The book is the spoon.

To answer this I must examine the reasons I have not yet even begun to try and write a book. To be honest, I’m intimidated by the process. Also, I’m a procrastinator and lazy as well. I don’t do well with self-imposed deadlines whether they be time or content related. I’ve joked that I can’t comply with deadlines unless motivated by a paycheck or an angry mob – but it’s not really a joke. I don’t even try and pretend there are any real excuses for myself.

I can write a decent song in about 2 hours. I can write a meaningless blog entry in about an hour. I can write a poem in about half an hour. I can write a killer haiku in about 40 seconds. If I could translate these abilities into writing a book I could probably get it done in a few months. If I could write a book and get it published, I could potentially quit my meaningless, soul-sucking administrative job and *gasp!* perhaps even earn a living by writing. So. WTF?

Every few months I start mulling all the above points over and over in my mind. It never amounts to anything. I never even get as far as choosing potential subjects or storylines. In fact this is where I always drop the book project. I just can’t wrap my mind around a subject or genre. Fact? Fiction? Memoir? Which will it be when I finally get pregnant with this book?

Curled on my couch the other night, I was trying to get into the movie I had rented. It had been a long day and I really wanted no more than to lose myself in video for a couple of hours before retiring. I felt a little restless, however, mentally and physically. My mind refused to focus on the movie. I started pacing around the house. I smoked a cigarette. I smoked another cigarette. I sat down again. Then it came to me – my idea. My big literary breakthrough. I grabbed one of my many empty journals (bought and stored in plain view, in anticipation of this very moment) and started scribbling. A genre, a subject, a starting point, some segues, you name it – they all started coming to me. I scrambled to get them down on paper before I ran out of steam.

I won’t say anything yet about this project, it’s too new. Let’s let my baby cook for a few more weeks before I start announcing my literary pregnancy. I’m absolutely stoked, but this is a first for me. I hope I can stick with it and flesh it out a bit. I’ll be honest, it’s a really emotional subject for me. It seems a little unfair that when the big idea finally implanted itself in my mind, it had to be quite possibly the hardest thing I could ever write about. Once it came to me, however, I knew there could be no other subject. I just have to go with it and pray I don’t scare myself away. I must be brave.

I never thought it would happen, but here’s one more blog entry for the “What I Don’t Know” category. I’m just surprising myself more and more these days.

So I’m at work and an email notification pops up, from Davis, my oldest son. I never get emails from him, he’s just not a very email-y guy. Well, of course the title (this entry’s title) caught my eye straight away and I stopped what I was doing to read it. Five minutes later, I’m bolting to the ladies’ room with a handful of tissues. I emailed him back to I ask him if I could publish this (he agreed); apparently he wrote it in about 10 minutes, for a quick class project. I just can’t keep it to myself, it’s so good – and I’m not just being biased. When I told him how amazing he was, his witty reply was: “I am but one thread in the colorful quilt that is our family.”

What’s that flickering light, you ask? That’s his own torch, being lit from mine. What’s that creaking noise, you ask? That would be my pride swelling.

music is my mother because my mother is music

Music is my life and my passion. In fact, without music my passion for life would be in eternal jeopardy. It’s not just the soundtrack to my life, but the orchestra of my soul. Since my brain has been able to retain memories, they have been coordinated with that of the sound of music. Various bands and songs can literally catalogue my life’s experiences as a time-line of sound. Not only has music been my salvation in times of peril, but it has been a driving force into making me who I am, and also what I’d like to be in the future. Ever since I could distinguish sounds I would categorize things from noise pollution into melodic form. Lured away from science and arithmetic, or sports and cars, I was helplessly a slave to the intoxicating drug that is music.

When I was but a hatchling, my mother was at her most conflicted state of mind. An unwed mother of an illegitimate child, she was also very young. Having been a phenomenal singer in her youth, it was not hard to tell that her life was about to become far more complicated with my arrival. Throughout my childhood, I have visually witnessed her become hopelessly shackled to a physically abusive relationship. I have been pulled away from her by faceless doctors at a mental hospital only to interact with her through hand-drawn pictures detailing her struggle. At its worst point I was halfway down the spiral believing I would never see her again. I had completely abandoned music and was searching for answers.

Reluctant to believe in a supreme all-governing higher power, I found secret moments to not just pray but literally beg any intangible spirit to let me sell my youth and soul for my mother’s well-being and safety. With no father still residing amongst the living, I wasn’t able to convey this angst to anyone, and it seemed the odds were infinitely stacked against my mother and me.

My mother always told me, “If life seems like a bottomless pit, don’t forget there’s still time to change, because you’re not at the bottom yet.” I know she has lived by these words because just as that bottomless pit was coming to it’s darkest depths, she found the brightest light. She threw herself into her music, singing, and writing, all the while not forgetting about me. Constantly urging me to go to her band practices and gigs, I went from feeling my presence was obligated, to being her little roadie. I Learned various skills, tricks, and ethics from some of the most talented players I had the opportunity to meet and spend time with.

Eventually, taking things to the next level as I got older, I taught myself to play bass guitar, drums, and write lyrics. These hobbies were aggressively, but kindly, influenced by my mother and grandparents. This is the reason music is my life, because it can give back the gift of life as well. Can it bring a dead body back to life? Absolutely not. However, it can resurrect every potentially dead soul with the desire to flourish in ways they never knew possible.

Note: It is noteworthy to mention that this is the one and only post I’ve ever filed under my “What I Don’t Know” category. Because I don’t know the depth of his genius!

The brighter highlights of my summer include my 24 year old son getting his high school diploma, after many years of putting it off, avoiding the structure of school, and most importantly, overcoming his fear of failure. I have rarely been as proud of either of my children as I was watching him in his stately maroon cap and gown, finally being handed proof of his bravery and grit. I’ve taken in a few games at Fenway (one of which was a Dodgers game…one word – Manny!). Sis and my niece came to visit & help out on the homefront. I haven’t seen them in a year, it was great to catch up. Oh yes, and I was out of work for three weeks recovering. This allowed me to finally find what it is I want to do with my life – retire. I LOVED being at home for three weeks, pain or no. I find myself counting days like a recovering alcoholic until I can retire. (Only 5,830 to go!)

All this aside, however, I’m focusing on K-cups and fanny packs. (I know, right?)

First off – K-cups. I return to work to find my beloved coffeepot has been replaced with this…Keurig thing. I’m not an idiot, I know what a “K-cup” is in the way a man may know about tampax. I’ve seen them, heard about them, I know what it is, but I’ve never had one, or had the desire to have one. So my coworker announces to me, “We got a Keurig.” I look at her blankly, and displaying her bounteous people skills, she rolls her eyes. She says, “Keurig” again as though she were a politically incorrect person using the word “retard.” Some would be intimidated by this but I know her, and surprisingly like her anyway. I ask, “What is a Keurig?” She tells me it’s a coffee machine and I instantly know what she means. I also instantly see one of my happy routines swept from under my feet. I’m told that we all purchase our own K-cups. I am now hostage to the Keurig machine because I can no longer just expect a nice if perhaps stale pot of coffee when I walk in the door to work and amazingly, on this first day back to work, I don’t have any K-cups. So this first day back to work, I’m fucked, no coffee, and say as much. She brightens and says, “We were given free samples, so you have four.” Well, there’s that. But what about this machine? In case there’s anyone out there in space, bored with Chuck Berry and hungry for some news from earth, a Keurig is a machine that brews a cup of coffee at a time. Literally, a cup – a little plastic, foil covered cup of coffee that you insert into the machine. Our machine is hooked directly to a water line, so all we have to do is place our coffee mugs under the dispenser, press a button and about 16 seconds later there is a cup of coffee. My office is enchanted by this machine. The coffee is so fresh. It’s so convenient. No one has to drink stale coffee. Coffee is not wasted by the half-potful. It makes the coffee purchasing more fair, no one is stuck being the sucker who always buys the coffee. It’s like the pay-as-you-throw town trash policy! I should be thrilled by this.

I’m not trying to be Debbie Downer, or a negativist, but I am not thrilled by this. I find the daily collection of numerous used plastic K-cups in the trash disconcerting. It makes me think of the environment. It makes me dwell on America’s obssession with convenience. It makes me angry that Americans are so obssessed with single serving products that they will ignore all that extra packaging. It makes me think of the days before people became environmentally conscious – the days when people tossed their 8 ounce Coke bottles in the trash (or on the ground) and recycling was what your washing machine did halfway through the load. It annoys me that now, I must purchase these little land-fillers. I’m nonplussed that my co-workers, as well as millions of others, are so bothered by the three to five minute act of actually putting a filter in a coffee basket, dumping four tablespoons of coffee into it and actually waiting 3 minutes for the coffee to brew. I’m embarrassed for myself that it’s bothering me. All these emotions, just because my office changed our coffee routine without me. WTF! Well, anyway, I went to work the next day armed with a 24 pack sampler of Green Mountain K-cups and damned be the landfills, I guess. My sampler K-cup pack came with Breakfast Blend, Vermont Country Blend, French Roast, and also, some blend called “Black Magic” which I just discovered is kind of disgusting. Stupid Americans.

Now on to the fanny pack. All the time I had during my recovery from surgery was nice, but I’m a busy person, and all this enforced leisure (a doctor-ordered static state) was frankly driving me nuts. I started rearranging knick knacks, changing pillowcases on the couch, sorting my enormous book collection, writing “desert-island” lists (you know, what five books, foods, items of clothing would you take to a desert island). Then the doc said I could walk around and do some neck exercises so I made a vow to start walking the dog every day. The poor thing had been neglected through the hustle and worry and commotion of my family’s dual surgeries (Dad had to go to Lebanon, NH, a two hour drive away). The first day we started out, I had to change my pants beforehand as the pair I was in had no pockets. Now, I don’t like to go out for a walk without at least my phone or ID, and my keys. I also wanted to pop into the convenient store during our walk. However I didn’t want to bring my purse, and my backpack hurt the scar on my neck. What I needed was a fanny pack. Of course there isn’t a fanny pack in my house. Fanny packs are hard to find even at the Goodwill. You will be more apt to find a back-pack for your dog than you will find a fanny pack at any store. Fanny packs have somehow become an anathema. Ben Folds, one of my idols, even has a song degrading fanny pack wearers. If we do see a fanny pack in action, it’s always on a tourist in Old Orchard Beach or somewhere similar. You know, a woman who is wearing the kind of shorts that ride up between the insides of her chubby legs, with the plastic visor and the dirty kids. When did this happen, and why?

Fanny packs were invented for a reason, and they truly were a pretty good invention. They were convenient. You could stash your money, your lipgloss, your keys, a small camera, your ID, all close to your waist and have your hands free to walk your dog, take a jog, or whatnot. They fit more than a pocket, but less than a purse. You could have the things you need perched on your fanny (or belly, however your personal style may be) without having to cling to a bag over your shoulder, or being paranoid someone’s going to snatch your purse (fanny pack snatchers have always been decidedly rare, especially for belly wearers). Even men could wear them and no one would think, ha ha, that dude has a purse. It was just a common sense fanny pack. That dude is jogging and he has a fanny pack. Smart guy!

Well, all this convenience has definitely gone out of vogue. For whatever reasons, perhaps too many fat ladies at Splashtown, or the insidiousness of fashion magazines convincing stylish girls they canNOT be without their designer handbags, no girl or guy will now be caught dead in a fanny pack. I think another reason is that manufacturers got carried away. Fanny packs were EVERYWHERE, and at the height of their popularity (late 80s and early 90s) fashion wasn’t exactly subtle. I remember fanny packs with neon lightning bolts and bright pink zippers, theme park logos. I remember fanny packs going the route of cheap, dollar store umbrellas or corporate seminar PR items. They became ubiquitous and cheesy. It’s too bad they never achieved their potential as the useful and practical items they are. Instead of becoming dollar-store disposable, they could have been sold at finer department stores, with classy brushed bronzed buckles and zippers, in distressed leather, with an extra hidden pocket or two. But no…they were mass-produced as so many really unique products are, to the point of scorn. Now, the only people who own them are those who never throw anything away, and still have one or two nylon blue, black-belted fanny packs with some corporate logo on it.

As I walked my dog, pockets bulging and elastic waistband sliding down my butt with the weight of my keys, phone and wallet, I surely did wish for a fanny pack. I would have even used one that was neon green with a hot pink buckle or had “Six Flags New Jersey” imprinted on the front. I would have even worn it from my belly side. Come back, fanny pack, I miss you.

So there you have it, 1,726 words of which at least 1,000 are completely useless. But, I have been pretty stagnant lately, and it feels as good to let off some rant steam as it would to be able to walk my dog with a nice-looking fanny pack…or drink a nice cup of coffee.

That reminds me. I have five “Black Magic” K-cups, and if anyone is interested in trading for a doggy back-pack, holla.

Summer is almost here. It’s Memorial Day weekend. I always get kind of creeped out when I hear people say (with the best intentions, but still) “Happy Memorial Day!” I mean, isn’t this a day to remember those who have died? It seems that the media (you know, my old friend, snort) has turned it into a summer frenzy free-for-all. Let’s not forget the real purpose of this day. I know that the day is traditionally to remember those fallen in war, and anyone else who has served our country and passed on. Despite the fact that he’s not a fallen veteran, it’s always my brother that my mind turns to on this day. My brother passed away in 2006 after a battle with brain cancer. I miss him so much, and since I inevitably think of him on Memorial Day, it’s hard to hear, “Have happy Memorial day!” But, I will try to enjoy this weekend that in current years has become a hearkening of the summer season.

Speaking of summer, I finally got my garden in. I have tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, corn, and some herbs. I have tons of flowers, and my roses and clematis are coming in beautifully with a little TLC from me. It’s not much, but it looks much, much better than last year’s mess. My roses never bloomed, my vegetables all died. I really haven’t tended my gardening well, to be honest, since…well, since Mike passed away. I’m not blind to the obvious. It’s been hard to nurture my garden…watching plants with their gaudy display of life; it was difficult. I know I’ll never “get over” my brother’s death. But I am ready to begin nurturing life again. I’m not over my brother, but I am at peace with his spirit all around me, in my house, in my car, and behind the life force of all my beautiful plants. So. Let’s dig, baby.

(The following is one of my favorite blog entries from long ago in Bullyland version 1.0, I hope you enjoy it).

Dirty Girl

The onset of spring, with its baby green offerings, really sucks me in with its promise of continuity. No matter what happens in my life, that peony is going to emerge, red and purple like a newborn baby and pushing up at an amazing speed from a blank spot in the soil every April. I am in awe and buzzing with excitement this time of year. I pace the yard every morning and evening, to see what plants are coming up, what is getting buds, repeating a kindergarten mantra under my breath, “ready, set, grow.” I start making a list: dirt, compost, peat moss, purple & orange annuals for this spot, white and purple for that spot, etc. Through some mysterious metamorphosis I have become a plant loving, dirt digging obsessed maniac.

I have no idea how this happened, but it began about the second year into my homeownership. It started with a couple of container plants, and by the end of the summer I’d nearly relandscaped the entire yard with over 100 new plants. Now, I’ve never been one to like dirty hands or clothes. I’ve always been comfort oriented, and dirty fingernails and muddy feet weren’t in my program. Insects have always horrified me, especially spiders. I managed to contract some sort of mental disease that not only gave me a new tolerance for such things, but in some cases actually makes me desire them! I have CHAD — Compulsive Horticultural Acquisitional Disorder. I’ve got it bad!

Working in my garden, I have no less than 100% chance of something, usually a big hairy spider, freaking out after I’ve inadvertantly moved his hiding leaf or something. If not a hairy spider than a beetle of ominous posture, a centipede or a nasty white pinchy grub. Now, this isn’t something that I’ve come to love. But I swear to you that five years ago I would have never considered rustling my hands through dead leaves to uncover something so (at the time) menial and nondeserving of risk as a crocus. I can’t say that I’m exactly fearless when it comes to bugs now, but unless the little bastard is actually crawling on me or jumping at me, I don’t even bother to scream. I give an involuntary peep, scoop it up with my spade, pitch it into the woods and just move on. If it’s a cute bug, such as a ladybug or butterfly, or even a praying mantis I might even talk to it. (In the bug world, cuteness saves).

Dirt, on the other hand…Let’s just say I must have found my inner child when it comes to dirt. Some mood or presence, youthful and carefree and delighted, sets upon me when I get going in the garden. I get snips of memories, like film clips, from when I was a very young child. I remember lying on my stomach on the fresh green grass and watching all the little life move around in its own tiny ecosystem. I was too entranced with discovery –how things felt, how they grew, how they moved in the breeze outdoors — to care about dirt or grass stains or bugs touching me. I have a renewed love for the feel of the moist soil in my hands, my hair, dampening my knees and socks, streaking my face. I love the smell of the dirt, the plant roots, the cuttings, and the mulch.

And the plants themselves – I’m devoted to them all. I await with baited breath the a posse ad esse of a ripe tomato from the seed I planted. I love finding plants left for dead behind healthier ones at the Home Depot and being victorious the following season when they burst back into life. I am fond of every plant I own to a ridiculous point. Some have names. I mourn for plants that don’t make it. I collect seeds and cuttings from gardens of anyone who will let me. I agonize over Japanese beetles and lily beetles and ground bees that set up their little tunnels in my annual bed. I fret pitifully on a solution to the “puppy problem.” There is nowhere in my yard, currently, that the puppies can be and not dig into, chew up, or pee on something that I prize. (This will be my Garden Challenge 2006).

Anyway, I welcome this time of year like I’d welcome a bottle of lithium after a six month bipolar spree. Spring and summer’s opportunities to play in the dirt like a child and play god with the life in my garden are like hall passes from heaven. Every April, freedom is mine, at least for a few months. Depression cannot break through my armor of garden soil and washes down the drain with the dirt when I at last get into a hot shower. My old friend, mania, nips my heels but I am too tired from gardening to play with her, so she eventually moves on, pouting and swearing she’ll be back (yeah, whatever!). I am busy getting my fill of spring and summer and dirt and plants and inner peace and childish happiness, so that when November comes and kills it all, I won’t be too devastated. I know it can’t last forever, so I will be a dirty girl while I can!

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.
- Robert Frost

Who in this world hasn’t seen the movie “Forrest Gump?” Or, as it really was known on VHS boxes and movie posters everywhere, “Tom Hanks IS Forrest Gump.” I’m sure you’ve seen it, but when was the last time?

I remember the first time I viewed it, after catching just snippets of it here and there when my family would watch it on the VCR. I finally gave in and watched the whole damn thing, and of course, it was a wonderful movie…everything everyone ever said.

It was odd to think my boy didn’t know who Forrest Gump was. So the next night, I suggested we watch it together. It’d been years since I’d last seen it. My son jumped on the chance and was absolutely riveted to the movie, but had to stop and ask questions just about every 5 minutes. He is young and not that far ahead in history class nor old enough to have had experience with baby-boomer pop culture. I spent a great deal of the movie pausing it, and explaining things.

I pointed out or explained Elvis’ dance moves, JFK & RFK, Governor Wallace, Vietnam, the Black Panthers, Abbie Hoffman, Richard Nixon & Watergate and all the other historical references. I explained why Jenny got so messed up, the 70s, the advent of AIDS. The movie was truly a fantastic history lesson for my son.

He was so moved by the movie that he nearly cried a few times, but never did spill an actual tear. At the end he said to me in a husky, emotional voice, “Mom that was such a great and sad movie. I almost cried a few times!” I told him that when I first saw the movie, I cried about 20 times – and counted them off. I cried when Forrest outran the bullies and bonded with Jenny in the tree. I cried when Jenny prayed in the cornfield to be a bird and fly away from her father. I cried when Jenny left – the first, the second, and the third time. I cried when Bubba died. I cried when Mama died. I cried when Jenny died. I cried all through the damn movie, and yet it still gave me a happy feeling.

So I revisited the great movie “Forrest Gump” but it took on a whole new dimension for me by sharing it with my young son. He got a new hero (“I wish Forrest Gump was a real story!”) And he got the best history lesson of his life (so far).

I’ll admit I was jealous of Alex. I was jealous that Alex has an exciting, spontaneous and active life (assumedly). I texted back to the person, “wrong number,” and I wanted to add, “but I’ll go rafting with the bunch of you!” although I know I would never have the guts to go. I’m the type of person who holds on to stairway railings and is afraid to walk across an icy parking lot – not exactly white water rafting material.

This little episode left me feeling a little glum. I often see kayaks perched on top of Subarus and think to myself, people really do that. People do exciting things all the time, they windsail, kayak, hike mountains, skydive, travel, have exciting jobs. I have friends who do such things. April hikes mountains in Colorado, Amber skydives and dirtbikes, Sharon moved to Australia, Heather studies medicine, Anne is a linguist, Shannen is a photographer, Brian plays music for a living. Here I am, boring mom, boring suburban homeowner, boring office manager. I go to little league games, I walk my dog. I run an office. I clean my house and mow my lawn (okay, not so much). My idea of exercise is a long walk through Prescott Park or a swim. I don’t even have what it takes to live in a big city.

So, today at lunch, I was stuck on the bridge. For those two readers I may have that don’t live near me, that means I was waiting for a drawbridge to do its thing and let a boat pass through in Portsmouth/Kittery. I saw that it was a big ship, the mother of all ships, being nudged along slowly by two tiny tugboats. This would take awhile. I started imagining the people who were aboard that boat, doing exciting things, having exciting careers, sailing the world. Here I was, stuck on a drawbridge waiting to get to the other side. I pouted at this literal metaphor of my life. Though I tried to continue pouting and feeling sorry for myself, I couldn’t help but feel awed by the beauty and immense presence of the ship. I sat on the bridge, over the bay, next to beautiful yachts, watching the boat slowly make its way under the bridge. I heard the seagulls, the wind, the waves lap at the sides of the bridge. I smelled the salty air. I could see the seaweed clinging to the structure and a loon grabbing some sushi.

It occurred to me that there is probably someone out in Kansas milking a cow or whatnot and feeling sorry for themselves that they never got to the ocean or see a drawbridge or watch a humongous Coast Guard ship being bullied along by two tiny tugs. I was reminded by these sights and sounds that there are reasons I am here where I am, doing what I do and living how I live.

I had a childhood and an early adulthood full of adventure and risk taking. I traveled the country and the world before I turned 18. I snorkeled in Guam among the reefs, I was chased to shore by an angry eel and swam alongside a friend as he photographed a shark. I was thrown by a wild paint pony. I was bitten by boonie dogs whose pathetic lives I tried to save. I had a wild adolescence. I ran away from home. I walked alone, with a backpack, through sketchy neighborhoods at 2 AM. I was lucky to escape with my life many times during these years. I lived in Italy, I visited Rome, Florence, Sienna, Pompeii, Pisa. I learned the language, I dated hot Italian guys. I wonder if Alex ever climbed the leaning tower of Pisa, wandered through the rubble of Pompeii, or stood in front of the Pieta or the David. (snort!)

When I was 19 I set foot in New England and, after an entire childhood of moving from state to state to territory to foreign country I swore I would never again relocate, though I continued to hop from apartment to apartment. In my 20s, I played in bands, all over New England; I wrote a hundred songs. I had a thousand adventures with the love of my life. We would sneak into the amusement park and ride the ferris wheel overlooking the ocean at twilight. We would wait for low tide at midnight and cross the divide to the Nubble lighthouse and back again.

My adventures have gradually tapered off to haunting Fenway Park with my mom, rolling in the waves at York Beach with my kids, romps with the pups at the dogpark and such. I eventually became the comfort zone hugger that I am today. I much prefer to live vicariously through Bear Grylls and the adventures of my two sons.

Looking back on my life, I can see that contrary to current appearances, I have done all that. Without further regret, I give myself permission to be a boring, suburban home-owning, little league mom. I don’t have to be Bear Grylls or conquer (the rest of) the world, at least not until the final kid is grown. In the meanwhile I’ll enjoy watching boats while stuck on the bridge.

My boys are 24 and nearly 11. They know how to do basic chores. They keep their rooms clean. My oldest does his own laundry. They take out the trash (when I ask them). They pick up their messes (when I ask them). They’ll do pretty much anything I ask them (except clean the toilet – what the!? as if I’m the one responsible for that mess!). However, I do have to ask them. Neither are very good at volunteering their services for anything other than sport or leisure. (One could call it self preservation). I think my older son doesn’t really see the house as his since his stay here is reportedly temporary and he splits his time between here, his grandparents, and his girlfriend’s apartment. My youngest is just plain spoiled, I’ll admit it.

Frankly, I’m usually content to do nearly all the house cleaning by myself. This may not seem fair, but I not only don’t mind cleaning but actually like it; it clears the mind. Cleaning my house gives me an immediate sense of accomplishment, and instant gratification can be hard to come by when your wallet is a portal to Narnia. Plus I’m just so bossy – I like things done my own way.

So I like to clean the house. My kids lucked out that way. Of course I like to have the house clean for my children’s health & welfare, but that’s just fallout from the real reason I do it – I do it for me.

After the Thumb Incident of last weekend (don’t ask), I got an idea. I was just curious, mind you, not trying to set a trap, or a guilt trip, or anything devious, just…curious. If I just stopped cleaning up, and didn’t ask for help, would the boys do anything of their own accord? Further, would they even notice?

