Where's My Fatted Calf?

And lo, the Prodigal Blogger hath returneth. Actually, you can scratch that fatted calf deal, given my vegetarian status. After a record hiatus, I figured I at least owed you a catchy title.

And by record hiatus, I mean I haven't hollered at you all since Santa swept down my chimney. In my defense, it's been hard for me to tell the difference, given that my Christmas decorations are still up. Don't judge. It's been that kind of a year. After a while, I quit seeing it, to tell the truth. I'd be sitting here doing homework, and suddenly feel a troop of nutcrackers, staring down at me from over the stockings. Like a festive line of Chuckies illuminated by Christmas lights, which, by the way, are still going strong, and do give a nice ambiance, if I'm honest about it.

Yes, by record hiatus, I mean about three months. Exactly the length of, oh ... say, winter quarter at one's local community college. This non-traditional student gig sucks ass, people. Especially at your place of employment. Yeah, instructors also being your colleagues ... just a little added fun.

I don't know why I thought taking a full load this quarter, on top of working full time, This Old Motherfucking House, the offspring, and the four-legged beasts was a good idea, but I did. Even then, it would've been okay had one class not turned out to have a two-legged beast of a brutal-grading instructor. Do not let anyone tell you that graphic design is a fluff class or "just an art class", people. This was the most time-consuming, stressful class I have ever taken. And that includes organic chemistry, as well as advanced anatomy and physiology. Yes, worse than cadavers staring up at you while you examine their muscle fiber. Graphic design was no joke, people. I wanted to pop my instructor over the head with my final portfolio by the time it was done. If I even think about taking GD II, somebody slap the shit out of me. Hard.


Side note: Dear Mom and Daddy, you were right. I should've finished school when I had no other responsibilities. You were also right about that: I had no responsibilities then. Also, you were right when you said that if I got married young, chances are I would not finish school. You were also right about that whole getting married young thing, just as a bad fucking idea in general. As well, you were right when you said I should have my own money and make an emergency fund for myself, if I was going to insist on getting married young. You were also right about my pride being my downfall with that whole, "I don't need your goddamned alimony! Just take care of your children!" thing. It is true that going to school later in life is fucking hard, and worse when sitting in a classroom of bored 19-yr olds who think their lives are hard, while staring at an instructor who is also your colleague, and who is secretly wondering what the fuck you're doing there. It makes me feel even older than I am, which is quickly becoming "pretty fucking old". So basically, you were right. Even though you're now crazyass teabagger right-wingers, you were right about school. If I could go back in time and kick my own ass, I would. I'm surprised you didn't.


Okay, so, in other news, I will also be spending this next quarter researching the ins and outs of foreclosure. Yes, you heard me right. That whole, "You can never go wrong buying property" thing? Bullshit. Worst decision of my life. I haven't decided for sure yet, but the more I research it and run the numbers, the more I'm having to face the fact that there doesn't look to be another solution. My credit score was almost 800 when I bought this bitch. That's about to change. Anyway. That's all I have to say about that.

Male Offspring switched to the Running Start program, which is where high school students can take college classes for joint high school and college credit. This means he is also attending classes at my place of employment. Of course, I don't see him in any of my classes, him being in the engineering track. He's about to take the 3rd level of chemistry, and has moved past pre-calc to straight up college calculus. I'm still contemplating that "Math Anxiety" course. On the bright side, he's a reasonably good shot at financing my beach house when I'm old and infirm. He's also discovered swing dancing. Pretty cool. He actually dons suit and tie, and goes with his friends down to a ballroom in Seattle for swing and salsa. He helped start a swing dance student club, and even started taking classes at a local ballet company and is taking a swing class on campus. They love having a wrestler-slash-football-player who can actually lift the girls and do the steps! So if the engineering gig doesn't make the boy rich, there's always Dancing With the Stars.

Oh, also, all that community work I've been doing the last few years? The son is about to take on the school board with his own cause. Next Tuesday he will speak at the board meeting with other students from the gay-straight alliance, asking the board to allow high schoolers to talk to the middle schoolers about the National Day of Silence, and for staff/administration to support student participation. They made a video they want to show to the middle schoolers, but the m.s. principals are not all down with that. Feels pretty damn good to just attend the meeting, and not have to do a thing but watch certain principals and administrators squirm.

Teen Demon (who is now two years past teenhood) is back in school, has transferred out to a university in central WA, and is doing well. For those who didn't know, she was in a horrible accident at the end of summer, in which she made it out, but lost her best friend. I don't have any words to describe that tragedy, and the effect that it has had on TD and her friend's family. I don't even want to try, here. I just want to let you all know she's back in school and seems to be healing, as well as can be expected. She likes her classes, she's been getting outside in the sunshine, and got a job working with young children in an after-school program. That ties in with her major (education) and she's making a difference with the kids -- they are mostly Latino kids, and she was warned that the kids were "hard to handle" and that she'd need to "take a firm hand" to get them to "behave". TD is having none of that, says the kids are great and just want someone to actually give a shit and be a mentor. Plus, Spanish is her minor, so she does well with the communication. Super proud of her. I don't know how I'd do, going through what she went through. She is something. Tomorrow is her friend's birthday. Today is mine. I'm really sad about that.

The Bohemian is about to graduate college. I know. She's trying to decide whether she'll go straight for her masters, or ... y'all best sit down. Sitting? OK, she's trying to decide whether to go straight to grad school or join the military to pay for it. I know. I told you to sit down, didn't I? She's been on a full academic scholarship the past 4 years, with a stipend, and has gotten used to that. She says if she doesn't get grants/scholarships to cover grad school as well, it's ahoy matey she goes. I suspect it's less about paying for grad school and more about her dream of running away to sea that she cooked up when she was 10 or 12. She was one of those kids who, in addition to inventing her own language for the fantasy stories she wrote, and keeping a sketchbook, also kept a journal of life goals that she swore she'd never forget like people tend to do when they grow up. Like Peter Pan without that racist bullshit of the Lost Boys or chasing after Wendy's lame ass. I suggested that she become the musician for a cruise ship for the summer, put that fancy piano degree to use, but that suggestion was met with disdain. Cruise ships are about as far away from the pirate's life as you can get and still be on water, I guess. Cruise ships are not badass. Also, they tend to be overrun with rich white people. Yesterday, she called me, and I was having trouble hearing her.

Me: Where are you?

Bohemian: What?!

Me: Where are you? What's going on?

Bohemian: Oh, I'm at a protest.

Me: A protest for what?

Bohemian: An anti-war protest.

Me: ... you do see the irony here, don't you?

Bohemian: Yes, yes, I see it, OK?!

I worry about how an anti-war protesting, outspoken, progressive extremist, kick-ass, openly pan-sexual young women will deal with shifting herself enough to deal in the military. I have no doubt she will succeed, I just worry about what it will cost her. Not to mention what our government -- yes, the current government, not just the old one -- is doing with the troops. I can't even think about that. Going to college was supposed to keep her from that life. She spent years in a military environment, it's not like she's clueless about military life, and she's grown now. She's done well with everything in her life, and regardless, I'll support her ... I just don't want it to cost her too much. Plus, you all know I will have to mock her for being a Navy puke. I mean really, the Navy? They can't even march in cadence. And those dungarees. Please.

In other news, it looks like there's trouble in paradise for the Ex and his bride of not-quite-three years, but I'll have to update you all on that another day if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. Hang tight.

So that's my update. I should be around more often now. There's been a lot of bitching building up, and you all know I can only go but so long before it spills out. Happy Spring Equinox, by the way.

History

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

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.

The Bohemian's Travels

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.

Cakes or Consequences

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 instance. 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. 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. It often 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, Son, is 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.


RETRACTION:
It seems I was mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression as I'd hoped. 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.

Sixteen Cakes. I Mean Candles.

Today Male Offspring turned 16. He was born on Thanksgiving Day. He was overdue, and a big baby, so I'd been wanting him to just get on with it already or start paying rent. We'd been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house. For the first time in my adult life, I didn't have to cook! Or do dishes! I was bursting at the seams, had a gait like a defective Weeble, but I was about to be pampered! The night of the 25th, I told the future Male Offspring to hold off until Friday. The whole feast and no-dishes thing really had me going.

Later that night, I felt the first contraction. I spent Thanksgiving day in a hospital bed. At least the ex and the girls smuggled in some food, but I wasn't much into it at that point, after five hours of back labor from my just-shy-of-9-pounds bundle of joy.

So that's how Male Offspring made his grand entry on Thanksgiving Day. And I've been (mostly) very, very thankful for him ever since. Love that kid.

Sixteen years old. It was weird when the girls hit that number -- The Bohemian because she was the first, and Teen Demon because she was the first to drive. But it's weirder when your "baby" hits 16. I don't have kids anymore, I have young people. Next year, I won't have a single Child Tax Credit left. It's an odd feeling.

Teen Demon made him a chocolate cake with a big "16" spelled out in chocolate sprinkles. That was in addition to the multiple cakes, cookies, and brownies that accompanied him home from school. There was a donut cake, a miniature round cake, a giant cake with some kind of food-color-swirled glaze, a heart-shaped cake, and the aforementioned cookies and brownies. "Hey, where'd this cornucopia of cakes come from?" I inquire. I'm informed that they were kindly provided by his "awesome friends". Namely Sophie, Kristen, Hannah, Lindsay, Trinity, Sylvia, Hailey, and Kiahna.  

His cynical aunt queried, "Ask him did any boys make him a cake."

See, this is what Hungarian schools do for a kid. Seriously. In Hungarian school, students moved together as a class from 1st through 8th grade. Like a cohort. For the first four years, Male Offspring and his classmates were even in the same room, with the same teacher. In 5th grade, you get different teachers for each subject, but you still move as a group to each subject. Classmates are seen more as cousins than as potential love interests. Crushing on a classmate? That's one step away from incest. Eeew. By the time 7th and 8th grade roll around, students look to the other classes for their crushes and to their own class for support, friendship, and bickering.

There was none of this "Girls have cooties!" or "Boys! Eeeeew!" business. Male Offspring used to go to sleepovers at his little friend Viktor's house, where half the attendees were girls. No big deal. Girls and boys changed for gym class together right there in the classroom. Even in 8th grade, the Bohemian and her classmates would change into their dress clothes for choir performances all together. Zsuzsi has pink panties? Who cares, she's like your sister, dude. The kids watched out for each other. It really was similar to familial relationships.

Fast forward to 2003, when a very un-American Male Offspring hits US school for the first time in his life. Being a naturally social and adaptable kid, he makes friends easily. Since he was unaware that girls have cooties, he made friends with girls too. The other boys started to notice. In 6th grade, he'd hear from guys he thought were his friends, smirking, "Dude, are you gay or something?" He kept being nice to the girls. They thought him adorable.

Fast forward to 2005. Middle school. The guys, exchanging their smirks for scowls, no longer threw around the G-word. The girls thought him really adorable. Once, I was sitting in the stands for a wrestling match, and heard a gaggle of girls behind me.

Oh.My.God. He.Is.So.Cute.

Yeah, but he's super sweet! It's so funny he's like, a killer wrestler!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

Is he coming out yet?

Okay, seriously? We have to yell, like, really loud, so he'll see us.

Ohmygod, I know! It's going to be so funny!

He'll be so surprised by our sign!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

How cute, I think. Young crushes. Poor guy won't know what hit him. Back to the match. Male Offspring's turn, he's out on the mat. Suddenly, the gaggle of girls behind explodes into a cacophony of girlness.

WE LOVE YOU MALE OFFSPRING!!!

Oh. Oh! Is there another Male Offspring on the team? There is not. I turn around to see them furiously waving their glittery sign at my son. Then they're looking me, wondering why this white lady is staring at them. "I'm his mom," I tell them. They blanched. (no one ever suspects I'm his mom. I get to hear all kinds of interesting tidbits that way.)

Fast forward to the present day. He still has tons of girl friends (as evidenced by this year's cake-fest), and has had three serious girlfriends since 8th grade. Well, as serious as it is at that age. He's kept his head about him, for the most part, and continues just to be a kid who's very sweet to young women. Which they find adorable, lord help me.

That's what Hungarian schools will do for a kid. Being handsome, sweet, smart, and living in a household of women doesn't hurt either. Lord help me.


So the boy fell hard via sugar crash last night. He said it felt like everything just slowed down. Like the Matrix but without the badassedness. You don't feed an athlete's body that many cakes with no repercussions.

Happy Birthday, Son. Still thankful for you.

Generation Text

I've probably mentioned Teen Demon's documented addiction to text messaging. When I say addiction, I mean in the literal sense. Last month the girl had 10,000 messages to her credit. Even the US Texting Champion only runs about 8,000 per month. On the rare occasions her phone malfunctions or runs out of juice, she displays classic signs of withdrawal: anxiety, shaking hands, irritability, inability to focus, clammy skin, the whole bit.

It was the facial tics and repetitive hand motions that made me consider an intervention.

She sleeps with the thing under her pillow, for 24/7 access. I'm pretty sure she and her friends will become the next Borg Collective, phones melded to skulls, unable to make a move without the input of the Collective. I once asked her if nighttime texts couldn't wait until morning. After all, if it's an emergency, they'll actually CALL you, right? Anything else probably doesn't warrant waking up at 3:37am. Her eyes about popped out of her head. "Yeah, right!!" she scoffed, clutching her phone possessively. "I wouldn't be able to sleep!"

But seriously, is it really crucial to see, "OMG im so bored. r u sleeping?" before you wake up in the morning? It's like when she was four and thought she'd miss something after going to bed.

Teen Demon is always on the go. Even before she left for college, a goodly portion of our relationship was predicated on texting. Now that she's at college, she's stepped it up to the next level. Things that would be discussed vis a vis in most mother-daughter relationships are presented to me on a handheld LCD screen. That tinny alert from the depths of my purse could be anything.

Like these:

So im thinking of getting a tattoo.

So i don't actually need to pass math to graduate.

Nose piercings r so cute.

Going to a hookah bar.

I'm getting my belly button pierced.

L8r, im in court now.

Court sucks!

College has so many parties!

If you just went by her text history, you'd wonder just what kind of wild, delinquent hooligan I've raised, here. Anyway, I was thinking recently I should be compiling these nuggets of history. Like a baby book, only more stressful. Those are among the more traumatic memorable communications, but hundreds more are forever lost from the memory stores of my brain.

Here's today's entry from the compendium of treasured communications with a loving daughter:

I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle license. It's only $125.

Like I don't have enough to worry about with two of the little devils off to college. My reply? "Tuition is a better investment. Especially since you live in the rain capital of the universe."

Welcome to text hell. I'll keep u posted, LOL. L8r!

Go In Peace, Cadbury.

Today was a sad day. Our rabbit, Cadbury, died today. He was eight years old. The Bohemian got him for her 13th birthday. (I was thinking her 12th, putting him at nine years old, but she says 13th, and her memory on these things is better than mine.) What's really sad is that she's due to come home next week. Teen Demon said it's probably better that the Bohemian didn't see him sick. I guess that's true. You can read more about him, here. It has some funny parts, because he was a funny rabbit with a distinct personality.

He was acting sick yesterday. He wouldn't eat - completely unlike him - and wasn't hopping around. He drank a little chamomile tea last night, and today I fed him some with a syringe, but he really just didn't want anything.

This morning I wrapped him in a towel and took him outside. I just had a bad feeling. We sat in the sun for a while, and I held him his favorite way - cradled like a baby. He was just so still. I think he liked smelling the fresh air and being in the sun though.

When I picked Male Offspring up from school, he went straight to see how Cadbury was. That's when we found he had died. He just looked like he was sleeping. It was almost like he waited until after he'd been outside and cuddled one more time.

It's times like this when it's really nice to have a son. He called his big sister. He got the shovel, chose a place in the yard under the trees and near where the rhododendrons, bleeding hearts, and bluebells bloom in spring.

We buried Cadbury with his hay, his toy rabbit that looked just like him, some of his food, and some lavender sprinkled over him. The son arranged big rocks over the top in a circle. We each said things we liked and remembered about Cadbury, and said goodbye.

The Bohemian with Cadbury at about two years old.

Cadbury shaking open his treat box, as a much-younger Male Offspring looks on.

Scratching an itch

Santa Rabbit with Teen Demon

Bad (but clever) Rabbit!

Moving day, heading back to the States. The kids had marked items (Go or Stay) for the movers. Teen Demon wanted to make sure the movers knew that the rabbit was definitely in the "Go" pile.

Cadbury jumped up on the back of the couch.
The Bohemian, age 15 or 16.

Rest in peace, Cadbury. You were good, bold, funny, and loyal. We'll miss you.

A Couple of Months in the Life

So how long has it been since I've written about anything of import? Where are the posts about politics, the media, race, current events, and assholes?

I'm turning into a fluff blogger. And that's not going to change today.

Trust me, I'm still ranting about all those things, but I've just got too much going on right now to write a coherent piece about any of it. So today, continuing in the vein of bees, rats, and weather, I'm going to touch on all the little things that have been happening at Chez Cowbell, as Tony puts it, while I've been non-blogging. An update post, if you will.


MILESTONES

Teen Demon graduated from high school. She looked beautiful and happy. I was so proud of her. How did this happen? Even with 18 years to prepare, there's a lag in the parental brain. You end up sitting there during the ceremony, remembering the first day of kindergarten and trying not to rush the stage shrieking, "Give her back, I wasn't done yet!"

And those of you who think it gets easier after the first one, let me just quash that rumor right here. When the first one graduates and leaves home, it's a shock. It's hard in its own way. It's like your first break up -- the punch to the gut you never saw coming that sucks the breath from your lungs. But it seems more like an anomaly than a way of life. You come back from the airport to find that nest still plenty full with the raucous activity of the remaining fledglings. You can pretend the family is still intact, but one of you is off having a grand adventure. Or protesting the White House. Whatever. When the second one graduates though ... that's a tipping point.

By summer's end, I will have more children away in college than I do at home. I'm having some trouble with that. Anyway, congratulations baby -- you haven't always had an easy road, which makes me even more proud of your drive and motivation. I know you'll kick university ass.

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Male Offspring got his learner's permit. Willym, light a candle, please. You know how some people get addicted to gambling or crystal meth, and it takes over their life and they can't think about anything else, and if they go too long without it, they get shaky and kind of psychotic? Yeah, like that. Except without the physical and financial ruin. This boy thinks he was born to drive. Like it's his whole raison d'être. If financial success was determined by interest in driving, he'd have passed Bill Gates last week. I mean, the boy is like, "I'm going to check the mail." What? He's volunteering? Maturity is kicking in! "Can I have the keys?"

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Remember me writing last year about the advocacy group I helped start? Suffice it to say we've been insanely busy. We've been really proud to have helped bring about a couple of events for students and community recently that have had a big impact, and are gearing up for next year. All of that work has indirectly led to something else. I am currently going through the process of applying for my city's Diversity Commission. I've been through the first three steps, the latest being an interview with the mayor. Next step is the interview with City Council, and then they vote at their next meeting. So if you hear about a Commissioner Cowbell being appointed, that's me.



HEALTH AND WELFARE
The Bohemian got her first stitches. She, unlike her siblings, has no interest in driving. She bikes or does public transit. Last month she wiped out at the bottom of a hill -- on a curve, on a road with no shoulder to speak of -- slamming her head and various appendages into the ground. She nearly lost consciousness. She soaked a Good Samaritan's pink bath towel with blood. She scared the crap out of both of us.

The doctor, after reaming her a new one about not having her helmet on, scared us even more. "Eighty percent of bicycle head injuries are fatal," he intoned. Yeah, so are heart attacks, doc. Thanks for that tidbit.

The Bohemian is a responsible biker. She wears her helmet at all times in DC. The same helmet that is still sitting in DC, awaiting her return. She tried to wear her brother's helmet that morning, but it didn't fit over her hair. Reasoning that the park she was heading for had nothing on the mean streets of DC, she left without it. I'm so fucking grateful that she didn't come out with some kind of brain injury. That she came out of it at all. Make your kids wear their helmets, people. You can't count on them always being part of that lucky 20%.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Male Offspring wiped out on his ripstick. Personally, I don't see how he rides that thing at all. It's got 2 wheels. That's it. Skates have more wheels than that, and you get one for each foot. In addition, the torsion bar that joins the 2 sections acts as an axis allowing each section to rotate. If that's not enough, the wheels themselves rotate. 360°. At will. The only thing that would make this thing any more unstable would be if they added a pogo stick component to it.

Anyway, the son wipes out, tearing up his hand and both knees. I get the following text message: "Can you bring home some of those really big Band-aids?" This is not the first time I've received such a text message. Parents, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the poor thing is unable to do dishes, what, with his injured hand and all. I'm sure his road to recovery will be long and arduous.


TRAVEL

The Bohemian is in Ghana. We took out a home equity loan for the clinic to protect her from malaria, yellow fever, typhoid, hepititis A, and the common cold. Oh wait, we don't have that much equity in our home -- better sell those shoes, honey. The clinic advertised "sliding scale fees". After the shots and pills were dispensed, they informed us that doesn't apply to voluntary travel. I guess they consider it akin to elective surgery or Botox. She's on a study trip for school, lady, not summering in a French chalet with her butler in tow.

Anyway, yes, she's there with a small group of music students and a couple of professors. She spent last Sunday in NYC, waiting for the rest of her group to arrive from DC. They missed their flight. Which means, of course, that they all missed the connecting flight from NY to Morocco, which led to them missing the weekly flight that goes from Morocco to Ghana. The Bohemian was not amused. I get a phone call as she's (finally) getting on the plane to Morocco, the following day.

The Radical Bohemian: (dramatic sigh) So, we're leaving. Finally.
Me: Oh good. Did they find another flight from Morocco to Ghana?

RB: No. As a matter of fact, they didn't. There is no other flight from Morocco to Ghana. We're now flying from Morocco to Togo.

(I can practically feel her eyes stabbing daggers into her professor's back)

Me: Togo? So ... how will you get to Ghana?
RB: Apparently, we're going to drive.

Me: Oh. Who's driving?

RB: I don't know.

Me: What kind of vehicle?

RB: I don't know.

Me: Well, is it a bus or private vehicle? I think that's a pretty rough drive. What about visas? You guys don't have visas to Togo.

RB: I don't know. I don't think anyone knows. Hey, we're boarding, I have to go ... I'll try to get in touch with you somehow...

Yeah. High times and adventure under the watchful supervision of responsible university staff. Anyway, she called yesterday, so I only had to worry for about five days. Actually, the Bohemian is a highly resourceful and experienced traveler, I wasn't too worried. She's fine and they did actually make it to Ghana. She was on a shared phone card, so I think she crammed about ten minutes worth of info into two minutes, but she sounded thrilled. Can't wait to get the full report.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Male Offspring went to football camp in eastern WA last month. Fortunately, yellow fever was not a concern. He gloated about temperatures in the 90s and constant sunshine. He did this, of course, with a mountain range between us so I couldn't actually lash out in a moment of temporary insanity. The kid's no fool. He came back sporting the now traditional 'fro-hawk, but the guys kind of messed up with the clippers so it didn't have quite the shock value as last year's event. I am gearing up for another football season in the stands.


AT LEAST THEY'RE NOT ON DRUGS

Teen Demon got a tattoo. I'm not sure if it was at the same place where she got her belly button pierced. She'd been telling me she was going to do these things after she turned 18. In fact, she'd informed me of this fact many times, via text message. Teen Demon tells me all her important news and asks all the dicey questions via text message. Her generation should be called Generation Text. I fully expect to receive a text message rather than a wedding announcement.

Anyway, it's been nearly a year since Teen Demon turned 18, so I suppose one could say she's showed incredible restraint. It could be worse. One of her friends recently got a guy's name tattooed below her belly button. A couple of weeks after her 18th birthday. In big, capital, Olde English letters. Hip to hip. She met the guy on the Internet.  Sweet kid. He got her name as well. Same place, same style. This girl is a smart cookie and beautiful and funny to boot. So what happened? Young love, people, young love. It bites us all in the ass, doesn't it?

Anyway, Teen Demon got stars. Not sure what they represent, other than being cute and sparkly. Her reasoning involves stars "never going out of style, like some stupid fad". Or a guy's name. Hey, at least she's employing some sort of logic, here. And she didn't end up with a sun-turned-spider tattoo either, so there's something to be said for that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Bohemian attended Pride with her friends, as per usual, with one small twist. She went in drag. She insisted on me calling her "son" that day, so she could get into character. Not sure what Male Offspring thought about me suddenly having two sons, but he said her goatee was pretty cool. To me, she just looks like the Bohemian whether she's manning up or wearing her trademark Bohemianesque skirts, but then, I'm her mom. She said she was actually passing, and even got a few looks from the ladies. The straight ones, I mean.


NEWS FROM A BROAD

Betty called from Iraq. I was so relieved. I'd been emailing her, and hadn't heard a word back. Now I'm not one to freak about that, and I know she's just a touch busy over there, but still ... I was a little worried. OK, a lot worried. Anyway, she called the other day, and we talked for about an hour, which was wonderful. She's doing well, but when I asked her how things really were, I got a long pause, a sigh, and "It's very stressful. Very stressful". She couldn't go into too many details, OPSEC and all that, but I could tell it's wearing on her. She's got five more months of the 15-month tour. If Dubya and crew don't extend them before that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

OK, that's enough news for now. I know, how to handle all that excitement, right? Good point. Time for a beer.

Vivisection

Do you all remember The Rat? If not, click and go read -- absolutely essential backstory for today's tale of intrigue.

What? You think I don't see you trying to skip ahead? Please, I can hear the heavy breathing from here. You probably read Cliff Notes as a kid. To quote the Brady Bunch dad, You're only cheating yourself Bobby; and cheaters never prosper. In fact, sometimes they end up divorced with an ex-wife who suddenly develops a penchant for voodoo dolls. That's right, Bobby. Think about it.

I'll wait.


Okay, so the other day I come home from work, open up the fridge to grab a beer, and come face to face with ... The Rat. Like you didn't see that one coming.

Yeah, okay, you got me. Ha, ha, very funny, son. But wait ... what's that red ... holy scalpels, Batman! The Rat had been stitched up like a grisly FrankenRodent! It's true. The Rat was sporting an I-incision with bright red stitching, complete with decorative beadwork. Apparently, my eldest and my youngest spent the afternoon in a study session reviewing Male Offspring's freshman biology lab notes.

Here are the gory details. My kids are nothing if not creative. And twisted.

Warning: This presentation is intended for mature audiences and contains disturbing elements of extreme violence, blood and gore. Animals were definitely harmed for this presentation. Procedures not carried out by licensed medical personnel.

Bittersweet Anniversary

A summer of sorts has arrived in the PNW. Yes children, July has arrived, and you know what that means: vegetarian hot dogs, fresh tomatoes bursting with the threat of salmonella, broken lawnmowers, neighborhood streets littered with the detritus of DIY fireworks, and that wonderful summer weather -- partially sunny and only marginally chilly. You all know how I love only having to wear my undershirt 'neath my outer layers, as opposed to my normal undershirt, jacket, and knee socks.

July also means that most hallowed of all summer events, the annual Cannonball & Bellyflop Contest at our local pool. The Bohemian and Male Offspring are psyching themselves up for competition as I type. In fact, I can not do justice to the Bohemian's blog entry about this event -- I nearly peed myself reading it this morning. Totally worth the click. Just utilize the latrine before you read, soldiers.

The Bohemian and Male Offspring compete every year. So does the current (and past) reigning champion, their nemesis, Steve. Last year the Bohemian came in 3rd in the adult division. She's got pictures up from last year's showdown at her site. She found them on the web. Who knew she was famous? Steve is hot, truth be told. Not that that fact makes it any easier to come in 3rd behind him, but at least it gives you something nice to look at as you're hating him.

Steve, King of the Bellyflop

For me, the contest not only brings back memories of tender flesh smacking against a wall of water and tattooed hotties rotating through the air Greg Louganis style, it also brings back memories of a more bitter nature. Those of you who've been around for a while know of what I speak.

Last year's contest was when Dear Camera met his demise, thanks to that teenbitch careening down the stairs like she was late to retrieve a text message. I paid homage to him this morning by re-reading his tribute. Camera, though another now rests in your little case, you have never been forgotten. Canon really fucked up when they took away the 50 ISO option for all the upgrades following you, so trust that you can never really be replaced.

If you'd like to see some of Dear Camera's best work, just scroll down last July's posts - they're all there, starting about halfway down the page. Camera kicked ass. Yes he did. Only the good die young. Those of you who were around last year may remember the deep pit of depression I fell into following that fateful night.

Anyway, tonight the Bohemian takes on Steve in a contest of guts and glory in the adult division at our local pool. Male Offspring will bide his time in the teen division. I will be there with my new camera, guarding it more closely than Karl Rove guards the truth.

I leave you with pics of the offspring from last year. Keep in mind that these were taken after Dear Camera's LCD screen was crushed like the nation's hope after a stolen election. I was, for the first time ever, using the "view finder", and had no access to settings or controls. I was effectively shooting blind. Like Dick Cheney in autumn. So before I overdose on bad analogies, here are some shots from Dear Camera's last hurrah.

The offspring, sizing up the Kiddie Division

The Bohemian, coming out of a somersault in the Cannonball event.

Male Offspring, getting some height

So send your good vibes this way, folks. I'll let you know how it goes tonight.

Come Rock Out With Me

Some of you feared I had met some unfortunate end. Most of you - generous, kindly souls that you are - assumed I've actually been engaging in something called "having a life".

Well, I wouldn't exactly go that far. It's not like I've been getting laid or anything.

Things have just suddenly gotten insanely busy. Deadlines at work. Pretty insane there. But mostly my advocacy group has pretty much exploded into activity. Too much to write about, but suffice it to say we're getting a taste of some minor fame. Not fortune though. Damn. Interest from the state superintendent (I got to be on a conference call w/ her), upcoming presentation to one of the WA state House committees, 2 upcoming award ceremonies and rumors of a third, requests from surrounding school boards, even an invitation to co-sponsor some community forums with established ("real") community organizations. Which will mean our name on flyers and posters, and more connections. Pretty cool. Best of all, though, all that means people are listening, which means better things in store for the kids.

So yeah. Either we're friggin' geniuses and the Obama campaign should snap us up and start paying us the big money, or, more likely, there is an incredible heretofore unmet need for what we're doing.

Yeah. The latter. I know.

Anyway, I've been breathing this stuff lately, so I'm not writing more about that. And I'm feeling the brevity tonight, people. Shocking, I know. So, in keeping with that rare event, here are a few bullets from the last few weeks of my life:


--- My gutter was finally felled by the heavy, wet issue of a freak snowstorm, trapping my car in the garage. We tried to cut it down with a branch trimmer, but couldn't get the leverage. Male Offspring wrenched it out of the way so I could get the car out. Our house looks like an ad for that "You might be a redneck if..." deal. I haven't had time to research finding someone to fix it who won't rip me off.

--- The Bohemian is considering becoming a drag king.

--- The first issue of my group's joint newsletter with the district will be coming out in May. You should've seen all the editing going back and forth on that venture, let me tell you. Our side had to go out for margaritas after final approval. It's going out to all district parents as an insert in individual schools' newsletters. Shit, meet fan.

--- Teen Demon broke up with her boyfriend. A couple of months ago.

--- My house looks like shit.

--- OK, I was up late computering into the wee hours one night, TV mindlessly blaring in the background. The Bodyguard came on, you know, with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston? I know. It was either that, religious shows, or FOX. Anyway, something weird happened: Kevin Costner seemed so goddamned appealing to me. WTF? Seriously, not a Kevin Costner fan, here. I mean, I don't hate him, but just ... meh. So what the hell? I finally figured it out. It was the whole superman thing. Whitney did not have to worry about one goddamn thing with Kev around. The man took care of business. Didn't make a big deal about it, just took care of business. He had Whitney's back. Was prepared for every possible contingency. That's hot. I have too much shit going on. You can bet Whitney's gutter wouldn't stay wrenched over onto her porch, looking like hicksville. Not with the Bodyguard on the job. Hell no.

Anyway, that freaked me out. Kevin Costner now, people. Weird.



--- Teen Demon cleaned her room. I may post pictures. You have no idea how huge that is.

--- Male Offspring is becoming a Guitar God, thanks to Guitar Hero. I suck ass at it. It's a weird society we live in, when you're working away out in the living room and you get a text message from your son. Who's in the next room. Playing with a toy guitar. "Come rock out with me." I think that might be Teenspeak for "I sorta like, love you, Mom, I guess." He also kicked my ass at Guitar Hero. I don't actually "rock out", per se. It's more like a frenzied plinking.

--- Teen Demon's prom dress arrived today. She tried it on, complete with accompanying jewelry. She looked stunning. Like she walked out of some 1940s movie. Her girlfriends got dresses the same day. They haven't settled on dates yet.

Me: You girls could just all go together -- you've done that before, you always have so much fun doing that.

TD: (looking down at the dress) Yeah right! A date is an accessory that this dress needs.

--- I had to file a tax extension.

--- The Bohemian made it into the Chicago Tribune. For protesting the IRS. They quoted her full name, the fact that her mother, a former soldier, was fully supportive of her protesting the war in Iraq, and that she was even wearing her mom's Army pants. Fuck. If my broke ass gets audited, I'll grow a long arm and choke that child.

--- I'm dangerously close to bitchslapping Hillary for her antics. I'm seriously getting sick of it.

--- An old army buddy we hadn't seen since Male Offspring was 6 months old came to visit another old army buddy whom we hadn't seen since before Male Offspring existed, and who, it turns out, lives less than an hour north of me. We all had dinner together the night of the freak snowstorm. They live in a tiny Georgia town. They brought their 3 kids, only 1 of whom existed last I saw them. The kids had never before been on an airplane. It was great to see them, but very weird.

--- I am way too fucking young to be saying shit like, "It's been almost 20 years since I saw Albert," Aren't I? That's the kind of shit my parents say. Fuck.


So anyway, that's a snapshot. OK, fine, it's not brief overall, but considering that normally I could drag any one of those tidbits into a fullblown rambling post, I think it's pretty goddamned impressive. OK. I think I'm going to bed "early" for once, though.

Sleep is for Pansies

I keep thinking I'm going to have time to update. Also, monkeys could fly out of my ass. So here's the quick and dirty run down. Probably more dirty than quick. (No, RG, it does not involve a lascivious tryst.)

Things with my advocacy group are snowballing -- so much so that I will not be using the name of the group in this blog, lest my secret identity be outed to the locals who've been asking the Googles about us. Not just the locals, actually, as we're garnering notice in ever widening circles. Apparently our work has been creating a buzz in the surrounding school districts. This was news to us. Anyway, it's like these lines we've cast out are suddenly all being reeled in at once. Exciting, but tiring.

So we got invited to present at the county N@@CP meeting, which surprised us, but not as much as the invitation to have dinner beforehand with Dr. NameWithheld (Googlers), one of the state superintendents, and the keynote speaker. Best come up with another PowerPoint, wheee.

Every surrounding school district had sent their brass to the meeting. (You could pick most of them out ... the white guys in suits.) We got a lot of positive comments afterward, even from the aforementioned brass, so I'm hopeful about that.

Before the meeting ended, the governor's appointee to the State Commission on Hisp@nic Affairs took the microphone and said, "Ladies get ready for your phone to start ringing, because I will be using you as model ... at the state level,"

What?

Dr. NameWithheld spent a lot of time talking with us at dinner and after the meeting, gave us a lot of good insights, and said he would also be using us a model.

Not long afterward, he called our superintendent to "congratulate him on the wonderful work" happening in our district. Our super was apparently quite "honored" to be working with us. I just bet he was, with Dr. NameWithheld on the line!

Also, we later received an invitation from him to apply for a state committee working to set standards for alternative assessments to the W@SL. That is the statewide standardized test, now required to graduate, put in place and driven by our boy GeeDubya's No Child Left Behind act, so you can imagine how effective and beloved it is. Anyway, there are all kinds of issues there, but it's really important that there be people on the committee representing the perspective of diverse students.

So, two of us applied, and will be in Olympia most of next week at the invitation of Dr. NameWithheld. The second-best part? There is an honorarium, a decent one, plus all expenses, so for the first time I'll be paid in dollars as well as the intangible payoffs for doing this work. (Also makes it worth using the vacation days.)

One thing I'm really excited about is that we are working with our district, surrounding districts, and community organizations to bring this to our county for the first time ever.

Anyway, the group has been taking up so much of our time, but we're making contacts and things are really starting to grow.



Also, tomorrow is Caucus Day. No, I have not moved to Pennsylvania, tomorrow is the day that WA state Dem delegates will continue the process of moving Barack Obama into the White House. No, I'm not being presumptuous -- Sen. Obama took every single county in the state, so WA's role will indeed be assisting him to that end.

I've made a decision the past couple of weeks though; I'm not going to be gunning for a slot at the National Convention. I'd been committed to fundraising and shameless self promotion, anything to be part of that history, but I've had to rethink things. As a good friend said recently, there are millions of people across the country helping Sen. Obama, but only four of us steering this advocacy group, and it's really starting to take hold. The students in our district need this work, and there aren't millions out there volunteering for them or sending in huge amounts of fundage, I'll tell you that right now.

But you know, Barack Obama himself feels very strongly about community organizing, and his history of community work is one reason I believe so strongly in him. So, tomorrow's the end of the glory road.



Also, Male Offspring and Teen Demon purchased Guitar Hero, so my house is filled with the strains of "rocking out". A far cry from the days of the Bohemian's Chopin filling the house, but hey, I'm flexible. Slow Ride is my song. I'm pretty sure it's the easiest one. Even so, my rockometer sometimes dips into the red. The other night we had nine teenagers in the house "rocking out" and watching teen movies. Yes, actually, Teen Demon did clean her room for the first time in over a year so that she can have people over. It took many days, but she did it. Don't worry, I have before pics. Anyway, every mother loves quality time with her kids, right, but while phrase, "Hey, why don't you come rock out with me for a while?" may be music to my ears, my attempts on the "guitar" are not.


So, between the group, home, Guitar Hero, and the end of the fiscal year at work fast approaching, things are feeling as though they're bordering on the insane, not to mention a bit out of control. It's a good kind of out of control, though.

It's like my life has two modes of operation:
Mode 1) Ain't Shit Going On
Mode 2) I Need a Clone
I am currently in Mode 2.*


So next week I'll be in Olympia. Not sure what the WiFi situation will be. Also, I will be operating via The Brick, my ancient laptop, rather than Teen Demon's speedy machine of several tech generations later, so who knows how that will go. It's got one of those removable external WiFi cards. I'm surprised I don't have to carry a modem for the damned thing.

Time to grab three hours of sleep before the alarm goes off. I'm going to need an IV caffeine drip.


---------------------
*Disclaimer: Issues with This Old Motherfucking House can crop up in either mode. Ain't Shit Going On refers to the social and professional aspects of my life, and trust me, TOMFH can pop up with an exploding oven while I'm experiencing a dearth of activity in social and professional arenas.

