Survey says . . .

I saw this survey at Robyn's a while back, and because I'm feeling lazy today, I'm answering it:

1. What does your cell phone look like? It's a Nokia that was free with my Cingular service. I got on the cell phone bandwagon late, but I lurve my snazzy black and silver phone, and I even used it the other day to call Kevin from the grocery store to see whether he wanted me to pick up something for lunch--something I never thought I'd need to do.

2. Do you know what time you were born? Yes, because it's the time school let out when I was a kid: 2:45 p.m.

3. What do you want more than anything right now? A magic fairy to swoop in after Christmas, take down all the decorations, and put them away in an organized fashion.

4. What do you miss? Friends who aren't around anymore.

5. Hot dogs or hamburgers? Hamburgers, definitely. A hamburger with bleu cheese is one of my favorite indulgences.

6. Do you get scared in the dark? Oh, sure. I hate complete dark and prefer to sleep with some sort of light on, much to Kevin's annoyance.

7. The last person to make you cry? Daniel, indirectly (that is, he didn't do anything to make me cry--I was being a sentimental wuss).

8. Hair/eye color you prefer on opposite sex? I don't think they've ever mattered to me that much. I did go through a streak of redheaded men when I was younger, but I think that was coincidence. Redheads are pretty darn sexy, though.

9. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be? A really good fruitcake. With the nut allergy I developed a few years ago, I can't eat anything with pecans, and I miss fruitcake and pecan pie. Well, not that I could eat them now anyway, with The Diabetes and all.

10. Who is the last person who was mad at you? Kevin, who was upset that I was impugning his skill at connecting cables for the home theater.

11. Do you speak another language? A little French and a smattering of Italian.

12. What was the first gift anyone ever got you? Uh, baby gifts, I guess? The first one I remember is the tiny rocking chair my grandma gave me the Christmas I was three. Having my own chair was a big deal to me. When Daniel turned three, I fixed it up, painted it, and made a new cushion for it, and he rocked in it while watching TV.

13. Would you fall in love with someone knowing he or she was taken? If I did, I wouldn't act on it. I don't think. I hope I wouldn't.

14. Best way to tell people how much they mean to you? As I've gotten older, I find saying "You mean a lot to me" to mean less than actions showing you value someone else.

15. Your weaknesses? Lord, too many to list. I suspect impatience is at the root of most of them, though.

16. Ever made a prank call? After we both read Harriet the Spy, my friend and I decided there was something suspicious about a small business in a brick house up the street. We'd call them pretending to be adults and, uh . . . ask stupid questions trying to find out what kind of business it was. We never did find out anything.

17. If you could get plastic surgery, what would it be? A height insert.

18. What do you get complimented about the most? My mad editing skilz.

19. What do you want for your birthday? I don't know--it's almost a year away! I can't plan that far ahead.

20. How many kids do you want? I'm happy with the one I have.

21. Do you wish on stars? Falling stars, yes.

22. Which finger/s is/are your favorite? I've never, ever thought about my favorite finger (who writes these questions??), but I suppose my middle finger has come in handy many times.

23. When did you last cry? Didn't I answer this question in #7? OK, I lie. I cried last night while listening to Christmas music when "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" came on. That song does me in every time I hear it, for reasons too long to explain here.

24. What is your most embarrassing CD on the shelf? I'm almost too embarrassed to say, but I actually own a Yanni CD. I've never listened to it, but because of the person who gave it to me, I can't bring myself to throw it away.

25. If you were another person, would you be friends with yourself? Sure, why not?

26. Have you ever told a secret you swore never to tell? Yes, but for a good reason.

27. Do looks matter? In a general sense? Yes, in the sense that making an effort to look nice reflects your opinion of yourself.

28. How do you release your anger? Stewing, fretting, and muttered swearing for smaller upsets; for the big stuff, I might resort to throwing objects, stomping my foot, and generally acting like an asshole.

29. Do you trust people too easily? I'm afraid so.

30. Favorite toy as a child? The dollhouses I made from shoeboxes.

31. Where were you 6 hours ago? Sleeping.

32. Who will be your next kiss? Kevin or Daniel.

33. Anything pink within 10 feet of you? Yes, a hot pink felt-tipped pen.

34. What are you wearing right now? Tan velour sweatpants (I'm ensconced in velour!) and a white T-shirt for exercising.

35. Last sporting event you watched? Jeopardy! What? It's competitive question answering, ergo a sport. In my world, anyway.

