Ace of Clubs

The line between pride and braggadocio is a fine one when getting to know a person. A fellow mom makes it a point to tell me on nearly every occasion that she is a lifetime member of the NRA. Somehow, she manages to slip it into each conversation, and I have to say I have come to find it incredibly irritating. Why? Because I don't give a shit. Who cares? You paid money to join a club. Let me repeat: You paid money. You didn't earn the space. You didn't do something spectacular to receive an invitation.

Mensa? Groovy. DAR? Pretty fucking awesome. Even so, any good accomplishment only gets so much mileage before it grows tiresome. I don't want to feel as if I am having the same conversation over and over again, we aren't playing a game of war. Back and forth does not a friendship make. You can keep your clubs and your ace in the hole. It isn't worth as much as you think.

Still Relevant

This is as relevant as the day they made the video. It still touches me. It still makes me sad.

And the Green Grass Grew All Around

Yesterday, we hit the pediatrician office. My daughter had her five year check up and got her final boosters for kindergarten. My son got in on the action, too, with his very own shot in the leg as we are start to catch him up on the recommended schedule.

Still hanging in the lobby and several of the wait rooms are flyers advertising the "new" vaccine Pentacel. Reading the various titles and information, the advert left me feeling vaguely irked regarding both the product and the marketing.

The first thing that struck me were the bold letters stating the vaccine has been used in Canada for years. For those Americans (and there are many) who eschew the evils of Socialist Medicine, how is telling parents the vaccine has been safely used by our Great Neighbor of the North supposed to be a selling point? Isn't it the American Way or the highway?

The second bit that struck a chord of irritation was the statement: Eight Less. Eight less needle jabs for our kids. Maybe I should be more sympathetic, but I just feel rather meh about it. So what? The majority opinion seems to be that vaccines in any shape, size and volume are a privilege of living in a first world country. Lollipops and band-aids are a right of passage. I would personally rather stagger the shots (as we have) than have a super shot that packs in an obscene number of diseases.

The early 90s heralded the arrival of the DTaP. More bang for your buck. Diphtheria, Tetanus and Pertussis all rolled into one. Sweet deal. Now, enter Pentacel. Kids get to have the DTaP, the Hib*, and the IPV* in one vial. Isn't that awesome? Five vaccines, one shot. PENTacel. Get it?

I suppose I am on the dark side of science, but I just don't get why more is better. Where do we draw the line? We are a nation of all you can eat buffets and McMansions. Doggie bags and warehouse grocery stores. First we are sold on the idea of a three-in-one-shot, now it is five-in-one. Is the end result to give a child one giant shot in the ass and be done with it? I don't know, but the thought scares me.

And the green grass grew all around, all around. The green grass grew all around.


*HiB protects our kids from the Haemophilus influenzae type b bacteria.
*IPV is the polio vaccine

The Snowboard Police

Dear Nate,

It has been hitting the 'netwaves that you are irritated with your competitors wearing pants that do not conform to your baggy style.

Let me reiterate the key word here: conform

If snowboarding is anti-establishment, and the clothing that snowboarders wear symbols of those beliefs, how the hell is telling people what they are supposed to wear in keeping with the spirit of snowboarding? Doesn't that fly in the face of everything you represent? As much as you hate to admit it, that means letting people do whatever the fuck they want. If the majority of snowboarders wear baggy pants, the guys and gals who don't are actually keeping the anti-establishment spirit alive. They don't want to look like you. They want to carve their own path to represent who they are and what they feel. They look at you, snicker and wonder who died and made you the Snowboard Police.

So, shut the fuck up and do your job. Represent the US. Represent your snowboard culture. Represent yourself. The other guys are doing it. If you are going to talk the talk, you'd better walk the walk.

Sincerely,
NATUI

Facebook Smackdown: An Open Letter To My Sister

Dear What's-Your-Name*,

When you friended me on Facebook, I was privately filled with dread. While I rarely post anything on that site, the idea of you looking over my cyber shoulder was nonetheless disturbing. Still, for the good of the family, I friended you back and did my best to notice the photos you posted and make positive comments when I felt I could do so without compromising my integrity.

