The ED of Peculiar Pickiness

I'm going to start by pretending you all don't know this already and state something obvious - I'm a bit of an odd duck. Despite my denial and abnormal attempts to fit in the mold of those around me, I've never even been "next to normal", a facet about myself I started to deny from an early age. Had I accepted the fact that I'm just not the popular kind and embraced those more like me, I might have sidestepped the critical cruelty of my peers in my teenage years and actually accumulated some decent memories to share with my kids one day. Sadly, what I'm left with are stories which would force my fingers to tap and type for hours on end, producing pages upon pages of therapy to assist in alleviating the tempestuous unease of my adolescent angst barraged with bullying and banter . . . but I won't succumb to that measure of stress relief, not today anyway. Instead I choose to spare you, my fellow readers, if only for a moment and save the seething for another day . . . .

So, I will sidetrack by saying that my severed seams from long ago are pretty much sutured up, and for now I choose to ignore that fact that they fray every once in awhile - today I am, for the most part, a woman who has accepted that being not near normal is not only absolutely adequate, but somehow flawlessly fantastic. I have countless crazy quirks, many of which I have covered in some of my bellowing blog posts, particularly in Webwork of a Wacky Woman
where I ink out many of my idiosyncrasies (feel free to return there and review if you like), and among the myriad of my mental mannerisms I list in said post, there is one I would like to discuss in greater detail today . . . . My freakish foodisms for which I have already admitted are as follows:

Texture is huge. I like tomato sauce and ketchup, but not tomatoes. I like grape jelly, but not grapes. I pass on foods with rubbery skin and mushy insides

I like peanut butter, but not peanuts.

I don't like strawberries or coffee.

I was asked a question [in a survey] about my favorite salad dressing; my answer was, "Light Italian, on a shredded carrot salad. . . . I'm not a fan of lettuce folks, so give me a bed of shredded carrots and I'll put all the salad toppings on it."

Alas, that is only where the list begins. This too is a topic that my finger tips could type endlessly about, producing yet again pages and pages of peculiar pickiness that you would rather pass on perusing. However, I cannot breach this topic w/o giving you a bigger picture of my battle with my taste buds, so I will somehow summarize what needs to be said and hopefully reach my point (if there even is one) sooner rather than later.

I hate cilantro; in fact to me it tastes like soap.

I don't eat Mexican, Indian, or most other ethnic foods that are not American or Western European.

Peas make me want to vomit, and I hate most vegetables in general, even fear them, because they inevitably show up on my plate at most restaurants and dinner parties.

Beer and dry wine are bitter and I will never get drunk off them. Sangria please!

I love eggs, but never sunny side up . . . runny, snotty yuckiness!

So yes, in case you haven't cracked this code already, I will again state something obvious – I am a picky eater.

Coincidentally, upon perusing the tweets of the 24 I follow, I happened across this "scientific" statement a couple of weeks ago: "Picky eating in adults may soon be classified as a specific eating disorder
http://on.wsj.com/cmazc3".

Upon seeing this proclamation and clicking the link to the article, I believe it's accurate to say that "WTF" was the first thing that came to my mind. Surely this cannot be correct – my taste buds don't like things, so I must have a psychological disorder, an eating disorder in fact, worthy of being mentioned in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders? The DSM, a manual in which I examined more than once in my four years of studying psychology at Capital University, is also a manual that once classified homosexuality as a psychological disorder . . . just sayin' . . . again pages and pages, but moving forward . . . .

I've tried foods I don't like over and over again, and the result is the same, I still don't like them. I have built a better tolerance for foods I don't care for over time, but eating such items is in no way an enjoyable experience. I force such foods down for two occasions, when invited to someone's house for dinner, and when attempting to persuade my children to try such fare, but in any other case peculiar pickiness overrules and I say "pass please".

I cannot deny there are indeed some issues mentioned in this article for which I relate – dinner parties do undeniably make nervous (though not so much I won't attend), the range of foods that I eat (which extend far beyond 10 or 15 choices, btw) is no doubt limited, and I think it's fair to say I have some OCD tendencies – but I couldn't disagree more with the conclusion that has been drawn. Beyond potentially loosing vital nutrients (which is why I take supplements), being particular about food isn't a major issue in my opinion, avoiding social situations because of said issues is, and I am rarely one to turn down any social situation, food fears or not.