Here is an account of the week. Note: My older son was home for about four of the seven days off and on, my younger boy for all but one, and my nephew was with us for two of them. I was pleased to have my nephew participate (unwittingly) in this experiment. This child is of scientific interest in that gum wrappers, soda bottles and dirty clothing literally fall off his person with no conscious effort.

Day 1: Thumb hurts so bad (don’t ask), I can’t even cook, let alone wash dishes, so it’s pizza night again. I decide to buy my coffee and buy take out for every meal today.

Day 2: How the fuck did all those dishes get in the sink overnight?

Day 3: Sink officially full. There are a few random eating utensils left in the container and quite a few dishes left clean but no bowls whatsoever. I think someone’s eating cereal out of the box again. All glasses are in the sink, they’re starting to use my Santa mug collection. There is popcorn and shredded cheddar cheese (?) on the floor by the couch, but the dog just spotted it. I get the feeling the floor would be a lot messier if we didn’t have a dog. The carpet is otherwise layering on the pet hair at an alarming rate. Unfortunately the dog doesn’t eat that.

Day 4: I come home to find a ziplock container with a salad “spork” in it – the remains of a desperate cereal adventure – on the coffee table along with three Santa mugs and a divided baby dish. All dishes officially dirty and in the sink. To add insult to injury, my oldest has carefully balanced his travel mugs on top of the pile. With no clean dishes at all, wha t will they use tomorrow, the measuring cup from the Dimetapp bottle? The odor from the bathroom is starting to invade the hall – although I can empty the catbox, I can’t change the litter. The toilet is absolutely disgusting and I can’t stop myself from wiping it with a bleach rag. The sink is gross too, mostly toothpaste gunk and a little cat fur (she likes sleeping in the sink). I decide to brush my teeth at work. Both boys’ rooms are still well tended.

Day 5: I stay away from home until dark to avoid the mess. I can’t believe no one has even said anything, let alone picked anything up or cleaned anything. The kitchen floor is so disgusting, I have to wear my garden shoes when I’m in there. It gets really bad as it’s the most used room in the house. Three people and three pets are in the kitchen always, and it leads to the back door, where people and dog go in and out of the back yard, only to track mud/grass/dirt back into the kitchen. It’s the first time I’ve seen a dirt bunny, an odd mating of dirt and pet hair. I could swear I saw it move.

Day 6: More of the same. No one has said a word, no one has lifted a finger. I don’t even ask what they’re eating off of. I bought paper plates on Day 2, for when I serve meals, but I’ve hidden them away in support of my experiment. No one ever volunteered to take trash or recyclables out to the curb either, even though they both know when trash day is – so the room where we keep both absolutely stinks, and the recycle bin is overflowing. My younger son’s room is starting to show the strain of providing two days’ shelter for my messy nephew. My son must think he only needs to clean his room if he made the mess.

Day 7: I can no longer stand it, and my thumb (don’t ask) is finally healing. With the boys at the G.I. Joe movie, I dig in. It takes me about 3 or 4 hours total to clean up – dishes, counters, rugs, bathroom, etc. Even though there’s plenty left to do, the house looks 100% better.

Later that day, I said to my oldest, “What do you think? I can’t believe you never noticed how filthy the house was.” He replied, “Yeah, what the heck, I did notice it this morning*. I was going to tell you I saw a mouse…just kidding!”

My youngest was listening. I said to him, “Don’t you notice how much cleaner the house is? Didn’t you see how dirty it was?” He replied, “Not really…okay, I guess I can tell you moved some stuff off the coffee table.” I pointed to the staircase, “Can’t you see how I vacuumed all the pet hair from the stairs? They were covered in pet hair, I can’t believe you didn’t notice that.” He squinted his eyes at the stairs, looking carefully, and said, “Well, you missed some on the bottom stair.”

And this is why I do it for me!

After this past week, I’ve come to the conclusion that although I do enjoy keeping house, I’ve been enabling my sons to become lazy and dependent on me. Why should they notice a mess when they aren’t responsible for cleaning it? Do I want them to either be content to live in squalor or to marry doormats?

So, as of Day 8, some new rules are in place. They will take turns with the garbage. They will put away anything that belongs to them personally at the end of the day. Everyone will wash their own dishes outside of family meals. My oldest is only home a few days a week, and my youngest’s chores usually need retouching, but the free ride is officially over! This too, I do for me, but also for them.

*I’m still trying to figure out what specific thing made him notice it only on Day #7. Was it the absolute lack of any watertight container to pour his cereal in?

The government’s “cash for clunkers” program seems at first glance to be beneficial, but from the get-go I was bothered by it.  The more I discover about it the more I find it’s stinkin’ up the joint.  In reality, this program contributes to the “all about me” way of thinking and living that has depleted this country’s finances and resources. It rewards people for turning in the gas guzzling land-yachts they shouldn’t have bought in the first place for fuel efficient models. As usual, the government continues to reward/bail out/encourage teh stoopid. (All of a sudden, the mortgage crisis comes to mind.)

The auto industry has been the “backbone” of this country for way too long and shouldn’t be any longer. The only reason the “cash for clunkers” program is in effect is because of auto industry lobbying. You don’t hold on to a vestige of manufacturing just for the sake of it. When something becomes obsolete there is a reason, and something even better is in line behind it to replace it. It’s evolution, progress, survival of the fittest! Get rid of the auto industry’s political pull and more useful industries will prosper.

