Folksy Musin's

An Actual Conversation

2012-01-26T22:23:00.000-06:00

Time: Earlier this evening

Place: The Folksy House

Players: Deb and Princess

Princess: Mommy, when I grow up I'm going to have teats.

Deb: Well... we don't call them "teats" on humans. "Teats" are what we call them on animal mommies.

Princess: So what do we call yours?

Deb: Um...

Princess: Boobies?

Deb: Well, no-

Princess: Boobs?

Deb: Uh, that's-

Princess: Mom, just tell me what you call them.

Deb: Breasts. We call them breasts, honey.

Princess: That's disgusting.

Resolutions 2012

2011-12-31T22:57:00.000-06:00

The things I hope to accomplish in 2012, provided the world does not end:

1. Maintain weight. Do you know how amazing it is to not write, "Lose weight?" For the first time in my ENTIRE LIFE, I am at an appropriate and healthy weight for my height. I have gained 2-4 pounds over the holidays, though, so I do not want to take anything for granted.

2. Wear high heels more. I'm an upwardly mobile career woman. I ought to be able to walk in heels.

3. Run a half-marathon. You'll all be pleased to know that Sven laughed out loud when I told him this one, then said, "Sorry, were you actually serious?" Aw yeah. It's on now.

4. Clean my house. I want to not only get my house clean; I want to organize things so cleaning is easier. We've lived in this house since May of 2004; it might be time to go through the boxes I just shoved in a closet and throw some things out.

5. Spend time with those I love. I want to spend time with my family, but I also want to get together with my friends more.

6. Just trust me when I say I have a lot of work to do in a particular area that I don't want to discuss.

7. Write more. I want to really write this year. Looking back on 2011 has revealed to me that I did precious little "real" writing; I edited stuff I'd written before, but that was about it. I want to really dedicate some time to writing this year.

8. Spend more time with my husband. Sven and I need some grown-up time. We've had two date nights now, thanks to Momz, and I really want to keep it up! I find myself forgetting that, yes, I had a relationship with this man for almost 12 years before we had children.

9. Continuing Education: I want to start on my master's degree this year. Even one class would be a start!

10. Positivity: I want 2012 to be about what can happen instead of what can't. I want to see the good in every situation. I want to look at myself and like what I see.

Happy New Year everyone! What are your resolutions?

-Deb

Recipe: Deb's Amazing Apple Pie (Non-Diet, Completely Unhealthy)

2011-12-20T21:24:00.001-06:00

Ingredients:

3 cups Fuji apples, cut into small chunks. (about 4 good sized apples)
Prepared (or frozen) regular pie crust, not deep-dish
2/3-3/4 cup white sugar
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
1/2 tsp. ginger
dash salt

Topping:
1/2 stick (4 tbsp) butter (not margarine, real, SALTED butter)
1/2 cup brown sugar (I prefer dark brown)
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup chopped pecans

Method:

1. Listen as your oldest child laments, with just a hint of tears, "You never make apple pie and it's my FAVORITE DESSERT in the WHOLE WORLD and I'll DIE IF YOU DON'T MAKE ME ONE."

2. Recall fondly when, as a teenager, you made really amazing apple pie. Remember how easy it was and how impressed everyone in your extended family was when you brought it to Thanksgiving dinner.

3. Go to the store and lovingly select 5 pounds of apples so you have "enough."

4. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Allow your youngest child to pull up a stepstool so he can "help" with the making of the pie.

5. Chop up 8 apples. About 4 will go into the pie crust, the other 4 should be stolen by your children and (you are reasonably certain) husband.

6. Combine the sugar, spices, and salt in a cereal bowl and mix with a fork. (Reserve fork for later.) Dump the mixture on the apples and toss until reasonably evenly coated.

7. Using the fork (you're welcome), mash together the butter, flour, and brown sugar until you've got something more-or-less dough-like. Add pecans and mash some more.

8. Using your fingers, press the crumb mixture over the top of the apples. USE IT ALL. You heard me.

9. Pop that sucker right into the oven. Use a cookie sheet. We're not savages, for heaven's sake.

10. Let it cook for 40 minutes as you lament the state of your thighs.

11. At the 40 minute mark, turn off the oven and look at it longingly as it cools. LEAVE THE PIE IN THERE. Do not question me.

12. About an hour later, pull the cookie sheet out. You're welcome. The pie should also be there, amid the delicious drips of spiced apple goo.

13. Call your children to sample the pie. Look at the light in their eyes as they race down the stairs screaming, "Mommy made us a pie! We have the best mommy ever!"

14. Observe the light in their eyes die as your oldest says, "Ew, that's what an apple pie looks like? I am NOT eating THAT."

15. Put those children to bed.

16. Open the cool whip.

17. It was too good for them, anyway.

A Completely Materialistic and Shallow Reflection on the Holidays

2011-12-19T20:50:00.000-06:00

I love Christmas. Mostly I love the gifts. I love giving gifts, but I also love, love, LOVE getting gifts. Does that make me shallow? Possibly. If it does, I don't care, because I'm busy admiring my reflection in whatever surface is handy.

Each year Sven and I do the ritual dance known as "I Don't Know What To Get You For Christmas, Soul Mate." Seriously, we have been together almost nineteen years (almost half my life!) and he acts as though I am some unknowable mystery when it comes to gifts.

In truth, I'm pretty easy. I have a lot of things I like, and many of them are things I believe of which one cannot have too many. (That was exhausting. I'm going to eat a chocolate bar now.) Herewith, then, is my list of THINGS FOR WHICH I HAVE AN INFINITE APPETITE:

1. Jewelry. I love jewelry. Tacky, tasteful, real, imaginary, costume, subtle, sparkly, vintage, brand-new... I love it all. Give me jewelry and you will see a happy Deb.

2. Shoes. I own a lot of shoes but generally only wear one or two pairs 99% of the time. The others are for me to put on my feet and admire as I wobble from one end of the closet to the other, remembering why I don't wear cute shoes all the time.

3. Makeup. Namely lipstick, eye shadow, and nail color. I really don't think you can ever have enough. Sven disagrees, particularly about the nail color; he recently calculated that I have over 50 different nail polishes in my vintage plastic straw purse.

4. Purses. I love bags. Totes, clutches, hobo, cross-body, satchels, handbags... Keep 'em coming. I also love wallets and organizers.

5. Clothes. Pretty clothes? Forget about it. Enough said. Pajamas, socks, unmentionables... I love it.

6. Blankets & bedding.

7. Anything I have "Seen On TV." I'll try it all.

8. Anything made by Apple.

9. Books, TV shows, and movies about vampires. I'll take it all, from the laughably bad to the artistically implausible.

10. Money. You can never be too rich or too thin.

Not that I would know.

If You Can't Blame The Dog...

2011-12-10T10:02:00.000-06:00

Since my recent intestinal adventure, I have become fearful-to-the-point of phobic of constipation.

I blame the well-meaning X-Ray tech (a former student of my father, thank you very much!) who earnestly explained to me about a possible complication of barium ingestion:

"You drunk about a half a gallon of barium, right?" she pointed out. I nodded. "Sometimes the body does strange things. It can happen that your intestine will suck out all of the water, and just leave the barium itself behind, like a little plug of radioactive concrete in your colon. So just drink plenty of water for a while, okay? And if your poop is white, that's good. It means it's the barium coming out safely."

Visualizing a plug of white, radioactive concrete in my colon did not make me happy. Even imagining the superpowers that might result from such a situation did not ease my mind. I dutifully drank tons of water and watched for any resulting whiteness, but alas, it did not appear. Even the knowledge that, by now, all of the barium must be gone, does not ease (ha!) my mind.

So I have been consuming a staggering amount of fiber. I think I'm up to around 30 grams of fiber a day, thanks to Splenda With Fiber (3 grams of fiber per yummy teaspoon!) and steel-cut oatmeal. A few fiber gummies, a FiberOne Brownie or two... I'm good. This amount of fiber, however, means that my organs are always giving a recital, so to speak. This recital is often only heard by me, but it is, alas, "appreciated" by all.

This is not so much an issue at home as it is at school, since even the most well mannered thirteen-year-old can often not resist a comment like, "Who did that? Or did something die in your room this morning?"

My tactic, since I have no dog to blame: keep moving and hope they blame each other. So far, it works.

"Miss, they need to stop making those quesadillas (pronounced phonetically as "kwe-sa-dill-ohs") for breakfast!" one girl earnestly proclaimed. "'Cause it is stinky after a while!"

"Oh, dear!" I say without a trace of irony as I float gently from one side of the room to another. The moving teacher farts, and having farted, moves on, is my new motto. Perhaps not worthy of a sampler, but it works for me.

(The above post is dedicated to my friend Laura, who posted her desire for a new blog post on my Facebook wall. I hope you are happy. The rest of you now know who to blame.)

Happy holidays!

Deb's "Dy-no-mite" Pumpkin Bars

2011-11-13T14:40:00.000-06:00

I love, love, love pumpkin, so this is a happy time of year for me. This is a recipe I have honed over several iterations. It began as a nearly fat-free, almost vegan recipe for pumpkin cookies, but I have altered it to fit my nutritional needs. It is delicious, but very, very heavy and filling. I will note where you might want to alter the recipe, depending on what you need:

Preheat oven to 350. Line a 9X13 baking pan with parchment paper (or grease it, I don't care what you do. You never call me anymore.).

In a large bowl, combine the following dry ingredients:

3 cups rolled oats
1+1/3 cup whole wheat flour
2/3 cup vanilla whey protein powder (note: I put this in to add protein. The recipe will work just fine without it, but you will want to increase the whole wheat flour to around 1 + 3/4 - 2 cups, or maybe put in about 1/2 cup all-purpose flour. It's a journey.)

Thoroughly mix the dry ingredients until they are completely blended and there are no lumps. Using a sifter is helpful. Once the dry ingredients are ready, add:

1/3 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup Splenda with Fiber (Note: I put this in to make this bar more fiber-rich. Plain Splenda or white sugar works fine, or you can do 1/2 cup brown and 1/2 cup white.)
1 teaspoon each cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves. (Or a couple of teaspoons pumpkin pie spice)

Blend the sugars and spices into the dry ingredients. Once the mixture is even and fine, add

1 enormous (29 oz) can pumpkin (or two small cans, or two cups pumpkin puree) (Note: do not use pumpkin pie filling, get the 100% pure pumpkin puree)
2 eggs (note: to make this recipe fat-free, use 1/3 cup applesauce, but I need the extra protein and fat from the eggs)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
dash orange extract (optional, but I like the little citrus note there. It will totally overpower if too much is used, though)

Mix everything up until it is smooth. Add a bag of white chocolate chips and, if you like, a bag of craisins or a cup of raisins. Pour mixture (which will be very thick) into your lined pan and bake at 350 for about 45 minutes to an hour. Start testing it; when the toothpick comes out cleanly it is done.

Allow it to cool and then slice into very small bars. I recommend at least 36 servings per pan. Here's what they look like:

I suggest freezing half for later consumption; a little goes a long, long way.

Enjoy!

Thankful for Memes

2011-11-12T21:42:00.000-06:00

It's November again, which means two things:

1. National Novel Writer's Month

2. "Month of Thankfulness" Facebook posts.

Of all of the Facebook memes, the "Month of Thankfulness" has to be the least annoying. (93% of people will not agree with me. Will you be one of the courageous 7% who do?) Unlike other memes, this one actually serves the purpose it claims to: remind people that they have lots of things to be thankful for. Unlike "raising awareness" for breast cancer by posting hideously annoying, vague allusions to pregnancy and/or major life alterations, this one is straightforward, simple, and sincere.

Unfortunately, due to other commitments in my life both major (National Novel Writer's Month, a new Twilight movie, fiber consumption) and minor (marriage, children, career), I do not have the stamina to commit to a 30-day Facebook meme. Therefore, I am posting my month of thankfulness here, on my blog, all at once.

Day 1: I am thankful for National Novel Writer's Month, which gives me a focused outlet for my creativity.

Day 2: I am thankful for my health, so recently recovered.

Day 3: I am thankful for Splenda with fiber, for transforming my morning bowl of oatmeal into a seismic event.

Day 4: I am thankful for Fresca.

Day 5: I am thankful for a daughter who knows the difference between fiction and non-fiction, who instructs me on the way the Plains Indians used every part of the buffalo, who insists on "doing demonstrations" to show me the proper way to do things, but who still can't put on her own socks.

Day 6: I am thankful that my son is toilet trained.

Day 7: I am thankful that my son is learning how to aim.

Day 8: I am thankful for Clorox wipes.

Day 9: I am thankful for my homemade pumpkin-protein-fiber bars with white chocolate chips. Though I cannot eat them in the presence of fellow humans, they are delicious.

Day 10: I am thankful for overly informative bumper stickers. It is helpful to know that the abysmal driver in front of me is an idiot in other ways.

Day 11: I am thankful for my stalwart, long-suffering husband, Sven, who puts up with many people in our life now calling him Sven because of this blog.

Day 12: I am thankful to the Victoria's Secret Panty Raid sale. Good times.

Day 13: I am thankful for my job, which provides me with new challenges every day.

Day 14: I am thankful that I am a mere 22 years away from retirement.

Day 15: I am thankful for my mother, who has surpassed me in cool technology. She has a smart phone and a Kindle. My Nokia flip phone has a rotary dial.

Day 16: I am thankful for the iPad 2 for giving me yet another unattainable dream.

Day 17: I am thankful for my enormous Rainforest Cafe mug, which has provided me with an identity. ("Look, it's the cup lady!")

Day 18: I am thankful for my church calling, because it is the only time during the week that I don't have to deal with children.

Day 19: I am thankful for the children, whom I believe to be the future.

Day 20: I am thankful for Whitney Houston, who shows us all the money, talent, and fame in the world won't stop someone thoroughly determined to make an ass of herself from doing so publicly.

Day 21: I am thankful for gravity, which prevents me from drifting into space.

Day 22: I am thankful for wonderful, supportive friends, both those I know in real life and those I know online.

Day 23: I am thankful for internet drama, which proves that even the silliest, least consequential thing in the world can become a giant hairy mess of emotion under the right circumstances.

Day 24: I am thankful for Kim Kardashian, who makes me feel much better about myself.

Day 25: I am grateful for vague clearance sale mark-downs, like "Take 65% of the lowest ticketed price (reduction taken at the register)" and there are eleven crossed out prices but when you get it to the register they actually pay you to take it away. (Not really, but I got an $80 sweater today for $11.90 at Macy's.)

Day 26: I am grateful for modern medicine and all the advantages it has brought us.

Day 27: I am grateful for Methodist Hospital payment plans. It should only take me a few decades to pay off my most recent adventure!

Day 28: I am grateful for my younger friends, who are having babies left and right so I don't have to.

Day 29: I am grateful for digital cable.

Day 30: I am grateful for the opportunity I have to be snarky, snide, sarcastic, and snipey on this blog. And Olestra.

Happy Thanksgiving!

So here's what happened...

2011-11-05T10:41:00.000-05:00

Last Wednesday I woke up about 30 minutes before my alarm went off, as is my frequent wont. (My alarm goes off around 5:00 a.m., which makes no sense since I don't have to be at work until 8:00, but there you go.) I didn't feel "right," somehow, so I decided to get up and take a hot bath.

That's as far as I got. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor. I couldn't move. I yelled for Sven to get me a protein shake, thinking that perhaps I had low blood sugar or something, but that didn't help. I got into the bath, but that didn't revive me. As the time passed I felt worse and worse. I thought, "I can get to work, maybe I'll go home early if I don't feel better." Then I thought, "I'll just make it until Sven takes the kids to school and I'll go to the urgent care when it opens."

Without going into much gory detail, in the next few minutes it became clear that something was seriously wrong with me. I alerted Sven, who got the kids dressed and took them to their daycare (which opens very early, thank goodness). By the time he got back, I was in a bad way. I couldn't walk. I crawled to the top of the stairs and passed out there. I don't remember what I saw when I passed out, but it was something, and I remember being very afraid when I woke up. I crawled down the stairs, Sven carried me to his car (seriously hurting his back in the process), and we went to the emergency room.

I told them my name and that was all they let me say; I was rushed to the back and they got my vital signs. My blood pressure was 69/40. They got IV's going in both arms and pretty soon I was getting a blood transfusion. I felt better after that, so I asked, "When will I be able to go home?"

Answer: four days later. They admitted me to ICU, which doesn't allow children, so I couldn't see the kids at all that day. I had a bleeding scan in nuclear medicine (take out my blood, inject it with radioactive stuff, then put it back in me and track it for a few hours). When I was in tears the next morning, they moved me to IMCU so my kids could come see me. After that, I had an endoscopy on my esophagus and stomach. (After that they let me eat clear liquids; beef broth and jello have never tasted so good!) The next day I had a colonoscopy. (The less said about that, the better.) After all of that, the verdict was this: we know you were bleeding in your small intestines, but we don't know exactly where or why. Go home.

I went home on Saturday, but more tests were to come before they would let me go back to work. Wednesday I drank an enormous quantity of barium and had a series of x-rays taken from about 9:00 a.m. until about 3:30 p.m. Apparently I passed some kind of endurance test, because they released me to go back to work on Thursday. I feel pretty good now. It was like a big reset button had been pushed on my life; I'm eating better, sleeping better, and I hope I'm managing my stress better.

So we still don't know what caused it, but hopefully we will soon. For me, it almost doesn't matter; it was a big wake-up call that I needed to take better care of myself. I intend to take it seriously.

Wisdom of Youth

2011-10-23T06:27:00.000-05:00

I am the oldest choir director in our school district. I'm awfully young to be in that position, but circumstances have led to most of our schools hiring new directors in the last few years, and many of them are quite young. 22-23-24 young.

I'm getting used to the walker, but my hearing aids are giving me trouble.

Anyway, the other "new" middle school director is one of these youngsters; I think she is 23. I have experience, she has energy and enthusiasm and optimism, so we often fall into conversations comparing out issues and methods of solving them.

An issue we have in common is Dramatic Divas. These are the girls (usually in varsity choir) who believe they can get away with anything because they are SO INCREDIBLY TALENTED. They can sing, sometimes very well, which means the director will never punish them for any bad behavior.

I should say that this view is not unreasonable. There are a lot of people out there, choir directors among them, who will excuse an astonishing about of rudeness, disrespect, and even blatant defiance if someone is talented enough. Or pretty enough. Or rich enough.

I am not one of those people. I made up my mind a long time ago that I wouldn't allow my choir to be held hostage to the whims of one student. If my choir would collapse at the loss of one member, any member, then I'm not doing my job. No one, myself included, should be indispensable. The show must go on, after all.

Well, Young Teacher agreed with me, and then she said something so profound that it took me a while to process it fully:

"You know," she said, "I can teach a bad singer to be a decent singer. I'm not sure I can teach a bad person how to be a decent person."

Wow. I have been thinking about that statement for a week now. The thing is, I do a lot of things to teach my students to be better people. I teach responsibility, commitment, teamwork, hard work, tolerance, respect, and self-motivation every day. That being said, those are things the kids only learn if they want to. A student who crosses her arms, rolls her eyes, and audibly sighs after every sentence I say will not learn how to be a better person from me. She won't learn anything from me. She's made up her mind that she won't, and nothing I can do, no amount of dog-and-pony show from me, can change that.

So, yes, I can teach a bad singer to be a decent singer. And I can help teach good kids how to be good adults.

And I still ask myself how I can do more.

Identity

2011-10-22T21:13:00.000-05:00

I was looking at some old pictures of myself, and I realized that the person I used to be no longer exists.

I look at those pictures, and intellectually I realize that is me, and I remember being there when the pictures were taken, but it's like looking at a picture of someone else. That person doesn't exist anymore.

So where did she go? And who am I?

I can't tell you how many times I've seen people I know well, people who I considered good friends, who have walked right past me, or treated me like a stranger because they didn't recognize me. Then, if they realize it's me, I get this line:

"Oh, my goodness! I didn't even recognize you! You look FANTASTIC!"

I know they mean that nicely. I know it's a compliment and none of these people would hurt me for the world.

But.

I don't think I'm unrecognizable. I know I look different, but it's still my face, mostly. So... did all of these people, whom I counted as good friends, only see my weight before? Was that such a huge part of my identity that I am unrecognizable without it?

So where does that leave me? I'm 36, almost 37... I've lived a lot of years now. Am I starting over? Does my life as a fat girl no longer count? If my weight was my defining feature before, what is it now? Who am I?

I don't know either.

Drama. Ugh.

2011-10-14T17:45:00.000-05:00

I forgot how much drama there is in middle school, especially middle school choir.

Choir teachers become a bit more emotionally involved than, say, a math teacher. We get to know our students on a much more personal level. 99% of the time, that's awesome. The other 1%... not so much.

My middle school choir program currently has 130 students. 115 of them love me.

The other 15... DRAMA.

"Miss, it's your fault we messed up at the concert," they say. "You didn't direct us right."

"You should treat us the same as the other classes," they say. "You say you hold us to a higher standard because we're the varsity group, but that isn't right."

"It's not fair," they say. "We're the only ones who get in trouble."

They weren't in trouble. They didn't mess up that badly. And they're usually the ones demanding special treatment because they're the "varsity" group. Sigh.

I'll win someday. Maybe it will take a few years, but one day...

Sigh.

Remember that book I wrote a long time ago?

2011-10-05T21:13:00.002-05:00

You can buy it now! (The one about Vanessa and Max and saving the world.)

Here it is...

Of sausage and yearning...

2011-09-19T20:59:00.000-05:00

I have splurged over the last few days.

The first few weeks of school were very stressful for me. I'm not sure exactly why, but the why doesn't matter, really. The point is, I was very overwhelmed. I lost 5 pounds in the first three weeks of school. I was beginning to get those looks. You know the ones: the slightly furrowed brow, the smile that didn't quite reach the eyes. The comments were, "Are you sure you're okay?" and "You know, you look great, you don't really need to lose anymore weight." Right.

So I had a rough patch. Fortunately, I found the way to counteract stress.

Sausage.

The last few days at work, I have indulged in a fast-food breakfast. Namely, a sausage and egg croissant (with cheese) and hash browns from Jack 'n' the Box. Calories: close to 1,000, which is supposed to be my daily caloric intake. Weight gained: 3 pounds in 5 days.

Done and done. I can gain weight, if I try. Now all I have to do is get back down to my pre-fast-food weight and all will be well. If I need to gain, I know the secret.

Drive-thru. It has worked for generations.

It will work for me.

Where I Was

2011-09-11T08:12:00.000-05:00

On the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was sitting in my 8 a.m. music history class. The class met every Tuesday and Thursday and, as is often the case with 8 a.m. classes, was often dry as dust. All of us in the class were upper-level music majors and had the same basic schedule.

I remember that day was clear and gorgeous. The sky was that perfect, crystalline blue that comes to Southeast Texas every fall for a few weeks, then disappears for another year. Our music history class had ended and we were waiting for the next class to start. The sunlight was streaming in through the windows and we were all just chatting, trading stories across the room, when one of the student assistants ran into the room.

"Someone attacked the World Trade Center," he blurted out. "A plane flew into one of the towers and then another one. They're saying another one hit something in Washington." He ran out of the room.

