Black Magpie Theory: Lil Wayne Isn’t a Thug, But George W. Bush Is

I’m blogging at Black Magpie Theory today.   Come see.

Unemployment Diary: Dispatches from the New Middle Class

You can’t swing a dead LOL cat in the internets without hitting some article about how to slash your spending.  Case in point via Google:

Search Term:  cut your family budget
Search Term:  cut your family spending
Search Term:  how to cut your spending

I admit I didn’t read all those links, but I am ever so grateful for those articles that don’t begin with the sage advice to give up your daily double mocha latte skim with low-fat whipped cream, chocolate shavings and a splash of vodka.

I mean, honestly.  When is the last time I could afford one of those?  And as for the Vodka?  Shit, how do you think I’m coping with all this painful budget cutting?

But while so many of those “helpful” tips appear to be written by people who’ve never experienced the joy and the pain of long-term unemployment, it’s true that cutting cutting cutting is where it’s at.  When I’m not slashing our spending or trying to raise cash, I’m cutting coupons.

Just call me Lisa Scissorhands.

Some items cannot, however, be cut.  Take auto insurance, for example.  By law we must have it here in Georgia.  So we did what we could – we upped our deductible and cut benefits.  We’re losing our discount though because we’ve had to eliminate our renters’ insurance and my life insurance policy.  And can I just tell you how losing that life insurance policy irritates me?  I can’t even fall onto my fainting couch anymore and wail, “But I’m worth more dead than alive!”

On top of which, the fainting couch was sold at a yard sale six months ago so I’m truly at a loss for dramatic gestures when the going gets tough.

Anyway, I popped into the insurance office to make our payment on the very day our auto insurance would be cancelled.  It was there that I’ve had one of the most humiliating and frustrating conversations to date.

Young woman, gainfully employed by our insurance agent:  So you just want to pay your auto insurance?
Me, unemployed but showered and wearing lipstick:  Yes.  That’s right.
Her:  But what about your other policies?
Me:  We’re going to have to let them expire.  We can’t afford them.
Her:  Why not?
Me:  Because I am one of those long-term unemployed people you hear about.  I’ve been out of work since last December.
Her:  And you still haven’t found a job?
Me:  No.
Her:  Why not?
Awkward pause while I think about this.
Me:  I have my theories.  I’ve applied for all kinds of jobs – about six to ten jobs a week, at a minimum.
Her:  Wow.  And you still haven’t found a job?
Me:  No.
She looked at me suspiciously and cleared her throat.
Me:  You don’t know of any openings anywhere, do you?
Her:  No.

I left wishing I still had life insurance and that fucking fainting couch.

****************

The other thing that makes this period of financial difficulty more trying is the fact that our kids are still living out there in the world of expectations.  See, I can hide from it most of the time, but they’re out there with their peers with the iPhones and the movie tickets and the Facebook statuses about going to Six Flags, the corn maze, haunted house and later out for Chinese and it’s only Saturday! and the new clothes purchased not at Goodwill, but a real mall.

My chirping that this is all just a fun character building exercise only goes so far.

I didn’t let Sophie try out for cheerleader because it’s incredibly expensive.  When she asked to try out for basketball, I relented.  She got cut during the first round.  “It’s because I’m short,” she harrumphed.

“I’m sorry, sugar.  I’m really proud of you for trying though.”

“I hate genetics.”

“I should have married a taller man.”

She looked at me, her face like thunder.  “Not funny, Mom.”

I guess not.

A day later, she asked for money to buy a spirit shirt at school.  “They’re only fifteen dollars.”  She preemptively answered my question.

“I don’t have any money.”

“Can you write a check?  The t-shirt people are only going to be at the school today.  There won’t be another chance.”

I thought about this.  In the span of twenty seconds I visualized our bank account, consulted my mental calendar, fretted about the state of the economy, cursed the company making the shirts because they couldn’t come to the school a couple of days later and closer to payday, felt guilty about marrying a short man so that my kid didn’t make the basketball team, remembered that I’d already denied her a new band shirt (Nate’s old one was fine), didn’t buy class pictures, band pictures, or give her money for the book fair.  Finally I calculated the overall risks.