However, your behaviour over the past two weeks has been atrocious. When I posted photos of my wedding dress last week, I did it to share with the people who had attended our wedding. You were there, don't you remember? The Matron of Honor who laughed and played dress-up with our aunt's mink coat rather than help us with our pictures? Yeah. You.

I was standing next to Mom when she took your phone call on Thanksgiving Day. How you snipped and sneered into the phone asking why I took pictures in my wedding gown. Demanding to know if eight years was some kind of special Swedish holiday. As if the photos of your niece and nephew weren't enough to answer that question. I suppose that would mean actually paying attention to them.

I'm not surprised that you didn't leave any anniversary well-wishes. I mean, hell, you were only part of the wedding party. Damn you for making me right. Fuck you for not proving me wrong.

I might have let that slide save for the phone call I received last night. I rarely ever make any political statements in front of the family. It doesn't take a genius to know where I stand on certain issues, but yesterday I stumbled across a satirical site that had me pissing myself with laughter. In an uncharacteristic move, I became a fan. I didn't republish the headline. I didn't comment on it. I merely clicked a link.

Then, Dad called. He called me at 9 o'clock at night telling me that you had called him in tears because you had seen my Facebook page. You had followed the link and read about a petition for a divorce ban in California. That because you were divorced how insensitive I was, and you couldn't believe how terrible I was to support a movement that proclaims Jesus doesn't love you because you are divorced.

First of all, if you had been paying attention you would have seen that it actually reads Jesus does love you, just not as much.

But let me see if I understand this: You are a 33 year-old married woman with a child, who sees something you find confusing and opposed to the ideologies you believed I had. Instead of calling me to for an explanation, you called our father and cried to him on the phone? What did you think he was going to do? Reach through the phone and slap me?

Obviously your career as a public school Language Arts teacher has left you with a glaring gap in your vocabulary. The word is satire. Look it up.

I feel the sheer ridiculous nature of these two events leaves me no choice but to remove you from my account. The fact that you are family no longer qualifies you to have access to me via any social networking site. I would not tolerate that behaviour from any other person and frankly, I've enabled you enough. If hell freezes over you happen to call me, Satan gives free sleigh rides act like an adult and the Styx is open for skinny-dipping want to have a reasonable sibling relationship I am willing. Until then, I am done.

You will heretofore be referred to as my husband's sister-in-law.

Sincerely,
The Lonely Only Who Needs to Be NATUI In Her Real Life

Finding My Hips

One sore spot with women is weight. You don't talk about it unless you are bitching about it. Kind of like scar comparison, you often hear women one-upping on the jiggles:

Ugh! Look at all this cellulite on my ass!

You think your ass is fat? Oh my god, I haven't seen my ankles since Little Johnny was born.

Your ankles are fine! Look at my fingers! I haven't been able to wear my wedding ring in ten years!

And on. And on. And on. I would think a little venting about perceived flaws would be good, except we never celebrate the other side of it.

I cannot tell you how many times in my life I have been called a bitch because I was thin. Even as recently as a month or so ago, a girlfriend I have known since high school and her mom told a group of people at a party what a skinny bitch I have always been. Have I been skinny? Yes. Have a been a bitch? On multiple occasions. I do not think they necessarily go hand in hand.

After my first pregnancy, I got in the habit of weighing myself at my parents' house. I did not have a scale at my own apartment, so on weekends we happened to have dinner at their house I would do a quick check. I had had terrible edema at the end of my pregnancy, and pissing out twenty-five pounds of water in a week was a pretty incredible experience. I wasn't making an overt effort to lose weight, but as the months passed I wanted to keep an eye on my weight to make sure I was staying healthy.

My sister happened to catch me at one of my weigh-ins. It had been a long time since I'd weighed myself, and she walked in right as the scale beeped. I remember feeling so shocked, and I asked her if the scale was accurate. Her whole demeanor changed. She looked almost gleeful. Oh yes, she assured me, that scale is very accurate. I weigh myself on it all the time, and it's the same as the one I have at home. She paused a moment, I suppose for effect, and then asked me what the scale read.

Over the years I have learned to hide my weight from other women, but I am also a big proponent of don't ask me if you don't want the answer. That smug, shit-eating grin she didn't bother to hide was so mean, and I was in such a daze I decided it was worth the risk.

What does it say? she asked. And so I told her: 127 pounds.

