The Meat Eating Vegan Part IV

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For those of you that have been reading this blog for a long time, you are aware of my son Will’s food allergies. They first appeared to us when he was 4-months old at which time we were told to never expose him to the allergens — cow’s milk, eggs, peanuts, tree-nuts, bananas and strawberries. An Epi-Pen, which we have never had to use, was prescribed even though the worst reaction we had seen was eczema. Still, Will carries the Epi with him in his backpack almost everywhere he goes—who knows if or what a reaction would be now… Annoying, like a skin rash.. Or scary and life-threatening with anaphylactic shock.

Inevitably I fell into a pit of fear that — for the past five years, has not only made me rather manic about everything Will does but has also led to an obsessive education in regards to food. I have to catch myself when talking about this situation and the state of what we eat and are doing to our food-supply… Here in the world-leading nation… GMOs or GEs — Genetically modified anythings that, after years of research, I entirely blame Will’s allergies on. I sound crazy, even though professionals are also saying it… Lord knows what my eyes look like as my blood pressure ignites. I can just hear the thoughts of the other parents — Here she comes, that anti-nut activist and her non-egg, tupperware full of non-milk-fat chocolate chip cookies. WATCH OUT and don’t even MENTION SHELF-LIFE!!!! As they run for cover….

Managing all of this has not been fun, as you can imagine. Cheese is a problem. As are cows and chickens. Will’s sister, it seems, is not allergic to any foods at this point, and loves to eat just about anything you offer. (I became allergic to shellfish at 25.. as did my 30-something sister… although she might just be copying me. GET YOUR OWN ISSUES!) Even still, however, I am cautious — reading the PLU codes on all veggies and fruit to make sure that, if not actually organic, at the very least conventionally grown. Corn syrup too, as you know is the devil. Totally modified. But you see what I mean. TOO MUCH INFO, thanks Ryan. We hear you — which is why we are looking at our feet and backing away. By the way, and I am yelling at you now… If the number 8 is at the beginning of the PLU code it’s been GENEROUSLY MODIFIED. If you eat it you might grow an ear on your shoulder and arms out of your cheek-bones. Food allergies and, AHEM, cancer are only the beginning. Thanks to the Monosato Company and the other human haters of the world. Webbed feet are no joke. And neither are tails on people.

But I know. He will grow out of it, hopefully. And it is only food we are talking about here. He’s already lower on most of the allergens than in years past and has out-grown the bananas and strawberries. The others, however… The hard ones remain and we aren’t “there-yet” on the scale of food challenges. In the beginning, out of efforts to remain normal…if there is such a thing in these circumstances, I started making food for Will. Baking. Cooking. Freezing. You name it. I started a website, Will’s Kitchen, if you remember which we had a great time with… we made up and converted recipes… took pictures.. internetted… I made him a part of tasting and making all of the things that he could eat — and he was trying most things. Honestly, he loved it. I gained 5-7 pounds. And then things changed. Was it the arrival of his baby sister? Was it the constant fear lingering above my eye-brows when I dropped him off at school? Was it my overbearing enthusiasm to get him to try new things (probably)? Who knows. But this very intelligent little boy decided to stop trying any and all new foods that I put in front of him. He even cut several things out of his diet that I thought he liked. Suddenly, he only wanted the same thing with very minor alternatives. I lost way more than 5-7 pounds. And this is where we have been since months before our last posting on Will’s Kitchen—August 27th 2012.

(As lights go down on Will’s Kitchen)

I’ve decided, however, to keep trying (cue the curtains and that guy with the microphone). Now that Will’s sister is a little older and also seems to be interested in making things to eat it can be a family thing. Who knows what is up with Will — is it food textures? Is it a real issue like Neophobia (I don’t think so) or is he just stubborn and picky? His nutrition is something that can’t be messed with, but thankfully all of the things he does eat are beyond healthy making him par to the healthiest child alive. But in looking at website stats the other day for Will’s Kitchen, I noticed that people are reading it. People that might be in the same position as we are… People that we might be helping with our past food experiments or that might be gleaming with advice. So why stop? Maybe if I clang around in the kitchen for a while he’ll want to join in and all of this “No” “Gross” “THAT IS DISGUSTING” can come to an end. In all honesty, as much as we hate the allergies, we are beyond used to them… Like the creepy guy that used to live next door…. that was standing there looking back at you every time I opened the blinds. (((shiver))). All we have to do is AVOID until we are told otherwise. We just want him to try. Just a little bit. Oh, but this time, as I move the treadmill into the kitchen for optimal multi-tasking, no way am I gaining any weight.

