How We're Making It Through . . .

I'm not going to lie. I'm still a little bit disturbed by the fact that Rhett and I have been happily married for almost ten years and I just barely found out about our divergent evolution opinions. Obviously, we're talking about the wrong things over the dinner table.

So lately we've had a lot of conversations like this one:

Me: So when you see representations of early hominids in the museum, what do you think they are? Like some giant hoax against humanity perpetrated by evil scientists?

Rhett: (pursed lips, vague air of disapproval) You are going to hell.

But I've finally figured out how to keep this difference of opinion (or total disregard of scientific evidence, depending on how you look at it) from ruining our marriage.

Every so often, Rhett will try to explain to me about how the streaks of white cloud-looking material trailing behind jet planes is not, in actuality, a jet's exhaust, which is what I always claim that it is.

"Heids, it's actually . . . blah, blah blah." I wish I could tell you what it actually is, but I always tune out at this point, because hey, look at that plane's EXHAUST! We've had this conversation several times and I always tune Rhett out. Not because I don't believe him (I sort of don't) but mostly because I don't want to be bothered to learn something new about something that interests me so not at all.

For Rhett, this fascination with airplane exhaust systems (please, please imagine the eye rolling that he's going to do when he reads that phrase) is in his blood. He and his dad (and now my kids, too) are jet fanatics. His dad has been known to sit on the porch with a pair of binoculars to better identify the military aircraft flying overhead (how fortuitous that he lives so close to an air base!). Rhett takes our kids every year to the local airshow, and has embarrassingly been known to tell me the manufacturer and make of anything that moves in the sky. I went with Rhett one year to the air show and discovered hey! Rhett actually wanted to look at planes. And hey! he also wanted to stay for longer than an hour, so ever since then it's been one of those things that I let him enjoy in peace. I think it's good for him to have his own interests.

So, my point here, and I do have one surprisingly, is that if evolution is Rhett's equivalent of my airplane exhaust, more power to him. I won't even bother talking about it any more, because I know he'll just tune me out.

But just for the record--I still don't think I'm going to hell.

Something Serious

I have all these serious thoughts in my head today, but my brain won't quite let me release them to my blog in an unedited fashion (Did you know that I hardly ever edit my stuff for my blog? First drafts, that's what you're reading here. I know some bloggers work on certain posts for weeks or days at a time, and I admire them for that. I just don't have it in me.).

Some of these serious thoughts have to do with:

Religion and Faith

Divisive politics

The Intersection of Religion and Politics

Why Rhett Doesn't Believe in Evolution

If I'm Going to Hell for Believing in Evolution (Rhett says yes! I am going to hell for believing in evolution! He also says he'll stop by with his five replacement wives to say hi [That's a bad Mormon joke, of course]. I only found out two days ago that we disagree on this issue. Obviously we should have gone to pre-marital counseling. This issue could destroy our happy home!)

Parenting (This is only on my mind because all my children are away at school today. If they were here I wouldn't have the leisure of self-reflection.)

Selflessness

Gender Roles in Developing Countries

There's more roiling around up there, but no wonder I can't get any laundry done. In the big scheme of things, what's my laundry? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Now I sound like a nihilist. Add that to the list.

I'm trying to raise an independent, strong-minded, feisty girl over here (heavy on the feisty).

So on a feminist scale, how bad is it that she knows (and belts) all the words to "It's Raining Men"?

It's okay because the song objectifies men instead of women, right?

Right?

Tales from the AT Room

When I was in elementary school, I qualified for a program called "Academically Talented" (the old 80s equivalent to the current Gifted and Talented program, wherein they pretend that if your child plays the saxophone well they could hypothetically be included in this program, but which in reality still functions in the exact same way as the old Academically Talented program did: you have to take a test to see how "smart" you are to get in). Back in those days, those of us who were "smart" enough to be in the pull-out program called it "AT", because even then we were hipsters with our own special language.

My brothers called it Animal Training (which AT could also stand for, get it?). I don't want to say they were motivated by jealousy, but . . .

