Saturday, December 05, 2009

Budding lefties

My children screeched when they found a picture of Dubya in their old school papers. One read the form letter out loud. Another said, "This was not written by George Bush. This was written by someone who actually knows what a comma is."

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Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Seriously?

Apparently I don't even have to be present to crunch up my pickup. Nor did I have to leave it parked in the middle of some road somewhere.

Here is a picture of my truck innocently parked all straight and proper, exactly where I left it at 9 a.m.:



Here is the front end of my truck when I returned at 6:45 p.m.:



Wait a minute. Rewind. WTF? How the hell does a vehicle parked head-in up against an embankment end up with a crunched front end? That was exactly my thought when I saw the note on my windshield and walked around the truck to see the crushed grill, bent bumper and obliterated front headlight assembly.

An errant boulder? A couple of hockey players in a parking lot brawl? Joyriding considerate thieves who decided to return the vehicle to the exact same parking space? Demonic possession? Climate change?

I called the number on the slip of paper and was greeted by something nearly as absurd.

My truck was attacked by an embankment-jumping Ford Focus that had been parked right about where that bumper from another car is poking out in the left-hand side of the first photo. Seems the person starting the Focus didn't know about that pesky quirk standard transmissions have. You know the one. It dictates that a person would be wise to take the vehicle out of first gear before starting it. One turn of the key and apparently this little Focus popped right over the curb and down the embankment, neatly lodging its tenacious self in my front grill.

Super Focus was gone when I got there this evening, a note from the driver and a crunched truck all that remained from the circus. I still have no idea how they got the damn thing dislodged. I'll have to ask the kid next time I talk to him.

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Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Final count

Posted today at the borough's Web site. Questioned and absentee ballots are included in this count.

Tammie Wilson--8263 (47.57 percent)
Luke Hopkins--9107 (52.43 percent)

Whew!

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Three dozen

It's after midnight and I have entered the last half of my 30s.

I'm always a bit contemplative at anniversaries of any sort. I find value in pondering the past, seeing where I have come from. And I have, but just briefly. The last year was, by most accounts, among the darkest in recent memory. I know where I was this time last year. It warrants just a glance. An acknowledgment, and little else, of how much of the present I missed then.

My teenage son woke me up this morning with "Mom, can I have $5? Oh, and happy birthday." I slipped him the cash, laughed and dozed off. My colleagues brought cake and coffee. My phone and chat window and e-mail chirped with greetings throughout the day, short, but noticed, reminders of the richness of my life.

After work, I joined some friends for dinner at a local restaurant. I looked around the table. My youngest daughter and my friend's daughter were giggling at the far end. My teenage son and daughter sat across from them, looking genuinely happy and amused at their antics. At my right was a man I adore and across the table was a woman who took time she could scarcely afford to spend a few hours with us. My dear friend, and architect of the evening, and her husband rounded out the group. And as they sang and I blushed, I wondered if any of them knew how happy I felt just to have them all there.

I arrived home to a message from my father, wishing me a happy birthday. My children scurried to their bedrooms to gather the gifts they had wrapped two days prior, the ones they bought when my parents drove 220 miles round trip to take them shopping for me. My son rummaged for candles, his voice, childlike with a man's tenor, directing me to sit down at the dining room table. They sang as they marched out carrying presents and cake, their faces bright. A flurry of paper and singing cards and "open this one next, Mom" followed, the little one wiggling with excitement and the teenagers simply themselves; cool doesn't matter.

At times in my life I have expended great amounts of energy chasing some distant happiness. And while goals are important, I hope that I can remember the value of looking, not ahead, but around. So much of what I need, I already have.

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Saturday, November 07, 2009

Munkisms overheard

This is what your kid is REALLY doing instead of paying attention in class.

"I do all sorts of things when I am bored: play with pencils, stare at the zipper on my pants."

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Tuesday, November 03, 2009

The virtual I, resurrected



Cocktails

Looking for results? Visit the Fairbanks North Star Borough online.

Grab a beer, sit down and join us:




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Sunday, October 04, 2009

Black hole

I was reminded yesterday of how truly awful people can be to each other. It is remarkable how, under the guise of some twisted idea of love, a person will hold on so tightly to another. His suffocating grip first extinguishes all joy from the life of the object of his obsession. And as this poor soul, like a kitten in the grip of a clueless toddler, tries to escape, her captor simply holds on tighter. Eventually, joy is not the only casualty. Eventually the life leaves her eyes, her ambition dies, as does every other thing that gave her worth as a human being. What's left is limp, empty, lifeless, a shadow of its former self. And still the captor clings desperately to his possession. She might be nearly dead, but she is still his.

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Sunday, September 27, 2009

Fear of hose clamps

I just realized that it has been the better part of 9 months since I changed the water filter at my well head. As a result, the water is nearly at "drool" stage coming out of my shower head. The water's clean, but the water pressure is less-than-ideal, given that the filter between the pump and the house is clogged with rust.

Usually I am so good. But, confession time. I think I may have an unnatural fear of my water filter. To be more specific, I fear the hose clamps that surround the water filter. The last time I tangled with those bad boys, I ended up with this:



Lemme tell you, stitches on your knuckle are SO not fun. Neither is seeing your bone through the jagged flesh of your mangled knuckle.

But, alas, if I ever hope to take an invigorating shower again, I had best learn to get over my clamp-o-phobia, grab the strap wrench and get my scaredy ass down in the basement.

And don't even get me started on the spiders.

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Fire! Fire! Fire!

Starvation Gulch, the annual fall tradition at my alma mater:



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The aficionado

Overheard:

"I have discovered that boxed wine can be pretty fabulous because there's a lot of it in there."

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Boggles

Let me get this straight:

If someone loves you, she is naturally going to hurt you. One way to prevent this from happening is to deliberately do things that push her away or make her understand that she can't possibly REALLY love you. This goes hand-in-hand with assuming that everything she does has some ulterior and harmful motive. It's important to regularly inform her that she is trying to hurt you.

If you love someone, that very fact means that she will hurt you. The best course of action is to reject what your heart knows and pretend it doesn't exist.

Really, the safest course of action is to push away those who really love you and embrace those who don't. People who don't love you are the only ones you can be sure won't hurt you. They don't care enough to hurt you.

This, near as I can tell, is the reality for the bruised souls, the lessons they learned too early from the people who were supposed to love them the most. It's frustrating. It's heartbreaking. And, at times, I wonder if that damage can ever be repaired.

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Thursday, August 13, 2009

Court-ordered abuse

I am close to two women who have children with men who were unable to communicate without using their fists. We're not talking losing their temper. We're not talking getting carried away once or twice. We're talking people who beat the crap out of the mother of their child. These individuals are manipulative, controlling and utterly without remorse. They don't have anger management problems. They have problems with the women in their life being autonomous human beings.

So when these women finally were brave enough to escape the control and violence, what did the court system, in its ultimate wisdom, do to protect them and their children? Why, it ordered 50-50 legal custody, of course.

For those of you who do not have joint custody situations, this means both parents must agree on most of the stuff that lies outside the basic day-to-day routines. Things like medical care and education and activities must be agreed upon. Sometimes, the requirements are even more specific than that. The idea, on its face, is to ensure that both parents contribute equally to the raising of the child and that they cooperate to the child's best interest. It works very, very well for lots of functional co-parenting arrangements.

When you award joint legal custody in a domestic violence situation, however, the dynamic is different. It forces the victim to continue interacting with his or her abuser. It forces the victim to ask permission for basic parenting actions. It gives the abuser a very powerful tool to continue controlling and mentally abusing his or her victim.

It amounts to court-sanctioned abuse until the child hits the age of 18, and it is utterly inexcusable.

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Perhaps I should go shopping

My 15-year-old observed this evening, "All we have in our fridge is beer and mayonnaise." The sad thing is, he's not too far off. Bad Mommy. Time to hit the store.

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Sunday, August 02, 2009

An experiment

This from a friend on Facebook:

"My sources confirm that there's a rumor in wasilla that sarah palin is an extra terrestrial. sources say a small mole at the base of her neck covers the "data port" she uses to upload information about her conservative base to the mother ship, a piece of which recently crashed into the planet jupiter. (ok, now i just have to sit back and wait for the blogosphere to pick up on this)."

I am reposting for the sole purpose of watching the Web stats and seeing how many people really ARE Googling "Sarah Palin" and "extraterrestrial" in the same search. It's social research, right?

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Chilly

I could see my breath when I got home from a friend's house early this morning. It was 44 degrees. Fall in Alaska is manic, at least for me. It's as if that first chilly morning flips a switch and all of the sudden I realize the snow is coming. And that means I need to harvest the garden and pick berries and cut that firewood I have been putting off all summer long. Faster, faster, faster. Every morning is a little voice whispering, "It's coming. It's coming. Hurry."

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Monday, July 27, 2009

Soulful songs



I am lucky to have friends with diverse musical tastes. Every once in a while, I fall instantly in love. Leonard Cohen was one. Rocco DeLuca and The Burden: brilliant. This guy is another. Heard it late Friday. Bought his most recent album Sunday.

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Sunday, July 26, 2009

Overheard

Not a lot to add to this one:

"All you gotta say is 'I am roasting an entire pig' and I'm there!"

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Life ring?

The list of stuff I need to do is growing as quickly as my motivation is declining. I'd like to say that it's an unusually large wave of things I'm responsible for, but that would be an incorrect metaphor. It's more like a large river: constant and over my head. No wonder I feel like I am drowning most of the time.

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Time travel

Simply looking out the window isn't enough. She needs to be higher, so she drops the tailgate, picks her way around the bicycle and camp chairs stashed in the back and crawls up to the roof of the pickup.

There. The city spreads out below, finally visible above the tops of the trees. A cigarette burns in her hand, her eyes scan the sky above, a hint of wispy clouds visible in the sky, barely light from the late summer sun. The air is cool, laced with the sound of those songs playing against the hushing wind.

She takes a long drag off the cigarette and exhales slowly, time traveling. Countless hours spent in this spot. The windows were always closed then, the music loud enough to shake the windows and dampen her cries, screams, sobs, but little else. It never mattered how loud it was, how the bass reverberated through her body, it couldn't distract from the agonizing twists and tears. Screaming was really the only option in those moments when her soul was flying apart.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Come back.

She looks up and finds quiet in her insignificance under the sky.

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Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Darkness descends



Yesterday afternoon, I watched from my office window as the column of smoke rose from the flats on the other side of the Tanana River. By evening, it had grown to a boiling cloud, sickly gray, visible above all the trees and buildings.

Today, the wind shifted, and the blackness rolled toward town, apocalyptic. The sun, first tinged red by the choking cloud, eventually disappeared as ash began to fall from the sky.

The world flattens when the smoke comes. The trees and hills become nothing more than silhouettes, cardboard cutouts stacked indeterminable distances away. The light is jaundiced, a symptom of air unfit to breath. And it is quiet. The birds don't sing and the ashy blanket seems to dampen every sound, save the waves of wind that fan the flames and bring more smoke.

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Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Mortal deity

"God is dead," the little one informed me. "He lives up in the sky and that's where dead people live."

Oh really?

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Sunday, July 19, 2009

Who's in charge here?

A friend and I had an interesting discussion about love and relationships the other night. She is a pragmatist, a trait she would likely tie to watching some of the women in her family go through hell as a result of following their hearts and ignoring their heads. Falling hard, especially early on, makes it too easy for men to treat you badly, she reasons. It's a valid point.

My history is different. My model of romantic relationships is as close to ideal as most people get. I am a romantic. I believe in love and its strength and endurance. I know that falling completely and unconditionally in love can lead to a lifetime of happy companionship, passion and mutual respect.

We agreed that in order to find happiness in a partner, the elements of head and heart must synch. You must know that it both makes sense for you to be together, as well as being completely indefinable. You must be completely open and vulnerable to each other, know and accept even the less-than-desirable parts, while not losing sight of what is and is not practical and acceptable.

Still, that knowledge does not answer the underlying questions.

Do you lead with your head, find a partner who makes sense, and risk finding out five years from now that you simply don't love that person enough to stay?

Do you lead with your heart, find a partner you love without condition, and risk finding out five years from now that the practical hurdles are insurmountable?

Which path is wisest?

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Saturday, July 18, 2009

Second-hand math


OK, let me figure this out:

We made about $210 at the yard sale today, between myself and my mother.
We paid about $50 for the newspaper ad and sign supplies.
210-50=160

The sale went for six hours today. We spent two hours this morning getting ready. We spent another hour breaking down and covering things for the next day. We spent about four hours the previous evening putting things out. And, let's be really conservative and say we spent four hours gathering all of the stuff.
6+2+1+4+4=17

So 160/2=80. We each netted $80 today.
And 80/17=4.70

What? I busted my ass for $4.70 an hour? This, friends, is why the wine at dinner was accompanied by a solemn pledge, "Never, never, never have another yard sale."

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Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Just a quick note to tell you that your son ...

I really do appreciate that the school makes an effort to keep me informed of my child's tardies via handwritten explanations from him. That said, it MIGHT be useful if I received those around the time they happened in March instead of in, you know, JUNE.

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So unusual?

This from today's Fairbanks Daily News-Miner police report:

"Indecent exposure

Fairbanks police received a report of two people having sex behind the Midnite Mine on Monday afternoon. Officers dispatched to the scene did not find anything unusual."

The question here is whether it is unusual for people to be having sex behind the Midnite Mine. How are we to know whether copulation really occurred?

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Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Felonious broccoli

Food battles this evening in my household. The little one informed me that she was going to call the cops if I made her eat broccoli. After several minutes of screaming and howling and weeping, Captain Ranch Dressing saved the day. After dunking the spear of broccoli in enough ranch dressing to supply the Safeway salad bar, she remarked, "I can't taste it at all."

