An Open Letter To the Makers of Tylenol Cold and Flu

Dear Sir or Madam,

All I wanted was to breathe. So I took your stuff, the 'non-drowsy' variety, and now I'm teetering around the house like friggin' Betty Ford. What the heck is in that 'cough suppressant'? Acid??? I have 3 little ones to take care of, and not a babysitter in sight. So I can't even give the pack of dancing polka-dotted elephants my full, rapt attention.

Damn you. And why did I not discover this stuff in college?

Enjoying the rainbow sparkles,

An Irate and Stoned Consumer

P.S.
Guess who just called? My husband's BOSS. I had to have an extended conversation with him. You will pay, Tylenol Cold and Flu. You will pay.

I'm Tossing My Visa Away

We were in Ontario, CA a few weeks ago, closing on our new house. The movers told us that we have to pay by the pound to move our stuff, so we'll be leaving plenty behind. So, as I stood in my new kitchen, brow wrinkled, I told my friend, "God, we have so much to buy. I'll have to make a Target run as soon as we move here."

She had a blank look on her face, and immediately I knew. I knew.

There ain't no Target in Canada, people.

I took it in stride, adjusted to having to shop at Walmart or somewhere even more unsavory, and moved on with my day.

Three weeks ago, I was giddy with excitement as I stood in Pottery Barn. We have two living areas to furnish, and we'll finally have some money to buy what we want.

Then the salesperson told me Pottery Barn doesn't carry furniture in their Toronto stores, and they don't deliver anything to Canada. Unable to conceal my horror, I listened as she explained that they'll be happy to ship my items to the border for a huge fee, but there's a risk that a Sullivan Ottoman lovin' border guard might confiscate my stuff in the interest of "national security". And the company would rather not take that risk.

Still in mourning over this, I went to drown my sorrows (or dress them, if you will) at the JCrew sale. And guess what the sales lady told me??

Uh huh. That's right. No JCrew in Canada.

How can this be??? I've met plenty of Canadians, and they're a civilized people. I don't understand. This just isn't right. What's next? No pizza?

So I'm done. I'm staying. The family can go if they'd like to, but I'm staying right here, even if it means pitching a tent in my parent's backyard.

So He's Taking It Well..

My dad was up visiting this past week. And he's now reading my blog--- hi dad! You may recall, back in February, the shot heard round' the world when my mom decided she wanted a divorce. Things are progressing, and although my dad wishes his marriage were still intact, he's slowly beginning to see that there's lots of life still out there to live. So he's been joking a lot about "Grandma Susie," a woman that he works with whom he thinks is 'foxy.' He's nowhere near serious about asking someone out at this point, since he still loves my mom, but still, it's good to know he's dealing.

Anyway, we were hanging out one night, talking about his regrets about the past and his hopes for the future. These past four months have been hard on all of us. So my dad suggested that once this is all over, we should all get together somewhere and raise a glass to the future.

"It'll be great," he said, "And we can bring Grandma Susie." I rolled my eyes. He continued. "But we'll have to wait until next year, when Grandma Susie turns 21."

Niiiice.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

It's odd to that I thought I was a girl of my own mind as a teenager. I was all wrapped up in being 'counterculture' in comparison to the other hokies from my Midwestern high school. Everything I wore that wasn't black came from Goodwill. I made a sport out of coming up with the newest slang, and scrawled the names of punk bands all over my book covers. Funny thing is, a few times, I had never heard a single note from the bands I was intent on advertising. But, true to the cliche and every Molly Ringwald movie ever made, I was desperate to fit in. I was firmly rooted in the values that my parents had raised me on, but when kids I hung out with made fun of someone else, usually someone who was painfully awkward socially, I never spoke up. I never joined in, but I never stopped it, either. Occasionally, when the target was someone with disabilities, I didn't work too hard to suppress the smirk that I never wanted to make in the first place.

One day, someone slipped my a copy of some random Dead Milkmen tape. It was truly awful, but I suffered through because if they were going to be the Next Big Thing, I wanted to be the one who knew about them first. There was a song on the tape that explicitly made fun of kids with mental disabilities. I played it for my dad. He listened for about a fifteen seconds, then made me turn it off. "That's not even the least bit funny," he said, and I immediately felt shame. He made me sit and hear about an experience he had growing up.

He went to high school in the late '50's--- way before equal access laws and school-based therapy came about. There was a kid he went to school with who really shouldn't have been in the public school system at that time. He, his brother and his father were all mentally retarded. His mother wasn't, I believe, but she died young and was not around to advocate for her family. His IQ was low enough that he was not aware that he was different, so as he went around school, he was oblivious to the other kids making fun of him.

One day my dad was at his locker, and he noticed a circle of kids forming. A bunch of guys were pushing the kid around the circle, shouting at him, slapping him around. He had no idea that they were serious. He actually thought they were playing, and laughed and flailed his arms around to play back. Until a guy socked him square in the mouth. The kid immediately fell down, shocked, and started sobbing. My dad felt completely helpless, because he was a lot smaller than most guys his age, and he didn't want to become a victim himself. And that feeling was excruciating. Eventually, teachers broke up the scene. Maybe the kid was placed in a more appropriate setting, because he and his brother never came back to school.

In hearing the story, I felt even more shame than I did before, but I got it. I felt the kid's agony and my dad's angst. I imagined what his mother must have felt like before she died, worrying herself to no end about what would become of her boys. I was devastated to understand that in being silent, I had been a participant in causing so much pain to people. My dad taught me compassion, and that's something that most of my peer group was sorely lacking.

So I stopped being silent. I didn't laugh when I heard jokes about people who were different. I got angry--- really, really pissed, and I let people know. A lot. And although I did lose a few friends in the process, I felt lighter rather than upset. It felt good, and suddenly I found myself much more comfortable in my own skin. I stopped trying so hard to be someone else, and even shelved punk rock for a while to give Tiffany a try. Fortunately, she lasted about a minute in my boombox before I switched her out for U2.

And today, as a lot of you know, when I'm not doing the Mom Thing, I'm an occupational therapist. My career focuses on giving people with mental or physical disabilities access to the same rights and opportunities that typically- abled people take for granted. One of my biggest challenges--- but one that I take the most pleasure in---is opening people's eyes to the bigotry and fear society has of people with disabilities. I try my hardest to give the disabled a voice and a chance at a fulfilled life. It truly is one of my passions, especially when I'm working with kids.

And I have my dad to thank for giving me the courage to find that voice.

ARGH!!!!!

Twice this week I have written lengthy, insightful, incredibly witty posts. Ones that could get me a book deal. A Pulitzer, at the very least. I can tout the genius of these posts, because, well, you'll never see them. Both times, as I was about to hit "Publish Post," my 17-month-old flipped the computer off, mesmerized by the pretty blue button. It's been great week here in Cleaverland.

Update:

It's almost midnight, and I just got back from seeing The Da Vinci Code (against my better judgement). There was so much of this type of dialogue:

Sophie N.: "It's a fleur de lis."
Tom H: (incredulous): "It is not a fleur de lis."

...and...

Sophie: "It says ' You smell like stale baguette' "
Tom: (incredulous) "It does not say that."

It's a good thig Hausfrau and I didn't write the screenplay, because if we had, it would go more like this:

Sophie: "It's the fleur de lis."
Tom: (incredulous) "Shut UP!!!!"
Sophie: "No, YOU shut up!"
Tom: "No, my friend, YOU shut up!!!!"

And on and on, you get the picture....