Some of you may kill me. But there are some things I just don't get. In music, they include:

Neil Young
Bob Dylan (I KNOW!)
Coldplay
Oasis
Joss Stone
Radiohead
Alicia Keys
Anything Rod Stewart did after 1980ish

I'm un-American. I'm even sick of Bruce Springsteen. What essential genetic code am I missing?

["Splane," Mike Keneally]

Anybody else remember Tootsie Pop Drops? They were Tootsie Pops without the stick. Yum.

Other childhood faves I miss:

* Marathon bars. A long braid of caramel coated in chocolate. In the UK, they're made by Cadbury and called Curly Wurlys.
* The Brachs bridge mix that I remember had chocolate-covered cherry-flavored bits. Yummy. I don't think it's the same now.
* Broadway Rolls, later known as Delfa Rolls, and then Danish Ribbons. They seem to be discontinued completely and I'm dying for them. Baby wants red licorice!
* Life Saver Swirl Pops
* Pop Rocks
* Slo Pokes
* BB Bats (except for banana)
* Toffifay

And this isn't from my childhood, but while I was pregnant with Jake, I had to shlep to Orland Park to hit the one Motherhood Maternity store that carried some plus sizes. There was a candy store in that mall that sold grape mini Swedish Fish. I still dream about those fuckin' things.

["Love is a Battlefield," Pat Benatar]

Jake's 5th birthday party at Sy's Lanes.
Dig the bowling pins made out of wax soda bottles?

I was fortunate to have the time and cash free to attend Wendy McClure's appearance at Women & Children First last night. The room was packed by the time things got going, and I was glad I'd arrived early so I could (a) snag a seat, and (b) buy the book (as well as this month's issue of Bust). Wendy was charming in a very down-to-earth way, and possessed of quite the prettiest smile I think I've ever seen. She first read a hilarious column she'd written for Bust on Kirstie "Fat Actress" Alley, then selected pieces from the book.

At one point during the reading, I glanced behind me and noted Paula Kamen sitting there.

When the reading and some Q&A's were over, we all lined up for autographs. I can't say how much I felt like a dork introducing myself as "JT, I comment on your blog sometimes?" Duh. She asked if I'd like her to sign the book to JT and I hesitated before saying yes. But I like being JT more than I like being me, so there ya go. Decision made.

So after turning Wendy over to the rest of the adoring fans, I stalked Paula. I attended U of I a year or two behind her, and her fame was firmly established by the time I entered the doors of the Daily Illini. We had a nice chat about what we were up to (her new book, celebrating a friend's dissertation completion with margaritas, vs my kids & boring jobness).

I left in a kind of fog, and when I got home was poorly able to describe the contact high I had to DH. There I was, in a room with a great blogger who was newly published (*zing* of jealousy mixed with admiration), as well as my generation's preeminent literary feminist (pure admiration and shyness). I got to hang out with these women in a bookstore! We knew some of the same people! I'm really a big dorkus!

I have no good ending to this entry so I'm going to give you a teeny taste of Wendy:

"I'm in Vegas because of a website. I got here through the Internet. It's a little hard to explain that to other people. You start out telling someone, 'Okay, so there this website,' and that you know a few people through it, and as you're talking he or she will tilt his/her head like a dog who's heard something you can't hear, and apparently, that something is your own voice saying, La, la, la, I have a magical pretend life."

Congratulations and best wishes to both Wendy and Paula. I'm really proud to know you, even tangentally.

To say that I was a little stressed out by the time my wedding rolled around was a minor understatement. I was panicked at work, where my boss was not pleased with my dedication to wedding plans outside the hours of 9 am to 5 pm. DH, a former Lubavitcher, wanted nods to an Orthodox wedding. While I wasn't strictly against many of the things he wanted (ie Kosher food, his Philadelphia rabbi, etc.), the details of traditions with which I was unfamiliar made me especially nervous.

I should explain, too, that when I met DH, he wasn't all that close with his parents, a concept I didn't much get. His parents got divorced when he was in college, and while the divorce itself wasn't amicable, they eventually got along enough to be in touch. But DH's decision to follow Lubavitch teachings were not accepted well by his parents, and he had a pretty hard time with them. Then, when he sprung on his dad that he met a girl on the Internet and was moving to Chicago to marry her, his dad was understandably skeptical.

