Wondering

I haven't posted lately. I can't really explain why. I do think a lot about this blog and why I'm not writing in it, or why I even have it to begin with. My own family doesn't read it, since only my husband even knows I have one. I don't think he's read it either, but then again, this is someone who finds Facebook a little stalkerish and creepy, so I'd just as soon keep my ramblings off the radar. I know a few close friends who read it...not that there's been anything to read in a few months.

So what's been going on? Where do I start?

Well, once my last post was posted, I almost immediately embarked on a cumulative 3.5 weeks of work travel. Though this was split up into three whole weeks away interspersed with time home, plus a couple other days and nights away here and there, it was a lot to happen in an 8-week stretch. Actually, it was a lot no matter how you slice it.

Then we had Thanksgiving away too. The holidays came racing toward us. They were exhausting to prepare for, since I spent the week before Christmas away too, but once Christmas arrived, all was groovy. A few years ago, we decided we'd alternate Christmases at home with Christmases away at my parents' house, but after last Christmas here at home and how much we enjoyed it, we decided that we will not travel for Christmas any more. So this was our second Christmas at home in a row, which is a first. (does this make sense?)

Our family Christmas traditions and routines are finally beginning to take form. After a few years of free-form Christmases as we learned to celebrate Christmas as parents, this is a relief. We are repeating things we did last year and enjoyed, and testing some new ideas as well. We're still working on fitting other commitments around our attendance at church for a late afternoon Christmas Eve service. We're pretty much the only ones among our local family and friends who actually go to church Christmas Eve, and seemingly everyone else we know and love wants to eat, drink, and be merry instead of going to church. So we have to balance our desire to be with those we love against our desire to experience the wonder and joy of Christmas Eve lessons and carols. We're seeing what works, and what needs more work, but I think we can find a way eventually to get to church and still get together with friends and family...without going completely insane in the process.

More soon...I hope. Gotta work on a retrospective of the decade, since seemingly every news outlet is doing that right now.

Rain and germs

So I chaperoned my first field trip today. When looking to the future and contemplating parenthood, I never imagined myself riding on a schoolbus, with 30 overexcited kindergartners, in the rain, to an apple orchard. I also never imagined that one could spend a few hours at an orchard without going outside, or anywhere near a fruit tree. Who knew you could kill over an hour demonstrating a cider press?

While the noise level on the bus was beyond intense, and that schoolbus smell brought back not-so-pleasant associations, my greater concern was just not wanting to touch anything. All those germs all over every surface from coughing, sneezing, nose-wiping kids. Swine flu has now hit both my kids' schools and a few families we know, and even though my family has all had the H1N1 mist and regular flu shots, there are other flu strains out there to avoid. And these kids were literally sticking their faces into the seats and against the windows. Gross. I just wanted to decontaminate everyone when we got back, including myself.

I'm normally not that fanatic about germs. I prefer to avoid illness, and I get annoyed at people who bring sick kids to my house, and I'm right there with the handwashing, and I hate being in really germy public places. That said, I think some exposure to bacteria is good for the immune system. I don't care if my dogs lick my kids, or vice versa. I never had one of those shopping-cart covers or portable restaurant placemats for my kids when they were smaller. I didn't sterilize bottles and binkies. When things fall on the floor, I'll still eat them as long as nothing is stuck on them. I don't believe in the 20-second rule or whatever it's called, for me or for my kids. I thought hand sanitizer was only for when you had no other alternative, and that frequent deliberate use of hand sanitizer was a little neurotic.

But this fall? Purell is everywhere. My office has it in every bathroom, and the kids' schools seem to have more dispensers than before. We have it in our cars, plus a big bottle on our kitchen counter to use when we get home. DH is like the Purell Butler if we're out somewhere. We get back in the car and he comes around door to door squirting our hands with Purell. I'm using it. I'm getting used to it. I'm even starting to really like the smell. I should have bought stock in the stuff.

And I'm curious about how this intense focus on illness is changing social behavior. A friend of mine was telling me they just don't take their child to many public places, like shopping malls and playgrounds, because of all the germs going around these days. Anecdotally, I'm hearing that such places are less crowded than usual, and that birthday parties have become smaller and fewer. It's not clear whether the low numbers are due to kids being home sick, or due to parents keeping them home pre-emptively.

Speaking as someone who loathes Chuck E. Cheese, kids' entertainment centers, and restaurant playgrounds in general (mostly because once my kids go in, they won't come out), I'm perversely happy to use germs as an excuse to avoid such establishments altogether. It's clear that I'm not the only mean mommy who feels that way. Strength in numbers, people.

