Blog This Mom!

Top Ten Reasons I Want a Zeenus

2009-07-10T16:50:00.000-07:00

The rhyming à la katydidnot is so as not to offend the delicate gender, i.e., the men folk in our family. And to evade Googling pervs. Last weekend, when my youngest brother-in-law strayed within earshot of his wife and I discussing female issues, and the organ that rhymes with flute-or-us was mentioned, his face turned whiter than the cliffs of Dover.

As I ALLUDED to last week, I had surgery to stop a great deal of gleeding from my nerve-hex. The doctor called with the lab results and everything is fine all up in there, i.e., no cancer, which news I was expecting because my last sap schmeer was clear, but I still found myself holding my breath when the doctor said, "Just a minute while I look over the biopsy results." I could hear papers rustling over the phone. Waiting. Waiting. W.a.i.t.i.n.g. Just when I turned blue and began writhing on the floor she said, "Benign."

Meanwhile, I'm in week four damn it FOUR did you get that? FOUR fricking FOUR weeks of gleeding and I’m so sick of it that I want a zeenus. I figure if Chas Bono can get a zeenus, so can I. Can’t I? Why not, yo?

I think before the doctors will give you a zeenus, you have to demonstrate that you have good reasons for wanting one. So I thought of the top ten reasons I want a zeenus, and here they are, presented David Letterman-style, in reverse numerical order:

10. No more shaving my legs.

9. Nobody would expect me to find things in the pantry.

8. Nobody would expect me to find things in the bathroom cabinet.

7. Nobody would expect me to find things anywhere.

6. I wouldn’t have to pluck those annoying chin hairs.

5. No more cramps. Sorry Brother-in-Law, I mean no more gramps. No, that's not good either. No more lamps. Whatever.

4. If my zeenus itched, I could scratch it. Anywhere. Anytime.

3. I’d never have to stick another maxi pad with wings in my underpants again.

2. I wouldn’t even know why they put wings on a maxi pad.

And the number one reason I want a zeenus . . .

1. I’d have an actual shot at more than just an imaginary marriage with Adam Lambert.

What do you think? Will they give me my zeenus now?

The Good Enemy

2009-07-07T20:50:00.000-07:00

I said that I was done with the subject last week. I planned to not even turn on my television today. I just wanted to keep my head turned as much as possible. But after stillness and meditation, I realized that the very strong desire to turn my head away might actually be the very reason not to do so as Michael Jackson’s death might be my good enemy.

The good enemy in Native American teaching is the concept that sometimes the person or situation that causes the most discomfort carries the greatest lesson. Issues raised in the media coverage since Michael Jackson’s death are serious, emotionally evocative, and personal to a great many survivors (a statistically larger group than commonly believed). So I decided to bear witness to Michael Jackson’s memorial service on television today. I prayed for an open heart while I did.

I found myself profoundly moved during parts of the memorial service, a celebration of an extraordinary entertainer and his almost half of a century of global humanitarian, social, cultural, political, and musical influences. Maya Angelou's poem was brilliant and poignant. And (don't hate me) I thought Al Sharpton delivered a compelling message in parts, especially to MJ’s children. It was nice to see Martin Luther King's family, and hear their words of love and compassion. I also thought Brooke Shields had a unique perspective and her tribute was fresh and full of grace. These people clearly had special personal relationships with MJ.

In my opinion, all that is left to make today’s service an honorable tribute is for AEG and/or the Jackson family to reimburse the financially indebted City of Los Angeles for the extraordinary expenses today’s service will otherwise cost taxpayers.

Grasping for release from the negative feelings that I had about (what I believed to be) the skewed perspective of the media coverage of MJ’s death, I watched again many of Michael Jackson's videos (Thriller, Billie Jean, and the like) this week. I was reminded of how MJ’s artistic genius, spirit, hopes, power, light, darkness, and energy spoke to me when his music and videos (especially from the mid-1980s and before) were first released. They still speak to me now.

I know that his path was not easy from beginning to end. He was a victim and a survivor too. But that isn't all that he was.

If you read my blog post (and comment section) on MJ last week, you know that I do not share in the fervor of the world as it travels along this bizarre trajectory of mourning a man who was so brilliant on the one (-gloved) hand, but so deceptive, dangerous, and destructive on the other.

After bearing witness to his memorial service today, and watching his videos/listening to his music here and there over the last week, I have this perspective to share:

I am sad for the loss to the world of the artist and human being that he was.

I am sad for the absence in the world of all that he might have been if his response to the damage inflicted on him in his life had been different.

I am sad for the suffering that we all watched another human being both endure and inflict upon himself and others.

I am glad that he is finally at peace, and I hope that the human beings whose lives he affected both positively and negatively will find peace too.

The good enemy had some lessons for me.

Did a good enemy find you this week? What did you learn?

It is challenging, but not impossible to control the world from a supine position on my couch . . .

2009-07-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

I hinted this week that I’ve been under the weather, but I was all me meh about the details because I’m bored of the weird medical afflictions that have plagued me from head to toe ~~lately~~ my whole life. However, yesterday’s events were like a Seinfeld episode in which a bunch of seemingly random events come slamming together at the end, and I mean slam in the poetic sense.

Suburban Correspondent’s KitchenAid dishwasher went on the fritz this week and she wrote a little poem about it. I happen to have the same model dishwasher pictured in her post, so I left a little poem about that in her comment section, and followed it up later with a suggestion that she host an appliance poetry slam, which she did. Apparently now there is also voting for the best appliance poems over at her (newly redesigned and quite lovely, by the way) very funny blog, so take a moment and go check it out and vote for me, k? I don’t even know if there are prizes, but I want to win anyway, and if you make it through to the end of this post, I’m quite certain I can earn your pity vote because it turns out in a twist of fate that I have actual KitchenAid applicance woes of my own now.

To keep it short because eeeew who wants the TMI anyway and no hot doctors were involved, I started having some, uh, issues having to do with my, uh, female organs (TMI, ack!) and had surgery on Tuesday morning to remove something that didn’t belong up there (TMI, ack!) and was causing pain and heavy bleeding (TMI, ack!). Once again, I'm waiting for lab results, but my last pap smear (TMI, ack!) in April was good, so all guesses are that everything is fine.

Meanwhile . . . after going bat-shit crazy from being under the weather and on the couch forfrickingever, I got the brilliant idea that I would suck it up and go to the grocery store two days post-op to lay in supplies for the coming weeks. I figured it would be one trip to the store and then back home to put my feet up all weekend long, while Laura fetched me things and Tom grilled our dinners. Laura said she’d push the cart and carry in all of the groceries, which was awesome because Laura hates to go shopping. As an aside, Laura is bending over backwards these days to do anything to demonstrate how responsible she can be so she can have a cell phone like “every other kid in her class.” (I’ve opportunistically extorted hours of uncomplaining piano practice, household chores, personal grooming, pleasant attitude, etc. in the last few weeks. I can pretty much get Laura to do whatever I want if I just mention the words cell phone . . . And, by the way, no promises whatsoever about actually buying any cell phone have been made during said moments of extortion.)

