Ruining a Good Thing (SATC Spoilers!!)

I feel as though I should warn readers that there are spoilers in the post below, but really, I would rather do a public service and warn readers that the movie is spoiled and waaaay past it's expiration date.

I saw "Sex and The City 2" today with a friend.  I won't waste any time here...IT SUCKED.  That's right, I hated it.  Some small part of me knew that I would, I mean I can't think of one single movie that was better as a sequel...except "Young Guns 2", but that's it.  Christ, when did these women become so....so...so....stupid?  I figured it would be over the top, with the Abu Dhabi fiasco and all; but basically, this movie melted these four fabulous characters into ugly, albeit colorful, puddles of their former cool iconic selves.  And, as I sat in the theatre (for an UNCOMFORTABLE 2 and a half hours) listening to the full on laughter of my peers, I realized why I have very few female friends.  People who fall prey to the easy laugh technique get on my last nerve.  My best friend loved the movie, and was disappointed to hear that I hated it, and she is the exception to the last nerve rule.  But, Liza Minnelli's dementia is not a laughing matter.  Neither is pissing off the Taliban.  And, for the love of God...the word "labia"....not funny.  I am perfectly capable of suspending my disbelief.  I am capable of buying into a plot.  When there is one.  Sex and The City should have gotten it's tubes tied after the first one and left well enough alone.

When did Charlotte get Progeria?  How did she go from being a mature and capable woman to a dithering child like idiot in so little time without the benefit of either illicit drug use or psychosis?  Of course she has a nanny, she can't string two coherent thoughts together so how could she raise children?  Actually, SHE needs a nanny.  I remember Charlotte from the series as being slightly naive and puritanical...not borderline retarded.  Also, when did she lose the ability to walk?  In almost every scene, she is scuttling around like a toddler whose ankles are tied together.  Hippity hopping along, requiring the guidance of her 3 caretakers.  She even had to be directed to sip her liquid courage to be able to admit that motherhood is difficult.  She stood up to Bunny McDougal, for God's sake and now she can't even get her shit together to pack for her return trip back without the guidance of the formerly hot now just sad Samantha.

Samantha.  The once hot and ballsy woman has now melted into a hot mess.  The sweating.  The bitching.  The moaning.  The sweating.  Sam, dear, hang up your labia...it's over.  That's swell that you are fifty two years old, but you are older than Sally O'Malley and you need to KICK start your retirement.  I see that menopause cost Samantha her final shred of dignity.  Oh, and how evolved of Sam to invite the douche who kicked her to the curb at the first sound of "Allah Akbar!" to the Hamptons to continue their sad romp.  Sam should have been a little more grateful that the video of her caning (or worse) wasn't sent to the international news outlets.  Whoring around NYC is one thing, whoring around the Middle East is another altogether.  Her tantrum in the market, complete with condoms and runny mascara, made me realize why the Middle East hates American women. Just another bawdy and dangerous way of saying our way is the only way.  I was embarassed FOR her, and it struck me as odd that someone so worldly wouldn't understand the danger she was putting her 3 friends into with this scene.  But, I have always said about the feeble minded, the mind isn't the first thing to go...it's actually the clothes.  Someone should have put this sweaty sack of years out of her misery.  And that someone should have been Carrie, who apparently forgot to pack her impulse control.

Carrie.  Sweet fallable Carrie.  I felt so bad for Carrie Bradshaw when she arrived in Mexico in the first movie.  She looked like death, and I felt her pain.  But, the impossible happened, and Carrie ended up with her man, Mr. Big.  And the pissing and moaning soon followed.  I wanted to rescue Chris Noth and transport him away from these hens.  Carrie keeps her old apartment...as a "writing" space.  Um hmmm.  It is the same ol song and dance.  She can't commit.  Cannot do it to save her life.  She gets free reign to design and furnish a luxury apartment.  She gets to keep  her old "Single Gal" space that she can return to whenever she wants for however long she wants.  She has the most handsome man in NYC (hands down) in her lavishly outfitted bed each night.  What's the gotdamned problem?  Oh, right, she wants more.  And more.  And more still. And then some more.  Mr. Big wants to watch "Deadliest Catch" after an evening out on the town with the four horsewomen and it's bitch bitch bitch.  AND THEN!! Aiden.  Sweet granola Aiden.  Like an elixir to all of her woes.  For a minute.  Then it's on to something else.  The thinly veiled attempt at being upfront with Mr Big (or Mr Carrie, as it seemed) was actually Carrie shaking the sugar tree.  Was it necessary for her to call her husband, from 6700, miles away to inform him that she kissed an old lover?  No.  Carrie placed that call in the hopes that Big would show up for her, like he always does.  She should have kept that to herself and considered herself lucky that she got out of it with only a kiss.  Couldn't leave well enough alone though, had to try to give Ol Big a big heart attack (remember his history of cardiac issues).  I bet if Mr. Big had dropped the phone and went into a full seize, Carrie would have complained that he didn't do it correctly.  This is precisely why men are so reluctant to get married.  And Carrie Bradshaw is ruining it for the rest of us that would be happy with a TV in the bedroom for an anniversary gift.
Miranda really could have stepped up here and educated Carrie on the damage of infidelity, but she had to babysit Charlotte.

Actually, Miranda was the only bright spot in the movie.  I always had a love/hate thing with her character, not really wanting to be able to relate, but relating to her most of all (admit it, everyone wants to be Carrie and everyone fashions their quiz answers to reflect that on those stupid facebook quizzes).  Miranda was the calm in the storm of self indulgent entitlement.  At first, I figured she was going to join the rest of the crew in sitting around bitching about all that is wrong in her life; but no.  Miranda shut that shit down within the first 15 minutes.  All that was wrong was that she didn't like her new boss, so she quit.  Easy peasy.  I never thought I would say this, but Miranda actually turned out to be the prettiest one (in my opinion), not showing her age nor her immaturity.  She saw that her priorities were out of order, so she rearranged them.  Without long litanies of blaaaah blaaaaah blaaaaah.  My only complaint with her character in this movie is that during the scene where she and Charlotte were having a drink and Miranda was trying to draw Charlotte out to discuss the difficulties of motherhood, Miranda should have slapped her silly and handed her an issue of Grow Up magazine.  I have no beef with Miranda.

Or Stanford.  Or Mr. Big.  Or Steve.  Charlotte's bald dancing baby husband needed a swift kick in the ass for the wet t-shirt scene, but other than that they all just assumed their roles of irrelevance with the white bread blandness that showcased the train wreck they were hired to spotlight.  The movie broke my heart.  "Sex and the City" was such a fresh show, because it was real.  But, in movie form, it has become an over the top caricature of it's formerly awesome self.  I am an optimistic woman who enjoys checking out of reality for a couple of hours, just as much as the next gal.  I'm no prude, by any stretch.  But, much as I enjoy an escape, I hate to be insulted.  And I found "Sex and The City" to be an insulting time waster, so much so that after they wheeled an obviously lost and confused Liza Minnelli out to do Beyonce's "Single Ladies", I didn't want to put a ring on it. 

I wanted to put a lid on it. 

Hell on Wheels

I want to be a roller girl.

I learned to roller skate when I was 5 years old.  In a strange and awesome juxtaposition, my church based kindergarten in rural Carriere, MS had a skating rink.  What is even more ironic, it wasn't the only skating rink in the town of 1500 people, max.  On rainy days, instead of going outside for recess, we would file single file into the skating rink and cut loose.  On the weekends, my mother accompanied me to the "real" rink in town where I received a series of skating lessons.  I took to it like a fish in water.  Skating was my 'gig'.  When I wasn't skating in a rink, I was perfecting my backwards skating skills in the hallway of our home.  I had my own skates (the sign of a true roller skater) as well as insta-skates, which transformed my tennis shoes into clanky skates.  For my 8th Christmas, Santa (yes, I still believed at that point) brought me the most superfly phat pair of white boot skates I had ever seen.  I don't hear "Xanadu" by Olivia Newton John, or "Lady" by Kenny Rogers (couple skate) that I don't feel a twinge to cross my right foot over my left.  By the time I was a teenager, I could couple skate (backwards).  To this day, I can proudly say that I never suffered a fall or flattened someone else's fingers in my adventures.  Sadly, skating rinks began disappearing in the late 1980s and I took a hiatus from my love of gliding along to funky music.  Not coincidentally, the artist Cameo also saw a drop in record sales.  In the mid 90s, my best friend from college bought me a pair of rollerblades for my birthday.  Rollerblades were okay, but TOO MUCH WORK.  This was actual exercise...not fun.  And, honestly, I didn't want to identify with the granola chics, whizzing about the campus on their blades with their extremely muscular calves.  I gave another half-hearted effort to the roller blade movement in the early part of the last decade, taking in the Mississippi River views as I tried to assimilate into the Harbor Town crowd.  Didn't last long.  Try rollerblading for 1.5 miles, against the blustery wind on a chilly March day...you'll never put on another pair.  Or at least, I didn't.  I just began to regain feeling in my shins...3 months ago.  Plus, I hated the gear.  I now use my knee pads to do floor scrubbing work. 

