The Faces of Thanksgiving Dinner

Don't worry. No mutilated animal pictures today.

I discovered that the Peaceful Prairie Sanctuary outside of Denver has a blog. The Peaceful Prairie Sanctuary is a safe haven for rescued farm animals, and they have chickens and sheep and pigs and cows and... wait for it... turkeys.

I am posting two links to blog entries from the Peaceful Prairie Sanctuary about turkeys and Thanksgiving. I know it's probably a pain in the ass to link over to a different website. I would post them here and provide the links, but the formatting doesn't copy well, and they have some really wonderful photos attached to the entries. Please read them. Please think about it. Please don't let your tastebuds be the reason that these animals continue to be slaughtered.

http://peacefulprairie.blogspot.com/2006/11/another-view-on-turkey-day-by-delisa.html

http://peacefulprairie.blogspot.com/2006/11/what-were-thankful-for.html

Crazy

I had a dream last night where I was at an event for work, and a co-worker of mine and I were getting into the elevator to go back up to our hotel room. We let on a lady with a stroller, but there wasn't a baby in the stroller.

The elevator was really shallow, so we were all squeezed up against each other.

We kept pressing the buttons for our floors, but the elevator would just skip them. It would go up and down and up and down. 14th floor. 200th floor. 89th floor. 106th floor. 4th floor.

I wonder if it means anything.

Or if I just need to stop eating spaghetti before bed.

Smack!

Ever feel like you got smacked in the face, only no one touched you? No one ever said a word?

I kind of feel like that today.

Ouch.

P.S. My tattoo is badass.

And since I'm feeling emo...

I just got back from an 8-day work trip in Memphis. Aside from a co-worker getting beaten up, event attendees having their car windows shot out, having my phone stolen, and being called a "snowflake", it was a pretty decent trip. Beale Street is pretty fantastic.

I had the opportunity to hang out a little bit with a really great athlete attending our event from Mexico. Funny, nice, humble, solid dude. The problem? He shares a name with, looks like, and sounds like my ex. Bean's biological father. In fact, when Bean's father called me out of nowhere a little over a year ago, I thought it was this guy. We were all hanging out at a bar, and I told him that whole story, about how I thought I was talking to him and just shooting the shit like I'd just seen him the day before. Looking back on it, it's kind of funny.

Then he said, "So when we hang out and talk, do you feel, like, sad or whatever?" I said no, but I kind of do. I felt a little drained and a little sad afterward.

Part of me wishes I could be completely over that time in my life. But another part really holds onto it. It helps to remind me that things can almost always be worse. It helps to remind me what real heartache and devastation feels like when I'm being overly dramatic. It also helps to remind me what it was like to be young and in love. Before the fight, before his disappearance from my life, back when I gave everyone the benefit of the doubt and was filled with optimism.

This guy sat across from me at our table and asked me, with a totally disgusted look, "Do you just totally hate him?" And I said no. Because I don't. I have the most beautiful little girl in the world. How could I hate the person who is half of her, half of who she is, with her tender heart and quick wit? I couldn't.

Aaaaand, now I'm feeling weepy.

I shouldn't blog on my period.

Committment

I've committed the last few years of my life to veganism and animal rights.

And tomorrow I'm getting that committment put on my skin forever.

I will not miss it.

There are several things about the house we're living in right now (and the neighborhood) that I will not miss:

1. The neighbors' dogs. For two years straight, they have barked at us every.single.time we've stepped onto the back patio. Actually, if they can even sense my presence in the laundry room, they go apeshit.

2. Our backyard. It's small. It slopes. It has been nothing but dirt and weeds since the day we moved in. When you're letting a large dog out after a snow melt, it makes for lots of fun on the carpet.

3. Speaking of the carpet. I will not miss it. Oatmeal-colored berber. Do you know what happens to berber with a large dog and cats who chase each other all day?

4. The bathrooms. It's been an uphill battle trying to keep the bathrooms from smelling like piss. Not animal piss. Human piss. Apparently, the former tenants had little boys (who peed on EVERYTHING) as well as an aversion to cleaning the toilet. There was orange on the underside of the toilet when we moved in. No shit.

5. The police. Now, I have no problem with police. What I do have a problem with, however, is being woken up at 3am multiple times by officers looking for someone who knew the previous tenants. How many times do we have to say that they haven't lived there in years? Also, random drug busts have caused patrol cars to block our cars in the driveway multiple times. And we don't live in a bad neighborhood. At all. I do, however, think we have a little meth head action happening.

6. Being 15 minutes from a grocery store. Can you say boonies? Yeah. A trip to Walgreens to get something for Bean's fever was at least a 35 minute affair.

There is a lot more I won't miss. But that's all I can think of right now.

Can't wait to move.

Soon, my pretties.

Blank

I am starting to feel like I have nothing to say anymore.

It's weird, though, because I have all these great conversations and rants and diatribes and monologues in my head on a regular basis. I really do, they're spectacular.

But I don't seem to be able to get to a computer in time to put them down before I forget all about them.

My short-term memory has taken a massive dump.

Sigh.

Under contract

We are officially under contract.

We are having our home inspection on Wednesday.

We close on 9/15/08, our anniversary.

As long as nothing goes wrong with our financing between now and then, we should be out of the house we rent and into the new home by October 1.

It's a pretty cool house. Bigger and cleaner than we expected to get in our price range, with a bigger lot. It's in an established neighborhood close to my mother-in-law. And, actually, that's great. I love my mother-in-law, and she watches Bean after school when Hubs or I can't make it out of work early enough to pick her up.

It had renters before, but it has brand new carpet, paint, tiled kitchen and bathroom. The backyard is an eyesore, but it has a clothesline! I'm very excited about the clothesline.