That's no bull

I was an art history major, so I have a greater appreciation for out-there art than many people, but this is, um, interesting. To my eye it is a bull-like (also potentially a sheep or dog) sculpture with a giant meat cleaver splitting it in half from the front. The position of the cleaver kind of makes it look like it has eyes and even a trunk.

What does it mean? Is this some commentary on carnivorous habits, an evocation of butchering, or just a funny-looking table with leg-like legs and a meat cleaver embedded in the front? Is the presence of this public sculpture at a NJ government services complex a commentary on the bureaucratic process?

All I can say is that I'm intrigued and disturbed by this sculpture when I pass by from time to time. Adding to the incongruity is that smokers from this building are usually leaning on the thing in oblivion, like it's just some random wall or ledge. Don't you people realize you are leaning on an evocation of butchered meat?? It took several visits for me to get a shot of it all by itself.

Just watching Larry King, again

So, we have toxicology results and Michael Jackson is finally being buried, 70 days after he died. Despite the stated excuse that the family couldn't decide where to bury him, I kind of wonder whether his being kept out of a permanent resting place has to do with potentially needing to retrieve his body for further testing in the homicide investigation.

I'm not sure I really want to ponder the mortuary technology needed to prolong the pre-interment phase this long, unless someone reveals evidence that he's been stashed in a freezer all this time. In my particular line of work, I have colleagues who have exceptional knowledge of historic mortuary practices, which means I know way too much about the minutiae of coffin construction and other macabre trivia. I know way too much about the reasons why, prior to modern mortuary practices, rural Americans in the South usually buried family members in a small family cemetery out back rather than in a church cemetery at a greater distance. (And I found this book absolutely fascinating.)

This also solidifies my intention that when I die, I will be cremated. Along with averting embalming and later decomposition of my earthly remains, I want no possibility of digging me up decades later to see what really killed me.

It does seem sort of odd to hear Larry's almost breathless coverage of this "historic evening." I'm all for further Jackson fanfare, but after Ted Kennedy's beautiful memorial service and funeral this past weekend, this coverage just seems so...not respectful. Despite the supposed no-fly zone, through the magic of helicopter coverage, we can watch Elizabeth Taylor being wheeled in while Deepak Chopra interviews with Larry.

I watched Ghostbusters last night, for the first time in probably 20 years. Gotta love those free movies On Demand! Despite the length of time since I last watched it, I still know that movie so well that I can anticipate many of the lines. "There is no Dana, only Zooool!" Yes, this is unbelievably lame. This movie was part of wayyyy too many 6th grade birthday slumber parties. It was like, pizza, cake, too much soda, Mad Libs, Ghostbusters, "light as a feather, stiff as a board." Every time.

But the reason I mention this is that I noticed something new in the movie: Larry King has a cigarette-smoking silhouetted cameo in the movie. I had no idea who Larry King was back in the day, and Casey Kasem was the only cameo I recognized (well, at least his voice - I was a devotee of Casey's American Top 40). It's sort of funny to look back now, and realize that Larry has had so much "work" done since that 1984 appearance that he doesn't look much different now.

Prince Tabloid Junkie II

My ardor for the Michael Jackson mysteries continues, but I must admit, Joe Jackson repulses me. His eyes and face are just really, really scary and I can't really explain why. This latest revelation about a mysterious possible fourth Michael Jackson child is odd enough, but Joe's response to the rumor took it to a whole new level of creepy.

Along with the rest of the world, I'm also getting tired of waiting for the toxicology results. What is up?

This whole situation also has some bizarre parallels to the Anna Nicole Smith situation.

• Mysterious death of a middle-aged celebrity:
• Death occurs at rented housing, not celebrity's own home.
  
• Shadowy members of the celebrity's entourage are present at time of death, leading to suspicions about their motives and their power over the decedent.
  
• Celebrity's actual condition at time of 9-1-1 call is not clear.
  
• Suspicion of abnormal prescription drug use by celebrity.
  
• Celebrity had access to doctors willing to prescribe such drugs.
  
• Orphaned children of mysterious parentage whose custody arrangement is not immediately resolved.
  
• Media feeding frenzy.

I could probably think of more, but that Martin Bashir documentary is on MSNBC again....

Summer Holidays

Melrose and Mr. Magoo have developed this interesting, and often hilarious, habit of spontaneously and simultaneously bursting into song. This usually occurs when we're riding in the car, and I've somehow gotten them to stop chattering and listen to the radio. One time they both started singing the backup vocals of a Snow Patrol song, and another time it was the chorus of "Just Dance." We've also had some Sara Bareilles, Katy Perry, Kelly Clarkson, and that "I Like to Move It, Move It" song.

