35 and Still Alive

I turn 35 on Tuesday. It's not a monumental birthday like 18, 21 or 50, but nonetheless, it's a birthday. At this point my daughter is more excited about my birthday than I am. I'm sure she envisions a celebration that will be similar to her recent Chuck E. Cheese party only with Mommy and all her fellow mommy friends.

I don't have the heart to tell her that the older you get the more your birthday just becomes another day. Sure, there will be the humorous card from my co-workers, a "happy birthday" wish from my husband along with a dig about how I'm getting older, so I should think seriously about giving him another baby, and I can almost lay money down that somewhere in the equation a cake will appear (although given my recent lack of exercise and consumption of Valentine's candy, I should be more cautious than I most likely will be).

The coolest thing about turning 35 is the realization that I'm at the happiest place I've been so far in my life. At age 5, I was being dragged away from my father across country by a mother who was running from demons, either real or imaginary, I'll never know. At 15, I was a zit-covered, hormonal ball of confusion who hated living in Idaho (not that that ever changed), and spent the bulk of her day dreaming about making life happen. At 25, I was in art school having a blast and actively working in the music industry, but I was also in a marriage that was quickly going South and dealing with clinical depression.

At 35, I have the great fortune of being bound for life to someone I'm completely in love with, I have an adorable (albeit, exhausting) child who makes me smile (and yell) everyday. We live in a cool house in a place that is sunny most days of the year. I have a decent career that may be a thorn in my ass (particularly right now) due to the workload, but has given me the opportunity to push myself professionally. I own a hybrid, have excellent cholesterol, and have only found 3 gray hairs, so far.

There are downsides. I was diagnosed this week with tension headaches, but that's better than something serious. All I have to do to relieve most of the stress causing the headaches, according to my doctor, is get back into my regular exercise routine. I need to drop 10-15 pounds (which also would be helped by said exercise routine), but I'm finally at a point in my life where I can have a piece of chocolate at night and not hate myself, because I don't look like a supermodel.

I can see why the world fears us women in our mid-30s. We are vital, running households, managing work environments, comfortable with our confidence, and don't give a fuck about what the world thinks of us. It's a good age. My only fear at this point is that it's all downhill from here, but given the fact that everything has been an upswing, I think I'll ride it out for at least another 50 years. Not an unreasonable life goal for a woman with the blood pressure of an 18 year old.

Consumption Whore

As I entered my second straight day of a merciless consumption orgy I realized as I walked into, yet another store, that this was the dark side of acquiring a new residence. How is it that we moved from one house into another, yet all of the shit contained in the insane amount of boxes in our garage just doesn't work in the new house!?!

Some of this is my fault. I wanted nice bedding. A simple, elegant, and dare I say, romantic pattern that would make Jeff and I feel like our bedroom was a place for us to relax and become reacquainted as a couple from time to time. When I didn't have the money or desire to change the look of my bedroom, I saw gorgeous patterns everywhere, but for the past two days, it's all been the ugliest things I've laid my eyes on since the days of neon spandex and leg warmers.

Why is the '70s now considered retro? The '70s was such a low point in fashion, home styles, and decor in general that everyone had to be on cocaine in order to get through it, so whose bright idea was it to bring those burn orange and babyshit green colors back for a Round Two?

The bedding is just the tip of this disgusting consumption tirade. New walls equal new space, and new space means the art you have doesn't seem to fit with the massive amounts of empty that make up you dwelling. I'm not one of those people who can go buy a print at Target and be happy with it. I'm one of those emotionally deep bitches who has to have some sort of "connection" with everything I hang on my walls, or I just can't stand staring at it. I need to be able to give people a story about what they see when they walk into my house. I wish I could just throw some sort of Thomas Kincade, Wal-Mart art bullshit up and be happy with it, but I'd rather live in a one room hovel then resort to that.

The second misfortune in my pretentious quirk is that I like certain artists, and certain types of artwork, so decor for my walls cannot be obtained quickly or cheaply. I don't mind this consumption, it's like hunting prey. What I mind is going from store to store for two days looking for one of those little, skinny cabinets that I can use in my bathroom to hold toilet paper, or search stores for a half hour trying to find a tabletop mirror, because my blind ass needs a mirror two inches from my face in the morning so my makeup won't look like crap.

