Gray Skies and Lunch Escapes and Fast Food Bigotry

It's cold in the house today, even though it's supposed to be the warmest day of the week. It's a glum, gray sky out there, hiding the sun and starving the dog of patches of warm carpet to lie in. I woke up this morning and looked out the window to see only branches on the trees. The leaves have all gone south for the winter. I realized yesterday that my tan lines are gone too. Faded away. It's winter skin now.

Ugh.

Ryan worked from home today, so we went to Taco Bell for lunch. The drive-thru lady recognized us. Maybe because we ate dinner there last night. And lunch on Tuesday.

She's a very efficient drive-thru worker--all business--repeating your order and asking after every pause if there will be anything else. She has a magnificent accent, very Rosie Perez, and I always try to impersonate her after we drive away with our bean burritos, soft and crunchy tacos, all fresco style.  I haven't been to every Taco Bell in the nation, but I'm still going to say this: our Taco Bell is the best Taco Bell in the nation, possibly the world. Everything is just as it should be--the meat is meaty, the beans are bean-y, the soft tortillas are soft, and the crunchy tacos are so tasty, I'd be willing to pay $1.29 for them if they asked.

I'm a little embarrassed that Rosie Perez recognized us, but not so embarrassed that I won't go there tomorrow if the mood strikes. I'm not ashamed of my Taco Bell habit. Did I mention that it's the best Taco Bell in the universe?

Ryan and I used to escape high school for lunch. We'd take our allotted lunch money (about two bucks each) and drive to McDonalds for cheeseburgers or McChicken sandwiches. One day the drive-thru lady said, "See you tomorrow!" We laughed for months.

I guess some things never change.

The best Taco Bell in the nation is also a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant, which used to bother me immensely. I remember the first time I saw a hybrid Taco Bell/KFC. It just seemed so....unnatural. I kept imagining the kitchen stocked with packets of honey butter and fire sauce. I imagined Colonel Sanders in a sombrero and he looked pained, ridiculous, confused. I turned up my nose and kept my distance. I was a fast food bigot, I guess. As much as I loved Taco Bell and KFC, I just couldn't accept them...{hard swallow}...together.

When it came right down to it, why did I care if the cole slaw was in the same refrigerator as the pico de gallo? Why shouldn't the eleven herbs and spices that coat my favorite drumsticks hang out with the cinnamon and sugar that coat my favorite cinnamon twists? Why can't buttermilk biscuits and gorditas be friends?

You see, we don't know our own biases until we are faced with them.

Eventually, I gained maturity and perspective. It happened one day in the car when we were grabbing a bite to eat before one of Christian's games on a busy Saturday. Two people in the car wanted Taco Bell and two people wanted KFC, but we only had time to stop at one drive-thru. It was a moment of real drama. I had to put aside my fears that the gravy ladle was also the bean ladle. I had to challenge my beliefs and admit that a taco in a paper bucket is still a taco.

We ate our lunch that day, each satisfied with our respective tastes of old Kentucky and old Mexico, and I guess you could say that I only forgot to order one thing: humble pie. But then I remembered that it's McDonalds that sells those.

It's a complicated life, that's for sure, but it's a good one. I think I'll discuss it with Rosie Perez tonight at the drive-thru.

Video Games: Your Opinion, Please

I have a question for you parents out there, and I really hope you'll share your honest opinion on the matter because I am sincerely interested in what you have to say.

The topic today is video games. In my highly scientific observations of other parents (peeking in windows and tapping phone conversations), I've found that there is a wide range of standards when it comes to the matter of what is and what is not okay for their youngsters to be playing. Now, I have my own ideas on the subject (and maybe I'll share them later), but I'm curious about yours. I'd love it if you would share your opinion on the following questions:

1. Do you monitor which video games your child plays?
2a. If you do, what is your protocol for allowing or denying a certain video game?
2b. If you take a more relaxed, permissive approach, please explain why.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I am not interested at all in your opinion of other parents and their practices; I want to know how YOU personally make decisions on the matter for your own household. (I reserve the right to delete comments if there's any mud-slinging!)

