Food isn’t love but it’s close enough for horseshoes

I am an emotional eater. I think I come by this honestly. My mother was also an emotional eater. I’m not blaming my mother because I don’t think she taught me to eat emotionally, but I think I inherited the propensity from her.

However, I’m afraid I have taught my children to eat emotionally. To eat when you’re sad, eat when you’re bored–especially to eat when you’re bored, which is a big, big problem. I myself prefer to eat when I’m sad, nervous, tense or angry, but my kids prefer to eat when they’re bored, and I think it’s my fault. Quelle surprise, you’re thinking. Don’t I assume everything’s my fault? Well, no, not everything. Most things, but not everything. I do think this is my fault, though, and I’ll tell you why.

It might be a long story, but if you get bored, please don’t eat. Unless you’re really hungry. I just don’t want any more on my conscience, okay?

I remember giving my children snacks when they were younger to pacify them, to keep them occupied and out of my hair while I did something important. Not like taking-a-shower important. More like making-a-phone-call important or hearing-myself-think important. My short-lived freelance journalism career was sponsored by Cheerios. (That is not how I learned to hate the Cheerios. The Cheerios phobia is a congenital thing; I can’t explain it. But I digress.) I tried always to give them good food. I kept them away from Goldfish and French Fries as long as I could. But the fact is, when children are learning to feed themselves, the easiest foods for gum-mashing are those carbalicious cereals and crackers. I suppose that if I were a better mother, I would always have had steamed vegetables on hand. But who actually feeds their babies steamed veggies as a snack? Just shut your stupid face, I don’t want to hear it. Regardless of what I was feeding them, my kids would not be happy by themselves unless they were eating. I didn’t help the situation by caving in and feeding them, of course. And I think the origins of the problem may go back even farther than the Cheerios-on-the-high-chair phase.

So I breastfed all of my children because breast milk was the best food for babies, and if you weren’t giving your child the best, he or she might be at some disadvantage later in life. If any of you ladies don’t understand yet that this is a crock of baloney, let me help you out: it’s a crock of baloney. I know that now, but I didn’t know it then. All I knew then was that I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout raisin’ no babies and if it was in all the parenting manuals, it must be true. So I breastfed my babies, exclusively, for at least four months, because that was the recommendation. I tried to use a pacifier sparingly, I only supplemented with formula in an emergency because I didn’t want the babies to get nipple confusion and start refusing the breast and then my milk supply would go down and blah blah vicious cycle ending in lower IQs and bad immune systems–all the things I was warned would happen if I relied too much on these other sucking outlets. (I mean, they were outlets for the baby, not for me, but I was the one relying on them. Or trying not to. You know what I mean.)

Well. IT IS TO LAUGH. My children were never in any danger of learning to prefer pacifiers or bottles to the breast. HA. And HA. What they learned was that pacifiers don’t contain any sustenance worth sucking for and that formula should be refused even in an emergency. Really, it was hard to blame them for refusing the formula. Formula is perfectly good food, nutrition-wise, but it’s kind of an acquired taste. If you get used to it while young and hungry, you’ll probably continue to drink it even after your palate has experienced other options. If you’re not used to it, you’ll spit it out and think, “What the crap? Where’s my mom?”

So yes, I breastfed my kids a lot. When I got my first baby, I didn’t know what to do with her. I didn’t have a mother around to tell me anything, but would I even have listened to her if I had? She raised me, what the heck would she know? The books all said that babies had different cries to indicate different needs, but when your baby is crying so much for so long, the nuances tend to get lost. I tried to figure out the difference between the “I’m hungry” cry and the “I’m upset (about something else)” cry, but as far as I could tell, the only two cries my baby had were “I’m hungry” and “I’m upset (because you’re not feeding me).”

The thing is, she could very well have been hungry all the time. Both of my first two babies could have been genuinely hungry most of the time because in retrospect I understand that despite all the nursing I was doing, I was probably not producing enough milk. The experts always insist that if you nurse your babies often enough, you will make enough milk–period, end of story. IT’S NATURE. I understand now that some things interfere with nature–things like stress and sleep deprivation and depression–and no matter how often or how long you nurse or how much you pump, you will not be able to make enough milk to feed your baby to the point of satisfaction. Neither of my first two babies “failed to thrive,” but they didn’t get fat. You know how doctors will tease the mothers of fat babies by saying they must have cream in their breasts? How creepy is that, and yet I heard that story over and over again. No one would have said that creepy thing to me. I saw the milk I produced, and I’m pretty sure in retrospect that it was skim. But that’s not the point. The point is that I was feeding the babies constantly from the time they were born, so doesn’t it make sense that they would learn that food was happiness and contentment and they shouldn’t settle for anything less?

Which is why my children still have to eat all the time, although, thank God, I am no longer breastfeeding any of them? Maybe. What exactly am I saying? That my children are destined for a lifetime of obesity and I blame La Leche League? No. I mean, I wish I could, but no. I guess. I don’t know.

Technically, none of my children is obese. My oldest, however, is certainly overweight–not a controversial statement. She has never been a picky eater. She’s always eaten a variety of foods. That’s good. But she eats more than she needs to, and she isn’t as active as she ought to be. I think the same could have been said about me at that age, but unfortunately my daughter did not inherit my metabolism along with my propensity for eating and sitting more than one ought. Not that I am one of those super-skinny women who can eat anything they want and never gain weight, but my weight has always been reasonably stable. I live in fear of that luck running out someday, and perhaps the stress of that burns some calories, I don’t know. But I’m also about twenty times more active than my daughter. I have responsibilities and hobbies that require me to move around. She doesn’t. And as a result, she is carrying around about thirty extra pounds. I worry about it.

I’ve worried about it ever since she started gaining weight more quickly than she was getting tall–around third or fourth grade, I guess. I knew that she was already set apart from her peers because of her disability. I worried enough about her being “the weird girl”; I didn’t want to worry about her being “the weird fat girl.” Does this sound harsh to you? Does it seem like I’m catering to society’s expectations of what a (young) woman’s body should look like? My daughter isn’t getting any taller. She may eventually, but it isn’t happening yet, and in the meantime she keeps gaining weight. I watched my mother struggle and suffer with obesity for the better half of her life. I don’t have any memories of her not being fat and not hating her body. Princess Zurg has enough problems; she doesn’t need a weight problem on top of it.

On the other hand, she has enough problems; she doesn’t need a (relatively thin) mother nagging her about her weight problem.

I don’t want to be one of those mothers. At the same time, I really want her to lose weight. I want it for her sake, but I don’t want to give her a complex about it, either. Haven’t I screwed up enough on the food front already? I’ve talked to her about it, and she knows she needs to lose weight, and she knows that she needs to exercise more. I’m trying to make it something we do together, but it’s hard enough to find time in one’s own schedule, let alone trying to coordinate two schedules. Really, six schedules, because there’s mine and then there’s my husband and four children who all need varying levels of my attention and assistance during the hours that PZ is at home. Yes, it’s just a matter of making it a priority, but so far I’m just frustrated. So frustrated I could eat a cookie. But I won’t! (It’s the principle of the thing.)

So for those of you who were wondering, I have crafted a solution to my last posted dilemma. We are jumping PZ’s therapy appointment around until a new, non-Wednesday after-school slot opens up on a regular basis, so PZ can go to her Girls Club on Wednesday. This week it means that tomorrow I will take Elvis to his social group (speech therapy) from 4:30 to 5:30 and somehow get him home and PZ to Freaking Tigard by 6:15. I haven’t figured out yet how exactly this will happen, what with traffic and whatnot. But that’s this week. Maybe next week will be easier. All I can say is that this club had better change her life. Actually, I’d settle for her liking it. That’s not the point of this paragraph. The point of this paragraph is that when I was filling out the paperwork, I saw a note that said, “All students [emphasis theirs] participating in after-school activities will receive free supper at 3:40 pm as part of a federally funded program.”

I mean…really?

1. Who needs to eat supper at 3:40 in the afternoon? Granted, I have no idea what “supper” entails. It could just be Goldfish crackers, for all I know, but that’s not the point. Who needs to eat “supper” at 3:40 in the afternoon when you’re going home in an hour anyway?

2. Not to wax all Newt Gingrich, let-the-orphans-clean-toilets-for-their-supper, but doesn’t this seem like a colossal waste of money? All children? For any children, I suppose it’s debatable, but for all children? Really?

And

3. Why does the school have to provide my daughter with more food that she doesn’t need? Why does it seem like everybody is giving my kids more food that they don’t need? Haven’t I done enough of that myself?

Which reminds me, I forgot to eat lunch.

Let’s talk turkey, metaphorically

Although I could talk about turkey literally. My husband smoked a turkey in his new smoker that he got for Christmas. That was a week ago. We did not eat enough of this smoked turkey, nor did we store it appropriately. Some of it shall therefore be wasted. It’s a depressing topic, which is why I suggested we stick to the metaphorical turkey-talking.

I just didn’t have a better title for this post. Because I’m not sure where it’s going. I’m pretty sure I’m going to start talking about my personal problems, though. Not personal like “TMI,” just personal like “not that interesting to you.” But here you are anyway, so let’s begin.

