There She Is... So, What?

Saturday night was the Miss America pageant. What? You weren't home watching? Neither was I. And, looking at the ratings, neither was anyone else.

I used to love the Miss America pageant. My sisters and I used to wait for it for weeks, dreaming what the gowns would look like, what the hairstyles would be, and hoping at least one contestant would attempt "Ave Maria" with disastrous results. On the actual night my Mom would make us a special dinner of finger foods that could be eaten in front of the television without ruining the carpet. Then she would watch with us, wrapping our hair up in socks so it would be curly for the next day.

I come from a very sarcastic family. However, during the Miss America pageant, all of that was turned off. We were all rooting for the contestants, envious of their poise, and wondering what miraculous things they would go on to do. We were all under the spell of Miss America.

I don't know when that spell was broken. Actually, not broken, busted to all hell. Now, no one watches the Miss America pageant. And, if they do, it is to make fun of it, or play a drinking game.

I am not trying to defend the pageant, or to knock drinking games. I'm just trying to figure out why something I love in my childhood is now a cultural joke. I know it's not because we have become more feminist. People might say that, but it isn't the truth. My Mom was, and is, a feminist. The mothers of all of my friends were bra missing, Gloria Steinem loving, armpit arm wearing feminists. All my friends loved the Miss America pageant though, and all their Moms watched with them.

I think what really has happened is pageant overkill. When I was a kid the Miss America pageant was the only one out there. Then there was Miss Universe. And Miss U.S.A. And Miss Teen U.S.A. And local pageants. And reality television shows about local pageants. Now, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a potential pageant contestant -- especially if you are in a trailer park. And really, you shouldn't be swinging a dead cat anyway.

I wish I could say I will eventually watch the Miss America pageant with Meg, eating Vienna sausages and mandarin oranges. I doubt that will happen though, and not only because Vienna sausages and mandarin oranges are disgusting. It isn't because I won't want to watch, or spend time with Meg, but because I don't think it will be on. I think these are the last days of beauty pageants. They have reached critical mass, and will soon start dying off. And with what they have morphed into, with the spray tans, and the 2 year old girls worried about "making weight," I don't think that will be a bad thing.

I hope Miss America waves gracefully as she leaves the stage.

Our Girl Giggles

This face is the best part of my day. And when she's laughing? Game over, I am slayed.

Meg is the ultimate de-funktifier.

Funky

I am in a funk, and it isn't the good George Clinton kind.

Don't believe me? I have already used that George Clinton line today on Twitter. I tried to come up with something new for the blog, but I couldn't. I played around with a Roger Clinton line, but then realized no one would get it unless they knew about the George Clinton line, or had smelled Roger Clinton and found him less than fresh.

Sigh.

See? See the funk? I have been reduced to typing "sigh" like some fourteen year old girl.

I have thought all day about how to get out of this funk. Unfortunately, most of my ideas require actually "doing" something, which, in my current state, is the last thing I want to do. The first thing I want to do? Sit on the couch, drink wine, and watch television. Oh, and think about my funk. And sigh. I find that funk begets funk, and that if we could find a way to turn funk into energy we could solve the world's resource crisis. I would consider figuring out how to do that, but that would take effort, and that would take time away from the sighing. And wine drinking.

Well, at least the George Clinton thing was funny.

Or maybe it wasn't.

Sigh.

The Unthinkable

Meg is like an ad for babies. Really, she is amazing. She sleeps through the night, and has since she was two and a half months old. She doesn't get upset easily, and when she does she only cries for a second, as if to say "I think I have made my point." She has fingernails like razors, and enjoys pulling hair, but those are things easily overlooked. Still, even though she is pretty much the perfect baby, there are days when Meg drives me to the end of my rope.

Take today for example: she wouldn't take a nap. Well, she would, they just didn't last longer than fifteen minutes. And that meant she was only happy for about the first seven minutes after waking. After that she would whine, and rub her eyes, and generally be unpleasant. She wasn't happy in her exersaucer, or on her mat, or in her high chair. She wasn't screaming, or even making that much noise, but she needed my constant attention. Of course, all of this was on a day I desperately needed her to nap. I had so much to do, and I couldn't do it while holding or entertaining a baby. By the time Ryan got home I was fried, and escaped to the grocery store.

