The Sassy Uterus

Type-A & Road Rage

My 25-mile one way commute through the Bay Area's best (read: most 'effed up) highways is really reaching crisis point.  Naturally a fiery person, this doesn't subside once the rubber meets the road with me behind the wheel.  Confronted with driver rudeness or stupidity, I find myself using language on the road that usually only comes out after a really bad day or when giving birth.

When I say I'm fiery, it isn't all negative.  Indeed I'm as much a lover as I am a fighter (how do you think we got those five kids?) and I can be generous to a fault.  I'm also courteous--If you have your blinker on to come into my lane, I'll let you in and only get mildly peeved if you don't give me the polite hand wave back.  I do tend to follow closely but that is usually when I'm trying to light a cigarette, find my eyeliner and answer an incoming call via Bluetooth.  Once I'm only down to multi-tasking two things, I ease up off the gas.

In fact, the more stressful the day, the faster I drive.  I noticed today that my minivan isn't too fond of fast turns on I-580 East when it started to shake.  I looked at the speedometer to find out that I was hovering between 85 and 90 MPH.  Whooops.  I'm driving like I'm Danica Patrick...in a minivan...in East Oakland.  Not the place to be demonstrating vehicular aggression.

It would all just be fun and games if I were just speeding here and there.  But I'm beginning to realize that it's all...well...too much.  I'm going supersonic down the highway trying to check the time on my clock and then subtract 7 minutes (damn clock never stays on the right time), change the song on the CD or MP3 player, find my eyeliner (lipliner, lipstick, fill-in-the-blank), check to make sure I didn't leave my meds at home (or at work), and double-checking to make sure my Debit card is back in my purse.  This is too much....the make-up should be put on before I leave the house.  But, have you met my five kids?  They are bit much to handle and it is amazing I can leave the house fully clothed much less have make-up on. 

The last couple day's commute home have started somewhat the same: Go 80+ MPH if possible until the muscle relaxant kicks in (Type-A people unite, we can all bellyache together about the tension in our necks, shoulders and back).  Now...you are NOT supposed to drive under the influence of muscle relaxants.  If you do so after reading this, it proves that you have more problems (namely, stupidity) than your compromised driving.  The only reason I can accomplish such an envious feat is because of a bitch thing called "tolerance."  Tolerance is the biggest, most horrible bitch I ever did meet and can mess up a perfectly good time.  But I digress....

So I am not as tense and I'm realizing that I'll get home when I get home and I might as well enjoy some music.  But I must now be sending out a passive vibe or something because some jerkoff cuts me off.  I slow down and try to just go with the flow.  But then I read his bumper sticker: "My kid was an Honor Roll student at Generic Name School."  Great, your kid is a genius but you are an f--king idiot.  Unfortunately, for the both of us your kid isn't the one driving.  And  I won't even tell you what goes through my mind when the same scenario plays out and the driver has a disabled placard hanging from their rearview mirror.

But I'm really nice in person...usually.

Sneaky birdy...

Lately animals have been symbolic for me.  My shih-tzu, Ariel, has been chasing her tail relentlessly and finally grabbing hold of it and gnawing on it.  The chasing part, I totally get.  I chase my tail all the time, symbolically.  The gnawing part, well, that is usually accomplished by a variety of things: workplace drama, hellish Bay Area commutes (Be proud Bay Area, together we have made the shittiest commute area in Nor Cal.  By the way, how can so many people be laid off due to the economy yet still be commuting at the same times as me?), parental disapproval, moving house, school final papers, etc.

But today, I was struck by the pigeons above the signs at a local shopping strip.  Pigeons roosting on store signs has apparently been a problem for the owners of this retail property because they had installed little spikes, similar to these on top of the signs.  So, of course, it cracked me up to see the birds just chillin' up there like it wasn't no big thing.  

I think they were trying to tell me to stay strong. I quickly dismissed that notion and thought, "Well, the spikes must not be too sharp."  Then it hit me: Of course they're not too sharp.  If they were, pigeons and other feathery pests would be impaling themselves on the tops of store signs.  Nothing says bad business like a dead bird impaled on your sign.  I don't know about you, but personally, I will not give my business to a store that has dead animals staked outside.

