I just received the following text from daughter Lucy:

"OMG, am getting ready to drive Daniel Dae Kim to New Orleans. am freaking out. OMG."

*backstory - she just got her first job on a feature film in Baton Rouge, LA. It stars Samuel L. Jackson and Daniel Dae Kim.

I'm not going to link him because I don't want him to google himself and find out what dorks we are, but I did link the film.

What does any of this have to do with mother's day? Well, first I wanted to brag on my kid. She must be doing ok if the people she's working with want to party with her. Second, I'm flattered that when something exciting happened to her, she chose me to get advice from. She could have called any of her friends, tweeted it, or any number of things.

Hopefully, I didn't steer her wrong. I told her to talk to him like he's anyone else and not to act too deferential. That he'd probably appreciate that more than bowing and scraping. That has to get old after a while. (although I could probably endure it for just a bit) I also mentioned that if Lost came up, let him know that we had sad faces when Jin died. *sidenote: fucking Sawyer. He's all 'sorry Jack, I don't' and then my Sayid has to save them all. sob I'll never look at a man in a black tank top the same.

I realize that if you don't watch Lost, you're all 'the hell?' and I'm sorry about that. But seriously, how can you not watch what is arguably one of, if not THE best show ever produced? I highly recommend it. Get the boxed set. We'll watch it together. also, I may be high. I think I confused the xanax with the sudafed. Upside is, I'm so mellow I don't care if I'm congested.

So, since my mental faculties are rapidly deteriorating, I best wrap this up quit sighing with relief. it's rude To recap - kids are doing good. I got asked for advice, so I'm all that, tomorrow's mother's day. So whether you're a birth mother, earth mother, soul mother or heart mother, I hope you have a wonderful day.

Loves

Sticks and stones

I met a little girl today with my name. She was probably around eight, which adds up. It was approximately ten years ago that the country singer Shania Twain became popular. Suddenly, I wasn't the only one who had ever heard my name. And I didn't have to spell it every time I said it.

Her popularity was both a blessing and a curse. As she got more popular and the name became more familiar, it was a relief not to be looked at askance whenever I introduced myself. Instead, I would get an "oh, like the singer?" More than once, I'd get an accusatory "that's not your real name, you changed it to be like her!" Which, no I didn't, but even if I had, how is it your business?

Living with an unusual name, you can understand my sympathy for children who have the same burden to bear. My compassion was kicked into overdrive at tennis roll call.

Argyle? Here.

Stetson? Here.

Paisley? Here.

Wrangler? Here.

Those poor kids.

Photographic evidence that I shouldn't be allowed to have children

livin the thug life

Yes, that's my five year old. Why yes! those are itty bitty teeny tiny bling filled brass knuckles*. They fit him perfectly. And he is wearing aviators. and a bandana. Right now he's standing in the front yard flashing gang signs to the neighbors. They're all hiding behind their blinds, quaking in fear of the thug next door. Soon, he'll put away his bling, hop on his scooter and come in for a glass of milk. But until then, you best be steppin careful, yo.

*They actually go on a chain for a real (pretend) thug to wear as a necklace. He found them at the beach while I was looking at purses.

I'm fairly sure there's a felony in here somewhere

This is what I discovered when I opened the trunk of SweetieDarling's car this morning. Twenty stolen campaign signs. And a traffic cone. And some caution tape. (I'm keeping my eyes peeled for the coppers. They'll surely be here any minute.) I shudder to contemplate what this stash means to the fate of humankind as we know it.

Upon being queried as to exactly why she was in possession of these items, I was told that she and her minions went on a scavenger hunt of sorts. They've all decided that they are fresh, shiny democrats and took it upon themselves to rid the world of the scourge of the republicans. To the extent of stealing campaign signs until they tired of it and found something better to do, the details of which I'm certain I'm better off not knowing. I promptly gathered the offending parties, and, in true law school style, delivered a mind numbingly boring scintillating lecture on the perils and ramifications of impeding a campaign, the majority of which I made up on the spot. The ramifications of being caught impeding a campaign by SweetieDarling's mother include:

a) having to replace all of the stolen signs, with an apology;

b) having to join me at the democratic headquarters of our county to learn how to support a campaign and candidate appropriately (and legally).