So I bought almost $500 worth of stuff (including a liver/colon detox kit because of all of the ~~Girl Scout cookies I've consumed since March~~ drugs I ingested after surgery), and tons of organic meat and other frozen foods so I'd have stuff to crockpot and for Tom to BBQ in the coming weeks. I bought beef. I bought chicken. I bought pork. I bought turkey. I bought salmon. I bought tofu. I bought veggie burgers. I bought Amy's Mac & Cheese. I bought frozen lasagna. I bought frozen burritos. I bought frozen pizza. I bought soy ice cream and frozen yogurt. I bought milk, soy milk, cottage cheese, smoothies, yogurt, fresh pressed apple juice, cheeses (goat, mozzarella, cheddar, parmesan), fruit, eggs, berries. I bought fresh veggies. I bought frozen veggies. I bought baking supplies to make a crockpot cake recipe from the book that Laura bought for me. I bought everything in the store. Etc.

My lovely, six-year-new, side-by-side, built-in, KitchenAid refrigerator/freezer would be full in the coming weeks.

Do you see where this is headed?

Laura carried every single bag from the car to the kitchen.

When I opened the freezer? It was all frosty and drippy and not working.

But denial is my middle name, so I decided I must have left the door partially ajar that morning, although I could not think for what possible purpose I’d opened the freezer that morning, but it must have been left open accidentally because why else would the freezer be frosty and drippy and not working?

After I cleaned the frost and Laura mopped the water from the floor (I asked if she had any particular model cell phone in mind), I Googled troubleshooting instructions for my model fridge and reset some buttons and loaded all the food into it.

I went about my merry way where merry way equals I dealt with a comedic series of other errors where comedic series equals I ended up crying, and then I went to check the freezer again.

Everything in the freezer was melting and . . . now the fridge side was growing increasingly warmer.

Tom came home just as I started crying.

Tom was really nice to me.

So I stopped crying.

Then I Googled an appliance repair dude (that just sounds wrong), and Tom called him.

Dude couldn’t come until noon the next day.

So . . .

Tom and I moved all of our food to the small fridge in our garage where moved all of our food equals most of it because small. I had to triage.

The freezer got so warm last night we went ahead and baked some cookies in it.

This morning? Cold again. But will it stay cold if I put the food back into it? I can’t decide in my weakened condition.

So . . . please go vote for the KitchenAid repair poem that I wrote last week because I may or may not actually be hosting a KitchenAid repair person in my own kitchen later today. And because I cried. The poll is on the left side of Suburban Correspondent’s lovely new blog layout. :-)

On the upside, I’m pretty sure I can get Laura to move all of the food back into the house for us if I merely wonder aloud whether it is important for a cell phone to have texting capabilities . . .

Can You Help Us Find Our Child?

2009-06-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

What happens when mom has been under the weather?

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS:

Does anyone see Laura in there? We haven't seen her since Saturday.

Summer has barely begun and OOOOO MMMMM GGGGG we're clearly going to have to find some outdoor activities to keep Laura busy. Once we find her.

Or we could reconsider sleep away camp this year. Once we find her.

Consider this conversation earlier in the week, before Laura went missing:

Laura: "I really want to go to sleep-away camp."

Mom: "Not this summer. Maybe in the future."

Laura: "Mom, I'm ready to go to sleep-away camp. It's you and dad who are having trouble."

Mom: "And that's precisely the trouble that's keeping you home."

So, I HINTED that I'm under the weather, but since no hot doctors have been involved in the details (so far), I'm all meh on sharing the details because meh I'm bored of medical details (that don't involve hot doctors).

Meanwhile, I will share another photo because it provides clear and convincing evidence, maybe even evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, the sort of proof people want to see when they have questions. In this case, my photographic evidence demonstrates what mortal men are capable of doing when absolutely necessary.

I had to be driven to a doctor's appointment on Friday. (Not a hot doctor.) (What's up with my karma?) (Frick.) Also, on Friday Laura had an appointment (made a month before the whole needing-to-go-to-the-doctor business happened) to get purple tips put in her hair, which purple tips I'd promised she could have for summer (such colors are not allowed at school, so it had to be summer), and the hairdresser was going on vacation for several weeks, so the appointment had to be Friday. And, gosh darn it, in my weakened condition I decided that if I had to move Heaven and Earth, that kid was getting her purple tips for the summer.

So.

Tom took me to my doctor's appointment and then drove Laura to the hair salon to have purple tips put in her hair, proving that we have our priorities straight. Also? Who said men can't multitask?

Mourning Michael Jackson: Celebrity Trumps Integrity?

2009-06-26T17:09:00.000-07:00

“There are two kinds of light – the glow that illuminates, and the glare that obscures.”
~James Thurber

Michael Jackson was a music phenomenon to many. I liked his music, dance, and artistic contributions – a lot.

But he was a child molester. I think one trumps the holy living shit out of the other.

I was aghast at the thought of MJ’s upcoming "comeback tour" in London next month. I think that his death before this comeback is timely, if his was to be a comeback that would have provided him with more fame and money, and thus access to even more children. I do not say this to mean that I believe that the universe intervened to deal out a just punishment by death. As an aside, I don’t believe in punishment by death, even for child molesters. Life in prison without the possibility of release is another matter.

Now, sure, if you know me, or have been reading this blog for long, you might think I'm a little biased. I am. Having said that, while I'm watching people mourning on TV and hearing reports that his albums are selling out and that fans are setting up shrines around the world, I'm just thinking that there's one less child molester in the world and that's a good thing.

I have explored and do embrace the powers of forgiveness and redemption, but MJ never expressed anything but denial. Regardless, even when there is an admission and treatment, the recidivism rate for child molesters is astoundingly high.

I know MJ has three children (the sole custody rights of whom he purchased) who will mourn him. At their age, I would have mourned my father's death too, and I am thinking of MJ’s children now. But all of MJ’s talents and charitable works don't change the fact that he was a child molester whose money and celebrity status gave him access to children in untold (and some told) ways and numbers.

I won’t think of MJ and his creative contributions to the music world today. And, no, I don’t care to wait a so-called respectable period of time to say this. I’m thinking about the innocent children who were his prey. I think all the respect belongs to them.

The Little Blond Buddha Who Lives Next Door

2009-06-24T11:58:00.000-07:00

It was one of those twenty-four-hour bugs or food poisoning; I’m not sure which. Between trips to the bathroom, I was in bed with a pounding headache. The doorbell rang. I could not get up. Knocking. I.Could.Not.Get.Up. Doorbell ringing. Head pounding. Knocking.

I pulled myself out of bed. My stomach lurched. My head throbbed. I made my way to the second-story window that overlooks our front porch, opened it, looked down, and saw the top of the head of the little blond-haired, five-year-old boy who lives next door. He looked up and said, very sweetly, that he’d hit his ball over the fence and wanted to get it from our backyard.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked, wondering why he was standing there by himself. He’s so little, and blond. “She’s in the house,” he answered. I told him that I couldn’t get the ball just then because I was sick, but said that he could go get his mom to get his ball for him. I asked him not to go in our backyard by himself because of the pool. I watched as he walked back toward his house, and then I stumbled back to bed.

The next day I found his ball in our pool, fished it out, and tossed it over the fence into his yard.

A couple of days later I was writing at my computer upstairs when the doorbell rang. I looked out of the same second-story window down to the porch, and saw the top of that little blond head. I opened the window, and the boy said, very sweetly, that he’d hit his ball over the fence. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “She’s in the house,” he answered. I went downstairs, met the boy at the door, walked with him to the backyard, fished his ball out of our pool, handed it to him, and told him that it was okay with me if his mom comes in our yard to get the ball if it happens again.

The next day the little blond boy rang the doorbell to get his ball. And again a day later, he rang the doorbell and asked for his ball. After I retrieved it yet again, I walked him next door and knocked. I waited a few moments and knocked again. When the boy’s mother answered the door, I told her that I’d just fished her son’s ball out of the pool again, and that I was very glad that he asked to go in the yard rather than getting it on his own because of the pool. I told her that anytime the ball goes over the fence she was welcome to go and get it for him.

A couple of mornings later, after getting out of the shower, I was sitting at my computer wrapped only in a towel. The doorbell rang. Hoping it was UPS just dropping a package, I ignored it. I was in the middle of writing. Knocking. Ignoring. Doorbell ringing. I really didn’t want to lose my train of thought. Knocking. And I was wrapped in a towel. Doorbell ringing. Where is that kid’s mother? Knocking.

I realized I had a choice.

I could ignore the predictable annoyance knocking at my door, or be open to the unknown opportunity knocking at my heart.

Damn it.

I went to window, saw the top of that little blond head, told him to wait a minute, went to my closet to throw on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and met him on the front porch. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “She’s in the house,” he answered. He followed me into the backyard and watched while I fished his ball out of our pool. “Wow!” he said looking around, “I really like your backyard. Do you think my sister and I could come over here for a play date some time?” “I’ll tell you what, how about when the weather is warmer, you and your sister come over and swim with Laura?” “Wow!” he beamed. "We'd really like that!" he said. "So would we," I told him.

The next day as I was writing at my computer the doorbell rang. I went to the window. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said sweetly, “my ball is in your pool again.” In the backyard we discovered the ball was smack in the middle, unreachable. “Do you have a 'skinner'?” he asked helpfully. We keep the skimmer on the other side of the house. I had to go back inside to fetch my shoes, which I did. Using the skimmer, I fished the ball from the middle of the pool, and asked, “I wonder why your ball keeps going over the fence. What do you think?” “I keep hitting it this way with my bat,” he replied. “I wonder what would happen if you batted in the other direction,” I said knowing that he lives on the corner with no yard on the other side of that fence. “Well, it would go out on the sidewalk or in the plants,” he replied. “I guess that would be a lot easier to go get,” he added. “I supposed it would,” I told him, suspecting by this time that he was probably after more than just his ball.

The next day I was on the phone with Tom when the doorbell rang. Tom said, “Keep me on the phone when you answer the door, I want to know if it’s him.” I opened the door. I told Tom, “I’ll call you back.” Tom asked, “Is it the little boy?” “Nope,” I said. “It’s his little sister.”

“Hello, what can I do for you?” I said to the tiny blond-haired girl. “Can you see if you have a plastic tennis ball in your backyard? It’s white,” she asked. “Do you want to come with me to look?” I replied. She followed me into the yard, and there it was, a white whiffle ball floating at the edge of the pool. I fished it out, handed it over, and as I did spotted another little blond head on the other side of the back fence peeking through the spaces between the wood panels. “Sweetheart,” I said to the girl, “did your brother ask you to come over and get his ball?” And then a sweet little voice cheerfully called over the fence, “Yes! It’s my ball! I just didn’t want to bother you again.”

Yesterday I noticed a ball floating at the side of the pool and wondered how long it had been there. We were out of town last week. I hesitated for a moment before tossing it back over the fence. I think my little neighbor would prefer that I wait for him to come over so we can get it together.

Hummingbird Fail

2009-06-15T08:31:00.000-07:00

I took this photograph outside of my house yesterday.

I'm pretty sure a spider bit my toe while I was taking this photograph.

Now the bottom of my toe hurts.

Yes, that toe.

In other news, my hair still looks fabulous.

(Dear PETA: The hummingbird got its shit together and flew away unharmed a few moments later.)

Sunday Message: Fractals

2009-06-14T14:53:00.000-07:00

“A human being is part of a whole, called by us 'Universe,' a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest – a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

~Albert Einstein

During a storm, the wind is blowing hard, the air is biting cold, and the rain is piercing and wet. Being in a storm feels uncomfortable, perhaps even overwhelming. What do you see when you’re standing in front of a junk-filled garage? You see a big mess. How about when you have an argument with a friend or family member? During the confrontation, you may experience anger and hurt feelings. But when you’re in the smack midst of what appears to us to be chaos, is it possible that something greater is there, something that could be discovered with some distance or a change in perspective?

From a distance a storm looks very different than it does up close:

How about that messy garage? Maybe it’s filled with boxes of old photographs, boogie boards, gardening tools, holiday decorations, and a car or two. But aren’t those tangible items stored in an apparently happenstance manner really symbols of love, tradition, joy, and prosperity, that when combined reveal a life well lived?

What about that issue with your friend or loved one? Do your differences provide you with an opportunity to find common ground and enjoy a new level of intimacy, or a point of departure to make room for healthier relationships and connections?

The rain? The boxes? The confrontations? What if those were fractals?

Fractal patterns are everywhere in nature, broccoli, snowflakes, flowers, coral, and ferns. Looking just at one part, you see that part. From a different perspective, you see the pattern. So how do perspectives and patterns influence our perception of our mess?

If you’re in the midst of a corn maze, you see walls of cornstalks. But from a distance, the pattern emerges and you can find which direction on the path you wish to follow – or find that you were already headed in the desired direction. It’s the same thing with traffic on the freeway. It isn’t always possible to see ahead to know if it is better to take a side road or maintain the present course; however, from that spot you can choose to curse at other drivers or turn up the radio and sing along.

Being caught in a storm, stuck in traffic, standing in front of a garage that needs organizing, or arguing with a loved one may be uncomfortable when you’re in the midst of it. Is there comfort in knowing that the mess itself is part of a great and glorious pattern, and that even the parts that aren't the most beautiful or are the hardest to see might also be more than just part of the whole, but essential to it, like roots to the tree?

(Storm photographs courtesy of Google Images.)

I'm Hoping To Get INTO The Closet

2009-06-11T12:15:00.000-07:00

Rolling Stone
Wanna see my picture on the cover
Rolling Stone
Wanna buy five copies for my mother
Rolling Stone
Wanna see my smilin' face
On the cover of the Rolling Stone

~Dr. Hook's On the Cover of Rolling Stone

Whether Adam Lambert is gay apparently continued to be a hot topic for media speculation right up to Adam’s Rolling Stone cover and announcement that he is, in fact, gay. What will they speculate about now? Whether Kris Allen is married? Heh.

Now that the “Is Adam or isn’t Adam?” guessing can finally come to an end, maybe just maybe everyone will focus on a label that matters – the one on his upcoming multi-platinum-selling album. :-)

What Adam is still keeping secret, of course, is our marriage and the birth of our twins. For the privacy and safety of our children. We want them to have a normal childhood. Safe from media speculation and stuff. You know.

