WORDS

As any responsible parent would, I belong to all of the websites that Samantha frequents (Instagram, Twitter, etc). Additionally, I go the extra mile and actually monitor her posts, research the crap I don’t get, and help her meet her heroes’ (gratuitous pandering on that last one). I’ve seen her use “off color” acronyms, questionable phrasing – that sort of thing, but I’ve sort of stood back to see where it would go. The other day I was reading a few posts and she had definitely crossed the line. Here was the talk I gave to her:

“So, I wanted to talk to you about a couple of your posts. (I showed her the posts, then continued). I have a list of hopes and expectations of you, Samantha. I want you to be strong, intelligent, compassionate, kind, driven and successful. But one other things that I would like you to be is just a little bit classier then I. And that REALLY isn’t that hard. Seriously. And the best way to do that is through your language. There are a lot of things that people will use as a reason to judge you. Language is one of those. Probably the most important. When you use foul language, spoken or written, you give people a reason to see you as “less than”. And I don’t ever want anyone to ever have a reason to view you as less than. Because you are MORE than. I know that I have a foul mouth, so this might seem hypocritical of me to say this, but I don’t ever want to see or hear you say these words again. Maybe when you’re 18. I never spoke the way I do now when I was your age. I was in my 20’s before I ever said a foul word in front of my parents. So if you want to play with these words around your friends, I can’t do anything about that. I would just hope that you would choose to not use these words. Do you know what Dan’s mom always used to say to him if she heard him swear? She would say “Are you too dumb to think of a better word?” I know you are more than capable of thinking of better words. And speaking of, do you even know what this word means (pointing to one of her posts)?” “Ugh, no. I just saw it on one of ‘so-n-so’s posts’.” “I’ll give you a choice. I can either explain to you what that word means, or you can take my word that you should never, ever use that word again.” Thank God I didn’t have to explain. Because I would have.

I’ve been asked by many people “what was the word she didn’t know?” and “What would have told her”.  Before I go into the ‘what-if’s’ of this story, allow me to tell you another tale.  One fraught with similar obstacles and discomfort.  A tale that I have not told to many.  You may want to sit down for this.

I separated from my husband in December 2012.  I bought a house in a split second, 4 doors down from his, and packed in a flurry over one weekend.  I had a device of a sensitive nature that I packed in a specific box, inside another specific box to make sure it was well hidden, and not forgotten.  Some time passed and I went to unpack this device, and it was not where I remember – vividly – putting it.  This perplexed me, but I had bigger problems in my life, so I just sort of shrugged it off.  It had to be somewhere.  Months later, Samantha and I were at her father’s house, in the laundry room, looking for some of her clothes.  I lifted a pile of clothing off of the washer to sort through it and “BONK!” onto the floor my, my device of a sensitive nature, did fall.  Right there.  On the floor between us.  My vibrator.

Several thoughts of panic and confusion ran through my head.  First and foremost was “what the HELL is that doing in his laundry room?” That thought, while screaming as loud as an air-horn in the front of my brain, was momentarily over ridden by the fact that my 9yr old daughter was quizzically staring at the object on the floor.  Time stopped as I swooped in, scooped it up and threw it into one of the cabinets.  “What was that?” Sam asked me.  She would ask me this question at least 10 times before we got home.  My list of answers sounded something like these:  “Nothing.  Forget about it.  Just a thing.  It’s nothing, really.  Don’t ask me again.”-My mind still reeling about WTF was it doing there.

When we got home, she still kept asking me what it was.  I sat her down at the kitchen table and this was how it went.

“Do you really want to know what that was:”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m telling you right now, if I tell you what that was, you are going to wish that you didn’t ask me.”

“Yes.  I want to know.”

“Right.  Ok.  So- you know what sex is, right?

“Yes.”

“And you that when two people love each other they have sex to have a baby.  Well, having sex is a very pleasurable experience in a lot of ways.  Physically, being one of them.  Sometimes, when a woman doesn’t have a man around to have that physical relationship with, she might want to still experience the pleasure that comes with sex.  That device is called a vibrator and it allows a woman to have sex, without a man.”

“.”

“Do you understand?”

Then I went on for way to long of a debrief about “if you have any questions…you can always talk to me about anything…I’m here for you…This doesn’t get you out of emptying the dishwasher…” etc.

Finally I asked her the question that I should have opened with.  “What did you think it was?”

“I just thought it was a giant worm toy thing.”

My interviewing skills just took a hit. 

As you might have guessed, after this conversation she knows I will tell her pretty much anything, and when given the choice during this most recent incident, she decided that her maturity level just couldn’t handle “Mom” right now.

To loop back around, the word that she used was “Jizz”.  Just typing it make me feel like I should be sitting in a back ally rolling cigarettes from other peoples discarded cigarettes.  One of her favorite YouTuber’s used the word in a video saying he was going to “Jizz on your dog”.  She replied saying “Don’t jizz on my dog!”  While I agree with the request, I feel this exchange was not….age appropriate. 

How, then, would I attempt to define this colorful word to an 11 year old?  As honestly and clinically as possible.  It would sound something like this:

You know about sex, right? (sound familiar?). You know that sex is the act that creates babies.  The process involves the man supplying sperm that is deposited into the female, and that sperm travels inside the woman’s body in search of an egg to fertilize so that a baby can be made.  Sperm leaves the man’s body through the penis in a fluid called semen, during a process called ejaculation.  There are many slang terms for these fluids and processes.  One of the terms for the fluid is “Jizz”.  Any questions?”

This does not, of course, include the white board presentation that would accompany the explanation, that I would surly supply.

This is not the hard part of parenting for me.  I can define a word, explain a concept, debate, clarify, and teach.  The difficult part for me is the everyday.  Clean clothes, a dining room table that doesn’t look like a bulimic filing cabinet rests nearby, getting the boy off the Xbox. Homework.  Getting the boy to eat anything besides peanut butter and mac & cheese. These are my challenges.  But also, I don’t like not knowing if any of this stuff is getting thru to them.  Samantha especially.  She is so much me, but SO much her father.  Her ability to not talk about her feelings and give you the brick wall stare may rival even her fathers.   And he held stuff back for 15years.  It would be impressive if I hadn’t been the one in the dark.  But that’s another story, for another time.

As for my adventures in explanation with Samantha, I will leave you with one last story that brings our stories full circle.

It was somewhere around a year and a half after the vibrator incident.  I had replaced the abandoned unit from Chris’s laundry room to a newer model, available only in hot pink.  It resided in my nightstand drawer.  One day, on a cleaning frenzy, I cleaned out the drawer, dumping everything onto the floor.  I had not finished returning all the items to their home before getting distracted with other things.  Later, I came down to my bedroom where Samantha was jumping on the bed.  She stopped, looked at the floor and said “Mom.  What is that?”  “What is what?”  “What is THAT?” pointing a laser sharp finger and stare at the hot pink ‘worm looking thingy’ on the floor.  I replied, as I scooped it up and threw it in the drawer in record breaking time, that it was something that we weren’t going to talk about right now.  This angered her.  The wall came down and it, along with her, stormed upstairs to her room.

Sometime later, I approached her door and could hear her crying.  I entered and found her, on her bed, back to the wall, knees up, head down – sobbing.  I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, she wouldn’t answer me.  But I knew what was wrong, I just didn’t want to accept it.  She wouldn’t answer me with words and would not look at me.  I asked her a series of yes or no questions, to which she would nod yes or no in reply.  After a solid 20 minutes of inquisition, this is the information that I gathered:

-She knew it was a vibrator.

-She knows what it’s for.

-She thinks it’s OK for women to feel good.

-She thinks it’s OK to use one to feel good.

-It’s ok for a woman to have one.

However, It’s not OK for ME to have one.

And there you have it.  I’m not a woman.  I’m a mom.  There my little girl sat crying because of some failure of mine.  But what failure?  I didn’t know she would be in my room, I didn’t leave it out on purpose, and I thinks it’s perfectly fine for me to have one.  So what did I do to cause this?  My sin? Just being me.  Of all the times I will punish her and she will cry or be mad or even ‘hate’ me, for justice being served - making her cry for just being me has got to suck the most.  I am powerless.  It’s as if she was crying because my favorite color is silver.  I’ve got nowhere to go with that information.  I can’t solve it or make it right.  This lesson, the lesson of the full weight and impossibility of parenting – brought to me by, a dildo.

Jail

Initially I was not going to comment on this situation, at all. But thanks to the my ex-husband and the gossip train that run rampant in our small town, I feel the need to address my current situation in a public forum. Not so much because I give a crap, but because my children are involved and they are the only people that matter to me.

The facts:
On Tuesday night, my boyfriend Dan and I were having a discussion. A heated discussion. A very personal, serious discussion. About which is nobody’s business. But needless to say, tempers were high. We were supposed to be alone, but my daughter, Samantha, came over to hang out, as she does almost every evening. I told her she had to leave and go to her dads. She said she would, after she grabbed some things. Great. See you later. Kiss, hug. Dan and I continued to talk. I had been drinking wine. I had been drinking too much wine. We started to wrestle playfully. Then he pissed me off and I began to act unbecoming of a lady. It became a bit of a shoving match and his response was to try and contain me. I over reacted, and decided to phone the police. Sort of a “shot across the bow”, “I’ll show you who’s in charge” kind of thing. The problem was, Sam was still here. She came downstairs after the confrontation to see me crying and very upset. I was practically hysterical, and she was, obviously, upset. I told her to go to her dad’s. Afterwards she told me that she was upset for about 30 seconds and then realized I was over reacting and now had the situation under control.

The police arrived. Nice fellows. We chatted it up. Dan told his side, I told mine. Then the tables turned. Because we both reported laying hands on one another, we were both going to be arrested. Um, WHAT?. That’s right, I called in reinforcements to help calm the situation and instead, we both got arrested. I spent
20hrs in jail, the D.A. did not file charges and the case was dismissed, on both sides. So basically it was a 20hr, horrible, time out.

The Lessons:
Where to begin? Let’s see. First, you can deal with almost anything before calling the police. What happened between Dan and I was something that not only could have been avoided, but could have been handled by the two of us. I will never call the police again for anything short of an intruder. Whatever crap he and I were dealing with paled in comparison to the 20hrs that followed.

Second, make sure the children are out of the house before having a heated argument with another person. I feel like heal. She should have never seen me that upset. I can’t even put it into words. When I realized she was still here, my heart sank. I’m sure that DHS will now become involved, as well they should. If this had happened at Chris’s house I would expect the same. That doesn’t make me feel any better, but everyone needs to know that this is a safe and healthy house for my children. One mistake does not a pattern make.

The Lighter Side: As anyone who knows me, there isn’t a situation that I can’t make light of. So I’m going to take a break from the shame and regret that many feel I should be wallowing in and give you a glimpse into the my experience in the clink. It was horrible, yet amazing at the same time.

The officers handcuffed me and put me into the police car. The handcuffs were not comfortable, and as soon as they put them on, everything above the neck started to itch. I soon realized my flexibility was better than I thought and was able to remedy the situation with my knees. From the time the cuffs went on, until about 20 minutes in the cell, including during my mug shot, I couldn’t stop laughing. Not because it was fun, or even funny, but just out of the shock that it was really happening.

They put me in a cell called the fish bowl. This is a small room with 10 chairs, a payphone, TV, toilet and 7-14 other woman at any particular time. The chairs were rock hard, bolted together and had arms. This made it impossible to get comfortable. The payphone could only be used with the card they give you, which is supposed to come with a free minute pre-loaded. They didn’t give me my card for 7 hours and there was no time on it. Not that I could remember a single phone number of any person except my ex-husbands work phone, which he would not be able to accept charges for my call, because it’s a work phone. Fine. The toilet was semi-private. This, I had no problem with. I’m a mom. I never get to go to the bathroom alone. At least this one was set back around a corner, so there’s that. The jail was over crowded. They didn’t have the room to give any new arrivals a bed, so we were all stuck in that little cell for almost the entire time. Women were sleeping on the concrete floor. I tried this, but the floor was freezing cold and all I had on was a thin t-shirt and jeans. No bra, no socks. No sweatshirt. I was fraking cold the whole time. The TV was basically background noise for everyone’s misery. I saw the news so many times, that at one point, a fellow inmate and I turned off the TV and reported the news to everyone in the cell, rather than listen to that bloody thing for another minute. There were very strict rules regarding your behavior in the fish bowl. No stepping beyond the red line was the most popular, and this was stated clearly on a notice on the door. However, there seemed to be several rules that were not posted, but apparently we were to know inherently. A sort of tribal knowledge, passed down from inmate to inmate. For example, no looking out the window at the processing area. This would cause a great disturbance amongst the correctional officers, which would lead them to open the door and shout chastising phrases at you, similar to what you would do to a child who has just lit a match in a fireworks factory. Early on, I violated a sacred rule and was told that they would “move me around the corner” where apparently it was “much less comfortable”. These unstated rules and their consequences seemed to dominate the majority of our interaction with the officers.

Early on during my stay, it dawned on me. I had never been read my rights. I also had no idea the charges being brought against me. I decided to, politely, grab the attention of one of the guards to see if we could take care of this situation. A young Kristy McNichol look alike with a pony tail, came to the door. I explained to her that situation, where upon she said “TOO BAD!” and slammed the door. The room became filled with the sounds of “OOOHHHH NOOOO SHE DIDN”T”, “WHAT DID SHE SAY?” and other similar statements. Not to be made to look weak in front of my incarcerated sisters, I became rather loud and started throwing around works like “Constitution” “violating my rights” and “could someone just please get me a blanket?”. The door opened and Kristy and her fellow guard, a shorter version of an older Mini Pearl, came at me. I turned to the girls in the cell and said “Oh, look who’s on her power trip for the night.” And away I was taken away – around the corner.

“Around the corner” was their version of solitary. But the funny part is that it was a cell, all to yourself. It had long benches and private toilet. No TV, which I assume was the part that was to make it “less comfortable”. Fail. It was much more comfortable. Well, I still couldn’t sleep, it was cold and bright as the sun. The acoustics were insane. Everything you said, even quietly, resonated through the entire unit. I began to chant, as loud as possible “YOU NEVER READ ME MY RIGHTS! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO KEEP ME HERE!” Over and over, until I heard a voice at the end of the hall shout “I CAN HEAR YOU LAUREN! YOU TELL ‘EM!” It was, of course, Dan. We began to have a loud exchange. I was so regretful of calling the police, and filled with so much worry and confusion. I shouted to him “I’M SO SORRY! I WILL NEVER CALL THE COPS ON YOU AGAIN!!!” His response: “I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA!” Shortly after, he was relocated to a cell further down the hall.

I spent several hours there. It’s hard to say how long because there are no clocks in these cells. At around 3am, I was moved back into the fish bowl. All I could do was sit there, cold, tired and full of worry. Time pass so slowly that I thought it was moving backwards. I sat and listened to the other women telling their stories about how they had ended up in the fishbowl. I soon found out that I was the only one there that night who had never been to jail. Their stories left me feeling naive, and rather normal, but soon realized that my back talk to the guards and my momentary stint in “solitary” gave me some sort of street cred. My companions consisted of two 20 something heroin addicts, going through withdrawal; a compulsive shop lifter; a prostitute; a couple of women accused of assault and a federal prisoner accused of arms dealing and drug dealing. Plus a few others, I couldn’t keep up.

The worst part of my experience in there was that they tell you NOTHING. I didn’t find out what I was charged with until around 9am. I was told I would be in court at 1pm. At 1:30pm they told me that the DA was not going to press charges and I had to wait until the judge could review and sign the paperwork, which wouldn’t be until after 4pm, sometime. I was finally released around 6:30pm. They wouldn’t tell me anything about Dan; they wouldn’t tell me anything about my case. I was left to assume that it was all over with. When Dan was released, they never even told him that the charges were dropped, or that they were even releasing him. The whole experience was like that episode of Lavern and Shirley when they do that sleep deprivation study, but not as funny, and the worse episode of Orange is the New Black that you could ever imagine.

For the past week I’ve thought of little less than this experience. Not because it was traumatic, but because it was enlightening. I know that many of you have been arrested. Most during your 20’s for some kind of drunken mayhem. As a 45 year old mother of 2, one does not normally have this experience, at least not in my circles. And because if this, and thanks to my ex making it seem like the crime of the century, I feel the pressure to walk around with my head hanging low, shame filled and unworthy of having a smile on my face. And yet, I don’t.

Upon my release, I began to review the events of the evening. I couldn’t help but feel some sort of elation, as if I’d experience something truly profound. That is because it is exactly what happened. I spent almost an entire day locked up, feeling abandon by “the system.” When I review my case with a woman from the court, at 9am, I told her “we don’t plan on pressing charges. It was a big misunderstanding.” “Well unfortunately, once the police are involved..” “I have no rights.” “Exactly.”

O.K. then. I had no idea what was going on and my fate would be decided by a system that was denying me any say in the situation. I couldn’t even get a lousy blanket. And the food. My God, the food. All I could think of was the cafeteria at Springfield Elementary on the Simpsons. For lunch we had a sandwich, chips and potato salad. The Sandwich was either possum or cat. Not sure which. The chips were stale, like a salty wafer of cardboard and I don’t even want to address the potato salad. I should note: I will eat anything. Or so I would have said before my stay in the Lane County Jail. Before dinner, we all took a vote on what the meal would be, based on it’s attributes. We came up with: something soggy, something crunchy (that shouldn’t be crunchy), something boiled and something green. We were spot on.

I have always considered myself incredibly open minded and accepting of all types of people. This view was not necessarily tested in jail, but it was challenged, ever so slightly. As many of you know, I am a chatty person (my ex calls it “The Lauren Show”). I will tell you all about myself and try to engage almost anyone in telling their story. In my confined environment, filled with some of the most colorful people you will meet, I found myself a fly on the wall. Only occasionally cracking a joke, but mainly listening to the dramas that made my evening seem like a bedtime story, surely to make the most hyper of children fall right to sleep.

To most of them, jail was simply a way of life. They knew the sacred unspoken rules of the fish bowl. They knew the schedule of all the court hearings, meal times and medical exams. They knew there was no chance in hell that I was getting a blanket. They were all so interesting. And each one of them, if I had seen their mug shot online, along with their charges, I would have had jokes to make and judgments’ to hand out. That, I’m sad to admit, is the only shame I feel. These people are not less than I am. They are human beings who are dealing with life the best they know how. This is normal for them. Just because it’s not normal for me, doesn’t make me any better. Just different. I now posses a compassion that, quite frankly, I thought I already possessed. The camaraderie of these women was remarkable. Whenever one of us found out that charges were not being filed (a remarkable 80%), each congratulated the other. When I was finally released, there were applause and well wishes.

I will not go around proudly professing my time in jail. However, I will not walk in shame and regret. And as it was not my intention, or even my knowledge, that Sam was in the house, I still feel no shame. She saw no violence, as there was none to see. There was no blood, no bruises and no traumatizing events. Just a lot of yelling and crying. I will quote my daughter regarding the situation: “I don’t understand the problem. It’s not as much of a big deal as everyone is making it out to be. It’s just something that happened.”

I Don't Want to See You Naked

That applies to all of you. I can be pretty sure that the feeling is mutual, and trust me, I'm more then fine with that. But apparently I need to make it clear to many others that I do not want to see them nude. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely have an appreciation for the human form. By which I mean, the body in general. The female body being particularly beautiful. For example in sculpture, painting, work of art around the world, the nude body is breathtaking. The problem I have is with you. Naked. In my locker room.

O.K. I know. It's the gym. You should be able to be naked in the gym. That's where you shower. That's where you change. It all kind of goes together. It’s included with the package. But I'm not talking about necessary nudity. You know, to get the job done. I'm talking about gratuitous nudity. In your face, ugly, naked, sweaty, dimpled, sagging nakedness. The nakedness that you can feel staring you down from across the room. The nakedness that wants to have a chat with you. ICK.

And there you are. Parading it all around like it’s something to behold. And most of the violators at my gym are over 55. Aren’t you supposed to have more modesty at that age? More shame? More sense? More to hide? Maybe it’s some sort of bitter display for the rest of us of the horrors yet to come. I’ve heard that one of the benefits of growing older is the concept of coming into your own. Being able to voice your opinions, speak your mind and not care what others think about you. You’re more confident then ever. Self assure. Empowered. Yes. That’s very nice. I’m ever so happy for you and your new found self-actualized aged authentic self. Bravo. Now you might want to call a dermatologist because that mole underneath the overhang of your left breast doesn’t look normal. That’s right. Underneath. You probably hardly get a chance to look under there. Lucky you.

Just so I don’t have to wear eye patches in the locker room from now on, let’s hammer out some guidelines, shall we? If you are naked in my gym locker room, I would appreciate it if you would follow one simple rule: Do not try to start a conversation with me if you do not have clothes on. Or at least a towel. Like the one you are holding in your hand Hello?! Sometimes I think that you women at my gym do it to me on purposed. You’ve singled me out, as if we’re in high school. And you are seriously are the seniors (I am so laughing about that. Totally not intended. Seniors, right? Good times). I think you do it because I am the biggest prude there. I have one of those towels that have the snaps up one side and I am never without it, and that makes you crazy. I think there is some kind of bet going on right now to find out if I’m just hyper modest, or if I have some kind of horrific deformity on my torso. Good luck with that one freaks! You’re never getting a free show off this one! And take some tips, cover it up if you want to ask me about where I got those shoes. If you don’t follow this rule I will be forced to shun you as if you were a fat chick trying to join my cheer leading team. And by the way, you are fat. Good thing you're coming to the gym. Snap!

Now I must take time to address to particular individuals who never seem fail to violate my delicate sensibilities. The first lady I call you Maroon Lady. The reason for this nickname is that every day you come to the gym in the same maroon shirt, dress, stockings, shoes and jacket (and I assume, less then dainty, unmentionables). Your workout clothes are always the same and, no surprise, maroon. As if this in itself is just not odd enough (but good for you, right? You’ve found a thing that you think works for you. You’re not caving to the modern standers of beauty, etc. You go girl…and such) today, upon leaving the bathroom stall, I turn to use the sinks (because I'm a good girl and I wash my hands after) and what do my eyes behold? There you are, standing at one of the only two sinks, wearing nothing but maroon tights, giving yourself some kind of sponge bath. At the sink. Which is one foot from the showers. Just leaning over the sink, breasts swaying back and forth like two grocery sacks, one containing a single grapefruit, and the other a single orange. Double Ick. Have some class, will you? But I will say this for you: No naked talk with you. You pretty much keep to yourself. Which is what I'll probably tell the police when they come to interview everyone at the gym. Until then, I just have to do a lot of creative visual dodging.

To the other woman, I have not given you a nickname. I just find you annoying. What are you? All of 5’ nothing, you little 'spit-fire'. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you. You’re probably in your early 60's and you dress like a 40 year old woman would dress if she were trying to look 25. Even though the results aren’t attractive, I have admire the work that goes into that look. Every time I see you, you wear either the same knee length stretch pants, or if we’re all super special lucky, those gray Daisy Duke length sweat shorts, coupled with a black sports bra for your workouts. And no shirt. Just the bra. And let’s not forget the mesh, fingerless weight lifting gloves that completes, yet another, out of the ballpark look. First, the little stretching routine that you do, in the locker room prior to going into the actually gym? To me, your body reacts to this in a way that suggests it's not quite sure what you’re asking of it, but it really wants to play along. The two of you should have a talk. All of this is quirky and almost gosh darn cute, until it's shower time! Your 30 minute bathing routine begins with 10 minutes of bare breasts, 5 minutes of complete nakedness, 5 minute shower and in varying degrees of nakedness for the remaining time. You have become the biggest violator of my rule. In part because you are one of those ‘chatty naked’ weirdo’s. Don’t like the chatty naked. The main reason you are the big winner: lotion application.

There are two stools in the ladies locker room. First, I must at least applaud you for having the decency to not sit your raw, bare uglies directly on the stool. However, I would find it most acceptable for you to place your foot upon the stool while applying lotion to your legs. I do not find the counter to be in any way acceptable for this job. You, being so short, and the counter, ever so high. How is it that I hardly even know you, yet due to a horrifyingly timed glance on my part, I can now hazard a pretty good guess that your children came out the hard way? Beyond Ick.

So, to both of you, especially ‘Spit-fire”, I say this: If you see me in the locker room, act as if I have a contagious disease that can be contracted from as close as 5 ft away, but especially from eye contact. I assure you, this is how I will treat you.

You Should Have a Blog

O.K., so I have a blog. Now what? A lot of people have told me that I should have one. Apparently there is hope that my live charm and wit might perhaps transfer well to the written word. I'm not so hopeful, but I figure, what the hell? I have a lot crap in my head that needs to come out, and what better place to deposit it then the Internet. Plus, I've read a couple of other peoples blogs and good LORD are you people boring. Just a whole bunch of "Today I worked out for 30 min and was very nice to have that time to...blah, blah blah" and "Little Mikey scored 100% on his math test today. We are so proud of him because he has been working so hard. You know it is hard to be a parent sometimes..." Zzz. Really? No. Really? So I figured, other then the likely grammatical error or so, it can't be too much of a challenge to be more interesting then that. After all...I am a redhead.