So let's do some math here: To make birdies go away they put up spikes.  They didn't make the spikes too sharp because that would be gross at best.  So essentially, they are little sticks that are somewhat dull.  Hmmm.... dull sticks & birds.....sticks+birds=nest.  Well, crap, why didn't they just lay out the welcome mat and say, "Hey birds, welcome home, we've built you a nest!"

I can imagine the potential pigeon who happens upon this "nest" (incidentally, he's a male in this story):
   
     Hmmm...well it definitely needs some work, those sticks are all going the wrong direction.  What ass-backwards pigeon architect built this job?  Well, it is free so the price is right.  It's a fixer-upper but  I have nothing but time on my wings.  In fact, it reminds me of my first bachelor nest.  A bit rough around the edges (no pun intended, haha...er...chirp, chirp) but it will do for now.  And because of those backwards sticks I'll probably have to lean my feathered ass *way* over the edge to take a dump, but hey....that is do-able.  Yup, I think I'll move right in."

Good work you innovators out there.  Next time, just find a way to funnel their birdy shit into the gutters and then we'll deem it a solution.

They should air it with a warning....

Baby Isaac sure does love music.  He rocks to commercials, musical toys, and especially to Dancing With the Stars.  He is captivated by the music.  He doesn't usually pay attention to the actual dancing.  However, tonight he decided he'd sit atop mommy's lap and watch.  About half-way through the show, as he was waiting for the music to begin for Mayo Alanen and Lisa Rinna it became very hard for him to concentrate since Grandma and Mom were making fun of Lisa Rinna and laughing like two vicious sNarks.

So...as you could imagine, Baby Isaac was already a bit disturbed by the time the music began.  And then Lisa Rinna started shaking it.  He couldn't help but watch.  It was Baby Isaac's first time trying to not watch a trainwreck.  Plus she was wearing a shiny, sparkly dress which complicated his attempts to look away.

Then, in rapid succession, the camera closed in on Lisa, she did something upside down with her legs slightly spread apart and Baby Isaac had enough.  While I was (still) laughing at Lisa Rinna, Lucas cried out, "EWWWW GROSS!"  To which, I was like, "I knoooowww, right?" thinking he was watching Lisa as well, but instead he was pointing at Baby Isaac who had just spit up/puked down the front of my jeans.

Whereas Lisa's recent facial plastic surgery (the Joker smile is *not* attractive Hollywood!) scares the shit out of me, her dancing makes Isaac puke. 
  (Photo courtesy of wherever I swiped it from.)

Or maybe my jiggling, hysterical laughter bounced him too much and that is what made him puke.  Nah.

Gentle, merry two-step -or- "Me & My Existential Crisis"

Trying to get through this funk (yeah, there's been a funk afoot in my life) I decided that even though I couldn't figure out why it was happening (overload, medicinal detox, hormones?) or how to fix it (medicine, retreat, go with it or distract myself from it?) I could just be gentle with myself.  I realized that this is the advice I would give to someone who was going through this type of experience and figured that since I *am* such a good advice-giver, I should heed myself.

So today was Day #1 of being good to me. And honestly, this is the first time I have actually felt a sparkle of interest in my life in quite awhile.  So sparkle usually denotes good. 

My first step was to stop judging life.  Which, geez, no matter how many times I write that, it seems lame.  But yet, there would be another judgment.  And amongst all these value judgments...which has brought me joie de vivre?  Nil.

Regarding my existential life questions causing such durress, here are my responses:  So I don't know why some things are the way they are.  I don't know why people are cruel to each other and especially why they are to creatures smaller than them.  And I don't know if they can ever be rehabilitated.  I don't know why the love of power and the primal ego survival means to distance oneself from ones who are different still reigns supreme.  I'm still not sure why we all run amok, day-in and day-out, like busy little ants making much ado about nothing.  And most of all, I don't know why human survivial seems to require much different mechanisms than those needed for soulful fulfillment.  I don't know and I can't figure it out.  Maybe no one can.

But one thing does remain.  I'm here and I need to work to provide for myself and family.  You are here and must do things for your human survival.  We may not know why we are here, but we have to trust that Someone, somewhere has a higher cause for us that we can not fathom.

My first step is acknowledging that I don't know & shouldn't assume the worst in lieu of a satisfying answer. I don't like not knowing the answers.  But there it is and I think that I had better get comfy with the unknown if I ever hope to be both prone to analyzing and happy at the same time.

The second step consisted of following through on creative yearnings, no matter how impractical.  I had to run to the store after work so I picked up poster paints.  I have not yet received any guarantees that I will be producing anything that will be deemed beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but I don't care.  Something is telling me to paint, and that poster paint is better for me than watercolor right now (watercolor can just be too vague and unruly, and I've got enough of that in my life already).  I haven't yet painted.  I watched the results show of Dancing With the Stars instead.  But painting shall be occuring, even if I have to paint the van's dashboard during my commute.

This is my two-step plan:
1. To stop making value judgments of life, mine in particular, especially when I know only a fraction of the workings behind it,

2. To treat myself gently and well into a state of resilience again.

For good measure on this second step, I also picked up a bag of fortune cookies when I bought the paints.  Biting into that mildly sweet cookie, I knew it was a good thing.  After reading the message it gave me and laughing my ass off, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was also meant to be.  The fortune read:

"You will obtain great wealth through your marriage."

After Phil finished busting a gut he mused, "Who are you planning on marrying after you divorce me?"  Laughter is a good thing indeed.  (Phil, Honey, I have all the wealth and happiness I need with you).

The second fortune cookie was a bit more realistic:

"Your domestic life may be harmonious."

Notice the tentativeness of this asssertion...."may be."  Yes, may be.  1, 2.  Harmony is the end goal, but I'm not basing my happiness on it.

What college funds are really for...

After breastfeeding four of my five kids as infants (or not so infant-Dylan, I'm looking at you!  That boy nursed until he was 2.5 years old!), I have come to one conclusion: these breasts reserve retirement.  Or at least rejuvenation.

People who have met me in the last five or so years would be shocked with my following admission since I seem to have accidentally fallen in with a very nature-esque crowd.  Those that have known me longer, say from the high school years, won't be fazed by this at all: I think I deserve a boob job.  A nice 36-D boob job. 

I already know how I want it done, with what "filling" (saline vs. silicone), and where I want the incision to be.  I also know how I want to be put under (pills first please, then get the nite-nite juice going through IV).  I know that I want a steady supply of Vicodin post-op.  Well, I want a steady supply of Vicodin when I am post-work each day but I am quite "judicious" with how and when I take it.  I know I am because that is the exact word, judicious, that my doctor used in complimenting me on my self-control. See, that should go on my "talent" list when I am trying to find my calling or vocation: likes to talk, has a good sense of humor, can survive most chaos & and is judicious with narcotic painkillers.  At the very least, I will be writing that on my future resumes.

Back to the boobs...so I know all I need to know and have decided the big stuff.  I just need to figure out which doctor (okay, so maybe this is a big item left to check off) and when.  But there lies one little, tiny matter of funding the spa treatment for my breasts (you call it plastic surgery, I call it spa day).  This issue has left me perplexed for quite awhile.  Then, one day it came to me.

Whilst breastfeeding Baby Isaac, he decided to bite and pull at the same time.  This is his idea of a practical joke.  Well, hahaha, I missed the punchline since I was too busy detaching Jaws from my breast.  My primal brain screamed, "Listen you little parasite, you don't bite the boob that feeds you!  I'll make you pay...."  What I really screamed was, "Ouch, f--k, damn it ISAAC, let the boob go!" I had my epiphany shortly after I decided to wean Isaac.  It was so simple, so profound...how had I missed it?  Forget college funds, that money is first going to my boob job.  Eureka!

Alas...

The truth is, we haven't put any money away in the boob job jar yet (and how would one decorate a "Boob Job" money jar?) since we are happy to able to make monthly bills and put food on the table (I know, we live craaaazzyyy rich out here), but I now no longer feel guilt about not having college funds for the kids.  And should they ever give me shit about it I'll ask them how much *they* have saved for my special fund.  I already know that Skyler spends every penny he gets on hot Cheetos and Red Bull.  I should tally up how many Red Bulls & hot Cheetos it takes to afford a boob job and wean him too.  That money can go to a far better place...

Google search gone terribly awry...

So, the Baby Isaac has acid reflux and has been on Zantac for a couple weeks or so.  And it has helped him tremendously during the day.  However, our nights are still touch and go.  I'm more sleep-deprived than ever due to my ADHD med making it hard to fall asleep in the first place coupled with the anxiety of wondering when Isaac is going to jar me awake. 

I have narrowed it down to a gas issue.  At least that's what I think.  Who really knows with that child?  He makes me feel like I have never had a baby before.  Totally humbles me.

Since I wanted some ideas about gas (Mylicon and Gas-X are merely a joke to Isaac's digestive tract) I decided to do a Google search.  My first attempt at searching involved the words, "one-year-old gas problem."  You would think this would be clear enough, especially for the sophiscated bots at Google. 

Wrong.  Apparently, those bots have been laid off and replaced with bots from fascist countries (fucking outsourcing) that thought that I wanted, clearly, to hear about child abuse crimes.  I couldn't believe the horrors that came up before my eyes.  I will spare the details here because it is sickening. 

For the sake of honesty, the results were a 50/50 mix for toddler gas problems and child abuse crimes.  But still, really?  Not that I want to negate the fact that the reports were awful, but I have to call Google out on a technicality because most of them didn't even include "gas" in the story.  So why?  Why would the bots even come up with these things as results?  Google has gone off the rails and the world has gone mad. 

And several grown men and women, as I unwillingly learned, need to burn s-l-o-w-l-y and painfully in hell.

So I tried all different search criteria until I found what I wanted.  For those who want to know, the safest search criteria is, "toddler gas problem."  However, this particular criteria still turned up the news story about the one-year-old girl who is pregnant with her fetal twin.  Which, again with the technicalities, is clearly *not* a gas problem.  Although it would explain why I am tempted to call my kids "little farts" so often.

The blog entry in which I prove how mental I really am...

I have no idea what is in the water but everyone at my house is going loony-tunes.  This is no joke.  Dylan is stressed out, Lucas is ultra-distractable, Cassidy much more demanding, Skyler is acting out more and Phil and I are worn out and depressed.  I'm thinking we need a whole family makeover.  The only person who seems to be thriving is Isaac.  This is due to the discovery of his acid reflux issue and the prescribing of the miracle medicine, Zantac. 

Maybe it's the pollen in the air. Or the economic downturn and chaotic times we are living in.  Maybe we need to change our diet or get more excercise.  Maybe it is all these things and more. 

I'm not a fan of uncertainty or not being able to find out information.  It bothers me and rubs under my skin.  Case in point:  I realize I'm depressed.  I feel blah.  No, scratch that.  I feel BLAH-DIDDY-BLAH-BLAH.  I then get worried, "Shit, I'm depressed.  Now how I am going to fix this?  I don't like this feeling and I want it gone right now.  Why is it happening?"  Well, that sounds like a good way to approach depression right?  I am bringing some logical thinking into the picture (Hooked on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy worked for me).  Now...around the time I am on the fifth round of this barrage of self-interrogation it has completely lost any sense of being a healthy response.  I have now shot myself into complete neurosis.  Meanwhile, the kids are acting just as wild as they always do, but now....now it's under the microscope.  Are they being worse than usual?  It seems like it. Well...of course it seems like it.  Everything seems, well, magnified once under the microscope.  This is thanks to my OCD that I could not escape inheriting since I am just one little branch off a massive family tree of anxiety disordered individuals.  Nearly half of my family (on both sides, thanks Mom *and* Dad) spend their days obsessing about our trunk health, re-checking the hydration level for safety purposes, and living in fear that the squirrels are going to bring diseases of unknown etimology to our green parts.  I am working the symbolism tonight.

On my way to work today, I told myself to stop analyzing and just go with it, reminding myself that I'd find my rhythm once again.  My mental barrage slowed and things seemed to be dying down.  Until one of my co-workers mentioned today that she senses I've lost my joie de vivre.  I've also lost my mind, but that seems to have escaped notice.  Although it was nice to have someone touchdown with me on my mental status, I have to say the comment didn't exactly have me beaming sunshine out my ass.  Although not much does anymore, alas...

But I can't hang with this gloomy gus bullshit so I came up with a plan:
I have decided I am going to write down all the things that are bothering me on one big list.  Then I'll flush it and let the landlords deal with the clog.  Only kidding.  (Wow, my eyes nearly twinkled at the thought of being a rascal, I just might be on to something).  But once done with the Bug-a-Boo list, I am going to start a daily list in my planner of those little itsy bitsy things that make life fun, entertaining, and enjoyable. 

My logic behind this plan is that perhaps our modern self-help gurus are right.  No, I don't read that stuff.  But you can't help but hear about it right?  I mean it's everywhere-on their blogs, in the magazine articles that they write and even on Oprah (which, of course, I don't watch) when she interviews them and then that interview mysteriously shows up on your DVR. Really, you can't escape it.  Shut up, it's my lie and I like it. 

Anyway, these people, some of which actually have the proper training and experience to back their teachings, have said that when you focus on something, it becomes bigger in your mind.  I already know this is true with negative stuff.  But what about the good stuff?  In essence, I should be able to focus on the good shit, (like that time when that bitch was driving like an old lady in front of me, forcing me into another lane and then floored her gas pedal and sped past me and she ended up getting a ticket---ohmigod...good times) and it should grow bigger in my head and I will be my piss 'n vinegar self again.  Right?

Maybe it will even make my hassled self feel like life is worthwhile.  Is that too lofty of a goal?  Because honestly, don't know if I could take the failure in stride at this point.

Stay tuned, or whatever.

Couch is my new drug

I have become far too placid and complacent with doing nothing.  I don't know if it's my ADD medication that has slowed me down or the prior neck/shoulder nerve injury that forced me to consume painkilling narcotics, muscle relaxers and nerve medication by the handfuls that has effected this result, but the truth remains the same: I'm a couch potato-ette. 

This is bad news in a house of seven where we have one regular-sized couch, one recliner and one love seat.  I take the couch and stretch out and stay there.  I contemplate the ceiling (regular 1970s popcorn-sprayed-type) while wondering if my ass is indeed spreading or if that is just the wadded-up quilt stuck around the outline of my hips.  I eventually work up enough motivation to sit up and grab my iced latte from the nearby table and take a sip (let's not even talk about the movtivation that I need to start working on the night before in order to get out of the house to buy the coffee in the a.m.).  Sometimes, but only in times that I can't avoid it (I haven't figured out how to get someone else to go pee for me) I get up to cross the room or pick up the baby if he protests too much.  And it seems that either the cat or a kid swoops into my spot in that amount of time.

I don't understand why my couch is so coveted by small critters furry or otherwise.  Personally, I hate sitting in a spot pre-warmed by another ass.  It's gross.  But my kids (and Piper counts as a kid) act like a warmed spot is somehow more valuable. 

But really, it isn't the seat-stealing that is bothering me lately.  It's the fact that I have so utterly given up on any pursuit of hobbies, reading, or Jennifer-esque leisure time that I lay here like the deflated chick for the Drug Free America commercial or whats-ever.  I get that this description may not mean anything to you upwardly mobile folks who actually remove themselves from the TV for a good portion of the day, so here, I provide you with a link to the commercial: Anti-Drug Commercial-Couch Weed.

The impetus to this laziness (oxymoron?) episode started approximately a year ago when Sir Isaac was born and loudly decreed that no person over the age of 20 be able to rest while under his roof.  My days consisted of work-isaac-feed isaac-isaac sleep-isaac awake five minutes later-repeat process.  I just gave up but it took nearly a full year to completely give in.  I used to sneak in trying to read (until he started to angrily bat the book away, "No, MOTHER, you must look at BABY ISAAC at ALL times) or attempt being creative. 

But lately, not so much.  And now, of course, Isaac is mobile and that requires me to be mobile or at least make very good use of the baby gate.  But envitably those go-go-go kiddos leave the gate open and Isaac makes his third great escape of the hour. 

I can't believe how easy it is to give in to the lure of the couch.  It's always there!  Always beckoning, "Awww...you poor Jennifer.  Are those kids being mean to you?"  And I hang my head and say, "Yes," not at loud of course, I'm trying to keep my craziness somewhat concealed still.  Then the couch says, "Well, you deserve a good 'ol sitdown on your cozy, comfy couch."  And I have to admit, what the couch says is not a lie.  I DO deserve a good sit down on the cozy, comfy couch.  It's true.  And so it begins.  The couch is my drug.  I used to say that the left side of my couch was my favorite-est place on Earth and now it seems I've embraced the middle and right sides as well.  I'm so equal opportunity, evolved really.

I have to get up and get going sooner or later.  The good Dr. David Burns (Feeling Good) says that motivation doesn't come first, action does and only after action do you start to feel good.  I think he's right.  Starting tomorrow I'm going to ungraft my ass from this couch and do something.  I don't know what yet because everything sounds lame and boring, but nothing could be worse than laying on the couch all day (and for what it's worth, my house is clean, I do fly-by clean ups when I have to get up and pass through a room...that's *efficiency*).  All this laying around reminds me of when I was pregnant.  Shit. 

Ok...so if I'm *not* pregnant, starting tomorrow I'll go do something.  For starters, be relieved.

Oakland PD

Today's commute home left me sad, tired and wrung out emotionally and it wasn't because what should have taken me 30 minutes on any given day at 3:00 p.m. took 90 minutes today. 

For those who don't know, I work in Oakland, CA.  I take a pretty long commute to and from each weekday.  On the way in today, I noticed fire engines on the overpasses in Hayward.  Lights flashing, pulled over to the side while the firefighters stood watch over the freeway.  The first time I saw this, I thought, "Hmmm, wonder what's up."  The second time I thought, "Some s*its going down in Hayward."  Yes, I am usually this slow in the a.m. In the meantime, cop cars from all around the Bay Area passed by me. It wasn't until the freeway came to a grinding halt where it usually speeds up and I saw a sign that read, "Oakland Coliseum, Exit Hegenberger" that I realized what this was-the memorial for the four fallen Oakland Police officers.  And just as I was merging on to 238 to get myself over to 580, my eyes blurred and my heart ached.

On the way home, much was the same except that 580 was bumper to bumper.  511.org informed me that it wasn't due to an accident but because they had shut down parts of 880 (funneling traffic to 580) that was the cause.  880 was shut down so that the families and the funeral procession from the Coliseum could move, without unnecessary delay, back to their homes through the East Bay. 

The traffic didn't get to me.  For the first time in my life I was alright with heavy traffic.  I knew what it was for, and I would gladly do whatever I could to help, even if that just meant stay out of the way and be patient. 

What did get to me though, was once I was back on 238 (mid-way home for me) and I saw police cruisers, one right after another, some spaced apart by five or so cars, following in the traffic.  Seeing all these men and women who lost such wonderful colleagues.

I don't usually cry during my commute, but my heart grew heavier and the lump in my throat took over and I couldn't hold it back anymore.  I said a silent prayer, a thank you to these fallen Police that selflessly protected all of the innocent people in Oakland for so long.  I thought about all of the Oakland Police Department and how they have stood in the background of my days: As I commuted while pregnant with Isaac each day,  as I walked around Piedmont Avenue looking at the stores or when I'd stop off on Telegraph for some random errand.  Or more common still, as I flew through Oakland, along 580, oblivious and in my own world as I pondered the oddities of my life that would later become blog posts.  I thought about my two grandmothers, who have lived in East Oakland, one not too far from the site where Officer Dunakin and Officer Hege were gunned down. 

In the end, I just came home and sobbed.  Sobbed because it was a horrible thing and because no one, especially great souls that spend their lives protecting strangers, deserves to die like that.   I sobbed because I am a wife, a daughter and a mother and I can't even begin to imagine the pain of these officer's widows, children and parents.

And I sobbed because there was nothing I could do.  Nothing except make space on the road for the car next to me that needed over and later, when I spotted a Highway Patrol officer pulled over with a civilian car, keep a close eye as to what was happening.  It may be the mother in me, but I feel the need to watch out for those who watch out for us.

Officer Dunakin, Officer Hege, Officer Romans and Officer Sakai-May you rest in peace and thank you for your years of selfless service and protection. 

For more info: Thousands attend funeral for 4 slain officers

Hotel Sugarfornia

I was reading in the newspaper today that ever since this economic downturn more Americans are turning towards sweets and sugary foods to ease their tension.  The article, When Economy Sours, a Tootsie Roll Can Still Soothe the Soul by Christine Haughney in the New York Times today says:

       

"The recession seems to have a sweet tooth.  As unemployment has risen and 401(k)'s have shrunk, Americans, particularly adults, have been consuming growing volumes of candy,   from Mary Janes and Tootsie Rolls to Gummy Bears and cheap chocolates, say candy makers,     store owners and industry experts."

 I can only imagine the political cartoon for this new fad, as we all balloon up and get fat while searching for jobs online with a bag of trusty gummy bears by our side.  As an aside, I have no clue what Mary Jane's are in terms of candy, but I could see how a Mary Jane, in the way I define it, would definitely soothe the soul right now.

And I'm glad to see people on my side of the camp finally.  This organic food craze has driven me and my package of Double-Stuf Oreos up the wall.  (Spell-checker thinks I spelled "Stuf" wrong.  Ha, it doesn't know Oreos like I do).  Since my first taste of refined sugar as a mere toddler I was hooked and knew that it might very well be the manna that some people search for.  (I was a wise toddler.)  And then everyone started poo-pooing sugar saying it causes hyperactivity.  Isn't that the point?  Anything that is euphoric in nature can cause hyperactivity.  Caffeine causes hyperactivity, that's the point--to happily get shit done. To go about your daily dribble with a skip in your step and a manical smile on your face, which by the way, also keeps people from getting in your way. 

As a parent, you can use this strategically.  Let the kids have Lucky Charms in the a.m. and then send them outside to clean up the backyard.  You'll be amazed at how fast that yard is immaculate.  Teenagers do well with a cup of coffee or other caffeinated beverage here and there.  Skyler can do amazing things with enough Red Bull.  All at once he's doing the dishes, being a comedic genius and doing a little jig at the sink.  It's not all bad.  Moderation, folks.  And moderation helps with the "healthy" stuff too.

I once heard a comedian talk about the water bottle craze where everyone was drinking water and carrying their own little water bottle everywhere.  He said something along the lines of us having evolved to the point where we are complex mammals with ingenious digestive tracks..we can handle soda, we can handle coffee.  Thousands of years of evolution being thrown away as we drink water like rabbits. 

Do you really want to diss evolution and drink soda?  You're either for evolution or not people.

So I am glad that I am finally not alone in my finely-granulated sugary world.  Welcome to the Hotel Sugar-fornia.  It's a lovely place.   I'm happy to see visitors.  In this hotel you will find the best Christmas cookies from around the world, the most divine chocolates and yummiest pastries.  And in addition to the standard American holidays we celebrate, there is one more that comes every March:  Girl Scout Cookie Week.  I wait all year for Tag Alongs.

My guess is that even after the economy turns up and everyone is happy-go-lucky and spun off their dividends and 401(k)s and they are once again purchasing houses that are way out of their financial league and SUVs that leave a huge carbon tire print, they will still find the sugar-habit hardest to kick.  The Eagles said it best, "You can check out anytime you like, but you can't ever leave." 

And who'd want to?  We've got Peeps galore.