To celebrate our coming out in Rolling Stone and everything, Laura and I gave each other American Idol tribute manicures. My Adam Lambert blue-black tribute color is called “Midnight Affair,” which is hot. Laura’s Allison Iraheta brown tribute color is called “Hot Chocolate,” which is saucy.

So, now that Adam is out of the closet officially and all of that, you’ve probably also heard that I have a husband-in-law named Drake. He is hot. I wonder when everyone will start speculating as to whether Drake is gay. Meanwhile, I’m hoping to get into their closet . . . to share clothes, starting with Drake’s Gucci belt.

(Rolling Stone cover and photo of Adam Lambert and Drake LaBry courtesy of Google Images.)

Is It Too Late For Me to Be Potty Trained?

2009-06-09T20:44:00.000-07:00

I called the dermatologist’s office today to see if the lab report on my nose biopsy was back yet, and, two telephone calls later, I found out that it was benign.

Yay!

The first call went like this, in pertinent part:

Medical Assistant: “It says 'atypical' in the computer, but that could be a typo.”

Me: “A typo?”

Medical Assistant: “Well, maybe it was supposed to read 'a typical . . .' but the 'a' and 'typical' were accidentally typed as one word.”

I’m not making this up.

So I asked if there was some way to have the actual lab report faxed to me, or at least read to me ~~so that I could find out if atypical referred to something fatal~~. She replied that she’d have to go find my chart and call me back. Tomorrow. So I said, “Golly, it would be great if I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow with the possibility of something atypical hanging over my head.” And she replied, “It could just be a typo.”

I’m not making this up.

Bless her heart, she called right back and said that the lab report said benign, something or other was atypical (I’ll ask the doctor later), but that the doctor’s note on the lab report said that no follow up was necessary (which is why I’m content to ask the doctor about the rest later, that and she'd gone home by the time the assistant called back at 5:30 PM).

So . . . apparently I'm going to get to keep my nose after all.

I told Tom the good news and he said that he knew that the thing on my nose would be benign all along.

He’s very calm and rational like that.

I am not.

Tom had to have a biopsy done on a spot under his eye a while back. The doctor told Tom there was a 25% chance it was malignant. Tom told me calmly that it would be benign. I rushed out to shop for the perfect black dress to wear at his funeral. It was benign.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Meanwhile, if my nose wasn't going to fall off or kill me, apparently I felt the need to take matters into my own hands.

Last night?

I fell down my staircase where staircase equals the last five steps.

Oh yes I did.

I was sober. (In case anyone was wondering.)

I tried to tuck and roll. (But I'm old.)

My knee hit the railing and my body made a loud thud on the landing.

Laura cried out in her sleep.

Tom came running.

I was on my back and sort of stunned when Tom arrived on the scene.

And then?

I began to laugh, but I tried to do it quietly so as not to disturb Laura again.

Trying to suppress my laughter made me laugh harder, but I tried to laugh harder more quietly.

As I laughed I noticed that Tom was standing over me looking like a deer in headlights, not knowing what the frick to do with the crazy woman in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, apparently laughing.

That made me laugh so hard tears began to run down my cheeks.

Tom said, "Are you laughing or crying?"

That made me laugh even harder.

And then?

I peed my pants.

Just a little bit.

Oh yes I did.

I had enough trouble planning what to wear with my Stitch Nose at Tom's office party last week. What on Earth will I say about wearing these at Laura's last-day-of-school party this week?

Also? My neck and back are a little stiff and sore, so there's hope for more medical dramas. Too bad I didn't injure my toe.

Up Date & Update

2009-06-06T06:08:00.000-07:00

Up Date

A couple of weeks ago Laura wanted me to pick her up early from school. She said she didn’t feel well, but wanted to school go just for math. I know. I don’t understand her either. My motheradar picked up that she was probably feeling just fine, and wanted to go to school for the fun part (um, the part she thinks is fun). So, it was no surprise when the school called after her math class to tell me that she was in the office reporting that she didn’t feel well. I went and picked her up. I decided to test my theory that she could have made it through the day at school.

When we got in the car I asked her how ill she felt. “I'm not at all well," she said. Adding, no doubt hoping for an afternoon of television, “I really need to rest on the couch.” I asked her, you know, just to test the waters and such like, “Do you feel so bad that you couldn’t go to a movie, for example?” She hesitated and then said she could probably sit through a movie. “What about popcorn? If you’re not well, popcorn probably doesn't sound so good, right?” Laura replied, “I think I could eat popcorn.” Then she added, “And Dibs.”

So, I did what any responsible mother would do with a child who said she was too ill to stay at school. We went to see Star Trek. And ate popcorn and Dibs for lunch.

Imagine how it went when I picked her up from school on Thursday afternoon and asked her this question: “Laura, do you want to go home and do homework right away or would you rather go see Up?”

So, Laura did what any kid with homework would do if she had a mother like me. She went with her mother to see Up. Oh. The popcorn and Dibs? That was dinner, yo.

We totally loved both movies, too. Totally. Go see them. That's all the review I'm doing 'cause I'm not being paid. Heh.

Update

After much consideration about what to wear with my Stitch Nose to the event for Tom’s work last Monday night, I opted to go with a tastefully trimmed piece of flesh-toned tape. No, I didn't wear just tape. The tape was to cover my nose. The rest of me wore black pants, a black-and-brown-shirty-dressy-type shirty thing, and black high heels.

In the social chitchat department, I opted not to tell anyone the truth, that the stitches were from the C-section nasal delivery of Adam Lambert’s twins, but rather to tell the more career-friendly “biopsy” tale to ~~anyone~~ the one person who asked. Here is a picture from after the party, which clearly demonstrates that I’m a whiz with flesh-toned tape (and, yes, my hair is fricking awesome):

So . . . considering how awesome my hair looked and that I wore black high heels, what do you think Tom and I did after the party? This blog is rated “My Mother-in-Law Reads This” so I’m not saying anything more than is there such a thing as a foot epidural? because my toe was about to fall off from standing in high heels for four hours, the upside of which would be a golden opportunity to visit the hot toe doctor for surgical reattachment. Tom said his feet were killing him too, and dude didn’t even wear high heels (hello, it was a corporate event). So this is what we did:

We really know how to live life in the fast lane around here, don’t we?

Two days later I went back to the ~~obstetrician~~ dermatologist to get the stitches out. The lab results are not back yet, but I’m feeling very good about the prognosis. The doctor said she examined the “section” carefully under the microscope and the edges looked clean, but she can’t be sure until the labs are back. She added that although we had to do the biopsy immediately because it had the appearance of basal cell carcinoma, there is every chance the labs will come back entirely clean. And, now that I’ve come down from my initial freak-the-frick-out, I really feel like they will. I will keep you posted. Meanwhile . . .

After she removed the stitches, the dermatologist performed some “Alan Parsons Project” or "laser" on my nose to remove some sun-damaged spots. Now I have Purple Dot Nose.

Purple Dot Nose will last for the next four to fourteen days or so, I’m told.

