Indoctrinating Your Offspring into Your Cult of Choice

It's a pretty well understood concept that children are intellectually moldable creatures. Challenge them to consider new ideas, and they can really surprise you with their original thoughts. My experiences with teaching children and having my own children has never ceased to amaze me when it comes to the creative ways that children can process information.

That being said, it's also amazing that when children are spoonfed fundamentalist dogma, for their formative years, how scary and rigid they can turn out. You can't help but wonder what sort of inflexible environment has to exist for a child to give up their curious nature and their sense of empathy for other types of people.

I think that when you condition children that there are concrete right and wrong beliefs to have and right and wrong types of people to BE... that you're setting your child up for a hard life. No matter what you believe to be the "right way" to live your own life, it's important for a child to question things in their environment... whether that's questioning things that parents believe in or not.

It's surprisingly easy.. some would say disturbingly so.. to find the results of damaging kinds of childhood environments all over the media; one can only hope that these kids all grow up to learn how to think for themselves.

'Racist' parents fight for children

Wal-Mart Decorates Cakes for Nazis

Bubble Wrap: Now With More Anger Displacement!

There was once a woman who had a 2 year old son who crawled through a dog door and drowned in the family pool. Undoubtedly a tragedy. Certainly a reason for this woman to dedicate her time to informing people of the dangers of pet doors. This much I can understand and even heartily sympathize with.

However, Carol Ranfone is taking it one step further. She wants the law to require pet door manufacturers to put a warning on their products that tells parents that their children could crawl through the door.

If Ken and I had ever thought the pet door would pose any danger to our children, we never would have installed it. We thought he was safely contained in our home and had no idea he could get out.

WTF?

Saying that you didn't know that a child could access a dog door is basically saying, "We are incapable of understanding how the real world works." One wonders why these people are advertising their claimed inability to understand basic physics - it does not bode well for their ability to care for future children if they don't understand that HOLE IN HOUSE = ACCESS POINT.

While I appreciate that the Ranfones went through a horrible experience, I hardly think Carol Ranfone's argument says anything except that they cannot accept that they could have been so horribly careless as to leave their dog door unlocked/unblocked. The PetAccessDangers.com (the Ranfones' website) collection of news only serves to illustrate that there are a lot of careless ex-parents out there.

I can certainly understand how this kind of thing can happen - just because it was careless doesn't mean I think the Ranfones should serve jail time. Sometimes "they've suffered enough" is a valid reason to withhold further judgement. However, I don't think society's forbearance should mean that Carol Ranfone should be able to affect an industry in order to assuage her guilt.

Something as obvious as a dog door being accessible to human beings should not have to be noted on the packaging so Carol Ranfone can convince herself that she was not at fault for her son's death.

Don't Tell My Mom!

It's funny how in some contexts we never grow up.

When I was growing up, there were all kinds of things that I didn't want my mom to know. I didn't want her to know that I smoked; which she may or may not have, I was never sure how much my excuse of "all my friends smoke, that's what you smell" worked. I never wanted my mom to know that I smoked pot; to this day, I'm sure she doesn't know. And I never wanted her to know that I got a tattoo.

When I was a teenager, way back in the olden-times land of the mid 80s, the current tattoo culture hadn't started yet, at least it hadn't started where I live. According to my mother, if you had tattoos, you were either a biker or a prostitute. I was obsessed with having a tattoo and started visiting shops when I was about 16 years old and when I hit 18 I got my first piece of permanent artwork. And spent the next year of my life wearing nothing more revealing than t-shirts around my parents so that they couldn't see the silver dollar sized mark on my skin.

They did eventually see that one, about a year later, and my mom FLIPPED OUT. And over the years, as my art collection grew, she or my dad would occasionally get a glimpse of a new bit and they'd freak out all over again.

So, fast forward to the recent past of this past Saturday and me sitting in my friendly neighbourhood tattoo parlor with my son. For his 18th birthday this week, his gift from me was his first tattoo.

I am now seriously living in dread of my mother finding out about this.

I know, at almost 40 you shouldn't care what your mother says about things; but anyone who has a mom who does this kind of thing knows that it's not that easy. I *know* that at 18 years of age, any teenager has the right (at least in BC) to legally acquire a tattoo without parental consent. But somehow stuff like this is always my fault.

I'm wondering how *my* decisions as a teenager weren't her fault though.

Maybe, if I hear about this from her, I'll have to bring that up.

Bitch Therapy: Elegant Accompaniment to the Simple Snack

Since AT Kitchn was so good as to include on their lovely food blog a whole post dedicated that exotic culinary endeavour, the peanut butter sandwich, I thought that we should showcase the ultimate accompaniment to that pinnacle of cuisine: the glass of milk.

The first thing that you'll need for this creation is some milk. Many milk connoisseur prefer whole milk, while others find this variety too rich and cloying. When you are serving this beverage for company it is often your best bet to go with a middle of the road style, 2%.

Depending on how much of this delicious beverage you want to offer to your guests, you may want to offer it in a highball glass or maybe something a little smaller if you're only offering a small nightcap.

Some afficionados prefer this exquisite beverage in a room-temperature glass but I have also seen it served in pre-chilled glasses for maximum coldness. I sometimes even put ice in mine, likely a habit that I picked up after drinking an excess of Caucasians during a viewing of The Big Lebowski.

How do you like your glass of milk served?

Doing what you know needs to be done..

You know, I think that it's safe to say that we all know what needs to be done in life. We ~should~ eat right, exercise, relax, read good literature.. listen to Enya. Okay, maybe not that last one, but you get my point.

I have been meaning to get my ass off the couch and join a new gym this month. Why? Because I know that I need to start exercising more. I bought new jeans a few months before Xmas and the combination of Hallowe'en and Xmas goodies has added some extra padding to my ass and now they don't fit. So, I know what needs to be done and I have a realistic goal planned out... and have I been to check out the new gym that I think I want to go to? No.

Also along this same train of thought, I've been meaning to get back to my fabulous Paleo Diet eating. I did this eating plan (I hate the word diet) last summer and I loved it and it solved some health issues for me but do you think that I can get back on track now? NO. FFS...

So, knowing that both things will give me the results that I'd like to have... why can't I get my ass in gear and do them? The only excuse that I can think of is that it's really damn easy to be lazy.

In fact, some experts in evolutionary psychology think that laziness might actually have benefited early man. Relaxation, after all, does have a lot of benefits when you live in an environment that's likely very physical and with a lack of our modern unlimited amount of calories.

I guess that I just need to wake up and realise that I'm not an australopithecine and I need to get off my ass and force myself to the gym. The nice thing about not being an early hominid is that we all have the options of making these kind of choices for ourselves. I suppose it's just a matter of more of us actually making these choices...

Assertiveness Vs Being a Bitch

I have a very dry sense of humour. This statement comes as no shock to anyone who knows me in person. This doesn't even come as much of a shock to anyone who knows me primarily online either, unless they are a little oblivious to sarcasm.

However, some people—both in real life and online—read my straight delivery of dialogue and no-nonsense attitude when I'm doing something that I need to concentrate on as abject bitchery (closely related to abject dickery, but of the female variety).

This isn't a new problem for me, all my life the occasional person has read the intentions of my comments or facial expression (hereafter referred to as "Nim's srs face")as benchmarks of just what a big, humourless bitch I am. Now, admittedly, I can give one heck of a good "mom look" when it's required, but I'm pretty far from completely devoid of a sense of humour.

Now, don't get me wrong... sometimes when I'm in charge, my comments are basically of the "Stop fucking around and let's get this job done." variety, but I honestly don't think that this is a bitchy comment. If I wanted to be a bitch I'd tell people to stop being a useless waste of skin and get their thumb out of their ass... now that would be bitchy! (except that I couldn't say that without laughing, and that kinda ruins the whole effect I think)

My issue is, I think, with the fact that I hear men who're in charge of things make comments or requests (or what have you) to people all the time that no one thinks are "jerky" but when I'm in charge and I tell people to get on track or follow some rule, I get complaints that I'm rude or bitchy.

I was going to write some sort of eloquent and witty end to my little rant here but really, it all just comes down to the fact that if you're going to fuck around when there's a job to be done, don't act all butt-hurt when you get called out on it and asked to focus your attention on the job at hand.

Wherein Nim relinquishes the Cold Crown and I take it up

Nim was horribly sick last week. Now I'm horribly sick this week. I am writing this while I'm supposed to be working out and getting ready to type another day's worth of omgrealestateisawesome. But, no. No, I am stuck in front of this computer; horribly tired, but I can't stop swallowing and a constant stream of hot water, honey and lemon is the only thing standing in the way of me trying to rip out my vocal cords with that box cutter that I'm using to break down my boyfriend's dialysis boxes so that I can make coptic-bound books out of them. Long story.

Anyway, I could be at Emergency right now, begging for antibiotics, but I'm not. A) I am not at all eager to partake of the many delights of the emergency room, including blood and guts, certifiably insane people wandering around, the victims of drug deals gone wrong and people so high that they think they're floating on the ceiling when, in fact, it's taking four nurses to get their 280-lb body onto a gurney. B) I don't need drugs.

I'm a big fan of drugs in general; some of them have helped me deal with depression, some of them keep my boyfriend of dying from a stroke, some of them do the same office for my mother and aunt, some of them take away the OHDEARDOGI'MDYINGANDI'MGOINGTOTAKEYOUWITHME pain of my menses. (Hell, thy name is dysmenorrhea!), and some of them saved my boyfriend's life when the dog chewed through his dialysis cord and sent him to the hospital with peritonitis.

So, hey, I think drugs are all right. Except in my situation right now. I have a nasty head cold, laryngitis, general malaise, whininess, snarliness and crankiness. None of these things deserve the automatic application of antibiotics or any drug beyond the Dayquil-get-you-through-the-day-so-you-can-collapse-after-work (I'm staying home today, take that, budget!). I am a reasonably healthy person with no immunodeficiency problems (these people often NEED heavier applications of antibiotics to stay alive). Even my boyfriend doesn't advocate them, and he has to put up with my random application of emotion to common everyday things:

"Hey, you want some ice cream?"

"WAAAH!"

"What the hell? Why are you crying?"

(through the medium of signs and exaggerated facial expressions, since I can't fucking TALK) "I am unhappy because I feel miserable and I can't talk. Also, the Mayan Chocolate ice cream reminded me of that one time that we got it and we were happy and I didn't have a cold and I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE I WAS DEEP-THROATING A HACKSAW!"

"Oh. So, you want some ice cream or not?"

The poor man likes to fix things for me, so he got me pasta salad, a slice of chocolate mousse cake and a tub of Haagen Daaz Mayan Chocolate ice cream. This is better than any antibiotic on the planet and don't let the helicopter moms tell you any different.

Anyway, my point is that what reasonably healthy people need when they're sick is rest, plenty of fluids and (ideally) a caring spouse who will walk the dog and do most of the recycling transport to the curb themselves. Too many antibiotics and before you know it, you've just become the vector for the German Shepherd / Lab Cross Flu.