Category: A Day in the Life

A Day in the Life

Merit Badge

the outside lane

Today, the Boy Scouts of America will vote on whether or not to allow openly gay scouts.  I hope they vote yes.

I hope they vote yes because no matter what the vote, there will be gay scouts, and those scouts should have the peace of mind that all other scouts do.  Being gay doesn’t preclude being a child, being a male, or being interested in the various experiences open to Boy Scouts.  Being gay doesn’t make you a threat or a liability.  Being gay doesn’t make you a better or worse person, a less or more moral person, or have anything to do with how well you tie knots, set up tents, or start fires.  It has nothing to do with the Boy Scout motto:  Be prepared. 

It has nothing to do with the Boy Scout Pledge.

On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God, and my country, and to obey the Scout law; to help other people at all times, to keep myself physically strong, and mentally awake, and morally straight.

I suppose you could argue about “duty to God” and “morally straight”, but again, I would tell you that being gay has nothing to do with your morals–it has to do with your sexual preference, and it is just as possible to lack morals and be as hetero as they come.

And anyway, the scouting handbook defines that morality segement of the oath as meaning that a scout should:  “be a person of strong character, your relationships with others should be honest and open. You should respect and defend the rights of all people. Be clean in your speech and actions, and remain faithful in your religious beliefs. The values you practice as a Scout will help you shape a life of virtue and self-reliance.”

What that says to me is that there shouldn’t be any open Frat Boys in the scouts. 

So with that out of the way, here’s why I really hope the organization votes to allow gay scouts to be open:  because no one should have to hide who they are, least of all a kid.  If you’re gay, you’re gay and that’s fine.  It shouldn’t, and doesn’t matter.

“But, Lane, what if some gay kid tries to hit on my son?”  You teach your son to turn down advances politely and respectfully.  You teach your son to be flattered that someone thought he was attractive and engaging, and to feel comfortable saying, “Thank you, but I don’t share a similar interest in you.”  You teach your son that being liked by a boy is no reflection of weakness or reason to fear.  Being liked by anyone is a compliment.

“But, Lane, what if my kid turns gay?”  Well, what if he does?  I’m not going to get into the Nature vs. Nurture, Chance or Choice argument.  I’m just going to ask you this, “Would you love your kid any less?  Would you think your kid was damaged?  Would you think your child had lost value?”  And if your answer is yes, then you are the one with the problem, not your gay son.

“But, Lane, what if my kid is raped?”  Then you go after the rapist with a Louisville slugger.  Rape has as much to do with being gay, as rape has to do with being straight. 

Listen, I think the Boy Scouts stand for something good:  Teaching boys to be self-sufficient and considerate, contributing members of society.  I know a couple of scoutmasters and think the world of them (and they live in other states, which is too bad because I would let Thor into their packs.)  I think all boys should be allowed to take part in that.  Gay boys need to know to help old ladies across the street and make tourniquets, too.  It’s not like Granny is going to slap Jim’s hand away because he’s got a crush on Joe.  If you need Jim to apply direct pressure, it’s not going to matter that he wants to take Hank to the prom.

I won’t let my child be a Boy Scout because I am afraid of the pedophiles who are attracted to groups like that.  I do think that having a ban on gay scoutmasters fosters an atmosphere where pedophiles can prey on boys because the boys think they are in a “safe” sexual environment, and then end up victimized and traumatized, and unable to trust or ask for help because everyone knows Mr. Frank is a married man with kids, and married men never hurt little boys.

I’d prefer an openly gay scoutmaster who was genuinely interested in my son’s well being, over a straight jackass any time.  Dumbledore over Voldemort, y’all.

We all just need to be up front about who we are.  Lay out the cards, play our hands, and enjoy each other for qualities other than how we like to go bump in the night.  I’m straight, so I live in that privilege.  It’s time that privilege was extended to everyone else.

(I always feel I need to add this caveat, lest you think I’m down with NAMBLA:  I am 100% okay with whatever consenting adults consent to do with other consenting adults.  I am not okay with adults preying on children, the mentally disabled, the elderly, the chemically incapacitated, or animals.  If it can’t say yes within legal age limits and a reasonable understanding of what yes means, you shouldn’t be trying to nuzzle up on it.)

A Day in the Life, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, parenting, School

Some Days Start Badly

the outside lane

You know, I very rarely just make one mistake.  Usually, when I goof something up, it is a snowball effect of doom as I go into overdrive to try to correct the first error and end up destroying the space around me in true sitcom style.  Just ask Jamie and Wes, whose brand new beige sofa, barstools, and light colored walls I baptized with a large coffee.

I can’t even remember what triggered it, but I sloshed my coffee, and in scrambling to keep it from getting on anything, I splashed it out of the cup, slipped on what I had splashed, managed to toss the cup up in the air and somehow catch it by the handle as I swung in an arc around the living room that slung coffee from the breakfast bar, all the way across their new sectional.  Coffee in the floor.  Coffee on the cloth barstool seats.  Coffee on the sectional.  Coffee in my hair.  Coffee all over the place.  If I’d just stood still, there would only have been a small mess.

This morning, at 7:44, I realized I had missed the special parent/teacher conference that Thor’s teacher had asked us to attend at 7:15.  I panicked.  I waited until I got to a red light, then fired off an email apologizing and asking to reschedule.  The teacher wrote back and I couldn’t really read the whole email as I was driving, but some words popped out at me, including the words “field trip.”  I panicked again.

“Today is Thor’s field trip!” I yelled aloud at myself.  “And you didn’t pack his lunch!  AUGH!!!”

What could I do?  I was halfway to work, it was 7:55, and I couldn’t get back to his school with a lunch in time to beat the busses leaving.  I called the school and talked to the secretary, sounding like a crazy woman.  She assured me that they would send him down to the cafeteria to buy a lunch, and that they wouldn’t let him miss the field trip.

I hung up, starting to cry because a) I had forgotten my son’s p/t conference and I feel awful about that, b) I was afraid he was going to feel thrown away because I had forgotten to pack him a lunch, c) I was afraid he would feel weird because the field trip bus was waiting for him, and d) because my mistake had delayed an entire school full of 2nd graders.  I mean, that’s 100 kids on busses who are delayed because one mother forgot a lunch.  Have you ever been on a bus with a 7 year old?  Have you ever been a 7 year old on a bus?

I was just getting to the point of really worrying about my mascara when my phone rang.  It was the school.  The wonderful secretary had called to tell me she had spoken with Thor’s teacher, and the field trip is not until Thursday, so I hadn’t missed the boat entirely.  I laughed a crazy person.  She laughed like a concerned person.  I said, “Thank goodness!  At least I’m not THE worst mother in the world.”  She laughed again, uncomfortably, and we said our goodbyes.

Then, I was laughing and crying at the same time, and making like Alice Cooper with the mascara.  I crazy laughed for a solid minute before shaking out of it (when I missed my exit.)  So, while Thor might not know how close he came to 2nd Grade level trauma, his teacher absolutely, 100%, without any question knows where all of his shortcomings originate.  Maybe we don’t need a conference at all now?  Maybe she’ll just look at his tendency to forget things and feel sorry for him, given that it is a genetic flaw.

The kid doesn’t have ADD.  He has Related to Me.

A Day in the Life, movies, Thor

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pads

the outside lane

I went to see G.I. Joe with the boys today, and was fortunate enough to have my dinner upset my stomach badly enough that I had to miss about 10 minutes of the movie.  You know a movie is bad when you prefer gastric distress.  I knew it wouldn’t be great, but I thought it might at least be enjoyable.  Sadly, The Rock kept his shirt on for the whole thing, Bruce Willis was woefully underused, and that really dumb, cute one died in the first act–also without ever having taken his shirt off.  Storm Shadow took off his shirt, but his pants were so unattractive it didn’t matter.  (I’m not even someone who cares about looking at half naked men, so for me to have been actually disappointed that The Rock kept his shirt on should give you some more depth into just how bad the movie was.)

While I was washing my hands in the restroom, I noticed a woman crouched in front of the sanitary napkin/tampax dispenser, cranking that dispenser knob like she was a lab rat and it had given her cheese every other time.  She bounced the heel of her hand against the metal door a couple of times, then went back to twisting that knob.  I always carry a spare tampax, so as I was walking by her, I slipped it to her as discreetly as possible.  Passing the baton of sisterhood.  We did not speak, but in that moment, I know I made a lifelong friend.  If my life were a movie, in the third act, this woman would appear at some critical juncture to offer me a spare something-or-other that would be the key to my success.  That would make sense.  Unlike anything that happened EVER in G.I. Joe.

It’s funny how embarrassing feminine products can be when you are young.  I remember buying pads at Winn Dixie, when I was in high school, and lurking around the check out lines until I could dash forward into a line with both a female cashier and bagger.  The worst thing in the world was winding up with a boy bagging your Kotex.  And I wouldn’t buy tampons for the longest time because I was afraid of the stigma of them*.  I wouldn’t even buy Midol.  Someone might guess I was having cramps.  The most embarrassing, though, was having to ask my grandfather to go to the store for me.

Now, I don’t think twice about slapping down a couple of boxes in and among my fruits and vegetables.  Granted, now I could buy condoms without blinking.  Something I could not even do when I first got married.  And that’s something I think we should teach our kids to feel okay to purchase.  Instead of raising them to believe it reads, “I have the morals of an alley cat,” we should raise them to understand that it truly means, “I am responsible for my health, my partner’s health, and I am taking care to avoid unwanted pregnancies.”  Just changing that one perception would save lives.

