Kisa's Smack-Upside-the-Head Parenting Tips: #3,892,457

A cyberfriend recently asked for parenting wisdom, and in answering her plea, I was reminded of a recent event at a friend's child's birthday party. Said event illustrates what not to do.

The players: Toddler, almost 3. Father, mwah, let's say mid-forties.

Toddler, entranced by mini-weenies on food tray, takes one. And another. Then a fistful. Father emerges from adult conversation long enough to say "No! That's enough! Last one!" Toddler wanders off, mouth full of mini-weenie.

Approximately one minute later. Toddler approaches food tray. Takes mini-weenie. Looks expectantly at Father, who snaps his head around and says, "Last one! Last one!" Toddler wanders off.

Repeat paragraph two for, oh, an hour or so. (Yes, it's a wonder Toddler didn't vomit, but that's not the point.)

This story does not indicate a naughty Toddler who won't listen. It indicates a Father who's teaching his young, budding conversationalist that "Last one!" means "Sure, son, have another one!" I kid you not. They don't pop out of the chute innately knowing what words mean.

Seafood Punch, Let Me Kiss You, Darling

Because this talented artist just made my day. Week. Decade.

Let me just give you the first sentence: 

It’s amazing how a thick layer of fat transforms the most hideous, gangly animal into something you can’t resist hugging.

And another one, halfway down:

On the other hand, skinny, decrepit animals-like Nicole Richie writhing snakes, Lindsay Lohan sick hyenas or Keira Knightley spindly legged insects, leave much to be desired.

(Well, Seafood Punch stuck to animals ... you have me to thank for the insightful human examples.)

On the bodily lipids front, I've actually lost 1.8 kilos (4 pounds!) since I stopped snarfing chocolate by the boxful. Only been on the exercise bike twice (I know, I know) and haven't changed anything else (meaning three nightly wee glasses of port and the occasional entire bag of prawn crackers are still fair game).

But I'm still plenty round enough for hugging. (Cute moo eyes go here.) I'm not aiming for freaky thinness, anyway. As Frank Zappa said,

The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin'.

And Frank, as we all know, was a genius. (No sarcasm here--he really was.)

Vacuous Marketing (Now That I'm Back from the Dead)

Some nasty little diarrheafest germ passed through our household, felling me on Thursday and the rest of the family on Friday. The Hubster got to use the emergency frozen pizzas for dinner on Thursday, leaving me to actually cook on Friday; since I was the only one up to eating, this was not the major chore it could have been.

Spending the entire day with a really, really cranky, whiny, teething baby, however, was übermajor. 

Everyone except Divagirl Eight is back in the saddle, which sucks robin's eggs for her because she has a birthday party to attend today. (And she was the only sickling unfortunate enough to spew out the top exit and not just the bottom one.) Here's hoping she'll be better in three hours--make that two; I'm not sending her to a party with vomit in her hair. Her butt-length hair. Yes, it's a much-dreaded, fiercely avoided Hair Washing and Braiding Day.

Which nicely segues into today's vacuous marketing slogan, spotted on our dandruff shampoo:

Active from the first wash ... whereas other dandruff shampoos wait to see if you'll stick with it first?

Reason #257 Why Our Upcoming Move Rocks

I am writing to you, dear reader, on my new MacBook. Not the new MacBook from early December; the new MacBook from this morning. For my old new MacBook got stolen last night.

In recent weeks, someone has been sneaking into neighborhood homes in the early evening for a speed-steal. Banking on unlocked doors and laxer security measures when people come home for the day, he's watched and waited until family members are all momentarily out of the room to rush in, swipe the most expensive electronic device or the handbag draped over a chair, and rush out, leaving only a door banging in his wake.

Last night, the kids were asleep and The Hubster was upstairs working. I was sprawled in front of the boob tube. I had three minutes to go before my film came on. Health had won out over laziness after a twenty-minute battle, and I dashed upstairs to grab my exercise clothes.

A major BOOM. In a split second I went from "that can't possibly be one of the kids falling out of bed" to "oh, SHIT." I ran downstairs, yelling "HEY!" on my way down in hope of scaring the intruder away before he got his hands on anything. Less than fifteen seconds after the BOOM, I was in my living room, staring at a door banging in the wind, and an empty spot on the kitchen table where my MacBook had been.

Despite the police bulletins and letters from school, I hadn't remotely dreamed we'd be hit. Our doors were locked. The BOOM was the ripping of the back door deadbolt right through the wooden frame. Holy shit.

The creepy part is that someone (someone big and really, really strong, with balls the size of Kansas) stood in my back yard, watching me watch TV until I gave him his window of opportunity. How long did he stand there? How many nights in a row?

Our insurance will most likely reimburse the full cost of the old laptop; I lost two weeks' translation work, but not much else, since the MacBook was so new. The intruder left behind the external hard drive containing the past three years' work and our family photos, nicely gift-wrapped for him with attached power cord beside the MacBook on the kitchen table; perhaps my staircase yell is to thank for that. No one got hurt. It could have been so much worse. In so many ways. Even an event like this gives me pause for thanks.

Though I'd still like to kick the sommabitch in the balls if they ever find him. And then chop off both his pinkies.

My View Rocks, Your View Sucks, and Your Mama Wears Combat Boots on Her Face

I looked up the term "religious apologetic" because it sounded to me like "apologize," you know, as in "I'm so sorry I'm religious" or "I'm so sorry my religion keeps bashing you on the head." Turns out "apologetic" in this sense means "rabid fundamentalist":

Christian apologetics is a field of Christian theology that aims to present a rational basis for the Christian faith, defend the faith against objections, and expose the perceived flaws of other world views.

(The rabid part is in that "expose the perceived flaws" bit.) By this definition, there are scientific apologetics as well. Try this on for size:

Scientific apologetics is a field of scientific thought that aims to present a rational basis for scientific theories, defend the theories against objections, and expose the perceived flaws of other world views.

Now, I think science is all that, and I don't believe in God or a creator or karma or reincarnation or pixies or Mother Nature. I do believe there may be things science doesn't yet explain; maybe some people really do see auras, and maybe there is some aspect of our physical being that lives on after most of it dies, and maybe some people can see what we consider the future. Just because we can't explain it now doesn't mean (a) it can't be true or (b) external intelligence is required.

But just because the scientific world view and its associated methodologies ring true for me doesn't mean other world views are invalid. Even if alternate explanations of the universe don't meet Occam's razor and fail to have useful predictive value, why should it bother me if they resonate more soundly for someone else? Why do we care whether other people believe just what we believe?

And why are religion and science always viewed as opposites? They seem to me to be the same creature: a way of explaining how things happen and why we and the world around us exist. Intolerance is the world's scourge, not religion.

Do That One More Time, and I'll Smite Your Ass to Kingdom Come

From freethunk.net, this comic perfectly illustrates one of the many reasons why God-as-divine-entity doesn't work for me. This at turns compassionate, at turns wrathful deity seems pretty human. Not that there's anything wrong with being human; just, what's to worship?

If we do have a creator--and we may well have one; who knows?--I'm betting he's a research biologist in his own universe. I wrote a story sketch about this once. We're an experiment. Our universe is his terrarium, and we're his artificial intelligence, his robot race. He's just a regular old run-of-the-mill whatever-he-is. No doubt with his own creator. Again, what's to worship?

Which brings me to another point where Western religion doesn't satisfy. As an explanation for why things exist, it fails just the way science fails. Shazam! Jehovah creates our universe. Boom! The Big Bang creates our universe. Either way, what created them? And once you've asked that question, you realize you'll never, ever, ever get a definitive, the-buck-stops-here answer. The question is unanswerable, at least in terms our Western minds can wrap themselves around.

This doesn't invalidate Judeo-Christian religion (or science) as an explanation of how things work, of course. It just levels the playing field. If religion could totally, ultimately explain the nature of existence, where science can't, well, shoot, I'd sign up for that. But religion doesn't explain any more than science does, leaving the two on equal footing in that regard. The big difference is that religion doesn't seem to be interested in exploring the unanswerable question. At least, I've never heard Jews or Christians contemplate where God came from, and who created Him. Since it doesn't make sense to me to accept that we have a creator but our creator does not, religion is not my cosmological theory of choice.

Sexual Spamphemisms

My spam filter weeds out most of the mail I receive from terminally ill Nigerian v!*gr@ junkies before I see it, but I check through my litterbox daily to make sure no babies get tossed with the bathwater.

That's a job that's become downright entertaining the past few days. For, dear reader, how many ways can you say "stick your penis in her vagina"? Hmmm? How about:

Put your sword in her scabbard

Push your banger inside lady

Drive your love torpedo into her tanker

Ram your Peter the Great into her love hole

Push your hoo ha dilly up her cha cha cha

Explode your love bomb in her blast chamber

Slide your pipe down her drain

Pump your gas to her engine

Put your willy in her nilly

and my personal favorite, if only because it makes no physical sense at all:

Slide your doughnut in her oven

What man wants his pecker referred to as a doughnut?

What's God Got to Do with It? Nothing, Thankfully

While the inauguration of America's first black president moved me to tears (and to watching an inauguration for the first time ever), it wasn't all giddy and rose-colored. 

There was prayer. Christian prayer. What about the Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Wiccans, and others across this First-Amendment nation?

Then there were the sticky words in the presidential oath itself: "so help me God." And the hand-on-the-Bible thing. What about atheist Americans? Could none of us ever be president? More importantly, how is all this separation of church and state?

I'm delighted to report that neither the prayer nor the sticky words and Bible are required at a presidential inauguration.

Wikipedia reports that the "so help me God" at the end of the oath is not part of the oath proper, but rather a personal addition the President is entitled to make. By that token, I could add "so help me Richard Dawkins" or "unless we get swallowed by a black hole" or "until the Borg come to get us" at the end of my inaugural oath. 

Most presidents have used the Bible by the swearing in, but John Quincy Adams swore on a book of law. Theodore Roosevelt didn't use any book at all. 

The question thus becomes, to what extent may a government official incorporate his or her personal beliefs into a public ceremony?

On one hand, we could argue "to no extent": whether you believe in evolution or creation, Zeus and Hera or Isis and Osiris, that has no place in your life of public service. It's irrelevant. While I wholeheartedly agree with the irrelevancy part, I would also argue that freedom and liberty include the right to express all aspects of oneself. I abhor the notion that tolerance means "not stepping on anyone's toes." No, dears, that would be censorship.

Being sworn in as the elected leader of a nation is undeniably a really big day in one's life, no? I'd say there's room there for some personal expression. If the new president may choose which poem to be read, which music to be played, surely he or she may also choose a personally meaningful phrase to add to the oath, and a personally meaningful recitation to be said.

So let's work, not on removing these personal elements from the presidential inauguration, but making it clear that they're personal.

Making History

Thirty years ago, I couldn't invite both DeeDee and Yvette to my birthday party. My father explained that DeeDee's father would come over with a shotgun if Yvette was there. The choice was mine, and I chose Yvette. Which is a testament to how far things can come in a single generation, because my parents were the children of N-word-maternal-grandfather and that-nice-colored-boy-paternal grandmother. I love my parents deeply for transcending their racist upbringing and giving me a real shot at color blindness.

When my father graduated high school, segregation was still in force. And now a man of my generation, a man whose father would not have attended school with my father, would not have eaten at the same restaurants, would not have watched films in the same movie theaters, is president of my homeland.

Apathopolitical me watched the presidential inauguration for the first time ever. I cried before it even got started. I am incredibly moved and relieved and optimistic for the world and the universe at large that this day has arrived.

I so, so, SO hope that he doesn't get shot. I can't help worrying about it. He has Kennedy's charisma, he rides the wind of change, and he's black. Backwards redneck idiots with guns all over the US will be frothing at the mouth over this turn of events. If he weren't already dead, my maternal grandfather would have worked himself up to a lethal heart attack today. 

Let us hope the rest of America's got Obama's back. 

Party Pooper Blues

The people who bought our house are stopping by tomorrow evening with the person who will be installing their new heater. I don't give a hoo-hoo about the heater guy, but it seems wise not to expose the new owners to an entropy art installation in the home they haven't yet closed on. So I'm going to have to clean up. And not just shove-stuff-in-a-closet clean up, but vacuum-behind-the-washing-machine clean up. Mop-the-floor clean up. Why can't they just send the heater guy all in his lonesome?

And my scale is showing me heretofore unseen numbers. This is not surprising, as my pants are showing me heretofore unseen resistance to zipping and snapping, but it is alarming. Oh, let's be honest: it's terrifying. I mean, I know I'm still in the two-year baby-fat window, but this is the worst it's ever been. In another fourteen months I could be the fat guy eating the mint in that Monty Python skit!

It's time to renew my relationship with my exercise bike. We had a little falling out around Christmas, when it got mad that it couldn't go with to the grandparents', which resulted in its giving me the cold shoulder, and I got all huffy and the bike got all huffy and we've just had our backs to each other, arms crossed, brows furrowed ever since. But tonight I'll apologize, sincerely and contritely, and then I'll pedal myself into a sweat for 45 minutes, which had better well result in some kilo droppage, sonny!

I haven't even had chocolate in, like, two days. TWO DAYS. I did just snarf down a package of sugar snap peas, though. Tasty. But not chocolate. 

Entropy Art

Thanks to an old high-school friend, I now have a new term for the horrendously messy state of my house. This term plays right into my resolution to do less housework, and it makes me feel like I rock, too.

It isn't lazy housekeeping. It's art. For I am an entropy artist. And, as you will see if you ever visit my home, I am an entropy master. I have entropy down cold. I channel entropy.

Entropy art is beautiful. And easy. It creates itself, really. And it's ubermodern, ultrahip, ongoing performance art: never the same from hour to hour. Always riveting. And always there. This is one exhibition that never shuts down, baby.

Just What the Dictator Ordered

Dutchmarbel alerted me to the new Playmobil security checkpoint toy on her blog (which is in Dutch, hence the re-lerting here).

The thing itself is a sad commentary on modern America, but the buyer comments make it absolutely fabulous reading.

Pansy Perkins and Bed Lizards Online!

Not a band. Not a horror movie. Just two of my works-in-progress, now with their own blogs.

Pansy Perkins novel online
Bed Lizards novel online

I've uploaded the first several chapters of each. More will follow ... as I write them. :-)

Come, Come, Be My Facebook Fanboy

I've got a Facebook Page! If you're on Facebook, please drop by and add yourself as a fan. It won't do much for you, but I hope it will help spread the word about my writing.

Kisa's Facebook Fan Page ... let the adulation begin

That Nice Colored Monkey, or Growing Up Southern

I was reading back issues of a cyberfriend's blog, and came across a passage where my friend's father refers to "that colored gal who used to work for us." (My friend's husband is black, and was present at the time. Oops.)

His dad's "colored" remark is typical of earlier Southern generations. It may get your dander up, but let me assure you, my friend is lucky his dad's "that kind" of old folk. The please-let-me-evaporate-now mortification is much worse when, say, your maternal grandfather launches into his "white monkeys / black monkeys" monologue. Trust me.

My maternal grandfather was a puzzle to me. He was a kind and generous man, if outspoken and opinionated. He would stop and help anyone--black or white--who needed it. He routinely took in needy stray dogs. He was gentle and funny with us grandchildren. I loved him.

But as I aged, I became aware of his racist beliefs, and they chafed. He threw me out of his house once, when I was fifteen, for disagreeing with him. That was the last time I engaged him in meaningful conversation; after that, I joined my mother, father, and every other sane adult who spent time with him, in just listening quietly for a few minutes before finding a reason to leave the room. ("Tricky bladder. Gotta go!")

If my maternal grandfather was a vocal racist, my paternal grandmother was a thoughtless one. Someone who just grew up with segregation and never thought much about it one way or another. She used to call the 40-year-old black man who took care of her yard "that nice colored boy." She didn't mean it badly (in contrast to my N-word-using maternal grandfather). She was no oppressor, but she wasn't an agent of change, either.

I carry the legacy of being a Southern girl around with me everywhere. Its tendrils even reach me here in Holland. For a while, we had a client of my husband's company over for dinner whenever he was in town. The first time Joe walked in, I felt my heritage looming up. Decided not to say I came from the South, lest this educated black man from New Jersey immediately judge me to be some dumb, prissy, racist white girl.

It only got worse when my Dutch husband, fuzzy on the finer points of the gaping Mason-Dixon chasm that is the American past, helpfully divulged my North Carolina roots. Joe chimed in with a charming anecdote about the backwards state of life in South Carolina, where his grandparents now live. How he felt the stares of the coon-huntin' locals bore into his ebony back. How he couldn't wait to get out of the cesspool of inbred racism and back to sanity.

Well, he didn't say it quite like that, but I figured that's what he meant.

Once the damage was done, I figured the only way to redeem myself, the evening, and my husband's business relationship was to point out exactly how non-racist I was. I did this by describing my grandfather. (Some readers will recognize the onset of Poorly Timed, Sadly Unfortunate Verbal Diarrhea.) And then my grandmother. And then showing Joe the pictures of both, hanging on our family photo wall in the downstairs bathroom. Yeah.

Fortunately, Joe seemed to understand what I was so desperately trying to convey, and the evening was long and enjoyable. Though I don't think he went to the restroom even once.

My Baby's Gone Blues

Actually, it ain't the blues.

What's the opposite of the blues? Merriam-Webster can only give me synonyms in the online thesaurus (which is pretty pessimistic, if you ask me).

How about glee?

Yes, I have the My Baby's Gone Glee. Ba-TUH-tuh-tah-TUMP.

And by baby, I mean the actual baby. Not my sexy-other-half baby, though that one's gone, too. No glee there.

Don't get me wrong. I love the baby to death. No, wait. Let me rephrase. I think he's wonderful. I really do. He's sweet and cuddly and smart and funny and a good sleeper and basically a perfect baby. It's just that he's ... a baby.

Here's what I've been up to since he's off being loved to tatters by his grandparents:

Unloading the dishwasher in one straight go.
Peeing without company.
Folding each piece of laundry just once.
Leaving things on the floor. Small, sharp things that could choke you.

Yep. It's been one madly wild and woolly week.

Hey, at least I'm not here writing the Cocaine Habit Blues. Or the Whiskey Bottle Blues. Or the Oh Lord, When My Other Baby Comin' Home Blues. Or the Jesus Mary and Joseph, Just Shoot Me Now Blues.

Of course, the baby comes home tomorrow, and my other baby don't come home till Thursday night, so there's still time.

1313 Quotes

The first quote here--one might call it a metaquote--is this gem:

A quotation at the right moment is like bread to the famished.  (Anonymous)

I find I agree with nearly all of them (up to one hundred; it'll take days to get through them all). Here, a first sampling of particular favorites.

If you are not free to choose wrongly and irresponsibly, you are not free at all. – Jacob Hornberger (1995)

There is no worse tyranny than to force a man to pay for what he does not want merely because you think it would be good for him. – Robert Heinlein

The triumph of persuasion over force is the sign of a civilized society. – Mark Skousen

Democracy must be something more than two wolves and a sheep voting on what to have for dinner. – James Bovard (1994)

Where morality is present, laws are unnecessary. Without morality, laws are unenforceable. – Anonymous

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. – C. S. Lewis

Vices are simply the errors which a man makes in his search after his own happiness. Unlike crimes, they imply no malice toward others, and no interference with their persons or property. – Lysander Spooner

The legitimate powers of government extend to such acts only as are injurious to others. But it does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods, or no god. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg. – Thomas Jefferson (1781)

It is not the responsibility of the government or the legal system to protect a citizen from himself. – Justice Casey Percell

No drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society. If we're looking for the sources of our troubles, we shouldn't test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed, and love of power. – P. J. O'Rourke (1992)

Thoreau's Drummer

I'm generally an impressively apolitical creature--it may be more accurate to say apathopolitical--but, from time to time, I ponder what, exactly, my political views are. (These bouts are often set off by a "fill in your profile" form somewhere.)

I was never in danger of becoming right-wing in any flavor; I value social diversity too highly. So I figured I was left-wing. A Democrat. But it never fully resonated. In fact, it started to chafe when my father, a lifelong registered Republican, answered my question why he wasn't a Democrat. (He occasionally voted for Democrats; I was confused.)

He said helping the poor and needy is a good thing, but it shouldn't be a government task. It should be left to private individuals with the means and the drive to help. Why? Because if you give the government a hundred dollars to feed the poor, ninety-nine of them will be wasted on filing forms and stamping releases and paying staff members, and only one will make it to the food banks. So give your hundred dollars, one at a time, to homeless people, and you accomplish a hundredfold more.

This resonated. Capital R resonated. And so I found myself neither Democrat nor Republican. I guessed I was an Independent. But that's not a principle; it's a catch-all category.

Years later, I was introduced to the term Libertarian. In it, I recognized my father's explanation. I understood why he sometimes voted within his party, sometimes against. And if you ask me today, that's what I'll tell you I am.

Of course, Libertarians argue amongst themselves about what it really means to be one, and there are streams and schools of thought and genres, just as in any complex ideology. I don't claim to be an expert; I don't pretend to have considered every aspect of life to see how Libertarianism fits in. I'm expressing what it means to me, today.

"Libertarians are committed to the belief ... that individuals have rights against certain kinds of forcible interference on the part of others ..."

We are all entitled, as human beings, to live the lives that fulfill us, as long as our actions don't rob others of the same right. Gay marriage is not "forcible interference"; gay bashing is. Believing in God is not "forcible interference"; waging an Inquisition is. Marching in a Ku Klux Klan parade is not; burning crosses on a black man's lawn is. Demonstrating against an abortion clinic is not; bombing one is.

"... that liberty, understood as non-interference, is the only thing that can be legitimately demanded of others as a matter of legal or political right ..."

The only laws a government should make are those preserving the right to individual liberty. Morality laws are the antithesis of liberty.

This means that not only are marrying your gay partner, being a devout Christian, and peacably expressing your personal dislike of blacks or abortion not "forcible interference"; laws that prohibit, curtail, or pigeonhole them in any way are. (For the record, I share none of these four qualities.)

"... that the only proper use of coercion is defensive"

Unfortunately, some people do great violence to liberty, and fighting back is sometimes the only way to protect others' right to live freely, without interference. There are circumstances that justify killing; incarceration; even war. Adolf Hitler and Jeffrey Dahmer embody two such situations.

Communities work best when small

I don't know if this is considered a Libertarian tenet, but I believe that small communities are the only kind that can embody the values above. Over a certain threshhold, you lose the intimacy of knowing your peers; of caring about those around you; of knowing who's a rotten apple and who's a good egg--which I think is far more useful in deciding whether Johnny raped Sally or Sally is telling tall tales than is a parade of evidence and persuasive talk from lawyers.

When communities grow too large, even the minimal government espoused by Libertarian views grows unwieldy, needing paperwork and rules about paperwork, drowning in inefficiency.

Diversity is a source of beauty and meaning

This has been a core belief of mine since I was too little to speak, and it's a large part of why I embrace Libertarian values. It underlies my choice of post title. And it makes this a good place to say, I welcome your thoughts. (Be warned: nastiness and name-calling won't make it past comment moderation. That's not authoritarianism; that's because people who can't make their point without it bore me.)

All quotes are from the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

If You Imagine It, They Will Come

Naturally, you, just as I, now type wetriffs.com into your address bar.

And, thank god, it is indeed owned by the xkcd guy. (I know you share my relief. Snort snort snark.)

And it's great! 

It's so grass-roots, I consider submitting my own photo. Briefly. 

This is where you thank me for my restraint.

Then hit me over the head for the cheesy post title.

Is It the 21st Century Already?

I lost my social virginity yesterday. I joined Digg and Stumble. (I know, I know. Just enjoy your feeling of smug superiority.) As if I needed yet another way to spend countless hours on the Internet.

I started Digging and Stumbling because I joined BlogCatalog the day before, and then this really funny guy named DeadRooster (well, you know, not in real life) linked to his latest post. I had to Digg that, baby. Had to.

And now I've got Digg recommending to me, and Stumble recommending to me, and I just may never get anything else done again, ever. Good thing I resolved to do less housework this year.

Stinky Poo Blues

There's nothing like the gleaming, pristine, white goodness of snow to highlight the worst flaw in the Dutch character. This flaw is embodied by dog poo. In the playground. Along walking paths. In front of schools. This flaw is why people in Holland don't smile at each other when they pass: their heads are perennially down, scanning for poo.

I usually mutter something about natural selection and extinction when I see poorly placed dog feces, but let's face it: breeding is really, really easy (surprisingly easy, as in surprise! despite your best birth control efforts, here comes number four! --but I digress), which means the kind of idiot who can't comprehend that he himself may step in his own dog's excrement tomorrow when he walks this very same path, is the kind who'll be doing a lot of procreating. 

I have two fantasy solutions to this issue. (The dog poo issue, not the procreating of idiots.)

Fantasy Dog Poo Solution A

You're walking in the park. You see a schnauzer lay a big steaming pile of poo. His braindead owner leaves it there and wanders on. You put on the plastic glove you carry for just this kind of moment, deposit the poo in the plastic bag you carry for just this kind of moment, and stroll nonchalantly behind Le Dipwad until he enters his home. 

With luck, this will be before the poo has even cooled. 

You open the plastic bag and pour its contents through the mail slot in the door, along with the note you carry around for just this kind of moment: "You seem to have forgotten this."

Fantasy Dog Poo Solution B

You're walking in the park. Pile of poo, plastic bag, nonchalant strolling. 

This time, you have your toddler with you. Conveniently, your toddler has what is politely termed a full diaper.

As Dipwad fumbles with his keys, you flounce over to his front yard and make a show of changing your toddler's diaper. Because Dipwad is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you help him grasp the situation: pinch your nose, wave your hand in front of your face, say "hoooo-eeee, don't that stink."

Then you throw the feces-laden diaper--still open; don't ruin it by wrapping it up!--into his front yard, and walk on.

Baby Gotta Bike Blues

I love Holland. I really do. But it's going to kill me. I was not meant for this kind of stress.

I can ride a bike. Of course I can ride a bike. I just didn't learn how to ride while I was still in the womb. I didn't learn how to ride with one baby hitched to the handlebars and another strapped over the back wheel. (This only sounds insane to you because you, like me, did not grow up in Holland and thus lack the proper context. You're thinking, they strap babies to handlebars and wheels over there? Relax: there are seats involved.) I didn't learn how to use the bike as an actual means of transportation. On roads and things. Where there are cars.

They have bike paths along the roads here. It's not a total free-for-all. Only the bike paths are often on the road, right next to the speeding instruments of cycler death cars. Getting Divagirl Eight to her piano lesson is an exercise in terror management. Which is why I let The Hubster do it when he's home. 

Only today he's not. And we have snow. What comes after terror?

Lemon Bars to Die For

Crumbly, buttery shortbread yumminess on bottom, gooey, lemony goodness on top. And as Stephanie points out, lemon is a fruit, and that means these babies are healthy. Well, healthier than, say, a can of lard. And they're incredibly easy to make.

Alas, I don't have pictures, but as soon as Stephanie makes these, she will blow you away with her gorgeous food photos. (She has a second career there if she wants it.) And maybe she'll even let me post one here. 

Sorry, my dear metric readers: though I've lived in Holland for seven years, I still use my American measuring cups instead of a kitchen scale. Here's a handy cups-to-grams list for you.

The Crust

1 cup flour

1/2 cup cold butter

1/4 cup confectioner's sugar

Mix together (hands or food processor, your pick) and press into the bottom of a 9x9 pan. (Or a 13x9, if you always make double helpings of gooey lemony things, as we addicts do.) Bake at 350 F (180 C) for 15 minutes.

The Filling

2 eggs

1 cup sugar

1/3 tsp salt

juice and zest (rasp) of one lemon (about 4 Tbsp juice)

1/2 tsp baking powder

2 Tbsp flour

Beat everything together and pour over the baked crust. Return to oven and bake another 20 to 25 minutes. (Add a few minutes if you went the double-helping-13x9 route.) Let cool and sprinkle with confectioner's sugar.

Try to stop eating before your tongue begins to ache.

Foreign Policy Tip

This gem of a joke is apparently all over the Web, but it's new to me, and I would hate for you to miss it. (Humor me here. Like I'm breaking news for anyone.) Does anyone know who the original author is?

Two aliens landed in the Arizona desert near a gas station that was closed for the night. They approached one of the gas pumps and the younger alien addressed it saying, 'Greetings, Earthling. We come in peace. Take us to your leader.'

The gas pump, of course, didn't respond.

The younger alien became angry at the lack of response.

The older alien said, 'I'd calm down if I were you.'

The younger alien ignored the warning and repeated his greeting. Again, there was no response.

Annoyed by what he perceived to be the pump's haughty attitude, he drew his ray gun and said impatiently, 'Greetings, Earthling. We come in peace. Do not ignore us this way! Take us to your leader or I will fire!'

The older alien again warned his comrade saying, 'You probably don't want to do that! I really don't think you should make him mad.'

'Rubbish,' replied the cocky, young alien. He aimed his weapon at the pump and opened fire. There was a huge explosion. A massive fireball roared towards them and blew the younger alien off his feet and deposited him a burnt, smoking mess about 200 yards away in a cactus patch.

Half an hour passed. When he finally regained consciousness, he refocused his three eyes, straightened his bent antenna, and looked dazedly at the older, wiser alien who was standing over him shaking his big, green head.

'What a ferocious creature!' exclaimed the young, fried alien. 'He damn near killed me! How did you know he was so dangerous?'

The older alien leaned over, placed a friendly feeler on his crispy friend and replied, 'If there's one thing I've learned during my intergalactic travels, you don't want to mess with a guy who can loop his penis over his shoulder twice and then stick it in his ear.'

Spam for the Single Girl

A few days ago, someone filled in the contact form at my website. Here's what it looked like (plus a few strategically placed spaces to protect the unwitting visitor to this blog who might actually click on one of the links):

Form submission: "Contact Kisa"
NAME : notqtzk
EMAIL : ovjfhm@cfppll.com
PHONE : ZAjXphLsyRd
ADDRESS1 : UjaydOBAxTyMoWmwc
ADDRESS2 : NGzYZwzzBKgDlKUCZ
COUNTRY : RupbCTHrWjpOLfi
COMMENTS :
-------------
oYEqgQ < href ="http://vhzwvjmtnoov.com/">vhzwvjmtnoov< / a >, [url=http:/ /inuopaghmlnv.com/]inuopaghmlnv[/url], [link=http:/ /oubwbemsayom.com/]oubwbemsayom[/link], http:/ /ukoumrwuprxq.com/
-------------
Preferred contact: phone
Interest:

Now, this looks really spammy, no? Only I can't figure out what it's supposed to accomplish.

First off, my contact form is hard-coded to send this mail to me, not to some user-input address. Second, the form says "NNNNNNNNNT!" and stops processing if you type in spoofy-spammy stuff like bcc: and \r\n and content-transfer-encoding. So the visitor in question isn't sneakily sending V$@gr- ads to lots and lots of folks at my expense.

I'd understand this submission if I saw that kind of stuff in it (which, of course, I wouldn't, because those kinds of forms don't make it into the light of day). But what we have here is someone who's sent one single person a bunch of nonsense links. (Of course, I didn't click on any of the links, so I don't know what happens there. Nor do I intend to find out. But I do know that, across the vast expanse of the World Wide Web, vhzwvjmtnoov only appears in the very post you're reading. Go ahead, Google it.) What's the point?

I wouldn't actually be expending brainpower on this at all if I hadn't noticed that this particular transaction doesn't show up in my site stats. Spammy-spoofy stuff isn't my strong suit, so this puzzled me until I read some savvier soul's explanation that lots and lots of hits don't get recorded by your statistics tracker. Lots and lots of people hide their IPs, apparently, sort of wiping fingerprints off the spam knife after the kill, as it were. I didn't know you could do that, but hey, now I do. Okay.

But then I was kind of hooked on the whole incident. So I perused my access logs and found the visitor in question. Naturally, a lookup on his IP address produced nothing. But hello: there are three IP addresses hitting the same "form submitted success" page within seconds of each other. The original one is unknown, but probably somewhere in the Russian Federation, I was told. The second is in North America, registered to ezzi dot net. The third was also unknown, but probably in Switzerland. So here's someone (I know it's an automated spambot, but there's a person behind it) going to a lot of trouble to cloak his whereabouts because he's ... sending me, and only me, a bunch of nonsense words.

I feel sort of like Shirley Temple, dancing along in my little polka-dot dress and singing cheerily, when suddenly I open a door and I'm staring right smack dab into the seedy underbelly of the Internet. And I'm a lucky little girl, because the big bad rapist couldn't get his fly open. Or something like that.

And Deal-Breakers They Were

I'm sticking with Blogger. I've tweaked my template some, and while it's not my inner blogger's aesthetic wet dream, it's fine.

All the more so since I fired up Firefox and Internet Explorer on The Hubster's PC and flatscreen monitor. Holy cow, but stuff looks really crappy when you don't have Lucida Grande. And when your display tends to yellow. Even the dreamy WordPress Hemingway theme looks like doodoo.

So let me just take this moment to say: buy a Mac. Or at least install Lucida Grande Sans (Unicode) on your Windows box. And fiddle with your display till it stops making everything look like it's coated with pollen. On my MacBook, this means opening up display preferences and picking a new color profile, in my case, sRGB IEC61966-2.1. Whatever that is. What it is, is purty.

I dare say your Web experience will reach new Nirvanic heights. At any rate, my blog will look loads better.

Back to the template tweaking. As you can see, I've used Blogger's flexibility to build my own About pages (THE MIDNIGHT CAST, to the right). Creating a Categories widget was a total snap. And because I can edit my template's HTML, I'm able to use Lucida Grande for my text font, though the layout editor doesn't list it.

Here, in a nutshell, is why I'm sticking with Blogger. WordPress.com is too limited. I can't edit CSS (without paying), let alone the theme HTML, and I can change only a handful of theme attributes. Moreover, the WordPress editor won't load my images, or let me change the font size like this. While WordPress sounds much more arty than Google appendage, it doesn't work for me. 

Aesthosucker

So I thought I'd scope out WordPress. And I found this amazingly gorgeous template theme.  And it so totally aesthetically blows intricately ship-formed smoke rings all over my Blogger theme template.  

Only this theme doesn't know about widgets. And it won't let me update the RSS feeds to Feedburner. The blogroll is static (at Blogger, it's sorted according to post date, so I can see right away who's written something for me to read). I can only show post excerpts on the main page. I can't edit the template CSS without shelling out moolah. Are these deal-breakers? 

The WordPress theme gives me pages (like About). The Blogger template gives me recent comments on the sidebar. WordPress gives me categories and tags. Blogger gives me a label cloud.  But mainly, the WP Hemingway theme is just achingly, droolingly gorgeous and I want to keep it. (Stamps foot.) Yes, I am a form-over-function idiot. 

Before you tell me to (a) pick a different WP theme that lets me use widgets, or (b) pick a different Blogger template that rocks visually, let me mention that I've perused all the themeplates for both sites and these are the only ones I like. 

Before you tell me to just go ahead and install WordPress at my very own domain, where I will have scads of flexibility and total code access to fine-tune any template I like down to the tiniest detail, let me tell you that I don't want to spend my time doing that. I want a gorgeous template that does what I want it to with a couple clicks here, couple cut-and-pastes there, applied from some kind of dashboard that makes my life easy. If I totally, utterly go off the deep end carefully rethink my career plans and decide I want to return to squelching around code innards, some dot-com or half-eaten-fruit company or tiny molten glass installer or hillbilly yodeler or—you get the idea—is going to be paying me to do it. 

Because I know how riveting this is, I will keep you posted right here. Or maybe here.

Audiovisual schism

I just got an eyeload of the Pussycat Dolls while Divagirl Eight was watching Nick Hits. And I am sure someone got the lyrics wrong, because this particular video was clearly designed for the song "When I grow up, I wanna be a hooker." (Leaving aside the greater teleological dilemma of why Nick Hits has deemed this suitable eye candy for the ten-and-under crowd.)

Not that I'd mind looking like any one of these girls. No, sirree. Frankly, that would rock. I bet I'd dance on cars in public, too, if I looked like that. As it is, I don't even dance in my living room, which I consider a kindness to my family and passing strangers.  If I were in a video, it'd be for the song "When I grow up, I wanna cause nausea / Gonna undulate / my freaky flabgut."

I so bet it would be a hit on YouTube.

My 2009 Theme Song

Again and again, I find I'm just ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. Watching TV that doesn't even do that much for me, hanging out on Facebook; I just fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way. 

Years ago, I was young, and life was long, and there was time to kill each day. And then one day, I found ten years had got behind me. Now I'm halfway through my life; what happened to all those dreams? Sucked up in loads of laundry and a thousand tiny, inconsequential things. No one told me when to run; I missed the starting gun.

So I run and I run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking, and racing around to come up behind me again. The sun is the same in a relative way, but I'm older. Shorter of breath, and one day closer to death. 

Every year is getting shorter; work, family, endless chores--I never seem to find the time. To write, to play music, to learn another language. Plans that either come to naught, or half a page of scribbled lines. It isn't going to change on its own.

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the easy way, but I'll be damned if when my time is gone, my song is over, I'll be lamenting, "thought I'd something more to say." 

It's never too late to be what you might have been. 2009 is all about being me. 

(Deep thoughts beautifully expressed courtesy of Pink Floyd, Time.)

Rock On, 2009

The turning of the year is a natural moment for self-reflection. What went well last year? What do I want this year? What is my life for, and who do I want to be?

Here, my goals, key words, and specific projects for 2009.

1. Do less housework. At no point in my life have I or will I ever look back and think, "Dang, life is sweet. I keep one clean and organized house!" Housework is something that must be done to keep the rest of life doable, not an end in itself. Moreover, it's something I neither do well nor enjoy doing. In 2009, I ban all goals related to keeping the house any cleaner than it has to be. Laundry, yes; bimonthly closet organization, no. Groceries and a menu plan, yes; alphabetized cupboards, no. 

2. Listen, laugh, love. If I manage #1, I'll strike a crushing blow to my perennial Unfulfilled Nagger syndrome. In the resulting space, I want to engage with the unique, blossoming individuals that are my children in ways that nurture their talents and joys. Focus on dirty socks and lights left on, no; taste-test new concoctions and listen attentively to short stories, yes.

3. Translate 333,333 words. I love this work. It's almost criminal I get paid for it. This is more than I've translated any other year, which gives me a reason to get out there and promote myself.

4. Write 88,888 novel words. As in "words of a novel,"  not "new words." I've got three active novels (and several more in development), so this may or may not result in a completed book.

5. Get enough time for myself. It may sound odd to you, but I'm not really me unless I have regular time alone. Like a sponge, I soak up whatever's around me; it takes quiet solitude to hear myself think. "Enough" is several hours per day. Without it, I'm a crab, and in a family of five including a toddler, I go without a lot. In 2009, I aim for less guilt over being selfish, more family-wide, all-the-time joy from getting what I need.

6. Shine on six hours of sleep. I need eight, though I've had times when I got by on much less because life was so intoxicating. Loving my life sounds great, and two fewer hours sleeping = two more hours of solitude. (Guilt-free!)

7. Exercise and eat well. Studies have linked regular exercise to higher energy levels and sounder sleep; a diet high in nutrients and moderate in naughties also makes a more efficient body. The litmus test for diet and exercise this year isn't calories and kilos and lists of no-nos; it's how well I function on six hours of sleep. 

8. Learn to play six blues songs on the guitar and six Christmas carols on the piano. I play neither instrument today (fortunately, we do have both). The focus is on mastering sounds I love, not Learning to Play an Instrument. Whatever theory elements I need, I'll look up when I need them.

9. Create family photo albums for 2007 and 2008. Years from now, these will be a treasure to me. The photos are all digital; the MacBook, with iPhoto's built-in create-then-order-an-album feature, should make it easy. Eventually I hope to go back several years, but catching up on the last two is enough for 2009.

10. Win several million in the lottery and set up a charity to fund lives of joy and bliss around the world. This is my deepest dream. No one should struggle to meet Maslow's basic needs of physiology and safety; they are a fundamental human right. If I ever get rich, lots of my money will go to small, private, concrete projects that restore this right to others and open the way to a future of joy instead of subsistence. Like this and this and this.