No Escape

Last Night I watched No Escape with my parents. After fifteen minutes, I was pacing in the back of the living room, and being quite vocal on how I was not a fan of this movie. I sensed each dire situation would only be followed by an equally dire situation, until the movie ended.
By the end of the movie my shoulders were sore, and I said, "Talk about sitting through an hour and a half of your worst nightmare." And, then I had a shitty nightmare. Last night, I dreamt I lost Kiki in a flea market and was frantically trying to find her.
No Escape reminded me of Delta Force, my brothers and sisters favorite movie of my childhood. My parents were not big on following Parental Guidance ratings, so my four year old brother spent most of his day reenacting Chuck Norris kicking ass, or acting as a marine being beaten to death by the armrest of an airplane seat.
I had more refined taste as a child, and my go to film at 7 years old was Pretty Woman. I'd set an alarm clock to watch this movie before school. And can't even help myself from saying lines from the movie after microscopic cues. When someone suggests laying down, or a picnic, I spit out, "Lay like broccoli," and they, understandably, look at me like, "That doesn't make any fucking sense!"
Well, that shit makes sense to a seven year old because they are still allowed to live in their own private universe.

No Escape was all about blood pumping fear. It makes me want to delay travel plans, and move to a smaller city. However, plane tickets are already bought, and fighting with an airline is as enjoyable as watching movies with a backdrop of actors being bludgeoned to death. I'm sure chocolate covered macadamia nuts will relax me, and I'll get some leashes for the kids.

Shut Your Piehole

Oh Yeah, it's turkey time. I'm more of a pie person because the sight of a cooked turkey reminds me of Peta videos I can't scrub from my mind. 

I was put in charge of dessert, and because I'm planning on having a slice for my appetizer, two slices for my main, and three slices for dessert, I'm bringing a fly swatter along, to bat away loved ones infringing on my bounty.

"You better shut that pie hole, and go fill your turkey hole! Don't make me show you the videos, and cast a shadow over our day of thanks! There isn't enough green bean casserole for that!"

Flossin

My right front tooth is brown. Damn you, coffee!!! (Just kiddin, I love you with all my heart)

When I was a kid my mom gave us a tutorial on flossing our teeth. My brothers, sisters and I sat on her bed as she explained dental floss and how were supposed to use it. She used my older sister as an example, and we all watched as she did the Y motion in between each tooth.
Moments after doing one Y, the gums started to bleed, and then this happened at the next Y, and the next. We all started to panic, and worry about my sister, who was bleeding at the mouth after doing this dentist recommended treatment. I blame our collective horror, five kids crying in fear, splayed across a king size bed, for not being a diligent flosser.
My dental insurance kicks in on December 1, and I am finally going to see to the dentist after four years of neglecting to go for a checkup and cleaning. Since I am going to see the dentist next month, for the first time in nearly a half decade, I'm starting to floss, only because I don't like the shame that comes along with a dental hygienist cleaning my teeth, lecturing me on flossing, her face twisted in grotesque disappointment.
Last night I flossed, and my gums bled. I know from quitting and restarting flossing regimens throughout my adult life, that the bleeding lessens with each flossing, eventually stoping.
I'm looking forward to after my dentist appointment, so I can give my gums a break.

Not bad for day two

Feeding A Cold

This stuff saves

Three weeks ago I caught a cold. It was a nasty one, something that can only come from the breeding ground of disease, preschool. I should have expected a health rough patch because I bought running clothes, which always results in me falling off the workout wagon. It never fails, after I plunk down serious coinage on high end athletic attire, I end up encountering an unforeseen issue, that leaves me stagnate for a period of time.
I bought long sleeve running shirts because it is a smidgen chilly in the morning, and running in a sweatshirt is not quite as easy as the marvelously engineered, lightweight, breathable running hoodies by New Balance.
I'm usually a proponent for workout clothes that look like the kind of thing one would save for washing their toilets; old t-shirts with holes in them, and shorts or leggings. If I see someone in a Lulu Lemon ensemble, I generally stamp the word "Fraud" over their forehead, and roll my eyes thinking of the great "see thru pants" incident, and how the cost of their outfit is the same as a plane ticket to Hawaii.
The only perk of having a cold is getting to "feed a cold." So I get to have a free for all, knowing its for a greater cause, getting back to 100%. Now that my cold has passed, and I have fine running sweatshirts, I need to get back on the wagon, and literally, hit the ground running in the morning.
I can tell three weeks of not running and consuming food like a truck driver has softened me a bit, but the number on the scale has not changed. That number never makes sense to me, so it's not surprising it hasn't changed when it should have spiked ten pounds. I generally think I look much smaller than the scale number suggests. A type of body dysmorphia that works in my favor. I look at the scale and say, "No way, Jose. I look much smaller than that."
I think it's because I come from dense stock. You'd think that would help me in the cold weather.

