Out with the Hoard

So I live in a four bedroom house. The fourth bedroom was always a sort of office/dumping ground for overflow clothes, crafts, pets, and dying computer equipment, but it came in really handy when my husband decided that he couldn't sleep in the same bed as me any longer (not sure why sleeping in the bed made much difference because there hadn't been any activity in the bed other than snoring, offhand comments and sighing for over ten years), but anyway, he vacated to the office to sleep on the comfort of a futon.

Later, when he vacated the house completely in a miserable rage, he left everything behind, since it is difficult to take belongings when a restraining order has been issued, and the room fell into gradual disrepair. I emptied all his clothes from the main bedroom (tied in trash bags so that the resident cat would not pee on them) into the office/man cave/cat apartment, and noticed that the room also had the shells of four computers stashed in the closet which had previously been my craft closet. My husband left for Korea for a year, no-one entered the room except to visit the cat (who suffered anger issues and could not be trusted with my soft, spoiled other shelter cats), and the room just became a desperate mess.

Well, the cat "left." To find a better home. So I have been in there cleaning the hoarding situation. The smell of cat urine is intense and quite overpowering after fifteen minutes or so, but I am highly proud of my progress. All clothes were saved, fortunately, by being previously bagged or kept in a closed walk in closet, and I simply bagged the entire stash, ten outdoor leaf bags, an took them to Goodwill. another three boxes of books, two of stuffed animals, and there are still the computer parts to donate if anyone is willing to take them.

All that is left are my husband's clothes and medical books, his desk, and whatever computer parts he wants, and that room will be ready to be claimed and cleaned.

It truly does feel like an episode of hoarders where the door is opened to a room stacked head high with boxes and garbage bags, animal feces, unknown objects, and an overwhelming hopeless feeling, along with a healthy dose of guilt, shame and bad memories. Then, after weeks of work, all done by me, I am close to reclaiming my space.

In it will be my writing desk, a treadmill, a poster of a tropical island, all the photograph albums I have ever put together, and an Ipod for awesome music. The picture window onto the Cul de sac will actually be visible again, and who knows, I may add to the blog from there once in a while.

Dryer Fire Aborted

Once again, it is time to call in the professionals.
This time, my dryer is broken. I await the arrival of my next service professional with a mixture of dread and optimism. Nobody could be worse than the plumber who wasn't a plumber, right? Unless this guy drags me into the basement and dismembers me?
Wait, we don't have a basement. I will be fine, and people are born not wanting to drag people into basements ad dismember them.....or run off and cash checks that don't belong to them. Yes, I have optimism. At least, this is what I repeat over and over to myself with disturbing rhythm.

So, he came, he rattled parts, he applied the art of drier science in a way I never could have. Actually, first he came through my front door and applied giant white elastic booties over his shoes, just like surgeons do before they enter the operating room.
For a moment I felt my blood run cold and wondered if perhaps we do have a basement door after all, but then it hit me. He was trying to protect my carpets.

Dude, you obviously haven't seen my carpets. This is no excuse, but they have obviously been in the house since it was built around twenty years ago, and everyone who has lived here has had pets; no-one more than me. O.k, so I guess that was an attempt at an excuse, but how can you really excuse stains that look like I allowed each and every one of my daughter's dead mice to decompose on a different stair instead of burying them outside. How can you excuse that more of the carpet has cat puke stains than doesn't. Different colors for different varieties of food. And cat.

I got past that. So anyway, he banged and rattled and applied his magic, and descended the terrifying stairs to deliver the verdict.
More terrifying than the carpet.
"It works?" I asked, with feigned giddiness to make up for my carpets.
"It works," he replied, and handed me a deep trash can filled with what looked like the hide of some ancient, mythical half land, half water beast, or perhaps the contents of said beast's stomach, compacted into the kind of fur ball that a giant owl coughs up.
Apparently, this is what had been clogging the underbelly of my dryer, sucked back through the lint trap over the course of six years, and hiding, waiting to "explode into flame" within weeks, had I not called out the repairman.
Yes, I think the seventy-five dollar service fee was well worth it this time.
Yes, I do.

I do want this posting to serve as a warning to not only empty the regular lint basket on your dryer (I did that...often), but either check the wall vent tubing yourself or call someone out to do it for regular maintenance. AVOID A DRYER FIRE.

The beginings of my love for Ebay

I have a fascination with Ebay. It started back in 2003 when I purchased my first item from Ebay, and I am so much of a cyber geek that I remember what that item was. I entered Ebay shopping in my polish pottery phase  since I had been newly introduced to what seemed like a holy world from which I had thus far been shunned, from by a delightfully energetic Army wife. She explained that one cannot be a true Army wife, at least not an Officer's wife, without owning a few shelves/cabinets, display cases filled with Polish pottery, and that no, there was no prerequisite to visit Poland or even Germany in order to own such a collection. She showed me some of her smaller pieces and more common patterns which seemed somewhat affordable, and were indeed, pleasing to my artistic eye.

 

 

 

Pretty, yes?

At about $24.00 dollars per tea cup and saucer, plus shipping, this is not exactly cheap, but something  that the Army wife, who often feels  deprived of attention while her spouse is involved in one of his numerous deployments or field duty activities, manages to justify. Then the collection expands and soon enough I found my Christmas tree strung with little Polish pottery snowmen, and I was introduced the golden egg of Polish pottery; the Unikat piece. This is a one of a kind, hand painted piece made by artists who sign their work so that the piece you own is unlike any that any other lonely Army Wife, substituting  for affection, owns. Now we are hitting over $100.00 Like this:

 

The problem was, that I was not the typical Officer's wife. I did not have money to spend on this delightful trinkets because my husband was mired in Medical school debt, and I had been "lonely wife spending" long before I discovered my love for polish pottery, and were already a couple in debt with two small children.   Affording one piece was a stretch, but somehow, I ended up with a collection which made my enthusiastic, chummy, friend rather jealous, and me, swimming in guilt and credit debt.

 

Sure, I went to work in the Polish Pottery warehouse, unpacking new loads fresh from Poland in exchange for new pieces, but that hardly made up for my habit. I found it amazing and felt very proud of myself for my clever way of obtaining even more, but after about a year and a half, I began to look at my vast collection (which would have taken anyone else ten years to acquire) and felt sick. I began selling on Ebay. Selling some of the more expensive pieces, but also selling other things to make money. Clothes, purses, ornaments, the odd piece of jewelry. Thus, I became an Ebay seller and my relationship with Ebay grew. I can sing with gusto, "I found it on eeeeeeebay! woah ooh!" What fun!!





Choose NOT to Trike

Riding a Trike is a phrase that should be reserved for children, in scenes like this:

 

Cute, right!

 



So am I wrong in saying that there is very little that is cute about the following scene:

 

O.K, the couple is cute, but not in the same way that a child is cute.

 

These people are trying to pose as bad ass motor cycle riders. Or at least, they used to pose as motorcycle badass riders and they used to ride motorcycles, and I used to have respect for their bad ass spirit, but somewhere along the way they decided to add a wheel, add three times the construction, add a couple of Lazyboy loungers, a mini fridge, a trunk for suitcases, a chandelier, picnic table, bunk beds, stand up shower, porta-potti (you don't even have to leave your seat), and full service food buffet. It's all there, under the hub caps, trust me.

Now, I have seen a version of true bad ass trike, or what is supposed to fool me into believing it is true bad ass material:

It's kind of Mad Max style, right?

 

But the major difference is; this trike is a) still a trike, and b) not made up of kick ass bits of stolen machinery, golf clubs, bones, bent radiators, mismatched hubcaps ripped off from terrified strangers attacked in the dessert and left to die. The dude on the bike might like to think that he is bad ass, but he is still gonna go home and drink a warm glass milk before bed...because he is essentially riding; a tricycle. That alone robs him of bad-ass-ness.

Let's look at one more:

Nice try, but this is a Big Wheel. Remember?????

What is the difference? Really? None.

No grown man should be seen cruising the streets on a big wheeler. The flames don't help. It just looks like a "hot wheels" toy. The flames take points away from bad-ass-ness.

Please, men, women, stick to motorcycles if you feel the need to be close to the road at high speeds with little protection from broken bones, crushed skulls, and scraping most of the skin from your body. The trike may be safer, but it is not safe enough to save you the humiliation of looking like an overgrown child with popiscle stains on your tee shirt, stepping back into playground days. Anyway, no biker should be able to bring a full meal, changes of clothes, stereo system, beer and a dart board along on the back of their bike while still having room for the family pets and a couple of guests.

No joke, I think this guy has the backyard pool in there!!!!



 

 







It Really Bothers Me When: Machete edition

It's time for one of those evenings. It's time for; "It really bothers me when....."

It really bothers me when that woman in the "Natural Instincts" hair color commercial strikes the coconut in the palm of her hand with a machete to break it in half, and it splits perfectly, spilling clear coconut water to the sand.

Has no-one told her about using  knife to cut away from one's body? Isn't it worse to aim for your hand with a sharpened machete? How does she know that the machete won't go right through the coconut and sever her hand from her body? Who put this Ad together and thought this wouldn't be highly uncomfortable for viewers. Viewers like me.

Microchips never lie

There was an incident today that went wrong from the very beginning. It went wrong from the moment, five years ago, when my daughter's fifth grade friend (a boy), asked her if we could take his cat when his family deployed to Germany. My daughter and this kid were best friends. This has already been established. The kind of friends who dare each other to do revolting things, make up epic adventure stories about the end of the world, ride bikes for hours, and freeze water balloons to save for winter.

There really was no saying no to this cat. But this cat was a calico, and they left this particular cat behind for a reason. She had multiple personalities, and the majority of them were hostile.
It goes without saying that India the Calico did not adapt well into our family of three cats.
Chloe, my aging tabby, weighing little more than eight pounds, beat the shit out of her.

Zoe, (Chloe's sister), suffered degenerative anxiety  because India, in turn, beat the shit out of her. Zoe removed all the fur from first her front legs, then her back, and then her hanging stomach, becoming a sweet, tragic, hairless object of ridicule.

My youngest cat, Cinder, never met her, because she was sequestered in the penthouse suite on the second floor before his arrival, and that is where India was banished to in order to keep the peace.
It was a roomy apartment; a large bedroom with picture windows, plenty of furniture, and a two room bathroom suite, all to herself, with daily visitors, but her temperament did not improve in the least. One moment gentle and loving, the next minute spitting fury and venom, India earned a well deserved reputation as slightly psychotic.

Finally, the decision was made to give her up for adoption...hopefully to a family without other pets. It was a tough decision, my daughter did not take to it well, and that was a major stumbling block and caused emotional delay, but the day finally arrived and my husband came to collect India.

First, India, who usually greeted me with purrs and sweetness at the door, was nowhere to be found when I entered with the cat carrier. She was sequestered under a computer desk, emitting a low rumbling growl which said, "back the hell off." To make a long, bloody story short, I resorted to shoving my arms into the legs of four pairs of men's jeans  until I looked like a sumo wrestler, and spent twenty minutes grappling with a angry, spitting, screaming cat in the corner of the room, until I could finally deposit her through the door of the cat carrier. (she had a Tinkerbell blanket for comfort, oh irony) At this point I fell to the floor, exhausted, and lay on my back. So much for the fond farewell I has planned. The loving hugs. The kisses to her calico head, the tears I would shed, the last picture and India and me together.

So off goes my husband to the shelter to explain the situation and give up the cat into better circumstances, but he returns with worse news.

He couldn't just tell the truth. We are giving up a cat that did not get along with our other animals. We were given the cat, we tried to help her as a favor to friends, but it just didn't work so we would like to find her a new home. No, he tells them that he "found" her. She is a stray. What do they do? Check her for a microchip. Does she have one? Of course she does. I had her declawed when she came to our home because all my other cats are declawed and they needed a fighting chance. And I had her micro-chipped.
Oh, the phone call I will receive on Monday! This man, with the same last name as you, living at a different address (my husband and I are separated) came in and told us he found a stray...your stray....what a STRANGE coincidence, doncha think? What would you like to do? Take her back?
Why no, this is where I throw him under the bus, get down to the truth, and say "why ever would he tell such a ridiculous story? He went to give up the cat voluntarily and then told you it was a stray? I have no idea why he would say such a thing?" Because I DON'T!!! It was a relatively simple..not easy, but understandable reason, to give up an animal, and now, we look like circus clowns.
Marvelous.
And my daughter, who said her goodbyes to India today and was gone at a friend's house while all this took place, knows nothing ad hopefully will not find out anything unusual.
Folks, stick to the truth. If you embellish, someone will ALWAYS find life's microchip!!!

Living Gymnastics

I've been a "gymnast mother." Maybe I wasn't a typical one, and maybe I didn't get there by the usual means, but somehow, I got there. I will go out on a limb and say from experience that the typical gymnast mother is pretty much living her own gymnastic dream through the exceedingly muscular and nutritionally well balanced child she taxis back and forth from the gym up to six times a week. Seven if she pays for private lessons.

My own daughter has been in "mommy and me" gymnastics with me from two to four years old. Mine was the child who broke from the circle of toddlers and made a mad dash for the big girl beams where real gymnasts in shiny leotards and bedazzled scrunchies were double twisting into piles of synthetic blocks. Mine was the three year old who insisted on wearing a black leo instead of pink, because "pink was for babies."

We took a break from age six to age eight because driving over an hour in heavy traffic, in the DC area, to get to a gym seemed ludicrous. Something crazy moms would do. So she became a Stafford Performing Star (singing and dancing) and a little league soccer player who infuriated her Marine Captain coach (we lived a stone's throw from Quantico by then) by picking daisies and singing in mid-field while the ball sailed by.

We hit Texas, land of budding gymnasts, and found a recreational gym where she took a class for an hour a week before honing her Tae Kwan Do skills, but the gymnastics bug was kicking in and soon she was asking for a "real" gym.

That is when I became a "gymnast mother." My daughter hadn't been there a week when she was selected for team and I was introduced to the world of competition, USGA card fees, team leotard costs, team warm up costs, team bag costs, and above all, tuition costs. All this I swallowed like a giant, ugly pill because my daughter was dancing up and down and literally swinging from equipment in joy.

Soon we were introduced to level three hours, and shortly after that, level four hours, and I found myself living at the gym in the observation deck. It really is pretty much like dance Moms, and the people there really are that catty. Since I was there so much and since this was costing our family several car payments to indulge in, I began to work at the gym, first in the afterschool program, and then trained as a pre-team coach for the younger gymnasts. Went to be certified and everything. All the hours my daughter trained (four hours a day, four days a week) I worked, and on the day she did not train, I worked four hours anyway and she helped coach.

Circumstances (the owner of the gym was a raving bitch) required us to move to a different gym, and this one was an hour away from our house. So gymnastics became a six hour a day experience. Two hours in the car, four hours training, me working at the new gym, and us returning at 9 p.m for my daughter to begin her homework. Four days a week.

Did I ever say that driving an hour to a gym was ludicrous?

Yep, that was me. But she was competing, doing great, up to level five, had a body of steel (also shin splints, severs in her heels, lower back pain, two dislocated elbows, hands that looked like a fifty year old construction worker, and a broken finger), but she could run for miles, flip, tumble, dance, vault, cartwheel on a beam, and swing her body around a high bar. She insisted this was the way she wanted her life to be and begged me not to change it. We were both living on the edge of sanity and somewhere in my mind I knew that I was going to have to stop the madness.

It was an injury, not to my daughter, but to me, that brought things to an abrupt halt. I was in hospital for a neck injury, couldn't drive, and my husband (who had been living apart from me anyway) was stationed in Korea. Suddenly Gymnastics simply couldn't be a priority. Ordering groceries to be delivered to the house became important. Finding out if I needed surgery became prime conversation. Getting rides to my doctor appointments and finding a neurologist became hugely important. Having a friend drive my daughter to a local gym to give her something to do and a place to temporarily work out was lower on the list but we did it.

My recovery was rather slow. My daughter and I were both shocked by the sudden end to four days a week of intense training and weekly competition, but sad as it was, and guilty as I felt, I think we both breathed a sigh of relief as time went by and we were both able to say that it would never have worked long term.

It would never have worked with a high school schedule, it would never have worked with all that homework, the late nights were catching up with both of us, and my son was alone way too much. Plus, does anyone who does not have an Olympic dream really need to live in a gym?????

For one summer after that, I tried the role of "volleyball mom," but that was short lived and I was "volleyball manager Mom" instead. Now I am quietly, and happily enjoying the role of "Master Singers Mom." The hours are shorter, the shows are delightful, and it doesn't cost me a thing. wait, I lied, I paid fifty bucks to alter the dress for her concert!! That's like one bejeweled arm of a competition leotard, so I'll take it!

Isle of Goat Writing

This is the island that I am going to lie on when I am a semi famous author:

There is no argument about this being a tropical Island. I don't do cold. Not after fifteen straight winters in Michigan. From Michigan I moved with the Military to Hawaii, and the day we left, with two sedated cats, no furniture, a couple of suitcases, and my son well on the way, at the end of May, it was still snowing in Michigan. We stepped off the plane into 85 degree weather in Honolulu, and I knew I would not be willingly experiencing another Midwest winter.

After seven years in central Texas, I am ready to add ocean to the mix. And goats.

These are the goats who will live on the roof of my humble cottage on my tropical Island when I am a semi famous author:

As long as they keep the grass cropped and do not pee through my ceiling, we will be on good terms. I have a good relationship with goats in general. Goats are even more awesome to me than dogs. They run to greet you, love to be petted, and if you are a real sicko, you can have one sleep in your bed, but to me, not having the goat in my bed, is the great part. Goats also have that cat quality; they enjoy independence.
I actually have a couple of goats in mind to bring with me, but it would involve an intricate raid to save these poor neglected creatures (fodder for another story, so stay tuned to my blog!) but here are a few of my goat friends who might ride out to the island with me in a row boat:

and my earless friend who I habitually shout at just to be annoying:

The whole point of this island (which will somehow fall into my hands without expense), is to develop my writing with nothing but nature, the sound of the ocean, goats, and my endless supply of triscuits, V8, and hmmmmmmm, sliced goat? to keep me going. I will become a recluse. A recluse with an air conditioner and electricity, and running water, and a flush toilet, wireless and internet, and an emergency phone. Doesn't look like all that would fit on the Island, you say? Sounds like I am not giving up enough? Well this is a fantasy dammit, and it isn't fully developed yet. There may be a cat or two on my island. I don't know yet, so don't knock it!!!

Cat Haiku. Series one: While you sleep

Your eyes are now closed
Surely you desire my ass
inches from your lips

Night, I watch you sleep
place both paws upon your throat
press, with all my force

Your breathing sounds strained
I will knead upon your chest
perhaps till it stops

From the dark, I watch
you wake in the night to pee
I am your witness

Warm feet on cold tile
your skin; the tip of my tail
your screams hurt my ears

Late night, I am bored
race, claws out, across your face
you wake, seem, confused

You sleep, I pet you
touch your eye, reach in your ear
Strange, why so restless?

Are you awake yet?
Let me stare into your eyes
why did you fling me?

There is no doubt in my mind. Cats are the most sinister of night stalkers yet we invite them into our homes. I have four cat stalkers and willingly allow these nightly antics. Never doubt the intelligence of a cat.

This Counts as an Emergency

Come ON!! Take up a collection in the House and Senate ASAP and empty some pockets to get these checks wired IMMEDIATELY. But of course, forget about all the kids staying home from head start, the CDC workers staying home without pay, the National Guard families trying to figure out how to pay their mortgages, Veterans taking odd jobs to make the rent, Americans delaying surgeries, cancer treatment, emptying their savings to get by this month. How about you declare this an Emergency and not a blame game. Every one of you should have been sitting in a closed room, no cameras, no press, until you come out with a long-term agreement, not some four week fix. Yeah it's hard, we GET that. But that is your job. Try harder.

Shutdown outrage: Military death benefits denied to families of fallen troops

www.washingtontimes.com

At least five families of U.S. military members killed during in Afghanistan over the weekend were given a double-whammy by federal officials: Not only have your loved

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Cats have character. At least, every one that I have taken home has. But there have been fundamental questions about this particular animal since the day his flea infested kitten body arrived in our house two years ago.

The first dilemma came when the humane society told us that "he" was a "she" and my daughter clutched him in her arms all the way from the shelter to the vet's office, we signed all the paperwork, and he had all his shots and blood-work. Then the vet came in and said, "Bella is a strange name for a boy, hehehehehehe" Thus his name was changed to Cinder. Not very manly, but it was a spur of the moment thing.


Note the private parts are covered



Next issue: is this a cat or some kind of gremlin that we accidentally fed after midnight?



Note that this animal's pure blue eyes still have not shown up in a photographic image!

Now, he got cuter. A lot cuter, and his Aryan features came into full bloom. But the issue now became, how could something so incredibly innocent and cute, inflict the kind of vicious pain upon its poor, unsuspecting owners one moment, while resting peacefully in a ball of cream fluff, the next?

 

The fangs are tiny, but incredibly sharp!

More than anything, we all wonder how something so small could turn into something like this:

This is not photo-shopped

 

The cat on the couch in the foreground is a third the size. I lied. Maybe a quarter. Eleven years his elder, she lives in a constant state of disgust because despite his size, this animal slink/runs from the room if anyone rustles a plastic shopping bag (unknown trauma from the five weeks he spent on the streets before we gave him a new home???) and cowers in fear if my son picks up a couch cushion to adjust it. (no good explanation, just a general fraidy cat). The other day the Federal Express guy delivered a package and had the audacity to ring the doorbell to announce his arrival. My cat growled. Full fledged Hounds of Baskerville clenched teeth growling. Had the guy entered the house, he would have fled under a couch, but this cat clearly has identity issues. Next step, check under all that fur for  a zipper!  If that is a cat suit he is going back to the shelter!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dealing with An Eating Disorder

I read this poem when I was in college about a kid who had to watch her mother fight internal demons daily as she sat at the kitchen table in front of a white plate with a single white scoop of cottage cheese. Each day, tears poured down her mother's face as she tried to force herself to eat the tiny scoop, which, by the way, resembled a breast.

Having suffered with a double whammy combo of anorexia and bulimia since my junior year or High School, when I decided that fending off the scary advances of boys was a priority over my present or future health, I had a natural interest in the mother, and a fascination with what the little girl must be going through, witnessing her mother's turmoil.

Until now I had considered this mostly a personal battle, but with wrenching clarity, I was forced out of a very small and closed world, to see another side of my disease. My own mother had not suffered with an eating disorder, but she certainly had suffered, watching me decline. Frankly, I wanted to melt into the floor and never be seen by human eyes again when she discovered me throwing up for the first time, and screamed at me for ruining her life and to "clean up this bloody mess" I had made, as my fingers quite literally dripped with vomit.

It was in some ways hard to see the bitch at the table as myself, causing her daughter to be all kinds of fucked up. I saw her in turns, with distain, and with hideous sadness, just as I saw myself, and the resulting analysis was a furious depiction of a daughter raising her emotionally crippled mother, who I saw as laying the disease way too far out I the open. I was angrier with her for not hiding it well enough, than for not seeking help.

I have stopped vomiting, for the most part, and by God, nobody will ever catch me in the act again. But I have also become the woman with the cottage cheese. Not quite, because my daughter has full disclosure on my past with the disease, and we talk often about my "issue" with food control, and how devastating and invasive it is. That is supposed to excuse me from causing my own daughter to develop an eating disorder, and so far she shows none of the tell tale signs, and is healthy and open. But so far, she is only fifteen. I know I haven't dodged any bullets, but this thing still has me in a vice grip.

Every night she watches me take my portion of protein (sliced turkey),and fiber (Triscuit crackers) and vegetable (V8 juice) upstairs to eat in bed because I don't eat with everyone else. I don't measure. I eat candy too. But if I eat too much, I vomit. For three years, I stopped vomiting completely, but that is three years out of my entire adult life.

My cottage cheese comes in a different form, a little bigger portion now, and my allowable weight has been upped since I was 17, but I am fundamentally the woman in the poem. Sometimes I think I am still angrier at myself for not doing a good enough job of hiding it than for not getting adequate help.

Time for Family Dynamics

When my brain is overstimulated or possibly dabbling with the idea of being enraged, I choose to write in red. I realize this is predictable. However this will serve as a warning for the content of further posts *cough* rants. But perhaps this is not anger because I have just read the same page 6.8 times and still do not know if the parrot is alive or dead, but envy, because I lack the boldness to infringe on everyone else's personal space with such joyous abandon.

My daughter, as I have discussed, has quite a wide group of male friends, all of whom are deeply invested in the internet game "Minecraft." This game can be played alone, but what is the fun in that when one can link to others who share the same passion for building and smashing shelters, teleporting aimlessly through various biomes, and vanquishing the Enderman threat, and share the thrill with entire unwitting families?

Currently, my daughter and I are sharing a couch. (my son recently vacated the room) Nothing unusual about this, except that the only conversation being had is through a headpiece speaker system hooked to her laptop, and if she were in Kindergarten, I would be reminding her to use her "indoor voice." Something about this game makes a child who was, only moments ago, quietly reading Fahrenheit 451 with a cat curled in her lap, begin shrieking that it is utterly unfair to use THAT much dynamite to blow up her house, and mourn the fact that she will have nowhere to sleep tonight when the creepers come.

Somehow I imagined that the headphones, which indeed, fully cut out the conversation of the teen mob wandering through seed generated terrain laced with giant spiders, skeletons, and helpless pigs, would also drown out the conversation at this end. What was I thinking? The microphone which makes her look like a telemarketer or dental receptionist actually functions to amplify the shrill cries of victory as she annihilates members of a flock of sheep for food energy , the almost religious zeal with which she banishes her friend to an alternate universe, and this, as her friend protests his 4th death at her practiced hand, "you know where all the people who care have gone? They died!!!!"

Perhaps I should read with great concentration for the next two minutes, leap to the coffee table, scattering candles, a terrified cat, and homework, I all directions, and proudly proclaim "THE PARROT IS DEAD DAMMIT" (or alive, whatever my studies reveal). Teenagers in several living rooms across Harker Heights would pause, momentarily stunned into silence.....before revving into full gear again.  Worth it? I'll check with the cat.

Behold, the Mum!

After my evening in the rival High School's parking lot on the night of a Homecoming game, I became completely fascinated with the monstrosity that has evolved into, "The Texas Mum."

Some may argue this point, but, although high schools all over this country celebrate homecoming games in a variety of sports, Texas is the southern State which celebrates the tradition of the Mum with the most vigor, and in Texas, homecoming and football go hand in hand.

So what is a Mum? Well, a chrysanthemum is simply a pretty flower, originally given by a smitten boy to his one and only to wear as a corsage. Cute, right? But this, is a modern Mum:

This Mum, in fact, cost the proud owner close to $200.00 dollars and was assembled at a store so that nobody had to litter their table with ribbons, feathers, hot glue, and enough knick knacks for Kindergarten craft day.

www.kathyiscrafty.net These examples, however, are handmade by the very young ladies who wore them to the Homecoming game. These girls, whose Mum's grow in size as they advance in grade, spend hours (which in my mind could be better spent on homework, or paying the Tuba, or tormenting the cat) gluing these scraps together into either super girly or super patriotic, or super school spirit, human wreaths, to be worn hanging around one's neck....resembling a cross between a Vegas show girl, a toddler, a pageant queen, and a drag queen.

 

This Mum takes the cake, hides the girl, freaks me out, makes me afraid for humanity, and costs more than a small car. This Mum can only be found in Texas. If you find one in another state, please destroy it ASAP.www.thedomesticcurator.com 

I would not be doing complete homage to the story of the Mum if I did not explain that the Mum has a natural companion called "the garter," and no, the garter is not worn by girls, it is worn by boys. Boys (supposedly) make Mums for their girlfriends. In reality, their mothers make them, or their girlfriends simply take over so that their adorable teddy bear is not boorishly nailed to the Mum rather than oh so gently applied with a hot glue gun. Girls make the garters to match their own Mum, for the boys to wear.....on their upper arm. This has been but a brief explanation of the phenomenon which takes over Texas from mid September to late October, and I still have much to learn. This year my daughter went to both the game and the dance without a Mum; next year, I may not be so lucky!!

 

One hour in a High School Parking Lot

So, it's a Friday night and I'm sitting, alone, in my parked car outside Killeen High School, surrounded by oversized pick-up trucks. the one to my front left has a matching, oversized "Redneck" sticker slapped across the rear cab window and a pair of equally oversized truck-balls dangling from the bumper.

Why am I here? It's Homecoming, of course! My kid doesn't even attend Killen High School, but Harker Heights High is lucky enough to be playing them tonight, and my daughter made Master singers this year. What the Hell does Master Singers have to do with High School Football? Yeah! That's what I said. But I'm a newbie to all this southern stuff. The same kids who sing Russian lyrical compositions at regional tryouts get to belt out the National Anthem at Friday night games with the rest of the school tossing half eaten hot dogs and verbal abuse onto the field.

All this, and I get to wait in my car, in the parking lot, in 90 degree Texas weather because no sane Choir member would want to stay beyond the Alma Mater. (got to get home and wash the ketchup stains off the choir shirt, inside out, and iron it for next weeks abuse.)

I'm really making an effort to get into this murder mystery while I'm waiting, but I can't even remember the name of the guy that died two pages ago. (or was it the elderly female neighbor?) Kids are walking by with Mums bigger than their own heads. I am hit with another southern question. Are the Mums for the game or the dance. The dance is tomorrow. My daughter is going to the dance and she doesn't have a Mum. Especially not one bigger than her head. Even though my child has expressed absolutely no interest in the Texas Mum, I feel my own investigative juices flowing.....stay tuned if you feel the same bewilderment about gigantic, bejeweled, multi-ribboned, and garishly colored floral arrangements, with the odd sacrificial teddy bear terrifyingly hot glue gunned to the center, that I do.

My time in the car has made me eager to develop this story.

Update: The Plumber is not a Plumber

Ever been too scared to ask for your money back? Sounds like that time when the school bully stole your lunch money and it just didn't seem worth a chocolate milk and some overcooked corn to tap some kid on the shoulder and say "hey, could ya give it back, I'm hungry?"

No, this is the plumber update. A little guy and his little troll son who basically pissed me off last week have grown in stature to full fledged criminal trolls, complete with rocks to smash windows and clubs to smash skulls clutched in their knobbly fingers.

When they cashed my check after having done nothing but blown the lid off my upstairs toilet and left the broken one....broken.....I drove to Max's place of business to do just that, say "hey, could ya give it back." But upon arrival at the listed address, all I saw, sandwiched between all the other perfectly neat and respectable homes and businesses on the street, was a broken down, gutted trailer guarded by a pair of pit bulls mixed with Siberian bear. In other words, Max's plumbing service did not, and does not, in fact, exist.

A little flutter of cold fear spread through my once cynical mind. This was no longer an annoying story about some jackass who cashed a check. A total stranger had stood in my house, one week ago today, and he certainly wasn't a plumber.

I did what my single mother, previous victim of home invasion, brain signaled, and drove, without passing "GO," to the Harker Heights Police Station, where I learned that "Max" and his criminal ways is known well to those in uniform. 

First question from the kind officer was, "do you have an alarm system?"
I heard the rest, about reinforcing my front door lock with the proper length three inch screws to avoid my door being kicked down (it would take three kicks now, rather than one) and holding my keys in an offensively poking device-like manner every time I left the house, clearing every room before I settle in when I return from buying milk, and taking pictures of all my valuables on my cell phone as soon as possible, but it was through a fog of WTF.

Did I say I have a freak magnet? Refer to previous posts. I do. By God, I do! Stick with me folks, and your life, too, can become complicated by an empty toilet tank.

My Grandmother's Shoes

My Grandmother had those shoes that click, click, click, all down the sidewalk. Grown up shoes.
My mother's high heeled Italian shoes click, click, clicked through sophisticated places like the hard floors of international airports, vast shopping centers filled with fabric vendors and jewelry, and the marble terrace of our New Delhi house, crowded with diplomats in fancy suits and plunging summer gowns, but my Grandmother's shoes held a special fascination because I only saw them one a year, on my trips back to England during the summer. They clicked with a  sort of soft, squashy click that sounded like stockinged feet, and felt like the scent smell of lavender, baked beans on toast, chocolate biscuits with tea, and moss growing on a stone wall.
 
We made our way into the village of Fulbourne every morning at nine, shopping bags in hand, to collect the ingredients for today's dinner. Lamb chops from the butcher, fresh peas and new potatoes from the greengrocer, one white and one wheat from the baker, and jam tarts for dessert. We held hands, click, click, click on the wooden floor of the sweet shop, stopping for a paper packet of jelly babies. Click, click, click at the supermarket for a pint of milk and some  Blackcurrant Ribena, click, click, click on the ancient paving stones of the village church as we stopped to say good morning to the vicar's wife.

Back at my Grandmother's cottage on Petit's Close, she sent me with the clicking shoes in hand, to her bedroom closet, to swap them with a pair of slippers. I knelt on the carpet, breathing in mothballs and lavender,  proudly lining up Nanna's walking shoes with the others. Tomorrow, maybe I would pick her out the brown pair.

Today, in Texas,  I noticed that my own shoes click. I was walking back down my own stone garden path after feeding my Boston, Rosy, breakfast. My steps sounded hurried and very grown up. I am a Converse sort of girl mostly, even in my forties, but suddenly I noticed that I have shoes that click. And I was overwhelmed with a smell of lavender. 

Dreadlock Blanket

I have this phobia of hair. It has a technical name. Chaetophobia. That comes from the Greek for "flowing hair," but in my case it not flowing hair which bothers me, (I kinda love that and envy it) but disembodied hair. Supposedly childhood trauma is supposed to precede this condition, and I can think of a few.

At one point, I pulled my hair out for at least a year to deal with anxiety, leaving myself with a sizeable bald spot on the top of my head which only pony tails would cover. I also had the world's longest, most dense, purple shag carpet in the my bedroom of the house we rented during or five our stay in India. My bed became a safe island in a sea of embedded hair from previous tenants, which I tried hard to cross in as few steps as possible. Public swimming baths with their slippery floors, writhing with wet hair, and webbed hair plugging drains, left me cowering or my mother to carry me out.
Is this normal? I don't think so. I think it is drama which could possibly be tolerated in a seven year old  girl in a swim suit...with  bald spot, (possibly caused by a purple shag carpet) but when this fear manifested itself in my adult life, I had a harder time living it down.

My husband and I had just driven ten hours straight through, to Columbus, Georgia for D's residency interview. Both poverty stricken students, we cruised the row of pawn stores, strip clubs, and rent by the hour motels for a place to stay for the night, and pulled the rattling 1984 Chevy up to barred office window to secure a room.

The room. Another shag rug. Orange this time. I remained rooted in the doorway while D flung himself wearily on the queen sized bed.
"Come on, lets turn the lights out already. I'm beat." D, impatient and groaning.
I took my customary bounds across the carpet, landing in a cold sweat on the bed, but found myself trapped in the worst of all positions, sitting on what appeared to be a dreadlock blanket. (gag) Greyish black, woven with the hair of every guest who had stopped by for an hour or a night and contributed short, curly, long, textured, dark, ginger, bleached hair from every area of their body, it draped the entire mattress to the floor. No island of escape here.
 
I practically levitated.

I don't think I even touched the carpet on my way to the door and there really was no discussion about vacating a room we had already paid for.

I know the drive to the section of town with higher priced, and higher class motels was a grim one, D reminding me that we didn't have the money for this.
But I would not have survived the night sleeping on, or under that blanket. I have not shaken the feel of it. And I still see hairs everywhere. There is one on my screen right now.....

I've been Plumbed!

This is the color of rage. This is not the color of relief or of redemption. This is the color ignited by a full day of phone calls to the troll plumbers, resulting in unfulfilled promises, wasted time, a dress that wasn't hemmed. packages that weren't sent, a college expo that my husband is now enjoying with my son rather than all of us enjoying together, and the final pinch of salt in an increasingly dirty wound; both troll numbers only going to voice mail. May I say that it is eight hours and fifty minutes past the appointed time of arrival.
This is also the color of having written a check for a service fee last night and handed it over into Troll A's filthy hands.
Should I have known something was off when he said he would stop by to finish the job BEFORE his court date in the morning?
Why yes, the average person would have let their pen hover over the check substantially longer.
Should I have further mused that my freak magnet was flashing again as he told me that his father (the original Max in Max's plumbing) had been in the hospital for three months after being hit by a car and having both legs, all his ribs, and one arm broken.
The answer is yes. Ding, ding, ding!
But I felt just a twinge of nausea as I handed the check over. Mostly I felt glad that they were leaving my house, and strangely curious what someone looked like in a full body cast with all those limbs snapped. Especially someone that short.
Today however, I am considering putting my reviewing talents to use.
Tomorrow, I will likely be paying my bank to stop payment on a check. (I never understood why I should be charged the extra insult for having been screwed over).
And after that? Looking for a plumber?

Part Two: Let the Plumbing Begin.

This is the color of relief. It is not the color of redemption.
I did not ask the plumber if he saw the inside of my toilet. I did not need to, because anyone who spends an hour, flushing and re-flushing said appliance, is bound to lift the lid at some point. The best part about all this was that, the moment I opened my front door, I ceased to really care whether he took a peek or not, and as the hour went on, I kind of hoped he dipped his head in the bowl. 
Maybe I am an insensitive person, but I ceased to care on presentation alone. Plumber A. stood on my doorstep covered in layers of unknown sewage, hair encrusted with days, if not weeks of dirt, his brow dripping with sweat, and proceeded to snort some hideous concoction into his T-shirt sleeve before even greeting me. Plummer B. was obviously this gentleman's twelve year old son, equally as plastered in greenish filth. Each stood a head shorter than me, and I am by no means tall.
Sure I let them in. That's what you do when the Plumber calls. Right?
I followed their dirty size 16.9 sneaker tracks up the stairs to the kids' bathroom. Big feet....big....heart? Yes?
For the next hour,  I listened to this:
"go turn it off"
stomp stomp stomp (downstairs)
"shiiiiiiiiiit"
stomp stomp stomp (upstairs)
"go turn it back on"
stomp stomp stomp (downstairs)
"DAMNit"
stomp stomp stomp (upstairs)
"dammit cain't you shut up and let me do my job boy???"
"go turn it off"
stomp.....
"hey, you got a mop?"
ME: "ahhhh, no" (really, I don't. is that bad? I use a Swiffer?)
"got towels?"
ME: "suuuure" (don't plumbers come with their own...towel/mops?)
So this comes to an end when Plumber A. tells me that he has stopped the leak but has to return in the morning with parts. (oh joy!) Plumber B. hands me a sodden, blacken towel, (thanks kid, I'll burn it) and stands there staring at my daughter do homework (she's too old for you and anyway, she goes for men with heads bigger than their feet.)
Can I say  made the right call when I found Max's homegrown plumbing in a google search, complete with a 4 1/2 star review? Maybe on this occasion yes, because the issue of my dirty toilet bowl completely  left the building, but the jury is still out.
That night as I flushed my own, pristine toilet before bed, the tank lid practically blew off as water surged over edge.
My daughter was treated to, "what the fuck has that troll done to my house?" as I reached through warm, Texas toilet tank water to shut the supply valve off.
So far, no more incidents with my personal toilet (I tested it several times....perhaps a pressure build up in the pipes from too many "turn it off, turn it on's?)
But it is an hour and half past the morning appointment time and those parts have still to be delivered. The story continues.

Part one: before the plummber arrived.

I was concerned that my toilet was dirty. Not just a little ring around the bowl, but more like that scene from "Candy Man," when actress Virginia Madsen creeps warily into the housing project public toilets to look for a missing child, and is met by more shit than bowl.
From the outside, my toilet looked like anyone else's. Pretty much white. Except for the fact that the tank wasn't filling, the pipe on the wall was dripping into a cereal bowl, and that annoying slurping sound meant that my water bill was creeping up by the minute.
I had already been through the futile, "fix it myself" stage, bringing home a little plastic baggie of rubber parts from the hardware store, and rummaging armpit deep in the tank, only to have all the water I had just hand poured into the tank sucked away, never to return with my next test flush.
Yes, I had resigned myself to calling a plumber, and it was only then, that I raised the lid and realized that either someone in my family was suffering from chronic explosive diarrhea, or that relying on my teenagers to clean their own toilet had backfired on me in more ways than one.
The plumber was minutes away. My children fled the scene, and the toilet scrubber, a mere toothbrush to scrub the titanic, was impotent anyway without the ability the flush!!

I foisted her off on a BOY?????

WHAT came over me yesterday, that I would foist boys and all the drama that comes with them on my fifteen year old daughter? Let me explain. I have a child who has shown no real interest in dating, and prefers to hang out with a group of guys to swim, watch movies, walk in the park, and other inoffensive activities. She is content to Skype or text or play a game of internet Minecraft with her guy friends, sitting right on the couch next to me, laughing and letting me in on the conversation. This is a GOOD thing. A VERY good thing. The closest my daughter came to having a boyfriend was meeting a boy on the swings every day in fifth grade during lunch and daring each other to do grotesque things like lick a tire, or eat a graham cracker found on the floor of the car over a summer spent playing dragons and rock trolls together.

Yesterday, when I picked her up from Region choir rehearsal, my daughter sighed audibly while stabbing at her phone, and in true, "ask me what's up" form announced that she was "going to get to the bottom of this madness!"

All of a sudden, not one, not two, but three boys from her group of boy "pals" have become interested in asking her out. This coincides nicely with the upcoming Homecoming dance which my daughter looked at me and with true innocence said, "Mom, what IS that anyway??" Yes, three of the group are having a hard time deciding who will be the one to ask her out since there is a friend rule and they have no idea how to breach the unspoken law that "no bro shall ask out a woman that his bro has expressed love for." My daughter was flabbergasted to receive a text asking her first, if she "loved" one of her friends, and then what her response would be if another asked her to the mysterious Homecoming dance, and then, (by way of the poor young man's ex) that another wanted to ask her but was afraid to.

The reason she hangs out with boys, you ask? "Because hanging out with girls is too much drama, Mom"

That theory out the window, I put my foot squarely in my mouth and asked her which of them she would be interested in going to the dance with or possibly going out with. Wouldn't it be "so-and-so," I mused, idiotically. I was met with a rare contemptuous look. Did I know nothing? She likes them all in their own way and could not pick. Not only had she told me this, but she had done her best to explain this to her fan club. Rather than deter them, it seemed to have started a jousting competition, each guessing what her "true" feeling are, and the "look" that I received was because now, I too, was trying to guess her true feelings.

I remained mum on the matter, still tasting shoe leather, until she baited me again with, "I think I may have scared them off by saying I don't like them that way. What should I do now?"
Well, here are the pros and cons of dating, I began, like the wonderful mother that I am, opening the door for this whole true boy friend thing to go down the toilet. I never received an answer last night, just a wary look, but this morning I dropped off a daughter with a Mona Lisa smile which left me almost ready to beg for information.

Why oh why did I not just tell her that her plan not to date until senior year, college, or whenever she didn't have so much homework, was a GREAT one.  Why oh why did I buy in to her sweet, flushed cheek surprise at having a suitor (or several)? I want her to enjoy the pros, not the cons of dating, but at fifteen, there are more cons than pros! Immaturity, your boyfriend playing Grand Theft Auto in marathon sessions, feelings being out of bounds, having a healthy interest equated with cheating, a girl who doesn't kiss being boring, a girl who does kiss being a hoe.....oh, I am glad my daughter has good self esteem. But is anyone's good enough to withstand all that??? 

Four thirty can't come fast enough for me to find out if any one of her valiant boy pack was bold enough to make a move, who it was, and what her response was. From there, we will deal with nice things like pros and ugly things like cons because I am exceptionally lucky to have that daughter who still shares the couch, and her conversation with me. For now!

Can News Media Perpetrate Cyber Bulling?

I find it somewhat difficult to be critical of a news station which brings us stories like "The Bully Effect" in an obvious effort to change social attitudes and bring awareness to the new difficulties that our youth face in the form of cyber bullying. But a fairly recent story which was widely covered on CNN has weighed on my mind, and I want to make note of some of the troubling ways in which it was reported.
When Hannah Anderson was kidnapped in California, the nation's immediate reaction was shock, but I could not help but notice even CNN news reporters making reference to her "potential" involvement in the planning of this event, or in her potential collaboration with James DiMaggio. It was on perhaps the second day of her kidnapping that I heard a comment which really grated on my ears; that teenagers do crazy things, and she may indeed think that she was eloping with him. This was said during discussion and complete hearsay about a situation which should be assumed to be nothing other than what it looked like; a straightforward kidnapping and victim situation. This was a child ripped from their daily life, her mother and brother murdered, and her life in danger from the same man who committed these crimes. Where was this speculation coming from and how was it appropriate? If such things had been said about Polly Klaas when she was stolen, the nation would have, rightly, erupted in fury.  I continued to hear news anchors refer to possible sightings of "the couple" during the next day or two. They were not a couple. This was a dangerous criminal and his hostage.
As I watched and listened, I became increasingly upset, feeling that this young teen's identity was being changed from that of a child and the victim of a brutal crime, to that of a seductive young woman with charms and desires, who may possibly have some involvement in DiMaggio's actions. Perhaps this happened after a friend was reported as saying that DiMaggio had a crush on her and would date her if she were older. There was nothing inappropriate about reporting this information, but obviously so much inappropriate about the comments. However, it seemed that after this, discussions about this child did not center around how she had been the victim of a pedophile who had been incapable of controlling his comments about her, but to how young women can have stars in their eyes when they think someone adores them and can easily become complicit in things they would not ordinarily do.
I imagined Hannah Anderson watching these inane discussions if she had access to television news, and I imagined her heart sinking as she saw the nation picture her as a rebel teen gallivanting across the country with the killer of her mother and brother, or worse still, believing that perhaps she even helped kill them to elope with him. I imagined her humiliation. I imagined her loss of faith in those who could help her out of this terrifying situation, and I found myself hoping very much that she was not able to view news reports, when ordinarily I would hope for the opposite.
The discussion did not change much after Hannah was rescued. Don't get me wrong, the nation was thrilled. But it seemed also, that people were thrilled to have a new story to cling to, which many on Carol Costello's Facebook feed referred to as being "like a Hollywood story," and "something being off about that girl." The media again changed Hannah Anderson from a very young victim of violent crime to a symbol of intrigue and speculation by glorifying the possibility that DiMaggio may be her father, by speculating that her ability and willingness to grant an interview so soon after such a terrible loss, was somewhat odd and unusual behavior.
All of this prompted me to ask if any of this information was in the least bit relevant. Why should we need to know if there is the remote possibility that DiMaggio had fathered the child he then said he would date, kidnapped, and held hostage in a tent? If any of this information were true, should it not be absolute fact before it is spread over the media like a cheap romance story? Why indulge the demands of DiMaggio's sister?
Again, I thought of Hannah Anderson a great deal in the next few weeks. I thought of cyber bullying, and I thought how terribly sad it was that many of the awful comments she must be receiving were, this time, prompted, perhaps unwittingly, by disgraceful coverage of a violent crime. Did she see herself as responsible for her mother and brothers' murders? Did she think the nation saw her in a sexual light rather than a frightened young girl? Did she think that the nation was more concerned about whether what little was left of her family, and the man she knew as daddy, was even her father. Did she feel that people saw her now as a renegade, a slut, a criminal, someone's bastard child. Just think of the fodder this reporting could provide for bullies.

Cyber bullying. In this case I feel it began with the news media. Not just CNN, but any news station which speculated on information which should have been factual. Any news station which took away Hannah's true status as child and victim, and placed her in the light of woman and complicit. How awful that a news station which cares so very much about putting an end to Cyber bullying could foster this kind of despair in a young crime victim. I chose to write to CNN, of all media, about this issue because I trust that CNN will be the first to recognize mistakes that were made and connect speculation stemming from news media discussion with bullying behavior.

My hope for Hannah Anderson is that she no longer has to hear how her brave behavior is questioned or seen as odd, that she is not sad enough, that she no longer has to worry that she will hear her name associated with running away with a forty year man, and that she will no longer have to hear the despicable speculation that she may have been involved in the deaths of her mother and brother. But I know better. I know that once cyber bullying has started, it does not stop in weeks or months. I know that once a thought like this, of guilt and doubt, is placed in a young girl's head, she is likely to dwell on it, especially when her mother is no longer living to help her deal with the pain.

As often as we hear about suicides resulting from bullying or shame, I am afraid for Hannah Anderson. I hope that she is strong and determined and that she has all the support she needs, but I feel that the media and the nation owe her an apology. A quiet, and unsensational apology. 

Ask, and I will review

I have a new goal. I no longer want to write a novel which will be read for generations to come, handed out in classroom sets for deep anaylsis, promote me to Initial only name status, or make my granchildren proud. I think I can gain equal fame through writing product reviews. On the internet. Because everyone wants to know how that unexpected inside zip pocket on the purple camera case perfectly fits exactly two spare 8 GB memory cards for the few thousand extra pictures one may have to take on that trip to the zoo, or one piece of Wrigley's gum, spearmint only.
For someone without a job, or perhaps I should say, a starving writer whose closest brush with publicity came when I accidentally left my journal on the dining room table in ninth grade and my mother immediately made a therapy appointment, checking email every day and being asked to review an Edward Elrich Cosplay cotume, to a set of vintage British pub darts, or a flannel shirt scented candle, is a wonderous experience. Blown out of all proportion, morning email can be seen as a list of job offers and invitations to hear my literary voice. At the very least, writing a few reviews can count as my hour of the day in which "writers write."

So far I have managed to push the rather disturbing reality that each of these products has not been purchased by a total stranger, but by myself, probably while consuming corn nuts or chocolate covered peanuts late at night with ancient episodes of Criminal Minds playing in the background. Being single leads, in my case, to strange hours, poor sleep, internet browsing,  and a whole lot of crumbs in the bed.
Perhaps my goals will change. This new fad of writing reviews is incredibly new; only about a week old, in fact. But for now, it seems positively ingenious and fulfilling on the most unsophisticated level. Right now that beats the great void of writing nothing at all.
How do YOU feel about slumps in your writing?
What do you do to keep a sense of humor when signing your children's classroom conduct forms is all you wrote for the day?