To say her face darkened would be an understatement. She hemmed and hawed some kind of congratulatory kudo and left the room, and barely spoke to me for the remainder of the visit.

I have had another baby since then. Bodies change. Physiques change. The awful truth I have come to realize is that no one is happy for you when you lose pregnancy weight. It takes a rare friend to share that you have rediscovered your ankles. That finding your hip bone is like greeting a long lost friend. I want to be able to shout from the rooftops when a week of walking my kids to school gives me the tiniest suggestion of a calf muscle.

I am tired of those shouts being empty echoes in my head. Accomplishments are meant to be shared, not used as fodder for ridicule. I suppose I am still searching for those gal pals who feel the same way. Those who are ready to celebrate the other side.

Desperately Seeking A Remake

Sometimes we love a movie or a book and then the last five minutes or last five pages ruin the whole fucking thing. Even though it has been twenty years, I still feel this way about the movie Leviathan.

This movie had potential. It had amazing elements that made for a kickass story: off-the-record Soviet military operations, unwitting people in a dangerous underwater environment, secret scientific experiments involving human genetics. How in the world can you go wrong with that?

Let me tell you.

Instead of making a horror film that scared the shit out of the audience emotionally and intellectually, we get a giant monster jumping out from steamy corridors with lots of blood and body parts. Now the blood and body parts were fine. Justifiable even. However, instead of an Alien knockoff, couldn't we have used the genetic experimentation aspect to make an Aquaman meets Waterworld scenario? If the idea were to create a super soldier, how cool would it have been to follow that plot line down a scientifically intelligent path.

So, while I usually think remakes of films are a terrible idea, I am pleading with the Hollywood powers-that-be to hire a bunch of geneticists and rewrite and re-shoot this film. You have a whole generation of X-Files, X-Men, and Fringe aficionados who would flock to a film that pandered to both their intellect and their love of scientific horror.

Volunteerism Doesn't Equal Common Sense

People are passionate about politics. They want to get out there and make a difference. I get it.

Here's what I don't get:

NATUI-clan is walking a local street festival this weekend. Smiling Volunteer Lady from a nearby booth approaches. Holding balloons, she smiles at my children How about a balloon!?

My kids lean forward in anticipation.

Oh! I say, the kids would love that!

Smiling Volunteer Lady hands my daughter a balloon. And walks away. With the other balloon in her hand.

My son, completely crestfallen, stared after her as I bore flaming hot daggers into her back.

I was hormonal enough to turn this into an international incident which is precisely why we made the decision to walk away. I did not trust myself to behave in a manner appropriate to the company of my children. We made the best of the situation and told the kids they would have to share. But seriously, who the fuck approaches a stroller with two children and only gives one of them a balloon?

A Republican volunteer, apparently.

The HFCS Nazi

It seems a lot of people refuse to read the labeling on food they purchase. With all the crap included in food nowadays it would behoove them to do so.

My father falls into this category. If it is on sale, he buys it. No questions asked. It doesn't matter how many chemicals, dyes or additives may be in the food. It's on sale!

I have not been much of a nazi about it, but as more and more companies offer additive-free alternatives, it makes it both easier and harder to make the choice. Easier because it is there, harder because it is often so much more expensive.

I recently grabbed a can of Hershey's chocolate syrup to make sundaes and was impressed by the label: Original Since 1928. I turned the can to read the label: high fructose corn syrup. Right at the top. Lying bastards! They did not use HFCS in 1928!

It infuriates my father that I care about something as stupid as HFCS. What's wrong with a little bit in the kids' food?

I gave him my PBJ example. The kids love them. If I didn't watch the labels, the bread? Has high fructose corn syrup. The peanut butter? High fructose corn syrup. The jelly? Can you guess?

I told my dad that if it were just one item, I could live with it. Just not in every ingredient. Why the hell does applesauce need high fructose corn syrup? How about apples and water, people. For fucks sake.

This morning, I cleaned out the refrigerator from the weekend my father was here. He'd bought a loaf of bread from the bakery of our local supermarket. The ingredients?

flour
water
yeast
high fructose corn syrup
soybean oil
pasteurized dried whole eggs
salt
vital wheat gluten
DATEM
guar gum
calcium sulfate
ammonium sulfate
mono-dicglycerides,
ascorbic Acid
enzyme
egg color (FD&C Red 40 Yellow 5)

This was from the BAKERY, not off of the regular shelf. You know what you need for a loaf a bread? Flour, yeast, water. That's it. Possibly a bit of sugar if you want to feed the yeast, and perhaps a pinch of salt for taste. That's it folks. Not all that other shit.

It may be crazy of me to think this way, but I don't want my family to eat that stuff. My solution? The kids and I put on our shoes, went into the backyard and strategically left the slices of bread for the birds and squirrels to find.

One Bad Apple

A sure-fire way to get Hubbie on a soapbox is to talk about Americans and their checkbooks.

Most countries did away with paper checks years ago. It is a system they view as archaic and impractical. Americans, for some reason, cling to their paper checks like a baby to a binkie. We insist we are on the cutting edge of technology and lead the world in innovation, yet millions of American refuse to leave the dark ages of checks behind.

I recently sold one of my sewing tables on CraigsList. The list price was $30. The lady showed up, and we chatted agreeably about crafts and the housing market. Everything was fine until she pulled out a $20 bill and said she didn't have enough cash to cover the rest. Could she write me a check?

Everything my parents warned me about taking personal checks screamed in my head. Don't do it!! But. I wanted the damned table out of my house, and I did not want to fool around with trying to schedule a time for her to come back. I'd had a hard time selling it, and I was afraid she would not come back.

So I smiled, told her it would be fine, how I usually wouldn't do this--you know the routine.

Fast forward to a month or so later. We get a letter from our bank with a photocopy of the check. Are you surprised to hear that it bounced?

I'm not. It would have been too good to be true if the woman had actually turned out to have been honorable. It's not like I have never bounced a check before, but that's not the point.

The point is that she has fucked it up for all the other CraigsListers I will deal with in the future. Once bitten, twice shy. I have no problem having faith in the system until someone mucks it up. It was only ten dollars, but I won't let it happen again.

As for the lady? I have to admit it gives me great pleasure knowing that her bank likely charged her a $35 overdraft fee. So my $30 table actually cost her $55. I know I am out the ten bucks, but I actually feel better knowing that I indirectly stuck it to her for writing me a bad check.

When The Roses Aren't Red

Tragedy always begs the question: Is there a time limit to mourning? How long does one grieve? The flip side of this, how long does one hold a grudge? Hold on to the anger? The grief? The blame?

I understand the argument that holding on to anger and resentment can eat a person from the inside out and rot your soul. Sometimes, however, it serves a higher purpose.

I belonged to a geek-for-hire tutoring program for freshman classes at my university. During one of the tutoring sessions, my student was visibly upset and not focused at all. When asked, the story was as follows:

Her father had killed someone in a drunk-driving accident several years back. I do not recall the exact circumstances, but my sense was that there was very little, if no jail time served. My student had just gotten off the phone with her mother. It was the anniversary of the accident, and it turns out that the widow of the victim sends a bouquet of black roses to their house. Every year.

The student told me they had moved, changed their contact information, done everything humanly possible. Yet still, that woman and her kids found them every year and had those black flowers delivered.

Why won't she just leave us alone? she asked. She explained how upset it made her family. Her father.

My thoughts? Too. Fucking. Bad. Your dad? Killed her husband. He killed the father of those children. Because he was drunk. It upsets you and your family that one day a year you have to think about that fact? How about those kids who will never sit down to dinner with their father? The wife who had to pick up the pieces and suddenly raise a family and pay the bills on her own? He may have been the love of her life, and she will never feel his arms around her again.

Did I say those things? Well. I explained them in not so many words. I tried to gently give the other point of view. That while she "only" had to "deal" with it once a year, those kids and their mom dealt with it every single day.

My voice was calm. I do not trust that my eyes were.

Answering my own question of guilt, blame, and a time frame, I think this is a time where there is no time frame. An action that may have started out in anger I feel may well have evolved into a simple, yet effective, reminder.

Lady of the Roses? I hope you are still out there. I hope you continue to honor your husband by having those roses delivered. He deserves it, and so does the other family.

