Uppercase Woman

The New Hip Thing: Being Frugal

So I read this interesting article in Newsweek and it added to the already busy swirl of money shit going on in my brain. Charlie and I are coming to the end of a kind of a financially flush period; and by "flush" I mean that for a little while we had a little extra, thanks to cashing in my retirement plan when I left my job in May and some residual cash from selling his mother's condo (most of that money is dedicated to her long term care, however). Hence our buying the new minivan, going on vacation, and buying the trailer in the mountains (although we have an interview on Thursday to see if we are good enough people to live in a trailer park in the Poconos; that should be interesting since I just dyed my hair pink. Yeah.).

But as the cash pile is dwindling (the last of it, really, is going to the place in the mountains--a good investment, surely, but still... sigh), we are turning our eyes critically to our budget and thinking about ways to "trim the fat" as the article states and make some changes that will help reel in our spending.

First to go, sadly, is the Irish Girl. The Irish Girl is what we have called the various young Irish women that have been cleaning our house since I was pregnant with Tori. As you might remember, I was not allowed to clean while I was pregnant, and while Charlie technically could have done the cleaning he decided it was cheaper to pay someone else rather than listen to me tell him how he did it wrong. Heh. We got kind of addicted to having a nice young woman come and scrub our bathroom and microwave and mop our floors once every two weeks, and it seemed to be pretty cheap at $60 a visit. But with tipping, and adding more cleaning area (my office, say, and wiping out the fridge, that sort of thing) it's gotten to be more like $80 every two weeks and as sweet as our latest Irish Girl is (we're on the fourth; apparently, all these young women come here to get certified as soccer instructors, which may seem odd, but actually helps them get jobs back home) she doesn't actually clean all that well (the third Irish Girl, on the other hand, was a goddess) so... we've decided that's the first big expense we're cutting out. I hate calling to fire someone, but I don't think the Irish Girl will be all that crushed. She's hardly what I would call enthusiast.

Next up, I took some inspiration from that article and gave my cable company a call and pointed out to them that they give new customers a better deal than they give folks like us, their long term loyal customers. We have everything with them--phone, TV, Internet--so after extensive negotiations, we saved...$15 a month. Sigh. I'd hoped for more, but still, it's something. Next up is calling our cell phone company because truthfully we use only about 1/3 of our minutes these days so we can probably do much better there.

I wish we could negotiate where the REAL expense is; our medical insurance. We are still paying $1,100 for the three of us and we have not been able to find a way to save anything there (it does look, by the way, like my migraine stuff will be covered--thank you for your helpful tips there!). There is just no bending there, no matter what we do. We're lucky, in fact, to be able to afford coverage at all. I'd love to switch Tori to the state CHIP plan (Pennsylvania allows anyone of any income to buy into the plan, and it would change Tori's insurance fees from $250 to $68 a month for the same coverage) but she would have to be uninsured first to qualify. And after being an uninsured child myself, I am completely unwilling to allow her to spend a single second without coverage. Not one second.

So I'm not sure where else we can save. Here's a question for you experts; we've considered refinancing our mortgage. While we're not paying a terrifically high interest (about 7.3%, we think), we're not paying the lowest rate out there, and with the local machinations of the feds we are wondering if we can get a better deal and bring our mortgage payment down a bit. If you are in the field, drop me an email--I'd love your advice.

Also, as you may have heard, food prices are up between 15 and 20%. That article I linked to has some sites listed that can help you get coupons and help you save at the grocery store. I need to get better about doing that--I never clip coupons, and I don't remember to bring grocery store cards with me to the store (I didn't have one the other day and it hurt me to the tune of about $20, I think). I really need to get better about that.

What frugal tips do you have? I'm eager to learn more as I start tightening the belt, so to speak. As I approach my 40th birthday (I know, I just won't shut up about that, will I?), I find myself thinking more and more about being a responsible adult.

Frankly, it really sucks.

___________________________________________

If there is anyone in Connecticut that has been through a loss like mine with the boys--where you had to medically terminate a pregnancy--and you might be willing to speak about it publicly and be an advocate, please drop me an email. There's a congressman that will be holding some town meetings in April that needs to be called on his shit (he claims that no provision for the "health" of the mother is necessary, for both incredibly racist and sexist reasons--you can review here for why the health instead of just life is necessary). Thanks!

On A Much Lighter Note: The New Hairdos

I finally have pictures of Tori's splendid new hairdo, thanks to my awesome friend Danielle:

Sorry for crappy photo quality. I've had a bad photo week.

And, once again thanks to the wildly amazing gifts of my friend Danielle I present Cecily's pink hair do-over, 25 years later:

Children openly stare, teenagers are green with envy, and adults carefully look past me. It's hilarious. By the way, she dyed my eyebrows too which is why they look twice as big and I look kind of pissed off (and why I had to don sunglasses for this photo--much plucking must happen).

I must say, it has cheered me immensely. Nearly 40 is the PERFECT time for pink hair, because it's just for fun and not for rebellion. It rocks.

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Puppies! Kittens! Adorable Newborns!

Arg. Every time I think I'm prepared for the backlash, a new angle is discovered. I was fully armored for the "you killed your babies you bitch!" angle, and the "you should have delivered your babies they might have lived" angle (why is it that NO ONE EVER remembers that one twin had died already?), but I was totally unprepared for the "why didn't you have a c-section?" argument (maybe someone can anticipate the next one so I can be ready?).

Sigh.

Here's why I didn't have a c-section, not like anyone will believe me because after all, I killed my babies:

BECAUSE CUTTING OPEN A WOMAN WITH FAILED KIDNEYS AND OUT-OF-CONTROL BLOOD PRESSURE IS REALLY FUCKING STUPID AND SHE MIGHT BLEED TO DEATH AT WORST OR LOSE HER UTERUS AT BEST.

Sigh.

Now, let's change the subject and go spend some time here cooling down, m'kay? Meanwhile I'm going to go lie down. This all has given me another motherfucking migraine.

Speaking to the Candidates About Choice On the Four Year Anniversary Of This Blog

Apparently, some folks who read this blog know some folks who know some folks and swear they can get this blog entry read by at least Obama, but I figured, why limit myself to just writing to Obama? I'm speaking to everyone who is running for President, including Ms. Clinton, and Mr. McCain (ok, maybe not Mr. Nader).

Why have I been appointed as someone to discuss the issue of choice? Because I'm the Internet Poster Girl For Partial Birth Abortion, that's why. It's not a title I'm proud of, but it's one I was saddled with a few years ago.

I'm not going to get into the whole story here. If you really want to read all about the harrowing details they start here. But you are all too busy running for president, so I'll give you the short version. In April of 2004 I was lucky enough to get pregnant with twin boys after undergoing in vitro treatment for male factor infertility (thanks to drugs my husband's mother took--DES, we suspect--while she was pregnant with him). We were on top of the world, although the pregnancy was difficult.

But a routine ultrasound on October 26--meant to be a time of great joy (my best friend came with us to the appointment--revealed terrible news: one of the twins had died, probably about a week before. We went from the ultrasound appointment to my obstetrician's office and were met with even more grim news. My weight had spiked up about 18 pounds, my blood pressure was soaring, and I had protein in my urine.

It turned out that I was in full-blown preeclampsia. I was admitted to the hospital immediately.

After that, everything happened very quickly. I was put on medication (magnesium sulfate) in an attempt to treat the preeclampsia and save the remaining twin until he reached outside-the-womb viability--a mere two weeks away (I was just over 22 weeks pregnant). But I got much worse overnight; my blood pressure couldn't be controlled, I had a massive headache and was vomiting uncontrollably. My kidneys shut down. I was moments away from seizures, coma, and death when the doctors came and told us the bad news: my remaining twin could not be saved. My pregnancy had to be terminated or both the baby and I would die.

You might, Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain, be able to imagine what it felt like to be my husband--to imagine being terrified of losing your children and your wife in one fell swoop. Ms. Clinton, you might be able to imagine lying in the hospital, so sick you barely feel any of what is happening, only knowing that the long-fought-for children you so desperately wanted are now both going to be dead.

Here's the part of the story where choice comes in. I could, of course, have gone through induced labor and delivered my tiny twins. But my blood pressure was hovering around 165/120 (often going higher), even with treatment. Can you imagine what labor would have done to my body with blood pressure that high? My doctor recommended, and I agreed, that I undergo the much less stressful intact dilation and extraction procedure--what the "pro-life" forces often like to call a "partial birth abortion." Of course, you being the smart and well-education politicians that you are know that there is NO medical procedure that is actually called a "partial birth abortion" so you know that there are several medical procedures that the "pro-life" movement put in that category, including the one that I had. Wait, I take that back--Mr. McCain, as you have been a staunch supporter of the Partial Birth Abortion ban you clearly were asleep in class when they discussed the actual procedures.

But I digress. My doctor refers to my procedure as the worst moment in his professional career. As I lay on the gurney, waiting for my procedure to start, I felt a gulf of grief and emptiness the like of which I have never known. I felt abandoned by God. I lay there, crying, alone, surrounded by doctors and nurses. You can't imagine the sadness.

I was lucky. Are you surprised that I would say that? I was lucky because the partial-birth abortion ban was not yet in effect in October of 2004. If it had been, I would have been forced to undergo labor and delivery, no matter the risks to my health, and I might right now be either dead or so brain damaged I would be unable to type this. I was additionally lucky because even though I live in Philadelphia, one of the largest cities in the country--a city, Mr. Obama and Ms. Clinton, you two will be visiting a great deal in the next month--my doctor happened to be only one of two doctors in this entire city that was willing and able to perform this life-saving medical procedure (although he can't now, of course, thanks to the ban being enacted--besides, he left Pennsylvania for New Jersey thanks to our crazy medical malpractice insurance crisis but that's another story).

So that's my story. For a year after that, I licked my wounds and missed my sons, Nicholas and Zachary. Eventually, I underwent a frozen embryo transfer and gave birth to my daughter Victoria, whose grinning face you see above this entry. I had problems with her delivery as well, so I will not be having other children, sadly.

I'm sure that you will find my story compelling; even the most hard-hearted and most staunch pro-lifers have. Many who came to my blog to question my decision have stayed and become friends. You know why? Because mine was an "acceptable" abortion. I'm not a 26 year old professional woman who doesn't want to derail her career by having a child and chooses to terminate a pregnancy. Or a teenage girl who got drunk and forgot to make the boy wear a condom. Or a harried mother of three who just can't imagine having a fourth child.

So it's easy to read my story and say, oh, yes, in case LIKE YOURS, abortion should be legal. But... when laws are passed that make it difficult for that teenage girl to get to exercise the right to control her own body--hey, I'm looking at you, Ms. Clinton, for not standing up harder against the parental notification laws--or for the professional woman to be able to fill a prescription, quietly, for RU486 at her local pharmacy so she can make her choice as well, or that harried mother to do the same thing--when those laws are passed, it's women like me that die. When you cut corners, you don't save babies lives. You kill women like me.

Let me say that again. When you compromise on abortion--when you sacrifice even the smallest corner of choice--you kill women like me. You create a culture of fear among doctors that puts lives like mine at risk.

So knock it off, will you? Fight to protect a woman's right to choose. I know, Ms. Clinton, that you believe in it enough to put it on the front page of your website, but your record isn't perfect. Mr. Obama, you do not discuss choice on your campaign page (although it's hosted on the Women for Obama page). Why not? Mr. McCain, for shame. Shame on you for promoting a law that is basically a warrant for my death. Come on.

I'm tired of writing about this. I am tired of being the Internet Poster Girl for Partial Birth Abortion, I assure you. It's not comfortable. By writing this post, I will get a new batch of pro-life people that will start telling me how I murdered my sons, how they could have lived (they never, ever, remember that one had already passed away) and some will threaten me. It happens every time I talk about this. Sometimes I just want to lie down and let someone else do this. But I won't. I don't know what it will take; perhaps a constitutional amendment protecting women's bodies?

Yeah. That might do it. Sigh. Like that will ever happen.

I Hate Everything

It's been one of those weeks.

I should never have blogged about Obama during this week. I feel totally beaten up by the comments, and that's not fair, because they've been completely reasonable. But it's clear that people are very passionate about this election, and whenever people are passionate, well--emotions ride high.

And this is not a good week for me.

I, first of all, have killer PMS. I'm not sure why it's so bad. I mean, it's always a thrilling fun adventure with roses and lollipops, but this particular month it's roses with giant thorns and lollipops with razorblades inside. I could KILL EVERYONE. No, seriously. No. Seriously.

NO. SERIOUSLY.

I'm not coping with it well. The other day? When we were having Tori's hair cutting adventure? Charlie started choking on a donut. When he came to me, gasping and trying to catch a breath, gesturing for me to whack him on the back or do the Heimlich maneuver, what did I do? I rolled my eyes, gazed at him in disgust and said, "What, you didn't buy yourself a water?"

No, really. I did that. The epitome of loving kindness, that's me.

Tori is having a, shall we say, clingy phase. It's all MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY all the time. As in, if I go to the kitchen she cries. If I go pee, she cries. If I go to the car, she cries. If I put my shoes on because my feet are cold she anticipates me going somewhere and cries. Seriously, if my uterus had a door and I could pop her back in at this point MY LIFE WOULD BE EASIER.

I love her--I really do--but the whole toddler-clinging-to-the-legs thing is a lot less appealing in reality than it seemed during all those infertility treatments.

Which brings me to my next point, about how I AM A COMPLETE FUCKING ASSHOLE WHO HAS NO GRATITUDE. Oh, I know. I spend a great deal of time thinking about that all day, especially when I am peeling Tori's hands off my thighs so I can get my jeans down far enough to take a piss. I think about all the blogs out there of women still trying to get to this point, and I consider finding an anvil and dropping it on my own head in their honor.

But the problem is that I'm just so damn tired. And hormonal. And just beaten right now.

Why? Well, here's one reason. I just got a letter in the mail from my insurance saying that my visit to the Emergency Room in January (remember the three-week migraine? Yeah, that visit) isn't going to be covered because it was for a "pre-existing condition." Which means that NONE of the migraine treatment I've been receiving, from my new specialist, or the medications that I've gotten, or any of that stuff--NONE OF IT WILL BE COVERED (hey, if you have any experience in fighting that sort of thing, let me know! *sob*). It's bad enough that I pay $350 a month for insurance that barely pays for 50% of the medications I need as it is--now they'll pay none? Really?

I don't know what to do.

This is why I hate PMS. It has the amazing ability to make me feel like I have ALWAYS been slogging uphill, that it has ALWAYS been awful, that my life has ALWAYS been terrible. IT IS SO NOT TRUE. As they say in recovery, FEELINGS AREN'T FACTS (picture me in the corner eating chocolate and muttering *feelings aren't facts. feelings aren't facts. feelings aren't facts*. Yeah, that's my life right now).

Eventually, Tori will grow tired of me and only love Daddy (PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD). My period will come, and in fact, may only come a few times a year soon, as my headache specialist thinks that perhaps one of those getchyer-period-only-four-times-a-year pills might just cure me of my migraines completely (since my cycle is so tied to them).

And best of all, Charlie and I made an offer on a tiny little trailer in the mountains (it was very, very, very cheap, and as such won't cost much more than camping--but the critical detail is that it is NOT camping, which we have come to accept as not being a reality for us until Tori is older) and the offer was accepted. Which we are very happy about. Oh, and I took Tori to my hairdresser in the city and she fixed her up, and Tori is now the proud owner of an adorable pixie cut (pictures forthcoming, I assure you).

There are good things in my life, and my PMS is LYING TO ME. Bitch.

But... please tell me that this phase with Tori will end soon. Right? RIGHT?

Haircuts, Race, And Why I Cringe About The Whole Damn Thing

On Tuesday we took Tori to get her hair cut again. It grows so damn fast! She was beginning to look a bit wild already, and Sunday is Easter (although I haven't been to church in ages--apparently, I accidentally gave up church for lent thanks to various illnesses and my vacation) and she's wearing the cutest dress that I bought right after Christmas thanks to Tori's internet auntie Tanya in Japan, and I just wanted Tori to look cute and springy and adorable. So, off we went.

Instead of driving twenty minutes away I decided to go to the place that is right in the downtown section of my borough. It was close, and I'd forgotten all about it before, and I realized I should support my local businesses and, so, off we went.

It was a DISASTER.

The hairdresser was utterly TERRIFIED of her scissors (she had a large scar on her hand where she's slipped before). Tori is not the greatest kid while getting her haircut, crying at first (although she settled down while I held her) and moving around a lot, so the hairdresser kept jumping away from Tori, both afraid of cutting Tori and cutting herself. Once Tori settled down, she worked hard on her, FOR NEARLY AN HOUR.

The result? Tori has uneven bangs, her hair is super short and a cross between a typical boy cut and a bowl cut, one side is much thicker than the other, and she has a huge chunk missing out of the back of one section because the hairdresser slipped and cut when Tori moved. I'd been hoping for something more like this, and instead got this (sorry these pictures suck, I literally stopped writing to run up and interrupt Tori playing with Sarah's daughter to photograph her):

Now, I realize Tori is going to suffer no trauma from this event (I'm not so sure about me) and her hair grows super fast so it's really not a big deal. But let's discuss the hairdresser for a moment. It sounds like she's totally incompetent, doesn't it? Like she has no right to be running a hair salon at all.

But here's the thing: she's African-American, and so are most of her customers, and guess what? She told me most of them DON'T GET THEIR HAIR CUT with scissors. They use clippers on the boys, and the girls get braids or get styles. So she's actually a great hairdresser (I'm judging this by her three kids who were all there with great hair styles). She's just not the hairdresser for Tori.

But she didn't feel comfortable turning us away as customers. How ironic is that?

I thought about this as I listened to Obama's speech. I'll tell you the truth; I don't think what his pastor said was all that wrong, or untrue, or out of line. But it still makes me squirm. In a weird way, it makes me squirm the same way that Sarah and Charlie's road rage makes me squirm. Other people's anger just  makes me uncomfortable. It is very difficult to just sit and listen to other people's rage and just... take it for what it is, and accept that it isn't directed at us personally.

And that, I think, is what Obama is asking us to do.

It's challenging.

I like that he is challenging us.

But here's what bothers me, too. There is a bit of, well, I don't know what to call it. What if Hillary, in reaction to Ms. Ferraro's comments, decided that SHE needed to have give a "major speech" about race?

Yeah.

Only Mr. Obama is allowed to give such a speech. Because he's not white. I, frankly, would not have been comfortable addressing the fact that the reason Tori's haircut came out so badly was because her hairdresser was inexperienced in cutting white hair, frankly, if I didn't have Obama's speech to build it around. I can frame it all nice and carefully around this whole, "See, I'm not a racist" blog entry this way. But I will confess that I hadn't gone to this kid's haircuttery before because I knew it was primarily for African-Americans until one of the parents at the playground mentioned it to me, and I worried that I was being racist by not choosing to patronize it.

The truth is, as a liberal white, I am so goddamned uncomfortable ever talking about race that I pretend it doesn't exist. My friend Jim, who happens to be black, once told me a joke: "What do you call a black person who can fly a plane?" I paused for a moment, and before I could say anything he said, "A pilot, you racist motherfucker!" and then he laughed and laughed. Of course, Jim is the same guy who corrects you when you say, "I dyed my hair black," he looks askance and says, "African-American!" so I didn't take it too seriously, but still--it's a perfect example of my white liberal guilt--I'm looking for the special, above-and-beyond the norm label when, in fact, a black person flying a plane is really just a pilot like everyone else that flies planes.

I found Obama's speech deeply compelling, like so many of you did (as I read in your blogs). But I'm still leaning toward Hillary at the moment. Here's one reason: when I look at the issues section of Obama's page, I don't find anything about a woman's right to choose. Not even when I hunt through it. Extensively. That REALLY bothers me. He claims to be pro-choice, but why not say so? Obama fans, can you help me here? Hillary has women's rights front and center in her issues list. As you all know, this issue is just a tad important to me. Heh.

But before I divert myself too far from the issue at hand, I think Jon Stewart said it best last night: kudos to Barack Obama for standing up yesterday (in my city!) and talking to us about race--LIKE WE ARE ADULTS. God bless him for that.

I'd love the hear your thoughts. Do tell!

Just When I Thought I Was Getting Better...

Yesterday I took Tori to the YMCA to swim, which she dearly loves. She comes over to me and says, "Swim? Water?" and my heart melts and we get everything together and go on over to the pool and swim. It's some of our best time together, and I forget that if I put everything aside and make it ALL ABOUT TORI the time we have together is wonderful and perfect and she is just a dream.

She's fearless at the pool, jumping in while holding onto my hands, going fully under with each jump (yes! really!) and coming up giggling. She then grabs onto the side of the pool and clambers out, all by herself, and does it again. This amazes all the other mothers at the pool, and I felt very smug (they asked, "How old is she? And I said, smiling, "Oh, she'll be two in June") watching the moms of four-year-olds timidly putting toes into the water as they went down the stairs.

After about a million jumps Tori was getting tired and sitting on the stairs and kicking and playing, and then sometimes she'd get bored and go jump for a bit and then go back to the stairs and I was heading back to meet her at the stairs when I saw it: poop in the pool.

Not a big ol' poop, just little frayed bits of poop. Now, I'd been diligently checking her swim diaper because about four or five days ago after swimming we'd headed into the showers and I'd been surprised to find a gift there in her diaper, so I'd probably checked it about a dozen times while we were swimming yesterday. Once I saw the floaties, I checked it again. It was spotless--clean as a whistle.

A few minutes before I spotted the floaties a dad had come in with a year-old boy, and he was the only other kid in the pool in a diaper. It may have been him. It might have been an older kid. But it wasn't Tori.

But the other moms? They all thought it was.

Everyone had to get out, and we all went to the showers. There had been a large birthday group in the pool, and they were all in the showers too, glaring daggers at me. I took Tori's diaper off, and I put it outside our little shower cubicle so they COULD ALL SEE IT WAS CLEAN. Some saw it, and their gazes softened. But not all of them. Not at all. The mother of the birthday boy, especially, was viscous--if gazes could cut, I'd have been sliced to ribbons.

What bothered me wasn't so much the glares. I mean, there was only five minutes left of swim time anyway, no one really lost anything, and every kid was so dipped in chlorine it wasn't like anyone was going to get sick, and it was probably about a teaspoon of poop-substance at most anyway. Oh, AND IT WASN'T TORI.

What bothered me is HOW MUCH IT BOTHERED ME. I was SO EMBARRASSED. I wanted so much for those other moms to KNOW it wasn't me, it wasn't MY KID. Jesus, I'd never seen any of them there before, chances are I won't again, so why do I care? Of course, it's entirely possible that the mom of the birthday boy was more worried about the party than she was worried about me. But still.

Sheesh. And I thought I'd grown up.

Video!

As my thanks for being kind enough to answer that very awkward survey (much less awkward if you are a blogger, I must say), here are two miscellaneous clips of Tori. One features Tori singing with Charlie, and one is of Tori attempting to use chopsticks. Perhaps I'm cruel to include that one, since it ends so badly, but it's just so damned funny to me because, frankly, I wish I was still allowed to respond that way when things didn't work out for me either. Heh.

Survey!

Hey guys! If you don't mind, can y'all go take this survey? It will help me a bunch. Thanks!