Hub today, Goon tomorrow

Today I taught Chicky "Little Rabbit FooFoo", complete with hand motions and exaggerated expressions. Desperate to take her attention away from Raffi's extensive song list I had to dig deep in to my bag of tricks for that one. It's been years since I even thought about that children's song with the strange moral "Hare today, Goon Tomorrow" but I remembered enough of the words to have Chicky giggling madly.

After I put her down for a nap, her still singing the song to herself and bopping her invisible field mice, I continued to hum the song, too. It struck me, as I got to the part where the good fairy threatens to turn Little Rabbit FooFoo into a goon, that the word "goon" had been lost from my vocabulary for a long time. "Goon" was one of those childish insults we used to throw around a lot while growing up. But now it seems to have gone the way of gauchos and bikes with banana seats.

Not necessarily a bad thing.

Is goon a regional thing? I've never heard anyone else outside of Massachusetts use it before. But it got me thinking about all the other words, and bastardized versions of words, that I grew up using.

I've always found regional language to be an interesting topic, ever since I was a kid and my southern relatives told me that they didn't call Coca Cola soda. They called it pop, or just Coke. And then they went on to say that I talked funny, which ignited a heated discussion about who talked funnier, us or them. Since they were visiting and there were more of us, we won. But they were on to something. The New England accent, in all its different forms, at its worst can be really ugly. Throw in some strange words and it seems down right foreign.

Mr. C and I recently came across a whole list of Massachusetts slang and we were amazed how many parts of our vocabulary were native to our region. Words and phrases we never thought twice about. For instance, when I was younger (you know, before I got wicked smaht) it never occurred to me that you don't actually "take a left, or bang a left, at the stoplight", you "turn left at the stoplight". I feel sorry for any person visiting our town from outside of New England who I may have given directions to because I probably told them to bang a u-ie at the rotary.

It never entered my mind that others didn't put their trash in the barrel or drink from a bubbler. We had dinner when others would be eating lunch and supper when others ate dinner. Our living room was referred to as the parlor and our basement was called a cellar. We drank frappes in the summer and put jimmies on our ice cream. Unless we were eating a Hoodsie, then you just ate it plain from the cup. And my Nana makes a mean whoopie pie.

If someone said something outlandish we'd reply with a "No suh", to which the other person would reply back with a "Yes suh!" Then, of course, you could add a wicked pissah to the end of that conversation if warranted, said in the negative or the positive.

"Hey, Bobby just got bagged by the police." "No suh." "Yes suh. I was just at the packie and I saw the cop throw him in the cruisah (cruiser)." "What a pissah."

I'm a member of Red Sox Nation and I also root for the B's, the Celts and the Pats. And there's also a good chance that any of those teams could get smucked by their opponent (which is a lopsided game).

When I went off to college friends would tease me about my "Boston accent". They had it all wrong since my accent was very different from the true Boston dialect, but I did start to make a concerted effort to change the way I spoke. Pretty soon I shook all audible connection to the place where I grew up. It served me well when I got my first job in radio and then voice-over work, but I never lost the references, the slang, that connected me to those from my home state. It brings me some comfort that even though you could drop me anywhere in middle America and not tell by my accent where I'm from, if you listened closely for a while I might drop a "so don't I" or a reference to the Pike or the Garden and you'd know I, too, was a Masshole.

It feels good to belong to something bigger than you. Now tell me, what connects you to your home? Is it language, accent, food, or something else entirely? And please, someone else must have used the word "goon" before. I can't be the only one, can I? Because that would be a wicked pissah.

The meta and the frog

One of the things that I've always found so fascinating about blogging is the feeling of intimacy that comes with sharing your words with thousands of strangers. Stories and feelings you might never share with people who are standing in front of you, bloggers willingly share with the nameless, faceless mass of readers that come to their blog through happenstance or regular following. I'm not quite sure what it is that makes us bloggers - especially parenting bloggers - feel secure in sharing these raw feelings but I do hope that many of you that I read continue doing so.

Your words have become an important part of my support team. If I question myself over this or that I very often turn to blogs to see what others have encountered in their lives with children. And sometimes, when I'm fence sitting on a particular subject, it's nice to read a real person's first hand account of what they went through and how they came out the other side.

One subject that I'm fascinated with is the two-child family. In the past I've have made no secret of my desire to stop at one child, but I will admit that lately I've been waffling. Could I do it? Could I make a two-child family work? Would I lose my mind in the process?

I have come to no hard and fast conclusions, but I have to say that after reading this post by Julie of MotherGooseMouse the answer to those questions are all yes. And because she was so candid with her words I'd also have to say that even though it would be really difficult at times, it's okay to admit that sometimes having two kids is no picnic.

No, I haven't yet decided to have another baby but Julie's post about her feelings on having two children is the most persuasive argument yet that I've seen and I thank her for sharing her experience. That's why I nominated her for a Perfect Post Award.

Julie, if I do have another baby you'll be the first person I call while in labor. I'll be the one shouting expletives into your ear. Probably something about how you got me into that situation.

Thanks to MommaK and Suburban Turmoil for hosting these awards. Go to their sites to see the full list of nominees.

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

Now for something completely different. What's the most disturbing thing you've seen? Well, forget that. This is now the most disturbing thing you've ever seen.

It's almost blasphemous. If you can get past the part where Kermit shoots heroine, believe me, it gets worse.

On the Eve of Spring Festival

Some days I get caught up in the differences between China and the United States. The US is home and I am use to it. So, even after 6 months here are days where I feel like I am not use to the dirtiness, the smells, the manners (or lack thereof), the food. Those are the hard days. The days when I start to wonder, Why China? Why now? Why did I push so hard to get here?

But, on days like this one – the Eve of Spring Festival, I am so happy to be here. All of the dirtiness and confusion and frustrations melt away. To be in China for Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year as most Americans call it, was an amazing experience. It is as important if not more important than Christmas is to most Americans. For a lot of families, it is the only time they are all together for the entire year. For some mothers and fathers, it is the only time they will see their children for the entire year. The only time. Every other minute of the year is spent working just to get by. My frustrations and hardships pale in comparison. And it makes me remember when I am here.

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


This photo and post is courtesy of Jennifer Noveck. She is currently on a Fulbright grant doing research in China about how development is affecting women's work and lives.

If you are looking for Mrs. Chicky you can find her at myblog today.

For more information on the monthly Blog Exchange go here.

The tortoise and the hare

Early this afternoon, after having lunch with two girlfriends and our three toddlers, we left the restaurant and allowed our kids to walk by our sides out to the cars... As long as they held our hands, of course. The kids (two girls and a boy) decided it was not enough to hold our hands but also needed to hold on to each other. So there we were, three adults and three toddlers, all holding hands in a row as we walked from the restaurant to the parking lot. In our eyes it was a very sweet moment. Such a cute picture we must have made. Up until just a few months ago parallel play was all we got out of our children, this type of interactivity was taking our relationships to a whole other level. It was the type of moment you want to freeze in time. I wanted to anyway.

As anyone with a toddler - or who once had toddlers - knows, kids at this age take their time. The only need to hurry is if the spirit moves them. To say we were taking our time on this day would be like saying Bill Gates is living a comfortable life. Turtles move faster than we were. As we crossed the road to the parking lot we held up a 20-something man in his car from moving around us with our lollygagging. As soon as there was enough room he made a large arch with his car and zoomed around us, but not before he shot me a withering look that only a 25 year old male in a hurry can.

How dare we make him wait?

The Mama Bear in me was not pleased. Not only could one of the kids have picked that very moment to rip his or her hand away and run back towards the restaurant, possibly getting hit by the car, but, Dude, I'm really sorry we held up your day by like 15 seconds. I apologize for inconveniencing you.

