I Love My Blog Tracking Software, Part I've Lost Count.

As I've said before, I got the blog tracker to keep an eye on my psycho ex-boyfriend, who is smart enough to figure out how to read me anonymously, so that was kind of a fail. Except when he logs in from his grad school email or Comcast downtown, which thankfully, isn't often at all.

Then it came in handy when the gang at my old job were completely cyberstalking my blog and spending endless hours' worth of the doctors' money reading my daily musings from the office, which I captured all on my computer as pictures as proof, should the need have ever arisen. They were all looking for gossip fodder about me and one of the doctors who fired me, who is still my friend, and sadly, there was no dirt to be found, other than we were still friends and hang out once in a while. Since I threatened to send all of the screen captures to the head doctor of the practice, the former supervisor said she'd like to see the proof. I had to laugh. Why, on God's green Earth, would I send the proof of at-work cyberstalking to one of the chiefly accused perpetrators and not her boss? Let's say I did. She'd look at it, then stick it in the locked shredding box immediately. I am many things. Naive and stupid are not two of them.

My suggestion, to be polite, to offer the statistics to the head doctor must have scared the shit out of my former co-workers en masse. Mysteriously, they stopped reading my blog at work. I don't know if the other co-workers, who the former supervisor said were all reading my blog and NOT her (though she was the only one with private access to a computer in her own office) are still reading my blog, because I don't know their IP addresses or necessary locations. If they still are, mazel tov! If any of them are still looking up the words "balderdash" and "verities" in the dictionary, shame on them.

It's also a shame that they're courting, or so I've heard, vendors that will help them switch to paperless charting. Given the quantity and thickness of all the charts, OMG, what a nightmare. An expensive nightmare that the head doctor will poo poo, as he's sort of techno challenged and old school, though I love him and hugged him without abandon as I left the office for the last time, wishing him the best as he did me, before I demanded he go get my doctor friend to walk me out because I was about to utterly fall apart. I even told him as he walked away to take it easy, and called him by his first name for the first time, EVER. (The shock wore off and the relief settled in pretty quickly.) Anyway, it's a shame they fired the most technologically advanced staff member with the worst data entry skills but, if given the opportunity, would've been their smartest computer boon. Too late now, wing dings!

My former supervisor had even been absent from the blog for a short time, only to reappear over the weekend to check in on All Things Annie. She probably just wanted to see if I lived to see my 40th birthday, which mercifully, I did. Silly former supervisor. She used to Google my name to get to my blog, either too dumb to remember what the URL was called, too dumb to bookmark it or save it to "favorites," or just isn't terribly internet savvy.  She switcherooed and started using a new web search engine to get to the blog. Nice try, but her IP address and location were still the same and can't change. (If she logs in on her phone, which she insists she doesn't, it will show a different carrier, so that's tricky. But I've heard complaints that my blog is really hard to read on a phone, mostly because of the old background. Not that the Lennon "Andrea Rocks" background makes things any easier, but I like it anyway.

Then we have the Anxiety-Ridden Church Member whom my comments and diatribes made so uneasy that, to torture herself further, read 13 blog entries over 2 days last month. Nothing attracts readers  and spells out "friend" like an insatiable inquisition to know more about a writer's mindset and belief system, especially when it grains against that of your church denomination, and half the church, minus the Pastor, but including some people who were closer to me than this woman, think I'm bound for hell for speaking my mind, confiding in people who gossip behind my back about who I choose as friends and loved ones and my alcohol problem. That's totally cool to an anti-authoritarian, peace-loving anarchist who doesn't let society OR the church denomination dictate my mannerisms. As the old adage goes, "Opinions are like assholes. Everybody's got one."

I actually opened myself up to yet more internet scrutiny by allowing readers to see my Twitpic photos at the bottom of the blog page. Previously, those photos were reserved for the 105 people who privately follow me on Twitter, all hand-approved by me and I'm very selective. But I post some silly pictures on there and I'm not ashamed or embarrassed about them, so what the fuck ever. If I can post a picture of myself pre-surgery in a paper hat and a gown, making a dumb face, what modicum of vanity do I have left?

But what's the most fun about the blog tracking software? The utterly insane, crazy ass shit that people Google or web search and wind up on my blog and I have NO IDEA WHY. I really should compile a "Best of" list sometime. I do enjoy all the readership under the guise of "hidemyass.com." That just cracks me up. Internet proxies are actually quite easy to trace.

Best Google searches that happened today of people who wound up visiting The Offbeat Drummer?

1. Wells Fargo Bank, Inc, who looked up the satisfaction of FDIC Section 19, from a blog that mentioned it 4 years ago. You're the fucking BANK. The FDIC oversees you. Shouldn't you be more aware of what their regulations might be? Just sayin'.

