Christmas Already?

Disclaimer: I love Christmas, really. It's my favorite holiday. Christmas is all about love, peace, hope, and good will. Who doesn't like those? It's much easier to explain to the kids than Easter. And, if you're lucky, your family comes in, and you get to eat good food, hang out, and have a good time. That said, I have two major issues.

1. Commercialism gone crazy

Why is it that it seems holiday shopping starts earlier and earlier? Two weeks before Halloween, the kids and I walked into a red-and-green extravaganza at Home Depot. The Boy just looked confused. "Mom, why is it all Christmasy?" The Girl was outraged. "For Pete's sake people, it's not even Halloween yet!" Precisely.

This year, the excuse is that with gas prices so high, retailers are afraid that the holiday shopping season will be flat. So they started the shopping season earlier. Great. Before you know it, shopping for Christmas will start on January 2. No wonder everybody is sick of the holiday before the holiday even gets here. People in my neighborhood started putting up Christmas lights weeks ago.

Me, I'm resisting. Our decorations won't go up until next weekend. I've thought about potential presents, but I haven't really bought anything yet. Once again, I'll probably do my shopping online. The hubby asked if I had plans for Black Friday. When I told him no, what did he think, he said, "Well, you might have been going shopping." Yeah, like you could pay me to get near a store today.

And judging by The Girl's reaction in Home Depot, I've got the next generation well in hand.

2. It's a holiday

I really hate to break it to people, but Christmas is a holiday - a Christian holy day, as a matter of fact. Christ's Mass, the celebration of the birth of Jesus. Granted, Christmas is easier to make accessible to people regardless of of religious background. As I said above, it's a holiday about peace, joy, love, and hope, and God knows the world could use more of that.

At it's core though, Christmas is about the birth of Christ. If you get rid of all the presents, the tree, and the decorations, I can still celebrate Christmas. If Christmas is all about the food, trimmings, and presents, you're going to have a harder time celebrating without them. And while it may seem petty, I'm pretty damn sick of people saying I just need to be less sensitive.

A friend recently sent me an email purported to be an editorial written by Ben Stein. If he wrote it, kudos to him because he understands. If he didn't write it, well, too bad because I'm going to pretend that he did. In it, he says that as a Jew he doesn't feel threatened by Christmas trees or creches. And don't call them something else, it's a Christmas tree. And he's right.

Pittsburgh's Light-up Night used to kick off a Christmas season. I forget what it was called, but the concept of "Christmas" was definitely there. Then people got upset and said that "Christmas" was too exclusionary, and it should be renamed Sparkle Season. There's a great name. Then somebody said the word "season" had too many religious overtones. "Season" is religious? So I guess Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter is now a religious concept and The Four Seasons is a temple. So they renamed it Downtown Pittsburgh Sparkles. Because that really has something to do with anything. And they don't light a Christmas tree, they light the Unity Tree. Because that's not offensive to non-Christians who, just like Ben Stein, realize that it's a Christmas tree.

So there it is - my rants about Christmas. But I have one consolation. Now that Thanksgiving is over, I can get out my Christmas music and enjoy myself.

Retreat to Advance

If you're anything like me, your daily routine might resemble the following: Get up and get dressed; get kids up and dressed; feed kids quick breakfast; drop kids off at school; go to work; spend 8 hours with people who rarely listen to you and then expect you to clean up the resulting mess; go home; cook dinner; help kids with homework; run to dance lessons; bathe kids; put them in bed; do some laundry; and eventually collapse into bed around 10:00 so you can get up the next morning and do it all again. Weekends offer a little variety (grocery shopping anyone?), but it's still a lot of running. It's enough to make any sane person wish she was a hermit in the desert.

However, one need not be a complete hermit to get a little peace and quiet. A couple weeks ago, a letter arrived from a woman in my parish inviting me to the annual women's retreat. I was still in a bit of a religious funk, so my first inclination was, "Why bother?" A nagging feeling and the encouragement of my friends changed my mind. Even if I didn't discover inner peace, at least I'd be free of kids and husband for most of a weekend. That doesn't happen all that often.

Turns out, it was the right decision. I spent a lovely hour in the meditation garden, sitting under a tree in the weak November sunlight listening to an album of Gregorian chant. It was very zen. I got to hang out with women who were like me. And Saturday night, during the evening meditation - silent except for periods of very soft music - I had the great "a ha!" moment of connection I'd been looking for in the past two months. By Sunday afternoon, I felt my inner battery was fully charged. Sure, the kids mobbed me when I got home and within 10 minutes it was as though I never left, but I sure felt better able to deal with it than I had on Friday night.

This concept of "retreat," or drawing apart for inner reflection, has strong roots in most of the world's major religions. Judaism had prophets and hermits who lived apart communing with Yahweh. Muhammad found Allah in the desert. Catholicism abounds with people who used this concept of retreat both to enhance their public service and their relationship with the Divine. One of my favorites, St. Francis of Assisi, insisted upon it. Francis spent a lot of time traveling between communities, ministering to the people in whatever way they needed, usually in return for food and lodging. When this all became too exhausting (especially considering Francis had poor health), he would find himself a mountain cave to retreat to, by himself, to pray and fast. Recharge the old inner battery. And when he came down, spiritually refreshed, he would say, "Come, let us begin again."

But wait, you say. I'm not religious. I'm not even sure I believe in God. I don't need this retreat nonsense. Bullhockey.

Face it, modern life is noisy. The TV, the radio, the computer, your MP3 player - they all compete for your attention. Hours and hours of crap programs play endlessly on the bazillion TV and radio channels now available on digital cable, satellite TV, satellite radio, and now HD radio. Buy this, do that, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, there are some gems out there, but it's mostly crap. Bruce Springsteen once said, "Fifty-seven channels and nothing on." The Boss could update that to 157 channels and he' still be right.

And in the midst of all this bedlam is you. Maybe you don't attend church or feel religious or particularly believe in God. But maybe you feel anxious, tired, stressed, overwhelmed; in other words, out of touch with the universe. The Desiderata said it: You are a child of the universe, no less that the trees and the stars. Being out of touch with the universe causes you to feel "not right." And when this happens, it's not the universe's fault. What I learned on my retreat is that God - or the universe - does not abandon you. You abandon Him (or it).

The answer? Retreat. Turn off the TV and the radio. Banish the video games. Turn off your cell phone, and turn the ringer down on the home phone. Send the kids outside or have your spouse take them. Close your eyes and wrap yourself in silence. If you must have background, find soft instrumentals that soothe and fade into the background, barely noticeable. Quiet your thoughts and listen for that soft, still voice that tells you "You are here, you are mine, you are at peace." God or the universe does not shout. There is a story in the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah (or Elisha - I get them mixed up) who knew God was coming. So he fled to a cave and a thunderous wind came by. But God wasn't in the wind. A roaring fire came by, but God wasn't in the fire. Finally, a soft breeze, barely noticeable, trickled by the cave. And there was God.

Religious or not, we need the silence. We need to retreat to a place where the cell phones don't ring, and the music doesn't blare, and the TV stops turning us into mindless zombies. The great "a-ha!" moments in life don't come when you're in front of the TV or rushing the kids from activity to activity. Like the breeze in the Old Testament, they come in the quiet darkness, where all you can hear is the beating of your own heart.

Retreat is not necessary every week, or even every month. I would recommend doing it at least once a year. If you are religious, check out your local faith community and ask what's out there. If you're not religious, make your own or see if there is a secular version near you.

Retreat to advance. Sometimes, two steps backward is a good thing.

Life Comes at You Fast

It's a catchy slogan for an insurance company, and a line from a movie. It also happens to be the truth.

The journey that started with a case of vertigo has ending with a most unexpected result - a clinical diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. As there is no history of neurological disease in my family, at least that I am aware of, this was more than a bit of a shock. A diagnosis of breast cancer I would have expected. This, well, not exactly.

The journey from August to October was difficult - emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Physically there were a lot of annoying tests, some of which resulted in some pretty severe residual pain (a week-long migraine on steroids - I recommend avoiding it). Emotionally it was a roller coaster. There was the initial shock that this was even a possibility. Just when I thought I had accepted that, there was another curve/adjustment/curve cycle that left me wrung out and exhausted. I mean we are talking about the nervous system here. The thought that it was slowly unraveling was more than a little unnerving. And spiritually, well, I blogged about that in the past (Mother Teresa and I) so enough said.

This diagnosis has caused me to redefine who I am on all those levels as well. Physically, my definition of "healthy" has changed. Before, I would have called "healthy" as being disease-free. But now "healthy" includes how long it's been since my last flare-up and the amount of damage in my nervous system. Emotionally, I've had to adjust to the changes. No longer am I just mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend, and working professional. I'm also a person with what is, at least right now, a life-long disease condition - something that must be managed every day. Spiritually, I've wondered "why me?" and what I'm supposed to do now. I believe it's Ecclesiastes that says "I can do all things through He who strengthens me"; I believe there is purpose to everything and God will not put a mountain in front of me that I can't climb. But where the purpose is here I just don't know.

