I just drove 548 miles with an unpaid stand-up comedian, a maharajah, a mustachioed brigand and a Christian-phobe.

I just drove 548 miles with an unpaid stand-up comedian, a teenage maharajah, a mustachioed brigand and a Christian-phobic person who is trying to tour the U.S. by way of leaving his personal belongings in as many different cities as possible.

We all went out of town this Thanksgiving, to be present at the eight months belated memorial of my 101 year old grandfather and to be with my extended family for the holiday. We had to get up early and drive to Tucson on Saturday morning the 19th.

So I spent several days before, busily scurrying around and gathering items to bring with us, fussing loudly and trailing various lists in my wake: Lists of items to go in the cooler in the morning. Lists of things to do at the last minute. Lists of clothes to bring. Lists of general agenda items. Lists of which lists to refer to. That kind of thing.

My husband, Mike, sat on the couch, tired from working all day, and tried to ignore me while I thrust various bulletins at him. Then we got in a fight about how I do all the list-making work, while he just waits and throws everything in a bag and then does all the driving while I sleep fucks everything up.

And so on.

Then, on Friday night, I was so tired from making all of these lists, and choosing which scarves to pack with which socks, that we had to go out to eat. We brought my mom with us, who was going to be doing the unpaid labor of running our insane asylum for ducks house sitting for us for a couple of days, until she left for her Thanksgiving trip to Maryland.

My mom had brought prints of a photo she had taken of our kids and our canine-donkey hybrid dog that she wanted to show us, to the restaurant. Some were in color and others were in sepia tones. Obviously I have never heard anyone actually say "sepia" before, because when she said it, I told her she was saying it wrong.

Yes, that is straw. We are wanna-be farmers. That's just how we roll.

Me: "I think it's "SEH-pee-UH."

Mom: "I'm pretty sure it's "SEE-pee-UH."

Me: "That sounds like a condition. Like something potentially fatal. 'I'm afraid you have SEE-pee-UH, ma'am.' (turning) Mike..."

Mike: "What?"

Me: "Do you say "SEH-pee-UH" or "SEE-pee-UH?"

Mike: (pauses) "No."

So, we ended up sending my eldest Rowan over to my friend Jenn's table to find out how it was really pronounced, and it turned out I was wrong. Meanwhile, Mike kept telling everyone that the correct term was "chromatic".

Rowan somehow ended up with a coloring book of biblical stories to entertain him while we waited for our food. This made me nervous. I don't want to end up being known as the family of heathens whose teenager defaced sacred coloring books at the Hill Diner. Nevertheless, since I obviously am incapable of substituting good judgement for a desire to amuse myself, I found myself suggesting that he tarnish a page full of archangels.

The page had four angels on it and said "Which one of these angels is different?" One of them had no wings, so the answer was gratuitously obvious. I couldn't help thinking it would be more interesting if one of the angels had horns and fangs, for instance. Having said that, I then had to insist that no one actually disfigure any heavenly creatures.

Which is what good parenting is all about.

"Which one of these did Jesus give to people to eat, Mom?" Rowan showed me a page with a puffy loaf of bread, a weird plant that looked like it might be part sea anemone and a broadly smiling fish that looked like a cuddly stuffed animal. Meanwhile, my mother and husband lapsed into discussing theology. This is normal for them.

Mom: "I read about one guy who claimed that he believes in what he calls 'prosperity Christianity' and says the justification for this is that the wise men brought the baby Jesus gold, frankincense and myrrh and that he accepted them."

Me: (disgustedly) "He accepted them???"

Mike: (making wide, adorable eyes and holding open his arms with infant-like excitement) "Gold! Ga ga goo goo! Myrrh! Ba ba boo boo!"

The thought of a Capitalist Baby Jesus caused all of us to laugh uncontrollably and, for no apparent reason, in the middle of a crowded restaurant, for most of an hour. I can hardly wait to have another baby so I can put frankincense and myrrh on my gift registry.

Idiosyncratic behavior also characterized the next day's car trip to Tucson.

He is...the most interesting man in the world.

At the half-way point, in Socorro, Mikalh, who is six, bought a mustache he could stick on his face like a sticker and wore it all day. We forced Rowan to make a phone call about his church service project, which almost lead to a public full-bore family rift when he threatened to walk out of the restaurant before relenting. Devin, my sixth grader, turned out to have lost the biography he was supposed to be reading at the restaurant we ate at.

