man up, glenn beck and cry some real tears now

If you were one of the seventeen million people who attended The Rally to Restore Sanity like I did, which is to say, in spirit, you will appreciate this re-cap in pictures:

If you haven't seen enough, you can see more pictures here.

Update: I originally spelled Glenn with only one "n." Which made me think, isn't spelling Glenn with two "n's" kind of gay?

friday fill-ins

1. While the cat's away the mice will go on kitchen strike.

2. Voto? fabuloso!

3. Children are the one thing that makes aging worthwhile.

4. I change into sweat pants when I get home from work or shopping or what have you.

5. This may seem odd, but I have not been in the mood to raid the Halloween candy.

6. Fridays are for sipping a cold one with friends and that seems like a fine idea to me!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to a little alone time with my man, tomorrow my plans include walking in this beautiful fall weather and Sunday, I want to laugh over Halloween costumes!

motor ann, what's your price for flight?

I heard the song Sister Christian yesterday. By Night Ranger. It's a great song with a catchy tune, but the lyrics. WTF? If your memory sucks like mine, you might need to hit the play button on the video before you remember what song I'm even talking about.

For years and years I've been singing along to this song only to stop at the refrain and think ... what the flip is he saying? Motor head? Motor end? Put your motor in? Or a woman's name? Motor-Ann? Modo-enne?

Thanks to the powerful internets, I was able to google and finally find the answer. Isn't that one of the best forms of mental relief? The just out of reach memory itch that finally gets scratched?

Another one is Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb. My husband laughs at me every time the song comes on because with this song I was confident I knew the lyrics. Not a doubt in my mind. It wasn't until Sam set me straight that I realized I'd been wrong all these years. And I'm embarrassed to say it was only a couple years ago.

Here are the true lyrics:

Now I've got that feeling once again

I can't explain, you would not understand

This is not how I am

I have become comfortably numb

And here is what I was sure they were singing:

After come, comfortably numb

Yes, as a teenager this is what I assumed. And didn't bat an eye, either. Depraved adolescence much?

Here's the tune if you want to listen for yourself.

But the burning question is this: Was I the only one who thought Pink Floyd was come-fortably numb?

How about you, reader? What song lyrics do you remember bungling?

a dream and a determination

I just woke up from a bad dream. Or I guess you could call it a middle-aged-married-woman-with-three-kids version of a nightmare.

In this dream I was driving in an unfamilliar area out in the countryside looking for the house of friends. My husband was there waiting for me and we were meeting for dinner. I remembered his directions, "If you drive into the historic part of downtown, you've gone too far." (Never mind that winding country roads never lead to historic parts of downtown. Our mind's acceptance of dream unreality is a strange phenomenon.)

Sure enough, I approach the historic district with it's four story homes, six feet tall shuttered windows, wrapping front porches adorned with strands of tiny white lights. It's a restaurant district.

I become lost in this downtown area and try to wind my way out when I spot my husband's car. Strange, what is he doing here?

I park my car and wander into the restaurant in search of my errant husband. I find myself

standing on a 2nd story balcony, looking down just in time to see my husband who looks nothing like my current husband but like an amalgamation of my former boyfriend and the actor Edward Norton.

Yes, I have the hots for Edward Norton.

I see husband Norton dart across the landing below, smiling over his shoulder in a flirtatious manner, reaching for the hand of an equally firtatious blonde 20 years my junior and 60 pounds my lighter. Think Naomi Watts. And yes, I am a brunette who carries a natural resentment toward all blondes for all the fun I imagine them having.

Also pertinent, my relationship with the former boyfriend partially starring in my dream ended when he began a real life flirtation with a skinny-ass blonde to whom he introduced me nonchalantly one night as he was bartending and I instantly knew something was up. But that's a digression I will resist at the moment. The point is, there's meaningful emotional memory here and I'm staring at it from my balcony perch in a deja vu of disbelief.

The dream goes on to my finding Norton and Naomi in an even more compromising attitude, on a couch in some back room of the restaurant, with me confronting him/them (because Naomi will not take a hint and leave my dream) only to have him/them give me the equivalent of a shoulder shrug, as if to say, "So?"

And there's hardly a more crushing feeling than to have your shocked, broken hearted, cheated on indignation shrugged off as if it's no more of a biggie, than say, finding a small parking lot ding in the rear of your eight-year-old car.

