On this day...

Yes, two blogs in one day. Aren't you lucky.

I posted my vent blog because it felt good. It was a guilty pleasure. Now, I must reflect on this sobering day of remembrance.

Today is of course the 110th anniversary of the first drunk driving arrest. Let us reflect, in all seriousness and with great thought and conversation, on the effects this tremendous event had on our lives. I think of this day every time I have four beers and then tell myself, "No, Lisa. You can't drive. Remember what happened to George Smith in '97?' Yeah, so it was 1897--but I often think of poor Georgie and his little electric London cab and his now dubious place in the annals of history.

But, wait...hold on. The History Channel is loading a new video on its 'This Day in History' video.

Of course I remember.

I remember we had no working TV because we'd only been living in our house a couple weeks and hadn't installed cable. I remember Jeremy left the house a little late and called back to tell me, "Terrorists are attacking the United States." I remember looking at my two little girls in the tub and putting a hand on my belly full of our son and wondering if we were safe. I remember dashing to my parents to see the footage. I remember seeing the totally surreal image of planes dissolving into the side of a skyscraper whose name I knew despite never having traveled to New York. I remember seeing bodies dropping like bricks, people holding hands, and the completely mind bending image of buildings disintegrating into plumes of gray dust.

I remember George W. Bush's speech from atop the wreckage, and his televised address shortly thereafter. I remember asking my brother, "Are you still glad you joined the military?" and I remember his answer: "Lisa. This is why I joined the military." I remember learning new words like Taliban, Shiite, Sunni, and WMDs. I remember already knowing who Saddam was, and honestly hoping we'd catch him (but I have NEVER watched his hanging).

I say the Pledge of Allegiance in my 2nd hour classroom every morning (despite the annoying f**king chain email that keeps insisting people don't say it in public schools). I work with both bleeding heart liberals and hardass conservatives and yet, I am equally turned off by, "America doesn't need to be the world's police" and "Troop Surge". I am so damn happy to be an American it is silly, but I see how life can be equally satisfying and happy elsewhere.

I remember today.

Lisa 'Red, White, and Blue' C

Make like a Volcano and Vent

I said I would not be passive-aggressive using my blog. But dammit, it's my blog and I'm going to vent.

I'm going to vent about Britney Spears and how disgusting she looked at the VMAs. I want to write this letter:

Dear Britney,

You have millions of dollars. Quit getting your weave from a beauty school dropout.

You have had two kids. Quit acting like you didn't.

You can't sing and we've know that forever. Quit f**king up your dancing--it's what we counted on.

Love,

A concerned citizen

I'm going to vent about teenage girls letting their boobs hang out of their shirt. Seriously? Why do I have to call attention to it? I HATE that part of my job. Why do you want people to feel uncomfortable? Because a couple teenage boys might have to carry their math books in front for a few minutes after seeing you? Ick.

I am going to vent about shared custody where kids have to move back and forth between parents' houses. Let them choose a home base for the majority of the time. The arrangement may work while they're little, but it tears them up when they're in high school. I see it all day long.

I am going to vent about health food freaks/certain medical professionals/know-it-all-health-nuts. I am going to clue them on a little something: You will die. Life will kill you. And from time to time I'd like to have a McDonald's french fry without seeing that bastard from 'Super Size Me' in my mind. It's called moderation, people. Try it.

I am going to vent about people commenting on my weight. I don't comment when you look like you've put on ten pounds, so quit giving me nasty looks and saying skinny in a way that I know does not imply praise. And believe it or not, there are things that I am very uncomfortable about on my body too, so don't dismiss me based on my pant size.

I'm going to vent about venting. I get to do it if I want. I can say what I want, because if I deal with the consequences, who gives a sh*t? Talk is cheap, actions speak louder than words, and by golly, that is how I live. I get mad quickly and I cool down just as fast. I don't hold grudges very long, and I sure don't pick fights. I bust my ass to include many, many people in my life and with all those personalities around me, sometimes there is conflict. So, when I get frustrated, I run my mouth. I'm tired of apologizing for this part of my personality. Anyone who knows me at all knows my venting is mostly steam, and once the irritation is out--it's gone. And for the record, that rapid dissipation of anger benefits many, many people in my life who have hurt me. It's true that in my older age I've learned when I should and should not say certain things to certain people, but generally, I talk. That's me.

Lisa 'Mount St. Helens' C

"Wouldn't you like to be my neighbor?"

I have a great neighborhood. Ok--I'm sure when most people come to my house the first time, they're not blown away by the cute little houses next to the rentals that are going to pot, but I love my little house and where it's at.

I am a pleasure denier. At dinner, I save my favorite food item for last. I often force myself to do very unpleasant things before rewarding myself with a more enjoyable pasttime. It's just how I am. I don't like having or doing anything if I don't feel like I earned it. I feel that way about my house. I am putting in my time with a 1000 sq. ft. upstairs (filled with two adults, three rapidly growing kids, two dogs, and myriad guests) in an okay neighborhood. Although I can't wait for more space, I will miss my little, odd cul-de-sac.

When I look catty-corner to me, I think of the neighbors who moved away for more space with their three kids, and how we too will make that same exodus some day. I think about the renters who live there now, and how cuts in mental health care affect their family. I look directly across the street to our favorite neighbor, a Mexican immigrant who put in my flagstone patio and who will cross the street to let me practice my really bad Spanish on him and his evolving English on me. When I glance across and to my left I see my elderly neighbors, who are the original homeowners, and I wonder why no one ever comes to visit them. I also wonder if loneliness is why they insist on layering their front sidewalk with popcorn to attract the ducks from a nearby lake. To my direct left is a bachelor who isn't often home, and whose parents come over to initiate any and all home improvements. To his left is a family with a fifteen year old daughter who looks ten, and a dad whose thick New York accent is a perfect compliment to the white wife-beaters and shorts he wears when he cruises up and down the street commenting on the state of the neighborhood.

I love my crazy little barrio. I worry about buying a big, obnoxious house in a bland, white-bread area. I worry about losing character and variety and flavor for square footage. But Lord knows we'll have earned it.

Lisa "Mr. Rogers" C