tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1804616939612607332024-03-13T10:47:49.094-04:00Calamitous Contenta misfit's memoir of music, motherhood, maitri, and uhh... mmm... mmmajor geekiness? shit, I almost had it.Calamity Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05859259592993809327noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-6968052742510476972012-05-19T11:07:00.000-04:002012-05-19T16:53:18.869-04:00Redemption!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I
was busy preparing dinner last night when the front door opened and The Boy
arrived, scooter in one hand and backpack in the other, home from
adventures with friends down the street. More and more these days,
seeing him walk through the door catches me off guard, because he just
looks so damn </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">grown.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
Not completely, of course - he’s not even in high school yet - but in
the past year he has been maturing at a startling speed. He’s as tall
as I am now, lean and lank and boyishly handsome, with just a hint of a
moustache developing. No longer my little boy, but not yet a man.
“Oh....it’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">you,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">” I teased, feigning disappointment.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He returned the greeting in similar fashion, and casually added, “I think I’m going to need a Band-Aid.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh dear,” I said. “What happened?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“No
big deal,” he said. ‘We were playing outside with sticks as pretend
clubs, and I swung a little too hard and cut myself.” He strode over to
the kitchen and showed me his hand; a small cut in the soft area
between his thumb and first finger was just barely oozing. “I wasn’t
even sure if I’d </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">need</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> a Band-Aid.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I resisted an old ingrained urge to take over, to take him to the medicine cabinet and wash his hand and put on a Band-Aid and </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">taa-daa</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">,
make it all better. He’d have probably been insulted anyway, so I just nodded agreeably instead. “Band-Aids are in the medicine cabinet. But
I’d wash that first.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, I already did, but I will again,” he said as he headed off down the hall. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So grown-up sounding, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
thought again. After a couple of minutes, he returned to the kitchen.
“Band-Aids are amazing,” he said, and held his hand out toward me.
“Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A moment later, he held out his other hand. “Oh, and uh, guess what I made?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In
his hands he held what appeared to be a crinkled handful of newspaper,
held in place here and there with tape. “Ummmm....you made a ball of
paper?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Boy grinned self-deprecatingly. “Yeah okay, well, it’s wrapping. Can you guess what’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">in</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> it?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
tried to think of a good smart-ass answer, but couldn’t seem to settle
on one. After a few moments, he let me off the hook. “It’s....a mug!”
he declared, starting to unwind the paper ball.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“A mug?” I repeated. “That’s kind of...random. Where did you get a mug?”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I
made it in art class.” He freed the mug from the wad of paper and held it up. It was large and ceramic, clearly sculpted and
painted by hand. He gave me an awkward smile. “And, I thought, maybe, it could
be a....delayed....Mother’s Day gift.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He
handed the mug to me, and for a moment I could only stand in silence.
He immediately began cataloging flaws in the mug - the paint had
bubbled in one spot, he had trouble getting the handle right, he
wasn’t very good at painting, and so on</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.
As I turned the mug over in my hands, I delighted over the unique little
bubbles in the paint, the oddly-shaped handle, the somewhat irregular
borders of its painted stripe. It was a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">classic</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Mother’s Day gift. I even flipped the mug upside-down to find his name carved into the ceramic.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Still holding the mug, I pulled him into my arms for a long hug, and kissed him on the cheek. “I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">love</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> it, sweetie. Thank you.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“There’s
kindofa crack in the side near the handle, too,” he said, looking
embarrassed. “I fixed it a bunch of times, but I could never get it
quite right.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well
that’s the thing about mugs,” I smiled. “They’re pretty heavy for the
handle. Hard to make a big mug like this and get the handle just right.
I never could do it myself, but this looks pretty good!” I hugged him and kissed him again before letting him
escape.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That’s The Boy for ya. Maybe he doesn’t always show his appreciation when and how I might expect, but the appreciation </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">is</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
there. Maybe he’s a little uncomfortable with sentimentality, but
that’s understandable at his age. Not quite a man, not a little
child...but still my little boy once in a while.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rO5I1da56Io/T7e8OoXrmhI/AAAAAAAABDM/OvkGKlxQozo/s1600/mug.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rO5I1da56Io/T7e8OoXrmhI/AAAAAAAABDM/OvkGKlxQozo/s320/mug.JPG" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check it out folks, it's a MUG SHOT!<br />
....hello?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>Calamity Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05859259592993809327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-80015463703210349582012-05-13T22:50:00.000-04:002012-05-19T16:54:54.013-04:00Self-Service Mother’s Day and the Sacrilegious Twinkie<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span id="internal-source-marker_0.565927900823894" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Every
Mother’s Day, I miss the days when my kid was in elementary school.
That one special Sunday in May would roll around, and out would come
some sort of handmade tchotchke, shyly proffered - a bookmark, a
drawing-filled calendar made from construction paper, a tempera-painted plant
pot. Always accepted with gratitude and genuine delight, although I
knew perfectly well he was assigned these projects by
teachers, who then gently prodded and reminded him all week to hand them over when Mother’s Day arrived.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">After
the fourth grade, he moved on to intermediate school and then middle
school...and all recognition of Mother’s Day stopped completely. With
no prompting or prodding from anyone, he simply ignores it. Every year
it stings, more than it should I suppose, and every year I spend
Mother’s Day mildly depressed, irritable, disappointed, and increasingly
- rebellious.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">‘Rebellious’
just started last year, the second Mother’s Day since The Boy left elementary school. I didn’t expect much, but I thought, maybe a
card. Or hell, at least an “oh yeah, happy Mother’s Day” - which I eventually got after several hours, and turns out?
That actually makes it worse. “Ohyeahhappymother’sday” feels a lot like “See, I didn’t forget...I just don’t care.” So I
got up, took my keys, and left the house. I bought myself a dress at
Goodwill - an adorable, bright, cotton summer dress. I took a friend’s
mom out for lunch and girl talk at an amazing vegetarian Indian buffet.
I stopped at the mall on my way home to buy <strike>my hair dye</strike> absolutely
nothing because I am a Natural Green. I danced in a
department store as a professional pianist played Vince Guaraldi
selections on a baby grand, I spritzed myself with expensive perfume I
would never buy, I sang in the car on my way home, and actually found
myself in a pretty good mood that lasted right up until I got home.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When
I got home, I holed up in my room with a book I’d been meaning to read,
and responded to the intermittent inquiries of “When’s dinner?” with a
deliberately obtuse “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I don’t know, when IS it?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">”
until they backed cautiously away and ordered takeout. It was
mean and bitchy, and I felt a little bad about it, but Mother’s Day is one day where I feel I’m </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">entitled</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
to the admittedly frustrating and unhelpful “if you don’t know, I’m NOT
going to tell you” attitude. It’s also the one day when “look, just </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">tell</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
us what you want us to do for you and we’ll do it” doesn’t cut it
either. Me dictating the manner in which I am appreciated somehow
feels...coerced. Obligatory. I suspect that boils down to the equally
frustrating “no, I want you to WANT to”, but again, I’m entitled once a
year.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">ANYway.
Flash forward to this year. I really expected nothing different, but
somehow it disappointed me again all the same. On top of it all, my
friend declined my invitation to repeat last year’s lunch, plus I had signed
up to volunteer at the fair trade store in the afternoon anyway. At
least The Boy didn’t even “ohyeah” me this time...leaving me the option
to tell myself he’d just completely forgotten, and of course would be
simply mortified if he suddenly remembered. Awesome.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
headed out to the grocery store, but not before donning the same
bright, cotton summer dress that I had bought last year. In the fresh fruit
section, a couple of middle-aged women were having a cart-to-cart talk, swapping cute stories of
their burnt but well-intentioned breakfasts in bed; I tightened my grip
on my cart and sailed past. As I gathered the last items I would need
to cook dinner, I realized I felt a bit peckish myself, and decided to
get myself a treat. Something indulgent, but still a little responsible perhaps? I wandered briefly past the fair-trade chocolate bars and the vegan-friendly snack crackers....no,
today, that just wouldn't do it. As I turned a corner, my eyes lit on a display of Twinkies, and immediately my rebellious mood whispered </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">YES.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They weren’t vegan.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They weren’t even vegetarian.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hell, they weren’t even </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">food</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">,
beyond the broad definition of (1) they have a flavor many people find
pleasing, and (2) they are manufactured with the express purpose of
human ingestion.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I grabbed an individually wrapped Twinkie and dropped it into my cart.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Returning
to the car, I slung the grocery bag over to the passenger seat, climbed
into the driver’s seat, and rummaged through the bag for my Twinkie.
Oh Twinkie, you evil little temptation, you taste like childhood
memories. Or would....except that I now noticed for the first time the
tiny lettering next to Twinkie the Kid on the package, touting </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">the</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> “all-new CHOCOLATE CREAM filling!”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Wait, chocolate cream? No. There is NO motherfucking chocolate cream in a motherfucking Twinkie. Oh, I ate it </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">anyway</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.
Sat right there in my parked car, in the parking lot of the
supermarket, and ate the chocolate cream monstrosity. It did not taste
like childhood. It did not taste like a Twinkie. I felt a wave of
irrationality crashing over me, one of those grand moments where you
know you’re kind of a crazy person right now, on the verge of meltdown
over some inane trivial inconvenience. But I couldn’t help it. I mean
what the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">fuck</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">,
Hostess, all I wanted was one goddamn moment of nostalgic sinfulness.
I don’t eat meat/eggs/dairy, I volunteer, I
give money to that nice lady on the corner who collects for the homeless every week, I donate platelets, I study, I work, I take care of my family, and I finally
give in to your siren call for just one moment, one brief clandestine
affair, and you RUIN it. The moment’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">gone</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">,
Hostess, like bitter fucking chocolate cream ashes in my mouth, and I
hope you’re happy. I wanted to march right up to Hostess headquarters
in my cotton summer dress of rebellion and hurl baked goods at their
windows.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But
I didn’t know where the Hostess headquarters actually were, and they
were probably far away, and anyway I’d probably get arrested. Then I’d
have to go to court and plead temporary insanity, and my lawyer would
call me to the stand and he’d say...wait for it...“Tell ‘em about the
Twinkie.”<b>*</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
had to giggle at that, and my absurd indignation faded. The weather was warm and lovely, and my
volunteer shift at the fair trade store went smoothly. The customers were mostly
mothers and daughters spending the day together - and I missed my own
mom - but my mood remained upbeat. At home, I cooked dinner, hung out
with the fam, and got my usual goodnight hug from my son, still without
so much as an acknowledgement. Oh well. He’s well-behaved, studious,
funny, and generally affectionate and appreciative from day to day.
Some moms would kill to ‘settle’ for that.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
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</div>
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</div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YU5Y3p9_dg/T7Bs6CkcE7I/AAAAAAAABBc/ioQ-508xYKw/s1600/volunteer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--YU5Y3p9_dg/T7Bs6CkcE7I/AAAAAAAABBc/ioQ-508xYKw/s320/volunteer.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Mother's Day! May I interest you in some scrapbook paper made from elephant dung?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Next
year - no expectations. Well okay, it’ll probably still hurt my feelings a little. But from now on, I'm just planning on it being me, my car keys,
and my Cotton Summer Dress of Rebellion, going out and celebrating
Whatever-Mom-Fucking-Feels-Like Day. Or to put it more diplomatically,
Self-Service Mother’s Day. Oh, yeah.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>*</b> <a href="http://pvponline.com/comic/2012/01/02/dont-quote-me/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed:+Pvponline+%28PvPonline%29">The PVP guys were right</a>...it </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">is</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> always a good time for a Ghostbusters quote!</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T1yPipibaO4/T7Bs9IoA_XI/AAAAAAAABBk/X3ZGu5fPE2o/s1600/rebelliousdress.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-T1yPipibaO4/T7Bs9IoA_XI/AAAAAAAABBk/X3ZGu5fPE2o/s320/rebelliousdress.JPG" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Cotton Summer Dress of Rebellion, what are you rebelling against?" "Whaddya <i>got?</i>"<br />
...okay, I was going for the wall-leaning disaffected look, but I think I missed it somewhere.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Calamity Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05859259592993809327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-11276976214729874812011-11-08T14:37:00.004-05:002012-05-19T16:56:57.584-04:00Silly Calamity, Games Are For Kids!<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You
may or may not be aware, as I have again allowed my blogging habit
to lapse for a significant period of time, that I have decided to eschew fear and uncertainty and enroll in
college for my dream career; namely, I want to code video games.
Specifically, I have a passion for all things Bioware, and if daydreams
come to pass, someday I’ll be livin’ the dream in Austin, Texas,
programming logic and AI for insanely cool action RPGs. (Also, because it’s MY
daydream, they’ll also ask me to do voice acting for the RPGs, and I
will meet Brandon Keener, and garner a geek fan base on Twitter, and
banter playfully with Felicia Day and get paid to attend
every PAX and hang out with Wil Wheaton. But really, I’ll settle for the former.)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But
although I have embraced my path, I still find myself hesitating to
answer when people ask, “What are you studying?” Because we all have
that inner voice that tells us we’re being selfish, or silly, or just
plain says </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They’re all gonna laugh at you!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Because having ‘video games’ anywhere in your career objectives is childish, Calamity. Right? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">You’re
a grown woman, on the backside of 30. You have a nearly teenage son of
your own. Go to nursing school, or get a business degree. Do
something safe and sensible.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
Generally, it’s all in my own head; people I’ve mentioned my plans to
have responded positively, and I’ve started to think I’m just completely
imagining that anyone still considers video games the sole demesne of
children.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Well,
not entirely. Coming home from math class this morning, I stopped at
the grocery store for dinner ingredients, and ended up in a conversation
with a cashier who has always been very friendly and conversational
with me. She asked how I was; I said I was doing okay, but a little
tired of school and looking forward to the winter break. She asked what
I was majoring in.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Video game development,” I said. “Well, the coding side of it, specifically. Programming.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There was a long pause as the cashier regarded me as though perhaps I were in the process of growing a second head.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“So....you want to.....what, make video games?” I indicated that I did. “Well. That’s...</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">different</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Different?
“Oh I dunno,” I said lightly. “There are a lot of game studios out
there. Some of the bigger ones have hundreds of staff members working
on the major projects. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Someone</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> else is out there doing it for a living.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
perplexed look intensified. She didn’t carry on with her cashiering or
make any pretense of doing so. She simply stood and stared as if I
now indeed had a fully-formed second head, one that was wearing a pompadour wig and
reciting the digits of pi.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“So,
you know, I’m gonna...gonna work for Bioware someday, big studio in
Austin.” I shifted uncomfortably. “Never see snow again.” Still
staring. “‘Cause, I, <span style="font-size: x-small;">hate</span> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">snow</span>...”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I
gave up and turned my attention to the debit card reader. She seemed
to visibly shake it off, and snorted. “Oh, you just wanna play video
games all day long.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“<i>Hardly</i>,” I said, finally miffed. “Programming is hard work and long hours. I’ll be building the games that people play.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well...have a nice day!”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The
average gamer age is, well, my age. Games are a multimillion-dollar
industry. There are children’s games on the market, but there are also
decidedly adult games. E-rated and T-rated and M-rated games, shooters
and strategy and role-playing games, often with stories better
than the average summer blockbuster movie fare. Games that
bring people together. Games that make you think, make you cackle,
maybe even make you cry. Games are emerging as a legitimately
mainstream entertainment like movies. I’m willing to bet if I’d told
her I was majoring in filmmaking, she wouldn’t have reacted as though
I’d told her I was majoring in Pony Riding and Ice Cream (I wonder how
much advanced calculus, physics, and programming are involved in Pony
Riding and Ice Cream?). Perceptions are changing...but yes, I suppose
there are some who still think video games are a kiddie vice.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Still,
I look at it this way...finally, one person reacted the way I was
always afraid people would. And it didn’t feed into my insecurity; it
made me dig in and defend my choice. Hells yes, world. I am Calamity, I
am Your Mom, I am almost thirty-seven gorram years old, and I want to
<strike>eat ice cream and ride ponies</strike> develop video games.</span>Calamity Birdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05859259592993809327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-70914394173667282212009-09-12T15:28:00.006-04:002012-10-20T04:16:14.820-04:00Things To Do Today<div style="text-align: justify;">
Laundry<br />
<br />
Send birthday card<br />
<br />
Get honey from farmers' market<br />
<br />
....destroy world with world-destroying robot??<br />
<br />
Ah, the chalkboard. It <a href="http://peaweesandpeas.blogspot.com/2007/03/i-need-this.html">first appeared</a> in my blog at its purchase, two and a half years ago, and it's seen a lot of use...in fact, last year I painted over it with chalkboard paint, changing its classic school green to black, but restoring its writeability after one of the kids decided white crayon would work just as well and ruined the surface. However, since our move last summer I had yet to put it up in a good high-traffic location. Finally, I had some free time yesterday and decided to hang it up near the recycling bins, where I could keep a daily reminder list of things to do that I would see often. Only took me a year! And the comedy opportunites began again immediately.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-97hN5AU_D4M/UIJdip248lI/AAAAAAAABfo/6PKWHeegKKM/s1600/diebuttholes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-97hN5AU_D4M/UIJdip248lI/AAAAAAAABfo/6PKWHeegKKM/s1600/diebuttholes.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
My child hates art class, shuns crayons, and can only be coaxed to spend his time drawing somewhere around Day 3 of a total blackout, when he's run through every other non-electric entertainment available including "watch Mom's plants grow". Yet he can never seem to resist the siren call of the chalkboard.<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, he asked me what to draw. I said a puppy. No really, the conversation went something like this:<br />
<br />
Duncan <span style="font-style: italic;">(watching me write my to-do list):</span> Can I draw something on the chalkboard? I'll draw something for you. Go ahead. You tell me what to draw, and I will draw that for you, whatever you want.<br />
<br />
Me: Okay, a puppy!<br />
<br />
Duncan: Ugh, no.<br />
<br />
Me <span style="font-style: italic;">(resigned anticipation):</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Robot with a laser?<br />
<br />
Duncan: OKAY!!<br />
<br />
I went off to cook dinner, and later in the evening, sure enough, there he was. My robot with a laser, just under "get honey from farmer's market". And I do have to say, he's a pretty swell robot. I mean come <span style="font-style: italic;">ON</span>. He's not only got a laser, but "power of destroying worlds", an alternate laser charger, a laser <span style="font-style: italic;">drainer</span> (ha, ha!), and rocket shoes. Then, because destroying worlds totally needs a great soundtrack, he's all set to go <span style="font-style: italic;">with a boombox arm handily installed.</span> And yes, he's saying "Die, butthole!" in the picture.<br />
<br />
But I'm pretty sure a daughter would have drawn me that puppy. With a rainbow.</div>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-1510432368106604392009-09-03T18:57:00.007-04:002010-04-22T16:36:35.268-04:00Dental Attraction<div style="text-align: justify;">So, I've been putting off seeing a dentist for a long time, but I've been having some pain in a few teeth and think I need a bridge - I've had this gap since I had a tooth pulled a dozen years ago and my teeth are getting out of alignment around it. I picked a dentist from my plan and went in <i>yesterday</i>, they took x-rays and I'm going in <i>tomorrow</i> to see the results and discuss what we need to do.<br /><br />Today I got a small envelope in the mail from them. Amused, I figured they probably have one of those reminder setups that automatically sends you a card before an appointment. Kinda unnecessary this time, but whatever. So I open it.<br /><br />It's a note, clearly handwritten in ballpoint. It says:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >"Dear (Calamitybird),</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >Just a short note to let you know how much we appreciate having you in our practice. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >We value you not only as a patient, but also as a friend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >Yours truly,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:lucida grande;" >Doctors and Staff at Comfort Dental"</span><br /><br />So...I saw them for the first time ever yesterday morning, and this must have been in the mail by afternoon. I have to say, I found it a little weird. I mean, I like you, Comfort Dental, but we just met. But Comfort Dental would like me know that already they feel a deep connection. They understand me the way those other dental providers don't. Comfort Dental is sure that they are the only dental provider for me, don't you see? If I were to end it now, surely I would find the Doctors and Staff at Comfort Dental standing under my window, Peter Gabriel blaring from the boombox held defiantly over the heads of the Doctors and Staff at Comfort Dental.<br /><br />Maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe it's just good old-fashioned customer care, and it's just my imagination that the wording is a little...stalker-esque.<br /><br />Then again, when my husband passed my desk earlier I saw him pause, peruse the creased little stationery note, and declare, "That's <span style="font-style: italic;">creepy.</span>"<br /></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-79663149481521516522009-08-31T17:37:00.009-04:002009-09-12T17:33:02.468-04:00We're Gonna Need a Bigger Brick<div style="text-align: justify;">When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me that I was growing up too fast. She also used to tell me she was going to tie a brick to my head so that I wouldn't grow anymore. As I grew even older and taller, she'd lament that she hadn't used the bricks, telling me she was going to order me to fail all my classes in school so that I would never graduate and move away. Through all her sentimental protestations, I simply rolled my eyes.<br /><br />Then before I knew it, I was a grownup, then a wife, then a mother. My own son was born, and by the time he was a preschooler I was telling him the same thing. Well, not the bricks - that was my mother's thing. No, my approach was more hands-on.<br /><br />"You're growing too fast!" I'd say. "I'm going to squish you so you stay little." I would then put my hands on top of his head and press down, lightly of course, but making a big show of effort and plenty of "<span style="font-style: italic;">hurrrrggghhhh!</span>" sound effects. Giggling, he'd crouch down, and I'd let go in triumph.<br /><br />Moments later, he'd pop back up as though spring-loaded. "NOPE, I'M STILL GROWING!" he'd squeal delightedly, while I pouted and stomped my foot.<br /><br />Folks, I've been more than usually sentimental about it this year. Maybe it's because he turned the big 1-0. Double digits. Out of elementary school and on to intermediate school. And while I know I've been watching this happen every day, seen every one of those years from birth to ten pass before my eyes, it still feels like he's grown up behind my back somehow. He makes me laugh often now, not in a "Kids Say the Darndest Things" kind of way, but with real wit, intention, and a keen sense of satire and comic timing. We have conversations these days that are less mother/little kid and more conversations that I would have with anyone, talks about beliefs and politics and day-to-day stuff.<br /><br />Anyway. I was running errands today, all the little here and there mini-quests that I've been putting off. I finished up at the post office - just around the corner from Duncan's new school - around the same time that school was letting out. So I was driving home past the school during the mass exodus of wave after wave of children. Waiting at the traffic light, I looked off to my left and sure enough, I saw my little man.<br /><br />I wasn't there to pick him up. He was unaware of my presence. And sitting alone in my car at that moment I had this weird feeling like I was looking through a window into his private, increasingly independent world, his world outside that didn't include me. He was just walking down the street, confident of his own way, bookbag slung over his shoulder, chatting and laughing with friends on his way home. And suddenly I had something in my eye, because dammit, he looked <span style="font-style: italic;">so grown up</span>. Not my little one, but a pre-teen, all Wonder Years and stuff. The light changed, and I drove on without alerting him.<br /><br />Mom, you were right. We all grow up too fast. I rolled my eyes at your sentimentality, just as I'm pretty sure Duncan now rolls his eyes at mine. I'd say I can't wait until he has a child of his own and understands it himself, but you know what? I can. I really can.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-66361050074742217282009-06-30T19:23:00.005-04:002009-09-12T17:35:43.919-04:00The Life You Can Save<div style="text-align: justify;">I was at my local library a few weeks ago when a title in the “New Releases” section caught my eye. The book was entitled <i style="">The Life You Can Save: Acting Now to End World Poverty</i>, by Peter Singer. I was intrigued, so I brought it home, and devoured it over the course of just a couple of evenings.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">The book is…troublesome.<span style=""> </span>Especially from the viewpoint of having just recently finished reading <i style="">Atlas Shrugged</i>, which was <i style="">the</i> definitive free-market, virtue of self-interest tale of the 20<sup>th</sup> century, I did find this book over the top, and outright insulting in a lot of ways.<span style=""> </span>It devotes quite a few chapters to ragging on our extravagant lifestyle, right down to the little things like bottled water.<span style=""> </span>The author makes extended metaphors and philosophical slippery slope arguments which allow him to all but outright accuse the average person of mass murder for not giving more.<span style=""> </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">More interesting as the book moves on, the author explores the psychology of giving, studies on human behavior, what tugs our heartstrings and what does not.<span style=""> </span>Moreover, he spends considerable time examining the charitable opportunities out there (unsurprisingly, most of them in <st1:place st="on">Africa</st1:place>), which I had never heard of but were absolutely fascinating, such as Population Services International and the Campaign to End Fistula.<span style=""> </span>The book also talks about microloans, which have interested me for some time, and I have renewed my determination to participate in this.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Toward the end of the book, the author lays out his plan for ending poverty, complete with a general guideline of what percentage of their income the more fortunate should be willing to give.<span style=""> </span>This does seem to be targeted toward the more affluent readers, beginning with those who are significantly rich, and using a tiered guideline down to those who make $100,000 per year or more.<span style=""> </span>No specific parameters are outlined for those earning less than that (though it is interesting to note that, according to the author’s statistics, it is the poorest among us who currently give the largest percentage of their income to charity.)</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">As I said, it’s a tough read.<span style=""> </span>It is particularly difficult to get through the early chapters of the book without feeling personally attacked and defensive.<span style=""> </span>Make of it what you will, but I would still recommend it.<span style=""> </span>Whether it changes your life, in a big way or a small way, or whether you disagree with his philosophy…it did make me step back and examine my life, and as Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”</p>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-87459912168926970762009-06-21T21:44:00.004-04:002009-09-12T17:34:43.959-04:00Happy Father's DayA Few Things My Dad Did For Me:<br /><br />Taught me how to swim.<br /><br />Never 'let' me win at chess.<br /><br />Bought me my very own C64 at a time when the kids I knew just didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> personal computers, encouraged my love of puzzle games and math programs, and insisted I learn Basic.<br /><br />Took away my C64 privileges when I decided it was more fun than applying myself at schoolwork.<br /><br />Took me with him to the darkroom when he had an interest in amateur photography for a few years in the military...to this day the smell of a photo lab makes me sentimental.<br /><br />Had the wackiest sense of humor of anyone I knew, and taught me not to take myself too seriously.<br /><br />Spent weeks at a time coming home from a long day at work only to drive me all the way across town and sit long through the dinner hour in a rehearsal area when I decided I wanted to do community theatre instead of the high school play.<br /><br />Always seemed to know when I needed a kick in the ass, or a lecture, and when I just really needed an understanding ear instead.<br /><br />I couldn't have picked a better guy myself. I love you, Dad.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-44758787641817578522009-06-19T15:14:00.005-04:002012-10-20T10:49:02.128-04:00Surgery Day<div style="text-align: justify;">
Whups, it's been a while since I updated! Well school is out and summer is here, so I've had the boy underfoot more often, and I've been trying to get caught up on a lot of projects and get my house more organized. The biggest event of the last few weeks was this: Last week, my baby had surgery. He had his tonsils and adenoids out, wooo!<br />
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Poor guy has had problems with them for years, and certainly as long as he can remember. Tonsillectomy as an option has been on my mind for quite some time, but his pediatrician would never commit to recommending it. He always said that Duncan didn't get <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> enough infections per year to warrant it, we should try longer-term antibiotics, yada yada. Surgery <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a pretty major thing, no matter how routine the procedure, and without the backup of his medical provider I was very hesitant to commit. But when my poor baby got yet <span style="font-style: italic;">another</span> case of strep, complete with fever, inability to eat, and utter tearful misery, I'd had enough. I went ahead and scheduled him for just after school let out.<br />
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It's always been a simple procedure, but I was still amazed. Most of the time went into getting down to the Children's Hospital early, getting processed, and meeting with the anesthesiologist, the surgeon, and the nurses who'd be looking out for him.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l6lzbpQjBUA/UIK5GvGOTzI/AAAAAAAABgI/7cnXGL6wRSs/s1600/tonsils+-before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l6lzbpQjBUA/UIK5GvGOTzI/AAAAAAAABgI/7cnXGL6wRSs/s400/tonsils+-before.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My worst moment - having to part ways at the OR door. They let me walk alongside the gurney until they reached the operating room, at which point they told me to say goodbye and go check in to the waiting room. I felt a fleeting moment of panic as they wheeled him in, like I wanted to grab him back and forget the whole thing.<br />
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My most amusing moment - I'd brought a book, I'd brought a Nintendo DS, but knowing he was in <span class="il">surgery</span>, I instead did the only thing I had the attention span for...I put some meditation music in my mp3 player, sat crosslegged in a chair in the waiting room, and just started meditating, figuring he'd be in at least half an hour. So after about 15 minutes, I became aware that the person next to me was giggling uncertainly, and then someone tapped my hand, and presto! the surgeon was standing over me with a bemused expression, not sure whether to disturb me. I blurted out, "Already?"<br />
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So the surgeon, this ENT specialist who'd told me in consultation that Duncan was "borderline, could go either way, totally my decision" yada yada, told me the <span class="il">surgery</span> had gone just fine and that Duncan's tonsils were actually quite large, his adenoids were scarred, and they were definitely obstructive. I actually felt so relieved to be vindicated, hell, I'd have done this long ago if a doctor had recommended it instead of letting me agonize over whether I was jumping the gun.<br />
