Nose Mining, A Family Legacy

It was bedtime. In fact, it was past bedtime--9:25. The Little One (we'll call "LO", the 20 month old) and The Middle One (our 1st grader, we'll call "MO") were upstairs in their freshly fluffed bedroom of pink & lavender floweryness. It was quiet up there except for the Lion King playing in the background at a moderate level. I was winding up a quick chat online with Ricky, who will be flying back from Austin today, when the Little One shredded the calm with a Brillo-Pad to the teeth shriek of pain. The Big One (we'll call "BO", our 8th grader) and I startle and soon, the three of us were the Marx Brothers around The Little One.

"She keeps jamming her finger in her nose! Mommy, I think she put a green bead up there! I think I saw one on the floor and now it's not there anymore." The Middle One reports.

Helpful.

The Little One continues to squall and like freight train cars, the girls follow me to my bedroom where I try to investigate.

Sure enough, waaaay up the left nostril the faceted green bead glints. It's too far to reach and she's sniffing UP in between yowls. The Big One tries to console her, The Middle One begins trying to reason with her, "Don't sniff!! Don't sniff!! You're gonna make it go into the top of yer head!"

"Honey, she doesn't understand--it's ok, we'll get it out." I interject. The Little One darts her pointy finger all around trying to get it up her nose while I do my best to block. My mind's rolodexing solutions. The nose syringe? Can't locate, won't work. Press the side of her nose, work it down? WOW! No, ok, that's hurting her. Hey, okay, blow in one nose hole, cover her mouth! Yeah, do that. Doh! More screaming nothing budged. Don't cry, the kids are watching.

"Okay Guys, we have to get her to the doctor, Mom can't get it out. Hey, BO, grab her a pair of pants, hurry--and MO, get some clothes on, K? OH, GAWD! She's really poopy! Hey, BO grab me a diaper too, I have the wipes." Everyone steps to it. The baby starts to calm down. Good. We load up into the van and make quick tracks to the ER. I call Ricky and give him the heads up and put him to the task of calling the ER to let them know I'm en route (thing is, I'm also a little worried she'll snort the bead to the top of her head).

Two thumbs up for the ER. We were in within minutes. Three grown people restrained LO. The doctor, a woman in her 30's, went up after it with long tweezers. If you didn't know better you'd think a Pterodactylus was being slaughtered in there. No dice.

Next, suction. Nothing but snot and all the screams of outrage LO could muster.

The doctor abandoned the suction as quickly as she'd snatched it down and went back for the tweezers, stretched LO's little nose hole a little and went after it. It grabbed, bead slipped. The girls and I winced in unison at the tiny crunch sound of the bead escaping the tweezer's pinch. Crunch. Again. It grabbed, pullllllll-crunch.

In again. Little snap.

Another dive. She's got it, she's got it, she's got it---pullllll

Ploomp! The green offender glistened innocently in the mouth of the tweezers. A little bloody nose and LO--well, she was very offended by it all.

I claim full responsibility for the nose mining DNA contribution. I was a gravel up the nose kid.

What's ever been in your nose?

Grill

I like my dentist. In fact, she and I pass infectious snickering between us throughout treatment. No "laughing gas" required. So, yesterday I'm in for a little cosmetic touching up on my front four choppers--stuff maybe only I notice but all the same, I was in the chair.

She tucks cotton tubes between my gums and upper lip. I'm compelled to ask for a mirror already, but resist.

"So, you wanna grill?" she asks.

Now, even more attractive that just me with my upper chomp fully exposed, is me trying to suspend my snort-riddled laugh at the acid image of Flava Flav that blipped onto my mental screen.

The kerosene on the giggle fire was Dr. K whose face, even with a surgical mask and safety glasses, was clearly pinching up and laughing as hard as I was, hovering 12 inches above me.

She so crazy.

After it's all over with she offers me the hand mirror saying she really thinks it looks great. I tell her, "Okay, but it feels like Fire Marshall Bill or The Mask ala Jim Carrey." We were probably both hoping I wouldn't be startled when I looked in the mirror.

Nice. Subtle. Lovely.

A collective exhale.

Monsters

I normally like to sketch something thoughtful or even up-lifting here at the old blog-o-rama but today, boys and girls, we're going to hear about a special kind of depravity. Now, let me just disclaim first that I'm a little FEROCIOUS about mixing kids and strip clubs. I know, lighten up, right?

I'd link to this for you but someday the link might not be available so, for your browser ease, I'll clip it:

Dad Arrested After Toddler Wanders Into Strip Club
Boy Claimed Dad Said Monsters Would Eat Him

TULSA, Okla. -- A Kansas man was arrested at a Tulsa strip club after police said his toddler son was left in a cold car and found wandering into the club.
Christopher Greg Killion, 31, of Sabetha, Kan., was arrested Saturday on a complaint of "encouraging a minor child to be in need of supervision." He posted $500 bond and was released from jail.
The boy told police that his father told him to stay in the car, and that if he left it, "monsters would eat him."
A manager at the club had called police to report that about 30 minutes after Killion entered the club, a 3- to 4-year-old boy came inside looking for his father.

Officers determined that the boy had been left alone in a car in the strip club's parking lot.
The car was unlocked and parked about 20 feet from a four-lane street. It was raining and 45 degrees outside at the time.

Where are some hungry monsters when you really need 'em? Say, when Depravity Boy walks out of the cop-shop after posting his pesky $500 bond?

My People

In one weekend I spent hours enjoying some of my favorite people. People I'm proud of. People I love and call my own. My people.

This weekend, wow. How often do I connect with the best of them? Lingering hugs, arms all the way around the other, close your eyes and breath hugs. Hugs that whisper, "I've missed your face, Friend." And for no special reason, no event, no particular celebration, for no loss.

LiBA and her beautiful mother who love like no others, Miss L. the ultim-o-hostess, Markus Arelius & Mini-Me (both cellularly), Phoebe and her adoring prince, Billard back-stage at The Grecian, and my precious Roxanne, with whom I spent much time Sunday afternoon chatting with fireside over latte in the foreground of musicians who filled the luxurious cafe air with audile cream.

Each day was infused with snug squeezes with the Cherub-bean, and finally, draped across and contentedly so with my adoring "Ricky", a Diet Pepsi, and the remote control.

Speaking of the Cherub-bean, it sounds like she's awake--sounding off with her newest practical skill, blowing raspberries on her chubby forearm.

Over n' out.

Mystery Subject

So, I dig out a writing project I've been keeping a file on since 1999. I began more serious work on it again yesterday and I'm riveted--pulling down dialogue, choosing words like a prize-winner on a shopping spree at the Mall of the World.

Writer's High. That's what it was. If you've ever had it, you know just what I'm talking about and you'll chase it, catch it, and lose it again on a continuous cycle--forever. If you've never had it, it's what I would classify as a bonafied "peak experience". If you're not a word junkie and can't imagine why or how anyone could or would chase it (or that it's a real phenomenon), I understand. I've never had Runner's High for exactly the same list of reasons.

While shuffling through my "shitty first drafts" (By the way, that's a technical term as well as a chapter title in the best ever book for writers, "Bird By Bird" by Anne LaMott, thanks again J for turning me on to it so many years ago.) I happened upon a "just put your ass in the chair and write anything" sort of entry on a printed page. It had nothing to do with the project, it was just sharing a page with something else that did.

Anya, circa July 4, 2000:

"My friends have changed. And, I guess I have too. One in particular, and drastically. It's odd. It makes me feel like--how it might feel waking up on the subway next to the stranger you have always been on the same redline car with every Monday through Friday evening between 5:47 and 5:54 p.m. for the past three years. A twisted, blip of confused moments-- suddenly realizing you've been asleep, that your'not in your own home, that you're looking at someone you've consciously known--by face alone. A person you've never heard utter a word, not so much as a sneeze--jerking back into consciousness, almost falling to the floor snapping out of the narcoleptic fit. That's what happened to a guy I know. Now let me go on and start this play I've got to write."

Now. How can I not remember who in the WORLD I was talking about? It was so cryptic, yet specific and I can't snatch the memory file from my thinker.

If you're reading this, and you're the person I was talking about, remind me, eh?

Does It Really . . . Matter?

We're each more powerful than we very often realize. Events in history--yes, history--are changed by our slightest word, action, or inaction each moment. Nothing we decide to do or elect not to do fails to change the world. Nothing is small.

Words and deeds broadcast around the world, or known to an audience of one, can change the course of worlds within the World. My antennae are extended for those kernals of inspiration, which some might say allow me to make an entire event of 20 seconds of time. Here I go again.

The other night, Reece repeated something she'd heard and held as profound, passing it on to the rest of us who were listening. She said, "I'm just trying to matter." and she hoped her work would be a testament to her efforts to do so.

Sometimes very publicly, or behind closed doors, and even quietly anonymous . . . I too have always aspired.

The question is, "What will I do today?"

The "O" Office or Chocolate Diplomacy

Imagine the next presidency: Hillary Clinton and Oprah Winfrey on the same ticket. Now, whether you like Hillary or whether you don't, whether you appreciate Oprah or think she's a cult leader, I think this would be electric. Imagine the cabinet, the supreme court justice appointments, the legislation, the VETO's. Imagine Nate Berkus getting his hands on the White House.

The Middle One's first grade teacher assigned a little project last week. They traced their silhouettes onto black paper and beneath, on ruled writing paper, they wrote their own presidential platforms. Here's what the Middle One wrote:

I would do many things if I could be the President.
First, I would end the school day earlier.
Next, I would give chocolate to the world.
This is what I would do if I became the President.

I think she might have something with the chocolate thing. In fact, I may send a copy on to Hillary.

Itcher Birt Day

Punxsutawney Phil, the most celebrated meteorologist of his day, says 6 more weeks of winter. I say we fire him . . . or at least force him into retirement. I'll take over. For my first seasonal prediction, "Maui weather for everyone, story at 5:00."

I think Phil needs to re-examine his character. Why so skiddish? When I came out of prenatal hibernation 35 years ago today, I had the moxy to stay in the light of day, shadow or no. So, as an honorary groundhog, I move that we start the planting season early and fire up the grill.

On another note, I'd like to share an excerpt from one of the books I'm mining through.

"In essence I am deliberately rejecting our present easy distinction between sickness and health, at least as far as surface symptoms are concerned. Does sickness mean having symptoms? I maintain now that sickness might consist of not having symptoms when you should. Does health mean being symptom free? I deny it. Which of the Nazis at Auschwitz or Dachau were healthy? Those with stricken conscience or those with a nice, clear, happy conscience? Was it possible for a profoundly human person not to feel conflict, suffering, depression, rage, etc?

In a word if you tell me you have a personality problem I am not certain until I know you better whether to say "Good!" or "I'm sorry." It depends on the reasons. And these, it seems, may be bad reasons or good reasons.

An example is the changing attitude of psychologists toward popularity, toward adjustment, even toward delinquency. Popular with whom? Perhaps it is better for a youngster to be unpopular with the neighboring snobs or with the local country club set. Adjusted to what? To a bad culture? What shall we think of a well-adjusted slave? Even the behavior problem boy is being looked upon with new tolerance. Why is he delinquent? Most often it is for sick reasons. But occasionally it is for good reasons and the boy is simply resisting exploitation, domination, neglect, contempt, and trampling upon.

Clearly what will be called personality problems depends on who is doing the calling. The slave owner? The dictator? It seems clear that personality problems may sometimes be loud protests against the crushing of one's psychological bones, of one's true inner nature. What is sick then is not to protest while this crime is being committed.

-Abraham Maslow, Toward A Psychology of Being

What say you?

1000 to One

What are the odds on this? Exactly 30 days from the date of my last bout with a stomach flu, I take on yet another strain. Just hours after my last post, the Little One and I meet my husband for lunch at our favorite Indian restaurant. Oh, the foreshadowing . . .

I simply cannot emphasize how rancid it is to throw up Indian food. Much Indian food. Now, I would be happy to wield my slicing command of adjectives on you with this one but if you're an avid reader, which I know some of you are, you deserve to be spared that warm & chunky-soured curry blowing its way upward and outward like cops on a meth lab door. I could expound but I'd like you all to keep your lunches down to process through the common channels.

To be continued . . .

What's More Fun Than A Chimp With 8 Hands?

So, the day before yesterday I almost clicked "Save as Draft" before I flipped over to Outlook right quick. Yeah.

I had a Yosimite Sam fit and dealt a few more than the, "Frick'nFrack'nRazzi'm . . . " old Sam would have if he were in my shoes.

Aaaaaaanyway.

I prefer reporting my good consumer experiences far more than the Chronicals of Hell I continue to sample as a result of purchasing a Toshiba laptop 13 months ago. I won't bore you with the details, but I will say, Toshiba has effectively robbed ALL of you from at least 3 pieces of my mind in print since I began this blog. Yeah. Rally with me.

I'll have to recall the last post that blipped out of existence later today because right now, the Little One is attacking this keyboard like a 9 handed chimp.

To be continued . . .

The Faces of Love

Those who know me are aware of the haunting I'll do from time to time at the local Good Will store and it's cousin shops. Today, I just decided it'd been long enough since my last skitter through and the little one and I decided to take the stroller through the sacred second-hand gallery of chance.

I pick up a Blue's Clues VHS and head to the front to pay. No major treasure score today.

The wheelchair-bound woman working the register is about my age, plump as a ripe tomato. She casually refers to her price sheet, her finger trailing down its laminated length, scanning for "Kid's Videos" which turn out to be $1.48 each. She pokes two buttons on the cash register as a white-bearded black man interrupts the transaction.

"Shhhckewwzmee," he begins. Working his lips best he can, he utters an intelligible but earnest question of the cashier. An edge of impatience cuts the room when she answers, "What?" in the same tone a 4th grader might respond to a wise guy on the playground.

The man adjusts the bill on his cap as if to cue himself to repeat his question in a different language. He offers the words more slowly and deliberately this time, "I-sh wanna g'no fy'c'n take dad shhhckooder ow side fo m'wive come in."

He wanted to drive the motorized scooter outside to the car in the parking lot for his wife. The cashier was clearly uneasy but gave him the, "Yyeah, I guess that's ok." As he mounted the steed, our friendly cashier mumbled to me, with a sentencing eye roll, that she thought he must be drunk.

The old man fired up the scooter and, as quickly as he'd entered, he was on his way out--full scooter throttle. He was making good time toward the door.

"BAM!" The sticker on the door read, "Pull". He backed it up.

Another customer coming in tried to help him out by holding the door open, which he proceeded to lurch toward, make contact with, and become briefly wedged within. I left the store moments later through the "Push" set of doors on the other side, as he and other customer freed the scooter from the doorway and the rumpled rug. Almost to my car, the old man bee-lined past me in the parking lot driving toward his wife who was waiting next to their car a few rows back.

His wife could not have weighed one cookie less than 400 pounds.

He dismounted the scooter and looked on as she worked herself into a seated position on the cart. He walked with her as the scooter's motor whined with strained gears, creeping across the parking lot, its tail end scraping the asphalt. About half-way back to the store, I hear him belt out, "Naw, muss be juss runnin oudda chargin."

The baby was all buckled into her Lazy-Boy, and I was wrangling the 'instant collapse' lever on her stroller behind the car when I noticed that the 'Little Scooter That Could' just wouldn't. The slight angle of the handicap ramp from the parking lot to the sidewalk was too much for the brave little scooter. He just done gave it all he had. Now, Husband wasn't about to leave his girl stranded. The old guy bowed up and put both hands on the back of her seat and started pushing his gal up the ramp--and by golly, I saw the last few moments of his love for her in my side-view mirror as he opened the door for her to the Good Will store. I was proud of him.

How many dollars for a minute of your life?

This may end up sounding curmudgeony. I left a doctor's office today before treatment was rendered, but after being held in the examination chamber for more than 30 minutes. Now, hold on. Let's give you the back-story here. So I've got this 10:45 appointment for the little one (she's just 18 months old) with a dermatologist. Nothing life-threatening, just a lil' white spot on her arm that her dad and I thought we'd get looked at. The little one and I manage to beat the odds (if you've ever tried to get somewhere on time with anyone under the age of 3, you understand "the odds") arriving at the doctor's office 5 minutes before the appointment time. Now, again it's our first visit and we all know the "paper work" routine.

One of the women behind the sliding glass window gets me started with these few pages and I specifically ask her, "How is the doctor's schedule today? Is she running on time?" to which she replies, "Oh, yes. In fact just as soon as we get these filled out we'll get you right back there."

"Huh." I think to myself. "That's good. So by 11:30, we'll be sliding through Wendy's. Perfect."

The paperwork was easy and quick. Less than 10 minutes later, we're up. Down the hall, room 3, in we go left with instructions to get the baby down to her skivies and assured that the "doctor will be right in".

The baby was patient for 10 minutes on the exam table. She occupied herself for another 10 minutes climbing on the chair, testing the cabinet doors and peeking through the blinds. At 11:25 she's trying to open the exam room door to leave, I presume. She begins to cry the "hungry cry". She plops herself on the floor. She gets up. She reaches for me, still crying the Hungry Cry.

It's 11:28 and I've had it. The baby's hungry, she's crying (it's her well-established lunch time). I start to think about what the doctor might feel her time is worth. I'm more than likely to agree with any amount she'd throw on the table. Then I remembered the notice posted to the left of the "receiving window" which stated very certainly that if you were more than 15 minutes late for any appointment, your appointment would be rescheduled. I hear casual chatter and laughter from the hallway outside.

