The Big Birthday Giveaway (and a much-needed divide)

Smaller news first.

The Bitter Homeschooler -- channeler of the "legendary" (thank you, Salon!) Bitter Homeschooler's Wish List, author of The Pros and Cons of Homeschooling, dark chocolate devourer and screamer non-stop -- is an editor.

The Mad Editor is a bitter homeschooler.

The two of them drive me nuts with all the bickering about who gets to talk about what on this site.

The Bitter Homeschooler keeps rhymes-with-itching about how she's the one who started this thing in the first place, since without her list nobody would have ever even heard of Secular Homeschooling Magazine.

The Mad Editor icily replies that if she hadn't done all the work involved in pulling the whole rest of the magazine together and keeping it going for two years now, The Bitter Homeschooler's Wish List would be just one more piece of mildly amusing junk floating around the Internet, and its author would have starved to death long ago.

The Bitter Homeschooler's reply can't be repeated, or even quoted, on what is attempting to be a family-friendly site; but she does make some good points about how it's her energy that's fueling this enterprise, since anyone as allegedly sensible and businesslike (cough) as The Mad Editor would have given up and gone back to working retail long ago.

To which The Mad Editor replies, fuming, that --

ENOUGH!

That was me. The one that's sick of listening to all this.

Break it up, you two. Just go to your rooms and play by yourselves if you can't even look at each other without getting into a fight.

But we can't! We only have THIS room!

Not anymore.

The Bitter Homeschooler has run off, screaming with delight and without so much as a backward glance, to her own site, the appropriately named Bitter Homeschooler:

http://www.bitterhomeschooler.com

She talks about whatever she likes there, and if anyone doesn't like it they can just --

Well, that's exactly the kind of language (not to mention imagery) that we're trying to keep to a bare minimum around here.

The Mad Editor is still quite mad, don't worry. We're not trying to bore anyone to death.

She'd just appreciate the chance to focus more on magazine-oriented things.

Like the GIVEAWAY we've been hinting about for the past several days now.

Here's the thing: It's SHM's second birthday. That's big. So I wanted this to be something special. Something big.

But also something that won't break the bank.

And -- maybe most importantly of all -- something that will be of equal appeal to new readers and loyal supporters alike.

Those in the latter group don't have much to get excited about when I offer up, for instance, a copy of all the back issues in existence. Or even a copy of the newest issue. In fact, they get to feel a bit as if they missed out by buying early.

That's the kind of decision I don't want anyone regretting, since that's the kind of decision that keeps me in business.

So the new giveaway is something that everyone can enjoy.

It's simple.

The winner is entered into our system, and just keeps getting copies of SHM for as long as ye both shall live.

It's a magic subscription that doesn't cost anything and you never have to renew -- although letting us know if you move would be nice.

If you already have a subscription, we'll just add a really big number to the end of it. 10,000, say.

If you aren't a subscriber, we'll make you one. Forever.

Post a comment if you want to enter. I'll give this a few days for word to get around, and then I'll generate a random number and -- oh, you know the drill.

I have a nice little stack of review copies of various books that I'll be giving away soon. But none of them seemed quite special enough for an occasion like this one.

I hope this giveaway suits. And that you have a wonderful Halloween.

And the winner is...

Drumroll, please, as I scoot over to random.org to generate a nice random number...

It's Holly! Congratulations! (Can I feel happy for her if I promise to feel bad for everybody who didn't win? You know me. I have issues.)

Okay, send me your info privately. I can be found at deborah at 2ds dot org

And now I have to go make some plans for the anniversary bash...okay, it may not be a bash per se, but I'll definitely be giving something away...

Nothing a little GIVEAWAY won't make better...

I'm sure I can't be the only one to have noticed that the harder anyone tries to not have any expectations going into an event or encounter, the more crushing the disappointment. Because we have to have expectations, or we wouldn't bother doing anything at all. And then, if we're delusional enough to believe that we're in an emotionally neutral state, it's insult to injury to find that in fact we can still be disappointed. (No one ever starts out cautioning oneself against feeling too happy. Even the optimists have learned that this generally isn't a problem.)

Which is a long-winded way of saying that yes, as a matter of fact, doctors still bite. At least in my neck of the woods.

I must say that this guy made the previous one look like a prince. At least the last guy was friendly and incompetent. This guy was an arrogant jerk.

I managed to get some more information about what's going on in my body in spite of him. Quite literally -- the guy was fighting me all the way as soon as he found out that I'm not interested in just going on the pill without something a little closer to a definitive diagnosis. If I felt like just slapping a chemical Band-Aid on my condition, I could stay at home with the economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen.

