Bravo, Son, Bravo

Bravo! to J-Man on his award-winning evening.  He made honor roll yet again, a feat he’s managed to accomplish every term since he started 6^th grade.  He has two more trimesters before he goes to “da big house” of high school, and I predict great things for him.  He’s the hardest working kid in school business—he has tenacity and determination and no one is going to keep him down.  Of course I’m a proud mama, but then, I’m proud of all three of my monkeys—they all have different gifts and talents and I couldn’t be prouder if I’d birth’d them myself.

Of course, I’ve run out of excuses not to put the “My kid is a ____ School Honor Roll Student” on my bumper, but if you have an excuse I may not have thought of, let me know!

It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.
~Albert Einstein

X+Y=A Big Margarita

The homework pressures of parenting are sometimes overwhelming—or at least make ya’ want to enjoy several large El Presidente Margaritas at the local Chili’s, far away from the cares at home (belting out Broadway tunes and doing my Tommy Tune imitation would be far less than a remote possibility at the end of such an event).  Tonight was such a night.

 

I remember the first time the first 7^th grader brought home some Algebra for me to help with.  Now, I was not accustomed to helping children with Algebra, so it was quite a shock when the homework was way more advanced than that I had been forced to go through 30 years before somewhere in high school.  Thank God for Dr. Math at mathforum.org and a friend in Canada, Sacramento, and Arizona.  Between our mutual feeble brain trust, he finished the first assignment—these friends included a J.D., an M.A., and a B.A.—of course, they were all more accustomed to the softer arts—you know, Contemplative Buddhist Thought and Lower Germanic Medieval Basket Weaving.  I basically told him that I was there for him anytime—as long as it was social studies, English, or P.E.  I did know how to score in bowling, after all.

Though, I must admit, when geometry came up, I did a bit better.  I just took him out to the pool table in the garage to give him some practical application and provide him with an effective method to help put himself through college when the time comes. 

You’d think I would have gotten better as the final juvenile has reached the 7^th grade, but I haven’t.  I still break out into a cold sweat when the math book comes out and start speed dialing the math posse.  Tonight, I barely survived yet another night of cutting up teeny, tiny geometric pieces and figuring out where they go and in what order, and so I’m out of here.  See ya’ at Chili’s, I’ll be the one reminding you there’s no business like show business.

As long as algebra is taught in school, there will be prayer in school.
~ Cokie Roberts

 

Come Quick, Timmy’s In The Well

The State of Puppyhood (not one of the lower 48, but one all onto itself), usually lasts about a year.  My Smooth Collie puppy, Gina, is now 12 months old, but I have a feeling she still has several more months of fun in store for me.  Take now, for example—I’m sitting here, typing, and I hear a “thunk.”  It’s an unfamiliar sound, so I automatically, say, “Gina!”  Then, I hear the two paws hit the floor.  This means she’s been counter-surfing*.  Counter surfing has led to me pulling cookies, toast, and even marinating steaks out of her mouth.

Then, there’s the whole chewing thing.  People come over and without even giving it a thought, I take the shoes they’ve just left by the door and put them on top of the refrigerator.  The carpet, which I’ve not been fond of anyway, is scheduled for replacement once her last molar sets in comfortably.

My older Smooth Collie, Daisy, looks at this young upstart with what I would call the equivalent of one of my classic eye-rolls.  Annoyed intolerance oozes from her when Gina is misbehaving.  The fortunate thing is Daisy usually tattles with her equivalent of “Come quick, Timmy is in the well,” hoping fervently disaster will be averted and the puppy will get a well-deserved come-uppance.

But, once Her Majesty curls up with me at night, looking up at me with her beautiful deep brown eyes, all her mischief is forgiven.   Nonetheless, this is the very last puppy.  Really.

*Counter-surfing:  No board needed, this is a maneuver managed by wily animals who believe anything left unattended on said same counter is fair game, including the little corn cob stickers you just laid out.  Whether they realize the corn cob stickers are not a steak is another story.