“Fine,” I sighed.  “But this shirt better not end up costing me forty-eight dollars when I get hit with an overdraft fee.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” I replied and handed her the check with a silent wish that the t-shirt company would be slow about making their bank deposit.

A couple of days later, I was in the laundry room.  Sophie came in carrying her new t-shirt.  “Don’t forget you have to turn this inside out to wash it,” she reminded me.

I closed the washing machine lid and took the shirt from her outstretched hand.  “I won’t forget.”

“Okay.  Thanks.  You’re sure you’ll remember?”  She started for the door.

I opened the dryer and bent down.  “The shirt cost me almost fifty dollars.  I’m pretty sure I’ll remember.”  My voice was absorbed into the warm towels.

********

But it’s not all bad.

Sophie:  Mom, they’re doing a thing with 4H where you fill a shoe box with small gifts to give to a kid for Christmas.  I want to do it.
Me:  Okay.  But you realize that you might be one of those kids who doesn’t get any gifts this year?
Sophie:  I know.  So what, I’ve gotten gifts every other year.  I’m going to go wrap that shoe box.  When can you take me to the Dollar store?

********

Nate and I drove through the Publix parking lot.  A middle-aged African American man sat on a bench near the Bruster’s Ice Cream holding a hand-lettered sign that read “Please Help.  American Vet, homeless, hungry.”

Me:  Heartbreaking.
Nate: I know.

We left the grocery store with our purchases.  I’d written a check for $25 over so I could buy some gas.

When we got the intersection by the Bruster’s, the man was still on the bench.

Nate: Mom?
Me:  I know.

I stopped the car and fished the cash out of my pocket.  I gave Nate the $5 bill and he climbed out of the car, walked over to the man and handed it to him, then waited while the man wrote something down on a piece of lined notebook paper, handed it to him, shook his hand and thanked him.

Nate walked back to the car and stared out the window at the families sitting at the picnic tables eating their ice cream cones.  “Those people all just watched me like I was doing something wrong,” he whispered.

“I know.  I saw.”

We drove away and didn’t say much for a while.

*****

People, be kind to one another.  Try to remember that whole walking in another’s shoes thing.  Okay?

Love Is Calling Me

http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=71649

Part three of my series introducing or reintroducing the people who make my life interesting.

When I first started blogging, I tagged Chloe with the unimaginative The Eldest.  Before long, I realized that I should call her what she was – The Dancer.  Ballet consumed her life from the age of 15 until the Spring of this year when she decided that the life of a dancer was not her future.

I threatened to call her Ed Begley, Jr. Junior because she was hectoring the hell out of us about our carbon, but that turned out to be rather short-lived thing.  Thank goodness.

As our first child, Chloe served as our test subject.  She endured our youthful ineptitude, absorbed and exceeded our highest expectations, and both paved the way and set the bar absurdly high for her siblings.

Not only did she survive our parenting, she managed to become the young woman I wish I could have been.  She’s driven and focused.  At nineteen, she has a much better understanding of her strengths and weaknesses and a clearer vision of her future than I think I’ve had in all my years.

For all she has going for her, she is still insecure.  She has moments of self-doubt that make my heart hurt.  She procrastinates.  When I am around to provide maid services, she is a slob.  She stresses herself out.  She possesses judgmental tendencies that make me want to slap her sometime, but I don’t hit my kids. My threats to deliver karate chops stopped at the threat stage. Sadly, my verbal assaults probably have left deeper scars than any spanking could have.

So a few basics about Chloe. She’s a sophomore at a small, private women’s college here in Georgia.  She attends on a full ride academic scholarship and works two jobs.  Over the summer, she waited tables at the local, fabulous barbecue joint and probably learned everything she’ll need to know in order to make it in any workplace – teamwork, office politics, pacing, and patience.  She’s an ADPi and I think it’s safe to say that belonging to the sorority has been incredibly good for her since she’s a loner like me.

