BlueCollarDaughter raised to profess social justice and faith

Toe hoards apps. If the Discovery Health Channel ever does a special on the condition of app-hoarding, Tivo it (we have no cable or Tivo here) and let me know. Also, could I watch it at your house while you entertain my children and prepare me a homecooked meal and offer a cold beer? Thanks, that's really the whole package that I'm looking for.

Actually I'm a bit of an app-hoarder myself lately, there being so much educational fun and awesomeness out there for autistic kids. Toe himself keeps and app scrapbook, a folder with clippings or printouts about apps he wants for the iPad (the ones we approve of, that is...I really have to draw the line at anything containing zombies, murderous blazing fireball catapults, books or stories about vampires, warlocks or the undead in general, blah blah blah). His yearly grant allows for the purchase of some apps, and Toe "earns" others as rewards for completing other typical kid-hated tasks such as not riding the beagle like a pony for an entire month.

Today we are having an app download party (if someone can throw themselves a shindig as silly as a "blog launch party," we can do this), funded by app-specific birthday funds Toe received from friends and family, and guided by the recommendations of other parents, the autism technology community, the wisdom of Dr. Little Bird (who went to a whole conference on what apps are good for ASD kids), and a Christmas gift of our own: the book Apps For Autism. Refreshments (Apples, of course) will be served.

Some apps on our invite list:
National Geographic Weird But True!
Bobo Explore Light
Big Little Brother
The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore
Moozart
Presidents vs. Aliens

Stack the States
The Angry Octopus
MeeGenius story classic

(desired but not yet available are the Ms. Alissa, Ms. Claire, Ms. Vi, Ms. Colleen, Ms. Tanya apps--get on that, Apple!).

trashy Saturday 01/21/2012

sleeper story of the week: Roo loves machetes and other "knifey things"

Remember in episode 13 of West Wing when Friday was known as "take out the trash day?" That's when broadcasters and journalists ram all the stories that are otherwise too boring (or sometimes too unflattering to the Administration) into the news, because on Fridays and Saturdays everyone is pigging out at the pizza parlor, zoning on Netflix movies in their housepants, or self-medicating to decompress from their hellish week (and therefore not really watching). No? Well if you are too young or too Republican (or too normal) to have not been so in love with West Wing and memorized practically everything everyone in it ever said and did, you maybe won't enjoy my blog.

Anyhoo, I've got a few stinky Hefty bags built up from this week, so let's just dig in. Dumpster diving can be fun!

1. The Big Drip
I am currently on #7 of 8 weeks of IV infusions to treat the bloodlessness of my blood: side effects include mysterious rashes (each morning I have to ask myself, "Which shirt goes best with these hives?"); chronic skull-splitting headache, rusty joint syndrome, pants intolerance, dragass, merciless bloat, and sobbing at the sight of rootbeer.

on my pole: intravenous benadryl, vodka and...rootbeer?

2. Blind Old Skeeter Update
Remember how we had the blues? Well, come February 6, we're going to be singing a new tune called "Old One-Eyed Skeeter." Our aging Rat Terrier is not responding to the opthamological treatments for his bulging eyclopse, and so must have his advanced glaucoma treated with eye removal. He is otherwise completely healthy and happy, so though he will look like a tiny pirate afterwards, he should move on fine in life juist like the rest of us mutants.

3. Roo Boo Hoo
Roo has been out of sorts lately, not himself, unable to sleep, mumbling nonsense, agitated, restless. After reading a book about the natural and manmade wonders of the world he wouldn't pipe down about taking a "trip to the Dodge Mahal," and when we said it wasn't in the budget to see India this year (or possibly Los Angeles??), he tantrumed on and off in his room for the next 13.5 hours. He is also not sweating, so has to be evaluated for nerve dysfunction or even the absence of sweat glands. Obiously, more on Roo later...his medical visit calendar is more full than mine.

4. The Doctor Challenge
Toe and Roo were participants in the training of new autism specialists at the University of Minnesota, a program headed up by our favorite and fabulous Dr. Little Bird (not her real name). The boys were given the ADOS test, bit by bit, by a whole roomful of interns, whose pants were charmed completely off by both of them. Toe's responses ran the gamut from "Once my Mommy said the F word" to "Pepperoni and green olive is the only pizza I truly adore" and anything you can imagine in between. He also was very bossy, dictating exactly how he wanted the doctors in what he called "the doctor challenge" to proceed, and showed clear favoritism toward female candidates who either wore hot pink or were brunette (that little cad). Reuben practically lost his mind with glee when asked to participate in a pretend birthday party, and then proceeded to turn the whole event into one big long scene from the Mad Hatter. And for that they rewarded us in Target generous Target gift cards (the true booty of the autism stage mom).

