And Another Thing (A Health Care P.S.)

Just a piggyback thought, while we're on the subject of health care and I'm still feeling pissed off about it. (read the previous post, if you don't know why) I recently saw the movie Man of the Year, where a comedian (Robin Williams) was elected president.

Guess folks want a change, even in movie land. Anyway, the comedian-president says,

HMOs will pay for your Viagra, but they won't pay for your glasses.

It was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't actually funny at all on account of it's true. I paid a shitload of money for my daughter's glasses, and I am fortunate enough to have "good healthcare" through my 9-to-5. If, however, I were a man wanting Little Richard to perform, that shit's paid for! Just take this to the pharmacy, buddy, we'll get you taken care of, wink-wink!

What the hell is wrong with this country that Viagra is covered so men can get their dicks up, but opthalmology and dentistry are considered, what, extra? Superfluous? A special privilege? They can get dick-pills so they can get off, but eyeglasses and teeth cleaning, well, hold on just a minute there, little lady, that's not altogether necessary.

Anyway. I just thought of that line from the movie, and thought how ironic it is that some man somewhere was getting it up courtesy of our health-care system, on the same day that a 12-year-old boy died from a toothache, because his family didn't have health insurance.

Goddamn, people. That is just wrong.

The Greatest Country on Earth Handles a Toothache

Last night, just as my son was coming to tell me goodnight, I came across a news article about a boy not much younger than he is, a story I could not get my head around. A story about a 12-year-old boy who died from an abscessed tooth.

Deamonte Driver, some mother's son, died from an abscessed tooth.

In this country. In this wealthyass country, a child DIED from a friggin' TOOTHACHE.

WTF??

So, I'm reading this story, hand over my mouth, not believing it, and my son asked me what was wrong. He looked at the picture of Deamonte Driver, showing the scar from his brain operation as a result of his abscessed tooth, and asked, "But, Anyu, how can that even happen? Can a kid really die from a bad tooth? Couldn't their dentist just fix it?"

Yes, a dentist could've easily fixed it. In fact, the tooth never would've been abscessed at all, had Deamonte had regular dentist checkups, the same yearly checkup my son complains about.

The family did not have health insurance. This American family could not afford health insurance. The abscess in Deamonte's tooth got so bad it spread to his brain. Before he died, Deamonte had emergency brain surgery, had seizures and complications afterward, had a second brain operation, then physical and occupational therapy.

Oh, and they extracted the tooth.

• Diamonte's medical bills totalled out at $250,000.
• Extracting the tooth would've cost less than $100.
• With regular checkups, he wouldn't have needed the extraction to begin with.

How about a comprehensive universal health care system, people? Is this enough of a wake-up call? When is the US going to realize that investing in our society benefits all of us? Preventive health care would save money in the long run; $250,000 worth of savings, in this case.

I am so sick of the Blame The Victim mentality in this country, that whole bootstrapper thing -- you know what I'm talking about: If this family had just pulled itself up by the bootstraps and worked a little harder, why they could've had health insurance like the productive citizens of this great land! If they couldn't afford it, well, they must've been Doing Something Wrong. They must be lazy. Probably a single mother. Probably she didn't have control over those kids anyway, I mean, they didn't even brush their teeth enough! She probably spent their toothbrush money on malt liquor.

No, do not even try and tell me I'm being dramatic, because you know there are people who actually think that shit. 

I am sick of the shortsightedness of this country in everything from health care and education to roads and building construction. Seriously, these things are handled (on the whole) by choosing whatever costs the least in the short run. Whatever is cheapest and keeps things afloat during our watch, that's what we go with. No one wants to pay higher taxes. No one wants to invest in anything or anyone except themselves.

Has anyone seen the UNICEF report on international child welfare for this year? Check this out: (from the International Herald Tribune, 14-Feb-07)

The United States and Britain ranked at the bottom of a U.N. survey of child welfare in 21 rich countries that assessed everything from infant mortality to whether children ate dinner with their parents or were bullied at school.
The Netherlands, followed by Sweden, Denmark and Finland, finished at the top while the U.S. was 20th and Britain 21st in the rankings released Wednesday by UNICEF in Berlin.
One of the study's researchers, Jonathan Bradshaw, said children fared worse in the U.S. and Britain — despite high overall levels of national wealth — because of greater economic inequality and poor levels of public support for families.
"They don't invest as much in children as continental European countries do," he said.
Bradshaw cited thin day care services in both countries, and poorer health coverage and preventative care for children in the U.S.