She didn’t date much in high school.  Instead, she traveled in a herd of dancers and theater people which suited her and her jam-packed schedule.  (She didn’t just graduate from high school, she also received her IB diploma, a great source of pride.)  Over the summer she dated a really nice guy, but they recently broke it off.   I think being in a relationship is more of a commitment than Chloe wants right now.  As much as I hated to see the pain this caused her boyfriend, I understood and rather envied her resolve to look out unapologetically for number one.  That’s a skill I still haven’t mastered.

When I enrolled Chloe, age 3, in the Galina Dance Studio in Des Plaines, Illinois, I had no idea how that single act would send her on a journey that would shape her life and her life choices.  As MathMan and I sat in the darkened auditorium on Father’s Day 1994 and watched her and the other Lonesome Little Butterflies do the shake, shake, shake, shake, shake with their little tutu’d tushies, I could not have guessed that we would one day sit in another darkened auditorium watching a grown up Chloe dance on pointe as Clara in a ballet company’s production of the Nutcracker.

After her epiphany about dance, Chloe announced that she is going to explore the idea of becoming a civil rights lawyer.  I couldn’t be more proud and excited for her.   She was made for this.  Even as a child, she would become furious at the injustices meted out by the adults in her life – parents and teachers especially.  Her least favorite teachers were the ones who punished the whole classroom for one child’s misbehavior.  “Just go along, keep your mouth shut…” I’d lamely advise.

She was never satisfied with that answer.  She learned how to advocate, often effectively, for change.

I hope she uses her intelligence and advocacy abilities to help people and do good work.  I can’t think of a better way to make a living.  I also know that she’ll probably change her mind many times.  I’m just thrilled that she’s actually thinking about her future.  When I was nineteen, I didn’t have that kind of self-awareness.  I didn’t think much about how my decisions would affect my future.  As a result, the best gift I’ve given my children is the cautionary tale that has been my hapless, mess of a life.

Even my decision to become a mother was capricious.  In our family, how Chloe came to be has taken on the flavor of urban legend.  Except that it’s true.

Today, as we watch Chloe move away from the cozy center of our family and into her own orbit, I’m confident that I did the right thing.  As a skeptic, it’s hard for me to attribute anything to supernatural forces, but if there is some force guiding us, it was there on that hot August night when I snatched the used condom from MathMan, bit it and, without a moment’s hesitation, jammed it right up my juxie while MM watched, appalled and dumbfounded.  I had no idea that the sperm who made its way through that latex obstacle course to find that ripe egg would result in such an amazing (if I may say so) person.

“I’m pregnant,” I announced later that night, but MathMan was already asleep.  Forty weeks later, the midwife held Chloe up for me to see.  While the nurses cleaned her up and the doctor moved in to stop my hemorrhaging, she wailed with a fury that would predict how she’d react to future injustices.  And all the while she looked right at me as if to say “Somehow you are responsible for this.”

In that moment, I realized that I had never loved anyone so much in my life and nothing would ever be the same.

I’m a High-Functioning Sociopath. Do Your Research.

People who’ve had the questionable judgment to hang around here for a while know that I’m a wee bit of an Anglophile.  Or maybe I fancy myself an Anglophile.  Is there a test? Because I don’t have a certificate or anything.  Not yet.  Those of you not made less intelligent by your visits here might wonder why I’m not a Francophone.  I do have a degree in French, after all.  But being a full-time Francophone is too much like work.  It requires too much translation to encompass my growing need to be vapid.  Or is it insipid?  Stupid.  Definitely lazy.

So I cut my love of things Francais avec (that means with) a fascination with and a desire to be English.  It’s really not so far afield.  My ancestors are from across the pond.  Nevermind the fact that they were from those places England took great pleasure picking on – Scotland and Ireland.  It’s all the same big island, right?

So yeah – I’m a Scots Irish poseur.  That took a huge leap of your imagination, didn’t it?

As proof of my Anglophile cred, please note that I watch a lot of British television and movies, especially the someone gets murdered or a bunch of people dress up in period costume, kinds of programmes. Even better are the a bunch of people dress up in period costume and someone gets murdered programmes.  Did you see how I did that?  Hang on and I’ll spell something with an our instead of the boring American or.  Humour.  Behaviour.

I have my Facebook set on UK English.  Fact.  I’m not telling porkies.

