Tetanus Tomato

Shiny Black Hindquarters and Troublesome Tics

2010-02-09T21:06:00.000-08:00

Pretty Fine Lady (a.k.a. my Blackish 2001 Camry) is having a rough year. I should have known she was in for it when, at the end of last year, she began showing embarrassing signs of nighttime incontinence. (I had been finding fresh oil on her sleeping quarters in the driveway. ) But I chose not to mention her slight boo boos because I knew she might be more than a little flustered. I figured she'd let me know if she needed to make an appointment with her internist.

And then, on New Year's Eve, as if to set the precedent for the next few weeks, she was rear-ended by a haughty Honda CRV. CRV had not even a scuff on her steel-grey paint. Not a dent on her nameplate. But Pretty Fine Lady sustained a severely dislocated and lacerated posterior. Pretty Fine Lady was, of course, embarrassed and downtrodden. She'd had such a sweet tookus prior to her run-in with that tall Honda!

So I made a few calls and found a place that agreed to give my Lady a nip and a tuck. She'd be back on the road again in a week or two, they told me. And her backside would look ten years younger. Good news, we agreed. Very good news, indeed.

But then, a few days before we were scheduled to check in for Pretty Fine Lady's rear end reconstruction, my Lady was struck once again in her tenderest of spots. Oh, the anguish! Oh, the utter senselessness of it all! My sweet girl was despondent. I cheered her up as best I could with a fresh quart of the finest oil and a deep vacuum treatment.

And then, after having traveled many miles with her hiney taped in place, Pretty Fine Lady checked into the reconstruction and rehabilitation wing of a nearby Collision Center. I could tell, as I waved to her in the parking lot, that we had already begun to heal. She was ready to reclaim her life.

Had I only known that Pretty Fine Lady's new tush would not be the end of her ailments, I may have bought her the new floor mats she'd been eyeing. I may have agreed to a thorough waxing. But as it was, Pretty Fine Lady began showing symptoms of thing-a-ma-jiggy failure almost immediately after recuperating from her time at the Collision Center. Her fix engine light was on, she was a wee bit sluggish in the mornings, and she was developing a tic. I knew my Lady didn't want to admit she was having trouble, but when her tic became an honest-to-goodness seizure last weekend (we were at a stop light when it happened), I had no choice but to take her to her internist. She was immediately admitted and then diagnosed with faulty spark plugs.

Pretty Fine Lady is back at home with me tonight. Her spark plug transplant went swimmingly well yesterday, and her prognosis is promising. I think she's in good spirits too. She's happy to be back on her very own driveway, and she's got more energy than she's had in many weeks.

I don't know how long Pretty Fine Lady will be with us. She's got a lot of spunk for a nine year old, and she doesn't let her high mileage get her down, but she is looking more and more like a senior citizen, and her frequent repair bills are becoming a fact of life.

I see no other choice but to love my Pretty Fine Lady the best I can whilst she's parked here at our home. Her black is greying, she's a little leaky, and she wheezes when she's excited, but she's got more chutzpah than just about any other sedan I know.

Long live me Lady!

Scary Food

2010-02-08T20:37:00.000-08:00

Have you watched Food Inc.? The Robert Kenner documentary about the atrocities that lurk within our country's food supply corporations? If you have not yet Netflixed this little ditty, let me unreservedly warn you: THIS IS THE SCARIEST MOVIE I'VE EVER SEEN!

A few days ago, I watched Food Inc.'s 91 minutes of poo-slathered beef cows, Barbie-breasted chickens, and crying pigs. Since then, I've grown a seriously large soft-spot for vegetarians and the like. I'm even going to start a Huang family refrigerator restructuring process which will include cage-free eggs, free-range chickens, and humanely-packaged tofu. Watch the movie, please. But pair your viewing with a bag of kettle corn instead of tub of popcorn chicken. You'll be glad I told you so.

Neoprene Is Good Enough For Me

2010-01-25T16:51:00.000-08:00

It's never too late for Christmas presents. Especially when you're standing in the sock section of a sporting goods store and your husband sails around the corner, cargo pants aflutter, and tells you he's found a post-Christmas present you're just going to L-O-V-E.

We were at REI yesterday when my husband found an inspired gift for me. Standing there, surrounded by Polyester Quick-Dry crew socks in both black and white, my husband took my hands gently in his and assured me that the he had found something (within the store) that he was sure I would absolutely adore. He was nearly breathless with unbridled glee, and his eyes were utterly blinkless.

But what sort of resplendent gift could possibly be awaiting me among the aisles of camp mattresses and telescoping forks? What wondrous item had put my husband in such a dither? Was it the freeze-dried chili-mac with beef? The storm-proof matches?

Please don't misunderstand me. I really love camping gadgetry and travel gear. I'm not a camper, per se, but I'm still easily fascinated by waterproof camera cases and pens that work even if you're using them upside down whilst resting in a bivy bag on a frigid mountain. It's all great stuff. I'll be the first person to shell out $50 for a sac that neatly stashes (in individual custom-fitted theft-resistant pouches) camera, phone, keys, first-aid kit, sunglasses, and major credit cards--all within the safe confines of a neoprene wonder which folds up to the approximate size of a chicken nugget. You feel me?

But my husband, I knew, had not had time to make his way to the gadgetry sections before seeking me out to tell me of his intentions to buy me a gift. He'd only had time to meander as far as footwear. So you can understand why I was absolutely certain my husband had fallen in love with either a pair of earthy moccasins or a ten-pound camel-colored hiking boot. I was skeptical.

And then, with our hands lovingly entwined, we walked toward my gift. Sure enough, my husband led me to a wall of shoes. "There they are," he said. He didn't point. It was as though he believed I, too, could see a celestial light shining down on them, wherever they were.

"Which ones?" I asked dumbly. Now he pointed.

"Those."

"The ones with the toes?"

"Aren't they great?"

That's right, ladies and gentleman. There really is a consumer demand for shoes with built-in toe sockets. They are sculpted from neoprene (what else?) and a plasticy, rubbery type material. They look a bit like water shoes with digits. And these are the things, among thousands of other shiny products in the retail world, that my dear husband chose to purchase for me for January Christmas. Aw, shucks. The man really loves me, no?

Toe shoes may not look like much. And you probably don't want your employer to see you wearing them. You may not even be ready to take your show on the road at all. But these things are super. Finally, my toes are appropriately shod. They've been liberated from having to share real estate with their sisters, and they can wiggle around as they please. Also, I feel kinda sporty when I've got them on. They're like biker shorts for my feet. And they make my Tai Chi look awesome.

I'm not sure toe shoes will be breaking into mainstream footwear circles anytime soon. They're just sooooo tomorrow. But I'm happy to be, once again, ahead of my time. I'm footloose and fashion free.

Not Dead and Gas Pumps

2010-01-18T11:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not dead. I'm not even sick. I've got a bit of a sore throat, but that can easily be attributed to my heinous sleepy-time mouth-breathing habit.

The reason I've been away for so long is this . . . . I've been busy. That's it. Nothing grand or dramatic. I've got no bleak family crises to offer you, and no nervous breakdowns. I'm just a regular girl whose to-do list has lately been steamrolling her and consistently been affixing her to her pillow-top at about the time third-graders turn in on school nights. I've also started a semi-new job (teaching first and second graders) and have been using my bloggy hours to hang out with my offspring. We play board games. We read Lightning Thief so we can feel good about watching the movie when it comes out next month. We cook dinner together. We argue about whether Spiderman is more capable than Venom. We laugh when Yosemite Sam dives into an empty pool. These are great ways to spend time, really. They make me feel warm and squishy inside. But I do miss my Tetanus Tomato. I do.

So today I've set aside some time to tiptoe back into my dusty piece of web space and polish her up a bit. If you're one of those people who has hoped against hope I wasn't dead in a ditch, thank you for sticking around. You make even my toes smile.

While I was elsewhere, a favorite blog bud (Sara) wondered what in the world is the most foolish thing I've ever done. We like to hear about other people's harebrained blunders, I think, because they make our lapses seem less confounding, by degrees. So in the spirit of helping Sara feel better about spending more than $40 on a January Christmas gift to Hong Kong, here is the tale of one of my bigger snafus:

Many, many years ago, in the non-descript town of Mission Gorge, a young lady named Mary Jane noticed, to her dismay, that the arrow on her fuel tank indicator had turned itself to the downmost position called "Empty." So Mary Jane, being mildly wise, decided to seek and find a reputable proprietor of the fossil fuels her vehicle so desperately required. Mary Jane chose Exxon. As was the custom, Mary Jane compensated the cashier prior to availing herself of the 15 gallons of fuel she intended to collect. And then, somewhere between the front door of the establishment and Mary Jane's nearly-depleted vehicle, Mary Jane lost track of the reason for her Exxon visit and thus departed the lot without ever having replenished her barren fuel tank.

Alas! Mary Jane was discomfited by her lapse of awareness and resolved to amend her dilemma at the nearest opportunity. Her plan was to, at the end of her workday, return to the Exxon where her predicament had begun, and recount the tale of her automotive misadventure to the appropriate authority. With much humility, Mary Jane did make a post-work reappearance at the nearby Exxon. But before Mary Jane could make any explanation for her morning mishap, an especially chipper Exxon employee named Jose declared, with no small amount of amusement: "You're the lady who drove away without her gas!" Mary Jane's response was a self-conscious nod and a sheepish request for the fuel she was due.

Lamentably, Chipper Jose responded thus: "The morning manager has already changed the cash drawer and gone home for the day, so you have to pay for your gas again and then come back in the morning for a refund." Mary Jane understood this to be fuel-station vernacular for, "Pay $30 more." Mary Jane complied.

And then, absolutely inexplicably, Mary Jane experienced her second moment of consummate forgetfulness that day. She unhesitatingly navigated her still-drained vehicle away from fuel pump number 2 at Exxon Mission Gorge, and didn't realize her faux pas until the red indicator light on her vehicle's display reacquainted Mary Jane with her oversight.

So it was that Mary Jane found herself, for the third time in 24 hours, standing abashedly in the foyer of Exxon Mission Gorge. Apparently, however, when a customer abandons payed-for fuel at a rate of more than once per day, gasoline attendants animatedly share the story with the entire staff and with a handful of patrons. According to Chipper Jose, mistakes of Mary Jane's caliber were rare and typically resulted in three days' worth of hearty laughter in at least three different languages.

Between spontaneous and explosive guffaws, Chipper Jose escorted Mary Jane to her vehicle and transferred fuel to her tank for her so as to help her avoid any further misfortune. And, it goes without saying, Mary Jane has yet to revisit Exxon Mission Gorge. There is also a Carls Jr. Mary Jane refuses to patronize. But that is another story.

Chill Pill

2009-12-03T20:21:00.000-08:00

I need to find myself a very large time-release Chill Pill. The kind that are easy to swallow. It's not because I'm an angry individual; I'm no grouch. It's just that I tend to be a bit of a stress case. Allow me to elaborate:

I subbed in a seventh grade math classroom today. As I was going through my day, speaking with vim and vigor about Greatest Common Factors and singing the praises of prime numbers, I felt like I was doing just fine. "What a good teacher I am," I mused. "How impressive that an English major can use the word 'numerator' in a coherent sentence."

But then, after the flurry of middle school activity settled at the last bell, my fretful mind found a few things which nearly peeled the silver lining completely away from my subbing victory. Here is a playback from my inner voice:

"I think you called on Jackson too many times."
"Maybe you should have let Max go to the restroom 5 times. What if he has juvenile prostate issues?"
"Did I spit when I spoke?"
"Will pointing out that 5/10 is not the same as 10/5 be the cause of self-esteem ruination?
"I don't think I called on Nate enough. I hope he didn't feel neglected by me."
"Where the heck are my headphones?"

See what I mean? Now that I see my worries in medium-sized Georgia font, I realize that my inner voice has a tendency to be somewhat of a saboteur. Was I really bent out of shape by possible spittle? Is it even vaguely likely that a 13 year-old boy's spirits can be dampened by a sub's mild inattention?

Get a grip, MJ! You're a substitute teacher, for crying our loud! You should be happy you haven't been tarred and feathered by a gang of pimply math flunkees!

I'll be subbing again tomorrow. Same time. Same kids. This time, though, I'm bringing my double-shot honey and cinnamon "Chill Pill" latte. And some Fritos.

Mud Poops and Melamine Plates

2009-11-24T20:56:00.000-08:00

You used to make mudpies, didn't you? I'll bet you used to gather mounds of top-grade semi-squishy earth into manageable blobs and then hand-craft them into miscellaneous "edible" inedibles. Mud pies, mud cakes, mud soup, and mud casseroles are the stuff of spring and summer kidness.

When I was a kid, my brother and sister and I had a different take on the whole mudpie thing. We manufactured mud poops and then scattered them across the expanse of our Grandmother's back lawn. We knew that, if we designed our fake fecals just so, our sweet Cleanliness-Is-Next-To-Godliness Grandma would feel compelled to shovel the offending turds off her lawn and bury them in a seldom-traversed part of her yard. She'd be murmuring things in Spanish through the entire process. She'd pray for the poor sick pup.

My Grandma was the best Grandma EVER. I could try to prove it to you, but you wouldn't believe me because her greatness was too large for human understanding. Also, you might feel compelled to defend your Grandma's supreme loveliness and insist that your Grammy is as sweet as they come. Maybe your Grammy is pretty nice. I'm sure she makes a mean apple streudel; but forgive me for not believing she's as beauteous as my Grandma was. Let's put it this way: Think about wonderfulness for a moment and then imagine that wonderfulness to the thousandth power. That was my Grandma.

That's why I had to cry for a few minutes this morning when I broke one of the last of my Grandma's melamine plates. You see, Grandma used to eat her morning huevo (egg) on a melamine plate. She'd have a bit of bread too. And coffee-flavored water (AKA a countable number of Folgers crystals swirled in hot water) in a semi-matching melamine cup. Since Grandma died seven years ago, eating my morning egg from her plate has been better than the sun itself at brightening my day.

There had been an ominous crack in the pink-flowered plate for a few months. But I had convinced myself fairly completely that the dish--being that it is made from a scary unmeltable melamine formaldehyde polymer--simply couldn't break. Plastics of the '50's and '60's were built to last, weren't they? Weren't they supposed to survive nuclear annihalation? So when Grandma's plate was cleaved in two, I was shocked and saddened. I was also embarrassed that I had broken (within only seven years) a piece of tableware Grandma had managed to safeguard for probably 50 years. What a bozo I am. What a sad, sad bozo who now has to eat eggs on boring, white, designless, ceramic WalMart plates (circa 2008).

I miss my Grandma today. I wish she were here so I could apologize for senselessly shattering her vintage plastic plate. She'd probably tell me not to worry, and then she'd offer to fix me a huevo. Maybe she'd even rustle up a slice of Spam. We'd eat from paper plates and split a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint for desert.

I want to be just like Grandma when I'm older. (Minus the Folgers Crystals, of course.) But now I have to imitate her without the help of her melamine.

Darn you, gravity.

Charles Charles Bo Barles . . .

2009-11-10T21:13:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law and brother have an eleven-day-old baby at home. He's an itty bitty boy complete with wrinkly toes and microscopic fingernails. I haven't met sweet baby, but I really have a good feeling about us hitting it off. His Dad and I get along just peachy, after all. And his Mama is almost inhumanly lovely. Also, the little guy has such an awesome name, he's simply got to be as grand a child as I can imagine.

Baby Boy is named Charles. Charles is one of the most versatile names I know. There are so many ways to bend it and embellish it, and each version reveals a smidge about the person upon whom the name has been conferred. Here's a run-down of a few renditions of "Charles" and what they mean to me:

Chuck: This is the adaptation most loathed by my brother and his honey. I actually like it because it sounds buff. Like a fighter. Or a plumber.
Charlie: This name can be used for either a friendly school bus driver or a well-adjusted postal worker. Charlies are universally amiable.
Chaz: So rock star.
Charlemagne: AKA Charles the Great. To be used sparingly.
Charcoal, Charlatan, and Charger: These are fantastic nicknames, don't you think? You can't get quality handles like these with names like "Mike."

I'm just days away from having the privilege of meeting Charlie Bucket/Charlie Brown/Char-Char Binks. He's my 7th nephew and a real Charmer, by the looks of him. I can't wait to give him a wee smooch.

Too Shy For School

2009-11-09T20:22:00.000-08:00

Remember how, when you were five years old, you became perilously shy when you visited your paternal Grandma whom you hadn't seen since you were two? Remember how you'd grab fistfuls of Mom's paisley skirt and stash your face in her ample thighs in order to avoid Grandma's unfamiliar Avon-smudged smile? That's how I'm feeling right about now. Oh, what I wouldn't do to be cloaked by Mom's hemline!

Why am I feeling so bashful? Because I've been absent from this here blog for almost one complete moon cycle. I'm a stranger here, really. It'll take me a day or two to quit being self-conscious, and then I'll be blowing your winter socks off again with my wisdom and wit. I hope you'll stick around.

My vacation was marvelous; thanks for asking. Husband, Scout, Shawn, and I moseyed through huge parcels of the now-defunct confederacy and got to know more about our American neighbors from Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas. Please don't ask me to tell you which locale was best, because I'd feel compelled to overstay my welcome here by blathering on and on about how phenomenal each of our destinations was. And since you're not on vacation, you may resent my prattling and then remove me from your reading list. I'll have none of that.

Suffice it to say that snorkeling in the Florida Keys made it onto my Top-Ten Life Experiences list, that Cuban food is definitely too good for the likes Fidel Castro, that I know why Scarlett O'Hara thought Georgia was so purty, that New Orleans gets an 'A' for effort (bless her heart), and that Mississippi is really fun to spell. I learned that southerners have loads of hankerings, that their Bibles are careworn, that gravy is the answer to most of their troubles, that "why" actually has two syllables (waa and eye), that alligator tastes like fishy chicken, and that some people still have a soft spot for secession. I heart the South.

A bit o' Florida

I've been back in SoCal for a week now, but I'm loathe to give up a few habits I collected while I was a South dweller. Namely, if you're a lady, I will call you "Maam." And if there are more than one of you, I'll be calling you "ya'll." I also prefer to "reckon" instead of "think", and I'm "fixin'" instead of "planning."

It's 8:00. Bed time. But tomorrow, I reckon I'll be fixin' to post a little something for ya'll. I've got a renewed hankering for writing. Don't know what in tarnation I'll be telling ya'll, but I'm hoping ya'll will drop on by. I'll be gol-derned if I'm not southernly hospitable. Even if I am a bit bashful.

Paddles, Please

2009-10-11T19:31:00.000-07:00

I haven't forgotten that I'm supposed to be maintaining a blog. Yes, I nearly forgot what this page looked like, and, yes, my keyboarding skills have gone to ruin in the TEN days I've been away; but I'm still with ya'll. Mostly.

It's just that we Huangs are preparing to vacate ourselves. We are, in other words, in the final preparatory phase of Operation Respite. In three days, we will be lugging our exhausted selves into the belly of a plane and heading over to Florida (and Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas) for a two-week sabbatical. What are we sabbaticaling ourselves from? Just stuff. Like work. School. Mice.

So my project for the past ten days has been to try to cram two weeks' worth of work into the space of about a week and a half. It's harder than you might think. Camel-through-the-eye-of-a-needle hard. You'll be glad to know, though, that I've made some progress. Two days ago, my white board was bountifully adorned with to-do lists in both list and venn diagram forms. Tonight, my to-dos are more like extraneous footnotes. And, let's face it--no one reads footnotes.

So the next two days are downhill days. I reached the pinnacle of panic on Friday. That was the day I suspected I might need a boost from a pair of defibrillator paddles in order to get all my work done. Turns out, I was able to get by with a pair of espresso shots and a generous hunk of dark chocolate.

Here's the bad news: I will most likely not be dropping by any of your net spaces until November 2 or thereabouts. And if you come a-knockin' on my blog, there'll be nobody here but us chickens. Mute, shiftless chickens.

