This is yet another example of me wanting to ask, "Seriously?"
So a divorced woman in California has six children, the oldest is seven. (Seriously? Who has six children? What single mother has the resources for six children under age seven?) She and her children live with her parents. (Seriously? Adult moves back in with parents? Ok, I have to give her that one but I didn't bring six kids along.)
She decides she must have another child, hoping for another girl. (Seriously?) Alas, she is unmarried so she decides to undergo in vitro fertilization. (Seriously? Who is paying for that? What doctor would do that knowing her circumstances?) The quack doctor inserts multiple embryos and apparently most, if not all, take up camp. Once the multitude of future babies is discovered, the mother is offered "selective reduction" or some other glossy-phrased procedure to rid her body of too many babies. She checks the box that says, "No thank you very much." (Seriously?)
A team of 40-plus medical people delivered the babies. They thought there were seven, but surprise! there's an extra one. The mother is still recovering and the babies will be in the hospital for weeks or months. (Who is paying for this? Who will pay for the special needs that are almost certain to arise?)
In the paper the other day, the grandfather to these 14 children said something like this, "We're talking to the media now but we have a big house somewhere else and once we move there, no one will be able to find us." (Seriously? A woman with her parents AND her fourteen children will somehow become AWOL from the media?)
Her mother had the best comment (and I am paraphrasing,) "I wish she had just been a kindergarten teacher."
To top if all off, the mother filed for bankrupcy in 2008. Seriously.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Snow Days
We're still digging out from the 15-plus inches of snow we received Tuesday night and Wednesday. The city is slowly coming back to life but the first day was a nightmare for many.
The kindness of neighbors continues to amaze me. My father is no longer on the sick pillow but still recovering from pneumonia. Twice he's gone outside to shovel and neighbors run over to send him in the house. Even I have done some shoveling but when I told a friend, he didn't believe me.
Do you remember the feeling of waiting to hear if school was cancelled for the day? I swear a collective cheer could be heard throughout my childhood neighborhood once we knew it was a snow day. It was too dangerous to tromp to the bus stop or walk to school but we could be suited up and out to play in minutes. Sledding, making snow angels, building snowmen or just romping. It was all such fun. Although I will admit to being a weenie about sledding. High speed was never my goal and I always feared hitting a tree. Life can't be all fun -- I recall being knocked off a sled or two. Then it's take a break, have some cocoa, then bundle up for round two.
Snow days for adults have less appeal. We worry about straining our back while shoveling. Frankly, I worry about the old bird across the street who reshovels the end of her driveway. Is this really worth the risk at her age? When my prior oldies (the Belle and the Captain) lived with us, they could fall for no reason at all. Walking through the house was a fall waiting to happen. Yet this neighbor who is older than they were is out there on a mission.
We worry about the condition of the roads. We worry about other drivers. I am always certain I will get stuck and I usually do. Hot chocolate doesn't seem like enough of a reward for risking my life behind the wheel. Nine layers of clothing make most of us look and feel like the Goodyear blimp -- never my fashion goal.
I don't wish to be a child again but I wouldn't mind having a moment of the pure ecstasy associated with snow days.
The kindness of neighbors continues to amaze me. My father is no longer on the sick pillow but still recovering from pneumonia. Twice he's gone outside to shovel and neighbors run over to send him in the house. Even I have done some shoveling but when I told a friend, he didn't believe me.
Do you remember the feeling of waiting to hear if school was cancelled for the day? I swear a collective cheer could be heard throughout my childhood neighborhood once we knew it was a snow day. It was too dangerous to tromp to the bus stop or walk to school but we could be suited up and out to play in minutes. Sledding, making snow angels, building snowmen or just romping. It was all such fun. Although I will admit to being a weenie about sledding. High speed was never my goal and I always feared hitting a tree. Life can't be all fun -- I recall being knocked off a sled or two. Then it's take a break, have some cocoa, then bundle up for round two.
Snow days for adults have less appeal. We worry about straining our back while shoveling. Frankly, I worry about the old bird across the street who reshovels the end of her driveway. Is this really worth the risk at her age? When my prior oldies (the Belle and the Captain) lived with us, they could fall for no reason at all. Walking through the house was a fall waiting to happen. Yet this neighbor who is older than they were is out there on a mission.
We worry about the condition of the roads. We worry about other drivers. I am always certain I will get stuck and I usually do. Hot chocolate doesn't seem like enough of a reward for risking my life behind the wheel. Nine layers of clothing make most of us look and feel like the Goodyear blimp -- never my fashion goal.
I don't wish to be a child again but I wouldn't mind having a moment of the pure ecstasy associated with snow days.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
But Wait, There's More!
Some days, I feel like I'm living in a bad infomercial. You know, the kind that make you want to throw things at the television.
I digress but my personal favorite right now is the Snuggie. It's beyond absurd. There's a great article in this week's Time Magazine about the Snuggie. My favorite quote from the article, taken from a rant on YouTube is this: "It's a bathrobe. That is really long. That you wear backwards."
Some parts of my life are ill fitting right now. Many things that I took for granted now seem backward. Many other things have proven cozy and comfortable... I just forgot for a while.
Who knows what's coming next? I'll keep plugging along. And when I've had enough, maybe I'll put my bathrobe on backwards.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Can't do it. Or, won't do it. Whether it's literally or figuratively, I do not let sleeping dogs lie.
This is my dog, the Gabster, having tucked herself in bed for a little snooze. Well, I insist on petting her because she looks so darn cute. Then I pet her and talk to her. Then I take her picture and the flash annoys her.
When faced with an issue or life situation, I go to one of two extremes. I bury my head in the sand for a while or I ponder and discuss it to death. (Hmmm... Wonder where I got that little quirk?) Even when things are resolved, I want to bring it up again. Even when everyone involved has voiced his or her thoughts, I can't seem to let it lie. I've been accused of beating a dead horse. Is that the same as not letting sleeping dogs lie? All these animal metaphors get confusing to me.
I'm not even sure this is something I want to change about myself. Going over and over things helps me to understand and clarify. But I will try to leave Gabby alone when she's quietly enjoying her nap time.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Do Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth?
My mother is an amazing cook. She's especially incredible with candies and desserts which is probably why I've never bothered much with those items. She does them to perfection and she shares.
I like to cook, especially when it's my idea. I like to try new things but like most of us, I rely on certain stand-by menus that I've made for years. I've also adapted many recipes over the years to make them easier. For instance, I refuse to boil a whole chicken, skin and debone it, etc. when I can poach a couple of chicken breasts and voila! .. on with the recipe.
Since living with my oldies recently, I have tried to help out. My mother works long and odd hours. She's picking up her nightly tapes around the time I used to start trying to figure out what to make for dinner. My offers of help are well received but it is also very clear that I do not do things her way. (It's a funny look on her face that gives me vivid flashbacks of my childhood.)
I also like really exotic things like mushrooms, which is repeatedly pointed out to me that I did not grow up eating. I steam vegetables and eat them crisp. Well, I used to. I do not like Miracle Whip. Ever. In Anything. Ever. I'm used to different spices that she swears I could not possibly like. If I use oil, it's usually olive oil. I don't think I've ever used that congealed Crisco in a can. (Of course, I'll eat whatever is cooked in it.)
As I said before, she is an amazing cook so no one in this house will ever be hungry. I'm still trying to help out but I'm paying attention to how it should be done.
We seem to have it down. She's happy to have help in the kitchen and I like to do it. In our case, two cooks in the kitchen make a tasty broth ... or whatever we decide to whip up.
I like to cook, especially when it's my idea. I like to try new things but like most of us, I rely on certain stand-by menus that I've made for years. I've also adapted many recipes over the years to make them easier. For instance, I refuse to boil a whole chicken, skin and debone it, etc. when I can poach a couple of chicken breasts and voila! .. on with the recipe.
Since living with my oldies recently, I have tried to help out. My mother works long and odd hours. She's picking up her nightly tapes around the time I used to start trying to figure out what to make for dinner. My offers of help are well received but it is also very clear that I do not do things her way. (It's a funny look on her face that gives me vivid flashbacks of my childhood.)
I also like really exotic things like mushrooms, which is repeatedly pointed out to me that I did not grow up eating. I steam vegetables and eat them crisp. Well, I used to. I do not like Miracle Whip. Ever. In Anything. Ever. I'm used to different spices that she swears I could not possibly like. If I use oil, it's usually olive oil. I don't think I've ever used that congealed Crisco in a can. (Of course, I'll eat whatever is cooked in it.)
As I said before, she is an amazing cook so no one in this house will ever be hungry. I'm still trying to help out but I'm paying attention to how it should be done.
We seem to have it down. She's happy to have help in the kitchen and I like to do it. In our case, two cooks in the kitchen make a tasty broth ... or whatever we decide to whip up.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Another Example of Why I Hate Birds
(Photo: MSN.com)
In case you missed an earlier post on my fear and loathing of birds, I'll recap. My crazy grandmother insisted birds were evil. She was superstitious. For example, she believed someone close to you would die if a bird gets in your house. Hitchcock's movie "The Birds" didn't help but most of the blame falls to my grandmother.
(Toward the end of her life she actually owned a bird and would answer the door with the bird perched on her head. I have yet to reconcile this in my mind.)
Occasionally I can admire the beauty of your feathered friends from the safety of indoors but that's about it. I have had complete hysterical attacks if a bird gets close to me on a beach. Someone once asked me to go on a hike with her so we could experience bird watching. She did not know me well and I did not go.
Last week I watched in amazement as the survivors of the US Air plane that crash landed in the Hudson were rescued. It was a miracle and the pilot, Chesley Sullenberger (Sully), is truly a hero.
Of all my quirks and idiosyncrasies, fear of flying does not make the list. "Cross check and call forward" is one of my favorite phrases. I have flown in commercial planes and private planes, teeny planes and jumbo jets. I flew the day they opened the skies after 9/11. (Yes, I looked for terrorists -- as if I would know how to identify one.)
Even with the bird threat, I would get on a plane today. But I will never take a hike to watch birds.
No Privacy
I'm watching two news people discuss the Caylee Anthony case, which continues to get more bizarre. Now they've discovered a heart sticker on the child's remains. The reporter is discussing the dream team of attorneys and forensic experts assembled for the defense and throws into the mix, " ... the Anthonys are deeply in debt." Probably the death of their granddaughter and the charges facing their daughter are top of mind. When the dust settles, will it really be necessary for the general public to know this factoid about their finances?
If you've ever made a late payment or missed a debt, you know what it's like to be tracked down like a dog. If you've been married before, creditors call anyone and everyone remotely associated with you, your exes, their exes, parents, etc. I recently received some junk mail for -- get this -- my husband's exwife's exhusband. This was just a stupid leaflet but I'm sure we've all received calls and mail for each other. Once a name or address changes on a document, anyone with access to your credit report can look up all kinds of information.
Remember the childhood threat of "Don't do that -- it will go on your permanent record." It's true; it just wasn't explained very well.
Facebook and other social networking sites allow us to connect but they also steal a bit of our privacy. I belong to some but I'm leery. I cringe at some of the things I see while browsing these sites. I'm a little "out there" with this blog but it's nothing incriminating to me or others. So what if you learn that I've lived my entire 40s with oldies. It's true and it's part of my permanent record.
Speaking of privacy, there is none for my oldies either. I know who's up in the middle of the night. I know all medical issues and medications partly because I"m nosy and partly because we discuss everything incessantly. I know when it's naptime because I walk around by myself, look at the clock and think, "Seriously?" (It's kind of like kindergarten when you could be happily coloring or playing a game and the teacher would announce, "Get your sleepy mat -- it's time to lie down." That always annoyed me.) Now I get frustrated because I never learned to nap. I can barely sleep at night.
Of course, my oldies know far more about me than they would like.
If you've ever made a late payment or missed a debt, you know what it's like to be tracked down like a dog. If you've been married before, creditors call anyone and everyone remotely associated with you, your exes, their exes, parents, etc. I recently received some junk mail for -- get this -- my husband's exwife's exhusband. This was just a stupid leaflet but I'm sure we've all received calls and mail for each other. Once a name or address changes on a document, anyone with access to your credit report can look up all kinds of information.
Remember the childhood threat of "Don't do that -- it will go on your permanent record." It's true; it just wasn't explained very well.
Facebook and other social networking sites allow us to connect but they also steal a bit of our privacy. I belong to some but I'm leery. I cringe at some of the things I see while browsing these sites. I'm a little "out there" with this blog but it's nothing incriminating to me or others. So what if you learn that I've lived my entire 40s with oldies. It's true and it's part of my permanent record.
Speaking of privacy, there is none for my oldies either. I know who's up in the middle of the night. I know all medical issues and medications partly because I"m nosy and partly because we discuss everything incessantly. I know when it's naptime because I walk around by myself, look at the clock and think, "Seriously?" (It's kind of like kindergarten when you could be happily coloring or playing a game and the teacher would announce, "Get your sleepy mat -- it's time to lie down." That always annoyed me.) Now I get frustrated because I never learned to nap. I can barely sleep at night.
Of course, my oldies know far more about me than they would like.
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