I would love nothing more than to lace up (lace...not latch) a pair of roller skates and glide around a rink.  Unfortunately, in Memphis, doing so means taking my life in my own hands and risk greater injury getting from my car to the door.  Last night, I saw a preview for "Whip It", a coming of age roller derby movie.  Now, I am old enough to be Ellen Page's mother (if I had been a YOUNG teen mother), but I couldn't help the excitement at the prospect of putting on massive amounts of make up and a pair of skate...basically, 1987 all over again.  Except with shoving, potential injury, and a moniker.  I quickly talked myself out of this prospect after being shoved by a big dose of reality.  I was sitting at home on a Saturday night in a nightgown with a redbox movie and a Sprite.  I'm no roller girl.  Sure, I have enough pent up aggression to open an institutional sized can of whoop ass, but I'm old.  I am old and tired.  I am old and tired and healthy.  And I would like to keep it that way.  I sure got a kick out of envisioning myself caked up with Max Factor and bandaids, being all aggressive and mean.  I laughed out loud when I thought about the moniker my far younger teammates would give me: Grandma Murder.  Or maybe Katherine Hipburn.  Or Ma Bell Hell.  Or Olden Girl.  Auntie Mame.  Either way, I awoke this morning feeling rejected by something I had rejected myself.

So, after I did my elderly routine of reading the paper with my coffee and watching CBS Sunday Morning, I entered phase two of my lazy Sunday morning routine...I opened my laptop.  I couldn't control my fingers from typing in "Memphis Roller Derby" into the google search field.  I was led to this.  There, I found, with quickening pulse, that there seemed to be no age cutoff.  But I found something else, far more restrictive and yet such a common theme in my life.  It wasn't that I was too old to do it, it was that I had once again chosen a course that would divert me from fun and exciting to safe and predictable.  DAMN, grad school.  Taking up my time for things I might actually enjoy.  I didn't miss the irony in the fact that there was a time that grad school represented fun and exciting, something that I always put on the back burner while I pursue my safe and predictable activities of working and getting married.  And now, that very thing has become the albatross.

Not that educating myself actually prevents me from getting down and dirty; but there are time constraints.  Due to my hatred of poverty, I must work and go to school at night.  Most night classes occur on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I can see myself signing up to kick some ass, only to meekly tell my team captain (Betty Gravel or Kim Reaper) that I must be excused from practice on these nights because I have class or study group.  They would probably stub cigarettes out in my palms for this infraction.  I say this only based on perception, because I assume that these ladies are hard core.  Like the normal chickens pecking the lame one to death, I would be seen as semi committed and subject to scorn.  Another irony, I am choosing the path that leads to me helping bring comfort to people over the path that would help me bring pain; even though both are equally appealing! 

I think about another time that I had to choose a path.  By the time I was a junior in college, I was fed up with formal education and wanted so badly to drop out and pursue beauty school (I just dated myself...by referring to it as beauty school).  My parents were aghast at this notion, and since they were my benefactors, I felt obligated to finish up the degree.  There are more times than not that I am glad I did.  But, sometimes, I think about what my life would be like if I had chosen the other road.  Joining the roller derby league isn't a career choice, and I am likely overthinking this, but I know myself well enough to know that it has to be one or the other.  Devote my evenings to grad school, or devote my evenings to recreation.  I spent my adult life so far devoting my time to the safe options, so as to build a future that wasn't so constrained.  And here I am.

I saved the website to my favorites folder.  A way of putting it on the back burner for now.  I will be 38 years old at the end of my grad education.  Perhaps if I start taking Boniva and add a couple of glasses of milk to my day, I can build strong enough bones to start then.  Maybe by then, a Senior league will start up.  Oldies but Baddies.  Declining Women.  Bitches on Wheels.  Watch for me!  I'll be the one popping Aleve and grinning. 

Facebook Misuse

Currently, I am listening to a news broadcast about the new privacy measures on Facebook.  Again?  Why must we keep revisiting this?  Am I the only person who understands that if you don't want to put your information out there, don't use social media?!  It's true, some people don't understand how Facebook works.  The whole concept of Facebook is putting your shit out there, no?  If you want to keep your information to yourself, get a datebook, or a diary.  I equate this with shameless media whoring followed by pissing and moaning about lack of privacy (sideways glance at you, Jon and Kate).  Conversely, since Facebook has become the Burger King of social media, I would like to suggest a change to make it more convenient for moi; since really, that is what it's all about anyway.  I would like for Facebook to take measures to protect me from other people's information.  I am mature and educated enough to understand that if I don't want anyone to know things about me, I won't broadcast them on the internet.  But what about the daily barage of useless and often cringe inducing tidbits that hog valuable screen space?  I have identified 7 types of Facebook users that I would like to be protected from:

1.  "I Thought Facebook Was a Computerized Dayrunner"
We all know this person.  Our friend.  Or not, maybe just the girl that sat behind us in 11th grade American History.  She missed the memo on what Facebook is meant for.  It is a catch-up tool.  It replaces the chintzy holiday "Here Is What We Have Been Up To" letter.  It virtually makes high school reunions irrelevant.  I am all about the highlights, just give me the run-down and we can be done.  I do not need a play by play of your morning.  For Example:
     CLUELESS McCLUELESS:  Just put breakfast in the oven, getting ready to work out, then will mow the yard and shower. After that, will prepare lunch and watch television.  After television is over, will log into facebook to check for comments on my exciting routine.

STOP IT!!!!  I do not care.  Yes, I realize I could "hide" these boring ass updates from my feed, but if I did that, my feed would be depressingly empty and alas, I would have nothing to make fun of. 

2.  "I Use Facebook to Concoct a Faux Fab Life In The Hopes That Others Will Envy Me"
Hello, Liar. 
     I will use the previous example, only faux fabbed up:
     LIAR McLIAR:  Prepared sumptuous poppy seed kiwi shallot quiche with Rachel Ray, now on my way to extreme frisbee and then bistro style lunch on the patio with my favorite person.  Watching a riveting social commentary later and then attending a social networking meet and greet.

Wow. Can I be you?  What the above status doesn't mention is that Rachel Ray was on the tv, the extreme frisbee is something that is going on as he drives through Shelby Farms in an effort to escape his boredom, and the social commentary is a "Friends" marathon on TBS, all prior to logging back into Facebook to see who's jealous. 

This is the sole reason I became of Facebook fan of:  Reading someone's status and thinking 'oh shut the hell up'

3.  "I Believe Everything I Hear"
This needs no introduction.
     CHICKEN LITTLE:  Hey Everybody, Facebook is about to start charging $14.95 a month to steal your toilet paper and give you Herpes.  If you don't want this, go to options and click No Herpes, change your setting to I'm A Doofus, and hit Kill Me.  Please repost!

Look, I bought into the Donate Hair to Stop The Gulf Oil Spill effort; but at least that was based in reality.  Some people do not deserve internet service.

4.  "I Use Facebook To Send Passive Aggressive Messages to My Frenemies"
Like a dance off, only using Facebook.
     GHOST POKER: Some people need to get a life.

Yes, I totally agree.  I wonder if the some people got the message.  Perhaps a more direct email or phone call would have been more efficient.  But, that defeats the purpose of this bogus status update.  GHOST POKER really just wants followers to believe that she is the type of person who tells it like it is...only just not directly.