2. (This person is clearly more insane than I am.) This reader simply wound up on my home page, the blog about Brian Eno and Craig both being deemed douchebags last night, but read it anyway, after Googling this entire paragraph (you can't make this shit up):

"letters when my black friends came to watch a ball game and smoke pot, i didn't realize my white was ovulating when i talked her into using pot by half my wife ask my 2 black friends to fuck one had a 10" cock the cock was only 3" thick and 14" long both fucked and cun in her over 20 times about a month later the doctor said my wife was pregnant"

Excuse me, but what the fuckety fuck does THAT all mean? Not only is it poorly written, racist and utterly distasteful (trust me, if I find it distasteful, it's distasteful), it makes absolutely no logical sense. Have I written about smoking pot? Yes. Have I written about my pregnancy? Yes. Have I ever uttered the word "cock" on my blog? No. That was as close as I could get to deciphering this utter nonsense. But I had to laugh at it's randomocity. 


NON-SEQUITUR ALERT FOR THOSE OF YOU STILL TRYING TO UNDERSTAND THE WORD NON-SEQUITUR!

(For definition purposes, Arlene and friends, not that I employ Christopher language often, but a "non-sequitur" is a "fancy word" for a random, non-linear strand of thinking that does not correlate from idea to idea. It's Latin. I use it when I'm blogging about topics that aren't related to one another in the same blog. Get it? Got it? Good.)

Driving home from therapy today, a filthy Rolls Royce pulled out in front of me, with Kentucky license plates. I was like, "If you're rich enough to afford a Rolls, keep it clean, people!" They eventually pulled up beside me, and I was fascinated to find the driver a man of 60+ years driving, donning a ponytail, a long, scraggly beard and wearing a tank top. His companion was a prematurely aging, wrinkled broad who looked like she was recovering from a crystal meth problem. I attributed the driver and his uber-luxury vehicle to living off of his royalties earned while he was a member of the Marshall Tucker Band. Sometimes the people you encounter are stranger than the people who Google your blog.

Awakened at 5:30 am today and felt incredibly drowsy by 6:30 and couldn't focus my eyes on my computer. I didn't have to be at therapy in the city until 11am. Decided to shower and head to my one major errand of the day: grocery shopping. There's a Starbucks in my local Dominicks (the more upscale Park Ridge store than the Jewel I patronize nearby in Chicago), so to counteract my drowsiness, I ordered a half Pike Place Roast with 3 shots of espresso and steamed soy milk. Stirred in 2 packets of Equal and stuck my cup in the cart's cup holder. Whizzed around the store like a fucking maniac on crack, simply giddy that coffee no longer makes me throw up, among other things.

Arrived at therapy and my counselor asked me if I was manic. I said no. She asked me if I was elated (an expressly elevated mood is a symptom of hypomania, so she had to ask), and I said no, but that I was mostly happy. I attributed my alertness and jibba jabba to the espresso and proceeded to tell her about my upcoming birthday party, and the stress and tension I was feeling surrounding it: from my mom and from some of the guests on the invite list. She explained, and I understood, that my mom wanting the house to be perfect and wanting to wash the doors and windows downstairs as a reflection of my mom's home on my friends, and her desire to leave a good impression, taking pride in her home. I just thought she was being overly neurotic and that my friends, in all likelihood, could give a crap about how clean my house is, but my counselor said if she's willing to go to the effort of cleaning, and making brownies and little weenies in sauce as an appetizer, I should be damn grateful and look upon it as a gesture of love. Re-framing my thoughts worked. Just as Kate re-framing my hostility towards the friend who forgot my birthday centered me and led way to mindfulness and introspection, hence my in-kind respond to his apology text and a pleasant phone conversation on Saturday.

(My counselor also said that I'm so transparent that she can gauge my mood the second I walk into our session. Surprised, I wondered if SHE can see right through me, what must my friends and loved ones think? OMGOODNESS.)

I just want to have a fun party where nobody bickers, or assassinates anyone else's character, or pries my friends about their lives. Nobody's coming to have their lives dissected. They're coming to celebrate that I survived to age 40. Regardless of what opinions anyone might have about any of my friends, there needs to be respect FOR my friends and their families and I want my guests to feel comfortable and at ease in my home. Simple as that. For everybody. The invite list is a veritable motley crew of unique personalities and backgrounds, and I love them all. I'm deeply grateful to those who've offered to help out with things, and hope it goes well. I'm a hapless party host incapable of multi-multi-multi-tasking. My game idea: Everyone paints a quick painting on the aforementioned gift I received of a Buddha Board, I take a picture of their drawing/painting, and make an online album of it as a keepsake. It doesn't matter if you can draw or paint--it's a zen thing of whatever enters your consciousness first and moves you to create something, even if it's stick figures. Lord knows I can't draw or paint. I got it to easily learn how in a practical, simple way. And it's certainly more appropriate than the Hip Flip Swinging Couples game I got at the church yard sale...