I'm sick of shopping for shower curtain rings that match my kid's clear monkey shower curtain, a napkin holder which seems to be out of style at the moment, reasonably priced sheets with a thread count over 350, and space saver items for the kitchen, because despite having a large kitchen, we somehow ended up with more stuff than we have space. For example, that all-in-one tortilla maker/fajita cooker that was on clearance, so my husband bought it and we used it twice back in 2001. Still taking up space, still collecting dust, but do you think he can part with it; hell no, he got a great deal on it.

The good news is that I ended up finding great bedding, on sale, so I'm going to go enjoy it now, because tomorrow I still have to figure out what I'm going to use to hold the toilet paper.

Breaking News Reality Check

I woke with a start at 3:00 AM as the anxious broadcaster was barely able to contain the excitement in her voice proclaiming there was "breaking news". There was a cut to a commercial break and during the 90 seconds of drivel about mattress sales, the latest revolutionary, natural health product, and the token public service announcement, I wondered what the urgent "breaking news" could be.

Although the Resident-In-Chief only has a few more lame duck months in his pitiful presidency, he would be stupid enough to start a war with Iran. Perhaps there was a 50 car pile up on the 5 Freeway or civil war in an unstable country. My mind raced until the woman's voice came back on air with the "breaking news".

Breaking News: Police have just been to Brittney Spears' house, and although there are unconfirmed reports of a suicide attempt, nothing has been substantiated. However they are taking her to a hospital in an ambulance.

You've got to be fucking kidding me!

There are so many levels of wrong here I don't know where the hell to begin. Maybe I should start with the obvious, which is that a has-been pop tart's mental breakdown is not exactly "breaking news". Breaking news is a political assassination, or an natural disaster, or a major financial crisis that will affect millions of people.

When I went to journalism school I learned about the history of the profession, and felt proud to join it. I studied great journalists like Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite. My favorite female journalist was Nellie Bly. Many know her as the lady who went around the world in 80 days, but what they don't know is that she was hired as a reporter (when women weren't hired) by doing one of the most shocking undercover investigations of the late 1800s. She suspected that female immigrants were being carted off to mental institutions, not because they were insane, but because had no knowledge of their new American culture. To prove this, she had herself committed to one of the most notorious women's asylums in the country.

Poor Nellie would be vomiting and pulling her hair out if she could see what has become of the profession she fought so hard to be a part of. Journalism was set up to keep an eye on the government and big business, as the fourth institution in this country. Without freedom of the press, you can't have a democracy, but much like the failed dream of a true American democracy, the press has fallen by the wayside, sold off to big corporations and is now busy creating sensationalist info-tainment instead of covering real news.

Television networks used to be willing to lose money on the news broadcasts, because they weren't about making money or getting high ratings, the news was the news. It was a vehicle to keep the country informed, and to let politicians and big business know they were being watched. Now, the caliber of your average news broadcast makes the National Enquirer seem dignified.

Aside from the complete collapse of media integrity, I find it very disturbing that they are fixated on Brittney hoping for an Anna Nicole ending. They want to be there for every ounce of this woman's self-destruction, and if they're lucky, maybe they can be standing over her while she overdoses!

There used to be an award for journalistic integrity that was presented once a year at a large journalism conference. One year it was won by a photographer who happened to be standing in front of the nightclub where, late actor, River Phoenix was having his last party. River came out of the club and overdosed on the sidewalk. The photographer snapped photos until he realized that the actor had died in front of him, then he destroyed the film in his camera, because he felt that no one should see a brilliant, young actor die so tragically. I don't know what ever happened to that photographer, but I would lay money down that he isn't one of the vultures hovering around Brittney hoping to create "breaking news".

Back to Suburbia

As I was pulling into my new neighborhood to unload, yet another car full of boxes, I heard that familiar song running through my head: "Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, little boxes on the hillside, little boxes just the same."

I was back in Suburbia, once again, and the only difference between this new neighborhood in California and my old neighborhood in Washington is that it rains less, and there's a gay couple that lives across the street. How sick is this: the house we are moving into on Wednesday was built by the same company that did our Washington house.

It's been over two years since I started this blog in an effort to try to reconcile the life I lead with the inner me that feels awkward in this suburban existance. More often than not, I feel like an alien walking around amongst these perfect houses with smiley neighbors keeping busy in their perfect yards. In my heart I feel that I don't belong here, but at the same time I'm not rushing to change it.

I've heard other people talk about this. They are like me; grew up poor, were never supposed to make it, but they did. They achieved the 'rags to riches' American dream, yet remain patently uncomfortable with their life circumstance. Not that they, or I, want more, it's more of a feeling of guilt, like someone from such humble beginnings doesn't deserve to have so much.