No, I'm not sorry at all. Slow down, asshole, you could hurt someone just because you needed your Starbucks fix.

After Speedy Gonzales passed us by one of my girlfriends commented on people never stopping to smell the roses anymore since they're all in a hurry. I thought about that statement on the way home. It's not a new phenomenon. People are always in a hurry. In fact, I was once that person; always rushing off somewhere, impatient with everyone who impeded my progress. But motherhood has forced me to find a patience I never thought I had. For the first time in years I am being forced, sometimes against my will if we're being honest, to stop and enjoy the little things.

Yes, as parents we sometimes have little choice in this matter. Parents, especially stay at home moms and dads, have the luxury of taking everything in. Through our children's eyes we see, for the first time in years, the beauty around us. For instance, do you have any idea how fascinating mailboxes are? Or how about the wonders of fallen tree branches? And when was the last time you laid on the floor and watched a ceiling fan turn? Even if you're a working parent I bet there have been many times when obligation was calling you elsewhere but you took a few minutes to read a picture book or lay on the floor to build a block tower. We take the time because we have to. For our kids.

Now this is not to say that we are never in a hurry to get somewhere. Have you ever tried to get a toddler fed, clothed and out the door to arrive at an appointment on time? It doesn't happen. And parents are not the most observant people in the world. Most of the time we're too caught up in what our kids are doing to look past our little worlds. For instance, the restaurant we visited today is one of those kid-friendly places with lots of 50's and 60's memorabilia on the walls. I've been there a few times but with the exception of the American flag made up of red, white and blue baseballs and the carousel horse I couldn't tell you what else was on those walls. I don't know what's in fashion. Popular music is passing me by and I have no idea what some of my friends are up to. Parenthood has slowed me down so much that my life is now made up of analyzing Sesame Street episodes and finding the right pair of rain boots.

You know, so we can go outside and jump in the puddles.

There are times when I miss my old life with all it's rushing and hurrying and self-importance. But I know that someday I'll be back in the rat race again. So for now I'm going to try to enjoy the feeling of mud through my fingers and taking time to kiss boo-boos and finding just the right band-aid. My hope is that I'll come out the other side a better person for having been both the tortoise and the hare.

Because we all know who came out on top in that story, don't we?

I've got it, and I've got it bad

Writer's block sucks. It sucks hairy monkey butt. It sucks sweaty bull testicles. It sucks four day old dirty toddler diaper.

Okay, it's not that bad. And? I just threw up in my mouth a little.

This happens once in a while (the writer's block, not the throwing up) and I've found that's it helps to just write... Anything.

The post I almost published?

"Ican'tthinkIcan'tthinkIcan'tthinkIsuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. The End."

It resonates with you, doesn't it? Hits you right here. (pointing to chest) And here. (never mind where I'm pointing right now.)

Instead of going with that post I decided to take my inspiration from you guys. Every now and then I get a comment that cries out to be addressed, but more times than not I don't have the commenter's email. As much as that vexes me it has given me some decent material.

Here are the answers to some of the questions left in my comments over the past couple of weeks.


Bon said on this interview post: "A fine grilling, but i think the thing what left me most fascinated of all was...you have friends in Bouctouche?!?"

Sort of!!!

The town I grew up in is predominantly made up of Canadian immigrants and their offspring (and the Polish too but, ssshhhhh, they don't know that*). It took me years to learn that "Trow me down da stairs my keys" was not a proper sentence.

Even though my own great grandparents came to this country by way of Canada it was my friends' families who really gave me a taste of the true North Country. Usually in the form of bastardized English, but they threw in some geography lessons, too. Every summer my friends and their parents would make their yearly pilgrimage to their favorite vacation spot - Bouctouche. I've never been there myself (I've always been bad with geography) but I hear it's horribly dull.

But that's from the point of view of a 13 year old. I could be wrong.

(If you're from the Bouchtouche Board of Tourism don't blame me. I'm just going on what some chick with the last name Leblanc told me.)


Dodo said on this post in response to my quest to start a business: "Can i reciprocate with some puppy related questions?"

i may be misinterpreting this comment but it's my blog and i'm going to use it to serve my own purpose. like not capitalizing if i don't feel like it.

Many of you know that I am a dog trainer. Occasionally I get an email from a reader with a frantic question on how to get their dog to stop (or start) doing something. I'll let you all know right now that I welcome your questions. I really do enjoy helping dog owners. And I really love being a know-it-all.

When waiting for my response please give me a few days to get back to you with an answer (especially for the really tough questions - Hi Southern Mom!) and realize that you're getting free advice. So if I send you a reply with just a link to a particular book to read or a website to check out - or a simple "Get thee to a professional dog trainer. STAT." it's not because I'm blowing you off. It's probably because your problem requires a lot more than what I can write in an email. And again, the advice is free. Take what you can get from it. I can assure you my recommendations are sound. And, if I failed to mention, free.


Mr. Big Dubya responded about what he and Mrs. Big Dubya gave up on this post about giving up coffee for Lent: "Ice cream for me and the missus - and fries. No Ben and Jerry's; no Edy's; no Friendly's; no Cold Stone. And what's worse? DQ opened one week after Ash Wednesday! Who's freakin' idea was that?"

The Devil's. He wants your soul. Why else would he make Ben and Jerry's Creme Brule ice cream so damn tasty.

You didn't think God created something so sinfully delicious, did you?

ECR said on the same post: "Impressive! Isn't it amazing what we can do when we put our minds to it?"

I'm sorry, what did you say? I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about ice cream.


Jen said on this Real Moms post: "someday you will need to let me show you just how much red sox knowledge i have stored in my head."

You're on, baby. At Blogher, fer sure.

Anyone else want to swap stories at Blogher? Who's going?


Kevin said on this post I wrote after my dogs ate my Girl Scout cookies: "Hey, you know that chocolate is extremely toxic to dogs, right?"

Kevin, what do you take me for? I know that chocolate is toxic to dogs. So I only feed them chocolate for breakfast and dinner. If they're snacking between meals that's their fault.

As for the amount they ate on that particular day, there wasn't enough chocolate in those cookies to make the average 80 pound dog sick. Not to mention that one of my dogs can eat raw sewage and never get sick, her stomach is that strong. And I doubt that she shared enough of those cookies with my other dog. When it comes to ill gotten booty she doesn't usually share. She's like her mama that way.


MotherBumper said on this post about our short stint with sickness: " Do you think it (Bobby, Chicky's favorite stuffed bear) could survive the gentle cycle if it was in a delicates net bag or a large sock?"

I'm happy to say that Bobby survived the sickness being washed off of him and will live to snuggle another day.

I tossed him in a pillow case and washed him on the gentle cycle (oh, how I love my front loading washer). Thank you all for your great advice. And who knew the guys would come out with such great recommendations, too? That's what I like to see, a guy who is not afraid to say "Yeah, I wash clothes. I dig chick flicks too." I could marry a guy like that.

Oh, wait. I did.

Hi, Honey! I've got "You've Got Mail" ready to go on the Tivo. I know how much you love that one.

Ali said on this post about the ROFL Awards: "i sent mine to metro already. do i still get to spank your ass?!?"

[baring my left cheek]

Right there, baby. *I deserve it for that poor attempt at a Polish joke. Don't blame me, I was raised in a Canadian/Polish family.

More about me that you didn't really need to know

This is a tough time of year for me, with the anniversary of my mom's death just passed and my daughter's birthday coming up - not to mention the whole Easter - I'm a lapsed Catholic but I'm still morbidly interested in religion and I can't stop talking about it Gaaaahhhhh! - thing and the arrival of 50 degree temperatures...

(I know, you're oozing with jealousy. Fifty whole degrees! That's cah-raaaazy!)