Sri Christ, Sri Krishna and always beware of maya...

Douchebags of the Night Awards.

1. Brian Eno is a douchebag. Perhaps I'd have such feelings about the impact of art if I were a 12-year old boy playing "Call of Duty." Video games are a great example of temporary illusion that incites strong feelings IN THE MOMENT. Utter and complete fantasy. One of the innovators of ambient music, and a prominent producer (and former member of Roxy Music) and visual artist, Brian Eno is widely respected in the arts. I get it; he's being all minimalist and blah blah. But speaking solely of film as a medium...think about the films you have gone so far as to OWN. Why do you own them? Because they left an indelible impression upon you. Think about the films you know and can quote by heart. Why can you? Because you can relate them to your own life. Think about the films that, even with fictional enhancement, have taught you important real life historical lessons, where the lines between "not real" and "very real" get blurry. They make a difference because you learn from them. If I'm missing something in this quote and taking it too literally, fill me in, people. Because art, in all its forms, has been a lifesaver for me. Hence, Brian Eno? You're a douchebag.

"The whole point of art, as far as I’m concerned, is that art doesn’t make any difference. And that’s why it’s important. Take film: you can have quite extreme emotional experiences watching a movie, but they stop as soon as you walk out of the cinema. You can see people being hurt, but even though you feel those things strongly, you know they’re not real." - Brian Eno

2. Craig is a douchebag.

Tonight, Luke went for a bike ride at his dad's house. His seat needed an adjustment. His father, who is one of those people who, much like myself, is hyper crazy book smart but lacks any semblance of common sense, didn't tighten the seat properly. It came apart as Luke was riding, and he fell into a pile of jagged rocks.

The results:

Oh, Craig's poo pooing me and saying Luke's fine and bandaged up nicely, and too bad for me if I'm not in the mood to see pictures online of my son's gaping arm wounds displayed on Facebook.

I sat out in the sun today at the patio table working. I'd been up since 4:45 am. My neck was about the only thing in the sun, and the only sunscreen I put on was on my tattoo, so it wouldn't fade. Craig sent me the following message: "You might as well stick your tongue in an electrical outlet." My erstwhile husband's affection and concern for me astound me in their utter vapidity.

The last Douchebag of the Night Award goes to the folks who spread viral online videos that are guaranteed to "touch us" or "move us to tears." They're all over social networking (particularly from religious sites and pages) or forwarded to me by my mom. I don't watch them. I'd rather have my gums scraped. This one caught my eye, however, because of the description.

83 Year Old Man on Oxygen Brings Everyone to Tears with a Song

This man died shortly after this video was filmed, but he leaves behind beautiful inspiration. Fred originally rehearsed Fix You with his best friend, but he passed away....and Fred decided to do it anyway, on oxygen and in his final days. So touching.

This is on par with videos of babies, puppies and kittens. What struck me was the choice of song this old coot decided to sing. It was Coldplay's "Fix You," which holds special meaning for me. I simply couldn't resist. There's no way to embed the video, so I'll just provide the link:

http://www.godvine.com/83-Year-Old-Man-on-Oxygen-Brings-Everyone-to-Tears-with-a-Song-1485.html

It's subtitled in German! He's got what my friend, Sara, calls a "front butt." He barely chokes out a quarter of the song and gets a standing ovation. If anything, it's a good quit-smoking-so-you-don't-end-up-on-oxygen message, another topic which Craig was douchbaggingly nagging me about today.

Oh, Fred. Rest in Peace.

Oh, Craig. You big dope.

Oh, Brian Eno. You defy logic.

Mum's the Word.

Mother's Day and my family birthday celebration were awesome.

Had my brother, Steve, and nephew, Jake, over..Steve's task for the day was drilling into the brick and mortar of the house to put up a new flower box for my mom. It IS indeed hard here at Camp Miklasz not having a man around all the time to do household projects. We rely a lot on our awesome next door neighbor, Jeff, who is the custodian at our church. Mind you, Steve's STRONG, but he was having a helluva time drilling with his drill and bits into the brick. 

I was enjoying the sunny, warm day outside working on my writing. Jeff's daughter, Mariah, who sings with my band at church, dropped by with red velvet cupcakes for us all, including Luke and Jake, who were upstairs at the time, having spent some time filming themselves shooting BB's into a picture of Justin Bieber and trying to set it on fire, though the wind kept extinguishing the flame and the paper wouldn't burn. Bieber's got THAT much staying power. 

(For some reason, I got an issue of Billboard magazine in the mail, to which I don't subscribe. There were no music charts in the magazine, however, and it ended up being just a magazine-sized advertisement for the Billboard Music Awards. Lame. At least, via the magazine, I figured out who this Snooki woman is that everybody's talking about.)

What'd Steve do with his cupcake? Epic fail. Jeff had run over to church to get a special drill that goes into cement, which saved Steve a crapload of time and manpower. 

Steve's cupcake:

The neighborhood was visited by a lowly mouse, who decided to run from one side of our complex to our side of the complex, which drove Mariah and I (who were hanging out outside) onto our chairs with our legs, my mother completely freaking out and Steve looking for the mouse by Mariah's air conditioner. Ma decided to get out the big assault rifle...the water hose, and spray until the mouse revealed himself. Soon enough, he did, running directly through Steve's legs, which sent Steve about 5 feet up in the air, and soon enough the mouse disappeared into the weeds of the unkempt people across from us, probably terrified. 

Came inside the house to find Luke, once again showing off his brute strength by him lifting me up again (118 lbs), lifting up Jake (140 lbs), with Jake picking up Luke (holy crap!). Ma, already frantic, said to the boys, "Be careful! You might hurt your testicles!" which seemed ODD if no other response, but it's Ma. 

After the yard work was done, we all went to our favorite Chinese restaurant for dinner. It was delicious, even given the giant black hair in my chicken and broccoli, which made me gag. There was also something black floating in my water, though I generally avoid the water at his particular restaurant because it tastes moldy. I stick with the tea. Ma was none too pleased when Luke sneezed with a mouthful of food, half of it coming back out and heading in multiple directions. It's not like he did it on purpose! 

I said to my brother, "Donald 'Duck' Dunn died." Ma was like, "What? Donald Duck's son?" "No, Ma. he was the bass player with the Blues Brothers." Etc Etc..we finished our meal, packed up the multiple leftovers to go, and went back home to celebrate my mom's and my special day.

Next to Luke's Darth Vader Tin of amazement, my favorite gift was that of a Buddha board from Steve and Jake. The concept is simple and zen: you paint with water on the surface with water, and before you know it, it dries and you have a clean canvas on which to paint. My first try?

My OM was messy, but accurate nonetheless. I liked the way the water extended the cross's length.

Commenced birthday celebrating, when I got dibs on the special cake my mom makes but once a year for me. It's a sponge cake layered in freshly whipped chocolate cream. it's an orgasm on a plate, and I ate a piece relatively the size of the Grand Canyon. FYI, it takes an average smoker with asthma 3 tries to blow out 6 candles:

Steve and Jake left in time for my mom and I to watch the series finale of "Desperate Housewives." When they left, I was in he living room with Luke.  My mom exclaimed what I thought was funny and random: "THEY'RE CHINESE!" Forgetting what we ate for dinner already, I misheard her pronoun.she actually meant "THEIR CHINESE!" leftovers. Luke raced out of the house and caught Steve in time before he drove away, thank Heavens, though he took off with Luke's leftover moo shu in tow. Ack, it's alright. 

Luke managed to videotape the vast majority of my birthday celebration, more for posterity than for YouTube fame. It was 45 minutes long, and shows my family at their wackiest. I'm not sure I'd *want* it up for public viewing, especially after my brother blew his nose at the table. 

All in all, it was a great Mother's Day (I got a goth/emo hand-drawn card from Luke that said "Have a bloody good day" and looked like a jagged knife inscribed it (how fitting), some candy and a balloon. The celebrating's not over yet...there's still my party on Saturday, growing ever larger. I think of  it not as an overwhelming amount of people in my house but rather a gathering of souls who all love me and in a lot of cases, love one another. 

Mazel tov!

Eat Fresh and Other Oddities, Or чему на самом деле учит библия.

The band was on fire last night. We were either a) filled with the Holy Spirit, or b) we're getting our shit together, even given we only have a lead guitarist, a drummer (me) and 4 (3 last night) singers. I decided to disassemble the 2 stupid rubber cymbals from my stupid electronic kit, which I never use anyway (I use my real cymbals) and always seem to get in the way of me hitting the upper toms. The pads on the electronic kit are so much smaller than the heads of a real drum, and if you misfire, no sound comes out of them at all. As a result, my speed picked up doing improvised fills, which came out of nowhere but were far more complex than the ones I typically employ. Glory be and holy shit! Jake, our guitarist, and I blended together like cake batter in a speed mixer. That, with a sermon on friendship, capped off what was a great service.

I gave Pastor Dave an enthusiastic thumbs-up Friday night when the sleeve of his t-shirt edged up and revealed that he has a big tattoo on his arm. It's of an open-mouth bass fish, that he got in the Army. (His last name is Bass, so he thought it befitting at the time.) A minister with a tattoo. Boss. His niece, Chloe, who sings in our band, came up to me after church and asked me where I got my tattoos. I told her, and she described to me the 3 tattoos she plans on getting, all of which are innocuous enough (she's studying to be a DCE, Director of Christian Education) and they have to be easy to cover up (silly rule) and approved by her collegiate superiors (how un-punk!). I told her we could go together, with Dave, while Pastor's 4-year old daughter told me she wants a tattoo of Curious George. I told her I thought that was a fabulous idea. Annabug (her nickname) then held up her fingers and exclaimed "I'm FOUR!" I held up 4 of my fingers and made a zero with my other hand and exclaimed "I'm FORTY!" and she was like "Whoa!" and then wanted to see my tattoos. Saving up, both Chloe and I, the tentative plan is to have Dave take us both to the Tattoo Factory (unless Tatus and I go sooner) later this summer. Woot! Tattoos for everybody!

Couldn't help but notice that a Superhero had visited and signed our church's guest register, on an undisclosed date and from a mysterious city, not Gotham, which was odd and cracked me up:

At first, I thought this bucket full of dank, dirty church roof seepage said "GOD USED LIGHT BULBS," which like WOW! There are lamps in Heaven? Or was this a political statement? In any event, this also seemed humorous to me:

Luke and I headed to Subway for some takeout after church, both feeling silly, having laughed about God knows what en route. We passed the usual shoe repair shop next to Subway, whereupon we came to peer in the windows. (This is the one from many blogs ago where it looked like they were having an intense 3-way Bible study the last time I went to Subway.) Luke was shooting video for his YouTube channel (Bechteloffices, you should really subscribe and watch his videos--it's easy to join YouTube as a user, and simple to subscribe. 1,500,000 viewers can't be wrong with Luke!) and I took a picture of a Bibleish book in what language I couldn't decipher at the time:

At first I thought it was in Greek. Then I posted it to Facebook where my intelligent friend, Heidi, was quick to point out that it was, in fact, in Russian, and meant "What is actually taught in the Bible." Gee, I'd love to hear their version of it. I wonder if they buy that whole Noah and the Ark story, or that the Earth is only 4,000 years old and God created the Heavens and the Earth in only 6, 24-hour days.

Here's where Luke and I are both neurotic and simpatico, attached at the soul: The potato chip holder on our side of the counter was crooked. Luke first tried straightening it out, and couldn't. He waited until he noticed it bothered me as our sandwiches were being prepared. I finally noticed and couldn't move it. "Isn't that driving you nuts?" I asked Luke. He agreed. His sandwich artist was putting roast beef on Luke's sandwich as he was laughing. I said, what I thought was under my breath but was wrong, "Man, that'd drive me crazy. Trying to get the meat off in slices and placing them on the sandwich." Luke wholeheartedly agreed, knowing my anxious nature. "Yeah," Luke said. The sandwich artist interrupted and said, in a deadpan monotone, "The meat is very fragile. It is delicate." He then took the pile of roast beef and literally threw it back into the Roast Beef Meat Holder without abandon. "Uh, it can't be THAT fragile!" I told Luke. We laughed the whole time our sandwiches were being made, which probably unnerved the Subway guy. Luke asked for extra pickles and got about 37 placed on his sandwich. And extra black olives, also of which he got a plethora.

Meanwhile, an assistant came to finish my sandwich. I had my usual: a 6" turkey w/spinach, tomato, cucumber, pepper jack cheese (I was mysteriously given 3 slices instead of 2), oil & vinegar, oregano and parmesan, and EXTRA black olives. Whereas Luke got about 42, I got 6. During the oiling and vinegaring stage, Luke asked for the same thing and his sandwich was carefully squirted upon. His sandwich artist then squeezed some on my sandwich, which would've sufficed, until my guy took the stuff and squeezed another like cup and a half of oil and vinegar onto my sandwich, soaking it literally. I interrupted with a "Whoa! That's enough!"

Deadpan Subway Guy gave Luke his choice of the 2 cookies of the day that were left, as Luke contemplated Flaming Hot Cheetos over his Garden Veggie Sun Chips. I poo pooed the Cheetos and we were rung up. (I don't get chips. Luke said, "That's all you're going to eat is that little sandwich? I said, "I'm a little person." He shook his head and agreed.) We were still laughing at our sandwich artists when we were rung up, when Luke said, "I have OCD's." "Oh yeah, about what?" I don't recall off hand what Luke said, but I remember diagnosing it as a neurosis and not a true OCD. I said "The chip holder being crooked? THAT'S an OCD."