Dipshit duck lips in an awesome fleece

Big Brother

Kiki and her 'This Life' baby brother

Today when I was picking Kiki up from her school, her teacher said, "Does she have an older brother?" And, I said, "No, just a little brother," and I patted George on the belly.
Then her teacher said, "Today she told me she has an older brother, who is bigger than her mommy. And then when I asked her what his name is she got really quiet and said, 'I'm not allowed to talk about it.'"
I gave a funny face, and shook my head, indicating I have no idea what she's talking about, and then said, "Hmm. Thats funny."
It is funny, that her teacher said this to me, because last night I read an excerpt from a book on past lives. The Dalai Lama said there is a lot of evidence of reincarnation based on interviews of children. One bizarre story was of a father who was changing his son's diaper, and the son said, "I remember when I used to change your diapers." The kid would also talk about events in his grandfather's life like they were his personal stories, things that this toddler would not know, one event being how his sister (grandfather's sister) was murdered.
This toddler knew his audience because I imagine saying something like that in a Fundamentalist's household would have ended with him being smothered by pillow. The father was receptive. I also was really impressed by this story because an 18 month old who can speak in complete sentences is somewhat rare, and adding the element of revealing historical family facts, this family must have been on the phone with Geraldo, Jenny Jones, and Oprah before the reincarnation PR committee documented this kid, and then passed the info on to the Dalai Lama. The excerpt had other examples; kids scared of a man coming to shoot them again, or screaming, "I want to go back to my old family." They claim that around six years old children loose memories of past lives.

Kiki had a nightmare last week, and she woke up crying. It was so sad to see her distraught. When I was a kid, and woke up terrified from a nightmare, my mom would say, "Tell me your dream, and then it won't come true." I live by this rule now, and even if I wake up from a bad dream, and its three in the morning, I have to wake up my husband, and barf out whatever nonsense just played out in my brain, before I roll over and go back to bed. He likely snores through my retelling, but it keeps my conscious clear. And because of this belief my mom passed on, I don't ever share the details of good dreams, because that means they will come true, and I have some great things to look forward to.
When I probed Kiki for information on her dream, she said something about toys going to the dump. That day we cleaned out the garage and took a load of crap to the dump, but I also went through her toys and picked a garbage bag of stuff out to bring to donation.
As I was picking through her things, I didn't realize I was traumatizing her. Last night she had a nightmare again, and as she cried, she said, "Someone was throwing my toys away."
After school today, I sat her down and said, "Kiki, remember when I was going through your toys to give some to the women's shelter?" And she looked straight ahead, meaning, "Yeah, I'm listening."
Then I continued, "Well, I'm not giving them away. You can have them back."
And she smiled and jumped on the couch.
Our house is exploding with toys, but I've come to realize that is a good problem. I don't think I will hear either of my kids complain about wanting to go back to their old family.
As for this older brother Kiki told her teacher about, and then turned silent, eerily saying, "I'm not allowed to talk it."
I will first check with her dad, perhaps there is a son out there he doesn't know about.
I don't think I'm going to ask her any questions about this mysterious big brother because if she was told "you're not allowed to talk about it," then I don't want to get her in trouble. There are guidelines to abide by.

Bye Bye Bonsai

This morning I was applying for jobs online, and George was cruising the house. I thought he was talking to the plants, but he was actually terrorizing them. I found a plant murder scene later when I walked over with a watering can. George plucked the Bonsai right out of it's pot, and then he scrammed, but I thought it was very considerate of him to drag the broom over to the mess.

Reading Material On My Own

Kiki's favorite is Sadness, of course.

