I Need More Cowbell *

What Hath Bitterness Wrought?

2009-06-28T10:54:00.000-07:00

OK. Which of you bitches snapped? Recently, a fellow bitter blogger, who shall remain nameless, but lives at the aforepasted link, posed a question. Basically, who is the more deserving recipient of a single bullet, with a choice of the Sham-Wow guy or the OxiClean Guy.

OxiClean Guy is dead. Coincidence? You tell me.

When the po-po comes, I'd like the record to reflect that my original comment was the one NOT condoning murder.

History

2009-06-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

So this isn't so much a post, more like commentary to point you toward two others' posts.

Not long ago, I read a piece at PPR Scribe's place that shook me. The piece was about taking her two young daughters to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.

PPR Scribe does these black and white photos on her site. They are always striking, but the photo of her daughters, in this place, taking this wicked history into their tender hearts, just wrenched my guts. I started to comment that it made me think of the Bohemian's trip to Ghana because ... but I couldn't make it mean what it means, so I deleted it and just said, "Thank you for sharing this" or some such lame nothingness.

Today, Scribe commented about the Bohemian, mentioning her own daughters, and the importance of role models. It got me thinking again about the histories that our daughters share. The Bohemian wrote quite a few posts about Ghana, but there were two that to this day make me feel like my insides are falling.

Yesterday we went to the River of the Last Bath. Basically, when the Europeans had marched their captives through Africa, they dunked them in this river so they'd be clean when they got to the coast, where all the buying was going on. A clean captive brings more money.

All the towns we passed through on the way had the the word "Assin" before the name of the town. In Twi, it means "passing", because the men and women the slave traders captured walked through there in chains. [snip]

I was afraid to go down there and look that in the face. I wished I could refuse to go. I wished that option was there. But of course it wasn't.

If you want to understand why people "can't just let it go", read about the River of the Last Bath.

After that, if you want to know why history still hurts, why it's not all-over-now-anyway, read about Elmina Castle, that splendid structure where the Portuguese, Dutch, and British processed enslaved Africans for their passage to the New World. The photo above is from Elmina.

Whenever we pull up to these places I'm never ready. I'm like, could we come back and do this later? After my lunch has settled - after the air gets cooler - after I take some pictures of the harbor - just hold on a second. But we go in anyway and see the castle, and because of the river I handled it better than I thought I would, but it wasn't something you could look at every day and still be human.

I don't know how anyone can read the rest of those posts without having a perspective shift, without having the air sucked out of them, but reading the words from my daughter ... holy hell, people. That hurts. More so knowing that I can't even understand it. Not really. She is my child, of my body, but as a white person, I can never know the pain she felt. Not really. I'll never be able to shield her from it or take it from her. It was her history, her experience, not mine -- she had to walk there without me, get gutpunched without me, internalize it, mourn it, fight it, and (try to) heal from it without me. She walked with her friends, her sisters, who carried that horrible heaviness with her. I can imagine it, I can think I understand it, but I can not. Not really.

When I read Scribe's post, read about her daughters' tears, about looking out the windows across the Ohio, another River, it hurt my heart to think of all the little girls and boys who have to face this history, reconcile it. Other little girls and boys get to choose whether or not to face it - and their part in it. But it made my heart glad to read about a parent who is teaching her daughters, who is there to walk with them, to share the weight of it. To arm them.

It must've been hard for PPR Scribe and the Bohemian to write these things down, to share them. I hope you take the time to read their posts. And teach your children. Thank you, ladies.

Pride Profiles, Bohemian Style

2009-06-18T11:46:00.000-07:00

The Bohemian is doing a Pride Profiles series on her blog. For those of you who somehow missed the incessant, shameless bragging about the Offspring up in this joint, The Radical Bohemian is my eldest daughter, just finished her junior year at Howard University and currently working as an intern for NPR. She's a music major, kickass on the piano and her own vocal pipes, an activist, organizer, professional protester, world traveler, non-revisionist history buff, an artist, a reader, a lover of puppies, and general all around badass.

Anyway, I'm really liking her series, and thought you all might too, even if you're not as biased as I am. Which is pretty blatantly biased.

Here are her first two profiles:

Gladys Bentley

Dr. Sara Josephine Baker

Click, learn, enjoy.

Empty Nest. Sort of.

2009-06-13T22:57:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday I put Male Offspring on a plane to 0man. Took him about 18 hours and two layovers to get there. Before he even got off the ground, he was stopped by Seattle security, on account of he had two rolls bagged up in his pocket, courtesy of his friend who works in a bakery. "Hey Fred! Come take a look at this! This guy's carrying two big round things ... in his pocket!" The rolls were X-rayed and examined. Fred determined they were only rolls, after all. Homeland Security, working for America.

The Son called the next day, around noon.

Me: So, how hot is it over there?

Male Offspring: About 85F.

Me: Oh, that's not too hot, considering it's 0man in June.

MO: It's midnight here.

Oh.

Yes, I am jealous, thanks for asking.

So he'll be there at least until the end of the month. He may stay longer, but hasn't decided yet. The Ex has some fun stuff planned for him, like getting him certified for scuba diving, riding ATVs in the desert, and the like. Very cool stuff for a kid. They may even visit the Rich Man's Paradise of Dubai, where they can indoor ski and visit man made islands.

So, of course, a day or two after Male Offspring's arrival, Somali pirates conducted their first ever attack on a ship in 0mani waters. Wonderful. What are the odds? I just hope the kid wasn't scuba diving in the vicinity.

The Bohemian won't be home much this summer, seeing as how she got a paid internship with NPR and is currently kicking ass doing all sorts of web stuff at her new J-O-B. She is also preparing for her senior recital (!!!) in the fall and hanging out with her significant other. She called me the day her brother left.

The Bohemian: Oh, you'll be all alone in the house ...

Me: Your sister comes home tomorrow night, so there's actually only one night overlap.

The Bohemian: Like I said, you'll be all alone in the house.

Teen Demon is home for the summer. So to speak. Can she already have finished her first year of college? Kids, a little consideration, please -- you're making Mommy feel old. Not cool. So the Demon has a summer job as a cake decorator, making use of her awesome cake decorating skillz. She brought home a buttload of stuff, spent a day in cleaning mode getting her old room back in order, which included hanging a giant shoe holder and a Tupac poster up on her pink walls. Then she left to go camping and fishing.

My ass has been too damn busy to feel lonely though. Besides, the dogs are still here with me. Never underestimate the value of a captive audience.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII

2009-05-31T13:22:00.000-07:00

Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers

Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.

Enough said.

My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.

OK, so there's this planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant 2 years' of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, that guy allowed grass to completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?

Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.

Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass Frozen Shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run DEEP, people. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I saved them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer should have that box bursting with bloomage.

Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.

Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
Left: monster grass.

Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.

Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But nooo. That's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some hugeass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.

Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.

Who chooses wood in this never ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.

De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?

So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $400 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.

This shit was not even ON my summer project list! Here's what WAS on my summer project list:

1. Retile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).
2. Replace 80s wood vanity and fixtures, along with the cracked sink.
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.
4. Install blinds on the windows.
5. Replace rotting front deck.

Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!

Other possible items for the summer project list included:

6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)
7. Replace fucked up mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.
8. Paint over the uglyass dining room paneling
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.
10. Install closet organization systems.
11. Replace1980s ceiling fan in dining room.

None of this even touches my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.

Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit! And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' 0man until sometime in July.

Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?

For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.

I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII

2009-05-06T12:01:00.000-07:00

Episode VII: Where's the Heat

It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the home.improvement tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.

Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even blogged about replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof. Yes, the roof. Last October I actually had to replace the entire roof. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.

So. Let's move on, shall we?

Today's episode. My water heater is having performance issues. As in, it's not working at all.

Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.

Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse.

So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.

You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't.

It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my furnace, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.

No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.

So I am now "troubleshooting". The son and I remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the oven, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least 3 days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.

Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

2009-05-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".

I am sickened, but not surprised.

My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.

Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.

What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?

Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.

Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07

The Brick on Bionics

2009-04-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

So I bought a new computer. Finally. There was a suitable mourning period for The Brick, longer than most, but considering that he served faithfully - if not always efficiently - for what, 9 years, it was the least I could do.

I hope he isn't looking down from eHeaven, betrayed that I moved on too quickly.

Anyway, my research into different brands, models, and options was all for naught, seeing as I suddenly developed what my Dad refers to as a hair up my ass. Mainly because I have to do a PowerPoint presentation for my advocacy group by the 16th, and I have to do my damned taxes. By the 15th, as you all know. Yes, I procrastinated the taxes again. So what. That shit is stressful.

So, with the proverbial hair chapping my ass, I got off work Friday afternoon, rushed to Costco before they closed, and just picked one. While Costco has great prices and customer support, they do not have a lot of choices. I think there were maybe 9 computers, total. The huge $1150 top of the line and the tiny netbook were out of the question. Two others were Acers, which the Costco guy said were actually more dependable than HP in his experience, but I just couldn't imagine crowing, yeah baby, bought me an Acer! So that left roughly 4 HP models and 1 Dell.

If my IT buddies from my old job had seen me choosing this computer, they would've called me a girl. And not in a good way. Bastards. Of course I looked at specs first. Both the Dell and one of the HPs had roughly the same specs. So what was the final hand wringing about? Important stuff, that's what. The so-called girl stuff.

The HP, while smaller, had these very cool and funky graphic designs on the outer lid and below the keyboard, where your wrists rest. The Dell looked plain and clunky, but had a backlit keyboard. Ooh, handy for typing in the dark. Also a bigger monitor screen, but let's not lie - the real issue was backlit keyboard v. cool designs. Also, the HP touch pad was that shiny glossy silver. Fingerprints and grubby smudges all over it. Gross! You could practically see Little Johnny's booger trails overlaying the evidence of Uncle Frankie's earwax exploration. Nasty! The Dell's touchpad was silver too, but slightly textured, more matte, kind of a slick Teflon feel. No fingerprints, no greasy trails of Costco customer nastiness.

In the end, I went for the Dell Studio 1537. Intel Core2Duo, 2GHz processor, 500GB drive, 4GB RAM, wireless N, 64bitOS (yes, Vista, dammit, but I was at the point of ohfuckit. I'll upgrade to 7 next year).

I was pissed off, however, to later find that this particular model comes in colors. Granted, it's not the funky graphic designs of that cute little HP, but still, I can handle clunky a lot better if it's lime green clunky. Or orange. Or red. Yes, I could've gotten colors at Best Bitch, but that's a shopping experience for those who 1) walk in knowing exactly what they want, or 2) are willing to put up with sales bullshit from some teenager who's working part time for weed money. Oh, and 3) are willing to pay out the ass for the same model that Costco sells for cheaper. That too.

So here I am on my plain, black, no-nonsense new Dell. Clunky, as opposed to funky. Like a sleeker, lighter, powerhouse version of The Brick. (Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we have the technology. Better than he was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.) Maybe it was some weird subconscious way of holding on to The Brick. You know, like when people pick boyfriends who are really like their fathers?

I know some say Dell sucks ass, but The Brick did last over 9 years. He was the Methuselah of laptops. I know people who've had 4 or 5 computers over the course of The Brick's lifespan. Of course, The Bohemian also had a Dell, and it gave her the blue screen of death in it's 3rd year or so, but that happened immediately after she lent it to a friend who is not above surfing spammy porny sites. You figure it out.

Anyway, it's got decent enough specs to last me a good while, I can blog, I can do my PowerPoint, and I can do my goddamn fucking sonofabitching taxes.

But ... I am really pissed off that the backlit keyboard turned out to be white. WTF, Dell? Everybody knows you use blue for some shit like that! At least red, damn. Anyway, this could be a major issue. Good thing Costco has that 90 return policy.

The Hell That is Frozen Shoulder

2009-03-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

I have Frozen Shoulder. Again. I had a it a few years ago, before I started blogging. Never heard of it? Neither had I. It's officially called Adhesive Capsulitis. See, your tissues freak the hell out and form bands of tight, inflamed adhesions throughout the capsule surrounding your glenohumeral joint. The scarred and inflamed capsule constricts the joint, locking it into its own private hell. Range of motion is severely restricted, pain is basically comparable to having your shin broken with an axe, and duration can range from a few months to 2 years or more.

This shit hurts, people. It has 3 stages:

FREEZING: this is when you're basically wracked in pain. All the fucking time. Two kinds of pain, actually: chronic pain that is worse at night, and acute just-kill-me-now pain when you accidentally move past your ever-decreasing range of motion. This is where I am now.
FROZEN: this is when the pain supposedly starts to fade, but the capsule has basically locked your arm into a very limited range. This is the time to introduce excruciating physical therapy, in order to try and coax your shoulder into moving again.
THAWING: this is where your motion is supposed to gradually come back. It's not very common to regain your full range of motion. The agonizing PT is continued through this phase.

So yeah, I had this 3 or 4 years back. Took over a year and a half to run its course. I remember when I was diagnosed. I thought Frozen Shoulder sounded stupid. Like some wimp-ass diagnosis for big crybabies or hypochondriacs. Adhesive Capsulitis sounded better, but still. Didn't sound like a "real" condition, like a torn rotator cuff, or bone spur, or something badass like that. I soon found out different.

Frozen Shoulder is not for pussies, people.

Put it this way, I had 3 babies with no drugs. The offspring weighed between 8lb 10oz, to 9lb 1oz. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in Basic Training with only Ben-Gay for relief. I had two wisdom teeth pulled with only local anesthetic. I can do pain. I'm a woman. But dealing with that Frozen Shoulder wore me down. It was rough. And it's back.

The other night my shoulder suddenly seized up in a cramp. (This would be the aforementioned "acute pain".) I screamed like a girl and cried. Literally. Screamed and cried. Male Offspring was about to take me to the emergency room. Of course, he probably just wanted to drive, but still. He gave me what he called Hug Therapy afterward. This is from a teenage boy, folks. If I had to deal with that pain for the length of a labor ... I couldn't do it. I'd be screaming for the drugs in 5 minutes.

When my shoulder started hurting a few months back, I figured I had wrenched it somehow, you know, with my active lifestyle and all, and didn't think much of it. But as time went on, I had to face the fact that I was having a relapse. According to the literature, relapses are extremely rare. Surprise, I'm one of the lucky few who get to experience that rare treat.

Whee.

This time is worse, in a way. Worse because I know what I'm in for. The first time, I could trick myself. You know, say things like, "Maybe I'll be one of those people who heal in a few months." or "The physical therapy will speed up the process." Complete bullshit, but it had a psychological placebo effect. This time, I know what's up.

I don't think I can do this again, people. It's like getting scared of childbirth once you're already pregnant. Ain't no getting out of it now - you're in it for the duration. And my neck's not long enough to gnaw my arm off.

I can't tuck in a shirt, let alone reach in a back pocket. I can't hook my bra. I can't reach across to wash my other shoulder. Shaving under that arm is a joke. Deodorant, too. Taking a coat off sucks.

Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad at hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward Laura, the bitch who butchered my hair. Every day I hate her more, and I'm not generally into hate, except for George Bush. I'm telling you, every day it festers, and that shit's not healthy. Catching her in an alley while armed with a pair of pinking shears has replaced winning the Lottery as my main fantasy.

Showering has become a dreaded ordeal and leaves me feeling like a big crybaby. I've considered going to work in pajamas rather than face getting dressed. And my pajamas aren't pretty, people. Sleep is difficult. That's an understatement. I'm ODing on Valerian and Unisom. I don't want to go on prescription pain relievers or sleep aids, because of the length of time involved with this thing. I mean, popping hard drugs for a couple of weeks or even a month is one thing, but when you're talking upwards of a year, that's something else. Who wants to end up like Rush Limbaugh?

The worst is making involuntary movements - like if you stumble and try to catch yourself, or automatically reach out to catch something, or if something startles you and makes you jump. Agony. There's a fraction of a second between the time you make the movement, and the time that agony slams you like a rabid water buffalo on crystal meth, when you realize what you've done. That's the fraction of a second you consider bashing your head on concrete to knock yourself out. But there's not enough time.

To add to the fun, it's my right shoulder, and I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's ok, but I'm starting to do other things left-handed. I'll be ambidextrous by the time this shit's over.

I've heard of some people who get bilateral FS. That's right, both arms at once! How do those guys wipe their asses? Or drive? Or eat? Or do anything? Holy hell. If that happens, you'd better hope you have a partner or a live-in aide, because I don't see how you'd manage. It sucks having FS as a single person, even with only one arm affected. Basically, I can reach forward, to a certain height, with no problem. Any other direction is a definite no-go. At least I can type. Good thing -- that's pretty important for my job, hello. Like anyone needs a reason to stand out in this economy.

There is a surgical treatment option, but my HMO wouldn't go for it. Likewise the cortisone injections I've heard some patients get. Cheapass bastards. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Last time, they did a few initial sessions with me, but basically handed me some papers with instructions and cartoon illustrations and told me to go home and do it on my own. Then they collected their co-pay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine", because American medical care is the best in the world!