We left, drove home laughing, ate laughing and went back about our business at home laughing, probably annoying my mom, but we didn't care. There's literally nowhere Luke and I go together that doesn't turn into a slapstick, juvenile humor-fest. God, I love that kid.

After being carded at the gas station for cigarettes on my birthday, I had no choice but to settle for a carton of short Camels as opposed to the 100's (tall) ones I usually smoke.

I took up the issue with Steven, who is on tour in Japan.

Me: "Fill me in. Are short cigs chemically different than talls? Had to buy shorts & they're like crack cocaine. I want one every 15 minutes. Talls? I'm cool for like an hour."

Steven: "I thought they were the same?"

Me: "One would think. They cut my smoking pleasure by about 4 minutes...maybe it's that & I crave another too quickly. But dude! I got carded buying them on my 40th bday! Clerk said I didn't pass for 30, so yay me!"

Steven: "That's always nice!"

He felt bad about going into a tirade on Twitter and asked if Twitter rage and real rage are the same thing, because he felt they were.

Me: "Twitter rage can be deleted in one click. Life rage sticks in your craw and decays your gravity."

Steven: "Yes. I like 'decays your gravity.'"

Me: "It's all relative. If you spew rage, chances are someone harbors rage against you, which upsets everyone's balance. I'm guilty of it like we all are. 'Isn't it a Pity' is a good song that helps explain my philosophy, though the decay of gravity just popped into my head!"

I thought about all the bickering I'd been spewing back at my friend for forgetting my birthday. He apologized and Kate told me he is trying really hard and I should be more patient and understanding with him, and she's right. He finally called, after I'd texted him more George Harrison song stuff, Saturday afternoon. He wished me a Happy Mother's Day, and RSVP'd to my birthday party next Saturday night. I said, "You're not coming, are you?" and he said, "No, I AM coming!" which surprised and elated me. His unique ability to change my mood immediately from sullen to happy is one of the best things about our friendship.

If the head count is right, he should be among 3 males at the party in total, depending when he decides to come, so the testosterone/estrogen playing field is evening out. Id' hate to have him be the sole male exposed to all of my girlfriends, all of whom know about our friendship. I'd been thinking pizza and pop, but now I'm considering appetizers, dips & whatnot, and pop. Since it's an open house, come & go as you please, I'm hesitant to have food that has to be kept hot (pizza). And instead of a cake, I'm thinking a large fruit/custard tart and a batch of brownies. I should be entertaining approximately 15 people coming and going, which is a load for my house, but I'm looking most forward to it.

Here's how I thought I'd point guests towards my house, if they're unfamiliar with where I live:

Truer words were never spoken! Sri Christ! Sri Krishna!

Bang the Drum, Richard.

From the interwebs:

In 1966, the famed Nobel Prize-winning physicist Richard Feynman, a passionate drummer, was asked by a Swedish encyclopedia publisher to supply a photograph of himself "beating the drum to give a human approach to a presentation of the difficult matter that theoretical physics represents." Feynman's reply? 

"Dear Sir, 
The fact that I beat a drum has nothing to do with the fact that I do theoretical physics. Theoretical physics is a human endeavor, one of the higher developments of human beings, and the perpetual desire to prove that people who do it are human by showing that they do other things that a few other humans do (like playing bongo drums) is insulting to me. I am human enough to tell you to go to hell.

Yours, RPF"


I couldn't begin to begin to begin to tackle theoretical physics, but I *am* The Offbeat Drummer, so this naturally struck a chord with me. (Never mind that in the photograph, he's almost clearly playing a conga drum and not a bongo drum...) I can't master the laws of natural physics, never mind theoretical physics. I can't even park a car in an angled, slotted space correctly. 

"Are You Mom Enough?" Detachment Parenting

People astound me. More folks, in my unscientific yet merit-worthy poll, find this parent more likely to be unfit:

Than this parent:

"It's commonplace in Europe," my mother said, on the subject of breastfeeding your school-aged children. Fine. They also serve wine to their children at the dinner table, and this is commonplace. (Wow, how weird would it be to have your kid still attached to your mammary glands every night AND sipping wine at the table?)

The tattooed mom is clearly comforting her toddler. Skinny-jeans-tank-top mom is smugly, defiantly looking at the camera with her tit hanging out and her preschooler looking forcefully smashed into her chest.  "Are you MOM ENOUGH?" Mom enough for what? To go on the cover of a magazine with my kid who can go to school, piss on a toilet, put his clothes on and most likely read and write, but who, due to an interest in "attachment parenting" is still breast-nuzzling (it's not feeding anymore, folks)?

Attachment parenting. The mere concept of having your baby/toddler/child firmly by your side like 24/7 is insane to me as a parent.

