Fighting for that "Gratitude Attitude"

As you may or may not know, many years ago I created a website to reach out and offer peer support to other mothers who understood what it's like to experience PostPartum Mood Disorders (the main web page is at http://www.ppdsupportpage.com/ if you would like to visit, but I've not been great about updating it). I sometimes journal there, and the following is the body of my most recent entry. I thought it might be worth sharing here.

Hmm, shall I try to remember all the "disasters" that have befallen me since my last journal entry? In no particular order, my dishwasher died, my laptop had SMOKE coming out of it when in use and is now in pieces waiting for a part that my DH ordered from China or something so it won't be fixed for a while, and I guess the "big" one is that I rolled and totalled my car (which, by the way, was just paid off earlier this year) a mere four days before my 39th birthday. There were a few other smaller "oh crap!" things, but I think those are the highlights.

I'm still doing physical therapy for my foot/ankle injury and still having to deal with nerve damage issues. I do have some more feeling in the foot, but the feeling that has come back is all pretty much just pain. For example, the simple act of a light touch on portions of my foot (which would normally feel soothing or ticklish) HURT like crazy. Putting on a sock is sort of like ripping a reeeeeally sticky bandage off.

It's also prime time for me to have my big fibromyalgia flare-ups, which happens whenever the weather changes fairly drastically (so let's just say the change of seasons is more than just watching the trees do their thing for me). I've sometimes described fibromyalgia as being a bit like arthritis for the muscles, tendons and tissues of the body. I've also sometimes described the pain as feeling like someone's beaten parts of me with a bag of hammers. In other words, ouch!

DH still doesn't have a job, and I obviously am not suitable for the work force, so money is...well, let's just say I'm pretty much constantly on edge about all things money.

This week is a hard one because Friday would've been Daddy's birthday, and Sunday would've been my parents' anniversary (their 57th, I believe, if Daddy were still around). So that's on my mind.

Now, given alllllll this crapola, you'd think I'd be depressed as hell. Well, you'd be right...to a point. But today I changed the title of my journal to "Fighting for that 'Gratitude Attitude'" for a reason. I changed the title to reflect the way I want to approach the challenges I face.

I've got a lot to be thankful for, even in the face of all that's gone wrong in my life.

Yes, I totaled my car that we'd finally paid off. But when that wreck happened I was going with the flow of heavy traffic on the interstate at about 65mph. I hit something on the road, had a blow-out of my front right tire, went up an embankment, hit tree branches at the top, turned at some point, and rolled back down. My car landed on it's wheels, my right foot's toe wedged UNDER the brake pedal and the heel wedged on TOP of the gas pedal. The motor was still running and revved up, and I was now FACING thick oncoming 65mph interstate traffic. But I'd landed against a guardrail which prevented me from driving full throttle into oncoming traffic. My car was totaled, but aside from a bit of bruising from the seatbelt, bruising on my legs from the dash and steering wheel, bruising on my shoulder from slamming against the door, and general trouble from mid-back up...I was okay. I didn't hurt anyone else outside of my car, and I was alone inside of my car.

IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE. I could have left my children without a mother that night. When I'd told my DH goodbye that evening, it could have been the last time.

Sometimes I know my friends get a bit annoyed with me, because when I speak about anything that's gone wrong in my life, I almost always preface it by saying "it could always be worse". But if I ONLY thought about the bad things, I'd be miserable all the time (in spite of the fact that I'm a Prozac-for-life woman). Now, don't get me wrong - it's not always easy (and sometimes, on my bad days, not even doable). It can be REALLY hard work to shut down the "stinkin' thinkin'" that often circles around in my head. It can be REALLY hard to challenge the negative talk I sometimes give myself.

Some things are WORTH the hard work, and retraining my brain to challenge the negative, to strive to find the positive, is WORTH it.