Actually, maybe I was better off doing it at home. Check out this poor bastard. I can't even imagine being able to move my arm up that high, so he must be coming along nicely. Pay no attention to the screams. It's all about progress in physical therapy. No pain, no gain.

Brutal. My former drill sergeant is probably a physical therapist now. The one who got kicked out for trainee abuse. Anyway, this whole thing is making me really pissy.

I mean more than usual.

The Bohemian's Travels

2009-03-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

Speaking of soccer ...

The Bohemian is back from China. Yes, she went to China, and no, that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. Don't rush me, I'm getting there, ok? So the Bohemian went to China with a small group of singers from her University choir, sponsored by the State Department. Ten cities. That child has been more well-traveled than I am for about 8 years now. She was in Ghana over the summer, and now China. She's also been to Venice, Belgium, and Toronto without her dear mother. I'm hoping she'll move to Costa Rica one day and buy a house with an extra bedroom, but hey, that's just me.

Anyway, she and the rest of her singing crew were such a hit that they bagged an invitation to sing at another venue.

South Africa, 2010.

Yes, the World Cup, people - the friggin' World Cup.

The Bohemian is beside herself. Naturally.

Seattle Sounders FC: Real Sound Football

2009-03-24T18:46:00.000-07:00

Seattle steps up with some real football. Fußball, fútbol, foci, fotbal, or - as we Americans insist - soccer, it doesn't matter what you call it, "the world's game" has finally come local.

Actually, I lie. I do care what you call it. I hate calling it soccer. I think it should be "football" and "American football" or "US football". Are we the only country in the world that doesn't recognize it as just football? OK, never mind, that's another rant. I'll call it soccer so everyone will know what the hell I'm talking about, and so I won't look like a pissy, purse-lipped grammar-control-freak pain in the ass. Even though I pretty much am.

Soccer is here, and in the big leagues, too: a brand spanking new MLS expansion team. For you US football fans, that's Major League Soccer. Pretty much analogous to an NFL team. Yeah, baby. That's right.

So I'm pretty excited.

I remember the '06 World Cup, not so long after I moved here. I was using vacation hours to go home and watch those matches. And I didn't have that much vacation time saved up back then, either. I was stoked. I was also floored that no one seemed to know what the hell I was talking about! I got comments like, "World Cup, what is that, sailing?" or "Oh, I didn't know soccer was that popular." What? Sailing? Are you serious? You didn't know it was that popular? Um, the World Cup final is THE most watched sporting event ever! It's actually US football that's "not that popular", in the big scheme of things, people. Jeez. Some perspective, please. Don't get me wrong, I love American football too. Go 'Hawks.

In fact, what is it with this either-or thing with US football fans? The whole soccer v. American football thing? It's like you can only like one or the other. If you ask someone whether they like soccer, the reply is likely to be, "Nah, I like real football." Yeah? Me too. I like real football and American football. What does one have to do with the other? US football is not a replacement for soccer. It's not even similar. It's not like baseball and softball, for Pete's sake. You might as well say, no, I don't like golf, I'm a croquet man myself. Or, nah, I'm not much into tennis, ping pong is my game! Oh, that sounds silly? Yeah, well that's about how related soccer and US football are, people. You don't have to choose. I've always thought that was some kind of weird sports dichotomy.

Anyway. They won their first regular season game 3 - zip against the New York Red Bulls. Hell yeah.

They're apparently the first football club to have their own marching band, Sound Wave, which is pretty friggin' awesome.

They've already sold more season tickets than any other MLS club. New as they are, too! That's impressive. Apparently the fans did Qwest field proud, rivaling Seawhawks fans in noise level, and standing practically the whole time. Yeah, baby. Hoo-ah.

Anyway, MLS in Seattle, folks. Next game is this Saturday. Bring beer.

Xylitol: Sugarless Gum Can Kill Your Dog

2009-03-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Last week Batman ate some Orbit Sweet Mint sugarless gum. The rogue canine taught himself how to pull open the junk drawer - yes, it's the top drawer. He pulled out a box of gum from Costco, along with a bag of hinges, instructions for the thermostat, a couple of magic markers, and some pizza coupons. I don't know how many packs of gum were left in the box, but in hindsight, I don't think it could have been many.

Oh. No wonder you look so guilty. Foolish labradog, how much gum did you eat? Did you learn nothing from that emergency surgery situation? Yeah, that's right, hang your head, I'm talking about the Great Tampon Escapade, not to mention the Toothpick Incident. You'd think that would've cured you from indiscriminately snarfing down whatever you come across.

Well, when you're blowing bubbles out your ass, don't come whining to me.

But then, I thought, I'd better look this up. Just in case. And I was stunned. Orbit has an ingredient called Xylitol, a natural sugar alcohol, first harvested from the bark of birch trees in Finland, and found in various fruits, vegetables, berries, even mushrooms. Xylitol has been used in Europe for some time now, but didn't find its way to the US market until about 2003. It's used in sugarless gums, candies, and in some baked goods.

Xylitol is great for humans -- it's natural, has no aftertaste, is as sweet as sugar with only 40% of the calories, and studies have proven it actually reduces cavities. Something about the way it interacts with bacteria in the mouth. It's a godsend for diabetics, as it does not require insulin to metabolize, therefore does not impact blood sugar levels. And it tastes great. There are even studies suggesting a possible use in fighting osteoporosis! Great stuff, right? So what's the catch?

The catch, for dog owners, is that it can kill your dog. And it doesn't take much. I was lucky I didn't come home to a dead dog last week, people.

Dogs metabolize Xylitol much differently than we humans do. We process the stuff slowly. Dogs' bodies metabolize it all once. Xylitol tricks the dog's body into dumping massive amounts of insulin into the system, but guess what, there's no actual sugar there for the insulin to act on. The dog's blood sugar levels plummet, and acute hypoglycemia sets in.

Within 30 to 60 minutes, a dog can present with lethargy, ataxia, seizures, and even unconsciousness. Basically a diabetic coma. If it is not addressed quickly, the dog can die.

The other problem dogs face, in addition to the hypoglycemia, is liver failure. This can be accompanied by internal bleeding, due to clotting abnormalities. Even a dog exhibiting few hypoglycemic symptoms can end up with liver damage, or even acute hepatic failure. The liver damage may not manifest until 12 - 48 hours after ingestion, and it can be permanent.

There is no antidote for canine Xylitol poisoning. The acute hypoglycemia can be countered by inducing vomiting if the ingestion is discovered quickly, and/or by administering a dextrose IV solution. However, if the hypoglycemia is not treated quickly, liver damage or failure can follow, and vets are not able to do as much for that.

If you see any of these symptoms in your dog, especially if you suspect your dog may have had access to sugarless gum, candy, or sweets, get your dog to the vet immediately:

Weakness or lethargy
Pale gums
Ataxia (uncoordinated movements)
Depression
Vomiting or diarrhea
Hypokalemia (decreased potassium)
Seizures
Collapse
Unconsciousness
Liver dysfunction and/or failure

If discovered quickly, and you're sure about what your dog has ingested, you can induce vomiting using fresh hydrogen peroxide, 1tsp (5cc or 5ml) for each 10 lbs of body weight. (I've done this with Batman before, and it took 4 or 5 tsp. He weighs nearly 70 lbs. I did it with Mason once, it only took 1 tsp.) CALL YOUR VET FIRST: depending on your dog's symptoms, s/he may advise against inducing vomiting to avoid possible aspiration into the lungs, or if more than 2 hours has passed since the ingestion. Activated charcoal does not effectively absorb Xylitol in the stomach.

After hours, you can call the ASPCA 24-hour emergency poison hotline directly at 1-888-426-4435. They may apply a $60 charge, but you don't have time to waste if your dog has eaten this stuff. If this happens after hours, take your dog to a 24-hr emergency animal hospital. You guys know I don't say that lightly -- I know how much that costs.

What happened to Batman? He showed few symptoms, but that is apparently NOT typical. He was lethargic, but not terribly. I paid $160 to have the vet run complete blood work and liver enzymes on him, and tell me he was going to be fine. My vet said a few dogs seem to react more mildly to Xylitol than most. Apparently Batman is one of those few. I feel like he cheated death. I'd swear that dog has 9 lives.

Let me stress, that is not the norm. I read story after story on the Internets about people coming home to dead, unconscious, or seizing dogs. Dogs DIE from this. Not just a few here and there, either. Others are euthanized because the damage to the liver is too severe in the end. Some dogs are under critical care treatment for days or even a week. This is nothing to mess around with, folks. It happens fast, and it doesn't take much. A couple of sticks of some gums can kill a smaller dog. Batman is the exception - extreme illness or death are the normal results. I read about a dog named Copper who died from eating the exact same gum that Batman ate.

