"We be JAMMIN'!"

Yes, I'm trying to come up with the worst rural fetish blogpost title ever. That one is definitely in the running.

Stevie was in the kitchen, endlessly doodling detailed alien/Uruk-hai battle scenes with Sharpies on the one-sided paper I bring home from work. I was standing at the counter, doing something. Again with the memory problems. I heard a buzzing sound, looked to my left, and there it was--a bee-like creature (not a bee, not a wasp, but tubular with yellow/black stripes--what IS this thing?) and it was hovering in one spot. I mean not moving at all, except for the seemingly exhausting flapping of wings. I moved a touch to one side, it turned to look. I moved a step thataway, it turned to face me. I alerted Stevie and we watched, increasingly amused, as the bee-like creature watched me, probably amused him/herself. Finally, it landed on Stevie's chair (which he had vacated moments before) and Stevie decided to get his bug habitat (a hard-plastic container all done-up inside to resemble a bug-world; nice, but fakey--kinda like "natural" zoo habitats) and catch the little fella/gal.

Now Stevie is sitting on a barstool, bug habitat in hand. (The sham bee followed us into the living room and was taking a rest on the floor.) When I say Stevie was sitting on a barstool, I mean that he was sitting on top of the barstool--straddling the narrow ridge that was designed to cradle only the shoulder blades, not developing testes. Looking up long enough from my selfish pursuits to notice this precarious perch, I said, "That's a really good way to jam your testicles, Stevie." After a brief reminder of what testicles were, he dismounted.

A moment later, Stevie said it was time to catch the bee. I said, "Must you catch it? It's sitting right there on the floor. A true scientist would observe it in its ersatz natural environment instead of traumatizing it, placing it in a distinctly unnatural environment, albeit one that has been contoured and painted to resemble a natural environment--if that environment was a desert moon with plastic palm trees. Why don't you just watch it?" Or something to that effect.

In a gloriously surreal crossing of brain waves and conversational paths, Stevie answered,

"But I'm only going to jam his testicles for a little while!"

Living with kids--you can't make this shit up.

Now I've Forgotten What I Was Going to Write About.

But I'm pretty sure it was about going for a long walk/run last night with Kevin and the boys. We went to the local paved Rail Trail. It's really, really pretty. We did 6 miles, walking 4 minutes and running 1. Despite his smoking a pack a day for over a year and wearing work boots, Kevin didn't seem affected at all. Whatta jerk.

Getting Kevin to go walking was exercise in and of itself. 95% of the time he says no and I accept it. But, dammit, it was too pretty to not go, I needed the motivation jolt that a fresh face provides, and I didn't want to deal with both kids and all the machinery (the baby jogger) by myself. I warmed up with the question itself--"Will you come walking with us?" and slowly built-up my pleading. Near the pinnacle of the workout, I got Stevie on board--"Wouldn't it be fun if your daddy went with us, Stevie?" and, to top it off, promised favorite sexual acts (which I would have indulged anyway, but it doesn't hurt to remind him of them).

It worked! He went with us. Thanks, oral sex!

Kevin is going to quit smoking on his 38th birthday, which is Monday. Should be fun. He called the "Quit Line" and is buying patches today. I'm all for it, of course, for many reasons--his health, our children's health (he smokes well away from them and they don't know, but it lingers on his clothes, in his beard, etc. despite his attempts to wash it away), the fact that it burns my ass to hand my money to the tobacco companies. And, I think the walk/run motivated him. If he is still in decent shape despite his best attempts to destroy his health, he has the potential to be quite the athlete. He's even thinking of taking on the Moab Half Marathon with me in the spring. Yes, I will be momentarily miffed if I end up run/walking it and he runs it, but I'll get over it. Gladly.

The other great thing about getting out for a walk is what it does for the kids. I am SURE that there is no better stimulus for children's brains and moods than nature. Stevie can hop around, walk, run, explore, throw rocks, collect buckeyes, and watch chipmunks. The benefits are so obvious. But what about Mark, belted into the jogger, bundled up against the cold? I've caught him groovin'. Checking out leaf/light patterns, taking in the fresh wet woodsy smells, chewing on sticks, watching the chipmunks. I can almost see the brainwaves forming.

It was a good walk.