Even as I type this (I’m not writing with my biro), I’m watching the new Sherlock on PBS.  And loving it, by the way.  So far I’ve identified about five British actors I recognize from the other shows I watch.  I drive MathMan a little nuts doing that.

“Hey, you recognize that guy?”

“Which guy?”

“The guy with the thing.  He was in that —-, you know the one where the woman with the daughter got killed.”

“Oh, that guy.”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Maybe?”

“What was he in?” (It’s a quiz.  I’m really just itching to prove my superior skills at recall.)

“Didn’t you just say he was in —-?”

“Yeah.  That’s right.  You’re good, honey.” (This is how I’m conciliatory, you see.  I share my success even with the most undeserving.)

I think MathMan should win a medal for indulging me as much as he does.  Sadly, he just has me for his prize.

And yes, since you asked, I love it that the new Watson’s therapist suggested he start blogging to help him cope.

So knowing this about me, GMB put together this package of jolly good things…

There are two things in the photo that aren’t British made.  

The Palomino pencils are from Japan and the pencil sharpener is made in Germany.  

An interesting point made by GMB and laughed at by me.

Thank you, GMB, for this wonderful package. 

The pencils are a dream, as are the sharpener and the keen eraser.

The bag rocks – I’m the coolest person at the grocery store.

And did I ever tell you lot that MathMan eats crisps not for the crisps themselves, but as delivery systems for Coleman’s Mustard?  It’s true.  The Coleman’s magnet is perfect.

And  those pencils, so wonderful.  I’m doing whatever I can to keep them out of the vortex of office supply doom that is Sophie’s room.  I have plans for them.  Big plans.  As in outlining my next book plans.  In pencil. Japanese pencils sharpened by German steel.

Cheers!

Do you have a fascination with a particular place or time period?

Sh#t My Mom Says

My mom shocked me with the news that she takes the occasional break from watching Lifetime Channel Movie Originals to watch Shit My Dad Says on CBS.  When she said it, of course, she called it “Bleep My Dad Says.”

I am amused by this.  I tell her that I follow Shit My Dad Says on Twitter, following up with the obligatory question, “You do know what Twitter is, don’t you?”

My parents haven’t had a computer since 2003ish.  I honestly don’t know how they survive, but far be it for me to ask. I am happy to not have my mother as a friend on Facebook.  All I need is for her to find her way to this blog.  Who among my siblings has been bequeathed the Carnival Glass set would become an issue much sooner than necessary.

Mother takes on a snappish tone regarding Twitter.  “I have a vague idea.  Yes.  And?”

It’s just like being fourteen all over again and trying to explain why I want to go to a Black Sabbath concert.

“Well, when the kids and I were visiting you and Dad last March, I actually sent out a tweet that pretty much said that if you kept it up, I could start my own Shit My Mom Says.”  I indulged in a self-satisfied chuckle.

“Mmmmhmmmm.” Now she’s snappish and unimpressed.

“I believe we have a double standard here.”

She sighed.  I had to learn it from somewhere, right?  “What double standard?”

“Well, why is it funny to watch it on a TV show, but you don’t find me amusing at all?”

It’s just like being three again and trying to make her laugh by reciting dialog from Days of Our Lives.

“Well, what did I say that was funny enough to rival William Shatner?  I’m not funny.”  Now she’s name-dropping? But at least I have her attention.

“Remember when we were at Frisch’s having lunch and Dad was telling the kids about the huge snowstorm?He asked you to confirm the record level and you just sighed and said ‘I don’t know, Paul.  I’m not the record keeper.’  Do you remember that?” My voice had raised an octave.

I think she giggled.  “Oh that.  Was that funny?”

“Yes, it was funny. Your delivery was funny.  The kids and I still laugh about it.”

“Well.  I don’t know.”  Was her tone softening a bit?

“And then we were driving somewhere and you made a sound and I asked if you were okay and you said ‘Yeah, I just make noises sometimes.’  The kids and I nearly peed ourselves laughing at that.”

Did she just laugh a little?  “I do make noises.”

“So okay then, that’s funny.  It’s low-brow, but it’s funny.”

“But I’m no William Shatner.”

“No one is Shater.  And you do understand that Shatner wasn’t the inspiration for that show, right?  Besides, he has a team of writers writing those jokes.”

“Well, I can’t afford joke writers.”

“Mom?”  Oh dear.

“And don’t you go sending out any more tweets with cuss words.  People will think you’re trash.”

It’s like being in first grade again when I got in trouble for saying poop on the school bus.

“You don’t cuss on your blog do you?”

“Of course not.  By the way, you aren’t thinking of buying a computer are you?”

It’s like being seventeen and hiding the Mr. Boston Screwdriver in my closet.

Beautiful Boy

http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=71649

Next up in the family introductions is Nathan.  Just as Sophia had other blog names, Nate has been The Boy and The Actor.

I’m still amazed that this little guy who, when upset, would run across our old living room to throw himself on the floor, cover his face and be loudly inconsolable, is now in high school and learning to drive.

Even though we tend to associate intuition and compassion with the female of our species, Nate is probably our most intuitive child.  Even when he was very young, he would pick up on the emotions of those around him.  He was expert at reading body language and facial expressions.

“Mom, what’s wrong?  Why does your face look like that?”  I can still hear his gravely voice asking me that question.  He might not have been able to identify the emotion, but he could tell something was wrong – stress, frustration, anger, fear, exhaustion.  It was hard to hide things from him.

That has not changed.  Nor has his sense of compassion diminished.  While he might not be willing to do anything about it or worse – he might be the cause of it – he’s the child who will clue me in when someone else in the house (read:  his sisters) is upset.  It goes like this:

I’m working at my computer when Nate comes into the bedroom carrying our youngest cat.  He puts her in my face.

“Don’t aim that thing at me,” I snap.

He puts the cat down and paces back and forth.  Okay.  What does he want?

I shift gears.  “So, what’s up?”

“There’s a commercial.”  Do your kids do this?  It’s like having an annoying itch every 6.5 minutes.

He’s also come to alert me to the fact that something is up with one of the girls, but he won’t come right out and say it immediately.

“Sophie’s writing you hate mail again.”  or “What’s wrong with Chloe?  She hasn’t moved in three hours.”

“Are you afraid she’s going to fuse to the love seat again?”  I ask.

“Well, yeah.  And she’s hogging the TV.  I hate that stuff.  I don’t care what they say, I’m never going to say yes to the dress.”

Of the three kids, Nate is the people person.  The girls are loners like me.  Nate has friends everywhere.  His worst nightmare is to have nothing to do and no one with whom to do it.  His father and I have learned that we don’t have to punish Nate very much.  He’s so much harder on himself than we could ever be.  The last time he and I had a blow out of epic proportions, we both ended up in tears, apologizing to the other.  It was a moment of maturing for both of us.

Now we get to watch Nathan come into his own.  He’s taller than both MathMan and me.  That’s not so significant when you consider that we’re both under 5’6″, but for Nate, it’s a huge source of pride and, in a society that values the taller person over the shorter one, a source of relief, as well.

He attends the school where MathMan teaches and is doing really well.  He earned a spot on their baseball team and is applying to be part of their magnet program.  Competitive by nature, he’s determined to do better in school than his over-achiever sister Chloe did.  That will be a hard climb, but he’s got the brains to do it.  Now our conversations revolve around applying oneself.  My mother’s voice comes from my mouth and I’m okay with it.  I just hope he’s a better listener than I was.

One of the hardest parts of being a parent to a kid like Nate is that he’s not afraid to question authority, including ours.  He’s never going to be one who blindly follows.  His mind is analytical and he can wear you down with logic.

I think sometimes I play favorites with Nate for two reasons.  One, my inner twelve year old boy is thrilled to finally have an outlet; and two, his birth order is the same as mine. We’re both the middle child.

Here’s a crazy bit of trivia that means nothing, but I still think it’s pretty cool – my siblings and I were born in 1961, 1965 an 1969.  My kids were each born thirty years later – 1991, 1995 and 1999.  And that is the extent of my mathiness.  I can add by thirty.  I’m a genius!

Nate offers me a glimpse into the world of being a boy that I would never have had otherwise.  Even though I have a younger brother, I still wasn’t privy to the boy culture like I’ve been as an observer and sometimes participant with my son and his friends.

Even so, Nate and MathMan form an alliance against the female dominated household sometimes.  Because they’re together at school, at baseball and during their commute there and back, they seem to have grown even closer.  MathMan was only eighteen when his father died and I’m glad to see him have such a healthy relationship with our son.  Although he rarely speaks of it, I know it’s one of the greatest disappointments in his life that he didn’t get to know his father as an adult.

While it doesn’t happen as often anymore, Nate and I still get to hang out.  We still talk smack and watch stupid TV.  Our favorite line is “We have to stick to the plan.  Someone is going to have to be buried alive.”  There’s nothing like gallows humor over popcorn and root beer to draw a mom and her son together.

As I’ve worked on my manuscript, I’ve had the chance to work with Nate on some details and research.  The kid knows his stuff about World War II and what he doesn’t know, he’s been helpful in steering me to find the information.  I’ve also taken the opportunity to fictionalize him. That has been more fun and harder work than I first thought it would be.  The characters in this first novel aren’t even thinly disguised versions of my family.  Come to think of it, the story was inspired by Nate and his quirky sense of humor.

At least I think he was kidding……  

My Brown-Eyed Girl

http://www.flickr.com/apps/slideshow/show.swf?v=71649

I have some new readers and it’s been a while since I updated longtime readers on the different players around here so I thought I would introduce/reintroduce the family.

Our youngest family member is Sophia. You can call her Sophie or Phia, too. Back before I started using our real names on the blog, She went through a series of name changes depending on her dominant characteristics at the time.  When I first started blogging, I referred to her as The Youngest.  That quickly changed to The Baby, who morphed into Cupcake.  After the episode where she, in a fit of pique, threw her brother’s golf clubs out the second floor window, she became Resident Evil.  Her Swedish period followed.  She became intensely private so I called her Garbo.

When I decided to go give up any pretense of privacy, I asked my family if I could use their names and they simply shrugged.  They were still incredulous that anyone cared or even read my blog.  They clung to the notion that you guys were the equivalent of my childhood imaginary friend Cynthia.  She looked like Cindy Brady and did awfully mean things to my brother, made messes and lost things.

As they’ve gotten older and their lives more complex, I tend to ask if I can blog about things.  They’ve become accustomed to the blog being part of our lives.  They just instinctively know when I’m thinking Oh, I am blogging this.  And they’re mostly cool with it.

So Sophia – she’s eleven going on thirty.  I know that’s cliche, but ever since this kid gave up her penchant for wearing only dresses and boots and stopped skipping through the house singing the Hoot Hoot Zoo Pals jingle one day and asked me to show her how to make soup, she’s been ready to get her own apartment.

In many ways the stereotypical spoiled youngest child, she’s taken advantage of the fact that with her birth in the middle of a snowstorm in January 1999, MathMan and I became outnumbered.  She learned early on that crying is a highly effective method for getting one’s way when your parents are burnt out.

This has also caused her to be wildly unpopular with her siblings.  It’s possible that there have been some half-hearted attempts made on her life.  I’ve stopped trying to discern between accidents and premeditated events.

Sophie is both delightful and exhausting.  Like me, she is a loner, preferring her own company.  When she arrives home from school, she needs a lot of decompression time to sit in front of the TV and snack.  Sometimes she naps, wiped out from all that human interaction.  We’ll have a brief exchange about our days and then doing our own things. Around eight o’clock, just when I’m ready to fly about the house prepping it for the next day’s early morning launch, she’ll find me and begin a conversation.  I learn a lot about this kid’s world while I’m pulling things from the clothes dryer or putting away dishes.

Sadly, she’s used to having to vie for my attention.  Unlike her sister who had MathMan and me to herself for nearly five years before any siblings arrived to wreck her only-child Nirvana, or her brother who has a way of commanding attention by his mere presence, Sophie knows that if she must make herself heard over the vacuum cleaner, the dishwasher, and the voices in my head.  I remind myself to stop and focus on her because one of my recurring nightmares is the scene where Emilio Estevez asks Ally Sheedy what her parents did to her and she answers, “They ignore me.”  But Ally Sheedy has my daughter’s face.

And MathMan wonders why I wake up screaming.

Sophie is the artist in the family.  She draws and paints.  She writes stories.  She’s a multi-media artist who produces her own sculpting material out of household items like flour, glue, powder, perfume, toilet paper and shaving cream.  Sometimes it’s hard for a neat freak like me to let Sophie be Sophie in that regard.  I rage around cleaning up the bowls and spoons covered in heaven knows what, bellowing that this better be the last time she uses the antique library table in her bedroom for a mixing surface.  Meanwhile, she sits nodding and smiling.  She’s probably thinking of her next project which has just been inspired by some angle of my angry expression or my face’s shade of crimson.  

Or maybe she’s more spontaneous and consequences don’t even enter her mind.  An idea comes to her and before she can think about the resulting Mother Outburst, she’s spraying the shaving cream into the bowl of glitter and lemon zest.

These artistic endeavors often take place right after she’s had her midnight snack.  It’s no rare thing for me to find among the soap shavings and Qtips the remnants of a meal to rival Dagwood’s late night multiplex-sandwiches.  A half-empty yogurt cup, the Cheez-Its box with six perfectly square crackers hiding at the bottom, three glasses of water, and a Hershey Bar wrapper.

All of this goes on behind her closed door while MathMan and I sleep in blissful ignorance down the hall.  I become aware of Sophie’s late night art installations when, awakened by the Spokescat who has mastered the perfect combination doorknob rattling and yowling, I stumble down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.  The smell of raspberry shaving cream overwhelms me, wafting from Sophie’s door which now stands ajar.  I open the door and to find the floor covered in art supplies and discarded clothing.  A Full House rerun is playing on the little TV that now doubles as a place where Foam and Tissue become Art.

It’s nothing for Sophie and I to have a brief conversation that begins with me asking stupidly why her hands are orange.  Or red.  Or blue.  The answer is usually quite simple. “Sharpies.”

Not surprisingly, Sophie is also a magnet for office supplies.  At some time or other, every pen, pencil, marker, crayon, colored pencil, glue stick, tape dispenser, binder clip and pair of scissor in our household has been part of the ever changing landscape of Sophie’s bedroom.  If someone is forgetful enough to ask the question aloud “Have you seen my blue felt-tipped marker?” they quickly recover and go to stand in Sophie’s doorway, scratching their head and wondering if it wouldn’t just be easier to use their black felt-tipped marker.  If they can find it, that is.

It’s not that her room is messy – I see to that each day because otherwise, we’d have lost her under the mountain of stuff years ago.  Nevertheless, her room becomes a vortex for things.  It’s been rumored that there is a wormhole connecting her bed to six other dimensions, but I’ve resisted the urge to investigate.  Life is exciting enough right now.

Naturally, she fights my attempts to keep her off that TV show Hoarders.  Like many kids, her clutter management style is a combination of denial and stuffing things wherever she can.  It’s nothing for me to find her cellphone, the TV remote, her missing language arts homework, three socks, a penny, a marker, popcorn and a couple of Gogurt wrappers stuffed between the sofa cushions.  And I clean those suckers out pretty often, otherwise, I’d never have any kitchen utensils.

But reality is subjective around here so we try to find some common ground.  I don’t want her to become a total slob, but I also understand that not everyone shares my need for uncluttered surfaces.

Our conversations go like this.

“Did you clean your room like I asked you to?”
“Yes.”
“For real?  I mean, would it pass the Lisa test?”
She considers this.  “Yes.”
“Better go double check.”

I don’t see her again for awhile.   But don’t think for one second that she’s in her room cleaning.  She’s grabbed her phone from between the sofa cushions and ducked out to go run the streets with the other Covered Bridge Springs Tarts.

Later I visit her room, snooping to see where she might have hidden things.  She’s clever.  The wastebasket overflows with aborted drawings, class newsletters she makes for her imaginary school room, gum wrappers, a couple of dried out markers without their tops.

“Well, I’ll be,” I say, looking around. “She really did clean.”  I feel a little chagrined for being so hard on the kid.  I really should give her more credit.

I start to leave, thinking I’ll take the trashcan and empty it for her when I hear a noise behind me.  I turn to see a tiny purple man climbing from the crack between her mattress and the bed’s foot board.  He’s covered in glitter.  A paper clip juts from his collar, one of Sophie’s long-missing socks clings to his pant leg,  and he’s left a trail of crumbs and bits of paper in his wake.  He stands on the bed, his red eyes snapping open and shut in consternation.  He starts to speak, but stops and sticks out his green tongue to pick a feather from it.

I sigh.  “Let me guess…..”

Black Magpie Theory: Know Your Enemy

I’m blogging at Black Magpie Theory today.  See you there.

It’s not commerce I hate. It’s corruption.

I Didn’t Even Mention the Dentist’s Office

This is the book I’ve been anxious to read.  It’s finally here. (www.bestylerner.com)
Sophia can play some of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance on her clarinet.
Chloe is home for Fall Break which means we’ll be having a marathon viewing of British murder mysteries and costume dramas.  Halfway through we’ll be speaking in foreign tongues.  She does a beautiful Queen’s English, I sound like someone out of East Enders.  Or West Side Story.  I can never keep them straight.
MathMan High School’s Girls’ Softball team didn’t do so hot in their state tournament so he’s now turning his focus to basketball.  That means he’ll stop calling balls and strikes on me.  Finally.  Instead he’ll be calling me for traveling and for being all elbowy under the basket.  Nuts.
You wanna know what else comes from doing an hour on the elliptical several days a week? Everything hurts.  This getting fit thing is a joker.
The UPS guy escaped the place where I hid him, but that’s okay.  I installed a GPS chip in his neck before the knock out drops wore off.
Nathan has a baseball game tonight.  Whatever happened to the boys of summer?  I’m taking my Hello Kitty Snuggie.  It’s supposed to drop down into the 60s here.  For us thin-blooded Southerners, that’s practically arctic.
Howyou?

Not (De)electable

Recently, someone suggested I run for office.  I scoffed at the idea.  I offered a laundry list of reasons why I could never run for office.  I’d listed ten reasons on the alphabetical list and I was only on the reasons beginning with the letter A.

I couldn’t possibly put my family or myself through that kind of thing.  The scrutiny would be horrible.  That was the summation of why I dismissed the idea out of hand.

Can you imagine the political ads my opponent would run?

(Fade in)
This photo will come on the screen…

Dudes, do you remember the days when I was growing out my gray? Yikes.

(Female disembodied voice speaking in ominous tones)
Lisa Golden wants to represent you in Congress, but does she really represent you?  She’s the founder of the Parenting School of Benign Neglect.  She got her start as a liberal political blogger.  She was once a community organizer, now she’s unemployed.  She worked in the non-profit sector so she’s probably a socialist, a communist or both.  She and her husband have been separated twice.  She’s never fired anyone nor has she employed undocumented workers. She doesn’t ask and she doesn’t tell.  She makes tasteless jokes and is on record using the F word about Wall Street. She had an abortion in college.  She’s a rape survivor who was probably asking for it.  She’s married to a Jew and once lived with a Muslim.  Her sister used to call her The United Nations.  She completes those ACLU surveys and mails them back.  She doesn’t go to church or pray.  She doesn’t even believe in God.  She has a degree in French.  She might even be a witch.  She once owned a Ouija Board, you know.

On the First Tuesday in November, tell Lisa Golden not just no, but hell no!

This ad approved by (insert name) and the Fox News Network.

Yeah……….no.  But thanks.

However, I’ve been thinking about something my friend PeNolan wrote last week about how liberals really need to consider finding female candidates who can compete with the Sarah Palins and Christine O’Donnells on a beauty contest level.  PeNolan is on to something.  If it’s true that pretty girls get away with more then perhaps there is something I could use to counteract my opponent’s scare tactics.

Elect Lisa Golden to Congress…..

Because if we’re going to have boobs in Congress, they may as well be good boobs.

Would you ever run for office?  Or have you already? Would you ever post a photo of yourself in a bra? Aren’t you dying to dress up as a goth?