And then the dream winds it's way to a point where I run away with plans to ignore him, in the vein of, I'll show him! But then I remind myself that this is exactly what husband Norton and Naomi would want. So I turn around and desperately hunt them down. I confront husband Norton a second time, a third time with my tears and my hysteria and my How Could You's, my How Could You Do This to Me? To Us? To US?!? only to find him, once again, looking at me quizzically, as if to say, What is your problem?

And to hear him ask what did I expect, after all I was a sour puss, was no fun, was a downer, was boring, never smiled. (The not smiling thing? Something I have heard all my life.) The only thing he didn't say was, And you're fat. But he didn't need to.

And then I see me turning away, finally. Defeated. Devestated. Resigned.

So this is how it's going to be. Divorced and alone at 50. Overweight, out of shape, and out of a steady sex partner and second income.

My head drops, I walk out into the misty night rain, skulking back to my car, heart heavy. I pass a single friend of mine from graduate school who is enjoying a girls night out, and say, "Don't be surprised if I start joining you." She looks at me with an uncomprehending expression but I don't stop to explain.

I wake up with the same sinking feeling I had many years ago, thinking, No man is trustworthy. No man cherishes the longterm intimacy and attachment that comes with years of companionship. No man can resist the younger, thinner, shapelier temptress.

And then I really wake up. I locate myself in my bedroom, under my sheets and my wedding ring quilt, listening to NPR's Steve Innskeep tell us Liberace's Museum is Closing Its Glittery Gates.

I then hear the comforting sounds of Sam getting our kids ready for school. I hear him shouting at our daughter, Don't tell ME to calm down. I tell YOU to calm down! And her usual refrain, Dad! You are SO MEAN!

I stumble out of bed and walk my bleary-eyed self into the kitchen. I nod my head sleepily as Sam tells me his version of the yelling.

All at once I feel better. I smile. And am determined to smile more often.

beating those kids who think they are so damn smart

I have just found Crystal Jackson's blog, Fight stupidization. Her recent post talks about Delaware Senate candidate Christine O'Donnell's campaign commercial.

You know the one: "I am not a witch. I am you."

Jackson rejects the notion that the Average Joe is the best man for the job. But it's a question worth asking: Why do (so many) voters find the Average Joe so appealing when it comes to electing them to high office? Even the office of presidency? When what we need in the White House or in the Senate is someone who is not just smart, but very smart. Someone who, as Jackson says, can "pay attention to intricate, ever-changing details."

Back when Shrub was elected, pundits and pollsters said many voted for him because they'd like to have a beer with him. I don't know about you, but I can think of a lot of people I like having beers with who would make very dangerous Presidents.

But as much as I hate to admit it, the right wing message crafters seem to have nailed it in their persistent way of manipulating the subset of the voting population that holds contempt for intelligence and fact wielders.

I often wonder if this doesn't stem from days in the classroom when deep resentment arose toward that kid who sat front and center, raised her hand for every question and knew the answer every.single.time.

Getting good grades is probably the single most cohesive goal of parents in any community, of any color, of all sides of the political spectrum. Kids who are average, or worse, find themselves semester after semester unable to distinguish themselves with high marks. Find themselves standing in front of disappointed, or worse, punishing and belittling parents. Who eventually trade in their humiliation for a major case of contempt.

So I often assume the appeal of the Average Joes and the Common Folk Christines is more about getting even with those know-it-all over-achievers. Letting the long-ago-but-never-forgotten feelings of inadequacy get the best of their voter sense. Finally taking aim and wielding some control over those kids who think they're so damn smart.

I don't know if this is at all close to what is going on. I just know that recent campaign trends depict the brilliant as suspect. Ivory tower as out of touch. Top of the class as contemptible.

And maybe because in the White House we've had on the Democrat side:

-Carter, top 10% of his class in the Naval Academy.

-Clinton, a Rhodes Scholar.

-Obama, Editor of the Harvard Law Review.

And on the Republican side:

-Reagan, an actor.

-Bush, a yell leader.

'Nuff said.

dress shopping at the mawl

One thing about motherhood that keeps it exciting: So often the way things play out is completely different from what I pictured.

The first expectation changer: Every moment with my newborn will be soft cuddles, sweet smiles and baby powder smells. You know, like those Johnson & Johnson commercials.

You too?

The latest expectation changer: Dress Shopping at the Mawl.

4I envisioned our first venture to be a joyful bonding experience.

4I thought my twelve year olds would be smiling at my side, happily rushing to show me their fashion picks. Not asking if I'd mind staying twenty feet behind them at all times.

4 I didn't think I'd have to worry about my kids wanting to make their purchases alone until they were driving.

4For their first school dance I pictured a cute little outfit like this:

Instead we are negotiating away from a hot little number like this:

4I thought they would be in high school for their first homecoming* dance. I didn't know college coeds would return home eager to visit their middle school.

Turns out there is one thing I predicted correctly: Sweating while I handed over this:

*Resisting the urge to step on soapbox and rant about the judgement of adults who organize these events and why do we want our kids to grow up so fast and are we really surprised at teen drug abuse because by the time they're in high school they've already done it all so what do they have to look forward to?

misguided mom

Have you read this yet? The ace mom who insisted her children (7 and 3 years old) watch their baby brother's birth despite the children repeatedly stating they did not want to do so? You might want to check out the Salon article before reading my heated response so you can follow the bouncing ball.

I don't buy the "planning doesn't come naturally to me" faux excuse. Sounds suspiciously passive-aggressive to me. As in, I want my children in here because I think it's a splendid idea, so, hum, let me conveniently forget to plan a safe harbor for them. Safe harbor, i.e., where they could wait in excited anticipation and be given the gift of a happy reunion with their new baby brother.

No, instead they feel frightened and devalued. The moment considerably diminished, if not ruined.

I don't agree with the "childbirth is natural" line, either. Sex is natural, but not for a child. Neither is watching others have sex. Childbirth and sex are both beautiful conditions for mature adults. Not children who are too young, too developmentally immature, too emotionally ill-equipped to understand and process these events. Their young brains are simply not ready.

Consider this: There are many sexual perpetrators who ask the child for consent under the delusion that a child is developmentally mature enough to give consent. Children are not. We have laws in this country which dictate that minor children cannot give consent. Not even sixteen year olds can give consent. Laws devised under the guidance of child development experts who hold post graduate degrees from esteemed universities. Asking "consent" is clearly not appropriate and especially at such a young age. And yet, this mother thinks her seven year old can give consent? Her three year old?

We as adults, as parents, are assigned the profound task of making judgement calls designed to protect and nuture our children. This is our job. Not to make them a witness to our own magical but terrifying hour.

An hour that could result in tragedy. Ever take a walk through an old cemetery and see how many young mothers' headstones you see?

So I don't care or respect that the children were "asked." It matters not one wit. That the children clearly and repeatedly said no? Does matter. As in, hey super mom, you were given a get out of jail free card but you ripped it up.

What also matters is that these parents and grandparents and any other adult present, partook in what amounts to group neglect of two young children's emotional limits.

flag on the field

I spend a lot of time complaining about the demands of motherhood. At least in private, I do. The time, the impatience, the bickering, the driving, the driving and the driving.

But it's all nothing compared to the hard of standing on the sidelines as my kid takes a hit, a rough tackle, right to the heart.

Where I fight off an irresistible urge to rush onto the field, whistle in mouth, yellow flag flying, yelling at the top of my lungs, FOUL! Illegal emotion by an offensive player!

Or in mother speak, Stop hurting my kid!

But stand there I do with my thumb up my ass a case of sideline paralysis, here and there maybe sending in a play. When I can think up one.

Unless, of course, I get the glare.

You know, the one that says, Stay the fuck out of it, MOM.

In which case I take the role of the sounding board, uncertainty pounding in my head, offering the occasional and pathetic, Sorry she's acting like that.

I thought I'd have reached the end of those feelings by now. Stable marriage. Nice house. Beautiful kids. Good job. The adolescent angst safely tucked away in the past.

But nope. Not as a mom. This mom gets to live it all over again, in triplicate.

I didn't know it would feel like this. Standing helplessly by, feeling it all as if it were my own, powerless to do anything about it. Which is how it felt back then, too, really. Only this time with the perspective of how trivial it all is. How nothing.

But I can't convince them of that.

So for now I'll just stay put on the sidelines, hang onto the yellow flag. Or maybe offer it as a handkerchief. And have faith they'll get through it just like I did.

pay attention, guys

And speak up, women. If you're saying it's okay, how is he to know? You'd think it would be a no-brainer but when someone is told "no big deal," often enough, he starts to believe it. Be as generous to yourself as you want him to be.

This postcard is courtesy of PostSecret.

The Majorly Personal Meme, Part One

(With no stated obligation to complete the remaining meme-parts).

1. Are you happier now than you were five months ago?

Yes.

2. Have you ever slept in the same bed with anyone that you shouldn't have?

I try to eliminate shoulds from my vocabulary. Rather, wish I hadn't.

3. Can you sleep in total darkness?

My best sleep, yes.

4. Your phone is ringing. It’s the person you fell hardest for, the one who got away, what do you say?

Have you tested lately? You might need to ...

Not really. I'm lucky. The ones I fell hardest for didn't so much get away as were sent away. And I'd probably want to say I wish I'd woken up sooner.

5. What do you think about the weather this summer?

We didn't hit the 100's until August-ish. That's a good summer.

6. How many people do you trust with everything?

Three, if by everything you mean my complete confidence.

7. What was the last thing you drank?

Besides water? Vanilla soy milk.

8. Is there anyone you want to come see you?

A few friends who are scattered far and wide. One friend in San Francisco I haven't seen in over 20 years. I'd love for her to come visit.

9. Name one thing you love about winter?

Nights laying by the fire in the fireplace. Sitting around campfire with friends.

I'm a controlled pyro, apparently.

10. Have you ever dated a Goth?

No such thing when I was dating. My most unusual dating experience (that lasted more than one night) was a guy who liked to go to New Orleans Saints games by himself on acid. ?? That one didn't last long.

11. What are you looking forward to tomorrow?

Taking the kids for bubble tea. Walking down to the flowing creek.

12. Name something you dislike about the day you’re having?

I didn't get enough sleep. As per usual.

13. What's the longest that you have committed to one person and one person only?

21 years.

14. What’s the first thing you did when you opened your eyes today?

Stumbled to the bathroom. Took thyroid medication.

15. Has anyone ever told you they never want to ever lose you?

Minus the "ever," yes.

16. Is there anybody that you wish you could fix your relationship with?

Yes, but I've finally figured out it's pretty much beyond my control.

17. Could you go out in public, looking like you do now?

Not unless I want to scar my children for life.

18. Do you think things will change in the next 3 months? How?

I'll have to shop more. Christmas and a birthday coming. Otherwise, not so much different from the past few years.

19. Do you believe that you never know what you got until you lose it?

No but an ex-boyfriend does.

20. Do you have a friend of the opposite sex you can talk to?

Yes. He's not straight, natch.

Painting: And Still No Rain by Michelle Giacobello.

e-bayte my ass

You know when you have been watching an ebatty item for several days and you wait until the last few seconds to bid, I believe this is called sniping, and then you see that you are currently the winner with barely 3 seconds left?

Your heart is all pounding and you feel all triumphant because the item you won at $54 is actually worth $179? And you have $20 left in the bid kitty? You know that feeling?

But then you refresh the page and see that no, at the very last millisecond, some sneaky, snarky, sniper came in and stole won with $1 more than your top bid? You know that feeling?

So then you content yourself on some primordial level of pettiness with the malicious satisfaction that at least the thief sniper had to fork over an extra twenty bucks at the last second? What is that feeling called?

Schnipenfreude?

and the winner is ...

And the winner of the Who's Kissing Governor Ahnold Contest is .....

Agent X Rae! Come on down! Woot!

I feel something akin to ambivalence here. And misplaced guilt. With the need to defend myself so I can eliminate the guilt. And suspicions.

Let me explian. This is my first blog giveaway. My first experience choosing a random number via an online tool.

Agent X happened to be number one. The first blogger to post. Agent X happens to live in Austin. I happen to know her, even.

As I moved to click the random number generator, my thought was this, "Now you watch...it'll come up number one and this will look rigged."

And... so... yup. Number one came up. I have many synchroncity events (synchronictic? synchronicitous?) such as this so it really doesn't surprise me. And since nearby residence was not listed as a disqualifier, Agent X stands as the winner. She also happens to be an ace at pop culture trivia so I think she deserves it as well.

Friday Fill-Ins

I've had my mind set on participating in Friday Fill-Ins for quite some time. Just because they look like fun. But typical, something bad memory always got in the way.

But today? Here I am.

So without further ado, introducing my first Friday Fill-Ins:

1. Family outings make my weekend.
2. I'm considering entertaining this weekend but I keep going back and forth.
3. I love a novel that I can't put down.
4. In a hurry, peanut butter on an apple makes a good meal.
5. I've got the bad back blues.
6. Roddick lost in the 2nd round: wth!!!
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to seeing my daughters have fun with their friends, tomorrow my plans include watching the US Open and Sunday, I want to watch more tennis!

who's kissing governor ahnold contest

I found what is apparently Governor Ahnold's secret revenue generating strategy in my spam box:

I like such themes and everything connected to this matter.

Can't you just hear Ah-nold and his ach-cent?

And ever-ting connected to dis mah-ter. And dis ting and de udder and ever-ting like dat.

I wish he were turning his Terminator charms onto the true spamminators.

Making him the Sperminator. Har.

No doubt, spam-boy. You will be back.

If that wasn't enough Ah-nold for you, here's more. Click it if you need a laugh. And please don't confuse me with an Ah-nold movie buff, but I adored him in True Lies. The hotel strip scene had me in stitches not to mention in awe of that amazing bod. His co-star's, not his.

Oh, and the contest? Correctly guess who is under the pink wig and I'll put your name in a drawing* to win a free pair of bead earrings ... made by yours truly.

*Must be 18 years or older and have pierced ears to participate. Must be willing to overlook minor flaws in CoffeeYogurt's finding-bending artistry.

another texan tells a tall one

Gather up,

cowgirls and cowpokes.

You don't want to miss this.

The latest in a long line of Texas' finest

guv-mint 'fishals

spoutin' off at the mouth.

Without further ado, I inner-duce you

to one of Texas' State Representatives,

Debbie Riddle, Republican from Tomball, Texas.

Don't know whar Tomball is?

Why it's just east 'o Waller, down the road a middlin' from Stagecoach.

Whut? Don't know whar Stagecoach is?

Ok-doke.

It's up the road a piece from Houston-town.

So go 'head on. Watch the clip.

Where Anderson Cooper gets all swole up talkin' to Rep. Riddle on her claim that,

pregnant women are coming to the U.S. as tourists, having babies, and then going back home, quote, with the nefarious purpose of turning them into little terrorists who will then come back to the U.S. and do us harm as part of an organized terror element.

Terrorist babies. Now if that don't put pepper in yer gumbo!

Rep. Riddle goes on to spin a yarn that "it is common knowledge" that 81% of babies born in one Houston hospital are "anchor babies."

You know what that is, don't chee? Anchors are babies born to illegal aliens (undocumented immigrants to you and me) in the U.S. so they can later brang more immigrant relatives to soak up our well-far (tax payer supported health care).

But these anchors want more than our well-far. They're gonna be trained terrorists who come back to the U.S. and blow up our cars an' buildings an' ever'thang!

Contacted by staff from the Austin American Statesman, Riddle stated she "shouldn't have talked about the terror babies."

Whut? Nuh -uh! Of course you should, Missus Riddle! We Amaricans have a right to be cattle-prodded into voting booths out of fear of infant terror cells spewing out in our very own hospitals.

Who cares that Riddle's facts don't squar?

Facts she got from an opinion piece written by fellow republican and State Senator Dan Patrick, R-Houston. How 'bout that? Another republican't. Well, I'll just swaney!

Truth is, where truth equals fact published on paper, closer to 60% of mothers giving birth in Houston hospitals are undocumented. That's a sobering statistic, to be sure, but it ain't nowhar close to no 81%.

But hold yer horses. Only "a few percentage points" off, according to State Senator Patrick.

Hell fire f-ck, that man does some wondrous 'rithmatic.

But I'll swan that Riddle and Patrick know what their fellow Texans have to say about opinions:

They're like assholes. Some are just louder and smellier than others.

click here to see what this picture of "W" is made of

Dad'gum right.

Here's the clip again if you want to take a gander. Worth every one of them thar eleven minutes.

I love the way, at the end, she figgers out she's bitten off more than she can swally so she lapses into the usual clap-trap, "The people of Texas are demanding that our border be secure!"

Do you think by we Texans she's including the 37% that's hispanic?

P.S. I tried to embed the clip. "Embedded disabled by request." Hmm. I wonder who doesn't want this clip going viral?

what have you done for me lately?

Here is one example of how the Democrats prioritize we the people: As of today, thanks to the Credit Card Act, gift cards must be good for a minimum of five years.

And thanks to President Obama for signing it. He promised change and in my book this is change worthy of a toast.

You can read more about how the law effects credit cards and fees, here and here.

I don't think I've ever had a gift certificate expire on me. But I have won several restaurant gift certificates at my kids' school silent auction fundraisers. And several times I have gone to use one of these cards only to find that it expired after 3 months. I assumed all cards were good for one year, so I didn't look.

Another benefit of the Credit Card Act that I will soon be grateful for: no credit cards issued to kids under the age of 21 years (unless they have a co-signer or can show proof of independent income). I've seen too many bedraggled parents in my office who sent their kids off to college only to come home with many thousands of dollars worth of credit card debt.

When I was in college, I couldn't get a major card even with a steady part-time job and despite having established a record of paying lesser cards in full every month. I now understand. Credit should be earned, not handed out to every college freshman willing to sign up.

where a mother ponders back to school shopping and parking lot crematoriums

Sssssh. My girls are still sleeping.

Our plan for this morning, after much begging, whining, stomping, threatening, crying, doors slamming, and teeth knashing (ok, no teeth knashing, but only because I don't know what that means), which all took place yesterday between the hours of 11am and midnight, and most of which ill behavior was conducted by me, is to take them shopping for shoes.

Shoes they don't need, per se, but do want, per se, for their first day back to school.

Shoes that have a certain label as opposed to, say, any pair of lace ups from a thrift store.

Shoes that they have promised to use their own allowance money to purchase because they will be entering 7th grade and need to set a fashion plate example. No longer the wide-eyed, newbie 6th graders, after all.

Because me? I'm no longer into labels. I don't care what the little rubber tag says on the heel or the little fabric tag sewn into the side seam. All I care about is whether the shoes are comfortable and look to be in reasonable style from the past two decades. Because no, I will not wear saddle shoes or penny loafers or these

But then, I never would wear Jellies. Even at the height of their fashion, whenever that was, exactly. Seems to me like they would make my feet sweat. But I wouldn't have worn them even with cute little white bobby socks, Japanese wooden sandal style. I don't want to wear a shoe named after something sticky that gets smeared on breakfast toast. And because, as you may remember, shoes matter.

My girls promised me they would get up really early to beat the heat. It's now 10:30 am and by my way of thinking, they have already missed the window of shopping opportunity.

What I am trying to avoid is spending money coming out of a department store in the middle of the kind of heat we're having, entering a car that could now be substituted for a crematorium.

Hey, now there's business plan: cheap cremations in your cherished vehicle in the parking lot of your choice. Might fund my idea of retirement. Because you just know there are a ton of men people who would love nothing better than to spend their last flesh and bone moments sitting upright in their vehicle, as opposed to, say, reclining in a hammock, next to their loved one, watching a beautiful sunset, sipping Merlot, holding hands. I don't know how a cremation could be arranged in such a romantic scenario, but it's worth considering.

But back to the incinerator in the asphalt parking lot where you turn on the AC and feel like a blast furnace is smelting your earrings into a silver plated tattoo onto the side of your neck.

And your hair. No matter how much spray you use to keep your baby fine hair up in thirty clips of varying sizes and colors, you will look in the rearview mirror only to find this looking back at you

Or worse

So, the question is, do I wake up my slumbering daughters and try to get as early a start as possible?

Do I leave them be and hope they sleep until the stores are closed?

Do I take the hard line, Nope. Sorry. I agreed to take you shopping only if we left the house before the temperature reached 96 degrees. You are now three degrees too late.

Do I cave in like I always do, forget about the sweaty hair, thighs sticking to the car seat, bottled water hot as a cup of tea and embrace the Bikram-esque shopping experience?

Because in two days time my daughters will be right back at it, having forgotten all about my Herculean effort and my maternal caving, because they just have to have another particular fashion item that every 8th grader is wearing and why are you always so mean?!

What is your vote, reader? Generous, forgiving, hot shopping mom or lounging on sofa under ceiling fan watching Netflix freebies mom?