I have no idea what I would do if she was a "difficult" baby. Would I be able to handle it if she cried all the time? Or had colic? Or croup? What if she just wouldn't eat? Or couldn't sleep because of reflux? What would I do?

Yesterday, a Utah woman with one of those "difficult" babies smothered her child because he just wouldn't stop crying. She was holding him to her chest, trying to make him stop, and the next thing she knew, he wasn't breathing. She is now in jail, and, I would assume, in agony. The baby's brother, his twin, is in state custody. The boys' father, who was sleeping in the next room, I'm sure is just wondering what the hell happened, and probably wishing his wife had just woken him up for help.

I am not saying that I condone what this woman did. Far from it. What I am saying is that my feelings for her are not just anger, but also sadness. I know how tiring having a new baby is, and can't imagine how tiring having two is. I also can't imagine having one of those babies cry all the time. I like to think I would have what it takes, but who knows. Who knows what any of us are capable of when pushed to the edge. That has haunted me all day.

I do know one thing: when Meg was being slightly pissy today, I forgot about all the things I "had to do," held her tight, and thanked my lucky stars.

Number 11

Some people are so pissy.

On Sunday I posted a list of ten things that make me happy. I was naming them off the top of my head. It wasn't like I went through a long nomination and voting process to determine them, or the order. They weren't supposed to be my favorite things, just things that make me happy. I picked them randomly, and with an eye towards the absurd, and what might make people laugh.

Well, Tara wasn't laughing. In fact, she was mad. She didn't get that I said sarcasm made me happy, and that that meant her, she wanted to be mentioned by name, and left a comment to that affect.

Whatever. I don't even make the top ten? I got edged out by PASTA? Also - I don't like it that I'm now so far down the list of your blog topics. Below WORK and YOUR DOG. That's it, I'm not reading your damn blog anymore. Ok, I will, but I will no longer make Kent feel guilty for not reading it. Then I'm going to call your mom and we will talk about how YOUR STOVE IS DIRTY!

See how mean she is? Tara doesn't just stick with normal insults, she has to cut to the core. She knows my soft spots, and goes right after them. Most people would have the decency not to go after my fears of a filthy stove, and an unread blog, but Tara isn't most people.

She hates this picture. Too bad, it makes me happy.

So, because she scares me, I will admit it: Tara makes me happy. Oh, that sounds so gay. And not in a good homosexual way -- in a junior high insult way. Of course, the fact that she totally gets that, and will totally agree is one of the reasons she makes me happy. Well, that and our shared love of wine, pedicures, cheese, fun pants, and fried food. Oh, and making fun of bad television. And the plays of Edward Albee. I will even forgive her for holding her knowledge of said plays over my head. And yes, I know those last two sentences make us both sound like assholes.

Tara is pretty awesome. If she had been sitting right in front of me instead of a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine, she would have made the initial list. Of course, complaining about it got her a post of her own. I just hope this doesn't set a precedent.

Oh, man, I am so screwed.

A "Farmer"

You can't go to the liquor store in Utah without running into someone you know. It's a proven fact. If you have lived in the state for longer than six months, and been somewhat sociable, and enjoy drinking, you will see someone you know when you buy alcohol. The reason is simple: there aren't that many liquor stores, and there aren't that many drinkers. Oh, and the people who drink usually run in the same circles. That makes it an almost mathematical certainty. I'm not saying that you will always run into your best friend (although that did happen to Tara and myself a surprising number of times before she left the state), I am just saying that it will be SOMEONE you know. And in that meeting, you never know what you are going to learn.

On Friday I was at the liquor store when I ran into a boy (now man) who I went to elementary school with. We both did that side eye "I think I know you thing" until it dawned on us how we were acquainted and we decided to say "hello." He looks almost exactly the same as he did in elementary school, except that he is taller, has a scraggly goatee and decided the "aging hippie" look is for him. We did the basic family catch up, and then I asked what he had been up to.

"Oh, well, I'm a farmer," he said.
"A farmer? Here?"
"No, actually, my farm is in Hawaii."
"Oh, that must be nice," I was starting get suspicious. "What do you farm?"
His answer was excellent: "Oh, you know, whatever I can."

I'm guessing that his crop is best enjoyed with a large bag of Doritos, and is beloved by people in California suffering from "back pain."

God bless the liquor store. Not only does it provide alcohol, but blog fodder as well. It almost makes me want to drink my wine faster just to see who I'll run into next time...

Mapping the Terrifying

"I think I felt something in your breast last night."

I was undressing Meg, getting her ready for her shots, when Ryan said those words to me last Friday. It was the doctor's office that made him think of it, he had wanted to mention it to me the night before, but we had fallen asleep too quickly. We were already stressed (taking a baby for shots will do that to you), and now the room was super charged with anxiety.

"What do you mean? Which breast? How big?" I handed him the baby, and reached into my shirt, hoping the nurse wouldn't pick that moment to reappear. I put my hand behind my head, like I had seen on the charts in my gynecologist's office, slowly palpating the tissue. Ryan came over to guide my hand, showing me exactly where it was. Meg, thinking we were playing a game, reached out too. Pretty soon, the entire family was copping a feel, and I was almost positive the nurse would forget to knock first before coming in.

We couldn't feel anything. It wasn't until that night that we figured out it was a vein that occasion gets a little bulgy, but for several hours, I was in a complete panic. What if I has cancer? What would I do? What doctor would I see? What would my insurance cover? Who would take care of the baby? How would I know what treatment options were best? I felt like I was just told I possibly would have to go to Asia, without knowing where the hell Asia is, or what I would need for the journey.

And that's when I remembered about Navigating Cancer. My bloggy friend Snotty had just told me about it, and asked me to write something for it. I said no, I had no cancer experience, and the only thing I could write about was how much I hate awareness ribbons. Now, I found myself poring over the site, looking at all of the information, and feeling a bit calmer. This is an amazing resource, not just for cancer patients, but for family members as well. Really, I don't know why, in this day and age, someone hasn't thought of something like this before.

So, I am writing about this. First of all, because I am just so glad I am not going to an oncologist this week, waiting to hear if I have something deadly in my breast. Second, because I know people who have, and I know how they could have used a site like this. And third, because now the power of Snotty scares me. If you, or a loved one has cancer, check out Navigating Cancer.

Actually, check it out anyway. If nothing else, it will comfort you knowing that it's there.

It did me.

So Lazy

I am not the meme/blog award type. It's not that I don't appreciate the concept, it just kind of reminds me of the fifth place ribbons that I used to get in swimming. You know, the ones they gave to everyone, no matter what place they came in after fourth. I have a lot of them. However, today I am actually going to say "thank you" and take my award, for two reasons: one, the blogger giving it to me, Dual Mom, is one of my new favorite reads, and two, I need a post topic.

So, here is the dealio, Emilio. I am supposed to write about ten things that make me happy, and then pass the award on to 10 bloggers. Easy enough. Here goes...

1. Sarah Palin I bet you thought I was going to say my daughter for #1. Well, I like to keep you on your toes. When you think I am going to zig, I zag. I am that kind of rogue. Why does Sarah Palin make me happy? First of all, because I think she ensures the Republican party will have a hard time regaining credibility. Also, because her sheer ineptitude not just as a politician, or a media figure, but as a person, makes me feel better about myself.

2. Fun Pants You may know them as "sweat pants" or "pajama bottoms," but in my world they will always be known as fun pants. After all, if I am in a situation that these pants are appropriate, I am most likely not working, probably have a drink by my side, and definitely don't have shoes on. If that isn't fun, I don't know what is.

3. The Internet Really, what would we all do without the web? We would have to actually remember things, or make multiple phone calls to find things we want. Oh, and we would have to keep porn in our homes, where people can see it, and know just how sick we all are. Just kidding on that last one (hi, Mom!). Right now, the web is doing something even more amazing, by letting people instantly send money to those in need in Haiti. You don't even need to Google it, just click on the link in my sidebar. I can't think of a better use of the net right now -- I mean, other than reading this blog.

4. Wine

5. Sarcasm No, really, it makes me happy.

6. Pasta There is nothing I would rather eat. It doesn't even have to be fancy. Just a bowl of noodles with butter and Parmesan cheese is enough to curl my toes with delight. Oh, the pasta just can't be whole wheat. Really, I don't know who thought that shit up, but it's just cruel.

7. Throwing Parties Well, that might not be accurate. I love planning parties. I love setting up parties. I love planning menus, and picking invitations, and designing themes. I love making guest lists, and making sure that there is "something special" at each bash that sets them apart. However, I am not great at attending said parties. I am lousy at mingling, and usually am just concerned about how dirty the floor is getting. Yeah, I've got issues.

8. Ryan This man loves me unconditionally, which, if you know me at all, is quite a feat. He is also funny, intelligent, kind, well read, and the best Daddy in the world. He makes me happier than wearing fun pants while eating pasta and drinking wine.

9. Good T.V. Really, there is so much crap on the tube, that when something good comes on, it's a miracle. 30 Rock. Modern Family. Glee. All of those shows are intelligent, and witty, and make me happy. Oh, and all can be watched on Hulu while giving a baby a bottle, which makes them even better.

10. Meg Saving the best for last. Oh, how I love my girl. Every day brings something new that makes me smile, and laugh with delight. Even when she is screaming, or grabbing my hair, or refusing to sleep, she makes my day. Really, how anyone be unhappy looking at this face?


Did I mention she is part Haitian? Yeah, she is, so click the link on the sidebar and donate to help those in the country devastated by the earthquake. Really, don't make me ask a third time, because that requires me coming to your house.

Okay, so that's it. Ten things that make me happy. Now, I know I am supposed to tag 10 bloggers, and ask them to write similar lists, but, in the spirit of this award, I am giving it to all of you. Because, really, all of you are winners in my book. Oh, except Kim. She can suck it.

History 101

I want to create a new rule. Not just for the Internet, not just for the U.S., for the ENTIRE WORLD. I think it is important not only for my well being, but for the children, who, we all know, are the future. Here is the rule: for the rest time no one is allowed to compare themselves to Rosa Parks. No one. Ever. And if they do, everyone is allowed to punch them -- hard.

Take for example this guy. He is the first legal male prostitute in the United States. Yeah, hardly something to write home to Mom about. However, because he has this dubious distinction, he is being interviewed by multiple media outlets. And in every one of these interviews, he is comparing himself to Rosa Parks.

At first I was sure that he didn't know who Rosa Parks was, but it appears he does, and yet still wants to make the comparison. He says "It's just the same as when Rosa Parks decided to sit at the front instead of the back. She was proclaiming her rights as a disadvantaged, African-American older woman. And I'm doing the same." He goes on to say some stuff about changing social norms, but really, the screaming in my head was too loud for me to make sense of it.

I understand what he is trying to do, say he's a trailblazer, and blah, blah, blah, but really, how misguided can one person be? They don't have separate water fountains for male prostitutes, even though they probably should. Male prostitutes have not spent years being treated as second class citizens, possibly risking their lives if they stand up for themselves. I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Really, the people who compare themselves to Rosa Parks, they're worse than Hitler.

But, that's another blog post...

Missing Links

If you are in New York and happen to see a hipster sprinting across the park, chasing a squirrel, don't call Bellevue. No, he hasn't escaped from a mental institution, he's just on a diet.

Yes, those wacky kids with too much time and too little disposable income have come up with a new fad: the caveman diet. I'm guessing it's for the people who thought urban chicken raising and only eating food they could grow in between sidewalk cracks in Brooklyn is for wusses. The principle tenet of the diet is that cavemen were much healthier than we are now, and that by living like them, we will extend the length and enrich the quality of our lives. To this end, they eat large amounts of meat, and then fast for long periods. They don't go for runs, they go on "hunts," where they chase their prey and try to jump up trees in pursuit. They say the diet eliminates digestive problems, clarifies their mental state, and makes them smell really funky. Well, they didn't say that last part, but you know it has to be true.

Look at those abs...

This diet is most definitely doing good things for these people. I mean, I am sure at least one will get a book deal because of the article in the Times, and one or more might get laid, despite the funky smell. However, I don't think I will be trying it, mainly due to one fact: evolution.

We are not the same creatures we were thousands of years ago. If we were, I wouldn't be so concerned about plucking my eyebrows. Also, I wouldn't be whitening my teeth. Oh, and I definitely wouldn't be saving for retirement, since the average lifespan of a caveman was around 16 years. That's right, go to prom and die. But hey, at least you got to wear a loin cloth and eat raw meat.

I am 35 years old. I have outlived any caveman. Oh, and I have done it by eating processed food, and by not hunting my neighbor's cats. No, I might not get a NYT spread about my dining habits, but really, isn't the dining habits section just their version of a sideshow? It's like "we have the best food in the world and this guy is gnawing on frozen venison."

Well, maybe they could at least sell the concept to an ad agency. Or to ABC for a sitcom. If they add the live squirrel hunting it would be a huuuuuge hit.

Oh, yeah, cavemen didn't have sarcasm either.

I Might Pee My Pants

There have been many great moments in television news. The moon landing. Cronkite announcing President Kennedy's death. Tom Brokaw narrating the fall of the Berlin wall. Geraldo Rivera opening up an old safe that at once time may have been owned by Al Capone. Some guy recommending poultry sex. Tonight though, the pinnacle of broadcast journalism will appear on television around the world.

Yes, I am talking about the debut of Sarah Palin on Fox News.

Really, I don't know if I should come to work tomorrow. I don't know if any of us should. I think that after tonight's "O'Reilly Factor" the bar may be set just a little too high. I mean, don't forget, she has broadcast experience. And if she was this good in 1988, you can only imagine the power she is going to bring now that she has been on the national stage, and been so involved in international politics.



Wow. O'Reilly better bring his A-game. And I better get a TiVO. After all, how am I going to learn if I don't study her style over, and over again. How will any of us?

I just hope it's in HD.

Hugh Jass

I am a total geek for "The Simpsons." I mean, I am sure I am a geek in many other ways, but I am willing to admit to the Simpsons thing. I don't care that it should have probably should have gone off the air seven years ago, or that you have to suspend disbelief of disbelief in order to keep up with the changes they have made over the years, I still think it's the best show on T.V.

I still mourn Troy McClure. And Maude Flanders. And the original voice of Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon. And yes, I spelled that last name from memory. I also can tell you the layout of the Simpson's house.

I have Simpsonized myself. I have Simpsonized my family. Actually, that is the only representation of the entire family I have (circa 2008). I would Simpsonize Meg if the Simpsonizer wasn't broken. I am actually thinking that I will write to the illustrators to see if they could do it for me for a small fee. Or large fee. Really, it doesn't matter -- that is how important it is to me.


I have all the DVDs, and the movie on DVD. I own Simpsons chess. And Simpsons Monopoly. And Simpsons Scene it. I have both Simpsons albums. I have figurines. I have all books -- even the one about exploring philosophy through the Simpsons. I even have the Simpsons bath salts, which I still use even though they gave me a rash. If I could have one wish granted, well, it would be for world peace. Of course, if I was granted a second wish because my first wish was so noble, I would wish to be a character on the Simpsons.

I love the Simpsons so much I don't even care that the fact it is now 20 years old makes me feel ancient.

Ooooh, Simpsons....

Six Months

From this: To this:

Yes, she is eating a pickle. In fact, despite the warning from our pediatrician not to give her anything other than formula before six months we have been giving her little tastes of things for a while now. Pickles are a big hit, as is miso soup, and avocados. Squash, and applesauce are not. Ryan and I are now reading all the books, looking at all the recipes, and trying to figure out just was to prepare to give her what she needs, and teach her to eat well. We are going to try not to do prepackaged baby food, which means our diets will probably change too. After all, Meg can hardly eat an entire bag of peas on her own.

