Somebody's Gonna Hurt Someone

They say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I'm not entirely sure who "they" are, but I'm reasonably sure they were maimed by someone who was having a helluva bad day when "they" decided to spout out platitudes at a particularly inopportune time.
Yesterday was the day to end all days for me. It was this series of unfortunate events, none of which was earth-shatteringly horrible enough to make me crawl into a cave and die, but cumulatively, I wish I had enabled my force field before leaving my house before the day was through.
It all started with a hickey. I hate getting hickeys- I find them deplorable, juvenile, and trashy. Unfortunately, I also bruise extremely easily, so the slightest brush against a coffee table, a dog walking on my leg, or a hearty hug from a child leaves its mark on my skin; and the Man seems to forget this on the occasion we manage to go bump in the night. I discovered the bruise, dealt with it, and was put in a sour mood that my fair skin bruises so easily, the Man doesn't remember that and take more care when kissing me, (and seriously- we weren't making out in the back seat of a Ford Fairlane for crying out loud! We're responsible adults far too old for me to go around with this atrocious mark on my skin!) and tried to move on with my day.
My mother and I are caring primarily for my father now, and so neither of us has been straying too far from her house. She needed some errands run, though, and so I agreed to go to town with the Man and do some banking, a little shopping, and collect a couple of prescriptions and the mail. Very typical errands for a person who is shut in.
Our first stop was to be to drop off the paper prescription at a pharmacy that hospice uses. It's a national chain, and my parents have always used the local branch of this particular pharmacy, long before the big box corporation came in and set up lawn chair and wind chime displays in front of the actual druggist. Anyhow, the store they use knows me and my parents all by name and on sight. They deliver the drugs if we can't get out, and call to see if we need a refill if they know we should be getting low. It's the utmost in customer service. I mistakenly thought the whole chain had adopted this policy. I knew not to expect them to know who I was, but I did expect a modicum of friendliness and a lack of ineptness at their given trade.
I drop the prescriptions, which happened to both be for morphine, off and hand them directly to the pharmacist himself. He tells me they'll be ready in half an hour. I have other errands to run, so that works out perfectly. We move on to the bank.
My mother belongs to one bank, where her paycheck is directly deposited biweekly, and her name alone is on the account. Their insurance is taken automatically from the account, and she puts some money into a savings account, and then, like clockwork, moves the majority of what's left into another bank, where she has an account she shares with my father. She's been doing this for years. Because the account she holds in her name only and the one she and my dad share are in two separate banks, she can't just electronically transfer the funds, and must actually go to the banks. So she sent me, armed with her driver's license and a withdrawal slip she'd filled out and signed, to the bank she was pulling the money from. I went in with those papers and my license, thinking this would be so simple, I'd have time to kill before the medicine was ready. Boy, was I wrong.
The very nice teller informed me that because I wasn't on the account, she couldn't authorize me to take money from it. I very nicely explained to her that I wasn't coming in telling her this was a stickup, but I only wanted money from one specific account, I had the proper form filled out with identification proving everyone was who they said they were. My mother was supposed to have written and signed a letter telling the bank that I had permission to do her banking- giving me her license wasn't enough because I could have stolen it. I then remarked, "Well, I could have stolen her debit card, too, and just gone on a shopping spree, and for that matter, I could very well go out to the parking lot and forge a letter, and I guarantee you, you will not be able to tell the difference in signatures."... which probably did not help my case much. However, by this time I was visibly distraught, was probably crying, had begged her to call my mother and ask her, had explained, in detail, that my mother's husband, my father, was going to die within at most a couple of weeks, and then she'd resume her own banking, all to no avail. I asked her what the daily ATM limit was, thinking I could just pull the money from there, but it was substantially less, and there's no ATM any closer than a bank, which isn't all that close to our home. I also have been paying my mother's bills and doing her banking, and knew she had things that needed to be paid, and with the Man's schedule, it wasn't like we could just pop out tomorrow for ten minutes to take care of it. As upset as I got, the teller was very nice, but firm, and I left dejected, in tears, and without my mother's money.
By this time, well over half an hour had passed, so we went back to the pharmacy. The girl ringing people up looked for my filled prescription, checked with the druggist, and then informed me that it would be another half an hour, as they hadn't even had time to look at the paperwork yet. I was annoyed, but understood that it wasn't her fault. I had to still buy a couple of small things for my mother, so off we went to a major grocery store chain.
I wandered through the store picking up the few things on the list, and then made my way to the customer service desk, where I needed to get a book of stamps. The Man stood a couple of feet behind me, and after I completed my transaction, gave me a funny look. I asked him what the smirk was for, and as he pulled my purse over my backside, he asked me if the jeans I was wearing were my good jeans. I, assuming I had suddenly developed a stain or something, asked him why while trying unsuccessfully to contort my body into a pretzel so as to see what he saw. He told me quietly that somehow I'd managed to tear them, from just above the rear pocket to well below it, on the inside, but not anywhere near a seam where you'd expect a pair of jeans to tear. Frickin fabulous! So here I am, in the middle of a major grocery store with my ass hanging out, with no idea how it got to be that way or how long it'd been that way, and the pharmacy didn't have the drug ready and the Bank wouldn't give me the money I needed, and then my favorite jeans ripped. Grrr.
So we went, hastily, to a second hand clothing store that just happened to be right around the corner, where I bought a pair of six dollar jeans. I changed in the Man's truck in the parking lot, and while they won't ever be my favorite jeans, for six dollars, and considering they were already used and I had no other options, they sufficed nicely. I didn't bother trying them on, but there were no stains, they fit sufficiently, and most importantly, they had no tears in them, so it was the one thing that didn't go horribly in my day.
After the jeans fiasco, we returned to the pharmacy, where I was told once again by the very apologetic cashier that the prescription hadn't yet been filled, and that it would take at least another twenty minutes. We were, by this time, well past an hour from the original time I had been told they'd be ready, so I was beyond pissed off. I told her curtly that I'd stand there and wait. I had done all of my errand running, anyhow, and really, what was the point in wasting more gas? There are three chairs in the minuscule waiting area at this drugstore, and there were about ten people waiting for their medicines. I sort of thought if I stood there, clearly impatiently, it might hurry along the pharmacists just a touch. I was wrong again.
There were little old ladies waiting there that were probably not even middle aged ladies when they came in to get their medicines refilled. They had certainly been waiting there over an hour before when I'd dropped off my prescriptions, and there was no end in sight for them. What really annoyed me the most, though, was the fact that as each prescription got filled, a cashier would call out the last name. This is pretty standard practice, and that was fine.
However, none of the names being called out belonged to the people who were sitting there growing grey hair. One little old lady decided to take a nap, but clearly didn't trust any of the miscreants she was seated next to, and affixed a club-like device to her walker. It occurred to me, after observing all of this for more than thirty more minutes, that the names being called out were probably people who had long since perished because they didn't receive their life-saving medications in a timely fashion.
Finally, I could take it no more, and remarked to the Man in a voice that I knew would be overheard "why do they bother with these medicines for the people who aren't here when they have these people who are here stacked up like monkeys in a barrel, who may or may not even live until their prescriptions eventually get filled? It seems like a backwards system to me." We had our medicine momentarily.
That's when the additional trouble started. I had handed, what was surely eons ago, the pharmacist two paper prescriptions for morphine that should have totalled 450 milliliters. He gave me one bottle containing 150 ML, which just didn't seem to add up in my feeble little layman's brain. When I dared to question his godliness, he got huffy and gave me an attitude about how since morphine is a controlled substance, the computer wouldn't let him dispense more than the amount he gave me at a time. He then informed me that that was a week's amount, and next week, I could come back for another allotment. Well, I looked around, and try as I might, I couldn't see anywhere his PhD, and so I wasn't really sure how exactly it was this man thought he knew what a weekly dose of morphine for a dying man might be, but I had bigger fish to fry right that very second.
Let's pretend for a second that the computer controls this man's every move (which apparently he thinks it does), and he was incapable of pouring all of the morphine that an actual doctor said my father should have into a bottle. I handed him two paper prescriptions, and he essentially only filled the smallest of the two, leaving the other completely untouched. Why, then, did he not return it to me? When I asked him about this, he again got all huffy, as if I just shouldn't worry my pretty little head about such matters. Well, my pretty little head was going to need that morphine for myself by the time this day was done! He told me the excess was stored in the computer, and they had a record of it. Since I have every faith that record will be lost the next time he needs morphine, I made a mental note to have the doctor call in yet another prescription before it got too low.
Then I get home in time to get the children off the bus, only to learn that the boy child has a note from the principal in his backpack. Apparently he called a girl a very inflammatory word that women the world over hate to be called, and four children attested to it. He swears up and down he didn't say it, and told the principal he didn't say it. The problem I have with the claim isn't so much that he did or didn't; it's more about his conversation with the principal as he relayed it back to me. He was very disrespectful, which he knows I do not tolerate, and knew he was in trouble for that. The word is not one we ever use, and though I do cuss on a very regular basis and would not have been shocked to have heard he repeated any number of other words, this particular one is not ever used in our home. I don't honestly know if he said it, but I do honestly know I felt like the biggest failure as a mother that he was accused of it, and then mouthed back to the principal when hauled in to her office.
My sparkly little girl child apparently felt left out, and started bawling because last night the school was hosting its second open house of the year. Of course she sprang this on me an hour before she wanted to attend it, and hadn't brought home any papers announcing it, or even asked to go, to my recollection. She claims she told me the night before, but if she did, I honestly don't remember. She's in hysterics because I gently but firmly tell her I do not plan t attend open house because we've already been to one this year, and we planned for our friends to come for dinner. This leads to more tears and claims of a vast and deep hatred she feels toward her mother, who is the worst in the world.
I decided it must surely be cocktail time, and I should sit on the deck and wait for the mother of the year committee to arrive with my award. I was certain they'd be showing up any old second- them or child protective services, since I clearly have no idea what I'm doing, and not only with my children, but obviously with the rest of my life, either.
In the end, neither the MOY Committee nor CPS came, but my very best friend and her husband did. I don't know if it was the food I finally took the time to eat, the drinks I refuse to feel guilty about consuming, the pack of smokes I inhaled, the fact that my children started pretending like they knew how to behave for a couple of minutes, or the simple realization that I needed my friends for a while, but by the end of the night I felt like a much better person than I had at varying points throughout the day.
Today is bound to be better- after all, when you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up, right? Well, there's also sideways, but that's not something I care to dwell on.

