Saturday, February 27, 2010

Explain this to me...

I can't drop my child off at a birthday party in a padded room without signing a waiver. Someone spills take out coffee while driving and the whole industry adjusts. When I got the wrong patient's test results mailed to me there was a HIPAA-sized shake down at the clinic.

So...how do guns get in the hands of mentally ill people in school parking lots? I can't figure it out. I thought there were checks and rules and what-not. The only thing I can think of is that there are not enough law suits. If people started holding the gun shops responsible for the crimes committed with pieces they sell...they would be more selective. If gun manufacturers were sued by the families of the children killed with their weapons maybe they would re-design safety mechanisms. Tort initiated self correction.

I want the statistics. I want to know how often a gun is fired outside of a training range. I want to know how many of those shots are discharged in defense of life or property. I want to know how many of them are fired in assault. How many were a threat or a warning? Why are we not applying data-based decision making to this subject?

Here is a movement for you...what about a rash of law suits? So many that the distribution veins are crippled. The more expensive and tangled the better.

Friday, February 26, 2010

(sniff)

Little C: (rubbing his hands together) Mama? Smell my hands.

Mama: (against her better judgement complies) Have you been drinking?

Little C: Nope.

Mama: Because you smell a little boozy.

Little C: Hand Sanitizer.

Mama: Ah. I see. Don't inhale.


But now I am wondering about the possibility of a contact high off that stuff.

Monday, February 22, 2010

My advice: fake it!

Sitting in a waiting room recently, I picked up a ladies magazine. Maybe it was more of a girly magazine. No. That's not right either. I think the target market is the 18-20 female crowd. Pretty narrow range, I know, but the articles were not showing much range either.

But the best one...from a ridicule standpoint...was the one about How To Fake An Orgasm. It started out with the whole should you or shouldn't you debate. That lasted about a paragraph. Then it carried on under the guise of the time may come (sorry) when you will need to know how to fake one or two.

My problem with this is not that I have some strong moral stance about honesty in bed. I just think they have it backwards. I mean, if you are going to lie about something shouldn't it work in your favor? If you fake an orgasm, your partner will settle in right there. No growth. No improvement. No real orgasm for you next time.

I say, fake it...but pretend you are NOT having one. Might just make them work harder in the future.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Central Wisconsin,

I drove across your part of the state twice this weekend listening to whatever radio station would come in clearly. You all still love you some Huey Lewis and The News, don't you? I heard them four times! That frequency has not occurred in 19 years.

Not to be too picky, but I don't think they quite qualify as Today's Rock. Not so sure they are Yesterday's "Rock" either.

(Ditto with Peter Cetera.)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

"You keep using that word...

...I do not think it means what you think it means."
-Inego Montoya


This world of daytime television is an interesting one. I have been flipping channels between Olympic coverage and have, more than once, been suckered into watching a segment of talk show because the lead-in promised something interesting only to reveal complete crap.

Today some young "reporter" was doing a man-on-the-street piece. He was "interviewing" people about what they thought about same sex marriage. Never mind his smarmy delivery or the hack eyebrow movement. What really killed me was this answer from a woman standing, holding the hands of her two children:

[paraphrased] Marriage is supposed to be between a man and a woman. Anything else cannot produce children so it is not a profitable relationship and should not be legally recognized.

First of all, she gets to think what she wants...though I could not disagree with her more. From every angle, but especially from the one where she thinks having children for profit is a feasible business model.

Friday, February 12, 2010

One of my nightmares comes true

So... This morning Little C says, "Mama, when I yell, 'I have Beaver-Fever' at school all the girls go crazy." I'm thinking, WTF!!!!!!! So I prod for more details. Turns out, what he meant to say was "Bieber Fever." Only, he has no idea who the kid is. He was under the impression that his female classmates were all nutty over Justin Beaver. Turns out, he has been shouting "I have Beaver-Fever!" at recess all week. I can only imagine what the playground monitors are thinking. Also a matter of concern is the fact that my six year old has already figured out how to manipulate the ladies.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Memo to the Backseat:

Children, children, children...

When you end every sentence with a questioning inflection how am I supposed to know when to nod or say, "Hmmmm," or add, "That's a good question"? In essence, when I am organizing the lives, meals, and schedules of 5 humans and 4 animals in my head as we drive home from school, that rising tone that usually signifies an actual question is my cue. That is how I know that it is time for me to interject some sort of noise to the constant droning hum in the back of the minivan.

And be honest...you don't really care what I have to say at that point anyway. All you want is some slight acknowledgement that I am present. Hint: I am the one driving. But if you need more than that inserted into the cacophony, you will need make it clear when you would like me to join in.

Thank you.
-Alpha

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Not Rockwellian. Not Orwellian. Ah Ha! Tragic Realism.

FADE IN:

EXT. SNOW COVERED DRIVEWAY - NIGHT

A salt-crusted minivan sits at an odd angle, spinning its tires in the deep snow. Clearly, it is not making any progress. After a bit, the engine turns off but the headlights remain illuminated. The driver door opens as the side door slides open as well. A mother and two boys step out into eight inches of snow.

MOTHER (slipping): Oh shit!

10 YEAR OLD: You should not swear.

MOTHER: I know, I know. Sorry. How about, Ah Heck!

10 YEAR OLD: Better. Want me to get a shovel and dig out your car?

MOTHER: Oh, Sweetie! That is a nice thought, but how about helping me carry in the groceries first? We'll make dinner and then come back out and do the whole driveway when dad gets home. Shoveling this driveway is a tedious job.

6 YEAR OLD: I'll do it!! I want to do it!! I love devious jobs! (he runs to grab a shovel)

MOTHER (holding in a laugh): Honey! I did not say it is a devious job. I said it is a tedious job.

6 YEAR OLD (standing all American Gothic with the shovel): What does tedious mean?

MOTHER (juggling 3 bags of food and the house keys): It means boring and repetitive with no end in sight.

The shovel falls slowly into the drift. A small poof of powder erupts where it lands. Fresh boot prints, Children's size 12, lead away from the spot. The sound of muffled, quick steps fades away.

FADE OUT.


Sunday, February 7, 2010

Power to the People

Something is out there. The knowledge exists. Clear directions have been given.

What will you choose?

What the hell am I talking about? Oreo Truffles my friends. OREO TRUFFLES. Three ingredients. A little bit of your time. And you could be suffering the same internal conflict I am right now. Namely, "How the heck do I stop eating these??!!"

I cannot be held responsible for the consequences of your actions on this one. But at the same time, I do not want to be responsible for your not knowing about OREO TRUFFLES. So I will put it in your hands. You can choose to go to www.bakerella.com and search for Oreo Truffles if you wish. You may even read the recipe. You may do as I did and run to the store to buy the Oreos and others ingredients and then trip over the rest of the unpacked groceries while frantically tossing the cookies into a food processor. Or not. Maybe you have the willpower to just avoid temptation altogether. Or maybe you are a much better person than me and can make them and only eat one a day. Or make them and share them generously with your family (instead of carefully giving one each to your kids while jamming four in your own mouth in rapid succession.)

These little confections taste like inside-out oreos. And the possibilities for other flavor combinations is endless. Nutter Butter Truffles covered in chocolate are also on Bakerella's site. But I am thinking about testing a Smores version as soon as possible. (Plus it gives me an excuse to use my tiny lunch-lady scoop more often.)

Best of luck to you, dears.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

The Great Laundry Experiment: week three

I am not going to bore you with the details of my many, many, failed attempts at keeping up with the laundry. None of them worked. Mostly because I didn't.

I am proud to say, I have FINALLY come up with a process that seems to be working. This solution has proved to be surprisingly simple. Plus, it takes up less space than any other system I have tried to make work.

Here is the run-down:

I put a laundry hamper in each child's closet. They are responsible for putting all of their dirty clothes into them. On the sides I wrote, "right-side out" and "empty your pockets." It took a better part of the first week for the kids to reliably put their dirty clothes in daily. They are also responsible for telling me when it is full AND for helping me put their clothes in the washing machine. It took only twice for them to do this without a reminder. Once dry, they help me fold their clothes and then they put them away. Moose does his own. I do mine. And the only things allowed down the laundry chute are towels and sheets which either Moose or I sort and handle in the basement when the basket at the bottom is full.

That's it.

No more giant pile of stinky clothes at the bottom of the chute. No more digging through baskets of clean clothes to find fresh underpinnings at 7am (or worse...not finding any!). No more rewashing of sour loads I have forgotten about in the washing machine. No more avoiding the task until it is so overwhelming that it takes three days. No more taking three days to wash and fold everything so I avoid it again for as long as possible.

The drawback so far seems to be that you have to pay attention to what gets dropped in so hand-wash items and delicates don't get ruined. I was kind of concerned about washing light and dark clothes together. So far I have not seen any negative side effects.

I would like to say that I am trying this to teach them responsibility. But you all know me better than that. Responsibility is just a bonus. It is easy. That's the truth of it.

Next time I buy red socks or dark-wash jeans I will have to make some adjustments. But for now, it's working.

Friday, February 5, 2010

The Cricketbuster

Moose came home from the pet store a few days ago with 80 pounds of dog food and 2 dozen crickets. The usual order. Only, this time, there is something wrong. Oh, the dog food is fine.

It's the crickets. One of them makes noise.

To those of you only familiar with the wild variety of crickets, you must be holding out your palms and yelling, "Duh, Lady!" at your monitor. But those of us who have tiny mouths to feed--mouths that belong to insectivores or possibly omnivores who enjoy the occasional insect--understand that this is an anomaly. Bulk pet store crickets are generally silent. I could not have been more surprised unless maybe the cricket played classical music like Chester. (The reference? Come on...you know it!) A musical cricket would certainly be more surprising.

But it would also be appreciated.

The thing going on in Eduardo's terrarium was not appreciated. If the cricket was operating in 4/4 time...then what he was "singing" is a steady stream of fortissimo eighth notes!

Which I have been counting: one and two and three and four and one and two and...

Why not wait for the frog to handle it? I'll tell you why. He is stuffed. Completely gorged himself two days ago and won't eat another bite for a couple of days. I know this because earlier today I watched a cricket crawl over his face. It stepped on Eduardo's eye and everything! The froggy did not even flinch. And who is to say that he would pick the noisemaker next?

I could also try waiting for a bigger cricket to come and eat the noisy one. It happens. But there is a chance that the offender is the largest one in the tank. And that is not a risk I am willing to take.

Determined to finally end this, I just went up the stairs with the Dustbuster. After several minutes of trying to determine exactly which cricket was causing the ruckus I took off the lid and...

guess what...

He had a plan!!! The little bugger was using me to escape! And my attempt to find peace turned into Crazy Cricket Rodeo. I was chasing the offender and finally sucked it up but in the meantime...three more crickets escaped. My priority quickly shifted to containment and I fumbled to get the lid on tight. Then I ran around trying to catch the other crickets but only managed to get two of them.

After disposing of them outside (in a snowbank) I came back in the house to tell you all about it. Only...the thing is...that last cricket that got away? He makes noise too. But he is less John Philip Sousa and much more Branford Marsalis.

How the hell am I supposed to count that?!

Monday, February 1, 2010

Life Imitating Art

Paula Poundstone used to do a joke about the banning and burning of books. It ends with the line, "Have we learned nothing from Footloose?" It is one of those touchstones I have come back to many, many times.

I am still trying to digest everything from a fantastic weekend in LA. But one small thing has really stuck with me. We have learned something from Pretty Woman. And that is, anyone can walk into a store dressed like a hooker and be served.