It always entertains me when my kids know songs that I didn't teach them. They've been in daycare/school since they were very small. Oftentimes they'll learn songs as part of a holiday (both those we celebrate and those we don't), or because their teachers play a certain song every day at clean-up time, or because some lady with a guitar comes in and has music hour"with them every week. Sometimes I get a performance of these numbers, but I always suspect they know more. And you get some interesting surprises, i.e. to heck with that wussy "Clean Up, Clean Up" song! Didn't you know that Shania Twain's "Man, I Feel Like a Woman" and Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" are the best clean-up songs?

The other day, a long-concealed set of Play Doh was unearthed by our babysitter as a consolation prize for Mr. Magoo, who for reasons of blatant gender bias was left out of an all-girls pool party Melrose was attending. DH was out of town, and I was on lifeguard duty, so out came the Play Doh. Magoo was overjoyed. So was Melrose, when she got home and saw it.

I don't normally let the kids play with Play Doh much because it inevitably ends up ground into my carpet and/or tracked all over the house. Also, Astro likes to eat dropped clumps of it, which you might not notice at the time, but becomes evident the next day when you look in the back yard. People give it to us as birthday gifts, and it inevitably gets opened before I can stash it away in the recycled-gift pile to torture some other family with. I can't throw it out without guilt, so it stays and is kept hidden most of the time, and comes out only on special occasions.

Yes, I am mean. Alas, my dislike of fluorescent globs of goo embedded in the rugs usually trumps my children's desire for creative self-expression and tactile stimulation. I'm sure this will come up in therapy someday.

Despite my efforts to monitor the glob-containment situation the following afternoon, some of it did get squished into the family room carpet. I immediately banished the little darlings and their creations to the kitchen table until I could chip it all out with a metal spatula. As I chipped away, the kids chattered to each other about what they were making with their Doh. A dog. A flower. A meatball.

The next thing I know, they're both singing, in sync, with perfect pitch,

"Dreidel dreidel dreidel, I made it out of clay...."

Tabloid Junkie

So Michael Jackson has been dead almost 3 weeks now, and it's still a top headline. I know this should be deeply disturbing to me. Why are all the networks covering this crazy (and now dead) guy when soldiers are dying in Afghanistan and Kim Jong Il has cancer and Obama just went to Africa and Bernie Madoff is off to the slammer and the Episcopal Church is finally taking a stand on the "gay issue"? (AMEN to this last development- it's about time!). Can't they just drop it until there's some real development, like when the toxicology results come back, or they finally bury him somewhere permanent, or the judge awards custody of his kids to someone?

But here's the thing: nobody in the media is ready to let this go, because nobody wants to get scooped on the latest twist in MJ's long and twisted and media-profitable story. Even I am not ready to let it go. I am not a tabloid-follower most of the time, but I've been looking incessantly at internet coverage and even print tabloids for any new tidbits.

Like people all over the world, I've always been fascinated by MJ. I've never actually bought any of his albums, and I wouldn't call myself a fan exactly, but I was always impressed by his talent and creativity (and awesome music videos). For any of us who are part of the first generation of kids to grow up watching MTV, he is unforgettable. Even as his looks got weirder and his personal life got even weirder than his looks, there was this intrigue, and so many contradictions and questions. What goes through the mind of a guy who lives in a child's fantasyland estate surrounded by zoo animals, Hollywood memorabilia, and carnival rides? He blazed a trail for black pop musicians even as he paled to white. He went from a good-looking black man to a Jheri-curled mannequin to a pale, androgynous, almost mime-like distortion who seemed to be raceless and sexless. On one hand he wanted fame and attention, and on the other hand he wanted everyone to leave him alone. Was he a total sicko with many loose screws, or a damaged adult who had sustained a lifetime of mental and physical pain and made a lot of truly unfortunate (and very public) choices? Would he have been as famous if he'd lived a more circumspect personal life?

Regardless of whatever MJ did or didn't do with other people's kids at Neverland, and whether or not he was a druggie, and the bizarre and cringeworthy parenting choices revealed in the 2003 Martin Bashir documentary, his own kids clearly did love him. I hope and pray those three children have a good support system, and that eventually they'll be able to live quieter lives out of the spotlight. Now that their faces are no longer under wraps, I'm not sure the world will be able to leave them alone until the issue of custody is settled and, perhaps, their biological origins are made known. It's nobody's business, I know, and probably cruel to speculate about, but people will always wonder (look at Anna Nicole Smith's daughter - once they determined who her daddy was, the attention stopped). I truly hate to think of the Jackson kids becoming paparazzi bait through no fault of their own, and hope the family is set to protect them.