Oh, and one more thing--anonymous comments ARE allowed, so don't hesitate to offer up your opinion, even if it seems unpopular!

Welcome to Movie Island!

This is Movie Island. It might look like an inflatable mattress, because that's what it used to be. However, it is no longer an inflatable mattress. It's a magical island where my family gathers to watch movies. But you can only watch one movie on Movie Island before it disappears into a flat, plastic puddle on the carpet. It's very magical.

I bet you're wondering how you can get your own two-hour magical Movie Island. I've put together a short set of do-it-yourself instructions.

1. Purchase an expensive inflatable mattress at Costco with the intent of using it for decades as a spare sleeping option for houseguests.

2. Leave it inflated in a spare basement room after your houseguests leave.

3. Forget about it for a few months.

4. Ask two small children (preferably boys) to use the mattress as an end zone for indoor football.

5. Ignore the sounds of them making dramatic touchdowns, tackles, and fumbles.

6. Repeat steps 3-5.

7. Check on your mattress after several months. It should be listless and whimpering.

8. Fill it up with air and spend several minutes locating and patching the most significant holes. (Don't worry, there are zillions of tiny holes! You only want to patch the big ones.) Oh, and be sure to use some  profanity. (This is all part of the magical process.)

9. You're almost done! Now it's time to test your magical Movie Island to make sure it has been fully transformed and is no longer an inflatable mattress. Fully inflate it and then sleep on it overnight. If you've been successful, you'll wake on the hard ground after only a few hours. (Note: you can ask a houseguest to perform this step for you.) If you wake on a full mattress, I recommend repeating steps 3-5, but with larger children who are holding knives.

10. Congratulations! You have successfully transformed a regular, expensive air mattress into a magical Movie Island for your family to enjoy for the average length of a feature film!

Helping People Find Themselves One Personality Quiz at a Time

I know what you need today. You need to do a little soul-searching. You need to see yourself as you really are. You need a little bit of introspection and understanding. (Don't we all?)

Go here. Go now.

And don't ever suggest that I haven't put my psychology degree to good use!

It's Always Good to Clarify

At Max's demand request, I wrote a short wish list this morning for Christmas. He was reading over my shoulder.

"What does number two say?" he asked.

"A pedicure."

"What's that?"

"That's when you have somebody paint your toenails for you."

I worked at the list some more.

He interrupted. "So, you want, like, a real, entire person?" and he made the hand motions that illustrated gift-wrapping a human being to put under the tree. He even flickered his fingers on top of his head to signify a bow.

"For the pedicure?" I asked.

"Yeah. Do you mean a whole person?"

"No. Just a gift certificate."

"Oh."

I'm Refusing to Call This Random!

