Boo frickin' hoo!

Well, thanks to the overwhelming response regarding my new blog persona...ok, not really. Seriously, despite the fact that I know I'm writing for myself, I'd like to think there's someone out there who'd be willing to help me out with my name (besides CM who I know will always persist in suggesting cunninglinguist--I did like Lingenie, but I'm still thinking about it).

Whatever. I'm not here to grouse (ok, who are we kidding?), mainly I'm here to pose the following question:

What do we do when we need to parent our parents?

My sister and I have been going through a ridiculous amount of stress and drama with our parents (mainly our mother) in the last year--longer really, but we're ok with letting some of those things be bygones. I'm heading up to the homestead this weekend to help my sister deal with our mother's crap. I know I've written about this before, but it pretty much consumes my thoughts (that is when I'm not thinking about school, work, how much work it is to keep my own house clean, and the fact that I'm able to gain weight just thinking about food).

My mom buys things/collects things/refuses to donate or throw away things because things make her feel better. Granted, I sort of get this. I like going to Target because it makes me feel happy to buy new pillows or even air fresheners. But I don't do this on a regular basis, and I don't buy so much stuff that it swallows up my whole house. Yesterday, my sister came across a pile of clothes in our mom's secret lair (they covered an entire sofa) that for the most part had never been worn--the tags were still on them. Now, I try not to air my family's dirty laundry too much, but my mom is constantly complaining how she has no money, no one ever helps her, and she shouldn't be forced to live the way she does.

We know she has problems--I've seen these people on TV before on Oprah or Dr. Phil. But how do you even begin to do an intervention on someone like this? I think this goes beyond Suze Orman territory; she needs a psychiatric evaluation because this is getting into what resembles manic.

The thing that just kills us though is how she complains to us, to anyone who will listen, that we're such ungrateful wretches to let her life get this way. Are we? From her point of view, she thinks we should be regularly toting that barge and lifting that bale over at Momtown. I''m not so sure that she didn't have kids just to put them to work. From our point of view, we worry that maybe we're enabling her when we do bail her out (which seems to happen on a very regular basis).

Where do you find the happy medium? I know this woman needs some serious tough love, but we're not sure how to start. It's easier when you're the parents because you do have authority over your children. But when you're the kids...well, the channels are a lot more obscure.

One thing I've noticed as an adult is that I tend to surround myself with friends who are stable. I don't have time for drama (although in the past I have often stepped in to be the voice of reason in many situations--I'm seriously old beyond my years). Additionally, my stable posse seems to have pretty freakin' stable parents themselves. Indeed, many of my friends have parents I covet. You know, happily married, frugal, healthy, and sane enough to travel and spend time doing fun things with their adult children. I have no idea what this might be like, but it always looks pretty awesome to me. Perhaps this is just another case of the grass being greener--this case in someone else's family tree (weird, weird mixed metaphor there).

You can't pick your families, it's true (although God knows I'd pick my sister if I had a choice because she rocks). But how do you deal with the fact that you can't exactly write them off either?

Define Me!

Hey blog-reading friends! I've never been overly attached to my blog persona (moniker? not sure--you know, the thing I call myself), and I'd love to hear your suggestions for a new one. No offense (in fact much praise is owed) to David Bowie for the creation of JeanGenie, but I think I can do better and be more original. Remember, it should be creative, original, and not my "real" name. I'm not sure what I can offer, other than fame on this here blog for helping me out, but I'll try to think of something.

Always the Babysitter...

Oh hell! Dorothy just gave me a fab shoutout, so I thought I'd write a blog seeing as how what I should really do is edit, grade papers, work on my presentation for tomorrow, or write up a research proposal. I'd much rather blog. It's so cathartic.

Dorothy's post about finding a good babysitter gave me so many ideas, I pert near don't know where to begin. I've been babysitting since I was 11, so I guess that gives me 20 years' experience. Now I don't know why I was trusted with another child (though in her parents' defense mine were just across the street and said child was a very demure 7). I've seen it all--angels, hellraisers, whiners, pukers--but my favorite babysitting story comes from a time when I was a nanny.

I spent my first stint in grad school being REALLY poor, and I was a part-time nanny for a delightful family to supplement my puny teaching award. One night when I was babysitting, the oldest child, N. did something that merited a timeout in his room. Now, he was probably 6 or 7 at the time, so a timeout in his room really meant playing with Legos and Bionicles. But, he was still pretty pissed. At some point I walked by his room and spied him doing various ninja poses in his room. This itself isn't weird, except that they were accompanied by him giving the bird (to whom or to what I don't know). As a seasoned babysitter, I decided to let it go. Mainly it was funny.

Later, when his parents came home, I told them the story and asked them what they thought. His mom noted he had seen a driver giving another the bird one day, and N. asked what it meant. His mom told him that the bird-giving driver was angry at the other, and that the finger gesture was a rude one that shouldn't be done to other people. I liked her logic here--it sort of fits with those things that kids will do (flashing, touching themselves) that aren't inherently bad, but certainly aren't meant for polite company. So, N. interpreted this to mean you just don't give others the bird (but hell, no one said anything about the privacy of your own room!).

I have to say that I've found myself re-telling this story over the years. It's a great tidbit of parenting, and my demonstration of ninja moves with the bird is pretty hilarious.

Being able to share this has been good for me today. I'm overstressed, overworked, and generally hating of all things relating to my doctoral program (hello! Chomsky! I need to have a word with you!). I think I'll go in my room, channel my inner ninja, and give him the bird.

A Little Piece of Om

Over the weekend my sister and I engaged in a bit of housecleaning. Well, actually it was cleaning our mother's garage. There was a lot of crap in there. But amongst the crap, I found things that I treasure too, like my baby book. Damn, I was cute. Mortgage Partner commented that I looked like a fat Asian baby. Now, for those of you who know me, I'm as Anglo as they come, so this is pretty funny.