So there you have it. As rich as we collectively are, we are failing our children because we are not interested in a collective, because we are interested in individuals who can pull themselves up by the bootstraps.

Funny how the top ranked countries have universal health care. The topped ranked countries are interested in a collective. They are investing in their society.

I wonder when a Norwegian or Finnish kid last died of a toothache?

I am ashamed and angered and so, so sad that this little boy died over something so goddamned stupid and unnecessary. I am amazed by the fact that had he been born Swedish, instead of American, he would still be alive.

Dr. Phil the Younger

My son has a girlfriend. He's 14.

She's great, by the way. Smart, quick smile to go with an edgy wit, doesn't put up with crap. She doesn't even do the TeenSpeak thing to excess, which, ohmygod, is like, soooo awesome? So, if my youngest of offspring must have a girlfriend (Seriously? You can't wait until you're 35, son?), I couldn't have picked a better one. Plus, she'll keep him in line.

So, my son, still fresh in the blush of Young Love, suggests that I may want to rethink my stance on relationships. Apparently, I should be dating more. Or dating period.

I'm a single mom. Three teenagers, two big dogs, mortgage, full-time job. I currently do not have the time or inclination to take on a relationship. This, of course, could instantly change, should Antonio Banderas, Johnny Depp, or Denzel Washington suddenly come a-knocking. Or should I win the lottery and suddenly have time to shave my legs and paint my toenails.

These scenarios could easily occur around the same time that monkeys fly out of my ass.

Dear Son: Yeah, so, I'm just saying, you maybe should think about how you look at relationships. You know, you're always saying a relationship takes work and energy, and you already work and have kids and stuff, but maybe you should think about that in a different way.

Me: Different way?

Dear Son: Yeah, you know, like it's someone to talk to and know about, plus it's fun. Maybe it would give you energy instead of using your energy, or something. Like maybe it's a good thing, not more work.

Me: ...

Dear Son: So, like maybe you're not thinking about it fairly.

Me: What are you, Doctor Phil?

Are you serious? The kid whose stretchmarks I bear dispensing advice to the lovelorn? Is he not here as a direct result of a heartily embraced relationship? Well, that and The Best of Barry White.

Scratch that.

So, it's all fresh and exciting for him. Relationships have not yet evolved to include such mundane things as Effort and Work. Good for him, I mean that. Damn, I love that kid. And he's probably right. To some extent. You, Gentle Readers, understand the many layers and phases of love, and he'll get that someday. Hopefully slowly, and weighted toward the joy end of the spectrum.

I look at his (too) handsome, earnest face, and know there's no explaining it. He'll learn it all -- good, bad and ugly -- as we all do. Young love: nothing better.

So, I've been Dr. Phil'd by this young man whose diapers I changed. WTF?

Well.

It probably wouldn't hurt to consider his thoughts. Throw off a bit of the (well-earned) cynicism. I wasn't always cynical. I was once a fresh-faced romantic. Of course, I also wore acid-washed, pleated jeans with tapered ankles. You move on. With wisdom comes a certain amount of cynicism. That's just the way of it. But, don't we all sometimes think on those days when it was just fun and your heart was close to bursting?

Go on with your bad self, Young Dr. Phil. Just not too fast.

An Oil Change ... and One Hell of a Lube Job

I paid $88 for an oil change today.

WTF?

OK, an oil change and a "5,000 mile service", to be exact. This means they changed the oil, checked brake pads and tire pressure, and topped off fluids. Like I said, an $88 oil change.

The accompanying lube job was free, courtesy of VW. They had me bent over like a porn star.

The original estimate was $67, as if $67 for a friggin' oil change wasn't bad enough. It was explained to me like this:

• Synthetic is more expensive than regular oil, because it is superior.
• Regular oil must be changed every 3,000 miles.
• Synthetic oil only needs to be changed every 5,000 miles.
• After the first two, you can go 10,000 miles between oil changes.
• This saves you money! (Yet leaves me wondering if it actually does cost more, or if they just charge you more because you're not coming in as often. Bastards.)