Here’s a dilemma: Princess Zurg wants to join an after-school club. It’s called the Girls Club. I don’t actually know what it’s all about, except that probably only girls belong to it. I know that they put on a fashion show every year. We went to it last year because one of PZ’s BFFs is in the club, and she was in the fashion show. I think the point of the fashion show is for the girls to use their creativity–take something old and make it new, create ensembles, blah blah, whatever. It’s kind of cute, if a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it’s just me. Anyway, I think PZ would enjoy participating in the fashion show, if nothing else because, in case I’ve never told you–and it’s possible I never have, even though it seems absurd that I never have, but I can be absurdly negligent in my information-dispensing–PZ is really into fashion. Like, “alternative” fashion. I think she would rock a fashion show. She would also be among the minority of participants whose bra straps are not visible. Seriously, when did it become okay for middle-schoolers (as opposed to Madonna or grown-up slutty types) to exhibit their bras to general public? Clearly it is not accidental or incidental bra-showing. I don’t see any ratty, gray-and-dingy bras hanging out. They’re all colorful and in good repair, and definitely out there. Is the new retail variety in bras a cause or an effect of this trend? In any case, I don’t think I like it. I mean, I appreciate a bright-green polka-dot bra as much as the next person, but I really think bras should stay semi-private. Only your lovers, doctors and community-dressing-room compadres should get to see them. Unless you are a bra model. And middle-school girls should not have lovers or be bra models. Call me an old crank. I am an old crank. And I make an end.

So back to the dilemma. PZ wants to join this club, but as the ever-contrary universe would have it, the club meets Wednesdays after school, which is when PZ has her standing appointment with her psychologist. Are you aware of how difficult it is to secure a regular, after-school appointment with anyone, let alone a psychologist who treats adolescents? I’m sure you’re aware, now that you’ve thought about it for two seconds. Anyway, we’ve discussed this dilemma with her psychologist, who has been encouraging PZ to get involved with more extracurricular activities. Predictably, her only other after-school opening is on Tuesday, at exactly the same time I have to take Elvis to his social group, ten miles away, during rush hour. I’ve tried to wrap my brain around how I can get each of these children to their respective appointments at the same time on Tuesday during rush hour, but I just…can’t…quite…reach…No, there’s no way I can do this. Not without human cloning, and a) the science isn’t there yet and b) I have some ethical problems with that anyway.

Here are my options, as I see it:

Option A. Continue taking PZ to this psychologist weekly, on Wednesdays, and forget about the Girls Club.
Option B. Switch to taking PZ to this psychologist on an every-other-week basis, at an appointment time that is during school hours, possibly jumping the appointment time around so that she doesn’t miss the same class period every time (bearing in mind that the psychologist is in Freaking Tigard and there’s a 30-60 minute round-trip commute time, depending on traffic, to factor in).
Option C. Find a different therapist.

An Option D that isn’t science fiction has thusfar eluded me, but I’m open to suggestions.

This morning I asked PZ to rank these different options, and she ordered them Option B, Option C, Option A (Option A being the least appealing). We have (finally–finally) gotten PZ in to see a psychiatrist, and as of this morning we are increasing her medication dosage, which we hope will eventually result in a drastic improvement. However, she still needs the support of regular counseling, at least for now. Certainly while she’s transitioning to a therapeutic medication level. I’m not 100 percent certain that it needs to be weekly. Maybe biweekly is sufficient. But I hesitate. The current appointment time is not totally convenient (because we don’t get home until almost six, and Elvis has basketball practice at 6:15, and PZ has youth group at 7, bleeeeeaaahhhhhh), but it is nevertheless so precious (regular after-school appointment slots being so very rare) that I am loath to let it go. Bird in the hand, you know? I’d feel a fool to forsake it. And what if biweekly turns out not to be good enough. And I don’t want to be taking her out of school on a regular basis, but I don’t want her to miss a good social opportunity and I don’t want to change therapists when the current one is working so well.

And then there’s this other factor: What if she ends up hating Girls Club? She’s been known to want to do stuff and then turn out to hate it once she’s doing it. I’m going to give up a sweet after-school appointment slot for that? My brain is exploding with (negative) possibilities.

But does PZ deserve to be deprived of an opportunity because of what I’m afraid she’ll do? Possibly. But if we all got what we deserved, we’d all be pretty much screwed, wouldn’t we?

Tell me what to do, internet!

Well. That’s one moral dilemma down.