My favorite aspect of my baby book is the signed letter from George McGovern congratulating my parents on my birth. Yay for me! My mom's best guess is that it was a political connection of my father's (and not that South Dakota had so few kids born that year he sent letters to us all).

I like to think that I was a positive addition to 1976. Maybe there was a whole bicentennial baby campaign I'm not aware of, but maybe ol' George was just being optimistic about the future.

Finding this tidbit has gotten me thinking about the things we save and the things we pitch. I'm somewhat of a packrat, but dealing with my mom's stuff has definitely made me think about the stuff I'm willing to hold on to (or not). I'm astounded that I have everything I need (and more) already. I mean, seriously. I am a mere 31 (heh heh), and there really isn't a damn thing I need anymore. Forever. It has all become about things I/we want. We could live in this house for the rest of our lives, and other than taking care of our little piece of history (e.g. replacing old tile, refinishing the floors, winterizing the basement), we don't really NEED to do anything or buy anything. It's all about taking care of what you have and hoping that it will last awhile.

I see this in the ancient furniture that we have--Grandma's buffet, the 19th century dining room table, my mother's boudoir chair circa 1950, great-Grandma's iron bedframe...don't get me wrong, we are not posh people, but we have nice stuff. And we're lucky that it's been passed down to us. But there's stuff we don't need, either. You know, like old magazines and lotion circa 1998.

Being a saver, one has to think about these things. New is not necessarily better (Mortgage Partner's La-Z-Boy in teal is a testament to this--future generations will NOT be begging for this to be left to them). These things tend to fall to pieces, as Dorothy has noted. The bookcase you buy at Wal-Mart will have to be re-bought in a few years. And so it goes.

So I'm evaluating the things we have with a new eye. What stuff will my kids (or chimps, as MP wishes) want to have from me? What does all my stuff add up to, anyway?

Mouse on a Wheel

So, I seem to have an obsession about mice. Sorry, but this metaphor occurred to me as I was deliberating about what's interesting enough in my life to blog about. Nottalotta, but I did buy a treadmill this weekend. I'm not super thrilled about running in my basement since it's dark, dank, dingy, and depressing. I'll even take a cue from my friend, Dorothy, here and say it's a little like Silence of the Lambs--you know, the scene where Clarice goes into the basement and it's all dark and scary and the killer guy is wearing nightvision goggles? Dorothy used to say her basement at This Old House was the Silence of the Lambs basement. Now that they don't live there anymore, I feel the torch has passed so to speak, and now we have the basement with the crumbly walls and musty horribleness.

But, if running on a treadmill will help me be buff and ubersexy, then so be it. I might lie and say it's because it's good for my health to get some aerobic exercise, but the truth is I've always wanted to be a hot, athletic-looking person. So I'll run a little to make the insides of my thighs hurt, and I'll do the laundry while I'm down there. Double the pleasure.

Back to the mouse metaphor, the whole thought of running in place is, of course, much like a mouse on a wheel. I used to have pet mice when I was in junior high, and they would run for what seemed like hours on end. And the wheel would screech. And they'd jump off and chug some water from their water bottle. And they'd get back on and run and run and run. Sometimes they'd wear out a little and stop, but the wheel would keep going, and the mouse would be clinging to the wheel as it finished a revolution or two. And sometimes another mouse would be on the outside of the wheel while one was running, and it would inevitably roll to the bottom and then climb back up on top for one more round. My cat, Jetta, who is now a very elderly 19-year-old, could watch the mice for hours. And she'd sit there and hit at their cage, trying to figure out a way in. She never did, but it was highly entertaining to watch her.

Ever since I started running on treadmills a few years ago, I've worried that I would fall down and the treadmill would keep going. It's not a pretty mental image, but I'm a huge klutz, so anything is possible. Since we have basement windows, it's not impossible to think that the neighbors might watch me on the treadmill. I hope to God they don't tap on them while I'm running, because that would scare the shit out of me.

Camp Cushycanoe

So Mortgage Partner and his dear friend Dr. Doolittle are off for a weekend of canoeing in Bum F*ck Missouri. They just departed in Doolittle's efficient little truck with the camper top, their packs filled with goodies, for a weekend of manly adventure. Note: that's what Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds thought they were getting too.

Mortgage Partner and Doolittle will be staying in a lovely two-person cabin with a kitchen. The canoeing outfitter will deposit them at Chicken Farm Runoff River. They will leisurely canoe down said river with snacks in hand and time enough for a jaunt in the woods o' Missouri. The canoeing outfitter will then pick them up, and the lads can return to their cabin and watch Fight Club on Doolittle's laptop. (The distant sound of men beating on chests and growling...)

Ok, I mock too much.

I think they'll have fun. It's good for the guys to get together and have man time.

When I graduated from college, my 5 best female friends and I canoed in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. Our experience was a bit different. Rascal (don't ask, that's her nickname) packed just enough food for the week, and we schlepped all our supplies with us, which meant that 4 people carried the canoes and 2 people carried the packs when we had to portage. We also had to tie our food up in a tree at night so the bears wouldn't eat it. It rained every day were there, and it was in the 40s most nights (despite being June). I was definitely the most inexperienced of the bunch, being somewhat of a dainty princess, but we had fun. I look back on it as a character-building exercise and a final chapter of college before we all had to become grownups. Truth be known, I haven't camped since, but I don't think it has anything to do with being wet for a week, smelling constantly of campfire (and worse), and being worried about getting bitten in the ass every time I had to potty.

I'm sure there's another reason, but I can't think of what it is right now.