Social Media as Small Town

Posted on May 21, 2013 by Janiel

Remember the olden days when you could go about life incognito? When getting new bands on your braces did not news-rocket through your social sphere like Sputnik circling the globe? (Yeah. If you don't know what Sputnik is, you totally don't remember the days I'm talking about.) Social media has turned the entire world into a small town where everybody knows everybody's business and has an opinion on it, and I'm pretty sure I don't like that.

I grew up everywhere, my dad being in the Air Force and all. People knowing people for more than three years was a new concept to me. It blew my socks off when I moved out West, settled into High School, and listened to people say things like, "Do you remember in third grade when Carl stapled Janae's sleeve to the desk?" *group guffaw* "Oh, I remember Miss Doherty fainting during Kindergarten snacktime and that's how we found out she'd only be our teacher for half the year since she was pregnant." "I forgot about that!"

Everyone in that room had the same memories. And everyone in the school knew when anyone's dad lost his job, or any kid got any new thing.

Weird.

And now everyone we don't know knows all these kinds of details about us too.

Weirder.

There's a lot to say for fomenting brother-and-sisterhood in this world. Unless brother and sister are the kind who follow you around slamming the piano on your fingers or yelling to your friends at your first big party that you are finally wearing a BRA. (Yes. This happened. But it might have been me yelling it to my older sister's friends.Thank heavens I wasn't on Facebook back then. And hopefully she's forgotten about it.) (Come to think of it, I don't think I yelled. I think I actually put one of her new bras ON over the top of my bright red Christmas sweater and paraded it in front of her friends. Oh yes, that is much better than yelling. Clearly I am the one who should be reading this post.)

My point? I can't really remember now. I'm feeling guilty. I need to call my sister and apologize. Maybe that was the point.

And also, maybe we should stop waving our unmentionables (or those belonging to others) around in public. Take it from me. It'll haunt you forever. And who wants a stranger commenting on your My Little Pony drawers anyway?

Social Media definitely has its benefits. There's a lot of good stuff happening in them thar wifi-waves. I'd just love to see a return to some private life too. And respect for it. And no more little sisters being obnoxious.

I'll work on that last one.

Motherhood-Induced A.D.D.

Posted on May 1, 2013 by Janiel

Dudes. I need a new brain. One that can multitask. I don't mean multitask as in: "Let's see. Gotta take kid1 to the eye doctor and kid2 down to campus and kid3 back over to the shoe store. Wonder what I'll cook for dinner tonight. Wow, that woman's jeans are seriously painted on. I mean there's skinny, and then there's 'Hey, wanna see my deep vein thrombosis?' Whoa, dumb dog. This is a 2000 pound death machine, Fido! Wonder what frames kid1 will pick out today."

No. I mean multitask as in what my huz does. The man will go out on a 10 mile run — psychotically short for him — and come back having created his entire business strategy for the year, his personal fitness regimen, done the family budget, and figured out cold fusion. Me? I come back from a run having decided to leave the rosemary out of the chicken because it tastes like varnish. Also that Tom Cruise is getting slightly less annoying lately, so maybe I'll go see Oblivion.

I'd like to think my funky thought-rhythm is because I have been caught up in the wonder of stay-at-home-mom-hood lo these many years, and now my brain operates on a higher multidimensional plane. One where it takes varied sources of information and assimilates them into nuggets of nurture and beads of beauty. But the truth is, motherhood has just made me A.D.D.

I mean it. I have had to focus on so many schedules with so many deadlines and so many meetings, destinations, emotional/hormonal/pubescent crises, for so long that my brain has lost the ability to operate in a linear fashion. It's probably not an emergency. But I am tired of being so stinking entertaining to my family. "Mom, did you remember… Have you signed my… Have you paid the… You were supposed to take me to…

Sigh. I remember starting tasks and actually completing them. I remember feeling like I was good at something. Ah well. I guess none of this has been without accomplishment. I have nice kids who haven't run away and joined a circus yet. Whose neuroses I can take complete responsibility for because they came from me instead of someone I was paying to do the same thing. That's good, right? Plus, my husband and I like each other even after 27 years, and that counts for a lot.