MJ's music has been with me since "Off the Wall" and as he progressed through the 80s and 90s, I liked some of it, hated some of it, but always found the videos impressive, and enjoyed his collaborations with other artists. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, I've been able to revisit a lot of them, none of which I've seen in the past decade. They've aged well; the genius of music, choreography, and videography is evident. There are definitely disturbing ones ("You Are Not Alone" anyone?), but I enjoyed the others.

My hands-down favorite revisit: "We Are The World". Not all his, no, but he was a core figure in the project, and though he was already into the mannequin phase, he looked so young and handsome. I also enjoyed getting some perspective on how this was accomplished. I liked the song back when it came out, but it flat-out amazes me now - all that vocal talent in one room, and nearly all of them artists I loved. Not only did they get this unbelievable array of singers, all top names and most at a high point in their careers, but they pulled this off in ONE NIGHT. And they worked all night to do it. When you look at the final video, you can tell many of them were pretty fried by the final take of their solos (Paul Simon, Tina Turner, and Billy Joel in particular look close to a collapse).

And the styles...my God, the hair! The HAIR! Daryl Hall's amazing mullet on steroids. Lindsey Buckingham's 'fro. Diana Ross' floating cloud of hair. Billy Joel with hair. I look forward to telling my kids someday that these styles didn't look all that weird to us (with our own perms, mullets, feathers, and vertical bangs) at the time. Cyndi Lauper and Tina Turner excepted. Tina's hair always looked like it was cemented in place. Cyndi's hair scared me then way more than it scares me now (the "Time After Time" video gave me more than a few bad dreams in sixth grade). Cyndi and Boy George would have made quite a pair. And Annie Lennox too. Yikes.

But getting back to MJ. Whatever further revelations emerge about him posthumously, he'll always be an icon of many things: music, dance, pop culture, the downside of success, and the pitfalls of cosmetic surgery. I hope whatever parts of him were tormented are at peace now, and that anyone victimized by him is at peace as well.

And, well, I need to go check TMZ again. MJ is hopefully resting in peace, but I've got to hear the latest La Toya-generated conspiracy theory....

High on the hog

OK, we all know I'm a dog sap, but this story was so sweet. I've never thought of Harley Davidsons and dogs as things that belong together. I think a lot of people will now. Be sure to check out the accompanying photo gallery too!

Yes, I'm still here, and I'm determined not to be a statistic in the blog graveyard. But...I just haven't had it in me to write lately. I think I'm still in recovery from the massive report I completed at the beginning of May, which was akin to writing something that is much more than a thesis but less than a dissertation. It took 3 solid months of my almost undivided attention to get together. Stressful as it was to do, having it done and off my plate leaves a weird void, like somebody scooped out part of my brain and forgot to fill in the hole.

I'm now in a writing cycle on another project, though not as intensively, and I'm struggling with that as well. I really need some time out in the field looking at something new instead of sitting at my desk regurgitating something I researched a year ago but am only just getting to now. I've had at most 2 days in the field this entire year so far, not counting a couple of conference days. Seriously, when you'd rather be out on the mean streets of inner-city Baltimore than at your desk, you've probably been at your desk too long.

On the creative end, even if I have an inspired thought during the day, my words are gone by the time I get home, get everyone fed and in bed, and have some time to spend on blogging. I have a strict self-imposed ban on blogging at the office. No blogging, and no Facebook. Period.

I don't dare try Twittering either. I know I'd never be able to resist the tweets if I were interested enough in someone's doings to "follow" them. Status updates are fascinating little snippets, and thus a major threat to my general attention span. Also, Twittering seems like it might require me to acquire a Crackberry or some other handheld digital device, which I am resisting, because I don't want or need to be that reachable. If I'm away from e-mail for a day (or more), it doesn't faze me. Other people I know can't unplug for more than a half hour without full-bore panic on their part, or static from their clients and bosses. E-mail aside, I don't even send or receive text messages (well, except when stalked).

It amazes me sometimes to see how much things have changed in 20 years. When I was little and my parents went out without us, they would leave the name and phone number of wherever they were going for the babysitter. When I got older and had to babysit my siblings or other people's kids, I was the one entrusted with the phone numbers. I can remember occasionally needing to call my parents at a restaurant or some party they were attending, but it's amazing to think how much time people were just unreachable - in the car, on the train, in a movie theater, at an outdoor event. Your house could be burning down, and you'd be sitting there gawking at early Spielbergian special effects.