Purple Dot Nose should be gone by the time that Adam Lambert, the twins, and I leave for his concert tour this summer. (Yes, it is so Adam Lambert’s concert tour. Come on, you don’t really think anyone is buying tickets to see what’s his name, do you? Okay. I'm just kidding, fans of what's his name.)

What Did Your Kid Bring Home From School Yesterday?

2009-06-03T06:15:00.001-07:00

by Laura

I love my kid.

(Please note Adam Lambark's earrings, black nail polish, and guyliner.)

My Missing Nose and I Need a Plan

2009-05-31T07:19:00.000-07:00

As I may or may not have mentioned, tomorrow night I have to go to a cocktail party-type dealio at the home of an executive at Tom’s company.

And, as I may or may not have mentioned (like I'd let the opportunity pass by), I have Stitch Nose from having a chunk of it removed last week.

(As an aside, thank you for your kind words and wishes and prayers last week. I’m not going to deal with the first dermatologist until I have the final lab results back next week. The second dermatologist said that there is always a chance that the lab results will be benign, and I’m really hoping that’s the case.)

So . . . in the interest of making the Best Possible Impression at Tom’s company function tomorrow night, I need a plan of action, to help further my husband’s career and all that. You know what they say, “Behind every great man is a great woman.” Of course, that saying came about ~~before Tom married me~~ ~~before there were bloggers~~ when someone painted it on the wall of a cave.

Plan A

I stop by the hot toe doctor’s office and borrow this ensemble:

Plan B

I forget about trying to hide my Stitch Nose. If you've got it, flaunt it. Or, in this case, if part of yours is missing, flaunt it. I could wear one sparkly white glove and moonwalk as I enter the cocktail party.

Plan C

Remember how I said that when I gave birth to Adam Lambert’s twins, they were going to be pulled out of my nose because that would have to hurt less than the way my first three children were pulled out? It didn’t. The stitches on my nose? C-Section.

So . . . if someone at Tom’s office party asks about the stitches, rather than be a buzzkill with the mention of skin cancer, I’ll just talk about how I got pregnant with Adam Lambert’s twins while he sang a Led Zeppelin song on American Idol to me, and that I gave birth to the twins through my nose, and, yes, the breastfeeding is going well, and I gained two pounds during the two-week pregnancy, and the twins were one inch long at birth, and, no, we still haven’t picked out names. I’m pretty sure this will both give me a great cover story for the nose stitches and really help Tom’s career at the same time.

Plan D

Tom takes my wife in my place. My wife? She’s quite the catch. And Tom? Apparently, he is quite the catch as well. Tom’s been getting a lot of offers from other bloggers lately. So, while I won’t out anyone or anything (you can guess all you want; beneath this stitch nose, my lips are sealed), Tom has had offers from a blogger who wants him to pose as her date at a high school reunion, and from another blogger who seems to forget that he has a husband. Some people. Sheesh.

On a more serious note, just because I’m all polyamorous and stuff does not mean that Tom isn’t a one-woman man. He is, and awfully patient allowing me to have a wife, a hot toe doctor, a conjugal visit with my soon-to-be multi-platinum-album rock star husband (which helped me get over the wee little infatuation that I had with the bass player at church), a secret crush, and a not-so-secret crush. So I probably could let Tom go on a date with his wife-in-law just this one time, right?

Eff that. My wife is too hot to be dating my husband.

Does anyone have an idea for Plan E?

(Pictures not of my Stitch Nose and the Curly Ponytail of Hotness are courtesy of Google Images.)

Before You Start Thinking That All of My Doctors Are Hot . . .

2009-05-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the dermatologist to show her a bump on your widow’s peak and she says, “Stop picking at it.” And you say (lying), “I don’t pick at it. It has been there for a while and it kind of hurts.” And she says, “Here’s some steroid foam to put on it and don’t pick at it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the dermatologist on the same day that you showed her the bump on your widow’s peak and you also show her a thing on your nose and she says, “Stop picking at it.” And you say (truthfully), “I don’t pick at it, but when I wash my face or use a tissue it bleeds sometimes.” And she says, “Put some polysporin ointment on it and don’t pick at it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go back to the dermatologist to show her that the bump on your widow’s peak has now turned into many more bumps and patches covering your entire scalp and you tell her that it all hurts and that you think the foam stuff is making it worse and she says, “The steroid foam is not making it worse, keep using it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go back to the dermatologist to show her the hurting bumps and patches covering your entire scalp and you also show her the thing on your nose that is still there despite the not picking at it and daily application of polysporin ointment and she says, “The polysporin ointment will make it better, keep using it?”

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to a different dermatologist and she says that you have a bacteria infection in your hair follicles and that the steroid foam probably suppressed your body’s natural immunities and caused the infection to spread from a few hair follicles to the hair follicles all over your scalp and she prescribes you a 30-day course of antibiotics to get rid of it?

No?

Did you ever have one of those days when you go to the different dermatologist on the same day she tells you the hair follicles all over your scalp are infected and by the way you show her the thing on your nose and she says that has to come out now, and she uses a hole puncher to remove a chunk of your nose, and blood spurts out and lands across the room and in your eye, and she stitches up your nose, and she looks at the thing that was hole-punched out of your nose under the microscope in her lab and tells you it is Basal Cell Carcinoma, and you don't even bother to ask her if polysporin ointment cures skin cancer?

No?

Well, I had one of those days yesterday.

I will know more when the lab results come back next week where know more equals know if they have to remove more of my nose next week. Also, stay tuned to find out how much fun it was to go to a Really Important Event for the executive types at Tom’s work a couple of days from now with My Stitch Nose, large pores, grease face, eyebrows in dire need of tweezing, and possible baldness due to hair follicle infection.

Meanwhile, the point of this post . . . and I do have one that isn’t all about me, is that Basal Cell Carcinoma is the most common form of skin cancer and it is most typically caused by exposure to UV rays. So, use your sunscreen and get regular skin checks by a doctor who isn’t a moron.

I Am Not Making This Up

2009-05-27T16:06:00.001-07:00

True Story #1

I was getting a breast ultrasound recently. There was a woman in the waiting room sitting next to me. I heard her tell the receptionist that she was stepping outside in case they called her name. Through the glass doors I saw her go stand next to a sign by the entrance that said "[NAME] Cancer Center" and light a cigarette. Not that I'm judging. I kind of wanted one too because breast ultrasound. (Everything is fine, by the way.)

True Story #2

I saw an SUV driving down the road, and noticed that it passed by a house with a sign at the curb that said "Bank Foreclosure." Then I noticed what was painted on the back and side windows of the SUV. It said: “[NAME]’s Doggie Deli. Healthy Food for Your Pet Delivered Fresh to Your Home. 800-XXX-XXXX”

True Story #3

A while back I posted Jesus, Jason & Kate, a true story about a man who asked me to give him money at a gas station. I was on my way to meet Kate at the time, Kate who gives the homeless guy in her neighborhood $20 bills. I mentioned in my post that the man to whom I gave $5 was driving a new Jeep, and some discussion was raised in the comment section of that post about giving. Nobody has asked me for money again until last week when I was on my way to meet Kate again. Another man approached me and asked if I would give him money. I also give him a $5 bill. This man was listening to an iPod. I'm starting to get suspicious about Kate, but in a good way.