Don't get me wrong. I agree that "breast is best." FOR BABIES. Breast milk contains antibodies and other boons enriching a baby's brain and development that (naysayers claim) isn't in formula. Me? I flunked Breastfeeding 101, even having my baby a week after the class we took. Lactation consultants were on my like white on rice at the hospital after I had my c-section, getting me to try and pump at least colostrum for Luke to drink, even if I wasn't producing milk. Man can not live on colostrum alone. And Resurrection had that awful rooming-in game going on. Your baby is by your side in a bassinet 24 hours a day. A recent article in Consumer reports states that new moms get "as much rest" and "bond more effectively and promote breastfeeding" with rooming-in. Wrong, wrong and wrong.

The nurses always seemed to fixate the bassinet just out of my limited reach, and the c-section, after the anesthesia wore off, felt like I was being ripped open from stem to stern every time I attempted to get my screaming, hungry infant into my loving arms. He was about 2 weeks premature, which is ok, though he weighed 6 lb, 6 oz at birth and due to my inability to feed him myself, went down to 5lb, 10 oz in a few days. The lactation consultants were relentless and pressurizing. During the night one night, Craig was at home sleeping as he had to work, and Luke was just screaming and screaming. The bothered nurse said it was because he was starving, and she was taking him away to the nursery for a bottle of formula. As far as I was concerned, she could keep him in the nursery until it was time to discharge me, so I could get some fucking rest.

Brought Luke home and we *thought* our attachment version of parenting was good enough. We laid him down in the cradle Craig's dad made, that he refinished for Luke, at the foot of our bed, and though Luke was swaddled securely, he screamed....a LOT. My theory was that when he moved, the cradle inevitably moved, and he didn't like the motion. We sure as hell weren't going to co-sleep with him, as he had a perfectly fine nursery in the next room. Sure enough, we put him in his crib (with a little foam thingy to keep his body from flailing) and between that and the formula feedings, he became much happier and calm, as did his parents.  I didn't carry him around in a sling, like the attachment parents (who, by the way are the most likely to turn into helicopter parents) did. I didn't wear a Baby Bjorn, either. We held him, or he was strapped on the counter in his bouncy seat, when I had to do things in the house. Some days, we'd both conk out together for a nap, Luke lying on my chest. But certainly, Luke wasn't glued to either Craig or myself. He was very loved, adored and engaged with, even if the attachment parents deemed us as borderline neglectful.

Since I had him during the bleak/cold/snowy month of January, we didn't get out much those first few months. People mostly came to our house. Once spring arrived and I could take him for a walk in his stroller, I did that (first in his attached car seat and then just strapped into the stroller) regularly. Like I've said before, we read to him constantly in our arms or laps, with his bottle of formula, then supplemented with baby solid foods (except meats--I had him on silken tofu mixed into his baby food, and he was on soy formula). Gasp! I put him in his playpen when I'd go downstairs and get the mail out of the box in our apartment building or as I cooked dinner! Call DCFS!

It's not breastfeeding I inherently disapprove. What I think is tacky is a mom in a pair of skinny jeans and a tank top with her giant preschooler standing there sucking on her. My firm belief and opinion is that if you're going to breastfeed, wean the BABY off the BREAST once the baby becomes capable of being nutritionally balanced by solid foods and milk (soy, almond, cow's, hemp, whatever). Certainly wean him off once he's potty trained. If you haven't done so by the time the kid can whiz on the toilet, get dressed himself, go to preschool and read books, you're using your breasts as comfort magnets and nothing else. A ton of MORE breast milk isn't going to turn your school-aged child into the next Einstein who has the greatest immune system on the planet. It's out and out unnecessary. Time Magazine wants to challenge mothers with their headline of "Are You Mom Enough?" I'm mom enough to foster and encourage independence, non-conformity, self-esteem, confidence, and a desire to absorb knowledge, and I cut him off of his bottle, which at a certain point HE was using for comfort or to go to sleep when he was 2 1/2. If he was THIRSTY, he could have water or milk in a sippy cup until he was ready for a plastic regular cup. Jesus, attachment parents? Get your kid a Curious George to snuggle with, his favorite blankie and off his fucking case already, sleeping in his own damn bed. Back off, Bugaloo! I sure as hell wouldn't want to instill permanent brain scarring on my son by him REMEMBERING that he breast "fed" until he was 3,4 or 5. That's an unnatural thing to me, but makes sense to the true attachment parent movement.

