It seems to me (and it makes sense to me) that bloggers talk more often than other groups of people about social anxieties. So much, in fact, that I’m a little tired both of reading about it and of writing about it. BUT: it comes up so often, and affects so many areas of life, it’s not so much “writing about social anxiety x 5” as it is “writing about how social anxiety is screwing up my ability to call a doctor who could help with social anxiety x 1” plus “writing about how social anxiety is complicating the decision of whether or not to attend BlogHer x 1” plus “writing about…” and so on.

Today it’s “writing about how social anxiety is complicating my children’s social lives x 1”. Elizabeth is in kindergarten, and she’s socially comfortable at least for now. And she BADLY wanted a playdate with another little girl she knows and likes. And I REALLY DON’T WANT TO ARRANGE IT, NOR DO I WANT TO PARTICIPATE. I mean, REALLY don’t—as in, I would rather let a spider walk on my hand. BUT: I am aware that one of my responsibilities as a parent is to help my children arrange things they’re not able to arrange for themselves, especially when those things are actively good for them. And so. I waited for a brave moment and I pounced on it.

It helped x 1,000,000 that I had the other little girl’s parents’ email address from the class list: instead of Phone Hurdle plus Playdate Hurdle, it’s only a Playdate Hurdle. But this morning is the playdate, and I would rather be doing almost anything else. Going to the grocery store with three children? SURE! And they can’t sit in the cart? NO PROBLEM! And they’ll drink coffee first? WHY NOT! And a spider will walk over my hands while I’m shopping? NO BIG!

It won’t be as bad as I think. I might even enjoy parts of it. And certainly the relief when it’s over and we’re driving home will be glorious, and I’ll be so glad I did it for Elizabeth’s sake. And then she will want me to arrange another one.

You know what you can do, if your printer is out of paper but you don’t feel like putting in more right now because you’d have to move a bunch of stuff out of the way of the paper drawer first, but the “paper” light keeps BLINKING and BLINKING? Hit the “job cancel” button right near that blinking light. Possibly this will work for you, too, and ideally it will not be the case that someone else in your family got halfway through a print job and didn’t notice and you just canceled it for them. Because ANOTHER thing you could have done would have been to put a sheet of paper in the manual feed, just to get it over with and also not lose the print job, and someone might point this out to you in an irritable tone of voice.

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I empathize SO HARD with Marie Green’s post State of the State, about what it feels like to have a difference of opinion with a spouse about a desperately-wanted baby.

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Happy cat news: the vet said that the most we should hope for at Benchley’s follow-up appointment today was that his eye was not getting WORSE—but as it turns out, it’s even looking BETTER. He’s lucky to be a young and healthy cat, but also he’s just plain lucky his body happens to be working for him on this. I won’t detail some of the gross things the vet said could happen with eye injuries, but suffice it to say I came away from that discussion feeling like bodies were fragile and random places where the body’s own immune system could end up being a bigger problem than the original problem. Benchley goes back again in a week, but the vet said she feels very encouraged we’ll see good results and won’t have to call in The Cat Ophthalmologist. Did you know there were ophthalmologists for cats? You do now.

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I got a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning, and every time I get coffee at a restaurant I realize how weak I make my coffee at home. Because WOOOOOOOOO.

This morning I made several phone calls, so this afternoon I’m resting and recovering. I don’t know why I put calls off for so long, considering that “suffering from making calls + suffering from anticipating making calls” is so much worse than “suffering from making calls.” Actually, I do know: it’s that I can do that math, but I still can’t make myself make the calls until they’ve become Very Urgent Indeed and one kind of anxiety finally trumps the other.

You know what would make calling way, way, WAY easier for me? If I could find out ahead of time when there were appointments available. Because “trying to figure out when to make the appointment” WHILE ON THE PHONE is nearly impossible: I’m too nervous and flustered to think straight, and often inadvertently make the appointment for exactly when I absolutely can’t be there. This morning I finally made an appointment to get the handle of our minivan replaced (it fell off, like, a year ago), and I made it for a day the kids have no school—not because I love the idea of bringing five kids with me to sit in a waiting room for several hours, but because I seriously couldn’t figure out how to fit it with our schedule otherwise and finally just thought, “When COULD it DEFINITELY work, if I don’t take SUFFERING into account?”

