now haiku yo selves off to school

Saved by the bell.

Jenn's haiku bell @ you know ... that blog ?

See, I'm due for a post and feeling, uhh, uninspired. Tapped out. In a funk. Wondering who out there in the internets really gives a crap hoot what I have to say because I'm pretty sure I don't give a crap hoot what I have to say.

But then? An invite from Jenn to ring her bell with an education theme on ...

rise up, kids, school's on
morning coffee awaits mom
and sounds of silence

Ahhhhhhhhhh.

A big thanks to all the teachers out there who show up every morning to inspire my kids. I am in awe of you. And I appreciate you.

young people, look away

Bad Mom posted a funky haikulicious poem the other day a while ago with a 70's theme in honor of You Know...That Blog's Haiku Wednesday.

It made me think of something that freaks me out on a regular basis. Or whenever I allow myself to "go there." Which I don't do very often because it gags me with a spoon.

I was in high school in the late 70's. Back then, it was a big fad to dress up in 50's attire: poodle skirts, bobby socks and saddle shoes. We had a sock hop dance and various other school functions with the 50's theme.

My mom was a high schooler in the 50's. She used to reminisce with us. Especially with the music. Those great 50's songs: That'll Be the Day by Buddy Holly; Earth Angel by the Penguins; Why Do Fools Fall In Love - Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers. Loved those.



But to get to my point. I distinctly remember thinking how ancient it all was way way WAY back in the 50's. A whole two decades ago. Dried up and crusted over ancient.



And now? It's the rad thing to have parties with a 70's theme. My decade. Three decades ago.

So today's high schoolers are looking at me with even more "you're so ancient" disdain than I judged my mom and her chronies?

Is that bogue, or what?



Does anybody out there copy?

he who hesitates is los loserface

And his wife, los loserest loserface of all.

It was summer 1990. Late July, I think it was. Sam and I were still dating at the time. In a few weeks I would be moving away for a year. Far away and out of state. When you live in central Texas, anywhere out of state is far away, but I was moving many states away. At the time I didn't know if I would be returning to Texas.

Sam was a big fan of Austin music legend Stevie Ray Vaughn. Had been since Stevie was an unknown playing Miranda's at Northgate in Aggieland College Station. And later, when Sam would drive to Austin on weekends to catch him at the Soap Creek Saloon.

During 1990, Sam and I spent a lot of evenings listening to his albums. I didn't think I liked blues before then. Sam helped cultivate my taste for it. I had never been one for loud lead guitar riffs, but I did favor rhythm and blues, so Sam took the time to find SRV songs I would like. By summertime, I was a fan.

So on this particular Wednesday in July I heard that SRV was playing that night about 45 minutes away. Now was my chance to see this guitar wizard on stage.

"But it's a work night," complained Sam, sucking the wind out of my spontaneous sails. But then, he was the only person in the room with a 7am wake up call. "We can hear him in Austin anytime. We'll catch him during one of your weekend trips back."

So I went by myself plopped down on the couch and pouted kept the 8-to-5 working man company.

A few weeks later, I heard the sad news.

Stevie Ray was killed in a helicopter crash August 27, 1990.

I can't hear his music without feeling incredibly sad. And gypped.

So this is for you, Stevie. The sky is still crying and the telephone lines are still down.

Looks like I'll have to catch a performance on the other side. Until then, it'll be Sam's albums and youtube. Like these two, below, my favorite SRV tunes.

the lion sleeps tonight

Sen. Edward M. Kennedy

1932-2009

Health Care Stories, Austin, Texas

This month Tome of the Unknown Writer is featuring a Health Care Stories Project "focusing on health care stories and opinions from the US and countries with universal health care all this month." Here is my story, fresh in my mind, as my young daughter required emergency surgery a few weeks ago.

The physician's assistant (PA) at the urgent care center diagnosed her with a kidney stone. She ordered a CT scan for later that afternoon, explaining that 90% of all stones are small enough to pass but a scan would alert us if the stone was too large to pass.

As the morning passed into the afternoon and the time of the scan approached, my daughter's pain moved from her back to the lower front of her abdomen and seemed more tolerable. We deduced she was passing the stone.

But let me back up so I can explain our health insurance situation. Husband and I are both self-employed. I'm a psychologist. He's a home builder. Husband is covered under a separate policy from the kids and me. Why? Because no individual underwriter will cover his chronic disease, AKA his pre-existing condition (diagnosed at 18 years old). He has special coverage under the Texas "high risk pool" (subsidized by the state). As a result, we pay two high premiums for two separate plans. We have high deductables ($4500 and $2500) and high copays ($45) so that we can keep our premiums to $1000/month. That makes for a combined total of $12,000 per year, math majors. And with copays that high, we see the doctor almost never only if we think it's absolutely necessary.

Given the high deductable, we knew the cost of the urgent care and the CT scan would be coming straight out of our pockets. Because we believed she was passing the stone, her dad and I considered skipping the CT scan because of the cost. I called the PA and ran it by her. She urged us to go, this time saying she wanted to rule out a few other conditions. We decided to play it safe and take her. But we still wondered if we weren't "wasting" a huge chunk of money.

The CT scan revealed that the source of her pain was not a kidney stone but, rather, a large cyst. At 4:45pm we were told to get her to a hospital emergency room (ER) immediately, that the cyst required removal.

Since then, my husband and I keep thinking, "What if we hadn't gotten that scan?" All because we can't afford a low deductable.

One last note on affordability. We're grateful we're able to maintain our current coverage. The recession has hit our family pretty hard. My biggest fear is that a harder hit will force us to join the nearly 50 million uninsured Americans. I don't even want to think about where we'd be, where my daughter would be, if we weren't able to flash that BCBS card at the medical centers.

But for now we're scraping by and paying our insurance premiums. To say I feel uneasy is a gross understatement. I think its unfair that small business owners have to pay so much more compared to someone working for a large corporation. Supposedly this country is all about supporting small businesses. Not where health insurance is concerned.

So I strongly support health care reform with a public option. Have been holding my breath for it, in fact, since we dropped husband's long held individual policy in hopes of the Clintons promised reform in the early 1990's. But the strong insurance lobby pushed back. And now here we are, more than fifteen years later, trying again.

To all of those congresspersons against reform legislation? Here's a challenge: Surrender your federally funded health insurance and join we hard working Americans who pay out the nose for our supposedly "best health care system in the world." I bet know if you were out here in our world you would pass something quick.

hammer toes

Today it was announced that former House Majority Leader, Tom Delay, will be Dancing with the Stars this season.

What's that going to be like, I wonder?

Will we be treated to the smiling mug of twinkle-toes-Tom, whipping the majority of the audience into a frenzy, exterminating the competition?

Or, more likely, will we see hammer-toes-Tom, leading his partner with a powerful hand down K Street, stomping on her pretty liberal feet whenever she doesn't follow his conservative moves?

Typically I'm not a huge fan of the show, but you can bet I'll be casting my vote this season to send him back to Sugarland.

now hurry up and relax

Today is National Relaxation Day.

My favorite way to relax on a hot August day is to be fully submerged in a spring fed river, feet floating in front of me, collecting smooth, flat, round river stones with which to balance tiny rock pyramids while drinking snorkely-slinky.* It sounds easy, but after a few snorkely-slinkies? Perilous.

Reader, how do you like to relax?

*The drinking alcohol part is optional. Unless it's a typical day at home when a spring fed river is not readily available, in which case, the drinking alcohol is mandatory.

*Oh, but wait. You're probably following the (*) to find out what a snorkely-slinky is. It's my personal favorite mixed cocktail of Svedka, club soda and cranberry. Or better, when I'm uber organized, prickly pear juice, in which case, I should be calling it, snorkely-prickly.

pass that wand to me, please

Blognut at More Mindless Rambling wishes she knew magic whenever her kids ask her to find their lost items.

Well I say to Blognut, if you find that elusive magic wand, pass it to me, please. And I will then immediately pass that wand right over to my kids. Leave me out of the equation altogether, thank you so much.

I don't want to know that the goggles have grown fins and swam away for the thousandth millionth time this summer.

I don't want to be distracted by the search for a matching pair of socks because noone bothers to go through the unmatched sock bucket sitting right on top of the dresser.

That goes double for the husband looking for his mango pomegranite yogurt in the fridge but refuses to kneel down before the altar of the bottom shelf and move the tupperware containers blocking the view. No, he wants me to kneel down. He always wants me to kneel down. What is up with that? Zheesh.

everybody go, pet scan, cat scan, hospital inn

say if your girl

starts actin up,

then you take

her friend.

Or make that, then you take her to the children's hospital.

What a shocker of a weekend.

One minute I was on my way out to play tennis, keys in hand, the next I'm rushing my daughter to an urgent care center with severe abdominal pain and vomiting.

A few hours and a myriad of uncertain diagnoses later, we're at a radiological center for a CAT scan of her abdomen.

By the end of the day we were told to rush her to the children's hospital for emergency surgery. As much as one can rush while crossing town during Friday rush hour.

By evening she was recovering in her hospital room, two small incisions and a heart shaped bandaid on her belly button, quietly but happily in control of the remote, eating graham crackers and apple juice.

By bedtime, chocolate pudding. (That's my girl!)

By lunchtime the following day, discharged. The family in the car, taking her home.

Finally, a stop off at Sandy's for an ice cream cone.

I said a hip hop the hippie to the hippie

the hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it

to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie

to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat

skiddlee beebob a we rock

a scoobie doo

and guess what america we love you

Especially when you provide surgeons and hospitals who return my daughter to good health.

And that's this Rapper's Delight:

a bomb and a blast from the past

We returned from the kind of weekend away that demanded cinema therrapy of the two rental variety.

From some NPR Best Of 2008 list, I picked a couple of two-name titles: Wendy and Lucy and Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.

That's two, two, two rents in one.

First up in the DVD player: Wendy and her dog pal, Lucy.

Question to NPR reviewers: Were we watching the same movie?

Same question goes to you, 84% approvers on Rotten Tomatoes. Really?

Because I thought it was borrrrrrrring and slowwwww and well, kinda stupid. Poignant, yes, but ruined moments with an insipid screenplay. And then there was watching Wendy make some idiotic choices.

So it's a story about a girl and her dog who trek cross country, bound for Alaska. And become stranded in an unfamilliar town. And she throws F-bombs at the one stranger willing to assist her. And then she leaves the dog tied to a bicycle rack outside of a grocery store while she meanders down food aisles and leisurely browses magazines. And then she loses the dog (no!). Eventually she lost me and SAM as a serious audience.

Next up, Nick and Norah. I picked this one largely because my son was interested and I thought maybe we could actually enjoy a movie together, the teen and his older than dirt 'rents. He was busy, so I opted to watch it anyway. After Wendy, I was desperate for something with a little pick me up.

Pick me up, it did. Right back to those crazy nights of younger years in Jersey. Not the cross into NYC Jersey, like Nick and Norah do, but the cross into PA and Delaware Jersey. But it felt the same.

Nick and Norah is a fun romp around the Big Apple in a yellow Yugo. It's about the necessity of friends, even if it means babysitting a too-drunk-again best friend. And it's about the pursuit of music and how all powerful and meaningful it is when you both get the same band. And it's about love. The film hits each of these points with the precision of a New York cabbie changing lanes during rush hour.

A great rental, in other words. Even if Norah does summon a squeaky excuse for an orgasm. No matter. Because Michael Cera (Juno's baby daddy) is flawless and his character is that sweet geeky boy every misused girl hopes to find.

P.S. The head butt at the end is the most rocking macho-boy-defends-girl-fight scene, like, ever.

P.P.S. Don't blink or you might miss the surprise SNL cameos.

rain

If we can't get the real thing, this'll do. For now.

silly summer haiku

Sit, sweat in lawn chair.

Down to spring fed pool ... splash!

Ahh, so refreshing.

Join Jen and friends at You Know ... that Blog by writing your own silly summer haiku.

a big "told ya" on the small screen

You know how you read about a local happening that you are sure your kids will love?

And then you tell your kids and they're all, Um, no thanks.

And you're all, But I made plans so you could attend this super funtastic interactive art event.

And they're all, I'm not going.

And you're all, But I know you will love this. Trust me. It's paper making, printing art, book making crafts. Cool stuff!

And they're all, Why would I want to make a book?

And you're all, You absolutely will go or you can stay home and clean the dust bunnies under your bed.

And they're all, Don't care. Not going.

So then you're all, with your eyes bulgy and your voice screeching in that larynx-popping way, We're going and you're going to like it. Now get your little arses in the freaking car now.

And then the entire way there you hear whining and complaining and you start to think you've got this parenting thing all wrong. Instead of wasting so much energy keeping them entertained, you should be locking them in a cement laundry room where you pass them clothes to wash, fold, and iron, and a bowl of lukewarm gruel, but only after they've gotten every last wrinkle out.

That way, when you offer up a funtastic arty outing they'll be all, Yay, Mom! You're the greatest!

But instead you get to the artsy place parking lot and the kids are all, Look, there's a teenager. It's for bigger kids, Mom. We're not going in there.

And you're all, Just wait until we get inside. We'll see how it is and decide then.

And then when you enter the art studio you're greeted by a kindly and enthusiastic printmaker who smiles at your children, and he's all, Step right this way.

And the kids are all, rolling their eyes and looking like spoiled brats all apprehensive masked by underwhelm.

And the printmaker's smile distorts into an uncomfortable grimace and you detect a smidgeon of disapproval.

And you're all, with an awkward smile back, Sorry, we have a couple of reluctant book makers here.

But then you cattle prod nudge your pride and joys into a line where they have an antique printer press set up and they get to pick out the metal letters spelling their names from a printers drawer and work the press themselves.

And then they move along to wood block relief printing, and paper marbling, and calligraphy, and book collage, and suminagashi.

And they're all, Oooh, we really love the suminagashi.

And, Look, Mom! My name in calligraphy! Isn't this cool?

And, when it's time to leave, they're all, Noooo, Mom. We want to watch her do another calligraphy.

And, Can't we do one more book cover?

And, But the kindly printmaker has this really cool marblized paper for my collage book.

And, the next day we see footage of this event. It has made it to the local television news. We see one of our girls making a book collage and the shoulder of the other girl watching the relief printing.

And they're all, Hey Mom! Look! There we are!

And they're all telling their friends how funtastic the collage and bookmaking and printing press was.

And you're all, silently told ya.

And when does it get better, people? Seeing your I told ya so on the small screen?

Image source, Wisdom calligraphy, here.

Image source, Suminagashi, here.

an interpretive query

As my workday came to a close, I was doing the usual bookkeeping with collected fees and copays . I came across a check that gave me pause. It was written by a longtime client.

It was written out to, "Burger King."

And I have to say, I was stumped.

Was this an example of transference? What might this client have been projecting onto me, exactly?

And what is the appropriate therapist response? The fact that I, upon reading it, immediately felt a craving for a charbroiled hamburger, could smell it even, says what about the therapeutic alliance, exactly? What counter transference issue was at play?

Interpret amongst yerselves.

you can bite my ass

No wait, fellas. I meant that figuratively. Not that I literally meant for you to bite me on my ass for real. heh heh.

Chigger bites. That's right people. On my ass. Both cheeks. One of the little fockers dared to make the climb into the great gorge, falling just short of my holy grail, you know that place from which things exit but never, ever enter. Dirty bastard.

Try to conduct a full day's worth of therapy sessions when you've got chigger bites all over both of your gluteus maximusses.

"And then, Dr. Yogurt, after he called me a whore, he grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the ...."

I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Reilly. Do you mind if we pause for a moment while I scratch my ass?

scratch. scratch.

scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

They itch like freaking hell. Especially the dime sized ones. Chiggers like creases. Yeah, right there. Both sides. And at my age, creases are everywhere the sun don't shine.

My daughter fared worse than me. She counted more than 50 bites. Most of them following a military straight marching formation along her bikini line.

Where were we? What were we doing? And how long were we doing it, when we gave chiggers unlimited access to our asses?

First we were walking along here:

Lady Bird Lake, which at my house shall always be referred to as Town Lake Hike 'n Bike Trail. This is part of the Colorado River that runs through Austin. We are standing on the 1st Street pedestrian bridge looking westward, at that dividing point between downtown and south Austin. The bridge in the distance is the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge.

And here:

And here,

The reason my tweenage twin daughters are looking all sullen and petulant and refusing to look at the camera, otherwise known as bringing me the kind of joy and satisfaction I knew would be my reward for all of those million-and-five sh*tty diaper changes, is because the forced march walk was Stalin's their mother's idea. And none of their friends were available to come along. You know how that goes. Mother will pay.

But how did the chiggers skip over the ankles and plant themselves on the butt-tocks region, you ask? I asked that too.

Apparently while we were crouching down to capture the right amount of sunlight for their America's Next Top Model portfolio, a nest of larvae-of-harvest-mites were rubbing their grubby little arachnoid legs together in anticipation of a late lunch.

Right about here,

So yeah. Mother always pays.

on the subject of michael jackson and cognitive dissonance

On the subject of the under reported, hardly talked about coverage of Michael Jackson's death, I will add one sentiment I haven't heard expressed: Relief.

Not for his children, of course. For them I am sad.

I'm sad that Michael Jackson named each of his three children Michael Jackson, including his daughter.

I'm sad that he dangled one of them, dubbed "Blanket," from a 4th story hotel balcony for the shock and pleasure of the paparazzi below.

I'm sad that his children will grow up never truly knowing their father, but rather trying to piece together and comprehend this supremely talented superstar turned bizarre victim of a fame obsessed culture.

No, the relief I feel relates to the laying to rest of the cognitive dissonance, the ambivalence that I, and millions of others, have felt over the years watching this premiere performer morph from a cute and irresistable little boy into a disaster of a middle-aged adult.

Cognitive dissonance because his singing was perfectly nuanced, his dancing was dazzling, and his looks (skin color, even) were ever changing but his psychosocial development was stunted.

Cognitive dissonance because his worldwide fame grew at the same rapid rate as his disturbing behavior.

Because the more mesmerized we were by his complex and stylized entertainment, the more embarrassed we were for him and his off camera persona.

Because we felt the sizzling allure of his onscreen sexuality while reading about his seemingly asexual lifestyle.

Because he told us in his child-like voice that it was perfectly innocent and reasonable for an unattached adult man to hold sleepovers for pre-pubescent boys. He couldn't have been that naive. Could he?

Because the more we admired him, the more we were repelled by him. And if you're like me, perplexed and maybe even disgusted by your own admiration given his potential danger to children. Maybe even his own.

Because you couldn't help love him and you couldn't help loathe him. And you simply had to watch him.

Who could turn the channel, afterall, when the news showed yet another clip of Michael doing his signature moon dance? Or the one where his fancy footwork mixed with fancy fingerwork aimed at keeping what remained of his surgically mutillated nose in place? (How do these surgeons keep their licenses?) How about Bubbles, his pet chimp? His secret marriage and divorce to Lisa Marie Presley? (He reportedly harbored an Elvis obsession). To his dermatologist's nurse? His court testimony? His hair on fire?

A fellow psychologist at Couch Trip (wish I had thought of that blog name) put his ambivalent feelings into words this way:

"I was fascinated....And there was also a sense that his troubles are over, which allows the genius and the music and the dancing to come to the surface again."

So yes, I'm relieved that as time goes by and as the media obsession dies down, so will the discomfort of our collective cognitive dissonance.

In it's place will be left the memories and music videos of a man who, though tragically flawed, was amazingly fun to watch.

We will no longer have to worry about his sex life, his substance abuse, his nose falling off his face.

We'll just be able to listen to his music, smile, and try to remember where we were when we first danced along to Billie Jean.

some like it hawt

We're getting zapped with unusually hot June temperatures. Yesterday, according to the metiorologist meterologist weatherman, the temps reached 108 in some not too distant corner of the Austin area. Now, I like it hot, but not this hot.

I don't like staying camped in the air conditioning, either. I'm grateful that I have AC, and will use it, but I really dislike retreating inside the house, sucking up what feels like stale air.

So I did what any reasonable Austinite would do for therrapy on an extremely hot June day:


Submerged myself in Barton Spring's year round 68 degree water, alternating with sunning on a raft. It could only have been more perfect if I was slurrping on a PPP margarita.


Now my husband, SAM, on the other hand? He chose a completely different path:

He prefers to sun himself from a rooftop, armed with a tool belt and nail gun. He's decking the roof of our neighbor's addition. Which he framed. In this heat. Now that is hawt. And I do likes me some of this kinda hawt.

You can't see me, but I'm down below, rendering myself a nuisance assistance with my camera and a first aid kit: fresh brewed iced tea and a tall stack of ice.

What about you, readers? How do you cope with the summer heat?

it's about that time again

The summer is off to a running start between a busier than usual work schedule and kids with busier than usual comings and goings. No time to catch my breath much less catch up on all of the blogs I've been sorely neglecting. I expect more downtime in July but I'm not making any promises.

So far we've had afternoons of swimming at West Enfield, Deep Eddy (below) and Barton Springs Pools. Swimming is not an option, but a necessity, in these June "we've already hit 100 degrees" temps.

The oldest pool in Texas, Deep Eddy Pool is located close to downtown. Like Barton Springs and Enfield Pools, Deep Eddy is spring fed, making for an ultra-refreshing dip. It's also a great place to people watch and catch the latest trends in men's fashionable summertime headwear:

This weekend? We're beating the heat with our annual girls-plus-kids weekend trip for the second best kind of poolside relaxing, here.

And this year I'll be packing the prickly. Normally reserved for martyr syndrome intervention, I'm feeling the need for a little self-administered liquid therrapy.

Find out how you, too, can beat the heat with a pink prickly pear margarita, here.

I will add a major, energy saving modification. The pears can be frozen in the freezer, taken out the morning of your therrapy appointment, placed in a plastic container and left to thaw in your fridge. Retrieve a few hours later to find the dark purple juice oozing from the pears, ready to be strained and poured into the drink of your desire. Much easier.

exercise in futility

Weight Loss Fact #1

During a routine workout on the eliptical machine I can burn 300 calories in 30 minutes. That's comes to about 10 calories burned per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #2

During a routine sitting in front of my laptop, I can eat four Ghirardelli Truffles in 30 seconds. That comes out to about 600 calories scarfed per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #3

If I want to lose any weight, I'd better stay on the elliptical machine, like, forever.

image source, here

hot tub etiquette at a large downtown gym

Old man with the rotund physique, I don't know where you came from or how you were raised, but proper jacuzzi etiquette does not include:

1. ignoring the stair step entrance;

2. lollying your full body onto the ledge, laying your head nearly directly behind mine so that you appear to intend to roll on top of me, swinging your legs down into the water, missing me only because I have lightning quick reflexes;

3. continuing to sit on the ledge about six inches from my spot, despite an otherwise empty jacuzzi, arms crossed and resting on your buddha belly, head tilted down, eyes closed, as if in deep slumber, remaining thusly situated for the next twenty minutes.

WTF, old man?!? I came here to relax too, ya know.