While I'm not Ms. Popularity at the moment, I hope at least one thing will remain with them. No matter who you support, you don't build your candidate up by tearing the other one (or their signs) down.

But really, how long can you stay mad at someone who has this sticker on their dash?

We have confirmation...

...that I am a total goofball. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his eyes, just like you said. (you are soooo wise!) It was decided amongst the professionals that I have a bad case of the google-itis. I've been advised to abstain from any and all medical websites for the rest of forever.


He was looked at by his pediatrician, who, just to shut me up (because I was all 'you're sure, absolutely positive, swear on your mother', etc....), sent us over to the opthamologist for a little look see. She dilated his pupils and had a good look around. He's peachy and he was thrilled to get to use the cool "look through" machine. I was entertained all afternoon as he stumbled around into things because his pupils were dilated.


That picture shook me up. Probably a combination of having always been a little worried about his eyes (he can move them independently and it skeeves me out), having read a novel a few months ago about a little boy who had that disease, and then reading the msnbc article two days before I downloaded that picture. It was like the perfect storm I tell ya. All the factors needed for a complete mommy meltdown.

So thanks for being kind and patient and only rolling your eyes when I wasn't looking. I do appreciate it. You (and my good friend Ms. Xanax) helped me get some sleep when otherwise, I would have paced all night.


Now that we know Silas' eyes are fine, guess what I need? BIFOCALS!! You'll notice the capitalization, bolding AND italics? I can't believe it. I'm only 29. (With 12 years experience) At least I can get new glasses now, and keep them on instead of only needing them to read and then not being able to find them because they're on top of my head and who would think to look there? (see, good side to everything)



Awkward change of topic:


Saturday was my 10th wedding anniversary, and also my 41st birthday. If you've been around here any amount of time, you know that neither of these events inspired much of a celebratory atmosphere. We went to Olive Garden for dinner and I had a glass of Sangria. Did you know Sangria has alcohol in it? I did not. until it mixed with my prozac and I passed out. I didn't wake up in a panic attack on Saturday night, no sir. I wouldn't have awakened if you had burned my feet with a poker.


Because my Sunday night recap/update haven't decided what to call it yet post got pre-empted by my meltdown post, I'll leave you with the funniest pic I saw this week. Peace out, poppets.

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.

I could only hope to be this brave

This man right here? Now, there's a hero. We all have people we look up to, who we want to emulate. This man is now one of mine. I cannot imagine a more heroic way to die. Holding your child above your head to avoid the weight of the car crushing you against the fence. To see the car coming toward you and instinctively raising your daughter to safety above while you bear the brunt of the impact. To die knowing that at least you saved her.

Of course his children won't care how heroic he was, they will only want their daddy. I'm sure his family would prefer he hadn't had to die a hero, or die at all. I'm fairly confident that they wish the driver of the car hadn't chosen to get behind the wheel. But the pride they'll have! The stories that will be told. I can't imagine it will be any comfort.

My first whupping

Yvonne, at joyunexpected wrote a post about the last time she got a whipping from her dad. I had a cute little linky all ready to go, but the post is gone! I haven't quite figured out why because I thought it was well written and interesting AND I was inspired to share the story of my first and only experience with corporal punishment.
My family all lived on the same road within one mile of each other. I had paternal grandparents down the hill to the east, our house in the middle, and maternal grandparents three houses to the west. I had the type of childhood where we were set out of the house in the morning and told to be home by dinner. Where we were and what we did in between only came into question if criminal acts were witnessed or blood was shed.
My aunt is only eighteen months older than I am, so we grew up more like sisters. We spent a good deal of time exploring the woods around our houses, hanging out in the store where sometimes your bottle of chocolate pop had a dime in the cap! and generally just being kids. Now my father had a very precise version of how children were to be raised. I don't think he did this consciously, but its just the way it turned out. He has never raised his hand or even his voice to either of his children and he didn't expect anyone else to either.
My aunt and I, being around 6 and 8, couldn't find anything to get into one hot summer day. We had run through the sprinkler, had a squirt bottle fight, and watched the Flintstone's. We were at a loss. While aimlessly roaming through the house, we happened upon my grandfather's shaving cream. Two cans! One for each of us. At least we went outside to the front yard before having our shaving cream fight (we seemed to have a lot of fights, real and pretend). To this day, I still don't know what it was about that simple act of childhood that angered my grandfather so. We were scampering around the yard, covered in shaving cream and quite delighted with ourselves when he came home. He came thundering across the yard and snatched us up by the arms. He drug us into the house and put us on the sofa. Then he took off his belt. He hadn't spoken yet.
He whipped my aunt first, then me. With a belt. Two inches wide, black leather, well worn, silver buckle. I will never forget that belt. I can honestly say that I have forgotten the pain. I'm sure it hurt because we sobbed for hours, huddled on the sofa, legs and hineys stinging. But I think perhaps our hearts were in more pain than our asses. We still didn't know what we had done wrong.
My grandmother came home from work and found us like that. She gathered herself up to her full height of 4'8" and she took her 90 lb. self into the kitchen where she proceeded to administer said belt to the back of her husband. She got in two good licks before he took it, all the while laughing at her (which just made her madder) and telling her that a good whupping never hurt no children. Now, my grandfather was a gentle man who never raised a hand to his wife during their entire 40 year marriage. Her fury amused him. He just didn't see what the big deal was. We did something wrong (in his opinion) and he punished us.
Needless to say, my father did see what the big deal was. As kids are wont to do, we got over it and moved on to other activities for the rest of the afternoon. Then it was time to go home. I wandered home for dinner. When I climbed into my chair at the table, my father saw me wince. He asked what was wrong. I told him that Popo had whipped us with his belt because we used up all of his shaving cream. He checked my backside and legs and the welts he saw there put clouds in his eyes that I had never seen before. He very quietly told Mother that he would be back shortly. I wasn't witness to the rest of this story, but it has been told many times.
My father is not a large man. 5'9", 180. My grandfather was a very large man, topping out at 6'4", 280. My father did not hesitate nor waver. Someone had harmed his child and that simply could not be tolerated. To my grandfathers' credit, he didn't try to defend himself. He took his punch like a man and then apologized for whipping me. He apologized to my father, but not to me, or his daughter. But he never physically punished either of us again.
It wasn't the end of the world, getting whipped. I'm sure I would have a different opinion if it had happened frequently. As it was, it happened, and I didn't die from it. But I still don't like the smell of certain shaving creams.

Things I learned from my father

This should probably be titled "things my father tried to teach me". Some took, some didn't.

Measure twice, cut once. Trust me, this applies to a WHOLE lot more than lumber.

There is nothing you can't learn. Proved this by teaching me to break down and rebuild an engine.

Someone is always watching you. Paranoid much? Actually, his way of telling me to comport myself in such a way as to be respected. This one didn't take until my 20's.

You have to work hard to have nice things. This one I got when the National Bank of Daddy closed its wallet.

Don't be afraid to tell people how good you are. Got this one a little TOO good.

The less you say, the more people want you to talk. Epic fail.

There is nothing you can't do alone. Gotta disagree with this one.

Let your kids make their mistakes. Yeah, about that? Wish I had had more guidance.

If you can't see the mirrors, he can't see you. Check.

People will judge you by who you are with. Yeah, buddy.

Always keep $20 hidden somewhere in your car. Still do, to this day. Never know when I might need ONE GALLON of gas!

If you're going to illegally run electric to your garage, have someone stand by with a wooden board to break the current if you get shocked. Haven't had use for this one.

And my all time favorite.

When you fall off the roof, you can make yourself pass out before you hit the ground. WTF???