36. What is/was your favorite class? I liked most of my classes in graduate school. One I enjoyed a lot was a class in the history of socialism and communism, but that could have been because I had a wild crush on the professor.

37. How old are your parents? My dad is 77, and my mom is 69.

38. Do you miss anyone? Yes, quite a few people.

39. Were you an honor roll student in school? Yes.

40. What do you know about the future? It's inevitable.

41. Do you have a tan? Bwah! Good one.

42. How old do you want to be when you have kids? I was 29 when I had Daniel. I wish I'd been a little younger.

43. Last time you got stopped or pulled over by an officer? Honestly, I don't remember. I've never gotten a ticket for a moving violation (that I can remember, anyway).

44. How do you like your drinks? Caffeinated.

45. Are you someone's best friend? I hope so.

******

What a shame Marvin Gaye had such a short life. I'm sitting here listening to a CD of his, and the man had a voice like an angel.

******

I'm still dreading the prospect of giving myself shots, but if I have to, I have to. And as Von pointed out the other day, it could be worse (heh). OK, I'm off to exercise and get those damn BG levels down. Ugh.

Inez and Me

Last week, the inexpensive little home theater system I had wheezed, coughed, and gasped its last; it had been sickly for a while but struggled on a few more months after a nice man at the local Sears outlet tinkered with it (and it's not a Sears machine--he just took pity on me because no one repairs electronic components these days). With little hope, I took it to Mr. Nice Sears again, but despite his valiant efforts, the thing was well and truly dead. Really, most sincerely dead, even. Ding dong.

However, a Sony system was on sale there at half its already discounted price. Kevin suggested we go in on it together as a family Christmas present, which seemed like a good idea. It's been sitting in the living room since then, until last night when I decided to start untangling speaker wire and going through the complicated "Quick Start" setup. Finally, I thought it was ready to play a DVD and popped in a disc from season 2 of Star Trek: Voyager. (Shut UP. It's good! And that Chakotay is mighty fine.) The system read the disc just fine--whooo! Before I could get cocky, though, I realized the picture was in black and white. Arrrghhhh. I read the manual, I consulted the Sony Web site, I messed around with cables, I lit candles to the Gods of Electronica . . . nothing. I muttered "Why does everything have to be so hard?"

And then I sat there with that question reverberating in my head. Hard? I'm bitching because a machine that lets me play movies IN MY HOME isn't easier to set up?? What the . . .? When did I get so spoiled?

My rather unattractive fit of petulance got me thinking about how much easier my life is than my grandmother's was. I often think about her when I'm feeling sorry for myself because if ever a person deserved to complain about a hard life, it was Inez. She raised five kids during the Depression, suffered three miscarriages or infant deaths along the way, and endured the uncertainty of her husband never being sure what his next source of income would be--a decent tobacco crop, a livestock sale, odd jobs he could pick up here and there. She kept a clean home and sewed most of her family's clothes without the luxuries of electricity or running water. I began comparing the differences in an typical day for us, based on her recollections and my dad's reminiscences of his childhood:

Inez wakes up in the chilly dawn. She yawns and sighs, then eases out of bed quietly so that she doesn't wake her baby, Joan, who's sleeping nearby in her cradle. She lights the oil lamp and gets dressed quickly, shivering. She carries the lamp into the kitchen, starts a fire in the woodstove, pumps water into the kettle, and puts it on to boil for coffee. While she's waiting for the water, she goes to the chicken coop and gathers eggs for breakfast. Her husband Jeff is up now and out in the barn milking the cows. Inez checks the stove, and then makes coffee and mixes a batch of biscuits. Before she can get them in the oven, though, she hears Joan crying. She runs back to the bedroom, changes Joan, and then carries her to the kitchen to nurse her.

I wake up, look at the clock, and decide I can snooze for 15 more minutes. I get up finally, carry Charlie downstairs, and let the dogs out, sipping my first cup of coffee that's already brewed before I get up. I check the clock and call upstairs to make sure Daniel's awake.

Inez's four boys stumble into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed, and go out to do their chores. She finishes making breakfast and feeds Jeff and her boys, managing a few bites herself, standing up, while bouncing Joan and fetching butter and jam. She gets her boys off to school finally and puts on water to heat for washing a load of diapers.

I take a frozen waffle out and stick it in the toaster oven for a couple of minutes. While I'm waiting, I check my blood sugar and take my medications. When the oven dings, I take the waffle with another cup of coffee to the living room, turn on the TV, and watch the news while I eat. I kiss Daniel good-bye as he leaves for school, and then walk into my office with another cup of coffee to surf news sites and journals online and check my e-mail.

Inez puts diapers in hot water and bleach to soak for a while, and then heats more water to wash the breakfast dishes. She gets some potatoes and onions out of the root cellar to use later for dinner. The water is finally hot enough, so she cleans up the kitchen, and then scrubs the diapers on her washboard while listening to the radio. She rolls the diapers through the wringer and hangs them outside to dry. Joan starts fussing, so Inez carries her back inside, nurses her again, and settles her down for a nap so that she can start washing another load of clothes and mend Jeff's overalls. She hopes she has a few minutes to sit down and write her cousin a letter; she hasn't heard from her in months. She'd love to see Ruby, but traveling 30 miles away is out of the question these days, even if they could afford the gas for the truck.

I yawn, stretch, and walk into the kitchen. I put breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and look to see whether I have enough to run a load. I don't, so I go downstairs to the basement, toss a load of towels in the washer, turn it on, and go back to my office. I check the weather online and then pull up the chapter I'm currently working on. A couple of hours later, I take a break to eat some yogurt. I hear the UPS man at the door, so I fetch the Christmas gifts I bought online. Then I change into my workout clothes so that I can drive to Curv3s because getting a little physical activity every day is important. Before I leave, I call my friend Lynn and chat for a few minutes. We decide to meet for lunch tomorrow at the Chinese restaurant.

******

And that's just the morning. I'm exhausted thinking about the rest of Inez's day. I wish I could call and ask her how she managed--and how she kept her faith and her sense of humor despite what life handed her. She's been gone five years. I still miss her, but remembering her gives me strength and the perspective I so often lack.

If editing doesn't work out, there's always catalogue copywriting!

I hope my Christmas-readiness hubris in my last entry doesn't come back to bite me in the ass. I'm very superstitious about jinxing myself by boasting. With my luck, the shirt I bought my dad will fall apart the first time it's washed, and all because I couldn't keep my yap shut! If you're listening, O Karma Gods, I take it back. I'm completely unprepared and stressed out about it.

******

Actually, there is something I'm worried about. Despite exercising, losing weight, and taking higher doses of my medications, my blood glucose levels aren't coming down as well as they should. Dr. Bambi wants me to start taking Byetta, which isn't insulin but is injected (eeek). It's a new drug that helps your body produce more insulin and slows the absorption of food after you eat so that your BG levels don't rise as quickly after eating. Good side effects: BG levels are regulated better, and you tend to lose weight. Bad side effects: Nausea and sudden drops in BG levels (hypoglycemia), which can be dangerous.

Of course, this wonder drug is hideously expensive, and I don't have insurance. So the first step is seeing whether I qualify financially; often I fall just over the cut-off line for any kind of medical assistance because drug companies seem to think I'm fabulously wealthy and could jet off to Fiji anytime I like (please). I refuse to worry about the prospect of injecting myself with a freaking NEEDLE until I know whether I can even get the stuff. (I'm lying, of course. You know I'm sitting here sweating at the thought of poking myself in the stomach or leg with a sharp object.)

******

As I mentioned, I bought the Il Divo DVD for my mom's Christmas present, but she also hinted she'd like a new address book because her current one has lots of crossed-out entries. So I thought, no problem--I'll pick one up. Do people not use paper address books anymore? I've checked bookstores and even the dreaded H@llmark store, and I can't find anything decent and appropriate for a 60-ish woman, unless I want to believe my mom would adore a Hello, Kitty address book (and that would be a NO). The H@llmark store had two: one a bright turquoise and the other hot pink, and very plain with no illustrations. My mom prefers pastels or more subtle colors, and she likes pretty pictures of, you know, flowers and shit. (Why I'm not writing catalogue copy, I don't understand.)

I was bemoaning the dearth of mother-appropriate address books to Kevin the other day, and he came home from work Friday practically giggling. He handed me an address book--marked down to $3, even!--with silly photos of dogs dressed up in all kinds of costumes. The funniest one is a little terrier dressed up in a gondolier's outfit standing over two other dogs going for a gondola ride. It's truly the tackiest thing I've ever seen, and my mom will be horrified. I can't wait to see how hard she'll try to pretend she loves it before I tell her it's a joke. I'd like to find a nice one to hand her after telling her the other one's a joke, but even if I don't, it's still funny. Yes, I'm chock-full of the Spirit of the Season. Heh.

Don't hate me because I'm calm

I haven't written in a few days because on top of my usual amount of work, I've been helping Daniel with some school projects. Well, not helping him do the work--more standing by to offer moral and technical support. Finals are next week, and several end-of-semester projects were due this past week. Only a few years ago, I would have refused to help on principle because he'd waited until the absolute last minute to start on projects, but he's been much better about keeping up with work. Unfortunately, he couldn't do much work ahead of time on these projects. For example, for an economics project, he had to include a summary report on how the stock market performed over the past month, and you can't write something like that ahead of time, unless you're Nostradamus.

He skipped going to his dad's Wednesday night and was up late gathering data for his econ project. Then Thursday morning, he had to be at school at 7:00 a.m. for Brain Game practice AND had a meet that afternoon until about 6:30 p.m., and then he worked on his econ project and an English paper as soon as he got home. He was up until 2:30 a.m. and got up again at 5:00 to finish. I stayed up late both nights with him, fixing paper jams, solving computer freezing and CD burning problems, and typing a few things he'd written longhand. He likes to write on paper first because my boy is unbelievably old school. Hell, even I write drafts on the computer, and I'm fairly old-fashioned about overusing technology to do school assignments.

What made those few days even more hellish is that Daniel was suffering from stomach pains and nausea most of the time. I'm worried he's coming down with something and kept fretting over him, offering yogurt, bananas, and tea, but like his dad, he tends to manifest stress as stomach complaints. He was still feeling sick this morning, so he decided not to accompany his dad to Ohio for a family Christmas gathering at his aunt's. Just as well--if he's coming down with something, I'd rather he not infect all his cousins at once. Talk about the "gift" that keeps on giving. Here! Have violent stomach cramps, nausea, and diarrhea for Christmas! You're welcome!

******

Kevin picked up Andrew this morning and headed up north to visit his cousin Sam for the day. Based on some good advice I got from a few people, I've decided to be more hands-off about how Kevin deals with Andrew. I know he feels almost completely helpless to do much about Andrew's situation, and my harping on it isn't helping. The truth is there's not much of anything he can do, and particularly not if he doesn't want to start a war with Andrew's mom. I can't imagine how awful it must be to have so little say or control in what happens with your own child, and I think I need to focus more on understanding Kevin's feelings instead of giving advice, as a wise friend suggested. Sure, I ALWAYS know best (snort), but Andrew's not my kid.

I do think, however, that a tiny bit of my previous talks with Kevin had some impact, or he at least decided to do what little he could to help Andrew. He was talking about Christmas gifts for Andrew and said he wanted to put together a sort of "grooming kit," with an electric razor, aftershave, and the like--things to make Andrew feel more grown-up. That's a positive step, I think. A baby step, but at least one in the right direction.

I realized, too, that I've been guilty of comparing Andrew with Daniel. Comparing any two kids is a fruitless exercise, and when one of them has problems the other doesn't, it's also cruel and unfair. I hate to think this, but I suspect I indulged in some comparisons occasionally because it made me feel the tiniest bit smug about what a great son I have. That's awful of me, I know, but I'm trying to look honestly at how my own behavior has contributed to the arguments Kevin and I get into over Andrew. I've never come out and said "Nyah, nyah, I have a better child than you do!" of course, but it's entirely possible my attitude has spoken for me, and in that case, I can't blame Kevin for feeling resentment toward my "helpful" advice.

You know, I hate analyzing when it turns out I've been wrong. Damn it.

******

Okay, on to lighter topics. Did I mention I got my Christmas tree up AND decorated last weekend? And that I've finished my gift shopping, thanks to the twin miracles of online stores and shipping services? And I have about 80% of said presents wrapped? AND I've already bought my Christmas ham--on sale, even? You can commence with the hating me now. I'd hate me, too, if I weren't so impressed with my bad self. Usually, I'm the one running around on December 23, cursing the very existence of other shoppers, cramming objects into gift bags that are wildly mis-sized, and paying way too much for food for Christmas dinner because I've waited until the last minute, when grocery stores know they have you in a tight spot and can charge exorbitant prices for yams and hams.

I don't know what got into me this year, but I'm not even dithering over the prospect of my parents' visit the Wednesday after Christmas. I am, believe it or not, almost serene. I got up early this morning and baked apricot-almond bread for breakfast, and I'll wrap a few of Kevin's presents while he's gone today. I need to do some carpet shampooing upstairs today, too, but other than that, I plan to relax and watch a movie with Daniel this afternoon. I don't know who I am or what I did with the real Lisa, but I'm certainly enjoying the lack of typical pre-holiday panic and angst!

Brainiacs, Ho Ho Ho, and Wedding Videos

I've been missing out on an feeling all you parents with children who do competitive activities are probably used to: glee that my kid BEAT someone. See, Daniel has never, ever done anything that could be construed as competitive; as a matter of fact, the second any endeavor even hinted of competing with other kids, Daniel lost interest. Oh, I tried to encourage him when he started school, figuring that a little healthy competition is useful, but he couldn't care less about soccer or basketball or T-ball or any other sport. He even dropped out of Boy Scouts when it was time for the little wooden car race thingie (sorry, I can't remember the official name).

So you can imagine my shock when he voluntarily joined the Brain Game team at school. So far, they've done fairly well and even gave last year's state champs an extremely close match. Last night, he came home after a meet with another high-ranked school, and he dragged in looking dispirited. Fearing bad news, I asked "Well, how did it go, son?" He grinned suddenly, did a victory fist, and exclaimed "We won by ONE POINT because I answered the last question right!!" I haven't seen him that excited since he got his new computer last year. I asked him what the question was, and he rattled off a convoluted string of words, from which I picked out "World War II" and "island," and the answer was "Guam." I've been proud of him countless times in his 17 years, but I think this was the first time he's been proud of himself at the same time, you know? Apparently he did have a competitive streak buried somewhere; he just had to find something he cared enough about to compete in, I guess.

******

Kevin had some interesting news when he got home from work yesterday afternoon, too. Guess who's playing the W@lgreens Santa next Monday? Ha! Yes, he gets to take the day off from developing photos, listen to greedy kids recite lists of things they yearn for, and wear an itchy fake beard and a hot, sweaty suit. Why he's excited about it, I have no idea! I'm afraid I'd approach it with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner marching to the electric chair, but he's already practicing his "Ho, ho, ho" chuckles. Naturally, I plan to drop in that day and take several pictures. I hope no overly excited tots pee on his lap.

******

I've been editing several online courses lately, which are usually short, adult-education-type classes on a mix of technical and "lifestyle" topics: a beginner's guide to Photoshop, an introduction to wine tasting, tips on low-carb diets, digital video editing, and the like. Later this week, I'm starting one on wedding videos, and I can't wait to read the tips for hysterical, control-freak brides who are frantic to make sure they have a PERFECT record of their big day. I don't understand the fervor over taping a wedding. I know couples were doing that when I got married back in 1985, but I didn't see the point. I mean, does anyone actually watch these things? Ever?

Well, actually I can say I've seen one couple who watched theirs, but it was one of the more surreal experiences I can remember. My ex's little brother was marrying Jenny the Future Cocaine Addict and Major Hoor, and after the reception, most of his family gathered back at his parents' house to watch the couple open presents from out-of-town relatives. Mind you, the wedding had taken place approximately three hours before. After opening gifts, Jenny cried "Let's watch the video now!" I thought she was kidding and started laughing appreciatively at her sarcastic wit, but she was dead serious. And I'll be damned if everyone didn't sit down and watch the video breathlessly, as if it contained a shocker ending, such as the bride shrieking "No, I don't!" and racing down the aisle or something. Maybe if I watched sports and were accustomed to instant replays, I wouldn't have found viewing a record of something that had JUST HAPPENED so strange, but I did. The, uh, camera "work," performed by my ex's father, was nausea-inducing, too. The first five minutes of the tape consisted of wild swoops between the ceiling of the church and my father-in-law's feet, accompanied by his muttered curses. When he finally settled on a point midway between those two extremes, he couldn't decide between VERY CLOSE UP, at a range that allowed us to see my brother-in-law's nose pores in crystal clarity, or so far away that the priest, couple, and attendants looked like ants.

I suspect one of the first guidelines in this wedding video course will be "Do not let a relative take the video." If it's not, you can bet I'll suggest it.

Searching for my doppelganger

I just saw this facial-recognition test at Robyn's and had to try it out. First, I tried it with my high school picture:

Eh, a little boring. Then I tried it with a more recent picture:

These results were funnier. Oprah will no doubt be delighted to know she resembles a middle-aged white woman. Heh. I have to confess that I tried to be a wisenheimer by trying a picture of Charlie first. The program didn't find any matches for a chihuahua, however.

Pottery Barn can bite me

Indiana weather is just plain screwy. Friday morning, it was 6 degrees. This Friday? It's supposed to be in the mid-50s. Yeah, I have no idea what to wear from one day to the next. Does the weather change that much in other, non-Midwest parts of the country? I've lived in almost every region but New England, and I don't remember the weather being so capricious elsewhere. Maybe I'm just getting old and crochety and prone to bitching about the weather . . .

******

The other day, I took down all the curtains in the dining room to wash them. That room has four big south-facing windows, so there's almost too much light, especially this time of year when there are no leaves to filter the sun. Anyway, yesterday I was stringing lights on the Christmas tree, which I set up next to the piano in there. I happened to look over at the dining room table and was struck blind by the unimpeded sun hitting the billion dust particles everywhere. The whole room looked frumpy and shabby--and God, incredibly dusty--which sent me into a frenzy of floor-mopping and dusting and throwing away piles of junk mail on the secretary in the corner and picking up scattered dog toys, and FUCK.

You know, I look at rooms in decorating magazines or those damn Pottery Barn catalogues that show up faithfully every couple of weeks in my mailbox (even though I haven't ordered anything in three years), and I long for a house that looks as serene and ordered and tidy, with everything looking clean and crisp. My house is a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs, leftover-from-college pieces, some inexpensive antiques I've refurbished (back when I had time to strip paint, sand, and stain), and a few newish things. I hate feeling this dissatisfied, and I suspect much of it has to do with a vague weariness over life in general, not my house specifically.

Also, I'm mad at catalogues and magazines for promoting this myth that EVERYONE BUT ME is neater and more organized and takes better care of his or her home. They set me up for feeling like a failure, damn it. And to be honest, I let them. Why do I think I have to meet some impossible standard a superior marketing snot in San Francisco or NewYork, with way more disposable income than me, decided to create to make me feel bad about myself? I've been in other people's homes (really, I have!), and they don't have impeccably clean, perfectly accessorized houses with actual matching couches and chairs. I've seen puppy chew marks on the corners of their ottomans, shoes and toys scattered on their floors, and juice stains on their carpets. So why do I feel as though I'm alone in my utter shame and disgust over the state of my house? OK, "shame and disgust" might be an exaggeration, but discontent, certainly.

On the other hand, it wouldn't kill me to dust a little more often--AND get my freshly washed curtains up faster before I notice how bad it is!

Edited to add: I had to go out to pick up pita pockets for the tabouli I made and of course wound up getting 17 other things. The bagger kid had a running commentary on almost every item I bought, which annoyed me. After the cashier told me I'd saved $10.08 with my grocery card, the bagger boy said "Hey, don't spend it all in one place," dripping sarcasm all over his Converse high-tops, and then, THEN he . . . uh, how do I say this? He "adjusted" himself. Vigorously. I . . . I'm speechless.