The gift of cancer

I was listening to the radio in the car on the way home the other day (which is weird because I almost never do this because 97% of what is played on the radio is horrible, ear-piercing crap. But I needed to hear the traffic, so what are you gonna do, eh?), and I heard a commercial for a local tanning salon.

It went something like: "Give someone special the perfect stocking stuffer this year! Give them a gift card to Get-Orange-Real-Fast Tan!"

PERFECT! Just what I always wanted! Cancer! How did you know that I wanted cancer for Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus?! It's perfect! Thank you!

I mean, really.

Since when did peeling skin, wrinkles, age spots, a distinctly fake even color, and cancer become a great gift?

I work with a girl who tans. I told her I'm too freaked out about the health implications to tan anymore. She said, "Well, we're all going to die some day, I want to go with a tan."

I really hate this smartass comment when I tell people that I don't tan because my grandfather died of melanoma. And I'm mole-y, like him. And my dad has had some suspect moles removed, too.

So I shot back, "Yeah, well. My grandfather died of melanoma. It's a pretty fucking miserable way to go. It's painful, and really, not a lot of fun. I'd like to be around for my daughter as long as possible. Besides, I don't want to look like I'm 40 when I'm 30 like the rest of the obsessive tanners I know."

Boo.fucking.yah.

Wear your sunscreen, people, because cancer is NOT sexy.

I caved

For as long as I can remember, I've been unable to breathe through my nose at night. Even if I'm not at all congested, the second I lie down, I feel like I'm not getting enough air through my nose. So I've been a total night breather.

Until I was pregnant, it was never a big deal. But then I started sleeping on my back, and it caused snoring. I don't snore every night, but at least twice a week, Hubs is kneeing me in the back telling me that I'm snoring.

So a few days ago, I finally broke down and bought BreatheRight strips at the request of Hubs. He told me that he gets scared because I sound like I can't breathe.

I was really doubtful about how well they would work, but as soon as I put one on that first night, it was like I could really breathe. But I didn't sleep well because I had to consciously make an effort to keep my mouth totally closed. I could breathe, but it's a habit that I've had for decades.

The second night was better.

And last night, I slept great. I can't believe that these things actually work. I woke up, though, with my BreatheRight strip stuck to my leg. I guess I still have to get used to having something on my face while I sleep. But I asked Hubs if I snored, and he said no. And I feel like I really did sleep better.

The thing with these strips, though, is that they pull the bridge of your nose up a little and out. So my schnoz looks huge when I have one on. I told Hubs, "I guess I'm not exactly the sexy thing you thought you were getting when you signed up for this marriage thing. I just need curlers in my hair and a green face mask." He informed me that I think it looks a lot worse than it does, and that a little nose strip is a hell of a lot sexier than watching me sleep with my mouth hanging open.

Happy Turkey Day?

Even as an omni, I never understood replacing 'Thanksgiving' with 'Turkey Day'.

The past few years I've tried really hard to make sure that my focus on Thanksgiving is about taking a step back, looking at my life, and really being thankful for all the things I take for granted. I'm grouchy today, so I'm not doing that right now. In fact, I just sat on the phone and bitched with my mom about the incessant football monopoly that has taken over not only the television at my house, but also the computer.

Anyway.

I think it's kind of sad that instead of taking personal inventory and trying to think about everything we have that's right and good, Thanksgiving is an excuse to stuff ourselves silly. Think about it. It's become a holiday that surrounds a meal. Not just a meal, but a turkey.

It's probably easier for me to be self-righteous about it, though, since the past couple of years I've had to make an entire meal for myself at these family get-togethers. The holiday CAN'T be about bonding over a turkey anymore (and actually, thinking about it has me a little queasy). So it really has become about spending time with the people I love and being thankful that we CAN all be together (even if they're eating turkey).

It still irritates me when I get emails and text messages that read: "Gobble, gobble, happy Turkey Day!" Seriously, folks, just leave me off of the fucking mass email next year.

But I am thankful to be remembered. :)

And this is why I fantasize about running away and not coming back.

Okay, so not really. But I threatened it this morning. I was at the end of my rope. Because this is how the last 12 hours have gone:

1) After work at the bar, I had to stop and get bread so that I could, you know, pack a sandwich for Bean for school today. I have a cold, so I kept telling myself, "Self, don't forget DayQuil and NyQuil. Don't forget it. Or you'll never sleep." So what's the one thing I forget? The medicine. But somehow I managed to walk out of the store with not only bread, but two kinds of soy milk, a pineapple, some apples, and two chocolate oranges. *sigh*

2) Every time I would crawl in bed during the night after one of my many runs to the bathroom to piss (when I'm sick, I chug water like a maniac, and then I'm up all night), dearest Hubs wanted to cuddle. I can't handle touching when I'm sick. Don't kiss me, don't hug me, don't touch me, it's hot in the bed, my face feels like it's going to explode because of course I forgot the NyQuil, and I can't sleep with you touching me!!!

3) *music playing while I try to make myself not look like the undead for work*

Hubs: Why are you always listening to those guys who sing songs about whales?

Me: They have one song about a whale, ONE, and that's what you cling to.

Hubs: All they sing about are whales and pirates and crosswinds and tradewinds and whatever.

Me: You're a jerk. And you like Van Halen, so shut up, douche.

Hubs: That's so funny I almost peed myself

4) We have two litter boxes. One is in the laundry room, the other is in the office. We have one in the office because that's the room where we kept Izzy when we brought her home, and that's where we still keep her food and water and box. Not only did I have to chase the dog out of there after he devoured the rest of the cat's daily food, but I went to clean the box before work, and it was turned on its side. On its side with a great big clump of something on the floor. I nearly cried while I was vaccuuming up the mess.

So here I am at work. Obviously not working. Because I feel like I'm dying. And I realized that half of the items of clothing I'm wearing belong to Hubs. I'm wearing his track pants. And socks. And shoes. And hoodie. Thank god I have my own underwear on.

Wordless Wednesday

Well, wordless except for the captions. And this.

Buzzard making schmoopy with Bean's bear.


Buzzard making schmoopy with Izzy.


Ooh, scary. (Mine's on the right. And it's pretty cute if I do say so myself.)


See? She thinks they're scary, too.


But this thing is scariest of all. It's at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, and it is called "The Big Pig". They guessed that this is what this thing would look like after they found it's fossilized remains. Doesn't Bean look a bit apprehensive?

Be the change

"You must be the change you want to see in the world."

-Mahatma Gandhi



I realize that this was said by Gandhi, so of course it's true and profound.

But sometimes, when I think about this, it strikes me all over again. I tend to be a little cynical (imagine!), and this quote seems to pop into my life on a coffee mug or a bumper sticker or a t-shirt when I'm feeling most down about the state of the world and the actions and attitudes of my fellow human beings.

I see this and realize how hypocritical I can be. I get pissed off and irritated with people, with the world, but I can't hope for people to behave any differently toward me (or anyone else for that matter) unless I stop acting like such a turd. And in case you don't know me all that well, I can be a turd. A lot. A smartass, passive-aggressive, snarky.

Consider this my promise to try to be the change I want to see in the world.

Chew on This

I generally tend to think that the people at PETA are a bunch of wackos, and I'm always mildly irritated that people tend to think that my veganism means I'm a member of PETA. But the following video is really powerful. Really well done. If it's more than you can handle, I copied and pasted the text from the video below. But if it's more than you can handle, maybe you should re-think the way you eat. ;)

I should probably preface this stuff by saying that I love my non-vegan friends and family. I don't browbeat them with the veganism message. I don't think they're horrible people, but I disagree with eating meat. Doesn't mean I love them any less.

I also removed from the text some of the more offensive points (and many of the points involving environmentalism) that were made, or the ones that make me shake my head and want to run as far as possible away from PETA. Feel free to watch the video, though. It's all there. I just didn't see much point in putting up something that, in not such a nice way, says, "Eating meat makes you overweight". That's not necessarily true. Obviously. And it just seemed mean.

So let's try to keep the hate comments to a minimum.




CHEW ON THIS
GO VEGETARIAN

1.) Because heart disease begins in childhood.
Meat has no fiber but is laden with fat and cholesterol, which is why the late Dr. Benjamin Spock, in the final edition of his book Baby & Child Care, recommended against feeding children any kind of meat.

2.) Because a vegan diet reverses heart disease.
On the American Heart Association (AHA) diet, which includes meat, patients’ arteries continue to clog, while Dr. Dean Ornish’s vegan diet unclogs arteries. In one study, AHA dieters experienced a 28 percent average worsening of clogged arteries, while dieters on Ornish’s program experienced an 8 percent improvement in their arteries.

