Snakes On A Plane Part II

well, the ruda family survived another trip through the airport.  i remember when i was a kid, and had never actually been on an airplane, when i thought air travel was fun and exciting.  ugh.  now, you have to say good-bye to everyone you love before you go through a weird spaceship-timemachine-xrayvision-mobile.  and you have to carefully measure your hand cream and eye drops into 3.4 ounce containers and disrobe before you can even buy a cup of coffee.  and no one will pay to check a bag so there is a fight to get on the plane first to see who can squeeze his 18 cubic foot "carry on" luggage into the overhead compartment and smash everything else he owns under your feet before you get there.  (i acknowledge this is ironic from the woman who just flew with not 1, but 2 lap children.)

of course, traveling with aaron makes things even more interesting.  i have on at least one occasion gone to meet him at a restaurant and told the hostess that "i'm here to meet my husband, have you seen him?  dark guy, hat, sunglasses, big beard, looks like a terrorist?"  he without fail gets chosen for every random search.  it gets even better when he leaves his driver's license in someone else's car during a trip to the drive-thru liquor shack and has to get on a plane using his costco card and grainy YMCA ID.  FYI they'll let you on, but you better be prepared to spread 'em.  at every checkpoint.  add a few kids with all their liquids and a stroller that's too big to fit in the x-ray machine and you understand why they sell booze in the airport.

i've flown a lot, so when we had our layover in houston, i paid little attention to the recorded announcement overhead, which i assumed was to remind me to report abandoned luggage and that i had given up any right to privacy in any manner the minute the automatic doors whooshed open and beckoned me down the escalator.  no, this was a new one -- now the automaton specifically warns you that you can be arrested for making fun of the TSA.

so, aaron asks: what if you are making positive comments about the TSA?  will they still arrest you?  and proceeded to spend the rest of our trip through the airport making loud comments about how the TSA is AWESOME!!  and BEAUTIFUL!!  and EFFICIENT!!  tee hee hee.

karma caught up with us on our return trip.  which began with us being bussed to our layover city because of a massive delay (which if i wasn't so hungry, would've been perfect because P looooves buses and was beside himself to actually ride on one ... for a few minutes before he passed out).  and proceeded with us getting the A-1 special terrorist treatment at charlotte douglas international.  i feel like when my curly blonde two-year-old's bright blue foam crocs with various superhero jibbitz have to go through the x-ray machine multiple times, the system is most certainly broken.  i'm sure the other patrons enjoyed my MANY loud and animated renditions of the itsy bitsy spider (and the hysterical tired giggles of my children) for the full 40 minutes it took to get a female worker to do the feel-up.  i mean pat-down.

i've never had an official pat-down before, and boy is it complicated.  lots of technique and using backs and sides of hands and swoopy motions to avoid sensitive areas and make it seem less molester-ish.  but it's pretty molester-ish -- and it's tough to top the fact that i just squeezed an entire child out of my hoo-ha a couple months ago.  my advice is to decline the invitation to go into the private room, even if you don't have two screaming children to keep an eye on.

throughout all of this, i was very proud of myself for not becoming absolutely furious at aaron, who i assumed brought all of this upon us with a smartass comment about the TSA's efficiency and effectiveness and/or his rakish good-arab looks.  supposedly, our massive double stroller was the culprit -- lucky for my husband.

at any rate, we had a great time in the dirty south visiting my family and enjoying the sights.  P nicknamed my dad "big papa."

and wormed his way into my sister's kitchen.

mohs found a bald buddy in uncle james (who supposedly is "not good with kids" but inspired P to wake up every morning saying "where did james go?" and then letting me know that he'd "be right back").

aaron and i got to pseudo-sleep-in one time.  we all (the boys included) drank too much coffee.

and shared our monkeys with the monkeys at the zoo.

i still hate to fly, but ... sometimes it's worth a little molestation.  <3 p="p">

Hot Tub Time Machine

when i was a kid, i remember my dad telling me about some sci-fi book where a guy goes back in time and steps on a butterfly.  when he goes back to the present, it is completely different; stepping on the butterfly changed everything.  this is somewhat akin to back to the future, where marty mcfly jeopardizes his own future existence by getting in the way of his parents' marriage.  except no one inherently anticipates that the premature demise of one small insect is going to have some profound effect on the world.  to this day, i don't know what book it was, but i learned plenty from dr. ian malcolm in jurassic park, which i have proudly read at least 15 times, about what i now know this is termed "the butterfly effect"  -- a phenomenon whereby a seemingly minor change in circumstance can dramatically change the outcome.

i am reminded of a "choose your own adventure" book.  i was fascinated by those as a kid, although the writing was bad, the plot was bad, and the pictures were bad ... there was something intriguing as a kid of choosing how you would make your way to your death.  because you always died.  but unlike real life, you could also always stick your finger between the pages (which i always always did) and backtrack to your last bad decision ... or the one before that ... and die differently.

i have found myself frequently wishing for a hot tub time machine.  (a regular time machine would do, and although i haven't seen the movie *yet,* a hot tub time machine sounds much more glamourous).  i suppose i am finally of the age where i have sufficient lifetime to look back on and second guess all those major decisions, or at least appreciate circumstances past -- like summer vacation and 68 cent gasoline and being able to devote an entire saturday to sitting on my ass watching college football.  unfortunately, there's nothing a time machine would do to preserve those things for me any longer than i've already lived them.  but i have had occasion recently, through a series of lively and unpleasant discussions, to pinpoint an exact moment where things in my life started going sideways.  a single moment of seemingly minor importance where i meant one thing, and he heard another.

it's no one's fault, but that single 10-second interaction tainted literal years of further conversation and events, magnifying over time, leading to further misunderstandings, resulting in other poor decisions, until the whole thing blew its freakin' top.  the butterfly effect.

i'm lucky that in the case of a misunderstanding, you can sort of go back.  it's not easy, but with the help of 20/20 hindsight and better information (and advanced age and experience?), the taint (tee hee hee) can be removed, and you can see things for how they actually were and are.  you can't change it, but at least you get it.  at least the foundation was still true and real and you can imagine how things might have been different if you weren't living in a parallel universe.

now, i'm not going to go back and undrink that 40 ... just try to find my way back to where life would've led had i not stepped on the butterfly....

<3>

Another Brick In The Wall

in an effort to stay relevant and address all the meaningless comments floating around, i made it my goal this week to read, research, and provide brilliant insight into obamacare and the recent supreme court decision upholding it as a consitituional exercise of congress' taxing authority.  however, i lost interest in the bill, also affectionately known as "the patient protection and affordable care act," when i saw a lemon on my counter and remembered my promise to whip up another batch of lemon blueberry drop scones before P gobbles up the last of the fresh blueberries. 

continued several scones later, and i'm not even the scone type -- my heart belongs to the sugary-and-shortening goodness of the safeway bakery:  sure, i have questions about the bill, the most popular portions of which require americans to maintain health insurance or pay an uninsured tax.  like am i now going to have to show proof of health insurance at a traffic stop?  or are health care professionals, who are also bound by another favorite bill of mine affectionately known as the health information portability and accountability act of 1996, supposed to make those reports?  and what is the psychological effect of a mandatory reporting duty on a health care professional, who has taken an oath to enter only for good and remain free of all intentional injustice and mischief, to add an uninsured tax to necessary (and expensive) services?  better yet, is the government relying on *snort* self-reporting?  and who believes that $700 per year (the maximum tax to an individual without coverage once the law is fully phased in) is sufficient to obtain any health insurance policy worth a damn?  and if the cost of shitty health insurance outweighs the shitty benefits, where is the incentive to actually obtain mandatory health insurance, rather than just pay the stupid fine?  which begs the final question -- if there is no incentive to obtain mandatory health insurance, why shouldn't individuals be able to save their $700 for apple cider vinegar and hydrogen peroxide and cayenne pepper and neti pots, which alone or combined apparently can cure everything from baldness to flatulence?  and is monopoly going to modernize its playing board?  i mean, when was the last time you heard anything about a luxury tax?

then i got to the point of the bill that prohibits the IRS from taking any action to enforce payment of the tax.  the IRS cannot put you in jail, seize or levy your property, or otherwise subject you to criminal properties.  the IRS can charge you double the amount they owe you, but again ... they can't actually take any collection action.  now i am not a tax professional and i'm probably violating some ethical rule by giving out unsolicited and free legal advice to the entire internet, but here it is:  DO NOT PAY THE TAX.  while you're at it, break out the red lipstick and knee-high boots, rebel.

so it appears the bill will have only two apparent effects:  good, honest people who are trying to get by without relying on government benefits will now take advantage of medicaid to avoid the tax, increasing government spending.  and good, honest people will pay an extra $700 per year for nothing and given their decreased disposable income, probably also take advantage of other government programs, like subsidized housing, food stamps, unemployment, etc., increasing government spending.  hrrrm....

i can't lie -- i worry about my children.  it is common knowledge amongst those who dare to discuss politics, religion, and/or sports with me that i believe the united states will be demoted to a third world country (acknowledging that this term is no longer fashionable) both socially and economically -- and i that believe it will happen during my lifetime.  this is just another brick in the wall.  but ... despite the rant i managed to squeeze out after proper nourishment, i'm up to my elbows in alphabet soup and diapers and choo-choo trains and vainly trying to impart life lessons on little dudes who have no capacity for reason or rational thought.  i don't have time to start a revolution.  instead, i can cast my vote for one powerless doofus over another in a presidential election, knowing that between living in a conservative state, the existence of the electoral college, and the persistence of the two-party system, it's a futile gesture.  and celebrate america's revolution by eating processed meat foods and watching miniature explosions in the sky.  is this what thomas jefferson had in mind?  freedom from the british so we could subjugate ourselves?

Got Milk?

i am now the proud parent of a 20-month-old who can say and properly identify a "boob."  unfortunately, i am speaking anatomically, not metaphorically (although i have no doubt with the excellent role models in his life, that panzer will soon be master of the latter as well).

my second son, mohs, came along 7 short weeks ago, and every 2 to 4 hours i force myself to focus on what a beautiful, sweet ray of sunshine he is in order to convince myself that he deserves to eat.  (and look at those chicken legs... he NEEDS to eat...) 

the oral surgeon told me last week that pediatrics is an ever-changing field of what's "in fashion" and should essentially be disgarded at your convenience.  apparently, taking prescription painkillers while you're breastfeeding is no longer fashionable.  side note:  i have seen this phenomenon first hand, even with panzer and mohs being only 18 months apart.  i maintained an appropriately deferential look at mohs' first appointment when the pediatrician informed me that breastfed babies NEED vitamin D supplements or are at risk of developing rickets.  i now know that rickets is a pretty serious bone disorder common in developing countries and resulting from famine or starvation.  however, it's hard to take this concern seriously when P, breastfed less than 2 years earlier, maxes out the height chart and is doing his best to simultaneously conquer and demolish the entire office in our short visit, with not a drop of vitamin D supplement having ever passed his infant lips.

anyway, it is clear that breastfeeding is fashionable.  and rightly so, given the obvious and proven benefits to your child.  but let's be clear "bf moms," milk production is not life's biggest accomplishment.  in fact, it's a completely natural, unsolicited effect of mammalian reproduction, commonly exploited in farm animals. 

and it's weird -- for me and everyone else.  in fact, i've had no less than 4 awkward breastfeeding encounters since easter.  here's what i've learned:

#1 -- the park.  P got invited to an easter egg hunt hosted by his babysitter for her playgroup.  i took off of work to run him over to the park, watch him be completely disinterested in egg-hunting (at least until he discovered they were filled with goodies!) and lead all the other kids to and through the giant puddle of reclamated water, and ... chit chat with other moms.  which chit chat soon took an ugly turn when mom-1 saw mom-2 breastfeeding (under her tent, praise the lord, see #2) and said "i miss breastfeeding so much!"  wait, what?

first, who in their right mind misses having a leech attached to her boob?  and even if, in the moment, it is touching and miraculous that women can not only grow entire human beings in their uteruses and then squeeze them out their hoo-has, but also manufacture sustenance for the child, the miracle wears off when it occurs every two hours.  for those of you rusty in third grade math -- that's 8 to 12 times per day.  every day.  for as long as you can stand it.

second, who needs to know that?  certainly not me.  next time, just go ahead and air some details about your year-long battle with yeast.  breastfeeding is natural and healthy, but the enthusiasm is just too much.

this of course spawned a lengthy and animated discussion amongst moms-1-through-10 about the miracle of life.  i was actually glad to send P on his way and go back to the office.  lesson learned:  i am clearly not equipped to interact safely and appropriately with stay-at-home moms.  consider yourself warned.

#2 -- the library.  the week after i brought mohs home from the hospital, i tried to be a good mom and take panzer to baby playtime at the library.  side note:  again, while the other kids sat quietly in their moms' laps, stared intently at the storyteller, and clapped along with each song, my son ran completely amuk, opening and slamming doors, stealing other kids' toys, and generally slapping around his peers.  while i was chasing P up some stairs, i had to manuever around a mom who looked like she was trying to smuggle a struggling two-year-old under her shirt.  when she released the girl, i got a full frontal.

first, your kid is two. she should be able to sit still while she eats -- in fact, that is the only thing that P sits still for.  and second, your kid is two.  she can wait till she gets home in 30 minutes to have a snack.  and if she can't, send her to the water fountain.  lesson learned:  come prepared.  i have never left the house without a baggie of goldfish crackers again.  also, thank you bf mom in #1 who used the appropriate paraphernalia.  i will follow your example.

#3 --the mommy's lounge.  i admit it sounds good in theory -- a little area to the side of the ladies' restroom with leather couches and unassuming landscape paintings where you can take a break from shopping and feed your child in peace and harmony.  unfortunately, although no one can really see your baby, everyone knows its under there.  so in practice, every old lady who walks by wants to know his age, sex, weight at birth, and favorite lullabye, and then tell you at least one ancient story about their own babies, presumably in the hopes that baby will finish up and they can catch a glimpse of his cute little cheeks.  i admit that i crane my neck to peer into strollers and carriers to look at babies in the grocery store.  but i am confident in saying that the the risk of seeing a stranger's boob while i do so is approaching zero.

even worse, is the risk of breastfeeding en masse.  when you're all lined up (enduring the same awful Q&A and storytime from the heiffer next to you) it really is like the dairy farm i visited in first grade, except i don't get to bring my aunt barbara as a chaperone or eat ice cream until i throw up.  (lame!)  lesson learned:  go solo.  i was more anonymous in the hustle and bustle of the food court.

and finally #4 -- the pool.  all summer, my in-laws have been taking panzer to the city pool for family night on thursdays, and i decided to chime in to watch P have the time of his life.  that kid loves running water.  anyway, as anticipated, mohs' feeding schedule did not cooperate with pool time (since all the time is dinnertime), so i grabbed my tent, sat discreetly in the corner, and watched quietly from afar. 

at least i was quiet until some doofus teenage lifeguard came over to let me know that "there were complaints."  i may have then informed him that arizona revised statutes section 41-1443 specifically gives me the right to breastfeed in a public place where i am otherwise lawfully present.  i may also have let him know that i am exempt from public indecency laws while breastfeeding and can go sit in the middle of the pool topless if i want.  and i may also have threatened to sue him and the entire town of prescott valley if he even dare suggest that i stop feeding my child.  then i asked him to please let me know if there were any more complaints so i could address them directly myself. 

luckily there were no more complaints, because breastfeeding does not exempt you from a lot of other criminal laws, like those for assault and battery.  lesson learned:  don't mess with the bf mom.  whether its the hormones, the sleep-deprivation, the desperation, or the misplaced pride, and whether she deserves any deference or not, a bf mom has one up on you.  she can show you her boob with impunity -- throwing you off your game -- and then accuse of you of trying to take food out of her baby's mouth -- to which there is no legitimate response.

and so, i am left to endure the madness.

Journey to the Deep Dark Caves of Hell

when i was in high school, i made a sign on an 8x11 piece of paper that said "i am a flaming bitch from the deep dark caves of hell." underneath, was a lengthy and detailed list of all the trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive things that my peers had done. i am pretty sure it was a 2-sided list, but i decorated any white space with colorful flames. then i taped the sign to my chest and went to class.

from what i can remember, one of these trashy, disgusting, dishonorable and offensive people had called me a bitch. this was probably a fair statement, but i obviously did not take kindly to it. and so, sarcasm and irony blossomed.

a teacher took my sign and referred me to the principal's office. i have no idea what my explanation was (or could legitimately have been), but i do remember mrs. richardson, who was also my principal in kindergarden, deciding the worst punishment would be to let me tell my parents myself "what had happened." right. i love my parents, but they were, and are, enablers of my self-righteousness. by way of example, on a separate occasion, i was sentenced to write an apology letter to some newspaper douchebag for asking him to hurry up and take my picture so i could get back to whatever super-important high school activity he had interrupted. my mom approved something along the lines of "i'm sorry that you have no respect for other people's time."

i'm not saying that i'm better than you, but i may have ruined my little sister by telling her as a teenager that the fact of the matter is, some people are better than others. it's not based on beauty or education or wealth; it is a sliding scale that starts somewhere saintly i'm completely unfamiliar with, followed closely by persons who volunteer to carry things and leave baked goods on your desk, the maker of the awkward family photos calendar, and kids who will never leave your high-five hanging. then the guy at the circle K who warns you that your gas cap is still open, the garbage man just out getting dirty and doing his job, and dudes willing to provide free entertainment to all passersby simply by maintaining a long, curly mullet. it works its way down to the lowest of the low -- child molesters and indian givers. also somewhere near the bottom is the guy who screams at a pregnant lady with a full-time career and one-year-old for leaving her work at the office and going to sleep at 9 p.m. i am better than that guy. in the grand scheme of things, the flaming bitch might even be kind of near the top. (although still up in the air about my status in relation to the garbage man...)

i bet that sign is still in my permanent file at louisa county high school. but even if the sign is gone, i still get it. ask and ye shall receive.