Death by Clean Air?

I don't believe hybrid cars are going to save the world. Just the opposite, actually. I have a few theories on jumping on bandwagons, but the supposed "go green" movement in particular bothers me. Hybrid cars in general are a good idea, just like communism, but in practice, I think they're going to cause a lot of problems. Here's why:
Hybrids are, in general, very small cars. Take the Prius, which is the car I'm going to focus on. The Prius starts at around $22,000, and supposedly gets between 51 and 48 miles per gallon. I never believe the manufacturer's miles per gallon ratings because of all the cars I've ever owned, I've never gotten the miles per gallon the manufacturer claimed I would, but for the sake of argument, let's say it actually does get 49 miles per gallon.
Let's also say you want floor mats, a couple of extras, and you'd like your Prius to be red. I went to Toyota's website, entered my zip code, and my Prius would be about $28,000. So, suddenly the price has jumped six grand, and some of the options aren't exactly optional. Now, you know you can drive forever on a tank of gas, so you are suddenly driving a whole lot more than you ever used to. The car is zippy and fun and even though it doesn't really have any get up and go, it also costs nothing to drive, and you feel basically no guilt at all because you've made your carbon footprint nearly a negative. You can drive to the moon and back without hurting the environment!
The trouble with this theory is that the more you're on the road, the more you increase your likelihood of having an accident. Have you seen these cars? They might as well be made of cardboard, because if you have a collision with a little red wagon, you're toast. There is no protection whatsoever. Oh, sure, there's ABS and airbags, but you have to actually hit something head-on in order for the airbags to deploy. You're not going to hit another car in a Prius. You're going to slide right under another car until the other car's under carriage crushes the top of your Prius, and there's no airbag that can fix that. I suppose you could wear a helmet.
Another problem with a Prius is that with the economy the way it is, people can't really afford to spend $28,000 on a car that isn't isn't handy in all sorts of weather. Most people in this country deal with snow at least part of the year. Those that don't have hurricanes, tornadoes, mudslides, floods and/or earthquakes to contend with, and while they're not necessarily driving in them, they probably have to be prepared to, and I'm not convinced the Prius is really the best car to handle road conditions that aren't ideal. Add to that the fact that you probably can't pack more than a purse into is, let alone your children and pets, and you've got a real problem there.
Not to mention you could buy a full size truck for just slightly more than the Prius costs, and in this economy, the truck manufacturers are promising to make your payments for you if you lose your job, and trucks are looking more and more appealing. They're safer in bad weather and collisions, haul more, and also look better. You're not out driving for no apparent reason, which means less likely collisions to begin with, and also less toxins being emitted simply because you're not running your vehicle. newsflash, people: hybrids aren't completely emission free- they just give off less. Everyone else is jumping on the clean air hybrid loving bandwagon, so you also don't have to wait in line to put gas in your truck. It's pretty much win-win!
I think trucks and SUVs are still the way to go, and I'll sing their praises loud and proud.