And it's equally scary to think how reachable people are now, and how imperative it is that people can always find you and communicate with you, wherever you happen to be. If you're a parent these days, not having a cell phone is bordering on irresponsible, if not downright negligent. Is it even allowed? I know on days where I've forgotten mine, I feel like one of the worst parents on earth. I have to call whomever's watching the kids to give them a land-line number of wherever I happen to be, and that commonplace task of the 1980s and earlier just seems so weird now.

running on empty

So I had my long-awaited nerve-disrupting radiofrequency procedure Monday, and I'm sincerely hoping this is the last time I need to mention my heel. It's still a little sore from the procedure (and I've developed a whole new level of needle-phobia after that joyous medical experience), but the old pain seems to be gone. I'll try speed-walking and maybe even running on it in the next few weeks to see if it really worked, but for now, I'm letting it be and enjoying the painless ride.

After over 5 months of inactivity, and trying and failing to find some way to exercise without aggravating matters (and trying the 30-Day Shred but not progressing far toward shredded-ness due to inability to do push-ups), I've become discouraged about my ability to be athletic and fit. I want to run, but I'm also not sure running is a good sport for me. I like the freedom and sense of accomplishment I get from running, and oooooh do I envy the sleek bodies most runners seem to have, but I'll never be fast, I worry about getting hurt, and that burning chest-achy knee feeling will probably never be fun. Still, I've pushed on, trying to build up distance and endurance, trying to make my body change.

Walking is pleasant but just doesn't seem like enough to make significant changes in my snail-like metabolism or overall physique. It's been tried in the past, and while enjoyable, it's never made much difference, and right now I. Need. Difference. I am desperate for difference.

I have a lovely mountain bike out in my barn, which I would love to use, but over the past few years I've become phobic about riding it, and even more phobic about dismounting. I don't think I've ever regained my pre-pregnancy center of gravity since having kids, and being on the bike literally gives me vertigo now. (note: must get over this by the time we can take family bike rides).

Swimming would be great, but we don't belong to a pool or a Y, and we're not going to be joining any until we have a better chance of actually taking advantage of our membership on a semi-regular basis. Like, maybe in a few years when the kids are at the same school again? And maybe when they finally build that Y just up the street that's been planned for over 5 years and never built?

Then again, if intrepid author Jennifer Weiner could do a sprint triathlon and the Broad Street Run and live to blog about it, there's still hope for people like me who don't have that athletic physique and have never played sports outside of required P.E. classes. She is a machine! I've fantasized in the past about Broad Street, and I had real hopes for doing it this spring after I completed a 5-miler last Thanksgiving, but right now I'd be thrilled if I could run even one measly mile without re-injury.

Just one.

I promise I'll stop whining about exercise if I can get back in the saddle and at least do that again.

everyday I write the book

I've not been posting lately because I'm in a heavy writing phase at work, and have been for awhile. When I stagger home after a 10-hour day of either writing or proofreading text about "rising damp" and other icky-sounding historic building maladies, coming up with blog fodder just ain't gonna happen before I pass out for the night. Hopefully we are getting to the end of it now. I think I see light at the end of the tunnel, but wouldn't bet the farm on it.

My foot is still troublesome. Long story short, after weeks of physical therapy, naproxen, an MRI, two steroid shots, one nasty peeling rash caused by the tape binding up my foot, and seeing two different doctors, the conclusion is that there are two related conditions going on, and that the most likely solutions to remedy it involve zapping key parts of my foot with some type of high-tech wand-like instrument. The second steroid shot is doing the trick for now, but once that wears off, I will undoubtedly be screaming to be wanded. Also, both docs think my long-put-off bunion surgery needs to happen sooner rather than later, though not until after I get this first issue dealt with. And survey says I need custom orthotics ($400, not covered by insurance, because I am not a diabetic). Good times.

I wish someone could explain to me why custom orthotics are not covered for most people. I mean, how many people go out and get custom orthotics just for the heck of it? It's not like you can just walk into a store and buy them - you have to see a doctor, get molds taken, wait several weeks, and even then they only work with closed and/or frumpy-looking shoes. They aren't going to improve your appearance, give you a buzz, or cause chemical dependency. I can't imagine there's this huge abuse of the system - it's not like people trying to get their insurance to cover Botox or cosmetic surgery.

Not to mention, greater availability of coverage for custom orthotics would probably mean fewer people needing surgical procedures for problems caused by lack of arch support. Insurance won't pay $400 for orthotics, but then they will cover a $5,000 surgery for the exacerbated version of the same basic problem? Do they just hate orthotics manufacturers, or non-diabetics with foot problems?

