Yoda Knew His Shit

I was ready to write a scathing, hateful vent regarding Hubbie's behaviour tonight. The anger is still there, and it may come out again relatively soon. For tonight, however, it has been tempered.

Hubbie came home from work, and the longer he walked around the more I seethed and smoldered until I felt I would explode. So I took LittleMan, strapped him to my back in a meitai babycarrier that my good friend The Babywearer loaned me (thanks, babe!), and took him out into the neighborhood to walk off a little steam.

As I walked down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that we looked quite a bit like Luke Skywalker and Yoda. Me sweating my ass off, LittleMan whooping it up on my back. If I had given him a rattan cane I am sure he would have gladly wacked me in encouragement.

My angry strides lessened as we pointed out fireflies and waved at neighbors walking their dogs. By the time we reached our house, my body was shaking from exhaustion, and there was no room for anger. Just a sweet-smelling evening breeze, a happy two year old, and twinkling in the bushes around us. I have to admit that Yoda really knew his shit. It's hard to stay mad with a 30+ pound creature on your back.

Why Reality TV Works

These past few years have seen a boom in reality TV shows. Those of us old enough remember the novelty of The Real World, Road Rules, and other soft versions of reality TV. Those semi-scripted, terribly contrived scenarios had many of us tuning in weekly. Our interest in these shows has spawned a whole new level of the genre. It is almost impossible to remember a time when every channel did not have several of these programs to choose from.

This begs the question, why do people care? What is the interest? Truthfully, we humans have always craved drama. To watch the spectacle of what happens to others.

You see, until very recently, executions were public affairs. Very public. From hangings to beheadings, people gathered by the hundreds if not the thousands. Simply for the horrific entertainment of watching someone die. People would line up to watch a firing squad. They would sit on river banks to watch soldiers shoot each other while picnicking in relative safety from the other side of the water. The gun fights of the Wild West. The burning of witches. The games of the great Coliseum. Hell, you could even buy a beard to go to a stoning. Look at any culture in any time period and one is likely to find some kind of judicial public affair.

Currently, our culture does not have an outlet for our seemingly insatiable thirst for this kind of exhibitionism. Until Reality TV came along. It is no accident that shows like Fear Factor and Survivor hold our attention. People do disgusting things, and we love it. I suspect many of us who have never watched or even heard of Jon and Kate Plus 8 will be tuning in to see if all the hype has been worth the press. Neither have I any doubt that if our executions were open to the public that people would come in droves to watch someone throw that switch.

Instead, we substitute with the next best thing: Reality TV. People line up by the thousands to participate, and there seems to be no end in sight. Watching people makes asses of themselves has taken the place of the court jester. Watching the humiliation of talent judges tearing down dreams has replaced the gladiators and their armor. Watching Japanese men and women get the shit knocked out of them to the sound of cheerful game show banter has temporarily filled the place of the actual violence whatever fill-in-the-blank activity we would be watching if we were living five hundreds years ago.

Until the next level of exhibitionist entertainment comes along, I fear we are stuck with Reality TV. Producers continually push the edge of these programs, and I don't know whether I am excited or scared to find out. And therein lies the hook.

Stevie or Salvador?

I don't think my son has quite decided whether or not he is Stevie or Salvador. He draws with his crayons and other writing utensils as well as any other soon-to-be three-year old. What possessed him to act like this is beyond me. He's never done it before and hasn't done it since. I apologize for the shaking. I was laughing so hard I could hardly see straight. If this isn't a parental WTF moment, I don't know what is.

Unpacking My Grandmother

We are back home now after nearly a month of visiting my parents. This trip has probably been the most relaxed, most amiable. It has been wonderful to wake up every morning to the smell of bacon and coffee. I have been very spoiled, and I have to say I am not thrilled to once again be responsible for feeding my children breakfast.

On Wednesday, my dad dragged me into his closet. Before coffee. Before my lenses were in (and most anyone who wears contact lenses knows the difference between the sleepy-glasses feeling and the awake contact lens moment). He was stressed to hand off my grandmother. She has been tucked in his closet since that awful memorial, and he did not want me to forget the urn or her ashes.

I was not prepared for this. I needed to have a moment or ten to brace myself to get my mental facilities in order. No dice. He handed me the empty urn. Thankfully, the ashes had already been divided, but his unceremoniously handing over of a plastic bag with her name Sharpied across the front left me breathless and slightly ill.

I made sure I packed the urn and ashes in two separate bags. I know there are those who would argue that I should have stashed her in my carry-on. I did have the permit from the funeral home, but with two kids constantly rifling through our bags I did not want to risk any kind of What's this? scenario.

Sure enough, the bag with the urn was opened by TSA. The zip tie was cut off, and the bastards did not leave a slip saying it had been opened. Illegal, I believe. Thankfully, the suitcase with her ashes had not.

My father's first phone call to me once I'd landed did not begin with hello or how was your flight, but Did my mother make it? I didn't have the heart to tell him I hadn't unpacked her, yet.

That task was left to yesterday morning. I didn't really want to look all that closely, but you know that is simply impossible. It is hard to reconcile that those dusty ashes are all that remain of her. Her laugh, her cigarette smoke, the smell of her Dove soap all resonate in my head. One is A, one is B, and I just cannot bring myself to believe that the two together equal C. The urn was purchased on impulse and as a security measure. Through my actions, my father was able to secure his own, in that manner completely cutting my uncle out of the equation.

Now that we have accomplished our goal, I am left at an impasse. I don't quite know what to do. I know my grandmother would have hated the idea of sitting on someone's bookcase but packing her away in a closet doesn't seem right, either. Eventually, I will have her ashes interred at the same military cemetery where my grandfather is buried. We don't have the finances to do it right now, which means she'll be hanging with us for a while. So now what?

I think I will pour her a cup of coffee.

Empty Echos of Laughter

Most of the fairy tales we learned growing up were diluted versions of what the Grimm Brothers or Hans Christian Andersen wrote or transcribed. Lately, our children have received the Disney-fied version. Happy endings. Good triumphs over evil. Love conquers all.

One of my children's favorite songs in the playlist is The Pied Piper by Crispian St. Peters. We pretend to play a piccolo, march in circles around the living and shout at the top of our lungs I'm the Pied Piper, trust in me, I'm the Pied Piper. They love it. Today, on the way home from visiting a friend and singing the song at the top of our lungs, I asked if they would like to hear the story of the Pied Piper. Ears and eyes were eager.

I told them the version with which I was familiar. It is but one of many, none of them known to be true or correct. I told them of the town of Hamelin. How the town had too many rats. Terrible, giant rats that chewed on clothes and ate up all the food. That chased the cats and tried to bite little babies sleeping in their cradles.

My children, saucer-eyed and breathless, sat still in their carseats.

I told them of the morning when the Pied Piper came to town. He told the townspeople of Hamelin that he had a magic pipe and could play a magic song. That he could bewitch the rats while he danced in the streets and lead the rats far away, never to return. All he asked for in return was a bag of gold.

The people of Hamelin agreed, and the Pied Piper returned early in the morning and began to play. He played and danced and bewitched the rats (okay, so I told my kids the Piper gave the rats googly eyes, but you get the idea). All of the rats heard his magic song, and he led the rats away from the town. And everyone was happy.

I did not tell my children that the Piper led the rats to the river and drowned them. I had started down that vein in the first telling of the story, but LittleBird caught on and I didn't want to have to explain why he'd drowned the rats. Because the rest of the story? Does not end well. The people of Hamelin refused to pay the Piper his gold. The rats were gone, and they did not hold to their end of the bargain. So one day, the Piper returned. He played his pipe for the children, and they danced and whirled in the streets. A colorful parade of ruddy cheeks and bouncing curls, the Piper led the children to the river and drowned them as restitution for the villagers reneging on their agreement.

My kids are two and four. For now, the Disney-fied version suffices.

What does not sit well with me, is that Hamelin is a real place. The earliest written record of the town of Hamelin begins

It is 10 years since our children left*

It is from this seemingly tragic event, shrouded in the fog of 1284 that the Legend of the Pied Piper arose. No one seems to be able to agree upon what happened or how. Was it a plague? A trick? Whether the children were sold, lured or went willingly it seems approximately 130 left Hamlin that day. They never came back.

The choice in words to begin any speech, journal or decree speaks volume of its writer. In this instance, ten years of grief are expressed in a single sentence. The why and how no longer matter. Some horrific tragedy befell these families. The children were gone, and the wounds were so fresh that the first official documents written for Hamelin express their mourning ten years later.

One of the few writings that gives a date for this event lists June 26. That's this Friday, folks. Most of the people who read this blog are parents. To hell with time and space. I don't care that it was over 700 years ago. One day parents woke up to a household filled with the happy chatter of their beloved children. That day the sun set to shuttered windows, the empty echos of laughter fading in the candlelight. They very thought of it makes me ill.

As my children grow and become more independent, temptations lurk around every corner. It is my duty to instill that all-important sense of self-preservation into my children so that no man, woman or organization can whirl them away. Though we just celebrated Father's Day, give your little ones an extra squeeze this week. We are lucky, damned lucky, for every day that starts and ends with our loved ones around us.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is today's history mystery.

*Shiela Harty Pied Piper Revisited, Essay published in: David Bridges, Terence H. McLaughlin, editors Education And The Market Place Page 89, Routledge, 1994 ISBN 0750703482

Those Glorious Paper Robes

Last year, I had the great fortune to take my good friend Coalminer Heather to my yearly surgical check-up. We had a blast, and I recommended that taking a friend to a doctor appointment makes for a fun afternoon and great diversion.

This year, Hubbie was able to perform his marital duty and accompanied me to my appointment. It was our good fortune that we met up with CMGD and her hubster for a good lunch and better conversation.



We couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a nerd moment. You know that no get-together would be complete without a little PDT (public display of technology).



To be brutally honest, my appointment last year with Coalminer Heather was way more fun. I think next year she is back on the program, and Hubbie can go play golf.

I warned him that we would have to take pictures. He did not agree in any way, shape or form. Eventually, I harassed him into taking this photo. I couldn't get him to take his clothes off, but he was still a good sport. He must really love me.



After being thoroughly and painfully violated with all of my surgeon's instrumentation, I asked for a lollipop. I mean hell, if my kids get a lollipop after a shot I deserve some kind of perk after a doctor uses a vaginal transducer to look at my tonsils. He is anti-candy, so he offered me a condom instead. How was that supposed to comfort me? I hobbled out of there like I had a cinderblock wedged in my crack, and he thinks a condom is going to make me feel better?

As a salve for my wounded ego, Hubbie and I browsed a local electronics store. I left feeling more depressed than when I arrived. For the out-of-pocket price I paid my doctor, I could have bought myself a sorely needed new laptop.

After a long and emotional day, I learned that as much as I love my husband, I'd rather have my girlfriend hang with me at the OB. I learned that when women want chocolate, men will offer them condoms. I learned that when faced with a coveted laptop upgrade or taking care of my health, as much as it pains me I go the responsible route. I learned that a photo of my husband in those glorious paper robes will help dry any amount of tears.

Don't Look Under the Cabbage Leaf

Even when I'm not blogging, apparently, I am.

The family and I have been visiting the North Georgia mountains and all the riches it has to offer. No internet. No cell coverage. No liquor. Customers in fast food restaurants straight out of Deliverance. I didn't even know they made high-tops in cammo.

Actually, it is a beautiful area with very nice people, and we've had a great time. The weather's been gorgeous, and I am picking Hubbie up from the airport in a few hours.

The idea of unplugging for nearly a week was very appealing. Time to read and watch the sunset. Enjoy a little peaceful family time. I don't know who I was kidding. My kids miss their father and have shown me by being behaviorally challenged in new and less than appealing ways. It's been an overall good time, but I am damned glad that help is on the way.

We hit the Cabbage Patch Kid factory yesterday, and much as we hyped it up to the kids, frankly I've seen all the fuss and it's no big deal.* They are opening a new facility sometime this year, and I hope it is a little more interactive. Look torture up in the dictionary and you will see nothing of waterboarding or fingernail extraction but having room after room of open displays filled with Cabbage Patch dolls at preschooler eye level with huge signs telling parents not to let their children touch. Seriously? What genius thought that up?

Throughout all of this, I was wearing a shirt with my NATUI avatar with no one the wiser that Blogmaster Flash was in the house. I took LittleMan to the central Cabbage Patch Birthing area to watch a new doll enter the world when I saw it. Straight in front of me. This ugly little fucker adorable adoptee. I actually choked.


Seriously. Just last week I came across a street sign that said Freeman on it. I looked up, and there it was. We were thankfully stopped at a red light because I started yelling Stay red! Stay red! while frantically rummaging for my camera in the bowels of my diaper bag. This time I looked down and the thing nearly bit me.

So Chris? You have gone through many appellation changes, but through it all, I have always referred to you by your last name because of the cool factor. Today, I may have to make an exception. Freeman Jarvis has quite a ring to it. That's my vote if you and the little ones ever start a garage band.


*I just found an old mix tape with of of my favorite Hootie songs. I just couldn't resist.