Wordjanitor Strikes Again

I try to make purchase decisions based on need vs. want. I'll often see something that I really like but opt out of buying it because I don't need it. I'd rather be happy with what I have than focus on wanting things I don't. (Yes, I did need the motorcycle. For mental health reasons. Yeah, that's it.) OK, let's not get distracted by facts. Admittedly, sometimes this need/want thing goes a little far. Exhibit A: I still have a bra that the dog chewed during her awkward post-puppy supportive undergarment chewing phase. She absolutely disabled another one, but this one survived with an interesting fringe in the cleavage area. It's serviceable. It's more of a yard-work bra than an office bra, not that anyone would really know. Until now, anyway. Bonus: I smirk every time I put it on.

TG likes to explain things. All sorts of things. And he likes details. Lots of details. Like today, he didn't have a level in Soquel because he didn't bring one from home so when he went to the store with J, B, and the kids he bought a new one. I made the mistake of making a pun about "taking things to a new level." And somehow that jump-started a very detailed discussion of cabinet installation. And about 17 other things.

I am angry. And I am sad. But at the moment, it's mostly anger. Keyboard and reader beware. That androgynous, faceless, scourge with too many names and ways of wreaking havoc.  That invisible stalker that sneaks in at the cellular level, latching on and demanding attention.  That predatory visitor that remains unseen until  it's too often too late.  It wins again. Today, cancer won again.  It won this morning, taking a young woman barely 30 from her world, her family's world, our world, this world. Quickly. Aggressively. Ruthlessly. I want to scream at cancer, cuss it out, kick it where it hurts, be heard. But cancer is a narcissist. It doesn't care that I'm angry. It knows nothing but itself and how to propagate until it wins.

Blueberry is dead. Finally. Blueberry may have been the longest-living betta fish in the county for all I know. I searched "betta fish life span" and Google kindly told me "2 y on average (In captivity)" with a picture and everything. Yeah, Blueberry doubled that estimate. At least. Even after spending her first couple years in a pickle jar after she and her former neighbor fish called bullshit on the "females can be kept in the same tank" myth. Or maybe we just had particularly bitchy fish who missed the sharing lesson in school. (School. Fish. Yeah, I went there.)

This is so awesome. Sooo very awesome. I have a new title. I am now, officially, as proclaimed by my son, The Crusher of Dreams. I've earned the title over time, with many incidents proving my worthiness of it, because I am -- after all -- a parent. But my title was not until today bestowed upon me. And bestowed upon me with all of the melodrama such a title deserves. What, you ask, has brought me this honor? A piano. More accurately, parts of a piano. The disintegrating corpse of a piano currently basking in the twilight behind the middle school cafeteria on a large furniture dolly. Legless, lidless, and missing several keys, my son wants this piano for its nostalgic and historic value.

Three weeks ago, my dad called me with questions. By his tone and the less-than-subtle hint of frustration in his voice, these were very pressing questions: Why do we have so many damn towels?  Where in the hell did all of these sheets come from?  What am I supposed to do with all these damn towels? Who needs this many towels? Then two weeks ago, on a Thursday morning, it was abundantly clear why we had         so              many                        damn                                   towels. I come by my hesitance to ask for help honestly. It's inherited. Hobbled after a foot surgery, X gave me a bell so I could ring for help when I needed it. Me? Need? Help? True to form, I would wait until he was out of the house, then hop around to...

I did something different this year in preparation for Mother's Day. I asked for something. Specifically, I made a breakfast-menu request. And so, my day started with amazing cornmeal blueberry pancakes. TG (being TG) did more than standard recipe-research due diligence and came up with a very tasty formula. The best part of Mother's Day is that I get to be a mom to this amazing, intelligent, goofy ten-year-old sidekick. He's the kid who takes a shirt, tie, and jacket to his grandpa's house in the woods so he can dress up for my birthday dinner and Mother's Day breakfast. And he's the kid who surprises me with the facts he has amassed in his curious mind. He asked whether I knew what Thomas Edison had invented. Thinking the answer was obvious, I went straight to "incandescent lightbulb." True enough, but he was referring to the electric chair . Yeah, I didn't know that. And I gladly admitted it. Edison had more than 1000 patents, why...