There's more, but you get the general stink of our week!

Toe goes, "Roo, have you lost your dang mind?!"

wheel of cheese 01/19/2012

Every January I give up cheese. It's not a resolution, it's not because I was bullied into doing so by a horrifying cheese-hater's shame campaign, it's just after the holidays signifies to me the need to put an end to "cheese season" (otherwise known as September-December, when my willpower wears thin and again I find myself in human bondage to the wiles of cheese). Cheese is my one of my best friends and truest loves, part of the colorful fabric of our national history, my gateway drug, life-altering, salty, gluten-free, gloriously diverse, a local delicacy, almost holy...mmmm, melty.

What was I saying?

Also, this year, Roo (fellow cheese champion) will be giving up cheese during a 4-month trial elimination period of food allergens and intolerances, to see if that resolves his chronic eosinophilic espophagitis (also known in this blog as "SPED" or "Spontaneous Puking Events Disorder"). Toe, who finds cheese repulsive(unless you consider this cheese), has long been allergic to cow's milk and is therefore dairy-free. So, short of becoming one of those parents who has to go out with friends or hide in her room to score some cheese, cheese is out. Farewell, you beautiful, edible bacterial process.

Things Roo and I plan to do when we have the "cheese blues" (a list of jointly-created compromises):

--eat another of our favorite treats, namely frozen strawberries dipped in pure cane sugar (just because Paula Dean is diabetic doesn't mean we have to give up the pipe)

--"maybe jus' lick it" (~Roo)

--say a prayer

--talk trash about Wisconsin

--think of cows pooping

--play with PlayDoh to busy our hands; make faux cheese or maybe models of superheroes who have the power to endure cheeselessness

--cry ourselves to sleep

Wish us luck!

cute-out 01/18/2012

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who can get us out of this copyrighted hole?

Today is the 130th birthday of Winnie-the-Pooh author A.A. Milne, one of the biggest guns of cute who ever existed. In honor of him, and the internet debate over the SOPA/ PIPA blackouts, I offer you a a blog post cute-out of images, including this very copyright-protected image from Disney's depiction of Pooh floating around out there on the webz. Bite me, Walt. I think e-Pooh belongs to everyone.

(P.S. The following cute belongs to me, but that doesn't mean that you won't steal it. Or that I would give a rat's tiny if you did. Practically everything I have ever published online--including things I've written for pay--and which mostly now legally belong to those who have paid me--has been regurged without contribution somewhere else on the web. You want 100% guaranteed ownership and pay-per-view access? You better get a time machine back to the Cold War.)

Roo, junior excavator and fledgling dork

Toe celebrates his 7th bday with a deformed mutant cartoon cat-thug

bingo dauber Picasso

beagle shot

Toe and Uncle Jimbo, Rat Pack 2000

Rosemary's baby (not posessed, and cuter than should be legal)

kiddie cocktail

Oh, I could go on and on...infinternetally.

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no pants revolution 01/17/2012

"Every revolution should start
with someone stepping out of their pants."
~Me

Roo hates pants. I hate pants. Really, I think most of America now hates pants. Just admit it--you're reading this right now pantless, or at the very least in one of the many now socially acceptable pants alternatives, such of what a friend of mine calls "housepants." (Just in case you are wondering, Pajama Jeans TM and Forever Lazy TM garments are still considered fringe and outside what we would call "passing" for mainstream pants--and, ew, please don't go there). You and I, we would never choose to imprison ourselves in what some would refer to as grown-up style "slacks," unless absolutely necessary.* If you are indeed wearing slacks right now, you don't want to be and that's okay. This is a safe place.

If you've read much of my blog or any of my twitter (or visited my house at all during the months we refer to as "nekkid summer", you already know I celebrate what I call the "pantsfreedom movement." My heroes are the particpants in the annual NYC Improv Everywhere No Pants Subway Ride. They drop trou in January, in public, in the most crowded city in America. This year the no-pants revolutionaries went international. They humble me.

