Take a breath...

...September is almost over! What a crazy month it is for us. Silas had his first day of school in August, then, before I knew what happened, he woke up as a six guy:




There were wishes to be made and cake to be eaten:



There were parties to be had at the water park:

We had our first soccer game:

(somewhere in between here, we had my fortymumblemumble birthday and eleventh wedding anniversary)

Then we were off to the beach for my auntie's wedding:

Where there were dogs who wear eyeshadow:

and little redheaded babies that make my ovaries ache:

Then off to play in the sand before coming home:

Now for a slight breather before starting the holiday rush.

Please send help, the wabbids got me

Poppets!! Oh how I've missed you! Santa brought me a Wii. And the wabbids game and I've been protecting you from their nefarious forces since.

Ever vigilant in my quest to save us all, I've barely dropped the remote for a week. You're quite welcome. I consider it a privilege to serve you. I'm purposefully leaving out the part about the game being for Silas and it being set to "easy" and my still being on the first level. He's also stomped me at bowling.

I hope you had a lovely holiday. We here at Casa de Silence made it through relatively intact, save for a minor skirmish with the plague. While rendered prone with my suffering I finished reading Wally Lamb's lastest doorstop novel. While I found it quite enjoyable as a whole, one thing in particular grated on my nerves. This style of writing? where you ask a question? in the middle of the sentence? and then answer it? Me? I promise I will never everevereverever use it again. Pinky swear. I'm not sure what he was trying to accomplish but it felt forced and out of place in an otherwise extremely well written novel. Thus ends my literary critique of The Hour I First Believed.

In other news, I got an award! I did! My first one. As soon as I figure out what to do with it, or how to get it and pass it on, I'll let you know. I also have an interview to do (I'm so important) and several memes, one of which involves a photo. Where will I find the time? I may even post more than twice this month. If I can drop the wii remote, that is.

I should have been a dentist

SweetieDarling has been suffering for days with a toothache. She finally decided to tell me about it two days ago. I sent her to the dentist hoping she could get a filling and be done with it. Oh no. No no no. Couldn't be that simple. She needs a root canal and a crown. Or she must have the tooth extracted. Now, I know we live in West by gawd Virginia, but I cannot have my 18 year old daughter running around missing a tooth. Even if it is one in the way back that wouldn't affect her beautiful smile.

So she's referred to an oral surgeon who specializes in these things. Do you know how much a root canal costs? Well sit down, because you're about to be shocked. $985!!!!! Do you believe that? That's ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS!!!! I was absolutely gobsmacked!!!! I hope I don't run out of exclamation points!!! Because then how would you know how dismayed I am?!!

When I set up the appointment for the xrays, I asked the scheduler if piercings were a problem. See poppets, my SweetieDarling, she's a bit of a goth child. You know the ones, black hair, eyeliner, nailpolish, lipstick. So many piercings they look like they fell face first into the tackle box. The ones you either point at or run away from at the mall? That's my girl. And I didn't want her to go for the xray and all that metal in her head melt together and fuse into some kind of terminator/robo cop hybrid mask. Apparently, since the rays are centered onto the tooth only, it doesn't matter.

It's a good thing her mouth is sore and she can't chew. After paying for this, there won't be food around here for the rest of the month.

I just finished reading Lisa Gardner's latest novel, Say Goodbye. (Eventually I'll learn how to put the icon of the book I'm reading over there-------> under my "Reading" heading. Until then, bear with me.) It's a brutal and disturbing story and I wish I hadn't read it. It's absolutely haunting. I'll spare you the horrid details.

This passage, copied directly from the book, should be sufficient to chill you to the bone:

You think you're safe. You think you're middle class, suburban, the right car, the nice home. You think bad things happen to other people-maybe the poor schmucks in trailer parks where the ratio of kids to registered sex offenders can be as low as four to one.

But not to you, never to you. You're too good for this.

Do you own a computer? Because if you do, I am in your child's bedroom.

Do you have an online personal profile? Because if you do, I know your child's name, pet, and personal hobbies.

Do you have a webcam? Because if you do, I'm right now convincing your child to take off his or her shirt in return for fifty bucks. Just a shirt. What can it hurt? Come on, it's fifty bucks.

I'm not sure why this disturbed me so much. The brutality imposed on the children in this book, taken from actual occurrences, hit me where I'm vulnerable. SweetieDarling has had unsupervised internet access since she was 16. I had the computer out in a public area, where we could walk up and look at what she was doing. When she got a laptop for Christmas, she started using it in her room. It never occurred to me to monitor her activities. (Mother of the Year Award is on it's way) Silas, of course, being only 5, doesn't get past NickJr. But what of the future? How will I protect him?

My worry is that our children are growing up in a culture that I am not familiar with. They are growing up with constant and instant communication. They will forge friendships and build relationships with people that they never see in person. I worry that they will forget how to interact personally. Not having grown up in this type of culture, I worry that I won't be able to protect them or teach them to protect themselves.

How do you send your love through a text message or myspace page?

The most dangerous chemical in the world

Silas will be five next week. What is it with five that makes an adorable, sweet little tyke turn into a fit throwing, door slamming, pseudo-swearing little tyrant? After being made to finish his chores (which involved much wailing and gnashing of teeth), I went with him up (it's all up here on the mountain) to his swingset. He's recently learned to swing under his own power and, as with any new skill, wants to do it constantly. Since it's just not as much fun without an appreciative audience, I must go along and provide a running commentary about height achieved, speed reached, and how no one else, EVAR, in the history of the world has swung so high or so fast.
We have cushioned the playground with a very thick layer of finely shredded mulch. When he tumbles from the overhead ladder (and he will), we prefer he land on some cushioning. Because his parents are owners of real excavating equipment (loaders, backhoes, dozers, etc), Silas is the proud possessor of quite a fleet of Tonka dump trucks and equipment. Bear with me, I'm going somewhere with all of this drivel, I promise.
Anydigger, after the swing session is over, he starts to play with his loader and dumptruck. He's happily scooping mulch, hauling it around a little road he's carved and dumping it in the truck. He asks if I'll play with him. Um, no. No, I won't. Firstly, mama don't do crawling around in the wet mulch. Secondly, who would hold my coffee? Thirdly, it's hot, buggy and I'm outside. That's all your getting. So I tell him that I'm the supervisor. That I'm here to make sure he does his work right and to make sure he doesn't slack off. He scoops two more times, looks at me and says "you gonna pretend you a mister? Misters gotta be the bosses."
What?the?fuck??? Did my son, who has spent his ENTIRE life being hauled around to construction sites by his mother, (who is the boss) just tell me that the bosses had to be misters? Where did this notion come from? How did it get into his head? He doesn't watch television other than Spongebob (because I like it, shut up) and I don't read him fairytales where the prince saves the damsel and I even explained that Mary Jane is a useless waste of skin because all she does is sit around and WAH WAH WAH Save me Spidey and still, he has this notion.
He doesn't watch violent movies yet he will take a stick and wage war with it, whether it be a sword, a rifle, or, in one particularly imaginative instance, tied a balloon to it and made a mace. He will take his dolls, or "action figures" which are dolls for boys but good lord don't call them that, and they will beat the hell out of each other. This from a child who has never been struck in his life. Nor has he ever seen anyone struck. This violence, this hardness, this boyness. It's the testosterone. The cause of world wars, schoolyard fights and everything in between. The most dangerous chemical in the world.

Updates on Very Important Situations

Important to me, at any rate.

My legal woes have come to an end for now. (It's the 'for now' part that scares me) We dutifully went to court where I insisted that the charges against Sam be dropped, expessed my dismay that the wrong person could be arrested and charged when the evidence so clearly exonerated him, threatened to bring the entire justice system to a screeching standstill with my myriad of lawsuits, and generally made an ass out of myself. The charges were dismissed. The prosecutor, after seeing my stunning display of verbal prowess, declined to re-charge me, and let me pay restitution. So that's over. Like I said, for now. Because I am seriously contemplating a suit for recompense. I think Sam deserves compensation for missing work and having to spend a night in jail. I'm debating the pros and cons ie: more drama vs. a probable pittance in awards.

Silas' injuries have healed nicely. A small red line for a scar, and an aversion to trash cans are all he has to show for his tumble.

I have shown no further proclivity to burny hands and feets.

I would give you a growing out the grey update, but it's just too depressing. My hair looks awful. Just nasty. I'm getting it cut tomorrow, so there is still hope. Just not very much.

With that, I leave you until more things of import happen.

A deconstruction of the implications of lifestyle choices on the future of the world

Like the title? I just wanted to be fancy. This is really a movie review (with spoilers!).

We took Silas to see Wall E over the week end. I don't understand what all the fuss is about. I found no hidden agenda, no overt discrimination of large people. Certainly nothing to drive anyone to tears. Actually, I found the people on the axiom to be a frighteningly realistic representation of our future if we don't take action. Unfortunately the morbid obesity, bone loss, and inability to focus on anything not on a computer screen sounds like me now, not in the future. I didn't find that the movie blamed the destruction of the earth on fat people, but that the result of having to leave the earth because we trashed it was that everyone got fat. I'm sure floating around in hover chairs (I'd buy one) and eating from a cup had a little to do with it. Another way to interpret the humans is that they have regressed to an infantile state, unable to walk or feed themselves and entirely dependent on the computers to care for them. I didn't find the movie offensive in any way, other than the cost of our tickets.

Let's forget all of the drama and focus on the kids. Silas was mesmerized from the first screen shot until the credits rolled. And the first 20 minutes of the movie only included two words. *use creepy ET voice here* Waaaaalllleeeeeeeee and Eeeeeeeevvaaaaaaaa. That's it. The complete dialogue for the first part of the movie. And it was great. A wonderful love story with a touch of environmental guilt for those willing to shoulder it. But no discrimination, in my opinion.

I wonder

I found this image on Post Secrets this morning. And I wondered. How would I be different? What other choices would I have made and how would they have affected my life?
What if as a child I had felt safe in my own home. if I could have fallen asleep at night not terrified that I'd be woken up in the dark by roaming hands. if everything I did, said, thought didn't revolve around no one knowing. and fearing that everyone knew, and worse, yet, didn't care. What if the one person who was supposed to protect me actually did. Instead of turning away and pretending not to see, not to know when it would be impossible impossible not to. How different would I be?
Would my self worth have been a little higher? Would I still have thought that the only thing I was good for was sex? That I didn't deserve to be treated nice, that the people who actually tried to treat me nicely were shat on. Would I have been such an easy target for the 29 year old married friend of the family who lured me out and raped me at 14? And said that I had it coming because I "exuded sexuality". When the only thing you've been taught from your earliest memory is that your purpose is sex, I guess "exuding" it can't be helped. Would anyone have believed me if I had told or would I have been blamed because I was easy? Would his wife have still accused me of seducing her husband?
Would my search for love have involved so many men? Strange men ever eager to validate my self worth by having sex with me. Surely they must at least like me if they fuck me, right?
When finally finding the one man who does actually love me, and value me, and is good to me, would I continue to push him away because I don't deserve him and the love and the hope and the future he has given me? I don't think I'll ever know. But I will always wonder.

My little grandma

My paternal grand-mother was a very influential figure in my life. It is because of her that I know the value of a hard days' work. It is because of her that I never drink alcohol (even though I occasionally joke that I like the gin)(because if I tried the gin? I would like the gin. It's genetically proven). It is because of her that I didn't marry until 31 years of age. She taught me more just by being than I can ever articulate.

Born in 1925 to a homemaker and a soldier, one of five children, she lived a hard life. Put to work at 10 years old, she would walk the dirt roads to be a maid/nanny/housekeeper to one of the wealthy families in town.

At 18 years old, she found herself in "a delicate situation" as it was referred to then. She put the baby up for adoption. Obviously not figuring out what caused the first "situation", she had another. This baby went to adoption also. We never spoke of these babies, her and I. I don't know if I have great aunts, uncles, or both that are unknown to me.

Married to a soldier at 22 years old, she chose poorly. Frank (we never called him by any other name) was a mean drunk. He didn't work and drank away any money she brought in. He abused her horribly, putting her in the hospital many times. These are stories that my father has told me. When he tells me these things, I picture him as a little boy, scared, hiding in a corner and I want to scoop him up and make it better. I want to protect him from the horrors that he sees. I don't want him to know that his father doused his mother with a kettle of boiling tea in a drunken rage, leaving her burned from waist to knees. I don't want him to see her on the kitchen floor with his father towering over her, one foot on her thigh while he twists her lower leg to break it. I don't want him to have to rush in with a bat at seven years old and try to save her, or put himself in the way thinking maybe he can take the blows meant for his mother.

After 1 year of marriage, Grandma gave birth to a son. He had a cleft palate, and was slightly mentally retarded. When this son was only two months old, she became pregnant with my father. Two years later came another son, a year after that, a daughter.

My grandmother ran a diner for an old Greek man. Her entire life was spent there, from 5am until 10pm every day. After work was drinking time. Any days off were drinking time. While Frank was a mean drunk, Grandma was a sad drunk. I learned at a very young age that if I came in the door and they were sitting around the table with their cards and beer and I didn't get away quick enough, I would be subjected to endless apologies and cries of regret. To this day I cannot stand a drunk. I don't drink because I'm terrified I'll become one. When one has four alcoholic grandparents, I'd say the odds are fairly stacked.

I'd like to add a caveat here for my friends who drink. When I say a drunk, I mean that person who has no desire to live differently, who is a slave to the drink. That person who takes and never gives back and expects more. The one who gets too close and hangs on you and gives you all of their problems so they don't have them anymore. I don't mean anyone who drinks socially or who is in recovery.

Later, I'd guess around 50 years old, she finally quit drinking. With Frank dead, her sons married and her daughter at home with her, she found some semblance of peace. She still worked every day, but a normal eight hours. When the diner closed for good and she had nothing to do with her time, I think she broke. After having no time to yourself your entire life, she didn't quite know what to do. I know the medical term is senile dementia. I know that the scans showed significant decrease in brain size and uncountable small strokes most likely attributable to the years of alcohol toxicity. But I think she just broke.

I was the first grandchild. The adored one. The moment she didn't recognize me will forever be the most heartbreaking of my life.

This little woman, with every odd in the world stacked against her, did the impossible. She raised four kind, caring, responsible contributing members of society. She bought and paid for land and a home by herself while supporting her children and husband. She never turned anyone away who needed something, even if she didn't have it to give. She made sure that her first and only granddaughter knew to respect herself enough to never tolerate being treated any less than she deserved, and then made sure that I knew I deserved the best. She made sure I knew to get an education, no matter what, so I wouldn't have to work like she did. And she told me that, for us, one drink is too many, a million never enough.

I miss her.

Oh Ralph, who art thou?

If it doesn't quit raining soon, I may be posting from the county lock up. I'm sure that's where they'll take me after I kill my husband, right? He's been leaving late, coming in early, staying home and generally just messin' up my mojo. Today, in a fit of helpfulness (a rare and precious occurrence, lemme tell ya) he decided to help put up all of the winter clothes and....clean my office. Yes. He. Did.

I keep an office at home so I don't have to go in to the company office unless absolutely necessary because I'm lazy for some reason, the less my employees see me, the more productive they are. And noooo, my mandatory office chair races do not factor in to that unproductivity.

While making it so I'll never find anything again straightening my desk, he came across a slip of paper with several phone numbers on it. Ralph's number was circled. With a check mark by it. And there may have been a star with an exclamation point. Apparently, Ralph's the fashizzle. Of course, I have no idea because I don't remember Ralph, why I have his number, or why he's the fashizzle. But the husband, being of the male persuasion, finds this explanation a bit suspect. After making a genuine effort to remember Ralph and why I have his number, I admit my curiosity was piqued as well.

Now, let me elaborate that this number is written on my personal calendar out of my daytimer. There would have been no questions asked if it had been business related (even with the stars) because, good grief, all I have are men's numbers. So anyway, get to the point, you say. To solve the mystery, I called Ralph to ask why I thought he was so great that not only do I still have his number on a calendar page from 1999, but it's on my desk (which really has been cleaned since 1999, truly).

Ralph turned out to be Ralph Stanley of "Oh Brother, Where art thou?" fame. And my 64th cousin 28 times removed, or something like that. The number was from when I took a trip to southwestern Virginia for genealogy research. What I forgot was that I had gone through an old box of my genealogy records last week. It must have fallen out then.

So even though Ralph is kinfolk, and older than Methuselah, it was nice to have the husband all "het up" over another man's number. Maybe I'll hide a few others around. That'll teach him to clean my office.