PETA Piper & The Power Of Zealotry

So, get this, a Free Methodist church in Alaska advertised on its website and in the local paper that they had a living nativity for the “holiday” season.  Da-da-da-da—in jumps PETA to the rescue!  PETA, reading about this gross miscarriage of animal justice sent a scathing letter to Rev. Jason Armstrong, admonishing him for his sins.  Armstrong was quoted as saying, “We’ve never had live animals, so I just figured this was some spam thing,” Armstrong said. “It’s rough enough on us people standing out there in the cold. So we’re definitely not using animals.”  See, the congregant volunteers all dressed up as animals to put on the show.  A minor point PETA failed to notice.

Now, just a couple of points.  As I recall, lore retold throughout the millennia regarding the original manger scene, occurring pre-PETA, mentions that live animals, not human actors dressed in animal costumes, were used in the manager scene.  I believe, in fact, that a whole bunch of animals actually resided in the manger when Mary & Joseph purportedly became the human interlopers who stumbled in so Christ could make is first Earthly appearance. 

Next, let’s talk about fanaticism.  That point at which common sense and a broad world view departs and a scary kind of zealotry beings.  You know, that which allows folks to understand the difference between cruelty—you know, a drunk guy kicking a puppy in the head—and a normal and natural use of farm animals (and, no, I’m not talking about the lonely pioneer farmer who had only his animals to keep him company on those cold Winter nights).   

It’s not much of a stretch to compare the PETA Nazis with our current political climate where extremist zealots touting their “Christianity” threaten the very homogeneous nature of our country and its ability to enact laws that serve the majority of America, and not just those who hold their narrow, bigoted, and divisive worldview on how you and I should live. 

Eagerly, I await the day when the average “Joseph” and “Josephine” and even the transgendered “Jo” rise up and are heard against the tyranny of those who rend the very fabric of our American life.

At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols. ~ Aldous Huxley

You Are Getting Very Sleepy

Skeptical and practical, that’s me. There is no doubt, after having met me that the oft-trendy California lifestyle things might cause me to scratch my head in confusion. Sure, I’ve heard the word Chakras, but don’t really understand what it is exactly. Reikki, hypnosis, tuning fork healing; all a mystery.

When I first arrived in California on a visit, I went to the big Psychic Fair in San Francisco with my sister and one of her friends. I had my fortune told. I was told that I build boats near the water and that a man would enter my life that would change my life forever. Since they gave no timeline on this, I suppose that could still be looming for me, but so far, no boatbuilding, no water, and no man (and I have to say “Amen” to the last). I decided to try again, so stood in line and watched the various psychics “read” their victims customers. I edged to the front of the line where the psychic wrangler directed everyone to the next psychic. I requested the guy on the left, but was told that if I requested him, it would skew the results (even though the psychic didn’t have a clue I had requested him—but, if he was good, I suppose he would have known, huh?), so was directed to a middle-aged cowboy psychic who then told me I would give birth and live in the mountains. Well, medical science told me long ago that I wouldn’t be birthin’ no babies and as far as I knew, Omaha had neither mountains, water, nor boatbuilding, so I considered it a folly.

Once living here, I met Reikki masters, and healers of all sorts. My future was told by crystals, stones, and stars. However, what struck me today is that so many of the people in my life whom I value highly are all very spiritual and believe deeply in alternative methods of living. So, what’s that about?

Today, my darling friend from Oakland and her new lover came to visit me bearing chicken soup for my soul, her massage chair, and a tuning fork clearing for my Chakras. When my day was done, my tense muscles were relaxed, my Chakras were cleared (or so I’m assuming, because while I still don’t know what the hell it is, I felt better than I had since before the “incident”). Blessings and healing come in all forms, and I for one, though skeptical, have opened my heart, and my mind to whatever those who love me have to offer.

It is not so much our friends’ help that helps us as the confident knowledge that they will help us. ~ Epicurus

The Gift Of The Magi

When I woke up this morning, I made a conscious decision to avoid all areas where people shop heavily.  This limited my movements pretty significantly.  I carefully mapped out a strategy to get to the airport, to lunch with the kidlings, and still accomplish all the errands I had remaining without getting near a mall, strip mall, or the dreaded Walmart/Target Alley of Shopping Hell in North Natomas.  For the next five weeks, I will be avoiding entire sectors of the City.

I don’t understand the mania of holiday shopping.  Stepping into a mall during this season, along with 10 million other people, parking eight miles away, only to find something for the sake of finding something to give someone who will probably not like whatever you got because you did just grab it with little thought other than to finish your shopping and who will regift it somewhere else down the line, just seems crazy to me. 

With store holiday décor going up about Halloween time, it’s clear to me that somewhere along the way, we’ve lost the true meaning of both the giving and receiving of gifts, nevermind the true meaning of Christmas. 

I think about one of my favorite stories from literature, “The Gift of the Magi,” by O Henry.  It’s a simple tale, where a young couple both sacrifice the thing they love the most in order to buy their beloved that one special gift.  But, as with most O Henry, there’s a touch of irony to be enjoyed as well.  I’m quite sure that neither Jim, nor Della, the protagonists of this story, ever needed to step foot into a mall or order something up online that would later be regifted.  They had the beauty of giving down to a science.

I know I don’t remember a lot of the gifts I got when I was young, but I do remember the one great gift I got one year when we were the poorest, when the year had been the hardest.  Even as a kid, I knew that my folks had struggled to come up with the $10 to buy it.  I wonder why that memory sticks out so well?

The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. ~ O Henry

Thanksgiving Cream of Mushroom

Okay, this is the secret part—sshhhh!  I spent most of the day watching Hallmark Channel holiday movies.  They are the family version of “Made for Lifetime Television Movies.”  Just like in action movies, everyone dies—good, heartwarming family fare—gag.  

These movies require you to remember that Lindsay Wagner and Melissa Gilbert are not the Bionic Woman/Sleep Number Bed Spokesperson and Laura Ingalls, but whatever.

Oh, boy, what great fun.  My Thanksgiving Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup was delicious!

The High Road Has A Better View

I had the best day alone – sans Thanksgiving dinner!  Okay, I miss having my mom’s stuffing and the kids will be so welcome tomorrow, but hey, I had both a nap and time to read today.  Life is sweet.

A few times over the past few days, I almost felt sorry for myself, for a number of reasons.  But, when I woke up this morning, I was ecstatic to realize that I could gain strength from all that has occurred over the past few days.  Looking around, I found support in all quarters—officially and unofficially.  And, I’m totally comfortable letting the legal system do its thing.

Minor miracles occurred every few minutes or so.  Most amazing of all was that those customer care centers that typically cause me no end of irritation on a weekly basis for one reason or another in normal times, suddenly circled round and did the right thing to help me out—so thanks “Sam” and “Becky” in the Indian call centers—I wonder if they get to make up their own English name or have them assigned.  I can picture it—

Kralish, the Call Center Boss:  Rajan, your new call center name is Edelbert.

Rajan:  Edelbert, I do not want to be Edelbert!  I would much prefer to be “Bob”—why cannot I be Bob?  I really want to be Bob.  Please, please, I want to be Bob.

Kralish, the Call Center Boss:  Because I am Bob.  It is good to be King.

Rajan:  Okay, how about George Clooney?  Is that name available?

Continuing on the high road is an approach that has been working and will continue to work and will allow me to sleep well at night.  And, I am reminded daily that I am truly blessed.  And that is what I will focus on.

461.  Burglary is punishable as follows:
1. Burglary in the first degree: by imprisonment in the state
prison for two, four, or six years.
2. Burglary in the second degree: by imprisonment in the county
jail not exceeding one year or in the state prison. ~ California Penal Code

My Guest Blogger: Still Pissed Off (SPO)

I’ve had a lot of things to do the last two days, thanks to the severely disturbed person who violated my home.  So, for your viewing pleasure, I offer you SPO, the angry, White professional!

And Justice For ? Call it what you want: sour grapes; sour apples; sour (insert food item here), but I just don’t understand our justice system.

For the record, I am a 35-year-old tall-dorky-looking White guy with two small kids.  I drive what can only be described as family truckster meets affordability and reliability.  (This will matter later).