OK, fine. I haven't had a haircut in 9 months; I don't have time to get my oil changed every 3,000 miles. I agree to the Synthetic Snake Wonder Oil.

When I get there, "Sonny" circles my car and shrewdly asks, "So ... is this a 4-cylinder or 6?" I'm thinking, "You're the one with VW on your nametag, Sonny, YOU figure it out," This is not inspiring a lot of confidence in my local VW dealer. When I pick up the car, he sheepishly informs me that -- Surprise! My car is actually a 5-cylinder! Who knew?!

Sonny got a good chuckle out of that one. The "extra" cylinder means an additional $7 .50 for an "extra" quart of oil. Another $7.15 in tax, a $3 "shop charge", and I'm ready to ring out at nearly $88.

Sonny then left me in the incapable hands of Cashier Lady, who promptly left to run after the previous customer. "Why, she took the original! She's supposed to take the copy!" she huffed, upon her return. Well! On to me. After much shuffling of papers, she informed me that Sonny, tsk tsk, had not printed my invoice. She loudly informed Sonny of this fact from across the room. Then -- Surprise! The invoice turned up in another customer's papers. Sonny had printed the invoice!

Cashier Lady did not inform Sonny or the room of this fact.

I had some questions for Cashier Lady:

1) Turns out the $3 "shop charge" tacked onto the bill was for disposing of the old oil. Now, call me crazy, but I'm thinking they probably knew ahead of time they'd be disposing of that old oil. Why wasn't the shop charge included in the original estimate? Cashier Lady blinked. "The computer does it that way."

2) Synthetic Wonder Oil rings up at just $7.50 per quart, so why was my original estimate $67 anydamnway? She consulted with Sonny. They vaguely mention labor costs and the fact that this was an "extra" quart, while poring over my invoice that Sonny had so kindly printed.

Goddamn, I miss Honda.

I used to drive a Honda CRV. Right up until last June 26th.
That's when some asshole driving his parents' car blew through a stop sign (at 224th and 98th --- you know who you are, dickmeister) and totaled my car. I loved that car. I saved for a very long time to get it. It was my first new and all-my-own car ever. It held 3 teenagers and a dog without crossing that line into bus-sized American gas-guzzlers. You know, the Soccer Moms in gi-normous Hummers chauffeuring Britnee and Tofer about town at 8 miles per gallon to tap, ballet, play dates, and of course, soccer.

Gotta have off-road capability for that.

Anyway, you know insurance didn't pay near enough to get a new CRV. Funny how my mint condition still-under-warranty car depreciated. Bastards. So: a used car, or a cheaper one? Didn't spend those years saving up to go back to driving another used car. Too many bad used car memories. Funny how no one ever totaled one of those junkers. Bastards.

Stop signs are there for a reason, people.

Now I drive a VW Rabbit. It's OK. Not much extra room. The dogs only ride if the back seats are folded down. The panel around the radio rattles at high speeds and the sunglass holder is cheap. The defrost mechanism is useless. I should not have to roll down windows and turn on the a/c in the winter in order to see out my damn window. It does have blue dashboard lights, a sunroof and heated seats, all standard, for under $20K.

The heated seats are better than sex, depending on the mood.

Had I been the irresponsible fuck who totaled my Honda, OK, fine, suck it up and deal with the consequences. But this bastard gets to fly through a stop sign, total my car, that I saved for, and Daddy's probably bought his dumb ass a new one by now.

Yeah, I'm bitter. Like I don't know that.

At the Honda service department an oil change was $29.95. Service was more, but I didn't mind maintaining that baby. They had an shuttle driver named Martín. He had a great smile and was always right on time with that shuttle ride. Neither of us could get used to Seattle weather. He got a promotion right before my car got totaled, and didn't have to drive the shuttle bus any more.

I bet Martín knew how many cylinders my Honda had.

Today, in a parking lot, my son suddenly says, "Sweeeet ---- what is that?!" "That" was the new redesigned 2007 CRV in a weirdly appealing limey-olive green.

Only 5,000 miles 'til my next service appointment.