In other news, my laptop continues to work intermittently, so long as I don’t make it work too hard. As of now and for the foreseeable future, it is the only (semi-)operational computer in the house, so I have to share it. Well, technically, I don’t, but unless I want my life to be completely miserable, I have to share it. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not like I mean to be living on it or anything, but it does kind of suck when I want/need to use it and some rotten kid WHO HASN’T HAD A TURN ALL DAY is on it. Blerg. But that’s neither here nor there. I was going somewhere with this. Oh. I have been writing more, and very often I am doing it longhand because when the mood/opportunity strikes, someone else is on my laptop. Which kind of sucks, as I mentioned. But that brings me to where I was going. This laptop is certainly on its way out. It is losing the will to live. I’m not sure what’s keeping it holding on. It certainly isn’t so I can update our family blog because uploading pictures to Blogger = Working Too Hard. But whatever. Someday it’s going to just go gentle into that good night, and I need to be prepared. Which brings me to where I was going.

My husband bought this laptop for me a few years ago, to celebrate my first national publication. As it happens, that was also my last national publication–well, my last for money, anyway. (Not that it was a lot of money, but it was the principle of the thing.) I don’t want to think about how many years ago that was. Enough years ago that my laptop is now wearing out. (In fairness, I’ve used the crap out of it. I just haven’t published the crap out of anything. Not for money, anyway.) As a result of these circumstances and my contemplation thereof, I feel like I don’t really deserve a new laptop. I’ll take one, mind you–don’t misunderstand me. And I’ll complain about not having one. But on the occasion of receiving this particular laptop, I felt that I was on the cusp of a new stage of my career, and in retrospect I see that I was just on the crest of a random wave in my career. It is somewhat depressing. Did I already say that? I’m sure it bears repeating, even if I’ve said it a million times (which I’m sure I have, if not all in this one specific post). I need a new narrative surrounding my laptop ownership, but I’m too busy worrying about the PZ therapist/club thing and also the fact that she has an eye infection that won’t go away and I need to take her back to the doctor but there’s no TIME.

And there’s also no time to keep gabbing about this crap. I have to get Girlfriend on the school bus. Adieu, gentle readers, adieu.

This election is the crappiest crapfest in the crapiverse

Newt Gingrich as the Republican frontrunner was funny a few weeks ago, in a Bizarro-World sort of way. Now that he’s won South Carolina and polling eight points ahead in Florida, I’m no longer amused. I have only five words for the GOP electorate and they’re Are you f***ing kidding me? Newt Gingrich. I shouldn’t even have to explain why this is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. I’d try, but I just start weeping in frustration every time I start. Newt Gingrich? NEWT GINGRICH? REALLY? I’d italicize, but it won’t help to become hysterical. I should probably just take a moment to breathe deeply and calm down.

Okay. [Long sigh] Okay. Good-cop mode. I get where people are coming from. It’s understandable. Your choices are Mitt Romney, Ron Paul, and Someone Else We’d Just As Soon Not But Damn The Pickins’ Is Slim. First Rick Perry was Someone Else, then Herman Cain was Someone Else–good grief, even Rick Santorum had fifteen minutes of being Someone Else, so why not Newt Gingrich? I get it. It’s cute in theory, but here’s the thing: NEWT GINGRICH? There’s only one of him, you know. This is not some new and improved Newt Gingrich who isn’t a big-government conservative narcissist with a Buick full of ’90s baggage that makes Hillary Clinton look like Barack Obama circa 2006, who doesn’t make enemies like he makes hash out of his marriage vows—IT’S THE SAME GUY. Do you honestly think this cat has a snowball’s chance in hell to win a general election, or have you just decided to carve a big “up yours” in the school desk of democracy? What’s the matter with you people???

That last part wasn’t very good cop-ish. You see what current events have done to me.

You long-term gentle readers know how I feel about Mitt Romney. Some people have been eager to write off all this Romney rejection as so much anti-Mormon bias, but I haven’t gone there. I’m too aware of Mitt’s shortcomings as a candidate. He’s got that big albatross MassCare, which—you know what, we’re not even going to talk about it. We could go round and round on “Romneycare” or “Obamneycare,” tenth-amendment-lover to tenth-amendment-lover, but the point is that there’s a big chunk of the Republican party who doesn’t trust someone who thinks MassCare is something to be proud of. I sympathize with that argument. Aside from that, though—forgetting that MassCare was his baby—there is the ever-present problem of him not being able to connect with voters, and it’s not because he’s an out-of-touch millionaire but because it’s just really hard to get a read on the guy. Voters don’t necessarily want a president they can sit down and have a beer with. They do want to know that what they’re seeing is what they’re getting, and with Mitt Romney it’s just so hard to believe that what you’re seeing is really all there is.

It’s not so hard for Mormons, I don’t think. To his fellow Mormons, Mitt Romney probably seems like a perfectly normal dude. He looks like he could be our stake president. Not coincidentally, Mitt Romney was a stake president in the LDS church for eight years. He’s that kind of guy. An administrator. Someone who makes sure the trains run on time (in a non-Mussolini sort of way). Not the sort of man you fall in love with, but no one needs to be in love with their stake president; they just have to not hate him. So we see this clearly intelligent, clearly competent, clearly experienced, and clearly not hate-worthy guy running for president and think, “Well, what’s wrong with him (so long as you’re a Republican)?”

Two things you should not expect from Mitt Romney: spontaneity and candor. I think Mona Charen had a column psychoanalyzing Mitt Romney and speculating that watching his father, popular Michigan governor and one-time serious presidential material George Romney, self-destruct in a moment of spontaneity and/or candor (when he said he was “brainwashed” on Vietnam) taught Mitt never to let his guard down and risk saying something he might regret. That seems perfectly plausible, if a tad Freudian/TV movie. There’s also the fact that spontaneity and candor are two things you should never expect from Mormon church leadership, either. Hedging and side-stepping and speaking in platitudes is Salt Lake leadership to a T. To a T. I am sorry to be the one to say it, but it’s true. Mormons are used to it and those of us who stick around realize that it’s not necessarily sinister, even if it is annoying. It’s just politic. I suppose we’ve also learned that shooting your mouth off a la Brigham Young causes its own problems. Maybe we’ve learned to prefer our leaders bland and harmless.

But yeah, it does give Mitt Romney that vague, used-car-salesman-esque vibe that he just can’t shake. He does seem too genteel to be compared to a used-car salesman. I think Jonah Goldberg said it best when he said, “There’s just something about the guy that makes people say, ‘There’s just something about that guy.’”

So I understand that not wanting to vote for Mitt Romney doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve got a problem with him being a Mormon. As I said, I have never heretofore gone there. I’ve defended Mike Huckabee on that front, for Pete’s sake. However…

Newt Gingrich? I’m starting to wonder.

I’ve never denied that there’s an anti-Mormon element in the anti-Romney camp. I’m not that naive. I’ve just never thought it was as significant as some people say it is. I’ve always argued that it would be almost negligible were it not for Mitt Romney’s other liabilities. Even Newt Gingrich surging ahead in the polls and eventually winning South Carolina I could write off as so many Republicans wanting a candidate that excites them rather than doesn’t-exactly-offend-them. But I can’t just ignore the exit polls; voters who say a candidate’s religious beliefs mattered “a great deal” went for Newt Gingrich by an embarrassingly large margin. (Embarrassing for Mitt Romney, but the voters themselves should probably be embarrassed, too.) It could just be a coincidence, but…Newt Gingrich? Really?

So I’m going to go all identity-politics on you for a moment and give any “values voter” out there who thinks Newt Gingrich is a better choice than Mitt Romney for President simply because he doesn’t believe in gold plates and magic underwear a piece of my mind:

I know why a candidate’s religion is important to you. Being President of the United States is a tough gig. That cat needs all the help he (or she—smirk) can get. And if your president is praying to the wrong Jesus, it could have implications for the whole country. And by “implications” I mean God could just decide to destroy us. (It’s not like he’s never done it before.) Here’s where an ordinary Mormon might try to convince you that our beliefs really aren’t that different from yours, that we believe in the same Jesus you do, and blah blah de blah. But I’m not an ordinary Mormon; I value candor and spontaneity, so I’m just going to come out and tell you—yeah, I do believe in a different Jesus than you do. My Jesus listens to your prayers even if your theology isn’t one hundred percent accurate, and he isn’t going to destroy a whole country because its president wears the wrong kind of underwear. My Jesus is nice, and so’s Mitt Romney’s. But if you’re so particular about your Jesuses, maybe I should remind you that Newt Gingrich is a (converted) Catholic, and as I recall from the “counter-cult” section of your bookstores, his religion is a little fishy, too (even if it is older). And by “a little fishy” I don’t mean what you put on the back of your car.

Enough of that, though. It’s not like it makes any difference.

Mitt Romney’s still a really problematic candidate. As Mark Steyn said in the Corner yesterday, “For a guy running as a chief exec applying proven private-sector solutions, his campaign looks awfully like an unreformable government bureaucracy: big, bloated, overstaffed, burning money, slow to react, and all but impossible to change.” Mitt the Wealthy and Very Competent Administrator should have the best advisors money can buy, and this is the best he can do? He’s losing to Newt Gingrich. NEWT FLIPPING GINGRICH. Holy heck.

It’s not like I’m completely blind to Newt’s appeal, either. I understand that he accomplished great things for the party twenty years ago. I know he’s quick and he’s smart and watching him debate Pres. Obama would be like watching the Oregon Ducks play Portland State. I’m not even all that hung up on him being a serial adulterer, aside from the fact that he tried to blame his affairs on the fact that he was just working so darn hard for his country that “things happened.” (Someone should probably warn Newt’s current wife that the American presidency entails a fair amount of hard work. He won’t just be playing golf all day.) I don’t think he’d be a bad president. I think he’d be an unpredictable president because who the crap knows what Newt’s going to come up with next?

But that’s neither here nor there because Newt’s never going to be president. It’s never going to happen. Mitt Romney might never be president, either. I think Barack Obama would have mopped the floor with Mitt in 2008, and he might very well mop the floor with him in 2012. But if the Republicans nominate Newt Gingrich, the President will not only mop the floor with him, he’ll scrub the bathtubs, shower stalls and toilets and possibly clean the second story windows, too. For the love of all that’s holy, my friends—we have to make it look like we’re at least trying.

Okay, I’m done with politics now. D-U-N. On to Florida, God help us all.

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Madhousewife is a possible candidate for VP on a Gingrich ticket–or would be, if she weren’t a Mormon.

Hello, baby–did you miss me?

Ten bucks if you caught the movie reference in the blog post title.*

* It’s just an expression. I’m not really going to give you ten bucks. I’ll just be awfully impressed.

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Sugar Daddy: So I think this turkey is going to need more time to defrost. I’ll smoke it tomorrow and we can have it on Monday.

Mad: In honor of Dr. King. White meat and dark meat. In the same bird.

SD: Except some people only like the white meat. And the dark meat is always on the bottom.

Mad: Well, we still have a ways to go, SD.

SD: We have not yet achieved Dr. King’s dream.

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SD: I wonder if the kids will have school tomorrow.

Mad: It’s not snowing.

SD: We’re supposed to get 3-4 inches tonight.

Mad: That’s what they always say.

SD: No, that’s what she said.

Mad: Heh heh.

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Our home PC is still broken. My laptop is still only intermittently operational, only the intermissions of operation are lengthier than they once were. It will work, it just doesn’t like to work too hard. Things like uploading pictures from a camera=too hard. Having more than two windows open at once=too hard. Posting a blog=sometimes too hard, sometimes not. We’ll see if you get this message, gentle readers.

So my January micro-resolution to spend less time on the internet is going swimmingly. The fact that I spent the first three days of the month without any computer access whatsoever meant an automatic reduction in my monthly interweb consumption. Since then I have yielded the lion’s share of my computer’s operational time to Princess Zurg, who is in even more dire need of an anti-interweb micro-resolution than I was, but I think “deal with my children’s addictions” doesn’t show up on my micro-resolution list until at least…July.

I’m doing so well with the micro-resolution that I’ve decided to take on an actual, hoping-to-change-my-life-permanently resolution. You’ve probably already noticed. I bet the first thing you thought upon seeing this post was “This blog looks great–has it lost weight?” As a matter of fact, gentle readers, it has. After 27 years of typing two spaces after a period, I have decided to start typing only one. It took about an hour to get into the habit. It took a few hours after that to start thinking that it didn’t look wrong. And now look at me. Look at us. Slimmer, sleeker, more space efficient. And no, I didn’t do it to meet some arbitrary standard of the Copy Editing Gods. They’ve been after me for years to no avail. No, gentle readers, I did it for myself. That’s the only way to be successful in these endeavors. True, lasting change must come from within.

What else can I tell you? It’s been so long since we’ve spoken, i.e. written/read. I’m getting used to my annoying new phone. It still drives me nuts that I have to open it to see what time it is, but I’m working on that. Well, not really working. It’s mostly a passive thing, just waiting for it to stop bothering me. Eventually, eventually.

It did snow quite a bit last night, but then it rained quite a bit this morning, so there’s nothing but slush out there now. Mister Bubby got up at 6:30 in the morning so he could build a snowman before the rain spoiled things entirely.

My back hurts.

That about covers it.

Disregard my resolutions; I wish to complain about my phone

One of the things that annoys me about living in the twenty-first century is that the technology has come so far and yet it still fails to meet my expectations. How is this possible? Am I really that fussy? Apparently so, because I bought this new cell phone (to replace the one that is dead), and it is driving me nuts because I can’t figure out its black magic.

This is the first phone I have bought for myself. My husband bought my last two phones. I have always heard that buying a cell phone is easy. You walk into the store and say, “I would like to buy a cell phone,” and the person behind the counter guides you through the entire process. I suppose that is true, to some extent. I walked into the T-Mobile store and said, “I need to buy a new phone,” and the person behind the counter asked me what kind of phone I wanted, and I said, “One that is like this dead one I am holding right here.” I considered getting a fancier phone than the one that was now dead, but the dead phone, before dying, had always served me well and I really don’t know what I’d do with a phone that was smarter than I was. My husband has owned two Blackberries, and they make me crazy. I can’t stand them. He asks me to look something up on his phone while he is driving (since it is unsafe and also illegal to use your own phone while driving), and I can never do it right, and he gets exasperated, wondering how he ever managed to marry such a big dummy, and I want to throw the phone at his stupid head because to paraphrase Forrest Gump, I may not be a smart man, but I know what user-friendly is. A really smart phone would be idiot-proof, but instead he has a phone that likes to taunt idiots, which I think is kind of mean. I don’t like bullies, never have, but anyway, that’s how I came to be in the T-Mobile store asking for a phone that will at least pretend to respect me.

So the salesman pointed me toward the three phones in the store that were primitive enough to be comparable to my beloved now-dead phone, and I asked him what the difference was between two of them. He said, “This one has bigger numbers and a bigger screen.” Being that I’m old and my eyesight is going, I figured I should opt for bigger, so that’s what I did. I was a little bit sad because my old phone was lime green, which matched my iPod that is lime green and my Kindle cover which is also lime green, and I am just superficial enough that if there had been a lime green phone in that store, I probably would have bought it no matter how smart it thought it was. But there weren’t any green phones, so I settled for this midnight blue one. I felt a little mismatched when I left, but I was still excited to have a new phone because a) presumably this one worked and b) I might just find I liked it better than the old one (no disloyalty intended, but it’s not like the old phone can hear me, being not only merely dead but really most sincerely dead).

You see? I had an open mind.

Anyway, I do not like this midnight blue phone with the bigger numbers and the bigger screen better than my old phone with the adequately-sized numbers and screen. It is not as easy to use as my old phone was. It’s not impossible to use, like a Blackberry, but it’s just not easy. More to the point, I believe it is harder to use than it has any business being, given that it is allegedly not a smart phone. I don’t mean that it is putting on airs, but I think it is being deliberately annoying. I blame myself, because I believed the hype that it is really easy to go into a store and just buy a cell phone. I know better for next time. Next time I will ask the important questions. At the top of the list will be “Which phone requires the fewest steps to access my contacts list? Ideally, I would like something under three. One would be just super. There was this lime-green phone you used to carry that only required one step to access the contacts list. That was so convenient. And intuitive. You opened the phone and the word ‘contacts’ appeared right on the screen, and you pushed a button and there were your contacts, just as if you’d requested them special. Do you have anything along those lines?” I will sound matronly and old-fashioned, but it won’t matter because old ladies don’t care what other people think; they only care about getting what they want. That’s the sort of person I aspire to be.

But that’s in the future. For now I have to live with this phone, on which it is actually easier for me to just memorize all the numbers I need and punch them in myself than it is to access my contacts list. A phone number is ten digits, eleven if it’s long-distance, and that is about as many buttons as I have to push to access a particular number on my contacts list, and dialing the number my damn self will give me a sense of accomplishment and also have the side benefit of not making me want to kill someone because who the crap invents a phone that is this ridiculous? What’s the main reason anyone owns a phone? To call people! At least that’s what I’ve always assumed. Perhaps the twenty-first century has left me behind. Who knows what the kids are doing with phones these days? I don’t even want to know. (And it’s good that I don’t want to know, because I probably couldn’t figure it out even if I wanted to.)

There is another, secondary function that I like my cell phone to have, and that’s a camera for taking pictures. This phone has a camera, and after an entire afternoon on my part and ten seconds on my husband’s part, I have discovered how to access the camera in fewer than twelve steps. The problem is that there is this additional feature on the camera part that allows you to enhance your photos with these cute backgrounds–like, the actual photo part is this relatively-small circle/square and the rest of the picture is this cute background giving your subject animal ears or putting them on Mount Rushmore. The default background is a milk carton with the slogan “Got Friends?” And when I say that is the default background, what I mean is that that particular background is the default setting for the camera. I have to scroll to get to the no-background option. And there doesn’t appear to be any way to change the default setting. I’m sure there is a way, because it just seems that if there weren’t a way, that would just be too asinine for words. My head would literally explode if someone informed me there was no way to change that setting. But there doesn’t appear to be any way to change it, and if you haven’t gotten the idea yet, that is my number-one requirement for a technology device: there must appear to be a way to change it. Otherwise, there really may as well not be. And that’s where I’m at now. There is no way for me to change this setting. I have to do it manually every single time I want to take a picture, until such time as I want to make it look like I’ve taken a picture of a milk carton.

Naturally, I have some questions. To begin with: Am I SEVEN? Why would I want this feature AT ALL, let alone have it as my DEFAULT SETTING? And to end with: Why? WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY???

That’s my main complaint about the camera. My other complaint–minor by comparison–is that there is no zoom on the camera. My old phone camera had a zoom. Not a great zoom–almost an inconsequential zoom, really, but at least it was there and made me feel like it was at least making an effort. So fine, I have no zoom. I’ll live. Instead of a zoom, I can adjust the brightness. I guess. That appears to be what those controls are for. They’re probably going to be about as consequential as my old phone camera’s zoom, but at least it’s something.

My only other complaint–and this is the last one so far–about the phone in general is that I like to use my phone as a way to tell time because I no longer wear a watch. I used to wear a watch a long time ago–wore watches for years, actually–but one day my watch broke and it took a long time to replace it and by the time I did, I was used to not wearing one, so wearing one now actually bugged. I tried to get used to it, but then the watch stopped working. Then my mother-in-law got me this cute Snoopy watch (I love me some Snoopy), and I was willing to try to get used to wearing it, but that watch never worked. It was only cute. And thus ended the watch-wearing chapter of my life. I would say “but I digress,” but the digression is already over, and I’m back to the phone now. I want my phone to tell me what time it is. My old phone, which was a flip phone, had this button on the side that you could push and light up the clock on the outside. This new phone, also a flip phone because I wanted a phone just like the one I had before, also has a button on the side, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the clock. I have to open the phone up to see what time it is. That bugs. And now I have my number two question for when I go in to buy my next phone.

My number three question will be “Which phone comes with an actual instruction manual, containing actual instructions?” This phone came with a “health and safety manual,” which explains in English and Spanish how to use your phone without causing a car accident or getting brain cancer, and a “start guide,” which is sort of like an instruction manual, except that it’s useless. I will summarize its contents for you: “If you are so STUPID that you can’t figure out how to use a PHONE, here’s a quick tutorial: 1. Open phone. 2. Push the buttons that correspond with the numbers you wish to dial. (Note: If you do not push the buttons in the correct order, the phone may not dial the party you wish to reach.) 3. Talk.” That’s it. Don’t do drugs, stay in school. That’s all it’s got for me.

You know, I don’t mind being condescended to, as long as I receive useful information in the process. Otherwise, have some respect.

Incidentally, I’m sure I can find solutions to all of my phone problems on the internet. Or by letting my husband fiddle with it for 15-25 seconds. But this was more emotionally satisfying. And now I’m going to take a shower.

An inauspicious start

I know what you’re all thinking.  You’re thinking that I’ve gone flaky again, decided that blogging is no longer worth it and anyway it’s the holidays so why not just sit on my can all day and eat fudge.  Well.  WRONG.

Here’s what happened to me:  Within a 48-hour period, mid-December, both the MadhouseHomePC and my laptop decided they no longer wanted to work for us.  The PC is dead.  The laptop, it turns out, is only mostly dead.  If I use a bellows, I can get it to cough back to life for 60-980 seconds at a time.  Now, if only we had a wheelbarrow and a holocaust cloak, I’d be in business.  Anyway.  So my internet access has been limited mostly to my Kindle.  I blogged on my Kindle once for you people, and no offense but it wasn’t really worth it.  Hence, my absence.

Even as I write this I have no idea whether the message will eventually get to you.  The laptop has been running for 80+ seconds already, and my time here is necessarily limited.  I type as a voice from the dust.

In other news, my cell phone has also decided that it is dead.  Soon I will be churning my own butter.  Stay tuned.

Conveniently, I have decided that my resolution for 2012 is to spend less time online.  Actually, I have decided to make micro-resolutions for 2012.  I’m going to change twelve things about myself, but only for a month at a time.  In January I will spend less time online.  In February I will stop swearing.  (I purposely picked the shortest month for that one, although it is a leap year.)  In March I will exercise.  In April I will remember to take my medication.  That’s all I have planned so far.  Anyway, our time grows short.

Farewell, gentle readers.  I will see more of you, no doubt, in February, when I will regale you with profanity-free tales of my adventures in real life.  Until then, adieu.