Eating isn't the only new thing in Meg's life, six months opens up a whole new world of possibilities. For instance, she can now go swimming. Not alone, of course, and certainly not with sharks, but Mommy and Me swim classes are now an option. Music together and Little Gym also start classes at six months. I figure it's never too early to over-schedule our child.

Meg is now sitting on her own, talking up a storm, and chewing on anything that she can get in her mouth. Her sleeves are a favorite, as are burp clothes. Ryan is actually convinced she ate one of the cloths whole, or if she hasn't yet, she will soon. Well, I guess it's fiber.

Oh, how we love this girl.

Our Baby?

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to have to deal with dumb, and some of the time insulting, questions. I mean everyone has to deal with questions like these, but adoptive parents seem to face more than their fair share. Take for example, my conversation with our plumber this afternoon. We both have daughters around six months, both doing about the same things. We were gabbing about the normal baby stuff when he started to do the subtle turn to adoption questions. You know, like, where was she born, and where is the birth Mom. I am so used to answering those I can do it in my sleep. And then, he hit me with a sucker punch: will the Mom (he dropped the birth) eventually take her back?

I am pretty sure I gave him a scary look, because he stopped talking immediately, and said he heard his mother calling. Or something like that, I didn't really hear him because the rage building in my ears was too loud. I showed him the door, and then went and hugged Meg tight.

Thinking back on it now, though, with a little bit of perspective, it wasn't really a dumb question. Insulting and uneducated, yes, but not necessarily dumb. After all, think of all of the media representations of adoption. I can not think of one book, movie, television show, or news story that casts adoption in a positive light. All of the mass media stories I know of are about parents who were robbed of their children by entitled others with no ethics and bad ovaries. Or about adopted children who want nothing more than to find the REAL parents. There are no popularly known stories about well adjusted adopted children who love their adoptive parents, and who are loved back. And yet, in my life alone, I run out of fingers and toes counting the ones I know.

I am hoping that as the years go on no dumb questions, or poor media representations, will bother me. I am also hoping that as the year's go on I won't feel the need to call Meg's "real" Mom to make her promise that this baby is ours to keep.

I am hoping. And I am getting another plumber.

She's Not Funny

I married Ryan for many reasons. He's handsome. He's smart. He is funny in a subtle way that makes me want to pin him down and dry hump him. Oh, and being married to him makes me look like a better person. For instance, he would never use the term "dry hump" in a piece that will be read by close family and friends.

Ryan's recent act of do-gooding involves the local chapter of Planned Parenthood. He is serving on the board of it's political action wing, which pushes for better sex education in schools, better reproductive health care for all, and rights for women who choose to terminate pregnancy. Yes, they do these things in Utah, and they do it without irony.

Part of Ryan's new role is recruiting people to join Planned Parenthood, and to raise money for the organization. At this time of year that means selling tickets to the annual benefit. The tickets are 100 dollars a piece, which is a little steep, but it includes dinner, a keynote speech by Camryn Manheim, and a night in a room filled with nothing but Liberals. Ryan has agreed to sell at least ten, which means if we don't we are on the hook for a cool grand.

I care about teen pregnancy, just not one thousand dollars worth. So, last night I sent out an email asking friends and family to please buy tickets. And I mistakenly sent it to my Mom as well. Her response is below....

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, $100 a ticket, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, how about we babysit? We only charge $50.00 an hour...ha, ha, ha, ha, oh stop, I can't breathe... Is Camryn Mannheim part of Mannheim Steamroller? Who spells Cameron with a y? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, $100 for dinner? As Jonathan Swift would say, 'What are they serving? The other, other white meat?'"

Wow. Did I mention my Dad is a really good person too? Good thing too. Because with this and the manger thing, Jesus may be reevaluating Mom's heaven RSVP.

Just kidding Mom. Please, don't disown me. Oh, and sorry for the "dry hump" thing too.

Strangers at the Manger

Today, we took down Christmas. Yes, I know it is more traditional to wait for Three King's Day, but I couldn't stand to have that tree in the house one more day. While Ryan was stripping the tree of lights, I took down the nativity. It was then I noticed there was something very wrong in the town of Bethlehem.