The class was silent for a few seconds, then the conversation started again. We had no idea what we had just heard. The guy who came in (who is now a top-level administrator for fine arts education) was known as something of a jokester, but none of us really thought it was a joke; we just had no idea what was going on. A few minutes later the department chair, who taught the 9:30 class, came in and told us what had happened and said he was canceling morning classes.

My car wouldn't start. We had to have it towed to a place to get a new starter put in. I cried the whole day; the TV kept showing images of people falling (or jumping) from the towers as they burned beneath them. The mechanic who worked on the car kept nodding at me and saying, "Don't worry, we'll get 'em."

It took about a week for things to get "back to normal" at Lamar University in Beaumont, but all of us who remember that day know that things have never gotten back to normal, not like it was the day before. We were all adjusting to a new normal, a normal in which we were living with the knowledge that we were just as vulnerable as anyone anywhere. In the petrochemical industrial area (where I have lived just about all of my life) we began to realize that not only were we vulnerable, we were potential targets. And there was nothing we could do about it.

That being said, it was a surprisingly short time before we were able to laugh again, and enjoy the things we always have. Everything changed, but we survived. It's hard to believe that the students I teach don't remember that day clearly. The world has always been the post-9/11 world to them. I wonder if they will ever understand the fundamental change we all went through that beautiful morning.

I wonder if I do.

Gossip and good deeds

2011-08-20T00:12:00.000-05:00

Added to the list of ways Seinfeld made my life better: it made me long to be a mentor, so I can have a protege.

I was honored last year to be entrusted with a student teacher, whom I will call Marvelous. Marvelous is a young woman with an extraordinary voice and a real talent for music education. She and I have grown to be friends, but I feel a certain pride in her as one of her instructors, thus, she is my "protege." (Deal with it.)

In the state of Texas, music educators all receive the same certification: Music All-Level. That means that elementary music teachers and secondary directors of band, choir, and orchestra all take the same test and hold the same technical qualifications. (Yes, that means I technically *could* teach advanced orchestra, if there was an administrator stupid enough to hire me. I will not follow that comment with another.) This means that younglings looking to earn a degree and a teaching certificate in music must, in the course of their final (student teaching) semester, complete two cycles of student teaching at two different levels. For vocal majors, this usually means a cycle at the secondary (choral) level, and a cycle in elementary music.

Marvelous did her time in high school and loved it. She was awesome at it. My friend Berry, the high school director who had her first, let me know that she didn't want to let Marvelous go. Marvelous taught private voice lessons, helped organize music and uniforms, helped run auditions, and generally made herself indispensable to the program. She came to me with friendliness but a lack of enthusiasm I only noticed because I saw her with Berry and could see how much she loved it.

In short, Marvelous believed she had seen her destiny, and it was high school. She wasn't thrilled about wasting time in the elementary classroom.

I don't blame her! I was in the elementary classroom and wasn't thrilled about it. But Marvelous heard that I was "great," and resigned herself to the process.

I really think that we meet people for reasons. I think Marvelous and I came into each others' lives for a purpose. Marvelous was there for me at a very busy, crazy time: I had just had my surgery and was adjusting to my new life. I still wasn't eating solid food and didn't feel great all the time. At the same time, I was having unprecedented participation in my after-school choir and was trying to deal with that.

Enter Marvelous. She came to rehearsals, she helped with the fund raiser, and she was there every day. She took over classes, at first following my plans, then offering her own suggestions. By the end, there were days when I actually put my feet up (under the desk) as I watched her, because I was so confident that she wouldn't need me to step in.

The kids were upset when she left. "When is Miss Marvelous coming back?" they would ask. "She's not," I would whisper. "But we miss her!" they wailed. "I do too!" I rejoined.

Now I'm back at the junior high level, but at one where I've never taught before. Here's my office:

Isn't it cute? Back to the matter at hand...

I found out today what purpose I am serving for Marvelous. She's in a very scary place: she's a college graduate who can't find a job. Texas is like that right now for teachers. Nobody is hiring. She has a couple of long-term positions lined up for this year, but the really big questions aren't answered: should I just keep looking? Should I go to grad school? What if there aren't any jobs next year? What do I do?

That's when you need a mentor. Marvelous came to my school today, and even though it meant I got behind on my preparation for the first day, I'm so glad she did. We had a long talk and I got to tell her everything I thought she needed to hear:

You're amazing.
You're talented.
You're smart.
You're a gifted natural teacher.
Did I say amazing? Good.

After I made that all clear, I shared with her one of the few bits of genuine wisdom I feel I have acquired in my 26 years on this earth. (Just go with it.) I know it sounds like a cliche or fortune cookie, but I swear it's true and sincere:

What looks like adversity when it's ahead of you will look like unbelievable luck and opportunity once it's behind you. I didn't say it like that (I took much longer, because that's how I roll), but that's the most concise way I can say it: sometimes God kicks us a little to get us on the road we need to be on. Getting fired from or not being able to find a job is devastating, but it makes you consider pathways you wouldn't have otherwise. Being separated from your spouse, family, or friends can seem like a terrible hardship, but it can strengthen those bonds by making you a stronger, more secure person on your own. Struggling with infertility or otherwise having to wait to start your family can make you appreciate your children more, making you a better parent than you might have been if you'd had your children easily or at a younger age.

And that's just me. We all have heard or lived those stories that end, "...and it was the best thing that could have happened to me." I've heard people say it about everything from divorce to cancer. Terrible, uncomfortable, horrible things can end up being the catalyst we need to make positive changes in our lives.

Marvelous seemed to like what she heard. I don't know what she's going to do. She doesn't know what she's going to do. But that's the point.

That was the "good deed." The "gossip" in the title comes from Marvelous letting me know that I had become the hot topic of conversation among some of the other choir directors in our district. I am, I realized, the oldest choir director in our district (we have 9: 5 middle school and 4 high school directors, and I am the oldest of all of them by two years). Marvelous said they were talking about me, and Berry pointed out that I am the skinniest one, and then another director (Sonya) said, "Well, Deb told me she's the oldest one, too."

Marvelous said they all agreed that my being older was just unbelievable, because I look so young. I have a so much energy, and I'm so excited and happy, they said, that it's hard to believe I'm even in my 30's, let alone older than them. (Sonya and Berry are the next oldest to me; they are both two years younger than I am.)

I'm not sure there was anything Marvelous could have said that would have made me happier. I love my life. I love my job (even though it really doesn't start for two more days). I love my husband and my kids. I love my family. Life is pretty sweet.

I guess it shows.

Sunrise, Sunset

2011-08-12T21:57:00.000-05:00

I just got home from a concert by the Southeast Texas Chorale. This is a community choir that meets over the summer. It is conducted by a former student of mine and many of its members are also former students.

At the concert I had the opportunity to see The Duchess, a friend and mentor and generally fabulous person, and her daughter, Lady Mary. The Duchess continues to be a living example of what it means to be a Southern Lady. I adore The Duchess. Lady Mary is equally fabulous. Both of these ladies looked gorgeous and I have forgiven them for how tall they are. Fortunately, I was wearing The Outfit with a pair of boots, so I felt a bit taller.

I cannot tell you how truly inspirational it was to see this concert. The conductor and artistic director, Mel Montanez (his real name) has turned from that fun, snarky, sometimes-awkward kid I knew into a poised, mature artist. His conducting was so fluid and graceful that I found myself envying how easy he made it look. He didn't just get up there and lead a choir. He was part of the music in a way conductors sometimes cannot be; it is a testament both to his leadership and to the talent of his singers that there was so much great music.

My students are all grown up. I get new ones every year, of course, but I never forget the "old" ones. My students from Anahuac, TX have kids now; some of them have kids older than mine. They're teachers and nurses and doctors and pastors. They are homemakers and Scentsy salespeople and marketers. They aren't my kids anymore, yet they are. I am so lucky to have two beautiful children I raise in my home, but I have also had hundreds (maybe over 1,000) who are just a little bit mine.

That pride I feel doesn't go away. When I see them on Facebook or run into them in the mall, I'm proud. I love them all.

PS: Here's a picture of THE OUTFIT.

Who's That Girl?

2011-08-05T08:28:00.000-05:00

Princess has, over the course of the summer, become quite a princess.

I do not mean that in a complimentary way.

Her vocabulary has expanded to include such teenage-isms as:

"Well, duh!"

"Mom, you're embarrassing me."

"That's just lame."

"You treat me like a servant!"

"This is stupid."

"I hate you."

Yes, it has been quite an eventful summer, seeing as how my 5-year-old has aged about 10 years in the course of 9 weeks. I have to confess, I was beginning to despair. If she is acting like this now, by the time she's 15 I'll be ready to send her to some awful Hogwarts-style boarding school where, I'm sure, she would be a Slytherin. I went from feeling like this:

To this:

At least Mrs. Bates got to rest sometimes.

But then, as I was in despair, things began to lift. We (meaning I) cleaned Princess' room last weekend when an infestation of ants made it necessary to remove her painstakingly-collected cache of Pop-Tart crusts from beneath her bed. Her room is still clean, because she has been picking up after herself.

Then she began VOLUNTARILY clearing the table after meals and scraping the plates and putting them in the sink. Then she cleans the table.

Then, last night, I called her to come to me. She didn't come for a few minutes, and I was ready to be upset with her, but she explained that she HAD BEEN PICKING UP THE TOY ROOM. When I went upstairs to check, EVERY TOY WAS PUT AWAY.

I didn't quite know how to react.

Despite a few lapses into teenage territory, the past few days have been wonderful. I know it is smooth sailing from here on out.

Shopping Adventures

2011-08-02T14:00:00.000-05:00

Last week my wonderful Aunt Amazing and Cousin Firecracker took me shopping. They met me in Houston's Rice Village at a store called White House Black Market. This is a store I've seen but have always been afraid to set foot in, due to my fear that I will have a Pretty Woman-style encounter with snooty saleswomen who will refuse to serve someone so clearly out of her element.

Since my weight loss I have stuck to Old Navy, mostly, with occasional adventures into The Gap. My wardrobe consists of "kid clothes": jeans, chinos, polo shirts, and tees, mostly. These are cheap and the sizes are fairly forgiving. My aunt, who is, after all, amazing, got me right into the world of fashion and fit.

I gravitated immediately to the clearance section of the store and began to make some selections. My salesgirl, Kim, offered to take my things to a dressing room. She walked off, then returned immediately.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I can't let you try these on. None of these things will fit you."

"Buh?" I managed as my bowels loosened dangerously. I could just imagine the security force that would take me from the store, chanting "Not one of us!" as I struggled in futile protest.

"You've chosen things that are too big," she explained apologetically. "You should really be looking at smalls, maybe mediums."

"Buh," I agreed.

"I'll pick out some things for you," she said. I met her in the dressing room and tried on size 6 jeans. They didn't fit. I needed a size 4, which were fine. The top and cardigan, each a small, fit perfectly. For the first time in years, I looked at myself in a full-length mirror.

It was pretty awesome. I was tall and lean, fashionably attired and not at all stupid-looking. I felt that I had finally "made it," somehow.

I couldn't afford to buy much, but I bought that first outfit. I don't know when or where I will wear it, but I wanted to have it to remind me of the day I saw myself for the first time. I wish I'd had a camera, but if I get a picture of myself in it, I'll post it. Kim brought me tons of outfits, none of which really measured up to that first one, but I got a few more things (and was gifted with a gorgeous cardigan from my aunt and a delightful skirt from my cousin, who are wonderful amazing generous beautiful blindingly intelligent women) and wore high heels for the first time since prom.

Life is pretty sweet.

Health Group Bashes Menu Items... So What?

2011-07-20T19:02:00.000-05:00

I just read this little blurb of an article on Yahoo:

Health Group Bashes High-Calorie...

In a nutshell, this group is attacking Denny's, Applebee's, Cold Stone Creamery, and The Cheesecake Factory (among others, I'm sure) for offering items on their menu that exceed a healthy amount of calories, fat, and/or sodium in one portion.

As someone who has become very conscious of my diet in the past year, I was a bit stunned when my reaction to this article was anger... at the "health group."

Diet is about choice. Really, truly, it is. Offering an unhealthy choice is fine. It shouldn't be a secret that a grilled cheese sandwich with four fried mozzarella sticks inserted therein is unhealthy, but apparently this "health group" feels that people will somehow be "led" to make unhealthy choices because this sandwich exists.

Picture the process:

Diner 1: I think I'll try this grilled cheese sandwich with fried cheese inside of it! That looks tasty!
Diner 2: I don't know, Phil, do you think it's healthy?
Diner 1: Cornelius, it's Denny's. Everything here is absolutely healthy. Everyone knows that.
Diner 2: You're right. Let's hurry so we can get back to the hospital before they figure out we're gone and lock down the ward.
Diner 1: Right you are, Horace.

Seriously, it's Denny's. No one eats at Denny's for their health, but there are actually plenty of healthy choices to be made there if you want to. No one is stopping anyone from ordering the salads or egg-white omelets. Or from going to a different restaurant.

What really cheeses me, though, is the condemnation of The Cheesecake Factory. That is one of my favorite places to eat precisely because of the huge variety of options. Healthy? Sure, order a weight-management salad or a serving of edamame. Reasonable? Sure, order a lunch salad, a lunch portion of several entrees, or almost any other choice. Decadent? They've got that too, including the thing that condemns them in the eyes of the "health group": red velvet cheesecake, which is 1500 calories a slice and so delicious I briefly saw into another dimension when I ate mine. Of course, I ate two bites of it. That's all I could eat, but I would hate to think that due to pressure from a "health group" I wouldn't even have the option to do that.

People have the right to make unhealthy choices. If you are forced into making healthy choices simply due to lack of options, you will not form healthy eating habits, you will learn to accept what you're given and not take any responsibility for your own health and happiness. It's like those kids who go nuts at the first opportunity because their parents were too strict: lack of agency equals a lack of responsibility and maturity.

So I say, "health group," lighten up. Have a piece of cheesecake.

You've earned it.

Short Hair

2011-06-20T21:26:00.000-05:00

A lovely by-product of my weight loss is the sad fact that my hair is thinning. The hair loss is quite visible to me, and my hairdresser noticed it right off. We decided to go very short. Here it is:

SAHM

2011-06-09T05:13:00.000-05:00

It's Day 3 of Deb-is-a-stay-at-home-Mom-time, otherwise known as summer vacation. When I get so busy during the school year and have days when I only see my kids right after they wake up and right before they go to sleep, I tell myself: "You and Sven work hard, but for 11 weeks each year your kids get two full-time stay at home parents." It's true. It makes me feel better.

That being said, I currently get two more weeks of vacation than Sven, so there are two weeks in which I am, functionally, a Stay-At-Home-Mom, or SAHM. Being a SAHM is a tough job, but it is one from which I receive many blessings. First, I receive the blessing of appreciating the fact that I work outside the home 39 weeks a year.

I kid! I kid because I love. I love being with my kids so much. That being said, this year is very different from previous years because of the change in my health. In previous years my goal was to do as little as possible so I would have as much time as possible doing nothing. I avoided commitments to anything that might cut into my nothing time.

This past Monday I began my summer vacation with a day of housework. I accomplished more on Monday than I have ever accomplished on the first day of summer. Heck, I got more done on Monday than I got done in total last summer. I cleaned out the last of my unwearable clothes and reorganized my side of the closet. I cleaned my room, my bathroom, the kids' rooms, and the living room. I cleaned the kitchen and emptied the refrigerator and freezer of bad/old food. I washed every dish in the house and did everyone's laundry. I washed all of the towels. I went to the grocery store. I cooked my family breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Then I had to face Tuesday. So much was done... what was left? I went to the gym, then got home and took a long nap. I still cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for everyone. I cleaned up the dishes as I went. I did a few more loads of laundry (blankets and quilts). I found myself looking for things to do as I realized there was *nothing* to do.

Now I'm blatantly fishing for things to do. Today I went to the gym again (and will go tomorrow). Thankfully, on the way out the door, Princess asked, "Mommy, can we bake cookies today?"

"Yes!" I cried with enthusiasm. "Let's make cookies this afternoon!" After a quick post-gym trip to Wal-Mart for supplies, we were set. I cooked lunch (having cooked breakfast previously) and assembled the ingredients and supplies for two very different kinds of cookies. Princess helped. By 2:00 I had cooling on my countertop healthy chocolate chip cookies and a strange but very tasty concoction of my own design: fairly fat-free pumpkin cookies with white chocolate chips and Craisins. I had a mess to clean up.

Mess was cleaned by 3:00. Sven gets home at 4:00 and I'm telling him enthusiastically about my plans for dinner. I mention steak.

"Steak?" he asks with a dynamic sparkle in his eye. "Do we have lighter fluid?" Sven grilled the steaks, which left me to side-dish duty, meaning I had to open cans and turn on the stove. (And place a bag in the microwave, let us not forget.) Dinner was over at 8:30. Dishes were in the dishwasher and everything was cleaned up by 9:00. I folded the laundry and went upstairs.

Sven will be done with work for the summer by early next week. I'm not sure if I want him to carry his part of the load or get out of my way. I've got stuff to do.

Just wait...

2011-06-06T06:38:00.000-05:00

At 1 month: "Just wait until you've been together a few months, when it isn't new anymore but you don't have a lot invested in a relationship. That's when things get tough."

At 6 months: "Just wait until you've been together a year. That's when the real boredom sets in and you start wondering if he's really where he says he'll be."

At 1 year: "Just wait until you move in together. Once you can't get away from each other and you see how disgusting another human being can be, it all falls apart."

At cohabitation: "Just wait until you get engaged. Making it official changes everything."

At engagement: "Now you're in for it. Planning a wedding ruins people. Just wait."

After the wedding: "Once you've been married a while, the spark is gone. Just wait until you realize he's the only person you're ever going to kiss for the rest of your life."

On your second anniversary: "Just wait until you have kids. It's all over then."

After the birth of your first child: "Sure, it's easy having one, but just wait until you hit the terrible twos."

When you're pregnant with your second: "Now you've done it. Just wait until you're elbow-deep in diapers and your toddler is dismantling your DVD player and your husband waltzes in and asks what's for supper. Then you know it's over."

On your tenth anniversary: "Just wait."

Still waiting, after twelve years. So far, so good.

Sven and Deb, married June 5, 1999

Just waiting to see what will come next.

DRAMA!!

2011-05-30T18:35:00.000-05:00

Now that I've had almost two weeks to reflect on it, I would like to share the story of how I learned I would be changing jobs next year.

POLITICAL BACKGROUND (YOU CAN SKIP IF YOU LIVE IN TEXAS OR JUST DON'T CARE) This has been a tense year for schools in Texas. Our impeccably coiffed governor, Rick Perry, who supplements his income by working as a Squint Model, has brought tons of new businesses to Texas. You might have heard pundits such as Rush Limbaugh (who subscribes to Squinter's Monthly) and various bland Fox News analysts talking about how Texas Has Done Everything Right and Rick Perry Should Be Our Next President Because He Understands HOW TO GET THE JOB DONE.

Teachers from Texas hear this and shake their head bitterly as they clean the kindergarten urine from their carpets with a solution of baking soda and tears. The reason for their bitterness is thus: the new businesses were lured to Texas with the promise that they would not have to pay high taxes like they do in other states. In addition to promising new businesses huge tax breaks, Governor Perry has also held fast to his promise to hold property taxes down. Texas, of course, has no state income tax, so our state runs on property taxes, sales taxes, tolls, and the lottery.

Texas also has the distinction of having no full-time legislature. Our state representatives meet for six months every two years. If something doesn't get fixed now, we have to wait two years to fix it. That's what happened two years ago with funding for public education: they didn't fix it. Now they're trying, and it looks like thousands, if not tens of thousands of teachers will lose their jobs and in some cases entire schools are closing. It's a tough time to be a fine arts educator; it's no secret that those are the jobs most often on the chopping block.

(HERE'S WHERE MY DRAMA STARTS) So it was Tuesday, May 17, and I was in a panic. My fourth graders were set to perform their musical that night and my second-biggest speaking part quit. "I can't handle the pressure," he said. I performed a masterful (in my opinion) dressing-down that stayed even and level yet conveyed the mess he had left me in, then got to work.

My principal came into my room during kindergarten. Of course I was showing a movie. That's the law. When your principal just drops by to see you, you will be showing a video and typing frantically on your computer as the kids chant "Chicka Chicka Boom Boom" with such authority that anyone could tell they have seen that particular video many, many times. I hop to my feet and start babbling about the program and trying to fix some last-minute details, and my principal (whom I adore) waves it away and says these words:

"They want you in the administration building. I have someone to cover your class. You need to go now."

Fortunately, I had just visited the ladies' room. I'm sure that I resembled a slack-jawed idiot for several seconds, but I gathered myself together and went across the highway to the administration building, where the formidable head of personnel was expecting me.

"She's on the phone," said the receptionist. "Have a seat and I'll walk you back as soon as I can." The receptionist, as it turned out, was a former music teacher in the district whom I had known slightly (she was one of my younger brother's teachers). We began to chat about people we knew in common and she found out I was teaching elementary school.

"Oh, I love elementary," she sighed. "Give me those sweet little ones over those junior high kids any day."

"I love junior high," I defended quickly. "Elementary is okay, but I miss my big kids. I miss the concert cycle, and the thrill of performing with them... I would love to go back to junior high or high school when my kids are older."

I was taken to personnel and told that I was being reassigned from elementary school music to junior high choir. I had a choice, they told me. I could say no. However, they wanted an answer right then. At that moment. The more I thought and listened, the more I realized that they really didn't intend for me to say no. I said yes.

I was terrified. Was it the right choice? The safe thing to do would be stay with my sweet little ones and remain there until my kids are much older, but I've never been one for safety. I shook hands with the director of personnel and left.

As soon as I walked out of her office, I felt complete and utter peace descend on me. I was no longer worried about the program I had a few hours later. I looked at myself in the mirror of my car and saw a huge smile. I got back and told my principal that I had accepted the reassignment, and she gave me a big hug and told me she knew it was for the best. (I love her.) I walked back into my second group of kindergarteners and the happiness and peace continued.

I know this is the right thing for me. Everything has fallen into place as though it was supposed to be. I have kept that peaceful feeling in the two weeks since learning of my new position. I'm not worried. I'm sad to leave my little Wildcats, and I'm excited to meet my new big kids, but above all is the strong sense that I am doing what I should be doing.

Feels great.

Good thing we only take pictures every 3 years or so...

2011-05-25T19:48:00.000-05:00

I promise this will be the last post about our awesome family pictures shot by my friend Jennifer in the new city park in Mont Belvieu, Texas. (What what to Bill C., my city-planner friend. That's right, I have a friend who is a city planner. Top that.)

I unleashed my inner Mac geek by putting the pictures in iMovie, then combined with my all-time favorite love song remix. Enjoy.

Family Photos In the Park

2011-05-24T19:51:00.000-05:00

We just did a photo shoot with a friend of mine. Here are some of my faves:

Movin' On Down

2011-05-20T20:28:00.000-05:00

Last summer: Size 28:

Christmas: Size 20:

March: Size 16:

Today: Size 8

(In the size 16 jeans from the March picture)

5/15/1950-12/29/2006

2011-05-15T07:48:00.000-05:00

I was watching "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" on television last night, and I cried like a baby. Not because it's such a good movie (it is) or it's so moving (it is), but because that was a movie I watched with my dad. It somehow seems wrong that, even though he's been gone for nearly five years, that movie, and the other things we enjoyed together, continue to exist without him.

