Think Up Your Own Damn Title

This was supposed to be Saturday's post, but Larry hogged the computer all day yesterday trying to straighten out our finances. You see, I threw a teeny-tiny hissy fit in the morning and told him I wanted to leave town for more than 3 days and that I wasn't going to spend a week in a tent. And I didn't care if I already spent our vacation money on someone else's bumper, I need to escape in August just like everyone else does around here, dammit.

So, he picked up on my subtle intimations of discontent (probably at the point when I threatened to dissolve the kids' college funds) and spent the day combing through our finances looking for some "extra" money. While he was at it, he attempted to deal with the confusion of our main credit card being farmed out to some new company that we didn't want; but that involved switching all our automatic payments over to a different credit card, and that meant trying to remember approximately 16 gazillion different passwords and PINs in order to access all the different accounts.

I hate seeing a grown man cry like that.

So I decided to deal with a minor knitting crisis while I waited my turn at the computer. You see, Anna's flute camp had a performance Friday evening; and knitting is the only thing that keeps me from acting up like a 3-year-old at these things, as it is all I can do to sit still through any sort of performance (much less a high school one) without sedation. But as I settled in my seat in the auditorium and pulled out the sock I was planning to work on, I realized that 1 of the 4 double-pointed needles I needed was missing.

Folks, I felt as if I had just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. There I was, with nothing to do for 3 solid hours. I whiled away an hour of it retracing my steps and searching for my missing needle (size 0, bamboo - have you seen it?). That was fun, if unsuccessful. Then I spent the 2nd hour repeatedly taking Susie (who was behaving way better than I was) down to the water fountain and back up to our seats (that's what you get for feeding the kids high-sodium-content fast food before the performance). The 3rd hour, I slumped in my seat and mourned all that lost knitting time.

So today I had to rummage through all my knitting bags (and they are legion) to locate the 5th matching needle. As any knitter knows, this sort of exercise is rife with regrets and self-condemnation, as it requires facing up to innumerable unfinished projects and a level of disorganization that makes the inside of my refrigerator look good. I unearthed things I didn't even know I had: 2 baby hats that I finished for Afghans for Afghans and then forgot to send; a vest I knitted for Rachel and never completed the neck edging on; a pair of socks that only need the ends woven in; a top-down hat that I started last October; and a bunch of yarn that I was supposed to have made into a mistake-rib scarf months ago. There were also assorted needles of indeterminate sizes, many tape measures, crumpled printouts of patterns, an old bag of cough drops, a comb, and a petrified french fry.

So I did what any self-respecting knitter would do. I gave up and started a new project. I sat upstairs and knitted Susie to sleep, as it were; and when I came down, I found Larry sitting disconsolately in his chair, surrounded - nay, engulfed - by a year's worth of paperwork. "Everything's a mess," he said. "I'm a slob. I can't find anything."

What can I say? We're a match made in heaven.

Oh, and in case any of you thought I was exaggerating the dismal outlook for women in their forties the other day, think again. For those of you who are click-averse, that link is to an msnbc article that is titled

Men End Up Happier Than Women Later In Life

Just remember, you heard it here first. The article mentions that age 48 is when "men's overall happiness exceeds women's overall happiness." Now, that makes perfect sense to me. That's just the point in life when many men dump their menopausal ball-and-chains to take off with some strumpet half their age. Is it any wonder the guys' happiness exceeds ours at that point?

Of course, I'm not too worried about that happening to me, what with the deal Larry and I have worked out.

The Fundamental Things Apply....

5000 steps yesterday (but I started a few hours late); 8000 today. I've got to work on this.

I would like to issue a formal apology to Mental Tessarae for my ranting in her comments today. She posted a thoughtful essay on not wanting people to gender type her little girl; and I went on and on about how the sexes are indeed hardwired differently. I sounded irate. I don't know why. Maybe because I see parents worrying so much over things they have no control over, rather than just enjoying their kids for what they are.

Look - I have 3 boys and 3 girls, and even the least masculine of the boys would never dream of putting his hands on his hips when he gets mad. Girls, however, do this before they are even 2 years old. The girls also do these weird things with their feet when they are just standing around, pointing them while slinging a hip to one side, that boys never do. Girls smile and bat their eyes at strangers; boys, when feeling bashful, run and head butt the intruder. I don't know why.

These differences show up before age 2. Don't even ask me for the list of differences at age 13. I could write a book.

Acknowledging gender differences doesn't threaten the notion of equality between men and women. Just because girls have different mannerisms than boys doesn't mean they aren't capable of being engineers or astronauts or whatever. But we need to recognize and celebrate the differences between the sexes rather than try to ignore them. When we ignore them, we are ignoring an integral part of that person.

I want my girls to grow up to be strong and beautiful, but I also want them to be able to be vulnerable, scary as that might seem. It's hard to be nurturing to your own children and intimate with your spouse without being a little bit vulnerable. I want my boys to grow up gentle and caring, but they need to be strong and protective, also, to take care of my grandbabies (and to chase bats out of the house). Women and men complement each other very nicely, you know. I mean, do I have to draw a picture? This is a G-rated blog, after all.

(Sigh) Can you tell this is a pet peeve? I think I need to soothe my nerves with some Girl Scout cookies (see? Boy Scouts wouldn't be caught dead selling cookies) (Ha, ha! Joke! It's a joke!) and move on. This is just my predilection for traditional gender roles rearing its ugly head again...

Someone Here Hath Murdered Sleep

Well, I had The Talk with the kids tonight. All 6 of them. I sat them down and told them, "Remember - either be a doctor or marry one." That way, they won't have to watch one of their children cough her lungs out all night long, again, because they can't get their hands on any codeine cough syrup.

The doctor did prescribe some other cough medicine over the phone, some namby-pamby crap, and I told him, "It won't work. You may have 8 years of med school, but I have 16 years of raising children. Give me the good stuff." No dice.

My lord, I am so pissed off. I really feel sorry for whichever doctor we finally see tomorrow morning.

Am I crazy, or should a sick kid be able to see a doctor the same day that the kid is ill? I do have superpowers, but I am still not able to predict a day in advance that my child is going to be up all night coughing. I'm just not that good. I admit it.

And, in case you think I'm sounding a little insane, you're right. Chronic sleep deprivation will do that to a person. Do you know how long it has been since I have had 4 hours of unbroken sleep? Have you any idea? Prisoners of war are treated better than this.

You know, friends don't let friends blog sleepless. I'm signing off.

(But, oh yes, Larry caught our little rodent friend this morning. And disposed of him. Once again, I am glad that I get to be the helpless female. While he did the dirty work, I hid in the bedroom. Of course, now Larry is suffering from what I call his Hemingway Syndrome - the way he's acting, you'd think he'd bagged a cougar.)

She Loves Me (Not!)

What Anna (my chronically alienated teenage daughter who used to be the sweetest girl in the whole world and still is deep down inside somewhere) deems to be my fault:

1. When she's tired because she stayed up way too late and then had to get up before the crack of noon
2. Any day that her neighborhood friend is not around to hang out with
3. When she has to go to the doctor because she has given herself a puncture wound while doing dishes
4. Her beloved flute teacher's falling ill and cancelling a lesson
5. That life doesn't consist of doing whatever she wants, when she wants.

I have to work on all that, I guess.

She did like us briefly a few nights ago when she was scared silly by a bat that somehow got down our chimney and was zooming around our living room. Though I must say that her shriek (which woke us up) should have been enough to turn my hair white. Larry took care of the problem, while Anna and I barricaded ourselves in the bedroom. You know, if it's retro to feel that the guy has to take care of all bugs, rodents (flying and otherwise), and any other type of household intruder, then just call me old-fashioned, all right? I sat up in that room and listened to Larry chasing the bat all over the main floor of the house and thanked my lucky stars that I'm of the female persuasion. (And he did get rid of it - he managed to chase it out of the house with a laundry basket. See? I never would have thought of that.)