No Drinking While Cooking, or How I Almost Made the Local News

Ahhh, Autum! A time for simmering a little cinnamon in the cider, cozying up with your favorite comfy throw on the couch...and maybe trying your hand at something new, yet traditional.

And I'm not talking about staining the deck. That wasn't related to autumn, really, other than the fact that since we had procrastinated all summer, it became an autumn activity. After I'd spent the entire day being Ty Pennington's assistant, I felt compelled to keep going. Like I had been sprinkled with creativity dust from the Artsy Crafty Fairy. That and I've been reading all these blogs lately, by women who make and build and do stuff that people like me buy at craft fairs. I want to be a maker, a builder, a doer.

First, though, I took a long, relaxing shower, coupled with a large glass of Old Vine Zine and the ever popular Advil/Aleve combo. By the time I was snuggled into my jams and big fuzzy slippers, I couldn't feel my back at all. I'm pretty sure I was standing up straight by then, too. Jack had been invited to a football game and Shawn was a hurtin' unit like me, so we decided against dinner together and I settled in for a quiet Me Evening. CSI was coming on, right after a Criminal Minds rerun. Dream night! I made a fairly decent chicken and risotto plate for myself, poured some more wine, and then it hit me: I should make Caramel Corn!

??????

But I couldn't be stopped. I poured another glass of Zin and ran to my favorite cooking website, AllRecipes, to find the perfect recipe. And I had all the ingredients! You think I'm kidding, right? Foodies out there are thinking, "She's excited because she's got baking soda and brown sugar on hand?" No, silly. I had Karo syrup! Who has that hanging out in the pantry??

Fifteen minutes (and surprisingly little effort) later, I had a beautiful, golden brown concoction, spread out in my roasting pans (I had those, too!) and ready to bake for an hour.

15 minute cooking increment, #1:

Stir. Smell. Smile. Replace in oven. God, I'm good! Maybe this is my calling! Maybe I could start a business!

15 minute cooking increment, # 2:

I looked at the oven, and somehow, the temperature had been turned from 250 to 550. I'm yelling Fuck! God Damnit! at the top of my lungs (like any good housewife) up until my lungs weren't working so well, because of all the smoke. It was filling my entire downstairs so fast I had to squint to keep my eyes from burning. I was running around like crazy, opening all the windows and cranking up the fan, hoping to beat the smoke detectors, which were going to start screaming... any minute now... not. Not a sound from the built-in, failsafe fire safety system. Not that I was complaining; it's such a pain to deal with the freakin' noise when you're already asphyxiating. However: sort of ironic, no? Fire Chief's Wife Dies of Smoke Inhalation. Investigation Ongoing: Dead Batteries in Smoke Detectors?

Twenty, thirty minutes later, the smoke cleared. Not the smell, mind you, but the smoke. I closed up the house and set the pans in water to soak. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and thought, after all that, the worst part was that I didn't have any caramel corn to eat during CSI.

So what did I do? I bet you think I drove to Walmart for processed high-fructose caramel corn that's been sitting on a shelf for months. I bet you think I threw those pans in the garbage and made up a lie to tell at Thanksgiving, when they came up missing. But I didn't; not the New Me. Not the Maker-Builder-Doer Me.

I made some more.

Never, ever, call me a quitter.

A Little Love before Actual Work

I guess I could start this morning with a couple of blog shout-outs; it might get my little brain warmed up since it seems to be somewhat stalled in the writing department.

First of all, I read a great post the other day on I [Heart] Arugula, which is a blog written by my dear friend, Joanne, who introduced me to blogging in the first place, and who encourages and inspires me to write every day. We went to graduate school together, way back in the day, and are navigating our way through middle age together, even though we live on opposite sides of the country. I had to share this first post, Elephant in the Room, because I just love how she's so comfortable in her life; I wish I could be so self-assured. And this second one, Oh My Goodness, is something I wish I had written myself. Not only because I'm a featured character in it :-) but because I'm having my fair share or Oh My Goodness moments myself these day.

So when you get back from reading over there, which I know you will love, check out my new favorite blog: Controlling My Chaos. {I discovered it on SITS, which is an awesome blog site for bloggers, and an excellent way to find new things to read, gain readers, and make cyber friends.} I probably could have blown off this entire morning reading her; I think we're kindred spirits. Check it out!

The fact that I want to link you up with great bloggers is a testament to the fact that I want to be one. I am still a little OCD over the look of the page, the colors, the fonts, etc. It's a disease, I know; I can't seem to get any substantial content out of my head until the delivery vessel is perfect. Stupid, I know. Some great writers write on napkins. Some don't even need the right pen. (Whatever!) Yet here I am, fiddling around with design features.

Not today. I only changed one thing today [Joanne]. But here's the thing. I was supposed to be out all morning volunteering at Jack's school, but caught a break when they didn't really need me after all. I came home and thought Awesome! I can write this morning instead! Well, then I felt like I needed to get caught up on reading all the blogs I follow, because there are so many great ones out there and I hate to miss stuff, and now, all of a sudden, my time is up. Shawn is waiting patiently for me to pick her up so we can go Deck Staining Supply shopping. I told her I'd be ready to go when I got home from the school and so now it's time.

The shopping part I can handle. Even if it is Home Depot and there are no shoes there. (Crocs don't count). But the work part? I'm not a DIY person. Not even kinda. But my BF Shawn is scary DIY, like I think she was probably Ty Pennington in a past life. She has to save me from myself when I think I can do stuff like stain my deck. We're supposed to go to Home Depot and then, since the weather's nice, start the actual application of Stain to Deck. Oh my God, I can't even paint the nails on my right hand with my left hand.



Boring, useless backyard
BEFORE picture










Beautiful, love, love, love it
HALFWAY DONE picture





Will post my AFTER pic when the stain's done.

This might require cocktails at some point.

Drew Whips It Good

I don't get to go to the movies very often these days, but when I do, I am always delighted to have snagged a film I love. This weekend, I went to see Whip It, Drew Barrymore's directorial debut. A) I love DB and 2) I actually had someone who wanted to see it with me. I didn't care that most reviews coming in were crucifying the film and Drew. I didn't even really care if it totally sucked, I really wanted to see it.

I'm so glad I did! I'm not a reviewer, so please don't expect anything like that from me. I just wanted to rave about how funny it was, and clever and witty. Ellen Page is just gold, no matter how you look at it. She could just stand in front of the camera for two hours and do nothing and I'd still pay to see it. The script is fantastic. The acting is classic comedy. The plot is moving and hilarious and it works. I only have great things to say about it.