4.) Because you shouldn’t have to lie to your kids about the food you eat.
Children would be horrified to learn about the cruelty and violence involved in turning chickens, pigs, and other animals into nuggets and other “foods.”

5.) Because in every package of chicken, there’s a little poop.
A USDA study found that 98 percent of broiler chicken carcasses had detectable levels of E. coli, indicating fecal contamination.

6.) Because meat is filthy and bloody.
There are more than 50 million cases of meat-related foodborne illness every year in the United States, thousands of which lead to death. Animals accumulate dangerous chemicals in their flesh and fat (which meat-eaters consume), including dioxins, antibiotics, pesticides, herbicides, and even the most toxic form of arsenic.

7. ) Because it isn’t fair.
Killing other animals is an act of exploitation and violence, and we do it only because we have the power to.

8.) Because no living creature wants to see her family slaughtered.
Cows love their calves, sows love their piglets, and chickens love their chicks. Farmed animals love their families and mourn their loss.

10.) Because you wouldn’t eat your dog.
Most people are horrified that some cultures eat dogs or whales, but these animals suffer no more than animals commonly consumed in the U.S. The difference is only cultural, not moral.

11.) Because mad cow disease is in the U.S.
Any animal with a brain could contract a version of mad cow disease, yet millions of pigs and chickens are still being fed the remains of diseased animals—in violation of World Health Organization recommendations and the laws of Japan and Europe.

12.) Because it’s violence that you can stop.
We may feel powerless to stop war or other forms of violence, but we can choose not to support slaughterhouses by rejecting flesh foods.

13.) Because no one should have to kill for a living.
Slaughterhouse workers have among the highest rates of injury and illness in the country, and working in a slaughterhouse would dull anyone’s sense of compassion.

14.) Because it takes a small person to beat a defenseless animal ... and an even smaller person to eat one.
If you’re eating meat, you are paying others to commit acts so cruel that if committed against dogs or cats, they would warrant felony cruelty charges in most U.S. states.

15.) Because no animal deserves to die for your taste buds.
A human being’s desire for a momentary taste of flesh is not as important as another animal’s desire not to be tortured and violently killed.

18.) Because you can’t eat meat and call yourself an environmentalist.
Funneling crops and water through animals rather than using those resources directly is our country’s top way of wasting water and polluting. Factory farms demand more water than all other users combined and produce 130 times as much waste as the entire human population of the United States. Farming animals also requires more than one-third of all greenhouse-gas-emitting fossil fuels used in the U.S. and has destroyed three-fourths of our topsoil, a permanent environmental catastrophe that can’t be corrected.

19.) Because they’re defenseless.
Nobel laureate Isaac Bashevis Singer called speciesism the “most extreme” form of racism because animals are the least able to defend themselves and the easiest to victimize.

20.) Because when animals feel pain, they scream, too.
If you burn them, they feel it. If you give them electric shocks, they feel it. Animals feel pain in the same way and to the same degree that we humans do.

21.) Because they don’t want to die.
Animals value their lives as much as humans do.

22.) Because they feel fear.
Their hair stands on end, they urinate on themselves, and they shake, just as we do when frightened out of our minds with the prospect of being hurt or killed.

23.) Because no matter how you slice it, it’s still flesh.
Other animals are made of flesh, bone, and blood, just as we are, so “meat” is just a euphemism for a decomposing corpse used as food.

24.) Because commerce is no excuse for murder.
The chicken, pork, and other animal mass-murdering industries are huge, but it’s time for them to go the way of the slave trade (which also had strong economic incentives).

25.) Because even prisons aren’t this crowded.
Animals on factory farms are crammed into so little space that many of them are unable to do anything natural to them for their entire lives.

26.) Because this is not what wings are for.
Chickens, pigs, and other farmed animals never get to breathe fresh air, feel the sun on their backs, build a nest, nuzzle their young, or do anything at all that they were born to do.

27.) Because everyone wants to be free.
We know that it’s true of birds let out of a cage and of dogs taken to the park, and it’s equally true of farmed animals: They desire freedom, just as humans do.

28.) Because eating fish doesn’t make you a vegetarian.
Fish have the same ability to respond to pain that birds and mammals have and are also interesting individuals in their own right. According to a review of the science published in Fish and Fisheries, fish are “highly intelligent”—they have long-term memories and learn from one another, use tools, form social hierarchies, and “can even be favourably compared to nonhuman primates.” Explains marine biologist Dr. Sylvia Earle, fish are “so good-natured, so curious. You know, fish are sensitive, they have personalities, they hurt when they’re wounded.”

29.) Because might doesn’t make right.
In our moral development as a species, we’ve reached the point where it’s time to recognize that other species deserve consideration, just as we finally recognized that slavery was wrong, that women deserved the vote, and that children should not be abused as a method of child rearing.

30.) BECAUSE YOU KNOW THIS IS WRONG
Common sense tells us, and we know in our hearts, that our fellow animals have the same kind of feelings and desires that we do and that we should not kill and hurt others in order to eat them.

For more information and for a free vegetarian
starter kit, visit GoVeg.com or call 1-888-VEG-FOOD.

For more information on all these
issues, please visit GoVeg.com.

I'm feeling ranty.

(This whole Wordless Wednesday thing is really not working out for me. I always seem to have a lot I've been thinking about come Wednesday morning.)

I haven't posted a self-righteous rant in a while. I think it's time.

I happened upon the NY Times article entitled "Is the 'Mom Job' Really Necessary?" (http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/04/fashion/04skin.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&incamp=article_popular&oref=slogin&pagewanted=1&adxnnlx=1192031322-8EoA8/E2+Pcn1BYZ3bF32g) through my internet adventures the other day. If you don't want to/can't read the article, basically it's about a new plastic surgery craze often called the Mommy Makeover. It usually includes lipo, tummy tuck, and a breast lift (with or without implants).

The article does a pretty good job of showing both sides of this, but the whole idea of a Mommy Body Makeover just pisses me off. Let me say this: women are free to do whatever the hell they want to their bodies. Plastic surgery is a personal choice. I have my own feelings about it, about how this whole plastic surgery thing is going to damage our daughters when they grow up because we, their mothers, are perpetuating the myth of a perfect body. But whatever. Do whatever you want, really, and I'll try to just ignore your choices.

Anyway. Off-track much?

So, plastic surgery is a personal choice. However, I find it absolutely maddening that these plastic surgeons are marketing unneeded surgery to mothers to erase what carrying a child and giving birth to that child has done. They are implying that a body that's carried a baby is flawed due to its changes. If women want plastic surgery, that's fine. But am I the only one who is pissed that a bunch of middle-aged men in pristine white coats are the ones coming up with unnecessary surgery that mimics a spa package?!?!

There are times when I cannot stand what I see in the mirror. Absolutely. But I'm not going to get my boobs done or my thighs lipo'ed to make a very rich person $15,000 richer.

It just makes me so sad that we (mothers) put our bodies through hell to carry and deliver a child, and then the entire world tells us that we are not okay afterward, that now we have to be fixed. Guess what? I'm not built like Jessica Biel. I never was, and I won't get surgery to turn me into that. Because that is not me.

And I refuse to participate in a ritual that is turning women into a bunch of Fembots, completely warping my daughter's perception of what is real and beautiful. How would I ever expect her to believe in her own beauty as a woman one day if I can't accept myself just the way I am?

How they found me

I have this nifty little device that will tell me the keywords people put into search engines to bring up my blog. And I thought I'd share some of the more interesting ones.

- fake tan routine ruins life (yes, yes it does)

- vegan elitist
- vegan skinny
- vegans and pale
(I'm all of the above... except for skinny.)

- pale white wives photos
- really pale women photos
(This is probably a fetish... right up there with Catholic schoolgirl costumes and small boobs and androgyny. Sorry I don't have any extraordinarily pale photos of myself for you searchers.)

- stare at her boobs
(I don't know about this one.)

Ah, good times.

Not So Wordless Wednesday

So.

I got pregnant my senior year of high school. And if that's not enough, when I was seven months pregnant, barely graduated, the guy I cared about, the father of my child, accused me of getting pregnant on purpose and/or lying about the paternity of my child. It rocked my world. I cried so hard that night I can't believe I didn't throw up. I think I knew that I wasn't going to hear from him again. And I didn't. Not when I had her, not her first Christmas. No birthday or holiday after that.

When I realized, fully, for the first time, without naivete, that he wasn't coming back, that we weren't going to raise our daughter together, it was soul-crushing. To this day, it's still one of the most heart-rending experiences of my life. I still feel it like it was yesterday. Unless you've experienced it, you have no idea how worthless it makes you feel to know that even doing the most important thing you'll ever do, nourishing a life that someone else helped you create, that that is not enough to make that person take your phone call.

A little over seven years passed (seven years and two and-a-half months, to be exact) since the last conversation I had with Bean's biological father when I was pregnant to when he called me at work a couple of weeks ago. It was a conversation I'd long given up having, and I was totally unprepared. All of the little mock diatribes I'd worked over in my head over the years just would.not.come to me, and I cried. I cried so hard that afterward, I was embarrassed for being so outwardly emotional at my office.

And since then, this is pretty much all I think about when I'm quiet. Whenever I'm done thinking about the things I have to think about, when there's a moment's peace and quiet, this creeps in. Seven years ago creeps in. This recent conversation creeps in. And with it comes all of the times I ever thought "what if" about my life.

I feel guilty thinking "what if", but I guess it's natural. I am happy where I am now, but I can't help but wonder what if I hadn't had to go through all that. What if I didn't have to explain to Bean what a biological father is? What if I hadn't had to shell out nearly $200 a month for health care for her? What if I never had to worry about explaining to her one day the details of why her biological father never saw her?

Luckily I have a husband who loves me because of, not in spite of, my neuroses that has come from all of this. All my insecurities, my neediness, my rotten self-esteem, he takes it all in stride.

All of these paragraphs above, however, are probably not helping things. I've been making this whole situation too much about me. How does hearing from him make me feel? It hurts me to re-live all this crap I've pushed down and tucked away for seven years. Me, me, me. Even though it is, to some degree, about me, it's more about my daughter. It's about trying to guess about what she'll want in the future. It's about trying to find the path that will cause the least resentment and pain for her down the road.

Anyway. Even though he was supposed to call me back, I have a sneaking suspicion I won't hear from him again. And that makes me so sad for Bean. I wanted to be able to give her the information she needs when she decides one day that she wants to talk to him, that she has questions. I hate thinking that now I'll have to explain to her one day why he wasn't around and that he didn't keep in touch with me so that she could contact him when the time was right.

But you can't force someone, right?

I wish you could. I wish I would've had the know-how and the tools to make him accountable the first time around. I wish I would've been smarter, tried harder. Not a holiday or birthday has gone by that I haven't wondered where he is and if he ever thought about her, and I hate that I'll keep on wondering that now. (Wow, me me me again.)

They both missed out on so much. And it's not fair.

Another group to which I do not belong.

I really thought I was over the whole inferiority complex thing, but apparently, I am not.

Most mornings, I'm taking my last sip of coffee, counting the cats to make sure that they haven't escaped, telling Bean, "I asked you to get your lunchbox three times already", and trying to lock the door while holding my coat, my purse, my lunch, Bean's lunchbox and/or homework folder, and (nine times out of ten) also my shoes.

I'm lucky that I've brushed my teeth and put on make-up, truthfully. It's a toss-up whether or not I've remembered socks for myself. My hair is never done. Ever. But I remember my deodorant.

I'm flying to school, and I get her there justintime most days. I kiss her and practically throw her in the direction of her classroom, but I always remember to yell, "I love you!" and wait for the eye roll.

It's only when I've left her, and I'm making my way off of school grounds that I realize how little I fit in with these other women.

There's one. She's on the PTO. Maybe one of the grandmasters of the PTO. And she's British. I'm pretty sure, British. And she is always perfectly coordinated in very hip, stylish, young, but not too young to look like a respectable mom clothes. Make-up, perfect. Hair, perfectly styled. Nails, manicured. And she smells good.

PTO Mom stands around in a group of other perfectly coordinated moms with designer handbags (which, by the way, is so odd to me since we live in a community that is mostly populated with enlisted military folk) and highlights and nails and perfectly clean little toddlers who are dressed better than me.

Then there are the sporty moms. The moms who look like they've just come from a run with their perfect ponytails and matching UnderArmor workout clothes, and their nice, clean, white sneakers. You know what? I wear ratty black pants with a hole in the rear, a Wonder Woman wifebeater, and sneakers from my sophomore year of high school. But I work out at home, so I guess that's okay?

Anyway.

I try to talk to the stay-at-home-moms who always seem to have their act together, but I get this paralyzing anxiety, and I lose any ability I have to talk like a normal person. The only person I can even mildly relate to is Bean's Brownie troop leader. And even then. I can't really relate. My child doesn't have a learning disability, I don't hate 1/3 of the teachers at the school, and I don't think the Renaissance program is a stupid idea (probably because my kid always gets academic recognition at these things). I haven't breastfed three children, my boobs are actually the same size (don't ask), and I don't deal with the same things that she deals with on a regular basis as a stay-at-home-mom.

I should learn to give myself more credit. But until I do, I will just keep doing what I do and try not to trip over the untied laces of my All Stars (of course I don't have time to tie them, pffft) when I walk past the Moms.

I don't understand.

Do people lie to me because I like to believe that deep down, people are generally honest and good? Is that just too tempting to pass on taking advantage of?

I take people at their word far more often than I should, apparently.

My heart is breaking all over again. You would think that seven years would deaden things like this.

I never cease to be let down by other people.

My favorite little person

I have a lot on my mind right now, but I don't even know where to start. So I think I'll just skip it and show some pictures of someone who is easily my favorite person under the age of 25.

First day of school this year. The girl has her mommy's crappy posture.

At Watercourse. Best vegan food ever. Seriously. Cheesecake, buffalo seitan strips, biscuits and gravy. Her favorite is the banana bread french toast. (Sometimes I look in the mirror, then look at her, and I can't believe that I actually birthed something this gorgeous.)

At her birthday party. Some of the parents stayed to play, too, and that's always fun.

I made this. In a Halloween theme per Bean. She's borderline obsessed.

And just because I thought it was the most clever thing I'd seen in a while:

When did I get old?

Bean's birthday party was yesterday. I realize that her actual birthday was weeks prior, but it's just easier all around if I schedule her party at least 10 days afterward.

We went to Pump-It-Up for her birthday party because I didn't want to have to clean up after a bunch of kids and because Chuck E. Cheese is lame now. Do you know that they don't even have the band with the mechanical animals anymore? It's all on a video screen. What a rip-off.

Anyway, have you ever been to Pump-It-Up? It might be the most fun place ever. Giant inflatable slides, boxing rings, an obstacle course, a jousting ring. It's great.

So tell me why I was so exhausted after the party that I slept for two hours. (Which led to being wired at 11:00pm, telling my husband, "I'm bored" while he was falling asleep on the couch.) I nearly rolled my ankle racing a seven-year-old through the obstacle course. I got a rug burn type deal, and let's not even get into how I hurt my butt.

After play time, we all went in to do pizza and cake and presents. And, I love my girl's little friends, but I couldn't wait for everyone to leave so that we could just go home. When we got home, Hubs wanted to watch the Broncos lose, Bean wanted to play with her super cool new toys (I love that my daughter asked for science-related stuff for her birthday), and I wanted to curl up and fall asleep in bed. So it was win-win all around, really.

When I get caught up, I'll post pictures of the party. The slides, the presents, and the kick ass vegan ice cream cake (that I made, that's right).

I'm still tired. So tired. When did I get so old? ACK!

I am convinced

I have seen these tired ass decals all over almost every truck belonging to an army guy in this town. (Scroll down if you dare... it's semi-unsafe for work)





















I'm convinced that any man who feels the need to display these on his car probably has never seen a woman like this in his life. And if he has, he has never actually touched her.

Unless he paid for it, of course.

Thumbs up!

I don't flip anyone the bird when I drive anymore. It's rude, it's not very ladylike, and it can get you a ticket for being an aggressive driver.

So, instead, I give douchenozzles on the road a very enthusiastic thumbs up. You can't just give it out any old way, though. It's an art:

1. Don't do it with your kids in the car (if you have kids). While it's a totally non-aggressive, non-threatening gesture, I've found that it actually makes people even angrier. And that, of course, is why I do it.

2. Don't dole it out to any old jerk. I usually save this especially for people who are extraordinary assweasels. The people who drive dangerously and with wild disregard for other human beings on the road.

3. You can't just give a thumbs up whilst looking straight ahead. A large, cheesy grin is a nice complimentary gesture. I often wait until at a stoplight, get the other driver's attention, and give them two very enthusiastic thumbs up along with the aforementioned cheesy grin. On the rare occasion that I'm not wearing my sunglasses, a very exaggerated wink is a nice touch (with mouth wide open as if to say, "Yeaaaah, wooooot, go you!").

4. Feel free to add other obnoxious, yet non-threatening gestures. I occasionally like to throw the "YOU ROCK!" horns, and for the asshats with a very special place in my heart, I'll give them the old school Arsenio Hall Show fist pump.



I guess that's about it today. The number of people making my commute to work a living hell has multiplied exponentially these days.

Video blogging

You know, I'd probably update more often if I could get my shit together and figure out the movie setting on my camera. I find it a lot easier to sit in front of my camera and talk crap for two or three minutes than carving out time to try to be witty and snarky and interesting via typed text.

Maybe I should do that.

Amazed

Some days I'm amazed at my ability to not be a smartass. And every trip to the grocery store is like a test of my will power. I'm not joking. I think I'm being tempted to be snarky by having these people so deserving of the snark placed right in my path, just to see if I can withstand the pressure to laugh, snort, chortle, or roll my eyes.

Ah, the grocery store.

Yesterday, I was going through the refrigerated juice section, and there was a family of five standing around their cart. Three grown children, and the parents.

I probably wouldn't have noticed them if they hadn't been standing exactly where I needed to be.

Anyway. The son was holding up the generic orange juice, and he said, "It says the orange juice is from concentrate. That's not good. We shouldn't get this because they add all this other stuff to the concentrate, and it's just not that good for your body."

That alone is not reason enough to make me pause.

But the fact that their cart was stacked high with soda, Hamburger Helper, chips, and white bread made me do a double take.

I don't care what these people eat. Or drink. Or freebase. I just thought it was a little odd... and silly... to worry about juice from concentrate as opposed to freshly-squeezed when there's so much other over-processed crapola in their cart.

So I excused myself, squeezed past them, grabbed my gallon of OJ from concentrate, and went on my way.

Wordless Wednesday collage

Please tell me if the pictures don't show. I suck at uploading.

Redneck truck:

Look how high I am!

Fatty McButterpants:

I know I promised pictures of redneck trucks, but...

I've been just too lazy to upload pictures from my camera to the computer, from my computer to Photobucket.

But I've seen this super thing around blogs called Wordless Wednesday, and I think I'm going to adopt them for my blog, too (and I'll put the redneck truck in there). Some days I want to sort of update, but I'm too exhausted or apathetic to write about my extrasuperultraboring life.

I try not to complain about my life being boring and routine. Because I have friends who would kill for boring and routine. Boring and routine means that nothing is going terribly awry for now. And that's alright with me.

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I think Bean has been getting fevers associated with mosquito bites. The past few days, she's gone out in the backyard to play and come back with at least three mosquito bites. And an hour later, she's got a fever and a headache, and she'll nap for three hours. Her highest fever was 102.3, so not terrifying, but still high enough to give some medicine to bring it down. But she'll go to bed and wake up with no fever. But as soon as she goes outside and gets bitten again, she's got a fever again.

Our little area is rife with West Nile Virus in the mosquitoes, so maybe it's that. Or, my brother reacted the same way to mosquitoes when he was little. He'd swell up around the site of the bite, and he'd get fever. The pediatrician had told my mom that it was something like mosquito-induced encephalitis. Kind of scary.

So for now, I'm keeping her out of the backyard. I'm sure the bugs are just loving the weeds that have grown to the height of her knees. I've got to get her outside, though, or she'll start to get nutty. Maybe the park tonight.

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Speaking of the park, have you ever noticed how cliqué-y the park is with regards to moms?

I took Bean to the park the other day, and we were swinging.

A couple of (obvious) military moms showed up with four kids between them.

Now, I make a point of calling them military moms in particular because I live in a military town. And the park where I take Bean is very close to the army base, and therefore, a lot of military wives/moms take their kids there. And if you're not also a military wife and mother? Forget about it. They won't talk to anyone outside their little group.

Anyway.

Bean and I were swinging, and I was watching their interaction with their kids. Or lack thereof. They promptly parked it on the bench and talked on their cell phones while their kids called for them to come push them on the swings or catch them at the bottom of the slide. "In a little while!" the moms would call. Now, I understand having children. And I understand the exhaustion. And I understand just wanting to park your ass on a bench and let them entertain themselves. But it's what came next that sort of pissed me off.

One of the women's oldest boy, probably Bean's age, was on the tire swing. You know, they do it horizontally so three or four kids can fit on. Bean had been wanting to ride on it, but she was waiting for other kids to get on so that it would be more fun and more balanced. So she went over there to get on with him. I followed and pushed them so that they could swing and spin and laugh and scream. And because their feet couldn't touch the ground.

So I pushed them for about five minutes, and Army Moms just sat on the bench on their cell phones. Then the little boy's little sister wanted to get on, so I slowed down the swing. And the mom shot up and said, "No, honey, you can't. They're bigger than you and will go too fast." I told the little girl we were leaving in a couple minutes and that she could get on with her brother then.

So it was time to go, and Bean wanted to go down the slide a couple of times so I sat and waited for her. I looked over to the tire swing to see Army Moms piling all four kids on and spinning them and pushing them faster and higher than even I was pushing Bean and the little boy.

And then, as we were leaving the park area, Army Moms went back to their bench.

Huh. This might be nothing, but if felt very... exclusive. Like heaven forbid they might actually have to *gasp* speak to me. Or let their little ones play next to my kid.

I know it probably seems like nothing, but I felt like they didn't want to interact with me OR my child, and they gave some crusty old excuse to their daughter just to avoid the social interaction.

I really try to be friendly to other moms and kids when we go out in the hopes that I might make a new friend. Or that Bean might make a new friend. I don't know ANY moms around here, really. My husband's and brother-in-law's friends' women are slim pickins'. I mean, I like a few of them, but I wouldn't call them friends, and one woman I avoid all together because I just can't NOT stare at her boobs because they are ALWAYS.HANGING.OUT.



So, yes, tomorrow. Redneck truck. And maybe some other photos. Who knows?

Rednecks

You have no idea what I have to deal with on a regular basis.

I live out in a little community out in the country, sort of. And generally I like it, save for the times when I'm walking the dog on a dirt road at night, surrounded by a field that's just a little too "Jeepers Creepers"ish. And the neighbors' dogs. They bark every time I step out onto the back porch like I haven't been living there for, ohhh, 8 months.

But anyway. Rednecks.

I try really hard not to judge people. I do. Honestly. But every time I go to the grocery store, it's an internal struggle whether or not to photograph all of the insanity.

The family of five dressed in hunting camouflage shirts AND hats. Yes, really. Dad, Mom, and the three kids.

The family in which the dad AND two sons had the most spectacular mullets I've ever seen. It was like a man's haircut on the front and sides, all the way to the crown of the head. And then just long, stringy, unlayered shoulder blade length hair. And Mom even sported a femme-mullet.

The family of women, mom being in her 40s and wearing her overall shorts like I did in the 6th grade. In 1994. With the straps all snapped in place, but worn off of my shoulders so that the bib-type part was hanging down in front of my crotch. Don't act like you don't remember. The family of women who bitched the entire time in line, then proceeded to peek into my cart, survey the amount of groceries I had so that they could gauge how long I would take in line. All while standing half a foot behind me.

While all of this is appalling and unforgivable, the worst was the big bubba gas-guzzling extended-cab pick-up truck in the parking lot one day. I should've known when I saw the rear of it going into the store, and there were decals of all the folks' names in the family, including someone named Li'l Bud. On the way out of the store, I had the pleasure of seeing the front of the truck since it was still parked there. Along the top of the windshield, white lettering read "Kill 'em all, and let God sort 'em out."

Really. Really, really, truly, I promise. I said aloud in the parking lot, "Fucking rednecks, I swear." I handed my daughter a bag of fruit to hold while I rummaged through my purse to find my camera and fending off the question, "Mommy, what's a redneck?"

And I snapped a picture of the front of the truck in all it's hideous glory.

But because I'm low on time, I'll leave the photo for tomorrow. ;)

I'll be catching up on blogs tomorrow, too. I'll be full of comment-y goodness.

Spectacular Loser

I can't stand it when people bitch about their jobs constantly. But I think I'm turning into one of those people. This is my only work bitch blog for the week. I'm limiting myself:

With my supervisor having one foot out the door, things have been weird around the office. So, yesterday, my co-worker T asked me to read her resumé. I know she's going to school for a different line of work, so I asked, "Looking for another job?" Ordinarily, I'd never ask a question like that, but she and I are kind of friends, so it was okay.

She informed me that she's applying for my supervisor's job. So she'd be my supervisor. Sort of. With more responsibility and quite a bit more pay. And I found myself really depressed.

I'm not hating on T, either. I'm hating on myself. Because I could never even DREAM of applying for that job. Our executive director would laugh. Mostly I'm upset because it's become increasingly clear that I am a computer monkey. I am not an integral part of the company, and the bossman has no desire for me to move up. Or over. Or anything. I'm constantly being passed up to do things that would REALLLLY look great on my resumé.

I'm really miserable right now, and I'm tired of feeling like a spectacular loser every day, but I feel dependent on this dead-end job due to its flexibility. That's the only thing keeping me here, really.

Here's the thing. I'm fucking smart. I am. I know it. And, snobby as it might sound, I sometimes think I'm too fucking smart for this job. And I cringe knowing that people would whisper about how much potential I had before I ended up a pregnant senior in high school. Maybe setting my sights so low has made them right about me.

And then came the conversation with T that absolutely wounded me. She said it wasn't that I couldn't do the job, but that I don't have "drive or passion" about anything in the office. I wanted to scream at her, "And you do?!?! You're going to school to get out of this freaking place and do something you love!"

Here's the thing. I can have drive. And passion. But I don't come up with changes to implement here on my own because I feel like it's not my place. Now, if someone gives me an idea or a request, with a little direction, I can totally take it and run with it. But no one thinks enough of me to give me that sort of responsibility.

*sigh*

Do you know that there are people who are paid to blog? Yeah. I think that's my goal in life. I'm sure I could come up with TONS to talk about if I was financially motivated to do so. And I love writing. And I could be a stay-at-home mom. Being a SAHM would be awesome. I'd be my own CEO. And I'd never get passed up for promotions because no one else can be Mommy. And I like that. No one else can be Bean's mommy. And I'd get to pick her up and drop her off every day. And be more involved with her school.

Too bad that's not in the cards. I could totally deal with that.

Cuddlytarians

I generally try not to talk about veganism with certain people in my life. It either gets heated, or they try to convince me that I'm going to shrivel up and waste away due to malnutrition, or they try to persuade me to agree that an omnivorous diet is "what works, we've been doing it since the beginning of time, see my eye teeth, murrr murrr, murrrrrrrr."

Today, co-worker D thought that I would really "get a kick out of this story" she told me. Apparently, her daughter went to a girls' weekend in Vegas or something. And all the girls were eating at a Mexican restaurant, having margaritas, laughing, getting tipsy. Her daughter had "a really amazing chicken dish", and everyone was trying it and raving and going into the throes of ecstacy over the dish. One girl there was vegetarian, and she said, "What the hell, I'll try it, too!" And then, I guess she said it really was delicious.

What the hell, now, people? First of all, that's not a funny story, and I'm not really good at pretending to be amused by things that simply do not amuse me. I can only imagine the look on my face was a mixture of fake smile, smelling rotten garbage, and possibly constipation. Second, that 'vegetarian' is nothing of the sort. She is, however, a damned 'cuddlytarian'.

Cuddlytarians only refrain from eating food made from the cute animals. No steak, veal, lambchops. But chicken is okay? Oh, that's right. Because they're not cute like cows and lambs. Because they're hatched from an egg rather than passed directly through a vagina with no protective shell.

Aside from having the most hypocritical, backwards logic, cuddlytarians make me angry because they are the reason why people think it's okay to make vegetable barley soup with chicken/beef broth and still call it 'vegetarian-friendly' or why honey is an ingredient in an instant noodle bowl which is clearly marked 'VEGAN' on the side.

Whatever people want to eat, that's fine. I may not agree with it, or I might find it disgusting, but I'm sure people think the same about my food. In fact, I know they do. However, it really pisses me off when people label themselves something they're not out of stupidity, or to up their hipster street cred.

If you're pescatarian, say so. Don't say you're veggie, because clearly, fish have eyeballs and parents, therefore, they are not part of a solely plant-based diet. If you're an ovo-lacto vegetarian, don't call yourself vegan because you're not. And if you call yourself a vegan whilst throwing cheese and butter down your gullet, you will confuse people, and a real vegan might ingest dairy due to your stupidity.

Phew! I feel much better

*end rant*

Rich beyond my wildest dreams

My husband's "company" was recently bought by some rich folks. Some very rich folks. We're talking movie star/Montgomery Burns (eeexcellent) rich. A house with over 20,000 square feet of space, multiple pools, homes in at least three other cities, a personal chef, and they're currently vacationing in Europe. So, rich.

Steve has been telling me lots about them lately, and I can't help but think, "Who would I have to kill to have even a fraction of that?"

Don't get me wrong. I'm generally pretty happy with the life we have. No, we don't own a home, but we rent a pretty nice one for a pretty decent price. We have a new-ish car (since I totalled the other one), and we have a car that's paid off ('nuff said). We have enough money for rent, food, utilities, bills, and occasionally we can go out and do fun things. Every once in a while, we can even put a little away into savings.

But sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be able to give some of that wealth to my daughter. I have no concept of what it must be like to be a kid in a family like that. I would love to be able to put money aside so that Bean would never have to worry about college. I would love to be able to take a yearly vacation with my family. Having a cleaning crew come in once a week would rock my world!

Today, as Steve was leaving for work, he said, "Well, I'm going to work... to make my rich boss a little richer." It wasn't in a begrudging tone, he doesn't hate on these people for being wealthy. It was in a tone that I use all the time. That we're resigned to the fact that it won't ever be even remotely like that for us. That most of the working class in the world are just a bunch of pack mules in the scheme to make the upper class a little richer every day.

My Promise

I am crawling out from under my rock.

Consider this my promise to check in with the blogs of the people who check in with mine so frequently.

I can't complain about lack of adult interaction if I don't actively seek it and make an attempt to keep up with other adults.

Body image advice from the stars.

I was watching Maxim's Hot 100 on VH1 last night (I know, I know, why torture myself, right? I'm a glutton for punishment.). I was watching the countdown of the hottest 100 women in the world according to Maxim's experts (and by experts I mean self-important egotistical shmuck editors).

Anyway, Eva Mendez was on talking about a photoshoot she did for Maxim where where wore only a very adorable pair of boots. I was only half listening to her because I was preoccupied with pulling excess fur off of the cat before it ended up on the couch. And then I heard, "Blah blah blah, once you let go of looking perfect, blah blah blah, it's like a weight is lifted off your shoulders. Blah blah blah, more confidence, blah blah blah."

And I thought to myself, "Shut up, Eva Mendez. Of course you can say that. Saying that doesn't mean much coming from someone who is.... wait for it.... PERFECT looking. In every way. No really. Even the slight overbite is cute."

Moral of that story, I can't listen to body image advice from perfect people. They haven't a clue.

The one thing, though, that I try to remember when I'm wondering why he doesn't seem to notice the cellulite, or the deflated boobs, or the tree-trunk thighs is this: people don't see us standing perfectly still in front of them. They see us in movement. They see us walking, running, talking, laughing, playing. They don't see a statue, they see movement. And a lot of that is missed in movement. They see us as we relate to the world around us. That, at the very least, is partially comforting.

Long time, no blog

I don't know why I'm compelled to update, but I do. I did, after all, go through the trouble to start this thing in the first place.

I should update, maybe? Just... in general, yes?

I'm becoming increasingly disgruntled with work. I regularly want to punch everyone's lights out. We have a new part-timer who is sweet. She really is, she's wonderful. But she and my other officemate chatter incessantly. I was so annoyed yesterday that I put my headphones on and turned them all the way up because I just could not bear the sound of their voices anymore.

Also, my officemate, whom I feel badly speaking negatively about, has really started to make me angry. The other day I heard her telling someone, "Oh, I'll have Heather do such and such." I said, "You'll have me do something? Or you'll ask me to do something?" She looked embarrassed. And she should have been. I hate to act five, but she is not the boss of me. I don't work for her, she isn't my supervisor, and she won't have me do anything. If anything, I'm the one with seniority, but I won't pull that card.

But then I did put some things aside that could wait, and I helped her, and she blathered on with our part-time lady forEVER. She was not working for at least 45 minutes. So I packed up the unfinished work, put it back on her desk, and did my own thing. I won't be taken advantage of at work.

As far as NOTwork goes, I'm still sort of... feh. I'm still unable to really be affectionate, I'm still feeling betrayed and upset, and my self-esteem is still in the shitter. I want to just get over it already. Or I wish I'd never found out in the first place...

Hanging on.

I'm going through some things right now, and I honest to God feel like I can't talk to anyone about it. And it's a damn lonely feeling.

Any shred of self-confidence I may have been getting back has been smashed. I spend a shameful amount of time berating myself, and I'm constantly taking personal inventory and further beating myself down. What's happened has set me so far back in how I feel about myself as a woman.

And I feel like I'm overreacting, I should just shut the hell up and get over it already. And I'm not really even angry anymore. But I'm just upset about how this has made me feel, and that I can't stop talking shit to myself.

I don't want to be distant and aloof, but I can't bring myself to be open and affectionate.

I feel violated, and I keep wondering what I did. What is it about me?

Ugh.

A Music Meme

I've never done one of these, and I just now saw that a friend tagged me to do one. Normally I might not, but it's about music, so what the hell? Now, I can't insert little song clips or anything fun like that because I suck, so if you're interested, you'll have to look the artists up.

So I'm supposed to pick seven artists/songs/albums that I've featured in my life recently. I'm going to pick artists since there are probably 10 times as many songs than artists that I could fill this with:

1. The Kelly Deal 6000: You remember Kelly and Kim Deal from The Breeders? Yeah, it's that Kelly Deal. And her stuff is amazing. Some of it is haunting, some of it is fun. This girl can rock. If you rent the movie "May", her song "When He Calls Me Kitten" is featured on it. It's fractured and beautiful, featuring a de-tuned guitar. I also like "Brillo Hunt".

2. My Brightest Diamond: Shana Roberts is the frontwoman for this group, and she has a voice like no other. She studied opera, and it shows. She can go from operatic to squealing and rocking out in no time. I love "Magic Rabbit", "Dragonfly", and "Freak Out" (super fun dance around in your underwear song). This band has pretty much changed my life.

3. The Decemberists: I realize it's slightly dorky to love a band that does sea shanties and songs about whales. But almost all of their songs are stories. And they're amazing live. Colin's voice is amazing, and they feature quirky little things like accordians. Besides, who doesn't love a band where one of the members will do an a capella version of Michael Jackson's "Rock With You" whilst climbing over fallen drums and splayed out guitars after playing a two hour show? I love "Red Right Ankle", "Sons and Daughters", "And Here I Dreamt I Was an Architecht", "Yankee Bayonet", "California One Youth and Beauty Brigade". Hell, pick up any album, and the songs are great.

4. Mark Kozelek: Lead singer of Sun Kil Moon and Red House Painters. If you like sad, slow, autumnal music, you'll like him. "Metropol 47" and "Love at First Feel" are my favorites. Also, "Ocean Breathes Salty" by Sun Kil Moon is fantastic.

5. Mark Lanegan: Former front man of Screaming Trees and QOTSA member, his solo stuff is really amazing. The album "Bubblegum" in particular... it features PJ Harvey on a couple of songs. It's slow, sexy, and he has one of those whiskey and cigarettes voices. My favorite songs are "Methamphetamine Blues," "100 Days" and "Some Strange Religion". The whole album reminds me of frosty November mornings. Because I'm an emo dork.

6. Interpol: Call me a pretentious indie hipster, but they're great. Their music is the kind of music that makes you stand on your bed in your underwear with a hairbrush as a microphone and pretend you're a rockstar. Or maybe that's just me. Their music is smart and, well, hip. If you really want to rock out in your skivvies, "Cmere" and "NARC" are good songs for that.

7. Mike Doughty: The former frontman of Soul Coughing, this guy writes lyrics that you'd want a guy to write for you. His lyrics insinuate that he appreciates the quirky/simple/less-noticed things in life. Every album is golden, but "Haughty Melodic" had to grow on me a little. My favorite songs are "Tremendous Brunettes", "Sunken-Eyed Girl", "Unsingable Name", "Down on the River by the Sugar Plant", "40 Grand in the Hole". Hell, who am I kidding? It's all good, good stuff.

Leave me a comment about some musicians I might not know about. I love new stuff! :)

Beauty Pageants for Six-Year-Olds

My husband and I watched this program last night about beauty pageants for little girls. My husband was horrified. And, really, it was pretty weird, watching these little girls prance around with Texas beauty queen hair and fake teeth. Yes, fake teeth. Little snap-on veneers that cost upwards of $200 that look like grown-up teeth. It's scary. Like that touched-up picture on the internet of the cat with human teeth.

Anyway. Bean came in and said that she wanted to be in a pageant. Absolutely not. No, no, no, no, no. Now, I try to encourage my kid to be into her own thing as she is her own person and doesn't necessarily need to act the way I do and believe in the same things, but I draw a line at pageants. And here's why:

1. Say what you want about it being all in good fun, but there is a definite sexualization of these little girls. I mean, come the hell on. Why in the world does there need to be a swimsuit portion? I think the swimsuit portion of ADULT pageants is eye-roll worthy. What purpose does having these girls prance around in bikinis with their fake tans and Barbie hair and Playmate make-up serve? It's creepy. What's also creepy is that when they're dancing, they make poses that resemble the '40s pin-up girls - tuchus sticking out, hand at their mouth, their mouth in an 'o', eyes wide, as if to say, "Whoopsie!".

2. We adult women bitch all the time about being held to an unrealistic, cookie cutter standard of beauty. But little girls in pageants are being force-fed that same standard. Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tans. All of them are cookie cutters of each other. And the little girls who opt out of the fake teeth and hair teased within an inch of its breaking point, they often walk away with nothing, and that can't feel good. It kind of sends the message, "This is pretty. If you don't look like this, then you lose (in more ways than one)."

3. Women will compete against each other until the end of time. It's often bitchy and cutthroat. Why would I want to introduce my daughter to that at the age of six? On the program I watched, one little girl didn't win anything, and while the girls winning were being crowned or given sashes, she said to her mom, "I look better than them." I really try to instill in Bean that there is so much more to a girl than how she looks, that being the prettiest isn't what it's all about. But pageants do just the opposite, I think.

Here's the thing, too. I think Bean is one of the most beautiful little girls I've ever seen (biased mom talking). Pretty hair, big brown eyes, adorable. But I wouldn't want to ruin her hair by curling and teasing it. And she has a whole life to cake her face with make-up. She doesn't need that right now.

I guess I don't dislike the idea of kids' pageants. I just wish it could be about cute kids, not making little girls look as grown-up and made-up as possible with the most expensive gowns to see who comes out on top.

Being Early

Being early really goes a long way to making me feel.... serene? Put together? Streamlined? Something.

Usually, this is how the morning routine goes. I get up, eat (or work out and then eat), get Bean up, get her breakfast, make sure she knows to get dressed, take a shower, get some coffee, do my makeup, occasionally do my hair, put on lotion, get dressed, brush teeth with Bean, brush her untameable mane, make sure she's got her lunch and homework folder, make sure all lights are off, heat is turned down, doors are locked, and then it's off to school. We always manage to be behind the eight ball. Always. Even when I get up 15 minutes early, I still am rushing, rushing, rushing. I usually get her to school after the first bell and BARELY before the tardy bell. And then I catch the army base's traffic, and by that point, I'm irritable.

Well, after an unfortunate incident earlier this week where, being so busy and scattered, signals got crossed, and as parents, Steve and I were not where we needed to be when we needed to be there concerning Bean's school, I decided I'd had enough. I was going to get my shit together. Get it streamlined. Be more organized.

Today I did all of the things mentioned above (with the exception of doing my hair), including working out, AND I made Bean's lunch this morning rather than lastnight. And we made it out the door 10 minutes early! We even took a longer way to school because the way we usually go is full of construction and the most inept flagmen/'slow' sign holders of all time, and they made us late this week. And I was able to walk Bean through the playground to her class door and say goodbye rather than kissing her quickly and throwing her down the hall to class like I normally do so she won't be late.

And I felt such relief. I even made it to work 5 minutes early. It's so much easier in the longrun to be early. I know I have had 24 years to figure this out, but I'm a slow learner.

Funky

I've been having a really hard time, lately, with my mood. I'm waking up every day dreading work, dreading the commute, dreading opening my e-mail.

And it's starting to spill over. It's affecting the way I deal with other people. Seems like I mostly just want to curl up on the couch, watch movies, and be left alone. But I can't exactly do that. There's quite a bit going on in my life, not bad, but just things, and I don't even feel like sharing. I kind of feel like it doesn't matter, and that no one cares. As if that's not enough, I'm finding it really difficult to react to things the way I 'should'. Like, I have a hard time getting excited with people. I have a hard time empathizing and crying with people. It's like I'm on autopilot.

Emo and whiny, I know. And I don't have any reason to feel like this. Nothing bad has happened.

I don't quite know how I slipped into this funk. And I'm really hoping I'll slip out of it as quickly and quietly as I slipped into it.

'Are you okay?'

Don't you hate this question?

Or, rather, don't you hate this question (or some version of it) when you're feeling perfectly fine with a full night's sleep? It implies that you look like shit.

This is how it happened to me this morning:

Co-worker: Rough night? Or morning?

Me: Um, neither, actually. But thanks anyway, though.

Co-worker: Oh. I just thought - well, you usually have make-up on.

Me: I do have make-up on.

Co-worker: Oh. Usually it's more... obvious. (trying to remove foot from mouth) I put on a LOT of make-up today to cover up. I swear, it looked like my husband gave me two black eyes.

Me: *insert starey face here*

So, here's what I get from this. I usually wear a lot of make-up. And, not only do I look like the undead without make-up (which I already know, and that's okay), but without eyeliner or a good cake-like under eye concealer, I also look like death. YAY!

The only problem with being nominated...

... is that you have to accept. I was nominated for the Thinking Bloggers award by my dearest Badger. I don't necessarily think I deserve is as my blog is mostly a bunch of kvetching and moaning and incessant droning on and on about nothing. But, thanks, chica! :) So part of my nomination deal is that I'm supposed to pass it on to five other bloggers. I actually think that most of my choices were nominated already, so I'll just nominate whomever I love to read based on... well, it's arbitrary, so here goes:

Blogspot hates my guts, so I'm just linking you. I've been trying forever, and it's just not happening.

I'm going to go ahead and nominate That Chick Over There at http://jasonfortheloveofgod.blogspot.com. She makes me laugh harder than almost anyone. And she's probably one of the kindest, most sincere people I've ever not met. :) And the woman can seriously write.

M over at http://2under2whoknew.blogspot.com. She's funny and silly and juggling the woes of pregnancy with a little guy running all over. She's creative with her child wrangling, and she's just awesome.

Brown Eyed Girl at http://putthefunindysfunctional.blogspot.com. If you want to get a peek into the life of an insanely strong woman, check out her blog. This lady can handle everything that's dished out to her, and she still has a superb sense of humor. She's awesome. (Have I said 'awesome' enough yet?)



Gerbil over at http://theresapenguinonthetelly.blogspot.com is one of the wittiest women I've ever had the pleasure of reading. :) The hilarity that ensues in her daily life is totally worth a look.

I'm not sure if it's a rule or whatever, but even if it is, I'm going to re-nominate Badgergirl at http://pardontheeggsalad.blogspot.com. She rocks so hard in your face! And if there's anyone in the world I'd go into a book trade with, it'd be this girl.

So, yeah, phew! Let's hope this all linked correctly. I'm slow.

Nothing Funny About Borat

I have a blog entry saved as a draft detailing the manifestation of my really horrible, terrible body image, but it was really emo and whiny, and I know that no one wants to read about it.

So I'm going to talk about 'Borat'. Steve and I rented it last weekend at his request. And there really wasn't anything funny about it. It was the most uncomfortable hour-and-a-half that I've had in at least a year. Really, just... ugh.

First, I really don't see what's so funny about making fun of an entire country of people. What's so funny about making them look like sister-screwing dimwits? Nothing.

Second, there was some really offensive stuff in that movie, even for Steve, and we all know how much men like the juvenile humor. The movie bashes Jewish people, homosexuals, and it even goes so far as to make innuendos toward incest. Like, father to son incest. Not.funny.

If you haven't rented it yet, don't waste your money. Because there's nothing at all even slightly humorous about even joking about having sex with children. Really. Disgusting.

Mean Girls

I finally acted on my overly-sensitive, over-protective mommy feelings this morning.

When I opened Bean's lunchbox to empty out anything she may have left behind and to pack her lunch for today, I saw a folded sheet of notebook paper. On the outside it read "To: 19 From: 24". All of the kids have numbers in the class, and Bean's number isn't 13. So I asked her what it was. She told me she found it on her desk. Inside, it read, "Don't tock to Samantha." I asked her who wrote it, and she thought it was Trinity because Trinity and Bean have problems.

I'm only hearing one side of the story, but Trinity is always telling Bean not to talk to her. Or that she's a baby. Or, my personal favorite, that she's dirty. Apparently, Bean is dirty because she wears the same pair of jeans more than once a week. She does that because I do laundry in the middle of the week, for pity's sake! I actually took a gift card that we've been saving that Bean got at Christmas to get her a new pair of jeans because she was so upset that if she wore the pair I'd given her to put on again that week, that Trinity would make fun of her.

Anyway, when I saw that note, I was livid.

Even if it wasn't meant for Bean and just mysteriously ended up on her desk, some other little girl was probably getting her feelings hurt. And that's not okay. I don't remember this kind of catty, nasty girl behavior until probably fifth grade. These girls have the rest of their lives to be torn down by other women (which is, by the way, extremely counterproductive in my opinion, since they should have a little fucking solidarity), and first grade is not the time to start.

We hurried to get our morning routine done so we could get to school early. When we got to school, I sent Bean to class and got signed in as a visitor. I asked Mrs. Higgins if she had a minute to talk, and I showed her the note.

I hate to come across as an overly-sensitive, over-protective hippie, but this just wasn't okay with me. At all. Mrs. Higgins told me that they've already had to talk about some bullying issues, especially the girls. Apparently, one girl has to go to a counselor once a week to help her deal with the more "aggressive" girls. I told Mrs. Higgins that I wasn't trying to be a "tattle-tale", but that I would want to know if Bean was being nasty. I said that when Bean comes home talking about someone being mean to her, I tell her to be as nice as she can be because sometimes these kids aren't very nice because maybe their parents or brothers and sisters aren't so nice to them at home.

She said they'd talk about it, and she thanked me for bringing the note. She also said that Bean is very sweet, very environmentally conscious, and that she loves me (Bean, not Mrs. Higgins).

The part of all of this that strikes me as incredibly ironic is that even though I hate that these girls are already cutting each other down, when I thought someone was hurting Bean's feelings, the mean mama bear in me said silently, "Huh. Well, at least my kid can spell 'talk' correctly."

I guess we're all mean girls sometimes.

Here's a picture of my girl doing what she does best. :)

Speeding in School Zones

Monday mornings are when I feel most ranty, so I'm going to start off today with a good, cleansing rant.

I was driving my daughter to school this morning, and we slowed down to somewhere between 18 and 20 miles per hour on her school's block because there's, you know, a big sign that states the school zone speed limit hours. And this lady came up so fast behind me that she was literally three feet from my back bumper. I was looking in the rearview mirror, and she was doing one of those hands-up-in-the-air-what-the-hell-are-you-doing motions.

What the hell?!?! We were in a freaking school zone! There were little kids walking around, crossing the street. Fewer things in life incite that kind of fiery anger in my heart than speeding through a school zone. Seriously. You have somewhere important to be? Leave five minutes earlier. If Bean walked to school, I would like to feel safe sending her off, not praying that she wouldn't get mowed down by some crazed mom in a minivan. What if it was HER kids? Would she appreciate that kind of behavior? Probably not.

P.S. Riding three feet from my bumper only makes me drive slower. Just an FYI.



(There is a vaguely 'meaty' flavor to the generic diced pineapples I'm eating. Gross. Sorry, Bean! Won't be sending these to school with you anymore. I had no idea!)



In other news, my ears are finally accepting my 10g jewelry. I'd post a picture, but I don't think anyone wants to look at my ears. I only have to do this one more time. One more time! And then I'm done forever, and I don't have to put my ears through anymore.

Well, in theory, I suppose I never had to put my ears through this in the first place. But I have. And Steve is actually being a really good sport about it aside from the random pirate jokes (which I don't really mind anyway).



I'm ready for summer. It was 73 degrees yesterday. I had on flip flops, a tank top, and jean capris. It was wild. A record high, probably. I'm trying really hard not to get too used to the weather, though, as I'm sure we're due for at least one more freak snowstorm before we're done until fall. But 73 degrees is just so PERFECT!



I've decided that, for now, no tattoos. They're freaking expensive! And I've been eyeballing the new Canon Rebel digital for a while now. And I'd rather spend a lot of money on that than tattoos. I'd definitely get more use out of it. Just thinking about the camera makes my hands itch, desperate for the weight of it. GAH! Soon. Soon. I'll put it on layaway with a generous downpayment. So, yes. Tattoos can totally wait. Besides. You get to a certain point when you're so punk, you don't need tattoos to prove it. ;)

Domestication of a Heather

Lately I've been taking a lot of pleasure in the domestic part of life. I'm more efficient cleaning, I'm cooking and baking, I'm folding laundry and taking Bean to the library, getting ready to sign her up for soccer, doing homework, going to Brownies, making lunches, hosting sleepovers.

I'm turning into a soccer mom. And that used to scare me. Years ago, I used to tell Steve, "I'm not ready to be that person. I'm not ready to give up who I am to be a 'soccer mom'."

What I didn't realize at the time, though, is that I didn't have to get the mom haircut, sport the mom jeans, and turn into a suburbian Stepford mom-wife clone. I didn't have to change who I was.

Well, that's not entirely accurate. I think being more involved in my role as a wife and a mother these past few months has caused me to change who I am a little. But I shed the parts of me that needed to be shed. And when I realized that at the core, I am still essentially the same person, it was easy to change things and let go of things that aren't important... or that I can do differently.

My personal life, my home life, it's never been better, and that really impacts how successful I feel. How efficient I feel. How happy I am. I am really happy more often than not these days. I mean, I have my days where my mood plunges into an abyss, but that's a chemical thing rather than being directly proportionate to how things are going in my life.

I think I'm maturing, learning how to make the important things in my life a priority, and that feels awesome.

Weekends are supposed to be for resting, right?

Well, resting, cleaning, spending quality time with the family. Yes?

Mine wasn't at all restful. Aside from a hellish pre-St. Patty's Day meeting we had at the pub where the servers aired all their grievances about the host staff (where we got no rebuttal), I had three little girls at my hous for about 18 hours.

That's right. My little one plus two. Bean had made friends with a girl in preschool, and now that we're on opposite ends of town, I occasionally have her and her sister over to spend the night with Bean. Besides, their mom is a young single mom of THREE children, and I know sometimes it's nice to have alone time.

I brought them home, and Taylor, my daughter's best friend, is afraid of our dog, Maynard. I don't understand how anyone can be afraid of such a loveable little guy. But she is. So while I was preparing spaghetti, there was much screeching and running and enticing the dog to chase them so they could run away.

After dinner, I thanked God silently for having a small family. The amount of dishes used for one meal for three children and two adults, OY! I set them up in Bean's room with a game and a movie while I worked out. After the workout, I got them popcorn. When they were done with popcorn, they wanted ice cream. And that's fine. Bean doesn't eat like that all the time, and it was all in good fun.

Well, the little buggers were up until midnight. And of course Steve crashed at 9:00 leaving me to stay awake to keep an eye on them. There were a couple of arguments and some tears. Oh, the drama of first graders!

When I woke up the next morning, it was to more squealing and, in a French accent, "I'm so sorry about zee belly hair." I should explain that. We imagine that Maynard, if he could speak, would use a French accent, and that he would apologize profusely for leaving his little grey stomach hairs all over the carpet.

I looked at the clock (6:30) and made Steve get up with the girls while I slept an extra hour since I wasn't feeling well.

Only I had forgotten about the time change. But I didn't. I just thought for some reason that it changed in the middle of the night between Sunday and Monday rather than Saturday and Sunday.

I didn't really sleep at all that next hour, though, so I got up to make cinnamon rolls. From scratch. Because that's what you do when you're vegan and can't pop a can of Pillsbury.

After breakfast and even MORE dishes, I tried to corral all the girls to brush their teeth. Taylor's sister just flat out refused, and I finally conceded that her mother would just have to make her do it later. It's harder than you'd think to try and get three girls to brush their teeth, get dressed, and get their things in order to leave the house.

We left 45 minutes later than I'd anticipated.

And after dropping them off, the house was in shambles, so I cleaned.

And now I'm wondering where my weekend went. I'm beat. Bean was beat this morning. The animals are still recovering.

I just have to hold on until Saturday now.

"Hey, girl! Hey! You! GIRL!"

My ass felt like it was conforming to the shape of my office chair the other day, so I decided to take a walk during my lunch break. It's been really lovely lately, and fresh air always helps me re-focus at work.

I about halfway down the block I hear, "Hey! Girl! *whistle whistle* Hey, Girl! *insert inappropriate, immature language here*"

I, in very colorful language, without giving this guy the satisfaction of even looking in his direction, told him to grow up.

When I was younger, I'd usually blow it off. And you'd think that with age, I'd learn to let this roll off of my back the way I let other things roll off my back. But I got angrier and angrier.

First, what women would actually respond to that? Show of hands? Anyone? Really?! No one would actually walk up to a total stranger acting this way and say, "Take me home with you now, please, GOD!"??? Astonishing. Really. Even if I wasn't with someone who is funny, smart, hot, articulate, and caring, I would never in a million years even think of responding to behavior like that.

Second, what makes men think it's acceptable to talk to women that way? I am someone's MOMMY. Would they want someone talking that way to their mother, to the mother of their children? I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the answer to that would be 'no'.

Anyway, I would've had to pass back by this guy on my way back, so I had to go out of my way almost 10 minutes just to avoid him. I shouldn't have to do that. No woman should have to be made to feel so uncomfortable that they go out of their way to avoid someone on the street in broad daylight.

It's absolutely amazing to me how many men still obviously view women as second-class citizens. Or property. Or eye-candy put on this earth for their amusement.

And it really upsets me that my daughter will have to deal with this.

I want it so badly that it made me cry

The other day in an online group that I belong to, a woman asked what we would all be doing career-wise if we could do anything in the world.

I want to own and operate my own vegan coffee house/bakery/pastry shop. More than anything. I want to get up at 4:00am and work with espresso, cinnamon rolls, pies, coffee cakes and cookies. I daydream about it every day. Every single day. I've never had a dream that I've wanted that badly.

Because I don't dream big. I know it's lame, but I'm the kind of person who doesn't dream big because in the end, I feel like it would be less crushing to not try than to have something that I want and love ripped away.

Wow. Seeing that in print makes it seem that much more pathetic.

But I was thinking about it this morning, and I was getting teary-eyed. Only I'm not sure if it's because I think it's unattainable or if it's that I maybe finally found what I want to do, what I'd be good at.

I have been at a job that doesn't appreciate me, that stresses me out, that threatens termination on a twice a year basis. It's fairly convenient, I can get my daughter when I need to. And there's always seemed like there is nothing here for me in this city. But I don't like it. It doesn't make me even slightly happy.

Anyway, I'm blathering.

So, yeah.

I'm a vegan elitist snob.

Okay, so not really. But, kind of.

There are a lot of common misconceptions about vegans. We're skinny, malnourished, we don't enjoy food, we're picky, and we think we're better than omnivores.

None of that is true. Well, okay. Some of us are skinny, but that's often because skinny vegans would probably be skinny even if they ate meat.

It seems that the simple act of stating that I'm vegan is enough to put people on guard and make them feel judged by me. The train of thought usually goes, "Well, if you're vegan for ethical reasons, you think eating meat is wrong and bad. I eat meat, so you must think I'm wrong and bad." That's not true. I'm married to an omni. Granted, he rarely eats meat at all anymore because I cook all meals, and I don't buy non-vegan food. I don't think he's wrong or bad. I look at his meat-eating habits the way I look at smoking. Kind of a nasty habit, but I don't find people unlikeable because they participate in it. Let's be serious. If I was only friends with other vegans, I would have ONE friend in my city, and that'd be more of an acquaintance than a friendship.

Here's where the elitist snob part comes in. No, I don't judge or condemn, but I do think my diet rules all. I feel like it is the best possible way to eat (except for the days when I'm being a total junk food hound). I am healthy, I am happy, and I would never ever go back to eating the way I used to. And I am raising my daughter to be as vegan as possible. And I'm telling her exactly why we eat the way we do. I don't try to scare her with macabre details, but I'm very frank about where meat comes from and that animals have to die to produce a burger or chicken nugget.

I often struggle with thinking, "So and so is totally compassionate! How can they not equate this with cruelty and slavery and pain and suffering?" But at the end of the day, it doesn't change how I feel about people.

I checked out a book I've been wanting to read from the library. It's called "Vegan: The New Ethics of Eating", and it's by Erik Marcus. It goes through all the cases for veganism, starting with the health benefits, moving onto the animal rights part of it, and finally the environmental havoc that factory farming wreaks. Steve saw me reading it and said something to the effect of, "Why is every book you read about being vegan?" I told him that veganism is a big part of who I am, and he told me that it's not all I am. While that's true, I liken veganism to Christianity a little. Well, they have some parallels, anyway.

When my mom became a Christian, she was excited and wanted to share it with everyone. She wanted to share what she learned, what she believed, and I think a lot of new vegans are the same way. Just as an overzealous Christian can come off as preachy, so can an overzealous vegan. Also, my mom tries to show the world what she believes through her actions, and I do that every day as a vegan. Every time I buy a cruelty-free, animal byproduct-free item, I'm showing people what, essentially, I am all about, what I believe.

I love to talk to people about veganism. I love proving stereotypes wrong. I love sharing my food with people.

What I don't love are the debates I have to get into where no one wins. At the end of the day, I think the exploitation and consumption of animal products is wrong, and I won't be swayed. I hate how that sounds, but it's true. Yes, I believe there are exceptions, but no one is going to point to their eye teeth and say, "See, these are meant to tear meat apart" and have me chowing down on a ribeye with them.

I don't love the little stabs that people take at me. I don't love people turning their nose up at my lunch as if tofu or seitan or quinoa are unedible garbage.

I'm pretty sure everyone in my life thought this was a phase, initially. I'm pretty sure a lot of them were hoping it was a phase. But once I knew, I couldn't un-know.



The following video is of Neil Gaiman reading a short story called 'Baby Cakes':