How I Deal With a Crisis. A Screenplay in Two Acts.

Ready?


ACT ONE

Curtain opens on a stunningly beautiful 38-year old woman sitting in a meadow full of wildflowers balancing a butterfly on her finger.

Bombshell drops, center stage.

Silence. Then -

Me: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD
(freakout freakout freakout
tearful snotty blotchy breakdown
cry some more cry some more)

and then...

ACT TWO

Me: Deep breath. Focus. Pull it together.
Ok, we got this. Now what?


Act One was yesterday, and today I'm slowly moving on to Act Two.

I had a small breakdown at Rip's last night. Rip's a member of that elite Inner Circle who gets to see the Raw Me, and R and I thought it best that I not cry in front of the kids. Rip, along with most of you, thinks I should tell the kids what's going on. I don't disagree, but my mom thought we shouldn't tell them, and I want to be respectful of that. R thought maybe we should just tell the Beeb, but that would put her in the same unenviable position that I'm in now - having to keep it from her brothers - and I don't want to do that to her. So we'll either tell all of them or we won't say anything.

Of course I don't want to lie to them. Of COURSE I don't. But I don't agree with the argument that they'll be pissed at me for not telling them right away. I think my kids know that my intent would be to take the entire burden onto myself and shield them from the worry and pain. I'm an big advocate of Ignorance is Bliss.

R will be the one to break the news, on that we agree. He's very calm. I'm don't think I would be able to be, especially if they start crying. I can't stand to see them sad. It's one thing when they're crying out of frustration or anger, like when they want me to buy them some Star Wars legos and I'm just not going to do it, I can handle that, but when they're overwhelmed with sadness, it breaks my heart. So maybe it's selfish reasons why I don't want to tell them.

Pie's reaction is really the one I'm most concerned about. He knows just enough to worry about worst case scenarios. Oh, and get this, I found some schoolwork of his in his backpack yesterday morning, before I got the news:



That first sentence is "What will you do about Cancer?"

And get this - I hadn't even told the kids about the biopsy. This is a worry that's in his head already, and we don't even know anyone with cancer. He is so sensitive and compassionate, he takes on everyone else's worries and because he's only almost 7, he doesn't know how to handle that emotionally yet. Hell, neither do I. But he's smart enough to know plenty of bad things that are possible.

There's a Ben Folds song that I love called Still Fighting It in which a dad is singing to his son. I listen to Rockin The Suburbs in the van a lot, usually when I'm by myself so I can sing out loud, but one time Beeb was in the van with me driving home from a friend's house, and as I listened to her tell me about what happened over the weekend, a particular lyric that I sing in my head all the time just struck me really hard.

"You're so much like me, I'm sorry"

And of course I choked up, and she caught me, and asked me why I was crying. So I said the lyric, told her I feel that way all the time with her and her brothers, like I pass along some of the things I hate most about myself and sometimes it makes me sad to see those things in them, and she said,

"That is really sad for you to feel that way. But it's okay, Mom. I like who I am, and I like who you are."

Awesome.


Ok, so about my dad, here's what we know.

His Gleason scale score was a 7. Not sure what that means, but I don't think it's good. I don't know anything about stages or whatever. The first course of action is putting him on Flomax for three weeks to see if any symptoms can be relieved with medication.

They're considering this treatment option, which I found on WebMD:

Radiation is a treatment option that may be less traumatic than RP and appears to have similar results when used in early-stage patients. Radiation also produces side effects, including impotence, in about half of patients. It can be applied through an external beam that directs the dose to the prostate from outside the body. FDA also has cleared low-dose radioactive "seeds," each about the size of a grain of rice, that are implanted within the prostate to kill cancer cells locally.

Called brachytherapy, the seeding technique is sometimes combined with external-beam radiation for a "one-two punch." Studies done at the Georgia Center for Prostate Cancer Research and Treatment show that 68 percent of men treated with both radiation methods applied simultaneously are cancer free 10 years after treatment. Intel Corporation chairman Andy Grove, who was last year's Time magazine "Man of the Year," underwent the combined radiation therapy three years ago. According to company spokesman Howard High, Grove, 61, is "in excellent condition" now.

I know it's not an automatic death sentence. I know I can explain it to the kids in age-appropriate terms. I hope I can express the gravity of the situation without scaring them, but I don't want to go Pollyanna and say that everything's going to be all right - because what if it isn't?

I'll tell them, I just think it might be best to have more information first.

I Have Grand Ideas and The Best of Intentions...

But I have absolutely zero implementation skills. I'm creative. I can come up with a totally fuckin brilliant concept for Point B, I just can't figure out how to get there from Point A. I'm the idea guy. Leave the details to somebody analytical.

Remember the Dong-A-Long? My brilliant campaign to raise money for prostate cancer research?

I'd forgotten about it until a couple of weeks ago when I was cleaning my closet and found a knitted penis. Forgotten about it to the point where I don't rememeber the login for the blog I created for it. I think my plan was to take donations of knitted genitalia or similarly tasteless penis-related items, sell them somehow, and donate the money.

I'm kinda in the mood to start that back up.

Today I found out that one of the estimated 184,500 American men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer this year is my dad.

I won't be able to blog about it too much, I don't think. Or I'll have to disguise it somehow. I'm going to have to delete or edit this post because my daughter reads my blog, and we've decided not to tell the kids right now because they'll freak.

I can't let them see me cry.

I can't be sad in my own home.

I hate crying, I hate when people see me cry, but to actually not be able to allow myself to cry in front of my kids when I really, really need to indulge myself with an emotional breakdown is going to be a serious challenge.

There's no way I'm going to be able to keep it together, so I was trying to figure out with R something we could tell the kids if they caught me crying. And here's what I said out loud:

Well, fortunately my children have seen me cry for no reason enough times that "no real reason, Mom's just in a funk" probably wouldn't phase them too much.

And then I thought about how utterly pathetic that is.

PK's "morning to herself"

This was actually last Friday, the 16th. Oh, and I meant to thank all of you who wished me a happy birthday. It will be considered one of the better birthdays in recent memory, not because anything particularly stellar happened, but mostly because nothing particularly crappy did either.

I ask you, is this the face of a 38-year-old woman?



Wanna see what R got me? Look by my ear.


See it? It's one of those Bluetooth things so I can walk around talking to myself in public, as I usually do, without getting carted away in a straitjacket. I swore I'd never want one or need one, but I gotta say, it's a fuckload of fun walking around with it in my ear, looking like a pretentious asshole.

Now, of course all of you know that there's really no such thing as a morning to yourself when you're a mom, right? Good.

My first task of the day was to replace the foam in these cushions, from the sofa in my basement.



Yeah, I know they're fugly, but this sofa's been with us a long time, and it had been living a life of quiet desperation until we got that big ass righteous 47" TV with the Blueray player and bitchin sound system and Xbox 360. The sofa's starting to see a lot more action, now that the basement's finally a cool place to be, so I thought I'd better get the cushions done before the Super Bowl.

Actually, the first task of ANY day is selecting a CD.



Then I headed to Custom Foam.



And just as a testimonial, this is the best place to go if you don't want to replace your whole sofa. The guy who runs it is cool, and I got them done in about an hour.

During that hour, I drove past Jon Hamm's high school
(just for you, Pam!)



to the Galleria, where I saw this sign at Sephora,



but I'm Lush-loyal.



And then... KNITORIOUS! Wheeeee!!!



If you just said "Ooooh... that's Noro!" in your head, I love you.

It was but a brief visit. Had to focus. Not much time to browse leisurely, but still, to be surrounded by color and texture, like what I imagine being in the middle of a Van Gogh painting might feel like. Plus, there's that subtle, just-below-the-surface insanity that's inside many of us knitters; at least the ones I know. I say this in love, counting myself among you.

Malabrigo in the Snow Bird colorway is absolutely lovely knit up. I've been on a hat-making kick recently.

Before my morning ended, I also stopped by Target to pay off the credit card used to purchase the aforementioned big ass TV.
See, it's not all about me! Then the kids and I played Rock Band 2 all afternoon.

I'm going to have to get video of Tito singing Eye of the Tiger.
It's fuckin HILARIOUS.

What Tito's teacher must think of me.

It's a proud moment, as a parent (and especially as the literary sort), when you see your child discovering the written word as an effective means of communication.



Until you read the translation.



So, just to recap, here's what my kindergartener has told his teacher:

Mommy drinks and drives all the time.
Mommy puts Medicine in her soda.
Mommy won't let me go to the park.
Mommy makes me sad.

Perfect.

I have like fifty posts brewing in my head that I need to write out.

But right now I just want to say that, regardless of who you supported in the past election, it is impossible to not be moved and inspired by the images of the thousands and thousands of people who came to witness Barack Obama's inauguration today.


It is a beautiful day. And I am incredibly proud to be an American.

Have You Pulled a PK?

My friend Kevin - and we're gonna go ahead and change his name to Speed Racer, so as to avoid any Kevin Confusion - told me that he and Mrs. Speed Racer had to go to a baby shower, and that he was not looking forward to it.

He confessed to me that he intended to pack a flask, reminiscent of THIS blog entry, if you're a new beholder of my dubious brilliance.

And then I got to thinkin. . .

(insert ominous music)

When you hear someone's name and it's usually associated with a specific action, that person and that action are kinda synonymous, ya know what I mean?

For example, everyone knows what it means to pull a Monica Lewinsky, right? Or to pull a Lorena Bobbitt? Or a Tonya Harding?

Heh, remember the time I almost pulled a Tara Reid with Mr. McFeely?


Ok, my boob didn't actually fall out, but my bra strap made an untimely appearance which was captured by the Paparazzi. I just thought it would be funny to have Tara Reid and Mr. McFeely in the same sentence.

If you heard someone say "Oh my God, I just pulled a TOTAL Penny Karma!" what would be your immediate assumption?

That the person had:

- Packed a flask in order to endure an event which would surely be, at best, unpleasant?

- Launched into a profanity-laced tirade, infuckingventing new fucking swear words in the process?

- Taken an amusing picture with a cell phone camera, especially one of a sign prohibiting the use of cell phones?

- Become something they swore they'd never become, such as a minivan-driving soccer mom?

What does it mean to Pull a PK?

I'd love to know what you think, as long as you don't say like "act like a total twat" or something.

Felicitaciones a mi!

If age is experience, and experience is wisdom, and wisdom is beautiful, then I am thirty-eight years beautiful today. Thank you, thank you.

I received an unintentionally hilarious card from my in-laws. And I'll say this for my MIL, she does a great job of selecting cards that she clearly chose with you in mind. Allow me to share the transcript:


For a Wonderful Daughter-In-Law

A daughter-in-law is someone dear
Whose sweet and thoughtful way
Makes you love her a little bit more
With every passing day...

(here comes my favorite part)

She has a way of adding
Her own touch to family fun,
So you're especially happy
That she's married to your son.

She's someone you admire
For her warmth and caring, too,
And that describes a daughter-in-law
As wonderful as you!



Yeah.


MY OWN TOUCH TO FAMILY FUN. I literally laughed out loud at that bit. Wouldn't they just shit themselves if they ever stumbled onto this blog and found out that the whole fucking world knows about the special PK touch that I add to Inlaw Family Fun?

Touch of artery-clogging butter, maybe...

And Warmth?? WARMTH???? That's not warmth, it's the radiant heat from my blood boiling inside of me.

I got yer fuckin Warmth, right HERE.


And, lastly, via Ubersexy Cary, is my birthday gift to YOU.

Check it out.

Pie's New Year's Resolution

I found this in Pie's take-home folder this morning and just had to share it with you.

Christmas Break Wrap-up

The Aldis have hit a new low. Believe it.

I didn't think there was anything lower than giving a kid a shitty gift, but there is. It's giving a kid a really awesome gift that doesn't work. They got the boys cool AirHog helicopters and threw in, as a bonus, these cool-looking guns that shoot nerfball-like things.

At least, that's what they're supposed to do. They don't do shit but collect dust. They don't WORK. The boys were so bummed, it was sad. Who wants to see a sad kid on Christmas?

The Aldis included batteries, which was surprisingly generous. So when we got home (of course I couldn't let the boys open them at Chez Inlaw because they'd shoot them all over and I'd be the worst parent in the world) we put them in, and couldn't get either gun to work. R thought perhaps we should get some NEW batteries, as we wouldn't put it past the Aldis to include some mostly-dead batteries that they'd taken out of one of their kids' toys. New batteries didn't work either.

R did a quick internet search, and found these items on Super Duper Clearance at Target.com. We kicked ourselves for not opening them at Chez Inlaw so the Aldis could be exposed as the crappy giftgivers they are.

There were a couple other memorable holiday moments at Chez Inlaw. At one point, Beebie and Aldigirl were talking about birthstones, and Beebie mentioned that she had a set of genuine birthstone earrings, including a pair that is genuine diamond.

"Are they real?" Aldigirl asked.

"That's what genuine means, Aldigirl," Beeb replied. I was tickled.

And then, later, as we were all posing for the annual Inlaw/Karma/Aldi/Lexus family photo (which, we've been taking for years but none of us has ever seen any of them printed), FIL was having a little trouble with the self-timer thing, and I don't know what prompted it, but Mrs. Lexus said something about how photography has really only been around since around the Civil War.

And the mighty Reverend Aldi claimed that it's been around since ancient Egypt or something. Mrs. Lexus, along with the rest of us, thought he was full of shit. I don't know what she said to him, but his defense was,

"Well, it depends on what your definition of pho-TAAAAH-graphy..."

Because everything depends on your definition of everything.
Dude, JUST. SHUT. UP. Nobody CARES.

Santa brought the Karmas some gifts worth mentioning. The boys each got MP3 players which they absolutely loved. Beeb got Disney SingIt! for the Wii. R got an Xbox 360. And I (er, the kids) got RockBand to play on it. But the greatest gift of all? R got me the Classy flask! I tried to take pictures and they didn't come out, but trust me, it's exactly what I wanted.

My parents came up on the 28th. Here are some highlights of their visit:

A) We went bowling to celebrate Tito's birthday on the 29th.

Oh, I should mention that Saturday is Tito's birthday party. The child's turning six, and he's never had an actual birthday party. It's not entirely because I'm a lazyass, but that's definitely a tertiary factor. So this year I invited all of the boys in Tito's class. Including Lubaba's brother.

I was tempted to specify on the invitation "To Johnathon - NOT Lubaba's party-moochin' ass", but I thought it might be just as much fun and slightly less snarkilicious to just sit back and see if they try to smuggle Lubaba into the party too. You KNOW I'll let you know if those dimwit parents who have no clue about basic birthday party etiquette pull any fucking horseshit like that.


B) After-Christmas Shopping yielded me some righteous pink boots.



And four bags of these, so I don't have to wait for Easter to get my Cadbury chocolate fix.



My mom took Beebie shopping and got her 4 pairs of jeans. Beeb needed a belt, so I made one out of Recycled Sari Silk Yarn. Beeb dug it.



And yesterday I saw this at Knitorious -


KOFA said I should knit a cozy for my flask.


C) As you may know, my dad is a minister, and while he was here he wanted to find a vestment bag for his fancy preachin' outfits, so we went to the Catholic Supply store. I should point out that he's obviously not a Catholic priest, because, well, vows of celibacy and whatnot. But fortunately you don't have to show a Catholic ID when you go in, and the Catholic Supply shop is an absolute hoot, if you have a demented sense of humor like I do. And if you don't, I can't imagine why you'd read this blog.

The idea of Jesus playing hockey is just hilarious to me.



And this looks like the severed head of Bette Davis and her less-developed conjoined twin.



And right across the street from the Catholic Supply store is -



No visit to St. Louis should lack a visit to Ted Drewes. And it's NEVER too cold for a pumpkin pie concrete.


D) I'm pretty sure there's a special little extra-hot section of Hell just for the asshole who created Chuck E. Cheese. It's right next to the asshole who created Play-Doh, but that's another story.








E) The next morning, before my parents left, we went to a spectacular breakfast at the Original Pancake House or Company or something, I forget the name. Anyway, SPECTACULAR, I tell you.



The kids wouldn't let me snap a picture of them crying like last time.


We saw three movies over Christmas Break.



Between Bedtime Stories, Marley and Me, and The Tale of Desperaux, I liked Bedtime Stories the best.

Yesterday, Tito had a soccer game. And I went into full-on Soccer Mom Mode.

I'll have you know, KOFA, that I did not wear the standard-issue soccer mom uniform Adidas track suit. No, sir. No way.

Hoodie. Down vest. Ponytail. Fuck you. :P



And speaking of appropriate attire, what the fuck kind of mother puts a dipshit matching fucking BOW in her little princess' hair before she sends her onto the field to get her ass kicked? Seriously! This ain't no Little Miss Ladybug pageant, this is mortal fucking combat, JonBenet!



Tito scored a goal. Another boy on Tito's team scored four goals. FOR THE OTHER TEAM. Ooooh, I was about to leap from the bleachers and shake the kid by the shoulders screaming, "THAT's the goal you're supposed to be shooting at, dumbass!" But I bit my tongue while the dumbass kid's parents lavished a sickening amount of praise upon him.

"Wow, Sweetie! You were GREAT!!! You scored all those goals, and you even had a couple of assists, too! You're SUPER!! You're an AMAZING soccer player!!!"

I can't stand to see that kind of parenting. I'm all for the Nonpliment, in which you say something that's vague but true, such as "I saw you running really fast!" but don't let the kid think he's David Fucking Beckham if he forgets that you're not supposed to pick the ball up with your hands and he can't keep straight in his head which goal counts for his team and which one counts for the Opposing team.

Yeah, I get that self-esteem is fragile and whatever, and you can be honest without being cruel, but what's going to happen when that kid grows up and wants to be on the soccer team in his middle school, having been led to believe that he's a natural soccer star, and in the tryouts he scores six goals into the wrong net, since all this time he didn't think it mattered which goal the ball went into.

You think it's not going to be more damaging when he comes home crushed and says, "Mom, Dad, everybody laughed at me... and you told me I was GREAT!!! Thanks a LOT! See if I believe a word you say ever again!!"

Trust me, I'm the product of over-praising parents, and although I know they meant well (as all parents do), it's taken me my entire adult life to undo the damage. It's the root of my competitive nature - the need to be recognized for my accomplishments.

And lastly, I'll add this story just cuz it's funny - this morning I was about to take my daily meds, and I had poured two pills into my hand, I was about to put one of them back into the bottle, and instead I accidentally dropped BOTH of them into the open can of Diet Coke I had sitting on the sink. And I drank it anyway. No point in wasting two pills AND an entire bottle of Diet Coke.

Funny enough, sure, but then I had to explain to Tito that he couldn't have a sip of my Coke because Mommy put Medicine in it. I can just see that getting back to his teacher somehow. "My Mommy said I can't share her soda because she put Medicine in it." He's already told his teacher that Mommy drinks and drives pretty much every single day.

I fully expect an intervention team to show up at my house any day now.

Kids and their mothers view giant clear plastic tanks full of cockroaches very differently.

How's that for a title?

Check out the look of fiendish glee on Pie's face. I, on the other hand, look like a totally freaked-out pussy in my oh-so-intimidating Evil shirt.



This picture was taken shortly before I realized this plastic tank full of cockroaches DOES NOT HAVE A LID ON IT.

Those fuckers have WINGS!! Hell-LOOOOOO!!!