If you think pants aversion is just a crazy shut-in type thing, or restricted to the old, lazy and or mentally/physically deficient, I say no sir. In fact, some say pants aversion is behind some of the biggest economic and social movements in our time, including the decline of the movie theatre and success of fast food. Just a few weeks ago I watched an adorable tween girl being interviewed about why she felt youngsters now seem to prefer Netflix and other online film services to in-theatre movies. Her response was, "because then we don't have to get all dressed," which of course means "Because then we don't have to put on pants." Duh, it's the way of the world. Keep up!

One final note. There may those among you who still love your pants, God bless you. You cling to them like security blankets, and probably still reminisce fondly about your favorite pants of the past: Zubas, acid washed jeans, genie pants, parachute pants, Levi's Bendover Slacks TM. You're entitled to hang on to your dream, and your pants. You probably love belts and suspenders too. There is, for example, Toe (also genetically my child), who loves wearing pants--he would wear a straightjacket if it kept him even a little bit warmer than his natural temperature of Frigid Icy Foot Fahrenheit (or, FIFF as we call it)--and let's face it, pants are just tubular straightjackets for legs. He also enjoys the picture quality of VHS tapes and typing letters on a 1950 Smith Corona. I'm just saying.

*The author admits there are instances where pants or "slacks" are still 100% socially required (in the absence of a tasteful skirt or ethnic wardrobe requirement: these would include job interviews for jobs you actually hope to get, meetings with school professionals that do not take place in the presence of large inflatable jump structures or the presences of pooping farm animals, doctors appointments for which you do not arrive on a stretcher or in labor, funerals for individuals who were not publicly pantsfreedom activists (feel free to wear housepants to my funeral BTW), or audiences with the Pope or the POTUS/VPOTUS ( I get the feeling Michelle Obama is strenuously anti-pants in her private life, so there may be some wiggle room with the FLOTUS).

for Coretta 01/16/2012

Women, if the soul of the nation is to be saved, I believe that you must become its soul.
~Coretta Scott King

I know it's Martin's day, and he was an amazing human being. But I'm sure Coretta Scott had dreams too. She outta have her own day, IMO. So I'm just going to give a blog nod to that awesome, longsuffering and spectacular woman. My feeling is Martin would have liked that a lot.

Coretta Scott King was a distinguished activist and political mover and shaker in her own right. All while being a reverand's wife. If you think that was easy, try talking about social justice to the older generation of pie-pushing conservative ladies at your church. Breaking barriers of economic, racial and political injustice ain't the easiest thing to do (sadly) as an American Christian. I bet her name was on the congregational prayer chain/gossip hotline a lot.

Coretta was an author, Bible scholar, woman of education, the CEO of a major organization which she founded, news commentator for CNN, newspaper columnist, role-model, mother of four and maker of national history. She also looked pretty sweet in a string of pearls and I'm sure put an extra sparkle in Martin's eyes.

Phenomenal woman behind the phenomenal man, we remember you too.

The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members, ... a heart of grace and a soul generated by love.
~Coretta Scott King

Our Autism Odyssey: the dirty little spectrum 01/14/2012

I have such a foul mouth: autism autism autism autism autism autism. Well, "Aspergers" does kinda sound like a swear, but I prefer to use "high-functioning autism" instead anyway, regardless of what the witch doctors of psychiatry are trying to to say. Autism is autism, diabetes is diabetes, hemorroids are hemorroids, a socialist is a socialist. Let's just use our words and be done with it.

Have you noticed all the new entertainment media being made with autism as a subtext or all-out main plot? No, you probably have not, and that's because the American Entertainment Industrial Complex doesn't want to use that dirty little word, "autism," even when they are capitalizing on our growing knowledge of it, exposure to it, and a lot of people's fear of it.

Interested in seeing an awesome new Tom Hanks/ Sandra Bullock movie about a high-functioning autisic child and his parents facing the traumas of 9/11 and the modern world? One is coming out this Friday, but nowhere in it's official release information will you ever hear or read that the child in it has aspergers. He does though. That's one of the truamas of the modern world.

How about a new network drama with Keiffer Sutherland that features a dad raising his autistic son who has (in true Fox fashion) a kind of spooky and otherworldly gift for decoding the future with numbers? It doesn't look like my cup of tea, but just FYI, the only way you'll know the kid in it has autism is from a parent like me, or an autism medical professional. It's never spoken of in the series description of dialog. It's pretty obvious, but hush hush.

