The Crab Chronicles

Bugged

Well, I didn't even try to go to work today, as I was unable to get much sleep last night due to this rotten cold. I figured maybe a day of rest and vitamins would prevent it turning into something worse. Talking is also painful. Upper respiratory issues always give me laryngitis.

I don't have much to write about, since I was out of commission most of the day.

Mother told me something funny, though. Coco often misses her piddle pads, and we all go on "poop alert" in the early morning. Due to her arthritis, Mother has developed a strategy for poop management in her part of the house. She tosses some toilet paper atop the poo, then takes her "grabber" and gets it up that way, then deposits it in the toilet and flushes. The grabbed prevents her from having to bend over. Coco is the only dog I know who poops in the toilet, albeit indirectly. Her "tootsie roll" sized poops are usually not any big deal.

So last night around 3 a.m. Mother got up to tinkle, and spotted a poop on the floor of her bathroom. She didn't have on her glasses. She grabbed the TP and the grabber and did the usual, but as soon as she approached the poop, it grew legs and scuttled away! Mother was startled, then amused. She was chasing around a palmetto bug trying to trap it and kill it for a few minutes, laughing hysterically the whole time. She finally managed to grab it and deposit it in the toilet, before she remembered they are called "water bugs" for a reason. So she poured Clorox in the bowl before flushing. If he wasn't a dead bug, he was at least clean when he went on his amazing journey down the pipes...

I was going to put a photo of a palmetto bug here, but I couldn't find one I like. They are essentially big 'ol roaches that come out a lot at night. We are having our first real cold snap of the season, with freezing temps at night, so it's driving them inside.

I HATE palmetto bugs. I used to see them in the dorm in college and used my 8 lb. volume of the complete works of Shakespeare to kill them. Nothing crushes a bug with a bigger crunch than The Bard of Avon...

FINALLY

My friend Stephanie over in North Carolina has 7 children adopted from Eastern Europe, some of them with special needs. She has just started blogging and I love her blog. She was talking in this post today about folks asking her why she adopted older children. I like her answer a lot. I feel exactly the same. I have experienced many "firsts" with my kids, proving you don't have to adopt a baby to have those magical experiences. 

Goals and Goats

If my life were a song it would be called “On the Road Again,” or perhaps, “More Than a Feeling” or, more poetically, that timeless classic, “Boogie Oogie Oogie.” If you can hear those songs in your head as you read the titles, you are either over 40 or very weird…

The weekend was all about pursuing goals. Yesterday, I got up early and drove Alesia to her final SAT prep class. On the way I had to stop and get her some coffee at McDonald’s so she would be coherent, and then we passed hundreds of people running down the street – some charity “fun run” which I think is a total misnomer. Runners never look relaxed and happy, they look like they are being pursued by attack dogs. Then we got into the school parking lot and the band or some organization was handing out vast quantities of citrus fruits, and highly annoyed that we were there for an academic reason which had nothing to do with fruit. I dropped Alesia as close to the door as possible, then gunned and took off, escaping the Fun Runners and Fruit People as quickly as possible.

The second goal was Kroger. Mother and I sat like generals planning food for the next week, including Thanksgiving dinner. The irony is, we will only be feeding two extra people on Thanksgiving day, Bruce and Lesleigh. Since we made the turkey and dressing a couple of weeks ago and put them in the freezer, I am not stressed. We are free to clean up and make pies, always my favorite part of Thanksgiving – the pies, not the cleaning. Kroger is inundated with Christmas stuff, which ticks me OFF. Out with Halloween, in with Christmas. Skipped Thanksgiving altogether. I saw one little toy turkey, that was IT. Ridiculous. Christmas trees are everywhere already.

It was 60 degrees yesterday. Hard to think Christmas when you’re wondering if you need to wear sunscreen while you rake leaves. I don’t expect people anywhere else in the country to understand this. This is HOT-Lanta, where you turn on the heat at night and the air conditioner in the afternoon. If you’re in my house you don’t open the windows, not ever. Why? Mother has allergies and asthma. I have sinus issues. Fresh air means pollen and pollen is the bane of our existence. Michael has been very sniffy of late, too. I dream of the day when they invent an antidote to pollen, and I can get a nice screened-in porch.

Today, goal #2 was accomplished, the scrubbing of the kitchen floor. A few years ago, before Michael came home, we had 4 rolling chairs at the kitchen table. The floor is rough-textured tile. The wheels kept breaking off the chairs. They were cheap chairs. Finally, we got rid of most of the chairs. Now we have mismatched but totally functional chairs, including a very nice rolling chair for Mother that a kind neighbor gave to us. So we don’t need the carpet. The carpet was getting really dirty and was difficult to clean. So I got the kids to help me this morning and we got the icky carpet off the tile, and scrubbed the tile. The tile is tricky. It doesn’t show dirt. It gets very dirty, however.

