Author: jmlindy422

  • Follow Me

    Image: Beyond Bliss Poodles
    Image: Beyond Bliss Poodles

    Just about every blogger I follow has done the Search Terms post. Because every one else was doing it, I did it, too. And, no, I would not jump off a cliff if everyone else were doing it.

    For the uninitiated, the Search Terms post is about the terms people type into Google that then lead them to a blog. I know lots of bloggers who have really cool search terms in their records, like “the most beautiful chickens.”

    Me? I get people who are either really kinky or really worried they’re kinky. A while back, I wrote about accidentally seeing my son’s penis. Since then, my top five search terms always include at least three referencing “son’s penis.” Today’s top search term was “son wants to drop out of high school.” I sympathize; my son has spoken the same blasphemy, causing me to write a letter to Dave Grohl. When I finally become a Twit, I will tweet Mr. Grohl and see if he tweets back—or whatever is supposed to happen. Hey! I should do that! Blog Fodder!!

    Of course, the next three terms included “son” and various words for penis. Coming in at number five was the disturbing “dark skin women titties.” I don’t think I ever want to meet that person; I certainly don’t want him (I never said I wasn’t sexist) anywhere near my daughter. And it better not be my son.

    Because I am completely preoccupied most of the time and when I am not preoccupied I am being interrupted, I only recently discovered that my computer keeps track of the terms I have searched. I research just about every situation I encounter so my Google search history has become a sort of historical record of Janice.

    Some search terms I remember using, like “shark socks.” My son’s girlfriend has a sock fixation. Among her favorite foot coverings is a pair of Batman socks, complete with little capes. My son decided she needed shark socks, so I searched for shark socks. I was hoping for something ferocious, but most were really lame and barely recognizable as ferocious man-eaters. I did find a very cool pair I could have knit for Girlfriend, but I’m pretty sure the “don’t knit a sweater for a boyfriend” caveat probably has a corollary: don’t knit socks for a girlfriend, especially if she’s not even your own girlfriend. My son settled on Robin socks to go with the Batman socks.

    image-sockrobincape-primary-watermark

    I frequently search for information related to my kids, like “how much water should a 10-year old drink,” “puberty for girls,” “good curfew for teen,” and “getting high with morning glory seeds.”

    The reasons behind some of my search terms seem mysterious if you aren’t particularly familiar with me. “Three squatting myths that refuse to die” could be about Occupy Wall Street or whether squats are harmful to runners’ knees. You might think I was planning a murderous rampage if you saw “how many rounds can a semi-automatic rifle shoot in one minute,” but the opposite is true.

    Some of the things I’ve searched are just plain gross, like “phlegm and coughing after exercise.” Some I’m not even sure I actually searched. While I agree with the sentiment, I have no idea why I searched “and i feel so much depends on the weather” or if I even searched it. I know I didn’t search “pandas” and “giant panda coloring pages.” I bet if I looked in my print queue, I’d find someone printed  35 copies of a Giant Panda coloring page. I also bet she’ll soon be searching “discount price on ink jet cartridges.”

    I have a pretty good idea who searched “when will Earth die.” I know I never would because I just get depressed when I think about it and, with bipolar disorder, I don’t need any help getting depressed. I do a lot of searching about bipolar disorder and bipolar meds. I remember why I searched “forgetfulness and Lamotrigine,” but I don’t remember what I learned.

    I search medical issues for my family, too. Recently, I searched “kidney stone pain,” and “Edward Hospital ER wait time,” then “ureteral stent,” and finally, “can probiotics stop diarrhea.” I learned that kidney stone pain is worse than childbirth, particularly if the person who is experiencing the kidney stone pain has lousy veins in his right arm and the medical worker doesn’t listen to the person’s wife when she says the veins in the left arm are better until he’s blown out two veins in the patient’s right arm. And, yes, probiotics can help stop diarrhea. You’re welcome.

    Following the flurry of kidney stone related searches and their attending life events, I did something I swore I’d never do, so I’m glad I only swore it to myself. Looking for a cheap thrill, I’ve searched “standard poodle puppies” for the past two days. Yup, I’m reduced to looking at pictures of puppies to escape the fun and frivolity of living with a man in constant pain, a daughter who regularly criticizes everything from the way I wake her up to the way my bingo wings flap when I shake a pair of dice, to a son who is more mercurial than Mercury.