Yes, my foot is painful...but I still have a left foot, and pain means I'm getting back some of the nerve activity that I thought might be gone forever. Yes, my dishwasher is broken...but I have two hands. Yes, my computer is broken...but I can get a little time on a computer elsewhere. Yes, I totaled my car...but no one was seriously injured or worse, including me. Yes, my house is messy...but I have a roof over my head. Yes, sometimes I feel lonely...but I can find a way to reach out to a friend or a family member or a neighbor or even a stranger at the grocery store, and if I can help someone else or brighten someone else's day it makes me feel better and a little less lonely.

I'm not always successful at it, but I'm fighting for it - fighting for that "Gratitude Attitude".

I hope you'll fight for that, too.

How to Total Your Car in One Easy* Step

Just between you and me, I'll be kind of glad when 2009 is over. So far this year my husband lost his job (and decided to use this time to finally follow his nearly life-long dream of being an author) and also was hospitalized with some stomach issues. This year I dislocated my ankle and broke my leg the first weekend of July, resulting in plenty of pain and nerve damage, of course, but also in my missing out on what would have been my first San Diego Comic Con, my 20th High School Reunion, my kids' first day of school, and even prevented me from the simple but important act of picking out a birthday card for my daughter's 15th birthday. You might thing "wow, that's a lot for one woman to deal with in a year". You'd be right, but that doesn't mean more crap can't happen!

On the night of November 3, I got into my car  for the first time since the night I broke my leg back in July.  I've always loved my Subaru, with it's extra perks like heated leather seats and 6 CD changer. We got brand new when my son was just a toddler and my daughter was still in elementary school. I'd been a used-car gal since I first started driving, so having something brand new was a treat all its own. I've hauled my kids to scout meetings, day camps, school functions, the park, and so on. There are a lot of memories associated with that car, which often felt my home away from home since I was in it so often.

Maybe if I'd known November 3 was also going to be the LAST night I'd ever drive my car I would have taken more time to appreciate it (and, honestly, some time to clean out all the clutter that's often associated with a Mom car).

I was driving southbound on the interstate with the intention of visiting my friend Lois, who lives about 1 1/2 to 2 hours away. Her son David and his girlfriend were going to hop on a plane the next morning and move to another state, where they will hopefully have a good chance to get decent jobs and housing. It was about 6:00pm on a cold but clear evening and traffic was thick but moving. I was in the far right lane, and even as a slow lane we were still going between 60 and 65.

One minute I was focusing on making sure there was plenty of space between me and the vehicle in front of me. The next minute, my steering wheel jerked HARD to the right, and I was just hanging on and trying to stop. This won't be easy to describe, because honestly, it was as if things were going on all at once yet in slow motion at the same time, but I'll do my best. Some things I specifically remember experiencing or sensing, and other things are sort of after-the-fact realizations. I'll go ahead and apologize in advance if some of this stuff doesn't make sense.

My car veered off the road to the right and up an embankment in a spot where there was no guardrail. At the top of the embankment was a fence and a lot of young trees, and I remember seeing tree branches slapping against my windshield. The next thing I experienced was the taste of dirt on the air. I remember thinking that was weird, and then realized it was suddenly much colder inside the car. I noticed that the things in my passenger side seat were in the air, and it looked like clothes in one of those big dryers at the laundry mat. I remember thinking "oh, I must be rolling. That's not good." That's when I felt clods of dirt and grass raining down on my head. The rolling had busted my moon roof.

I landed with a thud right side up, but at some point I'd spun because I was now facing southbound traffic. I heard a roaring sort of sound, and at first I thought it was probably my heart racing. Then I realized the front half of my right foot was wedged underneath the brake pedal, and the roaring sound was being caused by my having my right heel wedged on top of the gas pedal pressing it all the way down. The motor was still running, and I didn't learn until later that I'd landed against a guardrail. Almost as soon as the car stopped rolling there was a man with a cell phone heading towards my car. He said something I couldn't hear, and I pressed the button for my front side windows - in hindsight I can't believe they worked! - and he repeated himself. "Are you okay? I'm on with 911. Help is on the way." My response to his question was "did I hurt anyone?" In that moment, that was my biggest fear. He said no, that it was only me, and that's when the shaking and the tears started for me.