Of course the first thing I thought when the neurologist raised this as a possibility was, "What about my kids?" I mean, my kids are young. There are tons of things I want to do with them that are undone - everything from vacations, to dance recitals and soccer games, to graduations and marriages. All I could think of were visions of people like Annette Funicello, wheelchair bound and unable to really do anything. It was rather terrifying. I mean, this is my nervous system, the thing that runs everything else. If the brain don't work, it doesn't really matter how healthy the rest of you is - no electrical impulses and it's all for naught. And speaking of my kids, what does this mean for them? The medical community believes MS has a genetic component, so does that make it hereditary? If so, what are their chances of finding themselves in a neurologist's office some day?

I spent quite a few days reeling, trying to make sense of all this. In the end, there are a few things I can't do physically - get enough rest, eat better, exercise, and, if needed, there are medications. I found out that I didn't have to do this alone emotionally - I have plenty of people around me to listen and help. And spiritually, well, I'm still working on that one. But I'm getting there.

An estimated 1 in 100 people have MS. In a country with approximately 300,000,000 people, that's, well, a lot. The good news is that medical science has come a long way in 20 years. MS isn't what it was - new medications and new treatments mean less interference with daily life and that people with MS have the same life expectancy as "normal" people. I've been fortunate in that I've really never noticed the effects of these flare-ups. The neurologist doesn't believe that the vertigo is related, and all the myriad of tests fail to provide a conclusive diagnosis. I have what is called a "clinical diagnosis" based on a single spot on my cervical spine and a physical examination. I've opted out of medication for the time being, although I will see an MS specialist in January for a second opinion. I get to go about my life as I always have, always watchful for the next "thing" of course. Considering the alternatives - either a more serious disease or injecting myself every day - it's a pretty good situation.

A friend of mine at work who has dealt with health issues his whole life told me how he has dealt with it: I'm luckier than the person they diagnosed yesterday. And ultimately he's right. There are millions of dollars in medical research that yield new advances every day. Who knows what they'll find tomorrow, or next week, or next year. People with MS used to be sentenced to wheelchairs; now they are living ordinary lives. Some day science may find a cure. Anything is possible.

Things like this also have a funny way of snapping things into perspective. You are that much closer to separating the trivial from the important. I've always felt that not living is worse that dying. I started to understand that when my mother died from breast cancer at 54. Now I'm one step closer to understanding that Kenny Chesney is right:

Don't blink, cause just like that
You're six years old and you take a nap,
Then you wake up and you're 25
And your high school sweetheart becomes your wife.
Don't blink, you just might miss
Your babies growing like mine did.
Turning into moms and dads
Next thing you know, your better half
Of 50 years is there in bed,
And you're praying God takes you instead.
Trust me friend, 100 years goes faster than you think.
So don't blink.

Why Driver's Licenses Shouldn't Be in Cracker Jack Boxes

Okay, I know. You can't really get a driver's license out of a Cracker Jack box. But as I watch other drivers, especially during my daily commute, I really have to wonder.

Take Friday. I'm heading northbound out of the city. Two solid lanes of traffic for miles, creeping along at less than 10 miles per hour. Must be an accident. Or a disabled car. This stinks, especially at 5:00 on a Friday. But what are you going to do?

Sure enough, I soon see flashing lights ahead. Must be some accident. We creep closer. Definitely a big accident. There are police, tow trucks, fire, ambulance, the works. All on the southbound side of the highway. Wait, southbound? Yes, that's right. All the excitement is on the opposite side of a divided highway. None of the production should be interfering with northbound traffic. What the heck? So I've been creeping along for the last 30 minutes because of rubberneckers? Ding, ding! The minute traffic moves past the accident scene everything opens up. You would think that people would have better things to do at 5:00 on a Friday. I know I do - it's called going home. Duh.

Or take this genius. Intersection of two roads, both two lanes - one in each direction. Road coming down the hill widens to two turning lands, right and left, and the lane for traffic going up the hill. Morning, and there is a line of cars waiting at the red light waiting to make the left. Mr. "I'm More Important Than You" pulls out into oncoming traffic zips up to the light, and then makes a left turn against the red light! Here's a real rocket scientist for you, boy. I mean, I'm not talking about a couple of back country roads where you might see a car every 45 minutes. The road he turned on to is a major artery into the city and heavily traveled, especially during the rush hours. So what this jag-off did was not only incredibly stupid and incredibly illegal, but incredibly dangerous. But of course he was in a hurry. That makes it all right.

I could go on, but you get the drift. Otherwise rational people get behind the wheel of a car and become absolute maniacs. It's like there's a circuit that runs from the ignition to the driver's seat. When you turn the key, two things happen. First, the car starts. Second, an electrical impulse is sent through the steering column, across the floor panel, and up the seat into your derriere. When this impulse reaches your brain, all ability to think is shut off. Yeah, you know how to push the accelerator and turn the wheel, but such simple thoughts such as "Maybe I shouldn't cut off that Mack truck if I'm driving a Civic," are gone. Poof. Like magic.

Some people I know are in favor of equipping vehicles with rockets, to blow up these bozos. I'm not so harsh. Stupidity should not be an automatic death sentence (unless you are a Darwin Award recipient, of course). I would, however, like a set of laser beams positioned perfectly to blow out tires. Zap! and watch the tires of the car disintegrate and the vehicle come to a screeching halt. And the driver has to pay to replace those tires. Do it enough times and the cost alone should be a deterrent.

Here's another idea. OnStar, the company that makes all that communication and navigation technology found in GM vehicles, recently announced a new service. They can send a signal to the car that turns off the engine and renders the vehicle impossible to start. The intention is that if your car is stolen, you can call OnStar, they can determine if it is being driven, and then stop it until the police arrive. All we have to do is expand this service to allow people to report idiot drivers. Imagine the call:

"OnStar, this is Kelly. How may I help you?"

"Hi, the GMC Canyonero in front of me just made an illegal turn on red and cut me off. Can you shut him down?"

"Of course. Do you have the license number of the Canyonero?"

"Yes, ABC-1234."

"One moment." Pause. "I'm sending the signal now. The Canyonero should be slowing."

"Yes, he's drifting off to the right-hand shoulder. Thanks!"

"No problem. Is there anything else I can assist you with?"

"No, thanks. You guys are awesome!"

Just think about it. How liberating for those of us who understand that turning on the ignition should not be connected to turning off the powers of higher reasoning.

Things That Make You Go "Hmm"

Some questions I have asked myself recently, with no real answers. If you think of some, please let me know.

Question 1: Why wash dishes by hand if you have a dishwasher?

I really don't like washing dishes by hand. In fact, in the universe of household chores, washing dishes is right at the top of my "least favorite" list, only slightly behind "scrub the toilet." Washing dishes leaves my hands feeling like sandpaper, no matter what Palmolive claims. The exposure to hot water weakens my nails (yes, every woman has a vanity - what of it?). And dish gloves irritate my skin. So when we moved into our house 9+ years ago, I was thrilled to see a dishwasher, even if it was slightly dated. When that got to the brink of quitting, I convinced The Hubby to buy a newer one. I was a happy girl.

The Hubby, however, does not share my joy. He will actually wash dishes by hand - not just pots and pans, but plates, cups, and silverware - rather than load the dishwasher. He claims its because if have some "arcane method" of loading the dishwasher. There's nothing arcane about it. If you put glasses on the left-hand side of the upper rack, they will get broken. That's because the left side is elevated, and when you go to close the rack with 8-12 ounce glasses in that spot, the glasses will collide with the top of the machine and break. I warned him about this once. He has not loaded the dishwasher since. And, in fact, he rarely empties it. He will actually open the door to remove the single item he needs, and close it on a load of clean dishes. Why?

Question 2: Why do people say "I'm out of clothes" on the day they have no clothes?

Last weekend we traveled out of state to attend a wedding - my dad's in fact. Nice time, long drive. The result was I didn't get to do weekend laundry. I'm thinking, no big deal. The kids have enough clothes to get them through a couple days, so I'll do laundry on Tuesday or Wednesday. Cool. This morning, thinking I'll be really slick since I had a couple minutes, I throw an entire load of kids clothes, including school uniforms, into the wash. This way, they are ready for the dryer when I get home. Time savings for the night. Excellent.

As I go back upstairs I hear The Girl say, "I don't have any shirts." Well, too late; everything is in the wash. Wear your jumper. There is much pouting and huffing as she dons the jumper she insisted I buy, but has since refused to actually wear. Too bad, so sad. The I hear The Boy. "I don't have any pants." Well, it's 60 degrees outside and shorts season is over (not to mention shorts aren't in the uniform code for October). Guess you'll have to wear jeans. "But people will laugh at me!" No, they won't. Put on the jeans. Of course then I had to write a note to his teacher explaining why he wasn't in uniform. And of course this could not have happened tomorrow, Picture Day, when they can wear whatever they please.

