Three days until my birthday, and I can’t seem to stop thinking I’m a year older than I really am. I don’t know why my brain wants me to skip past 36. With my history of bad birthdays, I hope it’s not an omen. Unfortunately, during the third week of October, The Master of the Shitty Birthday (me) considers everything an omen.

Don’t make me go through my history of shitty birthdays. If you don’t know my wretched birthday history, let’s surmise by saying I have had more than the average number of birthdays that were coupled with death, illness, car accidents, disagreements, and mental breakdowns. The past few years have all been pretty good, so I’m expecting dropping gauntlets, national tragedies, and lots of Klonopin this year.

Probably not the best time to set a writing goal. I had intended to be finished with the first 50 pages of my novel to deliver to my pal Maggie on Wednesday in exchange for the first 50 pages of her non-fiction project. I’m around 12 pages shy of my goal, but dammit, I plan to finish it tonight. That’s right. Tonight. I’m at one of my coffeehouse, parked on their beautiful , wired patio and the most comfortable patio furniture in the world. I’m armed with a latte and there’s a large supply of gooey butter cake nearby.

After several weeks of perpetual exhaustion, I finally broke down and tested my blood sugar today. Sure enough, I’ve allowed myself to slip into hypoglycemia once again. But that’s good news! Hyperglycemia is fixed with shit like hospital stays, multiple injections a day, and eventual amputations and death. Hypoglycemia is fixed with gooey butter cake! It’s not properly fixed with gooey butter cake, but do you see gooey butter cake anywhere on the list for things that reverse diabetes? I don’t think so.

(For the record, I fixed today’s post-lunch blood level of a paltry 114 with a glass of organic apple cider. See? I’m not a slave to the cake. Yet. But I am a slave to this patio. If they fire up the fire tables, I’m pretty sure I’ll never leave.)

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A few weeks ago I blogged about religion after reading The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible. Well, guess what. It’s time for more! This morning I spent 15 minutes standing on my front porch in my pajamas and no bra, engaged in a rather passionate discussion with a sweet old Jehovah’s Witness lady.

They’ve come to my door before, a few weeks ago, and I blew them off. For some reason today, I couldn’t do it. I think I wanted to talk to them.

This isn’t like the time a few Decembers ago when my dad let some JWs into their house. I got a phone call from my mother; she’d locked herself in the bedroom and was hissing obscenities at me over the phone to me while I tried to convince her that the JW and my dad were probably removing her Christmas decorations while she hid.  I was much nicer this time. Not nice enough to invite them into my house or allow a conversion, but I listened. I read Scripture. I gave my point of view, which is essentially that the passages we read (I wish I’d made note of them … one was the passage about Jesus healing the leper and the meek inheriting the earth) are great stories, but that I don’t take them literally.

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I’m sure I’ve said this before: I’m not a religious person, primarily because I’m not a group-joining person. I don’t do well in groups, because I don’t do well with someone else’s structure. I don’t like rules, and I really don’t like it when one or two people decide they’re the leaders and start messing with what should otherwise be simply a gathering of people who share some interest or belief. Nor do I like being foisted into a position of leadership because I generally happen to be the loudest person in the group. Which is the most important feature in a leader, right?

Does not play well with others! Avoid! Do not invite!

Despite my dislike of organization, I do consider myself spiritual. I’m your classic liberal cafeteria spiritualist – I think there’s a lot of truth in all belief systems, since they all generally boil down to the same thing: be nice or else.

Recently, I’ve had several instances that have left me taking a deeper look at what I believe. For one thing, this election. For another, I finished reading The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible A brief synopsis: extremely secular and neurotic Jew spends a year attempting to follow the bible literally. Hilarity, insight, and my recommendation to read this book NOW ensue.

In my blogging laziness, I’d considered making a post that was simply a list of things I know I believe. Knowing that I wouldn’t get to the fifth item on the list without writing, “I believe I’ll have another beer” stopped me. But this weekend I had an experience that really has me examining my beliefs and ways to put them into action.

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• Since I missed a few days and no one seems to be reading anyway, NaBloPoMo is officially over. I’m done. I quit. Phooey.
• Today’s the token chilly day in July, which is usually one of my favorite days. I’m in far too foul of a mood to enjoy it. Probably doesn’t help that I’m sitting at the wobbly table by the air conditioner at the coffeehouse, and therefore freezing my ass off. Literally. My right cheek is positioned directly over the vent and I feel nothing. Perhaps I need an Americano and some turkey veggie soup.
• By happenstance I spent most of yesterday with OtherRobin, which was most excellent. It wouldn’t have happened had I not been running around my yard in inappropriate shorts and no bra with unbrushed teeth right after rolling out of bed. When I put my dogs in the yard for their morning constitutional, I decided to view their latest masterpiece – the giant hole they dug under the fence to escape into the neighbors’ yard, where they will most certainly be killed by his pack of misfit, cross-eyed cats. What I don’t get is how stupid little Murphy is terrified of walking through a door that’s not completely open, and yet she has no qualms when it comes to cramming her lard under the three inches of available space between the fence and the hole. Anyway, I saw Robin and her kiddo walking past our house when I was going back to the house. My usual policy when I see other human beings when I’m in the yard in inappropriate shorts and no bra with unbrushed teeth is to hide behind the nearest large object. Like trees. But I forwent that rule yesterday and I’m glad I did. Clara Jane and Gryffin were so thrilled to see each other, and Robin and I wound up talking for an hour or so. They invited us to come over in the afternoon, which lead to our husbands (they’re hetero life partners, after all) joining us for pizza, beer, and some Wii-ing. And glory be, I even got Robin to join me for knit night! It was all pretty awesome. There’s been some social awkwardness over the past few months, and some much-needed shifts and changes. We’re shifting and changing and I’m feeling better about a lot of things than I have in quite awhile.
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As I went walking I saw a sign there
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me. -Woody Guthrie

When I learned “This Land is Your Land” in elementary school music class, the last three verses were omitted. I heard them for the first time when I was in eighth grade, thanks to my beloved Mr. Springsteen. I didn’t know their significance until well into adulthood, when I started taking an interest in Woody Guthrie. Since he inspired so many of the musicians I love – particularly Bruce Springsteen and Jeff Tweedy – it seemed like I should understand more about Woody than the few verses I’d learned in Miss Ray’s second grade music class.

My primary education in the meaning of “This Land is Your Land” came from the version on Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Live: 1975-85 (3CD) in which Bruce discussed the song as a rebel song for the people, essentially Guthrie giving the finger to Capitalism run amok. I’ve been engrossed in this article today, which expounds on those ideas. I mean, they’re pretty obvious, when you consider the last verses that are so often ignored.

These ideas have been at the forefront of my thoughts about this country for the past year for a lot of reasons. It’s no secret that I’m a liberal with a rebellious streak when it comes to government, and I’ve always believed America to be a country founded by rebels who created a system that encourages citizens to rebel when the government oversteps its bounds.

I’m a fan of the signs that say nothing.

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I’m off to a great start, what with a crappy cliche of a pun for the title of my first daily post. These 31 days are going to float by like marshmallows in cocoa, I tell ya!

I do love that the NaBloPoMo topic this month is food, considering I “write” for several food blogs that I’ve sorely neglected for weeks. Actually, “sorely” isn’t appropriate. It hasn’t hurt at all.

Worst-case scenario: if I have a day without a worthwhile blog topic, I’ll simply list what I’ve eaten. Ha! Beating the system!

Uhhhhh … I’m at St. Louis Bread Co. in lovely downtown Prettytown, where I have just consumed an everything bagel with plain cream cheese, a fruit cup and my first cup of coffee in-store. Since I’m a mucus monster, I’m opting for coffee with Splenda (so as to not feed my germs) and skim. I feel empty inside.

And as an aside to my East Coast pal Maggie, St. Louis Bread Co. isn’t Panera. Panera is St. Louis Bread Co. It’s complicated, but trust me on this. I think they changed the name to Panera for the stores outside the St. Louis area because potential customers saw the words “St. Louis” and assumed they’d be injured in a shooting incident if they hung around.

I shouldn’t eat my leftover cream cheese with a knife. Really. Knives are for fighting at STL Bread Co. I might have to take down the septuagenarian biker who’s here every day. A plastic knife with a thin layer of soft cheese should do it.

And I’ve drifted into stream-of-conscious already. That didn’t take long.

If you’re having problems with the new layout, it’s most likely because you’re using Internet Explorer, which hates the world. Brian said he can alter the layout so it works in Explorer. I think that, if you’re using Explorer, you should just change browsers. A copy of Mosaic from 1995 would probably work better than Explorer.

Stream-of-conscious? Check. Prettytown reference? Check. Food reference? Check. Alienating part of my readership? Check. Looks like I’m successful completed Day One.

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I’ve been using that word a lot lately. Done. There seems to be a moment in every day in which I reach my limit and the only thing I can do is announced, “I’m done.”

I’m done when I’ve made repeated trips to the bathroom with Clara Jane in which she gets there, disrobes and announces, “Nah, I don’t want to pee,” only to have her pee all over the place minutes later as soon as she’s out of the bathroom.

I’m done when my lunch on most days consists of whatever Clara Jane leaves on her plate, only to listen to my husband bitch that his department keeps giving him free lunches from *gasp* the same five restaurants all the damn time. Just shut it. People are giving you decent food and you should be fucking thankful for it. While I’m scrounging scraps, there are people who don’t even have that.

I’m done when I find myself doing favors all the time and feeling like I don’t have any backup of my own.

I’m done when my idiot dogs, who I thought were finally trained to go from the gate to the door, decide to chase another dog into Main Street at 10:00 at night, when Brian’s not home, Clara Jane’s asleep in the house, and I have to chase them down in my bare feet and tell the leashless dogwalker who’s about to whack my dogs with a full soda can to back the fuck off.

I’m done when I thought I might get a night out with that guy who bitches about the overabundance of free food, only to not have it happen. It’s been less than six months since we’ve had a night out so obviously it’s far too soon for another one.

I’m done when people repeatedly spout the most stupidly obvious tidbits of advice. Honestly.

I’m really, really, really done when two of the people I love most both had devastating losses to their families in less than 24 hours this week while I see so much other petty, stupid shit going on. For just a time, I think everything needs to be done, just so these two sweet souls can mourn their losses.

I’m done. For tonight, I wish. Probably not, though. I was all set to go to bed early – an hour ago – but apparently I’m also done with the ability to sleep. Which is fine, considering the horrible nightmares that have peppered the past few nights.  I’d rather be done with sleep for yet another night than deal with more of that shit. It’s just not worth it right now.

I had two moments yesterday that have verified my love of Prettytown:

1. The downtown fountain’s finally on!
2. While visiting the bathroom at the downtown local cafe, the little old lady exiting with me told me to have a nice day. That’s saying something, when two strangers can share a tiny, two-stall bathroom and wish each other well at the end of the experience. I’ve never had that occur anywhere else.

Something I didn’t particularly enjoy yesterday: being left in charge of a preschool class against my will. Clara Jane’s Tuesday teacher is eight months pregnant, and I totally understand that she’s going to be taking days off. No problem there. I don’t mind substitute teachers, and I appreciate the fact that it can take a certain degree of coordinating to get the teacher where she needs to be. I’m ultimately a patient person, believe it or not.

What I don’t appreciate is being the first people in the classroom, settling in to read a book to my always-distraught child, and having the other parents dump their kids in the room and leave. I am not paid to be here! And if I wanted to take care of six kids, I would have created six kids by now. For nearly 10 minutes, I read books to the kids (which started out as reading a book to my kid) while parents shoved their kids into the classroom and bailed without uttering one word to me.

It’s not that they thought I was the teacher. Every single one of the parents involved sees me dropping off and picking up my kid at least once a week. I know this is a small, relatively safe town, but I can’t imagine just leaving my kid in a classroom that doesn’t contain the person I am 100% sure is going to be her teacher for the day.

I’ll be having a word with the director at pick-up this afternoon, since I couldn’t catch her yesterday. And from now on I’m coming equipped with a lesson plan. It’s going to consist of teaching the kids to sing “Another Brick in the Wall” while reenacting the video. Or teaching them to say, “Goddamn, Mom! What the fuck’s your problem, going off and leaving me with a motherfucking stranger like that? Are you intellectually ill-equipped or just an asshole?”

Now that I have that out of my system, you probably want to hear about Alton Brown, and why he yelled at me on Sunday, don’t you?

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It’s been a quiet weekend. Well, not so much quiet as anti-social. I haven’t been out of my house, except to let the dogs in and out, since about 4 PM Friday. In that time, no one has been in my house except the three of us who officially live here. Unheard of! That’s probably why I’m wide awake at 2 AM, feeling a bit discombobulated.

I cut my finger on Saturday. Not while embarking on the cooking you can read about on that other blog. Nope. I cut it on the edge of a mirror while transporting homemade pho to my deep freeze. That’s about as exciting as things got.

We had a family event today, making homemade dog biscuits for the dear folks who’ve bought them to help the Greater Akron Humane Society.  By “family event”, I mean I turned on the mixer and delegated the other biscuit-making tasks to Brian and Clara Jane.

Speaking of Kristina, today was her birthday, so it seemed like a good idea to spend the day baking dog biscuits and knitting kitty toys for her fundraiser.  Clara Jane thought it would be a good time to favor us with a performance of one of Kristina’s favorite songs. I present to you, Clara Jane’s rendition of Wilco’s “Heavy Metal Drummer”.  I’m sure things will get more exciting on Tuesday, when she recreates this performance at her church-sponsored daycare. Enjoy!

I hate self-help books. Oh God, I hate hate hate hate them. Even moreso, I hate child psychology books, since I’m under the completely unfounded impression that such books prey on parental insecurities and turn many issues into “problems” that are merely “eccentricities.”

That having been said, last week I finally reached a breaking point. With Clara Jane sitting in the middle of the main aisle in the bookstore, refusing to budge until she finished the book she was reading, I darted into the parenting section and grabbed “Raising Your Spirited Child”. It seemed a bit more positive than the book beside it on the shelf: “Taming the Spirited Child”. They didn’t have any copies of “Breaking Your Spirited Child Like an Ill-Bred Quarter Horse.”

Before I had Clara Jane, I recall a friend of mine reading “Raising the Spirited Child”. I thought it was so cool, this idea of having a spirited child. That’s what I want! We’ve got spirit, yes we do! Spirit sounds like fun. Lively. Smart.

Turns out, “spirited” is just a euphemism for intense, loud, disagreeable, head-strong, stubborn, tantrumy, flicking little banshee-child.

See? I’ve already failed the first lesson in the book: change those negative adjectives into positives! Hm. Let’s try that.

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