Wait until I post pictures of the godawful green awning that covers the back deck, though. It's spectacular. In a white trash kind of way. I'll probably wait to post pictures until we close. I don't want to get any more emotionally attached to this place until we figure out if it will really be ours.

Already sick of looking

So. I've been house hunting for 24 hours now, and I'm already developing a nervous twitch. I guess I shouldn't say that I've been hunting for 24 hours. I've been looking at homes online for years, increasing my search in the last few months, and in the last couple of weeks, it's all I'm doing with my free time.

Hubs, Bean, and I all went looking at houses yesterday with our realtor. It was about what I expected. Saw a lot of mediocre houses that in one way or another, just weren't right for us. A couple smelled like smoke, one had a completely worthless kitchen with two cabinets and a butcher block top rolling dishwasher (trust me, there was no saving this kitchen on our budget). One was listed as a two-bedroom/one-bath, but really, it was more like one bedroom on the main floor and a big open loft area on the upstairs half floor with no door, no hope for a closet, and carpet that looked like death.

We were fortunate, however, that only one house smelled like urine. Human urine. What's sad is that we'll drive by houses, Hubs will say, "What do you think of that one?", and I will respond with, "It looks like it smells like pee. Human pee." This one did. Oh, the hilarity.

Tonight, we're looking again. From 6pm to 9pm. Only, I'll drive home, eat quickly, drive the 25 minutes back to the area where I work with the fam in tow, look at one house I'm 98% sure is waaaaay too small and too expensive, look at another house in the general area, then drive back down to where we live to look at houses down there.

Let me say that I'm not thrilled with where we live. But if what we saw yesterday in our more desired part of town is any indication of what we can afford, we'll sacrifice. There are some cookie-cutter communities close to where we live, and I hate cookie-cutter communities. But I also know that lots and lots of people love them. Their gleaming whiteness, their newness, their neat little square lots. So I'd be willing to fake it for a few years until we could afford what we REALLY want. And, frankly, if I'm going to live in a soulless neighborhood, there are some damn fine soulless neighborhoods in our general area that are also in our general budget.

But I'm already tired. I'm already tired of looking at houses, thinking about houses, thinking about money, fretting about the monthly mortgage, going back and forth between what I think we can afford and what I'd LOVE to just say "yes!" to. I'm tired of being in the car and driving and sitting on my ass. I'm tired of MLS numbers and FHA and talking about double-paned storm windows.

If I make it through this and haven't ended up as the main focus of a story on the Oxygen show "Snapped", I'll post pictures.

Isakov

If you love beautiful music and brilliant lyrics, check out Gregory Alan Isakov. Phenomenal. I mean it.

I have his first two albums and then got out of the habit of buying CDs and paying attention to when new stuff comes out, so I missed the most recent "That Sea, The Gambler" when it came out last year. But after hearing the whole thing (LastFm, cough cough), I'm going to buy it. Yes, I still buy CDs.

The LastFm page:

http://www.last.fm/music/Gregory+Alan+Isakov

The MySpace page for you youngsters with the MySpaces:

http://www.myspace.com/gregoryalanisakov

Did I mention how wonderful his music is? It is. Check it.

I need some help.

It's not serious. But I'm starting a project soon, and I need supplies. Old magazine spines, to be exact. I need the three inches of magazine closest to the spine since I'm not sure how far down I'll have to cut them yet.

If any of you readers/lurkers have any magazines you'd like to part with (all colors, all types of magazine, excluding hunting/fishing magazines), please e-mail me at heatherann007@hotmail.com.

I'm not even sure if the project will work, but there's no way to find out for sure unless I actually just try to make it and see how it goes.

Thanks!

Devil Spawn

So, it's Sunday, and I'm vacuuming, trying to do something productive in the last few hours of my three-day weekend. And the doorbell rings. Maynard growls, and I sigh and roll my eyes because I know it's Devon, the hell spawn from two doors down who makes Bean cry on a regular basis.

Bean answers the door, and I tell her without turning to see the blond demon child standing in my doorway that I'm cleaning. They can either play out front, out back, or at Devon's house. Bean puts on her shoes, and they go over to Devon's house.

Fifteen minutes later, Hubs is looking out the window and pointing. "She's back," he says, "I'm betting that she called Bean.... stupid. What do you think?"

"I'm going to also go with 'stupid'".

I ask Bean why she's home already, and she confirms that Devon called her a name. "Snob." Whatever. Fucking brat. So Bean tells us she's going to ride her scooter out front. And that's great. We like physical activity and sunshine.

I'm vacuuming and watching out the window to make sure Bean is staying out front, on the sidewalk, and no slack-jawed yokel has run their car up onto our sidewalk and mowed down my child. And I see Devon.

In Devon's hand is a can of aerosol something. I think it's hairspray, but I still keep my eye on her. She's approaching Bean on her scooter, crouches down and starts spraying. At first I think it's silly string. But it's not silly string.

It's fucking spray paint, gold spray paint, and she's spraying it all over the sidewalk in front of our yard. In front of the yard that is part of the house that we don't even own.

So I run out of the house, yelling, "What are you doing? What is that? Spray paint, are you serious?!"

Hubs comes out and helps me with the hose. I'm foolishly hoping that I can spray the paint off before it fully dries. Not so much.

"Devon, do not spray our sidewalk with paint. Don't spray the sidewalk, don't spray Bean's scooter, don't spray anything!"

I go back inside, and I'm grumbling, Hubs is cussing, and we're both angry as hell.

"Why don't you go say something to her mom," he says. "She's just going to keep being a beast until someone says something. She can't keep destroying our stuff. This isn't even our house!" (I should mention that the day before, Hubs found some cables that HAD been attached to the side of our house, pulled off, with part of our dog's kennel hanging from it. More of Devon's handy work.)

"I don't want to. Her mom's so.... normal, and I don't like confrontation. You go."