• The Valentine catalog has begun.
• And I am waiting for inspiration and motivation.
• Every hour, on the hour, I send Inspiration and Motivation a text message:
• Where R U guys? R U coming soon?
• I think they are mad at me; they never text back.
• Speaking of texting,
• It took me a loooooong time to use text-speech, like "R U" and such.
• It felt like such a betrayal of my english degree.
• Except that I don't have an english degree.
• But, I like to pretend I have one.
• I practically have one.
• And practically having an english degree is pretty much the same as having one.
• I actually have a psychology degree.
• Which is of the same exact value as a practically-had english degree.
• R U following this?
• I had my hair done this morning.
• Blondification of the roots.
• I am the youngest client of the salon.
• By about 15 years.
• Many, many, mature women have sat next to me under the dryers.
• I didn't realize it until roughly my third visit, when I noticed a place for walker parking.
• Just kidding, there is no walker parking.
• They have to keep their walkers with them or they'll fall down.
• Anyway, today while I was sitting under the dryers reading the AARP magazine, I got to thinking.
• I thought that maybe the salon should give me a discount for being so young.
• I mean, they seem really excited to have me as a client.
• All that walking-on-my-own and everything.
• I'm less likely to slip and fall in the parking lot and sue them.
• And I never drink the complimentary water with Metamucil.
• That's got to count for something!
• The idea for a discount came because I'm always looking for ways to cut the costs of my hair maintenance.
• Hair maintenance in the east is much more costly than it was in the west.
• And I think a junior citizen discount would really help a lot.
• One more funny thing about the hair salon is that the owner has a crush on my hair.
• The owner is a very nice gay man.
• But I'm telling you, he looks at my hair very lustfully.
• I guess he's not into "straight" hair!
• ROFL!
• That reminds me.
• Do you remember the first time you heard the term LOL?
• I do.
• I was instant messaging with a coworker at my old job and I said something funny and he typed back, "LOL."
• And I was like, lol?
• Lol?
• And then I said it out loud, "Lol."
• But it still didn't make any sense.
• And then I said it real slow, "Laaaaawwwwwl."
• But I still didn't get it.
• So I figured it was a typo.
• And I felt bad for him because I judge people for typos.
• And then another day I sent a funny message and another coworker replied with "LOL" and I couldn't take it anymore, so I said, "What does 'LOL' mean?"
• And then the Cool Police came and took my ID card away.
• They probably could have predicted then and there that I'd end up patronizing the old bitty salon.
• "Laugh Out Loud. It means 'Laugh Out Loud.'"
• That's what my coworker said.
• And even though I wasn't cool anymore, I was euphoric.
• Because I had caused someone (two people, actually) to laugh.
• Out loud.
• But eventually, the euphoria wore off.
• Because eventually I came to understand that there is nothing literal about LOL.
• People are big, fat liars.
• I see people texting and IMing everywhere I go.
• AND NOBODY IS LAUGHING OUT LOUD!
• But they claim to be!
• Oh, how they claim to be!
• And then, as soon as I caught on to this LOL-scheme, they came up with ROFL.
• (Which I also had to have explained to me.)
• And I was like, really?
• You expect me to believe that people are actually rolling around on the floor in a fit of laughter?
• I WANT PROOF!
• A phenomenon like that would surely have ended up on the evening news once or twice.
• "A close call today in a downtown office building where hundreds of employees were found on their cubicle floors rolling around. What was first considered a medical pandemic, turned out to be just a really funny joke."
• The irony is that the true definition of "ROFL" is probably closer to "LOL."
• And the true definition of "LOL" is probably closer to "You think you are funny and I'm too nice to argue with you."
• Do u agree?

Therapy Daydreams: "I'll just check a book out from the library or something."

We've all got issues, right? I'm one of those people who believes that we could all benefit from some good, old-fashioned, lie-on-the-sofa-and-spill-your-guts therapy. And sometimes, when I'm all up in my face about my own issues, analyzing them with my PhD-in-law (that's a PhD acquired by marriage), I imagine what it would be like to sit on that sofa and share my thoughts. I imagine it would go something like this...



(Hint: If you're reading this through a feed burner, you have to click over to watch the video.)

The ironic thing is, making this robot movie was strangely therapeutic.

How Does Your Graine Compare to Migraine?

I've head some pretty formal headaches in the past, but I think I had my first real, grownup migraine this weekend. I spent the day in bed, wishing for the escape of sleep, but tossing and turning because I kept being awakened by the annoying sound of a distant neighbor using a leaf blower for what seemed like eleven hours. I pulled the covers over my head, relishing in the darkness and muffled sound, but I quickly ran out of oxygen and eventually decided to take them off my head and live. When the leaf blower finally shut off, I was so happy that I almost cried. I laid my weary head on the pillow and tried to fall asleep, but was interrupted again by the sound of grass growing outside on the lawn. When I tuned out the sound of the grass through careful meditation, my ears began throbbing with the loud clash of dust particles hitting each other mid-air. And then, to add insult to injury, I felt a piercing sensation caused by the nails-on-the-chalkboard sound of the cotton balls in the bathroom drawer sitting next to each other in a pile. Light hurt my eyes and vomit threatened to interrupt every shift of my body. Ryan brought me migraine medicine and a drink. Max brought me my giant sunglasses. I wore them in the dark bedroom while I watched Fine Living Network for seven hours straight, composing imaginary hate mail to the cotton balls for their heartless disregard all the while.