News flash. The time to tell me you are out of shirts/pants/skirts/whatever is when you pull the last one out of the drawer, not at 7:10 on the morning you need to wear the shirt/pants/skirt/whatever.

Question 3: Why ask me a question when you don't like my answer?

This is a work thing. I am, as I have mentioned before, a project manager. My job is to put together a schedule of work, monitor that schedule for slippage, alert the appropriate folks when it does slip, and assist in getting things back on track. It is also my job to call people when I think the plans they are developing are not even connected with reality. I am a bull-crap detector, and I call it like I sees it.

So this past week, I'm asked to jam a task into a plan that is going reasonably well, but has a lot of risk. I ask for a task definition. "Performance enhancements." Okay, what are the estimates? "No idea, maybe a week maybe two. Just stick in a task for two weeks." Uh, do we have any requirements? "Make it faster." How much faster? "Faster than it is now." Okay, so you're really asking me to put in a task for an undetermined amount of time that you are giving a half-baked two week estimate for, there are no specific requirements, the task may go longer than two weeks if you think you can get more functionality, and if it really explodes we'll just take it out. "Yes." My bull-crap detector goes off. "But I need to show we're working on it!" Are we really? "Well, maybe." Then why put in a task? "Because I need to show it." What about testing? "We'll do it in system testing." More bull-crap. Dear god.

This went on for twenty minutes, I kid you not. The lead product manager, lead developer, and I, with them saying "Why does it matter?" and me answering "Because I cannot knowingly put together a plan that I believe is a lie just so you can look like you're doing something." And then I get accused of being negative, of not being a team player, and of making things difficult.

Fortunately, my boss is on my side. We, the Project Management Office, are all that stand between bull-crap plans and the Rest of the World. It's a sucky job, but somebody has to do it.

Question 4: Why are video games so addictive?

I am not a big gamer. Don't really like shooting things, or blowing them up. I do, however, like puzzle and "adventure" games. Once upon a time, I played the original Zelda game for Nintendo and really enjoyed it. But I don't really have a lot of time for it, nor do I have the money to invest in serious gaming. So I don't do a lot of it.

However, a friend at work has a Nintendo DS and the latest Zelda game - Phantom Hourglass. He let me use it once at lunch. He is an evil man. I now spend my lunch time bolting my food so I can get maximum game time. Today, I was so engrossed in getting to the next level of the Temple of Flame, I was nearly late for a meeting. My geek cred has skyrocketed in the Development section. My time management has plummeted. My friend says, "Why don't you buy one?" Because I have other things to do with the $165 plus tax buying a DS and the game would set me back. But he's a good guy - he'll let me keep playing his at lunch.

Crack for adults, I tell you. "Just once, everybody is doing it. The first one is free."