One of those who commented said it with the same sarcastic eloquence I wish I would have expressed myself:

I'm so glad that this country is still properous [sic] enough to develop more new "disorders" at a seemingly increasing rate. If you dont [sic] like it, don't eat it.

Next disorder please.

Americans, in general, don't seem to share the passion for soccer that the rest of the world has. I suppose we should look into this disorder of our national psyche next . . . . (Tom Crozier, comment post #21)

There is a difference between being not quite "normal" and not being able to cope with that abnormality, which seems to be the case for many of those discussed in the article. For example, I have Crohn's Disease, I'm left-handed, and I've been told by my doctor that I get tendonitis frequently because my legs are "anatomically incorrect", but you don't see me being committed to therapy or a psyche ward for said "abnormalities" (or for any of my many unmentioned others for that matter). I've learned how to deal with them and move forward. I've used this quote before, and I will use it again: "Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference" –Virginia Satir.

So I say to those wasting so much money studying such things to stop. Treat for anxiety or OCD those who suffer if you must, but leave a potential ED of Peculiar Pickiness out of it, because I embrace this as part of who I am, and I'm okay with that.

“My Vagabond Shoes Were Longing to Stray”

"Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood. Hop a flight to Miami Beach, or to Hollywood." But I took a car ride across PA's north side, and entered a new "state of mind".

I climbed the stairs and walked into a ". . . concrete jungle where dreams are made of [and] there's nothing you can't do; these streets [made me] feel brand new".

I woke up in "the city that never sleeps", and found that "my little town blues [were] melting away . . . ."

After eight years of absence from this majestic and marvelous mind-blowing metropolis, it was three weeks ago on my third trip to this upbeat urban utopia that I was quickly reminded of how so many locals wished to die by vehicular impact, how nearly no one on the streets spoke English, and how uncannily uncouth it was to be polite.

I doubt there is anywhere else in the world where I would be willing to walk a mile across a bridge and stand in line 75 min waiting for a pizza at a parlor where I'm obligated to sit by perfect strangers – strangers I thought I would never see again . . . until I saw one of them do a stand-up routine following a surprise appearance from Marlon Wayans at a hole in the ground club called the "Comedy Cellar".

I have never been to another city where I have had the pleasure of devouring a "Salty Pimp" ice cream cone from a "Big Gay Ice Cream Truck", encountering a stiff as steel naked man standing in the streets, and seeing a dress made of condoms in a "Museum of Sex" all in one day.

It was in this very place that . . . .

I watched the limos drive by and saw celebrities walk the red carpet.

I met up with an old friend and made a new one.

I sauntered by some shops in China and turned the corner to stroll by some restaurants in Italy.

I ogled a $600 purse in the window of one boutique and purchased the $6 earrings from the one next door.

I watched "Next to Normal" in a setting that is anything but.

I took a walk in a park you don't dare tread in the dark.

They say, "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere."

"Hear it for New York, New York . . . ."

Lyrics in orange are written and performed by Billy Joel in "New York State of Mind".

Lyrics in blue are written and performed by Alisha Keyes in "Empire State of Mind (part II)".

Lyrics in purple are most popularly performed by Frank Sinatra in "New York, New York".

What Is up with Amber?

“What is not up with Amber?” should be the question. I’ve been having one of those whole “life interrupted” experiences filled with non-stop streams of sour news and chaotic crap that continues to happen, leaving the well of my writing resourcefulness rather dry, in turn leading to my noticeable absence from my blogging abode and making me wonder if this drought of mine has lead to a whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” effect, as a few friends have been moved to remind me of said absence and offhandedly mention that more frequent bloggage would be nice – would be nice to have for some summer [break] reading material that is . . . .

