Avec Gratitude

Dinner courtesy of some wonderful people.

Before we had dinner, I suggested to the family that we go around the table and state for the record what we are thankful for.  They glanced at each other over the rims of their root beer mugs and waited for my temporary insanity to pass.

You'd think we'd be more talkative around here, wouldn't you?  Well, we're not really that expressive when it comes to the positive stuff.  We're aces at pulling each other apart, at dissecting the foibles and tics and pointing and laughing when one of us stumbles.  I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

That's something to be thankful for.  We may not be soft and snuggly and Hallmark Channel fuzzy wuzzies, but I don't think there's a single person in this house who doesn't feel loved.  Right down to the last wretched cat. Hang on a second.  Let me see...

Okay, I just checked.  I asked each of them (the humans, not the cats) if they felt loved.  Here's how that went:

MathMan:  Yeah, who said I didn't?
Nate:  Yeah (with accompanying eyebrow raise)
Sophie:  I don't know.  Can I have a hug first?
Chloe:  Um....yes?

So there we are.  Love.  It is probably the greatest thing ever.  And we have it in spades.

And for that we truly are grateful.  Whether some of us are able to express it or not without a gun to our heads.

Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

RennRatt and her wonderful family who provided us with an authentic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner - Friends near and far - Family near and far - Laughter - Music - The moment right after I take off my bra - Good health - Shared memories - The gorgeous weather we're having - MathMan's job which pays the bills and gives him the chance to save the world - Books - Words - A hot shower - Remembering - Forgetting - Working out - Quiet - My trusty old laptop circa 2007 - The fact that Nate really loves going to school now - My digital camera that allows me to capture life as it happens - The silly cats - Movies that make me laugh or think or cry (as long as I'm alone) - The light and color at sundown when the trees are shadows against the palette of pinks, mauves, purples and blues - Hollyhocks on their tall stems - Art Deco Architecture - Still being able to recite Goodnight Moon - Chloe's happiness at school - The entire Art Nouveau movement - Edward Gorey - Anthony K. and his sock - My active imagination - Catching sight of a hawk on a wire or post alongside the road - When the car starts - The roof over our heads - Dry pavement - The cartoons and reruns I watched as a kid - Comfortable clothes - Major appliances that work - PBS - Agatha Christie and her memorable characters - High count cotton sheets - Lotion - Skype - My wooden back scratcher - The internet - Homemade fabric softener - Ibuprofin - Red wine - Billy Nye the Science Guy - British TV - Edward Hopper's art - Time - Sugar - How Sophie enjoys playing her clarinet - Dogwoods announcing the spring - When we get a little snow - Chocolate - Art created by my friends - A whole mess of other stuff - And you.  I'm grateful for you.

I hope you've had a good day wherever you are.  Tomorrow we'll get back to the pointing and the laughing.

Return to Sender

Suzy Soro, of whom I am damn near terrified, has a weekly feature she's most aptly titled "It's Everybody Can Bite Me Friday." As if being a signal that the weekend is upon us isn't enough, now I look forward to Fridays because I can visit Suzy to see what kind of drama and grievances she's experiencing. It has a salving effect. It makes me forget my own idiotic preoccupations for a while.

I wouldn't dream of stealing Suzy's idea, but I am going to borrow it with credits to her because oh my word. Things are pogosticking on my last nerve and the ever-increasing number of nightly glasses of wine doesn't seem to be offering me the kind of relief I need.

For starters, Chloe is making a special guest appearance as the college freshman home for spring break. While normal girls her age are lounging about half naked at some beachfront property or drunkenly tongue kissing other nubile young coeds for the fans of Girls Gone Wild commercials, Chloe has parked herself on the living room love seat in front of cable horrors such as Millionaire Matchmaker. I liked it better when she watched Green TV all damn day and issued dire warnings about how we were all going to die from the something something in our drinking water.

And she's doing me no favors either by mentioning her ongoing need for money first thing in the morning. Dang, chick, don't you know that if you bunge up The Writer at 8:13 a.m., you've pretty much shot her day for writing? Stress and concentration do not mix. I'm ready for her to go back to school already.

I know it's almost sacrilege for parents, especially a mama, to voice anything but undying devotion to her children, but honestly. These kids and their endless needs. Things got ugly the other day: this one bitching about that one because he needed some poster board and art supplie; that one fussing about the one who needs a white dress, and the third bemoaning the fact that the others use up too much of the family bank account with their sorority dues and braces......I finally lost it with them. "You all think you are an only child!" I shrieked.

They looked a little stunned, but not at all chagrined. So I was onto something. "Well, fine! Let's sort it out right now. Let's decide. Who should be pink-slipped?"