"Fine. I'm going."

"Put on some pants, though," I say. "It will make you seem more credible. And less like a crazy neighbor in his boxers."

Hubs storms out, and Bean is still out front riding her scooter. Devon is cautiously hanging by the edge of our property line. A minute later, he comes back in.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," he says. "I didn't go. I don't even know what to say."

So I shut off the vacuum and walk two doors down, Devon following me, but keeping a safe distance. I ring the doorbell, and her mother comes down.

Poor Tracy. So nice. So normal.

"I don't want to seem like I'm tattling on your daughter," I say, "but Devon just sprayed gold spray paint on the sidewalk in front of our house. I figured you probably don't even know she has the paint, and it's dangerous, so I thought you should know." (Don't you like how I play the safety angle, rather than the I-might-discipline-your-child-for-you-and-in-a-way-you-won't-like angle?)

"Oh, God," she says and calls Devon in.

I walk back home, and Bean comes in a few minutes later. "I heard Devon screaming in her room," she says.

And for a minute, I feel a pang of guilt. What if they spanked her with a wooden spoon? Or a belt? "What was she screaming?"

"That she hates her parents, and she hates us, and she hopes she never sees our faces again," Bean says.

"Oh," I say. "I hope that's a promise."

So hopefully we won't see her for a while. And even then, I don't think Bean will be playing with her any more.

But her memory will be there. Every time I pull into the fucking driveway and see that big fucking gold swirl on the sidewalk.

Ugh.

It's out in the open now, and okay to blog about it.

So I found out a week ago that I am not, in fact, the oldest child. I have an older half-brother out there who I have never met, who I didn't know existed.

My dad told me that he dated a woman before my mother who had gotten pregnant. But she'd been a stripper, and he'd heard things from his friends about her that hinted that the child might very well not be his. So he stopped hearing from her. And they last spoke when my mom was pregnant with me and when my dad and my mom were about to get married.

I'm not sure why he finally, after a quarter of a century, decided to find out for sure. But he found this guy, Dennis. And they took a paternity test. Dennis is my dad's son, and my older half brother.

When my dad told me, I wasn't upset. When he asked if I was sitting down, I thought someone was dying. This is obviously a surprise, but it's not something I'm upset or angry about.

I am, however, irritated with my dad's behavior back then. Those excuses (and that's what they are, excuses) are very similar to the flimsy excuses Javier gave for not finding out for sure if Bean was his child. I've been Dennis's mom. And it's incredibly hurtful. She chose not to further contact him. Or try. I'm not really sure. I made that same choice, also. It hurts when the father of your child doesn't seem to care enough to even find out for sure. I guess I held my dad to a higher standard, and more than anything, I'm shocked that he could live so much of his life with this uncertainty hanging over him.

Knowing how hard it has been (and still is) for me, I can sympathize with Dennis's mom. I can imagine how she probably felt. Granted, she opted to tell her son that his father was dead rather than reveal the truth, but I know about that sinking feeling in your heart when you realize that your choices have caused a domino effect that will continue to impact your child for the rest of their life.

So there will be an extra chair at Christmas dinner this year, and I'm actually pretty excited to meet him. And, from what I hear, he's interested in getting to know this part of his biological family.

So, sufficed to say...

... I gave up on the Eight Belles post. It still burns me up to think about horse racing in general. And anyone who knows me who may be reading this pretty much knows that I want to punch all jockeys and "trainers" square in the balls. 'Nuff said, I suppose.

I haven't been in a posting and commenting mood lately. Or a position to do so, really. I'm trying to use whatever creative tendencies I have left for work. I've hit a breakthrough, and now I have all of these ideas that I'm really excited about, that I will continue to work on.

A lot of this surge of excitement and creativity has come from a recent work trip out of state. It was like summer camp. I was really reluctant to leave my family for 9 days, but I was busy while I was away. And I met some really amazing, amazing people. And then I was bummed I couldn't bring them back home with me. A lot of these people are enthusiastic about what they do, creative, excited. And it rubbed off on me.

So forgive me if I don't come around much. I haven't been this excited about work in, well, ever.

I love meeting new people.

Eat me, Blogspot

I just had this really awesome blog/rant worked up about Eight Belles and horse racing and animal breeding in general, and blogger ate half of it.

*sigh*

Maybe this afternoon.

We might be screwed.

So I'm looking out my office window (yes, I'm blogging from work, but I'm caught up, so I'm allowed), and it's snowing. When I walked in, co-worker was all, "Isn't this great? Is it a relief for Hubs?"

Actually, no. It's not. It's snowing here, but out at Hubs' job, it's still dry as a bone. Their lake is completely drained. They don't know when they'll get water next. If it doesn't rain by tomorrow, we're kind of screwed.

Let me explain why. When you are growing new grass, when the grass seed is germinating, it MUST stay wet regularly. Or it dies. It dies, and you have to start over. Hubs' lake at work ran out of water the night before last. So, all of this snow I see out my window right now doesn't mean shit if it doesn't happen out where my husband works.

I actually just spoke to him. Since I hit the 'enter' key to make a new paragraph. Some dark clouds are rolling in, so my fingers are crossed. And my toes.

Even if it does rain, I am so livid with his job's new owners and managment company. They've been putting the cart before the horse for nearly a year. They've been making elaborate plans for a clubhouse and restaurant, and not looking at the big picture. The big picture being, if there is no golf course, there will be no restaurant. (So, I gave it away. Hubs works at a golf course, and they've been re-designing/rebuilding it for nearly a year.)

Hubs' best friend (and boss) has tried to tell these people over and over and over that the leaking lake is a HUGE problem when that is the source of all the water they use for the greens. Finally, they broke it down like this: "No one will want to buy expensive homes on a dead golf course that they can't use that has a dried up, stinky nasty lake!"

You see, the new owners are developers. They are the most evil of the evil. When they were being told, "Hey, we can't water in greens with no water", they didn't care. They didn't take any action knowing that these guys who have worked so hard all this time (Hubs has been there for 10 years, almost) were going to get laid off. The lightbulb only turned on when they realized that they'd lose tons of money. The golfcourse is secondary to them. The homes they'll build are primary. The golfcourse is a plus because they can sell the overpriced homes for even more money, they'll get richer, they can afford a third Bentley, and an even newer set of tits for their wives.

The owners/managers told the guys to get estimates on what it would cost to line the lake with PVC or whatever. $600k. And they can't do it until winter when the ground is at its hardest. They also got an estimate for a chemical they can put in that water to slow the leakage, and it will work about 60% better than what is happening right now. $98k. So, obviously, the chemical is the best option. However, there is no fucking water to put the fucking chemical in! And they don't know when they'll be able to fill the lake again! The greens could die between now and then! There's a good chance they will!

I am so tired of my husband working so hard for so little money, no one listens to him, and they get by on the skin of their teeth constantly. It's awful. And it's stressful. I'm waiting and waiting and waiting, checking my bank account every day for our 'economic stimulus package' because I'm afraid we'll have to live off of it for a while. But the IRS hasn't deposited my checks (since we owed, of course), so I don't anticipate it happening any time soon.

I don't really hate anyone, but these new owners.... I think I might hate them.

Uncomfortable

So, at my evening job, I work with this girl. She's 21, she's funny, we get along really well. And most of the time she's pretty great.

But she hates kids. I mean, she hates them. She gets freaked out by carrying the high chairs or cleaning them off. In her defense, cleaning those things is pretty freaking disgusting. Mashed food in the straps. *gag* But she's really visibly freaked out by children. The other day, we had clean day at the pub (which, by the way, is also disgusting. Did you know people can spill beer over ten feet up on the wall? Yeah.), and one of the managers brought her 4 year-old. This girl kept moving away from this little kid like she was diseased. She also has a shirt with a little boy and girl on it that reads "I hate children".

You know what? She's 100% entitled to her feelings and opinions. That's fine. That's one less hungry mouth to feed in the world, one less consumer gobbling up resources like it's an Olympic sport, since she won't be creating any new life. And I get that some people just don't like children. I don't like all children. That's totally fine and reasonable.

But it makes me really uncomfortable when she's so vocal about her hatred for children. She even made a comment once about my (very polite, respectful, clean and well-behaved) child. For example, it would be like someone going on and on to my friend about how much they can't stand Asian people when my friend happens to be married to an Asian man. It's offensive.

So instead of putting on my big girl panties and saying just that, saying, "You're being offensive. Cut it out, man", I make sure that all the families with small children are seated in her section of the pub.

God, I love a good show.

Last night, Katey, Ben and I drove from Colorado Springs to Boulder through Denver rush hour traffic to see Mike Doughty play at The Fox (with The Panderers opening).

And, God, it was so worth it. The Fox is, really, the size of a bar. A large-ish bar, but a bar. I love going to shows in small venues where you can stand 30 feet from your favorite musicians.

I think the thing I loved most about the show last night is how connected to the audience Mike Doughty and The Panderers were. The only show I've ever been to with visible security and extra separation from the musicians and the fans was a Tool show. And, really, I love Tool, but the Tool show I went to a year ago sucked. It sucked hard.

I love interaction at shows. I love when I can tell that an artist really loves what they do. I've been to some good shows, damn good shows where the musicians were just totally aloof. Humble, but closed up. Which is cool. I understand that. But I love these kinds of shows better.

The only real gripes I have about the show are that I really really REALLY wanted to hear more stuff off of Skittish and Rockity Roll. I like the new stuff. A lot. But, dammit, I wanted to hear "40 Grand in the Hole".

Also? This is not a show gripe. It's a people gripe. The meathead standing next to me taking up about 3 feet all around him of dance space. He was freaking me out a little, and he almost hit me in the eye with his elbow at one point. Rock out, dude, that's great, but realize you're not the only one in the room. And? A group of CU girls standing two feet from me talked through almost the entire opening set. As the music got louder, they got louder. I didn't drive for over 2 hours to hear about what some stupid boy did or didn't text some girl about. Just as Katey was about to say something, a guy went over to them and said, "Excuse me. I came to hear music. And you guys are really loud. Could you go out in the lobby if you want to talk?" YES! Thank you, random guy.

Anyway. Yes. The show. Awesome. One of the first songs Mike played was "Fort Hood", off the new album "Golden Delicious". It was even more powerful in person than on the CD. And it's so fucking fitting that I went to this show and heard this song one day after the Pennsylvania primaries. I'm getting so sick of the Obama and Clinton pissing matches. I really am. There is so much at stake, and there is so much positive change that can happen, and they are kind of acting like children.

So, watch the video. Listen to the words. Really listen. It's phenomenal.

Also? I forgot. Check out The Panderers. They sound like Mike Doughty and Cake had a lovechild, and they rock.

P.S. If you ever want to fake sick the morning after a concert or a late night of partying or whatever? Just pretend you have diarrhea. No one wants you around, and no one will question your absence.

Pray for rain

My husband's job is in serious jeopardy.

His job depends on there being rain. And there hasn't been. At all, really. There have been fires and 70+ degree days with lots of wind. No real moisture, though.

It wouldn't be quite so worrysome if the lake they have didn't leak. But it leaks, the new owners don't want to pay the $500k it would cost to line it, so they're losing water all the time. They lose water, and they only get their lake re-filled every so often. They count on rain in those inbetween times to tide them over. And it's just not happening.