By all rights, Batman should've been dead by the time I got home.

Most Americans don't know about Xylitol. Many vets are still unaware of the dangers. The number of cases is rising quickly, as more and more products use Xylitol. If the owner is unaware that Rover got some Tic Tacs from the car, or snatched some gum from an open purse, those incidents get chalked up to an unknown cause, so the number of deaths is probably higher than reported.

For the record, other sweeteners like sorbitol and mannitol are not harmful to dogs. The gum Batman ate had Xylitol listed as "less than 2%", with sorbitol as the first ingredient, and mannitol also listed. Other gums, like Trident, have higher amounts. Orbit made a new line called Orbit Complete, in which the main draw is the high levels of Xylitol. Like I said, it's great for human teeth.

There is pressure on the FDA and manufacturers to use warning labels. The FDA says they're in the business of people, not animals. The manufacturers are afraid people will think the product itself is bad, when actually it's just the way dogs process it. So, no labels yet. Greedyass corporate bastards. Capitalism at its best.

So no cookies, gummy bites, muffins, mints, or gum for Fido. I'm glad we still have Batman. I read a lot of heartbreaking stories about people who lost their animals. Be careful with your canine friends, people.

Steele - They Love Him, They Love Him Not.

2009-03-13T17:57:00.000-07:00

So Michael Steele is having to backtrack again. Remember when his party got their panties in a bunch about his "sea of white faces" comment at their convention? Then recently, he had to apologize for calling Rush Limbaugh's rhetoric "incendiary" and "ugly". Now he's in hot water for saying maybe abortion should be left up to the states, and implying that it's a matter of choice. Mercy. The Repubs had him backtracking so fast on that one, I'm surprised the man didn't trip over his shoelaces.

Watch out Mr. Steele - the far Reich isn't down with that whole marching to a different drummer thing. They prefer a nice uniform lockstep. Like the Borg. No dissension in the ranks.

I really don't see what all the apologizing is about. I mean, come on, Rush Limbaugh is a right-wing radio host. He gets paid to be incendiary. Saying he's incendiary is not an insult, it's a job description. And the Republican convention WAS a sea of white faces. I mean, damn, I'd have been scared to be there, and I'm white.

And states' rights -- aren't the Repubs all about states' rights? Wasn't that whole "war of Northern aggression" thing over states' rights? Well, when it comes to women's bodies, they're apparently not for states' rights. My bad. I guess big government up in your business is OK in that case.

Yeah, I'm pretty disgusted with that slum love comment he threw at Bobby Jindal, and some of the ways he's going about his mission of Republican change make me cringe, but I have to admit, I feel for the man. The Repubs are just salivating all over themselves, they can't wait for him to fail. They are on his ass like, well, white on rice.

I'm sure Steele knows what's up. Whether he can say so publicly or not, he's got to know the Repubs didn't give a good goddamn about diversity in the ranks until they saw the Dem candidates for president. Then all of a sudden, up they pop with Palin, Jindal, and Steele.

Kumbaya, y'all.

I think Steele genuinely does want to bring change to the Right. Granted, his methods are odd, but let's face it, ANY way the Right tries to bring hip hop to the ranks is going to seem odd as hell, right? I don't agree with most of his views -- hello, Republican -- but I can see that he sees his party imploding. He sees they need to branch the hell out, quit letting the wingnut evangelicals run the joint, bring in the young people. Balance out the old white men. So he's trying to make change to save his party, poor guy.

Problem is, the GOP doesn't really want to change. They know they need to -- thus their new shining stars -- but they don't want to. They don't want Steele to actually do anything different. They just want him to stand there, look diverse, and do what the hell they tell him to do.

Gee, Michael, we didn't expect you to take this Change thing seriously! Stop fooling around and get in step!

So as much as I'm delighting in the ongoing right wing implosion, I'm thinking what they're doing with Michael is pretty fucked up. They put him in place to illustrate change, but that's all they wanted to do - illustrate it. Once they saw him taking it seriously, using his position of power to do things differently, they got nervous. Now they're circling like sharks, waiting for him to step too far out of line, and at that point, it's win-win for them: they get that cookie for hiring the Black guy, without actually having to deal with him being in power. They can say it's not their fault. They tried, but gee, he just wasn't up to the task. The unspoken message being, of course, those people just aren't up to the task. Which allows the good ol' boys to get back to normal. I can see them now, mopping their brows with their handkerchiefs, "Whew! That was close! I thought he was one of the good ones, too!"

I'm no more a fan of Mr. Steele than I am any other right winger, but I hope he hangs tough. Either way, his party is pretty much in the toilet for the forseeable future. Come on, Mr. Steele, look around. Those old white dudes are basically pushing you out on a plank. If you decide to jump ship and come to Blue side, let us know.

Steele Yourself for Some Slum Love.

2009-03-08T12:08:00.000-07:00

(The last of the drafts from my sick day. It's outdated now, but what the hell, it's a post.)

So, did you all catch Michael Steele, newly minted chairman of the Republican National Committee yukking it up with a white conservative talking head about giving Bobby Jindal some "slum love"?

Curtis Sliwa: Now, using a little bit of that street terminology, are you giving him any Slum love, Michael?

Michael Steele: (laughter)

Curtis Sliwa: Because he is -- when guys look at him and young women look at him -- they say oh, that's the slumdog millionaire, governor. So, give me some slum love.

Michael Steele: I love it. (inaudible)...some slum love out to my buddy, Gov. Bobby Jindal is doing a friggin' awesome job in his state. He's really turned around on some core principles -- like hey, government ought not be corrupt.

WTF, Michael? You think that's acceptable? You think that's funny? Why would you not call his ass on that? What kind of message is that to send out to a national audience?

Sadly, there's more. Click on the link up there to catch Steele's comments about Obama having bling-bling in the stimulus package, Sliwa imagining Mitt Romney high-fiving Ludacris, offering to play Jay-Z while Steele exits, and more condescending banter.

I find it hard to believe that Michael Steele didn't recognize what Sliwa was doing - almost every word out of Sliwa's mouth was that patronizing crap White folks do when they want to show they're Down With Diversity. Here's the thing, it's good to see Republican POCs in leadership positions within their party, but if the Republican party will only choose those who tout the far-right party line, people who are safe, who will laugh this kind of racist bullshit off -- who will participate in it rather than call it out -- I don't know. I mean, congrats on your new position and all, Mr. Steele, but I'm thinking that in some ways, you're doing more harm than good.

I've written before about the difference I've seen in my son since President Obama's election. I would like for my son to see POCs in leadership positions across party lines. It's healthy to hear differing opinions, apply those critical thinking skills. What's not healthy is for young people of color to see the results of internalized racial oppression played out on a national stage like it's comedy hour or something. What's not healthy is for young white kids to see the flip side of that and get a nice confirmation for their internalized racial superiority that they're probably not even aware of.

How many Indian kids in our high schools and middle schools are catching slumdog jokes this week? Do you feel OK perpetuating that, Michael Steele? Participating in it?

I've heard a lot of talk about how we're now in a post-racial society. Really? Because I'm having more conversations than ever with my son about all of these things. Seems like every time I turn on the news, something else needs to be addressed: the RNC's Magic Negro Christmas CD, the infamous Post cartoon, the backlash to AG Holder's "nation of cowards" speech, Miley Cyrus' I-wasn't-mocking-Asians bullshit, Michelle Bachman's "you be da man" gushing to Michael Steele, the slum love thing ... just to name a few.

Basically, that slum love situation sends a message to young people of color that you'd better step in line, ignore racism, even participate in racist jokes if you want to get anywhere, at least on the conservative side of the house. And you'd best suppress any pain or anger or resentment -- laugh that shit off, because hey, you know we're just joking, buddy. You know we don't mean you. Golly, we don't even think of you as Black! We don't even see color!

Well I'm sorry, but that interview was bullshit. And yes, I know it's easy for me to pontificate from my couch, to criticize, when I'll never have to live Steele's reality as a man of color. Fair enough. But when my son sees Michael Steele laughing with some White conservative hack about Bobby Jindal being a slumdog millionaire governor, my son needs to know that is not OK.

I've a feeling this is just the beginning of a long line of fucked up racist situations to be paraded across our nightly news, as the Repubs get Down With Diversity. Lately, I feel like it's all I can do to keep up, and honestly, you're making my job harder, Michael Steele.

I understand that arming my son with the knowledge to recognize and work against systemic racism is my responsiblity, not yours, but damn, I sure wish he could've seen YOU call it out, Mr. Steele. We expect that stuff from the Rush Limbaughs and the Curtis Sliwas out there, but having to battle against your example with my son ... that's something else altogether. It matters.

Bobby, You're Doin' a Heckuva Job!

2009-03-03T17:41:00.000-08:00

Stardate: Monday, March 2nd. Cowbell's Log: Male Offspring is home from school now, but (shh) hasn't taken his computer back yet. I'm assuming this means he doesn't have any homework, not that he isn't doing his homework.

So I'm blogging. I know, I just blogged this morning. Crazy, right? It's almost like having a computer again. I feel like one of those monkeys with unlimited access to cocaine who keep pushing the button until they're coked out. Pace myself, I know. I'm saving this one and another as drafts to publish later. Dole it out. Make it last.

Guys, there have been so many things I've wanted to blog about. When I do get some time, it's hard to write about anything serious, because I know I'll only have the computer for a limited time. Pressure. Like a timed test, but without the number 2 pencil. Of course, now that I have a computer in front me, my mind is a complete blank, but trust me, there's a lot I wanted to blog about. The Inauguration, for one. OK, never mind, too much pressure to put THAT into words. Male Offspring will be here any minute. What else?

Oh, I know.

Fast forward to President Obama's speech last week. How good does it feel to have a competent leader at the helm? And how good does it feel to watch my son watching the President's speech? Every time the man speaks, Male Offspring is right there. He watches the news more now, too. Discusses issues. Ask questions. Talks about his opinions. Says his President rocks. To those folks who "just don't see color", and think it doesn't matter if a role model is green, purple or polka-dot ... it matters. It matters a lot.

So the son and I watch the speech. Then comes the Republican response. People ... what the hell was that? I'm sorry, but Bobby Jindal looked like one of those dolls where you pull a string and he talks. I think they wound his string too tight.

You know how, when people are on stage -- singing, speaking, playing violin, whatever -- and it's so bad that you're embarrassed for them? It was like that. It reminded me of high school, when Scott Fitzgerald sang I Got Rhythm at the spring concert. Except he didn't. Have rhythm, that is. Sweet boy, but ... no. It was excruciating. I remember squirming, watching him stiffly snapping his fingers off the beat while singing at the floor, his voice occasionally cracking. God, I wanted to disappear in a hole for him.

Bobby Jindal was about like that, on the stiff and awkward scale. I kept waiting for someone to use his tie like one of those big stage hooks, and reel him off stage.

He started off like he was in some weird "who's the most ethnic" contest or something. Did you all catch that? He's all like, oh yeah, keep your Hawaii and Indonesia and Kenyan father -- MY parents were immigrants! My mom was 4 months pregnant with me when we got here, so I was like a pre-existing condition! [stretch lips over teeth, force chuckle, hold for 2 beats]

Really? So ... in the Republican response, you not only want to bring up immigration, but immigrants entering the country shortly before giving birth to a child who will then be an American citizen, via the US health care system? Look dude, maybe nobody briefed you, but your party is against immigration. And immigrants having babies here. And immigrants having access to health care. Yeah, it's kind of a major party platform. So ... where were you going with that? And the Hurricane Katrina bit? Whose brainchild was that? Psst, Bobby: your party blew the whole Katrina thing. Bad. It's true. You guys were basically a laughingstock. Not sure where you were going with that one, either.

So I'm sitting there asking, where's the response? He's supposed to be responding to the President's speech. Did he even listen to the President's speech? Did no one forward them a transcript? Did his staff set him up? Because really, there's a bit of a disconnect here.

Male Offspring didn't respond to my questions right away. He was sort of entranced, mouth half-open, brows furrowed. I think the tie hypnotized him.

I really was expecting more. This is the great hope of the Republican party? If he and Sarah Youbetcha Palin are the rising stars ... oh hell yeah, we've got our 8 years in the bag. Bobby you're doin' a heckuva job!

Stalking Anthony Bourdain

2009-03-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

I'm home with a roiling gut today. This is what it takes for me to get time on Male Offspring's computer. Hey, anything for you guys.

No. Still no replacement for The Brick. I got a hellacious heating bill I wasn't expecting, and Teen Demon surprised me by being unable to pay for her 6 months of car insurance. Yeah. The Partying 101 that "isn't affecting her school work" is sure as hell affecting her financial acumen. At this rate, Windows 7 will be out before I get a new blog machine. Silver lining and all that.

So anyway, I'm dividing my time between the couch and the bathroom. I'll spare you the bathroom nitty gritty, and stick with the couchside goings on. Because that is where I'm hanging with my man, Anthony Bourdain. Yes, the Travel Channel. I know, right? With a cuisine twist thrown in, no less. But trust me, this guy is no Rick Steves or Samantha Brown. No offense to Rick or Sam. Just not my thing.

I watched Samantha once. Destination Ireland. The whole time, I was like, OK, is she really trying to do a fake Irish accent? It was intermittent, but definitely there. Weird! And what's with the cheery, eager beaver act? Girl would be perfect working the Starbucks drive-thru speaker at 5am. That brand of perky just pisses me off. But guess what came on right afterward? Anthony Bourdain's Ireland show! I know, too good, right? I don't know what those folks at the Travel Channel were thinking - are they going for a mass exodus of SamFans over to Anthony's side of the pub? Basically here's the difference: kissing the blarney stone with an affected faux-Irish accent complete with cheesy soundtrack, versus quaffing Guinness in a smoky bar after a walk through Belfast, Northern Ireland, touching on the not-so-cheery history between the Protestants and Catholics.

Yeah, pour me the Guinness.

Most travel shows work my last nerve with their exoticism and touristy bullshit. I will actually set a reminder for Tony's show. There I said it. I'm addicted to a travel/foodie show.

He's so goddamn appealing.

This guy is the only smoker and pork ~~eater~~ worshipper that I could consider dating. Or marrying. Or stalking. Whatever. Those of you who know how extremely anti-cigi I am, in addition to my vegetarian status, will appreciate the depth of my obsession, here.

Anthony's show, No Reservations, comes with a parental warning. A deliciously sardonic New Yorker, the FCC's obscenity rules are clearly not foremost in his mind. He tends to drink a lot. I don't mean like sampling a good Cabernet with dinner. I mean like slamming it back and dealing with the hangover later. He also says "fuck" a lot and is basically irreverent, caustic, and sexy in a tall, slightly bowlegged, boots-and-leather-jacket kind of way. He's likely to bust out with a "holy shit!" while masticating a juicy mouthful of meat, and you'll never catch him with an umbrella in his drink. And yes, he can occasionally slide toward disdainful when it comes to his travel and food compatriots:

I think the Travel Channel knows it's not getting Jamie Oliver or Rachel Ray when they throw their lot in with me.

Even Samantha Brown would have a hard time summoning a "wow" for this.

He eschews the tourist traps and 5-star restaurants, heading instead for street vendors, family meals, and, as a self-described aficionado of the dive bar, any place where local home brew and home cooking can be found.

He will eat any local specialty, from seal eyes to chicken anus to still-squirming octopus tentacles. What's cool about that though, is that he doesn't do it in that "Ohmygod this is so exotic and freakish, watch me gross you out!" kind of way. (Andrew Zimmern, I'm looking at you.) No, rather than playing the obnoxious dude-check-this-out American, Tony, for all his general snarkiness, is all about genuine learning, about respecting and honoring the people, cultures and traditions of the countries he visits. He uses his show as a vehicle to challenge assumptions and stereotypes. You can see he is honored that people would invite him to their tables, share their food and their stories.

So yeah, I'm smitten with a travel show foodie. I was considering becoming a full time groupie, when my stalking turned up the inconvenient fact that he's now married, and has a little girl. He's apparently a very proud parent:

...she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.

Damn. I missed my window. Word on the street is, he even gave up the smoking in the interest of extended parenthood. Cruel irony. Guess I'll have to be content with the window of my TV screen, like the rest of the fans. Stay sweet, Tony.

OK, stay snarky. Whatever.

Love's Recovery, Redux.

2009-02-15T12:11:00.000-08:00

I'm not one for reposting. I figure asking you guys to digest my rants and occasional introspections more than once is a sure recipe for losing one's blog buddies. Kind of like never posting, but hey, what do you want with The Brick dying and all? Come on people, Male Offspring practically has me on a timer with his machine. I only get the laptop itself, not the cable. My thoughts must be contained within a single battery cycle. That's some pressure. Talk about blogger's block.