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See You Nevah.

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Spring always makes me happy. And while I know that the world is in it’s usual upheaval of bullshit, when Springtime comes I tend to look the other way. I go outside and spend time with my family and I don’t worry about the losers that hacked into my email account or the unbelievable amount of work that I have put upon myself. Instead I procrastinate. I love to procrastinate… and it’s something that never usually happens when its nasty outside. Like today, for instance. I have a list longer than my incredibly attractive legs (if I do say so myself) of things that I have to do. I have a babysitter lined up so that my kids won’t be completely ignored and my dog is lounging under the tree outside… loving the weather and all I want to do is call and cancel, not work. Play. Play. Play. I already did the dishes. I already did the laundry. The sky is blue, and while I suppose I will have to feed people at some point, there are hours upon hours ahead of me that I can COMPLETELY WASTE. And WHY NOT? Because HE can sit tight on his branding, right? She can live another day without business cards… They can just CALM DOWN about their wedding invitations and WHEW — I can give myself a break on the enormous response to The Big Idea and all of the exciting STUFF that it is generating. RIGHT!??! RIGHT?!?! I can just GO outside, right now… Hope that I didn’t send the boy to school without clothes on (again). There’s a bistro set in the play-yard with my name written ALL OVER IT. Check me by THE BUBBLE MACHINE. AND — The internet connection sucks balls out there…. BONUS. So why am I still here thinking about going out there… I’m NOT – I’m coming up with a bullshit title for this weird little conversation that I’m having with myself and I’m GOING. SO STICK IT.

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Oddly, Reese Witherspoon brightens the day…

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okay. OKAY. I get it, life. YOU AREN’T FAIR. If you were standing next to me screaming in my ear with Dorito breath and overly oily skin… I’d prefer it. Dragging nails down chalkboards, screeching forks on plates. Even the chilling (and albeit) disturbing feeling that I get when I ask the esthetician to attempt to file my nails — only to end up yanking my hands away, curling up in a ball of pain and fear as if she just attempted to poke my eyes out. Especially the Taco Cheese Doritos.

That. I would prefer that to any more fury.

But then, stepping back and looking at life from a totally narcissistic point of view (because this is all about me) the really important things come to light. Like hanging out with my kids and appreciating every moment of their awesomeness. Or, going to a ladies luncheon for the private school in my not-so-distant future, where the ladies that lunch booze it up like they are preparing to ship out in a few hours to haul in the next big catch. Or when celebrities like Reese Witherspoon, who like to think they can act, pull out the arrogance card and wave it around for all to see — asking the state-trooper if he knew who she was as her husband is being arrested for driving drunk.Way to keep it on the down-low, Reese. We all know you want to compete, but the limelight is totally glaring elsewhere although we appreciate your efforts. Life, apparently, keeps going.

I think the next time I’m in such a pickle I might ask the same thing. While I tend to enjoy the ritual of self-importance, I am thoroughly amused by this urge to think one is bigger than life — larger than national crises and, above all, tragedies that spill fear into daily life. HOWEVER, while reading between the tears of laughter, I am halted by confusion. Not only was her husband unable to maintain lane control while driving… but he was also driving a FORD FOCUS — which she was RIDING IN. Rental or not, People. I implore. What is the real tragedy here? Indeed.

Reese Witherspoon being interviewed at the pre...

Reese Witherspoon being interviewed at the premiere of Walk The Line with Jerry Pinnocoli of Extra at the 2005 Toronto International Film Festival. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Wicked Unimportant.

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Wicked.

There, I said it.

