Whew, for the most part

My biopsy came back benign, but I still have to have surgery. I have something called atypical ductal hyperplasia and aypical lobular hyperplasia, which could cause havok in the future. The surgery is outpatient, but I'll be under anaesthesia. It's called a benign surgical biopsy. They'll look again at the tissue to make sure none of the cells have become cancerous, to be safe. Such a relief. Thanks to everyone who dropped by with good wishes and prayers,

Biopsy

So, tomorrow I have to go in for a biopsy. I go with much trepidation. Not that anyone goes tripping lightheartedly. What is so disconcerting is that I was given the all clear after a second mammogram, only to have the doctor call me the next day. He had second thoughts about some areas of calcification and consulted a colleague and decided a biopsy would be best. I’ve now read altogether too much about calcifications (I have a lot, it seems) and the kinds that can be a marker of cancer. Which led me to read a bit too much about breast cancer, including the dispiriting information that small isn’t necessarily better. A small cancer no bigger than a pinhead can kill you and you could actually have a better prognosis with a cancerous tumor the size of a golf ball. With some cancers early detection doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. So, the fact that this clump of whatever is so small the doctors almost didn’t bother with it is no comfort at all. So I’ve been thinking about death and how much I don’t like it, no matter what glories await on the other side, and how I would I would like to not approach any closer.

I also haven’t had a lot of medical interventions that involved slicing, or puncturing in this case. My c-section was it. Beyond that IVs and blood draws have been my sole encounters with invasive procedures. The idea of someone sticking a big needle in my breast, even if there is a local anesthetic (and that causes me some alarm, too, as I have now extrapolated from my issues with Novocain to whatever numbing agent they will be using. They said I could go back to work afterwards. Ha! I’m going to eat chocolate and watch a movie, and maybe go to a bookstore.

The Friday Five--Who I Admire

This week the Friday Five is about five people we admire. I don’t think about this very often, but now that I’ve started I can’t keep myself to 5:

1. Bono, for his artistry and social activism.
2. Peter Gabriel, for lending his voice to Amnesty International and because his Real World label makes available so much wonderful music from around the world.
3. Anne Lammott, for writing honestly about faith and for not being sweet and pious.
4. Kathleen Norris, for writing thoughtfully about Christianity.
5. Donald Miller, because his books make me laugh and because he shows what Christian evangelism can be like if you aren’t a jerk.
6. The nurses of the Maricopa County NICU. I was at Miranda’s site My Farcical Life and her list included parents in the NICU, which reminded me of the incredible women and men (not so many men) who took care of Firecracker and so many other babies who arrived too early or with other issues. The nurses didn’t just care for these babies; they loved them. Some moms lived hours away (I lived an hour away); some moms never showed up. The nurses had to stand in for us. Nurses grew attached to “their” babies. They made special name cards for each isolette and created baby books for the parents. How they found time to do all that while juggling so many duties, I’ll never know. Mona was our special nurse. Mona, wherever you are, I pray God sends you many blessings.
7. Philip Pullman, for creating the incredible imaginative worlds in the His Dark Materials trilogy and for putting up with all the nonsensical controversy over his criticism of religion.

And, OH JOY, His Dark Materials: The Golden Compass has been made into a movie. Nicole Kidman is Mrs. Coulter, which I think is perfect, because she can convey cruelty so well.

I thought I wouldn't post anything because I'm feeling rather crabby and despondent. But then I thought: What and pass up this opportunity to gripe into the void?

We live in an apartment. The apartment complex seems to be headed toward perpetually unkempt. Dear Husband believes that God is telling him it's time for us to move. I love that about my husband--he get's messages from God. I get messages from my inner Woody Allen. I have grim forebodings of moving costs and pet and security deposits. I am certain if we leave this school district our children are doomed. Unfortunately the median housing price in this district is 300k. Fact is that I love love love this little outpost of Atlanta. There's a cute little useless main street right next to the train tracks, zillions of parks, a fabulous library, a couple nice coffee shops, and access to decent Chinese, Mexican, and Thai food. The town puts on great public events, and the crime rate is very low. And my church is here. There are other cute little Atlanta outposts, but this is my cute little outpost. Can you see the claw marks yet?

