CSquaredPlus3

Gus

Theodore and Catherine arrived at the bar halfway into my first glass of a mediocre Cabernet.  I had been the only one there up until that point.  My two oldest sons were happily playing air hockey and video games just down the hall of the ski resort where we were staying; we were killing time before dinner.

I had enjoyed talking with Cindy, the very interesting 28-year-old bartender.  I smiled when one of her co-workers handed her a Grolsch bottle and told her it was his latest homebrew.  She was instructed to please return the bottle when she was finished with the beer.  Cindy said, "Hell, yeah.  Thanks."

Theodore was wearing a sportcoat.  That should say it all.  We were at a bar, next to a Mexican food restaurant, an arcade down the hall, at a Utah ski resort technically still off-season.  People were skiing, but the snow was poor.  Theodore pulled a chair out for his wife, leaving an empty chair between the two of them and me.

Over the next thirty minutes, I learned how Theodore hates to be called Ted or Theo and Catherine isn't a fan of Cate or Cathy.  They had two teenage kids who were up in their rooms because they were tired from their private snowboarding lessons and "...just had to have sushi."  *obnoxious chuckle*  The family was from Los Angeles.  Theodore told me about the runs he'd skied and how he's a lover of powder.  I think he's skied nearly every mountain in the U.S. and in Europe, per Theodore himself.  He told me he grew up in Europe and misses the loong runs of European mountains.

Theodore and Catherine... bugged me.  Theodore talked too much about money, clearly a man who's ego was fueled and identity defined by his income and bank account.  He and Catherine both recounted the winds and cliffs they'd conquered while skiing earlier in the day.  They looked older than me, and were the large, squishy variety of people.  It's always a little suspicious when the large, squishy folks boast about their athletic prowess.  Then again, I've been out-run by chunky gals, and seen some grace in motion on the mountain from the plus-size set.  You never know.

In walks Gus.  Glorious Gus.  He didn't look old enough to drink... legally.  He was carded and proved that he'd been 21 for three months, then he took a seat in the empty chair between Catherine and me.  He'd been coming to Utah every year for Thanksgiving since he was a kid and was meeting some buddies.

NOTE:  Gus' real name is something so COOL, but I can't tell you.  When we were talking about names he said his parents almost named him Gus.  I shared with him that Chris and I also almost named our 4-year-old son, Gus -- after Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove.

With a smile on his face and a thick, boyish lisp, Gus gave Theodore, Catherine, Bartender Cindy, and me a gift that night.

+++++

Gus joined the Army when he was 18 and is halfway through a six-year commitment.  He's currently stationed at Fort Hood and had just returned from Afghanistan when the massacre occurred.  He was in the building across from the tragedy when it happened.  Gus spoke freely about some experiences and understandably sterilized others.  He received a Purple Heart after being shot in the chest when he stood up in a foxhole.  He pulled the collar of his t-shirt down so we could see a portion of his scar.  He grinned and told us he and his buddy had been filming each other prior to the shooting.  As he went down, he childishly and honestly admitted that he looked at his friend and said, "Please tell me you got that on film..."

Theodore and Catherine were quiet.  Cindy listened as she cleaned glasses behind the bar.  I selfishly thought about my own sons as I absorbed Gus' words and mannerisms.

The conversation jumped from Gus' Army experiences to his high school days, and vacations with cousins.  We all let him drive.

Gus has seen young men die and recently lost his Lieutenant.  His mother encouraged him to seek psychological help to process all he'd endured at his young age.  I told him the media has highlighted the need for more mental health professionals in the military.  He told me, "Those guys sit behind a desk and push paper.  They don't know what it's like."  His half-smile and cheerful tone, punctuated his words with sharp irony.

He shared a particularly disturbing story about a puppy he'd adopted in Afghanistan.  He said the stray dogs were difficult for him because he loves dogs.  If a dog continued to trip a flare wire, intended to alert when an enemy was approaching, orders were given to kill the dog.  Gus used his night vision device to identify the dogs and threw rocks to scare them away.  He couldn't bear the thought of shooting the animals.

He adopted a puppy and named him Reggie after a dog he'd had as a child.  He said the puppy was still basically a stray because pets weren't allowed at camp, but everyone knew the dog was "his".  He said he has a picture he loves where he's cradling Reggie with one arm, the puppy's nose peeking out of his jacket, and his gun in the other arm.

One night one of Gus' fellow soldiers returned to his sleeping spot to find Reggie had peed on his blankets and bed.  Reggie wasn't even three months old.  Enraged, the soldier killed the young dog.

Gus' demeanor never deviated from light.  He didn't come across as complaining or trying to showboat with heavy stories.  He was a kid, talking with people at a bar, answering an occasional question, checking his cell phone, all with a boyish smile, Ron Howard eyes [sweet but old] and that awesome, thick lisp.

+++++

Theodore and Catherine needed to get their kids to a sushi bar, and Gus' buddies had called with word on where they planned to meet.  Theodore picked up Gus' tab and shook his hand.  Gus chatted with me for a few more minutes before excitedly leaving to join his friends.  I shook his hand and said, "I know it sounds corny, but thank you."  He smiled and said, "You're welcome."

Cindy and I visited for a while, discussing life, parenting and war... I imagine topics a bartender is well-versed in.

My sons entered the bar, signaling they were out of tokens and ready for dinner.  I proudly introduced them to Cindy, then she politely asked them to step outside of the bar...  because they were... too young.

Finding My People Is Like Learning to Drive A Stick Shift

I thought I had temporary arrested development a year or so ago.  I'm concerned it's not so temporary.

When I was kid, making friends was easy.  Whoever I sat next to in class was my friend.  Whoever lived on my street was my friend.  It didn't matter if we had opposing interests.  Other than the joy and exhilaration we both received while playing with matches, my childhood friend, Samantha, and I had very little in common.  The story is similar for the friends I made in junior high, high school and college.  Different sports, different boy or girl attractions, different styles and different quirks.  We were simply friends. 

Of all of those friends, I remain very close to a handful, and even fewer allow me full range of motion.  I feel thankful for those important relationships, but I enjoy meeting people and making new friends.

For many reasons, the past 12-15 years have afforded me few opportunities to cultivate new relationships.  We've lived in four states, have had to help our sons through some challenges [everyone's doing great now], and priorities have made themselves clear to Chris and me.  I've met several people, it's the nurturing and cultivating of the new relationships where I seem to fail.

Like learning to drive a stick shift.

I get excited and rev the engine, a little too much gas, then I pop the clutch and take off with a giant jerking motion, followed by several smaller jerking motions.  Then I slow down, because I came on too strong, but I don't get the clutch, the brake and the release from the gas just right, so I kill the engine.  Not enough.  Then I try again, still too much gas, I jerk and lunge, apologize for the whiplash and make promises of a smoother ride in the future, I pull back on the gas and kill the engine... again.

