My family's brunch was salted with tears yesterday. I started crying as my friends walked out the door, and I just couldn't stop. It was like a pipe had burst somewhere in my soul, and there was nothing I could do about it. I should have expected that to happen. I'd been living in a state of denial for weeks.

I knew my friends and next-door neighbors were planning to move to Denver. Their house sold last month within three days of being on the market. They've been packing and planning long before that happened. They'd even gone out to Denver and found a place to live. All the while, I somehow convinced myself it wasn't actually going to happen. They weren't actually going to leave our little cul de sac. This was our home.

They moved in five years ago. They had a two and a half year old. We were newly married. Over the past few years, we've been through a lot together. Personal crises, medical crises, near-deaths of family members, job changes, tough pregnancies, and tough births. Long winters, budding springs, warm sunny summers, and colorful falls. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. We've watched each other's kids and dogs and houses. We've shared a lot of laughs, a lot of stories, and the occasional tears. We've counselled each other through a lot of tough decisions. We've watched a lot of people come and go on this little street, but these two houses stayed the same for a long time. In our books, anyway. We all come from professional worlds that require a lot of moving, and none of us actually expected to stay here very long, and we certainly didn't expect to like it this much. But we did, and they did.

This will likely be a great move for our friends. Denver is an awesome city. The schools in Colorado are better. Both of their jobs will be better. Their son won't have to go to day care anymore. I'm excited for them, but I can't help but be sad. I will miss them a lot.

Today was very hard. It was the first day of my new life without my running buddies. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to spend it outside. After my son's nap, I told him we were going to the park. He assumed as always that our friends would either be walking with us or meeting us there. He asked if they were going, and I told him it would just be him and me from now on. I asked him if he remembered where our friends went, and he said, "They moved to Denver." He said it, but I know he was only parroting what I've been telling him. He's two years old. He doesn't know what moving means. He doesn't know where Denver is. I had a very hard time holding back the tears as I tried to make him understand we weren't going to see them for awhile. They've been around as long as he has. He's known them all his life, and this will be his first experience with loss in a way. That makes me even more sad. At least I can understand what's going on and why I'm sad.

I've been very lucky to have some really great friends in my life. They are scattered all over the world, but they are all really great people who have touched my life in so many ways. For the most part, every friend I've ever had has made me a better person in one way or another. I am thankful for each and every one of them. I hate saying goodbye. I should be a pro at it by now. I've moved around my whole life, and even though I'm not moving now, my friends still are. My circle of friends is always expanding. I know we all go through stages of life, and different people are closer to us at different times, but my friends are my chosen family, and I just wish I could keep them all close forever.

Labels: Friendship, State of Mind

We live too close to a Columbia Farms chicken plant for my comfort. We often see their workers walking to their jobs in their knee-high rubber boots and hair nets. If INS were to raid the place, I'm sure agents would discover a high percentage of illegal immigrants on the pay roll. That's a debate for another day, however. Back to the point. We often smell a strong chemical odor coming from the general direction of the chicken plant, although I my sniffer isn't keen enough to determine for certain if the smell is coming from Columbia Farms or another industrial business in the area. The worst part about living near the chicken plant, though, is witnessing the daily Death Rides.

I already have a tenuous relationship with meat products. I became a vegetarian at the age of 15. My husband blames that on the summer camp I attended, which he calls a Communist Camp. I would say it was a combination of that, reading The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, and the fact that I never really loved meat to begin with anyway. I ate it because that's what my parents gave me, and I would go hungry if I didn't. When I discovered my own free will and was exposed to other ideas and the disgusting history of America's meatpacking industry, I chose to stop eating meat. This was a real pain in the ass to my meat-eating parents at the time, because they already thought I was too skinny and wanted to feed me all the time. It was also a pain in the ass to anyone who might be hosting me for a meal, say for instance, my future parents-in-law, who had probably never met anyone who didn't eat meat at that time.

Now, I wasn't a strict vegetarian. I never stopped eating seafood. Animals that lived in the water didn't disgust me so much as animals that were hairy or feathery and lived on land. I know, some of you might be shocked and appalled by my hypocrisy. My husband certainly was and still is. I have no defense other than to say it's my body, and I'll put in it whatever the hell I want, thankyouverymuch.

In college, my boyfriend (now husband) and doctor convinced me that I needed to eat some kind of meat. My boyfriend, Soul Mate, just wanted me to for the increased menu options and for the simple fact that he thought it was weird that I didn't eat meat. The doctor, on the other hand, wanted me to get some more protein in my diet. I wasn't educated enough, or for that matter, financially able, to buy healthy alternatives to meat back then. So, I reluctantly sprinkled chicken back into my diet. It was a rare occasion, but it was enough to make me a little healthier than I was.

Since then, my husband has tried repeatedly to get me to eat more meat. One year for his birthday, all he wanted was for me to take a bite of steak at our favorite Japanese steakhouse. He said this was some of the best steak he ever put into his mouth, and after eating it, I would become a red meat lover. Just for him, I choked it down, although the texture alone nearly made me hurl, not to mention the taste of blood. He likes his steak medium rare, which is still a little pink for those of you who are not familiar with meat temperatures.

Soul Mate has scored a major victory in this food battle, however. A lot of things he likes to cook call for bacon in the recipes. For years, I made him use turkey bacon, because I was appalled by the idea of eating pork. A few years ago, I agreed to let him try a recipe with actual bacon in it. I admit I liked the taste, and now I will eat bacon. I won't eat ham or pork in any other form, but I will eat bacon. Mostly cooked in other dishes, but occasionally by itself. Don't start with your hypocrite talk again. I know it doesn't make sense. That's just the way it is in my head, OK?

So, anyway, I'm easily grossed out, and sometimes things will happen that will make me swear off any meat again. One of the things I always dread is an encounter with the Death Ride, because it challenges the relationship between my head and my stomach. I'm having one of those moments right now, because I got behind the Death Ride on my way home from getting coffee this morning. I was the lucky person who pulled up behind the chicken truck at a stop light, so I got a really good look at what was going on there. If you have never seen a truck of live chickens on the way to the chicken plant, consider yourself lucky. It is a disgusting, disgusting sight. Basically, it's hundreds of six inch-high cages stacked on top of one another on a flat-bed 18-wheeler. I'm sure there are at least 500 chickens, maybe more, on any given Death Ride. If you get the pleasure of being behind them, you will witness them all huddled together, crammed really, into these cages, peeing and crapping all over one another. Remember, this stuff ends up on your dinner plate.

Occasionally, a really funny thing (if you're sick like me) happens. The latches on these cages sometimes come loose, and a few of the chickens escape their captors. If you're lucky enough to be anywhere near the Death Ride when this happens, you'll see those little buggers pointlessly flapping their broken wings, gasping in the fresh air of freedom. You can imagine them thinking, "Ha! You stupid humans! We have out-smarted you! We have escaped your tyranny! We will not be your dinner! You will have to find some other stupid chicken to eat!" If you're listening from nearby, it sounds something like, "Bawk, Bawk, Bawk, B-Faaaaaaaaaawwwwk!!!" because just two seconds after they inhale the fresh air of freedom, a car plows into them, knocking them to the pavement, where 25 other cars proceed to flatten them into gooey blobs of chicken mess. Hey, that's not such a bad way to go, right? Feeling you have won a major victory over mankind? Knowing you're not going to be plucked and eaten by the tyrants? Blind ignorance to your true fate. That's the ticket.

Labels: Chicken plant, Funny stuff, Meat eating

My car says it is 71 degrees right now. The sun is shining, and I drove back from the dentist with the sunroof open. Still no cavities and the wind in my hair = great start to the day. I know it's not spring yet, but there are visible signs of winter's end. Today's temperature and the daffodils coming up in my yard go a long way to change my outlook on life. It'll probably get cold again in a couple of days, but this spell of sunshine will warm up my soul for at least a week. I'm going outside when my kid wakes up, and I'm not coming back in until the sun sets.

Labels: State of Mind, Winter

Sometimes, I just need a swift kick in the ass. Fortunately, I have someone to give me that kick when it's necessary. As I've said repeatedly, I have been sick all winter. I don't recall a time in my 31 years that I've gotten so sick for so long. In fact, I'm sniffling while I write this. I spent most of yesterday sleeping. My husband and my son have seen me lying in that position a lot recently, and finally, my husband had enough of it. He essentially told me to buck the fuck up. As he pointed out, I didn't just lie around like this when I was working for a living. Even if I was feeling like hell, I would take some cold medicine and a shower and haul my fat ass off to work. This is my first whole winter without a "job," and I guess that's a good excuse for me to be pathetic. Why have I been sick all winter? I don't know, but my husband suggests that I'm staying sick because I really don't want to get better. He thinks I'm depressed, and that's what's keeping me in this perpetual state of mucus. I'm not going to say he's completely wrong. I have been lying around, feeling bad that I can't feel good, and I'm not doing enough to take care of myself. Why? Because I'm a shit head sometimes, and I take my family for granted. Soul Mate will pick up my slack when I feel like shit, and my kid loves TV. When I don't feel well, he gets to watch all he wants. When I feel well, he's on hard-core TV rationing. Why did I go to work sick? Because I felt bad that other people had to do my job when I couldn't. Why don't I feel the same way when my husband has to do my job and his? Because, sometimes, I'm a selfish bitch.

I started this blog over the summer, because I missed writing every day. More importantly, perhaps, I started writing to figure some things out. When I was 18, I wanted to rule the world of television. When I was 28, I wanted to be a mom. What will I want to be when I'm 38? Who the hell knows? I spent 14 years defining myself by my work. Some people might disagree with me, but I think I was very good at what I did. I thrive on stress, and there was a lot of it in my job as a TV news producer. When the shit the fan, I was at my best. I was at my worst when things went easily as planned. When I quit my job in December, 2005 to stay at home with my son, I was done with television. My job was not family-friendly, at least not for my family. There are many people who survive the TV life just fine with their families intact, although the divorce rate in TV is pretty damn high. I have the luxury of not needing my salary, so I was able to choose what I wanted to do more: be a mother or be a TV person. I chose motherhood. I do not regret that choice at all. I am thrilled that my husband makes a good enough living that I can be here for all the wonderful moments of my son's childhood. However, that choice has had its setbacks for my mental state.

Like I said, I once defined myself as a Television Producer. Next, I was a Television Producer and a Wife. Then, I was a Television Producer, a Wife, and a Mother. Now, I don't have a problem defining myself as a Wife and a Mother. I just need something to work my noodle. I love taking care of my son and my husband, but I hate all the other shit that comes along with being a stay-at-home mom. I hate cleaning. Hate It. I don't mind cooking, but my husband is an awesome cook, and I'm just OK at it. We all enjoy our food more when he makes it, but it seems shitty to have him cook when it really falls under my job description. Fortunately, he likes to cook, and he does when he has time. If I define myself as a Wife and Mother, then I don't feel like I'm contributing anything to the world that's solely mine. Maybe that's selfish, but it's true. I only contributed half of the genetic makeup to produce our son, and it takes two to have a marriage, so what do I have that's mine and mine alone? The problem right now is that there's nothing of substance that I can identify myself with. I'm not producing anything. Yeah, I have a damn cool kid, but that's not all my doing. My husband plays a big role in that as well. I don't want to go back to work, because I love being here. I just need to find my place in the world that is somewhere in between here and there. I don't know where that is really.

The problem with me is that, I have a Use-It-or-Lose-It relationship with my mind. My brain does not like to be idle. The reason I use the name Student of Life when I post is because that's what I most identify myself as. I want to learn everything I can about everything around me. I have an insatiable curiosity about people and the world in which we live. If I didn't feel guilty about spending more money, I would be a professional student. I love school. I always have from Day One. I started a Master's Degree before My Little Sunshine came into our lives. It's a Master's in Media Management. At the time, that made perfect sense to me. Now, it doesn't. I don't really want a Master's in Media Management, because I don't want to be in the media. I never knew there was anything else out there until we had a son. Television news was all I knew. Now, it doesn't fit into my life. Part of me wants to just go ahead and finish that degree anyway, just so I'll have it. That's the only requirement I don't meet to teach journalism at most colleges. I have plenty of professional experience, a Bachelor's Degree, and a desire to teach. I just don't have a Master's. Another part of me wants to let gamblers pay for me to get a degree in education. In our state, we get basically free tuition to technical schools. Money from our state lottery pays for it. The problem then is when do I do that? I don't really want to teach full-time until my son is in school, but I'd rather get the other stuff out of the way now. I just don't know how to move forward from here. All I know is I have to use my brain or it starts focusing on all the little things that don't matter at all instead of life's big picture. Like I said, I can handle the Big Stuff like cake. It's all the Little Things that bog me down.

I was thinking about all this stuff in the car today on the way home from working out. The song "Far Away" by Nickelback came on. That song killed me over the summer. My husband was in Vegas for like seven weeks, and I really missed him. If you're not familiar with the song, the chorus goes like this:

"I love you
I have loved you all along
And I miss you
Been far away for far too long
I keep dreaming you'll be with me
and you'd never go
Stop breathing if
I don't see you anymore"

When he was gone all the time, I didn't take anything he did for granted. I appreciated every little thing he did, and I couldn't wait until he came home. I felt like part of my soul was missing. When he finally came home I thought I'd never let go of him again. I promised myself that I would make sure he knew how much I love him and not get pissed at him because he likes to stay up really late and stay out really late and play a lot of poker. I promised myself that I would try harder to accept him for who he is. I didn't keep that promise to myself. I have been bitching at him all winter. I guess it's because I need there to be order in the world. He doesn't. I'm Type A. He's not. We've always been the Yin and the Yang. I guess that's why we work. We compliment each other. When I get too "A," he makes me more "Z." When he gets too "Z," I make him more "A." I need to spend some time focusing on what's out of order in my head and not so much on how we're different. That's one goal I can work toward.

When I started this blog, I wanted to use it as a tool for self-exploration to help me find my place in this world. Writing helps me sort out my thoughts. I've kind of gotten away from that over the past few weeks. I haven't gone back and re-read them, but if I recall correctly, most of my posts lately have been about things that really piss me off. External things. It's much easier to look at what's wrong around you than what's wrong inside you. Most of the time, I don't have a problem analyzing myself or looking inward. I haven't really felt like it lately. Am I depressed as my husband suggests? I don't think so. I think I'm lost more than anything. I don't have any direction. I don't have any goals. I don't have anything to challenge my noodle other than a very strong-willed two year old. I get off-course when I don't have those things. I need them or I will plow myself and everyone else around me off into a ditch. What I need to do is sort all that out. So my goal for myself and this blog is to spend more time looking inward than bitching about other people and other things. I'm not saying I'm not going to bitch, because that's also who I am. It's simply not all that productive, other than to let off some steam and keep my head from exploding. I'm just going to try to focus more on making myself feel better than playing the role of Poor Little Sick Mommy. I'm sick and tired of her, and I know for a fact Soul Mate is--rightfully so. My Little Sunshine is probably sick of her, too. He just doesn't know how to tell me to buck the fuck up. Mercifully.

Labels: State of Mind

I'm so fucking sick of winter it's not even funny. Some of you might find that statement hilarious, considering I don't even live in a place that has a real winter by most standards. We got one dusting of snow this year and a couple of threats of ice storms. Other than that, it's just hovered in the 30 to 40 degree range and been really freaking windy. I was thankful for the one snow for my son's sake, but once we got that, I was ready to kick winter to the curb. It's been a few weeks since that happened, so now, I'm just generally pissed.

I've some times fantasized about moving to a place north of the Mason-Dixon line and becoming a snow bunny. I would love to be a good skier or snowboarder. I think that's so bad-ass. Problem is, it's cold in those places. Sometimes really cold, and that's just not cool for more than a couple of hours in my book. It's nice to vacation where it's winter, but it's not nice to live in it.

I was born in Ohio, and I've spent a little less than half of my life in places with real winters. The other half of my life has pretty much ruined me for the cold. Houston, Texas thinned my blood, and Mississippi nearly turned me into a hemophilliac. I think 60 degrees is cold. So, 30 degrees may as well be minus 30 as far as my body is concerned.

When I moved from Mississippi to Missouri, I diagnosed myself with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I was one pissed off cookie the three winters I spent in Missouri. I tried to take easy classes my winter semesters, because I tended to skip a lot when the weather was unpleasant. If I walked out of my apartment and slipped ever-so-slightly, my ass was back in the bed under the covers. No way was I endangering my life or anyone else's by putting my already-bad driving skills to the test. There was no point in that. Living to me was much more important than making it to Art History 306.

I remember my first winter in Missouri. I lived with a chic from Carrollton, Georgia. Want to talk about two people unprepared for winter's onslaught? We had no clue what we were in for. The first day of winter that year, my roommate got up to go to class and promptly plowed her Toyota Celica into the guard shack in our apartment complex. She came back inside crying as I was preparing to leave. I thought she was an idiot, so I wanted to survive winter just to piss her off. I walked out of the apartment and promptly fell on my ass, which was karma, I'm sure. I deserved that. I slipped and slided my way to my car, and by the time I got there, I had icicles hanging from my eyelashes and eyebrows. "What the fuck is this," I thought to myself! I quickly skidded back to my apartment and called my mommy crying hysterically. "Mom," I sniffled, "It's cold here, and it's icy, and they didn't cancel class, but I'm not going, and I'm cold, and I want to come home!" Pathetic. I learned to deal, mostly because I relied heavily on my boyfriend (now my husband). He was experienced in the winter ways, and he took care of me. When he wasn't around, I stayed in bed.

The thing that sucks about winter here in South Carolina is that it doesn't often get cold enough to snow, and if it does, the snow melts quickly. That means there's no winter sporting opportunities. It's just cold enough and windy enough to keep us inside all day every day, and that's a real bitch for me. I need to see the sun. Add to that the fact that I have a very active two year old who hates to stay inside, and you have a miserable mommy. We go to the park or the zoo every day we can. I even take him to the mall to play in the indoor playground. Now, we have this awesome place called Monkey Joe's, where we can go jump on those big blow up things inside where it's warm. That's cool, but it costs money, and we can't go there every day.

So right now, I'm watching my ass and my thighs expand, because, like I've said before, my body also thinks it's a fucking bear needing to store up fat for the winter. That's pissing me off really badly, because I worked really hard to lose 50 pounds from my baby and pre-baby debauchery. I'm bored out of my mind and completely uninspired about everything. I'm in need of some sun. I'm in need of some outdoor activity. I should just do like every other Southern woman (my family included) and go fry myself in a tanning bed. It actually might improve my mood, but, oh, there's that whole skin cancer problem to worry about.

I can't remember if those groundhogs saw their shadows or not, and which one is it that I'm supposed to follow? Punxatawney Phil or General Beauregard Lee? Either way, six more weeks of winter might just put me six feet under. Spring, please come soon. I've been a good girl. I promise.

Labels: Bad mood, Winter

Man, I'm fired up right now. Some 23 year old little shit has gone and made me question my blanket defense of Freedom of Speech. Before I go off, let me say that I will defend to the death John Petroski's right to say or write whatever the fuck he wants. I'm glad this former Opinion Editor for Central Connecticut State University's "The Recorder" is an insensitive bastard who likes to write about issues that don't personally affect him: rape, abortion, racism. I'm glad he finds the need to spout off from his educated white male high horse. It just gives the rest of the world a window into the minds of people who claim to be enlightened and open-minded but are really cave men scumbags disguised as tie-wearing college students. Right now, it's also giving a lot of media coverage to what I see as an epidemic in our culture: rape.

John Petroski wrote an opinion in his college newspaper, The Recorder. The headline was "Rape Only Hurts If You Fight It." Petroski claims his article was meant to be a satire of media sensationalism. Now, I wish I could go back and read Petroski's opinion. However, the pussies at his newspaper who thought it was fine to publish it in the first place have since taken it off the web site. Fortunately, a few people out there on the internet heard about this before I did, and I've been able to find a few excerpts of his opinion. The Two Malcontents have a few quotes published on their site:

"Far from a vile act, rape is a magical experience that benefits society as a whole."

"Take ugly women for example. If it weren’t for rape, how would they ever know the joys of intercourse with a man who isn’t drunk."

--John Petroski

Can somebody please tell me what those quotes have to do with media sensationalism? I really wish I had some context here, though. Maybe the entire text of his piece would help me understand him better. Maybe I wouldn't be so pissed off right now if I could get a complete picture. It bothers me that the staff of this newspaper took it off the web site. Take some responsibility for your decisions. If you truely defend Freedom of Speech, put it back up. Let us read it, debate it, defile it if we want. That's the Marketplace of Ideas, right? You throw it out there, and then society gets to look at it from every perspective, and eventually the truth rises to the top, right?

How could any person who has any concept of reality think it's OK to use the subject of rape as a satire on the media? Especially on a college campus! Depending on which statistics are right, one in every three or four women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. That means in any given college class, you will have at least one, probably more, women who have been violated in the most horrible way possible. I have one friend who committed suicide because she never got over being raped. I know people who have struggled for years with eating disorders, nightmares, and relationships after being raped. I know women who turned to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain. I know women who have risen above it all and prospered in their lives and helped many other victims of rape pull themselves out of the darkness. This is not an issue that is appropriate for satire. Again, I will defend Petroski's right to write whatever the hell he wants, but I will exercise my right to publicly chastise him for his complete ignorance and insensitivity.

Before I got fired up about Petroski, I was already thinking of writing a post about Freedom of Speech. The Grammys got me thinking about it again. I was quite pleased to see the Dixie Chicks win five awards. They deserve those little statues for the hell they've been through over the past few years. I know a lot of people are saying the Grammys were a statement against the war and the president, and I'm fine with that. It brings the whole issue of speech to the forefront again.

I cannot wait until "Shut Up and Sing" comes out on video. I will be renting and/or buying it immediately. The whole concept of Freedom of Speech is meant to protect people in situations like the Dixie Chicks and even John Petroski. It provides protection especially in the instance when the speech is unpopular. At the time Natalie Maines criticized President Bush, our nation was in rah-rah mode. God forbid someone say they're embarassed by our president in good times. Now that we're in not-so-good times, everyone's criticizing him. No one will be threatened with death like Natalie Maines for talking badly about him today, but when she said it, her sentiment was unpopular, and, therefore, in the eyes of some people, she shouldn't have the right to say it. Bullshit, I say.

Some people argued that during times of war, people should be supportive of the government and the troops, and not speak ill of either. Well, I call bullshit on that, too. That's exactly when we should speak up. That's exactly when the Marketplace of Ideas should be in full effect. We should all be allowed to speak our minds without fear. We should be able to debate issues all the time, not just when it's convenient to our nation's leaders.

Natalie Maines, hold your head high, girl. You can at least feel a little bit vindicated. It's not going to take back all the hurt you've suffered for speaking your mind, but at least you can say, "Nahnny-nahnny-boo-boo" for a couple of minutes before Country Radio starts bashing you again. Hopefully, the next time you win a Grammy it will be because of the merits of your music and not a political statement, but that's a debate for another day.

John Petroski, keep writing, man. But when you write, don't be a pussy if people don't like what you have to say. Leave it out there, so we can all talk about it. If you feel that strongly, you shouldn't be afraid of what people will say about you. I do hope this experience has taught you a lesson, though. You have Freedom of Speech (to a certain degree), but please think before you speak. If you're in a position of power like you were, please think about the harm you might cause before you publish your satirical pieces on topics that about which you are woefully ignorant. Think. Write. Think again. That's what it's all about.

Labels: Freedom of Speech, John Petroski, Natalie Maines, the Dixie Chicks

I just spent way too much time in one of the world's most interesting melting pots: my local Department of Motor Vehicles. Apparently, this experience is now much more pleasant that it once was in the state of South Carolina. When we first moved here, one of the big news stories we covered was the ridiculous inefficiencies at the DMV that led to people waiting in line for hours on end, only to be told they had to come back another day. Now, there is a very complex number/lettering system and a triage area of sorts that determines what your issue is and where you need to be. Despite the fact that the DMV experience has been greatly improved, they apparently don't have very high standards for the customer service person who mans that triage booth. The woman working there today was, in short, a collosal bitch. I listened to her rude comments and watched her roll her eyes at people for several minutes before I got treated to her stellar personality. I employed the Kill Them With Kindness method of human relations, and she seemed to be offended by the happy look on my face. That only encouraged me to appear more cheerful to be in her corner of hell.

What's really annoying about this experience is that I simply had to hand my old car tag to a state employee. That's all. The Maiden of Darkness informed me that I would have to wait in the Melting Pot in order to hand my tag to Underpaid State Employee X. Why they don't just have a basket you can drop the tags in is a mystery to me, but what do I know about maintaining a respectable level of government bureaocracy?

I took my little ticket, A039, and sat down in one of the many rows of germ-infested seats. I got the unfortunate luck to plop my happy ass down right across the isle from two women who believe physical violence is the only way to keep your toddlers in check. I was there approximately 45 minutes to drop off this tag, and I swear I witnessed these two women hit their boys at least 25 times each. The boys were probably two and four. The two women and the two little boys were all there together, and I'm not exactly sure of the relationship, but I think it was probably a young grandmother, and a way-too-young mother and her children. The women took turns beating the little boys for absolutely no reason at all. I thought the kids were pretty well behaved. The children never raised their voices, which mine would have certainly done in that situation. They didn't try to run around, which mine would have done at least ten times in the length of time they had to wait. The young mom hit the two year old because he was sitting on her lap and putting too much of his weight on one of her legs. Are you kidding me? Your toddler deserves to be spanked because he doesn't understand proper weight distribution? That was just one example of the dozens of reasons the poor kid got hit while he was at the DMV. If these women beat these kids this much in a public place, what do they do behind closed doors? If they get beaten for sitting on the floor, what happens to them if they spill something or break something? I can't even think about it without feeling sick to my stomach.

I know the Spanking Debate is alive and well. I was spanked as a child. My husband was spanked as a child. We have chosen to employ different discipline measures with our own son. He is two and a half, and he's never been spanked. That's not to say that we won't change our minds at some point. We simply want that to be a last resort method of discipline. I read an article where one mother said she's against spanking, but she has swatted her child's butt for running away from her in a parking lot. She felt he was in immediate danger, and she wanted to get his attention in the fastest way possible. I understand that. I have been tempted to do the same with my son, but I have not. Two year olds often go through a hitting phase. My Little Sunshine has been through that phase. I think it would be very difficult for him to understand "We don't hit people" if I hit him as a means of discipline. "We don't hit people," except when you've pissed me off, and I don't know how to express that with words or make you stop using other means? I just don't think that flies with a toddler who hasn't yet developed multi-level reasoning skills. Most things are still black and white with him.

My Melting Pot experience today reminded me that there are many different ways of parenting. Those little munchkins don't come with user's manuals like my new car. There's no written code of behavior for parents, except, of course, for the law. So much of this is subjective. I know most parents are doing what they think is best for their own children, but I have a hard time not judging women like the ones I saw at the DMV today. Maybe it's not my place to say that their behavior was wrong, but I think it was. My heart hurt for those two little boys. They were absolutely precious, and to think that they're going to go through many more years of being battered for being children makes me ill. I just think it has to increase their chances of using violence to answer their problems later on in life. I know there's no guarantee that my Non-spanked child won't grow up to be a delinquent, but I hope I'm showing him with my behavior that there are better ways to deal with things than to lash out at people. I hope I'm giving him better coping skills. Luckily, I went to the DMV while he was napping, so I didn't have to test out my non-spanking discipline methods in a crowded public place. I'm not sure how well Time-Out would have worked there. I would like to think I would have come up with another solution instead of beating the shit out of my kid to get him to sit still. Oh, the humanity!

Labels: DMV, Parenting styles, Spanking

After a long week of negotiating with car dealers, my husband and I went on a much-needed date in our new ride. We decided to end said date watching some movies. We couldn't find anything at the movie store we actually wanted to see. The Departed is the only movie we know of that is coming out on video that we want to see, but it's not coming out until the 13th. So, we opted to explore an Internet Famous movie. We rented Snakes on a Plane, knowing that we would be laughing, even though it wasn't meant to be funny.

I'm not going to waste my time, or yours for that matter, reviewing this movie that got millions of words of internet hype and, in turn, hours of TV hype. Let's just say that I was laughing hysterically in the first few minutes (again, it wasn't supposed to be funny), and I was sound asleep and snoring long before they got to the only line I wanted to hear Samuel L. Jackson deliver: "Motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane." I did say it myself about ten times before I fell asleep, but I never actually heard Sam the Man say it. I wish I could find the timecode where he says it somewhere, so I don't have to suffer through the terrible script and the terrible acting and the terrible effects in order to hear, "Motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane." I think I've earned that reward for even paying the few bucks to rent that piece of crap. The only reward I got was being woken up from a sound sleep by my husband who Tickle Attacked me for making him watch it by himself. That was a rude awakening.

Labels: Snakes on a Plane

I'm not a stuff person. I don't get too excited about amassing things to fill my closet or my house or to adorn my person. There aren't many things that get me all giddy. However, right now, I'm pretty excited about my newest thing. My husband, a Studly Piece of Man Candy, has been working all week on the biggest purchase we've ever made, with the exception of our house: my beautiful new car.

It is true. After years of reliable service, my P.O.S. car has moved on to a new owner. For all I know, they're ripping it apart right now at some chop shop, but that would be OK. My baby Civic had a good life. It survived many nights as the Drunk Mobile hauling around way too many intoxicated people in the back seat, and there are a few scars to prove it. It survived being hit by a tree while driving down the road. It survived a slight mishap on ice that resulted in a hole in the rear bumper the exact size and shape of an Explorer SporTrac tow package. And it survived two and a half years of life with a little boy who has a tendency to throw and/or spit things with abandon. True, I rarely ever kept it clean, but it always got regular oil changes and service appointments. It was only asthetically neglected, which made it look much more like a P.O.S. car than it actually was.

In addition to my new shiny car, my husband and I just enjoyed the best meal we've ever had in South Cackalacky. We celebrated Valentine's Day early this year with dinner at a fancy-schmancy steakhouse we'd never been to. The food was nothing short of a circus for our mouths. I'm pretty sure my husband came in his pants a few times with this big mooing chunk of red meat goodness he enjoyed tremendously. For the first time since my child was born, I can honestly say that I savored a meal. I thoroughly chewed every bite. I paused to drink between bites. I even sat down for the entire thing. You may not understand how cool that is if you're not a parent, but if you are a parent, you know not to take a good peaceful dinner for granted. It's not a word I use very often, but the entire experience was lovely in every way.

Hopefully this good day and the lack of mucus clogging up my brain will help me get back on the writing horse. My brain has been completely void of thought for a couple of weeks now. Blank. It's a pretty scary feeling actually, especially when you're used to a brain that never stops thinking. The wheels in my head usually spin out of control, and recently, they've barely completed a single rotation. Maybe the grease is flowing again.

I think I'm going to do a lot of driving this weekend. Just because.

Labels: Date, New car

It seems trite to use this quotation in this way, but it fits, so I'm gonna. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. Please excuse me, Fannie Lou Hamer. I feel like I've been sick all winter long. I'm still not a hundred percent, but I think I'm finally on my way back. During the past week, I've slept more than I slept the first year of my son's life, and I'm still tired. I've hacked so hard I feel like a tuberculosis patient, and I'm still hacking. I'm so over this, and I'm not even over this.

So, what's been happening? I was glad to see good ole Peyton finally win himself a Super Bowl, even though I slept through most of it. The commercials I saw were funny, but nothing stands out in my mind. I remember thinking Bud Light had the best ones before I dozed off for the last time.

The Reverend Ted Haggard is in the news again. This dude apparently exists to make me laugh. Here's the lead from the Denver Post's latest article: "The Rev. Ted Haggard emerged from three weeks of intensive counseling convinced he is 'completely heterosexual...'" Awesome. The three years with a male prostitute mean nothing to you now, Ted? Just like that? Bless your wife's little heart.

Ahh. Paris, Paris, Paris. Why do you work so hard to make me hate you? I want to love you for your carefree screw the world attitude, but the N-word? Come on. That just ain't right, sister. Even if you're rich and drunk. Even if you're Paris.

Labels: Paris Hilton, Peyton Manning, Ted Haggard, Winter illness