Princess and Grandpa, Halloween 2006

My dad and I didn't always get along. My teenage years were TERRIBLE. I was terrible. My father (much like the dad in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding") reacted to fear and anxiety with anger and bluster, which just made me more hostile and too-cool-for-school. I think we were all relieved when I moved out.

Once I moved out, my relationship with my dad got a lot easier. We didn't see eye to eye on politics, so we didn't talk about that. We loved music. We loved movies. He loved sports, so I pretended to. Movies about sports? Forget about it. I sat through "The Natural" with my dad. That's love.

I remember one night when Sven was gone and I was sad. My mom and dad showed up at my house with a fried chicken dinner and just sat and ate with me. It's one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. Even though I was 31 (almost 32) when I lost my dad, I wasn't ready. There were years of chicken dinners, and babies, and family trips, and griping about the poor quality of reality television still left with him. Sven lost his dad at 17. I can't imagine how hard that was. Losing my dad in my 30's was devastating. It still is.

My dad was 56 when he died. That's part of the reason I've made some of the choices I have this year. Taking charge of my health and my life has become really important to me, because I don't want to go that soon. My parents had their kids young; they were 24 when I was born. I was nearly 31 when Princess was born and nearly 33 when Dexy came along. If I were to die at 56, Princess and Dexy would be in their early 20's. Adults, yes. But not ready to lose their mom.

Every time I hear a new band on the radio I miss my dad. When I see a movie I know he would have loved, I miss my dad. Heck, when I see Charlie Sheen on the news, I miss my dad. (He loved "Major League." I couldn't sit through that one.) So on his birthday I don't think it's inappropriate to be serious for a day and think about him.

I miss my dad.

For a Student...

2011-04-30T17:53:00.000-05:00

My name, "Deborah," means "bee."

So how cool is it that a former very talented student of mine has an Etsy shop, upon which she is selling (among other fabulous handmade art) a honeycomb pendant with smiling bee charm?

Here's her shop.

Here's the necklace:

(Note: I have not been compensated in any way. I bought this necklace because it is adorable.)

If you're into Etsy, check out her store! She was an amazingly talented student when I had her, and her talent has obviously grown.

-Deb

In Which Sven Teaches Us What NOT to Say

2011-04-27T20:33:00.000-05:00

I was standing in front of the mirror repeating my daily mantra of self-loathing, as I do each morning.

"I will never be thin," I fretted, twisting and turning in front of the mirror.

"What do you expect?" asked Sven. "You're middle-aged."

You may not know this about me, but when I get really worked up, I jump. I leaped in the air and pounded Sven on any part of his anatomy that I could reach.

I was furious. "Middle aged?" I shrieked. "Do I look like a middle aged woman to you?"

"What's the big deal?" he asked. "You're the one who said it."

"You weren't supposed to say that," I said, and I stopped. Of course he wasn't supposed to say that. What I wanted him to say was, "Deb, you are even more beautiful now than you were on the day I first saw you. I am so grateful every day that you chose to spend your life with me. I cannot imagine what I would be without you."

Ha. Like he would ever, ever say that. He might think it. Might. But say it? Never.

So I did the classic passive-aggressive stereotypical woman dance of words, in which I attempt to force him to say what I hope he's feeling.

What I love the most about Sven is that he makes me see things very clearly. If I really thought of myself as dumpy and middle-aged, would I have been that mad? No. Sad? Possibly. But I wasn't sad at all. I was hilariously furious.

I'm so lucky to have me.

New Ring

2011-04-25T20:39:00.000-05:00

I went to an event at our local jeweler's last weekend: Balloon Pop. Each year they sell tickets, and you get to pop a balloon for every ticket you buy. Each balloon holds a loose gemstone. If you want it set, they will do it for the charge of the setting alone (free labor).

We did six balloons and received a garnet that is just weird (kind of like a long flat chip), a 1 carat blue topaz, a 1 carat lemon citrine, a 1 carat peridot, a 1 carat amethyst, and a 4 carat laser-cut pear-shaped citrine.

Guess which one I had set?

Easter Traditions

2011-04-23T20:37:00.002-05:00

While Sven and I have done a pretty good job compromising between our wildly different native traditions, Easter is the holiday that has given us the most issues.

My parents viewed Easter as the most sacred of holidays and basically refused to participate in any sort of "commercial" aspect. No Easter baskets in my house growing up! I remember participating in the occasional egg hunt and dyeing hard-boiled eggs a few times, but beyond that we focused exclusively on the religious aspect of the holiday.

Sven's mom bought them chicks. These chicks, contrary to conventional wisdom, did not die, but lived for years tormenting neighbor's cats and befouling the backyard. The occasional fresh eggs were apparently not worth it to my mother-in-law, who slaughtered them all in a fit of pique and did not tell the children whom they were dining upon until the pets had been consumed.

Somewhere between these poles is where we must find our way. Here are the traditions we have established:

1. Easter eggs: even before we had children, Sven and I colored Easter eggs most years. It was not until recently that I realized this was Sven's way of presenting me with hard-boiled eggs that would go to waste unless I learned to devil them, which I did.

2. Deviled eggs: see above.

3. Easter baskets: We do get our children Easter baskets. They aren't huge or lavish, but we do get them a little something.

4. New clothes: This is my favorite part of the secular side of Easter. This year, for the first time, I bought myself a new Easter dress as well as new outfits for Dexy and Princess. I love the idea of new clothes and white shoes as a part of the celebration of rebirth.

5. New jewelry: I'm still trying to get this one off the ground.

6. Church for all: Sven can usually be prevailed upon to come to church on any occasion in which I am speaking or singing, the children are speaking or singing, and major holidays.

7. Easter Story: We do spend a lot of time talking about the atonement and resurrection. This year we made a set of a dozen eggs, each with a scripture and an object representative of parts of the events surrounding Easter. It worked well; Princess woke Sven up this morning with a dramatic, "Daddy, the twelfth egg? You know, the last one? It was EMPTY! Because Jesus wasn't there anymore! He had RESURRECTED!" Sven blearily acknowledged that the eggs had done their work, though he prefers that they work a little later in the day. (I'm pretty sure Princess knows that the egg represents the tomb; I hope she doesn't think Jesus was supposed to be in the egg.)

I hope everyone has a happy Easter and a great spring.

Recap: Pretty In Pink (Or: Why We Shouldn't Watch Movies We Remember Loving Twenty-Five Years Ago)

2011-04-11T20:10:00.000-05:00

Molly Ringwald: Get up, unemployed but lovable father, I'm clearly the responsible adult in this household as evidenced by the fact that you are unshaven and I dress like an 80-year-old!

Dad: I love your outfit! You made it, so it was free! Because the fabric and materials grew on the roof!

Molly Ringwald: I want you to get a job, because it's important to me, the most important person in the universe.

Dad: Have I told you how beautiful you are?

Molly Ringwald: Ew.

(At school)

Ducky: I'm awesome, and everyone knows you should be with me.

Molly Ringwald: I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you through this horrendous hat.

Mean Girls: Ew. Your clothes are gross. We're 37.

Nice Teacher: Mean girls are awful.

Molly Ringwald: No, they're okay.

Mean Girls: No, we suck. We hate you.

James Spader: I'm clearly in my 20's and smoke, but I'm a high school senior who finds you devastatingly attractive in your granny glasses and... No, even I can't get past that hat.

Molly Ringwald: Bleh.

James Spader: You're a beast. (I'm summarizing the censored version that runs on TV.)

(At work)

Record Store Lady: I'm cool!

Blaine: Here I am! You like me. I know you like me, because I can hear the soundtrack.

Molly Ringwald: I love you.

Ducky: Let's go hang out at the cool nightclub that only admits underage kids if they're poor.

Molly Ringwald: Okay, but only if we can drive past big fancy houses and dream afterward.

Ducky: Okay, but I get to complain about your music.

Molly Ringwald: Deal.

(The next day, in the library)

Molly Ringwald: Wow, the computer is talking to me in a way that is utterly implausible in 1986 but will be laughably outdated in ten years!

Blaine: It's me. I have teeth. You can see them when I smile.

Molly Ringwald: Swoon.

(Commercials for Hershey's chocolate and psoriasis. I think they were two different commercials.)

Dad: I got a job.

Molly Ringwald: Oh, good! I'm so happy! That makes me so happy!

Dad: I lied.

Molly Ringwald: What?

Dad: Nothing. Go to school.

(At school)

Blaine: I really like you.

Molly Ringwald: But you're rich and I'm poor. There have literally never in the history of the world been lovers as star-crossed yet as ill-fated and incompatible as we. We apparently attend a school that is segregated on strictly economic lines. We face clearly insurmountable odds and will struggle our entire lives to overcome the hatred of those who urge us to stick to our own kind.

Blaine: You want to go to a party?

Molly Ringwald: Sure. (giggle)

James Spader: You asked out that horrid wretch who has literally no redeeming qualities?

Blaine: You really think that?

James Spader: Oh yeah.

Blaine: Hmmm...

(At Home)

Ducky: I love you so much, even though I would be your gay best friend if this movie had come out a few years later.

Molly Ringwald: I love you too, but only in a friend way, and I show my love by constantly criticizing you.

Ducky: I'm gay.

Molly Ringwald: What?

Ducky: Nothing.

(Gym class)

Friend: I smoke.

Molly Ringwald: I'm a good girl.

Gym Teacher: I hate poor people! Get out!

(Principal's office)

Principal: I'm weak but nice.

Molly Ringwald: I'm poor.

Principal: Let's call the whole thing off.

(At work)

Boss: I'm incompetent! It's a good thing I have you working for me, you're the only person in the universe with any intelligence whatsoever.

Molly Ringwald: You're right.

Ducky: (Lipsyncs)

Molly Ringwald: (unimpressed)

Ducky: BLAINE????

Blaine: Hi.

Ducky: (sob)

(In a stable?)

Molly Ringwald: Sigh, I love you so much.

Blaine: Do you want to go to prom?

Molly Ringwald: IT IS ONLY THE VERY THING THAT I TOTALLY LIVE FOR!!

Blaine: Um... Maybe I already have a date.

(At home)

Dad: I got you this sort of okay dress. Maybe you can make it into something so tremendously ugly, people will go blind from looking at it.

Molly Ringwald: Thanks, Daddy! How's the job?

Dad: Fake.

Molly Ringwald: Great!

(At her boss' apartment?)

Boss: Look at me, I grew up in the '60's!

Molly Ringwald: I'm going to prom and I want your dress.

Boss: I'm wearing my prom dress and my hair is in a beehive, and I'm still cool.

Molly Ringwald: Dress now, please.

Boss: All right. Just promise me that you will use it to make a dress so inexplicably tacky and ill-fitting that people will wonder how mankind survived the first screening of this movie.

Molly Ringwald: Deal.

(At school)

Blaine: I can't go to prom with you.

Molly Ringwald: JUST SAY IT! YOU'RE RICH AND I'M POOR SO YOU'RE ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH ME! AND ALSO I'M THIS CRAZY SCREAMING SHREW WHO IS TOTALLY EMBARRASSING YOU IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER BECAUSE YOU'RE SUCH A BIG JERK!

Blaine: Something suddenly came up.

Marcia: Ow, my nose!

Blaine: Get out of here.

Ducky: Hey, James Spader! We will fight now!

James Spader: (smarms)

Ducky: (sobs and runs down the hall of a school that apparently doesn't consider fighting or smoking a serious discipline problem, but talking in gym class will get you sent to the principal's office)

(Before the prom)

THAT IS THE UGLIEST, MOST HIDEOUS DRESS I HAVE EVER SEEN.

Molly Ringwald: Who said that?

OH, NO, MY OPINIONS ON THAT DRESS ARE SO STRONG THEY HAVE BOTH TRAVELED THROUGH TIME AND BROKEN THROUGH THE FOURTH WALL TO ALERT THE STAR OF THIS MOVIE AS TO HOW TERRIBLE THAT DRESS IS.

Molly Ringwald: I love you, Daddy.

WHATEVER.

(At the prom)

Blaine: I own a white dinner jacket.

Ducky: My shoes are dirty.

Molly Ringwald: Blaine, I choose you!

NO! YOU CHOOSE DUCKY! BECAUSE IN 1986 YOU REALLY COULD DATE YOUR GAY BEST FRIEND!

Molly Ringwald: Seriously, did anyone else hear that?

Fin.

The Special-est of K's

2011-04-09T08:44:00.000-05:00

(Note: I have not been financially compensated by anyone in any way at any time for writing this blog. If anyone wants to change that, I'm open.)

I have always been skeptical of Special K. Model-thin women lamenting that they can't lose the five pounds they gained over the winter and then claiming success based on a bowl of breakfast cereal has never resonated with me.

The "Special K Diet," in which one eats a bowl of cereal for breakfast and lunch, then has a "sensible dinner," likewise resulted in eye- rolls. This is not Special K's fault; I had a friend who decided to combine the Special K diet with Atkins, which led to spectacular failure. Who would have thought a low-fat, high-carbohydrate diet would be inconsistent with a no-carb, high-fat diet? Everyone else in the world, that's who.

When Special K began branching into diet foods, my eyes rolled again. Bars, drinks, shakes... Really? Who won't put out those things these days? I can't wait for the Froot Loop diet.

But now I am eating my words (which, thankfully, are zero-calorie). I have met my Special K match. And by "match" I mean "the thing I want by my side for the rest of my life."

Special K Cracker Chips.

(That picture is, I believe, of the British version, because in Britain chips are "crisps" and fries are "chips" and language is "confusing.")

I miss chips. The crunch, the salt, the crunch, the salt... There's not much to chips, when you get down to it, but I love 'em. Potato chips are right out for me now. Baked chips taste like giant flakes of Special K. Pretzels are okay, but sometimes you really want a chip, you know?

Special K Cracker Chips (I like the sour cream & onion flavor) are 110 calories for 27 CHIPS. Let me repeat that. 110 calories for 27 CHIPS. Yes, there are 22 grams of carbs in a serving, but 3 grams of dietary fiber and only 1 gram of sugar. 2 grams of protein. 2.5 grams of fat, only .5 grams of which is saturated. No cholesterol. Very little in vitamins, but that's okay. I'll eat them gladly when I need my chip fix, and feel no shame.

Well, very little.

The Truth about Spanx

2011-04-06T20:16:00.000-05:00

For those who are not up on what the Kardashian sisters are currently doing or what Joan Rivers thinks about Amy Adams' Golden Globes dress, Spanx is a brand of shapewear.

Shapewear, for those who are not conversant in the language of women's fashion, is underwear that pulls in and shapes the body. What we used to call a "girdle." By "we" I mean "other people." I have never worn a girdle.

I live in shapewear. I do not set foot outside the house unless I am bound from shoulder to knee in a snug chrysalis of lycra. Losing all of this weight has been a fantastic experience in many ways, but there are drawbacks. Shapewear allows me to look reasonably okay in clothes and smooths out all of the little lumps and bumps that would occur otherwise.

My first shapewear was the Lane Bryant brand. Size 26/28, to be precise. Then I went to 22/24. Then I skipped right over 18/20 and got into the 14/16's. While they no longer fit me, I still keep the bigger ones around. They don't do much, but they're better than nothing at all.

Now I have to find shapewear for non-overweight ladies, which is where Spanx comes in. Spanx is the preferred brand of shapewear in Hollywood. Queen Latifah wears Spanx, as does Kelly Osborne and the aforementioned Kardashians.

Hollywood had to get something right eventually. Spanx are amazing. They are light and breathable but hold EVERYTHING in. And they fit the size the chart says they're going to fit. I honestly forgot I had it on one day. Really.

Spanx are expensive. I go for the two-piece, the cami and high-waisted bike short-type thing, and the combination is more than $110. Additionally, it more or less has to be ordered online, which is problematic when it comes to fit. That being said, it is totally worth it.

Red carpet, here I come.

Remember that Star Wars disco song? I'm pretty sure this is what they had in mind...

2011-03-27T22:41:00.000-05:00

Stock Phrases

2011-03-11T18:29:00.000-06:00

When one is introverted and shy (as I am) it is often helpful to have a supply of "stock phrases" to use in certain potentially awkward conversations. I don't have a terribly good sense of boundaries, so without the stock phrase in hand, I might just blurt out too much information, which would be uncomfortable for all of us (though, I have to say, if you don't want to know, don't ask).

Certain of these stock phrases are designed to shut down a line of questioning:

"How kind of you to take an interest."

"What an interesting observation."

"I'll certainly think about that."

"Well, bless your heart."

That being said, there are still questions that shock me into direct answers. When people see me now, I typically get this question:

"Have you lost weight?"

Though I am tempted to respond, "Duh!" I do not. Partly because I'm saving my "Duh's" for those rare occasions in which I can follow them with "Winning!" because I think people really want to hear more jokes about Charlie Sheen right now. (But seriously, you guys, I'm starting to think there might be something going on with him.) So, the conversation goes like this:

Person: "Have you lost weight?"

Deb: "Um... yes, I have."

Person: "I knew it, you look great! How much have you lost?"

Deb: "Oh, I've lost a lot, thank you."

Person: "No, really, how much?"

Deb: "About a hundred pounds." (I've been saying this for a while, since around the time I hit the 80 pound mark. It's just easier.)

Person: "Wow. Wow. That's amazing. What are you doing?"

Here's where it gets tricky. Some people ask directly, "Did you have surgery?" and then want to know what kind, when, if I've experienced complications, etc. If they don't ask, I'm reluctant to bring it up, because then they want to know all of those things, or they start talking about how "easy" it must be to lose weight after surgery.

But all of that I can handle.

Here's what I can't handle:

Person: "So, I bet things are pretty hot in the bedroom again, huh?"

Deb: (implodes)

I actually don't mind a question like that from someone to whom I feel close; a friend at church asked me something like that (though not in those exact words) and it was fine, though a bit surreal to talk about it in the church library. But people I don't know very well ask me, too. In professional settings. Really. I just can't come up with a stock phrase for this one.

I will take suggestions.

Okay, here it is.

2011-03-07T20:35:00.001-06:00

I finally had Princess take some pictures of me when I got home from work. Bear in mind I still have at least 20 pounds to lose (more like 30-40, really) and I just got home from a 12-hour day.

To remind you, here is before:

Here is now:

Yup. That's me.

Before

2011-03-07T06:21:00.000-06:00

It is all Sven's fault. I spent all weekend trying to get him to take a picture of me for my blog, but he hasn't done it yet. So I will take my camera to work today and try to get a picture to post for all of you. Today the "before" picture will have to suffice:

This is me last year a few pounds below my top weight (which I won't tell you exactly, but it was awfully close to the dreaded 300 mark). I'm pretty sure that wasn't my normal facial expression. I look at this picture and mostly remember how tired I was all the time. And I wonder where my neck is.

"Now" picture coming soon.

So Apparently, I Look Amazing (Or: These Skinny Jeans are Grossly Unprofessional)

2011-03-01T19:10:00.000-06:00

Today I went to one of our local high schools to rehearse with some budding instrumentalists in preparation for an upcoming solo competition. I was supposed to get there at 3:30, but left late, and when I got there all of the outside doors were locked. It was 3:45 by the time I got into the building, and I puffed into the orchestra room with an apology on my lips that was never uttered.

When I walked in, the teacher and three students who were there looked at me, then went back to what they were doing. I stood there for a while, waiting for them to take a break in their lesson so I could figure out what was going on, but no such opportunity arose.

For 12 minutes.

I stood there for 12 minutes and waited for someone to acknowledge me. I was furious. I was very close to just picking up my stuff and leaving when the teacher said, "I don't know, she was supposed to be here at 3:30."

"Did you mean your accompanist?" I said (a bit loudly, but I'm sure I was not rude. Mostly.). "That's me." What followed was a flurry of apologies and their explanation:

THEY THOUGHT I WAS A STUDENT.

Seriously. They thought I was a high school student. We practiced and, after many more apologies, I left. I thought it was odd but, well, whatever.

Then I went to Wal-Mart where I purchased some health food items that apparently can no longer be sold to minors. The cash register prompted the cashier to ask for ID. I smiled at her. She smiled back at me. I smiled more. She looked at me expectantly.

"Do you want to see my ID?" I finally asked incredulously.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"I'm 36," I said. I was dumbfounded. "That's 18 x 2."

"Still, I need to see it," she said. It was with a great sense of ironic pleasure that I showed her my license and accepted the disbelief on her face as a compliment.

I either need to stop wearing these jeans or wear them CONSTANTLY.

-Fin.

Perspective (Or "From Bosoms to Bowels")

2011-02-26T06:25:00.001-06:00

Recently I came very close to posting a status update on Facebook about the state of my bowels.

After some consideration (and a second draft of this post) I decided that the exact information about my digestion is probably something the majority of my readers, a group of fine, hard-working, intelligent, good-looking, sophisticated citizens of the world, would not appreciate. Going along with me on a journey through life is one thing. A journey through my colon is, I think we would all agree, quite another.

However, much thought on this topic led me to the two following conclusions:

1. "Important" is very much in the eye of the beholder, and

2. Boundaries are much harder to set nowadays.

Regarding point 1: Everyone has different things that are important to them. It doesn't automatically mean they are important to me, and vice-versa. For instance, it is completely normal for you to care about your job. It doesn't mean I care about your job; though, as a friend, I will be happy to listen to you talk about it. I just won't be thinking about it before I go to sleep. I'll be thinking about my bowels.

It's like what Dr. Phil said about a certain element in marriage: if it's good, it's almost completely unimportant. If it's not good, it becomes very, very important. I will now begin using the euphemism "bowling." If you and your bowling partner are consistently racking up the strikes (or picking up spares when necessary) you aren't too concerned about improving the game. But if one partner is consistently rolling gutter balls (beginning to regret this choice of euphemism) suddenly each partner becomes very concerned about improving the game.

That's what digestion is like. When your digestion is normal you don't think about it. You go about your day without a thought to the millions of organs solely dedicated to breaking down your food for nutrition and tidily removing the waste. (Your organs don't mind. They wish you'd call more often, but they understand you have a life of your own.) When it isn't normal it is ALL YOU THINK ABOUT. Whatever you might be doing on the outside, whether it's writing a blog post, washing dishes, or leading a group of five-year-olds in the "Beanbag Boogie," inside you are thinking, "Maybe today. Please. Today."

But, since the entire point of this post was how I am not throwing my digestive woes in the faces of my readers (figuratively), I will move on. (Ha!)

Regarding point 2: There is nothing wrong with my being concerned about digestion. (Debatable, but it's my blog.) Had I lived in the olden days, when people had nicknames like "Smokey" and "Half-Pint" and "Illiterate Stain" (who was actually named "Stan" but they liked to have their fun then, too) my concern over digestion would have been totally normal, as seen from an actual made-up excerpt from an ancestor's farm diary:

Monday: Sunrise, 6:41 a.m. Breakfast of buckwheat cakes, rashers of bacon, sausage, coffee grounds, 17 cigarettes, whole wheat toast, and Activia Yogurt. All members of household and farm animals regular, except for Illiterate Stain (hee!) who continues to regret the experiment in cheese-making. Sunset at 7:02 p.m. Skies fair. Illiterate Stain in the barn until further notice.