Cliche Annoyances

They say that every cliche gets its start from a kernel of truth. Possibly, perhaps even probably. However, at this juncture in my life, there are some I am just so sick of hearing, if I never hear them again, it will be too soon. The people saying them mean well, and undoubtedly don't know what else to say, and have no way of knowing how many times a day I'm hearing them, but I swear, if I have to continue to hear them repeatedly, someone's going to die. Oh yeah, someone is going to die. Which is the whole reason I'm hearing all these cliches in the first place.
He'll be in a better place.
That's awfully presumptuous of a person, don't you think? These well wishers not only are assuming they know the faith of the dying person, but also apparently know the personal relationship that person has with God and Jesus. How does that person, who only means well, truly know what they are saying isn't highly offensive? If the dying person is a believer, it can be very comforting to know they will be going to heaven, but if they believe it's all a bunch of crap, those well meaning words can be just so much trite.
It's for the best.
What they really are trying to say is that the suffering will be over, which can be very a comforting thought after a long battle with a painful illness. But what is really for the best would be for the illness to not have happened in the first place. And who are they to say what's for the best? How do they know what's best for this person? How did they get a direct line to God when the rest of us just have to muddle through?
You're so strong.
Did they somehow get the impression that I enjoyed this? That I didn't want to be curled up in a ball somewhere under a rock bawling my eyes out? I'm not particularly strong, but there are people who need me right now, more than I need to be sobbing. I have my moments where I'm not able to stop crying, but honestly, these people are family friends or more distant relatives, and my grief is too private to be sharing with them. So yes, to them it may look like strength, but it's really just an unwillingness to share something I consider private.
What a blessing you are to your parents.
This is sort of in keeping with the strength thing. It's my father who's dying, and his death is imminent. However, I have always been physically and emotionally close to my parents. So now, in their time of greatest need, why would I suddenly choose to go on vacation to Aruba? Do these people really think that I would be anywhere but where I am? If nothing else, my mother needs me to fend off all these cliches that she shouldn't have to handle alone.
If you need anything, don't hesitate to call- really- I mean it.
This one makes me a little nutso because the people who truly mean it are calling us, doing something, letting us know they're here. They offer a little support without being overbearing. If they're running to town, they'll check to see if we need anything. They're stopping in for short visits and not staying all day and bringing something with them. They don't have to reiterate over and over that they really do mean it when they say they'll do anything. The trouble I have with believing the people who say they mean it is that they'll usually call, say "let me know if you need anything," and then you don't hear from them again until the funeral, where they say it again. These people just want something to say, but don't actually mean it, and aren't the people you're going to call in your darkest hour.
She's really going to rely on you when he's gone.
Well, no kidding. Because all of you guests and visitors who are only making more work for me right now are obviously going to disappear after the wake, leaving me with a mountain of dishes and a heartbroken mother. Who the hell do they think has been here since the beginning of time? My father was diagnosed nearly six years ago and told his children first. Do these people think that was accidental? Of course not. It's easy to swoop in and think you're doing some good deed, but we're a family, and that isn't going to stop when the paternal unit has died. She's still going to be my mother, and just because you don't have a reason to come see her anymore doesn't mean I won't. Not only is she my mother, but she's my children's grandmother, and my neighbor, and none of that will change. Jackasses.
It's all part of God's Plan.
Assuming again you know our faith, then you'd know we already know this. Or you'd know we don't believe it. Either way, you're verbalizing your own faith, really, and why can't you just keep your big trap shut about it? Pray if you'd like, and even say that you're offering prayers for the family. But don't just spout off the first shop-worn cliches you can think of.
You're so young to have to go through this.
This little gem has been offered to me, to my father (who is 48) and to my mother (who is 46). We know we're all young. We know it seems as if he's too young to die. But really, is it for the best to end his suffering, part of God's plan, or is he too young? I mean, you can't have it every which way. And what about the children and babies who die? At least he got to see his children grown, get to know his grandchildren some, and the life he had was good with no regrets. As for my mother, what age is good for being a widow? Is it better to wait until you've been married 50 years? 40? I don't know what age is the right age to lose a parent, but there are little children losing theirs all the time.
It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.
My father is extremely well known and well liked, not just in our small town, but in surrounding towns as well, and he is a nice guy with an excellent reputation. That being said, what do people say to those people who have been jerks all their lives? You know it isn't only nice guys getting sick and dying. So when an extremely un-nice guy gets sick, do they say "well, that's what you get for being such an ass to people"? Somehow I doubt it. We know he's a good guy, but no one deserves cancer or any illness, and since we do have faith, we don't believe God works that way, anyhow. My father isn't Job.
It's so sudden.
Actually, jackass, it's been six years. Where the hell have you been? Were you driving him to chemo or radiation or the two stem cell transplants? Did you call after his five surgeries or check up on him the four times he was bedridden for months at a time or all the times he was on a feeding tube? It seems sudden because now that he has days to live the well-meaning people are coming out of the woodwork to pay their respects and see how sick he is. He actually looks sick, unlike the times before, when he'd haul himself out a few times a year to make an appearance, and forced himself to act like everything was fine. Apparently the feeding tube, colostomy, lack of hair, and wheelchair didn't tip them off before.
You've all kept your spirits up.
Well, unlike apparently everyone else in the world, we've been here watching him, and we're realistic. We know every little change, and we have been dealing with this for nearly six years. We aren't happy about it, but we've done what we can to make our peace with it. Is it going to help to have you come in here sobbing and to have me sobbing nonstop too? Somehow I doubt it. Not only that but I really think this is more surprising to you than it is to me. Also, you're annoying me. You barely even know the guy, so get a grip. Here you are, telling me how much better off he's going to be, then you start crying, and telling me I shouldn't be so damned happy? Get ahold of yourself before I shake you.
My aunt's sister tried this and it helped.
Do NOT come in here, in my father's last days, spouting off some cockamamie story about someone you knew having some other disease and trying some other medicine and being cured, helped, saved, or relieved. I will beat you severely about the head and chest. I don't care if it's a cold sore, hang nail, the hiccups, goose bumps, cancer, measles, a runny nose, or toe nails that needed to be trimmed. You keep all your stories about all your people to yourself or you will be maimed. Do you not think, after all this time, after all the treatments he's tried, that if there were some miracle cure or some treatment that could bring him even the slightest bit of comfort, we wouldn't have already tried it? Do not tell me you only mean well. I don't care if you're 25 or 85, I will personally see to it that you are removed from the property, and I won't care if it's gently or not. You will NOT make my mother feel worse than she already does, and trust me, there is not one person on the face of this planet who could provide my father better care than she has and does and is, and if anything, anything could be done to provide him more comfort, she has tried it. So shut up.
You need to keep your strength up.
Well, are we so strong, or do we need to keep our strength up? My mother especially gets this one, and as my mother is tiny, people feel the need to comment on that as well. Generally, people say to me, "Your mother is so strong be sure she eats she needs to keep her strength up" all in one sentence, as if she's not an adult with fully functioning mental faculties. I have perfected the smile-and-nod as I usher people out the door. The thing is, my mother is naturally tiny, which people who know her know. It's plain to see, but whatever. I do make sure she eats, but it's really none of anyone else's business if she's washing down a handful of Xanax with a fifth of vodka a day on an empty stomach, to my way of thinking. She isn't, but if she were, I certainly wouldn't tell anyone, especially not anyone who tells me what they think my mother needs.
How are you holding up? No, really- How ARE you?
When family friends are asking me, in passing, "how are you?" as they come in to visit, I answer "fine, thanks, how're you?" because my parents raised me with enough manners to answer a direct question. It's a conditioned response that we all give, and it really means nothing. Most of the time, I will listen if they answer, but they aren't there to make small talk with me, they're there to visit my dad. I understand that, and don't particularly care to make small talk with them anyhow. However, when they say "no, really- how ARE you?" and really expect me to answer them with an in-depth personal answer about the state of my emotional well-being, well, that just isn't going to happen. Most of the time, I really am just fine at the particular moment, so I'll answer right back "fine, thanks, how ARE you??" with a direct stare in their eyes, but sometimes, I'll just look at them blankly, as if to say, "what in the world are you asking me that question for, is there something going on I don't know about?" which really makes them uncomfortable. I clearly am not going to unleash my feelings on these people- these aren't my people. My people know who they are, and I know I can call them anytime, and they'll be there, emotionally, physically. They'll talk, sit, make me laugh, let me cry, whatever- but they won't force me into a conversation I don't want to have just to make themselves feel better.
I just don't know what to say.
Well, then, shut up. No one knows what to say. Maybe you could say "I'm sorry for your loss" and leave it at that. Since we haven't actually had a loss, "I'm here for you" works. Or there's the old standby "I'm thinking of you." My friend who's the furthest away from me said that in a text message, and it was the thing that meant the most. Having to comfort our friends makes our own grieving even harder. I get so frustrated watching my mom try to tell people "it's ok, we're ok, please don't be so sad"... gah! Why can't these people get their act together before coming in?! It is okay to be sad, of course, but don't be so sad that the grieving family feels like they have to comfort you! Besides, I'm kinda mean, and I'll just tell you to get a grip.

So I guess that's the majority of my list. I truly do know everyone means well, and I guess I had to get it off my chest here so I didn't take it out on some well-wisher who came to call. We're blessed that that many people care.

Family Tradition

Recently the Man and I have been spending more time than usual with each other's families. That combined with my usual gripe-fests with my assorted girlfriends has prompted some thoughts on families in general, and the way people are raised. There have been all sorts of studies done on nature versus nurture and the role parenting plays on the person we become. I don't really read all sorts of studies, but I do observe people and form my own opinions on my own small focus groups.

According to my (admittedly limited) research, I am fully convinced that while opposites may attract in the world of magnets and teenage hormones, in the long run for relationships, you really do need to have something in common- and doesn't it stand to reason that parenting would fall into that category? Also, if your spouse or significant other was raised in a family with polar opposite viewpoints from yours (and you agree with your family's viewpoints), you're eventually going to look at him or her as if he was raised on the moon.