So let's put this Tetanus Tomato on pause for a fortnight and then reconvene after I've gathered a few bushels of blog-worthy stories and anecdotes from our southermost United States. I'll miss you. Happy trails.

Rodent Revolution

2009-10-01T21:28:00.000-07:00

We are still with mouse. I heard the little bugger scampering fiendishly around my kitchen last night, but I was too cowardly to go mano a mano with him. I dare not underestimate his deviance.

I'd like to be able to tell you what's next as far as our rodent removal strategy is concerned, but I suspect Mouse may be intercepting our communications. Suffice it to say that I'm confident about our eventual success. I can inform you, though, that once Mouse has been taken prisoner and then promptly exiled to the great outdoors, we Huangs will implement prophylactic measures to make sure no mouse will ever again dine on our Pop Tarts and oatmeal. We'll plug up all the potential entry points in our home in order force all rodent interlopers to stay away. As George Washington once sagely noted: Experience teaches us that it is much easier to prevent an enemy from posting themselves than it is to dislodge them after they have got possession. (Thanks for the wisdom, Mr. President, sir.)

I appreciate your support, dear reader. May Huang Family liberty win out!

"All might be free if they valued freedom, and defended it as they should." --Samuel Adams

The Mouse Who Barked Up The Wrong Pantry

2009-09-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

I've been told I'm mildly obsessed with rodents. That I talk about them often and with thick layers of disdain. That my preoccupation with them may very well be unhealthy. That it can't be true that all of the rodents of the world have cooperated to create a formidable force of buck-toothed pests whose ultimate and unified goal is to bring me to my knees and then chew off all of my hair. "Mice aren't that smart," people have told me. "No, they don't want to build a massive communal nest out of your hair," they say.

Today, though, I shall prove all of you naysayers wrong. Rats and mice really do have it in for us Huangs. Here's the story:

My sweet daughter, Scout, (who is more peace-loving and gentle than just about anybody I know) was slowly and methodically checking our dried food stores for evidence (poop) of the presence of a mouse in our pantry. She had thought she heard a persistent squeaking coming from the shelves therein. A few minutes later, just as Scout was about to abandon her pursuits, a filthy, black mouse sprang at her from between a box of gluten-free baking mix and a bag of kettle corn. I wasn't in the home when it all went down, so I can't say I witnessed the ordeal, but Scout tells me that the scream which escaped from her at the moment of the mouse's premeditated attack was so primal--so terrified and guttural--that she almost didn't recognize her own voice.

"It lunged at me," Scout insisted. "It was waiting for me and then it just . . . just . . . jumped!" Scout tells me that her newly-adrenalized self reached for a weapon--a plastic tumbler--and tossed it at the mouse. She missed her target, of course (because mouse had obviously trained for this occasion), but I think her aggression conveyed to the menace that we Huangs are not to be messed with. We're on to you, vermin.

Yesterday, Scout was the type of person who scoffed at my low opinions of rodents. "I think mice are cute," she'd warmly note. But today, Scout says this of the mouse who attempted a blitz on her face: "I really don't appreciate mouse's behavior. I just want him out of my life."

Tonight is the night I gain an ally and lose a bedraggled, betailed beast. My husband has agreed to trap the varmint (we are, as yet, not homicidal here) when he gets home from work. He says he needs a two-liter bottle of Sprite, a jar of peanut butter, a can of cooking spray, and a box of Corn Chex in order to get the job done humanely. It's not clear whether he'll use those supplies to construct a trap, or if he's just craving a snack of greased-up, peanut-buttered Corn Chex in a bowl of soda. I'm confident, though, that he'll get the job done because he's not too keen on mice hurling themselves willy-nilly toward innocent Huangs.

I'll keep you posted.

Quilter's Block

2009-09-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

Quilt burnout is no laughing matter. I know this because I am a quilting casualty.

My three sisters decided, without my consent, to have babies (all boys, no less) in close succession during the last quarter of this year. During a bout of euphoria at the news that I would be gaining three new nephews, I promised each of my sisters a new homemade baby quilt. It's a promise I don't regret. Usually, though, I take a break from my sewing machine between major projects. I do this because the tekka-tekka-tekka-tekka-tekka of a 15 mph needle isn't as soothing a sound as you might think it would be. Also, sewing tends to temporarily hunchback me.

But since my sisters (whom I love) are having consecutive babies (whom I love), there will be no sewing caesura this time around. As soon as the final stitch was planted in Quilt Number 1, I embarked on Quilt Number 2. But now that Quilt Number 2 is complete, I can't seem to get my fanny back to my sewing bench where Quilt Number 3 is destined to materialize. The fabric is cut, and my needles await, but I'm daily finding better things to do. Like wander through iTunes. Like clean the shower. Like watch documentaries.

Also, it's too hot to sew.

And I'm hungry.

See what I mean? This quilt burnout thing (also known as Quilter's Block) is serious business.

Quilt Number 3 is due in 18 days because that's when I'll be heading over Texas way to deliver it. That gives me 432 hours to embroider the designs on the top, create a border, insert the batting, finish the hand-quilting, and attach the binding. If you consider I'll be spending about 400 of the 432 total hours cooking, cleaning, driving, teaching, praying, writing, procrastinating, eating, and sleeping, I've got about 32 available quilting hours. I've got to use them all.

So tomorrow--darn the heat and my hunchback!--I'll be commencing my third quilt of the season. It's going to be a cowboyish sort of thing for my Lone Star State nephew. It's going to be vintagey/moderny/rusticy/lumpy/comfy, and I'll be glad to hand it over to my sis when it's done.

One of these days I'm going to make a luverly quilt for myself. It will be as heavy as an X-Ray blanket, and it'll take at least 300 hours and 76 pricked fingers to build. It will be the Giza of the quilting world, and it'll make me never want to sew again.

Until the next time a niece or nephew comes along.

Pig Flu When Pigs Fly

2009-09-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced that every virus that has ever stricken the human species was born in a classroom. The common cold, for example, may have begun in a one-room schoolcave in prehistoric Massachusetts sometime late in the pleistocene epoch.

There is no science backing up my bold claim. But I think I have enough anecdotal evidence to convince a few of you that germ genesis occurs primarily in schools.

I was the substitute teacher for three middle school math periods today. It was my first day back to work as a sub, so the sheer grossness of teenage "hygiene" had faded from my short-term memory some two months ago. Today, though, I inhaled and touched so many unnamed brownish particulates that, by the time the dismissal bell shrieked, my nostrils were jammed with crud, my throat was sore, and my fingernails were inexplicably greyish. This is for reals.

How can this be so? Why is it that after a day of lecturing about rational and irrational numbers (themselves not particulary grimy), I look as though I've been wandering through a marsh?

Here are some clues:

Children do not wash their hands. Ever. If they spill pudding on their pants, they simply lick their pants.
Children prefer yelling to the lower-decibel version of verbal communication. One unfortunate side-effect of this prolific shouting is spittle. Please believe me when I tell you that one drop of spit can travel the entire length of a 25-foot classroom.
Children are entertained by sound effects. Their favorites are burps and farts. The molecules associated with these sounds can't be good for my lungs, can they?
Food crumbs and abandoned sticky wrappers lurk in the nooks and crannies of every classroom I've ever visited.

Given that all of this is true, don't you find it miraculous that teachers aren't sick more often than they are? Why don't I get more calls from teachers who have stage 4 heebie-jeebies?

It's been said that teachers have amazing immune systems. It must be true. I've been hearing, though, that the infamous swine flu has a talent for assailing even the most seasoned teachers. Swine flu is extraordinarily virulent (catchy), say the experts. So what can I do to avoid being afflicted by the flu when it decides to slither under my classroom door?

Wash my hands
Drink Purell
Pray

I will be doing all three of these things over the course of the next few months. I'll also be repeating this mantra: Pig flu when pigs fly. It's my way of convincing myself that I shant go down without a fight. Bring it on, flu of pigs.

Or not.

Haiku For You 2: Paper Cuts and Amish Quilts

2009-09-20T20:19:00.001-07:00

Blog Panic (in case you're unfamiliar) is an ailment which generally occurs when a web logger ("blogger," for short) has seen too many days drift away sans new posts. This writing dry spell, when it's accompanied by an acute lack of things to write about, is known colloquially as "Blog Panic." Blogus Panicus, in Latin.

I have a serious case of Blog Panic today. Whenever I'm afflicted by said disorder, I turn to haikus. When I can't handle whole paragraphs, I rely on the simplicity of seventeen-syllable ditties. Here are a few for you to peruse:

Paper cuts are gross.
Don't get one on your eyeball--
you will be sorry.

When my husband sweats,
he smells like window cleaner.
Like Windex. Weird, huh?

I'm so glad scientists
haven't invented real light-
sabers. We'd be doomed.

Sometimes, blackish crud
gets under my fingernails.
How does it get there?

Gregory House is
a man I'd like to meet once.
If he were for real.

Hummus is still fine
just after the sell-by date.
I am still alive.

Would they let me be
Amish for a week so I
could stitch up a quilt?

Using chopsticks makes
you look more agile than you
really are. Try it.

Five syllables and
seven syllables and then
five more syllables.

Thanks for lending me your ear (eyes?) May my Blog Panic abate. May you never be so afflicted.

Wishy-Washy

2009-09-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

Wash your hands after using the restroom. We're all familiar with this bit of wisdom, aren't we? We know that restroom "activities" tend to be a tad untidy, so thorough hand scrubbing after toileting makes sense. Yet we've all witnessed at least a few people whose washing ritual apparently lasts not longer than one and a half seconds, give or take a half second. A cruddy-handed barbarian like that typically turns on the sink, slices one hand briskly through the stream, turns off the sink, and then exits the restroom wiping a barely damp hand on a jean leg. Bbllarrrgggg!

I am the hand-washing sort. I believe in a good scrubbing because I understand the statistical connection between grimy hands and unsavory things like salmonella, staph infections, and swine flu. Disease is often spread via foul fingers. Ask your doctor.

But when experts emphasize how absolutely vital proper hand washing is for maintaining optimal health, they most certainly are not promoting a brief spritzing. They're talking about washing your hands with soap and clean running water for at least twenty seconds. That's nearly half a minute, people. (Or as long as it takes to sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.")

So what's the point, really, of swiping a potty hand through a stream of water for less than five seconds (especially when no soap is involved in the action)? Why make the effort? You'd do just as well by skipping the sink performance altogether. If you have no intention of sanitizing your hands, why not just brazenly take your leave of the restroom while humming Chopin's Funeral March? Why not just say Hey pathogens! Hey microbes and fungi! Bring it on! This, I daresay, would be, at the very least, a commitment.

Thorough hand-washing demonstrates commitment. Refusing to do any hand washing is also a commitment (albeit a vulgar one). But going through life habitually skimping on sink time is . . .well . . . wishy-washy.

Wishy-washiness just doesn't cut it. Not with issues of sanitation, not during workouts, and not within relationships. If you're going to carve time out of the precious hours in your day to do something, then, by golly, do it the best way you know how. No skimping. Do it like it's meant to be done.

I apologize if this lecture has found its way under your skin. Maybe I'm still upset about the tall woman who left the bookstore restroom clutching her Gucci handbag with gross, unsanitized hands. Maybe I'm disheartened by the few commitment-phobic, shiftless "adults" I've encountered this year. Nevertheless, it's an absolute certainty that wishy-washiness really gives me hives.

Whatever you do, do it with a sense of purpose and with your best efforts. My Grandma used to tell me this. I think you'd do well to take her advice.

Pomp and Circumstance

2009-09-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

I've never been in a beauty pageant. Why? Two reasons: 1) Because physical beauty is a prerequisite and 2) the word pageant is about as scary a word as undertaker or mortgage.

Today, though, the latent pageant winner in me leapt out of my bosom and had me behaving like I'd just been crowned the Queen of Blogdom. Seriously, when I saw that Monda over at No Telling had bequethed me the "Honest Scrap" Award, I was fanning my self with quivering hands and squeaking petite Oh-My-Goshes just like a Beauty Queen. I think I'll have my husband buy me oodles of roses just to complete the effect.

In true Miss Blogosphere form, I'll be making a speech. I've been told I need to let ya'll in on ten honest things about myself. I shall reach deep into the memory center of my hippocampus and pull out ten frivolous facts about Li'l Ol' Me. Then I need to choose seven Honest Scrapper successors who will each wear their Blog Tiaras with pride and poise. Without further ado:

When I was in seventh grade, I stole a pair of red canvas shoes for my baby brother. Turns out, they were at least two sizes too small.
Youthful me once tried a cigarette just because James Dean looked so cool in a cloud of his own nicotine in East of Eden.
My eyebrows are never symmetrical because I lack tweezing talent.
I used to think I'd be perfectly happy living in an underground cave in my backyard. Not because I'm a recluse, but because subterranean life seems so cozy.
I have five brothers and two sisters. We all have saints names, varying degrees of endearing compulsive behaviors, and fondnesses for the instrumental soundtracks from movies.
I sometimes miss college cafeteria food.
I look like a cadaver when I sleep. They could never use me as a model in mattress commercials, and there is no demand for casket models.
I like Spam.
My Catholic school uniform was my favorite outfit EVER. I wish I could wear it still without coming across as either delusional or seriously mentally ill.
Butter is a beautiful food. Blog comments are even better.

And now for the inauguration of seven Honest and Scrappy Bloggers:

Sara is the greatest. If she didn't live on the other coast, I'd ask her over for tea and crumpets.
Housewife wins too. Her blogs looks great, sounds luverly, and smells alright too.
Gitta is too cute for school. She's also my sister-in-law. (Yes, this is nepotism at work. But isn't it better than despotism or most other isms?)
Happy Hour's blog says, "May you live in interesting times." Her blog is good like a fortune cookie.
Please Don't Eat Sushi is a great read. This guy posts letters his Mama has written him. His Mama is like an EveryMama and she's funny as heck.
LLOL is an artist, a runner, and a Mom. She also knows how to spin a yarn.
In the mood for some fantasmo and funny art? Schlep yourself on over to Mike's blog. His talent is so large, he can barely squeeze it into his little corner of the Blogosphere.

That's all for now, folks. (I'm curtseying in your general direction.)

Light Speed

2009-09-09T17:41:00.000-07:00

Shawn became a third grader yesterday. For me, this means that he's about a half a day away from getting married and having a mini Shawn of his own. If my calculations are correct, my sweet forty-nine pound Shawn will put on about 100 pounds before the day is out and he'll be sparring giant man/boys in Kung Fu tournaments. This is how quickly time speeds on. I can feel the cool breeze of it on my face.

If I could have a superpower, I might choose to be able to recall, with magnificent clarity, all of the great memories I have with my kids. It's easy enough to remember the moment when Shawn cleaved his eyelid on the edge of a dresser drawer. I'll also never forget when Shawn prayed that he might witness a close-up tornado during a visit to Texas. But I'd also like to be able to recall all of the humbler ventures I've shared with my kids. You know--the ones that tend to fade the more they're exposed to the harsh rays of time. I'd store them like so many mementos in my pockets if I could. My pockets would be bulging and patched from overuse, but I wouldn't mind.

Here are a few of the things you'd find enfolded in the fabric of my pants and jackets:

Each of the flowers and colorful weeds Scout has picked for me over the course of thirteen years
The apology note Shawn wrote to me after having lost his sense of decorum one late night
A handful of the cotton balls Scout used to carry around with her
A photo of the day Shawn begged me to buy the kinds of carrots Bugs Bunny eats
A lock of hair from Scout's first trendy haircut during her seventh grade year
The tooth Shawn accidently yanked out with his elastic bootstrap

Let me know if you come up with a way to capture and store the essence of memories. I'd pay you a bounteous sum.

Pretzels In The Fan

2009-09-03T13:07:00.000-07:00

Speedy Gonzales is cute. But he is categorically and indubitably the only decent rodent on this or any other planet. There are no exceptions to this rule.

Part of Speedy Gonzales's appeal, admittedly, derives from the fact that he is humorous, Mexican, and a cartoon. He can't, in other words, partake of the dry goods in my pantry because he and his sombrero are forever trapped within the confines of his Looney Tunes world. This is where all rodents should live.

My children beg to differ.

Yesterday a mouse visited us via the fan vent in the front bathroom. This is where he spent his day lounging and snooping on us as we managed our toileting needs. He was an ugly mouse who I'm sure is a liar, a philanderer, a homicidal maniac, a glutton, an addict, an chauvinist, a brute, and a racist. All rats and mice are this way. It's a genetic certainty.

As soon as my children encountered Mouse, though, they were enamored of his itty bitty pink paws and his buck teeth. They begged me not to harm a hair on his body and begged me even harder not to turn on the fan to set the lethal blades a whirrin'. I complied because I love my children and because I didn't want mouse platelets dripping through the vent onto my perfectly clean tile.

My children absolutely adored me for granting Mouse a reprieve. They spent whole minutes taking pictures of the long-tailed vermin and feeding him pretzel fragments. They gave him slivers of ice to ward off dehydration. They spoke to him in mini voices. They'd have offered him furniture and air conditioning had they been able to squeeze those items through the fan grate.

And then this morning, Mouse was gone. Maybe he bored of our daily routine. Maybe the bathroom odors encouraged him to find new living quarters. Maybe he hated the pretzels. Doesn't matter to me. What does matter is that my kids had a pet for a day, they were grateful for the charity I offered their pal, and I didn't have to assassinate a rodent. It was a good day.

My Bread Ain't Buttered. My Bread Ain't Even Bread.

2009-08-28T19:58:00.000-07:00

In order to keep my whacky intestines in check, to decrease the poopy effects of my colitis flare-up, and to keep me from developing any other auto-immune diseases, my doctor decided I should begin a gluten free (no wheat, barley, rye) and dairy free (no milk, cheese, ice cream) diet. I nodded my head, stocked my pantry with rice, filled my fridge with faux milk, and wrote a farewell sonnet to two of my favorite food groups:

O, glorious morn whose sunlight paints my sheets

And dips its rays in golds to ope my eyes,

Thy brilliant touch bedazzles what it meets;

Inspires hue and heart to wake and rise.

Thy radiance, too, arouses rye and wheat,

which, hulled and milled, become the morrow's bread.

At cockcrow, when thy rosy rouge is sweet,

I dine on pastries thou hast raised and fed.

O, cakes and pies and crusty leavened loaves,

When thou and butter couple and are twain,

No fruit nor green nor meat adorned with cloves

Approach perfection like thy buttered grains.

But woe! This day I bid my bread adieu!

For thy fair flour adheres me to the loo.

Trapped!

2009-08-24T17:49:00.000-07:00

We all know someone who has almost no ability to coexist with objects in motion. These are the unfortunate souls whose fingers get flattened in doors, whose chins get deeply and bloodfully exfoliated after skateboard falls, and whose ankles get mangled in bicycle wheel spokes. You might witness a person of this type miscalculating an escalator’s rate of ascent. Once the person reaches the topmost step of the escalator, his misjudgment becomes comically apparent as he finds himself inadvertently and suddenly genuflecting at the summit.

I’m not embarrassed to admit that I harbor unsurpassed amounts of empathy for these sorts of people. They are, after all, my kin.

I knew, when I decided to be a Mama, that my children would be at risk for inheriting measurable levels of clumsiness. When Scout became mobile on her first birthday, though, I believe I was lulled into a sweet (but temporary) sense of calm. Scout was and is the benefactor of her father’s agility and coordination.

And then came Shawn.

I understand that the propensity to collect bruises and stitches is, at least partly, related to maleness. Please don’t try to persuade me otherwise on this point because I am right. Boys are much more familiar with the sights, sounds, and smells of emergency rooms than are we wonderful girls. (Girls are sugar and spice, remember?) Take a moment to Google the accuracy of my bold claim, and you’ll see how very right I am.

So when Shawn inherited a mild version of my ungainliness after having already been born very male, I knew we were in for some rich stories about inelegant physical moments. (Let me assure you that Shawn is actually a very gifted runner, tag-player, and martial artist. People who know him agree. He’s no all-thumbed, two-left-footed, insurance risk, in other words. It’s just that when Shawn has a clumsy moment, it’s usually a real doozy.) Here’s what happened yesterday:

The kids and I were at a large Kung Fu training event at a local YMCA-type facility. In the foyer of the gym where our event was held, there was a pair of turnstiles that looked a like this:

Imagine Shawn (or if you have never met him, envision a 49 pound eight year-old boy) proceeding through the turnstile using his chest and hands to drive his way through the spindly bars. Then picture, if you will, Shawn not simply emerging on the other side of the slow-moving bars but, instead, following the bar he is pushing to the point where that bar meets the boxy part of the turnstile. (Are you with me?) Of course, once the leading bar has been pressed to that limit, the trailing bar (the one just behind Shawn, gives Shawn’s body a minor (but insistent) shove toward the boxy thing until—with a palpable degree of dread and a look of utter bafflement—Shawn finds himself trapped between a bar and a metal box.

“Umm . . . Mom,” was all Shawn needed to say in order for me to clue into his predicament. Well, that and the fact that my sweet son had obviously been temporarily immobilized by a rotating bit of metal.

My first reaction? A chortle. No, a rip-roaring series of belly-aching guffaws that rendered me, for a few moments, incapable of coming up with any sort of rescue plan. I’m sure it must have looked just awful for a mother to be splitting her sides over her poor son’s lousy luck. I don’t know what to tell you except that there really is no excuse for my depravity of manners. It’s just that it had never occurred to me that a person could be ambushed by a turnstile. Revolving door, yes. Turnstile, no. Shawn’s tight spot was natural physical comedy at its finest. (Even Shawn admits that now that he has been bailed out.) But I should have saved my laughing for after the rescue and remained focused on my son’s needs during the ordeal. I know that now.

Because of the odd concave shape of the boxy part of the turnstile, and because Shawn was facing away from the box, it was impossible to simply yank Shawn straight up and out (see photo). It also proved problematic to push Shawn down without bending his knees back like a flamingo’s. Someone in the crowd suggested we grease Shawn up so he’d slip right out. Most onlookers just gawked. How could they not? Eventually, a brilliant member of the fray asked a gym employee to use some sort of magical turnstile key in order to unlock the revolving bars so that they could move freely in either direction. That way we could simply shift the bars back from whence they came, thus liberating my dear son.

The magic key truly was.

Shawn was a bit embarrassed by his misadventure. But he handled himself well, and even managed to graciously thank his rescuers. What a gentleman.

As for me, I apologized to Shawn for having laughed so robustly and for having thus delayed release. And then I asked him if I could please blog about his dilemma. He assented. I bought him a pack of candy. All is well.

"What I Did This Summer" by MJ Huang

2009-08-21T16:21:00.000-07:00

I had a loverly summer. Here's my retrospective:

I went for a bike ride on a foldable bike. It was unfolded at the time.
I said bad things to a neighbor's cat.
I was openly pitied by a bank representative for my low substitute teacher's income.
I read a middle school literature text just for fun.
I went to a Harry Potter store in Santa Monica, CA.
I made a baby quilt which featured a lopsided surfer dude. Bled a bit (needle prick) on same quilt.
I achieved enviable high scores on an iPhone game called "Doodle Jump." Am now the apple of my son's eye.
I accomplished three successful, consecutive crochet stitches before quitting forever.
I met a movie star. Then I accidently referred to her son as a "she."
I tried vegan cheese. Then I deposited the entire filthy block of the stuff in the trash receptacle.
I read ghost stories to my son after 10PM two nights in a row. Coincidentally, my son slept in my room the same two nights.
I bought a $6 box of organic peaches that went moldy the moment they crossed the threshold into my home.
I vacuumed nearly 90 times.
I washed 2,500 dishes.
I learned to sing a song in Spanish.

No big travels to report. No cash windfalls, either. But summer was a sweet, humble sort of thing this year. Like Wilbur the pig.

Extreme Hippies

2009-08-18T21:41:00.000-07:00

We Huangs appreciate nature. We really do. Lizards thrive in our front yard, we use our blue recycling bin dutifully, we bring our own canvas bags to the market, we limit our showers to five minutes per person (okay, six), and we have a compost heap in our back yard.

That being said, the Huang children have become quite fond lately of creating some rather . . . um . . . decorative descriptions of a group of people they call " Extreme Hippies." Basically, I think they mean people who live their lives naturally, organically, soyfully, and hempfully. But the Extreme Hippies of my childrens' imaginations are so zealous that I'm quite convinced no such beasts actually exist.

For example, here are a few characteristics of Extreme Hippies, according to Huang Kids One and Two:

Instead of using olive oil for cooking, they use their own sweat.
Their clothes (when they wear them) are made of shaved bamboo.
They believe weeds don't deserve to die, so they don't pull weeds. But when weeds do eventually pass away, they glorify the weeds by weaving them into garments.
They believe children should play in all-natural environments, so they encourage their kids to romp in their own poo poo.
They bathe themselves with sap gel.
Their kids play with rocks, leaves and sticks. They play hangman and tic-tac-toe in dirt.
They never cut their hair, so they simply wrap their manes around themselves during the cold winter months.
They are nocturnal.

There were more knee-slappers on this comedic list of Extreme Hippieness, but I can't seem to do them justice without body language and sound effects.

I'm happy to admit that I do have some tree-hugging traits. I'm thinking it's probably a good thing not to treat this one livable planet God gave us like a giant ball of rubbish. But I've not yet crossed the line into Extreme Hippiehood.

May I never have to replace my Dove bar with sap gel.

Broken

2009-08-17T16:40:00.000-07:00

I have no pets. It's not that I don't like animals; it's just that my landlord frowns on non-human residents. But once I become a famous heiress, I'd really like to buy a house and a doggy. I even have some names picked out:

Cornelius (because it sounds "corny")
Atticus (from To Kill A Mockingbird)
Babushka ("Grandma" in Russian)
Buckwheat (just because)
Vivo (means "lively" in Spanish)
Cal (James Dean's character in East of Eden)

Until I meet my precious pooch, though, I make do with what I've got. No, I'm not referring to my children. I just mean that I derive at least small doses of pleasure from watching other people's dogs romp and chew and drool. And I watch Marlie and Me. And I read books narrated by dogs. (Yes, the genre exists.)

This summer, though, I enjoyed the company of a whole different type of critter. It wasn't love at first sight by any means because . . . well . . . my summer buddy was bald. I typically go for the furry types. Also, he was more olive green than latte beige. And he was skittish. So skittish that he preferred to spend his time in my front yard ferns and was never keen to be petted.

Please don't be repulsed my my summer friend. Yes, he was a lizard; but he was a good lizard. First-rate. Despite his physical disability (a gnawed-off tail) he was the best lizard I've ever met. Every time I came home, I expected that he'd be waiting for me on the concrete path that leads to my front door. He'd lift his scaly head a half an inch or so in order to acknowledge my arrival. Then he'd lower his head. Then lift. Then lower. Lift. Lower.

"Hi, Broken Lizard," I'd call as I approached my faithful friend. And, then, with a flick of his stumpy tail, he'd scamper under the ample greenery nearest the hose. It was easy for me to empathize with Broken Lizard and his nervous manner. Who wouldn't be a little jumpy if a hunk of body part had been cleaved by some brute? It was post-traumatic stress, I'm telling you.

Our relationship continued as such for much of the summer. "Good morning, broken lizard. Did I get any good mail?" "Hiya, Broken Lizard! How can you stand this heat?" "There you are, Broken Lizard! Have you got yourself a green girlfriend yet?"

And then, early last week, Broken Lizard failed to meet me on our walkway. I imagined him happily over-involved in some insect-eating binge or lounging under an umbrella of dandelions. The next day, though, was another no-show day. Day Three arrived. Broken lizard did not.

Day Four. Carefully, sympathetically, Shawn broke the news: "Mom, Lizard was eaten from the inside out by fifty or more ants. He was dead when I found him, but his eyes were wide open. His scales were sinking into him, so that's how I knew he was dead." Shawn spared me none of the gruesome details. His tale was heartbreaking and concise. He told me that he had come across the ghastly scene a few days earlier, and that by the time he returned to the site a day later, there was not even a skeleton left to be buried. The ants had picked him clean and then even dispatched the bones.

So that's how my Broken Lizard's time here ended. Is that how it is for many lizards? Do they never simply slip gracefully away after lives fully lived? How frightening it must be to be so fragile and green. Kermit was right.

Think I'm silly if you must. But endings like this one--even when those endings belong to reptiles--are sad for me. Even lizards can be welcome company. Flowers too. And stray cats. Never rats, though. Or beetles of any variety. (You know what I mean!) Life is so extraordinary that to witness even tiny living things die is at least a touch disheartenting.

Oh, my! How am I ever going to be able to live through a doggy's life cycle? How will I be able to escort a pooch from infancy all the way through old age and, eventually, life's conclusion?

I'm doomed.

Whippersnappers

2009-08-12T17:11:00.000-07:00

I used to work for a big University preschool. Sometimes, when the need arose, I'd be charged with interviewing a new batch of sophomores or juniors to work part time in my classroom. One of the questions I was required to ask each applicant was, of course, Why do you want to work here? I understand this query was likely intended to weed out all of the unselfconscious lunatics whose best answer to the question might go something like: I, like, totally lurve kittens or I heard you serve Cheez-Its for snack. But beyond serving as a filter for whackos, I can't see how asking a potential preschool teacher why he or she might like to work with kids can reap any great feedback. If I remember correctly, the most creative answer I ever got (minus the looney ones, of course) went something like this: Because I like kids.

But "liking kids" is a red flag too, isn't it? I mean, I've worked with children of various ages for fifteen years now, and I still wouldn't be able to tell you, with a straight face, that I like kids. Think about it. Children are not a homogenous group. There are rosy-cheeked, polite tots who take out the garbage for their mothers, and there are vicious little twerps who'd murder your puppy if you gave them half a chance. I've known kids who, when they come face-to-face with a Mom bearing cookies will squeak sweet pleases and thank yous. But haven't we all met the devils who'll kick shins and other nether-regions in order to have first dibs on that batch of snickerdoodles? Blasted whippersnappers.

Here's a story: There was once a Girly Pink Lass who insisted that my Dear Son play fairy tale with her. Dear Son, not wanting to disappoint, inserted evil wizards and other such beasts into the fairy story that was playing out. Girly Pink Lass, however, was disenchanted with malevolence and decided, unilaterally, that all heinousness would, thereafter, be banished. This was a point of contention for Dear Son. It was obvious that he and Girly Pink Lass disagreed about what, exactly, comprised heinousness: gut-shredding werewolves, for example, or fluffy, self-indulgent divas. A brief debate ensued. Sadly, though, just as Girly Pink Lass realized that things were probably not going to go her way, she carefully plugged her ears. Dear Son's entire Let's Compromise speech became an unprofitable monologue. Girly Pink Lass was not negotiating.

You may, of course, be rolling your eyes at my obvious and unabashed partiality toward my son. Don't all parents think their kids are five-star beings? Maybe. Except that my kids actually are great. You don't need to believe me. But consider this: I'm the kind of parent who thinks summers are too short. I'm in no hurry to unload my littl'uns (not even the teenager) on their new teachers in September.

What's my point? Just as there are some very likable children in every classroom, there are also mini monsters lurking behind those very same walls. Most people know this. So I believe people choose to work with kids not because of some lofty altruistic fondness for youth, but because they hope to find a few kids that'll be pretty darn cool. Agreeable kids really are fun creatures to spend time with. They don't judge you for your Target wardrobe or for your wonky hair. They may ask you about the acne constellation on your forehead, but they'll like you just the same. Got chin hair, ladies? No big deal. A decent kid will just tell you how Mom waxes them away every now and again. Reputable kids will respect you. They'll listen. Occasionally, they'll conjure up some pretty mutinous play plans, but you'll be keen to join them. And then, once you become really adept at kid-speak and are an adroit role-model, you may be able to--yippee!--lure a few stinkers away from the Dark Side. I sure feel blessed every time I'm able to help convert a impudent babe into a lovely little being. (Wouldn't you feel like an accomplished do-gooder if you could persuade Veruca Salt, for example, to abandon her materialistic ways and grow a conscience?)

I don't recommend a kid-centered career for the naive or the faint of heart. (Whippersnappers, remember?) I work with kids because I like a robust challenge, because teaching is learning's sister and because I've actually gotten pretty dang good at what I do. It's as real as it gets when you're surrounded by a platoon of mini humans armed with Play-Doh (preschoolers) or iPods (tweens). That's the truth. So I won't, I daresay, be switching fields any time soon. Even though I don't particularly like kids. ; )

Look, Ma--Cavities!

2009-08-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

Sadly, Shawn has a big hunk of molar missing. It doesn't hurt much, he says, but we made a field trip to the dentist today anyway. I made an appointment for Scout too. Doesn't that sound like fun?

I really have nothing against dentists. They're good guys, usually. Yes, they carry floss in their pockets where the Jolly Ranchers should be and they seem to enjoy gouging perfectly good teeth with fishing hooks, but I genuinely believe their intentions are honorable.

Except for the monsters at Western Dental. Usually, I'd use a pseudonym here for the company I'm about to lambaste. It's more polite that way, I think. But since today's lousy experience wasn't my first unsatisfactory trip to Western dang Dental, I'm going to speak without pretense. No fake names today, busters.

Shawn had a 10:30 appointment today. But because I'm an obedient Mama, I made sure that we showed up a full fifteen--nay, seventeen!--minutes early in case we'd need to complete some paperwork. Bingo! There were papers. Lots of them. Sixteen pages of them.

Please understand that I'm not opposed to the idea of providing medical staff with some personal information. I know DDSs require medical histories so they don't do something regrettable like plunge their latex fingers into some poor soul's latex-allergic face. I get it. But, please, tell me why does the machine that is Western Dental need two personal references? If I give them my Mom's phone number, will they call her Texas home and ask her if she might like a pair of crowns at a discount? I'm at a loss here.

I'll forgive the paperwork overkill, though. I'm even willing to overlook the fact that my children and I were obliged to sit in the grey waiting room a full forty minutes past our appointment time. I might even, with time, manage to erase the banality that was the Zack and Cody episode I watched while we were on hold. And yet, despite all of the amnesty I'm willing to extend, Western Dental cannot possibly hope to garner my respect. Nothing in the history of the universe has ever been more inconceivable.

Here is the truncated version of Western Dental's offenses:

The receptionist, whom I had addressed using English, gave me the Spanish version of some forms. I needed to sign them, she said. "Sign where?" I asked. (My Spanish isn't too sharp, you see, since it's not my mother tongue.) Receptionist heaved a monumental sigh which was positively dripping with exasperation. She repeated that I should sign where the form said sign here. It seemed as though the poor girl wasn't going to catch on. "And if I don't speak or read Spanish?" I asked expectantly. Five minutes later, I had the correct forms.
Every single employee, without exception, wore matching expressions of absolute incredulity. The X-Ray technician, especially, looked as though she had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. Is it possible, I mused, for an entire office staff to be abducted by aliens and then deposited back in the office partially lobotomized? Yes, I reasoned. It must be so.
The "dentist" assigned to my children conducted exams which lasted not more that 45 seconds per child. Steel pick and mini-mirror-on-stick merely grazed each of my children before the dentist informed me that my kids did indeed have cavities and that a person named "manager" would be with me in a moment to let me know how much their fillings would cost. "Manager?" I muttered. It was my turn to be incredulous.
Nearly two hours after we arrived at the office, the manager ambled toward us carrying two fat manila folders. She thanked us for our patience (what?) and stammered something about being short-staffed or about having too many customers or something. I'm sure she didn't realize that I had heard the same song dutifully and monotonously repeated by every single one of her zombie employees. I'm just as appalled as you are by this hateful lack of efficiency and punctuality is the predictable and ominous mantra of all Western Dentals everywhere.

According to today's dental "experts," repairing my childrens' teeth will cost upwards of $800. That's for all the good stuff: cleaning, filling, canaling, sealing. So what I want to know is, how much for the po' boy treatment? Maybe we don't want all the fixin's. Maybe just the fillings will do. And can you fashion them from melted aluminum foil if I bring in the foil? Cleaning? Nah, we can do that ourselves. I'm pretty handy with the power sander, you know . . . .

Criminals Are We

2009-08-06T20:04:00.000-07:00

My kids really like to swim. Actually, Scout really likes to swim. For a kid who never had lessons, she's gets along pretty well. Shawn's limited swimming skills, though, sort of confine him to the shallow end of the pool where he spends his time leaping and splashing. Sometimes, just to stir things up a bit, he clings to the side of the pool and makes a complete circuit around the periphery. Someday he'll learn the finer points of taking a dip, but for now he's content to just flap around.

Until today, though, there was a swimming snafu in our family. You see, we have no pool. We don't even know anyone who has a pool. The closest public pool is lame and overregulated by mean teenagers who, I think, wish every pool patron would catch polio and die. In short, our beach towels this summer have been sadly underutilized and our suits are looking too spiffy-like.

So Scout came up with a devious plan. She suggested that we should pack our gear and head over to a nearby apartment complex where we could climb over the pool gate and go for an afternoon dip.

Let me tell you that I'm generally not comfortable with breaking rules. I tend to be the sort of person who believes that rules were created in order to keep anarchy at bay. Where would be be, for example, without traffic signals or DUI laws or gravity? I have a fondness for rules, in other words. I'm prudish that way.

So when Scout proposed that we trespass on private property in order to benefit from a verboten romp in the pool, I was hesitant. But Scout made pleading eyes at me. She ensured me that we wouldn't likely get caught. She advised that the whole NO TRESPASSING thing was a mere suggestion. She insisted she'd take it upon herself to be the one to gain entry. I hemmed and hawed. She persisted.

She won.

I took the kids swimming today at the apartment village down the street. I couldn't bring myself to breach the pool waters because if, perchance, we were busted, I wanted to be able to blame my children for their criminal ways. "They made me do it!" I'd shout. "I was bamboozled, I'm telling you!" So I stayed fully clothed and sunglassed while my children played buoyantly in the chlorinated waters. So unencumbered by rules were they! So comfortable in their lawless skins!

Turns out, all went well. Not one person gave us the stink eye. Not even the maintenance guy who showed up to tinker with the jacuzzi. I was even able to relax long enough to finish the last twenty pages of my book. It was great to see my kids looking so summery and free.

My babies swam until their hunger pangs got the best of them. As they dried off, they thanked me openly and elaborately for being such a cool Mom. And then we exited the area via a gate with an easy-to-pick lock. It occurred to me that the defective lock meant that other trespassers had preceded us. This made me happy. Our adventure had been so surprisingly pleasant, in fact, that I was inspired to promise my damp kids that we'd return next week for another stolen swim.

Maybe next time I'll partake. Is that bad?

Haiku For You

2009-08-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

I read some haikus recently. They were nifty and fun. I do like haikus.

Did you know that a Japanese haiku usually contains a seasonal reference known as a kigo? Or that juxtapostion is an important literary feature of the traditional seventeen-syllable poem? (Who doesn't like juxtaposition?)

Nowadays, though, westerners tend to write free-form haiku. This means that we english speakers/writers don't have to mention seasons in our haikus. We don't even need seventeen syllables. Ten to fourteen will do.

Traditionalists might gnash their teeth about the western-inspired transformation of Haiku from simple poems with strict compositional requirements to the more modern, malleable economically-worded verses of late. But I'm keen on modern haiku because writing about seasons just isn't my style. We don't really have seasons here in California, after all. (Unless weekday and weekend count as seasons.)

You should give haiku writing a try. Every once in a while, when I'm feeling artistically-inclined, I whip up a few verses. They are, by no means, extraordinary feats of imaginative prowess, but they are fun just the same:

Abrasive towels are

good for exfoliating.

They're what we have here.

Scout likes to crochet.

Carries hooks with her always.

And balls of soft yarn.

Shawn has an big scar.

His eyelid ripped open once

on a dresser drawer.

Rats are not at all

to be considered worthy

of compassion, love.

Flossing is not fun.

Even if you buy colored

floss. Or those pick things.

Craving tamales

is something I do sometimes.

Like this evening. Now.

Yo quiero dormir.

Que brillante la luna!

Que vivos mis sueños!

Mullets should die and

tie dye always looks like an

accident or stain.

A wise writer knows

when to stop typing haikus.

So I say, "adieu!"

I'll Gladly Pay You Tuesday

2009-08-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

I'm about to admit something I hope I'll never have to mention again in a public forum. Why am I doing it? Because I feel compelled to explain why my posting lately has been so supremely sporadic and so content-free. Please don't make me repeat myself. I'm only going to say this once.

Three years ago this October, I was diagnosed with a little something called Microscopic Colitis of the Lymphocytic variety. You may call it Lymphocytic Colitis for short. Or just LC. Or LymphCo if you really want to make it sound like an up-and-coming sort of disease.

(WARNING: DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF POOP TO FOLLOW) According to mayoclinic.com, Lymphocytic Colitis is an inflammatory condition of the colon that can cause chronic, nonbloody, watery diarrhea. This is a fair summary. My description of LC, though, goes something more like this:

Lymphocytic Colitis is a loathsome disease which originates less from human colonic tissue and more from the bowels of Hell. It invariably causes ceaseless and copious amounts of the most malodorous cacas this side of the universe. Cramping, nausea, headaches, spoilt undies, and neuron-numbing exhaustion are also ineradicable symptoms. (Oh, and here's a bonus: There is no cure.)

My Gastro Doc handed me my diagnosis with as much compassion as I've witnessed from a physician. Truly. She spent at least thirty minutes with me deciphering the implications of the disorder and providing me with some advice about how to prune my symptoms down to manageable levels. She hoped I might be able to minimize both my potty time and my toilet paper expenses. Probiotics, she said. Avoid fatty foods, said she. Cut down on all of the "oses" (glucose, lactose, fructose, grandiose).

I did everything Proc Doc said. I even positive thunk. I prayed. But here I am, 1000 days later, still hoping to be more gastrically normal. 'Tain't happening, I'm telling you. Plus, there are other things starting to bug me. I've got achey-breaky joints, headaches, and dastardly burps. Also, a recent Google search divulged that LC is for old ladies. Most cases, they say, occur in women who've breached the 65-year mark and who've ruined their innards by overdoing it with anti-inflammatory medications. What?

So now I'm thinking that one of two things is happening here: either I'm a living aberration, or my diagnosis is whack. I'm banking on the latter.

This may be stubborn MJ speaking, but I'm not willing to accept (without further investigation) that I've got an incurable disease of the elderly that's caused by meds I extremely rarely ingest. I'm thinking my groaning guts might be caused by--dare I speculate?--something I'm eating. Is it that much of a stretch to suppose that food might be the culprit here? I'm just applying the same logic which has led scientists to discover that cigarettes cause lung disease and kicks to the ribs cause rib pain. My hypothesis is that certain foods might cause belly aches and anomalous poops. It's not a weak connection, is it?

So I've done a little bit of research and I've discovered that the foods which tend to cause the most insidious digestive troubles for people (excluding hyperallergenic foods) are the proteins in milk (casein) and wheat (gluten). Could it be that the always delicious quesadilla is actually public enemy #1? I've got to find out.

I made an appointment to chat with my Doc about my ideas. Nowadays, by the way, you've got to have ideas before you find yourself skimming the pages of Colon Monthly or Digest Digest in your physician's waiting room. Doctors, sadly, don't have much time anymore for things as immaterial as ideas, what with the health care system being in the throes of death, and all.

In two weeks, I'm going to ask my Gastroenterologist if there is any way to check my viscera for food intolerances. Actually, I'm going pleasantly insist that she check my mid-region for food intolerances. If she discovers that my belly doesn't condone the consumption of cheese, then, by golly, I'll go cheeseless. If Doc learns that my intestines don't sanction the dietary use of wheat, barley, or rye, then I'll (albeit, begrudgingly) wave good-bye to bread both crusty and not.

That's where it is. If, after delving into the topic of gastric dysfunction with my doctor, I find that there is truly nothing to be done about my belly except to learn to adjust, then I may raise the white flag and get on with it. But if there is a more agreeable conclusion, I will find it.

"I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a normal poo today," saith Wimpy.

Crocheting, Hot Vinyl, and Box Fans

2009-07-31T09:08:00.000-07:00

When summer began six weeks ago, I asked each of my children how they might like to squander their summer hours. Scout wanted to do some swimming and crocheting (not simultaneously). Shawn wanted to go to Inflatable World.

In case you're unfamiliar, Inflatable World is actually less "world" and more "parking lot." Imagine the far corner of a mall lot filled with about a dozen colossal, vinyl, inflated structures intended for use by sugar-wielding or caffeine-energized children. Think giant "jumpies" with slides, if you will.

I thought Inflatable World was an odd choice for Shawn. Don't get me wrong: Shawn likes to leap and bounce as much as the next kid. But my kid usually prefers jumping au natural. (I don't mean naked. I mean that he seems to like to jump off tree stumps, stairs, boulders, snow piles etc.) Vinyl play structures just don't seem like his sort of thing. Therefore, I did what any ordinary mother would do when her child makes an odd request: I disregarded my son's appeal. I thought Shawn's Inflatable World aspirations might fade in the heat of the summer sun. Not so. Six weeks later, my baby boy is still dropping some pretty heavy hints about boomeranging on air-filled vinyl monstrosities.

So today we go. I realize I should probably be writing this post after we return from Shawn's summer exploit. I'm sure that four or five hours from now, I'll be filled to the brim with tales of ricocheting whiplash and other grand feats of Shawn's very bendy body. But I'm also certain that at the end of a morning spent in the direct sunlight on vinyl hot enough to melt my thighs, I might not have many shreds of good sense left. Therefore, my summer shenanigans will commence post-Inflatable World: I will sprawl out on the living room carpet and watch a few episodes of Monk as my box fan blasts a tempest of cool air on my prone self.

Summer rocks.

How Much Is That Doggie . . .

2009-07-29T16:10:00.000-07:00

My Mom tells me that when I was a toddler, I was enchanted by a wooden Mickey Mouse puzzle. ("Enchanted" is my word, to be honest. My Mom says "obsessed.") Mom claims I worked on the solution to that puzzle until I was sweating. Imagine that. Puny, diapered MJ pushing her prefrontal cortex into hyperdrive.

Today, I sat down at the piano to play a few tunes from my Big Note, Easy Piano book. (Big Note, Easy Piano books represent my musical comfort zone. Please abstain from laughing.) It was 2:00. I didn't need to be at Shawn's Kung Fu lesson until 4:00, so I had plenty of time for a Do-Re-Me or two. And then I thought I might fold the Himalaya-sized mound of clean laundry on my bed.

Three minutes later, though, just as I was becoming dimly cognizant of the trail of sweat sliding down my spine, Scout whizzed past my periphery and chirped that it was was time to go. "Go where?" I asked thickly.

"Shawn's lesson??" she replied. Cross my heart, her answer was heavily question-marked. She was baffled by my doltishness.

"GO TO THE CAR!" I screeched as I eyeballed the clock. We had seven minutes to make a ten-minute drive. Within a fraction of a second, Scout was hurling herself toward the front door, Shawn was tossing laundry around his room hoping his Kung Fu uniform might turn up in the fray, and I was standing in the kitchen with my shorts rumpled around my ankles, willing the clock to tick backwards. I still had no idea how my "few minutes" piano break had skewed itself into a sweaty, two-hour head trip. I also couldn't account for my felled shorts.

So that's how it is to be me. That's how it's always been, apparently. Once I set out to do something, I tend not to resign until that something is done. My quest today was to learn to play How Much Is That Doggie In The Window at least once without any finger slips or caustic chords. I was also shooting for a bit of memorization. But because I am me, I lost two hours and a couple of pints of perspiration in the process.

We're home again now. The kids are watching Coraline while I'm putting the finishing touches on this post. It's 7:15. Barring any major edits, I should be done by ten or so. And then I'll take a shower to rinse off the sweat.

Solar-Powered

2009-07-24T21:33:00.000-07:00

This week, I've been doing my blogging after the kids are in bed. Previously, I was a daytime blogger. But writing during the daylight hours existed concomitantly with my nasty habit of lingering online. Lingering online, likewise, was beginning to have some nasty effects:

My children were growing accustomed to waiting for me to finish blogging before we could make daily summery field trips to parks and beaches etc.
The lunches I was preparing were lame.
The fact that daylight hours were being lost to computer work was beginning to bum me out.
My keister started taking on the shape of the seat of my chair

So I made the decision to abstain from all daily Web Work until after my kids' bedtimes. I thought this was very clever of me. I was proud of my flexibility and ingenuity. I was a real do-gooder Mama who was doing everything within her power to grant her children (and her bum) the benefits of a Mama who had the willpower to blog in moderation and during off-peak hours.

But it was 9:30 p.m. when I began writing this post and I may as well be a cadaver. My eyes are layered with the film of imminent sleep, I'm doing all of my thinking with only the most primitive parts of my brain, and I think I may have even heard myself snore a few minutes ago. What I forgot to take into account when I refurbished my blogging routine was that my bedtime matches my kids' bedtime. I'm not a nocturnal being. I am exclusively and incurably solar-powered. Here are my symptoms:

My gut exhibits no signs of active digestion after 5:00 or so. All metabolizing and digesting, in other words, have concluded in me by late afternoon.
I have no memory for phone numbers, song lyrics, first aid techniques, or the names of family members after sunset.
Occasionally, I experience a brief (but profound) episode of false energy during dinner. This "energy" appears to be the result of some sort of exhaustion-induced neuronal misfiring and is typically followed by an equally intense "crash."
I don't know what the heck I'm talking about right now.
Where am I?
Acid-mongering, free-floating firebutts eat mostly simple proteinhydrates for making babies feel like tire swings . . . .

I must bid you adieu. Before I burst into flames.

Flibbertijibbet

2009-07-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

I was a wee bonnie lass when I saw The Sound of Music for the first time in the 1970s. My older sister informed me one morning (in the puffed-up manner that is so critical for older sisters to display when in the presence of younger siblings) that our parents were going to take us to a musical.

Me: "What's a musical?"

Sister: "It's a show where people sing and dance and stuff. But it's mostly singing."

Me: "What do they sing about?"

Sister: (Pause) "I can't tell you because you probably won't get it. You just have to watch."

Naturally, I thought musicals sounded stupid. Why would a self-respecting kid like me want to go to a theater to hear a bunch of grown-ups sing about things I couldn't possibly understand? Wouldn't I have more fun staying home and playing jump rope or making mud soup with the perpetually moist dirt at the base of the fig tree? But, since I was a tad too young for my opinions about musicals to matter, I had no choice but to make the trip to the theater with my parents and my obviously cosmopolitan sister.

The car ride to our destination had a doomsday sort of vibe about it because I overheard my parents chatting lightheartedly about how the movie was so long that there was to be an intermission inserted mid-show. I, of course, had no idea what in blazes an intermission was, but it sounded dreadful and unnecessary.

And then we arrived at the theater and the aroma of popcorn softened my attitude just a bit. Also, I couldn't believe how vast and fancy the lobby was. (I don't have any memories of having been in a theater previous to this one. My first impression--awestruck--caused me to pause on the red-carpeted steps and inadvertently expose my slack jaw to every passing patron.) Why hadn't wise ol' sis' told me that the theater was so red and mansion-y?

And then we were in our spring-controlled seats (which had the mean-spirited habit of trying to swallow me whole) and we were watching an aproned woman singing about living hills. I liked the woman's haircut. I loved that she was twirling around on sheets of grass. It looked like she was having fun. I wanted to lay down on the top of her grassy hill and let my body roll log-style down to the very bottom.

I was still imagining myself joining the aproned lady for a jaunt in the grass when she unexpectedly burst into a sprint and bolted into an ancient building where she sloppily gulped water from an old-fashioned pump while a crowd of Nuns gaped at her with blatant chagrin. And just to emphasize their exasperation with the twirling, sprinting lady, the Nuns launched into a fun little turn-taking song about how the lady (Maria) was a problem. She's like a cloud you can't pin down, they bemoaned. I loved the song. I loved the Nuns. I really loved Maria. I absolutely adored the whole stupid musical from top to bottom and from side to side. It was, for me, easily as good as melted butter on a warm, homemade tortilla.

At the end of the movie, I had to revamp all of my assumptions about musicals and adults' sense of taste. I decided that I might one day revisit the theater for a second viewing. I had had an awakening.

I'm fairly certain I never watched The Sound of Music in a theater again. But I was tickled every time the flick showed up in our TV Guide. Mom usually let me stay up way past my bed time to watch Maria make play clothes from curtains and fall in love with the irresistable Captain Von Trapp. What a generous Mommy.

* * *

I was going to spend this post telling you about a few of my favorite things. I was going to do this because I couldn't think of another darn thing to write. But my "favorite things" list reminded me about The Sound of Music and I started yammering away about that instead. It seems silly now to give you my unabridged list of favorite things because I have, by the bye, told you about a few of them: movie popcorn, homemade clothing, adults who don't mind singing on hills, my Mommy. I also like slightly abrasive towels and coffee gelato, but we'll have to talk about those another day.

Scissors of Doom

2009-07-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

Note: The above feline is not a victim of the author's recent scissor frenzy. (See below.) But the author sympathizes with poor kitty's hairstyle plight.

I'm going to have to ascribe the entire episode to hormones. I don't know whether to lay the blame on my estrogen or my progesterone, so let's just assume they're both culpable. Somehow, though, my Estros and Progestos must have (at around 6:00 this evening) chemically interacted in such a way that whole hunks of my mental faculties simply became muted. The result? I decided (despite my utter lack of experience and an acute poverty of skill) that I should cut my son's hair. He was, of course, hesitant to sacrifice his hair to my impulsivity. But since I am his loving Mama (and probably because I looked more menacing than usual holding my quilting sheers), he peaceably relented. Poor kid.

I annihilated Shawn's hair. Sweet Scout stepped in mid-atrocity and tried to help me sort of shape Shawn's remaining tufts into something at least mildly presentable. She did an incredible job, I think. (Especially when you consider that her tools du jour were a miniature squirt bottle and a pair of nail scissors.) Somehow, Scout was able to blend a few of Shawn's hair clusters together. She had to trim a raccoon-sized piled of hair to manage it, but . . . golly.

I suppose that once Scout was on the job, I could have left well enough alone. But in my altered state, I thought it might be wise to allow Scout to work her way through the ruination on the back and sides of Shawn's head, whilst I spent my time snipping a few of the uneven patches toward Shawn's forehead. (Wisdom is painfully hard to come by when hormones collide.) The result is that Shawn has a brand new set of rainbow-shaped short bangs at the top of his face. We could think of no way to fix them, so we admitted defeat and sent Shawn to take a shower where he could wash off the pricklies and his sense of indignity.

At the end of the ordeal, Shawn was resigned to looking badly barbed, Scout was late for her Kung Fu class, and I had to spend more than ten minutes flossing tiny hairs out of my teeth. (Don't ask.)

John assures me he can use his clippers to fix Shawn's noggin tomorrow. This is bad news for Shawn because he HATES clippered hair. But short of reinserting individual shafts into their points of origin, I can't think of another reasonable option. I told Shawn that if I squint my eyes and stand at least five feet away, his head doesn't look too bad. I told him to be glad school doesn't start for another six weeks. But most importantly, I told him that I was sorry for transforming his little boy "do" into a headful of bristle.

If you love me--nay, if you even vaguely like me--please don't ever let me have custody of a pair of scissors on hormone day. And just to be safe, you might like to keep your hair tucked into a very tight hat.

The Story of John and MJ

2009-07-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

Today is my 14th wedding anniversary. Here's a story to commemorate the day:

Once upon a time, in a grassy place near the train tracks, there lived a boy named John. John was short. He had hair that looked like a black bowl. His eyes were the shape of almonds.

John liked to play outside. He was friendly with dirt. He liked to catch lizards and bluegills. He also liked being a super-quick ninja warrior.

Far away, in a long, yellow house with a big front window, lived a girl named MJ. MJ had skin the color of pinto beans. She had a squeaky voice and a jacket that looked like a towel.

MJ liked to play inside. She was fond of drawing canaries. She loved the smell of wooden puzzles. She liked being a Mommy to her scraggly dolly.

Then, many years slipped away like wet soap. John moved away from his train tracks and lived closer to MJ's long, yellow house. John and MJ grew taller. They learned how to spell. They shaved. John and MJ were growing older.

One day, John met MJ. They shook hands. MJ looked at John and thought, "That man wears funny shirts." John looked at MJ and thought, "That woman will be my wife. But first I will take her to the zoo."

So John put on another funny shirt and a funny hat. He took MJ to the zoo. MJ laughed at the giraffes because their necks were ridiculous. John and MJ went to the giant bird cage and looked at some canaries. John bought MJ a funny hat. MJ looked very cute in her new hat, so John decided to dance with MJ. They did a waltz in front of the tigers.

John and MJ spent a lot of time together. Sometimes they held hands. John took MJ outside and taught her how to hike up a mountain. He took her to the pool and showed her how to not drown. MJ took John inside and taught him how to read a book. She helped him write a poem.

One day, John decided it was time to marry MJ. So John put on another funny shirt and asked MJ to be his wife. "Yes!" said MJ in her squeaky voice.

Soon, John and MJ had a baby girl. "I think my baby girl looks just like a ninja warrior," thought John. "I think my baby girl looks just like a scraggly doll," thought MJ.

Then, many more years slipped away like a peeled mango. John and MJ got important jobs. They got a sensible car. They got grey hairs. They even got a son named Shawn who was friendly with dirt and loved the smell of wood puzzles.

Now John and MJ have a happy family. They live in a yellow house with a leafy tree. They love to play outside. They love to play inside. They have stacks of books. They have lizards in their front yard. John isn't a ninja warrior anymore because he decided to be a Kung Fu master instead. MJ doesn't have wood puzzles anymore because she finds puzzles on her computer instead. But John and MJ still hold hands and they still spend a lot of time together.

Sometimes, MJ looks at John and thinks, "I love my funny little man." John looks at MJ and thinks, "I've got a lovely bean-colored, peppery-haired wife."

I think they will live happily-ever-after, don't you?

Mercedes Man from Los Angeles

2009-07-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

My car went kaput this afternoon at a red light in Los Angeles. I recognized right away that the car-diac arrest (forgive me) was due to a wiped out battery because of the un-cute clicky noises coming from under the hood. My two kids were in the back seat, of course, and dear husband was in San Diego.

Did I mention that this lovely bit of kismet went down in Los Angeles? In L.A., you have to be quick. I'm talking Speedy Gonzales quick. So instead of sitting in my driver's seat stewing over my foul luck and my lack of fanciable options, I opened my door in order to flag down a strong-looking man or two who might be so kind as to help me push my unconscious Camry to the side of the road. But it was not to be.

Before I had set my foot out of the car, I felt my sweet Camry get whacked from behind by something that must have been related to a rhino. Sure enough, the front end of a silver Mercedes was tucked neatly into my car's rear. Mercedes man was already out of his car before I could string together anything more than a few low-level curse words and was walking toward me looking perfectly jaunty. This is when I lost my mind.

"WHAT THE @#$% DID YOU DO?" I spat at the guy.

"The light was green," said Mercedes Man. "You weren't moving, so I thought I might clear the way." I gawked. I gaped. He grinned. He looked like a portly besuited devil with dental veneers.

"You did this on purpose?" I spluttered. He didn't need to answer because his infernal incisors twinkled an affirmative answer.

"Who the @#$% do you think you are! I have kids in the back seat and you @#$%ing smash my @#$%ing car just because I can't get the @#$% out of your @#$%ing way?!?!" More teeth.

My kids looked like waxen replicas of their real selves as they stared at me through the back window, and my Camry's bumper was as sunken in as an old lady's dentureless mug. No damage to the thick-skinned Mercedes, of course. Portly man began blithely copying my license plate number from my front plate. It was time to modify my angry-woman stance and go for a more impassioned air. I became the pernicious beast I always knew I could be under duress. "I think you need to put your smug, fat @#$ back in your prissy car and head on down to your @#$%ing pedicure before I kick your @#$!" I bellowed.

That done it.

Mercedes man placed his notebook on the hood of my car and lumbered over to me, fists raised. I couldn't believe he intended to hit me. I couldn't believe how dopey he looked trying to do it. He swung at me sideways and stupidly, and I blocked his Gabardine arm easily. Another punch. Another block. He couldn't hit me high, so he tried for a low blow. Nothing. I couldn't believe how simple it was to fend off this hefty man. He was getting nothing except sweaty. I knew he was duly disgraced.

And then I woke up.

*********************************************************

Yup--Mercedes Man was today's nap villain. Let me emphasize that I never take naps. I find them cumbersome and stressful. Naps, for me, are like the black holes of daylight hours. I can only nap sans guilt or torment when I am sick. Then I can sleep the sleep of the eternally-at-rest.

But back to Mercedes Man: I like to think of myself as perfectly capable of distinguishing between reality and fantasy. But as I type this, four hours have passed since my nightmare encounter with the pompous man who pulverized my bumper, and I'm still angry with him. I'm having trouble coming to terms with how absolutely comfortable he was with his narcissism. He was a heinous creature. I hope you never have to meet him. But if he ever does barge into your sleepytime, throw him a left cross. He'll never see it coming.

Putting Off The Sandman

2009-07-14T17:01:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been so tired that you wished you were actually ill so that you could have an irrefutable excuse to lie down and do nothing for at least 18 hours straight? That's me today. I want to wrap myself in a blanket burrito and be a modern-day (but female) Rip Van Winkle (without the unattractive beard).

Alas, I can't give into my drowsiness because there really is no great reason to. I'm tired. So what? I've still got kids to care for, meals to help prepare, and sundry other tasks to plod through. Also, there are sleepy children in China (or something like that). Sleep will have to wait until after the sun turns in.

When my fatigue fades, I shall actually post something here with a little more umph. The next post will be as much chili sauce as this post is plain baked potato.

Maybe I'm hungry too.

Here are some sleep quotes to fill in this scrawny post:

Without enough sleep, we all become tall two-year-olds.

~JoJo Jensen, Dirt Farmer Wisdom, 2002

The amount of sleep required by the average person is five minutes more.

~Wilson Mizener

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
~William Shakespeare, Macbeth

You know you're really tired when you start wondering if the beds in Heaven have pillow-top mattresses and high thread-count sheets.

-MJ Huang

A Wee Bit of Wizarding

2009-07-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

Scout is sick. Seriously. She's got malignant Harry Potter-itis, and it's spreading fast. As the sixth installment of the movie saga nears its premier date (two days away), Scout is becoming more and more google-eyed and fixated. She's swooning, I'm telling you.

Before Scout slipped into her Harry Potter reverie a few days ago, she filled me in on her plans for movie day:

Wear Harry Potter robes (Ravenclaw House)
Knit and wear scarf that is a replica of the Gryffindor scarves from the movie
Bring wee toy owl and pretend the owl has real magic
Crimp hair to resemble Hermione's
Carry wand
Smile so broadly that corners of mouth actually touch ear lobes
Repeat for second viewing

We are going to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on Wednesday. Scout will be all decked out and geek-ified by sunrise. Shawn and I will, presumably, be dragged out the door by our hair or by the seats of our pants by basket-case Scout because of her Harry Potter-inspired super human strength and her serious jonesing for magic. Scout's eyes will be slightly larger than normal for the duration of the film as her spirited imagination floats freely from scene to scene. Shawn will be mildly transfixed too (but maybe because of a popcorn coma). I'll watch the movie alongside my babies. But I'm also going to spend a good amount of time taking peeks at my Scout as she takes in heaping doses of wizarding wonders and enchantment.

In about a week or so, my Scout will have descended from Cloud Nine (or from Platform 9 3/4) and will ask me, shrewdly, how long it typically takes for flicks to be released on DVD.

And then comes Harry Potter 7 . . . .

Eat Mutants Too!

2009-07-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

Eat Mutants Too!

Can't you just see that admonition on the front page of some Martian newspaper? Or atop a booth at some comic convention?

Impressively, Eat Mutants Too! is actually an anagram for the the title of this blog: Tetanus Tomato. If you've never played with anagrams before, you really should. All you have to do is jot down a word (names are better, though), and then reshuffle the letters until you magically come up with a whole new set of words. It's like math, but with letters. And way more fun.

You may have heard some of the more acclaimed anagrams. Clint Eastwood, for example, can be rejumbled to Old West Action. Evangelists can also be Evil's Agents. (Can't they, though?) Do you have a mother-in-law or an anagrammed Woman Hitler?

I'm just getting started. Some might say that Tetanus Tomato is an astute motto for a blog. But if you were to beg to differ, you might toss out an insult like, for example, "Eat tomato nuts!"

If your name was, say, Sara Tyner, and you were vehemently opposed to knitting and crocheting and other yarn-related crafts, you might take out your frustrations on the actual yarn by shredding it with your bare hands. Then you would have no other choice but to anagram your name to Tears Yarn. Or if you (Sara Tyner) were the type of person for whom sitting still was not possible, you might adopt the nickname Antsy Rear.

My dear daughter, Scout Huang, is invariably (after eating bean burritos) afflicted by something you might call uncouth gas. No matter what her name might suggest, though, she is most definitely not a gaucho nut. (Capris are okay, though.)

It's true, I think, that in previous posts, Housewife Savant (a fellow blogger) uh . . . wove fantasies. She is a master(ess) of story-weaving, after all. (Hove swift nausea is another shuffled version of Housewife Savant, but I'm not sure that a person can "heave swift nausea." I understand that it's possible to heave because of swift nausea but . . . .

Here's a question: Does blogger Chris Mauger truly steal from archers, or is his anagram-encoded "I mug archers" confession pure coincidence?

Is our President's favorite food really the most unsavory-sounding Maraca Kabob?

If you're not too skilled at rearranging letters, or if you don't have thirty to forty hours to spare, you may opt to visit a web site that does all the heavy lifting for you:

http://wordsmith.org/anagram/index.html .

P.S. Don't forget to eat your mutants!

FSN and Technical Difficulties

2009-07-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

We have a tradition in our family called "Family Sleeping Night" (or FSN, for short). Every once in a while, we let the kids drag out and set up some foldable mats we've stored in the laundry room. Each kid arranges a mat on the floor of our master bedroom and then everyone settles in for the night. I'm not sure why this practice is so pleasurable for the two youngest Huangs, but somehow it's good enough to have endured for more than 13 years.

We had a modified FSN last night while John was away at a conference. Scout slept in my bed, and Shawn snoozed on the fold-away. All went well.

And then it was time, this morning, to stow the mat in its place on the shelf above the dryer. Shawn was charged with the task since he, after all, was the last one with sleeping-pad drool privileges. I could hear (from my favorite living room bench) Shawn embarking on his Replace-The-Mat Mission. His feet made a hollow sound atop the dryer, and his grunting hinted at exertion. Scout, though, took in the whole curious spectacle that was Shawn's morning chore from the laundry room doorway. Here's what she saw:

Popcorn, Dorkiness, And The Other MJ

2009-07-07T08:44:00.000-07:00

For me, the King of Pop is actually corn. From the theater is best, but the kettle stuff from street fairs is pretty good too. Still, though, I did at one point have an appreciation for the currently most famous pop music royal: Michael Jackson.

When I was in elementary school, my brother and sister performed a pretty sweet instrumental version of Michael Jackson's Beat It for our school's talent show. Joe tapped out the tune's rhythm on his pint-sized drum set while Marie's tiny arm flew up and down over the strings on a guitar apparently built for Goliath. Some other bug-eyed and terrified kid played the keyboard. I'm not going to tell you bro and sis gave a flawless performance because they did not. But as far as elementary school talent shows go, they were a hit. I'm telling you, I've witnessed other youth musical performances where it was impossible to tell whether the musicians were actually playing real notes or simply smacking keys and strings hoping to recreate something even marginally melodic. Joe and Marie, though, were successful enough that, for a hallowed day or two, they were revered as "totally rad."

In 1984, if you were a kid who hadn't watched the Thriller video at least eleventy-nine times, you were a hopeless nerd. I had, of course, racked up an impressive number of Thriller views, but I was still, sadly, a hopeless nerd. In retrospect, I attribute this mostly to other determinants like the fact that I owned a Rubik's Cube solution guide, that I preferred the practicality and timelessness of bowl haircuts, that I knew nothing about any organized sports, and that I admitted to being enamored with all things scholastic. No amount of familiarity with Michael Jackson's music could have extracted me from the bowels of geekiness. So be it.

Actually, not much has changed for me since the mid-eighties. Yes, I'm married with children and I've traded my bowl-head for Mom-style ponytails, but I'm still a sports imbecile and I yet love trivia games and reading and writing and going to the library. (I've also conquered the Rubik's Cube!)

What does all of this mean, and how is it connected to Michael Jackson? Not much and it's not, really. I just thought I'd share.

May Michael Jackson rest in peace.

Crossing Out the Cupcake Creep

2009-07-03T19:00:00.000-07:00

In the middle of an outing today, my mid-region began singing soprano. I needed a potty. Scout, sensing my desperation, grabbed Shawn by the hand, escorted him to the car, and shoved the keys into the ignition for me. All I had to do was stagger to the Camry and switch to toilet-seeking mode. Within moments, I had pulled into one of those trendy Cupcake Cafes. I handed Scout a five-spot and, as I shuffled toward the toilet, stammered something like, "Cupcake. Buy. You. And Shawn." Scout speaks fluent MJ, so she caught my drift.

Five minutes later, I emerged from the restroom to find Scout and Shawn sitting together on an overstuffed chair and sharing a large lavender cupcake. There were already finger tracks in the frosting. And yet, despite the buttercream and food coloring, both of my youngins looked glum. "What's going on?" I asked guardedly. Here's what Scout divulged:

"I walked up to the counter and I asked the cashier how much a blueberry cupcake costed. He said, 'Three dollars.' Then, after a few moments of him staring at me blankly, I got a weird feeling and then he said, 'You're precious.' And then he asked me if I was nineteen years old. I told him I was thirteen. He said, 'Oh, I'm sorry. You are beautiful.' I glanced at Shawn, and his shoulders seemed to have shrunk and he looked disgusted. I handed the guy the money for the cupcake, and when he turned his back to us in order to get my change, I pulled Shawn closer to me. Then, as he turned back to us, he asked me if Shawn was my boyfriend. I told the guy, more aggressively, that Shawn was my little brother. At this point, I looked at Shawn to show him that I was uncomfortable too and that I didn't like the way the guy was acting. Then the guy said, 'Well, he [Shawn] has good genes too.'"

Is it just me, or is Cupcake Guy totally cracked? Since when did it become okay for full-grown bakery dudes to call thirteen year-old girls beautiful? Is this planet so totally gnarled that it's acceptable now for strangers to talk to young children about anything dating-related? You've got to be a thoroughbred brute to practice that level of salacious banter on babies.

People have gushed about Scout's beauty before. That isn't new. But those who have raved about her good looks have addressed their compliments to me. It's what thoughtful people do.

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS IT OKAY TO EVEN DANCE AROUND FLIRTATIOUSNESS WITH A CHILD!

Do you remember how you used to have to cross out wrong answers on school worksheets? That's what I'm doing to Cupcake Creep. I'm mentally crossing him out. I'm also allowing a category 5 hurricane to shove him off the top of the Sears Tower into an enormous vat of rancid cake batter. I'm not overreacting, so please don't ask me to give Cupcake Creep the benefit of the doubt. The only thing I'd be willing to give him right about now is the benefit of a few milligrams of salmonella in his next cup of tea.

Deal-Breaker Streets

2009-07-02T20:32:00.000-07:00

We're thinking about maybe--sometime in the next thirty years or so--buying our very first home. It's an exciting prospect. I know just what I want:

4 bedrooms
a large low-maintenance kitchen with stainless appliances and at least 20 square miles of counter space
a boys restroom (with splash guards) and a girls restroom (with candles and a vanity)
a large backyard with room for fruit trees and a garden
a library with wall-to-wall ceiling-high bookcases and one of those rolling ladders
a secret room
a cool street name

From time to time, I'll go online and find a house that looks just groovy. A real winner with lots of frills. But then, as I glance at the address, I notice the house is is situated on a street called Doofus Lane. Or Cannibal Avenue. A bad street name can certainly suck the charm out of a home, don't you think?

I'd like to live on Sunday Drive. Or Square Circle. Any Way or Easy Street sound like agreeable places to stake claims. Lois Lane might be okay too. Or Supreme Court. First Place?

If my being finnicky about street names sounds like a bunch of hooey to you, consider this: there are actually some poor souls who live in South Carolina who own real estate holdings on Booger Branch Road. That's got to be enough to warrant permanently abyssmal property values.

One day I'll have a sweet pad on a handsomely titled street. I'll still have a dirty car in the driveway, but at least I'll be able to tell people I live on, oh, let's say. . . My Way.

Toilet Tales

2009-07-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

Because I am the proud owner of a compulsive personality, I insist that the front bathroom be wiped down every morning. Scout and Shawn have been taking turns completing this stodgy task; today was Shawn's shift.

Nobody likes to clean the loo. Toothpaste blobs cling to the ceramic basin, the trash can contains items of shady origins, and the toilet is perfectly beastly. I shant chronicle all of the reasons why bathroom duties are so foul, because I know you all have occasionally gone mano-a-mano with the underside of a toilet seat. You know what lurks.

But if it weren't for the Huang family daily bathroom chore, Shawn and I might not have had the occasion to swap "waste management" stories. For a few precious minutes this morning, Shawn and I chatted about latrine-related issues. We discussed matters from urgency to odor and from preferred reading material to middle-of-the-night visits. It was quite an agreeable talk, really. But the best thing I took away from this morning's palaver was this golden Shawn-styled quote:

"I once had a poop so bad that I thought

I caught a glimpse of a mushroom cloud

just behind me."

Ah, yes. I know the feeling all too well, dear Shawn.

Jettison the Jetsons

2009-06-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

Does anyone out there remember the Jetsons? The futuristic cartoon family who lived opposite the Flinstones on the time spectrum in the year 2026 or so?

I hated the Jetsons. I hated them first and foremost because they were not Tweety Bird (who was the Master Supreme of all things animated). Besides that, the Jetsons were bozos with such a bad case of the lazies that they downright refused to carry out even the simplest tasks without robot or computer assistance:

Doggie poo on the all-synthetic carpets? No worries! Rosie the Robo-Maid will have your home sanitized and deoderized in a jiffy . . . . Can't find a parking space at the mall? Fear not! Your flying car folds itself into a briefcase-sized hunk of lightweight steel! . . . . Too tired after your three-day workweek to whip up an evening meal? Why, just swallow a dinner-flavored, nutrient-loaded pill!

The Jetsons were buffoons, and the inventions they used to guarantee and perpetuate their shiftless lifestyles seemed so improbable to me that I simply could not tolerate the show's rubbish for longer than the opening jingle. Seriously, could you condone a show that expected you to believe that, in your lifetime, you might actually crave a bean burrito capsule?

And then yesterday I did something so utterly and ridiculously futuristic--something so thoroughly revolutionary and far-fetched--that I realized our world may actually be whirling wildly toward the accursed Age of Burrito Pills. Yesterday (are you ready for it?) I sat in my California living room and spoke VIA WEB CAM to my Texas parents. For twenty minutes, my daffy children and I gathered around my laptop's web camera and made bug eyes and silly faces at the lens because we had no idea what else we should do in front of a camera. Every few minutes or so, we'd try to launch into an ordinary conversation about, oh, crocheting or kung fu; but within moments, we'd devolve into a bunch of camera-loving monkeys. Even my parents were doing their fair share of face-morphing and arm flapping. This is how we expressed our enchantment with the technology.

I'd like to be gracious enough to say that I owe the Jetsons series an apology, but I am not that mature. I will admit, though, that even though I never wish to fly or fold my car, a small dose of Jetson technologies might not be too detrimental to my lifestyle.

I'll keep the video phone. You can have the biscuits 'n' gravy lozenges.

Libraries are Laxatives

2009-06-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing the average library patron's visit begins with a brief check of the card catalog. Not so for me. Each of my visits begins with a layover in the women's facilities. Yes, I have hyperactive intestines; but before you're tempted to blame my quirky innards for my library-related bowel urgency, let me take you back a spell to my primary school years . . . .

The library at Tremont Elementary was easily my favorite part of the whole school. This had absolutely nothing to do with the room's ambiance because the room was a windowless hole with moveable walls and fluorescent lighting. Not pretty. But the space was filled with books, and that was what really counted. There was a book about a forgetful old lady who baked hundreds of different types of pies, but forgot to mark each pie's flavor. It was a tale about the acute level of mass confusion that can occur when things go unlabeled. Somewhere nearby, Ferdinand the mellow-hearted bull sat inside the red cover of his book enjoying the shade of his favorite tree. His yearning for peace and solitude made me feel like kin and deepened my relationship with the elderly fig tree in my Grandma's backyard. A King, a throng of mice, and some cheese convened between the covers of their book on yet another shelf. That poor King's very way of life was continually being threatened by a gang of greedy mice who were not only ill-mannered, but impossible to chuck out of the castle. Filthy rodents.

It was easy to ignore Tremont library's dungeonous settting when all I had to do was open a book and step across the threshold into a painted world with instant friends. The pie lady's kitchen, Ferdinand's tree, and the King's castle were places where I could relax. That's right: relax. As in laxative. As in the Latin root laxus which means "loose." You get the picture.

My conjecture, then, is this: that books and the places that contain them (e.g. libraries, book stores, book fairs) are such powerful sources of relaxation for me that their calming effects reach even the deepest parts of my viscera where my soul and my bowels are fused. Libraries are laxatives. And I visit libraries and book stores with such regularity that I am forever, well . . . regular.

One of my grandest wishes for my children is that they grow up loving stories as much as I do. I wish for them that, even when they are adults, they will crave the scent of new books, dream up sequels for their favorite tales, and play with words with ridiculous amounts of pleasure. I hope they never grow out of picture books, that they read way past their bedtimes, and that their library cards get tattered from overuse. Maybe their digestive parts won't be so easily moved by their reading material, but I sure hope their spirits are.

Easy-Care Finery

2009-06-27T18:30:00.000-07:00

I remember when shopping for clothes was fun. I used to buy tops and bottoms based almost exclusively on the Cute Factor. You hear it all the time in retail stores: "Omigosh this flowy mauve top is, like, so cute on me!" Or "These ultra stretch jeans make me look, like, 85 pounds skinnier." In days gone by, it didn't matter that the flowy mauve top would, within a span of 30 days, be relegated to the So Last Season stack of tops near the back of my drawer or that the stretch jeans tended to diminish all sensation in my nether regions.

Nowadays, buying clothes is not much more exciting than buying, say, a roll of paper towels. My new habit, you see, is to buy clothes for their utilitarian attributes. Basically, I choose outfits based on principles like fabric longevity, coverage, and pocket availability. Ever since I began sneaking up on my 37th birthday, all clothing purchases have become subject to my SAFE (Sensible And Functional Ensemble) Method of garment grading. This system is based on the premise that each article of clothing starts the scrutiny process with ten points. From there, each item either earns or loses points based on SAFE criteria. Here are some of my Method's key points:

A sleeveless garment immediately loses 8 points and cannot recover any of those points unless it may be worn under another top.
Pants earn 1 point for each serviceable pocket. Conversely, pants lose 2 points for each faux pocket and for pockets with depths of less than 3 inches.
Salmon-colored articles lose 50 points and are immediately and unceremoniously deposited into the bonfire in my mind.
Wrinkle-Free and Easy-Care tops and pants earn 10 points each and move to the top of my Favorites List.
Shirts costing more than $10 drop down by 5 points; pants costing more than $15 lose 4 points
Blouses that need not be tucked earn 3 points unless those no-tuck tops are cut from multi-colored fabrics which induce nausea in the assessor.
Mono-chromatic pieces are allowed 3 points; paisley is too repulsive to score
Shorts burn in hell

I bought a mono-chromatic, deep purple, no-tuck, wrinkle-free top for $9 at Ross today. It was a 26-point beauty I couldn't pass up (and it will look and feel great with my 17-point Levis). I did have too add more than a few paisley tops and short shorts to my mental inferno, though. Oh, the carnage!

Tai Chi Aspirations

2009-06-26T20:03:00.001-07:00

I am a student of the noble Chinese martial art called Tai Chi. I'm sure you've seen Tai Chi practitioners on TV or in some grassy park somewhere. They move like satin in a light breeze. Their arms sway as if to some dreamy flutey tune and their faces are fantastically calm. They're usually old.

As is frequently the case with these types of things, there is a lot more to Tai Chi than slo-mo arm waving and liquid movements. Tai Chi, in fact, means "supreme ultimate fist" and employs techniques which can actually be applied in self-defense scenarios. Traditional Tai Chi, in other words, is not as mystical or fluffy as you might think. Honest-to-goodness pros can work up a substantial sweat. Mastery of the meticulous movements specific to this martial art, I'm telling you, is a real humdinger.

Tai Chi, though, is still nice to watch. For me, taking in a skilled Tai Chi practitioner's form is like staring at a lit candle: it tranquilizes me on the spot. It also reminds me that when I'm more along in years, I will not be nearly as bendy and smooth as the older masters I've admired. I know this because even at my relatively buoyant age of 37, my Tai Chi looks so off-brand. Allow me to elaborate.

Shawn can chew on his toes. True, I'm still not clear how this serves any real purpose in the grand scheme of things, but he can do it just the same. He also happens to be great at Kung Fu. (He throws the kinds of punches and kicks that usually come with sound effects.) Clearly, his toe-chewing flexibilty is inextricably related to his plucky martial talents because I have zero ability to get my teeth to my foot digits. I'd have to tear my leg from my hip joint in order to make that conquest. I just don't bend right. You have to bend to be good at Tai Chi.

My Scout is also a Martial Art whiz, but her superpower is agility. Today, I watched Scout as she sparred a jumbo-sized specimen of a lad, and she seemed not at all troubled by the fact that the kid's arms were thicker than her legs. Scout evaded, parried, and shuffled like a Kung Fu movie star. Cross my heart, she knew a punch was coming even before her opponent knew he was going to throw it. As for me, I swatted myself silly the other day because I thought a spider had landed on me. Too bad the "spider" I overkilled turned out to be a piece of yarn. So much for agility either mental or physical.

But you don't have to be good at something to delight in doing it. I go to classes and lessons even though I'm aware that the dear instructors who are charged with watching my form must occasionally feel a pain akin to splinters in the eyeballs when I perform for them. I'm not trying to hurt anyone, really. I'm just hoping I can improve, even if my progress is patchy and slow. I persist because, despite that fact that I move like a Dollar Store version of some Robo-Dog toy, I know Tai Chi is good for me and I like the way I feel when I do it. I persevere, also, because I always wanted a sport, and all other attempts to acquire one failed. (Basketball ended with a severely sprained ankle and volleyball earned me the dubious position called "bench.")

Twenty-five years from now, you might spot me in a group of grey-haired park-going Tai Chi devotees. I'll be the one straining to reach my knees during the toe-touch stretch. Needless to say, I won't likely elicit from you the calming effect you might get from a lit candle or from my groupmates' Tai Chi. But maybe, if I keep plugging away during practice sessions for the next two decades or so, you might see my light achieve a little flicker. That'll be good enough for me.

Poem For a Yucky Day

2009-06-24T20:12:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling fat and lumpy.

I'm feeling bad and gross.

I'm angry with my mirror and

my mood is darn morose.

My hair has graying pieces.

My teeth aren't standing straight.

My thighs have uncute dimples and

my skin is not first-rate.

My scale lied this morning.

My lawn is balding quick.

My carpet has some mudprints and

my laptop has a nick.

I know some days are greyish.

I know that some days shine.

So I'll just sit and wait here

'til them sunny days are mine.

I have my book and coffee,

my kids and hubby too.

They'll love me while I'm waiting for

the Brights to dull the Blues.

Daddy

2009-06-23T13:22:00.000-07:00

My Dad had a red accordion when he was a boy. This is already impressive, don't you think? What I mean is, every resident of the United States knows some self-taught guitarist or pianist. I've met at least two people who can sit down at a piano, and (without being able to tell the difference between a quarter note and the Japanese character for "cashew") whip out a flawless version of the theme from Superman in G sharp minor flattened to the eleventh power. No one in the entire history of humanity has ever taught himself to play the accordion. This must mean that anyone who has ever had the audacity to attempt to play such an unnaturally complex instrument is really the bees knees. My Dad is definitely the knees of bees.

It makes perfect sense to me that my Dad would choose for his musical gizmo one of the most motley instruments the world of music has to offer. Bellows, buttons, reeds, keys, and straps are only a few of the anatomical features of an accordian; these all need to be working simultaneously and fluidly in order for the sound to be pleasant. It ain't easy to make an accordion sing, but the challenge sweetens the deal.

When I was a wee lass, I used to like sitting on the shaggy brown carpet in my parents' room watching my Dad's fingers slide across the treble clef keys while the fingers on his left hand tapped out the bass notes. It seemed impossible for two hands guided by one brain to be accomplishing such dissimilar tasks while also pumping breath into the works by flexing the heavy pleated "lungs" of the machine. It looked perfectly unfeasible. I had to try it.

My Dad and I each had accordions for a few of my elementary school years. We must have been adorable. Big Man and Little Girl strapped to massive music makers churning out mediocre versions of the Beer Barrel Polka and Cielito Lindo. We were the only ones in the O'Connor Clan who could manage to tame squeezeboxes, and I wanted to keep it that way. Accordions were the mildly eccentric musical glue which adhered Dad's interests to mine.

I have two accordions now. Neither gets much airtime anymore because there are always other less melodious tasks laying claims to my days. Dad has one accordion; it needs repairs. Needless to say, our music nowadays comes mostly from car radios and CDs. And yet, Dad is still my favorite. I don't get to admire him from the comfort of a fluffy carpet anymore, but I read his blog, chat with him over the phone, and share book recommendations with him. This is good stuff.

My Dad is my hero because he's the guy who's not afraid to take a stab at doing a difficult thing. He's the guy who'll pick up a box o' bellows and try to coax it to croon. That's how I want to be.

I love you, Dad.

Boy Brouhaha (and Scout too)

2009-06-20T08:25:00.000-07:00

There were eleven people in my home yesterday (sister, brother-in-law, brother, sister-in-law, nephews, us). One human shy of a dozen may not sound like a lot of guests to you, but consider this: I have an 1100 square foot home. Subtract from that the square footage that is monopolized by furniture, piano, and appliances, and you've got barely enough room for each of my eleven guests to stand upright in a space the size of a milk carton. This might be dandy for me, but the four young boys who were here wanted nothing to do with being limited by something as supremely restrictive as walls. They spent their hours outside. This is where the fun begins.

Male communication patterns, let me say, are mysterious. When Shawn's cousins (all boys) arrived yesterday, they offered proper and affectionate greetings to the adults in the room, and then settled swiftly and familiarly into the sorts of grunted speech patterns I imagine can only be the genetic leftovers of our dear paleolithic ancestors . The knot of boys then promptly and wordlessly sprinted toward the backyard where they each used their primordial man senses to seek and find the foam swords I had put outside in anticipation of their need to whack each other with stick-like objects. A foam sword war unlike any other I've ever been blessed to witness ensued. There were multiple climactic battles, combat secrets were shared with allies, traitors emerged, and there was not a lick of chivalry anywhere on the premises. If someone was unwise enough to fall, a mass attack befell the unfortunate victim. Even fellows turned on the clumsy-footed soul.

Occasionally, after a particularly protracted skirmish, the war would go into remission and the boys would gather amiably for soda-induced burping competitions and to trade anecdotes about funny body parts and their respective functions. And then someone would inevitably insist that he had had just about enough of such civilized conversation, and the war would rage on. John and Adam, two of the adult males present at yesterday's gathering, initiated a few jumbo-sized melees as well. These were the times when the younglings would form a formidable band of brothers (including "sister" Scout) and exercise the type of serious comraderie that comes with being young and armed.

Shawn and Scout woke up this morning with mild cases of fight hangover. As I look out into the backyard, I see all the telltale signs of a high-power childhood brouhaha: empty soda cans spread like tin glitter across the lawn, french fry crumbs speckling the vinyl tablecloth, swords laying poignantly where they fell at the end of the war. Shawn even has a battle scar betwixt his eyes from when the tree swing jabbed him in the face as he tried to "slice" Scout's legs.

The cousins will be returning to our home sometime during the week. They plan, of course, to resurrect their heroic war and to each emerge victorious. But they also wish to eat ice cream, watch a movie, and play with Shawn's indoor toys. I may not understand everything they mumble, giggle and grunt, but I sure enjoy having them around.

Miss Speaks

2009-06-18T20:36:00.000-07:00

Of Scout's more than 500 charming qualities, one of my favorites is her talent for misspeaking. I'm not talking about the brash and impertinent kind of misspeaking that teenagers tend to be infamous for. Scout's tongue slips are infinitely more entertaining than that. Scout, you see, replaces perfectly good words with fumbled ones, she slaughters idioms, and she generally shrugs off dictionary definitions. Here are a few of my dear daughter's most outstandingly endearing errors:

While attempting to impress me by using the words "not sonorous" correctly, Scout (God love her) used the word "unsounditary." (Much better than "not sonorous," I think, but as yet undiscovered by Merriam or Webster.)
A few months ago, Scout thought I should pull more forward into my parking space. "Maybe you should back forward," she sagely advised.
I bought Scout a snack before her Kung Fu lesson a few weeks ago because she had been feeling the grumblies. "Thanks, Mom," Scout announced. "That should hang me over until dinner."
Once, while Scout was taking a shower, the water temperature unexpectedly changed from warm to rolling boil. When Scout emerged from the bathroom after the ordeal, she animatedly told me about how the water had "scalped" her. (Don't you mean "scalded," my sweet?)
Because we Huangs are lovable geeks, we occasionally amuse each other by sharing trivia bits. After one such recitiation, Scout mused: "Whoa! I just can't wrap my face around that!"
Scout believed, until tonight, that many people regularly wear "vises" on their heads. Since I couldn't imagine that headwear made of large, toothed, metal clamps could be fashionable, I asked Scout for more details about such an apparently horrendous accessory. "Mom," she clarified, "all baseball caps have vises on the front."

Scout wants to commit to bettering her vocabulary during her eighth grade year. That's an admirable goal, I think. But part of me wishes for my darling Scout to steer clear of any language or vocabulary resources because I love her linguistically-muddled self. She's the applesauce of my eye.

Unrationed Rations

2009-06-17T19:11:00.000-07:00

I spent nearly $100 on food at Trader Joe's yesterday. I never do this. Usually, I drop $40 here and $30 there because it makes me feel like I'm spending less. So after splurging at TJ's, I figured the food in my canvas bags ought to last at least through Friday. Not so. Below is a comprehensive list of the provisions I purchased yesterday. Peruse through the comments next to each, if you will:

crumpets gone

lavash bread gone

cinnamon bread 6 pieces left

bruschetta empty jar

brown rice as yet unconsumed

mini muffins 10 available

chips gone (Shawn is eating the bag-bottom crumbs)

spicy chili sauce half empty (not to be confused with half full)

roast beef hash gone

ground turkey gone

tri-tip roast gone

stir fry veggies gone

edamame hiding in the freezer

collards slated to be eaten tomorrow

orange juice still with us

bananas gone

strawberries open and doomed for consumption by morning

wheat pasta gone

cherry tomatoes still available

peanut butter in pantry

blackberry jam in fridge

brewskies 4 bottles for the taking

tea tree soap mostly inedible

Half of what I bought yesterday has already disappeared down the insatiable gullets of my hungry loved ones. I've spent the last few hours meditating on this mystery of high-speed food consumption and I think I've come up with a reasonable guess as to how we Huangs could have possibly eaten through so many groceries in so little time. Here's how I see it: We're not used to having so much food in the house, so when food is there for the taking, we keep taking and taking until we've chewed through preposterous amounts of yummies.

Some people climb mountains simply because there are mountains to be climbed. We Huangs liberally apply this same sort of thinking to eating. Can you imagine the sort of mess we'd be in if we had a larger fridge or a respectable pantry?

Humdrum and Hackneyed

2009-06-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

Scout and I caught the butt end of her homeschool group's graduation ceremony a few days ago. I love the occasional graduation because, like a wedding or a conference, there is usually an impressive spread of free cakes, meats on sticks, and cubes of fruit. But, as we all know, there is usually a catch where gratuitous grub is available. At graduation ceremonies, that catch is the speech (which never seems to begin until I've committed myself to a plateful of berries and a mouthful of pastry). I'm fully aware that the food is a lure, and that by partaking I'm essentially sentencing myself to enduring a diabolically dull address, but I always bite. (I'd make a terrible fish.)

The graduation speech Scout and I were obliged to hear the other day was predictably banal. Why? Because someone (probably a very long time ago) declared that every commencement address must necessarily include at least one (but preferably many) tired cliche. This unaccountable tradition has taken place, without exception, at every doggone graduation I've ever attended.

Saturday's speech, honestly, was mercifully brief and contained only the requisite "We are a family here" platitude. But the speech did have the bonus of reminding me of the worst graduation salutation I've ever been witness to. This was for Scout's "5th grade Culmination" assembly (which itself is a mawkish event, if you think about it). The Principal delivered--with a chillingly straight-face--an address so impressively jam-packed with stale slogans that I wasn't sure whether I was intrigued or nauseated. It went something like this:

Thank you all for being present for this momentous occasion. Actions speak louder than words, so I'm going to call a spade a spade and tell you that your very presence here indicates that today's graduates are surrounded by families and friends who are like fine wine. It makes me as happy as a lark to stand up here and look affectionately upon this school family. All for one, and one for all, I say. Your hearts are made of gold.

Anyhoo, I just wanted to hand down some advice to the Class of 2007. I think each and every one of you should thank your lucky stars that you are graduating from this fine institution because we have proven ourselves to be the type of people who support each other through thick and thin. If I may gush, I truly believe we are the whole kit and kaboodle. But now it is time for each of you to move on to the even greener pastures of middle school. This year, you've all grown like weeds, and you've all left your marks on this campus. For that, I can't thank you enough.

It's nearly time now, though, for you to hit the books. Plain and simple. Summer comes first, and I hope you all have a blast. But once fall arrives, you will each have to get back in the saddle and, once again, be busy as bees. The idle mind, after all, is the devil's playground. In middle school you will blaze new trails. Sometimes, you will find that all of the hard work you did here pales in comparison with the requirements you will face in the near future. But you can't learn to swim without getting in the water. The clock is ticking, and come hell or high water, you will soar to new heights. Of course, I know I'm preaching to the choir. I have confidence that each of you will knock your new teachers' socks off.

Down the road, many of you will pay an arm and a leg for college while sowing your wild oats and then have to get hitched in a shotgun wedding because the apple of your eye has a bun in the oven. You may find yourselves working 9 to 5 jobs and bringing home just enough bacon to make ends meet. But at the end of the day, you'll know that home is here the heart is and that crime doesn't pay . Remember, also, that crying over spilt milk will get you nowhere even as you slip through the cracks while going the extra mile trying to get your foot in the door at a career that has just come down the pike. Don't sweat it because all that glitters is not gold and, perhaps, the job you thought was in the bag was simply not meant to be. You must play the hand you were dealt by the roll of the dice and remember that your cups are half full. Do you feel me?

But I digress. I'm speaking off the cuff here when I say that I want you all to know that you are all the icing on my cake and the wind beneath my wings. I mean this from the bottom of my heart. I know I must sound like a broken record, but you'll thank me one day for imparting on you this last pearl of wisdom: It's not whether you win or lose. It's how you play the game.

Godspeed, everyone. Go for broke, dream on, and drop me a line.

My unspoken reply to Scout's principal that day was this, of course: Silence is golden.

Crane List

2009-06-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

Scout, Shawn and I are currently watching an IMAX film in our living room. It's called The Secret of Life on Earth. The blurb on the back cover alleges that the DVD is a "breathtaking adventure . . . across five continents to reveal nature's most vital secret." I haven't yet figured out what the crucial secret is. I'm seriously doubting the producers are going to divulge it at all. But no matter. Nature shows give me a serious hankering to travel. Especially when great cinematics are accompanied by an affecting soundtrack and a narration provided by a Brit or an Aussie. (I'm listening to Patrick Stewart talk about dolphins right now.) Lovely.

We American's "kick the bucket" when we die. Thus, we have bucket lists. The Chinese people, on the other hand, "ride the crane and return to the west" (骑鹤归西 qíhé guīxī). Because I am feeling so earnestly inspired by tonight's IMAX offerings, and because I prefer the Chinese euphemism to the American one, I'm going to give you a peek into my Crane List of travel destinations:

1) Learn how to use a blow dart in a Malaysian rainforest.

2) Do some Tai Chi at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe.

3) Pray at the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico.

4) Gaze upon Mount Everest (but from nowhere near the summit, thank you). Meet a Sherpa.

5) Buy a pasty in a London market. Use a loo. Use a lift. Take a photo of a menu which includes the inexplicable British fares of "spotted dick" and "faggots in gravy."

6) Visit Italy. All of it. Have an espresso.

7) Say a rosary in Fatima, Portugal.

8) Go to the Four Corners Monument. Stand in Colorado while Scout is in New Mexico, Shawn is in Utah, and John is in Arizona. Take too many photos.

9) Have dim sum and yum cha with the locals somewhere in China or Hong Kong.

10) Buy a custom latte from the coffee shop in Denver where a barista "paints" personalized portraits in milk foam.

Do you have a Crane List too?

Tiger Nap

2009-06-14T17:31:00.001-07:00

My husband, John, sometimes doesn't recognize the symptoms that precipitate his requiring a nap. This morning, for example, John managed to remain symptom-free (which is impressively heroic since his stay in bed last night lasted less than six hours). But by mid-afternoon, as we were heading home from a layover at Borders, John pointed out his window to a mural on a concrete wall and thus began a rapid descent toward code red sleepiness:

"Doesn't that mural remind you of one we've seen somewhere?" he asked.

"No, John. I can't say that it does."

"Yes it does. Think about it."

"Actually, I have thought about it, and nothing's coming to mind."

"Don't say that. Just think about it. It's important. It had a man playing guitar and a girl with balloons . . . . Come on."

Our conversation proceeded something like this for another minute or two before I realized a swift and decisive plan of action was required. You see, I am a firm believer that naps must be initiated before conversations devolve into something like this:

"Honey, don't you think we oughta sleeve the cat into carpeted pummels?"

"My sweet, I'm not quite sure what you mean."

"Fetid cows! You're dreadlocks fizzled under my shoes!"

"My dreadlocks, darling?"

"Nada mind. Place your boxers upside down. Grommet."

"If that's what you really want, honey."

So here's what I do now whenever John starts to exhibit the tell-tale signs of late-stage sleepy incoherence: I place my hand gently on his forehead and guide his head toward the car's headrest. Then, using that same hand, I wipe his eyes closed. This technique is a bit of magic I've concocted which tranquilizes John forthwith and has him snoring within moments--the kind of snoring that derives from his diaphragm and seems to say, "I'm sleeping like I mean it." These are John's "tiger naps" because they are way more significant than any siesta a wee kitty might enjoy. Not that they are much in the way of duration, (they are usually 10-20 minute dozes) but they are deep and sonorous. Like the Grand Canyon.

Hmm . . . . Maybe that's where we saw the mural.

Fruitophilia

2009-06-13T16:44:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing there have been internet drifters who have landed in this blog looking for gardening tips or for ideas related to tomato husbandry (is there such a thing?). I didn't intend for my blog title to be fraudulent but I am most decidedly not a gardener or friendly with any species of tomato. This is not for lack of wishing to have a green thumb; it's just that I've not been gifted agriculturally. My son Shawn, though, is the type of kid whom you might expect to have "I heart veggies" stickers canvassing his bedroom door.

Shawn's Charter School has a juvenile gardening program. The parents in charge of the school's resident lettuce heads and fava beans are avid outdoorsy/composty/organically-inclined individuals. Shawn says he can imagine these parents "eating kumquats and seaweed" more than twice a day and wearing clothes made from "the juice of leaves." Funny thing is, if Shawn had it his way, I believe he'd also be dining on kumquats and living in a house constructed from blocks of organic, petrified sap and other renewable resources.

For President's Day this year, Shawn was required to write a few sentences about what he might do if he were president. My sweet earth-minded Shawn's presidential platform was entirely produce-related:

If I, Shawn Huang, were president, I would send Banana

Planes up to drop bananas all over town! I'll make all

pepole in the world drink lemonaid from 6:00 a.m. to

12:00 p.m. ANNND!! I would force pepole to read the

Dicsonairy while eating fruit fore ever.

Try not to read too much into Shawn's apparent dictatorial tendencies. Let's just agree that my son has a confirmed case of fruitophilia. He also, clearly, loves dictionaries.

That's my boy.

Death Cab Granny Squares

2009-06-12T09:56:00.000-07:00

My house was a dirty rotten mess this morning. There was a two-foot stack of grodey dishes piled precariously in the sink. There was a damp towel laying like a dead fish in the hallway. In the living room, there was a sweaty Kung Fu uniform shirt laying atop a pair of work-out shoes. (The pants portion of the ensemble apparently escaped in the night.) I took my cue from the missing pants and decided to grab Scout and flee from our unkempt castle.

By 8:40 or so, Scout and I were sitting in a Starbucks store settling into the first phase of Operation Ditch-The-House. I had my headphones in, my computer on, and I was opening a window to the itunes store when I took a gander at Scout to she how she was planning on spending her Starbucks downtime. Scout's survival kit included a ball of yarn, a green crochet hook, and a pair of scissors.

It occurred to me then that our chosen leisure activities seemed ridiculously mixed-up (in a Freaky Friday kind of way). 37 year-old bobs her head to Death Cab For Cutie while 13 year-old crochets granny squares for an imminent poncho? What?

You might think I'd be used to these types of odd Huang family moments, but you'd be wrong. I'm still hopelessly surprised (and often delighted) by the sheer comprehensiveness of our idiosyncracies. I'm sure all families believe they are mildly eccentric enough to be considered charming and amusing. Cheers to all you nutty families. But I'm going to go ahead and take this moment to salute my backwards family for all the "crazy points" we continue to rack up. I love being a member of Troupe Huang.

Grumbling About Cartwheels

2009-06-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

If you are in any way a fan of the Brazilian martial art known as Capoeira, now would be a good time to redirect yourself away from this page and find something better to do. May I suggest reading a classic novel or chopping some garlic for tonight's dinner? Don't you have some laundry to fold?

If you, on the other hand, have unhealthy amounts of disdain for the fighting styles of Brazil, or if you are a neutral party who can handle a fair amount of bellyaching, you are more than welcome to stick around.

Let's begin.

My son, Shawn, took a tour of a third grade classroom today because his teachers thought it might be a good idea for him and the rest of the almost-ex second graders to get a sneak peek into next year. This morning, Shawn had no opinions about next year's classroom assignment. (Being an 8 year-old, his future-mindedness stretches only as far as approximately late June.) But by lunchtime, Shawn was ready to do anything (shave his head, remove his fingernails, have his tonsils amputated, knock himself out) in order to be absent every Thursday next semester. Why? Because the third graders at Shawn's school do a little something called "Capoeira Thursday" every bloody week from September until June.

I'm not too familiar with Capoeira, so I'd botch a description of it if I tried. I think it might be more effective to let Shawn recount what he observed a crew of third graders doing today:

"I went in the classroom and it looked like the kids were chopping invisible meat with their hands while doing cartwheel kicks. I don't know what cartwheel kicks would do to a bad guy. Why would you kick someone with your hands? I also don't know that flaring your fingers at a bad guy would scare him. I think it'd just tickle him. What's the point? I don't know why they were throwing each other's legs over each other's heads. What does that do?"

After the presentation, Shawn amiably thanked the third graders for their performance and then--with as much deference as he could muster--asked if participation in Capoeira next semester could please (I beg you!) be optional. He got no reply.

So now, Shawn is trying to hatch a plan for how to handle his future Thursdays. At the top of his list are 1) making a detour around third grade and diving headlong into fourth grade, or 2) wearing elaborate disguises to each looney arm-waving session. Until he arrives at a decision that will please both him and the truancy officials, though, he refuses to call Capoeira by its given name. He'll call it "capillary" instead because capillaries are just so much cooler.

It's A Twister!

2009-06-10T19:10:00.000-07:00

"Twister" by Shawn Huang

A twister just wrapped up its plundering of the neighborhood where my folks live in North Texas. Andy, the most impertinent of my five brothers, took a post-storm stroll through the area in order to satisfy his curiosity about the beast that had just come to call. Knowing Andy, he most likely embarked on his walk the moment the whipping tail of the tornado sucked itself back up into its mothership of a gray cloud.

How banged up was the neighborhood? Not very. What I mean is, as far as Andy could see, every foundation still had a house, and there were no flattened cows blocking roadways. There were, however, thrashed fences, shingles that were MIA, and a mangled wagon. But I'm a Californian, and we expect tornados to dance around Wizard of Oz style abducting homes and livestock and depositing them willy-nilly in trees and lakes. I'm very glad, you understand, that my family and their neighbors were not damaged by the ordeal. I'm just saying that nearly everything we West Coasters know of supercell thunderstorms and cyclones we've retrieved from movies. So for me, a tornado that uproots shingles and tips trees sounds downright dainty.

Mom, though, says the storm was not amusing. From her crouching place in the hall closet, she could hear what sounded like a Herculean thing trying to pry open her garage door. She heard her window screens trying to escape their lodgings. She heard roaring. Lots of roaring. Had I been with her, I would have been more than willing to contribute a relentless and high-pitched scream to the mix.

My sister, Annie, was driving home as today's tornado set its sights on my Mom's and her part of town, so Annie actually saw the funnel cloud. Somehow, she managed to stay cool as she hurried her kids (who were marvelously unaware of the monster hastening toward them) into the relative safety of their house. On Saturday, Annie will be packing her unscathed pregnant self, her husband, and her three boys into their van. They will point their car west and roll into California early next week. My dear Shawn, aflame with sciencey, geeky inquisitiveness after hearing about today's twister, tells me he knows exactly what he'll ask his Aunt Annie when she arrives: "What F was it?" (Translation: "What was the Fujita Scale ranking of the tornado you saw? Was it an F3 or above?") My Mom assures me that either she or Aunt Annie will be happy to tell Shawn what the F it was.

Wireless Woes

2009-06-08T16:23:00.000-07:00

I have just emerged victorious from an epic struggle with my internet server. All morning, my net connection vacillated between slow and non-existent. For at least two hours, the relentless portion of my psyche insisted that the best course of action was to continue attempting to reopen my exhausted browser at regular 30-second intervals. Kaput meant nothing to me at this stage.

Later, as quiet desperation began to take hold, I commenced trying to come to some kind of an accord with my computer and all of its wires and attachments. ("I know you've been working hard lately, but if you just give me a little more of your time . . . ." ) Did it matter that most psychologists agree that treatises with inanimate objects are unlikely to reap any measurable benefits? Not at all. I was problem solving.

And then, the reality of my internet connection's collapse somehow seized me. I shut down my system and drove to see my doctor (for an unrelated issue). In my GP's waiting room, I began to envision how my life might look sans the WWW, but I was only able to conjure up black and white images of wordless, blogless desolation. So sad.

When I returned home, I couldn't help but give my shiny, white Mac an expectant glance. I know she's incapable of greeting me with the same level of loving abandon a puppy might, but I was hoping so earnestly for some sign of hope.

And there it was. The boxy do-dad that somehow makes the miracle of wireless internet possible was not plugged into the wall. (I'm astounded I'm admitting this in a public forum.)

All is well.

El Album De Mi Cabeza

2009-06-07T14:23:00.000-07:00

Tu ausencia me esta abriendo un hueco

Your absence is opening a hole

En medio del pecho

In the middle of my chest.

Y solo al cerrar yo los ojos

And I only have to close my eyes

En cada parpadeo te veo . . . .

To see you in every blink.

El album de mi cabeza solo con fotos tuyas se llena.

The only album in my head is filled with photos of you.

-from a popular song by Colombian rock band "Aterciopelados"

I spoke with a loved one on the phone today. We used to live close to one another, but were, several years ago, separated by circumstance and proximity. Because our visits are so abundantly infrequent, we've had to acquaint ourselves with new communication grooves. Should we call whenever the mood strikes us and begin cooly collecting 40-page cell phone bills? Should we chat every-other Sunday sometime within the 14-minute gap between Mass and dinner? Is e-mail our best bet? What the heck is a videoconference anyway, and does it hurt?

Parts of the process of establishing a long-distance relationship have been immeasurably disheartening. I have, on occasion, crossed my arms, stomped my feet and growled, "Fine. Don't call me." (Peevishness is one of my talents.) My loved one, on the other hand, gets the dismals. Aren't we a fine pair?

But that's the point, I think: We are a pair, for best or for worst. We sometimes bungle, and we easily bruise, but we are still crazy about each other (and with each other).

You are the best, Loved One. Don't doubt it.

(Please pardon my spanish translation.)

Stomping Grounds

2009-06-06T17:48:00.000-07:00

I took Scout and Shawn to the park where I used to take my younger brothers when they were young enough to care about such things. It was the first time I had been to the place since about 1990 or so.

We had several other parks to choose from today, but my sweet babes wanted to play in the very same place where their uncles used to romp. From my post-1995 kids' perspectives, the place must have seemed like a historical site. Like Mount Vernon. Or Gettysburg.

I appreciate that my kids seek out knowledge about my history. They know Uncle Joe once accidently hit me in the head with a hunk of cinder block during an ill-planned game of Batman and Robin. They know I peed in my red tights in honor of first grade picture day. They can recall with uncanny accuracy how their dear Uncle Adam put a crack in his skull after flamboyantly flinging himself head-first off his wagon and depositing himself onto the floor of the garage. They know about Aunt Sara's near death experience involving a sprint down a hallway and a mouthful of Lincoln Log.

Funny how most of the family stories they love involve injuries both bloody and not. Funny how these are the stories I tend to remember in High Definition. But since the park we visited today doesn't have any family abrasions, breaks, or lacerations connected to it, I can only guess that my children appreciate prowling through my stomping grounds even if those locales are drama-free. I'm glad I've got a couple of wide-eyed kids who like it when I spin my yarns and are grateful when I take them to the places where those yarns were spun.

Joe My Bro

2009-06-05T19:01:00.000-07:00

36 years ago today, my Mom gave birth to a phenomenal brown bundle of skin, hair, and charisma. I'm sure you're thinking this is an exact description of me (especially the charisma part), but I'm actually talking about my little Bro Joe.

Joe was my best friend growing up. We spent boundless afternoons in our Grandmother's ample yard. Grandma's lot, I am fairly certain, was the size of Rhode Island and was lavishly landscaped with several varieties of mud, dirt clods, and sticks. With the mud, Joe and I hand-crafted fake doggy turds which we scattered liberally across Grandma's meticulously-maintained patch of backyard crab grass. We hypothesized (and we were right!) that Grandma would feel compelled to shovel the counterfeit poops into the garbage. Somehow, watching our dear Grandmother treat our expertly-forged creations like genuine bundles of stink was a grand way to waste whole afternoons.

Joe and I also played Batman and Robin, hide and seek, tennis, obstacle course, and baseball. We split the two-sticked popsicles the ice cream man vended, we rode our bikes to 7-11 for grape Now & Laters, and we attempted to build a fort from the petrified wood Grandma stored beneath a thick frosting of spider webs. The fort never became anything more than a tilted foundation, but Joe and I found, I'm sure, some even cooler amusement. I never tired of Joe's company, and I was proud to be his Big Sis.

I can't remember when Joe and I last shared a pack of Now & Laters or made mud anythings, but we played mini golf a few weeks ago and tomorrow we'll meet for lunch. We've each got a pair of kids (all of whom have frittered away sunny hours in the company of wet dirt) and houses and bills and other adult responsibilities. But I still sprout a smile when I think about my Bro Joe and our colorful histories filled with misadventures.

I love you, J.

--M

Euphemasia

2009-06-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

Some families, I believe, occasionally supplement Standard American English with clan-specific vocabulary. I'm not talking about how, for example, all Texans drink cokes (even when those "Cokes" are actually Sprites). I'm also not talking about Baltimoreans warshing their clothes, Clevelanders taking nee-aps when they're sleepy or New Jerseyans taking milk with their cawfee. I'm talking about how some families have integrated into their lives words and phrases which were coined by nuclear or extended family members. Some families, in other words, have mini dialects all their own. We Huangs have a fairly extensive clan-specific lexicon complete with idioms, spoonerisms, abbreviations, acronyms, and euphemisms. Would you like to see a partial glossary?

BC: short for Big Clean; a riveting cleaning event which takes place every Monday in the Huang household

Coconut tree: euphemism for the portion of male anatomy typically covered by boxers; derived from a song of the same name written by Shawn Huang (see lyrics below):

The coconut tree, the coconut tree, the coconut tree,

The coconut tree, the coconut tree, the coconut tree.

Doo doo chee: phrase indicating glee; extracted from Scout Huang's onomatopoetic version of beat-boxing

I love Mexicans: originally, a slapdash exclamation voiced by Mommy Huang when she was compelled to make a hasty switch of the car radio dial to the local Mexican station after lewd lyrics were being played on another station; currently used as a general verbal deflection (see example below):

Child: "Mommy, where do babies come from?"

Mommy: "I love Mexicans."

Linner: the mid-afternoon meal (typically taken on weekends) which is a combination of lunch and dinner

Plug yourself: synonymous with put your seatbelt on

Pretty pink pony: euphemism for any pink-clad, doll-carrying, sweet-talking, fluffy girl who refuses to give lizards and mud due reverence

Prowza-yoo: phrase of approval; derived from Grandfather "Baba" Huang's rendition of the phrase I'm proud of you

Shake a tower: spoonerized version of take a shower

Supper: euphemism for any evening meal rendered by MJ Huang

Do you have a stock of family words too? I'd love for you to tell me about them.

Kooky Kid

2009-06-02T19:38:00.000-07:00

My sweet Shawn (eight years old) has a project due for school. He and his cohort of second graders were allowed to pick topics of personal interest and then coalesce those topics into poster boards, dioramas, charts, or mobiles. (Doesn't this bring back memories of classrooms reeking of sweat and glue?)

Since the projects have begun trickling into Ms. Karen's room, Shawn has been bringing home daily updates about the theses his schoolmates have chosen: Saturn, Australian animals, hippos, Bob Marley. As I type, my son is putting the finishing touches on his 2009 scholastic magnum opus: "A summary of the bacterial toxin Clostridum botulinum." I'm serious. My son is going to teach his friends about botulism.

Granted, Shawn isn't going to break out a molecular model of the bacterium or talk about the intricacies of neuronal involvement typical to the more severe cases of infection. But just the fact that my 45-pound baby is planning to show up at school tomorrow lugging a poster full of information he extracted from the CDC's website and other sciencey sources makes me smile. How proud I am to be Mom to such a severely kooky kid.

My Three-Headed Donkey

2009-06-01T18:57:00.000-07:00

I said "crap" while I was teaching the middle schoolers today. My intended word was "crop." (We were learning about the sorts of farmed foods available in ancient western Africa.) Of course, as soon as the error exited my mouth, the kid closest to me wrapped himself gleefully around my bad word and thereafter insisted on reminding me every 10 seconds or so about my intractable faux pas. Who knew there was so much hilarity embedded in a four-letter word? I get the feeling the kid believes he was lucky enough to be present at some exalted once-in-a-lifetime event. Like a solar eclipse. Or the birth of a three-headed donkey.

Admittedly, I was able to reap a mild chuckle or two from my mishap today. I did say the word pretty enthusiastically. But because my cussing was unintentional, I think I'll spare myself the traditional soap-in-mouth routine and just relish the thought that my "crap" was the highlight of a kid's day. Always happy to serve.

Decibel Dinner

2009-05-31T17:09:00.001-07:00

If your family and mine were to one day decide to meet for dinner at a restaurant and, upon arriving at the restaurant, your family was unsure where my family was sitting, here's how you might find us: seek the booth where there is a striking spike in decibels. We Huangs tend to exist well outside the boundaries of ambient noise. We are a sonorous bunch.

I'm not quite sure why we're so loud in restaurants, but here's a guess: I think we enjoy each other so thoroughly that we tend to forget we aren't sitting in our own dining room guffawing (and sometimes choking) our way through family meals. At a Mexican eatery just this afternoon, John photographed me in a cross-eyed belly laugh. I am waving a tortilla chip. Shawn (our sound man) adds audio effects to every occasion. He's got an audio repertoire which includes space shuttle lift-offs, machine guns, raving monsters, crumbling skyscrapers, H-bomb explosions, and fighter jets in smoking downward spirals. Each of these sound bites comes with generous outpourings of saliva molecules. Scout laughs herself dangerously close to respiratory distress, and John's happy whoops tend to sound like rainforest calls.

Occasionally, one or more of us will tear ourselves away from our family reverie in time to realize that we've got an accidental audience. We signal each other (Shhhhhhh! Sh! I said SSHHH! ) to settle down and take account of our surroundings. We all obey. For a while.

I marvel at the fact that we have been allowed to continue to visit certain eating establishments. Restaurateurs are a forgiving bunch, I suppose. Or maybe the proprietors have noticed that the size of our tips is directly correlated with the enormity of our voices.

Unrainy Rain

2009-05-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

We're supposed to take Winn (brother-in-law) to the Zoo today. We presented our plans to him last night, so he fell asleep on a pillow of Zoo anticipation.

And then the rain started.

I smelled the rain before I saw it, but had to open the door and lay my doubting eyes on the drenched lawn before I could accept the reality of it all. Winn's not going to like this I croaked in my manly morning voice. Dang it. Winn's autism and his hereditary strength of purpose routinely combine to form formidable aversions to change of plan, idea, time, venue. Picture a grey cloud with willpower and downturned eyebrows.

My personal panic protocol requires me to check the internet for answers to all dilemmas ranging from bowel urgency to frustrated brothers-in-law; since this morning's predicament involved both issues, I opened my internet browser with a level of feverishness my Mac is unaccustomed to. My computer rewarded my urgency by taking a full minute to open.

According to Yahoo, it simply wasn't raining in San Diego. Obviously, all my senses were malfunctioning. I checked again, stepping outside this time so as to maximize sensory input. Lawn is wet. Street is wet. Face is wet. Definitely raining.