We had lunch at Twains, a favorite Decatur haunt now. The weather was cold and rainy, so it was nice to be inside. All our sandwiches were terrific. Michael stuffed himself with nachos. Michael and I had two tacos – the menu said “the taco of the day.” Now, I know “the soup of the day” – a/k/a the soup du jour, but I was unaware of variations on tacos. Our tacos were soft, and were stuffed with chicken, chipotle sauce, fried onions, and blue cheese crumbles. Sounds weird but they were great. I also enjoyed black beans. After we ate, the kids went off the throw darts, and Mother and I could talk. The food is better than Fuddruckers and darts are cheaper than the videogames, so it’s a winner in my book.

 

 
I love this poster, because the profiles spoof much more "serious" posters and it also looks very 1950's.

We came home and got Mother settled in, then the kids and I went to see the new George Clooney movie, Men Who Stare At Goats. I put that imdb link almost reluctantly, because the idiot who reviewed it on imdb clearly didn’t understand the movie at all. It was about the army training special “psychic jedi,” and the whole premise is farcical. It spoofed the army and the new agey stuff equally. I thought it was going to be very anti-military, but was glad to see it was pretty even-handed. It was funny. I confess, I really just wanted to see Ewan MacGregor. What a hunk. Clooney has never interested me – reminds me too much of my brother – major ick factor there. Ewan, though, what a hottie.

Below, see Ewan and George together. George looks ancient, and seems to have dentures. Even Jeff Bridges, who is much older than Clooney, is a lot sexier, in my book.

 

 

A while back I wrote a funny little poem for a website run by a friend of mine, Vox Poetica. If you want a giggle, check it out here.

The Giant Slide and Chocolate Math

Yesterday's post kind of stunk, didn't it?! I was oostala - that's Russian for tired. I almost didn't post at all but then I though nah, the nice folks at CSN sent me the chair, I should post about that. It's a really nice chair and I am delighted with it. I am not using it in my office though, it's at the kitchen table. [FYI, my "office" is a corner of my bedroom.]

Today, all I have done today is take the kids back to the waterpark, and cook a pork roast for dinner - well OK, I stuck the roast in a slow cooker, but anyway... [Note: if you scroll down this page you will see some photos from when we went to this same waterpark last week.]

The waterpark -the same one where we got rained out last week - was too much fun. Alesia invited Elena and Michael invited Matthew, another tennis buddy. I wish I had a bigger car and I could've invited more kids. I have discovered I like taking kids on outings like to the water park. The kids are sweet and well behaved, and swimming and splashing and going down the slides exhausts them and makes them hungry. So in the car, we stopped at Chick Filet, and everyone got a sandwich and a drink, and they were happy, even though I forgot to ask for ketchup.

Wet kids, stuffed full of fried chicken, singing along to "It's Too Late to Compromise" on the radio, in my old car. [That's the song with the guy in the background going "erp" - which I love to imitate.] It doesn't get any better than that.

I went down the giant slide! It took both girls encouraging me and helping me get in the contraption at the top, and I was off, hurtling down the plastic tube filled with water. I was making soprano singing sounds I haven't made in years - get your mind out of the gutter - I meant soprano choir sounds, y'all. It was the most fun I've had in ages that didn't involve chocolate.

Speaking of chocolate, my mother sent me the neatest email, except every time I see it I crave chocolate. Enjoy.

YOUR AGE BY CHOCOLATE MATH:

Don't tell me your age; you'd probably lie anyway-but the Hershey Man will know! YOUR AGE BY CHOCOLATE MATH This is pretty neat. DON'T CHEAT BY SCROLLING DOWN FIRST! It takes less than a minute . Work this out as you read . Be sure you don't read the bottom until you've worked it out! This is not one of those waste of time things, it's fun. 1. First of all, pick the number of times a week that you would like to have chocolate (more than once but less than 10) 2. Multiply this number by 2 (just to be bold) 3. Add 5 4. Multiply it by 50 -- I'll wait while you get the calculator 5. If you have already had your birthday this year add 1759 .. If you haven't, add 1758. 6. Now subtract the four digit year that you were born.   You should have a three digit number The first digit of this was your original number (i.e., how many times you want to have chocolate each week). The next two numbers are   YOUR AGE! (Oh YES, it is!!!!!) THIS IS THE ONLY YEAR (2009) IT WILL EVER WORK, SO SPREAD IT AROUND WHILE IT LASTS. Chocolate Calculator.

 

Cheering Myself Up

It’s been a very blah day. I am not in a good mood. Be warned.

 

I finished The Fixer Upper, which was excellently entertaining, but ended rather abruptly. I wanted to read more. I guess that’s the sign of a good author. Or perhaps Mary Kay Andrews was just sick of writing. Who knows.

 

Mother needed a pedicure, so I took us all to the mall. Alesia agreed to push her around the mall in exchange for a pedicure of her own. I read while they did that. I don't like pedicures. The thought of someone touching my feet makes me shudder. I have hobbit-like feet which should remain encased in Crocs at all times while in public.

 

We then went to the book store. Alesia found several books. I was glad she wanted books, since she got Sims games for her birthday and she already has spent serious computer time engrossed in the Sims. I do not understand why virtual people are so fascinating, but it’s fairly harmless entertainment.

