Wednesday, November 25, 2009

What's In My Crochet Bag - Craftiness Meme Edition

It's been a while, huh?

I've been crocheting, but unfortunately nothing that I have to show. I have been making some of the gifts for the crochet meme, but I don't want to show you guys any of them until they are in the hot little hands of their intended recipients. I've also been working on a sweater for me, but I'm out of yarn, so all I could really show you are some completed motifs.

However, this week I received my very first gift of my own from a craft meme. Suze sent me some... Hand dyed yarn. Hooray!!

There is the prettiest green that is somehow simultaneously bright and light and the most beautiful slightly variagated purple ever!! I am told that they are Kool-Aid dyed and that thrills my little heart. I have no idea yet what I am going to make with them, but you better believe that I am hording at least the purple all for me. Me. Me. Me.

There is also this really precious produce bag from Daniel and Anya, Suze's rugrats. There were some other things enclosed, reminicences from a life past. It was possibly the coolest present I've ever opened, stuffed with goodies. I kept expecting the rest to just be packing and there would be one more fabulous item.

Hopefully, I will be shipping some of my own gifts next week. I am hoping to finish up a couple of items after the holiday is over. I have quite a few in progress, so it shouldn't be too stressful.

I hope everyone has a very Happy Thanksgiving!! Eat, drink and be thankful. Then, shop until the sun comes up. That's what I'll be doing at least. Notes from a Scattered Mind is officially on hiatus until November 30. I won't be online at all this weekend, so wish me an easy withdrawal and a speedy return.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Hurricane Maren

I find myself looking at my dear, sweet husband from time to time and in desperation and hopelessness asking, "Did Brynna do this?" I wonder if that's true of all parents of more than one child. "Did Brynna become a heathen when she was teething? I don't remember. It seems like she was just sad and pouty." "Did Brynna ever try to eat diaper rash cream? It seems like something a child would only try once. Like licking deodorant." "Did Brynna just throw all the food from her high chair on the floor when she was done eating? I don't remember this much sweeping."

And most recently, "Did Brynna become suddenly and terrifyingly obsessed with removing things from other things? I may lose my mind."

I've been cleaning for Thanksgiving. I am giving up entirely on the concept of spring cleaning. As I seem to only invite people over in the autumn, I am officially changing my house to a Fall Cleaning House.

I don't keep a perfect house. You should know this. Should you drop by, there will be toys on the floor, shoes by the door, coats thrown over the backs of chairs. There will probably be dishes in the sink, mail on the coffee table and cups everywhere. There may or may not be a trash bag half full of trash in the middle of the living room floor, where I was when last I gave up on cleaning.

It's okay with me. If it's not okay with you, you should probably call before you drop by. Frankly, considering we live nearly 20 minutes from civilization, you should probably call anyway, but you'd be surprised how many people don't follow that recommendation.

Anyway, my daily struggle is to be able to see my floor, keep my counters clean and combat the horrible habit the rest of my family has of leaving absolutely everything they own in the bathroom. I will never understand the attraction of dropping your coat, bag, books, toys and clothes in the smallest room in the whole freakin' house. The hallway is inches away, people, INCHES.

In that struggle, there is no time for cleaning of baseboards, scrubbing window frames, washing windows at all, cleaning the parts of appliances that don't touch food or wiping down cabinet fronts. And, so, here I am.

I have had many hurdles to jump in my quest for a clean house.

1. Maren will not leave anything alone. The second I turn my back, she empties a trash bag onto the floor. This wouldn't be so bad, except she first drags it to the nearest pile of toys, clothes or important papers, so I have to sort through the whole mess all over again.

2. Brynna spilled milk in my bed.

3. Maren walks into a room and the toys float out of their baskets to revolve around her body for a few seconds and then fall to the floor. This has got to be X-Men worthy. It's the only explanation for why I come into a room seconds after her and every toy in the room is in the floor and she is interested in none of them and chewing on a shoe.

4. Brynna got bored polishing the silver items in the house and quit early.

5. Maren will whine and cry and bury her head in the blankets begging for food, eat three bites and then throw the food on the floor to signify she is done. Since the only way I can think of to stop this behavior is to remove her from the high chair as soon as she is finished eating, I can't stop it. Because I need her to stay in the high chair. Because of numbers 1 and 3.

6. Brynna wants to follow me every time I go to the basement.

Are you noticing a pattern here. Brynna's biggest crime is quitting early from a job that I wouldn't do until I was 10. Maren, on the other hand is a freaking tornado. A hurricane. An earthquake. A big ashy volcano. (What natural disasters am I missing here?)

I love my penguin. And I am so glad that she is walking and working on talking and being so inquisitive and it's really amazing. And, my goodness, I wish I hadn't taught her to move. Life was so much easier with a bouncy seat.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Giving Thanks

I've been working with my Sunday School class for the entire month on being thankful. (Yes, I teach Sunday School. Corrupting the minds of youngsters is my passion. Thank you.)

It's not that easy to do. They are kids. They don't understand what all they have to be thankful for. They are thankful for their toys and that Wizards of Waverly Place is on before bedtime now.

But, they are church kids. And as church kids, they have grown what little bit they have grown hearing that they should be thankful. So, they want to be. They want to be thankful because they think it'll make God happy and because it'll be the right thing to do and because anything that makes that stupid old Miss Jessi shut up and get to the craft is the right thing to say.

And, you know, frankly that's a start. It's better than not knowing you're supposed to. Or not wanting to. Or not caring.