Focus should be on local agriculture and technology. If more technology/agricultural jobs were created there would be no bleeding of jobs overseas. There should be a revolution in this country’s priorities; the auto industry needs to rescale. It shouldn’t be such a major player in Washington. It’s just a business. The government needs to stop treating it as a government entity.

When one thinks about the petroleum saved by going “hybrid,” one must also think of the uncountable, unthinkable proportions of petroleum it takes to produce new cars and to dispose of the old ones. Don’t forget how much fuel is involved getting these gas behemoths off the road, and new cars on the road. Wrap your mind around the process from start to finish, and include all consumption and waste generated by employees, factories, and distributors.

If auto production were to slow down remarkably (because people aren’t buying new cars until their old ones wear out) it would more than balance out the current guzzlers’ consumption. Then as this generation of cars gradually fades, hybrids/fuel conscious cars & alternate means of transportation will fill the void at a better pace.

It’s not really helping the middle class or the planet anyway. It’s only helping the auto industry. You think you’re getting $4500 for your ‘clunker’? First of all, it’s your tax dollars. Wouldn’t you rather use them another way? And I’ll bet dealers will jack their prices somehow to make an extra buck (color me jade). Is the program creating a better environment, helping to save the planet? I don’t think so. Did you know they are required to destroy your “clunker’s” engine, leaving nothing recyclable? Woooow.

Maybe the government should offer a $4500 tax benefit to hold on to the cars we currently own until they completely shit the bed for good. Screw the auto workers union, cut free the union chains. Auto workers can change their jobs from auto manufacturing to auto remanufacturing & repair. Or maybe they can take up farming. (Please try and refrain from sentimental images of All-American Auto Worker Joe smiling at you from behind his protective goggles at his assembly line job, an image conjured for you by the auto industry and Madison Avenue. Auto Worker Joe will get to keep his goggles for his new and improved remanufacturing/recycling job.)

The following link was provided by clanp in Traci’s forum.  It reiterates much of my opinion but also provides stats for just how little it’s really helping the economy and questions its ecological soundness as well. Plus, the author is way more qualified than I am. Snort!

The Godzilla Solution

Do you know how some things seem like exquisite delicacies to some and ho-hum or even unbearable to others? Kind of like pate’ or sushi. You know, some people might say, “Oh, sushi/pate’, I’ve died and gone to heaven,” while others think, “Raw fish/goose livers, don’t seagulls eat that?”

Well, I believe that singer/songwriter Aimee Mann is in the same category. She’s sushi, pate’, tattoos, Manny Ramirez…she’s wonderful, but not universal. She’s absolutely exquisite in her own way and yet many people just don’t get her.

I’ve long held that Aimee is the foremost talented songwriter in the world today. She’s got the rhythm, she’s got the rhyme, she’s got the hook, the deep thoughts, the humor. She is heavily influenced by the Beatles (you can deny it Aimee, but if you were any more so, you’d have to change your name to Aimee Mann-Lennon-McCartney). Her Beatles-y (I refuse to say “Beatlesque” so shoot me) sound is what drew me to her. Listen to any track on Magnolia especially, but any track on any album – you’ll hear it. The way Aimee does it, it’s magical. She should have been the sixth Beatle!

But I digress. Aimee is non-stop, hardcore, quite scarily talented in her own right. She can rhyme every third word and it still not only makes sense, but is the most clever thing you’ve heard to date. Her voice is lovely, velvety, but unusual and stylistic, which is perhaps why she’s not the superstar she should be. I’m on an Aimee kick currently and have a whole playlist developed on my iPod.

My songwriting partner, Heather, introduced me to Aimee’s solo work. I hadn’t thought much about Aimee Mann at all since the early 80′s; I was blown away. Heather and I went to the Lilith Fair – quiet, now! – with our friends Sharon, April, and Tina. I was on the other side of the grounds, far away from them when I found out that Aimee was on the second stage (to this DAY I can’t believe they regulated her to SECOND stage, but that’s neither here nor there). We hadn’t even known she’d be there! I flipped OUT and flew helter-skelter back to our little picnic patch, out of breath, panting…”Huh-huh-heather…huh huh… Aimee huh huh Mann is ONTHESECONDSTAGEOMYGODWEGOTTAGETTHERENOW!” Terrified that we’d miss her set Heather and I took off leaving our girlfriends to stumble along behind us in their not-quite-broken-in Tevas. We made it with about 5 songs to spare. Our friends didn’t let us forget about their blisters for months afterward, but hey! Aimee Mann!

Heather recently tried to get us tickets to Aimee’s show at the Lowell Memorial, but I’m not the only one out there that appreciates pate’…there is a very strong Aimee Mann fan base, and it’s almost impossible to get tickets as she typically plays to small venues.

If you haven’t ever checked her out, you really should. I recommend “Magnolia” to begin with – I really do think it’s one of her best albums ever. “Bachelor #2″ is a close second, and “I’m With Stupid” coming in third. She has many albums though so if you’re feeling adventurous, just close your eyes and click the mouse.

Exquisite rhymes await you.