If this seems careless or harsh towards Luke, it's quite the opposite. Sure, we had used the Ferber Method to get him to fall asleep without us rocking him to sleep and sitting with him until he fell asleep.   (Leave him alone for 5 minutes, check in on him, tell him to go to sleep and return in 10 minutes...so on and so forth, until he goes to sleep on his own ideally much earlier in the night.) But we did it. Eventually, he learned that Mom & Dad had their bed in their room, and he had his bed in his room, and stopped wandering in during the night (once he was in a twin bed). Alas, for a while now, he's needed to be re-Ferberized, as he had been refusing to go to sleep at Craig's house unless Craig was sitting next to him in a chair. I don't know where that came from, but Craig's having success with the Re-Ferberization, and Luke's almost 13 for crissakes, get over your fear of darkness already! He wasn't like this as a toddler and isn't like that when he's at my house, at all. Am I, personally, Mom enough? To Luke, I am more than enough. I'm the quintuple model of enough Mom.

It's sad that people assume the tattooed (and probably pierced) mom is looked upon as being a scuzzy loser who had no business having a child. My friend, Christa, has multiple tattoos and a nose ring. She's a fabulously caring, loving mother. I'm getting another tattoo and as you know, I have a total of 10 piercings on my head at present. I may be the anti-authoritarian, liberal freaky mom, but I'm a great freaky mom. And it's a safe bet that I have a far more generally adaptable and independent 12-year old because Craig and I never smothered or hovered over Luke. When I went for the 1st tattoo, I thought of my mantra from years ago: "Do I really want to be an 85-year old woman with tattoos?" My line of thinking shifted to this: "I just want to be 85 years old someday." What I look like, how I dress or adorn my body is all immaterial. People are drawn to my charisma, not my wacky shirts or my ink and rings.

Regaling the hysterics of getting carded for cigarettes yesterday, on my 40th birthday, to my brother, he said I probably looked under 21 because I have "so many piercings" which apparently, to Steve, make me look like a "young kid." (I'm not the one who bought a motorcyle, speaking of being juvenile, ahem...) I asked the clerk for the carton of cigarettes, and she said, "Would you mind showing me an ID, hun?" I said, "Why, don't I look over 21?" She took my ID and looked at it. I said, "Today's my 40th birthday." Other than a "Wow! Happy Birthday!" she was shocked. I told her she made my day. Similarly, my next door neighbor, Patti, asked me if I'd had the hysterectomy yet, to which I said yes, and she told me I looked fantastic. I told HER the next day was my 40th, and she said "Wow, you look fantastic! You seriously look about 30. You're not overweight, you don't have any wrinkles...wow." Between the gas station clerk and my neighbor, who's yelpy little dog bit my leg last summer, I don't care. I have two new best friends.

One of Luke's gifts to me yesterday? He picked me up and lifted me several inches off the ground, with his own arms. Never say my son isn't strong....he also gave me Darth Vader Men's boxer tin case, full of mints, hand sanitizer, a red pinky ring, a deck of cards from a casino with a hole through each card in the pack, a dollar bill and a homemade (that actually works!) 1gb flash drive held together by 2 quarters and some Super Glue. Inventive. Ingenious. Inexpensive! Useful!

My mom made me a spectacular dinner last night of beef stroganoff, fresh popovers, and brownies with Snickers ice cream on them. Divine and more food than I've eaten in one sitting in like 3 years.

All things being equal, my 40th birthday celebration #1 was a humbling, oozing love fest. Between texts, calls and Facebook posts, I received approximately 130 birthday greetings. Until one special person forgot my birthday entirely. I had just gotten off the phone with Kate when I texted him at 11pm with an angry diatribe about his distaste for the virtual world, and how many people wished me a happy birthday, and referred him to George Harrison's "Isn't it a Pity" to listen to. Sheepishly, tail between his legs, he replied to my text last night quoting Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," with the line "From every mistake, we must surely be learning. Happy B'day, Love (Friend's name)." I responded late this afternoon with another Harrison quote, from his 1975 song "The Answer's At the End." It said:

Scan not a friend with a mircoscopic glass. You know his faults, now let his foibles pass. Life is one long enigma, my friend, so live on. Live on. The answer's at the end. (Chorus) Don't be so hard on the ones that you love. It's the ones that you love, we think so little of..."

I half expected to hear from him tonight, but didn't and don't expect a call tomorrow either. And while invited to my birthday party next Saturday night, he hasn't RSVP'd. I highly doubt he's coming, which leaves Pastor Dave as the only testosterone at the party. My birthday. A deflation after much elation. And so it goes...

"Isn't it a pity? Now, isn't it a shame? How we break each other's hearts and cause each other pain? How we take each other's love, without thinking anymore. Forgetting to give back. Isn't it a pity?" --George Harrison

Holy Crap, I Lived to 40!

I did it. I made it to 40 years old, when I didn't think I'd see 35. I stood up and I said, "YEAH!" It's only 6am and the well-wishes are pouring in, which humbles and makes me very happy. But I think, so far, this one's my favorite, courtesy of my friend Sara: