I was reading a new post on another great blog, Globally Rational, about the notion of “supporting our troops.” The basic premise was that if we really supported our troops, we would care enough about their well-being to understand the effect this war is having on them and, consequently, bring them home.

It got me thinking about phrases like “Support our troops!” and about patriotism in general. A popular criticism of the Left and of those who seek to end the war is that they are not patriotic and that, by questioning and evaluating the actions of our country, they are somehow less “American” than those who don’t.

This is absurd and every time I hear such stupidity uttered, my blood boils just a little and I start to think that selective suffrage might not be such a bad idea. (Really, if you think thoughtful, fact-based analysis is equatable to treason, you ought to be disenfranchised.) Supporting your country blindly, without any deep understanding of the facts, is one of the most dangerous things a person could do, and, in my opinion, is about as un-American as it gets. A country needs its citizens to be educated, to engage in intelligent debate, and to keep its leadership in line so that they steer the country down the best track possible. When citizens neglect to be informed and critical, they become nothing more than pawns and they give their government power to make unilateral decisions that may be rooted in less-than-admirable motivations.

Another thing I can’t stand is people who insist upon taking fashion cues from our flag. Aside from adding nothing to the debate, this color palette is just plain unattractive and serves as a signaling cue to me about the relative level of that person’s intelligence. (Excepted from this comment are children. If you are under the age of ten, red, white, and blue apparel is perfectly fine.) Our country is not a sports team. You need not show your support by wearing our “team colors” and talking about how much “better” our country is than all the rest. Please stop rooting for the home team just because of where you live. If your “team” has problems, talk about those problems and propose solutions until the leadership has no choice but to listen.

I’m not sure if Gavin is consciously trying to kill me, or if it just happens to be an unfortunate byproduct.

When he started daycare a year ago, I knew he’d be getting sick more often. While my ex and I worked, Gavin spent his first year at home, under the nurturing care of his grandmother. My ex’s mother had moved to Seattle from Phoenix so that she could help us by watching him during the weekdays. (As you can imagine, she remains one of my favorite people on the planet.) Being home, Gavin got sick very infrequently. Upon Gavin’s first birthday, however, my ex’s mother moved back down to Phoenix and Gavin started daycare.

I was prepared for some colds and perhaps the occasional rash. What I was not prepared for was the cauldron of germs I was about to plunge into.

It’s not just that Gavin started getting sick (and, often, thoughtfully sharing the fun with me). It’s that Gavin started getting sick quite creatively and often in ways I had never even heard of. Over the course of the past year alone, he’s come down with the following (and I’m sure there are more that I’m forgetting): pinkeye, norwalk virus, ear infections galore, and cellulitis (twice).

Cellulitis is by the far the craziest of all. In fact, what triggered me to write this post is the fact that we just returned from the pediatrician because Gavin has come down with cellulitis again. Cellulitis is an infection of the tissues beneath the skin and can occur in any part of your body. Gavin has had it in his left eyelid both times. Cellulitis is usually caused by a bacterial infection and is therefore easily treatable with antibiotics. The first time he had it, it came on suddenly. I went in his room to wake him up for daycare and this is what I found:

Scary, huh? Even scarier because it happened out of nowhere. He was seemingly fine when I put him to sleep the night before. Anyway, a visit to the ER and a week of strong antibiotics managed to clear this up. But I was already questioning myself and my (lack of) parenting abilities. My apartment was cleaner than most. Gavin received regular baths. How could he be this covered in bacteria this often?

To my dismay, he came down with cellulitis again this week. Same eye, same deal - a week of antibiotics to treat it. And while I worry about all these exotic illnesses my son manages to contract - the doctor assures me they’re all very common but I think he’s lying - my biggest concern is having to miss so much work as a result. I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to feel uncomfortable telling my boss that Gavin’s sick again. I really just need to find a way to keep him healthy. I’d love to get him fitted for a hazmat suit and call it a day…

It’s no secret that I’ve been trying to save money lately. I’ve stopped purchasing my daily lattes, I’ve been bringing lunch to work, and I’ve replaced short driving trips with long walking trips (good for the environment, my body, and my wallet - everyone wins!). All in all, I’m quite proud of the ways I’ve been able to save a few bucks. Turns out, though, I have been missing a critical step: dumpster diving.

I found out about dumpster diving when I was talking with a friend this afternoon (a friend who will remain nameless, lest she kill me). As important back story, you should know that she is uber-stylish and is always decked out in fancy designer duds. She is a beautiful, successful girl and is far more fashionable than I could ever hope to be. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: So what did you and [other nameless friend] do after drinks on Friday?

Friend: (laughing) We actually went dumpster diving.

Awkward silence.

Friend: You don’t know what that is, do you?

Me: Is it another way of saying “bargain hunting”?

Friend: (shaking her head in disdain at my utter lack of touch with my generation) No.

She went on to explain the act of dumpster diving, which, as it turns out, is exactly what it sounds like. At the end of the day, food shops generally discard their unsold wares. Often, the food items are untouched and kept cleanly in fresh plastic bags, before being placed into the dumpster. Once in the dumpster, they are ripe for the picking, and, best of all, they are free. My friend informed me that the best place to dumpster dive is at bakeries where you can score fresh-baked loaves of pricey gourmet bread like she did last Friday night. She also reassured me that she had lost neither her job nor her home (I asked).

I recalled an article on this habit of dumpster diving that I read last year in the NYT. It was about Yale undergraduates who would scavenge the leftover loaves from a dumpster near a popular bakery in New Haven. But those were undergrads. You only have to so much as think the word “free” and you’ll have hundreds of students lined up (I know - when I was in college, I used to wait for hours during Ben and Jerry’s free cone day. Upon graduating and starting to receive a salary, I finally realized that 2 hours of my time was worth more than the $3 I was saving). Surely, though, once people gain more sophistication and more money, they would abandon this grotesque hobby.

“You don’t dumpster dive, do you?” I asked a friend who was a graduate student at Yale and far more mature than the undergrads described in the article.

“Only at the bakery,” she said. “The bread is really good. And it’s free!”

I shook my head. Two of the most sophisticated women I know had lit up with excitement while discussing the act of digging loaves of bread out of a dumpster. Was I missing something? Had the world simply gone crazy? When had eating garbage become chic?

I’m considering tagging along the next time my friends go. I’m intrigued enough to check it out and find out how one dumpster dives, since apparently, I’ve been missing out. I can’t say I’ve warmed up to the idea just yet, but I’m keeping an open mind. In the meantime, it’s store-bought bread for me.