Just ask Bill Gates, who raised himself even further in my esteem with his offered grant for the inventor of the next generation condom.  The grant offer challenges:

We are looking for a Next Generation Condom that significantly preserves or enhances pleasure, in order to improve uptake and regular use. Additional concepts that might increase uptake include attributes that increase ease-of-use for male and female condoms, for example better packaging or designs that are easier to properly apply. In addition, attributes that address and overcome cultural barriers are also desired.

We have to de-stigmatize barrier protection so that sexually active people aren’t so embarrassed or shamed by the product that they end up with life threatening, or life altering diseases, and bad cases of the babies.  I mean, I would certainly rather my child wait until he is old enough to be mentally, emotionally, and financially capable of handling all the potential fallout of sex, but if he’s going to become active before he’s 45 years old, I want him to feel comfortable going down to the CVS to buy some Trojans.  And I want his partner to be equally as comfortable.  Both XY and XX pairs should feel like it is as normal as buying mouthwash.  They shouldn’t have to sneak singles out of the jar in the nurse’s office.  Do nurse’s offices still have that jar?

To  bring this back around to the opening paragraph of this entry, I wish the makers of G.I. Joe had worn production condoms, and saved us from this travesty of a film. **

*This also had something to do with an encounter I had on a McDonald’s Playland as a child.  We had just moved to Texas, so I was not quite 11.  I was playing on the equipment, and some older boys wanted to be where I was.  I refused to budge, so they started bullying and name calling.  One of them yelled, “You need to go inside and change your tampon, Nasty, because you smell like dirty c—!”  I wasn’t sure what c— was, but I could infer that it had to do with ladybits because I was vaguely aware of what tampons were.  I did go inside after that because I was horrified.  I did not tell my mother exactly what was said to me because I knew I’d never get to go outside and play by myself again–and I would have to go visit her in jail after she threw the offending boy over the fence.

**Thor loved the movie.  He came out grinning and pulling Snake Eyes moves, demanding to be photographed in action.  It was worth it to see him so happy.  I’m still glad I missed a chunk of it.

My little ninja.
My little ninja.
A Day in the Life, Chef Lane, Diet, Family, Food

4 Way Chicken

the outside lane

Start with your crock pot.  On the bottom, layer half a large onion and 2 minced cloves of garlic.  Cover those with salt, pepper, cilantro, and parsley, and whatever else you like.  Nestle 3 large chicken breasts (skin on, bone in) on top.  Layer the other half of the onion and about 1/2 lb of carrots on top.  Season again.  Turn it on high for an hour or two, then turn it down to low and go to bed.

Get up a little early and turn off your crock pot.  Remove the carrots and set aside to cool.  Remove the chicken and set aside to cool.  Pour the broth through a strainer to catch all the grody bits, and set broth aside to cool.  Go put on your makeup, fix your hair, and wake up your kid.  While he is looking for his socks (they are in the bottom drawer, where they are every day) dish your cooled carrots, chicken, and broth into separate containers and refrigerate.  Tell your child if he can’t find his socks, he can never play Wii again.  He will find them instantly.

Take the boy to school, go to work, go to the grocery store and pick up 2 squash, 2 zucchini, more onions, red grapes, pecan halves, chicken broth (15 oz or so), 2 cans of white kidney beans, 1 can of corn, 1 can of diced tomatoes, some light sour cream, and some Peeps for the boy’s Easter basket.  And a giant, stuffed duck that you thought was a chicken.  You will realize your mistake when you sit down to write a blog entry.

Go home, unload and put away groceries, and help the boy with his homework, do laundry.  Fold the boy’s clothes and put them away (remember that you left your own clothes in the dryer when you are partway through a blog entry. Curse having thought you were finished for the night.)  Accidentally rewash husband’s clean clothes because they are sitting on top of the washer and you are feeling helpful.  When your mother says, “You look tired,” do not snarl.  Send mother home with hugs and kisses (no snarling), then move living room, dining room, and patio furniture around to be able to drag old sofa to the curb (with aid of husband) to accommodate new, improved sofa which will be delivered tomorrow.  Discover that the time the boy barfed on the sofa Christmas day, the reason you thought the volume seemed light compared to the sounds he was making is because all of it had run down the side crack of the leather seat, to congeal in a disgusting disc on the carpet beneath is.  Run the sweeper.

Return to kitchen and wash hands, find cutting board and proceed to slicing a large onion.  Use the finger guard on the mandolin slicer so that you don’t slice through your thumb and bleed into the onion.  Or, ignore that advice, and find band-aids.  Utilize.  Return to slicing.