Another car with a young couple had also pulled over and were trudging up to the car to ask if I was alright. I kept telling them I thought I was okay but definitely shaken up. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called my husband. I don't remember what I said for sure, but it was along the lines of "I rolled the car" or "I wrecked the car". Naturally he freaked out and said he'd be right there, but I didn't know precisely where I was, so I said "just look for the trashed Subaru and some flashing lights". The woman from the second stopped car advised me to hang on a moment, and she figured out the precise location with the GPS on her cell phone so I could tell my husband where to find me.

About this time I noticed in my peripheral vision a couple of men walking around the slope of the embankment behind me, and it was then I realized my whole back window was gone. The men were out there picking up things that had come out of my car and were putting them back in through the missing back window. There was a bit of time when I focused on little things: I realized my headlights were on and turned them off to avoid blinding oncoming traffic, I called my friend Lois to tell her I was sorry but I wouldn't be there after all, I figured my car might be in bad shape so I started picking things up around the inside of the car and putting them into bags or baskets or whatever I could find, I found my purse and strapped it on so I wouldn't forget it.

Soon there were plenty of flashing lights. Apparently when you call 911 about a car accident they ALL come running. The firemen were sent away (no, I do not know if any of them were "hot" or not). The EMTs helped me get out of my car, which was a challenge since it was on the up side of the incline and I've still got limited feeling in my foot so I'm still using a cane. I don't think I gently leaned on the poor EMTs for help so much as I probably dislocated his shoulder from holding on so tight.

My sense of humor is one of my coping mechanisms, apparently, so when the EMTs were asking how I could best get on the road side of the guardrail my brain comes up with "I'm a farm girl, I can handle a fence." (Maybe they should have checked me for a concussion...) Their "examination" of me consisted of asking me if I was hurting anywhere, if I could please spell my first and last name, if I could give them my date of birth, and if I could tell them where I live. They talked to me a bit about why I needed the cane and made an effort to help me calm down a bit. They really were wonderful to me, but I do think I was still pretty adrenaline-packed, so I'm not sure how long they stayed with me. I know they stuck around until the police officer was free enough that they could hand me off to the cop. They asked if I felt I needed to go to the hospital, and I think I said something about feeling okay but going if they felt it was necessary. They essentially responded by wishing me well and driving away, which I took to mean I was going to be just fine.

The police officer on the scene was wonderful to me, too. I was sitting on the guardrail and shivering. He said I should sit in his squad car until my husband got there, and that he had some paperwork for me to fill out anyway. He led me to the car and we bypassed the front door. He explained that the front seat was full of stuff so I'd have to sit in back, but said "don't worry, there's no handcuffs involved." His little touches of humor combined with empathy really helped me calm down, and the paperwork was a good way to distract me and help me breathe. On a side note, I recommend only really short-legged people commit crimes, and that they do so alone, because the back seat of a squad car has NO leg room! I had to sit nearly with my back against the door and legs up in the seat.

My husband finally arrived, so I switched and got into his truck to finish up the paperwork. He got out and looked at the car, talked to the police officer, and essentially took over so I could sit in the truck and have my nervous breakdown in peace. I tried to get out of the truck a couple of times, but he discouraged me. I realize now he was worried if I saw the car - truly looked at it and saw how very damaged it was - I'd crack. So I sat in the truck, called home to the kids to try and let them know I was doing fine but the car was another story, used my iphone to get on Facebook and Twitter to let people know the bare minimum ("I totaled my car, but I'm okay - more later", essentially), and did a lot of praying and thanking the universe for my safety.

The next day we went to the lot where my car had been towed (they had to use two different tow trucks, because the car was wedged into the guardrail in such a way that they needed to LIFT the thing up and over the rail before they could put it on the bed of the tow truck). The following are the photos I took of the car that day.

Some may think I'm crazy, but it's worth mentioning all the same. Seconds before I hit whatever that mystery road debris, an image popped into my head. The image was of me and my Dad on my last visit to see him alive. He made me sit on his lap (which involved the arm of the chair and lots of "hovering'), pulled me to his chest, cradled my head in the crook of his neck, held me close, rocked me and sang the song I'd made up when I was about 3 years old. The lyrics are "Daddy's little angel, yes I was. Daddy's little angel, yes I was." For no "obvious" reason, THAT is the image that popped into my head immediately prior to the accident. Some might call it a coincidence. I'm not an overtly religious person, but I am a spiritual one. I personally believe that it was my Dad, letting me know that he was with me and would keep me safe.


*Easy - to quote  Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride, "I do not think it means what you think it means".

When Dates Go Wrong

I have had a few weird, ridiculous & otherwise WRONG dates. I know you have, too. Share some of your best "bad date" stories here, please?

Hurt

Hurt sucks. Whether it's hurt feelings or physical pain, hurting just sucks. Hurt is something we all understand, though we may deal with our hurts in very different ways. One person may "turtle up", retreating into an emotional or social shell until the worst is over. Another person may work overtime at some cathartic task. Someone else may find their pain morphs into anger or frustration.
When I hurt, I do all those things and then some.
Tonight my feelings are hurt because I am painfully lonely. I am not proud to admit I am feeling jealous of my husband because he is at an event I'd typically really enjoy and I'm not. It's a convention and serves as a reminder of the fact that breaking my leg meant I missed a big convention I'd looked forward to for nearly a year. And that same leg still hurts to the point that I simply CAN'T go anywhere or do anything for any length of time. Tonight I forced myself to take the kids to the Halloween store for costume shopping. I couldn't handle the thought of going to the store or making dinner or going out. I wound up choking down drive-thru McDonald's for dinner, because I was exhausted.
This leg thing happened on July 5. I've only been able to drive for the last few weeks. Know what I do when I get out of the house? I go to Physical Therapy, which is less than 3 miles from home.
Meanwhile, my husband goes to writer meet-ups or beer nights, and in the daytime it's either out running or at the gym, or he's closed off in his office. The kids are at school in the day, and neither want to just hang out with me all the time. So I sit on the couch with my foot propped up alone, or I go to bed alone.
Note the theme throughout is ALONE.
Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate and NEED alone time. It's just that I'm feeling particularly out of step with the rest of the world. I don't like that feeling.
My injury hurts, but the loneliness it's created hurts a hell of a lot, too.

My response to William Saletan

I'm finding that I'm just not getting over Mr. Saletan's initial post about the Roman Polanski rape. His second article didn't do anything to ease my mind. After reading the third follow-up, I decided to leave a comment. Below is what I wrote.


Here's the line that still bugs me

"A guy who goes after 5-year-old girls is deeply pathological. A guy who goes after a womanly body that happens to be 13 years old is failing to regulate a natural attraction. That doesn't excuse him. But it does justify treating him differently."

No, actually, it does NOT justify treating him differently. I developed breasts and started menstruating at age 8 - does that mean a man who failed to regulate his sexual attraction with me should be excused because he was just thinking with his "little head"? I looked old enough at age 12 that I could have gotten into R-rated movies alone. If I were to smile at an adult male at that age, looking as old as I looked, would that have been an invitation to give me alcohol and drugs and then proceed to orally, vaginally and anally rape me?

In testimony, it is clearly revealed that the girl repeatedly said "no" to his advances. However, he proceeded to do as he wished. What part of "no" means "oh, she really wants this"?

Furthermore, in your entry you seem to allude to the idea that the girl's mother should be held responsible. However, from the testimony I've read (and yes, I have read it, very carefully), it doesn't sound like her mother was a pimp.

So here we are, three articles in about Polanski, and I STILL have the impression that you Just Don't Get It. Blaming the girl because she looked older, or because she'd had sex before, or whatever, is a PROBLEM. I don't care if the world's top fashion models paraded down Main Street stark naked, that is STILL not an invitation to be raped. If a man rapes anyone - regardless of gender or age, there is NO justification for treating him differently.

Rape is not acceptable. Ever. Period.

Halloween is near...BOO!

I will be the first to admit it. I LOVE old movies. By far some of my favorite movies are in the "horror" genre, things involving Vincent Price, Alfred Hitchcock, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney, and Boris Karloff to name a few of the "big names" back in the day. With Halloween only weeks away, I've had the opportunity to see a lot of old horror flicks on television and I'm LOVING it! It's bringing back memories of staying up late on weekends as a kid to watch a sometimes campy, sometimes creepy horror flick, often with a TV Horror Host who'd break things up by telling a tidbit about something behind the scenes of the movie or interjecting some humor.

I'm also getting nostalgic thinking about my childhood Halloween experiences, such as trying to navigate beneath a sheet with holes cut out for eyes (yes, I did the old school ghost costume), or sweltering beneath the uncomfortable plastic mask and plastic costume my Mom got at the store after much pleading and whining on my part. Many of my years of trick-or-treating was done with my big sister and my nephew (there's a big age gap - I was an aunt at age 3). I vividly remember Mom dressing up like a scarecrow one year, simply by wearing a flannel shirt under her overalls and tucking some straw into the cuffs at her wrists and ankles and painting her face a bit. Generally my parents didn't have a lot of money to throw away on a poorly made costume I'd only wear once, so I was encouraged to be creative and resourceful. At the time I'm sure I thought they were big ole meanies for not letting me wear the same sorts of store-bought costumes my friends got to wear. In hindsight, however, I'm really grateful.

I also remember that these were the years when people handed out apples and homemade goodies, and nobody thought anything was sinister about it. Popcorn balls sticky with molasses done up in plastic wrap, or sugar cookies with M&Ms pressed into them, or caramel apples made near enough to trick-or-treat time that they'd still be warm...that's not something my children have ever experienced. The candy was in a league all it's own. Red Hots, Bottlecaps, Sixlets, candy cigarettes, wax "Coke" bottles with sugary sweet liquid inside, Charleston Chew, sheets of candy buttons, square Chunky bars, Dubble Bubble gum, Fruit Stripe gum, Fun Dip Lik-M-Aid, Milk Duds, Sugar Daddies, Oh Henry! candy bars, Pop Rocks, Razzles, Smarties, Wax Lips (weird, but totally chew-worthy), and the list goes on. There was no reason to take away our goodies and look at each individual piece back then, because there was no media hype about razors or needles hidden in the treats. Kids simply got home, dumped their pillowcases (a plastic bag? Ppppfffttt!), sorted the candy out in some way or another. My system was simple: I had the chocolate pile, the not-chocolate pile, and the eww that's gross and I'm not gonna eat it pile. I had to trick-or-treat by car, since I lived out on a farm, and I used to get jealous as I would watch television shows of television kids going out their television house and walking around their television blocks without even seeing a car.

I remember Halloween parties, hayrides, bobbing for apples. I remember one of my neighbors (I think it was Jennifer, but it might have been Ginger) having a "ghost" hung up on their front porch for days prior to Halloween. Then, on the night of Halloween, the hanging ghost was replaced by a human under a sheet - one who proceeded to give me a big hug and nearly scare the life out of me! And I loved it.

I wonder, looking at my kids, what they'll remember about Halloween. My daughter's too old to trick-or-treat anymore at age 15. My son will have turned 10 just a few days before Halloween this year, so his time to stop begging for candy door-to-door is drawing near. Will they remember particular costumes? The way it is so cold here by Halloween that they often wind up having to cover their outfit with a coat? Will they remember how their candy lasts for months because we stash it and hand them a couple of pieces a day rather than let them gorge themselves into a sugar coma? I hope they remember good things, fun things, cherished things.

Mainly, fall seems to remind me that time is passing quickly. It reminds me to slow down, examine the colors of the leaves, to snuggle up with my kids and a warm drink (if they'll let me). The air gets crisp and cool and fresher somehow. Back home, this was my favorite time of year. I spent many autumn days laying on the cool grass of our front yard, making out shapes in the clouds, watching the leaves fall, taking deep breaths to fill my lungs with air so crisp and fresh I could taste it. I'd walk down to the bridge and watch the sun slowly sink on the horizon as it reflected off the babbling water of the creek.

I love the fall. I love Halloween. And for now, in this moment, I'm just feeling blessed to have had the life I've had so far.

Lady Fun With Guns

I'm one of those lucky women who has some truly awesome girlfriends with whom to hang out and basically enjoy life. One of these awesome ladies heard about a local business hosting a weekly "Ladies Night", complete with freebies we'd have to pay for any other night of the week, and decided it would make a great girls night out event.

THAT, my dear readers, is how we wound up here:



At first glance you'd think that sign would just be a cute "hey, it's almost Halloween, aren't we funny" sort of sign. You'd be WRONG. DEAD wrong. (See what I did there? It's funny cuz zombies are reanimated corpses.)

I picked out a sweet little .22 revolver. It wasn't the top choice of the others, I think because it wasn't as glamorous as some of the more serious weaponry with a big kick. I, however, am in looooove. I present my weapon of choice:



I also selected my target, a zombie lass by the name of Becky. My reason for selecting her above the other zombies were, as I explained to my friends, because "even dead she's prettier than me. I hate the bitch!" Don't believe me? Check her out:



It's important to remember that with zombies, you gotta aim for the head. So you know what I did? I killed zombie Becky. I killed her real good!



Now let's be clear. Yes, I did grow up on a farm in middle Tennessee. Yes, my Dad, my Pa, my brother, uncles and male cousins all had guns. But the ONLY time prior to this week's adventures in gunland I'd actually used a gun was for 7th grade hunter safety class. (And yes, that was a required portion of my 7th grade health class. Who could even make that up?) So the fact that I was able to make Becky's zombie face look like the world's worst case of pizza face makes me unbelievably proud, people. PROUD!

I think I may have found myself a new hobby. Also, it's very possible my Southern accent will come back VERY strong while at the range, if for no other reason to make people around me check my back pocket for a snuff circle. *p'tooey!*

More on Polanski

The country - indeed, the world - has been going nuts about Roman Polanski this week. There's been some good, some bad, and some ugly.

Squarely in the GOOD category is Polanski, Polanski, Polanski: Kate Harding's blog listing all of the OTHER blogs she's written in the aftermath of Roman Polanski's arrest - the Hollyweird support system, the Whoopi "rape-rape" thing, and most importantly a very detailed recounting of the crime for which Roman Polanski was originally arrested back in 1977. She approaches the subject with not just disgust at his crimes, but also with intelligence and links to back up what she writes.

In the BAD category we have Polanski's Arrest: Shame on the Swiss written by Joan Z. Shore. It's not only bad because of it's content, but because Shore is apparently the co-founder for something called Women Overseas for Equality in Belgium. I'm still processing how someone who's for equality for women can find a way to justify saying "shame on the Swiss" for arresting a child-raping fugitive.

In the UGLY category is the shockingly horrific fact that Feminist Majority founder Peg Yorkin was quoted in a L.A. Times story as saying "It's bad a person was raped. But that was so many years ago. The guy has been through so much in his life. It's crazy to arrest him now. Let it go. The government could spend its money on other things." Fortunately it looks like the president of the Feminist Majority Foundation disagrees with the founder.

"It wasn't rape-rape"? Say WHAT?!

It's been all over the news lately. Roman Polanski was arrested for raping a 13 year old back in 1977. Why so long to arrest him? Well, he kinda fled the country in 1978. Yeah.

So anyway, today I read online that there had been a discussion of it on ABC's "The View". And that discussion didn't put co-host Whoopi Goldberg in a very good light. Apparently, she defended Polanski by saying "it wasn't 'rape-rape'".

HUH?!

Not just wanting to take this tidbit on faith, I wound up on YouTube searching for the clip. I found it.



My head is still spinning. HOW could ANYONE with any sense of right and wrong try to downplay the severity of DRUGGING AND RAPING A 13 YEAR OLD CHILD?!?!

Am I overreacting here? I mean, would she struggle this hard to defend the rapist if he was some unknown, overweight dude finally found decades after his initial arrest for drugging and raping a child?

And it's not just Whoopi, folks. No, it seems that Hollywood embraces Roman Polanski, too.

I get that he had a horrible childhood, losing his mother at Auschwitz. I get that he had to deal with the horror of his wife Sharon Tate being butchered by the Charles Manson clan. I'm not intending to downplay those horrors AT ALL. He's a gifted director, and I'm not discounting that, either.

What I AM saying, though, is that plenty of people survived the Holocaust without becoming child rapists. Many, many people have lost a spouse to senseless, terrible murder without becoming child rapists. And I'd be willing to bet that there are lots of other gifted directors who didn't make the choice to drug and rape a child. NOTHING, not his bad times nor his gifts, makes it acceptable to do what he did way back in 1977. NOTHING makes it okay to evade the law for such a heinous crime for decades.

Shame on you, Whoopi Goldberg. Shame on you, Polanski supporters - in Hollywood and around the globe. Shame on you.

"A Murder of Crows"

If you've been terrified of our feathered friends since watching the Hitchcock classic "The Birds", I apologize for this blog in advance.



It's Tuesday evening and I'm surfing the web while my local news is on the television. I like to multitask. Don't judge me.

Anyway, I've been paying a little attention to the news here and there, looking up when the latest story about the Bikini Baristas around here getting in trouble for serving up more than coffee (because, really, baristas in bikinis?).

But then they teased a story about crows. Specifically, teased an upcoming segment about how crows are really smart. Like, smart enough to recognize faces and hold grudges kind of smart.

I couldn't help but stare at the television screen until the segment came on, a sort of terror building as my mind began cataloging all the creepy movies I've seen featuring bloodthirsty crows. *gulp*

Finally the segment came on, and after watching it I've got to say my uneasiness has ratcheted up a notch or two...or three. As it turns out, UW researchers say crows are as intelligent as apes.

Suddenly I find myself wondering if I've ever done anything to raise the ire of any crows. Have I walked too close to a nest and been tagged as a threat? Do they have their own way of telling the other crows "the kid in the third house on the left threw a rock at me, go get him"? Can I even use Twitter without freaking out whenever I see that little bird?

Anyway, there's apparently going to be a documentary airing on CBC about these dark, intelligent creatures. I'll probably watch it, if only to educate myself a little more. Who knows, maybe I'll wind up befriending a murder of crows. If I do, I promise to use my Bird Whisperer powers for good...probably.

Evil HTML?

Just testing how this works if I try to add some HTML code. And what better to test than with the brilliant Dr. Horrible?

Well crap. This is a new one for me.

Seems I've joined the ranks of the identity theived...thefted...theved... Oh, however you say "holy shitballs, my identity's been stolen!"

I got a call today inquiring about some recent (large) online purchases using my account. Like I'd ever shop at Tommy Hilfiger?! I'm pretty sure that's one of those companies that doesn't believe fat chicks have no business even looking at their website, much less bring down their mall property value by being seen in their stores. So no, lady on the phone, I definitely did not spend over $400 at Tommy MiddleFinger.

But apparently somebody did.

All told, we're talking WELL over a thousand dollars that someone charged up using MY account. Clearly, I'll be doing whatever is necessary on my part to make sure those responsible are caught and punished. And in my dream scenario, punished means being dipped in honey, buried up to the neck in a giant hill of fire ants, and being repeatedly violated by creepy clowns.

So now I'll be in the process of doing whatever I can to protect myself and trying to shake off the feeling of being violated in a fundamental sort of way. I thought I was safe and careful. Clearly, I wasn't. I thought this only happened to others, and wouldn't happen to me. Clearly, I was wrong.

Advice of the day? Read and follow ALL warnings and suggestions about keeping your identity safe online and offline.

Gotta start somewhere, right?

Not entirely sure how often I'll be blogging here - my online time is already stretched pretty thin with Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, etc. - but at least now I'll be able to subscribe to the blogs of people who use Blogger. Hey, it's why I joined Live Journal. I think I've posted maybe an introductory blog like this on LJ, and maaaaybe one or two others. That's not a lot considering I joined LJ several YEARS ago.

So at the onset, let's just say I'd suggest keeping your expectations nice and low.