For the Man and I, things are pretty smooth. Our parents' philosophies on child-rearing, work ethics, and general lifestyles are basically the same. While there are obviously some differences, they aren't fundamental. The biggest thing, though, is we both agree with the way we were raised, and agree that it's basically the way any future generations should be raised. We're not into new-age parenting where the children set their own limits and run roughshod over the household, we agree that a healthy dose of fear is good for all parent-child relationships, and have a sarcastic sense of humor passed down from our fathers.

Our parents are all God-fearing (or at least loving) right-leaning conservatives, and we inherited that, too. A relationship where one of us was an atheist liberal hippie would be strained, to say the least. Tolerance of others is one thing. Cohabitation and creating a life together is quite another, and while there are couples who make it work, we know one another and ourselves well enough to know it isn't for us.

I have a friend whose husband was raised by parents whose philosophy on life is sort of... out of touch with the rest of the world. The father, while physically present for his children's lives, was emotionally absent. The mother was perhaps too tolerant, and both parents blamed (and still do) society for all of their children's misdeeds. Instead of having to learn from their mistakes like most of the rest of us, the children learned that they never really made any mistakes, and someone would always cover for them. My friend, on the other hand, was born in the south, where manners were taught in the womb, and you owned up to mistakes before you even made them. So these two people are now married- the person apologizing for every wrong, no matter how slight, and the person who believes he can do no wrong. It makes for an interesting combination, to say the least.

My friend's mother thinks her son in law is not chivalrous enough and doesn't take care of her daughter properly, and the husband's mother thinks her daughter in law is at fault for every trial the young couple faces, since clearly her son can not do anything wrong. The extended family's combined outside forces being so at odds seem to put an additional strain on this marriage that is already so blatantly (at least to me) warring in its ideals of what a man and a woman should be doing.

I have another friend who is so close to her family it's almost creepy to some people. To me, it's completely normal because I've known her since childhood, and they are simply a really tight knit family. However, her husband doesn't even know who his father is, and hasn't seen his mother in several years. There's no bad blood between them, they simply aren't close and he has no reason, to his way of thinking, to see her. I have to wonder what they think of each other's family dynamics- him of hers, the family that literally lives with several generations under the same roof, and her of his, the family that goes years between visits?

Perhaps love will keep them all alive- or at least carry them through the rough patches where they look at each other and believe that they must have been raised by wolves. Perhaps I am so narrow minded that I simply cannot accept anything outside my own small view of what's normal. Perhaps I'm just truly blessed to have in laws (and outlaws) that I can relate (har har) to and spend large amounts of time with without wondering when they're going to be beamed back up to the mother ship. Either way, I suppose as long as everyone's happy, that's really all that matters.

Walk This Way

After much internal debate, I decided to take up walking. Actually, what really happened were a few seemingly unrelated but recent events that just screams conspiracy theory to my cynical mind. What, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

The first thing that happened didn't seem so tragic. The Man and I cleaned out the entryway closet last week, previously referred to as The Hole. In said closet, we (by we I mean "he" of course, as I stood over him supervising the cleaning so as to be sure he didn't discard any beloved shoes) found my sneakers, which were only slightly used from my last attempt at exercise, which was the whole reason I bought them, about a year ago. That stint lasted about three weeks, if I remember correctly, but I did jog a few times, with the friend I have who will be called E (for Evil, naturally) here. She is into fitness and nature and all things odd. Anyhow, I also walked on my lunch breaks and before the start of my shift with a coworker and ate oatmeal instead of my daily Snickers, drank water unaccompanied by caffeine or alcohol and did all manner of things unnatural to me. It didn't last long, but I do remember something about endorphins and slight downward weight fluctuations.

Then, I found my "workout clothes" while cleaning off the top of the Man's dresser. What they were doing there, I have no idea, but I can only assume they got shuffled around in the move, and never made it back into the bottom of my bottom drawers, hidden under other clothes-I-never-wear-but-can't-justify-getting-rid-of-because-they're-fairly-new-and-still-fit (see above description of the age and condition of my sneakers), where they rightfully belong. Out of sight, out of mind type of thing. I don't want anyone getting any funny ideas about my workout gear- it isn't anything fancy or special; just blue pants used for all manner of things such as walking, the elliptical hidden properly on a porch not used for exercising, mopping the floor, and sleeping; a bra that prevents painful bouncing, and sweat socks. But there it all was, seemingly stacked together as if to say "Here we are! We've been waiting for you! Put us on and use us for our intended purpose, you lazy slob!" It's a conspiracy.

Then the Man came home yesterday with an mp3 player, which further confirmed my theory. I had mentioned to him in passing that if he was planning to get himself one, maybe I'd borrow it on the days he wasn't using it to go for walks. You know, at some hazy later date. Sometime in the very distant future. He bought me my own for such a purpose purely to be nice, and not at all to be pushy about me going for walks, or as some thinly disguised hint that I am morphing into the Michelin Man. I know this because the Man values his life. However, once I had a pretty pink shiny new one in my hands I couldn't very well not use it, especially given the fact that we don't have the same taste in music, and his black one fully loaded with his music wouldn't be upbeat enough to make walking conducive. Unless I was walking toward a hangman's noose of course.

Then I wake up today early enough to get a jump start on my morning routine, which left me with no excuses. As if that weren't bad enough, the day dawned with nary a cloud in the sky, and cool enough to be perfect for walking but not so cool as to lend me a reason to stay inside curled up on the couch with a book, which is what I like to do on cold days. Perfect. Literally. A picture perfect day for going for a long walk. Great.

So I decide that I can take a few mile-long walk. No big deal, I walk around all day long. Down the driveway to put the kids on the bus. Back up the driveway. To the mailbox. To my dad's and back a few times. Up and down stairs several times, even. The route I'll be taking is a nice mostly level trek on a nicely paved road. I used to do this very same walk about twice a week, so surely I can muddle through at least once, with plans for doing it three times a week.

I plug the earbuds in, start up the tunes, and off I go. I neglect to stretch, but figure hey, it's just a walk, and I'm not signing up for the Boston marathon. I'll be just fine.

About an eigth of a mile in, I'm feeling the burn, but no pain, no gain, right? Two miles in, I stop and stretch my screaming calf muscles. All told, I walked about four miles, stopping a couple of times to stretch and text (you didn't really think I would be walking and not texting did you?) and stretch some more.

It occurred to me when I was nearing the home stretch (pun intended) that this walk was like the first day of school when I was in high school band. The band teacher was a sadistic bear of a man, who I loved dearly. However, his very favorite thing to do was "warm us up" with a Sousa march. We'd all been screwing around all summer long, letting our omatures go to waste. We'd not go through the first day nice and easy with scales or the Basic Band Blues, oh no. It was the most difficult Sousa march he could dig up, and he relished the winces and groans he pulled out of us when we'd wet our reeds and he passed out the sheet music, making us play it in half time until we all genuinely thought our mouths were going to fall off.

He was in cahoots with the scheduling bastards, who without fail always managed to put the band period just before lunch, so for about a week, none of us could eat a bite because our mouths were numb and too sore to even open for a couple of hours after being tortured. By the end of the year, we were not only playing any march he threw at us, but we were playing them by memory while actually marching to the cemetery, and in a wool uniform on Memorial Day with a funny hat on our heads to boot, but that first week was killer.

I'm hoping the walking will be the same, only with any luck it won't take me a full nine months to get back in shape. I like to joke that round is a shape, but I used to be just a little less jiggly, and I still own a few pairs of shorts I'd look a little less like a sausage in with a little effort and less chocolate. I'll start with the walking, and work on the chocolate.

Baby steps, and stretching.