In a large stock pot, warm 1 Tbs of olive oil.  Toss in your diced onions and 2 cloves of minced garlic.  While that gets going, open all your cans.  This will be difficult to do while bleeding profusely, but you will manage.  Once onion is translucent, pour in your drained cans of beans (both cans) and corn, and your whole can of tomatoes.  Add your chicken broth and simmer.  Salt and pepper to taste, then dump in about 1Tbs of chili powder.  Accidentally.  Or serendipitously.  Depends on how spicy you like your chili.

Remove cold chicken, carrots and stock from the refrigerator and grab a grocery bag.  Debone a breast of chicken, tossing grody bits into bag.  Remove skin and any remotely inedible yarf and discard into bag.  Dice chicken and shred, then add to pot.  Bring to a boil.  Taste broth and season as needed.  Decide to toss in some cinnamon–about 1tsp.  Mmm!  This will yield you about 5, 2-cup containers of chili, worth about 6 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

While that is going–simmering about 20 minutes after the boil, add another stock pot to your stovetop and empty out the refrigerated chicken broth.  Use your mandolin slicer (properly this time, you learned) to slice the squash and zucchini directly into the pot.  Add the carrots, then prep another chicken breast, this time only dicing it.  Drop all that into the pot, add 2 chicken bouillon cubes, bring to a boil, then cover and simmer 15 minutes.  This will yield you about 4, 2-cup containers of soup, worth about 2 WWPPV each.  Serve or freeze for lunches.

Finally, prep your last chicken breast and halve the meat.  Chop up about 1/2 a cup of red grapes, crush up about 1/4 cup of pecan halves, add 1TBS each of mayo, dijon mustard, and light sour cream, then stir half the chicken meat into that.  Season to taste.  Refrigerate and serve on top of greens as a salad, or in pita bread as a sandwich.  Yield is 2 large servings a 6 WWPPV each, or 4 small servings at around 3 points each–you could make it lower with low fat mayo, but that stuff is more disgusting than the 4 month old vomit you found under the sofa, so why bother?

With the last half of the meat, make chicken quesadillas with diced jalapenos, about 1/4 cup of cheese (your choice, I like Jack) each, and some Bacon Bits if you’re fancy.  Serve those for dinner.  Screw the WWPPV–you’ve worked them all off already.

Put boy to bed.  Put boy back to bed.  Put boy back to bed a final time.  Let dog out.  Let dog back in.  Wonder vaguely where husband got off to almost 2 hours prior.

Sit down and enjoy a bowl of soup.  Write a blog entry as a means of avoiding the dishes still needing to be done.

Get up.  Get your laundry.  Put it away.  Take a bath.  Go to bed, secure in the knowledge that at least you don’t have to cook tomorrow.

2011-11-19 21.59.40

 

A Day in the Life

Stuck in a Skirt and All That Jazz

the outside lane

I was getting dressed yesterday morning, feeling pretty good about my chosen outfit.  I got into my hose, my skirt, my blouse, and as I was buttoning up my blouse, I heard this shzzzzzzzzzzz sound and sudden draft against my ‘tocks.  The zipper of my skirt had opened from somewhere around the middle of its length, to its bottom–revealing mine.  I reached around to work out the situation, and found that I could not unzip the zipper past the waistband.  So, I was stuck.

Fortunately, the skirt had a little give and so do I, and there was the blessing that if  skirt fits my hips, it is inevitably two inches too big in the waistband.  I thought, “I’ll just wiggle out of this in no time.”  I thought wrong.

As I was wiggling, the hook at the top of the zipper got hung on my hose.  I didn’t realize that was the problem, thinking it was my hips, and I spent several seconds trying to make myself smaller.  When I did figure out it was the hose, I had to figure out how to get the hook out of the hosiery with minimal damage, since I was down to my last pair of those.  Success!  All those years untangling necklaces was suddenly helpful.

I wiggled myself down a little more, and the hook got hung again, this time snagging a hole so big that the knit of the hose exploded across my left side, like when Luke hits the vulnerable spot on the Death Star.  So, my skirt was off, but those hose weren’t going to make it.  I wore trousers instead.

I love the skirt, so I googled, “How do you fix a zipper” and found several sets of instructions.  One on ehow.com specifically addressed a separated zipper, so after obtaining the proper hardware, I went to work.  And I failed. I tried three times, with three different sets of instructions and none of them worked.  So I went to Walmart and bought a new skirt (and I am highly recommending these skirts, the matching trousers and blazers.  They wear well, look well made, and fit very nicely.  I bought black and tan in both trousers and skirts, and only had trouble with the one zipper.)  I also bought a garden hose that shrinks up, and this body shaper thing that is supposed to make me look like a tiny Korean woman.  I should be barred from the As Seen on TV aisle.

Now, I am going to go wash the car and take Hoo with me.  What can go wrong there?