I write the songs

I was wandering around on YouTube looking at randomness, as I'm prone to do whenever I stare at strange home videos.

Did you know that there are songs about my name? I'm well aware that the intended receiver of these songs is not little ol' me, but it's pretty darn funny that some kid is strumming a guitar and extolling the virtues of Sarah Porter.

Behold. (Oh, yeah! Sarah Porter...)





If that wasn't enough, here's another. I can't understand a word these garage band kids are saying, but apparently, it's about my name. In fact, my name is the only set of words I recognize. You go, garage band kids.






Would they scream quite so loudly or croon so forlornly if they knew that one Sarah Porter in Denver is a work-at-home-mom, 34, married, with a 7-month-old boy?

So, go look around. Maybe some budding garage band or angry young rocker is screaming your name in Wisconsin or perhaps Rhode Island.

PhilOsophy - I Will Not Put My Ethics on You

Once again, I hand the mic over to Phil Porter, guest blogger and stand-up comedian extraordinaire / husband / father / great-in-the-sack.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

At this point, you’ve probably seen the Tom Cruise video where he expounds on the virtues of Scientology, makes weird faces, and laughs in a freakishly inappropriate way.

If you haven’t seen it, you’re better off watching the many parodies that have popped up online. My favorites are by Jerry O’Connell and Eugene Mirman.

(Sarah adds: This one from Craig Ferguson is worth watching as well.)

However, if you have seen the video, you’ve heard America’s favorite L. Ron Hubbard follower assure you that given half a chance, he will put his ethics on you. This has probably set you to wondering: A) What is he talking about, B) Why did anybody think his character in Risky Business was cool when he was actually a real jerk, and why didn’t Bronson Pinchot emerge as the huge star from that movie, and would Tom Cruise have been even half as good at playing Balki on "Perfect Strangers," and C) Are celebrity guest bloggers also planning to give you a beatdown with their ethics?

I’m not qualified to answer the first two questions, but I will assure you that the answer to riddle number C is a firm “No.” I will not be slapping you around with my ethics. If I drive by a car accident that you’re in, will I stop to help? Yes, but I will not be helping with my ethics. When I laugh awkwardly and make weird faces, am I trying to trick you with my ethics? No, I am not. I am simply awkward and have a tendency to make strange faces. When I release a giant blockbuster summer action thriller, am I trying to take your hard-earned movie-watching dollars and apply them to the building of an ethics machine that will ethically ethic you with ethic ethics? No, I am not. Because that question doesn’t even make sense.

I hope this eases your mind.

Praise Xenu.

Save the cheerleader, beat the yeasties.

I wrote a good portion of this today in response to a friend who asked why I gave up using The Pill back in my early twenties. It was a longer answer than I anticipated, and hot dog, if it isn't a blog in itself. Here you go.



The Pill caused and contributed to many problems for me. Although it did bring my period back to a monthly cycle (I would skip several months, sometimes up to nine), the continuous flow of estrogen encouraged yeast growth. I already had yeast overgrowth due to many rounds of antibiotics. (don't EVER take antibiotics unless there is definitive proof that BACTERIA are the cause for whatever ailment you have. Even then, ask if there is an alternative.)

There is a natural balance of yeast and bacteria in your body. You need them to help you to digest foods and to have a working digestive system. However, if you kill off one side of the balance, the remaining side will take advantage and have overgrowth. That's what happened to me. Antibiotics and The Pill killed off my natural bacteria, allowing yeast to take over.

The Pill was like a catalyst for a yeast explosion in my body. I started taking it at age 19. I had already suffered often from yeast infections and awful, painful cystitis (bladder) infections. After The Pill, they were even worse. By the time I was living with Phil, my body was a wreck. I felt sick all the time. We had to schedule sex at least 3-4 days apart so that I wouldn't get cystitis. But, even that wasn't a guarantee.

I quit The Pill when I was around 23. Then I got fed up with the yeast problems and decided to ask a health food store worker if there were natural treatments. She told me, "It isn't easy. There isn't one thing to take or try. You need to read this." And she handed me The Yeast Connection, a book by Dr. William Crook. My eyes opened wide after reading that book. I was almost finished with my biology degree, and everything about how yeast and bacteria can become unbalanced in the body made sense to me. The problem was, no one was teaching me about it. And there certainly wasn't a public source of info or helpful doctors to teach me. Instead, doctors at that time ignored the issue because, in fact, doctors prescribing antibiotics CAUSED the issue. Hello, malpractice!

What helped me to get past yeast (Candida albicans) growth was this regimen:

• a complete change in diet. I started the wheat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free diet. I lost a ton of weight and looked fabulous for our wedding.
• daily doses of caprylic acid and cranberry extract, both found at the health food store. Caprylic acid kills yeast, and cranberry extract prevents bacteria and yeast from sticking to the urinary tract, thus preventing bladder infections.
• daily doses of probiotics - Acidophilus and other friendly bacteria - these are the bacteria found in yogurt (take a reputable brand, refrigerated, found in health food stores)
  
• garlic extract. Worked great for awhile, but now my stomach will not tolerate the pills. Fresh garlic is better.
• even after the diet was over, I avoid sugar. Sugar is fuel for yeast. It's worthless to take the supplements if you eat sugar. My body is sensitive enough that I can feel if I am going to get sick after eating sugar.
• And oddly enough, wine. Wine helped to clear out the remaining yeast overgrowth in the last few years of having it. I would say that I was seriously sick from 18 to 24. Better from 24 to 27, and now very much better after 27 because of wine. I bulked up with fat, though. So there's that. Alcohol is a byproduct of yeast, but good amounts of alcohol in your system can actually kill parasites and yeast. Just don't become a drunk in the process. heheh.

Here are a few links that explain things better than me.


http://www.mercola.com/2004/oct/27/birth_control.htm

http://www.yeastconnection.com/


I would imagine that even if you do not have yeast overgrowth, massive amounts of estrogen from The Pill would alter your body in many ways. Estrogen receptors are all over the body and do many different things. It could be contributing to a decline in your health, and interfering with your other organs' ability to function. If you have yeast overgrowth on top of that, all kinds of things can go out of whack.

For instance, one (or many) of the reasons that my illness mimicked a hundred other illnesses is because yeast were living, growing, and dying in my body. They were eating, metabolizing, and releasing waste into my system. Research has shown that there are at least 81 different toxins released by yeast overgrowth and die-off. Some of those toxins are pseudo-estrogens, which meant that not only was my body producing its own estrogen, I had poisoned myself with pseudo-estrogens from yeast AND from the estrogens in The Pill. It's really no wonder that I was so sick.

I'm a firm believer in limiting antibiotic use. It sickens me to know that parents are giving antibiotics to their kids for random ailments that have nothing to do with bacteria. Antibiotics kill bacteria - NOTHING else. They do not get rid of colds or the flu. Those are caused by viruses. So many people do not understand that. I didn't when I was a teenager, and neither did my mom. That's why we fully accepted that my doctor was handing us a bottle of "miracle pills" to get rid of my constant sore throats. He never took a culture of my throat to see what was actually causing my problem.

When I had my wisdom teeth removed at age 27, I was told that I would need to take a course of antibiotics to prevent infection afterwards. I adamantly refused to take them. The nurses were pissed at me because it wasn't the normal thing to do, but they did give me an antibacterial mouthwash I could use daily. And you know what? I didn't get infections. The mouthwash was fine, and I didn't need to swallow it to kill off bacteria in the rest of my body.

So, that's my story. Battling yeast will be a lifelong problem for me, although now I consider myself in the maintenance part of the program. If I feel like I ate too much sugar or didn't have enough water and I'm feeling the "yeasties" again, I take caprylic acid and cranberry extract. I don't take them every day anymore. If I know I'm going to have relations with Phil or even the day after we do the deed, I take caprylic acid and cranberry. I don't get yeast infections and cystitis anymore. We don't have to schedule sex anymore, either. I always wash my delicate lady parts before going to bed every night, whether or not we had sex. Always pee and wash genitals after sex as well.

It's a slightly annoying way to live, but it has made me healthier. It's good to not eat a ton of sugar every day. We read labels, avoiding foods with high fructose corn syrup, tons of sugar, and tons of sodium. There's just no need for the human body to be bombarded with that much crap. And in my case, it feeds the beasties that cause my troubles.

So, there you go. I'm a yeast survivor. haha.

Roll the balls

Ahh. Relaxing on the couch after a long day of cooking. I'm a cook now, did you know that? Heheh.

Yesterday evening, I spent many hours roasting and steaming veggies. Once they were finished, I peeled and pureed them. Most of the creations were so delicious after being pureed, it was hard to believe that they did not contain cream, butter, and/or sugar. Fantastic stuff!

Pureed sweet potatoes were the hit of the evening. Amos had a serving for the first time, and it was so much better than the stuff out of a jar or a can. We've had steamed sweet taters many times, but I think I might prefer the puree even more. Yum yum. (or "mmmmmm!" as Amos said) It was so satisfying to see my son eating an organic, pure meal that I made for him. Just really nice.

Pureed pumpkin is great. Pureed butternut squash is divine. Pureed carrot is so good and ORANGE. Pureed cauliflower is delicious! If you steam it, puree it, and mix it with garlic, it is a delicious substitute for mashed potatoes. I wanted to eat the entire bowl (two heads of cauliflower) because it was so tasty.

I saved the beets for last. Beets have such a strong flavor. The first taste is a bit crazy. Then, when I licked the spoon and such after putting away the puree, I noticed that the flavor really grew on me. Sure, I had intense beet flavor in my mouth that stuck with me, but it was good. Me thinks the chocolate cake of the future will be quite nice.

Some purees were saved in the fridge. Others were put in the freezer. We measured them in 1/2 cup portions in Ziplock bags.

The idea behind Deceptively Delicious is to hide veggie purees in foods so that they enhance the food, are hidden in the food, and have colors to match the food. Phil and I don't need to be fooled into eating veg. I just wanted to add more veggies to our diets. Perhaps if Amos becomes a picky eater, this will solve the issue. So, if you don't like certain veggies or your kids are a pain at mealtime, this might be a great option for you.

Today, I've made whole grain waffles topped with neufchatel cheese (lighter than cream cheese) and sweet potato puree with cinnamon. HOLY COW that was good. We also had tuna salad with chopped celery, using cauliflower puree to substitute for half of the mayo. YUM!

For dinner, I concocted turkey meatball soup that contains carrot and sweet potato purees. This was a challenge for me in two areas. I'm an onion crier. The spraying juices from onions make me tear up and blink and generally hate the idea that onions even exist. Using the oven fan and a fan set up in the kitchen window helped me to get over this. Also, I chopped the onion and garlic in the processor instead of hanging my head over a knife cutting an onion. On top of that, I'm not a big fan of raw meat. To get around this, I wore gloves to make the meatballs. I gagged a little, but not enough to upchuck in the soup. In the end, the soup was fantastic, and I survived handling raw turkey. The entire day was filled with good food, and every meal contained a veg of some sort. Not bad, me thinks.

I'm really feeling good about my newfound cooking skills. I love the food processor. I love the taste of the foods I've made. I really dig my cute apron, so much so that I am still wearing it. Ha! I feel like a better person for doing this.

I want to be the kind of mom who will have good snacks and meals on hand for my kid. I want him to learn about good, healthy foods. I want him to appreciate that 'nutrition' and 'healthy' are not bad words.

So far, the men in my house are pleased. Amos is napping, no doubt dreaming about his next encounter with sweet potatoes. Phil is so ecstatic that he is now washing the giant pile of dirty dishes, pots, and pans. Let's hope I can keep up my attempt to be Queen of the Kitchen. Otherwise, I'll just be wearing an apron around the house to substitute for a dinner napkin. I'm not sure Martha Stewart would approve.

Brokeback beets

Ugh. Can't move. Can't think. Too. Tired.

I may have pureed too many things, but good grief, is it delicious! I will update tomorrow (today?) with kitchen adventures. It's 1am, I just finished pureeing the last batch of veg - the beets. I have beet taste in my mouth. It is VERY strong.

I'm still in my apron. A little cup of sweet potato puree is soothing me toward bedtime. Better than sweet dessert, I tells ya.

G'night. More tomorrow.


*drags my tired cook carcass off to sleep*

I will beet you

Confession # 546:


I don't cook.


Well, I DO cook, but not often. Phil does most of the cooking. That basically means that he is The Shit. We've discovered that it isn't that I can't cook, it's that I wasn't really encouraged to embrace the pan and spatula or chop things with feverish delight. In my parents' home, my mother was quite adamant about no one disturbing her in "her kitchen." I always felt or was made to feel as if I was in the way. That kind of atmosphere is not conducive to creating budding chefs.

I am, however, quite the breakfast maker. I make incredible omelets. I can bake quite well. I've yet to tackle biscuits and gravy, but I want to.

In my quest this year to become a better person in many arenas, I am going to become a better, more frequent Queen of the Kitchen. To assist me in this endeavor, I purchased several gadgets and doodads. The first item is Deceptively Delicious, a new cookbook by Jessica Seinfeld (yes, wife to Jerry). If some other comedian's wife can cook, so can I (although, there is rumor that she has a personal chef and nanny, so I'm at a bit of a disadvantage). This book emphasizes "sneaking" veggies in the form of purees into everyday foods, such as meatloaf, chicken nuggets, French toast, and mac n' cheese. I don't want to fool us into eating veggies, because we already chew these delightful things. I just want to add more veg to our diet and have more home-cooked meals. And, I want to make baby food for Amos, so the purees will go into all of our bellies.

So, our big Saturday night date was to purchase a food processor, potato masher, new spatulas, omelet pan, and a cute apron for little ol' me. Adorable chefs need adorable aprons, no? We finished the night with a snack of Taco Bell (hey, our fridge was empty) eaten in the car followed by a trip to Sunflower Market, an affordable conventional and organic grocery store. I purchased a ton of fresh veg, including things we've never prepared before.

I bought organic beets. Fresh beets. But, we didn't know which beets to buy. The golden beets or the red beets? The smaller bunches or the big daddies? I asked the produce guys. They didn't know, but they referred me to their handy-dandy veg book. Once I found the best beets imaginable, I was covered in dirt. I washed my hands with splashes of water drops on the parsley. I found it quite funny to be covered in garden dirt in the middle of a grocery store. There is a great deal of green leafy matter at the top of our beets, and as the lucky would have it, we can cook the greens as well. As soon as we got home, Phil and I referred to the Joy of Cooking, our bible of foods and their preparations. We are incredible nerds because we are giddy to cook up these odd little beets and their greens.

Oh, and what are we going to do with the beet puree? Chocolate cake. Yeah, you heard me.

My fridge is now packed to the gills with food. Tomorrow, I will wrap myself in my adorable new apron. I will roast, steam, chop, and puree. The purees will be saved in the fridge and freezer for the coming week's meals.

I am Martha Stewart, without the house arrest ankle bracelet.

It's a good thing.

I'm Mama Blogger of the Month - woohoo!

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!


Okay. Slow down. BREATHE, woman! Whew.


So, I already knew about this, because obviously I wrote the answers and put thought into it and such. It was hard for me to sit on my hands and not scream to the rooftops,


"I'M MAMA BLOGGER OF THE MONTH!!!!"


But, stayed quiet, I did.


Now it's your turn to go scream (at me or with me, whatever you prefer). I am the first Mama Blogger of the Month to be featured on Mile High Mamas, a very cool blogging community for Denver-area parents. It is a blogging community associated with the Denver Post newspaper.

Amber Johnson, the lovely lady behind Crazy Bloggin' Canuck and the creator of Mile High Mamas, asked me to be the very first mama featured. Do you have any idea how humbling that is for me?! Despite how many bumbling words I presented in the feature, I am just about at a loss for words right now. Mile High Mamas is one of the landing pads for some darn cool company, including Greeblemonkey, Mitch McDad, and many other talented writers.

So, I ask you, go to my featured blog. Please celebrate this moment with me.

I'm tickled pink.

Months 6 and 7

Dear Amos,

Mommy has been a bad, bad girl. I missed posting your 6 month birthday (six whole months!). I'm sorry that I was slack in updating you on your progress, but you must understand that December was a big month for you. It was your first Christmas EVER! Your parents had a great deal of stuff to do... I mean, Santa and the elves had a lot to do... for that big event. I'm sure you can forgive me. I forgive you for breaking my glasses.

Three days ago, you turned 7 months. You are no longer the floppy, googly-eyed, alienesque peanut we brought home in June. You have personality! And charm! And a budding sense of humor! There is entirely too much to update on you, so I am going to tackle this in outline fashion accompanied with a flurry of pics. Your public has demanded new pics of you, and who am I to not oblige your fans?


(If it runs a bit slow for you or not at all, please click on "View All Images" and it should work. There are four other big slideshows there for you to gawk at, if you are so inclined.)

You are:

• rolling like a pro
• moving a few feet by going backwards while on your belly
• pushing up like a champ while on your belly
• learning to crawl, ever so slowly
• suddenly sitting up, unbeknownst to us
• rockin' tons of hair!
• playing with toys so much more
• insane for peekaboo
• eating cereal and veg for the first time
• making new, crazy sounds
• staring at people A LOT and making them a bit uneasy with your dissection of them
• best friends with Wilbur (and pulling out clumps of BFF's fur)
• guilty of breaking my glasses (boo!)
  

You had your first:

• visit with grandparents and Dad's family
• airplane ride (there and back!)
  
• train ride (in the airport)
• Christmas!
• trip to the mountains
• almost-all nighter with another crazy comedian family
• head troubles -- we're working on that!
• Grand Theft Auto game with your dad (are we bad parents?)
  
• typed Word document and showed your Mom functions she'd never seen before
• ride in a shopping cart without the car seat
• invention - a baby sign language sign for binky (you prefer to wave your fingers in front of your mouth)
  

I look forward to seeing you grow more, my boy. But please don't grow up too quickly. It's going too fast already.


Love,
Mama

PhilOsophy - Alien Update

Once again, I hand the mic over to Phil Porter, guest blogger and stand-up comedian extraordinaire / husband / father / great-in-the-sack.

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It’s only been a few days, but I thought you might want to know our status regarding aliens and abductions and such. Currently, neither Sarah nor I have been abducted. Not once. Of course, Monday was way too cold to go anywhere that would put us in the alien’s path, and yesterday found us pretty much safe and sound here at the compound as well. I managed to avoid any unwanted probing when I went to pick up Chinese food.

It would have been weird if I had walked into the Chinese restaurant and said, “I’m here for my food,” and then they said, “It was ready two hours ago,” and I’d be like, “Wha? I just called it in fifteen minutes ago.” And they’d be all, “Oh, you probably got abducted by an alien or something and lost that time. Do you want us to reheat the General Tsao’s Chicken?” But that didn’t happen, so it doesn’t really matter, and the chicken and egg drop soup were hot and delicious when I made it safely home.

We also haven’t seen any Bigfoots. I keep checking the snow in the backyard for prints, but mostly it’s just cats, squirrels, and possibly the fox. We probably need to be putting more appealing Bigfoot food into the compost pile. Maybe Bigfoot only eats if it’s steak or chicken. (The steak and chicken reference is a hilarious Porter family joke that wouldn’t really be funny if I bothered to explain it, so just smile and laugh like you know what’s going on.)

Mixed bag

Hey, folks. I'm just going to lay it on you. Can you dig?

This week is a bit rough. It's the anniversary of two deaths in my family. Some people think I'm silly for going on and on about a pet, but perhaps some folks who have siblings can relate to the second.

A year ago, I lost my kitty Gizmo to two grand mal seizures. It was very traumatic to witness. He died in my arms. I was halfway through my pregnancy, and it was just a really rough time for me. Gizmo was one of the best animals I've ever been blessed to know. I miss him tremendously.

I'll never forget the way that Amos was kicking me furiously when Gizmo passed away. One life slipped away while another demonstrated the vigor of life.

A few days later, my brother Mark died. It was quite sudden and unexpected. That day, I didn't know if my body was capable of continuing. I would cry, and Amos would give me big kicks to let me know that I had someone else to think about. Without Amos, I'm not sure I would have been okay.

Phil and I drove to Texas to attend Mark's service. It was an incredibly strange but revealing trip. I learned a great deal about my family that week, more than I thought I would ever know. I saw frailty, honesty, and so many characteristics in my father in particular.

So, now, when I look out into my yard and see snow in January, I remember the three gigantic blizzards we had last year. I remember waiting a day to bury Gizmo, so that the air was a bit warmer. I remember watching Phil dig through feet of snow to give a resting place for our friend. And I remember driving to Texas and feeling strangely warm weather and being attacked by the cedar pollen. I had to hold my shit together in front of my dad, otherwise he would continue to worry that he was going to lose another child. He would worry that the stress was going to cause me to lose Amos.

It's a bit hard for me to feel happiness right now. I want to smile and remember them fondly, but I think it takes more than a year to get to that point. Losing a brother is a sobering experience. It made me realize my own mortality, my own frailty, and my responsibility to a new life. I wish that Amos could have met Mark and learn to love the man who was so handsome, full of life, and mirth.

It feels better to reflect on these pictures and remember the good stuff. I'm going to try to focus on that.

Hug your loved ones, folks. Let them know you love them.

Creepy McCreeperton

To continue my theme of disjointed thought from yesterday, I am dedicating today to watching the History Channel and their insistence of presenting Big Foot, giant black cats, and dog-killing beasts as "history" in their series "Monsterquest". After that, I will finish with an aperitif of "Life After People," a show dedicated to how Earth will be if every human is wiped out. I surmise the aforementioned black cats and Big Foot will rule the planet, with the chupacabra as jester of the court. No?

I'm really enjoying the wild-eyed re-enactment of "an old feller" in West Virginia shootin' a black panther way back yonder. Thank you, History Channel, for perpetuating the idea that West Virginians are the most inbred folks on the planet. "You dag'gone right!"