Years ago, while living among the New Englanders, I swore that I wouldn’t allow ‘wicked’, slang when referring to… well just about anything, but mostly a replacement for ‘very’… to become a staple in my vocabulary. There really wasn’t a reason for this. It’s not that I don’t like to use the word ‘wicked’. It isn’t that I frown upon other people using it…. I just simply decided in my whacked out head that ‘wicked’ wasn’t for me. And, it hasn’t been easy…. living this life of restraint. It didn’t help that I married into a family that drops the word every other sentence, as do our best friends. Or, that I hear it in my own head when I’m talking to myself… inside. OR that I love Boston and Western Massachusetts accents almost as much as sleeping late or cuddling up with a giant bottle of housewife chardonnay. Or both. Wicked hot. Wicked dirty. Wicked smart. Wicked cold. Wicked icy. Wicked cool. Wicked fast. WICKED AWESOME. WICKED WEIRD.

In my travels, and having since placed myself on the eastern end of a sandbar, one would think that seclusion would have made things easier. AND I almost thought it possible to escape the melodrama that I created for myself by avoiding ‘wicked’.. But then my son crushed all hopes and dreams of freedom by adopting the word and littering it throughout his expansive repertoire. The first time I heard it I whipped my head around so fast that I developed a wicked crick in my neck. “Mom. This floor is wicked slippery”.  WHAT?!?! “Mom. Turn the volume up, it’s wicked low.” NO!!?!? “Mom. Jo smells wicked bad.” WHAT DO YOU MEAN?!?!? When he says it, I literally have visions from the movie Something Wicked This Way Comes — where an evil circus arrives in town and the villagers are played with like sock puppets. That is until Jason Robards gets wind of the wickedness and is all get over yourself Ray Bradbury.

And now everything is just wicked out of control. I suppose there isn’t a way to escape, even after years of avoidance. If only I could find a way to embrace the word. Welcome it into my life and finally give up this obsession of never using it. Wicked annoying. There are just so many options of use, IT’S JUST SO WICKED. But it was never me. I wasn’t from the deep of New England and so I set these massive rules for myself that barred the word… therefore avoiding the horrible tell-tales of being an outsider among the boys club. But now it’s here. In my living room. Pointing at me and laughing as if I only knew one Pink Floyd song which I sang over and over again, claiming rights over the music group of which I know nothing about, until it became PROOF of what a poser one can be. Following the crowd to the inevitably wicked truth and making me realize how incredibly ridiculous I have been behaving.

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Woods ist weiter Zuschauer-Garant, Apparently.

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I don’t know about you. But I can say with all kinds of certainty that I don’t know the correlation between Tiger Woods and Bob Hope. I mean, there is the whole GOLF thing, I suppose, but what else? Cheese?

March 5th I logged into the site stats for this website, only to find 30 people currently viewing an antiquated page that I had lent out to a guest-post. Most days I avoid this task because it tends to send me into a 5-second downward spiral where I remember the old days where visitors were plenty and pennies were coming in. And I know, whatever, among the millions of blogs out there I suppose that someone else has written about Modern Palm Springs Architecture (here and here) but I am beginning to think that I am the only one possessing such information. It was a ill-fated phase, the whole ‘come to my blog and write whatever despite not fitting in AT ALL’. Eventually I had to stop allowing the postie to send me her text after she sent me a story about her uterus. She, in turn, unfollowed me on Twitter—as goes the norm with Social Media maddness. I’m over it though and I hope her uterus is too. Normally, I’m lucky to find 3 people hanging around in here — THIRTY, kind of caught my eye. Not to mention the Country source – being Germany. Z-Germans. Loving… LOVING Palm Springs Architecture… Apparently. And then things got out of hand.

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The Germans, and their obsession with Palm Springs Architecture. Who knew? Upon further investigation, because, you know – I have NOTHING BETTER TO DO. I found the link coming from a Deutsche Golf article: http://golf.de/publish/60097403/lifestyle/woods-ist-weiter-zuschauergarant which mentions all kinds of American Athletes and further down links to the guest-post. Upon translating this article, again — NOTHING TO DO — I came to find my eyes rolling back into my head from boredom. Finding the link was easy, and I think I’m happy about it—if only I cared as much as Z-Germans!

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It’s just that my Toes are Claustrophobic

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Why do they play under the stairs? Why is this fun for them?

This morning, while I pulled the covers over my head, I heard them going into that little useless closet under the stairs — closing the doors. Giggles ensued. While I strictly open the doors saying “do NOT close the doors” — their headlamps blaring into my need-more-sleep-eyes—Huge smiles on their faces. I snuggled back into bed only to be visited by that scene from The Six Sense where Toni Collette pulls the almost lifeless body of her freakish, “I see dead people” son out of a antique looking dumbwaiter…. bullied into the hole in the wall by classmates at a birthday party. Later, while having taken her son to the hospital, M. Night Shyamalan, acting as a medical professional, suggests that the bruises found on her son’s body were due-in-part to child abuse… When they were actually inflicted by mean ghosts that haunted him incessantly.

I immediately got up to make breakfast, because there is NO WAY that anything that might be lurking under the stairs is going to hurt my kids, right? Talk about reasons to get out of bed in the morning. I also failed to put anything on my feet, which have been covered up for months. They felt free and new. Gorgeous too due to a recent pedi.

It was then that I decided that I can’t or shouldn’t stop blogging. Because what am I going to do if I can’t share these magical moments with you.

Now I know things here are a little broken, and it may take some time to fix them, but according to my toes, all we have is time. I’m now off to register for the ALT Summit, because DAMMIT, and his little man too.

To be continued….

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This Thing Called Blogging

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I think I’m over it… but yet again, I don’t know.

And, I know. I never thought I would see myself ending this little corner of the internet. But things have changed and there are a number of reasons why I feel the end barreling towards me.

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not blogging….

1. I don’t have very much to say lately, and while bloggers have come and gone, I feel really guilty about neglecting this website. Why? I have no idea, and at the risk of sounding like the 5 year old, it’s all kind of stupid. STUPID to feel like I should have something to say. I just don’t think I want to say anything anymore… and not in a depressing way — more like I should just stop. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t.

2. The bloggers that I once enjoyed and even envied as “successful” internet reality shows are slowly self-destructing, it seems. I’ve never shared “too much”. They did. It brought them internet fame, which I don’t think I ever really wanted — although they were making money. Lots of it. But then the Great and Powerful Oz stepped out from behind the curtain and he was a short little man with goofy hair. Bad things are happening. Their kids don’t want their naked-bath-butts shoved down the throats of readers and skimmers alike. They aren’t blogging very much anymore, and when they do, they aren’t sharing anything about their crumbling situations… They’ve mentioned the bad-times and then stated that they aren’t going to talk about it. This is after sharing everything. EVERYTHING. Which is bad. Sharing is bad. BAD. This worries me because I don’t want to be clomped in with a mesh of stinky has-beens that are now clinging to the cliffs of insanity… Talking about recipes, dogs and horrible outfits whilst gritting their teeth in a fake perma-grin. And yes, that was harsh. Very harsh. I would worry about hurting their feelings, but the last thing they are doing is reading the blogs of others, so… I’m not too concerned. Although, just by publishing this post I am opening up the Pandora on all things MENTAL HEALTH. Which is not a joke. I don’t think it is. GET HEALTHY. TAKE DRUGS. I implore you. KICK THE BASTARD OUT. SITTING DUCK SITTING DUCK. Things happen. On and off the internet. But how genuine and good were things really… On this very exact same note, I know and adore, several other bloggers that have gained strength from blogging and have made decisions in their lives that include monumental life changes and they are in a better place because of it. They, by the way, have stopped blogging. SO WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

3. I’m working. I’ve been working very hard on a few things that have refocused and sharpened my senses. Yes, The Big Idea is a huge part of this, but I’m not going to blame the mental love child on my blogging disorder syndrome. Suddenly I have something that I can’t stop thinking about… which again, makes me feel guilty about this site and it’s constant and oddly, languishing pull. The Big Idea has focused me in a way that I wasn’t expecting… Kind of like just WHAT the hell do I think I’ve been doing for the past 5 years?!? (aside from having 2 babies).

4. This website is physically broken. And no. I’m not going to tell you how or where… but basically, the bra is a little too tight in the back and the straps are falling off. I need a programmer to get into the nuts and bolts to fix everything… and while I have a programmer, the last thing I want to do is call him up and whine about my broken blog. It’s kind of like when I beg the pediatrician for antibiotics and they send me away with my hacking, flesh falling off child and they say everything is fine. Who cares that his ear is where his eye should be and the younger one is licking the floor. Look away, everything is fine. Right? Everything is fine. Which should pretty much lay the law on how much I love this website right now.

And these reasons haven’t just appeared. For example, I was having lunch earlier this week with a lovely soon-to-be-former-blogger and we were talking about the state of the blogosphere… She, in all seriousness mentioned that they had served her way too much steak and then joked that, had she still been blogging regularly, she would have taken a picture and written a post about it. It was then that we looked at each other, drank heavy gulps of our alcohol and both exclaimed “WHO CARES”. Because, really. It was later in this lunch that she found a rather disturbing hair amidst her almost completed meal, which would have made for a much more entertaining post because before being comped our waitress agreed that it hadn’t come from any of our heads. We could have written long drawn out posts that would have gone over our discussions on blogging and hair in food and numb waitresses. But I don’t have to because I just TOLD YOU ALL ABOUT IT. Which is great. I mean really. What did you do today? I bet that you didn’t tell THAT STORY….

All of these things are making me feel a little on edge. Chance are I’m just going to chalk it all up (not down) to a big fit of over-thinking and say whatever, MOVE-ON. Something interesting might happen in the next ten minutes and I’ll regret ever calling them stinky. Or has-beens. Although the cliffs of insanity do look rather delicious. Maybe they have room for me to hang off a broken branch or something.. a rock ledge or abandoned eagle nest. Someplace where I can talk about headbands and cat-clothes. See! I knew the brainstorming would lead to SOMETHING! Move along people, nothing to see here…..

As you were.

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The Naked Confessional

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Because you need to know.

A few weeks ago I was able to insert the “Mom takes a shower in the morning” item back into our regularly scheduled program. It has been amazing. The kids get up, fed, dressed and then I slip away into the shower for a quick hair wash before taking child #1 to school. I would go into details on how life changing this has been, but I don’t want to bore you. Especially when you could be paying more attention to Lance and his mighty Armstrong. Right? I mean JUST when you thought it was okay to stop looking at him, he’s all like WHY AREN’T YOU LOOKING AT ME and decides to do something about it. Even if it means humiliating himself — DESPITE the fact that the only people that really care are all members of the same obscure bike riding world. I mean, he has already ruined his life… And while I can appreciate feeling better about yourself having waited until the right narcissistic batrillionaire calls you up for an interview (in an effort to save a failing network), telling the truth may have just melted the thin ice. And you know, things don’t have to be so hard. Granted, he never should have lied or engaged in his bicycling bully tactics, OR broken up with Sheryl Crow, but maybe… just maybe if he hadn’t taken things for granted — you know, like beating CANCER, he wouldn’t be such a douche bag. I bet he gets to shower whenever he wants, and all of that might change. Oh what a world.

A few days after instigating the new shower law, I was just drying off when Will approached. He was on the phone (the real phone) and looked perplexed. He quickly scurried away when I inquired about the situation and so I followed to find his sister standing on her toy box holding that little card that makes the cable box function. The television, which resides above said toy box wasn’t on as I had left it. If you are part of this century, you might be just as foolish as we are and have your phone line running through the cable modem in your house. The phone had rung while I was blatantly ignoring my children (as I am now) by enjoying the wonders of water falling on my head. It was my sister calling, and after Will said Hello, the next thing she heard was “Jo, I don’t think you should be doing that” just as everything disconnected. Panic ensues in Manhattan after several immediate tries to call us back…. Meanwhile, I was carefully coaxing the extreme sports mountain climber off of the ledge while replacing the (why does this control everything?) card to the cable box… when it hit me. I was naked. In broad daylight. In the middle of my house, in front of my children, NAKED…. with wet uncombed hair—Looking like ohmygawd I DON’T KNOW. As Will was quick to point out “Mom, you’re naked.” And the phone was ringing. The next thing I needed was for someone to come to the door, which they didn’t, but the guys that cut our hedge were right outside and the curtains were open. Minor details that I grasped within the split seconds I took running back into the comfort of my bedroom. I thought back eons ago to when friends and I were laying on a topless beach in on the Island of Elba. I think I lasted about 2 minutes before a stranger and I talked about how weird it was to be topless—resulting in my immediately putting my top back on. A few minutes later I called my sister back telling her about the nakedness, calming the fires. So much for the morning shower.

But, since you need to know, that was only one incident, and the showers have continued. Now, I know that in the 5 minutes when I leave the almost 2 year old and 5 year old to their own may result in crisis unimaginable (they usually hang out in the bathroom anyway). Showering will commence DESPITE any naked situations I may find myself in. Naked. I feel that my confession is clean. Nope. No hiding the bottom lip here. Because you needed to know.

 

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The Summer of George

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HUGE SIGH.

Okay. Here it is. The obligatory New Year’s post.

I’ve put this off now for 11 days. ELEVEN. And, while I know you’ve been wandering around aimlessly, wondering and wringing you hands over WHEN IS SHE GOING TO TELL US ANYTHING, I have been in a blissful state of procrastination. By the way — biting your nails is disgusting. SO STOP.

2012 was extreme. Right? I mean… we, as survivors should all be running down a beach in our whites, carrying torches while vast expanses of theme songs embrace the moment. That. OR, we should be sliding into a pub booth, pounding Guinness and fried deliciousness — allowing our feet to stick to the floor while chain smoking and laughing with unbridled gluttony. No? BUT WHY? Do you have a better idea? Because I will never get over 2012 and it’s overwhelming ego. Being all TAKE THAT and stressing me out to the point where even my dentist suggested Valium to cope with the annual cleansing. He gave me 12, by the way. You know. Just in case.

But I’m not going to let last year haunt me. And that’s probably the best thing that I can say for 2013. Because, in moving forward (which is really the best route to take) I want 2013 to be all about good things. And while, yes. I am aware of how impossible that is (why can’t you just let me HAVE IT?!?!) I have a lot of love for this year already and therefore have decided to pass on the resolutions. PASSING. JUST DON’T GO. NO.

Resolutions are the old model and I’m upgrading. AND I have Valium. What could be more POSSIBLE?!

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How many Mayans Does it take to Screw in a Lightbulb… ?

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And WOW that title is politically incorrect. It’s okay though. I know several Mayans and they are the happiest people alive — they’d totally laugh. Wait, let me call one now. Yes. He laughed.

With the luck we’ve been having, I totally expected the world to end.

But it didn’t. What the F.

And on that note, I’m turning a corner. Walk with me, will you?

I watched Moonstruck last night for the first time in a while. I don’t think there is a better Nick Cage scene in the universe other than when he says, “Come upstairs… and GET in my bed.” That and the whole tormented man scene “They say bread is life…. huh, sweetie”. If I could, I would totally go back and live in Moonstruck. Either there, or the Men Without Hats Safety Dance video. I think I’d like it there too.

We have to live here… Not in Ghostbusters, Bed Knobs & Broomsticks or Beetlejuice. We have to deal. We have to grip. And the big reality of it is that we have to do better. I’m not going to lie. I love my life — it’s amazing and, aside from a few stumbles here and there, I’m happy. And the realization that people are generally good and loving may have gotten stamped down in the fury. Several times in the past week familiar store clerks have cherished my kids to the point of tears. Gripping my arm — telling me that they love them while their eyes well up. “I can’t imagine being in your shoes” one said “I don’t envy you” another said — which was weird because my boots are incredibly comfortable and we are all in this together. Immediately, I became annoyed. What? One major life-changing tragedy and the guard on being overly dramatic is down? Is this going to happen for months? Smile at them, don’t cry in their presence. But then I realized — these people, whether or not they have family, were only stopping me in an effort to share and comfort, and the tears were breaking way to smiles which are irresistible given the absurd cuteness of my kids. I live in a place where friendliness is sparse — suddenly I am a part of a community that cares. It’s true. How could this happen. How could it happen to 6 and 7 year olds. How could it happen to god-fearing, dedicated elementary school teachers. How, why why why… And then I realize that the deli clerk is filling my daughter to the brim with American Cheese. Dammit. She’s never going to eat lunch. STOP FEEDING HER.

Believe me. I am not belittling the situation. I still feel that we are all damaged goods and that moving forward, our society needs a massive ass-kicking. I mean, show me the one person in this country that isn’t suffering some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and I will slap them silly with my spatula… my metal one. Millions of people have kids. Millions. And that isn’t coming to a stop any time soon — despite the Mayans. The pedestal that has become parenthood may have been raised in the past week, but it isn’t without regard for everyone else. We all have to do better.

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