It Was A Whopper...and a Frusciante

This is a Saturday Smorgasbord, and it shall include both dream analysis and a couple of movie critiques - so you're really getting your money's worth.  Unless you came here for something other than dream analysis or movie critiques, in which case you're getting exactly what you paid for.

Last night Ellie and I decided to catch a show, as they say.

"Let's see Red Riding Hood so we can make fun of it," Ellie said.  I hate to admit this, but Ellie and I are cinematography snobs and sometimes we see movies for the sole purpose of becoming irate. 

"Nah, I don't want to waste my money.  Let's see that movie with the cute guy who dumped Taylor Swift and the train."

Because she is my kid she knew just the movie I was talking about.  We checked the show times at the nearest cinema (well, actually it isn't the nearest - our small town has an ADORABLE theater but it wasn't showing anything we wanted to see so we agreed to hit the city theaters) and saw that Limitless started at 7:15. 

So off we went, arriving at 7:13 which was freaking awesome.  Or at least it would have been if the movie called Limitless had indeed been the movie with the cute guy and the train, which we discovered it was not.  It was a movie with Robert DeNiro, and in retrospect, we should have seen it, but Ellie said, "Look!  Red Riding Hood is showing Right Now.  Let's see it."

So we did.  And it was horrible.  We thoroughly enjoyed it.

Directed by the same guy who did the Twilight movies (and please don't lynch me but we laughed our way through those, come on - there were scenes where you could see where the white make-up ended at the open collar...), it had some deliciously pathetic scenes.  Red Riding Hood's mom was suffering from an overabundance of botox and wore lots of make-up even though everyone else was in peasant attire....and the guy who killed the wolf had a little bit of a Tennessee accent as he said fantastically predictable things like, "Kill the beast!" and "Tonight we celebrate!" and "The wolf is dead!"  It was everything we'd hoped it would be and MORE.

The love interest of Red Riding Hood had many painfully long head shots where the young actor tried to maintain extended expressions of intense longing...and if you'd only painted his face white down to the collar he'd have looked just like Edward Cullen.  The worst scene was the Feast Scene (Tonight we celebrate!) which featured some rather embarrassing dancing...think a mixture of Jane Austen waltzes, jazz hands and shimmies, with a little bit of bump and grind pole flair thrown in for good measure.  There was also drumming and the required waving of the turkey legs in the air.  During the excitement of this particularly delightful scene I suffered an unfortunate incident involving a Whopper.  I'm not talking hamburgers, I'm talking malted milk balls.

I had picked up one oversized box of Whoppers while at Tractor Supply buying chick feed because I knew we were going to the movies after and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I smuggled them into the movies even though I'm pretty sure they cost the same at Tractor Supply - because I'm wicked that way.  Now then, I don't think that many folks buy their movie concessions at Tractor Supply and here's why.  They were a little...um....hollow and chewy with a pasty, powdery  substance covering their chocolate shells.  I was sitting in the horrible movie eating them anyway (because I'm an addict and we do gross things like that), when I got one that tasted even worse than the others had.  I mean - it tasted BAD.  I made a face and a little sound and Ellie looked at me and said, "Oh yeah - I think those are rotten.  Don't eat them."

Maybe it was the word rotten.  I don't know.  But at that moment, I knew I couldn't swallow the Whopper.  I really couldn't.  By now, I was producing an overabundance of saliva, profusely salivating you know, and I said to Ellie, "I thont wanth this," probably with a long string of spit hanging from my chin. 

"Oh my god, swallow it mom!" she said while scooting as far away from me as her stationary theater seat would allow.

"I thant!"  I said.  Because I really couldn't.

"You have to!"

"No, I'm thunna sthpit it outh...gib me mah purth."

She handed me my purse, quite hastily, and with a horrified look of disgust on her face.

I dug in my purse.  Normally, finding something to spit a Whopper in would be no problem - as my purse is known around here as the trashcan on a strap.  But this is a NEW purse, still all clean on the inside, and no trash items whatsoever.  No dirty Kleenex or napkin or gum wrapper or ANYTHING.  Which is how I came to find myself spitting a Whopper into a feminine protection product just as Ellie glanced over at me and broke out into hysterical laughter.  I'm pretty sure this was the best part of the movie for her.

So the moral of this story is:  Don't see Red Riding Hood (it sucks) and Don't Buy Your Whoppers at Tractor Supply, and if you do, make sure you're armed with Feminine Protection.

While I'm discussing movies, let me just say that the Train/Cute Guy movie is called Source Code with Jake Gyllenhaal and it isn't out yet.  Also?  Jeff and I saw The Adjustment Bureau with Matt Damon and we do not recommend it.  We're both Matt Damon fans so it was a disappointment.  It was good acting, good effects, but the story was very Junior High - there's a "Chairman" who turns out to be God and then basically angels running around in hats interfering with everyone's business.  Meh. 

This brings us to the part of the show where we do a little Dream Analysis.

I love to analyze dreams.  And I used to never understand people who said they couldn't remember their dreams.  I ALWAYS remembered my dreams. Until the past couple of years.  I think it is because I am a Big Girl now and I sleep through the night.  For many years I was either, pregnant, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, or ALL THREE and let's just say my slumbering was often disturbed.  Therefore, I was always waking up just after or during a dream - skipping many of the steps and processes that most people naturally undergo to fall asleep and wake up and all the stuff that happens in between.  Now?  I'm like the rest of you people - I go to sleep and I wake up in the morning, for the most part, completely clueless.  Sometimes I awaken with a feeling of irritation, happiness, or sadness...and I'm pretty sure it is the remnant of a dream, but no details.

So you can see how extremely happy I was to wake up this morning with about 70% of the details of my waking up dream all clear and readily available.  I am, however, having a bit of trouble figuring out what it means.  Here it is:

We (the family) met John Frusciante (formerly of the Red Hot Chili Peppers) at a frozen yogurt shop.  Nothing odd there, right?  Now normally, I don't like to discuss John Frusciante on the blog because a) it would be a strange revelation of a slight obsession I have and b) the man enjoys his privacy and what would he think if he knew I was discussing him in front of the 10 or so people who regularly read my blog and the 30 or so who end up here by accident while seeking information about the mating habits of sardines?  Anyway - because I'm sharing this dream I'm forced to discuss John Frusciante and I sincerely hope this doesn't somehow cause ripples in his mental/psychic sphere or anything...'cause he is sensitive in that way.

So.  John Frusciante is with us at the yogurt shop.  Where he buys me a spectacular pair of boots and the zipper broke on one of them but I didn't want him to know that because it would make him feel bad, so I hid the broken zipper.  Now then, so you get the full picture, I'd like to say that this was not the 41-year-old John Frusciante who is at this moment probably somewhere quite happily playing with a synthesizer, and it wasn't the 19-year-old Frusciante of the Mother's Milk age...it was the Post Recluse / Post Heroin Frusciante - where he still looked a bit like a fragile Edward Scissorhands. 
Anyway - so during casual chit chat it is decided that it would be a good idea for Jules to spend the rest of the day with John Frusciante.  So off they go, driving away in a Volkswagen Beetle.