I'm not saying I don't believe in these things. I just don't enjoy the way they are presented at times. My father has seen things that are odd, and his stories at times seem fantastical. But, I believe him. He may be a good ol' boy from backwoods East Texas, but he's a reliable and credible source, in my humble opinion.

After my grandparents died, my dad and his brothers watched over the old homestead in East Texas. Because people weren't around all the time, the place was sometimes falling into disrepair and was attracting wildlife. My dad and uncles had a few encounters that were less than savory. The worst encounters involved big, black cats. Cats the size of panthers or jaguars. BIG cats. It may have been one, or maybe several. All they know is that it was big, black, and it was eating dogs. Many neighbors had complained of losing dogs, and my grandmother's own dogs had gone missing as well.

We heard the cry of a big cat somewhere in the back woods one day, so I know something is out there in the piney woods. My uncle was at the homestead alone one day, and he walked toward the old chicken coop. Inside the fallen down fenced area, a big black cat was staring at him. It hissed at him. He froze. He could see how big the cat was. He slowly backed away from the area and made it to the car. Later that night, he called my father and said, "I believe you."

This History Channel show interviewed people in Palestine, Texas who reported the same thing (Palestine is in East Texas). They interviewed some hick in Oklahoma who lost goats and a llama to the "big cat." My father had the hardest time getting the Parks and Wildlife division to believe him, even though they say on this show that most of their calls are about big, black cats. Don't believe the hicks, folks. They live in trailers and get abducted all the time, probably by the chupacabra.

Another show from today focused on giant, man-eating fish. It includes tales of grabbing or grappling with catfish in order to catch them. The guy on this giant fish show is talking about how he uses this technique to catch large catfish. He gets in the water, sticks his hand under fallen trees or rocks, then inserts his hand into the mouth of a catfish hiding under that object. He proceeds to pull out the 50-lb catfish with his bare hands. Does he use it to catch catfish the size of cars? No. But, according to my dad, there are people who dived to the bottom of Lake O' the Pines in East Texas and have come face to face with car-sized catfish. He claims to have witnessed one when he was part of a film crew that dived deep into the lake. (My father was a filmmaker in his younger years.)

This show is focusing on Cambodian giant catfish, one of which was found to be 9 feet long and over 650 lbs. There are stories about them eating children. One giant, Cambodian catfish washed ashore and was found with a child sticking out of its mouth. It apparently choked on the 60-lb boy.

Is this stuff real? I think so, sometimes. I say this from the stance of someone with a biology degree and from the point of view of a backwoods hick's daughter. It's not impossible to think of large cats roaming the southern states. Jaguars once roamed the southern states and were thought to have been hunted to extinction to protect farms and ranches. Animals are incredibly resourceful creatures. Cats in particular are quite stealthy. And, big black cats have been shown to exist, especially in South America.

I don't think that every tall tale is true. Some have merit. Some don't. I think it's difficult to prove the existence of anything that doesn't want to be found. Nocturnal cats are not easy to find. Deepwater, giant fish are just that: deepwater. What I find more interesting than the existence or nonexistence of these creatures is the assumption by people that they can't possibly exist. They can't be there just because one individual - you, me, or that guy over there - hasn't seen it. If it wasn't shown on the 5 o'clock news or posted on YouTube... well, gosh darn it.... it ain't there.

Wouldn't it be great to be in the mind of a giant catfish deep at the bottom of a lake? The giant, catfish is just swimming around, eating muck. Then suddenly, a light approaches. The fish has never seen a bright light underwater before. Surely, this must be an alien from another world! The alien approaches and attacks by poking a stick at the fish or perhaps inserting its strange, long "fins" into the fish's mouth. What are these long fins! Why are they in my mouth! If I were that fish, I would either attack or faint.

Can fish faint? Perhaps that is what the History Channel should explore next...

Various and asunder

Since I am fairly scatterbrained today, here are various items and units that have occurred or have been lodged in my noggin.



- It is snowing, 10 degrees or less outside. Brrrr.

- I want to see UFOs. Damn you, Texas!

- Bought Deceptively Delicious by Jessica Seinfeld. If another comedian's wife can write a book, so can I. Right?

- Installed a window treatment in Amos' room. It makes the room feel instantly nicer and welcoming.

- My left foot is warm. My right foot is cold.

- Watched "Rock of Love" tonight. Snore. Washed-up whores. The French one is slightly interesting but incredibly whorish. Good for you, Bret Michaels.

- My former mentor sent Amos an armadillo hand puppet. He has not warmed up to it. Would you warm up to an armadillo? Phil and I saw one during the daytime. Creepy little buggers.

- Possums are also creepy. We had one under our house in Austin, swinging around on the plumbing under the bathroom.

- The fox is still foxing around our yard. He/she leaves sneaky fox prints everywhere.

- My niece is in the hospital from diabetes type I complications. Please send her your thoughts.

- I would like to meet an alien/gray. Someone call Dennis Kucinich or perhaps Al Gore.

- What are chemtrails? Should I care?

- Sometimes when I trim my big toenails, there is a smell. This is my dirty secret.

Photo Hunt: Important

Theme: Important


This week's Photo Hunt is about what is important. I can't think of anything possibly more vital to my being than this:

Without them, I do not exist. *sniff*

Into the Mystic

When Phil and I were just knee-high and dating, his family visited us in San Antonio. We took them on the obligatory Riverwalk boat ride. As we stepped onto the boat, a lady of Asian descent grabbed Phil's hand.

She turned it palm-side up and declared, "Ooh, you very independent." while pointing at his love line. She quickly snatched up my paw, looked into my eyes, and said, "Are you married to he?" I shook my head. We were "only" living together. "Ah. You concentrate on love." Then she clucked at us and went on her way.

That was the first time I had my palm read.

She was right. I do concentrate on love. My relationships with Phil, my family, my son, and my friends are the highest priority for me. Sometimes I must remind myself of that. After all, the line of love stretches between my index and "F you" fingers. How appropriate, don't you think? The love line sometimes ends between the pointer finger ("Come here, you big brute...") and the one we use quite liberally to express our distaste. Phil's love line goes straight across his brutish palm.

I have a battle in my head over various alternative health and mystical practices. I am a trained scientist. I was taught to practice hypothesis, research, conclusion. The proof must be in the pudding, or it just don't stick. On the flip side, I have an attraction to the things that are just a wee bit out there. I suppose that is part of the reason I started a natural bodycare company. I based it in science but slathered it in aromatherapy and herbs. I am the bastard child of Mr. Spock and Moonbeam Starshine.

In my science days, I worked with many people who are Chinese or first-generation American Chinese. I learned about Chinese medicine, acupuncture, and various other things that many people sniff their noses at. As one lady told me, "In China, if you break a bone, you go to the hospital. If it is not broken, you go to the Chinese medicine doctor." She had lots of wise and wacky quotes for me, my favorite of which involved the consumption of cats and dogs: "In southern China, the joke is that they eat everything with legs except the table." Ah, Lily, how I miss you.

So, more to the point, at various times I read up on alternative thingies. I had my future predicted by a psychic/tarot card lady in New Orleans and by someone's Korean grandmother based on my birth date, time, and location. This was back in the 90s. Both agreed that I would have a child, a boy. He would be the greatest love I've ever known, and we will have the closest and most loving relationship I've ever experienced. I found that hard to believe at the time, knowing Phil's feelings (at the time) about kids and the immense love I feel for him. Now I know better. Becoming a mother is a mind-blowing experience, to say the least.

Another Chinese coworker told me about how some lines on the hand predict how many children you will have and whether or not you are a good lover. If you make a fist and then look at the pinky side of your fist, you may or may not see a short line or lines at the top of your palm. Not at the joint of the finger, but just below that. My right hand shows two lines, my left hand shows one. If I am to believe this, my hands are not in agreement. Perhaps I can soothe the Chinese palm readers by admitting to two miscarriages before Amos arrived. That adds up to three, right?

Where I do think the Chinese predictions may run true is in the lover department. Look at your hand. See the spaces between your fingers? Now look at the palm just below those spaces. Supposedly, if you have fleshy mounds on that part on the palm between the fingers, then you are a great lover. If the area is sunken, then you are a dud. I found that to be hilarious. I quizzed all of my laboratory coworkers. Some had sunken palms, others had semi-fleshy spots. The sunken palms admitted to being lazy and selfish lovers. I declared, "I can't wait until I see Phil's hands! I BET you he has HUGE fleshy palms!!" They all rolled their eyes at me and continued to transfer invisible bits of DNA from one tube to the next.

Phil picked me up that day. I immediately swooped upon him and snatched up his hands, just like the lady on the boat.

"AHA!" I yelled. "It's YOU that concentrates on love!"

Indeed, Phil has the fleshiest, most delicious fat palm spots you ever did see. I told you so.

So, I don't know what the point of this post is, except to make you feel insecure and have the need to check your own fleshy or non-fleshy paws. You're welcome.

(And yes, mine are quite fleshy. The love line said so. Rawr.)

A little help from my friends

I have a concern that I thought I'd throw out into the blogosphere.

An older family member of mine is having a tough time. He is recovering, slowly but surely, from a severe illness. He is fairly housebound and depressed.

I'm hoping to cheer this person up as he recovers. Depression is not an easy thing to deal with, and it can be hard to make yourself happy when life is not cooperating. Since I cannot be there in person all the time, I need some ideas to help him to feel a bit more alive and independent.

Any ideas? This is a brilliant man who has had a long, successful career. After retirement, he suffered family losses and loss of identity. Then he became sick. It's been a rough road. I'd appreciate it if you could throw out some ideas that I can use to boost this loved one.

I should add that insurance is a non-issue until later this year. What I'm looking for are just activities/things that I could use to boost him up.

Thanks, folks.

PhilOsophy - Now All Idol All The Time!

Once again, I hand the mic over to Phil Porter, guest blogger and stand-up comedian extraordinaire/husband/father/great-in-the-sack.

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I was going to write an informed, literate, and well-researched commentary about the many issues of great import to Modern Man, but now that we’ve outed ourselves as "American Idol" watchers and fans of "Rock of Love", we might as well just write about nothing else since nothing else is nearly as exciting.

Maybe if Simon was allowed to critique the presidential debates, more people would watch. “Sorry, Fred Thompson, that just seems a bit cabaret.” “Dennis Kucinich, did you really think you had a chance to be the next American Idol?” Actually, the "American Idol" model would work really well. The campaign would only last about eight weeks, somebody could get voted off each time, and when the candidates aren’t on the air, they’d be squirreled away in a hotel where we wouldn’t have to hear about them. They could replace Simon with Bill O’Reilly, Randy with Wolf Blitzer, and Paula with Soledad O’Brien. Get on it, Fox News!

In Idol-related news, Dreyer’s is offering five Idol-themed ice cream flavors. The obvious question is: why aren’t they doing the same for "Rock of Love"? Who wouldn’t want to slurp down a big bowl of Skankies ‘n’ Cream or Creepy Chick Chocolate Chunk? And a nice serving of Aging Rocker Rocky Road or Bandana Split would be the perfect snack while watching any quality televised entertainment.

One other thing I should note: While we watched almost every episode of "American Idol" last season, I honestly cannot remember who the winner was. I remember creepy Phil Stacey, the fat Jack Osbourne guy, and the beat-boxer dude, but I really can’t picture who the winner was. And, I’m not going to look it up. So maybe there’s hope for me yet.

American baby, stay away from mee-hee

Ah, television. Take me into your warm bosom and swaddle me with your programming. Lead me to pastures of plenty, including "American Idol" and "Rock of Love". Lead me not to "Temptation Island", and deliver me from evil things like Bret Michael's questionable hairline.

I cannot express to you how pleased I am that a few new shows have started up again. Phil and I are cackling at "American Idol" and the auditions. Amos is apparently amused as well. He has been cooing at the television, and sometimes when there is a bad singer, he warbles a sad bluesy song that goes something like, "Ruuuuuuuuh uuuuuuuhhh. Heeeeeeeyyyy! Mmmmmmm bbbbbuuuuuuuhh. Arrrrruuuuuuuuuh!"

Perhaps Amos will be the American Idol of 2028.

I also overflow with glee that "Rock of Love" is back. I love how awkward this trainwreck is to watch. I wince for the ladies. I wince whenever Bret Michaels says one of his idiot rambles, such as, "And that makes me hot." I would like to put him in a cage with Sebastian Bach and have them duel to the death with their intelligence.


"Savage Animal! The band is called Saaaaavage Aaaaanimal!"

"That makes me hot."

"I just want to rock, maaaaan!"

"That makes me hot."

"Yeeeeeeeoooooowwww!"

"That makes me hot."



Someone, please, remind me why I thought these guys were "hot" back in the 80s/90s? My hair metal past is limping away in shame.

But I still want to watch.

Killin' gangstas, boxin' the soap

Not much time to spew words at you today. I tackled my Tae Bo DVDs again today.

Played with the wee man. He learned about spatulas and pots and pans. He discovered how to make block soup.

Killed some hookers and gangstas on the Grand Theft Auto III.

Now, I must box soap for a private label client.

Don't you wish you were me?

M is for Motormouth

Sunday, lazy Sunday. Resting today after a crazy weekend in the mountains. Ugh.

First, apologies to anyone who actually listened to that entire, rambling audio post. Good grief, woman. Learn to tighten it up and make it funny (as Phil is famous for saying). You are a real trooper if you listened to that entire, ding dang thing. I blush from the embarrassing rambling you must have rolled your eyes at.

Clarification to the audio post: It was not four adults and one child to our Porter three in the condo. Oh, no. It was SEVEN adults and one child in addition to our wee clan. Somehow, we fit all of those people into our two-story accommodations. Partyin', hollerin', whoopin', and a lot o' drankin' did occur. I bordered on becoming Britney Spears in snow boots. It was that crazy.

Pic I took to blackmail comedian Bryan Kellen. Woohaha.

Bob the Drunk Trainer (go to Bally's, y'all) attempts to make 2-foot high snow angels on one of the one-thousand decks that the condo had.

Keeping up our good parenting skills, here is Phil with our very awake baby at 1:23 am (according to the microwave). No, Phil's shirt is not proclaiming that he is "hard." It actually says, "Math is hard."

We Porters turned in at a respectable 2 am, but the hordes downstairs carried on forever. At some point they hit the hot tub, which was below our room (therefore, I can tell you every word that was said. Heh.). Phil tells me that sometime in the night, the condo complex manager stopped by. Not to warn our downstairs horde of their decibels, no. Rather, to ask to join the party since he was coming home drunk from the bar. Right on, Breckenridge. Right on.

It really is true that alcohol hits you hard and fast at a high elevation. Our hardened livers were no match for 9,600 feet.


It was a beautiful day, Saturday. The fog and snowy skies had cleared to reveal white-covered mountains and a gorgeous, snow-filled town. I would like to say that even though I am sticking to my thoughts that the town should call itself "Breck is for Bubbas" (because there are no less than two restaurants with the word "Bubbas" in the name), Breckenridge is also full of beautiful, young snow bunnies and dudes who are just looking to hang, man. They come by the hundreds to work in restaurants, retail, and hotels to just get one more run on the snowboard. Some were nice, some were surly, but mostly, they give an air to Breckenridge (just like many Colorado ski towns) of a place that is firmly planting its ganga-smoking roots into the snow and being chillaxed. (Did I really just type "chillaxed"? *shudder*)


See the ski runs? Gorgeous.

So, lack of sleep and extremely dry air (despite four feet of snow) rattled our lungs and our brains. We did not go snowshoeing. Boo! We did have a stop at the local bank where the ladies cooed over Amos. (Note to traveling comedians and/or performers: when in doubt, always cash your check at a bank in the same town as the gig. Word from the wise, I tells ya.) We headed over to something called a Salt Lick or Lick Rub or something for a messy breakfast. Good stuff.


A snow plow blocked our car in while we dined. Apparently, the driver just gave up behind our car and decided to chillax (*shudder*). Phil eventually found him with his crew, shoveling snow and ice for one of the shopping areas. Thanks, snow plow driver. (He arrived just as I took this picture. I'm sure he thought I was gathering evidence to sue him. Heheh.)

The highlight for me was the drive coming out of Breckenridge toward Frisco. We were passing the Dillon Reservoir, which was completely iced over. People were doing only what I can best describe as snow-sailing. They had a big parasail or kite thingy up in the air, and then they let the sail drag them across the ice. I think they used snowboards, but it was hard to tell. It was very, very cool to watch, making me declare, "I WANNA!" Someday, Sarah. Someday.


Hard to see them, but the wee people with the wee sails are out there. I give you giant pics so that you can see the sails.






On the way out of the mountains, we passed through Georgetown. The lake there is also frozen over, so much so, that they were able to drive CARS onto the lake. I've never seen cars on a lake before. Wacky stuff, man. WACKY!

So, we're home. We watched one of the Bourne Ultimatum Die Dead Faster movies and slept like dead people. Today, our speed is set at slow. Looking forward to watching The Ex, one of those adorable Zach Braff movies. Phil is playing with Amos on the playmat. He is holding Amos' foot and yelling, "Turtle! Foot! Turtle! Foot!" while Amos is giggling.


Life is good.

Breck is for Bubbas

Mobile post sent by imaginary binky using Utterz. Replies. mp3

Testing this mutha on the go

Mobile post sent by imaginary binky using Utterz.  Replies.  mp3

Utterz from the Udders

Good golly, technology is ginchy.

I though I'd test out this crazy new gizmo called Utterz. Here is my first recording. Isn't it great? (Yeah, I know, I didn't say anything too fantastic, but give me a break. It's my first time.)

Just push play on the button thingy.

Mobile post sent by imaginary binky using Utterz. Replies. mp3

Weekend at Bernie's Check Cashing Caper

Some days, the Internet gods smile upon me and offer up a gem of a story.



Weekend at Bernie's Check Cashing Caper



If Hollywood doesn't write the script (with the writers' strike and such), then I definitely will. Has anyone contacted the Darwin Awards?

PhilOsophy - Apparently, I Am Now Old and Unsteady

As mentioned last week, I am turning my blog over every Wednesday to the genius of stand-up comedian Phil Porter. He is my pseudo-semi-not-really-famous-but-trying-to-be celebrity guest blogger. Yes, he procured this honor by sleeping with me. All honors bestowed by me somehow involve getting into my britches.

So, without futher ado, I give you Phil's PhilOsophy...

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Twice this week, I slipped on icy sidewalks. In both cases, I escaped without serious injury or embarrassment, but in neither case was my fall graceful. I’m pretty sure today I actually said, “Ooof,” the sound that comic strip characters make when they tumble or have the wind knocked out of them. As I become more cartoonish in my falling, it’s probably inevitable that my next even-more-comical drop will involve my feet flying up in the air, packages (possibly wrapped gifts) being tossed about, and a string of random characters floating out of my mouth as I let rip with a nasty string of curses.

Perhaps ironically, I’ll be appearing in Breckenridge, CO, this Friday night for the Ullr Comedy Night. Ullr (pronounced “Ooh-ler,” gobreck.com tells me) was the Norse god of winter. Ullr loved traveling through the snowy lands. Apparently he never took a tumble on the slippery sidewalks of Asgard, sending his bow, arrows, and reindeer pelts to the sky while he found his arm up to the elbow in a snow pile and his knee mashed into the pavement with his leg twisted at a frightening angle that amazingly resulted in not even bruising, which is surprising because it was quite a tumble. For him.

The next time gravity and snow combine to fling me earthward, I’ll be sure to honor this Norse legend by shouting, “Oooooooo-llllleeeeerrrrrr!,” while shaking my fists in the direction of Valhalla. Which I believe is more or less northeast of here.

Tired Man's Ass

Bleah. Very tired tonight. I think I might turn in early, if Amos allows it.

Speaking of the boy, he had a big chuckle fest today. We were playing with his blocks (thanks, Aunt Lois!), and he just pitched a huge string of giggles when the blue cylinders and purple round-y thingies were rolling around on the floor. He had giant belly laughs that were so big, I think Amos surprised himself with them. I wish Phil had seen him do this. Amos and I both were laughing and falling over, except I'm able to upright myself while he flails on the floor.

And just now, he fell alseep in Phil's arms. He chuckled himself to sleep. Baby chuckles are the best things ever.

Sometimes he reminds me with brand new reasons why we decided to have a baby.

Mister Shapen

Alrighty. So. Yes. Amos has a funky head. If he were a lady, I'd call him Miss Shapen. As it stands, he must be Mister Shapen.

We visited the second orthotist, a division of Hanger Orthotics, on Friday. She gave us a great deal of information about plagiocephaly and brachycephaly. She examined Amos' head, measured him, and declared him to be mildly to moderately plagiocephalic and brachycephalic. Meaning, he has a flat spot toward the right side of his head (plagiocephaly) but also a flattening of the back of the head (brachycephaly). We already knew that, but she had an even better diagnostic tool than just a measuring stick.

Hanger Orthotics uses a computerized scanner that digitalizes the head in 3D. Yup. We had the chance to see Amos' head on the computer and in person. She placed a stocking cap over his noggin, which made him look like the most adorable burglar ever. A receiver was placed inside the cap, and then she waved a wand all over his head in order to get the 3D image. It was pretty darn cool to watch.

Here is Amos' head.

As you can see, the red line indicates the middle of his forehead dissected through to the middle of the back of his head. For the most part, the left side of his head is forming well (that would be on the right side of the pic for you). The right side of his head, however, is troubling. That is where the original flatspot formed. It has shaped out better over the past few months of repositioning, but it isn't completely normal yet. The back of the head is flattenened and slopes to the right (the left side of the pic for you), but it is starting to round out. That is a very good sign.

Actually, the more I look at it, I think the red line should be moved over a few notches to indicate the true middle of his forehead, but it doesn't really matter. You can clearly see that Amos' head is misshapen.

So, measurements of Amos' head show that his width is almost the same as the length. Normal heads are longer than they are wide. It is possible that Amos' head will improve even more with continued repositional therapy. That means we keep him off of the back of his head. We encourage him to sit up as often as possible. When he sleeps at night or takes naps, we position him on his left or right side. For now, I will be concentrating mostly on positioning him on his right side in order to flatten out that bulge. I had been positioning him on his left quite a bit more, and it's clear from the scan that we've been successful in helping to round out that part of his skull.

It was agreed that we will continue to reposition Amos for another 5 weeks. We'll go back for another scan. They can superimpose the new scan over the old one to see how things have improved. If we're happy with the improvement, then all we may need to do is keep repositioning. If it's not clear that anything is changing, then we may consider a helmet.

I'm feeling good about this decision. It's sort of a happy medium between the two options. We've clearly seen that since Amos has learned to sit up, it is helping to reshape his head. I almost think it's helping faster than any of the repositioning I've done. Maybe. But, within a week of him sitting up, we saw the back of his head start to round out. That brings me much joy, people. Much joy.

He may still need a helmet. We'll see in 5 weeks. If he does, he'll probably wear it for 4 - 6 months. He'll need to keep it on for 23 hours a day. One hour off to bath him and to clean the helmet.

The downside for me, because the inner selfish lady is whining about it, is that this decision means at least 5 more weeks of losing sleep. Amos sleeps next to my side of the bed, and despite my efforts to wrap him up tight and to position him just so, he still manages to wriggle his way onto his back on occasion. I've gotten used to it, but gosh darn, I really miss sleeping.

Here is Amos' head just before he turned 6 months, and just before he started to sit up on a regular basis. You can kinda see that it is not as improved as the scan shows, which was taken a few weeks after he turned 6 months (and was a pro sitter).

Phil was trying to indicate where the middle of Amos' forehead was, but Amos keep flailing around.

So, that's the story. We'll keep on a keepin' on with our current methods. Then we'll see what we see.

Oh, and one of the more fun therapies we're using is to rub Amos' head with our hands. I will shape him into something great, like a bowling pin or an ashtray. Heheh.

Kim, if you are reading this, the second orthotist also said that neurosurgeons are notorious for being anti-helmet. I'd suggest that you do what we did: get a prescription for the helmet from your pediatrician or family doc that normally sees your little girl. Then, get a referral to an orthotist. We really like Hanger Helmets because of the scanning to get the head shape. The scan is used to create the helmet. Other helmets are created by taking a plaster cast of the baby's head, which can be a bit traumatic to the baby and the parents. The other helmets work just as well, but Hanger just has a friendlier approach to creating it.


For anyone dealing with plagiocephaly, there is a Yahoo group you can join.

I'll update as things progress. Send Amos' head some good vibes and thoughts!

Tags

In my quest to disappoint people who are waiting for an update on Amos (delayed because there are pictures and words and stuff involved), here is something that is possibly interesting but maybe not.

Currently, Phil is holding Amos, preventing him from falling really, as he reaches with intense focus for the tag on his Boppy pillow. He. MUST. Have the. TAG!!! This boy is crazy for tags. I'm sure there must be a whole gaggle of babies out there that are wacky for tags, as I once saw in a catalog the availability of a blanket completely framed with ribbon tags to be pulled and chewed. Perhaps I should buy this blanket for the wee man.

He inspects all of his toys for the tag. Once the tag is found, it must be chewed. FEROCIOUSLY. He dives onto that tag like a hotdog mirage for a starving man in the desert.

I wonder...
Is this the sign of an addiction? Do I need to intervene? Should we hire a specialist who will sit us all down and tell us how, at first, Amos will fight us and call us names for cornering him, and then he'll break down and cry about how he can't quit the tags. He can't quit the tags, man! Okay, okay. I'll go to rehab. But just let me suck that tag one more time for the road, man. You can't send me out the door without a fix!

Perhaps this scenario is off in the distant future. I'm going to get ready for it, though. I already have the numbers of the counselors on that show "Intervention" on the A&E Channel. I'm pretty sure the shit is going to go down if we cut the tags off of his toys.

Your name is Gimpy! No! Kunta Kinte!

I'm tired, and I want to watch movies and snuggle with my wee family. So, I give you an oldie but a goodie.

May 3, 2006

I had a few questions about a blog where I mentioned my run-in with Bell's Palsy. Yes, I am afflicted with the palsy of bells. Otherwise known as peripheral facial palsy. It is a partial paralysis of one side of the face, the result of inflammation of the nerves entering the skull. It started the summer after 8th grade. I tried to brush my teeth one morn, but ended up squirting water all over the mirror while I swished the water in my mouth. I though, huh, that's odd. Then it happened again. Then, I was reading a book, and my vision got all funkified. Eventually I noticed that the right side of my face was not responding. I smiled, and only the left side of my mouth would go up. I blinked, and I was winking.

Crazy stuff, man. My mom thought I had a stroke. I couldn't even taste food for awhile on the right side of my tongue. We had hamburger the first night of my affliction. On the left side, my tastebuds said "Yummy yummy burger!" On the right side, cold cream.

I had to do all kinds of funky facial exercises to get my muscles working again. It was a fairly traumatic experience for a 14 year old girl entering her first year of high school. My father, attempting to be funny, called me Quasimoto.

I had never heard of Bell's Palsy before, but apparently lots of folks get it. The unlucky ones sometimes get it on both sides of the face - stonefaced, basically. I heard that a local San Antonio news anchor had it, too. I wrote her a letter to try to get some kind of comradery and to quell my fears, but she never responded. Damn you, Blanca Santos!

It was definitely no fun to have it in school. I started high school marching band a month before school began. I had been first chair clarinet most of junior high (alright, it was a battle of 1st and 2nd between me and the Scharf throughout junior high, but she switched to percussion eventually, so...I won! Haw haw haw haw!). I had to explain to our band director that I was unable to play most of the notes, but I could play the upper register and some lower notes by holding the clarinet and playing with my left hand, while I held my mouth tight around the mouthpiece with my right hand. Try to imagine that, folks. Ol' Gimpy tootin' on her horn, only playing the notes in the songs that could be played with the left hand. Oh, and I squinted mercilessly when I played. I looked like I was about to pass out or I was really constipated.

The majority of the effects went away within 6 months, but I have some residual effects left over. When I try to do a full smile, my mouth doesn't quite do it. I can't pucker up and leave a pretty lipstick mark on the mirror. Sometimes my nose or undereye area will twitch when I'm tired or angry. But, the worst effect that bothers me constantly is the drippy right eye. My doctor said that surgery won't fix the drain in my eye that is supposed to drain the tears. So, I drip, and people think I am weepy. Argh. Ah, and when I try to play the clarinet, I am still Squinty McGimpy.

In the 9th grade I had to sit last chair in the clarinet section as much worse players sat ahead of me. It was so degrading, I thought. The band director was not going to give this gimp a leg up. Eventually, I moved up and up. I finally worked my way back to first chair and could play with both hands, control my mouth, but still squint. It was a proud moment for me. I still would get deathly embarrassed when people would stare at my squinty face and ask if I was alright. Also, sitting first chair meant that no matter if I was on the second row of the orchestra with the rest of the clarinets or on the first row with the flutes, I was always the first chair on the right side of the row - with the right side of my face toward the audience. So, unsuspecting audience members would get a full glimpse of the freak on the end of the row who really seemed to need to take a shit. Argh. This is the main reason I didn't go on to play the clarinet in college. I couldn't take a whole new crop of people interrogating me about my shit face.