There were no volunteers, but plenty of furtive finger pointing and communicative eyebrow raises.

And then there are the cats. They are in complete mutiny. I guess it's payback for the last week and half of February when we ran out of money and I started rationing their food which was already the cheapest I could find. I think it was made of shredded newspaper, bits of styrofoam and ground cattle hoof. I can't say I blame them, but damn, they are out of control.

The youngest, still hanging on desperately to her feral qualities, found a breech between the garage and the basement. She showed the other cats how to use it. Damned sneaky idiots. They didn't realize it was an exit and and an entry. They'd go missing for a while then all of a sudden, there would be this clamoring and yowling at the basement door. I discovered their secret slipthrough and plugged it up cleverly with some old pillows and some luggage. Now they're just annoyed. (Note: As of this morning, the youngest found her way through, again.)

Oh, and the secret, angry pooper is at it again. Except we all know it's him so only he thinks it's a secret. We all just go along with the ruse. Well, that's not technically true. When no one is around, I shame him about it. I tell him that I know it's him. But nothing ever really changes. He poops by the back door, I complain loudly about it and clean it up or tell someone else to do it and hope that they do it quickly. That whole when I say do it, I mean now concept gets lost in the translation.

I realize I invited this trouble into our lives. Once upon a time it was just MathMan and me. Our stuff belonged to us. We didn't have to clean up puke or poop or hand out money to ingrates. We went to work and school. Sometimes, we even went out for fun. We hung around our apartment with our non-gray hair, full-throttle sex drives, unfurrowed brows and wrinkle-free skin. We fucked and watched t.v. and generally goofed around. We took drives for the hell of it. I think fondly now on those carefree days....

I remember thinking then that if we started our family relatively young, we'd have time when we were older to enjoy life. Well, on the track of life, we've just about finished up the second lap of the 440. In another seven years, all the children will be grown. The cats will have either croaked of natural causes or will be lovingly outsourced to one of these children who claim to love them. MathMan and I will once again be on our own, living off the reparations that will be automatically deposited into our bank account. We'll be child and pet free. We'll go back to that carefree life, but knowing much more than we did all those years ago.

For example, don't leave a forwarding address......

But Then You Might Want to Know What My Secret Is...

Well, my one job today, besides looking for a job, was to wake the children early to get them back into the habit of rising in time for school. The added benefit would be that they might go to bed at a decent hour.

If you look carefully, you might see that MathMan and I have somewhat thrown in the towel on the whole parenting thing. Oh the things I haven't told you.....

So this morning, I managed, but only just. All three children were awakened well before 1 o'clock pee em. Each was handed a cup of piping hot chocolate. Whipped cream and marshmallows were proffered. Cinnamon rolls had been freed from their cardboard tube and baked, if you can call it that, to just the acceptable amount of doughyness. Hey - it's how they take their tubular baked goods. What can I say? I decided long ago to choose my battles. The doneness of cinnamon rolls is not something I'm going to fret about when there are bigger issues like how many viewing hours of Yo' Mama is acceptable and what are the merits of this or that type of birth control.

Icing was spread on the gooey pinwheels. Rolls were distributed. They took their places around the table and stared out the window at the many and varied birds who were hopping about on the feeder which dangles from the side of the upper deck. That sounds as if we live on the Love Boat. Sadly, we do not. It's just another run-of-the-mill raised ranch in a middling subdivision in the Georgia. We do, though, have an upper and a lower deck. But no Lido Deck. And no Gopher, Captain Stubing, Julie or Isaac. Although---MathMan can shake a damn good martini.

Oh, foo, where was I? Oh, yes, telling you tales of my darling poppets as they burned their tongues sipped their hot chocolate and stared, unblinking out the window which always looks a bit too dark because it's coated in that sunblock stuff. Which, BTW, goes all gnarly when licked with a cat tongue.

They, the children, didn't have much to say at 8:45 a.m.

I filled the void by holding forth on some ideas to get us through the day without using violence or too many bad names. You see, we have this last day to enjoy each others company before Chloe goes back to Brenau and the other two start back with classes. MathMan, that poor, poor man, had to go to school today for meetings and such. I admit, I envy him not one little bit.

Included in my list is some reading time, some movie time, several games of Canasta (that's where the bad names might come into play), perhaps a trip to town (dear lord, we are so Green Acres), and then nap time. Because after getting up at 5:30 this morning with MathMan, I'm already feeling like I've put in a full day. People, it's 10:30 a.m.

It doesn't seem possible that just a couple of days ago, I stayed in my sleeping gear until well past two in the afternoon, lolling among the comforter and sheets, reading over two hundred pages of a novel to finish it in a single day. That is the first time I've done that this millennium. It could definitely become a habit.

