Teenagers and Fertilizer
My beautiful niece turns 3 on Monday. Much to my chagrin, she lives in Minnesota and doesn’t often see my son and daughter. In an increasingly infrequent lightbulb moment, I thought a current photo of her cousins would make an excellent addition to the birthday package.
So, for the sole and evil purpose of imposing upon the oh-my-gawd busy lives of The Teenagers, I perkily announced last evening that there would be a brief photo op this morning before school. Evidently, the heads up evaporated amid the blare of the seventeen year old’s tv and the sixteen year old’s instant messaging and geometry angst.
This morning, unaware of the above-referenced evaporation, and using the perkiest possible pre-caffeine voice, I reminded my lovely children of my desire for a quick photo.
The sixteen year old chose to suffer in silence, a noble choice under the circumstances.
The seventeen year old protested being photographed in his school uniform. Outside. Where anyone could see, for god’s sake. Then, he hit the button. One of those buttons. With a smugness only a mother can wipe off, he cracked that he’d be late for a before school meeting with a teacher. That I’d arranged.
Fertilizer hit the fan from all directions. The only one to avoid the fallout was the mini Dachshund, and that’s because she fits under beds.
There’s nothing like a good old fashioned fertilizer flinging to clear the family air. I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s even necessary to rearing well-adjusted children.
It’s certainly required exercise for maternal mental health.
Turning 50 Got Nuthin’ on Grateful
I am in shock. At least I think it’s shock. And not schock.
I am discombobulated. My god, that is a word. That one I looked up and wasn’t thrown into turmoil when I eyeballed it. Thank you Jesus.
If there’s one thing I’m good at, and it’s probably the only thing I’m good at, it’s spelling. As far back as I can reckon, my spelling neurons have been on full alert. I daresay people have traveled great distances to hear me spell. Just the other day, the seventeen year old walked at least four steps out of his bedroom and asked me how to spell demerit.
Correct letter order is to my life as, say, being right is to Rumsfeld or being the boss of Bush is to Cheney. The difference is, when in doubt, I look it up to be sure sure sure.
A dictionary in every room. A dictionary.com in every computer’s bookmarks.
Heretofore, spellcheck was an imposed annoyance in my life. Me? Rely on spellcheck? Psh. One, I know how to spell most words I write. Two, when I’m unsure or don’t know (hear that, Rum & Chen?), I look it up in a real dictionary. Yea. Merriam-Webster. Oxford English. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
I know. Good god, woman. Land the damn plane!
An email to a friend. On a whim I used my email program’s spellchecker. Humph. Damn spellcheckers can’t even spell greatful correctly. No wonder I never rely on them. I smugly grabbed my hardcover Merriam-Webster just to delight in yet another expose`of spellchecker ineptitude.
Grateful. There it was. I’d like to say that I didn’t check another hardcover. I’d like to say that I don’t have three hardcovers in my house. I checked them all.
40+ years of greatful. I say 40+ since I’m quite certain that Sister Bernadine made it a penmanship practice word.
I’m gaming for another 40+ years of remedial grateful.
Another Way to View the War
Sister Joan is right on. Where were you when I was in Catholic grade school?
For Aaron’s Sake
Arrogance killed six-year-old Aaron Woodson.
School children. School bus. Stop sign arm out on the bus driver’s side of the bus. Flashing lights. Pretty damn simple.
Anything you don’t get about this picture? Anything I need to explain? Apparently so for the driver of the pickup truck that catapulted tiny Aaron through the air like a rag doll and out of his mama’s arms forever.
The bus driver did what she was supposed to do. She activated the bus’ flashing lights. She activated the stop sign arm. She brought the bus to a complete stop and opened the door.
Aaron was only six. But even Aaron did what he was supposed to do. He stepped off the bus with other children and started to cross the street, the same way he’d done every day.
But the twenty-something propelling 5,500 pounds of steel through the neighborhood? He didn’t do what he was supposed to do.
For Aaron’s sake, let’s leave the arrogance at home.
Out of the Depression Closet
Decided several weeks ago to get off antidepressants, hereinafter referred to as The Meds. Sidebar: not wanting my legal education and student loans to be in vain, I must occasionally speak legalese. Forgive me. I know not what I do.
But I digress.
Oh yes, The Meds. Don’t like what I’ve discovered about the known side effects, long term risks and the great unknown. Have come to distrust the pharmaceutical companies, hereinafter referred to as PharmSuits, and how they produce, direct and star in that increasingly popular feature, Psychiatric Meds - Why You Need Them.
Caveat: Lest I get noodle whipped for my callousness, deranged thought process or plain stupidity, let me say this about that. Never say never. There are, I’m certain, situations that warrant The Meds.
Having said this about that, the PharmSuits have, for the past several years, taken to the airwaves, barraging us with thirty second diagnoses and treatment plans. As if The Meds are the Second Coming. As if the complexity and wonder of the human mind and a human life can be so trivialized. Horse hockey.
For the past four weeks, I’ve tracked my withdrawal symptoms. Whoops, I mean “discontinuation symptoms.” Shame on me. Wyeth told me it’s not withdrawal.
The big girl label for Effexor XR is forty-six pages long.
46
Forty-six
Four tens and six singles
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46
Can we talk?
Treading Water
It’s past my bedtime. Wanted to check in. Staying afloat which, with this body, is easily done. Too damn tired. Those brain cells which are still vertical at this hour are hopelessly misfiring. Back tomorrow.
Card-Carrying Lesbian at OK Institution of Higher Learning
Ladies and gentlemen, I have in my hand 57 cases of individuals who would appear to be either card-carrying members or certainly loyal to the homosexual lifestye but who are nevertheless shaping our hearts and minds and threatening to open them.
One case in particular is that of Lauren Topliffe. Just last week this young woman, no doubt under pressure from the subversive Soulforce Equality Ride, had the audacity to out herself on the campus of one of our beloved institutions of higher learning. Yes, middle America, our own Oklahoma Baptist University.
This, ladies and gentlemen, gives you somewhat of a picture of the type of individuals who are helping to shape the future of our country. In my opinion, our institutions of higher learning, which are one of our most important societal benchmarks, are thoroughly infested with gays and lesbians.
Thank God.