It's the kind of movie where you wish you had a little notepad so you could write down all the hilarious unique quotes that you know you will have to repeat later. (Ok, you young people don't need the notepad. I didn't used to either, but now I'm older.)

So if you're looking for something worth seeing this week, grab this one.

Loved it.

Seriously.

I don't know what to say.

I don't think even WTF covers it.

I can't bear it alone, though, so it's my Sunday Share.

You're welcome / I'm sorry.

No peas, please

My son, Jack, is what we call a "picky eater". In the past ten years, I've tried really hard to recreate the amazingly diverse and creative dinners my mother put on the table my entire childhood, but I have not had much success. I'm not a great cook, no matter how hard I try. But I'm not terrible, and I still have this kid who won't eat 98% of what I make.

I can't remember how old he was the first time he expressed his dislike for some food or another, but I know that the minute he did, I must have launched into some mental justification of why I shouldn't make him eat food he doesn't like ... something to do with my own eating disorders ... who knows ... but now, at 11 years old, he usually gets to eat something in the very narrow category of food he likes, although I do usually insist on, say, six peas, or two little broccoli trees.

Which drives my mother totally, completely insane. I actually think I can see her twitch when I bow to my child's wishes. I am quick to apologize to her (for what?) and to explain my reasoning (which, really, is crap) but she just purses her lips and shakes her head and says something like, "It's no wonder he won't eat anything. He doesn't have to."

I'm starting to get her perspective. When I was a kid, she took cooking classes like Chinese Cuisine and tried obscure recipes like Green Tomato Pie. Some of it we loved, some, not so much. But we ate it. And we did so because of the Five Rules of Eating, Circa 1960-something:

1. Dinner was at a certain time. May not be the same time every night, but it was only served once. At whatever time Mom said. Be there or be hungry.

2. Dinner consisted of what was served to you on your plate. There were no substitutions, no negotiating portion size, no saying something crazy, like "no peas, please." You get what you get and you don't throw a fit.

3. Dinner had four food groups. There was always, and I mean always, something green on the plate. And you ate it. Even if it was spinach. Sometimes, there was a salad in addition.

4. If you didn't like what was for dinner, you didn't have options. You didn't get to have a PB&J, even if you made it yourself. And most of the time, just not eating wasn't a very popular suggestion either. One exception: Occasionally, she would make liver and onions. Even my Dad didn't have to eat it. We all got something else if we wanted.

5. We never, ever ate dinner in front of the tv. Unless: there was something really, really special on (like the Moon Landing, which I don't remember, it just sounds important enough) and you then ate on TV TRAYS in the family room. This happened about once, I think, in my life. Maybe twice.

What happened to that list? Was there something wrong with it? Let me just say that, eating issues aside, I think it kicks ass. As an adult, I gotta have my food groups at dinner. I adore spinach. I would have a salad with every meal if I could. I am a freak for foreign food and will try anything once. I still hate eating in front of the tv, although we get a little lax about it during baseball season. When did I get it into my head to cater to this "I don't like that" BS?

Oooops, I think I just admitted that Jack's picky eating is essentially my fault. Dang it!

The other day, he called from a neighbor's house to ask if he could eat dinner there. Sure, I thought, why not. Who cares if I've already put unbelievable energy into inventing something you might like - maybe - and that it's almost ready. Go ahead, eat at the neighbor's.

The next day, I asked him what they'd had for dinner. I know he knows better than to be rude at someone else's house, so I was curious to see if he had tried something new, or funky. Here's what he told me:

"We had Hamburger Helper and it rocked! It was even burned, 'cuz Mrs. Neighbor cooked it way too long, and it still rocked!"

Coming from our house, that would definitely be new and funky. Way to go, stepping outside the box, Jack. It only gets better from here.

Just a Quickie

Today I discovered this really cool blog: The One-Minute Writer. Every day they give a writing prompt and you have 60 seconds to write about it. The prompt today was Mess. Here is my one-minute response:

My head is a mess. Everything else seems to be in order these days but my head. I still can't think straight most of the time. I can't find thoughts that I need. I lose ideas mid-creation. I feel foggy and lost. I write to help it. (It works.) Maybe I spend too much time cleaning my house.

My Little Superstar

I will refrain from telling you every single detail of Jack's first track meet last Friday. You probably don't need to know what kind of energy
bar he ate beforehand or how I forgot to get his
gel inserts and worried about it the entire meet. But I do hope you'll indulge me this small moment of Mom Pride...this moment where my kid got out there on the track and did something completely unexpected. (That's him, on the far left.)

Oh, sure, we knew he could run. He's a sporty kid, his standard mode of motion is running. But I didn't know he could run like this.

100m dash: 1st place
200m dash: 1st place
400m dash: 2nd place

Who'd a thunk it? Go, Pre!

My [new] Show

For all the sitting around I do, I'm not a big television watcher. Yes, I love me a good crime drama, but I'm not a "show" girl. You know, people who "have" shows. People who say "I can't tonight, My Show is on." I used to, back in the day; I had Melrose Place and thirtysomething. Later in life, but before it became the singlemost stupid broadcast on TV, I had 24. Nowadays, though, I can't remember to have a show. I don't know when anything is on, and even if I do, I usually forget to watch it or am doing something else at the time. I want to, though. I want to be able to have that proverbial water cooler chat in the morning (another reason I should get a job). So, this season, I'm giving it a shot. Don't let my high personal goals intimidate you. Reach for the stars, I say.

I sort of accidentally subscribed to Entertainment Weekly last year and they review all the fall shows. I've been making a point of watching some that truly interest me and that come on after Jack goes to bed. I just want to say, first off, to get the negativity thing out of the way, there's a whole lot of crap out there. (I won't name names. I won't mention fangs. Or blood.) However, this week, I think I've already found My Show.

Cougartown. I laughed out loud for a (too short) half hour of the wittiest, most realistic sit-com I've seen in a long time. And Courtney Cox, as Jules, is classic. She's the hottest, coolest and most utterly embarrassing mother ever. I thought I was pretty good at mortifying my kids (all kids, really) but clearly, I have much to learn. Even the time I flashed Kim's 12 year old son doesn't muster up to Jules. She takes it to whole new heights.

Check it out, Wednesdays @ 9:30. (I think....don't quote me. I'm still new at this.)

One Day in September

Yep, it's That Time of Year again. Right up there with Major Holidays and the Start of School and the Nordstrom Half-Yearly Sale, we count the State Fair as an Annual Mega Event around here. In fact, up until just a few years ago, the school districts actually gave a day off so kids wouldn't miss it. Which is exactly why, since I moved here twelve years ago, I haven't missed a single year. I was brainwashed from the start to believe that no matter what else is going on in the month of September, you go to the fair. At least once. Whether you want to or not.