So here we are, the day staring us down. Dinner has already been dispatched since I made a big pot of chicken noodle soup yesterday and went crazy and made some chicken salad, too. (Dear young chicken - thank you for being so meaty and delicious.) We just need to fill the day with wholesome, family-unity moments that they will remember for the rest of their lives. Isn't that the way I'm supposed to approach this? I'm so shaky with the prescribed good mom stuff.

Anyway, I've taken an informal survey and reading time has been vetoed. What a bunch of poops. They're split on movie time because we can't yet get a consensus on what to watch. Nap time is a definite. So is Canasta. They're always up for an opportunity to beat each other using acceptable means. But for now, they're ready to shower and get out of the house. Fair enough. I'll just take a book with me.

Unemployment Diary: Day Three A Retrospective

Well, it isn't taking me long to get used to this. I mean, honestly, I'm already too used to it. Now we need four semi trucks stuffed with hundred dollar bills to pull up in front of the house and I'll never have to go back to work. I chose four because five just seems greedy.

Now I'm playing catch up because Friday got away from me.

Chloe asked me to ride over with her to her school and at first I declined because normally the thought of giving away five more hours to riding in the car is not something I'd relish. But since all I have is time, I turned it around and thought "Hey! An opportunity to hang out with my kid without the din of sibling rivalry making me wish I'd tied them into sacks and tossed them into the river! Why not?"

Turns out, it was a lovely drive. We discussed deep issues like how are kids going to learn classical music these days if they're not exposed to it during the copious viewing of classic cartoons? We followed that discussion with a hummed duet of the chorus from Carmen. Talk about generational differences. When I hear that piece, I think of Gilligan's Island. When she hears it, she thinks of Hey, Arnold!

My father in law, may he rest in peace, just snapped his conducting baton in half wherever he is.

Adventures in Real Parenting: I Must Admit That Sometimes I Dislike Intensely My Children

Yesterday was MathMan's first day of the academic year with students. He shared with me his plans to discuss patterns as a math concept. Patterns are everywhere and in everything. Thankfully for his students, MathMan narrowed it down a bit to a manageable concept.

As we were discussing this, we noted the fact that each of our children have twenty letters in their very long names. (each has two middle names) This was an unplanned pattern that was brought to or attention this summer by which kid? I can't remember.

But that's not the only pattern we noticed regarding our children.We've noticed that they each have their ways for showing us they love us and many more ways to show their utter and complete disdain for us as thinking human beings.

The patterns, as I will outline below, seem to hold steady in nearly every situation. Each child has her or his own pattern and they stick to it with great regularity. MathMan and I have joked that being inconsistent is the only consistent way that we parent. Our children have turned that on its head and have become models of efficiency when it comes to getting their way and/or expressing themselves vis a vis subtle parental guidance and outright directives.

Let's dissect the techniques, shall we?
The oldest, The Dancer, employs what I like to think of as The Much Aggrieved.

Physical characteristics include:

• The pulling of a sour face or
• A poked out lower lip with sad eyes*
• Rolled eyes**
• A posture and overall attitude of "Are you through yet? Can we get real now?"
• The occasional laughingly-delivered "You must be joking!"

*The result depends on where she is in the monthly cycle of things.
**A well-delivered annoyance can result in both the sour face, followed by a quick shift into the pouty face verging on tears.

The conveyed meanings include, but are not limited to:

• I cannot believe you would say that to me!
• Oh, please, as if.....
• But surely, you're not addressing me. You must be thinking of one of your other children.
• How dare you!
• Do you see the shock that is registering on my face, for I am truly and most-assuredly shocked!
• Uh huh....
• Of course, you don't really mean that....
• Yeah, right!
• But I'm the best behaved child you have! This little thing shouldn't matter in the larger scope of things, right?
• I can never please you! I work my butt off at school and that is not enough! Now you expect me to clean up after myself, too? The nerve.
• Are you quite finished? Can we inject some reality into this situation now?

The Actor/Ninja - a mostly classic middle child, except for that bit about being a peacemaker - is a fan of what we refer to around here as The Righteous Indignation.

A spin-off, of sorts, from The Dancer's snorting and derisive eye-rolling and shaming approach, The Righteous Indignation is rather like watching a political operative trying to shout down an opponent on one of the cable infotainment channels. Volume is critical. Speed is critical. Being the first to attack and holding forth in an unrelenting, crescendo-building manner is essential.

