Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Oh Pickle Boy.

He did it and he didn't die.

Here he is at mile 21, still smiling.

Of course here he is at mile 24 and he's not so much smiling.

Ouch.

I think maybe that was the mile when he realized he was really going to have to eat the pickle. The $2500 Pickle. You guys either really hate MS and want to see it stopped or you just love pickles.

Yesterday, after Logan soaked in ice for 15 minutes and then napped, we went and looked at houses. There I tried to convince Logan and our very reasonable realtor that my "Gut" says if we bid 50K below asking on our dream house and they actually give it to us for that price, it was meant to be and everything will fall into place.

Logan said it isn't my gut telling me that but rather my obsessive nature. The realtor also didn't help telling all kinds of stories about people who bought a house and hadn't sold theirs and then they lost their jobs, or went blind, or grew a third head all because they didn't find a buyer for their own homes first.

(The house yesterday had two laundry chutes.)(And a sand box.)(22 cabinet doors to my current 9.)

I'd hoped the marathon victory would have made Logan a little loopy and once he saw the house and was feeling happy I could maybe just slip a piece of paper in front of him and say, "Hey, will you sign this? Thanks!"

But no.

Pickle Day is Tuesday. Logan's been on an alcohol and fiber free diet for the last 2 weeks. He deserves a couple of days to eat and drink whatever the hell he wants. But Tuesday night with an audience, he's going to devour that pickle and I'm going to cheer and so are you.

As a tie in to this weekend's post about Free Hugs. I think I outdid myself this weekend. Even moreso than the Dutch hug from a few weeks ago. The drinking numbed the awkwardness of that moment, it was only after the fact looking at the pictures that it was really awkward.

Yesterday though, oh wow. You remember Logan's friend I have a weird crush on? It's all from afar since I'd only met him once as he walked across the street while we were in our car. Yesterday he ran the marathon as well and at the end he was with Logan so we had a chance to chat a little more.

If only all we'd done was chat. I should write a book about all the ways hugs can go wrong. About how you know the hug is about to go wrong and there is not a single thing you can do to stop it so you hurtle toward the awkwardness knowing what's about to happen.

So yesterday we see Logan's friend, Logan says, "Melissa you remember John, right?" I put my hand out to shake his hand and I say, "Of course. Hey! You did it! You made it to the end!"

And instead of shaking my hand, he reaches out and tries to hug me around the shoulder, you know the side hug? Where you're not facing each other but standing next to each other with a little squeeze around the shoulder?

Right that one, that one that's friendly and not at all awkward, the one that I didn't do. I don't know what I was thinking but I turned my body for the regular style hug which was clearly not what was supposed to happen. Why? Why did I do that? It's like I have a program embedded into me and it says, "Okay, I guess we're hugging now right? Must turn body, arms up and around, okay next step squeeze but don't pat the back. Just squeeze with the affection human beings sometimes share."

At least I didn't take out any of his teeth or an eyeball.

Free Hugs is my private horror flick

As you can imagine, Free Hugs makes me feel very uncomfortable.

In theory I love the idea, I watch and tears flow, because that's what I do: cry. But then, I watch and I see all those limbs and those vulnerable eyeballs and noses and I think of all the ways those hugs could go terribly, terribly wrong.

I've come pretty far in the hugging arena, but it's clear I'm not ready for hugging the general population.

NPR Keeps Me Awake At Night.

Gee, I just don't know why I lay awake at night wondering if we're going to be trapped in this neighborhood for the rest of our lives.

Hmmm....I wonder.

"Researchers at the University of Michigan expect an additional 23,000 jobs to disappear next year, and they say problems in the auto industry will keep the economy down until fall 2008."

Or this:

"There are so many houses on the market in Dearborn [1,570 in smaller Royal Oak!], it would take at least a year to sell them all."

Do you play the worst case scenario game with yourself? I like to calm myself when I'm anxious by thinking, "Okay, but let's say the worst thing happens. How will we handle that?"

And when I look at trying to sell our home and face articles like this one, I realize the worst thing is that there is no buyer for our house, not even if we take a loss on this property. The worst thing is that the only buyer will come if we cut our price back to 1998 prices and then we're owing money on the house. Which means we can't take on a new mortgage, which means we can't leave and that is a worst case scenario I can't even put myself through.

Because the kids can't go to the Mega-Elementary school slated to open next fall. It's housed in a building that resembles a juvenile hall and will hold around 900 elementary school students. Our school currently hold 309 students.

I can't keep going across the street at least once a week to tell my neighbor that sound does travel and why did he buy a stereo with speakers that fill his entire tiny front room?

I can't keep living here. The thought of staying until the spring is too long. Once the house is ready to list, there is the very real possibility that there simply isn't a buyer for this property. When this house dropped to $159K (they did find a renter for it), I felt sick to my stomach. Because our house is bigger than that one and has a lot of the same charm in the details, but it's not totally remodeled, it's mechancials will need upgrading and it's curb appeal is definitely lacking. How could there not be a buyer for that house, even at just $170K?

I know housing is slowing all over the country and I can accept that we'll make much less than we would have had we sold three years ago. I'm willing to "cut and run" just to get a fresh start, even starting from scratch. This was the right house for the first 4 years we lived here. The last five years have been a nightmare. But still, starting behind? We can't do that. But then, we can't stay here (she says as the throbbing bass booms from across the street at 9:03am) (Does this man ever go to work?).

And that's what gets my depression riled up every time: facing two options I can't live with.

We'll keep painting trim and tearing out wallpaper and we'll bury a saint in our yard. And I'll stay awake each night hoping there's a buyer at a price we can live with. Hoping when we're ready to buy there's a house we can buy in the right neighborhood, with the right school.

And Logan will beg for mercy from now until then facing email after email titled: "Maybe we should just bid on this house." Or, "Why don't we just call a halt to all freelance work and just work on the house for 8 hours a day and get it ready to sell by the end of the month?" Or, "Guess what? I've decided we're never moving. We're going to live here until we're old. You, Me and Ed. Pretty soon I'll probably love Willie Nelson."

It's hard to be Logan.

The Top Reading Group

A new post at the Buzz Off is up. I'm writing about picking children's books and using blogs to help you do it. "(Oh God How Many Truck Books Can A Three-Year-Old read? Answer: Many.)"

I think I mentioned before somewhere that in elementary school I always believed I was a really good reader and that I should be in the Top Reading Group. And each year I was trapped in the Middle Reading Group. The group for average readers, even though I was certain I was a really good reader. I have no idea why I believed I was a superior reader but every year I was stunned and outraged when the reading workbooks were passed out and mine always had Group Two on it.

Yesterday we attended conferences for the kids. Max's teacher, leaves a little to be desired, which is kind of like my entire experience of living in this neighborhood overall. Talking to Max's teacher about Max was like talking to Max's teacher about the weather: it's a vague and pointless experience.

Conversely we met with Madison's teacher who had such nice things to say about Maddie. She said she's a serious worker and an independent thinker, she told us her reading score grew by nearly 80 points over the summer and that's wonderful because usually kids lose some ground over the summer.

She also said that sometimes (she hesitated, gauging our faces)....Madison seems anxious....and that they spend a lot of time talking through her worries. She worries about substitute teachers and fire drills and a dozen other things. We told her how much ground we've made with Madison who used to cry and cling to my leg at drop off, even in the early part of second grade. We've tried to help her gain confidence by facing her fears but also by respecting her temprement.

I felt so thankful talking to her teacher because she understands who Maddie is and I think Maddie's going to have another year of 'good experiences' under her belt to help her be the most she can be. Her teacher told us one of her daughters was a lot like Madison so she understands and she said sometimes being bright is a blessing and a curse. She said, maybe Maddie is so anxious about things because she's bright enough to think through all possible scenarios and worry about how things will go.

Using that gauge, I am one of the brightest people you've ever met. Given that I've laid awake for over two weeks thinking about what will happen if our house doesn't sell or if our house sells and we can't find a house in our price range and what if we can't send our kids to the school we want and what if the new neighborhood turns out to be full of even louder people who love Willie Nelson at 10pm on a Friday and what if we move to the neighborhood but have to buy the smallest crappiest house and our kids are embarassed to live there when everyone else has nicer houses. Where's my Nobel Peace Prize in worry!

And really the whole point of this story was to tell you this: yesterday Maddie's teacher said she wasn't sure how to handle a situation considering Madison's temprement. "We'll be forming literacy groups with the other 3rd grade class in the next few weeks. Madison's scores are high enough to put her in the highest group, with other kids who read at the same level she does. But she would have to go with the other 3rd grade teacher because I am teaching the mid-level group. I've been pondering if I send her to the other teacher or keep her with me so she's more comfortable."

And my heart burst open and I told her to put her in the Top Reading Group.

I've always wondered if I would have been in the Top Reading Group if so much of my childhood wasn't spent surviving all kinds of bad things.

I know I'm doing so much wrong with my kids, I'm so imperfect I might not even be in the Mid-Level Reading Group of the parenting world.

But it seems to me that since my kids aren't worrying about things adults should be worrying about and they aren't listening to their parents scream and throw things and that since they aren't afraid to go to sleep and they aren't waiting for their parents to get divorced so some of the bad things will stop, they get to be in the Top Reading Group.

And I'm proud of myself for that.

A Pickle Of Charity.

There is a lot to love about you guys today. First I got this pair of earrings in the mail to match my fabulous Superhero necklace, from Wendy. Wendy who was smart enough to contact Andrea at Superhero Designs to have her send me this gift.

I feel embarassed when you guys do these types of things to me. To say "Thank You" often feels like not enough and to gush about how sometimes it's hard to not feel loved by a whole slew of people I don't know but who know me and like me anyway. It feels awkward to gush because it seems braggy or incredibly sentimental. But it seems even more ungrateful not to tell you how much your kindness means to me. 

It means a lot to me.

Onto......PICKLES......

You don't even have to send me anything since you share my sense of pure electric glee at the thought of Logan eating a pickle. Not just any pickle though: A Pickle Of Charity. Look at what that little running man did. He made it all the way to the end. In one day!

I raced this morning before painting the bathroom (again) to get this post and my post at The Buzz Off up, because I figured we'd need all week to raise $1200. But you guys....you guys....you love the same things I do. Things like forcing Logan to eat something which causes him physical discomfort because he's a huge baby who just can't for the life of him understand why it is dinners with our daughter often end in tears because that pasta is a different shape than she's used to. I just don't know where she gets it.

Maddie understands Logan's pain which is why she laughed and laughed and laughed all evening when we explained the Pickle Challenge and then offered up 1/4 of the part of her allowance which is alotted to charity to the cause. Somehow this makes the pickle even sweeter...or more sour I guess.

When he started this last phase of training, he went to what's called a low residue diet. Which is polite speak for "Food With Less Fiber So You Don't Crap Yourself While You Run". It's amazing how much fiber we eat in this house, what with our fruit and vegetable consumption and our whole wheat bread and pasta. Everything Logan tries to eat, he has to put back because of the fiber. Pretty much Logan can eat white rice (we eat brown), corn flakes (we eat shredded wheat) and grilled chicken from now until the marathon.

So, I'm not making him eat the pickle until after the marathon on Sunday. I'm also giving him a night of really bad for you food and all the things he loves, like beer and cocktails and anything with fiber. But then I'm buying a big jar of pickles and there will be much fanfare as we present the pickle to Logan. Many pictures will be taken...maybe even video.

Remember when I made that chicken with the mayo and didn't tell him? This is the same kind of giddy excitement. It's not even that I want him to suffer, it's just that at one point he wouldn't eat sushi and now he loves it. I know his taste buds can change and really if I have to drag the kids out to Detroit on Sunday in the cold to drive around Detroit and cheer on Dad?

There'd better be a pickle somewhere in it for my enjoyment. Well and some money for the MS Society.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Logan walked around like a man on death row tonight. He can't believe he's eating a pickle. Which to me is all the more reason to make him eat a pickle. If eating a pickle is causing him angst? Clearly I'm carrying all the real angst for this family.

Update: We beat last year's total! I can't believe how badly you guys want Logan to consume a pickle. Hooray!

The Pants Pickle Challenge

[UPDATE: He did it. You helped us raise over $2500 and he ate the pickle. You can see the video over here.]

Last night my Nicer Funnier Sister In Law sent me an email letting us know she'd signed Logan up for the 'Eat a Pickle Make a Wish' fundraiser in Indy. The thought of Logan eating a pickle for charity filled me with an unbelievable sense of joy.

Logan's extreme hatred of pickles has been well documented on this site. I once shared the story of Logan openly weeping when a pickle touched his sandwich. He really hates pickles.

Within the second month of Logan's new job, his coworkers had experienced the Pickle Distress first hand when Logan's sandwich came to the table with a pickle on the plate (when he'd specifically said NO PICKLE!) and to make matters worst there was russian dressing all over his bread, even though he told them NO DRESSING. Logan's irritation with the pickle on his lunch plate caused his new coworkers to make a 'No Pickles' sign for outside his cube.

I was only half joking when I wrote about the Mayonnaise Rages and our prenuptial agreement protecting Logan from all forms of pickled produce.

This website is like the antithesis of Logan's experience with pickles. (The next person who tells me how stupid it is to write about one's life is being directed to the "I love to eat Claussen pickles" page.)

As we went to bed last night Logan lamented his fundraising efforts this year. How he has a week to go and he's not going to raise the money he'd hoped to before the marathon on Sunday.

I asked, 'Well, how bad do you want to reach your goal?'

It was then I suggested the Eat a Pickle For MS fundraiser.

If we all pool together we can make Logan eat a pickle. You guys! A pickle! A cucumber soaked in evil!

At first he bristled, "There is no way I'm eating a pickle. No way. No. I'm not. I can't eat a pickle."

Then he said, "Maybe a sweet gherkin." (I said, no.)

I said I wouldn't force him to eat one of the oversized pickles from the supermarket deli, because I love pickles but those pickles even repel me.

We settled on a Claussen Pickle. Not as green and mushy as the cooked grocery store ones, but not just barely vinegar-ish like the homemade ones. Perfect.

He's agreed to eat a Claussen pickle if, by the time he runs the marathon Sunday morning, he's reached his $2000 fundraising goal for the MS Society.

So far we've pooled together $800, so we need to raise another $1200 by Sunday morning. Once we reach the $2000 goal (which is still over $100 shy of last year's fundraiser), I will go to the store, purchase a big jar of pickles and then, with camera in hand, I will document Logan eating a pickle in the name of the MS Society.

Maybe you're feeling bad for Logan being forced to eat a pickle. Logan's not allergic to pickles, Logan hasn't eaten a pickle since he was a child, and like we're always telling Madison, "You have to keep trying foods you think you hate, because your taste buds are always growing and changing."

It's crunch time people. Let's raise money for the MS Society, give Logan the chance to love pickles and give me the joy of watching Logan eat a pickle. It's win/win.

Go, donate and prepare to be dazzled by Logan's will to overcome even his most deeply held food phobias.

PS: More Halloween talk at the Buzz Off.  "Are these costumes lined in gold? Equipped with tiny gnomes who regulate your child's body temperature in the frigid Halloween night cold with tiny warm puffs of their boozy breath?"

Neck pain.

A few months ago one of our neighbors, one of the lesbians who raised their multi-ethnic grandchildren (or, the only house of diversity on our street), came home with a neck brace. This neck brace showed up a couple of days after we'd seen them heading out for a tropcial themed event of some sort with hawaiian print shirts.

Logan saw her from the kitchen window, and said, "Wow, looks like some sort of 'limbo accident'."

And I, having no thought for my karma, suggested, "Maybe it was a horrific cunnilingus accident."

I'll admit we laughed a lot, but really only because that's a really stupid thing to say.

Fast forward to this week Tuesday, when I went to sleep a normal functioning member of society and woke up as a woman with so much neck pain all I want to do is put a neck brace on me and let the lesbians next door joke that I had a 'fellatio accident'.

I know I deserve the teasing, I earned it with my inappropriate ribbing of my neighbors, but it really hurts and I'm tired of it hurting now.

Allergens.

When Madison started kindergarten I was faced with the family who lived a couple houses down who were dentally challenged and also sported mullets and smoked with pride through three pregnancies.

I had managed to mostly ignore them making only brief contact waving across the street if we were both putting our garbage at the curb. But then Maddie and their daughter were in the same class. I realized that, although he talked about giving the kids ice cream for breakfast because it was dairy and they loved it, he was actually a very nice dad and although my kids are perhaps being cared for in a more sanitary and smoke free environment I would say his kids were having a lot more fun than mine. Because he was more fun than me, especially with the hair. You know business up front and party in the back. Woo!

Maddie even started to play at their house, even though it was a hideous mess and when I went inside it made me want to die. It's just dirt I told myself, stop being such a god damned snob. When Maddie came home smelling like smoke I would just febreze her and congratulate myself on trying to like this stupid neighborhood.

But one day on our walk home from school, I asked this dad if they'd be attending family night at the school. He replied, "Well I would have except they called Child Protective Services on us and now I have this huge hassle and I don't feel like breaking bread with those people if you know what I mean."

I laughed, 'Ha ha! Dude, I totally know what you mean! This reminds me of that time I moved to a neighborhood where the housing was well priced but the neighbors left a lot to be desired and then I realized I was trapped in that neighborhood. Well, except your story has nothing to do with mine...it just brought all that to the front of my mind. Bye!"

Logan and I decided Maddie couldn't go to play across the street anymore, her classmate would have to come over to our house instead. Of course Maddie questioned this decision and I wasn't sure what to tell her and I didn't want to make her classmate feel bad either.

So, I lied.

I told her she was allergic to smoke and that's why she couldn't go play across the street. Now, 3 years later, Madison eyes smoking people with caution. When in a restaurant, passing through the smoking section, she holds her breath. She says she feels 'all itchy' when someone lights up near her.

I've thought about coming clean with her or even telling her that sometimes we outgrow our allergies. But then, maybe it's good for her to believe she's allergic to smoke for the rest of her life. Deathly allergic to smoke. And to alcohol. And sex. And especially Myspace.

A mother and a lady.

The problem with getting rid of the port-o-john in your driveway and having a working shower in your house is that it kind of takes your bathroom remodel off the fast track and puts it on the 'Yes, I'll get to it after this....' list. Only you never really get to it because 'this' is about one hundred things you need to get done.

Once you get to the drywall and more horrifically, the mudding, taping and sanding of the drywall you just can't seem to get motivated to create a bigger mess once again. Especially since you have a working sink, toilet and shower. What else do you need? Maybe it's just our society's 'More More More' attitude that makes you think you must have smooth painted walls not showing studs, lathe strips and plaster.

But then no, because even the Amish finish the walls of their home.

I left the house at 6:30, the drywall guys were here at 4:30, when I got home at 8pm...they were done. And our bathroom is now ready to be primed and that makes me want to cry. (Because mostly everything makes me want to cry.)

At this point you're thinking, 'Is this a Mommy Blog or what?'

Okay, drywall and a bathroom finally nearing completion doesn't make you in particular slightly aroused. Someone here finds it arousing but okay everyone is different. I appreciate you for not finding dust free drywall finishing arousing. I don't understand you, but still I appreciate our differences. We (you and me) are a quilt of human experiences. (My quilt square will be embroidered with young men mudding a piece of sheet rock...just so you know.)

The other day Max climbed on my lap and said, "Sometimes....I read your website before I play games on the computer."

Enh.....

Enh.....

Max is a very good reader at five and a half. When he reads books he uses different voices for the dialog, he exclaims when there are exclamation points (!!!) and he questions the logic the little bird uses when asking a cow if it was his mother*. He can read and comprehend, believe me I tried to dumb him down with formula rather than breast milk, but still he's ended up smart against all chemical laden odds.

*If you love MommyBlogging you're going to want to read this: When Max and I finish reading 'Are You My Mother?' you know the part where the baby bird says, "You are a bird, and you are my mother."? Max likes to say to me, "You are a lady, and you are my mother." I win sappiest mommy blog post of the day, right?

But don't worry about him reading this site because he knows 'Fuck' is a junk word, don't you Max? (Remind me to get Net Nanny or something installed on Logan's computer. Or at least tell Logan to take Suburbanbliss off his toolbar bookmarks. Also all that porn.)

Friday Madison came home and said, "I'm being published! My teacher said we can put our stories in the class newsletter and so I turned in my story about a leaf and how he was afraid to fall and the other leaves tell him to let go and fall and my teacher chose it to be published."

We talked a little more about the leaf and why he was afraid to fall and I, being therapy literate, asked Madison if she thought about what the little leaf was afraid of falling into. She said, "He was just afraid he would get hurt. It's a story about doing what everyone else wants you to do."

Which, as you might imagine, didn't make me feel very good. Because I don't want her to do things simply because I/we/her peers want her to, I want her to pick up that sometimes you do things and you realize they're not that bad. I also don't want her to be a leaf succumbing to peer pressure. "Mom, I got pregnant because everyone told me to try it!"

I suggested, because I'm That Mother, that controlling bitch of a mother, "Maybe the leaf learned to fall and then realized sometimes you have to do the things you're afraid of and it turns out they're not as bad as you imagined."

Maddie's reply? "Wow. Mom, you should be a writer."

[Dear Melissa,]
[Sarcasm lessons working too well. Ease! Up!]

Maddie's excitement about having her name and story in her class newsletter reminded me of my excitement upon seeing my name in a book (but with less 'junk words').

Mommyblogging is changing for me. I feel unsure about this new turn and the first person who suggests MaddieSummers.blogspot.com gets a punch squarely in the face.

Love, Detroit.

Saturday night we were invited to Dutch and Wood's house for dinner and we looked forward to the event all week and it was special because this was the first time we got to hang out with them without the kids.

Logan and I are....not always smart. We decided to head downtown early so that we could stop at a bar somewhere to have a drink before joining the Junipers after they got the baby down to sleep. "We'll just go somewhere in Greektown."

There was this game though? This little game happening a few blocks away from Greektown? So the minute we got off the freeway and saw signs for $30 parking, we knew we'd just made a terrible mistake. Why can we not wrap our brains around sports?

We finally found a parking spot a couple blocks from the stadium and thought about getting a drink, but by that point we had just 30 minutes until we were expected at the Junipers stylish abode. We decided instead of getting a drink we'd walk over and take a look around the stadium.

We stood there for 30 minutes and I had a smile on my face the entire time. It was the best kind of energy hanging around those gates.

The best kind of energy or the drunkest kind of energy, which also made me smile.

I am not a sports fan. I had no idea who Granderson was until I read this table graffiti and wondered who 'Anderson' was and why he's the hottest black man alive. But standing there outside that stadium I felt so happy for Detroit. And not surprisingly, it almost made me cry. Just listen to that joy. You'd want to cry too.

At the end of that clip you hear me say, 'God....it's awesome!' Which is some amazing and insightful commentary.

It was just before 8pm when the Tigers won and we were expected for dinner, so we made a dash for our car before the crowds spilled out into the streets. As we hurried away from the stadium, people were running toward the stadium.

Some of them were a little drunk, some were homeless, some were waving brooms and all of them were full of joy. I've never walked down the streets of Detroit and high fived anyone. Last night, we Wooo-ed with strangers and high fived them and reveled in their pride and excitement. This morning Logan said, "This is what Detroit needs."

Since the Junipers have moved here we've had a lot of rainy weekends and then, this week, in mid October, it snowed. But it seems that although they've brought bad weather to Detroit, they've also brought really good baseball with them.

Earlier this month the kids and I drove down to Bell Isle, on the way Madison said, 'You know? Since Juniper moved here we've been going to Detroit a lot more often."

And it's true. Before they moved here I decided to try to see the city with a new set of eyes. A pair of more supportive eyes. And since they've lived here, we've found more and more things to do downtown.

If they hadn't moved here we wouldn't have been going to dinner to celebrate someone's birthday and we wouldn't have been standing outside Comerica Park watching our community celebrate and celebrating with them.

Also if they hadn't moved here we wouldn't have photographic evidence of what may possibly be my most awkward hug ever. Even I didn't know how awkward I could make things. Wow.

Update: ESPN article which echos my sentiments about Adams Street Saturday night. "The economy may be bad, and the auto industry may be struggling, and the Lions may be winless, but for a good hour Saturday night, a slab of pavement in Detroit was the happiest place on Earth." (Thanks, Bobby!)

The MS society is not a private club for Max Summers, Madison Summers and Melissa Summers*

The other day Logan laid next to me in bed reading Runner's World. He let out an exasperated, "Enh! You've got to be kidding me."

I barely looked up, saw he was reading and braced myself for some sort of shoe stats or a particularly 'intriguing' new runner's snack. He ignored my disinterest, because that's what we do for each other.

"Listen to this question....this is an advice column....'My friend always asks me to hold her power gels because I run with a belt and she does not.' Isn't that so rude!?"

I looked over at him, and he said, "Right, never mind."

This is our new understanding. He runs and loves it and I silently roll my eyes at this hobby.

Remember last year when I secretly wished Logan would break his ankle when he was training for the marathon so that running would not be the center of our lives any longer. This year I'm not as annoyed with the schedule because it's a lot less demanding.

This year I have a better attitude about the marathon. Mainly because Logan's training with that one guy and because, like last year, he's running with a purpose. He's raising money for Multiple Sclerosis a cause which is more dear to us now than before as it's hit someone Logan and I are quite fond of.

Last year, the marathon happened the weekend before Halloween weekend. The weekend where Logan was a Shriner and drank so much he was driven home at 3am by the party hostess. No, not the hostess of the first party. The hostess of the second party.

This year the marathon is scheduled the day after the halloween parties we've been invited to. Logan's passion and sacrifice knows no bounds.

Last year you guys, our friends and Missy's friends and family helped raise 4% of the total fundraising goal for the entire marathon. Let's see what we can do this year.

For my part, I'm drinking for two in the next few weeks. It's a tough job, a lot like running, with the endurance and stretching (of my liver). Generally I don't drop any toenails or crap my pants while drinking, but I just want to do my part, you know?

*I swear to God we didn't intend to give everyone in this family the same initials.

Never invite a shriner to your wedding.

The other day we received a wedding invitation in the mail. Remember when I was unemployable and also drowning in financial turmoil? That year we were invited to 6 weddings. Since we've started to be 'okay' financially, we've been invited to one wedding, the one we were invited to the other day.

This means our friends either got really tired of our crappy gifts or that after the first rush to matrimony no one else wanted to take the plunge.

Until now.

Remember Joe and Cari?

 

Joe and Cari are tying the knot and Joe called yesterday to ask if we'd returned our RSVP card accidentally blank.

We hadn't returned our card, even though I typically send my RSVP cards back immediately after getting them. I had something in mind so while Logan was on the phone I searched flickr for a photo of Logan and I being particularly obnoxious. I found one (easily)(because we're often obnoxious), printed it out and glued it to the reply card.

 

And now Joe and Cari are wondering why they invited us to their wedding.

Thankfully we don't care because we can't wait to be there.

.....

I think the world just needs to shut up for the most part because while I don't actually want to keep my head buried in the sand like a moron, I also can't keep idly thinking about what makes men hurt little girls (and boys) over and over and over because I just can not take it. The issues which have brought us to a time when men break into schools (twice in a couple of weeks) to kill young girls, are far too huge for me, with my very small brain, to really comprehend or theorize about or even understand.

I don't want to believe that the issue goes beyond a few very disturbed individuals with very disturbed upbringings. But it gets harder and harder for me to believe that, since not only are there a number of random attacks there's also a much more horrifying number of bad things happening to children who know, love and trust their abusers. And still, I take in all this information and all these theories and none of it really matters in a day to day sense.

I don't understand what's happened or how we've ended up here.

I realize how little control I have, I've realized a long time ago how I can't protect my children from bad things happening. I can follow my gut and I can teach them about being safe and owning their bodies and I can listen to them and protect them at all costs when I know they're being hurt and I can make them secure in the truth of the protection I will give them at all costs. I can't make bad things not happen, but I can make them strong and sure of themselves and make them certain of my willingness and ability to speak for them when they can not.

That's the only control I really have. That's the only thing I know for sure.

And still it bothers me because sometimes I feel like it's inevitable that something bad will happen to my children. Probably not a milk man who storms into their amish schoolhouse, since I'm not amish and have no plans to become amish, but there will be other people who could hurt them.

That really nice coach or the really personable dad of a friend everyone loves, are probably the worries I would serve myself better with. I'm not complacent but among my close group of 5 friends, 2 of us made it into adulthood unscathed by someone else's sexuality but then 3 of us were abused in some way by men we looked up to/trusted/loved as little girls. And, it's important to note: none of us told anyone. Then, when you look at my extended group of Internet Peers, we're looking at even larger numbers.

I don't know how else to take in this newest information. As a mother, I can't think very much about the reason men use girls for their sexual satisfaction, because my brain explodes with the societal implications of that.

I will not take my children to the park at the end of my street and spend the hour we're there fearing the predators who might cast their eyes on my children's incredible beauty and be compelled to snatch and abuse them. I won't stop putting their pictures on the internet because someone may view their beautiful cheeks and want to do horrible things to them. I still believe those types of attacks on children are the exception and not the rule.

People have always done horrible things. There have always been murders and rapes and molestations. Sometimes though, I worry that something has blurred the line in how we look at girls. My brain is not capable of making sense of it all, I'm only able to cry about all of this. It's complex and no one knows how to fix it and maybe there isn't a way to fix it.

I want to simplify that statement with all kinds of societal blame but I can't because it's not simple. And that scares the shit out of a lot of people. Including me.

Tour My Refrigerator.

Maggie Mason is, as you may know, an authoress. When her book came out she asked me if I'd like to choose one of the ideas from her book, No One Cares What You Had For Lunch: 100 Ideas For Your Blog, and do a post based on that idea.

So I looked through the book, making a few notes as I went and was promptly overwhelmed by all the possibilities as illustrated here by my abuse of flags.

There were a lot of options as you can see, but I didn't want to turn Maggie's book tour into 'Debbie Downers Book Tour!" so I had to steer clear of anything regarding feelings or memories. Because these are things which are in general, downers in relation to me.

So I moved onto #7 | Examine your paperwork. This idea is centered around Sarah Brown's Cringe readings (soon to be a book! Another authoress!). Maggie writes: "In celebration of adolescence, type in some of your old journal entries - or better yet, post a photo. Did you keep any notes your best friend passed you in fourth period? Those are equally golden."

I considered this exercise long and hard and had a bunch of ideas and then I realized I'd sort of done that before and oops! There's the depressing again.

The part of this entry which piqued my interest was this: "If you're timid about baring your downy, flightless thirteen-year-old soul, Sarah offers this guideline: "When you read it to yourself, do you physically cringe? Then it's funny."

This made me think of an old 'story' I wrote. A story....where I.....rewrote the entire book of The Outsiders making myself the fraternal twin of Ponyboy Curtis. So far so good, I'm cringing.

Then I pulled out (one) of the books where I wrote all this down and I tried to read an entry to Logan and I couldn't even cringe, I just plain old died.

The book itself is enough to send me into shame-based cardiac arrest:

And before I could even get to the actual writing in the book I was bombarded by pictures of several of the stars of The Outsiders movie. Like, a lot of pictures, so many pictures I started to feel really sad for my 14-year-old obsessive self. For example, this one of Tom Cruise immediately after he devoured an actual baby:

He's really hot after eating an infant.

And this one which caused me to ponder Rob Lowe's sexuality, though back then I just thought, "I like horses too! Maybe we could get married!"

You're thinking I just did #7 but I didn't. (You can find the rest of the pictures here. Did you know there was an Outsiders television series? Help me.) I was just explaining why I wouldn't do #7. So don't even ask.

The next idea in Maggie's book which caught my eye was:

23 | Define Your Inscrutables

Is nothing sacred? Well, not really. You're the type who puts it all out there- relationship details, depression-med doses, dark family secrets. With all that online information waiting to be discovered by your stunned parents, you might be surprised at how much readers still don't know about you.

They wouldn't recognize your handwriting on a note, be able to discern your laughter in a group, or even knowhow tall you are. Take a photo of your handwriting, show readers your wardrobe, or record a short clip of yourself humming a tune. You've covered the big topics, now get to the details.

One could say I'm a pretty open book on this website so I thought, why don't I show the Internet my refrigerator.

No one's ever seen my bill box! Or my high tech "Bill Is Paid Tracker"! (Make sure you look at it and tell me how much easier my life would be if I'd just use Quicken. I love it when people do that.) Or my sinister checkbook cover. You can even see proof of how the bathroom remodel is taking over our lives.

And I'm not sure you've lived until you've inspected the contents of my junk pocket. That sounds dirty but it's not, it's a junk drawer for people who live with 6 drawers total.

You can view the whole set here (and you can even see my actual handwriting on a long list titled: "Let's Get The Fuck Out Of This Neighborhood ASAP!")

Talking about my feelings is all well and good but I know you've all just been sitting around thinking: "I wonder what Madison would look like as a chicken." My junk pocket can totally tell you!

Sunday Sunday Sunday!

Back in August the kids and I drove down to Detroit to buy Tigers tickets as a gift for Logan's birthday. We went to the box office because when I tried to buy the tickets online, I was set to pay $16 in fees, on top of the $48 for the actual tickets.

I am nothing if not cheap so, since it was still summer and we were burning daylight anyway, we decided to go down to buy the tickets at the stadium box office and then head over to the Science Museum.

A couple ironic things happened that day. First, I decided to use on-street parking at the Science Museum to save myself the $5 museum parking lot charge. I did not put enough change in the meter and thought to myself, 'Detroit can't even pick up it's garbage. They can't afford meter maids.'

Two hours later I had a ticket for $20 on my car. Keep in mind the biggest reason we were down there that day was to save $16 in fees. I parked on the street to save us $5. I ended up paying $20 in parking tickets. This pretty much sums up how things always end up going for me.

But, still Irony wasn't done with me yet. I somehow lost the actual tickets I'd driven downtown to purchase in order to save myself the $16 processing fees. At this point I've I saved $16 in fees, but spent $20 in parking tickets, then I lost $48 in tickets between the box office and my home.

I did get the ticket situation worked out (thank you Tigers!) and Sunday we finally made our way to the game, and it was worth every penny. It was even worth the $8 we spent on something that called itself beer, but was really water. (It even accidentally got me sober.) (Because it's exactly like water.)

We were sad when the old Tiger stadium closed. There's something I hate about everything being torn down to make something newer and 'better'. I love our house, but I know we'll sell it and someone will tear it down (hopefully after salvaging the oak trim, bookcases and columns) to build a bigger, more modern house and to make that happen they'll have to cut a lot of the things that make our house great out of their budget.

Logan and I talked about how the fun we had at Comerica Park yesterday couldn't have happened at Old Tiger Stadium. Sure, the kids could have played with rusty siding at Tiger Stadium but at Comerica Park we didn't even make our way to our seats for a full 40 minutes. We had other things to attend to.

Keep in mind this is coming from people who read this graffiti on a table in the 'Beer Hall' (another score for Comerica Park) and argued over 'Anderson's' hotness in relation to all the men in the world. So you're not looking at a point of view which holds the history of baseball in high regard. We can't even keep up with the current baseball scenario. Please see:

As it turns out it was Granderson who is the hottest black man alive, not Anderson. It also turns out Logan and I are dolts who should just remain on the fair rides at the stadium and not take up actual seats with our amateurish asses. We did spend a lot of time on the fair rides, because we're "Sports Fans" a lot like Logan's 'friend' was a "lesbian". (Which means, not at all.)

But we paid $50, plus another $20 in parking tickets and countless hours on the phone trying to get my lost ticket situation resolved, so we were sitting in our seats. Even if we had to wear oxygen masks to get there. These were what they call: 'Nose Bleed' seats and not just because they were as high as you can go in the stadium, but also because you actually get a nose bleed when you sit in these seats.

If you make brownies in this seat, you've got to follow the 'High-Altitude' instructions. These seats are so high up you'd better be careful or you'll accidentally get sober because no beer vendors are coming up that high. What? Do you want them to pass out from lack of oxygen? Don't be so selfish. Luckily being so high up also gives you a different view of the city.

We sat in our seats for a while and I pretended I knew what was happening.

We had fun and it was one of those days where the kids made it more fun. Those days happen more and more now that our kids are older and not constipated or tantruming or in need of a nap (or a spanking) most of the time. But sometimes life gets in the way of appreciating and spending time with our family. I'm surprised (given the fact that we don't like sports at all) baseball gave us that time together, but there it is.

We had fun.

And it wasn't over! Because we went home and the Internet came to our house. The actual Internet was sitting at my kitchen island. Right next to my laptop where I usually see the Internet. I have never had the Internet into my house and I've been on the internet for nearly 8 years now.

My mind was about as blown as Juniper's when she saw Gary the Cat and realized cats can be as big as a toddler. Juniper's mind was equally blown when she told Gary to read her a book and Gary silently dismissed her. He's a very large and very rude cat Juniper and I'm sorry.

I was so excited to have the Internet in my house I planned an easy to make dinner and I bought Bell's beer and had everything relatively childproofed so everyone could relax and enjoy each other's company.

And while we enjoyed each other's company, my children had had enough of the day and threw 4 tantrums in 1.24 hours. Max decided he didn't want dinner and when faced with the choice of dinner or going to his room while we ate, he chose his room. Loudly. With many tears and shrieks of the inhumanity of being expected to sit at the kid's table he always sits at when we have friends over for dinner.

Maddie asked for popcorn or another cookie or 'Can we go to the park?' 20 times in 43 minutes and everytime I just stood there with my mouth hanging open wondering who these children were. The children who I'd enjoyed so much at the Tigers game earlier in the day.

Wood spun the situation in a lovely way, saying she was happy the kids felt comfortable enough around them to act up. I found this humorous since I often say this when my friend's babies poop at my house. One friend's little girl poops multiple times at my house. She's extremely comfortable with us. So yes, I guess it could be worse, my potty trained children could poop around the people they're comfortable with. When you look at it that way I'm glad they were just brats in front of the Junipers.

I know you wish I had pictures but I can't think of everything. I failed you and I'm sorry.

PS: Max slept 13.5 hours last night and Madison slept past 6:43am this morning so clearly they were both very tired.