For those of you who failed the Highlights "hidden pictures" contests as children, in addition to the Holy Family, wise men, and shepherds, there are two monkeys, an abnormally large bat, a turtle, and Bigfoot. Yes, that's right, according to my manger, Bigfoot was at the birth of Christ.

First, I assumed Ryan had done it, moving things around from the mantle to create the David Lynch Christmas scene. Then a dark horse in the blasphemy race emerged: my Mother.

I called to ask her about it, expecting her to be insulted and ask me to do hail Marys in order to win her forgiveness. Instead, she laughingly admitted it. Yes, the woman who goes to church every week, doesn't eat meat during Lent, and could teach most Catholics a thing or two about guilt, was responsible for the desecration. And she was proud of it. She thought the Bigfoot was an especially brilliant touch, such people had been putting another mythical creature (Santa) at the creche for some time.

I guess you don't really know a person until you leave them along with your plastic Jesus. I am just so glad I don't have a Crucifixion set she can mess with at Easter. Because that would be REALLY disrespectful.

Good Ideas for 2010

I think we can all concur that New Year's resolutions are bullshit. Losing weight, exercising more, stopping drinking, going organic, not shooting heroin between our toes, it all is just so impossible and depressing. I mean, I don't have a problem with setting goals, I just have a problem with the definitiveness of it. I mean, can't we just want to make changes without laying out finish lines? Or even just investigate things we would like to try? I think that's the best I idea, and so, I give you the five things I will be considering in 2010.

1. POSITIVITY I no longer have to fear getting soft, because Meg has already done that for me. Really, I never go to the park just to punch ducks, and I don't miss it at all. So, I am thinking of taking it to the next step. I am going to investigate possibly, maybe, actively being positive and happy. It's going to be weird. After all, suffering from depression I have gotten used feeling best when I am at my lowest. I mean, I know it can't get worse. This year though, I am going to try and reach for the heights, and feel my best. There is a website -- happier.com -- that claims to help, but I think I would be happier keeping the five dollar monthly fee.

2. STICKING IT TO THE MAN I think all of us are pretty pissed at the big banks after the bailouts of the past year, and would love to feel like we are no longer their bitch. Oh, and I have my own personal reasons too. So, this year I am going not just consider, but actually start changing my bank accounts over from one of the giants, to a local bank. I know it will not happen all at once, because I have multiple instant withdrawals I need to figure out so I don't have to endure even more fees. I hope by mid-March though I should be able to say good-bye, and man it will feel good. This is the only definitive thing I want to do.

3. CARING LESS ABOUT AGING 2009 is the first year I have really noticed changes in my face. My eyelids aren't as pert as they used to be. I feel like I have a little sagging around my jaw. I see brown spots where there weren't brown spots before. Oh, and I still have zits. Over the past months I have tried countless creams and potions, spending way too much money on products that are all pretty much the same. I think the answer my be to moisturize, use sunscreen, and learn to like the changes. Or if not like, not let them drive me crazy.

4. NOT SPENDING MONEY I would like to be financially solvent by the time I am 40. In my mind that means no credit card debt, a savings account, and a college fund for Meg. I have already made changes to help me achieve that goal, but I am always looking for new ideas. I can't remember which blogger came up with this (if it was you, let me know), but there is someone trying to not spend any money during January. No, they aren't becoming freegans, they are just cutting out the "gimmes." You know, like a spending detox. I know how I have done with other types of detoxing, but maybe I could just cut back, and you know, not buy anything green.

5. CIVILITY Every year people ask me if I am going to try and be nicer. Every year I flip them off. This year though, I am thinking about it, mainly because it seems like everyone has gotten nastier, and I am no longer special. So, I am thinking of taking the civility pledge. Maybe if I do it Sean Hannity will too. Of course, my taking it wouldn't mean the end of my career.

Oh, and in 2010 I might consider not writing extremely long pontificating blog posts, and instead stick with rants about Tiger Woods' penis...

HAPPY 2010!