Mighty Mouse

When we moved into this house, we had a definite advantage over most people moving in to a house they had just purchased- I had already lived here for many years, and knew the house's flaws and many charms. Or maybe that should be charms and many flaws. Whichever was the case, one of the things I knew about the house prior to moving in was that my parents had been plagued by mice in the past, and since it's an old farmhouse surrounded by woods, the many things they'd tried only seemed to work temporarily and then the mice came back.
We'd been here for a few weeks, in the winter, and hadn't seen any signs of mice living inside. That should read I hadn't had any mice droppings on the kitchen counter, and hadn't had any boxes of food with holes chewed into them, which were the biggest mouse-related incidents my mother had had to contend with. I thought perhaps my giant dogs were scarier than her beagle, and sort of forgot all about the rodent issues.
Then I actually saw a little mouse scurrying across the kitchen floor into the closet. The entryway closet is open with no doors on it, so there really wasn't anywhere for the little bugger to go, but alas, I was startled, and not quick enough to find him. I don't know where he went (but he must have been a he, as only males are that sneaky and a girl mouse would have stayed to face her fate), but he was just gone. I checked for holes in the walls, and there are none, but apparently mice are magical and have the ability to disappear into thin air.
This happened about two weeks ago. So the very next day, I went out and purchased mouse traps with the intent to kill the little pest and all his little friends. Because they were right next to the mouse traps, I also purchased a couple of those fancy little wireless transmitters that supposedly plug into a wall and keep all manner of pests from even entering your house.
I figured at this point, if the transmitter worked, I wouldn't have to deal with dead mice in the traps, which would be much more pleasant for me. It was really less about saving the mouse lives that it was about my own comfort and displeasure.
So I plug the transmitters in and set a trap or two, being very careful to try to put the traps in the line of the mouse path but also well out of the way of children and pets, and bait it with peanut butter. A week goes by and the traps do not get tripped. I'm thinking this is good because I also am not seeing any sign of rodent life.
Last week I think I saw something a couple of times when I went out to shut the lights off before going to bed, but I chalk it up to being paranoid about having mice. One morning I see what I thought were mouse droppings, but they were on the floor, and since it hadn't been swept the night before, it could have just been dust or dirt from someones shoes.
Then comes today. I go out this morning to the kitchen to pour my morning nectar into a cup, and there on the white tiled counter are definite mouse droppings. Since I remember distinctly wiping the counter down before I went to bed, and know there was no food left on it, I am positive the mouse is now just playing games with me.
I am sure if I left a camera on in my kitchen at night, he'd be doing a little dance in front of the stupid, worthless transmitter that clearly isn't working. Dancing and pooping and shoving the fact that he exists right in my face. The traps are obviously not in the right places, but I'd like to avoid trapping a dog's tongue as much as I'd like to trap a mouse's body.
There are several reasons why poison is out of the question- the children, the dogs, the stench of a rotten mouse when it crawls in the walls to die.
I'm thinking I just bought a cheap-o kind of transmitter, and I'm going to buy the name brand kind next, and if that doesn't do it, it's game on, and the mice will not like me when I really get my game face on.

Random

Randomopoly



My children have got to be the grodiest children on the face of the planet. I am quite certain that there are kids living in mud huts that aren't as dirty as my kids. I went in to what we call the kids' bathroom to take a bath, since the upstairs bathroom only has a shower, and even though just hours before I had scrubbed the whole room down, the tub was filthy all over again. I know for a fact my children are not out wallowing in mud, so where does this filth come from, I ask? Not only that, but when I was cleaning their bathroom, there were hand prints on the walls, floor, and even on the window, which is essentially in a separate room. I expected that to happen when they were messy little toddlers, but now that they're pre-teens, I sort of (mistakenly, clearly) expect some modicum of cleanliness from the heathens.


One of my favorite things to do is argue with the news. No, really. Some people like to settle in with the Sunday paper and do the NY Times crossword puzzle. Others like to read the Arts and Living Section. Some watch the Sports recaps as if their not watching will cause all their favorite teams to lose the next game. I like to turn on any news broadcast- local, national, CNN, Fox, the Today Show, you name it, and argue with them. Katie, Tom Brokaw, Matt Lauer, the local girl (her name is Jackie)... they're all wrong. Actually, they aren't wrong so much as they don't really report news, and I tell them that. Sometimes there is a piece I really disagree with- some story about a new medical study or whatever, and that really gets me fired up. Generally speaking, though, they tell Americans things we already know, and that annoys me. For instance, when they're reporting on a new study that shows obese people walk less and eat more than thin people, I have to wonder what brainchild figured that out, and why the editor, journalist, or reporter didn't say "uh, don't you think America already knows that?" before it got aired. I do know my television is not interactive, but arguing with it brings me pleasure. It's the small things.


I love commercials. I really enjoy a catchy tune and a quirky message delivered in under thirty seconds. The best commercials have a hidden message or a reference to something else. I'm currently really enjoying the Go Meat! Hillshire Farms commercials- I love meat, ditties, and quirky plots all delivered to me quickly. My favorite of those so far is the men barbecuing- how can you not love men doing all the work and being so happy about it they're singing? There used to be a local car dealership radio commercial who's catch phrase was "I'm stuck in my car!" and while the actual dealership was horrible and their commercial was not wonderful, that phrase is one I use regularly. I say it when I can't get my seat belt unbuckled. I say it when my arm gets caught in my coat sleeve. I use commercials in everyday speech. I also laugh really hard at a commercial where a reporter is walking along and Bam! walks into a signpost. I love that commercial, and couldn't even tell you what's being advertised. The Geico pile of money (actually most Geico) commercials annoy me, but other than that, I really enjoy advertisements in general. I said once there should be a commercial channel. My father quickly replied that there were infomercials on all the time, but they're not the same. While I can appreciate a good "Set it and Forget It!" and "Sham Wow! But you have to call right now because we can't do this all day" and my personal favorite, "But wait! We'll double the offer!"... they're just not the same.

I'm not a bath person, in general. While I enjoy cleanliness as a whole and in theory a soothing bath always sounds like a good idea, it just never works out to be all that I think it should. The wonderful thing about this house is our hot water heater is powered by the fuel oil tank, so we essentially never run out of hot water, provided there is oil in the tank. The upstairs bathroom has only a shower stall, and since it's in the corner, it's fairly wide and deep, and seems to be quite spacious, given the size of my last shower. The downstairs bathroom has a standard tub, which to me seems narrow but very deep. I like this tub because it's one piece, so cleaning it is a breeze. Because I nearly always shower, all of my apres shower items are upstairs, so in order to actually take a hot relaxing bath, there are a series of non-relaxing events that must first take place. I must round up all of the items I think I'll need. Find soothing music and candles and a drink. Dig up a book that's easy reading. Grab a big, fluffy towel, and something soft and warm and cozy to put on. Find a backup, soft, less warm thing to put on in case I get too hot. Grab my phone in case there's some sort of emergency while I'm wet and naked. Inform everyone in the house that I'm not to be disturbed. Start running the water. Remember that I forgot something and fetch it. Pour the bath salt, bubbles, or other accoutrement into the water. Test the temperature and adjust accordingly. Finally sink into it. By this time, I really need to relax. I sit for a while and then get bored, so I might read a little but it's hard to not get the book wet, so I'll sip the drink, but that's boring too. I never feel quite clean while taking a bath because it just seems like I'm sitting there in water that's dirty even though I know I wasn't really dirty to begin with and I just wanted to relax or soak aching muscles or whatever, but when I'm done soaking, I always feel like I have to rinse off in the shower. Baths just feel like a lot more work than they are relaxing to me. I have a friend who takes a bath every day, even though she has a perfectly functioning shower. She just enjoys them more, and that works for her. I honestly believe if I only had a tub, with no shower, I'd go use my parents' shower.