And then, early in the year of our wedding, his dad decided he wouldn't attend. It wasn't so much an idealogical protest, his mom explained, as that he just didn't feel comfortable "dealing with it."

To say DH was hurt didn't encompass it. He didn't talk much about it, but we were all destroyed for him. My own father, who had really tough issues with his abusive dad, felt just awful and said basically that he knew he could never take DH's dad's place, but he wanted DH to know that he would be there for him.

After a few weeks of emotional turmoil, it was announced that Alex had changed his mind and would, after all, attend. Woo hoo.

Anyway, back to the wedding. As I mentioned, we planned to fly in DH's rabbi from Philly for the wedding, as well as his best friend Roger. We spoke with the rabbi (Menachem) on the phone several times, in preparation. The only things he asked of me were that I wear a dress that wasn't too revealing for the ceremony (not an issue), and go to the mikvah before the wedding (more of an issue, but I did it and I'm glad I did). It was decided that the week before the wedding, DH and I could not be in direct contact. Which was awkward, because we were living together. Through my contacts, I snagged a room at the Union League Club, and it was decided that I would stay there the first half of the week, and we would switch that Thursday.

The wedding was scheduled for Sunday, June 16th. Friday night, my parents held a barbecue for all out-of-town guests. On Saturday, my mom, MIL and I were to get our nails done. Saturday night, the rehearsal dinner was being held on the Wendella, which would pick up the guests at the Michigan Avenue dock, take them up the river, and then back out onto Lake Michigan.

Within a few weeks of the wedding, other traditions appeared that we needed to follow. DH was to attend Shabbat services on Saturday morning, where the local Lubavitch congregation was to host an Ufruf; a kind of celebration of the groom. Normally, it's sponsored by the groom's father, and it involves a kiddush (blessing with wine and snacks) as well as a tradition where the congregation pelts the groom with candies and nuts (to wish him a sweet and protein-filled life, I suppose).

My father offered to stand in for DH and sponsor the Ufruf, and we were dispatched to the kosher candy and nut store in Skokie to purchase the proper sweets, while my dad bundled off to Sam's Wines to get more kosher wine.

DH basically told his parents they could come in as early as they'd like, and let them know all the activities that were going on. I was packing to leave my hotel room on Thursday before the wedding when my MIL called, in a panic. The Hyatt Regency didn't have her reservation, and she was furious. Apparently, this was all my fault -- because I didn't reserve her room for her.

What? Since when is that my job? I didn't even know when they were coming? Somehow, my mom got involved and had it all taken care of. But that just fed the slow burn that began a week earlier, when my hairdresser cancelled on me, saying he hadn't realized my wedding was on Father's Day and he just couldn't be there. My MIL's response? "Who's going to braid my hair?" HER hair.

(Deep breath.)

Okay. Now we're at Saturday morning before the wedding. Mom and I are at her manicurist's, a little space in an office building off Michigan Avenue. My Ballet Slippers fingernails are drying, as our my pale blue toes. I'm lamenting the fact that I spent seven months trying to grow my nails for my wedding day, only to have to cut them all off to go to the mikvah. We're reading the National Enquirer's and laughing. My MIL comes in and sits between us. She wants to know if I can find her a fabric store so she can buy some "grosgrain ribbon" to put on her hat for the wedding. No, frankly, I can't. Sorry. Getting married and all.

"You know," she says. "Alex is very upset that DH has left him out of all the wedding events. He really didn't include his father at all, and I think it's just shameful."

Being the lady I am, I naturally lost my temper.

"Well FUCK Alex and you too!" I shouted. "He had every opportunity to participate in this wedding, which, may I remind you, he had no intention of even attending a few months ago because he just 'couldn't handle it.' How do you think it made DH feel to have his dad decide he didn't want to show up for his wedding? And to have his parents be so passive that they couldn't make their own fucking hotel reservations? That you didn't care about being involved enough to make your own goddamned flight [totally true, they missed their flight in]? How do you think he feels having his future father-in-law attend a Lubavitch ufruf because his own dad doesn't feel like it? And you have the raw nerve to stand there and complain about him? Let me tell you something.... in 24 hours I am marrying your son. And I won't let you say a goddamned word against him. If you don't like it, then you can fucking well leave!"

"Surprise!" My mom's best friend Carol comes in at this very instant with a big tray of hors d'ouevres and two bottles of champagne from Mitchell Cobey.

Silence, as they say, enveloped the room. My MIL, chastened, looked down and didn't speak. Carol passed out the champers and food, while I began a quiet panic. DH was going to kill me! I totally bitched out his mom -- in public -- a day before the wedding! Shit!

Well, my mom and Carol did their best to keep us separated until everyone's nails were done, and I kept a fairly low profile until that evening, when we all pretended nothing had happened. DH couldn't attend the rehearsal or dinner for fear of seeing me and having G-d's wrath strike us dead, so it was a fun party but a little weird to not have the groom with me.

It wasn't until Sunday night, hours after the wedding, that I got the chance to admit to DH that I'd verbally bitch-slapped his mom. I cowered, awaiting my punishment.

"You defended me!" he said, in wonderment.

Damn right, I did. Nobody picks on my man but me, baby.

["I Hope You Dance," LeeAnn Womack]

... I'm taking suggestions for boy names. We prefer basic, biblical-type names. My boys are Jacob and Daniel -- see a trend? I already have a secret girl name I love so I'm cool there.

["In Da Club," 50 Cent]

I can't think of anything interesting to blog while I try to test 150 open issues on our web project, so here are some snippets from Jacob's evaluation at Northwestern last week:

Dear Mr. & Mrs. JT's Family Name:
    Thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet with you and your child, Jacob, recently. I have enclosed for your review and use two copies of the Center's report detailing the results of the assessments we completed.
    The results indicate that Jacob could benefit from the special opportunities for academically talented chidlren offered at Northwestern University's Center for Talent Development. We hope Jacob will enroll in a language arts, mathematics, or science class in the Leapfrog program.
[...]
    The RAVENS (RCPM) raw score of 22 places Jacob at the 90th percentile for children in his age group. This reflects an excellent ability to reason by analogy and form comparisons. A capacity for observation and clear thinking is also suggested by his strong performance on this assessment. Jacob showed good task persistence on the test items, maintaining his concentration and attention throughout even the most difficult patterns and seemed to enjoy the challenging work. He demonstrated the ability to understand complex instructions in a difficult and novel problem-solving situation. His problem-solving skills represent a relative strength.
[...]
SUMMARY:
    Jacob ___, a 5 year 2 month old boy, was seen at the Center for Talent Development to determine his elibility for special programs offered by the Center in areas of academic enrichment. Jacob was a very cooperative, expressive, and attentive youngster who seemed to enjoy the challenge of the tasks and the novelty of the occasion. He easily separated from his parents and interacted quite well with the unfamiliar examiner.
    Results of all assessments indicate that Jacob has good potential for success in early academic areas of learning. He performed well above average (81st percentile and above) on most measures administered. Furthermore, his achievement test score in the area of Mathematics (84th percentile) reflects a grasp of material several years beyond his current placement. Jacob demonstrated a fine understanding of the world and how it works.
    Jacob is socially adept and able to hold his own in an adult conversation. [ED. "Or completely take it over."] He seemed motivated and congenial throughout the testing session, accepting the presence and directions of the examiner.

They basically go on from there to encourage us to spend lots of money on academic enrichment, blah blah blah. Okay, they don't say that. To me, the unwritten text is "keep this kid occupied or he's going to drive you completely insane. Oh, and by the way, he's already smarter than you, so you're totally fucked if you think you can stay ahead of him."

The bottom line to me is that this explains well why Jake had a tough year in preschool -- he is really smart, but wasn't really in the best environment to keep him challenged. Additionally, while he's bright, sometimes it's hard to realize that he's only just five, and therefore not as mature as his brains might indicate.

I gave my dad our completed applications for Leapfrog this weekend, and he's turning them in for us. We're really hoping Jake gets the science programs, which I think will really be exciting for him. And hopefully, this will keep him busy enough to stay emotionally stable this summer!

["Daughters," John Mayer]

It's been a bit of a stressful weekend. We had Passover beginning last night, so I'd been cooking in the evenings and then through Saturday afternoon. The problem is, the cooking smells (lots of onion in Jewish food!) did bad things to my stomach. Shortly after we began the matzah ball soup, I had to excuse myself from the dinner table, and I've been ridiculously nauseous ever since.

The facts that DH is under a good deal of stress, the kids are antsy, the weather cold again, and my MIL is staying with us do not make things easier. This afternoon, we put the kids down for naps and DH and I hid in our room, on our respective laptops. All of a sudden, we hear this... this sound. The sound of a castrated Elmer Fudd floated into our room. It was my mother-in-law, practicing something for her chorus. And, I'm really sorry to say this (DH is going to kill me), but she was really ... not good. To be charitable, she might have sounded better at full voice. We had a really hard time not laughing out loud. At one point, I'm sure DH was ready to smother me with a pillow.

I'm going to be punished for this.

On the upside, DH got my mom's Tungsten Palm yesterday (my dad got a new Axim, so my mom got his fancy PDA) so he's pretty pumped. As usual when he accompanies me to my parents' house, he ended up spending a few hours in my mom's office, getting their computers all working properly. But he did get the PDA out of it -- it was a nice pre-birthday gift for him, and he's been spending some gadgety hours getting that all set up the way he'd like.

Oh, and I did fold and put away three baskets of clean laundry that have been staring me in the face for too long. So I can tuck that guilt away where it belongs.

But my stomach is swollen and uncomfortable, and my port is sore because I had an adjustment on Friday. (With Dr. Horgan, who charmingly told me I looked beautiful and nearly reduced me to tears in the process. He's so incredibly nice.) I have a long week of testing ahead, so I'm hoping to get a good night's sleep tonight so I can get a decent start.

Hoping you all had good weekends, and wishing a good week ahead to us all....

Anyone enamored or sick of those little rubber bracelets everyone's wearing needs to head over to Jen's house right now and read her missive on them. I'm standing in line for Jacob's purple bracelet right now.

["C'Mon, C'Mon," Sheryl Crow]

Jake was a year old when I got laid off from Sherwood International. The president flew in and offered to relocate me to the Armonk, NY North American headquarters (the company was headed out of London). However, the relo package wasn't that great, and I had become disillusioned with the poor organization of the company. We in the Chicago office had been expecting the layoffs for months, and morale was really low. Additionally, I was well overdue a promotion and raise, that now I knew might never come while the company hemorraged money.

The president was really shocked and disappointed that I wouldn't relocate. But I couldn't get a raise out of him, nor placement assistance for my husband, or help getting childcare, a second car, etc. We had just moved into the townhome we'd been building for two years that fall. DH had a great job that he really loved. I lived a half-hour from my parents. Moving to Westchester County, NY wasn't really in the cards for me. They didn't want me telecommuting from home. So I took the layoff package.

Within a month of the layoff, I was in a car accident where our car was totaled and my left shoulder was badly injured. I went through physical therapy and outplacement assistance at the same time, but neither was helping much. I got pretty depressed.

Two lousy job offers later, I ended up freelancing for a nonprofit association. DH and I talked about having a baby in mostly vague terms; I flip-flopped between wanting another teeny little baby and panicking about money and security. By the spring though, I was ready to try and had gone off the Pill.

That summer I was a few weeks late for a period. I remember we were digging up our postage-stamp backyard and replacing the rocks with dirt and sod. We spent a few days hoisting bags of soil and peat over the back fence. It wasn't more than a few days later that I was hit with bad cramping. Two or three weeks later, my period resumed.

In July, DH was laid off. I began interviewing with my current company, and the entire process took me to September. On September 11th, DH and I were lying in bed, watching the news, when the 2nd plane hit the World Trade Center. Later that day, I asked him, in tears, how we could dare try to bring more children into this world. We were broke and under- or unemployed, and terrorists were attacking the United States.

"How can we afford to bring another baby into this world?" I cried.

"Having a baby is the only thing we can afford to do," he said. "This is exactly what we should do."

Comforted, I turned next to the OB-GYN. I was worried, rightfully so, about being off the Pill for so long. The doc immediately got me in to see Dr. Confino, Chicago's top reproductive endocrinologist. He did an initial workup on me, and tested both DH and me for infertility. I had the brief but incredibly painful HSG test done, but it was okay. Dr. Confino advised us to try three cycles of IUI -- intrauterine insemination -- with cycles of Clomid to help me out a little. My hormones were all screwed up, basically, and he doubted that I'd be able to carry a pregnancy without a little help. We'd try IUI first, as the least invasive and least expensive option, and then he'd graduate us to IVF if necessary later in the year.

On my retail salary and the freelance work DH got, we got up the nerve and had me "implanted" on a quiet Saturday morning. Two weeks later, the tests came back as succesful -- practically a miracle.

It was the hardest pregnancy I could imagine. We were financially stressed all the time, Jacob was having speech delays, and I had a shockingly difficult case of hyperemesis gravidum, resulting in me puking three times a day and losing 12 pounds by my fourth month. After six weeks of bed rest, I was allowed to go back to work.

Daniel Louis was born at 36 weeks, after three days of intermittent labor,  a double epidural, an internal fetal monitor and a brief scare of possible fetal shock. Forty-five minutes before the doctor was going to go in and do an emergency C-section, I suddenly felt like pushing. The next thing I knew, this perfect replica of Jacob was swaddled on my chest and the pain and exhaustion were merely a memory.

Other faithful Flea readers will be shocked and appalled at Tuesday's entry. In short, our good friend from One Good Thing hasn't had enough crap to deal with; she also has the benefit of living in a suburb where her next-door-neighbor apparently has all the charm of Gladys Kravitz crossed with David Duke.

My response in the comments:
Dear Tightass Neighbor,
    You suck. Whatever you think of the delightful Flea, she is a terrific writer, a great mother, and the kind of person every woman deserves to have as a friend.
    Her child walked shyly into my home on Sunday, played BEAUTIFULLY with my children and others, and was nothing but sweet and respectful in the presence of a very highly ranked upper management professional from my office.
    Now, I personally not only wouldn't live in your particular Suburban Heck. In fact, I even turned down a job that would have required me to work there. And not just because only four Jews are allowed there at any given time. But you have no right to limit who lives next door to you. You do have the right to limit the exposure of your children to other people, but beware of what monster you create in perpetrating your small-mindedness.
    Do yourself a favor. Re-read "Green Eggs and Ham," and think about your behavior. Sometimes you have to force yourself to try something you think may be truly repugnant, to find that it's not only tasty, but good for you, too. 
   Sincere ly,
   JT
   (A.K.A. The Future Scourge of Evanston)

["Sunrise," Norah Jones]

Well, maybe not really big.

Jake had his evaluation at Northwestern today. He was tested by a guy at the Center for Talent Development, while DH and I filled out forms and kept Danny from climbing the walls (we couldn't be in the room while he was tested). Maybe 40 minutes or so after it started, Jacob bounded out of the room, and DH and I took his place opposite the tester.

I admit I was a bit nervous. My kid is not shy at all, so I didn't worry so much about him interacting with the tester. He is not afraid of adults, especially once he's been introduced by someone he trusts. But this would be the first time we'd get an outside opinion either confirming our beliefs that this kid is wicked-smart, or basically telling us "nice enough kid, but prepare him for asking people if they want fries with that."

Please don't think I'm bragging here... it's just kind of cool to me. Jake was tested high enough that they are not requiring any additional references or supporting material to admit him to the program. He has been invited to apply for any classes he wants. He got the "Goodenough" test, the Peabody, the Ravens, and something else. They basically checked at what level he can read, write, recognize and use numbers for math stuff, and perform analytical tasks. For reading, he's in the 81st percentile, math the 84th, and for analytical thinking, the 90th! They provided him with puzzles that had missing pieces, and he was supposed to figure out what was missing or something. The tester seemed incredibly impressed with this score.

Anyway, we're going to apply for the science programs, which I think Jake would really enjoy. They do life sciences (ie the body), applied (friction, gravity, etc) and earth sciences (planets, stuff like that). Our backup choice will be the math track. Basically, you choose which programs you want your child to attend, and he/she does one class at a time for a week. There are three weeks total offered.

It's like geek summer camp. But it's at Northwestern University -- what a great place to start, eh? And my dad, Grumpa, will be able to pick Jake up at the end of the program each day and let him hang out in his office until it's time to go home. I know Jake would love that, too. My dad is an assistant dean at NWU, and because he's in multimedia, his office is rife with cameras, computers, games, etc. It's a great place for a gadget-oriented kid to grok out.

Oh, and postscript--- we decided on an apartment. But I've yakked so much about the Great Shmoo that I'll have to save the apartment for another day.

Barbara Walters of 20/20 did a story on gender roles in Kabul several years before the Afgan conflict. She noted that women customarily walked about five paces behind their husbands.