    The poodle puppy pity party was effective. For a few minutes, I imagined myself and FiFi, jogging along the prairie path, the wind ruffling our hair, Fifi perfectly trained so that even the occasional pheasant didn’t cause her to break stride. In fact, poodle puppy pictures were so soothing that I upped the ante today. I’m blaming a book I am currently reading but I’m still almost ashamed to admit what I’ve been doing. In fact, I think I’ll do a search: “is it weird to look at baby pictures on the web.”

    Extra credit: There is an inside joke about the Boy Wonder socks. Guess what it is and I’ll write a post about your blog next week.

  • Oh, no she didn’t!

    My daughter is a fountain of funny kid stuff.

    Every evening, my daughter tells me when she would like to wake up. Last Thursday, she told me to wake her at 5 a.m. so that she would be awake by 6 a.m. to study for a test. I have no idea why it takes her an hour to wake up, but it’s her beauty sleep so I go along.

    Five a.m. I woke her, saying “Sweetie, it’s 5 o’clock.”

    “I’m tired!” she groused.

    Five fifteen. “Peanut, it’s time to get up.” Grousing was the reply.

    Five thirty. “You told me you wanted to me to wake you at five. It’s five thirty.” Again, grousing.

    Five forty five. “Leave me alone!” was the reply.

    At six a.m., I told her it was six a.m. and went downstairs to make my tea, telling her I was going downstairs to make my tea. I left her grousing self to get dressed.

    At seven a.m., I came up stairs. (Even at seven, she had plenty of time to study.) I was greeted like this:

    “IT’S SEVEN O’CLOCK!! I’M GOING TO FAIL MY TEST!!! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WAKE ME UP!”

    “Sweetie, I tried waking you up for an hour.”

    ‘NO, YOU DIDN’T!!! A NORMAL MOM WOULD HAVE GOTTEN ME OUT OF BED!!!!”

    Confused, I said, “What was I supposed to do that I didn’t do? I tried to wake you up and you kept telling me you were too tired.”

    “If you were a regular mom,” she said, “you would have said, ‘GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED!’ ”

     

  • Where’s Janice?

    You may have noticed that I have not posted anything other than my daughter’s smart aleck  remarks in a while. This is largely due to the shit bucket that my life has become. Not only were my children on a break long enough to make it appear as if going to school were the break, but my husband was also on the same schedule. He has a tendency to not use up vacation days until the last minute, the last minute being the week between Christmas and New Year’s and whatever straggly bits there are because Christmas landed on a Wednesday or some nonsense like that.

    Finally, every one went to school/work and I had my life back. I made progress on my website, I ran, I identified companies to target for writing assignments, I read “The Outsiders” for work (how cool is that?).

    Four days after my real life began again, my husband came home from work early. He came home so early, in fact, that my daughter and I were still in bed. I was convinced a prowler had entered our home so locked the bedroom door. I heard footsteps on the stairs and grabbed the phone when the door knob jiggled.

    “Why is the door locked?” came my husband’s voice.

    “Because I thought you were a prowling rapist thief!”

    Turns out my husband did not throw his back out, but was passing a kidney stone. A rather large one, apparently. Six millimeters for those of you in the know. Two trips to the ER later, he had a disgusting sounding procedure that had me thinking of Luke Skywalker shooting into the Death Star. Actually, the doctor inserted a camera/laser thingie, located the stone and blasted it into chips. I’m hoping husband will be home soon, but then he’s likely to be HOME, not at work, for a while. Sigh. This is all about me, you know.

    In the interim, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine and her blog. Emily, author of “Not the hardest part,” chronicles her adventures as mom to one of the cutest babies in the world. She’s kinda sassy, has more than one degree in English and is therefore immensely cool.

    Here’s a link to Emily’s latest post. Make sure to click around on her blog and find those adorable baby pictures.

    My Essay on Eloise.

  • My daughter says funny stuff

    I have come to the conclusion that this will likely be my daughter’s spotlight for some time. My son says very funny things, but most of them are so politically incorrect or obscene that they are, to my mind, not fit for publication. I may decide to write a heavily redacted version of some of the things he says, but until then, here is another gem from the Empress.

    Empress is now in the orchestra program in our school district; she plays the viola. She related this exchange with the orchestra director from the middle school her brother attended and that she will attend next year. You may recall my son has ADHD, as did at least one other boy in the cello section.

    Empress: She said my last name was familiar when she was tuning my viola, then she asked me if I had a brother or sister, so I told her who my brother is.

    Dad: Did she say, “Poor you”?

    Empress: Sadly, no.

  • My iPad says funny stuff, too

    I got an iPad Mini for Christmas. I love it. I particularly like conversing with Siri and pretending I’m Samuel L. Jackson. Naturally my kids think Siri is pretty awesome. Actually, only my daughter will admit Siri is fun; my son will not admit anything is fun unless he discovered it.

    The more you use her, the more Siri becomes accustomed to your voice, so she’s pretty down with me. My daughter has a much higher, brighter voice. It gives Siri fits.

    Daughter: Siri, what is the wind chill today?

    Siri: I’m afraid I don’t understand.

    Daughter: What is the wind chill today?

    Siri: I don’t know. Shall I search the Internet for “My fellatio football”?

     

     

     

     

  • Step right up and get your grievances!

    a6d4a0d43dbea0d42f5d672a570a21e7Once upon a time, I was a loyal Seinfeld viewer; I’m still known to say, “No soup for you!” But eventually, Elaine Benes wore me down. Unable to take anymore of her self-involved whining, I stopped watching. This explains why I am probably the last person in my blogosphere to know about Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

    While I come to the Festivus party late—far too late to be fashionable—it seems to be a holiday tailor-made for me. Among the holiday’s traditions is the airing of grievances. In my mind, grievances call for a rant, and I do so love a rant, so here we go!

    Stop saying you’re “so depressed” when you’re sad. Depression isn’t just being sad. Depression is being unable to get out of bed, thinking the world would be better off without you, wanting to just fade away. Depression is sitting on the couch convinced that life is pointless, not sitting on the couch eating a quart of ice cream crying. Sad is painful but knows that life will get better; depression doesn’t.

    If I promise to only use the term “ big beautiful woman” to refer to big beautiful women, can we promise not to call thin women “skinny bitches?” Really, why is it any more politically correct to malign the thin than the overweight? See? I can’t even bring myself to type the f-word, the one that rhymes with “cat,” not that other one.

    No more tailgating. Just no. Never. Ok? I sort of understand it in the far left lane on the highway. But in my neighborhood? Where the speed limit is 40 mph? And there are children and golden retrievers running into the street chasing after soccer balls? I’m gonna brake for Lassie, butthole, so just keep your Hummer off my tail.

    Christmas lights! Stringing five different colors of lights end to end and then hanging them in a straight line that extends from the edge of the garage, over the top of the front door and then drapes across the row of hedges in front of your living room windows is not decorating. It’s not even redneck; it’s not even Honey Boo Boo redneck. And a string of lights is not an extension cord. We clear on that?

    Everyone in my family who empties the kitchen trash: put another bag in the can. And, if you don’t, you don’t get to laugh at Mommy when she swears after dropping a handful of disgusting into the unlined can.

    While we’re on family issues . . . darling children, why should Mommy help you clean the toxic waste dumps you call your rooms? You have no idea how little I care if you can’t find your panda pajamas or the T-shirt that your girlfriend likes to wear because it smells like you.  In my time, mothers closed the door on their children’s messes. I am not about to dishonor my mother’s advice and she’s dead so she can’t tell you that her mother cleaned her room every day. I am nobody’s grandmother, though you love reminding me that I’m old enough to have birthed half of your friends’ parents. By the way, this does not make Mommy want to clean your room, either.

    And last, but not least, can we put the Christmas/Xmas/Holidays thing to rest? Nobody’s trying to take the Christ out of Christmas by using Xmas. Actually, didn’t Christmas start out without Christ in it? So really, were putting Christ in Christmas every year. I’m just sayin’.

    That brings us to holiday greetings. Can’t say “Merry Christmas” because it tends to leave out the people who celebrate Hanukkah, Diwali, Kwanza, though I’m not sure that’s supposed to be “merry” so much as meaningful. There’s “Happy Holidays.” While it’s inclusive–probably too inclusive for atheists–it’s kind of wishy-washy. Naturally, we could say “Happy Festivus” but I’m pretty sure that leaves more people than in includes. Besides, most of my friends would just look at me with a blank stare. Okay, I’m kind of used to that, but I don’t like to knowingly solicit it.

    I was going to propose we say “Peace be with you,” but that reminds me of that oh-so-uncomfortable moment in church services where you are forced encouraged to greet the people around you. If I wanted to say something to them, I would have. Don’t make me clasp their hand and try to say something sincere when all I can think of is the germs that are getting spread at the height of flu season.

    I don’t like to point out a problem and not have a solution, but I don’t have anything witty or profound to say in place of “have a good one” during the holiday season. But I have a great idea for what to think:

    Peace on Earth, good will to all. May you live in safety and be happy.

  • My kids say funny stuff, too 12

    http://www.contortionchris.com
    http://www.contortionchris.com

    I recently attended an event in which my daughter flipped her body around in ways that frighten me. In other words: a gymnastics demonstration. My son had to attend as well, much to his dismay. Rather than watch his sister perform, he sulked in the hall. Performance over, we headed to the car along with daughter’s friend and her mother. My son was nowhere to be seen.

    Me: Where could he have gone?

    Friend’s mom: Maybe he ran away with the circus.

    Daughter: Nah. He hasn’t got the talent.

     

  • No More Words

    images-4Big Bird will get no support from me. The National Endowments for the Humanities and the Arts aren’t on my charitable donation lists either. And I’m not giving a cent to another politician, not even the liberals.

    I am giving my money to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. I am giving them money because dead children can’t watch Sesame Street, study the humanities or create art. I am giving money because I, and other supporters of gun control, have been yapping and moaning for years and nothing has changed. I am putting my money where my mouth is.

    Nothing happens in this country without money. The latest presidential election cost more than two billion dollars. That’s a hell of a lot of lettuce with not much sandwich to show for it. If you think money doesn’t matter in the gun control debate, look at what’s happening on the other side. Blake Zeff, at CapitalNewYork.com wrote:

    The N.R.A. has an estimated yearly budget of $220 million, and spent $64.5 million over the last decade to influence federal elections, targeting wayward legislators for defeat and providing an implicit threat to others that they mean business.

    The leading gun control group, the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence, spent $3.1 million in 2010, the most recent year for which they have an annual report online. Its spending over the last decade on federal elections? Just over half a million dollars, according to the Center for Responsive Politics.

    In other words, in the last decade, the NRA has out-spent the Brady Campaign by more than 2000% in federal elections. Yes, 2000%. With clout (read: money) like that, is it any wonder candidates are afraid to piss off the gun lobby? Clearly, gun control doesn’t have a big gun in this fight.

    I don’t want to debate the fine points of gun control right now. You can read a thought-provoking piece by Nicholas D. Kristoff of the New York Times that addresses the issues and offers some possible solutions.

    I don’t want to debate the fine points not because I’m a chicken. I don’t want to debate the fine points because there is no sense debating the fine points if we don’t have the financial backing to scare the crap out of our elected officials.

    My dinky donation won’t make a huge dent in the 2000% disparity. Remember, though, that donations of $250 or less make up the greatest part of financing for almost every campaign and non-profit organization.

    Right now, the Brady Campaign has a form you can fill out to send condolences to Newtown. Don’t do it. Instead, click to make a donation. Hugs may feel good, but they won’t change policy. In politics, it’s money that talks.

  • A moment of silence

    Candle_stump_on_holderI was working on a post for today when my husband called. He had that “somebody’s died” heaviness in his voice, then he told me about the shooting in Connecticut. My post was, I had hoped, going to make you laugh. I don’t have it in me anymore. Running is my meditation, so I’m going to go run right now. I’ll probably cry, too.

  • Help a family adopt; get a Christmas snowflake. What’s not to love?

    I love the blogging world and how it brings me in touch with people I would otherwise never meet. Just like the adoption community does. So, my friends who’ve adopted, I’m reblogging a post from a military family looking to adopt a special needs child internationally. You all know how dreadfully expensive this can be. For just $10, you can help them out and get a pretty Christmas ornament. There’s a really sweet story behind the ornament, too; it’s in the same vein as the hundred good wishes quilts.

    So, people, read this touching blog post and pony up for the ornament. You help a military family in a more tangible way than posting to your Facebook wall. Like I said, what’s not to love?

    Adoption.