- I find it really difficult to come up with posts that aren't made up entirely of exploitive pictures of my kid and YouTube clips. So when Mama Tulip offered to "interview" bloggers I jumped at, nay, dry humped the chance to have someone else do the thinking for me.

Try getting that image out of your head. Ooh, you like that, don't you? Take it, take it, take it...

Um. Hi!

Mama Tulip is just lucky she lives up in da Cah-nah-dah (as my friends from Bouctouche would say) because chances aren't the only things I would have molested. No, I joke. I respect her too much for that. I'd wait at least an hour after meeting her before I would proposition her.

Anyway...

These are the questions she asked me. With my less than spectacular answers.

1. What was the first blog you ever read? Do you still read it?

Oh man, talk about getting started on a low note. This is so boring. The first blog I read was Dooce. That's like getting your cherry popped by the quarterback or something. So cliche. But after reading a few of her entries I was totally hooked and I ended up reading all of her archives over the course of a couple of weeks. I'm a dork. But those entries did inspire me to start my own blog shortly thereafter. And the world is not any better for it.

2. Did you go to your high school prom? If you did, describe your dress. If you didn't, tell us why.

Yes, I did go to my senior prom. I went to a few senior proms actually (I wasn't a slut, really), but for my own I went with my boyfriend at the time, Psycho Andy. Psycho Andy was just that. Psychotic. He was three years older than me and just a bit touched with the crazy. But we had the best fights. I'm talking throwing stuff at each others heads, jumping out of moving vehicles-types of fights. But my prom night was, alas, extremely boring. Except for the dress. I had no business wearing a white, strapless prom dress since I was so incredibly skinny and had no boobs to hold up the bodice, but it was so beautiful I had to have it. My parents spent a ridiculous amount of money on it (for the time and our income) and I felt like a princess, even though there was nothing "princess" about it.

I'll post a picture of it when I'm feeling less lazy and less self-conscious of my skeletal shoulders.

3. Did you have pets in your house growing up?

I had one dog growing up. My mother was not a pet lover, not to mention a bit anal in the cleaning department, so we were not allowed to have anything with fur, feathers or fins. When I was twelve or thirteen my dad took me and my sister to a friend's house and we picked out the cutest white German Shephard puppy from a new litter. Unfortunately, my mother was not let in on this plan. To say she was unhappy with my father's choice to add a puppy to our family would be the understatement of the year. But we whined and cajoled and mom finally let us keep the dog. We named her Suki. I loved that dog.

With Suki around I learned how to train my first dog. Obedience-wise the dog was a complete failure. But in the trick department that dog was a star. I taught her to play dead by "shooting" her with my finger and saying the word "bang". My father, to this day, tries to claim that he taught her how to do that. He's sadly mistaken. That was all me.

We fed her the worst food, she drank copious amounts of beer when on outings with my dad, she spent her days tied to a long line attached to our garage. We did everything wrong with her but I learned so much from her. Sometimes I wish I had her back. I'd like a do-over.

4. Tell us one thing that you hope to achieve in your lifetime.

It's no secret that I'd like to start my own business working with dogs. Having my own business is something I've dreamed about for awhile and it's time for me to get off my tuckus and get something started. Working with dogs and their owners brings me so much joy - and more than a little frustration - and I know I've got something to offer to this sometimes saturated market.

I've come up with an idea that doesn't require a brick and mortar facility (for now, the ultimate goal is to have my own facility) and I wish I could share it with all of you. It kills me that I can't write about it here. I'd love to have your input because this business targets people like you (hint, hint) but I fear the Google, so for now I'll have to keep it on the down low. Once things get rolling I'll start leaking some information and don't be surprised if you get an email from me asking you probing questions about your relationship with your dog and your kid's relationship with your dog (Again, hint hint. Do I need to hit you with a brick or have you figured it out yet? Just keep it out of the comments because the Google... It watches me.).

5. Fess up: do you follow celebrity gossip?

Unfortunately, yes, I do follow celebrity gossip. I have an unnatural fascination with Perez Hilton and TMZ.com. Not to mention Gawker, Defamer, and the Inside Track. I'm waiting to hear the results of Anna Nicole's autopsy and who the baby daddy is. I can't wait until Katie is out from under Tom's thumb (heh). And I think it's only a matter of time before Britney comes out with her own PPD book.

What? I'm a bored housewife. What do you expect? I'm a cliche.

But I did not sleep with the quarterback.



If you'd like to be "interviewed" by me leave me a comment (and make sure I have your email address) or send me an email and I'll come up with five questions specially designed just for you.

What a difference a year makes

Looking back...

March 2006.

Big eyes, big cheeks, big power over me.

March 2007.
Same big eyes, slightly smaller cheeks, same big power over me. Especially with her bed head and the beginnings of a shiner under her left eye.

My baby will be two years old in just a few weeks. I barely remember her as that small infant. Where does the time go and how do I make it stop?

Spring has sprung and guess what it brought to my door

Ah, the first day of spring. It brings with it the promise of warmer days, tiny buds on the trees (in some parts of the country anyway, in mine not so much) and pastel flowers. And spring also brings other, less desirable, things with it.

There I was, going about my day when I heard a knock on the door. Couldn't be one of my neighbors, I thought, they know that this is Chicky's nap time and they wouldn't dare knock on the door for fear of making my dogs bark and therefore forcing me to leave large steaming piles of poop on their lawns. Quite possibly from the dogs.

(Yes, they bark. And they steal Girl Scout cookies. I've got those suckers so well trained it's spooky.)

Couldn't be the UPS guy because I haven't ordered anything lately. But that reminds me, I really need to make that Amazon.com order.

Couldn't be Girl Scouts selling cookies. But a woman can dream.

Couldn't be school children selling popcorn or magazine subscriptions because they're still in school. Besides, those punks who live behind me never gave me my two dollars in change from the last ridiculously priced tub of caramel corn I bought from their sorry asses. So they wouldn't dare to try to sell me anything else.

(Feel free to insert your own "Better Off Dead" joke here.)

Who could it be?

I peaked out the window. Hmm, that's funny. No car in the driveway or in front of the house. Then an icy cold hand grabbed my heart. No, it couldn't be. Not now. It is close to Easter, but it couldn't be... God damn it!

Close. At least in their minds.



The Jehova's Witnesses. Shit. I really want to spend the little free time I have listening to someone tell me I'm going to hell. Don't they know I went to Catholic school? I support gay marriage and the right to chose, I'm already going to hell.

Now, I'm a live and let live kind of woman. I don't care what your religion is or who you care to worship: Jesus, God, Allah, Snuggle the fabric softener bear. You do what makes you happy and I'll be a God-less heathen and never the two shall meet. 'Kay? You keep your religion out my home and I'll keep my cussing out of yours. But when someone knocks on my door and tries to sell me on their way of thinking and then gives me that look that says, "Oh, you simple, simple woman. You just don't realize that your immortal soul is damned for all time and if you just gave up booze, celebrating birthdays, and roughly 60% of your pay you could go straight to heaven when the end of time comes. Which should be somewhere between 3pm today and 5,361 years from now."... You're just asking for me to be snarky.

Don't make me snarky. You wouldn't like me when I'm snarky.

So there's a man at my door - and yes I knew who he was and what his agenda was immediately, even before he thrust his pamphlet at me - and my dogs are barking and I'm thinking to myself If you caused my baby to wake up early from her nap YOU'LL HAVE MORE THAN GOD'S VENGEANCE TO WORRY ABOUT.

I gave him my best bored but smart-enough-to-know-you're-trying-to-sell-me-a-load-of-horse-shit-look and the man had the audacity to look towards where the sound of 160 pounds of dog waiting to rip his throat out was coming from and said,

"You'll have to go tell them if they don't stop barking we'll have to call ("He who speaks softly and carries a large PR firm" and no I will not mention his name here) to have them straightened out."

Oh no he didn't.

Oh yes he did.

As anyone who has been reading this blog long enough knows the quickest way to get onto my shit list is to mention "He who really needs to speak in a normal voice and stop screwing with an entire generation of dog owner's minds" without irony to me.

So I slammed the door in his face.

Okay, no I didn't, because my mama raised me better than that. But I wanted to. I just can't be that awful to someone who is trying to save my eternal soul.

But stay away from my hounds of hell. I like them that way. They're excellent judges of character. And their breath smells like Thin Mints.

God is in the details

The season of Lent, for me, will always symbolize a season of sacrifice. During Lent Christians are asked to fast and abstain from certain wordly pleasures, such as meat or alcohol. As young children attending Catholic elementary school we were encouraged to give up something that we loved for the forty (some odd) days between Ash Wednesday and Easter. It would make us stronger Catholics, we were told, we would be closer to Jesus who made the ultimate sacrifice for us. It was not uncommon for adults to model this behavior for their children to make the concession easier, or because they too grew up with the same custom. Personally, I always thought it was a waste of my time.

Every year during Lent my mother, the good Catholic she was, would give up her very favorite thing in the world - Chocolate. She would pack up her boxes of hand made chocolates - gifts left over from Christmas, oftentimes - and boxes of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies and no taste of the sweet would pass her lips. On Easter day my grandmother would put out a large plate of chocolates and only then would my mother indulge. She had proven she could let go of such earthly trappings and now she could celebrate. And celebrate she did in a great orgy of milk chocolates.

My mother led a fairly clean existence - she did not drink, had given up smoking in the 70s, and did not particularly care for gourmet food - so giving up chocolate was a huge sacrifice for her. One year, in 1995, I asked my mother why she continued to give up her chocolate for Lent. What was the purpose? Instead of answering me she instead challenged me to give up something. She questioned if I could be so dedicated. I had long since denounced my place in the Catholic church and it had been years since I had given up anything for Lent (and if we're being honest, even when I tried to I usually failed and gave in about a week before Easter), but I love a challenge. So I gave up that which I had held, still hold, so dear.

I gave up coffee.

It may not seem like a lot and, really, it shouldn't have been too hard. I was only 22 years old and the monkey on my back was still in its infancy. I had worked for years in a coffee shop but it was only since my senior year in college that I had become a slave for the java.

However...

The year before I had taken a job at a local radio station and in the few months before Lent of that year I had been given a position as part of the morning drive-time team. That meant I had to be at work, awake and perky, to be on the air for 5:45am. I usually set my alarm to wake me up by 4:30am.

Half past four in the morning. With no coffee. I'm feeling queasy just thinking about it.

It became a topic of conversation every day during the show. My two on-air co-hosts started laying bets as to when I would finally cave in. I would show up to work and there, at my seat next to my microphone, would be a large, steaming, fragrant cup of coffee. I was low man on the totem pole so during long breaks in the show they would send me across the street to get coffee for them. It became our shtick. When would she finally crack?

But I didn't.

The first week was hell - I was an addict giving up her fix, after all - the headaches were horrible and my personality changed. I was irritable and nasty, which were things I had to hide while on air. And can you imagine not wanting to kill someone who was trying to tempt you with coffee at 6 o'clock in the morning? It was a nightmare. But as the weeks went on it got easier and I started to feel better. When Easter finally - finally! - came I was able to get up and go without my legal drug of choice. I had beaten that monkey into submission. I had proven that I could sacrifice something. My coworkers were in awe of me. Our ten listeners (we were a really small station) congratulated me. My mother was impressed.

That was enough for me.

Like my mother I went back to my vice after Easter of that year, but I seriously cut back my overall caffeine consumption. To this day I only allow myself one, maybe two, cups of coffee a day. And every year during Lent, I think of the time that I proved to my mom - if not to a God that I wasn't sure I believed in - that I could make a sacrifice. It had nothing to do with Christ or Christianity and everything to do with impressing my mother. This time of year that morning cup of joe tastes better, more earned and less needed, and I consider doing it again. Maybe I'll give up coffee again, maybe chocolate, or maybe something else entirely. But with no one I believe in laying down a challenge I doubt that I will.

Even my toddler knows what an insufferable bear I can be before my morning coffee

The scene: The kitchen at Chateau de Chicky. It is morning and the Mistress of the house is barely conscious. She sits at the table, listlessly flipping through the latest edition of Bark magazine while her young child sits nearby in her high chair joyfully eating copious amounts of Kix cereal and slices of ripe banana. On the counter the Mistress's morning salvation merrily perks away in the coffee maker.

The coffee maker beeps, signaling its glorious completion.

However, the Mistress does not notice, quickly succumbing to the coma that threatens to fully overtake her.

When...

The Child: Woffee! Woffee Mama! Done! Mama!!

The Mistress: (rousing) Wah? Huh? What did you say?

The Child: (pointing excitedly at the coffee maker) Woffee Mama. Woffee done!

The Child, not usually given to verbal outbursts instead preferring grunting and screaming, is very pleased with herself as she now points to the cabinet that houses the mugs.

The Child: (pointing to the cabinet) Cup Mama. (then pointing to the coffee maker) Woffee. Cup! Woffee! Mama!

The mistress is now very much awake. She thinks for a moment if she should be concerned that her child knows how important her morning cup of coffee is to the overall sanity of the home. Deciding against being concerned she instead gives her child a huge hug, savoring her child's attempts at forming sentences.

The Mistress: Have I told you today how much I love you?

The Child: (pushing her away) No! Mama stop. Woffee. Go!

The Mistress grabs a cup and pours herself a large serving of the steaming brown liquid. While taking a sip she looks lovingly at her Child over the rim of the mug. They share a knowing smile. All is as it should be and peace settles over Chateau de Chicky.

Scene.

You got peanut butter on my meme. You got meme in my peanut butter

Can't. Think. Still. Recovering. From. Springing forward. Changing clocks. Body. Messed. Up.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Combine the time change with the fact that it has been beeee-yooo-teee-fullll this week and the result is now I have no brain activity. None. Hook me up to a machine and you'll see a stick figure dozing where the squigly lines should be. Or the Peanut Butter Jelly guy.

But I must frolic and be merry, for tomorrow it will snow. F*cking New England weather.

Thankfully I was tagged for a couple of memes so I don't have to hurt myself by thinking too hard. Not that some thought was not required of these particular ones. No, quite contrary. I was tagged by PDX Mama to participate in Kristen's brilliant "Real Mothers" meme and I really had to work the ol' brain to come up with something. Then it came to me.

Real Mothers rock the baseball cap. Bad hair day be damned. Plus? Opening day in less than a month, baby!

Real mothers also tag others to participate in memes. So I tag fellow Sox lover Cape Buffalo, and my New England sisters Binky and Waya, and my friend from the south Blog Antagonist (though I don't know if she does memes, but I'm hopeful).

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

Next up in the mememeMEmememe department, Ali tagged me for a musical meme. The guidelines are: List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

Okey Dokey, Smokey. I must warn you, I'm all over the place here.

1. Little Sparrow - Dolly Parton. I've been into the folk thing lately and Dolly has her roots firmly in folk/bluegrass. You're going to have to look for this one yourself since I can't find it anywhere on the internet.

2. You know I'm No Good - Amy Winehouse. Hype. Warranted.

3. What Goes Around - Justin Timberlake. That's right, baby. You bring your sexy back here to mama.

4. I'm Shipping Up to Boston - Dropkick Murphys. Maybe it's the time of year. Maybe I need some gritty, kick-you-in-the-face music. Nothing wrong with bagpipes and the occasional size 11 to the chin.

5. Smile - Nat King Cole. I used to sing this to Chicky when she was really small and really colicky. It worked occasionally. I've worked it back into my repertoire for those moments when she needs some soothing.

6. Sweet Pea - Amos Lee (sorry, no link to the song. Just his website). Quickly becoming one of my favorite scoop-Chicky-up-and-dance songs. I may dance like a wounded chicken but she doesn't seem to mind.

7. Rick James - Jude. It's almost 10 years old but it's still one of my favorite songs. (Warning: the clip doesn't really do it justice. It's sucks actually. Makes me wonder why I like the song so much. Then I hear it on my iPod and it makes me want to dance like a wounded chicken. Now, that's a good song.)

I tag Mama Tulip, Jana, Mr. Big Dubya, MotherBumper, Jenny, Kevin, and Fairly Odd Mother. Now get to it, my iPod depends on you.

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

And finally, Mrs. Chicken thoughtfully bestowed upon me the great honor of the Thinking Bloggers award. Normally my brain is spinning constantly, but this past week? Not so much. So it seems funny to be getting this award now. But I'll take it. No, really. Give it back. Take your dirty mitts off of my award. I'll start thinking again. Sometime soon. Really.

Ooh, that's purdy.

But this award is like playing hot potato. Once you get it you need to pass it on to others that make you think. Which means I had to think about who I wanted to give this to. And now my head hurts.

I hereby pass this award on to those who refuse to let me drone out to their pretty words but instead make me flex my cranial muscle:

Mother-Woman
Christina from A Mommy Story
Mike at Cry it Out
Kristin at Eva Las Vegas
Julie at MotherGooseMouse

Enjoy your award, ladies and gent. Wear it in good health.


Now after all that linking and a-meme-ing I need to go back to bed. Or go sit in the sun. Guess which one I'll be doing?

Are they made with real Girl Scouts?

In case you have ever made the assumption from my long and slightly sanctimonious posts about dogs and their owners that my dogs are perfectly trained:

Could have been worse, they could have stopped at just eating the cookies instead of eating pieces of the boxes, too.

This is what happens after a long, cold winter when dogs don't get the necessary exercise they require and are left at home alone with the pantry door unlocked. Not opened, just unlocked. My dog, Lana, can open a sticky bi-fold pantry door with her paws.

Too smart for her own good? Maybe just a bit.

The other day she opened the pantry door and took three boxes of Girl Scout cookies off the shelf - along with a box of Aunt Annie's Bunny Pasta, because what better to wash down chocolate than powdered cheese and dry macaroni? - and shared them with my other dog, Fisher. One box of Thin Mints, one box of Peanut Butter Patties and one box of those caramel-coconut thingies. I came home to find this mess and two very happy Labradors hopped up on sugar with pieces of the boxes hanging from their mouths.

No, my dogs are not perfectly trained. They're wily, but not perfectly trained.

But then again, they sleep against a barrister bookcase filled with antique glassware, so I suppose they're not beyond hope.

And, no, I don't have any pictures of the happy, sugar-filled dogs. They were unceremoniously kicked through the back door, while I choked on my own words. You can't scold a dog for something unless they're in the act....Ack, cough, cough, cough, @#$%@&!

But you can kick them in the ass and refuse to look at them for a half an hour while you clean up the mess and then check to see if all the boxes were eaten. They left us two boxes of Peanut Butter Patties. How kind of them.

Anyone need a dog trainer? I'm available.

February ROFL Awards

Welcome to the February ROFL (Roll On the Floor Laughing) Awards - the same great humorous taste you've come to expect, now in a sparkly new package.

Okay, not sparkly exactly. Certainly not any more sparkly than when they were hosted at Mommy Off the Record's place. But new. And not a package, exactly. A new blog. Two new blogs, really.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah.

I think I speak for my co-hosts, Metro Mama and IzzyMom, when I say we think MotR did a spectacular job of creating and nurturing the ROFLs and we are only too happy to pick up where she left off.

My nomination for this month goes to a woman who never ever (ever ever ever ever) fails to make me laugh. I actually wish she would post more frequently because my ab muscles could use the work-out, but she's got three kids now so she's sort of busy. Just a wee bit.

I nominate Jozet from Halushki for her post "Come for the Cheesesteaks, Stay for the Potholes". The post still didn't convince me to move to Pennsylvania, but I might consider visiting if it meant I could meet the lovely Jozet.

Congratulations to this month's winners!


Fenicle awarded Theory of Thought

Oh, The Joys awarded Kevin Charnas

Kevin Charnas awarded Moobs

One Plus Two awarded Don’t Make Me Get My Flying Monkeys

Crank Mama awarded Avery Lane Experience

Cheaper Than Therapy awarded Anne Nahm

Mama Tulip awarded Redneck Mommy

Mad Hatter awarded Not So Sage

Mothergoose Mouse awarded Irreverent Antisocial Intellectual

Slackermommy awarded Midwestern Mommy

Mayberry Mom awarded Under the Ponderosas

Dirty Birdie awarded Oh, the Joys

The Ravin Picture Mavin awarded Piglet of Fire

Meena awarded Suburban Turmoil

A Child is Born awarded Mom 101

Mo-Wo awarded Mommymatic

A plague, a plague upon your house

About a month ago I brought up Chicky's remarkable health this winter to Mr. C, who promptly started looking into good psychiatric facilities in which to put me.

"It's amazing. She hasn't really been sick all winter."

"Mmm hmm. That's good, right?"

"Well, yeah. But she's got to get sick eventually. All kids get sick in the winter. I wish she would just get ill and be done with it. The waiting is killing me. I keep waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop."

Thud.

I believe that was the left shoe.

The plague that had descended on so many of your homes this winter has finally seen fit to come knocking on my door. Hey, I asked for it. I thought I was ready for it. I was so wrong.

Last night, Chicky vomited on herself. I don't remember hearing her while in the throes of emptying her stomach and she didn't call out to me or cry. She must have gotten sick and then gone right back to sleep, if she really woke up at all. So you can imagine my surprise when I went to wake her up this morning - because she had been asleep for so long so, hey! I should go wake her up so we can start our day! La dee dee! - and found her slumbering amongst the sickness.

And I'm not even going to get into what I just found in her diaper. Suffice it to say that nothing should smell like that. Nothing.

She's in fine spirits, except for being a little less energetic than usual, so I'll watch her closely and be there to clean up the messes. Pretty much everything can be thrown in the washing machine. Except...

Oh, the dreaded Except.

And here's where I need your help, dear people in the computer. Chicky has a stuffed bear, name of Bobby, who was made for her by my Nana. He did not fare so well last night and I must tend to his battle scars. She loves that thing so he must be back in tip-top shape, but because he is hand made, knitted actually, he probably wouldn't make it through the rinse cycle in one piece. How does one spot clean a knitted stuffed animal? I need your wisdom on this. What solution is good to spot clean his soft yarn body and leave him smelling april fresh? Or at least not like puke anymore?

Now I think I need to go light some scented candles or something because my house is starting to smell like what I just found in her diaper and, oh my lord, nothing should smell like that. What the hell have I been feeding her?

Well, spank my a** and call me Susie

With all the talk about sickness and dying and being one with our colons I almost completely forgot to mention that I, along with the delightful Metro Mama (as well as the goddess IzzyMom), have been handed the reigns of the ROFL awards from the oh-so-pregnant Mommy Off the Record.

(There were a lot of people mentioned in that last paragraph. Could be confusing. Let me break it down...)

I NEED HUMOR!!!

PLEASE SEND ME SOMETHING FUNNY!!!

Today is your last day to get in your nominations for the February ROFL Awards. So if someone tickled your funny bone or made you spit coffee out of your nose last month show that person your gratitude with a ROFL Award. Send your nominations to me at Chicky Chicky Baby at Hotmail dot Com by the end of today.

Winners will be announced on Friday.

That is all.

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

Okay, that's not all. I lied. I stupidly assumed that y'all knew the rules - and you know what happens when one assumes something. It makes one a huge butt head.

The Rules:

- I already mentioned the whole getting your nomination to me by the end of today. Like, midnight Eastern time, or before I drag my ass out of bed in the morning tomorrow. Something like that.
- The post has to be an original, written post. Please no videos, reprinted jokes, or picture posts.
- When sending your nomination please send me the link to the specific post you want nominated as well as your URL. Secret admirers are great and all, but they have no place here.

Everyone's got one but no one is talking about it

Do you know what this month is?

I'll give you some hints: It's not sexy. You probably won't find any provocative statements regarding it printed on a t-shirt. The news media won't be coming out in droves to promote it. I'm doubtful that many glamorous Hollywood parties will be thrown to raise money for it. And yet, it's the second leading cancer killer in North America. And almost 154,000 people will diagnosed this year. Just this year. And more than 52,000 men and women - mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends - will die.

Have you guessed yet?

It's Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.

That's right. A whole month dedicated to getting to know your colon and your rectum. Not as fun as self breast exams. No need to protest big tobacco. And despite their best efforts to promote it to the masses, without the aid of The Couric Effect hardly anyone outside of those already touched by this disease would know about it. So I feel it is my duty to let you know that this month is as good as any to have your colon screened.

The medical community, or more specifically, the insurance companies, want you to start getting screened for colorectal cancer when you reach the age of 50. My mother was 44 when she was diagnosed. A few acquaintances of hers were also in their early 40s when they were diagnosed. This woman was 38 when she found out she had colon cancer. How old are you right now?

This year I'll be 35, the magic age that my mother's doctor told me I should start getting screened at so many years ago. I'm not looking forward to it, any of it: the fighting with the insurance company, the prep, the actual procedure, none of it. Let's face it, no one wants a camera up their bum. No one wants to spend the evening before drinking a gallon of that nasty liquid only to spend the rest of their night on the toilet (have to be squeaky clean for your motion picture debut). But the bottom line (no pun intended, really) is this:

Early detection is key to beating colon cancer. It is treatable. You don't have to die from this disease. If you have a family history, fight for your right to have a doctor prod around down there. If you think you might have some of the symptoms, regardless of your age or history, fight even harder. You are your own best advocate and nobody cares about your life more than you do. Except maybe those who love you.

Colorectal cancer is not sexy. You won't be seeing any famous actors and actresses sporting pretty scarves or jewelry in nationally televised commercials or glossy magazine ads to promote it. No, it is not sexy.

But the toll it takes on your body is even worse.

And death is never sexy.

Be proud to say "I've got a colon". Everyone's got one, who cares who knows about it? Get off your ass and get it checked.

Get screened.

Always look for the silver lining (around the ring of the toilet seat)

Pukefest '07 seems to be over, thank you jeebus. And thank you all for the kind words and the comments from those of you who have been through something like this. I'm still not one hundred percent positive that it was food poisoning - and I'm certainly not 100% back to my old self - but I don't know what else could so forcibly rip one's guts out through their throat, leaving one a lifeless pile of skin on the bathroom floor.

Every experience is a learning experience and for every crappy thing that happens to me at least I get a good story out of it. I have to admit, in real life I'm a bit of a black cloud (stop snickering, husband of mine) but on this blog I tend to come across as the freaking blue bird of happiness in comparison. So why not combine the two in regards to my recent date with the porcelain goddess? I'll be the happy little bird... who shits on your head.

The Pro's and Con's of having Food Poisoning

Con: Abandoning the perfectly good glass of wine that was just poured because stomach is feeling queasy.
Pro: Stopping at just a few sips, so there's no hangover!
Con: Think again. The next morning it still feels like you drank two jugs of Boone's Farm.
Pro: Who knew vomit could be so vibrantly colored. It lends interest to an otherwise horrible experience.

Con: You puke up an entire day's worth of food in one five hour period. The next day it hurts your stomach to eat one piece of toast. It'll be a few days before you can eat a decent meal and a few weeks before you can make oatmeal for your kid.
Pro: You drop a few pounds and your jeans fit great!

Con: You become intimate with your toilet.
Pro: Once you can stand the sight of it, you will be forced to stop procrastinating and will have to blast clean your entire bathroom. (Don't ask. It's not a pretty story.)

Con: You find out the hard way that since having a child... well, one word - Incontinent.
Pro: At least you didn't have to remove your head from the toilet seat.

Con: Having to "sleep", and I use that term loosely, on the bathroom floor inches from a nasty john.
Pro: Aw hell, I got nothin'. I'm still recovering from losing an entire night's worth of sleep.

Pro: After spending the night on the bathroom floor you get to spend the next day in bed or on the couch watching your Tivo'd episode of "America's Next Top Model" hurling insults at the 20-something with the impossibly flat stomach who had a baby just seven months prior.
Con: Your toddler, who has never seen you sick or resting for that long in one place will become incredibly agitated and demand that you get up by forcibly removing your blanket and then try to pull you from the couch by your toes.
Pro: She'll learn some colorful language from you screaming obscenities at the ridiculously thin 20-something mommy model.
Con: She'll learn some colorful language which she'll probably use on her parents one day.

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

Onto the links.

- Blogger has not let me comment for the past two days. It's truly amazing how many entries you get when you Google "Blogger Sucks". So if you've "seen" me around and wondered why I haven't commented, that's the reason. Blogger sucks. There's one more for Google.

But seriously, is anyone else having this problem? I go to comment and the stupid visual verification isn't there. Oh, it says "visual verification" but it's in the place of the jumbled letters that I need to type in to have my comment saved. Turn off the visual verification on your blogs, 'kay? Yep, just for me.

- Was I happy that "The Departed" won the Oscar for Best Picture? Fuck yeah. The nuns at my elementary school would be so proud of this link. (Best not to watch it at work or with the wee ones around, because this is a bit like last week's Oscar iFilm.)

- More proof that Hollywood will take something that's fairly humorous and novel and beat it into the ground so that you never want to see it again.

- Finally! Dancing with the Stars just got interesting. Big Pussy is out, Cliff Clavin is in.

- At least these poor people were given the option of digging up their pets before the condos went up. That's gotta count for something.

- Since I'm still recovering from this week (Did I need to get sick on the same week as the anniversary of my mother's death? No. Does it surprise me that this happened? No. Am I scared for next year. Yeeesss.) I'm going to include a recipe, yes a recipe, on this week's list o' links. This has quickly become one of Mr. C's favorites. I think mainly because it's one of the five things I'll prepare for dinner. With one of the five being cold cereal.

He comes home from work yelling "Meat pie!" which I suppose it is, although it's really called Spiced Beef Corn Bread Cobbler. It's super easy, a little different due to all the spices, and thoroughly satisfying. Try it, you'll like it. Unless you're a vegetarian. Or a communist.

Enjoy!

Has anyone seen my spleen? It was just here a minute ago.

Food poisoning. Ever had it? No? Would you like some? Here, you can have mine.

Please, take it. I'm begging.

I am assuming that this sickness is food poisoning, though I can't think of where I might have gotten it. Do you think you can get food poisoning from Boston Creme Pie? Just those words are making me green so I'm going to say yes, it is possible. And probable.

I spent the better part of last night lying in some sort of prone position on my bathroom floor. When I wasn't resting my chin on the bowl, that is. It got so bad last night that I stopped running back and forth from bedroom to bathroom and instead had Mr. C help me make a make shift bed on the cold tile floor. And let me tell you, I'm too old and my back is too bad to be lying on a bathroom floor like I'm some college kid coming off a bender.

But what choice did I have? After retching my guts up I had little energy to walk the six steps back to bed. I think I may have thrown up my pancreas. Or maybe it was my spleen. I don't know, it was dark and I was woozy.

Mr. C graciously (read: he had no choice) took the day off from work to watch Chicky so I can try to catch up on some sleep and attempt to keep my lower intestines from falling out. I hear cartoons playing. Tomorrow I'll have to explain to her why she can't watch Noggin while eating gold fish crackers all day.

On a bright note some lovely ladies saw fit to nominate two of my posts for Perfect Post awards. Domestic Chicky nominated "Dear Friend" and JayJenny and Paula from Rock the Cradle nominated "2004". Ladies, I am touched and honored. And more than a little overwhelmed. But in a good way. This is the best I've felt in at least 16 hours. Probably longer.

To see more Perfect Posts visit MommaK or Suburban Turmoil.

Now I need to shut my eyes for awhile. Who knew typing while in lying in bed could be so exhausting?

2004

There are some years that have more significance than others for some people. They are the years whose significance we never forget. The year of our birth or the year we graduated from high school, for instance. Or the year you got married, had a baby, last fit into your skinny jeans. We remember the songs on the radio and the movies that were popular. Hell, we even remember the weather patterns (if you have weather, that is). For me 2004 is one of those years whose importance outweighs most others.

It was the year the Patriots won the Super Bowl and the Red Sox won the World Series.

It was the year Mr. C and I took our last trip to Italy for some time, I suppose. Because...

It was the year I got pregnant.

And it was the year my mother died.

Three years ago, this week. In 2004.

They say that time has a way of helping us forget. Of healing all wounds. Enabling us to go on. As time goes on memories get soft around the edges. But honestly there are some things about that week leading up to my mother's death that I will never forget and I have no desire to do so.

It was unseasonably warm for the end of February in Massachusetts. The irony that my sun worshiping mother would choose to leave this earth on such a balmy day was not lost on me. It seemed fitting that she would break free from her shackles of pain and sickness on a day when her spirit could dance in the warm breeze, unencumbered by morphine, chemotherapy and cancer.

I'll never forget how her cool, dry hand felt on my cheek the last time she looked at me, the last time she really saw me without the veil of impending death covering her eyes. She said goodbye without saying a word, and though she lingered for a few more days she was never the same. She was never really there with us but instead in that space between life and death. I still lean my head into that phantom touch. I close my eyes and imagine she's still there in front of me. I imagine that I let myself cry in front of her instead of turning away to hide my pain. And I remember her face and her look that said she was at peace with what was going to happen.

The next few days are a blur of visitors, nurses and medications. Until the day she died. That day I remember vividly. And that's my memory to keep, for myself and my daughter one day. I may not remember which of her old friends came to pay their respects at her wake - in my defense there were hundreds of people there - but I'll remember each and every hour of the day she could no longer fight the cancer that was ravaging her body.

Is it a coincidence that my mother, the Red Sox fan(atic), died the same year the Sox finally won the World Series? Probably, but I'd like to think she had something to do with it. Our trip to Italy was planned months before my mother died, but I raised many (many, many) a glass in a silent toast to the woman who never saw the need to leave her country for far away lands. And my husband and I had decided to start a family that year, but after I lost my mother I finally realized how important she was to me. We named our daughter in her honor. There is a picture of her in my daughter's room. She is in my thoughts every day.

Three years have done nothing to dull the pain of her death. I still remember hugging her thin frame to mine, wondering if my shoulders felt as frail as hers and knowing that, yes, they probably did since our bodies closely resembled each others. I remember the feel of her hand, the shape of her fingernails, the roundness of the knuckles in contrast to her long, thin fingers. And I remember missing her immediately upon her passing. That memory has not dulled. The wound has healed but the scar remains. And I go on.

But I carry her with me. Always.

speed of lightning, roar of thunder, fighting all who rob or plunder

Between the trainwreck media frenzy surrounding the death of Anna Nicole Smith (Ack! Clowns!) and Britney's extreme breakdown (She's in rehab! Now she's out! She shaved her head! She got bad tattoos! She's back in rehab! Now she's out! She attacks a photographer's car! She's back in rehab! Can't we just remember her as she was?) I skipped last Friday's links. I know, it ruined your whole weekend, but never fear! Super Links are here!

Super Links? Seriously? Oy.

(Admittedly, heavy on the iFilms. Like that's a bad thing?)


- Perhaps you'll think twice before throwing a cup of ice at the car that just cut you off in traffic. I know I will. Beware - The McMissle.

- Proof that the more you fucking swear in your muthafucking movie the better your fucking chances are of winning a goddamnmuthafucking Oscar. Bitch.

- Oh, this is so wrong. So, so very wrong. Why am I still laughing?

- This is so sad. This man guaranteed that McDonald's didn't lose thousands, no possibly millions of Catholic patrons and what did he get for his invention? Nuthin'.

- This is what happens when you drop acid before going on David Letterman's show. (an oldie but a goodie)

**Added** - Shoot, almost forgot this one. So far the only thing interesting about this season's American Idol contestants is when one of the girls goes wild. And topless.

And since comments are my bag, baby - the funny ones, the thought provoking ones, the ones that make me piss my pants - I've got to thank Dirty Birdie for not one, but two comments on two separate posts that had me running for the Charmin. Her comments on this post and this one made me laugh out loud, and that's hard to do these days. Thanks DB, you're one funny beyotch.

Sorry doesn't seem to be the hardest word to me

I'm sorry.

No really, I'm very sorry.

Very, very sorry.

Extremely sorry.

Did I mention just how sorry I was?

C'mon, I said I was sorry. What more do you want from me?

I've never been very good at accepting apologies. Especially from those who are closest to me; the word "Sorry" just seems so meaningless sometimes. It's just a word. It doesn't make up for any wrong doing. And if you hear it enough the words just seem to melt together. Soon enough it's like listening to the adults on a Peanuts cartoon.

Wah wah wah wah wah waaaahhhh wahwahwah wah wah waaaahhh wah.

There are certain situations when the words "I'm sorry" will suffice: You're a few minutes late to a meeting or a scheduled lunch date with a friend, for instance, or when a strange person bumps into you in a crowded shop or restaurant. Then, not only will it suffice, to me the apology is mandatory. It's polite, and without that common courtesy we'd be nothing more than a mob of animals. Or French or German tourists.

(Seriously, what is it with the French and Germans and waiting in line? Or, should I say, Not waiting in line.)

For me, however, a simple sorry just doesn't cut it for major infractions. Let's say your husband forgets to order oil for the second time in two years, leaving you and your child without heat on a very cold winter day. That's one instance that leaps to mind. Or when someone dumps an entire caramel latte all over the front of your new cashmere sweater. Or your dog takes a huge dump on my lawn. In these cases don't tell me you're sorry, do something about it.

Show me how sorry you are by making up for it.

I admit I'm tough on people who expect me to forgive them for their transgressions, but the word "Sorry" seems to have been overused and, therefore, has lost most of its meaning. For instance:

You know those times when I said I didn't sleep with my intern? Well, I did. Oops. Sorry!

I had sex in my car with a prostitute. My bad. Bloody sorry mates!

I got drunk and threw around some anti-Semitic slurs. Sorry! (But I'm not sorry for calling that officer Sugar Tits. Yowza.)

Did I say we were more popular than Jesus? I take it back. Sorry!

Okay! So I called some guys the N word! Whaddya want me to do? Say I'm sorry? Okay, I'm sorry!

These days if you're a celebrity who has screwed up all you need to do is book a date on a late night talk show or call a press conference, muster up your best shamefaced look and apologize. Preferably with a tear or two. And more than likely the public will let you off the hook. Except for you, Janet Jackson. The horror! We saw your boob! The public will never let you live that down.

Sure, public humiliation is a form of retribution. But when it comes down to it anyone can say they're sorry while their fingers are crossed behind their backs.

Seriously, how many times has Ted Turner apologized in his life?

How many "I'm sorrys" do we need to hear before the words totally lose their meaning for everyone? Even those, unlike me, who still believe there is good in people?

I was happy to hear that Jet Blue was compensating the customers who were stranded in their snowstorm clusterfuck debacle. But is that enough? What about the money spent on family trips that were missed? How much retribution is enough of an apology? And does everyone need compensation, financial or otherwise, to make up for these types of slights?

What is enough of an apology for you? Are words enough? Small gifts? Sexual favors? Monetary compensation? What helps you to forgive someone?


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

Two things that are totally unrelated:

- Blogher announced the venue for this year's conference. Anyone want to shack up? Email me if you're interested. Chicky Chicky Baby at Hotmail dot Com

- Also, I'm looking for graphics work (business cards, pamphlets, possibly a website, definitely a logo) for a possible new business for me (Squeeeeeeeee!), but I have limited resources. I guess what I'm trying to get at is I need graphics work, cheap. I don't want to sink too much money into this venture until I've got it up and running somewhat smoothly. If you know of anyone, again, email me. Chicky Chicky Baby at Hotmail dot Com

Thank you, dear and wise internets, in advance.

She has danced into the danger zone, when a dancer becomes a dance

It gets mighty lonely - and boring - on these cold New England nights. A woman's got to be resourceful to keep from going mad. And if that means dressing her toddler up in leg warmers* and encouraging her to dance to tunes from a bygone era (uh, that would be music from the 80's), then so be it.

She's a Maniac, Maniac on the floor...



And she's dancing like she's never danced before



Grand plie, second position. And without the aid of a bar. Eat your heart of Baryshnikov.



And the big finish.
Or, where I hope you'll pay more attention to "Crazy Legs" Chicky than to the carnage behind her. It was a long day.

*This 80's flashback was brought to you by Baby Legs. The pattern hurts my eyes but I'm not complaining. They were free.

Dog is not a four letter word

Very dear friends of mine became parents today. At 2:30am they delivered a baby girl; a beautiful, healthy, precious bundle of joy who will enrapture them and wind their hearts around her little finger. They're first time parents so when my husband and I told them, repeatedly, that their whole life was about to change they nodded and agreed, but anyone could see that behind their smiles they didn't truly understand the brevity of their old life or the upheaval they will soon be experiencing in their new one. And that's fine - no one can really prepare you for something in which you have no experience with - but there is one big red flag that waved at me from behind their heads when we have had these discussions and it troubles me.

You see, this new baby girl will be brought into a home where two very pampered cats and one much doted on dog already live and reign with velvet covered iron paws. As their friend, a person with more than a few years of pet ownership and a handful of years of experience training dogs under her belt, I felt it was my obligation to tell them that not only will their lives change but that their pets' lives would change too. When I have told them this their smiles widened and I got a knowing look.

"Oh, nothing will change. We'll still love them and treat them exactly the same as we do now."

Those of us who love animals and owned animals before we were parents know the feelings we had/have for these beloved pets. They were our first babies; we bought them special treats and took them on pet-friendly outings. We visited dog bakeries looking for just the right all-natural cookies and bought the finest collars and leashes. Dog daycare, veterinarian-approved boarding kennels, and grooming bills that rivaled our own, we spared little expense. Surely, the love we felt for these animals could not be eclipsed.

And then the baby came. Wow. It's amazing how some things can change.

In my line of work I hear countless stories of "problem dogs" who, according to their owners, were wonderful before the kids came but then started acting out when a new baby was brought into the house. Stories of people who feel the need to give up their dogs because they just can't handle the extra work. What they don't realize, or don't want to recognize, is that these problems could have been avoided. And it makes me sad, really sad.

These people, my friends included, also don't realize that it's not their dog's problem. It's theirs. People are the cause of more dog behavior problems than you might think. Would you like to know why? Because dog owners are not treating their dogs like dogs but like little furry children.

It's commonly called "anthropomorphism",or "the attribution of human motivation, characteristics, or behavior to nonhuman organisms or inanimate objects." Dog owners commonly attribute human behavior to their dogs. Love, malice, jealousy and revenge are human motivations and behaviors that dogs know nothing about, at least not in a human way, but we insist on believing otherwise and that is very dangerous. For both us and our dogs.

Let me give you an example. My friends, the soon-to-be-new parents, told me when I asked where their dog would be sleeping (to paraphrase):

He'll continue sleeping on the bed with us, we don't want to hurt his feelings.

Hurt his feelings? I saw red flags popping up all over the place. What happens when the baby comes home and their dog, a very friendly and very large Golden Retriever, wants to cuddle? I can tell you what I think will happen, before long that dog will be unceremoniously kicked off the bed and off the couch. His feelings won't be hurt, but he'll be confused as hell and if you ask me that is really not fair. Not that he'll be relegated to the floor but because his life as he knows it will change, quickly. And that's just one way that his life will change. Will his owners spend as much time petting and stroking him? Probably not. Will they cut his walks short on occasion? Probably. And in countless other small ways his life will change, but they're not preparing him. They're going to lavish attention on him right up until the end, thinking that they're doing right by him. But they're not. It's like pulling the rug out from under someone who's not looking. Not fair.

Another example of anthropomorphism, at its most blatant (and used very effectively, if I do say so myself), is the latest Pedigree commercial. Why does that commercial cut us to the core when we see it? Well, aside from the dulcet tones of David Duchovny's voice, the music, and the ridiculously cute canine faces, it's the narrative. The dog is talking to us.

"I know how to sit, how to fetch and how to roll over. What I don't know is how I ended up in here. But I know that I am a good dog and I just want to go home."

Don't feel bad if that commercial strikes a raw nerve in you. It's supposed to. But think of it this way - does a dog know good from bad? Not really, not in the way that we do. Good and Bad are abstract qualities that a dog would never think about, mainly because it doesn't have the intelligence to do so.

Mata H., a contributor at Blogher, wrote better than I could why this commercial gets to us in the psychological sense, so I'll let you go over there and see what she's written. In short, however, we see ourselves in the dog. Yes, I am a good boy/good girl. I don't deserve what was done to me. We're, in part, rescuing a part of ourselves when we rescue these dogs.

But what do my friends and their dog have to do with this Pedigree commercial? I do believe that my friends and others like them are treating their dogs in the manner in which they themselves want to be treated.

Let's get down to the irony. Why do you think so many of those dogs ended up in those pounds and shelters to begin with? A good number end up there because people put heavy burdens on these animals that they could never live up to. Dogs act, for lack of a better term, dogish. They are dogs who pull and bark and dig. Dogs who jump on our clean clothes with muddy, scratchy paws. Or dogs who don't come when they're called. They're dogs who are expected to live in a human world but were never properly taught how to do that.

Not fair.

I don't expect that the dog belonging to my friends will end up in a pound. For all of their naiveté they do truly love him and are willing to do whatever it takes to keep him happy. And the best part is that they've taken the years they had with him before the baby to give him as much training as possible. I'm just afraid that some damage will be done in their desperate attempt to keep him happy. Because, in the end, they are doing these things, for good or bad, out of love.

The love of dogs is a heady emotion for those of us who feel as if we can't live without one and the Pedigree commercial is extremely persuasive. But before you rush out to adopt the first cute face and wagging tail that sits before you in your local animal shelter after watching that commercial for the hundredth time please remember this...

You're getting a dog, not a mini version of your damaged psyche, if I may be so blunt. You're bringing an animal, with all of his or her canine behaviors - for better or for worse - into your home and into your lives. The least you can do is make a concerted effort to make that transition as easy as possible. And whether you're adopting a dog or already have one at home, do everyone a favor - yourself, the dog, the workers at the pound - please treat the dog with respect.

Treat him like a dog.