Identity Theory

I have heard a lot about "identity theory" this summer from my son, who is taking a philosophy course. In fact, his professor has written a whole book on the subject.

On my drive to work this morning--my new job at my son's high school, now his alma mater--I reflected back to my son's sixth grade year. Arriving one day to do some volunteer work at his middle school during the changing of classes, with the halls packed with junior high students, I suddenly realized that when the students looked at me, all they saw was somebody's mother. They did not see me as a person unto myself. I was attached to someone else who gave me my identity. It was startling.

While I will always be my son's mother and will always love him deeply and dearly and best of all after my husband, I am looking forward to these next few days and weeks and years where, after 18 years, people will not know me as somebody's mother. I will get to forge an identity apart from that, just like my son is now beginning to forge an identity apart from being somebody's child. He and I will be travelling parallel paths during this time in our lives, looking to find ourselves, him for the first time and me once again. It's an exciting time for both of us.

Road Apples

Guess who I am?

A reader has asked "What are road apples?" This is an excellent question and one which I will try to answer to the best of my ability. Most people do not explore questions such as these, preferring instead to merely lump "road apples" into the category generally known as "excrement." However, by doing so, they miss out on the minutiae that makes life ever so interesting.

"Road apples" is a reference to horse manure that can be found on or at the side of a road. My understanding is that a road apple hits the ground with a soft plop and generally retains its rotund shape, hence the term "road apples."

Now, let's contrast this with a "turd blossom." I have found two definitions of this phrase. The first is that it is a Texan term for a flower that grows from a pile of cow dung. The second, much less reliable definition is that it is a reference to cow manure that hits the ground with a hard splat and thus "blossoms" to cover an extended area. While this second definition is less reliable, it does provide a nicer contrast to the term "road apples."

And, if you guessed I was being the blogger KKairos, you would be correct.

Turd Blossom

I cannot believe people in this country sometimes. Some newspaper editors have their knickers in a knot over Gary Trudeau's use of the term "turd blossom" (in reference to Karl Rove) in an upcoming "Doonesbury" strip (click here).

For Pete's sake.

"Turd Blossom" seems pretty mild in comparison to some of the epithets that have been used for President Bush and his supporters. In addition, a fairly cursory Google quickly reveals fairly solid documentation that "Turd Blossom" is a nickname that Bush himself gave to Rove.

Given the crap that is on television at all hours of the day and night, "Turd Blossom" is a relief. It's almost poetic.

How do you like them road apples?

David Sedaris

I remember the first time I became aware of David Sedaris. He was a guest on David Letterman. His segment ended with a reading from his most recent (at that time) book of essays Me Talk Pretty One Day. He was hilarious.

I bought his most recent book of essays Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim and I often hear him on NPR's "This American Life." I like to listen to him read, and I like what he reads, and I like what he writes.

Last night, I heard him again. He was talking about his mother's aversion to having her picture taken and how he had so few photos of her. It reminded of the moment it dawned on me that I was robbing my family--my son and my husband--by not having a family picture taken. I remembered the moment that I realized it was important to them to have a record of us. I knew that there would be a day that my son would want to remember when it was just the three of us and that it was selfish to let my aversion to film stand in the way of that.

So, we had a family picture taken. When I look at it, I don't look at me. I already know I don't like what I see there. Instead I look at the cute little boy and the handsome man, who are my family.

Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera

There is a scene in The King And I where the King learns what the term "et cetera" means and begins using it liberally whenever an opportunity arises (or he thinks an opportunity has arisen). I like that scene. I can picture Yul Brynner now and hear him pronouncing "Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera."

It's a good phrase. Very handy. I like that it has a nickname--etc.

If I were queen of the world (instead of Oprah), one of my rules would be:

Don't screw with the classics.

Avatars

Well, I'm supposed to be working, but I've "hit the wall," so I'm clocking out early to blog.

I was looking at those fake icon-things that people sometimes use--avatars. I saw where some loony 21-year-old was using actress Lauren Graham for hers. (That is not a Lauren Graham slam; that is a loony 21-year-old slam.)

So that made me wonder, "If I could look like anybody else, who would it be?" Then I thought "Nobody cares what you look like. Pick a hot body." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the figure and not the face." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the face and not the person inside." Then I thought, "How shallow of you to only care about the person inside and not the eternal soul that resides within." Then I thought, "So, if I could look like anybody else, who would it be?"

If I was a younger me, I would choose Ashley Judd. The older me would choose Susan Sarandon.

Tragedy

It says something about me (something I don't like) that, on this day of an attack by terrorists in the city of London, with dozens killed and many more wounded, all I can worry about is my facial hair.

I have a problem with facial hair. If I were a man, I would shave, but I am not a man and, as I find it humiliating enough to deal with this problem (and it is a problem because I'm a woman), I refuse to deal with it in that manner. I find it ever so much more pleasant to have it ripped from my face by its roots, which is what I had done earlier this evening.

Each time this ripping out of facial hair occurs, I get very angry. Part of the anger stems from the pain. It hurts like--well, it hurts like having your hair pulled out by the roots. Part of the anger stems from the fear I have about what facial hair says about my femininity. I already feel like I've failed at being a "girly girl," and I have the beard to prove it!

I did see a truly bearded lady on TV a few nights ago. It was cold comfort.

So on this day that will be marked as the saddest by people all over the world because of the loss of a loved one or a part of themselves, all I can cry about is facial hair. I disgust me sometimes.

Dancing With The Stars

I saw "Dancing With The Stars" for the first time tonight. I often wonder what it feels like to be able to move like that, to have a body that responds in that way. Even when I wasn't fat, I wasn't graceful. I have never felt in rhythm or sync with my body. I can remember as a kid feeling very angry with my body because I could visualize what I wanted it to do and tried to send it the messages to get it to do what I visualized, but it just wouldn't cooperate.

I can walk and chew gum at the same time, however.

What A Wonderful World

This is the one song I want at my funeral. Sing it, Louis. Oh, yeah.

What A Wonderful World
(George Weiss/Bob Thiele)

I see trees of green, red roses, too,
I see them bloom for me and you,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

I see skies of blue and clouds of white,
The bright blessed sky, the dark sacred night,
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky,
Are also on the faces of people going by.
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying, "I love you."

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow.
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know.
And I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Yes, I think to myself, "What a wonderful world!"
Oh, yeah.

Exercise

Okay, this is only my fifth day of blogging, and it's already feeling like a "have-to." I think that's because I made the mistake of saying to my son, "I think I'll blog every day." So, periodically throughout the day, I hear, "Mom, have you blogged yet today?" Ugh. I can't lie, because he immediately goes to check to see if I've written anything about him.

Feeling the "have-to" makes blogging about as appealing to me as exercise.

Someone asked me yesterday why I was blogging. I told them that I was trying to reinvent myself now that I'm no longer a mother. The look in their eyes told me "Good luck with that."

I did indeed ask the child who led me to blogdom the questions below regarding how blogging should be performed. He was no help. He rambled about all the different approaches ad nauseum. I quit listening (but notice how I am increasing my Latin vocabulary).

Bullied and Badgered

I have just been bullied and badgered into doing my blogging for the day. By the kid. Who started his own blog the day after mine. I didn't think this was going to turn into a competition. Thank God he moves out soon and won't be able to track my movements (or lack of them).

Okay. I'm old. I'm tired. Time for bed.

I stink, therefore I am.

My son is taking a Philosophy course--his first college course ever. I may not survive it. My brain may explode first. He is thinking about all the questions I have been trying all my life to avoid thinking about.

I said to him yesterday, "I was thinking about what Descartes said. But tell me what you think about this: 'I stink, therefore I am.' So, if you can smell me, would that be proof that I exist?"

He told me, in his most withering way, he did not think so.

Also, in order to talk to my son now, I need to know Latin. If I ask for a translation, I get the eye roll and the sigh that says, "Mom, don't you know anything?" It is doubly humiliating if his father is involved in the discussion. Then it's two eye rolls, two sighs.

The mistake I make is, when the discussion gets above my head, instead of shutting up, I start trying to crack jokes.

Puteo ergo sum.

L-Po and HP

I'm thinking I made a mistake with my name ... L-Po. I think it's too much like Alpo. Arf! This blog is a dog.

There is a series of commercials advertising Hewlett-Packard's Photosmart line, the ones where you don't know if it's real or a photo, and the guy keeps putting frames in front of his face or over his head. Totally creeps me out. Spouse and child love the commercials. Must be that Y-chromosome rearing its ugly head again.

This blogging thing ... how are you really supposed to do it? Is it supposed to be stream of consciousness? Do I run to my blog everytime I think something that remotely entertains me? Are you supposed to have something well-crafted and profound before you post? Perhaps the child who led me to blogdom will be able to enlighten me. I will let you know what he says.