Blog experts tell us not to write clever titles for our posts as they’re counterproductive in terms of search engine optimization.  But who wants to read an essay titled ‘Gas Prices Skyrocket’?  Have you filled up lately?  You already know how bad it is – like getting mauled by a tiger, even.  Or a lion.

The World Price of Crude Oil Is the Most Important Factor in the Price of Gasoline. Over the Last 20 Years, Changes in Crude Oil Prices Have Explained 85 Percent of the Changes in the Price of Gasoline in the U.S.

It’s unclear what to make of a poll that has the majority of Mississippians believing President Obama is a Muslim except to say that there is a great deal of ignorance in the country – and a lot of bigotry.  But some surveys are encouraging: according to a Bloomberg National Poll, 66% of the thousand or so asked whether they believe our commander-in-chief is responsible for the escalating cost of gasoline, answered ‘no’.  They got it wrong in Mississippi; Obama is a Christian.  Regarding the price at the pump, they got it right.  No matter how much we want to blame someone, particularly the president if he’s not a member of the political party we favor, it’s a futile game.

In March 2004, when George W. Bush was beginning his bid for reelection, gas prices hit a record high, for the sixth time in his presidency.  Examined anecdotally, this makes no sense.  Those who hated Bush believed he was in bed with Big Oil, what with the Texas roots and the family wealth tied to crude.  He, of all recent past presidents besides his father, should have been able to influence oil prices especially if it would help him stay in office – but he couldn’t.  POTUS, regardless of who he/she is, cannot promise low gas prices and deliver, not now and not ever in our lifetime.  End of story. But let’s spend a little time together examining why that’s the case.  I promise not to bore you.

We’re pigs.  (I didn’t promise not to insult you.)  Any way you slice and dice the argument over higher gas prices, Americans end up looking like obese people who continue to buy bigger and bigger clothes for themselves rather than exercise more and eat less.  But let me back up for a minute.

The price you pay for gasoline at the station is based on several factors.  Consider the first reason ‘supply and demand’.  OPEC (Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries: Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Qatar, Libya, United Arab Emirates, Ecuador, Algeria, Nigeria, and Angola) is responsible for supplying the United States with around 45% of its oil.  If we, and other countries like India and China – the world’s newest gluttonous consumers of crude – demand more than OPEC is willing to supply at any given time, the price increases.  It’s basic economic theory and we are beholden to OPEC’s generosity, or lack thereof, if we continue to need their product.  The price for OPEC oil is not always based on greed, however.  Turmoil in these countries, especially Libya recently and Iran right now, make for precarious fluctuations in how much crude OPEC honestly believes they can deliver – but let’s be honest.  When you look at the list of countries that belong to OPEC, when was the last time you wanted to visit any of them?  These are not necessarily countries we admire for their human rights records or the quality of their leaders, yet because we choose to consume about 20 million barrels of oil per day in the United States (we top the list of global consumers), we are beholden to countries with reputations we generally abhor, and often don’t understand.  How does that make you feel?  When you drive to the grocery store for the second or third time in a day, or fail to carpool anywhere, do you ever think about this stuff?  Probably not but you should.

Sarah Palin said famously, “Drill, baby, drill!”  This is where the corpulent-person-in-giant-clothing comparison comes into play.  We are drilling, a lot.  And if we escalate that drilling in places like the Gulf of Mexico and then add new locations, like the Arctic National Wildlife Preserve, and then continue finding new sources of natural gas obtained through hydraulic fracturing (fracking), we just might put more of a dent in those OPEC numbers, but at what price?  No one can honestly look at fracking, additional wells, ocean rigs, nuclear power plants, pipelines that continue to weave in and out of our landscape, or the lives of coal miners, then consider the environmental price we pay (too many to list), or the dangers we risk, and still feel good about driving everywhere alone in a car with lousy gas mileage or failing to replace incandescent bulbs with CFLs.

There are all kinds of analogies I’d like to make, some better than others.  Forgive me for this one: I was one of those who hated George W. Bush and if I could have blamed him for gas prices, I would’ve.  I loathed the man because he took us into an unnecessary war.  Those he told to go and fight that war and risk their lives (the death toll for American soldiers in Iraq now stands at 4804) were not the children and spouses of the majority in this country.  In other words, most of us were not personally affected by the tragedy of that war.  From moment to moment, we don’t feel affected by our dependence on foreign oil either.  It’s not as if there isn’t gas at the pump.  There is, costly but available.  While it’s averaging $3.70 a gallon, we’ll likely sacrifice elsewhere in the family budget but unless gas becomes prohibitively expensive and/or scarce, we’re not really feeling the negative environmental and social aspects of consuming it as we do in America – which is to say, we’re pigs.  At any given time, we don’t think we have a dog in the fight, so to speak, so what the hell, keep the lights on!  Drive yourself and your daughter to a soccer game in Timbuktu as each other member of the team does the same!  The analogy: if there was a draft and my child was forced to fight in Iraq, a war I was vehemently opposed to, I would have moved to Canada while protesting like Cindy Sheehan.  I didn’t.  (And for the record, I don’t assume anything nor judge the military families who did make the ultimate sacrifice in Iraq.)  Regarding energy, if I truly felt something important was at risk, right now, today, I’d change.  I’d do something, anything.

The key word is today.  Our dependence on foreign oil and increased demand for electricity is a problem of procrastination.  I’ll carpool next time.  I’ll buy fluorescent light bulbs tomorrow when I’m at the store. It’s also an issue of helplessness.  Surely turning off the lights and walking to school isn’t going to put a dent in any of this. To that I’ll quote Margaret Mead for the umpteenth time: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.  Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”  Because when that small group spreads the word – think of the anti-smoking movement, ACT UP, MADD, whomever is responsible for making plastic grocery bags anathema, and countless others – people follow suit.  We’re lemmings in ways good and bad.

The battle over Keystone XL should serve to illuminate, not political differences, but what we’re willing to do and sacrifice for the right to drive a vehicle the size of a small bus without a busload of people inside.  If we improved our oil refineries and built new ones, that would ease the price of gas – and they’re so pretty to look at – so let’s do that.  (Cough, cough.)  Does the idea of nuclear power plants make you nervous?  It should.  What about a new electrical tower built down the street from your house?  NIMBY.  Exxon Valdez was a long time ago, but the Gulf Oil Spill was yesterday – or have we forgotten?

So what’s the answer?  There are several known.  Foremost, we must reduce our need for crude oil and the easiest way to do that is by driving less. Send an email and find a way to carpool to the next event. (Yes, petroleum is in almost everything we use daily, but nearly half of a barrel of oil is used in our vehicles.)  Then the government must continue to make demands on fuel efficiency.  After that, turn off the lights wherever you can.  Don’t do half loads of laundry.  Unplug your device chargers and shut down your computers at night before bed.  Change the $4 filters in your AC and heating vents every six months.  Use more fans in the summertime.  Easy-peasy, and in terms of carpooling, it’s social.  Just as someone who is overweight should cut down rather than cut out (to form good habits), any one of these fuel and energy saving deeds is far better than none – to start.

Look, I’m one of the pigs, desperately trying to change by convincing myself that someone somewhere is risking their life so that I can continue to drive anywhere I want as long as I’m willing to pay the price of a gallon of gas – and beyond that, I’m reminded how much we’re asking of Mother Earth without giving anything in return.  I don’t want to be her spoiled child or that boy-man in Shel Silverstein’s disturbing The Giving Tree.

In my lifetime, bigger clothes will probably continue to be an option but for the next generation, eating less and exercising more is the better choice to make – figuratively speaking.  In the smaller picture, it’s easier than paying $75 to fill up your car and much less scary than taking on lions and tigers and bears.

From the New York Times, February 24, 2012: Recent assessments by American spy agencies are broadly consistent with a 2007 intelligence finding that concluded that Iran had abandoned its nuclear weapons program years earlier, according to current and former American officials. The officials said that assessment was largely reaffirmed in a 2010 National Intelligence Estimate, and that it remains the consensus view of America’s 16 intelligence agencies.

Sixteen!  Not one, not ten, but SIXTEEN of our own spy agencies essentially are telling us that there is no bomb being made in Iran.  Enriched uranium?  Yes, but NO BOMB.  Do you hear that Israel?  Mitch McConnell?  Do you hear that Rick and Mitt?  Do you hear that, all you crazy, stupid hawks out there beating the drums of war?  Have you no sense of life and death?  Have you simply, astonishingly forgotten what happens when we bomb a country that has not threatened or attacked us?  Have you forgotten what happens when we ignore evidence and make preemptive strikes in lands we do not understand?  Do 4804 lives make no difference to you, as long as they are not your sons or daughters, husbands or wives?  Does $801,649,050,949 and counting not make you just a wee bit nervous for the future bottom line of our country?

By criticizing President Obama and his choice in allowing diplomacy and sanctions to take hold in Iran – rather than using rhetoric like ‘military action’ or ‘my dick is bigger than yours’ (sorry Mom) – these macho yahoos are being hateful.  It’s a strong word but war is hateful and anyone even suggesting it must associate themselves with all that war entails.  It involves blood, guts, death, dying, torture, rape, debilitating PTSD, innocent children blown to pieces.

Rick Santorum had this to say: “The best thing that could happen in the world markets is an Iran without a nuclear weapon and a new Iranian regime, neither of which he (Obama) is doing very much about to make happen.” First, Iran does not have a nuclear weapon, and second, Rick, you think regime change is the way to go?  And you believe we should force that upon Iran?  I’ll give you a minute to think that through.  In the meantime, let me just mention to you that the Pope, the head of the Catholic Church that guides your soul and every move you make, was against the Iraq war (regime change, preemptive) from the very beginning.  So if you’ve misspoken, if in fact you don’t mean that we should threaten war with Iran, please clarify.

This from Mitch McConnell: “In the weeks and months ahead, Israel and the United States face a day of reckoning.  We either do what it takes to preserve the balance of power within the broader Middle East or risk a nuclear arms race across the region that’s almost certain to upend it.” What are you saying, Mitch?  In the weeks ahead?  Do you have information that before we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, the Iranians will have enriched uranium to weapons-grade, or in fact built a bomb, despite those SIXTEEN agencies’ assertion that no such thing is happening?  Is that what you’re implying?  Because talk of war – which is what you’re doing – is irresponsible and only serves to make the likes of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad a little crazier than he already is.  You’re the dangerous one right now, Mitch.

Read Mitt Romney’s opinion piece in Monday’s Washington Post.  In it, he calls Obama ‘America’s most feckless president since Carter’ because, ya know, Obama didn’t get Osama bin Laden killed, or aid Libya in saying goodbye to Moammar Ghadaffi, or support the dissident uprising against Yemen’s and Egypt’s autocratic regimes.  Oh wait, yes he did.  (Though why we’re not helping in Syria is hard to understand.)  What Mitt doesn’t explain in his manly pronouncements – “I have put forward a comprehensive plan to rebuild American might…” – is that his idea to comprehensively manage Iran is much like Obama’s, without the saber rattling and scare tactics.  Quick, when’s the last time you stayed up at night, unable to sleep, because Iranian scientists were dickering with uranium?  Probably about the last time, before 2003, you really thought about Saddam Hussein and his phantom WMD, right?  Am I right?

Which brings me to Israel.  Our relationship is complicated.  Benjamin Netanyahu isn’t the kind of guy who’s going to wait around for permission to do anything, so implying that Obama has turned his back on our friends in the Middle East is just a lot of hot air.  We understand why Israel hates Iran.  They’ve got good reason to feel as they do and therefore, Israel will ultimately take care of itself should the need arise.  But we must, absolutely must, insist on diplomacy before we talk of war.  We must punish with sanctions before we threaten bloodshed.  Any and all non-military measures are required before we commit our soldiers to help Israel, to kill and be killed.

Are the hawks immune to the hangover we all feel after Iraq, even as Afghanistan continues?  WAR IS TERRIBLE.  Join me in beating the drums of anything but war, even if it means that we scream and shout, point fingers, call each other names, threaten hardships, talk incessantly, finagle, cajole, marginalize, isolate, impose sanctions so severe as to border on inhumane.  It’s still better than war.  Hands down, it is.

No more talk of war.  No more.

Last year, when Goldie was in 6^th grade, she got in the car after school one day and told me that Aggie and Howard were dating (name change, duh).  “What does that mean?” I asked.  They were eleven at the time.  What were we talking about?  Dinner and a movie?  Holding hands?  Commitment rings?  Making out? Goldie didn’t actually know what it meant.  Eventually I discovered that there had been a movie outing between the two lovebirds but that seemed to be the extent of it.  When there was a ‘break up’, again I didn’t understand.  How can you end something – at eleven – when there wasn’t really a beginning?  Goldie and I have a good relationship and I didn’t want to dismiss this vital information she was offering me, but the whole thing just sounded stupid.  I may have conveyed as much in my reaction.

This past summer, Goldie came home from her weeklong summer camp a little too quiet.  When she finally revealed what was bothering her, she confessed it was ‘about a boy’.  I crumbled inside but acted the part of a good mother, letting her talk, sympathizing with how she felt.  She moved on so quickly from the whole thing, I didn’t even get a chance to have a sincere moment with her about love and heartache and it’s probably just as well.  At her age, it’s hard for me to take seriously issues of romance.  She has algebra to concentrate on, a volleyball team she’s committed to.  Boys?  Dear God, not yet.

Up until now, in this thing I call ‘motherhood’ (what do you call it?), I’ve done okay.  Sometimes, the most appropriate words come out of my mouth and I’ll manage to resolve an issue before it becomes a crisis.  It’s shocking, really.  I don’t know how it works.  I’m worried, however, that when it comes to my three daughters and boys, I’m going to lose my mind.  There have been rare instances when my girls’ feelings have been hurt, so the mama bear in me has seldom been called upon.  Nonetheless, it exists and it scares me.  Up until my first boyfriend broke my heart at the tender age of fourteen, I hadn’t known rejection.  I was going to conquer the world.  And then someone crushed me – took out my heart and squeezed it so hard, I couldn’t breathe – and everything changed.  That ain’t gonna happen to my daughters – or so I think.

Yesterday, when I picked up the girls from school, there was talk about Valentine’s Day.  Bun Bun and Miss T were having parties in their class and giving out cards with benign little messages.  Goldie, now in seventh grade, dismissed the idea of the day among her classmates, and then conversation turned again toward boys.  She’s noticed how a few of her friends become ‘dumb’ around them, and while I suppressed the bile coming up my throat, I tried to explain what was happening.  “Some boys feel threatened by smart girls,” I said.  “I always figured if a boy was intimidated by me, than I wasn’t interested in him.  Who wants to pretend to be something they’re not?”  But still, I got my heart broken.  Still, everything changed.

Obviously, I can’t stop my children from developing crushes.  Besides, they’re fun and mostly innocent.  It would be okay for them to date down the road also but I’d offer the advice, “Break up with him before he breaks up with you.”  That feels like bad mothering, whether they’re fourteen or forty, which makes me realize that Mama Bear isn’t always good.  But God help the boy (or man) who hurts my girl(s).

Despite all this, I want my daughters to believe in and feel romantic love, which isn’t possible unless they leave themselves open to it.  It’s a conundrum and one I don’t have to deal with now, but high school is in five minutes and I’m not ready.

It’s been a weird Valentine’s Day and the mind travels to places I don’t want to go.  Forgive me while I go lock the girls in their rooms until they’re thirty.

I have a confession to make.  Actually, it’s a fact, not a confession.  Two days before New Year’s, I received my AARP card in the mail – or at least the temporary card they give you until you capitulate and accept the truth that you’re turning fifty sooner than you anticipated and buy into the opportunity of getting hotel, movie, and restaurant discounts for being not as young as you used to be.

I threw the card in the trash.

Here’s the deal: I can’t be turning fifty in 2012 because just yesterday, I was dissecting a frog in Mrs. Hasz’s biology class.  And glancing through my junior yearbook to get the correct spelling of my science teacher’s name, I realized that in addition to feeling as I did in high school (emotionally anyway), I look the same, too.  Exactly the same.  Sure, some of you might disagree but this isn’t your blog.  It’s mine and I’m seventeen.  AARP can kiss my ass.  Speaking of…finishing up Mary Karr’s memoir Lit right now, I laughed out loud when she described getting in the shower one day and feeling something on the back of her legs only to realize it was her butt.  See, the image makes me laugh.  Potty humor slays me.  I’m way too immature to carry around a card that refers to Retired Persons.  Nobody I know retires.  Hell, I’m just getting started.

Let’s get serious for a moment.  Or wait, let’s not.  I hate being serious, more proof that there’s been some kind of chronological mistake in terms of what year it is.  The only example of maturity on my part is that I sometimes put my children’s needs before my own.  For instance, just last night I gave each of the girls four Trader Joe’s chicken shu mai dumplings with dinner to my three, even though I was hungrier and wanted them more.

Retire?  WTF?  Without a lottery win, the husband and I will be looking for ways to pay bills until we die.  Sure, I could look to save more money, like reusing coffee filters (I’ve heard of this) or getting an AARP card so my bill at Denny’s is 20% less, but I don’t eat at Denny’s.  I did in high school.  We’d go at night after play rehearsals and I’d order a piece of cherry pie.  Would’ve been nice to pay $2.40 instead of $3.00.  I could’ve invested the difference (yeah, right) but no one offered me that kind of discount then.  What a vicious circle!

It’s another ten months until I turn fifty.  What should I make of 2012?  Read fifty books, lose fifty pounds, gain fifty friends?  Learn the fifty ways to leave my lover?  (You don’t know about him, honey.  He’s a bum.)  Visit all fifty states, except those ten in the middle that all look the same?  Try fifty new yoga poses?  Fifty gelato flavors?  I already drink 50/50 coffee.  If you have any suggestions, there’s about a 50/50 chance I’ll listen.  I saw the movie “50/50” the other day.  Maybe I should shave my head.

After 9/11, my cousin insisted we should celebrate ALL of our birthdays and appreciate our lives in honor of those who lost theirs.  It’s a great thought and I’ll keep it in mind throughout the year, but I am not carrying around that f***ing AARP card.  You can’t make me.

An Asian ‘F’, according to a “Glee” episode several weeks ago, is an A-, somewhere in the 90-93 percentile range.  I think it’s a fine grade and one that should be celebrated, but I’m lazy Irish and no Tiger Mom.  Goldie had midterm exams last week for which she studied dutifully, and received As and A minuses as a result.  Yesterday, the middle school students were given the day off for their hard work, so Goldie suggested Umami Burger and a movie as a reward.  I thought it a fair request so I shirked my writing and household duties (no Monday Motherhood, and dust bunnies everywhere!) and decided to indulge the both of us.  Seriously, who goes to lunch and the movies on a random Monday afternoon?  (Old people do.  I’ll speak about that later.)

We tease Goldie about her champagne tastes.  (Teasing goes over really well with pubescent kids.  You should try it.)  Given the choice on a menu between flank steak for twelve dollars or a petit filet for twenty, she’s going for the filet.  (We don’t take her out much.)  We often frequent The Counter, a burger joint where you create your own masterpiece for about eight dollars – pricey, but delicious and kid-friendly.  Umami Burger, just a few doors down, is pretentiously serious about their food, and about 25% more expensive.  Naturally, Goldie prefers Umami.  The husband, Bun Bun, and Miss T prefer The Counter.  I was on the fence.  At Umami there are no substitutions.  They decide how their eight burger choices come on the plate and that’s it.  I appreciate the chef in the kitchen creating his or her idea of a perfect dish and I generally respect their talents enough not to ask for exceptions.  I have no issue with Umami that way.  After eating there for the second time yesterday afternoon, I’ve decided I have no problem with Umami at all.  I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid.  Theirs is the most delicious burger I’ve ever eaten.

To claim Umami Burger is precious would be an understatement.  Go two layers into their website, under an explanation of what ‘umami’ means and then further, and you have a tab titled ‘Academic Papers’.  Seriously.  It’s mumbo jumbo about how we taste our food and I couldn’t give a crap.  But Umami Burger does and the proof is in the pudding.  They don’t serve pudding; they serve burgers and they’re so juicy, you might have trouble handling them.  Goldie eventually used a fork and knife.  I’m more talented and a very slow eater, so I was able to keep it as a sandwich through the very last bite.  She went for their version of a classic – lettuce, cheese, tomato – and I went for bleu cheese and port wine.  Yum.  The bun is squishy, with a little ‘U’ printed on the top (I said they were precious) and the 1” burger sits gently in the middle.  Squish it between your fingers and the juices go all over, so be careful when you put it back down on the plate.  But can I tell you?  Each bite is a celebration.  When you have a burger at In ‘n Out, you’re appreciating the buttered, salted bun, the Russian dressing, the crisp lettuce, the grilled onions.  The meat is an afterthought.  At Umami, the meat is the thing.  I’m not going to spend time reading about how and why their burgers are so delicious, but it has something to do with local cows, massaged at Burke-Williams.  Umami grinds their own meat, blah, blah, blah.

Don’t take the kids, unless you have a twelve-year old like mine who knows about and prefers the finer things in life.  Take yourself and enjoy each bite.  Order some onion rings, maybe a beer, ignore the pretension while appreciating that Umami’s seriousness is what makes their burgers taste so good.

Afterwards, if you decide to go to the movies, you might want to grab a cup of coffee.  Burgers for lunch make me tired.  Also, you might want to choose a movie less pretentious than the restaurant where you just dined.  A film with a script is often a good idea, no hand-held camera work to make you nauseous.  And maybe it’s just me, but I also prefer dialogue, unless it’s that silent one, “The Artist”, making the rounds these days.  We didn’t go to see “The Artist”.  We went to see “Like Crazy”.

The Starbucks half-caff I brought into the theatre with me did the trick, which was unfortunate because I could have really used a nap.  It was a busy weekend.  Instead, I had to sit through, fitfully, a story of first love that, had it been MY first love experience, I would have become a lesbian – not that one chooses to be gay.  It has to do with conversation.  I digress.

I like to chat, with other people.  My boyfriends were always interested in dialogue (among other things), which is how we got to know each other.  You find out things about the person sitting across from you.  It’s interesting.  It attracts you, as well as the way they smile, the way they walk, the way their jeans fit their backsides.  It’s a process.  Sometimes it evolves into a relationship that occurs day to day.  Occasionally, a marriage happens and then you really better be with someone you can talk to or you’ll just get bored and divorce.  I’m certain that after the cameras stopped rolling at the end of “Like Crazy”, these two characters went their separate ways.

Felicity Jones and Yakov Smirnoff Anton Yelchin are adorable, though I fear for Yelchin’s future hairline.  Rumor has it there was no script, just suggestions about how each scene should unravel, and it shows. (I hate improvisation unless performed by comedians).  The two fall in love and then things get messy because of an immigration violation.  She’s from London, attending school in Los Angeles.  They drift back and forth, have serious relationships with others, struggle with continuity, and then take a shower.  That’s it.  Goldie loved it.  I just wanted to talk to my husband afterwards about why the Christmas lights above the garage aren’t working.

“Like Crazy” won the Sundance Festival Grand Poobah award, so clearly it was a bad year for Sundance Festival submissions.  Moving on…

The ticket seller at the movie theatre gave us an ‘Adult’ and ‘Senior’ ticket, which Goldie noticed as we were walking in.  Perhaps, because old people are the only ones going to see films on random weekday afternoons, there was no ‘Child’ ticket to print out and she wanted to give me the discount for my 12-year-old.  Either that or the L’Oreal 8RB under the sink upstairs needs to be used today.  Right now.  Gotta go wash that gray right outta my hair.