The lavender jumpsuit the baby was wearing went right back on. I had time to snap all 20 snaps, gather our things and walk to the front of the clinic with no sign of the doctor. I stopped at "the window" and asked the same receptionist to send us the $15 co-pay because the baby was starving, we've been here more than 45 minutes and we're just not waiting any longer reminding her politely that we'd asked if the doctor was "on-time". Taken aback she starts, "Well, the doctor is just right there."

I said, "She's starving. We're going."

Now, this is not PMS rearing it's head. This is not a short temper. This is principle. This is our life. Granted, the dermatological appointment wasn't life or death and was probably low priority. No bleeding or disfigurement . . . but why not just "suggest" a time for us to show up instead of making an appointment.

A few years ago, I learned something that stuck with me about being on time. Wayne McKamie said, "If you're late getting somewhere, with very, very few exceptions, I'd ask you to look back and honestly say to yourself, 'So what was more important than getting here on time?' Sleeping? Web-surfing? Taking just one more non-emergency phone call?'." And McGraw throws in, "It's just arrogance. You're telling me that my time is far less important than yours."

Does this qualify as a rant?

Blankety-blank

I've begun writing this entry now for the fifth time and each time I've floored the back-space button wiping the window clean. There's at least some pressure to write something entertaining in one's blog; and if not, at east some sort of worthwhile rhetoric, no? So, it's just me?

I doubt it.

Well, now, speaking of flooring the back-space button, here's something for ya:

What would I give to have the truly traumatic events in my life . . . erased from my memory? In retrospect, which memories of your own, if you could choose just one, would you have erased or at least blunted? Now, I say, specifically "in retrospect" because if you're reading this, and you can think of one, you obviously survived something of relative intensity or even horror. Since you've survived it, and you didn't die--has this memory served you in a positive way since or did it remain turning point from which there has been no return, keeping you arrested?

Would you take the "trauma pill"?

http://www.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/01/14/trauma.pill.ap/index.html

So far, I'll keep even the traumatic events on my hard drive. I lived and even continue to thrive far beyond the reach of their haunting tentacles. Again, it's all relative and I think this sounds like a positively merciful pharmacological answer for many. Bioethics. What a tangle.

Sort Of Like Thong Underwear

My 'ole friend J spoke the truth in just and only the way J would. I began writing this blog with revolvers in each hand ready to do some serious shootin'. I'll just cut'n paste J's e-mail response to my "new blog":

Subject: RE: New blog

Lovely lovely.
You’ll develop a love/hate relationship with it.
Sort of like thong underwear.

xo


Seriously.

I've got plenty to say today, and I'll pin it up here a little later today. In the mean time, let me change into some "grannies".

Two More Words

Well, the wily Mr. Markus, whose cunning has become lore hath responded with his "One Word"--and being rule-bending, line-walker he is, responded with two. I admit, I enjoyed actually reading the definitions of the words he sent--because I'm positive he read them before he sent them.

ardent: Displaying or characterized by strong enthusiasm or devotion; fervent: “an impassioned age, so ardent and serious in its pursuit of art” (Walter Pater).

and

emulous: Eager or ambitious to equal or surpass another.

You know what I always say, "Takes one to know one."


Current recreational reading:

"Toward A Psychology of Being" and "Religion, Values and Peak-Experiences", AH Maslow


What're you reading?

Resurrected and Resuming

"Fweww." Anya sez, bracing against the kitchen sink. The food poisoning or gastro-intestinal flu mix-up change-up hybrid has left the building after setting up camp the the last 3 hours of a road trip to Dallas on Christmas Eve, a tour through Christmas Day, stopping over at the Presbyterian hospital around 4:00 pm for stabilization visit which included morphine, 2 liters of fluid and some other drug and x-rays. This lasted until far beyond bedtime.

It wore out it's welcome long before the 10 hour drive home to Kansas City the following day and decided to hang around for the grand finale on the 27th--all day. Our water bill will reflect it's curtain call next month. Yes, an exhausting guest. After waking up, I took inventory of myself, a roll-call of my extremities first, then from head-to-toe internally. I have an amazingly resilient immune system, ask anyone, ask my mother. This stuff must have sharpened it's teeth before ringing my doorbell.

Now, I am well.

I woke up from a dream this morning, in which I was explaining to a rural resident, with typical Anya brand zeal and methodical detail, how together with an out-of-town attorney, we could win a Brockovichian style lawsuit against his local law enforcement, city and county for the gross negligence and abuse he and his family have endured at their hands. Something about giant, water-filled sink holes in the roadways and easements.

Yeah, me either.

What's Your Anti-Venom?

Chances are, I'm in need of the book I'm writing as much or more than my eventual audience. I'm becoming more acutely aware of what used to be pre-recorded responses, auto-piolot routines and self-preserving protocol I've apparently developed throughout my life thus far. I believe that this process of birthing this work will be deeply cathartic and will shock me as much as it thrills me.

I'm game.

Morissette rhetoric tugging my shirt tale:

"Do you go to the dungeon to find out how to make peace with your days in the dungeon?"

Why would you? Why do we?

Go feel good today.

Your Calling Card

Somewhere between then and now I stopped to think about what it would take to interrupt the self-feeding, cyclical currents that keep a person arrested in development, time, and prevents them from fully realizing their 'mission'. Motivation has shifted and will continue to shift like a glacier. We've all been waking up for a long time and with each hot drought, the awakening becomes more pronounced.

So, to the subject line. What's on your Calling Card? One woman I met recently is, "a mom of 3 who just can't get a break from cleaning toilets, making lunches, tangling with her ex-husband and being over weight and trying to be the best wife she can to a supportive, adoring husband". She wears it like a badge of honor almost and as much as she feels she can't turn loose of it, she hangs on to it white-knuckle.

That's a helluva calling card. What if her calling card read, "Loyal, Confident, Capable, Honest, Brilliant, Charismatic, and Cherished"? What if she started there?

Now Showing

So I sent out this, "One Word" feedback email to a select group of my people ('my people', little do they know). It goes like this:

"Okay, All. I found this on an interesting blog and couldn't resist. I hope you'll participate and follow through for yourself.

Describe me in ONE WORD...just one word! Send it to me only, then send this message to your friends and see how many strange things people say about you! This could be fun! Just hit reply and send me my one word back.

Then forward this message on to your friends (including me) and see what they say about you!"

So far, two words that have bounced back are, "Genuine" and "Passionate". Nice. I like to think so on both counts.

Mr. is in San Jose on business until tomorrow afternoon and has been gone since EARL-LIE Tuesday morning. I might just make the trip with him next month on the turn-around. A little ocean will do the girl some good me thinks.

The Big One was home sick from school today with the crud she's reportedly had since Thursday night, the Middle One came home sick from school with the stomach FLU, had it all day. The Bitty One is just a super-charged, turbo tyke today with an agenda that rivals a pack of chimps in a fruit factory. The Big One is hitting the sack right now, the Middle One has been instructed to do the same and Crazy Britches is mounted on her super-pony rocking horse, throwing back a sippy cup. It's 9:29 and she's fully alert.

I was just thinking of a word my mother coined the other day. "Hork" or "Horking". Apparently, this is the word she uses to describe my dad's morning hack. Now, this isn't just her husband, because mine 'horks' in the morning too. Not for a long time or even persistently. It's just a brief 3 or 4 'horks' that vibrate my eardrums like an airhorn going off-indoors. So, to be clear, it's more than just a hack, it's a 'hork'. I'd be willing to wager I'm not the only woman who hears horking in the morning. Could you imagine if either one of them were smokers?

Forgive my reference to the syndicated sitcom, "Friends". I know most of you are over it, and perhaps even some of you don't know enough about the show or it's characters to appreciate what I'm about to say; however, I'm finding out, a little bit at a time that I have, for those of you who DO know what I'm talking about, the Monica house cleaning thing. Now, Ms. Zinka has the same illness and whether my mother knows it or not, she has it too and I don't think any of us would have it any other way.

"Hello, my name is Anya and I'm I have OCD with Monica Gellar overtones." (All together now, "HI, ANYA!") As far as psychosis goes, I'll keep that one.

Here's something I can say around the house and folks know what I'm talking about. Today, I spent an inordinant amount of time cleaning my master bathroom and after it was finished, it made the noise. Yes, 'the noise'. It's the noise clean things make in the cartoons, "DING!" with little sparkly-sparkles floating in the air. Uh-huh, I know. So I tell the Big One and the Middle One, "Now, I want you to get your rooms clean--and they better make THE NOISE."

It's funny to even them. They chime in, "DING!" and I say, "Yes, exactly. Now run on now n' get after it. I'm coming up there in a little bit and if I don't hear 'the noise' I'm pulling out my robo-spankers." To which I pretend my arms and hands are robotic spanking instruments presented like two switchblades. They always laugh--I wonder if they take me seriously or they're just waiting to grow up and find a good therapist. LOL.

Over and out. That's the first blog in a series.