Naps should be mandatory for all people. When you're young, people (mainly parental type people) think you need a nap. You probably do need a nap, and sometimes more than one to make it through your arduous day of eating and drooling and crapping in your pants. When you're old, people excuse your seeming need for a nap, which they think will perhaps keep you from drooling and crapping in your pants between eating. But in the in-between ages, you're expected to maintain consciousness at all times from a respectable waking time until a reasonable bedtime. I know several adults who are ornery and would probably benefit immensely from a midday siesta. I also think if a little power nap were handed out in place of birth control in schools, maybe teenagers would score better on tests and less in bedrooms (or backseats of cars, locker rooms, behind the bleachers, or wherever else teens are getting in on these days). Personally, I nap whenever I feel like it, but typically it's more of a "I'm going to lie down, so feel free to disturb me as soon as I get comfortable" sign to everyone with whom I reside.

People receiving any type of public assistance should be randomly drug tested. Here's the thing: I, and many other people with actual jobs, have to take and pass a drug and alcohol test in order to earn an actual paycheck. Why are the people receiving support completely exempt from any type of drug testing whatsoever? I'm not stereotyping so much to say that all people receiving public assistance are taking drugs, but I know for a fact that some are. Granted, some people who have jobs are taking drugs, but those people aren't really my problem, since they've managed to find and maintain gainful employment. If you can afford to buy drugs, you don't need to have the government paying your way, to my way of thinking. If you can't pass a drug test, you don't get any more free money. You should be sober at all times, because you should be looking for work, and stoned people shouldn't be working. The kicker is, I'm not even anti-drug, per se. However, drugs are illegal, and an unnecessary expense, and you shouldn't be allowed those options until you are fully supporting yourself.

I also think there should be mandatory chemical sterilization for anyone receiving assistance that already has three or more children, and while you're on assistance, you should be given a Depo shot or IUD, but I'll let you choose. I'm not completely heartless. Oh, and assistance, to me, is not just welfare in the form of cash or having your rent paid for. If you get food stamps, medical insurance, HEAP, or any type of government assistance at all, buh-bye drugs and babies. I have to support myself fully, and so do millions of other people. You should lose some of your rights if you aren't capable of making wise enough decisions to be a responsible adult. Children aren't exactly rights, they're more like responsibilities, and you're not responsible enough to breed. So you'll earn back that privilege when you prove yourself worthy.

Pennsyltucky

Following the Great Chicken Debacle, the Man and I had to bring my chickens to my brother's house, where they will be raised and then dispatched. My brother and his wife and new baby (hereafter referred to as Moon Pie) all live on a little farm-ette in the mountains of northern Pennsylvania, which is actually closer to my house than most parts of my own state.

My brother lives about an hour from us, and so this last week we decided to drive the chicks down one morning and be home in time for lunch, which would probably be beef, all things considered. We're about half an hour from the Pennsylvania border, and my brother is roughly another half an hour into PA, so just about an hour from our house, and the NY/PA line is pretty much the center point, so long as you're taking the mountainous back roads, and not any type of highway.

The joke in our family is that my brother lives in Pennsyltucky- (I didn't realize that people actually called a certain part of PA Pennsyltucky, but he does indeed live in the part of the state not covered by Pittsburgh or Philadelphia's metropolitan areas), and this is why: there has never been a time when I needed to go to PA where the directions didn't include "turn off the paved road". My brother's house is certainly no exception; on our way up his road there were literally piles of cow dung in the middle of the road, and when the Man remarked on that I reminded him where we were and told him he should just be glad there weren't any cows impeding the drive at that particular moment.

Several weeks ago when the Man and I were still trying to find a suitable truck for him to buy, we went to a small-ish dealership in a completely different town in PA, and the directions listed on the dealership's website took us literally through a farmer's field. There simply aren't that many paved roads once you get off the major highways if you're travelling in small towns in Pennsyltucky.

When the girl-child was cheering for the pee-wee football players, there was a game being played in a fair-sized town. The majority of the drive was on the highway, but as soon as we got off, I made one turn and we were off the paved road. The kids were playing a night game in a pee-wee football stadium with lights, loudspeaker system, and a concession stand fully outfitted, actual heated bathrooms with hot and cold running water. The town had spent millions of dollars on this football stadium that was for kids under ten, and yet the road wasn't paved. I was stunned.

My brother, who I suppose should know these things, tells me that unlike where I come from, there are no county highway departments, so everything is either a state route or a town road. Which means there are a lot of state routes, and the state (sorry, commonwealth) simply can't keep up the maintenance on all of them, and so the pavement simply disintegrates over time, leaving "turn off the paved road" a phrase used in everyday direction-giving.

Anyhow, this week's trip to Pennsyltucky brought a couple of new observations about the state my brother calls home. We dropped the chicks off and left, and as I was looking out the window I noticed a house with what looked like those decorative geese in the front yard. One moved, and I realized they were real, and then I caught myself- we were in the mountains of Pennsyltucky, of course they were real!

Not only that, but once we returned to the paved road, I noticed another peculiar thing. Instead of having rumble strips on the sides of the road to alert sleepy drivers they've nodded off and need to move back over or keep people from veering too far right while texting and driving simultaneously, the great state of Pennsylvania has the rumble strips running down the center of the road.

I'm not a particularly well-traveled person so for all I know NY is the only state that doesn't do this. It occurred to me that there were no guard rails whatsoever, so embankments, no ditches, nothing at all to prevent a car from leaving the road, should one venture too far to the right. For many miles, the only thing on the right is a field, and so I suppose it does make much more sense to put the strips down the center, since a person who went off the road could probably drive right back onto it, whereas someone driving across the center and into a tractor that had been coming down the other side probably wouldn't fare so well.

The other thing I noticed is that the prices there have finally seemed to catch up with New York's. Every time we go south, we plan to fill our vehicles with gas and those of us who smoke plan to stock up to feed that habit as well, because PA has less taxes and seems to just love us more in general. This time, though, the gas was actually more than it was at home, and the smokes were the same price. I don't know if they realized their neighbors to the north were charging arms, legs, and firstborn children and getting away with it, or if new laws have passed, or what the dealio is, but it was very disconcerting to get there and see their prices were just as high.

The actual differences most people see aren't that huge- the dirt is a little redder than ours and the roads a little curvier. I see smaller things though, like pavement and geese, and they amuse me.

Maternal Urges

Mother's Day always gives me feel mixed feelings as it approaches every year.
I get somewhat annoyed by the fact that people are force fed jewelry, chocolate, flowers, and sappy cards to purchase for their mothers when they should be buying them for these women without prompting. I also feel like we all shouldn't need reminders to love the person who birthed us- or the person who raised us, helped shape us, or just means a lot to us, if that's how we define mother. Some call it a Hallmark Holiday, and while I can see their point of view, it's not quite on the same level as Boss' Day or Administrative Assistants' Day, since those people didn't actually have their figures ruined and their drinking nixed for nine months while trying to provide us with life.
At the same time, I know that if the day passed without so much as a by your leave from my family, I would feel slighted to say the least. I certainly would never let the day go by without seeing my own mother, giving her some sort of gift, and making an effort to show her how much I appreciate her. It has much less to do with the gifts and cards than the guilt only a mother can heap on her children, and I swear, a mother gets better at it as her children get older.
The sticky area for me is the people that aren't our mothers- for instance, for men- the mothers of their children. Are they expected to show some appreciation for bearing children? My father tends to get my mother, his wife, a token gift. Is that expected of all men? I don't expect a gift or even card from the Man, but it is nice to be acknowledged, even though the children used to build some sort of clay figure that I generally classified as an ashtray at school. I suppose smoking has gone out of fashion and now I am surprised every year with flowers they've started from seed, which is very nice and thoughtful, and takes the heat off everyone who might be expected to help them shop, and gives them something to do at school.
Do all women expect their husbands to fall in line and buy something for them simply because their womb bears fruit? Wanting to be appreciated for your mothering skills and the fact that you take on a lot of the burden is one thing, expecting or demanding a gift is quite another, isn't it? Or is it? Maybe I'm due a mink stole by now.

The Bearded Lady

You know those prescription drug commercials that show a couple of people having a great time while a voice over tells you why the drug they're pushing is so very necessary in your life, and in the next breath tells you how taking whatever wonder drug the FDA has newly approved will cause more serious side effects than the ailment you're suffering from?