So, for me: more reading, more research, complaints to be filed (my husband wasn't allowed in the room for the discussion, as we'd requested in advance), and more pushing for a specialist who knows what the bleep he's doing. No, what she's doing. I'm not saying female doctors are any more sensitive as a group than men, but I do feel slightly less violated when a double-x chromosome carrier starts rummaging around like she thinks one of my ovaries stole her watch.

But this is supposed to be an editor's blog, so how's about a little magazine talk?

The brilliant and beautiful Tyler Clay reviewed Berlitz' 601 Spanish Verbs in the current issue of SHM. And the publisher sent me an extra copy of the book. So I thought it would be nice to celebrate the end of a particularly nasty sevenday (we had a financial blow that made the visit to the doctor the best thing that happened all week, and wow do I not feel like talking about it) by having a magazine-book giveaway.

The book is exactly what the title promises, and also includes a CD-ROM of essential Spanish words and phrases, an index of over 2500 Spanish verbs, a cute "tech" verb list, a section of verb activities, and a list of must-know verbs. And of course 601 thoroughly conjugated Spanish verbs.

Since it's already late in the day, let's let this one run until Wednesday, if I can remember how to spell it. (I know you couldn’t see it, but I just tried and failed three times. I call myself an editor. This is sad.) Just post a comment here to enter the drawing. I'll generate a random number when the time comes and award the book and a copy of issue #8 to the lucky winner. If you already have a copy of the current issue, either you can share your spare with the library or maybe there's a back issue you like the looks of.

This Halloween is the two-year anniversary of SHM's birth, so if you don't win this giveaway, don't worry -- there'll be another one soon.

The knife-wielding maniac I live with

(No, it's not my husband, my kid, or any other human being. More about that in a minute.)

I've been completely absent. Please accept my heartfelt apology for that.

I filed the forms necessary to keep us homeschooling legally (see previous entry); I even gave a talk about how to do so at our local library (and collapsed for a few days afterward). I've mailed out a lot of issues, and am deeply grateful to say (with many, many thanks to all the people who've been spreading the SHM word) that although I'm not quite out of issue #8 yet, I'm going to have to order more from the printers. I've also been doing most of the usual schlepping and hauling associated with homeschooling and homemaking.

But it's been sleepwalking for the most part, which is part of why I am so behind on things that count. I am now hideously behind on email and other matters involving the heart and the mind.

The nausea has been nonstop for weeks now, and it's really sapping my will to live (which keeps reminding me of the 2000 Year Old Man and Dr. Will Tolive, but never mind). But what's really throwing me down on the mat is the pain, which is occasional and intense, and the threat of it, which is now nearly constant.

Just so I don't have to be completely creepy all by myself, I'll quote a woman who was quoted in The Endometriosis Sourcebook. Other than the fact that I never go to movies in theatres any more, this could have been written by me:
 
"Knifelike pain, right through the rectum, without warning. One moment I'd be standing in line for a movie, talking with a friend, and then I'd be doubled over, trying not to black out. The worst was telling people where the pain was. No one wants to hear about this symptom -- believe me -- and then they don't want to accept that it's related in some way to bad periods. I don't think there's anything harder than having to live with a symptom nobody is even willing to hear about."

Actually, other than the movies aspect, one part of this anecdote doesn't apply to me. I really couldn't give less of a spam if no one wants to hear about my pain. If I'm doubled over and screaming for sweet death to come to my rescue, I'm going to be audible. I'm often even articulate on the occasion, since I've had a lot of practice.

My husband and I have known each other for (and this probably shouldn't even be legal) closing in on thirty years. (We haven't been married that long -- given my age, that would only be legal in disgustingly patriarchal regions of the world.) Things have not always been smooth, to say the least. But there is something pretty damned amazing about a guy who can hear the words "screaming rectal pain" and be nothing but sympathetic. If there's something there other than sympathy, he ought to receive a special-category Oscar. I don't even care if he's faking it. If he's horrified or terrified or just plain repulsed and he can work past that to the point where he seems this nice, he should get extra credit.

I used to have to deal with this lovely symptom just every once in a while. Then it was once or twice a month, during that O So Special Time. Then my ability to ovulate started to feel left out and sulky, so the above-mentioned Screaming Rectal Pain decided to let her in on the fun and I had to worry during two separate weeks. Then SRP decided, well, everybody loves a surprise party. So now I've been running around on any old day of the month with a knife pointed at a region so undignified I hate to admit that I even have it.

