Stay-At-Home Mom: "An Extremely Dangerous Choice" (?!)

I am a 35-year-old master's degree-holding, stay-at-home mother to a 15-month-old little boy named Jackson. I pay the bills and manage our long-term family finances. I make it my business to engage in financial research and work hard with my husband to find creative ways to ensure our family's healthy financial future. I welcome financial advice; however, I was offended—like so many—by Ms. Bennetts’ pithy, disrespectful remarks regarding being home for the loss of a tooth. Despite Ms. Vigeland's best interviewing efforts to steer her toward respectful concessions of the dignity of choosing “to stay home and work with their children,” Ms. Bennetts was unrelenting. This could have been a fantastic opportunity to educate, equip, and foster solidarity among women with children in and outside of the workplace. Ms. Bennetts chose to be divisive by taking pot shots at the reasons why women choose to stay home with their children in the first place. Disappointing and rather cliché.

Husbands and Wives

The intimacy and connection here are almost too much, too private, but I can't look away from it. It's the hottest video I've seen about the love shared between a husband and a wife. It makes me melt. Charlie will like this very much, so I post it for him especially.

In case you thought sarcasm...

is a relatively modern phenomenon, check this out (1895).

"And now for something completely different..."

I know everybody's seen this but...

I don't care. I could watch it over and over.

To Keats

We are approaching my favorite time of year, but I am domiciled in a region of the country where seasons can pass unnoticed. I've joked before that Louisiana has but two seasons--hot and hotter. Still, even I must confess there has been a subtle shift in the way the air smells in the morning, long before it is sullied by blistering noon day sun. It has a smoky, aged tinge, and I sense it each morning now, heading early out the door with mug in hand and babe in arm, moving with raw feeling toward the idling truck to take the Tech Sergeant to work.

If I turn down the air conditioner and and wear a sweater, I can almost feel it coming. Till it does, I've got Keats.

And so do you.

My Thighs Are On Fire

Yes. En Fuego. Seriously.

On a Tuesday morning, I awoke sixish, dressed for exercise, and prepared to mount up with my iPod and go for a run.

Are you finished?

(Ahem) So as I am reaching for the door knob, Hubster stumbles out and says, "Where're ya goin'?," groggily.

"Thought I might try a run."

"Hold on."

Okay, so, you know, I wasn't really thinking I wanted a witness, I mean, company.

Nevertheless, away we went.

I'm not sure which part I liked best--the sound of my own beleaguered breathing pattern (much akin to the sound of the Hoover Wind Tunnel 2 as it sucks dirt from our living room carpet) or the quaint observation that our run time coincided with the bus stop rendezvous of a dozen or so pre-pubes patiently waiting for the big yellow taxi and something to ridicule and thereby shift focus away from their fragile self-awareness.

Beautiful.

I figured my best bet was to avoid eye contact. I wouldn't hear anything over the noise of my tortured breathing anyway. I could pretend they didn't even exist. 35 years old and I still give a crap what a sixth grader thinks. Hilarious.

I survived. Ran for a whopping total of seven minutes, forty-seven seconds. Walked the rest. Ambulant for a total of twenty. This, my friends, is progress.

But, MAN, do my thighs burn!

Does this look funny to you?

A photo slideshow...

...I have posted on a website for my alma mater, Emmanuel College

Miracle Drug

Close to Home

I long to see you.

First Thing This Morning

Precious Two



(Pssst! This picture comes with a song.
You should play it now, courtesy of YouTube.)

Wait, what's different?

I'll tell ya what's different...BIRTHDAYS!

Birthday Mardi Gras used to be a week-long affair dedicated entirely to personal indulgence. Pedicure. Massage. Shopping. Cake. Did I mention cake?

Birthday Mardi Gras, post marriage and delivery, is now shorter.

And more like Festivus. For the rest of us.

First, there are the "Feats of Strength." These happen mainly when rising from slumber or bending at the waist for any reason.

Then there is the "Airing of Grievances." This happens mainly in front of the bathroom mirror or while riding side-saddle with the hubster in dense traffic.

Then there is the dinner, a full sprint through drinks, hors d' oeuvres, salad, entree, dessert, and Andes mint before the battery on the portable DVD player dies, signaling a scant 35 seconds before Caesar (or Jackson, our 15-month-old son) launches into an ear-splitting wail of displeasure.

Did I mention drinks?

Next is the pole. I got nothing (printable).

Finally, we have Festivus Miracles, described at Wikipedia as "minor coincidences that are inconvenient for one of the involved parties." Charlie and I drove an hour to a movie theater in Longview, Texas, that should offer a free tetanus shot before walking through its doors. I timidly approached the ancient box office for two tickets to The Happening, the latest from M. Knight Shyamalan (worth the gas money), only to hear from the booth clerk that every theater in the place is functioning properly EXCEPT the one showing The Happening. Bad bulb, he says to me.

Regarding birthdays, I rest my case.

Birthday Mardis Gras: Day Three

The Corbetts spent the last 24 hours in Texas, a new favorite weekend jaunt for us. We revisited Marshall, the place we took my parents while they were in town the first week of August. We stayed in Rosemont Cottage, a historic structure on the grounds of the Starr Family Home just a stone's throw from the famous Whetstone Square that people travel for miles to see all lit up at Christmas time. We drove in around 4 yesterday afternoon and had the place to ourselves since Rosemont Cottage is basically the sole remaining wing of an antebellum home built by the Starr family and has only one bed--a queen-sized vintage Mallard crowned with the signature "egg" in the headboard.
















Ah, the classic oil field "rocking horse," none of which we saw when trying to show my mother what one looked like!

We tried a local spot for dinner and lucked out with the oyster carousel (delicious), though we still haven't found the steak we're looking for.

The sign.

The ambience.

The oysters.

Whetstone Square last night, on our way back to Rosemont Cottage.

Birthday Mardi Gras: Day Two

0630
Crying
Jackson
Diaper change
Warm baby head trying to crawl inside my neck
The best thing
Ever

0639
Crank up the FJ
Walmart
Baby food
Milk
Pop tarts for hubster
Bananas

Drove Charlie to work
Fed Jackson
Pediatrician’s appointment
More physical therapy
3 months
@#$%&

Goodwill
$1 paperbacks
$2 hardcovers

Great American Short Stories
Cold Mountain
Shakespeare: Five Plays
The Harper Single Volume American Literature
A Short History of the American Nation
What to Expect When You’re Expecting (two copies, & no, I’m not)
French Impressionist Paintings in the Louvre
The St. Martin’s Handbook
How to Read Literature Like a Professor

Anafternoonofuninterruptedblogging
Made reservations
Saturday Night
Historic Bed and Breakfast
Checked showtimes
The Happening
[I heart the Shyamalan]
Waiting for hubster's call
Him, Jackson, and me
All weekend long...

August 14

35
(shhh(*t)hhhh)
Not too shabby
Got a call first thing
Bent over
Sorting laundry
Hallway
Sandra
Sang me the loveliest southern rendition of “Happy Birthday”
Cracked me up
Then cracked herself up
Awesome

Lunchtime
Amy came to get Hunterman
Brought me a present
Iced Tea Maker
SWEET!
Brought me lunch
Home-made chicken salad (with red seedless grapes)
YUM!

Afternoon
Dropped Jackson off to play with Amy
Drove to Youree Drive
Thought about who I am/am not after all these years
Pier 1 for desk window-shopping
Sam’s for 1.5 Liter Riesling and Boursin cheese
For later
Priced a kiddo seat for my bike for rides with Jackson
Stopped at Southern Maid for a celebratory birthday cream cheese-filled donut
For immediately
Picked up my son and went home

Evening
Dinner with hubster
Amy brought us chicken with dressing from Dinnerbelles
And éclair pie
Mmmm
Put Jackson to bed
Watched end of

All of Eastern Promises
Went to bed

Birthday Mardi Gras: Day One

O, Viggo!

Yowza. Saw Eastern Promises last night with the hubster. Let me first say that I have now seen Viggo Mortensen's jumbly bits from just about every possible angle. Not a completely horrible way to spend a Thursday night.

If you've seen A History of Violence and you likey, you will love Eastern Promises as well. Viggo is a turbulent, forboding presence on screen whose Russian accent is absolutely flawless (note to Kevin Costner, circa "19-Robin Hood"). Naomi Watts is fearless and dutifully-compelled in the face of personal peril. There is a fair amount of gore (I watched several scenes from behind my own hands, peaking gingerly through the spaces of my fingers), so this one's an "after nigh-night for the kiddos" feature.

I should also note that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is really left to the imagination at all and we are talking human trade here, so...gear up for some disturbing imagery and action. (You've been warned.) Nevertheless, the story is heart-breakingly and beautifully told against the velvety background of a lush cinematographic tribute to the rich, red pageantry of Russian culture.

China, you suck.

Nice.

Really.

"Her face was too chubby...her teeth were too crooked."

Ladies and Gentlemen, the next generation's eating-disorder sufferer, Yang Peiyi, age 7.

"As for Yang Peiyi, she's been quoted as saying she was honored to have had a role in the opening ceremony..." [Translation: "My parents are far too terrified of our government to react appropriately to my denigration. Besides, I'm just a girl."]

Feliz Cumpleaños a Mi

Other August 14 Birthdays

Class Act...refreshing

"Jewel sure knows how to pull off a hush-hush wedding." (People Magazine exclusive)

Cheating: the New Black

Thanks, John.

We, who are about to vote in a national election, salute you.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, or an update on the hot water heater

If you aren't presently web surfing from beneath the steady stream of an ever-so-slightly stinging-hot spray of a perfectly functioning shower head, then I urge you to do so as soon as possible!

For the first time in eleven days, I have just experienced a hot water shower. The repairman left an hour ago, mumbling something about at "thermo couple" as he shoved a clip board toward me for signature on his perilous way across a mine field of Little People figurines, board books, and building blocks out the front door.

I love him.

So, now, I believe the "thermo couple" will be me and the mister, if you know what I mean.

Rent Movies for FREE

1. Open a new browser window/tab and then go here to find your nearest Red Box vending machine.

2. When checking out with your movie selection, select (on vending machine) "Add Promo Code."

3. Enter the following: Y72LR2

4. Confirm with the swipe of a credit card or visa/mastrcard check card.

5. Take home movie and view until it's due the next day.

6. Return dvd to Red Box vending machine.

7. Notice that your credit card has not been charged.

Amazing, isn't it? You can use this code today until midnight for as many movies as you have credit cards (hopefully not too many, though...yeesh!).

"We Own the Night"--Spoiler Alert!

Saw this movie last night. Not really sure what I think of it. I mean, any chance to see Joaquin Phoenix, well, let's just say it didn't hurt my eyes.

Most everything Robert Duvall does on screen works for me, and works well.

Eva Mendes: hot, no doubt about it, and I am woman enough to admit it.

Mark Wahlberg played this guy already, as Dignam in The Departed. Frankly, his presence on screen irritates me.

Director James Gray says his story is about the complicated relationships of distinguished police chief Bert Grusinksy (Duvall) and his two sons--one exemplary, one wayward--in a late-80s, drug-infested Brooklyn.

Wayward son Bobby Green (Phoenix) and his girlfriend Amada Juarez (Mendes)—that relationship is well developed. My only complaint would be Bobby’s apathy concerning its abrupt and unexamined disappearance. The sense that Bobby responds more to the father figure in Marat Buzhayev, who owns the nightclub Bobby manages, than to Bert is undeniably powerful and efficient—you get it in just one scene early in the film. Bobby is definitely the disrespectful screw-up—he scoffs in his father’s and brother’s faces and mocks their vocation openly, high and slouched in a church pew. All you get from Captain Joe Grusinsky (Wahlberg), the exemplary son and cop on the rise, is that Bobby irritates him and that he’s itching to bust the Russian drug dealer who’s been seen in Bobby’s club. The relationship between Bert and Bobby is understandably strained and, though the plot moves toward a contrived tenderness between them later in the film, the viewer is not given the privilege of seeing this development take place. I was more moved by what was lost between Bobby and Buzhayev after the shake down.

It’s weird because, while the hedonistic lifestyle of Bobby and his friends is vivid and lush throughout the film, it is not enticing. On the other hand, scenes with the straight crowd—Bert, Joe’s family, and all their friends—are stuffy, robotic, about as warm and inviting as our showers lately. You want to favor the latter over the former, but it just doesn't feel that way. You find yourself wishing you were out of the bingo hall just as much as Bobby and Amada, though maybe ever so slightly more respectfully. I have no problem believing that Bobby and Amada love each other (which is why the ending seems disjointed). I believe that Bobby and Buzhayev have a close bond. I have trouble believing that such closeness could ever exist among the Grusinsky men as the script is written. It's clear to me that Bobby eventually wants it, but Bert and Joe seem at all times unnaturally detached from him.

The car chase in the rain, and all the ensuing action, is spectacular. The Russian warehouse reveal and sting are riveting, from the first step up the ominous staircase to the freefall. Stunning. Especially Bobby's up-close exposure to one particular Russian's demise. Crazy.

Watch it. Tell me what you think.

Modern Conveniences

So I guess it was Saturday, while my parents were in town, that Charlie says to me, “I think there’s something wrong with our hot water.”




Don'cha just love that?



We all observed, during our next showers, that, indeed, there was not enough hot water. The water would reach a certain temperature—barely a few degrees north of tepid, hold for a bit, and then run cool… Cool like that first poolside toe-dip at the end of spring.

Now, ordinarily, in the dead heat of a Louisiana August, cool would be a pleasant reality. I am here to tell you that, despite my parents’ polite assurances that the water temperature was more than fine, “cool” in the shower stall of an air-conditioned home in which all the shades are closed against the sweltering heat of late summer is nevertheless decidedly not pleasant.

On Monday morning, I made the call. The maintenance man for our leasing company would be back with me the following day.

Friday. Multiple tepid showers. No maintenance man.

Goose bumps. Shrinkage. Sniffles. A slick on the surface of all kitchenware.

Looks like we’ll be “camping” through the weekend.

Boys of Summer

Work

My latest published story