5.  "My Life Would Be Meaningless Without Apps"
Ok, I admit, I fell under the spell of Farmville.  For a minute.  Then I got my life back.
     FARMER DUMBASS:  Hey guys, I need some corn! Please send me 10,304 coins so that I can buy more corn and thus make my life complete.  Also, my Mafia needs your help.  I am trying to assassinate Cornbread Gangsta and need 5 M-16s in my loot.  Please send me some brass knuckles.  And, if you have time, please support my virtual restaurant by eating the virtual Coq au vin that I virtually prepared. Thanks!

This is virtually pathetic.  FARMER DUMBASS needs to meet up with LIAR McLIAR and get a life...not a mafia. 

6.  "I Was The Only Kid With MTV"
Thanks for wasting feed space:
     BON JOVI'S BITCH:  Hey guys, check out this amazing video that I dug up on Youtube! It rocks!
                                         http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDK9QqIzhwk

Really? Because I have never seen this before?  Wow, now that I have viewed your "discovery", I can now move on with my day...energized by Bon Jovi.  Thanks Asshat. 

7.  "Facebook Enables My Munchausen by Proxy and Malingering"
This bitch and her kids are ALWAYS sick. Always.
     ILL JILL: On our way to the ER with Dalton, for the 6th time today.  So tired of the little guy's nosebleeds.  Unfortunately, my arms aren't working today due to my Fibro-betes and I can't staunch the flow.  Hoping the CTMRICATPET scan shows something awful and little known so that we can continue to milk this for a few more months.

This is quite possibly my least favorite Facebook user, only because she is so easily enabled.  All it takes is one comment from:
     GULLIBLE BETTY: Aw, Jill, I am sooooo sorry girl!  Hope the little one and you feel better soon!  Let me know if y'all need anything; I have no life and am sitting on the ready to rush to your aid so that I can feel like a part of something bigger.

Get some gotdamned counseling people!

Dear Facebook, please deliver me from these people.  Most of them are my friends, and I love them, so help them see the error of their ways.  Look, I know my status updates are not going to inspire a Bravo TV reality show (unless there is a market for a show about a 36 year old woman who is easily annoyed), but I do try.  I acknowledge that I have probably been guilty of each and any of these misuses in my 3 year history; but I pledge to be considerate from now on.  So, while you are protecting me from privacy violations....please also protect me from other's privacy.  Their private matters (daily schedule, delusional disorders, OCD, abandonement issues, and health matters) are getting on my nerves. 

Oh, and one more thing...please, for the love of God and all that is right in the world, please remove the following from Facebook:  up close pics of dirty teeth, dancing cowboys, dancing uneducated mothers, dancing home refinancers, dancing debt consolidators, and finally, sad orphaned virtual animals who need my virtual parenthood.  K, thanks!

Author's note:  If you are reading this blog, and we are Facebook friends, please don't take offense.  You are in my "inner sanctum" and thus immune to my ray-gun of justice.  Unless you, of course, are consistently guilty of these Facebook sins...then, yes, I am talking about you.  Love you! XOXO

Emotional Rescue

One afternoon, almost two years ago, I took a break from unpacking my things in my new home and decided to surf the internet for a little while. Somehow, I found myself at the website that I normally don't allow myself to look at. No no, not that kind of website! I found myself at petfinder.com. I have to limit my time there, so as not cry myself to sleep at night. I was all alone in my new place and the quiet was killing me. I needed something. Much like my experience with online dating, I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but felt pretty certain I would know it when I saw it. And then, I saw it.

Harriet's ad jumped off the screen and licked me in the face. She had some pictures posted and her ad read exactly like an ad I would have put up. She needed a stable home. Harriet had a family, but there was conflict and neglect which led up to her eviction. Luckily, a neighbor took Harriet in and provided her a safe harbor. After a few weeks, Harriet's family was ready to reconcile and they invited her to move back home with open arms. So, back she went. One week later, she was dropped off at the neighbor's home...kicked out again. Harriet had not been beaten, but her spirit was broken nonetheless. The burn of my own recent experience with rejection which led up to my new home stung. I could totally relate to Harriet. She was an older dog, wooly, but I could see from her pictures that she still thought very highly of herself.

I thought about it, could I do it?  My track record wasn't so great with keeping a pup on my own, usually surrending the grateful dog to one of my parents (because they "were lonely").  I knew Harriet would require a commitment.  I couldn't surrender custody this time.  Before I could talk myself out of it, I phoned Harriet's foster mother and set up a "home visit".  As much hassle and paperwork that was involved, I appreciated the fact that this organization, St Francis Rescues, didn't just drop their dogs off at the first home that expressed interest.  I had a couple of days to prepare for our home visit. 

The purpose of the home visit was a meet and greet of sorts, but also to make sure I wasn't running some sort of Michael Vick satellite campus in my backyard.  The foster mother, Trish, said that a fenced yard would be required, so I set about patching my fence.  I removed all potential poison or choking hazards from low places in my home.  I went on a pet supply shopping spree and felt a bit like my adopted baby was on the way.  What kind of bed?  How big should the crate be?  What kind of food?  Does Harriet prefer squeaky toys or rawhide?  With my new dog loot obtained and displayed in a dog friendly manner, I waited on Harriet's arrival.  A van pulled into the driveway, and I went out to greet them.  I saw Harriet perched in the passenger seat, eager to make her debut.

It would be cliche to say that an immediate bond was formed, but...well, an immediate bond was formed.  Harriet was dainty and coy as she approached me and admired my shoes.  The three of us entered my home and Harriet gave a passing glance to the Happy Fun Time Dog Extravaganza display, then jumped up on to my dinner table, as if she was about to make an important speech.  I admired her spunk.  I could imagine that she was saying:

"My name is Harriet and I am 6 years old.  I am healthy and in no danger of multiplying since my surgery.  I have some papers here that show the results of my recent physician visit, as you can see, I am up to date on everything.  I require mid to top level dog food, crunchy.  I had a nice couch at the halfway house, but was not allowed to bring it (sideways glance at Trish).  I am going to need a soft couch like thing to lie in.  Toys are great, not really particular about these as I haven't had a lot of time for toys...you see I have raised four litters of puppies.  I see that you have sidewalks here in your neighborhood, and I am used to having free range, so we will have to work something out.  I have issues with frizz, but prefer to keep my hair natural.  I appreciate your hospitality."

It became clear that it wasn't a matter of me selecting Harriet, Harriet had to select me.  Trish said that if I felt comfortable, she would leave Harriet with me at this visit.  I filled out some papers, basically stating that I wouldn't hurt Harriet or leave her for days alone.  I didn't even want to go to work the next day! And with that...it was just Harriet and I.  The van backed out of the driveway, and Harriet watched it disappear.

Harriet and I became fast friends.  She met friends and family and everyone fell under the spell of her charm.  There were kinks to work out, of course.  I never thought about changing her name, Harriet suited her to a T.  She was a prim and proper little old lady, with a kick.  The sidewalks turned out to be her favorite thing!  Harriet loves walking up to the courthouse on the square and sniffing storefronts.  She doesn't really care for other dogs, but never meets a human stranger.  I learned the hard way that Harriet has a thing for candy, and will digest all candy left in her reach...gum, sour patch kids, truffles...you name it.  She also eats cigarettes when she is pissed off.   Obviously, Harriet has an iron stomach.  She loved her little couch/bed that I purchased, but after a while, demanded to sleep on the bed.  For the first year, she was discouraged from sitting on the living room furniture, but now has an entire piece of human furniture for her exclusive use.  Crate training lasted approximately one week and after the seventh day of coming home to extract a shivering and cowaring pup from the deluxe crate, I purchased a baby gate.  Harriet pretty much demands the same standards by which I live.

Out of convenience I purchased the deluxe dog food brand for her once.  I am now required to purchase this brand and this brand only.  There are peas (dried green nuggets) in the mix and Harriet sorts them out and piles them in a polite little pile next to her bowl for my disposal.  During a travelling spurt last year, I boarded Harriet at the vets office, only after doing a personal inspection of the facilities.  After the third trip, I picked up Harriet and her paws were bloody.  I couldn't imagine what on Earth had transpired, and the office was equally clueless.  That night, I fashioned little Neosporin Ziploc bag booties and as she patiently stuck her feet up for me to doctor, she requested that I not leave her there again.  And thus began Harriet's weekend jaunts to Pickwick lake when I had to be out of town.  My mother is equally in love with her and offered her home to board Harriet. 

Just this morning, as we are having our morning coffee (well, coffee for me), I look over at her as she takes her morning nap (Harriet is not a morning dog) and I think about who rescued who.  I have provided Harriet with the best retirement experience ever.  She leads a leisurely life and never wants for anything.  Harriet has stability and security, something neither she or I is very accustomed to.  It doesn't matter if I come home and Harriet has painted my furniture with her poop and chewed up my Hollis Gillespie books; we would still play The Sugar Game at bedtime, just like any other night.  A couple of nights ago, when I took her out to pee before bed, she refused to pee.  I stood outside in the thick air, swooning from an exhausting day, as she stood still, like a statue...not peeing like a "good girl".  I withheld her treat and we went directly to bed (with an extra top sheet).  Crawling into bed, I positioned myself for our nightly game of Sugars. (Sugars consists of sitting face to face and saying "Sugars!" while she licks my nose, repeat three times then deep tissue massage for Harriet)  Harriet looked at me as if to say, "What? Sugars? Really? I thought you were mad at me."  It dawned on me at that moment that love means playing the Sugars game even if one of the parties is more vinegar than sugar.  How many times have I been expelled from the Sugars game in relationships???  Too many to count. 

As good as I have made it for Harriet, she has rescued me ten times over.  In my work, I spend entire days trying to make a difference and often failing miserably.  The shell of detachment that I have honed over the years is a hard exoskeleton.  But nothing, no man, brownie, pill, or beverage can dissolve that shell like the prim and proper little old lady who waits for me each day, doing a fancy little dance routine as soon as I open the door.  Harriet doesn't like to talk about her life prior to coming here, usually just passing it off with "Pfffft, Girl that shit was crazy!" But what matters is now.  It is okay now.  For the both of us.  We are two old gals who are done with crazy.  Perusing the dog personals that day two years ago was the best thing I ever did for Harriet, as well as myself. 

Come on Baby Tell Me What's The Word

I watched one too many news reports last night. Generally, I am a news freak and often find myself watching one broadcast and tivoing another. I am fairly sure that this stems from the total reverance that fell over my home as a child when the news came on. Everybody best shut the Hell up and listen to Walter Cronkite. Most of the time, I can watch with a detachment that is necessary in this day and age. However, sometimes, something strikes me and cuts right to the bone. The murders of Sgt Paudert and Officer Bill Evans of the West Memphis Police Department is one of the stories that got through. I got up this morning and didn't feel one bit sorry for my previous post; however, I feel the need to "move on" and post something light and entertaining to negate the bile.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I carted some kids around in my car last week.  My attention was focussed on the projectile vomitting; however, I did get a chance to bond with the two thirteen year old girls also in my charge.  In doing so, I realized that times change and situations certainly differ; but deep down,  all kids are the same.  As the happy chatter in the car turned to the last day of school and summer vacation, I was transported back to rural Troup County, Georgia, circa 1987.  Last day of school, seventh grade.  Best last day of school ever.  I mentioned this to the girls, that seventh grade was my favorite school year by far and they looked at me as if I had sprouted 6 horns.  Much like I probably would have had some square social worker advised me in the same manner all those years ago.

My best friend was Tina Williams.  We liked Original Jams and Swatch watches.  I met Tina on the first day of seventh grade when she slipped off her jelly shoe and showed me her blue toenail polish.  We were two peas in a pod from there on out.  Seventh grade was a pivotal time in my youth.  I was very fortunate to have both parents at home, very little family drama (that came much later), all the things I needed and most of the things I wanted.  My parents installed my very own phone line in my bedroom that Christmas.  I got 3 way calling.  Tina and I pulled all nighters on the phone on the few weekends that we weren't bunking at each other's homes.  We both had Garfield phones.  Normal never seemed so perfect.

The last day of school began with a note, from my mom, stating that it was okay for me to ride Tina's bus home with her.  Tina's bus driver was far younger and cooler than my shriveled up bus driver who banged an axe handle on the metal ceiling if we were getting unruly (way before bus cams).  Her bus driver let us have a paper fight.  As we made our wobbly way up to the front of the bus in anticipation of our stop, I could taste the summer that awaited us on the other side of those doors.  For a month leading up to this day, Tina and I would pass notes that showcased our math skills, calculating the precise number of days and hours (sometimes, if we were really bored, seconds) until the early June day.  Tina had a touch of OCD, as she would often draft agendas that looked something like this:

3pm-get on bus
3-4:07pm-ride bus
4:08-arrive home
4:09-5:00pm-get acquainted with things
5pm-5:15pm-snack
5:15pm-6:30pm-get ready
6:30pm-leave for movies

and so on.  We arrived at Tina's equally normal house, empty (I wasn't even a latchkey kid.).  In time, her little brother would show up and we would use some of our "get acquainted with things" time to torment him.  Tina and I would put our records on, literally.  The sounds of Cameo would fill the house until her very tired mom would arrive, loaded down with groceries that we helped carry (so as to get dibs on the good stuff). 

"Get ready" consisted of locking ourselves in the bathroom and taking turns getting a shower, each pledging to turn around so that the other could modestly slip behind the shower curtain.  The non showering party would sit on the toilet seat and read aloud from the book of Song Hits or Tiger Beat.  Hair conditioner ingredients were discussed and the summer of 1987 was when Tina and I discovered that there was afterbirth in the Hask Placenta conditioner that kept our permed hair so crunchy.  Exiting the foggy bathroom, the make up extravaganza was next.  Tina and I both preferred Natural Wonder eyeshadow in China Blue Frost and Electric Amethyst (yes, both on each eye).  Follow that with Electric Blue mascara and you've got yourself a face!  Jovan Musk intermingled with Sand and Sable cologne and we were ready.  Original Jams, check (I feel the need to clarify original because we had a friend who's mother made "jams" on her sewing machine and we were having none of that).  Swatch watches, maybe two, check.  Impervious hair, check.  Frosty Fuschia lipstick, check.  We piled into her parent's pistachio green Ford LTD and away we went. 

I don't remember the movie, but it was likely "La Bamba".  We were not there to see the movie, though.  We were there to gather intel.  What were the cool chics wearing?  Who broke up since 3pm?  Who had found true love on the bus ride home?  Who was on restriction?  I had a boyfriend, Greg.  Greg and his ilk met us there and we all took our seats.  It bothered me that Greg got a popcorn because I hate when people touch food and then offer it to me.  We giggled.  I smooched Greg.  Tina and I rolled our eyes at each other.  We compared feet to see who had the biggest.  Greg attempted to fix Tina up with his friend, Poncho (a regular white kid...unsure where the name came from).  I attempted to cheer Tina up when Ponch declined.  Later, we walked to the quick stop to purchase Cherry 7-ups while we waited for the pistachio green car to take it's place in the limo line up. 

Piling into the car to the strains of mid 80's country music, Tina and I sang along all the way home....entertaining her parents, I'm sure.  When asked about the movie, we were unable to report anything beyond some Mexican guy who was in a plane crash with Buddy Holly.  Arriving home for more snacks, we prepared for our all night music video fest (Superstation WTBS!), budgeting a few hours of sleep in preparation for the first official whole day of Summer. 

That was 23 years ago.  Whenever I hear someone mention the last day of school, I am right back there.  I think about "The Young and The Restless", The Iran Contra Hearings, "Dirty Dancing" (which I hated, I was a cynic even then), motorbikes, Hubba Bubba gum, Michael Jackson's "Bad", Always Maxi Pads with Wings, Baby oil and Iodine as sunscreen, Sebago foot (which comes from wearing the leather shoes without socks in June), and endless days of doing absolutely nothing, yet experiencing absolutely everything.

Try as I might, I always fall short of recreating this time each year.  I wanted to tell those girls, DO NOT GROW UP!!! I wanted to tell them that it will never get any better than this.  They are in such a hurry, one even discussing the fact that she is already looking at cars in anticipation of getting her license (4 years in the future).  I wanted to tell them that someday they would be shopping in Kroger and would see the summer bbq supplies and feel like they had been shot.  Someday, they would be in the car and would get behind a school bus and some kid would shoot them a bird from the 'cool kids only' backseat and they would want to cry.  Someday, they would pull on a bathing suit and waste minutes of precious sun time standing in front of the mirror wondering where their waist went.  As I opened my mouth to educate these girls, I realized that my car had just turned into a pistachio green LTD and my message would be deemed "uncool". 

And in the wise words of Cameo:  You try to put on those airs and act real cool but you've got to realize that you're acting like a fool.  Even Original Jams have evolved.  They now make sensible sundresses.

A Tale of Two Sons

William Ligui Ionescu...congratulations!!!  You have just been awarded my "World Would Be A Better Place Without You In It" award.  A high honor, I'm sure, for you; because let's face it...coming out on top probably is not a feeling you are used to.  Your rhetoric is so long winded that I can't summon the concentration to sit down and sift through it to find even a nugget of sensical thought.  But, that is the grand design, isn't it?  It is kind of like sitting down to an essay exam in which you write down every single morsel of knowledge that you have gleaned on a subject in hopes of somehow coming close to the target answer.  Only, in your case, you failed miserably. 

I listened to your phone interview and actually chuckled when your picture was shown on my local news station.  Who knew Andrew Cunanan had such polarizing views?  Your BFF Jerry Kane met his fate in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart in West Memphis, Arkansas; alongside his son, Joe.  This was after they murdered two West Memphis police officers and then tucked and ran like the two cowards that they proved to be.  Your friend Jerry's big ass was laid out on the concrete for the world to see and I see this as fitting.  The saying goes, live by the sword, die by the sword.  I only wish a sword had actually been involved.  I found it particularly amusing that you went on and on about Jerry's "boy" and how articulate he was.  Really?  Just because a child can recite passages, that does not make him articulate.  And frankly, have you seen the media pictures of Jerry's "boy"?  The only thing I can say about this social reject is that he truly is Jerry's kid. In terms of intelligence and common sense, both Kane's were obviously lacking.  But that didn't stop them from talking.  And when no one listened, they shouted.  And when no one listened to that, they took desperate measures to be acknowledged.  Without an AK-47 rifle, these were two men in horrible suits and bad haircuts...mouth breathers at best. 

Jerry and Joe Kane were so "hard" that instead of waiting on the next officers to show up on the scene, so that they could calmly explain why the shooting was justified, they simply freaked out and hauled ass.  Wow, what courage!  If they were so right and just in their practice, why the rush?  Let it be right and just that these two genetic fuck ups be the poster children for the "anti-government" movement.  A grossly obese lunatic and his weird ass kid.  The question is asked, "What drove them to shoot two officers and agitate the situation by fleeing?"  I think I may have the answer.  It began long before they set out on their father/son World Domination Tour.  Genius Jerry Kane was a long haul truck driver, a profession known for producing such brilliant reformists such as....such as....um.... Several years ago, his infant daughter was found dead in her crib.  When the hospital, abiding by state law, insisted on performing an autopsy, he snapped.  Without logically following the chain of logic, (infants just don't up and die) he saw this as an opportunity to make something of himself.  So, he ran down to the big and tall (more big than tall) store and purchased the tackiest white suit they had and began ranting about the government.  If you ask me, and I know you didn't...but hey, it's a free country, all that government hating and complaining probably hid something.  He and his nurse wife had a son, Joe, and I bet it was apparent from early on that Joe was a dud.  Joe would never be more than a vehicle.  Jerry Kane bragged about how his son never attended school.  I'm sorry, but this moron is doing nothing for the home school movement.  Later, Jerry decided to show the government who's boss and gave up his CDL.  Truck Stops and Wolf Tee Shirt makers all over America mourned this day.  As a result, dude couldn't pay his house note.  But, apparently,  his grocery bill was right on time.  So, while Henry the VIII sat around stuffing his face, the bank was hammering down foreclosure signs in the front yard.  Somewhere in the mix, his wife died from Pneumonia.  Again, how does a 30-something nurse die from Pneumonia?  Clearly, the government infected her with it, as a plot to take him out.  Anyway, as the grass grew up around his foreclosure sign, Jerry became an expert in foreclosure law.  He conveniently decided that the rules didn't apply to him and that he actually didn't have to pay for his home.  I suppose he believed that he was entitled to a free home?  It was all coming together now.  Jerry Kane had found his niche.  He lost his home, so that made him an expert in how not to lose one's home.  His epiphany was turned into a bogus real estate seminar that he subjected thousands of legitimate home-owners-in-trouble to.  I mean, I never thought to attend one of these seminars...because I pay my bills on time, but what exactly does he do?  Hoist himself up to a podium and tell people to do everything the opposite of him?  Did the dud work the projector?  And, he had to be sponsored in cities to come there and spew his nonsense.  So, someone had to volunteer their spare bedroom to host Dumb and Dumber?  Red Flag!   Life didn't turn out the way Jerry Kane imagined.  And, instead of taking a look at his mistakes and decisions, he took the easy route and blamed the government. 

The laws did not apply to the Kanes.  They were not required to carry a driver's license.  And, if questioned about the lack of a license, instead of giving the calm and rational response that he so believed in, he gave a lot of spittle, threats, and attempts at bribery.  It has been reported that if pulled over, Jerry Kane demanded a cash payment before consenting to a search of his vehicle.  Money doesn't make it just.  Money makes it profitable.  So, Jerry Kane knew precisely how to work the system that he hated so much.  Basically, what it boils down to is Jerry Kane was a fat fuck who didn't get a big enough handout, so he just got fatter and crazier until he burst (with the help of some Crittenden County Deputies).  It doesn't really matter why the West Memphis Police pulled over that raggedy ass van last week.  The lunacy encased in that vehicle had reached a critical level and what's done is done.  Four people dead. 

It never ceases to amaze me the number of people who enjoy the freedoms of this country, yet continue to bite the hand that feeds them.  It is the American process to say what you like, when you like, how you like, and to whomever you like.  But, spewing idiocy and pulling guns are two completely different things.  Jerry Kane is the kid on the playground who lost a round of tetherball and instead of kicking the dirt and rejoining his peers for the next round, he declared tetherball a personal assault on his rights and then slaughtered the other children.  It is easy to be wrong with an automatic weapon by your side.  Only this time, when Jerry lost a round, he received another round, and another, and another...until his rotund body lay lifeless.  A coward until the end. 

As his self proclaimed best friend, you took it upon yourself to request that the West Memphis Police Department finance Jerry and Joe Kane's funeral.  In death, as in life, Jerry Kane was apparently ill prepared to meet his obligations.  And now his bloated body and that of his son's are the responsibility of a government entity, according to you.  In Jerry's life, everything had a price.  He sent a bill to a police department in New Mexico for $100 an hour for each hour he was detained.  That's a rather inflated sense of worth, in my opinion.  Jerry Kane probably consumed more than $100 of resources each hour he was detained.   I would like to suggest an economical option for disposal of these two social misfits.  There is a serious oil leak going on in the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.  I think Jerry alone can probably plug it up.  That way, he can actually do some good in the world.  Otherwise, Jerry and Joe Kane died for nothing.  Their lives were meaningless and their deaths turned out to be just as devoid of meaning.  Officers Paudert and Evans set into motion a chain of events that rid the world of two DNA skips.  And for that, I will be eternally grateful.

In closing, I would like to take aim at you, Mr. Ionescu.  I see that you, like your friend, are an opportunist.  You wasted no time pimping yourself for interviews.  But, your gig will soon come to a close as people will move on.  You irrelevant commentary will once again fade back into obscurity and you will have to latch on to another time bomb.  Unfortunately for you, the police aren't going to go away.  Neither is the government.  And thank God for that, because I shudder to think of a nation overrun by bottom dwellers such as yourself and your "friends".  West Memphis Police Chief Bob Paudert lost his son as he defended the public from the likes of Jerry Kane.  Jerry Kane lost his son as he defended his megalomaniac father from the world.

Author's Note:  This post is in reference to the recent murders of West Memphis Police Officers Brandon Paudert and Bill Evans.  You can read the story here: Paudert and Evans.  I believe in the freedoms afforded me in the Constitution, but also realize that my rights end where another's begins.  America is the land of the free and home of the brave; but clearly provides harbor to cowards as well.  My condolences to the Evans and Paudert families.  May the Kanes rot in Hell.