You might think you haven't many movies featuring autistic individuals in the past, but you might be wrong. Have you seen:
Forrest Gump
I Am Sam
As Good As it Gets
Martian Child
All these are major motion pictures with characters on the spectrum which never mention the "A" word. Yes, all along, despite wonderful recent films like The Black Balloon (watch it watch watch it!), Adam and Temple Grandin, there have been films about "it," and I don't mean Rain Man.

For more fun with people speaking the big messy truth about autism, go to the heart of expertise and give to The Loud Hands Project, a new transmedia project of the Autistic Self Advocacy Network (a nonprofit organization run by and for Autistic people, drawing on the principles of the cross-disability community to organize the Autistic community and advance our voices in the national conversation about autism).

7 is magic 01/13/2012

Toe survives to 7!

When Toe was born, I didn't have a blog. I had an email newsletter, Solomon's Porch, in which I bored and informed the world with my ramblings and occasionally humiliated my husband. A lot of writers did that then--it was the pre-everyone-has-a-blog era. Back then TVs were analog, my enormous cellphone couldn't text or take pictures, and I hadn't liked a single person on Facebook. While pregnant with Toe (known in the womb as "tidbit"), a friend sent me an actual print newspaper clipping of a "mommy blogging" story via snail mail with a hand-written note that said, "You should do this." But that was so 2005. Back then a laptop was considered "portable." Hahahahahahaha!

Okay, enough.

Happy birthday to my first-born (human) son, my funny, smart, beautiful and tall Viking child (whose feet now dangle practically down to my own when I pick him up in the spine-risking "Mommy Crusher" hug). I never dreamed when they were slicing open 3 layers of my abdominal muscle to yank you out, that you would be such a joy to me and the world, that already by 2012 you would be reading to me from novels off the Kindle Cloud to soothe me in my "practice old age." That you would roll your eyes in judgment at my lack of tech savvy before you even graduated kindergarten. That parenting would render my graduate degree so incredibly useless.

Toe, seven is a special birthday. Not just because my heathen first-grade public school reader told me in a quasi-Wiccan story back in 1976 that it was, and not just because my mom (your Grandma BoBo) was born on 7/7 and always said 7 was her lucky number (not sure how that actually panned out for her though, since she was hit and dragged down a gravel road by a car on her 7th birthday and sustained an injury to her left eye which left it legally blind forever), and not just because when I was 7 I got a kitten for my birthday and a puppy for Christmas (best year ever!), but because you have become a whole real little person with thoughts, opinions, ideas, dreams and special qualities that I adore. And many believe 7 is the age of spiritual accountability, so if you don"t behave yourself you could end up in hell. Just kidding (kind of).

Little T-bone (of course my child has a street name), the fleeting pleasure of your turquoise and purple Sonic the Hedgehog cake is forthcoming (as per your request), but my love is forever and ever.
For you, my boy, are a jolly good fellow.

blind old Skeeter blues: a musical interlude 01/12/2012

It's a crazy busy day. This is all I got!

Blind Old Skeeter Blues
My dog's name is Skeeter
and he's blind as a bat.
I said my dog's name is Skeeter
and he's blind as a bat.
Oh, he walks into shinbones
and he can't see the cat!

My loyal little sentry, the ever-watchful secret service agent who, for eleven years has guarded my door and kept protectively to my heel, has officially become a big hot mess of old.

That's right. Skeeter, aka "Sharky," "The Man-Eater," "Rat Ninja" and "Terrierist," is now a visually impaired sack of fur with a bulging cyclops eye, creaky hips and a penchant for twitching through 12-15 hours of sleep a day while camped out in a heated therapy dog bed.

God bless him, he snaps at the air, walks into walls and is the hapless victim of food theft perpetrated on him by a local bully.

Tomorrow we're off to the vet for a dx on the cyclops.

Today I am pimping the boys out for the benefit of autism research (and some gift cards) at University of MN Autism Spectrum Disorders Clinic (somebody has to train the interns--why not me?). Also, we are going because we love Dr. Little Bird (not her real name), the best, brightest autism specialist in the world, and a fine lady with an enormous heart for the children (not, like medically and dangerously enormous).

Ready, set... Blue!