But, it's an ongoing challenge to teach these kids about how very, very thankful they should be. Thankful that they are alive. That they have parents who love them. That they don't know what addiction or abuse or neglect looks like from the inside. That there is food in their fridge and a car in their driveway. That the electric stays on and the water stays running. That no one is trying to kill them or the people they love. That the sun keeps coming out and they keep being able to see it. That they can walk and run and play. That they have the freedom to just be kids sometimes.

It's hard to explain that not every kid has that. That there are kids who live in fear, in pain, in hunger, in desperation. Kids who raise their siblings. Kids who pay the bills. Kids who live on the street. Kids who don't know what playing really means.

That those kids aren't across the world, or across time, but across the street.

I love Thanksgiving. And I think of it as a family holiday. The whole point for me is to see my family. All of my family. In all of their dysfunctional glory. You know, we put the fun in dysfunctional...

But I very seldom do what I ask my Sunday School kids to do. I very seldom just sit down and say thank you for all the ephemera. All the pieces of faith or fate or whatever you believe in that put me where I am. Thank you to God (because for me it is faith), sure. But also thank you to my mom, and my stepdad (who has been a truly excellent dad) and my grandparents and my baby brother and my husband and my kids. Thanks to my aunts and uncles and cousins and my church and my friends and you, faithful readers.

We are not just islands in the sea. We are the sum of our relationships. We are who others have molded and made us to be. We are a reflection of our parents and our teachers and our mentors and our peers. All of the good inside of us started out as a good inside someone else.

And we owe a debt of gratitude. A debt that can be paid with words, with love. We owe it to everyone who has given us a little piece of their own good.

I won't tell you what to do. I won't tell you to call your mom and say thank you. I won't tell you to track down one of your old teachers and tell her how much her attention meant to you. But I will tell you that for the second time in my life, one of those teachers who made an impact has died before I ever told her how much of an impact she made. I will tell you that I never tell my mom thanks for being my mom, because, well, it's sappy and because I'd feel weird and because I'd cry and she'd cry and it'd be Steel Magnolias all over again, but I want her to know. Not that she is a superb mom, because I assume she knows that, but that I know that.

I won't tell you who you should thank or that this is the time to get up off your butt and do it. But I will tell you that time is fleeting. It goes faster than you realize. This week, I'm going to worry a little less about getting the mortgage paid or the kids picked up on time or my desk cleared off or getting home in time to watch Supernatural and a little more about saying thanks to those who deserve my thanks. They are many.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Conversations with a Five Year Old and Sadness

Brynna: Mommy, how do you wrap a penguin up in a towel?

Me: What? Huh? Oh. (Noticing bath toy penguin and dripping wet washcloth.) Well, see, let's wring that out first because you're dripping.

Brynna: Noooo!

Me: It'll be warmer when it's not so wet.

Brynna: Hmph! Fine!

Me: Okay, first you want to hold it like a diamond, not like a square. Then, you put the penguin's head in the point so it makes a little hood and fold this over and then this over and then this up and Voila!

Brynna: Cool!

Me: That's called Swaddling. I used to do it with you when you were a baby.

Brynna: But not Maren?

Me: Maren hated it.

Brynna: I'm going to do it with Mister when he's born.

Me: Is Mister going to be your first baby?

Brynna: Maybe. If he is, I probably won't have any more kids. But if Samantha is my first, then I'll have Samantha, then Elizabeth, then Mister, then Robert, then Lily.

Me: Why won't you have any more if Mister is first.

Brynna: Because boys are harder.

Me: Well, girls are no picnic. What if Mister doesn't like to be swaddled?

Brynna: He will. He'll be juuuust like me.

Me: If there's any justice in the world...

Brynna: What mommy? (innocent eyelash flapping)

Me: Nothing sweetie. Are you ready for your story?
____________________

Just an announcement, for those who are from these parts...

Ms. Toy (Regina Toy), one of my all-time favorite teachers, chemistry maven extraordinaire, lovely human being, unrepentant packrat, and all around amazing person died today of complications from swine flue and pneumonia. I can't quite fathom a whole post about this, but I know some of you may not know and may want to. The world will be a less exciting, less enjoyable, and all around emptier place without her and 20 or so years of students will miss her.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Problem with Censorship

In a community near mine, there is a fight against censorship going on. You see, a library assistant found a copy of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier and decided that it was inappropriate for children. She challenged it's shelving. (For the record, while I am never, NEVER for supporting censorship, I fully support the process of challenging shelving. Some books don't belong in the kids' section and frankly, some books don't belong in crafts or in non fiction, or in adult fiction. These decisions are sometimes made by people who have never read the book.)

She lost. So, rather than just move on with her life. She checked the book out. For a year. I guess she would have kept it out forever, but someone put a hold on the book. (An 11 year old girl, for what it's worth.) She debated about what to do, consulted a colleague and just removed the hold. Please hold, my head is exploding.

I regularly have holds removed because my card is locked, so I know all about that, but really, this is flat out abuse of power. Okay, you have a problem with that, whatever, call her mom, but to just quietly remove a hold on a book??

Anyway, I digress. She got caught. She got fired. (Take that, book burning coward.) And that's the end of the story.

Except it isn't. She has garnered support from people who believe that this book should be banned. Who are *shocked* that there is nudity in a graphic novel. Oh my.

Frankly, I think the problem here is that people somehow believe that graphic novels are comics and that comics are for kids. Both parts of that sentence are incorrect. Graphic novels are novels. It's in the name. There are kids graphic novels and adult graphic novels, just like there are kids novels and adult novels. I'm sure this woman hasn't checked out every adult novel with a sex scene in it, because, well, she'd have the whole freakin' library at her house.

Some people want this book to be removed from the library completely. The more mentally balanced people want it removed from the graphic novel section because it's appealing to kids and bright and colorful and near young adult fiction.