Our cat Mouse has started peeing on Paul’s side of the bed. While he’s sleeping in it. This is NOT AT ALL FUNNY.

Also not at all funny is Benchley in his Elizabethan collar:

It’s hard to tell, but it ties under his neck in a pretty bonnet-like bow.

The poor kitty has an ulcerated cornea, which the vet said is one of the more painful things a cat can have. He has four kinds of medicine, each of which has to be given to him 1-4 times per day, AND he has to wear the collar, AND he may not go outside. Best case scenario, it will heal beautifully and everything will be fine; worst case, he’ll lose the eye after costing us thousands of dollars trying to save it. Most likely is that he’ll keep the eye but have a scar that will make his vision worse in that eye to some degree. Probably he’ll lose his driver’s license.

Paul and I measure the success of a movie by what occurs to us afterward. Like, even if we were okay with the movie while we were watching it, sometimes as we’re processing it later we say, “Hey, wait a minute, THAT detail doesn’t make any sense!” And if we do that too many times, it was a bad movie.

On that topic, may I save you the trouble of seeing The Thirteenth Floor? A full HOUR after we were supposed to be asleep, we were still thinking of things to say in the dark about what was annoying. We both agreed that the CONCEPT was a very good one—but we think whoever made the movie screwed it up SO BADLY, we can’t believe the actors didn’t keep stopping in the middle to say, “Hey, wait…that doesn’t make SENSE, though. I mean, right?”

Plus, it was one of those movies that wants you to FULLY UNDERSTAND that it is SCI-FI, so everything is grey and metallic and dark. *Sci.*

Oh, AND, the script! OMG! We were seriously saying parts of it right along with the actors, and other parts were laughably awful in non-predictable ways so that both of us would cringe and groan as if injured. The detective’s lines were the worst: he was like someone who hadn’t seen very many detective movies, trying to improvise pretending to be a detective.

And why would he believe…? And why would she have to…? And why go to all that trouble when they could just…? And why would he say…? And once his alibi was removed, wouldn’t he have to go back to jail? And couldn’t they set it up to happen while the other person was sleeping? And “5’8″ and blond” is an insufficient description for finding someone. And why wouldn’t they ALSO use that technology to…? And seriously, how would THAT work? And couldn’t we have found actors who were a little easier to recognize? And if that little detail about switching were true, it would be happening pretty regularly, not just when plottily convenient. And then the icing on the cake: oh, I see, the THIRTEENTH floor. Because….wait, why, again, other than that it sounds a little creepy?

It was like someone came up with a really awesome idea (by reading it in a book, according to Wikipedia), but then failed the crucial step of thinking, “If this were really true, how would things work?” The whole movie was merely a set-up for Teh Big Reveal, rather than being even an ATTEMPT to approximate what life would be like in circumstances where Teh Big Reveal was as-yet-unrevealed.

With my weird schedule right now (three schoolbuses to remember to catch/meet), I’ve been searching for a timer I could set to go off at the same times each day. I looked at medication timers, and they did look good but most had features I didn’t need and cost more than I wanted to spend, so then I’d think, “Meh, this is silly, I guess I can just remember.” But THEN, yesterday at Target I got William a Timex watch on 75% off, and I was reading the instructions to set the time and I saw that his watch can be set to beep at certain times each day, and THEN I realized his watch is the same brand as mine, so maybe…? And sure enough! Not only can I make my watch beep three different times a day, it even let me choose “weekdays” so it won’t beep at me on weekends. I love when things work out like this.

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I am in one of those dumb fits where I’m going over old conversations in my mind and doing them differently—suggesting, for example, that someone take a transcript of our conversation to his/her psychiatrist to see if the psychiatrist agrees with me that it’s time for him/her to get a big medication adjustment. I also had a long mental argument with a SPAMMER. And I delivered an entire mental SEMINAR on why it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of to say a stay-at-home parent doesn’t own an equal share of the household income. And I keep catching myself and telling myself to quit it, but then the next time my mind drifts I’m doing it again. This usually lasts a day or two. Perhaps you picked up on that tone in my post yesterday: touchy and responding to criticisms that haven’t happened yet? Yeah. I am a joy to be around when I’m in one of these fits. Speaking of consulting psychiatrists.

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I had a DREAM about Hershey Almond and Toffee Symphony bars, so I bought one yesterday and…disappointing. First of all, they used to be 8 ounces and now they’re 4.25 ounces and cost MORE than when they were 8 ounces.

As I’ve mentioned before and will mention again, part of my deal with my review-blogging deal is that I need to mention those review posts on this blog. And normally I try to get this over with quickly for the benefit of those of you who would really rather NOT have review-blog reminders and who are in fact thinking, “You know, if I wanted to read your review blog I WOULD ALREADY BE READING IT,” but I do have one post I would want to bring your attention to anyway, even if I didn’t have to. It’s a post I’ve been composing in my head for months or possibly years now, about how one of my pet peeves is when women call themselves “bad moms” for small, unintentional mistakes. But it doesn’t really go over well around here when I talk about my pet peeves, I find, so I kept not writing and posting it—because another of my pet peeves is getting scolded by a commenter for not being exactly how they imagined me.

But then I got a review assignment for a post about how even good moms make mistakes, and after Paul fell asleep I got up and finally wrote the post I’d wanted to write. So here it is, my pet peeve post [link removed because blog is gone now], and if you tend to get all prickly when I talk about things that bug me, you don’t have to follow the link at all! Everyone wins.

Also there’s the fifth of twelve Kellogg’s posts, through September 13th, this time about favorite things you did this summer. And if those things involve breakfast, then Kellogg’s should have hired you instead of me.

Some of you are going to think I’m a PRIME IDIENT, but I am not worried, because I am comforted by the belief that others of you will be in the SAME BOAT: I have only JUST REALIZED, in my mid-thirties, that when people give me homemade jam THEY WOULD LIKE THE EMPTY JAR BACK. It never occurred to me! Not once!

It’s not that I’m inconsiderate, or a selfish jar-hoarder, or that I don’t care about the other person’s jar situation. No! Not at all! It’s that when I buy jam at the store I recycle the jar, I don’t bring it back to the store. The jar is TRASH to GET RID OF. It is a CONTAINER. This is the template for all jam situations.

Now that I have made jam myself, I see things anew. The jars! They need to go BACK to the person who made the jam! So that the person can put more jam in! Because the cost of the jars is one of the reasons jam-making barely makes sense, but the REUSABILITY of the jars is why in the long run it DOES make sense. BUT ONLY IF YOU HAVE THE JARS! The jar is part of the process! It must not be disposed of!

Fortunately my friends and family are not of the jam-making persuasion, so I don’t have to look back wincingly over a long history of carelessly-tossed-out jars from homemade jam. But still! I quake! Because I WOULD HAVE carelessly tossed out the jar, if someone had given me jam! Not because I didn’t care, but because a non-jam-maker wouldn’t KNOW! How could they?

Today I was complaining on Twitter about a loud neighbor child who while playing outside CONSISTENTLY and PERSISTENTLY makes a loud, grating, “motor” sound (EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! EHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!) that can’t be good either for his throat or my ears, and then [THIS NEXT PART IS TOTALLY UNCONNECTED TO THE CHILD] I heard a screech of tires and an unmistakable sound of 1.5 tons of metal hitting another 1.5 tons of metal, and then the sound of a woman crying out. And there is NO connection here to the child making the grating sound, except that I was complaining about him shortly before it happened: he was neither injured nor involved, and in fact had gone inside already. But I was rocketing out of my chair and into the yard within seconds (I HOPE it was within seconds, and that I didn’t sit there insensate for awhile before responding), calling out to anyone I saw, “Is anyone hurt?” “Has anyone called 911?” And I don’t know why I did that, because no one can provide answers to that kind of question 10 seconds after a crash and/or BEFORE the point at which someone should be dialing 911. After my first “I don’t know!” answer, I ran back into my house and called 911 and cursed the gods who gave me a voice that shakes so hard in times like this. My goal is to avoid the throat-clamped feeling of tears, or at least to plow through them and speak anyway. Even if they TRANSFER me and make me say it AGAIN, which is what they did.

And here is what I’ve noticed: that you can live a mile and a half from the nearest emergency response station, and it can still take a full year to hear sirens. You can wait, and wait, and wait, and still there is a car way down off the road in a ditch and another car through the neighbor’s fence and into the neighbor’s yard, and nothing is HAPPENING, and traffic is backing up and still no one is there. And yet, 45 minutes later and the ambulances have left and the cars have been towed and the police officers who were directing traffic have gotten back in their cars and driven off. And how can that be, when a year passed before they arrived?

Well. Clearly they need to put updates in the local paper, because NO I don’t know what happened, and I couldn’t figure it out from the position of the cars. One woman was taken away with her arm in a sling, and that was from the car that looked fine. The other car had a building and an ambulance between it and me, but after the passenger or passengers had been removed and the tow truck was hauling it up out of the ditch, I could see the entire front part was crumpled, with part of it dangling off, and both airbags were in the front seats. Which is as it should be: air bags should deploy, the front should crumple to absorb the impact before the impact reaches anything made of flesh and bones.

But I couldn’t SEE much out my window. I saw people coming to my neighbors’ house and getting paper towels and heading back to the car that was in the ditch. I heard a bystander say “…wasn’t belted in…” I saw emergency personnel standing around looking casual. The ambulances didn’t have sirens on when they left. My neighbor started sweeping up the mess in her yard. Most of these things point to everything being okay—just a scary thing that happened and then everything started up again and turned into insurance claims.

Did I ever tell you about the accident I was in when I was 17? I was driving a pick-up truck home from a used book store with my best friend, and I was fiddling with the radio, and I dipped onto the soft shoulder and overreacted, spinning the wheel way too hard back onto the road. And we hit a tree, and we hit it roof-first and in the opposite direction of the one in which we’d been traveling, and the rear-view mirror ended up between our heads. It seemed to me that the ambulance arrived seconds later, and when they asked me if I’d hit my head, I said no, but it took many hair-washings to get all the windshield glass out of the lump on my head. And when we were in the ambulance, the ambulance guy said to me, “Man, when we saw the truck, we didn’t expect to find…but there you were, grinning!”

I’m doing a little back-to-basics-ing this week, which for me means trying to figure out my SparkPeople login information so I can do soul-crushing things such as measure a tablespoon of milk for my coffee and then record it. But, you know how after you’ve been on a diet Heathy! Eating! Plan! for awhile you’re an expert at estimating quantities and mentally tallying points and so forth? And also you get all Aware of what you’re eating, and you start making little lightning-fast calculations of Worth It Or Not, as opposed to only making calculations about Yummy Or Not? And it gets all automatic so then you don’t have to spend a huge chunk of time every day thinking about what you eat and how many calories it has, SPEAKING OF SOUL-CRUSHING? Or maybe I should be saying “I” instead of “you”? So for me it’s worth the practice to get back in that habit in order to ultimately reduce time spent on such a hobby.

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Now. Listen. Privacy settings on Facebook are RAD and IMPORTANT. But some people are taking it TOO FAR. If I search for a cute guy from high school, and the COMPLETE TOTAL of what he’s allowing to sneak through the privacy settings is his name, the fact that he is male, and a picture of a baby, how can I tell if that’s the right person to try to snoop? MINIMUM, I need a photo to squint at and try to figure out if that could be him or not.

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I am so annoyed EVERY MONTH by one of our bills, which says “Non-receipt of bill is not an excuse for failure to pay.” O RLY? It seems like a pretty good excuse actually. I feel like writing on the payment slip “Non-receipt of payment is not an excuse for failure to credit account.”