No. Way.

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Sunday, July 05, 2009

Mother, may I?

This has to go down as one of the more bizarre stories I've heard in recent months, if for no other reason than the ridiculous set of facts, courtesy of a night on the deck of a local establishment.

This guy was irritated, and vocally so. He wasn't sure WHAT he was going to do. You see, he is a filmmaker in the, ummmm, adult, genre. And he found himself in quite a pickle when the star of his locally produced sci-fi porn film decided to quit just as filming was set to begin. Was it stage fright? Was this aspiring giant of the adult film industry unable to perform? Did he move on to bigger and better things?

Not exactly. Apparently, he asked his mother if he should do it. She said, "no."

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Saturday, July 04, 2009

Employment criteria

My 15-year-old son made an astute observation as we were waiting at one of the local espresso stands. All of the baristas were young women, he noted, and cute ones at that. The technical term, or so I was told once, is "coffee hottie." My son wondered why no young men worked that the coffee stands. I said that perhaps none of his peers applied for the jobs because they were seen as jobs for girls.

As he glanced through the window at the girl making our beverage, he piped up, "If they were SMART, they would apply."

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Friday, July 03, 2009

It is NOT!

"It is what it is."

I don't recall when I was first introduced to that string of monosyllabic meaninglessness, but it's a phrase I have grown to hate and then some, as it seems to be the mantra of those too paralyzed by laziness or fear to make decisions. It is often accompanied by a half-hearted shrug and look of sheepishness. Even worse, my life has, on occasion, been completely tossed into upheaval by those who have that mentality.

Let me make it clear:
It is pathetic.
It is miserable.
It is bullshit that you are such a pussy.
It is the antithesis of being human and adult.
It is intentional, even if you are too clueless to realize it.
It is causing the people around you to suffer.
It is what you have chosen by default, for us and for yourself.
It is what you have made it.

But, "it is what it is?" Hardly. It is not. Please, people, quit trying to use that ridiculous phrase to defend the indefensible.

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Monday, June 29, 2009

Needing backup

I backed out of the driveway at 5:45 p.m. The 15-year-old was riding his bike to football practice. The 13-year-old was just getting started on the dishes she should have done 8 hours ago. The 9-year-old was sitting quietly in the back seat as we pulled out to go to her soccer game, which was supposed to start in 15 minutes. I was late and harried and grouchy and worn thin by a day of the angst of others.

Halfway down the road, her voice piped up quietly from the back seat, "Mom, it's pictures today."

Crap. Yep. It sure is. And pictures start about 40 minutes before the game starts. I was a liberal arts major, but let's look at this for a minute: 6 p.m. minus 40 minutes equals 25 minutes before I left the house. "I'm sorry, honey, we're gonna miss pictures," I said. Her face got that blank look. I said I was sorry again. She cried. So I cried too, guilt and weariness entwining into a knot in my chest.

The evening has a happy ending, as I was mistaken, by an hour, about the time for the game AND pictures. In this instance, I was thankful for my inability to keep all the balls in the air. I screwed up the time. Good thing, or she would have missed pictures.

It isn't always that way, though. Sometimes I drop the balls and then some. It is just as likely that, despite all my calendars and alarms and attempts to keep four schedules, a household, a career and volunteer activities, that I would completely miss something important. Usually I can maintain perspective and push forward. But today, seeing my daughter's face fall in the mirror, the tears on her face, was just too much. All I could do was feel overwhelmed and guilty and realize that no matter how hard I try, I will never be as effective as two parents. Just like the mathematics of making a 5:20 photo shoot when you leave the house at 5:45, one is not two. Never has been. Never will be. And when you are one, that reality is a jagged pill.

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Sunday, June 28, 2009

Going to the penalty box

OK, time to feel shame, or at least the blogger's equivalent. I was informed that I was (again) slacking in the post department. Profundity to follow soon, or at least the late-night-at-the-Korean-restaurant-get-me-more-booze-and-fire-up-the-karaoke version.

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Out of the mouths of ...

My 9-year-old was peering over my shoulder at my Facebook feed when she noticed someone's posted picture of Michael Jackson:

"Mom, who IS that woman?"

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Sunday, June 21, 2009

Xanax cocktail?

We had some serious weeping from the little one this evening, about, in no particular order, the fact that she cannot have an early birthday, that I have not yet sewed the two-millimeter hole in her stuffed bear, about going to bed and about wanting "my own pet, a bunny pet, I've always wanted my own pet." Oh yeah, and pants, I believe there was some crying about pants. Summer school starts tomorrow. A little anxiety anyone?

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Thursday, June 18, 2009

Gentle surrender

From the beginning, I walked with you with my eyes open. I saw your soul, the parts with diamond-like perfection so brilliant it burned, the rotten and gnarled parts, putrid in their ugliness. And I loved you, in a way so simple that I cannot seem to make anyone else understand. I grasp for the words and they slip away. It just is. It always was.

So I stood before you, our hands twined and my face uplifted, seeing every familiar line, the smell of your soap and skin bringing me home. And you say that you loved me, that you still do, but you cannot stay. It was right, but right is not what you know. You know misery and pain, so you retreat to the darkness, always back to that blackness that brings you to your knees. I offer my wish for you: that you find your way to a place were you can love and be loved. You assure me you are not gone forever. I hope you are right, but I fear you will never escape the monster that keeps you in sadness. I fear that, no matter how much you are loved, it will never be enough. I know what awaits you in the darkness you have chosen, and it breaks my heart to know how much you will hurt, that you will be alone there.

I know I have to let you go now, but I drop my head to your chest once more, that place where I fit so perfectly beneath your chin, and sob, your arms circling around me. I wonder if I will ever belong this way again. I silently scream in protest at how wrong it is, at how unfair, that you are too broken to stay in this peaceful place we found in each other. I pray to every power in the universe that you find your way home.

Then I cut the ropes and drift on gentle surrender. I did all I could. The rest is up to you.

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Wednesday, April 29, 2009

The definition of absurdity

There are days when I watch the chaos that is my life and I can do nothing other than laugh hysterically. Today was one of those days. I preface this with a little scene-setting.

It's 11:25 p.m. and I have shut my bedroom door because my youngest child kept coming in here, zombie-like, arms outstretched and whining for "just one more hug." I can still hear her saying "Mom, mom, mom, mom" about every 10 minutes from her bed. I'm thinking that if I could go back and teach her a more interesting name to use for me, I probably would ... or at least a quieter one. The "mom" cadence is punctuated by periodic screeching at her sister for, near as I can tell, breathing too loudly. Oh yeah, and before you say I'm awful for ignoring my poor, needy, loving little one, I would note that she is nine years old.

5:50 p.m.
I'm still working. I get a call from my teenage son. He wants to ride his bike over to the ice cream shop with his friend. This is the son who hasn't so much been, how shall I put this delicately, doing ANY homework for most of the semester. Yeah, here's the thing, my dear offspring, how 'bout you and I log into the school district's grading system and take a little look at your grades. Hmmmm. There is an odd phenomenon, here. Someone seems to have misplaced the first three letters of the alphabet. And why is it, that everywhere the code for "homework" goes a zero seems to follow? Let me say this slowly for you "hell, no." Louder? Oh yeah, I can do loud.

5:58 p.m.
Crap. I am so not getting my work done tonight. I have to be at the school for "Imaginarium" in a half hour. Crap.

6:10 p.m.
In the car, crank up the latest addition to my iPod for the truck test and drive home. Realize that this school activity might cost something and that I spent my last three bucks cash on soft serve for lunch. Call friend to ask if I need money. No luck.

6:20 p.m.
Arrive home. My parents are there. Damn, I forgot that they were coming by tonight. It occurs to me that I have no idea what I am going to feed my kids for dinner tonight. And where are my pants?

6:22 p.m.
Realize the little one is missing. Ummm. I thought she wanted to go to this thing.

6:23 p.m.
What the hell?!? The dog puked all over the laundry room. Enter oldest child. Important lesson: bad grades = cleaning dog puke.

6:25 p.m.
God, child, why are you wearing Sorel boots? It's 75 degrees outside.

6:29 p.m.
Bye Mom. Bye Dad. You'll feed the kids? OK, sure, whatever you want to do. See ya in an hour. I avoid a face plant when I trip over all the kid-related crap by the door.

6:32 p.m.
On the way to the school. Missed a call from my friend, who is at the school with her kid. Hooray! I don't need money.

6:39 p.m.
Arrive in school gym. Want to run away from the cacophony of noisy kids. Can't, on account of mine is there and I kinda have to stick around because of that.

7:02 p.m.
It's funny to trick my child with the magnets. Hee hee.

7:25 p.m.
1,2,3 GO! Escape from the school. Consider checking my mail while driving out of the school parking lot, since I haven't managed to get to the post office in about five weeks. Blow it off ... again.

7:35 p.m.
Back home. Am greeted by my dad's declaration, "We have beer and pizza." Did I mention that my parents rock?

8 p.m.
Dang it, child (the middle one this time) quit watching the dancing cats on Youtube and do the goddamn dishes!

8:03 p.m.
Where the heck is the little one? She needs to bathe.

8:45 p.m.
Bid parents goodbye after having spent an hour discussing my less-than-motivated eldest child. My dad gives him a little prod on the way out the door.

8:46 p.m.
Aforementioned eldest child doesn't like it when mom forms alliances with the grandparents, apparently. Spend a half hour discussing this.

9:10 p.m.
Forehead bloody from brick wall conversation of "I'll get my grades up, Mom" followed by "Just DO it and quit talking about it." Pretty sure I failed this lesson in parenting school.

9:12 p.m.
The little one is sobbing and hanging off me like a condemned woman. She is despondent because ... I will not buy her the first Twilight book. Did I mention that picture books are a challenge for her?

9:14 p.m.
Call my friend to ask if we are walking tonight. The little one is sobbing in the background and won't go to bed. My friend says "yes" as soon as she deals with her kid drama. Oh baby, I SO get that.

9:16 p.m.
The little one is still sobbing, but is now sitting crosslegged on my bed, her arms folded petulantly. She says it's likely that she is the only one in the world who will never have the Twilight book. That she will likely die never having read it. She also figures that if I don't rush over to Barnes & Noble right now, they will probably sell out of it and she WILL be condemned ... to a life without the foundational story of Bella and Edward.

9:18 p.m.
The little one asserts herself. She informs me that she will not go to bed and will not be leaving my bed. She will sit here until 7 o'clock. She'll show me.

9:23 p.m.
My friend walks in the house. We leave. Buh-bye. We spend the next hour cracking up at our absurdly dramatic children.

10:30 p.m.
We are pretty sure that reproduction is overrated.

11:25 p.m.
I haven't the foggiest idea what I did for the last hour, but I don't think I killed anyone. I know this because there are no blood spatters anywhere.

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Sunday, April 26, 2009

Going with the flow?

Someone with far more expertise than I once told me that the only thing I need to know about water and sewer systems is that it all flows downhill. Nice. Simple. Calm. Direct.

That's a wonderful concept. Problem is: My water and sewer system, right around springtime, turns into a raving lunatic bitch or a demented toddler. Pick your metaphor, but I have had enough.

These days, my well emits a sound like sucking the last drop out of the bottom of a fast-food milkshake. That, of course, results in air in the water lines, which makes my aged copper pipes shake and my shower spit at me like a pissed-off alley cat.

And on the other side? It's a load of crap, literally. Some brilliant prior owner decided that a vented wastewater system is overrated. Usually it works fine. But not so much in the springtime. These days, the drains are slow and emptying the kitchen sink causes the toilet to bubble like a stew pot. And about that toilet: Flushing adequately is a matter of roulette. No rhyme, no reason. Sometimes it flushes. Sometimes it just swirls around and then ... nothing.

Once the ground thaws, all will reset to its normal balance, at least until the river rises and pushes the groundwater up through my well head and into the basement. Guess I better go check the sump pump.

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Saturday, April 25, 2009

A visit from Lily

Catchy as hell and cynical too, by way of recommendation from my dear friend in the home of America's hottest mayor. Sing along, now.

Lily Allen, "LDN"

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Embracing a ghost

I was crying, those deep, mournful sobs born of unfiltered pain. I was adrift, with nothing to ground me. My mind struggled to understand, to find reason and meaning and logic in the senseless. Then, without warning, you were there, that sweet face that I can barely see anymore. You gathered me to you, pulled my damp cheek to your shoulder, one hand softly entwined in my hair and the other tightly around my waist. You did not speak, for I can no longer remember your voice. But your head rested on mine, your rough face touched my cheek and your eyes were soft. And for a while, everything fell away but us. It didn't matter what made sense and what did not, because you were there with me and I knew quiet in your embrace.

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Falling into spring

The sky is gray and the air chilly, a few errant snowflakes riding the gusty wind. And if I close my eyes during my evening walk and inhale, it smells like fall.

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Monday, April 06, 2009

No spin

A man held a cardboard sign at the corner of University and Airport today:
"Why lie. I want a BEER."

Wonder how many beers he got out of that.

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Sunday, April 05, 2009

Colander people (and other kitchen metaphors)

It's Sunday noontime. I have Norah Jones on the stereo and strong coffee. The early afternoon sun is streaming through my window. It's perfect for time traveling.

Someone once explained to me that our hearts are like a cup or a pan or a bowl. The love of the people around us and the love we have for ourselves stays with us, helps keep us satisfied and healthy in our lives. Like water, it fills us and gives us something to hold onto during even the roughest times. Sometimes the toils of life leave our hearts feeling depleted, but those are often the times when friends and family come to our aid and offer so much love that our cups overflow. The watertight nature of our cups, pans and bowls is what allows us to accept the love of others and to give love in return. It is what makes the world a bearable place.

Some are not so lucky. Through biology or the cruelty of others, some among us have no capacity to hold water. Instead of a cup or a pan or a bowl, their hearts are more like colanders, so punched full of holes that they can hold nothing. And they long to be filled, to know what it feels like to love and be loved, to feel at peace. They grasp desperately at everyone who comes close to them, but every time they are loved, the water just drains out through the holes, leaving their hearts empty and aching. They need. They hurt. They long. They rage. And nothing is ever enough.

This wise person who introduced me to the concept of these colander people pegged it precisely: They are the saddest of human beings. For some reason, I have found myself close to several colander people in my lifetime. They are heartbreaking in their need and unable to find quiet strength in the love that is given them. They are achingly beautiful in their vulnerability, the personification of our most basic human needs. But to most, they are also incredibly dangerous.

For some reason, these people are on my mind this morning. And I am saddened by how they ache. I am angry at those who made them the way they are. We all can name the grand atrocities of humanity. But what about the everyday atrocities that create these colander people? That warrants outrage as well. These people deserve compassion, and I continue to wonder if there is truly anything that can patch the holes in their hearts and allow them to know love.

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Sunday, March 29, 2009

Definition of insanity

Why are so many of us compelled to take action that almost guarantees we will not get what we want and need the most? I do it. I see people around me doing it too. It sometimes seems a wonder that we survive at all.

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Like bunnies

I am loving Wal Mart this holiday season. My friend and I stepped into the absurdly color-coded Easter aisle and found it impossible not to be immediately giddy. The experience was akin to the stereotypical acid trip. You find one fantastic thing and, just when you think it can't get any better, you find something even more bizarre.

My dad used to tell me that there isn't anything in nature that is both edible and blue. Apparently, that doesn't matter anymore:



Not interested in food the color of summer sky? How about a tasty nibble of traffic-cone bunny?



Still no good? Want something a bit more natural? It doesn't get more natural than green, green grass.



For those who prefer old-school, they offer this lovely twosome of white and milk chocolate. Is it just me, or do these bunnies look REALLY friendly?



And this? "Dude da bunny," complete with frosting bling. Watch out, or he'll bust a cap in your egg. And all that gangsta goodness for only $6.88.



Happy Easter!

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Saturday, March 07, 2009

Retail WTF?

Two things:

• Why in the world have they color-coded the Easter candy in Wal-Mart? I mean, really, are people really that anal retentive that they could not possibly have an Easter basket in which the yellow Peeps and the pink malted milk eggs coexist with the green jellybeans and the orange M&M's? Is this sort of like those color-themed Christmas trees? I'm troubled.

• What is this new display technique--I call it "pile of crap that might fall and crush your toes"--that the local grocery store has adopted? They use it with everything from cans of soup to potato chips to pepperoni sticks: these big square tables holding a pile of merchandise that leaves the shopper to approach at his or her own risk. What happened to nice, tidy stacks on end-caps?

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Social skills commentary from the expert

My 15-year-old son has diagnosed my "problem." Apparently, according to him, the reason I "have no friends" is that I have a tendency to jack up the country music and sing and dance in my living room while doing housework. Not quite sure how all those alleged people who refuse to be my friends know about said tendency, but apparently it is a serious social handicap.

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Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Scowling at my chat window

I think I have finally settled on the surest way to create conflict in all but the most longstanding interpersonal relationships: spend time talking on online chat applications.

I would suspect that the rise in popularity of chat--for everything from work conversations to meeting that special someone to catching up with the grandkids--has been accompanied by a rise in interpersonal conflict and misunderstandings.

And why not? Online chat combines the worst of two primary human communication vehicles. It offers the immediacy, and therefore lack of forethought, of face-to-face conversation. It offers the lack of facial expression, intonation and body language of the written word. Shake those shortcomings with a tendency to misspell things and forgo punctuation and you have a nasty swill.

I say all these things from the perspective of someone who is a Gmail and Facebook chat addict. My best friend lives in another town. She and I talk nearly every day on chat. And we seldom have misunderstandings. That said, we both think a lot alike and know each other very well. I don't need to see her face or hear her voice to understand what she means. And it's OK if she says exactly what she is thinking. That's what you are supposed to do with close friends.

But put the inadequacies of the vehicle to test with someone you don't know well and it's a bloody minefield. I've experienced mild to severe examples of this in the last few months and am starting to get irritated as all get out, both at myself and others.

If human relationships, both personal and professional, are going to survive this means of communication, we all will need to tweak our mindset a little. We all need to work harder at giving others the benefit of the doubt. We need to stop the rapid-fire back and forth typing and clarify rather than making assumptions. We need to be mindful of the possibility that the person we are chatting with may not "read" our conversation in the same way we intended it to be delivered. Holding a chat conversation to the same standard as either the spoken interchange or e-mail exchange is unfair to all involved and serves only to create frustration.

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Saturday, February 21, 2009

The war on ... heroism

This from an online news feed headline:

"Troopers make heroine bust"

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Friday, February 20, 2009

TGIF?

Sorry, just not feelin' it. Am I the only person in the world who finds Fridays completely overwhelming?

Got up late, 'cause by the end of the week, the lack of sleep is catching up with me. No time to make coffee. Forgot to play tooth fairy (bad mother, bad mother). And after a week of everyone and their brother wanting something from me for a good 16 hours a day, I feel both picked over and guilty for not being able to get to half of the stuff I was supposed to. The avalanche of work that builds all week long, I suspect, will let loose and bury me right about 4 p.m., resulting in a 12-hour day. Is it fair to throw up your hands and just say, "enough, already, I give."

Fridays make me want to find a cabin in the woods, far away from everyone, and just hide there for a while.

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Wednesday, February 18, 2009

A little disturbed here

Child: I want to see Hannah Montana in real life.
Mother: (eye roll) Why?
Child: Because I've been dreaming about her.

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Reduced for quick sale - part deux

Oh my, my, my. A quick perusal of a VERY small range of choices on a unnamed online "find your true love here" sort of site garnered some ... interesting ... prospects:

• One soft-hearted gent made sure to highlight his emotional strength, noting that he is "honist and sinsere." Great, he can't even spell the characteristics.

• “sugar daddy for you” plus undersized straw cowboy hat and cheap sunglasses ... can buttless chaps be far behind?

• "If you like tall dark and handsome, then your probably not looking in the right place." and “Single Man, nothing special” Points for honesty and a little self-deprecation. Points off for improper use of "your."

• “if you'd like to take a chance” So basically, what you are saying is that it's pretty damn risky to even send a little icebreaker note?

• Any use of the words "teddy" or "bear" together or separately. Not a plushie. Not looking to become one. I'm just sayin'.

• Blurred photo plus no capitalization in the title plus all caps in the body text equals ... RUUUUUUNNNNN!

• Note: You really should wear clothing when you shoot your profile picture. Trust me on this.

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Monday, February 09, 2009

It's not about getting along

Something is out of kilter in the universe, I have decided, as many people around me seem to be awash in misery lately. One friend--one I suspect is growing weary of all the sadness--expressed the sentiment that he wished everyone could get along.

It's a worthy sentiment, to be sure. That said, I think that simply getting along isn't the action but rather the result of another change that would fix so much of the misery.

Enter reality. How much easier would it be for all of us if people would simply mean what they say and follow through with action? How much misery could be prevented if all of us would quit spinning things and telling half-truths? How much better, and more secure, would we all feel if when someone looked at us and said, "This is what I want," we could believe that to be true?

I am no saint, to be sure, and I have made some monumental mistakes in my life. I have paid for those mistakes. I'm sure I'll continue to screw up on a regular basis. That said, one thing I count as a defining part of my personality is that what comes out of my mouth reflects what is, not what I think someone wants to hear, not what is convenient at the moment. I simply don't see the point of insincerity. If I say I will do something, then I will. If I say I want something, it's because I do. If I give you my friendship or my love, you can take that to the bank. It is.

And as I look at the misery around me, it's not rooted in conflict. Conflict is not bad. It's rooted in insincerity, in the words and actions of people who have made promises they had no intention of keeping, of people uttering tiny deceptions that snowball into a giant, nasty wad of lies.

Getting along? That will happen as soon as all of us can count on "yes, I will" or "no, I don't" meaning exactly that. Until then, we'll continue to feel baffled and betrayed when we find that "yes" turns out to mean "no" and that having any faith in the word of others seems to be a fool's errand.

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Monday, February 02, 2009

Woooooooo!

My stat counter matches my birth year. Scaaary. Stuff. Things.

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Saturday, January 31, 2009

Back among the living

OK, momentary technical difficulties ... or something like that. Back up. Won't be going back down. Sorta like a Tom Petty song, or some such nonsense.

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Sunday, January 04, 2009

Looks pretty, feels ugly


This was the view of my town this evening as the sun set. While it looks gorgeous, I should note a few things:

The temperature down there is at least 40 degrees below zero.

The temperature down there has been that cold for a week and will be for at least another.

There is actually a town down there, not just a sea of fog.

While it is pretty up on the hillside, I do not live on the hillside. I live in the fog. It sucks in the fog. I think that, until I ventured out of town, I was starting to grow horns and grunt like a cave troll.

I'm just sayin'.

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