Okay, I think a better move here would be to move the graphic novel section out of young adult fiction. The book in question is a graphic novel, and as such should be shelved with the rest of the graphic novels, the majority of which are probably for adults.

I've never read this particular book and I've only seen a few panels online, but I have read other Alan Moore novels, The Watchmen and V for Vendetta. I have also read Frank Miller's Sin City or at least parts of it. I will readily admit that these are not kids' books. These are books with adult themes written for adult audiences.

I will also admit that it doesn't look like I'd be jumping up and down for my kid to read these. On the other hand, I started reading Stephen King at twelve. I read Gerald's Game at around 14. So, yeah, I think it depends on the kid.

Which brings me round to my point. (I know, I know, in record time, even.)

Censorship isn't about whether or not you understand the argument against the work in question. It's not about whether or not you sympathize with those who want to keep kids from getting in over their heads. It's not about whether or not you want your kid to read this work. It's about the fact that no one has the right to determine what the rest of us can and can't read.

Whether or not your kid reads this book is between you and your kid. Whether or not this book has a place in the local library is about whether or not it's a published book and people want to read it. Obviously, because it was purchased because of a request and what brought this up was a hold request, people want to read it.

Censorship is still around because people can understand it. People can sympathize with wanting to protect their kids, their community. Sure, I get that. I kicked my kid out the front door yesterday so she wouldn't hear a conversation about child abuse.

But I would never tell another parent what their kid should and shouldn't read. And I would certainly never tell a whole community that they aren't intelligent enough, savvy enough to read fiction and label it as fiction. (Especially graphic fiction with as many pictures as words.)

Censorship is wrong. It's the removal of personal freedom. It's the destruction of reason and free flowing ideas.

John Milton, in his treatise Aereopagitica, wrote that a man of faith could only remain a man of faith by exploring the intellect of the world. In other words, faith is strengthened by existing in a world of unfettered thought, free-flowing information and rampant knowledge. Faith needs challenging to grow. He backs this contention up with more scripture than any self-righteous library workers could ever conjure.

Milton was fighting against a government he helped to install when he wrote and illegally published Aereopagitica. I wonder what he would think if he could see our world today. On the one hand, the internet has certainly added to our free-flowing information, making almost any desirable knowledge available at a mouse click. But on the other hand, we are still fighting the same battles. Still fighting a select few that believe they are the elite, the chosen, the capable. That they should decide what you and I see.

If you want to protect your child, go to the library with them. My library allows you to place a restriction on your child's card that they can only check out books from certain sections. And all childrens' cards are restricted from the DVD, Video and CD section of the library. It's possible to protect one without restricting everyone else.

But I would argue that a better tack would be to stop trying to protect your child and start teaching them. Teach them about censorship and the problem of group think. Teach them to talk to you when they read something that disturbs them. Read what they read and help them deal with the problems that arise.

Yes, sometimes, you may have to tell them that something is not age appropriate. Brynna always wants me to read my horror novels to her because they have interesting covers. I have to say no because I want her to sleep sometime this century. But when you do, offer an alternative. That's what got us started on the Worst Witch books and we both LOVE them.

But remember that your control only extend to you and yours. Not to the world at large. The old TV adage, if you don't like it, turn it off applies to books, too. If you don't like it, close the cover and take it back. The rest of us may want to check it out.

"Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards. We must not think to make a staple commodity of all the knowledge in the land, to mark and license it like our broadcloth and our woolpacks."
John Milton
Aereopagitica

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Pardon Me While I Apologize to Bob Barker

My cat is in heat. She is a purebred Flame Tipped Himalayan. She has a fancy-schmancy purebred name (Princess Penny Copper Buttons). We call her Penny. We love her because she is a snotty-nosed brat, which is exactly what cats should be. I love her because she climbs under the covers and snuggles my warm feet in the night. And when I get hot and I kick her sorry cat butt out of my bed, she still purrs for me in the morning.

In other words, I don't care about her pedigree. I don't have her because of what she is. I have her because I have a soft spot for long-haired cats. And because she needed a new home. And because cat food is cheaper than therapy and living without animals in the house makes me a crazy lady.

I am not interested in breeding her. I am not interested in kittens. I am not interested in adding to the cat population of Sadieville. I have a precious cat who I love and I don't want any more.

I believe in spaying and neutering. I believe in "fixing" animals. But, I have a hard time getting around to it. I had a female cat once before and I had her fixed while she was in heat. They charge you extra for that, you know. Something about a swelled uterus, harder to do, you're desperate and we charge you anything.

I did it, though, and I did it happily. Because we had a male cat, too and they were trying to claw through my bathroom door to get to each other. While yowling. In the middle of the night.

This time, Penny's the only cat in the house. There is no yowling, so we're going to wait this out. In fact, the only way that I know she is in heat, is her manic desire to get out of my house. Every time a door opens, even an interior door, there's Penny, "What's this. Brynna's room. Any male cats in here? Hmm? Hmm? No. Fine. I'm leaving."

While this is fairly amusing when going to the bathroom or wandering downstairs for laundry duty, it is less than amusing when actually opening the door to the outside world. The cat is so intent on sprinting outside that she risks life and limb to run between our legs, vault off our shoulders or squeeze through a rapidly shutting door that she often gets the door slammed in her face or um... abdomen.

Fortunately, she is an indoor cat and once outside, in the free open air, becomes a little disoriented. Typically, she runs to the end of the deck, vaults over my flower bed and runs for cover under the pine tree. There, she cowers, afraid of open oxygen.

Ten minutes later, I, covered in pine needles and scratched all over, emerge from the tree holding the cat who is both mad and howling and pleased to be taken back to the life she knows and trusts. Until the next time I open the door when the fun begins all over again.
____________________

Well, crap. I just took a short break from writing to google and find out how long Precious Penny Pain the Buttons would be in heat. Turns out that it'll only be a couple more days, BUT, cats will continue to go into heat EVERY OTHER WEEK until they get pregnant or get spayed.

So, I guess I'm researching spaying now. Anyway, Sorry Bob. You were right.

Monday, November 16, 2009

So Young and So Angry

Brynna and I had a rough weekend. Frankly, I blame myself.

I have not been the best throughout her life at making her do things. Making her follow through on her chores, making her brush her teeth, making her help in the house. I don't know where the line is. When is old enough to take responsibility for something. Is three too young, is four too young, is five?

I've been watching Brynna in Montessori lately. She is in a Spanish immersion afterschool program there. I pick her up a little before most of the parents and when I get there, she is often in the middle of a work. Because I know my little control freak hates to be forced into transition, I usually just stand back and watch while she finishes her work cycle.

I really love watching the Montessori classroom work. It's an amazing thing watching these kids choose a work and do it and do it and do it until they get it right, with no expectations, no frustration.

When I get there, it's the end of a long day for these kids. Brynna is among the oldest and she is five. They go nine hours and while there are plenty of breaks, by the time I get there most of the kids are involved in art work or practical life work. Brynna is often doing a toasting work or a baking work when I arrive. (She's eating.) I'm constantly amazed that she runs screaming from my oven at home, but she is more than willing to don an oven mitt and stick her hand in a 400 degree toaster oven.

After she finishes eating the result of her toasting or baking, she is responsible for making the work ready for the next student. One by one, she carries the dishes and utensils to the sink and washes them with dish soap and water and dries them with a tea towel. She then returns everything to the tray and the tray to its spot beneath the toaster oven. She does this without whining or complaining or feigning ignorance.

When we get home, I ask her to turn on the living room light and she acts like I asked her to write a dissertation.

I have been played, friends and neighbors.

With The Husband working two jobs and life in general upheaval right now, I just can't keep house by myself. I require help. I am not asking her to carry an adult's share of the work. Her daily chores are to pick up her own toys, scrape her plate into the trash when we are done with supper and then put it in the sink, set the table for the family and keep her room picked up.

For each chore completed, she gets a marble in her marble jar. When the jar is full, the Marble Fairy comes and leaves a present in place of the marbles.

The whining about these small, measly chores is ridiculous. You've never heard the like. It's amazing that such a large amount of annoying sound can come from such a small, sweet looking package.

This weekend, we fought a lot. We argued about responsibility and helping and being a big girl. We went head to head and in the end, I was exhausted, miserable and defeated. But, I kinda won. Despite the fact that everything was a misery of power struggle and yelling and that terrible, terrible voice. Despite the fact that I lost my temper more times than I like to admit. Despite the fact that we barely both survived, yesterday, she picked up her room, put away her toys in the living room, scraped her plate, set the table, brushed her own teeth and even admitted to needing a nap when she was cranky.

She's also starting to buy it when I tell her that I can't hear whiny voices and she'll have to speak normally if she wants me to respond. That, my friends, is what we call a Good Lie.

I'm not ready to say that I really won. I kinda feel like Giles in the Buffy musical. "The battle's done and we kinda won." Except the battle's not done. And won't be, I suppose for about 20 years.

Mostly, I dread going home tonight and doing it all again, but I am content with the knowledge that we made it through one weekend successfully. That we might just get all the way to productive member of society without anyone killing anyone else.

Or, I may wake up one day Lizzie Bordoned. Who knows?

Friday, November 13, 2009

Minivan Momma Reviews Cars

So, I got my rental yesterday. It's a Chevy Cobalt.

Let me first give you some background on my car having past. I used to drive an Aveo. If you don't know what an Aveo is, you aren't alone. I find that half the world has no idea that car exists. They are little and fuel efficient and they look a little like a box. Except mine has a trunk (some are hatchbacks) and so it's a little more car-looky and a little less box-on-wheels-looky.

I drove the Aveo for years. Her name was Scarlet, but I usually called her the MiniMobile. Because of her tininess. I could park that car anywhere. I drove it with a car seat in the middle and for the 3 months or so that Brynna rode in the pumpkin seat I had to move my seat up a notch. One notch.

The Husband drives it now with two car seats and no moved up driver's seat. Although, to be fair, he drives closer to the wheel than I do. If I could just take out the driver's seat and drive from the back, that would be great for me.

Then I got the minivan. I swore my allegiance to minivandom and pledged to never drive a mere car again. I mean, the minivan is awesome. It's a traveling dining room for one thing. There are 12 cupholders and it only seats 7. Plus, the back seat folds down into a tabley thing and you can sit in the trunk and eat on the back seat. Or you can take it out and turn it around and look out the back of the car. It's high and you can look down on car drivers. It holds everyone and I can totally truck my whole family plus three. With car seats. It drives like one of those big cars from the 70's too. Like piloting a boat. I love my minivan.

So, when the guy told me at the car rental place that he had a Chevy Cobalt for me, I was a little worried about driving something so small again, but totally unworried about fitting the kids in it because it's supposed to be a size bigger than the Aveo, right? Right?

Turns out that I have to drive with my knees bearing into the steering column to put the baby seat behind me. To put Brynna behind me, I have to drive closer than I like and she's in a booster. This morning after I dropped her off, I moved my seat back into the realm of comfortable and when I got out I noticed my seat was touching hers. Seriously. Volkswagon Beetles have more legroom in the backseat.