My husband is out of town so we're left to our own devices. There are definitely perks to having a spouse who travels a lot for work. For example, we keep it simple at meal time. We've had broccoli and veggie dogs for dinner the last three nights, and there hasn't been a single compliant. And, no one has tripped over a gigantic shoe left, unattached to a body, in the middle of the living room.
There are drawbacks, of course. The perks of low maintenance meals, and the absence of the lurking threat of tumbling over a Red Wing Boot are offset, most especially, at nighttime. After the sun sets, we go on lockdown. All curtains are tightly closed, home alarm activated, and lots of bravery pep talks are dispensed.
Aside from calming anxieties about a creaking house, especially with the windstorms were having this week, I have to reevaluate my nighttime reading materials. The two books I was reading, Science Fiction short stories and a book on the science of extraordinary psychic abilities, require the warm body of an adult laying next to me when I fall asleep, since I can easily talk myself into a state of sweaty hysteria after reading a sentence about encounters with another dimension/state-of-mind/reality.
It's perfect timing because I need to read a parenting book I set aside from boredom last month. Most parenting books can be condensed from 200 pages to a half page of bullet points, EASILY. The books repeat the same thing over and over again, it works better than NyQuil.
Yesterday, Kiki's teacher told me they are working on her "making friends," since she always tells her teacher she likes to play alone. At first, this was disturbing to hear because I don't want Kiki to be weird or different, so I signed her up for gymnastics on Fridays, to further expose her to social settings with kids her own age.
After telling my husband, mom and sister about the teachers desire to encourage Kiki to be more outgoing, I was given a different conclusion from each person. My husband thought she might be being bullied, and perhaps feels like she isn't in a safe environment. My sister sympathized for Kiki and thought her antisocial behavior is perfectly normal. She said she still remembers the anxiety she felt attending kids' birthday parties. My mom figured it's because Kiki is a slightly spoiled, alpha-dog who will not tolerate anyone telling her what to do. And, I thought Kiki is probably too smart for the classroom, and doesn't have anyone she feels she can connect to.
We went to an indoor playground a couple days ago, and a little girl followed Kiki around asking her to play with her. Kiki ignored her, and then followed the woman around who runs the center asking her questions. And that lady ignored Kiki. It was a weird chain of dismissive behavior. But I think Kiki is just very fond of adults, and has very little interest in children her own age.
Tonight, is the last night were having our stay-cation, so I better finish this parenting book. It puts me to bed so easily, even with a creaking house. I thought of the perfect solution; read the book on clairvoyance and psychic ability to a state of heart-racing worry, and because I don't have an adult here to protect me against the spirit world, then crack open the parenting book, and I will certainly make it through a couple chapters.

Rethink nighttime reading while husband away on business

Looking At Purses

This morning, after I woke up, I started my internet loop. Why was I looking at purses? I spent twenty minutes examining various handbags, and assessing their value as a good deal, or poor deal. My kids were listening to music and playing grocery store.
There was so much I could have done instead. So much I would think I should have done instead, but I was deriving pleasure from online window shopping.
After being filled up with the emptiness of online browsing, I closed my computer and refilled my coffee cup.

Little Prince Ending

As I blubbered my way through the last pages of The Little Prince, we came to the closing, and right before reading the last sentence, kiki looked at me in complete concern, asking, "Did the sheep eat the rose?"

The Accomplice

Goofball Island

My brother came to visit last weekend, and saw first hand how life is around my house. While we were watching a movie on Saturday, my daughter ordered, "Mother, come with me to the bathroom, and keep me company while I go poop."
After reminding her to say, "Please," I couldn't refuse. She bosses me around like I'm her indentured servant, and here's the kicker, I don't really mind. Modern parenting books recommend to refrain from calling your daughter "bossy," because it fucks with their capabilities to effectively lead when they grow up. After being told they're bossy, girls become sensitive about telling people what to do, and worry "if people like them." Instead it's better to praise her for having "exceptional leadership skills," and let her give out orders.

After potty business, we resumed watching the movie. Watching my daughter watch a movie is utterly amazing. The more she has seen something, the better she reacts. She knows all the exciting parts, and gears up for them; shouting, laughing, running down the hall, screaming, then coming back to the couch, and watching the show from under a pillow. When she is transfixed by the TV, there is not much that can pull her away without major dramatics, waterfall tears and cries of injustice. When it's time to turn the TV off, I "preview" the future events, which means I let her know what to expect, so her head doesn't explode when I say, "TV off." So I say, "In a couple minutes were turning off the TV," and then, in a couple minutes, turn off the TV.  Even after previewing, she reacts poorly, but it is an improvement from an abrupt ending.
My brother saw her reaction to turning off the TV. She hollered, "NOOOOOOO!"and cried as she explained how much she needs to continue watching.  I'm used to this, so I know after a few minutes she finds something else to do, like play dolls, Play Doh, paint or pretend she lives in a bird's nest. My brother raised his eyebrows in a judgmental way, and looked on the scene like she was Veruca Salt, and needed a spanking. And then, I looked at my brother, and raised my eyebrows, thinking, "I'm judging you, bro, for being judgmental."

Sunday morning we went to the mall. In the food court George started running away screaming, "Carousel!" and Kiki was pleading, "We need to go to the play area." My husband took them to play, as my brother and I finished our food.
"You'll see, Matt. All kids act like turds. Thats how they are." I said as I dipped a French fry in ranch.
"You should try saying, 'No,' once in a while." He jokingly said back. A truth, shrouded in sarcasm and a chuckle.

Maybe he's right. I'm not great at discipline because watching the kids cry makes me sad. I cave easily, but I stand my ground when I need to. It's not like I'd let them play with the kitchen knives, or stir boiling pasta.
I told my brother, "I don't think spoiling is that bad. It gives your kid high-self esteem and healthy entitlement issues."
He said, "Don't you think that will make it hard for them to have friends?"
"I don't see how the two are related. I had plenty of friends who were spoiled by their parents. They were a pain in the ass sometimes, but it likely serves them well. Less likely to be swallowed up by the flock."

Later that night, after my brother left, we were in the living room. George was standing on the coffee table throwing a DVD like a frisbee, in front of my husband, who earlier praised George for being dexterous, after opening a DVD box, turing on the DVD player, and loading the disc.
My husband said, "I don't think you discipline the kids when I'm not here," 

After the unnecessary criticism, I shot him some side eye, and said,"Look at your son. Discipline him!"
My husband took the DVD from George, and then pulled him off the table. I actually think my husband is happy the kids are spoiled because it is such a contrast from his own childhood. I'm textbook Middle Child Syndrome, so it's obvious why I cuddle with my kids all day long, constantly reminding them, "You are the sun and the moon."

I was on Amazon looking up Christmas presents. I showed my husband the Minnie Mouse Shopping Mall Kiki told Santa she wants for Christmas. "Look at the Minnie Mall. It's $45 and has mixed reviews, while the Minnie Boutique is only $25 and has good reviews. Should we get her the cheaper one with better reviews?"
Then my husband looked at me and said, "As someone who never got what he asked for for Christmas, I think we should get her what she wants."

I laughed at him, my accomplice, and then agreed to get her the Minnie Mall.

Mark Twain Quotes

Mark Twain Stache; the new sexy-selfie.

I went to Kauai, Hawaii when my daughter was three months old. I panicked as my maternity leave was coming to an end, and figured a tropical island getaway would calm anxieties about going back to work.
At an outdoor restaurant I ordered fish and chips, and to my surprise, it came with a side dish of food poisoning, so I spent the rest of the day barfing. On that day, we drove to Waimea Canyon. After looking at the canyon, I went back to the rental car and curled up in the back seat.
Later that night, I read the Waimea Canyon pamphlet, where I learned Mark Twain saw the canyon and called Waimea Canyon "the Grand Canyon of the Pacific."
I folded the pamphlet, dropped it to the floor, uttering, "Fucking, Mark Twain."
When I lived in San Francisco as a kid, my dad used to ask, "You know what Mark Twain says about San Francisco?"
And then my brothers, sisters and I would say in unison, with a knowing and annoyed tone, "The coldest winter I ever spent, was a summer in San Francisco!"
My dad, oblivious to our tone, would say proudly, "That's right, kids."
Mark Twain quotes are a dime a dozen, and I imagine his life was spent circling the globe, writing quotes. Maybe Mark Twain has so many quotes because it was the beginning of mass printing and distribution. Or, maybe Twain is the most the insightful person who ever lived.
Ben Franklin also has a line of credits a mile long, but in addition to quotes, he's credited with research and inventions. I once heard a scientist on the radio talking about a Ben Franklin project where the ocean water temperature was recorded frequently on a voyage across the Atlantic, and this led way to Ben Franklin being credited with first charting the gulf stream.
I thought, "Wow, Ben really racked up a list of relevant historical attributes." I likened him to Bill Gates, and The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, which provides grants for loads of research and inventions that are going to be revolutionary in our future. Bill Gates will be the Ben Franklin of the future. His name will be stamped on the waterless toilet, sustainable food, and clean energy.
His interests and foundation fund all the work, and therefore will be given all the credit for the work. I think it's totally cool Bill will be the figurehead of a transition in history, but can't help thinking it might chap some scientists' hides that their name will vanish from the evolving documentation.
When history books are being written in a hundred years, just as they are written now, an editor will have to be the chopping block of credit. They'll say, "We only have two hundred pages to describe this 50 year chunk of period, so Joe Schmoe and Jane Duggard, will have to go, just keep Gates. He paid their salaries, after all."
Since it's all a matter of recognition, and were much better off with the work, he might not be the source of inception, but he is certainly the source of vision, so let Bill Gates be the Ben Franklin. There really can only be one. Steve Jobs can be the Mark Twain of this time, Mr. Quotes.