You have a cold sore? We can fix that with this little pill that causes shortness of breath, watery eyes, constipation, anal seepage, heart palpitations, and hang nails. Seems to me, a good majority of the time, whatever you're initially suffering from isn't as bad as many of the ailments you could end up with on certain medications.

In any case, several months ago, I was put on a prescription that I was warned "may cause hair growth". I assumed the hair on my head was going to grow faster, and since I have hair on my head and didn't really mind it being there, and really needed to be on this medication in any case, I didn't bother to go into detail on the type of hair growth, figuring it was worth this side effect.

Fast forward six or so months, and suddenly I'm the bearded lady, plucking more chin hairs every morning than most men can grow in a month. I expected to start finding a stray chin hair in my thirties or so, and to growl ferociously at it as I yanked it from the soft flesh where it thought, mistakenly, that it belonged. I certainly did not expect to spend more time on landscaping every day than I do cumulatively on makeup, clothing, and styling the hair I do wish to keep.

I'm not yet thirty, and the first hair on my chin I found right around the time I found my first gray hair, and I didn't immediately connect it to the medication. I did immediately feel old, though. I've gotten past the feeling old part, and obviously am now to the point where I can joke about it, even as it's frustrating as hell to know this very well could be a part of my life for the duration. Not only that, but the hair on my head isn't even growing faster, so I feel as if I've been betrayed by my chin and cheated by the promise of faster growing hair.

It certainly makes me rethink those commercials now, every time I hear one. There's absolutely no way I could live with hang nails forever.

It's getting pretty ridiculous, and I'm at the point now where I am doing more preventative maintenance than anything else. If I can prevent a uni-brow from forming and keep a full beard from growing overnight, I feel as if my day was a success.

So far, so good.

Label Maker

I don't believe in Darwin's Theory of Evolution, but I do believe that there is some benefit to the idea of natural selection. In fact, many benefits, from where the world is standing. In a nutshell, the theory is that over time, the best qualities prevail while the worst are weeded out and don't continue on in the line of a race. I don't plan to turn this into a religion versus science post, nor do I claim to be an expert on either theory. I know what I believe in and allow others to feel the same.

However, I do hate stupid people, and have a theory or two of my own.

I fully believe that stupidity should hurt, sometimes so much it kills. I'm not talking your average absent-minded moments we're all prone to having; I'm talking full on cranial hemorrhaging, where you look at someone and wonder if their parents had any children that survived.

Unlike most people, I'm not overly bothered or even upset by the fact that people get injured or die when they're doing something stupid. Pouring gasoline on a fire and having it blow up in your face is going to cause it to burn you. Since you should have known this and did it anyhow and are now scarred for life does not make me feel bad for you; it makes me feel as if maybe now you won't be attractive enough to find someone willing to breed with you. You have genes we don't need to be passing on. That's natural selection at its finest.

That's just one small example of the kinds of things I'm talking about, and I have many more, but it suffice it to say it all boils down to the fact that I believe stupidity should hurt, and idiots shouldn't breed. To further the cause, the Man had a spark of genius I adored so much I decided to make it a part of my Genius Plan to Take Over The World. The plan is so simple it's brilliant.

Take the warning labels off everything. This way, the people who are too stupid to know they have to take the sunshade out of their windshield before operating their cars will all die out eventually, and the world will eventually become much smarter as a whole. If the only people left are the people smart enough to know coffee is hot, hairdryers don't belong in water, and you shouldn't eat silica gel packets, we'll all be much better off.

There is one fatal flaw, of course- lawsuits- but if we could stop being such a litigious society, or just stop getting idiots as jurors, even that could be overcome. Slowly, there will be no idiots left to act as jurors if my plan falls into action, and no idiots left to bring such frivolous lawsuits in the first place.

Camp Humor

I had a thought the other day that was brought about by the children begging me to go camping. Most people who know me are familiar with my hatred of all things camping. This stems from my deep and abiding love of my bed and indoor plumbing, to say nothing of the worship I have for the internet and the magic box I like to think of as the microwave.

In any case, the weather is getting nicer, and the children know that summer is soon upon us, and they are already dreaming of their vacation. They believe that camping is a great adventure everyone should be thrilled to embark upon. Unfortunately, the Man also believes this vicious lie, as does everyone in my close proximity. My parents believe it so much they bought a rolling can designed for such a purpose.

The thought that occurred to me, though, is that we live in the country, essentially in the woods, and have absolutely no need whatsoever to physically go anywhere should we lose all control of our senses and actually decide to do this. We have acres upon acres of land that we personally own, all wooded and private and bug infested, right here at our disposal with no need to share. Why should we pay someone to let us pitch a tent in their bug infested woods when we can do it for free in our own? I'm truly baffled. People actually pay other people for such an honor when they can do it for free.

Here's the thing. I went to my favorite place (Wal-Mart, of course) and they have this giant section of the store dedicated to making camping more appealing. So there are air mattresses, campfire stoves, portable showers, coffeepots that run on tiny little propane tanks, wind up lanterns that are probably more eco-friendly than the lanterns from my youth that actually worked and could burn a person who was foolish enough to touch them, tents that fit in a backpack, toilet paper that is biodegradable (I sort of thought all toilet paper was biodegradable, but clearly the normal stuff isn't if they have to sell campers a special kind), and the list goes on forever.

So, here's another thought I had. If you can literally buy all the comforts of home and haul them with you to go camping, why would you bother to leave the comfortable home you've already bought all that stuff for? Not only that, but my parents' camper is pretty tricked out, and actually has a bed that, while isn't as comfortable as mine, isn't exactly the same as sleeping on the ground or a rubber air mattress, either, and a microwave, refrigerator, full bathroom, tv, running water, furnace, air conditioning, etc.

Why would you leave the stationary house to haul around all the crap you just bought for a rolling house? The rolling house has essentially the same comforts, only on a smaller scale, and the camping gear is mostly green with Coleman painted on it in red letters whereas the stationary houses' things are all different colors. Which is another thought: why would campers want their gear to be green? Wouldn't you be more likely to lose your green stuff in the green woods? I'd think having your lantern and folding chair slash dining table slash spare tire painted bright orange would not only make them more visible when you get drunk (because really, what else is there to do?) but also would prevent the hunters from shooting you. These people seem to love the gear that serves multiple purposes, you'd think someone would have thought of this already.

Another camping thought I had is this: the only people I know who actually enjoy going camping are the people who already live in the woods, or very close to them. I don't know anyone who lives in the city or suburbs who voluntarily leaves civilization for a week or two and decides to become bear bait. Sure, people visit Yellowstone and national parks and monuments and camp. But this is not the kind of camping I'm talking about.

I'm talking about camping where no man has gone before. Well, ok, people have and do camp there, but they aren't actually campgrounds with wi-fi and showers and planned activities where a trained expert takes you white water rafting or on a scenic hike for three sedate miles, they are forests where some enterprising soul decided to maybe put a few lots in and charge people to stay overnight or simple ponds that locals know about where there's nothing but trees and animals and you're not getting within a mile of the place by car, and that last mile is a hike straight uphill on a rocky cliff. I know I'm a country girl at heart, so it isn't that I just yearn for city living and can't understand the beauty and call of nature. I do understand the beauty and call of nature, but I understand it from my backyard, where I am fully surrounded by it.

Perhaps I am a cheapskate, and truly don't get the thrill of paying for something you already own. I do know that for me a vacation translates to a departure from your normal life. My normal life includes cooking for and cleaning up after my family in my house that is in the country. So when I'm on vacation, I want to be cooked for and cleaned up after in a busier, more bustling location with more active things to do. I like to visit cities and stay in hotels. I can not fathom how it could be considered relaxing to have to continue to cook for and clean up after a family, but to have to do those things without a microwave or running water or can opener, or a fridge to keep my beer cold, and to have had to haul all the things I did need miles into the woods before I could start to relax.