But for all that, it has it's perks. It knows when it's dark and turns on the headlights. This is good for me, because I pretty much wear my sunglasses 24-7 and I often don't turn on my headlights until someone honks. It knows what song the radio is playing which is wicked cool because I am constantly driving down the road thinking, "Crap! What is that song? Who sings it? Arrgghh!" Also, it turns down the radio when you slow down. Which seems like an option made for me. I dind't know anyone else did that, but I always do it and now it's automatic.

Also, it's got pick up. I mean, lots of pick up. I mean I hit the gas and it's already going somehow. It also has killer brakes, which is a good thing because between the great pick up and the fact that it wants to speed, I need to be able to stop now and then.

So, all in all. Cobalt, good car if you don't have kids. If you have kids, run. (Which brings me to an interesting side point in which I bitch for a while about the fact that if you want a family car you can't have a fuel efficient car and if you want a fuel efficient car you can't have a family car. I am convinced that this is a construct of the American automobile industry. There has to be a way to get 35 miles to the gallon and still fit in a couple-three car seats. I'm not asking for much, you know. I don't think I should have to sell my environmentalist soul just because I live in the country and have kids.)

On the other hand, I think now that there is a betrayal of Minivan Narnia in my future. I've got about 15 more years until both of my kids are driving and hopefully about 20 years until I have grandkids. So, I figure that gives me 5 years in a mid-life crisis car. I'd like red please.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Christmas, She is a Coming

If I have a favorite holiday, it is clearly Christmas. The only holiday I decorate for, Christmas holds a near obsessive place in my heart.

I don't hate much about the holiday season. I love the hustle and bustle. I love the gift buying (as long as I don't have too much financial stress). I love the over scheduling. The weird food. The 24-7 Christmas music. I love every aspect of the holiday season.

Except for one: The complaining.

I'm talking to you, Mr. I-don't-want-to-go-to-a-party-every-weekend-in-December. And you, Ms. All-this-over-commercialization-is-ruining-Christmas. Not to mention you, Miss It-makes-me-mad-when-people-say-Happy-Holidays.

I just want to say this once, loud and clear for whoever reads my little blog to read: Stores don't ruin my Christmas. Someone calling a Christmas tree a Holiday tree doesn't ruin my Christmas. People who don't celebrate Christmas don't ruin my Christmas. My Christmas isn't disturbed by Hanukkah, Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, Yule or MidWinter. My Christmas is personal. It's about celebrating what's important to me. And I fully support anyone else in their desire to celebrate what's important to them.

What ruins my Christmas is being sucked into the never-ending argument of whether or not it's okay for stores to tell their employees not to say "Merry Christmas." It's listening to this year's diatribe on Holiday Trees in stores. It's whining about how the Christmas decorations went up the day after Halloween. It's the 900th time I've been told that Christmas isn't about shopping.

Frankly, I think it's fine for stores to tell their employees not to say Merry Christmas when they are working in the store. It's their prerogative as a store. If the employees don't like it, they can work somewhere else. If the store wants to wish everyone a "Happy Satan Day," then they have the freedom to do that. If you don't want to shop there, don't. If you don't want to work there, don't. But don't believe that they should somehow be forced to accept Christmas and Christianity if you aren't willing to spend eight days a year wishing everyone a Happy Hanukkah.

And I don't care what who calls their tree. Mine is a Christmas tree. It's really just a tree with lights and ornaments, but it symbolized Christmas to me. In the nativity story, though, there is no tree. The tree is a yuletide tradition brought into Christianity by stubborn pagans. It's not by definition Christian. So, if someone wants to call it a Yule tree or a Holiday tree or a December Tree, they should be allowed to do so.

I like that Christmas used to be one day and now it's November 1 through December 25. I like the season. And I don't mind if stores cater more and more to early shoppers. I used to be one. I used to start shopping in September, and frankly, it's more fun to shop when the decorations are out.

And finally, yes, Virginia, for me Christmas is about shopping. It's about gift giving. It's about searching out something that will bring a moment of happiness to those I love. It's not about one-upping or obsessive math to ensure that everyone's gift comes in at exactly $20, but it is about giving things to people. Now, in a perfect world, I would start December 26th and have handmade gifts for everyone on my list, but I don't. So, I shop. And I enjoy shopping. I enjoy Black Friday and I enjoy the crowds and the sales and everything draped in red and green. I enjoy the repackaging of everyday items to convey Christmasyness. I shop because I love. If you don't, the quit shopping, but stop trying to sap my enjoyment by harping on and on about how horrible it is for everything to be so commercial. Yes, it's commercial. Yes, it's a shame. But it's also a joy to those of us who enjoy it.

If there is one theme to all of the mid-winter holidays, it is peace on Earth. And peace on Earth, starts with peace in your hearts. So, this year, try to ease up on defending the sanctity of Christmas, and just let everyone celebrate what they want to celebrate. If you want to wish people a Merry Christmas, then please do, but don't lecture those who tell you Happy Holidays in return. Just live and celebrate and enjoy and let everyone else do the same.

And if you can't do that, then please, don't send me chain emails telling me that I shouldn't either.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Everyday SuperHeroes

I have this theory. My theory states that we are all superheroes. We each and every one of us has a superpower. They are just such totally mundane superpowers that we don't consider them to be superpowers.

For instance, my mother has the superpower of always knowing what to do. She, like the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy should have "Don't Panic" on her uniform, because she has such a calming effect when you are thinking about panicking.

The Husband's superpower has something to do with inappropriate jokes. I actually hung up on him yesterday because he made me so upset while trying to make me laugh.