Physical characteristics include:

• The afore-mentioned volume;
• The afore-mentioned speed in which one delivers one's defense or argument;
• The flailing about;
• Arm waving;
• Bulging eyes;
• Throbbing neck veins;
• The gnashing of teeth, or even more disturbing, the nibbling of thumbnail and spitting it out in disgust, while delivering some kind of abusive language;
• The repetition of the word "What? What? What? What?" much like Uncle Percy in the Jeeves and Wooster books by Wodehouse.
• Dashing dramatically from the room, slamming of doors, breaking of items, general mayhem;

Conveyed meanings are not difficult to construe and, in fact, hinge on one simple hypothesis:
I shall be horrible until I get my way and you cannot stop me!

I must tell you that The Actor/Ninja has employed this method nearly from day one. Even as a wee man about the house, he was known to flail and wail and create disturbances that we lovingly dubbed "Hitting the Dirt." He would throw himself face down on the floor to have his fits. He did it so often that we even shortened its references to "Dirt." He would wind up to do his thing and one of us would laugh "Dirt" to let the other know that a tantrum was in progress.

He doesn't spend much time of the floor at his age, but his actions are hardly less annoying.

Our youngest, Garbo, is probably the most frustrating of all because her predictable behavior leaves you wondering if she is daft or dangerous, even after so many years of demonstrating that she couldn't give a flying fig for what we really think. Her approach is one of quick admission and dismissal. I like to think of it in that lovely vernacular The Bum's Rush.

Borrowing from both The Dancer's The Much Aggrieved and The Actor/Ninja's Righteous Indignation, Garbo's aim is to finish with the offending, meddling parent as quickly as possible.

Physical characteristics vary depending on whether she is standing while addressed or lying on her floor wallowing about in her own filth, but in general one might see the following:

• A quick stand at attention;
• A marked shifting of the eyes from the television screen to the person addressing her, one eye wandering away again quickly to the television, indicating that she is quite through listening;
  
• The nodding of the head;
• A vacant smile;
• A phony salute and quick getaway;
• And if you have had the temerity to encroach upon her space to have a word, a dismissive wave of her hand to indicate that she's "heard" you and now you must leave her to it.

Except "it" never gets done. Or more precisely, "it" rarely gets done.

And when pressed for confirmation that she's received the information - if a directive is being issued - she can parrot back with the best of them. I do believe, however, that when she is paraphrasing the orders, the meaning behind the words flies immediately out of her head.

As I noted, she will, on occasion, swipe methodology from her elders - slamming doors, bringing on the tears, goggling her eyes and attempting to shout down her opponent, when necessary, meaning when playing the part of precious waif isn't working for her.

Conveyed meanings include, but are not limited to:

• Got it. Now go away quickly!
• Yeah, yeah, yeah, and when I don't do it, Mom will just come in and take care of it anyway...
• Leave me the hell alone! Can't you see I'm watching What Not to Wear?
• Lalalalalalala I can't hear you!
  
• Philistine!To you this may be a heap of toiletries. To me, it is art.
• Don't let this smiling facade fool you. I couldn't give a shit what you think of a clean house or how cluttered my room is....

Like all children whom I've known (including myself and my siblings), each of my children also possess an arsenal of denial, deflection and disdain for adults and their silly notions of cleanliness, order, responsibility, fairness and education.

In that arsenal, there are favorites, of course. For example:

• A Robert DeNiro-esque Who me? Are you talking to me?
• The Homer-Simpson-esque Don't Blame Me, I Didn't Do It!
• The Don't Let Your Lyin' Eyes Deceive You
• The Ignore Her and She'll Go Away

Parenting, as we all know, is not for sissies. It's time-consuming, inconvenient, sometimes maddening and often disheartening stuff. Of course it's rewarding, but I'm not writing about the happy, easy stuff today. I'm on about the idea that kids are a major pain in the ass and they will try to get away with whatever they can, using whatever methods they have at their disposal. They are wily, too. When they find something that works, they stick with it. Which brings me back to the idea of consistency.

Last night, MathMan and I sat with the children after supper and discussed how things could go more smoothly around here. To the children's dismay, the long commute together gives Mathman and me plenty of time to plot and scheme against them. In preparation, during dinner I announced that after clearing, each should return to the table before resuming activities that exercised their thumb muscles, involved the mixing of concoctions of tissue, glue, water, powder and shaving cream on an antique desk, or simply lying face down on the love seat, breathing through one's mouth while watching Tyra Banks tell women how to be the next top model. They groaned, predictably.

After dinner, as I took the lead in issuing our latest State of the Family and announcing our roll out plans for budget requests, after school rules and responsibilities, the meaning of my closed office door and a few other odds and ends about clothes getting into the hamper and cats who require sustenance and clean litter boxes, each child performed in their most predictable ways.