Crappy Valentines Day

Today is Valentine's Day. Whee.

Tomorrow, however, is Singles Awareness Day. Kind of an alternative day for those of us who aren't obsessed with being in a Relationship on the Mother of All Romantic Days.

Tomorrow is also my ex-anniversary.

Now that is some funny and highly ironic shit. I should send him a card.

Time to get my celebration on.

Sunshine In a Box

This is Seattle this week:

I took this picture at work. Some people say, "Oh, look, the fog has rolled in off the Sound! It feels so cozy!"  What is wrong with these people?

Cozy my ass.

I am so sick of rain and fog and GREY I could puke. If only I had the energy. I am going through some serious sunlight deprivation here, folks. It's been going on for three years. What is this, Alaska?

Seattle has a reputation for rain. "What did she expect, moving to Seattle?" A valid question. You think I just moved here on a lark? From across the Atlantic with three kids and a rabbit?

Yeah, let's just do that without thinking it through.

I researched the hell out of locations before moving. I built a spreadsheet comparing my six finalist locations. I quizzed Seattleites online about everything, including the weather.

Especially the weather.

What I didn't realize then is that a Seattleite's perception of weather is completely different from mine. Here's how a typical chat would go, back in those halcyon days of Researching Seattle:

Me: So is the rain really as bad as they say?

Seattleite: Naw, we just say that to keep people from moving here!
Especially the Californians!
Miami's rainfall is way higher than ours!
Dude, we actually have drought conditions in July and August!

Me: Wow, I didn't know that! So ... it really doesn't rain that much?

Seattleite: Well, only in the winter.
But hey -- no snow!
And no thunder or lightening, just a light drizzle.
You don't even need an umbrella!

Me: That doesn't sound too bad. What about summers -- I really love the sun, does it get hot in the summer?

Seattleite: Dude! Summer is the best part!
Yeah, it gets hot, but not crazy hot, not like sticking to your clothes.
Never too hot, never too cold!
And the mountains and water? Seattle summer is the bomb!

So I'm thinking, wow, sounds good. I'm glad I checked with these folks. I can deal with winter drizzle if my payoff is this legendary summer! Hell, yeah! After moving, I found out the following things which had not shown up in my research:

1. "Hot" to a Seattleite is 72F - 74F. With no humidity. And a maritime breeze


2. "Winter" goes from September to April.


3. They say May and June are"summer". They lie. May and June are just April Showers, continued.

1. Summer is actually only August and half of July. Make it count.


2. On Winter Solstice, it's dark when I arrive at work and dark when I leave. At 4pm.


3. The Emerald City moniker doesn't just mean "green all the time". It means you are not in friggin' Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

Seattleites live in a weather bubble. A snowglobe without the snow. The Seattle comfort zone ranges from say, 62F to about 72F. Below or above that is considered "freezing" or "burning up".

A day that hits 80 (no humidity, mind you) is "a real scorcher".

If it hits the low 90s (again, no humidity), people lose their gottdamn minds.

Meteorologists break into TV programs with heat advisory warnings, and folks are advised to hit the malls or theaters to avoid heat stroke. You'd think it was Armageddon. Get to the A/C, where it's safe, people! Watch those babies and old folks, too.

I have not worn shorts in three years. I can count the times I've worn short sleeves. I am the color of a corpse. I wear undershirts and socks year-round. I miss real weather. I miss thunder and lightning and snow. I especially miss people who know how to drive in snow. And snowplows. But I miss heat most of all.

Hindsight is a clear-sighted bitch.

I am now researching Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD. Go figure). This is actually a big deal, because I am basically a suck-it-up-and-drive-on type of girl. What, a crisis? Sounds like a personal problem to me, soldier. Depression? Not me. PMS? For wimps. Feeling blue? Best fit that shit in after taking care of business. This of course, only applies to me. Everyone else is allowed to feel blue or have PMS.  That's "different".

I am allowed to feel crappy, I'm just supposed to keep that shit boxed up nice and tidy. Let it out of the box, and then who's going to take care of business? So to even think I could join the Ranks of the Depressed was a huge internal battle.

Whatever. I'm over that. This endless drizzly-assed GREY is depressing as hell.