Anyway, I was going to throw up a bitter blurb about Singles Awareness Day, to combat the saccharine dregs of those sexist PajamaGram and Vermont Teddy Bear commercials still clinging to my neurons, so I clicked through my archives to ensure I wouldn't end up repeating myself too much. You know, like a blogger version of Uncle Frankie or BoBo who tells the same stories over and over. There's one in every family. I thought last year I'd just posted the requisite anti-Valentine's Day rant, yada yada, but it turns out I wrote more than that. Yes people, I waxed nostalgic. It happens.

Today, the day after Valentine's Day, is Singles Awareness Day. It is also my ex-anniversary. Somebody call Alanis. I daresay that last year I did indeed move beyond rant to introspection, and y'all know that doesn't happen every day around here.

So. much like Uncle BoBo, I'm doing a rare repost, because it did me good to reread this today, and I think I'm not the only one who could do with a counterweight to the pinkery vomited over us during Hearts & Teddy Bear season. Plus, I'd forgotten about it. So, from the archives, a Cowbell journey through love, life, and wising the fuck up:

--------------------------------------------------------

This post is a day late and a dollar short, which is perfect, considering the subject. Yesterday, February 15th, was Singles Awareness Day. It was also my former anniversary. I know, right? We didn't have rain on our wedding day, but really, one's former anniversary falling on Singles Awareness Day is even better. We were supposed to be married on Valentine's Day, but had to wait a day for the license. Every year people asked, "Why didn't you just get married on Valentine's Day?"

I think it worked out perfectly. Single's Awareness Day was just waiting to amuse me.

Lots of single folks bemoan the existence of Valentine's Day. The flowers, the chocolates, the jewelry, the surprise dinners, the chipped teeth from hidden rings in cakes and champagne. Even partnered people hate Valentine's Day. The pressure to think of something unique with which to prove your unflagging love. The unspoken competition to outdo your girlfriend's girlfriends' boyfriends. The whole thing seems a cunning conspiracy meant to torture partnered men and single women alike, stamped with the Hallmark gold seal of approval.

Whatever, I say. Valentine's Day does not find me tracing the tracks of my tears to the strains of old love songs, it does not find me lamenting lost relationships through the sad filter of a lone wine glass. Valentine's Day, these days, is just another day. If anything, it reminds me that I am strong, that I have choice, that there are many things worse than not having a partner. It reminds me that being alone does not have to mean being lonely. Singles Awareness Day falling on my former anniversary is just a deliciously ironic twist.

And you all know I love some twisted humor.

Back in the 80s the Ex and I, soldiers both, in the service of Uncle Sam, were dating. We met in communications school, after Basic Training, through a twisted course of mistaken identities, which is another tale altogether. Anyway, after a few months, our class came down on orders. His orders were for Germany. Mine, Ft. Huachuca, Arizona. Now those of you familiar with my sun addiction, know that Arizona could've well been the best thing to ever happen to me. Being embroiled in the throes of young lust, however, we were devastated. Long convoluted story short, we made the only choice that kids who think they know everything could make: "Let's get married! Then we can apply for the Army Married Couples program and be together forever!" So we did. My orders to Arizona were changed to Germany, and the course of my life was changed forever.

Three years later, the Bohemian was born, and not long after, Teen Demon made her raucous entry into the world. After a suitable time of recovery, the Male Offspring finished off the fruits of my labors. These are the positives I took away from 10 years of marriage, and the reason I can't regret the choice made on a long ago February 15th.

The 11th year found me back in the States, by choice, after discovering that the "forsaking all others" bit had fallen by the wayside along about the time I'd been laboring with Male Offspring. February 15th of that 11th year brought, not an anniversary, but a legal summons delivery, informing me that the Ex had changed his mind on our agreement. He now wanted full custody.

I came away with custody and a load of debt that took years to repay. The Ex and I got past our differences, I went back to Europe and we had a great co-parenting relationship for about 8 years, all told. That was actually a best-of-both-worlds deal; the kids had both parents, we each had a built in babysitter for hot date nights or weekend trips. Those of you who know the rest of the story are aware that this, unfortunately, did not continue. The Ex now lives 12 time zones away rather than across town, co-parenting has gone the way of the dodo, and he brings his new family along for his annual week with our kids.

All of this leading to the point that things change, and we get through. The Valentine's Day - February 15th combo has run the emotional gamut for me, over the years. From new love and happiness, to security, to devastation, to bitterness, to indifference, to wry humor. I came out the other side, and can laugh now, because time allows me to see that what I once believed was the worst thing that could happen to me, was, in actuality, the best. Once, I was devasted to the point of being unable to function. I couldn't comprehend how my heart could continue to beat, how my lungs could continue to draw breath, how my organs could continue to function minute by minute in the face of such unimaginable pain. Seriously, I wondered how my body didn't just die.

It didn't. These days, what seems unimaginable to me is the thought of still being in that marriage, and I mean even if the vows had remained intact. What's unimaginable these days is the thought of not going through that, of not knowing myself. We made a damn good go of it ... we were 18 year old foolish kids from different cultures at opposite ends of the country, who'd known each other 3 months. We made it 10 years and 3 fantastic kids on that platform, far from friends and family, with minimal support. We had a good run, and the kids, the lasting proof of that erstwhile union, are already making a positive impact on society. But the marriage was not the right place for me to be.

So Valentine's Day and February 15th aren't much more than a blip on the calendar for me these days. A toast to choices made. No regrets.

Hindsight is a clearsighted bitch, y'all.

Happy love yourself day.

There I am in younger days, star gazing
Painting picture perfect maps
Of how my life and love would be
Not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection,
My compass, faith in love's perfection,
I missed ten million miles of road I should have seen

Indigo Girls, Love's Recovery

Dear Split End Salon

2009-02-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Split End Salon at Aurora Village in Shoreline WA,

Thank you for the complimentary hair cut I received at your shop yesterday. Of course, the term "complimentary" loses its value a bit when it means free because we fucked your hair up so badly that we couldn't, in good conscience, charge you.

Please let your stylist Laura know that the Kristy McNichol look is over. As is the Florence Henderson mushroom top with accompanying flip. It wasn't cute then, and it's really just laughable now. The short choppy layers, the butchered bangs, the feathering? Not flattering, and so not necessary. Let it go. Yes, I admit, I was crushing on Shaun Cassidy in the 70s, but do you really think I want to see an older, fatter version of him staring back at me from my mirror? That shit's not funny. This morning, while brushing my teeth, I had the overwhelming urge to pull a crazyass Britney Spears move with my son's clippers.

Also, I'd like to point out that the last thing a client wants to hear, while sitting in one of your vinyl chairs, is the stylist sucking in her breath with an, Oh Jesus! I'm so sorry... Yeah, really, that sentence should just never be uttered in a hair salon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's legal cause for a justifiable beatdown.

Apparently, your current hiring practices include taking on the layoffs from Super Cuts, because I haven't had such a bad haircut since my mom swindled me into getting the Dorothy Hammill in 4th grade. Even the basic training cut I got at Fort Jackson worked better than this. Truth be told, my drill sergeant's cut worked better than this.

When family, friends and colleagues do not reassure you with the requisite Bad Haircut Platitudes, you know it's bad. When your new haircut draws no comments at all, and you work around all women and gay men, it's a sure sign something has gone awry.

When the comments you DO get are So ... what made you cut your hair? or Are you going to grow it out again? that's a clue that someone with some scissors fucked up your head in a major way. (I'm looking at you, Laura.) My own son brought me pity-coffee at work today. He also snapped a picture of my head with his cell phone before running away. I'm pretty sure it's already been sent to his sisters at college, or possibly posted on the Internets.

A military high-and-tight suddenly doesn't seem quite so drastic. I will not, however, be coming to your shop to get it. In fact, I will never set foot in your salon again. I've made sure to tell anyone who asks, exactly where I got my "interesting haircut". Nothing like a living, breathing - and yes, crying - advertisement, is there?

In closing, may I suggest you screen your stylists a little more carefully? In this economy, I'd imagine you have lots of potential hires to choose from. A little quality control would be nice. You had a good thing going - Adrienne, Halona, or Nicole M. would never have let this shit go down. Your standards have slipped.

And Laura, honey, you need to know that being apologetic and friendly does not make up for me living with this fucked up feathered shag on my head. I'm sure you're a nice person, but you should not be wielding scissors in a professional capacity. If I were you, I'd cross the street if you see me coming any time in the next few months. If I knew where you lived, I'd put Nair in your shampoo bottle. That may sound bitchy, but really honey, don't you think you have it coming? You fucked up my hair. Someone actually used the word "bouffant" in a conversation with me today. Again - that shit's not funny.

Split End Salon, I spit in your general direction. Thanks for the memories.

Disgruntledly Yours,
A Former Client

What, a Fat Chick Can't Be a Superhero?

2009-02-12T10:52:00.001-08:00

Yes, The Brick is still dead. No, I do not have a new computer yet. Who has the time? No, seriously. I'm a busy girl. And how am I supposed to research the newest computer chips and whatnot without a friggin' computer? When I do get to hop on the son's computer for a hot minute, I'm dealing with the lethargic, slothful ways of Vista. Nothing like surfing via Vista for a while to turn you off from shopping for computers, let me tell you. So, still computerless, still cut off from my cyberlife. But hey, as soon as I can employ a personal shopper to handle that shit for me, you guys will be the first to know.

So I'm not in the office today. Thus the blog entry. Male Offspring is at school, so I jacked his computer. I hopped around to a few of your sites (Yes, I'm woefully behind on all your lives, again) where I found this whole superhero thing going on. Always something in the blogosphere. Hmm, make my own superhero. OK. That could be empowering. A Super Cowbell. Hell yeah. So I click on over the superhero site. While I was waiting for Vista to load it up, I made coffee and fed the dogs.

The superhero site was kind of fun. So many options. Different hairstyles, accessories, skin tones, outfits, wings, capes, gloves ... you can make your superhero be anything you want.

Except fat.

Here's my superhero.

Girl needs to eat a hamburger. And that's coming from a vegetarian. The only reason her hips and thighs look like a size 6 instead of a size 2 is because I chose these armor-like superhero pants. Or tights. Whatever. They look like they'd actually protect her while she's out kicking villian ass. All the other lower body options made her look like an even skinnier bitch than she already is.

I actually like the chunky lime green boots. Provides that visual balance to the wasp waist and Hello Kitty bedecked breastage, don't you think? They did not have any armor-like upper body wear to match the lower bits. They did, however, have little half shirts and sports bra type deals. Because that offers so much protection for superhero work. I guess protecting The Girls also means obscuring them. Can't have that now, can we? It's fashion over function in the superhero world, ladies, especially when it comes to the Wonder Jugs.

I like my superhero. I love her colors, I love her wings, and hey, there is nothing like combining Hello Kitty with a magic whip to keep the bad guys guessing. That's when you unload a major ass-kicking on the villian; when he's gawking at the Kitty, trying to figure out what your whip is for.

But. This superhero doesn't look like me. Actually, her face kind of does, which is pretty creepy, but that's beside the point. Why can't my superhero be a size 14? OK, fine, 16. Whatever. I'm not saying every single size should be available, but damn, if they can offer 57 hairstyles, 25 skin tones, and 8 different eye patches, they could at least offer small, medium, large, and super phat for the bod, right?

Maybe when the clothes manufacturers start making decent clothes for fat women, other places will follow suit. Like the Make Your Own Superhero site.

Ding Dong, The Brick is Dead.

2009-01-26T11:45:00.000-08:00

It's true. After years of long and faithful service, The Brick is beyond resuscitation. And I do mean years. For a laptop, The Brick was like that old dude in the Guinness book of world records who lived off yogurt and goats' milk his whole life. Seriously, The Brick is like 114 in laptop years. I think he's 9 or even 10 in people years. He was given to me in 2000 or 2001, and even then, he was a hand-me-down from my boss.

He was practically state of the art at the time. He had a docking station, so I used him at home and at work, toting him hither and yon in a stylish, if clunky, Dell laptop case. This was quite convenient for my boss, what with all those extra hours. Overtime? What is this, the States?

The Brick went about his duties, sitting proudly in his docking station, drawing oohs and ahhs from my buddies working for other subcontractors, still chained to their desktop towers. But that was another era. A time of floppy drives, hard-wired Ethernet connections, and 256MB of RAM. A time when Windows 98 was still kicking ass and taking names, and a GB was just a twinkle in some techie's eye.

In recent days, The Brick plodded along, with his old version of Explorer and his chunky plug-in wireless card, fans blowing hell bent for metal. Plugging in a flash drive caused him to warn me that I was about to use a USB 2.0 device with a USB-Methuselah port. Photos eventually had to be stored on an external hard drive. Also USB 2.0. iTunes was out of the question. But he bravely chugged along even as new computers took up residence for the Offspring, each more advanced than the last.

My frequent outbursts of frustration and yes, even rage, at his sluggish ways, his tiffs with the wireless router, his short memory, and the death of his battery didn't phase him. He just kept plodding along. Well, unless he shut down or refused to connect, but hey, he tried.

He outlasted The Bohemian's laptop, new to her in 2005. And I'd still put him up against that Vista crap on Male Offspring's flashy machine, any day. (Yes, even dead, I'd put him up against Vista.)

So, no, I haven't been blogging, checking emails, or twittering. The Brick has finally given up the ghost, and I am without technology. Reduced to watching bad TV and (gasp) reading books. Call it a mourning period. Or call it being cash-strapped after the damn Roof Debaucle of 2008. Whatever. I am working on procuring a new computer - not that any new machine, with its megabytes and glossy widescreen could ever truly replace The Brick, but my blogging career is suffering, and I feel cut off from the information highway. I never realized how many questions I pose to the Oracle of the Googles every day until The Brick's untimely death. Well, I guess it wasn't really untimely, but you get my meaning.

Please keep The Brick in your thoughts, as he journeys to the next phase of the cyber realm. May he have Explorer 8, many gigs of RAM, and USB 2.0 in the afterworld. Rest in peace, my boxy, recalcitrant friend ... your work here is done.

As for me, never fear, I'm sure I'll have much to bitch about. One word: Vista.

So I Lied.

2009-01-14T18:43:00.000-08:00

"So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while."

Yeah. So I lied.

If anyone knows what it means when your computer powers up, the background picture shows up, but nothing else on the desktop does, let me know, mmm-kay? Yeah, no task bar, no icons, no Start button, nothing. This happened after I got 2 quarantine notifications from Norton. Damn Trojans. Always slipping in and making trouble.

Those notifications came after a certain Teen Demon used my computer to "communicate" with her friends. I put forth a mandate, long ago, clearly stating that no AOL, MySpace, chatters, or their ilk shall ever be installed or accessed from The Brick. Henceforth and whereas. Put that crap on your own machine. Mine can't handle it. But, being snowed in, and her computer having access problems after coming back from the college network, she ignored my edict and indulged in a day's worth of friending, chatting, and LOLing. The next time I powered up, hello Norton notification, goodbye desktop.

I told you! But noooo, Mom's just being silly. She doesn't know what she's talking about. AOL never hurt anyone. MySpace doesn't spam. Look, I may not be the world's foremost computer expert, but I know The Brick. It's a very sensitive machine. Only the basics. If I say no crap spam-meister LOL OMG stuff, I mean it. Damn it.

SO not ROFLing here, folks.

So if anyone knows what the hell that no-desktop business means, or how to fix it, let me know.

Oh, and Happy Friggin' New Year.

Christmas in the Northwest

2008-12-24T12:04:00.001-08:00

It snowed last night. Again. They've predicted another wave for this afternoon. We're way past White Christmas here, folks. Picture, thousand words, enjoy.

Holly berries

The little apple tree in the side yard.

Snow on green leaves

A lone leaf hangs on.

Bird house

Icicles over the back door

A side street in our neighborhood.

The main highway being cleared didn't help this semi truck.

And from the archives, especially for Yellow Dog Granny, who asked where the heck our snowman was, a snow goddess from Christmas past.

Snowbound

2008-12-22T23:03:00.000-08:00

Well, my two week vacation has turned out to be more like house arrest. And if you've never been under house arrest with 3 teenagers bouncing off the walls from cabin fever, let me tell you, it's no Norman Rockwell here, folks. And to think, just a week ago, I was excited at the prospect of finally, just once, Christmas shopping during the day, like a person of leisure, instead of battling the mobs after dark with all the other frazzled, bleary-eyed, homicidal After-Work Shoppers. Sounds like a little thing, but I was really fucking looking forward to that. But no.

You may have heard, since we apparently made it onto the national news, that Western Washington got a visit from Jack fucking Frost.

Snow doesn't bother me. I was practically born with a snow shovel in my hand. I've spent 95% of my life in big snow areas. Areas that actually have snow plows. And salt. Areas that know how to deal with snow. When it snows someplace like Seattle, it basically shuts the joint down. Seattle has about 25 plows for the entire metro area, which is akin to putting out a fire with spit. They ran out of de-icer, and their next shipment can't make it over the pass from eastern WA.

I live north of Seattle, where there are even fewer resources to battle the white stuff. The idea of a snowplow making it even to the main roads where I live is a crap shoot, and I've never heard of regular neighborhood streets getting plowed here. Also, if you are lucky enough to live near a street that does get plowed, they don't put the blade all the way down. They leave about 2" of snow, which, of course, gets compacted and turns to ice. Oh, and they don't use salt here. Apparently, it "damages the roads". Much like snow plow blades, I guess. Maybe so, but places like Ohio and Minnesota and friggin' Kaposvár Hungary seem to do fine with the damn salt, and come on, how often would we even need to salt here in any given winter?

It started snowing about a week ago. Christmas is Thursday, and I've been stuck in the house for a week. Worse, everyone else in the PNW has been stuck inside as well. IF I do make it out to shop before the fat man drops down my chimney, the crowds will make those days of After-Work Shopping seem like a friggin' spa treatment by comparison. That's doubtful though: we're supposed to get more snow starting tomorrow night.

Fuck you, Jack Frost, and the cold front you rode in on. Seattle is NOT the place for this level of Winter Wonderland.

The dorky channel 5 weatherman is in his element. He's practically sporting a snow boner every time the news comes on. He's one of those guys who fancies himself suave and debonair. He's got a 70s moustache and somehow manages to swagger from behind his big weather desk. He wears a leather jacket on-air sometimes. I bet he was a football player back in high school. I can just see him reliving the glory days with the guys over a case of Bud Light. I'd also be willing to bet he uses the term "little lady" as a term of endearment. Anyway, he's a headliner now. Forget the anchors, bitches, Local Weather Guy's at the top of the hour now. Yeah. I watch the other channel with Steve Pool and his Double Doppler Radar.

My normally cynical friend remarked that it must be so cozy being snowed in with family, "with all your babies surrounding you". Why no, as a matter of fact, she doesn't have teenagers. She, incidentally, is house sitting for a mutual friend in a gorgeous abode perched atop one of Seattle's famous hills, with no cable or internet access. Fantastic view, though. She's going nowhere except out of her mind.

Let me tell you, my "babies" have no interest in kicking it with dear old mom in the midst of this frost fest. I haven't even had the nerve to suggest popping corn and bringing out ye ole board games. Male Offspring has followed the siren song of his PlayStation, cloistering himself away in his ~~hermitage~~ room.

Early on, there was the requisite fighting with Teen Demon about taking her car out in this mess. She is somehow under the impression that the ability to drive in snow is genetic. An inherited trait, like curly hair. Or sarcasm. After the first day or two, she quickly realized that the hills are alive with the sound of crunching metal, and left her car safely buried in the driveway. Not to be deterred, however, from the critical activity of Hanging Out, she donned her little felt boots and cute little fashion coat that literally does not cover her navel, and her cute little yarn gloves, ready to set out hiking and meet her friends. Five miles away. Yes, of course I tried to stop her. Words were exchanged, shall we say. You forget, she is over 18, and therefore knows everything. I did make her trade her faux boots for my hiking boots, causing much eye rolling and gnashing of teeth.

Then, the Bohemian, who is usually sensitive to my concerns, and whose time in DC has raised her awareness of risks to one's personal safety, hears that Main Street has been closed to traffic. Due to snow. Like you didn't see that coming. Main Street is a colossal hill, or, more accurately, series of hills, descending all the way down to the ferry docks. She shrieks this news to her younger brother, announcing that they HAVE TO go sledding on Main Street! It's a once in a lifetime opportunity! I, boring mean mother that I am, crankily brought up such foolish notions as, how would they get there, what about the fact that we have no sleds, that Male Offspring has no boots, that Main Street is about 5 miles from our house, and the like. No matter. Once in a lifetime opportunity! Adventure! Thrills! A journey of exploration and discovery! (Yes, she actually said that to me.)

Yeah. Main Street shrouded in snow. The gateway drug to skydiving and bungee jumping.

I'm so done with snow. I just wanted to go to Zoo Lights, plan some fun outings, and have a normal Christmas shopping experience. Is that too damn much to ask? Whatever. Anyway, for your viewing enjoyment, here's a taste of the past week's snow extravaganza.

Batman & Mason playing Find Your Toy in the Snowdrift

Mason

It's never too late to support your local legislators and judges.
In fall, a campaign election sign. In winter ...

... custom candidate snowboards.

Male Offspring shredding the slopes on a piece of Formica.

Little brother gives the Bohemian a push as Batman looks on.

Batman isn't the most effective sled dog.

Teen Demon gives the Bohemian a good pull.

Male Offspring rides his Judge Lucas sign down an unidentified hill.

Aaaahhh.

2008-12-19T14:27:00.000-08:00

I'm off work. As in actually OFF WORK. I'd planned to take two weeks off during the break between quarters anyway, which is something for me. But seeing as how Seattle has been hit with snow -- or, if you're the Seattle news media, a BRUTAL WINTER STORM SYSTEM -- I ended up with additional days off. So, not only have I been off since Wednesday, I'm basking in the knowledge that I don't have to go back to work until January.

Hold up, let me say that again: I don't have to go back to work until January.

Before the Bohemian got back, I had told her I'd take some time off. She sighed and said, "Anyu, you always say that. Every year. And you never do." I started to say, "Yes I do!", but then I realized she was right. I do take time off around the holidays, but it's piece meal. A day here, a day there, decided at the last minute. Completely different than knowing you have a solid stretch of time. A day here and there doesn't give you the same mental break. Which I really need, being basically mentally unstable.

So, I'll probably actually be blogging again for a while. I know. Close your mouths.

I even have pictures to post. And not from the Internet, either. Seriously, close your mouths. I even have pictures of a meeting with a totally awesome fellow blogger that should've been posted months ago. Oh well, all the better to surprise you with, my dears.

So. I feel like my whole body has heaved a sigh of relief. Later, bitches, I'm off to play in the snow.

Cakes or Consequences

2008-12-02T19:25:00.001-08:00

Occasionally, whilst engaged in the business of parenting, you get to witness your child absorbing a life lesson with no input or effort on your part whatsoever. Consequences, for instances. One of the toughest lessons to drill into a kid, right? I mean, let's face it, how far into adulthood do most of us get, still struggling with the concept of consequences? Reaping what one sows, and all that.

Male Offspring started wrestling season a couple of weeks ago. Last year he wrestled in the 152-lb weight class. (For young blokes from 145 -- 152 lbs) This year, as he's still a growing boy who drinks his milk, he's been weighing in at a steady 157 lbs, meaning he'll move up to the 160-lb weight class for his sophomore season.

Doesn't sound like much of a difference, but moving up a weight class is tough, especially when first breaking into the new class. Often, but not always, it means wrestling older, more experienced guys. He's been lifting the weights and practicing hard in anticipation of going up against those 160-pounders.

So today, he goes for a hydration test and a weigh-in.

163 pounds. Uh-oh. Up 6 pounds in less than a week. Shot right past his new weight class.

Think the Great Cake Fest of 2008 had anything to do with it? *

Unless he wants to jump TWO weight classes, and suddenly be wrestling those 172-lb boys, I'm thinking he'd best jettison the remaining cake bits still populating my kitchen.

Good luck, Son. And let that be a lesson to you. Consequences. That's right. Cake Karma. The hard truth is, Son, that cake is evil. That icing may taste sweet going down, but it's Satan's ambrosia. It will cling to your ass like a bitter conservative clings to guns and religion. It's time you knew the truth: the wages of cake is death, at least on the wrestling mat.

Welcome to the hard reality of consequences, Son. Now you understand why I can not allow Oreos into the house.

*At least I hope it was the Great Cake Fest of 2008. If not, that means it was the Thanksgiving food. And I've been eating that mess like a mo'fo for days.

UPDATE:

It seems I was somewhat mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression on my son as I'd been led to believe. Oh, he did learn about the consequences of eating multiple cakes on top of Thanksgiving leftovers. He learned a right hard lesson when he stepped on the scales that first day back to practice.

For about a hot minute.

Then he lifted some weights. Then he rode his bike from his high school to the neighboring high school for the required early-season hydration test. Probably 10 miles, round trip. Then they wrestled. Then he weighed himself again.

159 lbs.

I'm sorry ... what? What is there, a tapeworm in there? Who gains six pounds in less than a week, then loses four of it in a few hours? So apparently, he's fine. Good to go. Ready to wrestle.

Brat. Mark my words, Son, in real life, there are consequences. Serious consequences. That's right. Consequences for cake. Mark my words.