The Dancer clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes and interjected right before The Actor/Ninja exploded in a shower of indignation that we were to be reminded that she was moving out next week and we already have arrangements to deposit X number of dollars into her bank account each month and so this was all moot to her.

Like Old Faithful, The Actor/Ninja erupted like an adolescent geyser, his changing voice swinging from octave to octave with each gush of righteous indignation. And Garbo? Well, she was true to form, as well. The minute I half-jokingly suggested that someone take notes so that they could all have something to refer back to because they seem incapable of retaining and following simple instructions, Garbo raced off to find a notepad. And she did take notes. She even read them back to us when the family meeting was about to adjourn. And then she promptly got up from the table, leaving the notes, the pen and the clipboard forlornly behind, sitting next to a barely drunk from, but requested glass of Tropical Punch Kool-Aid. Later, as I noted this waste with annoyance, a housefly tiptoed along the glass's rim. I gathered it and the other things up with a sigh.

After all was said and done and one child was back to exercising this thumb, another was off creating sculptures in her bedroom using toiletries, and the third was mouth-breathing in front of the living room television, MathMan and I discussed what the reception to our ideas. Regardless of what those children think, we are not complete idiots. We know full well that the children will ignore us and treat us and our wishes with disrespect. This must stop because I've reached the point where my dislike for them is outweighing my love for them. And they should be aware that they are not the only ones capable of drama.



MathMan and I discussed options. I wanted to move away and not tell them. MathMan rejected this as inhumane to the cats and probably illegal, the killjoy. I was about to suggest that we take the cats with us when he shook his head in anticipation of my own predictable idea.

I suggested that I go back to New York City and stay this time, leaving him here to deal with the children alone then. MathMan didn't cotton to that idea much either.

I suggested we go Mrs. Piggle Wiggle on their lazy, disrespectful asses and let them have what they claim to want - parents who don't care and who leave them alone. Groceries? Clean clothes? Sign this permission slip? Money for all those things they like? We cackled like Hamlet's witches at the idea of casting our children adrift in their wishes - allowing them to live in chaos, clutter, and filth. That would show them. But if I couldn't get MathMan on board with moving out, that meant that we would have to cope with all the resulting squalor, too.

We slumped our shoulders, leaning on things as we thought. "We could modify it some," I began,"It might work," I added as the idea grew brighter, more clear in my mind.

I shared with MathMan my idea. He liked it. Now, of course, being consistent will be key to our success. Giving in for the sake of quiet and expediency will wreck this plan for sure. And if the children don't hold up their end of the deal regarding the budget request idea, as mentioned in no detail earlier, life could be pretty miserable for them, as long as we insist on written budget requests for any items requested or money for activities outside the normal items of lunch money, for example.

The plan is simple indeed. We shall respond to our children in the same manner that they respond to us. When one of them asks what we're having for dinner, I am going to simply ignore them until they go away. If one of them wants to know who deleted their favorite programs from the DVR, I'll holler "I didn't do it!" All those other things that they request? Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it. Sometime. Or not at all. Were you talking to me?

And MathMan and I can keep them bouncing back and forth all day on decisions. Want to spend the night at your friends? What did Daddy say? What did you mom think?

The real fun, though, will not be in the execution of the plan, but in the announcement of it, as it takes shape. I want to see their faces as we respond to them with the pat answer that "I'll address that with the same alacrity that you use when I ask you to do something."

And when they ask me what the hell alacrity means, I shall simply shrug, take another drink of wine and pretend that I did not hear them.......

Don't Mock the Process

In an ongoing effort to mend our battered marriage, MathMan and I make occasional visits to this nice bald man with a calm demeanor and good ideas about how we can not only keep from killing each other, but also how can can actually improve the way we - gasp! - communicate with one another.

Good communication skills are essential to a happy marriage. Or so they say. I guess using good communications skills helps you know exactly what it is that you're fighting about.

Our counselor has recommended that we use something I think he refers to as "tracking" or "mirroring." I suppose if I were a better listener, I'd know for certain what he calls it, wouldn't I? Anyway, it's a style of contrived communication that helps two people reflect back to each other what they're hearing....oh wait - it's called Reflective Listening. Okay, where was I?

Oh, yes, Reflective Listening provides you with the opportunity to clarify what's being said to you and what you're saying to your partner. Let me give you an example of what happened last Friday and then I'll show you how if we'd applied Reflective Listening, we might have avoided some bruised feelings and more of the same crap that keeps us from jumping up and clicking our heels about being married to one another. (Read: Bad or Non-existent Communication)

We're driving home from work and MathMan says "Why don't we go out tonight. Have a drink or something...."

To which I reply "Okay" as I'm looking out the passenger window. We move on from that topic, but about five minutes later, we pass by a restaurant that features live music and beer on their patio. I suggest we go there. Maybe? MathMan answers "Okay."

Nothing more is said about this conversation. We go home, I make dinner, MathMan takes care of the Pussies for Peace and delivers the beatings to the children who cannot find a trash can to save their lives. Or at least to avoid a beating. After dinner, MathMan suggests we go out for ice cream, I ask where, he suggests a place, I agree, we go, we eat ice cream, get brain freeze, come home. End of story.

But it's not.

Saturday night we end up sucking down mojitos on the deck and having one of those conversations. It's far ranging and deep. We do not come to blows, verbal, physical or job. But Friday night comes up and we discuss how my lack of enthusiasm as I delivered my initial "okay" to MathMan's suggestion doused the flame of his desire to go out and have fun and so we didn't pursue it further.

Exasperated at his inertia and his tendency to blame it on me and my lack of enthusiasm, I pointed out that I had, in fact, suggested a place to go and he'd not even done that. I guess I should use exclamation points here because I was probably verging on shrill. This whole you "let" or "don't let" thing drives me insane.

Anyway, we talked through it, came out the other side with decent attitudes and moved on with our weekend. Just don't ask me about the conflab regarding whom would sit where and who would drive when MathMan, The Dancer and I went to Rome for a morning of book perusing and plant purchases. That's a whole other example of how Reflective Listening might have improved the situation drastically.

Now, here's how the Friday evening conversation in the car would have gone if we'd been using Reflective Listening.....

MathMan: "Why don't we go out tonight. Maybe get a drink?"
Me: "Okay."
MathMan: "What I'm hearing is 'okay, but I don't really feel like it, but if you do, okay.' You're not very enthusiastic about it, are you?"

At which point I could have either told him that he was correct in what he'd heard and how he'd interpreted my words and reactions or I could have clarified with something like "No, I think it would be nice to go out, but I don't feel like coming up with ideas. You choose and I'll go along with it. It would be nice to just get out of the house."

Or something like that. It's entirely possible that I might have sighed, rested my head against the car window and moaned "I don't want to go anywhere! I want to stay home, sit on my computer and fret about the things I could, should, would be doing if I'd made a million different decisions in my life!"

Trust me, that would be like any other Friday night for the last couple of years.

So today we made our visit to the therapist. I issued my obligatory pre-visit statement that I didn't feel like talking and didn't want to go. "I am a clam. I give up nothing. I offer nothing." I think that's how I said it.

Of course I participated. The therapist has to earn his twenty-five dollar co-pay somehow. And besides, MathMan, who broke the rules of therapy etiquette as far as I'm concerned by not making some pre-visit statement about his desire to participate or not, forced me to speak by not speaking much himself. Would you believe he just sat there grinning at me until I finally broke down and said something? What a jerk.

So we practiced Reflective Listening again and discussed how we can apply it to certain situations, using that Friday night scenario as a perfect example of how not communicating gets us nowhere. We also discussed using more Reflective Listening with the kids. Yeah, that'll be a hoot. I can just hear myself now....

Me: Actor, grab all your dirty laundry and toss it into the hamper.
The Actor: Okay.......
Me: Did you hear me?
The Actor: -----------
Me: So what I hear you saying is that you're not paying the least bit of attention and you wish I'd shut up and go away. Oh and are you still here? Can you fix me a sandwich? I need some Koolaid. Do you deliver?
The Actor: -------------
Me: And what I hear you saying now is that I'm standing in the way of the television and you'd like me to move. And no you don't care if I turn into a raving lunatic and set myself on fire as long as I make that sandwich and Koolaid first.

Verrrrrrry effective.

Anyway, when we left the office, my Reflective Listening skills were stuck on. MathMan and I got in his car to drive home and he asked if I was hungry. (I was.) But instead of simply answering "Yes, I'm hungry," I applied Reflective Listening.

"So what I hear you saying is that you're wondering if I'm hungry?" I mirrored back to MathMan.

He stared at me and blinked. Once. Twice. He finally responded, "Yes......"

"And now I think I hear you wondering if I'd like to pick food up from somewhere because as soon as we get home, you have to race off to the baseball field with The Actor?"

More blinking.

I made that joke, oh, maybe ten, twelve times on the way home. In another day or two the phrase "What I hear you saying is...." will be banned from Golden Manor per proclamation of MathMan and The Royal Pain Children.

In fact, I just sped up the need for that proclamation tonight after MathMan and The Actor returned home from the baseball game. I was listening to the radio and an unfamiliar song was playing on this deep tracks kind of station.

"Oy, are they playing Steeley Dan?" I griped. If you didn't know before you know now - I hate Steeley Dan.

"No," MathMan said calmly, trying to head off the coming "I HATE Steeley Dan" rant. Clearly he was in no mood for me to hold forth on what music I think sucks.

I paused for a very brief moment and then responded "So what I hear you saying is that this isn't Steeley Dan?"

And that's when MathMan delivered the line that became the title of this post.

Commute Chat 3: Well, I'll Be Dipped

We are taking requests (or attempting to), the following is in response to Steve's insistence that we vlog dipped cones from Dairy Queen. And since Steve isn't really an insist kind of guy, we thought this must be important to him.

Thanks to others who have provided ideas. We're trying to figure out how to work in British accents, hats, the often-threatened (or is it promised?) sock puppets and finger operas. We've been rehearsing our finger opera song, Suzy, never fear!

A couple of administrative things. First - this one has some adult content. Not pictures, but language, so be prepared for that as you consider who might hear this. And second, regarding the audio - we're still working that out on the cheap. This was filmed using Doug's camera, which makes a better video, but distorts the audio, making us sound like we're doing lisps and lateral lisps. Please note that we are not really doing this - it's the equipment. Now, some might find it amusing, others might find it uncomfortable. I'm not sure what the politically correct thing is here, so I'll just offer an apology in advance if anyone is offended. Because a pre-emptive apology is so convincing, isn't it?

Anyway, here it is, we're eating again and talking about things of an adult nature. I fear we've already typecast ourselves.....

I've managed some music on the opening credits this time, but forgot closing music. Baby steps.......

What Should I Put Cream Cheese Frosting on Next?

I think my last post may have been more gloomy than my newer readers are used to. Dude. If you knew me in my political blogging days, you would have been all "what they hell?" and "who needs this angst?" Yeah - those were the days.

So tonight, after he started speaking to me again because I was such a sourpuss on the drive home (What? no video of that?), MathMan asked me if I'd really told The Actor that we only have sex on Wednesdays. I stared at him for a moment before putting my head down on my keyboard to think. Did I?

"Why would you ask me that?" I mumbled into the desk.

"And did you say that sometimes we play naked flashlight tag?" he continued the interrogation.

I whimpered.

There was more to come. I continued to wince and whimper in recognition of my housecat-like mothering skills. "Because it sounds like something you would say. We discussed it on the way home from baseball practice. The Actor, me and his friend." Oh. No.

You see, it's one thing to tell on myself, to show off for you guys and be all la, la, la, look at my whipped up naughtiness and Parenting by Benign Neglect, but when I learn that the crazy stuff I tell my kids spills over to their friends, I get a little embarrassed because some of these kids don't have the sense to not tell their Proper Mamas. And Proper Mamas do not find my loopy brand of humor amusing. At all.

So yes, I'm sure, too, that I said that crazy stuff. What of it now? Well, perhaps we'll see the number of sleepovers slow down as word gets out that I'm foul-mouthed and filthy-minded.

Anyway, I spent the first twenty minutes of our afternoon commute with my eyes pinched shut or by staring moodily out the passenger side window. MathMan was having none of it and without the the benefit of having read my blogpost where I described my testiness and likely blood sugar issues, pressed, pushed and prodded until the dam broke, the words came spilling out and I shared with him my worries about work. (long, boring story) I hate boring him with tales from the workfront, but he seemed not to mind. Just venting helped me. (Thanks, Honey!)

And now the rush of baseball season is upon us. MathMan and The Actor will be gone a lot of the time. This is the time of year when I am left to my own devices too much of the time. When I'm not cleaning the sparkle off things, I'm looking for trouble and indulging in all manner of ill-advised pursuits that end in near-disaster, broken hearts, bad haircuts and unfinished projects in the garden. And that's the good stuff. (Do you ever wonder about the stuff I don't tell you about? Well, if you do, stop that. You'd never sleep again.)

However, with our new situation, Garbo seemed intent on shaking up the dynamic. She only had to ask me once to go to the park with her. I was amazed when I reminded her that we'd have to - gasp! - walk because I don't have a car anymore and she just shrugged and asked if she could ride her bicycle while I walked. No problem.

An hour later, we'd hiked the trail through the woods and along the creek, crossed the covered bridge, gone on the swings, and sauntered home again to spend another hour outside arranging pots and garden stuff and making a home for worms in a little pot. People of the Internets, if you could see the butt-groove in my cheapo, black swivel office chair, you'd realize what a huge deal this was.