I assume a level of intimacy too soon, then I recoil and appear aloof.  My throttle's messed up.  I've noticed this as I've reconnected with old friends, and as I've made new friends in person or on the internet.  As a kid, I didn't put any thought into approaching others with a genuine enthusiasm for making new friends.  As an adult, I think it freaks people out.

Often, I truly don't have the time to cultivate relationships at a moderate pace.  It's speed dating for me, baby.  When I have the time, I'm all your's and I try to pour a month [or more] of "dates" into a brief conversation or email exchange.  Then, I fall off radar.  Other times, I'm overly-aware of my arrested development because it feels like it's been so long since I've had a consistent and moderate pace in life, so I disappear out of insecurity and embarrassment.  Paralyzed by what to say or not say.

I'm thankful for my tent-post-friends, the ones who afford me full range of motion.  With them, my tarp is large and strong.  They all live states away, so If it wasn't for the telephone and email, I'd be permanently, socially disabled.  I've gotten good at having an intense five-minute relationship with the grocery store cashier, the girls and boys who work at various cosmetic and fragrance counters, as well as anyone who's trying to sell me ANYTHING.  One of my tent-post-friends admits to doing the same thing, because she too is isolated and busy.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, if you see me jerking spastically towards you, make some room and I'll do the best I can to not hit you too hard, shift smoother and not kill the engine.  Thank you.

I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination

I had picked up the boys from school, stopped at the liquor store, was driving home and called Chris to touch base...

Me:  Anything new?

Chris:  No. You?

Me:  Not really.  I've had an unproductive day.  Questioned everything I wrote.  I attempted three blog posts because I was procrastinating working on other things.  The first one on Why I Blog turned into Why I Write and it felt too personal.  I wanted to tap into the "attention whore" theory Neil blogged about along with Kyran's post -- which I still need to forward to you -- but I got sidetracked.  I don't have enough time to do all this.

THEN, I started a post on Procrastination and I got all freaked out that I have a psychological disorder after Googling it.  Wikipedia nailed me.  But I found some great articles on how to resolve my reasons for procrastinating.  So that was good... I still have issues though...

THEN, I thought I need to address my running blog because I haven't posted since the last race, but I want to let that blog go, so I need to post something on CSquaredPlus3...like... about how you're running with me now and I'm trying to talk you into doing the Triple Trail Challenge next summer because Supermodel says she's out.

I hardly even looked at my other projects...

Chris:  I think you should finish the Procrastination post and title it "I Didn't Finish My Post On Procrastination".

Me:  And have a blank page?

Chris:  No.  Post what you have written so far.

Me:  I only titled it, then I went to Google so I could paste a definition at the top of the post.  That's when I got freaked out and had to diagnose myself.

Chris:  So you have nothing?

Me:  I have nothing.

Chris:  So... the content is... light.

Me:  Very.

**********

Per Wikipedia [Which, according to my sons, is not a good source because, "...ANYONE can post information on there!"]

Procrastination is the deferment of actions or tasks to a later time. Psychologists often cite this human behavior as a mechanism for coping with the anxiety associated with starting or completing any task or decision. ^[1] Psychology researchers use three criteria to categorize procrastination: for a behavior to be classified as procrastination, it must be counterproductive, needless, and delaying.^[2]

For an individual, procrastination may result in stress, a sense of guilt, the loss of personal productivity, the creation of crisis and disapproval from others for not fulfilling one's responsibilities or commitments. These combined feelings can promote further procrastination. While it is normal for people to procrastinate to some degree, it becomes a problem when it impedes normal functioning. *Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.

**********

*  Did you read that?  I'm SO freaked out.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen.  I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides.  He resembled James Taylor.  I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing.  "OHMYGOD!  YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car.  The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet.  The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons.  When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet.  The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away.  The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car.  Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy... and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals.  We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes].  Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer.  When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic.  I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions.  I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him!  Fix him!  He's hurting!"  I might have actually yelled those things.  It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor.  I'd be no good at that.  It's not that I don't want to help -- because I do -- it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me.  It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do.  Analysis paralysis.  I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

Volleyball terrifies me.  I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms.  I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!"  We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league.  Chris knows better.  He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games.  I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball.  I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid.  Hated it.  The ball would land and roll practically to my feet -- I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!"  I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat.  A couple's softball league is also out of the question.

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital.  My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible.  This is terrible.  This is really, really terrible."  Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi.

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive.  His condition has been changed from critical to stable.  When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended.  If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Be honest...

I like comfortable shoes.  I'm also a typical gal who likes to look pulled together with my own sense of style.  It's a very casual style that I have, but I feel silly if I try to dress like a Junior League-er or keep up with the trendsetters when in reality I'm a quasi-urban-granola meets wanna-be-urban-cowgirl who loves her pearls and a well structured blouse once in a while [maybe that is a bit Junior League-ish].

I don't work outside the home.  Some days I only leave the house to pick up the older boys from school, so it's just 4-year-old boy and me together... all day.  Other days I take kids to music lessons, karate, run errands [not fancy places], and occasionally meet Chris for lunch.  I'm usually puttering around the house and yard [read here], doing the things that most stay-at-home parents do to keep the house running smoothly.

Again, I like comfortable shoes.  I've tried to deviate [read here], but I always return to comfortable.

When I went to Texas a couple of weeks ago for my 25th high school reunion, I packed what I thought were very cute [and comfortable] shoes.  I wore a pair of Dansko Mary Jane's on the plane and changed into a pair of Dansko green strappy sandals, with a heel, when I arrived at my friend Vicki's house because it was hotter than I expected.

As I unpacked, my two friends, Vicki and Rena, were there chatting as we played show-and-tell with clothes, photos and hair drama.  I showed them the shoes I brought and how I planned to incorporate them into my reunion outfits [this was a very casual reunion].

Vicki said, "Those look like something my grandma would wear."

Rena chose her words carefully, "It's just...  well... you look like you stepped out of a Columbia catalog."

I was shocked.  "You don't think these are cute?!  I'm not a Dallas-girl, ya' know.  This is me.  I live in Utah and I schlep kids around all day.  My life is very casual... and sporty."

Rena and Vicki wouldn't budge so I didn't wear anything Dansko to the reunion functions.  But I wore my comfortable shoes the rest of the time in Texas.

My Dansko collection:

 

They're not that bad.  Are they?

I have cute Non-Dansko shoes too.  A few kitten heels, strappy flats, and a couple pairs of I-Look-Ridiculous-In-These-Because-They're-So-Not-Me-But-My-Husband-Loves-Them high heels.