So at this point my mind jumps a bit – perhaps it’s a lack of self-esteem on my part, or perhaps even the opposite, an overdriven ego which has made me misunderstand my friends’ insinuations, but I find it very odd that I am relied upon as the source of anyone’s summer entertainment, for I am sure there far more entertaining reads (with far shorter sentences) at one’s local library than I can ever ink out: The Woman Who Walked into Doors and its somewhat superior sequel Paula Spencer, both written by Irish author Roddy Doyle, being two perfect examples . . . , just sayin’. *smiles coyly*

Nonetheless, a request has been made (I think), and I certainly do not want to let the very small handful of those who have been steadfast readers of my scribed spewing down and out, which leaves me to beg the question: What do I do when life throws me dried up lemons with no writing wit in sight . . . ?

I post a recipe for CITRUS SUGAR COOKIES, and give the requesters something to do during this turbulent time of mine, hoping they will still be around when I make my return to regularly written essays.

May you be able calm your cravings with something for your palate while I calm the chaotic currents of my currently crazy life . . . . Happy baking!

CITRUS SUGAR COOKIES (recipe adapted by moi from http://www.marthastewart.com/)

Makes about 30 large cookies

* indicates to check note at base of recipe

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
1 3/4 cups granulated sugar
1/4 cup packed light-brown sugar
2 large eggs
*2 tablespoons finely chopped candied orange peel (optional, but don’t use orange zest if using candied peel)
Zest of one lemon
Zest of one lime
Zest of one orange
*1/8 tsp lemon or lime oil
*1/4 tsp orange oil
Fine sanding sugar, for sprinkling

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line two baking sheets with Silpats or parchment paper; set aside. Sift together flour, baking soda, and salt; set aside.

2. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter and the granulated and brown sugars on medium speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add eggs one at a time, beating to incorporate after each addition. Mix in candied orange peel, the zests, and the oils. Reduce mixer speed to low, and slowly add dry ingredients. Beat until fully combined and dough begins to form around paddle.

3. Use a *2-inch ice-cream scoop to drop cookies onto prepared baking sheets about 2 inches apart. Flatten cookies with palm of hand. Sprinkle with sanding sugar. Using a pastry brush, lightly brush tops with water. Sprinkle with more sanding sugar. Transfer to oven, and bake until just set and beginning to turn golden at edges, 12 to 15 minutes. Remove from oven. Transfer cookies to wire rack to cool completely.

*Candied orange peel can sometimes be found in stores around the holidays, but there are recipes on the internet to make your own.

*The citrus oils can be found at most stores with candy making supplies. For example, in Columbus they can be found at Drug Mart and Hobby Lobby.

*Feel free to make the cookies as large as called for in the recipe, but they are just as I said, large. I usually make them with a traditional cookie scoop and begin to check them after about 6 min. Always check your baked goods early until you know best how they will bake in your oven.

Why Did the Elephant S**t on My Week?

Weak, disoriented, and hardly able to stand, my pulse begins to race and sucking in air has become a chore rather than part of the natural rhythm of life. The room begins to spin and my stomach lurches, and it's everything I can do to keep my dinner where it belongs.

Just when you think things are going great, the forbidden French foible happens. Some may say it hits the fan, but for me it comes from an elephant's ass, leaving copious piles of poo in my path.

It was about this time two years ago that I found myself making my first official "blog" post, otherwise known as a "note" on facebook. It was entitled A Week Worth Writing about, and it was indeed a week worthy of expression through written word. I could never forget those seven days filled with stories I had told my friends, stories inevitably to be told to my children and grandchildren some day. It was a week of D's; a downward detour of disaster that involved a dishwasher in flames, a drainpipe that wouldn't drain, and a dog untrained, which respectively resulted in a dish stack in the sink, a newly refinished basement becoming a lake, and an forbidden bite out of a four tier wedding cake. It was one of those weeks where one might indulge in a stiff drink to drive away the angst at the end of it all. Alas, that was not the way I rolled back then, so my liquor was left untouched.

I find that while a lot of things have changed since then, so many things have also remained the same, and two years later I find myself with another "week worth writing about".

After Emie's birthday bonanza a couple of weeks ago, we were invited to attend an adult birthday bash of an old buddy of ours. My perception of taxing times was poor, and after what I thought was a somewhat strenuous week, I deemed a stiff drink (okay three) necessary to smooth over the serrated edges and celebrate another year of life, forgetting it had been a day of inadvertent dehydration. Only two screwdrivers and a Mike's Hard Lemonade later did the tough times actually present themselves, and the aforementioned elephant took its first of many dumps on my series of seven days.

At 32 years of age, I finally faced what so many experienced after many more than three drinks, and at an age half that of mine - the first hangover that had hung over my head for so long finally happened . . . . I imagined many would not suppose that was such a bad thing, as a hangover has happened to the best of most. However, while Emie's precious party was the day of my lightweight drunk fest, her actual birthday was the day of dreary drunken regret. Having had many more liquor lavishes in one evening in the past, I never dreamed that three of them would fling me full force into an abysmal after affect. I spent much of the morning praying to the porcelain gods and crying like a crazy woman for the horrible mommy I felt I was in that moment. Sitting in a chair unable to move while my daughter opened her remaining presents was not how I envisioned spending Emie's birthday. Putting on my best happy face, I began to be thankful for Emie only turning three . . . she was none the wiser to my state of suffering, and had she been a bit older she would have assuredly understood the circumstance at hand.

So as each birthday passes in a child's life, subsequently do annual well check-ups . . . Emie's pediatric appointment of 2010 is one I may never forget. Not only, as many of you may already know, am I handed a book called The Difficult Child, but I am informed, after assessing Emie's gait and reflexes, that she may have a condition called Tethered Spinal Cord Syndrome. The panic does not set in initially, as the doctor does not fully explain what this means for my adorable daughter if she continues to live with this condition, but after Googling it I feel like vomiting once more. TSCS is when the spinal cord is fused to at least one part of the spinal column, and is a condition that can eventually interfere with Emie's ability to walk and appropriately relief herself on the potty, a condition that can be cured, but only by surgery on the spine. I try not to think about it much, as no official diagnosis has been made yet. A diagnosis can only come by way of a very expensive and very invasive MRI. Since the condition deteriorates only with growth, we have a bit of a window to watch for possible improvement . . . three months of waiting before we know more.

I am blessed with two days of calm before the storm erupts again – one of my mom's best friend passes away, my Goddaughter is taken to the hospital, and I get a bad burn on the palm of my left hand, and all in the course of one afternoon. The barrage of bad news begins to be too much to manage, and I think about a glass of wine to wipe away the worries for awhile. But the nausea returns as I remember the recent morning of mourning over the misguided decision to drink my misconceived woes away, and just like two years ago, I choose not to roll like that and stay stunningly sober.

So what I am grateful for in this week of wretchedness that my room spinning, heart-racing, short of breath experience which I described above did not occur as it has so many times before. For all it is worth, not having one of my many migraines (which I usually get weekly) is the only redemptive thing about my story of seven days. And much like Emie had no punch line for "Why did the elephant poop on the ground," nor do I have one for "Why did the Elephant Shit on My Week," other than *it* happens sometimes, and so goes the ebb and flow of life and poo.

Why Did the Elephant Poop on the Ground?

The anticipation of the birth of my first daughter, my second baby, was great after a long, difficult, and somewhat high-risk pregnancy. First being on prednisone, then dealing with anemia after weaning off the atrocious steroid, those nine months of my swelling belly seemed to last an eternity. But when the day finally came and they placed my calm and content little one on my lap after a fairly easy induced labor, I fell in love. She lay there quietly sucking her hands and I looked at my husband and said something along the lines of, "I think I want to do this again." After having Aidan I wasn't sure that I would want more than one child, so I found it fascinating that after giving birth to Emie I was thinking about having three. Had I known that three years after at my second child's birth I would be handed a book called The Difficult Child at her annual well check-up, the thoughts of having a third child would have never entered my mind.

Who would have thought that this peaceful beautiful baby face . . .

. . . would have become this spunky monkey . . . .

So having just celebrated her third birthday, I thought the time had finally come to give you an overdue introduction to my daughter Emerson, a free spirited fire-cracker full of obstinate opinions.