Oh, of course I want to. I just complain about it because that's what I do best. I love the part where Jack is old enough now to bring a friend and a phone and ditch me the second we're in the front gate. This means that I get to visit all the hobby halls and exhibit booths and demonstrations without any distractions. I don't have to go on any rides or wait in any lines. I don't even have to share my onion rings.

And here's what I love about The Fair:

There is no self-esteem therapy in the world, no Stacy and Clinton good enough, to make you feel any prettier or more fashionable that you ever will at The Fair. The Fair Wear Fashion Show is probably my favorite thing. It's like Walmart, only way better.

You can buy food at The Fair that you can't buy anywhere else on earth. You can have chocolate covered bacon and/or deep fried [your choice of anything]. I say "and/or" because the other great thing is that you can have both if you want to! There are no limits on the quality or quantity of food you can consume. Kids get to count carmel apples double-dipped in M&Ms as dinner. It's the one time of the year when adults can eat cotton candy and admit it out loud.

There are products to buy at The Fair that are quite possibly the best inventions of humankind. Products that, when demonstrated, will put you into a trance and make you believe that your entire life has been pathetically deprived of luxury, comfort and ease.

Products that you will willingly carry around for the entire length of your Tour de Fair, even though they might weigh 50lbs. Like chainsaw art...

...or products that, in your right mind, you know are a total scam, but at The Fair, they just ROCK...

...and products that you secretly covet, even in real life, and you wish you could buy, if everyone at home wouldn't make fun of you.

Five hours and $100 later, there are two boys in the back seat of my car so jacked up on sugar that they're hanging out the windows yelling at passersby "Wazzup!" and I don't even care. I'm exhausted, but I'm so glad that once more, we got to add The Fair to our list of autumn memories.

Even if I didn't get my ShamWow. Again.

Looking on the Bright Side

Ok. The other night, I sat here at my computer and I wrote a post with my Nellie Negator hat on. I went on and on about this little pet peeve of mine, felt purged, and hit Publish. Then, about an hour or so later, I was lying in bed thinking about it. Thinking about how negative I am. How critical and judgemental I can be. So, I hopped out of bed, ran down here, and hit Delete. I felt a little better then. I felt like I had erased a smidgen of negative energy from my life. Of course, I still want you to know how much I hate....ooops, sorry.

Then yesterday, when I awoke to the heartbreaking news that Patrick Swayze had died, I was all set to write a little tribute post. All positive and such. With quotes from Dirty Dancing and everything. But yesterday turned out to be a quintessential SHM day - driving around picking up things and kids and delivering things and kids, and doing favors for friends who work outside their homes and don't have all the time in the world to write on their blogs. By the end of the afternoon, I didn't feel much like memorializing Patrick, or anything else for that matter. I just wanted a glass of wine and a little CSI. It turned out to be a half a bottle of wine, and it was Criminal Minds, not CSI, but I was quite happy with the altered combo.

Today, I wanted my negativity to get a makeover. I had a plan: to take all the little s**t that bothers me and put a positive spin on it. Like this:

I [heart] when...

~ people put their grocery carts away

~ teenagers are polite

~ school secretaries are pleasant and patient when they help me fill out a medical release form

~ drivers drive in the appropriate lane for the speed at which they are going

But nothing lasts forever.

There are just some things that I can't leave alone, and here is one of them: I was looking up something about my son's school, on the computer, and I happened upon a site where one can leave comments about the district. As a teacher and a member of this community, I want to make this positive, believe me.

I can't.

Here is what I read...in it's original form, with names changed to protect the innocent:

im a student for XYZ Middle School for 2008-2009. im going off to XYZ high school and XYZ middle school is a excellent school to be in. and there is really fun teachers and not that many mean teachers at all. Go [mascots] !!! =)

Yes way.

My deleted rant about the nation's obsession with vampires was far nicer than what I would ever say about this. If I were a negative kind of person. Which I'm not.

Heroes

a fireman's prayer

When I am called to duty, God, wherever flames may rage, give me strength to save a life, whatever be its age . Help me to embrace a little child, before it is too late, or save an older person from the horror of that fate. Enable me to be alert, to hear the weakest shout, and quickly and efficiently to put the fire out . I want to fill my calling and to give the best in me, to guard my every neighbor and protect his property. And if, according to your will, I have to lose my life, please bless with your protecting hand my children and my wife. - Author unknown

I kissed my husband as he left the house this morning, like any other Friday morning, and told him to have a good day. Except today, he was dressed in his Class A uniform and he wasn't headed to the office. His work today will be to attend the various memorials in honor of those who fought and died in the tragedy of 911.

He'll stand among hundreds of other firefighters and paramedics and police officers and he will remember what happened that day. But he'll also remember the day his mentor, Dan, died last summer, fighting a fire on a remote mountain in California. The countless calls he's responded to in the past couple of decades, calls that have shaken his faith and made him come home to hug his children tighter. He'll honor the victims and their families and the men and women who came to save them. All of them.

My husband is a firefighter. Every day, I am grateful that he comes home to our family, safe and sound. And I never forget how fortunate I am for that alone.

When I went to bed last night, I was thinking about what I was going to write this morning. Not because I suddenly got motivated, but because we had spent the evening at Cheney Stadium in Tacoma, watching the Rainiers win Playoff Game #2 for the Pacific Coast League title. I wanted to write about the great American pastime.

We love AAA baseball, my boys and I. Where can you get a night out for the whole family, seats so close you can smell the players' sweat, Dollar Dogs and $2 MGD, a free t-shirt and $5 parking, all for under $50? Nowhere can you shake hands with the players, some of whom have already donned a major league uniform once or twice, some who are destined to be great, and you can say you met them when. One player, at the last game, handed his bat to my kid, as he walked off the field. Heroes come in all shapes and sizes.

Last night, sitting there amongst all the other die-hard local fans, my cheap beer in hand, I thought how good we have it. How good our life is, that this exists for us. And I don't mean just us, my family, but all of us, as Americans. We have it really good here.

Which is why, this morning when I woke up, I realized I wasn't really going to write about baseball at all. I just wanted to share a little piece of what being an American means to me.

Utterly. Un. Motivated.

The first time I was a Stay Home Mom (or the second, I don't really remember), when school started, my own mom would ask me, "So! What are you going to do with all your free time?"

Hmmm. Good question. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a handle on what I should do with it, and sitting around watching Ellen in my pajamas is not it. I am completely sloth-like and it’s only Day Three of School, er, I mean, Free Time.