He is an evil, evil man.

~~~~~~~~

All these questions presented themselves in the last three days. Not quite as deep as the meaning of life, but if you have any answers, please, share with the class.

How Bad Can it Be?

I would not naturally describe myself as an extreme optimist. That's not to say I'm a pessimist either. I prefer to think of myself as a realist. Things are rarely as good or as bad as folks think. However, I lately have found myself not being as "realistic" as I might want to be.

Last Monday, I underwent a testing procedure known as a lumbar puncture. Just the sound of it is bad - puncture. Despite being warned by the physician who did the procedure and a number of people who have had this done, I figured "How bad can it be?" After a week of head-splitting headaches, culminating in another procedure known as a blood patch - which eliminated most of the pain, but not all - I can answer that question. It can be pretty damn bad. I always knew having needles stuck in my back was a bad idea.

This is not a new facet of my personality however. Seven years ago when I became pregnant with The Girl, I was warned about morning sickness. I read about it, people told me about it, my mother counseled me. "How bad can it be?" I wondered. Hm, there's that phrase again. I threw up 9-10 times a day for the next 4 months, and 1-2 times a day after that. I was hospitalized for dehydration. Slightly less than two years later when I got pregnant with The Boy, I should have been prepared. It couldn't be worse, right? Uh yeah it could - and it was.

I am not sure, however, that this trait is unique to me. I'm beginning to think it afflicts most people. There seems to be something in human nature that prevents us from really recognizing how bad a situation can be. At least, most of us in most situations. Think about it. How many times have you or people around you said, "It can't get any worse, right?" And how many times have you been wrong? I thought so.

I think it's natural protection. If we were truly aware of how bad things could be, we'd be mired in depression, unable to function. But something in us always - or almost always - wants to find the upside in things. Even people who describe themselves as cynics will try and look on the bright side. At least some of the time. Maybe that's why clinical depression truly is a disease. It runs counter to human nature. We weren't built to be depressed.

Of course this doesn't mean we weren't built to be sad. Sadness is part of the human condition. If you aren't ever sad, how can you appreciate being happy? And without looking forward to something better, how do you get through the rough patches?

I suppose that acceptance of this human condition does make me a realist. And that's a good thing. It's not healthy to wallow in negativity, but neither is it good to ignore it completely. Just do me a favor, okay? The next time I say "How bad can it be," just say "Remember that lumbar puncture?" I'll remember, I promise.

Things Parents Say

When you have kids, you automatically sign up to say certain things. It's just a part of parenting. I think once conception happens, Nature trips a part of the genetic code - in both mothers and fathers - that prepares them to utter any number of things that parents have said for centuries.

- Don't run with scissors
- Don't touch the stove
- Don't play with matches
- Don't hit your sister/brother

The list goes on. A lot of basic safety and good conduct stuff. Then there are the things that your parents said to you. You know the stuff you swore you'd never say to your kids.

- Because I said so
- I'm the parent, that's why

And the ever popular, "If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you want to do that too? Don't kid yourselves my friends. If you have kids, one day you will say something that will make you go, "Oh my god, I've become my mother/father." Trust me, it will happen. Just do it and get it over with.

This is all well and good, but it still doesn't fully prepare you. Because you will also find yourself saying things you never in your life thought you would say. Your beloved offspring will do something so arcane and unexpected, you will find yourself thinking, "I can't believe I need to say this!" Some examples below.

"Stop hitting your friend over the head with a hot dog roll."
Yes, this gem came out at The Boy's birthday party. We were at the neighborhood pool and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers. Now, I am always prepared to tell my son not to hit people with sticks or toys. But as I looked up, he was bouncing a hot dog bun off his friend's head. The friend was not helping matters by laughing hysterically. As I uttered my admonishment, I turned to another mother: "Now there's something I never thought I'd say." She was sympathetic. But the truth is, kids do weird things and any object can become a toy - sticks, the water hose, leaves, and yes, even hot dog buns.

"Don't eat all the vegetables."
Most parents cannot imagine ever needing to admonish their kids to not eat vegetables. I mean, isn't that a part of the Childhood Code of Conduct? Thou shalt not willingly eat vegetables (especially green ones)? And yet, things happen. Recently my employer partnered with a local company to offer a "virtual farmers' market" at my office. You order over the Internet and on Friday your goodies are delivered right to your work place. It's absolutely brilliant; fresh grown veggies, fruits, artisan breads, gourmet pastas all with the click of a mouse. So a couple weeks ago I bring home a pound bag of whole green beans. The kids fell to with enthusiasm. Fantastic. Except three nights later, they came home from school, went directly to the fridge, pulled out the bag and started eating. "Hey, don't eat all the vegetables! We won't have anything for dinner!" The Hubby and I looked at each other. "Did you ever think you'd have to say that?" "Nope."

"Please, play on the computer."
In an age where kids are obese at earlier and earlier ages, this is a no brainer. Hours in front of the TV or a computer have robbed kids of the need - or indeed the desire - to play outside. Right? Um, maybe. My two spend a fair amount of time outside simply because we don't allow them in the house on nice days, especially as "nice days" are numbered in Pittsburgh in the fall. However, The Boy has to wear a patch over one eye for 30 minutes a day. The eye doctor wants him to wear it when he has to do something that requires a lot of visual stimulation. Needless to say, The Boy detests wearing a patch and tries to avoid it all costs. "You have to wear your eye patch." "No, I don't want to." "If you put it on, I'll let you play on the computer for an extra 30 minutes." "No, I don't want to." Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I was begging my kid to play on the computer, not to get off it. Amazing.

These are only a few examples. I'm sure there are others. I'm sure I'll say more. I'm sure that if I opened up submissions to parents across the globe, I'd get some real humdingers. And if I collected them all up in book form, it would probably be a New York Times #1 Best Seller. It's just a part of parenting.

Erma Bombeck would be proud.

Mother Teresa and I

The death of Mother Teresa in 1997 touched a lot of people across the globe. The wrinkled old nun who worked in the slums of Calcutta inspired a lot of people. She seemed to exude the very essence of spirituality, peace, and connectedness to God. Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, she taught by gentle example how people should treat each other. People across the globe, Catholic and non-Catholic, were inspired by her example, even as she remained humble about her work. It was unsurprising, therefore, how fast the Roman Catholic Church moved to beatify her and even less surprising at how many people are working for her canonization.

All of this made the revelation of her personal letters, many of which articulated a profound "spiritual darkness" and feeling disconnected from God very surprising to a lot of people. How could Mother Teresa, of all people, feel that God was ignoring her? If anybody in the last century had lived life in the path of Christ, it was Mother Teresa. If Mother Teresa felt this way, what hope is there for the rest of us?

I've never particularly felt as though Mother Teresa and I had much in common, apart from being Catholic that is. I don't work with the poor and I've never taken a vow of poverty. I certainly don't have her calm, gentle demeanor, or seemingly infinite patience. I don't think you could examine the globe and find two women more different.

But lately, I feel very connected to Mother Teresa. For most of my adult life, I would describe myself as being pretty spiritual. I found a great connectedness to my faith and God when I was in college with the Franciscan order. My faith got me through the death of my mother, the deaths of my grandparents, and a 15-month separation from The Hubby. Whenever I've alone or afraid, it's been a rock I can lean on.

Lately, the rock isn't so strong. In fact, doesn't seem to be there at all. I feel sort of lost and disconnected from the very thing I've relied on to keep me grounded. And it's not fun. It's also very disturbing. I feel like a piece of driftwood floating down whitewater, swirling around and bumping off the rocks. A boat with no anchor. Yes, that's a few mixed metaphors. Cut me a break.

Frankly, I'm kind of angry about it. I rarely ask for anything for myself. I've prayed for my family, friends, friends of friends, and people I've never met. I volunteer at my kids' school, with The Girl's Scout troop, and our parish festival. I've participated in food drives and book drives, and every other kind of drive.

None of this is meant to say "Look at me" or toot my own horn. Lots of other people do exactly the same things, and even more. The point is it's not as though I go through life only concerned about myself. I don't even expect payback. I do all this stuff because I really want to do it. It makes me feel good, and it many cases it's even fun.

I would think, however, that when I do ask for something I deserve at least a response. Six weeks after being diagnosed with vertigo (Stop the World), I'm still dizzy. Not so much, now I can actually drive, but walking a straight line can still be a challenge. For the past week, I've had bouts of double vision (talk about something that is very disorienting). All I want is to go back to being able to play soccer with my kids and read them a story at bed time. That's it. I don't want to be able to run a marathon, or some other stupid thing. I just want some parts of my life that I really enjoyed to come back.

I've prayed pretty consistently over the past six weeks - to God, to Christ, to every saint I can think of, even to my own mother. As I'm stuck in this rut of dizziness and double images, I can only say I don't appear to be getting a response. Yeah, I know. The response you want isn't always the one you get. But I don't even get the sense that anybody is listening. As I told someone earlier today, "God appears to be too busy for me."

I've got well-intentioned friends, some religious and some not, who'd say I am overreacting. My own brother has referred to "my imaginary friend." I suppose to them this may seem like a lot of fuss over nothing, but for me it's quite real. And I'm hurt, and angry, and spiritually alone. It sucks.

Traditional wisdom in these matters says I have to stop fighting things and put it in God's hands. I've tried that - at least I think I have. What else does "God please help me" mean? I'm quite familiar with the concept that God doesn't give us what we can't handle, but is He trying to break me here? Because if so, I'm feeling pretty broken. Feeling whole would be really good right now.

Mother Teresa felt the same way, I guess. She somehow managed to keep going. Maybe she was stronger than I am. I don't know. I do know I could use a bone here, something small just to let me know I'm not all alone. Let's say we start small - I'll stay dizzy if I could just see straight.