I had a frightening moment while I was washing the dishes tonight. I was revisiting a conversation I'd had earlier in the evening, when I damn near dropped the scrubby brush. Holy crap, am I channeling Carol Brady? I quickly realized that it wasn't possible. And I have a bullet list to prove it: Carol Brady wouldn't have had a scrubby brush to drop. The kitchen sink was clearly Alice's turf.  I am not raising a herd of polyester-clad kids.  That much polyester would make me chafe at every physical joint of my body.  Who in the hell names a dog after a cat anyway? Proof. I have not been sucked into a mental parental Brady Bunch vortex. (And now, a word from our sponsor.       Dearest twitchy grammar nerds:      I fully realize the above list is not of parallel construction, but making it so      would bust the story's groove, so get outta my editorial grill.      Hugs, Me) Ye...

A funny thing happened just after I left the sushi restaurant where we celebrated @'s birthday. First there was an odd sound, just over my left shoulder. And then someone yelled from a car in the parking lot. I initially thought the driver had thrown something from the car, but his reaction made it clear that he had just seen something strange. I looked to see what had landed behind me. A wingless pigeon. They don't fly very well. And their connection with concrete delivers an odd thwack-splat sound. What in the heck? To my right, atop the light pole in the middle of the Lucky's parking: a hawk. Watching the pigeon, like, well, a hawk.

Once upon a time on a very hot and humid planet, I learned about squeaky cheese. I have now been to Planet Wisconsin. And yes, cheese curds do squeak when you eat them – not in a mouse “eek” way, but a sound they make against your teeth. It’s a little weird, honestly. When I told people I was spending a week in Wisconsin, they invariably asked “Why?” I told them I wanted to throw cheese curds at giant mosquitoes.I expected the cheese curds to be more like cottage cheese, which would have been quite a messy way to distract bugs. And I expected the mosquitoes to live up to “Wisconsin State Bird” status I’d been promised. The mosquitoes were completely overrated. I didn’t need a tennis racket to fend off the little vampires after all. Although both my grandparents were born, raised, and met in Wisconsin, I’d never been before. But the reason for this trip was joining the Tall Guy to visit his family.

Sprouts: More than just a garnish. Sometimes having a precocious kid is a health hazard. More specifically, sometimes having a precocious kid is a choking hazard. We're sitting at the dining room table. He's doing his homework and I'm reading Sunset magazine. He looks over at a page with a picture of a salad with a garnish of sprouts on top. "Mommy, those look like sperm." Wha? Huh?! Cough, sputter, choke... Wait, do I choke or laugh? Dammit! Wait, breathe. Now, OK mom, time to put on the card-shark face and handle this.

At dinner it was all about the olives. Do these olives taste different?  Does this olive look like a hat? Are the green olives bigger because they have the red thing in the middle? Before dinner @ had asked for the key to a cabinet. When I asked why, he said he wanted to see his brother's ashes. I hesitated, but I had to separate my own reaction from his request. There wasn't a reason to deny his request. It was unexpected but simple, attainable.

Chapter 1 About a week ago, @ was crying rather dramatically at bedtime. When I asked what was wrong, he said he was worried about me. I certainly didn't expect him to say that. I thought maybe it was because he knew I'd been sick. It wasn't. "Mommy, you're not married. You're all by yourself. You need someone to marry you." Wha huh? Bam, that was certainly out of the clear blue sky. Or maybe it was cloudy that day. I don't recall. Obviously the weather

I have a very big broom. I have often used it to sweep things under the rug in the interest of maintaining a relatively calm relationship with my mother. We've pretty much always had challenges getting along. I'm told I'm too independent. And not just from Day 1. Stubborn from Day -2, that's me. Apparently I have been a royal pain in the hindquarters since refusing to be born prior to her 30th birthday. Willful fetus that I was, I grabbed hold of her uterus and refused to come out for an additional two days -- not just one, two. Just to spite her. (The things you learn in a shared therapy session at the age of 18.) There were more crimes in my list. I embarrassed her. People often mistook me for a boy. I was a quiet bookish soccer-addicted tomboy instead of a gregarious perky girl. I was shy to the point of dissolving in tearful terror when expected to order ice cream . Oh yes, and willful. I willed my breasts to grow bigger than hers at an age far earlier than ...

@ and I took Lucas to the "bark park" today. I know of few better places to take a six-year-old kidlet and an 80-pound dog who have been surrounded by various sets of four walls during a week of downpour. We spent nearly two hours among the other sun-seeking dogs and their drivers. When we first started going to the dog park, both @ and Luke would stay close to me, with Luke eventually giving in to curiosity and dogness to venture forth and join the ranks of random pooches enjoying the park. Today, Luke never stopped moving. He wandered, sniffed, wrassled, chased, mounted, marked, marked, marked, sniffed, lather, rinse, repeat. He gently stopped by when another dog approached @, just to be nearby. He's fun to watch with his big slobbery dog grin as he jogs to and fro. But watching @ today was even better. He followed Luke here and there, saw dogs he wanted to meet and talked to their people, and introduced Luke to potential pals. His favorite dogs of the day were tw...

A search through my file cabinet for a particular piece I wrote eons ago unearthed some random amusement from past attempts to slay boredom with a pen. (Old school stuff -- I had my choice of a pen, pencil, or a typewriter, not a computer.) circa 1987 It's April, do you know where your parents are? Do your parents know who you are? Have they forgotten you? When is the last time you received a letter that ended "... and your little brother shaved the cat last week. Be good and try not to study too hard. Love, Mom and Dad" It has been quite awhile since my mailbox was last graced with the presence of such a letter, so I decided to write home and attempt to get to the root of the problem... To Whom It May Confuse (Mom & Dad), I was sitting in front of my empty mailbox, wallowing in self pity and decided that I ought to write to you. It seems to me that you do, but I sure hope that you don't, subscribe to the "out of sight out of mind" point of view. I...

Interestingly enough, one of my previous jobs included working at golf tournaments every six months. Our company and hosted golf tournaments designed specifically for executive schmoozing at trade shows. The executive schmoozing, in itself, makes it even more amusing that it was my job to be there. At that point in my job history, I owned one suit and it was the one I interviewed in. My role was as a magazine editor and the tournaments allowed me the opportunity to meet execs of companies we might profile. But it was mostly an escape from the fluorescent lighting and concrete floors of the convention center. And it was an opportunity to spend the day with the professional golfer hired to amuse and gladhand the execs. The best of the bunch was David Fehrety , also known as "the sharpest wit in golf," who writes for Golf magazine and does commentary for CBS. How can you not like a guy whose tagline on his web page says "Raising potty mouth to a third-grade level"...

This is my sixth year walking for March of Dimes. I walk, speak, and work on behalf of March of Dimes to honor my sons -- the one who has the most amazing laugh in the world and the one who is forever etched in my memory. My sons were born at 26 weeks and weighed less than two pounds each. It was, by far, the most frightening and memorable day of my life. And it was just the beginning of months of heartbreak and fear. @s brother died within an hour of being born. We didn't have time to grieve because we had to be strong and give @ every ounce of our strength and love to help him survive. He was in intensive care for nearly four months, had several surgeries, and spent a year on oxygen after finally coming home. We finally felt confident to celebrate on his second birthday. It took that long just to feel confident that yes, this amazing strong fighter of a kid would get to be a kid. @ is five. This year we celebrated his birthday with a trip to the Academy of Sciences and I decorat...

@ has been talking about snow for weeks, ever since I told him we'd be coming up to LD's for the holiday. We drove up in the rain Christmas Eve-- he sat with a blue bucket next to him and explained how he'd use it to collect snow. Although it rained all night, temperatures didn't dive low enough to produce snow. I considered attempting to come up with words to a new song -- I'm Dreaming of a Muddy Christmas -- but the initial disappointment of missing snow was quickly replaced with the desire to rip into presents. Like most kids promised the arrival of Santa overnight, he woke up with the energy of a guy on his fifth can of Red Bull. After breakfast and opening presents, the rain turned to sleet. Shortly thereafter, on cue, it turned to snow. Both @ and Lucas thoroughly enjoyed it.

Oddly enough, or not, one of our annual traditions has become going to a local car show out in the woods where LD lives. It's an interesting deal with an odd crowd. LD usually enters a car in the show, but this year opted out -- something about energy, spiderwebs, 104 degree heat, etc. So, this year we were spectators. My faves are usually the 32-34 Ford Fordor or Tudor hot rod restorations and I'll admit I have a thing for flame paint jobs. One of the cars this year has the most bad-a** flames I've seen to date. The flames trail from the front with little bursts on the sides. And then there's the trunk... (The trunk pic is worth double clicking to see larger, trust me.) Keep in mind, this is all free-hand work. I can't draw freehand with a pencil and a giant eraser. Whoever did this work, did it on a car -- no eraser. @'s fave is a delivery sedan he calls the "bug car" because he likes the headlight covers. And for the flame traditionalists among you....