Dumbed Down Omen

Cheers!

Thursday night I had a dream I was laying in bed, just as I was. I was looking at myself from a foot above. I was sleeping on my back, which I rarely do, and a man was standing next to the bed. He put his dick in my open hand, and I was rubbing it, while laying there asleep, for the most part.
When I woke up, the room was just as it looked in my dream. The bedside table lamp was on because I fell asleep reading, and Kiki was laying next to me. But the man standing by the bed with his dick in the palm of my hand was missing.
I was reading The Alchemist when I fell asleep. I read it fifteen years ago, but I didn't remember it being a revelation, so I figured I'd read it again. Before I cracked open my book, I read to Kiki, we're reading The Little Prince. I'm just about overdosing on transparent metaphors for living the best life. The Little Prince is a children's book, although the lessons thus far, are meant for an adult, nostalgic for her childhood.
The Alchemist, so far, has been about reading the omens. I killed a moth in the kitchen yesterday, and immediately regretted it. I have seen this moth around the house for a couple days, and figured there must be an omen, although I couldn't figure out what. I killed it by reaction, It startled me when I opened the medicine cabinet. When he came to rest on the open door, I picked up a pack of baby wipes and swatted it. The death scene looked like a smear of powdery cigarette ash.
If the moth, it's powdery residue, and a sleeping hand job are omens, I haven't the faintest idea what they mean. I need another omen, a dumbed-down omen.

Play Doh Sculpture. I call it, "The hard question: what does it all mean?"

Lipsky is a bit of a Shitzy

The End Of The Tour is a movie based on the book, Although of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, a memoir by David Lipsky about his five day road trip with David Foster Wallace. After the book's introduction, where Lipsky assimilates himself, a bit too comfortably, into Wallace's life, the book is a transcription of five days worth of tape recordings.
The book was written, composed really, in the aftermath of David Foster Wallace's death. Based on the acclaim the book and film received, I get the sense that they are backlash for David Foster Wallace not happily running into the open arms of the New York literati. The two works reek of National Enquirer type exposé on the personality of a private person, but they are embraced as high brow works of admiration and appreciation, a pretty good reason why I feel like the book and movie are retribution by a shunned high society, because there is not a chance in hell Wallace would allow Lipsky to write this book, if he were alive. So this movie makes me feel sorry for Wallace, and even face the reality that there is no coming back from death. But, hey, you're dead, so worrying about a human popularity contest, or the maintenance of an image, doesn't tick on the radar anymore.

In the beginning of the film, Lipsky learns of DFW's death, and goes running to the tape recordings from his interview ten years earlier, as if the box was mooing to Lipsky from the closet like a fat cash cow. The movie doesn't hide the fact that Lipsky is capitalizing off the hard work of someone else.  The film starts out with Lipsky reading his autobiographical book to a near empty room, and the film ends to Lipsky reading his David Foster Wallace book to the same room, that's now packed with a receptive audience.
Aside from my ethical qualms, and disdain for the weaselly point of view, the film was enjoyable to watch. Obviously, Lipsky was not DFW's friend. Aside from writing the book, paving way to this movie, the point is driven home at the end of the movie, when Lipsky gets a package from Wallace, containing a shoe he left behind, like fucking Cinderella, hoping for Foster Wallace to come and find him, however, all Wallace does is send the shoe with an impersonal post-it note.

