Jogging Tax

I was working on the chest of Himself this afternoon, some active release on those crabby pectoralis muscles, when I began to think about breathing. Admittedly, I was mostly thinking about the possibility of not breathing if I happened to press too hard and collapse his lung, but it progressed from there.

After all, we've got two lungs, and surely that's a bit excessive, don't you think? Probably one's just for back-up.

In that case, there's a lot of superfluous, double-lung breathing going on. Especially with all those exercise fiends you see out there, running and power-walking and such, using at least twice as much air as they're properly entitled too. Don't these people ever consider the Peak Air scenario? I mean, sure, it seems like there's a lot of air, just because we haven't run out yet, but isn't prevention better than trying to find a cure?

I despair of them, I really do. You'd think they'd abstain, just out of common decency and kindness to one's fellow man/woman/person. But it seems that we'll have to take direct action against these wanton, wasteful breathers if we're going to have air seven generations from now.

I suggest a Jogging Tax. That would be a good name, though naturally it would apply to all frivolous athletic endeavour. We could apply to it every pair of new sports shoes, bicycles, or yoga pants, and use the funds collected to buy respirators for the chronically oxygen-deprived.

I would even volunteer myself as the Grand Poobah of the Fresh Air Initiative, and (in exchange for a generous per-diem) I'd travel the country by private jet, holding community meetings where the voices of concerned, sedentary citizens will finally be heard.

It's novel ideas like these that change the world, faithful readers. Mark my words.

This Train Is Bound For....

This weekend, during the lunch break between classes, the conversation turned to oral sex.

Now, this is something I don't want to discuss particularly, not here and now. But it's something I even less wanted to hear about while I was trying to eat my lunch. After a few minutes I couldn't restrain myself any longer. "Please! Please! I'm going to be sick! Let me finish my salad in peace!" The ladies who lunch, they laughed. Apparently I'm silly and old-fashioned and prudish.

And then the talk took a more serious turn, as one of the women, more or less my age, related a story about her 14 year old daughter. Apparently this young woman was engaged in a game of Truth Or Dare at school, and she was dared to lick a classmate's penis, which she did. The laudable part, the point of note, was that her relationship with her mother is so open and trusting that the daughter told her all about it. The maternal counsel she received? "Make sure you only lick the side, not the end, because you might get a disease."

The consensus at the table was that this exchange was proof that in a loving, open mother-daughter relationship your kids can come to you with anything. Obviously this woman was a solid contender for Mother of the Year.

I'm sure my mouth was hanging open, Romaine dangling from my teeth. Is this for real? I CANNOT IMAGINE, I really can't, A) my daughter doing anything so stupid, or B) giving her such stupid advice. Who knew that disease is so easily avoided? And where did I get the silly idea that 14 year old girls shouldn't be licking their classmates like popsicles, on a dare?

This is a strange world. I'd try another one, but the train isn't due for goodness knows how long...

Ignorance is NOT Bliss

I've got Patch making gluten-free bread today. He said he's interested in learning to cook more complicated things, and I think that's a great idea, especially now that he's reading more easily. There are a lot of ingredients, and a few steps, and a recipe helps a lot.

Knowing how to cook for yourself is one of those most basic skills, as basic and necessary as knowing how to brush your own teeth. I think it's a SIN when a person leaves home not knowing some basic cookery skills. It's a terribly handicap, both in terms of self-sufficiency and finances. Ready-made, or restaurant food, is horribly expensive, and most often less nourishing.

Even more so, to send this boy, my celiac son, out into the Wild Beyond without knowing how to bake his own bread, well, that would be cruel. He loves it. He's crowing about his talents as a chef, and making plans to master other favourite recipes.

I astonished a classmate this weekend by mentioning that I spent my summer raising and butchering chickens. She couldn't imagine that much DIY. I can't say it was my favourite-ever activity, but I'm sure glad I know how! Knowing how to get rid of a headache fits in there too, in the category of basic life-skills. I love my line of paid work.

