The Crab Chronicles

Need a Laugh?!

Yesterday's post was such a downer, I feel bad. You need a laugh? Don't we all?? I promise you, if you go to this site, People of Walmart, you will laugh. You may scream in horror, but you will laugh, too.

If I ever have time to kill, I can go to Target or Walmart, sit in the food court, and be endlessly entertained. Not that I'm that desperate.

Alesia told me when she went to her boyfriend's house last weekend, as soon as she walked in she said "Where is the food? I am hungry. I need to eat. Now."

She weighs 115 lbs soaking wet and she can put away some serious groceries. When she says she's hungry, she's not playing.

"I looked in his fridge and there was no food in there!" she told me indignantly. I reminded her the boy lives just with his dad. "Honey, men don't keep food on hand like women do. I am not surprised." I wanted to say, welcome to the world of dating. It is NOTHING like the magazines....

She got him to order two large pizzas. She probably ate at least half of one of those. He will learn.

I wish I could borrow her metabolism for one day.  

A Squash Obsession

I have a confession to make. I am obsessed with squash. I crave yellow squash, and zucchini. Squash is more desirable than Prada shoes to me. Squash rocks my world.

I am now branching out. I have made butternut squash soup twice recently. My kids lapped it up like starving kittens. So did I, but more like a starving rhino...

Yes, I am obsessed.

I need to go to Squashaholics Anonymous.

I couldn't say this 5 years ago because I was such a wimp, but now I can be honest. I should go to Confession, except I'm not Catholic. I would probably slip up and say something like "Hail Mary, full of Squash..." and get burned at the stake.

I was reading Pioneer Woman's account of her book tour, trying not to be insanely jealous, and I came across this post. If you scroll down, way down, you will see a bowl of fried zucchini slices. Be still my heart. I drooled a puddle looking at it.

I don't remember eating squash as a child. I have a vague recollection of Mother cooking it once in a while, loaded with onions, and soft. Or maybe I am thinking of someone else's mother. Who knows. All I know was, I wouldn't touch an onion and the whole unholy Squash-Must-Marry-Onion thing made me shudder with horror.

I am trying to remember when I changed. I think it was after I had grown up and I ate Squash Casserole somewhere. Yellow squash, boiled until soft, and mixed with crumbled saltines, cheese, and butter, and baked. The onions were disguised. Heavenly.

I was dieting some years ago and realized squash is a great vegetable. I was trying to expand my vegetable repertoire, and squash looked so inviting. I tried coating it with olive oil, spices, and parmesan, and roasting it under the broiler. Yum!

I used to love to eat at a place here in Atlanta called The Vortex. As you can tell from the website, it's an upscale biker bar for yuppies, not actual bikers.  It was right down the street from my office two jobs ago.They had the BEST fried zucchini in the known universe. It would arrive in its basket, piping hot, like chips of molten lava, and burn my mouth to shreds and I ate that zucchini like it was my last meal before being hung with a clothesline. [Don't know where I got that image; sometimes it's best not to know.]

I cannot take the kids to the Vortex. They have naughty photos on the walls, women draped over motorcycles. If I took the kids, they would be too distracted to eat, I fear, and someone might call DFCS on me. I found the naughty photos disturbing. Mike, being a 13 year old boy, would probably have to get a shot of thorazine to deal with them....

Thank goodness the Harry Potter books don't contain descriptions of squash, just English food. Squash descriptions would totally distract me from my delightful performance art of reading. One thing is interesting. Rowling never describes the kids eating vegetables. Yet, she can afford a private chef for herself and could eat a different squash dish every day. Hmmm...

I tried to grow squash last year in my garden. I got two tiny yellow beauties. Some varmint or bug destroyed the rest of my squash. It was heartbreaking.

The good news was, my favorite vegetable stand had it in abundance all summer.

I tried Paula Dean's recipe for squash cakes not long ago and I loved it. However, they tend to be mushy and don't hold together well. I am working on a variation of it that works well and is low carb. Stay tuned on that.

Thanksgiving will mean a squash casserole. I will try not to watch my brother cover it with hot sauce. I am in denial about that..

If you have a favorite squash recipe, email me or leave it in a comment. The kids are getting hostile about my squash obsession. Please. I need inspiration.

 

Got 'Er Done

It’s been a satisfying day, because I have gotten several things accomplished.

 

Mother’s computer has been on the fritz for several days but she’s now back online. She sends and receives hundreds of emails every day, and knows a lot more about what’s going on in the world than I do. She asked me this morning if anything important was happening in the world, and I had to say I had no idea. I try and catch the headlines and the weather every morning as I fix breakfast, but that’s it.

 

We made turkey and dressing the other night, and ate only some of it. We got the rest frozen, so most of Thanksgiving dinner is done. We may get a ham, too, depending on who comes to eat with us. Usually it’s just Bruce, and sometimes Lesleigh, sometimes another friend.

 

All my aunts, uncles, and cousins do holidays with their own families. We don’t travel. There are no Normal Rockwell holidays on either side of my family, but then again there are no huge fights, either. We can hang out in pajamas all day and eat sandwiches if we like. Most times, we hang out and relax, maybe hit a movie. Since the worst of the cooking is already done, I might try a new recipe adventure this year, like the one for cranberry sauce on Pioneer Woman’s site, or the one for corn casserole . I will have to make a pumpkin pie, though, it’s the law. No pie means no Thanksgiving. Can’t have that.

 

Michael has never really learned the holiday dates, for some reason. I have to keep reminding him that Thanksgiving is in November and Christmas is in December. I told him recently that we usually decorate for Christmas the day after Thanksgiving, when everyone else is shopping like mad. His whole face lit up. “I LOVE Christmas!” he announced. He has continued to say that a lot. He is really looking forward to Christmas. I am not.

 

Last year, with Bruce in Iraq, I went a bit overboard with Christmas gifts. This year, I am working part time and trying to be really careful with money. I already told Mike he’s not getting any new electronic game playing thingy, sorry. I sent the kids an email yesterday telling them to be thinking about a list of maybe 5 things, none too expensive. We are scaling back Christmas a lot this year. No choice. It’s OK. It’s not about merchandise.

I took Mother to get her toenails manicured. I do not like hanging out in nail places. I am always nervous when people look at my chewed off fingernails or my horrible little Hobbit feet. I need to learn how to say “My nails are all CURSED! Do not look upon them!” in Mandarin and probably Vietnamese. 

 

I have been in despair recently over Michael’s poor face. He has had such a struggle with acne. I have begged him to drink more water, to no avail. He has gotten better about not drinking sodas, and rarely drinks them now. He’s also cut out most dairy, except a bit of cheese. He’s washing his face twice a day. I couldn’t get him to wear the honey and cinnamon mask that really works wonders. So I did some research and he’s now taking vitamin supplements and Brewer’s Yeast. The miracle is that it seems to be working. His face is gradually clearing up. Thanks be to God.

 

Alesia seems to be settling into her routine of having a boyfriend. She told me today he gave her back her jacket she had left somewhere the other day. She sees him after her last class, as their classes are next door. She told me “He GAVE me my jacket!” in the same tone of awe and wonder that I would describe being asked out on a date by Aaron Eckhart. It was so cute.

 

Speaking of Eckhart, I have to confess, he is such a major cutie pie. Here he is. Feast your eyes… [I have a weakness for blonde men...]

 

 

Hobbit Feet, Bellybuttons, Etc.

Michael leaves a possession or two of his in every room of the house, every day. I try to put his stuff on the stairs and remind him to take it up to his room when I think of it. I recently cleaned off the stairs and one day later it was awash with Mike’s books, school papers, coins, socks, etc.

My room is like the Lost and Found. He leaves shoes everywhere but in his closet. I gave up a while back on getting him to put shoes in the closet.

Last night he decided my red Crocs were his favorite pair of shoes and he wore them all evening, with socks. At the moment, we have feet nearly the same size, except mine are fat and his are long and skinny. Alesia’s feet are nearly the same size.

Both my children have long, knobby toes, and look like they could shinny up a tree in 10 seconds flat.

My feet look like they belong on a Hobbit.

I have an old friend who I’ve known since childhood and she has normal toes except for one, which is freakishly long, and one which is a tiny nubbin toe, on each foot. Somehow, I never noticed her toes until we were adolescents. One day at the pool I really noticed her feet, and I screamed. I was just startled. She got really ticked off at me.

I couldn’t figure out why I had never noticed her toes before, since we’d known each other for years. Finally, a long while later, I realized the issue. I am very nearsighted. I probably just thought her feet were a weird blur until then. It was after I got glasses that the world became suddenly clearer, pun intended.

My brother has a birthmark on the side of his chest and I never realized how huge it was until he was in college and took off his shirt one day. I told him he had a big dirt spot and he needed a shower. He got really mad at me.

[How did I get started talking about feet and birthmarks?! I started off thinking about shoes and it went downhill from there.]

I grew up being incredibly dense.

I couldn’t tie my shoes or tell time until I was 8 years old.

I never realized until I was grown that a pickle is a small cucumber. Never made that connection.

I asked my mother one time why I saw some olives in a photo that had no pimentos in them. I thought olives grew with pimentos in them already. Mother got incredibly irritated with me.

I was reading David Copperfield at 9 years old, but I had no idea about pimentos. [I am talking about the classic book by Charles Dickens, not the magician…]

I was fully grown before I realized that a chicken shoots eggs out of its bottom. I had a vague idea that the chicken had some sort of hatch on its underside and the egg dropped out, like a bomb from a plane.

That ties in with my theory, as a small child, of where babies come from. I knew the bellybutton was involved, somehow. I finally decided that babies popped out of the bellybutton as small pellets, and then you added hot water, and they plumped up into babies, sort of like how noodles plump up with you add hot water. It was a good theory. In the movies, when a woman goes into labor, they are always yelling for hot water.

Years later, when I saw a film of an actual birth, and all the blood and gore, I almost threw up. I felt like I might faint. Perhaps it’s a good thing I never tried to produce a child from my body. The hobbit feet probably would’ve prevented the baby from coming out and it would have been really messy…

 

When Alesia first came home she got confused and referred to it as her "bellybottom." I thought it was adorable. She hates when I remind her of that...

I asked my mother once what it actually felt like to have a baby, and after thinking for a moment, she said “It felt like having a BM.” Wow, what a beautiful experience. They don’t make drugs good enough to make me want to do that…

Adoption is so much less messy.

See it always comes back around to adoption?!

I am so looking forward to being a grandmother. I will write a children’s book called The Truth About Pickles and Olives, and make a million dollars…

 

This is not even the goofiest photo of me as a child!

Corporate Lingo

It was Monday, all day, and there's not much to report. So I thought I'd share some Dilbert funnies.

I had my own Dilbert moment a few years ago. I had quit a very "silk stocking" law firm in midtown Atlanta to work for a corporation. One day I got a call from a secretary for one of the attorneys who put me through to a very harrassed-sounding young attorney. She [a very bright woman but totally lacking social graces] didn't say hi, how are you, nothing. I hadn't seen her in 6 months and she just blurted out: "Do you know what happened to the Smith file after you left?!" I thought it was a joke, and I waited for the punch line. "No?" I finally said. She repeated the question, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Um, no, I am not psychic Michelle. I have no idea what could have happened to a file after I left!"

Michelle graduated in the top 5% of her law school class. No common sense whatsoever.

While at that corporate job, I was once told in an official yearly review that I sneezed too loud. The department head had heard me and sent word no more audible sneezing was allowed from my cubicle. Dust makes me sneeze, and every morning at that place I had to sneeze. So I kept a small towel on my desk and when I had to sneeze I grabbed it and sneezed into it.

The department head who sent word I couldn't sneeze later invited me to a party at her house and tried playing matchmaker with me and an old friend of hers. Within 1 minute of meeting him I knew he was gay. When I told her he was gay she didn't believe me. She kept trying to tell me I was wrong. I went over to the guy, apologized, and explained that he needed to tell his dear old friend he was gay, so she would leave me alone about dating him.

Corporate America is filled with nutjobs. 

Having recently left the corporate world and its' irritating doublespeak, I found these very funny:

A magazine recently ran a "Dilbert Quotes" contest. They were looking for people to submit quotes from their real-life Dilbert-type managers.  These were voted the top quotes in corporate America :

 

  "As of tomorrow, employees will only be able to access the building using individual security cards.  Pictures will be taken next Wednesday, and employees will receive their cards in two weeks."  
(This was the winning quote from Fred Dales, Microsoft Corp. in Redmond WA )

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  "What I need is an exact list of specific unknown problems we might encounter."  
( Lykes Lines Shipping)

 

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   "E-mail is not to be used to pass on information or data.  It should be used only for company business."  

(Accounting manager, Electric Boat Company)

This project is so important we can't let things that are more important interfere with it."  

(Advertising/Marketing manager, United Parcel Service) 

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  "Doing it right is no excuse for not meeting the schedule."  
  (Plant Manager, Delco Corporation)

 

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  "No one will believe you solved this problem in one day! We've been working on it for months.  Now go act busy for a few weeks and I'll let you know when it's time to tell them."  

 (R&D supervisor, Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing/3M Corp.)

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Quote from the Boss: "Teamwork is a lot of people doing what I say." 
(Marketing executive, Citrix Corporation)

 

My sister passed away and her funeral was scheduled for Monday. When I told my Boss, he said she died on purpose so that I would have to miss work on the busiest day of the year. He then asked if we could change her burial to Friday. He said, "That would be better for me."  
(Shipping executive, FTD Florists

 

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   "We know that communication is a problem, but the company is not going to discuss it with the employees."   (Switching supervisor, AT&T Long Lines Division)

Dancing Queen

Yesterday and today have felt odd, like I was living in an alternate reality.

The kids were off school yesterday. I went in and worked from 9-2, got my hours in. I came home and took everyone to Decatur for a late lunch at a place called Twain's Billiards and Tap. It's a funky bar, but the food is great. The kids could play darts and foozeball while Mother and I talked. Lots better ambiance than Fuddruckers. When we got there and sat down, Michael looked around at the long bar, the TV's, the poolroom in back, and said "What IS this place?" in an awed tone. "It's called A BAR," I answered. Nobody thought I was funny except me, but that's so often the case.

After his tennis match today, Michael said "We lost, Mom. Lost. I want to go back to that place and play darts again, now." Playing a dignified, civilized game like tennis doesn't appeal? You want to go throw pointed missiles at the wall opposite the men's room? I think not. You'll put your eye out.

I told him we could stop at McDonald's. I also wanted to say "You will probably hang out at bars a lot when you get to college, so let's not start now, you're too young." I held back, though. I didn't want to put ideas in his head.

It just occurred to me that college kids now probably don't drink much, since the drinking age is 21. I'm sure that stops them. I was able to legally drink at 18, and did. I could tell some stories. Another time.

Now I am happy to be an old teetotaler. Now, putting a shot of Fruit Punch into my Sprite is as wild and crazy as it gets.

Yesterday afternoon, I took the kids to see a new movie called Zombieland - yes, it's horror, but it's also comedy. It's very funny, and has some good performances. I am sure it will be a cult classic very soon. I wouldn't mind seeing it again, and that's high praise. I am already quoting my favorite line, uttered first by Woody Harrelson as a twinkie-loving gun-toting zombie killer extraordinaire: Time to nut up or shut up.

Other than tennis, today has been all about THE DANCE. Alesia was awake at 9 a.m., on a SATURDAY, which tells you her level of excitement.

The Homecoming dance is tonight. Alesia is as excited as I would be if, say, I dunno, ALIENS were fixing to invade. 

We were in Shoeland right after they opened this morning, buying her some spiky heeled shoes which I hope don't cause broken bones when she falls. For some unknown reason she wouldn't take my advice and wear sensible flats. No, she could kill someone with the spiky shoes, and that's good. Any pimply faced horndog male person who tries to touch her should be impaled upon said spiky heel. She just rolled her eyes when I tried to talk about high heels as weapons. I am so not funny, according to the Eye Rolling Queen.

Then she had to have a teeny tiny evening purse. Then she wanted to go to Party City and get a cute mask, because the kids are wearing masks. Then she got mad because I didn't go in to Party City with her, and didn't properly squeal when she showed me the black mask with glittery silver spangles on it. I  did not properly appreciate its beauty. I am such a rube.

"Why don't you LOVE my mask?" she whimpered, wild-eyed and nearly hysterical, as she got out of the car at home. I rolled my eyes. "Alesia, masks are for ugly girls. You are a beautiful girl. You really want all that beauty covered up?!" I said. "YES!!" she shrieked, and stomped off into the house.

What.EVER! I thought. I can use that word too.

I took some photos. She was appalled, at first, that I would photograph her before she had straightened her hair, but I told her she looked beautiful. I also persuaded her to wear actual lipstick, for the photo. She will not wear lipstick tonight. That's OK. Straight hair and lip gloss will mean she looks her age, not like a siren to the boys. 

 

Yeah, I know. Leave me my delusions, OK?! 

I am not taking her to the dance. I don't think my ears could stand it. She and her friend Elena are being chauffered by Elena's dad, who is younger than me, and has three daughters. He's used to a high level of giggling and shrieking.

I can stay here in my bathrobe and simply try to not worry.

I might go crazy and mix Sprite with Fruit Punch, though.

 

Ranting Hormonal Mess

Before I really get into the meat of this post I must tell you something. I am a big 'ol hormonal mess today. Mental-pause is kicking my butt. I took my maca root like a good girl. I am drinking water. I am breathing deeply. I am praying. I am calm on the outside and a blubbering mess on the inside.

Got up this morning and was horrified to see my, um, "monthly friend," had returned. Haven't seen said friend in well over a year. I was rejoicing that my monthly friend had gone away forever, and here she was, back again. I nearly fainted.

While Michael and I were eating breakfast [Alesia leaves for school early] there was a story on Today about a little girl in Florida who has cancer. I can barely type that without bawling. I started crying hysterically into my eggs. Michael looked alarmed, grabbed the remote and changed the TV to HGTV, and handed me the box of kleenex. Kleenex is my friend.

I come into the office and have a few minutes, so I call to check out the rollover of my Home Depot 401K into an IRA. No money has rolled anywhere. I get on the phone to everyone. I nearly drive the poor woman at Wachovia into a hissy. I am sure she now hates my guts. I pull everything out of my purse looking to see if I can find a deposit slip. No. I finally call Home Depot benefits and they say they will send me another check, to the same place. HUH?! That didn't work before, so why do you think it would work now? We cannot change what's in the computer, I am told. At the end of the conversation the perky she-devil talking to me says "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I snarl "You can give me something to CALM ME DOWN!" and there is dead silence on the other end of the phone. "You get some rest now, hon," she says quickly, then hangs up.

I hang up and start crying hysterically.

I have no kleenex in my office. I have 500 napkins from various food places. Napkins stink compared to Kleenex. My sinuses clog up and close for the day, so I can only breathe out of my  mouth. My assistant tries to calm me down. The attorney looks alarmed. I go out to the lobby to cry in the bathroom.

Finally I calm down. This was accomplished by saying the 23rd Psalm over and over again.

I open up an email and see I have to go to the courthouse in Decatur this afternoon.

I hope nobody there gives me a hard time.

If so, they may find my enormous menopausal self having a major tantrum on the floor, crying hysterically.

It's happened before, but not in about 44 years. (Remember, Mom?!)

QUICK RANTS: Jon and Kate need to get off my TV. I despise them both and they are both horrible parents. I don't watch the show but I had to listen to a long conversation about them in the office this morning. Yikes. / Marie Osmond on those Nutrisystem commercials looks like a drag queen. She scares me. Nutri system food is HORRIBLE, BTW... / Why is it that Congress can vote for pay raises for themself?! Why can't we overturn that brilliant rule?! / I do not like David Letterman any more. / Why do people on Facebook "friend" me and then I never hear from them again? Do we need to re-define "friend"?? / Is my dog neurotic or do all dogs try to torture and eat bees that fly into the house?! / Why are we arguing about universal healthcare? Why can't we just make Medicare available to everyone who isn't otherwise insured??
 

// Am I going to need hormones?! I hope not. I am going to take extra maca root and pray a lot...

Funny and a Video [Sorry about the cartoons]

It's been a nonstop day and I am exhausted. More tomorrow. In the meantime - have a laugh -

I tried to put some cartoons on here but they didn't show up.. hmmm...

A frog goes into a bank and approaches the teller. He can see from her nameplate that her name is Patricia Whack.

"Miss Whack, I'd like to get a $30,000 loan to take a holiday.."

Patty looks at the frog in disbelief and asks his name. The frog says his name is Kermit Jagger, his dad is Mick Jagger, and that it's okay, he knows the bank manager.

Patty explains that he will need to secure the loan with some collateral.

The frog says, "Sure. I have this," and produces a tiny porcelain elephant, about an inch tall, bright pink and perfectly formed.

Very confused, Patty explains that she'll have to consult with the bank manager and disappears into a back office.

She finds the manager and says, "There's a frog called Kermit Jagger out there who claims to know you and wants to borrow $30,000, and he wants to use this as collateral."

She holds up the tiny pink elephant. "I mean, what in the world is this?"

The bank manager looks back at her and says...

"It's a knickknack, Patty Whack. Give the frog a loan, His old man's a Rolling Stone."


(You're singing it, aren't you?)

This lovely video made me cry, but you should watch it. It's about dogs and God. 

Cake and Drama

Last night I was helping Michael with his homework and Alesia came in and announced she was going to make a Sour Cream Pound Cake, and where is the recipe?! I told her she would need supervision while making it. She had never made a cake from scratch before.

Michael was not happy that I departed a few minutes later for the kitchen. He came down while we were baking, whining about not being able to lick the bowl or the beaters because of tennis practice. That’s life, son.

Alesia has a public mode and a private mode, like all of us. The private mode is about 14-15 years old and can best be described as either Drama Queen and wanting to run the show, or totally quiet – as in, plugged into a computer, Nintendo, or MP3 player. The public mode is quiet and shy.

So I’m showing her how to measure sugar and flour for the cake, and I told her with most things we cook, we can be sloppy but with a cake, you have to be precise. She seemed to understand that. While we were measuring flour, she started to dump an overflowing cup of flour in the cake and I hollered “No!” She looked at me and gasped. “Don’t SCREAM at me” I sighed. “Alesia, you didn’t scrape off the excess with the knife like I showed you. You can’t put that in.” My voice was raised but it wasn’t filled with venom, and except for “No” I hadn’t yelled.

Alesia reacted like I had told her to cut her head off. “I AM NOT DOING THIS ANY MORE! I DON’T LIKE BEING SCREAMED AT!!” she screamed. “Alesia, come on, I just want you to do it right so the cake will be good -“ I started, but she was already out of the kitchen, flouncing upstairs.

I finished the cake myself, after a frantic search to find Michael’s tennis racquet and get his prosthetic arm on securely. He has a special tennis hand which allows him to serve the ball normally.

After I had the cake in the oven and dinner under control, I called Alesia to come downstairs. I had Mother explain to her that cakes have to be carefully measured. Alesia denied doing it wrong. I argued that I was standing less than a foot away. We bickered for a minute. She never backed down. Mother took my side, but was very gentle.

Such is life with a teenage girl.

When the cake finally came out of the oven, after dinner, both kids went on and on about how good it is. “Y’all, homemade cakes are always better than mix cakes, although there’s nothing wrong with a mix cake,” I said. Mother said the same thing, in her own words. Mix cakes are easier and not bad, but there is something magical and wonderful [and pure, with less chemicals] about a cake made from scratch.

One of my happiest childhood memories is making pound cakes with my grandfather. I had a little flour sack apron and he had a big apron, and he would tie my apron on me and put me on a stool in the kitchen, to be his “helper.” My grandfather, Bob Hasty, who was 6’4 and had hands the size of dinner plates, made the best pound cakes ever. He wasn’t a cook, but he had learned to make cakes after he retired because he loved cakes so much.

Every time I eat pound cake, I savor it, and at the same time I miss Papa.

This is my cousin Jan's recipe for pound cake, and it ROCKS:

 

Sour Cream Pound Cake

½ lb. real butter

2 cups sour cream 

3 cups sugar

3 cups plain flour

6 eggs

3 tsp. flavoring (vanilla or use ½ vanilla and ½ almond)

½ tsp. soda

1. Cream real butter and sugar
2. Mix in eggs
3. Alternate flour with sour cream
4. Save out a tbsp. of sour cream
5. Add flavoring
6. Put in the last spoonful of sour cream
7. Add the soda

Bake on Layers for 30 to 40 min. on 325 degrees.

[NOTE: If you bake it in a bundt pan, not layers, it takes about an hour and 15 minutes]

I reviewed the movie 17 Again on Scribblerchick's Movie Dish. Check it out. Cute movie for teens. 

Fab Abs and Tomato Grabbing

Yesterday was such a beautiful day, I thanked God for it, after all the rain we've had.

We got our roof fixed today, at a cost of $125. Others have suffered so much more damage. I feel very fortunate. We dropped off a big donation at Goodwill the other day, in an effort to help the flood victims.

I try to think of how blessed I am, and remember those things when times are rocky. I lost my temper with Alesia a couple of times over the weekend and it was hard to reign myself in, but I tried. As Mother pointed out last night, even though Alesia is emotionally several years behind her peers, she is also basically a sweet girl. I don’t have that many problems with her. I certainly haven’t had her trying to run around and party and break all my rules. By the time I was 18, I had done a lot of stupid things typical of a teenager, and Alesia hasn’t done any.

 I look at both my kids, who are very healthy, do well in school, and are good about helping me around the house 90% of the time, and I thank God for them.

 I love them more than my life, but as I often counsel other parents, love is simply not enough, not with any child. You have to talk to them, all the time. You have to be very clear about your values.

 We talk about things. Even though it makes them uncomfortable, I talk to my kids about drugs, very specifically. We talk about what to do if somebody offers them a joint or a pill or some blow. We see movies with characters who are drug users and then talk about it afterwards. Sometimes we talk about alcohol abuse, but they know too much about that already. They have seen how alcohol wrecks lives. On some level they know if their birthmoms had not been alcoholics they would never have seen the inside of an orphanage.

 When I hear about kids who have done really stupid things, I wonder if parents have really talked to their kids. I think kids need to be told explicitly what not to do, and different possible scenarios need to be discussed. The idea that “just say No” could be effective is ridiculous.

 We also talk about being responsible with bodies, but probably not enough. Neither of my kids is dating yet, so I don’t go into that a lot, but I will. Alesia already knows my feelings, and I suspect that is exactly why she doesn’t date. I don’t think many of the boys she knows would meet my standards, because they are high.

 Alesia was telling me the other day about a boy she likes and she said “He is really nice and he has the best abs of anyone I have ever seen!” in a tone of voice like this made him someone to be revered. I just said “Well, boys who spend a lot of time bodybuilding and worrying about their appearance are usually jerks.” She really bristled at that. “He is NOT a jerk! He is REALLY nice!” I mainly just said that because I want her to think about the boy’s character, and not just be dazzled by muscles. She judges boys on a very superficial level right now.

 One reason I hate for my kids to watch TV is that so many of the messages just bombard them, on a subtle level, and they don’t have the judgment to reject the messages that are harmful or just idiotic.

Kids are told what to wear, what products are “cool” and how to behave, by television. Even the news is brought to them in 1 minute sound bytes, never explained in depth.

 I watched a lot of TV as a kid. However, we didn’t have cable TV until I was in college. There were 3 channels. I heard this  a lot from my mother: “Turn OFF the TV and get outside and PLAY!” I watched a lot of Gilligan’s Island, Beverly Hillbillies, Andy Griffith, the old Dick Van Dyke Show, and Captain Kangaroo. The only lasting impact was that I can sing all those theme songs (or whistle them) note perfect.

 I let my kids watch TV last night for a few minutes while I finished dinner. I left the room to go to the bathroom and when I returned, they were watching a horror movie. I told them to turn it  OFF, since I don’t allow horror movies in my house. They protested loudly. I said “Any movie showing a woman screaming in terror and being eaten by ZOMBIES IS A HORROR MOVIE, y’all.” Duh.

 

 

Funny moment at dinner tonight. Mike started to eat his sliced tomatoes with his hand, and he was talking at the same time, just absentmindedly picking up his tomato. Mother didn't want to interrupt him, but put his hand forcefully back down on the table. Alesia noticed that move and was so startled she burst out laughing and grits flew out of her mouth. Everyone broke up. Mother was laughing so hard she could barely gasp out "Michael! You know better than to eat with your hands!"