Still it would be nice, once in a while, to be able to complete a simple train of tho

Wisdom Teeth. They Ain’t So Smart.

Posted on April 29, 2013 by Janiel

You find out who people are when they're on anesthesia. My Number One Son got his smartypants-teeth out last week and it was highly entertaining. As a side note, why are they called "wisdom teeth?" If they're really wise, why do we remove them? We are in desperate need of wisdom, as a world. Judging by the news maybe we should leave peoples' wiz-teeth in.

Anyway, the experience with this boy was kind of adorable. I already knew it was going to be funky. We don't drink or put anything else of questionable origin into our bodies. Never have. This kid has an older sister who, when she had her oral surgery, used the medication coursing through her virgin-veins as an opportunity to behave like a lunatic. She slammed me into walls, the shower, the garbage can – whatever was nearby – as I tried to help her maneuver around the house. And she temporarily lost the power of speech, growling like a garbage truck every time I asked her something. She was having a ball.

Now, Kid1 is a good kid and still she acted like that. Naturally I was apprehensive about Kid2. Well, after his surgery I picked the boy up and ran by the post office. Then we went on to Roxberry for a fruit smoothie. We sat and discussed flavors and sizes and finally ordered. As I was driving off I mused, "Hmm. I'm kind of hungry." And Kid2, true to his natural kind nature and through a mouth full of cotton and a numb tongue, said: "Go ahead and ge' some foo'. I'b fibe. I can juth wai' in the cahhhh." And I was all, "Are sure? I can get something at home. I don't want to leave you in the car." "No, no, ibit's fibe. I'be fibe. You ca' go."

So I go'ed. Stopped at Café Rio where there was a sizeable line. After a bit I got worried. I'd left Kid2 all druggy and alone in a car with the windows rolled down. I had to make sure he wasn't wandering around the parking lot and the cops weren't ready to arrest me for being a neglectful mother. So I popped out to check on him, but he shook his cotton-stuffed head and said, "I'be fibe! Go bac' in!" So I did.

As soon as I got back to the car a moment later, my kid sat up and we had this conversation (translated from CottonMouth into English):

Kid2: Hey. Where'd the Roxberry come from?

Me: Frommmm Roxberry. We got it a few minutes ago, remember?

Kid2: We did?

Me: Yeah. Right before I got my food.

Kid2: You got FOOD?

Me: We went to the post office and then to Roxberry and then got food.

Kid2: We went to the POST OFFICE?

Then the doctor called, wanting to make sure all was well, and I said:

Me: We're almost home. We've been gone about half an hour . . .

Kid2: WE'VE BEEN GONE A HALF AN HOUR????

At home, I helped my child rinse his mouth, take his medicines, and then got him settled on my bed at which time he said, "So, when are you going to give me my medicines?"

I left this short-term-memory-impaired teenager alone in my car in a restaurant parking lot?! I mean, the boy is of age. But clearly he was completely anesthetized. No way was he qualified to be on his own, or, say, operate heavy equipment. He was barely qualified to operate a heavy tongue. And Kid2 stayed like that for another day. Doesn't remember a thing about it. Even when he Jekyl-and-Hyded into an Angry Angry Hippo for a few hours. Doc said it is normal to whack-out a little. Thank heavens that really isn't my child's normal.

Well, I've learned my lesson. I'll never believe a post-opp'ed child who says they feel fine, even if they are acting normal. Also, my next kid is going to be knocked completely out, have her surgery at home, and I will have a freezer full of fruit smoothies at the ready. I won't have to take her anywhere, and she won't get mad at me for writing about her hysterical behavior on my blog. Because she won't remember it.