Puke & Rally!

The son is projectile vomiting.


He woke up seemingly fine this morning, and was skillfully working my nerves about getting his driver's permit (St. Christopher, I'm ready to believe in you.), when I suggested we go pick up cinnamon rolls and coffee cream. Then things took a turn for the worse.

Male Offspring: If I had my permit, I could drive, and you could go in the store.

Me: If you had your permit, you'd be a sophomore. Oh ... you're a freshman. Sorry. Let's go.

MO: I seriously don't want to go to the store.

Me: Cinnamon rolls? Please. Lets go.

MO: [whining] My stomach feels weird.

Me: You look pretty normal to me. No fever, no swelling. Seriously, you're not driving, son.

MO: Landon's driving.

Me: Sophomore.

MO: [walking to the bathroom] Yeah, but he had his permit when he was a ...................BRRRAAAAUUUGGGHHH...........

I made him ginger & chamomile tea to settle his stomach. "Sip it slowly," I said, for the ten-thousandth time since drawing that first placebo of a Lamaze breath two decades ago. "I know," he replied, chugging it. Three minutes later the tea was hurled into the toilet with a force that made me suspect the boy was on performance-enhancing steroids.

He's in the bathtub now, mere inches from the toilet. Four episodes of hurling. Dry hurling. The boy can't even keep water down. The offspring and the dogs all have one thing in common: emergency medical situations or extreme illnesses only occur on weekends or holidays. Anything after 5pm on Friday is fair game. In this instance though, I'm not really worried. Not yet, anyway.

Male Offspring is affectionately known as the 24-hour kid when it comes to getting sick. He'll pop up with some serious projectile vomiting, or bust out with a 103.5* fever until you can practically see green ickiness wafting from his pores. During these times, the boy will be seriously sick. Until the next morning, when he wakes up feeling fairly close to fine. It's like he takes a normal 5-day sickness and condenses it into this fevered, mondo-puke-o-rama deal.

So I'm hoping he'll feel better by tomorrow. If not, it's off to the urgent care weekend clinic. Whee. As for me, I'm still coughing like a smoker in LA, even though I (finally) am feeling better. The cough just will not leave. I'm thinking I need to cast it out like the devil, with some sort of cough exorcism ritual. I'm finally starting to get caught up at work though, and am actually cleaning the house this weekend. Brain and body have just been operating in such a fog this year; I feel like one of those gross hairy moths emerging from a cocoon of illish yukkery. I'm so ready for spring, both within and and without.

In better news, this is the weekend when I can finally take Batman out for a walk. Tomorrow is Day 28 of his captivity. I haven't been able to let him run since he hurt his leg, four excruciatingly long weeks ago. You try keeping 70 pounds of crazy locked up for 4 weeks. 150 pounds, if you count Mason. Honestly though, I have to say he's been a very good dog considering he's been imprisoned for the past month.

Anyway, I've been trying to get around to everyone's cyberspaces and sling some comments around, but the online stuff has been flagging along with everything else. Such is life. Spring is coming though, and hopefully a big ol' batch of healthy for everyone along with it.
--------------------------
UPDATE:
As hoped, the son is no longer feverish, no longer hurling. The 24-hour kid strikes again. He is asking for a taco and burrito dinner tonight. Always a good sign.

In the Midst of the Sickery

Some of you have already been privy to my bitchery about the whole moms and sickness thing. Simply put, I'm of the belief that moms should be exempt from illness. Period. It should be outlawed. If I need to explain that to anyone, just think about how your mom (or grandma, whoever held the mom role in your household) took care of you when you were sick. Remember the soup and tea, the thermometers and orange juice and scrambled eggs? Right. Now think of who took care of your mom and kept the house clean when she was sick. Right. Moving on.

I'm home sick today. Yesterday too. Along with the Male Offspring. What started as a sore throat and some sinus nastiness has also progressed downward, so I can now enjoy hacking my lungs up along with my head feeling like it's been pumped full of pudding and my throat feeling like someone took a cheese grater to it.

And just to add to the fun, when is the last time we've had sunny days around the Puget Sound? I'd tell you, if I could remember, but I can't. The last 3 days though, which I've spent ensconced on my couch, wrapped in blankets? Sunny. Gorgeous. Gotta hand it to those Seattle weather gods, their timing is always spot on for a little Cowbell fuckery.

The boys were not happy with me. They expect some dog park action on sunny days, not for their mom to be buried under a blanket hacking and snorting snot around.

I do have to say that Teen Demon made banana and chocolate chip pancakes this morning, which the son and I greatly appreciated. Love that girl. Of course, the pancake maker is not expected to be the kitchen cleaner as well, which normally works out fine. Today, however, engulfed in this sickery, the ensuing chaos of the kitchen was enough to send me straight back to the couch. The son washed dishes though, in exchange for me messing around with our computer router to accomplish some crap or other he wanted to do with his video games. So really the whole mom sickness thing wasn't too awful today.


---------TIME OUT---------------

We interrupt this program with some breaking news from This Old Motherfucking House. The son has informed me, literally at just this moment, that we have leak under the kitchen sink. Fuck. Hold on ...

OK. I'm back. Not to worry folks, only a loose pipe fitting. Just my bastard of a house having a little chuckle, throwing some homeowner hijinx into the mix. Yeah, the fun just never stops does it? The son was good enough to sop up the water with the already ruined roll of paper towels, so it's all good.
------------------------------------


So anyway, last night was Dads' Night for the wrestling team. The dads escort their wrestler or yell leader out to the mat, photos are taken, dad and progeny are introduced to the teeming stands. Kind of a way to honor and thank the parents, which is cool. On moms night, the moms got flowers. Dad's night is also Senior Night, when they showcase the senior athletes and team captains, so it was a special night for Teen Demon, this being her culminating year of high school.

(Teen Demon is second from the right, bottom.)

Male Offspring was Teen Demon's stand-in dad last year, and he wanted to escort her again this year. Except he was sick. He was supposed to be wrestling as well, but that wasn't an option, given his inflamed throat and swollen glands. Anyway, we roused ourselves from couch and bed, showered and got ourselves to the gym on time.


This is them, making the walk out to the mat. Male Offspring was the only one of the "dads" to bring flowers, so that scored him points for the 2nd year in a row.

Isn't he such a good pseudo-dad? This picture makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.

How did they get this old so fast? He's just starting to edge out his big sister in height. (He's already passed the Bohemian.) She's going to be gone to college before I know it. I can't even think about how much I'll miss her. Anyway, the team won the match, sans Male Offspring's wrestling prowess, Teen Demon got her senior's medal and her flowers, and another Dads' Night came and went.

The Circle Game

The Bohemian is 20 years old today.

She came into the world after a long bumpy ride to the Army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany on January 6th, 1988 - exactly on her due date, in true Capricorn style.

very cool artwork courtesy of The Bohemian

Twenty years! How the hell did that happen? One day she's banging on her Little Tykes toy piano, I turn around, and she's a college student on the other side of the country. I am very proud of her, not just as my daughter, but as the young woman she is becoming. She's already leaving her mark on this world.

I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass.
~Maya Angelou

Yeah. That's my daughter. Grabbing the world by the lapels, kicking ass. If it's good enough for Maya, she's doing something right.

Boldog szülinapot, édesem.

Yes, of course I'm freaked the hell out by the fact that my daughter is 20 years old. La la la la la ... I can't hear you ........

Assdad's Testosterone Surge

Where to begin? Today's thoughts range from assholes to playoffs to presidential candidates. Yes, actually I am thinking of separate situations.

I only caught the last portion of the 2-party presidential debates this evening. More about the debates in a minute. The son's wrestling tourney, for some insane reason, fell on the same day that Seahawks played - and WON - Game 1 in the Playoffs (hell yeah) Who schedules these things?! The Bohemian and I, along with some of the other dads (ha) stayed on the run between the gym and the hospitality room, where they had a TV set to the game. Male Offspring had 4 matches. We'd run to the gym to cheer him on, then run back to watch the Seahawks take another step toward the Superbowl. (No, RG, I don't have any illusions. But I sure would like to stomp the Packers next week.)

Something happened at the tourney today that really bothered me. Actually it pissed me the hell off. One of the son's teammates was wrestling. The guy is a good wrestler, but lost this particular match. His father was sitting behind me in the stands acting like a complete ass. I don't know the dad all that well, but from what I'd seen previously, I didn't like him. He's the type of guy who talks big shit about how his kid can kick the ass of any scared little pansy on the mat. Dude, seriously, no "I" in TEAM. I once heard him say this shit to Male Offspring:

Yeah, so [his son] was standing there, right, this was back in 7th grade man, and the other kids were looking scared. They thought he was in high school, man, I mean, he already had a beard coming in! 7th grade! So he's standing there, his arm's in a sling, he couldn't even wrestle, so the JV guy had to step up and wrestle in his place. The JV guy sucked, [his son] could've beaten that kid with only 1 arm! We were really pissed that the JV guy lost the damn match for him.

Meanwhile, his son (who is really a good kid, who isn't big or brawny, and who doesn't have the Beard of Sasquatch) was kind of digging his toes into the floor and looking down at the ground. The next time Assdad cornered Male Offspring for more testosterone tales, my son actually sent me a text message (without the guy even noticing) that read, "Help!" so I'd come rescue him.


Anyway, back to today. Assdad's kid is wrestling. Hard. He's a good wrestler. Assdad is cheering his kid on. But this guy is getting angry. I don't mean worked up in the excitement of the match, I mean actually angry. Not at the refs, not at the opponent -- he's getting angry at his son. Now, I was sitting directly behind the team area, so most of our wrestlers, including a large number of freshmen, were right in front of me. Assdad was directly behind me, and yelling loudly. His diatribe went something like this,

Hook that ankle! Aaaww, no! NO! Goddamn it, get your points! There ... get it ... get the ankl----he didn't get it! What're you doing? You're giving away your points!!!! What the hell are you doing out there?!

OK ... now stretch it out ... stretch!!!! Aaaw! How can you be so stupid? He's not ... I told him to ... goddamn it! OK ... now get it ... you little di-------- damn it!!!

This went on, for a very long 6 minutes. At one point I blatantly turned and gave him a very nasty look. He wasn't expecting it, and met my eyes, full on. There was no question he understood. He looked away, quickly, and toned down for about 30 seconds before he couldn't take it any more.

His son lost the match, only by a couple of points. At this point, a female family friend cuts in, laughing, trying to lighten the mood, "He tried! Come on, it was a tough match, you'd better be nice to him!" Assdad really went off then:

It's his own stupid fault!! How could he lose that? He didn't even try for his points, he just gave it away! Goddamn it. The dipshit!

What? Are you kidding me? I'm sorry, but when you call your own son a dipshit within earshot of his team members, you are truly an asshole. In fact, you're such an asshole, you could have your own bumper sticker. "Have You Called Your Kid a Dipshit Today?"

The Bohemian leaned over and said she hoped the kid wouldn't come over. But, of course, he did. Assdad couldn't even talk to him for a couple of minutes. Then he launches into an encouraging pep talk, with supporting thoughts like,

If you don't care about the points, why are you even going out there?

Don't ever, ever go out there if you don't really want to win.

Didn't I tell you to get that ankle? But you stepped wrong, you didn't listen.

Wasn't I the one who told you stretch it out when you're in that position? But you didn't do it. You didn't do it, and look what happened.

You handed your points over yourself. Why in the world would you do that?

There was a lot more, but that was the gist. At least he didn't call the kid a dipshit to his face. I can't imagine how his son felt. If I could hear all this, I know his teammates, at least the row in front of me, could hear it. And writing it here doesn't begin to convey the disgust and anger in this guy's voice.


Hey, Freakshow, newsflash for you: your son is going to feel the sting of your inexcusable behavior much longer than he'd feel the agony of defeat from one lousy match. And if this is the way you act every match, your son is probably going to feel queasy every time he remembers high school wrestling in the years to come. I'm pretty sure he felt bad enough about losing a match without any help from you.

You're there to support your son, not to relive your own failed glory days, assclown.

Your son took 3rd place out of 8 schools in his weight class -- his coach and his team was proud of him. You should be too. You should be proud of him whether he placed or not. Our school won the damned tournament, and your son had a part in that. How about giving him some credit for that?



I hate asshole sports parents. I was ashamed of how our school's fan group looked today. And we were the hosting school. Nice. I found Teen Demon afterward, and filled her in. She made sure the Yell Leaders found the kid and told him what a good job he did (It was a tough match, seriously). Even if your dad is a total assfreak, it's got to help at least a little when 5 hot Yell Leaders hunt you down to say you did a great job, right? Especially when they come bearing snacks.

Anyway. I know I do tend to wax bitchy about these things, far longer than may be interesting, but it upset me.

Anyway.

So, Male Offspring got 6th place out of 8 in his weight class. He did fantastic. A freshman, wrestling his first varsity high school tournament? Hell yeah. He pinned his first opponent in the first round, lost the other matches, but they were close, and he wrestled hard, and learned some things. Got a purple ribbon to hang in his room.


I'm done. Thoughts on the debates (the part I saw, anyway) tomorrow. Goodnight all.