I pay my taxes on time and (what seems to be yearly) take part in my civic duty of watching paint dry for 8 hours (read: jury duty).

Until two years ago, I have never received a speeding ticket.  That streak of luck was completely blown out of the water when I got two tickets on two consecutive days.  (Yes, you read that correctly.)  So, OK, I get it, it happens to the best of us.  After my donation to the CHP’s “second home in Tahoe” fund as well as a healthy contribution to the fine folks at Sierra Nevada Brewery, I figured it was out of my system.  Well, so much for that state school college degree.

It was about 2 months ago.  I was driving said truckster home from work, belting out my version of Sweet Caroline (yes, you know you all love it), when I was nearly sideswiped by a urban assault vehicle (read: bigger then ever needed in this lifetime SUV).  Thinking it was someone who was distracted while looking for the paperwork to sign me to a singing contract, I continued down the road (“good times never seemed so….”), when it dawned on me that this person was completely drunk.  I watched (and followed) in awe as he swerved in and out of traffic, nearly hitting parked cars and a pedestrian at one point.  I called 911 to report what I was witnessing.  I felt like Erik Estrada from ChiPS.  “Yes, the perp. is now proceeding east on XXX road.”  The dispatcher then instructed me to call back if I witnessed any more erratic behavior and that they will alert “someone in the area.”  Witnessed any more erratic behavior?  Are you serious?  I continued to follow the “perp” and watched him lurch 3 lanes into (drum roll please) a bar parking lot.  I made a U-turn into the same parking lot just in time to watch this “Arthur” wannabe relieving himself in the parking lot.  He then got into his USV and drove over the curb, into a planter box, sat there for a bit… reversed and decided to park for good.  Another call to 911.  “I’m sorry sir, we cannot do anything unless we witness it, but call us back if he gets back onto the road.”  My only thought was, “Hi, CHP, well I’m calling back, and yes there was some more erratic behavior, this guys just mowed down some innocent people, but you didn’t see it, so I guess you can’t do anything about it.”

Why does any of this matter?

Well, fast-forward about a month.  I was driving my normal route to work, coffee in hand, listening to the latest world events when I looked up and saw (you guessed it) my favorite friends from the CHP in MY rearview mirror.

I pulled over.  I sat there with my hands at 10 & 2 just like I was taught in driver’s ed., rolled down the window to be greeted with what might be my favorite question ever “do you know why I pulled you over?”  My brain started working overtime.  Maybe he wanted to buy car seats in the backseat from me?  Maybe he thought my suit was a bit “out of date?”  Nope, apparently I was speeding.  I have to admit, I may as well teleport my way to work because I often have no recollection of how I got there, so it’s totally possible he was correct.  Then my second favorite question ever “do you know the speed limit on this road?”  “Yes officer it’s 40 and I just don’t give a shit about what it says.”  As much as I wanted to say that, I was on my best behavior and left with Officer Poncherello giving me a ticket for going 55+ in a 40 zone.  He said “I’m doing you a favor here because I’m sure you were going faster, but this will allow you to go to traffic school.”  “Um, thanks,” I said.

It would be so easy to just pay the damn fine and get it over with, but this whole thing has me fried.  After doing a little bit of research, it appears Officer P forgot to indicate some things on my citation that he’s required by law to note.  So, I’ve decided to fight this puppy.  Will I win?  Probably not.  Will I feel better?  Probably.  Call it an exercise, call it a waste of time, call it what you want, but I have to know, does the system really work?

If the lovely Hahn at Home allows, I will update everyone on the progress as I’ve just returned from turning in my Trial By Declaration, basically explaining my side of the story.

Until then, look for me on the roadways.  I’ll be the one in a suit, singing Neil Diamond and drinking a beer in plain site for all to see.  And there’s not a DAMN thing you can do about it.

My Karma Ran Over Your Karma, Beep, Beep

My cool new computer – $2,000

My CD collection – $5,000

My DVD collection – $1,000

My peace of mind – $50,000,000

Fingerprints – Priceless 

It is coming – you don’t know when or how–but it is–they know who you are. ~ Unknown