A good number!

Today I reached a number I haven't seen in 1 1/2 years--the weight I was when I found out I was pregnant with Mark. So today marks the first time in my life I've done a thing--that thing is losing my baby weight. It is possible! Even for non-celebrities.

So hooray for Lulu! On to the next goal number!

Numbers

There are a lot of numbers in my life lately.

At work, it's all about dates. At the core, I have a finite set of tasks (about 32) that, as a whole, must be completed by an end date (4-30-07), and there are many individual completion dates along the way. There is the end date to me being in middle management (thank god). If I don't get mergered, that number is 5-31-07. So, of course, there is the number of days left until that date = 255. (Man! That's a big number.)

There are numbers--big ones--in the formation of our new business. The most immediate is 10,000, as in dollars, for some--not all--of the equipment we'll need. That number will decrease by 3,000 if Kevin can convince my dad to give some of his business to the person who quoted us that number. There's another number--1,500--as in dollars per month for the building we want to lease-to-own, starting this December. And there are other numbers, ending in at least two zeros, for all of the other start-up stuff we need--compressor, truck, a copier.

My weight is a number which I will not reveal. I want that number to be 140, but I have a ways to go to get there. To shrink the number, I put in other numbers--2 hours of working out last night (I've been a slacker), 35 dollars for 1 hour with a personal trainer 2 times per 7 days. That starts Friday. I hate working out with weights, but know too much about the benefits to not, and that is nothing but numbers--weight, reps, sets.

I've been thinking about this numbers thing for awhile now. I have come to realize that my current life is all about them. It's efficient, sure, but I'm looking forward to walking in the woods somewhere, looking around at the pretty leaves, and not counting them.

Woman fall. Go boom. Good!

About the only bad thing about watching football is being subject to 47,000 commercials in the course of a 3-hour game. And, because everyone who watches football is the lowest-common denominator male, age 18-35, the commercials are hideous. Just atrocious. Worse, even, then golf-time commercials, full of handsome retired people sailing to the tune of some counterculture song. The New Boomers. Kill me now!

Anyway, I noticed a thread in these football-time commercials. It's open-season on chicks! When women show up in ads, they are 1. "gorgeous", 2. extremely scantily clad, 3. sometimes openly stupid, and 4, (the clincher) getting bagged in the head with a pizza box, falling off of treadmills, getting "spurted" with beer juice. If there is a man present, he tends to ignore it. Why? Because, like the creative geniuses who came up with the ads, he's a misogynistic date-rapin' frat boy who lives only to hit that ass and then drink some beer with the only people on earth who matter, his fun-lovin', bitch-druggin', frat boy buddies.

Or is it just me?

Big Fat Asses

As I walked into the work building yesterday, I spotted a fat woman out of the corner of my eye. Two thought crossed my mind:
1. Even though I've gained a lot of weight (which I'm losing now), there's always someone heavier.
2. If the local news station needed to get "on the street" footage of fat people's torsos for some dumbass report, she might be one of the victimized. I would probably be safe.

Which started me thinking, for a few minutes anyway, about all of the times that I've seen footage of fat people's torsos as they innocently walk down the street, with some idiot talking head blathering on about how fat Americans are/the health risks of obesity/the scourge of fast food/soda machines in schools, and as you know I try to avoid television news at all costs. I've seriously considered pulling my eyeballs right out of their sockets and jamming pencils into my ears to avoid it. Usually I decide to simply leave the room (Kevin is forever trying to catch the Extreme Uber-Doppler Angry Earth Weather Forecast).

Anyway, it always struck me as extremely rude to randomly shoot the saggy bottoms and bulging abdomens and ill-fitting, bunching clothes of innocent people on the street. What if they were just sitting there, in their favorite chairs, suffering through the idiot box news, glanced up, and saw their visage being used to tell all of Central City how being overweight leads to Type II diabetes? I'd be PISSED! And, despite the oh-so-discreet omission of their faces, I have a feeling that some of them were recognized by their family, their friends, and their co-workers. How's that for some grade-A bullshit?

My second point is, who wants to see that? Not that I think it's "disgusting" or anything. It's just that I don't need some cliched visual of fat people to digest the news that overconsumption of calories coupled with a sedentary lifestyle makes one unhealthy. I mean duh.

So I'm against that kind of sadistic guerrilla cameraman schlock.

As I walked out of the work building after another 7 hours of sitting on my ass, guess what I saw on the lobby-TV-that-plays-CNN-with-no-sound-all-day? Fat people's torsos, walking (yes, walking!) around on a city street. The headline? "Fat Profits". How cheap is that?

College, Shmollege.

This morning on NPR, Frank DeFord--Sven's favorite sports commentator--gave a little speech about why boys comprise only 42% of college graduates/college freshman this year? Last year? Can't remember, but it's a low number. I've got a real ear for details.

Anyway, his argument was that it was because of sports. We push sports on boys, overly-celebrating their athletic accomplishments, while simultaneously downplaying their academic life and/or not encouraging it at all. There's some merit to that argument, fo sho.

But what about the options to college itself? Isn't there anything else we can do with ourselves after high school?

Not that college is a bad thing. It certainly isn't. But this movement to herd kids from one school into another, pay who-knows-what-ungodly-amount, and do it unquestioningly,with the dire, blunt message that if they don't they're doomed to fail in our uber-competitive market, er, society . . . that's a little misguided, I'd say. Sure, 18-year olds are official "adults", but a little bit of maturity and life experience never hurt anyone's studies. The thing about college is that it will be there. You know, whenever! It's probably easier to go sooner than later, before you start filling up the minivan with spouse and kids and filling up the credit cards with crushing debt loads. But still, it'll be there.

Do I want my boys to go? Sure, if they want to. Even without a career goal in mind, it never hurts to fill the old noggin with some good book learnin'. Do I want them to play collegiate sports? Sure, as long as it's not football (kickers excepted), and if it's what they want to do. But I'd be ever so proud if they excelled in their studies, or in chess club, or in the band, or in whatever else they enjoyed doing.

Still, it's college, and this post is all about options. At least one option.

I like to watch This Old House. The master craftsmen on This Old House told me about a new apprenticeship program that aims to herd more kids into the building trades. Plumbers, electricians, builders who know what the hell they're doing--these people are becoming remnants of a well-built past.

Good ones (probably bad ones, too) make a hell of a good living. They get to see the result of their day's work; they make tangible products that we all use. They are empowering jobs--you have a wanted skill, you are your own boss, you are well-compensated, you are needed.

When I was a teacher, I sometimes did an exercise with my students wherein they had to, Dr. Strangelove-like, choose ten people that they would 'take into the cave' with them during the apocalypse. Basically, they had to pick the 10 most useful type of people in the whole world. Teachers made it onto a couple of lists, but nearly all would be incinerated, along with lawyers, middle management (and CEOs), politicians, and most brainiacs. Who would repopulate the earth? Farmers, doctors, engineers, builders, electricians, plumbers, Playboy bunnies, and Johnny Depp.

Options.

Elementary school: Bad enough the first time!

First an update on The Fight. You wanna know what the offending nailholes were for?

A smoke alarm. The same smoke alarm that I removed several days before when I thought I was going to paint but didn't and then, in the heat of battle, I stupidly forgot that the nailholes were for the smoke alarm which I had, in preparation, removed, which would have been real sweet to remember right at the moment that I was being accusingly questioned about them. I made up for it somewhat by calling husband at work and saying, all shrilly-like, "You know what those nailheads were for?! The SMOKE ALARM!!!" It was funny.

So, I just finished reading Burb's saga of first grade book loss and teacher judgment and half expect that Burb and Burb's wife are having the same "ACH! Not prepared for class!!" anxiety dreams that I am having. Read all about it here: www.whywontyougrow.blogspot.com. I have my own tale of first grade woe to share.

Stevie has homework every night. We are supposed to sign his homework, attach it to his planner, and send it in his backpack. We do this with great conscientiousness. On Thursday night, Stevie wrote his upper- and lower-case ABCs very neatly, and I signed in the bottom right-hand corner. Witnessing my John Hancock he chirped, "Now I won't miss recess."

"WHHHHAAAAAA?!?!?!?!?!" I said, calmly, in my mind.

Turns out that Stevie had missed 5 minutes of recess (out of a meager 30) on Wednesday and 10 minutes that day because we hadn't signed his homework! Now that's a bunch of bullshit, as there it was, last night's homework (write numerals 1-50) with my signature right there in the bottom-right hand corner!!! Now, I hadn't signed the previous night's homework because there was nothing to sign--it was reading a book and something else unsignable. I thought, "I should have signed the planner. Shit." I've signed it before, and something in my mind was saying that we were supposed to sign the planner, but I've signed just his homework, too, and that seemed fine. What's happening!? I'm losing control! He, he, he DID do his homework! He always does! He even does extra sometimes, and we did the suggested summer bridge activities, and we're good at this, I swear, and our kid is going to learn good work habits and not screw up in school like I did and, and, I'm starting to hyperventilate!!!

After trying to pull the story out of Stevie on all homework interactions to this point and how every classroom procedure involving homework works, in detail, we decided we would just call Mrs. S and see what was up. Unlike the Kindergarten teachers, first grade teachers are smart enough to not include any contact information in the freakin' first grade booklet, so we were lost, stranded in a cloud of anxiety and confusion until we could call the school the next day and find out why our baby, our sweet little guy, was being denied precious recess time (he must've been so sad! so dejected!) TWICE for something that OK, we didn't do one night (but he DID do the work) and something that we DID do the second night and she just failed to see it! Why didn't she write a little note in the planner to remind us that we are supposed to sign the planner, which they probably said at some point during orientation, and by the way, we were the ONLY parents to sign up to volunteer in the classroom and we accepted the challenge of providing "red" treats on the very first day and doesn't this entitle us to a little note? Geesh!

There's something else, too. The library at school is having a contest. Read a library book, fill out a little "watermelon book review" thing, and the class with the most watermelons filled out gets a party. OK, fine. The first week the book came home, we read it, and filled out the review. The next day another library book comes home, we read it, but we didn't have a watermelon to fill out. I don't know why it's a watermelon. So we write a note in the planner--"please send more watermelon review sheets". We get one about the same time that we realize that the second book was from the class library--not the school library. Does this book count? We go ahead and fill out the extra watermelon.

That same fateful Thursday that created so much blogger fodder (we had our fight that same night--surprised?), we also get a note from the librarian:
"To the parents of Stevie McClary" (so much for informality)
(paraphrased and edited) The students get ONE library book per week. Unless you lost one, I have no idea why you would need extra watermelon sheets. (Implied) Are you trying to RIG the reading contest???

Yes, that's exactly what we were trying to do. So I wrote a note back. 'We didn't realize that the books he was bringing home were class as opposed to school library books. We were not trying to rig the contest (wink!).' Ha ha.

But why so cold, Ms. Librarian? Teacher? Where's the benefit of the doubt? Why do I feel such resistance to my efforts to keep my kid prepared and happy about school and to support the "school community"?

OK, maybe it's not all that bad, but I can sympathize with Burb. It's really fun to see your child in his own element. He's growing up, he has some friends, he's up to par in class. He has a world outside of us. However, when there are issues in that world that your 6-year old doesn't know how to handle, it can really bring out the inner grizzly. After my initial charge, I tend to lighten up. Being a person who has hiked in grizzly country, that's not very comforting. I'll have to learn to deal with my kid's occasional failure or social snubbing, him being treated in a less-than-just way, with him forgetting his planner on Friday (!?) and missing some recess today. Probably.

But when he's six, I'll give myself a free pass to maul every once in a while.

Cuz I'm TNT! Fight! Fight! Fight!

Last night was a bad one in the ol' McClary household. It began at dinner. Dinner is becoming one big nightmare as we attempt to get Stevie to eat anywhere from one to a few bites of healthy food.

It's not all his fault. We've been too forthcoming with the waffles and the whatnot. But now it's clampdown time. Long story short: We did everything pretty much right. We exposed him to a wide variety of fruits and veggies when he was a baby and have always tried to serve relatively healthy foods. As he grew, a serious aversion to fruits and veggies set in, until he even stopped drinking orange juice last year. We've tried the tricks; nothing seems to work. And by now he's built up such a mental block against these foods that when we ask him to eat them, he reverts back to toddlerhood and starts "itching all over!" Like, anxiety attack itching. So it's bad.