Then I say something along the lines of, "Holy crap - John Frusciante doesn't even have a driver's license because he's scared to drive and he just took off with our Asperger's hearing impaired 13-year-old son with a brain tumor!" 

"No problem," Jeff says.  "Let me call him and tell him to bring him back."  We then discover we don't have Frusciante's cell number.  In fact, we briefly discuss the possibility that Frusciante might be frightened of cell phones and not even have one. 

So THEN it just basically turned into your typical Can't Find My Kid Dream.  It went from lovely to traumatizing.  But I'm tickled I remembered it.  And I'll let you know if I bother to analyze it.

Now then, I really do think this post will pretty much kill off all of the remaining googlers getting here for Attachment Parenting advice...don't you?  Maybe I'll get back to that train of thought next time....then we'll have to round up a new herd of advice-seekers...having lost the existing batch through the repeated and determined posting of strange ramblings. What do you think?

Yo Mama

Sheesh!  Been awhile, hasn't it?  How you folks been? Ignore the weird font sizes and colors on my blog.  I don't know how to fix it and don't really care, either.

So, how've I been doing? Thanks for asking.  Busy as usual.  Don't know why I haven't blogged in awhile, except that whenever I sat down to do it, I drew a massive blank. 

Also?  In addition to ignoring the blog, I also hadn't updated my facebook status in awhile.  So I had this brilliant idea, see?  I thought, "Wow! Why don't I ask my 280 or so facebook friends, half of whom are hidden because they insist on repeatedly posting political ridiculousness that they refuse to take off even after I've informed them that Snopes says Obama did not steal Girlscout cookies from a Girlscout while refusing to say the Pledge of Allegiance, the other half of whom I don't actually know....what my facebook status should be.  (There is another half in there somewhere, made up of my kids and close, personal friends and family - and please don't point out to me that there can't be 3 halves.  I are home teached, it will make no sense to me.)

So (you've really been missing these long-winded sentences, haven't you?) I updated my status with:
What Should I Blog About?

Then I counted to 2 and checked for comments. I had one! Hooray!  Don't you just love facebook?

It was from Joel, my sixteen year old son who was supposed to be doing his geography homework and obviously wasn't and it said:
Yo Momma

And then, because I forgot for a moment, that there can be no such thing as a satisfying facebook conversation with my son, I decided to be all witty and bond with him from the comfort of my bed while he sat in the comfort of the study simultaneously killing zombies and commenting on status updates instead of doing his geography homework.  I said:
No, YO Momma

Endlessly entertaining, isn't it?  By now, we had the rapt attention of my 280 friends.  Also?  Someone had irritatingly given the big old Thumbs Up "I like this!" to Joel's stupid comment.  So he made another one:

I don't have no momma, I fell from the heavens.

I could see that this wasn't going to end well.  Joel literally stays up all night doing this sort of thing, and I was already getting tired.  I tried to end it:

I'm not responding, but I have a lot of good responses I could respond with if I were so inclined, which I'm not.

Kind of like a lame explanation of why I wasn't going to come up with any groovy comments.  I could if I wanted to....so there. So Joel, (did I mention he stays up all night?) said:

Because Yo Momma said you can't use them.

Did I mention he was killing zombies as he did this?  Why, thank you.  Yes, I'm quite proud of him.  Also?  He had two more Thumbs Up.  I had to stop it or it would never end.  So I stupidly said:

Seriously, I'm not responding.  So stop it.

And then?  A Real Person actually responded with a helpful suggestion as to what I should blog about:

Didn't you just have a really busy weekend you could comment about?

Why, yes I did!  Thanks for the suggestion!  On Friday, Camille, Ellie and I dropped off Ellie's car to get its wheels aligned or something very similar to that - something to do with wheels.  While there, a young man asked Ellie (18) if Camille (9) were her daughter.  Ellie was all like, "Oh my god!" and I was all like, "Oh my god, that man thinks I'm Camille's grandmother!!!  We were both thoroughly upset so we went bra shopping.  Bra shopping only upset me further, but I won't go into all the reasons why. 

The NEXT day we drove to Austin for the regional Odyssey of the Mind tournament.  We left at 6:15 in the morning - I don't think Joel had been to bed, yet.  Joel and Jules were on the same team.  Jules played Neo of the Matrix, and he looked super handsome.  He is my handsome kid - sorry - I had to say that.  Long black coat, black clothes, hair slicked back, sunglasses....and the judge said, "Who's Neo?"  Dang.  It always happens to him.  A previous year found him on an Odyssey stage wearing Thomas the Tank briefs over his jeans, and boxers on his head, and when he opened up a suspicious cape to flash the audience and yell, "I'm Hades!  Hades of the Underwear!!" the judge said, "Who's Hades?"  

Anyway - Joel played Captain Ahab and spoke with a lovely accent of some sort - sounded kind of Scottish to me but I'm not really sure.  Joel does accents every year in Odyssey - last year he played Arnold Schwarzenegger.  The year before he was a female Greek muse.  So he had made himself a beard, was wearing my dad's Israeli Naval Surplus Peacoat and a Greek fisherman's hat...and when he whipped off the hat I swear he looked just like Jesus.  But he didn't sound like Jesus.  That is, unless Jesus spoke with a Scottish accent and chased people around saying, "Stroke Me Beard!!"

Camille was on another team and she played a doctor and carried a bloody knife.  Very, very cute.  They had built a rube goldberg machine and one of the hoses came undone and the little engineer was behind it and couldn't see that the hose had come undone but all of the audience and the judges could see that the hose had come undone so when they poured the water into the funnel we all just patiently waited for it to go splatter on the gym floor, which it did.  Man, and that child (Haley, the engineer) kept her cool and rehooked the hose and poured in more water and yeah...awesome.

The boys' team placed 2nd and Camille's team placed 3rd, so we'll be going to the state tournament in Houston next month.

I would have rather been at South by Southwest while in Austin, but there was no time for that.  The Chili Peppers, obviously, weren't playing S x SW, but some of their members were in two films that had first screenings at the event.  One was Bob and the Monster, a documentary about the legendary Bob Forest from Thelonious Monster...all about his drug addiction and recovery and how he helps others get off drugs.  Both Anthony Kiedis and John Frusciante are in the film....lots of LA bands from the 80's and 90's.  The other film is called The Other F Word and it is about fatherhood and rock and roll....features Flea.

So that's what I did last weekend....oh! and Ellie competed in a piano competition.  That's it.

Back to the status update:  Joel was still awake and so he responded to the suggestion with :
Her momma used those ideas already.

He was still getting encouragement in the form of Thumbs Upping....and I confirmed my suspicion that it was his girlfriend and so I said:

Alyssa, stop liking everything he says. It encourages him.

This got a Thumbs Up from Ellie, who wasn't about to actually enter the conversation.  But then, someone else did.  Mike, who is one of Jeff's besty friends from junior high and high school and a groomsman in our wedding 1,000 years ago, who now lives in Houston where he apparently has nothing to do on a Tuesday night said:

Maybe this will settle it.  You could blog about my mamma?

Mike's mamma is a lovely, lovely woman who has earned her spot in heaven.  I have now officially blogged about Mike's mamma.

At this point, my best friend from childhood and Ellie's godmother, Ann, who now lives in Dallas, decided to get involved.  Actually, she wasn't trying to get involved.  She once had an extremely unsatisfying conversation with Joel on facebook about whether or not Batman was better than Superman - so she wasn't really addressing the topic at hand - just did a pop-in where she says something completely unrelated to what everyone else is talking about....which was Yo Momma.  So she says:

Just had dinner with Lee! Boy! Lots of stories there!

Okay, so Lee is Ellie's godfather but he isn't married to Ann.  He's married to Saint Suzy and they live in New Orleans.  He is also a childhood friend...but actually way more than that.  He is kind of like my parents' adopted son even though he had two loving and doting parents already.  My mom used to live in New Orleans and Lee's mom was her best friend and then my mom moved back to Texas and she and Lee's mom had babies at the same time, which would be me and Lee and so yeah....we have grown up together even though we were in different states...our moms remained best friends and my mom had a special place in her heart for Lee, who she called Lee Darlin'...something that always irritated me just a bit.  Anyway - because Lee used to spend a good portion of his summers with us, he was friends with my friends, which is how he came to know Ann (who lived down the street) and how he came to be having dinner with her and her family while they were in New Orleans for spring break.  So....at this point I decide to acknowledge everyone's participation so I say:

Mike - thanks for getting involved.  Ann - LOL - I bet.  Did he tell you the one about his dog and the sausage?

Lee has a new dog and somebody fed it a sausage (I heard this story from my dad, not Lee, so don't hold me to the details).  He had told the dude not to give his dog the sausage but the dude did it anyway and the dog got sick and barfed all over the house and the vet bill was over $100 and Lee thinks the sausage-feeding fiend should pay the vet bill.  Now, my sister, who is also apparently having a late facebook night, pipes in with:

Ann - don't listen to him.

See how we've gotten off-topic here?  But aha!  Another actual suggestion from Susan, who is probably supposed to be working (she designs websites) but is apparently lost in the Suck Hole of Time known as facebook.  She says:

Smelly feet and long car rides...wait, I think you did that one already.

No, I haven't and luckily for you people, I'm not going to now, either.  Let me just say that the smelly feet in question were not mine and may or may not have belonged to Susan's son, whose feet are so big he once received hand-me-down sneakers from a Spurs Basketball Player so you can see as how if his feet had actually been stinking in my car all the way to the Odyssey World Tournament in Michigan, it would have been a Big Deal.  Then Pamela, who is watching all of this nonsense from New York state and who I met through blogging, chimes in with:

Whoop his ass, Carol!

I'm not certain, but I think she fell off her bar stool as she said this, while holding a whopping glass of wine up in a salute.  At least that's how I like to fondly think of her....I gave her a Thumbs Up. At this point, my friend Ann who is from Dallas but still partying in New Orleans, says:

He did not mention a sausage!

I picture her raising a hurricane in salute and falling off a bar stool.  Also?  I'm thinking she wasn't talking about sausage in a G-rated way and god knows I run a family friendly facebook page and blog so we're just leaving her there on the floor at Pat O' Brien's.  My sister chimes back in, this time to make a suggestion.

You could always blog about our trying to chase down info about the car chase the other day!

OK. So the other day my sister and I are driving through our small town (pop 4,011 or so) and all hell breaks lose around us in the form of speeding police and sheriff's deputy-type cars.  Since we were not currently busy updating our facebook statuses, we followed them.  There was yellow tape, television reporters...the whole 9 yards.  We tried to get closer from several angles, but our attempts were thwarted.  So we came home and I e-mailed the local newspaper owner/editor to get the scoop, and she directed me to their website which had just published the story.  Girl has restraining order.  Guy breaks restraining order. Girl calls cops.  Cops come quickly (good job, guys! thumbs up to the cops!).  Guy runs.  Cops chase and invite their friends to join in.  Guy goes back to girl's house.  Guy pulls B.B. gun on cops.  I do not know why Guy would do this.  Cop shoots Guy but does not kill him.  Guy is now recovering in hospital but in a Heap o' Trouble as we say here in Texas.  Not to make light of this, because it was obviously quite traumatic for the Girl and the Guy and also for the shooter....so not to make light, but it did spice up my afternoon.  Now then, Joel had obviously been distracted by a mob of zombies, but he jumped back in with:

Yo Momma was in a car chase.

So then, another childhood friend (I mentioned this is a small town - we tend to stick together) got involved.  Kathy first suggested a blog topic:

With the way these other comments have been going, might I suggest your topic be on the infinite patience, required to be a loving wife, mother, sister, and friend while also maintaining the ability to not need knowledge of how to make their bodies disappear.

So yes, basically it has required much patience to not kill 90% of the people I know.  Then Kathy attempted to address Joel directly:

Joel, you sir, are one brave dude.

He's not so brave.  I never get mad at him.  Even when he misses his geography deadline and we're forced to buy a six-month extension....which is ridiculous, if you ask me...you know, that they offer extensions for you to buy.  What kind of lesson does that teach?  It is like, yeah, it is really important that you learn how to get your work done on time and here is this very strict deadline that you need to be aware of but if you miss it you can pay us $50 and then scratch all that other stuff we just said.  It is kind of like the Catholic Church granting marriage annulments.  Don't get mad if you're Catholic; I'm pretty sure that even the Pope is a tad embarrassed over this one.  Anyway - Kathy soon learned the futility of addressing Joel directly as he then said:

Yo momma's one brave dude.

I saw that coming.  I really did.  And then Kathy said:

Carol, Janet, Mike, would any of you like to educate Joel on my mama?

Kathy's mama was a larger-than-life and very imposing piano-playing first grade teacher of music.  She scared the hell out of me and I would give anything....seriously, anything at all....to watch her have a conversation with Joel.  Now, sweet little Katie, daughter of a friend, friend and former Odyssey-mate of Ellie's, and awesome blogger said:

Charlie Sheen?  Ha ha...Regionals?  Japan?

I love Charlie and he makes me not miss Mel Gibson quite so much.  Regional Odyssey tournament - just did that (see above).  Japan...what can I say.  I'm like everyone else.  Absolutely broken-hearted.  I'm also considering resuscitating my No Nukes bumper sticker.  And on the sobering mention of Japan, Joel pipes back in with:

Yo Momma is Charlie Sheen.

I wish.  Then Jas, who was the first person to actually make a suggestion, chimed in with a good one:

How about how annoying it is to friend your teenage son?

Good suggestion and one I obviously decided to take.  So I said:

And Jas wins. The end.

So Joel says:

Yo momma wins.

I'm about to give up at this point, because the boy has no intention of going to bed anytime soon and I totally do.  But I try one last time to have the last word because I am basically built that way and I said:

Let yo momma have the last word.  Also?  Go to bed.

Would you believe he let me have the last word?  He didn't go to bed though.

Signing off as Yo Momma

Delicious Impermanence

So I'm feeling pretty good, people!


I'd been experiencing a bit of stress - nothing horrible or totally overwhelming - just really bad and almost overwhelming.  But, things are looking up, as things often do.  I just woke up one morning and went, "Wow.  Lots of things that have been hanging over me have passed...I can exhale...a little." 


Our family experienced a health crisis that turned out to be more of an inconvenience than a life-threatening emergency.  I'll take the inconvenience any old day - although I'm not the person with the health crisis so I can afford to be all positive and all.  Also?  Ellie's college auditions are OVER.  Woot! is not a big enough word, believe me.  All of the traveling, the pre-screening work of making DVD's and CD's.....and contest pre-screening work of making DVD's and CD's is over....and scholarship stuff is done...HOORAY.  Still have a little bit to do - but nothing like the crushing wave that was looming - we're just floating along in the wake, now.


Oh!  And I even re-wrote my beginning of my novel.  This is HUGE.  Because I had just been walking around with that for a really long time and now it is DONE and all I have to do is connect some dots, add in a subplot that I had originally wanted to include but had decided to abandon, but now that I'm all awesome with my new beginning I feel that I can go ahead and add in the subplot, as well.  (And thanks, Julie and Mark, for your kind and inspiring words!)


We got Napoleon (aka Sir Humpalot) neutered.  Jasper doesn't think it went well as Napoleon is still rather rambunctious and jumps on everyone, barks all night, basically acts the exact same.  Jasper expected a Totally New Dog from the procedure.  I was like, dude, he didn't have a frontal lobotomy, he just had his testicles removed.  A lobotomy, however, might be next.


So, what else?  Let's see....I'm enjoying knowing that things don't stay the same, right?  Since a few weeks ago I was overwhelmed by so many things, it is quite lovely to recognize how they've all moved along, now.  However, at the same time, I'm really having a hard time accepting certain aspects of impermanence while I simultaneously appreciate the hell out of it.  Look at me, Julie, talking about impermanence and sounding all Buddhist!


So my kid has gotten all Big Girl and will soon be leaving.  I remember when she was a baby, maybe 18 months old or so, and she and I were having a particularly lovely afternoon together (we didn't always have those, she was a little toot, believe me), and it occurred to me that that particular moment in my life was delicious.  I couldn't think of a better word.  I remember her little bald head, her adorable eyes, her little blue playsuit, the way she slapped my hands and slobbered on my shoulder and pulled my hair.  I kissed her, smelled her, tasted her....and I knew that the moment would be gone but that I would always remember it.  That Specific Moment.  It was delicious to every single one of my senses.  I have always pulled that memory out of storage when I needed to - during a bad day or whatever - and it never lost any of its sweetness.  But I never had another specific moment with Ellie that quite matched the intensity of that deliciousness - even though in 18 years we have amassed some seriously fun and delightful times - until now.  Right now, the delicious moments are rolling over me faster than I can taste them.  Every moment with her is like a dream where my brain says, "Ooh, this is a good one...we must file this one away so that it may be pulled out later and tasted all over again."  Later.  Like when she's gone.


Last week, she and I had enjoyed a particularly fun morning (at least I did, she's probably already forgotten about it).  I was being lazy, it was the one day of the week where I had nowhere I had to be, and Ellie came in saying that she felt uncharacteristically lazy, too.  So, we slacked together.  Ellie is not a slacker in any way, shape, or form.  And for someone who isn't very practiced, I must say she did a rather fine job.  I won't say what actual slacking activity we participated in because she actually said to me, "Oh my god, mom, don't tell anybody I did this with you."  But it was something Way Fun For Me that included something I really, really love and we had a little bit-o-bonding.  We laughed a lot.  Lately, we are just laughing all the time, it seems.  I'm going to miss that.  Ellie, herself, isn't a humongous laugher, but the rest of us are often laughing at her expense so you can see how her absence will put a damper on that.  She's a literal child....as in...quite literal, as they say, and this has afforded us many opportunities to basically go all hysterical over Ellie's literal interpretations of Things Not To Be Taken Literally.  Between that and her brother's language disorders...yeah...lots of laughing. 


So after our laughter-filled morning slacking during an unrevealed activity or lack of activity, Ellie was making a sandwich.  And I was watching her.  And I was thinking about how delicious the day was, how literally, beautifully, wonderfully delicious to every sense I have.  And without thinking, I blurted out, "Ellie, I'm going to miss you."  I try not to do this to her.  I want her to leave with joy in her heart and excitement in her soul.  So I really, really try not to get all weepy with the Abandonment Issue.


It was a moment.  My soul spoke without asking my permission.  "Ellie, I'm going to miss you," I said.  Because I am.

She turned to me, beautiful young woman on the verge of the rest of her life.  Her face exploded into a huge smile.  She said, "Really mom?  That is hilarious because just now....just right this minute...right when you said that?  I was thinking about how I can't wait to get out of here!  Isn't that FUNNY?"  Then she went back to making her sandwich, shoulders shaking with the hilarity of it all.

Okay, so sarcasm often isn't picked up by her radar, but a little irony?  Tickles the hell out of her.  As for my reaction?  It was just what I needed.  That right there is my kid doing her thing, being herself and nobody else, saying what's on her mind, and knowing full well that even though I'm going to miss her, I love her enough to want her to go....and Be.

She has a delicious life ahead of her, I've no doubt.  And I'm left with the lingering sweet memories of her childhood...memories she'll forget or never even registered....that I'll taste forever.

Readin' and Writin'

Have you noticed that some of the blogs on my blog roll are dedicated to writing? That’s because I like to write.

With the exception of this blog, which believe it or not, is NOT fiction, I haven’t published anything in a very long time. Non-fiction used to be my shtick. Particularly humorous or inspirational nonfiction. I’ve had stories, articles, and essays published in books, magazines, and newspapers. I wrote a weekly column for several years….and they even continued to put up with me when my weeklies slowly turned into whenever-I-felt-like-its…because people liked what I wrote. But then I got this strange compulsion to write fiction. Fiction! And this, my friends, has been my writing downfall.

Are you still considered published if you haven’t published anything in a very long time because you are totally obsessed with writing (and publishing) fiction and you can’t seem to write (much less publish) the fiction, so you are just left not writing or publishing anything at all?

My “writing” has turned into this blog and e-mails to other writers about their writing and how I’d like to write but can’t seem to because of reasons a, b, c, and d, a couple of which are probably psychological in nature, at least I’d like to think so because it sounds good. I can’t write because (like so many brilliant writers) I’m unbalanced, depressed, trying to kick a habit or two, quirky, sentimental, moody, bi-polar, hitting the bottle, snorting the coke, smoking too much weed, schizophrenic, BLOCKED, waiting for a muse, exorcising a demon….anything….take your pick….anything at all as long as it isn’t because I Suck At Writing.