Maybe it's time for me to change brands of comfortable shoes.  I asked a gal at Anthropologie if she liked the Dansko Mary Jane's I was wearing the other day.  She said she did.  I figured she would because... she works at Anthropologie.  I needed the easy stroke.  She mentioned, politely of course, that I might find some comfortable, but up to date, styles on the Frye website.

I don't know.  Are they that bad?  Be honest.  [Except you, Vicki, Rena, and Dallas-girls.]

The Reunion

I graduated from a small high school in Justin, Texas, 25 years ago.  My parents moved from Arizona to Texas the summer between my sophomore and junior year.  I was once again, the new girl.  It really wasn't a bad thing, the moving. 

The move prior to junior year was my third school change -- not excessive in my opinion -- and I'm thankful for the exposure to different states [Indiana, Arizona, Texas], the resulting close friendship I have with my brother, and the special friends and memories I've gained along the way.  I feel the same about the moves I've made with Chris during the past 20 years.  I've been enriched, not robbed, by the occasional move.

As a person who loves to write, I have a pile of experiences and observations to tap into and build upon.  I feel thankful for the abundant material.

Because I didn't attend my high school for all four years, and I linked arms with a steady boyfriend shortly after arriving to Texas [a very good person who is happily married today], I don't have too many shared experiences outside of classroom time with my graduating class.  As I made my way around my 25th high school reunion, happily hugging and greeting old friends and classmates, I wasn't surprised when a few of the kids didn't remember me.  One guy, who I thought I knew fairly well because I was a lifeguard at our neighborhood pool, I knew his high school girlfriend, and my mother was friends with his mother, actually said, NICE TO MEET YOU! as he left the party Saturday night.  I just smiled and said, "It was nice to see you again."

Another guy who dated one of my best friends, Vicki [the gal I stayed with while I was in Texas for the reunion], didn't remember me at all.  He was very nice to me at the reunion.  We were talking about my braces and I commented, "...it was either boobs or braces...".  He said, "I think you made a mistake.  Next time you have a choice like that, call me.  You should have gone for the boobs."  I liked him, even though he doesn't have a clue who I am.

It was good.  The reunion.  There are a few people I didn't get to talk with enough.  I assume others feel the same.  It was impossible to touch everyone in one or two short evenings and feel satiated.  We need a reunion week.  Then again... maybe we don't.

I drove past my family's old house and places that held powerful memories.  I was stirred, but not shaken.

I was able to spend time with a friend I used to lifeguard with -- Lynn P. Carlson [the P. stands for pretty].  The day I arrived in Texas it rained.  We were at a bar on that warm, muggy evening and Lynn was trying to remember the last name of a guy we both knew.  She said, "Remember?  He had frizzy hair."  Then she looked at me and said, "No offense, Chrisy."  I love Lynn P. Carlson.  And again, not enough time.

[LPC is one of the few people who make me forget I have braces.  She makes me THAT happy.  Frizzy hair and all.]

It was great simply being with my girlfriends.  Looking at clothes, giving each other honest feedback about appearances, thoughts, feelings, and life's problems.  I talk on the phone frequently with these girls, but to feel them physically and share laughs was long overdue.

I sobbed as I sat in the airport waiting for my plane.  I called Chris and told him how I felt.  He was so compassionate.

I arrived home after the kids were in bed Sunday evening.  I went in their rooms and kissed them, even waking up my 4-year-old after Chris rolled his eyes and asked me not to -- he'd been ornery earlier in the evening.  Imagine that?

There's no place like home, and it's true that you can't go back... but I will return to the next reunion.  Maybe with boobs... not braces.

I Blinked

As quickly as it began, summer break is ending.  Oldest Boy and Middle Boy return to school next week.  The school they attend resumes classes after Labor Day so we enjoy a summer break like the kind I had when I was a kid.  Three full months.  I love having the boys home and will join Toddler Child next week as he mopes around the house muttering, "I miss the big boys."

Our summer is ending with an assortment of tales to tell, but I've not had the time to chronicle everything publicly. 

Shortly after giving birth to Oldest Boy, I asked Chris if he got any good pictures or video.  He said, "I decided I wanted to experience the birth of our child, not worry about documenting it."  There's balance in that philosophy.  We have photos and journals that I'm thankful we have, but many, many years from now will any person really care?

Abbreviated Tales

Death:  The boys were prepared for Mamaw's death.  They were even prepared for the death of Susan Nelson, the wife of blogger, Fat Cyclist [Elden].  But they weren't prepared for the death of their beloved kindergarten teacher who passed unexpectedly due to a pulmonary embolism.  She was only 48.  These three deaths all occurred in August.  We parented through the death of a woman who had battled breast cancer for several years and left behind her husband and four children.  We parented through the death of an older person, blessed with a full and long life.  And we're still discussing the death of a teacher who appeared healthy one day and the next, was gone.  Rough.

It's Not Funny Anymore:  I had another incident with the car.  I dropped off Oldest Boy at his teacher's house for an ice-cream social.  As I backed out of the driveway [too fast], I hit the front of her husband's parked car.  No one was hurt.  When I called Chris to tell him what had happened, his normally calm and understanding tone was replaced with irritation as he said, "Are you effing kidding me?" 

NOTE:  My parents are refusing to take any calls from me if they see I'm calling from my cell phone.  [I only use my cell phone in the car.  For the record, I was NOT on my phone when I backed into the parked car.]

Birthdays:  Middle Boy turned ten on August 30th and Toddler Child will turn four next week.  Middle Boy thinks it's cool to be in the double-digits, and Toddler Child says he wants to be two, not four.  I told him I wish time worked that way sometimes too.

 

Hummingbird:  We had a hummingbird in the garage.  It flew around and rested on different brake cables of the bikes hanging from our garage ceiling.  I won't make this tale longer than it needs to be.  We were excited at the time.  You would have thought we had a bald eagle nesting on our trash can.  I have too many pictures of a hummingbird sitting on my bike's brake cable.

 

History:  We can't rewrite it.  Isn't that both a tragic and a glorious thing?  For now, this tale will remain very abbreviated.

Goodbye Summer:  I can't believe it's over!  I say this at the end of every school year, holiday, vacation, etc...  And I know I'll say it again.  I'm trying to enjoy the last few days before school starts by ignoring the toys that are left around the house, delaying wiping fingerprints where there typically are none, and avoiding yelling up the stairs, "Take it down a notch, boys!" when I hear them roughhousing.

Today I took my camera upstairs instead of requesting the boys downshift their play.

 

 

I miss the big boys already.

The Women

Polygamy (Plural Marriage)

The family is ordained of God. Marriage between man and woman is essential to His eternal plan. At certain times and for His specific purposes, God, through His prophets, has directed the practice of plural marriage (sometimes called polygamy), which means one man having more than one living wife at the same time. In obedience to direction from God, Latter-day Saints followed this practice for about 50 years during the 1800s but officially ceased the practice of such marriages after the Manifesto was issued by President Woodruff in 1890. Since that time, plural marriage has not been approved by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and any member adopting this practice is subject to losing his or her membership in the Church.

-Taken from LDS.ORG

It was a hot day in late June, the Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City wasn't crowded, and the animals were surprisingly active.  I packed lunches for my sons and myself.  We enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a picnic table while watching zebras play.  I chose a table away from the others, that was in the shade and clean.  As we were eating, a man and woman wheeled their disabled adult son around us to a table that was more secluded than ours.  They prepared their son for a tube feeding, and fed him.  I watched my sons, interested in their reaction.  It didn't phase them.  They smiled at the three-person family, happily ate their sandwiches and enjoyed the rearing zebras.

As we walked around the zoo, I noticed some young men wearing jeans, long-sleeve, button-front shirts and wide brimmed hats.  The Hogle Zoo is near a historical park where employees wear "pioneer" clothes.  At first I thought the young men were from the park, but then I noticed their contemporary shoes.  Then I saw them join several young girls, a few women and one man.  They were an FLDS polygamist family. On occasion I see sister-wives shopping for groceries and I'm aware of a few polygamist homes where I've seen women and children milling around, but I've never seen an entire FLDS family together in public.  I was fascinated.  I wanted to follow them, watch them, eavesdrop, take pictures, and ask questions. 

Coincidentally, we happened to be on the same general path around the zoo so I was able to observe this family for nearly an hour.  I was not following them, I was following my kids.  It was serendipitous.

What I noticed...

The Girls:  They ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  They all wore the classic FLDS dresses and had long, beautifully braided hair.  They were pretty little girls, all fair-haired or red-haired, and freckled.  They looked healthy and happy, spoke freely to one another, their brothers, mothers and father, and moved about the exhibits with the normal pace and excitement of any child.  Some of the older girls had digital and video cameras.  They never looked at or seemed to notice another human being.  It was as if people were invisible, or insignificant, like a tree or a bush.  Aware of it's location, but able to maneuver around the object without looking directly at it.

The Boys:  They too ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  There were fewer boys than girls, and a couple of the older ones had rugged good looks, and working hands.  Their coloring was like the girls, and again, they were all attractive, looked physically healthy, talked and laughed with each other and their family members, and displayed unabashed excitement and pleasure while viewing the animals.  Their long sleeve shirts were buttoned at the collar and their hats looked like something Tom Sawyer would wear.  The only visible skin, like the girls, was their hands and their faces.  They also did not look at another person outside of their family.  Not once.

The Father:  He was dressed like the boys except his hat looked like a pith helmet.  He was a red-haired man, not nearly as handsome as his sons, and built like... Rush Limbaugh.  His face resembled Ron Howard's, almost soft and appealing, with an expression that I read as both melancholy and content.  He may have been 45-55 years old.  He stayed close to his wives and occasionally he bent down to listen to something a young child wanted to say to him, giving the child a smile and a pat.  He looked at the animals, but he was watching people.  I believe he was constantly taking in the surroundings as the protector of his family.

The Women:  I saw four wives.  They were dressed like the girls, hair elaborately braided with high bangs, but these weren't pretty women.  They looked middle-aged, tired and frumpy, although I can't honestly say that they looked unhappy.  Their faces likely betrayed their age.  They were probably younger than they looked.  The kids all appeared so physically healthy with rosy cheeks, nice teeth and bright eyes.  The women, in contrast, all had 20-40 pounds to lose and looked like the kind of women who are busy taking care of everyone but themselves.  Two of the women had digital cameras and were snapping pictures of the animals and the kids.  Just like the children, none of the women looked at anyone outside of their family.

My Sons:  They seemed oblivious to this family.  Other zoo visitors were clearly curious, and I was both surprised and pleased to see how discreetly people tried to satisfy their curiosity.  Glancing at one of the family members quickly, resisting the urge to stare.  My boys didn't even steal a glance.  At one point Toddler Child was in the midst of several little FLDS girls, darting from exhibit to exhibit.  He moved their skirts out of the way if he couldn't see an animal.  I nearly hurt myself trying to take a picture of Toddler Child looking at a crocodile with the girls.  To preserve the kids' identities, I'll only share this one.

I've watched various documentaries about the FLDS sect.  Women [who haven't escaped] claim to be happy and content.  How can they not be when they don't know anything different?  I find it interesting that even with the boundaries established for them, the women are still women.  Because they don't cut their hair, they get as creative as possible with intricate braids, twists and bangs.  The dresses have subtle differences in pleats, buttons, collars, and stitching.  When given a box in which to operate, they still explore every nook and cranny.  Where these women can exercise their girl-power, they do.

I don't know why this family was in Salt Lake City at the Hogle Zoo on an afternoon in late June.  They may have been in town for reasons associated with the Warren Jeffs trial.  I'm not aware of FLDS members "vacationing".  The children I saw that day appeared healthy and happy.  Almost typical in their behavior.  Their future is predictable unless they exit the faith.  We know the end of the story.  With the recent attention on the Lost Boys and the practice of marrying underage girls [something the FLDS sect has renounced], perhaps their future will be... I don't know... better?  not so bad?  Their world is so radically different from ours that it's difficult to imagine.

The father of this family seemed content and proud of his beautiful children and devoted wives.  I'm convinced he believes he's traveling a righteous path.

To think about this entire family, their beliefs, the obviously hard-working boys, girls, women and even father, their clothing on a hot summer day, wondering if the boys would ever have a chance to marry, knowing none of them will marry for love... in total left me feeling still curious, and uneasy.  But it was the faces of the women, those women, that disturbed me the most. 

The Weapon

Chris was out of town last week.  I can now manage the the kids and the house while he's away without hyperventilating or leaving teeth marks on my tongue from biting it with frustration.  Toddler Child sleeps through most nights and we deal with a nightmare, an accident, or a blood sugar issue only occasionally.  I don't think a child has vomited once in 2009.  [I know.  I shouldn't tempt fate by sharing that fact.]

The week went fairly well.  Except for one day.  It was T-minus 24 hours until Chris was to be home.  I hate coming undone when I'm so close to the end of something that requires a little more from me.  I don't know if I create a self-fulfilling or a self-defeating prophecy in these situations. But I do it almost every time.

I was singing dorkily in the car while taking Middle Boy to his guitar lesson.  His disapproving, yet ironically not disrespectful, glances told me he was embarrassed by my grooves.  I asked him lightheartedly, "Do I ever do anything that annoys you?"

"Sometimes."

"Like what?"

"Well...  I can't think of the word... but sometimes... you're... ... ..."

I knew what he was thinking.  I instantly felt it.  He truly didn't know the word, but he was thinking bitchy.  I waited.  He was innocent and thoughtful as he searched for the word to answer my question.

"... sometimes you're...  grumpy."

I asked him to explain and give me some examples.  The look on my face and the tone of my voice told Middle Boy this wasn't going the direction either of us thought it would.  He nervously described how he dropped a perfectly clean, plastic fork on the floor and I got REALLY mad.  I don't remember this, and I told him so.  I wanted more examples.  I was aware of my subtle but palpable shift to defensiveness partnered with antagonism.  My son was aware too, and chose his words carefully as he answered the assault of questions I threw at him.

When we got home from the guitar lesson I told Oldest Boy about my question to Middle Boy and the answer I received.  He could tell I was irritated and politely and diplomatically supported his brother.  He said some days I'm very patient but other days I get frustrated with them a little quicker than usual.

What did I do with this honest and valuable information from my sons?  I chastised them.  All night.  I peppered what should have been a pleasant evening with, "And ANOTHER thing..."  I reminded the boys of everything I do around the house.  I reminded them how good they have it compared to other kids.  I reminded them that the "other mothers" who are sooo wonderful have GRUMPY days too.  I reminded them that some kids don't even HAVE a mother.  They were pink-eyed and trembly-lipped a couple of times.

Toddler Child was lying low.  Happy for once that he wasn't the boy on the receiving end of one of my manic lectures.

Dinner, showers, bedtime reading routines, all were accomplished successfully.  Toddler Child had been sleeping with something to protect himself and the rest of the family while Chris was out of town.  He requested it for one more night, in case he needed to battack someone.

NOTE:  We're not a gun family.  Chris nor I were raised by parents who hunt, target shoot or have a need for a gun, so we're raising our kids the same.  Our arguments are just passionate enough that if we had a gun in the house, it's possible that one of us would eventually be referred to as "Stumpy".  Or "inmate number 35704-019".

It was after 10:00 PM and all three boys were asleep.  In a span of seconds, I was painfully aware of how heavy I'd been earlier.  Selfishly, I entered Oldest Boy's room, hugged him and apologized for my rant.  He hugged me back and said, "I forgive you."  I repeated the scene in Middle Boy's room.  He's a sound sleeper and didn't respond.  I hoped somehow my words and heart penetrated his dreams.  I would talk to him in the morning.

Toddler Child hadn't been on the receiving end of my behavior directly, so I chose to let him sleep.  I also didn't want to invoke a battack by a plunger. 

One weapon had been drawn too long.  It was time to put them all down.

Fleeting

It's been cloudy and raining for a week.  This time of year I usually have the air conditioner running, but I'm closing windows because fresh air is making it a little too cool in the house.  It's great sleeping weather though.

This morning while blow-drying my hair, I slipped the blow-dryer under my t-shirt at my waist.  A move I typically do on winter mornings.  I moved it from front to back several times and warmed my torso.  It's important to maintain a perfect pace so the skin stays warm but doesn't burn -- something that happens when the dryer gets too close to my skin and stays in the same place for a second too long.  The warmth never lasts.  When I remove the dryer, I'm chilled again -- even more so.  Always.  But I can't resist the easy warmth, even if it's fleeting.

When I was a little girl I wore long, flannel nightgowns during winter months.  Floor registers delivered our heat and when the heat kicked on, I stood over the nearest register so my nightgown filled with warm air.  It was wonderful.  My parents allowed me a few moments of uninterrupted warming, but then reminded me that the heat wasn't getting to the rest of the room.  My brother begged for a turn, but I convinced him it was wasted on his body because his pajamas didn't billow with proof of contained and appreciated heat.

When I stepped off the floor register, the heat seemed to instantly dissipate, taking with it any of my own body's warmth.  I was always worse off -- colder -- than before I stepped on the floor register.  Always.  But I could never resist the easy warmth, even though it was fleeting.

On Turning 43

My birthday was yesterday, June 5th.  I'm 43.  I asked all three boys how old they thought I looked.  Middle Boy [9] said 42, Toddler Child [3 1/2] said 23, and Oldest Boy [11] nervously looked to his father for assistance.  Chris told him to say 29.  I honestly don't care how old I look.  When I feel healthy and rested, I usually look better than when I'm sickly and tired.  My 91-year-old grandmother is beautiful to me, and she looks every day of her 91 years.

THOUGHTS:

Grey Hair - The last 12 months have brought a plethora of grey hair.  I now use an all-over hair color prior to adding any highlights or lowlights.  This bothers me more than I thought it would.  My maternal grandmother, referred to as Grandmother, had a head of white hair by the time she was 50.  It looked great on her, but I'm not feeling it.  Funny how that works.  She died 19 years ago and is deeply missed.

Toddler Child - I adore this little boy.  He'll be four in September.  His personality remains fiery, although he's behaving more civilized on occasion.  I feel 43, sometimes older, parenting a toddler.  Naturally, I have no regrets about the choice to add another child to our tribe.  I simply underestimated the level of physical and mental fatigue I would experience.

Changing Perspective - Fewer issues are black-and-white to me like they once were, and a handful have earned a definitive spot in my mind.  I find myself accepting, understanding and respecting intelligent arguments on both sides of an issue.  Sometimes I think it's empathy to a fault.  In a 20 year period I can recall being neutral on an issue, then leaning right, then a little left, then a lot left, then finding neutral again.  If my perspective isn't challenged, I'm either on too safe of a road, or I'm asleep at the wheel.

Core Character - I don't think I'm radically different than who I was as a child, a teenager, or young adult.  I don't think many of us change radically.  We may soften or sharpen, become more educated, or not, endure unique life experiences that might eliminate or create judgments, but I think most of us remain fundamentally the same at our innermost part.

Facebook - Hated it.  Now I love it.  Reconnecting with people I probably never would have otherwise as well as connecting with new friends, has had it's head-bobbing-so-now-what-do-we-talk-about? moments.  As time goes on, those moments bother me less because the pieces of gold that surface as I pan are worth all of the who-the-hell-are-you? moments.  For me, it's been a gift.

This past year, via my Facebook experience and even writing this silly blog, I've learned that I am who I was, and I am who I will always be.  Life experiences have thankfully altered my perspective, but not my core character.  Old friends can see through life's sediment to the enduring parts.  New friends will learn what old friends have known.  It's humbling, refreshing, and comforting to see that under the layers of strata we all develop, is the same spirit that arrived at inception and will likely remain until the end.

You say, "You're OCD," like it's a bad thing.

I'm going to cut to the chase.  The flat sheet on almost all of the beds in our house have a sheet cowlick.  They come out of the dryer with a crease in the most visible part -- the section I fold back over the blanket.  No matter what I do, it's there.  I iron the flat sheet for the master bedroom bed, and the guest rooms [only the top 18-24 inches] but the crease is still there.  It's making me nuts.

It's difficult to see because I pressed this sheet five days ago and it now has usage wrinkles, but the sheet cowlick is there.  It's within the lower one inch portion of the folded over white sheet.

Please tell me you see it.  And if you don't, fake it.

I like a tightly made, clean bed.  Nothing's better than a cold, soft, good smelling pillowcase on your face.  I've always been freakish about my bed.  My mom never needed to remake my bed after I skipped out the door to kindergarten due to my childish manual dexterity -- I remade the bed after Mother because the mitred military corners weren't tight enough or at a proper 45 degree angle.

Ask any of my college roommates, I went apeshit if someone sat on my bed.  I didn't like it messy after I made it [which I did first thing every morning] and I didn't want dirty purses, backpacks, pants, and god forbid shoes touching any part of my bed.  If I returned from class and noticed a new spot or indentation on my bed, I was wrecked and on a witch hunt.

I'm better now.  Maybe.

Mom and Dad visited me one weekend my sophomore year in college and wanted to take pictures in my dorm room.  Mom's always over-engineered photos -- she still does.  She insisted we sit on my bed for the pictures.  I was panic-stricken but tried not to reveal it as I made suggestions about where and how we should sit.

Here I am, uncomfortably sitting on the corner of my own bed.

Here are Mother and Dad almost slipping off the few inches of bed space I relinquished.  It bothered me that Dad's butt was too close to my pillow, but I was proud of my genius idea to have Mom sit on his lap.  Had I been thinking and not hyperventilating, I would have had them sit on the blanket at the end of my bed so I could have laundered it easier.

There was a perfectly good desk chair in my room.  I don't know what the big deal was.  Freaks.

If anyone knows how to remove a sheet cowlick, I'd be forever grateful if you'd share your trick.

**********

For those who are interested... and me.  Well, me.

"...it's wasted on the crappiest generation of just spoiled idiots..." Louis C.K.

It's not what you have, it's who you are.  I tell my kids this all the time.  I also tell them, there's no shame in having and enjoying nice things, we simply don't judge people by their possessions.  Someone may have a larger home with more "stuff" to play with - that doesn't translate to good or bad, just a person with more stuff.  Then we review the opposite example...  Someone may have a smaller home with less "stuff" to play with - again, not good or bad, just a person with less stuff.  It's who a person is that's important.  I think our two oldest boys get it.

Cheri at Blog This Mom included a wonderful link in her recent blog post.  It's a clip that's making the rounds so many of you may have seen it.  If not, it's worth the four minutes.  Conan O'Brien is interviewing the comedian Louis C.K., and Louis riffs about how AMAZING life is and how spoiled we are.  It's funny and true.  YouTube embedding has been disabled for the clip, but click on the link and watch it - "Everything's amazing, nobody's happy..." 

Chris and I continually struggle with how much is too much with our kids.  Our boys are far from spoiled, but also have plenty to play with, and have rarely been denied a requested "special" gift for a birthday or holiday.  We've made it clear what the boundaries are so they don't ask for things they know aren't kosher in our home.  They don't seem bothered and haven't complained about desperately wanting something that we don't believe is appropriate.  I can honestly say, I don't think our boys are "bummed" that they don't have game systems [other than Wii], cell phones, or computers in their rooms with Internet access.  Oldest Boy [11], Middle Boy [9], and Toddler Child [3] seem content to play board games, build things with Lego's, watch some television, and play approved games on the family computer.  When they're outside, they play.  I mean, they really play.  They look for sticks and rocks and bugs.  They build forts in the bushes, ride bikes and run to nowhere.

The goal isn't to raise our kids to be so counterculture that other kids view them as socially off.  But my fear is... that it's happening.  Chris and I have discussed this and are united in our opinion that it's not worth it to join the mainstream on some of our issues.  We just can't.

I confess, sometimes I want to.  It's about me though, not the kids.

I spoke with a friend last week and reminded her how much we'd love to have she, her husband and kids over for dinner.  I knew as adults we'd visit and eat and drink and laugh... but, I impulsively said, "Will your kids be okay playing with our kids?  We don't have a big screen TV with a game system in the basement, or lots of cool play equipment in the backyard.  We have rocks and sticks."

She was very gracious and said, "Heck yeah!  They'll have a blast!"

After thinking about how concerned I felt for our boys and the possible social judgment they might endure based on what "stuff" they did or did not have, I realized that when I tell my kids, It's not what you have, it's who you are, I need to remind myself... it's the truth.

Hazel

Mom and Dad selected our first family pet from what they thought was a litter of Basset Hounds.  It was 1969, my brother Mallory Joe was a baby and I was three.  They named the puppy Hazel and as she grew, it was obvious she wasn't a Basset. 

 

Hazel had the short legs, long torso, keen sense of smell and a-ti-tude of a Basset, but her other parts weren't right.  Her snout was long and pointy like a Dachshund, and her ears and markings were Beagle-like.  Her head looked disproportionately small compared to her fat torso. [Fat is a bad word in our house, but she was... fat.]  She was an odd looking mutt and people often asked, "What kind of dog is that?" 

What I remember the most about Hazel:

Danger Was Her Middle Name...  Hazel chased cars.  It was terrifying to watch.  Her short legs moved shockingly fast as she tried to bite a car's tires.  We lived in a residential area so the occasional car moved at a much slower speed than we see today.  I'm sure this fact saved her life many times.  I vividly remember seeing Hazel hit by a motorcycle when she and I were both very young.  It rolled right over her, then she rolled several times like a Little Smokie to the curb.  Hazel walked away from the accident, but Mother swears she was never the same.  She became quieter and moved too slowly for her young age, Mom says, because she was in chronic pain.

No Touchy - When new kids played at our house, they naturally wanted to pet Hazel.  My whole family could see a child approaching Hazel with enhanced peripheral vision.  We would simultaneously yell, "DON'T PET THE DOG!"  Then we'd laugh nervously, "Uh... she might bite."  Hazel was great with our immediate family, but snapped at anyone else who approached her.  She was fine with others in the house if they simply left her alone.  Eventually, only our closest friends were comfortable playing at our house.  We had the "mean dog".  But she wasn't.  She was a dog in pain.