Writing about your digestion in your journal? Fine. Discussing it with your doctor? Wonderful. Answering your grandmother's questions about it? Weird, but all right. Posting it as your status so that your 350+ friends see it in their newsfeeds? Not so much. From now on, my rule of thumb about posting on Facebook will be as follows:

IF I WOULDN'T SAY IT OUT LOUD AT A SOCIAL FUNCTION, I WON'T POST IT AS MY STATUS.

Good status: What a great day! One of those days where everything went right!

Not so good: It finally burst. What a relief!

You're welcome.

No Two Are Alike (Or Adventures in Boobs)

2011-02-19T06:41:00.000-06:00

I recently went to be fitted for a new bra. Perhaps my gentlemen readers (if, indeed, any made it past the first sentence) are not familiar with the bra fitting process, so I will explain. The bra size is made up of a number (the band size) and a letter or letters (the cup size).

To find the band size, one measures at the top of the rib cage, just below the base of operations, so to speak. To find the cup size, one measures across the landscape at its most extreme terrain. Subtract the difference to determine cup size.

It might surprise some to learn that cup sizes work as follows: A, B, C, D, DD, DDD, E, F, G, etc. At least that's how it worked where I went. 1 inch of difference is an A cup, two inches a B, etc. I was measured.

A 38G. Yes, my friends. The woman looked me in the eye and had the audacity to tell me, "You need a 38G." I had to pause as the wind blew back my hair and everything went to black and white for a moment.

Once my Russ Meyer moment had passed, I went to a dressing room, there to be met with a truly magnificent feat of structural engineering. This thing was padded and wired like a Miss America contestant with braces. I finally got it on and faced the reality:

I don't want my bra to fit if that's what it feels like. A tight, constricting band around my ribs while vast tracts of land brush my chin? No thank you. I tried on a few more, just to make us all feel better, then selected the same style of bra I have worn for years, but with a larger band and smaller cup. It fits fine.

I do admit, though, that I am tempted to buy the 38G as a prank. It would also make a fine dual crash helmet for when we take the children to the race track.

Ch- ch- ch- ch- changes...

2011-02-14T22:07:00.001-06:00

So I'm a vegetarian now.

(Some new statistics for the curious: I'm down 112 pounds from my top weight and 100 pounds from my weight on the day of surgery. Once I lose two more pounds I will no longer be obese. I bought a pair of skinny jeans from Old Navy this afternoon, and they weren't the biggest size in the store. Or the second biggest. My shirt size no longer contains any X's. Back to the topic at hand.)

So I'm a vegetarian now. When I went into this deal they told me I would need to eat meat. A lot of meat. Fish and chicken especially. The timeline was supposed to go like this:

Day after surgery: clear liquids
Two days after-a week after: full liquids
A week after-two weeks after: soft foods
Two weeks after: start introducing real foods and go from there.

This did not work for me. I am, essentially, still on clear liquids (thanks, Isopure!). I eat no food during the day. At night I try to eat something, but so far the only things that really go in and feel good are:

Edamame
Edamame with peanut sauce
Horrible fattening terrible things that they promised me would make me sick.

I can eat raw vegetables. I can eat mushrooms. I can eat certain beans. I can eat certain nuts (soy, cashew, and almond). I can eat a little egg, a little cheese.

I can't eat chicken. I can't eat beef. I can't eat pork. I can't eat fish. Me, who used to be able to joyfully consume literal pounds of steak at one sitting! I can't eat meat.

It's not so bad. I can keep drinking this Isopure stuff. It's kind of like Gatorade, if Gatorade had a slightly milky aftertaste. I mix it with ice and water and, by the end of the day, consume 55 grams of pure protein that way (along with about a gallon of water). I don't need to eat meat. The edamame is fine.

If I squint, it looks like a pile of little green steaks.

Snowpocalypse 2011!

2011-02-05T07:32:00.000-06:00

I realize that many people, including some who read this blog, are actually in places that have received a great deal of snow this year. I, however, live in Houston, where the only "ice" we usually see is either at the ice skating rink at the Galleria or the cubes that gently clink in our glasses as we complain languorously about the heat. I once went to a Christmas Carnival which boasted "real snow." Watching children play in artificially created snow that melted almost as soon as it touched the sidewalk (it was in the 80's that weekend in December) was an indescribable delight.

Some years, however, the ice and snow does come our way naturally. When that happens, we shut down. Completely. Roads close. Schools close. Events are canceled. While our friends to the north may tease us about our wimpiness, the truth is we are very ill-equipped to deal with ice and snow on the roads. We have no salt trucks, no plows, no equipment to make things safe. That's okay, though, because in a day or two everything will melt and we'll be back to normal. When I was growing up, if it started to snow they would send us home. If it was still snowing the next day we might get to stay home, but we would have to wake up early and watch the news to see if we got a coveted "snow day."

Those days are gone. They left with Hurricane Katrina in 2005. I know that seems like a bizarre non sequitur, but that's my theory: the devastation and death toll caused by the lack of evacuation and preparedness in New Orleans changed the way we here in Houston view weather. It started with Hurricane Rita (which didn't hit Houston, and many of the people who were hit couldn't get out of town because the entire East Texas roadway system was clogged with people fleeing Houston) and continues to today. The forecast says it's going to snow? There will be ice? We're going to cancel everything now, just to be safe. Everybody go home! Enjoy your one-to-three inches of snow!

We have not gotten even a flake. Yes, there was ice on the car yesterday, and some patches on the roads, but Snowpocalypse 2011 was a massive dud. Fortunately we have a built-in "bad weather day" in our calendar so we will not have to stay extra days in June or go in on a Saturday, but I still wonder at the foolishness of it all. Twenty-five years ago, this wouldn't have happened because they would have waited to make the call on Friday morning. And I would have been up at a local high school right now playing for young instrumentalists struggling through their solos instead of lying in bed with my husband, enjoying the bright sunshine, and being completely lazy.

Perhaps change is good.

Good News, Bad News

2011-02-01T22:26:00.000-06:00

My beloved Aunt Astounding (I can't remember what I've called her before, but she rocks, love you!!) sends out a newsletter at the end of the year called "Good News, Bad News." I love receiving it each December. Today I'm publishing my own version of Good News, Bad News.

Deb's Good News, Bad News: the 100 Pound Edition

Good News: Deb has lost 100 pounds since her last birthday.

Bad News: She didn't know she would be doing this on her birthday in 2010, so she cannot remember what her last birthday cake tasted like.

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

Good News: Deb can now feel her collarbones without pressing too hard.

Bad News: When Deb asks someone else to feel her collarbones, he or she scuttles away like a nervous crab and makes references to finding a mental health professional.

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

Good News: Deb's ring size has gone from a snug 9 to a loose 7.

Bad News: Much of Deb's ring collection is still size 9. Apparently they didn't get the memo.

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

Good News: Deb is much more active and has energy to accomplish much more in the day.

Bad News: Deb now does housework. (I realize this might seem like good news, but I'm not there yet.)

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

Good News: Deb sweats much less than she used to.

Bad News: For the first time in a decade, Deb is uncomfortably cold.

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

Good News: Deb has gone down about 7 dress sizes.

Bad News: Deb can no longer even pretend that any of her old clothes fit.

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

Good News: Deb now gets enough protein and water every day.

Bad News: Deb does this by putting liquid protein and water in a 1-gallon mug and carrying it with her all day, earning her the appellation of "Cup Lady" from students and some co-workers.

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

Good News: Deb can now fly on a plane with confidence that she will not have any issues with seat size.

Bad News: Deb can't afford to fly anywhere.

Yet.

Dexy's Wisdom

2011-01-15T07:06:00.000-06:00

Time: Monday, around 6:30 p.m.

Place: The Folksy Bathroom

Players: Dexy and Mom.

Dexy: Mommy, you know what?

Mom: What?

Dexy: Everybody's got a butt.

Mom: (after slight pause) Yes, that's true.

Dexy: And everybody's got bidness. (Note: "Bidness" is Folksy-speak for gender-specific anatomy.)

Mom: (cautiously) Yes, they do.

Dexy: But boys and girls have different bidness.

Mom: Yes.

Dexy: And we all have two eyes.

Mom: Yes.

Dexy: And a nose.

Mom: That's right, honey.

Dexy: I want some cheese.

Fin.

Resolutions 2011

2011-01-08T08:22:00.000-06:00

I am in a legitimate quandary. For the past sixteen years, every year's list of resolutions began with, "Lose (varying amounts) of weight." Sometimes I disguised it as "Live healthier," "Eat more vegetables," "Exercise," or "Stop scouring the floor for forgotten M&M's," but it always meant the same.

This resolution no longer really exists for me. I still have a substantial amount of weight to lose (52 pounds), but I have already lost 89 pounds (from my top weight in May; I've lost 77 pounds since August 25). I am currently losing anywhere from 2-5 pounds per week, so even by a conservative estimate, I should be at my (doctor's) goal weight by early July, but I think I'll be there before then. It won't stop there, of course, but weight loss is no longer an idealistic, far-reaching, nigh unattainable goal that will require substantial change in my behavior to accomplish, therefore it does not require a resolution.

Here, then, are my resolutions, in no particular order:

1. I'm going to keep a cleaner house. I have much more energy now than I used to, which should mean I have more time, but it doesn't seem to be working that way. I promise to devote more of my time and energy to my home this year.

2. I'm not going to brood about things that irritate or offend me. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to completely avoid it, but I refuse to waste my mental energy on things and people who do nothing but bring me down.

3. This year, I WILL SING AGAIN. I promise, I will take at least one voice lesson from my teacher this summer and I will sing FOR REAL again.

4. I will stop buying myself jewelry except on special occasions, such as a trip to a jewelry store.

5. This year, I will allow myself to be photographed, and I will not delete the pictures from the camera before anyone else sees them.

Ah, a life with purpose. It feels good.

Quiz: Which Folksy Family Member Are You?

2011-01-01T07:00:00.002-06:00

Yes, readers, now you can finally answer the question: "Am I a Sven? Or more of a Princess?" Take the following quiz and find out! (Instructions for scoring follow.)

1. You see someone walking in a strange manner. This person is gyrating, popping out the pelvis, twisting one foot, and visibly flexing muscles of the derriere. Additionally, you notice this person is wearing a thoughtful, serious expression, similar to the one usually seen on the faces of monkeys who are scratching themselves on personal regions. You:

A. Laugh uproariously and point fingers at the person.
B. Exclaim, "You peed your pants!" while laughing uproariously and pointing fingers at this person.
C. Look confused and say, "What's going on?"
D. Realize you are looking in a mirror and immediately stop once the hurtful laughter of your "family" permeates your preoccupation with trying to "pop" your hip.

2. It's been a very long day, and it's time for dinner. You have nothing on hand to prepare. You:

A. Say, "What do you want for dinner? I'll go get it."
B. Whine loudly, "I'm hungry!"
C. Suck your thumb and pull your mommy's hair
D. Sneak a sugar-free peanut butter cup when no one else is looking.

3. You have a three-day weekend. You:

A. Decide on the spur of the moment to take the family on a mini-vacation.
B. Get up at the crack of dawn because it's going to be an extra fun day, and you can't waste a single minute.
C. Get up at the crack of dawn because you lost Woody's hat and Buzz Lightyear's wings are broken again.
D. Dream of the day you can sleep past 5 a.m. while washing enough clothes to get you through your "fun" vacation.

4. You feel hungry. Time for a snack. You choose:

A. Whatever's handy, you're not picky.
B. Whatever you just ran out of, nothing else will do!
C. Cheese, in any form.
D. Potato chips and shame.

5. You want to do something special to show those around you that you care. You:

A. Refrain from passing gas in a noisy, visible cloud until your beloved has given a reliable indication that she is asleep, then feign unconsciousness when she turns her lovely, accusing eyes in your direction.
B. Bring armfuls of stuffed dogs to watch over your loved ones while they sleep, write, cook, or bathe.
C. Bestow moist, semi-open-mouthed kisses upon them and proclaim, "I love you."
D. Write a blog post about their least endearing habits with enough wry humor to let everyone know that you really love them a whole lot.

If your answers are:

Mostly A's: You are a Sven.

Mostly B's: You are a Princess.

Mostly C's: You are a Dexy.

Mostly D's: You are perfect.

Open Letters

2010-12-23T21:31:00.000-06:00

Dear Barbie,

The "wrapping paper" I purchased recently at Toys "R" Us bearing your likeness was surprisingly substandard. It tore when I sneezed near it. Once a present was wrapped, the gift was clearly visible through your sparkling ball gown. While I'm sure it meets opacity and durability standards for eastern European toilet paper, calling this substance "wrapping paper" is both misleading and ironic. As I know you have a great deal of integrity, I'm sure you will be issuing a public apology in prominent national newspapers posthaste.

Sincerely,

Dear Dolce & Gabbana:

If I wanted my husband to smell like Matthew McConaughey, I would have him mow the lawn three times and smoke a bong. I certainly would not purchase your cologne, especially after seeing your commercial 14 times in two hours (by actual count).

Cordially,

Dear Person Who Wrote the Song "Christmas Shoes":

I get it. Christmas is very commercial and materialistic, and we should all feel grateful for what we have. But this song is not the way to accomplish that. Making me vomit on my own sympathy for some mythical child who manages to find his way (alone) to a major mall right before Christmas to buy shoes for his bed-ridden mother so she can look good when she dies is not the way to make me feel grateful for what I have. It's like those annoying Facebook statuses like, "Post this if you want to help fuzzy bunnies not get run over by snowplows. 93% of people won't have the courage to post this, will you be one of the 7% who care?" Really? If you care, go outside, pick up the damn fuzzy bunny, and move it out of the way of the snowplow, because the fuzzy bunny isn't inside reading Facebook and nodding to itself self-righteously. But I digress.

Whoever you are, if I meet you in public, I will beat you roundly about the head and shoulders with MY shoes.

With great affection,

Deb

See you all in 2011!

A Day With the Girls

2010-12-21T13:06:00.002-06:00

As some of you may already know, I have patterned my life after Miss Vida Boheme from the film To Wong Foo: Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar.

Aside from minor anatomical differences, I think I'm doing pretty well. Since Princess is now five years old, I thought it was time for us to have Vida's patented "Day With the Girls." First, we dressed in our best:

Our day consisted of an elegant lunch together at Saltgrass Steak House in Galveston:

We then went to a matinee of "The Nutcracker" at the 1894 Grand Opera House:

Princess in front of the Christmas tree

Princess in her seat

We were very close to the stage, so we could see everything.

Just the girls!

But remember, some of us are still only five!

It was a wonderful day. For the record, Sven and Dexy had a very manly day, consisting of going to the movies ("Megamind"), eating junk food, and sleeping in the recliner.

Princess was jealous.

As I Blanch at the Thought of it All

2010-12-15T05:51:00.000-06:00

Hello, Folksy Friends! Today you will be hearing from Deb, the etiquette aficionado, regarding the thorny issue of gift-giving.

(Deb, as you know, is something of an etiquette maven (maven: a bird with wings of unequal length) and possesses the following qualities: she is judgmental and refers to herself in the third person.)

'Tis the season for joy and social awkwardness, and also for gift giving. To whom do we give gifts? Is it ever polite to refuse a gift? Do I really have to write a thank-you note for every gift? Is there ever a time when we must give gifts? Relax, Deb already knows. She's just asking to make herself look smarter when she answers.

1. To whom do we give gifts? In theory, anyone, but in reality, only those with whom one has a relationship that makes a gift appropriate. The gift should be in proportion to the intensity of the relationship in terms of money; it is inappropriate to give an expensive gift to someone who could not be reasonably expected to reciprocate, as in the following exchange:

Co-Worker 1: Mildred, thank you so much for the can of Pringles and scratch-off lottery tickets.
Mildred: And thank you for the Tiffany key ring.
Co-Worker 1: Indeed.

Giving gifts in the work environment can be tricky, which is why I hate to do it. I do it, though, at the last minute, every year.

2. Is it ever polite to refuse a gift? Short answer: usually not. There are inappropriate gifts, such as the ones Deb receives from her stalkers that include medical waste, but a well-intentioned gift should usually be accepted. If a gift has been brought to an event at which there are no other gifts, the gift should be set aside, opened later, and thanked with a personal letter. The exception, of course, is if you are a young, unmarried woman of unquestionable virtue who receives a gift of clothing, jewelry, or something of extreme value from a gentleman, and it is 1909. In that case, the gift would be returned with a gracious yet frosty, "I'm afraid our relationship does not permit me to accept gifts of this value."

3. Do I have to write a thank-you letter for every gift I receive? While Deb, of course, routinely writes thank-you letters for everything, including some to dogs who refrain from decorating her lawn, the answer to this is no. If a gift is opened in the presence of the giver, thanks should be verbally issued then. No follow-up thank-you letter is necessary. A gift that is not, however, must be acknowledged, and the correct way is with a letter. Some relationships may permit phone calls, but Deb pretends that doesn't happen.

4. Is there ever a time when we must give gifts? Of course. Don't kid yourself. Etiquette's official stance, "A gift is never required," is misdirection intended to fool greedy hosts who believe a social event can actually yield a profit if done correctly. A gracious guest would never attend any of the following events without a tangible gift:

A shower (wedding or bridal)
A birthday party (regardless of the age of the recipient)
A formal dinner
A wedding
A bar or bat mitzvah
An overnight or extended visit

A "tangible gift" is just that: a gift that one can physically put into the hand of another person, that the recipient can then, in theory, put to some purpose. Gifts can be consumable (food, flowers, tickets) or more permanent. They do not have to be expensive, but they should be thoughtful. (In fact, Deb is of the opinion that the less expensive a gift is, the more thoughtful it tends to be, because people with financial restrictions tend to be more creative when it comes to gift-giving. A gift of money, including gift cards, tends to be larger in terms of financial worth because of the lack of creativity and thought involved.)

And now, Deb would like to address the notion that one's "presence" is "present" enough. No, it isn't. I'm sure that the hosts will say it is, or even sincerely feel that it is, but no guest can be considered "gracious" who goes through the following thought process:

I've been invited to this wedding.
I don't want to give them a present.
They should just be grateful I deigned to attend at all.
My presence is enough.

Unless one's last name is "Winfrey," there is absolutely no justification for anyone to think this way. This is one of those classic etiquette disparities between the expectations of hosts and guests. Hosts should be grateful that guests decided to take the time to attend their events. Guests should feel grateful that hospitality was extended to them and they were included in such a special time. Neither side should sit back and say, "Well, they should just be happy and shut up about it." Guests, give your gifts. Hosts, say thank you. Life will be much more gracious.

And goodness knows, we need more graciousness. Deb is going to lie down now.

Accepting a Compliment

2010-12-09T21:36:00.001-06:00

I've been at my current school for four years. The first year I was there I gave birth to Dexy in November. As someone who is not exactly petite, the added weight of pregnancy made me easily one of the largest women on campus, if not Earth.

Unfortunately, the weight just kept coming, leading my (hopefully) well-meaning students to make comments like, "Are you having another baby?" or "Did you have that baby? 'Cause your stomach is still all big." This led to Deb conducting several Teachable Moments in which she taught students that it Isn't Polite To Comment on Someone's Weight. (Lecture available to the interested.) By the end of last year, the comments had largely (ha!) gone away.

I taught my lesson well. Not one student has commented on my 80-pound weight loss. I thought, perhaps, they just didn't notice. Perhaps, I reasoned, I don't look all that different, so the kids don't know I'm losing weight.

Excuse me while I bitterly wipe a tear of laughter from my bleary eyes. Kids notice everything. How do I know? One of my fifth-graders had the following exchange with his mother, who works at the school. (She shared it with me later, I wasn't hiding in a cabinet spying or anything.)

Kid: Mom, have you noticed Ms. Folksy is losing a lot of weight?
Mom: Yes, sweetie, I've noticed.
Kid: She looks really good.
Mom: You could tell her that, I bet it would make her feel good.
Kid: No, she says it's rude to talk about what people weigh.

I suppose I've done a good job. I think I'm changing my name to Folksy Know It All.

Edit: I wrote the above post on Wednesday night. On Thursday I had a concert, so I dressed a little nicer than usual. I was in the fifth grade hall when a (different) fifth grade boy called out.

"Ms. Folksy!" he called.
"Yes, what is it?" I asked.
"You're looking good," he said, head nodding and eyebrows raised.
"Thank you," I said, wondering why it had bothered me before when fifth-grade boys didn't compliment my appearance. And since when do 5th graders wear velvet smoking jackets to school?

Have a great weekend!

Picture: Sven Makes Deb Dinner

2010-12-08T18:06:00.000-06:00

Here is my dinner last night. Sven carefully made sure I had the exact amount of food I could eat. For the record, I did eat every bite:

I was stuffed.

In Which Deb is High on Painkillers And Waxes Literary

2010-12-04T21:35:00.001-06:00

I'll say it. I don't like the Harry Potter movies.

I love the books, but really don't care for the film versions. The last time I tried to watch Part V (Order of the Angst), Momz and I eventually just shut it off and referred to it as an "ordeal." I don't want to watch a movie that makes me fight to stay awake through every moment unless it stars Charlton Heston and something is made out of people.

Here's my take: the people who have made the Harry Potter movies are afraid of backlash from the audience, who will criticize any detail that is not exactly like the book. I used to be one of those people myself before I understood a basic truth: film and written fiction are two completely different art forms, therefore different techniques will be used to tell the same story in each.

(True story: When whats-his-name was making the film version of Rosemary's Baby, he called the author (Ira Levin?) and asked him about a reference that was made in the book to a shirt Rosemary said she bought for her husband that was "in The New Yorker." The director wanted to know what issue, what brand shirt it was, etc. Levin said, "I don't know, I made it up.")

Take the Twilight series. (You knew I was going there, don't judge me.) The first movie was not great, as it tried very hard to include every hokey line of dialogue that might work in print but would never sound right to the ear if spoken aloud. The second movie was a big improvement. The third movie was actually pretty good as they focused more on telling a story and less on making every fanatic in the world happy about including their favorite line. (I'll also say it: I think the film version of Eclipse had a lot of improvements over the book in terms of narrative flow and plot, but that is part of the limitation of writing a book with a first-person narrator, particularly one as self-centered and self-analytical as Bella. I told you I was high at the beginning of this.)

For me, the best book-to-film adaptations are the ones that preserve the essential feel of the story while not being afraid to make changes that make the story work better for film. Here, then, are some of my favorite book-to-film adaptations:

Gone With the Wind: because Scarlett really only needed one child, right?
Interview with the Vampire: Did you know Tom Cruise didn't even know he was in that movie until a year later?
Carrie: I love a movie in which teenagers don't take themselves too seriously, except the one who slaughters the entire town with the force of her mind.
The Princess Bride: If you've never read this book, you should. It was written by the guy who also wrote the movie, but there's some great satire there that doesn't translate to film at all and, bless him, he didn't try.
Rebecca/Jane Eyre: Aren't these really the same movie? All I can say is, Joan Fontaine's nostrils are magnificent.

So, I hope that is a lesson to all of you aspiring screenwriters/directors out there. If you're adapting existing material, don't be afraid to change it up a bit, make it your own.

And stay off the painkillers. Makes it difficult to write a coherent weasel got in the corn.

In Which Deb Reassesses a Major Belief

2010-12-01T12:28:00.000-06:00

I have always tried to be a polite person. Not just by following the rules of etiquette; there are times when, in fact, it is actually less polite to stick to the rules. (Don't question me, it just is.) For me, being polite means that I know how to stand up for myself without being obnoxious, that I try to have empathy for other people and not take my frustrations with a systemic problem out on an individual, and that I choose my battles carefully; if it isn't my "hill to die on," so to speak, I let things go.

Today I experienced something that, for the first time, made me wish that I was a rude person. Today I experienced a kidney stone. (In fact, I am still experiencing it, as my pain medication is wearing off as I write this post, so I'd better hurry before I reach out through the internets and tear all of your faces off.)

When I woke up this morning, I had my usual vague lower back pain that always goes away after I move around a bit. This morning, the pain didn't go away, it localized to the bottom left quadrant of my back and settled in.

"That's odd," I said. "This back pain is kind of weird this morning."

"You're spending too much time on the computer," Sven grumbled. "It's bad for your back." (For the record, this is also why I have to wear glasses, have painful menstrual periods, suffer from itchy toes in the winter, and have experienced bouts of puff-knuckle, at least according to Sven.)

"Maybe you're right," I said automatically, and got dressed for work. That nagging pain would not go away! By the time I got to work, I knew things weren't right. I was dizzy and sweaty and felt like I was about to vomit. I called Sven ("No, I'll be fine, you stay at work,") left work and went to the emergency room, where being polite gets you nowhere.

"Excuse me," I said, gasping in pain, "I'm in a great deal of pain and need to see someone."

"Fill out the top form and have a seat," the nurse said mechanically. It was at this point that my logical, polite mind said Don't get mad at her, she's following procedure, and yelling at people never solved anything. There was another, louder part of my mind, however, that was screaming Tell that stupid so-and-so that you're not filling out a damn thing until you get some Demerol! Fortunately, I listened to my polite self and filled out the form and hunched my way over to the chairs. It took seventeen hours in my time (but only about fifteen minutes in real time, I suppose) to get back to a room.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" a perky intern asked. Again, polite Deb is thinking Bless her heart, she's just taking my history, no need to get upset, while the raving lunatic unleashed by unspeakable pain is screaming Tell her to shove that clipboard somewhere dark and get me some morphine! NOW! I again managed to leash the beast and answered her questions as best I could, though I will tell you now I have no recollection of what she asked me. I was in so much pain at that point that my hearing was affected. I wanted to call Sven and tell him to come and hold my hand, but I was in too much pain to even ask for my phone. Then the lady from the business office came in to ask me about how I was going to pay. I don't even remember what happened next.

Fortunately, drawing on nearly seventeen years' worth of couples' telepathy, Sven walked in at that point and I could just start crying while he answered the questions.

Pain medication was introduced then, and I felt much better. Just about normal, in fact. One CAT scan later, it was confirmed that a tiny, 3mm ball of yuck had lodged in my left kidney and I have to evict him. Hopefully said eviction will be accomplished today by means of my enormous Bass Pro Shop mug and amazing willpower, but I could be here for a while. Sven is out now getting my prescriptions filled.

And he'd better get back soon, because Angry Deb is lurking. Watch out.

Deb's Favorite Things

2010-11-27T06:36:00.000-06:00

Hey, y'all. I bet you're wondering why the topic of today's show was kept such a big secret. Is it a big star? Maybe George Clooney or Brad Pitt?

(Excited murmurings from audience)

No, it's not a big star. It's even better. Everyone welcome to DEB'S FAVORITE THINGS!!

(Audience screams. Close up on one woman sobbing.)

Okay, y'all. Let's begin with one of my absolute favorite things in. The. World. This has saved me more than anything when I'm trying to cool down from those long workouts. Everyone in the audience is getting a case of Isopure Protein Clear Beverage!!

(Audience screams. One woman tears off another's head.)

All right, let's all settle down. Next on my favorite things list is something I found at a local drugstore, and who would expect to find something so gourmet and satisfying there? BLUE DIAMOND DRY ROASTED ALMONDS!

(Audience screams. Paramedics enter the room and begin carrying out unconscious audience members.)

Okay, everybody. I know the holiday season is here and we're all looking for that perfect gift. Well, look no further. I got one of these for Sven last year and he. Loved. It. Who would not love this AUTHENTIC TAUN-TAUN SLEEPING BAG?

(Audience screams. A wedding between audience members spontaneously takes place in the back three rows.)

And for today's final gift, for that person who has everything: I love comedy, and I love podcasts, so everyone today in the audience will receive a genuine COMEDY DEATH RAY RADIO T-SHIRT!!

(Audience screams. In the front row, a woman spontaneously conceives, carries, and gives birth to a child out of sheer joy.)

Thanks, y'all. I hope you all know that I received no promotional money or goods for today's show, though I wouldn't turn them down if they were offered. Enjoy the spirit of the season, everybody.

Tooting My Own Horn

2010-11-25T08:09:00.001-06:00

You all know, who have read me for a while, that I love having imaginary interviews. In my mind, I have sat on the couch of Oprah, matched wits with Jon Stewart, and answered James Lipton's list of questions.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to have a real interview. With a real journalist. It really happened. And it was everything I hoped it would be!

No, I wasn't on television, it was a phone interview, but it has been published. Read it here:

Galveston Daily News

And if you are here from that article, welcome! There will be a quiz over all past entries next week. Begin.

Overachieving

2010-11-21T16:49:00.000-06:00

It is, of course, November, which means one thing: the thirty day orgy of creativity known as NaNoWriMo. Of course, I know all of my faithful readers have the entire month marked in red on their calendars, but to those who might be new, I will explain.

The goal of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writer's Month) is to produce a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. Beginning at midnight on November 1 and ending on November 30, those who choose to participate in this activity forswear friends, family, and proper nutrition for the duration. In order to complete your book on time, a daily goal of 1,667 words is the minimum to be completed. Editing is discouraged; NaNoWriMo is not about quality, it is about quantity. (December, however, is NaNoFiMo, or National Novel Finishing Month, in which one's NaNoWriMo work can, hopefully, be edited into something semi-coherent.)

Last year I began participating in NaNoWriMo early in November, as soon as I heard about it. I had no plot, no ideas, and had to start over more than once. I got my 50,000 words, though, meaning I "won" the contest. Unfortunately, that book was terrible. Seriously, completely terrible. Easily the worst thing I have ever written, and I include the companion book to "The Outsiders" I wrote in eighth grade in that statement. We will never speak of it again.

This year I started thinking about NaNoWriMo in August. I knew what I wanted to write: an account of the 1900 Galveston Hurricane, told from the perspective of a young woman who lived through it. The twist? Those who have been reading my blog for a while have probably guessed: she lives through it by becoming a vampire. Yes, another vampire tome has fallen from my pen like drifting autumn leaves, and I couldn't be happier. I began researching with enthusiasm. (Just a note: I never research anything beyond a quick Google search, so this is very uncharacteristic behavior for me.) I drove to Galveston several times and looked at buildings that had survived the storm. I went to the Rosenberg Library and visited the archives, where original documents from that time period are stored. I read books, including the superb "Isaac's Storm" by Erik Larson. I knew who my heroine was and what she was doing, I knew how she was going to get caught in the storm and where she was going to shelter. I even knew who the vampire who attacked her was and his back story. (He's a Karankawa Indian, by the way, another bit of obscure coastal Texas lore I was happy to include.)

The problem? When November 1 hit, I wrote almost 10,000 words in the first 24 hours. By the end of the first week I was at 25,000. I hit 50,000 words on November 15. I finished the book, at 56,000 words, on November 15. Now what?

Start a second one.

Here's my reasoning: if I finished a 50,000 word book in the first 15 days, I could do another one in the second 15 days, right? I neglected to think about the two months of research and thought that had gone into the first one (for the record, "Immortal Isle"). What was I thinking?

This new one, tentatively titled "Magic Number," is awful. Truly, tremendously awful. It may, in fact, be worse in many respects than last year's. If I had any artistic integrity, I would junk it and start over and really challenge myself (as I write this, it's November 21, so 9 days to go) but no matter how bad this one is, I'm 37,000 words into it and have an actual shot at finishing the thing.

I love young adult literature. "Magic Number" was intended as an homage to one of my favorite YA authors, Norma Johnston, the queen (in my opinion) of teenage angst. Unfortunately, I seem to be incapable of writing a simple, biographical novel. Halfway through this one, we discover that one corner of our love triangle is the child of secret agents who is being recruited to join the agency herself, and adventure ensues.

Really? Really, Deb? A teenage love story drama turns into a suspense thing about secret agents? Nice. I just hope I can finish the thing in time to go back and fix some things. Like take out the whole "secret agent" thing. I wish I could do it now, but I can't go back and erase 100 pages with only nine days to go.

Or can I? More later...

Blast from the Past

2010-11-17T18:23:00.000-06:00

Recently, I was privileged to attend my 4th grade class reunion.

What? 4th grade class reunions aren't that common? Well, my 4th grade class was never common to begin with.

Here's a picture of me with my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Awesome-O.

(Note that I was the only member of Awesome-O Class of '85 to attend. I'm looking in your direction, everyone else.)

In elementary school, I participated in something called GATE: Gifted And Talented Education. Those of us in GATE fell under many categories:

Brilliant but quiet
Brilliant but loud
Too hyperactive to be in a regular classroom
Too weird to be in a regular classroom
Smart but socially clueless
Several of the above

GATE students were identified by a complicated series of tests, including IQ tests. We were together all day, every day, from third through fifth grade. Thinking about it now, I realize how extraordinary that was. Most kids get shuffled from class to class between grades, and switch between different teachers during the day. We didn't. Our teacher was OUR TEACHER, who taught us reading, language, math, social studies, and science every day.

At the reunion, I realized I remembered the people who were there better than I remembered people in my graduating class at high school. It was amazing! What was even more amazing was how, in a room full of our peers, we all immediately reverted to our Inner Nerd. The quiet ones were still quiet, the loud ones unbelievably loud, but you could almost see guards dropping as we realized we were among our peers. The class clowns began entertaining, the sarcastic ones were dripping with well-placed stings, and the nice ones were just exuding good nature.

There were a wide variety of careers represented. Several of us are in education. There was a neurosurgeon and stay-at-home moms, small business owners and IT experts. Above all, we were still GATE kids: smart, kind of goofy, and not traditional at all.

At the reunion, I was given the honor of witnessing what has to be one of the greatest "You're busted!" moments of all time. Allow me to set the scene: Sven and I were sitting there with Siegfried, a friend of ours who happens to be Awesome-O class of '84. We were discussing how we ended up with different 5th grade teachers, because Siegfried's teacher left in the summer between his fifth grade year and mine.

Not to drag the story out, but I told Siegfried about my 5th grade teacher, who had never taught elementary school or GATE before, and how inappropriate her reading assignments were. We read Johnny Tremain and Island of the Blue Dolphins, which were great, and then The Hobbit, which was okay but a little dense for 10-year-olds, then Animal Farm, which I did not understand at all. I thought it was about talking animals until I was 18.

"What came next?" asked Siegfried.

"Lord of the Flies," I said. After the laughter subsided, I recalled how my mother, along with several others, protested, which resulted in an "opt-out" assignment: Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh. Siegfried and I then imagined how we would teach a class in which half of the kids were discussing the pig-hunting scene from LOTF while the rest were debating whether or not Farmer Fitzsimmon's rose bush was really the best place for those darned rats.

"Why stop there?" Siegfried asked, and we began suggesting increasingly inappropriate reading material for 10-year-olds.

"How about The World According to Garp?" I suggested. Siegfried got that wicked twinkle in his eye and began to intone, in a teacherly voice:

"Class, please regard the [expletive descriptive word] scene and-"

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?" intoned Mrs. Awesome-O, descending upon us.

Busted. We had to explain it all to her, which fortunately, she found hilarious, though whether it was because we were funny or she was on her second glass of wine, I can't say. What I can say is that Mrs. Awesome-O is still awesome. As we were leaving, she gave me a hug and said to Sven, "Take care of her, she's one of my good ones."

Right back at you, Mrs. Awesome-O.

Battle for the Bed

2010-11-13T06:48:00.000-06:00

At the Folksy house, we are currently at war. At stake in this war is the most valuable piece of real estate around: Deb and Sven's king-sized bed.

It began almost five years ago, when Princess was born. From the very beginning, she would not be alone quietly. When I think of the money we spent before she arrived on things like cribs and bassinets, I can't help but laugh bitterly. The crib wasn't a total loss; it converted to the full-size bed she now refuses to sleep in, but the $200 convertible bassinet was a total waste of money unless you consider having an extra place for our late cat (Hambone) to pee is a wise investment.

Princess slept with us for the first year on purpose. We called it co-sleeping. Everyone else kept silent, but I knew what they were thinking: how will you ever stop? Answer: I don't know. I'll tell you when it happens. When we decided to have her sleep with us, it was from necessity: I hadn't planned on having a C-section, Sven's brother died the day after we brought her home from the hospital, so we had to find a way I could feed her without getting out of bed every 2-3 hours. We did what we had to do.

When we found out we were pregnant with Dexy, I said, "We need to get his room all ready." Sven replied, "I just thought he'd sleep with us the way Princess did." Bear in mind that, at this point, Princess was almost two years old and it was a nightly struggle to get her to sleep in her room. I goggled at Sven, but, muddled by the hormones of pregnancy, I shrugged and just went along with it and ate another wedge of cheese the size of a mature hamster. (That was a strange pregnancy.)

So now, here we are: Dexy, nearly three, who cannot go to sleep without a thumb in his mouth and a hank of my hair in his hand, and Princess, nearly five, who lays down in her bed for thirty seconds before proclaiming, "I had a bad dream, I can't sleep by myself tonight." My nights are spent curled up in the fetal position on the edge of my once-luxurious bed, waking up every half hour to dislodge a child-sized foot from some part of my person.

We are trying. This week I've been up every night until 2:00 or 3:00 with Princess, insisting that she sleep in her own bed. I'm on to her tricks: she will wait until I'm asleep, then creep in and sneak into my room and fall asleep next to her daddy. (Usually because Dexy is already asleep next to me.) Some nights, Dexy actually stays in his bed when we carry him down, but Princess is like The Terminator. She doesn't sleep. She can go days on two hours of sleep a night with almost no signs of ill effects.

She's ruthless, I tell you. But she hadn't reckoned on dealing with me. I'll beat her yet.

The Wrath of Mom

2010-11-10T20:02:00.000-06:00

On Monday, I got home and I was so tired, I just couldn't wait to sit down, put my feet up, open up the computer, and write for a while. When I got home, I was confronted by a grave reality: the dishes had piled up in the sink, there were loads of clothes waiting to be washed, dried, and folded, and the garbage can was full to the point that Sven and I were actively competing to see who would be the sucker that had to actually change the bag, meaning we were precariously balancing mountains of garbage on top of the already full can.

I looked around my house and got mad. No, not mad. I was furious. I put my things down and began to attack the garbage, then the dishes. I rattled and banged and generally let everyone know that I. Was. Not. Happy.

"I love you, Mommy," Princess said, patting me.

"I love you, too," I snarled.

"I can take care of supper," Sven offered from the recliner.

"Great," I snapped. "You do that."

"I want chicken nuggets, Daddy," said Dexy.

"Chick-Fil-A! Chick-Fil-A!" chanted Princess.

"Okay, I'll be right back," said Sven. When I turned around, they were all gone. I ran out and caught them, hearing that Sven was taking the children with him. I knew then that I would not be seeing them for a long time. "I'm just going through the drive-thru," Sven said. I cackled bitterly, wiping dish soap from my eyebrows.

Two hours later, when they returned home, I got the scoop. Here's what happened:

Sven: Now, kids, we're just going through the drive-thru and going home.

Princess: Well, Daddy, since Mommy's not eating, we don't really need to bring the food home.

Sven: I suppose we can see how crowded it is, and if it isn't too crowded we might be able to eat there.

Princess: I think Mommy wants to be alone. We should eat there to help Mommy.

Sven: We'll see.

Princess: And then we can play on the playground for just a minute.

Sven: All right, we'll see.

Princess: Thank you, Daddy.

They came home after the dishwasher had been run and I had all of the laundry folded, and I was much, much calmer. Sven had that wry expression that told me he knew he had been suckered by a tiny little girl with dimples and pigtails.

Maybe I need to "Hulk out" on the housework more often...

Update

2010-11-06T07:52:00.023-05:00

It has been 11 weeks and 3 days since my surgery, or 80 days.

I have lost 51 pounds since that date. That is an average of 0.6375 pounds per day. I know this is good, but I'm still struggling with patience. I want to see it come off much faster.

To put that in more perspective, the last time I was at this weight was around the time I got married, in 1999. I've lost 11 years worth of weight in 80 days.

I have lost a shoe size.

I have lost two and a half ring sizes. Many of my favorite pieces do not fit me at all anymore.

I have lost four pants sizes (depending on how you count those things) and four or five shirt sizes.

Highlight to read for female information: I have lost a cup size and two band sizes in my bust.

In personal developments, I can no longer wrestle with Sven, because I no longer outweigh him. I learned this painfully (emotionally painfully) the other day when I refused to get off of the couch for something and he pulled me up. Easily. Then sicced the kids on me.

My hands no longer sweat. Not as much, anyway.

I still don't eat much. I drink a mixture of whey protein and water during the day and generally try for something solid at night. Right now I'm hooked on egg whites. A couple of minutes in a pan with some trans-fat-free-butter-like-spread, sprinkle on some cheese (I use real cheese, in your face, fake cheese!) and I can eat as much as six or seven bites. During the day, I munch on the occasional almond and chewable fiber tablets (the size of baby hockey pucks).

The holidays are coming up, and people are starting to ask (in tones of horror), "What are you going to DO?" Not only Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Princess and Dexy's birthdays are all happening within the same 1-month period. My answer: enjoy it. It will be hard without the food, but it's not like I'm on a diet. I couldn't splurge if I wanted to, and I'm not sure I want to. I'm never hungry. Most food has started to look unappealing to me. When I see a restaurant meal now, I'm actually horrified at the size of the portions. I can remember the days (really, only a couple of months ago!) when I would have looked at the same meal and thought, "I hope that will fill me up!" In other words, my entire attitude toward food and eating are different. It hasn't been easy, but going through all of this has made the weight loss possible for me in a way it would never have been before.

I don't want to make this into a weight-loss blog, but it's hard to write about what's happening in my life without this weight loss. It's become a big deal every day. Getting dressed is even harder now than it used to be, because my pants now literally fall off my body. (Today's project: moving the buttons on a few pairs so the waist will be smaller.)

So it doesn't look like I'll be meeting my goal of 80 pounds lost by my 3-month checkup (in 4 weeks; 29 pounds in 4 weeks is at least a pound a day) but I should be close. After I lose those 29 pounds, I have at least another 50 to lose.

I'll see you when I get there.

New Recipe: Homemade Chicken Nuggets

2010-11-03T19:45:00.000-05:00

Since my little procedure about two months ago, I have had to drastically change the way I eat. As in, I can't anymore. Eat, I mean. Really, I eat almost nothing. Unfortunately, for several weeks the only things that seem to want to stay in my stomach without making me sick are really bad foods: pizza, lasagna, quesadillas, macaroni and cheese...you get the idea. I would rather not eat anything than eat those foods, so there have been a lot of 200-calorie days lately.

So I splurged and bought a couple of cookbooks, and I tried a recipe tonight that went over very well with me and my family. I am sharing the recipe here because I changed it enough to make it my own.

A serving (about 5 nuggets) equals around 150 calories, 25 grams of protein (about), low carbs, some fiber.

Ingredients:
Boneless skinless chicken breasts or tenderloins
Egg whites
Reduced fat Pringles potato chips
Fiber One cereal (original)
Seasoning to taste (I used Lawry's Seasoning Salt, but any seasoning you like would work.)

Preheat oven to 375. Spray a baking sheet with non-stick spray.

Cut chicken into desired size pieces. Coat with egg whites.

In a blender or food processor, combine Fiber One cereal (about 1/2 cup for 1 pound chicken), seasoning, and potato chips (16-24 chips). Pulse until you achieve a bread crumb like texture. Place this mixture in a gallon-size plastic bag.

Place chicken in the bag and shake to coat. You can do this in batches or all at once.

Put coated chicken on baking sheet and bake for 10 minutes. Turn over and bake another 10 minutes, or until crispy and cooked through. Excellent with ketchup.

I used about 1 pound of chicken and it was enough to feed me, Sven, Princess, and Dexy with leftovers.

I ate two. Yay!

My Grandparents

2010-10-31T21:12:00.000-05:00

My mother's parents were really special.

I was thinking today about what I was going to do this year for Thanksgiving, and it has reminded me of a couple of stories I remember about my grandparents.

My grandpa had a bad heart. It runs in the family, unfortunately. Of course, his doctors put him on a salt-free diet and, since it was the 1980's, salt substitutes were horrible, bitter things. Well, my grandmother found a great one that tasted just like salt. It was amazing!

After Grandpa died, Grandma went on using the salt substitute. Eventually she had to go and replace it. Imagine her shock when the salt substitute tasted terrible! It was bitter and awful and she was just so confused!

Until she found the big container of REAL salt hidden in the kitchen. Grandpa had been quietly replacing the salt substitute with real salt for years. Grandma had to laugh.

My second story is about Grandma. Grandma lived until 2005, passing away just a few weeks before Princess was born. She remained vital and healthy for years after Grandpa died, but of course, as time went on she could do less and less.

We always went to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. Grandma made the same dishes every year, and assigned each of us to bring the same things, so it was a menu you could really count on. One dish Grandma made sure never to forget was the corn-and-oysters.

Made with canned oysters and creamed corn, this dish truly had to be seen (and smelled) to be believed. Yet, year after year, the dish was completely clean at the end of the feast, thanks to the combined efforts of my father and my Uncle Pat. Grandma never really knew that Dad and Pat were the only two eating it. She thought we all loved it, that it was the dish without which our family Thanksgiving could not be complete.

I remember the year she told me that she just didn't feel up to making the corn and oysters. "Deb, I know the family will be so disappointed," she said earnestly. "I just don't think I can make the corn and oysters this year." "Grandma," I said sincerely, "we'll manage." Only my father complained.

It's been 5 years since Grandma died, and 23 years since Grandpa died. Even though I miss them every day, thinking about them makes me happy. Hopefully one day Princess will have children (she currently plans on having eight) who will tell stories about their kooky Grandma Deb, who wore knee-socks and danced the Futterwagon on the living-room sofa.

Obviously, I plan for an active, lightly medicated old age.

Compatibility: Fighting

2010-10-30T06:20:00.000-05:00

Men and women fight differently. Sven and I, of course, as the perfect married couple, never fight. We do, however, disagree, argue, snipe, snark, discuss, mull, and wrestle.

After a morning spent in the following sort of dialogue:

Sven: Where are Princess' shoes?
Deb: Ask Princess.
Princess: They're in the toilet. (Giggles)
Sven: Would you just find her shoes?
Deb: Is your leg broken?
Sven: Is yours?
Deb: Is yours?
Sven: Is yours?
Dexy: I hungry.

I leave for work feeling guilty about my negativity toward my loving, hard-working man. I go to work in a blue mood. Around lunchtime, I send him a text message saying something like "I love you, I'm sorry I was so nasty to you this morning." I get no response.