Yeah, I know. God's not a deal maker. Maybe I just need to read copies of those letters. You know coin a new phrase - What Would Mother Teresa Do?

What's Wrong With Wholesome?

If you are a parent, especially of a girl between the ages of say 6 and 16, and your child watches the Disney Channel, you are probably aware of the juggernaut known as High School Musical. The first movie debuted in 2005 (I think) and surprised even Disney execs with its popularity. The Disney Channel Original Movie (DCOM) spawned a mega-hit soundtrack, clothes, toys, various accessories and, most recently, a sequel - High School Musical 2. The HSM2 debut was anticipated by eager fans with at least as much enthusiasm as any Hollywood blockbuster, including Pirates of the Caribbean and Lord of the Rings. The Girl attended a premiere party at the house of one of her friends, and even The Boy wanted to stay up an watch. Lots of sports pretty much guarantees boys will be interested too, I guess. Young stars Zac Efron, Vanessa Hudgens, Corbin Bleu, and Ashley Tisdale (and others) catapulted from relative obscurity to high popularity with the teeny-bopper crowd.

The story lines of these movies are not very deep - boy meets girl (or in the case of HSM2, boy has girl), boy loses girl, boy gets girl. And in the true spirit of Disney, they are a little campy. I mean really, no high school has that many good-looking kids. Even the one overweight girl is pretty. But all that aside, there are some good messages about friendship, being true to yourself even when that's not easy, and the pressure to conform (The first HSM has a rather catchy tune called "Stick to the Status Quo" that is all about not stepping outside of your social circle; if you're a brain, don't say you like hip-hop, for example.), all good themes. And the music is catchy.

The movies are also something of a rarity in entertainment - pure "G" rated fare. Just about every one of today's animated movies, from Pixar to Shrek, contains something that kids don't really get, but adults do. Not HSM. When director Kenny Ortega wanted to put in a line that "parents would get, even if kids didn't" he was told "this is a movie for kids, not adults." The line did not go in. The result is two movies completely devoid of drugs, alcohol, sex (not even much kissing), swearing, law breaking, cigarettes, suggestive dance moves, questionable song lyrics, baggy pants or bare midriffs. HSM2, which takes place at a country club with pool, shows all the girls wearing either one-piece suits or tankinis, with nary a belly button or butt cheek in sight. To those without kids this seems ludicrous, but let me tell you that as a parent of two young kids it's a refreshing thing. Something I can let my kids watch unsupervised and know they aren't seeing anything I wouldn't want them to see.

So this is good, right? Newspapers and magazines are cheering this event, right? Maybe, maybe not.

A few weeks ago, I happened upon a copy of Newsweek that had a brief write-up about HSM2. The article left me feeling a bit perplexed. It started off positively enough, citing many of the things I mentioned above, while simultaneously making snide comments about Lindsey Lohan, the Disney child star turned party girl. But I got the impression that the article was somehow both disbelieving and disappointed at the lack of "dirt" on the HSM stars. Hudgens' Disney-approved biography was cited as listing "walking in the rain and puddle jumping" as one of her favorite activities in a scoffing manner that left me thinking the author didn't believe it could be true. I would suggest that the author visit the campus of my college alma mater when the rugby fields flood after a severe rain storm. He'd find about 50 undergrads, and more than a handful of grad students, having the time of their lives treating the fields as a gigantic Slip-n-Slide. It snidely stated that both Efron and Bleu said they never got a detention in school, as if such things don't happen. Hey, I never got a detention either. By the end of the article, I couldn't decide if Newsweek thought the apparently wholesome nature of the HSM cast was refreshing, disappointing, or fake.

I pondered this for a while. What is the lament of entertainment industry analysts everywhere? A lack of good, quality entertainment for children, things that don't give parents nightmares. And whether you be a Disney fan or not, here is exactly what these pundits are crying for. So why the disappointment?

The answer, I think, lies in the peculiarity of the American culture. At heart, American culture is puritanical. Yes, those pesky Puritans haunt us still. The so-called "Moral Majority" is practically raised on Calvin. Think of the Puritans and the stereotype: rigidly moral, against sex, against fun, disapproving of any who fail to conform. But underneath, there is the pull to things decided un-Puritan: sex, money, gossip, scandal.

Fast-forward 300 years and not much has changed. Oh, we deplore the antics of Lohan, Paris Hilton, Russell Crowe, Ray Lewis, and every other spoiled celebrity out there. "Oh, what a poor example for the children," we cry. "American society is degrading, morals are missing, oh we're surely headed to hell in a hand basket," we lament. (Note that I'm speaking of American culture as a general thing here, not about specific individuals. Ask any European, Americans are much more prudish about sex and drugs than those cosmopolitan Continentals.)

Yet what is the staple of the American check-out counter in supermarkets, convenience stores, and drug stores everywhere? If you don't know, you are a) completely non-observant, b) living under a rock, or c) shopping from the Internet. The answer, of course, is the tabloids. Headlines in bold, screaming print blast the latest gossip about all the Hollywood antics. Brangelina is over, no they aren't; Lohan arrested just days after completing rehab; Nicky Hilton pregnant and 87 pounds; all the starlets who weigh less than my 7-year old; Whitney Houston on another coke binge; Tom-Kat and all the drama surrounding them. It's all there in letters so big even the most myopic of shoppers can't miss it.

And believe you me, it sells. Oh boy does it sell. I know this because if it didn't sell, these papers wouldn't exist. Oh, some of them are higher class than The Enquirer or The Globe. It's hard to put the shiny cover of People in the same category as a trashy newsprint. But make no mistake -People is just a tabloid in pretty clothes. The same goes for In Style and all the rest of those rags. They make their money reporting on the foibles, foul-ups, and decadent lifestyles that are fodder for celebrity gossip. And the American public eats it up.

Unfortunately, the young stars of HSM didn't stay unknown or exempt for long. People recently featured real-life couple Efron and Hudgens on its cover, talking about how they started dating on the set. In Style showed Efron, flanked by Hudgens and Tisdale, with the headline "Behind the set!" and a sub-heading talking about the sniping and fighting "especially over Zac!" And while I have not seen it, Rolling Stone reportedly featured Efron on the cover with a half-buttoned shirt and is left hand up the front.

All in all, it's kind of sad. Yeah, kids grow up and the innocence is lost, but why do we treat this as inevitable? Why is it so difficult to believe in a group of kids who just might be what they seem to be - good-natured, sensible kids who just like making movies, music, and having fun? Why must we drag them on to the tabloid covers?

I don't have the answer. I'm not sure anyone does. But I do believe this: When we figure out the answer, and actually act upon it, maybe some of the "oh, society today has no morals" outcry will lessen.

Or maybe not. Just ask Socrates.

Somewhere My Mother is Laughing

"Someday I hope you have a daughter just like you." When my mother said this to me as a young girl, I didn't really understand her point. I was a great daughter. I got good grades; I didn't get in trouble at school; I never got busted for shoplifting like my siblings; and I didn't smoke, do drugs, or drink. I was a great child. Just ask me. I'd love to have a daughter like me.

Fast forward to around, oh, now. My mother, God rest her soul, died of breast cancer in 2001. The Girl was just shy of 18 months. Her personality was not yet fully developed and my mother never got a chance to know her. But somewhere, my mother is laughing - at me.

The Girl and I are not much alike. She is blond and blue-eyed, I am brunette (well, I was) and green-eyed. She is outgoing and popular in a way I still am not. She makes friends easily and has several good friends. I take a long time to get close to people, and even to this day have only a few close friends. She is girly - if it's pink, purple, or sparkly she wants it. I'm more practical, if not tomboyish (I have one skirt and the day I wore it to work folks were checking for signs of the Apocalypse). She wants to be a cheerleader. I thought cheerleaders were bimbos. She takes dance lessons, wants to study pointe, and is pretty graceful. I have all the grace of the bird they call the elephant. She is stubborn, determined to get her own way, and pretty vocal when she doesn't. I am...

Okay, you've got me on that one.

In that one sense, The Girl and I are exactly alike. And that one similarity is the cause of many an upward pleading, "Why me?" I was once relating a story to my father highlighting this sharp wit, caustic tone, and stubborn determination to do it her way. My father was no help. "Why, you don't say. Gee, I've never known a little girl to do that before," was his response, delivered in this fake disbelieving tone. Okay, Dad; I get the point.

At seven years old, her vocabulary is astounding. And her ability to argue is impressive. "Mom," she huffs (usually I'm "mama" unless she's getting mad), "that's not the point. You are actually not even listening." And downward it goes. "Well, Mom, it's like this. I have a style, and you are getting in the way." Well pardon the hell out of me.

She even acts like me. I certainly did not teach her that huff of breath, roll of the eyes, and toss of the long hair as she storms up the stairs. I didn't even have hair long enough to toss by the time she was born. But she does it, exactly like I did. Must be in the genetic code.

I really should have seen this coming years ago. When she was four, I tried to get her to buy this cute pair of hiking boots at the store. Brown suede with Winnie the Pooh and Tigger on them. "I don't like those, I like these." But these are really cute. "No." Are you sure? "No." How can you not want these, they are so cute! "No." I tried for 10 minutes to talk her into the shoes. We left with the ones she picked out. To this day when I try to talk her into something, The Hubby will look at me and say, "Are you sure you don't want these Winnie the Pooh shoes?" I usually shut up around that point - or I tell him to shut up.

There are days when I sit down after bedtime and think, "My god, if she's like this at seven, what will she be like as a teenager?" It's a scary thought. You see, if she's so like me at seven, there's a good chance she'll be like me as a teen. And despite what I thought of myself at the time, maturity forces me to admit that I was a smart-mouth bratty teen. Because not only was I the only kid to never get busted for shoplifting, I was the only kid my mother ever smacked across the mouth in public (you know, back in the day when doing that didn't land you in jail). If The Girl turns out like I did at the same age, I'd better stock up on the L'Oreal Feria and the rum. Hitting in public is rather verboten.

As I go through these almost daily battles, I remind myself there is a bright side. My girl knows her own mind. Peers will have a hard time pressuring her to go along with stupid ideas like cigarettes and drugs. She has very firm ideas about those things. I'm sure she'll do her share of "what on earth were you thinking" acts, but I'm equally sure they will all be her own idea. She is confident in herself as I never was in school. She will be the popular girl, the one at the center of things, although I've seen enough of her heart to know she will be that rare gem - the popular kid who is kind to everyone, even the kids the "in crowd" would keep out. She'll face the world on her own terms, knowing she's just as good as everyone else, and hopefully she will avoid the self-esteem problems that plagued me well into adulthood.