I love fiction, and I love fabric, and I love speculative conversation. But I can't enjoy all those other things without knowing I've got a firm foundation in the earthly world of hands and soil. Funny. It's not like I love chicken shit or hauling water or weeding gardens. But something in me knows I need it.

It's just a drop in the bucket of available knowledge, useful knowledge. Drip, drip, drip... another fifty years or so and I might be up to the quarter-full mark!

Holy Homework, Batman!

(image from morguefile)

How am I going to get all this done in 4 weeks?!!!

My brain doesn't have enough storage space!

Ghostly Gabor

Currently reading:

Great book. Go find yourself a copy.

Passion is a divine fire: it enlivens and makes holy; it gives light and yields inspiration. Passion is generous because it's not ego-driven; addiction is self-centred. Passion gives and enriches; addiction is a thief. Passion is a source of truth and enlightenment; addictive behaviours lead you into darkness. You're more alive when you're passionate, and you triumph whether or not you attain your goal. But an addiction requires a specific outcome that feeds the ego; without the outcome, the ego feels empty and deprived. A consuming passion that you are helpless to resist, no matter what the consequences, is an addiction. - Mate

Food

I'm in the midst of packing for my November school weekend. Oi. Travelling gluten-free does NOT mean travelling light. I can't leave it to the very last minute, or I end up eating nothing but cheese and fruit, and I'm not that sort of woman. This month I'm raising the bar and bringing little individual containers of cooked chicken, romaine lettuce, homemade dressing and grated parmesan. Chicken caesar salad.

I should bring some extra cloves of garlic so my classmates have the option to join me in my vice.

Or, alternatively, I suppose I could bring my toothbrush.

It's frustrating, trying to be prepared for this many meals away from home, but the truth is that even when I can find a restaurant that serves GF, I certainly don't enjoy it more than my own cooking.

Mind you, I have no quarrel with the dishwashing staff. Really, that's the best part of eating out, don't you think? No dishes. Amen.

Escape Hatch

I'm too lazy to go back looking in the archives, but did I mention that Poppy goes to school now? She started last winter after we moved here, going a few days a week. The principal here was great about it - said she could come when she wanted, for what she wanted, no b.s. about having to jump through hoops that don't really exist except in some little god's fantasy.

And because he was so easy to get along with, this September she enrolled full-time. This is the deal we struck: they get the funding, and I'm the last word, and nobody messes with mama. She's doing Gr. 10 full-time this semester, but next semester she'll probably end up going half-days. When school doesn't work for us, when better things come along, we go with the better portion. If there's some kind of problem of "socialization" (believe me, there are a LOT of "socialization" problems in public schools that I've never witnessed among homeschooled children), Poppy has the option to walk away. Any time. She doesn't have to be there. Ever.

It's working out wonderfully. She's got a goal to be a psychologist, wants to do the academic paper-trail through high school, and is motivated by group situations. I bumped her up a couple grades because her age-peers are struggling through material better suited to elementary level.

You know? I think it's possible that she's the only kid in the entire school who actually wants to be there. She gets herself up at 6:30 every morning and walks there. She's the only one walking too, as far as we can tell. There's a bus, but she doesn't like taking it unless it's really cold.

And it's all because she doesn't have to. Anytime this stopped working out, she could stop going. I know it, she knows it, the teachers know it. The exit is always an option.

I love that. I love that my kids know they don't have to put up with crap that doesn't serve them well. I jump through the hoops of my schooling because it's getting me where I want to go, and the destination is worth the journey. If, for some reason, it stopped being worthwhile, there's no "must" involved. Same for Poppy. In her life, school is there for her - she's not there for school.

Patch? He doesn't consider school an option. Possibly ever, though every once in a while he talks about getting a trade ticket at a college in order to facilitate his business plans. He's got a strong entrepreneurial bent.

Yesterday he was discussing with me his future as a married man with children, and considering that he might like to be the one to stay at home with his kids. Homeschooling is really important to him - he wants to make sure his kids have that opportunity, but he doesn't consider it a foregone conclusion that his wife will be an at-home kinda gal. I love that too.

My kids have a wide world, possibilities on every side. We all do. The trick is letting the scales fall from our eyes.