I really hope all the local yokels are happy now. It's dry as hell, there have been fires (I could see flames from my back porch from one of these fires), and my husband (and a handful of others) might lose a job, but I hope they're happy that they can all wear their fucking flip-flops.

So pray for rain for us. Rain or the decision to line the lake.

Finally

After two and a half years, we are no longer Penrose St. Francis's bitch.

I've been paying between $65 and $75 every month for the past two and a half years for an ER visit.

Last month, I got a bill for the balance of $235. So I called and asked if I could pay half then and the last half this month. They said it was fine, so yesterday afternoon, I paid off the last $117 of this stupid bill that has been hanging over our heads.

Finally.

So, great, this extra $65 a month can go toward healthcare now that Hubs' company has dicked him over royally. But that's another bitch for another day.

hm

When did I become the most boring person I know?

When someone I haven't seen for a while asks me what I've been up to, what's new, my answer is always:

"Oh, not much, really. Just been working."

And it's the truth.

Stuck

I've been in this kind of low-level panicked mode the past few days. Constant upset stomach, on the verge of tears.

Hubs and I are not renewing our current lease when it's up. We want to buy a house. However, we'll be trying to get 100% financing. That, paired with having the taxes rolled into the monthly payment, severely limits what we're able to afford. We don't want to live in a crappy neighborhood, and we don't want to live in a home the size of a shoebox. So we're really limited to one particular area of town. It's near where we live now, and the idea of it makes me absolutely miserable.

I was really hoping to get away from the Walmart. And the water and sanitation plant. And the army base. And the two sets of train tracks. I'm panicked at the thought of trying to re-sell in this area in 4 or 5 years because it's not a super desirable area. It's been hard coming to terms with the fact that I'm going to feel like I settled. If it was up to Hubs, he'd probably live 5 minutes from his mom for the rest of his life. But it's so far away from everything. I wish we could afford to live in a different neighborhood. But the home prices are super inflated compared to the average income in this town.

Which leads me to my job. I'm completely unhappy with it right now. I feel like people here don't have any faith in my ability to do anything even remotely creative or difficult. I'm quiet, so I'm not constantly brown-nosing my way into a better position, but if someone asked me, "Hey, can you come up with an idea for this?", I'd really give it a shot. I would try. I get the feeling that they see me as some sort of mental midget, too. I'd leave, but we're trying to buy a home this fall, and really, this is the town of very little opportunity.

I'm feeling really trapped by life right now, and it's giving me palpitations. And not in the fun way. I feel bad saying that, too, because I love Hubs. And I love Bean. I just... feel strangled.

Maybe it's just PMS.

In less than 3 weeks....

In less than 3 weeks, I will be in Denver eating awesome vegan diner food with Katey and Ben before we go to Fox Theatre in Boulder for a show.

For a show to go see this guy!






Mike Doughty!

Oh, yes, there will be rockin' good times.

I'm so excited! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

In the past year, I've been really fortunate to be able to see a couple of my most favorite bands ever (read: EVER!) play live. Up close and personal, too, not at some huge arena that charges $70 a ticket.

Last spring I saw The Decemberists with My Perfect Diamond opening. And last fall, I saw Interpol with The Liars opening.

By the way, Paul Banks should just dump Helena Christensen, move to Colorado, and have my freckly pale children.


Anyway. Yes! Mike Doughty! Live! For the very first time! Very exciting.

And this? Is why I don't like other people's kids.

Okay, that's not entirely true. There are some kids who are totally wonderful. My daughter has a wonderful friend named Katelyn who doesn't have a mean bone in her entire body. And I wish all little kids were like that.

Bean has a "friend". Devon. Well, had a "friend" Devon. Devon lives two doors down, and she's the only kid on the street Bean's age, so by default, they were "friends".

Devon and Bean argue pretty much every time they play together. Oddly enough, they're always playing over at our house. Devon has this habit of completely trashing Bean's room, and Bean quickly realized that even though someone else destroyed her room, she was responsible for putting it back together. I won't help.

Devon also invites herself to dinner. And to spend the night. Only she tells Bean to come ask me. The answer has been no every time. (By the way, am I the only person in this God forsaken world who was raised not to invite themselves over for dinner or to spend the night?)

Well, Saturday, I was taking Bean to the park. I was getting ready when Devon rang the doorbell. Bean told her she couldn't play, but I told her to run over and invite her to come to the park with us if she wanted to come along. Half an hour later, I went over with Bean, exchanged cell phone numbers with Devon's mom, and we went to the park. It ended up being too crowded, so we went to a marsh wildlife preserve deal right by the park instead.

The whole time, there was no arguing. It was great. We walked around the marsh, visited the nature center. It was over an hour of blissful getting along. On the way home, I told Devon she could go home and ask her mom if she could play for a while, and then come over. I was feeling generous.

She did come over, and after about 20 minutes, the arguing started. I went in Bean's room once to tell them to quit, and eventually I just got sick of it and told them to start straightening up because it was time for Devon to go home.

Five minutes later, I snuck up to Bean's room because I heard more arguing. I peeked in the door, and Devon was saying, "... so then I'm just going to take one of your things. I'm going to take ..." Then she saw me and stopped. I said, "It's time to leave. Right now. Bean, you can finish cleaning up after you walk Devon home." I was livid. Really livid. And desperately trying to restrain myself. I couldn't believe the nerve of this kid trying to walk out of my house with one of my kid's things.

Bean came home from walking Devon, and she was sobbing. Devon had called her stupid.

In the next five minutes, I found out Devon had done/said the following:

1. Told Bean she was stupid.
2. Called Bean a name for trying to keep her from breaking/tearing shit up.
3. Made fun of Bean because she likes to play with her parents.
4. Told Bean she has a big butt.

Then the doorbell rang. Devon had forgotten her sweater. I couldn't even look this kid in the face because I really thought I might lose it. Not physically. I'd never get physical with a child. But I was really afraid of unleashing my arsenal of hurtful words on this kid. Which is totally unreasonable. But I wasn't exactly feeling reasonable.

So she got her sweater, and when she left, I slammed the door. I slammed a door on a seven-year-old. I? Am so mature.

Yesterday, Devon came over to play like nothing had happened. No, Bean couldn't play. I wasn't letting this venomous little cleptomaniac back into my house. Especially after I found out that she'd tried (and possibly succeeded) in taking things from my home before.

I would go over and say something to her mother, but, frankly, I've been to her house, and I don't think that would make much of an impact. The house is a disaster area, and the father can't even get his lazy ass off of the couch to get the door. He just screams at other people to answer it.

I'm trying really hard not to be so angry at this kid. Because I'm an adult. And because I'm almost completely certain that her home life has a lot to do with why she is the way she is.

But Bean doesn't have a mean bone in her body. She doesn't want Devon to come over anymore, though. She agrees that a real friend doesn't upset you every time you play together. And a real friend doesn't say mean, hurtful things just to say them. I wish she would stand up for herself. But I don't stand up for myself, either, though, so I suppose she gets that from me.

I can't wait to move.

Old man crushes

I have old man crushes. It's really odd. With all the young, heartthrob-y actors in Hollywood, I have crushes on old guys.

I have never been especially interested in watching political crap on television until I discovered Keith Olbermann. Now, he used to do sports correspondance, and I never thought twice about him then. Maybe it's the combination of nice suits with coordinating ties, salt and pepper hair, the glasses, the cynicism, and the knowledge of politics that makes everything he has to say very, very interesting.

In the same political vein, I find both Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert wildly attractive. Colbert kind of reminds me of a cartoon character. Maybe that's what I like about him. And, I know, I know, mid-forties isn't necessarily old. It's actually not. However, since I'm 25, I'm going to say that mid-forties is older.

Then we have the old guys who just have phenomenal talent. And that is hot, too. Bruce Springsteen, Al Pacino, and *drool* John Malkovich. Good night, I love that man.

And then there is the bizarre that I can't explain. My psychoses all come to light when I tell people that there is something oddly attractive about Billy Bob Thornton. Shut up! Who are you to judge me?

Ungrateful Panhandler

There is an old homeless guy who sits on the corner of Pikes Peak and Tejon all the time. Every time I show up for work and round the corner to the pub, he's sitting on the bench asking for change.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a whole dollar. And I gave it to him because, really, I didn't need the dollar to pay for parking since I was paid up. And I like being able to do something nice for someone else when I can. It's winter, it's fucking cold as hell some days, and a cup of coffee (or gin, whatever) goes a long way to keeping someone warm when they have no place to go.

Last week, as I was approaching his bench, he was asking someone if they could spare a dollar, and they said no. Then he turned to ask me. I told him, "I don't have ANY money, I'm sorry."

And as I walked away, he said, "NOone has a DOLLAR to spare today. NOone has ANY change."

Excuse me, old man, but I most certainly do not have any money to give you. Why do you think I'm coming to work? Because I need to make money. I have, like, three pennies and 10 pesos. I can give you the pesos, but it wouldn't get you very far. I am not lying. I have nothing. Besides, I don't even think I got a 'thank you' last time I gave you a dollar. And now you're giving me attitude? AAAAACK!

I usually have a really tender heart for the homeless and/or disabled people in this city. But that.... really rubbed me the wrong way. I have a kid who I have to feed, clothe, and house. I cannot always give these guys money. Can.not.

Letter from God

"Letter from God"
by Scroobius Pip and Dan le Sac

And I? Am feeling like a big stupid jerk.

Oh boy.

My co-worker, the pregnant one. She's not at work for the rest of the week. Why? She's having a miscarriage. She is understandably heartbroken, and so is everyone in the office.

I feel so awful for her because I know how badly she wanted (wants) this. And she was so happy. But at her obstetrics appointment earlier this week, they could not find a heartbeat via vaginal ultrasound, and they actually think the baby stopped developing at 5 1/2 weeks.

I have talked about how I don't know what it's like to be excited about a pregnancy, to have the people around me excited, that I don't know what it's like to have a proud father present at an ultrasound, and at a birth. And I have talked about how jipped and jealous it makes me feel. But I also don't know what it's like to want to make a baby so badly, but having a body that won't cooperate. I don't know what it's like to want and hope and pray for it for 8 years, have my prayers answered, then have that hope snatched away. And I guess I'm glad that I haven't had to go through that.

But now I'm left feeling this terrible guilt. Over the jealousy, and the bitterness. Even though I was happy for her, those feelings peppered that happiness for her. And I'm feeling really awful. I feel awful for her, and I feel awful that I let those thoughts sneak in and affect my overall feelings about everything.

So, if anyone reading this can send good thoughts her way, I'm sure she and her husband can take everything you're willing to dish out.

I'm sorry to disappoint you.

To whomever was searching for

"little girls in swimsuits beauty pageant pictures"

and found my blog, I apologize.

You will not find any pictures of little girls in swimsuits. Ever. At all. Not even once.

*hoping and praying that this searcher is just some pageant mom looking for ideas for her pageant daughter's competition swimwear, and not some dirty perv*

Trying hard not to be bitter.

My officemate is pregnant. About 2 months along. And really, truly, deep down I am genuinely happy for her. She and her husband had a miscarriage 8 years ago, and they've been trying/not preventing ever since. So they really are over the moon. And I'm so glad for them. They'll make wonderful parents.

But it's also been non-stop pregnancy/baby talk since she found out. And even though it's exciting and fun, and I get to remember when Bean was little, it's kind of hard.