Fine living, indeed.

Do you get migraines? What do they feel like to you?

Angsty Birthday Song

Max spontaneously sang this (original) song on the beach over the summer. And, no, it wasn't his birthday, not even close. I dedicate it to my brother James who is turning 30 this weekend. Happy birthday, J.D.! I hope it's not a rip off!



I'm thinking of submitting it to the Friend to be published and used as an alternate birthday song in Primary. What do you think?

Compliments With a Chance of Meatballs

Yesterday I ran away from my computer. I have to do that sometimes when I fear we are becoming co-dependent. The kids were out of school for an inservice day and the sun was shining, so I gave my computer the cold shoulder and put the kids in the car to run away.

"Where are we going?" they asked from the back seat.
"Somewhere fabulous!" I said.
"Like, where?" they asked with thick skepticism.
"IKEA!" I said with all the enthusiasm of a varsity cheerleader.
The noise from the backseat was a mix between a dying cat and a weary woman in her 73rd hour of labor.
"Oh, come on," I said, "we'll have meatballs. It will be great."

Within a few minutes, we'd struck a somewhat regular deal: if they were patient and long suffering while I shopped, I would take them to their favorite bargain store on the way home for a cheap toy. That's right, I bribe them to shop with me. Don't judge. My diplomatic skills are enviable.

Why was I headed to IKEA? I can't say what the lure is, exactly. I have a very traditional-style home and no need for furniture, but there's something about IKEA that I find very.....alluring. I walk around the showrooms and feel inspired to be more.....I don't know, European? I like walking through the swanky imaginary living rooms and kitchens where my imaginary Swedish friends Sven and Monika live. I ring their imaginary DUURBEL and ask to borrow a cup of SHOOGHRE. And while Sven is off in the kitchen, Monika and I tell each other witty GJOHKKS and compliment each other's SKAARVZ.

IKEA makes me feel bilingual. Plus, I love those meatballs.

The drive took a while and when the sixth indie-folk song played on the stereo, Max made a suggestion from the backseat.

"Let's do compulments instead of listening to music," he said.
"OK, we'll do compliments," I said, turning the music off.

We do on-demand compliment-fests from time to time in our family. It's very a very warm-and-fuzzy activity and the place I first learned that I was considered a "fashionist" by Max, which I believe is a fashionable pacifist. Which is pretty much what I am.

"You go first, Mom." Max said.
"OK, Max," I said, "I like the way you build aircraft carriers out of paper."
"Thanks," he said.
"And, Christian, I like the way that you get up every morning with no complaint. I admire that."
"Um, thanks," said Christian with one headphone in his ear.

"OK, Christian," said Max, "it's your turn to give compulments."
"Um, I don't think I want to play," said Christian as he put both headphones in his ears. Then he pulled one out and said, "Actually, I'll play but I don't want to give any compliments. I just want to get them."

I guffawed.

Ever accommodating, Max agreed to this and gave us each a compliment. I followed his be-the-bigger-man lead and gave them each another compliment. Max took a turn and then must have run out of ideas because he announced that he'd probably prefer to just receive compliments and not give any more.

I guffawed again, but I guess they thought I was coughing.

Suddenly, it became very clear what was happening.  They had the upper hand and they knew it. I was a victim of extortion. First, they wanted cheap toys and now they wanted unlimited compliments, and they knew that I would oblige because I really wanted to go to IKEA and wander the showrooms and eat meatballs with gravy and jam! What was next, I wondered? Cash?

As Sven and Monika would say, I was totally SKKRWD.

Please Tell Me That Big Eighties Hair Is Coming Back

Fingers crossed, people, fingers crossed.

P.S. Just for clarification, I'm not constipated anymore. That look on my face is called "cautiously optimistic."

Wanna Read Part of My Book?