 

We had lunch at a little Mexican restaurant where the food is very reasonable. I was ticked they didn’t have the TV on today. Our waitress also appeared to have the IQ of guacamole. She spoke perfectly fine English. We had to repeat every order 3 times, though. The funniest thing was that Mother ordered a Dos Equis. [That’s a beer, for you teetotalers.] When she had finished writing down the food order Mother said, “Don’t forget my Dos Equis!” and the waitress replied “OK, you want two eckees!” Alesia intervened. “No, Dos Equis is a beer! She only wants one!” When she had walked off, we all sat there giggling.

UPDATE ON THE BOOK

 

I finally received my bookmarks I had made to put in my books. They look very spiffy. I wish I had gotten them sooner, though.

 

I also got started on the postcards. I am sending promotional postcards to 66 of my nearest and dearest, many of whom have not seen or heard from me in years. I must confess, about half a dozen are going to attorneys I worked for in the past, not because I think they will buy a book, but because they always treated me like I was an idiot. I wanted them to know I’ve written and published a book. It’s a teeny weeny revenge. Being a paralegal can be really frustrating at times, because the good ol’ boys want to treat you like a bimbo or a moron. I have worked for a lot of good ol’ boys. At the opposite end of the spectrum, though, are attorneys who expect me to know everything they know, and practice law without a license. Encountering a semi-normal lawyer is rare.

 

I checked on sales of my books late this afternoon and it was discouraging. I am not selling as many books as I had hoped. I have been doing everything I know to do to promote the book. I just don’t seem to be getting anywhere, despite help from great buddies like Julia, Cindy B and Cindy L, and Martha over at rainbowkids.

 

I am also creaky with arthritis today. And I miss Michael. And all my squash plants are dead, for reasons I cannot guess. My feet itch! I need to balance my checkbook and I’d rather set my hair on fire! Aaaargh!

 

So, in an effort to cheer myself up, I’m announcing

 

A CONTEST!!

 

I saw this photo on my friend Nic’s Facebook photos page and thought, this little lady has the cutest expression on her face. The person who comes up with the funniest caption for this photo will win a free copy of my book. I will not judge the entries, to be fair. I will let Alesia and Mother tell me which one they think is funniest or most clever. So study on this photo and leave me a comment with your best shot at a funny/cute/clever caption! Winner announced Sunday. Contest closes at midnight on Saturday June 12 at midnight EST.

Missing My Babies

Tomorrow is the first day of July. YAY! I have already flipped both calendars to July. June was not a great month in so many ways, chief among them because I was laid off, of course.

 

My brother got in pretty late last night, and we had a short visit before everyone headed off to bed. This morning, I was the first one up, as always, and out the door to water the garden. I made a cup of tea and was eating some cereal before the Major even came downstairs. Highly unusual, but he had a long day yesterday.

 

Within a short time, the kids were packed and headed off to the North Georgia mountains to camp at Amicalola Falls State Park. Being a mom, even though Bruce assured me there was plenty of food and water in the truck, I had to do certain things. I had to interrogate him about his medical kit. I had to pack a small backpack with apples, oranges, bottles of water, and a sleeve of Ritz crackers. I had to pack extra towels and light blankets in a bag with extra flashlights, soap, a small sewing kit, and salt and pepper. I went over the packing list with Michael. I checked his bag. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped his pocket knife, camera, and a yoyo into his backpack.

 

I pulled Alesia aside and told her to look after Michael and be a little mommy if he needed her. I pulled Michael aside and told him if Bruce wasn’t around [like in the shower or the bathroom] to look after Alesia and protect her. I pulled Bruce aside and quietly told him that Michael needs lots of hugs and Alesia is afraid of the dark. I told all of them to look after each other. Am I nervous? Anxious? No. Of course not.

 

Well, not until after they left. Then Mother decides to tell me that Bruce said he would only tell the kids one rule: if they see a bear, get under the truck. Huh? A BEAR? He took my babies out where there are BEARS???!!  I was sorely tempted to drink my lunch out of the Harvey’s Bristol Crème bottle I have stashed away. [I didn’t though! Nothing but cooking wine has touched my lips in more than 4 years.]

 

Now, I won’t say I miss the kids, but look at the photo below of Coco. The look on her face is exactly how I feel. I miss my babies. The house is way too quiet.

 

I spent the afternoon working on book marketing and talking to a couple of different friends on the phone. For dinner, Mother and I split the leftover shrimp dip from the party and some leftover beef stew from last night. We watched CNN and the coverage of Michael’s Jackson’s death spectacle. Obviously he was super talented, but now it’s coming out how screwed up he was also. What a tragedy. I just hope and pray his children stay together and wind up in a loving home.

 

Bruce called late this afternoon. I talked to both the kids. They had their campsite set up and everything was going well. I could hear in their voices that they are having fun. I just hope they can sleep tonight.

 

When Michael was with his birthmom and they were homeless I know he slept outside a lot. I hope the camping experience doesn’t bring back bad memories.

 

Alesia took this photo of Mike the other day and I just love it. He was at the pool, and happy.

 

 

Here are a couple of photos Alesia made at the aquarium a couple of weeks ago. Top - Anya, Alesia, and Frank's wife Laura. Bottom, Mike and his friend Clay.

 

My friend Cindy posted a lovely review of my book on her blog. Check it out. Thanks, Cindy! Also, my friend Julia posted a nice review on her site, Brainella. Thanks!! Blessed are the current and former librarians!

Wonderfully Made, Or Not

My friend Andrea over at The Creative Junkie just posted a hysterical piece about how she explained the birds & bees to her 5 year old, after finding the child and a friend playing Ken and Barbie make a baby. I'm sure that was horrible for Andrea. My heart goes out to her.

When Alesia came home, I realized that I was now parent to a 13 year old girl and I had no idea if she knew anything about where babies came from. She was physically about the size and shape of an American 10 year old, and had not started her periods, but I had to do something.

I remembered my poor grandmother, raised in a proper Victorian home where babies arrived every year or two and nobody knew anything. She started her periods and thought she was dying of some terrible disease, until one of her 6 sisters set her straight. I didn't want that to happen to Alesia.

I invited my friend Kate, who is a Russian interpreter/translator, to come over and visit, about two days after we arrived back home from Moscow. Alesia was still getting used to fast food and microwave ovens.

Kate was great about explaining things to Alesia in Russian. While she was there it occurred to me I needed her help. Kate agreed to explain the facts of life to Alesia in Russian, which was extraordinarily kind of her.

First, Kate asked Alesia if she knew anything about sex or where babies come from. Alesia said yes, of course, a man and woman take off their clothes and get in bed. That was it. That was all she knew. I wish we could have stopped right there, but I knew it was important for Alesia to understand her own body and how it worked. Kate explained the whole thing, in detail. I was fascinated by the hand gestures. Kate must be part Italian, somewhere in her background, because she has very expressive hands. Alesia's eyes were huge, wide as saucers, much the same expression as she has in this photo, made less than a week before she got here:

Still, when she finally got her period it was horrific, for both of us. Lots of pain, and mess. The language barrier was still an issue. More troubling was the fact she had forgotten a lot of Kate's talk and was just horrified by the whole situation. I was, too. Lots of crying, done by us both.

Now things are fine, except for the PMS. I won't even go there.

With me, Mother tried to explain scientifically, exactly what happens. I was 9 years old, and Mother knew I was in danger of starting my periods early, which in fact did happen. So Mother gave me a book and told me to read it. It was called Wonderfully Made. I Googled the book title, just for fun, and I found this funny blog which shows a lot of the illustrations from the book. As you can see, it was not a very informative book. I realized pretty quickly that amidst all the neato illustrations, there was no real explanation of how the sperm and egg actually got together. That was a crucial piece of information and I was outraged that book didn't cover it. Curiosity was my undoing.

Sometime around this same time, the early 1970's, my parents purchased a book called The Joy of Sex. I am sure they tried to hide it from us, but my brother and I found it. It had beautiful pen and ink drawings of a hippie couple having sex. The biggest fascination for me was the carefully drawn armpit hair on the woman. Up until then, our main source of information was the Better Homes and Gardens baby book, which had a small photo of a woman breastfeeding a baby.

When Mike turned 12, I felt like I probably needed to go ahead and explain things to him, because he was going into adolescence. Actually, the moment I saw a pimple on his face I had a panic attack, thinking, OMG, I need to explain all the icky boy stuff to him like unwanted erections and wet dreams and I have only the vaguest idea of how to talk about those things...

I emailed my brother and several close male friends to see if any of them would be willing to talk to Michael about the facts of life and all the icky boy stuff. To my surprise, none of them jumped at the chance. My brother, ever the diplomat, expressed complete disinterest in the whole situation.

I was telling Mother about it and she reminded me that when my father tried to explain the facts of life to my brother Bruce, it was a disaster. First, he sat Bruce down and tried to talk to him. Bruce ran out of the room and was not seen again for hours.  Next, Dad took Bruce out on the lake, in our boat. He went out to the middle of the lake and cut off the engine. As soon as he started the spiel, Bruce jumped out and swam to shore. Finally, Dad got Bruce in the car and got on the interstate, doing about 70 mph, and Bruce was trapped. Dad explained the whole thing. At the end of the speech, Bruce said "I knew all that already. How fast are you going again?" They got home and Bruce was not seen again for hours.

With me, I had the vague and inadequate Wonderfully Made. Then I got an explanation from Mother that left me completely puzzled. It took years for me to figure out what happened between a man and a woman, and I remember thinking, Ken and Barbie cannot do that because their arms and legs aren't flexible enough. I secretly hoped I didn't have to grow armpit hair to make a baby. Sometime during this whole thing, we saw a film in school where a hippie couple gave birth in a lagoon, which looked a little weird but not too bad, and another one where they showed the baby emerging from the screaming mother covered in blood and ick. I thought to myself OK, this is worse than a horror movie. No way can that not hurt like hell.

Around the same time, I asked Dad what he thought the first time he saw me. That was a loaded question. With Bruce, Mom kept going in and out of labor, for a week. He couldn't make up his mind to be born. Mom would have pains, and they'd go to the hospital. The pains would stop, and they'd go home. Finally, there was a horribly long labor, and Dad set up a card table in the waiting room. All his friends came and they played poker, drank beer, smoked, and grew facial hair. Mom was down the hall dealing with a boy and a kidney infection. That was 1959.

In 1962, with me, Mom waited until the last minute to tell anyone she was in labor. I was almost born in a folding chair at a 4th of July Party while Mother ate barbeque and peaches, except the host of the party was her doctor. He noticed she was wincing every few minutes. Next thing you know, he gives Mother something to slow the labor, pops her over to the hospital, reaches in and unwraps the cord from around my neck, and there I was. By the time Dad got there with the beer and the poker chips, I had arrived. He said he took one look at me and, he told me later, he thought "She looks like a skint squirrel."

Thank you, Pappy Yoakum. What a Hallmark moment.

Anyway, I digressed. Back to Michael.

With Mike, I wasn't sure of all his English words, and so my explanation had to be rudimentary. He kept looking at me like, you've GOT to be kidding me. I finally ended up drawing pictures. He got a look on his face similar to the one below. I started explaining the icky boy stuff and he bellowed "I KNOW!! Stop talking!" and it occurred to me since we weren't in a moving car, I better be quiet.

Now, I have already decided that when I have adolescent grandchildren, I am going to volunteer to tell them the facts of life. I'm not going to provide icky details of anything. I am going to say when a mommy and dadddy want a baby - or when a single lady pushing 40 wants a baby by herself instead of waiting for Mr. Right Now - they call an agency, do a homestudy, and some months later, there's a new baby in the house. I like that. Clean and tidy.

Or I will just tell them to Google "procreation."

Not YouTube though. No reason to go there.
 

Squatters v. Carnivores

As soon as I got in today I had a call from the orthodontist office telling me the doctor is out of town and can’t fix Mike’s braces until Monday. Yesterday they weren’t even answering the phone. They only work 3.5 days a week. I am going to encourage my kids to either become orthodontists or work in an orthodontist office because wow, sticking your hands in some pimply kid’s mouth might just be worth it for those kinds of perks…

Nobody has been leaving me any comments lately, which makes me sad. So I am going to see if we can’t stir things up a bit. Fasten your seatbelts for some rants. [evil chuckle]

I have discovered, to my dismay, that two work colleagues are Squatters. We were chatting yesterday and somehow bathrooms came up, and I mentioned my horror of the squatty potties I encountered in Russia and Kazakhstan. I was informed that everyone should always squat because toilet seats are so disgusting, and squatting is more natural. It was hard to control my temper when I heard that from two ridiculously skinny women who have probably never had to use an unlighted outhouse in the middle of nowhere with freeze dried poop blowing around on the floor, right near the hole where one must to squat to wee wee. Plus there were howling 50 mph winds outside. One outhouse I used, I could barely open the door to escape, the winds were so bad. I have experienced those outhouse horrors. I still have nightmares.

“Well, I just wish people who choose to squat wouldn’t wee wee all over the seats and leave it for the rest of us to sit on,” I said pleasantly. They both denied that. Maybe they have rock hard thigh muscles and they’re telling the truth. Who knows. I wouldn’t bet money on it, though.

I don’t fear toilet seats. I actually wash my hands after every potty experience. I don’t touch the potty. I flush with my foot and open the door, when possible, with my left hand or elbow. I am rarely sick. So there.

We chatted some more. I was then informed, indirectly but firmly, that I was a moron to eat meat. I pleasantly pointed out that my son was so malnourished he was not even on the growth charts when I adopted him, and I feel the concentrated protein in meat helped him grow strong. He has grown over 12 inches and gained more than 30 lbs. in 2 years. He’s very healthy and not overweight. (Calm down vegetarians, everyone is entitled to their opinion.) I just don’t like being told I am inferior because I eat meat. I don’t believe that. I could point out a number of folks I know who lived well past age 90 and ate meat all their lives. Some of them smoked, too.

You don’t want to eat meat? Fine. Just don’t preach at me and treat me like an idiot.

Both these folks eat fish, BTW. So in my book, they aren’t really total vegetarians. I believe the term is “pescatarian.” Just be honest about it.

We eat more meat than I really like, simply because Mother has always had iron deficiencies and likes to eat meat every day. Maybe after she is gone I will cut down on my meat consumption. However, I am not going to be obnoxious about it.

There are some meats I won’t eat, however. I cannot eat internal organs like kidneys or livers. Can’t eat pork rinds. I won’t eat tongue or brains. Dad grew up eating pig brains. My Memaw used to eat pig’s feet. I can’t go there. I tell Mom when she eats pork rinds she’s really just eating a football.

I also won’t eat roadkill. I’ve seen recipes, though.

I ate horse when I was in Kazakhstan. I felt a bit weird about it, but I figured hey, it’s already dead. Might as well give it a try. Tasted like chewy beef. Not great. Not tender and tasty like alligator.

When I was a kid and we went to a restaurant, my brother would find the strangest thing on the menu and try it. He’s eaten gator, snake, organs, you name it. Put enough hot sauce on it, you can eat anything.

My dad grew up during the Depression. He liked to say “You get hungry enough, you can eat anything!” I never questioned how exactly he knew that. I also don’t watch “reality” shows where people eat bugs.

If you don’t eat regular meat but you eat bugs, are you a “bugatarian”? Just curious.

 

Alesia started Mike’s tutoring sessions today. I am paying her to tutor him 2-3 hours a day this summer, to try and help him be really prepared for 6^th grade next year. She can often get further with him than Mother or me. When I broached the subject with her the other day she said she would tutor him IF he would obey her. He piped up immediately and sweetly and said “Yes. I will do what you say!” He likes being tutored by her. I think it’s good for them both.

Mike went to bed right after dinner last night, as punishment for not finishing his chores. I actually think it was good for him. He was way tired. I had ordered the movie Sophie’s Choice from Netflix, and it’s more of a romantic girly movie anyway. Mike prefers movies were people run around a lot and things blow up.

Alesia was fascinated by Meryl Streep’s polish accent in the film. Streep got the accent just right. She sounds somewhat like Alesia did when she first started speaking English.

When we finished the movie tonight I talked to Alesia a little bit about the central themes of the movie, including Nathan’s madness. He was a paranoid schizophrenic.

I wish more research funds were available for helping mentally ill people, particularly children, because many families suffer when one family member is ill. I have friends who have adopted bipolar children, and there are simply too few resources. It’s tragic.

I had hot flashes this morning, and felt horrible. I try to think of them as power surges, but it doesn’t work. Since we’ve been out of town, I have not taken the maca root regularly. It eliminates the menopause symptoms naturally and is a miracle product. I felt so bad today, though, I had to come home and rest and drink ice water. Menopause stinks.

ADDENDUM

Several folks have asked me if maca root really works. The answer is YES. It's a miracle product. This is the kind I use.

A couple more beach shots...

 

Stinky Days

I was so wiped out last night after I got home, we just had grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner. I put a single slice of salami on Alesia’s sandwich and when she bit into it she made a face. “I don’t want salmon on here!” she exclaimed.

She gets the word “salmon” mixed up with the word “salami.”

I just calmly said “There is no fish on your sandwich.”

“Mo-om! You know what I mean!” she said.

“Use your words, honey.” I replied calmly.

“Salmami! Whatever. I didn’t want it on my sandwich!” she finally replied.

I would have been more sympathetic, if we hadn’t discussed the words “salami” and “salmon” within the past 24 hours.

I used sliced provolone in all the sandwiches. We have amassed 3 packages of provolone. Are we addicts?? No. It has been on sale at Kroger. I buy whatever sliced cheese is on sale, except Swiss. Nobody in the house like Swiss except Mother. It’s safe from predators at my house, and she can always count on finding it in the fridge, unlike, say, provolone or muenster.

Alesia likes provolone. A lot. She doesn’t like pronouncing it – that took a while, that multi-syllabic Italian word – but she likes it.

My mother had a craving for cherry pie when we were buying groceries Sunday, so we baked a Mrs. Smith’s cherry pie last night. To my astonishment, Alesia ate a piece. She usually doesn’t like fruit pie of any sort. Progress has been made. Or maybe she just added enough Cool Whip that the pie was barely tasteable.

Our movie last night was My Fair Lady, one of my favorite movies ever. Michael played Nintendo the entire time, except when he was eating his cherry pie. We only got halfway through it. Tonight he will half watch it and half play WWF Smackdown on his Nintendo. I bet $5 though that tomorrow he will be quoting back the one semi-naughty line from the film, when Eliza is watching the horse race and hollers “C’mon Dover, move yer bloomin’ arse!” We watched that part tonight.

Alesia reminds me a bit of Eliza. She giggled uncontrollably during the scene where the maids pull of Eliza’s clothes and try to get her into the bath. I have seen the movie so many times I don't know where the laughs are, but Alesia laughed a lot. It was great to see her enjoy it.

When Alesia tries to imitate Eliza’s Cockney accent, it’s so funny – she sounds southern.

 

I read Pioneer Woman's website every day, and I confess, I am a PW junkie. I never miss a day. Today’s personal section, called Confessions , was about PW getting really dirty last Sunday. I thought it was hilarious. You may or may not agree.

The most dirty I have ever been was when I was in high school and decided one Saturday to bathe all 3 of the dogs we had, who had been sprayed by a skunk. I put on a bathing suit and went to work, pulling each dog into the tub. Soap only made it worse. Club soda didn’t work. Tomato juice didn’t work. Trying to pour tomato juice over a wriggly 80 lb. mutt dog with an attitude is an experience I hope never to repeat.

Then I went to a rehearsal for a play. None of the other actors would go near me. I had showered. I thought I smelled OK. I was so wrong. I smelled like wet-skunky-tomato-dog. Any one of those smells isn’t pleasant, but the four together were like a nuclear warhead of stink, and I couldn’t disguise it with Dial soap. The director made me go home.

Ah, the humiliation. Time has dulled the memory only a bit. We were driving through the mountains the other day and accidentally rolled over a dead skunk, and the aroma filled my nostrils, which was not a happy experience.

I have suffered through days when I simply forgot deodorant, days of running around downtown in 100 degree heat, while wearing pantyhose and heels, days of navigating foreign airports while pressed against people with stinky BO, days of moving house in summer heat, etc. I have been pooped on, peed on, and thrown up on - and that was just by Coco.

A toddler once peed on me. I was in college, and she was the younger sister of my Little Sister. She was adorable. I took her to the movie with us and she fell asleep and wet me. Fortunately I was wearing overalls. After the movie, she woke up, look down at me, and screamed “I peed on Big Sister!!” Everyone in the theatre looked, which I thought was sort of amusing. Keisha, the toddler's sister, was horrified.

When my mother fell a few years ago and broke both shoulders, I had to clean up an alarmingly large pool of blood in our laundry room, and the smell of the blood almost made me gag. I don’t mind blood, but I don’t like to smell large amounts of it. 

Neither of my kids has ever thrown up or peed on me, for which I am eternally grateful. There are huge advantages to becoming a mom to older kids who don’t wear diapers…

Actually, cleaning up poop and pee is no big deal to me. I am really not squeamish. I compiled a list of worse things.

My Top Ten Things Worse Than Cleaning Up Poop or Pee

10.     Spending an evening with one of my past boyfriends.

9.      Washing skunk smell off of large dogs.

8.      Going to the Krystal. [I hate the smell]

7.      Going for a hike anywhere.

6.      Taking my kids to Whitewater [water park].

5.      Watching TV all afternoon.

4.      Eating broccoli.

3.      Smelling any of these things cooking all afternoon in my house: collards, turnip greens, kale, broccoli. 

2.      Getting a tattoo.

And the #1 thing worse than cleaning up poop or pee [drumroll please!]

1.      Being president of the United States at this moment in history!!

Yes, I would rather stick knitting needles in my eyes, or set my hair on fire, than have to deal with the mess our country is in at the moment. Whether you voted for him or not, you should all be praying President Obama makes good decisions and gets us out of this mess. I bet he would rather clean up poop or pee than deal with Congress any day. Far less stink involved in the former.

 

BOOK UPDATE

I have seen the cover for the new book, now entitled Adopting Alesia: The Crusade for My Russian Daughter. It’s so exciting to see that. I think I will be able to really start marketing it once the cover design is finished and it’s ready to roll off the presses. Hopefully that will be in the next couple of months. I am waiting on several other writers to finish reading the manuscript and give me endorsements.

Also, next month the anthology Call Me Okaasan will come out, with my essay in it, which is very exciting. This is a link to editor Suzanne Kamata’s blog, Gaijin Mama, which I read every day. Suzanne, an American, is married to a Japanese man and lives in Japan. She is an expert on multi-cultural mothering. You can pre-order the book now. Or you can wait and get an autographed copy from me in May. I will post more about it.

In The Wilds of North Georgia

Mother and I decided earlier this week that a trip to the mountains was in order. We wanted to take the kids to the Foxfire Museum. So we got up and headed north.

 

When one heads into rural North Georgia, cows can be observed on the side of the road, grazing peacefully in pastures. As soon as we saw our first cows, I pointed them out to Michael. After a moment of hesitation, his little voice piped up from the backseat. “Are those cows wild?!” he asked, a bit edgy. Mother and I chuckled. "They don't attack, son," I reassured him. [I actually fear cows. I didn't tell him that. There's a reason I chose to live in a large city...]

 

Unfortunately, since I wasn't chugging my usual huge mugs of tea starting at 7 a.m., I had a caffeine headache, and I got distracted. I didn’t take a turn I should’ve taken. Next thing I know, we’re in South Carolina. Yikes. I stopped at the Welcome Center and got directions to head back west, over to Dillard.

 

There were several places where it wasn’t clear where to go. I have my father’s terrible sense of direction and have been known to get us lost for hours. Mother got rather insistent that I stop and ask for directions. Heedless of the danger from wild cows, I stopped and found an affable young man coming out of a rundown grocery store, who kindly led me to the road I needed to be on.

 

I have a slight southern accent. When I am talking to a non-southerner, it dwindles to practically nothing. When I am talking at a family reunion, I sound like an extra on Hee Haw. My ear picks up whatever accent I’m hearing and I unconsciously imitate it. If I am really tired, however, I sometimes have an accent that just pops out strangely, although unmistakeably southern. When that happens, words like “hair” and “house” have two syllables. They become “hay-ur” and “hi-uss.” I sound like Memaw. I startle myself sometimes. Anyway, I digress.

 

The young man who gave me directions looked like a fraternity boy and had an accent that would make the extras on Hee Haw sound like Yankees. Wow. He said to me somewhat apologetically, “That road over the mountains is a hard way to go, ya hear?”

 

Well, he wasn’t kidding. We were in the back of nowhere. The road had more twists and turns and ups and downs than a soap opera. I got tickled at counting the churches. We saw one Church of God, and the rest were all Baptist. I mean, there were few houses, but there was a Baptist church every 2 miles, back there in the boonies. If I had to drive those roads at night I would probably need some extra religion too.

 

We finally made it to Dillard House and had lunch. We didn’t have time to go to the museum. The kids didn’t care. They sat in the back seat and played cards, or took photos out the window.

 

Dillard House has the best food on the planet. I kid you not. Food is served family style and a lot of it is grown locally, so it’s very fresh. We had: beef ribs, fried chicken, barbequed chicken, country fried steak, country ham, fried okra, baked acorn squash, blackeyed peas, creamed cabbage, creamed corn, potatoes au gratin, turnip greens, coleslaw, corn muffins, rolls, an blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. There was no way to eat it all, although Alesia tried. We brought a lot home. If you’re ever in the North Georgia mountains, try to get to Dillard House. It’s fabulous.

 

We came home and have had a really quiet rest of the day. The weather was beautiful – temps in the 60’s, and the kids spent a lot of time outdoors.

 

The nurse came and re-bandaged Mother’s leg, which still shows signs of the cellulitis. I hope it gets better soon.

 

Here are the kids on the porch at Dillard House.

Singing the Blues

It's been a pretty awful day. I took my car in for new brakes and ended up having to have more than $2,000 worth of work done. It's got over 150,000 miles on it and hasn't had anything but the tires and oil changed in several years but dadgum. I now have to re-figure my whole budget for the foreseeable future. No sense in doing that, though, until I hear the bad news from Michael's orthodontist next Monday. The boy needs braces, bad.

I had to wait around for my car and didn't get home until almost 7 p.m. Then I tried to help Michael with his homework and he was in an incredibly foul mood. I let him stay up too late last night. He went to bed right after dinner tonight.

I need to get some sleep myself.

Years ago I got this email, and I read it anytime I want to smile. I actually own several blues CD's. So this really makes me chuckle.

HOW TO SING THE BLUES...A PRIMER

 1.  Most Blues begin, "Woke up this morning..."

 2.  "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues.  Unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."

 3.  The Blues is simple: after you get the first line right, repeat it, then find something that rhymes.  Sort of: "Got a good woman with the meanest face in town.

Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town.
Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher, and she weigh 500 pound."

 4.  The Blues is not about choice: you stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch--ain't no way out.

 5.  Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks.  Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles.  Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train.  Jet aircraft and state-sponsored motor pools ain't even in the running.  Walkin' plays a major part in the blues lifestyle.  So does fixin' to die.

 6.  Teenagers can't sing the Blues.  They ain't fixin' to die yet.  Adults sing the Blues.  In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

 7.  Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or any place in Canada.  Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle are probably just clinical depression.  Chicago, St.  Louis, and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues.  You cannot have the blues in any place that don't get rain.

 8.  A man with male pattern baldness ain't the blues; a woman with male pattern baldness is.  Breaking your leg cause you were skiing is not the blues; breaking your leg cause a alligator be chomping on it is.

 9.  You can't have no Blues in a office or a shopping mall - the lighting is wrong.  Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

 10.  Good places for the Blues:

    a. highway

    b. jailhouse

    c. empty bed

    d. bottom of a whiskey glass

 11.  Bad places for the Blues:

    a.  Nordstrom's

    b.  gallery openings

    c.  Ivy League institutions

    d.  golf courses

12.  No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be a old ethnic person, and you slept in it.

 13.  Do you have the right to sing the Blues?

Yes, if:
    a.  you older than dirt

    b.  you blind

    c.  you shot a man in Memphis

    d.  you can't be satisfied

No, if:

    a.  you have all your teeth

    b.  you were once blind but now can see

    c.  the man in Memphis lived

    d.  you have a 401K or trust fund

 14.  Blues is not a matter of color, it's a matter of bad luck.  Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues; Sonny Liston could.  Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues.

 15.  If you ask for water and your darlin' give you gasoline, it's the Blues.  Other acceptable Blues beverages are:
    a.  cheap wine

    b.  whiskey or bourbon

    c.  muddy water

    d.  nasty black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages:
    a.  Perrier

    b.  Chardonnay

    c.  Snapple

    d.  Slim Fast

16.  If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death.  Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die.  So is the electric chair, substance abuse and dying lonely on a broken down cot.  You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

17.  Some Blues names for women:
    a.  Sadie

    b.  Big Mama

    c.  Bessie

    d.  Fat River Dumpling

18.  Some Blues names for men:
    a.  Joe

    b.  Willie

    c.  Little Willie

    d.  Big Willie

19.  Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.

20.  Make your own Blues name Starter Kit:
    a.  name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame,etc.)
    b.  first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Kiwi,etc.)
    c.  last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.)
    For example: Blind Lime Jefferson, Jakeleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc.

    (Well, maybe not "Kiwi.")

21.  I don't care how tragic your life: if you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues.