It's not that he's a hypochondriac...

...it's just that my twelve year old thinks he might have leprosy.

Ever since he learned of the leper colony in Hawaii in Science class, my son has been randomly peppering our conversations with the word. For example:

(Rocking out to the Gorillaz in our car)
ME: Hahahahahahaahaaahaaaaaaa
HARRY: Hoo, hoo~!
ME: Shockashocka, shocka shocka...So what do you guys want for dinner?
SYDNEY: Pizza!HARRY: Can we go to River Park?
TREVOR: Do you know people could die from leprosy? It's true.
SYDNEY: Pizza!
ME: What?
HARRY: River park! Let's go to Slices.
TREVOR: There was this guy this one time-- this is a true story-- and he got leprosy and his face fell off. It's true.
ME: How did you... where...
TREVOR: In my Science class.

Days later, on the drive to school:

ME: Don't take the bus today guys because Grammy is going to pick you up from school. Okay?
TREVOR: I hope Sydney doesn't get leprosy.
HARRY: Okay...
ME: (incredulous) Why-- why-- how--
TREVOR: She's going to Hawaii with Carey. There's lepers there, mom. It's true. I learned it in my Science class.

Moments ago...

TREVOR: Mom?
ME: Hey baby, you getting ready for bed?
TREVOR: Mom, I know this doesn't have anything to do with anything, but (raising his foot to my eye level, to reveal a dry patch of skin between his toes) I think I have leprosy.
ME: That's not leprosy.
TREVOR: Yeah, but...
ME: If it was leprosy, it would have fallen off. It'd be necrotic-- dead. It would have turned black first.
TREVOR: (Not sure he should believe me)Okaaaayy....
ME: Try putting hydrocortizone on it.

FACT: I don't know for certain what leprosy looks like at onset, but I do know what eczema looks like.

I took a dump

I am a fan of many things in life, and those that know me well, know my love of THROWING OLD CRAP AWAY. There is nothing quite so peaceful, so harmonious, so freakin' FREEING as getting rid of those things that clutter the quiet, shaddowy spaces of my old house.

This weekend, I was introduced to the city dump. A friend had rented a truck and was parting with all things junkish, and asked if I had any contributions to make. My reaction? Tears of joy doesn't cut it. Think the cafe/orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.

Memories of the city dump loomed large in my head. Semi-annually my father--whom I credit for my love of purging-- would fill up an entire tow-trailer with tree trimmings; grass; broken toys; old boxes; dead bodies; garden refuse; and junk, junk and more junk. He would then load up my brother and I and haul the whole sorry mess over to the dump, where we-- my brother and I-- would brave the stench and the seagulls and secretly hope to find our treasure in one man's trash.

Somehow it wasn't bravery for my father; like an expert cowhand, he got the work done and made it look easy. And he really didn't give a rip about the treasure-- one man's or otherwise-- it was all trash to him.

The Santa Rosa City Dump was a gigantic pit, but more like a canyon to my seven-year old eyes. My dad would back the trailer up to the edge, and we would unceremoniously fling crap and watch its 30-foot drop. It was beautiful. Freeing. Cathartic.

My Fresno experience offered less in the way of flinging catharsis. It's actually not even a dump, but rather, a transfer station. Years ago, after his first trip to the Fresno transfer station, my father told me: "Trace, it was the damnedest thing. You drive up to this building, unload everything , badeep, badop, badoop. That's it. Some guys come and clear it away."

At the time I couldn't imagine that the lack of a pit and the glorius sight of falling trash would produce the same sense of freedom. In a way I was right: it's different. But the freedom is there.

And so is my old oven, a few bits of broken cabinet and the many pieces of a loft bed.

I think I'm getting a moustache.

On second thought, that was probably something I shouldn't have mentioned.

My son is hilarious.

As is typical with my 12 year old son, I found out this evening that the report I have been asking him about for the last month is not yet complete. Surprise Number One. Worse, however, is Surprise Number Two: Despite his frequent assurances that he was all caught up, and that the personal interview he conducted with his great-grandmother was the bulk of the report, the fact remains that there are eleven more steps to the assignment. Surprise Number Three: It's due tomorrow.

Though I find myself annoyed by his lackadaisical attitude toward his schoolwork, I find that the writing he has done on the project is anything but. Flat out, my son cracks me up.

A snippet from his autobiographical project:

"I also made a new friend that year, named Terrance. He and Colin did not get along. They sat at the same table, and Terrance would throw pencils at Colin’s hand.

Later that year Terrance promised to give me a very old fashioned video game called, “Game ‘n Watch”, if I paid him fifty cents So I paid him. He told me he was going to be able to give it to me at the end of the year. On the second-to-last day of school, he said he had the game, but it exploded.

I believed him."

I hate the United States Postal Service.

Just understand that my hate is completely unfounded. It's not that I have no respect for the people who work there, for what they do, for who they are... let's be honest: I don't care about people. So clearly it's not that at all. I think the institution is fabulous, that it serves an incredibly important purpose and I fully acknowledge that the world would be a horrendously, much more intensely difficult place in which to live without some government-run delivery service. Of this I am certain.

No... my well-rounded, misguided, firmly-placed dislike is based on the mere fact that I frickin' hate all that the United States Postal Service doesn't do for me. Those bastards.

For example: I get a bill that I must pay for with a check, like from my checkbook, and I have to return the bill in a specific envelope with a specific piece of paper attached to said check. I can't imagine what that particular scenario is like, for the most part, because I am an itense online junkie and I pay all my bills online. But let's pretend, for the sake of argument that I must make such a payment to... oh, I donno. Let's say the I.R.S.

So I sign my forms, I date them, I fold them, I place them with much care and dignity in the provided envelope, and I fish through my wallet and lo and behold, I magically find a stamp.

But I am not pleased. No sir. Rather, I am irked because it's the completely wrong amount. In point of fact, my entire, full "booklet" of stamps that I just purchased not one-month ago is of little use to me now, as the postal rates have gone up. That's thing number one I hate about those sons a snitches. Can't they figure out a way to increase the amount on the face of the stamp without making you have to buy a supplement? If we can send a person to the moon, can we not use the powers of telepathy to alter the printed face of a postage stamp?

Gawd.

I graduate from my purse and instead dig through my vast library of crap and locate (AMAZINGLY) a $.45 stamp. Perfect. I am overpaying, I know it. Annoying thing number two. Those stinking yellow commie rats have suckered me, by way of apathy, into spending more than I should. SIX CENTS more.

Whatever.

I want this bill mailed, see, and I want it mailed but good. Call it six cents worth of insurance. So carefully I adhese the ruddy old stamp (because it is so old it has no stickiness) with glue stick followed by clear tape because this is a special non-sticking stamp and now, finally, my bill is all ready to roll.

Only I know me. There is no rolling to be had. And why? Simple.

I hate the Postal Service.

I will carry this stamped envelope with me, day after day, week after week, until it becomes weathered and wrinkly and loses whatever form of dignity that it formerly had. It will slowly sink to the bottom of my bag where it will become make-up stained then eventually fall onto the floor of my car and get trampled underfoot. And then, several months from now, I will find the stupid thing and realize holy mother of GAWD, that's why I have a warrant out for my arrest. With much relief I will pop it into the nearest mailbox, only to be shocked two days later to find it returned to my home, because I taped on the stamp.

It will never get mailed.

I will be prosecuted for tax evasion.

Say what you will, but I would think that the postal service would be at fault here. And with a little reflection, I think you'll come to agree with me.

I won the lottery

A blustery day, I am struggling to put groceries into my car while my two-year old chatters with me incessantly about matters that are incredibly important to her: the state of the economy; the evils of White House's domestic spying program; the introduction of Diego to Dora the Explorer. Rain clouds hover overhead threateningly, and deciding I'm not sufficiently impressed, begin to scatter large drops here and there.

I move more quickly. Only two more bags, and I can snuggle back into the comfort of my Prius. Thoughts filter in and out; how nice it would be to take a fancy vacation, to take the kids and head off to the south of France for awhile. I'd sit in some seaside cafe, sipping red wine while watching as my children simultaneously play in the surf with newly-found French playmates and discuss the issues of Franco-American politics in English but using perfect little French accents. (I don't speak French, not even in my daydreams.)

I have no idea what the weather is like in the south of France. I'm not even sure they have red wine, or even allow children in such an exotic locale. But I take a moment and send out a little wish-- ahh, if only I could win the lottery.

I shut my hatchback, and notice a fluttering out of the corner of my eye. I try to ignore it-- gah, trash, if I notice it I will have to pick it up... but my inquiring mind and my damn environmental guilt overtake me... I turn, and see not one but two scratch off lottery tickets-- still connected-- staring at me from the ground, in the empty parking space next to my car. Battered, smiling, and intact. Non-scratched. Unscathed.

I pick up the cards, half-believing, and put them in the car.

I refuse to look at them. I promptly avoid them for one full week, until my dreams are fed and my curiosity peaked and I can no longer stand the sight of the promises the cards may hold.

When I can take it no more, I, like my excema-ridden dog, scratch. Carefully, deliberately, intensely, I remove the silver-waxy jackpots one by one to reveal the magic winnings beneath.

Images of France dance and I, in my long pants, continue to scratch until suddenly I can prance. I WON! I WON! Ahhh, the romance!

No joke, I won the lottery.

I am two dollars closer to my south of France dream vacation.

Cheryl Tiegs or Farrah Fawcett?

Personally, I didn't think I'd go this way, but methinks Cheryl Tiegs.

Either I have anxiety, or will become very rich...

Last night, I had one of the strangest, most vivid dreams I've ever had outside of pregnancy.

In the dream, some of my teeth broke, crumbling into my hand. I was then jokingly chastized by my dentist, who was utterly non-plussed, peppering his speech with "bad English teeth" jokes.

Okay, the dream goes on and on (me trying to help my brother find his lost dog; while scaling a small rock wall to continue on my path, a boulder coming loose and making forward movement impossible; I climb down the wall, carrying the rock, let it go, and continue up the wall unfettered, back on the path, searching for this super hyper dog I met just one time whom my brother has eerily named, "Megan." What the hell? Who names their weimaraner puppy "Megan"?) but there's no need to bore you with those details. (Also apparently my teeth were festering. And I am SO not about to describe the color of the tiny worms. That's just wrong... also because the little alien, sperm-like freaks kept changing color.)

So I wake up, bothered by EVERYTHING but mostly the teeth thing, so I Google up a dream dictionary. Apparently, many theories abound. To wit:

1) "One theory is that dreams about your teeth reflect your anxiety about your appearance and how others perceive you." (Duh.)

2) "Another rationalization for these falling teeth dream may be rooted in your fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some specific situation. These dreams are an over-exaggeration of your worries and anxiety." (Note to self: No more Chris Rock impressions.)

3) "Teeth are used to bite, tear, chew and gnaw. In this regard, teeth represent power. And the loss of teeth in your dream may be from a sense of powerlessness. Are you lacking power in some current situation? Perhaps you are having difficulties expressing yourself or getting your point across. You feel frustrated when your voice is not being heard. You may be experiencing feelings of inferiority and a lack of self-confidence in some situation or relationship in your life. This dream is an indication that you need to be more assertive and believe in the value of your own opinion." (Yeah, not according to the people I'm arguing with. Apparently, I can feel all these feelings-- and do-- but I still come off as "The Hammer.")

4) "...women in menopause have frequent dreams about teeth." (Hmm. I'm 36 and in my family of wacky medical anomolies, it is entirely a possibility. Wait-- I thought it said, 'mental-pause.' Forget it.)

5) "...malnutrition... may be applicable to some dreamers." (Malnutrition? Pass me another danish and let me think about it.)

Skipping ahead, there a bible interpretation, but I'm a heathen, so forget that one. Then there's the greek interpretation: "it indicates that a family member or close friend is very sick or even near death." Thank goodness I'm not Greek. Geek, maybe, Greek, no.

I do love like Chinese food, however: "your teeth will fall out if your are telling lies." But you know, I really don't have it often enough for this to apply.

WAIT! I found it! "It has also been said that if you dream of your teeth falling out, then it symbolizes money. This is based on the old tooth fairy story. If you lose a tooth and leave it under the pillow, a tooth fairy would bring you money."

SWEET! Anxiety nothing! Bring on the cash, baby!

Laziness tastes like bile

My girlfriend just told me about this workout regimen she does that starts at 6 a.m.

This means she gets up at LEAST at 5:30 to get her arse dressed and over to the gym.

I think it's sweet. She so dedicated, waking up, all making herself a better person. Awwww....

I had that aspiration. See, I ride a bike. And I will be riding that bike many miles over many moons. That is the plan. Only, so far-- with this craptacular weather-- I haven't been riding said bike during ANY moons.

I have been looking at her, my beautiful Blue, petting her pretty frame, lovingly dusting her saddle... meanwhile my personal saddle looks more equine ready than cycle ready.

So I got this sales flyer in the mail, $10 off purchases of $50 or more at my preferred cyclery and I think YES! I will get a trainer-- one of those thingamajobbers (technical term) that makes your awesome road bike a stationary bike. This is PERFECT, I tell myself. No excuses not to train! No more blaming the weather! I can hop on Blue any time I want, night or day, and cycle away. See? I was so happy I was rhyming.

So I rushed out and used that ten-dollar coupon and bought the trainer and I was so happy. I set my bike up and she looked so pretty, all standing in the middle of my room (instead of leaning against the wall). I walk by her and lovingly pat her frame and dust her...

Nothing's changed.

I will get on the bike.

I will cycle my arse off.

I will find a better seat so I'm not dying from saddle sores.

Meanwhile, what's this bile-like taste in my mouth? Hmmm... kinda like.... LAZINESS.

Addicted.

You know, when I hear about crack moms, I think immediately of some filthy household filled with hungry kids crying for attention and setting eachother on fire, torturing the family dog and whatnot-- all while mom is flipped out in the back bedroom in her own, special little world.

And then I think, "Hey! That's ME!"

Because this is EXACTLY like my household, minus the crack, the filth, the attention-starved kids and flaming-family dog. Just substitute television for crack and you will understand my fear and loathing of that particularly hateful little device.

I hate t.v. It's invasive and loud, dictatorial and at the root of the deterioration of good, wholesome, progressive, American family values and OH MY GAWD I love that show The Office. I love the lead character, Michael Scott-- with all his rudeness and stupidity and social cluelessness. It's like working for that econometrics firm in DC all over again but with a more attractive, clean-shaven boss without cloven hooves. And this time, it's not real life and I can laugh at other people's misery and turn it off any time I want.

Except I can't turn it off because I'm addicted.

It's horrible. I shouldn't be allowed to watch t.v., ever, because I become this addle-brained, slack-jawed idiot that cannot simultaneously have conversation AND watch the pretty moving pictures. And heaven forbid if something funny should happen on that idiot box, because this idiot must immediately register the funniness factor with whomever I happen to be watching t.v.

Example: Joke happens. I cackle outright while looking at t.v. watching partner with that raised-brow did-you-hear-that-funny-joke look on my face. If they aren't laughing, I am compelled to repeat the joke, as if to explain it. If they are laughing, I am compelled to repeat the joke, as if to say, "See, I get it, too."

And it's really not that I don't hear my children talking, then SCREAMING, to get my attemtion when I'm watching the tube. It's more that I don't flippin' care that they're talking to me. This attitude is not reserved just for the kids. I'm an equal-opportunity ignore-er. Doesn't matter who is speaking, I want them all to shut up the exact same amount. And that makes me a better person.

So you see, I don't have a sickness. Everyone else has the sickness. It's not me. It's the yammering yappers that invade my secret private time with my special t.v. friends.

I feel better now.

Happy New Year!

Happy rainy new year to all. Vacation is over; my house is full of giggling children once again. Ahhhh, I love balance.