Also, some of the equipment I recently obtained as part of my treatment exposes yet another ludicrous insurance situation. Say your doctor tells you to get an xyz splint to relieve constant pain. You can order the xyz splint online or buy it at a certain pharmacy for $90. But your insurance says no, the xyz splint is durable medical equipment, and we will not cover this item unless you go to one of our approved suppliers of durable medical equipment.

So you then need to find and visit (by appointment only) some borderline-creepy medical-supply place housed in a semi-sketchy industrial park, to obtain your xyz splint. You assume this is some sort of arrangement intended to save money, or that you are receiving a superior version of the item. But no. It turns out that if you're buying from this insurer-sanctioned supplier, the xyz splint costs $400. And it's the EXACT SAME xyz splint that costs $90 elsewhere.

Can someone explain to me why this makes sense? Why are they paying over 75% more than they have to?

Also, I'd like it explained why something that is essentially a couple of pieces of plastic, tricked out with some foam padding and nylon straps, costs $400. And why will they pay $400 for this glorified plastic contraption (for one foot) when they won't pay $400 for orthotics (for both feet!) that will prevent me from suffering further foot problems?

Ah, mysteries.

Need to know

Now that my long-lingering heel pain has been diagnosed as a stress fracture, I've installed my foot in what they call a "cam walker." This delightful apparatus looks like a cross between a walking cast and a ski boot. It takes quite a while to put on and take off (on top of the 30 minutes of stretches I'm supposed to do each day). And it's a learning experience, let me tell you.

Top Ten Things I've Learned in the Past 72 Hours:

1. If you injure your foot, try really hard to make it the left foot, not the right one. That way, you can still drive a car.
2. Also, driving a stick shift car is so not a good idea.
3. Walking up the stairs isn't bad.
4. Walking down the stairs is terrifying. Best to find another way down.
5. You can walk down the stairs safely only if you put both feet on each step like a toddler while maintaining death-grip on the banister. This not only looks stupid, but it takes a long time.
6. Don't wear socks with holes in the toes, at least not on your bad foot.
7. Be grateful for boot-cut and wide-leg pants.
8. Be prepared for literally every person you encounter to inquire what you did to yourself.
9. No matter how you try, you will not be able to walk without lurching.
10. Be prepared for loved ones to mock you by singing the Weebles song.

Signs of interest

Punning Environmentalist On Board.

SATISFACTION GUARANTEED.

Tioga County may want to award the car-painting contract to another firm next time.


So nice to see a business named after a common 1980s playground insult.

Two Interviews

For a variety of reasons, this has not been a great month so far. In no particular order:

• Someone I love just died and I miss her. I also feel some guilt about our relationship.
  
• I miss George. It was nine years ago that we picked him up from the breeder.
  
• I have an injury that's going to sideline my running and other cardio options for awhile and will take considerable effort to heal. Oh, and it hurts, too.
• Weight loss efforts are not going well, and my inability to work out won't help matters.
• There are upcoming personnel changes at work which will directly affect me and about which I am not happy.
• The dog is still chewing everything he can get his snout on.
  
• My car is coated with gray salt grime, and every time I wash it, it snows again.

While it's much more my style to moan about all these things in-depth, I (for once) don't have the energy. So, on to some interview commentary. Yes, it's a week late. Whatever.

The CBS 60 Minutes interview with the Flight 1549 crew: My favorite part: when Katie Couric asked Sully if he prayed as the plane was coming down, and he responded that he was too busy flying but assumed "someone in the back of the plane" was taking care of that. The part where the crew met the passengers, and the letters they read at the end, made me cry.

Another aspect, one I wish the show had explored further, was the weird dynamic between the two flight attendants at the front of the plane, where the landing was not that hard, and the one flight attendant in the back, where things were much worse. She almost seemed resentful that she was back there alone, panicking, engulfed in water and with a cut leg, while her colleagues were high and dry up front, and they seemed a little defensive in return. Clearly there is some awkwardness among the crew members, and while Sully deserves hero status for his flying skills, the other crew members did plenty to save lives too but aren't getting much media attention. Even the TV cameras at the Superbowl skipped right over the crew to zoom in on Sully. That's gotta hurt.

The Dateline interview with Nadya Suleman, the octuplet mom: I am so disturbed by this situation, on so many levels. There is so much that doesn't make sense. I can't say much that hasn't already been said, but I am deeply afraid for those kids and have a hard time not being judgmental, or even just skeptical, of their mother. I don't doubt that they are loved, but their mom seems to have a tenuous grip on reality, at best. Not to mention a blase attitude that random people from church or wherever are going to step up and take on caring for eight newborns and six older siblings while she lives off disability checks garnered by her three special-needs kids, collects food stamps (while claiming she gets no government assistance), sucks in money through her new self-promoting website, and somehow magically completes her grad program next year.