Having Bell's Palsy was a huge dent in my self-esteem. People would tell me what a pretty girl I was, but I would cringe and blush, hiding my mouth with my hand when I laughed. I acted like a shy Japanese teen. It's still hard to take compliments, but now I laugh with a gaping maw. If you get a load of the palsy mouth, well, you're just going to have to stare at it. I'm not hiding it anymore. Most folks now say that they can't tell that I have it, so I give them the palsy grin or palsy pucker.

Years later I found out that the likely cause of my Bell's Palsy was a head injury. I did, in fact, have a concussion in the previous spring from a bad fall during track practice. It prevented me from going on to become a record setter for the school and an eventual Olympian. Maybe? Maybe not. I was also told that I should have had a brain scan because the palsy can have damaging effects if not found right away. Huh. I guess that explains a few things, eh? Stress is a big factor as well. I was also an extreme overachiever in school, and the last few months of the 8th grade, I fought to raise my grades so that I could be valedictorian at my junior high graduation. I was salutatorian instead, despite the stress and hard work I had placed upon myself. Palsy face ensued. Have I mentioned I'm a big nerd? I guess you didn't need to be told by now.

I will need to be careful if I ever get pregnant, as Bell's Palsy has the nasty habit of popping up more frequently in pregnant women. I'll have to watch my stress levels and try to not bop my cranium again. Many people do have reoccurrences of Bell's Palsy. Fun for me, eh?

One of the interesting things that came from my time with Bell's Palsy is that I have a very expressive face. People always tell me how interesting it is to watch my facial reactions as I speak. It turns out that George Clooney had it, too. Watch his facial expressions in Oh, Brother. Where Art Thou? and I think you'll get an idea of what I'm talking about. Huh. I guess I should have been an actor.

So, now you can add me to your list of people with Bell's Palsy. Raymond Scott, Sylvester Stallone, George Clooney, Ralph Nader, Roger Ebert, and me. What a group.

+++++


I did not have another bout of Bell's Palsy when I was pregnant, just to let ya know.

Tejano remix

I have stuff to say tomorrow about today's visit with Amos' orthotist, but in the meantime, here is a wee snippet of our experience in Baja Fresh after the appointment.

We ordered our tasty vittles (fish tacos for me - mmm) and sat in the empty restaurant for a nosh. Soon, Phil and I silently looked at each other with perplexed faces. The music caught our attention in the silliest of ways. All of the songs were in Spanish. Granted, this isn't an odd situation for a Mexican restaurant, but it was the vast array of songs that caused our eyebrows to raise and lower in rapid fashion.

Now, I'm no stranger to Tejano music. I lived in San Antonio and the surrounding area for many, many years. I've been to NIOSA (Night in Old San Antonio) and Fiesta many times. I know the look, the sound, and knew exactly what they meant when I saw people drive by with shoe polish on their car windows proclaiming, "Viva Selena!"

It's just... I don't think I've ever been exposed to "Tejano Stars Sing Your Favorite Hits From Today and Yesterday."

Observe.


First song up: some sort of Spanish version of a modern rock song. We chuckled a bit to ourselves as the guitars went weeeraaaaar! raaaawr! nnnnnnnnraaaaar! while guided by the singer's rhymes. I dare say it was Mexican Creed.

Second song: We called it Flock of Chihuahuas. It was a crazy new wave Spanish song (or "nuevo wavo", as Phil called it) that could have been a moody accompaniment to a Molly Ringwald teen angst movie (dubbed in Spanish, of course). I told Phil through my chuckles, "I'm really trying to figure out what these guys look like while singing this song." His answer: "I think they are wearing plaid shirts, Wranglers, and cowboy hats that are covering a big shock of new wave hair and sad emo faces."

Third song: I called it Toad the Wet Tejano. It was folksy, 90s college radio rocksy stuff. Much angst. It would have fit into a triple bill with Gin Blossoms and Counting Crows. Except, they would have a shock of sorta long and unkempt hair under the cowboy hats, the plaid shirts wouldn't be tucked in, and the Wranglers would have the knees worn out.


Sometime during the nuevo wavo song, a fellow walked in while talking on his cellphone. He was loud, obnoxious, and all of the other descriptions that go along with people who yell into their phones in public. However, Phil and I were both struck with snorts and giggles once we eyeballed his getup. He was wearing a white, stretchy belt. A dirty, white stretchy belt. While the Flock of Chihuahuas song played. It was like getting slapped in the face with an Alice in Wonderland version of the 80s. We were convinced that we were in some sort of alternative universe, punctuated with good salsa and fish tacos.

So, if you ever happen to visit Baja Fresh, I hope you will report back to me your own strange Tejano-bastardized findings. Or, if you are even more savvy, please let me know where I can find this album of Tejano-ish hits. I really want to play it at our next party.

Actual conversations, Part Three

*drops rings on the floor after playing with them*


"My marital bonds are gone. Won't you retrieve them?"

"Here you go. Be wed to me again."

"No. I am enjoying my newfound freedom."

"Don't be fooled, trucker. Just because you don't have your rings on doesn't mean that we aren't wed. I have a comically large wedding certificate from Jamaica that proves it."

"Damn it."

JibJabbing the way to '08

This made me laugh far too much. Enjoy.

PhilOsophy - Show Me Your Melons

Guest blogger Phil here. As part of the 365 days of bloggery, I will be chiming in on Wednesdays. My first installment is a report from the front lines of phrenology.

Today we took Amos to have his head examined. Not in the psychiatric sense, although he does seem almost unnaturally jolly, which may be indicative of some personality disorder that has yet to disclose itself, but rather to have the actual shape of his noggin checked to determine if he should be outfitted with a helmet for the next few months or left to his own devices to grow out his cranium as nature sees fit.

What was the expert’s advice, after giving our boy a thorough going over? Amos’ head will probably grow from its current flat-on-the-back-bulgy-on-one-side look into something more symmetrical on its own, or it might not. He would be helped by a helmet, but he might not really need it. The orthotics specialist was certainly a helpful guy, but since Amos is in the mild-to-moderate range of misshapenness, it basically falls to us to make the decision. Which we have to do in the next month or two; otherwise, we’ve missed the window of opportunity when his skull is most easily reshaped. No pressure. We just need to make a decision that will affect him for the rest of his life.

It’s 2008. Wasn’t the government supposed to have taken over raising the children by now?

On a lighter note, I typed this up in Word, and Microsoft suggests changed the title from “Show Me Your Melons” to “Show Me You’re Melons.” Yes, I am quite melons at the moment.

Do you hear what I hear?

Or should I say, do you read what I read?

Today is the start of 365 days of insanity. Because I failed to complete the NaBloPoMo madness of blogging every day of November, I have committed to blogging for a whole YEAR. Good grief, people. Some one send me an illegal prescription for Adderall or speed or something to help me get through this.

I'll be updating with Amos' 6 month letter soon. The lazy and moody days of December were rough. I now have a new spring in my step, and a song in my heart. I think it's "Turbo Lover," unfortunately, which is very disturbing. Have you ever listened to how ridiculous that song is?


"I'm your turbo lover. Tell me there's no other."


Umm. Okay.


Anyhoo, here's to 365 days of madness, silliness, and mayhem. Buckle up, folks. Safety first.