I'm not organized, that’s the problem. Not even a little bit. Oh, sure, I can straighten up a sock drawer like nobody's business, and if there's a party on the horizon, I'm your gal. But in regular life, I suck. I write lists that have titles. I write lists of lists I've already written. I wander aimlessly through the house, "prioritizing" tasks. That can take all day, if I work at it. By the time the afternoon bus gets here, I can know exactly what I'm going to do first.

But by that time, you guessed it. My free time is over. Better write a new list.

God, I really need [to look for] a job.

Still Letting Go

It felt like it was never going to happen. I thought the entire concept of time had been reworked, as some kind of cruel joke. Minutes began to feel like hours, days like weeks; in the end, I was certain that time was going to stop altogether. I feared I might have to go on this way forever, I worried about how much therapy I was going to need and how much all those pills were going to cost me. I lay awake at night, praying for the end. And then, suddenly, it was here. Finally. Officially. The first day of school.

not really me, but it felt a little like this

In Middle School, the bus comes at the crack of dawn, so we have a whole new routine to learn. Day One, getting ready at 5:50am went off without a hitch, blowdrying and flat-ironing included. (Don't start; you should see Jack's hair if he doesn't attempt some styling. Really.) He was cheery and bright and excited, right up until I asked him to get his picture taken before all the kids got to the bus stop (which is right in our cul-de-sac). He was mortified - "God, Mom, you're not going to take the picture at the bus stop, are you?"

Well, no, of course I wasn't! I wanted the hydrangeas in the background, just like every other year of his school life, since kindergarten. Duh! But then he was worried that I might, after the photo op, actually walk over to the bus stop with him. In my sweats. And crazy bed head. (As if all the kids there aren't used to seeing me this way by now, jeez.)

But I held back. I didn't want to embarrass him. I wanted him to go off, 20 feet away, all by himself, and be a big, all-grown-up Middle Schooler. I would wait on the porch. Camoflauged behind the hydrangeas.

That's when I started to get all choked up. No shit, after six years of this "letting go" every September, after the longest summer ever, I had a mom moment. Like the one in kindergarten. I didn't know what to do, since I couldn't risk going back in the house. What if I missed actually seeing him, physically, board the big kids' bus? But what if I lost it and someone saw me? Particularly him?

And that's where I have to thank Todd and Shawn, the parents who would never consider hiding in the bushes. There they were, bed head and all, coffee cups in hand, just like last year. Last year, when the kids still ran back for a hug if they forgot on the way up the steps of the bus. When they needed you to wave as they drove away. Todd and Shawnie were still there, and I thought, What the hell. I'm going.

So I marched right down my driveway and up to the hub of shiny-shoed pre-teens. I chatted with them and told them all to have a great day, like last year. I gave a little stay-out-of-trouble-on-the-bus advice, and let Jack know he had toothpaste on his chin, and I picked food out of Caden's teeth, like last year. And when the bus came, I hugged them all, Jack especially long, and waved as they drove away. Just like last year.

We parents stood around in our circle and jaw-jacked about stuff and drank our coffee and silently recognized that it would be our last Bus Club chat. Until next year, when that first day just really doesn't count in the grand scheme of Embarrassing Your Kids.

No matter how old they are.

Gentle Reminders

I'm all about little signs and reminders from God when we get off track as mortal humans. I'd rather believe in that, than in mere coincidence, because unexplainable magical moments are way more fun than scientifically explicable ones. I mean, I get how you can apply some physics -related properties to lightning (or chemistry, or whatever lightning is), but I much prefer to attribute random light in the sky to some angry divine being trying to get his point across to all of us screwing around down here.

I'm not religious, let's just get that out of the way. It's not about that. I just believe that we are sent messages once in awhile, messages that remind us to be better.

Like tonight, when I got home from the baseball game, I got a message. If God were human, he would have just left a message on my voicemail himself, and all he would have said was, "You suck." But he's not, so instead, I had a call from a former student. A teenager. (Rewind: Teenagers are evil.)

I don't even need to go into my history with this student, Ashley, only to say that she came into my life when she was in the 8th grade and is still here, eight years later. She babysat my boys and then later went through 11th grade English with me. That year, she did her junior career project on wanting to become a dental hygienist and did an outstanding research job. I always hoped she'd get there, but I knew it would be a long shot financially. When I heard she'd graduated and moved in with her boyfriend right away, and still worked at Taco Time, my hopes kind of faded.

That message on my voicemail tonight was Ashley, out-of-breath with an audible grin on her face.

"Ms. McDonald, this is Ashley! I just wanted to call and tell you that I got accepted at Seattle Dental Academy! And..and..I got in! And I start in three weeks! They just called me like an hour ago and I'm just so excited I wanted you to know! I just wanted to share it with you! Anyway, that's all. Ok, bye!"

Is it even possible to take back what I said about teenagers?

I am so proud, and so fortunate, and so honored to have received that call. After my little hate-spew, I certainly didn't deserve it.

And I am so grateful for the message.

P.S. Gotta Love the Internet

I was looking for a funny picture of a girl delivering pizzas to put on my last post. You would not believe what is out there when you type that into the search bar.

If I Only Had A .... Degree in Something Useful

It didn't take very long for me to hit a writer's block, did it? I have been on my computer, though, non-stop. But not to write and release creative juices. Instead, I've been job hunting. Like half the rest of the country, I'm now an official subscriber to Monster, Careers, Indeed, Craig's List and whatever other job search companies are out there promising me a bright new future.

If I were a nurse, a social worker, a truck driver or a computer guru, I'd be golden. Unfortunately, I'm none of the above. I majored in English in college. At the time, that seemed like a really super idea. I liked to read. I liked to write. I was sort of good at it. I went to an artsy-fartsy crunchy earthy college, so it was even a well-respected choice. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with the degree when I got out; in fact I'm pretty sure I didn't think about it at all. No plans, no goals. I guess I figured that out in the real world, someone, somewhere, would need a manic journal-writing, Shakespeare geek to do something. For a lot of money.

Yeah, not so much. Like every other English major I have ever met, I ended up creating lesson plans and grading essays, while babysitting 32 or 40 OPC every hour, on the hour. I wanted to love teaching, I really did. And there were moments that I loved, days that I loved, but all in all, I was mostly just miserable. I don't mind the teaching part at all. Or the paperwork or the meetings or any of the other common beefs that teachers share about the highly underpaid profession. Mostly, I hated the kids.

Oh, did I just say that out loud? It's horrible of me to feel that way, I know. I would walk into my classroom every morning, prepared for a mind-blowing lesson in literature, and spend the five minutes before the bell praying that some epidemic had [sadly] swept through our town during the night and laid rest [peacefully] to anyone between the ages of 14 and 16. That probably sounds sick. I can't help it. I think teenagers are evil.

At least I knew that meant I shouldn't be spending the day with your kids. You're welcome.

I could've gone back to any one of the careers I started and stopped in the years before I entered the classroom. There were many, believe me. And if answering phones in a call center or delivering pizzas or making the perfect cup of espresso offered any kind of paycheck comparable to the [highly underpaid] teaching profession, I would have considered a return to my past. Instead, I decided to be a stay home mom, for like the fourth time since I first became a mother. I know I'm not that good at it, but it seemed the only reasonable thing to do. Matt needed me. Everyone needed me home, taking care of my little family. Didn't they...? Thank God I married well. I've been fortunate enough to not have to work at all for the past year. But now I'm bored (and poor), and guess what? I'm really not qualified for jack. This blogging thing isn't exactly raking in the bucks and I'm about a whole college degree away from my web-design dream, so in the meantime, I'll join the masses and try to get a "real job".

*** long, exasperated sigh ***

I'll try not to be all Debbie Downer about it.

OPB

I'm becoming obsessed with my computer. In the past week, I have hardly been able to get away from it. It's like that boyfriend, just after highschool, who was so intense and so James Dean that no matter what he was arrested for, or what horrible secrets hid in his past, you couldn't turn away. You had one, didn't you? I married mine. God help me make a better choice with this PC.

I have been chain-reading OPB this morning. (Other People's Blogs). I start with a blog I know, like Kim's, because she has a gazillion followers, and I start clicking around her list. Granted, as a result of starting with the blog of a YA fiction author, I am "meeting" a lot of YA fans and writers. (That's quote-meeting-unquote, like I "met" Justine Bateman one time when her bodyguard held the door open for me at the frozen yogurt place.)

"YA" stands for Young Adult. Yeah, I didn't know either, and I'm a freakin' high school English teacher! Reason #52 I quit teaching. But not knowing the YA Secret Handshake is not stopping me; I'll crash any party. I have no desire to write YA fiction; (I lived it for long enough, thank you. There is nothing in the universe that could make me want to go back to middle school, in the form of any character). But I love the stuff that's coming out now for kids to read. I wish Jack were a more avid reader and that I could hook him up with some of these books. His reaction to my presenting him with a book would be quite similar to his reaction to school supplies, so I dare not push it. Until school starts. Then I'm militant.

And, YA or not, I have read so many awesome blogs! I'm so envious of the Bloggers who seem to have all the right connections and know all the right Blog Lingo. There are contests and interviews and pictures of really cool book covers (because some of these folks are actually published). There are fun little facts about people that are truly interesting, even if I haven't met them. And hilarious stories like Little Ms. J's poop story, which had me in tears. I've already plugged her blog (pardon the pun), so I won't go all stalker on her and link you to it every time I read it. But really. Funny story.

I'm grooving on all the different lives people lead and how well they all write. Since I decided to become a Web Designer, out of the blue, since I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, I have been all over the blogosphere and the internet, checking things out. Where in the world has this been my entire life? Here I am, in my pj's, in my comfy big-girl office chair, reading away the hours and calling it "research". And with coffee! Does it get any better than this?

But RL just kicked in and I have to head out to my new Personal Trainer and my first consultation at the new gym. Getting my BMI measured (not to mention my thighs) will be good for me, right? The truth will set me free, right? Or at least give me something to write about when I get home.

My Rained Out Parade

It is so time for school to start. The kids have run out of fun things to do and have now resorted to generally stirring up the shit. Like last night, when Jack and his buddies got a little sideways of our neighbor. I needn't go into all the details; suffice to say that blackberry juice does not rub off the side of someone's house with a shirt sleeve and some spit.

So I was thinking a day off from causing trouble in Mayberry wouldn't be a bad thing. I woke up with a plan. Instead of letting him wander around with the other hoodlums, trying to figure out ways to keep themselves busy, I thought it would be fun if just the two of us, Jack and me, went out and shopped for all of his school supplies today. We could go out to lunch, you know, a little McD's, hang out, roam around Target, that sort of thing.

I was psyched. School supplies! Sure, I'm a fast food junkie, and the thought of a #1 with Coke is not unappealing. And who doesn't love to loiter in Target? But the real draw for me is the pens. The paper. The notebooks and binders and sharpeners and folders and pouches and - oh my God, I'm starting to sweat. I adore school supplies. There's a whole cult of us out there, I know, secret Pee Chee lovers. I can't imagine a better shopping trip (although Vegas with a zero-balance credit card is up there.) I was so excited to present this opportunity to Jack - this blast of a day, just Mom and Me...

....but, alas, Jack is not a cult follower. Weird, since he's so like me, in so many other ways. When I asked him if he was up for the idea, he looked at me like I'd asked him if he wanted to go shopping at Macys for underwear, then sit in the hair salon while I had a cut and color, then go to lunch at some restaurant with food he can't identify. He looked pained.

"Arrgghhhh...." he groaned, his head thrown back dramatically, his arms dropped helplessly by his side, "do we haaaaave to? I haaaaaaate school supplies."

That can't even be a real sentence, can it? "I hate school supplies" ? Is he out of his mind? Whose kid is this, anyway?

Fine. I'll go by myself. Too bad for him if he ends up with a Hello Kitty binder and sparkly pencils with his name on them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

P. S.
I found a new blog I really like. Check it out: http://msjwrites.blogspot.com/ (Is it normal for me to plug other people's blogs?) I don't even know this woman, although we do have a mutual friend. She's seriously funny and I hope I can be as entertaining as she is. In the meantime I'm just going to babble and hope I strike a chord somewhere.

P.P.S.
I'm not crazy about the new font I picked for my last post. In fact, it looks like something a 3rd grader would choose. But the point was to learn how to do it, and I did, sort of. I was quite proud of myself; if you knew the extent of my brain's scientific capacity, you'd be proud of me, too.

I Know Nothing

I always knew I was technically challenged, but I kind of pretended not to be.  I acted like I had some inkling of what was going on inside this machine. This week, however, I started my quest to learn how to create websites.  Since I didn't really know where to start, I started Googling.  (See?  I can use terminology correctly.) Suddenly, my screen was jam-packed with sites to explore....and within minutes, I needed a drink.  I was seriously overloaded on the first day! 

This week, I was owned.  By a PC.

I had no idea I had this much to learn, but I should have known.  It's not like the whole computer industry was just born and I'm getting in on the ground level.  I could just as easily become an Ice Road Trucker, as equipped as I am to learn website design.

Nonetheless, here I am.  I'm not giving up.  I could, but if my other option is learning to back up a semi and straighten my hair perfectly in a truck stop bathroom, I'm out.  I'm just not that cool.

But I did learn how to add a new font.  Did anyone notice?

Baby steps   

Book Contest!!

Book Lovers - Heads up!

I have written before about my friend Kim, otherwise known as Kimberly Derting, author of The Body Finder. She is the first and only published author I have ever met, if you don't count my sociology professor in college. Which I don't. Kim writes Young Adult novels and she's awesome. Her blog is on my sidebar - - The Road to Publication - - and it's totally worth checking out.

AND....

This week she has a post that advertises a Book Contest being held on another blog, wherein you can win A COPY OF HER BOOK!!

So quick! Click here: Book Contest and enter. It's tremendously easy; you don't have to dance or sing or run around playing musical chairs blindfolded. Honest.

Go.
Now.

Snapshots

Things I'd Like to Get Better at:

Totally grammatically incorrect title, I know.

Computer skills - web page design

Healthy eating

Working out

Saving money for travel - then going

Writing regularly

Calling friends

Sudoku

Taking more pictures of my family

Daunting, isn't it? At least I didn't say things like singing, which I am so certain is out of my realm of reality, at least in this lifetime.

But a little photography may be do-able. My sister-in-law is a photographer and, if I may say so, a damn good one. She started her business not even a year ago and is already quite successful. I would say I was jealous, if I were any good at photography at all, which I am not. I'm envious, of course, that she has this great talent and that she's able to bring it to the rest of the world. I wish I had a gift like that. But the coolest thing about her job is that she's constantly taking pictures of her kids and chronicling their lives as she goes. She's capturing all these great moments that we think we're going to remember but, I know from experience, we don't.

Check her out when you get a chance:www.celestemorrisonphotography.com

She used to scrapbook and was amazingly good at that, too. When she first moved here, she kind of got me interested in it and helped me get started. It's such a huge, huge hobby though. Expensive and time consuming beyond anything you can imagine. You scrapbookers out there are laughing at me, I know. It's not time consuming, it's fun! Not for someone like me. I'm too impatient. I'm too scattered. Remember, too, I can't make a decision to save my soul? I'd lay out an entire page, get the glue ready, then think, oh, wait, let's put that, there. And this, here. By the end of my 8-hour scrapbook clinic sponsored by the high school Drill Team, I'd end up with one thing - like a button, or a strip of ribbon, glued to the page. Then I'd haphazardly stick the rest of the stuff on there so as not to leave without at least a complete page. One page! That was a good day!

And then it clicked. I got hooked. I started buying stuff. Brads and paper and raffia and things I'd never heard of, like velum. I started a book for Matt, a small, reasonable book that even I thought I could finish. I intended to give it to him for his 13th birthday, before he got too old and thought it was dumb. I had visions of him reading through all my little stories, smiling at all of our tender memories....

...he'll be 17 in a month and that scrapbook is still in the drawer upstairs. Unfinished. He's never seen it. Sometimes I go up there and sit on Casey's bed, lay it all out in front of me and read every word, savor every picture. My kid when he was three, in the cockpit of my dad's airplane. He and I, taking a picture of ourselves together on his bed, upside down. I want to finish it. I want to take all that out and pick up where I left off, as if that will somehow help me remember him. The Matt I used to know. But, woah, that's going down another path altogether. Let's not go there right now.

What I mean to say is that I would love to have that later, to have more pictures and memories and stories about my children and their lives. Ones that don't float around in my head, but ones I can put out on the coffee table, or hang in the hallway. I want to be a better keeper.

Will Babble for Cash

Ok, enough about medication and craziness and all that TMI. I was just thinking about how I couldn't link to the Drew Barrymore picture, and not for lack of trying. I am so computer challenged it's a miracle I can get this blog up and going.

But I would love to change that. I am recently (clear-headedly) interested in going back to work, in the real world. A job that pays money. (Not that being a Stay Home Mom isn't a job, please don't get me wrong. Although I don't think I do a very good job of it, I do believe it is a job. And a hard one. Which is probably why I want to quit it. More on that later.)

I tried this for a year. I thought my kids needed me to stay home and be there for them. Turns out, Matt needed me to disappear from the face of the earth and Jack only needed me to be within shout's reach of him, which included the cell phone, so technically, I didn't have to be here at all. Sure, the house stayed a little cleaner, we ate dinner a bit more regularly and a bit more healthfully, and yeah, John didn't have to do much laundry for a year.

But honestly? I was no Super Mom. No Domestic Goddess, no Donna Reed by any stretch of the imagination. I volunteered at Jack's school, which I felt was worthwhile, if only for 3 hours a week. Oooh! Crazy busy! I did the shopping and the blah, blah, blah, but if truth be told, I took a lot of naps and watched a lot of CSI reruns. A lot. And even though I wasn't eating bonbons, per se, I did manage to gain a hefty amount of weight and get completely out of shape, even though I had all the time in the world to go to the gym. Go figure.

So here I am, at the place my husband hates the most: the What Do I Want To Be When I Grow Up place that I revisit every one, two or three years. Really, I've never kept a job longer than that. Three years is it. Crazy huh? It makes John insane to have to come here with me; he would love it if I just picked something and stayed with it.

The thing is, I can't pick a favorite brand of toothpaste and stick with that, so what on earth are the chances that I'd be able to nail down a career??? I feel for him, I do. I know this must suck. I'm pathetically indecisive. In fact, my friend Joanne calls me Sarge - SGT - as in Second Guess Tam. It happens to be a nickname I incurred recently, while wearing this military sort of hat thing .... oh never mind. I thought it was cute when I bought it. But she's right - I can't make a single decision without reworking it four or twenty times before I actually do anything. And this truly does range from committing to a career to whether or not I'll have cream cheese or butter on my bagel this morning.

Sad. And frustrating. I would love to just do this all day. Write and blab on and on about, well, nothing really. Like a Seinfeld in writing. As if I'm the first person who ever though of it. Which kind of brings me back to the whole computer illiterate thing. If I could design web pages or blog for a living, wouldn't that just kick ass?

Waking Up

I'm crazy alive these days.

I know, most of you didn't know I was dead, but I was. Walking Dead, like in the movie, only the bags under my eyes have been slightly less noticeable.

Since I decided to kick my Prozac cold turkey, life is great. I know, I wasn't supposed to do that, but I really didn't want to wait 12 weeks and try to keep track of weaning doses. Not to mention, I felt like if I didn't get off it right now, I was going to explode. (Is it possible to explode from napping? Because that's about all I was capable of there at the end.)

I had no idea how lethargic and listless I had become or how much it was affecting every part of my life to be that sedated. Yes, I know that less than a year ago I was singing the praises of this drug and I'm not going back on my word. It was a great thing for awhile for me. It helped me cope with all that s**t we went through with Matt and probably saved me from other mental health catastrophes along the way. But the crises mode is over and I need to get on with my days, in some state of awareness now.

You probably don't need to know all that, but remember, that's the theme here. Family makes you crazy. Or something like that. At any rate, I'm back in the real world and hoping I didn't miss too much while I was gone.

Just wanted to tell someone.

The name "Drew" might have tripped him up

My friend Karma is a little worried about Jack. Yesterday I opened the new issue of Entertainment Weekly to a killer picture of Drew Barrymore. (Check it out if you can - I'd link you to it if I knew how. But that's another topic altogether.) She's wearing a leather jacket and her hair is a little ratted, smudgy black eye makeup...that kind of picture.

So I show it to Jack. I was just planning to check in on his Girl Meter, where he's at these days with noticing he's a boy and some other people are not, you know what I mean. He's 11. I ask, pointing to the picture,

"Do you think she's pretty?"

He stares at it for a second, his brows furrowed, then looks at me, a little confused.

"That's a girl?"

Hm. Well then. I mean, what do you say to that?

Guess we'll wait on the Girl Meter for a bit.

Alive Again

I just watched the movie 17 Again and cried all the way through the end. Normal? Or Prozac detox? Could be both. I'm off my crazy meds these days (on purpose) and actually feel stuff again. This could be a good thing, I think, but a box of Kleenex for Zac Ephron? God help me.

Oh, yeah...the worst and most embarrassing part? I loved the movie. Not like a mom loves The Lion King because her kids love it, but like, actually loved it.

As Soon As I Finish This, I'm Going To...

So I just spent an hour trying to customize my blog into a new look. Hmmm...wish I'd paid attention in computer class back in college. (Yes, college, we didn't have computers when I was in pre-school, where they learn that stuff now). I attempted to do this at 5 in the morning, too, since I couldn't sleep and thought I had nothing better to do. Obviously, I didn't find much success; I changed some colors, I think. Woo! Better slow down, this technology is wearing me out.

Coulda spent the time writing, but what's a day without procrastination? Here I am, The Girl Who Wants To Be A Writer, with all the morning in front of me to do with whatever I please, and I choose to ... rearrange my blog? I believe this is the modern day version of labeling all the tabs in my binder, making sure they're in the right order, writing my name perfectly in the upper right-hand corner, (erase and start over if not perfect the first time), making sure my pencil is sharpened, or I have the "right" pen, is the lighting good? Chair comfy? Right music on? -- all before taking on the near-impossible ten-minute math assignment. For Pete's sake, my mother used to say, just do it! Stop fiddling around with all that stuff and do it.

Funny, but I hear myself saying the exact same thing to Jack when he begins to tackle an unappealing or daunting task. He can turn any one-page homework handout (fill-in-the-blanks, no less!) into a PhD thesis-length project. This is the best time to hit him up with other anappealing activities, though, over which we usually fight. Like, in the middle of that flippin' science project, as he re-laced his DCs (well, they were crooked, and it was impeding his scientific creativity) I asked, casually, "Hey, wanna take a break and go get your hair cut?" He practically jumped at an opportunity that normally sends him into a tailspin of depression and self-pity. (I guess getting a haircut is torture. I don't know.)

This is because I get him. I know how that little brain works, inside and out. Anything I can possibly do instead of this, will be a better option. Almost. Some things are out, say, like emptying the dishwasher. Or putting away laundry. Those are usually non-negotiables. Tantrum no matter what (yes, I said tantrum, and yes, he's 11). But, if I word it right, and maybe throw in a small bribe, I can get a lot accomplished when he's procrastinating.

Just as I can myself, when I'm putting off that one thing I just can't seem to commit to. I can get entire loads of wash done and you wouldn't believe how much crap I can clean out of the junk drawer when I'm in avoidance mode.

Like this morning. Look how pretty my new blog is.

Choos Can Wait

LOL!

Joanne asked me if I owned Jimmy Choos. As if! My last title was in reference to the Shontelle song, T-Shirt, which I L.O.V.E.

nothing feels right when im not with you,

sick of this dress and these Jimmy Choos.

taking them off cause i feel a fool,

trying to dress up when im missing you

ima step out of this lingerie,

curl up in a ball with something Hanes.

in bed i lay,

with nothing but your T-shirt on.

In my post, I guess what I was refering to was the simplicity of the t-shirt, the letting go of the facade: let me just sit here (in my case) in my VS velour sweats and my Jack's Mom sweatshirt, and be true to me...

I tried on some Jimmy Choos once. In Vegas. Probably more than half drunk. I pulled Shawnie into the store saying that I just wanted to know what it felt like to have them on my feet for a minute. I picked out the most fabulous Carrie Bradshaw pair I could find, and had the salesguy slip them onto my perfectly pedicured feet (I was on vacation) and then I stood up to admire them in the mirror, as if I were Cinderella herself.

They felt like shoes, pretty much. I mean, nice shoes, yeah, and adorable, but $650 goes a long way in Las Vegas, even if you're barefoot. I have nothing against expensive shoes, I really don't. For my birthday, John got me my first pair of Ed Hardy's (I'm such a trend junkie). I was coveting the sneakers, but he got me the flip-flops, and I have to say, I wear them every day. They are my favorite shoes ever. Sure, they were more than 2-for-$8 in the Safeway checkout line, but they weren't equal to a car payment, either.

But I don't begrudge anyone who wants to spend their money in that way. Someday, maybe even I will. Like if I stumble into the Cash Cab and win a thousand bucks out of the blue, maybe I'll race into the first Choo or Blahnik boutique and blow it all on one, glorious, delicious box of feet candy.

Sick of These Jimmy Choos

...dancing around the kitchen in 100 degree heat, pretending to be Beyonce, listening to my very favorite new song...T-Shirt...

getttin' better all the time

But Wait, There's More

Of course there is. There's more to life than the challenges we face every day, more than the stuff that tests and tries us as we move along, helping us to define our boundaries and our breaking points.

Sure, our situation with Matt is painful. Or, in more appropriate and accurate vernacular, it just plain sucks. Every minute of it, all the time, it's here. He's not even here; he doesn't call or visit; there are very few reminders of his presence left in our house. I have completely converted his room to a playroom for the younger kids. Everything he owns is gone. He's gone.

And yet, everywhere I turn, he's right here, with me. He's ten or six or even 14, sometimes, making me laugh, invoking pride, coaxing love. I long for him, but not in the way a mother longs for her son to return to childhood. I don't wish he were little again, I wish he were here now. Whatever is happening in his heart is out of my reach, and I must remind myself of that, every day. I am constantly saying my mantra ~ this is not about you, this is not because of you, this is not within your control. Sometimes, I believe it. Other times, I wonder how, why, did this happen if it wasn't my fault? I'm his mother, aren't I? Didn't I say I judged the Columbine mothers?? Didn't I actually make that comment: "how do you not know your kid is hoarding automatic weapons under his bed? "

I'll tell you how you don't know. You just don't. You pay attention more than you think you should, you evesdrop and monitor and look and listen and pry and do all the things you swore you'd never do to your kids; you get involved in school and care about their grades and try to know their friends. And somehow, despite it all, they still grow up. They still have minds of their own and plans of their own and dreams you will never quite understand. They struggle with issues you only vaguely remember and that, quite frankly, seem trivial to you now. They fall in love (for real) and they hurt and they fear - and most of the time, while you're checking their MySpace page and doing urine tests, they just want to tell you how that all really feels.

But I wasn't listening. That's not really my fault, that just makes me a mom. A regular, caring, involved mom who doesn't know how to talk to a teenaged boy, on his own terms. Crazy how completey normal that sounds, isn't it? I'm not sure I've ever met a mom who can. And so our kids go out there, as we so boldly and blindly lead them, and they make their own decisions, regardless. Even, I think, when we truly believe we've got them going in the exact direction we want, they're not really going that way at all.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard, If it were my kid...I'd ground him I'd kick his butt I'd send him to military school I'd talk to him I'd get him in counseling I'd make him work around the house I'd I'd I'd I'd I'd.....and you know what? I did. I did all of it. I did it until he hated me and disappeared. Would I take it back? No, probably not. I didn't do anything wrong, I just didn't do it his way.

So here we are, and yes, this can be all-consuming if I let it. I miss him at times more than I can stand; and, admittedly, most of the time, I'm glad he's gone. It's so much more peaceful here and the atmosphere is so much less volatile. It isn't ugly anymore, even though I traded ugly for silence. And the silence allows me room to think and grow and learn from this, to see Jack in a different way, to work on my family from a different perspective. It doesn't eradicate hope, by any means.

And, like I said, there's more. There's so much more than this; the good in my life is so abundant and so worth the gratitude I try to show every day. So maybe it's not that I'm in denial, or avoidance, as it is that I'm just refocusing on the positive.

Sun. Iced tea. Visits from old friends. Firepits. Cute sandals. Gladiolas. The Jonas Brothers.

See? It's almost all good.

While I Was Gone...

Wow, time flies, doesn't it? Suddenly it's been months since I've written here. I don't even know where to start, except by saying that so much happened in that time period, accounting for my absence, but not excusing it. I should have been writing the past few months...seriously. I could have saved a fortune in therapy and alcohol, probably.

I would love to go back and tell the story, but I'm not sure how it would come out now, after the fact. Maybe a little Reader's Digest version would be good:

In November of last year, my 16 year old son, Matt, "ran away" - in quotes because he actually only went as far as a friend's house down the street. I tried to work with this kid's mom, to get her to talk to Matt; we tried family therapy and parenting classes. As his grades tanked and his attitude deteriorated to the point that swearing at me and coming and going at his own will was standard behavior, I even tried God. I started to pray - me?! - for my son, for our family, for all the mistakes I was convinced that I had made that had led us to this place. By Christmas, we seemed to have repaired things, but in February it all went sideways again.

He's been gone, for the most part, ever since. Two arrests, one for shoplifting, one for domestic assault, and a night in juvie later, my kid has gone to live with his biological dad and refuses to speak to me nowadays. Of course, he refused to speak to his dad for the year before that, but when it's mom vs. jerk-of-a-dad vs. homeless, I guess your options are limited. He failed most of tenth grade and his dad doesn't care - as long as they're buds again. That's all that matters. He even told me that: he said he wasn't really interested in parenting, just having a good relationship with his son.

Wow. So there it is. Neither of them talk to me, unless it's a mean text or a rotten email or an in-my-face confrontation like last week, when Matt stopped by friend's house here in our neighborhood and took Jack for a ride in his car without asking me first. I can hardly look at him anymore; I have no idea who he is, or what he did with my son.

I wrote last year about The Boy I Knew, and it feels like I will forever be fighting this. Him. Us. People keep telling me that he'll grow out of it, that he'll come around. My closer friends, the ones who know him, are less optimistic, but still hopeful. As for me, I don't know. If I think about it too much, I can't bear the sadness, so I tend not to think much. I tend to pretend that everyone's right, that this is just a phase, and that if I stop stressing about it, it'll go away and all will return to normal soon enough.

My heart thinks differently though...my heart just wants to love my son and right now, it can't. That's the hardest part of all.

Give a little, get a lot

I couldn't resist sharing this...you made my day, Abby!

P.S. Look how skinny I am!

Dorks Rule

The Jonas Brothers (aka Jo Bros, as I learned today) 3D Movie was awe some. When I was telling Todd about it on the phone, he said, "You're kidding, right? You're just saying that because Jack is standing there. Right?"

I had to explain that no, I was quite serious. I was the one who wanted to see the movie; I had to invite a bunch of elementary school girls so I wouldn't look like an idiot going by myself. My friend Stacie and I, escorting four little girls and Jack (of course), went to the movie yesterday. I loved it.

Great music (because I'm a teen pop junkie, as you know) and good lookin', clean cut boys who (allegedly) won't have sex until they're married. Three teenaged boys who, when asked what they focus on when they're on stage -- as in, how do they not get distracted by the 35,000 screaming 12 year olds -- answered, "We just go out there and try to make our mom proud." Now if that didn't make me cry, I don't know what would.

My girls (including Jack) all loved it, although Jack and Janey made a good show out of saying, "it was good, it was ok." Yeah, right. I swear it took everything Jack had, not to jump out of his seat pretending to be a drummer, especially during the scene where two of the brothers did this little drum solo on a line of drums covered in water, resulting in much spray and cool lighting and significantly increased screaming.

There's something about wholesome and dorky that is of great, lost value these days. It's hard to find and it's hard to espouse, since everyone else is trying to be cooler and sexier and nastier than everyone else. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about songs with "explicit" warnings on them; I'm not exactly Mary Poppins here. But some days, when Matt is out I-don't-know-where (and suspended from school), when I think he's doing drugs or stealing things or whatever other nightmare I can come up with, a couple of hours with wholesome and dorky feels pretty good. Gives me hope. Restores my faith.

We may have been the only parents there who were singing along and clapping and pretending like we were at a real concert. And maybe Stacie was doing that just to be a good mom for her daughter, maybe she's not a closet fan, like me. No matter; I had a blast. Even if I was for real.