I've mentioned it before, but just in case you're new around here, I'm trying to write a book. And let me tell you a few things I've learned so far:

1. Writing a book feels kind of like deciding you're going to go out into the backyard and count all the blades of grass and organize them according to height and girth and shade of green. And then ignoring the truth when you know that, realistically, it's probably impossible.
2. Writing a book makes you intensely interested in other people because you're suddenly a sponge for ideas. I saw a t-shirt over the summer that said, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel." People of the world, please consider yourself officially forewarned.
3. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm excited to be doing it.
4. I have no idea where story lines are going, but I'm excited about them.
5. The more I talk about it and share it with others, the more committed I am to moving it along. I have discovered that I am motivated by accountability and deadlines, so I'm trying to create both as I go. (I am also motivated by pasta and burritos, but I haven't figured out how to incorporate those.)

Since I announced that I was starting a book here on my blog, and because you are so kind and encouraging, I've decided to start posting excerpts here for you to read. I hope you will enjoy them and I hope that I will have many, many more to share with you as this baby of a book gestates full term. I am shutting comments off for this post because I need to practice putting this out there without knowing what people think. I promise that it's not because I'm afraid of critical feedback; I'm more afraid that in this context I would only get positive comments from really nice people and could get a false sense of how it's really being read. So, I'm offering this as a no-strings-attached slice of this book. You can love it or hate it or sort of like it or not care about it and I'll never know. So many of you wonderful souls have told me that you know I can do this, but I need to practice proving that I know I can do this. Does that make sense? (You can't answer that because I shut comments off.) You are, however, welcome to send me pasta or burritos as motivation.

So, here it goes. I don't want to give too much preface, but you should know that this story is being told from the point-of-view of a ten-year-old boy named Clooney. (And just to be safe, you should also know that this is copyrighted and if you copy it or use it in any way, you will be hunted down and prosecuted by my cousin Guido and his baseball bat. Mmmkay?)

An excerpt (isn't "excerpt" a funny word?):

Britt’s funeral was…weird.  First of all, I hated him, and I’m not sure you’re supposed to go to the funerals of your arch enemies.  He used to beat me up every day after school.  One time he kicked me in the back so hard, I peed red.  I didn’t tell my mom because that was during her depressed time, and I couldn’t see how red pee would do anything but make things worse.  I didn’t know what to do, even though I thought about it every night before I went to sleep, and every morning about two minutes after I woke up.  I finally came up with a plan to get a King Cobra snake and keep it in my backpack until after school.  I figured that I could train it to strike my enemies as soon as they began an attack.  I checked out a book on King Cobras from the library and found out within the first few pages that they are not very trainable.  Before I came up with another plan, Britt “dropped over dead.” 

Problem solved.

Our whole entire class went to the funeral together on a Friday morning when we were supposed to be in school.  We got special permission from the principal.  Some of the parents came, but my mom had to work, so I just went along, following behind the others.  My mom made me wear my darkest pair of jeans and a shirt with buttons.  She combed my hair and put gel in it that morning to keep it nice and flat the whole day.  She combed it so carefully, I remember, and then set the comb down and held my face in her hands.

“I’m really sorry about your friend Britt,” she said.  “I know it’s hard to lose somebody.  And if you need to cry or talk about it, you just come to me, okay?”

I hadn’t realized it, but tears were filling up in my eyes, because I was thinking about how I had wanted to cry and talk to her about Britt back when he was beating the crap out of me, but I hadn’t dared to tell her.

She saw my tears and hugged me and held me tight like a cast.  And the tighter she held, the more the tears fell out.  And the more the tears fell out, the more the snot started to run from my nose, but I didn’t even wipe it because I was too busy bawling and wishing I had told her about the red pee.

Finally, she released me and took me by the shoulders, crouching to look in my eyes.

“Oh, honey,” she said, “he was a good friend to you, wasn’t he?”

I looked at the floor.  Then I lied another one of my lies and said yes.

Random: Sunday Night Edition

• It's Sunday night.
• I have Sunday Night Anxiety.
• Sunday Night Anxiety is when you realize the weekend is almost over and you haven't accomplished much of anything.
• I'm not sure what I was hoping to accomplish.
• There are dishes in the sink.
• I wish I would have accomplished doing the dishes tonight.
• I also wish that I would have magically finished some work.
• On Friday night, I always think I'm going to get some work done over the weekend.
• I rarely get any work done over the weekend.
• I'm tired.
• I'm also constipated.
• I'm never constipated.
• I pride myself in very regular bowel movements.
• Raise your hand if you feel uncomfortable right now.
• Halloween was fun.
• Max's best friend from school came over to trick-or-treat with us.
• He is Pakistani.
• Before he came over, Ryan was asking me about him.
• "What does he look like?" Ryan asked.
• "He looks like the Pakistani version of Max," I said.
• Swap Max's goldilocks for jet black hair and darken his skin tone four or five shades and there you have it.
• Other than that, they look remarkably alike.
• Have you ever wondered if you have a Pakistani version of yourself out there?
• I have.
• I have also wondered if my Pakistani twin is constipated.
• I hope she isn't.
• Constipation feels like hurrying to get into a movie, popcorn in hand, finding a seat, and then waiting for a movie that never starts.
• I mean, it seems like the movie is going to start, but it never does.
• Raise your hand if you've had enough metaphors for the day.
• I'm tired, but I think I already mentioned that.
• I liked reading the comments on my last post.
• It got me thinking.
• I'm not sure I expressed exactly what I wanted to say.
• I hate that feeling.
• I trimmed my fingernails today.
• I like them short.
• My dad used to trim my fingernails during church with the nail clippers he kept on his key ring.
• He'd even file them and push back the cuticles.
• Funny, the memories that stick with you.
• Sometimes I get overwhelmed being the mom.
• Like, knowing that toilets wouldn't get flushed without my prompting.
• Or hands washed.
• Or teeth brushed.
• Or baths taken.
• Or laundry washed.
• Or bedtime acknowledged.
• Or homework completed.
• Or dog let out.
• I don't like feeling overwhelmed.
• Especially on a Sunday night.
• Max needs to go to bed.
• It's past his bedtime because I am protesting motherhood right now.
• I've spent the last hour conducting an experiment.
• To see if he will tuck himself in.
• My hypothesis was that he wouldn't tuck himself in.
• And I was exactly right.
• He's wide awake and drawing a cartoon right now.
• I have proven a theory: My kids don't fall asleep voluntarily.
• He needs to go to bed.
• Even though he doesn't know it.
• I know it.
• I guess he needs me.
• That's not such a bad thing.
• Goodnight, y'all.

All That the Blog Leaves Out

Does this ever happen to you as a blogger? You learn of a new reader and suddenly you look at yourself and your blog through this person's eyes? You re-read your most recent posts with this new lens and a furrowed brow. And then you become frozen in a coma of hyper-focused self-doubt?

Yes? {Crickets chirping.} No?

Upon request, I gave my blog address to a new friend. I was sincerely excited and flattered that she wanted to read. However, as I handed over the slip of paper with the URL written, I became ill with self-doubt and felt compelled to say, "I swear I'm not nearly as self-absorbed as I seem on my blog." It was a statement, but it sounded more like a plea. "Or as shallow!" I wanted to shout, but that seemed a little self-absorbed. And shallow. I also resisted the urge to crawl under the table.

I'm as fickle as a pickle; thrilled to share what I've written in one moment and churning in embarrassment the next. (I wonder, is this what makes me a writer?)

When this happens, I usually spend some quiet moments in the worn-out wingback chair deep in the mahogany library of my brain, holding an unlit pipe to my lips and asking myself, "Is my blog a good representation of who I really am? What does the blog leave out?"

As I ponder the answer, I usually develop a headache because pondering is very hard work for my mind. Besides that, the lighting is bad in my brain library, and that kind of gives me a headache too. After the pondering, I start pleading my case for and against myself. To myself. And then I let myself be the judge.

I usually settle down and embrace the fact that blogging is my wonderfully self-indulgent hobby that fulfills a need to express myself and my parade of passing thoughts. Narcissistic? Sure. Completely subjective? Of course. Worthwhile? Absolutely. It cancels the desire I might otherwise have to hush everybody and shout, "I'm telling the story!"

But, of course, there are parts left out, and the dangerously delightful thing is that I get to choose exactly what is left on the cutting room floor. And though I try to write this blog for myself, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that everything I post here is written with an audience in mind, an audience made up of people I love and respect as well as people who are completely anonymous to me. And I like all of them, I really do.

So what gets left out?

This blog is not a diary for me and, therefore, will never be the place where I splatter my uncensored opinions, never caring who gets smacked in the face with one of my flying notions. I save my flying notions for my real diary. (Actually, I don't have a real diary. My flying notions are saved for my conversations with Ryan; he loves my uncensored, flying opinions.) The point is that I try to be careful and thoughtful because I'd like this to be a friendly place for one and all. You know, like Disneyland but with free churros. Some blogs are all about opinion and debate, but that's not my goal. My goal is Disneyland. With free churros.

Next place for edit? The family. While I aim to portray a realistic view of my family (because this is a record of my life), I don't share everything about my husband and kids and our relationships. The longer I blog, the more sensitive I feel about finding the fine line between being authentic in my storytelling and being exploitive, especially regarding my kids. I didn't have my kids just so that I would have plenty of fodder for my blog. I had them for manual labor, so I've got to keep them healthy and happy. A good worker is a happy worker.

In the same way that I strive to be respectful of those reading this, I try to be respectful of anybody I write about. If I write about someone who doesn't know about my blog, I change their name. Or, I  let them know and ask for their permission. When it comes to my family, I don't write anything about them that they would be unhappy or embarrassed to read. If I'm not sure, I ask them. And, occasionally, I think the precious, funny moments I share with them ought to stay just between us, so I don't write about them at all. I never want my first thought when something is said or done to be, "I can't wait to blog this!" I want to live my life first and blog about it later.

What else? Hmmm, let's see.... I don't write about fights or feuds with anybody. I don't see how this would ever be a good idea, and I could never pretend that this story I'm telling is anything but one-sided. On the other hand, little arguments are fine to write about, especially if I say something clever, and especially if I am right.

OK, that's it. That's everything that gets left out. Well, except for my current body weight--that's totally off limits. Unless I ever manage to weigh 103 pounds. In that case, I will start every blog post with, "HEY EVERYBODY, I WEIGH 103 POUNDS! In other news..." I don't see it ever happening, but I'd like to have a plan in place.

{Crickets chirping.}

Wow! Would you look at the time?

I'm think I'm finished now contemplating with my unlit pipe in my dark mahogany library. I'm glad I've taken a moment to ask myself a few questions about all that is said and unsaid, and I'm comfortable with my answers. It's an incomplete portrait, for sure, but if you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can tell it's of me and my family. That's the way I want it, I suppose.

And now I'd like to ask you: What are your thoughts? What do you leave out of your blog and why? And also, would you like a churro? They're free!

Caring for the Sick and Afflicted

Ryan came down with the flu on Sunday. I'm not sure if it's brand name flu or just generic flu, but it doesn't really matter to me. I find that you can pick up designer flus at any number of discount places if you just know how to look for it. My favorite technique is a quick lick of doorknobs and countertops--works like a charm.

This morning I went to the local pharmacy to pick up some supplies for my darling infested husband, including the following staples:

• Two DVDs from RedBox to watch
• Daytime cold and flu medicine
• Nighttime cold and flu medicine
• Sore throat lozenges
• Cough drops
• Neosporin (to rub in the nose and on the throat)
• Puffs Plus with lotion
• Cranberry juice
• Nighttime baby wash with lavender
• Reese's pieces
• A two-pound bag of M&Ms
• A big bag of candy pumpkins made out of the candy corn stuff
• Two little skull tea light holders
• Gum

He should be better in no time.