In the end, we'll probably end up compromising and going camping because I want my children to see why it is such a horrible thing, and I'll tell them not to come crying to me when they eaten by a bear, but taking my parents' camper and enough gear to not really miss being home too much. I won't get the appeal, but it will be one of those things you do for love. We'll search out a camping locale that does have wi-fi and maybe a couple of guided tours, and I'll send the people who live with me off on one of them while I plan my next vacation that includes room service and ward off killer mosquitoes that belong to a different zip code.

High on the Hog

To my mind, there are three types of living.

There's city life, where you live within a city's limits, and if you actually have a house, your yard is small or non-existent, townhouses are popular, and apartments are even more popular. People think nothing of paying exorbitant rent prices for even the most tiny dwellings and become adept at maximizing the space they do have. Streets are numbered and seem to make sense. People take their kids to parks because they don't own swing sets and jungle gyms, and simply can't imagine doing anything else. Distance is measured in blocks, and few people own or have a need for cars. Public transportation is not only handy, but also cost effective. You might have a small patio or balcony where you can do some container gardening if you're so inclined, but in general there's no need since everything you need can be found at little markets and trendy shops and is within a few minutes' walk or just a quick subway stop away and is conveniently prepared for you. Meeting people somewhere isn't really a problem- everyone can get there because there's always a cab, a train, the bus- transportation is simply not an issue. Culture is also readily available in the form of museums and numerous forms of performing arts. High on the hog may mean having a penthouse condo or a rent controlled apartment with a park view.

There's also suburbia, where you live just outside a city, near enough to commute for work, but far enough to feel safe and own a house. Typically, there are developments with streets named after the trees they cut down to plant the houses- Elm and Oak and Maple come to mind, and the houses all look very similar to one another and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to purchase. The yards look spacious but are carefully set up and are more of an optical illusion than they are truly spacious and are landscaped professionally and everyone is careful to not break any homeowners' association rules. Distance is measured in minutes, as in "I'm only forty minutes outside the city", and while many people own cars, they'll still take the train if they need to travel into said city because once they get there parking and driving is a hassle. People shop in malls and big box stores and have all at once begun jumping on the green bandwagon. Children's activities are scheduled and planned out so that you don't feel as if they are missing any of the opportunities they'd have if they were living in the city, and private schools are common. High on the hog could mean owning a boat and a lake house or perhaps having a BMW or Mercedes in your three car garage.

Then there's country living. This is known to most people as rural America, but to me, it's just home. Here, apartments are hard to find- not because they're so much in demand that you have to scramble to get one, but because people simply don't make them. Nearly everyone here lives in a house or similar single family dwelling. We measure our land in acreage and our distance in miles. In the actual town, the streets are named things like Mill, Schoolhouse, Railroad, Park or Main after things that were or are on those streets when the town was first settled to tell people something useful. Outside of town, the roads are pretty much all state or county routes, and are simply numbered. People own livestock whether they're zoned for agriculture or not, children ride the bus to school for well over half an hour each way, and people garden more out of necessity than any burning desire to save the planet. There is no public transportation to speak of, and everyone relies heavily on their vehicles. Following a tractor for miles is not out of the ordinary, and children generally don't have a lot of activities planned because they're busy playing in the trees or fishing or riding their bicycles. Living high on the hog here means having several actual hogs and feeding them all summer and your family with them all winter.

I used to swear up and down that as soon as I was of age, I was moving out of the forest I was raised in, and into the biggest city I could think of. That sounds a little extreme, but with the exception of a state highway that gets what seems like a fair amount of traffic to us country folk, my house is literally surrounded by a forest. As a teenager, I lamented the fact that while there were plenty of chores and walks and berries and animals and a person was only bored if they chose to be, there was nothing to do. Nothing exciting ever happened, no one new ever came to town, and if a person did manage to find something to get themselves into trouble with, there was no way to get away with it, since everyone knew whose child you were.

New York City was always only a four hour drive from my home, but it was light years away from my lifestyle. It still is, since life happened and I never did move to the city. Now, after visits and research and self reflection, I know that while I love the city for its action and culture and opportunities, I also couldn't make it my permanent home. I need wide open spaces and room to breathe and think. I need to have the ability to come home with a variety of plants and animals, and to be able to look out any window in my rambling old farmhouse and know that whatever I see is mine.

Celebri-taint

Ok, so I'll admit that I am a fairly big fan of crappy reality television. I know it's not educational, I know it does nothing for my mind, and most of the time I know it's only borderline entertaining. However, I am very easily entertained, and seem to be oddly transfixed by these cheesy, sleazy shows that seem extremely prevalent in this day and age.

I like competitive shows like American Idol, Dance With the Stars, Last Comic Standing, and Groomer Has It. I also really enjoy reality TV shows that don't seem to have any real purpose, such as Millionaire Matchmaker, Bridezillas, and even Redneck Weddings though I cringe at the irony of Tom Arnold poking fun at some of the couples. I watch reality shows on pretty much every major network and most cable channels, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

The only shows I'm really not into watching, though I have seen a few episodes of each, are those about the families popping out more children than is advisable. I used to be a fan of Jon and Kate, back before they had a multi-million dollar house and he still had a job and she acted like she liked him once in a while. I have seen the Duggars, and while they seem wholesome and very unlike my family, the cynic in me wonders how long it is before they have traded in their family values for cash. So far, I have liked the episode or two I've seen of Table for Twelve, but again, I have to think it's only a matter of time before they realize they can make a lot of money off their children and suddenly they aren't who they used to be anymore.

All of that being said, I really don't consider the "stars" of these shows- or any other shows where the people aren't acting, singing or otherwise expected to have some semblance of talent- to be celebrities. I have no problem if a family chooses to capitalize on the fact that they've managed to pop out more children than is advisable, however, when their half hour is over, I don't think any more about them. Clearly that is not true of the rest of the populace, though, since headlines in all of the rags at the supermarket checkout and most of the banners on the websites I browse through are chock full of the comings and goings of these people that aren't aired on their shows.

I get that they have invited the cameras into their homes and lives, and are susceptible to more criticism than most people. I also understand how viewers feel like they know the characters on these shows because they watch their families so often and have been invited for so long into their homes. However, I think we all tend to lose sight of the fact that while it might not be completely scripted and defined, it is still edited and they're completely aware of the fact that the cameras are there.

If Jon Gosselin wants to go hang out with a bunch of coeds, I really don't care. That's really up to him and Kate. Six years or so ago, he and Kate would have been the only ones to even know about it, and the whole thing wouldn't have gotten blown completely out of proportion. Likewise, if Paris Hilton wants to start using some completely asinine catch phrase, I don't particularly care to walk around saying it just because the rest of America seems to think it's cool. She's rich and pampered, certainly, but that doesn't automatically make her the foremost authority on all things fabulous. People magazine doesn't get to tell me who is beautiful, no matter how many copies they sell annually- I simply refuse to believe that we are so stupid we can not tell for ourselves that Richard Gere is gorgeous and we need a glossy rag to tell us that.

I don't feel pity for these so-called stars, but I do feel annoyed that they become famous and then whine at how much privacy they've lost. Well, no kidding! There's a price to be paid for all that fortune, and that price is not being able to fight with your husband in private, or get angry with your mother and not have the world think you're headed to rehab or have an eating disorder. If you can handle that kind of pressure, sign yourself up for a new show. If you can't, you don't get to become rich, take vacations, quit your job, go on tour, and basically make a career out of being famous for simply existing and then whine about how famous you've become.

I'd do the whole reality TV thing in a heartbeat, but after they got done bleeping everything out, the show would be terribly boring. Watching us watch M*A*S*H doesn't really make compelling television. That's why we tune in to reality TV in the first place- we'd like to believe that somewhere someone has a more exciting life than our own- or in some cases, we like to feel a little bit better about our own.