True Story #4

We can totally start with the premise that stainless steel water bottles are better for the environment and don't cause cancer. We don't buy plastic water bottles at home any more because we don't and that's all I'm going to say about that for purposes of this post. However, today I was buying a case of plastic water bottles for a potluck gathering this weekend for which I said I'd bring a case of plastic water bottles. As I was hoisting the water bottles into my car, a man approached and stood next to me. He said, "I see you just bought a lot of plastic water bottles. I don't think you realize how bad plastic water bottles are for the environment. I'd like to talk with you that. Do you realize what is happening to our environment?" I told him that his concern was appreciated, but that I didn't want to have a talk with him. He made a huffing noise, turned on his heel, walked a few spaces down from where I was parked, and drove away in a big red Cadillac.

C'mon. Tell me something strange that happened to you recently so that I don't feel like the only one.

The iPhone Boyfriend's Guest Post

2009-05-21T19:09:00.000-07:00

* * *

It seems like it's been one thing after another around here lately, and I'm just not getting the attention that I once enjoyed. I've been sitting alone, feeling like I'm being taken for granted.

Today I thought, "Nobody's gonna put me in a corner."
I decided to do something about it.

I donned a clever disguise, slipped out of the house . . .

. . . and headed downtown to a cozy rooftop bar.

It wasn't long before I spotted this little hottie sitting alone.

Things were starting to look promising as we took in the view . . .

. . . so I bought her a drink.

The next thing I knew, her boyfriend showed up.
Three or more is a crowd. (I ought to know.)

I hung around the bar a while longer,
but I didn't meet anyone who was my type.

So, I went home, took a cold shower,
and thought, "Tomorrow is another day."

I wonder if there's a Match.com iPhone app
that I can download to myself.

(Gaslamp photograph courtesy of Google Images.)

Q & A with Mrs. Adam Lambert: Our Coming Out Party

2009-05-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

Now is as good a time as any to answer some of the questions I've received via email following my recent posts about my marriage to Adam Lambert and the expected arrival of our twins after the American Idol finale show.

Q: Did you really lie to the security guard before your conjugal visit with Adam Lambert at Mt. Carmel High School?

A: Yes. The conversation happened as I wrote it. So, what this means is that I lie in person, but not on my blog. Heh.

Q: Do you think Adam is gay?

A: I truly don’t mean to be evasive or cheeky, but how is this relevant to anything?

Q: How do you and your wife feel about Adam being gay?

A: I feel fine, thank you. Kate doesn’t know that Adam is gay.

Q: Does it deter you knowing that Adam has a boyfriend?

A: No more than it deters Adam knowing that I have a husband and a wife.

And then someone emailed me with a question and these photos:

(Click to enlarge, print, and place under pillow)

Q: Are you aware that Adam has been photographed “like this”?

A: Yes, I was aware. I sleep with these photos under my pillow.

Q: How can you support gay rights and say that you’re a Christian?

A: Personally, I couldn't say that I’m a Christian and do otherwise.

Q: Will you be attending the live American Idol Finale Adam Lambert Watch Party event in San Diego with other Glamberts?

A: I’m not a Glambert, silly. I’m Adam’s wife. As such, I only deal with crowds when Adam is there. At the season finale, Kate (Adam's wife-in-law) and I will be seated in the front row of L.A.’s Nokia Theatre with Anoop Desai (Kate’s husband) and Adam’s parents. Adam’s boyfriend will be seated with us, too. Kate will still not realize that Adam is gay.

Q: What will you do if Adam doesn’t win?

A: After Adam wins, I will give birth to our twins. (Here’s a shout out to Michael and Janet for signing up to be midwives.) FYI: The babies will be pulled out of my nose because that’s gotta hurt less than how my first three kids were pulled out.

Q: What will you do when this season of American Idol is over?

A: Pack to go on tour with Adam and the twins. Duh.

Now it is time for a question from me. I’m thinking of packing this for when I take the twins on tour with us this summer, you know for nursing them in my front-row-center seats at every show:

What else should I bring on tour other than a licensed mental-health professional?

(Images of Adam Lambert rocking the guyliner courtesy of TMZ.com. Picture of Led Zeppelin nursing poncho courtesy of Google Images. American Idol Tour image courtesy of American Idol.com)

Will the Real Mrs. Adam Lambert Please Shut Stand Up?

2009-05-19T13:39:00.000-07:00

There are less than two days until ~~I shut up about~~ the birth of our twins, and the most recent addition to my stable of spouses, Adam Lambert, is voted the next American Idol.

Meanwhile . . . .

I was recently asked whether I really went to see Adam Lambert at his alma mater?

YES.

I'm embedding the video again ~~because I'm freakishly proud of my editing (as opposed to camera) skills~~ in case you missed it. Heh. (Here's the direct YouTube link in case Blogger is being cranky ~~because freakishly proud~~.)

(Be sure to watch it in HQ by clicking the HQ button on the bottom right of the video window after you click the PLAY arrow. I watched it blurry repeatedly until someone, who may or may not be a nine-year-old, told me about the HQ button.)

I was also asked whether I saw myself on television last week when American Idol aired coverage of the event.

YES.

If you watched my video (~~did I mention that I'm freakishly proud of my editing, as opposed to camera, skills?)~~, you may recall that Adam Lambert had the camera dude point the camera at ME (his beloved wife and mother-to-be of his twins, who will be born tomorrow night when he's voted the next American Idol, in case I didn't mention that before).

Here is Adam at the moment that he pointed at ME, immortalized forever, from my perspective:

Here is Adam at the moment that he pointed at ME, immortalized forever, from the television viewers' perspective:

Here is me at the moment that Adam had the television camera point at ME, immortalized forever, from the television viewers' perspective:

What?

Here, allow me to help you find me in the crowd:

Answer to the question now forming in your head:

YES. That is really ME. (I am holding my camera up over my head.)

Oh? That wasn't the question? Then:

YES. I really am this insane.

When Children Cheat on Their Moms

2009-05-18T10:22:00.001-07:00

I'll get to the cheating child part in a sec.

Now that I have you here, which shirt should I wear to watch Adam Lambert ~~sing in~~ win the American Idol final tomorrow night?

I'm thinking of going with the Led Zeppelin shirt because I got pregnant with Adam's twins while he was singing "Whole Lotta Love" two weeks ago:

Then again, I will be giving birth to the twins on Wednesday night following the finale of American Idol, so maybe I'm better off with something a little more understated, something that sends a subtle message to America that Adam Lambert won:

What do you think?

Back to the cheating child. Look what it says on the Mother's Day letter that Laura made for me at school:

"She cooks, bakes, and makes delicious foods."

She's obviously seeing another mother on the side.

However, I suppose I can overlook her indiscretion since the letter was delivered in this envelope:

"Adam Lambert says: Happy Mother's Day!"

(Click on picture for close-up view of guyliner and black nail polish.
And, oh my gosh, I love love love my child.)

I can only imagine what Laura's teacher must think of me, and I feel a bit bad about it. I never wanted anyone to get the impression that I cook and bake.

