A cat nap in the shade. There's a cat in there.

We have arrived as a family.  We have a cat, one that does not urinate on our pillows, and now we officially register on the exist-o-meter.  And I can’t begin describe the good feeling I get when I see Licorice RUN to snuggle in bed with one of my little girls.  Or when she snoozes between my snoozing husband’s legs and rests her face on his, uh…man equipment.  And all this coziness of purrs and snores and cat faces on questionable pillows sort of makes the trauma of her clawing and snagging my couch worth it.

No, it doesn’t.

But of late, the cat has given herself a green light to surge her feline force.  She plays New Year’s Eve Party with three toilet paper rolls per day.  She climbs up our screens.  She sleeps in the window treatments.  And in The War of Cat and House, no one wins, and signs of paw-made wreckage and kitten dominance corrupt every corner.  And through her extended occupation of our home, I struggle to maintain a sense of motherly virtue, wherein I can exude patience and the perspective that Licorice is one of God’s creatures and that we shouldn’t eat hamburgers.  But we do eat them.

This cat loves the smell of Napalm in the morning.

And I, like many women, am a hollow-souled home furnishings-loving demon, who would come shamefully close to trading my family for a warehouse of gorgeous bed linens.  So when the cat starts to ruin my window treatments, my homemade window treatments, it’s very hard not to SCREAM,  AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH  EEEEEEEOOOOOHHH!  OOOOO.  GGRRRR-RAAAR! And that’s an understated depiction of my rage to make me look good to the internet.  And my kids are ecstatic at my shrieks because, FINALLY, someone besides them is in trouble.  “Mommy, the cat is TEARING up the couch.  Oh my GOD,” they say triumphantly from their anxiety-riddled Tattle or Be Tattled On psyches.

Fortunately, I’ve been looking to revamp these window treatments.  And along came Home Improvement Project #23.  Stay tuned.  Rebuilding will occur.  Peace will be restored.

Related articles by Zemanta

• How Cats Mark Their Territory (brighthub.com)

Jenny McCarthy in her role as a babe who doesn't vaccinate. Image via Wikipedia

A few days ago, a U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit upheld a 2009 ruling that there is no connection between vaccines and Autism.  I’m going to repeat that:  there is no connection between vaccines and Autism.  The erroneous theory, based on a 1995 study by Andrew Wakefield, has long been dismissed by scientists as contradictory and faulty, and, of late, FRAUDULENT.

But since the 1995 study, many parents of Autistic children are demanding answers and compensation. As would I if I believed thermisol, the preservative formerly used in most vaccines, were the cause of any neurological atypicality developing in my child.  But in addition to these struggling and searching parents are lawyers.  And there are people with master’s degrees in Liberal Arts who work as administrative assistants at the lawyers’ offices, and then they go for drinks with their friends and tell them not vaccinate their children.  And there is Jenny McCarthy who has done extensive research on the, um, internet.  And now the world is awash in vaccination paranoia. Oh no.

And no matter that study after study disproves any connection between vaccine and Autism, smart people who eat granola will tell their smart friends who eat granola (I love granola, especially hemp seed granola from Trader Joe’s) not to vaccinate.  And then it’s, Hello, Pertussis! Come on in, Measles.  Have a seat on my face. And then kill me.

And the myths around vaccines are the most widely held among the, wait for it, rich and educated. And this is what I have been trying to tell my readers since day one. THE RICH ARE STUPID.  They are. This comes from too much shopping.  Lululemon is such attractive sportswear.  And I’m guessing it corrupts the mind. I would never ever doubt myself if I looked that good. But when you wear the brands of a major discount store, you just HAVE to introspect, because you kind of look like crap. Self-doubt is a healthy side effect of economic disadvantage.  And impassioned self-adoration makes room for no such virtues.

And then there’s education. Education doesn’t make you smarter.  It just gives you more info about which to be misguided and stupid. Vaccination opponents will use terms like “allopathic care.” And they will feel triumphant because you’re looking up the term in the dictionary as you prepare your rejoinder.  And the Good Vocabulary Users think they’ve achieved an ideological victory when, in fact, they’ve only triumphed linguistically. Yes, educated people have the same capacity for stupidity as uneducated people do. Your dad having money to pay for your college does not make you smarter. It makes you lucky.

So I’m not sure what type of science it will take to convince people of science, but it should really come down to science. And if not, well, I guess it will come down to vocabulary, great shoes, and the ability to pay for private school.  And Jenny McCarthy’s chest, which, let’s face it, has given her the voice she has today.

And being anti-vaccine will be a required perspective of the ladies and gentlemen of high society.  And we will guiltlessly sip our Fair Trade Chai in cafes, as our children sit home with the babysitter, suffocating from Whooping cough, and we will say, “Oh dahling, don’t you know, vaccination is only for the lower clahsses?  And inoculation is only necessree for those of a diseased breeding.  What poor unfortunate minds they are that cahn’t decipher the conspiratorial code of Western medicine.  Tsk-Tsk.  Pshaw!”

Shop Greta, your unofficial provider of non-Lululemon yoga apparel. It’s not that we don’t like Lululemon, but they sell independently, not with the gorgeous folks of Amazon.com. At least, I assume they’re gorgeous.

Flared leg, fold over waistband yoga pants

“Peace Dove”

Nature’s Path Organic Pumpkin Flax Plus Granola with Omega 3 Fatty Acid 35.3 Ounce Box.  (Greta says:  Oh my god, I love this cereal!)

Related articles by Zemanta

• Vaccine exemptions in California threaten herd immunity [Respectful Insolence] (scienceblogs.com)
• Appeals Court Reaffirms No Link Between Autism and Vaccines (aolhealth.com)
• No link between vaccines and autism, court rules (msnbc.msn.com)

The better eating is not so bad, but the tummy ache I’ve had ALL WEEK is painful and painfully ironic.  The identified culprit:  coffee.  c-c-c…  I’m not even going to repeat it.  And please don’t extol the virtues of tea because I know them.  I used to be a teetotaler back in the day when tea bagging was just for loving couples.  So I can drink tea and like it.  But oh, coffee.  How can I avoid the drink that is now practically a verb?  You can’t DO tea.  Or meet for ice water.  And what am I to cling to now that I can no longer have a twelfth helping of spaghetti and meatballs?

I mentioned the drama to my friend Glennie who is studying homeopathy.  Uh-oh.  And she agreed with my doctor and my other friend with a bad stomach that coffee is the root of all evil.   And she fed me apple cider vinegar for my acidy stomach.  In a shot glass.  And I sat with salad breath as my stomach burned for an hour.  And then it got better!  After five days of agony.  Go, Glennie and her homeopathy.

But then I made the mistake of telling her that I went to the dermatologist (yes, it’s National Overhaul Your Greta Week) and I told her of their plans to destroy the over-activity of my sebaceous glands (this is code for mom zits), and she tried to tell me that I have to stop eating sugar because it’s binding with my estrogen and having a party in making me not look like Cindy Crawford.  (My translation.)  Glennie is probably right, but I am not going to live in a sugarless world.  To not make muffins from scratch with fresh blueberries is to not be human.  And, no, honey will not do as a substitute.  I don’t do Nabisco.  You can keep your high-fructose corn syrup and your partially hydrogenated whatever.  But I’m keeping my spoonfuls of sugar even if they bind with the devil.  No one ever argued with Mary Poppins and got away with it.

Sorry, most wonderfullest readers, for being such an Apolo Anto Ohno in the Overshare Olympics with this post on my medical condition.  And it’s like South Korea just skated past me and told a story of its in-vitro fertilization with the sperm of its best friend’s husband.  So now I have to speed past them with a full account of my pap smear.  But you needn’t worry.  I will settle for the bronze in this race and just tell you that it was a routine procedure.  Stirrups, cold speculums and all.

So I’m fighting the battle of whatever in the name of a good butt.  I just wish the ass and the head weren’t always so opposed in their interests and achievements.  Because today my head hurts.  All for the love and care of my stomach.  And I suppose my butt is benefiting from this, too.  As will all of your eyes as the days unfold.

Now, FOR ALL ANATOMY… AAAAAAAHHHHH!

Shop Greta.  And stop the pain.  Maybe.

Organic Raw Apple Cider Vinegar Unfiltered – 16 oz – Liquid

Advil-Ibuprofen Coated Tablets, 325ct

Tagamet Acid Reducer, 200mg, 30-Count Tablets (Pack of 2)

The only change from the Before photo is that I got a really terrible haircut. And I am wearing more make-up and smiling because, by golly, it's an After picture. Even if there is no aftermath to the Before photo. And somehow my knee cap has moved.

I can’t wait any longer.  I’m getting older.  My doctor said I need to lose fifteen pounds.  And I’m just not getting the kind of service I used to get at Home Depot.  Have you heard of the correlation between a low BMI and good customer service?  If I can’t find the science, I’ll create it.  “In a non-blind, self-study of one woman, who was controlled for absolutely nothing, it was determined that 100% of these women…”

You may have read Why I Can’t Lose Weight and about how I was planning on losing weight.  And since that day in May, when I embarked on a SUBTLE plan to change my lifestyle in the direction of weight loss, I have achieved NO RESULTS.  (See Before and After photos.)  Apparently, I was far too subtle in my approach to getting thin.

Yeah, I said it.  T H I N.  I like the word.  Not thin thin, ho-y thin or model thin (as if).  But thin enough to run up and down stairs and along paths because you’re too impatient to walk.  Thin enough to lift heavy things.  Thin enough to feel like the Road Runner, all flitty and meep-meeping.

So I’m removing the over-subtlety of my approach and starting a serious, weight loss plan for emotionally mature adults.  One that doesn’t involve starvation, clinical depression and the sole eating of Lucky Charms.  My methods of yesterdecade, the wasteland that was my twenties.

So, I joined Weight Watchers.  Online.  And I now have a program to help me not eat seconds, my kids’ leftovers, or two-and-a-half margaritas with unlimited chips and salsa.  And guacamole.  A “GOOD” fat which has been good enough to rest its unused units of energy as junk in my trunk.    Apparently, I, unsupervised, can’t be trusted.

I’m a very lenient policewoman.  Oh, have another bite.   What’s one more muffin?  One is not a frightening number, is it? Until you multiply that one times 365 times three years.  And you get a serious case of mom butt.

So I bought a little virtual pal that says, “Ah-ah-ah,” and “oh, no no.”   And this little computer program is not demoralizing like an unsympathetic human voice that might stupidly croak,  “You’re eating THAT,” when you just happen to be THINKING about sucking on one Lifesaver for an hour-and-a-half.  If you ever find yourself over-observing and micromanaging anyone trying to lose weight, I recommend that you drive yourself down to the County Jail and make a citizen’s self-arrest for criminal acts of annoyance.  Demand a life sentence without parole.  Because NOTHING is more dispiriting to a dieter.  Forgive the expression.  Dieter.

And Mom butt.

I just might get you this time.

Subscribe.  And behold the madness.

Related articles by Zemanta

• Loving Weight Loss (beliefnet.com)

School Supplies

This is what my daughters’ Back to School kit looks like.  In the 70s, we selected R2D2 folders and unnecessarily complex roll-top pencil cases.   But somehow now, our Back to School Zombie Program Mode directed us to invade only one section of Target:  Health & Beauty.  Why, you ask.  Because girls suck at math and need only look good to ensnare men who don’t suck at math and who will one day sponsor their math-free existences.   Of course that’s what I mean.   Yes, it is.

That’s why we’ve been doing MATH ALL SUMMER LONG.  Multiplication, division, adding, subtracting.  If it’s a number, I’m sure we’ve tossed, twisted and torn it up, and tried to do right by the other side of the equal sign.  We did.  And not because I think girls should do math, but because I love brawling with them over doing math, every odd morning in July and August.  Math hell + summer fun = y.   Y.

And so, since the summer has been desecrated by school work, it stands to reason that the school year would, by contrast, begin with the magic of nail polish.  And my daughters’ entrance into a leisurely year of high anxiety STAR Test prepping should have all the feathery fluff and glitz of a Homecoming Day parade.  And, we all know school is just great hair for girls and kickball for boys.

The true measure of a human being:  Can you survive SUMMER?  Which is why, after a summer of our own Very Ungenius Math Camp, you might find me saying, Tsk.  School is for PUSSIES.

Related articles by Zemanta

• Teach Math to Kids Effectively – Three Tips for You (socyberty.com)

Dr. Laura Schlessinger Image via Wikipedia

White people should never use the n-word.  That’s it on that.

But some are still perplexed by the concept.  Dr. Laura showed us she was by her recent shocking rant and insensitive handling of a black caller who was upset that her husband’s friends used the n-word in her presence.  And the How Come Only Black People Can Use the N-word question is so common and boring a question, that I spontaneously desire a nap or a temporary suicide upon hearing it.

Personally, I subscribe to the Chris Rock philosophy.  I like it, and I think it applies to all manner of insults, even if they haven’t the horrific historical context and connotation of the dreaded n-word.

In an interview with Ed Pilkington of the UK Guardian, Chris Rock said, “Any black person can say ‘[n-word]‘ and get away with it. It’s like calling your kid an idiot. Only you can call your kid that. Someone else calls your kid an idiot, there’s a fight.”  And he’s right.  You get to insult the eyeballs out people as long as they are you or your family, because you are coming from a place of experience, not ignorance.

I make fun of myself all the time.  In real life.  To myself, I am fair game.  But sometimes people chime in and try to outdo me.  This DOES NOT WORK.  Not only do I find their insults uninspired, I find them insulting.  I, however, have seasoned my insults to my taste.  I quite like the way I insult myself.  I find it so on the money.  And I work hard to not insult others in social situations.  Though I do fail in this attempt, and I only enjoy it sometimes.

And I can say things like my kid sucks at Algebra.  But don’t you dare tell me my kid sucks at Algebra, even if she does, and she does.  She’s eight.  But never you mind.  You have your own kid’s intellectual shortcomings to insult.  Yes, you do.  (By ‘you’ I mean a few someone elses.)

So, if some among the black community would like to address each other by a nasty epithet, who am I, being a white I, to object?  There is power in taking ownership of your oppressors’ insults.  Stealing a person’s thunder is fun.  And why shouldn’t the black community have exclusive control and use over a word that they’ve had to endure?  Settle down, you sub-group of white people, and stop hogging all the insults.

It’s the whole cliched, but very real, concept of don’t judge until you’ve traversed the trail in my moccasins.  And Dr. Laura was very unwise in dismissing a black, female caller’s objection to others’ use of the n-word, just because Dr. Laura is fine with the use of the n-word.  The doctor’s rationale for her SIGNATURE insensitivity:  “Black people say it, too.”

THIS IS WHY THERAPISTS ARE TRAINED TO NOT BRING PERSONAL BIAS INTO THEIR PRACTICE.  BIAS IS PERSONAL AND BIASED.  BIAS SUCKS.  AND SO DO PEOPLE.  Which is why you should stop reading this blog now.

Now, if someone personally objects to use of the n-word, whether she is black, white or someone who is compulsively driven to wear paisley, I think it’s fair for her to say, “Please quit with the n-word, you ugly, urine-faced cracker.  And stop sleeping with your mother so much.”  And no radio talk show host should tell the offended person not to be bothered by the insults just because the talk show host is not bothered by the insults.  Even if the talk show host will go on to have a great day of shopping in spite of the offended person’s suffering, the suffering stands.

Furthermore, I’m not terribly bothered by someone saying they hate Jennifer Aniston.  I’ve never been Jennifer Anistion.  I’ve never done yoga.  I’ve never looked that good, and I’ve never made millions of dollars in the movies.  I have no Aniston empathy.  Therefore, I am not the best choice of human to tell Jen whether or not she should be offended by Hot Boring Actress Jokes.  And if I were to be a conscientious, on-the-air, telephone counselor, I would ask her how she feels and attempt to validate her feelings.  And then I’d call her a hot, boring actress.  Which leads me to the conclusion that Jen is an absolutely terrible analogy for this very serious issue of race.  And, I think I just really like to make fun of Jennifer Anistion.  Yes, because I’m jealous of her.  I want to be hot, boring, and rich, too.  Don’t you?

But I think the question of How to be Ethically Rude has been summed up nicely by Chris Rock.  And I will attempt to affix my soul to this philosophy.  But please understand, I’m making a distinction between unfounded, unreasonable attacks and the very bloggy act of calling people on what I believe are negative behaviors (preventing poor people from moving in your neighborhood), especially if they are behaviors that represent large groups of what I consider to be annoying, problematic people in society.  So elitist butt faces and the people who love them for their speed boats are still game!  Yay!

And I will close with my own adage, because nothing says annoying blogger more than self-quoting:  If you don’t have anything nice to say, say it about yourself.

OOPS!  Sorry, Jen.  It’s not you; it’s me.

And what of the homeschoolers?  Seriously, what kind of sadists can tolerate the year-round, all day presence of their most precious, growing babies?  And why do I lack this particular affinity?  I would say I’m a terrible mother, but many people I know feel this way.  Did our whole generation screw up?  Or was the silent suffering of our mothers actually a hazy, indifferent euphoria caused by their constant exposure to the active toxin in Tupperware?  JUST KIDDING, TUPPERWARE.  I KNOW YOU’VE TAKEN GREAT PAINS TO MAKE POLITICALLY CORRECT PLASTIC.  AND WE LOVE YOU FOR THOSE SANDWICH CONTAINERS YOU’VE GIVEN US OVER THE PAST SIXTY YEARS.

And this makes me feel like such a three-star mom.  I’m a Dodge Intrepid of parenting.  How do those Mercedes moms do it?  With their patience like motors; their arts and crafts, the European suspension; and their ability to smile and style hair through it all is the polished wood paneled interior.  But me, my plastic dashboard is cracking, and my burgundy mats are encrusted in edible goldfish.  Even my overly-vanilla, tree-shaped air freshener isn’t helping.  It’s like living in a metal and pleather box of vanilla poo.

Today my babies are with their grandmother.  (And by the way, every mother on the planet needs a grandmother.  And if they don’t have one, they should have a babysitter.  And if they can’t afford one of those, the state should appoint them one.  And I’m not even slightly kidding.  Motherhood without the help of a long-suffering caretaker is like a prison system without commuted sentences.  Sanity is a right.  And, thus, so is a grandmother/babysitter/friend who loves kids.)  They are with grandma all day.  And as she escorted those three little ladies to her Honda Civic this morning, so went the wickedest witch of the Western Hemisphere:  me and my bad attitude.  And I feel terrible.

But, oh, the peace.  Oh.

I have enjoyed the healing power of silence.  True silence.  And I have taken on my To Do list with the confidence and success of a person who actually does things.  A person who does things and finishes them.

I don’t mean to blame my children.  But I am.  And as I type this, I think of their sweet faces, and yearn for their presence.   Though not enough to put down the laptop and go pick them up.  I still have fifty-five minutes of freedom left.

Forgive me.

If you shop, please shop Greta.  Hey, look!  Tupperware the movie!

American Experience – Tupperware [VHS]

Related articles by Zemanta

• Tupperware second-quarter profit jumps 73% (marketwatch.com)

As a mom I expected to be viewed as a worm in vomit or a maggot on spoiled ground beef, or an eggy, wet fart from a beauty queen, but I never dreamed I’d be as ruinous to my child’s social well-being as cholera, diphtheria or the Black Death.  I try to talk to my daughter but she shudders, winces, and walks away with that ‘AHH’ snarl on her face.  Surely my over-worn discount wardrobe is not so bad as to totally mess with her finely maintained turbo Disney/Nickelodeon pre-tween vibe.

Is this the same child who, eight short, cute years ago, stretched her 50-minute old arms within the lucite walls of her hospital bassinet?  Is this the one who woke up from her naps with an unstoppable smile that flooded over into her ice-blue eyes?  Is this the one who, up until a year ago, had the voice of a tiny pea which jumped out of a pod to say, “Hi Mommy”?  When did pre-tween steam make soggy the spirit of the most cheerful of my three children?  She’s just a baby.

And when I tell her, with sullenness and touchiness, that she shouldn’t be so sullen and touchy, it just doesn’t work.  I have literally ORDERED her to be nice to me.  Not to love me, or even like me, but to treat me with the level of dignity of, at least, a stale marshmallow or dried up gummy bear.  I am a miner of irony, and saying to my daughter through gritted teeth, “You HAVE to be nice me,” makes me feel not so very proud of myself.

Fortunately, my hubsy stepped in and told my once-sweet daughter that he has my proverbial back.  And then she faked some kindness for a while, the act of which, I think, coaxed her kinder side out.  And now that we’re back home, and she’s away from her cousin, she’s forgotten how comparatively uncool I am.

But school starts next week.

Greta is now selling shade!  What’s next, air?  I haven’t used any of these umbrellas, but I can vouch for their cuteness.  If you must buy one, I thank you for shopping Greta, and I thank you for decorating the beach.

8 Foot Deluxe Beach Umbrella w/ Storage Bag – UPF 50+ Sun Protection!

Pink Flamingos Tropical Ocean Beach Auto Button Folding Umbrella

SKLZ Sport-Brella Umbrella

"Her majesty would desire a most decadent float of Grand Marnier. O, and a shore on which to rest my royal bum. That is all."

Readers of this blog know how much Greta loves her margaritas.  And when you consider the regularity of Google searches for margaritas that lead to this site, you could call Saving Private Mommy the blog that margaritas built.  And I love showing margaritas my gratitude.  I drink them.

And in the true spirit of my own Gretaness, I convinced my husband to shake (not stir) some of these beverages on the beach for all of us staying at JT’s wife’s cabin.  (I’m preferring this title to her name.)   And all I can tell you is that you MUST make sure that you end up along the shore of one of the most beautiful lakes in the world (in this case Lake Tahoe), and when you do, put one of these in your hand, and you will think that you are the Queen of England or Prince Chaz or the sun-kissed, beach-going equivalent.

I’m still trying to convince myself that I wasn’t drinking actual sugary orange peels in a salty lime bath.  The confluence of citruses, sweetness, and salt was SYMPHONIC.  And before a hot and breezy backdrop with a Godzilla-sized blanket of sapphire-colored water, it was truly a red, plastic, beer cup of perfection.  The only thing missing, was my body being tatted, toned and aglitter with nipple rings.  Thankfully, I would never get nipple rings.  But if I had a tattoo, it would be of this recipe.

• Mix and shake the following ingredients with some ice:  4 oz. Chevy’s FRESH SWEET AND SOUR MIX or other margarita mix, 1 1/4 oz. TEQUILA, 1/4 oz. TRIPLE SEC.
• SALT a frosted glass. Don’t opt for no salt.  Fill glass with ICE.
• Pour strained drink mixture into the glass.  (Strained in a good way.)
• 1/4 oz. GRAND MARNIER (floating as a bronzy layer on the top, like tanning pioneer Coco Chanel in St. Tropez).
• Garnish with a slice or wedge of LIME, and behold the power of live fruit, now dead.