I look at my new, massive, beautiful house, which I know I will be happy raising my child in, but there's a part of me that, remembers being the little girl who, for awhile, lived in a 300 square foot studio apartment with her baby sister and young, single mother.

Don't get me wrong, I'm proud of what I've done, because given my upbringing, background and statistics, I should never be where I am today. Thankfully, I've never thought much of statistics and I'm always willing to give an enormous "fuck you" to anyone who attempts to tell me what I should be or what I should do or what I should say.

This house is monumental for another reason; one that is the reason why I'm taking shelter in the comforts of Suburbia, this is my 50th residence. In my 34 years of life, I have had 50 addresses. Some places I managed to stay in for years (although not many) and some I stayed for a few months. Moving around taught me that home is where your family is, but it also left me with feelings of insecurity like no matter where I was, I didn't belong there. I don't want to pass that onto Rachael. She should have the comfort of knowing where her bed is at night, and feeling like no matter what she's up against, there will always be a place she can come home to.

So here I am ready to re-enter Suburbia having told my husband that we will stay a minimum of 10 years in our new house. Sandwiched between the very nice, mixed race couple on one side, and the very nice, taking Christmas decorations to a new and disturbing level neighbors on the other side, I will find a way to reconcile my past with what my life is now. Thankfully, my job is demanding enough that I don't have to join the PTA.

Barack Obama is Black, The Sky is Blue, and Other Obvious Things I Already Know

The other day I was copied on one of those annoying emails where the author frantically asks you to forward it to everyone you know, because not being aware of this pending crisis will surely result in some "War of the Worlds" end of time scenario.

The gist of the email was that presidential candidate, Barack Obama, was a member of Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago, and this church is radical, or more importantly, run by black radicals. The email eluded to the idea that since Obama was a member of this church, he was basically a new millennium Black Panther.

Of course, the ever present cynic in me went to Trinity's website and spent a good amount of time reading through it, and what I discovered in my reading was that this church defines itself as "unashamedly black and unapologetically Christian." They are very determined in their efforts to advance equality and educational opportunities for blacks in both the U.S. and Africa, and they actually want to do something about Darfur unlike our government who says they oppose this kind of genocide, but since there isn't oil money to be made, doesn't give a shit.

Basically, Trinity United Church is run by blacks for blacks with the purpose of bringing equality and Christianity to blacks, and Barack Obama is a member of this congregation. And the problem is?

The fact is we live in a country where race is a Catch 22. Barack Obama is a proud black man, but according to the frantic email, he is a bit too much of a proud black man. If Barack Obama came out of the woodwork with a bunch of white friends and attended a white church, then the same frantic email would have gone out claiming that he can't be trusted, because he is disavowing his roots as a black man. Barack is in a damned if you do, damned if you don't situation.

The funny thing is that these emails are circulating through an older generation that fails to realize most people age baby boomer and below don't give a rat's ass about a person's race. I like Barack Obama, I think he could run this country, and I don't give two fucks if he is black, yellow, or purple. I like the fact that Barack Obama attends a church that takes a hard line approach to strengthening its community. To me, it says that he isn't just the type to shy away from taking a stand for fear he will lose a few approval points (I'm looking at you, Hillary).

Another email I'm sick of receiving is the one about Barack Obama and his Muslim upbringing. His dad was a Kenyan Muslim who sent Barack to Muslim school for maybe one or two years when he was five years old. His father and mother split up when he was young, and Barack was raised by his single mother in Hawaii. My guess is that Barack knows more about hanging ten than hanging those who don't study the Koran.

At this point, I'm tired of the mixed message, frantic emails. Make up your mind muckraking emailers! Is he a black, Christian radical or a black, Muslim radical, and do you all realize that forces larger than you are playing on your fears of human difference to advance an inherently racist notion that a black guy can't run the country, because he is black?

Barack's blackness shouldn't scare you, especially if he is unapologetically proud of it. What should scare you is the idea of spending another four years under a Republican president who will keep the expensive war going and further drive the economy into the toilet all because you freaked out, sent frantic, bullshit emails to everyone on your list, and made this election about race instead of progress.

Thought of the Day: Now That is F@!?ked Up!

I have always thought the worst case scenario of all of these rampant fertility treatment pregnancies, use of banked sperm, multiply harvested embryos, and concealed adoptions, would be two genetically identical people meeting later in life, completely unaware of the other's existence, and unknowingly hooking up.

I'm sad (and really disturbed) to report that this actually happened! In England, twins separated at birth recently had their marriage annulled when they found out they were brother and sister. Everyone repeat after me: EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!

They had been separated at birth, adopted by different families and never told about each other. When they met as adults they had an instant connection, only instead of serendipity it was common DNA. They have now helped push for laws that protect the rights of adoptees.

The article didn't say anything about how the twins were doing mentally and emotionally, but it can't be good. I mean finding out you slept with your sibling is worth at least five years of therapy, but finding out that you fell in love and married your sibling takes it to a whole new level. Especially when you know that when they think of the best intimacy they have ever had with a member of the opposite sex, the first thought likely to enter their head will be their former spouse, about five seconds before the reality hits that it was their sibling.

One more time, repeat after me: EEEEEEWWWW!!!

Thought of the Day: Unwanted Opinions

One of my biggest pet peeves happened today: somebody asked my opinion, and when I told them what I thought, with quite a bit of tact and honesty, they totally rejected it. The annoying part was, not only did they reject it, they basically stated via email that they really didn't want my opinion in the first place.

It seems like a new, more aggravating form of political correctness; the asking of the opinion when what someone really wants to do is tell you what to do, only they don't want to be seen as some kind of tyrant or asshole. Instead, they want you to smile and nod and support their idea, even if it's premature and will be a complete strain on already limited resources.

In this particular case, I didn't say the idea wasn't doable, I just said it wasn't doable right now, and that's my job (which is why I was asked to give my opinion in the first place). To put it bluntly, I'm not some mindless "yes" girl. I like to take an idea, make an assessment of the resources needed to implement the idea, then once the resources are in line, map out a process that will generate success. I don't do things half-assed, and if you ask my opinion I will give it to you even if it's the one you don't want to hear.

On top of all of this superficial, "I really do want your opinion" charade, I was also, in so many words, told I wasn't open to new ideas. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm the first one to be on board with a new idea. I don't like stagnation, but I'm not so careless that I'll jump into something on a whim especially when it affects people who depend on me. Like I said, I will give you the opinion I have, even if it's the one you don't want to hear.

Unfortunately, this whole "opinion" gathering ordeal isn't over, so I'll have to go through this bullshitfest again tomorrow.

All I can say is sometimes people make me so pro-nuclear.

Looking Forward to 2008

I'm excited for 2008. 2007 was kind of a drag; too much shitty economy, too many people losing their homes, too much media coverage of suicide queens and dysfunctional trainwrecks, and finally, WAY too much Bush Regime.

This year we get to elect someone new, and I'm really excited that, given the performance in Iowa, it might be Barack Obama. I still worry that my country is too caught up in the race issue, but maybe all of us progressives can come out of the woodwork and let the small-minded vote for Huckabee the Dominionist. Even those who affiliate with Christianity don't want to be the type of buttoned-down, uber-conservative Christian that Huckabee has in mind. A new leader with fresh ideas and optimism will help get the economy back on track, and will lay the groundwork to get us the hell out of Iraq...finally.

Although Brittney is on the Anna Nicole lifepath plan, I think people are actually getting sick of hearing about her. She hasn't done anything musically since that gawd-awful "comeback" on MTV, and being famous for acting like drunken, drugged out, trailer trash isn't likely to be too cool in the optimistic '08 year.

On a personal level, we bought a house and get to move into it later this month. I know I've said it before, but this time I mean it; I'm not moving for at least 10 years minimum. That's right, I'm hanging up my gypsy shoes and sprouting roots. I'm also looking forward to finishing the re-org of my department at work. It's coming along well, but I want to take it all the way to the bank.

Mostly, I'm looking forward to a year of hopeful thinking. These long, sad, grueling years of life under the Bush Regime have not been happy ones. They ruled by reminding us that we should be afraid of everything. They took all of our money and put it into funding defense contracts won by companies owned by them and their friends. They took our country's honor and reputation and shit all over it, but that's all over now. Americans are no longer fearful, they are no longer willing to blindly give over their rights and control of the national treasury to robber barons, and they are no longer willing to be told that the future is grim. 50 years ago a black man couldn't get into a restaurant with white people, now there's one on the way to the White House, that makes me damn proud, and very optimistic.

I'm Tired of Funding Murder

Every day I am bombarded with images of disgraceful women. Our country's pop culture media adores them. The worse they are, the better. These women set very low standards, and a bigger tragedy seems to be that there is an abundance of these horrible females to fill page after page of trash magazine print.

Over the past couple of days there has been a remarkable exception to this vile standard. The media has splashed the life and face of an amazing, brave, progressive woman. A lady with vision who dedicated herself tirelessly to improving the lives of others, and showing younger women how to stand strong in the face of severe danger. Unfortunately, the danger hit too close to home, and after a successful speech of hope given to a thousand eager listeners, she was murdered.

Benazir Bhutto was an amazing voice of peace amid a sea of warmongers, fear peddlers, ruthless dictators, and those who profited from the misery of others. I am still fuming over her untimely death. She wanted to make peace with India and Israel, and stabilize her country. What adds to my anger is the fact that my tax dollars went to fund the murder of this great lady.

The U.S. has given the Musharraf regime billions of dollars to fight the so-called war on terror. Have they caught Osama bin Laden? Nope. Instead they have used those funds to increase their military might and keep a strangle hold on Pakistan. This is the government that has banned all free media, jailed attorneys who represent people mistreated by the government, and repeatedly uses torture. The only reason Musharraf agreed to hold elections in the first place was to keep the U.S. gravy train flowing. This is a man who took power in a coup, do you think he really cares about elections! Bhutto was going to defeat him, so her death was very convenient.

Of course, the Musharraf regime is pinning the blame on our favorite Snowball; al Qaeda. I'm sure within the next few weeks they will do a bang up job showing the link between radical Islamic extremists and Bhutto's murder. Also a prediction, the Bush regime will go right along with it, and breath a big sigh of relief that the attention of the American people is once again distracted from the occupation of Iraq.

Speaking of Iraq, if we had done things properly, instead of making a grab for the third largest oil reserve in the world, maybe we could have played a part in taking down Musharraf and bringing Bhutto back to power. We would have been instrumental in spreading the peace and democracy that our own dictatorship claims to promote, and best of all, it would have been one less murder you and I would have paid for.

Thought of the Day: My Favorite Idaho Game

The plan was made to take a two hour drive from Nampa to New Meadows (like any of you know or care about either place, but I'm attempting to be descriptive). On this trip, I was able to show Jeff how to play my favorite Idaho game, which I call, "What's that Smell?"

It's easy to play, and somewhat disturbing. Basically you drive along any given stretch of road surrounded by nothingness until everyone in the car gets a horrible look on their face and exclaims, "What's that smell!?!"

Unfortunately, the answers aren't always the most creative and usually boil down to one of three smells: the White Satin Sugar factory (big, horrible stench), Onions (potatoes aren't the only thing grown in Idaho), or Cowshit (no explanation needed on this one).

We played this game all the way up to New Meadows. We didn't get to play it on the way back, because I was too busy white-knuckling the steering wheel of the rented Chevy Aveo when a huge snowstorm hit. It took us 3.5 hours to get back to my sister's house, but in that time, I concluded that unless someone dies, I'm not visiting in the winter ever again.

California, I love and miss you!

Thought of the Day: Idaho Get Over Yourself

I'm in Idaho spending a few days with my family. I'm psyched to see my friends, my niece, and my siblings, but not too happy to be in this place. It's a nice area if you didn't grow up here during the '80s, you know, before they had tall buildings, culture, and civilization. Although Southern Idaho has changed a great deal, it's gotten a bit carried away with itself.

For example:

• Airport Security - I went to pick up my husband last night and there were three police officers walking around harassing cars stopped at the curb. Most of the planes coming into the Boise airport aren't even regular-sized aircraft, they are a step above the propeller Buddy Holly planes, so there aren't many people or tons of gallons of jet fuel aboard. Also, most Americans don't know where Idaho is, let alone some Islamic terrorist who lives in a shithole in Afghanistan and rides around on a donkey. Trust me, the little nuclear plant in the middle of the state isn't going to be enough to make a would-be fundamentalist board a Big Bopper prop plane.

• Real Estate Prices - They have houses here selling for over $500K! Unless you get 50 acres of land with it, you have to be a fucking moron to even consider paying that price tag, because most of Idaho (even the populated areas) contain vast fields of nothingness. Real estate developers have tried to make some cities and areas more "exclusive" than others, but the truth is that no matter how spiffy the neighborhood might be if you drive a mile in any direction you are going to run into a trailer with a broken down barn in the backyard and three rusted out cars on the front yard.

• Police Protection - The crime rate here is so low that there are police patrolling speed limits everywhere. This is one of the more attractive features about living here; the idea that you can leave your garage door open for an hour, and your possessions will still be there when you remember to close the door. However, between Point A and Point B there is a long road with no cars, and driving 50 mph should not be a crime punishable by a smoky with an attitude and an insurance-raising ticket. If you are going to have cops patrolling every long strip of road running through those vast fields of nothingness the least you could do is offer traffic school to those of us who would like to get to the mall in a reasonable amount of time.

• Family Values State - Stop touting the idea that you are the state that represents family values just because you have a church on every corner. The county I grew up in had one of the top teen pregnancy rates in the Northwest, there is a huge meth problem in the poorer Idaho counties, and Larry Craig is your longtime representative (need I say more).

I'm bias and I'll admit it. This place has a lot of demons and bad memories from my past, but it also gives me a tremendous amount joy driving by places where I spent years engaging in juvenile mayhem. However, as the eternal realist, the image of Idaho doesn't add up to the reality, so get over yourself, and for fuck's sake leave me alone at the freakin' airport!

Thought of the Day: Grateful for What I've Got

I've spent many years trying not to stand in front of the mirror and notice my flaws. When my daughter began to mimic me, as most little ones do, I really kicked it into high gear, because I didn't want her to look at her own reflection with disappointment. I've finally come to a point in my life where I'm happy with the way I look, big ass and all.

Today, I feel especially grateful for my large hips, slightly matronly upper arms, and all of my other flaws, because Pamela Anderson filed for divorce again. Let me explain. Pam is basically the physical manifestation of every straight man's dream. She has ginormous inflata-boobs, a tiny waist, a round butt, and despite being short, great legs. Her face isn't too bad either except for the fake lips and way too much eye shadow, yet I have a better personal life than this beauty queen. Weird isn't it.

Like many women I've spent time dreaming of what life would be like if I had the "perfect" body, and looks that could kill. Now I stop and look around at all of the women the media has declared as perfection and they are really a fucked up bunch. It's actually very sad that Ms. Anderson keeps winding up with losers, and that she doesn't seem to respect herself much.

Maybe I'm capitalizing a bit on someone else's misery, but after reading the news story about Pam's marriage to Paris Hilton's former boyfriend (like that wasn't a big enough flag!), I feel damn grateful for everything I've got, even though it never has a prayer of fitting into single digit sizes.

Thought of the Day: Glowing Cats

Scientists in South Korea have cloned cats that glow in the dark.

No...I'm not stoned right now, I'm completely serious, and by cats I do mean litterbox pooping felines that say "meow".

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of science. I like the idea that in a world filled with reality television, corporate-run governments, and Brittney Spears, there is still enough human innovation to create technology that, crappy cell phone service aside, makes our lives better. However, sometimes I think that a few people have a little too much alone time in the lab, and the glowing cats advances that theory.

The glowing cat scientists say that the experiment was designed to detect disease in human beings, but during my long and decently traveled life, I have yet to see someone suffering from a weird glow-in-the-dark disease (except for those folks in Chernobyl who also have three eyes and I really don't want to see a dog with more than two eyes, so Korean researchers, don't even go there).

I understand cloning. Cloning will make it possible to advance transplant science and grow healthy skin that can be of aid to burn victims or people who have extensive scar tissue, but I'm not too down with the glowing. Then again, I always wonder what kids will be into by the time Rachael becomes a teenager. Instead of the tongue piercings maybe it will be, "But Moooommm, everyone is drinking the glow juice, and it will only make me green for, like, ten days max." Oy vey!

Thought of the Day: Pissing on Ike Turner's Grave

Ike Turner died yesterday. He had a tremendous talent for making great music, and I'll be the first to give him that credit. However, he was an absolute bastard of a human being, and I am perplexed as to why I'm looking at all of these glowing reports of his career.

I've never understood the need our society has to make people greater in death than they were in life. Look what happened with Anna Nicole Smith! She was a stripper who spent most of her early years hosting parties at the same house where her son slept, then got famous for being pretty, married a really old guy for money, and finally overdosed. Yet when she died everyone acted like some great person was gone, and the country should feel at a loss. Give me a fucking break!

Now we get to Ike Turner; a man who was arrested multiple times for drug charges, along with episodes of drug-induced violence, and brutalized one of the most talented women ever to sing a note. I've heard people say that Tina would have never gotten to where she is today without Ike, but given the beatings, threats, black eyes, chokings, and split lips, I think she might have preferred to go it on her own and find out.

A man is only as good as the woman who stands beside him, and if the woman can't stand, because he's beaten her too hard, then he isn't shit.

Thought of the Day: iHate iTunes

All I wanted to do was download Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill". I wasn't looking to save 99 cents and download it for free from some scary Nigerian virus site. No, I was willing to be bilked a buck to get the song quick, so that I could listen to it while I worked out.

I started my downloading quest at 9:30 PM. I plugged my iPod Nano into my computer, and went to the iStore. I found the song, and clicked the "Buy It" key, but iTunes informed me that the iTunes version I upgraded to two weeks ago was so old that the song wouldn't download. Annoying, but nonetheless, I still wanted the song, so I went to the Apple site to download this week's version of iTunes, which was only supposed to take 6 minutes. Apparently 6 iTunes minutes are like 6 moon minutes (you know with the whole time/space thing where minutes on the moon are double what they are here).

I downloaded the new version, restarted the computer, and the whole system went wacky. After a phone call to my husband accusing him and his brother of screwing up the computer, which he denied, but those two + computer = very bad things, I looked forward to downloading the song. I re-set the computer, went through the iTunes update download again, and clicked on my desktop's iTunes shortcut, but it wouldn't open, so I clicked the "Help" key. Apparently this week's iTunes update requires you to delete QuickTime, and re-install it as a stand alone program. I did all this, because now I wasn't fucking going to bed until I had this song!

I finally gave up at 11:30 PM. The closest I got to actually having the song was streaming the original circa 1980s Kate Bush video on a YouTube site set up by some weird French guy. I know that downloading music is supposed to be the wave of the future, and I may sound like an old fart, but I'll take a good mix CD any day. At least if I had a CD, I would have been able to do my workout, while listening to sweet Kate make a deal with G-d.

Thought of the Day: Why I Say My Prayers at Night

My cousin, Alex, and three of his friends in Iraq.

Thought of the Day: The Misadventures of Felony Melanie

One of my young co-workers came at me first, "Mel, I think you'd better get out here."

I approached the reception area of my office and found a police officer at the front door. Outside there was the policeman's motorcycle accompanied by a police car with two more cops. In less than 5 minutes another two police officers showed up.

"Is this your vehicle, ma'am?" asked the motorcycle officer.

Then it hit me, Voldemort had reported the car as stolen.

Voldemort is the name we have bestowed on the woman my brother-in-law foolishly chose to marry six years ago. They are going through a messy divorce, and today I found myself right in the middle of it.

My brother-in-law had swapped vehicles with me a couple of days ago, because he needed the momvan to haul some stuff. What he didn't tell me was that during one of his messy court proceedings around mid-November, the court ordered him to turn over the car to her temporarily. He also forgot to disable the LoJack system allowing the police to find the car with little effort.

Two hours I was outside with a very nice officer, and in the end Voldemort ended up with the car. She has one that she talked her mom into buying for her, and another vehicle owned by my brother-in-law's company that she's refused to turn over violating her own court order.

The nice officer told me it was a good thing that they found me at work, because had I been driving the car, SoCal's procedure for pulling over a suspected carjacker is to force them off the side of the road, and with guns drawn make them lie on the ground to cuff them. I would have really been pissed had that happened, today I was merely inconvenienced and annoyed.

My co-workers got a kick out of the situation asking me what else I had been arrested for, and if I had a secret life I wasn't telling them about, and nicknaming me 'Felony Melanie.' They were also in awe of how calm I was in a situation where they would have completely freaked out and had a meltdown. Maybe I'm just jaded, but I'd prefer to say that I remain eternally amused at these weird life situations I always seem to find myself in. Beside, shit like this makes my blog worth reading.

Thought of the Day: How Do You Like Them Apples !?!

My daughter's birthday celebration was fantastic. She showed up to Chuck E. Cheese in her Pepto Bismol pink princess costume. Prior to Sunday, she had worn it all of five minutes before tearing it from her body like it was burning her skin, but that morning, she sat in the middle of the living room floor in her underwear, and proclaimed, "If I can't wear my princess dress, I'm not going." It was her birthday, so I let her wear the costume figuring it would be off the moment we got to the place with the shittiest pizza known to man, but, hats off to her, she wore that costume the whole time.

The party was only supposed to be from 1:00 - 2:30, but we finally left at 4:30. I was exhausted and deaf, but the munchkin was happy, and the dad got some good footage, so all was well. We went home, opened gifts, and rested for all of 30 minutes before we were out meeting my folks-in-law to celebrate with a birthday dinner. She was sung to by the waitstaff and got to eat a big sundae without finishing her meal. Any 4-year-old kid should have thanked their lucky stars for this dream day, but I've learned that my daughter isn't your typical 4-year-old.

As I was changing her into her jammies that night, she was clearly exhausted. I told her it was time to go to sleep, and in two seconds, she stood up on her bed, got in my face and said, "Mommy, I'm 4-years-old now, I do what I want."

21 fucking hours of labor, countless sleepless nights, ear infections, teething, kissing ouchies, the loss of a great set of boobs to gravity, and it's 'I do what I want.' Thankfully, I'm not one to lose my cool. I looked at her and said, "Do you drive a car?"

She thought and replied, "Yes, Grandma and Papa gave me a car." (referring to the little electric, way too expensive gift my in-laws gave her the day before)

"Do you drive a big car?" I asked.

"No." she said.

"Do you make money?"

"No." she said sticking her pouty lip out.

"Then I guess you have to listen to me for a few more years." I smiled.

Mommy wins again, but for how long is the question.

Thought of the Day: Four Years Ago Today

It's 9:05 AM and four years ago I was in the worst pain of my life. I sat on the edge of the bed wanting to close my eyes and just breathe through it, but my mother-in-law was in front of me telling me to focus on her. The pain subsided, my own mother arrived, Jeff was there, and the unbearable pain began again.

Prior to this, I never had a pain that I couldn't wrap my head around. When I popped my hip out of joint in 7th grade gym class, I could wrap my head around that. When I nearly cut the tip of my finger off, I could wrap my head around that (by the way, never chop vegetables while arguing with your asshole boyfriend). I've even been punched straight in the face, but even that paled in comparison to these terrible labor pains.

Finally, I took matters into my own hands. I grabbed my husband by the collar and told him it was time for the epidural, and he was not to return to my side until he made it happen. A few minutes later a nice young man with a bald head and glasses, dressed in blue hospital scrubs gave me the best shot I've ever had, and all the pain was gone.

I slept through the worst part of my labor while Jeff dozed beside me in the rocking chair and the mothers watched television and browsed through a large book of names. At around 5:15 PM, it was go time. They told me I would spend three hours pushing, but I'd had enough of this labor bullshit and wanted to see this tiny human I had been incubating for nearly a year. Thanks to learning the pilates extended stomach crunch movement, I had her out in 30 minutes.

The moment your child emerges from your body is the most real experience you will ever have. It was a physical, spiritual, and emotional release that I had never imagined could be possible. I never truly realized my power as a woman until that moment. Now I was a mother, and the tiny doll baby in the blue and pink striped stocking cap swaddled tightly in white nursing blankets was my daughter.

There was the usual celebration with phone calls and excitement, then a couple of hours later after Jeff and my mother-in-law went home and my mother was asleep in the portable bed across the room. It was just me and my little girl, now named Rachael. I spent a few moments freaking out and feeling weird. When your life completely changes in the matter of a few hours, even if it's for the better, there is still some fallout.

Today, my little one turned four. She plays games on the computer, insists on picking out her own clothes, drags a step ladder across the kitchen floor when I'm cooking so she can stand beside me and help, takes care of the dog, and yells at me when she thinks I'm not listening to her. Maybe I don't discipline her enough and let her talk back way too much, but I don't care. She has an amazing spirit, and is a pretty good kid, in general. Besides, it's always been my goal to raise a fabulous woman, and after four years, I think I'm well on my way.

Thought of the Day: California Rain

Yesterday was one of the most humorous days I've had so far here in Southern California, because it rained. It not only rained, but it rained really heavy. In Seattle we referred to this particular type of rainstorm as "pissing rain". You know, the kind of storm when you come in drenched and you've only walked a few feet from your car to the office, and someone asks, "what's the weather outside like?" Your only response as you wonder if you are going to have soggy socks all day is, "it's pissing rain."

I was listening to the rain piss down while I was getting ready for work, and I wondered how my new comrades in SoCal would respond to this huge amount of wetness, of course anticipating the worst. I was not disappointed. My commute to work took nearly double the time, because people here fear the rain. They also don't get the fact that their car is made of steel while rain is only a group of tiny water beads, because they were driving as if speeding up would cause the rain to hurt their cars.

My favorite scene of the day was when I ventured out for lunch, which I almost never do, but had to in lieu of the opportunity for nostalgia. I sat eating my lunch and listening to grunge music (like I said it was all about nostalgia), and I saw a guy feverishly wiping his outside car windows down with a towel, and had to restrain myself from yelling, "Hey Maynard, give it up! It's going to be pissing rain all day!" Instead, I just opted to watch him go from window to window, panicking and wiping, not understanding that according to the laws of physics steel is much stronger than tiny drops of water.