"Run around" is the operative phrase, because the one thing worse than the fact that this is a pain nobody really wants to hear or talk about is the fact that although painkillers won't touch this howling wolverine, walking at a brisk pace can sometimes help keep it at a manageable level until it gets bored and leaves. I never really realized how much of an indulgence it is to just double up and writhe around when I'm in gut-splitting agony, until I found out by accident that I really ought to be sprinting at what feels like the point of a very sharp knife.

Nice. I need one more thing to do. That's just great.

It doesn't always work. If I'm picked up and thrown out of bed in the middle of the night out of a sound sleep by the pain, it doesn't matter how many hallway marathons I try to stagger; once it's got its claws into me past a certain point, doubling up and writhing (accompanied by the occasional washcloth stuffed into my mouth so the neighbors don't freak out and call the cops about the screaming) is my only option. But if I'm wide-awake and I can start moving early on, I've got a fighting chance. And then it's a weird marathon to see who's got more staying power, me or the blinding pain.

Sometimes it just stays for a few minutes. Sometimes it's a few hours. Sometimes, and this is what's been sapping my willpower and draining my ability to get anything worth doing done, it comes over for a few minutes, fades out almost completely, ker-blams right back just when I'd started to get my hopes up, and fades back out again. And so on. For hours.

Which is a lot of fun to explain after you've just announced to your dear kidlet that it’s time to start getting ready to go to the library. Thank Shiva it hasn't happened while I'm driving. Yet.

Can't live like this. Doctors are horrifying paternalistic rhymes-with-blinsurance-bores, but sometimes even I need one.

The last time I tried to get this professionally treated was over a year ago. The doctor was such a lackwit that I vowed to just ride this out and, should push come to shove, perform surgery on myself on the kitchen table using that lovely silver set my dear mother-in-law gave me several years ago.

I have no idea if this new guy will be any better. I couldn't get an appointment right away, which is a good sign because the good ones in any field tend to be in demand. (Dr. Wrong had a same-day appointment available and an empty waiting room.) This guy specializes in laparoscopic surgery. (Dr. Why Am I Paid argued that surgery was "never" performed for this kind of condition, which was pretty rhymes-with-smallsy considering that there's no question or controversy at all about the fact that endo can only even be DIAGNOSED by means of surgery.)

I'm seeing the new guy tomorrow, which was a bit of a surprise but my husband kept calling and pushing for earlier appointments until this one turned up.

I have no idea how this will go. I don't want to get my hopes up. I just want to know what the bleep I'm dealing with here, because the lady I quoted is wrong: the only thing worse than a weird symptom nobody wants to hear about is a symptom that you can't even call a symptom since you don't really know what it's a symptom of.

I've done enough reading to know that if the guy tries to tell me that I'm suffering from irritable bowel syndrome -- "a catch-all nondiagnosis," as my endo sourcebook tartly describes it -- that screaming you hear tomorrow may not be mine. And may his deity of choice help him if he warns me against believing everything I read on the Internet.

That special time again...

I didn’t have enough to do, what with mailing and stamping and sticking and lugging and mailing some more. I had to go online and tippity-tap my way through some oh-so-serious paperwork, because it’s between October 1 and October 15 and that’s when indie California homeschoolers have to make it official.

On paper, the California laws regarding homeschooling can seem a little daunting. I remember the year I realized that, yes indeedy, we'd be official legal homeschoolers when the time came. And then I saw that, in order to proceed as the sturdily independent family we'd quietly become, we'd have to legally establish a private school.

"We're moving," I said.

Which is ridiculous. We're not going anywhere. Quite aside from the fact that we're utterly broke, the number of books we own has by now hit critical mass -- they'll still fit in our apartment, but we'll break crucial laws of physics if we ever try to pack them. Plus we've never lived anywhere but the mildest corners of southern California, so if we moved anywhere that has what I believe is called "winter," we'd all perish instantly.

But The Man was hitting me in my weakest spot. I'm the rare homeschooler who has never doubted her ability to teach her own child. However, I have a mortal terror of bureaucracy and paperwork. And in California, most of the legal side of establishing a private school is red tape.

You have to keep some very silly records. In California, private school instructors aren't legally required to have to have teaching degrees, or any degrees at all. (If that sounds horrifying, I'll freely confess that I don't even have a high school diploma. I got out of school by passing a test so lame, they cancelled it a year or two after I took it. I'm sure that was just a coincidence. My point is, academic qualifications can be wonderful, but they're not in and of themselves any indication of intelligence or ability.) Instead, they -- we -- must simply be "capable of teaching." So independent homeschoolers in California have to take a few minutes a year to type up a statement with our name, address, and a few sentences detailing how fabulous we are, and why. The hardest part of this is keeping a straight face, at least for me. "You want 'capable'? I got your capable right here!" I'm not sure what that means. I still find it funny.

We also have to keep a list of courses offered at our "schools." Like the fabulous teacher statement, this paper will never see the light of day, since pretty much no one is allowed to see it no matter how hard they beg. But we're legally required to dutifully type up the fact that we're offering our wee ones courses in English, Math, Social Sciences, Science, Fine Arts, Health, and Physical Education. (Or, as we call it at our place: Talking, Agonized Groaning, Peoplewatching, Setting Things On Fire In An Educational Manner, Pretty Stuff, Trying Not To Catch Scurvy Before Breakfast, and Running Around Like The Adorable Maniacs We Are.)

Then there's the letter listing the names of our children and stating that, yea verily, they "attend" the school we have established. Which brings us to the toughest part of setting up a private school in California: thinking of a name. You have to. They make you. If you don't, the computer will scream and spit out your application when you try to make your little California home school kosher.

Here are a few things I've learned about this after several years at it:

1. Don't pick anything too goofy. Seriously. Whether your child ends his academic career with you by applying to college or striking out directly into the work force, he really doesn't want to have to publicly admit that he's an alumnus of The Hearts and Rainbows Academy of Learning to Love and Share. And this is going to be, quite literally, down on his permanent record. No matter how mean he is to you some days, don't do this to him.

1a. If your child is under the age of about forty, don't let him or her play more than the most nominal part in the naming process. If I have to explain this one, you're probably letting your eight-year-old pick matching tattoos for himself and you. My eleven-year-old son is already bitter about the fact that for one year, he was a student at the Grasshopper Day School. But dang it, he wanted "grasshopper" in the name. We used to call him Dancing With Grasshoppers. He just attracted them, which is hard to do in the middle of the city but he managed it. I still don't know how. Before we reproduced, my husband and I never saw a single grasshopper. Then our son came along, and all of a sudden the same darned apartment complex was jumping with the weird little creatures. For years, every morning we'd open the door and see a huge grasshopper clinging to the screen. It was as if we'd been targeted by the least intimidating arm of the Mob ever. ("Say hello to my little green friend!") So of course our son begged us to name our school after them. (The grasshoppers, not the Mob.) My husband suggested that the Latin word for grasshopper might lend our school a shade of dignity; but it turned out to be "orthoptera," which sounds way too much to me as if we're manufacturing artificial kneecaps. So I caved, and my son spent the first grade in Grasshopper Day School, and now he thinks I was trying to get back at him for something. Learn from me. Invest in some earplugs and heartlessly ignore all pleas for the cute and the trendy.

2. Keep any humor subtle to the point of near-invisibility. I really don't think the state will send its minions after you if you file paperwork to establish the It's A Homeschool Damn It private academy of learning; but then again I'm not sure I'd blame them if they did. On the other hand, I have nothing but the deepest admiration for the family that named their school after the trees that grow so plentifully in their neighborhood. Their children attend Sycamore School. (Say it out loud. Say it with a slight southern drawl. Get it? Call me if you don't get it.)

3. Ruthlessly suppress any urge toward whimsy. One state can only support so many Jedi Academies, and I swear I'm going to urge J.K. Rowling to sue if I hear about one more Hogwarts Homeschool. It may seem adorable now, but remember who has to live happily ever after with this school name on her record.

So what do you call yourself?

I'm sorry to have to say that I've already claimed the Best Name Ever for a school, home or other. I'm lucky enough to be an admirer of Robert Ingersoll, a late nineteenth-century writer and lecturer I've mentioned a time or two on this blog. Not only is the man awesome in every possible respect -- intellectually rigorous yet lovably hotheaded (he once broke a chair over a man's head because the man made a racist statement) -- but he has an eminently suitable monicker. It's dignified to the point of stuffiness, and just a bit obscure. So I'm proud that my son is a student at Ingersoll Academy.

There are plenty of cool writers, artists, and philosophers out there who are in no position to argue with your naming a school after them, seeing as how they're dead and all. You shouldn't spend months sweating this one out -- it is just a name, after all, and you can change it next year if you want to. But there is a certain feeling of peace and satisfaction attendant on knowing that your school has a name deeply resonant with your family's philosophy.

Unless that name is The Temple of Sith, as my husband keeps requesting. In which case, please fake it until you can make it, so far as being a full-fledged grownup is concerned.

But getting back to filing as a private school in California.

Happily, both of our statewide support organizations, California Homeschool Network (CHN) and the HomeSchool Association of California (HSC) have detailed instructions for filing a private school affidavit (PSA) on their web sites. This information is available free of charge and is an utter lifesaver to wimps like me.

Although you don't have to be a completely and total paperwork pansy to be a little puzzled by the PSA, at least your first time through. Some of the answers you should give are counterintuitive. You should NOT, for instance, sign yourself up as a boarding school. Really. By any reasonably realistic definition, you are one; legally, you're not, and you really don't want to go there because all of a sudden you'll have county health inspectors poking around in your kitchen and seeing all the unintentional science experiments your refrigerator contains.

Likewise, the application asks for the ages of your students, and mentions that the youngest should be no younger than four years and nine months. But you shouldn't be registering your kindergarten-aged child on this form, no matter what this statement seems to imply. Kindergarten is not legally required in California, so why even bring it up; plus they keep messing with us regarding how old a student has to be to put us in the position of legally running a day care rather than a school per se, and hey, look! Inspectors in the kitchen!

A friend of mine pointed out that the form is easier to fill out this year -- it's more streamlined, and there are actually less questions. I tend to block out horrifying memories such as myself complying with government paperwork, so I can't say how it compares. I do know that there are a LOT more scary pop-up boxes this year than ever before.

The very first question is completely new. You have to assert that, honest and for true, you are a private FULL-TIME school. Which throws some of us into a deep philosophical tizzy. Full-time by whose standards? Sure, we're learning all the time, just like that cute little picture book says; but in terms of actually sitting down with academic stuff -- that is what they mean by "school," isn't it? But do I really care what the government thinks? But this is a government form, and unless I want creepy government types coming through here, I have to fill it out "right," right?

So after a few hours of this, we click on "yes," to signify that, forsooth, we are a full-time school so far as legal definitions are concerned. We're gritting our teeth and ready to finish the rest of the danged form, already. Instead, a big box pops up on the screen, demanding to know if you're SURE that's what you really meant to say. Really. Really really. Really really sure. Sure? Sure? Are you are you huh?

I don't know why this is such a big issue for the CDE this year. I can't imagine anyone taking time out of their lives to bother filling out this silly form if they offer art classes in their living room once a week. But I guess some people just love every kind of questionnaire they can get their hands on.

The rest of the form isn't so bad. I guess I ought to be more of a paranoid anti-government freak, but I just don't care if some desk jockey has my home address. I live in a security building along with my screaming redhead temper, cute but scary-looking lizard, and big hairy Sicilian guy. Anyone who wants to come by and give me a hard time in person is more than welcome, especially on those days when I'm looking for a really good excuse to blow my top. Which is pretty much every day these days, between the death-panel idiots and the we-love-Roman-Polanski perverts. In fact, I'd like to throw out an open invitation right now to anyone who wants to stop by and ask insolent personal questions about how I educate my child. Please. Hurry. I need to break something.

But getting back to filing the PSA. Some of the questions aren't difficult per se. They're just kind of goofy. You are asked to tell the gov whether you're running a coeducational school or if it's a gender-specific institution. I only have one child. You'd think this would be a gimme. It isn't. I'm a feisty lower-case f feminist, and I absolutely refuse to be on the record as Head Honcho of a Boys Only School. Sorry, but that's just creepy to me. My son's school may be exclusive in one sense, that sense being that you have to have seen my uterus from the inside in order to gain admission; but technically it's open to members of all genders.

The other day my son and I were with a homeschooler who's a little "schoolier" than we are. The next morning he was full of anxious questions as to whether or not he knows "everything that a sixth-grader ought to," in his words. "Of course not," I reassured him. "You know something much more important. You know how to learn. I've told you before -- you're a person, not a grade. Now go and rinse your cereal bowl before I send you to the principal's office."

I was glad to be reminded this year that my son is truly and in every sense not a sixth grader, or an anything grader. California has an option on the PSA that I'd forgotten. You can mark off how many students are in each grade, or you can tally up "ungraded elementary" and "ungraded secondary" students. I'm not sure that being one of the former is everything my son has ever hoped and dreamed of. But it's going to be a lot of fun to answer the next person who asks him what grade he's in. "Un," we can say.

A lot of people on the California-specific homeschooling loops I'm on have been seating about what to say on the "administrative staff" section. You have to fill in the name of a "Site Administrator" and a "Director or Principal Officer." These can be the same person. I really don't know why that was a sticking point. Yes, it's sad that whoever has to file our paperwork at whatever office handles this kind of thing is going to be bored silly seeing my PSA, which lists my cute little name for both those positions as well as for Custodian of Records. But at least whoever-it-is is getting paid. I had to yawn my way through this form for free.

Some people worry that this is the sort of information that will make their form "stick out" as a homeschool. I think that anyone who's bothering to look that closely is going to be tipped off to that by the fact that all the homeschooling PSAs only have as many students as one woman's womb could have reasonably processed. I also think that given how many of us there are in California, we should quit worrying. They've messed with us before. We hit back. They learned their lesson. If they didn't, ducking and hiding isn't the answer. That's the lesson we need to learn if we haven't already.

This form may be more streamlined, as my friend claims; but there are about a million more little boxes to check "okay" in than there have been in years past. It's just a bunch of really really boring stuff that only a bureaucrat could love. Three of the statements we're supposed to agree to before we can go back to our so-called normal lives say the same thing, almost word for word. I think they're just trying to see if we're still awake. Next year, I bet all these statements aren't even going to be in English. Or Spanish. Or any language anyone could recognize. They're going to make us sign off to a statement in ancient Sumerian to the effect that in seven years' time, we swear to send our firstborn off to fight the universal oversoul in single combat in defense of the great mother goddess Fleeba. Or maybe they'll slip something in about how, by submitting this form, we're agreeing to become Dominican nuns. Maybe we should have only male parents file PSAs next year, just in case.

So it's all very silly -- but it's really not so terrifying. Which, coming from a confirmed technophobe-bureaucracyphobe like me, is saying a lot. It bugs me when people who don't live here talk about how awful it must be to homeschool in California. The thing is, after you file this silly form, you're free. No tests. No inspections. No "here's all the stuff we did this year" piles of worksheets, unless you're inclined to pile that kind of thing up.

Plus, you can print out extras of the form and haul them into Borders or Barnes and Noble and dare them to question your right to an educator's discount. You don't even have to mention the word "homeschool." Or you can, just to gloat. I enjoy that kind of thing, myself. But that's just me.

One sale ends, another begins

But first: I am way behind on my email, for which I apologize. Not only am I desperately trying to get the new issue out, but I volunteered to give an introduction-to-homeschooling talk at our local library this Thursday. (If you're in Santa Monica, by all means stop by.) So I'm in my basic flip-out mode just now.

The way-back back issue sale just ended rather abruptly, because I realized that the last packet I sent out had the last copy of issue #4 that I possessed. However, there is a new bundle sale going on, for issues #5 through #8.

I meant to write more than this, but my son keeps wandering in with questions -- not "How do I do this division problem?" stuff, but anxious inquiries about the state of our lizard's mental health. Which I'm now apparently some kind of expert on. So I'm going to jump in the shower and refuse to come out until the world is the beautiful place I demand to live in, or until I remember that our friends are not only expecting us but are making a terrific lunch in our honor.

Talk soon!

Thankyouthankyouthankyou + The News

I'm not feeling very creative, what with the lugging and the running and the stamping and the screeching, so just the basic facts:

1. You guys are way beyond awesome. People have been spreading the word and it's making a big difference. Thank you for keeping me in business. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

2. The new issue is HOME. Being mailed out as we speak.

2a. I enclosed "Time to renew!" slips for all who require them; you can also tell it's that special time by looking at your address sticker. If it has an 8 on it, this is the last issue in your subscription.

2aa. When I can afford it, I will get a stamp made to the effect that it's time to renew, and a nice bright ink pad, so that you can tell without even having to open your envelope or learning to read my weird little codes.

3. "Tru Blood," my new drug of choice, only has one season available to rent, and I've already burned through it. So now I'm stamping and stuffing to old episodes of "Alien Nation," and I have no idea of what happened to Lafayette other than the fact that his prospects don't look too bright, seeing as how he's been "out of town" for two weeks and I'm pretty sure that was him hanging out of the back seat of that car at the end of the last episode.

3a. Re Lafayette: DON'T TELL ME. I'll rent the next season as soon as it's out.

3b. Jon Danniells is a father in my local support group who wrote an article about his experiences as a primary homeschooling dad for the current issue of SHM. His wife worked on Tru Blood. This is the kind of thing that passes for normal when you homeschool in L.A.

More soon...