puppy love

Soon it will be time for my son to go back to school, and he would be dreading it like most kids, except for one motivator, the current love of his life, the "hottest" girl in school (his words). We'll call the girl "J".

Sometime last school year, my son told me he liked "J" in the "puberty" way.

Before the school year was out, his whole class knew that he liked "J" in the "puberty" way. He was asked by some classmates how he felt about her, and he chose to be painfully truthful, going so far as to explain to other classmates what "puberty" is.

My son will be going into the 5th Grade, so that makes him an expert on such things.

"J" to her credit was not mortified by this, she knows my son dances to his own beat, and she keeps reminding him how young they are.

What am I supposed to do when my son really goes through puberty? I suppose I can have my husband give him a talk on the facts of life, but he's still learning a few of them himself.

Flying First Class

My boy loves his toys--until he loses them. 

About five days ago, he ordered a pack of "Batman" themes miniature action figure for a game called "Heroclix".  Of course, ever since he ordered them, I've been  hearing things like:

"What day is it?"

"Is it here yet?"

"Can I go get the mail?"

By the way, the shipping was more than the action figures, but no matter, my son paid for it with his allowance.

After much (im)patience on his part, it arrives today.  He opens the package and says:

"I got the Riddler. He's rare!"

"I got a flying thing.  He's awesome"

He was hoping his package would come today, so he could take its contents with us this weekend when we go yurt camping near the Southern Oregon Coast. 

He says: "They're going first class..a.k.a...I'm going to put them in a special bin that doesn't have too many things in it."

A.k.a.: Son's a little excited, and I'm glad...a.k.a. mom,

At least until he loses his new toys at the yurts, and blames me.

2008- an open letter to politicians

Dear Politician:

As a citizen of this fabulous country I would like you to hear my voice, while I still have one.

I want authenticity from my politicians. I don't want you to kiss my butt, tell me I'm cute, or that my son is cute, just to get elected. No more bait and switch.

I don't care about your personal life, or anyone else's, but if something unsavory comes up about your past, don't try to cover it up, or blame those who found out about it. Grow a spine and own up to it--you know--part of that authenticity thing.

Furthermore, I don't care about your sex, race, or religion.  You have yours. I have mine.

By the way, I don't wear an American flag pin, but I have been known to fly the flag.  Am I a patriot? Do I love this country enough for you?

Please don't spy on me.  I look like hell naked, and my phone calls aren't that interesting, unless you like hearing me say, "Hi, just checking in!"

I believe our current President has turned lemonade into lemons, and diamonds into coal. 

If you think he's the best President ever, or even a good one, my husband wants what you're smoking.

If you think there isn't a problem with our nation's health care, you can pay my next $41,000 surgery bill, or $2000 a month for chemotherapy. Of course, I shouldn't gripe, my husband has insurance--as long as he stays employed. No pressure, though.

My son goes to public school, where his teacher is overworked, and he is tested to death.

He does well on his tests, but these tests show nothing about what he's learning, or what his potential is. Please improve the public school system.  We pay for it.

Finally, remember, you work for me.  This is my government as much as it is yours. 

Sincerely yours,

Eden Jones

Dropping the C-Bomb Part 4

I'm transported from one Portland (Oregon) hospital to another for intensive rehabilitation.

I have a daily schedule of therapies, including A.D.L (assisted daily living), speech therapy,

physical therapy, recreational therapy and occupational therapy.

A.D.L. is so I can learn to get dressed, brush my teeth (and hair), and even (heaven forbid) wash up.

Speech therapy, in my case, doesn't involve speaking so much as doing puzzles and mazes, and games like seeing how many words I can come up with that start with the letter "f". 

Lets see how I do--words that start with "f":

fork

flower

fan

faulty

fickle

flabby

fantastic

follow

fall

falling

following

fortunate

and let's not forget the f-word that shall not be spelled in full--f--k.

Physical therapy is just that--physical activity to build up my weak left side. In the beginning, I can't do much, so I do things like sit in a chair and move my arms, lay on a table and move my legs. I even get on a makeshift exercise bike.  

At recreational therapy, I get practice having fun in my altered state. For example, I tell the therapist I play keyboard and guitar. The next day, I am provided with a keyboard.  At one point I will join others on my floor on a "field trip" to lunch.  Our goal, is to make sure we get correct change back, and find our own way back to our rooms.

Occupational therapy helps me re-learn other essential activities like making Mac and Cheese and doing laundry. Most importantly, I practice carrying a laundry basket while going up and down the stairs.

I do this every day for a week that seems like a month.

There is some debate as to how well therapy is working.  A social worker for a brief period talks about getting me a full-time caregiver.

Perhaps hearing this talk helps me turn things around.  As if by magic, I find myself able to walk without help. I'm walking laps outside the hospital.

It's not magic, though, that makes this possible.  I attribute my achievements to the fact the swelling in my head is going down, thanks to steroids.

Did I mention steroids suck!?!

After more than two weeks total in  the hospital,  I get released from the kookoos nest.

Now the fun really begins.

What I want to do when I grow up

The best conversations with kids happen in the car. Example:  I was driving my son and his friend to a laser tag place.  My son, still on his B.O.C. (Blue Oyster Cult) kick assumes his friend will want to hear them too.

I turn B.O.C. down when I hear the following exchange:

Son:  You know what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, either an Olympic fencer, Olympic fencing coach, or somebody who runs a D&D (Dungeons and Dragons) shop. What do you want to be when you grow up?

Friend responds: I want to be either a policeman, a pilot or a Tae Kwon Do master.

Me:  You want to be a pirate?

Friend:  No, a pilot-- or a policeman or a Tae Kwon Do master.

By the way, they both agree that they like the B.O.C. song E.T.I (Extra Terrestrial Intelligence).  

It figures.

My list of torture songs

 In an earlier post I mentioned songs my son has sung at least 100 times too many.

 I promised that when my brain stopped hurting, I would come up with a list. It's not so much a list of songs I  hate, so much as a list of artists that make me wish I were at the dentist getting a root canal:

1. Primus (one of their discs is called Sailing on a Sea of Cheese--need I say more)
2. some Frank Zappa (talented musician and composer, but on his live records talks too much)
3. Helmet (just plain old-fashioned deep hurting)
4. some Blue Oyster Cult (sorry husband and son --Buck Dharma rocks, but I do fear the reaper)
5. Butthole Surfers ('nuff said)

I may add to this list later. To the two readers out there--feel free to pelt me with rocks and garbage or otherwise offer your comments.  

Just for the halibut

I was looking in the mirror as I was performing my morning absolutions--brushing my teeth--drying my hair, and so on, when I thought to myself, my face looks like a halibut's. Moreover, people's faces can probably be categorized into two basic types--halibut or grouper.

I tried to find some pictures of halibut (and grouper) to illustrate my point, but none that I found showed the heads very well. So I will try to describe how these fish look.  

A halibut is a big and ugly fish (but good eating).  I saw some up close and personal when I visited an aquarium. Its eyes are lopsided, with one looking forward, and the other on the side of its head, causing the fish to tip to the side.

The grouper appears to have sad looking eyes and a weak jaw.

I have a lazy eye, so I can look at people with one eye, and use the other to view my surroundings. Brain surgery no doubt has exacerbated this problem. All in all, I'd say that makes me a halibut. My husband I'd say leans more toward the grouper.

I guess that makes my son a seafood platter.