Last night we had grilled pork loin, salad, cornbread, and baked beans. He's fine with the pork loin, loves the cornbread (with honey), and the salad? We don't even try. It's the baked beans that launched him over the edge. Now, these are super brown sugary baked beans, and he used to like them just fine. They're not healthy, but we consider them a gateway bean to healthier bean eating. But, long story short, he wouldn't eat 'em, Kevin lost it (a RARE event), and a screaming match ensued. Marky got to witness it all; the phone saved me, but I was so distracted that I had to give it up and talk to my friend another time. I've never seen Kevin so mad at Stevie. But, damnit! The kid is being totally unreasonable about this whole thing. His doctor referred him to a nutritionist, even. It's bad.

I'll keep you up to date on the food issue (I know you're breathless with anticipation!), but I want to get to the fight.

After dinner, I went for a walk with my friend Matt, who is also trying to lose weight. I took Marko; Stevie couldn't go because he wouldn't eat his goddamn beans. No biggie for Kevin that I went--he can work with just Stevie around. So I go, and come back, and the kids are now in bed.

We have been doing a great deal of home refurbishing; I've been painting. I'm a decent painter, if a little sloppy. In the rooms that matter, I fill nail holes with either paint or spackle, tape off the trim, and I always do two coats (with a primer base, if necessary). Kevin hates to paint, and it's important to note that I do, too. However, he deals with the more skilled stuff, and I paint because I'm the untrained laborer, though one with a designer's eye for color.

A couple of nights ago Kevin criticized my painting. He said "You take a lot of shortcuts when you paint". Why? I can't even remember one reason, it was so insignificant. The other was because I didn't paint the attic hatch. It's wood, most of our house is wood, and it looked just fine. I made a command decision to not paint it, which I felt justified in making, as I do ALL of the painting. Kevin thought I should prime it (2 coats) and paint it (2 coats) so it will match the rest of the ceiling. A difference of opinion, but it would look better painted so, fine, I'll paint the damn thing. I was pretty irritated and told him so; after all, I've done ALL the painting--ceilings, walls, lots of tricky bullshit spots--which I hate, and it looks pretty good! And it's not like he's a master drywaller or trim god or anything--there were seams in the drywall mud, one little gap in the trim...but I said nothing about that.

And then, last night, as we were standing near the basement stairwell, which I had just painted, and it was a pain because I had to stand on an awkward ladder and reach and bend, and I had to do it fast because the kids were still awake and Kevin wanted to get to the trim, and no, I didn't take every preliminary step, and yes, I painted over very small spider webs and didn't fill the 3 nail holes because it's just a freakin' stairwell and it looks good and no one will ever notice, Kevin decided to point out the largest of the 3 nailholes and say "you didn't fill in the nailhole."

I'll give you a moment to soak that in.

I stared, assessing, looking for the "I'm joking" expression on his face. But it wasn't there. He was being serious. Are you fucking kidding me?!

"Are you fucking kidding me? Who gives a fuck?!" I ended up saying. And he looked at me as if to say "I feel sorry for you--your standards are so low" (I invite all of you to come by and look at it and tell me what you think, I feel that confident). So I did it; I mentioned the fact that not all of his work is topnotch yet it still looks fine and the house will look great and all is well and he has no right to say this shit. Caught in an argument he started but couldn't get out of (my thought), coupled with the earlier extreme frustration of trying to get our kid to eat a sugary bean, Kevin shouted something along the lines of "FUCK!!" and actually threw a mostly empty beer can across the kitchen and out to the barn he went.

Surprisingly not-as-fazed-as-I-should-have-been, I went to bed. I ignored him this morning until it was time to go and I finally said "Are you just going to pretend that didn't happen?" and he said that it had been a frustrating day and he shouldn't have taken it out on me . . . BUT it takes 5 minutes to fill a few nail holes. . . .

Once again, I'll pause for a sec.

I stared, said "I gotta go" and went to the car. And then I went back inside and went on a short tirade--you don't give me credit for all of the things I do, including going to a job I hate with an overly-critical asshole boss while you get to stay home and I'm working on the house every night and trying to lose weight while simultaneously being a good mom who spends time with the kids and yet you, who has been known to half-ass a few things (I didn't say half-ass), criticize me AGAIN for something that doesn't matter even though I got pissed the first time you did it and you're reminding me of my boss and even of my DAD. (Which is true. This is classic dad behavior, and my dad is his boss so he knows what I'm talking about and pretty much hates my dad.)

I think it worked. I got my apology (about fuckin' time!!!) and went on my way.

So here I am. When I go home, it will be better. It's worth it. But criticize my all-in-all above average painting again. . . .

Owie.

I like to think that I'm not a whiner. Most of the time, I'm not. Sure, I bitch about stuff--my boss, the traffic, idiot world leaders--but I try not to whine.

I had endodontic surgery yesterday. Why? I had a root canal about 7 years ago and the quack dentist didn't fill the gap the way it should have been filled and that left a route for germs to get into the root and bother me. It's been bothering me off and on since then, but the dentists I've seen just shrug it off. Not this time. My present dentist finally referred me to an endodontist, a dentist who deals with this sort of problem, and she recommended this surgery (short, out-patient, local anesthetic only).

In the surgery, they cut open the gum and bust through the bone so they can get to the space by the root. They dig out any bad things, re-fill the space, and sew you back up. I couldn't help but think about the Nazi-led medical experiments. Actually, I think about those during most dental visits and while giving birth. Thank god for medical science. I didn't feel a thing and, from the looks of things and the feel of extreme pressure as she stabbed and scraped and drilled, I was so, so thankful for that.

It's when the drugs wore off that the problem set in.

Holy shit! It hurt. Real bad. I didn't think I would need the prescribed Tylenol 3, as the doctist said "it will be uncomfortable...", but I was soon whining to Kevin to run to town and get my meds NOW. I was cranky, the pain distorted my normally stunning yet wholesome good looks, and so I sat, as motionless as possible, watching a whimsical French film with the volume low.

Two Tylenol 3's didn't do enough for the pain. It took 3 to give me the courage to try to sleep, which I did, when Marky wasn't crying as loudly as any baby has ever cried.

So now I'm here at work only because I have a Big. Important. Meeting. and you all know how I feel about those. I'll go, and then go home.

Wah! But it does feel better. It had better work!

Good times.

Stevie and I went to the Buckeye football game this past Saturday. We had such a great time! Really--it was awesome. Besides the spectacle of 100,000+ people who come out for the football, sure, but for other things, too (the band, the tradition, the tailgating, whatever), the crisp weather held, the planes came in for landings at Port Columbus, the pizza was great and free and fast thanks to a generous co-worker, the people sitting next to us thought Stevie was the cutest little guy ever, we got pictures with the band, and we spent the whole day having fun with each other.

In other news...I'm sure many of you know of my brother's divorce saga. In a nutshell, the ex is a nut. She has held their "marital home" hostage for the last two years. She also brought suit against my brother for all these things he supposedly did wrong, only he just happens to have paper trails that disprove everything she said. The result of all this ridiculousness has been the slow draining of my brother's bank account, as he has to shell out his kids' college money to pay for lawyers and is basically forced to support two households (this support goes way beyond child support, of which he gives generously and unfailingly).

But there is a light on the horizon. After many ex-generated court continuances (which puts all the strain on my brother, who has to pay for the house that much longer), she ran out of excuses to stay in Southern State and has moved back to Ohio. Thus vacating the marital home. Now that the marital home has been vacated, my brother can finally put it up for sale, and she has to move her shit out pronto. Ha! The sweetest thing is that, since her lawyer tried to get out of the case (which was not allowed--thanks, your honor!) and is not communicating with ex, my brother is the one who got to make her aware of this news. The shrieking was music to his ears.

So now my brother will soon be able to stop supporting his evil ex and recupe thousands of dollars that he was forced to throw down the toilet, she is due in court in November (no more continuances--thanks, your honor!) and will surely lose on all counts, AND my nephews are living right down the street from my work and I'll have the opportunity to take them out on the weekends. Of course, ex could say no, but then SHE has the burden of explaining to them why they can't go with me. HA! I don't know if she would try to pull that or not. We'll see!

So everything is good right now. Even the uncertainty at work is not getting me down. If I get mergered, I'll stay home and Kevin can go to work. If I don't, there's still a light at the end of the school year....