The Black Cat Lounge

Welcome to America. Now Show Me Some Papers

2008-05-02T22:37:00.005-04:00

The bank's new building is slick and modern, at once open and strangely cavelike. I stepped under the lowered ceiling sheltering the counter, where the tellers sat in front of the soft blue glow of an LED illuminated backdrop. It looked eerily futuristic, and I halfway expected them to be dressed in the uniforms of the Starship Enterprise. Or to ask for my boarding pass and how many carry-ons I had with me.

I waited my turn, taking in the spacey modern decor, reflecting that no matter how progressive the surroundings become, the people still look pretty much the same, coming in with the same nondescript fashions, hairstyles, and often outdated and rigid ways of looking at the world.

As if in answer to my ruminations, I began eavesdropping on the customer just to the left of me. The teller was a lovely young woman, dark and exotic, probably of Indian descent. The man wore the uniform of middle America--pleated khaki pants and a striped, somewhat rumpled button-down. He had that heavy-browed, dull look through the eyes so coveted by Hollywood producers looking to portray a Southern stereotype, but judging by his dress seemed to have evolved a bit beyond that unfortunate image. A bit.

"Whur you from?" he asked, in not a particularly friendly way. The girl, avoiding much eye contact, went about her business, making his deposit or whatever it was that he had plopped up on the counter with no discernible instructions or greeting, and mumbled something about whatever her heritage was. "You like Amurica?" he persisted, in a tone which to him might have seemed casual but at least to my ears came across as mildly confrontational. She responded with something about having been born here, and having lived in several of the United States as well as London and at least one other international location. Answering him, as she had from her first words to this man, in an obviously native English speaker's accent. Finally, apparently satisfied that this fellow U.S. born citizen passed his approval to remain in this country, he left.

I listened intently to this exchange, mortified for the girl. Here she was, just trying to do her job and be friendly, having to endure being interrogated by this hayseed cretin who, in addition to being incapable of using basic English grammar, apparently assumes that everyone of non-white descent just stepped off a plane or boat and furthermore, must give account to all the "real" Americans like himself. I couldn't help making the assumption myself that he was no doubt a faithful church member, and probably a Baptist. Unfair, but his behavior did not leave me feeling charitable.

Had the bank not been so busy, I might have gone over and apologized to the girl, said something to assure her that not every small-town Southerner gets ticked off and threatened every time they encounter someone different from themselves, that we're not all stuck in 1934 in our thinking. But the next customer stepped up, as did I. I left the bank pondering how nice it would be if we could remodel people's attitudes as easily as we can a bank building.

What Not to Wear for Spring

2008-04-18T10:13:00.004-04:00

Ahh, spring. A time of transition, defined by capricious weather as the dreariness of winter vainly holds out against the wondrous explosion of life and warmth that the new season promises. We start our mornings bundled against the chill, only to shed those layers later in the day as the temperature climbs into the 70s or even 80s. It's fairly simple really; all it requires is a light sweater or hoodie to get one through the day's changes. Thus, I was (a) bemused (b) horrified (c) somewhere between both when I received an enthusiastic email about the following product:

Yes, a short-sleeved sweatshirt. Of course, this item is relatively irrelevant here in the sweltering South, but I couldn't help but think that either it's cool enough for a sweatshirt or it's not. Why on earth would anyone need a short-sleeved one? The link in my email took me to the glowing copy: "Women's and Men's short-sleeved sweatshirt--all the comfort you'd expect minus that bulky, overheated feeling!" Of course, I'm imagining that the bulky, overheated feeling stems more from the personal attributes of the type of person who might actually wear this than an actual sweatshirt, but maybe that's just me.

I also suspect that each time you wear one of these, a little piece of your dignity dies. Some things are not meant to be tweaked from their natural form, and this is one of them.

A Plague on Both Our Houses

2008-03-17T22:32:00.002-04:00

Let's just say things are much better around our house, as well as my sister's, after S., then A., then I., then yours truly, then J., and don't forget B., came down with the awfulest, nastiest virus we've seen in a while. Poor little S. even spent some time at the children's hospital. I'm still sanitizing every surface that won't be damaged by bleach or Lysol. . . and will update with something more interesting soon. . .

God-hating murderers are hiding under your car giving chemical burns to missing children with Magic Erasers while campaigning to ban Christianity!

2008-02-20T19:39:00.006-05:00

It seems as though every time a new friend or old acquaintance obtains my email address, I am besieged by a new wave of alarmist, smarmy, undocumented, ridiculous or downright mean and nasty email forwards. In the years since I became semi-literate on the computer I have received messages about missing children, tricks used by crazed rapists to attack women, cheesy religious and moral stories, right-wing religious alarmist rants about how persecuted Christians are by the ACLU and others, warnings not to use certain popular cleaning products, eat at certain restaurants, shop at certain stores, erroneous health warnings, and of course, the recent shrill racist/fundamentalist attempt to smear Barack Obama as a radical anti-American Muslim.

For whatever reason, I recognize immediately how photo-shopped, fabricated, and simply stupid these forwards are. They unfailingly originate with someone who has a hateful, narrow agenda, and then take on a life of their own as they are passed around, all the original email recipients' addresses intact, to everyone each subsequent sender knows. Truly, they say much more about the senders than about the issues they purport to illuminate. As I take the time to check each one on Snopes, Truthminers, Mythbusters, and other helpful B.S. detecting sites, I can't help but make the observation that never have I received one of these pieces of electronic detritus from anyone among my more progressive friends and acquaintances. Imagine that. I always hit "reply," compose the written equivalent of smiling and responding through gritted teeth, and attach a link to the article that repudiates it. As a result, I'm sure many of the senders have come to view me as the crotchety bee-yotch that I am, but at least I don't get so many forwards anymore.

People of a certain age have an excuse, sort of. They grew up in an era when urban legends couldn't be so quickly researched and debunked, when people still believed there were actual African American children named Orangejello , Lemonjello and Shith'ead, and to them the whole world of the internets is just so darned wide open and new. And "netiquette?" What's that? Even so, they also came of age in an era when every journalist knew to check his or her sources before publishing something as truth.

I can forgive the well meaning, inspirational but unlikely accounts of children seeing angels or actual heartwarming stories of animals; jokes that are actually funny or funny/cute photos that are actually authentic, but I am always perplexed when I receive the truly shrieking, hyper-fundamentalist, spittle-spewing rants. Perplexed that these are the views of people whom I know on more than just a casual basis, and perplexed that they would ever imagine I welcomed this kind of soul-sucking ignorance and hatred. My sister tells me my personality is "closed;" that the personality I project on the surface doesn't always reflect what is going on inside. Evidently! So, in the name of "coming out," I must request: if you have any hateful, racist, right-wing, fundamentalist rants to forward, please, please, please, DON'T. Jokes demeaning to George Bush still accepted, however.

How Crazy People Spend Valentine's Day

2008-02-13T19:40:00.006-05:00

To anyone still under the delusion that I am a laid back person, I submit my cookies. It all started innocently enough: I saw a Woman's Day magazine in my sister-in-law's bathroom, borrowed it, and thus began the odyssey that would require borrowing a friend's cookie cutter, two trips to Harris Teeter (one for powdered egg whites, another for 10-inch skewers), one trip to Hobby Lobby for red paste food coloring, one evening making dough, one night for chilling it, one afternoon for rolling/cutting/ baking, followed finally by several hours mixing icing/tinting icing/putting icing in four separate pastry bags/thinning remaining icing/frosting cookies/waiting two hours for icing to dry/piping reserved icing. All this, mind you, while my 7 year old kept getting in the middle of everything, being helpful, and my not-quite-four year old kept bumping into me to watch what I was doing. Patient and determined? Yes, when it comes to this sort of thing and I'm in project mode. Laid back? Yeah, in a perfectionistic Martha Stewart kind of laid back way.
My hands, along with my patience for J. tottering on a stool at my elbow, finally gave out and I left the remaining cookies for CA and CR to finish. After all, they are for their teachers. Now, to supervise the addressing of three classes' worth of Hot Wheels, Justice League, Star Wars, and Barbie valentines before bed. . .Happy Valentine's Day to all!

To see oursels as ithers see us

2008-01-29T14:18:00.000-05:00

Lorri forwarded a link to the "Interactive Johari window," so anyone who knows me can choose up to six adjectives to describe me. Thank goodness you can only choose from the list! I've had a few responses so far, and I have to tell you guys, I'm a little wounded that only 42% of you put "intelligent" on the list. A. got 100%! What's even more surprising is how many chose "calm" and "patient." Are you guys SERIOUS? According to your choices, no one knows how uptight, high strung, and paranoid the real me can be! My evil plan must be working. . . Anyway, here's the LINK.

What's in your purse?

2008-01-13T16:18:00.001-05:00

Found this idea on another blog and thought I'd try it out. Here's what I found:

Wallet
checkbook
flyer from today's blood drive
used Wal-Mart giftcard
2 pens
folding scissors
1 hand cream
1 moisturizing hand sanitizer
2 packs of Big Red
weird little brown fleece doll
cell phone
2 lip glosses, 5 lip balms, and 3 lipsticks
1 unidentified child's toothbrush
1 maxi pad, 1 pantyliner, and 2 tampons
6 raspberry hard candies
1 hot wheel
key ring with all the various store bonus cards on it
1 unwrapped SweeTart
powder compact
birth control pills
tube of calcium supplement
tube of squirt candy one of the kids picked out for the other
a Food Lion register coupon
a Sam's club receipt
94 cents in change floating around the bottom of the purse

So, now it's your turn. Grab whatever bag you're currently carrying, dump it (no editing!) and share it with the world: What's in YOUR purse?

Nerd, Geek, or Dork?

2008-01-13T15:36:00.000-05:00

Okay, I just took the "Nerd, Geek, or Dork?" test and scored 86 % in the nerd category, making me a Pure Nerd. But is anyone really surprised? See how you do and share your results: take test
.

How not to cook a turkey

2007-11-26T13:15:00.000-05:00

Ahh. We survived Thanksgiving. I managed to cook most of a Thanksgiving meal alone-- and clean the house single-handedly, while S. lay recuperating from a, er, procedure that required him to be pretty much flat on his back for a couple of days. I even managed to erect the Christmas tree and string it with colored lights, bubble lights, and two different kinds of garland so the family could trim it after the meal. In truth, it was the most pleasant and relaxed holiday we've had in years.

Two days later I cooked another turkey, this one a gift someone had passed to my sister, who in turn passed it to me. Now, I have never cooked a whole turkey, as we are a white-meat-eatin' bunch. I knew I had to remove the package of giblets, which is a nice euphemism for "blackened and horrifying internal organs that we took out but put back just in case someone other than your cat actually wants to CONSUME them" and though the wrapper said to remove the neck, it looked pretty well gone to me.

Four and a half hours later, I found it, in all its gristly goodness, inside the cavity which I had tentatively searched before cooking the bird. I guess it was waaay down in there. What an end for a turkey--not only will we kill, pluck, and dismember you, but we'll also stuff your excised body parts back inside you like some kind of mafia murder! I also realized I had cooked the entire thing upside down, which of course is a little embarrassing, though my mother in law assured me Emeril recommends this for juicier results.

After I got past the horror of bones falling out everywhere, weird fatty stuff, cartilage, and various other anatomical surprises, I managed to salvage a nice amount of white meat, which was what I was after in the first place. The legs, thighs, and wings went to family members who eat such things. The rest went to the cats, who were in turkey parts nirvana.

Possibly the only meat-preparation experience that even comes close is the year A. boiled the carcass in an attempt to make turkey broth. "Turkey Frame Soup," I recall, was the straightforward and unappetizing title of that one. I scrubbed my roaster pan with a silent vow to stick with turkey breasts in the future, and to beware of gifts that come with their necks stuffed inside them.

Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

2007-11-13T14:53:00.000-05:00

It's happened. My little girl, all arms and legs, has stretched her way out of a size 6X and has entered the world of girls' size 7-14. A survey of her closet revealed she needs some dressy things for church and the upcoming holidays, so I thought--a couple new dresses. No big deal, right?

After searching numerous stores, I found a few cute dresses--but all in the little girls' (4-6X) department. The selections in the bigger girls' section were a discouraging variety of sparkly formal numbers that resembled prom dresses--pretty, but a little much for your average Sunday--and cut down versions of women's dresses. And of course, mini tramp-wear such as the one pictured above.

Now, if this Barbie-esque gown showed up in C.'s closet she'd probably faint with ecstasy, but that's not the point. She's SIX. Where are the sweet Peter Pan collars? The smocked bodices? The jumpers, petticoats, and trimmings that announce to the world that you are a little girl, not Britney Spears in training? Oh, yeah, they're over at Strasburg Children, at $100 and up a pop.

One would think that a size 7 girl and a size 14 girl would have very different fashion requirements. As I recall, when my mother and I were shopping for me in that department, lo those many years ago, the styles were slanted more toward the younger end so that by the time you were a size 14 you couldn't wait to graduate to the glamorous Junior section. Now, it seems, the opposite is true: Early teens can look like fully developed, sexually mature women, and the little girls can come along for the ride.

Just as it's silly and pathetic for women of a certain age to wear miniskirts, it's ridiculous for a flat-chested child to wear a dress that in its normal environment is designed to highlight the curves of a woman. Call me old fashioned, but certain styles--the first little heels, first spaghetti strap dress or sweetheart neckline--should be rites of passage as a girl grows, instead of her being encouraged to look sexy when she doesn't have a clear concept of what that even means. It's not cute. It's sad, and even scary.

My search continues. Several hours on Ebay yielded some promising options and a list of search terms of brand names that still manufacture girly-looking styles for girls (what a concept!) so I'll find something yet. If all else fails, there's always my sewing machine.

Rotten Pumpkins

2007-10-18T13:27:00.000-04:00

We woke this morning to a muggy drizzle. Since it wasn't actually raining, that meant that the annual preschool sojourn to a local pumpkin patch was still on. Drat. I loaded S. and J. into the van and made my way via country backroads to our destination.

These trips were fun, oh, the first one or two times. Maybe. The 4th or 5th time, not so much. Today's trip was complicated by the fact that I had two little ones to keep up with, and at ages 2 1/2 and 3 1/2, they just weren't that interested in learning about corn products or the history of arrowheads. I mean, considering one of the leaders of this outfit is a former teacher, could they not tailor the curriculum to the age of their audience just a touch? The kids did enjoy riding the tractor-pulled wagon out to the pumpkin field, which had been salted with this season's puny harvest, many of them rotting. Ahh, fall.

By 10:30 I was regretting the long sleeves I had chosen this morning, J. was begging to "hold you please," and S. was sucking her thumb and twirling a big knot in her curls. As we climbed aboard the overcrowded wagon for our ride back to the barn where we could look at, but not touch, Rocket the Biting Pony and feed the rented sheep who do not actually live on the farm, I stood to take a picture of the children. Now, we were not in motion at this point and people were still settling in. No matter, the lady in charge of the place YELLED at me to sit down. In front of everyone. A. had her has a teacher in middle school and has told me tenfold how she was then, and now I have experienced it first hand. At age 37. At least it wasn't me for whom she counted "1, 2, 3" to get them to be quiet. Adults, mind you.

So, by all means, if you must have some puny, half-rotted pumpkins, and would like to be treated like an unruly 5th grader, make your way to the otherwise lovely River Bend Farm . Just don't stand to take photos on the wagon ride. It's not just the pony who bites.

back in the saddle. . . again

2007-10-03T23:24:00.000-04:00

I remember my first 10 speed. I teetered precariously on the too-large frame; its giant wheels dwarfing my scrawny 12-year-old body. Its tape-wrapped, curving handlebars and silver shifting levers were my badge of maturity; status. My first bike had been a hand-me-down from a cousin, a 70's banana-seat variety with a gash in the vinyl that allowed in rainwater and would nicely soak your butt each time you sat down for days after. But this one--this gleaming blue Schwinn--was all my own, unstoried and unblemished. My best friend and I rode almost daily, meandering around the flat Midwestern landscape, lost in preadolescent twitters and fantasies.

Flash forward 25 years: It's time for my oldest son to earn his cycling badge for Cub Scouts, and they need adults to supervise a short ride at the park. Though my dear father has been talking lately of refurbishing the aforementioned Schwinn, now tattered and forlorn in his basement, I declined and made a trip to our local bike shop, and bought the lovely Trek Navigator 300 you behold above. Not only do the gears shift by a simple twist of the grip, but the chain doesn't fall off in the road and it has 24 speeds! My bike euphoria nearly obscures the fact that my rear end is throbbing and that all the nice old couples out for strolls with their precious little dogs appeared more than a little disgruntled at the sight of 5 adults and 9 third grade Cub Scouts zipping along the path at the park. One of them even sighed audibly as we passed.

I went ahead and had them install the removable baby seat and rack, and our next step will have to be a hitch and rack on the minivan. There is no escaping full blown mother of three-dom. But as I set out on my maiden voyage this morning, just for a moment, I was just myself, just me, with the hum of tires, the autumn sky, and a solitary country road.

Make a baby, win a car!

2007-08-22T20:27:00.000-04:00

Think Russia, and certain images come to mind: lengthy and depressing literature, political instability, poverty and shortages, totalitarian leaders. But a day off from work to make babies? Talk about family-friendly policies!

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20268426/

Who knew Russians were so much fun?

Is it Fall yet?

2007-08-22T19:11:00.000-04:00

I admit it. I have been looking forward to school starting.

I say this with some measure of guilt, as I recall my mother saying that she always felt sad when we had to go back to school. In truth, when I picture my three little ones peacefully playing together, or curled up with new library books, or spending an afternoon spraying each other with the hose, entertaining themselves, I wish the summer could go on a little longer. But when I think of the more frequent scenarios of them following me all day, begging for television and snacks, interrupting me on the phone, pulling things out as fast as I put them up, and fighting incessantly, I'm grateful for the upcoming structure and schedule. It will be good for everyone.

It's not just stir crazy kids that make me long for the change of seasons. It's been too hot to go outside, too hot even to swim, the air quality so poor it's like breathing cotton. I'm sick of slathering everyone with sunscreen, wiping popsicle drips, suggesting fun and interesting activities to an unreceptive audience. We're housebound as Minnesota pioneers in winter, but without the scenery. Air conditioners just don't provide the ambiance of a crackling fire.

The catalogs are coming in the mail, laden with images of crisp days and autumn leaves, making the oppressive heat even less bearable. Our grass is brown, our spindly trees struggling for life, and everything in my garden has been decimated by Japanese beetles. Summer keeps hanging around like a guest you wish would leave. I'm ready for the date to be over.

Let fall come. I'm ready for whatever paltry showing the leaves will make, for apples, pumpkins, for a drive in the mountains. Set the clocks back. If we must hunker down, let it be because it's dark, and cool.

It's CRAB-tastic!

2007-07-15T22:20:00.000-04:00

I have spent several of the past 24 hours diligently researching and ultimately purchasing 3 hermit crabs. Not for myself, mind you--my taste in pets runs along mammalian lines--but for my two oldest children, and the youngest, who is getting old enough to be a tag-along in everything they do.

I scored a perfect glass tank with lid at a yard sale this weekend for 3 bucks, and after cleaning it, making a trip to the pet store, and shelling out an embarrassing additional sum for a reptile feeding dish, crab food and treats, a hideaway hut, natural sponge, cork bark, "move up" shells, sand (or "substrate" as they call it, probably to justify its inflated price), salt water conditioner, and driftwood, we now have a groovy "crabitat" and at least 2 very happy children. The crabs seem to like it too.

Turn around, turn around

2007-06-02T22:32:00.000-04:00

Tonight I rocked my baby. Or, rather, I rocked my three-year-old, who weighs more than 30 pounds and whose large feet hang considerably over the arm of the rocking chair where I have held, rocked, and nursed my babies since the arrival of the first one 8 years ago. He woke up, crying and disoriented, and for once welcomed my offer to rock and sing. Within minutes he was back asleep, rosy lips parted, just grazing the edge of my breast. Our lullaby ended, I held him silently in the darkness and wondered--where did all my babies go?

The voices of older mothers echoed in my thoughts: "Enjoy this time; it will be over before you know it." I hear myself repeating those sentiments to younger mothers, even as I struggle to comprehend them coming true in my own life. How can eight straight years of being pregnant or nursing--and sometimes both--pass so quickly?

Of course, in the moment, nothing passes in the blink of an eye. The countless evenings when Scott has worked late, leaving me with cranky, clingy babies, are all too vivid. I am intimately acquainted with the slow insanity of watching the clock and willing someone, anyone to come and relieve me from the constant, relentless needs of a toddler. I have wondered how I will maintain my composure, let alone my housekeeping, with everyone in the house all day, all summer.

Yet tonight I held my baby, marveling at the strange paradox of parenting--how days can be so long and years so brief. The lines from a favorite Judith Viorst poem mirrored my thoughts: And no more babies will disrupt/The tenor of my days,/Nor croup and teething interrupt my sleeping./I swear to you I wouldn't have it/Any other way./It's positively stupid to be weeping. Chagrined, I thought of how often I bemoan the fact that everyone NEEDS me so much; how overwhelmed I feel by the sheer volume of their demands. I recall how this independent child ceremoniously spat out the breast a little more than a year ago, effectively weaning ME, and wish, just for an evening, to be needed like that again.

Tomorrow will come with this same child at my heels, shadowing my every move, needing assistance in the bathroom approximately every thirty minutes, and testing every instruction I give him. Most likely I will look forward to his nap and bedtime as much as any other day. But I hope I can also focus on the leg hugs, nose kisses, and impossibly enthusiastic spirit of this little boy, because this stage, too, really will be over one day--before I know it.

Walking After Midnight

2007-05-11T20:59:00.000-04:00

Late one night recently, I watched the documentary "Supersize Me." One of the many factoids I remember from my hazy late night viewing was that one of the doctors said that most of us get from between 3,000 steps per day (very sedentary) to 6,000 steps per day (average) as we go about our normal activities. He said we should aim for 10,000 steps per day. That got me thinking--how much do I walk each day?

I figured that since I live in the country with three kids, a dog, and a two story house that I probably walked more than the average, but those old jeans still don't fit, so I decided I'd keep track. I am discovering that the goal of 10,000 daily steps is harder to reach than I thought. I made it today, in part because I shoveled out an entire truckload of composted horse manure into my garden and started hand-tilling it in around some of my plants--hardly an everyday occurrence. Yesterday I took my youngest to preschool, went clothes shopping, and later in the evening went grocery shopping, and still reached only around 7500 by the end of the day.

Apparently the idea of aiming for a certain number of steps per day has been around for a while: the Japanese, who average 3 pedometers per household, have been doing it for over 40 years and refer to it as "Manpo-Kei," which takes its name from a pedometer marketing slogan from the 60's and basically means "10,000 step meter." (While interesting, I was disappointed: I thought the phrase would have some nice Zen-like meaning about health and balance, but no--it was a commercial). In one study researchers discovered that in an old order Amish community, the men averaged 18,000 steps per day; the women, 14,000. Contrast that to our average number of televisions and cars per household, along with our low daily step counts, and it's no surprise that more than a few of us can't get away with that extra Krispy Kreme.

So I'm thinking I'll keep track of my steps for a while and see if I can't raise my average, and while I'm at it, start pacing when I eat brownies. . .

Well, Duh

2007-05-07T13:02:00.000-04:00

It's in the Observer today: 20 percent of kids under two have TVs in their bedrooms, and the cited study suggests this practice might adversely affect brain development. To which I say, um, we need a study to tell us this?

In addition, 43 percent of 3 and 4 year olds have televisions in their rooms. Never mind that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends NO television whatsoever for children under two, and only very limited viewing after that; never mind that author Roald Dahl needed no such study to conceive of Mike Teevee as one of the more obnoxious characters when he wrote Charlie and the Chocolate Factory some 43 years ago.

Yet in spite of this, it seems everyone I know except my sister and maybe two of my friends lets their children watch TV with abandon. Even, perhaps especially, educated people who ought to know better. Their justification is that the kids watch Baby Genius Einstein Savant Jump Start Whatever, completely ignoring the recommendations and the evidence that early television is harmful to developing eyes and minds regardless of the program content. Watch a child reading and his eyes make jumps as he scans chunks of information at a time: 'saccadic movements' for the educationally geeky. Watch them watching television--actually, most of us can mentally picture the steady gaze of someone watching the tube--and there is no scanning, just a steady, vapid stare. Add to that the fact that the average program changes scenes or vantage points roughly every three seconds--tv's famous "flicker"-- and you have a child trained to constantly changing stimulation who is going to be boooooored and fidgety when he or she has to sit in an actual classroom watching and listening to a teacher who doesn't change activities every few seconds.

My kids watch TV. My oldest had to wait until he was around two and even then it was very controlled, maybe 1/2 hour each day; my second child didn't get to watch her own programs until around two but inadvertantly saw some television by virtue of her older brother. My youngest most definitely saw the most before the recommended age simply because he was in a house with two older siblings and I'm not a masochist. Without a doubt, sometimes we allow that extra hour-or two-simply because Daddy won't be home for two more hours or we need to get dinner on or talk on the phone or go to the freaking bathroom alone. It happens. But we ought to have the common sense to know it's not great and that there are tradeoffs. When my kiddos watch a lot of television they forget how to play. They whine and talk back. They fight more and mope around when they have to turn it off. They beg for toys and junk food and start to tell boring recaps of the programs they've been watching. They make me wish I could just turn it back on and be done with it, but it is then I know I have to stand firm and insist they find something to do. I have never been under any illusion that there is anything beneficial for them in any way, shape or form about watching television. I'm fully aware that when I indulge it, the benefit is for me and me alone. And considering the deprogramming (pardon the pun) that must occur after a few days of too much television, even that benefit is questionable.

I seriously question putting a TV in a child's room, at any age. Recently my oldest, who is eight, wistfully recounted how lucky a new friend of his is: he has a Gameboy, a Playstation, an X-box, and a TV in his room. "Can I ever have a TV in my room?" he queried, surely already knowing the answer. I told him not to feel too deprived, as his best friend's mother is with me on this one so he won't be alone. I explained my reasons weren't to torture him, but that his father and I had worked to limit his screen time and read to him every day of his life because we know that it will help him do better in school. He reflected a moment and said, "Well, Johnny (name changed, naturally) really doesn't do well in school at all." Exactly.

Merry Christmas, here's your pooper scooper!

2006-11-26T17:45:00.000-05:00

The Christmas season is upon us, and I am accosted daily by an ever growing list of desires from my brood, Caroline in particular. No session of cartoons takes place without several cries of "I want this!" from the living room, to the point that I asked her to come get me if anything she DOESN'T want comes on TV. Most recently she begged me to come see a commercial for a new Barbie, who comes with an adorable fuzzy dog named Tanner. And get this--he actually poops.

The way it works is this, and I quote: "Barbie doll has a dog named Tanner who is just like a real dog! Tanner is soft and fuzzy and her mouth, ears, head and tail really move! You can open Tanner dog's mouth and feed her dog biscuits. Comes with a dog bone and chew toys that Tanner can hold in her mouth, too. When Tanner has to go to the bathroom, Barbie doll cleans up with her special magnetic scooper and trash can."

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of this doll is that the "dog treats" are little brown (apparently magnetic) pellets that go in the dog's mouth and emerge, unchanged, from the other
end with a simple press of the tail. Just warms the cockles of your heart, doesn't it? Tanner, however, is nothing like our dog, whose press would probably read something like "Chloe is almost like a real dog! She is soft and furry, jumps on visitors, has a compulsive licking disorder, and her breath could strip wallpaper! Watch adoringly as she rolls over and wets herself in new situations, eats dirty diapers, and trolls the bathrooms for unflushed toilets! Let Chloe become a special part of your family today!"

What? Not a dog person? Then perhaps you'd like Teresa and her litterbox using cat, Mika. Once again, I quote: "Teresa doll has an adorable cat named Mika who is just like a real cat! Mika can drink some water from a bottle and then wets in her litter box. Teresa scoops up the litter clumps. Teresa doll and Mika come with a kitty litter box, bottle, cat litter in a variety of colors, litter scooper, cat food bowl and cat toys."

At least with this one the fun must end at some point, as the rainbow colored "cat litter" comes in a finite supply, and as far as I can tell, there is no place to buy refills. Sheesh. Perhaps after a few weeks of Mika marking on her clean laundry and expensive rugs, Teresa will just make her live outside. At least she doesn't claw the furniture.

Yes, there are dolls that wet, poop, sleep, talk, grow, teach your daughter to be a vapid bimbo (see BRATZ), but something about buying a toy animal that actually does its business escapes me. I'd pass those up and go for the Love n' Licks dog or the Cold Nose Kisses puppy, but we already have the real thing (see CHLOE, above) . When they introduce an automated Dog Whisperer robot, that might be worth a trip to the store.

Rate your poo

2006-09-01T22:36:00.000-04:00

If we get down to brass tacks, so to speak, don't we all, as humans, have a mild to intense interest in the functions of our own, uh, mortal coils? I thought so. That said, there is actually something called The Bristol Stool Scale. Though it offers no suggestions for attaining that elusive ideal shape, size, and consistency, think of it as a practical reference for old age, when one's daily bathroom functions will inevitably replace sex as a hot conversation topic: "Hey, honey, I'm feeling like a 3 today!"

Freud would be jealous.

Maybe.

These items are good lucky

2006-08-20T16:03:00.000-04:00

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I have a serious affinity for Ebay. I like to think of it as a 24 hour a day, 365 day a year flea market. Who needs to count sheep when you can search for "antique pottery sheep lamp" at one in the morning? One of the unexpected byproducts of spending time on the site, however, is how educational--seriously--and entertaining it can be. Where else can you find aging floosies modeling vintage lingerie, vintage beer mugs with bobbling boobies, or page after page of listings for antique chamber pots? As with most discoveries, the most interesting ones usually occur on the search for something entirely unrelated. Today's example is a Chinese seller with an endearingly bizzare grasp on the English language. Offered for sale this week are:

Carve the penknife of the bone of woodgrain
The mysterious candlestick that silver and jade create
Rare of take amber of having the insect uniquely
The beauty is Mongolia good machete (and everyone needs a Mongolia good machete)
A rightness of silver wrap the bracelet of amber (there is never a wrongness of silver)

Your laughter to the idea of coconut doll
Special materials produced precious yellow necklace
The fairy that the strange material carves (This is a buddha; a little portly for a fairy if you ask me)
The jadeite of natural vogue is peaceful to button up
The beauty is good and the farmland white jade card (so is the farmland white? or what?)

The beautiful and good jasper carves flute (as opposed to the ugly and evil jasper?)
The silver wraps the tobacco pouch of rhinoceros Cape
The pot of dragon and coralline creation of printing
Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money (a surefire way to secure an invitation to any gathering)
Despicable dark big wing monster (on the other hand, don't show up with this)

The beautiful and jadeite view sound hangs a piece
The hand chain that the natural jade creates
Made of copper the clock of ancient rudder shape made
The beautiful and good silver wraps jade pipe
The silver wraps the pot that the jade drinks to use

3 layers of jades take the chain that red China knots
Take amber an official seal of having the scorpion rare
The pillow box used in matrimony of sexy pattern (oh how I'd like a real description of this one!)
The perfect snuff pot of ancient China
The silver wraps a natural horse to come to jade ring (no unnatural horses here)

The clock of the ancient birdcage shape of copper (because EVERYTHING in China is ancient)
The bucket of the flower of red enamel

Interestingly, if you take the time to look at each item, they each bear the same description, a generic proclamation of the luck, good fortune, and honor they symbolize, and a message imploring you, "If you love it, please do not missing the good chance to get it! Enjoying your bidding!" Or something like that. If you want to see for yourself, check out the seller grass019, as I seriously doubt anyone could come up with any of the search terms on purpose.

As for me, I'm trying to decide between "The fairy that the strange material carves" and"Can bring the copper frog of good luck and money." After all, they are "vivid and wonderful."

No more bread and butter

2006-08-11T21:10:00.000-04:00

I know it's summer. I know I should be grilling or making chilled chicken salads or cucumber soup or some other seasonally appropriate dish, but I just can't help myself. I love comfort food.

I could blame it on my Midwestern upbringing, and the fact that the first things I learned to cook from my mother were things like vegetable soup, chili, and meatloaf, but somehow when I want something really, really good to eat it always ends up being something hearty and bubbling in a big pot on the stove.

Yes, it was at least 80 degrees today, a typical muggy August day in the south, but as I scanned the freezer and contemplated what to feed my brood this evening I came up with an old fall/winter favorite: chicken and dumplings.

For years I would make this dish to lukewarm reviews, until my patient and long-suffering spouse informed me that he really didn't like the puffy bread dumplings that I made. Granted, for quite a while they turned out rubbery from overhandling the dough, but I finally mastered them, still to no avail. I finally broke down and bought the frozen, thin flat dumplings that his mother serves boiled in kraut (disgusted shiver here) and put them into my recipe. Result? He loves it.

The recipe on the box is a bit bland to me, so here's how I do it:

1 cup chopped celery
1 cup chopped carrot
1 cup chopped onion

Cook these in a little oil or butter in a large stockpot until tender. Then add:

1 pound chicken breast meat, cut up small. Forget cooking a whole chicken or using dark meat. Buy some breasts or cutlets and dice them up, preferably while still slightly frozen.

Cook the chicken with the vegetables until the meat is done. Then add:

about 8 to 10 cups water
two teaspoons chicken base or 2-3 bouillon cubes (or you can substitute a couple cans chicken broth for some of the water)
pepper to taste (I use between 1/4 and 1/2 teaspoon)

Bring to a boil. Then add an entire package (the large size) of Anne's Dumplings, a few at a time, bring back to a boil and cook for another 15 minutes or so to cook the dumplings and thicken the broth. Let cool for a few minutes before serving.

Note: humming or singing "Bread and Butter" by the Newbeats while cooking seems to help the outcome of this recipe.

Man, I've made myself hungry. I think I'll warm up some leftovers for a midnight snack.

Book Tag

2006-08-08T23:26:00.000-04:00

1. One book that changed your life?

Without a doubt, To Kill A Mockingbird, which I read in 10th grade. It was here I learned one of my favorite words, "elucidate," for which I had been searching forever. It also began my love affair with the mythical and perfect hero Atticus Finch, especially when imagined as the dark haired, square-jawed, bespectacled, tall and handsome, white suit-wearing Gregory Peck. He ruined me for all other men. Sigh. . .

2. One book you have read more than once?

C'mon, I was an English teacher, what book haven't I read more than once? Actually, though, there are several:

Fahrenheit 451 and lots of other Ray Bradbury. I always loved teaching that one to my gifted classes and getting their sweet little middle school souls stirred up about censorship. His craftsmanship is wonderful, and though he writes science fiction/fantasy, the man is a romantic at heart. When I had him sign my copy after an engagement at the Novello festival quite a few years ago, I was tongue-tied.

Letters from the Earth by Mark Twain. It's one of his lesser known works, which begins with a series of letters written by Satan, reporting on a visit to the "Human Race Experiment." I like this one better than most of his better-known works.

3. One book you would want on a desert island?

An anthology of great short stories, most definitely. Essays by Emerson,Thoreau, Whitman, and the like. The works of Robert Frost. Maybe some C.S. Lewis thrown in for good measure. And something to make me laugh--Ogden Nash or James Thurber, perhaps? Oh, wait, did that say ONE book?

4. One book that made you laugh?

I too laughed quite often through Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, especially when he scatters his mother's ashes--or at least attempts to. And anything by David Sedaris makes me pee my pants, which actually isn't that hard to accomplish after birthing three babies, but I do find him hilarious.

5. One book that made you cry?

I didn't cry, but I was very upset when the protagonist was killed off in the final pages of Cold Mountain. And the legendary tear jerking book in my family is a young adult novel, A Day No Pigs Would Die, by Robert Newton Peck. Still gets me.

6. One book you wish had been written?

The book that makes my family's storied and disfunctional past into a poignant and significant American narrative of triumph and survival, which is then adapted to the screen and makes enough money to keep me and my sister in flea-market junk and high-end shoe shopping cash forever

7. One book you wish had never been written?

The Heart of Darkness blows. Also anything by Herman Melville. And no, not even with Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab.

8. One book you are currently reading?

Change Me Into Zeus's Daughter by Barbara Robinette Moss. So far it reminds me very much of The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio--huge family, drunk father, long-suffering mother, no money. I'll see how the similarities hold up as the story unfolds.

9. One book you have been meaning to read?

The Ironic Christian's Companion by Patrick Henry. No, not THAT one.

What I do all day. . . or at least part of it

2006-07-01T19:43:00.000-04:00

The following takes place between 4:30 p.m. and 8:02 p.m.

Let's see. . . picked up crayons all over the floor in the study. Turned attention to "Zolos" building toy all over the floor. Picked up Zolos. James empties the crayons I just picked up. Pick up crayons again. James now empties Zolos. Put crayons out of reach and pick up Zolos for a second time. Find James a few minutes later in our bathroom, where he has been playing in the toilet. Remove James from bathroom, wash his and my hands and return to mess in study.

Realize James has been awfully quiet, and rush to find him sitting on Caroline's sink, which he has filled with toys that he is now dousing with water. Get James down and proceed to clean up bathroom.

Find James a few minutes later in his room, coloring all over himself, his bed, and his chair with a burgundy marker. (Washable, thank goodness). Take marker away. Take James downstairs.

Older kids are painting suncatchers. James wants to paint too. I let him paint on paper with washable paint. He makes several nice pictures and then begins painting himself. He has been undressed down to a diaper for the painting endeavor and has now painted his entire stomach, part of his head and both his hands.

Remove James from painting area. Escort him to the tub where he can be hosed down. Will return later to scrub paint ring left in tub.

Clean up paints and begin dinner. Nothing fancy tonight--Scott is working late so Kraft Mac and Cheese is on the menu. Caroline comes into the kitchen and wants to help. She pulls a chair to the stove where water is beginning to boil. This makes me nervous but I keep a close eye on her. Colin enters the kitchen and declares how unfair it is that she always gets to help with cooking since I won't let the two of them teeter on the chair together over a pot of boiling water. James attempts to climb chair to join Caroline and access boiling water while Colin complains. Remove James from chair. While I review the finer points of kitchen safety with the older children, James dumps box of uncooked mac and cheese on floor, then begins to scream.

Older kids enlisted to pick up hundreds of uncooked macaroni noodles. James wanders off, presumably to the living room. Upon closer examination 5 minutes later I find James in our bedroom, having decorated his freshly bathed self, along with my antique embroidered dresser scarf, with my recently opened (and discontinued) favorite lipstick and an orange gel pen found on the dresser. Remove dresser scarf to a bowl of sudsy water, where marks show some promise of coming out. Lipstick is a goner. Scrub James with wet wipes, which he protests heartily.

Return to kitchen with James and water is boiling. Colin and Caroline have finished retrieving spilled noodles. Open new clean box of Kraft and dinner is on. Kids wash hands, help with making smoothies out of some fruit that needs to be used. James screams for strawberries and "o-ark" (yogurt) while we explain repeatedly that they will be used to make the smoothies and will be ready soon. Our message falls on deaf ears. Blender is on its last legs but smoothies get made and finally, everyone sits down to dinner.

Dinner ends and older kids go out to jump on the trampoline. James wants to go too. Caroline runs to the back porch to tell me something, at which point we discover non-washable suncatcher paint on her brand new bathing suit. I strip Caroline and rush the suit to the kitchen sink where fortunately, most of the paint comes off. Meanwhile, Caroline brings a live ladybug into the house where of course it escapes. It flies behind the shade on the back door. While I scrub paint off her swimsuit, she constructs a tower of two floor pillows with a chair on top in an attempt to retrieve the fugitive ladybug. Colin, with his usual disregard for his little sister, bursts in the back door to tell me something and knocks her down. I will get the ladybug, I tell them both.

Run out to retrieve James from the trampoline, where Colin has abandoned him. Take James upstairs, where he suddenly protests having his teeth brushed, his diaper changed, and virtually every part of his bedtime routine except having me read an Elmo book with a built in hand puppet. Tuck him in, return downstairs to discover Caroline has made another attempt at catching the ladybug and torn the back door blind in the process. Grit teeth, thankful that it is only a temporary blind anyway, and breath sigh of relief that good drapes and sheers are intact. Give the children permission to watch Power Rangers. Count minutes until Scott returns home.

Scott arrives; the kids zone out in soft glow of a cheesy Power Rangers plotline. Now--to find that ladybug. . .

Hail, trampoline!

2006-06-03T23:25:00.000-04:00

There are certain things I have always considered decidedly tacky. Yards strewn with faded Little Tikes toys, huge satellite dishes, and yes, trampolines in the backyard. When I married my husband I breathed a secret sigh of relief that he is not a serious collector of anything, a dedicated handyman, or a car or motorcycle fanatic. No more would I live with the relics of my upbringing: piles of crap that might be useful one day, old broken cars that will be restored "someday," a garage that hasn't had a car parked in it in years, if ever.

And then we had children. Three of them.

Our vehicles ARE in the garage, albeit skillfully wedged between the plastic tote full of roller skates and bike helmets, current bicycles as well as the outgrown ones to be handed down to younger siblings and cousins, baseball equipment, cat carriers, and my non-handy husband's surprising new assortment of major power tools. A broken plastic sand and water table languishes behind the garage, its legs crumpled beneath it like some fallen creature from a Star Wars movie. The partially constructed jungle fort swingset stands as a monument to great ambition and limited time, and school ends in three days.

So we broke down.

Never mind the atrocious customer service provided, both in person and online, by the behemoth retailer that we all love to hate--we went to Wal-Mart. And bought. A trampoline. A big one.

The kids are ecstatic. The thing went together in under an hour, and soon they were jumping, bouncing, flipping, giggling hysterically. And miraculously, not fighting. They even persuaded me, an adult woman, to climb up and join them, and I have to admit--it was really fun. Thank goodness we live in the country, and as far as I know, no one could see me. The kids jumped on it for, count 'em, THREE hours. As for me, my fun was tempered by the fact that the births of these lovely children and the bouncing of the trampoline were a vivid reminder to go inside and do about 180,000 more Kegels. Ahh, womanhood.

So, now we have it. The big honkin' redneck yard sculpture. The summer is looking better already.

Take a load off

2006-02-23T16:56:00.000-05:00

I took my two youngest children to have their pictures made today. Caroline wore a little crocheted dress made by my grandmother, and James wore the christening gown I made when Colin was born. (To see Colin's photo in the gown, click here. Enter the site, then click on "families and children." He's in the second photo). I had been feeling guilty for nearly a year over not having these photos taken, and even though it's been that long (longer?) since James was baptized, I figured it's better to have the pictures late than not at all. Miraculously, we got a few good shots, though Caroline still refuses to smile for pictures. I told her she didn't have to smile, but promised her the moon--or at least a Polly Pocket and some M&Ms--if she could just manage not to look sullen.

Later I enjoyed one of my daily chats with my sister, and we talked about feeling guilty for not having more professional photos made when the kids were tiny. It started me thinking of how many things we feel guilty about when it comes to our children. Collectively, she and I feel guilty for a host of things: not spending more time "enriching" them with various games or learning activities, losing our tempers from time to time; having more pictures of one than another, not being able to afford primo private school, kids having to share a room, feeding them non-organic food, having a messy house, not sewing all the daughter's dresses, giving up on cloth diapering, the fact that one has two cavities, you name it. After generations of our foremothers struggling for women's rights, we fret over not exhausting and martying our lives to provide a questionably perfect and idyllic existence for our offspring.

I can't help but reflect on the time when the little dress Caroline wore today was made--sometime in the early forties, by a woman struggling against the stark ignorance and poverty of coal-mining Kentucky, for whom adequate medical care or higher education, for herself or her family, was a fantasy. She died at 41 after delivering a stillborn boy, leaving behind 3 grown children, a teenager, and two preschool children (one of whom was my mother) whose remaining childhood became a horror story for another day. Somehow I doubt that against this backdrop anyone had time to feel guilty about the way she was raising her children. Getting food on the table and keeping a fire in the stove was worry enough.

Our kids have vaccinations, preschool, car seats, "Back to Sleep," crayons, paper, gratuitous amounts of toys, Leap Pads, flouride, water and heat that don't have to be brought in from outside, more photos already than my parents had made in a lifetime, combined, Flintstones vitamins, well checks, and a distinct lack of intestinal parasites and head lice, yet we neurotically worry that we're not providing some self-imposed standard of perfection in their young lives. My grandmother would think my children live like royalty.

Admittedly, I feel like a significantly better mother for having documented my little ones wearing these past and future heirlooms, but I think I'll counter that virtuous feeling by firing up the stove to prepare some Kraft Mac and Cheese for dinner, and I might not even serve a salad. I might even let them watch a little extra television since their Daddy is working late. To all other mothers, I suggest you take a load off too. We're doing better than we think.

Houses in the Fields (apologies to John Gorka)

2006-02-20T21:55:00.000-05:00

Sat on the back porch today, waiting while my newly adopted dog sniffed at everything and did her biological business, reflecting on the landscape around me. The air filled with the sound of migrating Canadian geese; in the distance was the sound of a woodpecker and a distant neighbor's barking dogs. Our home is recently constructed in the middle of a cow pasture on the old family farm, with rolling hills around as far as you can see and a huge, open, star studded sky at night, but as I waited for Chloe to finish her explorations, I couldn't help but wonder, how long can it stay this way?

Yesterday I drove near my old neighborhood in Charlotte (incidentally, on the way to and from Judy Chicago, which my sister sums up beautifully in her blog) which itself was once open farmland. Now there are rows and rows of treeless, mind-numbingly similar subdivisions, disorientingly and dispiritingly alike, punctuated by the same mega-corporate chain stores one can find from Detroit to Decatur. It is the America John Steinbeck predicted nearly fifty years ago in Travels with Charley. I moved only 4 years ago and barely recognize the landscape.

We live in a thriving region, which has many advantages, but one of the disadvantages is that the South I have come to love, the rolling countryside, the sleepy small towns, the family ties to land and place, is being overwhelmed by growth. Not orderly, measured growth, natural and desired, but a rampant and malignant excrescence that disfigures and blights its host. Hastily constructed neighborhoods spring up and spread like kudsu, with no time to plan for the type of design or construction that might feed the spirit or foster community.

Now I have enough red-blooded hillbilly in me to believe if you want to sell your land for profit, that's your business. But my heart sinks each time I see a parcel for sale, and the signs creep nearer and nearer to my own cherished open space. It's not that I dislike density--I love real cities, with their history and the energy that springs from the wonderful stew of diverse people and cultures bubbling in the same pot--or that I don't understand that the influx of new people needs a place to live. It's just that what I love most about any place is its sense of place, whether that be the outrageous chaos of Rome or the quiet melancholy of the Appalachians.

Growth seems like a giant amoeba, mindlessly absorbing everthing around it into one insentient, amorphous whole. The larger cities have their identities; I worry about all the smaller places in between. I worry about what becomes of individuality, creativity, when the experience of living in one place blurs into the next with no distinctions. I fret at the thought that we have to travel farther and farther to find something different from our own landscape. Will individuality flounder, or will it manage to simmer up from the bland stew of contrived lifestyle neighborhoods and homeowners' association restrictions?

It's a good problem we have, to live in a place where we can debate growth; where, poorly designed and executed or not, at least it's housing, but then, are stewardship and conservation of the land really a luxury?

I will go out with the dog once more tonight, and drink in the night sky while I can. And, with a nod to my former homeowners' association, when the dog poops, I will leave it to become a part of the landscape.