Transportation FAIL

Last night was my debut as the child hauler.  I chuckle to myself now when I think back to a couple of days ago when I was all stressed out about what we would listen to on the radio.  How naive I was.  How clueless I was to the hidden danger.   I showed up with my brood at the designated destination at the designated time, walking into a room of no less than 30 people, sweat pouring down my green face, a toddler covered in radioactive material, and two mortified pre teen girls, and exclaimed "WE NEED A BATHROOM NOW!!!"  Yeah, the radio was the LEAST of my concern.

I budgeted my time and arrived at the home with a couple of minutes to spare.  These spare minutes were quickly consumed with trying to figure out which children would actually be riding with me.  Once the children were chosen (like choosing puppies out of a box), we were on our way.  The two teens got into my car with no problem.  The little blond tater who was so eager to go...not so much.  I had no idea how to secure the car seat, but I figured it out, or a close approximation of secure.  And away we went!

I was so preoccupied with making sure my passengers were happy, that I made a wrong turn and drove us 5 miles in the wrong direction before realizing my mistake.  That set off the alarm on my internal stress clock, and I began to worry that we would be late.  Normally, being late is no big deal for me, I'm late for everything.  But this situation was loaded.  Being late meant walking into a room full of people who were all there waiting on me, which violates my need to sneak into crowded situations, unnoticed.  I did not drive recklessly, I just refused to linger behind the slow pokes for longer than 2 minutes. 

Amazingly, we were all getting along fairly easy.  The girls were chatty and discussing the last day of school and I was actually enjoying the conversation.  I marveled at how some things never change with time or circumstance.  The last day of school for a 7th grader is like, seriously, the best thing ever.  The fair haired baby in the back was rubbing her eyes and appeared to be drifiting in and out of a nap; something I recognized that children do on tv.  We didn't even play the radio.  I breathed a sigh of relief as we got closer to town.  When I saw the water tower on the horizon, which signified that we were almost there, I exclaimed, "Yay! We won't be late, there's the water tower!"

And at that, something so evil was brought forth, almost unspeakable.  A sound came from the car seat that was filled with absolute cuteness.  The sound was unmistakeable, even for a greenhorn.  It was the sound of vomit.  The teen in the backseat exclaimed, "Oh my God!!! She threw up!!!".  I was 5 minutes away with 3 minutes to spare.  I put on my grown up hat and calmly said, "Is she okay? Yes? We're almost there."  I bought my own lie and felt reassured that small kids usually throw up a clear substance.  Then, the smell wafted into the front of the car.  Oh. My. God. 

We careened into the parking lot and the chaos began.  The Chinese fire drill that ensued had to have been comical to passerby, and also in retrospect.  The teenagers exited the car and assumed a safe distance (from the smell as well as the responsibility).  I threw open the car door to find a distressed formerly adorable four year old covered in a substance that can only be described as raw ground beef milkshake with cheerios.  I felt my own stomach contents lurch.  Here I am, dressed in a cute spring dress, with cute wedge heels, and a smart sensible hairstyle.  In any other setting, I would have been described as carefree, stylish, even hip.  In this setting, I was ill equipped.  In a matter of seconds, I had to make some very difficult decisions

There was no beef shake actually in my car, it was all contained within the car seat.  This sounds really selfish of me, but people, I have perforated leather seats that are vented.  I accidentally spilled some coffee on the seat last summer and I swear for the rest of the season, everytime I hit the cooled seats options, I thought I was in Starbuck's.  The implications of this are unimaginable and far reaching.  I noted that there was no surface on either the child or the car seat that was untainted.  It was then clear that I would have to extract the now guilty faced tater from this Hell, by touching puke.  I could have dealt with snot.  Pee.  Poop.  Even Blood.  I basically had to dissociate myself from the situation and shed my human form.  I shut down my sensory system and removed the child, my fingers squishing through the bad stuff as I fumbled with the complicated buckling system.  To distract myself from what was happening, I mentally sang a happy cheer for Ortho Evra birth control pills.  Once the baby was out and secured on the sidewalk, I removed the car seat and slung it into the street as if it were covered in cockroaches.  It might as well have been.  Next dilemma, do I escort a vomit covered child into the building, or would it be better if she was naked?  Those really were the only two options at hand.  Remembering that I had a door prize in the trunk, because I'm a good social worker, I popped the trunk and extracted two towels from the "linen basket happy fun time prize".  Oh well, we need this far worse than the winner will.   I made the quick judgement call to escort the child in all her vomitous glory.  Due to the nature of my work, I figured a naked baby would cost me my job. 

As we made our way into the building, the tater raised her little hand up, to remind me (the irresponsible non mother) that her hand was to be held while going up big girl steps.  As you can guess, that hand was not in good condition.  I returned to my human form at this time and I saw the reality of the situation.  This child was about to enter a room of strangers, including several children, while wearing a vomit costume and the only source of comfort and guidance she had was me.  She was a skirt hider, much like my bashful 4 year old self.  I remembered how shy and anxious I was as a kid and I knew if this was me, I simply wouldn't have exited the car.  So, if this baby can summon the gumption to arrive on the scene in the worst possible circumstances without an absolute meltdown...then I can grab her little vomit crusted hand and escort her. 

All eyes were on us as we entered the room.  I also remembered my 13 year old self, and so wasn't at all surprised that the two teens in my charge were hurredly trying to separate themselves from our motley crew.  I understood their need for coolness, so I let them go.  I can think of a million more things I would rather exclaim upon entering a room filled with people, but "WE NEED A BATHROOM, NOW!!" is nowhere on that list.  I'm the kid who was too embarrassed to ask the teacher for a bathroom pass.  We were directed to the nearest facility and I set about trying to transform the child back into the adorable toddler that I picked up half an hour ago.

I put in a valiant effort, but after all was said and done, she stood on the toilet with a wet tshirt and wet jeans, still reeking of puke.  She looked as if she had been caught by an unexpected rainstorm, which wouldn't have been a big deal, except I know kids.  No kid was going to come within 3 feet of her smelling like that, except to make fun of her.  Well, I was having none of that.  I did the only thing I could. 

I instructed the tater to raise her arms and I uncapped the economy sized can of Lysol that I spied on the floor beside the toilet.  "It's perfume!" I exclaimed as I covered her little face with my hand and encased her in a fog of antiseptic spray.  She twirled around as I continued to sanitize.  We exited the bathroom in a haze of springtime freshness and I sent her off to her peers.  She lingered for a moment, looking at me as if to say, "Are you sure it's ok?" 

I bent down and pecked her chubby cheek and whispered, "You Go Girl!" and off she went.  I tucked my now limp and sweaty hair behind my ear, stood up, surveyed the crowd and announed, "Alright folks, let's get started!"

I got this. 

Baby on Board

A few years ago, my priorities were different.  I was car shopping and a little bird was sitting on my shoulder trying to persuade me to consider the super fly cadillac that was going to speed the bird and I into the sunset.  Sure, I wanted to speed into the sunset, happily ever after, but being the eternally practical gal that I am; I had but one concern of my future car:  Could it respectably hold a baby seat?  Now, most cars will accommodate a car seat, I know.  Call me snobby, but I find it slightly depressing to see a car seat in the back of a mustang.  That tells me, someone didn't plan ahead.  A car seat in the back of a Delta 88 makes me even sadder.  I see that car seat and I can imagine the sticky carpet, the broken window units, the too many pets.  A Corolla holding a car seat makes me feel a little better, sensible parents, frugal with money...unless said Corolla has a light kit on the bottom; then I see that car seat sitting in the litter scattered front yard of their meth house.  But a car seat in the back of a Cadillac, somehow just didn't fit.  Luxury doesn't go with parenthood.  The cavernous backseat of the sedan should see formal wear, not garanimals.  Designer bags, not binkies.  Sequins, not crumbs.

But, in the interest of that sunset, I chose the Cadillac anyway.  Unfortunately, that sunset I was speeding towards turned into a giant ball of fire and I had to change directions.  Luckily, the V8 engine got me away in a hurry!  On my way out of Dodge, my backseat held taped together moving boxes.  As I furnished my new nest, it held awkwardly shaped furniture.  As I made a home, the backseat housed flat upon flat of petunias and large bags of soil (with a protective sheet, of course).  That backseat has even held a mental patient.  Pretty much the only two things I never dreamed would be in that seat were several bags of cash and a babyseat.

Until now.  Irony is funny.  I learned yesterday that in the course of my job, it would be necessary for me to transport kids at times.  When this was going around the meeting table, I quickly stated that I could not transport anyone under the age of 8, because I had no safety apparatus.  No car seat.  No booster seat (as a side note:  boy, times sure have changed! I would have DIED if my mom had strapped me into a "booster seat" when I was eight.  Of course, the whole idea is preventing death, but I came up in a time when children were being thrown all over the station wagon).   "Oh, no problem!", I was informed.  My social service agency has PLENTY of car seats available for my use. 

So, it has come to this.  Three years to the month of purchasing my happy fun time luxury vehicle, I am once again revisited by the car seat dilemma.  Just when you think you can relax and quit worrying, the same old niggling issues come back...in altered form.  It seems to be the universe's way of saying, "Look, you can't go your whole life without coming into contact with small humans...if you keep putting this off, the situations are just going to get weirder."  What's next?  If I avoid this brush with babies, the next thing will be that I take to selling used car seats on the side of the road?  Why can't the car seats just leave me alone?  I made my choice, right?  I chose instant happiness (yeah, that worked out) over long range planning.  Yet, it seems that if something is supposed to happen, it is going to happen so I might as well take my medicine now to stave off even more bizarre scenarios.  It would appear that my control over a situation seems to subside the more I put it off. 

Not to mention the fact that I have no idea how to transport kids.  All I have to draw on is my own experience.  Positioning myself on the little hump in the back so that I could rest my elbows on the front seat armrest; thereby not missing one second of conversation between the front seat riders (my mom and my older brother).  Singing into the speakers housed above the backseat because I believed that if I sung loud enough it would come through the radio and I would be "discovered" for the amazingly talented child star that I believed myself to be.  Biting the soft/hard dashboard because I liked to see my teeth indentions and because it upset my mother.  What do kids listen to on the radio?  What do we talk about?  Do we talk at all?  What if someone pees?  What if I am transporting older kids and I glance into the mirror to catch them rolling their eyes at me?  What if I accidentally let a "MOVE YOUR ASS MORON!" slip?? 

If this brush with carseats has taught me anything, it has taught me not to be so quick to judge.  Maybe that Mustang driver is a social worker, like me, carting some kids away from Hell.  One way to tell is to check the front passenger seat for overstuffed notebooks and loose papers.  Maybe a mileage form.  And while I am browsing other people's rides, I may have forgotten my own cargo.  I will now have that weird moment of panic whenever I leave my car, "WHERE'S THE BABY? DID I LEAVE THE BABY?".  

The Baby on Board just spit up all over my neat little well planned life. 

Momma. Mom. Momma. MOM!!!

As a child, I remember constantly tugging on my mother's shirttail, seeking attention.  I would repeat "Momma" as often as I had to until finally getting the long sought after, "WHAT?!".  Often, by the time I had received the prize of attention, I forgot what I was going to say.  Infuriating, I'm sure.  Perhaps I just wanted reassurance that I had not suddenly become invisible.  Maybe I wanted to know what was for supper.  I could have just been curious as to who she was talking to on the phone.  Either way, I pestered my mother without shame.  I was the precursor to the Facebook poke.  Poke poke poke poke poke poke.  Day in day out, sunrise to sundown.  Today is Mother's Day and as I sit here performing my Sunday morning ritual of coffee, cigarettes (shut up), newspaper, and Newschannel 3, I received the mother of all pokes.

The talking head on the news informed me that it isn't as unusual as it used to be for a woman over 35 to give birth.  Red Alert Red Alert!!  In one month and one day, I will be 36 years old.  I have built a fairly successful career.  I have completed my education.  I have enrolled in grad school.  I have purchased my own shelter.  I have had my white wedding (and my off white wedding as well).  I have navigated through the murky lake of divorce.  I walked through Central Park and dined at Tavern on the Green.  I gambled (and won!) in Las Vegas.  I have been published.  I have stayed out all night, wore too much make-up, danced in heels, cut my own lawn, done my own taxes, and opened a savings account.  Pretty much, all the things that I associated with being a grown up (a childhood bucket list, if you will) have been checked off.  Well, all but one thing....

Poke poke poke poke poke.  Mom. Momma? Hey, Momma.  Momma.  Mom.  MOMMA!!!  Looking around my grown up house, all I see is my grown self and my middle aged dog.  There are no children here!  So, who is that tugging on my shirttail???  Oh yeah, it's the baby I was supposed to have this year.  In all my succeeding, marrying, divorcing, mowing, and dancing, I neglected to check the calendar.  This was the year.  The predetermined year of motherhood.  Whoops.  At some point in my irresponsible twenties, I decided that being married probably wasn't for me; therefore, I was going to have a child on my own.  Men, who needed them?  This belief became cemented during my second divorce.  No husband? Whatever.  I can do this.  If I am not married by the time I am 35, I will just have my own baby...with minimal male input (please...excuse the pun...I couldn't let that one pass.) 

Visions of 35 year old me, holding my very own baby danced through my non sensical mind.  I guess I figured that I would also win the lottery by the time I was 34.  Honestly, at this point, it seems more likely that I would hit the financial jackpot than hit the marriage jackpot (see previous post)!  At 35 years, 10 months, and 29 days I have run out of time.  Unless I can somehow forge a quicky adoption, my 36th birthday is going to get here before my bundle of joy.  This forces me to put down my newspaper and consider where it all went wrong and how I could forge some sort of new contract with my future self.

I decide to push the deadline back.  Ok, so if 1 in 7 babies are born to mothers aged 35 and older, that means if I can get 6 friends who are 35 and have not given birth in the same room, I have a pretty good chance at this.  Let's see.  6 friends who are 35...not a problem.  Alright, now, who doesn't have a child...crickets chirping....anyone? Anyone??  Short of pulling out my high school yearbook, I could only come up with one other woman.  Wait, ok, two.  Three, tops.  My logic is fuzzy here, but it seems more likely that the four of us will be sitting around playing canasta on Mother's Day 2040.  Alright....scrap that.  I can just as easily birth a baby at 38.

Pushing the deadline back to age 38 gives me two more years to figure it out.  WAIT!  I am about to embark on a two year graduate program.  I can't be hauling my pregnant ass back and forth to U of M after working all day.  I will do well to haul my slightly overweight ass back and forth.  Ok, so how about 39?  But, I don't want to be a newly minted Licensed Professional Counselor, trying to start a practice, with a baby on my hip.  At this point, I ask myself...do I even want the baby?  The answer is yes.  I do.  But, I want everything else too.  Finally, the reality dawns on me.  There is one part of this equation that I am leaving out.  A man. 

The man that I deemed so unnecessary is now vital.  So this is what it's all about.  Single parenting is possible, but parenting is something designed for two.  Two heads are better than one.  Four hands are better than two.  Two incomes are better than one (especially when there is a student loan balance!).  Two extended families are better than one.  As much love and mothering as I could provide, I would never be able to provide the stability that a dad could.  Say what you want about girl power, the person who will be in charge of choosing my nursing home is going to need a good childhood!  And, it seems, all I would be able to provide, on my own, is a just good enough childhood.  I never dreamed that I would be faced with the "having it all" dilemma PRIOR to having a child.  I just always assumed that I would have it all.  Not that it would be handed to me, but I never doubted my ability to make things happen for myself.  Until this morning.

So, it isn't just a matter of pushing the deadline back.  I could push the deadline back indefinitely.  Women give birth at 40, right?  Sure they do.  But how on earth will I pay for my daughter's wedding on a fixed income?  How will I chase around grandchildren when I am on a walker?  At best, I could hope for a teen pregnancy.  Somehow, this doesn't sound like "having it all" to me.  The longer I wait, the higher the chances are that the only grandparents my child will know are cement headstones.  Grandparents are another thing that I deemed unnecessary all those years ago.  I was raised in a nuclear family, far away from grandparental intervention, and I turned out okay.  I, however, had two parents.  The paint on the white picket fence in my mind is peeling away rapidly. 

Today, I had planned on a leisurely day of some light yardwork, reading, perhaps a trip to the grocery store.  In short, a low stress day.  Obviously, planning isn't my strong point.  Thanks to Newschannel 3 (who, as it turns out, is NOT on my side...as the slogan says), I now have to rethink my life choices.  Isn't it ironic (real ironic...not convenient Alanis Morrissette ironic) that today is also the 50th anniversary of the birth control pill?  The tiny little pill that made most of my life choices possible is now the cause of the crumbling of my plan.  If plan A is birthing the unplanned baby, and Plan B is planning not to birth the unexpected baby, what is plan C?  Plan C is yet to be determined.  It isn't as easy as running out and grabbing a husband and making babies.  I bet I could find a husband before my 36th birthday, if I wanted to.  I want more than that.  I want to make sure that the person I sit across from, as I read the newspaper and sip my coffee, is someone I actually like.  Someone who won't bitch and moan about having to pick the baby up from daycare because I have a client at 5pm.  Someone who will answer questions such as "Where do babies come from?" with courage.  Someone who will spring for the deluxe model of anything.  And finally, someone who will love me and provide that child with an example of "how it should be".  I'm opting for balance over girl power.  And, I guess that is appropriate...seeing as how I am no longer a girl.  I am looking for the concrete slab foundation to build my house upon, and concrete takes a long time to set.  I suppose I could just forget the foundation and start building...but my house would surely crumble with a strong wind or heavy rain. 

Things happen for a reason and I am still fairly certain that I will end up with exactly what I need and a little of what I want.  The saying goes, "Sometimes things have to fall apart in order for everything to fall into place."  Pretty much, I am in the land grading phase of my life now.  The land has been cleared, a survey has been completed, and now I am staking out the layout.  The concrete truck is on order and when it gets here, I can pour the foundation.  Just like I took a leap and passed on that ridiculous job, without knowing if another offer would come, I am going to have to once again jump; passing on the ridiculous dream of bringing up baby all by myself.  That could mean that I find myself leeching off my nursing home roommate's kids on Mother's Day 2050...or it could mean a seat at the dinner table with a huge coursage and a stretched out shirttail. 

And with that, I am hitting the snooze button on my biological clock, tucking my shirt in, and rolling up my sleeves.  The proverbial horse needs to be led to his position in front of the cart.  Once he is there, I've got some light yardwork, reading, and grocery shopping to do. 

It's Flinn, Not Flynt.

The race for Tennessee's 8th Congressional District has sparked the interest of a local popular newspaper columnist.  Actually, not the race itself, but one of the candidates.  Dr. George Flinn is a Republican candidate for this seat.  He is running on a conservative platform and this is where the columnist, Wendi Thomas, takes issue.  Dr. George Flinn is a Radiologist, a County Commissioner, a Radio Mogul, and according to Ms. Thomas....a peddler of filth and smut.  Normally, Wendi and I are on the same page.  After a week of reading the Twitter missives and then today's column, I felt compelled to look into this matter a little further than just my usual "phfffft, whatever."  Wendi Thomas has awarded Dr. George Flinn her "On The Pipe" Award because he owns Hot 107.1 FM and is campaigning on a family values platform. 

Basically, what this boils down to is a conflict in private values and public values.  Clearly, Ms. Thomas likes her politicians honest and transparent.  And, really, who doesn't?  There are arguments on both sides about free enterprise and the dangers of liberal leadership.  I am not a fan of "urban music".  In fact, I don't know that I have ventured that far right on the dial since The Pig left the pen.  I don't have to though.  I already know what's there, because I have eyes.  I have seen the Mo Money Taxes commercials.  I live north of Memphis which means that I have to pass through some of the "urban" areas to get to my destination.  Before moving North, I was one of the last holdouts in my Berclair neighborhood.  I know what the music talks about.  Pimpin, druggin, slappin/clockin, whorin, and hustlin.  Not exactly family values material.  But, not exactly Larry Flynt material either. 

Ms. Thomas phoned Dr. Flinn's campaign headquarters to inquire about how his peddling of smut went along with his conservative values.  She asked if Dr. Flinn would allow his grandchildren to tune into Hot 107.1.  What is the right answer here?  There isn't one.  Which makes it a good question; however, the intent seems to be quote seeking instead of genuine curiosity.  I wonder if Dr. Flinn would let his grandchildren play with all that high dollar x-ray equipment?  Same difference.  Both are means of income for Dr. Flinn.  The message here, at least the message I am getting, is this:  You must align yourself with what you do or else you are smoking crack. If an out of work vegetarian was offered a liveable wage in exchange for peddling beef products, should she refuse it?  How much swiss chard can she feed her kids on $275 of unemployment each week?  Living by one's personal ideals sounds great, but is it really possible in practice?  I advocate on behalf of people with serious mental illnesses.  Would I allow one of my clients to babysit my child?  Hell no.  What if I owned a liquor store?  Would I let my grandchildren select their favorite wines before boarding the school bus?  No.  Say I owned said liquor store (which, by the way, would be an awesome enterprise that I would seek out with my lottery winnings) and I ran for the Tennessee Legislature. I would likely run as a Republican; therefore, could I expect a call from Ms. Thomas asking me if my grandkids prefer Grey Goose to Absolut?  Drinking certainly creates social ills, right?  I would venture to say that alcohol is responsible for far more deaths than "adult urban contemporary" music.  George Flinn's grandkids can operate a radio, I'm fairly certain.  The difference is this:  If someone's grandchildren are getting the message on life's path from a radio station...something else went terribly wrong somewhere down the line. 

Ms. Thomas went on to question the ethics of owning a check cashing business and not supporting predatory lending.  First of all, the "self centered capitalism" that Ms. Thomas equates with conservative value isn't what brought our economy to a screeching halt.  It was the self centered entitlement of this society.  A careless attitude of how your actions affect other communities is her description of conservatism.  What could be more careless than borrowing twice the amount that you can afford so that you could live large for a couple of years only to abandon that "American Dream" when the bill came due?  How about going to college on the government's dime, only to fizzle out after a couple of semesters.  And TENNCARE...that was a great idea.  I'm certain that Dr. Flinn has on more than one occassion aimed his nuclear beam at the insides of a TENNCARE client.  Does that mean he endorses the program?  I doubt it.  Dr. Flinn also owns Radio Ambiente 1030AM, a Spanish language station.  Can we expect to see Dr. Flinn holding the gate open for illegal aliens?  He owns WHBQ, the local radio authority on sports, does that mean he favors steroid use among athletes? 

So, Ms. Thomas takes issue with Dr. Flinn not practicing what he preaches.  How can Dr. Flinn sit on the porch of a country store and talk about family values and clean living when he profits off of the opposite.  It's simple.  Dr. Flinn has a realistic, as opposed to an idealistic, view on how things work.  Clearly, there is a market for "adult urban" music.  Seeing an opportunity and seizing it is what makes America "The Land of Opportunity".  Sitting around and waiting for opportunity to come to you is what America has turned into.  "Urban Music" has it's place in society.  As does tobacco, alcohol, health care, debt, and freedom of speech.  Dr. Flinn is going to play Project Pat because there is a market for it.  It isn't Dr. Flinn's job to raise our children, Ms. Thomas.  If the children tuning in had parents who demonstrated drive, ambition, and morals, they may not be so quick to absorb the teachings of Hot 107.1.  Dr. Flinn isn't robbing anyone, and he isn't being dishonest.  I support free speech, does that mean that I am opposed to decency?  No. What a wonderful world it would be if every person could practice according to their values.  Where "do as I say not as I do" wasn't necessary.  That is a vision, not a reality.  We come from the land where it is hard out here for a pimp.  George Flinn is trying to make it a little harder by lifting up values.  If those same values are torn down by something as simple as a song on a radio station, then I don't blame the song, the artist, the station, or the station owner.  I blame the person who is in charge of instilling the value into the young ears of the listener.  The parent.  Neither government, nor the media, is in the business of raising children.  Ruling out candidates with good ideas based on a 6 degrees of separation look into their affiliations and holdings could have very well cost our President that office. 

With all that said, I have decided to award Ms. Wendi Thomas the first "On The High Horse" award.  I don't take issue with you personally, Wendi, just your logic.  The problem isn't the song, it is the weak ears listening. 

Disclaimer:  I, FormerMeanGirl, do not endorse any candidate for this particular race...as I am still undecided.  However, in the coming months, I will be educating myself about each candidate without regard to party affiliation.  My support of one candidate over all others will be based on the practicality of his ideas and plans and how those align with my day to day functioning.  And, for the record, my favorite radio station is XM 70's, but I do not endorse one night stands, psychedelic drug use, disco dancing, or polyester.