TMI

We got a huge pile of cards in the mail yesterday -- I don't think we even got around to opening them all before we left for our plane-viewing activity. While reading some, I marveled at the level of detail in the letters summing up the year. Do I really need to know what levels your kid has completed in some video game? Or which one of your kids placed higher with their calf at the county fair? I guess their lives are so interesting that they need to give us every detail. Much more interesting than ours, since we had such an uneventful year.

Still preocuppied with 1995

Perhaps I'm feeling sentimental because it's Christmas, or maybe I'm just getting old, but there are a couple developments that came to my attention yesterday that I just can't get out of my head.

First, there's the second X Files movie, which came out last year but which I only just saw, for some reason. I have many problems with this movie, but the biggest one is the only one that really needs mentioning: THERE ARE NO ALIENS!!!! None! Not a one! Not even a hint of one! That was the whole point of the series, right? The whole plot of the movie is about a psychic priest and some Russian guys doing head transplants. Whoop-dee-doo. Sure, this could have been a great episode back in the days of the occasional one-off creepiness as a break from the usual alien-coverup plot line (Eugene Tombs, anyone?). But in a movie you expect something overwhelming, earth-cracking, a universe-splitting plot development or twist. Maybe the priest could have had a vision of Mulder's sister. Anything, really! Even just a hint that there might be some future movie that ACTUALLY HAS ALIENS!

Then there's this Madonna problem, which is somewhat more disturbing because of what it says about American womanhood. Take a look. Yes, that's Madonna. Yeah, it sorta-kinda looks like her, but not really, because she's had so much plastic surgery that she doesn't really look like herself any more! How does that happen when you have a bazillion dollars and can hire the best plastic surgeons in the world?

Now, this wouldn't be nearly so disturbing if she was merely famous and talented and old like, say, Sigourney Weaver, who is lovely and normal-looking and fabulous at age 60-- yes, 60! Maybe she's had some work done, but she looks like herself. But Madonna is an icon, and not an icon like in the Project Runway throwing-around-"fashion-icon"-like-it's-"make-it-work" kind of way. She is the biggest pop music star of all time (sorry Michael Jackson fans) and has butchered herself to the point where she looks half her age. She's not a porn star, or even a mere actress, she's the biggest thing ever! This is so unnecessary! And what is it supposed to mean for the rest of us? If we have successful, happy lives, but look older than 40, we're done?

"Those are someone's babies."

Having kids changes everything about your life. It even changes the way your brain works.

Last night I was flipping through the channels and watched a 9/11 documentary compiled from random people who were in Manhattan and happened to have their video cameras handy. As they showed masses of people fleeing, I scanned the crowd for children (thankfully lower Manhattan is not a great place for kids).

When the I heard about the Virginia Tech shootings, my very first thought was, "Those are someone's babies!" And I tried to comprehend how one would deal with losing a child in the prime of their life to such a senseless act of violence.

As I watched the passengers standing on the wings of Sully's plane floating on the Hudson, I wondered how many babies or toddlers were on board, and how their mothers were keeping them calm and safe and what I would do if something like that happened to me with my kids.

I've never been the most sentimental mom, and I'm not one of those mothers who lays awake at night trying to think of bad things that could happen to their child. So I'm sometimes taken aback at what a fundamental shift in my thought process all this signifies. It's one thing to think, "Well, I'm not going to go bungee jumping, since I have babies to take care of now," and another to feel these instinctual urges coming almost subconsciously.

Top 5 Fridays

5 Best Things in The Hangover:

5) The tiger

4) The baby

3) Naked Chinese mobster jumping out of the trunk

2) Jeffrey Tambor

1) Carrot Top

Top 5 Fridays

Top 5 Things I'd like to see turn up in the move

5) The other one of my favorite earrings

4) My point-and-shoot camera battery charger

3) The wherewithal to get rid of about a quarter of our stuff

2) My bracelet

1) Roughly three dozen Arthur socks

On the Move

Oh holy crap, we're doing it. We're moving. There are many reasons for it, but it's happening, despite my misgivings. We've signed a lease and a listing agreement, and we're going from owning in Redwood City to renting in Menlo Park. We love Menlo Park, and we lived there before we bought this house. The house we're renting is more than twice the size of our current house, for the same monthly costs. So the part about living in a new, bigger house in an awesome location doesn't bother me, it's the packing up of allll of our stuff and then unpacking it all in a new location. I look around and just feel defeated without even starting when I think about packing it all up and hauling it over there. (Of course we'll hire movers to do the real heavy lifting and driving, but still.)

I've been trying like crazy to get rid of as much of our stuff as possible. I had a garage sale a few weeks ago, which got rained out and resulted in a lot of stuff getting hauled to Savers. I add at least one item a day to the pile on the porch that staarted growing the day after my last Savers run. But there's still so much! How will I ever get it to a manageable level? Is there such a thing?