Damn Spam-Protection

Don't get me wrong - I truly appreciate Blogspot's effort at keeping out the spam posts. When I first saw the extra information I had to type into a box, those little letters you have decipher and retype, I had no trouble. I believe the first code was "XYPIL". Xypil. Sounded easy enough.

Except over time I keep coming across unreadable letters. Is that a "G" or a "Q"? Is that an "L" or an "H"? Resulting in the inevitable failure to post, calling for a repost.

DAMN MY EYES!

Am I alone in the struggle for clarity?

***

A couple of days ago I left my daughter, M, at my sister's house for the afternoon since she was having such a good time with her cousins. I didn't dare disrupt her bliss. So I drove home, picked up A, and spent the afternoon trying to get him to do homework. In the end, I slunk into my office to trudge through the internet while my 12-year old banged on his drums mere feet away from me, A's homework unfinished because after an hour or so of useless urging, I gave up. J, likewise, was playing drums rather than doing a report on Pancho Villa (chosen because my great-grandfather was a colonel in Villa's army) and thus I further had to endure my husband lecturing him. And agonizing.

Read blogs, read silly stuff, wrote some.

Dinner. Threw some frozen stuff into a pan, added some more frozen stuff to that, pan-fried cut-up, frozen chicken breasts from Trader Joe's. Mixed everything together for my own unique concoction that the family generally enjoys.

Time, freedom, quiet ... I really, really wanted that.

Near 7, I packed pajamas, a robe and slippers for the girl, figuring that she'd fall asleep on the way home. I planned on giving her a bath at my sister's, needing to work on a huge tangle she'd gotten in her hair from a braid my husband forgot to take out when putting her to bed (I'd been teaching the previous night). In fact, I'm reminded that in my darker moments, when I wonder what would happen to my family if I died from some horrible disease or accident...(not suicidal thoughts, just depressive ones), one of my main concerns is my daughter's long, curly hair. After a bath, you have to brush it out using a heavy-duty detangler otherwise she'll end up with the kind of dreadlocks homeless people get. My poor girl would end up with a buzzcut if left alone for long with just my husband.

Anyway, I grabbed a Fleetwood Mac CD and got into our VW Passat to take the half-hour drive to my sister's place. Time, freedom, quiet...the night was a welcome relief. I pressed on the gas, speeding some the dark road out of our neighborhood.

As I was turning left on one of several streets to get to the 210 Freeway, I noticed a brown-colored blur next to me as I accelerated. I turned to look out the window and there was a pug dog, running its little heart out next to me. I slowed the car, and watched as it crossed in front of me and leaped-ran across the street into the big dark of our suburban town. Had to be the funniest thing I'd seen in a long time - its belly round beneath, the run a matter of jumping with all four legs in the air, sort of a squeezing movement. Fast, fast, fast.

I laughed hard, thinking, I must look like that pug. Leap-running away from home.

For at least a half-hour. Or so. Hope my belly doesn't scrape asphalt.