Rowan's tombstone will probably just say: "What?"

We kept driving.

"Let's tell jokes!", said the newly mustachioed Mikalh. "What is a vampire's favorite food?"

"What?" said everyone.

"BROCCOLI!!" he announced happily.

(silence.)

"I think it'd at least be...red meat," Rowan offered delicately.

"BROCCOLI!" Mikalh insisted, becoming increasingly angry. An argument ensued and was quelled. The jokes continued.

Mikalh: "What is the finger's greatest enemy?"

Everyone: "What?"

Mikalh: "The GALAXY!"

(silence.)

Me: "WHY?"

Mikalh: "BECAUSE he doesn't like it."

And so on.

By the time, we hit Tucson, everyone was weak with hunger and desperate to find a place to eat. The kids were enlisted to do a visual scan for suitable restaurants. The guidelines were that we needed to ID places likely to have lots of vegetables available, and options other than pasta and cheese.

Devin, nervously contemplating the Fast Food Inquisition.

At some point, we drove past a Church's Fried Chicken, and Devin declared his disapproval with a voice full of dread.

Devin: "We can't eat THERE. I went there with the Smythes and it's a CHRISTIAN restaurant."

Me: "What do you MEAN by that?"

Devin: "They close on Sundays. And they asked us if we wanted the Christian chicken."

Me: "How can you even tell if a chicken is Christian?"

Mike: "It's simple. The chicken has accepted Jesus Christ as its lord and savior."

Me: "Or is it like a choice they offer: 'Do you want the Original Recipe, Christian, or Extra Christian Chicken?'"

Devin: "I'm not kidding, Mom."

Rowan: "I see an Italian restaurant!"

Me: "Too much pasta and cheese."

Devin: "What's wrong with pasta and cheese?"

Me: "Mike and I can't eat dairy or flour, still."

Mikalh:  (confidentially) "Milk makes me FART."

We ended up at a Teppanyaki grill, which was really good, and, through pure force of will, I made Rowan order a real Japanese dish instead of the fucking chicken fingers. The chef expertly tossed cooked shrimp into my boys' open mouths, and everyone had great fun. We even had enough vegetables. (Mike and I each have to eat twelve ounces of vegetables at lunch and dinner. Don't ask.)

Devin: "Mom, why didn't the guy toss you any shrimp? He tossed some to the other grown-ups over there."

Me: (sighing) "Because I'm uptight and he can just tell. He can tell, even though I'm wearing double pony tails and a tee shirt that says "Little Miss Sunshine", that it would be a bad idea to throw shrimp at me."

And then I got depressed.

But, after the landlord was done being mad at us for arriving so late, and Mike had come back from racing off  and leaving his Teppanyaki meal getting cold to go and get the key, we were happy because our rental was beautiful. And the week had just begun.

Advice from the Medical Expert

Dear Medical Profession,

Hi, it's me–the curly-haired, pale-looking person who keeps making appointments with you. You've probably seen me in your waiting rooms, looking for a magazine to read that isn't on either hunting or beauty advice. I have a writing prompt on confrontation and you just popped right into my head.

At one time, I wanted to be an expert on world mythology. Later, I studied to become–at least in a small way–an expert on child development. I have many interests. However, without meaning to, I have become an expert on going to doctors.

Let me qualify that for you. Within the last four years, I have been to see an ear, nose and throat specialist, a sleep doctor, an allergist, a neurologist, two rheumatologists, a chiropractor, a podiatrist, and an endocrinologist. I have visited my primary care physician so often that we are practically joined at the hip. He is moving in May and I feel personally betrayed. It's a bit like being left by a lover. A lover with an encyclopedic knowledge of my complicated medical history.

I am also getting to be an expert at taking medications. I once tried approximately fifteen different medications, at different times and in different combinations, to get my allergies and asthma under control. Currently, I am taking a cocktail of medicines for my fibromyalgia and migraines which allow me to get out of bed and function, but which have robbed me of my short-term memory and forced me to use an online thesaurus to remember what I am trying to say.

I am an expert on getting medical tests as well. I have had an ultrasound of my thyroid and abdominal areas. They have X-rayed my chest twice and my sinuses once. I have had an MRI on my brain and an abdominal CT, which was one of the most hilarious experiences of my life. A sleep study was conducted. Blood enough to happily feed all of the vampires of Bon Temps has been extracted from my veins and analyzed. Urine has been taken. I have had spirometry and an echocardiogram.


Having spent one-third of the last portion of my life at doctor's offices, and seen the good, bad and the ugly, I would like to make a few comments on what doctors and their staffs could do to better help their patients. Strictly from a constructive point of view, you understand.

1. I don't mind having to wait five minutes to speak to the receptionist during busy times at your office. I know this is outside your control. However, I would prefer not to spend that time listening to a symphony rendition of "Hey Jude" punctuated every thirty seconds by a reminder that my call is important to you. Shut-up and let me look at Facebook in peace while I wait.


2. Stop weighing me already. You weighed me last week. I don't give a rat's ass what I weigh and I am dizzy. I am here to treat my medical condition, not because I can't afford Jenny Craig.


3. Don't ask me if I have contacted a dentist to see about teeth grinding, or employed a variety of other strategies no one has ever suggested, as if I should know that these would be the appropriate actions to take. I'm not the expert. You are. That's kind of the point, right? I am busy surviving my pain, loving my children, and sucking the marrow from each lucid moment I have. Honestly, I'm not spending much of that precious time researching what's wrong with me. If I need to see a dentist, please tell me so.


4. Stop asking me, when I am having trouble walking into your exam room without my husband's help, if I am able to get regular exercise. No, I'm not.


5. If you are going to prescribe me something that will make me feel nauseated, lose all interest in sex, forget how old I am or not be able to feel my legs, a heads-up would be helpful. Honestly, I may still take it. I'm that desperate. But I'd love to know about this little detail. 


6. If I suffer from migraines and you prescribe a drug with a side effect of headaches, I have a great  idea. Give my neurologist a call first. Since I have a history of asthma, drugs that can worsen breathing should be discussed with my allergist. You guys have the medical degrees. I'm just the poor asshole with all the medical conditions. I don't want to play "telephone" with a bunch of specialists. 


7. I know that you are sincerely trying to be nice, but please stop telling me that we are going to get this all figured out and I am going to feel better, that I just need to be patient. While I have been waiting for the next medication we are trying to work out, I have had to miss work four times. While I waited for a bunch lab results to get sent to my PCP, I spent three consecutive weekends laid up missing time with my family. All these fragments of waiting for one piece of information or another have now added up to a year and a half of my life spent waiting for something to work. That's long enough for two babies to be brought to term. It may be easy to tell me to be patient, but it isn't the most useful thing to hear anymore.


8. Fax the motherfucking records. I shouldn't have to call you twice or walk to your office or fill out a special form so that I can get a copy of my own medical records to give to another doctor. Stop acting like I am stealing your favorite Pokemon cards.  


9. Train your office staff to act more proactive than observers casually munching Cheetos at the scene of a car wreck. If I walk in to say that I have developed hepatitis and need to see my rheumatologist, don't just tell me she has no appointments and go back to shuffling papers on your desk. If I am out of a medication right now that will cause withdrawal symptoms tomorrow, your staff should not insist that we have lab work done before the doctor will write a new prescription. That's stupid.

In summary, if you could remember that I am a real person with a real life, more than one major system in my body and limited time and resources, it would go a long way. A waiting room espresso bar would also be nice.

Sincerely,

Tara Adams
(Think of me as a mystery shopper for medical care.) 

If We All Twitter, the Terrorists Win.

It is 6 A.M., I am still clutching my first cup coffee, barely conscious, and tremendously vulnerable, perhaps half-asleep. So I am choosing now to make a public confession.

I want to be a blogger, but I am afraid of html.

I shrink from it it the way other people run from spiders, as if it might suddenly writhe and clamber from my screen and onto my body, perhaps embedding itself under my skin like scabies.

The result is that blog looks like it was designed by five year-old monkeys with glue sticks and scissors, and I am getting more and more stressed out that I will be picked up by the authorities and put down for lack of effort.

There's more: I want to be a well-known writer, but I loathe social networking.

If finding something compelling to say in 140 characters isn't the world's most oppressive form of small talk, please tell me what is? I am terrible at small talk. I begin all social interactions with a rousing discussion of politics, religious freedoms and personal overshares.

In essence, I do not want to pick through columns of thumbnails to select human beings whose association with me may prove most socially profitable.

I do not want to to check my Klout score to ascertain my sway and influence over others on the internet.

Because if I do this, the terrorists have won.

We did not make Chinese immigrants build the railroads so that I could spend hours on the project of my personal popularity. Nor did we displace countless nations of American Indians so that I could learn how to insert a widget onto my blog correctly.

We did it so that educated white men could control all the resources.

So, while I continue to do a half-assed job at the jobs of the development and promotion of my blog, please keep in mind that I am doing it to protect the greatness of America.

You're welcome.

Photo Credit: Flickr

In the Wake of the Gluten-Free vs. Dairy-Free Hostilities

Apparently, while I wasn't paying attention, there was a skirmish between the gluten-free people and the dairy-free people, which the gluten-free people won.

My youngest child, Mikalh, who is one quarter Native American, is lactose intolerant.

We recently made this discovery based on the evidence that both my husband and I are lactose-intolerant, that Mikalh farts all the time and says his stomach hurts, and that his pediatrician told us it was blindingly obvious that he was lactose-intolerant. So we took him off dairy shortly after Christmas.

I know you are wondering how to say his name. It is pronounced  MEE-koll, or as one caveman might say to another "Me call you later." It means "Bear."

Mike and I either tolerate or just go without all the things one eats with dairy. Since Mikalh is only six, I don't expect him to do this. So instead, I am spending what might have been his college savings on almond milk, coconut yogurt, soy cheese and tofu cream cheese.

The thing that surprised me, though is how few choices there were in macaroni and cheese, his favorite item of all time. Hence, I found myself in a store, angrily yelling at boxes of health food macaroni festooned with adorable rabbits, "What? I have six choices of cheese and two types of gluten-free flour but none with soy cheese? Really?"

This is when I developed my theory of gluten-free vs. dairy-free conflict. It seems like seventeen years ago, when I was vegan, there were way more dairy-free choices than there are now, but that all their aisle space has been given over to gluten-free products. This is especially annoying to me since, as someone who suffers from fibromyalgia, I have had to answer the question of my possible gluten-intolerance approximately 20,000 times at this point, since people so frequently assume gluten must likely be the cause of all suffering on this earth (apologies to those of you with actual gluten intolerance here).

Perhaps, though, this is an asshole thing for anyone to say who has a refrigerator filled with this:

How Children's Science Fair Projects Ruin Family's Lives

Photo Credit: Flickr

O.K., before I begin here, in the interest in full disclosure, I must make a couple of admissions.

First admission: I am currently employed at an elementary school, where, right now, there is a science fair set up.

Second admission: I have not one but two kids this year who will have projects in a school or district science fair. One of these is not even mandatory. I made him do it. (In my defense, he is middle schooler, and, therefore, pretty independent and also much closer to needing a college scholarship someday than my other child.)

So, basically, I have no credibility when I tell you that I believe that science fair projects are a national crisis on the same level of urgency as would be the poisoning of our national aquifers. That said, it's still true. Here is what I mean:

Science fair is mandatory at many grade levels at my children's school. Therefore, when science fair season approaches, the following steps become necessary for me or my husband as parents to take:

1. Be aware of when science fair projects are due, whether or not the teacher provides enough advance notice. As a seasoned school mom, I have learned to check the school's website multiple times a week as the familiar date nears.
2. Spend anywhere between thirty minutes and four hours talking to my unenthusiastic child about what experiment they will undertake while they behave as if they have unexplained brain damage and can't think of a single scientific phenomenon that is interesting to them.
3. Plan a whole day in our schedule during our holiday break when our child will execute the experiment under adult supervision.
4. Go with my child to gather the supplies for the experiment. In the past, these supplies have included red wiggler worms, halogen lights, and a special hammer, so some advance planning may be required here. We're not talking a quick run to the corner store.
5. (Optional step for geek parents) Build a device from scratch that allows my child to execute the experiment. Examples include an array into which halogen lights can be plugged so that my child can find out of colored ice cubes will melt faster than regular ones, or a wooden framework with an attached sledgehammer for breaking brittle materials in a controlled manner so that my child can examine how they fracture.
6. Spend what seems like forever in their company on an endless day while they perform "science".
7. In the ensuing weeks, listen to them daily ask the following questions: 
   "How do you spell hypothesis?"
   "Should I sharpen my pencil now or later?"
   "Should I put a period here?"
   "What is my conclusion?"
   "What does data mean?"
   "Can I be done for today?"
8. Spend hours searching for a usable chart-making whizziwig online, and then assist them to plug their data into the whizziwig.
9. Show them how to format their typing so that the font will be large enough to read, and then make countless suggestions as to how to put together an attractive display.
10. Attend science fair, scheduled throughout the dinner hour, during which time I have to extract my youngest child from behind a stage curtain, from underneath a table and from inside a polluted bathroom stall before finally insisting that we leave.

Photo Credit: Flickr

At the end of all this, my child will receive an A and will say to me, his eyes aglow with pride, the words "I did it!"

Right.

I'm all for educating kids about the scientific process and about technology, engineering, logical and critical thought and the value of hands-on education. I really, really am. Believe me. But, if our national school system weren't so hyper-focused on testing and standards, perhaps we could make time to do it at school?

Doing these elementary school long-term projects during school hours would accomplish three things:

1. Help to level the playing field between those kids with advantaged parents and those without, since no one is getting help from their nuclear physicist dad or their engineer mom, while someone else can't even get a hold of a real display board on time, much less scientific support. 
2. Make school more fun and meaningful. Hands-on education is fun. Messy but fun.
3. Save parents from the enormous inconvenience I just described. Call me a jerk, but I have other things I want to do with my family that are just as important, such as living together, and their regular homework is already sovereign in our home lives. Worse than that, what about the families who can't do what I just described? Is it OK that they miss out on this wonderful benefit that we hear the other kids–my kids–are getting?

There may well be insurmountable logistical problems with what I am suggesting and perhaps I am just tired out after seven, count them, seven consecutive years of science fair experiments. Perhaps I can blame only my badly spaced child-bearing and no one else. But I still think the whole things smacks of injustice.

Dress it up as opportunity, as progress, or as academic adventure. I still say science fairs ruin lives.

The Emperor's New Fabric of Space and Time, and Other Pet Peeves

For a writer, I have a really adversarial relationship with metaphors. Let me give you some examples of what I mean.

Case #1: When, in 2007 and 2008, our country's financial system suffered a sudden seizure, and everyone's house was abruptly and magically worth much less than it was before, I became very annoyed by the conversation about bubbles. I am the mother of three boys, all of whom were at one time toddlers and, as a result, I am very, very familiar with bubbles. Here is what I know:

1. The nature of bubbles is that they are a spherical body of gas contained in a liquid. 
2. Bubbles are always circular, no matter the shape of the wand. 
3. The blowing of bubbles bring countless hours of joy to toddlers. 
4. When spilled, bubble soap will leave a dark gray stain on your carpet.

I also know this: There was definitely not a bubble that caused my house to be worth $50,000 less than it was six months prior. If that were the case, there would be tell-tale soap stains all over the United States. So, I kept saying, will somebody please tell me what actually happened here?

Photo by Justin D. Miller

Case#2: The fabric of space and time annoys me. My husband and I still argue about this. Admission: He got an A in college physics and I dropped remedial algebra four times and took only Bio. I still think I'm right. Every time I am watching some science show that is explaining the Universe to me, I find myself sitting in the living room with my family, while everyone quietly nods in understanding as some physicist explains with delight that our current understanding of reality all rests on the factual finding that space and time are knit together into a fabric. This, apparently, is the keys to the kingdom. 

Except, hello, no fabric! Why does everyone just accept this? How does this make any more sense than the explanation that the Universe behaves as it does because of the activities of tiny goblins? One could say that there is overwhelming evidence that microscopic, invisible goblins have been controlling all natural phenomenon. The fact that you see no goblins is immaterial as long as the logic of the goblin theory holds true. (All of my well-educated, scientifically minded readers now hate me. I'm sorry. I still don't buy your fabric of space and time. I think that shit is the same stuff the Emperor was wearing in the old fable.)

by Scott Robinson

What drives me crazy is not that people use metaphors to explain the truth. I use them all the time. (For example, when I tell you I am ready to kill my children, I very much hope you will not phone the police.) What irritates me is that people don't seem to know they aren't real. My husband keeps telling me there is in fact a fabric of space and time, but what the Hell does he know about fabric anyway? I have to keep watch on him to make sure he doesn't shrink my sweaters. That's how much he knows about fabric.

I just want to someone to explain how these things actually work, in the sort of foolproof, replicable way that one writes a recipe, or an elementary school science fair procedure, without a bunch of enormous bubbles or imaginary swaths of textile inserting themselves into the conversation. If people are unemployed and homes and retirement savings are lost without recourse, we should not get distracted with the behavior of theoretical effervescent spheres. 

And I'll believe in your fabric of space and time when you goddamn well make me a dress out of it.