The most awesome thing about this is that I almost got kicked out of AT in the fifth grade, because I couldn't remember to do the big projects we were supposed to do (this refrain would follow me throughout all my schooling years), and apparently when they named the class Academically Talented? What they really meant was Academically Responsible. After a rather serious meeting with my mother, Mrs. Bealls decided I could stay. But only if I made up that special project on ancient Egyptian makeup that I had failed to complete satisfactorily. Because, dammit, how was I supposed to become a well-informed, responsible, intelligent human being if I didn't know the ingredients used in ancient Egyptian cosmetics? It's still a quandary I wrestle with, let me tell you.

Anyway. My point is this: in sixth grade, one of our super-awesome, this-will-keep-you-engaged-in-schoolwork-so-you-don't-become-bored-and-act-out-project was to create a comic book that showed a new superhero dealing with a current social problem in a fresh and innovative way.

My superhero?

Prostitution Pam. She took on illegal prostitution while wearing a teal green miniskirt and fishnet stockings. Her teased and ratted hair and heavy rouge was just her way of letting the girls know she "got them"--she herself had gotten out of that racket years ago and had now dedicated her life to changing the shadowy world of prostitution. Her novel solution to this pressing social problem? Well, she passed out condoms like they were candy, as well as informing the girls of the counties in Nevada to which they should move. You know, counties where prostitution was legal.

And despite the fact that like most of my other AT projects, this one was completed almost entirely on the school bus on the morning it was due, I think it turned out very well. I think the teacher might have had another opinion, however. I got a 'C'. Maybe for chlamydia?

Insult to Injury

We don't have cable. First, Rhett is too cheap to get cable, but also really? Like we can't waste enough time on our own? This means that when the big digital switchover came it totally doubled the number of channels we received. My kids previously only had PBSKids to watch, but now they have Qubo (?). The only drawback is that Qubo has commercials.

The other day I was flat-ironing my hair and Veevs said, "Why are you using that flat iron? It just crushes and burns your hair. You need the Instastyler--it locks moisture into your hair."

Right.

Bump-its (Bumpitz? Bumpits? Bump-itz? I clearly have not been paying enough attention!) have become kind of a family joke.

The other day Rhett said jokingly to me, "Hey, Heids, I saw they are selling Bump-its at the Wal-Mart now. I was going to pick you up some."

Spe asked, "Why does Mom want Bump-its?"

Veevs replied confidently, "Because she has flat hair, Spe."

Apparently I'm now lazy and flat-haired. What else is that girl thinking about me?

The One Bad Thing About School Starting . . .

In my haste to kick my kids out of my house for a good portion of every day, I forgot the down side to releasing your children into the world.

Today Veevs came home and we sat at the table eating a cookie together, talking about her day. I noticed her fingernails were getting long. Okay, actually not getting long. They were like already Elvira long. I'd like to blame this motherly oversight on pregnancy but let's be honest: how much can I get away with here in the pregnancy-blame department? I've probably used up my quota.

Anyway, I said, "Wow, sis, we really need to cut those nails."

She said, "I know. Someone asked me today how come I get to keep my nails so long."

"Did you tell them it's because your mom is neglectful?" I asked.

She swallowed her cookie and shook her head. "No. I told them you were too lazy." You guys. She was serious.

I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. Because what else do you do when the truth about your lackadaisical parenting is broadcast out loud like that?

In my defense, the cookies were homemade.

It sounds good, but . . .

I just read another blog somewhere wherein the author made a lovely list of things she wanted to do in the course of her life.

For the most part, I was nodding along: yes, yes, I would love to visit Australia, too, yes, yes, I agree . . . and then I read this one:

Make my home the kind of place where everyone else's kids want to hang out.

What? Honey? Do you know how crazy that is? I have a hard enough time keeping it together with just the three who I actually have some semblance of control over hanging around here, underfoot, always asking for food, or snacks, or spilling drinks, or whatever. And you seriously, seriously want to increase that to include all your kids' friends?

I'm just saying, I think I would rather die. I'm not saying I don't want my kids' friends to come over. But seriously, I would rather have my house be the place where just my kids want to hang out all the time.

Because I'm mean and antisocial like that.