Hold Your Cookie Up! - Hazel could smell a cookie from anywhere in the city.  She didn't move quickly though, more like Eeyore, probably because of her car chasing accidents.  But if a careless child held a cookie anywhere other than over their head, Hazel got it.  She sometimes got a finger too.  Mom would give us and our friends cookies, instruct us to, "Hold your cookie up.  I mean it.  Over your head.  HIGHER!  Go outside with it.  Quick.  I'll block Hazel."  And she did.

One-Trick Pony - Hazel didn't sit, stay, come, fetch, or anything else Hazel didn't feel like doing.  Hazel could "sit-up" and she did it well.  She sat square on her fat butt, posture-perfect [like a chubby ballerina] and begged for food.  She looked like a fire hydrant and could hold the position for several minutes.

Hazel was about 11-years-old when Mom determined it was time to put her down.  Hazel was suffering from cancer.  It was time.  We all cried, but knew it was the right thing to do.

 

Yesterday, Chris and I were in the park with friends and our conversation turned to dogs.  As we shared various dog stories, I thought of Hazel for the first time in years.  I joked that I grew up with a "DON'T PET THE DOG!" dog.

Awkward Segue:  This morning, I watched a YouTube video my mother emailed me.  It's about an 88-year-old woman who's the mayor of a Canadian city.  Her name is Hazel.

It's in the eye of the beholder.

This morning I asked Chris to do this...

So that Mary could do this...

We discussed how we couldn't believe it snowed again, when we've had several tastes of spring - enough to stow away winter things until next year.

This snow will be gone as quickly as it came.  We'll likely be in the yard this weekend working on beds - seriously.  This snow doesn't bother me.  It's too beautiful.

Then again, I'm in the house drinking coffee in my pajamas, with my hair sticking out like Witchiepoo's from H. R. Pufnstuf, while Toddler Child occasionally asks, "Can I touch you ear?" [Ear fondler, remember?]  I'm not shoveling it or peeing in it. 

It's still beautiful from my perspective.

My Money's on Miss Piggy

Per Wikipedia - "In colloquial speech, bullying often describes a form of harassment perpetrated by an abuser who possesses more physical and/or social power and dominance than the victim. The victim of bullying is sometimes referred to as a target. The harassment can be verbal, physical and/or emotional.

... Targets of bullying in school are often pupils who are considered strange or different by their peers to begin with, making the situation harder for them to deal with."

One of our sons has been bullied recently.  He seems to grasp what has happened and although hurt and fatigued, he has a surprisingly logical perspective about the situation.  The bully-er is not a bad or mean child and is fortunate to have a mother who received the information graciously and will redirect his behavior appropriately.  I'm confident of this.

My brother Mallory Joe was severely bullied when he was in the sixth grade.  We were raised to be lovers, not fighters.  No toy guns in our house, no hitting, no unkindness tolerated... Mother wouldn't even allow us to say the word "weird" because it was derogatory.  People aren't weird, she would say, they're... different.  

Mallory Joe didn't know how to handle the bullying.  I don't think Mom knew how bad it was.  She listened to my brother and encouraged him to take the high road, remember sticks and stones may break my bones... all the quasi-hippie, make love, not war encouraging words.  Mallory Joe did what Mom said... and continued to get. his. ass. kicked.

One day Mallory Joe came home from school, disheveled, clothing torn and clearly shaken.  Mother asked him what had happened.  I watched her make-love-not-war-philosophy fly out the window as she listened to the humiliation my brother had endured after school.

She sent Mallory Joe and one of his friends out to find the bully that afternoon.  She was calm and firm as she gave the boys specific instructions on how and what to say to the bully.

I'll never forget seeing Mallory Joe and his friend confidently ride away on their bicycles, empowered with the knowledge that amnesty for acts not yet committed awaited them when they returned home.  Mother channeled her best pissed-off Miss Piggy voice and yelled after them, "OH... AND MAKE HIM BLEED, HONEY!"

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."

Miss Piggy

Range of Motion

I wear filters in most of my relationships.  I believe we all do.  I have the daughter filter, the granddaughter filter, the neighbor filter, the political filter, the religious filter, the professional filter and too many more to list.  Each filter category has many settings ranging from low-flow to high-flow.  My settings vary based on several variables.

Does this mean I'm phony?  Maybe a little bit.  I look at it more as a combination of navigating social waters while being respectful of the many different opinions, experiences, feelings and histories we all have, and protecting myself from the sting of social rejection.  Embarrassing, but true.

I was describing a relationship to a friend yesterday [a friend with whom I wear no filters - one of the very few] and I was listing a couple of filters I wear with someone.  I clarified that as I've gotten older and more comfortable in my own skin, the filters were looser than they used to be, but still necessary.

I've been thinking about friendships and relationships lately.  Who I feel accepted by, and who I accept fully.  I'm beginning to recognize that I can evaluate the depth of a friendship by the amount of room we give each other to be human beings.  It's interesting to me. 

There are people in my life who I afford more life flexibility than I afford myself.  There are others [many] for whom I've created boundaries and I'm not comfortable when they cross or leave those boundaries.  My parents for example - not a friendship, but a significant relationship - have a defined space in my mind.  The space is much larger and continues to grow the older I get.  Ironically, I expect them to be more generous with their acceptance and support of my choices.  It's primal.

The conversation I had with my filter-free-friend yesterday resulted in a clarity that's difficult to articulate.  My friend commented, "... if your range of motion is that limited with [a person], is the friendship really that important to you?"

The people who allow you full range of motion are gifts.  I can think of three in my life.  How many do you have?

Let's Dance, Baby

The boys had their final Cotillion party a couple of weeks ago.  Overall, they both enjoyed the Cotillion experience, but neither boy wanted to attend the last dance.  It was a school night, they were tired, and over it.

Being the good parents that we are, we made them go.

Oldest Boy enjoys the dancing more than Middle Boy.  He smiles and makes light conversation with his partner, like he was taught in Cotillion.  Middle Boy's expression is solemn, he avoids eye contact and discussion with his partner and he moves like he's counting the seconds until the experience is over.  I felt sorry for his partners.  The little girls love the dancing and there are always more girls than boys.  A polite boy's participation is a treasure to these girls.

Here's Middle Boy in agony on the dance floor, mad that I'm taking his picture.
[Click to enlarge all photos.]

Here's Middle Boy after I whispered in his ear through clenched teeth [resisting the urge to smack him on the side of the head] to, Be nice, smile, and fake it!

After the kids danced the parents were invited to join.  We were taught dance steps by the instructor, then our child was supposed to graciously assist.  Middle Boy didn't even enjoy dancing with me.