She returned to Kabul recently and observed that women still walk behind
their husbands, but now seem to walk even further back and are happy with the old custom.

Ms. Walters approached one of the Afghani women and asked, "Why do you now seem happy with the old custom that you used to try to change?"

"Land mines," said the woman.

MORAL: BEHIND EVERY MAN IS A SMART WOMAN.

...is the matter with me? One week, I'm a blogging maniac; I can't stop writing no matter how much you people bribe me. (I'm still waiting for the checks you promised, BTW). Now I'm blank. Usually things just come to me, to the point where I have actually pulled over to the side of the road and blurbed something in shaky motor-influenced handrwriting on the back of a receipt so I don't forget it when I get to my destination's computer.

Now? Nada. Sorry. To tide you over, here is a fun link: The Gallery of the Horrors, presented to you by The Manolo. (Via the lovely and talented Flea.)

["Not Plannin' on Leavin," Mike Ruekberg]

My gal Wendy McClure has a great rant on her blog about this article on Salon.com, discussing the new-ish "hipper" clothing store Torrid, which specializes in plus-sized clothes for teens and young women. The article, and others like it, try to say that fat acceptance (or, at least, a lessening in prejudice) will lead to more obesity.

"I like to believe that not every pair of plus-size jeans worn today will lead to a colostomy bag worn later in life..." Wendy says in her comments. Amen, sistah. I didn't grow up plus-sized (though I certainly was made to feel like anything over a size 8 was mammoth), and now I am. Through lap-band surgery, exercise and careful eating, I've gone from a 26 to an 18, and still have a ways to go.

And, despite all the evil journos' warnings (let's see how freakin' healthy they are), my heart, blood pressure, blood sugar and everything else are strong as hell. During my first pregnancy, a physical therapist told me she'd never seen a non-body-building woman with my upper body strength.

What has my journey so far taught me? That being able to enjoy shopping for and wearing fashionable clothes as I lost weight spurred me to greater heights of motivation. Now, I exercise more because I take pride in how good I feel, and how much more I enjoy picking out my clothes. I love going shopping now, and having total strangers admire how something fits, or pick out something that they saw me wear (how flattering is that?). I'm so glad I'm not hiding when I try on clothes -- I'm actually willing to check myself out in the three-way mirror to make sure I like an outfit.

A 16-yr-old Vegas girl is quoted in the article as getting "weird look[s]" when she asks for larger sizes, which totally reminded me of being pregnant with Jacob. I had gone into Mimi Maternity at the Old Orchard shopping center to try and find a nice maternity dress for a wedding. The salesperson took one look at me (as though a person entirely covered in dogshit was standing there instead of a 5-months-pregnant city gal), and said "we can't help you here. We only sell clothes for about size 10 and smaller."

The anger and humiliation were less for what she said, and more about how she said it. I spent my pregnancy commuting two hours each way to Orland Park every month so I could get a few plus-sized smocks at Motherhood there. It was frustrating and awful to spend my pregnancy thinking about being fat instead of thinking about being a mom.

And you know what? During my second pregnancy, I was diagnosed with serious hyperemesis in my fourth month. I was throwing up several times a day, to the point where I started losing weight (which, in your second trimester, can be really dangerous). I was basically on bedrest for about five weeks while the docs tried to get me stabilized on a medication to help me be able to eat, and while I tried to gain back some strength. Know what my OB-GYN told me? If I hadn't been overweight when I got pregant in the first place, she'd have had to hospitalize me. Even worse, I could have lost the baby.

Once in a while, we fat gals can win, after all.

From my mom, which means probably everyone on the planet has read it by now:

Bush is my shepherd, I shall be in want.
He maketh me to lie down on park benches.
He leadeth me beside the still factories.
He restoreth my doubts about the Republican Party.
He leadeth me onto the paths of unemployment for his cronies' sake. Yea, though no weapons of mass destruction have been found, He maketh me continue to fear Evil.
His tax cuts for the rich and his deficit spending discomfort me.
He anointest me with never-ending debt: Verily my days of savings and assets are kaput.
Surely poverty and hard living shall follow me all the days of his administration, And my jobless child shall dwell in my basement forever.

Get free stuff!* Vote for JT for featured blog!