Besides the housing situation, there is this expanse of year looming before me. I've never been ambitious. I generally have had no particular direction. I'd be curious to know what that feels like. Ambitious people have goals. Goals are a great vexation to me. Have you ever dealt with the Franklin Covey planning system? You are supposed to break your goals into smaller goals. They might as well be asking me to plot the galaxy by first starting with the stars closest to earth. Needless to say I have never filled out one of the Franklin Covey goal sheets. This formlessness is probably not great for someone given to deep depression, but I'm durned if I know what to do about it. Twenty years of three different kinds of therapy haven't uncovered a solution, and God hasn't stepped in, either. The best I've come up with is "Goal 1: Get through this day. Goal 2: Get through tomorrow. Goal 3: Get through entire week. Goal 4: Remember to give Firecracker her meds. Goal 5: Remember to put the laundry in the dryer before it starts to mildew." And so on. The guy who wrote "Don't sweat the small stuff" better not get within my sights.

Okay, well there is a load of laundry slowly cooling in the dryer, and a forgotten load in the washer. I must extract my girls from the house next door and convince them that they should eat something. I've been a bad mom, because I didn't make them eat dinner at the proper time. I hate cooking in any case. I had leftover pizza.

Post-Holiday Ennui

I do not like entering a new year. After the bustle and anticipation of Christmas, the New Year is a big letdown. I don’t like New Year’s celebrations much, and I’m perfectly happy going to sleep well before midnight. In January begins the inexorable downhill race toward summer, which is definitely not my favorite season. And there are so few holidays—such long stretches of work.

Christmas was nice, but it didn’t really live up to my grandiose ideas of how it should be. I don’t know how my parents managed to create such magical Christmas days for me, but instead I have my MIL mentioning how expensive or inexpensive a gift is as the girls open them. Speaking of the MIL, DramaQueen and Firecracker have always looked forward to her visits and had a blast when she stays over. This year DramaQueen and MIL butted heads almost every day. “Mom, she’s bossing me,” DramaQueen would whisper. And she does boss. And she makes statements like this: “There are no locked doors in this house.” Whatever my thoughts on locked doors may have been previously, they are now absolutely part of my house. Lock the doors, girls. So I spent part of the time feeling bristly, although I love my MIL very much and enjoyed the visit for the most part. It’s really annoying to have someone else try to set the rules in your own home, and this year I guess I felt together enough to take umbrage.

I spent Christmas morning putting together an enormous dollhouse. This made me very cranky and unpleasant. My dad would have managed such business over the course of a few days in an outbuilding on our property. The only place of concealment for me would have been a closet. I had planned to set it up on Christmas Eve, but I’m glad I didn’t attempt it. It’s still in our living room, waiting for me to forklift the other toys in the playroom out of the way.

Now there is DramaQueen’s birthday party to organize. This year she has chosen a roller rink. I love venues in which I don’t have to provide the entertainment or organize children for games. I can just let ‘em loose, feed ‘em pizza and cake, and send ‘em off with goody bags full of sugary treats. I’m taking bets on how many Polly Pocket play sets she will receive as presents. Close on the heels of that will come Firecracker’s birthday party. Since no one showed up last year, and the families at her current school seem to lack any understanding of social niceties such as responding to invitations (language barriers? cultural barriers? just dropped off a turnip truck?), I’m deliberating on a very small get-together at our house with—say—the two kids from next door.

Over the holidays I got used to having Dear Husband at hand, and now that I’m back at work I miss him. I also miss reading. I had the chance to indulge in two whole books: Shatterglass and The Prestige. Shatterglass confirms my belief that young adult fiction is just as interesting and way more fun than most adult fiction. What luxury.

Ah well, one of my Christmas presents from Dear Husband was season one of Boston Legal. There is hope yet for the new year.

Journal, journal, journal

For the past year I've been puzzled that Firecracker would call spinning tops "journals." That led to much miscommunication and frustration. Tonight I realized that she was trying to say "dreidel."

Dentist from Hell

So before Thanksgiving part of a filling fell out. I visited my dentist, who thought I might need a crown (they all seem to think I need a crown—are crowns the greatest money-making venture or what?) and couldn’t see me for the work until January. I had visions of a massive toothache happening around Christmas when absolutely no one would be available to help me. I went through the process with my HMO of switching dentists to get this seen to. I ended up with Freak Dentist from Hell. All seemed well at first. Hygienist was nice, dentist was pleasant and told me that I needed a filling and not a crown. He gave me a shot of Novocain and came back in a bit and started drilling. Youch! “Oh, I’m almost done.” Owie Owie Owie. “Just a bit more” Cringe Ow. Finally he gave up and shoved a couple more shots of Novocain in my mouth, not very gently, by which time I was in tears. He told me that next time I should have nitrous oxide since I was so tense. I ask you. I do not generally have problems with dentists. I’m not someone who quails in terror at dental work. But this dentist made me cry. And he gave me so much Novocain the second round that I almost couldn’t swallow. Meanwhile he bustled off to take care of I don’t know how many patients. Thank God I was truly numb when he started again. Now the nerve for that tooth is jangly and irritated, and no doubt it will be sensitive for a while. The dentist never apologized and barely managed to say goodbye before he was off to the next patient.

Comparisons

Did you know that the eyedrops for treating pinkeye cost almost as much as a nice pair of shoes?

Thanksgiving Delurking Week

I followed the RevGals and placed this image on your blog and announce Delurking Week, starting today and going until November 26th. When you visit a blog, you can either just say "Thank you for blogging" or place a blogstone (o) (The invention of PPB of The Ice Floe) or whatever verbage the Spirit moves you to leave.Let the Delurking begin!

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Does anyone bother coming 'round anymore? I haven't had a chance to reflect enough to be witty or even dour and grumpy. Work gets in the way, or I've grown more responsible and stopped sneaking blogtime. This nagging respiratory infection gets in the way. And now we're off to Los Angeles, so I won't be blogging over the holidays.

I am not looking forward to negotiating the airport with a 6 year old and a 4 year old and a carryon full of medicines. Since I sound like I have consumption, I'm sure to make the day of my fellow travelers. My doctor swears everything is clearing up. But now I have a sore throat. And Firecracker is starting to cough (ominous, ominous--I don't want to visit an LA ER). On the other hand, I do have a bottle of codeine cough syrup. Maybe I'll have a happy flight after all.

RevGal Friday Five: Thankfulness

What I’m grateful for:

1. My Dear Husband. He’s my best friend and cheerleader. He does an enormous amount to keep our household running, even while working, going to school, and suffering from sometimes severe pain. He’s thoughtful and tender and has a great sense of humor.

2. DramaQueen and Firecracker. My girls are amazing. How did I live for years thinking I would never want to have children? Raising them is a journey I am glad I didn’t miss.

3. My job and coworkers. I am so lucky to work at a job where the management is understanding of the need to take off time for doctor appointments and family events and unexpected emergencies. My coworkers teach me so much about living a Christian life. They are caring, warm, and joyful.

4. Medicine. We use a lot of it in my household. Our family keeps the local Walgreens in business. All the medicine that Firecracker takes to keep her asthma at bay and her seizures controlled and her thyroid levels functioning. The meds my husband takes to stave off pain and repair his bladder. The meds I take for depression and mood swings. The steroid shot I had yesterday to finally clear my sinuses. I still thank God for the NICU where Firecracker stayed for 2 months after birth. Not that long ago she would have had no chance of surviving. The nurses and doctors who care for these small babies have my highest admiration.

5. Books. Books are among my greatest pleasures. Bookstores and libraries are among my favorite places.What I’m grateful for:

Maximum Candy Acquisition Achieved

Finally, a Halloween where I felt somewhat prepared and steady. We have our lovely carved pumpkin, courtesy of Dear Husband, who did a fantastic job on his first ever carving. Costumes had been thought out several days in advance. The pumpkin candy carriers had been retrieved from the closet of doom. DramaQueen finished her math homework in the car on the way home, as we raced against sundown. I sure hope it's right. I had only enough time to shove a half a peanut butter sandwich at each child before trooping off. I mean, who am I kidding. Real food--hah.

We joined all the other folks who crash the pot-o-money neighborhood nearby to do some serious trick-or-treating. Firecracker was supposed to be a CareBear, but she wore that costume to school for the costume parade, so she decided to opt for her sister's Cinderella costume that is too small for her. She kinda looked like Cinderella if Cinderella were Brittany Spears with a pumpkin. DramaQueen was a flapper. I had to explain that all bloody night, not because she didn't look like a flapper, but because apparantly no one between the ages of 1 and 39 has ever heard of a flapper. She had the cute little drop-waist dress trimmed in feathers, a headband with another feather, gloves and a long strand of pearls. What more do you need to be a flapper? Maybe I should have given her a cigarette in a long black holder. At least she didn't complain that mom had suggested a dopey costume that no one recognized. Not yet, anyway.

Man, these kids have it good. I'm surprised they don't just bring garbage bags or trollys or little red wagons or something, because this neighborhood has major candy. In any case, the pumpkins grew burdensome before we even completed the circuit. Someday when they have grown more savvy and greedy, they will think ahead and bring a bag to dump the candy in so they can press on. Dear Husband and I managed to snag a few chocolates from the folks foolish enough to leave an unguarded dish for all comers. Actually, I made DramaQueen snag them for us. I am so bad. And you know what, when we got home and inspected the swag--it was mostly chocolate! How's that for posh?

I even got the kids down off candy cloud nine and abed before the new episode of House. And that despite the fact that I discovered unsuspected homework in Firecracker's backpack. Luckily preschool homework takes five minutes and a few crayons.

It was a good night.

Boo! The Rev Gal Friday Five

1. Do you enjoy a good fright?
No, I’m a wimp. In general I stay away from scary movies. I definitely don’t watch them alone. And I’m afraid of the dark.

2. Scariest movie you've ever seen
The Exorcist. I still can’t watch it or even hear it from another room. Also, the Blair Witch Project creeped me out for weeks. That final sequence with the abandoned house, the handprints, and one of them standing in the corner. I don’t think I would watch that again.

3. Bobbing for apples: choose one and discuss:
a) Nothing scary about that! Good wholesome fun.
b) Are you *kidding* me?!? The germs, the germs!
It’s not the germs but the suffocating feeling of having my head underwater while trying to bite an apple with my hands behind me. Don’t like that idea at all. My kids are welcome to try.

4. Real-life phobia.
Hmm. This isn’t exactly a phobia, but it sure is a weird aversion. I hate it when I drain macaroni or any tube pasta if any are left standing straight up in the bottom of the pot. I feel very odd, even a little faint. The more there are, the worse I feel. If anyone has any insight into THAT, please let me know.

I also avoid looking in mirrors in the dark. Too many Bloody Mary stories when I was young. And remember that scene with the mirror in Poltergeist?

5. Favorite "ghost story"
My favorite ghost stories are the ones I’ve heard from friends. Since these were their own experiences, I find them particularly compelling and frightening. I had a friend in Arizona who grew up on a reservation. His grandmother’s house had once been part of a hospital in a Japanese interment camp. He said that you could sometimes here gurneys rolling down the hall. He also had scarier stories about dolls that started to talk and watching evil faces superimposed on the faces of sleeping friends. He also sometimes spoke of skinwalkers, very quietly, and of friends who had been chased by these strange shape shifters.

I had another friend who lived in an old house in Japan for a while (I asume on an American army base). He had a huge family—his parents adopted a number of children. Now and then they would hear scratching and a baby crying in one of the storage closets. They never talked about it while they lived there.

Another friend told me that he was staying at his inlaws after his father-in-law’s funeral. He woke up one night and went to get a snack in the kitchen, and there was his father-in-law sitting at the table, not at all ghostly looking. You might think he was dreaming, except that another family member joined him and also saw the ghost.

And then there was a friend who attended St. Andrews University in Scotland. Her housemother lived in an old Tudor house, and when D. graduated, her housemother invited her family to stay there. They caught glimpses of someone in a long dress going up the stairs. Rocking chairs rocked by themselves. And her father once felt something behind him. There was a mirror in front of him and an exit to the side. He didn’t dare look up in the mirror, but just left the room and then the house. His usual job was as a prison warden. I also visited this house with my friend. I didn’t see anything, but something was making a ruckus banging around pans in the kitchen, but there were only us three having sherry in the parlor. In response to our inquiry, the owner said there was no one there. And she left it at that.

In which I admit my secret longings

I’ve been pondering my previous comment about my Martha Stewart-ish urges. No one would know that I have them from looking at my house. The only style it has was pounded into place by my MIL out of pity. I have no ability to decorate. I suppose I should have known this pretty early on, since my idea of decorating my dorm room was to write morbid thoughts on the walls in black marker. I don’t recommend that, by the way. I didn’t own a bed for years, preferring to sleep on a futon on the floor. I don’t recommend that, either, after a certain age and weight threshold is reached.

I don’t actually look at Martha Stewart’s magazine. It’s far too lofty. Now and then I pick up Real Simple, which always has a section on ingenious ways to reuse items, creating new containers, holders, and such that you never actually realized you needed. Of course, if you don’t have the original item to reuse—say egg cups—now’s your chance to purchase them so that you can use them to organize your paperclips and thumbtacks. Why you aren’t using your egg cups for eggs I don’t know. Perhaps you just recently updated the look of your egg cups. Everyone needs a change.

These are the magazines I think of as leisureporn—offering enticing images of inaccessible perfection to overworked women. Then there are the old-school women’s mags, the meat and potatoes home-cooked version. Every issue has tips on organization, which is an endlessly vexing problem, but without it I’m not sure what these magazines would publish. Many tips on how not to look overworked and frumpy, all in 5 minutes. You go girl. Then there are the diets and the exercises that can be done 10 minutes while you catch up with Desperate Housewives, followed by recipes for seasonal cupcakes. Ah, and don’t forget the ideas for kid’s birthday parties. How to build a castle from 13 sheet cakes, a gallon of frosting divided into 36 colors, a sugar wafer drawbridge, a fruit leather banner, and gumdrops cleverly flattened by a rolling pin and cut into the shape of a dragon.

Do I sound bitter? Because, yes, I admit it, I would like to have my life so well-ordered that I could construct a small building with cake.

And I’ve never even owned egg cups.

My Latest Computer Obsession--Online Toy Research

I find that I have almost no time to be on a computer. Dear Husband is always using ours, and when he isn’t I’m busy escorting the girls through their evening routine. The past weekend I spent all my computer time looking obsessively at toys. Yes, I’m beginning to fret over Christmas shopping. I’m looking for the perfect toys—the ones that combine the best educational qualities with fun and durability, all at an affordable price. Uh huh. I think back to my favorite childhood toys—baby dolls, Barbies, blocks and the enormous dollhouse my dad built from a kit. That dollhouse was so big that I recently gave my dad clearance to give it away because I don’t expect to ever have a home with enough space for it. We had to use a spare room when I was a child. Neither Dear Husband nor I could build a birdhouse much less a dollhouse, and the price even of kits is astounding. I won’t even talk about pre-made dollhouses--those beautiful all-wood, brightly colored quality creations that reach up into the $300 range. I made the mistake of letting DramaQueen get a gander at a Playmobil castle. I want a Playmobil castle. Playmobil toys are awesome. But I think I would need a small loan to purchase and furnish the castle.

This is the time of year I start to feel Martha Stewart-ish urges—that I will dip my own candles, fill the house with the aromas of cider and baking cookies, create centerpieces from evergreen branches and holly, and actually use ribbon and bows on my wrapped presents. This will pass. Actually, it’ll get steamrolled over.

After all, I still have to get through Halloween, and DramaQueen doesn’t have a costume.

Crap crap and more crap

I am in a crummy mood. First, my meds seem to be having some annoying side effects. All of a sudden, several months in. I am misplacing and forgetting things more than usual. And I seem to be having a month-long period, which is enough to make anyone crabby. More doctor appointments—oh goody.

Also, this really pissed me off today. We have company devotions. A nice time to share prayer requests and such. Well, one of my higherups asked me about a prayer request sent in last week, and I somehow managed to confuse two people, both from the same ministry and both with serious issues. And you know, this woman was also emailed this same request, but there she was staring me down with a beady eye. Because you see, it was a test. She was ticked off about something or other and as usual with her, she found a handy target to nail to the wall. She does this frequently when she’s in a sour mood. I’ve heard her rant when someone forgets to switch their cell phone to silent. “I’ve done everything and I just don’t know what else I can do.” Well, shut up and get a life comes to mind. That, newsflash, every now and then someone will forget. Or, perhaps, that given the turnover here you should just expect to send out a notice every few months to let the new people know that Armageddon will come if they don’t silence their phones. And I’m not feeling very Christian and forgiving at the moment. Damn, it’s those petty stupid things that make daily life so much more unpleasant than it has to be.

So the drama

We've had some rainy days this past week. As you know, on rainy days children are tightly wound. Those are the days I bring the girls home and they decide to see what happens if they leap of the back of the sofa onto the cats, or chase each other around the house until someone cries.

The other day I picked up the girls at daycare and we were driving home through the rain. I was teasing Firecracker because she wanted to play on the slide, even in the rain. "It's not FAIR!"--the universal cry of childhood.

DramaQueen chimed in: "All our plans are CRUSHED!"

Five Years Ago

On September 11, 2001, I woke up early to take a pregnancy test. Dear Husband had already left for the day. The test was positive. I had to get DramaQueen dressed and to daycare and drive to work, where there would be a company-wide meeting. Usually I turned on NPR and listened while I drove, but today I wanted to think about being pregnant. I missed my mom, who had died in June, and wished she could know about the new baby. I wondered how DramaQueen would react. I wondered how we would manage it financially. My thoughts wandered along these lines as I drove to daycare. I got DramaQueen out, and hauled out all her stuff for the day. And then I opened the door. This was an inhome daycare. The woman who ran it was talking loudly on the phone, her eyes riveted on the TV. It took a few moments before I understood what I was seeing. And as we watched, the second plane hit.

I left. I couldn't think to do anything but continue to work. I phoned Dear Husband from the driveway. As I drove to work, I started crying, and screaming. I wondered if all the other people in the lanes next to me were also listening to the radio. Why were we driving around as if this were any ordinary day?

At work we all crowded into a small conference room with a TV. No one was working. The company-wide meeting was called off. The CEO was on the phone, trying to find out the fate of friends in New York. We were all eventually sent home, to sit in front of the TV for the rest of the day.

How, I thought, can I bring a child into this? From then on I felt uneasy about being pregnant. The meeting had been rescheduled for that Thursday. It turned out to be an announcement of impending layoffs. I was ravenously hungry at lunch. Then I went home and threw up. Thus began unrelenting morning sickness. Thus began months of uncertainty--would I be kept on? Yes. Then, the company declared bankruptcy, and I knew I would be out of a job before I gave birth in May. I still felt miserable. Firecracker kicked a lot. It hurt. It felt wrong, but the doctors brushed it off. We went to Las Vegas and I was so tired walking through the shops. I found a sale at Baby Gap. What is this? I ased a salesperson. It's so small. It's for a preemie, she said. At least I don't have to worry about that, I thought. Yes, I actually thought that. Then one day at work, I began spotting and cramping. Two days later I gave birth at 26 weeks, in a room crowded with doctors and nurses from the NICU.

How many people, I wonder, oriented their lives around 9/11, however distant geographically. Everything in my life shifted and settled askew, all the small personal matters seemed connected in some way to that horror. No one I knew in New York worked there; no one I knew was injured. But I had lived there. That the Towers could be gone--something so integral to the skyline--I'm not sure I could go there and see that gap, and think of all the gaps, the missing mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, daughters, sons.

Stateless

I go to Curves. Those of you familiar with the place know that Curves pipes in music, all sorts of music. As long as it's peppy, you'll hear a variety of dance, country, pop, 50's bubblegum, surf music--whatever. I usually don't pay much attention. The other day I was rotating to the next machine when I heard a song I haven't heard since the mid-80s--New Toy by Lena Lovich. I would not have thought of Lena as mainstream fodder. How quaint and antiquated I feel. Perhaps I'll next hear God Save the Queen or London Calling as I'm doing my bicep curls. This got me thinking about my favorite albums of all time, which in turn made me think about how my musical tastes seem to have ossified before the 90s hit:

1. Still, by Joy Division
2. The Queen Is Dead, by the Smiths
3. Aeon, by Dead Can Dance
4. Avalon, by Roxy Music
5. The Unforgettable Fire, by U2
6. Low Life, by New Order
7. The Dreaming, by Kate Bush
8. Scary Monsters, by David Bowie

At various times I've made an attempt to plunge into the currents of new music and surfaced with a few items. Recently I picked up a copy of PASTE on the 100 greatest living songwriters. I take comfort that I recognize most of the names, even if I've never really listened to them. Others I have never heard of in my life: Sufjan Stevens, Conor Oberst, Stephen Malkmus, Alejandro Escovedo, Sam Beam. The accompanying CD is also full of people I've never heard of: Elf Power, Golden Smog, Janove Otteson. And on and on. Does anyone actually have time to keep up with all this?

PS: Firecracker is much better now. Whatever the problem was, it seems to have resolved itslef.

Firecracker Update

Well, we are no closer to understanding whatever was or is wrong with Firecracker. Things have been better the past few days, either from the laxative or the fact that I keep food in her stomach at all times, not sure which. Now I have time to worry about broncho pulmonary dysplasia as we approach the season of respiratory infections. Yea me. We are supposed to visit my dad this weekend. He is not the greatest housekeeper. Well, he's lousy. Brother 2 isn't much better, because he lives in my grandparents' old home, which is slowly sinking back into the land, taking the carpet as old as me with it. Of course, many of the structures in Alabama look as if they are sinking back into the land. It is a very Faulkneresque place. In fact I'm convinced it is more Faulkneresque than Mississippi, and that Faulkner may have used some of my ancestors as models for the characters in As I Lay Dying.

I'm hoping that Brother 3 will also be visiting, so that we young folks can escape to Brother 2's girlfriend's house, which is a sanctuary of cleanliness, and I can listen to my brothers play guitar and fiddle. Brother 3 surprised the heck out of me by picking up the fiddle on our last visit. I had no idea he could play, and apparantly neither did he. He's one of those people who just pick it up and start noodling about.

Brother 2 and Brother 3 are the ones I see most often, which isn't often enough. They grew up in the 50s and I grew up in the 70s, so there's a big generaton gap. Brother 3 is like the White Rabbit--he keeps up a constant internal and sometime external monologue of worry. He works at the CDC and has a passion for China. Brother 2 has a lovely "southern gentleman" voice. He's into bluegrass and folk music and feels utterly out of place in rural Alabama, except that he would never be comfortable in any other landscape. His favorite author is Mark Twain, and I think they would have got on just fine. He has a radical streak, too. He once told me he thought that the redistribution of wealth was a fine idea, not a particularly common idea in rural Alabama.

Hope everyone has a peaceful Labor Day weekend. Get some sleep.

Driven Mad--RevGals Friday Five

1. Driving: an enjoyable way to clear the mind? a means to an end? a chance to be quiet with one's thoughts? a necessary evil? the downfall of our planet and its fossil fuels? Discuss. I am not a happy driver. I get nervous in unfamiliar neighborhoods. I hate left turns, particularly without lights, but I also hate turning left on green across multiply lanes of dense traffic with someone sitting on my back bumper. Where I live it is a necessary evil. If there’s public transit somewhere (and there is a bus shelter in front of our apartment complex), I’ve never seen it. There has been talk of a rail line, but people grouse about their property values. In other words, please don’t give any of the THOSE _____people access to our neighborhoods.

2. Do you drive the speed limit? A little faster? Slower? Have you ever gotten a ticket? I generally drive about 5 to 10 miles faster than the speed limit except in rain. I’ve had two tickets in my life, both for speeding.

3. Do you take public transportation? When? What's your opinion of the experience? There’s no public transit here. When we go downtown we often drop our car at the nearest MARTA station (which is a good distance from where we live) and take the train into downtown. No parking issues. I loved the subway and buses in New York City. Getting around was so easy, and if you had a long commute you could at least read.

4. Complete this sentence: _____________ has the worst drivers I've ever experienced. Phoenix, Arizona, has the worst drivers I’ve ever experienced. First, everyone’s a cowboy. Yee haw. Second, the folks who were born and raised there sort of forget that the city grew by about 400% and so you can’t just drive 85 mph, even if that is the speed limit. Oh, and the speed limit IS 85 mph on the highway, so of course everyone is driving 90 to 100 mph. Third, no one there is used to rain, so they either freak out and slow to a crawl or are oblivious and keep barrelling at their regular speed (80 mph). Or, because everyone’s a cowboy, they try to do something dumb, like cross a wash during a storm. Then you see them on the evening news, standing on the roof of their pickup, waiting to be rescued. Fourth, for some unknown reason Phoenix started putting in roundabouts in some areas. Needless to say, no one out West knows how to handle a roundabout. Good luck getting in. Fifth, people are just jerks—they tailgate, they honk, they are impatient, they weave, they run red lights, they sit on train tracks, they refuse to use signals, they speed through school zones, they use intimidation tactics. If you don’t turn fast enough they’ll go around you and turn in front of you.

5. According to the Census Bureau, reverendmother's fair city has the 6th longest average commute in the United States at 29 minutes each way. How does your personal commute rate? My commute is a jolly 15 minutes (except that I have to drop the kids). Dear Husband’s is more like an hour to an hour and half. I just refuse to work in Atlanta. In Phoenix I had an hour commute, and I promised myself I would never do that again.

Bonus for the brutally honest: It has been said, and the MythBusters have confirmed, that cell phones can impede driving ability almost as much as drinking. Do you talk on a cell phone while driving? I’ll call on my cellphone if I’m running late or I’m lost, and I’ll take calls from Dear Husband, because I never know when an emergency will strike. I don’t like to do it unless I’m in steady to slow traffic going straight ahead—no lights or turns. And I like to keep it short.