The first two weeks of her life were quite calm and collected. Emie was a baby who ate and slept well. Our Eden like existence was short lived though; it took an emergency exit out the back door as Emie presented us with her pistol like personality. The incessant crying and late nights (some with no sleep) began and thoughts of another child quickly flew out the window. While much of the reason for her crying was due to a really bad case of acid reflux, I am now almost certain that at least some of that crying was in part Emie exhibiting the drama, willfulness, and sheer determination she demonstrates so freely today.

This adoring daughter of mine will do anything to be the center of attention. A fine example of this occurred only a few weeks ago while shopping at my local grocery. You see, my son had been telling a lot of "Why does a chicken cross the road" jokes, and my daughter had been using the rhythm of the joke to ask other questions. In her best jokester fashion on this day at the store she asked very loudly, "Why did the elephant poop on the ground?" I couldn't help but laugh out loud before asking her why indeed did the elephant poop on the ground. Her answer was her own laughter with no punch line in sight. I then proceeded to ask her where she heard the joke; she simply replied, "I made it up all by myself." At this I chose to keep my thoughts in my head, which was nodding side to side with a smile . . . Dear Lord Emie, you are obnoxious!

Her obnoxious nature has reached such a pinnacle of precociousness that it moved me to recently type the following two status updates on facebook:

"[I have] told Emie that for all the drama she creates, she best put it to good use someday and then walk me down the red carpet with her."

AND

"[I feel] like I'm in a movie filled with drama, angst and war. Emie is the star whose main goal in life is to waste every single second of the supporting actress's (that would be me) time and eventually drive her insane."

I mean, this is a girl who on a day I let her choose whatever she wants to wear, insists on arguing with me about whether her underwear goes on the outside or inside of her clothes, and upon asking her another day why she chooses to argue with me so much, she answers by belching in my face and laughing. So you can imagine that as her third birthday approaches, preparing for her party is a production like no other (thus yet another bit of a break from my blogging, sorry). She has opinions on what her cake should look like, what characters would support the theme, where she wants the party to be, and so on and so forth, and all at just less than three years of age. Despite her original wishes for a Spiderman party, we somehow (and gratefully) end up with Abby Cadabby's face gracing the cake I work on for so many hours. In the midst of the cake making process I hear more than once "I want my cake now!!!!" To which my reply finally is, "Then perhaps I'll throw this one in the trash." Silence is golden; mommy wins this battle . . . . So when the cake is finally completed, excitement ensues. Upon viewing it she looks up at me, smiles, and says with ardent enthusiasm, "Oh mommy, I love it so much! You did such a good job! Go mommy go, [insert claps] go mommy go!" and then squeezes my arm and says "Mommy I love you so much," and much like the day she is born and placed on my lap, my heart melts once more.

Emie is a girl much like my adult self, so it is inevitable that route of our relationship is going to be one of a collision course, but every crash is worth it for those heart-melting "I love you so much" moments. Her spunk and dogged determination is something I never had as a child, and in fact I was much more like my sweet and shy one, Aidan (who I will pay homage to soon enough). If she is like I am now at three years of age, I can only imagine the strong independent woman she can become by age 32. I have many dreams for her, however, whatever my dreams, they mean nothing next to what she can dream for herself, and I imagine the fearless fireball that is Emie is going to dream big and do whatever it takes to make said dreams come true (and perhaps even come up with a punch line for her now regularly repeated elephant joke, lol). So keep your eyes peeled, because just like any admiring mother, I believe there is a good chance Emerson is going to do something larger than life one day, and when she does, you can bet your ass I'll be shouting from the roof tops and boasting of her brilliance.

To my endearing Emie, always know that Mommy loves you so much too!

Diamond in the Rough

Sleeping soundly, dreaming peacefully, all is right in the world . . . until the blaring begins in my ears and makes me forget my pleasant dream. Ugh, I reach my hand over my head in an attempt shut off the alarm. I slam on the snooze, but to no avail, the pounding at my peace is not my everyday alarm which usually wakes me around 8, but is my ringing phone for which is now unexpectedly interrupting my slumber at 7:30. It takes a moment, but then I remember that it's Monday. Before I even look at the phone I know who is calling; I pretty much know what is going to be said before I even answer it.

I push the button and do my best to make it seem as though I have been awake for awhile. Even though I already know I'm going to have to call my husband in five minutes and sweetly ask him to come home for a bit to take our son to school, I let my friend explain his situation, that his oldest of two daughters is sick, and unless I want to risk my own daughter becoming ill, he is not be able to take my Emie to school on this "Manic Monday". The quiet morning I have planned to have at home has just been cancelled.

I sucked up the sleepiness, did what I needed to do, and tried to ignore the fact that I really could have used that extra 30 minutes of sleep. I also tried to ignore the fact that I missed a lot of time with my family the day before to run the errands, errands I could have been running while my daughter was a school had I known I would not be able to take advantage of my abode. Frustrated with the turn of events, knowing that driving back home and returning to pick up my daughter and her friend (my aforementioned friend's youngest daughter who was in tow) was going to waste an hour of my time, I glanced at stack of books on top of my laptop next to me on my path to preschool and told myself that if I couldn't do housework, I was going to find somewhere quiet to read during this two hour duration I needed to fill.

After kissing the girls goodbye and leaving them to learn, I begin to drive aimlessly in pursuit of a destination, a quaint place to read my books. I think of my favorite coffee shop, coincidentally much closer to the preschool than my home, and take a few wrong turns before arriving. I order cup of hot chai and sit it down next to my laptop to cool a bit. I sit staring at the laptop, knowing that bringing it in would inevitably cause me to put off my reading material. "I'm just going to check my email and facebook account," I tell myself. The next thing I know I am perusing my twitter feed, which I use mainly to follow others, because tweeting is not something I do so much. John Cusack, who loves to tweet, tweet, and retweet, has filled my feed with his thoughts, links, and a quote, a quote that I happen to fall in love with, and suddenly I'm on a quest to add this fascinating find to my email siggie, not an easy task for a low-tech girl like myself.

I end up spending a chubby chunk of my time figuring out how to add this quote to my signature, an experience which forces my fingers to pound away at the keyboard once again. Before I know it my two hours are up, and no novel reading in sight. Normally I would be bummed that I didn't take full advantage of my hazy little diamond in the rough, uninterrupted time to read, but in this case the diamond I do discover is much clearer, whiter, and has a much better cut. It sparkles very brightly and lights the sometimes dim bulb in my brain, for the quote of which I've mentioned has been the gem for which I've been searching, the opening line to something I've been working on since beginning this blog a few months ago, the opening line of an essay which should appear on a blog page near you sometime soon.

Diamonds are rare and hard to find, and finding this one has let me know that writing is what I'm meant to be doing right now . . . that I need to let go of the fact that not many are reading and that the stories I tell need to satisfy no one other than me. For the few of you who keep returning, I'm pleased that you enjoy what I write and I thank you for your loyalty. This day my wish for you is to be blessed with the ability make lemonade out of lemons and find your own sparkling diamond in the rough.

The Business of Time and Thoughtlessness

"Time, time, time; see what's become of me . . . ." From here move into a cool 80's guitar riff and begin to jam. Can you guess the song? If you can, great, but it doesn't really matter. I simply just want to use the opening lyric to the unnamed tune because it fits what I want to talk about, that being time (in case you haven't figured that one out).

During my two week break (or so) from blogging I found I had even less time than I had before, and certainly did not spend the time restfully reading as I anticipated I would. Additionally, unable to piece together the jigsaw puzzle of ideas that flooded over me, I had been left with notes, lots of notes, and nothing thoughtful to present to you yet. Nonetheless, I thought you deserved a drabble in this duration of my absence from essays, so I decided to present you with something rather thoughtless, that was without much thought, not inconsiderate as one would usually presuppose about the term.

Anyway . . . I have been one of those people who thrive on business, that is on being very busy, not on commerce or trade as one usually presupposes about the term (I told you this would be rather thoughtless). I have always wanted something to do, somewhere to be, someone to be with. Now though, after 17 years of schooling, several jobs, a spouse, owning a house, getting a dog, having two kids, and having way too many flower beds installed, I find that these things filling the 32 years of my life experience add up to a whole lot of stuff that creates a whole lot of responsibilities that suck up a whole lot of my time, leaving me with the kind of business (aka busy-ness) I prefer to do without from time to time. *I must interrupt my thoughts for a moment to note that I am grateful for all those things that fill my life, I just don't always welcome the 'side-effects' that come along with them sometimes, but "you can't look a gift-horse in the mouth," and "beggars can't be choosers," so all that being said . . . .* I find that solitude and moments for leisure are two of the things I would love to add back into the equation of my life, two things that I may never experience again as I did in my youth. *I must interrupt again to say "Damn, this thing is thoughtless . . . haven't I talked about this before?"* In any case, I just want to be able to do what the song says (no, not the aforementioned song, another one silly), "open up your plans and damn you're free."

Oh how tempting it is just to cancel with everyone when I'm feeling overwhelmed, but I don't feel right doing that, and in fact I think it's rather rude. I continue to remember the very few occasions I've called off plans without a real reason, because of being exhausted or having too much going on, and I find those odd occasions still bother me today. One of my biggest pet peeves is when someone cancels on me because something better comes up or he/she is tired and/or "doesn't feel like it." My time is important to me (if you haven't gathered that already), so when I go out of my way to make plans with you and give you some of that precious time, I expect you to think really hard about whether your reason for standing me up is valid, as to cancel on me, or anyone for that matter, for no reason is indeed thoughtless in the presupposed meaning of the term . . . just sayin'.

Well, that's it really . . . short, sweet and to the point, no deep thoughts or abhorrent alliteration (though I'm sure you have noticed I cannot leave it out completely). I just have one more thing and a few more ellipses and parenthetical notations before I go . . . the opening line is a lyric from Hazy Shade of Winter as performed by the Bangles, but little have I known until I have begun typing this that it is originally written and sung by Simon and Garfunkel. The other tune is probably much easier to pick out . . . the lyric is from a little hit known as I'm Yours by Jason Mraz. If you click on the titles to the listed songs, you will see that the YouTube videos have been conveniently linked for you. J

So I hope you have enjoyed my lack of large words thoughtless drabble about business (again, busy-ness), time, and thoughtlessness (in both senses of the word). My schedule is slowing down soon, if only for a bit, hopefully giving me more free moments to collect my thoughts to potentially present you with something more thoughtful next time around. Until then, I once again bid you adieu, and as before, hope to return in a week or two. Salut . . . .

Questionable Quirk

I have a secret . . . . Oh all right, not really a secret, rather something that I have not directly disclosed about myself. I'm sure you've surmised by now that I have a lot of bad habits, and upon reading my blog you may have had the infrequent occasion to observe my penchant for this particular practice. Despite that this is something I strive to refrain from revealing here, there have been a few instances where I've divulged this egregious element in these black and white expressions of my essence. It is something I often execute in everyday life, so much so that I am often unaware of this iniquitous idiosyncrasy occurring – until . . . one of my kids demonstrates the said shortcoming of which I speak.

It was only a few weeks ago that I was sitting in my family room, probably browsing the internet (which I do far too much mind you), when Aidan reminded me of my above-alluded disparaging defect. Bloody hell, I thought to myself, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. I stopped what I was doing and I looked at this innocent boy who returned my gaze with a smile before going back to drawing his pretty picture on the Magnadoodle, obviously unaware of his misstep. I took a breath, contemplating how I was going to handle this, wondering if I should press forward with punishment. I knew what I wanted to do, and that letting it go was the preferred path. I mean, how could I expect him to know any better when he observed my mistake many times? I was caught between the old cliché, "a rock and a hard place," trying to decide whether or not to do what I wished, or what society says is necessary. I took another breath, wishing I could tell society to sod off!

Ah yes, so here it is, the art of cursing – my potential propensity for potty-mouth . . . there is nothing like shouting the f-bomb after stubbing my toe, or saying "Damn!" when amused by something a friend has said to me. Swearing is something that has never been censored from my life; both of my parents have done it quite frequently in my presence (although ironically less frequently now than in my childhood), and as such speaking like a sailor is an art I began misusing around age 10. Having never been properly educated on the where's and why's for such explicative expressions, I have additionally never been good at censoring myself and reserving such swears for their appropriate use. Yes you have read that right, APPROPRIATE USE . . . . At this statement you may be starting to consider my sanity, pondering the possibility that I am barking mad for thinking there is ever such an occasion for such foul fair, but before you click the red x on the top right hand corner of your internet browser, deeming me dingy no doubt, I implore you to bear with me for a bit longer while I make my case in point. I present you with an example:

A phrase that most of us use on a regular basis is "have a nice day!" This old adage is typically what one says when intending to wish someone else a great afternoon, so to speak. It's considerate, genuine, and polite when it's used in this form. However, this ancient idiom is also something one (such as myself) may use when a telemarketer refuses listen to one's pleas . . . , "No, I do not want the latest edition Good Grammar and How to Use It! HAVE A NICE DAY! [CLICK]" In the latter instance, this often used expression is certainly not polite, nor is it any way genuinely wishing the telemarketer to have a blissful afternoon, and in the end one may have well just said, "PISS OFF," because that is certainly what one meant.

It is for this reason I believe that it's not the cursing that is wrong, but the purpose behind it. If you are using it to direct ill feelings toward someone or something else, then that is when its usage is definitely inappropriate, something of which I'm guilty of more often than I would like to admit. Saying the cursing equivalent of crap after being incorrect is directed at no one other than myself however, and therefore considered perfectly acceptable, in my humble opinion anyway.

So after hearing Aidan use a "four-letter word" for the first time . . . okay, the first time in a few years . . . I pondered, as I had many times before, about where the idiotic idea of curse words came from in the first place, and why do I have the bleeding responsibility of making sure my kids don't say these sodding senseless taboos? I mean, you think it would be more appropriate to teach my children the suitable use of such assumed slander rather than just telling them not to do it, which in turn could inevitably cause them run off to school and say them to their friends, because as you and I both know, it's always so much fun to do something that is forbidden, is it not? Coincidentally, Susan Sarandon talked about this very subject on David Letterman once years ago. I hoped find the interesting interview on YouTube for all to see, but alas no luck. I cannot recount the discussion for you word by word, but what I may never forget is Ms. Sarandon telling Mr. Letterman that she had recently given her six-year-old son (at the time) a leisurely lesson on the proper usage of the infamous f-word, and that he is indeed allowed to use it in the house if used in the proper sense (such as when stubbing a toe). I was intrigued as I continued to listen to her rationale and I thought she was genius in her decision, hoping that one day I too could teach my kids when and where it was appropriate to utter such unmentionables.

Now, fast forward several years from said interview; I am in a similar situation to Susan. I have a six-year-old son who has just iterated something I say all the time, but if he says it in school, I have no celebrity status to explain myself out of the sticky situation. Despite my deeming his treatment of the word extremely appropriate, I allow the correction of this off kilter conduct to commence. "Aidan," I say as calmly as possible, "can you please tell me what you just said?" He looks up at me again, this time with confusion on his face. "Damn," he answers honestly, but quickly adds, "I didn't know mommy. I didn't know I couldn't say it." I think about how his frustration with the mistake he has made in his drawing, and consider that I would likely have delivered the same dialect in his circumstance. Bugger, I think to myself, as I want to applaud him for using the word correctly, but then I do what I need to do to protect my child from earning a ticket straight to the principal's office one day. "It is okay honey," I begin consolingly; "I know mommy says it too, but it's a grown-up word, and kids aren't supposed to use it. You can get in trouble if you use that word in school, so please don't say it again." He nods, letting me know he understands and goes back to his work. I, on the other hand, grunt in frustration, knowing that one day when he can discern the difference, I plan to let him know that the occasional swearing slip-up in our house for the appropriate reason is okay with me now and then, and perhaps he may in turn have far better censoring sensibilities than I ever have had on such swearing.