the drugs or the porn?

My son has not always had impressive academic success.  He has been known to distract his friends from their studies and scam out of completing homework.

Recently, he and a buddy were trying to solidify weekend plans.

“You’ll have to ask your dad, right?” Cole said.

“Yeah, probably,” his friend replied.

“And since your dad doesn’t like me, it may not work out.”

Cole’s buddy said, “My dad likes you OK; he just thinks you are a bad influence on me.”

At this point, I chimed in.  “Your dad thinks Cole is a bad influence on you?  What does he object to, the drugs or the porn?”

Cole shook his head slowly from side to side.  “Mom,” he said, “When you say stuff like that my friends think you’re crazy.”

participate in my poll

Ella’s toilet-paper artwork

My three-year-old recently used paints and markers to decorate rolls upon rolls of toilet paper.  I decided to create a parenting poll to assist me in dealing with my resident artist.  Scroll down and vote! 

Poll Results:  67% of you say “praise her creativity.”  33% of you are heartless soul destroyers.

despite his brilliance

My husband is freakishly smart.  When we first started dating, I asked him exactly how high his IQ was, but he always evaded the question.  I began to feel like the girlfriend who continuously asks her new boyfriend how much money he makes.  I didn’t want Tim to think I was an intellect whore, so I quit broaching the subject.

Despite his brilliance, or perhaps because of it, Tim talks to himself.  I don’t mean he mutters every once in a while.  My husband has full-blown conversations with himself at the same frequency with which I eat chocolate.  In other words, daily.

Last night Tim was sitting alone, in front of a computer, talking to an email. 

I walked into the room, and in a tone reserved for librarians and psycho-therapists, I said, “Hon-ey, you’re talking to yourself.”

He smiled.  “I realize this.”

“Do you talk to yourself at work?” I asked.

“Hell, yes!  All the time.”

“Honey, people are going to think you’re crazy.”

“Let ‘em think that,” he laughed.  “I’ve got a lot a’ shit to discuss.”

inside her head, it’s real

Yesterday, I spent part of my afternoon arguing with my three-year-old over whether a rabbit could lay eggs and hatch chicks.  She claimed that her bunny, Groner (who doesn’t actually exsist anywhere except inside Ella’s itsy-bitsy head) laid several eggs, and they hatched into chicks.

In a tone I hoped was supportive but also conveyed my concern that Ella might be out-of-touch with reality, I said, “You know, rabbits don’t actually lay eggs.”

Upon hearing this, my baby flew into a rage, called me an infidel, and threatened to have me killed. (OK, that is not exactly what she said, but that was what her tone implied.)

ClipartOf.com/1056149

Because I am not afraid of death threats from a three-year-old, I yapped, “You are a sissy-punk kid who doesn’t know anything, and even if rabbits could lay eggs, Groner would not be able to ‘cause he is a frickin’ boy!”  (Again, that is not exactly what I said, but that was what my tone implied.)

Then, Ella said, “Mommy, you hurt my feeling when you say Groner can’t lay eggs and have baby chicks.”

I felt bad, so I kissed her a million times, backtracked, and said, “Groner can totally lay eggs and have baby chicks by the dozen.  Plus, there is a special bunny owned by the Cadbury Corporation who lays chocolate eggs every year at Easter.”

VP Andrew Johnson vs. Tommy Lee Jones

I was just reading an article about various American Vice Presidents, and it struck me how Andrew Johnson looks exactly like Tommy Lee Jones.  I was so blown away by the likeness, I decided to share my discovery with you.  The two men even part their hair on the same side and are partial to the bow tie. 

Tommy Lee Jones, hollywood movie star famous for Men in Black

Andrew Johnson, 16th vice president (1865), serving under President Abraham Lincoln

Cole is the main attraction

My fourteen-year-old son and his friend, John, row for a local crew association.  I pride myself on being an on-time mom, unfortunately, all the other children have ten-minute-early moms, so when I arrived to pick the boys up, they were standing alone in a dark parking lot.

Cole jumped in the car. “Why are you late?” he asked.

I pointed to the dash-board clock.  “I’m not late.  I’m right on time.”

“Oh,” Cole replied.  “We got out early and John was afraid of the dark parking lot.”

From the back seat John said, “I would like to go on record here; I was not afraid of the dark parking lot.”

“Yes, he was,” Cole said.  “He was crying and screaming and crying and screaming, and I had to punch him in the face to get him to stop.”

“Again, I would like to go on record here,” John said.  “I was not crying and screaming, and Cole never punched me.”

“Yes, I did,” Cole replied.  “But John kept whimpering because he was worried we might get raped in the dark parking lot.”

John leaned toward the front seat.  “I wasn’t worried about being raped.  And besides, if anyone was going to be raped, Cole would be the main attraction for that.”

My son looked down at his feet.  “Oh, God,” he said.  “That’s probably true.”

the beauty of a second opinion

Many of you have been diligently following my attempts to go cold-turkey on coffee.  This decision was based on my doctor declaring, via a blood test, that I am allergic to my morning beverage of choice (see my post about my odd food allergies).

Since I had never heard of anyone else being allergic to coffee, I made an appointment with another doctor to seek a second opinion.  This new doc suggested that many in the medical field didn’t consider the particular blood test used on me to be an accurate measure of food allergies.  She also commented that the test in question frequently produced false positives. 

She went on to say most doctors diagnose a food allergy based only on whether or not you break out in hives after you have eaten a particular item.  None of the items on my allergy list cause me to break out in hives, so she said she would not consider me allergic to any of them. 

I didn’t need to hear anymore; I ran from her office straight to Starbucks for a venti mocha!

On a side note, I plan to implement this course of action as an ongoing part of my overall health management.  If a doctor hands down a diagnosis I don’t like, I plan to see different doctors until one overturns the original verdict and gives me the news I want to hear. 🙂

On a second side note, my husband said that living with me and my coffee withdrawals was grounds for divorce, but he agreed he would stick by my side regardless because that is just the patient type-of-guy he is (also with me gone who would do the laundry?)  He didn’t say any of this out loud, it was all through a series of complicated facial expressions and body language which I am a master at deciphering.  So, “Thanks, Honey, for not ditching me last week.  You are enduring, long-suffering, and selfless, even if you do think that sorting clothes based on color is an inefficient method for doing laundry.”

Sun Salutations and Other Methods of Torture

I went to yoga this morning intending to relax and breathe, despite my coffee withdrawal symptoms.  (for info on why I am in coffee rehab, see my post regarding my odd food allergies)

I got there early ‘cause I like to stake out a spot near the back in case I get a little light-headed during my downward facing dog and have to collapse onto my knees.  Also, sometimes I cheat during warrior two, it depends on my mood.

So, I am comfortably positioned in the back row when class begins.  Five minutes into sun salutations, two women make their way into class and park themselves firmly within my zone of bliss.   How am I supposed to find my frickin’ inner Zen when I am in baby cobra and someone’s feet are three inches from my face? 

While we are on the topic of yoga, I wrote this three years ago.  It is a work of fiction and only slightly autobiographical.

Sun Salutations and Other Methods of Torture

If I join a spin class or step aerobics, I know what I’m in for . . . breathless pain.  But yoga?  Come on, it’s stretching with a fancy name, right?  So I bought some cute organic-cotton separates and a purple yoga mat. The mat is really more of an eggplant, a deep, rich, borderline maroon color, with a fleur de lis etched in the center.  I feel urban, hip, trendy in an I-care-about-the-environment sort of way.  I head to class, feeling loose and confident.  I’m all about the downward dog.  I’m the goddess of sun salutations.  I’m a cobra; I’m a tree.  I’m Zen on my yoga journey.  My instructor, Seth, is hot in spandex and more spandex.  He’s praising my locust pose, my butterfly, my pigeon.  I’m planking, cat twisting.  I’m a chair, a child, a triangle.  I’m growing where I’m planted; I’m the core of life, the sheath of bliss.  I’m the eight limbs of Raga.  Layers within layers, lines of internal energy, my inner experience illuminated.  I am PRANA!

Twenty-four hours later I’m stuck in the bathroom.  More precisely, I’m stuck on the toilet because I had to pee but now I can’t stand up.  My legs are burning and cramping; I have an itch on my left eyebrow, but my shoulders are in such knots I can’t raise my arms.  I lowered my head to my knee in an attempt to scratch my forehead, but now my neck has tensed up, and I can’t pull myself to an upright position.  I would yell for help, but no one’s home.  In fifteen minutes my husband will pull into the driveway; he’ll find me here, and when the laughter, ridicule, and utter humiliation is over, he’ll lift me off the toilet and carry me to the sofa.  There will be pain involved, but Seth says, “Free your mind; free your mind for deeper reflection.”  I will breathe through the pain.  I will reflect on my journey.

self doubt

The Woolly Mammoth at the Royal BC Museum, Victoria, British Columbia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In 1992, I began my first teaching assignment with a seventh grade class at a junior high in Federal Way.  In third period, I taught identical twin sisters, Amy and Ashley.  One random morning, Ashley burst into tears.  I took her outside the classroom to find out what the matter was.

“My sister is prettier than me,” she sobbed.

I would like to remind you that the girls were IDENTICAL twins, but it obviously wasn’t about what Ashley looked like; it was about how she felt.

Perhaps self-doubt is an ancient strand of our DNA, instilled in us thousands upon thousands of years ago to keep us vigilant and wary, an instilled sense of uncertainty that forces us to second-guess ourselves less we become dinner for a saber-tooth tiger or woolly mammoth.  (Actually, I am pretty sure woolly mammoths were herbivores, so never mind about the mammoths.)

This caution makes us feel stupid when we are smart, weak when we are strong, alone when we are deeply loved, and sometimes self-doubt can force a pretty twelve-year-old girl to feel so ugly, it will bring her to tears.

I’m motherless, fatherless, and coffeeless

The Reverend Billy leading an anti-Starbucks protest in Austin, Texas in 2007 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am on my second morning without coffee, and I am a tightly-wound ball of aggression.  My husband says it will take three days off the caffeine before I am back to myself, and to him I say, “Screw you, you coffee-a-holic bastard!” (sorry, Honey, that’s the addict speaking)

I seriously feel like I could rip someone’s head off, preferably someone walking out of Starbucks.  Specifically, someone walking out of Starbucks carrying tea.  You and I both know anyone who orders tea at Starbucks is a pretentious, heartless, republican! (sorry, tea drinkers and republicans, again, the addict speaking.)  I am sure Starbucks’ tea is delicious and lots of democrats drink it on a daily basis.  Also,  it fights off heart disease and various other crappy conditions, but let’s face it, it’s not COFFEE!

Here is a link to all the benefits of drinking green tea, whatever, blah, blah, blah.

http://www.webmd.com/food-recipes/features/health-benefits-of-green-tea 

 For an explanation regarding my abrupt coffee withdrawal, see my post:   https://storiesformymom.wordpress.com/2012/09/10/who-is-allergic-to-lettuce/ 

For republicans, forgive me; I need a twelve-step program.  Here is a link to a republican who doesn’t scare me:

http://www.billfinkbeiner.org/