Zero Emissions

The heater on our Buick quit.  This time of year, that's not a great circumstance, so I took it to a mechanic.  He said a gasket was broken and needed replacing.  When he said gasket, I was thinking something easy, like fifty bucks.  Then he said, "That'll be eleven hundred dollars please."

I choked.

That's more than the car was worth three years ago when it was given to us.  So, we went to look at cars.  And...

This is the newest member of our family.

It's a Nissan Leaf.  100% electric.  Heated leather seats and steering wheel.  It feels like you're driving a space ship.  It sounds like you're driving a space ship.  As soon as my bum hit the seat, I knew it was love.  This isn't a car, it's a ghost cat we've named Major Tom.

Also, and this may be the biggest reason we splurged for electric, I love that when I go somewhere, I'm not contributing to the smog every person in the valley has to ingest as air (See above picture and notice the yuckiness behind Major Tom).  I feel like a good person.

And maybe, just maybe, a little smug.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

For Christmas this year, I made my youngest son a blanket.  I was thinking that homemade gifts are the best.  Right?  Don't cost a lot. And are an outward expression of love.  Right?

I also wanted the blanket to be something he could use the rest of his life.  Something he could use as a bedspread, if he wanted.  So he could take my love with him everywhere he went.  

Cheesy?  Yes. But still true.

So, I went to the store and bought as much yarn as I thought I'd need.  I bought a lot of it, and it wasn't the cheap stuff because, as I said, I wanted this blanket to last a long time and look good while doing it.  

Maybe I should have stayed with the cheap stuff.  

I had to go back to the store four times for more yarn.  And then, the store ran out of the colors I needed.  So did the craft store.  It was getting close to Christmas, and I hadn't finished the blanket because I couldn't find the right yarn!  Finally, I ordered some online, but it wouldn't get here until Christmas Eve.  There went any chance of having it done for Christmas.

I'm proud to announce, it's done now.  

And my inexpensive, homemade gift ended up costing more than any other gift.  In case you're interested, the finished result cost $160.

Consider my pre-conceived notions abolished.

*******

May all of you have a wonderful, prosperous, healthy new year.  

Word Crimes

I'm probably behind the times, but I just saw this Weird Al music video and have been applauding it ever since.

As someone who uses grammar rules, and flinches when those rules are broken, I'm happy to know I'm not alone in my suffering.

By the way, I love the music on this song, but the original lyrics are raunchy.  Weird Al made them much, much better.  My favorite is "I could care less".  My kids love "I literally couldn't get out of bed."

If you haven't seen this yet, relax, maybe get some popcorn, because if you're like me, you'll be watching this more than once.

A Barfer's Regret

I got a call from my daughter's school last week at about ten in the morning.

"Hi, Mom.  I just threw up."

Yes!  My favorite kind of calls.  Well, those and the kind that come from the emergency room.

"Okay," I said.  "Wait for me in the office.  I'll be right there."

"But I kind of want to go to art."

Wait, what?  She WANTED to go to class after she had a clear "get out of school free" card?  She must get that kind of nerdiness from her dad.  She made up for it by being out at the car before I'd even parked.

"So, how you feeling?"  I asked.

"A lot better.  Luckily, we'd packed away our instruments in band and were just waiting for the bell to ring, when suddenly, all this spit came into my mouth. I knew I was going to throw up.  So, I ran to the bathroom.  Some of it came out my nose.  It still kind of burns and every other breath smells like vomit." (Note: I left out some of the gorier details.  Thank me later.)

Being a good mom, I said, "Oh, honey.  I'm sorry.  That's not fun."  Then, "You might want to change the reed in your clarinet before you play it again."

Then a thought struck her that rivaled her time hovering over the toilet for worst part of the day.  "Oh no!  I just ruined my five year no-barfing streak!  I have to start all over again!"

Good thing she has her priorities straight.

Gobble, Gluttony, Gobble

As every American knows, Thanksgiving is this Thursday.

I was listening to the radio (I'm an avid radio listener.  A good amount of my conversation is based on what I've heard recently.) and for the past two days, a prominent program has been talking about the perils of Thanksgiving dinners.  For example, how can you keep family members from bringing up taboo topics?  The answer: drink less.  Then the host pointed out that sometimes the only thing that makes getting together as a family bearable is the copious consumption of alcohol.

Then the guest recommended using cloth napkins because it really spruces up the table.

Important stuff, I grant you.

By a show of hands, how many of you have seen a commercial for Thanksgiving that doesn't involve gluttony or Black Friday deals?  I don't see any hands.

If we went by the advertising, Americans are duped into believing that Thanksgiving isn't an important holiday because ads go straight from pushing candy and costumes at us, to pushing Christmas spending.  Buy, buy, buy!  But whatever you do, do NOT be grateful for what you already have.

This attitude makes me want to lash out.

I heard a statistic once that stated that ninety percent of the world's population can't afford carpet.  How can we consistently find things to be unhappy about when we have carpet covering our floors and warming our toes?

I hope all of us will take more than a couple of seconds this week to think about how much we really have, carpet included, of course.  The turkey will be much happier to have given his life for our annual family argument if we're only shouting things at one another we're grateful for.

Shut It!

In book club the last couple of months, we've chatted a little about introverts and extroverts.  This month, we're reading a book about it:

"Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking" by Susan Cain.  I'm excited to glean it (I don't think I'll actually read the whole thing because it's non-fiction, but gleaning is within the realm of possibility.)

I've known for a long time that I'm not as outgoing as a lot of people I know, and for the most part I'm okay with that.  I like staying home and writing or reading or watching TV shows no one else likes.  My husband is the same way, so it doesn't bother him either (except he watches movies no one else likes).  

From what I understand, I'm an introvert.  I know, you're shocked, right?  But I thought introverts were shy or socially awkward or sociopaths.  I like people and I like being with them.  According to this book, I'm an introvert because I'm rejuvenated by doing solitary things and being social drains me.  Completely accurate.

Conversely, (and quite obviously) an extrovert is someone who is rejuvenated by hanging out with friends and being social.  

I'd never heard this explanation before, but it makes a lot of sense and I thought I'd pass it along to anyone bored enough to read this blog.  Also, I really like the book's title.  

Autoimmunity Sounds Like A Good Thing

What do you think of when you think "diseased"?

When I googled the word, this is some of what came up.  Ew.

Now, the clincher.  Me.  Add me to the list because I am now listed as diseased.

I have the joy, nay, the privilege to carry two (TWO) autoimmune diseases: Type one Diabetes, which you probably already know about, and now (Ta-Dah!) Hashimoto's Disease.  I'll have to check with my lawyers, but I'm pretty sure that legally admits me to the diseased ranks.

Hashimoto's deals with the thyroid.  An autoimmune disease means my body mistook my pancreas or thyroid as an alien invader, and like any good rebel alliance, has annihilated it and all its space stations. ("Attack!")  

Since I heard the second diagnosis, I've been mulling around the idea of disease.  What does it mean to be at that party?  

It's not a party most people want to take their friends to on Friday night.  It's not where anyone chooses to be.  I mean, take a look at the pictures above.  Would you party with those guys?  Not only that, but the people who ARE at the party hide.  Leia and Han try to look like they're NOT at the party, and no one likes to talk about Luke's problems because, frankly, they're embarrassing. (Just sticking with the Star Wars theme.  No offense to the Princess, General, and Jedi.)

I'm guilty of this also.  I want to look and act like everyone else.  Normal, you know?

But I'm a pin cushion.  A carb counter.  A low-glucose level whack job.  A coma waiting to happen.  I'm tired, cold, and overweight.  

This is what being diseased is for me: Life.

And while I recognize I have a great, great life, honestly, I'm trying not to feel sorry for myself.