Yeah....its a jungle out there. And in here.

Standing at the edge of the jungle, peering through the early morning mists swirling around my ankles, there was just enough light to see the soft carpet of lime green Creeping Jenny snaking its delicate cup shaped leaves in a dense covering that ran right into the forest like some mysterious ancient and secret trail.

I don't know what its called....that space that leads up to the jungle. Its not a plain, or a field...those words are too simple. This...zone...that I was standing in...this strip of middle ground, where the vines have advanced out of the jungle as if to pull in whatever came close enough, where the soft forest grasses still got enough light to flourish and grow fiercely up to the edge where they fade into dark earth...

It was damp. Not cold really. Too much humidity for that. Just a chill in the warm dampness. A chill provided courtesy of my imagination. Something was in there...I could feel it watching me. Any moment now it would be like something out of Jurassic Park...some large lizard-like monster with savage teeth and an appetite for Shih Tzu would lunge for the bait that is currently happily nosing around on the other end of the purple leash I hold in my hand.

Whoosh. Roar. Chomp. Snap.

And that would be the end of my only reason to be tramping around this god-forsaken place at 6:30 in the morning.

Perhaps I exaggerate you say? By now surely you've realized that not many people stand on the verge of the Amazon Rain Forest with a Shih Tzu, nor does Creeping Jenny grow outside of the southern United States. So rain forest/jungle I am not addressing. I am definitely not in Brazil.

I am standing in the backyard of the house where I nanny.

"Phiff!" you say? As if now the story has lost all suspense and drama.

Read on if you dare, I say...

The house where I arrive each morning at 6:00 am is sandwiched between the broad avenues of the historic district in our small town. Pleasant green lawns on either side, sharply manicured hedges, brilliant Azaleas, demure Dogwoods, and subtle Hosta frame this grandiose and ancient of neighborhoods...and there in the middle of pristine southern order and gentile hospitality [oh the southern code can be communicated through yard work...just ask the hoard of lawn services that descend upon the neighborhood with strict orders to make this yard look better than that one and to smile while doing it...on a side note-thats how a lot gets done in the South... vicious atrocities committed with a smile and the often-said phrase "well bless their heart" tacked on for the absolution of the perpetrator.]

But I digress...there in the midst is sandwiched the blue Victorian of West Street. I don't think anyone in town knows the actual number of the house, the children having dismantled the mail box so many times at this point, that the mail man simply stuffs the mail under the mat in the war zone that doubles as the front porch. There used to be a little ceramic tile sign in the corner of the front bricked bed....long gone. Most likely used as a cutting board or launching platform for some various and sundry project of mass destruction. ...In fact now that I think about it...I vaguely remember something resembling that mosaic symbol of order underneath the gingerbread houses they were allowed to blow up with fireworks a couple of Januaries ago.

Once upon a time, when I arrived almost seven years ago, and the number of children was only two...there were brass numbers on the heavy wooden front door. Ornate. Lovely. A perfect ambassador of the gentile hospitality replicated in the properly kept houses and yards of the neighboring residences. They are gone now. I have no idea why. At times-when I discover various things missing or askew-I forget...and ask myself "why? why in the world would they take/dismantle/dislocate/break this particular thing??" Then I realize whom I am speaking of and silently nod in resignation.

And let it be stated for the record that the state of the house is not completely the children's fault. As I have mentioned before-the leaders of this pack are two very adept and completely brilliant physicians. And I suppose I have discovered the answer to the question-what happens when you are too smart? You start a Load of projects and never have the time to finish the one without rushing off to the next. Sometimes-in my darkest grumpy moments-I think "this is why they had so many children...they are growing their own work force". Then the grumble fades as I realize how absolutely ludicrous that sounds...hiring a migrant on the corner of P and A street in the old mill village is Much cheaper than raising seven children. The yard of this home is just one example of the parents well intentioned yet ambitious failures and the children's in-exhaustible capacity for destruction.

Let me paint you a picture:

You are standing on the sidewalk...in front of the house...at first glance it is easy to see the major differences from the other houses...for example...the grassy space between the sidewalk and avenue in front of everyone elses house is neatly manicured and brilliantly green-not a weed in sight [courtesy of the Round-up that everyone seems to use on everything-including their salads around here]. In front of this house, however, that neatly manicured strip resembles a strip at a tractor pull. Originally it was tilled to be re-sown with some of the father's specially blended grass seeds [he is always tinkering with seeds]...at least I would assume that is the only plausible explanation for ripping up perfectly good grass...however...good intentions never got anything done...and it has become nothing more than an elongated black mud hole that I must leap over every morning to get to the front walk. Sometimes I make it...sometimes I don't. The front walk in itself is not bad...its what is on it that is sometimes a challenge. The front yard is dominated by a large oak tree...large is an understatement. This tree alone could support the entire housing unit of the Swiss Family Robinson. It is a Gi-normous White Oak. White Oaks are renown for two things: being as wide as they are tall-great shade trees, and the masses of acorns they produce. When these acorns begin to fall the front walk becomes like the rink at a roller derby...every nanny for herself. I have lived the cartoon legs many a morning...you know the ones I'm talking about-the one where the poor character hits all the marbles and seemingly ten pairs of legs seem to fail around attached to a singular upper torso that grapples with air-arms extended in that awkward attempt to regain balance. And I'm sure the neighbors gather at their slightly frosty window panes in the chilly winter months [all of January and February] and watch me battle the acorns and the ice. I usually give up halfway and just crawl. I'm sure the neighbors believe I just come to work drunk. The front yard itself is ironic in that it seems to boast two crop circles-slightly out of place in the middle town and in the historic district. The yard is a hodgepodge of different grasses and in two large places [again-with good intention I'm sure] the grass has been tilled away to reveal two large black spaces of earth. They seem to be the eyes of the yard-staring up at heaven-questioning "why? why? why hast thou forsaken us?" Then we come to the hedges...the front porch has a set of about seven stairs leading up...so the hedges are almost four 1/2 feet tall. There is a double tier-large white Azaleas in back-fuchsia in front. And there the rank and order ends...they are Full of large gaps where various crews of children have tunneled through them in order to gain foraging experience [they watch entirely too much Man v. Wild and Survivor Man--I have witnessed them make pine bough shelters big enough for a family of ten in the back yard with only a small pocket knife, vines, and sheer determination.] Their swing set resembles an African safari outpost-its covered in vines, bits of rope, and things dangling from the rope I can only assume used to be alive. [The father has absolutely used the swing set to tan a dear hide before-that is an uncomfortable sight-to venture out with the dog at 6:30 in the gray black dawn...drawing closer and closer to the swing set and the dark mass stretched between the monkey bar ladders....only to be hit in the face by the smell of decay and tanning salt-a smell quite staggering I assure you and suddenly out of the mists appears skin and fur...at first I was confused...I thought one of the children had a terrible accident involving the dog-then I realized I was still walking him]

But back to the front yard-there is a large black iron fence that surrounds the back yard-were the house begins-so does the fence [and the chaos]. Pushed up against the bars-and escaping through in places-are all manner of vines and shrubberies gone wild. Hence the jungle references. There is a side yard dominated by a wooden play structure. The grass on this side is deep and green-the children have to wade through in places-grass knee deep...it has overgrown the alligator see-saw and the turtle sandbox. The second and third tier of the structure are crowded with plastic green pots that were removed from the greenhouse to make room for the heritage breed turkeys that were living there. [the day the 11 year old shot Thanksgiving dinner in the greenhouse was one of those days I went home early with a Valium.]

The driveway disappears into a mud hole at the edge of the concrete in the back yard. Beyond the mud the jungle begins. In the beginning it was a simple garden plot...perhaps 15 x 15. Now it takes up over half the yard. It is the poster child for Gardens Gone Wild. Pea vines and Morning Glory vines have reached the swing set and managed to spiral up the metal poles and down onto the swings. Corn stalks and giant Sunflowers stalks reach toward the heavens. We couldn't see our way out of them if we tried...on the other hand-it has given the children a chance to hone their skills with a compass. They know the house is due north. Strange and bizarre varieties of peppers grow along the edges of the green explosion...funny triangle shaped purple and red peppers cover bushes, yellow and orange peppers as big as a man's fist hang from over burdened plants scattered among the garden. There used to be clearly marked rows and stones with the names of the plants painted on them. Now it looks like the overgrown rant of chaos.

The neighbors to the left have grown a giant hedge of Leyland Cyprus trees. These are massively tall trees resembling something more of a spruce than the swamp cyprus that might spring to mind. They effectively shield the neighbors from the house and yard of chaos. The neighbors to the right didn't play around...they built a 12 foot stone wall-thats at least a foot thick and quite impermeable to the repeated crash ramming of the mini-jeeps on our side. Aside from the garden the yard is dominated by a large greenhouse, a trampoline, a trailer with a large metal wild pig trap on it [kid you not], rocks, and an army of broken toys [that are somehow more treasured than the new toys forgotten in the inside toy boxes]. There is a fairly large boat, four tillers, a rusty plow [thankfully no horse], something akin to a combine, all the metal poles required to erect a car port [piled in a very constructive heap to one side of the double garage], and then there is the fleet of riding toys...last count was 6 scooters, five trikes, four wagons, three strollers [including the four seat jogging stroller-which amounts to jogging while attempting to push a very unwieldy lance of children-any of whom will throw the entire contraption off balance with a well calculated lunge at a passing bush], two battery powered mini jeeps, and one skateboard that has been mercilessly run over at least ten times now.

Ladies and gentlemen-I give you the extreme urban jungle. A yard so over-run with chaos that it becomes a fight to the death just to make it to the back porch and into the house. While the house isn't much better...at least there is less chance of a dinosaur attacking me while I clean it. I think.

And clean it-I must. I bid you adieu until the next time I can find counter space and sanity enough to write another installment of the nanny chronicles.

From the house on West Avenue-my soul still has soul-and 15 minutes before everyone wakes up from their naps.

Wish me luck.

how to get a turtle out of a toilet and 3 other things I wish I didn't know...

I would postulate that in the event of seven siblings being so close in age [oldest not being but 7 1/2 years older than the youngest] that things are bound to get tense. I'm not sure about pet turtle in the toilet tense-but I'll let you be the judge.

And with seven monkeys in a barrel- factions emerge, converge, and implode daily. Sometimes its girls versus boys....older versus younger...light sabers versus nerf guns...those who are about to be in trouble versus those telling on them...you get the idea.

And every once in a while for what ever reason-there is one thats singled out...for all the others to pounce on.

And two days ago, I learned why it would never again be the 3 year old. And not just because she turns four in a month. No-I knew that Peter would never pick on Beth again-no matter what age she was. I also know that you can get a turtle out of a toilet with a shop vac. He'll have to spend the rest of his life on the therapist's log...but it can work.

Allow me to illuminate:

The day was a particularly gruesome one at the house on West Street. I arrived at 6:30 am to a kitchen that looked like someone had set a bomb off in a confectioners factory. Upon closer inspection I realized that the dark "chocolate" puddles everywhere were not chocolate. And that the white granulated sugar-was salt? Then I ventured over to the sink... blanche-gulp-wretch.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

Its only tomatoes and apple cores.

But blood, bone, and flesh do not smell, look, nor clean up as easy as tomatoes and apple cores.

The father had definitely field dressed a deer in the kitchen sink. Definitely.

The blood soaked maroon sheet was still sticking out of the trash can. In horror I gazed around the set of what looked like a slasher movie....bits of gristle and bone flecks clung to the walls of the kitchen. Odd pieces of this and that floated in an ambiguous grey-brownish-pink liquid pooling at the bottom of an obviously clogged sink. The stench was fantastic.

Luckily since coming to work here nearly eight years ago now...I know a thing or two about cleaning products. Like what gets dried squirrel guts off a stainless steel sink, what gets melted barbie and batman off the oven coils, what gets the dog poo smell off a leather car seat...when the windows have been rolled up at 90 degrees for two hours. The list goes on. The local hardware store has the best selection of industrial cleaning products-they know me by name.

So-tossing my half eaten breakfast toast in the trash-along with the other half I'd already eaten-I grabbed my trusty cleaning caddy and attacked full on assault mode.

[note: do not attempt to process deer bone, gristle, etc with a Badger 2000 Garbage Disposal-it will only result in the very nasty process of dismantling the disposal and seeing things that no human should have to witness]

After digging every piece of deer out of the stainless steel sink, scrapping the bits of flesh off the walls, scrubbing up the blood off the cabinets and floor, and vomiting just one more time for good measure....it was done.

By now-the kitchen was swarming. Everyone knew about dad's big kill-and the graphic details flowed like honey. The louder and more articulate you are the more you are listened to in a pack. So it stands to reason that while I fought to fix breakfast in the crowd of story-tellers, that the smallest story-teller, Beth, the 3 year old, was having to jump just to be seen in the mob. Peter talked of how he had hunted with dad. Caroline argued she had gone more times. Charlotte said she wished they'd all go get lost in the woods so she could go shopping with Mom and Lucy. Ethan and Philip told stories about the hunting trips they'd imagine they'd have as soon as they could remember to put the safety back on their rifles. And poor little Beth. She wanted to be heard so badly.

Beth kept insisting that she was big enough to hunt. Peter said No. Beth said she was smart enough to hunt. Caroline and Charlotte stole her blanket and said No. Beth said she was strong enough to hunt. Ethan and Philip informed her that hunters do Not wear footy pajamas. Beth began to cry. And Lucy said that hunters definitely did not cry. It was a losing battle.

I swooped her up and put her out of reach of the pack of hyenas on the high stool in the kitchen. She looked pitiful with her blonde ringlets mused from a hard night's sleep, pink fuzzy footy pjs macramed with bits of yarn hair from poor Pretty Princess Pony Dolly Girl's shedding head...she did look so sad with her plate size blue eyes swimming in tears...then the lip began to curl back...the eyebrows began to knit together. She had hatched her plan.

I, of course, was burning breakfast, so I was not privy to her revelation. But I heard it. It was loud and it occurred four hours later. After lunch, everyone went outside to play-everyone but Beth. She volunteered to take a "nappy"...which should have been my first clue. I collapsed on the couch with four loads of laundry and began to fold my way from one pile to another while keeping a wary eye out of the bay window on the survivor games unfolding in the side yard. ...as long as the machete didn't surface-I figured I could get the laundry folded.

Then this noise....this sound....this head pounding-god-awful-thumping-mind numbing-racket started. The floor shook, the chandelier tinkled as its little glass beads slammed together...then rising above the noise...Beth's classic "I-did-it-but-I-sorry-I-didn't-meana-do-it-an-I-won't-neva-do-it-again-please-don't-spank-me-daddy" wail started.

I raced for the stairs. One flight...the noise was higher, lower, somehow in the walls...I rounded the second set of stairs and into Peter's room. No guinea pig in the cage. Bad sign. Guinea Pig cage drug towards bathroom...really bad sign. I opened the bathroom that connected the boys rooms to find water, wood chips, half a carrot and a terrified Beth. The noise was coming from the toilet. And no wonder. The toilet looked like the apocalypse now re-visited on the porcelain god of old. It was burping, bubbling, belching, and burgeoning with wood chips and guinea pig poo.

"Oh Beth, Bethy, Beth-PLEASE tell me you did not put Chippy down the toilet" I gasped. She was frozen in horror but managed to stick out a chubby finger and point to the tub. I jerked back the curtain to find Chippy, the resilient guinea pig, bravely manning a Rescue Hero's Boat in about an inch of tepid water. He was taking any water anxiety out on the leg of the Barbie Doll he was humping.

"Oh thank goodness!"

After securing Chippy and his new lady love in a nearby (dry) plastic bin, I frantically tried to stop the toilet from erupting. I lifted the lid off....monkeyed with the insides, traced the water line down to the floor and turned off the valve. The noise stopped. But the carnage was impressive.

Beth's tears dribbled down her pudgy cheeks. "Peta said that I was a baby" she sniveled "Ima big girl. His tuttles are babies."

"His tutt---" AH! I dashed back into Peter's room and realized he was an animal short. His favorite turtle was definitely not in his happy bowl. "Oh Beth-did you flush Tank down the toilet?!?!"

Without waiting for her to start her signature wail again, I sprinted for the shop vac. While most keep something as heavy duty as a shop vac in the garage, this family frequently needed it and so it was kept in the front study. I dragged it up the steps and into the bathroom. I almost laughed out loud as I put on my trusty yellow rubber gloves. Where were the elbow gloves? The hip wadders? The HASMAT suite?

Oh well, into the fray. I started the vac...

Luckily for lil Tank the turtle, he hadn't gotten far into the maze of plumbing. After a few seconds, a thick "floop" indicated that our potential toilet clogging disaster could have gotten better....I switched off the vacuum and gingerly reached into the hose.

I'm not sure if there is an official pissed off look for turtles, but this turtle should definitely go into modeling. He was pissed. I rinsed him in the sink and plopped him back in his happy place. That little guy will need mega therapy. I began to clean up the bathroom, hopefully before Peter came in and saw his room. The last thing I needed was a tween with a myocardial infarction. Too late.

Peter rounded the corner, and started hyperventilating before he even saw the bathroom. I assured him everyone survived, although it looked like Chippy was bound and determined to make that Barbie a prisoner of war. He was livid.

So there I was....just another day at work....I had cleaned deer guts, bone and bristle up out of the kitchen, gum off the couch in the den, soda and prunes off the front coffee table, moldy yogurt out of the shag carpet in the office, and guinea pig wood chips out of the upstairs toilet...and a turtle...I had one hand on Peter to keep him away from Beth, one yellow gloved hand still scooping up wood chips, one leg keeping Beth blocked from running away and hiding, and one mouth-pleading with both of them.

I suppose now as I write this-I can see the humor.

or at least I have to in order to survive the next day.

The Return of the Finger Sniffer

So it seems every semester that I will need to point out the obvious.

People: Don't sniff your fingers.

Here's the scene...

First day of comparative history class....we're in the somewhat dusty musty classroom over in Hardin...the kind that reminds you of a germ incubator. You can feel the germs waltzing around in a slow tango over every surface of the room...the dust fermenting into little infected piles waiting to be inhaled into the highly susceptible membranes. H1N1 is all the rage. This academic season's must have...and the slightest cough sends everyone reaching for their giant bottle of hand sanitizer. So I'm sitting there...watching the professor stagger around the front of the room, drunk off the euphoria of first day jitters and Entirely too much espresso...and he begins to stumble through the role, in true first day fashion...every name butchered...first middle and last. While it is evident that the roster will take some time to conquer-this is definitely not the most opportune time to make an exit for the facilities. Yet...the guy in front of my little wooden desk suddenly vaults towards the door, and sprints through the door for the bathroom. [I wish that I could assure you that 'vault' and 'sprint' were used for the impact of creative imagery...alas...he did indeed vault and sprint...it was Most impressive.] Well-when you gotta go-you gotta go. He stayed in the bathroom for longer than it takes to do the business...even very important business. I thought we were gonna have to send in the rescue squad [go team Jeff].

Now...I have no problem with the obviously urgent exit-HOWEVER...it was the astounding behavior upon re-entry that was disturbing...hence the reason for this rant.

While it is an inopportune moment to suddenly exit mid role call-to return and do the following is most Unnecessary. He staggers back to his desk, makes an unashamed lurch for a large slurpie cup, perched precariously on the edge, and drains it noisily...and then ever so casually SNIFFS HIS FINGERS. And not just the casual "oh, I must still have a bit of strawberry jam under my finger nail from that toast this morning"...but a sniff of such magnitude I was sure he was going to snort the nail off. At this point-I can only piece together the obvious: Boy suddenly sprints for bathroom, Boy spends a long time in bathroom, no sink water was heard from the dangerously close facility, Boy then spends rest of class snorting his own fingers.

Disssss-tuuuuur-Bia.

Now many friends have proffered explanations to as to why his fingers where glued to his nostrils. I'm ready to chalk this one up to life's mysteries best ignored and unsolved.

And just a note to all you other finger sniffers out there: if you want to be taken seriously by the other Homo Sapiens...please remember to complete the sniffage in the confines of your own home. Its not a question of personal freedoms...its a statement of Manners.

Manners: get 'em. use 'em.

your soul will appreciate it.

and so will we.

Attention Ladies....

Listen up Ladies...I have been given a gift.  My ex sent me the "man rules".  I have in my possession all you need to know should you encounter a man.  Simply look for the following signs....once found-- all you need to do is turn around and walk the other way. Because girls...there are differences in communication. I will give you that.  The sexes are wired differently-absolutely...but ladies do not let yourself be duped by anyone claiming to be a "man" that exhibits the following characteristics. [watch for sarcasm along the way]

The Man Rules-At last a guy has taken the time to write this all down.   Finally, the guys ' side of the story.  We always hear "the rules" from the female side.  Now here are the rules from the male side.  These are our rules!  Please note...they are all numbered "1" on purpose. [or is it because you can't count?] 1)  Men are NOT mind readers. [is this the "its okay to be stupid" disclaimer...because that's what it sounds like to me. Men you don't have to be psychic to know that being a jerk is not gonna score points. ba-Duh.] 1)  Learn to work the toilet seat.  You're a big girl.  If its up-put it down.  We need it up you need it down.  You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down. [Seriously...this is a rule? I was just not aware that women worldwide had complete breakdowns about the toilet seat. Urban legend.] 1)  Sunday sports is like the full moon or the changing of the tides.  Let it be. [what?! a: this implies that women do not watch, comprehend, or follow sports. and b: that being a useless vegetable on the couch for the better part of the Sunday is somehow environmentally ordained...sorry boys...try again.] 1)  Crying is blackmail and witchcraft. [Then I suggest you are not the cause of it.] 1)  Ask for what you want.  Let us be clear on this one! Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! JUST SAY IT! [Yes...sadly we often overestimate your intelligence. Ladies-just look him in the face and say it. Saves valuable time and we can get back to saving the world.] 1)  Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question. [Just remember that goes both ways..."Honey-baby-sugar pie (insert whatever sap name he calls you) can I get a little lovin' tonite?" "No" "But baaaaaaaaaaaaby....will you tell me why?" "No"--just 'a for example'.] 1)  Come to us with a problem if you want help solving it.  That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.  [This is perhaps one of the most disturbing "rules"...Boys, let me tell you where this one will land you: She will Cheat on you. Period.  If you are DUMB enough to believe this approach-your significant other will absolutely seek shelter somewhere else.  It would be like being in a relationship with a brick. a big dumb brick.  If its a problem you can't solve--be a man--say "Gee Honey, this is really outside of my area of expertise. Why don't you call _____ and I'll wash the dishes while you vent." That's how a man solves it--its a trade off. And guys-hate to disappoint, but women just need to vent. Period. It is healthy.  Women who don't vent in some way, shape, or form have spontaneously combusted. True Story. Look it up.  Sorry but that's life. We all do it-get over it or look into sheep.] 1)  Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument.  In fact, all comments become null and void after seven days. [Sounds like a great excuse to be a liar.  Ladies-I'm looking for a man that can keep his word.  Besides...guys tend to say stupid things if cornered in a situation that is most undoubtably their fault. If you find this happening often, you need to get a new man because it sounds like yours has an IQ = to that of dirt.  Girls-intellectual compatibility is Mucho Importante. It will form the basis of communication and the platform of respect between the two of you. In short: don't skimp on the brains.] 1)  If you think you're fat, you probably are.  Don't ask us. [again-if your guy is this stupid...And ladies: get active! do something to stay fit. its important for You...not him. Take care of yourself because face it: if you're with stupid-he isn't going to.] 1)  If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one. [way to go champ.] 1)  You can either ask us to do something Or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself. [can you find the faulty logic here?] 1) When you need to say something, please say whatever you have to say during commercials. [Whenever possible-listen the FIRST time we say it so we don't have to keep endlessly repeating ourselves.] 1) Christopher Columbus did Not need directions and neither do we. [Seriously? He had a crap ton of navigational equipment, and an entire CREW of people who knew how to sail and navigate.  They used the stars for direction-now that is a MAN. Last time I checked the number of men able to use the stars for direction while in a vehicle were slim.  So unless you are the one in a million-I suggest you pull your butt over and ask. Just remember--the longer you're in the car with us....the more chances we have to say "I told you so".] 1) All men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings.  Peach, for example, is a fruit, not a color.  Pumpkin is also a fruit.  We have No idea what mauve is. [This is a delicate "rule". First of all-fellow sisters: I truly hope you have more interesting things to discuss than the fall colors with a man-But if you don't: may I suggest a gay one. The conversation will go Vastly better by leaps and bounds.] 1) If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that. [fair enough. Ladies: if you are with a neanderthal that has nothing better to do but scratch like a stray dog with fleas in public situations- have him dipped & find someone that is remotely cognizant of their surroundings.] 1) If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing" we will act like nothing's wrong.  We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle. [First of all: ladies-don't play stupid games. You give the rest of us a bad name. But having said that, plain and simple: if he thinks you're the hassle-you need to find someone new.  The person worth a "hassle"-won't treat you like one.] 1) If you ask a question you don't want an answer to: expect an answer you don't want to hear. [Two way street boys...I recommend avoiding questions like "How many?" "Is it the biggest?" and "Is it the best?" because regardless of the answers to those-feelings still get hurt. And guys thank your lucky egotistical stars that most of us are kind enough to lie when you're dumb enough to ask those questions.  We have realized that there are just some things not worth wrecking your egos over. Remember guy with bruised ego = whiney two year old, and you usually can't put the man and what is left of the ego down for a nap.] 1) When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine...REALLY! [Personal story: a boyfriend asked me to accompany him to the funeral of a family friend.  I arrived in a black skirt, conservative black top, black heels, pearls, and hair modestly swept up in a twist.  He was wearing jeans and a khaki sport coat with t-shirt underneath.  He said "Well you look nice but you'll be over dressed. These are simple people-no one is going to look like you." Well as it turned out: he was the ONLY person in jeans at the ENTIRE funeral with the exception of a mentally handicapped child. No Lie. People: going to a funeral is about showing respect for someone's life. It doesn't matter "how simple" the people are.  Everyone in that chapel was wearing their best-no matter how old, or worn-they had gathered together to remember a loved one and respect a friend...well almost everyone.  Dressing appropriately for a funeral is a sign of respect, and how you treat people in their final hour, will greatly project how others treat you.  Ladies-if the guy is worried about no one "looking like you" when you are dressed appropriately for a funeral-leave him by the casket-he is dead weight.] 1) Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss topics such as baseball or golf. [Again-ladies: if you are with someone that Can Only talk about golf or baseball, I suggest you rethink your approach.] 1) You have enough clothes. [Doesn't universally apply. I know plenty of guys that are Total clothes horses.] 1) You have too many shoes. [Well if I didn't keep losing one of them every time I had to kick a dumb guy in the ass....] 1) I am a shape. Round IS a shape. [Just remember: being healthy and active in general is key. And guys: the trick where you put your drink on your burgeoning gut and say "Look honey-its my own table!"....Noooooooooot Sexy. At. All. That's only cute when pregnant women do it and if you think not-remember it is you that happen to be the most likely the cause of us having our own personal ice cream shelf.] 1) Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know I have to sleep on the couch tonight. But you know men really don't mind that? Its just like camping. [Ladies: if your man has exhibited any of the atrocious symptoms listed above (aka: the man "rules") might I suggest furthering his love of camping by telling him to take a hike. A loooong one. Off a short pier.]

how to resuscitate a Shih Tzu...and 4 other things I wish I didn't know...

The vision was lovely...seven happy children jostling joyfully round a big fraiser fir...soft glow from the fire place mirrored in the eyes of the adoring parents...the glint off the Christmas ornaments reflected in the eyes of the elated children...it was the most wonderful time of the year.

And then the box moved. The red one...with suspicious holes poked in the sides. Then the box yelped...and then I knew: life as I had come to know and love it was So very over.

Lid was flung off. Puppy emerged. Chaos ensued.

A whirlwind seven months later...I am on my hands and knees scrubbing puppy poo up off the bathroom floor for [easily] the seven hundredth time. And as I grimace into the tile, I reflect on the dear little poof ball's first months with us...

For starters-it is difficult for a new puppy to adjust to switching from a high octane environment with seven people pulling, pinching, poking, petting, and pecking at you...to one where you are suddenly shut in a drafty laundry room all alone because you "made potty like a no-no-bad-dog" on the oriental rug [again]. I'm sure the poor darling felt like a yo-yo.

And there begins our problem.

The wonderful people in charge made the decision to purchase a dog that has a) long hair that is difficult to manage b) weighs less than 15 pounds (thereby putting him in a category with things that can easily be broken, injured, or killed) c) cannot play outside

and brought him to a home that a) is lucky to get the girls' hair brushed for school or church-forget the boys-we just buzz that to the scalp b) has given their children various and sundry pointy and pokey items, any of which are perfectly capable of inflicting great harm on anything smaller than an elephant, [these things are not limited to any variation of the following list: knives, guns, spears, arrowheads, machetes, fish hooks, needles, clamps, dart gun (to be fair that one wasn't given...the 11 year old actually made it from scratch), tools, axes, large sticks, broken glass bottles, and little people (which have proved to be quite the formidable foe of the downstairs toilet)].

In short this puppy has no business being in this home. But here he is. And here he will have to be, until someone leaves the back door open....which happens every four minutes around this place. Which brings me to the finding service.

I have a feeling I am soon to be on a first name basis with this service, just as I am with our local fire department. This particular service simply functions as a "middle man" if you will when your dog is found by someone else who has the decency to call the number on the tag. They then phone the home and usually talk to me on speaker phone "Yes mam. They've found your dog....again." They used to ask me for a complicated numerical sequence written on a piece of a McDonalds receipt, that I promptly lost, the children burned, or the dog ate. Now when the lady just calls and hears the raucous noise in the background she just asks how the children are and if they've even noticed he is gone.

I must regularly turn the children out in to the backyard and dispatch them on some noble mission to ensure that my brain patterns remain normal and I don't spike on the crazed nanny meter and knock one of them in the noggin.

Now the first time this little brown and white fluffy angelic poop machine was released to go and play in the back yard (attached to a leash mind you) he came back looking like Sassquatch...only smaller. He had leaves, brambles, sticks, twigs, debris, mud, dirt, insects...you name it-if it existed in the back yard it was currently attached to the dog. It was like sticking a wet lollipop under the couch cushion...he was covered with bizarre stuff.

I tried to brush him off....I sat in the kitchen floor for TWO HOURS and tried to clean up his poor coat. The children had popsicles for lunch. And still I sat there painstakingly with a brush and a comb. Eventually the scissors and the 'goo be gone' helped to rid him of most of it. Finally I put him in the sink and after three shampoos he at least began to smell like a dog again. Well...wet dog.

Then I had to blow dry him and brush him out....

Finally after THREE AND A HALF HOURS we both collapsed in a corner of the couch. He smelled faintly of oatmeal and I smelled like wet dog. I sat on the couch and tried to imagine the disastrous results of the impending doggie door installation-I could not go through this every single time he went out.

In the meantime he had jumped down from the couch and was frolicking on the den floor-no doubt invigorated by his "doggie day spa" treatment. I listened to him happily snuffling around. Just five more minutes of quiet. The snuffling turned to chewing...the chewing to wet munching...the wet munching to gagging...the gagging to--wait a minute!!

I leapt off the couch to see him wheezing in that terrible "small-plastic-item-must-be-wedged-in-trachea" way in the far corner.

You Will NOT Die on me Dog!! Not after all that!!

I opened his mouth to see a ping pong ball lodged in the back. I called for Peter-hemostats now! [Working for physicians comes in handy when you need things like hemostats because chances are...there's a pair lying around without much to do.] Fortunately the little monster had chewed a few holes in the ball before attempting to swallow it whole. With the calm hands only sheer determination and outright indignation [how dare he try to die on me!] can produce, I clamped on to the ball and pulled.

I wish I could say that was the end of the story. That all the children cheered and the dog licked my face gratefully and never poo-ed on the rug again.

Alas.

He promptly vomited all over me, Peter, and the oriental rug. Everything that he had managed to eat while outside was now inside...in one form or another.

Best thing after that?

Peter is the type of child that vomits when other people/animals vomit. If he sees/hears/smells it...its over.

And ladies and gentlemen in the house on West Avenue...it was Definitely Over.

how to divert flood waters...and 5 other things I wish I didn't know...

How fast can a backyard flood? How deep can three five year olds dig with broken sporks and tupperware? How much weight can a PVC pipe hold before it cracks?  How long does it take to re-sod a backyard? How long does it take to re-sod a backyard if you have seven children, three random cats, two SUVS (that regularly drive over said yard), and one dog?

All these answers and more I know because of one afternoon's up close and personal experience with said backyard.

It all started with burnt cookies and a visit from the fire department.  I work in a house with a smoke detector that is advanced enough to call the fire department but not advanced enough to tell the difference between over done oatmeal cookies and an actual Fire.  The kids heard the alarm and thundered down the stairs to the front room, bouncing on the couch in eager anticipation of Engine No. 12.  Sure enough-just as I was forcing the last of the super burnt Klingon cookies off the now warped metal baking sheet and into the large trash can out back the firemen lumbered up the front walk and the kids ran to the door to let them in.  They know this family by name now, as they have to make regular appearances at the residence on West Street.  And its not because they have a bad cook for a nanny...its because they have a hyper sensitive smoke detector and a stove with Nuclear capabilities...that thing goes from stone cold to meltdown in 2.5 seconds. Did I mention they also have seven children and that my friends can get distracting.  Someone's always trying to tie something (the dog) or someone (the three year old) to the ceiling fan.  Its always like Ringling Brothers meets Dr. Doolittle meets the dark black vortex of Chaos...with a pinch of danger thrown in. (that comes from the machete story...that one is for another day)

So I'm there chattin up Tom, the head fireman for today's call, sadly I inform him there are no more cookies-they all perished in the quasi blaze.  He recommends (for the 37th time) that I make the children play outside in the backyard, lock the backdoor, and tell them they can only come inside if they're bleeding or on fire.  I laugh...realize he isn't kidding...them stammer something unintelligible about bathroom breaks.  He tells me they can dig a latrine with a spoon.  He rounds up his men and they trundle back on to the truck and the children give them a standing o from the front porch.

Latrines with spoons eh? Well it would keep them busy.

I hunted through the kitchen junk drawers for random utensils that were dig worthy. I came up with two old dingy metal camping spoons, four sporks, an old plastic spatula, and a beat up measuring cup with an eagle etched into the bottom.  (the eagle reminded me of the stylized eagle the Nazis stamped their china with...in retrospect I should have listened to the silent screaming omen of death...and just locked the kids in the basement) I threw in a bowl of old tuperware containers for good measure-and sent all seven of them packing.  "Outside!" I said.  "Outside and dig to China!!"  

Again...in retrospect...that was not a good idea to place in their heads.  Heaven knows what would have happened if I actually told them to dig latrines.  

I did not lock the door-but I did use the firefighter's line "Unless you are bleeding or on fire" and then with them playing in the backyard I began to clean up the war zone currently called "kitchen/breakfast nook" and attack the pile of laundry that could double as a jump ramp at the X Games.  I glanced outside to count heads often.

Not often enough though to note the ferocity at which the digging was being accomplished.  At first it was merely a shallow hole...maybe a foot deep...then it gradually became deeper...two feet...now two and 1/2.  I hesitated.  Should I stop them? They were all working together so wonderfully...from the 11 year old to the 3 year old-every last boy and girl-scooping and running here and there to spill the removed dirt on this flower or that plant.  They were like little busy ants. And no one was bleeding, screaming, or crying.  No one had gotten bitten, smacked, or punched in the back of the head.  There was no way in hell I was going to tell them to stop digging.

Again...in retrospect...I was stupid to underestimate them.  Things went south when one of the triplets was lowered into the (now) vertical tunnel.  It came up to his shoulders.  He had on a red plastic fireman hat (courtesy of that mornings visit).  Philip began to bounce.  I didn't realize dirt was so sproingy.  He was bracing himself on the hard earth around the hole and Really bouncing up and down.  Perhaps, (foolishly) I thought, they've found a root and they can't get past it.  Suddenly-Philip and the red plastic hat disappeared from sight.  Plooop. As if the ground just swallowed him up. Then mesmerized the others stared into the hole.  Two little hands began to wave frantically from the hole. The 11 year olds face was all I needed to see.  At first I thought-crap-they've found the mother load of snakes or giant worms or something creepy crawly that lives in the ground. But then I realized the boys weren't smiling near enough for that-and the girls weren't screaming loud enough...I raced across the backyard...closer and closer-finally I leaned over the side to see Philip at the bottom of a hole with his foot stuck in a section of PVC pipe...and Water pouring everywhere.  

Shit. They had managed to dig far enough to hit the irrigation system and subsequently break it.  

Oh god China---why do you have to be so far away and hard to dig to???

I pulled Philip out of the hole...the water was filling up the hole at an alarming rate.  It hadn't rained in weeks and the ground was hard.  It was like our own little mini well.  

And unless that water was going to turn to wine-I was about to have a very bad afternoon.  

Thanks to the worm-washing machine incident of May the previous year I knew how to cut the water to the laundry room, and thanks to the little people incidents of March, June, August, September, and "two-time-tober" I knew how to cut the water to all four bathrooms...But the water to outside?? I had No Clue.

I herded the children inside to the magic box-turned on a movie and said "move and you'll be in time out for a month" then drug the 11 year old outside to hunt for the water cut off while I frantically tried to phone the parents.  I called the ER first...no dice. He had just coded a patient and was not available. I left a message with the charge nurse asking about the water cut off. Called the Neuro wing to get the mom...strike two.  She was in a consult. The water was beginning to spill out of the hole.  I called the ER for two hours, every 20 minutes. Finally the charge nurse said he'd gone out to lunch. HOW HOW HOW do you miss 16 calls from your Nanny??????? (In his defense often times the children would highjack the phone and call the ER. After the 9th call for Dr. Dad, the nurses run out of patience.)

I heard the gravel crunching on the driveway. God Bless the Buddha! He came home for lunch! Seven kids, a terrified nanny, and a very excited dog mobbed him at the top of the drive way.  In ten minutes the water was off and the engineers of the dig were in various rooms contemplating their various punishments.  Turns out Philip was encouraged to jump on the pipe-those "encouragers" received polish pot duty for a month. The other diggers got puppy potty clean up for a week. And I got a valium and went home early.  

It cost $3,000 dollars to dig up the back yard, replace the pipes, and re-sow the Giant mud puddle that formed as a result of the dig.  

If only they had found a dinosaur.

What not to feed an African Spotted Gecko...and 6 other things I wish I didn't know.

Continuation of the Hedgehog Series...

Why this #2:

One morning, I decided to cook breakfast from scratch for the kids.  Which on the surface sounds lovely.  However, there are immediately several things wrong with this picture.  Number 1: it takes a lot of food to satisfy 7 kids. Number 2: the likely hood of any of that food being ready, hot, and edible simultaneously corresponding to the second all seven children can be corralled and scrubbed and duct taped to a chair are slim to none. Number 3: I had not consumed enough coffee to be able to read a recipe let alone make an educated estimate on the doneness of the bacon.  Number 4: Cooking anything in this particular kitchen on the stove is a delicate matter requiring constant and desperate attention.  For some reason they have a nuclear stove top. It is one of those flat ranges that goes from stone cold to nuclear meltdown in 2.5 seconds.  It can vaporize a pot of noodles in less than five minutes and a pound of bacon will go from pink and cold to unrecognizably charred in less than three.  To make the situation more fun...they have the most hypersensitive smoke detector EVER.  I've set it off lighting a candle one room over before.  

So back to my Brilliant idea: breakfast from scratch. I was going to make pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon...which means to feed all 7 I would need to make about 25 pancakes, scramble 14 eggs, and cook 2 pounds of bacon.  It was 7:30 am when I started.  By 8:30 I had burned 10 pieces of bacon, given the responding fire fighters coffee and bagels (its become a tradition), and the pancakes hadn't even hit the griddle.  The natives were getting restless.  Usually the visit from the fire department keeps them occupied for a while.  When the alarm sounds-the fire department automatically responds--unless I manage to find the phone and tell them its the bacon (again).  I'm not going to bother telling you how difficult it is to find the phone in this house--but think navigating a paranormal dimension with a blind Bedouin that only speaks...well you get the picture.  So after the third friendly chat with the fire department that month [which by the way EVERY time they come, they always ask me if all seven children are 1) mine? and 2) all related?  Every.  Single.  Time.  Bizarro.]  They've responded so many times over the years that they kids have taken to waiting at the front door for them.  Its like in their minds smoke detector = big shiny red truck.  The family joke at one point was that I was trying to date a firefighter. 

But I digress.  When children are bored, they play with random things.  When children are hungry, they come into the kitchen and stare at me with saucer eyes and start asking "is it ready yet?can I eat this?can I have a bite?can I eat that?can I help you?"  

**just a side note...i am currently sitting in the kitchen at the bay window that looks out into the back yard while i enjoy a cold two hour old cup of coffee and peck for a second or two on this entry...two of the triplets (Ethan and Lucy) are in one of those jeep things driving around in huge muddy circles around the swing set while the three year old (Beth) chases them with a croquet mallet...she looks like a viking warrior...blonde curls frazzled out in the breeze...blue eyes fiercely narrowed with determination...mouth open in a constant high pitched scream...swinging the mallet like a scythe as she pumps her chubby little legs as fast as they will go...they probably called her 'short stack' again...if she gets within striking distance i'll have to go rescue...someone...i love my job**

But back to the Saturday breakfast debacle.  The 11 year old, Peter, had come into the kitchen and was patiently standing there at my elbow while I frantically tried to get the griddle hot enough to cook the pancakes but not so hot that it vaporized them instantly.  He had on his usual jeans with a million pockets (pockets that I long ago realized that I would never make enough money to go through on wash day...that was the worm incident of 2003) and a standard black tee shirt with some sort of reptile slogan on the front "sssssnakes are sssssuper" or something.  Slowly out of the corner of my eye something on the shirt began to move...On it...not him but On the shirt...one of the lizards was ACTUALLY moving.  I screamed. He jumped. The spatula flew across the kitchen.  And the gecko sailed into the bowl of pancake batter.  He flailed around for a good ten seconds before Peter recovered enough to grab him. He rinsed him in the kitchen sink (against my sputtering protests).

Sadly Sid the Gecko left us later that week.  Turns out-pancake batter is not on the list of approved foods for African Spotted Geckos.  Either that or being traumatically tossed into a bowl of pancake batter is not on their approved "to do" list.

How to give a Hedgehog a manicure...and 7 other things I wish I didn't know.

There comes a time in every nanny's day when she stops and says..."Why in the World am I doing this??"

"This" takes the place of many things. There's the obvious: "why am I taking care of other people's children-this" and then the not so obvious "why am I trying to explain to the mechanic how two five year olds managed to dump (approximately) 45 marbles into a gas tank without me noticing-this"...

Most of my moments of "why this" are found in the not so obvious category.

Why this #1:  Frank the hedgehog is a particularly ornery member of the category of spiny mammals of the subfamily Erinaceinae and the order Erinaceomorpha.  He resides at 703 West Avenue in a wire cage decorated with 17 glitter care bear stickers, 6 army men, and 3 year old tri-colored macaroni necklaces.  I would be ornery too.  

Now Frank is particularly precarious pet for 7 small children.  [Of course so is a four foot reticulated python-but we can tell-- I certainly don't pick the pets.]  

One day some of the children had Frank out for a spin in the plastic ball of doom (named so by me after the guinea pig/stairs incident...that was a dark day) and as they toured the downstairs living room I noticed a persistent clicky scratchy sound from the pbd (plastic ball of doom) and then...strange silence punctuated by a soft click every couple of seconds. Now I'm sure a certain number of clicks and scratches is to be expected from an animal completely covered in spiny quills that has been placed in a plastic ball and rolled around a hardwood floor.  But consistency in sound is so important with this many child handlers...when the noise stops you know there is trouble afoot. 

Sure enough poor Frank had become so terrified that he had dug into the plastic ball of doom with all his little claws and was now suspended upside down mid roll over....all quills out.  He looked like the spiky nucleus of some strange and foreign atom.

How does one extract a pissed hedgehog that is embedded in plastic? (besides the obvious answer "carefully" I was out of my element) I shooed the handlers outside and placed the ball-Frank still suspended-in his cage.  I thought maybe he'd calm down in a few and un-stick himself.  No such luck.  Four hours later I loaded up 7 children and one-still petrified and stuck-hedgehog into the car and headed for the vets. 

They managed to extract poor Frank.  The vet recommended that we trim his nails before letting him roll around in the pbd.  

And how does one give a hedgehog a mani/pedi...

Turns out you gently turn the cage over until their little legs hang out the top-and presto...you clip the tiny toes as they chill.

The other six incidents to follow....

M&M Drag Queen

As some of you know...I am a nanny for seven children.  

Seven lovely children.

And after today I don't think I shall be able to eat M&Ms without laughing and crying at the same time.  Math and mothers can tell you that when you have a large enough group of children-one or two of them will emerge as the "odd" ones.  In groups of three or less-the "odd" one may manifest as a little girl that is an overly dramatic starlet...or a boy who still sucks his thumb and plays football in the seventh grade.

But in groups of seven +...weird has to be really weird to get proper attention, otherwise you're lost in the shuffle of arms, legs, and other kids' boogers.  Well my friends-my seven children can do weird, strange, eccentric, and hilarious with their little fingers.  Today was no exception.

Today it was raining...and not the light friendly spring rain that I can justify kicking them out in for thirty minutes while I glue my hair back to my head...this was the nasty-can't-go-out-therefore-must-go-crazy-inside kind of rain.  So I turned to every nanny's nightmare.  Give them whatever toy they want to keep peace in a room that is 11x15.  Yaay. 

First it was dominoes. But they began to use those as replacement cartridges in the nerf weapons and it was starting to leave marks on the walls and various siblings.

Second we tried army guys and the dollhouse.  But the army guys led a pretty ambitious charge on the dollhouse and the girls beat them senseless.  I had to put one boy on top of the bookcase for safekeeping...the two year old was out for blood and he was wearing shorts.

Finally-in desperation, I raided the attic.  I struck gold with a chest of old dress up clothes. Now this family buys a lot of stuff (groceries, tp, etc...) in bulk. Dress up clothes were no exception.  Their mom had a habit of clearing Party City out when the Halloween costumes went on super duper clearance.  Which will explain the seven M&M costumes.  They were stuffed amongst other treasures...Seven brightly colored representatives of rainbowed chocolately goodness. This was going to be fun.  

The hardest part was talking the 11 year old into one of them for the picture session.  I wanted him to be red because I was trying to get them to pose in rainbow color order. No dice. He wanted brown because it looked less like "dork candy" and more like a "stinky poo pile"...which is somehow more preferred in the realm of almost adolescent boys.  I wrestled them all in the foam circles of wonder...and began snapping pictures.  Beth learned that even though it was a candy costume it did not taste like candy. She lost interest and went back to remodeling the dollhouse.  Soon one by one they abandoned their M&Ms to fish out more flashy or robust pieces from the costume trunk-letting their bright colored shells fall by the wayside.

All of them accept for Ethan.  He preferred to simply accessorize the M&M.  He was Bright Orange. And soon he was bright orange with a pink princess hat-complete with veil, pink boa, and red power ranger gloves.  He looked like an M&M in drag.  I nearly hit the floor dying of laughter.  On my way back to the kitchen to get my inhaler, I passed his father in the hall-without thinking-I pointed to the den, and kept staggering and laughing my way down the hall.

[now as a side note: the children's father is a conservative, religious, republican-with little to no sense of humor where boys and pink are concerned. Having said that-he is a good father and he loves his children-but in this house-boys play with boy toys and girls play with whatever they want.]

His father did not find the M&M drag queen very funny and promptly told Ethan to stop playing with his sisters' things.  Ethan quietly began to disrobe.  He fished out a black X-man suit complete with fake muscles.  He looked quite handsome.  A little while later I glanced up from the kitchen island counter where I was preparing lunch to see a much more "manly" Ethan come into the kitchen. He cruised around the island followed by a clicking noise. I thought it must be some sort of manly weapon accessory.  No such luck.  He had quietly accessorized with the pink lucite heels-complete with feather toes.  He got about halfway round the kitchen before his father noticed the clicky clacking wasn't from a sword.  Firmly he was told to lose his sister's heels.  With a seemingly blank expression he merely shrugged at his father, flashed me a grin Cher would have been proud of-then raced off in the direction of the den....tiny pink glitter fairy wings were strapped to the bulging back muscles of the black super hero suit.  

Rock on boy wonder-rock on.

The Nature of the Gift scares me.

The symbiotic nature of the collective should always be valued for its intrensic ability to calm and sooth. 

in other words...

when my Daddy pays for my tires I really appreciate it.  I don't deserve it-I have a job-granted it doesn't pay much-but still...I could have found a way somehow...

But I have a Dad who takes care of his girls. All five of them. Its one of the Big small ways he shows us he loves us.

Which brings me to two different things.

The first is, in this day and age of hyperfeminism, it is important to remember to not include all men in the bastard category.  

And second of all: 

every now and again it is necessary to practice the art of receiving. Take it how you will. But I think some of us have a hard time accepting help. It is difficult and it can make us feel like less of a "person". 

But standing in the tire store with the grizzled oil stained mechanic handing me my keys with a smile and telling me to watch out of those curbs that "just jump right out in front of yah" made be realize how thankful I am for help. 

every now and again.

this is me-reminding you to check and see if your sole has soul...if it is thankful--you are on your way.

Yay for Life.

It was freezing.  Hard sleet was coming down in buckets.  The highway was deserted.  I'm pretty sure a man with a hook for a hand was lurking in the pines just off the desolate interstate.

Okay okay okay. So it was only about 41 degrees, drizzling enough to be annoying, and my tire had gone flat in the parking lot of the local Arbys, harshly set ablaze by those Ginormous flood lights.  And I was far from alone.  My daughter and I watched my wonderful Dad get down on his knee and curse my car like any true sailor's parrot as he shoved the jack under it in the grimy parking lot.  My five year old bounced gleefully from one side of the car to the other, fogging up all the windows, and doodling random pictures.  By the time she'd been in there five minutes the windows of my car were fogged up worse than any highschoolers on a friday night. Kids. 

I leaned over to check...I don't know...something...I was trying to be helpful-and promptly busted my head on the wheel well of the car. So now I am standing in the increasing rain, with a bleeding skull, a wet father, and a five year old who thinks all of this is hilarious.

Yay for my life.

I trundled the spare out of my back hatch [which was a miracle in itself] and rolled it over to my Dad.  It flopped funny for a spare-but what did I know.  My Dad did know-rather quickly on the other hand, "Your spare is flat."

Yay for my life.

My Dad drove over to the gas station for air while I contemplated my poor car.  My car looks like a typical soccer mom car that just emerged from a fight with a Decepticon.  I have left side damage from one of my sisters "pulling too close to an ATM". We all know what side the ATM should be on-and it is not the left. Don't ask her about that night-her memory stops at the ATM run before they "hit the third bar" [I'm pretty sure she means that literally].  I have a hole in the front bumper [the size of the trailer hitch on the SUV I rear-ended], a missing grill, a headlight that is duct taped to the socket, various and sundry dings and dents, and a back hatch that is bungee corded shut [courtesy of the other sister].  My poor car is struggling. But it gets me where I need to go and honestly that is all I care about.  It gets good gas mileage and it is a very safe car [see all the wrecks I've walked away from without a scratch] so thats a plus.

Yay for my life.

Two hours later I was limping along back roads towards home.  Apparently you can only drive 50 mph on a spare donut tire. Dad says he is going to replace all my tires with donuts because thats the safest/slowest he's ever seen me drive. My daughter just wants to know if she can eat them.

Yay for my life.

This is me reminding you to appreciate the ones that stand beside you in the aftermath.  Whether its during the loss of a loved one, or simply witnessing your stupidity at hitting [another] curb and getting a flat tire in the pouring rain-love them for standing there because they love you.  Yay for my life. I am loved.

How to survive a Honkey Tonk.

If you live below the Mason-Dixon but still have all your teeth, chances are: you've been to a honkey tonk and felt Slightly out of place.  I had such an experience just the other evening.  I was headed two towns over to meet up with some girlfriends. I was looking forward to traipsing around the downtown and West End districts-popping in and out of posh little night spots, cozy bars, playing darts, chatting up fun professional adults, sipping imported beer, and shooting expensive tequila. Instead...somehow a vote was taken, and I wound up in Honkey Tonk hell at a place called the Blind Horse Saloon somewhere west of Nowhere. 

I approached the bar with caution. It is located near the quaint local airstrip because apparently all the big trucks that park there need the lights from the tarmac in order to pull their Insanely huge tanks into a general chaotic formation that more or less passes for a parking system of sorts. Now I am arriving at about 10:ish and the locals have been on the scene for a while-hence I park in east BFE and curse everyone inside this place as I begin to trip over the copenhagen-spittled-broken-beer-bottle infested gravel lots about a mile from said honkey tonk destination. And did I mention it is dark? And next to a near deserted airstrip. And very dark.  My terror somewhat abated when three rather large decent looking fellows got out of an Explorer that parked close to me. I shadowed them the whole way in-so as not to get grabbed before I'd even had a chance to see who was falling off the mechanical bull.

[Now just a side note here: I am already prejudiced against this place. Seven years prior to this night's potential debacle, I was set up on a blind date. Not by a friend-I assure you. A mutual acquaintance with obviously NO experience in the dating realm-not the one on this planet anyway...But this acquaintance figured out he had a "cute friend" (that'd be me) and a "pretty good lookin' buddy" (ladies-if 'pretty', 'good', and 'lookin'' are combined with 'buddy' RUN. you can thank me later). In short I found myself on a blind date with a redneck jock. He took me to the afore mentioned honkey tonk where he proceeded to spend an hour moaning off key to bad country music with two bud light bottles, spitting in one, drinking out of both, and hitting on me in a most unsavory manner. After he left me sitting at a table with three other "redneck wonders" for a half hour while he went and hit on something blonde with big hair and too much eyeliner over in the mechanical bull line, I had reached maximum redneck tolerance levels, and found my mace trigger finger gettin' itchy.  Needless to say: first opportunity that arose-I took his keys, calmly walked myself out to the M1126 Stryker he called "m'truck", drove myself home, threw his keys in the fountain in front of the apartment complex, opened a champagne split, and took a long hot shower so the night wasn't a total waste.  He called the next day, complaining about his back hair, bragging about the amount of canned tuna he'd eaten already that day (and it was only Noon!) AND...wanting to know if we could go out the next weekend. Like I said ladies RUN. RUN FAST and don't look back.--so after this story (if the general atmosphere of the bar in and of itself did not strike fear into the soles of your Pradas) you can understand why I was not looking forward to slinking back through the swinging saloon doors of this place.]

So with that in mind-My black silk BCBG's struggled to keep pace behind my 3 hulking self- appointed escorts into redneckville.  I daintily skirted the two police cruisers parked at the entrance, heaved myself through the massive wooden doors, and peered through the smoke gently set on fire by the haze of neon lights.  How in the hell would I find my friend before being snatched up by Bubba and the gang? Seriously-my friend is a precious and gorgeous 5'2". This was going to be hard. I ducked in the side hall and dialed her-"Jess...where the hell are you?" "Just come straight up to the first bar dear-you can't miss me...I'm the one with class." 

And so the evening began.  I squared my shoulders, took the lame neon green wristband from the tattoo covered, trucker hat wearin', belt buckle totin', midget cowboy bouncer and pushed into the sea of belt buckles, teased hair, big hats, and bigger 'necks.  I managed to find Jess by the Atm on the way to the first bar.  The bar was slammed and we agreed on a frontal assault and to resort to cleavage only if 5 minutes passed and alcohol was still not in site.  Deep breath-here we go.

We managed to come away clean with an assortment of two drinks and three shots. The bartender made them stiff-but hey-drunk girls make better bar top dancers. That came later-something about the song "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and the movie Coyote Ugly-if you've seen it you know what I'm talking about. We retreated to a small corner of the balcony in front of the bar.  There I met the four other girls that were forming that evening's entourage.  We had prime seats for people watchin' and oh...oh was it fun.  There were dresses that should have been shirts, shorts that should have been panties, and girls that should've just stayed home.  There were jeans that looked like he had to jump off the roof of his garage-or at least his tailgate-to get in, mullets (that's right-I said mullet...and not sexy British pop mullets either...just Muuuullets) and belt buckles bigger than my ass--Everywhere.  On the dance floor little couples spun and shimmied while the rhinestones on their black denim flashed in the lights from the band on the stage.  Over in the mechanical bull line it was pretty much just as I remembered it...some girls looked like the bull would eat them, some looked like they'd already eaten the bull.  Just a friendly word of advice girls: just because it has spandex, rhinestones, and they make it in your size-does Not mean it will be a good costume for mechanical bull riding.

So we began to scan the crowd. Now, my ex gave me good advice earlier in the evening when I called him to let him know where to find my body should the south rise again-he said "Sweetie, just remember to find the biggest guy in there. Go stand next to him and strike up one of those conversations you're always abusing people with-even if you leave the bar as just friends-no one will mess with you the whole night-but remember-he's got to be the biggest Single dude...i'm not sure you can take a honkey tonk girl--even with your mace."

So let the scanning commence.  Hmm...nope nope nope nope...Ugh...god was that a human....nope nope...Ah ha! Turns out...one of my self-appointed guardian escorts in from the parking lot from hell was definitely the tallest guy in the room.  I gauged him to be in the neighborhood of six-five from where I was standing.  We watched him for awhile.  One of his friends was busy chatting it up with a couple of girls that had bangs bigger than his head so he was a lost cause outright. But the tall guy and his shorter side kick just chilled by themselves to the side of the dance floor with cold brews watching the disco ball shoot out random patterns on multi-faceted cellulite canvases.  

Wait a minute...they were laughing at no-no bad rhinestone/spandex girl struggling to maintain her hold on both the mechanical bull and her dignity. Hmm...well they appeared to be at least sane.  So far not a single platinum blonde-teased haired-eyeliner drenched honey had swaggered up to them... then the short side kick wandered off somewhere leaving tall guy alone. Like an island in a storm of faux suede and bad country music.  He actually looked scared. I turned to the entourage and announced (much braver than I felt) "I am going to talk to the tall one".  Because I am all that is woman....or something like that. Took a big swig of the crown and sprite-squared the shoulders-licked the lips-got the butt approval from the gang-and stepped off the balcony. 

He didn't see me coming, but didn't look surprised when I appeared at his elbow moments later....in fact he almost looked relieved.  He smiled and leaned down to introduce himself.  He shook my hand and said he was glad I had wandered over. I assured him it was in the interest of personal safety and that I did not find him attractive at all.  I am a bad liar. He smiled again. And I began to abuse him with conversation.

The rest-well, I won't bore you with the details-but as it turned out-he had been drug there against his will due to another mythical and highly unethical vote. And would have much rather been stumbling around the quaintly cobble-stoned alleys of the West End that night.

But by the evening's close was glad he'd been talked into the honkey tonk.

So ladies: it's not a fool proof plan but it does make good sense-If you find yourself in a bar where mace might only make it worse-find the biggest guy. Go stand next to him, offer up some chatter, if it turns out he has a soul and seems decent around the edges-let him buy the next round. Can't hurt. And no body messed with yours truly the entire night.  I was escorted back out to my car at one by my now consciously eager guardians. (All three turned out to be precious gentlemen.)  And I have a date Wednesday night with the tall one. Don't think we'll be going to the honkey tonk though. 

This is me reminding you that sometimes the best defense is aligning yourself with the dude that can exert the best offense in your honor. Keep it real and keep it out of the honkey tonk.

Heidegger's Cup is Orange...apparently

Ever have a twilight zone discussion? They are fabulous and I highly recommend them from time to time-especially if you are working on losing your mind. Heidegger is an excellent place to start. I suggest his essay on the essence of truth.  "The essence of truth is freedom".  Truth in a sense is a relative term...it is true if it is not false. It is true if it is the opposite of un-true. This cup is orange. (now all of us are thinking of 15+ shades of orange and about a gazillion different types of cups) But we are assuming that the cup is a cup and that the color of said cup is orange. Then what is orange? and what is this cup of which you speak?

But truth is also freedom. But not freedom in the conventional "it is my right-see how i have freedom to smack you in the head" sense. But the abstract freedom-the freedom that lets us breathe without having to remind ourselves. The freedom that lets us smile when we laugh, love when we can, and cry when we cannot. This freedom is beyond right. It is a beautiful thing-if you can even begin to explain it. See Heidegger reminds us all to question the obvious truths we accept everyday. This is a good thing. Trust me.

Heidegger can get quite dark-confusing-but read for the silver linings. They exist. But only if you want to find them.

  

This is me-reminding you to see if your sole has soul. Keep it real. 

Kid Wrangler.

Kid wrangler.

That is my official title. It's not babysitter...or even nanny.

There are seven of them-all under the age of 11...all from the same family

...I am The Kid Wrangler.

Peter is 11

Caroline is 7

Charlotte is 5 and 1/2 [that is a very important 1/2]

the trips-Lucy, Ethan, Philip are 4

and the baby: Beth-is 2.

And they are beautiful, lovely, wonderful children of two very nice, busy, practical physicians.

And they make my life colorful. ....yes colorful is the adjective we will use.

Here are just a few of the things I have learned that now "color" my advice to others seeking employment among the ranks of childcare providers.

1) If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.

2) If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape.

3) You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.

4) The glass in a window (even double-pane) does not stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.

5) When you hear the toilet flush and the words "uh oh", it is already too late.

6) Brake fluid mixed with clorox makes smoke and Lots of it.

7) A 4 year old boy can start a fire with a flint rock even when a 42 year old man says they can only do it in the movies.

8) An 11 year old boy should not be allowed to watch Man vs Wild or Myth Busters and take notes. Ever.

9) Certain Legos will pass through the digestive tract of a 4 year old boy, and a Shih Tzu named Roxy without relative difficulty, but the x-rays still look really cool.

10) Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.

11) Super glue is forever.

12) And ever.

13) No matter how much Jell-0 you put in a swimming pool you still cannot walk on water.

14) Pool filters do not like Jell-o.

15) VCRs do not eject pancakes even though some tv shows say they do.

16) Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.

17) Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.

18) You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.

19) It takes 5 minutes for a pound of bacon to catch on fire at medium heat on the stove.

20) It only takes 3 minutes if your back is turned.

21) Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.

22) The fire department in our town has a 5 minute response time. I am on a first name basis with at least two of the shifts.

23) The spin cycle of the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.

24) Spinning on tire swings does make cats dizzy.

25) Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

26) Pancake batter will kill an African Spotted Gecko.

27) Snakes notice when their cage door is not shut. Immediately.

28) A Reticulated Python can make it downstairs and into the warm laundry basket in less than five minutes.

29) "No, I will not help you count your bullets" and "Put the machete down for the last time" are perfectly acceptable phrases to hear before 9:30am.

30) PVC pipes burst under a surprisingly small amount of force.

31) A broken sprinkler system can flood a backyard in under two hours.

32) Nerf darts sting when shot in the face at point blank range.

33) It takes a stomach virus less than 30 minutes to spread to seven people under the right conditions.

34) One hug is just never enough when nap time is trying to be avoided.

35) Red Kool-aid and ANYTHING else that isn't red is a bad combination.

36) Ginger bread houses stay together better when hot glued.

37) Hot glue causes constipation and mild indigestion.

38) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and a cherry bomb in a ginger bread house it will explode.

39) If you put six sparklers, two bottle rockets, and three cherry bombs in a ginger bread house you will not be able to find the neighbor's cat.

40) A glider slammed into a 4 year olds chest at the right angle can fracture a rib.

41) It is not a good idea to snipe squirrels off power lines with a shotgun.

42) Squirrel meat looks deceptively like pork barbeque.

43) Squirrel meat does not taste like pork barbeque. Even with lots of sauce.

44) It is very hard to tell the differences between Gerbil feces and chocolate covered sunflower seeds. Very hard.

45) A gallon of hand sanitizer will last about a week with seven kids-supervised.

46) Twin 4 year old boys can go through a gallon of hand sanitizer in about an hour-unsupervised.

47) 3 dozen eggs making a "really cool smacking sound" when slammed against the ground is a legitimate reason to throw them on the garage floor to four year old boys.

48) A four year old girl can punch harder than a four year old boy.

49) A two year old can bite harder than both.

50) Feelings get hurt when your siblings try to feed you to a pet.

51) 80% of the men who read this will try mixing Clorox and brake fluid.

I love the children, I love the job, and I love the stories.

Oh the stories.

olfactory assailant with a severe anosmic condition wounds two

As soon as I sent the text message I knew my friend would think poorly of me...he did. The message went something like this "it is beyond me why some people on this planet boycott showers and soap-i just had to move desks"...his reaction "hmm...thats not like her to be that rude and judgmental"

But this was not a case of overly harsh shallow judgement. This was self preservation.

And so he found out.

My dear friend had the good fortune to sit next to the human nasal ninja for an entire hour and a half in a small cinder block room with his sweater pulled up to his eyeballs suffering in silence as moving (unlike in my situation) would make a bad situation somehow obvious.  

I was forgiven for the text, as he now had come to understand: it was not a judgement, it was a warning.

And I struggle with this situation...

Indeed how is it possible that in this day and age of hypersensitive physical awareness [in regards to appearance-the physical and the material], heaped on by hollywood starlets and the mega media, can one Not be aware of the cultural aversion to lewd stank?

--So I sought an answer to my question--and was very surprised to find that: 

Due to the Enlightenment and its brainy participants smell became one of the "lesser valued" senses in Western culture.  More emphasis was placed on eyesight and hearing in the 18th and 19th centuries because those senses seemed more adept in assisting the pursuit of the new gods, Logic and Reason.  The sense of smell was "deemed to be of a considerably lower order-a primitive, brutish ability associated with savagery and even madness".  Smell was connected with raw emotion-something the Enlightened thinkers tried to step away from.  They sought to maintain logical detachment- and something as "earthy" and emotional as smell would certainly cloud any rational reasoning. [thanks guys]... Thus an actual Decline on the emphasis of sense of smell in Western culture occurred. Nice. This unfortunate sentence has sealed the fate of scent and follows us even today, for, aside from certain specialty areas (think wine tasting) a keen sense of smell isn't likely to be a selling point on a personal ad. (when's the last time you saw SM w/huge nose seeks SF to stop and smell the roses) 

Now...the offensive nasal ninja in question appears to be American (or at least to belong to the ranks of Western culture) however, I have not ventured close enough to confirm...so on a whim-I researched the sense of smell and the importance of scent in other cultures to obtain a more globally informed opinion on the crisis of cologne. [or lack thereof]

This is where it gets Interesting. 

In many non-Western cultures, smell has long been established as the emperor of the senses. [leave it to the Enlightenment to screw that up] In some cultures personal odor is heavily linked with personal identity, and the mixing of these odors is highly regulated.  In fact, "many of these olfactory regulations serve important social functions, such as preventing sexual intercourse between close relatives". [good call- someone may want to relay that to certain areas of this country...might cut down on the inbreeding-if it smells like your uncle-don't sleep with it]

Quick facts:

For the Ongee of the Andaman Islands, the universe and everything in it is defined by smell. Their traditional greeting is "Konyune onorange-tanka?" [meaning "how is your nose?"]. 

The response can go one of two ways: if the person replies they feel "heavy with odor" then the greeter must inhale some of the surplus...if the person feels a bit short of odor energy-the greeter then blows some of their "odor energy" onto the person. [let's hope they didn't have the garlic pesto pasta for lunch]

In India, the traditional affectionate greeting [think hugging aunt sally] is to smell the person's head.  An ancient India text declares "I will smell thee on the head, that is the greatest sign of tender love".

The Temiar, of the Malay Peninsula, believe each person has an "odor-soul", located in the lower back [we can see where this is going]. If you pass too closely behind a person, the odor-soul is disturbed and can cause disease. This can be prevented by forewarning the odor-soul and calling out "odor odor" when approaching an individual from behind. [i find myself saying that when certain members of my family unit eat broccoli-pretty sure it has nothing to do with their soul]

The cattle-raising Dassanetch of Ethiopia revolve their personal scent around the cow. The men wash their hands in cattle urine and smear their bodies with manure. [honey-i'm home...i know dear-smelled you when you were two streets over]

The Dogon of Mali rub fried onions all over their bodies.

The African Bushmen think the loveliest fragrance of all is that of rain.

In short my brief foray into nasal logistics has led me to realize that the complexities of personal odor, of which the average Westerner is largely unaware [or in nasal ninja's case-completely ignorant of] are the subject of sophisticated classification systems in many other cultures. 

And yet...I do not reside in Mali, Africa, India, or the Amazon River Basin...I am here...and I find I am still at a loss on how to approach things with my dear nasal ninja. 

And I don't think offering him a stick of gum is going to do it.

For more interesting news in the world of the nose

check it out at

www.sirc.org/publik/smell_culture.html

Really?!?!

So we've all seen the SNL skit by now...but just in case you haven't-here's the link:

Saturday Night Live-Phelps Skit

Hiiiiiigh-larious. 

But seriously: I admit-I was disappointed when I found out that Michael Phelps had smoked weed.  Smoking pot is illegal. Plain and simple.  Besides-Phelps carries part of the American image.  He is a representative of our country, a role model for children, and a ....

Then I thought about it some more and decided that I was just disappointed that Michael Phelps got Caught smoking weed. And here is why:  [first-the illegal factor is something that is difficult to get around-but for the purposes of this justification-we'll be ignoring that]

but I digress--Michael Phelps is 23-will be 24 as of June 30, 2009...he has already won 12 gold medals. TWELVE.  He qualified for the US Olympic swim team at AGE 15.  The kid has been a robo athlete since he was 10. 

Phelps has also been diagnosed with ADHD. Weed as we should all be aware of-Slows you down.  

This is not some performance enhancing drug here folks.  When they have the munchie olympics then we can bring out the firing squad [no pun intended].

So I think this huge outcry against him is a bit much.  Really the only point worth contesting is the fact that he engaged in an illegal activity. Which brings me to stupid rule land. But that is another post. [look for it next week under the post heading: Endroit des Regles Stupides]

Instead let us focus on something that I find highly criminal...

Recognizing athletic accomplishments is something this country takes above and beyond realms of normal and sane comprehension. 

For example [and these figures are straight-up-no lie-check them out @USATODAY.com]:

First your "average joe".....

Jason Witten [tight end for the Dallas Cowboys]

2008 Salary Information:

$1,905,000 base

$6,000,000 sign bonus

$5,760 "other bonus"

$4,100,760 cap value

Total Salary: $1,910,760

now...a not so average joe....

Ben Roethlisberger [quarter back for the Pittsburgh Steelers]

2008 Salary Information:

$2,500,000 base

$25,200,000 sign bonus [seriously?]

$1,920 "other bonus"

$7,971,920 cap value

Total Salary: $27,701,920  [ps. he is 27 years old]

Really?!?!

That was a mini comparison. 

SI.com lists "The Fortunate 50" which a listing of the highest paid athletes of 2008-it includes money made from endorsements...

"No one can touch Tiger Woods, the runaway No. 1 for the fifth year in a row. Tiger's near $128 million haul is more than double his closest pursuer, Phil Mickelson at $62.4 million.  As usual, hoops dominates the 50: More than half this year's list is made up of NBA players. There are 10 baseball players, seven football players, three NASCAR drivers, three golfers and one boxer --"

Really?!?!

So the criminal aspect here? 

The average salary of a high school teacher in South Carolina is about $46,000.  Not even administrators break $100,000.  

Really?!?!

Just look at this big picture with me for a minute...

Fact: our economy is in la toilette.

Fact: people are losing jobs left and right.

Fact: people that don't have an income cannot contribute economically.

Fact: teachers make less than $50,000 a year.

Fact: professional athletes [even mediocre ones] pull in WAAAY more than that.

Fact: the children are our future.

Solution to problem: Eliminate math/science/english/history/language/etc...teachers. Hire a bunch of coaches and churn out robo athletes. 

Boom. 

Economic turn around. 

Someone place a call.

Really?!?!

what becomes of the broken artist?

what becomes of the broken artist? 

While having a chat with a respected friend (quite possibly one of the smartest people I know) he happened to share a particularly horrifying "fact". 

"If the stimulus package gives any money to the arts-the entire country will go in the crapper. Art won't stimulate the economy...Art isn't going to create jobs...Art won't save us...dumping money into the Arts will break us"

And my dear friend, I beg to differ. Art will save us long before the Science does. Look at the word: humanities. Notice anything? That's right HUMANities.  The Arts provide the connection to all the things that will keep us from completely dying.  They remind us what is real and what can be. They surpass instinct, cold logic, and the artificial.  The Arts give us the difference between touching and feeling, hearing and listening, knowledge and understanding.  

The Arts give freedom. 

The thing that I see every day that hurts to no end is the complete lack of the human connection, respect, obligation, and sacrifice in regards to the world (natural and social, economical and political) around them.  We have elevated ourselves into a crystal bubble-surrounded by a sense of entitlement, devoid of a sense of responsibility, and too consumed by consumption to see the fraudulence of excess. I am guilty of it myself. I have let my phone swallow up time with those I love. I used to let things like television shows be a convenient way to "spend time" with others. I pursued excess in my brilliant bubble. 

Until I realized that I was running out of air. Certain people, traditions, connections...all began to fade from lack of that all-connecting oxygen. Break the bubble. 

The Arts reinforce the human connection. The connection that has the power to break us out of the bubbles, set us down side by side, and direct us towards common goals.

So--Call your mother. Write a poem. Have tea with a friend. Paint with your fingers.  Listen to music and dance even though you can't. Visit an art museum.

See if you don't feel a little more connected, a little more like a real person...

see if turning off the television, putting down the phone, the blackberry, the pager, the ipod, the itouch, even the computer (yes even that)...see if reaching into your creative self, exploring freedom through artistic expression...see if that will convince you that art is not broken. And neither are you. 

This is me-reminding you to check and see if your sole has soul.

Mine does.

Ciao.