I am not a great writer. I’m really not. I am a great reader, though.  I just finished Clown Girl by Monica Drake.  A good friend who always gives me great books gave it to me, so I knew it was going to be awesome.  Kristin Wiig (of SNL) just bought the movie rights to it, so of course, hers was the face I saw for Nita (aka Sniffles), the book's main character and narrator.  The voice of this narrating character is extremely strong and quirky, a fact I take pains to note, due to something I'll mention later.  I'm also on the fifth Outlander book of Diana Gabaldon's.  This is like reading 12 - 15 books of normal paperback length, believe me.  In this book I'm already on page 292 and still waiting for the major action to start.  I keep telling myself to hang in there, because in another 400 or so pages I know I won't want to put it down. Anyway, when I'm reading and not writing, I like to tell myself that I'm at least learning.  But learning what?  The entire time I read, I look for errors....fault....aha!! Another Adverb...a beginning without a hook...a saggy middle...an ending that's wrapped up too neatly or left open entirely.  It seems that I've read too many books on writing, sat through too many seminars, webinars, etc, to simply enjoy a good book.  I know too much about character arcs, plotting, The Hero's Journey (I effing HATE The Hero's Journey mumbo jumbo talk), conflict resolution, obstacles, points of view, data dumping, and acts I, II,and III.  It's a wonder I attempt a story at all!  Just reading with the sole intention of finding bad writing among successful writers is quite the job, believe me, and although it does make me feel better, in the long run, it takes a bit of the joy out of the whole reading business, you know?

I would love to be able to say that I am working on a literary masterpiece and I don’t care about any kind of commercial success because what kind of an artist would I be if I cared about any kind of commercial success and that I hope to be published by a very small literary press that only super smart and hip people know about….people who will love me and invite me to cocktail parties and buy my books and say that it’s a good thing I didn’t end up on Oprah’s book list because that would only serve to spoil my integrity and diminish my genius. I would LOVE that. But the truth is, I have two manuscripts in the works, and neither one is a literary masterpiece. I do think they can be commercially decent reads if I finish them and manage to worm my way in and out of the agent/editing/publishing maze.

The first one is a contemporary romance that begins with a severely hung-over community college English professor who’s desperately trying to grow up and get over her last failed romance (she should have known not to go out with anyone from the history department). After holding a brief and rather unsatisfying conversation with a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of her bedroom, and recovering from the shock of discovering her car isn’t sitting in its designated parking spot where it is definitely supposed to be sitting, she tries to sort out the events of the previous night’s celebration of her 30th birthday by looking through the pictures in her digital camera. And ooh-la-la (don’t worry – that phrase doesn’t actually appear anywhere in the book, I promise), thus starts the journey with the heavily tattooed and tongue-pierced Such a Bad Idea ex-rock star trying to make a comeback while struggling through life with something rather exotic called synthenesia, and a not so exotic overbearing sister.

I had considered this particular manuscript to have been at the end of the first draft stage until I learned that my beginning is a cliché’. A dime a dozen. Common as pig tracks. So now I’m left trying to totally re-work it and I’m not having any luck because my heart’s not in the rewrite. But you can’t have the beginning include such things as ahem…hangovers, back flashes, introspective ponderings, or apparently, early morning coffee. Any of these things, I was recently told, are bad in an opening scene. I have all of them.

I had signed up to attend a webinar on Beginnings that included the opportunity to submit the first 3 pages to an agent for feedback. Since I knew I had a Big Cliché’ resting on my hands with the contemporary romance (like a matzo ball resting on a soup spoon), I opted for sending in the first 3 pages of my unfinished Middle Grades fantasy manuscript instead, which had more of a beginning hook and included nobody who was hung-over, dreaming, remembering, sipping coffee, or being in any way introspective in the opening scene.

I won’t give you the whole 3 pages lest, God forbid, you steal them and write the next Hunger Games with it, but I will give you the first paragraph, and remember, this is for 7th-graders:

The Corpse Formerly Known as Kurt is totally freaking out. He’s freaking out so badly that he can’t even see me. I should be used to this where he’s concerned. After all, I’ve been his chemistry lab partner for the past three months and I’ve remained pretty much invisible the entire time. He only accepted me as his partner because I’m good in science and have SUCKER stamped on my forehead.

Now we’ll skip the saggy middle, which would surely be the 2nd page in a 3-page deal, and get right to the last line of the 3rd page.

“Hey Kurt, how’s it going?” I don’t mean this literally, of course. It’s more of a rhetorical question.

So, along with the saggy middle, the agent read those lines, and said, “You have a really unique narrative voice here- great work! It reads, to me, like a new and different take on the zombie novel and that's hard to find.”

This would have been excellent news if a) that was all she said and b) this was a zombie novel.

But she also said:

“In terms of critique- my biggest concern is that your voice might be a bit too hard for the reader to follow. It might be too quirky - more Tom Robbins than anything else.”

Okay, so my voice being hard to follow – that can’t be good. Too quirky? What can I say? My character is quirky. Really quirky. She’s a 15-year-old girl who collects souls, has a crush on a what she considers to be a horribly misunderstood teenage demon, and has the irritating habit of taking advantage of every opportunity that allows her to use the word befuddled in a sentence (she gives herself points for this and maintains a running tally). Also? I had to google Tom Robbins, which is embarrassing for me but must be just a tad awkward for Tom Robbins, as well.

“I hope this helps!”

Not really.

“It's a fantastic concept and it's almost there!”

Except that she thinks it’s a zombie book and it’s not.

“Work on making it relatable and it's really, really going to sparkle!”

That last line is sweet and meant to keep me from slitting my wrists. I did not slit my wrists, but I did quit writing for several weeks. I have very thin skin, which I imagine might make it easier to slit my wrists if it ever comes down to that. My skin is so thin, that next to writing, my other big activity is trying to get Everyone On The Planet to like me. The agent might like me if she knew me (who wouldn’t?) but she did not like my first 3 pages well enough to ask for more, which is what I had been hoping for.

My Beta Reader and Dear Friend sent in her 3 pages and received similar feedback also intended to let her down gently. My Beta Reader and Dear Friend, however, sulked for about a half hour and then frantically began writing a bigger, better novel. She decided to get a bit of help at the beginning (a good idea) and sent out for some from a couple of editors who claim to assist with early plot development, etc. She immediately heard back from the first one that the entire concept needed to be scrapped. Then she heard from the second one that she had a hit on her hands – great job – really good! So there you go. Writing fiction is a roller coaster ride full of subjective climbs, opinionated drops, and willy-nilly loop-de-loops.

All I know is, maybe I’m not the best, but I read a lot and therefore I can proclaim myself to not be the worst, either. There are a lot of authors out there that um…..well…..um…..somehow got published even though they well, aren’t that great. A lot. You know it’s true – you’ve tried to read their books, haven’t you?