I believe that our young don't develop their powers fully until adulthood. It is possible to see glimmers of the powers to be sometimes, though. I imagine that Brynna's power will take one of three manifestations: waking up with perfect hair, putting together outfits that would make other people look like they got out of bed blind but look fabulous on her, or perfect handwriting.

So far, all I've seen for Maren is the ability to eat anything at all. This will come in handy if she is ever a judge on Iron Chef America.

And what of me? My superpower is the ability to see deer. I used to drive in bliss, believing (stupidly) that my ability would save me from trouble. I could see deer and be cautious of them and continue living. Also, eventually, I intend to learn to shoot a gun, then with my incredible ability, I will have something useful to offer the post-apocalyptic world. (Not that I intend to survive, mind you, but it never hurts to be prepared.)

Monday night, I watched helplessly as a buck ran full tilt and rammed the side of my car. It was upsetting to say the least. Frankly, it was a little astounding. It turns out that in addition to being big, destructive, prone to overpopulation and fairly tasty, deer are dumb. Which makes me wonder why so many seem to have a problem with them being killed.

Anyway, my gift has become a curse.

Since I know now just how idiotic your average deer is and I no longer believe that my ability to see deer will aid me any in not getting pulvarized, I am having some trouble driving.

I love to drive. I especially love to drive in the city and deep in the country. It's one of the reasons why I live where I live. The 20 minute drive from town to smaller town gives me a twice daily dose of a nerve tonic that could never be bottled. Curves, hills, trees, birds. The roar of the engine in the straight stretches and the absentminded brake then accelerate of a good, sharp curve.

But, the last two nights I have found myself dreading that drive. The potential for deer in every curve. Especially during hunting season. And now that seeing the deer makes no impact, it's bracing to say the least to drive home waiting for them to attack my car.

I'm deer shy.

I have met my nemesis and my nemesis is legion. And dumb.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Miscellany

Sorry. I hate writing these almost as much as I imagine you hate reading them, but I've got to catch up, you know:

1. I had the flu. It sucked. I am currently plugging away at a Tamiflu prescription, but I am pretty much totally mended. In the meantime, I watched a LOT of TV. On Friday, I watched a Dr. Who marathon on SyFy. (As a sidenote, why did they change their name? What is that, anyway, a pet name for Syphillis? It makes no sense. And I miss the commercials where the innocent looking little girl would unhinge her jaw and eat the mean looking man or the woman would hop out of her hummer-sized car and push a button and it would fold itself up and tuck itself into her tiny little handbag.) I love Dr. Who. Who doesn't? But I don't really keep up. I never seem to know when it's on or what's going on of if I'm watching a rerun or not. This had the cute Doctor and Martha.

2. On Saturday, there was nothing good on TV. I love a good marathon, I will watch almost anything in marathon format, but I couldn't find any. So, I made my own Firefly marathon. I didn't have time to watch the whole series, so I did my favorites. ("Serenity 1 and 2," "Jaynestown," "Out of Gas," "Heart of Gold" and Serenity if you are curious.) I watched part of Serenity with the Joss commentary on. I love that man. Anyway, he was talking about that first scene, where you are meeting the new villian and he forces that other man to fall on his sword and I was listening to his process and I thought, "I will never be able to write like that." I nearly threw away my NaNoWriMo novel, which, by the way, is not going to make it to 50,000 words. I am too far behind to catch up. But, I'm still writing, because I don't need to win. I need to write. But, I kept it because I don't care if it sucks. I just want to write it.

3. I hit a deer last night. Or, more accurately, a deer hit me last night. In the driver side door with his antlers down. Like he was challenging me to a dual. It was sort of ridiculous and now I have a very messed up car. I am very thankful however, that the girls and I are okay. Also, that I had discovered that I had inadvertantly let my car insurance lapse and reinstated it before the accident. This would be way worse if I was uninsured.

Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I promise to do better. Now that I'm well and all.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Self-Professed Scream Queen

I love all things horror and supernatural. It is something that is built into my psyche. Every October, I complain that there isn't enough horror on TV. Last week, I had to stay home one day with Maren and we watched Psycho, Halloween (the original, yo) and The Shining. Three, in my opinion, pivotal pieces of horror cinema. I explained why to her.

She seemed to like the movies and had a, perhaps disturbing, happy reaction every time the twins came on screen in The Shining. Those chicks are creepy on a visceral level and I can't quite understand why even an infant with limited ability to reckon with what's on screen shouldn't be royally nightmared by them.

But, I digress. I started watching horror movies when I was about three or four. I watched with my grandmother and when she thought I shouldn't watch, I would pretend to fall asleep in her lap. She didn't like to carry me up the stairs, so she'd just sit there and watch her movies thinking that I was asleep. When I was about six, I watched Helter Skelter this way. Helter Skelter produced nightmares, because, on some level I knew that it was REAL in a way that The Birds just wasn't.

I told my mom that the nightmares were from Scooby Doo, because I didn't want to get caught watching movies in Grandma's lap.

When I was five, I asked to see Poltergeist in the theatre. I'm pretty sure we waited until it was on HBO, but in any case, it rocked.

In middle school, I began my love affair with B movies. We had a movie store in town, Movie Warehouse, that had an entire wall of bad, bad horror movies. Mausoleum, with the woman with possessed breasts was my favorite, but I also watched all the Amityville movies and Supermarket Slasher and Grandma's House and Sleepaway Camp. Grandma usually went with me to rent movies, which meant that I couldn't have anything with naked girls on the cover. Otherwise, I watched every B horror movie in the place.

When I was in high school, Silence of the Lambs was released. In addition to wanting desperately to grow up and be Clarice Starling and solve murders by talking to really creepy serial killers, this movie upped the ante on horror. While I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Army of Darkness and really anything where the red corn syrup just looks like red corn syrup, I began to appreciate a really finely crafted psychological horror. These don't come along all that often.

As the years have passed, I have watched anything that looks even remotely scary. Until about six years ago.

After Ethan died and right after finding out I was pregnant with Brynna, I went to see Taking Lives. It's not even really horror. It's psychological and Angelina Jolie tries really hard to be Jodie Foster, but it's not exactly the movie of the year. However, (SPOILER ALERT) in the end, Ethan Hawke stabs Jolie in the belly with some really big, really mean looking sewing scissors. Oh, wait, did I mention that Jolie is 9 months pregnant with twins.

Oh wait, did I mention that the whole pregnancy is a hoax designed to lure Hawk out of hiding and it's a fake belly but you don't know that until you have already had a heart attack.

Normally, I would love this kind of thing. Ooooh, twisty. But, with the circumstances what they were and my mind whirring with madness and depression and apprehension and fear and love and excitement... Well, I spazzed out. I screamed like a three year old girl. I hid my face and wouldn't look up for the rest of the freakin' movie. I dumped popcorn all over the floor and waited until the lights came up to leave the theatre.

And since then, well, I just haven't had it in me to watch horror. I've tried. We rented one of the new Exorcist movies and a baby explodes very violently out of a woman's hooha and then it's not a baby but a demon and we had to turn it off. I still read all the horror I could, but for some reason, I just couldn't stand to watch it.

So, I slaked my thirst with the less horrific supernatural stuff. Buffy and Supernatural. Even Heroes, although that didn't last long. I read and watched Twilight. Yeah, I know. Sue me, I loved it. I've watched so many horror movies come out and thought "I wish I could watch that," but haven't.

And now, I'm discovering, I'm getting my groove back. I've watched a few genuinely scary things and I seem to be holding up okay. Not freaking out.

And I'd like to dive back in.

But there's nothing to dive into.

It seems, that while I was away, the entire horror genre has devolved into what's being called Torture Porn. Think Saw. It's about the visceral reaction of watching truly horrible things happen to someone else. And it's awful.

Okay, I'll admit that I watched the first Saw movie and I didn't hate it. In fact, it was so different from anything I'd ever seen, so twisty and turny and creepy with Jigsaw, the moralizing serial killer, that I kinda liked it. I mean, why not. It was original. It was also not all that bloody compared to what has followed in it's wake. Even some that I have really looked forward to, I'm looking at you Hostel, have disappointed me.

What makes these "torture porn" flicks different from the "slasher" films of my youth. Well, realism for one thing. While these movies make you writhe in pain and discomfort, Supermarket Slasher made you giggle. As our ability to make movies with realistic effects has increased and the cost of such movies has decreased, it's nearly unheard of to see red corn syrup spurting at an odd angle from a severed artery. (Thank you Robert Rodriguez for making that "nearly.")

But also at issue is the intent. The slasher films of yore were really just for fun. Killers like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhies were wooden killers intent on wreaking havoc. Their motives weren't known, but weren't really questioned either. Psychos like the ones in Prom Night and Supermarket Slasher had motives, but they were so paper thin as to seem laughable.

Now, okay, one could argue that real life killers like Manson and Bundy didn't exactly have great reasons to kill and that perhaps this world of reasonlessness and confusion is closer to reality, but I would argue that if you think Michael Myers' lumbering and weird head tilts or Jason's slow walk catching a motorcycle are realistic, then you need to review your material.

While slasher movies were for fun, getting as many laughs as screams, torture porn has a more insidious nature. Just like reality TV, the point of torture porn is to encourage the masses to enjoy the suffering of others. Building realistic characters, realistic effects and setting these horrors so close to our mental landscape is damaging to our psyches. Instead of being compassionate for those tortured in these movies, we are supposed to feel a kinship to them and still say, "Wow. Cool." when their heads explode or they fall into a vat of hypodermic needles.

It's a fine line, though. Wasn't Starling, our heroine of psychological horror, realistic? Wasn't Norman Bates believable? And wasn't that realism what made those movies soooo gooood?

Which leaves me with the same old same old. The same line between artful horror and torture porn is between art and porn. I can't define it but I know it when I see it.

And while I believe that freedom is what makes modern American cinema what it is, and I would never seek to stop the torture porn movement, I feel compelled to speak about it. To say my piece. To decry the destruction of our humanity as I see it from within. What makes us human is our ability to show compassion and empathy. Don't let anything take that away.

So, tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled blog fodder. Today, I needed to talk about something that weighs on me. Forgive me, interwebz.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

A Conversation with a Five Year Old and Some Discussion of Nicknames

Brynna: I don't want to wear the monkey shirt because of the light parts on the ears.
Me: Oh, but she needs the light parts on her ears to hear with.
Brynna: Well, I don't like the tail. It looks like a stick.
Me: You love this shirt, though. I bought this shirt even without complaining because you loved it so much even though I could have purchased two nearly identical shirts for the same price. Because you loved THIS SHIRT.
Brynna: I've decided to give it to Maren.
Me: Well, you're never picking out your own clothes again.
Brynna: I'll wear the monkey shirt, but I'm not taking off my coat all day.
Me: Fine, but if I get a call to come pick you up because you've passed out from heat exhaustion, you are in BIG TROUBLE.
Brynna: Fine.
Me: Fine.