Fathers, Stop Giving Your Daughters Away

When we got married overseas, we had a Catholic Mass in a Lutheran church with a Swedish-English bilingual service performed by a German priest.

Say that three times fast.

In hammering out the details of sit, stand, speak, I told the priest I was absolutely adamant that my father was not going to give me away.

My reasoning? I viewed marriage as a joining of two families. A strengthening of bonds and a way of bringing people together. No way in hell was my family giving me away to anyone. My father is my father whether I am married or not.

The priest? Was horrified. He had no idea that American fathers "gave their daughters away." He thought it archaic and awful. Which made me love him even more.

I further explained that I wanted my father to walk me down the aisle, but that our request was for the priest to ask Who supports this woman?

The priest loved it. Hubbie-to-be wholeheartedly agreed. My dad could have cared less. He was so nervous that when asked Who supports this woman? he answered Her mother and I do, helped me with my veil and booked it back to his seat leaving me with my arms outstretched for the traditional hug and kiss. Whoops.

On this Valentine's Day, I know many of you are fathers with very young daughters. Now, depending on their temperament you may be looking forward to the day when you chuck them at another family. Until then, keep this lesson in mind. Some of us want to be a daughter and a wife.

Where Does God Have His Hands?

With the blitz of media coverage following the birth of the octuplets, it seems everyone is weighing in on the mother's choices. I have not read or heard enough to have formed a solid opinion from which to shout from my soap box, but I did stumble across this blog this afternoon.

I was excited by the blog title and tagline. I mean, what's not to like? I found her thoughts on the octuplets to be a very interesting and thoughtful read. Reading the comments, however, left me feeling disgruntled.

See, there is all this talk about God having his hand in the creation of these children. But there is much emphasis placed on "not the natural way," as if IVF children are somehow tainted. That if there is a reason you can't get pregnant it means God does not want you to have your own biological children.

I wonder what these families would do if a family member got cancer? If God gave them cancer, surely it must be up to God to take it away? Not the doctors. Not medications. Not the medical advancements that God might actually have had a hand in. Just good old-fashioned prayer. Right?

I wonder what these families would do if their father had a heart attack and needed bypass surgery. If God had a hand in placing the plaque restricting the blood flow to the heart, surely it is not up to a surgeon to remove it. Just pray and stop exercising. Right?

I wonder what these families would do if the wife had a thyroid condition and needed hormone therapy to get pregnant. To take a pill to "fix" the hormone problem isn't natural, is it?

I bet they take the chemo.

I bet they have the double by-pass.

I bet they take the pills.

Where does the hand of God stop?

E is for Entitlement

I had a disturbing conversation with my cousin over the weekend.

Amidst a discussion of his girlfriend's son and his educational needs, my cousin told me in so many words that because the child's grandparents are geographically distant they are worthless when it comes to daily interaction and helping with the child. Because of this, he believes his girlfriend needs to tell her parents to write a check for a couple hundred thousand dollars so that she can quit her job, find a way to work from home, and and and...

I stopped listening.

Yes, he actually said that.

Yes, he believes that wholeheartedly.

Seriously? What the fuck? I love my cousin dearly. He is the male version of me, and we are freakishly similar in many ways. On this issue, however, we fundamentally differ. He is the epitome of the starving artist who has been able to get by due to his talent, and the generosity of his parents. He works hard at what he does and loves it. I suppose it is a talent to finagle money out of other people. That is what the world of investments is all about, is it not?

Maybe you, my dear readers, have parents and friends who just happen to have an extra couple of hundred thousand greenbacks lying around collecting dust in a Mason jar. Not me.

Can I put myself up for adoption? I promise we'd make a great investment. If anyone is interested, I have our family resume ready to send out and am available for interviews at your convenience.

Splurge for the DVR Ya Cheap Bastard

We had a couple over for a game night last weekend. We had never spent time with them socially, but how can you go wrong with board games?

Apparently, board game success depends on the season.

As I served the appetizers, the guy asked if we could turn on the television. I thought he wanted to check a game score or something. No problem.

Turns out, there was a marathon of all the different Christmas cartoons from when we were kids. I understand that when we were little that these shows were only on once a year, but that's what VCRs were for. Hell, that's what DVRs are for now.

Since our family obviously has different ideas of social etiquette than others, let me lay some ground rules for the next couple we invite over:

• If you come over for game night, let's play a game. If you want to come over for cartoon marathon night, I am totally down with that, but I want to be prepared.
• If you want to watch something on TV while you are here, I am cool with it as long as you do not interrupt conversation by quoting the film that no one else is watching.
• If you cannot live without your TV program, go out and buy a fucking DVR. It will change your life, I swear to god.
• If you are too cheap to upgrade, break out your old VCR and learn to program the damned thing.

Stepping off my soapbox now.

Some People Just Have No Sense of Humor

A recent Wordless Wednesday post reminded me of why I don't have many friends in real life.

People just can't stand me.

When teaching a unit on the Age of Exploration, we did a day on piracy. Let me preface this by saying I am a damn fine history teacher and go all out on my lessons. We're talking music, visual aides, bizarre re-enactments. It's kind of a come at your own risk environment.

Because I don't go by the textbook alone, I do a lot of research and am sure to add random aspects of the personal side of history. Forget the facts and figures, it's all cause and effect, baby.

During this particular semester, people were coming down with the usual springtime colds and sinus infections. A couple of the male teachers were pissing and moaning in the workroom about not feeling well. I chimed in saying how achy I felt and that I had felt badly for a while.

I told them I thought I had scurvy.

Now, I said this with what I thought was great comedic timing. Work the build-up of symptoms, drop the word scurvy, pause for effect.

The math teacher went ape shit on me. He went bright red and spluttered all kinds of reasons as to how there was no way I could have scurvy.

Really?

Gee, thanks for the heads-up.

After several attempts at interrupting, I was finally able to get it through his thick skull that I was kidding. You know, the whole piracy unit and all? Talk about ruining a perfectly good joke.

Stupid dumb fuck.

Scores You're Proud to Talk About

Unlike a certain sulky expat in the Southern Hemisphere, I've got some scores to be proud of this weekend.

It has been a while since I've blogged about my FreeCycle/CraigsList treasure finds, so here are my latest:

LittleMan has been in desperate need of a long, low dresser for his clothes. Having something that he cannot pull over is crucial, and a local lady provided me with the perfect solution.

Yes, the colors are a bit strange. However, it is solid wood and her father actually hand-made this for her when she was little. We will paint it eventually, but for now it actually matches the colors we have in their room. I'm in no rush.

As a rule, I never go after an ad posted as a Curb Alert. I am not going to drive halfway across town with my kids in tow only to have someone beat me to the item. However, this past Monday I happened to notice an ad that was in my neighborhood. It was listed as a white dresser, and I could not resist looking. Here is what she posted.

It was actually around the corner from me. As in I had practically walked past it on the way home from the preschool that morning. If I had turned my head to the right instead of left I would have seen it. I threw LittleMan into his carseat and booked it around the corner. It was still there.

Trying to get it into my Jeep was a logistical nightmare. The top of this thing goes to my collarbone, folks.

I got the drawers and shelves in, but this thing is also solid wood and heavy as a motherfucker. To my surprise and delight the woman came out of the house to help me. We hoisted it up onto my bumper, and it was exactly half an inch too big on each side. Fuck!

She then offered to put it in her van to get it to my house. What a kind soul! We loaded it in her van, she strapped her two toddlers in the car and followed me down the street to help deposit it in my driveway.

I think I am going to bake her some Christmas bread.

And now. The pièce de résistance. My new sewing table.

I have been looking for a cabinet-style table. Something to keep the pins and needles in and little fingers out. My mom has a great one, and I have been keeping an eye out for something similar.

I finally came across one for $40 in a CraigsList ad. It had drawers, and as it was the most reasonably priced table I'd seen, I inquired as to the type of machine it took. The girl didn't know because she had been using it as a desk and sent me close-up pictures to see if we could determine what type of machine fit.

From the photos, the hinges did not look the same. I wrote back thanking her for the trouble she took to send me the info, but that it did not look like what we needed and that I hoped she would find a good home for it.

She responded how disappointed she was that it wasn't the right fit because she wanted the table to go to someone who really wanted it. If I changed my mind, I could have it for free.

Talk about temptation! Ah! It was killing me! So I called my dad to get his opinion on the difficulty converting it, and was it worth it?

Oh yes! We picked up the table the night before Thanksgiving. It is gorgeous! Not only does the top fold out to the left, but to the right as well.

On Thanksgiving morning, Hubbie and my dad tried to figure out if we could get my machine into it.

Notice LittleMan helping out, leopard print slippers and all.

So far, it's a no go. My dad seems to think that it will not be hard to convert. Hubbie, as usual, is being a whiny little bitch a bit pessimistic about the whole thing. I think we'll get everything up and running after my dad visits again next weekend.

The best part, though, was when I asked the plot-thickening What's that?

As usual, in their rush to look at the technical aspects, the men missed one of the finer details.

We pulled it up, to find a thread compartment.

I was taken. Hook, line and sinker.

So there you have it. My three latest FreeCycle/Craigslist finds. All of which were free, and all of which have made NATUI a very happy girl.

Adult Orthodontics

Adults with braces creep me out.

Now, I am all about people improving their appearance. I am also well aware of the fact that many kids could not get braces because their parents couldn't afford orthodontic care, and they are now doing it themselves as adults.

Total kudos to them, just don't make me look at you when you are talking.

There is a woman at the preschool who has the clear "invisible" braces (like we don't notice the wires or the braces pout, but whatever). She must be nearly ready to have them off because her teeth look great, but I can't help staring at her mouth every time I see her talk.

I don't know if it's because it makes her appearance so juvenile or that fact that I have met her several times and think she is a bitch who can't take care of her kids. Either way, watching her talk makes me want to poke her in the mouth and see if her gums stick to her brackets.

It also makes me wonder if her husband put a moratorium on blow jobs until she gets them taken off.

I know Americans have an obsession with even, white teeth. But where do we draw the line?

Leafblowers and Neighbors Who Hate You

What the hell happened to a good old-fashioned afternoon in the yard?

Leafblowers in a yard are like cell phones at a dinner table. Obnoxious.

And even when you think it is okay to use yours, I'll bet you have given nasty looks across the fence when your neighbor uses his while you are trying to have a barbecue and hold a conversation.

To see some guy out in his yard with headphones on, blowing his leaves into the street (or worse yet, his neighbor's yard) while the windows on the entire block vibrate with the reverb is the antithesis of the American childhood.

Doesn't anyone remember how much fun it was to jump in a pile of leaves?

People bitch that they are too fat. They bitch that they don't get any quality time with their kids. My advice? Go and buy a rake. Take your kids outside and actually spend some time with them. You will get a workout. The kids will exhaust themselves, and you will have a beautiful yard to boot.

Case in point:

Notice that Hubbie is using a broom? Yes, a freaking broom. We couldn't find our rake at first, but we were determined to get the job done.



LittleMan starting to get buried!!



Falling leaves!!



Sheer Joy!



A leafy blankey!




In less than two hours we bagged up six bags of leaves. The kids laughed until their cheeks glowed. The idea wasn't to have a leaf-free yard. It was to clean up and have fun doing it.

So here is the PSA from NATUI on this beautiful autumn Monday: Put away the leafblower. It doesn't matter how fast you get the job done, it is how you get it done and who helps you. There is something cathartic about the crunching sound of leaves. Give it a chance.

If nothing else, you won't piss off your neighbors by waking up their baby.

The Significance of a Dog On A Shirt

I dabble in CafePress to get my creative energy out. I have a lot of fun doing it, and this month prior to the election has been fodder for many a political t-shirt.

I also do fun and cutesy stuff. After I got all the snark out, I created this:

I am very proud of it. I did it because I thought it was cute, and as a bonus after-thought my cousin is about to have a baby boy so I will send one to them.

While speaking to my mother on the phone yesterday, I had a frustratingly failed attempt to share this with her.

I gave her the web address, she looked it up.

I see a dog on a shirt.

And?

I see a dog on a shirt. I don't get it. What's the significance of a dog on a shirt?

Ouch.

I explained to her for the then literal third time that I had created the shirt, I was proud of it, I was just trying to share, blah blah falling on deaf ears blah.

It has always gotten under my skin that my family very rarely can appreciate anything that they themselves cannot do. Just because you can't or won't do something doesn't mean it wasn't a lot of work. Say great job, dammit, it is part of your job as my mother.