True Confessions

I'm shrugging off the shroud of secrecy and coming clean:

I watch a lot of TV. And only one of my shows airs on PBS. I am a mass consumer of pop culture and like others before me who have confessed to hairy toes and regularly ditching church meetings (I'll skip the links to preserve anonymity), I'm going to air my business right here on my blog BECAUSE I AM NOT ASHAMED. (Really I'm not linking because I'm lazy).

I remember sitting in the staff room during lunch one day (in my former life as a middle school teacher) and realizing that every single TV show people brought up, I watched. And I felt kind of embarrassed. Then I got to wondering why. It's not like it's the only thing we do around here. My kids are involved in different activities, I limit their TV, homework gets done, and if housework or dinner don't happen, it's not because of TV. We go for family walks and bike rides, we exercise, we keep the TV off during dinner and talk to each other, socialize with friends, and have regular date nights. Since we have a DVR, it's not like our lives are hostage to TV watching. We don't even turn it on until 8:30 when the kids are in bed. So why is it so embarrassing to admit that we watch a lot of TV?

Without further ado, I present my list of TV shows for you to goggle at, all pop-eyed and wavering between sheer amazement and judgment:

Drop Dead Diva on Lifetime: Seriously stinkin' cute.

Heroes: We really should give this up, but we're convinced that it can't possibly get worse and we've already stuck it out this long.

House: I'm a recent convert but totally in love

Castle: Nathan Fillion. How can you not immediately love this show? He rocks.

So You Think You Can Dance: I'm not sure how anyone can watch Dancing With the Stars after watching this level of talent.

The Good Wife: Me only show. Brand new with Juliana Margulies. I was impressed with the first episode. We'll see if it holds up.

The Biggest Loser: Me only show. I clean during the commercials when I watch it on Wednesday afternoons. It makes me happy to see these folks changing.

Glee: I'm on the verge of giving this one up. I don't think it's held up to the promise of the pilot. At all. And I hate the lip synching. It's so distracting. Jane Lynch makes it almost worth it. But tonight may be its final hurrah for me.

Modern Family: Tied with Community for my new favorite. So stinkin' funny.

Top Chef: Me only. I have no idea why this show makes me so happy.

Survivor: Me only. I can't explain. I just watch.

Grey's Anatomy: I'm so ashamed. (Me only.)

Private Practice: I'm even more ashamed. (Me only.)

Community: F. F-. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Flash Forward: I think this is showing a lot of promise. I'm always down for some good sci-fi.

Fringe: This is on the verge of becoming a Kenny only show because it's too freaky for me. But it's good!

Project Runway: Me only. And I make it work. I loves it.

Psych: Totally underrated. So funny.

SNL: Habit, I think. But we're always hopeful.

Now, assuming I haven't forgotten anything and not counting shows not yet on like 30 Rock, Lost, Chuck, or summer shows like Leverage, The Closer, and Burn Notice, (or the times Cash Cab is on the background while I make dinner), or the episodes of the Ken Burns national parks documentary we're saving for Sundays, by my math I'm watching approximately 19 hours of TV a week. However, since I watch everything on the DVR and skip all the commercials, when you subtract commercials (8 minutes for sitcoms and 16 for hour-long shows [and yes, that's the actual formula--check it yourself), I guess I really only watch closer to fourteen hours of TV.

And yes, I can rationalize anything, thanks for asking.

Anyway, can anyone beat that? Or is this just me?

Parent for me, please?

My fifth grader was placed in the lowest math group on Friday. Neither he nor I are very concerned about that. He doesn't care because he's the kind of kid that thinks it's cool if he's in the top group for something but couldn't give a rip if he's in the bottom (which drives me slightly batty). I don't care because I know why he's in the bottom.

He performs solidly on his state testing and all of that, does all of his work and understands the concepts. He just does poorly on his chapter tests because (WITHOUT EXCEPTION) he makes careless mistakes with adding and especially subtracting, and he regularly forgets his multiplication tables.

So....have any of you encountered and solved this problem with your own dear munchkins? I've got a few ideas but I'd love to hear from you guys on stuff that's actually worked before I go trying my experiments. That's mainly because I generally come up with Rube Goldberg-scaled interventions when $.79 mousetraps will usually work.

I'm listening...

Happy Day

I just got my publishing contract in the mail from Covenant.

IT FEELS AWESOME.

Word up

I love words. Like maybe psyhcotically so. As in, if my husband uses a really nice $2 word, I will kiss him. And if he's not in kissing distance, I will slap him an air high five. I still remember the first $2 word he ever used on me. "Dichotomy." It's one of my favorite words now.

I was thinking today about a couple of words I like. I love the word "gloaming." It means twilight or dusk. It reminds me of the ee cummings poem and his line, "The magical hour when is becomes if."

I also thought about the word impresario. I like that one too, mainly because I like the way it bounces around my mouth when I say it.

Spit out your favorite words in the comment box and let them bounce around there. Is fun. I promise.

Really, Infomercial? REALLY?

A commercial for "My Baby Can Read" came on today. I watched it. And I thought, "Why?"

Why would any right-thinking parents EVER do that to themselves?

I personally have given birth to a scarily precocious two-year-old. Actually, he's not even two which makes him EXTRA scary.

Follow me, here. We have few enough advantages over our offspring as it is. We have an edge in height, finances, and language. That's about it.

I watched the height advantage evaporate this morning when my 22-month-old mastered tools. Yeah, he jimmy-rigged his brother's light saber to fish down the Wii remote that was hanging two inches above his highest tippy-toe reach. I guess, like the monkeys, he was tired of being taunted by almost-low-enough-hanging fruit and hence, he entered the Bronze Age of tool-making far earlier than I would like. Just like that, my three foot advantage over him disappeared.

Right now, I still have language on my side. I can say to my husband, "Baby G has to take a b-a-t-h in a few minutes" and he (the baby) roots in his filth for a little longer, not realizing it's all about to come to a sudden and sudsy end. If he could spell "bath", my little announcement would provoke a full-scale hissy fit and a chase around the house. The element of surprise would be lost.

So tell me, why would I make that happen ON PURPOSE? Why? WHY?

I wouldn't be able to spell, "Take the route that doesn't go past the S-W-I-N-G-S" or "Let's put him to B-E-D and have some I-C-E C-R-E-A-M."

Seriously, I'm going to pay someone $20 PLUS shipping and handling to take that away from me?

PASS!

Hey, isn't that...?

Wanna know what's funny?

When a brand new white Rolls-Royce parks in front of you at the Costco. It struck me as really funny when it happened to me last week. There I was, unloading Baby G from his car seat to do a little (a lot) bit of damage at the sample stands inside and up it rolls, the Rolls. Pulls in right in front of me, and I promise you that car looks as expensive at it is.

I mean, is it me or is it just funny when a Rolls-Royce pulls into the Costco? Isn't it sort of like seeing a Bentley at the K-Mart? And am I showing my Southern roots by using "the" before the name of any major shopping chain? Don't you guys go the Wal-Mart? Where's my Southern posse?

Anyway, I bet you want to know who got out, right? No? That was just me?

Well...I was curious. So I lingered a little in the baby extraction process. (Hey, it took him over twenty four hours to decide to come out during labor. A little pay back isn't going to kill him.) Out of the the Rolls climbed three dudes and some things were immediately obvious: this was not an old rich guy's present to himself, none of these guys were likely attorneys, and I had a feeling I shouldn't cut in line if they were first at the Adele's sausage sample table.

I had a couple of guesses right off. Possibly they were in a rock band. The t-shirts, jeans, shaved heads and tattoos were a clue. Except for (1) they had muscles, and (2) you could just feel for an absolute certainty that if any of these guys ever wore skinny jeans, someone paid a violent price to make that happen. More likely: pro athletes. BUT, they were too short for the NBA, too slender for the NFL, and too....uh, gothic for pro baseball. Which led to the obvious conclusion of UFC fighters.

What, that's not an obvious jump to you? Probably that's because you don't live where every fifth former high school wrestler is angling to become the next cage fighting champ. Oh, yeah...and Tito Ortiz is from here. He's kind of a big deal in mixed martial arts/Ultimate Fighting circles. You know, where I hang out.

Anyway, I suspicioned it was Tito Ortiz. Because he was a tall, totally ripped dude flanked by two short, muscle-y dudes. As it turns out, I was right. My first clue was when I was standing in line behind them and Tito Ortiz was wearing a jersey that said, "Ortiz" across the back.

The second clue was when we ran into each other at the freezer case full of chicken and his friend said he loved my shirt. Because it was my Goonies shirt. And seriously, I could go to Costco topless and still get less comments than I do on my Goonies shirt. (Which I bought as a fluke one time when I forgot to bring clothes on a date with Kenny, but that's another story.) And then some loud dude was like, "Hey, you're Tito Ortiz, right?" and all kinds of craziness ensued. I snuck away but three minutes later the cheese case was abuzz with people bragging, "I shook his hand!" "Well, I got a picture with him!" "Oh, yeah? I made out with him for twenty seconds in front of the mango juice!" (but nobody believed that guy).

And then I thought to myself, "I think fame would suck." I've seen a ton of celebrities in real life in random situations (the ballet, grocery store, sidewalk, casino, blah blah blah) and NOT ONCE have a I NOT seen some misguided passers-by act like total idiots around them. And I feel bad for the famous folks. I have never asked for an autograph and probably wouldn't. I just think they ought to be left alone to do their thing unless they're walking the red carpet or something, you know? I think the best kind of fame would be where everyone knows your name, but no one knows your face.

Like say, if I were a famous author. . .

I'm outta here.

I am not blogging today because I am obsessed with this book and don't want to stop reading it.
But I still love you.

P.S. I got a root canal yesterday and it totally didn't suck. And when I got hungry I ate some deli tomato basil cream soup that was 440 calories, 400 of them from fat. Believe me when I say it was GOOD. Oh, and Little Debbie Swiss Rolls also won't bother your sore tooth. The six I ate didn't, anyway. (Do you believe me about my butt now?)

I like big butts and I cannot lie.

Have you ever had a realization that suddenly causes a small part of your personal universe to snap into sharper focus?

I've had a couple of random ones this week. Like this, for example: I learned something important about my butt.

Yeah, you read that right. My butt.

It is large and flanked by generous hips. Disproportionately generous, I would say. And as pregnancy (and my dependence on ice cream) causes my butt to grow, instead of freaking out, I came to a deep truth. I am pretty. I know that. Maybe even very pretty. But I make everyone else feel better about themselves because they can always say, "Well, at least I don't have a big butt like that." And I'm totally okay with serving that purpose.

Here's another epiphany. Part of the reason I don't have a clean house (very often) is because I function better with a deadline. And not the self-imposed kind, either. I need REAL deadlines. The equivalent for me when it comes to cleaning my house is knowing that company is coming. Then it forces me to have everything scrubbed and tidy by then.

The thing is, our place is smallish and so we don't often invite company over. So...no deadlines. I thought of a solution, though. I'm going to invite people over every week. But the thing is, it can't just be week night company because then only the downstairs gets cleaned. I need the overnight variety so that I get to the bathrooms and carpets upstairs, too. Oh, and launder the bedding. And straighten our room in case the door is open when an overnight guest passes by.

Now, it might not come off right if I invite some of our local friends to stay over for the weekend.

In fact, I'm sure that would come off really, really NOT right.

Okay, so I'm inviting anyone that lives more than four hours away. I'm going to start a schedule and I expect every single one of you to sign up to visit me for a weekend starting Friday so that I'll clean my house once a week.

I can offer you either a top or bottom bunk, monkey and lion towels, the beach four blocks away, unlimited use of our beach cruisers, advice on the best nearby burger and barbecue joints, and you'll be invited to join our regular DVD viewing marathons of whatever TV show we've just discovered (right now it's Burn Notice). Oh, and I'll throw in some ice cream.

See? Total clarity. Thank you, Universe.

Save your mama from the drama.

Where was I?

...Oh, yes. Snake bites and necrosis. Well, all is well the land of Real Drama. Asher is better and should in fact be on a plane home to England today for further treatment and recovery in a London hospital. Whew.

That's inevitable drama. The kind you don't invite and finds you anyway, moving in like a gnarly houseguest, scratching its crotch while swigging straight from the milk jug, and emitting loud belches in quiet moments.

That's bad enough, right? WHY would you invite drama over on purpose?

And yet, I bet every single one of you could name a friend or relative who does. They are captains of industry, if the industry is manufacturing drama. It's big business among narcissists and perpetual victims.

NOTE: I'm not talking REAL victims. I'm talking folks who enjoy playing the part and will appropriate other people's drama for themselves if that's what it takes to do so. I'm talking about the dummies who see drama coming, twirling it's black, curly mustache and then lay down on the train tracks and wait for the drama to tie them up so they can scream for rescue.

That's manufactured drama.

Wednesday I spent worrying about my brother and his girlfriend and their fear over Asher and his snakebite. That's tiring, but in the end, I'm only the most marginal player in that drama. I'm the girl in the milkmaid costume on stage with no lines.

Thursday morning we got a phone call from an acquaintance who ONLY calls when there's an emergency. His wife was sick to the point of needing hospitalization and he risked losing his job if he couldn't go to work. Could we come help?

Kenny and I have been through this with them many times before, so we said sure. We packed James off to school, loaded the baby in the car, and caravaned over to their place. Kenny got their two kids out of bed, including the six-year-old that had been forced to miss school, while I dealt with Mom. Mom was severly dehydrated and admitted it was self-induced. Husband had dropped a bomb on her (slept with their eighteen-year-old babysitter--not his first indiscretion) and even knowing her aunt (who had been helping out for a few months) was leaving in two days, Mom decided she was too hurt to get out of bed and didn't eat or drink until she got sick enough to start throwing up and become dehydrated.

I probably sound unsympathetic. I am. This is at least the fourth time we've had to cope with this particular scenario, not to mention the number of times it's happened when Mom's brother or aunt or mother has to pick up the pieces. Anyway, I took her to the doctor who urged her to try a stronger anti-depressant and seek psychiatric help. Mom: no dice. There's nothing wrong with her head, she says, even though she told her husband she refused to get out of bed and he would have to deal with the kids because she was going to teach him a lesson.

I took her to the hospital for IV fluids and then watched her kids all day. Went to pick her up at 8 that night while she complained about being discharged even though the doctor pointed out TWICE that their entire blood panel and chem screen had turned up nothing and they couldn't do anything else for her.

In the past, I've never said anything. I was a little naive in believing that this was all some mysterious illness that came and went for her. A little fact checking on BOTH sides of the story have cleared up some of that mystery. This time, I straight up told her, "I'm sorry your husband is a jerk. But it's been pure luck I've been able to step in every time you needed me. If all that's standing between you and caring for your kids physically is hydration, you need to drink some water. And only water. Or Pedialyte."

I'm frustrated by the half-truths she's dealt out over the last two years and her unwillingness to draw a direct line between herself and her location at the brink of disaster. In her mind, it's far more important to punish her husband than it is to keep it together for her kids.

Don't get all over my case about mental illness, etc. I KNOW. There is definitely some depression in play here. BUT, and I know because I have spent vast amounts of time as an observer and have had conversations with her mother, that the greater issue here is that she likes being a victim. Taking her anti-depression meds makes her less of a victim so she's reluctant to do it.

I could go on. Just know it's a mess and I finally took a step back from it. I told her I'd do anything I could to help her kids but they don't want me for a mom. They want her, and she needs to find a way to be there for them. I realized I was being an enabler. It's hard to back away, but the truth is, it's a situation where the best thing I can do for her is cut her loose for right now so she doesn't have an audience any more.

I realize a lot of you are going to be mad at me for being insensitive or judgmental. Let me point out that you haven't had a seat at the fifty yard line for the last two years like I have. This mom will be okay. So will her kids. Her husband, while not so good as a husband, is a good father and will make sure of that.

But in the mean time, I feel badly for her mother who calls me sometimes from Canada, worried and helpless. I feel badly for the kids who are too often put in the middle. There are some simple (not easy) choices this mom can make to dial the drama back so everyone can breathe a little easier.

She doesn't. But she could.

This is an extreme example but I'm sure we all see this to a lesser extent on a regular basis. It's the victim mentality where this is typical:

Sue: Did you hear about that Jaycee girl who got kidnapped? She's back with her family now.
Peg: Oh, I know. It just about broke my heart. I couldn't bear to send my kids to school today. I kept them in bed with me all day. I'm not sure I can go to work tomorrow, either. This has just shaken me up so bad.
Sue: (Confused) Oh, did you know her?
Peg: No. It's just so sad.

Appropriating drama for herself, you see?

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the occasional pity party when genuinely cruddy stuff happens. You know, like you get in a car wreck. As long as the problem isn't that you weren't carrying insurance because you blew it on a Coach bag and now you're screwed and weeping and wailing about the money and the car, it's fine to be like, "Man! I got in a car wreck! The universe is spitting on me! I NEED CHOCOLATE! BRING ME CHOCOLATE!" Totally understandable.

I could go on for days and you could too, I know. But I'm going to go sit in a corner and sing "Put Your Shoulder to the Wheel" over and over again until I experience an adjustment in my attitude toward service, regardless of the degree of crazy I am called to serve.

Hm. Did that just sound like I still don't have it quite figured out yet?

Well. At least I stay hydrated.

What an asp.

There are two kinds of drama in life: manufactured drama and inevitable drama. I avoid both, but I just outright don’t do manufactured drama and limit my time with people who do.

I figure the inevitable drama is going to come anyway, so why am I going to make things even harder for myself (and the people around me) in the meantime?

Take this week, for example. It has been drama central around here. Poisonous vipers, both literal and figurative, have reared their heads to strike. Let’s look at the difference between the inevitable and the manufactured:

We got a call from my brother on Wednesday morning that his girlfriend’s brother had been hiking with his wife in Cambodia and got bit by a green pit viper. Its venom is hematoxic, which means it prevents your blood from clotting when it enters your system. It took Asher a full day to even realize he’d been bit by a snake (apparently between the giant bugs and his many leech wounds, he thought an insect had gotten him. Cambodia, anyone?). His wife (a nurse) figured it out when the wound wouldn’t clot. It took another full day for the local snake bite clinic to arrange medical transportation to a top notch hospital in Bangkok, Thailand where they would have to test him to determine which specific serpent had bruised his heel, so to speak, so that they could give him the right antivenin (no, I didn’t misspell that). In the meantime, Asher was getting sicker and everybody else was getting more worried. By last night, his platelet count was…11. It should have been…uh, 1000. He was taking over ten hours to clot. It should have been taking about 5-ish minutes.

To make the rest of this long story short, he is showing a slow improvement and will probably be able to keep his leg. If he’s still stable by Saturday, then he’ll be permitted to fly home to London to continue his treatment there.

THAT is drama of the inevitable kind. Not so much the snakebite specifically, but the fact that bad stuff happens without any invitation. It’s hard on his loved ones. I don’t know Asher (because he’s English and London isn’t around the corner) but his sister has been with my brother longer than Kenny and I have been together. She’s family, and her mom is, too.

And here’s the thing…my brother knows and cares about Asher, and my sister does, too. And I care about them, and so I worry. Kenny and I prayed a lot as a family for Asher's recovery and for Nadine and her mom’s peace of mind. I felt really helpless to just sit and wait for updates. I worried about what would happen if the worst came to pass. Nadine doesn’t believe in God, and my brother doesn’t either, really. They don’t pray or believe in life after death. Would they be okay if they lost him? How do you get through that without faith? Could Nadine comfort herself with the knowledge that they had an amazing relationship and he had lived a full and adventurous life in a short time? Would it be enough? Was there anything Kenny or I could to help? I worried and worried and worried.

And that’s all for someone I don’t even know. The impact obviously grows deeper and greater the closer you get to the center. It's harder on my brother and even harder on Nadine. A million times harder than it was on me, and that was hard enough.

Would you EVER go out of your way to inflict that kind of worry and heart sickness on someone you love?

But people do. Take the second drama that unfolded with a phone call this morning…

This is a long post so I’ll get into it later, but trust me, a green pit viper sounds downright cozy compared to the craziness coming…

Sigh.

Rabbit trails

1. People who constantly rant about politics on Facebook bore me and I hide them so I don't have to deal with it. I'm interested in politics. I'm educated about it. I enjoy discussing it. DISCUSSING it. Not ARGUING about it. And most certainly not being status updated to death.

2. I can't figure out if I like sugar free Kool-Aid tropical punch or Crystal Light tropical punch better.

3. Once I ate at this great soul food place in Harlem (and yeah, it feels cool to say that) called Amy Ruth's. They had Kool-Aid on the menu. I asked what flavor. The waitress looked at me like it was the dumbest question a white lady ever asked her and said, "Red."

4. That color personality test always says I'm even split between red and blue, apparently the most difficult personality type. But I think I'm way more blue than it's saying.

5. I meant to paint my bathroom this nice spa blue. Right now, the ceiling and two runny splotches on two different walls are blue. It's been like that for two years.

6. Baby G decided my white bedroom door should be purple. Voila! Purple marker hand prints all over it today. But it was Crayola marker so I didn't kill him.

7. My son picked a color called Crayola Yellow for his bedroom when we moved in. I think next time, we'll guide his choices with a firmer hand.

8. The same son came home sick from school today (very rare) because he keeps coughing up phlegm and he refuses to swallow it. Instead, he gets up every three minutes and spits it out. Apparently, he did this all day in class. I bet the teacher is excited to have him in there.

9. I'm trying to pretend that the following things don't exist: overdue property taxes I keep forgetting to pay and Cub Scouts starting again on Friday.

10. My sister-in-law(ish)'s brother got bit last night by a green pit viper in Thailand. And he DIDN'T EVEN KNOW until he went to the hospital with a swollen (black) foot and they told him it was a snake bite. He seems to be holding steady. They flew him to a top notch hospital in Bangkok.

11. I don't think my name is as common as it should be. It's a nice name.

12. Sciatica = not my favorite.

13. I never set microwave cook times or alarm clocks for even times, like 5:00 for 7:30. I cook stuff for 47 seconds, or wake up at 7:32.

14. That's why I'm ending on 14 and not 15 or 20. Because I can.

Just sayin'

My son thinks I live to embarrass him.

I won't lie: it's a perk.

Did you check out Kenny's post yesterday? You should.

Say Cheese (in which my husband blogs)

Me: You haven't done a guest post for me in a long time.
Husband: You're right.
Me: You should do one.
Husband: Okay. I'm going to write about cheese.
Me: Is this just an excuse to spend a couple of hours on Wikipedia and have something to chalk it up to?
Husband: Yes.
Me: Okay.

I present: Kenny.

It was my first morning in the city of Cuautla, Morelos. I sat at the breakfast table with my new family. Well, the people who would be my family while I was studying in Mexico for the next 5 weeks.

"Do you like it?" the mother asked.

"Yes, thank you." I said. It definitely was not the best quesadilla I've ever had, but then again it was much better then having breakfast soup made of cow stomach and pig feet (yeah, that's right, I'm talking about YOU, MENUDO!!!).

"I wanted to make you feel at home, so I made it with American Cheese," she said with a proud smile.

Oh, boy.

"American" cheese.

American Cheese, how did you ever become our cheese ambassador to the world?!? Maybe we don't have a lot of native born cheeses...but you?!? Really?!? It just makes me cry a little inside, when I realize what every other nation is thinking (and you can read the following in your mind with any sort of accent: French, Russian, Middle Eastern, it all works): "America, maybe you have a huge military and the biggest economy in the known universe. Maybe you invented a lot of cool stuff and you put a man on the moon. And maybe your music and movies invade every crevice of our cultures, but you know what?!?...Your cheese is a joke! That's right! Ha-ha-ha on your American Cheese!!!"

I mean what other country would be so audacious to name a cheese after themselves? (The Swiss, you say? Well, actually WE named it "Swiss Cheese"...Emmental is the more proper name.)

So that is why I'd like to propose a new "American Cheese". Now unfortunately, we Americans came a little late to the cheese game. Cheese production predates recorded history and our current cheese making process has not changed much since Roman times. In fact, our native cheeses are all tend to be variations on a few established northern European traditions. For example, Maytag Blue Cheese came about because the climate in the US did not allow for the making of any of the traditional blue cheeses like Roquefort, Gorgonzola or Stilton. A whole new (patented) process had to be invented (at Iowa State University) and now the Maytag family (as in Maytag appliances) brings us the dominant blue cheese in America.¹

Even though Maytag Blue Cheese is one of "ours", it is such an acquired (or perhaps just esoteric) taste, that despite my love of it on a medium rare filet mignon at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, I can't really seriously consider it for the new "American Cheese". That, and the fact that it is sometimes spelled "bleu cheese", just doesn't seem very American.

Another "American Cheese" which is out of the running from the start is Velveeta. That's right I'm a cheese snob. Sorry, Velveeta-eaters.

Here are a couple for consideration:

Philadelphia Cream Cheese - believe it or not, it is OURS! It was the result of a New York dairyman trying to create a batch of Neufchatel. The only problem I have with giving it the title of America's cheese, is that it cannot really stand on its own, it has to be eaten ON something else. And that seems to defy America's independent spirit.

Monterey Jack (or just Jack Cheese) - This one comes from the great state of California (yeah, that's MY state! Woo-hoo!). But it may have been invented when California was still part of Mexico...so I'm not sure it should count.

Colby (and Colby Jack) - A similar process to Jack, but from Wisconsin. The problem here is that I just never hear people order it by name..."Can I have a slice of Colby on that sandwich?". It's more of a tag-along on a cheese variety plate. Americans are leaders, not tag-along-ers!

Muenster Cheese - This one is ours too, except we gave it a German sounding name, so that kind of disqualifies it. Though "hamburger" is very German sounding too when you think about it...

[Mmmm, now I'm thinking about hamburgers...]

OK, I'm back.

So after much consideration, I have made my decision. The new "American Cheese" will be...

drum roll please...

Pepper Jack!

That's right a spicy variation on Monterey Jack (which was invented on what is currently American soil). Now maybe it's a little West-centric, and maybe no one outside of California eats it, but we eat it here all the time. People ask for it by name when there are making sandwiches. It pretty much comes standard on the cheese cube trays. Fast food restaurants use it to sell their latest burger, quesadilla, etc. I mean what better than "smooth and spicy" to represent America and its greatness.

Instead of other counties laughing at us, here will be the new American Cheese Dialog:

Foreign Country: What is this?
America: It's American Cheese, partner.
Foreign Country: Mmmm...smooth and subtle...but my mouth, it burns.
America: Dang right your mouth is burning! And this is us being hospitable...just step out of line and see what happens...

So there you go. Monterrey Jack, you are now our proper, fully-of-personality, not-at-all-embarrassing cheese ambassador to the world!

And now I'm off to make myself a quesadilla with some American Cheese [wink].


______________________
¹ OK, on the subject of Bleu Cheese, I have to make a quick digression here. Every time (and I mean EVERY TIME) we go out to a restaurant with my parents (and this has been the case since I was old enough to comprehend the English language) and my dad orders a salad, it turns into the following, never varying, ritual:

Dad: I'll have a salad.
Server: What kind of dressing would you like?
Dad: I'll have Roquefort dressing.
Server: I'm sorry, we don't have Roquefort, but we do have Bleu Cheese.
Dad: That's fine.

My question for my dad is this. "Dad, in the 40 years that I've been going to restaurants with you, they NEVER have Roquefort Why don't you just ask for Blue Cheese from the beginning since that's what you are going to end up with anyway?!?"

But I don't say this. Perhaps, like him, I've just grown so accustom to the ritual.

Bringing up baby.

I remember being at Disney World when I was about eight years old and seeing this little kid on a leash. I thought it was about the most horrible thing I'd ever seen.

Now, I wonder if the idea isn't verging on genius...

We're about to renew our annual passes to Disneyland (don't hate) and I'm trying to figure out the Baby G situation. The last time we went, he was maybe six months old and slept through the whole thing. Now he's almost two and he's crazy. He's not bad, but he's busy. He goes everywhere at a dead run, his legs a blur of Goldfish-fueled motion, and he gets into everything.

EVERYTHING.

As if that wasn't exhausting enough, he started climbing things this week.

Fantastic.

I have no problem strapping him into a stroller and he's pretty content to stay there as long as we're constantly moving. But Disneyland is a unique challenge because you can't have strollers in line and sometimes it's a twenty minute wait.

He doesn't stay still that long. Ever.

And he's at the age where you can't just call him back when he darts off. He gets so excited and distracted by bright shiny things that you blink and he's disappeared, haring off after something and he's already got a thirty yard lead on you.

That simply isn't going to work at Disneyland and I don't think it's fair to tell Lil J that he can't go just because Baby G doesn't understand the psychology of lines.

It occurs to me that the leash, er--harness--is a much better solution. It allows him greater freedom of movement and it gives me greater peace of mind. He can roam in a controlled radius and I can let him, and both of us get what he want. That way he's not stuck in the stroller or fighting to break my hold (he hates holding hands).

All right. What do you think? If I'm willing to ignore the hostile stares of judgmental strangers, should I go the harness route?

Please, I'm tired. Parent for me.

The no excuse zone

Today it hit me (with the force of a deranged two-year-old-toddler running full tilt into my knees) why daycare is better than keeping your kids home with you.

IT GIVES YOU SOMEONE TO BLAME FOR EVERY BAD THING THEY DO.

Seriously.

When I witnessed my beloved bobble-headed child smack another kid at the beach yesterday when he didn't get the toy he wanted, I wondered how fast I could dig a sand hole and bury myself in it. I remembered at the last second that it would be irresponsible parenting and so I said, "Baby G, no! no! Say you're sorry!" He did, although his expression clearly communicated the following message simultaneously: THIS song and dance, Mom? Can you turn your back for a second so I can get another whack in? I promise to say sorry again after.

I fretted about it all day. I finally emailed the mom last night with another apology. "Sorry my kid hit your kid. Blah blah blah, please don't ban me from the play group or blacklist him in nursery." Her response? "I don't remember Baby G doing that."

Well...good.

Nonetheless, it got me thinking. My first kid was of necessity a daycare kid several days a week and I wished I could stay at home with him. But any hitting, spitting, or other bad behavior was so easy to palm off. "Oh, he must have learned that at daycare." (All right, him saying "Damn" was my fault but "s***" was TOTALLY daycare as was the time he peed in the giant ceramic pumpkin on the playground and I have since repented and NEVER said that word again. When he was listening.) He threw a tantrum? Darn those other kids at daycare. He wouldn't share? Daycare's fault.

Of course, now I stay home and Baby G (#2) has revved up for age two. Even though we're a couple of months away from his birthday, he's getting a running start at the Terribles. As my MIL says, "God makes this age the cutest so you don't kill him." Amen.

Anyway, I now have nothing to blame his naughtiness on. He yells when he doesn't get his way? Well, surely that has nothing to do with the many times I shriek with increasing hysteria, "Baby G! No! No!" He has developed the obnoxious overuse of the pronoun "mine"? It didn't come from the fifty things I pull out of his hands a day and explain, "That's mine." You know, kind of loudly. He hits kids? It's definitely not because I lose my mind and my temper and sometimes deliver a smack on his hand when he wrestles all of the spoons out of the silverware drawer for the tenth time in an afternoon.

I'm thinking of putting him in daycare a couple of times a week just so I can get my excuses back.