Explosive personality

In the month of December I go through an internal inventory of sorts, determining where I am, what I’m doing, how it’s going and whatnot. It is a very informal process and is entirely too connected to the holidays. I usually find that I’m still too riddled with bad habits to consider the previous year a success, but I’ve also gotten to the point where I know better than to make resolutions I’ll just break within a week of the New Year. So, there’s that saying about having 6 of one and half-a-dozen of the other, but I’m no good with math.*

===

My younger daughter’s hair is amazing. Thick and long and the color of sun-bleached wheat right before the harvest. I love braiding it. Combing it. And she is still of the age where that isn’t uncool, to have your mom play with your hair. My elder daughter’s hair is a wild mob of red ringlets that falls to her waist. Heavy and soft at the same time. If I so much as reach for her hair, she flinches, like I’m coming at her with a branding iron. The randomness of genetics is fascinating.

===

The picture is from my window, yesterday morning. I took it with my new phone, which is really a stupidly expensive, yet tiny little super computer I manage to lose several times a day in my purse.




===

In a moment of weakness, I signed up for CodeAcademy’s little program called CodeYear…where you give them your email address and each week they email you a link to a lesson in writing code. Like, computer programming code. In Java. Which is supposed to be super-easy and my 12-year-old kid could probably figure it out in about 5 minutes, but Holy Mother of Confusion Batman, that first lesson taking me out behind the woodshed for a beating like none-other.

What little I know of code is HTML code and I cheated heartily when learning even that little bit by just modifying what was already there. Swapping colors. Changing sizes of things. Stuff like that. In CodeYear, I actually have to THINK like a computer, which is nine kinds of silly because OF THE MATH!*

===

*I have decided that 2012 is going to be The Year. This Year is My Year. If my math is correct, 2012 is the Year of the Dragon and it is about damn time.

Balance is a myth

So Tanner was put down on October 26. The night before, I took a call from a sobbing (youngest) daughter. She had tried to help Tanner get up to go outside and they had slipped, falling hard. Tanner could no longer stand and from what I could understand, had probably broken something. Follow that with a  pissed-off call with The Boy because I was about 200 miles away and he would have to deal with all the drama at home.

Sorry.

The next day, I talked to the eldest daughter and she was holding it together quite well. And then I went out and read her Twitter feed. No wonder she is an actress.

After all that and much more I’m not interested in writing about, much less think about, we’ll have her buried this spring in the pet cemetery where Rex is. I like to think that will make Tanner happy.

***

I hate this Google+ bullshit. While I’m not nearly as concerned with anonymity online as I once was, I like having a blog that isn’t directly attached to my name. Although, I’m sure it is an easy connect the dots exercise for most.

Google+ requires real names attached to real people. Where is the fun in that? I like my nom de plume.

Facebook is different, as is LinkedIn, ad nauseam. But my blog was where I could howl or bitch or just blabber without having to worry it would blow back on me. Much. The part I really dislike is that I can no longer “share to blogger” on the sidebar here like I used to from Google Reader. Now everything is a “re-post” if I want to share. Do. Not. Want.

Google? If you are listening? I loved you once. Now? I’m kinda having second thoughts.

***

I put 3000 miles on my Jeep this month. Ever since I took a job that had me on the road, I’ve often wondered how many times around the world I could have traveled had I not zig-zagged about the region. Now, I’m starting to wonder how many times to the moon and back I could travel, would my Jeep allow for interstellar jumps.

I’ve also found the Book channel on my Sirius XM radio. Love. A great break from all the Octane and Alt Nation rock I suddenly know all the words to. I swear I could memorize the entire Library of Congress if you put it to music. Homer’s got nothing on me…provided there is a chorus.

Thank You

Thank You:


Here are more chickens getting fired.

I don't know what that means

Where are we going?

I’ve started investigating alternative schools for Muffy. The Boy, who cannot keep a secret to save his life, leaked this intel before I was sure of what road to take. Now - I’m on the road to Changing Schools whether I like it or not.

In regional news, I’m still spending the majority of my day starving to death. Or - at least thinking I’m starving. I’m not. My pants are still too small.

Because I read good things about them on the internet - and therefore it Must Be Gospel - I am now a devoted fan of Larabars. Good to the YUM. I’ve not met a Larabar flavor I don’t devour like a starving animal. Which I kind of am. But then not. I’m all kinds of conflicted about this whole diet thing, in case you are not a student of the obvious.

In other news, iTunes has decided it must be close enough to Christmas to start including Holiday Music in my shuffle. Intolerable. And what is this Ping it keeps asking me about? Not all that interested, really, unless I can set it to send me the free song downloads every week without having to navigate the iTunes Store. That I’d sign up for.

***********************

Assisting the Socially Neotenous

Unlike some people I know in real life (or on Facebook - as real as that can be, I guess), I don’t gauge my value on the planet by how many Facebook “Happy Birthday” greetings I receive. Am I the only person on the web to think such blasphemous thoughts?

If I may directly address a tiny segment of the population: The only person who should be miffed about you getting or not getting Birthday Greetings is your MOM. She’s the one who suffered your birth, childhood and puberty. Go thank her instead of demonstrating your mastery of passive-aggressive behaviors.

Of course, watching this play out has me slowly shaking my head at my computer screen…grown-damn-adults acting like children online. Of course, we didn’t need the internet to make fools of ourselves. I should know.

On dogs

This household is home to two dogs. Old Dog - Tanner and New Dog - Smoke.

Tanner is old. She turns 15 this fall and is showing her age with selective hearing and questionable eye sight. And arthritis. Poor thing. I didn’t believe she would make it through last winter, yet here we are staring down the barrel of another cold and flu season. But there she is… napping on her dog bed, quietly snoring.

Tanner came to us in a sad state. We were looking for a dog - something small-ish and easy maintenance, as dogs go, for Banana. We were in a new town and in our first Real House and it just seemed time to Get A Dog.

I don’t know. Logic fails me when it comes to animals.

Anyway, we went looking in all the right places for an animal: the paper, animal shelters, the bulletin board at the local Alco. Believe it or not, we ended up at a pet shop (THE HORROR, I know). But there in the middle of the back room was a portable fence barely corralling three sick looking puppies.

The shop clerk kind of sniffed at me when I asked about them and said, “Someone brought in 12 of those puppies. Found them in a box in the middle of a field when he was hunting, I guess. These three are in pretty rough shape.” While she talked, one of the puppies was making a valiant effort to climb the fence. I reached down and pulled her off the rungs.

That was it. She was ours.

We have no idea what breed she is, so when people ask we tell them she is a “Field Boxer” and tell her story in homage to what we do know of her heritage.



Smoke is of not so humble beginnings, being pedigreed and papered and officially registered. Silver Smoke, as His Highness is formally called, is a Silver Lab. The existence of such creatures I had no knowledge of until he arrived in the house last year about Thanksgiving time.



He is such a… boy. Rambunctious and nosy, nothing happens in the house without his knowledge. Nothing happens in the 5-mile radius surrounding our house without his knowledge. And he usually comes in from outside smelling of his, um, knowledge.

Smoke likes forks. He will take a fork - just the fork - from your dinner plate, all ninja stealth and then give you the “WHAT? I LIKE FORKS!” look when you take it away from him.

He loves anything plastic that he can systematically destroy. I had a nice little collection of Tupperware-esque containers and such until Smoke arrived. Now I’m finding pieces of gnawed plastic strategically placed about the property. I pity my children’s Barbie Dolls as they are second only to rolls of Toilet Paper as the drug of choice for The Royal Pooch.

And rolls of paper towel? Puppy heroin.



Sadly, the Labrador brain does not fully engage until around age three. So I have two more years of his nonsense. But what lovely nonsense - when he leaps onto my lap, licks my face and, after getting comfortable while simultaneously staying as close to me without actually being ON me, promptly falls asleep.

I miss Rex. We had to put him down in the fall of 2009.

Wait. What?

Grade 7 is kicking my ass.

It is painfully obvious to me why I no longer teach. Aside from being emotionally draining, mostly thankless work, I hated it. Trying to engage kids, dealing with behavior issue, planning lessons, grading papers, attending endless committee meetings and teacher workshops, and relating to blahblahblahkillmenow.

Suddenly I’m one of “those” parents, hovering two feet above and slightly behind my child…emailing teachers, asking questions about lesson plans, taking my kid to “Morning Math” (which is nothing more than a glorified study hall in the math teacher’s classroom), demanding better for my daughter because she deserves it, goddamnitalltohell.

I want to scream…

When the English teacher (bless her heart) tells me about the conversation she had with my daughter about why education is so important (because you need a good job so you can plan for retirement…Wait. WHAT? Is that what and education is for? Jesus.)

When the math teacher stares at his computer instead of helping a kid - who is in his classroom at 7:30 in the damn morning for extra help with assignments.

When lesson plans for science class say M: notes. T: notes. W: quiz. Th: Notes. F: Lab (Ok - but for what CHAPTER, for the love of god.)

When my kid cries every night because she does not want to go to school in the morning.

On the drive up to the school this morning, I considered hiring a private tutor. Or what about a private school? Or maybe I just move to another country where the education system isn’t broken beyond repair? Where would THAT be and how long would it take me to learn the language? I can’t afford any of those options - and quite honestly, the ‘system’ needs to be less of a system and more of a process.

How do I fix this before my kid turns 16 and runs screaming from the school without a diploma?

Polyvore

All Day Everyday by tgullickson featuring a zip hoodie

T shirt
$23 - buckle.com

Bench zip hoodie
£50 - houseoffraser.co.uk

Quiksilver patch jeans
$88 - quiksilver.com

Converse flat sneaker
£40 - houseoffraser.co.uk

Natasha Couture sparkle jewelry
$45 - nordstrom.com

Pyramid jewelry
$45 - pyramidcollection.com

This Polyvore stuff is kinda fun.

Not for pu**ies

So I’m dieting.

But I’m trying to trick myself into the whole “losing weight” thing as an honest attempt to get healthy.

Yeah. Right. Who am I kidding? I want to fit into my dress up clothes again. That, and I don’t want my ass to scare people when I’m at the beach or the pool.

There. I said it. Vanity.

Since I’ve been in business for myself for over a year now, I didn’t give a hoot what I wore to meetings or whatever. I’d show up in blue jeans, Converse All-Stars, a v-neck t-shirt and hoodie, looking all Mark Zuckerberg minus the bad hair, and make no apologies. Hey. I worked for The Man for too long, following some effed-up dress code that required panty hose and blazers. I own this company (ok - co-own, but still); I can dress however I flipping want to.

Except when I shouldn’t.

I tried to pull on a pair of my goes-with-everything dress pants and - how do you say it, Rootie? - I PLOTZED. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked in horror at the reflection. “Where did THAT come from?” I demanded, pointing at a loaf of bread conveniently wrapped around my middle*. When my upper arm stopped wobbling, I turned to see the reverse view. Mother of God, when did I sprout an ASS a-la-JLo? And what is that! Back Fat? Oh, HELL no!

Of course, I had to complain about it for a while. Then I started feeling sorry for myself, too. But the whole SNAP OUT OF IT hit when my biggest pair of blue jeans got a bit too snug. Enough, already.

I cleaned out the snack cabinet (oh how I miss you, crackers and squeeze cheese, Cheetos, Doritos, CARBS!), stocked the veggie bin in the fridge, and started keeping track of everything I eat. Gone are the days of frozen pizza, home made mac and cheese, and spaghetti with butter. I am hungry. All. The. Damn. Time.

Sigh. I’ve lost eight pounds. Eight. Doesn’t sound like much except that I’m on day number 12.

Of course, I did have an Oreo Blizzard from the Dairy Queen for supper the other night.



*Now - I’ve never had a waist. Even at my lightest, I’ve never had a waist. I remember distinctly the lady at the “Prom Dress” store suggesting a girdle or control-top panty hose to help “define your shape a little bit.” I weighed 130 pounds, stood as tall as I am right now (5’6”) and was 16 years old. I was a multi-sport athlete. Could wrestle my brother into screaming Uncle. Could see my biceps and triceps without flexing my arm. And I needed a girdle in order to fit into the prom dress I wanted. And we wonder why girls/women have body issues.