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No great YouTube material or anything after <span class="il">surgery</span>...the nurse told me she'd never seen a kid come out of anesthesia so quickly and smoothly. Apparently he'd told the first nurse that talked to him when he woke up that he was "bored". When I was allowed to see him he just sipped water and told me about how weird anesthesia had felt, that he had forgotten who he was for a moment before he went out, and occasionally sticking his tongue out and telling me things like "one side of my tongue feels bigger than the other" and "my leg feels funny". Once his IV fluids ran out, they took out the IV, let him get dressed, and gave him a sick bag for the ride home just in case.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WynPaYHRZ90/UIK5ssXW2OI/AAAAAAAABgQ/udtl09TzrYM/s1600/tonsils+-+after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WynPaYHRZ90/UIK5ssXW2OI/AAAAAAAABgQ/udtl09TzrYM/s400/tonsils+-+after.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recuperating, tonsil-free!</td></tr>
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He did get sick right after we got home; post-anesthesia and a long car drive just don't mix. But once that was out of his system he immediately began asking for food, and has made a very quick and reasonably comfortable recovery.</div>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-57938461252254727852009-06-02T13:29:00.010-04:002012-10-24T19:10:34.695-04:00Givin' it Laldy!as the Scots say, meaning 'doing something with gusto'.<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Apparently, my bonnie bairn has been studying his heritage in school, and it was to culminate in a day of Show and Tell (they didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">call</span> it show and tell, of course....ten-year-olds do <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> have Show and Tell.) But I got a letter home saying that he was supposed to bring in something from his heritage, be it a costume, musical instrument, food, or even just a photograph. I think that last one was added as an "out" for those (like me) who might panic over this. Due date: Tuesday. Paper was brought home by Duncan Disorderly: Friday.<br />
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What to do? 'Kilt' sprang immediately to mind, but I do NOT sew, and the one time about 10 years ago that I had read written instructions on how to wrap a great kilt, I couldn't picture what was being explained. 'Haggis' also sprung to mind, but only fleetingly, and largely for amusement.<br />
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"If you bring food, please make sure to bring enough for the whole class to try," said the notice. I gave myself the giggles picturing the faces of his classmates on that one. <span style="font-style: italic;">"An cut you up wi' ready sleight, trenching your gushi</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ng entrails bright, like ony ditch; and then, O what glorious sight, warm-reekin, rich!* ...and I</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> brought eno</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ugh for EVERYONE!"</span><br />
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Ah, but the internet! Bless it. Ten years ago I'd never heard of YouTube...these days, you can find just about anything on it. Visual step-by-step instructions made it suddenly so easy, and after acquiring a few yards of appropriately plaid material from a bin of clearance fabrics, I managed to drape my bewildered little man (generally) correctly on the first try. For good measure, I also tried my hand at treacle scones, and while I'm sure they will appreciate it more than haggis, it may be a dubious improvement. I am not a great baker by any means, and I did scorch them a bit on the bottom. Oh well.<br />
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The kilt, with apologies to the Scottish community for my amateur job:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kGBdm2TomCY/UIh0VgZWunI/AAAAAAAABhQ/qaaqAUwmn4M/s1600/kilt+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kGBdm2TomCY/UIh0VgZWunI/AAAAAAAABhQ/qaaqAUwmn4M/s400/kilt+002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pleating by hand down the middle.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t7DtpK8WpX4/UIh0iv-Vj2I/AAAAAAAABhY/ZgIlGIqVNrA/s1600/kilt+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t7DtpK8WpX4/UIh0iv-Vj2I/AAAAAAAABhY/ZgIlGIqVNrA/s400/kilt+004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wrapping it around...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wyngtwqW4r8/UIh0tmYnqnI/AAAAAAAABhg/RSwFSyxIG0s/s1600/kilt+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wyngtwqW4r8/UIh0tmYnqnI/AAAAAAAABhg/RSwFSyxIG0s/s400/kilt+005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off the floor, and so much fabric still!</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-URWKtz7Eg5I/UIh0-hRTuzI/AAAAAAAABhw/LTBCORqXWvU/s1600/kilt+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-URWKtz7Eg5I/UIh0-hRTuzI/AAAAAAAABhw/LTBCORqXWvU/s400/kilt+006.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The final look. Yay, my pleats!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Of course I showed the hubby, whose comment was "Wrong tartan burns!"<br />
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"Yes dear," I said. "Next time he has a school project with 3 days' notice, I'll be <span style="font-style: italic;">sure </span>to order our tartan from overseas at about 40 pounds sterling per meter."<br />
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Not.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 78%;">* <span style="font-style: italic;">Address to a Haggis, </span>by Bobby Burns</span></div>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-10451352311304207072009-05-29T10:04:00.003-04:002009-09-12T17:38:18.765-04:00She Cooks a Mean Breakfast, Too<div style="text-align: justify;">To one of the most amazing, beautiful women I have ever known...<br /><br />To a woman who sings along unabashedly with the in-store music at the grocery store.<br /><br />To the woman smiles with her whole face and laughs with her whole body and heart, and makes me feel clever and funny for causing that laugh.<br /><br />To the woman who stood up for the rights of others as leader of the Diversity Team in her workplace, even after it earned her hate mail and harrassment.<br /><br />To the woman who writes letters and sends packages to soldiers in Iraq who otherwise get no mail from home.<br /><br />To the woman who taught me right from wrong, and inspires me to try and make her proud.<br /><br />Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-88875616840072727322009-05-28T18:16:00.003-04:002009-09-12T17:39:04.550-04:00Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing, Baby..sadly enough.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Northfield Laboratories, one of two U.S. companies making great strides in the development of artificial blood, <a href="http://blogs.sciencemag.org/scienceinsider/2009/05/fake-blood-busi.html">is closing its doors</a>, while the other company, Biopure, is allegedly struggling financially. While the science is still far from perfect, I have high hopes for the technology and hate to see this extremely important research suffer such setbacks.<br /><br />Our country's blood supply is in a perpetual state of critical shortage. Sure, you've heard it last month. You've heard it last year. You heard it a decade ago. But with more stringent screening policies and donor refusal guidelines, and an aging population, it's truer than ever. And the stuff gets used more than you might think. Not just for traumas with acute blood loss, but for conditions from severe anemia to cancer to clotting problems.<br /><br />Y'all may know that I don't exactly have the best <a href="http://peaweesandpeas.blogspot.com/2007/03/skin-what.html">track record</a> with blood donations. Most embarrassingly, I got sick a while back at a blood drive hosted by a local veteran's lodge. It was my fault, I forgot to eat before I went down there...but retching into a wastebasket near the snack table while poor little old war veterans fluttered around me in a mild panic was not one of my more dignified moments.<br /><br />But this is what I'm saying. I've got uncooperative veins and an occasional tendency to get woozy, and I can show up every 8 weeks. What's stopping <span style="font-style: italic;">you?</span><br /><br />Eat a hearty meal before you go - saving lives is a great excuse to break that diet for just today! And drink, drink, drink, both before and after. Heck, drink a big bottle of water just before you go in. It takes about 45 minutes to an hour from start to finish.<br /><br />And you'll be my hero.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-26381215998772775692009-05-27T09:58:00.006-04:002009-09-12T17:39:34.028-04:00Silver Lining to Prop 8?<div style="text-align: justify;">The topic of California's upholding of Proposition 8 has a lot of folks talking - and a lot of folks feeling discouraged. I'm an ardent proponent of gay rights and found myself hollering at the radio in my car when I heard the news yesterday. But I am an unflagging optimist by nature, and I'd like to take a moment to step back and get some perspective.<br /><br />An article in the Huffington Post yesterday caught my eye with its unusual title, "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/aaron-zelinsky/why-the-california-courts_b_207911.html" target="_blank">Why the California Court's Decision is Good for Gay Marriage</a>" "Um, what?" I thought. But the gist of the article is that the Court's ruling was not that gay marriage was bad, but that the voters have spoken and the proposition was valid...thus placing the responsibility squarely with the people. From the article:<br /><br /><i>"By upholding Proposition 8, the California Court effectively tossed the ball back to the voters of the Golden State. The Court thereby ensured the long-term outcome of gay marriage: Given the strong support of younger voters, gay marriage will be approved in California by ballot initiative, perhaps quite soon. Moreover, when gay marriage is approved by popular vote, conservatives will not be able to blame a "judicial activist" court for their loss."</i><br /><br />Frankly, I find it objectionable that the state constitution can be changed on a whim by a simple majority vote...and personally, I disagree with the decision. Gay marriage <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a civil rights issue, and the court is deferring to the voters' right to choose a discriminatory law to restrict the civil rights of a group. (Would they have upheld the voters' right to reinstate segregation by majority vote?) But the decision is made, and the point in the article has some merit. Times aren't changing as quickly as we'd like, but they are changing, and the younger generations are picking up the cause.<br /><br />We went from the Emancipation Proclamation to the Civil Rights Act in just over 100 years...and less than 50 years after that, we elected a black president. Breathtaking.<br /><br />We now have five states - 10 percent of the states in the Union - who allow gay marriage, and D.C. has just passed a law to recognize those marriages. Most of these were approved just within the past few months, and more are in the works...look to New York and New Jersey within the year. Breathtaking.<br /><br />For all the times I want to weep over this, there are a lot of reasons to smile as well. Chins up, folks, and blessed be.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180461693961260733.post-12833968536361327482009-05-24T16:58:00.003-04:002009-06-02T14:16:20.256-04:00Where'd the old site go?<div style="text-align: justify;">Anyone who has come to this site by an old bookmark may notice a change...to sum up, "Lemon Curry?" was originally a blog I started under a former Google account, originally intended to be a general personal blog, but which quickly took on a life of its own as a blog primarily about my adventures in the best job I ever had, as an intermediate school lunchlady. However, I left that job in February of 2008, and shortly thereafter a personal tragedy took me away from blogging for quite some time.<br /><br />It felt odd to just pick up and continue from there, but I love the lunchlady stories, so though they will no longer be updated I have preserved the former blog under the name <a href="http://peaweesandpeas.blogspot.com/">Peawees and Peas</a>, and it can still be accessed.<br /><br />Life marches on. Circumstances change. I change. Time for a fresh start.</div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1