Following are the lyrics to one of my all-time favorites. I love it on so many levels, but if you know me at all, you’ll see straight away why it holds a spot in my heart. Enjoy!

Momentum, Aimee Mann

Oh, for the sake of momentum
I’ve allowed my fears to get larger than life
And it’s brought me to my current agendum
Whereupon I deny fulfillment has yet to arrive

And I know life is getting shorter
I can’t bring myself to set the scene
Even when it’s approaching torture
I’ve got my routine

Oh, for the sake of momentum
Even though I agree with that stuff about seizing the day
But I hate to think of effort expended
All those minutes and days and hours
I have frittered away.

And I know life is getting shorter
I can’t bring myself to set the scene
Even when it’s approaching torture
I’ve got my routine

But I can’t confront the doubts I have
I can’t admit that maybe the past was bad
And so, for the sake of momentum
I’m condemning the future to death
So it can match the past.

when I can’t confront the doubts I have
I can’t admit that maybe the past was bad
And so, for the sake of momentum
I’m condemning the future to death
So it can match the past.

I’m not sure if anyone finds it very newsworthy, but Pluto has just become the “former” ninth planet of our solar system.

I’ve always liked astronomy. I had a thing for planets as a preteen, and most kids do at some point. My youngest son’s room is decorated with a space theme, some of the items culled from my oldest son’s former decor. My father and brother are die-hard Star Trek fans. I fell in love with Ed Harris when I first saw “the Right Stuff.” He’s cute and an ASTRONAUT TOO? What is there NOT to love?

Anyway, most kids are drawn to Saturn, for its rings…or Uranus, for its humorous possibilities (“Why is the Starship Enterprise like toilet paper? Because it’s always circling around Uranus looking for Klingons”)…or Jupiter for its big red eye. I on the other hand chose Pluto as my favorite planet. I loved dogs as a kid, and Mickey’s dog Pluto was of course the ideal pet. Floppy hound dog, good nature, big bump on top of head… I couldn’t help associate the adorable cartoon dog Pluto with the planet Pluto. The fact that it was the farthest out there and didn’t orbit in a traditional circle had an almost human attraction for me – have I not always been the farthest out there, circling in my own peculiar orbit? That it was the smallest planet held an appeal to me too. I’ve always loved things wee in nature. Mercury too hot, Mars too overplayed, Earth too familiar, Venus too boring, Neptune – isn’t that some cranky guy from the Little Mermaid?…Pluto was a natural as my planet of choice.

Now “they” have decided that Pluto can no longer be a planet. They’ve kicked the little underdog right out of the clique. I was shocked! I don’t pretend to follow modern astronomy. I love looking at the constellations on clear nights, staying up for meteor showers, and knowing that our little planet is circling with all our brothers and sisters right around our communal sun, every day, every year, and all is well in…well…the universe. I don’t know much more than that if it’s not broadcast in the news – which this little tidbit about Pluto happened to be.

I started thinking to myself. Now, who on Earth could “they” be…”those” so powerful that “they” could decide to kick out a planet that has been with us for centuries? Did God Himself come down two days ago and deliver the message? I decided to do a bit o’ googling today. Here is what I discovered.

Pluto’s planet status has been “hotly” debated for decades. Apparently the tension over the subject grew to unbearable proportions. (Who knew?) This quote is taken from the New York Times:
“Two years ago, the International Astronomical Union appointed a working group of astronomers to come up with a definition that would resolve this tension. The group, led by Iwan Williams of Queen Mary University in London, deadlocked. This year a new group with broader roots, led by Owen Gingerich of Harvard, took up the problem.

According to the new rules a planet meet three criteria: it must orbit the Sun, it must be big enough for gravity to squash it into a round ball, and it must have cleared other things out of the way in its orbital neighborhood. The latter measure knocks out Pluto and Xena, which orbit among the icy wrecks of the Kuiper Belt, and Ceres, which is in the asteroid belt.”

Okay, that made me feel a little better. Some random telescope enthusiast didn’t just ring up the news stations and declare that Pluto wasn’t after all a planet. And better – the decision wasn’t arbitrarily made by the President because he could push around such a tiny planet so far away from him. There is an official International Astronomical Union, with appointed leaders, made up of members from around the globe. Out of respect or science or possibly fear of world uprising, poor li’l Pluto wasn’t abolished completely, but simply demoted to “dwarf planet,” along with two other little ones previously ignored in bed-in-a-bag sets and school space dioramas.

I guess I’ll just have to trust their judgment. After all, I routinely get my Dippers confused and can’t really tell Aries from Aquarius (don’t tell my kids). I have no real formal education on the subject save an astronomy class I signed up for and then dropped when I realized math was involved (what the flim-flam?).

So I can rest easy, and not worry too much about my son’s Planet Map being a bit off kilter. I can Sharpie over little Pluto, or Sharpie in the new guys. Pluto’s decal will remain on the wall. Pluto’s 3-dimensional ball will remain on the mobile (taking him off would cause it to tilt). Pluto will continue to hunt Chipmunks with Mickey. Pluto will actually gain a little power in the process, forcing taxpayers everywhere to pay for new school textbooks…

Hey…do you think the IAU is in cahoots with the Teacher’s Union?