Getting out in the fresh air, staring up at those clouds that look like a couple of merpeople about to kiss, listening to the bird who says "Drink your tea" over and over, noticing the smell of wood smoke in the air from the barbecue place down the road, feeling the breeze, enjoying the heft of pots just waiting to be filled with veggie seeds and colorful annuals, noticing the neighbors' houses - the dark wood sided one with the shady woodland garden and ivy-covered trees, and the other one with the lush green lawn and hydrangeas bursting out in pom poms of white? You must be wondering "What is the big deal?"

Plenty. It's been a long couple of years. It's good to be getting back to something closer to normal (for me, that is). I strolled along, watching Garbo on her bicycle, shrinking into the distance as she rode further ahead. I realized I wasn't holding my breath or about to let loose with a tirade of invectives and I didn't feel angry about anything.

I was just taking it all in. Later, I realized that I'd concluded something that had long needed concluding. Sorry to sound so cryptic, but I decided that the best thing to do sometimes is just pretend that a death has occurred. It's irrevocable. Done. Final. And sometimes, it's the inability to retrieve, the lack of hope that allows us to accept something. Finally.

I breathed. In and out. In and out. I didn't count my steps. I wasn't biting on the side of my tongue or furrowing my brow. I don't think I was even pursing my lips.....

*********************************************
Thank you, Fantastic Forrest, for pointing me toward your post tonight. I love the movie Garden State and I adore Zach Braff. I've had the Garden State soundtrack for some time now and there are a couple of songs on it that have been my off and on favorites. One is the one you posted (imagine that!) the other is an utter wallow-tune. And I'm just going to let that song go unplayed tonight for the reasons I mentioned above.

I do want to share with you a video I found that combines the artist who sings the song on the Garden State soundtrack that I love to wallow to and Scrubs, the show which brought Braff his popular fame.

I love the richness of Colin Hay's voice. And his hospital gown is pretty cute, too.

Thanks, MathMan, for the title of this post. Those pretzels dipped in cream cheese frosting were delish!

Carpool Log Day One: Ask Yourself This.....

MathMan and I made it through our first co-commute yesterday without a single puppet show. Thanks to those who provided future programming suggestions. What great ideas! However, I want you to consider carefully before encouraging me to vlog. Aren't I insufferable enough using the written word?

So this is how our afternoon commute went as we made the short drive from my office to our marriage counselor's office. Oh the irony.

First, I started out examining my face in the mirror behind the car's window visor. Why is it that I always see stray hairs that must be plucked only when I'm in the car and have no tweezers?

Next up, MathMan made a left turn and didn't stay in his lane. I chided him briefly but then I got distracted by the German bakery on Atlanta Road. My stomach growled.

I asked "How about if we stop there and buy some German pastries and then we stop at Douceur de France and buy some eclair?. We can do a World War II re-enactment and my mouth can be the Ardennes." (history nerd humor + food humor - Epic FAIL).

MathMan responded with alacrity, "That would give new meaning to the Battle of the Bulge."

I laughed because I actually got that joke and then looked down at my tummy and sucked it in really tightly, trying to meld it with my spine. More FAIL.

As usual, I was not happy about having to go to see our therapist. I don't see why we need to go talk to some guy about our marriage. And hey! he doesn't even have fab eyebrows. When MathMan picked me up at the office I moaned, kvetched and then whined a little. He was unmoved. I decided to take the direct approach - petulance and threats.

"I'm not going to talk. I just going to sit there with my arms crossed and glare at a spot on the wall. YOU can do all the talking," I huffed, then flounced away, shuffled some papers, clicked my mouse and watched MathMan from under my eyelashes as I pretended to concentrate on my computer screen.

Still nothing. His calm demeanor can be so annoying.

So there we sat about forty-five minutes later and my resolve was gone. I was participating, making a go of it, taking an enthusiastic part in the conversation about our relationship with each other and with The Spawn.

Then our therapist picked up this book and held it up so we could see the cover. The title was The One Question That Can Save Your Marriage by Harry P. Dunne, PhD.

Thankfully, our therapist isn't one to expect us to actually read the book, although I'm sure he thinks it might be a good idea. Nor is he one who thrives on the dramatic. He just cut right to the chase.

"The question is pretty simple," he began. MathMan and I waited quietly, patiently. I don't know what MathMan was thinking, but I know what I was thinking. There's just one question?

"The question is What would it be like to be married to you?"

I gasped first, then let out a very unladylike guffaw. MathMan seemed to ponder this quietly. Gathering my wits about me, I sucked in my breath and watched him. When he looked at me, I gestured that I would choke me with my bare hands. He just blinked at me as if to say "As if I haven't considered that a million times and dismissed it because I don't want to go to jail because of you."

We left the office with our next appointment scheduled and some thinking to do. What would it be like to be married to me?

The very idea gives me the shakes......



To be continued.......