*"Free stuff" may or may not include any of the following: iPods, Lexi, movie posters, empty envelopes, and/or good vibes. JT and her representative(s) have the final choice over free stuff given. Estimated value of free stuff: Free.

There was a focus group thing at the PTA meeting last night that ran long, so by the time I was able to scoop up the boys it was after 6:30 -- which is usually when they're brushing their teeth. I decided McDonald's could cook; as a treat for them, an easy out for me, and a way to get closer to bedtime as quickly as possible. Still, the boys weren't tucked in until almost 7:45.

I had my own dinner and watched the end of "Strictly Ballroom" again (one of my all-time faves) before hearing Danny's cry. When I went in, he was completely melted in tears from some unseen ghost or hurt. He quietly begged me for snuggles... meaning he wanted me to whisk him off to Big Bed for isolated Mommy time. However, Jake was still up, so that would be cruel. Then Jake asked me if I'd stay with him until he went to sleep. It was so unusual (he's such a Daddy's boy in so many ways) that I decided to gather up my brood and bring them to bed with me.

I shut off the TV, lowered the lights, and settled in the middle of the bed with Jakey on my right and Danny on my left. I listened to them breathe and drank in their little-boy smells until Jacob said: "Mommy? I want you to live forever and ever."

"What, Jake?"
"I want you to live forever. I want you to never die."

Wow. Unlike better parents, I couldn't get into the whole thing about having to die someday. I know Jake, and I know he'd glom onto the concept and wonder (aloud, mind you) about the very second I would leave this world. So I wimped out and said:

"Me too, Jakey."

Jacob then wanted to know all sorts of things about death -- what do you do, what do you think, where are you... all kinds of questions I couldn't well answer. I told him that some people believed in a place where, when you die, you get to be with all the people and things you loved and lost while you were alive. I told him that to some people, dying was like being asleep with no dreams, and that it was even called "The Big Sleep" sometimes.

I don't know why my kid was thinking about death; he didn't relate it to anything else. But I was so touched by him. I know I drive him nuts because, as he would say, I'm "so bossy" and I have "too many rules." But my boy wants me to live forever. I must be doing something right.

["Clean Getaway," Caviar]

I listen to Howard Stern on my way to work every morning. Blame it on DH, who sort of made me listen through my objections and realize that the guy is really funny. I also really like Fred and Artie (the latter, by the way, kicks Jackie Martling's lame ass six ways from Sunday).

Anyway, Howard has this posse of idiots he regularly calls or has call in to discuss all sorts of things. This morning, he called Shirley, who has (among others) a website called "G-d Hates Fags," to which I can't link because I don't want to type that crap into my browser at work to make sure it's right.

Shirley believes that the Pope is burning in hell, for perpetuating the "peed-ophile machine" that she says is the Catholic church. I personally have no opinion on the Pope either way, but this is pretty inflammatory stuff. When Howard or a caller would disagree with them, she'd get all crazy and lamely argue with them, calling them "You big dummy!"

Howard really pissed her off by asking her about whether she was a virgin until she was married, etc. The guys tested her by trying to get her to say who actually made it to Heaven...the only person she could testify to being there was Abraham "of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob."

The whole conversation was funny but really sick. Off the phone, Howard called Shirley "broken," which pretty much describes it. You can almost admire someone for having such passion for what they believe, but how could you spend your life judging everyone else and finding them wanting? Okay, I'm pretty judgemental myself, but not that vocal about it -- I might bitch to my mom or a friend or to DH (who hates it), but I'm certainly not standing on a street corner with a poster of the Pope burning in hell just a few days after the man died. And just because someone prays to G-d differently (or a different G-d, or doesn't pray at all) doesn't mean they're any better or worse a person than I.

["My Stupid Mouth," John Mayer]

Here's how my inbox greeted me this morning:

Little did I know that this was all I needed for peace of mind. I feel better already.

7. How can I get my hands on a Google Gulp?
This 'limited release' beta product is available to anyone who turns in a used Google Gulp bottle cap at any local retailer. If you don't have any Gulp caps, ask a friend to give you one.

8. What if none of my friends have a Gulp cap to give me? Can't you just give Google Gulp to anyone who wants it?
Well, we're thinking about it, but, um, you have to understand that there are many considerations which go into deciding how to distribute --

9. I mean, isn't this whole invite-only thing kind of bogus?
Dude, it's like you've never even heard of viral marketing.

And: