What are You Smothered In?

My youngest is enamored of liquid soap lately. When she is sent to wash her hands, we often have to go rescue the sink ten minutes later. I know its a phase, and they've all gone through it, leaving me slightly poorer in the household goods department. I'd rather have them with clean hands than filthy.

But I got an insight last week into what spurred this interest for her. I had, once again, sent her to wash sticky hands, and subsequently forgotten about it. When, several minutes later, my brain became aware of the fact that the bathroom water was still running, I dashed into said room prepared to give her the stock 'water wasting' lecture (that's lecture #103 in my Mommy repertoire)

She was standing on the stool, smothered in liquid soap, the water running uselessly. Her chubby little hands were working, rubbing the soap vigorously all over her skin, with the stuff glistening from fingertip to elbow. I somehow overcame my initial reaction (screaming) and sardonically asked her if she was done.

"Yup!" She nodded, sticking two fingertips under the water to rinse, "Now my hands will be clean for allllllll day!"

She hopped down from the stool, having only removed 0.03% of the soap, and headed for the towel.

"Oh, no you don't!" I caught her and set her wriggling three-year old frame back onto the stool.

"Mommy!!" She protested, "The soap makes me clean!"

"Only if you rinse it off," I countered, turning on the water and grabbing a washcloth, "if you leave the soap on, it's sticky and makes more dirt cling to your hands..."

She was already on to her next activity in her mind, and after three children, I should know better than to try to reason with a toddler, but that little conversation stuck in my mind. My kid thought that soap makes her clean.
Well, it does, but it makes you clean by loosening dirt and grease particles from the surface of your skin, and binding with them, and then the bound dirt washes away under the water. If you soaped up and never rinsed, well, you'd have as many sticky doorknobs and fridge handles in your house as I do!

How many of us smother ourselves in something cleaning or bettering, but never utilize the true benefits of it?

I have seen people immerse themselves in Biblical (or other) teaching, but never put any of the learning to use. This is just as useless as un-rinsed soap!

I myself am guilty of this- as an incredibly insecure person, I have turned to sharp criticism to cloak my perceived shortcomings. This affects every relationship that I am in.

I have watched my own father listen to and read the Bible day after day, year after year, only to go and gruesomely fail his own marriage, lie to people, cheat in business, and generally be a semi-criminal. The Bible teachings, meant to grow us personally, have only coated him, not penetrated into his soul and washed away the lust, avarice, and dishonesty.

I have watched people that are somewhat prone to hedonism turn to severe teetotaling, rather than learn to moderate their lifestyle. In the presence of freedom, their minds cannot handle their own bend to possible badness, and they feel the need to smother themselves in rules and legalism. The exact thing that Christ came to free us from, and they've ducked right back into it!

I have watched people smother themselves in substance to dull the pain of existence, smother themselves in self-indulgence to reward some inner childish inclination, or smother others in criticism, mockery, flattery, whatever fulfills some perceived need.

What we need to do with the good things in our lives- the teachings and lessons and Bible readings and self-discipline- we need to allow the root of it penetrate our thick skins and get down to do what it really needs to do: change us from within. A coating of something good will eventually wear off, but in the meantime bad things can stick to it:

If you smother yourself in Bible teaching without learning, you will find yourself confused.
If you smother yourself in rules without true basis or reward, you will find yourself self-righteous.
If you smother yourself in substance to dull the pain without getting to the root of the pain, you will find yourself ill.
If you smother yourself and others around in criticism and reprimand without love and peace and kindness, you will find yourself alienated and alone.

When Kid #3 smothers her hands in soap and doesn't rinse them off, they get dirty faster, regardless of what she thinks. She will learn, in time, to rinse thoroughly.

Hopefully, she will learn faster than her mommy and her grandpa did how to really separate the dirt from the good.

Where's YOUR Lifeline?

I hate my inhaler. Not only is it ugly, it is a reminder of an internal flaw, an inherent (and inherited) weakness in my body. The albuterol burns my tongue and leaves a foul taste in my mouth for twelve hours afterwards. The chemical makes my heart race, my temples throb, and my hands shake. I use it only when I feel that I am at death's door.

Or- as often as not- I leave it at home, and foolishly go out visiting people that I have never met, only to find out they have a dog- an old, arthritic, dander-producing dog. Dogs are anathema to me. Cats are worse.

That's what happened tonight. We were invited to the home of friends-of-friends, you know how that is. We arrived to find a group of incredibly kind people, many with children in the same age range as ours. Although I noticed the dog, heck, I even pet him, it just didn't click in my brain that he was going to make me suffer.

We grilled and feasted on steak (an asthma trigger), cheesy potatoes (dairy also worsens asthma), and finished off with cream pies (dairy again!). The only thing that I could have done more stupid this evening would have been to top it all off with some corn product.

Oh wait, those tortilla chips...

So, to make a short story long, I ate naughty food and hung out in a house with dander freshly flying around. The house was scrupulously clean, and I am just going to assume that it had just been vacuumed, which would account for the high circulation of dander in the air.

It started with itchy hands, then a tickly nose. Hoping to circumvent it all, I simply ignored the symptoms. I have always heard that most allergies are psychosomatic anyhow, so why not overcome my own brain?

Turns out my brain still answers to my lungs.

By the end of two hours, my lungs were screaming for air, my hands were twitching, my eyes watering... the whole shebang. Our host kindly dug out a Claritin, but nothing touches the asthma. And there was no inhaler to be found in my usual stash- nothing in the glove compartment, or my purse, or with my gum, or even near the pen/chapstick/kleenex stash in my car console. I have makeup- useful for being pretty. I have random hair clips- useful for being, uh- pretty. I have my wallet, complete with all proper ID, a checkbook that wouldn't get me very far, various reciepts and medical brochures, a iPod Shuffle that has had 'The Phantom of the Opera' on it since last summer, a roll of Lions mints, a pen that doesn't work, and a green bracelet.
All things that are useful, in their own right. All things that belong in purses and car consoles and glove compartments. But no lifeline. None of that stuff will be any good to me if my bronchial tubes close up and I can no longer get oxygen to my heart.

Where is your lifeline? Whether its a job that you are passionate about, a person in your life that has made it all worth living for, or just a simple piece of plastic that can spray a fine steriodal mist- all of us have a lifeline. And many of us go through our daily lives without having it near us.

I'm throwing you a lifeline today- grab it! Catch hold, remember to take it with you always, and save some coconut cream pie for me.

Pre-Computer: Art Existed

We moved to Michigan in August, and we have a dozen boxes yet to unpack. Every now and then I make a half-hearted attempt to unpack some, but wind up getting distracted with whatever inane stuff is inside.

Recently, Kid #1 and I were sifting through a box of papers. Not just any papers, these were drawings, sketches, and paintings of mine from time past, some over fourteen years old! Yellowed, crumbling at the edges where acidic tape has eaten into the sides, these trivial works of art represent my growth as a person and an artist.
I've never given them much thought, in fact I have discarded dozens of my works throughout the years. Michael, however, will not allow me to pitch any more art. He feels it is worth much more than the trash bin. So it sits, aging, in an underbed storage bin. So when Kid #1 was leafing through the sheets, I busied myself with organizing screwdrivers.

"Mom!!" Kid yelled, "Who did this drawing? These butterflies?"
"Uh, me. Who else?"
She made a disbelieving tongue-clicking sound and waved the ancient paper in front of me,
"It's so beautiful!" She gushes, "This one butterfly looks like it has all fall colors."
I glance at the drawing in question. Sure enough, it is titled 'Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall'. Four butterflies in various stages of flight, each done in colors of the season- Spring is pastel and light, Winter has gray edges and brown and white accents. I can remember vividly the day that I sketched this, lovingly sharpening my Prismacolor pencils in order to fill in the details better.

That was so long ago that the memories feel like they aren't even mine. I haven't even touched a colored pencil in years, let alone brought beauty like this out of one. What killed that inside of me? What took the art out of my hands, my mind, my soul, and filled the void with angst and frustration?
I used to withdraw into my world of music and art to escape the sorrows of life with my father. I'd lock myself in my room, line up my pencils in a perfect color gradient, turn on the little nail polish-encrusted clock radio by my bed, and draw for hours. I would sketch circles, laying them out in perfect symmetry, disciplining my mind to divide each tiny section of the circle into shards of shape, color, and form. Then I'd fill in each little triangle, each tiny sliver of design, all around the circle. I destroyed most of these after staring at them for a few months, but some of them survived.
I sketched aliens faces, peering out from underbrush with glowing eyes. Butterflies, my sister's feet, desert wrens in our front yard, and more intricate circles took shape under my hand. The art wasn't stellar, but it was good.

So why did I stop? Life came and got it in the way, for one thing. My art took a new direction with my design career, and I learned to put structure to the shapes that I saw in my head. I lost the ability, slowly, to sketch, replacing it with the ability to sculpt. I lost the whirling circle patterns and replaced them with intricate Celtic knot wedding bands- things that our family could sell instead of just things that I could hang on the wall.
I lost the brilliant dance of color in my head, gave away the treasured (and expensive!) Prismacolor set to my little sister, and focused on churning out jewelry for our cases.

Then marriage came along, and with it an introduction to the wonderful world of computers. Kids followed soon after- way too soon after- and my art was lost completely in a world of spit-up and diapers and never-ending bills. I indulged occasionally in something artsy-craftsy: wreaths for my living room wall, flower arrangements to make the house look pretty, window treatments... but the art was always saved for the sculpting table. And even then- more often than not it was within constraints- is it saleable, is it functional, is it doable?
I learned to do a little bit of Photoshop work, and remembered my days of filling in color by hand.
Why, who had to struggle with compass, ruler, protractor, and pencil now? Not when you have mask, shape, copy, paste, transform, flip horizontal!
Why bother carefully outlining a shape with Vert Printemps (the French translations always sounded much more 'arty'), then carefully coloring it in, then going over it once more until the color hazed over, ready for a rubdown with the bottom of my tee-shirt? Not when you have paintbucket!

I buy colored pencils for my kids, but I never just sit still with them and color! There are always so many other things to do- dishes, laundry, bills, this bloody blog, the other bloody blog, yardwork, cooking, Civilization III, and more dishes.

Life has stolen my soul.

Art was my soul's song.

I had that butterfly drawing framed. It hangs in Kid #1's room now, perfect because she is dainty and fragile like a butterfly, and there is a butterfly meaning tied up in her middle name. The framers had to work around the missing patches and masking tape stains, because I never regarded my art enough to preserve it. The huge missing chunk out of the corner serves to remind me of the piece of my spirit that left when I gave away my colors.

I'm going to buy myself another set of colors, as soon as I have the money and I can get to a town that has supplies.

Then, I'm going to pull out the protractor, compass, ruler, pencils, eraser, and paper.
I'm going to draw a huge circle, and it is going to give me my breath back.
I'm going to measure out the center and mark off graduated spaces: one inch, three-quarters of an inch, five eighths... and as I mark these off the years will fall off my shoulders and I'll sit up straight.
I'll begin laying out lines- at hard angles and soft- and my jaw will unclench and maybe the eternal headache will go away.
I'll trace the important lines in marker and erase the dividing lines, and my gray hairs will not show quite so much.
I'll color in the shapes- yellow, spring green, peridot green, leaf green, green, teal, turquoise, blue, violet. I'll use so many gradient colors in between that the rainbow will start to roll off my desk, and I'll stoop to pick them up and maybe find that old nail polish-encrusted clock radio. If I'm lucky enough, it will still be tuned to the oldies station and I'll switch it on and listen to Chantilly Lace and wish that I could have lived in that era. I'll color hard in between the lines, remembering always Mrs. Vandreese telling us to use 'singing colors'... color so hard that the wax in the pencil makes a haze over the top of the green pencil.
Then I'll stoop down and rub, ever so gently, the haze with the bottom of my tee-shirt. The wax will squeak a tiny bit, leave a thin trace on my shirt that will never wash off, but will reveal a vivid, thick layer of color. Color that was put there with a human hand, color that you can dig at with your fingernail.

And when I'm done, I'm going to hang it up on the wall. With proper hardware, soul intact. And then...

I'm going to draw another one.

To Everything There is a Season... Under Heaven

It's nighttime and I'm walking around the house, making sure all of the windows are open enough to let the cool air in. Today the interior of our house hit nearly 80˚, and we were reduced to the least amount of clothing we could get away with.

Not three weeks ago, our furnace was running full blast and Michael was scraping snow off the car. Now, with our winter gas bill not even in the mailbox yet, we're pulling out the fans and shorts and ice water.

Welcome to Michigan, land of extremes.

I smile and shake my head, but it reminds me of life in general. We often live a life of extremes, don't we? I am reminded of December 2006, when we were so bloody poor that we built a Christmas tree out of trash. We had nothing but time, anyhow.

Fast forward two months, Michael working so many hours that his skin grew sallow from lack of rest and sunshine. But we had money, oh boy, did we have money! We bought new laptops and clothes and perfume and stocked our pantry and gave huge checks to charity. Life was good, we were on top, and it was all going to be this way for a while!

Or, not...

Fast forward another several months and the contracts have dried up, the perfume is gone, the laptops are still useful, if scratched a bit, and the pantry stock has been eaten. We find ourselves digging in the coin jar for a pizza and calling our bank to delay a car payment one more week.

Life brings you extremes- success, love, finances, family, health. Our family is kind of middling it out right now, neither too poor nor too rich, nothing in abundance, but nothing truly lacking, either. It is a slight relief from the roller coaster of the past few years, but I almost miss the heady excitement of the dips and turns. Now I have time, finally, to focus on my children and my home and career... not too much time, mind you, but I am trying to portion it properly.

How do we handle the extremes that life sends our way? Do we scream and moan at the frigid winter, complaining as we pay our gas bill, oblivious to people in other lands shivering without the benefit of a gas heater and insulation?
When the harsh summer sun bakes the interior of our car, do we curse it or thank our Benefactor for the gift of having a vehicle? How about the gift of sunshine! After months of wretched cloudy skies, the fit of sun is welcome, but so quickly forgotten as we rush to acquire air conditioners and window fans.

When we have lived our life to the fullest, enjoying health and vitality, do we stop to think of what it might be like to be ill? Seldom. But when illness strikes, it can be crippling just from the sheer depression of it all.

Boredom used to be Enemy #1 when I was a child, even in recent years. Now, with the website & store, this blog, three growing kids, our expanding commitment to live more 'green', church, my writing, and every other tiny thing that has to be done every day under the sun... I begin to miss boredom, miss a day with absolutely nothing to do but poke sticks at things in the yard.

I have had days where my floor is covered in toys, crayons, tiny clothes, spit-up, dirty socks, and wet towels. I begin to wonder why I ever brought any child into this world, let alone three! But then I see friends who are not even able to conceive a child and I am filled with remorse for my thoughts, and my frustration with the mess is replaced by a warmth of love for the grubby pestilences. One extreme to another...

I have days when the march of money leaving my wallet- just for the kids- is endless. Birthday parties, decent schooling, books, clothes, shoes, more shoes, coats, boots, medical care, dental care, savings (who am I kidding?), a vehicle big enough to haul it all... I begin to wonder how sweet it might be when they are grown and on their own- no more noise in the house, no more early mornings, no more scrambled egg in my carpet and juice on my books... then I tuck in three fighting noisemakers and find this in my sink, perfect in its innocent simplicity, and all is well again. This is just my season of busy-ness, and surprise roses planted in my bathroom sink.

Just because.

Motherhood is one of the longer extremes that I need to weather, and one I certainly was not cut out for, but I think I can handle it for a few more years.

Let me know about your extremes, and how you've dealt with them...

Ecclesiastes 3:1: There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.
Ecc 3:2	A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
Ecc 3:3	A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to rebuild.
Ecc 3:4	A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
Ecc 3:5	A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
Ecc 3:6	A time to search and a time to lose. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
Ecc 3:7	A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak up.
Ecc 3:8	A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.
Ecc 3:9	What do people really get for all their hard work?
Ecc 3:10	I have thought about this in connection with the various kinds of work God has given people to do.
Ecc 3:11	God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.
Ecc 3:12	So I concluded that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to enjoy themselves as long as they can.

This IS the Best Life Now

I've heard some obnoxious radio ad for a book or program or something called "Your best Life NOW!"
I've never kept the radio on long enough to know what this travesty really is, because the person speaking sounds like a mental case. It's possible they took the gig just to make enough cash to get their next fix.

I don't need someone telling me how to have my best life now.

Sitting in my just-right-for-a-short-person chair, which also happens to be my favorite color, I can hear Michael's voice from the next room as he reads The Chronicles of Narnia to the kids for bedtime. His voice is reassuring, gentle, pleasant. I always wanted to marry a man with a pleasant voice, it was on my 'list'. His is the voice of one who will always be there for me.

In my stomach is an excellent meal, in my lap sits a finely-tuned piece of equipment on which to type drivel, and by my side is a candle flickering softly. Kids come to exchange goodnight kisses, giggles are shared beneath mismatched sheets and blankets. The furnace kicks on, warming us against the lingering Michigan winter. When the house is asleep, I'll wander downstairs and nibble on my kids' Easter bunnies.

Life is good.

Not perfect, but very, very good. Sure, my house is a mess and I'm late on my car payment and I could stand to lose some weight and I struggle with acne at the ridiculous age of thirty, but those all pale in comparison to the facts: I have a good life.
I am safe, for now.
I am provided for.
I have a good job and a pleasant work environment.
I have a car- missing a side mirror and a bit too small for my family of five- but it runs consistently and has AC and a radio. And a sunroof.
I have a home. The rent is a bit high, the toilet still doesn't want to flush, I have to endure a ceiling fan in the kitchen if I want light, and its a long haul to the backyard during barbeque season, but there's a roof over my head. With a skylight!
I live in a country that may have its issues, but allows me to freely worship where and when I please, go into business for myself, and cross state lines and buy oranges whenever I want and even read whatever book I choose. For now.
I have a family that tolerates my mistakes and weaknesses, loves me despite them all, and encourages me always to be a better person.
I have a mother-in-law that is just as close as another sister. And she hems my pants.
I have an Italian immigrant grandmother (nonna) with stories of the war and clear plastic on her couch and garlic in her fridge. She is failing rapidly, but still made sure I got a flower for Easter this year. When I look in the mirror I see her face and sturdy frame and I am not sure if I am honored or terrified to be so much like her.
I have three (count 'em, three!) daughters who love to be princesses just as much as they love to be Obi-Wan Kenobe. They are intelligent and articulate and beautiful, and even if they weren't I would love them with all of my heart.
I have a spouse, a partner, a lover in my husband of ten years. He spars with me, for which I respect him, and he protects me, for which I revere him. He never lets me accept second best from myself, and he takes the trash out faithfully. Sometimes... on a full moon, he even washes the dishes. I'm not sharing him, get your own.

So for all of the self-fulfillment books and tapes and pills and herbal concoctions out there: stop trying to sell me blather that I don't need!
And for all of you grasping for happiness- through money, love, or power- you won't find it if you don't have it! Take an evening to look around you, drink in the wonderful things you have been surrounded with, and learn to be fulfilled with your life. Build a piece of your own contentment. Be brave enough to experience and even drown in love. Eat a good steak. Read a good book (ahem, I can recommend one, if you need).

This is the best life you could have, today. Let tomorrow worry about itself. Let yesterday be yesterday.

And a Child Shall Lead Them...

I bring my three-year old to work with me most days. This is, of course, slightly stressful for both myself and her, but somehow it works.
She has two little play stations in the jewelry store, with bins of LEGO blocks, books, toys, and crayons. I spend my lunch breaks reading books to her, and the other employees hang out with her as they can. Michael works with me, so the burden of childcare is seldom on my shoulders alone.
One or two days a week, Michael works from home, and Kid #3 stays with him, with the full run of the house until her sisters come tromping in from school. Soon I will be working from home one day a week as well, so Kid #3 will spend a maximum of 3-4 days in the store.
She's only three, so I don't really know if she is old enough to resent me for this. She seems happy enough, if a bit cooped up sometimes. She is a typical child for her age: energetic and imaginative, pushing her disciplinary boundaries and asserting her independence. She loves me to death, and I am giving her the best childhood that I can at this point in time.

So it came as a crushing blow to me the other day when someone said to me,
"I feel sorry for her."
This came from someone who has it pretty much together in the 'mom' department, and I look up to her. I spent the next couple of hours obsessing about my parenting choices, dealing with the inevitable guilt that comes when one feels like an incompetent mother.

But am I really an incompetent mother? Who writes the rules here? My children are loved, well-fed, clothed (more or less), and are getting a good education. They have periods of boredom: after school some days, odd times when they are stuck in the car or at work. But it isn't terminal. Boredom stretches the imagination and teaches patience and creativity. They invent games, dream up entire fantasy lands in their heads, and learn to occupy themselves.

Throughout history, children have played in fields while their parents plowed and gleaned, they have sat quietly through four-hour Puritan church sermons, and they have huddled in the dank underbellies of ships for months traveling to a refuge on foreign shores. Did this damage them beyond repair? No. In fact, some of our brightest contributors to the progress of the world have come from situations such as these.
Are we to bow to the slightest whim and imagined need of our offspring in order that they might grow up sheltered and pampered? Does the idyllic childhood produce perfectly adjusted adults?
I think not.

I think that children are a product of not only their environment, but of the attitude around them as well.
For example, we have moved an awful lot, as I've mentioned in previous postings. I hate doing this to our children, as well as myself, but it has always been to a better life, a brighter future for us all. On the times when my guilt really shows, the kids whine and get antsy. But on the times when Michael and I are excited, hopeful, positive- that attitude rubs off on the kids and they, in turn, are excited and positive. They have had more adventure than most kids their age, and it has grown their boundaries and broadened their horizons.

Kid #3 may not be in a structured pre-school with fingerpaints and primary colors all around her, but she learns the names of gemstones and helps me pull models out of silicon molds every Monday. She may not be with her peers, or safely tucked away in my living room, but she gets to talk to all sorts of people during the day. So, how is this going to harm her in the future? Now? As long as she gets an opportunity to run around now and then, as long as she is surrounded by love and intelligence and the ability to learn and think and grow- I think she will do just fine.

If our generation of parents continues to be enslaved to someone else's idea of how we are to raise our children, if we continue this trend of child-worship beyond practicality, we are headed for trouble.

The child who has had everything sacrificed for them their entire life will not know the value of his own sacrifice.

The child who has lived in a perfectly constructed and controlled environment will know only that which has surrounded her and will grow up stunted.

The child who rules the household will always rule. We are given our children to raise for eighteen years, and then they are on their own. Not that we cannot ever be a parent to them again, but they have to find their own way from there. Our culture is even now reaping the horrific consequences of a generation raised too self-centric: parents my own age are abandoning their children at an alarming rate while pursuing their own lives.

Tomorrow I'll get up and feed three kids, pack lunches, and drop the older two off at school. I'll drag Kid #3 into the store with me, try to keep her happy and occupied and fed and clean and out of trouble, carve some jewelry, wait on some customers, and somehow make it through the day.

Then I'll do it all over again on Thursday. And it's all going to be ok.

What Your Choice of Pizza Topping Says About You

It's Friday night, you're burned out from a tough week at work, and dinner is an immediate necessity. Calling up your local pizzeria, you casually place an order for your favorite pie, never dreaming that the guy on the other end of the line is judging you by each item you choose.

How do I know these facts to be true? Have I walked the hallowed halls of Domino's? Have I kneaded the bread of the gods at Little Caesar's? Have I crouched for hours in a Pizza Hut?

I have done none of these things. I just know more than you, which is why I write this blog, and you read it.
So without further ado, I present to you
What Your Choice of Pizza Topping Says About You:

• CHEESE

Come on, just plain cheese? Are you four? Of all of the wonderful things on God's green earth, things that can be diced and sliced and baked into nummy cheese, and you pick- just. the. frickin'. cheese.
Cheese eaters not only would make a cool name for a band, but are more often than not afraid of change, afraid of challenge, and afraid of their own shadow. They tend to like partners as bland as their pizza, but secretly envy people who sky dive and aren't afraid to eat jalapeños. Cheese eaters will never get beyond careers as accountants, pencil counters, weed-pullers, and subway sweepers.

• PEPPERONI

Plain ol' pepperoni. A little spicy, a little greasy, a little run-of-the-mill. Just like you. Pepperoni eaters tend to be on 'default setting', often too preoccupied with inanities to break out of their box and choose a more interesting salvo. One thing that I have noticed in this lifetime is that you pepperoni-only eaters are not without hope! Things can be added, slowly and over time, to make your life more interesting. Next time, break out the big guns and have the pizza dudes throw on some, oh, I don't know- ONIONS!! Bwahahahahaah!

Sorry.

Next up,

• SAUSAGE

Sausage eaters are typically perverted, nasty little twerps. Why else would someone eat something that looks like giant rabbits pooped all over it? Sausage is greasy, feels like eating knuckles, and leaves you with heartburn for approximately two weeks. Therefore I must conclude that people who prefer a sausage-only pizza are stuck in dead-end jobs, wear thick glasses with scotch tape on them, and live in those apartments that us normal people pass up because of the funny smell inside. Not that you have no redeeming values, sausage eaters. Someone out there needs to keep making rainbow animated GIFs for their grandma's website. You know who I'm talking about.

• Supreme/Deluxe

Supreme or Deluxe, depending on where you live, generally features an eclectic smattering of meat, black olives, green pepper, onion, mushrooms, etc. Supreme fans are usually fairly well-rounded people, although cheap, with an eye towards variety and fun. They usually take a yearly vacation to somewhere like Mount Rushmore or Yosemite Park, and would be happy being married to the same person for many years, if only that person would content to stop sticking their dirty socks in the clean laundry bin. You, the Supreme pizza eater in your household, try not to wince as your ungrateful wretch of a ten year old picks his onions off of his overpriced pie. Those onions cost an extra $1.50, dagnabit. You eat your pizza, his onions, and then you swallow another Prilosec and guzzle down another root beer. Bowling night's gonna be tough this week.

• HAM

I'm going to go out on a limb here and hazard the guess that you're not Jewish. Or Muslim. Or, for that matter, Seventh Day Adventist.
You could very well be a Mormon, or you could be a Dago. I use the word Dago in the purest, least offensive form of the word, being one myself. There is something about ham that attracts certain Europeans: Italians, Greeks, Poles, Orinthologists. Ham eaters are generally high-stress, analytical, hypersensitive, and manic depressive. Oh wait, that's my family...
Ham eaters tend to be just a tiny bit more health conscious than pepperoni or sausage eaters, in the way that spiders are a tiny bit less scary than tarantulas. You like to trick yourself into thinking that your life is better than it is, that your skills are more than they actually are, that the only reason you've been passed over this time for that promotion is nepotism (it isn't). Ham eaters are destined to live a life of social unrest, due mainly to the fact that think they are better than others.

• MUSHROOM

Ah, the mushroom people. You are like a breath of fresh air. Intelligent, creative, articulate and passionate, you go through life inspiring and encouraging, redeeming and helping. No one could ever resent a mushroom eater, after all, they are cleansing the world of fungus! Wait- fungus? On pizza? What was I thinking!?!? I would have to say to mushroom eaters, besides all of the praising litany above, is that YOU ARE INSANE WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO EAT FUNGUS ON YOUR FOOD HOW DO YOU KNOW IT ISN'T STILL ALIVE AND WILL GROW MOLD INSIDE OF YOUR STOMACH AND THE WHITE FUZZ WILL OOZE OUT OF YOUR EYES AND THEN-

Mushrooms rock.

• MEAT LOVER'S

Well, for one thing, if you aren't morbidly obese, your cholesterol is through the roof. When I was a kid, one didn't see the disgusting love affair that we currently have with meat. Supreme, with pepperoni and sausage, was pushing the envelope. A pizza with only meat, and four or five kind of it, at that, shows that you are self-indulgent, greasy, and probably not kind to animals. Since you eat them all. On your pizza. With curdled cow's lactation on top. And smashed tomatoes.
You are probably also unwashed, stinky, and play too much WoW or some other MMORPG. Swilling down a 2-liter of Mountain Dew with that Meat Lover's also doesn't count as a square meal, in case you were wondering.

• HAWAIIAN

You sick, sick freak. You put what on your pie? A food that belongs on top of a banana split, that's what. I'll bet you can't even spell Hawaiian. Your kind tend to be weird- wearing clothes that went out of style fifty years ago, driving Gremlins, living in little hovels on the ground, voting Libertarian. You are as stubborn as the day is long, your hair is ratty, and your thighs have unequal mass. Find a new kind of pizza, and let the pineapple alone, for God's sake.

• 'WHITE' PIZZA
  

People who eat white pizza are either girls, or gay. Either way, you're high maintenance. If you find it in your heart to throw a bit of color on there, such as spinach or tomato, then I suppose you are salvageable. White pizza embodies all that is evil in today's fast food culture: white bread, white sauce, white cheese white toppings. It's almost racist. Is your entire house white, as well? How do you like your life now that you've finally stopped speaking to your mother and gotten that chin job you've always wanted? Guess what, white pizza lover? It's a dirty, dirty world out there and eating all-white food won't make it any cleaner.

• WEIRD CRAP, LIKE BUFFALO PIZZA

You, my friend, are just plain ignorant. There are things that go on pizza (e.g: tomatoes in some form of dessication, garlic, mozzarella cheese, onion, mushrooms...) and there are things that do NOT go on pizza. This would include anything with high fructose corn syrup as a main ingredient, anything deep fried, anything that should normally be eaten for breakfast (I'm talking to you, Japan!) and anything still breathing. You want Buffalo Pizza, with your Sweet Baby Ray's sauce and your thinly sliced buffalo wings, and your cheddar cheese- fine. It's good stuff. Just don't try blaming it on Italy. Just name it something appropriate, like Redneck Barbeque Cheese Chicken Bread.

Or not.

• ANCHOVIES

This one was almost too easy. Anyone who wants to eat a shriveled, salted, greasy, anonymous fish that probably was scraped off the bottom of a fisherman's shoe... well, fine. Go ahead and eat them, with their little slimy silver skins and their little salty brains and- and-
Seriously, what the hell? I'm not against seafood on pizza- I've enjoyed a nice crab and vegetable pie before- but how masochistic does one have to be to eat these things? Oh, I know, once you've tried them you'll understand, you have to develop a taste for them, whatever. I could also, I suppose, develop a taste for road salt, since thats about what they taste like. Or tumors, since that's what they feel like. Or- I'm going to stop now. Pizza truck is here.

Mom Days

There’s a cloth doll lying facedown on the laundry room floor, looking vaguely like a crime scene. I wonder briefly if I should draw a chalk line around the poor thing, but then think better of it. The kids wouldn’t get the joke, and Mike only notices things in his immediate range of vision.
The canning funnel isn’t in the laundry room, either. I’ve been searching for it for nearly two weeks now. You see, I haven’t been able to afford a decent canister or Tupperware set, so I save every spaghetti sauce jar, washing them out for reuse. They make excellent storage, but present a slight challenge to fill. The blue wide-mouth funnel would be perfect, but I haven’t seen it since canning season. I’ve been using a rolled up paper plate for dry goods, but that won’t work quite as well for wet, gloopy chili.

“Mommy!” my 3 year-old calls from the dining room, “I have a cut on my fingew fwom the bad, bad icicle thing outside and then I fell and it huwted weally, weally bad and can you kiss it please?” Her words come out in a tumble, her face full of the innocent consternation the young possess.

Tripping over the menagerie of toys, books and clothes, I locate a bandage and duly wrap and kiss the tiny affliction.

Now, what was I doing? Oh, yes, the chili. Its only ten minutes until I have to get to work, there’s no time to keep looking. The chili will have to find its way into the recycled jar and I’ll just rinse off the edge. Running towards the crockpot, I spy a dirty dish I somehow missed last night, holding scant remnants of yesterday’s curry. I run water in it and fling open the dishwasher, hoping there is room for just one more bowl.

Oh yes, the chili. I grab a Barilla jar from my top shelf, cursing once again the kitchen designers who must have been eight feet tall. One of these days, I remind myself, I’ll have a kitchen made for the five foot four that I really am.

The chili has been made with free-range beef, and resents the confines of the glass jar. What smelled so good cooking all night now churns my stomach as it spills over the edge of the jar and onto my hand.

“Mommy!” a tiny bandaged finger is waving at about the three-foot mark “It still huwts!”
“Oh, honey, I must not have kissed it enough. Come here.” Kid #3 advances for the proffered lips, then recoils from the chili on my fingers,
“But, you’we diwty, mommy!”

So I am. Conveniently enough, the kitchen faucet is still running, filling and overflowing yesterday’s overlooked bowl. The moving water has filled and rinsed the curry away, except in the one corner angled away from the water, where lentils still cling stubbornly to the earthenware. Sighing in frustration, I flip the bowl around, rinse my fingers, and remember to turn the water off. Kid #3 gets her finger kissed again, (“It’s all bettew now!”) and then requests something completely unintelligible.

Mike returns from dropping the kids off at school, but there’s a bit of a problem- he still has the kids. Our school called a snow day, again, and forgot to call us. This is why normal people use TVs and radios, I suppose. Now we have two choices: drag all three kids to work with us, or let Mike work at home, again, with the tinkle of children’s voices all around him. I can’t stay home today because I have customers coming in to see me, and my wonderful husband knows that without asking. He looks at the kids, who are gleefully stripping off all vestiges of the indignities of a school day.
“Guess I’m staying here.” He sighs, unwrapping his scarf.

I guess so. I finish stuffing chili through the mouth of the jar and dig through the drawer for a matching Barilla lid. There is not one. I have four empty Barilla jars and not one single lid, whereas I own three Classico lids and not one jar. I slam the drawer shut, setting off a chain of protest from Kid #3, and wrap the jar opening in Press’n’Seal.
The dishwasher is ready to run, the dishwasher gel makes fart noises as it escapes the plastic container. My kids are just old enough to be completely devastated by this and fall over themselves in laughter,
“It farted!”
I grimace, but keep my mouth shut, remembering the days when I would torment my own mother with similar crudity. The dishwasher must be propped open with the spare table leg; otherwise it fills up and stops.
“Stupid rental house,” I mutter to myself, “one of these days, I’m going to own my own house, and then-“

And then what? Would I have had the extra money to replace or repair the dishwasher? Probably not. I un-curse the wretched machine and house, and realize that I have one minute now to get to work, and I’m not even all the way dressed- work slacks but a dirty tee-shirt. I trip over someone’s backpack on my mad dash to the stairs, then keep vigilantly to the right on my way up, because we have that silly habit of putting ‘things to go upstairs’ on the left, and they never quite make it up.
Upstairs, there is a mountain of clean laundry. I have been meaning to get it ALL put away for about five months now, but there is always something better to do- work, cook, play with the kids, run errands, write stories. Every time I get almost to the bottom, another 3 loads seem to get washed simultaneously, and the pile never ends! Somewhere on the bottom is probably that one black knee sock I’ve been missing since autumn.

Frustration with the perpetual mess boils over inside of me, and I storm downstairs, haranguing the kids with promises of money if laundry is folded, threats of death if it isn’t. With choices like these, I’m sure their childhood will turn out just fine, no?

Dressed, packed, car started finally, I kiss everyone goodbye and dash out the door, almost ready to wait on a never ending succession of people who need their watch batteries changed, their rings sized, or their junk jewelry ‘appraised’. Maybe, if we have a lucky day, we’ll sell something!
I glance back at my children, waving at me through the living room window. They are standing in the scattered detritus of a life lived fully. I didn’t want to raise my children in a messy house or a mad-dash life like this. I didn’t want to have this daily struggle over money, the never-ending march of errands and chores and juggling.

But they’re happy kids, and we all chose this lifestyle. In the end, I can either say I’ve had a clean house for fifty years, or I can have a body of literary work, a gallery of jewelry designs, and three children and a husband who are happy and well-fed.

I think I’ll pick the latter. It’s a good life.