The Offender

Zach plays with his stuffed animals by cradling them and hugging them as if they are babies, but yet when he gets close to a human, he swats and bats at faces, inflicting pain. I thought about it, and thought perhaps a doll that looked more like a baby would help him. He could do some role play and learn to be gentle and nurturing.

I knew his dad would hate the idea, so I knew better than to buy him a doll that was dressed in a frilly pink outfit or had bows in her hair. That really would have been pushing the envelope. What I needed was a masculine-looking doll. A doll that looked like a boy, was dressed like a boy. A less girly doll. Yeah. Have you ever tried to find anything that has anything to do with traditionl domestic role play that is not pink and frilly and…..grrrrrrr. Toy vaccuums, shopping carts, kitchens. Toy mops and brooms, dishes. All of them. Why? My real vaccuum isn’t pink. My dishes aren’t, either. My stove, refrigerator….none of it is pink. Why in the hell are we doing this to our children?

So  after scouring the internet and finding nothing, I gave up on the doll. Until last week. We were at Toys ‘R’Us when I saw a boy Cabbage Patch Kid. I had been looking at the dolls, reliving memories of my childhood. I had been the first on my block to get one when they first came out. Parents were getting in fist fights over the dolls, and my mom was right in the middle of that. The limit to buy was 10, and she bought all 10 to give to the girls in the family as Christmas presents. But not me. I got one of mine that day. I’ll never forget it. His name was Earl. He had on a blue cuorduroy outfit, was bald with big blue eyes. I was remembering all of this and thinking if I knew a little girl who would want one. As I moved the boxes around, looking at the different dolls, I saw the boy way in the back. A doll. No pink. Big blue eyes like Zachy’s.

And I bought it. The boy doll I had been looking for all of that time. We brought him home and I took him out of the box. His name is Kelton. And I handed him to Zachy, who promptly hugged him and put the doll next to him on the seat of his Cozy Coupe. Success.

Until I absentmindedly posted something on Facebook about, “Yay! I found the boy doll I was looking for for Zachy.”

I started getting e-mails. The phone rang a few times. People, who shall remain nameless and were too cowardly to post anything publically on Facebook, have a serious problem with this. Finally, John, who was with me when I bought it and had no protest then, is making snide comments when Zach so much as looks at the doll. I am going to confuse Zach. I am going to upset the balance. I am going to —GASP!—TURN HIM GAY!!!!! (These aren’t John’s words, but some of the comments I got from others.)

Zach and Evan are growing up in a family where the mom is the breadwinner and has the career, is on the fast track to an MBA. Their dad does the laundry, the cleaning. He runs the vacuum about three times a day (don’t ever get chocolate-brown area rugs, people–they show every speck of lint!) and washes the dishes. We split the cooking. He is the one to taxi Ev to and from school. To the point that one time, we went to a school function and one of the other mothers mentioned that she thought we were divorced because she never sees Evan’s Mommy. I believe there are inherent diferences between men and women. Some of it is put upon us by society. Some of it is hard-wired by biology. Both nature and nurture win. A prime example? I love pink. I like smelling like flowers. I hate getting dirty. You would never catch me fishing because I will not handle a fish. I hate most sports, other than college football. I watch chick flicks and cry when the situation calls for it. My husband can bench press a lot more than I can. But I am driven, aggressive, down-to-business. If you piss me off, I will let you know. If you are wrong, I’ll let you know that, too. I hate bullshit and will not allow you to dish it to me. I multi-task with the best of them.

Do not ever make the mistake of telling me something is not my job because I am a woman. Other than peeing while standing, I doubt there is anything I could not learn to do. Hell, if I were willing and had some practice, I could probably even manage that one. And if there is nothing I cannot do, and it is unacceptable to place me in a little stereotypical box, then it is certainly unacceptable to do so to either of my children at a time when they are growing and developing and learning who they are. At some point, they will choose the paths they want to take. They may be gay or straight. They may  choose to play in dirt or stay indoors and bake cupcakes. They may be construction workers, chefs, teachers, doctors, lawyers. Presidents of the United States. Or they could choose to stay home and be caregivers to their children while supporting their significant other so he or she can go out and kick ass in the world.

Just like I can do whatever I want, so can they. And whatever they choose, it will have not one damned thing to do with a doll I bought them while they were a toddler.

The Williams College of Business at Xavier University. Number 14 business school in the nation, all around.

I met with them yesterday. I met with them at a point when I was feeling bedraggled and seriously doubting myself after a week of GMAT Prep-Hell. I had some questions, as I was trying to determine which of their programs is right for me. I took a printed copy of my unofficial transcript with me. I spoke with the admissions advisor at length. I’ll hit the highlights:

I mentioned that I still need to submit my personal statement. She told me not to botherd, that the level of my work speaks for itself.

I mentioned my nervousness, my trepidation at the GMAT, and she told me it is normal as she smiled and told me there is no way my score would be low enough to bar admission.

I spoke to her about the fact that my resume will reflect all healthcare. She said it absolutely does not matter, but raher shows I have worked and managed a career while keeping that academic record–her emphasis, not mine. And my completion of an undergrad business degree will be business experience enough.

And my favorite? As I was leaving, she explained how those with experience in the business world come into an MBA program and try to intimidate those of us coming from a different background. And she told me not to let them, that I will be great and she wants me to put them in their place.

I left there with a bigger spring in my step. Feeling charged and ready. And thrilled with the thought that, if all goes as planned, I only have 8 classes to take to get my MBA.

Until the GMAT prep made me feel mentally incompetent to even tie my own shoes.

Or my new classes left me with less time than I thought.

And I have had appointments every single day, including some meetings for work. So in truth, I have gotten Jack Crap finished by way of GMAT. And guess what! Jack left town. So we aren’t going to talk about Jack, or GMAT, or anything else that makes me want to scratch my eyes out and beg for Ativan. We’re going to talk aboout what Zach did last night.

He slept without a swaddller. Yeah. Uh-huh. John was at his evening class, and I told myself that now is the time, damnit. It took a gazillion trips to his room to remind him that I was right here. Maybe a couple of pats on the back. And the binky. Yeah, we aren’t even touching the bedtime pacifier yet, in the name of picking one’s battles. But he did it. He slept in his Spongebob pj’s, covered by his favorite blankie, with his little butt in the air. My big boy. Turns out that we aren’t going to have to send him to college with one after all.

What else is Zachy doing? Well, first of all, we cannot go out in public without cracking people up. Really. He gets so excited when he sees something he recognizes. And when he gets excited, it’s the funniest thing ever. As in “Oh! Oh! Oh! OH! Oh YEAH????” Only in that adorable baby voice. Yesterday, I took him to the pharmacy to fill a prescription. Our pharmacy is small, so I usually don’t do this. Well the first thing he saw was a container of baby wipes on the shelf. So here he goes. “OH????? Oh YEAH!”, as he darts to the shelf. Then he saw the body wash I use on him. “Oh-Oh-Oh Yeah?” And so it went, back and forth across the pharmacy,, which is essentally a little room with shelves. And quite the audience assembled to watch him in amazement, because through all of this, he didnt take one thing off of the shelves. He was just excited to see the products we use at home. You really should see him at the grocery store!

He still isn’t really talking, but it is obvious, even to the therapist who came to the house, that he understands everything being said to him. He just won’t speak. Except he said “book” the other day, which can be added to the short list of random words he says. By the way, did you know that the sippy cups with the straws are better for language development because drinking from them requires different muscles and actually strengthens the muscles needed for speech. Well, now I know it and we are in the process of replacing all of Zach’s sippy cups as a result. And though I hate the commercialism of characters on children’s products, I will do anything to get this child talking. So basically, whatever floats his boat…Spongebob pj’s. Elmo sippy (with straw, of course!). Thomas toy. Not a lot of characters, but some.

So that’s it. Little steps. I’m not afraid of little steps. Just like I will be taking little steps to get the GMAT prep finished. All it does is slow me down a little bit. But then again, maybe I needed to slow down.

Until I got the letter.

I thought it was just speech.

They said no, that he is delayed in communication and fine motor skills.

AND  that he is delayed enough for services.

They weren’t supposed to say that. They were supposed to tell me everything is just fine and I am just a worrying mother. Not that my worrying is right on target.

Here in a few minutes, I am going to get up from this desk and do a quick dusting in the living room and maybe vacuum because the case coordinator is coming by today to meet us. To explain how this all works–physical therapy and speech therapy for Zach. Further testing, even, to ensure that it is only prematurity that has caused this and not some other issue. And about a million thoughts are swimming in my head.

What was it? The breathine? Mag Sulfate? Indocin? What about the damned pain medication that I didn’t want to take but had to in order to survive that ordeal? And not only am I wondering which drug I was given, but which dose? Which injection, pill, dosage increase did the trick? Or what if I would have been tougher and held on a little longer? And if so, how much longer would have been enough? A day? A week? Where did we fall short of that threshold where everything woulld have been okay.  I thought it was all fine. Zach is almst 2 years old, and I thought I was finally past all of this. That we made it through, completely unscathed. This is so fucking unfair.

And Evan. Having a child–any child–with an autism spectrum disorder makes you much more likely to have another with an ASD. Are both of my precious miracle boys disordered?

I cannot even think about it now. Right now, I am going to put down the textbooks for a little while and pull myself up by the bootstraps. And help my Zachy.

You know, there is something surreal about turning another year older as the clock strikes midnight and the calendar starts over again. As if one is given a fresh new start, every single year. And every year, you swear it will be better than the year before. In the veritable shit storms you have endured, you have said that it has to get better. And for the most part, it has. 2011 brought stagnation, sort of. No big career moves. No earth-shattering events. No big changes. Just life. Work and school, kids getting older, John by your side. Though 2011 brought the great Asperger drama with Evan. Still, nothing earth-shattering.

How fucking boring.

You are getting older. 35. It is time to shake things up.

What do we hope 2012 will bring? Finishing the undergrad degree, already. Grad school. That damned GMAT. Failure is not an option for any of those if you ever want to get the things out of your life that you have hoped for all of this time.

You need that Audi you have wanted. You need a damned MBA and an MBA salary to get that, you crazy bitch. So do it.

And you know those bad habits you have? Yeah, those. Well, what once was cute and quirky in a 25-year-old is no longer cute with the addition of a decade. And the problem with your bad habits is that they will eventually kill you. Your habits are a reflection of irresponsibility now that you are older. It is time to fix them so you can be here when the kids grow up. You bitch and whine that you never get time off, but there you have it. When they are grown, you will have time. If you survive. Fix that shit right now.

This year you will work harder. You will be better. At parenting the boys. At being a wife to John. As a therapist. You will because you need to be. You know how we get when we get bored, and in order to prevent boredom, you need to find some sort of a challenge. These are your challenges. While you need to prepare for the future, you need to bank some of your time and energy on the present. Before the present is the past and it is too late to do anything about it.

You will write better. You will read more. You will get fresh air. Maybe your stressed ass needs to take up yoga again before you kill the planet.

And speaking of the planet, maybe you could recycle a little. Isn’t that your duty as a citizen? Why don’t you? It’s a small step, but a step nonetheless. No more excuses.

Learn to crochet or something. Maybe you can make tacky doilies for everybody or something. No, really. Everyone can do it. You are a smart bitch. There is no way you are incapable. Just teach yourself. And then don’t get all extra Andrea-OCD on the shit and refuse to stop until a project is finished. It really is okay to put something down and come back to it later. This will teach you patience and give you something to do that will distract you from breaking those bad habits.

The treadmill is not a clothes rack. Take it out. Use the damned thing. All of that studying you do? Well the beauty of the treadmill is that those enormous textbooks perch quite nicely on that rail right in front of your face. Quit being lazy.

Some people are pretty. Some are thin. Some come from money. Everyone has some sort of advantage in this life. And life is a game of learning to exploit your advantages to get what you want out of life. Your advantage, other than big boobs, is that you have a brain. You can figure shit out. And that is what you need to do. You have survived some hell that we cannot even speak of right now. You can overcome these shortcomings.

And you will. Because you are now 35-fucking-years-old. And it is time to quit playing and get real.

Peace Out, Yo.

Andrea

And to the rest of you, sitting in your homes, reading this crazy shit that is sure to get me committed:

Happy New Year. May you have a wonderful, full, amazing 2012.

Eleven years. 11. More than a decade. Double digits.

Somehow, as I started to write, words failed me. How has my life been impacted by John’s presence in it? Could I ever sum that all up in a blog post? Really?

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by reporting on rose-tinted images of what we are all raised to believe of marriage. It hasn’t been all roses. It has been real work, real sruggles at times. There have even been times where either one of us was tempted to throw in the towel. We never have. Sometimes this is out of love for each other and sometimes this is simply because we are just too damned stubborn to give up on this life we have built together. One thing has remained constant: I love him and he loves me. He gets me. The career and education I value so much? They are fires that he started. When it becomes too much, and I am about to give up–when it would be so much easier to just give up–he is the one to tell me I cnnot do so. He is my best friend. Not in the cliched way, but truly. When I am off of work, I don’t crave time with female friends. Instead, I run home to my husband. Not because I have to, but because I want to. He is where I belong.

Over the past week, I’ve been pondering some of the memories of the past eleven years. We sure have had some good ones. And some bad. Regardless, we stick it out together. That is how it should be and just how it is. But as I think of these times, I am taken back to the day they happened, as if I am there.

January, 2001. We hadn’t even been married a month. But something was different and I sent John to the store at 8AM for a pregnancy test. And that is when we found out Evan was coming. John was so excited that he picked me up and spun me around and around in our kitchen of that tiny apartment. We were so happy. Looking back, I see how dumb this truly was. But then we had no idea of what was to come with the pregnancy. Or that we should have taken more time to be an “us” before we tried to bring children into the mix. But we were so young and so in love, and it just seemed perfect.

November, 2003. John was on academic probation because he had mismanaged his time and didn’t study. We were going to meet with the Dean of Academic Affairs at the college to speak to her about getting him back on track. And in the midst of the conversation, he told her I was “too smart to not go back to school”. With that one little statement, I quit my job as a third-shift clerk at a convenience store and strapped on a backpack for the first time in almost 9 years on January 4, 2004. After a 4.0 semester, I applied for early admission to the respiratory program and was accepted. After many semesters of petitioning that same dean for permission to take more than the maximum allowable credits, I finished. But it was like a fire was lit and I needed more.

May, 2006. I was graduating. John was supposed to graduate with me, but the night before his most difficult final, he stayed up watching dvd’s. He ended up missing the grade he needed by 3 points. It was heartbreaking for him, but that didn’t stop him. As I walked across the stage to be handed my degree, the lights were blinding. I walked down the steps and regained my sight, and there he was. Arms open. Beaming smile. He was so proud of me. It had been years since my mother and father had both died and I remember thinking that it was nice to once again have someone who was so proud of me, who was that invested in my success.

April, 2008. I was getting an MRI. They had found a brain tumor on the right side of the frontal lobe. I had been having blinding headaches, and had to be on a pretty strong cocktail of drugs to even get out of bed. I was sad for what could come of my family, scared we were going to lose everything, that I was going to need a surgery that, according to the neurosurgeon, would have wiped out my memories. Memories of my child’s name, my mother’s existence, my wedding day. All of it, gone. There was so much riding on that scan, which was to be the determining factor in whether I needed the surgery. But I was claustrophobic and the emotions and anxiety flooded me as they attempted to advance me into the scanner. “Get John,” I croaked. The tech tried to protest, citing radiation exposure. But I couldn’t do it. Not just the scan. The whole damned thing. I needed him. And I realized suddenly that it was the first time I really needed anyone, ever. And suddenly, he was there. Lead apron and all. And as they advanced me into the scanner, I told him to make sure he did something to let me know he was there, even when I couldn’t see him. He did. For almost an hour, while I lay in that tube, he rested his hand on my right shin. He never took it off for a second. Sometimes, he would even absentmindedly tap out the rhythm of the magnets as they spun in an orbit around my head inside the scanner, and I would giggle. I didn’t fall asleep. I didn’t concentrate on the music they piped in to me. I concentrated on the warm spot where his hand was. My John. And I realized that I could do anything with him by my side. Anything.

July, 2008. We did lose everything. I lost my job–wrongfully–after the brain tumor. And he is the one who prompted me, after medical clearance, to go and apply for a job in my hometown. And I did. And I got it. And though John and I were pros when it came to throwing our stuff into U-Hauls, this time they hired a moving company to come and pack my house for me and move it all to the new address. And John and I, since Evan was in school, drove to Cincinnati. That was the day he drove out of the way so I could see the skyline of my hometown as I made my big return. And as we did, he looked at me and said, “Welcome Home, Baby.” Because he gets me.

May 13, 2010. Zachary was in the NICU and I was in the recovery room. John kept running in, breathless and excited, to tell me something new. “Andrea! They took off his hat and he has this black hair that sticks up all over! It is so awesome!” Or to show me a photo on the camera. Or to tell me how cute Zach was as he curled up in his little isolette. And I had to keep telling him to go and sit with the baby. To go and be with him, since I couldn’t. And when they finally brought Zach to me, John led the way as the nurse brought Zach into the room. Almost like a little kid presenting you with macaroni art–that look that says, “Look what I made.”

John and I will have many more memories. Some good and some not so good. It’s life. It’s love. It’s marriage. But I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else. Without him here, dreams have no meaning. Nothing would be worth it.

I’ll close this with a video. John and I don’t really have a song. We have a couple that come close, but the cool part of our relationship is that any love song I hear still brings visions of him wherever I am. But this one, though he doesn’t like it, is one of the ones that sums John up to me.

Here’s to another year.

So what has really happened?

Evan has driven us crazy. As soon as he woke on the first day off, he was “bored”. I find myself giving in and surrendering my laptop so the kid will at least do something to amuse himself. Essentially, I hae turned into the mother I swore I would never be.

Speaking of Evan–He is now on a second medication. I hate it, but she swore it had less side effects than the others in its group. Seroquel. If you don’t know, it’s an antipsychotic. Not that Evan is psycho, but it is supposed to calm kids with ADHD and possibly quiet the Asperger meltdowns a little. It’s too early to say, but it may be working a little.

Zach has me worried to death. He still isn’t speaking very much at all–way behind where he should be. We have started the process to have him evaluated by the state’s early intervention program. I’m a little frustrated because they have told me that they will continue to adjust for his prematurity until age 2, rounding up to the next full month. So Zach was almost 7 weeks early, and they round that up to 2 months and subtraact that from his chronological age to determine that he is 17 months old, adjusted. When really, he is going to be 20 months in a couple of weeks. This means that while he is more delayed for 20 months, his delay will be more mild when he is assessed as a 17-month-old. And then they have to be so far gone before they qualify for the state’s free services, meaning if I want to get him help, I will have to pay out of pocket. Lovely, thanks. And then there is the worry that Zachy is doing exactly what Ev did at that age, and while I used to say Evan was fine, now I wonder about this Autism Spectrum stuff. And that their pregnancies were remarably similar, down to the drugs I was given. Whatever. I can’t think about that right now.

I’m still working on GMAT, and am hoping to take the exam on the 20th of January. Odds are in my favor for my top choice school, given my GPA and assuming I do okay on the exam.

John is still…John.

We are looking for three-bedroom houses. We cannot make this one work much longer. Zachary, who has shared a room with us all of this time, is becoming less of a baby and more of a little boy. Andd his little boy things out-number our things. And as he gets older, his toys get bigger, which really is a bad combo. Don’t believe me? Well, wedged in the corner of my bedroom, where the tv is, there are 4 ride-on toys, as well as one of those massive grow-with-me trikes he got for Christmas. John has to leap from the bed to get over the stuff in the morning. His toy box is overflowing, but we have no room for a second toybox, and the large toys are sitting on the floor, blocking every area other than the walkway between his crib and our bed. Yeah, we’ve outgrown this house. As far as the house search goes, that is another post entirely.

I think that’s it. I’ll be working on some other posts I’ve started as well. If anyone is still reading this my suckage at life in general.

Someday, I will have time to make a dent in this 6-inch thick GMAT prep book.

Someday, I will have a day off of work.

Someday, Evan will go back to school.

Someday, Zach will start speaking and stop doing the whining/ grunting/ pointing thing.

Someday, this house will be clean. And neat. And organized.

And I will finish the 1000-page book I started reading out of a lapse in my sanity. Because for some reason, aside from GMAT prep, working like a dog, the questionably Aspergian high maintenance oldest child and the terrible-twos toddler, and all of the other shit I have to get done, I thought I would have time to read the damned thing.

Someday, I’ll relax.

Or maybe finish the apps for grad school.

Or maybe eat a dinner that is home cooked because we had time to cook.

Someday, there will not be sheer chaos in this house.

Someday, I will finish the 50 gazillion blog posts I have started about the different things I wanted to tell you all about but have not have the time to finish. On our Christmas. Or our anniversary. Or Evan’s progress and Zach’s delay.

But not now. Because right now, the tv is blaring, Zach is screaming because he doesn’t have the words or ability to tell John he wants apple juice. I am waiting for a phone call from the developmental interventionalist because I am finally worried about Zach’s speech delay to do something about it. And once I get the call, I have to go through the gu-wrenching possibility that my treatment during the pregnancy did something to him just when I thought it was all okay. And it is finally snowing outside, mixed with a bit of rain and freezing temps that are sure to make my commute a living hell.

And right now, I have to go to work. Again.

Fuck.

I am currently in a statistics course. It seems like common sense, and I have an A in the course with only two more assignments to be graded before winter break. But I swear, some of the assignments have been insanely difficult. Maybe it is because it is difficult to learn the intricacies of these complex mathematical formulas online with no face time with my professor. I can do the work but it is actually taking a certain amount of effort. Monday, for example, I had to complete a project that involved a 250 sample size, including organizing the data, computing solutions for problems regarding the data, and presenting it all in spreadsheet form along with an APA-formatted paper analyzing and interpreting the meaning of the information I extrapolated from the data. All of this was done after working all weekend and not sleeping. I literlly came home from work on Monday morning and sat at my desk at 7:30 AM and not completing it until 1AM Monday night/ Tuesday morning. At one point, whether it was from exhaustion, stress, being overwhelmed, or whatever, I actually broke down into tears. In the process, John kept looking over my shoulder, shaking his head and exclaiming how no human could possibly understand the stuff I was being asked to do for the project. He brewed me 5 pots of coffee throughout the day. And then, once completed, I had to hurry and finish the 46-slide PowerPoint presentation on the organizational effectiveness of my current employer. By the end of the night, I was nauseous, my fingers were swollen from feverishly typing, my back/ neck/ head ached. I was still sore the next morning, and didn’t want to even see typeface for a while. No Kindle, no blogs or blogging, no reading.

I am almost finished. I will be on winter break from Monday through January 8th, when I will return to a whirlwind of classes before I can move on to the MBA. As a matter of fact, I will have 6 more 5.5-week sessions, back to back, with 2 classes each session. For the immediate period of time, I am working every hour that is available. I have 3 days off between now and January 4th, and none of those are holidays.

And now starts my countdown for my GMAT and working on grad school applications. I have put in for vacation for the last 2 weeks of January–time to wrap up exam prep and actually take the exam, hopefully with a few days left over to do nothing work- or school-related. To maybe kick back and celebrate what I have done just a little bit. On a side note, I actually got some interest from M.I.T, which actually hurt a little bit. I cannot pick up my entire family and move like that, though their interest is beyond flattering.  I mean, this is the number  3 MBA program in the country! For me, when just this time last year, I was on track to med school. Maybe in a different time and place. But for now, I have my top three choices and a couple of “safety” schools picked out, and we’ll leave it at that.

In the meantime, I am going to try to spend some downtime here in the Blogosphere over he net three weeks. Please be patient with me and don’t lose interest.

I’m not a huge country fan, though I love me some Kenny Chesney. His music just reminds me of my John. But anyway, he has this song that sums it up pretty well, and I leave you with the key line from it:

“Hey, I wanted it all and that’s what I got.”

Bitchypants, Out.

I did it. It was only $79. I practically had to buy the damned thing. It’s been a little over a week since, and I have actually had a few minutes to read because the thing fits so easily in my purse. I am on my third and final book of The Hunger Games trilogy, which is yet again a series designed for young adults that really is for adults. Love it. So far, I have bought 10 books for a fraction of the cost I would have been able to buy the hard copies. And I have downloaded 15 of the classics for free or for less than a dollar. Titles like War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Les Miserables…. After I finish the book I am reading, I hope to tackle the ambitious IQ84.

What do I love about the Kindle? Well the price of books, for one. The ease of reading–the small device is less cumbersome than a 500+ page book, and the fact that you can adjust the font to a comfort level for your eyes translates to very easy reading and the pages fly by. And while I scoffed at the portability of having one’s entire library in their purse, the convenience of it is hard to pass up. The battery life is amazing and in over a week, I have only charged it once. Even then, it wasn’t really needed, but the battery was only at 3/4 life and I am so used to how other batteries work (laptop, phone, mp3 player), I plugged it in to charge out of habit. I haven’t charged it since and it is only half-gone.

What do I dislike? I’m not crazy about the “special offers” that come on the cheaper model. They don’t bother me that much and only appear as a small, non-intrusive banner ad on the home screen and as a full ad when I stop reading and the device is idle. I hate the commercialism of it, but they don’t bother me other than that. The only other complaint is some of the content for the Kindle store. It seems that there is this entire self-publishing movement out there and that anyone with any sort of resources can write a book and put it on the Kindle store. The problem is that not everyone is destined to write the next great novel, and there is some real crap floating around out there. I stumbled upon a little of it, not realizing this.

I will still try to post a little of the stuff I read. I suspect there will be more of it now. But anyhow, speaking of reading…

I’ve been very busy, as you are about to discover in subsequent posts. I am still visiting and loving all of your blogs, but things have been crazy, and thus I have been catching up via my Google Reader on my phone. And I hate typing on the thing, so that is why there are no comments.