We've pretty much decided that we're getting to the point where we probably won't have any more kids. Hubs is 7 years older than I am, and he has said that he doesn't want to be 55 when the youngest graduates high school. So our window of opportunity is getting smaller and smaller. We want to get into a home of our own right now, too, and that's expensive enough. Nevermind factoring in prenatal visits, hospital fees, pediatrician copays, diapers, clothes, baby furniture. Not possible.

Because we're not having any more kids, I will not ever know what it's like to have anyone be excited about my pregnancy. Hell, I won't even know what it's like for me to be excited. I won't ever know what it's like to have an excited husband present at an ultrasound. I won't know what it's like to have the birth of my baby celebrated without the underlying feeling of anxiety, apprehension and disappointment. As supportive as my family was, no one was exactly happy that my barely-graduated self had a newborn of my own.

I just feel cheated, and that it's my fault for doing things so ass backwards in life. I'm trying really hard not to feel that way and to just let the happy, excited feelings take over. But I just wish I could know what all of that feels like.

No more baby talk, I swear I'm done now.

When you don't fit.

I have always kind of felt like I don't fit in one way or another. I've always felt kind of awkward and out of place. I still do, sometimes.

Lately, it's been overwhelming, and I've all but shut myself off completely from anyone not related to me. I don't get together with my Quinn's friends, didn't go to the holiday party, I put my headphones in during my day job and just tune everyone out.

I think a lot of it has to do with mothering. When my daughter was small, none of my friends had kids. And they didn't want to hang out anymore, really, because I was suddenly in another class. I didn't belong. And we lacked things in common. And the women I would run into who did have little ones my age were usually older, and they didn't really want much to do with having a teenage mother as a friend.

Now that my daughter is older, and I'm pretty sure I'm done having babies (yes, I realize I only have one child), all of my friends are having babies. Or they have very young children. And I feel... irrelevant. Not that I don't matter to them. But when I give advice or talk about my experiences (to try and find a common topic), I wonder if they think, "Well, that was AGES ago. It's hardly relevant now."

And I still don't feel like I fit with my childless friends because even though my daughter is older, I'm not childless. We have completely different life paths, and I feel so out of touch.

I feel like my friends are becoming members to a club that I was kicked out of when my Bean started kindergarten.

Vegan strip club

Oy.

There is now a vegan strip club in Portland, OR. It's supposed to be the first ever. All of the alcohol and food is vegan, and I guess a lot of the "dancers" are also vegetarian or vegan.

I haven't blogged about this since I didn't really have an opinion about it until recently. I found a YouTube video from a Portland show Good Day Oregon in which a reporter went to the club and reviewed the club's owner, Johnny Diablo.

And now I'm pissed (not work-safe).



So... the girls are meat? "The only meat we have is up on the stage." "We put the meat on the pole, not on the plate." Okay, I fucking get it. I get the pun, I really do. But something tells me that this guy lost a lot of vegan support in the community.

For someone who has dedicated over 20 years to reducing the suffering and exploitation of non-human animals, he sure doesn't seem to mind exploiting and objectifying the human ones. (I'm sure there will be comments about being a feminazi, wah, wah, waaaaah!) I really don't care have a problem with strip clubs. But I have a huge problem with, essentially, the idea that staring at naked women who are paid to dance is some sort of "replacement" for meat. Like that's what these women are. Meat for men to savor.

Well fuck.that.

Also, did anyone else notice? The one time one of the "dancers" did actually speak in this interview, her face wasn't shown. Hm.

I'm going to go scream into a pillow now.

It's the lyrics, man.

I can be kind of a music snob. Not like my brother. Also, if you've ever seen me dance in my underwear with a hairbrush microphone, singing along to Journey's "Don't Stop Believing", you'll probably just have to take my word for it. I can be kind of a music snob.



I don't always necessarily listen to the most obscure stuff that would win me major street cred with my aforementioned music snob brother (I love you, Ian, promise!). But the lyrics, man. I love being able to pick up new little nuances or find new metaphores and symbolism the more I listen to a song.



Lyrics are sexy. Good lyrics, anyway. And that's probably why I don't develop middle school crushes on movie stars and why I DO develop middle school crushes on musicians like Colin Meloy, Mike Doughty, Paul Banks, or Mark Lanegan.



I put some videos below from Mike Doughty. An amazing, phenomenal musician and lyricist. Phenomenal, really, I promise. And since I was telling the lovely Badgergirl (http://www.velocibadgergirl.blogspot.com) that she might like Mr. Doughty, I picked out a few of my favorites.

Rising Sign


Unsingable Name


40 Grand in the Hole


White Lexus

For the good of mankind?

I've gotten into many a heated debate with people over the years regarding vivisection. Mainly, about being anti-vivisection. I've heard every argument FOR vivisection. Mostly, I hear, "But what if they found a cure for AIDS or cancer through testing on animals?"

Even though I am vegan, I should say that I would never refuse a medicine that was most likely tested on animals to save my child's life. I depend on an albuterol inhaler to breathe on occasion. But I also don't take antibiotics unless I can't function at all. So, I'm obviously biased.

But here is the thing. A lot of animal testing is NOT for the good of mankind. The article below is why I get so enraged about animal testing. A lot of people might say, "Well, you don't know what it feels like to be in chronic pain." And you know, that's probably true, but I fail to see how THIS kind of testing is OKAY:



http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,326355,00.html

Naked Mole Rats Can't Feel Burning Pain
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
By Charles Q. Choi


Rochelle Buffenstein/City College of New York

Even though it is sensitive to touch, the naked mole rat doesn't even flinch when inflicted with burning acid.

As vulnerable as naked mole rats seem, researchers now find the hairless, bucktoothed rodents are invulnerable to the pain of acid and the sting of chili peppers.

A better understanding of pain resistance in these sausage-like creatures could lead to new drugs for people with chronic pain, scientists added.
Naked mole rats live in cramped, oxygen-starved burrows some six feet underground in central East Africa.

Unusually, they are cold-blooded — which, as far as anyone knows, is unique among mammals.

• Click here to visit FOXNews.com's Natural Science Center.

"They're the nicest, sweetest animals I've ever worked with — they look frightening, but they're very gentle," said neurobiologist Thomas Park at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Scientists knew the mole rats were quite sensitive to touch — perhaps to help replace their almost useless eyes.

After probing their skin, Park and his colleagues unexpectedly discovered the rodents lacked the chemical Substance P, which causes the feeling of burning pain in mammals.

Acid test
The researchers discovered that when unconscious mole rats had their paws injected with a slight dose of acid, "about what you'd experience with lemon juice," Park said, as well as some capsaicin — the active ingredient of chili peppers — the rodents showed no pain.

"Their insensitivity to acid was very surprising," Park told LiveScience.

"Every animal tested — from fish, frogs, reptiles, birds and all other mammals — every animal is sensitive to acid."

To explore their pain resistance further, the researchers used a modified cold-sore virus to carry genes for Substance P to just one rear foot of each tested rodent.

Park and his colleagues found the DNA restored the naked mole rats' ability to feel the burning sensation other mammals experience from capsaicin.

"They'd pull their foot back and lick it," Park said.

Other feet remained impervious to the sting of capsaicin.

"Capsaicin is very specific for exciting the fibers that normally have Substance P," Park added. "They're not the fibers that respond to a pinprick or pinch, but the ones that respond after an injury or burn and produce longer-lasting pain."

Curiously, the researchers found that mole rats remained completely insensitive to acids, even with the Substance P genes.

This suggests there is a fundamental difference in how their nerves respond to such pain.

"Acid acts on the capsaicin receptor and on another family of receptors called acid-sensitive ion channels," Park said. "Acid is not as specific as capsaicin. The mole rat is the only animal that shows completely no response to acid."

Why so insensitive?
Scientists theorize naked mole rats evolved this insensitivity to acid due to underground living.

The rodents exhale high levels of carbon dioxide, and in such tight, poorly ventilated spaces it builds up in tissues, making them more acidic.
In response, the mole rats became desensitized to acid.

"To give you an idea of what they experience, we normally all breathe in carbon dioxide levels of less than 0.1 percent. If people are exposed to an air mixture with as low as 5 percent carbon dioxide, we'll feel a sharp, burning, stinging sensation in our eyes and nose," Park said. "We hypothesize that naked mole rats live in up to 10 percent carbon dioxide."

Researcher Gary Lewin, a neuroscientist at the Max Delbrück Institute for Molecular Medicine in Germany, noted, "People may say, 'So what — it's weird, but what has it to do with human pain?' I think that is wrong, unimaginative and short sighted."

Lewin noted that all vertebrate pain-receptor systems "are built in a highly similar way, so the mole rat may tell us how you can unbuild the system."

Help for people
Specifically, Park noted this research adds to existing knowledge about Substance P.

"This is important specifically to the long-term, secondary-order inflammatory pain. It's the pain that can last for hours or days when you pull a muscle or have a surgical procedure," he explained.

As such, these findings might shed new light on chronic pain. Park said,
"We're learning which nerve fibers are important for which kinds of pain, so we'll be able to develop new strategies and targets."

Lewin added, "We really do not understand the molecular mechanism of acid sensing in humans, although it is thought to be pretty important in inflammatory pain. An animal that naturally lacks such a mechanism may help us identify what the mechanism actually is."

Park next plans to study distantly related animals that dwell in similar circumstances, such as the Mexican free-tailed bat and the Alaskan marmot, which both spend large amounts of time in high carbon dioxide caves or burrows.

"How are they surviving down there? It'd be interesting if we saw some parallels there with the naked mole rats," Park said.

The scientists detailed their findings online Jan. 28 in the journal PLoS Biology.

• Click here to read the full journal report.

Copyright © 2008 Imaginova Corp. All Rights Reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.



Well, Dr. Lewin, call me wrong, unimaginative, and short-sighted, but this really chaps my ass.

If we replaced "mole rats" with "house cat" or "Golden Retriever", people would be appalled. But, no, it's okay to inject mole rats with a cold sore virus to see if, once injected, they'll react to the pain of acid.

This is not a cure for cancer. Or Parkinsons. Or spina bifida.

This is a bunch of scientists who get paid way too much to shoot up animals.

I realize that I am probably overly-emotional about animal rights 90% of the time. And this may very well be one of those times. And that is probably why this entire entry is so disjointed.

I'll be quiet now, and I'll come back when I am able to group sentences into paragraphs in a more orderly manner.

Judged

I guess that, aside from the hectic holidays, the reason that I haven't been as interested in blogging these days is because I feel judged. Not here. In other areas of my life.

The thing is, no one has said, "Wow, you suck. You're wrong." But I feel it. Don't worry, it's not you. It's me. And this is one instance where that might actually be the truth.

Unless you're a mother, you cannot imagine mother's guilt. It's crushing and overwhelming. And I feel like people think I'm a lackluster mom. Maybe because I feel like I've done a subpar job.

Do you ever wish you could rewind your life? Keep it pretty much the same? But tweak a few things?

I do.

Lately I've been living in a constant state of "If I knew then what I know now, I could've been a much better mom." And some days I would give anything to go back and do things over.

Does it have something to do with knowing that I most likely had one shot at this mom thing, and I didn't fully appreciate it? That I didn't take full advantage of it? Probably.

Well, you can have another baby and do it differently, you say. No, I don't think so. I'd feel like I was jipping Bean. That's a huge part of why I don't think I want another child. I can't stand the thought of Bean one day thinking that I loved her younger sibling more than I loved her.

So. Yeah.