Here's a thought for you:  Women.  Everyone is aware, on some level, of how women are expected to play two entirely different roles in their lives -- the good girl/ bad girl paradigm.  A freak in the sack, a lady in public.  Someone nice to introduce to your family in friends, somebody wild to take out to parties.  Someone stable and sane and kind to mother your children, someone fun and crazy and maybe a little fierce to f*ck you up when you're out and about.

As a girl, I've spent my life searching for a balance between the two.  As a girl who primarily has male friends, I've heard about their frustrations in finding and losing girlfriends who are also trying to find that balance.  Somehow, despite having internalized that societal conditioning and incorporating into my personality and life, I never thought to wonder where it came from.  It just is.  

Then I picked up The Ethical Slut, and there's a throwaway mention in there about how the fall of Eve demonized women for centuries, making them vile temptresses who were responsible for the sins of the flesh.  Then along came the Victorian Era, and suddenly women were expected to be the stop on men's out-of-control sex drives, their insatiable need for the hungers of the flesh.  Now women were the responsible, delicate, asexual flowers who stamped out the fires of lust and desire.

Of course, the switch wasn't as dramatic as that: it took centuries of slow shift and change.  People like the Virgin Queen, with her image of purity, and the pervasive images of Jesus' Mary as a benevolent mother and patron saint also helped the shift.  Joan d'Arc and other notable figures also helped affect the change, as well as other, quieter and more minor characters -- the everyday working women, the countless religious women who swore their lives to chastity.  Then, of course, there was the abysmal sex education promoted by the catholic church, resulting in terrified noble-blooded virgins having their bloodied bedsheets aired for all and sundry, and in some cases having their first times actually witnessed -- enough to put some women off sex for years.

So with all these women unknowingly contributing to the change in image, the image of woman was indeed changing over the years.  She was a sloe-eyed temptress of the night, the witch-beckoning Lilith who demon-whispered men into sin, and she became a pure and delicate angel, a clear-eyed milkmaid with a gentle smile and soft hands.  She became the girl next door, the friend, the sister/ mother/ daughter.  The thing is, nobody wants to be in a relationship with the sister/ mother/ daughter (for obvious reasons).  They do, but they don't.  They want that girl next door, the decent, nice girl who their family will like -- but if she's like that all the time, she's boring, she's quiet, she's dull.

Everyone wants the witch-eyed girl, everyone.  They want the wild-calling laugh, the beckoning finger, the quirk of a smile saying, "C'mon, just this once -- let's try it."  

And I'm not just talking guys and boyfriends and relationships and marriage here, either.  I'm talking friendships, too.  I've met the dull girls, and we never stay friends for long.  They itch at the back of my neck, and I find myself jittery in their presence, suggesting that we do this or that and when my suggestions are shot down I'm always surprised and disappointed because I'm not suggesting anything wild, I'm fairly tame by most standards -- going to the bar on a Friday night occasionally, big whoop, you get a sitter, right?  Teaching them to ride my old motorcycle up and down the street, not a big deal, it's a little 250cc and it's up and down a deserted street at maybe 15-20 mph, what could be less risky?

But our entire society has so internalized the good girl/ bad girl dichotomy that every woman has to find her balance.  And some of us tilt more toward the so-called "bad girl," and we're frowned upon by those considered more "good girl," conservative types.  And those women, those women who tilt toward the more conservative, those who tend to plan and consider every action -- all this history and societal twisting has thrown them a cruel curveball, because if they act conservative and reserved and repressed in their daily life, then they're more likely to be called "frigid," "ice queen," "bitch" or any number of slurs that may or may not be true.  And all because in Victorian times, it was deemed we ladies were the stops on the raging, out-of-control libidos.

Which, interestingly, must be where the stupid, antiquated idea that rape is the woman's fault comes from.  "She couldn't keep his libido in check, totally her fault!"

 BUT LET IT BE KNOWN.

A)  That for some reason I pronounce the word "known" as "no-en"

B) That cagers have endangered my husband's life no less than 4 times in the last week.

C) That my medications are not working well and finding a new psychiatrist is not a simple task in state as rainy and neurotic as this.  

D) That Wordstock took place in Portland last weekend and I met Sarah Rees Brennan, author of "The Demon's Lexicon" (she signed my book and conversed very nicely with me!) and Scott Westerfeld of Uglies fame.  I also bought some books and I cannot recommend Laini Taylor more highly now.  I think I have a new girl crush.  Seriously.  Also, her husband's artwork?  I think I have a new couple-crush.  Oh-my-goodness.  Buy her book -- "Lips Touch: Three Times"  Believe me, it's beautiful.  Visually and literally.

E) That the cat has not stopped pee'ing by the back door, and we're bringing out the big guns (pheromone spray, yeah).

And finally, let it be known that

F) I just freaking got over the friggin flu of the century (or so it felt to me) not two flippin' weeks ago, and I've already got the sniffles again!  WTF?!?

 There is a despair so intense and perfect, it is almost sweet.  It’s a despair beyond despair, that point when you realize that life is not what you thought it would be, and never will be, but you are determined to push through anyway.

I’m drifting today.  I feel insulated, in a light little bubble, apart and separate from everyone else.  It’s a bubble of air and sunlight and delicacy, so it should feel happy, but it doesn’t.  It feels ineffably, strangely sad.  My eyes keep unexpectedly brimming with tears as I fold the laundry or mop the floor.

Little A’s in the rec room, playing video games with his friend.  I made them lunch.  Little A seems to sense that there’s something off about me, because he’s speaking with a hushed and worried voice, even though I haven’t snapped or spoken at him in irritation once today.  His friend, who’s been over before and is normally very chatty, keeps following me with his eyes.  There are awkward silences.  I don’t know what to do about that.  Maybe I’m misinterpreting.  They are only 7.

I realized that bipolar is incurable.  I mean, I knew that already, obviously.  Duh.  But sometimes the knowledge hits me like a trainwreck, and sometimes it creeps up on me and slips a cloth saturated with chloroform over my nose.  Today was the chloroform day.  I hate that it’s incurable.

I hate the medications.  I wouldn’t mind if they helped on an actual regular basis.  But they don’t, not really.  And Big Pharma is losing credibility and cash, and strangely enough the placebo (!) pill seems to be putting up an actual challenge to the status quo.  At the moment, I’m stuck with the status quo, which is considered by much of the scientific and medical community to be . . . well, it’s got to be better than going medication-less, right?

I miss cigarettes.  I know, horrible, right?  We all know cigarettes (gasp) cause lung cancer.  And they smell.  And they’re socially unacceptable.  But after I quit smoking, I went into this massive depression, and even though we’ve been fiddling with my meds ever since, we haven’t been able to find a mood stabilizer on par with nicotine.  Yes, nicotine is a mood stabilizer – a depressant.  I wish they would use nicotine as a medication, or put it in medical form or something. 

I’m empty right now, all drawn out of anything.  I don’t really know what to do today, or what I have to offer.  Anyone.  I just want to sleep for a bit, but that’s too heavy, too foggy, too warm.  I suppose I kind of want to meditate.  I want the house emptied and silence and light.  I want to be able to drift through the perfect lightness of silence and do as I please – not chores or laundry or cooking or bills or job hunting.  I want to do something enjoyable.  Writing.  Baking.  Reading.  Drawing.  

The two most common clichés, if overused words count as clichés, that I dislike are "hate" and "literally."  I dislike the overuse of the word "hate" on principle.  I think that hating something requires a lot of energy and dedication.  It's hate.  It's not some fleeting emotion -- this is something requires long-term nurture.  And lets face it: anger is a tiring thing to maintain over long-term.  So when someone says, "Ugh, I just hate Crocs, they're so stupid," that speaks to me of an extremely disturbed personality, or someone who doesn't really get the concept of hate.

I've also heard it said that hate is the flip side of love -- that you can't truly hate something or someone unless you loved them first.  I disagree with that premise.  But I wouldn't know -- I personally hold the view that if someone is truly worth hating, you shouldn't waste your time and energy thinking about them.  Whenever someone annoys me to the point that I begin to dislike their presence, they become nonexistant to me.

As for "literally" -- somewhere along the way, people got "literally" mixed up with "metaphorically" and "figuratively."  It's funny yet annoying.  I'm getting tired of hearing it everywhere I go.  I heard it at the bookstore the other day.  -- "I will literally die if she doesn't write another book."

I don't know who this girl was referring to.  I don't really want to know.  I don't care who the author is -- nobody's that good.  Nobody.  And I can't imagine a scenario wherein this girl is going to die unless the author writes another book (well, I can -- but it's pretty far-fetched).

Please.  Can somebody put out a bulletin highlighting the subtle yet distinct differences between "literally" and "figuratively?"  I know they're difficult to figure out, seeing as one is, well, actual physical reality and the other is, um, not.  

 Poor Little A! 

Let me back up a little.  In our little family of three, J is usually working at “dinner time.”  We’re starting to make a family tradition of a sit-down luncheon, but for five nights of the week, J is at work at the nationally/ socially accepted “family dinner time.”

As it’s just Little A and I, I tend to go one of two ways.  One, I make a traditional dinner that provides lots of leftovers.  Two, I make sandwiches or heat leftovers.

The problem is, like most seven-year-olds, Little A has a very limited and definite palate.  At this point in time, he knows what he does and doesn’t like, and it doesn’t matter if he’s ever tasted what he doesn’t like or not. 

So in frustration, some weeks back I decreed that Little A would eat whatever I fixed at mealtimes, with no complaining or demanding for other.  Well, Little A responded by eating as little as he could get away with.  This left me in a bit of a conundrum – I didn’t want to force him to eat everything on his plate, as that’s just encouraging over-eating and misunderstanding proper portion sizes.  I really try to put a “child” portion on his plate, but I’m afraid I don’t completely understand portion sizes.  I do know that a McDonald’s Happy Meal is the proper portion size for an average adult, but I unfortunately do not know what the proper portion size for an average child is.

I decided that (since I still didn’t want to be making “extra” meals after he ate dinner) that he didn’t get any food after he finished dinner – although he could have second helpings of dinner, if he asked.

Anyway, today he ate what was on his plate (pot roast – J and I thought it was delicious) under much complaint. I told him if he didn’t finish everything on his plate, I wouldn’t read him Harry Potter tonight.  So he dutifully ate everything on his plate, even trying to scoop up the gravy.

Skip an hour or so to his bedtime.  I read him a story and let him talk on the phone to his dad for a bit.  Then I tuck him in and retreat to my bedroom to read in peace.  I hear the tell-tale pit-pat of a child’s footstep, creeping into the kitchen.  It’s entirely possible that what I think is Little A moving around is actually Sirius or one of the cats dashing about the house, so I wait and listen.  It’s definitely Little A, so I go to his room.

He’s just tumbling into bed as I open his door, and I say, “What were you doing out of bed?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

“What were you doing in the kitchen?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

“What have you got?”

He giggles and squirms into his bedclothes, not responding.  I walk into the room and manage to pry him off his blanket, uncovering his coveted banana. 

“Little A,” I say.  “You had your dinner.  You know the rules.”

He giggles and squirms as I pick up the banana. 

“If you wanted something to eat, you should’ve had seconds,” I say as I head toward the door.  He lets out a great sigh, followed by a cry of, “MoooOoOOoOOOOoooom!” as I reach the door.  I turn and look at him, saying severely but calmly, “You know the rule, Little A.”

And this is where it got bad.

He let out a deep groan of exasperation, throwing himself dramatically forward on his belly – and neatly slamming his face into a toy semi truck that had been concealed under his blankets and pillows.  He let out a shocked cry of pain at the same moment I cut short a cry of shock (I’ve found it’s best not to respond with too much noise to Little A’s cuts and bruises, or he begins to act as though he’s about to die).  I flip on the light and hurry over, and he’s covered with blood.

I swear, my heart flipped and stopped in my chest.  I quickly took his chin in my hand and examined his mouth for loose teeth, but it was only a deep cut on his lip.  Something in my face – or perhaps the taste and feel of blood in his mouth – made him ask, tremblingly, “Am I bleedining?”

“It’s okay,” I said.  I don’t know how I managed to stay calm in the face of all that blood.  Normally, I’d be freaking out a little bit at least.  But like I said, with Little A, a little bit of freak out on my part equals a lot of freak out on his.  “You’ll be fine.  I’ll be right back.”

So I grabbed some toilet paper out of the hallway bath and stopped the bleeding.  Then I got a little baggie of crushed ice and wrapped it in a washcloth for him to hold against his lip.  I carefully washed  off the blood that had gotten smeared on his tummy, ankles, wrists, neck and cheek.  I carefully checked his teeth one last time.  Then I tucked him in, making sure he was holding the ice pack against his quickly-swelling lip.  He looked up at me with big teary eyes and I (horrible, heartless parent that I am) quickly took advantage of the moment to create a learning experience.

“Didn’t I say not to keep toys in your bed?”

Nods.

“Didn’t I tell you to eat all your dinner and not sneak into the kitchen after dinner time?”

Nods.

“I guess we know why, now, huh?”

Nods, tearfully.

“Mmmmkay.  I love you.  Keep that ice pack on your lip.  Goodnight, sweetie.”

And a kiss on the forehead.

 

Poor kid!

 I had such bad insomnia last night.  Not even cool.  I took my meds and everything, but I just couldn’t sleep.  My meds, by the way, include Seroquel which has a sedative side effect.  Hell, it might be a primary effect, given it’s an anti-psychotic (I take it to control manic episodes).  Anyway, I’m usually out and dead to the world within 30 min of taking it.

Not last night.  Oh no, not last night.  Last night, I kept drifting off to almost-sleep.  To that state where you’re drowsing and at peace, and if you could care enough to think about it, you’d know you’ll be asleep in another 5 seconds.

And then . . . I wouldn’t sleep.  I’d start concentrating on some outward stimulus, like the cats eating their food.  I’d think, “That’s so loud.  How can they eat so loudly?  They’re like a garbage disposal with nails in it.”

And from that last thought, I’d associate with this tv series I’m watching (How I Met Your Mother) the first few seasons of, and start making up stories about the characters.  Then I’d realize that I was wide awake again and I start trying to fall back asleep.  Listen to my heartbeat, make up a really boring story and concentrate on the most boring details . . . that sort of thing.

But alas, I’d get to that almost point, then something else would catch my sleepy attention and I’d wake myself back up.  Cats jumping and playing.  Moonlight shining through the bathroom window.  Dog shifting in the kennel and letting out that half-whine/half-sigh he does when he’s sleeping. 

This, my friends, is why I have completely and utterly banned electronics from our bedroom.  If this stupid stuff wakes me so easily, can you imagine what would happen if the hum of a computer, or the blinking lights of some alarm clock or laptop was in our room?  That’s right: NEVER SLEEP.

Sometimes the light from a charging phone will bother me.  It’s sad, it really is.

Anyway, our bedroom and master bathroom doors are both broken.  So the cats can jump in and out of a hole in the bedroom door, making lots of noise as they do.  And the bathroom door can’t be shut all the way, so I can see the moonlight and hear the cats eating with absolute clarity. 

Also, I’d like to ask all train operators or conductors or whatever the hell they’re called:  Why do you honk the horn for the entire 15 minutes it takes you to get through town?  Why?  Especially when it’s one friggin o’clock in the morning?  People are trying to sleep and you are not helping!  If you’re that worried, honk as you approach a crossing.  I believe that’s the general rule of thumb.  Not a straight honk all the way through town.

Idiots.

So, Tuesday was of the awesome.  I managed to get my lovely sil, Nellie, to watch Little A.  Nellie, who is awesomeness defined, agreed to watch the little bratling (and I say that fondly, for those of you who do not understand textual nuances and subtleties) overnight.  This is beyond cool, because Little A loves his cousin J.J. so much.  Every time I tell Little A that I’ve arranged a play date or that friends are coming over, his first question is, “Is it J.J.?”

When I must answer no – as I must the majority of the time – Little A is temporarily crestfallen until I’ve convinced him that the alternative I have arranged is just as cool.  Anyway, the other great thing about Nellie watching Little A is that we’re doing it on an exchange basis – in a week or two, I’ll be watching J.J. for an equivalent amount of time.  I’m looking forward to it, both because my nephew is very sweet and funny and cool and because Little A needs more socialization.

So we drop Little A off at Nellie’s around 9:50, and we’re heading home by 10:30 or so.  Once at home, we gear up and we’re on the road by 12:30 or so.  J chose the route, I chose the destination.  We headed down to Westport, where we’d heard that a little store near the pier we used to crab at had burnt down.  The store had not, in fact, burnt down – although I did see a building in town that was pretty obviously fire-damaged.  But the store with the Italian sodas and mini-lending library was intact, I am happy to report.

As is becoming usual, J and I had another minor spat over our differing riding styles.  He loves the speed and the challenge, and sees no reason to slow down.  I, on the other hand, am starting to think I should’ve bought a cruiser.  Not so much because I don’t like my bike (which I adore), but because it would be a more visual symbol that one of the large reasons I enjoy riding is the scenery.  I like taking in my surrounding, smelling the air and the grass and the . . . well, not the farmlands.  Ew. 

But I do love the way that riding on a motorcycle, much more than a drive in a car, acquaints you with your surroundings.  A car boxes you away, insulates you from the world.  In a car, you’re disconnected from the feel of the road and the visual beauty of your surroundings – you can glimpse parts of it out your window, but it’s nothing compared to the panorama that arcs before you on a motorcycle. 

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I love riding motorcycle just as much as J does, but not necessarily for the same reasons.  I do enjoy the challenge, and I would certainly like to take corners faster than I currently do – but it’s not the most paramount thing to me in a ride.  I’d like to take corners faster and improve my skills more for safety’s sake – the better my skills, the longer I ride (hopefully).

Anyway, we had a short spat during a rest stop, during which I said that if J was so confused about which speed I was going, we just ought to let me ride in front.

Now, I tell you what – I didn’t think J would go for that at all.  But he did.  I headed out in the lead, and J followed.  After that, we had a great time.  He kept joking around, speeding up to try and grab my ass, then falling back when I whipped my head around to look at him.  He took the lead when we came to towns or changes in direction – places we needed to turn and I didn’t know the route.  He followed my lead when I passed vehicles, and waited patiently as I took corners at the speeds I felt comfortable with. 

It was awesome.  I had a great time, and given that J was relaxed and laughing at the end of the ride, I’m going to go out on a limb and say he had a good time, too.

But does it get better?  Oh, yes, it gets better.  We decided to see a movie that evening after we arrived home.  J wanted to see Transformers: Return of the Fallen, but I’ve heard some really horrible things about how completely lame it is from people whose opinion I trust.  So I really didn’t want to waste money on my movie ticket when I knew I’d hate it.  Instead, we agreed on Star Trek.  I'll include my review in tomorrow's post (dun dun duuuuun).

 

Today I read yet another news story about somebody calling 911 because they were upset about their fast food restaurant experience.  Now, you’d think this kind of behavior would be relatively rare, because it’s so completely retarded. 

Unfortunately, I’ve read maybe 3 or 4 articles of this type in the last 6 months.  That means that there are at least 3 or 4 people in the United States who honestly and 100% believed that 911 was a viable option if they were upset about their McDonalds burger having pickles when they specifically said “no pickles.”

I always thought 911 was for emergencies -- you know, the life-and-death type thing.  The number you call when you’re terrified for your life or someone else’s.  The number you call when you’re abruptly and unexpectedly faced with a medical situation you can’t handle – like a woman going into labor unexpectedly.

But apparently this isn’t the prevailing mindset.  Reading though the comments on this particular story, I noticed such statements as:

“You and the 9-1-1 operator are both wrong. The cops have it locked up so the only way to get a cop is to call 9-1-1. It is not the dispatcher's job to filter the complaint beyond determining whether it is a call for fire, aid or police. 

Additionally, if the man had reached in and snatched $8 from the clerk, the store would have a legitimate reason to call 9-1-1. Just because it is the store that is robbing the customer does not make it any less of a robery [sic].” – Glassman.

You think he’s alone in his opinion?  Sadly, not hardly.

“Really life or death? How many people have called 911 for a noisy party, drinking beer in public, loitering, etc.

The only way to reach the police, especially after hours, is to call 911.” – bckwood.

Or how about this one:

“This sounds really stupid, but there is an important point to keep in mind about most of Washington state: 

To get a hold of the police (life threatening or not) you need to call 911. Many police districts do not have a non emergency line. Some do and some do not. I have even called a non emergency line once and was told even though my "report" was not life threatening, I needed to call 911 and say it is a non emergency situation and they would transfer me to the right place. 

It is sad that 911 has come to this. I don't like calling 911 unless it truly is an emergency!” – melz.

I’d like to point out that the incident ‘melz’ is responding to took place in Oregon, not Washington.  Yet another instance of reading comprehension > internet denizen.

To sum up the content of the above quotes:  Numerous people apparently believe that the only way to contact the police department when they feel they have a legitimate complaint (which, by the way, I don’t think a fast-food order mistake counts) is via 911.  Apparently a familiarity with the printed phone book (which has a list of non-emergency numbers, right there in the front couple pages) is completely obsolete – as well as any inclination to use the websites available (such as dexknows or yellowpages) to find the non-emergency numbers.

As far as the final quoted assertion that many police districts do not have a non-emergency line – I find this extremely unlikely, but never say never.  I suppose it’s possible that a police district might try to save money by using 911 to filter all calls, emergency and non.  The 911 networks we access are funded locally, not nationally, after all.  It doesn’t seem logical or likely, however. The other assertion, that a dispatch operator re-directed a non-emergency caller to the 911 number has less to do with non-existence of non-emergency dispatch number and more, I would think, to do with human error or laziness on the part of the dispatcher.

I actually have the non-emergency contact number for our local police department in my cell phone.  I’ve only used it once or twice – when I wanted to report suspicious activity on our street, as car prowls and break-ins for the surrounding businesses are more common than we’d like.  But I have used it for non-emergency calls. 

I think these particular news articles indicate a need for people to be made aware that non-emergency numbers do exist and are readily available.  Perhaps it would be a good idea for people to not only find out their local non-emergency number, but input it into their cell – especially if they’re prone to calling the police over minor complaints.

Just sayin’.

 

 

Oh, and Farrah Fawcett, too.

Right, so that’s not really breaking news.  And if you’re somehow learning about it just now, from my little-to-never read blog, then wow.  You don’t get out much, do you?

But yeah, so the King of Pop and Queen of . . . something . . . are dead.  Which is apparently Big News.  I don’t know why.  Then again, I don't get the whole concept of fame: Why anyone would want it, or why certain people obtain it and others who are more deserving of attention don’t.  I mean, honestly – people know more about Michel Jackson than they do about Svante Pääbo, who’s part of the  Max Planck Institute. He’s working (with many other scientists) on mapping the Neanderthal genome, which is opening up all sorts of awesome information and possibilities on our own genetic history – did you know that Neanderthal adults were likely lactose intolerant and may have had the speech and language gene, FOXP2?

People know more about the ins and outs of Tom Cruise and his marriage than they do about the gay philosopher and moralist John Corvino, who has an actual cause that he backs up with intelligent arguments, logic and common sense.  It’s sad that as a people we’re fascinated by the lives and achievements of mere entertainers, not people who are actually doing something worthwhile to change the face of our society.

My sister-in-law, Nell, has tried to explain it to me.  Apparently, as a child she listened to M.J. and his music greatly affected her life and her views.  My buddy Luke related a similar anecdote, something about the impression “Thriller” left on him. 

So I suppose, in a sense, M.J. has shaped the face of society for some people.  Music will do that.  I still have to raise my eyebrows a little mockingly though – I was raised and weaned on show tunes, musicals, church hymns and alternative rock.  My childhood consisted of songs from Saturday’s Warrior, Fiddler on the Roof and Les Misérables.  My older sister listened to Madonna, U2 and UB40.  The first album I ever owned was a tape my sister gave me of R.E.M. Green.  I loved movies like “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”  Even so, the passing of Paul Newman only moved me to regret that he represented the ending of an era – actors who were lauded for their acting skill and not the antics of their personal life (Jon & Kate Plus 8, anyone?).

I don’t know.  It boils down to the fact that they’re entertainers.  They’re doing what they do best to earn a living.  I don’t get why they’re famous for doing their job – nobody else is.  I don’t stand by my mailbox and cheer the mailman as he drives down the block.  I don’t send fan mail to my governor (maybe hate mail, lol, but not fan mail).  I don’t walk into Costco and start high-fiving and cheering the cashiers for their contribution to society, or the brave and humble forklift driver for his contribution. 

They’re doing their jobs, too.  And those jobs are just to get by, to support their loved ones and enjoy what small things they can afford.  Their jobs actually contribute to the world, grease the wheels of society so we have the basic necessities.  These unrecognized people, the stay at home mom, the librarian, the underpaid teacher, the exhausted nurse on night duty – these are the ones who ought to be recognized and lauded for their achievements and contributions.  Instead, we have a world shocked and mourning Michael Jackson, who only five years ago was being panned worldwide as a pedophile.

Something is seriously wrong with this place.

p.s. Don't even try to argue that Jon and Kate aren't actors.  Everyone is an actor, most people just play their roles on a smaller and more intimate stage -- that of their family and friends.  Jon and Kate may not be able to act in the sense that they can take on multiple roles and hone the craft like Audrey Hepburn and Paul Newman could -- they're more like Tom Cruise or Keanu Reeves, one-role-wonders who could reprise the same characters super-imposed over different backgrounds.  Just because they're the stars of a "reality" show doesn't make them not actors -- by their own accounts, they've been having marriage difficulties for over 2 years, yet the media and all their fans only learned about them now. Why?  Because they were ACTING.

 I keep forgetting to post.  I get busy reading awesome blogs like sarahtales  or Copyblogger or Editorial Anonymous and I just forget to post myself.  Ah well.  Que sera, sera . . . or something.

So Tuesday was frickin awesome.  A ton of people showed up for J’s birthday barbecue – his parents, his sister and her husband (and our darling niece Mea), my brother and his wife (and their awesome son Jay), cforce , scarlett  and husband Ckender and their three kids, and Paul & Kimberly.  Luke was supposed to show but copped out sick at the last minute.

So all told (kids included) there were 19 people there (if I counted correctly).  It was, needless to say, a little hectic at times.  J ended up a little frustrated because he did all the grilling and such, which meant he was the last to eat.  This wouldn’t have bothered him, he said, except it was his birthday and he would have rather spent time with our guests.

I’d like to point out here that if I’d tried to grill, I would have been chased away once people tasted my specialty – charred on the outside, frozen on the inside.

Anyway, it was pretty cool.  Our remodeled home was duly admired by all.  Kimberly and Paul hadn’t yet seen my FZ6, so I showed them my baby (enthusiasm slightly dampened by that morning’s discovery that J had lost my motorcycle key and has no idea where it is).

At the end of the evening, after the taillights of CForce and Scarlett (the last to leave) faded into the night, J and I flopped down on the couch in the rec room and looked at each other.

“That was pretty fun,” admitted J.  “We should do that more often.”

Success!  I arranged a decent get-together. J

 

 

And as a side note, I found my spare motorcycle key two days later – in J’s tank bag.  We still don’t know where my original is.  I went for a ride on Thursday, though.  It was fun.


 

 J’s birthday is quickly approaching. Yesterday Little A and I picked out gifts and cards for him.  I wish I could afford to get him Rock Band or Guitar Hero or whatever for the x-box 360, because he plays those types of games every time he gets a chance.  But we can’t afford it at the moment, so I settled for something a little less spendy.

Don’t you hate it when you think of great gifts for a person and you have to get them something kind of crappy?  I’d love to get J new motorcycle boots, new overpants, a GPS system for his motorcycle, and even a new helmet (in my opinion, you can never have too many helmets).  I’d love to get him an all-weather suit, or a gift card for some massive amount for a video game store.  I’d love to buy him an awesome new toolbox to hold all his tools.  I’d love to do something extravagant and cool to show him that I do appreciate him, and I do appreciate everything he does for us as a family.

But I can’t afford it, so instead I’m trying to arrange for his friends and family to be here on his birthday – which is a bit more difficult than it sounds, for two reasons.  One, like every awesome idea I have, it occurred to me at the last minute.  So I’m basically trying to see if anyone is available and/or willing to rearrange their plans.  Two, his birthday (and days off) are all on weekdays, when most people are working.  So that throws an annoying wrench into the plans, as well.

Nonetheless, I valiantly soldier on. 

On a completely different note, my ARNP took me off of Topomax and put me on Clonazepam as a mood stabilizer.  I’m supposed to take the Clonazepam (and I quote), “Twice a day and as needed.”

Translated, this means that I ought to be taking one in the morning and one in the evening.  If my day is particularly crappy, I can pop one at my discretion. I keep forgetting to take the morning one, and I feel uncomfortable with the idea of randomly popping pills at “my discretion.”  As a result, the past few weeks have been . . . apathetic. I’m beginning to understand my mother quite a bit better, although I still don’t agree with her methods of dealing with a difficult (to put it very mildly) situation.

Depression is such a pale, stupid word.  I hate it.  I hate when I say, “I’m a bit depressed,” people think, “blue,” or “down in the dumps,” or “a little sad.”  It’s different from that.  When I say, “a bit depressed,” I mean, “I’m apathetic.  Life doesn’t matter.  I’m angry, I’m resentful of circumstances I know I ought to be grateful for.  I’m emotionally hurt and I don’t know why.  I’m confused and scared.  I’m exhausted.  I wish people would stop staring at me; I wish somebody would listen to me. I wish I knew what was real and what was my imagination.”

That’s all a bit much to say, so I just say, “I’m a bit depressed.”

It’s tiresome.  This is all a bit tiresome, really. 

I hope I feel better by J’s birthday.

 Yesterday, Little A ripped his pants.  Not a big deal on the surface, right?  Until he lied about it. 

He got off the bus and knocked on the door like he always does.  I let him in and went back to doing my chores.  He tells me a little about his day, beginning with, “I had a bad day.”

Now, to clarify: Every day at school for Little A is a bad day.  He seems to enjoy school overall, especially his progress in reading, but he doesn’t do well in certain subjects or with interpersonal relationships. He has a “bad day” when his teacher assigns a math assignment he doesn’t like.  He has a “bad day” if Alita sits next to him at lunch instead of William.  He has a “bad day” if the kid on the school bus tells him that he’s still just a baby.

If one not-so-great thing happens to my son, his entire day is therefore bad. 

This actually irritates me quite a bit.  I think it’s ridiculous to judge the worth of an entire day based on one minor incident, which I’ve tried to explain to Little A.  I’ve tried asking him about the good things that happen in a day, and when he lists them I ask if the bad thing made all those things go away.

He said no, but he still has bad days.

So I tend to tune him out when he says he had a “bad day.”  I completely admit it.  He says it every single day, and usually over completely stupid stuff.

Anyway, so I hmmmhmmm and nod and tell him to go play outside because I’m trying to sweep and mop the floors.

So he comes back in after about 30 minutes saying, “Mom, I had a really bad day, though.”

“Okay,” I say. “What happened that was so bad?”

He then shows me his pants, ripped waistband to knee, and says, “A kid at school ripped them with a pen.”

I admit to a moment of fury, as a few months ago Little A arrived home with a torn shirt in his backpack. No note, no explanation, no phone call – nothing.  Just a torn shirt in his backpack and a new one on him.  I called the school at the time of that incident and found out his shirt had been torn on the playground during a tussle, and they thought they had notified me, sorry.

So for a moment, I thought the same thing had happened.  Except he was still wearing the torn pants, and last time they at least changed his shirt.  So I sat him down and asked what had happened. I figured there was a possibility he was making up the story, but I’d listen and if there were too many inaccuracies, I’d call him on it.  Otherwise I’d contact the school.

So here are the basics of his tall-tale:

1. A kid ripped his pants with a pen.
2. The kid did this behind the playshed at third recess (after lunch).
3. Little A’s friends all saw the aftermath.
4. Little A told the playground duty
5. The playground duty told him to find the kid and send him to the duty.
6. The kid’s hair and skin were the same color, which Little A said was black.
   

From his tale, I have a few lingering questions: Why would the duty tell Little A to hunt down the bully, and why had the school not contacted me?

Overall, however, it sounded more than plausible.  Even the lingering questions about the duty and the lack of contact from the school could be chalked up to the fact that his school completely and utterly sucks.  They focus all their attention on mathematics and English. To make things worse, they don’t teach English properly – it’s all phonetics and emphasis on recognizing words, not proper grammar or spelling. Science is paid lip service, and the arts are barely noticed at all.  They cycle the children between 6 or 7 teachers a day – something I found confusing when I first entered middle school, and they’re doing it to early elementary school kids. 

As for combating the bully issue (which there is one), the school is remiss in that area, as well. While Little A may have a tendency towards being over-sensitive and a basic unawareness of the differences between friendly teasing and malicious teasing, I’ve heard more than enough from other parents about what they’ve observed and heard from their children.  I have many other complaints about this crap school, but that’s not the focus of this entry.

Anyway, so I called the school and asked for clarification as to why Little A was sent home in torn pants, what the duty had been thinking, etc. etc.

They call me back this morning to let me know they’re looking into it.  Then again this afternoon to fill me in.

The principal and Little A’s teacher both interviewed him.  Then they conferenced together and found that:

1. Little A was inside during 3^rd recess, as he had fallen behind in classwork and was making it up.
2. At no time did his teacher or anyone else observe torn pants during the school day.
3. When faced with these facts, Little A changed the place of the alleged incident to the bus.

So I, feeling frustrated and tired after that little phone call, sat Little A down on a chair and straddled a chair facing him.  I asked him what he’d done today, and he said nothing. I stared at him, and he squirmed. Then I told him I spoke to his principal. He tried to correct me in how I referred to the principal, and I cut him off.

I asked him what the principal had told me, and Little A said, “That I lied.”

I asked if he had lied, and he admitted that he’d made up the story because he wanted to wear his torn pants and he was afraid if he told me the truth I’d make him take off the torn pants (which is another lie, for the record, because I made him change his pants after the bully story anyway and he didn’t protest).

I asked him why he made up a black kid.  He replied that a black kid did do it, on the bus. I raised my eyebrows and asked if I needed to call the bus driver, too.

He then admitted that he’d torn his pants in the tree outside.

At this point I was absolutely furious. Little A had lied, repeatedly, and for some reason he’d gone for an arguably racist bent in his lying.  This is something else that bothers me about his school.  J and I are (I think) fairly open-minded.  We’re atheists, so we’re not too keen on religion, but as long as people don’t bother us about their beliefs, we won’t bother them.

However, Little A often comes home from public school (PUBLIC, mind you, not private) telling us the stories of Jesus and the beliefs of various Christian denominations.  Somehow, Little A has gathered the following impressions which he’s expressed to me. He hasn’t gathered these from our home, I can assure you – every time he spouts off with one of these we end up having a long discussion about where he heard such things, whether he believes them or not, and why he would repeat them.

• People who don’t celebrate the same holidays we do are stupid and we shouldn’t talk to them.
• Chinese people have funny eyes and lie a lot.
• Atheists are all going to hell, where they’ll burn for a very long time.
• Boys liking boys or girls liking girls is weird and gross.

So you can maybe see why him making up a black child as the bully was a little disturbing to me.

Well, after all the lies were out in the open, I gave Little A two options.

Option one: Lose all but 3 books (of my choice), his video games and all his toys for 1 week in punishment – he’s also grounded and not allowed to play with his friends.

Option two: Lose all but 3 books (of my choice), his video games and all his toys for 3 days* and a spanking.  He would also be grounded and not allowed to play with his friends.

He chose option one.

So all his toys – Legos, GeoTrax, Nerf guns, toy cars, Littlest Pet Shop, board games, etc. are now confiscated in the master bedroom.  His PSP and all PSP games have also been confiscated and he’s not allowed in the rec room without supervision. The 3 books he’s allowed to have a VeggieTales book on honesty, a book of 5-minute short stories, and a math workbook.

It may seem a little harsh, but I’ve tried gentler methods in the past to curb his tendency towards exaggeration and tale-telling to shift blame, and they apparently haven’t worked.  With any luck, this will actually make an impression.

*I corrected that from a mis-type.  Previously it said "weeks" instead of "days," which was incorrect.

 So despite the fact that I’m fairly computer literate (mainly learned in a desperate attempt to keep up with my husband, who is an insane genius when it comes to computers), I’ve never learned much about Excel.

I’m extremely familiar with Word, I can slap together a decent PowerPoint, I know how to customize my web browser, and I can usually find reliable sources and information in a reasonable amount of time on the internet. So I have the basic knowledge that pretty much (presumably) most denizens of the internet have.

But Excel has always been one program I’ve kept a wary distance from.  Spreadsheets?  Data?  Self-adding columns?  Too confusing!  I prefer my calculator and neatly tabulated to-do lists that I’ve created on Word.

The other day, however, I was tooling around on my laptop and I discovered, wonder of wonders, that Excel has pre-installed templates!

(I know, I’m so retarded.  You may take a moment and laugh.)

So of course I immediately wrote up a chore list detailing daily, weekly and monthly chores for each of us.  And of course I created a mood-tracker calendar (for my bipolar) and daily log of my activities.  And yes, duh, I also created an excel spreadsheet that lists the chapters I’ve written in my novel complete with the number of chapter rewrites and a running total of the complete word count (20,501 btw).

I think I love Excel. I’ve always had a somewhat OCD fascination with lists. I love them. I like writing up to-do lists and crossing things out as I’ve done them, and I like keeping track of things. I like writing gift lists, both for myself and for what I’m going to buy other people. I like tabulating my daily, weekly, monthly and yearly goals and analyzing where I’m at. I just enjoy the neatness and structure of a perfectly organized, beautifully composed list.

And yes, I’m perfectly aware of and okay with the fact that just because it’s beautifully organized on paper, life itself does not magically become organized.

I just like lists.  And I like Excel.  And I’m weirdly happy that I’m able to make lots and lots of lists in a quick and easy to work with format.

Yay!

So I have two finals tomorrow that I’m trying to study for.  Little A doesn’t have anyone to play with, so he’s bugging me.  A lot.  Every five minutes, it seems like, I’m interrupted for some reason.  So far:

• He dressed up one of the dining room chairs (I’m studying in the dining room) as a knight, with his plastic knight armor, helm and sword.
• He asked me to make him a sandwich, although he knows how to make his own and has made his own in the past.
• He’s requested brownies multiple times after I said “no,” the second time he tried to get some.
• He’s asked me to get him a drink (again, he’s 7 and knows how to get his own drink).
• He's run through the house chasing the cats and yelling at Sirius.
• He's tried to tell me a story about cooking, a story about aliens, a story about Scooby Doo and a story about Batman.
• He’s sat on the floor beside me and read a book aloud.

Obviously, the poor kid is bored and wants attention.  Just as obviously, I have two finals tomorrow.  In desperation, I called my neighbor, who has 4 children.  I’ll call them Eldest Daughter, Favored Daughter, Toddler Boy and Baby Boy – or Ed, Favored, T.B. and B.B. for short.

Anyway, so I call neighbor, hoping that Ed can come over.  She’s a year or so older than Little A, but she’s pretty obedient, very polite and nice to have around because she actually plays with Little A, rather than trying to chat with me.

Unfortunately, neighbor doesn’t think very highly of Ed, complaining that Ed is just like her father (who neighbor divorced when Ed was a toddler and Favored was a baby).  So Ed’s pretty much always in trouble, which means that neighbor sent over Favored instead.  Favored shares the same dad as Ed, but apparently none of the flaws.

Favored is the same age as Little A, but she’s timid, bothersome and weirdly flirtatious. I mean, I know it’s normal for little girls to want to act older, and I suppose it can start as early as 7, but Favored just makes my skin crawl.  She’s always trying to talk with the adults, she’s complimenting my household décor and asking where certain items were bought and she flirts with Little A.

It’s seriously weird.  I was in here trying to concentrate on my homework while they played with the toys in his bedroom.  I can hear everything going on and since the doors haven’t been replaced yet, they can’t close the door all the way. 

So I’m trying to memorize the amount of time it takes a fatty meal to pass through the stomach into the small intestine, and I hear Little A getting all excited about his GeoTracks or Legos or something.  He’s showing off something he’s built, from the sound of it, and making alien sounds and whistling.

Favored giggles and says, “You’re so funny, Little A.  You make me giggle.”

“Okay,” says my son, sounding slightly puzzled.  He keeps doing whatever he’s doing, making lots of noise with bangs and whistles.  After a minute, I hear Favored again.

“And you aren’t just funny, you know?  You’re funny funny.  You make me giggle,” she says. 

It’s definitely creepy to hear that flirtatious tone in a high-pitched child’s voice, so I’m trying to shrug it off.  Dancing in the back of my mind is the news Little A brought home from school the other day – his friends have been teasing him about having a girlfriend, which is infuriating Little A. He doesn’t know how the rumor got started, but he’s been having tussles with his friends over it.

“Okay,” says Little A again, still sounding puzzled.  He keeps playing, sound of banging toys, whistling, etc.  I would like to make it clear that Little A isn’t actually conversing with this girl, nor is he telling jokes. He’s playing with his trains and making up an alien invasion and directing her part in the alien invasion.

Now I hear, “Stop it, Little A!  You’re going to make me giggle so hard my pants will fall off!”

At this point I stand up and walk down the hallway.  I tap on the door, look in and say, “Everything all right in here?”

Little A is just playing with his legos and trains, sitting in the middle of the floor and enjoying having a friend over.  I get the feeling he honestly has no idea that there is a Budding Female Agenda. 

Favored, on the other hand, jumps guiltily from where she was kneeling next to Little A and leaning into him, and then looks at me wide-eyed. I make eye contact with her, and she flushes and moves away from Little A.

I can’t believe that just happened.  She’s 7.  Where does a 7 year old learn that behavior?  Does she know what she’s doing, or is she just mimicking television, movies or adult women in her life? 

I know at this point, it’s not a big deal.  Little A is completely oblivious to feminine advances, and doesn’t seem to think of girls as anything other than possible friends.  It’s just a little disturbing to realize that the girls out there are getting a jump start on the boys.  She’s working her thing, getting to figure out what gets attention and what doesn’t, and by the time my son is an adolescent – BOOM.  There’ll be an army of girls who’ve spent his play years learning (however unconsciously) how to flirt and manipulate.

Kind of makes me shudder.

I wish Ed could’ve come over.  Even though she’s older, she just likes to climb trees and play video games.  If I could pick and choose who Little A plays with, Favored would be stuck at home doing chores and Ed would be hanging out here.

 

Yes.  Yes I have.  I think most people have had a bad break up with somebody at some point -- maybe not a boyfriend/girlfriend, but people break up with friends or even family members. 

In this particular case, however, it was with a boyfriend.  We'd been dating for almost two years.  It was two years of on-and-off fighting, he-said/she-said blame games, drama and emotional manipulation.  I came out of the relationship with a penchant for cutting myself when faced with times of high stress, I don't know what he left with.

We fought a lot, and the last six months were nothing but break ups.  Literally.  We would break up for a week or two, run in to each other around town and start bickering.  Then we'd spend a few hours together, end up sleeping together and decide we must be back together.  It was the most miserable six months of my life, as we were constantly fighting.

I ended up leaving the state temporarily to attend summer quarter at an out-of-state school.  While you would think this would kill the make-up/break-up cycle, it didn't.  For some reason, we got in touch while I was over there.  I think my dad told me he'd called and that he (the ex, hereafter known as X) said it was very important.  My dad counseled me to ignore it, but as I was oh-so-wise, I called him.

So then it was long-distance make-up/break-up which is even awesomer and more stressful, if you're wondering.

I came home, and there X was, waiting for me.  This was also about the time I started hanging out with my future husband, J.  I had met J a few months back and we'd disliked each other on sight.  Once I came back from my summer away, J and I started hanging out and realized we got along pretty well.  I still thought of J as strictly friend material, however.

X didn't realize that, though, and became increasingly jealous of any time I spent with J.  If J drove me to a church activity (yeah, we used to do that whole shtick), X threw a fit.  If there was a movie night with friends and J was there, the X freaked out.  If I talked to J on the phone in the presence of X, he freaked out.  It was starting to get really annoying.  On the flip side, all this freaking out and insinuation on the part of X had me taking a second look at J, and I was liking what I was seeing.  

So one day I go to the place where X is staying (btw, X is homeless and jobless and lives with his stoner brother) for some reason -- presumably called out there by X.  I have a friend with me who needs a ride home, a kitten in the front seat and I'm supposed to meet J for movie night in a few hours.  So I tell X that I can't stay and he demands to know why not.  There's an argument, and the drivers side window ends up being kicked in, all over my face.  

Absolute shock, I tell you what.  X had just reared back in frustration and blasted one foot through the window, shattering glass all over me, my passenger and the kitten.  His heel grazed my cheekbone as I leaned away.  Then X's brother and roommates came out of the house and started yelling -- at me!  For arguing and possibly bringing the cops attention!

One of them, a nice fellow who's name I can't recall, didn't yell and ignored the others as he took me to the bathroom and cleaned the glass out of my eye and cheek.  He told me to dump X and leave.

So I did.  X had family in California that he always talked about, but since he had no job or car -- heck, he didn't even know how to drive -- all he would do was talk about California and living with his dad.  So I bought a one-way Greyhound ticket to some podunk town in California and called his mom to pick up his stuff.

It was cold enough the morning the bus left that nobody noticed me, standing on the corner in a hooded winter jacket and scarf, watching the passengers board to make sure X really left.  But he did.

So that was my bad breakup.  And I handled it by not handling it -- I just got rid of him.  Sent him off and let someone else deal with him.

"I Dreamed a Dream," -- Les Miserables
"For Baby (I'll Walk By Your Side)." -- John Denver
"Music of the Night" -- Phantom
"Brace Me Up," -- Saturday's Warrior
"Bohemian Rhapsody," -- Queen
"Castle on a Cloud," -- Les Miserables
"A Little Fall of Rain," -- Les Miserables


Yep.  Those are the songs I know mostly by heart.  Pretty much every other song I know, I get maybe one or two lines in (at most, usually one or two words), then drop into discordant humming.  Which is actually preferable to my discordant, off-tune singing.

I went for a motorcycle ride today.  I was very excited.  My friend WrongWay agreed to watch our son starting at 8:30 a.m., and J and I had made plans with Ckender to ride Mt. Baker.

I went to bed early last night, or tried to.  My stupid neighbor let her stupid children stay up until stupid all hours of the night, which is their stupid choice, but whatever.  I don’t care, except that I could hear the little things shrieking at each other in their backyard as they argued at the top of their lungs at 10:30 at night.  Then I could hear their mom storm outside and scream at them for a while. 

This annoyed me enough in and of itself, but it also kept up Little A, who kept coming in to my room with tired and sleepy eyes as he complained, “They’re being noisy and I can’t sleep.”

Little A and I finally managed to fall asleep (despite the still-continuing sibling arguing and parental remonstrating) sometime after 11:30.  I know it was after 11:30 because that was the last time I tried to call our next-door-neighbor.

Sorry, side rant there.

Anyway, so I went to bed early last night with the express intention of waking up early this morning.  I got up early this morning and made a big breakfast and had a nice cup of coffee.  Then WrongWay arrived and J and I headed out by 9 a.m.

We reached Ckender’s place by about 11:30, and we headed out toward Mt. Baker shortly thereafter.  Then we spent about two hours or so in a gravel driveway type thing off the side of a road in or near Monroe while Ckender’s very cool brother, McGuyver (that’s his name, and so he shall be called) fixed my motorcycle.  The motorcycle which I ran off the side of the road when I target fixated on pretty much the first big corner in the ride.

So, yep, I shot the ride.  Right between the eyes. 

After McGuyver fixed my bike up well enough to ride back to Ckender’s, we took it back there to be worked on.  McGuyver (who, incidentally owns the same make, model and year of motorcycle) is very familiar with the workings of my bike, so he continued making it work.  I continued drinking coffee and visiting with Ckender’s wife, Scarlett, as well as Ckender.

Injuries to the bike: So far as I understand, not too severe.  No framework or engine damage.  Just a little bodywork.

Injuries to my gear: I have some new scars and scuffs on my leathers and that’s about it.  The head impact was to dirt, so apparently I’m good as far as my helmet goes – no need for replacement.

Injuries to me: Minor, inconsequential stuff.  My left wrist hurts a little when I rotate it.  Some scratches to my neck, presumably where my helmet strap chafed.  My right ankle’s a little black and blue and purple and swollen.  I knew it was twisted as soon as I stopped rolling, but since I could walk on it, I knew it wasn’t as bad as some of the things I’ve done to it before.  I took off my boot at the site of the accident and looked at it, and it was already starting to swell and bruise a little, so I just put my boot back on and decided that it was staying on until I got home.  That way, any swelling would be contained and supported in the leather.  Seems to have worked.  I took a warm bath and we’re icing it now.  The swelling is already going down.  Here’s a picture of before we started icing it:

 

 You know, initially I wasn’t too keen on the Kindle.  I figured I’d get one eventually, but I wasn’t too pleased about the prospect – while I read plenty of stuff on the computer, I wouldn’t want to trade in my books for a computer screen, no matter how handheld and sleek it is.

But I’ve been hearing all sorts of interesting things about it.  The other day, someone told me that it’s front-lit, not back-lit like most electronic devices.  My curiosity well and truly peaked, I went to the Amazon web-site and began reading the specs.

While I’m sure most people are already familiar with all this stuff, the most relevant points to me were:

• You don’t have to pay a monthly fee or join a plan to download the books.  Whispernet is activated by Amazon when you buy the Kindle, and you can download any title available through Kindle anywhere, any time. 
• It doesn’t get warm, like a computer does, so you can read for as long as you like without it getting all burning hot.
• Text-to-speech.  If audio has been approved for the title you’re reading by the publisher, then you can switch from text to speech and back again with the click of a button.  You know, if you’re reading on your way out to the car, but it’s a really great passage in a book and you don’t want to put it down but you have to drive?  Text-to-speech!
• On the newer versions, you can use the qwerty keyboard to put annotations and bookmarks in the text, just like you would with your real books (unless your mom rapped your knuckles when you tried to write in your books or dog-ear the pages).
• At $9.99 current max price for titles (with many titles at a lower price), I would save (on average) about 35% on my favorite available titles. 

I . . . think I want a Kindle.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I want one.  I find myself scrolling through the Amazon pages, typing in the titles of my favorite books and clicking the little, “Let the publisher know you want this title on Kindle,” tabs.  It is a comfort to me that while I don’t currently have a Kindle, not all my favorite books are currently on the Kindle.  So I can wait.  Perhaps by the time the Kindle price has dropped to a slightly more affordable level, there will be more Orson Scott Card, Kristin Britain, Parke Godwin, Patricia C. Wrede, Ann Rinaldi and Diana Wynne Jones available through the Kindle titles.  I can wait.

That's not to say if someone gave me one for Christmas or my birthday or . . . for pretty much any reason they or I could think of (hey, did you know the 4th of July is coming up?  Point of interest.), I would throw it back in their face.  Not at all.  

I wonder if I could convince J to cancel any potential out-of-state trips.  They're a bit costly, and not really necessary.  A family camping trip would be a lot more fun.



























 

 . . . . think I fell asleep in my coffee while doing my homework.  Damn.  Is it really 1:22 in the morning?  Tooth fairy needs to drop off some money.  Good night.

 I don’t know why, but I feel off today.  Just out-of-step with . . . everything.  Irritated and disjointed.  Tired. 

 Just don’t want to do this today.