 year old butt pregnant? Okay, there are nude picture scandals and well, Brittany. But for the most part, while Disney stars are under Disney contract, they manage to hold onto some sense of role-modelyness. And I appreciate that. I appreciate that Walt asked Annette not to wear a bikini until she was an adult. Frankly, my daughter won't be in a bikini until she can buy her own freakin' clothes. And it's possible that those kids get in just as much trouble, but the magical Disney machine covers it up, but you know what I say to that: "Thank you magical Disney machine."

7. Shredded Wheat. When we walk down the grocery aisle and Brynna wants every cereal with a cartoon on it and I can talk her into Hannah Montana Strawberry Shredded Wheat, I say Thank-you-Disney.

8. The vault. Okay, I understand that the vault was invented so I'd have to re-buy the same movie a hundred times and so that the prices on all Disney movies stay high and never fall. But, here's what I love about the vault. Brynna's current favorite movie: The Aristocats. She also loves Peter Pan, Cinderella (of course), and 101 Dalmatians. The vault means that she has been introduced to each of these like it's a new and exciting thing. Worthy of her attention. Not some dumb movie that mom watched when she was a kid. But a cool, new thing. I love the Aristocats and I could watch Thomas O'Malley all day long. Brynna knows about jazz and rag-time now because of that movie and she knows about London because of Peter Pan. Everything old is new again when you are four and there is a vault.

9. Trust. I trust Disney with my kids. Penises on the cover of the Little Mermaid aside, I trust that I can head to the basement to do some laundry or turn on the radio in the kitchen while I cook and there will be no sex, no drugs, no inuendo, no violence on the Disney channel. I don't trust Nick and I don't trust Cartoon Network. We were watching Scooby Doo on Cartoon Network one day and there was a commercial for Family Guy. That I spent 20 very uncomfortable minutes trying to explain some things that would have been best left unexplained. Now, I love me some grown-up cartoons in Adult Swim, but I don't love seeing things that only play during Adult Swim advertised at 6 p.m. I don't have to worry about that with Disney. And my sanity loves that.

10. The dreams. Okay, I know this is cheesey, but I cherish my Disney World memories. My Disney on Ice memories. My memories of watching those iconic movies for the first time. My memories of taking my little brother to see those memories when he was a kid. I love those memories and I want Brynna to have them, too. I want her to dream of seeing Cinderella's castle and watching Tinker Bell fly to the top of Epcot and then realize those dreams. I want her to go to a princess breakfast and hug Sleeping Beauty and shiver and giggle in the Haunted Mansion. Disney World really is the happiest place on Earth when you are a kid and I want her to have a few days of unfettered happiness.

Because of all the things I love about Disney, my favorite is that they treat kids like kids. They don't talk down to kids, but they let kids live their kid lives and forget about all the other crap they'll have to deal with when they hit middle school and suddenly Disney isn't so cool anymore. They have their whole lives to be grown-ups and only a few short, precious years to love a puppy named Penny and a cat named Marie and a mouse named Mickey.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Vignettes

Vignette Number 1:
Saturday night we celebrated my little brother's eighteenth birthday. He is quite grown up, 6 foot tall, plays football, rides a motorcycle, legal and all. Until my cousin's four year old son chased him all around the house. The 18 year old ran and screamed in fear and Brynna and the other 4 year old giggled maniacally. Why? Because they had a frog, and he is apparently afraid of frogs.

Vignette Number 2:
I can't talk though because there was a dead mouse in my floor yesterday morning. (Yay cat!!) and I was so scared of a DEAD mouse that I: 1. screamed, 2. grabbed the baby up off the floor, 3. wouldn't let the kids back in the living room, and 4. insisted that The Husband get home before me so he could take care of it. I have no idea, by the way, what he did with the dead mouse, but if I find out that he put it in the trash receptacle, he will be taking out the trash for the rest of the week.

Vignette Number 3:
Brynna wants to go back to school so bad she can taste it. We are working on getting back on schedule and step 1 of that is re-learning to get up and eat breakfast at home. Every morning when I tell her to come and eat breakfast, she looks at me with absolute joy on her face and asks if she is going to school today. Every day I say no and watch her little face crush from the inside. I don't know if I can stand this until next Wednesday. I wonder if it's the age that makes her so in love with school, or if it's the school (we have a pretty great one, you know) or if it's just my genes. I don't think I ever once dreaded school. Okay, I had YEARS of dreading getting out of bed, but never of school. I hope that she loves it like I did.

Vignette Number 4:
Last night, The Husband gave Maren a little bit of hot fudge from his sundae. She was wired all night long. She may never be the same. I'm interested to hear if she suddenly insists on eating all chocolate all the time. Or maybe she'll eat better convinced that the chocolate is coming. In the meantime, I spent the majority of last night feeling like I was wrestling greased pigs on my bed. (I watched TV in bed most of last night, by the way, because I didn't feel up to mopping the living room floor yet and a mouse died in there, so it must be cleansed, completely. If I didn't have hardwood, I would insist on bleach.)

Vignette Number 5:
This morning, I opened Brynna's door at about 6:45. She opened her eyes, I said Hi and went back to my room to finished getting dressed. She usually requires 5 or 10 minutes to lay in bed and mourn the end of her sleep cycle before she can venture forth into polite society. After a few minutes I heard little feet in the hallway and then the toilet seat. I was impressed at how quickly she woke up. I left her in peace in the bathroom and continued gettting ready. I haven't worn earrings in so long, I had to re-pierce my ears in the backs and it was a little stressful. I was concentrating on not freaking everybody out by screaming first thing in the morning for the second day in a row, when I heard the side door open and close. I called Brynna's name and hurried through the house. I paused at her bedroom door, no Brynna, at the bathroom door, no Brynna, finally I emerged in the kitchen. I heard a plaintive cry from outside. I ran to the door and opened it up.

Brynna was standing, in her pajamas and no shoes on the edge of the deck yelling "Mommy, Daddy, come back for me. You left me here!!"

"Brynna! Come on back in the house, sweetie."

Brynna whirled around and relief and exclaimed, "I thought you had left with Daddy and I was all alone."

I picked her up and said, "I will NEVER leave you all alone."

"That's not what you say when I can't decide which shoes to wear."

Well, busted.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Old Boyfriends

I love my old boyfriends. Each and every one of them. A few, I love to hate, but that's okay, because they deserve it.

I really don't "see" any of my old boyfriends ever. The majority don't live in the same state as I do. But I see some on the tron-esque landscape of the internet. Not all of them. One of them defriended me on facebook, you may remember. One of them, I check to make sure he's still on facebook and not dead, but I am sort of afraid to friend. There's even one whose last name I don't remember and therefore, I cannot find.

But I love their little voices from the past. I don't know why. There is just something so sweet and nostalgic about talking to a lost love (or even fling) as an actual grown-up. Finding out things that I never knew when we were dating. Things we never talked about, but were there all the same.

One of them writes poetry. Okay, look at me. I'm sorry. Probably, they all write poetry, but if I were to rank them all in order of likelihood of poetry writing, this one would have been at the bottom.

One of them got an English Lit degree, which is totally my thing and sort of made me feel defensive. We dated a long, long time (for that age anyway) and never once discussed books. That's weird for me, because mostly I can't help but discuss books. I am much more likely to know what kind of books you like than what kind of car you drive. But this guy, it just never came up. And there he is with a whole degree in reading.

One of them grew a beard, which I think looks a little serial-killery, but whatever. I can't tell him what to do anymore and I'm actually pretty ecstatic about that.

Which makes me think, that maybe, who you end up with is the person who is easiest with which to talk about the things that matter. Okay, crazy sentence, but hear me out. These guys (although a few treated me pretty bad at the time) none of them are crazies, none of them are evil, none of them are terrible human beings. They are, in short, the good ones. Maybe I passed over them (or they over me) because I never got around to figuring out if they write poetry or what they read or if they want to look like a man who lives in a van down by the river.

And I wonder what they didn't know about me. I think I'm pretty much an open book. I like to argue, I like to talk and I like to babble about the things that make me happy. So, maybe there isn't anything. But maybe they don't know that I'm obsessed with Counting Crows, that I will defend Buffy the Vampire Slayer as modern literature to the death, that my two favorite books of all time are probably Pride and Prejudice and IT and that I understand that probably makes me look schizo, but I'm okay with that. Maybe I never shared my morbid curiosity about Charles Manson, or how I watch Steel Magnolia's sometimes just so I can cry or how I hate to make supper, but love to cook for parties.

I love and adore my husband. I fully believe that we were "meant to be" in all the Disney glory of the phrase. But maybe it's our ability to discuss stuff that makes us meant to be. I'm pretty sure he knew all of that about me and more before we even dated. And I knew all kinds of weird crap about him. I knew that he writes poetry, and that he likes a lot of the same books that I do, but occasionally reads something that makes me look at him like an alien. And I knew that I'd never be able to get rid of his beard.

I'm not sure what the point of this post is, other than I just had one of those moments and was feeling all nostalgic and thought I would pour it out to the internet because that's what I do. Maybe that this is one of the up sides to social networking, is that I know all of this crap now. Or maybe the point is that people are never as 2-D as you see them in your memory. Or maybe the point is that you never have all the info. Maybe there is no point. Maybe this is just a moment in my present that will be gone in a few more seconds and I wanted to preserve it. I'm not sure.

Hives

I am not allergic to anything. Really. I have no food allergies, no skin allergies. I am not allergic to poison ivy. Apparently chicken pox and I can live in perfect harmony without anyone getting sick. I am made of steel. Okay, I have the occasional seasonal allergy. But really, only during my pregnancies have they ever been bad enough to medicate. I am made of steel, I tell you! My body, it is not a wonderland, it is a hard and barren landscape, impenetrable by allergens.

I have hives.

I don't know what happened to me, but I have hives. It could be my nerves. It could be my thyroid medication, or it could be my stupid new, fabulously great laundry detergent. (Note that I am nearly sure that's what it is, and even if I had more doubts, I would be sure, because I loved it so that I cannot possibly continue using it.)

The last two days (sorry for the lack of entries, by the way) were utter hell. The hives were worst on my hands (still are) and that made, well, everything painful, itchy and miserable. I also have them on my neck, my forearms, the backs of my thighs, my knees, my ankles and inside the folds of my ear. Hives suck.

I'm not sure I ever gave hives their due respect. I always knew they weren't fun, but I never expected them to be like this. The swelling! If I could ignore the itching, the swelling would still be sending me over the deep end. Stupid, swelling misery.

So, I turned 31 on Monday. Monday. It already seems like a month ago. But whatever. 30 didn't bother me. I didn't mind 30 so much. I mean, 30. Whatever. I'm still young, I'm still tragically unhip, but in a kind of hip way. I still wear torn jeans on the weekends and never wear makeup and I still have a purse in my closet with a dog on it. Okay, I rarely carry it, but I still HAVE it, is my point here.

31. Not so much. Now, I'm not 30. I'm OVER 30, and apparently my body is falling apart. I have these diseases and my memory's shot and now my steel body has a chink. A chink that has allowed hives in. Damn chink.

My jeans no longer have holes. I have that one pair with the cuffs ripped off and fraying, but that's kinda too little too late. My music is on the oldies stations. And yesterday I spent a half hour trying to explain to a college student (our intern) why it wasn't creepy that Pearl Jam had a song about someone committing suicide in school. I had to explain that back in the day, people sang about what was going on in the world, rather than just singing nonstop about sex and fashion and drugs. Okay, we had songs about sex and fashion and drugs, but there was this relevant stuff in there too. Also, explaining that this was pre-Columbine, so everyone had a sort of naivete about guns and school. Anyway, that's sort of a post for another day.

My point is I am freakin' old. Falling apart, listening to oldies, wearing un-torn clothes, thinking about giving that dog purse to Brynna old. Pity me.

Monday, August 3, 2009

I Almost Forgot to Write My Post on Forgetting

No really, I am not making this up. If Jenn hadn't commented on the french fry thing and I hadn't re-read that post, I would have totally never gotten to this, because that's how forgetful I am.

First, the back story: I've had issues my whole life almost. Nothing big and scary, but stuff all the same. I shake. Sometimes it's not even visible and sometimes I can barely write. I blame my horrible handwriting on it even when it's not that bad. I get hot. Really hot. When other people are shivering. I get tired. I get so tired I can sleep for 12 hours and still wake up tired.

Most of this has gotten worse since Maren was born. I went to my OB/GYN for something totally unrelated and we were talking and she started to think I might be anemic. I get this a lot. I have these dark circle under my eyes and I kinda don't ever wear make-up and so they are wicked obvious and doctors always think I'm anemic. I tell them I'm not. I offer to show them the baby pictures with the circles under my eyes. I give up and take the blood test. They are amazed that I am not anemic.

But since this doctor is one of the best doctors I've ever had (or heard of really) she ran a whole battery of tests along with whatever they run for anemia. And found a problem. A basically-you-don't-have-any-thyroid-hormone problem. So, they sent me to my GP.

Who is also awesome and believed me about the anemia and looked at the tests and ran a whole bunch more and explained to me that having almost no thyroid hormone means that you are hyper active in the thyroid department, which made my head spin off my shoulders and roll around on the floor. Then she sent me to a endocrinologist.

Who is the weirdest doctor I've ever been to. Not in a bad way. In a I-learned-how-to-be-a-doctor-watching-TV-shows-about-small-town-doctors-but-then-set-up-shop-in-a-moderate-size-city kind of way. What I'm saying here is that I like him, but I feel like I've stepped into a time warp and should be wearing a beehive or bobby socks every time I go there.

He, too, ran a bunch of tests. Have I mentioned here ever that I am afraid of needles. I didn't used to be, but I am. I hate them. With a passion. I also have hard to hit veins and the tendency to pass out when they try to wiggle the needle around in my arm. Which sucks. Because then, apparently, they have to discard all of that blood and start over. Who knew?

Anyway, I was diagnosed with Graves' Disease and Hashimoto's Disease. And it turns out I'm not crazy. Okay, well, I may be crazy, but it really is hotter inside my body than it is on the other end of the couch where The Husband sits wrapped up in a blanket and throwing me dirty looks. Which makes me feel better, but not like I should turn the thermostat up any.

I've been taking medicine and my temperature has normalized a little and the shaking is only bad in the evenings now. But, I have developed a new symptom. Something this doctor and I are going to have to discuss. Because I hate it.

I can't remember anything. Now, many of you know me irl and everything and you think that I never could remember my head if it wasn't attached pretty securely to my body and you are right. But there is a manageable level of forgetfulness. And this is not it.

I've always been forgetful, so I've always got reminders. To do lists and little things I keep around to tickle my memory. I have procedures in place that are basically obsessive compulsive routines that ensure that I don't forget things. All of this makes me look super-organized, but all I really am is super-self-aware. I know my limitations and I try to compensate for them.

Now, there are holes in my systems. For instance, I hardly ever have my cell phone on me. I try, I really do, but I forget it a lot. And when I do remember, it's sometimes not charged. I lose words. I actually have a pretty decent vocabulary but sometimes I'll spend ten minutes trying to think of the word for that too-sweet red stuff that kids put on everything and has a squirty bottle thingy and comes in picnic sets and oh-ketsup. And sometimes I spend two weeks. I see people and I know that I know them and sometimes I know why I know them (I went to high school with that guy or her mom used to work with my mom) but I couldn't tell me their name if lethal weapons were involved.

But this, this is worse. This is the kind of memory problem where I look at that to do list and I can't remember what "Draft No Candidate letter" means. What I am I supposed to do here. I know that I'm writing a letter but to who, about what, I have no idea. And Thursday, I forgot Brynna. Completely, just drove right past her. Was halfway home before I realized she was still at the sitter's. I stare at things and I can't remember what they are doing there. Did I go looking for scissors? Why am I holding scissors? What did I need scissors for? It took me almost a week to remember to call my doctor and ask for my most recent test results.

I'm sure it's an adjustment to the medication and hopefully will even out soon. I'll mention it to the doctor. Provided I remember and he'll ask if there are any other new symptoms and I'll say no because I will have forgotten if there are and he'll adjust the prescription and I'll be back like the old days in no time.

In the meantime, however, if I forget your name or your kids' names or where I am or why I am wearing my nightgown in Wal-Mart, kindly take pity on me and call my husband. Whose number you won't be able to find in my phone because it'll either be on my coffee table or dead.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

I'll Regret this

I will regret posting this next week, when I can't think of anything to say worth hearing, but I had to share with you about Maren's first restaurant meal.

Last night, we went out for my birthday. It was kinda lame, but it's a super-busy week and we are super-broke. Anyway, we went to Mancino's. I've always thought of it as a local place, although my google skills tell me it's more like a not-very-common franchise. Anyway, if you are unfamiliar with the glory and joy that is Mancino's, there is pizza, but I've never had it so I can't vouch. The grinders are the real pull. Oh my, I could live off of those freakin' grinders. And the best garlic cheesebread you've ever had. Anyway, we went and had Maren with us (Brynn finally made it to the drive-in) and we wanted Maren to have her first custom ordered restaurant meal.

Okay, wanted isn't the word I'm looking for. Forgot her diaper bag is a better word. By the way, there will be a post about forgetting next week.

Anyway, there are plenty of items you can get on your average restaurant menu that would be fine for Maren: yogurt, applesauce, mashed potatoes. None of those things were available at Mancino's. I stood in front of the giant menu for five minutes trying to figure out what wouldn't choke her to death.

And her very first meal out was... Are you ready for it? Are you sure? Okay... French fries. That's right. So, am I the worst mom ever or what?

Now comes the paragraph where i justify myself. First of all, there really wasn't anything else. Secondly, they were baked fries. (Which is one of my favorite contradictions ever.) And she only had a few.

I swear, I was better at this mommy gig the first time around. Too bad there wasn't a blog around then to chronicle my greatness.

Your Friday Meme on Saturday

I liked this one so much, I posted it twice. My facebook friends have already seen this, but it's my favorite one I've ever done.

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to 15 people you like and include me. You can't use the band I used. Try not to repeat a song title. It's a lot harder than you think...

Pick your Artist
Counting Crows

Are you a male or female?
American Girls

Describe yourself:
Butterfly in Reverse

How do you feel:
She Don't Want Nobody Near

Describe where you currently live:
Sullivan Street

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
Holiday in Spain

Your favorite form of transportation:
St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream

Your best friend is:
Diamonds and Babies and Cars

You and your friends are:
Hanginaround

What's the weather like:
Raining in Baltimore

Favorite time of day:
Goodnight L.A.

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called:
Mrs. Potter's Lullaby

What is life to you?
Recovering the Satellites

Your last relationship:
Accidentally in Love

Your fear:
Murder of One

What is the best advice you have to give:
Walkaways

Thought for the Day:
Einstein on the Beach

How I would like to die:
Angels of the Silences