Here we are wrestling on the dance floor.

Here I am reminding him to, Try to have a good time.  I'll pay you if you smile.

 

Oldest Boy is a parent pleaser.  He genuinely wants to do the right thing and he's delighted when he catches an approving glance.  We recognize this won't likely last forever.  Oldest boy is either dancing with bells on because he thinks it pleases us, or... he was born to dance!

Look at the joy on his face...

I was a parent pleaser and I enjoy dancing, so Oldest Boy comes by it naturally.  Middle Boy takes a little more after his father.  Notice where Chris is sitting in this picture...

Chris was a good sport to attend the Cotillion party.  Many fathers were unfortunately not willing unable to participate.  Chris was a great photographer, but when I had the camera, he sat in the back row, near the door and he didn't dance.  Not even once.  If I give him a few drinks and make some promises... then he'll dance.

Minutia

"Blogging has become so popular that all meaning has been lost.  People call themselves 'writers,' and ramble on about nothing, as if the minutia of their lives are as important as the big issues of the day, the tragedies that confront us all.

Which brings me to my story of the shower curtain." - Neil Kramer

This was how Neil from Citizen of the Month started a recent post.  I love it.  Neil continues the post and tells a story about something as simple as replacing a moldy shower curtain.  It's entertaining and funny.  Neil's a real writer though.  He can write well about anything and it makes the rest of us look like we're writing a sixth grade essay. [Although I don't believe it's his intention to make anyone feel inferior.  He's supportive of the individuality of bloggers.  He's the "Citizen of the Month"!]

I struggle with how much minutia to include in blogging.  Blogs that are well written interest me and like Neil's, I'll read a variety of content by a blogger who's writing style I admire.  If I haven't been hooked by a blogger in some way [the writing, the photographs, the recipes, a personal friend who I love regardless of what they publish], and the blog is purely a ramble of daily events, with too-frequent postings, I lose interest.  It's like listening to someone whine at length on the phone, and you tap your receiver to make it sound like your other line is beeping - Sorry.  I don't mean to be rude but that's my other line and I really need to take it.  Catch ya later!

This brings me to my story of the cleanse.  [I understand if your phone's ringing, or there's someone at your door.  Go handle it.]

Chris and I have been struggling with cravings for foods that aren't good for us [more than we typically do].  We've also wanted to lose a few pounds that are hanging on like baby opossums.  We know the benefits of eating more fruits, vegetables and whole grains - organic whenever possible.  We've read John Robbins Diet for a New America and May All Be Fed, as well as many other books encouraging vegetarian and earth friendly food choices.  We still grab handfuls of cinnamon bears, chug coffee, and troll the pantry for refined snacks.

We started The Master Cleanse yesterday.  We'll be ending it today.  You're supposed to do it for 10 days or longer.  The basic theory of a cleanse is that a person takes great care in cleansing the outside of the body, but rarely if ever cleans the inside of the body, therefore an internal cleanse is a good thing. [So "they" say.]  This cleanse involves drinking a lemonade made with purified water, lemons, maple syrup and cayenne pepper - I'm sure many of you have heard of it.

A part of any cleanse is eliminating.  "They" say we shouldn't  stir up the dust [toxins] then let it settle somewhere else.  It should leave the body.

Yesterday morning and this morning Chris and I did the "salt water flush" portion of The Master Cleanse.  We followed the instructions and dissolved two teaspoons of sea salt in a quart of warm, purified water, and drank it.  "They" say this will thoroughly cleanse the digestive tract.  "We" say, buy the best toilet paper you can afford if you ever choose to do this.

The jury's still out on the effectiveness of our cleanse project.  We have both sufficiently eliminated.  I'm hungry, but I must admit I'm craving a bowl of steamed vegetables... and beans sound good.  I thought I'd want a cheeseburger and a beer.  I was tired yesterday and today my energy level feels normal.  I'm leaving to run errands soon.

I took a photo of Chris with his laptop and his lemonade this morning.  He was in his pajamas and had a healthy, post-elimination glow.  He doesn't want me to share it.  Too much minutia, he says.

Vain

I don't photograph well.  I never have and I'm not upset about it anymore.  The camera loves Chris, Mother, and my brother Mallory Joe.  It doesn't love Dad, or me.  Our three sons are somewhere in the middle.  They're good looking boys and sometimes I get wonderful photographs of them, and sometimes I don't.  Any photographer will confirm these facts.  Some people are more photogenic than others.  I'm not fishing for compliments, nor am I saying I'm SO much better looking in person.

When I post a picture of myself, trust that I've gone through as many options as possible before I've shared it with you.  It's as good as it's gonna get, but I've put thought into it.  Except that one time... my dear friend Rena called and said, "Your eyes don't look right in that picture.  Did you do something?"  The answer was yes.  I overdid the Botox and had a Melissa Rivers, scary smile for a few weeks.  It's gone now.

I was tagged in a photo on Facebook recently.  It was taken at a high school reunion five years ago.  I'd seen the photo prior in a friend's album, cringed and thought to myself, Don't be so vain.  I hadn't been tagged with it at that point so I let it go.  People who visited his Facebook page and albums would see it, but the overlap of our circle of friends was small.  The majority of my Facebook friends would not see it.

I didn't like the picture because it highlighted the features on my face I've been the most self-conscious of my entire life.  It was not flattering of my nose and was taken prior to my Nasal-Surgery-Not-A-Nose-Job.  I was wearing bright red lipstick and my lips were curled under so they looked unusually thin and non-existent.  The angle of the photo, my side stance, and the great! sleeveless dress I wore made one arm look disproportionately big for my body.  The picture was taken at close range and was very unforgiving.  The two other people in the picture looked great.  I looked like Chyna, the female wrestler.

When I was tagged, the photo appeared in all it's huge glory on my profile page and populated one of my albums.  I saw it, gasped, nuked it, then frantically typed a note to the friend who tagged me, apologizing for my vanity and over-explained the situation. [This friend is a very nice man who I've had no contact with in 25 years, other than the brief hello and photo at the reunion.]  We had several exchanges, with me continuing to over-explain and over-apologize, resulting in him deleting the photo from his album too.  [This man is busy - job, wife, kids, etc..., and I sucked him into a babbling email exchange about how I looked like Chyna the wrestler in the picture, but I'm not THAT vain.  I'm NORMAL DAMMIT!  PLEASE BELIEVE ME!]

QUESTION:  My initial thought was I want veto power over all photos of me that others might share on Facebook or blogs.  However, I've enjoyed seeing 30-year-old class photos with 25 kids and a teacher.  A notification "rule" seems unnecessary in some cases.  What are your thoughts on photo sharing etiquette?