The movie is ultimately about Lipsky's desire for fame and acclaim. Lipsky is depicted as misunderstood by Wallace, who comes across as over-emotional, easily hurt and calculating. Lipsky's unfulfilled desire for recognition is played out as overreaching fandom, slightly obsessive, and an aching need for DFW to acknowledge that he is somehow just as good as Wallace. Lipsky paints Wallace as fraudulent when he discovers Wallace is a big fan of Alanis Morrisette, but he actually doesn't know the title or lyrics of her most popular song. Lipsky hopes Wallace will claim his literary success of Infinite Jest is due to an autobiographical account from real life troubles, or because of his uncommonly good looks, but Lipsky is unfulfilled, and in the end, he has to walk away without Wallace discrediting himself, or giving Lipsky the respect he craved.
The culmination of moments where Lipsky feels he outsmarts David Foster Wallace demonstrates Lipsky's self-fulfilling attempt at grabbing a fallen crown. I'd like to hope the profits from the book and film went to DFW's family, but I'm so sure they didn't, that I'm not even going to bother with a google search. The Literati had their way with DFW, to portray him as unordinary, and show his need to distance himself from the word genius, wasn't genuine, but actually a better-than-thou mechanism because he wasn't enraptured by the prizes and privileges of literary acclaim.
It was good, the movie, but I don't lend too much validity to the DFW accounts, and think of the film more as Lipsky's hour to shine, or claim to fame. Which, I suppose, is the entire point. So I ate it up, and digested it, just as intended.

Me and my dawg!

Low Ponytail

Paul and I have a similar sense of hairstyle

About ten years ago I went to China. On the flight, my sister was fighting a bout of nasty food poisoning she caught from eating expired soy ice-cream sandwiches she found at The Grocery Outlet. I warned her it was a bad idea, but she couldn't pass up the deal, and here she was looking like she's bringing bird flu back, and potentially keeping us from entering the country. The long flight gave her plenty of time to recover.

I wandered around the plane, and found my brother in a galley where he and a group of men were congregating, pretending to drink water while commiserating over being crammed into seats that are too small for them.

My sweat pants were rolled up to my knees, and my hair was in a low pony tail. I looked comfortable, dressing for a long flight. My brother, the funny guy he is, said, "Hey, Paul Revere. You forgot your vest."

I stood next to him, laughing in my cotton civil-war-like trousers and no-frills, functional, biker hairstyle. Then a flight attended told everyone to go back to their seats, there is no congregating in the plane. If only we were on British Airways, then I could have come up warning the group, "The British are coming," but we were on a shitty airline that finds itself in the news because their planes blow up on the runway, and, even worse, aren't equipped with in-flight movies. 

After many hours, my sister recovered, and we landed in China; living to see another day and further tempt fate with low budget airlines and expired Grocery Outlet food.

Work it

Decisions, decisions

Remember that Snoop Dogg song, "Smoke weed everyday?"
Of Course.
Well, it reminds me of being at my parents' house, except I sing, "Eat pie everyday," as I nosh on a dessert buffet they display on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Yesterday, I ate half a pumpkin pie, and today I had two pieces of cake for lunch. I am steering clear of the rice crispies that I attacked on Friday. Obviously. Why eat burger when you can have steak? Pumpkin pie is the steak.
I'm about to take care of the other half. It's five o'clock somewhere!

The spread

Turn It Up

Tahoe Snowfall

My parents watch TV at full volume. The booming noise pushes me to the corner of the room, and they both sit on the couch looking like the Blown-Away Man from Maxell commercials. This probably explains why they are bad at listening and scream during casual conversation.
The kids and I are spending the weekend with my parents for Day of The Dead festivities. We stood around in the cemetery with a box of Franzia and Miller Genuine Draft tall-boys. George was leaping from one tombstone to the next. It reminded me of my grandpa, when he took my brothers, sisters and me to a cemetery in boonies, Nevada looking for Johnny Appleeed's grave sight. My grandfather stomped around raised graves, reading tombstones to find Appleseed. We never found it. I was reading a lot of Goosebumps back then, and was convinced we were disturbing spirits that would drive back with us, and haunt our nights in revenge. Well, all of us, except my parents, who wouldn't hear Marley's rattling chains.
I wasn't worried about upsetting the dead today. Old people love little kids. I figured they'd appreciate little George cruising around, listening to him sing, running and crunching snow.
I talked to my cousin about how she manually shelled three trees worth of pecans, and George wandered off into the woods. After a couple minutes, I noticed he was MIA. Her partner chased George down, and found him set on an Into The Wild adventure. George didn't even act like anything was wrong as we all ran towards him, panting and instructing him to stay near the rest of us. He picked up a piece of snow, and started nibbling on it. Maybe he was looking for Johnny Appleseed.

Guilty By Association

Happy to see these shoes again

I've been listening to the same music playlist while running, and the past two weeks I'm nagged by a need for variety. The memorized playlist is making time seem to slow down rather than go by quickly. I start my run with Florence and the Machine's "Dog Days Are Over." When Florence sings "Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father, run for your children, for yours sisters and your brothers," I usually kick into high gear, and do a jump, punching the sky, as I progress from my warm-up trot to a high paced gallop. 

Since feeling compelled to change up my running music, I didn't dig too deep for inspiration. I simply typed "Running Music" into iTunes, and selected playlists that were created by some person who lives in a cubicle at Apple headquarters. This introduced me to a lot of music I would not normally listen to, unless I decided to finally start waking up early for spinning class, or developed a panache for dancing at da' club.

The music worked well enough because of fast hypnotic drum beats, however, after a while, it gets boring. The fun is in the unknown; what am I going to be exposed to today. For example, Maroon 5 is on an Apple created playlist. It was raining, so I had to go to the gym, and running on a treadmill, while staring at a wall for an hour, makes listening to the lyrics easy. So Adam Levine sang a song called "Sugar" which embarrassed me to red faced blushing that was camouflaged by my red faced sweating. First of all, I have never heard anyone call a pussy "Red Velvet" before, and I think even Bukowski would find Adam Levine yodeling about eating Red Velvet raunchy.

The Apple playlists were not proving to be a longterm solution. I decided to type a familiar artist into iTunes. It was Gaslight Anthem, a group I obsessed over for a couple years, and then abruptly stopped. 

Last June I was hitting the booze hard, and I'd listen to Gaslight on my computer, crying, dancing or secretly smoking out the bathroom window. It was a group I leaned heavily on while going through some emotional shit. Then one day, I chose to move on and stop wallowing, so I cut my ties with that sadness, and I rolled Gaslight into that time, leaving it with the buried baggage.

When I listened to their album yesterday, I remembered, "I fucking love The Gaslight Anthem!" And I didn't feel like shit, or return to my 13 month ago self. Gaslight was guilty by association. I'm happy I went back and excavated them from the severed tie because listening to Gaslight in good times, makes me love them even more.

I looked at other things I shun because of bad times association, and knew it was time to absolve them of their guilt. I pulled my hipster shoes out of the back of my closet, where I threw them after a volatile night out, and put them on my feet. Walking forward.

Candy Pains

Candy Collecting Begins

I've had a headache for two days. I thought it might be from not making my coffee strong enough, but now I think its from recklessly eating Halloween candy. Since Saturday, I've been eating about 20-30 "fun size" candy bars a day. It's turning out to be not so fun, and bordering on compulsive, so tonight I'm throwing it all away. The kids won't even notice because I hide it all on top of the fridge since they would follow my suit, eating it till they made themselves sick. It's weird watching sugar enter the kids' blood stream, it hits them like an alcohol buzz, making them giddy, rambunctious and wild.
I see how Halloween in the 1950's was not excessive. It supplied kids with a candy score that satiated cravings built up over the months preceding, but now we have processed foods, and get our fill of sugar without having to eat candy or dessert.
I occasionally buy Pop Tarts, the organic kind, whatever that means, which means breakfast is on par with drinking a Coca Cola. My kids eat yogurt squishers, the organic kind, again, I'm not too sure how organic sugar is much different. A yougurt Squisher is a tube of yogurt thats equal parts sugar to milk. These foods are the makings of a diabetics wet dream, and they are not candy, but breakfast.

I hope dumping the added added-sugar is going to make my headache go away. Just in case my headache is from weak coffee, tomorrow I'll start the morning with a Venti Black Coffee from Starbucks because if anything is going to cure caffeine withdrawals, that'll do it. Jet Feul.