*evil grin*

An Open Letter To My Blog

Posted on April 20, 2013 by Janiel

Dear Blog:

I miss you. Once upon a time I had dreams that we were going to be famous, you and I. It was all planned out, with footnotes and everything. We would get a book deal and tour the world. We would dine on beluga caviar dipped in sparkling cider because we don't drink alcoholic beverages. Well, you do. But I'm the designated blogger so I can't. And, dearest, there would be a movie. I would be played by Angelina Jolie of course–mostly because of how much we resemble one another. I could be her stunt-lip-double. Plus I can do that leg thing she did at last year's Oscars. And you, YOU, my darling. You would be played by The Pioneer Woman's blog—at the very least. Maybe even HuffPost.

But, you know, life got in the way. I got busy. I never bought that one camera that would have transformed me from a blechy photographer into Ansel Adams, augmenting your words and lines with a visual pulchritude Penelope Cruz could only dream of. Plus, I was going to finish my English degree to add serious cred. But I just never got around to it, what with raising 4 kids and a husband. Not that I'm raising my huz. Okay, yes I am. And he's a fine fine man now. At the expense of you, my little repository of word-smithery. I hope he's happy.

The long and short of all of these sacrifices is that there are, forgive me, six people reading you on a regular basis. Six. And one of them is my aforementioned and very well-brought-up husband. So, okay, 5 people. Not that he's not a people, but he sort of doesn't count because he reads you by marriage. Also there's my little brother. Sometimes. When I threaten to staple his underwear to the ceiling if he doesn't read you. Does that count? Ooh! Ooh! There's my one best friend in all the world who I am sure is reading this even though she doesn't comment much, but I can tell by our psychic female connection that she is here regularly. I can tell. She is. So apart from them, there are like 3.3 people reading you. And I'm pretty sure they're the most important people in the world.

So I don't need to give up on you, darling blog. Not if The Most Important People In The World are reading you. And maybe Ms. Jolie-Pitt will still be happy to play me. Especially if I volunteer my lips for her most dangerous pouts and puckers. Yes. We shall persevere. And anyway, things are looking up! I believe I have an email from Martha Stewart's blog asking if it can be a stand-in for you should that movie deal come through.

I'll just go beg them . . . er, I mean . . . say yes.

Men’s Jeans. No Butts About It.

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Janiel

The other day I saw a sight my eyeballs are still traumatized over. I was driving past a city park near our local High School, when ambling around the corner came a nice-looking young man. Teen-aged still, I think. Happy. Healthy. And MUCH too cheeky.

The kid nodded and began cool-dude-ing it past me, and I will tell you what: it was Moon-River in my rear-view mirror, my friends. The boy's jeans were slung so low there was not one blessed thing left to my imagination in terms of his boxer-brief-thingies. Not to mention that which they were designed to hide. The denim waistband on Cool Dude's pants must literally have been pinned to his thighs. Or velcroed. Or spray-glued. There is no other way those jeans hadn't flipped him around in a Ringling Brother's pratfall. Gravity doesn't jive with that much defiance.

Now, I am not so far removed from teenage and young-adulthood that I can't remember some pretty moronic styles. I am a child of the '80s, after all. A decade which featured Molly Ringwald in the movie Pretty In Pink, wearing a satiny pink flour sack to Prom and calling it haute. I attended college with girls who blew their bangs straight up like little picket forehead-fences. Not even kidding. Must have taken a vacuum and a whole lot of shellack to stand those fringes at attention like that.

And it was okay. We all knew the idiocy was temporary. We wouldn't need to endure it for long because it would soon go the way of angel-flight pants and the Pompadour. But honeys! What is up with the thigh-pants? Boys have been wearing this style for nigh unto 20 years! They're wearing the same style their parents wore. Where's the shame? The built-in horror at remotely resembling their parental units?