I Idolize My Husband, Actually

2009-05-14T15:51:00.000-07:00

Raise your hand if you thought this was going to be about Adam Lambert.

That was so last week.

I idolize my actual husband, yo.

Which brings me to the question I have been asked on more than one occasion, i.e., what Tom thinks about my polyamorous proclivities where polyamorous proclivities means Deb used the word polyamorous once in a comment and I looked it up and thought it was cool.

Let’s examine the facts. (I learned that “examine the facts” stuff in law school.)

Facts: I am a woman who blogospherically married another woman, became pregnant with twins from hearing a Led Zeppelin song performed by the next American Idol (heh, I worked that in again), writes tell-all posts about visits with her hot toe doctor, has a wicked crush this guy, has a don't ask/don't tell crush on this guy, finds her relationship with her iPhone boyfriend oddly erotic, and is lured to the screen of her MacBook Pro lover like a perimenopausal woman to chocolate.

Question: What does Tom think of this?

Opinion: ~~Tom doesn’t read my blog, isn’t on Facebook, and doesn’t tweet so he can’t catch me.~~ Tom reads my blog. And he loves me, Kate, and Adam Lambert (but not in a gay way).

I have evidentiary support for my opinion. (They taught me to do that “evidentiary support” stuff in law school.)

Exhibit 1:

Tom got me a Mother’s Day gift that I really, really wanted. It is something totally flippin' awesome. But I can’t tell anyone about because it was one of those impossible-to-get things that required Tom to pull strings and call in favors and
know the right people and obtain it covertly .

The best part?

Tom pulled strings and called in favors and
knew the right people and covertly obtained two of them because my wife wanted it, too. That’s right. Tom gave me and Kate matchy-matchy somethings that I can’t tell you about but it rhymes with fool bee dirts.

Exhibit 2:

On Tuesday night after American Idol was over, I was texting the word VOTE to 5703. Repeatedly. What? Laura was getting ready for bed. VOTE. VOTE. Tom was making sure she flossed. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. Tom made sure she brushed. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. I may or may not have mentioned to Tom that I would be abandoning my texting duties to the father of my twins if I were to go sing to Laura before she went to sleep. Then I went to go sing to Laura, like I usually do. When I came out of Laura’s room, Tom was holding my iPhone boyfriend and texting VOTE to 5703. Repeatedly. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. VOTE. Oh, yes, he did.

Conclusion:

I idolize my husband even more than I did before he obtained matching fool bee dirts for me and his wife-in-law, and repeatedly texted VOTE to 5703 to make Adam Lambert the next American Idol, which Adam will be, next week Wednesday night, right after I give birth to our twins and paint their tiny little fingernails with paraben-free black polish.

(Photos and clipart courtesy of Google Images.)

Adam Lambert & Blog This Mom: Our Conjugal Visit, With Video

2009-05-09T13:46:00.000-07:00

I read in the newspaper earlier this the week that the most recent addition to my stable of husbands, Adam Lambert, would be visiting his (and my daughter, Kristen’s) alma mater this week. I called Kristen.

Me: Kristen, when you went to Mt. Carmel, did you know Adam Lambert?

Kristen: Yeah . . . how do you know him?

Me: Clearly you haven’t read my blog lately, I married him.

Kristen: Oh God, Mom.

Me: He’s on American Idol.

Kristen: He is? You’re kidding.

Me: How did you know him?

Kristen: Mom, I didn’t really know him know him, I just knew of him. A lot of people knew of him, he was in theater and stuff. You probably even heard him sing the national anthem at a football game.

Me: Ooooo.

Kristen: Remember my friend, Sean? He was a friend of Adam’s. And Jenny was in theater with him. So I knew people who knew Adam. I didn’t personally know Adam.

Me: How does Sean spell his name?

Kristen: Oh God, Mom.

Meanwhile, it has been a busy week here at Blog This Mom!.

On Tuesday, while Adam Lambert sang Led Zeppelin’s "Whole Lotta Love," I got pregnant with our love child.

On Wednesday, I shopped online for a black leather layette.

On Thursday, the ultrasound revealed twins.

On Friday, Adam Lambert’s people scheduled time for him to come to Mt. Carmel High School to have a conjugal visit with me.

Naturally, I had to figure out a way to get on campus. Standing outside in the hot sun, peering through the fence wouldn't be good for me in my condition. Sitting in the stands with the general public would not be suitable for the imaginary wife of a star. So I called my people where my people equals my friend, Helen, who is a teacher at Mt. Carmel. Helen told me I could come to her classroom before the event and then go sit with her in the stands on the Mt. Carmel side.

Despite morning sickness and swollen feet, I arrived at the Mt. Carmel campus about an hour before Adam Lambert was scheduled to appear.

There were all manner of big guys in red security jackets swarming the parking lot and blocking all the entrances. I approached the front entrance, and tried to appear very non-stalker-y.

Security: Ma’am, where are you going?

Me [looking around]: What’s going on here?

Security: Adam Lambert is going to be here.

Me [wondering if this would be going too far, but I’ve never been known to quit while I’m ahead]: Who is Adam Lambert?

Security: [Looking me in the eye.]

Me: [Looking back without blinking.]

Security: He’s an American Idol contestant.

Me: Oh. He’s coming here today?

Security: Yes.

Me: Why?

Security: He was a student here.

Me: Oh. No wonder I couldn’t get in the parking lot.

Security: Where were you headed?

Me [knowing that I’m about earn the hottest room in hell]: I’m volunteering for a teacher. She sure picked the wrong day to ask for my help, didn’t she?

Security: Yeah. Go ahead.

Me [relieved that they didn’t check my purse with camera, binoculars, and iPhone with my custom-designed Adam Lambert wallpaper]: Thanks. Good luck today.

I made a video of my conjugal visit with Adam Lambert. The audio is craptastic because hello high school sound system. And the video is only slightly less craptastic where slightly less craptastic equals holy hell is she kidding? because I shot it with the little Canon PowerShot SD1100 I'd hidden in my purse. The video is also jumpy because I could feel the babies kicking where feel the babies kicking equals standing in a crowd of screaming high school students. It can be watched in high quality though.

(Special Instructions for People Like Me: After you hit the play arrow on the video below, be sure to click the HQ button on the bottom right.)

In case anyone in my family needs last-minute Mother’s Day gift ideas, clearly I could use a new video camera. Oh, and some paraben-free eyeliner and black nail polish for the twins.

Friends Don't Let Friends Declutter

2009-05-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

“Mindfulness comes from the state of your psyche, not your closet.”
~Raina Kelley, “The Zen of Cleaning,” Newsweek, March 2009

Last month, I began a mission to declutter my house under the misguided notion that decluttering would be a good thing. I was promised a clean house, wealth, a thin butt, and a cathartic experience resulting in a Zen state of mind. Now that I have a little decluttering experience and a fatter butt under my belt, I will debunk these myths and tell you the truth about what can happen to you if you choose to declutter your house.

Decluttering Causes Clutter

Decluttering an area in your house is like tilling soil an area of your garden. It merely creates a fresh, clear space for new piles of junk to spring forth and grow.

Decluttering Costs Money

Once you’ve decluttered, you will no longer be able to find your stuff because someone (namely you) has moved the piles and your stuff was in those piles. Then you’ll have to go buy new stuff.

Decluttering Makes You Fat

In the process of decluttering, you might notice that a bag of chocolate chips leftover from holiday baking is cluttering one of the shelves in the pantry. You might make the bag smaller to declutter the shelf. Similarly, you might free up needed space in the freezer that an entire box of Thin Mints is cluttering. Note that the Zen feeling after decluttering chocolate chips and/or Thin Mints is temporary.

Decluttering Causes Mental Illness

Speaking only from personal experience, it turns out that the time time spent decluttering, and money spent on garbage bags and plastic bins from Target, probably would have been better spent in my therapist’s office. Most experts ~~who aren't on the Oprah Winfrey Show~~ agree (if you’re published in Newsweek, you must be an expert, right?), see, e.g., The Zen of Cleaning.

So, while I did declutter my desk (and the inside of a box of Samoas) today, I’m going to stop for now and start working on decluttering something that really matters: My Google Reader.

Before:

After:
(No, it isn't.) (Yes, it is.) (No, it isn't.)

Actual After:

This post has been a public service announcement.

(Pictures of the Pottery Barn desk that real people don't own and Samoas crack are courtesy of Google Images.)

By the Way, We Have a Winner . . .

2009-05-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

And the $25 Amazon gift card goes to . . .

Michael Barrow

By the way, just in case anyone is thinking that the photo caption contest was rigged just because ~~Michael Barrow is the smartest and hottest real estate mogul in San Diego~~ Michael Barrow is my friend, I printed out the comments, blacked out the names, and Tom picked the winning caption.

By the way, Tom said that there were many excellent entries, but Michael's was the clear winner. (And I agree with Tom, as I always do, which you might have imagined ~~if you were stoned~~.) Go back and check out the comments, they were a riot. San Diego Hermit gets honorable mention for the most entries. He's pretty darn funny, too.

By the way, if you have real estate questions or needs in the San Diego area (commercial or residential), contact Michael at Neely, Barrow & Associates or keep your finger on the pulse of the real estate market with Michael by checking out Buy, Sell or Blog?

By the way, I was neither offered nor paid to say any of that nice stuff about Michael. In fact, that little plug for Michael actually cost me a $25 Amazon gift card, so clearly I learned NOTHING about monetizing my blog at the tweetup.

By the way, how many paragraphs can begin with "by the way" before Officer Strunk and Officer White come and haul me away?

(Grammar police car photo jacked from Google Images.)

Tom is Annoying and New Toe Symptoms Have Developed

2009-05-04T09:09:00.000-07:00

If you were expecting to find out who won the photo caption contest and $25 Amazon gift card, come back tomorrow. When the contest ended at 11:59 PM last night, could Tom be bothered to get out of bed and pick a winner? Pbffft! And then this morning? He was all, "I have a 9 o'clock meeting." Whatever. I can't believe he'd let a little thing like earning a living interfere with my photo contest. Annoying.

In other news, the partial toenail that remained after enduring various procedures and an injection started to come off over the weekend.

Sure, I could have booked my standard Monday morning pedicure with the hot toe doctor to have him remove the nail for me, providing me with more post fodder and possible photos.

But I opted to remove the toenail myself.

You may be wondering why.

I had to teach the hot toe doctor a lesson.

At my last appointment? I found out he's seeing other patients.

You might be wondering how I found out. I used my CIA skillz. When I was lead into the examination room? The paper on the table was crinkled. Someone had been in there before me. Also? There was some casting material residue on the floor. So I'm guessing it was serious.

I'm considering telling the hot toe doctor that I've taken up with someone else, too. You all know that I've already married Adam Lambert ~~in my mind~~. (Laura was the flower girl. She wouldn't wear a dress. But Adam did. Tom caught the bouquet.) Of course, after finding out that Adam Lambert and Kristen went to high school together (as in the same high school), I might be better off keeping news of this particular ~~imaginary~~ marriage on the down low. Except that Adam Lambert graduated from high school two whole years before Kristen did, so that makes it okay, right?

Meanwhile . . . back to my toe because this supposed to be about me.

After I removed my toenail, new symptoms were uncovered:

There is a vaccine being developed for this, right?

(~~Wedding~~ photo of Adam Lambert courtesy of Google Images.)

Sunday Message: Will We Be Goo?

2009-05-03T01:18:00.000-07:00

Did you think there was a typo in the title of this post?

Was goo supposed to be good?

I meant goo, but we may decide that goo is good after all.

“The old cheese actually wasn't that good when compared to the new cheese.”
~Spencer Johnson M.D., Who Moved My Cheese?

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.”
~Lao Tzu, author of Tao Te Ching

“Our patterns are well established, seductive, and comforting. Just wanting for them to be ventilated isn’t enough.”
~Pema Chodron, The Places That Scare You

"The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs.”
~Wally Lamb, The Hour I First Believed

He opened the door and walked away,
Sometimes a selfless step is all it takes,
From the mountain, he can watch it all burn,
Welcome friend, to the point of no return
Once in a life, you can find a time to see,
and you get to turn it down, turn around, temporary sanity
And then the mountain disappears without a trace,
All it took, was a sudden leap of faith.
~Kenny Loggins, Leap of Faith

I heard a story a couple of weeks ago on the topic of change, and it challenged me to change my thinking on change, so to speak . . .

We all know that a butterfly starts out as a crawling caterpillar. The caterpillar eventually closes itself into a chrysalis. Later the chrysalis opens and the butterfly emerges.

But what would we find inside of the chrysalis if we interrupted the process?

If we were to break open the chrysalis, would we find on the life-cycle continuum a caterpillar with wings or a sixteen-legged butterfly?

If the chrysalis were actually cut open at just the right time during the metamorphosis, we would discover no discernible caterpillar or butterfly inside. During the caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation, the insect’s distinctive features dissolve into a gooey mess. The caterpillar gives itself over completely for a bit, not to the emerging form of a butterfly at first, but rather to a state of utter goo. In order for the caterpillar to be transformed, it must lose itself not only to what it was, but even to any semblance of what it will be.

Here is the truth: Many of us have trouble with the idea of change, much less transformation. We may be willing to tweak a few nonworking parts, but often we opt to stay “safely” ensconced in our old patterns -- even when old patterns don’t serve us in any way except to provide familiarity.

Is there something in your life you want to change, or are you ready to take a leap of faith, become goo (no matter how messy it might look and feel), and experience transformation?

Transformation Meditation:

I will release what I believe will be in order to make room for what could be.
I will begin by having a compassionate relationship with myself,
even when I do not feel worthy.
I am willing to step into unknown territory.
I am willing to just keep moving, even when moving is uncomfortable,
even when I don’t know the destination.
I will not be undone by fear.
I will look directly at fear, embrace fear, and act in the face of it.
I will accept the feeling of falling.
I will let go of what I want.
I am open to the belief that what I have inside of me is exactly what I need.

At Tucson Botantical Gardens
Butterfly Magic Exhibit
February 2008