I don't think SAD covers it though, for me. I have diagnosed myself with MFD-SAD, or Manic Fucking Depressive Seasonal Affective Disorder. I don't need a medical degree to know this is true. It's the manic part that confirms it.

The sun came out two weekends ago. I was as one possessed. I cleaned and organized the garage; cleaned the yard, driveway, and street of the storm debris that had been sitting for weeks (Yes, we actually had a real live storm!); got all the Christmas decorations down, packed and organized; cleaned house; did laundry; walked the dogs; cooked dinner; and finished a big project for work.

Those are the parts I remember. I get so freaking deliriously happy when the sun comes out, it's like a drug.  I swear I get high on sunbeams. That could be a song. I Get High On Sunbeams.

Fortunately, I now have Sunshine In a Box. I arrived one morning to find it outside my office door, with a Post-it note attached. A dear friend and colleague apparently heard I was about to lose my fucking MIND, and lent me her lightbox. I could kiss her boots. I considered setting up a shrine for her, the better to worship her like Ra, the sun god. Yes, a shrine. This is how twisted and desperate a sun-whore's mind becomes in the absence of sunlight.

This is Sunshine In a Box:

(Yes, that is my G.Dubya Bush countdown calendar on the right. We have 713 days left in his reign.)

The light box is the blazing white rectangle, lower left. This sucker is bright. Either it's working, or the  incrementally longer days are having an effect.  More likely, my mind is pulling some sort of psychological trickery on my ass. The placebo effect. I don't care.

I do not care.

Beats drugs or therapy.

Trot on Over to Colt Town

I am in a hostile work environment today. Three of my colleagues are Bears fans. Chi-town transplants. They are also sore losers.

Last Friday we needed boots, there was so much shit-talking up in here. Office deliveries of stuffed bears, Bears propaganda on the white board (with my stolen orange marker), Chicago style pizza delivered, posters of Brian Urlacher, and all manner of emails flying. My colleagues planned a support group in the court yard for today, offering grief counseling for Colts fans. They threatened to forward my GO COLTS email to All Campus, so I would ... how did they put it? Oh yes, "hang my head in shame."

No support group today.

In fact, I didn't hear much of anything for most of the day. I actually got an "Out of Office Reply" from the ring leader, informing me that he would be out of the office until Feb. 3rd, 2008.

I am not actually a Colts fan, but I am currently anti-Bears. The Seahawks lost the NFC championship to the Bears. They were predicted to slaughter us. They didn't. We dragged their mighty mighty defense into sudden death overtime with a tie, and they made it to their end first for a field goal. So we lost, but were not slaughtered.

We played hurt and broke all season. I think we set a record for the number of main starters with serious injuries. Our QB, RB, and then the whole offensive starting line. Then, once those guys started limping back, we lost our star cornerback, his backup, and his backup. We ended up hiring a loan officer off the street to play at CB. I'm pretty sure they had to hot-glue his name and number on the jersey, he was so last-minute. We brought over one of our safeties to cover the other side.

So they kicked ass to get to the Conference title game. They did us proud.

After that game, I was counting on the Saints to avenge us. When I lived in Hungary, I dated a die-hard Saints fan. I guess you could say the Saints are my 2nd team. In Hungary, the games were broadcast live from the States, so after midnight for us. We used to drive to the army post and huddle up in the plywood satellite shack on a cot next to the space heater, watching a tiny TV so he could see the games. He lives in Cali now. We have a date next fall to attend the Saints @ Seahawks game. I can't wait. Anyway, the Saints were supposed to beat the Bears. They didn't. Too bad, because they had a great season, especially after all the mess of Katrina last year. Gotta give those guys serious props.

So, vengeance was all up to the Colts on Superbowl Sunday.

Today, the local Bears fans are feeling foul. They have threatened to give me a "Windy City Welcome". (One guess what that is. Hint: it's foul.) I am working on my Out of Office Reply.

If the Seahawks didn't get back to the Big Bowl though, that's OK, because these 2 teams making it together was more important. Lovie Smith and Tony Dungy. Forget the "first" black coach making it to the Superbowl, how about first and second. How about shattering the hell out of that glass ceiling. With authority. About damn time. I've heard lots of people saying "It shouldn't matter", or "It's about the coaching, not skin color", but that's bullshit. Right now it most definitely does matter.