(This is actually a synopsis of a much longer argument that may or may not have involved me taking Brynna almost all the way to school in one of her uncle's t-shirts and then dressing her in the parking lot of the county park. It may or may not have also resulted in her losing her privileges to a child lock free door when she opened her door while we were going down the driveway. It also may or may not have involved a lot more ranting by me about her not liking things that she loved in the store once she gets home. Like tennis shoes. That she now refuses to wear, but cost $40, so she's not getting anymore. She can just wear what she's got or nothing at all. Also, stupid monkey shirt!)
____________________________

So, Jenn asked about calling Maren Penguin and it seemed worth noting here that my kids are my Pigeon and my Penguin. They also go by Flopsy and Mopsy (Maren being Mopsy for her M and Brynna being Flopsy for her ability to loosen all her joints and flop around in your arms like a large, unwieldy jellyfish). Brynna is sometimes Princess P or Princess Peach. Sometimes I call Maren Little Bit like in Little House on the Prairie. And sometimes I call her Smidgen. Mom and The Husband call her Squiggles.

But, from birth almost, Brynna has been Pigeon. I'm not sure how it happened, but I just started calling her that one day. And it kinda stuck. Everyone started calling her Pigeon. Not in that annoying way that people take up Sissy or Bubby, but in a cute, she's everyone's Pigeon kind of way. (I should note that the other nickname that stuck for her was Beeba.) Which was derived from Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood when the sisterhood called all their grandkids the Petite Bebes. (Sorry for the lack of accent mark, but you know. Blogger. Time taken to figure out.) I started out calling her Bebe and it kinda Southernized itself over time into Beeba.

But back to Pigeon. We called her that for years and finally, when she was three, we bought Lady and the Tramp. Pigeon is what Tramp calls Lady. Now, I don't know if this was a popular term of endearment in the 50's when the movie was made, or if I remember it from watching Lady as a kid, but it was the first I remember hearing Pigeon as a term of endearment. (I mean, they're kinda awful birds.)

So, when the time came for Maren to arrive in this world, we started the search in advance for a nickname. I hadn't done that for Brynna, they were sort of organic, but I didn't want to reuse Brynna's on Maren. Brynna's nicknames are special to her. Sure, I'll call both of them baby and sweetie and darling, because, I'm a Kentucky girl and I call everyone that. But I wanted there to be no other Pigeons. No other Princess Peach's. No other human should share your mother's words of affection for you. I knew then and know now that I will occasionally screw up. In the heat of the moment, the rush to sooth an injury, but for the most part, those names belong to them and only them.

I began the search intent on finding another small animal living wild in cities. Squirell, Chipmunk, etc. But then I realized that another family at my church had this department wrapped up. So, I went with birds. We thought long and hard and asked for Brynna's input (Duck. Ostrich. Bird.) and settled on Penguin. I never knew how well it would fit her though. It just seemed to click into place with her. She just is my penguin.

But, alas. The problem is that four and five year olds have an awful need to know your favorites. What's your favorite color? Purple. What's your favorite season? Fall. What's your favorite thing to wear? Jeans. What's your favorite food? Cheesecake. What's your favorite animal? Penguin. Oh crap, danger Will Robinson, DANGER!!!

I tried to take Penguin away from her because I didn't want my favorite to be one of my kids and not the other. And while I don't harbor the hatred for pigeons that most city-dwellers do, I'd never call them a favorite of mine. I just couldn't get that name away from her, though. It was like taking a piece of her away. I couldn't stand it.

Finally, I decided to change my favorite animal. Radical, I know. (Only kids care about favorite animals anyway. I mean, now I kinda need more specifics: favorite zoo animal (polar bears), favorite farm animal (ducks), favorite semi-aquatic mammal (Perry the Platypus).) So, I made my new favorite animal an owl. Which is nice because you know, I love Hedwig. And the Tootsie Roll Pop commercials. And there's cute stuff with big-eyed owls. And also, it seems sort of hippie, but without the overt drug referencyness of mushrooms.

So, now I'm the owl in our bird family. When I started telling Brynna that my new favorite animal was an owl, she got excited and proclaimed that since she is a pigeon and Maren is a penguin, then I am an owl and we are a happy bird family. A la Stellaluna, I suppose.

I asked The Husband the other day what bird he would like to be and he wouldn't even dignify the question with a response. So, I hereby proclaim him a buzzard.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Bad Timing

Maren has the flu. Which sucks because she's 11 months old and anything is scary when the baby's still a baby, you know. I'm not in a panic about swine flu, even though the doctor said they aren't even testing for that anymore, they are just assuming everyone who comes in has it. I'm still not in a panic even though they made me leave by a separate door and I couldn't even walk her through the sick waiting room. I'm not even in a panic because the stupid test gave her a miserable nosebleed and my favorite green shirt (in fact, the only piece of clothing I own come St. Paddy's Day) has blood all over it.

No, but still. I'm a worrier. It's what I do. I worry. And I fret. Because I'm stupid enough to down deep somewhere believe that my worrying makes a difference.

And I rail. I don't know how else to describe it. I rail against the powers that be. Against the stupidity of the universe. Against whatever is in my path.

I have a board meeting tonight for Montessori, which I will be missing, because, you know... Flu. I have a board meeting for work this weekend, which I will not be missing, because, you know... Job. I've been reminded that this isn't the best week to be out. However, it's not the best week to bring the baby in and expose everyone to the flu, either, so I can't really win here.

So, bad timing. But when isn't it bad timing.

In an example of bad timing that could have been avoided, however...

It has come to my attention that November, in addition to being the official host month (or hostess month - I think the verdict is still out on whether November is a man or a woman) of NaNoWriMo, it is also the official host month of NaBloWriMo or National Blog Writing Month, in which bloggers pledge to write at least one post per day for the entire month.

Well, it's the second and I didn't post yesterday, so you're already out of luck. Sorry.

But it seems to me that this is patently unfair to the blogger/novelists out there. Anybody with me?