*I had to look up the spelling (Wordpress, you were WRONG) and Google suggested Extremeties Quarterly. How can you not watch a show that goes to these lengths (har) to flesh out the story.

Rules for Traipsing: a) wear long pants; b) wear socks and shoes. He had a sensible respect for poison ivy and ticks, and this was and is the only sure way to avoid them. I have possibly had one tiny poison ivy blister in my entire life and am mostly convinced that it is a simple matter not to touch the stuff and thus never get the rash. Landscapers working with unavoidable amounts of brush and Losties running from scary island-dwellers through thick vegetation are free to differ with me on this.

In addition to protective gear, my father made sure we knew exactly what this leafy menace looked like. He would walk us through the woods, quizzing us on tricky lookalikes until we could easily identify the right plant. Poison ivy has dark green, pointy leaves in clusters of three; the stems are woody. When my brothers and sisters and I went into the woods to build forts or dig traps for “bad guys” or pee* or hide from each other, we kept one eye on the ground to make sure we weren’t walking through anything itchy.

It worked; I can’t remember any of us having any serious outbreaks of poison ivy. This makes me curious about people who are “more susceptible” to it. I have to fight the “Well, DUH!” reaction when I see a friend is covered in Calamine lotion and wearing oven mitts. Did he not have the benefit of a rural education? Did no one else learn, “Leaves of three: let them be!”?

This is how my father lives. He has experienced acute poison ivy, and so has learned to prevent it, and he makes sure that we, too, are educated and able to avoid unnecessary suffering. He rarely calls to chat, but will do so to make sure we have the best directions for the trip we’re about to take. A few weeks ago, this happened en route to my brother’s soccer game in deepest, stickiest Virginia. I wanted to break in to tell him we have iPhones now; there’s no need for your silly phone books and atlases and Boy Scouting, but I dutifully recorded the county roads numbers and landmarks. And so we weren’t late or lost or ill-tempered about being so. Google’s map would have landed us a good five miles away.

My instruction in the proper cleaning of cloth diapers, log cabin construction and reloading of rifle cartridges is a topic for a future post or two, but you can bet there’s a careful and intelligent system to each, according to Dad.

*Yes, we had indoor plumbing. For some reason, we didn’t want to break up the party by running inside and risking exposure to chores, so we designated a “business area” in the woods. Don’t judge.

Commentator during last weekend’s Preakness Stakes: “I had the pleasure of riding both his mother and his grandmother.”

2. I wish I had thought of this.

Brian & Eileen’s Wedding Music Video. from LOCKDOWN projects on Vimeo.

3. Ever suffered through an Olan Mills portrait session? Now you can laugh at others in awkward photo poses.

Name a book that changed your mind or opened your eyes.

This didn't necessarily change my mind, but I was amazed and touched to find a crazy family story that so closely mirrored my own. Abnormal amount of siblings? Love/hate relationships with family members? Religiously misguided mother causing more lasting damage than saving any souls? Check, check and check.

I want others to read it, but also want to hoard it to myself and read it annually.

The next day we went to Weba’s house to munch on her baby. I took daddy porn pictures.

Next, I’m pleased to announce that yesterday was the long-awaited birth of the Peanut, who is the cutest little PuertoKorecuan legume I’ve ever seen.

2. I am not really a political person, but I seem to be unable to stop ranting about these goings on.  My sister and I have moved on from our “here come the Obamalypse” Facebook friends, abstinence-based sex-ed, and purity rings to scheming how to get fresh veg NOT drowned in cream-of-what-have-you sauces at Grandma’s Thanksgiving.

It was quite an effort to get Grandma’s permission to bring anything, but I am allowed one pumpkin pie.  J3 will offer “breakfast pastries.”  I will also be packing a keg of cran-grape for P, who is a fruit juice vampire.  Grandma makes wonderful things to eat and plenty of them, but they are of a mayonnaise-, bacon fat- and margarine-based nature, which gave us pause once we reached an accountable age. We’ll just have to break up the inevitable family drama with jogging and soccer.

On the non-self-absorbed front, we’re thankful she’s still around and willing to host, as family events are much pleasanter there.  Our poor family camps together in the rec room, while we married couples get the two bedrooms.  We’re going to turn one of them into a speakeasy with a password to get in.

Here is what I sent to my sister after finding out that her now-husband asked her to be his girlfriend:

HELL, YES. I am so unbelievably happy for you, my
dearest of dears. I want to tell p right away. he’ll
be thrilled, too.
so, that must leave you floating on air. how cute and
awkward he is. are you gonna tell mom? last night
she lit into me about “committment” and “physical
intimacy” and expressed her disappointment that i keep
making the same mistakes over and over again. Ugh. it
was too big to tackle, but she seemed somewhat
mollified when i told her we were committed to each
other and on one else for dating as long as that
lasted, and that marriage looks fine from here,etc.
Argh. She doesn’t even make sense about what she is
hoping for.
But not to steal your thunder. If you tell, make it
soudn like there is some sort of contract between you
and that purity is high on the list.
-May ‘04