I haven't heard a Black person yet say it doesn't matter.

It only doesn't matter if your color is the one reflected in the leadership positions at the Superbowl (coaches, most quarterbacks), or other places like, for example, the Presidency, Congress, and most other places high up on the chain, and you've never had to think about that.

Anyway, you go Tony and Lovie, good for you.

Oh, and for all you Bears fans: Neeiiiiggghhh.

Rock On, Senator.

My daughter heard Barack Obama speak. Shook his hand. And, perhaps best of all, had the perverse pleasure of shoving past a FOX news reporter to do so. Go, baby. She skipped Arabic class and took the Metro to GMU in Virginia to watch history in the making.

That's pretty goddamn exciting.

She reports he is a magnificent speaker. He is also left-handed, which she promptly added to her list of things they have in common: biracial, single mother, went to school in another country with another language, left handed.  "We're practically twins", she stated. In the spirit of Senator Joe Biden's recent comments, I guess she could add "so well-spoken" to the list.

This is just one of the many Very Cool Experiences she's had since leaving the Left Coast for Howard U. in DC. She's but a stone's throw from W. and his minions. In fact, she was at the White House just last weekend for an anti-war protest. She walked with a group from the NOW headquarters, and also helped them sort through all manner of interesting hate mail from pro-lifers, which was evidently entertaining as hell, and definitely not carrying Christian messages of love. ("Jesus hates you!" Seriously?)

I don't know yet if Senator Obama is the best person for president, and I don't know if America is ready yet to finally cross race and/or gender lines in the White House. What I do know is that Barack Obama, while surely inspirational to a great many people, is especially and critically inspirational to my daughter, in a way that John Kerry or Wesley Clark could never be for her. Barack Obama means it's possible.

For her.

For people of color. For people from single-parent households who went to public schools. Barack Obama means that maybe important qualifications are things like activism, principles, integrity, and vision, and not things like privilege, or your great-greats coming over on the right ship, or a family legacy at some fancy-ass academy with a brick wall around it where boys will be boys and the headmaster golfs with Grandfather.

Barack Obama in this election means another barrier knocked down. A big one.

Senator Obama is fighting to squeeze through a pinhole in that glass ceiling, and better yet, he's got company. With Hillary Clinton and Bill Richardson throwing their hats in the ring, we could see the nation's first Black, female, or Latino president. What do you know, we've got a diverse hiring pool for the job of commander in chief! About time. I hope they smash the fuck out of that glass ceiling.

Batman's Amazing Gastro-Adventure

Speaking of dogs...

Mason, our recently adopted, eight-year-old, previously abused, and therefore slightly neurotic chocolate Labramutt has separation anxiety issues. Every once in a while, if there is some paper, cardboard, or something interesting left laying around, he'll shred it a bit.

Evidently this allows him to focus on something other than the fact that his MOMDOG IS GONE.

He apparently grabbed a container of blue plastic toothpicks -- I'd left them on the coffee table, disturbing the norm, and therefore, his comfort level -- and destroyed the container, scattering hundreds of toothpicks all over his dog bed. For Mason, that's enough. Just a moment of frenzied distraction. (ohmygod, where is she, when is she coming back, ohmygod my mom is gone, holyshit where the fuck are my people ... look ... toothpicks ...)

Batman, however, must've thought Mason had unearthed some tasty treat. I found several slimy toothpicks, bent into strange shapes and flattened with toothmarks. Batman slunk over to a corner with the whites of his eyes showing.

Great.

Batman eats anything. He's not a chewer; our shoes and other belongings are safe. He eats any vegetable or fruit, things most dogs would not touch. He'd make a great vegetarian. The dog eats lettuce for Pete's sake. (No, my dogs do not share my vegetarian diet. Dogs need meat.) He also loves candy. That's the downside.

There is one other thing he likes.

For those of you unfamiliar with Batman's sordid past, he got into the bathroom trash not long after we adopted him. Evidently, tampons are pretty much like candy for dogs. Yeah. Cost me $1,700 (plus vacation days and some sleepless nights) to rid my dog of three intestinal blockages.

Anyway, fast-foward back to the toothpicks. It took me about five seconds to assess the scene. I should join the CSI crew. I can not deal with the cost of another dog-surgery right now!

Shitshitshitshit!

I hope against hope that he hasn't actually SWALLOWED any of the dangerously pointed toothpicks. They look like miniature javelins spread out on the dog bed. I hope that if he has, in fact, swallowed them, he will have chewed them into a soggy soft mess, blunting the ends. I hope that canine stomach acid is as strong as it's reputed to be. Strong enough to digest plastic before it perforates tender intestinal walls.

He's not talking.

Later, Batman found my daughter's two-pound bag of jellybeans. She had eaten less than 1/3 of the bag. He left only a small piece of the bag itself. Great. What are the odds? The last time he ate something like that was ... well, you know. Now, twice in one day!

He didn't want his dinner. NOT normal. Even during the Great Tampon Escapade, he ate his dinner. Wolfed it, actually. True, he puked it up immediately afterward, but he damn well tried to eat it. I hope against hope that the jellybeans have just made him lose his appetite. Like a two-year-old with too much cake.

He pukes up the little bit of dinner he did eat. And an assload of jellybeans. And half a dozen toothpicks. He manages to place this mess so that it spreads over the edge of the dog bed and both dog blankets onto the floor. He's nothing if not thorough.

Shitshitshit. He did swallow them. I spend the next two days following him out in the yard with an umbrella and a flashlight, waiting for evidence that his poop routes are open. He finally gave the all clear. No dog surgery.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Saint Francis of Assisi.

Happy Friggin' New Year.

So, it's 2007. Whee.

I guess I'm officially of the age where one realizes with certainty that New Year's Resolutions are so much bullshit. Seriously, I don't even make the attempt anymore. It just sets you up for failure.

You've heard of the Freshman 15? I've picked up the Northwest 40. If my friends or exes from Hungary could see me now, it would bring an immediate "WTF?!" response, quickly followed by the usual and socially acceptable "Hey ... so, yeah ... great to see you!" I mean, if I were seriously motivated enough to actually get up off my fat (as opposed to phat) ass and get back to my previous ass size, would I really need a certain date to do it?

Does January 1st bring some kind of magic willpower in the night? Well, maybe so, for about a day, while you're recovering from too much tequila and fireworks and dancing in the streets in sexy-ass heels, so the thought of eating makes you want to hurl, but after that? No. I've never personally experienced any lasting willpower as a result of it being Jan. 1st.

The coming of Jan. 1st no longer brings excitement, let alone tequila and dancing in the streets.

Damn it.

What it brings now is more endless, grey, rainy days with a 4pm sunset; the knowledge that I'm getting older and not better (yeah, that's bullshit, too); and New Year's Eve spent with my two remaining children, their significant others, some sparkling apple cider, and DVDs.

I'm sorry, but when the only people in the house with significant others are 17 or younger, that's not exactly cause for a toot on the old New Year's horn.

Resolutions? Please. The only resolute feeling from all of that is a hardened desire for another bowl of macaroni and cheese, rather than the desire to hop on my dusty bike for some brisk exercise in the dark, cold rain. Which, predictably, sucks my (fat) ass farther into the black hole of my vicious circle.

Happy friggin' New Year.


So I'm getting over bronchitis. Missed an entire week of work last week. Other people use their leave for vacations in the sun; I have used my leave to cough up a goodly portion of my lungs and watch endless hours of the Discovery/DIY channels and the Dog Whisperer.

I love his dog, "Daddy". That is one dog who pulls off butch and cute all in one go.

BTW, ladies (and gents), Cesar Millan is so goddamn hot. SexSAY! He could be my alpha male, Whisperer, whatever. And I am not a gal who's into the whole alpha male thing. My dogs know I'm the alpha bitch in this house. But. If you haven't seen him point sharply at a recalcitrant canine with a quick Shhht!, you're seriously missing out. It makes you want to sit and stay right there on the spot. Roll over, whatever. It tempts me to purposely encourage my dogs to misbehave just so I can call him and be on his show. Since he is married, however, that would just be foolish.  In all seriousness, there are things I don't agree with in his training methods for dogs, but whatever.  Still sexy.

-sigh-