So how do I say this delicately….Where are their agents? Where are the agents to the multitudes of mediocre writers? I want one. They’re out there. Obviously. I just need our paths to cross.

If you are an agent representing any one of the Not Too Bad But Not Really All That Great authors who love cliché’s and whose books are overflowing with unnecessary adverbs and hungover, quirky characters with overbearing narrative voices…well, the way I see it is that one more can’t hurt you. Drop me a line. We’ll talk. Then maybe I can cross this frustrating fiction writing thing off my list and move on to something more productive....like....like....like...well, it turns out that productivity doesn't seem to suit me.  I'm thinking of productive things I could be doing and frankly, most of them are turning me off.  So maybe I'll just keep puttering along, drowning out the reasonable and irritating editor's voice in my head (I do have one, you know...she's smug and generally disagreeable) with an overabundance of exclamation points!! and cleverly, cutely, and not-so-sparingly placed adverbs.

Back to work....It was a dark and stormy evening....no, make that....It was a darkly storming evening, and Jane was already drunk.  She was going to have one massive hangover in the morning; one which she would surely and sadly and shakily suffer while sipping coffee and deeply reflecting on her past..... 

There Is A Perfect Title For This But I Can't Use It

So now that my tracker tells me that a good many people are getting to this blog due to my being listed as a source for Attachment Parenting information on some kind of health care site...I'm feeling a bit labeled and pigeonholed and like I should have some sort of posting standard to live up to - interesting and informative posts about how we parent, how we educate, and whether or not you can feed sardines to your babies.  But I just can't be any kind of standard for anybody.  And believe me, you don't want me to be.  That would be what we like to call "setting the bar pretty dang low, folks."

So - I am relieving myself of the pressure to inform you - it isn't my fault if you came here expecting to see a certain something and you're seeing something else, instead.  I'm just here to anonymously go blabbedy blab blab blab about whatever the heck happens to come out when I channel Erma Bombeck (I wish) or just unleash the floodgates of my subconsciousness or consciousness or the bottomless pit of angst and anxiety that, as a parent, I am required to carry around.  So are you ready?  We're starting off with Valentine's Day.

Jeff cooked the family a turkey dinner.  But first he had to kill the turkey.  Seriously.  We had four turkeys running around here for the past 6 months (now we have only 3) wreaking havoc and unceremoniously pooping on Everything and let me tell you, these bad boys can make some medium-to-large-dog-sized poop.  They also make a lot of noise....of the high-pitched gobble gobble gobble variety.

They are free range and they roost on the roof of the garage at night - sitting up there, outlined by the moon like some kind of feathery gargoyles.  On the occasions where the temps have dropped into the 20's, Jeff and the boys have had to climb on the roof (fun if it's icy) to chase them around, catch them, and toss them down to waiting hands to be carried into the warm hen house with the smarter variety of fowl, the chickens.  And let me tell you, when you reach the evolutionary low point of being dumber than a chicken, it is time to be eaten.

I still feel badly about it, though.  I've never been much for killing - even bugs and such.  Kind of turns my stomach.  But I refuse to be one of those people who is clueless as to where her food comes from or harbors some kind of illusion that there are happy places somewhere where animals are raised in blissful environments right up until the time they are painlessly and humanely killed and sanitarily packaged for my convenience.

I can honestly say that our turkey really was strutting around here happy as a peacock right up until the moment he was humanely slaughtered.  Ugh. That sounds like an oxymoron.  And I seriously doubt that he now appreciates the fact that I was relatively nice to him and concerned about his comfort before having him murdered.

But the time had come to have him murdered.  It really had.  Love had been in the air amongst the turkeys and it was causing some awkward moments among Ellie's piano students.  Ellie's piano kids are forced to come through our back door because we have an electric fence up around the front yard (welcome to guantanimo!) because the dogs have trampled the yard again and I'm trying to keep them off of it so yeah....Company and Piano Students tromp around to the back door where they quietly knock and then patiently wait until someone happens to walk past the door and see them standing there. 

Lately, we can tell when the piano students arrive because the turkeys tend to get all excited about Company and they run up to the Company and startle the Company and then the Company begins to run and the turkeys are all like, "Holy shit! Something's chasing us!" and then they also hysterically begin to run, thereby creating the illusion that they are chasing the Company with intent to murder and maim or at the very least, peck some eyes out.  This makes the Company scream, and the turkeys begin gobbling while they run, which the Company misinterprets as some kind of Turkey War Cry and so they begin to scream louder and run faster and this further alarms the already alarmed turkeys so they begin half-flying and screeching which sends the Company into quite the frantic fit.  Really.  You should come visit. 

So this traumatic conglomeration lands itself at the back door where it all settles down because there's nowhere left to run and then the "please let us in" begins on the part of both the Company and the turkeys.  The turkeys freaking love to look in our back door, the other side of which they are convinced contains more turkeys, because they are very enamoured of their own reflections.  But lately, love has been in the air for the turkeys, so they have begun umm...courting.  Often they do this while waiting with Company at our back door.

So picture this:  Little piano students standing at the back door holding their music while patiently waiting for someone, anyone at all, to walk past the door and notice them.  Turkeys are in the background, furiously courting.  Now add one more thing to the scene.  Two more things, actually.  Ranger and Napoleon, also known as Sir Humpalot.  Napoleon is awaiting a trip to the vet.  But in the meantime, he has fallen in love with Ranger, our Entirely Too Submissive Favorite Dog.  Ranger is currently spending most of his time hiding from or trying to get away from Sir Humpalot, which is perfectly understandable under the circumstances.  So when Company or Piano Students come and begin the Great Turkey Run, he joins in with the hopes of making a mad dash in through the back door to get away from Napoleon.  But while he and the turkeys and the piano students wait at the back door, well, they have some time on their hands, see?

So Ellie recently told me, "We have to kill those turkeys and get Napoleon fixed.  They're traumatizing my students.  It's like Fornication Farm around here."  (This would have made a cool blog post title - but can you imagine the types of people the Google Gods would send my way?)

One male turkey down (called a tom) and one to go.   And Napoleon has an Appointment.  Fornication Farm should settle down here pretty quickly....although the bull seems to have been getting frisky in the fields, at least he isn't doing it at my back door. 

We spent V-Day at a friend's house where our Odyssey of the Mind teams met (an elementary team and a high school team) for a combined party and work session.  I haven't mentioned Odyssey of the Mind very much, lately.  Usually this time of year I am just going all bonkers with it.  But this year I'm merely co-coaching and woot!  Not a lot of pressure.  My co-coach is probably reading this right now and hating me....

In addition to listening to our little guys finish up their script (I had to type it for them and they are hilarious), we also watched them work on their Rube Goldberg machine. Our Odyssey teams have done really well with these contraptions in the past, and this year is no exception.  And the high school team is also doing an amazing job, although they are doing the Classics problem this year....no technical things like Rube Goldberg machines or sit-n-spin cars....the Classics problem is a much tougher problem to compete in because more teams take it on, and also a lot of them are very artistic and dramatic and stupendous and yeah...just tough competition compared to the more technical categories.  But truthfully, I'm not up to another trip to the World Tournament this year - I'm just not.  So it is all good and the kids are having a great time, which is all that matters.

My friend over at Shaggy Boys recently posted something about her son's soccer team winning the state championship, and how they are a team of homeschooled kids competing against mostly smallish private schools....and the differences she's noticed about the teams as far as how the homeschoolers relate to their siblings and families compared with the school kids.  I must say, yesterday as I sat in my friend's living room watching a large group of kids ranging in age from 5 to 16, play together....I was reminded of how lucky we are that we homeschool.  Seriously, the 16-year-olds were quite happy to chase around the little kids, and they were gracious in allowing the pre-teens in on their games and discussions.  Nobody was telling them to do this, or trying to facilitate it in any way - this is simply the way their lives work - people of all ages living and playing and working together.  Which is pretty much the way it works in the Real World.  When you get a job they don't have a special room for the 30-year-olds to sit in their cubicles, do they?  There isn't a floor on the building for the 40-year-olds....your boss might be younger or older than you....your generations might be different...your knowledge affected by your life's experiences up to that point....all different....all fitting together like pieces of a puzzle to create a big picture.

That is the way the world works - and so it always amazes me when people ask me if I'm concerned that by homeschooling, I'm not preparing my kids for the Real World.  School doesn't simulate a real world by a long shot - and thank goodness for that.

Oh! Look what happened!  I did a homeschooling blog post after all. I wish I could some kind of quirky ending where I tie the homeschooling philosphy in with the turkey sex, but I'm just not feeling it....hmm...nope, still got nothin'. So - we'll just end.  Like just totally end.  As in I'll stop typing and it will all be over.  Without any cutesy wrap-up or thoughtful anything.  Just. Stop. Typing.  Like an awkward goodbye....awkard....goodbye.
 

Stellar Parenting Going on Over Here

My kids are pantless.  Well, only two of them.  But it's 25 degrees outside, and I strongly feel that they should be wearing pants.  "But mom!  We don't have any!"  Ugh.  That's right. It's time for a Stellar Parenting Post.

Technically, I'm only responsible for one of the pantless kids' pantless predicament.  Technically, Jules (who is 13 and thankfully wearing pants) is supposed to wash the clothing of Jasper (who is not wearing pants).  But Jules tends to wash clothes very rarely, a result of the fact that he changes clothes very rarely (I know - more stellar parenting on my part!) and so Jasper runs out of clothes all the time.

Officially, I am responsible for Camille's laundry.  Officially, I have not been home very much.  Officially, I have done laundry, and it has ended up in baskets, on the folding counter, in piles on beds and couches, and unfortunately, occasionally right back in the laundry after ending up on the floor from a basket, counter, bed, or couch, and then being made into a nest by the dog.  So officially, Camille might actually have clean pants.  Somewhere.

I am feeling less than stellar about this.  I am feeling less than stellar about a lot of things.  My house is a mess.  And last night, after returning home from a full day in the city that involved jazz, piano, and ballet classes for Not Me....I discovered a pile of dishes and was told, "Hey Mom.  The sink won't drain."  Again.

This is a bummer.  I've had a busy week and it is not even officially half over.  My busy week included taking my dad in for surgery, only to discover, as I waited in the crowded waiting room, that I wasn't feeling too good.  After he was in recovery, I left him in my sister's care and headed home, where I made it as far as the parking lot of a Hyatt Regency Hotel before pulling over to puke.  Since I was in my dad's car, I actually vacated the vehicle to do so - seeing as how his car, unlike my own, had never been puked in and I didn't want to be the one to christen it.  I couldn't believe it was happening to me.  Believe me, folks, it has been a very long time since I've puked in a parking lot....last time was a Stray Cats concert, if I am correct, and it was in the early '80's.  I tried to be delicate and ladylike and discreet, but all I could think of was the tourists looking out their windows and seeing my unpleasant, "Welcome to San Antonio, Folks!"   I made it almost all the way home before I realized I had my dad's stuff with me, and he was spending the night in the hospital.  I had to turn around and drive all the way back to the hospital before I could finally head home to deposit myself in my bed, at which point, the laundry had sex and multiplied by the thousands and the plumbing went on strike. 

Luckily, my 24-hour bug didn't even last the full 24 - although I did milk a couple of extra hours out of it (don't tell anybody). 

Anyway, I am feeling less than stellar about the pantless kids, because they don't have any clean pants and because, in general, they aren't getting as much attention as I feel they should.  My homeschool group that I don't really have time to participate in had a query about unit studies posted to it's discussion board.  Unit studies! I thought.  I freaking love unit studies.  Let's see....Joel did a unit study on Native Americans, Ellie did a Unit Study based on Laura Ingalls, Ellie did a Unit Study based on Harry Potter, Joel and Ellie did a Unit Study on Czech History, there was Ellie's study on Presidential Elections....there was.....ABSOLUTELY NO UNIT STUDY BUSINESS GOING ON WITH THE OTHER THREE KIDS. 

Okay, so Jules hasn't fared too terribly.  He participated in Readers Theater (I have pictures to prove it!) and he's done some....other stuff....that will come to me later....I'm sure.   But Camille and Jasper?  Not so much.  I am
a) Tired and occasionally puking
and
b) Busy with the original unit studies pupils, one of whom is attempting to do high school level work (real work) for the first time in his life, and the other of whom is busy getting into college (and yes! she's getting scholarships!). 

So, to recap, no clean clothes....no unit studies....dirty dishes.  Is that all the stellar parenting going on?  Nope.  Not by a long shot.  It also seems that my morals are sinking.  That's right.  Totally sinking.

Last weekend we faced the Texas Arctic Blast!! (that's what the news programs call it - every single time it happens....I love it) to head to the University of North Texas for Ellie's audition to the Music School. We had only Ellie and Camille with us (Camille likes to tell people she has separation anxiety, and Camille is 9, by the way) but the boys were home with a babysitter.  Joel found this to be completely humiliating, but the last time I left them alone, he broke his brother's hand. 

Anyway, everyone kept telling us they would surely cancel the auditions due to the Texas Arctic Blast!! but they didn't, because they had over 300 kids flying in from every continent, many of whom surely found the Texas Arctic Blast!! to be monumentally unimpressive and underwhelming.  But no matter how whimpy the Texas Arctic Blast!! was compared to other parts of the nation's regular winter weather, the truth is that Texas is completely unprepared to handle such weather, and so, we tend to shut her down, folks.  Roads close, schools close, businesses close....the last thing you want is a herd-o-Texans trying to drive on icy streets....'taint a pretty sight.  But we did it, because the auditions were not cancelled. 

UNT is a 7-hour drive for us (Texas is a big place) under the best of circumstances.  It is a longer drive under worse.  But we made it there in one piece, seeing very little death and destruction along the way.  Seeing none, in fact.  Most Texans were shivering inside their homes in their shorts and flip-flops while watching the Texas Arctic Blast!! 24-hour news coverage on their televisions. 

But I was talking about slipping morals, wasn't I? I'm sure it happened somewhere about the time we quit going to church....but seriously....that is just a coincidence.  But the bottom line is, a person can only stand so many hours of Raffi or Barney in the car.  Now Ellie and Joel, Unit Study Children Extraordinaire, never heard a dang thing but Barney or Raffi in the car.  They had delicate virginal ears and I felt dedicated to protecting them.  Until I couldn't take it anymore.  And that happened around the birth of the third kid.

So off we go to UNT, braving the blast and listening to all sorts of Non-Child-Friendly music.  The Pixies, Pearl Jam, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana, Jane's Addiction and more....while Camille bounced her sad little head except for when she complained, "No!  Not John Frusciante!!  Please!!"  Okay, Ellie also complained, "This music is lame and OLD!!"  That's right....she's the kid who mostly listens to the music of Dead People....and I'm not talking about dead because they OD'ed on recreational drugs....I'm talking dead because nobody lives to be 300 or 400 years old kind of dead.  Sheesh - she doesn't even see the humor in it.

Where was I?  Oh yeah...., my standards dropped so low that, by the end of the trip, we were only skipping songs that had the F-Word or the M-F-Word.  And occasionally, we wouldn't skip soon enough, and Ellie would say, "Stellar Parenting...."  And then there is what is now known as the Famous Nimrod's Son line (the Pixies) although technically, that one happened a couple of years ago....

Me:  Jeff, is the next song okay?  Any profanity?

Jeff:  Nah, it's okay.

Me:  You're not really a lyric guy, you sure?

Jeff:  Yeah...

The Pixies: He is the son of a mother-(fill in the blank)

Jeff:  Oops.

Me:  That's a profound statement when you think about it....

Ellie:  Stellar Parenting

Little People:  Can we stop for candy?

Parents:  Sure!! You can have anything you want! Just name it! (because maybe that would help???)

Ahhh...the memories....Ellie pleasantly recalled how she and Joel were so protected but that by the time Jules came along, his favorite toddler song had the lines, "Skeeter and the Monkey Man were hard up for cash, up all night selling cocaine and hash...."  God he loved that song.  And here we had little Camille in the backseat on the way to UNT dodging F-bombs for 7 hours. We really shouldn't reproduce anymore.

STELLAR. PARENTING. 

We can only assume, that if the current trajectory holds up, Jasper will be sitting in front of the television in a couple of years, consuming a six-pack while a cigarette smolders in the ashtray and Cheaters plays on TV. 

Okay, I'm off to search for pants.  Because really, it's the least I can do.
Sardine Mama (aka Mother of the Year)

Everyone Loves an Expert

My Pussycat Parenting post got a lot of hits.  Well, a lot of hits for me, anyway.  A good 40% of the people were still googling whether or not they should feed sardines to their babies - a few were looking for that awesome photo of Anthony Kiedis kissing Eddie Vedder (I've posted it twice now)....and ding ding ding!  Someone probably just landed HERE because I mentioned posting it twice now and they are thus very confused and wondering how they got here.  Also? For the rest of you?  YES you can feed sardines to your babies if you are hell-bent on doing so.  They're a good source of Vitamin E.  But you shouldn't feed your babies anything solid before 6 months of age....in my opinion.  If you want to hear more of my opinions on the matter of babies and sardines you can go here, where I took a ridiculous amount of time a couple of years ago to address this topic due to the sheer volume of requests about the matter....and yes, I'm amazed that I did it.

But at least a couple of people ended up reading about Pussycat Parenting intentionally - yay!  I even had people end up here through a link that turned up on the Huffington Post and some medical education site.  So now I feel all official-like.  I feel like An Expert.  I hate experts.  Truly.  Unless I find one who agrees with me about Things.  Doesn't happen all that often.

So in my official role as Expert I've decided to write a book.  That's right.  Along with the rest of the world, I'm going to try and ride Tiger Mom's coattails.  In fact, I bet there are already versions of Pussycat Parenting hitting the bookshelves right now.  You should not buy them.  You should wait for mine.  Mine will arrive just shortly after everyone stops caring and Tiger Mom becomes Tiger Who. Because that's how I roll....right behind the wave or slightly next to it.  But I have an angle because I am a Pussycat Mom who ended up with a Tiger Cub.  Unschooled, unruled, and unrestricted....she turned out quite nicely Asian on the Inside anyway. What does this prove?  Nothing really.  It's probably just a coincidence or a freak circumstance but as an expert, I conclude that it also has something to do with the fact that good parenting boils down to love and attention - whether you choose to do it like a tiger or a pussycat doesn't really matter. 

My Tiger Cub and I recently had an argument in the car...she apparently doesn't care that I am now an Expert.  I was driving her to her Music Theory test at a local university like all of the other Tiger Moms....and telling her how I'm going to write a book (she remained completely unimpressed by this revelation of parenting expertise...in fact, she had the gall to raise one eyebrow).  I told her that when I appear on the Ellen DeGeneres Show she can also appear on the Ellen Show and play the piano.  "In fact," I told her, "I shall insist that you also appear on the Ellen Show." 

"I'm not playing the piano on the Ellen Show," she said.

"What?" I screamed.  "That's my angle.  You're my angle!  I'll talk about how rocking awesome my parenting style is and then you'll play something fast and impressive and everyone will freak out and agree that I must have a rocking awesome parenting style."

"I'm not playing the piano on the Ellen Show," she said again.

"Yes, you are!"

"No, I'm not!"

"You WILL play on the Ellen Show if I tell you to play on the Ellen Show."

That's right.  We had a freaking argument over whether or not Ellie will participate in my fame by making me look good on the Ellen Show.  It ended with me saying something like, "We both know I'm not really going to appear on the freaking Ellen Show!  So can't you just SAY you'll play on the Ellen Show?  You know, just SAY it?  It's not like it's going to happen....."

"Nope."

Do you see how I've already been corrupted by my fame and glory?  Do you see how the Huffington Post and it's stupid little blue link to Sardines in a Can has dragged me down into the depths of despair?  Do you see how close I came to screaming, "You will play on the &*&%ing  Ellen Show BECAUSE I SAID SO, Missy!!!"  I've never wanted to call anyone Missy, before.  But I so wanted to say Missy while hissing out spittle like Mommy Dearest.

I know.  I'm still shaking over here.  I was that close.  The next thing you know I'll be contemplating a naughty mat and timer. 

**If you'd like to book me for an event for my pre-release tour, just contact my agent.  If you'd like to be my agent, leave me comment.

Also?  Here is my kid playing something else.  Wouldn't she look good on the Ellen Show?


Etude in G-Sharp Minor, Op. 25, No. 6 - Chopin / Ellen Pavliska from Ellen Pavliska on Vimeo.


Sardine Mama (who shall hence forth be known famously as the Pussycat Mom)