So every time we have one of these run-ins that set my teeth on edge, I remind myself that there is a silver lining. That in the long run, her independence and stubborn attitude will be more of a help than a hindrance (when exercised in moderation, of course). Besides, I also know that someday I will have the ultimate revenge.

Someday, she will have a daughter - just like her.

Where Does It All Come From?

Last Monday, which was the last day I was home before returning to work (see "Stop the World" below for why), I decided to clean the kids' rooms. I don't mean the shove-everything-under-the-bed-or-in-the-closet clean that they usually do. I mean CLEAN the rooms. Something I very rarely do because it is such a colossal undertaking. At ages 7 and 5, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. However, as such cleanings are usually difficult because everything I want to throw away must be kept, I figured I had the perfect opportunity. You see, they were at daycare.

Armed with a kitchen garbage bag, I sallied forth to do battle. The Boy's room was not too bad. Got rid of some broken crayons, bunches of crumpled paper, and a few fast-food restaurant toys (the bane of any parent's existence, of that I am convinced). I found at least 2 of the 3 missing socks that have plagued me for a few months now, as well as the bottoms to two pairs of pjs. Found and reassembled the pieces of a Spiderman toy, and put away all the wooden Thomas the Tank Engine pieces. A quick vacuum and voila! clean room.

I knew that The Girl's room would be more work. First, it's bigger. Second, she's a pack rat, just like her aunt (not that my sister likes that comparison, but it's true). So I decided to eat lunch first. Good call.

Two and a half hours, and two full bags of garbage later, I had finished. The list of stuff I found would go on for several paragraphs. In addition to the typical litter, I found underwear that had be stuffed under the radiator for at least a month (good thing it was unsoiled), two missing socks, and 2 missing pairs of shoes. I picked up feet for those Bratz dolls by the dozen. I filled an entire tin full of little jewelry beads. I tossed out not only crumpled paper, dried-out markers, and broken crayons, but at least 12 old copies of National Geographic. Oy vey.

As I worked through this chore, and then as I recovered afterward, all I could think of was, "Where does a 7-year old get so much junk?" The answer is people give it to her.

And people are always giving her things. My father's fiancee is an older woman who loves kids. How can I possibly break her heart and say, "I don't want you bringing my kids any more crap"? Last time it was a miniature china tea set and a Spiderman motorcycle. I've managed to win the "no toys with a billion tiny pieces" battle, but that's not the same as "no toys."

Compounding the problem is The Girl saves everything. And I do mean everything. Don't ask how many of those cheapie fast-food toys I pitched from her room. There's an entire corner of stuffed animals, none of which she really plays with. In fact, I'd say she really only plays with about half of the stuff in her room, yet all of it is "special to me." Her first-grade teacher sent a thank-you note for the end-of-year gift the class sent. Me, I would have read it, said "How nice," and thrown it away. The Girl taped it to her bed. Sentimental, of course, but rough on the furniture.

My daughter is at an odd spot in her life. Too old for baby toys, just old enough for books. Not quite ready to ditch the Barbie dolls. Wants all the bead kits to make jewelry, but not quite ready to string the tiny ones. The result? A mess. The magazines she brought home from school at the end of the year. Said she liked the pictures, which she cuts out to make art projects. She's just entering the "signs on the door stage too" - things like "Girls Only" or "No Boys Alowd" (her spelling), or "Cool Girl Lives Here."

It's been a long time since I was at that spot in my life, but I dimly remember it. And that's why I have a hard time making her stop. Oh sure, every once in a while we go through the toy bins and stuffed animals, make both kids decide what to keep and what to give to charity, and thin the mess. But to lay down a law that says, "Don't make any more signs?" What kind of parent would I be?

Because at the heart of the mess - the broken crayons, the beads, the markers, the glitter glue, and used up paper - is her growing desire to express her personality. The same goes for The Boy, he's just a little further behind his sister. Through expression comes definition - who am I. It's process we all have to go through, and usually go through multiple times in our lives. The misspelled signs and collages of ballerinas are my child's attempt to define herself in a world where she still doesn't have a lot of control. Yeah, I could put an end to it, but while that sure would be easier on me I don't think it would be that great for her.

So I will continue to fight the losing battle against clutter, probably for many years to come. One piece of advice: Buy stock in whatever company makes Glad trash bags. I'm going to be using a lot of them.

Stop the World, I Want to Get Off

The human body, so we are told, is a very complicated machine. There are literally millions of mini-systems that allow us to function from the moment we wake up, to the moment we go to sleep, as well as while we are peacefully slumbering. And we take this for granted. Don't believe me? Just have part of the system stop working. Let's say your vestibular system.

Never heard of the vestibular system? I hadn't either until about a week ago when I started feeling as though I was stuck on the Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a typical amusement park. Your vestibular system is your balance system. Most people know that your inner ear controls balance, but it doesn't do it alone. The vestibular system is actually comprised of four parts:

• Eyes
• Ear, specifically your inner ear and a structure called the labyrinth
• Joints
• Skin

All of these things - input from your eyes, input from your ears, messages from your joints as you move, and air/water pressure on your skin - are what keep you knowing what way is up, what way is down, and everything in between. When the different parts of the vestibular system send different messages, it results in a condition called vertigo. Vertigo is the perception of motion - either of you or your surroundings - where there is none. This differentiates it from simple dizziness, where you just feel like you are going to pass out.

And that brings this all back to me. Slightly over a week ago, I started having episodic vertigo, although I didn't recognize it. I just thought the old blood sugar was plummeting. It wasn't until the feeling became somewhat permanent that I figured something was wrong. My sister and The Hubby said, "Probably a sinus infection putting pressure on your ears. Just call and get some antibiotics." When I called in sick on Monday, my boss said the same thing. "They'll probably give you some antibiotics for the infection and meclizine for the vertigo. Happens to me all the time." Oh, if it were only that easy.

No simple sinus infection for me, no sirree bob. Instead, I wind up with a diagnosis of labyrinthitis - and inflammation of the labyrinth. The doc says the magic words: It's viral. Those doggone viruses. So pesky, and so convenient for the medical community. Because once those fateful words are uttered, they are followed up with "Nothing to do except wait it out." Wonderful. So I left with a prescription for meclizine, a sedative. Didn't seem to be doing anything, but hey, what the hell do I know. I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. So I kept taking it.

But when things were no better on Wednesday, I called the doc again. Back to the office. Couple more brief tests. Nope, really just labyrinthitis. Doc offers Atavan, which is related to valium. Again, what the hell do I know? One Atavan later I know this much - I don't want another one.

By Friday, I am still no better and in fact now can't get out of bed. The pressure in my ears is killing me and I can't walk from my bedroom to my bathroom, which is only about 15-20 feet. Doc sends me to an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist. He says, "Yep, definitely vertigo. Could be labyrinthitis, could be benign positional vertigo (BPV). Both can be viral. Take more meclizine." There are those pesky viruses again. At least he says that when it goes away, it will most likely go away for good. Thank god for small favors. They do a quick hearing test (I passed), and some repositioning exercises. See, BPV is caused when small calcified debris gets stuck in the wrong part of your inner ear. The exercises get it out of where it's not supposed to be so it can be reabsorbed. No driving, they say (great, just what I need to hear). Schedule me for an ENG, which is stands for a big long word for a balance test. Recommend a routine MRI - because it our current lawsuit-happy culture, the doc has to run every possible test even if, as in my case, he doesn't think it will actually find anything. Of course now the insurance companies are understandably sick of paying for tests that are performed simply to cover the doctor's ass, so it has to be cleared first.

This brings us all to Saturday afternoon. I'm in the basement, feeling stoned out of my mind. I miss the bottom stair (I mean, my eyes told me there was a stair there), fall backward, and throw laundry everywhere. I start crying - this is freaking ridiculous. Eight days and all the medical community can offer is, "It will go away eventually." If I had cancer, they could treat me. Modern medicine can save the life of a baby born at 20 weeks. They can transplant major organs. Vertigo? Sorry, no can do.

The Girl, who is amazingly smart for a 7 year old, grabs my cell phone and calls her father (who is working). He calls the neighbor, who comes over to get me off the basement floor. Neighbor sends his son the EMT to check me out. Son sees no visual signs of vertigo (called nystgmus - I've learned such cool words over the last week), but tells me my blood pressure is 88/60 and my pulse is 104. To say those numbers are not normal would be an understatement. He recommends I call my PCP.

And my PCP offers this. "Well, meclizine is a sedative. You're not having a bad reaction, they are normal side effects - you're supposed to feel like that. Don't like it, stop taking it. I really can't do anything else for you, unless you want to go to the hospital. There's two possibilities - the vertigo will go away on its own or it will never go away and you'll adapt." Great, thanks doc.

After all of this, I know several things:

1. Meclizine is the work of the devil.
2. Why anybody would actually choose to be stoned is incomprehensible to me. It is, without a doubt, the worst feeling I've ever had.
3. While we know a lot about human physiology, what we know is dwarfed by what we don't know. Again, it would be easier to treat me if I had cancer.
4. No wonder they call it "practicing" medicine. There's a lot of exact science there, but a lot of guesswork too.
5. Vertigo is now in my list of Top 5 Un-fun Life Experiences.

So here it is Monday and it's my sixth day off work. Enough is enough. There's one more drug to try, which is a steroid (because this could also be caused by vestibular neuronitis, which is an inflammation of the nerve ending in the ear that sends balance signals to the brain and steroids are anti-inflammatories). At least I know I won't get stoned from a steroid. As no physician can give me a reason not to work, I'm back on the job tomorrow; if I still can't drive, The Hubby will drop me off and pick me up.

Someone asked me, "Do you think this could be some kind of enforced R&R?" If the God or the universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster (depending on your personal beliefs) wanted me to slow down, I would have preferred a broken leg. And if this is some body's idea of a cosmic joke, well, it sucks.

My personal advice? Stay away from vertigo. If you crave the dizzy feeling, visit the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)

My apologies to the Go-Gos.

So last week was our family vacation. My father-in-law owns a place on the shore of Lake Erie, and every year we go up for a week. This year was probably the best, mostly because the kids are now old enough to truly entertain themselves. It's a little hard to enjoy yourself when you're chasing two rugrats up and down the sand.

Mostly we had a good time. But sometimes, I really do have to wonder what planet The Hubby lives on. For example, we arrived at the beach on Saturday. And the week before we leave, The Hubby says to me, "Oh, my cousin and her kids are coming on Saturday and staying the night." Really? So on the day we arrive, have to unpack, go shopping for the week I also have to entertain guests? And find somewhere for them to sleep in a trailer with only one bedroom? Great. I mean, not that these people are difficult to deal with; they are rather nice actually. But it's the first day of my vacation!

Then he tells me that his cousin's husband and the kids are coming back on Thursday. The day he's going golfing. At least this time I only have to feed them lunch.

Crossing into Canada is not really that easy any more. Well, that's not true - it isn't getting into Canada that's the problem, it's getting back into the US. With apologies to all you Canadians, I grew up next door to Canada. Visiting was more like going to another state than another country. But I digress.

So knowing that they are paying more attention, on Friday he says we're going back to the States to visit yet another cousin. Good grief! Now not only do I have to visit yet more relatives (what is this, the grand tour?) I have to go back into the US. My worst nightmare is now that we will get into the US and not be able to get back.

Turns out, that was the least of my worries. I didn't count on the 45 minutes it would take to get through customs. In a car with no air conditioning. In 85-degree weather. Oh, and did I mention that The Boy gets carsick when he overheats?

By the time we get through customs, I'm trying to coax my son into not puking in the car. And we're all starved; I've only had an English muffin at 9:00 and it's now 12:30. My father-in-law suggest a restaurant right on the canal that serves roast beef on weck (look it up). Lovely, let's go. We get there, and I immediately ask for cold water. The Boy's face looks like curdled milk. I get the water and my father-in-law asks what I want to order. I mention I haven't seen a menu and the bar tender says, "We only serve roast beef and chili." Hmm, I see a trip to Burger King in my very near future. Meanwhile, I'm trying to tempt The Boy with popcorn. No dice. The Hubby says, "He gets about 1 more minute, then he's just making a scene."

Suddenly, "I have to go to the bathroom." Oh god. Sure enough, we get into the bathroom and he starts to gag. And while he retches into the toilet, I start mopping up what didn't make it. Five minutes later, The Girl sticks her head in the bathroom. "Daddy wants to know what's taking so long."

"You're brother is puking."

"I told him so."

Pretty bad when your 7-year old knows more than your spouse. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed when I came back to the table.

In the end, we survived. We even made it back into Canada, and then back into the US on Saturday. Oh, and by the way I know what hell is like now. Hell is being stuck at the US-Canada border for 2 hours, in the sun, when it's 85 degrees out, and your car has no air conditioning.

But next year, I'm not moving from my beach chair.

IT Run Amok

When I started at my current company 9 years ago, we were a 20-person company. I was person #20. We ran things in a way typical of a small, freewheeling entrepreneurial company. Life was pretty good.

But now we're not a 20-person company. We're up around 120 people and growing quickly. And we're going through growing pains. This is not unusual. We don't do business the same way we did 9 years ago because we can't. In an tightly regulated industry and a world that is concerned about high-tech security, our clients expect more. And they deserve more. This makes it more crucial to have a good IT staff that can have policies in place to assure those clients that you are, indeed, a world-class global company capable to meeting their security needs.

But there's a fine line between being a responsible company and being over-controlling Type-A jerks.

We've endured a lot in the last few months. A new password policy that makes us change them every 90 days and meet certain criteria. Fine. Limits on email retention. Okay. No installing unauthorized software without permission. Great. Don't connect personal computing equipment (laptops, iPods, hard drives, etc.) to the corporate network. Okay. These things I can deal with, because I can see a real reason for them.

I even limited the grumbling when we started using a web filter to block access to certain categories of web sites. After all, who really needs to read porn or gamble at work? But last week, the tiniest thing happened; something you wouldn't think would set me off, but it did.

They changed my web browser home page - and I can't change it back.

My home page used to be my department's portal on our Intranet. This was useful to me. That portal contains files, tools, and resources I need to do my job on a daily basis.

The new home page is the main page of the Intranet. Not nearly so useful. It's cluttered. It's filled with information I don't need. I think it's lovely that somebody won the close-to-the-pin contest at the company golf outing, but I simply don't care. I don't even want to have to bypass this crap on my way to the important stuff. I subscribe to the page so that I get an email alert when a new announcement is posted. This email subject let's me decide if I want to go read the whole story and that is good for me.

At first, I thought maybe IE was malfunctioning (because that's not exactly an unheard of phenomena you know). After four days of struggling to reset the home page, I finally emailed the Intranet administrator. "Oh, that's a new policy from eServices. You can't change the page. But you're only one click away from your old page."

"Only one click"? WTF?

I pressed for a reason for this seemingly unnecessary policy change. I also said it would have been nice to hear about it before it went live. "I don't need to announce policies," our CIO told me. Oh really? You don't think changing my work environment, even in a small way, warrants an announcement? I'm not asking that you put it up for a vote, I'm asking that you have the common courtesy (there's that word again) to frickin' tell me you're an anal-retentive control freak who needs to control my web browser.

But even more inane is the reason for the change. At first, they tried to tell me this was so everybody could have better access to information and we'd all be standard. But what it came down to was that they didn't think people were reading all the emails they've been sending out on various things. So now they are posting everything to the main page of the Intranet and forcing people there when they open IE to "make" us read their crap.

I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.

But it's no joke, it's the truth. "We send out emails and only 8 people read them, and then people complain they don't know what's going on." Tough shit.

1. If somebody decides not to read an email, and misses important info, that's their problem. They are an adult and they should deal with the consequences of their decisions.
2. If IT thinks every piece of communication they put out is of "critical importance," they have an over-inflated sense of importance.

Just so you don't think I'm crazy, the last two emails I received from the CIO were about a change to the company cell phone policy and a notice about storing copyrighted materials (like movies and music) on corporate computers - or attaching hard drives containing such materials to corporate computers. I read neither email, and for two very good reasons. One, I don't have a company cell phone so I really couldn't care less about the changing cell phone policy. Two, I don't store any personal files on my work computer, nor do I listen to my iPod through the computer.

When I politely pointed out that merely changing someone's browser home page was not going to guarantee reading the information, the CIO said, "For your information, hits on that home page have doubled since we implemented this."

No shit, Sherlock. In a company of 120 people, all of whom open a web browser at least once a day, you are bound to see a dramatic increase on hits! Duh! For cripe's sake - our time sheet application is web-based and 3/4 of the company has to use it! Just because somebody hit the page doesn't mean they spent any time reading what was there! I'm just a project manager and I know this.

Another member of the IT department said, "Well, we could make the announcement the first page you see and you have to click OK to get to the rest of the Intranet." Well first, that doesn't guarantee I'll read anything either. It just means I'll click OK to get you off my ass. It does, however, guarantee that I will be in the COO or the CEO's office to complain vociferously.

And to add insult to injury, when accused of "tampering" with the system I replied I had done no such thing. I had sent an email to the CIO voicing my dislike of the policy. The next day, my home page reverted to the department portal page. I assumed the CIO had modified something. "Not me," he said. Okay, whatever. Point is, there's the home page, and the box to change it in IE is completely inactive. I point this out.

"Well, probably some smart-ass developer hacking the system instead of doing his job," snipes the CIO.

Excuse me???? Now you're going to insult the members of my team? I'm sorry, but no way buddy. I hope and believe I enjoy a good working relationship with every developer we employ. I do not think so much of myself that I believe these folks would hack our IT infrastructure just for my personal gratification.

The thing that torques me off completely is this: I am our IT department's customer. Part of their job is to ensure that I have the hardware and software necessary to do my job. This policy does not help me - it gets in my way by taking the information I need most and moving it one layer away from me. And they just don't friggin' get it.

They also apparently think I'm stupid, because I can think of at least three ways around this. The simplest are just typing the direct URL in the Address bar of the Windows task bar or creating a short-cut on my desktop. Yeah, I can't use the little Quick Start menu button any more, but hey, I'll deal with it.

I won't win this battle. I don't expect to do so. But I will not sit by quietly and let some Type-A control freak take over the company that I helped create. And to the extent that I can exercise a little corporate "civil disobedience," I will. Because I'm a non-conformist, at least to policies I consider about as useful as a frontal lobotomy.

So, IT department, stick that in your floppy drive and smoke it.

Remember courtesy?

Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers in the US. True story. Heard it on the morning radio recently - some study by a national driving organization (not AAA).

I don't know how they judged "courtesy," but from what I can see on my evening commute I can only say this: If Pittsburgh has the second-most courteous drivers, I shudder to think of what cities lower in rank are dealing with.

Although I travel a four-land highway for the better part of my drive home, it can take a long time. Part of the reason are two on-ramps very close together and a stop-light at the nearest bridge. If people are feeling sensible, you get a my turn-your turn approach to cars coming down the on-ramp. But every once in a while, some jag-off (that's Pittsburgh-ese for jack-ass), decides to squeeze into oncoming traffic. Of course, this brings the well-oiled machine to a halt. Think of those Visa check card commercials where everything is going so smoothly, then some dork tries to pay with cash. Exactly.

Then there's the two-lane road that runs parallel to the highway up to the bridge. Sometimes I take this route, as I did yesterday. But as I'm sitting waiting for my light, there are cars coming from behind me, driving a few feet to a hundred yards into oncoming traffic, and making an illegal right on red at the light. Big sign "No turn on red." I even saw one joker make an illegal right on red from Washington's Landing, then make an illegal left on red onto the bridge. In one car (a big, honking SUV), a perky young blonde leaned out the passenger window, yelled "Sucker!" and laughed as they make their illegal turn.

And here I thought that double-yellow line had meaning! Silly me.

All of this time I spend in the daily driving survival of the fittest led me to a more profound thought. Whatever happened to common courtesy? Like its cousin, common sense, it doesn't seem to be so common.

Big things, little things - the lack of courtesy is astounding. I went to college at a small Franciscan university. One of the things you learned very quickly as a freshman was to hold the door for the person behind you, even if that person was a few feet away - and especially if that person was handicapped, on crutches, or carrying a heavy load. Failure to do so would be met with a very loud, "GEE THANKS FOR HOLDING THE DOOR!" Very embarrassing.

This small behavior has carried over to my adult life. It's such a small thing - hold the damn door. Thus I am appalled when out at the mall I see my fellow shoppers not only fail to hold the door for the woman with the double-stroller, they let the door close on her! My five-year old runs to the door and manfully struggles to pull it open for her while the big hulking guy pushes right around. Nice. Who'd have thought you could learn courtesy from a kid who can't tie his own shoes?

When you get right down to it, courtesy is about respect. No courtesy, no respect. No respect and you can justify almost anything: failure to hold a door, road rage, cussing out someone who doesn't give you what you want, bad table manners, talking during movies, beating up a black guy in a white neighborhood, shooting someone, going into a pizzeria and blowing yourself up. Big things are made of little things.

Just stop and think about it. Imagine a world where everybody respects everybody else. Racial tensions evaporate. Terrorism plummets. Anti-gay sentiments disappear. If you can respect the outer differences, you can get past them to the internal commonalities. Fail to respect them, and well, the world's a mess.

Big things are made of little things. So as you go about your daily life, stop and think about it. How can I be more courteous today? How can I, in whatever way possible, show I respect my fellow humans.

In other words, hold the door.

God I hate waste!

This thought occurred to me at 11:00 last night as The Hubby and I were finishing watching "Psych" on USA Network (great show, by the way). The next step for the basement remodel is to scrape and paint the walls. So the hubby is talking about how he's got to put plastic up so the scrapings don't fall into the new interior french drain and clog it.

"Okay, put up the plastic, scrape, move the plastic, scrape, etc. Tedious, but not complicated," I say.

He looks at me in wonderment. Seems he was planning to ring the entire perimeter of the basement with plastic and then scrape. "But you're way just seems less..."

"Wasteful?" I supply. Uh, yeah.

To me, waste is an affront to God and Nature. Think about it. What other animal on Earth is as wasteful as humans? No other animal kills more that it can eat, or drives ginormous vehicles, or builds ginormous houses that cost hundreds to heat, or throws away food the way humans do. It's disgusting.

Throwing away food is actually emotionally painful. While I've never actually used the "There are starving kids in {fill in a third-world region}" on my kids, their habit of taking two bites and announcing "I'm full" drives me crazy. This disdain of waste is what keeps me eating the spicy fries that came with my Smoked Turkey wrap long after I'm still hungry. (Okay, you've got me. That's not the only reason. I'm a sucker for good french fries and these were really good.) It just seems so wrong.

Pulled up to the pump at my local gas station yesterday. The previous customer had racked up $50 in gas. Fifty bucks! And I thought my $25-$30 every 6-7 days was a lot. What kind of vehicle sucks $50 in gas? And just what is the practical purpose of a Hummer or a gargantuan SUV? Contractors with large F350 pickups I get. It's a business expense; how else do you haul around equipment and materials? But soccer moms driving H3s? Give me a break. Now those who know me might say this is the pot calling the kettle black. And in a way it is. We drive a Dodge Grand Caravan and a PT Cruiser, neither of which can be described as "excessively fuel efficient." But they get better mileage than a Hummer. And the van is up for replacement within the year. One of our criteria is that the new vehicle must get at least 30 mpg. So cut me a little slack; we're working on it.

Look at a new housing development. How much gas does it cost to heat those monsters? And come night time, every light bulb is on. My kids, young as they are, are already familiar with the "I'm not a stock holder in Duquesne Light - turn off the lights when you leave the room!"

And money. Oh God, don't get me started. One of the most annoying things about this whole car debacle (oh, and somehow my reservation got botched, so I have no idea when I'll ge the rental - that's topic for another post) is that my kids will now miss swimming lessons today. I paid $80 for the two of them to take lessons this summer. They were going to miss at least two, but that's because we are going on vacation, and I was cool with that. But now they're going to miss a third! I think there are only 8-9 lessons total! Argh!

(The Hubby, by the way, does not feel this way about money - at least spending or wasting it. He will have nightmares about writing the $8,000 check for the basement, which I will not, but he'll think nothing of spending $4 per day for a pastry and a coffee on his way to work, or $15 for a lunch out. Meanwhile, I'm eating homemade grilled chicken salads that average $3/each. Then he asks, "Where did all the money go?" Grrr.)

But waste goes beyond physical things like money, natural resources, or food. Think of the astronomical amount of time and effort we waste on a daily basis. Meetings that go on for-freaking-ever and nothing gets done! I am a Doer - I need to be accomplishing things. Ask me how many meetings I spend doing nothing but doodling hearts, moons, stars, and flowers on a piece of paper. (Side note: I do not draw these things because I am cutesy by nature. I just can't draw anything else. My best friend is a terrific artist. I can't draw a stick figure.) A co-worker of mine was stuck in a 3+ hour one of these time wasters yesterday. I'd rather slit my wrist with a butter knife.

Does this sound familiar? You spend 3 hours and a lot of effort tracking down information or a decision for someone. And as you report your findings/progress/whatever, the person on whose behalf you are expending all this effort says, "Oh, I changed my mind. I don't need it anymore," or "So-and-so got that for me 2 hours ago." Gee, thanks for telling me. Because you know I have nothing better to do than spin my wheels for you.

I guess at my current age this should not surprise me. After all, it's human nature and that hasn't changed in millions of years. But it still seems so fruitless. Think of what we could accomplish if we'd just stop and think about the impact of our choices and activities. We could have solved world hunger, global warming, AIDS, and cancer by now.

God I hate waste.

Introduction to Blogging

So here I am. I've hit the 21st century. Blogging. The new journal. Except now the entire world can read my useless thoughts.

I suppose I should state a few things up front. I'm married (let's call him, The Hubby) and have two kids: one girl (The Girl) and one boy (The Boy). Oh, and I'm not really a housewife; I work as a project manager for a software development firm. But something just appealed to me about having "Disgruntled Housewife" as my byline. Because while I'm not really a housewife, I am often disgruntled.

That's why I'm here, really. I need an outlet. I figure a blog is cheaper than therapy. And my real-life friends are probably sick of hearing me bitch. And The Hubby is always saying I need to write more. Did I mention I'm a frustrated writer? "Frustrated" because it's really hard to write when you have kids pulling on your elbow saying "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" from the minute you get home to the minute you go to bed. And oh yeah, The Hubby gets annoyed when I spend too much time on the computer. Go figure.

So as I said, here I am. My most recent frustration is home renovation. We have an old house, built about 1920. We've done a lot to it - built bookshelves, put in a wood stove, painted, new bathroom, it's all good. The newest project is a basement remodel. This one will either turn out brilliantly or turn me into an incoherent pile of goo.

First, I endured a week of no hot water. Yes folks, you read that right. A week - 5 days - of no hot water. Not only did this mean no hot showers, it meant no laundry, no dishwasher, we boiled water on the stove to wash dishes and bathe the kids. I cold-showered the first day. That sucked. Not even The Hubby, Airborne though he is, could stand that. The rest of the week I showered at my office (fortunately, I work for a nice company that provides fairly luxurious locker room facilities). The upside was that I had hot water. The downside was the water pressure was pathetic and I spent the first 30 minutes of my work day in the locker room (fortunely, I have an understanding boss). But this is okay.

So they finally finish the concrete floor, and The Hubby and a buddy go to reinstall the hot water heater. Great. They turn off the water. Then they need parts. Swell. This at least gets me dinner out. Then the buddy calls and says, "I've taken my shower, lets do this tomorrow." Um, okay. The Hubby tries to turn the water back on.

Turns out 80-year old plumbing does not like being shaken. At all. Not a bit. Things leak. Wonderful. So now I have zero water. This is not an improvement.

Saturday morning I take the kids to swimming (I have not showered). Cell rings - hot water is back on. Yay! Take kids to Target. Cell rings - hot water tank is leaking, need to turn water off. Boo. Take kids to McDonald's. Cell rings - hot water back on. Yay! I finally get a hot shower Saturday night, six days after the water went off. I am a happy camper.

Fast-forward a week. Friday night washer and dryer were supposed to go back in. But the buddy disappears. So now it's Saturday. Washer and dryer are in the basement. They might get installed tonight. Who knows.

And falling into the category of "Why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it"? my car failed to pass inspection today. The Hubby was supposed to take it last Saturday. I told him, let me take you to drop off the car, I'll run the kids, and we'll pick it up later in the day. But he refused; showed up at the mechanic's at 11:30, and he closes at noon. So now I find out I won't have use of the car tomorrow (when I have three times as much running as last Saturday) and The Hubby will be working all weekend. Lovely.

I call Enterprise. They open at 9:00, but won't be able to pick me up until 10:00. Kids have swimming at 9:30. Wonderful. And all The Hubby can do is say, "I don't know why you're complaining to me. I'm stressed too." Yeah, but he's taking off for work at 6:30 tomorrow.

I hear lots of banging downstairs. Keep your fingers crossed - because my kids are out of underwear.