It baffles me. And I'd love to say something that would change it all. It might be nice to see a good old-fashioned inseam longer than the 19-inch illusion this style creates. But I guess boys will be boys. Maybe we just need to make a new law. You know, regulate the length of a stride. Make it a yard and a half, at least. Maybe if these dude-sters rip out their thigh-velcro or flounder in the grass long enough they'll get a belt and yank it up. Until then, pray our emergency rooms have enough frostbite fighting bun-warmers. We've been having some wicked cold-snaps lately.

If You Watch Nothing Else Today, Watch This. “Gratitude,” by Moving Art

Posted on February 18, 2013 by Janiel

I want to live like this:

Right?

In Which My Kid Figures the Russian Meteorite is Biblical. And How Would He Know?

Posted on February 15, 2013 by Janiel

Have y'all seen video of the meteorite hitting Siberia yet? Crazypants. The sound of its crash is really quite horrifying. So horrifying that I'm not going to post it here. Don't want my blog to become a bastion of PTSD. But my young son heard about it this morning and came rushing into my office to watch the clip with me . Then we had this conversation:

Him: Whoa! That's freaky.

Me: Yep. It is.

Him: Is that Wormwood?

Me: Er . . . you know what Wormwood is?

Him: (Looking at me like, Duh mom.) Yeah. It's that meteorite that's supposed to hit the earth and kill all the trees and stuff right before the world ends.

Right. It's in the Bible. A book I have not ever managed to get all the way through — at least not the Old Testament. It loses me at the Begats. You know, "And Adam begat Seth, and Seth begat SomeOtherDude, who begat Methuselah, who eventually begat Noah, and then they kept on begatting until King David and Joseph and Jesus and the rest of all y'all got here."

I just can't read that sheer volume of ancient proliferation. I start wanting to know who those people were and what they looked like, and did they do anything special on the weekends, and what was their favorite color. It's a major time-suck, and I can lose an entire day over it.

But Wormwood? That's in the book of Revelation; I know that much. When the habakkuk did my eleven year-old read the book of Revelation? And more important, begin to interpret it? It sure as heck hasn't been our bedtime story reading material. I've been waiting for the movie to come out.

Well, maybe I should listen to my boy. I'm sure the Siberian locals thought the end of the world was nigh. The wicked crack upon Wormwood Junior's landing — and all the ensuing aftershock-y cracks — would have made me think so too. Maybe my kid knows something I don't know.

And maybe I need to rush right down to my storage room and check my supply of toilet paper. (Because as we all know, when the apocalypse hits, toilet paper is going to be THE hot commodity. It's going to be gold. Especially where womenfolk are concerned. Must. Have. Toilet paper. Y'all should just run right out and buy shares in Charmin. Stock-tip for the day.) I mean, out of the mouths of babes, and all that.

Still. Wormwood landed clear in the heck out in Russia. And my kid's prescience notwithstanding, that's stinking far away. I'm sure we're safe. Nothing ever hits America. Right? We're cool. And just in case, so is my supply of toilee scroll.

Love. All You Need to Know. Because I’m an Expert. And I Write Poetry.

Posted on February 13, 2013 by Janiel

Love is the craziest thing life has to offer, I think. And we go through so many stages with it. Fear of it in adolescence; trying to figure it out as young adults; and finally calmness in life-long commitment. All of these phases are filled with wonder, frustration, fatigue, and joy. So I thought I'd see if I could capture them in poetic form. I mean, it is the season of Valentines and heart-giving, after all.

The first poem is exactly how I remember Junior High school. The second, a few experiences in college. And the third is an ode to the dude who has put up with me for twenty-six years. Perhaps they'll remind you of your own experiences. Or maybe why I need therapy.

Teenage Dystopia

So this is critical mass.

When chemicals

and things I’ve never heard of

Swirl so violently around

My body

They burst through skin,

Red and unwelcome,

Like great aunts who tell you

In front of your friends

That they’ve bought you new underwear

In coordinated colors

To match your bra.

Ack.

It’s also boys

Who obssess about things that smoke

Or explode.

Or who make noises

like a deflating balloon

When I walk by,

And get my name wrong

On purpose

So I sound like lunch food.

Do they think

I think

They’re cute?

Well I don’t.

(But I do.)

And finally,

My legs come up to my armpits,

My hair is straight,

My front teeth look like they’re

trying to leap out of my mouth

in case I say something stupid

– like a little kid –

Which is perfect.

Because I still have corners

Instead of curves

And I do look like a kid

And maybe boys don’t think

I’m cute.

Death.

My mass is so critical.

Iambic Love

He wrote a note to me the other day

And filled it with his soul and heart and eyes

A longing sonnet begging me to stay

With him, and seek no other wand’ring skies.

“A girl whose mind is always on the move,

whose heart is tied to zephyrs’ errant path

finds not her life, while searching for her groove

but finds,” he wrote, “instead her folly’s wrath.”

I sat and read the prose again and ‘gain,

And wondered if my whirling life should be

Forever tied with him, forsaking pain

Of years spent roaming ‘lone with only me.

His haunting words did pierce me as I wrote

“Than stay with you, I’d rather kiss a goat.”

Through the Window

You stood in relief

Against the sky

That pierced the glass

Of years gone by.

I thought upon

How you had changed

Your youth and vigor

Now exchanged

For something more

Built like a man.

Not broke, nor old,

And not less than

The boy I took

Into my soul

Who sometimes gave

And sometimes stole

And often stared

In speechless awe

At my ability

To draw

His rage, his love,

His deep embrace,

The changing moods

Upon my face.

And though I often

Gave him cause,

He ne’er forsook me

In my flaws.

A sort of calm

Pervades you now,

Though often still

I am a cow.

Our children come

Our children go,

The furrows on

Your face I sow,

And still you stay.

Upon my word

There’s surely one

Among the herd

With whom you’d rather

Spend the eve

Of living’s day,

And never grieve

The loss of peace

The loss of cheer.

But then you say

“Oh no, my dear

There is no other.”

And that’s why

I gaze at you

against the sky

And op’ the window

Of my joy

And pour it out

Upon my boy.

The Movie Police. Literally.

Posted on February 11, 2013 by Janiel

I went and saw JACK REACHER at our local Cinemark the other day — and as a side note, Tom Cruise was not awful in it. In fact, he was quite enjoyable. A little self-effacing, with a relaxed delivery, and no psychotically clenched jaw muscles beneath a piercing gaze of piercingness — you know, the kind designed to make the bad guy's clothing burst into flames at the sheer intimidation of it. Nope, in this flick the Cruisemeister was quite likable. And really, if he were to ask me, I'd tell him to do what William Shatner did and make a brilliant career out of poking fun at himself, sprinkled liberally with that which made him endearing in the Reacher film: barely disguised sweetness.

So anyway, after handing my ticket to the ticket guy, and while debating whether or not to give in to my uncontrollable Pavlovian response to the smell of buttered popcorn, I noticed a uniformed police officer standing (in a rather tall and burly manner) at the back wall, watching all of us little moviegoers arrive. I stood there looking at him, then slowly followed my huz down the hall toward our theater.

I knew why the dude was there. I can read the paper. I still get a shard of ice in the pit of my stomach thinking about the events of the past few months in our country. And I must tell you, Officer TheaterProtector honestly made me feel better. Just by standing there looking all police-y. So I went back and told him thanks. Which was the only time I saw his concentrated demeanor crack a bit. Into a smile.

Yeah. I appreciate these guys and gals who protect us. I have a brother-in-law who does that too. I hate to think our society has devolved into a state where we need that sort of surveiilance. But I'm grateful for the people who put themselves on those lines for us goofballs. We who spill soda on the theater floor and explode popcorn all over the row in front of us when that one guy jumps out from behind that one thing on screen and startles the living shortcake out of us.

It would be lovely, though, if we could get back to a place where we didn't need that. Maybe if we watched a few more movies with a few fewer guns, we could get there. Just a thought. In the meantime, Thanks, Protector People. May you live long, live safe, and never have to do anything more than look intimidating. If you do, I'm sure Tom Cruise wouldn't mind loaning you a few of his better REACHER lines. The one involving drinking blood from a boot should work in just about any situation. Google it. While the rest of us go watch WE BOUGHT A ZOO instead.

In the Fetal Position . . .

Posted on February 6, 2013 by Janiel

My Little Whackjobs and Me, Many Moons Ago. Pre-Fetal Position

I just got rat tailed by my apron strings. And baby its a sting that's going to last at least 18 months. I've got a child leaving today for distant shores to serve humanity and see the world and do a whole lot of growing up that I won't be there for. Well, technically this daughterlette doesn't need to do a whole lot of growing up, as she is legally an adult these days. Nevertheless, I have lost my power to suggest, to guide, to gently prod, and to flat out nag. For she will not be nearby to hear me.

In addition to this, I've watched my beautiful girl blossom away from me in a manner that has sent tremors into my heart. I thought we'd already done this. I mean, she's been away at college for the past two and a half years. But it turns out that when college is just a few towns over, your kid can be living in their own apartment and still feel like they're living at home. They just have really long work hours.

For two and a half years I've been able to take her "OMIGOSH-I'm-Going-To-Fail-This-Class" phone calls, and the "My-Roommate-Does-Dishes-Differently-Than-I-Do" phone calls, and the "How-Do-You-Get-Grape-Juice-Out-Of-Carpet" phone calls, and most important, the "Boys-Are-Dorks" and "Mom-I'm-Sick" rescue missions.

I don't get to do those any more.

And I'm probably going to go permanent fetal position. Because I know that after this grand world experience of hers, things between this child of my ~~stretch marks~~ heart and me are never quite going to be the same. I don't think she's the only one on this path either. I think at some point ALL of my little people are going to head down the road that leads away from me. And I'll be dragging along behind them trying to duck tape those stinking apron strings back on.

But . . . it ain't gonna work, is it? I actually have to accept this rite of passage, even though everything inside of me is screaming that MY CHILDREN NEED ME. Who the heck else is going to know how to make their homemade chunky spicy applesauce? Or which socks belong to which kid because I cleverly got them all the same design and color? Who will sense when they need to sit down with me and watch the latest Sherlock episode because their life has gotten too stressful? Who will figure out when to say something and when to hold back? (No I mean that one. Because I haven't figured it out yet.) But most of all, WHO WILL MAKE THEIR FAVORITE CARAMEL FRENCH TOAST ON CHRISTMAS MORNING AND SPECIAL OCCASIONS IF I'M. NOT. THERE? WHOOOOOOOOO?

Okay fine. Breathe. In. Out. In. Maybe my kids will do it themselves. And maybe my role will morph a bit. But I'm still mom, right? And I've got their email addresses and have figured out how to use Skype. They'll always need to talk with me, right? So it's all good. I can breathe. It is a normal part of development for a child to DESTROY THE APRON STRINGS TO WITHIN AN INCH OF THEIR MOTHER'S LIFE. I'll be fine. And they will too. For reals.

But just in case? I'm totally holding their stuffed animals and naked baby pictures hostage.

Life in Bits

Janiel Miller – Accidental Stay At Home Writer . . . er . . . Mom

Motherhood-Induced A.D.D.

Wisdom Teeth. They Ain’t So Smart.

An Open Letter To My Blog

Men’s Jeans. No Butts About It.

If You Watch Nothing Else Today, Watch This. “Gratitude,” by Moving Art

In Which My Kid Figures the Russian Meteorite is Biblical. And How Would He Know?

Love. All You Need to Know. Because I’m an Expert. And I Write Poetry.

The Movie Police. Literally.

In the Fetal Position . . .

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