Current events math.

Freaky polygamist sect ÷ overzealous state's attorney – any semblance of level headed governor = fucking debacle of Gestapo proportions.

Fifteen year old pop "star" x irresponsible handlers + 1 clueless celebrity photographer ≠ big deal.

[(Democratic candidate + democratic candidate) + Republican candidate] x bi-polar media coverage² = utter disgust and loathing in political process.

China's dog-and-pony rescue/relief show while Olympic-ready world spotlight shines ≥ Human rights violations in post-disaster Myanmar.

It's like trying to teach jellyfish how to do calculus.

Thanks, everybody, for your thoughts on the previous post. I closed the comments because I just felt it was a stand-alone piece, and I don't really want to talk about it any more.

Also, this week has dumped a CRAP LOAD OF CRAP on us. Just annoying stuff taken singly, but when does crap ever come in those cute little "not for resale" sample sizes? NEVER, that's when! So I'm currently picking my way through a stinky mess. (And this is where I finally abandon the shit metaphor, because eew.)

All of which is really interfering with my bon bon eating and daytime t.v. watching. Not to mention pool boy ogling and cocktail-"it's 5 o'clock somewhere!"-mixing.

We will return to our regularly sarcastic program soon.

But the child’s mound--

What is it about clichés that is so maddening? Is it the frustrating futility of platitudinous truth? Take "brush with death" for instance, with its inference of soft silence. There were many sirens in our subdivision last weekend; we live just one lane over from the main entrance, and we heard them wail past. We hear them all the time since a fire station is just down the street and proximity has mostly inured us to morbid curiosity. I didn't really give it a second thought, and death brushed by my indifference in the wake of diesel engines and piercing sirens.

I don't want to believe death was silent in the house where it landed, though. It took a little girl, just Rowen's age and one of her favorite playmates, suffocating her with the swollen airways of asthma. Who wants to believe that death, in all its final implacability, could sneak up on you? Or worse, your child? And yet, it must have, right? We make blaring sirens, mechanical simulations of the primal ululations of our ancestors, to scare it away or we scream at it with anguish or anger. But quieter even than a little girl's wheezing efforts to just breathe, it arrives and leaves without any of its own amplification. No, that part is all us.

Rowen was heartbroken on Monday when they made the announcement at school. She cried in class, in the bathroom and in the counselor's office. She came home weeping loudly and threw herself onto her bed which creaked and squeaked under the force of her sobs. By coincidence, Randy was home early and we both talked to her, doing our part to belie the stealth of death with a stream of verbal comfort. Rowen, who will never be one to put off her emotions, took up a part in this living defense by switching seamlessly to funny stories of her friend's laugh and tried to imitate her through her tears. She mostly succeeded. In a little while the room seemed filled with sound waves from crying and laughing and talking, and death felt, if anything a little more solid for our acknowledgement. A little less frighteningly covert.

Today Rowen has a grief "hangover", a little headachy and sad, but not desolate. My primary concern is for her well-being of course, and I try to focus on that to override the horrible sibilance of "brush with death" repeating over and over in my head. I asked Randy if it's wrong to be so grateful that we're not the parents of the dead girl and he answered "No!" with a vehemence that makes me believe he's wondering the same thing. Quietness is too comfortable an environment for the wake of death, so the television and stereo are both on. When I'm done here I'll add the motorized droning of the vacuum cleaner to chase out the vapor trail of a terrifying silence which brushed by much too closely.

Random thought

Do you know why giving advice is such a bad idea? Look at the way it's spelled-

ad + vice.

Like I need more vices.

I covet this

It's all, "Burberry bad girl".

Just roll that around in your brain for a minute.

Uptight English plaid meets morbid man bag.

Must. Have. This.

Full Disclosure

I use a pseudonym on the web. I know, I know, I'm such a rebel. And recently, I've edited all my old posts from back when nobody read this thing to remove identifying information.

"alex", as I sign off on most of my comments on other people's blogs, is SOME PART of one of my three names (first, middle and last), and it's true there were a couple of people in high school who called me that, but I was also called "bitch" a lot and I'm pretty sure THAT'S not on my birth certificate. (But maybe... Hang on while I go check.)

Anyway, it seems a silly thing to have to say, but as more people who know me stop by for a little visit, I think I should probably point out that real names do not protect the not-so-innocent, so don't leave them in my comments!

I'm in the job market and the last thing I need is some HR manager googling my name only to find that I regularly drop the f*bomb when talking about my former employer, Fucking Walgreens. Neither do I need certain bad influences from my past popping up with unflattering commentary about how I spent 1996. I'll tell you right now that I pulled a stint with a traveling carnival as the bearded lady, but it'd be to get a laugh. Trust me when I say the uncontrolled spin would be much less funny.

Also, some army commanding officers don't have the broadest sense of humor. Shocking, I know. And even though Randy's last name is different from mine, I'm not going to jeopardize his career with injudicious statements about Fort Riley being a steaming pile of buffalo dung or some such. Not that I'm going to stop making such injudicious statements, I just don't want them traced back to us in real life.

Then there's always the common sense factor. While it's true that I'm raising a Free Range Kid, I don't need every trolling sicko on the internet knowing my kid's age, location, condiment preferences AND full name. C'mon, that's just dumb.

So, "Scarletvirago" may not be strictly real but it's sure as hell fair warning. Most everything else here is true, except where the truth interferes with a good story, because who wants that??

In the words of Chaucer (via Paul Bettany) "It's what I do! I'm a writer. I give the truth SCOPE!"

It’s like Tourette syndrome with vegetables.

Three years ago today, our little trio stood on the back porch of my soon-to-be-in-laws and swore a lot of improbable statements to each other. Well, Randy and I did most of the swearing, Rowen mostly stood there and looked pretty. But we made sure to include a promise to her, too, and when our anniversary rolls around she's always included in the festivities. Today they included ice cream BEFORE dinner because we're wild and crazy guys.

I've always thought that Randy and I have a non-traditional relationship, mostly because I've known him since he had buck teeth and freckles. Although really, he hasn't changed that much since last week. But also because we didn't get to our current situation by a traditional path. Randy's been married twice before, but that doesn't bother me as I have his word that I'm his favorite wife (and he has my insane giggle in response EVERY TIME because I'm an easy mark with a twisted sense of humor). I spent eight years being a raging feminist single mother with a serious penchant for verbally emasculating every male in a 50 mile radius. I was good at it, too! *sigh* Sometimes I miss my old life.

But so far, this one is way better. First of all, I get regular, two-person sex with a total hottie which, without going into a lot of details that you don't really need and that frankly, my husband would kill me for posting, IS REALLY AWESOME. (I had ONE boyfriend in those eight years and it was a disaster. This parenthetical message sponsored by Captain Obvious and his team of Amazing Understatements.) Secondly, Rowen now divides her endless stream of how-can-anyone-talk-that-long-without-taking-a-breath between the two of us. Our dry wall has less head-shaped holes as a result. Bonus! Also, I don't have to make the coffee anymore since I'm usually the last one to get up. This is important because I am NOT a morning person. And the Amazing Understatements just flew in my window and awarded me a blue ribbon for that statement. Lastly. . . , did I mention the sex thing?

Most importantly, Randy and I swore to be loyal, honest and forgiving with each other as these were the only vows I was willing to make and the only ones I asked of him. We swore to Rowen to always put the interests of the family first and to set a good example. Except for all the swearing, we've made one hell of a start.

Happy anniversary, family.