In typical female fashion, now I begin to worry. Maybe he's really mad. Maybe he is just tired of all of this. Maybe he's thinking about how I never cook anymore, or how I've been dressing my children out of clean laundry baskets instead of putting their clothes away. I begin to fret.

After two hours of fretting, I send the text message again. He calls me back. We have the following conversation:

Sven: So what are you sorry for?
Deb: For being so nasty and snipy this morning.
Sven: Oh. Well, I was pretty snipy myself.
Deb: You were, but I felt bad about it.
Sven: I had forgotten all about it, actually.
Deb: Oh.
Sven: But I accept your apology.
Deb: Thank you.

This is the difference: when men get mad and blow of steam, they feel better. When women do it, they feel worse. I came to this conclusion by having an extremely scientific conversation with my partner teacher, Georgia, and my student teacher Eurydice. Of course there are the exceptions: the enlightened men who never ignore their wives even when they say something eight times and then ask, "Did you say something about needing me to pick up the kids today?" even when you've been reminding them every day for eight days but hey, they didn't actually NEED the information until today so it doesn't count. Needless to say, those enlightened men will not look at their wives at that point and say, "Why didn't you TELL me?" But I really believe those men are the exception.

Feel free to disagree with me. I will text you later to apologize.

Routine

2010-10-28T21:09:00.000-05:00

If there's one thing I pride myself on, it is my morning routine. I am a paragon of efficiency. I treasure my mornings, for, as you will see, it is during my mornings that I am most myself.

The following takes place between 2:00 A.M. and 8:00 A.M.:

2:00 A.M.: One of the children staggers in, wakes me up, announces "I had a bad dream," and gets into bed with me.

2:45 A.M.: The other one repeats that process.

3:15 A.M.: I accept that I will not be getting back to sleep and get out the computer to write for a few minutes.

4:00 A.M.: I finish with my Facebook, discussion boards, e-mail checks, and general internet playing and get down to the business of writing.

4:20 A.M.: My alarm goes off and is turned off.

4:50 A.M.: I get up and go downstairs to walk on the treadmill.

5:30 A.M.: I stagger upstairs and take a shower. The children may or may not be awake at this point. If they are, my shower is cut to 3 minutes and I emerge from the bathroom screaming "Put that down!" and "Don't stick that in your father, he's sleeping!"

5:33-5:50 A.M: Get out of the shower (see note above). Get out computer just to check on that last sentence.

6:15 A.M.: Get off of Facebook and just check that last sentence.

6:30 A.M.: Say defensively to Sven, "I AM getting ready!"

6:45 A.M.: Finish makeup, move to bathroom to dry hair.

6:50 A.M.: Discover that I have literally no clothes that fit me anymore, cry.

6:55 A.M.: Realize that the dress I saved for years because I couldn't bear to give it away even though it was too small fits, rejoice.

6:58 A.M.: Go downstairs, put shoes on various feet and ponytails on various heads.

7:01 A.M.: Announce I am leaving.

7:05 A.M.: Return to get glasses. Announce I am leaving.

7:07 A.M.: Kiss a crying Dexy, who is on the driveway lamenting, "I just wanted to say I love you, Mommy!"

7:10 A.M.: Realize I forgot my vitamins, go back in.

7:15 A.M.: Help Sven put the kids in his car, kiss faces.

7:21 A.M.: Swear.

7:25 A.M.: Leave for work, secure in the knowledge that I have nearly five minutes to get there and be on time.

7:38 A.M.: Arrive at work. Gaze at the pile of work I left for myself the night before.

7:42 A.M.: Swear.

8:00 A.M.: Greet my first class of the day with a smile and a song. That other stuff can wait.

Popping and Locking

2010-10-21T19:39:00.001-05:00

I had my first appointment with a chiropractor today. This was a "free consultation," so the last thing I expected was to actually get what they call an "adjustment." I was wrong. I left the massage parlor (where his office was, don't judge me) fifteen minutes after meeting him with a spring in my step and a pip in my pep.

This was my first adjustment. Needless to say, when the very attractive chiropractor was massaging my glutes (a.k.a. "fanny") to find out "where I carried the most tension," I felt a bit strange. Not awkward, but so comfortable I just knew something was wrong. After all, I'm a happily married woman! I shouldn't be comfortable with a tall, well-built, blue-eyed blonde man (estimated height: 6'2") rubbing my derriere, but there I was, happy as the proverbial clam. Alas, the butt analysis was negative ("Feels real good," he said. "Thank you," I replied) so the focus shifted to my spine and neck.

We moved on to the neck adjustment. One excruciating crunch later, I felt lighter and more alert. We moved on to the mid-back. This adjustment was accomplished by me folding my arms over my chest while he basically threw his body down on top of mine. Before any of you begin transposing the surf scene from "From Here to Eternity" onto a chiropractor's table, let me assure you that this adjustment was accompanied by me making the least sexy sound known to man. This combination of grunt and groan had all of the aesthetic appeal of a diarrheic bagpipe player who forgot to remove his instrument before a strategic retreat to the loo.

The lower back, which I expected to be the motherlode of adjustment, so to speak, was surprisingly anticlimactic. Bend this leg, straighten that one, turn your head, cough... you know how it goes. Once I was done, Dr. Nick (really) told me, "I really hope I see you again." I went straight home to my wonderful husband, Sven, whose idea this was in the first place. I hope he's pleased with how well it went.

I know I am. Next time, I'm taking a camera.

The kindness of Relative Strangers

2010-10-20T20:20:00.000-05:00

I heard on NPR a version of the following story:

Since it's been 20 years since the Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas scandal, apparently Mrs. Thomas decided to make amends. (Maybe it's been 20 years. Maybe not. I'm not a journalist.)

So, Mrs. Thomas, in an extraordinarily selfless act, decided to reach out to Ms. Hill. She phoned her (at work) and left her a very touching voice mail, which she describes as "extending an olive branch."

In this phone call, Mrs. Thomas invited Ms. Hill to finally apologize to her and her husband. Nothing says selfless like, "Hey, it's okay. Apologize to me. You've earned it."

I don't know whether or not Ms. Hill's allegations were true, and I don't care. It's actually irrelevant to this story. The beautiful thing here is someone actually thinking calling someone who has accused your husband of sexual harassment and not only bringing it up, but asking that person to apologize to you, is "peacemaking."

This gives me so many ideas, I don't know what to do with myself. I can't wait to start reaching out to all of the people who I think owe me apologies. The list begins with, but is not limited to:

Victoria Beckham
Jane Austen (Death is no excuse for being obstinate.)
Natalie Portman
The Old Spice Guy
Stephenie Meyer
George W. Bush
George Bush Sr.
George Bush (mows the lawn next door, no relation)
Mittens (cat; can still miaow plaintively.)
Jon Hamm
The writers for SNL '09-'10 season
Glee
Heidi Klum
Steve Martin
Stephen King
Stephen Weber
Weber Grills
Lil' Wayne
The Ghost
Mrs. Muir
Anyone named "Penelope."

I will expect my apologies forthwith. You're welcome.

These are the jokes, folks.

2010-10-17T14:24:00.000-05:00

Place: In Sven's new (non-wrecked) car

Time: Any, as long as we plan to be in the car at least 15 minutes.

Cast:
   Sven: The designated driver and egger-on
   Deb: The long-suffering navigator and general party pooper
   Princess: The comedian
   Dexy: The sidekick

Princess: Knock, knock.

Sven: Who's there?

Princess: Interrupting cow.

Sven: Interrupting c-

Princess: MOO!

{General laughter}

Dexy: Knock, knock.

Sven: Who's there?

Dexy: Interrupting cheese.

Sven: Interrupting cheese who?

Dexy: {long pause} Cheese!

{General laughter}

Princess: Why did the chicken cross the park?

Sven: Why?

Princess: To get to the other SLIDE!

{General laughter}

Dexy: Knock, knock!

Sven: Who's there?

Dexy: Interrupting poo poo!

{general laughter, except Deb}

Deb: Now, Dexy, you don't have to work blue. You're better than that.

Dexy: Poo poo!

Princess: Pee pee!

Sven: Kids-

Dexy: Interrupting poo poo!

Princess: Dexy won't let me tell my joke!

Sven: Tell your joke, Princess.

Princess: Why did the...knock, knock.

Dexy: Knock, knock!

Princess: Dexy!

Dexy: Poo poo!

Deb: I need a Valium.

Fin.

(I edited the above to make it much shorter and less maddening than real life. You're welcome.)

Short Takes: Folksy Household

2010-10-10T16:01:00.000-05:00

Deb: Sven, get in the bathroom and weigh yourself!

Sven: Why?

Deb: Because it says I haven't lost any weight at all in four days. Just do it, okay?

Sven: Sure. {Goes into the bathroom. Returns.} I lost seven pounds.

Deb: We're getting a divorce.

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

Princess: Mommy, you know panties?

Deb: Panties? I believe I am familiar with panties.

Princess: You know the part of the panties where you put your legs through?

Deb: Yes, the leg holes.

Princess: The leg holes are the panties' nostrils.

Deb: That makes perfect sense to me.

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

Dexy: Want cheese, Mommy!

Deb: Okay. {Hands him a cheese.}

Dexy: No, I don't want cheese. I want a banana.

Deb: Okay. {Takes back cheese, gets out a banana}

Dexy: No, I don't want a banana. I want a Pop Tart.

Deb: No, no Pop Tarts.

Dexy: BUT I WANT IT!

Deb: How about a cheese?

Dexy: Okay.

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

Have a great week, everyone.

To Black Work Pants, Pair No. 2

2010-10-04T18:04:00.000-05:00

Dear Pants,

I hate to write this sort of thing in a letter, but sometimes emotional things are better said from a distance. I know you're wondering why, when I got home after work today, I put my shirt in one laundry basket and you in another. Pants, I know it's hard to accept, but we can no longer be together.

The final straw for me was today's Kindergarten classes. As I performed The Chicken Dance, I could feel you slipping away. When I had to stop Head Shoulders Knees and Toes to hike you up to my braline, I knew it was over. Seriously, seriously over.

I'm embarking on a new era in my life, one in which you no longer belong. I will always appreciate the good times: your color that never faded, your sturdy fabric that still looks new, and your forgiving stretch that made you the sole pair of pants in my closet that always fit no matter what. Times have changed, unfortunately, and we all must accept this.

I choose not to think about your ridiculous front pockets which spilled their contents whenever I sat down. I hope you'll remember the good times as well.

So, Pants, as we part ways, I hope you will be on to better things than I. Perhaps someone who will love and cherish you, and not turn you into a handbag, as I am tempted to do. I do hope you will keep in touch. You are irreplaceable, at least until I lose two more sizes.

Best Wishes,

Deb

Living the Rock 'N Roll Lifestyle

2010-09-27T04:56:00.000-05:00

In a recent post (the last one, scroll down if you like), I mentioned that, once I am thin enough for it not to be ridiculous, I am going to start a Joan Jett and the Blackhearts cover band.

The resemblance is truly terrifying. Once I begin to adopt the persona of Joan, I will be living the rock 'n' roll lifestyle I've always dreamed of.

1. The aforementioned black leather. Leather cuffs, leather necklaces, leather pants, leather shirts, leather hair accessories, leather shoes... Well, to be fair, I already wear leather shoes. The point is, I'm going to look amazing.

2. The reckless lifestyle. As anyone who has seen The Runaways knows, Joan Jett was a crazy, up-for-anything kind of girl who played a boys' game by her own rules and took no prisoners and lived life by her own rules and I'm tired. I plan to adopt her policy by recklessly popping breath mints after I finish my protein shakes. Rock on! And you're welcome.

3. Joan Jett wrote songs that defied authority and convention, like "Bad Reputation" and "Cherry Bomb." Though I intend to primarily focus on covering Joan's catalogue, I might try my hand at writing my own anti-establishment anthems, like "I Paid the Electric Bill Two Days Late" and "Going 42 in a 40 Zone." I will truly be one bad, bad rock 'n roll mother.

4. Superstar meltdowns. Trust me, I cannot wait to have one of those. Flinging bottles and baseless accusations at those who love me most? Awesome.

5. An unrepentant, dazzling middle age. Joan Jett is just as awesome today, at 50+, as she was at 20. Maybe even more so. I plan to age defiantly, with jet-black hair and amazing cheekbones. Maybe I'll get something pierced.

Just kidding, Mom.

-------------------------------------------

A note about last entry: when I fly to Utah, I expect to see all of my bloggy friends who live within 150 miles. We will get tipsy on Diet Coke and ogle waiters, if that's all right with all of you. Clothing optional.

When I am Thin

2010-09-22T20:15:00.000-05:00

So we're 36 pounds down now (and by "we" I mean "I") and I'm starting to think about what I'm going to do with I am finally thin.

1. I'm going to fly to Utah to meet Kristina, my BIFFALAWGAIRL. (Best Internet Friend Forever As Long As We Get Along In Real Life.) I'm longing to be judged in person.

2. I'm going to buy something from Dash, the exclusive clothing store owned by Kourtney and Klohe and Kimberly and Kris and KooKoo Kardashian. I'll be able to look like a desperate wannabe celebrity in the comfort of my own home!

3. I'm going to start a Joan Jett and the Blackhearts tribute band, Dark Deb and the Destroyers. I will play rhythm guitar and angst. Hopefully my workplace will support my decision to wear black leather at all times.

4. I'm going to take a picture of myself standing in one leg of my old pants. It just seems like the right thing to do. Then I'm going to get offended when friends ask me how much weight I've lost.

5. I'm going to run through a dewy meadow at dawn. Or run a marathon. Or watch a marathon of Mad Men on DVD. Or run mad through a crowd of men at Mardi Gras. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this one.

Anyway, it's going well. I'm feeling better every day. And that's what matters, right? That I'm healthier and better able to care for my kids and family.

And squeeze into those booty jeans.

Princess and Concerns About an Uncertain Future

2010-09-14T17:36:00.000-05:00

Lately, Princess has been very bothered by the idea that she will have to leave us one day.

"But I never want to leave," she says tearfully, clutching a hot dog. "I love it here."

"Honey, you don't have to worry about that for a long time," I say.

"But what will you do without me, Mommy?" she says. "I don't want my own house. I want to stay here with you and Daddy."

"You won't always feel that way," I say. "Someday, you might want your own house."

"No," she says positively.

"What if you get married?" I ask. "You and your husband and your children will want your own house."

"Married?" she asks. "I could get married?"

"Not for a long, long time," I say. "But someday, you might want to."

"I think Calvin will be my husband," she says.

"Who's Calvin?" I ask.

"Calvin and I can live in a house together, and you can visit us, Mommy," she says. (Only she says "bisit" instead of "visit," because she's four.)

"Who is Calvin?" I repeat, a bit more forcefully.

"And when Calvin and I have our children, we'll come visit you," she continues. "Don't get rid of my bed, okay, so I have a place to sleep when I come to visit."

"Okay," I say, my voice now shaking a little. "I hope you'll come and visit all the time."

"Don't worry about it, Mommy," she says. "Calvin and I won't let you be old and all alone."

"Thank you, sweetheart," I say tearfully.

I feel good about my parenting. I'm going to bed.

How To Make Your Husband Care About Lady GaGa

2010-09-13T07:00:00.000-05:00

Deb: So the VMA's were last night.

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: Lady Gaga really had a good night.

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: She won eight awards.

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: You remember the Bad Romance video?

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: It won video of the year.

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: She was nominated for thirteen. Isn't that incredible?

Sven: Hmm.

Deb: She wore a dress made out of meat.

Sven: Hmm. [pause] What kind of meat?

Fin.

Short Take: Princess

2010-09-06T07:10:00.000-05:00

Place: The Folksy bedroom

Time: This morning, around 3:00

Characters: Sven, Deb, and Princess (not yet five years old)

Princess: {enters room quietly} Excuse me, Father? Father?

Sven: {mumbling} Yeah.

Princess: Father, may I please use the restroom?

Sven: Sure.

{A few minutes later}

Princess: Father? Father?

Sven: Yeah.

Princess: I'm done.

Sven: Good.

Princess: Father, I'm going back to my bed now.

Sven: Good.

Princess: Good night, Father.

Sven: Good night, sweetie.

Princess: I love you.

Sven: I love you, too.

{Princess exits quietly.}

Deb: {after a few seconds} Who was that?

Sven: I'm not sure.

Fin.

Post-Surgery Musin's

2010-08-30T19:27:00.000-05:00

Last Wednesday, I entered Houston's Methodist Hospital for some routine laparoscopic surgery. "It will be such a quick recovery!" I heard. "Just a few small incisions!" I heard.

You know what I didn't hear? "You will have gas pains in your chest, shoulder, and rib cage that won't go away until you fart the gas volume equivalent of a mature African elephant." That's what I didn't hear.

Yes, friends, the worst part of my mostly easy recovery has been the strange gas pains that have settled in my shoulders. I'm told there is a sound scientific reason for this, but part of me thinks the flamboyantly fabulous OR nurse (Kevin) just did it as a prank.

Not really. Everyone at Methodist, from my wonderful surgeon to the anesthesia team, to the floor nurse and techs, to the food services and transportation people, were delightful, more than competent, and genuinely interested in my well-being. I had a private room that rivaled those of a nice hotel. My in-room TV had TBS, TNT, Comedy Central, Bravo, and E!. It couldn't have been nicer.

That being said, a story...

My overnight technical aide (takes vitals, etc.) was a sweet Russian lady, who kept going on about my beautiful eyes. It really gave me a nice little boost. As I was leaving, she said, "Okay, pretty lady, when you go in to get your hair colored, ask for a lighter color to set off your eyes." I said, "Oh, I don't have my hair colored." She smiled and said, "You should." Bless her heart.

It is now 6 days after surgery and I am doing great. I'm still in some discomfort (come on, shoulder farts!) but nothing awful. I'm sleeping well at night and walked over a mile today. Very soon I should be a healthy, normal 30-something mom, able to keep up with my kids, teach school, cook dinner, perform my church calling, and play three different games on Facebook.

Life is good.

I Love the Sixties

2010-08-24T21:17:00.000-05:00

As a huge fan of the "I Love" series on VH-1 (I Love the Eighties, I Love the Nineties, I Love Toys, I Love Obscure Elvis Covers of Gospel Standards) it has always pained me that there has not been an installment addressing that most marvelous and controversial of decades, the Sixties.

The 1960's of course. The 1860's were dreadful. Nothing but civil war in America and Victorian England. I can't imagine hipster comedians riffing on the strained relationship between Prince Albert and his oldest son, Edward. ("Yeah, Albert and Edward were like the Biggie and Tupac of the 1860's, except, instead of getting shot, one got consumption and the other got syphilis.")

So, to fill the gap until VH-1 comes to its senses and creates "I Love the Sixties" (and brings back "The Best Day Ever With Paul F. Tompkins") here are some of the reasons I love the sixties, a decade which, technically, ended years before I was born:

1. Disney Feature Films. The sixties were prime time for the Disney feature. For animation, not so much; only three animated films were released in this decade (101 Dalmatians, The Sword in the Stone, and The Jungle Book) but a vast array of true classics starring actual people (and Hayley Mills) were produced in this decade:

Pollyanna (1960)
Swiss Family Robinson (1960)
The Parent Trap (1961)
Babes in Toyland (1961)
Mary Poppins (1964)
The Three Lives of Thomasina (1964)
That Darn Cat! (1965)
The Love Bug (1968)
The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes (1969

(I have only listed my personal favorites, obviously.) Each of these films is an indelible classic, taking us to times and places that really only existed in our imagination, but seemed real. More importantly, these films set the stage for the all-important films of the 1970's, in which Jodie Foster wreaked havoc on the English countryside and Sandy Duncan was believable as an astrophysicist.

2. The Monkees.

That's really all I have. Truthfully, I intensely dislike the sixties. I will admit there were some good things: The Beatles, Camelot, Julie Andrews, etc. Unfortunately, for me and many people my age, the sixties were ruined by the "sixties revival" of the eighties. Suddenly, around 1987, all anyone could talk about was how nothing was good anymore, and how everything in the sixties was better. Sixties TV was on all the time in reruns, music and music videos were going retro, even hippie fashion came back. I was so sick of it all that I embraced the hair metal trend and slid right down into sort-of-goth, as evidenced by high school photos you will never see.

I suppose VH-1 knows what they are doing, keeping "I Love the Sixties" out of their "I Love" series. After all, these are the geniuses who brought us Celebrity Fit Club, Celebrity Rehab, Flavor of Love, I Love New York, New York Goes to Hollywood, Rock of Love, Daisy of Love, I Love Money, For the Love of Ray J, Fantasia For Real, The Surreal Life, and The T.O Show.

They obviously know what they're doing.

Winds of Change

2010-08-21T07:44:00.000-05:00

Princess is growing up.

Here's how I know:

1. Change of Name: I am no longer "Mommy," "Mama," or even "Mom." I am "Mother." As in, "Mother, could you please tell Dexy not to disturb me while I am playing with my ponies?" Additionally, Sven has become "Father." She feels it's more sophisticated.

2. Big words: Princess has decided that she has to use the hardest word she knows for everything. Unfortunately, in the way of four-year-olds, she has decided that the existence of a harder word negates the existence of an easy one. Hence the following conversation:

Me: Princess, you can be quiet and let your brother sleep, or you can go downstairs. Those are your choices.

Princess: Mother, those aren't choices. You don't give me any choices.

Me: Princess, I just gave you two choices: be quiet or go downstairs.

Princess: Mother, those aren't CHOICES, those are OPTIONS.

Me: sigh

3. Teacher: Princess is now smarter than anyone else in our family, and most people not in our family. She demonstrates her intelligence by teaching everyone else. I hope it is to my credit that "teaching" to her means "giving a lot of verbal praise and encouragement." Yesterday, I saw Princess teach a mother cat how to nurse. It went like this:

Princess: Okay, Mama Cat, your kittens are right here. Lie down and let them crawl over to you. That's it, very good. Oh, very good! Now they're all getting a drink. Okay, now this one's finished, so I'm going to take her and go play. Is that all right? (Cat meows) Thank you, Mama Cat.

Then, as Princess walked by me with the tiny kitten in her arms, I heard her say, "Kitten, I like your attitude."

Don't we all.

Manning It Up

2010-08-13T18:33:00.001-05:00

I have noticed, in recent months, a disturbing trend.

Manscape, bromance, mantrum, manorexia. These terms are, of course, the "male" versions of various nouns and verbs.

Manscape: when a man grooms his face.

Bromance: when two dudes have a close, totally non-gay friendship that involves manly sharing of confidences and occasional shameful tears.

Mantrum: when a man throws a tantrum.

Manorexia: when a man has anorexia.

Here's my problem, particularly with the last two: none of these words were previously defined as female-only, so to designate a special word for the "man" version implies that the "regular" version is, in fact, a female version, which is totally unfair.

Mantrum, for example, really chaps my burrito. Because only women and small children throw tantrums, right? If a man throws a tantrum, we have to have a special word for it, because men are ordinarily so stoic and calm that the throwing of a tantrum is an event worthy of word coinage.

You cannot see, but I hope you can sense, my eyeballs rolling into the back of my head at the absurdity of this logic. Because the media, in its J-Lo induced frenzy to coin the new "hot phrase," is using the monkey/typewriter method: they're typing a bunch of poop and then throwing it at us to see what sticks. Here are some of the other non-words we've been plagued with recently:

Nappetizer: when you take a nap right before bedtime.

Nontree: when you order an appetizer as your meal.

Staycation: when you stay at home instead of going out of town.

None of these are new concepts, right? So what the media is basically doing here is taking an existing concept, coining a word, and then publishing an article about it claiming it is a "trend," hence the cute new word.

So here's my report on the latest trend: "Mannaptrums." Here's my new report:

HOUSTON - Style watchers are reporting a new trend in male behavior, called "Mannaptrums." Businesses and corporations, in response to this growing trend among males aged 29-54, are installing mannaptrum counselors and scheduled down time to deal with the problem.

"A mannaptrum," explains Shirley McDoody, someone who works here in some capacity, "is when a man gets sleepy and then he gets cranky and needs a nap. Clearly, this is a detriment to the business world, so the mannaptrum counseling and intervention is a nap designed to circumvent the possible business-hampering tantrum."

"I think it's great," says Sven Folksypants, a teacher, father, and devastatingly handsome man-about-town. "Now that I have a word for this, I can get away with telling my wife that I have to do it. Hopefully they won't ever have a womannaptrum, because then the floor wouldn't ever get vacuumed."

I think it's going to catch on.

No, I want this.

2010-08-10T17:58:00.001-05:00

I want a theremin.

A theremin is a musical instrument that emits radio waves. When the player moves his or her hands within the field, the pitch that is emitted changes, as does the volume. So you are basically making music by waving your hands around and not touching anything. I think it is really cool. And affordable!

All I Want for Christmas is TB

2010-08-08T04:16:00.002-05:00

Yes, Folksy Fans, it's August, which means that the holidays are just around the corner. Since I know you are all sitting there, in front of your computers, pen poised over paper, dying to know what I want for Christmas, I thought I would share it with you.

Memory.

No, not memories, I have plenty of those, thank you very much. I'm not talking about some sappy, Walton-esque, perfect dream of a holiday that makes me mist up with tears when I'm old and grey and all of the children are gone and it's just me and a cat named Bootsie who eyes me with a somehow knowing glance as if calculating my net worth and the distance I would have to crawl to reach the telephone.

Memory. Specifically, computer memory.

When I bought my beloved MacBook, the salesperson tried to talk me into an upgrade that would double the capacity of my hard drive.

"If you use your computer for media, especially video, you're going to want that memory," he argued.

"Trust me," I chuckled knowingly. "250 gigs of memory will do me just fine."

I hope that salesperson refrained from shaking his head and clucking his tongue as I walked away, because he clearly understood what I did not: HD video, higher resolution cameras, and an iTunes account means that now I am down to my last 10 gigs. A mere 10 episodes of Saturday Night Live stand between myself and the oblivion of a full hard drive.

This happened because of the magic of iTunes and instant gratification. Why get in the car, go to Wal-Mart, search through fourteen separate bargain bins and 84 shelves of randomly arranged DVD's on the off chance that they have the movie I want, when a quick search of iTunes shows me they have it, often for the same price or cheaper?

"Piff," Sven spats, "twaddle. What if your hard drive crashes, huh?" he asks, sorting through the 268 loose DVD's on the couch, attempting to find our fourth copy of "Sponge Bob Watches Dora."

"Well," I reason, "that's why I have a backup drive."

"And how often can you watch movies on your computer?" he further queries, taking the DVD to the DVD repair station to attempt to resurface away the skips and freezes.

"Pretty often," I reply. "And if it's on my computer, I can put it on the iPod and we can take it to restaurants for the kids."

"That's true," he concedes. "Still," he continues, allowing his righteous anger to inflame him again, "It's ridiculous to spend that much money on something that isn't really there."

"Daddy," Princess interrupts, "have you seen the My Little Pony movie?"

"No, baby," Sven replies. "It's lost." I wisely don't say anything.

Since it would be completely ridiculous for me to buy a new computer when this one is only three years old, the solution, clearly, is thusly: give Sven sole use of our current backup hard disk, the one with a paltry 320GB of storage, and purchase, for me, a portable hard drive with at least one TB of memory.

"TB" is the abbreviation for terabyte, or one trillion bytes of storage. That's 1,000GB, or four times the capacity of my computer.

You're right. It probably isn't enough.

Divisions.

2010-08-03T16:55:00.000-05:00

Introverts vs. extroverts.

Faith-based vs. scientific.

Musical vs. visual.

Procrastinators vs. nerds.

Luke vs. Han.

Humor loving vs. evil.

Political vs. sincere.

Considerate vs. inconsiderate.

Selfless vs. self-involved.

Mountain lovers vs. water lovers.

Desert lovers vs. normal people.

Red vs. blue.

Agoraphobes vs. claustrophobes.

Hermits vs. gadflies.

Dreamer vs. goal-oriented

Which are you?

Read this.

2010-07-31T11:21:00.002-05:00

This is seriously hilarious.

http://elizabethbanksblog.blogspot.com/2010/07/funniest-thing-ive-read-in-eternity.html

Recipe: Double Pumpkin Bread

2010-07-27T23:39:00.000-05:00

I generally don't post recipes, being domestically challenged, but there are a couple of things I make really well. My pumpkin bread is one of the few things I feel I can really call "mine;" this is really my recipe. I got the basic recipe from our ward Relief Society cookbook, but experimented until I came up with this one. It is very rich and cake-like, with less fat than traditional pumpkin bread.

Preheat oven to 350 (for muffins) or 325 (for bread).

Sift together:
3 cups white flour (or 2 cups whole wheat flour and 1 cup white flour)
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. ground cloves
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. nutmeg
(1 tsp. ginger, 1 tsp. dried orange peel, optional but recommended particularly for whole wheat recipe)
3 cups sugar

Add:
2 15-oz cans pumpkin (3 & 3/4 cups canned pumpkin)
1/4 cup vegetable oil
3 whole eggs
1 tsp. vanilla extract

Mix well until completely blended. Pour into muffin cups or loaf pans; fill about 1/2-2/3 to the top. I use Pam Baking spray, or grease and flour pans. (For muffins, I actually prefer not to use the little paper muffin cups, because it won't form that nice crisp crust.) Bake, cool, and eat.

Trust me. It is awesome. Happy baking.

Strange Dichotomy

2010-07-20T21:37:00.000-05:00

As long time and faithful readers of my blog know (all seven of you), I am both a frequent traveller and an abysmal housekeeper.

Would it surprise you to know that, when we travel, I am meticulous about keeping things neat and tidy?

It surprises me. Hotels are where you are supposed to "let loose," flush inappropriate things down the toilet, roast goats in the trash can, etc. Not me. Sitting here now, in my luxurious king-sized room at the Radisson Hotel in Branson, MO, I can see the following:

1. All of the children's toys are neatly stowed in their respective toy bags.

2. All of the clean clothing is still neatly folded inside the suitcases and/or chest of drawers.

3. All of the dirty clothing is in the collapsible laundry basket that I brought with me from home. That's right. I brought a laundry basket on vacation.

The bathroom floor is dry. The toothbrushes are lined up neatly on the counter by the sink. The garbage is stowed in a bag, ready for the housekeeper to take away. The massive balloon spider acquired today by Princess is keeping a solitary watch from the neat-as-a-pin desk. In short, the room is orderly, organized, and utterly alien.

Not only that, but my car is clean. I just went down five floors to the car, where I took a giant ziploc bag and emptied the day's smoothie cups and candy wrappers and discarded them. Ordinarily, I clean my car when the trash level reaches the window and obstructs my view.

What is wrong with me? Why can't I trash hotel rooms and clean up my own house? It's a moral failing, I guess. Perhaps I should hire a cleaning person. If I knew someone was coming to my house to clean it, I'd be so mortified that they would see it dirty that I'd get it clean.

Crazy.

Comments

2010-07-10T00:54:00.001-05:00

Reading comments on news stories posted online is almost always a mistake. To spare all of my readers the agony of actually doing this, I am going to simulate a news story and the comments that follow. (The following news story and comments that follow are simulated.)

NEW YORK: Lady Gaga arrived for a meeting at the United Nations today wearing nothing but two strategically placed live squirrels. Fifteen minutes later, in what she called a "shocking coincidence," Christina Aguilera entered the United Airlines terminal at LaGuardia Airport wearing fourteen drugged hamsters. Animal rights groups have called for a boycott of both artists in the name of decency to all animals. When contacted for a comment, Madonna gently pointed out in a semi-British accent that she has been wearing rodents on various parts of her person since 1987. Lady Gaga has since apologized for the incident, which she calls a "misstep," and promises that, with help from her fans, she will get through this. Christina Aguilera has repeatedly contacted us to give a response, but, frankly, we didn't want to call her back.

Feel free to leave a comment! (Comments that are offensive to Shirley, our receptionist, will be deleted, but since she leaves at 3:00 on Fridays, it might take a while.)

Alice_Cullen_Is_Me says: First!!!!

RonaldMcD says: lady gaga u rok i luv u

Helen1934 says: In my day, these women would have been shot and stuffed to teach other young girls a lesson. This country is headed for disaster. Obama wasn't even born here.

TwiHard73 says: First!!!

MickeyMousePants says: @Helen1934: Please stop spreading such ignorance. Obama was born in the US, he is our president, get over it.

RushIsRight says: Yet another example of how the liberal culture of this country is destroying the moral fiber of our families. You didn't see this kind of stuff when Bush was president.

LadyHaHa says: I love Lady Gaga, but she shouldn't of done that. That was straight up nasty.

Helen1934 says: This is America. I have freedom of speech. I can say that Obama was born on the moon in a secret communist cave if I want. Liberals always talk about freedom of speech unless you say something they disagree with. Hypocrites.

Tool_Fan says: What does Obama have to do with ths at all? Christina Aguilera is pathetic.

RushIsRight says: Lady Gaga is a weapon the Obama administration has unleashed upon all of us to turn our children in to hedonistic secular liberals.

MickeyMousePants says: @Helen1934: Of course you have freedom of speech. It doesn't mean what you are saying is true, and I am free to point that out. How is that hypocritical? @RushIsRight: I'm pretty sure Lady Gaga isn't working for the government.

MrsEdwardCullen says: LADY GAGA I LOVE YOU I WANT TO MEET YOU I MET A NEW MAN IN JUST THIRTY MINUTES WHEN I TRIED THIS AMAZING WEBSITE WHERE ALL OF THE BEST BALD OR BALDING LADIES CAN MEET THE MAN OF THEIR DREAMS

DimitriIsMyName says: How would you even wear a hamster?

StephenieMeyerFan23 says: First!!!!

ShaBoom says: Who cares about this? Why do newspapers even cover celebrities like this? There is real news in the world, and anyone who cares about junk like this is part of the problem.

Perezey2101 says: So why are you reading it and commenting on it, @ShaBoom?

Helen1934 says: Hypocrite!

RushIsRight says: Seriously, either get in the debate or get out.

NOBAMA says: Sarah Palin 2012!!!

Technology and the Fast Pace and Loud Volume of Living

2010-07-08T14:53:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, a very little kid, I remember silence.

Momz was a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom). This was the late 1970's, when such arrangements were a little more common. We had two TV's, in those days: a luxurious, 19-inch color TV with a state-of-the-art antenna in the living room, and a 13-inch portable black-and-white with rabbit ears in my parents' room. In that far-off time, there were no remote controls: the television set had two dials that had to be changed by someone getting up, walking to the TV, changing the channel, adjusting the antenna, stepping back, frowning thoughtfully, adjusting the antenna again, being told to stop, adjusting the antenna again, then returning to the couch with an expression of remorse and anger. This process would be repeated until we found something "on." Commercials, in those days, were something we endured patiently. No one "surfed" channels back then. If we had even had the concept, we wouldn't have called it "surfing." "Channel trudging," maybe, or "channel snow-shoeing," but not something as fluid and sporty as surfing.

In those golden times, we watched a little TV in the morning, then turned off the television. Sometimes, we would listen to the record player (you heard me). The Carpenters were a favorite, as was the Sound of Music soundtrack. Neil Diamond was something to be saved until we were older and emotionally mature enough to handle the powerhouse that is Neil, but John Denver was deemed an acceptable, though daring, replacement.

Regardless of our activities, every day at noon, the music was silenced, the TV's were off, and we had "quiet time" for about 2 hours. My sister and I were allowed to play quietly, or read, but we had to stay in our room and be quiet for two hours.

And we did it. Almost every day, in fact.

What happened? My kids do okay, but two hours of near silence in the middle of the day? No, that's not happening, and it's not them, it's me.

I've always got something to do, it seems. I've got dishes to wash, or laundry to fold, or a floor to vacuum. I've got friends to chat with on Facebook, or an e-mail to reply to, or a voice mail to act upon. If I've got a story to write or a book to read, I always think it can wait until later, but later never comes. I have at least 4 DVD's that I haven't even taken out of the wrapper, two of which are over 2 years old. I've got books I've never read.

This technology that we have, that can be such a blessing, has made things so complicated, I'm not even sure it's worth it anymore. Imagine a time when, if you were unreachable, you were truly unreachable. When some SAHM's didn't even have a car because it was okay to just stay at home all day and keep your house clean and spend time with your kids. When you eagerly awaited seeing a movie in the theater because that was the only place you could see movies. When there were times when there was nothing on TV.

I'm all for progress, and I love technology. I just wish our ability to manage our time had grown as fast.

Colorado Springs, The Final Chapter

2010-07-03T06:29:00.000-05:00

We did more on this vacation than I ever remember doing on a vacation before, mostly because we spent so much money getting and staying there, we wanted to have so many good memories that we couldn't walk at the end of the day.

(To my Utah friends: I did look up how long it would take me to get from Colorado Springs to Salt Lake, and it told me 9 hours. I told Sven, "How about you take the kids for a day while I go meet some friends for lunch?" Being a typical "detail-oriented" fellow, he dragged the rest of the information out of me and ascertained that I would be on the road for 18 hours for this event. The kibosh was then applied. I'm working on an actual trip to Utah for next year, though.)

Day 3 of our trip opened with the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. This zoo is tucked into the side of a mountain and is not funded with taxpayer money. I was not expecting much, but I was totally blown away.

When we got to the zoo to buy our tickets, some deer wandered out of the woods and into the zoo, then some came back out. We saw one perched in a decorative shrubbery just inside the gate, gnawing on leaves and viewing us with a jaundiced eye.

Giraffes! This zoo has one of the largest giraffe herds in captivity, has bred more than 150 giraffes for zoos all over the country, and has a special pen where you can pet and feed them. That's my hand.

Princess and Dexy loved feeding the giraffes. I had to stop taking pictures because Dexy was trying to jump in to the pen with them, which, besides being a fall of about 20 feet, would have put him in a pen with over a dozen giraffes who, frankly, were somewhat hostile if you didn't have a special "Giraffe Cracker" (3/$1).

In one of the stupider things I have ever done, when I purchased zoo tickets, I asked for tickets to the Mountaineer Sky ride, which takes you up the side of a mountain in what was described as a "cable car." I was picturing one of those enclosed cars, like you see at amusement parks. What we got was a ski lift, with no seat belts or safety equipment. Sven said, "No, that's not it, it can't be it," but it was, and we rode it up the side of the mountain. We were terrified. By "we," I mean Sven and me. The kids loved it. Dexy immediately scooted all the way up so he could look over the bar, which prompted me to clutch him to my side so tightly he said he couldn't breathe. We got to the top safely and planned to make our home on that part of the mountain, but since our stroller and things were at the bottom, we rode back down and vowed to never speak of it again. This is the one picture Sven got before he began to get too scared to let go of Princess. ("Daddy, you're choking my tummy. Stop it.")

We got a new camera, and this picture shows how awesome it is: you can clearly see that we were watching "The Land Before Time 17: Little Foot's Digestive Trauma."

After the zoo, we went to Garden of the Gods again, but you've seen pictures of that.

Our last stop in Colorado was Miramont Castle, in Manitou Springs. I am so writing a book about this house.

Creepy.

With that, it was time to go home.

It was a great trip. Tune in next month for Branson 2010.

Why can't everyone be exactly like I want them to be all the time?

2010-07-02T00:11:00.000-05:00

I just got home from seeing Eclipse, the third movie in what is now officially called the Twilight Saga. As expected, the movie was completely awesome, but that is not the point of this entry.

I rarely go to movies. Before we had children, Sven and I went to the movies fairly often, as it was a somewhat inexpensive form of entertainment, and we both liked movies. However, as time passed, I became more aware of the rude behavior of others, and it got to the point where I dreaded going to the movies. Here are two examples:

1. Once, during a highly anticipated sequel, I sat in front of a young woman who had talked her friend into coming with her. The friend had not seen the first movie. Throughout the entire thing, the young woman whispered things to her friend like, "Okay, the reason that is important is, in the first movie, she got her arm cut off? Right? And now she doesn't have an arm? So that's important."

2. Another time, during one of the Star Wars prequels, a man sitting behind me was talking on his phone at conversational level. I turned around and looked at him, smiled, and turned back to the front. He called me a b-word.

By the time I got pregnant with Princess, I was grateful to have the excuse that I couldn't really sit through a 2-hour movie without getting up for various reasons. I even missed the highly anticipated movie version of Rent, but Sven bought it for me on DVD soon after Princess' birth. Of course, you can't take a baby to a movie theater, so then I had even more of an excuse not to go. If Sven had some action-filled comic book adaptation he wanted to see, he could go with his friend, Hezekiah. Not me. Even when Princess was old enough to go to the movies, I had to stay home with the new baby.

Then there was Twilight. After years of self-imposed exile, I went online and bought a ticket for Twilight. I went by myself. (A side note: I love going to movies by myself. Sven thinks it is sad and weird.) A year later, New Moon. Last week, Sven and I took both kids to Toy Story 3. Earlier today, I took Momz and the kids to Toy Story 3 (yes, again, it was awesome). And then, tonight, Eclipse. Here is what I have learned:

KIDS ARE NOT THE PROBLEM. ADULTS ARE.

The first time we saw Toy Story 3, it was in a completely packed theater, first show of the day (around 11:30), full of kids of all ages. It was silent, except for totally appropriate laughter. Today, we saw it again, and there was a very noisy ADULT who kept commenting. (Several children shushed him.) Tonight, at Eclipse, there were THREE BABIES who were FUSSING throughout, but since it was the 9:00 PM show, I blame the IDIOTIC ADULTS who thought it was appropriate to BRING A BABY to a PG-13 movie at 9:00 PM. In addition, there was a very drunk and loud man who was extremely vocal about his devotion to Team Edward. ("Suck it, Jacob!" was shouted more than once.)

In short, though kids at movies get a bad rap, I'll go to a family movie with a theater full of kids any day.

And save the rest for Blu-Ray.

2010 Vacay: Colorado Springs, CO, Day 2

2010-06-30T23:04:00.000-05:00

For the second day of our vacation, I planned on spending a day in historic Cripple Creek, home of folk songs and gold mines. To my dismay, it has now become the home of casinos and casinos, so we just rode the train before heading back to Colorado Springs.

Since we crossed a time zone in our travels, we were chronically early throughout our stay. We arrived in Cripple Creek at about 9:00, only to discover that nothing opened until 10:00. Here is Princess posing with a bronze statue of someone as we killed time until the train left.

Dexy wanted to get on the train and go. He did not understand why we didn't just go! Just go! Just get on the train and go! It was a long hour.

Finally on the train, Dexy discovered, delightedly, that they blew the train whistle all. the. time., which meant he got to make this face and say, "What was that, Mama?" about 87 times.

Princess, less enamored of trains than her brother, was just silly.

That evening, we went to Seven Falls. To get to this observation platform, we rode up an elevator through a mountain and came about about 100 yards from the falls.

To get to the top of the falls themselves, you have to climb 224 stairs. I figured, no, we'll just stay on this nice, safe platform and look at it from a distance.

The chipmunks at Seven Falls (throughout the Colorado Springs area, as a matter of fact) are quite brazen and somewhat suspect in their political thinking. I'm positive this one was wearing a Mao jacket before he knew I was there, but he took it off quickly and adopted an innocent, stereotypical pose.

We were lucky; that night at Seven Falls, there was a demonstration of Native American dance. At the end, Princess was asked to come up with the other children in the audience (but she was the youngest one who got up, due to her belief that she is welcome to perform at any time on any stage).

Princess with one of the Native American dancers. Those things hanging on her dress jingled.

This lady was an expert dancer and drummer and singer. She was awesome. I'm reasonably sure that is a different tipi from the Cliff Dwellers site, but I can't guarantee it.

Sven and Dexy coming down the enormous staircase to the top of the falls. They made it about 2/3 of the way up, Dexy walking by himself, until Sven said, "Look at how high up we are!" Dexy then looked down, held up his arms, and said, "I want Mommy."

Princess, on the other hand, made it all the way to the top of the falls.

Princess then took this picture of Sven. After this, she dropped the camera. Days 3 & 4 will be presented with pictures from our new camera.

2010 Vacay: Colorado Springs, CO, Day 1

2010-06-26T23:04:00.001-05:00

This year, the Folksy household rounded up and headed out and ripped and snorted our way across 1200 miles of America, arriving in Colorado Springs after a mildly traumatic two-day drive.

Here we are shortly upon crossing the Colorado border. I began experiencing motion sickness, so did not pose for pictures until I was truly acclimated.

Day 1: Garden of the Gods Park. This park is full of enormous red rocks, prompting Princess to ask, "Is that one a God, Mama? What about that one? Where are all of the Gods, Daddy?" which led to an interesting discussion, in which Mommy attempted to clarify that, although God is *everywhere,* it doesn't mean that He is hanging out in Colorado for the summer.

The Colorado Springs area is rich with Native American artifacts and lore, including the Anasazi (Ancestral Pueblo) Cliff Dwellings. The dwellings were carved into the rock, then built of brick and stone, and are in great shape for a 1,000-year-old place. I would list them as "cozy fixer-uppers."

That being said, when it came time to tour the dwellings, Princess was too afraid. Apparently, when she asked Sven, "Where are the people who lived here?" he replied, "They're all dead." For some reason, she was then a little leery of going in. Kids.

Also included in the Cliff-Dwelling site was an authentic replica of a tipi and an authentic gift shop shaped like a pueblo. Dexy now wants to live in a tipi, as he informs me daily, swathing himself in towels in an attempt to form some sort of tent-like structure.

Later that afternoon, we decided to drive up to the summit of Pike's Peak. This sign was at a rest stop located at about 8,000 feet. For us, Texans, in June, this sign was hilarious. I would guess the temperature when we stopped here was in the 60's, though, which was crazy.

It was 33 degrees at the summit, so Princess got a sweater, which was the highlight of her entire trip. Every time we asked her, she said her favorite thing in Colorado was the shop at the top of the mountain where she got her sweater and got to use the bathroom.

For the record, I was totally sick from around 8,000 feet, but really, really sick starting at about 10,000 feet. When we got to the top, Sven said, "Get out of the car and walk around, you'll feel better." I passed out in the bathroom. Twice. As this smile will tell you, though, it was completely worth it.

Sven had a great time.

And that was day 1.

Vaguebooking and Other Foibles of the Technological Age

2010-06-24T06:39:00.001-05:00

Timing is everything. Mere days after I relinquished my title of Queen of Passive-Aggressiveness, I found the ultimate PA tool: vaguebooking.

I discovered it, as I discover all beauty and truth, on Facebook. (For the uninitiated, Facebook is a website in which you can acquire "friends" and see what they are up to via "status updates" which are posted to their "wall." You can also play about 10,000 games, which only cost you your time and dignity.)

Status updates can be trivial ("On my way to get pizza, hope the wait isn't long!") or thought-provoking ("Wondering what clouds think we look like?") or snarky and judgmental ("Just saw a woman on the subway in lime-green stretch pants. Hello, 1987 calling!") None of these qualifies as vaguebooking. These updates are all examples of completely appropriate Facebooking.

Vaguebooking, on the other hand, is the posting of a deliberately vague message to create, reignite, or escalate drama. Some examples:

"Wonders why all men are such jerks."

"Is very upset at something a so-called friend said today."

"Thinks someone needs to get over herself and just have it lanced."

"Wonders, why me?"

"Has had enough and is just going to give up."

"Thinks that was hilarious!"

"Knows that the rest of the world will just have to grow up. I give up. You win."

If the responses are all, "Who?" "What happened?" "Oh, no, what are you talking about?" then you have a vaguebook. Vaguebooking is odious, awful, and should be punishable by death.

I admit my reaction to vaguebooking might be a little extreme. I have been guilty before of innocently vaguebooking; I was not trying to send a message to anyone, I was legitimately saying something about society at large, but it could have been interpreted as vaguebooking, and the drama that followed has made me extremely leery of ever posting a vague status update again.

Facebook, Twitter, and (I imagine) MySpace have opened our lives to so much additional drama, it's ridiculous. Whatever happened to the old days, of "dignity" (secrecy) and "decorum" (shame)? Nowadays, it isn't unusual to learn on Facebook about your teenage niece's unplanned pregnancy, your former student's new tattoo, or your uncle's new boyfriend (surprise!).

The purpose of vaguebooking is usually one of two things: to provoke a response in a desperate plea for attention, or to provide some sort of "clique-ey" feeling to one's wall. One of those might look like this:

Mildred is "still laughing about last night!"

Jose comments: "OMGoodness, chica, I bet you are!"

Sue comments: "Do you still have the balloon?"

Mildred comments: "It popped!"

Jose comments: "LOL!"

Sue comments: "ROTFLOL!"

Mike comments: "What are you talking about?"

Mildred comments: "You had to be there!"

And I haven't even gotten to the political status updates.

So, my friends, my new rules of Facebook:

1. Never, ever post a status update that could ever be interpreted as anything other than a completely factual statement.

2. Never, ever comment on someone else's status if I don't know exactly what it is about.

3. Never, ever, ever comment on a political status unless I agree with it. (Which means, of course, that I almost never comment on them. I live in Texas.)

By following these three rules, I have learned to get along just fine on Facebook. It's just like going to a party.

I'm in the back room playing video games.

The Next Step

2010-06-15T14:45:00.001-05:00

"The best way to build confidence in students is just by telling them how much ability you see in
them."

-Ron Clark

"Who told you you could sing?"
"My singing teacher."
"She lied."

- American Idol Auditions, 2008

I recall when I first heard the term "self-esteem." It was the mid-1980's and I was in elementary school, when suddenly it seemed that the words "self-esteem" were being uttered every five minutes by parents, educators, and media gadflies. It seemed that it was the mission of every adult to foster and nurture self-esteem, which meant the following things:

1. Never, ever, ever, tell a child he or she didn't do something well.
2. Never, ever, ever, tell a child he or she won't be able to do something.
3. Never, ever, ever, tell a child he or she isn't skilled or talented at anything.
4. Praise children for anything and everything.
5. Encourage children to set long-term goals without regard to practicality or feasibility.

I firmly believe the "self-esteem" craze of the 1980's is responsible for a lot of screwed up adults in the 2000's. It was such a "boomer" thing to do, right? The same generation who believed that the way to intellectual enlightenment was drug use and loud music decides that negative must always equal bad, that children must be nurtured in a completely positive environment at all times.

(Re. "Boomers": Please understand that I don't believe that every individual born between 1940 and 1960 is flawed. Just the ones that keep yapping about Vietnam and Woodstock and how all culture and art came to a standstill around 1974. Those guys.)

Self-esteem was just one of the conspirators in our vast national murder of the concept of "shame." It use to be that "shame" was a potent force in our society for enforcing a sort of general moral code. Sometimes it was good, sometimes not so good. Some things that used to be stigmas are now not only accepted, but embraced and promoted. Sometimes that's good, sometimes, not so much.

It is interesting to me that, as a society, we seem to be completely incapable of anything other than the most extreme reactions. We either shun or celebrate. We love or loathe. We condemn or glorify. While individuals are more than capable of making fine distinctions, as a society, we stink at nuance. So, rather than say, "You know, negative reinforcement makes some children shut down and become self-defeating, so we should really examine how we use negative reinforcement and start using targeted positive enforcement," we say, "You can't tell Suzy that she can't sing! It will scar her for life!"

This is why we have American Idol. This makes sense to you if you are like me and mainly watch the early shows, in which the laughably bad takes the spotlight. You see dozens of people, every year, who seem sincerely convinced not only that they can sing, but that they can sing better than anyone else in the world. These people are also equally deluded on their physical attractiveness and personality. Part of our national fun is watching Simon Cowell, speaking for so many of us, skewer these people and deflate them in public. That's our *real* national opinion on self-esteem: we all really do recognize that it's a crock, and Simon Cowell telling the woman with three teeth and three hundred pounds that she isn't the next Jennifer Lopez affirms it.

That's not the real story, though. The real story is when the auditioner, after being told by three music industry professionals that he or she has no shot at fame, or even a living, leaves. The person, more often than not, confesses either angrily or tearfully that he or she will never give up, that Simon doesn't know what he is talking about, that he or she really IS the next American Idol. That is how deeply erroneous self-esteem can root: it takes self-esteem into self delusion.

Everyone should love themselves. But self-love is like loving another person: you can't do it blindly. We love our spouses and friends with knowledge of their flaws. Why can't we do that with ourselves? If I can love someone with bad skin, or bad morning breath, or explosive flatulence, why can't I acknowledge flaws in myself and love myself anyway? (For the record, Sven does not have bad skin.)

I'll say it: I love myself. I'm overweight and have crooked teeth. I don't have terrific skin; in fact, I have some extremely strange hairs that have developed facially that I'm bothered by. I have webbed toes. In fact, my feet resemble Fred Flintstone's. I'm short. I have accepted that I CAN NEVER achieve in the following professions:

Fashion Model (even plus-size, I'm too short)
Toothpaste spokesperson
Sandal wearer
Guest star on "Law & Order" (can't carry off a smart business suit)
Teen idol
And many more!

My point is, if you tell a 15-year-old who is caterwauling "Can't Be Tamed" for the school talent show that she will be a star someday, it might feel like a kindness. It might make her feel good for the moment. But sometimes we have to think long-term, and go with the smile and the "I'm so proud of you for trying" answer.

I'd rather they hear it from me than from Simon.

Thievery!

2010-06-12T09:37:00.000-05:00

Scene: Folksy House, Friday, 8:30 a.m.

Deb: So, what are we doing today?

Sven: Well, the carpets are still wet (note: Sven stayed up until 4 a.m. shampooing the carpet downstairs, hence the late wake-up time) so we need to get out of the house.

Deb: I've already given the kids a bath and they're dressed, but I need a shower.

Sven: Okay.

Deb: Can you check Dexy's diaper? (Turns on shower in bathroom)

Sven: Ew.

Deb: Well, you go change him while I shower.

Sven: (silence, pleading look)

Deb: Really?

Sven: It's so cold out there, and I'm so warm.

Deb: Sven, please-

Sven: All right, where's my pants?

Deb: Fine, I'll change him.

(Deb exits with Dexy. She and Dexy have an involved conversation about poop, digestion, and the meaning of the words "disgusting" and "awful.")

Deb: (enters bedroom): Princess, where is your daddy?

Princess: He took your shower.

Deb: What? (Races to bathroom. Sven is in shower, singing happily.)

Princess: Told ya.

Deb: This will not be forgotten.

Fin.

The Stupidity of Youth

2010-06-07T07:15:00.000-05:00

Recently, Miley Cyrus has come under fire for the way she has been dressing and behaving and looking and singing and dancing and breathing and existing. People say she's "too sexy" for her age, that she is trying to "be sexy" instead of just being natural and age appropriate. Which, right away, tells me that no one in the media thinks that Miley Cyrus is really attractive, because if she puts on eyeliner, the headlines scream about how hard she's trying.

That being said, I watched her new video, "Can't Be Tamed, But Can Shriek," and immediately called animal control to return her to the wild. If you missed it, here it is:

The most recent kerfuffle has to do with this outfit, which she wore to perform:

(Just for perspective, here's a picture of Britney Spears at the same age:

)

Miley's outfit? For a 17-year-old? I don't see the problem, frankly. I think the video is awful, but the sick green leotard is just a leotard. I don't see the problem. (And, for the record, most of my objection to the video is that it is terrible music accompanied by a terrible video from someone with very little talent who has been mass marketed to the point that children are being conditioned to like her regardless of what she produces. Not that I have a strong opinion about that.) Okay, so Miley "defended" herself via this statement:

"I always tell people, everyone goes through a bad point in their life and makes bad choices. But they just haven't been published and it hasn't been documented and (published) on the Internet.

You can see how that would drive people crazy. I would like to see you at 21 and video that and put
that out there for people to comment on,"

So, apparently, Miley's current media strategy is to do stupid things, and then say that she should be allowed to be stupid because young people are stupid, so stop paying attention to all of these things I'm doing to get attention! Because everyone does stupid things intentionally! Seriously, Miley is trying to say that the deliberate, business-driven choices she is making with a committee of handlers is the same as a 20-year-old getting wasted at a frat party and waking up with a headache the next day. Guess what, Miley: most people who make stupid choices in their teens and twenties don't know they are being stupid! They make those choices because they are stupid, not because they think they are entitled to be.

So compare Miley, who is defending her right to be stupid with calculated, attention-getting stupidity, with this painfully stupid young superstar:

Her name, my friends, is Ke$ha. Yes, her name has a dollar sign in it, which is classy with a capital K. This Autotune diva recently made an appearance on Saturday Night Live in which it became painfully obvious that she is utterly without any irony to temper the complete ridiculousness of her "talent." I once entertained the possibility that she was, perhaps, being awful with a little wink, that it was a Lady Gaga-like commentary on the trashiness of celebrity. No, as it turns out, Ke$ha is completely earnest. Look at her two performances from Saturday Night Live, each of which are brimming with avant-garde-like flourishes coupled with the most inane pop music since Tiffany:

(The fan-made tags on Hulu, by the way, include phrases like "would rather be blinded by battery acid; talenteless, worst thing ever," and some that could be considered hurtful.)

It's one thing to be young and stupid. It's another thing to be young and stupid enough to believe that the adults around you telling you to be stupid have your best interests at heart. Poor Miley. Poor Ke$ha. Poor all of us.

Your Horoscope: This Summer

2010-06-01T06:14:00.001-05:00

Using the wisdom of the ancients, I have cast my head into the waters and have come up with your horoscope predictions for this summer. (Disclaimer: Though I am not an expert in molecular gastronomy, I believe I have come up with a system whereby I examine the pattern of toys my children leave on the stairs to determine the fate of the world. Your system may vary.)

Aries: A change in hair color will bring about a change in relationships, particularly if you decide on the blue streaks. A mysterious presence will enter your life in mid-July when you realize you forgot to check the expiration date on the Trix yogurt you bought in January. Avoid crossing streets that begin with "Q." Your lucky color is chartreuse.

Taurus: A vacation will bring you self-renewal and an unusual outbreak of poison ivy. Get a journal for the former and cornstarch for the latter. There will either be love or disaster when a dark-haired man gives you an estimate for a new water heater. A small, furry animal will make its way into your heart in August; medications are available. Your lucky tree is dogwood.

Gemini: Exercise caution when purchasing a new exercise program; no one goes from a size 30 to a size 4 by twisting on a stool. The squirrels in your backyard are spying on you, buy a cat. The seventh film on your Netflix queue will provide you with valuable insights into your life. A tiny woman will ridicule you for your fashion choices, but she will be wearing a comical pointed paper hat, so you may discount her opinion. Your lucky jewel is marcasite.

Cancer: Your spouse is full of wisdom and needs more praise. Take care to point out often how attractive you find him or her, and take a class in foot-rubbing and validation. A long trip will yield memories and diarrhea; take a camera at your own risk. Despite your best efforts, a pet will find you around the first of the month. Your lucky jerky is beef.

Leo: Like the lion whose name you bear, you are tawny and strong. Begin eating raw meat to further tap into your lion powers. A visit to the eye doctor in July will have unusual results. Financial rewards will come in August provided you have sufficiently focused your energy towards Saturn (the car) and Jupiter (the planet). Your lucky air freshener is Glade.

Virgo: Beware Fred Savage on the third moon of Neptune. That can't be good. Visit the Build-a-Bear workshop near you for fuzzies and enlightenment. A large actor will win some sort of award, this is a sign for you to begin to follow your own dream. Airplanes are usually safe. Your lucky soft drink is Mello Yello.

Libra: Now is a great time to claim your freedom openly and vocally. The expression "like my aunt's bathtub" is never a good idea. Baking cookies with small children can lead to happiness, though deafness in one ear may result. Screaming monkeys at the zoo are judging you. Your lucky number is π.

Scorpio: If you choose to photocopy parts of yourself at work, make sure you are surrounded by those you trust. Drive with caution when the moons of Jupiter oppose Mars, that's just a given. When you look under your sink, enlightenment will greet you in the form of several small vermin, but they will scatter before you can do more than shout a few questions. Try anyway. Your lucky HBO series is True Blood.

Sagittarius: Travel is in your future when you get on the wrong bus. Relax and enjoy the ride. Consider purchasing a goat for lawn maintenance and companionship. A broken appliance is a sign that you need change in your life. Drive past a swimming pool in mid-July and make a wish. Egg salad should be avoided when you are expecting company. Your lucky Russell is Crowe.

Capricorn: If you think you have everything you want, get ready to be disappointed. If you don't, too bad. A viewing of Shrek 4 will bring about malaise and intestinal discomfort. Pay attention to the wisdom of your dentist, but don't take your eyes off of him, he's tricky. Consider trading in your glasses for some Elton John specs. Your lucky canned fish is tuna.

Aquarius: You will receive affirmation of your superiority in June, only to have it demolished. Learn to subsist on your own sense of pride, not others. Russell Brand is not your ideal mate, please give that up. Joining Twitter will yield giggles and friends. A wedding will shortly be followed by some kind of party involving cake. Your lucky sink is stainless steel.

Pisces: Watching Law & Order reruns is the key to continuing happiness. Four hours per day should be considered the minimum. You will not be the next American Idol, please stay home. When your aspect is on Mars you should use extra sunscreen. A change in employment will bring you opportunity. Romance will follow when you call an exterminator, but not for you. Your lucky fork is salad.

I hope these adequately prepare all of you for a summer of fun!

Conversation: Sven and Me

2010-05-28T17:17:00.001-05:00

Sven: Did you hear about Whoosits?

Deb: No, what's going on with him?

Sven: His wife left him.

Deb: No!

Sven: Yes, she picked up the kids from school and sent him a text message that she was leaving.

Deb: A text message?

Sven: Yep.

Deb: Seriously? A text message?

Sven: A text message.

Deb: Wow, that's bad.

Sven: Yeah.

Deb: Honey, I promise you, if I ever leave you...

Sven: (chuckles) Okay, I appreciate that.

Deb: ...I won't take the kids.

Fin.

Announcement: Moderation In Effect

2010-05-26T13:54:00.001-05:00

With all due apologies to my bloggy friends, it saddens me to say that my comments will be moderated for the next little while. Somehow, my blog as been targeted by purveyors of Far Eastern Erotica (or Asian porn, for those who enjoy directness). Desiring to nip that in the bud, I will be moderating until such a time as the quasi-supportive yet linked comments cease.

Stay folksy!

LOST: Finale (Readers Who Do Not Follow Lost feel free to skip, I need this for therapeutic reasons)

2010-05-24T06:27:00.001-05:00

Last night was the series finale of "Lost," a show I have watched for its entire 6-year run. Let me begin my recap by explaining why I feel so incredibly emotionally attached to the show.

When Lost first aired (September 2004), I was beginning tests and treatments for various medical conditions. (Though the treatments worked quickly, the tests were both painful and discouraging.) I needed escape. Lost really provided it, but in a way that made me think. And I thought all the time! What is a polar bear doing there? Who is that French woman? What are the "Others?"

Season 2 began as I was preparing to give birth to Princess. I vividly remember watching Lost while sitting on the couch feeding her. Even now, when I watch episodes, it seems that I can remember holding my babies and talking to Sven, saying, "What are they doing? How are they going to explain that?"

Last night, we got the answer: they aren't going to explain that. In fact, they aren't going to explain much of anything, if your idea of "explanation" is someone stating factual information that details why or how something exists or happens. Instead, the finale brought us intensely satisfying closure on the characters, some of whom we had not seen since Season 1, and raised the question: what's really important?

I'm reading a lot of viewer reaction this morning, and it occurs to me that the camp is pretty evenly divided between softies like me who loved the emotional roller-coaster aspect of the show, and sci-fi geeks like Sven who really liked the mystery and the science. What intrigues me about the conflict is that each side is equally passionate, and each side thinks the other is wrong. Not wrong in a "let's debate" sort of way: factually wrong.

(If it isn't obvious from the first few paragraphs, there will be spoilers, but they are about to start, so...)

I always knew the Sideways World wasn't "real" in the same sense that the island was. While character after character became "Island Enlightened," only Desmond knew that both worlds existed in both worlds. Jack's journey to Island Enlightenment mirrored his entire journey throughout the series: moving from a man of science to a man of faith. I think this is what the whole point was: the science was never as important as the characters, the love, the faith of knowing that, even if you didn't understand every detail, it will all end well.

The Sideways World was a sort of limbo/purgatory that the castaways created for themselves, I think for two reasons:

To be reunited after death and spend eternity together, yes, but also
To live some of the life they *might* have lived if there had been no island, but also if some of their other past mistakes had been erased.

So, in the Sideways World, Sun had never cheated on Jin. Kate was a fugitive, but she was innocent of the crime she was accused of. Jack had a family, albeit a dysfunctional one. Locke had his lovely fiancee and the love of his father, for a time. Sawyer was an honest cop. Sayid was not a hired killer. Hurley was lucky.

So, for the last time, here's MY THEORY!!! on how the Sideways World was created:

When Hurley took over guardianship of the island, Ben told him he could make his own rules, that he didn't have to do the same things Jacob did. He then said Hurley should do "what you do best: take care of people." I think Hurley spent his tenure on the island as guardian using the island's power to establish this place, where they could all be together at the point when they are the most happy. Charlie and Claire can be together and raise Aaron (though the real Aaron has lived his life his own way). Sun and Jin get to experience her pregnancy together and the birth of Ji Yeon. Jack and Kate get to live happily ever after. So, to my extreme and supreme delight, do Sawyer and Juliet. I think there was a reason Desmond "deputized" Hurley so early into assisting with enlightenment: Hurley was the one who created the Sideways Universe, so until Hurley was ready to move on, none of them could.

As far as the island reality, I don't think it is important to know what the light is, where it came from, etc. There would have been no really plausible scientific explanation for something clearly supernatural/religious. It was better not to answer it at all. The important thing is, we know Jacob was telling the truth: if the light goes out, that's very, very bad. The rest, I will admit, leaves me with some curiosity, but it's pleasant curiosity. How the heck did the Dharma initiative establish itself on the island? (My theory: Charles Widmore sold it out, that's where he got his fortune.)

My only real complaint is that I wanted Mr. Eko to be there. (I know others are bemoaning the lack of Michael/Walt, but not me.) I loved the Mr. Eko character, and I wanted to see him. I also wanted to know about the Egyptian statue. I hope there are some bonus features on the DVD to explain some of this stuff, just to satisfy my own curiosity.

I loved it. I still have questions, but for six years, that's what Lost gave me: questions to think about. I love that I'm still thinking.

Relinquishing the Crown

2010-05-23T14:19:00.000-05:00

It is well-documented on this blog that I consider myself ideally suited for two positions:

1. Queen of England, or

2. Oprah.

(You may say, "Deb, those aren't positions, they are people," to which I would reply, "Shut up and fetch my tiara/producer/pool servant.")

Knowing that, it may surprise you to know that I am currently stepping down from my current throne. Yes, it is hard, but I have come to the conclusion that I am no longer fit to wear the crown. I am speaking, of course, of my current position as Queen of Passive-Aggressiveness.

I loathe passive-aggressive behavior, which is why I was so surprised to learn that I am the reigning Queen. "Deb!" you say. "Not you, you couldn't possibly be passive-aggressive!" To which I reply, "Of course, you're right." And then I roll my eyes and write nasty things about you in my Enemies List (or "journal").

I have been doing some rare introspection lately, and I have noticed that I say certain things too often:

"It's going to be a disaster, but I won't say anything."

"They probably need me to do it, but if they need me, they can ask me."

"I won't call her. If she wants to talk, she'll call me." (Not you, Momz.)

"Well, I guess we'll try it their way, and when it is a COMPLETE AND UTTER FAILURE AND THE WHOLE PLACE BURNS DOWN, I guess they'll have learned their lesson." (Slightly exaggerated.)

Further introspection has led me to understand that I don't do this deliberately, it is my defense to feeling unappreciated and overloaded. Drawing on the wisdom of the ages, "You can only change your own behavior," (Either Dr. Phil or Alice Cooper), I have begun being extremely proactive. A sample conversation with me now goes like this.

"There is a completely random event coming up that has nothing to do with you," says someone.
"Do you want me to get a musical number ready?" I ask.

-or-

"There is a completely random event coming up that has nothing to do with you," says someone.
"Wow, I'm sorry to miss that," I say. Or, perhaps, "You'll do a great job!"

-or, best of all-

"Hi, someone who hasn't yet contacted me for help but will certainly need it and wait until the last moment to ask me! Let me help you!" says Deb.
"Thank you," says someone, sometimes bursting into tears.

The remarkable thing about this new approach is that I am much, much more relaxed. I no longer sit there wondering when or if I will be asked to deal with something. I ask outright, and go from there.

I don't do what I do for appreciation, but I wonder if my former passive-aggressiveness was my way of trying to force people into appreciating me. Not my friends, or my family, but my co-workers and more casual acquaintances. It's very self-defeating; I think if I make them come ask me at the last minute, they will appreciate me, but if they are thoughtless enough to wait that long, why do I assume they'll be appreciative? Then again, if I just pop up randomly and offer to do what they need me to do, won't they just take me for granted and, perhaps, assume that what I do is so easy I don't need any notice or warning?

With the end of the school year upon us, it is the time for me to make my resolutions for next year. I'm going to take a risk and resolve to be far less passive-aggressive at work. I will continue to anticipate, volunteer, and meddle. Hopefully this will result in a clearer path and a happier me.

But I promise to keep up the silent heckling at staff development.