And yet, even as I sit here waiting for the weather to clear, Yahoo, Google, and MSN obstinately insist that the rain is just my imagination gone wild. I'm taking this to mean that a bunch of guys sitting around their climatology desks are certain the rain is going to fade before I notice the tapping on my roof or my soaked shoes on the porch.

Winn was mildly perturbed when he noticed the rain. But I assured him that it was not built to last and that while my area of town was wet, the zoo had the decency to stay dry for tourists. He feels better now and took the news calmly and graciously. Winn never ceases to surprise me. I feel like a chump for having expected Winn to curse the rain and all its relations.

We'll be heading for the zoo in a few minutes. I think (and the weathermen/-women seem to agree) that this morning's precipitation won't linger. Let's hope the weather "experts" and I aren't just sharing some viral form of denial.

Shirt Wisdom

2009-05-29T19:55:00.000-07:00

O God of earth and altar,
bow down and hear our cry,
our earthly rulers falter,
our people drift and die;
the walls of gold entomb us,
the swords of scorn divide,
take not thy thunder from us,
but take away our pride.

--G.K. Chesterton

I saw this quote on the shirt back of a sixth grader at work today. I loved the words and admire their creator, so I wrote the text on a tidbit of paper for safekeeping. When I walked around to face the student, though, I was perplexed to find the words "Iron Maiden" silk screened to the front of the kid's shirt. Is it just me, or are heavy metal band and hymn lyrics a smidge mismatched? I still don't know what it all means. I'm confused.

But I did look up the rest of the words for said hymn and found them just as excellent as the ones above:

From all that terror teaches,
from lies of tongue and pen,
from all the easy speeches
that comfort cruel men,
from sale and profanation
of honor, and the sword,
from sleep and from damnation,
deliver us, good Lord!

Tie in a living tether
the prince and priest and thrall,
bind all our lives together,
smite us and save us all;
in ire and exultation
aflame with faith, and free,
lift up a living nation,
a single sword to thee.

May I never be the author of "lies of tongue and pen [and keyboard]." May my words be good.

Tethered to my espresso machine

2009-05-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's 6:30 am and I've been up and about for at least 45 minutes. I have no good reason to be conscious at this point in the day. Dishes are washed, Shawn's school lunch is ready, there are no discernible crumbs on the floor, I don't have to pee. So why am I keeping company with the still-stretching sun? Because when John shifted slightly in open-mouthed slumber in the wee hours, I woke up (light sleeper) and, against my will, became engrossed in happy thoughts about my espresso machine. The upside is that no one is awake to witness me smiling dumbly in the darkness. The downside is that once my mind has wandered into the coffee zone, there is no going back to sleep. I am emotionally and gastrically tethered to my espresso machine.

Ever since my brother and sister-in-law got me a sleek, black espresso machine for Christmas, I've been a stay-at-home barista. My lattes are much more delicious than the $4 ones down the street. I don't know how this can be possible since I'm no kitchen whiz, but I'm seriously in love with my morning brew.

Don't get me wrong. I got a Starbucks gift card recently, and I've enthusiastically whittled the thing down to $3. I go to Starbucks when I need a sugar infusion or when I want to exercise some ultra-mega buying power: I'll have a quadruple shot extra venti fully fattened frappucino with 2 bushels of java chips and a kilo of whipped cream, please . . . .

Most mornings, though, as soon as even one neuron has signaled wakefulness, my animal mind insists on bean caffeine, and I follow my tether to the corner of the kitchen where my espresso machine awaits.

Garden of Mine

2009-05-25T20:40:00.000-07:00

One day I'm going to have a garden. I'm going to grow blackberries for my oatmeal and tomatoes for my stir fry. I will have a guava tree and an apricot tree. Two guava trees. I'll have a bench under a shade tree where I can read Bill Bryson books. I'll have a hose that doesn't leak and clippers that clip. I'll provide a ferny sanctuary for creatures of the reptilian sort and I'll slaughter slugs and aphids with enviable efficiency. I'll hire a gardener who specializes in weed removal and I'll build a compost heap to house my cuttings. I'll give free plums to my neighbors. Here is an ode to my future garden:

O garden of mine, how I adore thee!

Thy leafy limbs and wondrous scents

Tantalize me and entreat me to linger

in thy company.

Dost thou yearn for my presence

as I pine for you?

Under thy canopy I am thy friend

thy protectress,

sister.

And yet thy existence is immured

in the murky margins of my dreams.

O garden of mine! I shall soon

free you from my imaginings

and usher thy benefit and bloom

into the light of a true lot of my own.

We shall while away the hours

conversing with the flowers,

consulting with the rain . . . .

African from New Zealand (or vice versa)

2009-05-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

At Mass today, Father C. announced that the morning's sermon would be proferred by a visiting priest from Africa. I was sitting near the back of the church, so I was unable to catch a glimpse of the man. I chose, instead, to fashion a mental template of him in my mind: medium-sized thirty-something black man in cassock. So when the guest priest approached the pulpit, I believe I actually cocked my head a bit sideways (the international sign for puzzlement). The priest, you see, was white. I was unprepared and, apparently, guilty of some pretty erroneous assumptions. Within a few seconds, though, I had unburdened myself of my "everyone in Africa is black" cliche and settled in for a sermon from a young American missionary priest.

Surprise again. Father's accent was not remotely Americano. His version of the Mother Tongue sounded akin to the Crocodile Hunter's (except three notches lower on the intensity scale). As Father read the epistle, I was wondering about how hard it must have been for him to leave Australia in order to fulfill his vocation a few continents down the way. Had he grown up in an urban area like Sydney, or had he been a more of a rural fella?

Then Father officially opened his sermon by introducing himself to the congregation. "Good morning. I'm sure more than a few of you are wondering why my English sounds so strange. I hope you're not having any trouble understanding me. I am from New Zealand, actually . . . .

Wrong times 3.

The sermon was about charity, by the way. Father believes that true Christian charity can conquer all possible sins because the pure love that actuates charity is God's perfect love. God's pure and infinite love conquers all sin because love that consummate can only have perfect results.

I was so taken in by Father's sermon (I could not possibly do it justice by trying to paraphrase it for you) that I looked up the word charity when I got home. It's a word I tend to ignore since, for me, it sounds much too much like a few quarters in a beggar's hat. Today, though, I found something really great: Charity has its roots in the Latin caritas. Caritas is Christian love. I knew this. Here's the cool part: charity is also a cousin to the Old Irish carae which means friend. When the twain meet, you have Christian love of friend. Doesn't this sound like the Golden Rule?

I'm sure I should have learned all of this a long time ago. Obviously, my learning curve in this area flatlined at some point in my personal history. But I'm up and running again. My own misconceptions and Father's sermon teamed up to grant me a double dose of humility and charity. I'm opening this new week with a fresh perspective and renewed purpose.

When I woke up this morning, I knew that I'd be going to Mass, visiting the mall, and eating out with my family. But I had no clue I'd be schooled by a New Zealander priest from Africa. Father's visit hit me like a bombshell. In a good way.

Where is June?

2009-05-19T17:29:00.000-07:00

I know we've barely broached May, but I'm feeling ready for June. June 12th, specifically. That's the date that stands out on my calendar as the first day of summer vacation. Until then, my To-Do List is primed to kill me.

Today, for example, I cleanedthelivingroomkitchenandbathroom
thendidaloadoflaundryandthengotthekidsupthenwenttoVons
forsandwichesthenpickedAliceupatherhousethensubstitutetaught
2PEclassesthenpickedScoutupfromafriend'shousethenwenthomeand
taughtScoutasciencelessonaboutDNAthengotlunchready
thendidaliteraturelessonfromToKillAMockingbirdthenpickedShawn
andAliceupfromschoolthenwenttoTargettopickupabirthdaycardand
othermiscellaneathenwenthomeandrearrangedthebedroomthendid
anotherloadoflaundrythengotthekidsreadyforKungFuthendroveto
KungFuthendidgroceryshoppingthensatdownatthecomputertoblog.

Before the day's end, I still need to cookdinnerthenfoldthelaundry
thenhavethekidshelpmewaterthelawnsbecausethesprinklers
arebrokenthenhelpShawnwithhishomeworkthentakeashower
thenhavethekidstaketheirshowersthendosomecomputerworkfor
Shawn'steacherthenpickabooktoreadtoShawnthensayprayersand
putthekidstobed.

There you have it. Tomorrow's agenda is looking hauntingly similar to today's. So I'll have you know that I am counting the days (24 actual days, 16 school days) until I can throw the windows open on summer and erase the schooly slices of my life for a few beauteous months. Until then, I'm praying that each and every one of my ZZzzs counts for double.

Thirty Toes and Three Tushes

2009-05-18T19:30:00.000-07:00

Here is a folly-ful poem:

I have three pregnant sisters who grow every day.

Three sisters who're now in a "family way."

Their bellies are bulging with bundles of joy.

Two babes are unknowns, and there's one who's a boy.

I'm glad for my sisters because they've been blessed.

I'm glad for their husbands. They're building their nests.

But 'cause there are hormones alive in the air,

I think I am feeling a bit of their share.

I'm crabby and hungry and tired and weak.

I'm craving dark chocolate and sometimes I leak.

Or maybe I'm having some sympathy pains.

Or maybe the crazies have captured my brains.

Whatever the case, there are kids on the way,

and bedrooms to ready and prayers to pray.

In just a few months, I will meet some new kids;

Short, chubby people who dress up in bibs.

I will kiss thirty toes and diaper three rears

and thank God for the sisters who carried them here.

(I know the meter is off in a few places and my rhymes aren't exact, but you're going to have to forgive me. I have a mild case of the Hormone Fuzzies today, so my creative side is a little murky around the edges. I just wanted to give a shout-out to all of my sisters, their husbands, and their baby bears.)

Bad Dreams

2009-05-15T18:57:00.000-07:00

I dreamed last night that I died from massive spontaneous hemorrhaging in front of a local liquor store. As I watched myself die, I was aware that several of the witnesses were concerned about the mess I'd left behind. Others were making small talk about all the work I'd ill-manneredly left undone. A female acquaintance of mine was chatting with others about how my death was probably just an desperate ploy for getting attention. I was frantically wishing to find a way to stuff my ghost back into my body so I could go find my kids and start over. I was lonely, scared, and crying transparent tears.

Not an uplifting dream, I know. It was one of those kinds of dreams that are hard to shake. It got into my head. So in order to counter the effects of my nightmare (which did not include Green Day, by the way), I'm planning to spend lots of time with my kids and John this weekend. Right now, we're watching a movie, and later we'll play a board game. Tomorrow we're going to play mini golf with my brother Joe and my nephews Patrick and Leo. Then we'll eat at Souplantation. That's about when I'll have shed the deleterious effects of my bad night and when I can begin to look forward to a few dreams about, for example, puppies.

Emergency Blog Of Absolutely No Merit

2009-05-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

I'ts twenty-five mintues past my kids' bedtime and we're nowhere near ready for sweet dreams.

Scout is wandering around the kitchen singing a song she learned in homeschool today about mitosis. The song has lyrics about cell division, but the melody is Green Day's "When I Come Around." The tune was a cool novelty for approximately the first three hours. But we're in the sixth hour now and I'm predicting a mild Green Day nightmare will visit me in the wee hours.

Shawn is writing a note to his Dad on the white board. He wants to give John some guidance regarding tonight's ground beef/tofu/mushroom/spinach dinner (don't laugh). His advice is this: "Dad: I reccomend that you sprinkle Crushed Chips on your Dinner." Shawn's advice, though, isn't a lightly-veiled attempt to save his Dad the perilous rigors of consuming one of my meals. Please don't think it. It's just that Shawn loves the crunch of crumbled Lays or Doritos on his casseroley dinners. Not healthful, but oh-so-tasty.

Long story short: It's getting late and we've not nearly finished our eventide. Lately we've been sucking every ounce of life out of our days and nights. We've established the new habits of sleeping late, waking unpunctually, and playing bedtime board games until we're too grouchy to think.

Hmmm . . . . Eating dinners flecked with potato chips, rising like zombies for school, and playing games after hours? Sounds like we're living it up. Maybe the summer bug bit us a little early in the season.

Good night to you.

Endocarditis

2009-05-12T19:47:00.000-07:00

Wikipedia says that endocarditis is "an inflammation of the inner layer of the heart." I think I have this. Seriously, my heart feels swollen--but in a good way. Here's what I mean:

Recently, I had a moderate disagreement with some of the members of the family from whence I came (the O'Connors). I shan't bore you with any of the details. Suffice it to say that feelings were hurt (both sides) and my mood was a damp shade of blue.

And then . . . my brother Adam, my sister Annie, my sweet John, and a band of friends cheered me up--each in his or her own way. They did nothing fancy, but I'm feeling better. My hyperactive intestines have settled a bit, and I'm thinking I might bake a cake tomorrow.

My heart has been plumped by the love of the people around me. I've got emotional endocarditis, and I'm loving it.

P.S. Thanks for your prayers that our tournament would go well. We were certain our Saints were with us, and the kids and I walked away with a family collection of more than a dozen medals. Way to go, us!

Bats In The Belly And Butterflies In The Belfry

2009-05-08T15:55:00.000-07:00

Scout, Shawn, and I are subsisting within an eerily quiet state of panic this afternoon. Tomorrow, you see, we are obliged to attend our Kung Fu School's annual tournament. Since the event has the capacity to be either an ego booster or (gulp) an ego buster, we're all spending these after-school hours in our own corners of the house conjuring up the most flamboyant images of both victory and defeat. I think this exercise is what psychologists call "creative visualization." I gather we're supposed to exclusively envision success, but we Laus like to be well-rounded. It's a yin-yang thing.

Scout's been practicing Kung Fu for seven years and she's about an inch away from earning her black belt. She tells me, though, that she feels as afraid as she thinks she'd feel if she was actually going into battle. (Heavy.) Shawn says his tournament nervousness feels like his gut's been hit by a basketball. (Ouch.) I'd like to be poised enough to admit to a mild case of tummy butterflies, but I'm surpassingly certain that those ain't no mere insects taking wing in my mid-section. I'm thinking bats. So since I've got bats in my belly, the butterflies must have migrated to my "belfry." It would explain a lot.

St. Sebastian is the Patron Saint of soldiers and athletes. St. Michael the Archangel protects those of us who engage in combat. They will be our heavenly champions for tomorrow. We'll be praying with increased urgency that they intercede for us and that they whisper blessings in our ears.

Will you pray for us too?

Almost Friday

2009-05-07T19:45:00.000-07:00

Thursday is good because it's the prelude to Friday, which is the prelude to Saturday. Saturday is good because there is no school and because we get to spend the day together. Together is what I look forward to more than anything else the week has to offer. Together is better than coffee and a good book. Better than an "I Love Lucy" marathon and a pile of chocolate-covered pretzels.

Scout and Shawn make great company. Scout hears everything I say, is incredibly intuitive, and laughs more often than a hyena. Shawn's sense of humor is delightfully childish, he's got wise eyes, and he's got a knack for telling the truth with reckless abandon. John's the nucleus around whom we all thrive and bounce. Doesn't that sound like a party?

Favorite Words

2009-05-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

This post promises to be a pointless (but fun!) peek into one of my favorite topics: WORDS! I wholeheartedly admit that I am an incurable verbivore. (I am also an omnivore and a HouseM.D.ivore, but those are entirely unrelated issues.) I consume words the same way a cow eats grass: I chew them up (the words, not the cows), spit them out, then nosh on them again. I'm not entirely sure this is a healthy habit, but I'm a junkie just the same.

Bear in mind, there are some verbivores (verbophiles) who have come to love words so thoroughly that they have become haughty, no-nonsense word stalkers who see themselves as the valiant defenders of Standard American English. These are the same people who compulsively and gratuitously correct other peoples' grammar, who refuse to even stand near modern colloquialisms, and who articulate each spoken syllable with such precision that most people sound like hillbillies in comparison. (My apologies to the hillbillies.)

I am not this breed of verbivore. If I were, I would not admit it.

I'm the type who has a mental list of favorite words. I dote on certain words simply because they are fun to say: ogle, bifurcated, wantonly. Other words capture my fancy because they are definitionally irreplaceable. Vapid, for example, does its job so well that no other word can quite illustrate the level of utter tastelessness the word conveys. Insipid comes close, but the insistent v sound in vapid makes the word a sure keeper.

If you have nothing better to do with your time (you know you don't), I suggest you make a list of a few of your favorite words. I'd like to chew on them a while.

Here are more lovely little ditties:
1) Ditties
2) Crestfallen
3) Pianissimo
4) Insinuate
5) Saginaw
6) Nefarious
7) Scruples
8) Cantankerous
9) Bovine
10) Hankering

$138K Mom

2009-05-05T09:10:00.000-07:00

The heads at salary.com have come up with a number to describe just how much money a stay-at-home Mom's work is worth in actual dollars and cents. The number? $138,000. This would be exciting if it weren't for the fact that I'll never actually see a dime of that lovely amount. But, since I like to imagine just as much as the next Mama, here are a few things I'd like to to with my bogus bucks:

1) Buy my Dad a new accordian and some sheet music

2) Buy my Mom a way out of her full time job

3) Buy my husband a Honda Rebel or some other small- engined motorcycle

4) Go on a vacation to . . . well . . . just about anywhere

5) Buy enough fabric to make each of my 3 pregnant sisters the most fabulous baby quilts

6) Take my daughter to London so she may breathe the same magical air that Harry Potter does.

7) Take my son to Ireland where he may roll down a grassy knoll and pluck a gold-carrying Leprechaun out of the turf.

Personally, I think the $138,000 estimate is a bit inflated for the work I do. The salary.com crew would call me a chauffeur, a chef, a housekeeper, a CEO, a psychologist, a plumber, a gardener, a supervisor, and a professor. It's true that I drive, cook, clean, manage, emotionally support, plumb, weed, supervise, and teach, but putting the title "CEO" below my name on a business would really be stretching it. I must say, though, I appreciate salary.com's sentiment. Even if all they've done is created an ego-boosting puff piece for us Moms.

Happy Mother's Day to all y'all stay-at-home, stay-away-from-home, and combo Mamas.

Pretty Fine Lady

2009-04-30T15:54:00.000-07:00

On the way to school this morning, my car gave up its ghost and died. There was no warning wheeze or ominous clunking--just a quiet last breath, and then silence. I didn't even get a chance to say good-bye. I let my Pretty Fine Lady (her given name) roll to the shoulder of the freeway where we all partook of a moment of silence.

But the peace could not last. I had to come up with a detailed plan of action: Do I exit the car and guide three kids, on foot, across and up a busy freeway entrance ramp to the nearest and safest place, or do I stay put and wait to be rescued? I was mulling over my options from the relative comfort of my driver's seat when I noticed a hypersonic jeep zeroing in on Pretty Fine Lady's rear. The ballistic jeep was wise enough to bumble back into his lane before smashing into the back of my car, but this event caused me to expedite the decision-making process. We ditched the car and headed for the nearest 35 MPH street.

Five minutes later, we were sitting outside a Vietnamese sandwich shop recalling, with a reverent sense of nostalgia, the events of the last thirty minutes. Shawn, my pragmatic son, was more than a little concerned about the backpack he had left behind in the car. Alice, my daughter's friend, was relishing the idea that our morning's mishap had caused her to miss at least a half hour of school. Scout (my dear teenager) was expressing a mid-range level of anxiety over the patch of dandruff she had discovered while checking herself out in Pretty Fine Lady's rear view mirror.

I have since heard that Pretty Fine Lady is in stable condition, but that she will need a timing belt transplant and a new water pump. We should have her back by tomorrow. Tonight, I am borrowing my husband's power steeringless, manual transmission 1994 pickup truck. I need the truck because we have to make it to Kung Fu class tonight and because I need to go pick up a bottle of dandruff shampoo.