My questions:

1. If she was so badly injured on the job at the mental hospital that she was physically unable to work, what was she doing taking on not one but SIX high-risk pregnancies? Even one normal pregnancy is hard on your body, and highly likely to exacerbate any existing problems.

2. And even after getting through pregnancy and birth, how exactly did she expect to chase after her herd of kids if she is in too much chronic physical or mental pain to hold a job?

3. Now that she has 14 kids, at least three of whom are special-needs and eight more of whom are premature newborns likely to have health issues, how does she expect to complete her graduate degree on schedule? And if she can't afford to feed her family, who's paying for grad school anyway? Who paid for this last round of in-vitro?

4. She seems to assume that once she gets her degree, she can go back to work at a higher income level that will support all these kids. How can she suddenly go back to work at a higher level if she is too disabled to work now and hasn't worked in several years? And assuming she gets a decent job, who is going to babysit 14 kids? They'll need their own daycare facility.

5. The relationship between Ms. Suleman and her family is bizarre. Initially her mom trashed her to the media and claimed she was refusing to help further with this nonsense. However, mom has been an enabler by not forcing her to grow up and get her own market-rate housing. And now that PR people are involved, the mom is suddenly being portrayed as loving and supportive. And where is her dad?

6. Nowhere has anyone discussed the potential for Ms. Suleman to develop postpartum mental health issues. I don't doubt that she cherishes her kids, but let's face it, every parent needs a break from their kids sometimes. With no spouse figure or guaranteed support from her own parents, who's going to give her a break? Who's going to be there when she is severely sleep-deprived and dealing with eight screaming babies and six older kids with more complex needs?

7. I await more information on the doctor who enabled this lunacy. This situation is unfair to the kids, and unfair to society as well. Couldn't Dr. Fertility Miracle have told Ms. Suleman to leave those embryos in the freezer until her life became more stable?

8. How does this woman have such good health insurance? Is all of the octuplet care covered? Was this insurance part of the injury settlement?

Hmm. So much not adding up here.

The dog didn't do it

After over a month, Astro has been formally cleared of the car-key-eating allegations. Don't get me wrong, he still eats everything, but he definitely didn't eat the keys.

DH was doing a little outdoor work today (since it was actually pleasant to be outside). He was wearing his field jacket, and felt this bump in the pocket. Only the bump wasn't in the pocket; it was in another pocket hidden under the first pocket (which is sort of an exterior flap pocket). There were the missing keys and clicker. He waved them at me in triumph, while Astro wagged his big doofy tail in all innocence.

His explanation when accused of not thoroughly checking his pockets at the time of the disappearance (though he swore he had), and when I wondered how he could have worn this coat multiple times since the disappearance without noticing this odd-shaped object in one pocket: "I didn't realize there was another pocket underneath!"

Next time, I'm checking the pockets.

We count only blue cars

I saw my old car the other day. Our much-loved navy-blue VW Jetta TDI, which we sold 18 months ago because we couldn't all fit in it anymore - car seats and sufficient legroom just weren't compatible partners.

It cut me off as I was attempting to back the Dorkmobile out of a spot at Petco. I didn't realize it was our car until the driver (who I was already calling an unprintable word under my breath) whipped into a nearby parking spot, and I managed to finally back all the way out and noticed that it was the same model and had the same dealer decal as ours. I'd never met the guy who bought it but got a good look at him as he hastened into Petco, probably irritated that here it was right before the Eagles game and he'd run out of kitty litter or Nature's Miracle.

So I called DH and asked him, "Was the guy who bought the VW a skinny little guy with horn-rims?" He answered in the affirmative. Meanwhile, I'd circled around to check for the telltale chip in the front grille, and hopped out of my car to peer around the other cars blocking my view. Yep, that was our former car.

Utter dork that I am, I quickly said hi to it and told it we missed it. (I've been known to talk to inanimate objects before.) I then got out of there before someone saw me acting suspicious...or just weird and stalkerish. It was a pretty and wonderful little car and it killed me to have to sell it, but if you can't fit your family in the car, it's not much use. Extreeeeemely good fuel mileage notwithstanding.

It was weird seeing it though. Sort of like a familiar sight resurfacing after having been forgotten for however long. How many times did I park that car somewhere and then need to find it, using those same three clues to distinguish it from all the other VW sedans? And as I concluded my blissfully solo errand, it was a reminder of a not-so-long-ago-but-very-far-away time in my life when we could drive a cute, zippy little car, all our belongings fit easily in the trunk, and our only backseat passengers, if any, were dogs.

Those were the days, as Archie and Edith would screech. "Gee our old VW ran great, those were the DAAAAAAAAYS!!"

Updates

The car trouble: We gave up on the key search and got Triple-A to come out and try and access the car. No luck. Then we called The. Best. Locksmith. EVER. This consummate professional managed to get into the car without tripping off the alarm system, and just as we'd suspected, one set of keys was locked in the trunk. It's been 3 weeks and the other set has still not showed up, but we got a valet key made when we finally got the car in for service.

The dog: Astro has made himself right at home. He's a sweetie, very affectionate, definitely housebroken, figured out the electric fence very quickly. He already has a girlfriend (an older, blonder lady Lab across the street). The downside is, he's a chewer. He will chew anything. Along with the usual dog temptations (shoes, stuffed animals, trash, unattended food), he's chewed/shredded/destroyed:

• two different laundry baskets;
  
• several items of clothing sitting in said baskets;
• corner of needlepoint Christmas pillow;
  
• corners of the 1970s oak kitchen table in the laundry room;
• the dog bed and the ratty towels we use for drying the dogs off;
  
• drywall;
• woodwork.

These last two items forced us to take the step of getting him a (giant) crate. One, because he might feel calmer having a den to hide out in, since our house is probably a lot to get used to. "Calmer" would hopefully equate to "less prone to chewing." And two, so our house is still standing when we get home. Eating the house is not OK. We set it up and inserted our new Orvis Tough-chew dog bed as an incentive. Both dogs were clearly experienced with crates from their time pre-us. They seemed totally unfazed, immediately climbed in there and snuggled up. Hopefully they'll still be happy when we actually lock the gate.

The earring: Found! I went back to our friend's house, where we'd been the previous night, and there it was, sitting on the doorstep. Almost like it was waiting for me.

Puppy New Year!

So we went to the local animal shelter and got a dog! He's a big yellow Lab, full-grown and seemingly housebroken but otherwise a crazy puppy. He wants to jump up and kiss everyone, even people who are shorter than he is. He keeps grabbing stuff and absconding with it, and has already semi-destroyed the dog bed and tried to destroy countless other things. Today he ingested two small Lincoln Logs and a Mr. Potato Head beard. I'm waiting to be reunited with these in some form.

As kids of the 70s, we named him Astro. From the Jetsons. Ruh-roh!! It was either that or Rosco P. Coltrane from the Dukes of Hazzard, and he seemed more Astro-ish. He's a dark yellow Lab, more lanky than most Labs, with enormous feet and amber eyes, which suggests to me that there may be a little something extra in there, breedwise. The shelter thought perhaps some Weimaraner. Who knows? But he seems very smart and is already learning his new name and to come and sit. We just need to work on manners and general comportment while in a house with people and their things.

Concurrent with this, we're having some, uh, expensive problems. First, I managed to lose one of my new (and not exactly cheap) earrings while out on New Year's Eve. This is the third time I've done this in the past year. Totally annoying. I wish that '80s one-earring look would come back.

Then, we've been having some trouble with one of our cars and DH made an appointment at the dealership to have it fixed. Then, in the past 72 hours, he managed to lose not one but BOTH key/opener thingies. We think maybe one is locked in the car but one is definitely outside because it was used to lock the car two days ago before it disappeared. The house has been turned upside down. Nothing.

DH is suspecting Astro may be responsible, but if this is the case, we're surprised this hasn't led to significant stomach trouble, and we haven't noticed anything unusual coming from either end of him. Anyway, replacing these exotic locking systems is a $2,000 investment, and the car is so old it might not be worth it. The dealership may be able to come crack into it and then disable the horn, in the hope that one key is indeed inside.

As if this wasn't enough, last night our toilets stopped flushing, indicating either a clog in the waste pipe exiting the house, or a larger malfunction with our aging septic system. This has happened before, and inevitably occurs in the late evening AND only on a weekend or holiday. So this morning was fun: DH and I going through ALL the accumulated trash looking for the car keys, punctuated by trying to get the plumber and the septic people out here. Thankfully, the septic system was OK and the septic guy was able to unclog the pipe even though it was technically the purview of the plumbers (who couldn't get here until Monday). Thank you, Mr. Septic Guy! I'll promise never to make fun of your job again!

So we have plumbing again. And a crazed new dog. And a collection of orphan earrings. And an inaccessible locked car sitting in the driveway like a $2,000 beached whale.

And it's snowing too!