Preteens, Toddlers, and Newborns, Oh My!

My Baby Thinks He's Spiderman.

2012-01-27T20:44:00.000-08:00

Dinner tends to be raucous event here at Chez PTN. We get through the meal, but we have a tendency to linger, talking, joking, being goofy and laughing. It's pretty awesome. The other night,for some forgotten reason, the "rock on" hand symbol entered the revelry. I don't remember how. I've slept since then. I also probably had a glass (or three) of wine.

From "rock on," we went to "I love you." Precious, yes? Yes. I reached over to Big Red and tapped him on the nose with my "I love you" fingers. "I love you, Big Red!"

The little shit looks me in the eye, flips his "I love you" hand up, webslinger style, and says,

"Phppt, phppt. You have spiderwebs in your eyes!" He then laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.

Needless to say, that stopped the laughter. His, anyway. I found it hilarious.

I'm Getting Political. Everybody Duck.

2012-01-26T13:38:00.001-08:00

The conversation sidebar on Facebook is my downfall. I'm a total eavesdropper. I love looking at the conversations others are having. But every so often, I see a conversation I want to participate in and that's just not cool. Argh. It kills me.

Today, I happened on just such a conversation. An acquaintance was commenting on the post of someone I've never actually met, but have heard about through others. The not-stranger was decrying Gingrich's recent glitter-bombing by someone who believes everyone should have the right to get married.

(I'm not calling it "gay marriage". When a gay person shops, it isn't called "gay shopping." When the same person parks their car, it's not "gay parking." It's marriage, plain and simple. Giving it an alternate title perpetrates this myth that it is somehow different or alien.)

The conversation was the typical disagreement that happens when two people on opposite sides of this issue go head to head. Except, Not-stranger was asserting that it was unkind. She disagreed because she didn't believe in doing to others what she wouldn't want done to her.

You know, except denying people the right to marry.

Bitch, please.

When my acquaintance asked her if she'd like it if she were told she couldn't adopt, Not Stranger says, and I am paraphrasing:

"Well that wouldn't happen to me, so it's not a good comparison. And also, I've let my beliefs make me lazy and stupid and just a little bit hypocritical."

I deduced the last part. She didn't actually say it, but it was there, trust me.

Must be nice to be assured that no one will ever try to take away your children. Must be nice to know your marriage is in no danger of being invalidated. Must be nice to rest in a safe world where no bad (or glitter) can touch you. Must be nice, but it makes me think you don't have the right to dictate who can get married and who can't. If you're making decisions like that for the entire state, you ought to have to feel the anger and frustration that your decisions inflict on others. And if that means getting a face full of glitter, then you got off lightly, my friend.

Shut Up And Give Me A Euphemism For Penis

2012-01-21T11:28:00.000-08:00

This writing shit is harder than it looks, guys. I got questions, many of them so dumb-ass I could score a place on Jersey Shore. You know, if I dropped a hundred pounds and spray tanned myself into marmalade. But really. How long is too long?

Insert erection joke here.

If I keep going at this rate, my manuscript is going to be a solid 400 pages. No joke. I keep reading though, finding things that need exposition, dialogue that needs expanding, situations that need to be inserted. And as I work, I'm haunted by the suspicion that the writing is indeed crap. Harlequin quality crap. Not something for my grandmother to brag about. In fact, I probably should just shut up and never tell anyone what I'm actually doing.

As with all areas in my life, it would be easier if I just didn't talk about it. People know I'm writing. They don't know my main project is a trashy romance novel with enough sex to satisfy a prisoner serving 6-10. I love romance and have no problem admitting that I read it. But writing it?

Hi, I have an incredibly dirty mind and want to earn some money with it. Unfortunately, my voice is too squeaky for phone sex.

So what should my pen name be?

Crazy Train

2012-01-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

For a long time, I have struggled with anxiety. I worry about a lot of stuff. To be fair, there's a lot in my life to worry about, what with three kids (one of whom has a diagnosis of depression), shaky finances and a social handicap that makes Rain Man appear a gracious raconteur. No wonder I have an issue with anxiety.

Except that's not what I obsess about. If I was up at night, wondering how we were going to pay the electric bill, that would make sense. But I lay awake, haunted by the feeling that the five-year-old has decided to go for a midnight stroll down the block. I lose huge blocks of my day to the fear that my daughter will fall in the field at recess and no one will know where she is, while she lies in the grass bleeding from her head. I breathe a sigh of relief when my husband walks in the door, because that fatal car wreck I envisioned never happened.

It's a party to be me. I'm amazed I don't drink more.

Why do I worry about ridiculous, fantastical scenarios when there is real-life drama for me to get an ulcer over? More to the point, why do I let the groundless fear impair my ability to do something about the real worries that could be addressed and mitigated? I don't know. I guess that's why it's called mental illness. It's sick and mental and weird as shit. My doctor has been juggling my medication around, trying to find something that will let me sleep at night without releasing my inner-zombie. A lot of the stuff on the market gives me crippling headaches, so I've started looking at non-pharmaceutical options. Yoga, B-12, church, meditation. Stuff that is cheap, easy and won't send me to rehab or AA.

In related news, my doctor claims wine is not an effective cure for anxiety. Whatever. I told her they used to think leeches were the cure for everything and do you know what she said?

"Actually, leeches are still considered a viable treatment for some injuries."

Holy shit, I have new material for my nightly circus o' crazy.

The Millionth Time I've Written About Grief.

2012-01-16T08:15:00.000-08:00

Since Dad died, December and January have laid me out flat. The stress of the Christmas season is underlined with a persistent feeling of gloom. The first year, I assumed it was finances. This year, I had an epiphany and realized it was grief, the knowledge that this anniversary was approaching. Like watching a huge wave come toward you, the ominous music in the background, I saw my grief approaching, the memories, the guilt, the anger and sadness. So I stifled it. We were going to have fun, damn it. Dad is in a better place, he's home with our Father, free of his failed body. What was there to be sad about?

Suck it up, Jennie. Suck it the hell up.

I did. I sucked like a fat kid with a McD's milkshake. I got through December and New Years and then BAM. The anniversary of Dad's death has hit and I am a wreck. I'm having trouble getting to sleep, staying asleep, getting out of bed, making decisions, getting stuff done. I keep thinking back to that night and watching him struggle for breath. I think about how I didn't know what to say, because we had five years. It had been said. If you say all that there is to say, what comes next? Goodbye?

For now, this is my strategy. One foot in front of the other. When I am haunted by that awful night, I find a happy memory instead. When I need to cry, I find a quiet place and cry. But I keep on keepin' on.

It's okay to miss him. It's okay to be sad. I'm going to be doing that for a while yet. And that's okay too.

A New Blog Find, An Obscure Fact And A Revealing Look At My Family.

2011-12-18T12:35:00.001-08:00

One of my new favorite blogs is a charming and hilarious find called eggton. Like another favorite, Vanilla Garlic, she weaves stories and food beautifully, feeding my mind and my tummy. While reading her archives and snorting into my coffee, I came across this little gem which reminded me of a story I've probably never told you. Aren't you the lucky little dumplings?

Years ago, when I was in high school and too young to be amused by the fact, my aunt had a pygmy goat named Horny. Horny had a pierced ear, painted hooves and a penchant for cruelty. He was a spoiled little shit who would stick his head in the doggie door and bleat until he got a waffle with peanut butter for breakfast. His favorite pastime was waiting until you were halfway between the car and house, then charging and hooking your leg with his horn. Charming pet, yes?

My crotchety, ill-tempered grandfather and this goat had a love affair that boggles the mind. Perhaps their similar dispositions called to each other? I don't know, but while my aunt owned the goat's body, Grandpa had his heart.

One day, my aunt left a bag of oranges on the back porch. Did you know that citrus is an intoxicant for goats? Like alcohol, a little is fine but a lot is a hell of a good time. Horny ate every orange and the plastic netting they came in. He staggered around the yard, piteous and bleating for his nanny, much to our amusement. My grandfather was distraught, sure that Horny had been poisoned. As the goat fell over and waved it's hooves in the air, I'm pretty sure I saw a tear on the old man's cheek but that could have been the tears of laughter from the rest of us, who knows?

Whenever I think about that episode, I am always tempted to sneak a few tangerines over to my brother's house, so as to inebriate a few of his fainting goats. Yes, my brother has a herd of fainting goats and they are as awesome as they sound. I wouldn't lie to you about that. One loud noise and over they go, lying on their sides, stiff as hairy boards. I'm thinking they would make awesome drunks.

Then again, I'm probably going to hell and I'm pretty sure Horny is there, waiting for me.

Giving Back

2011-11-30T08:17:00.000-08:00

My oldest friend, (in terms of our friendship, not her age) is a blogger. She's giving away a $250 Visa card on her website, Jenny On The Spot. Go enter. Give her some love. She's awesome.

I jumped on this giveaway, but not for the reason you might think. I'm not angling for a bunch of books or some cool toy for my kids. If I win this prize, it's going to my friend Heidi, the social worker.

Heidi was on Facebook yesterday, talking about her agency's annual gift drive for their foster kids. People are eager to buy gifts for the small children, but apparently, the teens get left in the dust. That sucks. I have a teenager. She's super easy to buy for. Cash or gift cards and she's happy. So I told Heidi I'd buy a couple of cards for some teens. We're skipping date night this month to make it happen, but it's totally worth it.

I would encourage you to contact a fostering agency in your area and see if they need gifts for teens. It's a shitty time in a kid's life. Even more so when you don't have family. It would be less shitty with a gift card to spend on something they want.

Finally, A Cop Is Around When I Want Him.

2011-10-18T21:26:00.000-07:00

There is a stretch of road on my daily route that is heavily patrolled. The speed limit is 35 miles per hour. I always know the people who live in the area or drive it regularly, because we drive no faster than 36 miles per hour. Always. Lots of crabby cops on that stretch. No donut shops. You get my drift, yes?

Today, a black Miata comes screaming up on my tail, wedging his headlights up my bumper. He probably really enjoyed my "And then Buffy staked Edward. The End." bumper sticker. I did what I usually do in that situation, tap my brakes. It's my way of saying you have to buy me a nice dinner before I let you ride my ass. He then honks. Repeatedly.

Dude. Seriously? I'm in a minivan full of jabbering kids. 35 miles an hour is like an unanesthetized lobotomy. My driving the speed limit is far more painful for me than for you in your sexy (in a chick way) car. He wasn't knowing, because he pulls around me, all horn-honking, middle-finger-flipping, obscenity-yelling rage. You might want to save a hand to steer with, mister, and also? Thanks so much for teaching my five-year-old son a new word.

He sped off to have his litter of kittens in private and I turned up the radio. I go two blocks and see flashing lights ahead.

You know where this is going, don't you? Don't you?

Mr. Miata is getting a ticket. OH MY HADES, KARMIC ORGASM. I laughed so hard, my mascara ran. Okay, it would have if I had put any on this morning. Better yet, he saw me. He recognized me. I know he did. If there hadn't been a cop right there and if I hadn't been driving, I would have snapped a picture, just to fuck with him. Too awesome.

Good times. Good times. And yes, I know I'm a giant bitch. If this is news, you should read my archives.

Gettting Ready To Get Gone

2011-10-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

The move is officially underway. Today, we did a final walk-through, asked some questions about the pellet stove and the central vac, and watched awkwardly as the previous owners nearly broke down in tears over leaving their beloved home.

No, this wasn't a short sale, foreclosure or forced sale. They are having a larger house built in a nicer area. But this is where their children were raised and it is emotional. Understandable. I'll be flipping this house the bird as I drive away in two weeks, but not everyone hates their house. I get that.

Mostly, I'm just exhausted. I was giddy this morning, practically vibrating as we listened to the owners and realtor, and oh my lord, frothing at the mouth as they drove away. She was miiiiiiine. All mine. Aaaaawww yeah. But after going through it with my mom and brother, making mental lists of all that we want to change, I was ready to come home. To the house I hate. Because it has my stuff.

I made dinner, did some laundry and light cleaning, then gaped in complete disbelief (with a smidgen of despair) as my husband dropped a bomb. He wanted to load up the pickup and the bus and take a load up. Tonight. To. Night.

Try as I might, I couldn't talk him out of it. So I loaded the kids in the truck and drove up the hill, plotting my husband's painful fall down a flight of stairs. We got it done, but damn, I'm tired. Tomorrow, I'll start painting the kids' rooms, but now, I'm going to watch a little True Blood (Season 3 and holy hell, Joe Manganiello is hot) drink a little wine (champagne) and let my husband rub my aching feet. I'll post pictures as we go, because I can't help myself, and you can oooh and aaah and stroke my pride of house. (Dirty)

Good night, childrens. Sweet dreams!

Mommy's Star Student

2011-10-06T19:17:00.000-07:00

A month and a half ago, I wrote this post about Big Red going to school. I found my happy, I'm enjoying the time and if you thought I'd be doing something productive with all those child-free hours, you're smoking some high quality crack. Pass the pipe.

It's been great, but the last two weeks have been a revelation. My baby loves school. It doesn't hurt that his teacher is beautiful young woman, his favorite kind of person. But it's more than that. He's making friends, enjoying the social aspects of daily school. He has best friends, enjoys field trips and thinks hot lunch in the cafeteria is the best thing in the entire world. Suddenly, Mom's loving prepared, trans-fat free lunches are "yucky bug food." Yep. I think he means food made of bugs, not food for bugs. Not sure which would make me feel better. It was a blow.

The biggest thrill is his unfurling intellect. He clambers into the car after school, full of interesting facts.
"Did you know that octopuses have 3 hearts?"
"Guess what! Moths hear with their antennae!"
"All plants come from seeds. Even pumpkins, Mommy."

Oh, lordy. My heart.

Best yet, he saw his sister's reading log and had to have one as well. He drew lines on a blank piece of paper, laboriously copying the title of whatever book we had read that evening and the number of pages. It takes him a half hour, minimum, but it's so incredibly cute, I find my impatience melting away. Because he loves it so much and he's so proud, so excited by the whole thing, that extra half hour doesn't hurt like it might if he were wanting endless sips of water.

Confession. At first, I thought he was putting off bedtime. Because I'm not stupid and this isn't my first rodeo. But then he wanted to do it in the afternoon. And spent even longer on it, getting it just right. Gen-you-wine love of learning. My wizened, tired little mommy-heart is swelling. This child who has exasperated me beyond bearing has done it again.

I was totally going to scan the reading log for you and post it here, but technical difficulties stopped me. Don't thank your lucky stars yet. I might get it figured out.

Invasion

2011-08-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

It was such a lovely morning. Both times, actually. The first morning, I had run up the hill to my parent’s house. It was my birthday and I had Russ and his friend Ty, two baby boys, the girls at school, and did I mention it was my birthday? I came home and as I pulled into the driveway, I noticed my front door, wide open.

I had been robbed. On my fucking birthday. Somehow, that made it worse. I don’t know why. I mean, if a person will invade your home and steal your TV, I’m pretty sure the birthday decorations aren’t going to make their heart grow three sizes that day. No, they’re still going to take your roast who beast. Because they’re shitty. That’s how it works.

But apparently, there are more shitty people than just thieves. Of course there are. Wall Street execs, corrupt politicians, child molesters, plagiarizers, Realtors…

Yes, I said Realtors. Don’t get me wrong. Realtors as a whole are not shitty human beings. I know several that are lovely, ethical individuals. But there are a few that ought to be brought up on charges.

The second morning, I had coffee with friends. A fun morning of conversation and laughter, catching up and celebrating the freedom that comes with all your children being enrolled in school. I pulled up to me driveway and saw it was full of strange cars. And lo, my front door was ajar. This time, fear and uncertainty were not on the menu. Today’s special was pure, distilled rage, served with a chaser of embarrassment.

My house is on the market, with a lock box and a stipulation that it be shown by appointment only. There were no appointments, so I had felt entitled to leave a sink full of dishes and a bed adorned with laundry of the delicate variety. There may or may not have been certain, *cough* marital aides left out in plain view. Which in hindsight, was foolish, but appointment only means appointment only, right? And there were three offers on the table. I think I can be excused for thinking my home would be left alone. Right?

Wrong. A fifty-something skank of a realtor was showing my home to a slimy looking douche bag flipper. Without an appointment. I parked behind their cars, blocking them in, burst into my home and confronted the stringy-haired ho. “Do you have an appointment,” I demanded in full fishwife mode. “Because my realtor did NOT inform me of any appointments!”

She claimed they did, that she had been emailing my agent and the minute I picked up the phone to dial him, that lying, cheating bitch beat feet out of my house. Which proves she has some sense, if no ethics. Because I was three seconds from full on Springerizing her ass. My agent denied giving her an appointment and talked me down off the ledge, perhaps guessing (accurately) that he was in my cross hairs as well.

He told me how to file a complaint with her office. I attempted to do so, but was informed she and her husband owned said office. Awesome. I wasn’t aware that owning your own office gave you the right to enter any home you wanted. It doesn’t. Not even if you’re a pathetic, can’t-dress-your-age tart with the cosmetic skills of a ten-year-old boy. I checked.

My next step is filing a complaint against said sad cougar with the local board of Realtors. I tried on Friday, but apparently, the High Priestess of Realtor Ethics does not work on Fridays. Nice work, if you can get it. Maybe she was showing houses without appointments!

I’ll call back on Monday. Because it’s been 3 days and I’m still pissed as a Tea Party conservative at a gay wedding. Absolutely, to the marrow, livid. And hopefully, the Board of Realtors will do more for me than my local police department did, all those years ago on my fucking birthday. Because so help me, patron saint of angry bitches, if I get the same, too bad, so sad, line that the police gave me, I’m going to have to kill me a Realtor. Or two.

The Bitter and The Sweet

2011-08-17T10:07:00.000-07:00

The day I have been counting down to has finally arrived. Big Red went to Kindergarten today. My baby has officially started school.

I thought I would be ecstatic. Finally, some time for me. But I watched that small boy, wearing a big back pack, walk away from me and realized he's on his way. I clutched the little yellow dandelion he had picked for me on the way in and the tears were a little sad, but mostly joyful. He's on his way.

Soon, he'll be playing baseball, spending the night at a friends, riding a bike and complaining about taking out the garbage. He won't want me to hug him in front of people. He'll be big.

Soon, he'll be wanting a phone, getting texts from girls, doing homework and stinking to high heaven. He'll go to high school, out with friends, out on dates, learn to drive. He'll become a man.

But at the end of it all, after he's far taller than me, doesn't need me in the same way, he'll still be my baby. They always are. And I'll be remembering that little boy with the big green back pack and that dandelion he picked for me.

It's probably silly to press a dandelion, but damned if I'm not going to.

But I Don't Like To Camp

2011-07-22T18:35:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to hate house-hunting. I used to love it. I used to cajole Mr. Clairol into going to open houses with me, just so I could see how others lived. But dude, when you need to find a house and school deadlines are pushing in, high schoolers are whining about not wanting to go to certain schools and you just want it resolved? It sort of sucks.

It would help if every fricking house wasn't a short sale. Buying a short sale house is akin to traveling the ocean in a teapot. It would also help if Bank of America didn't operate with their heads up their asses. Because when I found the perfect house and made a cash offer on it, they sat around and masturbated for 45 days. At least I hope they were masturbating. Because then at least someone was satisfied. My question? Why the hell did they buy up so many damn mortgages if they couldn't handle the resulting short sales? Long story short, I didn't get my dream house and I'm a teensy bit bitter.

I spent today walking through some crack-tastic houses. There was the one with faux brick in the kitchen, which would have been okay if half of it hadn't been crumbling off the drywall. Then there was the home of an 83 year old with 4 cats. A litter box in every room. Every. Room. Not exaggerating. And she loves floral wallpaper. A lot. It was bad. So bad, I almost punched my realtor in the boob, just for dragging me into that hellhole.

OH! And the house that I actually feared walking into, due to extreme dry rot on the entrance deck! That was awesome. The house was nice, except for the gaping hole in the ceiling. And the dry rot. I may have pissed my realtor off at some juncture. Maybe that time I punched her in the boob. Some people just can't take a joke.

At this point, I'm thinking our tent is a viable housing option. It's only got three rooms, but that could be an advantage when the weather gets cold. It got a lot going for it. No cats. No deck. No wallpaper. I could use the lack of kitchen as an excuse to not make dinner. It's looking better with every house I tour.

I Survived The Deathly Hallows

2011-07-15T09:09:00.001-07:00

Last night, I put on my "mother of a teenager" shoes (Cute little sequined flip flops, btw) and took my daughter to a midnight showing of the final 'arry Pottuh movie.

See how I did that? Wasn't that cute?

No?

It wasn't?

Leave me alone, I've had 4 hours of sleep and damn it, that was fucking adorable.

Anyway, yes. I sat for two hours in a crowded theater, put on clever Potter-esque 3-D glasses and then watched what is being billed as the last movie that will ever. be. made. EVER, people. Not really, but jeez, the build-up on this is killing me.

And lo, it was good. It was actually great. I think. That may be the sleep deprivation talking. Alan Rickman has deserved far more acclaim than he's gotten for being the absolute embodiment of Snape. I WEPT, unashamedly, at his two major scenes in this movie. He made the movie for me.

Okay, movie was great, had actors and props and everything, yay. Now I'm going to actually get to my point. This was my first midnight showing. I'm not a night-owl, by any means. I'm also not a "need to see it, first rattle outta the hat" sort of girl. I like to wait until the crowds have died down, see it a relatively empty theater, or better yet, rent it. But this is the last of these movies, and Drama Queen is of the Potter Generation. These kids grew up on these books, with Harry, Hermione and Ron and attended midnight release parties for the books. (WTF with all the midnight shit, media moguls? What is your problem with 7 pm? I would pay more for a 7 pm release, hand to heaven.) They identify with him, both on the page and the movie screen. It was midnight release or nothing! THE LAST HARRY POTTER, MOTHER! THE LAST! LAST!

She wasn't dubbed Drama Queen for her acting skills alone, yo.

And that is how I wound up at a jam-packed, cinematic E-VENT!!! What a freak show. I say that with affection, love and more than a little eye-rolling. I get the newly-graduated, sorority sisters, engaging in a little PG-13 fun. And I really enjoyed the flocks of Hogwart robes. But I'm going to draw the line at slutty Slytherin/Griffindor school-girl uniforms. That was a little much, ladies. Though I will give props to the poison green bra lace, peeking out from the artfully tied shirt and the perfectly matching striped stockings. Apparently Hot Topic sells a kit. Charming.

Heh, get it? Charming? Cripes, you guys have no sense of humor when I've only had 4 hours of sleep.

There are a lot of negatives to the midnight showing. Standing in line for hours, then sitting in a seat for hours more? Yuck. Sitting cheek to jowl with strangers in strange garb? Um, no. Not getting home until 3:30 am? That's a big ole hell no.

BUT. But. There is an incredible sense of camraderie and excitement at these showings. I had conversations with several fun and interesting people about the books, the movies, theater and life in general. People are amped and joined in a common adventure. There is (forgive the turn of phrase) magic in the air. The applause at critical moments, the cheers and jeers, they are fun. It is lovely to share this last moment of a particular cultural phenomenon with a large group of friends, family and aliens. Am I sorry I went. No. Not at all.

But I ain't doing that shit ever again. Mama likes her sleep.

Graveside

2011-06-19T17:12:00.000-07:00

This post may be a bit...rambly. I'm currently halfway through my second glass of an excellent chardonnay.

It's Father's Day and as expected, I am missing my father. Crazy? No. Pain in the ass? Yes. My husband is a fantastic father and he deserves a fantastic day. That's hard to deliver when you're crying every hour. So in an effort to get it all out of the way, I went to the cemetery today.

Damn, that was a mistake.

I brought flowers and a bottle of water, since there is a vase affixed to my dads headstone. Actually, there was a vase. Now there is a large, muddy hole and several wasps. He'd appreciate that, I'm sure. What he would not appreciate is how I jammed the sunflowers in the hole, pissed that someone would dig out a fucking vase from a headstone. Seriously, call me. I will buy you a damned vase. (And break it over your grave-robbing head, you fucker.) But stuff them down a wasp nest I did, because had I brought those flowers home, I would have burst into tears, every single time I looked at them. Sort of what we were trying to avoid. Luckily, I did not get stung. (bitten? Wasps bite, right?)

All (hopefully humorous) ranting aside, I went because I needed to feel a connection to him. It's been a long time. I wanted to feel his presence again. But you know what? He's not there. I felt nothing. It was just mud and grass, marble and wasps. I'm sure there is a deep analogy somewhere in there, but I'm tipsy and you shouldn't attempt analogies while drinking. They never make sense. Sadly, I know this from experience.

Point is, he's gone. I know a lot of people take comfort from visiting the grave of a loved one. I am not one of those people. He's not there. He's in a better place and I know that, but I still miss him. I'm allowed to rejoice in his freedom and still miss him. To be glad he's with God and sad that he's not with us. And I am all of the above.

I'm not going back. I hope that doesn't make me a bad daughter. I prefer to find him in my son's smile, my daughter's eyes and my memories. Also, I really need get a handle on this.

Square One

2011-06-15T06:53:00.000-07:00

This whole moving thing has been an anxiety sundae with uncertainty sauce. I'm allergic to anxiety sundaes it turns out. Also, far more superstitious than I would have believed. I think, from now on, I'm just going to stop talking about stuff until it happens. Yeah, right, Jen. Ya gonna duct tape that big mouth of yours shut?

Wait, I bet that would help me lose weight as well...

We've known we were going to move for about a year now. A smart woman would have sat on that information, at least until things were really underway. As I have previously established, I am not, in any way shape or form, smart. I say this because when you say you're going to move, people start asking questions. This is a natural human response. And for almost a year, I've had NO news to report. Other than, "we found an awesome house on Metrolist."

Oh, Metrolist. You are like eHarmony, promising happily ever after and delivering a fat dude with anger management problems and cheeseburgers in his pockets. I want to quit you, but I can't. I foresee myself, even after we are all moved, checking your offerings, seeing what's out there, just so I can be a smidge discontent wherever I wind up.

When you've been waiting to look for so long, you get impatient. You fall in love with the first thing you see, because OH MY GOD! It's a HOUSE! With four walls and a floor and it's new to me! So I LOVE IT! I love it so much I want to have its babies, even though it's got a damned galley kitchen and only three bedrooms! I'm actually walking through a house that isn't my own and after months of being secretly afraid this day would never come, it HAS!!! Let me propose marriage to this house!

Never propose on the first date. It is very bad manners. Also, you'll get rejected. And that will be a good thing.

We're officially looking at houses and I promise not to fall in love with the first house I see this go-round. I promise to hold out for a house I love. I promise to listen to my agent. And this time, when we've made an offer, I'm NOT going to jinx it by blurting that little factoid out to people in casual conversation. I'm going to hold this in my heart, until I know we have that house, even if I have to take a Facebook sabbatical.

Square one is simply a fresh start.

Got Skinny Pants?

2011-05-13T16:27:00.000-07:00

It seems like I've dried up a little here. I don't have a lot to say. Actually, that's not true. I have a lot to say, but I'm saying it somewhere else: The Quest For Skinny Pants I'm not ready to say goodbye to this blog, but for now, the bulk of my writing is about weight loss and my evolving relationship with food. I'd love to see you in my skinny pants...wait, that didn't come out right.

Anyway, come over and see me. Wherever.

The Answer is C: None of the Above

2011-05-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

My friend, Tiffany, recently left this post on Facebook. Needless to say, I identified.

“I told a lie last night. A lady asked where my parents lived, I said California. What else could I do? If I tell her my Mom is in California, then it implies my parents are divorced. If I tell her my Dad is in heaven, then I just would have made her feel bad for asking. There's no damn good answer.”

No damn good answer, indeed. It’s a weird milestone, the first time you are forced to acknowledge the death of your parent to a stranger. How to do it? Do you just respond with a vague generality? That’s probably the easiest thing to do, until you start thinking about it, and then agonize under the crushing guilt of negating your father’s death with a polite lie of omission. Been there, done that, donated the T-shirt to Goodwill.

Or you can gently explain that your mother has been recently widowed and your entire family is still reeling with the grief of losing their patriarch, but thank you so much for you kindly meant and terribly hurtful question. Not awkward at all.

You could start crying. That’s always fun. I’ve been on the other end of that, and I can tell you that not only does the asker feel horrible, but also? They suspect you are a wee bit… well, unhinged. Not the image I like to project, since I’m already widely known as a ditz.

You could take the bitch route and stare them down. “My father died recently. Thanks for ripping the band-aid off that emotional scab. Want to kick my puppy a few times?” I don’t personally recommend this, but it almost certainly will circumvent any further questions. Or conversation, for that matter.

There are a lot of ways to handle it. I’ve developed a standard answer:
“My mom is widowed, but my parents lived in California for 55 years. They were actually high school sweethearts, isn’t that awesome?”
Told with a smile and an upbeat tone of voice, it relieves any guilt that might be hatched and relates a very sweet facet of my parent’s relationship. Of course, I get the requisite condolences. I’ve learned that they are unavoidable and honestly, I appreciate them. Sometimes, people ask about my dad and I have an opportunity to talk about ALS a little. Other times, they change the subject and we move on. Either is fine with me.

Of course, I’ve had a year and a half to get to this place. Tiffany is in a different place in her journey. I’ve had a lot of really excellent advice from people who were once where I am. That has been a tremendous blessing. Beth and Jessica propped me up, sometimes without even knowing it. If I can do that for someone, then I will be satisfied. We all need a hand. We all need a shoulder. And we all need a friend, especially on a path as dark and winding as grief.

Happy Dia de la Madre.

2011-05-06T13:57:00.000-07:00

For many years now, I've been of the considered opinion that a true day for mothers would consist of fathers, uncles, friends, whomever loves you just. that. much. taking your spawn and gifting you with peace and quiet for a day. Pedicures, massages, fruit on silver platters and pool boys are optional, but for the love of Marion Cunningham, give me a damned break already!

This morning, I realized the flaw in this logic. Mother's Day is NOT for mothers. I mean, it is, but it would be more accurate to say it is a day for everyone that has a mother worth celebrating. It is for saying, "hey, pretty lady, you do a LOT for us that we could probably do ourselves, but don't have to because at some point in your life, you looked at squalling bundle of screaming insomnia that may or may not have issued from your lady bits and said, 'yes. I will love that baby/child/sullen teenager.' So thank you."

Which is why I am going to stop bitching about being served cheerios and lukewarm coffee on a Sunday morning, when all I want is another hour of sleep. It's also why I'm going to treasure another hand print plaque and painted wooden box and flowers that will be finished before the next week. Because my children and husband love me. They deserve a chance to express that to me and really, I would rather be reading Skippyjon Jones, for the millionth time than getting my toenails painted Peek-a-boo Pink. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I really would. Especially since I can do both.

I guess I finally fit into my mommy pants. Do they make my butt look big?

Don't answer that.

Yet Another Open Letter

2011-05-06T11:05:00.000-07:00

Dear John's Incredible Pizza,

Thank you for inviting me to spend Mother's Day with you, but if I'm going to drop $100 on lunch/dinner, it's not going to be crappy buffet food, in a noisy joint overrun with screaming children. Mother's Day is about escaping our homelife for a day, not embellishing it with flashing lights, whooping sirens and cheap toys.

Also, John, you might want to seek therapy. You obviously have mother issues.

Much love,

Jen

An Unsolicited Recommendation

2011-05-05T16:45:00.000-07:00

I'm an ass. I put this up without a link. Seriously, if you find my brain laying around, don't step on it, okay? Thanks.

My fabulous, funny friend Aimee, recently diagnosed with a crap load of shitty stuff, has started a great blog, chock-full of information about living a gluten-free, casien-free life, coping with fibromyalgia and life in general. Go check it out and spread the word to friends living the GFCF life, why doncha?

What? Who? Huh?

2011-05-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

I know, it's been feast or famine over here. I'm sorry. My only excuse is life has become a tsunami. It feels as if I'm constantly struggling with the expectations others have of me. I can't fulfill them all, and frequently, it's regarding things I never signed up for. Crazy-making to say the least. But the end of the year approaches, with a move and my eldest traveling across the ocean, so I am a busy mama.

The fund-raising is finally wrapping up. It's actually serendipitous, because our final event is a rummage sale and children, does mama have some major shit to shed! Because we have access to a truck, I'm being flooded with requests to pick up items on the way to the school. Except, my truck and van will be full. Packed. Dragging bumper all the way to school. Weeee weeee weeee.

Funny how moving shifts your priorities. Suddenly, my possessions are divided into two categories. Shit I love enough to pack and move vs. shit I can live without. Guess which pile is bigger and remember, I a lazy bitch. Now to convince my children they don't really need toys. Wish me luck and stay tuned. You never know when a new post will pop up, like a poisonous toadstool, full of creamy, sweary filling!

Fair Warning

2011-04-28T10:59:00.001-07:00

Dear Soccer Coach,

Let me start by saying, I get it. You have a crappy job. I couldn't teach a bunch of 4-5 year-old children to play soccer, not for all the Valium in the world. The fact that you're not weaving around that field, drunk as $3 daytime hooker, counts for a lot.

But when I'm trying to peel my sobbing, screaming 4-year-old off my legs and get him onto the field, ordering me to "just back off," doesn't help. I was trying to back off. Hard. You probably noticed him backing up with me. And you can back peddle all you want, telling me you thought we were a different family, but dude, you almost got your balls popped.

I'll give you one more week. But anymore helpful parenting tips from you and I'm not responsible for the damage I'll inflict.

Sincerely,

Jen

Time Flies

2011-04-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I'll turn 39 years old. It will be my very last year of being a thirty-something. I'm not upset by it, just baffled at how quickly the time has flown by. The older I get, the faster it goes.

The end of the school year is approaching as well, and that means the move will finally get underway. We'll have a new house, in a new town, new schools, new neighbors...exciting, but overwhelming as well.

This summer will see my oldest leaving the country without me. Without any family. I don't want to talk about this. I'm still in denial. I cried in line for her passport. Yes. I actually did.

In the fall, my youngest will start Kindergarten and the shape of my days will change again. I won't lie, I'm really looking forward to that particular change. I love my son, but he wears a mother out.

We're thinking about leaving the Montessori system all together, not because we don't like it, but because Missy has struggled and is leaving first grade far behind where she should be. All that I love about the Montessori approach, the Independence it affords a child, the sense of personal responsibility, the value it places on peace and tolerance, Missy just isn't absorbing them. So I have to decide if I made a mistake in placing her there, which kills me. I have to decide if a more structured environment will be better for her, and pray I'm not making another mistake. Parenting is hard. Especially on the ego.

I don't mind knocking on 40's door. I just thought my life would be a little more settled by the time I was doing it.

Mushy

2011-04-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm finally clearing out my garden. There's something so meditative about pulling weeds. While clearing the big bed, I found myself thinking about how Mr. Clairol would be telling me to not do too much or I'd be sore. And how I'd ignore him. And then, how he wouldn't rub it in (like I would in his place), he'd rub my back and probably make dinner.

This has happened. A lot. And when he doesn't wear sunscreen after I've told him to, am I kind and sympathetic when he gets sunburned? No. I scold him while rubbing aloe vera into his red skin and he chuckles, promising that next time he'll listen. (He doesn't.) He doesn't get pissy and snap at me, which is probably what I would do.

He loves me so much. It hits me like a ton of bricks sometimes, though hardly ever during the big gestures. The little things, like rubbing my back bring it home in such a powerful way that I tear up sometimes. The big things are nice as well. The garden where these epiphanies regularly occur was a gift from him, built with his own two hands (and help from my brother). I really hope that I can do things that give him those moments, the realization that I love him intensely.

Thank you, God, for bringing him to me.

Get It Done Day

2011-04-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

I have a family of clutterers. At any given time, every flat surface in our house is covered with varying degrees of flotsam. And even though I am one of the culprits, it makes me crazy. CRAZY. My grumpiness index rises in direct proportion to the amount of clutter clogging my home. So about once a month, I get a wild hair and have Get It Done Day.

GIDD is not a fun holiday. There are no decorations, no colored beer and in the past, there's been no candy, though frankly, I think that oughta change. No, the main accompaniment of GIDD is a large cup of strong coffee, a pencil, a pad of paper and most importantly, a project attitude. You have to identify your clutter spots, which isn't difficult for me. Flat surface, mounded with a precarious pile of junk? Clutter spot.

GIDD starts with a clear kitchen table. For me, my kitchen table is the center of my main clutter nexus. There are 6 clutter hot spots within steps of that table. So I clear off the table to act as clutter central. This flies in the face of conventional clutter wisdom. I've always heard you should pick it up and put it where it belongs, over and over, until the surface is clear. For me, the hardest part of clearing the crap is the constant walking. Let's face it, as a mom, it's never a straight trip to my destination and back. I can't simply walk back to the bedroom, put something away and walk back. No. I have to stop and fix a toy for one child, make a snack for another child, find something for my husband and along the way, I get distracted by the mail, a messy linen closet or maybe a spill on the counter. And when that happens, I lose steam. So instead of putting items back as I find them, I move them the the table, dividing them into piles. 2-3 small laundry hampers underneath the table hold things that belong in the back part of the house. Once the space is cleared, I clean it. With a Swiffer duster, a bottle of multi-purpose spray cleaner and a damp rag, I can clean my kitchen area hot-spots and the walls around them. Then the things that actually belong on the surface get put back and I move on to the next spot, repeating the process.

The six areas surrounding my kitchen aren't my only clutter spots. There are a few far-flung outposts that our clutter colonizes. I use another laundry basket for collecting the clutter and trade my multi-purpose cleaner for some Pledge and a dust cloth. After dusting the surface, I give it a shot of Pledge, a quick shine and put back the native items, then move on to the next spot. Finally, I return to the table for another sort and pile session.

Now comes the hard part. Get out your pen and paper. Look at Clutter Central, bet there's one lurking in there! I generally have several piles. Filing, shredding, trash, items to deal with now, items to deal with later, materials and display. I throw away trash and shred the shred pile. Then I put the items to deal with in two folders, (one for now, one for later), making a list for the front of each folder. If you're finding you need supplies not on hand to deal with clutter, like a small box, file folders, a frame or even a book of stamps, make a list and put the things you can't do in one of your to-do folders. Put those folders somewhere prominent. If you forget about them, they're simple re-clutter. And re-clutter is the worst clutter of all, my friends. Next, I subdivide the materials pile and put away materials where they belong. These are generally random items like glue guns, screw drivers, lip glosses, pens and pencils, even a charging cord or two. Finally, I put file the filing and then pin up the display items.

Then I take a minute and shake the paint flakes and glitter out of my hair. Refresh my coffee. Have a snack. Brace yourself, it's time to tackle those folders. I sit down and fill out forms, pay rogue bills, look up things online, send emails, whatever that folder needs me to do, in order to empty it. I have to take one task at a time and complete it before moving on to the next one. That may mean filling out a rebate form, rounding up the receipt, putting it an envelope and getting it ready to mail before moving on to the emails I need to send. I generally try to group like tasks, emails, filling out forms, etc. I keep that list with me, because I forget. I get distracted. I need that list to focus me.

Because my Get It Done Day is generally on a weekend, I have a "later" folder as well, for things I can't do right away. The very next weekday, I get through the later file, making appointments and phone calls during business hours. Once I'm through that folder, Get It Done Day is officially over. And I can enjoy a stream-lined environment for about 15 minutes before hollering at a family member who sets something down on a clean surface and walks away. Cluttering right after GIDD is dangerous.

I'm not claiming this is the most efficient way to deal with clutter. I'm well aware that if I simply dealt with things as they came along, clutter wouldn't be such an issue. But that's not who I am. And that's okay. We have to function where we're at, friends. That's all you can do.

How It Came To Pass That I Have A Super Stinky Indoor Dog

2011-04-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

When we were dating, Mr. Clairol had a dog. A wicked smart, completely devoted to him, dog. Shyla was clean, well-behaved and aloof, in the manner of chows. And did I mention smart? Mr. C swears she taught Chinese at the community college in her spare time. She was a great dog and completely cured me of my aversion to indoor animals. But she was lonely and I was weak, so we adopted a puppy from the pound. The Beast. Almost seven years later and we have an enormous 95 lb mutt, who thinks he's a lap dog and also the boss. Of us all. Me especially. It's tolerable because not only is he sweet and loving, he's dumb as a post. Bless his heart. It's like working for a lovable schmuck who has no clue, so you can still get stuff done like he's not even there, for the most part. Oh my gosh, my dog is Michael Scott. Anyway. He's a dummy. That's the point. But every so often, he figures something out, completely by accident. Like the fact that he can reach anything we leave on the counter. Like butter. He likes butter. A lot. I knew this, because he frequently overturns the garbage can, rooting through for butter wrappers. But that stick of butter, softening on the counter for cookies? Yeah, he likes that too. A real, real lot. In his garbage forays, he also discovered a love of soup. He likes to lick the cans clean. And also, bowls. With soup in them. This morning, I foolishly left a bit of leftover soup on the counter. I came home and he had taken the bowl off the counter and eaten the entire half a can worth of minestrone. Without spilling a drop. Who's the dumb one in this scenario? Not the canine. I'm really going to be sorry in an hour, when the eye-watering soup farts start. Pray for me.

DQ- X

2011-04-14T10:00:00.000-07:00

It's wrong to throttle a teenage boy. I know it's wrong, okay? It's NOT wrong to fantasize about it though. I checked. X dumped DQ. Ah, the algebra of high school romance. Solve for Y. As in "Y" the hell do you break up with your girlfriend of 2.5 years citing incompatibility?!? You sure as fuck better be gay, my friend, 'cause that is ALL that is saving you from Mama Beat Down 2011. Apparently though, he is straight, since he is canoodling with a girl that matches him in smug superiority. The little bastard. I'm keeping my pimp hand strong. He did it the Thursday before a dance and it was all I could do not to sneak in and be sure he didn't show up with another girl. (He didn't come at all, according to DQ.) That gave her a four day weekend to get over the worst of the tears. By the time Tuesday rolled around, she was pissed enough to toss a sack of his stuff in his lap and pithily say, "Your shit," then walk away. (If "pithily" isn't a word, it oughta be, so I'm declaring it "word. " Like douchebaggery and whatthefuckery.) This is me, being proud. Not because that's what I would have done. I would have burned his shit and given him a bag full of ashes, since that's how I roll. No I'm proud because she a) gave it back and b) didn't sob while doing it. That's my girl. Anyway. She's sad, my little chickie. I'm sad as well. Because when I picked her up from school later that week, who was walking her out to the car but a kid from last year's play. He is a freshman at AR. He just came to the campus to "drop off stuff for a friend." Yeah. Walk on, Drama Boy. There's no room at that inn for you. Find a fucking manger. In the months since the break-up, boys are coming out of the woodwork. She's turned them all down, so far, but I know that can't last. She recently got into the car holding a guitar pick, which some young man bought a smile with. Oye. These teens today. They got game. Shit, we are so screwed. Anyone have a 16-18 year old son they want to arrange a marriage for?

Dumb Bunny

2011-04-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

Spring Break is approaching and I decided to make little goodie bags for the girls I watch after school. Awww...aren't I the best? To that end, Red and I took ourselves to the Dollar Store (aka Land O Cheap Crap) and found a few fun, non-candy treats and little purses to stuff them into.

Of course, I bought the same stuff for my kids, because duh. If you think I can give gifts to the children of strangers and not to my own, you obviously don't know me. Except I can do that for birthday parties. But this is different, and no, I don't know why, so shut up.

Red and I stuffed the purses and I bundled them up and stashed them in my closet, where I have no actual expectation that they will remain secret. Red knows about them. He will obviously march the girls back to my room, open the closet door and inform them that those bundles on the top shelf are for them! And this is what they have in them! And they are a secret! So SHHHHHHH!

Super Spy Red, the infamous double agent.

I explained as we were putting the bags together, that these were for next week, so all these super fun trinkets we had bought, well, he couldn't have them. Or talk about them. Because I'm sort of dumb when you come down to it.

Probably more than sort of, really.

He's asked me approximately 6 times where the stuff is hidden. Not because he's forgotten. Hell no. This is the conversation (minus the endless loop. You're welcome.)

Red: Now where is the stuff hidden?

Me: I don't know...but it's staying hidden.

Red: In your closet, Mommy, remember?

Me: If you knew, why did you ask?

Red: Just checking.

The subtext is that my four-year-old son realizes his mom is a hopeless ditz and can't be trusted to remember anything. He's super perceptive and I'm very proud, when I'm not wanting to lock him in a closet. But not the closet with the Spring Break goodies. Not even I'm that dumb.

Once Again, Laziness Bites Me In The Ass.

2011-04-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

I had a list. Deodorant, toothbrush and styling cream for my hair. The deodorant was the only must have immediately, but the other two were necessary and since I was going to Walmart anyway, I might as well pick them up.

I had a list, people. It was meant to be a surgical strike, in and out. It's why I made the list.

I left the damn list in the fucking car and spent $120 at Walmart.

When I entered the store, I went to fish the list out of my purse and realized my mistake, but I forget how forgetful I am. Is that ironic? I can never remember what irony is exactly. Not the point. Moving on. I thought about going back to the car, but I parked at the back of beyond and I just wanted to get home. Surely I could remember three things. Surely.

Or not.

Toothbrush. Check. Styling cream. Check. ?????? What was the third item? Hmmmm.

I meandered the aisles, trying to remember the third item. Along the way, I picked up Easter Baskets and the flotsam for inside said baskets. I picked up some K cups. And some lotion. BODY WASH! That's what I needed! I grabbed that too. And didn't Art need socks? Yes, he did. Maybe that was the third thing.

And so on, and so on, same as it ever was. $119.78 later, I was lugging a laundry basket o' stuff to my car (because you can always use a laundry basket, amiright?) and I as I got in, I checked my list. Insert Homer Simpson/South Park exclamation here. My choice is a Cartmanesque "Son of a bitch!"

Deodorant. The one thing that I truly needed. So back in I went. Bought deodorant. Just deodorant (and a Diet Pepsi). But as I walked out to my car, I realized I hadn't really saved myself a trip back to the car after all. To add injury to insult, I could have saved myself about an hour and $100, had I taken that trip back to the car when I realized the list had been left behind.

SON OF A BITCH!

Oh, What A Fish We Have In Jesus.

2011-04-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

It's official. My kids are no longer the funniest things in my sphere. Overheard in my car today:

Sister 1 (age 9): Did you ever name your fish? The family one is named Avatar, but yours doesn't have any name.

Sister 2 (age 6): His name is Jesus.

Missy Hoohaw: Are you serious?

*silence is broken by my desperately snorting back gales of laughter*

Sister 1: You can't name your fish Jesus. It says so in the Bible.

Sister 2, wearing a skeptical look: It says in the Bible you can't name a fish Jesus?

Sister 1: No, it says you can't name anything Jesus. Ever. It makes Him mad.

Sister 2, in a whisper: His name is still Jesus.

Missy: I wish I had a fish named Jesus.

Jesus can't be too mad about that, because it's only by His Hand that I didn't wreck the car in a fit of laughter.

Is It Driving Under The Influence If I'm the Passenger?

2011-04-05T19:57:00.000-07:00

Drama Queen is learning to drive....

me CRAZY! *budum Bum!*

No, really, she's learning to operate a motorized vehicle and I am having to confront my shortcomings as a parent. I am terrified of being in the car with her. This is shame on my face. She's not a bad driver. Not that I'd know, since I've never been in the car while she's behind the wheel. But people tell me she's coming right along. I always knew this would be an issue. I once told Mr. Clairol that he would be teaching her to drive when the day came. He laughed when I told him, hugged me and said, "Sure. I'll teach her to drive."

Ten years later, that promise is chomping on his ass in a BIG way.

I've avoided being her instructor for a specific reason. I am not up to that task. I am so afraid I will do such significant psychological damage that she will never get behind a wheel. I can see myself, stomping the passenger side floorboard, wondering why the phantom brake isn't working. I can hear myself hollering at her to STOP! BRAKE! SPEED UP! SLOW DOWN! TURN HERE! I can feel the rictus of terror my face will become, for no good reason. Basically, I can foresee myself becoming my parents. And Hades knows, I don't want to go there. But the day is coming when I will no longer be able to avoid it. The driving instructor says she needs seat time. Mr. Clairol is letting her drive to school. Thus it falls to me to let her drive home. Eventually.

The irony is, for months she avoided driving lessons. She dreaded them and would come up with any excuse to avoid those hours in the car with Daddy. She even cleaned her room. And while this was happening, I was haranguing her, telling her she was either going to learn to drive or switch schools and have no social life. I was done being her chauffeur, DONE! And now? Now she's asking to drive and I'm the one inventing excuses. Because, Paula Deen knows, I just can't go there. Maybe in a year or six. Drama Queen? What I said about the switching schools? Honey, that was a bluff. You don't have to drive if you don't want. Public Transportation is AWESOME! None of the cool kids drive. I promise. Now go get Mommy a Valium.

I Need A Camera Surgically Implanted In My Forehead

2011-04-01T08:05:00.000-07:00

Morning are crazy here. It's a lot of me issuing orders and my children ignoring me and doing what-the-hell-ever they want. Judge me if you want. This morning is more of the same, but when I went back to check on the progress, Red came sashaying down the hall, wearing boxer briefs and my new hot pink patent wedges. He was singing a made-up song and carrying a book on space. In the breaks between uproarious laughter and gasping for breath, I told him to finish getting dressed. It was only after that I realized I should have taken a picture, because DUDE, how awesome would that be in a senior slide show? He's so lucky I don't have my shit together.

I Love You When...

2011-03-30T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if it's the mother-son bond at work, or if it's because he's my youngest, or if Red is just so stinkin' adorable even I, who should be immune, must melt into a puddle from the sheer force of his cute-osity. It doesn't matter why, I guess. I'm still a gooey puddle. He tells me he loves me. A lot. "Hey, Mom, you know what?" "What, bud?" "I love you." Awwwww... But recently, he's added to the repertoire. Now he'll tell me when he loves me, or more specifically, what I do that engenders this fierce love. "I love you when you make me a jelly and peanut butter sandwich, I love you when you read my dinosaur book, I love you when you take me to school, I love you when you cuddle me, I just love you all the time!!" Huge smile, sparkling eyes, arms thrown wide to hug me. Cue puddle....NOW! And I love him too. All the time. I love him when he's not got his socks on even though I asked him 10 minutes ago to be dressed. I love him when he annoys his sisters beyond bearing. I love him when he wakes me up at 5 am because dude, we're burning daylight! (This is my early-rising father's special curse from beyond his grave.) I love him when he turns up his nose at the dinner I made. I love him when he's made a huge mess of the room I just cleaned. I just love him all the time! My fondest wish, for each and every one of you, is that someone in your life loves you the way Red loves me. Complete with a huge smile, sparkling eyes and arms thrown wide.

Choosing Positivity

2011-03-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

I had an "encounter" with a fellow driver today, one that left me so dumb-founded, I spent an hour composing a biting post that would illuminate the sheer idiocy of this man to the world. But I didn't post it. My cursor hovered over the publish button and I paused. A still small voice whispered in my ear, repeating a Facebook status that my old friend Cameron had put up months ago, bemoaning the negativity of Facebook. I realized I was adding to that ocean of sour sentiment and stopped. I deleted. And I prayed. It's so easy to judge. Yes, this guy was being a complete ass-hat, but I know there have been many times (and will be many more) when I succumb to yet another bout of doucheitis randomis. That poor man is probably a fundamentally decent guy. I'm choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt and not parade his ignorance to be jeered at by the people in my world. I'll let his mistake be forgotten, the way I'd like my mistakes to be forgotten. I want to be a spreader of light, not condemnation. It's not my natural inclination. My natural inclination was to post this guys license plate number (yeah, I wrote it down) and tell you all about how he is obviously a crappy human. But what am I really doing there? I'm spreading my anger. Ugh. Do you really want to share my anger over something so trivial? Naw, I didn't think so. It's something more insidious as well. I'm puffing myself up. Because of course, I'm going to tell you all about what I did right. Frankly, puffy isn't a good look for me. Pride's a bitch to deal with, I tell ya. More stubborn than weight, and twice as unflattering.

2 Funerals and a London Broil

2011-02-25T07:35:00.000-08:00

It was such a normal dinner. The kids were complaining about baby greens in their salads, DQ was picking at her meal, Mr Clairol and I were repeating on an endless loop, "eat your dinner. Eat your dinner. Eat your dinner."

And then I opened my big damned mouth. We're taking a little road trip, to my grandmother's funeral. Yes, another death in the family. My father's mother passed away and this weekend we're burying her. I knew the kids would be excited because there's a hotel involved and meals in restaurants. WHOO! So as I described the trip, and what we would be doing, I hearkened back to the only example I could: my dad.

I explained that Great Grandma would be living in Heaven with Poppy now. Missy made a sad face and said, "I'll miss her while she's gone, " then went back to eating.

"..while she's gone." Huge red flag.

"You know, honey, she has to stay in Heaven. She can't come back from Heaven, just like we can't go there."

"Well, she can just wait for Poppy to be fixed and then she can come back with him."

Oh. No. Did I really leave that huge a loop hole in my explanation?!? I tried to remember how I explained Dad being gone, but did it really matter? Nope. That little girl thought her beloved Poppy was coming back. And he wasn't. Now, I had to tell her, make her understand and keep my fucking shit together while doing it. Awesome. I really love this motherhood gig sometimes. Shit. Fuck. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

So I told her Poppy wasn't coming back, that his new body had to stay in Heaven with Jesus. Her face crumpled and she dropped her fork, asking in a broken little voice, "you mean he's never coming back?" When I nodded, she burst into tears. Huge, heart-broken sobs. So did I. So did Drama Queen. Missy left her seat, burrowed into my arms and I held her while we cried. I tried to explain, but the tears made it hard.

Then Red, my little tension breaker, asked, "Can you touch your nose with your tongue?"

And we laughed. And tried to touch our nose with our tongue. Laughter once again saves the day. Of course, after the kids went to bed, I cried. Because of all the really hard, horrible things I've had to do in the name of motherhood, this was the worst. I had to break a six-year-old's heart. The worst thing is, I'll have to do it again. Everyone dies. My grandfather isn't expected to live much longer. She doesn't know him very well either, but it will bring back the pain of losing Poppy. Eventually, she'll lose her beloved Great Grandma B. That will be it's own horrible blow.

All I can do is hold her, cry with her, listen when she remembers and misses these beloved people. I can share the grief, because it is mine as well. I miss my dad. I wish with all my heart he was merely "getting fixed." Death is so very hard for those left behind. Especially the young ones. But we go on, because there is nothing else to do.

Repetition

2011-02-18T07:36:00.001-08:00

Yesterday morning, I kept a running count of how many times I had to repeat a ~~command~~ request. Here's the tally:

"Get up" - 4 times, soley to Missy, who responded by burrowing deeper under her covers until I ripped them off the bed.

"Eat." - 13 times. At breakfast alone. Oye.

"Quit antagonizing your sister." - 9 times. In the space of an hour.

"Get dressed" - 8 times, 3 to Red, 5 to Missy.

This is why I'm crazy. Repeating yourself this much simply cannot be good for your mental health. It's astounding how much my children ignore me. Even more astounding is the look of shock on their face when I finally snap and holler at them. Like, "What's this about? Geez lady, take a pill!"

I swear, being a parent is hazardous to your sanity. I can see myself twenty years from now, puttering around an empty house, mumbling "eat your breakfast, eat your breakfast, eat your breakfast, ISAIDEATYOURBREAKFASTNOW!" My kids will look at each other and shake their heads, and when they put me in the home, you guys are my witness. It's all their fault.

Now go eat your breakfast, damn it.

An Actual Conversation From This Afternoon

2011-02-07T17:13:00.000-08:00

Red: I want to watch Spiderman*. That's not a fighting movie.

Me: Yes, it is. No Spideman.

Red: Daddy said it's not! I promise!

Me: Daddy said Spiderman isn't a fighting movie? Did Daddy let you watch Spiderman?

(My expression here must have indicated how deep a hole he was digging for his father. I need to develop a better "interrogation face.")

Red: *silence*

Me: Did Daddy let you watch Spiderman?!?

Red: Never mind. I wanna watch Word World.

He's learning the Bro Code early. Still needs work though. Daddy's gonna have some 'splainin' to do when he gets home.

*The Spiderman in question was not the Tobey Maguire flick. It was a cartoon from the 80's or 90's, available on our streaming Netflix. I don't think my husband would let our children watch the actual action movie version. I'm not 100% sure, more like 78.33%, but that's still pretty good, right?)

How To Make Enemies And Alienate Volunteers

2011-02-01T18:51:00.001-08:00

Hello, Potential Volunteer Supervisor! You're embarking on an exciting and fantastic journey, filled with meetings, angry people and flakes. Here are a few tips to make sure your journey is as exciting as it can be!

1) Minions are essential. Don't call them minions. Call them volunteers and select a few for meaningless titles. Titles can include:
a) Event A Coordinator
b) Communication Advisor
c) Chairman of Ass-hattery* (Be careful whom you bestow this title upon. Make sure they'll take it very seriously.)
d) Head Chump

Your Head Chump should be unaware he or she is signing on for this role. Be intentionally vague about their duties, so that you may continue piling on the stuff you don't have time for or do not want to do. It's best if you only mention about a quarter of the tasks you'll want Head Chump to do, adding on extra jobs slowly and with a liberal dose of flattery.

Your minions should be kept separated, since having them all together may result in complaints and independent thinking. This is bad. They will generate ideas and want to present them to you, then expect you to act on those ideas. You don't want to do that. Should this happen, direct all parent communication to the Head Chump. Quit responding to Head Chump's email immediately.

2) Be sure to deflect ALL responsibility onto unsuspecting minions. If a minion begins to CC you on correspondence, be aware that you become responsible for this information. Take immediate action, so that this does not continue. Options include:
a) responding to all cc's in an apparently intoxicated state. Misspellings and erroneous punctuation are encouraged but attempting to slur words with a keyboard is usually ineffective.
b) pick a fight with one of the parties. Insulting a vendor, or a person in authority is risky, but also can deliver great rewards. After having to monitor an email cat-fight, your minion will never cc you again!

3) Select one or two topics to make decisions on and limit your input to those items. When another issue pops up, be sure to reiterate that you know nothing. Do not offer to find out the information needed. Look blankly at your Head Chump and put an appropriate amount of pleading in your eyes, so that he or she feels the need to volunteer for more work. Be prepared to endure awkward silences. Remember, he who speaks becomes new Head Chump!

4) Don't attend meetings. Ever. You're always busy. Besides, if you attend a meeting, people will want to complain to you and isn't that why you designated a Head Chump?

5) Bad mouth flakes incessantly, except when they are present. Then you should be extra nice to them, while rolling your eyes when they look away. This two- pronged approach makes the flake unsure of where they stand with you and causes resentment among the non-flakes, who are expecting you to snub the flake, or at least give them a dressing down. If you're doing it correctly, the resentment will be directed at the flake, not you.

6) When the inevitable problems crop up, be sure to blame your minions. They are obviously not pulling their weight. Do not accept excuses like illness, busy schedules, children, car trouble, etc. These are not your problems. They should have realized that this project would become their entire life and that any other responsibilities should have been jettisoned. Even though you didn't say that.

By utilizing these helpful suggestions, we think you'll find heading a large group of volunteers is both rewarding and incredibly fun. Especially if you enjoy making grown people cry. Go forth and cause mental distress!

Mother Mistake #845

2011-01-18T12:55:00.000-08:00

Let me open by saying, I'm super glad one of my resolutions was not posting daily. I'd be screwed. Now onto the actual post.

I did a dumb-ass thing. It was a rookie move, one that I thought about, decided not to do, then did anyway. Because I am criminally stupid.

I took a four-year old and his $10 worth of Christmas money to Toys' R' fuckin' Us. (note strategic curse placement. funny, no?)

I said I wasn't going to do it. I was going to go on Amazon, find a few possibilities for each child and allow them to choose. I made that plan in front of gd witnesses. And then I got on Amazon and realized how incredibly difficult and time consuming that was going to be. I found a few things for Missy, but she rejected them all out of hand. Three hours of my life that I will never get back.

Amazon: let me search toys by price point, bitches!

So while she was still on break and Red was at preschool, Missy and I spent a wonderful morning having coffee, cocoa and sweet rolls at Panera, then shopping at TRU. It was awesome. No sarcasm, it really was. So I said to myself, "Self, we can do this with Red, no sweat. It'll be fun," because as previously noted, I am a giant idiot.

Unrelated side note: What the FUCK is up with My Little Ponies????? They changed them and they look like freaky prostitute ponies. With crack habits. That's a fail, Hasbro. A giant, tarted-up fail. If you click on the link, scroll down and read the description. I lost it when I got to the part where she rules the land of Equestria. Someone is smoking some high quality bud over there.

So this morning, off to the toy store we went. Tra-la-la-di-da. No Panera. I spent the weekend peeling my son off of strange women and a coffee shop full of ladies seemed like more work than I could face. This was good call, since it took us a full 2 hours to find a toy within my son's budget that interested him. Star Wars figures, Playmobile sets, dragons and dinosaurs, superheroes, plastic tools, books, stickers and trains all got the thumbs down. About 45 minutes in, he settled on a multi-pack of dragons, but halfway down the aisle, he saw an extendable robot grabbing arm and the dragons became, "too scary and fiery." Yeah. Then he decided he didn't want the robot arm either. But the dragons were still too fiery. And fire is bad, m'kay? I couldn't decide whether to kill him or myself. Indecision saves another life.

Missy had her $10 and some tooth fairy money, so she had a little extra to work with. Red had his $10 and I threw in a $3 reward coupon from TRU's loyalty program. The plan was to keep him under $11 and let the coupon cover tax. But after an hour and half, plus two instances of him wanting to buy things he already had, I caved and kicked in $8 bucks for a garbage truck, just so I could go home. It was wrong, but damned if I regret it. Best $8 I ever spent.

The moral of this story is, Christmas money goes into the savings account. See, Suze Orman? I listen. (just not to you.)

Monday Is Ready To Rumble

2011-01-10T11:11:00.000-08:00

Uh. Mah. Gah. It is so a Monday.

I've been a day late and a dollar short all frickin' day. Turns out last Monday, when we played hooky from preschool? I was supposed to work. Oye. I showed up today, ready to do crafts and dole out snack, only to be sent home in shame. Bad mommy, no cookie.

Missy was late to school, thanks to car trouble and an unforeseen trip to take Daddy and DQ to work/school. She seemed okay, until her teacher breezed through the office, sick daughter in tow. First day back at school and Missy has a sub. It's Monday all over the town, y'all.

I've got an ass-load o' laundry to do, dinner to get in the crock-pot (since my man's going to need a ride home) and a filthy house to whip into shape. I have to work in a half hour of exercise into the day. I should probably shower, just for kicks. And the girls might appreciate being picked up from school. Too much to do, not enough time, singing the motherhood blues.

Happy effin' Monday, kiddos.

Shrinking Waist, Expanding List

2011-01-08T10:20:00.000-08:00

I find that when I'm trying to lose weight, my shopping list expands. Interesting phenomenon that. Trying to lose weight = eating less = less food to buy. Right?

Wrong.

Of course, it's my children's fault. They refuse to subsist on Special K bars and Lean Cuisine frozen dinners. Ungrateful brats. Actually, they'd be delighted to eat nothing but that, but I still have tattered shreds of a mother's conscience, so fresh veggies and home cooked meals stay on the table. I try hard not to eat solely processed foods when on the wagon, but those Lean Cuisine meals are incredibly helpful. So they get added to my grocery list. Along with other items that always seem to appear when I'm dieting. Things like:

*Bagel Thins. These get my vote for best food innovation. They work throughout my day, as breakfast with a little light cream cheese and sugar free jam; as lunch, with cup of soup or some salad and turkey; for dinner, with a soft boiled egg and a salad. I like the sandwich thins as well, but I prefer the texture of the bagels and the Everything variety has a nice punch of garlic.

*V8. I buy the low sodium variety and add a healthy shot of chipotle Tabasco to it. DEE-lish-usssss.

*Special K bars. Not the meal replacement bars, just the 90 calorie varieties you get in the cereal aisle. They recently brought out a chocolatey pretzel flavor and sweet baby Jenny Craig, the angels, they sing. I carry one with me, for those desperate moments when I must, must, must have chocolate. They have a nice crunch and a good balance of salty/sweet.

*Boneless, skinless chicken breast. My husband is not a breast man. He likes legs and thighs. (I'm talking chicken, pervs.) But the fat profile there is high, so when I'm trying to shed a pound or a 100, I turn to breasts. I dice three at a time and saute them in a bit of olive oil with some garlic, then keep them in the fridge to toss into salads, soups, pastas and even just in my mouth. Low calorie, high protein perfection. Experiment with your flavors as well. Add some cumin or garam masala to give it a kick.

*Cocoa covered almonds. This is another of those snacks I carry to stave off a chocolate attack. Emerald sells them in 100 calorie packs and I love them so much, I can only carry a single pack at a time. I could easily eat every pack in the freaking box. So, so, so good.

*Cottage cheese. Some of you are agreeing, some of you are gagging. I know. It's not for everyone. I can't eat cottage cheese in front of my husband because it makes him sick. I, on the other hand, love it. I don't eat it every day, but two-three times a week, it is an excellent afternoon snack. I like it with thawed frozen fruit or sugarless jam.

*Weight Watcher's giant latte bars. I'm an ice cream fiend. I tried Skinny Cow and truthfully, the sandwiches leave me cold. There is an unpleasant grainy texture and chemical taste that keeps me from enjoying them. The WW latte bars have a great texture and a really nice coffee ice cream flavor that keeps me from diving headfirst into a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Plus, they are big. Say what you want about quality over quantity, sometimes size matters to a girl. Amiright?

* Kashi Go Lean Crisp/ Special K cereal. My early mornings a crazy busy, so I generally grab a bar and some coffee and get on the road. When I get home though, I have time for a bowl of cereal or an egg. Special K has been my go-to for a long time, because I love the cinnamon pecan flavor, but I recently got a sample of Kashi's new Go Lean! Crisp in toasted berry crumble. It was surprisingly good. Weight Watcher trumpets the virtues of Go Lean! but it's left me cold in the past. The new Crisp variety has a pleasant texture, no vitamey after taste and a lightly sweet flavor that actually tasted of berries. My Special K box has a friend on the shelf now.

What are your "gotta lose weight" staples?

Year One

2011-01-03T07:14:00.000-08:00

Two nights before Christmas, I had a dream. My dad and I were talking and he suddenly looked at me and said, "Don't forget Mom's Redneck calendar."

That probably sounds bizarre, so let me give you some context. For many, many years, my dad gave my mom a "You Might Be A Redneck..." calendar for Christmas. She loved them, and one of our favorite parts of Christmas was reading a few pages and laughing hysterically. Yep. We're super classy.

But this was the first Christmas without Dad and honestly, I hadn't thought about it until the dream. I woke up, ready to get dressed and find that calendar. I went right to the bookstore, found the calendar and stood there in the aisle, weeping. I felt silly, following orders received in a dream. My brother and grandma probably both bought her the same calendar and then she'd have a bunch of them and damn, I was being a lunatic.

But I bought the calendar.

Do I believe Dad came to me in a dream? I want to say no, and tell you that it was my subconscious, but I don't buy that, not really. My subconscious tends to give me more than a day to get stuff done. Dad never did. For three years, I got last minute emails, giving me a list of stuff to buy for mom, since he was unable to get out. Every Christmas, Mother's day and Valentine's day. I never minded. And truthfully, I sort of miss those emails. I saved the last one and while I don't read it regularly, it's comforting to have it there.

A year ago, he was starting the downhill slide. He had a cold and a cough, which for a late-stage ALS patient, is the beginning of the end. The heart attack had weakened him, but a cold would eventually kill him. Well, a cold and ALS. In a week, it'll be a year since he died. A year. And I'm wondering how long I'll mark time this way.

I miss you, Dad.

Putting the Rez in Resolutioin

2011-01-02T08:45:00.000-08:00

Resolutions. Some time ago, I decided to stop making them. It never failed that I failed and frankly, I get sick of beating my head against a wall. Especially a wall of fat. Because dude, how many times can you resolve to finally get to a healthy weight?

A lot, as it turns out.

But I'm doing it again. My doctor is starting to get her stern face. I'm starting to notice how much my weight limits me. And on and on, the same string of epiphanies that always lead me to thinking this time will be different. Blah. No wonder I stopped doing this.

This time might not be different. But you have to keep trying. You just have to. So I am. Look for an update at the end of the month.

In other resolution news: I resolve to cut back on my usage of the following words: dude, totally, like. Because dude, I totally use those words like all the time. Dude.

I resolve to laugh more.

I resolve to forgive myself for my failures.

I resolve to find joy in daily life.

I resolve to try to get published.

What are you planning to accomplish this year?

Crap I Don't Need But Really, Really Want Anyway Friday

2010-12-31T13:21:00.000-08:00

I'm a little obsessed with this.

If you click on me, you can read about my magnificence.

It's an ice cream maker attachment for a Kitchen Aid stand mixer. Hello, beautiful.

I'm going to try to convince my husband that this is how we should spend our Christmas money. I think it'll be a hard sale though. I don't understand why. Homemade ice cream, anytime. C'mon, Mr. Clairol, where's the downside? Here's what I imagine he'll say to that: "Um, a fat ass."

"I already have one. Next objection?" I imagine I would respond.

"I don't have one," he says (in my imagination). Oh my hades, imaginary Mr. Clairol just opened an imaginary can of whoop ass!

"Wait, are you agreeing that I have a fat ass?!? Seriously?!? After I bore you two children? After I spent the better part of 8 years making you delicious meals? Do you never want to have sex again? Besides, dude, you sorta do."

OH! Imaginary Burn!!! Have you noticed that Mr. Clairol is way smarter in real life than my imagination gives him credit for? Yeah, me too.

It probably won't be too hard to convince him, actually. He didn't get me anything for Christmas and I sort of thought Santa might bring me a Kindle, but I didn't even get poo. Which sucked. Also, I got him a pretty awesome present that didn't break the bank. He semi-owes me. In my imagination.

I love small appliances and I love ice cream. Even though I'm not sure where I'll store this baby, it is dishwasher safe, so it already kicks the ass of my last ice cream maker. The one that never got used. Because it looked like a pain to clean. A-hem. Wish me luck!

Kiss That Endorsement Goodbye.

2010-12-29T17:36:00.000-08:00

I'd like someone to please tell me what the hell is up with Pillow Pets. Seriously. This is one of those crazes that I simply don't understand. I bought them, you bet your sweet fucking bippy I bought them. Because that is all my children talked about for six damn months, after they accidentally saw a commercial during a Saturday morning TV binge that lacked the Mommy seal of approval.

Husband of mine? This is why I only let them watch PBS or videos. If you ever turn on network cartoons for them again, I'll leave you and give you custody. Then you can go to the mall the week before Christmas and find the closest approximation of whatever toy they've glommed onto next year. This is my serious-as-cancer face. Learn it.

Yes, I went to the mall, in search of a damn Pillow Pet. Thanks to my friend Claire, I had the purple unicorn that Missy had her heart set on. (In a side note, what the hell is it with 6-10 year old girls and unicorns?) But try as I might, and oh, how I tried, I could not find the fabled dinosaur Pillow Pet. Because they do not make them. They obviously hate me. I settled on a turtle knock-off, because it was green and hey, turtles are technically prehistoric, right?

Shut up.

Of course, the first thing out of Red's mouth was, "Well, it's not a carnotaur, so I think I'll give it back." He changed his mind, right as I was set to squeeze the trigger on his little pj'd ass, so there was no bloodshed this Christmas. Hooray. Now he lurves his widdle Pillow Pet, named Snowman the White, with all the passion and adoration a four-year-old heart can muster. That is nothing to sneeze at.

Mmmmhmmm, you read that right. His green turtle is named Snowman the White. His little white polar bear? He's named Carla. I'm not even shitting you. No, you can't take him home, he's mine.

But after all the frenzy has died down, the wrapping scraps tossed and the roast Whobeast consumed, I'm left looking at these things I paid $20 bucks a pop for and asking myself, "Why?" They're nothing special. If memory serves, there was an incarnation of these in the 80's and if you had one, you were a giant dork. (That's not me saying that, it was common knowledge where I grew up.) It's a throw pillow, cinched with Velcro. The bastard love child of Gund and Kohl's home department. Meh.

Were it only my spawn so enamored with this faux fur confection, I wouldn't be so baffled. My kids are weird and they like weird things, so hey, no surprise. But a lot of kids were pretty hot for these particular plushies, so what gives? I think there needs to be an investigation into this. I smell a rat (that opens into a pillow! Yeah!) Sinister forces are at work, folks. And I'm sure it's not just Pillow Pets. We might discover the reason behind the proliferation of things like Pokemon, Polly (fucking whore bitch) Pocket and Silly Bandz. Crazy little nothings that kids LOVE with all the power their parent's pocketbooks can muster.

I know I probably sound like some crazy conspiracy theorist, insisting that there must me some giant corporate scam at work here, but you know what? There might be. It could be a new form of subliminal advertising at work. There has to be SOME reason kids like this shit.

Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you. And your little wallet too.

The Sheets Are A Metaphor

2010-12-29T06:00:00.000-08:00

I had a great mom. I want to say that up front, because what follows might be read as a criticism. It isn't meant as one. She's pretty open about what she did wrong, not as an exercise in self-flagellation, but as a honest assessment of a job she held for 20 odd years. My mom has always said she did the very best she could and that's all anyone could have asked. But she wasn't perfect and I have found her mistakes to be as instructive to my parenting as her successes were.

If you ask me, her biggest struggle as a parent was nothing she could have controlled. She gave birth to an alien being, someone so fundamentally different than her that the baby may as well have been a different species. Our personalities are not opposite, merely different. We react to things in different ways, see different facets of a single situation, like different things...we are different.

Now that I'm an adult, it isn't an issue, but growing up it made both of our lives difficult. She didn't understand me. At all. That isn't just the adolescent perception of my difficult teens talking. That's straight from the horses mouth. Mom would be the first to tell you she spent a lot of time learning how to let me be me.

That isn't as easy as you might think. Parents, mothers especially, tend to think if our kids would just do it this way, everything would be so much easier. And sometimes, we're right. But most of the time, just letting your child be themselves is the only way. I say this because after raising one daughter that was a carbon copy of myself (no picnic, I assure you), I am now raising an alien of my own.

I don't get Missy. She baffles and bewilders me. And not just in the big stuff, like the friends she chooses, or does not choose, but in the little stuff. Like her bedding. Oh yes, the bedding. Let me tell you about the Great Bed Battle.

I love sheets. Smooth and cool, a fresh set of sheets is the closest I come to heaven, this side of the mortal coil. I make my bed every morning, so I am assured of slipping into the perfect ratio of sheet to blanket, every single night. Sure, I love my husband, but the most essential thing in my bed? Good, clean sheets, neatly tucked.

Missy, on the other hand, prefers a sheetless bed. I know. I have struggled with this heresy, at first believing she simply kicked the sheets down in her sleep. She didn't mean to sleep without a sheet and I was doing her a BIG favor by pulling back her blanket every night and pulling up the sheet before replacing it over her sleeping sprawl. This illusion was shattered when I began teaching her how to make her bed. She asked if we could put her blanket on first, covering it with the sheet and then the comforter. I laughed and chided her for being silly.

But it wasn't silly and it bothered me for a long while. Was I falling into the same trap my mother had? It was nothing major, just a bed. Her bed. And I began to realize that her insistence on being covered with her blankie before I pulled the sheet over her was as valid a sleep option as my need for fresh sheets. I began letting her make her bed with the blanket first, then a sheet.

Months later, over a glass of wine, my husband and mother were teasing me about my decided preference for a neat bed. My mom shared that she hated the sides being tucked in, and didn't make her bed on a regular basis because she liked it mussed and comfy, like a nest. It used to drive her mother crazy, because she never tucked in the sides of her bed, hating the constriction. And furthermore, she hated sheets. They were slimy feeling. She preferred the texture of her favorite cotton chenille blanket. The one that Missy likes to curl up in while at G-ma's house.

I still have a scar from the lightening strike of epiphany.

Missy, like her grandmother, is a nester. She's never going to grow into an appreciation of good sheets. And that awful, tacky blankie she's loved since infancy? The woven cotton throw from Toad Suck, AK? It was preordained. Her love of that monstrosity has often felt like a deliberate rebellion against me. And it's probably obvious to you, but it wasn't rebellion, it was Missy being, well...Missy. That was a revelation. There are people in the world who do not like sheets. I don't understand them, but I love two of them more than I love my own life. So I will accept. And I will remove the top sheet from Missy's bed.

But not the bottom. A mother has to have her limits.

A Generic Greeting

2010-12-24T08:08:00.000-08:00

I'll be taking a brief break from posting, but I did want to say Happy Holidays to each and every one of you darling little snookums.

And yes, I said Happy Holidays. Personally, I keep the Christ in Christmas, but I also choose not to force my belief system on others. This is a season of celebration for many cultures and beliefs, and I have friends and readers from many of them, so I choose the broadest way of wishing you all a peaceful, lovely few days.

Interestingly enough, a friend from Facebook mentioned that holiday is derived from holy day, so you are still acknowledging the holiness of the day. She also pointed out that it is silly what people get their panties in a knot about. (That's paraphrased, by the way.) One of the many reasons I enjoy Amy.

SO....Happy HOLIDAYS, kiddos! Be good to each other. Be good to yourself. Or Santa will shit in your stocking.

Heh...you totally believed him when he said it was coal, dincha?

Wrap Wrant

2010-12-23T15:48:00.000-08:00

This year, I'm behind schedule with the holiday stuff. I've suffered a general lack of spirit as far as Christmas and so decorations were up later than usual and outside lights were skipped entirely. Last week, I took out all the unwrapped presents and assembled them, got out my wrapping paraphernalia and prepared to get wraptastic with my bad self. And then my husband wanted to help.

I immediately flashed back to our first Christmas together, with two piles under the tree. One, neatly encased in matching paper, complimentary gew-gaws firmly attached. Even the gift bags coordinated. The second pile was a haphazard assortment of irregularly shaped packages, wrapped in an assortment of papers (some of it birthday themed), none of it boxed or put in gift bags. He had wrapped a sweater. JUST a sweater, no box. I was completely charmed and declared a love of "bachelor wrap."

It was cute. He had honestly tried his best and I was so in love with his fool ass, that was just the straw that broke the camel's back. A few months later, we were engaged. I'm still completely in love with his fool ass. That has not faded at all. My love of bachelor wrap? Yup, I'm over it.

The thing is, after ten years of coupledom, he knows better. There are now rolls of wrapping paper, boxes, bags, tissue, scotch tape, embellishments and tags at his disposal. I know, I bought it all. Now, when he does the bachelor wrap thing, it's just lazy, not cute. The aphrodisiac effects have faded. It doesn't make me want to jump his bones, it makes me want to smack him upside the head and say, "Are you kidding me with this shit?!? Use a damn gift bag!"

Don't get me wrong. I'm not so completely anal that my packages must have perfect corners. The gift bags no longer coordinate with the wrapping paper. I'm sort of over the cheapie ornaments used as present jewelry. I don't require a Martha-level job on my gifts. But wrapping a sheet of paper around an RC car a few times, then repeating the process with tape? That's not even bachelor wrap, that's straight-up redneck status, I don't care how many glittery bows you slap on it. I am not going to let him do that. No fucking way. This is what gift bags are for.

He did get to help. He was assigned to drink-freshening and commercial-skipping and he did an excellent job, even getting a Christmas bonus. Because as I said before, I love his fool ass something fierce.

21 Days

2010-12-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

It's not even three days into winter break and I can already tell it's going to be a long three weeks. Perhaps it's the way both children have morphed into small primates and have completely forgotten simple household rules like no jumping on furniture. Or it could be the way I look lovingly at the bottle of Irish Cream in my fridge, thinking hard about adding a shot to my morning coffee. Maybe it's the way Red is chasing Missy around the house, growling "BACON" and trying to bite her.

Yes, he really is doing that, as I sit here and try to write. No, I don't know why. He's Red. I've stopped wondering.

Drama Queen has gone away, wanting to spend some time reconnecting with her father's family. I understand. I'd rather spend time with my ex-in-laws than spend 21 rainy days cooped up with my children. Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. She'll be back right before her break ends. The little wretch. Doesn't she know I'm slowly being driven insane? Screw that, I'm quickly being driven insane. As in super express highway, bullet train fast. If I go out, they go with me. Oh, the humanity.

Three weeks. Three. 21 days. Christmas Eve and Christmas will be spent at Mom's house, so there's two days taken care of. Daddy's home on the weekends. There's another 5. But holy shit, 14 days of bored kiddo? I gots to get creative.

I was smart and put aside a little cash for activities, things like play dates at the indoor bounce house and the indoor playground. I have a toy rotation planned for the halfway mark. And most of my big projects are done, so the workload is light. In order to keep Missy on the school track, I have a schedule of educational activities every day. She's struggling and three weeks away puts her so far behind, it's like pulling teeth to catch her up. Red wants to join in, of course. So temporary homeschooling. Yay.

Bear with me over the next few weeks. My posts may be light. They will probably resemble the obscenity-laden ramblings of an insane woman. Shut-up, more so than usual. Pray for me, to whatever deity you worship. (David, Arby's totally counts.) And for goodness sake, if you have good ideas for educational preschool/1st grade activities, send them my way!

The Bicker Twins

2010-12-15T07:53:00.000-08:00

For the bulk of my parenting career, I had a single child. She was a great child and I loved her dearly, but I always regretted that she was an only child. Until I had more children.

Dear hades, the bickering.

It seems that there is always someone getting their feelings hurt, someone is forever taking a toy that another is playing with, playing a game that the other does not want to play, yet the other is insisting on playing with the first.

My children have NO social skills.

There is a large chunk of my day that is spent arbitrating disputes, mediating offenses and disciplining wrong-doers. I am judge, jury and MMA referee. I hate these jobs. Hate. Them. At some point, I lose my frickin' mind and my patience snaps like an overloaded rubber band. At that point, my children are united in their terror as I deposit them in their rooms and forbid any communication.

FYI, that never works.

There are times, though, when the dispute becomes so ridiculous that I can do nothing but laugh. Because when my children are arguing over whether one of them "killed" the other and Mommy is going to call the policeman? That's some funny shit. Red, I will avenge your death with a fiery...um...fire, but if you can tattle about it, it sort of undermines your claim.

"Mommy, Missy killed me!"

"Buddy, if you can talk, you probably aren't dead."

"Yes I AM!" And he falls to the ground with a tremendous groan, tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. He then cracks an eye and asks, "See?"

So I had a long talk about why we don't "kill" people and how we need to play nicely. And then I tickled them into submission. I find tickling to be an underrated discipline tool. Which may be why my children continue to bicker, tattle and commit murder in their hearts. And why Drama Queen remains ever-thankful that her siblings are ten years younger than her.

Crapmas

2010-12-14T06:00:00.000-08:00

Ah, Crapmas, how I hate you.

Call me a grinch, a scrooge, a bitter old harridan, I do not care. Christmas sucks. I hate it. I hate dragging out the tree, throwing ornaments on it and then trying to keep my children (who are old enough to know the hell better) off the damn thing. I hate setting up decorations, only to have more to dust. I hate searching for "perfect" gifts, only to settle for gift certificates. I hate the planning, the business, the chaos that accompanies this time of year. Bah fucking humbug.

I haven't always hated Christmas. I used to adore this time of year, when business seemed like bustle and stress went by the name, excitement. But as my children get older, the magic is tarnishing and I find it harder to summon the requisite Christmas Cheer. I can't gather the energy to order "The Elf on The Shelf," because dude, I can't remember to move the thing every night! I probably would forget the second night and then bam! The illusion is shot and my kids have one more thing to bitch about in their eventual and inevitable therapy sessions.

I've done it. The tree is decorated, as is the house. Gifts are being purchased. I even found a fantastic website for teen girl stocking stuffers, called ~~Whore For Shore~~, Forever 21. Cheap crap she's sure to love, for at least a month.

Maybe it's the financial situation that's cramping my Christmas style. I've edited my stockings down to a plastic shoe box. Long time readers will remember I started my stocking rehab years ago. From large paper grocery sacks to plastic shoe boxes, I've come a long way baby. Each child is receiving a single gift from Santa, two from parents and none from siblings. It's still a journey toward appreciating the actual reasons for Christmas, but the money situation is more pressing. We didn't even discuss presents for the adults. Of course, we'll skip those. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a little bit of a bummer. But it is what it is, and frankly, the gift of a Savior is enough for me.

But there's still the photo frames to assemble for my mom (Andrea, I'll be calling you!), the few presents left to buy for the kids (the mall *shudder*) and teacher presents to bake. I've pretty much decided to skip cards this year, but I'm wavering on that one. It seems sacrilegious. And the days slip by. Girl Scout events, family adventures, household chores, the ever present Bingo and oh yeah, writing, have to be squeezed in. Christmas creeps closer and holy shit, I. AM. NOT. READY!

Deep breath. Time to spike the coffee and get shit done. Like adjusting my crappy Crapmas attitude.

Self-Censorship

2010-12-13T06:00:00.000-08:00

I'm struggling here. The two halves of my personality are battling for supremacy and I think the foul-mouthed one is winning.

The mom side of me says swearing is a mark of an uncreative mind and there are a million other ways to express oneself. I try hard not to let it rip in front of my children, though I often mouth the words, which is probably nearly as bad. My Christian heart is oddly quiet. As long as I treat the G-word with appropriate reverence, she seems to be satisfied.

The writer in me is a potty mouth. I fucking love my expletives. A whole helluva lot. I don't need to swear when I write, but I find the flow of my writing is easier when I give myself free reign. What this says about me, I have no idea. It seems to almost be like writing in a native language. This is strange, because I didn't grow up swearing. My parents didn't swear a lot, or at least not in our presence. The first time I heard my grandmother say damn, I went into the back bedroom and laughed until I peed my pants. I was 24.

But I seem to have a pretty diverse pool of readers. I'm a pleaser by nature and I don't want to alienate anyone. So I struggle. I edit, afuckinglot. And the more I edit, the less happy I am with the post. I can't help it. I love me some profanity.

I hear it on the street, the casual usage of cursing. It seems so much a part of our vernacular, like we're becoming inured to it somehow. This saddens me, because the value in vulgarity is the zing of the forbidden. When it becomes so common-place, it loses it's luster. I'm fully aware of how perverse that is, but what can I say? I'm a pervert.

Speaking of which, I enjoy the word pervert an awful lot. Also, dichotomy, mellifluous and attrition.

A-hem.

So bear with me. I'm trying for some middle ground here. To stay true to my "voice" while growing up a bit and not sounding like a female Andrew Dice Clay impersonator. Does he even have impersonators? What a sad job.

DQ Dates

2010-12-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

I straddle two parenting worlds. I wipe noses (and occasionally butts), kiss boo boos and read bed time stories. I also teach driving, nag about homework and/or messy rooms, and chaperon dances. I've been doing it for a while and I like to think I do it with a fair amount of grace and finesse.

The advent of dating, however, is rocking me back onto my heels. I've had years to prepare. Years of insisting that DQ wait until she turned 16 to go on a two-person date. I assumed group dates would ease me into the dating world, but they really haven't. There is a safety in group dates, a security that vanished when 10 people became two people. Two people of opposite genders and long-standing attraction. I wasn't even remotely prepared. In the back of my head, I suppose I assumed she'd never turn 16.

Wait, that sounded bad. It's not as if I thought some random act of horror, like a chupacabra or a broody teenage vampire, would end her life. I never thought she'd die. More that she'd stay suspended at 15 and a half, until I was so bloody sick of her, I would simply arrange a marriage for her. But she didn't do that, ungrateful brat that she is. No, she went and turned 16 and told me that she has a date at the end of winter break.

Told me, you guys.

Being me, I had to ask who, if only to see her roll her eyes. (I never get sick of that.) But I also ran down the questions: Where were they going, who was driving them, when would they be home, etc. She knew nothing, only that X had designated that day as date day, since they would both, finally, be sixteen. Gulp.

We need to have to talk, again. The dating talk and the sex discussion. (aka, please, please, please tell me if you're thinking about having sex so we can arrange birth control, because I don't want to be a 40 year old grandma talk.) Funny enough, we've had the sex talk, but not the dating one. I don't know why. I can only assume that in my sad little subconscious, I again assumed she'd never reach dating age. Or at least that I had a little more time.

Turns out your daughter dating is WAY scarier than a chupacabra. Who knew?

Red Eats

2010-12-09T08:01:00.000-08:00

It turns out that I am deeply insecure about my cooking ability. I had no idea until last night when my son ate all his dinner.

All of it. As in, drink the soup dregs from the bottom of the bowl and inhale two large homemade rolls.

And night before last? He ate every scrap of meatloaf on his plate, almost all his baked potato and every last leaf of lettuce. I shit you not.

This is highly unusual. Red rarely eats more than a few bites of any meal set before him, unless it comes from a crappy fast food place. Even then, he'll usually leave some of that behind. So for him to clean his plate of home cooked food? It's shocking and not a little joyful for me. The internal dialogue starts responding to thoughts I didn't even know I had. Thoughts like, "I thought boys were supposed to like their mother's cooking." I'm relieved that a four year old finds my cooking palatable. Yes, I'm aware of how pathetic that is.

Still, when he tells me, "Oh, I know! It's yucky and delicious!" I have to preen a little. Because yeah, to a four year old, soup looks yucky. Even if it's homemade, completely from scratch, turkey noodle. At least he acknowledges the deliciousness.

It started with the rolls. Bread is the way to his heart. And if you're honest, you'll admit that warm, fresh from the oven rolls slay you every time. (If they don't, I'm not sure we can be friends.) He devoured an entire roll and asked for another. In the proud tradition of mothering, I bribed him. "If you eat some soup, you can have more bread."

"What's that green stuff?" he asks suspiciously.

Crap. "Celery. And peas." Honesty is the best policy. Besides he liked peas yesterday.

"Oh. Cool. I like green." And he ate a bite. Then another. Then another and another and another and another. I gave him half of a roll and he continued to eat the soup. Even after telling him he had eaten enough to have desert, he continued to eat! WHAT? Who is this child? The same who has rejected countless meals, refusing to eat under the most pressing duress? Surely not. This child ate to the bottom of the bowl, then tipped and drank the rest. And then asked for ice cream.

It might be a fluke, but the fact that he also ate meatloaf without complaint (but with ketchup), makes me hopeful. Perhaps we've turned a corner and he'll stop telling me that everything I cook is yucky. A mom can dream, right?

Of course, it could also be because he's going to grow. I did just buy pants and shirts for him. This would be about the time for him to shoot up out of all his new clothes.

I'm Alive

2010-11-04T07:55:00.000-07:00

You're welcome, Liz. ;)

I'm here, I swear, I am. But between an invalid husband, a floundering fundraiser and three rotten children who insist on ridiculous things like going to school and being fed, my "me" time has reached mythological status. The driver's seat of the Hotyssey is now molded to the shape of my butt (scarier than it sounds) and I'm living on things I can eat while driving.

I can actually eat Cream of Wheat while I am driving. I really impressed myself with that.

Mr. Clairol goes back to work on Monday, the fundraiser is over on Saturday night and DQ's play runs a week after that. I'm sort of looking forward to having a life again. Or what passes for one in the SAHM world, anyway. I'll settle for having time to take a shower and shave my legs.

All this running around has given my time to really think about some stuff I want to do. I'm playing with the idea of a cooking vlog, sending out some of my writing to various publications and noodling with the germs of several post ideas. And I promise, a real post is forthcoming, instead of glorified status updates. But you'll have to be patient, because my family isn't.

Thank you for all your concern and well-wishes. I appreciate every comment, every email and every good thought.

Jennifer, Your Husband Has Been In An Accident.

2010-10-19T17:15:00.000-07:00

Worst phone call ever.

It's my biggest fear, losing my husband. Well, my biggest fear besides frogs. Maybe losing my husband to frogs. Yeah. That's my biggest fear. But a traffic accident is right below that.

Not only was he in an accident, but they were taking him to a hospital. Notice I say "a." Not "the" because there are a lot of hospitals in the greater Sacramento area. No one was really sure which hospital he was being taken to. Awesome. You can't call an ambulance, which sucks. We can put 4,856,131 songs in a teeny-tiny computer but you can't call a damn ambulance. What the fuck, scientists? What the fuck?

The paramedic actually called me as they arrived at the hospital. (See? "The" because now I knew which damn hospital he was at.) After getting lost and wandering around downtown for a bit, I finally found the hospital and stood in line to be escorted to his room.

Hospitals? I'm talking to you here. Making a woman who has no idea the condition of her husband stand in a long line to see said husband, when people are asking stupid-ass questions like where they can get a damn cup of coffee? Not cool. Let's divide the line into categories. Maybe trivial shit and important shit? It's just an idea.

I finally got back to his room and there he lay, torn up all to hell, shaking and twitching from shock. He had a neck brace on, blood-stained blankets draped over his legs and a glazed look on his face. I didn't cry. Major, major wife points there. I was calm, I even made a couple of jokes. And he laid there and apologized to me. Still didn't cry. Just laughed and ordered him to quit saying he was sorry.

We were there for hours. X-rays, CT scans, stitches, shots, and a whole lot of waiting. Waiting sucks.

Hospitals? I'm talking to you again. Your emergency rooms need TVs. They are very boring and you spend some heavy duty waiting time there. A laptop would be nice too. But it's just an idea.

He's going to be fine. A mild concussion and a bunch of stitches in his knee, but considering the SUV vs. Vespa odds, he was incredibly lucky. God truly had His hand on my husband and I am a grateful woman. Especially since I'm out of that stinking hospital. I think I might cry now.

Date Night, Minus Mark Wahlberg In A Towel

2010-10-15T07:54:00.000-07:00

Tonight is date night. For most couples, this is a fun evening away from the kids. Hire a sitter, decide where you're going and voila! Date night. You know, after you prep a dinner the kids will eat, pick up the sitter, pry wailing children off your body (twice, because of course you left your purse in the house) and actually leave the driveway. Easy Peasy.

For us, it is a multi-pronged strategy, similar to invading a small country.

You see, our ~~live-in servant~~ teenage daughter is developing a social life. She's no longer at our babysitting beck and call. Every so often, our local church has a "Ditch the Parents" night, where you can leave your children for four hours. They do crafts, jump in a bounce house and eat dinner. Red and Missy live for Ditch the Parents. So I signed them up, told Mr. Clairol we were kid-free, and forgot about it.

But it's homecoming weekend at Drama Queen's school. Tonight's the football game. Of course she wants to go. And she's participating in the parade, taking the class floats to the school where they will be displayed. Which means she needs a ride home from school, but she's not sure when. She's also not sure when the game will start. Yep, she needs a ride to that as well. And a ride home. But she doesn't know when. Are you seeing a pattern? I am and it spells, "Girl needs a license and a car."

Mr. Clairol also has to work late tonight. He's bringing home a large van for my mother's move this weekend. Which means we have to get the truck he drove to work, sometime tonight or perhaps early tomorrow. Now this wouldn't be such an issue if we were having dinner in the general area that the truck and our oldest child will be. But he made dinner reservations at our favorite restaurant and that is located in a town a solid forty minutes in the opposite direction.

Sigh. No wonder date night is an increasingly rare occurrence. I'm tired just thinking about all the driving we'll do. It will work out. I know it will. I'll have a nice ~~bottle~~ glass of wine and a lovely dinner. We'll gaze into each other's eyes and when we get home...MC will leave to get DQ and I'll fall into an exhausted heap in my bed. Romantic, no?

You People Blow Me Away.

2010-10-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

I started blogging because I love to talk. At first, it was a one-sided conversation and that was okay. Getting it out there was the goal. But eventually, people starting reading what I was writing. Better yet, they commented and dialogues began. With that, blogging officially became an addiction.

Feeling as if your words are being heard, maybe even affecting people, is a lovely thing. I have met so many wonderful people, people who make me laugh, people who make me cry, people who make me want to be them when I finally grow up. I have a lot of fabulous friends here in my local sphere, and now I have a lot of great friends across the country. That is the biggest gift of blogging.

Yesterday, I posted about Drama Queen and the trip to Scotland. Already, a few readers have contacted me about donating to the cause. Let me say, you rock. I was appreciative of the donations to our ALS walk team and flabbergasted by the cards and flowers when Dad died. This overwhelms me. Thank you.

This is not a plea for donations. Times are hard, for everyone, and the trip is not a necessity. It's simply a fantastic opportunity for Drama Queen and we want to sacrifice to make it happen. A long way to say, no pressure. But for those who have asked, you can donate to the team by going to miralomadrama.com and clicking on the donate button. If you live in the greater Sacramento area and are interested in seeing the program in action, you can also buy show tickets on the website.

The love and laughter you people share with me is amazing. People who don't participate in this community are missing out in a big way. Thank-you for sharing my world and allowing me to be a part of yours.

Prostituting My Skills For A Worthy Cause

2010-10-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

So Drama Queen is going to Scotland. Y'all, it's gonna cost some serious $$$$. Like sell an organ kind of cash. Except no one wants a fat chick's organs so there goes that idea. Damn.

The team is fundraising and we have a fantastic alumnus super-mom who is designing our campaign. No bake sales, no car washes. We're doing major stuff. The fall play will have two special performances with $50 tickets. The $50 buys you desert, coffee, a visit with the cast and a lot of gratitude. Oh and a performance of Midsummer Night's Dream (Steampunk version.)

Don't ask me what steampunk is. I'm still figuring it out. Sounds cool though, doesn't it? I keep trying to use it in a sentence, much to DQ's dismay. For your edification: "That's so steampunk," is incorrect and will cause a teenager's eyes to roll back into her head. It's sort of fun, which explains why I keep doing it. Let's start a pool on how many times it will take to make her eyes pop out her nose!

Back to the point: guess who's coordinating this event? Did you guess me? DANG! You are so smart. You should totally help me.

No, I'm serious. HELP ME! I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never done anything like this. I'm a mom, for crying out loud, not a fund-raising coordinator. Though I do like having a title. Is it premature to order business cards? Probably, since failure is hanging over my head like some sharp, shiny sword. Most of it is piddly, detail-type stuff, but I'm terrified I'll forget a crucial detail. I've got a section in my kid binder, with a to-do list, phone numbers and ideas to ponder. I've got post-its every-frickin'-where and my ever present legal pad. I'm sort of on my own for now, since Super Mom with the awesome fundraising powers is organizing the larger events. I'm not supposed to ask questions. I'm supposed to handle it. (eep.) My phone is glued to my ear as I nail down details and try to avoid splattering metaphorical egg all over myself, my kid and the drama program. No pressure or anything.

It's times like these when I regret my sense of responsibility. I'd very much like to take the slacker road here. Unfortunately, when you're poor, slackage is simply not an option. No, when you're poor, you work. Hard. I'm on my way to Costco later, to check out desert offerings and procure a few for sampling purposes. This is me wiping sweat from my weary brow.

What? WHAT? I have to try them! I can't just purchase them, bite untasted! That would be irresponsible and just plain wrong. Shut up. I got cheesecake to find.

Why AT&T Can Suck It

2010-10-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

***WARNING*** This post is being written in anger. Anger makes me swear. Vociferously. If you are offended by cursing, come back for Tuesday's post, which will contain up to 90% less cussing.

If you are amused by swearing, put down your beverage and swallow your danish. It's party time, bitches.

Dear Matt from AT&T,

I'd like to cordially invite you to suck your own balls. I have been a customer for nine fucking years. Three damn lines we have with you guys. THREE! With texting and all the assorted gewgaws. I send you jack-asses $200 a month for the privilege of cellphones, cable TV and internet service. I'm due for a damn upgrade and all I want is a re-fucking-furbished blackberry. I'm not asking for the moon. Hell, I'm not even asking for an iphone or a new Torch. A simple, basic Blackberry.

It wasn't so much that you didn't have any available. It was more your, "too fucking bad, bitch, what you gonna do about it?" attitude. No, "Well, I could give you $50 off this model."

No, "I'm so sorry, we'll be running a special next month."

Just, "I'm afraid we don't have any refurbished Blackberries at this time. Is there anything else?" Yeah, asshole. I need a damn phone. I told you up front I had been disconnected three. fucking. times. I told you I was due for an upgrade and that I really needed to pass my phone on to my daughter. You had a golden opportunity to make a long-time customer happy and you blew it. You blew it so hard, I'd like to suggest your next career move be to the male escort field. You'll need some help with your customer service skills, but that'll come. Heh...get it? Come?

A-hem. So congratulations, Matt. You've managed to alienate me so completely, my husband, who has been a customer for more than a decade, is ready to move to Verizon. Mostly because he is afraid my rage at you will spill over to him. I'm okay with that. Of course, you knew that I'm considering jumping ship, since I asked you when our contracts were up and what the termination cost will be. Oh, and I told you I was considering Verizon. It didn't seem to phase you. You've got nerves of steel. Are the termination specialists going to save your bacon? Are they going to offer me a sweet new smart phone when I call to cancel our service?

Too fucking late. I'll wait until December, when the termination costs have dropped a little more and Verizon is offering sweetheart Christmas deals. Then I'm going to call you smarmy, goat-ass-licking bastards, get to the termination department and let them dangle their shiny, shiny shit. I'll listen to the offers and say, "No thank-you. I would have been delighted to accept this in October, when I talked to Matt Oh-Hell-Yes-I Wrote-Down-Your-Last-Name. But he wasn't willing to help me. He told me he couldn't do ANYTHING for me. So take you *whatever smart phone they offer* and shove it up your ass. I'm moving to Verizon. Now transfer me to the cable and internet departments because I'm severing those ties as well."

Sincerely,

Jen

Putting The Bitter In Motherhood

2010-10-01T07:46:00.000-07:00

Ah, high school. Lunch in the quad, dances in a darkened gym, getting up at 5 am to drive to school and set up for the Renaissance Faire...

Oh wait. That last part? It sucks major ass.

When Drama Queen told me her group was meeting at 6 frickin' A.M., I laughed. She was serious. My first instinct was to tell her no way, but it's school and the Ren Faire is an important sophomore year project. How do you say no to that? You don't. Like so much of parenting, you suck it up and just get the shit done. I was convinced we would be parked, waiting for people to show.

But I was not alone. Oh no. When arrived at the campus in the wee, small hours, a line of tail lights greeted me. The parents of our high school are not the best or most logical of dropper-offers. In fact, I'm always a little shocked. I assumed a gifted programs students would have mentally competent parents. The what-the-fuckery I witness every single day does not bear this supposition. In fact, it vehemently disputes it. Were I to go by driving alone, I would assume that most every parent of our IB population is a crack addicted person of limited visual ability. (Hi, I'm rather bitter at the moment.) Add in a special event and it approaches a whole new level of exasperation. I'm pretty sure that stop signs are still in effect at 5:55 am.

I waited for a bit, to see if the traffic snarl would ease, but people were unloading in the drop-off loop (big no-no, said so in the flyer, I'm totally telling on ALL THEIR ASSES!) and frankly, I got sick of listening to people blast their horns. Not helpful. Although, maybe they just fell asleep on their steering wheels! Because God knows, I was close to that myself.

Today was a day when my beloved Donut Shop K-cup just wasn't gonna cut it. It was an double espresso morning, all the way home. Wee, wee, wee. (you know, like the little piggy? Or the best television commercial ever? Am I rambling? Sorry.)

She's dropped off and after today, Ren Faire will be a fond memory. For her. I'll still be bitching about hand-sewing patches on her costume at the very last minute and getting up at o'dark thirty to get her to school, but I'm going to try really hard to keep that under my breath. No one likes a martyr. Or a ranting, raving bitch. Go figure. Besides, she needs to get cracking on her Personal Project, writing and producing a play. Which I'm sure will give me a whole raft of new complaints and "are you kidding me," moments.

Ah, high school.

A Good Thing No Longer Seems Bad

2010-09-30T07:55:00.001-07:00

Do you remember this post, when I was weepy and wondering where time had gotten to, just because Missy had finally decided it was time to be dropped off, rather than walked to class?

Screw that. Drop-off loop is the best thing ever. Better than Tylenol PM, See's Scotchmallows, and Bloody Mary's made with Absolute Peppar. Made of awesome, with double rainbow frosting. It rocks.

I no longer have to make myself (halfway) decent in the morning. I can sleep an extra 30 minutes a few days a week. 30 minutes might not sound like a lot, but it's the difference between 5:30 and 6, which matters. I only have to dress Red on his school days. We are free from the tyranny of personal hygiene and presentable clothing! FREE!

A-hem. All of this to say, I'm alright with dropping her off now. Thank-you. Go back to your lives, citizens.

Time Flies

2010-09-27T12:58:00.000-07:00

She jumped out of the car, waved over her shoulder and dashed up the school steps, never looking back. Equal parts pride, relief and sadness welled up in my wizened little heart. She is growing up and it's never been more obvious to me that she needs me less than ever.

Missy is hitting those epic milestones in childhood with a rapid fire pace. She braved the drop-off loop and walked to class alone. She lost a tooth. She's reading, swimming, brushing her hair and pouring her own cereal. It's a big deal and I know I should be excited, but instead, I'm a little bummed. No, I'm a lot bummed, teary even.

Why? This is the goal in motherhood, to create self-sufficiency, right? This means less work for me, easier mornings, actually being on time for a change. I encouraged her, maybe even pressured her a little, to walk to class by herself. I got what I wanted, for crying out loud! Why does it no longer seem desirable?

Maybe it's because even though she's the middle child, Missy is my baby. Red and Drama Queen are far more independent, shaking me off their shoes like so much dust. Missy clung, cuddled and embraced. She needed me. She wanted me. She loved me.

I know she still needs me, still loves me, just as I know DQ and Red love me. I know that they all still need me, in varying capacities. But that flight from the minivan gave me glimpse into a not-so-distant future, one that looks like Drama Queen's present. One in which I'm not worrying about DQ behind the wheel, but Missy. One in which Missy is getting phone calls, walling herself off into her room and living a life outside of my immediate sphere. Why does this glimpse give me a panic attack?

I don't have anxiety about DQ. I know she's a great kid, makes smart choices and I feel perfectly fine sending her off to Scotland next August. I like that she's becoming more self-sufficient. Like? Hell, I love it! I can't wait for her to get her license. I enjoy watching her live her life. I'm thrilled she's going to see part of Europe.

Maybe after ten years, I'll feel that way about Missy. I hope so. I'd hate to be one of those mothers that embraces her children until they are clawing their way to freedom. And ten years is a long time to get there. I should know. Because I remember ten years past, when another little girl jumped out of my car, looking as tiny as her little backpack, waved over her shoulder and disappeared into a Kindergarten classroom. I also remember sitting in that car and crying because she was growing up too fast, picturing a future that would become now sooner than I even imagined.

I suppose there is hope for me yet.

Deliverance

2010-09-24T11:12:00.000-07:00

In 8 days, we are supposed to leave on vacation. Two days of camping, three days of visiting with my grandmother. Totally dreading the first part, really looking forward to the second. My grandmother, she rocks.

Circumstances are conspiratorial little buggers though. Consider this:

*I threw out my back. I'm in a colossal amount of pain.

*The Beast has shots due, which more than double the cost of boarding him. (Taking him? Not an option. Not an option of epic proportions.)

*Apparently, my van has these things called bushings? They need to be replaced. Bushings are made of platinum and diamonds, judging by the wholesale cost. That's not even considering the labor, which I get for free. Side bennie of sleeping with your mechanic.

*Missy broke the portable DVD, right before we take a 6-7 hour drive. Much weeping. Much, much weeping. Mostly from me.

*Our air mattress sprung a leak.

*I can't find 3 out of our 4 sleeping bags.

*Drama Queen doesn't want to go. Her not wanting to go is of even more epic proportions than the impossibility of leaving The Beast at home. Sullen teen+long drive+camping= maternal misery.

Sounds like a SUPER FUN trip, yes? Normally, all of these things would mean a miserable vacation, at the end of which I would be a cranky bitch from hell. Okay, a crankier bitch from hell than is my usual state. But God is good. He is so very good. It turns out my grandmother is not feeling up to her granddaughter's large and boisterous family descending on her peaceful home. (gee, I wonder why?) She's disappointed and I am as well, but only because I miss her and would love to see her. Missing out on the drive, the kids, and the sleeping on the ground?

Um, yeah. I'm pretty okay with that.

Dear Drama Queen,

2010-09-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

My darling daughter,

We have been locked in a silent, passive-aggressive battle for three months now. Every weekend, you bring your laundry out. I sort it, finding both your robes, a denim jacket and a crocheted sweater. Every weekend, I lay these items on your bed, because they do not need to be washed.

I know the jacket and sweater aren't dirty, because during the week, I do not see you wearing them. I drive you to school every morning. I have a good handle on what you're wearing. I suspect that when you discover the jacket and sweater on your bed, you neglect to hang them up right away. They fall to your floor, then in the next weekend's room cleaning, get deposited in the laundry hamper, where the vicious cycle begins again. Just because I understand, doesn't absolve you from blame. Hang them up. For my sanity and your health.

The robes are a different matter. I know these get worn. I'm not going to wash your robes every week, darling. That is a waste of precious resources. Water, energy and time, my energy and time. I'm willing to wash your robes once a month. That's plenty for two items of clothing that get worn for three seconds every morning, from the bathroom to your room.

For a while, this game was funny. It felt like a little joke we played on each other. But the joke has worn thin and honestly, at this point, those things would have to be teeming with vermin before I'd dump them in the washer. I'm that stubborn. You get it from me but it isn't fully developed yet, little one. You can't win this battle. And I'm warning you now, if I see one of those damn items in my laundry again, I'm going to put them in the Goodwill box.

Don't make me go there. Surrender, hang up the clothes and move on to something else. I'd hate to withdraw laundry privileges, but if you continue to abuse my goodwill, you'll be sorting your own laundry, waiting for a time when the machines aren't in use. If you piss me off, I'll keep those machines going 24/7, until you're so desperate for clean clothes, you'll begin fashioning dresses from bed sheets. Of course, those will be dirty as well. See where this is going?

I love you, but I'm taking you down.

Sincerely,

Your Loving Mother.

Is It Procrastinating When Life Says "Do It Tomorrow?"

2010-09-16T09:29:00.000-07:00

Red has finally gone back to school. I have been waiting for this day, almost as eagerly as he has. I had plans, y'all. Writing plans. Those three hours were going to be protected writing time. I was finally going to shit this book out, like so much creative constipation.

Monday, I dropped him off, but there were errands. The bank, the Wal-Mart, the Starbucks. Because hello? The first day of school calls for a celebratory latte. I got home and made a few urgent phone calls, put in some laundry and then got wrestled to the floor by a book, who held me down and MADE me read it. What a bully. Monday? Washout.

Wednesday was my workday at preschool. I spent it measuring 22 children. By the time I got home, I had such a colossal headache, I wanted to crawl inside an Excedrine bottle and never come out. Wednesday? Washout.

But Friday's coming, right? YES! Will I write? NO! Because I signed up to drive on Missy's field trip to Apple Hill. I will have 4 first graders in my car and I guarantee, once again, Excedrine will be my bestest friend in the entire world. Did you know you're not allowed to duct tape shut the mouths of other people's children? Apparently, they frown on you taking such measures with your own child. CPS, ShmeePS. We have too much government. Damn liberals. Pass the tea.

So next week...yes, definitely next week. Except Wednesday, because I'm working at preschool again. Oh and Monday, because the garage door repairman will be coming to visit. Friday? Yes, there's always Friday. Maybe. Unless, you know, my roof falls in or my car dies or the dog gets rabies or some such nonsense. It's like the universe doesn't want to see my name on a dust jacket or something.

I'm Really Mean

2010-09-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

You probably knew this about me, but I am a horribly mean person. Especially to small children. I should probably start painting my face green and grow a nasty wart on the end of my nose. That way my outside would match my inside and my children would stop being so shocked at my cruelty.

I won't let my son taste the Fabuloso floor cleaner, despite the fact that it is bright green and smells like candy. Mean, right? I keep telling Red it's poison, doesn't taste good and will make him sick, but he knows I'm lying. It's obviously a delicious beverage that I am hogging for myself. (Sort of like the vodka.)

I also won't make my son a dinosaur-shaped PB&J, because we're having lunch at a friend's house today. His sisters both had sandwiches made for them. Never mind that they are going to school and will not be home for lunch. Never mind that HE gets to go play with friends today. No, I am a very mean, non-sandwich-making horror. Also, I am no longer his best friend. Que triste.

I won't buy my teenager another set of earbuds. Nor will I let her borrow mine. The fact that I have bought three sets of earbuds in the past three months is not relevant. They were obviously defective. And the fact that she just spent $50 on books? Again, completely irrelevant. If she had known she was going to need earbuds, she could have bought some, but she didn't know that, did she? My suggestion that she quit spending money as fast as she earns it was not appreciated. I'm such a bitch. (She didn't say that. She's far too smart. But I am fluent in teen-look-speak.)

I woke the 1st grader up because it was a school day. Even though she was tired. I also made her get dressed, even though her body was exhausted and wouldn't work. I withheld hot chocolate (a.k.a. first grade coffee) until socks and shoes were on. And I MADE. HER. EAT. BREAKFAST. Even though her stomach was exhausted. Mean is my first, middle and last name.

I made the first grader stay at school and won't take her on today's play date. I wouldn't let the preschooler stay at his sisters school, even though he really wants to. To be fair, that wasn't my fault. The teacher wouldn't let me swap out kids for the day. She's mean too. She must be a mom.

I made mashed potatoes for dinner last night. Enough said, right? No child likes mashed potatoes. Well, mine did. Until last night.

I made cereal for breakfast this morning. No child likes cereal. Today, anyway. And just because they ask for it, doesn't mean they like it, or really mean they want to eat it. Forcing them to eat it is practically a crime. Book me, Danno.

I need to wrap this up because it's been at least 20 minutes since I had to say "no" or make a child cry. Can't get behind. May your day be infinitely better than mine is sure to be.

Enough With The Grammar Slap-Down

2010-09-10T14:33:00.000-07:00

My father used to correct people who made grammar or word usage mistakes. Frequently. I don't think he ever quite understood that it made him sound like a dick. But it did.

Unfortunately, it seems to be a "cool kid" thing to do right now, especially on the Facebook, Twitter, interwebz sort of hangouts. The cyber-Starbucks is rife with grammar Gestapo. You can't cruise around without seeing that someone likes if you can't use an apostrophe correctly, you shuld probably just die."

And yes, the spelling error was intentional. Because invariably, someone who has liked or posted something of this nature makes a spelling error in the next post. Sometimes, in the actual status update itself. Hubris and all that shit, you know?

I am a reforming grammar Nazi. I once corrected a word usage on a dear friend's status update. It had been an intentional misuse and I recognized that, but thought I was being funny. I wasn't. She was a doll about it, because she's known me forever and loves me, even when I'm wearing the ass-hat. Her friends, however, went verbal Ginsu on me.

It was then that I realized I was behaving the way my father used to. Correcting people is sort of douchy, especially for something like grammar and most especially in a snarky way. Sure, some people LOL, but most are thinking I'm being a little bitchy. They're also correcting my spelling. It makes every single error I make a colossal joke and I'm not in on the laughter.

Facebook, Twitter and the like? They aren't really about having perfect punctuation. The sites are for conversing with friends, new and old, near and distant. Most folks are not interested in impressing me with their perfect literary skills. I've learned this the hard way. So I'm developing tolerance and practicing kindness. If someone makes a mistake, so be it. I'm willing to bet even the great authors of our day make the occasional faux pas. And if you're that bothered by mistakes in spelling/grammar/ usage you probably need to get off Twitter and have a drink. Relax. Enjoy yourself a bit. And treat others the way you would like to be treated.

Lecture over.

A Mother, A Daughter and A Stuffed Pantry

2010-09-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

My mom is learning the difficult art of shopping for one. After almost 20 years of buying for a family, and then another 20 of shopping for two, it is a challenge. She still feels Costco is a viable option for more than diet soda and toilet paper.

I shouldn't joke, because I am the lucky beneficiary of her over-buying. I got a call last week, telling me to come up because she had "a few things" for me.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! If you know my mother, you know why this is funny.

After all, this is the woman who told me she bought my son "a little something" and produced a 3 ft high dragon castle with lights and sound. This is the woman who told me she found "a water slide" for the pool and produced a multi-slide inflatable water park with a large pool, spray features and tunnels. She's prone to downplaying her purchases, just a tad.

Knowing this, it still surprised me to leave her house with almost 10 large bags of groceries. My pantry and freezer, once close to empty, now strain at the seams. And it isn't weird stuff that we are all prone to buy and forget as it collects dust in the far reaches of the pantry. No, these are items I use on a regular basis, so the blessing is profound. My grocery bill will be cut in half, for at least a month.

The only downside is I now have to take out a half dozen items to reach what I'm looking for. I'm not complaining. There is a lovely feeling of security that comes from a stocked larder. So thank you, Mom. Once again, I am blessed beyond measure to be your daughter.

Just Don't

2010-09-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

When your sick wife stumbles into the kitchen, moaning about not getting to sleep until 1:00 am, don't correct her by saying, "You must have been asleep and not known it, because I heard you snoring when I got out of the shower." That's not snoring. That is heavy breathing because there is an elephant worth of crap in my lungs. Plus, my inhibitions go away when I'm sleep-deprived. I will cut you. I heard you get into bed, I heard you mutter and toss a little bit and then I heard you begin to snore. Trust me, I was awake.

Don't compound the above error, by making your wife a cup of decaf coffee. Seriously. Don't. It will add burning to the cutting.

Don't complain to me about how mean kids are to your child, when your child is a little shit to mine. I won't be sympathetic. Reap what you sow and all that crap.

Don't text while your kids run into traffic. I don't mean to be judgemental, but that's universally bad.

Don't enforce school rules selectively. If you yell at my child for doing what ten other kids just did with impunity, I will yell back. Even if you are a PE teacher. I'm not big on arbitrary authority. Call me a rebel.

Don't smile to my face and tear me down behind my back. I know you're doing it. You're not that good an actor. And I'm not that hard up for friendship.

Don't sit in your BMW convertible and pick your nose. It's obvious you're trying a for a certain image, what with the Adidas ball cap, perfectly coiffed man hair and manicured nails. Putting those nails in your schnozz ruins that image. Trust me. Though, I have to say it was funny as hell and I would have paid a lot to catch it on video.

Rant over. Thank you for listening.

Week 2, Done!

2010-09-03T06:00:00.000-07:00

We've survived the second week of school and yeah, I'm feeling proud. Damn proud. I accomplished a hell of a lot in the last two weeks.

Okay, survived is a more accurate term than accomplished, but whatever. I haven't lost a kid yet. That's worth something. Right? RIGHT?!?

I was 1st grade snack mom, for a week. The first week of school. Yeah, baby. An entire week of remembering to bring snack and lunch, backpack and water bottle. Except I keep forgetting the damn water bottle. But those kids had snack, by golly.

DQ is auditioning for the fall play, A Midsummer Night's Dream. She made call-backs. And next Friday is the audition for the Fringe team, which is an even bigger drama deal than the fall play, since the Fringe team will be going to Edinburgh (yes, the one in Scotland!) next August. Friday also gives us the first dance of the year. Which is retro-themed, 60's. 70's 0r 80's. Have I mentioned I have no costumes for such a thing?

Red is still waiting for his school to begin. We have one more week and he is bored silly. I'm playing a lot of dinosaur. A lot. I hate dinosaurs.

I'm sick. A sweet little cold, complete with hacking and voice-loss. I skipped Back to School night (heresy!) and Bingo (O 69!), in an attempt to rest and recuperate. So far, it's been a Kleenex and Nyquil orgy. Good times, baby. Good times. I still hate dinosaurs.

DQ is beginning driver's training next week. Local folks, you have been warned. Mr. Clairol has taken her out a couple of times, just to get her comfortable behind the wheel, but she's still whimpering as she accelerates. Better him than me. I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around her being old enough to drive a car. Where did my baby go?

That's all I got. Blame the virus. I am. For everything. Everything. Global warming? It's my cold. Out of milk? My cold drank it all. Identity theft? Yep, my cold is using your credit card to buy flats of tissue and vitamin C tablets.

And the cold is telling me it's time to lay down. So be good, children. Mama needs a rest.

Could You Please Hand Me My Lung?

2010-09-02T06:00:00.000-07:00

It's the second week of school and I've unveiled a dynamic new fashion aesthetic. I call is "Back to School Bug Barbie." She looks a LOT like crack whore Barbie. Both wear dirty sweats, but CW Barbies are cut offs, while the BTBS version has full length pants to hide her unshaven legs. CW has unshaven legs as well, but she's too cracked up to give a rat's ass.

Both sport dirty t shirts as well. The shirt does not match the sweats. BTSB Barbie comes with dirty Crocs. CW Barbie comes with dirty feet. Both have matted, unwashed hair, bags under their eyes and no makeup. We girls can do anything, right Barbie?

Seriously, I am sick, looking like a ratty old daytime ho, and I don't care. I'm such a baby. It's a cold, not pneumonia. But whatever. I overheard a couple of well-coiffed, maxi-dressed mommies snarking about me, one saying, "At least take a shower," and I coughed all over the bitch. Shower that, honey. For. Real. It will all be worth it if I see her on Friday, sneezing and hacking. Biological warfare comes to a playground near you!

It doesn't seem fair that I am almost kid free and yet, unable to enjoy the luxury of running to Costco with only ONE child! Universe, I'm not complaining, I swear. I'd just like less snot please. Snot of all varieties.

I'm Raising Culinary Idiots

2010-09-01T13:23:00.000-07:00

Today, my son told me that I make the best lunch in the world. Because the chicken nuggets are dinosaur-shaped. Uh-huh. Also, he is now a velociraptor and did you know velociraptors do not eat carrots? Not even one. I blame Kenneth Branaugh.

I do not make the best dinners in the world, at least if you're a four-year-old dinosaur. Last night, when served tortellini with bacon and peas in a cream Parmesan sauce (with homemade sun dried tomato and cheese rolls), he screwed up his face and refused to eat a bite. It was "ucky" and "smelled like garbage."

For the record, it was neither ucky nor smelling of dumpster. Just saying.

Months ago, I read an article that claimed the children's menu was a creation of the devil (by way of Ronald McDonald) and we were, as a nation, dumbing down our children's collective palate. The US is becoming a nation that considers deep-fried jalapenos stuffed with cream cheese as gourmet. I rolled my eyes at the time, but it stayed with me and suddenly, watching my little velociraptor scarf down processed chicken by-product with ketchup, the article seems less like elitist tripe and more like a prophecy.

Last night, I told him that pasta was for dinner and while he didn't have to eat it, there was nothing else. No PB&J, scrambled eggs or cereal waited in the wings. He opted out of dinner. And I died a little inside, but stuck to my guns. He never did eat the tortellini. He ate a dinosaur-sized breakfast, though, and seems no worse for wear.

What are your mealtime policies?

A Change of Pace

2010-08-29T08:22:00.000-07:00

Today, for a change of pace, I am going to throw out my to-do list. Instead, I will do what needs to be done and write down what I finish. At the end of the day, rather than lament what is left undone, I will celebrate what I accomplished.

This was my Facebook status on Friday. After days of feeling overwhelmed and angry with myself for neglecting my work, I decided a new approach was in order. Because let's face it, I'm a little bit of a rebel. Not a cool, in-your-face-authority, Joan Jett sort of rebel. No, I'm a passive-aggressive rebel.

Sure, if you say I should do this, I will. Tomorrow. Maybe.

So, I'm changing my approach. And if Friday and Saturday are any indication, then it's a success. 8 loads of laundry, (folded and put away, even), dishes done, 5 meals made, a class treat made and delivered, groceries purchased, bedrooms cleaned, sheets changed, pantry and Tupperware cupboard cleaned and organized and the house picked up. Not to mention spending most of yesterday with my mom, packing up her kitchen. That was fun though, and involved a pizza, wine and a lot of laughter.

So today, I'm taking the day off. I'll do things, but they'll be the fun projects I put off. Like posting here. I highly recommend you do the same.

Getting A Life...Now!

2010-08-24T14:27:00.000-07:00

Jenny on the Spot posted about her secret love of the Hostess Pudding Pie today. Thanks for making me want one when I've given up sugar. What a bitch.

No, I kid. I love her and she's all that is glitter and spun sugar. Seriously. Girl is like a fucking Cullen or something.

I've given up sugar. I'm gonna be a little cranky for a while. Cut me some slack.

Anyway, my point is this: she asked what my (or any of her readers) secret packaged crap guilty pleasure is and I went to leave a comment, but couldn't because I could not, for the life of me, come up with my ultimate junky treat.

GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER! SERIOUSLY! Think of your mom with that nasty brain?!?

I've been contemplating it for a half hour now. I'm not exaggerating, not even a little. Sitting here, in my chair, staring out at my backyard, wondering if I should confess to loving the Hostess cherry pies, or maybe the chocolate donettes, or Cadbury's fruit & nut bar. Maybe Funyuns? The little cream puffs that you buy by the thousand over at Costco? Snowballs? Ice cream sammiches?
Toaster Strudel?

I can't decide. And in the back of my mind, I'm realizing that I have got shit to do, folks, I can't be wasting brainpower on what my favorite "enjoy it because it will kill you" food is. Gah! Pathetic much?

Yes. I am. Thanks for noticing.

I'll let you know when I make up my mind. Perhaps this is my comment. My homage to Jenny, if you will. Jenny and the processed food industry. Long may they prosper.

Wistful

2010-08-16T07:45:00.000-07:00

What the hell?

I have one week of summer left. Yes, I know I should be ecstatic that the children will be back in school and I can finally get back to a "normal schedule," but when the normal schedule requires me to get up at 5:30, pack lunches and drive for 3 hours every day, it's hard to be excited.

Girl Scouts will start up again, as will the homework supervision, Driver's training and probably play rehearsals. The only thing that doesn't start? Red's preschool. Yes. The child who has asked me every day for almost three months, "can I go to school today," has to wait for three more weeks. Gonna be fun with a capital fuck, y'all.

I like summer. I like sleeping in until 7 am, lazing with a cup of coffee, checking out TLo and the Bloggess. I like play dates and library story time and Zumba. I like afternoons in the pool, splashing and floating until we're pruny. And I like not having to get in my car. (No diss to the Hotyssey...I just hate to drive.)

But all good things come to an end and there is so much change on the horizon that I can't help but anticipate the coming year. I'll find my daily groove again and the school year will race by, so instead of whining, moaning and cussing, I'll just enjoy the new brand of madness. And probably cuss a little. Okay, a lot. Damn it, you guys know me so well.

We Love Liv

2010-08-14T08:46:00.000-07:00

There are things in life that make me unreasonably happy. Little things that deliver a huge payout of happy. Things like choosing a present that gets played with immediately and for the rest of the day. Missy Hoohaw desperately wanted a Barbie this year, but when Mr. Clairol and I went to buy one, we were baffled. So many choices and none of them seemed like a sure thing.

Well, frankly, they all seemed like a sure thing, if you're a boy doll. When did Barbie become a skank?

Mr. Clairol nixed doll after doll, for hootchie clothes. Even the bride Barbie was left behind. But next to the Barbies lay our salvation. A Liv doll named Hayden. She's got blond hair and green eyes just like Missy, loves nature and animals just like Missy, and has distinctly non-hootchie clothes. We had a winner!

But Hayden wasn't a Barbie (per se) and so I was nervous. We had bought one of the play sets as well, an animal adoption center, so there was an investment. But Missy LOVES Hayden and the play set. We played with her all day yesterday. All. Day.

Suddenly, picking a popular present costs more than the $25 you shell out for the toy. It costs time, sore backs from hours of playing on the floor, and a little more gas when the hat is left behind at the restaurant. Still totally worth the sleepy smile and the, "Thank-you, Mommy. This is the BEST birthday present I ever got."

Yeah. Big happy payout.

Too Much Information?

2010-08-05T19:21:00.000-07:00

My phone rang at 7 am this morning. As this is not optimum telemarketer time, I answered. It was a friend and coworker of my husband.

"Where's your man?"
"Standing here. Why?" *insert desperate hoping that said man had not forgotten a shop meeting*

"Well... he's always here early. What happened?"

What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? What happened is he is a happily married man with an attractive and willing wife. What happened is what usually happens when two middle-aged, but healthy, adults find themselves in bed together, without benefit of pajamas or small children. What happened is the sexy times. And if you think for one minute I didn't say that, you're smoking hibiscus.

"Let's just say, cooking isn't my only wifely skill."

Hell to the yeah.

Dino-Boy Turns 4

2010-07-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

I love planning parties, but this year, Red's party was giving me fits. Of course it had to be dinosaur-themed. There was simply no talking him out of it. So I ordered some stuff from Oriental Trading Company and decided to call it good.

Until I couldn't. Because somewhere along the line, I started looking at stuff for Missy's Hawaiian bash and I got to feeling guilty. Unfortunately, I'm not nearly as inspired by dinosaurs as I am by surfer rubber duckies. I was agonizing over the fact that Missy would have a totally rad luau and Red would have a lame, half-hearted pre-packaged party.

Thankfully, inspiration struck the day before the party and I hauled out the roll of butcher paper, the paints and a trusty pair of scissors. At the end of the day, I had this...

I raided the goodie bags, pulling out a fossil kit from the Dollar Tree. I made paleontology kits from sheets of foam, using the packages tools (a pick, brush and garden trowel), then buried the chalk eggs in an empty bed. The kids dug up the eggs from the bed then broke it open and dug the fossils from the egg.

You can sort of see the little plastic skeleton bits there. Squint. Tilt your head to the right. See it? Yeah, now be super glad you didn't have to put those fuckers together.

That skewer to the right? That's a toothpick. Just so you understand the scale we were dealing with. Can I have a strong drink now?

Of course I used the stuff from OTC. It was cute and I paid good money for it. All in all, I thought it looked dang good. Except that right pillar. Can you tell it's the last thing I did? Definitely has the, just get this shit finished look, eh?

The Boy, enjoying his swim party.

The prehistoric Picasso, enjoying a birthday present.

His birthday present from G-ma, Mom, Dad and Missy. Note the lack of all things dinosaur. Not that Mommy is trying to steer him away from the whole dino thing. Or more accurately, not that her attempts are working. That's a large Thomas the Tank Engine beginner set (courtesy of G-ma), 4 accessory packs from the family and it's all screwed onto two 3.5 x 4' boards that we painted green. At some point, when I've recovered from the entire day it took me to assemble this scenario was a great idea in theory and a giant pain in the ass in practice, I'll paint a river, some scenery, maybe even a tree or two. Maybe.

In addition to all of the preceding glory, we also took a trip to the California State Fair. They had a large animatronic dinosaur exhibit this year, and since it fell on his birthday, we decided to go. Enjoy Red enjoying the dinosaurs...

According To Missy...

2010-07-17T20:45:00.000-07:00

These are super dancing shoes. You can tell because they sparkle and the eyelets are star shaped. They are awesome. And pink.

Together with a twirly tu-tu, they transform the ordinary Missy Hoohaw in LADY SUNSHINE, DANCER EXTRAORDINAIRE (FANFARE)

Lady Sunshine has a lot of super powers. She can twirl. She can jump really high. She has awesome dance moves, like the double shuffle and the pachanga whirl. Yep. Them's some powerful shoes. And tu-tu. And a pretty janky back fence, but that's another story, with no super powers or sparkling involved.

And damn, I wish those shoes came in my size.

Why I Hate Kenneth Branagh

2010-07-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

I used to have a huge crush on Kenneth Branagh, a love that blossomed in his Dead Again days. But now, he's just killed all that love. Suffocated it, in a thick primordial stew of pseudo-science and animatronic puppetry. Stupid dinosaur documentaries.

Red is obsessed with the Walking with Dinosaurs series from BBC. He's not even four years old yet, but he's already an irredeemable geek. I am so proud. It's not all parasarophulus and stegosaurus though.

We've been watching the episodes repeatedly, and I've learned so much. For instance, there were once giant scorpions, like something out of a 1950's B movie, and spiders used to be the size of a human head. Wow. Edifying information that will not give me nightmares that hammer at my fragile psyche. Not at all. And did you know dimetrodons were cannibals? And they ate 90% of the corpse, except they shook the dung from the intestines before eating them? Because apparently, dimetrodons can't stand dung. (totally get that. I can't stand dung either. Maybe I'm a dimetrodon.) And that a group of baby dimetrodons had to roll in dung to escape being eaten by their aunts and uncles and maybe even their dad!

What the FUCK, Kenneth Branagh?!? Why do you torture me like this? I don't want to know about 3 meter long scorpions and spiders the size of a human head! Especially not while I'm having my coffee and reading Tom and Lorenzo! You are spoiling the Gwynyth Paltrow bashing for me. No wonder Helena Bonham Carter left your ass for Tim Burton. I bet he doesn't tell her about dung and spiders. Well, I actually can see him doing that, but it'd be rainbow swirly dung and awesome, yet sinister spiders that are not the size a damn head. GAH.

And here's the other thing. How the hell does Kenneth Branagh know these things? He's in possession of a lot of dino-knowledge and I, for one, am highly suspicious. Did he find tiny dimetrodon fossils encased in prehistoric shit and just create this scenario? Maybe the babies were shit upon and suffocated by the dung! Maybe the babies were playing in the poop because some ridiculous Englishman suggested it, and their mother was so horrified and grossed out that instead of giving them a bath, she just killed them because that was easier!Did you ever think of that, Kenneth Branagh? Huh? No? I didn't think so. Maybe you should think about that, before you go telling almost four year old boys that smearing shit on themselves is a great, life-saving idea! ARE YOU COMING TO MY HOUSE TO BATHE MY SHIT-SMEARED CHILD, KENNETH BRANAGH? ARE YOU? NO? Then shut. your. fucking. mouth.

I'm going to go have another cup of coffee and do some yoga. And you, Mr. Branagh, are on TIME OUT.

When To Unfriend?

2010-07-08T06:28:00.000-07:00

I recently cleaned house. On facebook, not my literal house. No, my literal house is a hell pit and my time would have been far better spent folding laundry and mopping, but I was busy scrolling through my friends list, deleting like the Queen of Hearts on a rampage. Off with his head! Off with hers!

I struggle with facebook etiquette. I get friend requests and I accept them because it feels rude not to. Why? I'm trying to correct this. I had an epiphany after taking three days deciding to ignore a friend request from a girl who, in high school, made my life miserable. I debated it mentally, and then apparently out loud, because Drama Queen finally said, "Mom, just ignore her. That's what you'd tell me to do." Smart kid. Sure, this woman has probably outgrown the bitchiness that made her the shark of my graduating class, but maybe not. I have no fond memories of her. Why invite that into my life?

This is my life and my facebook page. I don't have to have anyone on there I don't want. I'm getting tired of the organization updates and product ads in my news feed. I'm tired of people I don't know, don't like or just don't pay attention to cluttering my page. I don't want to scroll through a bunch of shit so I can see what Andrea, Heather or David has to say. So I got busy...

Friends of friends who were only on my friend list to be farmtown neighbors? Gone. I don't play farmtown anymore, I'm no longer in the Mafia, it's time to let go. Go in peace, farmers and gangsters.

Acquaintance who was trying to rekindle a pre-Mr. Clairol internet flirtation? Gone. You're a sleaze, dude. Ain't got time for that crap and it pisses me off. If you paid as much attention to your wife as you do your cyber-harem, you'd be a much happier man.

Random people that I have no idea who you are but accepted the friend request to be nice? Buh-bye.

Alter Ego of my best friend, who is also a little crazy? Gone, but with deep regret. I love my friend and her crazy. But it was time.

I feel liberated. I didn't eliminate everyone I wanted to. There are a few old friends lurking there who have taken a sharp right into the Fox News conservatism that makes me cringe. They are good people who have fallen prey to the fear-mongering, tea party bigots. I don't give up on them, because God doesn't give up on me. They have a right to their beliefs and as long as they aren't hateful, I'd love to know what's going on in their lives. I have had to eliminate a few of the more vocal. I won't listen to ignorance being spewed like vomit. Especially when there are juicy chunks of hate in there. Not cool.

There were a few that were hidden. I love the hide feature. I don't have to hurt nice people that get on my nerves, through no fault of their own. I'm sort of a bitch and it's getting harder to cover it with the nicey-nice veneer. So really, it's a mercy hiding. This way I don't lose my shit and do damage. And if you've hidden me? That's okay. As much as I try not to, I know I have a case of facebook diarrhea. No one really cares what I'm making for dinner, or what book I just read, or the funny thing my kid just said. But I can't stop myself. It's where I can take all the little snippets that just aren't blog-worthy, but still notable, if only to myself. I'm sorry, I'm trying to be better.

Of course, if you've hidden me, you probably aren't reading this, now are you? So suck it. I'm grilling chicken for dinner, I just finished a trashy romance by Jane Feather (it was okay, not great) and The Boy just toddled out in his slippers announcing he was aaaaaahhhhhhh-WAKE!

Crap Day Wednesday

2010-07-07T08:26:00.000-07:00

I seem to be suffering from shitdayitis. Every intention is thwarted, mostly by my rotten spawn. This morning, I had a kick-ass plan:

6 am: get up, get dressed, get children dressed/fed.

7:30 am: drop teen off at summer school, go to gym, take interval training class.

9:00 am: leave gym, pick up teenager, get home.

9:30 am - dinner: clean house & do laundry (w/ help of small animals, also singing.), play with children, cure cancer, serve delicious meal that everyone in the family will actually eat.

The reality is:

6:00 am: turn off alarm, sleep until 7. Race through shower, lose one sneaker, forget breakfast for the kids, ipod and water bottle.

7:00 am: argue with teen about whether the 3rd day of her period requires an excuse from swimming.

7:40 am: drop off sullen, menstruating teen at summer school.

7:45 am: say no to backseat donut request.

7:46 am: confirm backseat accusation that I do not want the small children in my home to have Starbucks scones for breakfast. Point out that they had homemade waffles for breakfast yesterday morning and cereal will be adequate.

7:47 am: listen to crying protests that the small children in my home in fact, hate cereal.

7:55 am: arrive home and clean up overturned garbage can that the dog has rooted through. Pour cereal into bowls. Out of milk. Serve watermelon and croissants.

7:56 am: discover that my children do not, in fact, hate cereal. They actually hate croissants.

7:57 am: turn on Milo and Otis, make coffee, warm a buttered croissant and sit down to the computer, blocking all requests and protests. Seriously consider spiking coffee with bourbon.

8:00 am: reject bourbon, remembering the need to pick up the menstruating teen from summer school.

UPDATE! 9:40: clean barf off the youngest child, car seat and car. Make note that The Boy is apparently skilled in the art of stealth vomit.

How's your day going?

A Fat Girl, A Gym, and A Shitty Personal Trainer

2010-07-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

I've been going to the gym.

I know that's pretty shocking. I'll give you a minute.

Wrapped your mind around that? Good. Let me drop the next bomb on you. I met with a personal trainer.

Not the kind that you pay a bajillion dollars to holler at and motivate you. (I don't have a bajillion dollars and if I did, I'd hold out for Jillian Michaels.) No, the kind that the gym employs to "teach" you how to use their machines. You know, so when you hurt yourself, you can't sue. That kind.

Mr. Cut-Rate PT has fat issues. He's not fat. Hell no. He just doesn't like fat people. He has a hard time looking at them. And he is really uncomfortable actually talking and interacting with them. So uncomfortable that he used his fucking pen to lift my arm into proper form. Because fat is contagious, apparently. Asshat.

Listen, I get it. Fitness is your life. It isn't mine. I've neglected and abused my body into obesity. It's gross and you don't like to look at it. But I'm doing something about it, you dipshit. I'm hauling my chubby ass and two of my kids to your place of work 6 days a week, so that I don't look like this forever. The least you could do is look me in the eye. You're getting paid for it. I'm paying for the damn privilege. And, by the way, I noticed when you skipped a couple of machines.

Dude, if you would prefer me to simply adjourn to the local Hometown Buffet and stuff myself with greasy carbs, well, then maybe you're in the wrong line of work.

I'll be cancelling our follow-up appointment and requesting another trainer. Because, frankly, I have douchebag issues. I'm not a douchebag. I just don't like them.

Appreciation of Summer

2010-07-02T12:53:00.000-07:00

I love summer. I love summer so much, I would seriously bear it's child. Except, I think summer is a woman, in which case, I would donate an egg or act as a surrogate. Love. Her.

I love the heat, the loose days, the balmy nights, the constant stream of grilled meat and vegetables, fresh fruit and iced tea. I love a cold pool and hot deck, the smell of warm tomato plants, the drone of bees and crickets. I love the new freckles that pop up, my white tank tops, sun hat and disco-ball flip-flops.

There is a large stack of books I have never read, resting on my nightstand. There is a basket full of various sunscreen products by my back door. There is a stack of freshly washed towels by that basket. There is a pool float and a tall glass of iced tea, waiting for me, poolside. Paradise awaits.

So what the hell am I doing sitting at my computer?

Life Lessons From Big Red

2010-07-01T06:40:00.000-07:00

Anybody who reads my blog or facebook posts knows I love to complain about my children. Some might even wonder why on earth I chose motherhood as a career path. But most of you know that I love my children beyond all reason. They are my silly delight, my most profound joy.

Take this morning: At 6:30 am, while sitting on the toilet, I was treated to a lesson on how to put on a pair of boxer briefs and pajama pants, courtesy of my son who has recently mastered these skills. This is a pretty valuable lesson, and I'm a giver, so here is Big Red's guide to putting on undies and pants. Feel free to take notes.

"First, you sit down. So you don't fall down and get ouchie."

"Next you put one foot in the right hole. Whoops! Dat's de wrong hole. Dere. Dat's de right one! Gimme five!"

"Den you put de other one in the other one." (This was way clearer with visuals. We may need to investigate a video tutorial in the future.)

"And den you puuuuuuull dem up, up, up! Ouch! Tuck in the pewis!"

"And den you put on the pants! TA-DA!" *Now jump up and down several times while yelling, "I love undies, I love undies, I love undies!"

Now I ask you, how can I not love this child?

Dramatic Much?

2010-06-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

One of my children just draped themselves across the couch and said in a faint, sickly voice, "Mama, I am starved. I totally need lunch."

Any guesses? No, it wasn't the Drama Queen, though I can see how you would go there first.

Nope. Wasn't Missy. She doesn't talk much these days. There's coloring to do.

It was The Boy. The three year old who is really too young to understand a) pretend to faint, and b) use "totally" in a sentence. Oh and c) has eaten his weight in melon and cereal already.

Y'all, I am not responsible for my actions if I hear, "Is it lunchtime yet? Now? Noooow?" one more time.

For the love of FUCK! He seriously just asked again. It's like he has a death wish or something! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Laaaaaazzzzzeeeeeeeeeeeeee

2010-06-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

Just a quick shout out to my favorite New Yorker: Get well SOON, David! I miss my King Dust Bunny! XOXOXOXOXOXOXO

And now back to my ridiculous life:

We're settling into a summer routine here at Chez PTN. It's a simple one, really. We do nothing. Aaaahhhhhh.

Unfortunately, the bliss cannot continue. Drama Queen is finishing her PE and Health requirements in summer school, so two days a week, we're up to get her to school. And the house is beginning to look like a set from a disaster movie. Aaaaaand my children are starting to whine about being bored. Even the pool is losing it's luster.

Sigh.

So it's time to plan some playdates, a few outings and modify my housekeeping schedule... HAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh hades, I just cracked myself up. Like I stick to my schedule. Whatever. I'll still dig it up and modify it, so the house doesn't look quite so disgusting. Because people might want to have a playdate or two at my house and sticky floors are sort of a turn-off.

I know it's time to do this because I'm starting to feel a little bored as well. My first hint came when I was stowing the Costco tp stash and it led to a complete hall closet reorganization. And I didn't bitch about doing it once. In fact, Mr. Clairol had to drag me away from the entry closet. I was mumbling something about putting the winter gear away, now that we're officially in triple digits. No worries, he turned on Craig Ferguson and the brogue put me into a TV coma. I've completely forgotten that he needs to dig out the large bin for coats.
(No, I haven't.)

So what do your summer days look like?

Tales From The Freezer

2010-06-27T06:00:00.000-07:00

This is my freezer.

Chilling, isn't it? (What, not even a pity laugh?) This is also a huge problem. I can't find anything. I have a vague idea of what might be in there, but it's sort of a crap shoot. That doesn't work for me. The whole point of an additional freezer is saving money and stocking up. Otherwise, it's just sucking up expensive electricity and valuable garage real estate. When you're tossing freezer-burned meat and ziplocs full of unidentified substances, something has to change.

Tools: Large garbage can, gargantuan ice chest, chisel, bucket full of HOT soapy water, gloves, rags, magic eraser (not pictured: black erasable marker, magnetic white board).

I emptied the freezer, putting what was edible in the ice chest and tossing the disgusting, mysterious or expired. The ice chest was filled. So was the trash can. The amount of food I threw away was obscene. I am literally ashamed of myself. So ashamed, I "forgot" to take a picture.

Drinking away the shame. Mmmmm...amaretto iced tea.

Thankfully, it was so hot, I didn't need the blowdryer and the chisel didn't see much play. Once the freezer was unplugged, the heat took care of most of the frost.

Cleaning. This is gross. I ~~might~~ need bleach.

Picture deleted, due to excessive grossness.

You're welcome.

My shame is a two drink job.

YAY! A clean freezer! Time to re-stock.

A thing of beauty, yes?

Yes, that is an entire shelf devoted to vodka. Vodka is a priority in my life. Pictured from left to right: Cherry (back row), vanilla, melon, watermelon, lime, Stoli, grapefuit Absolute, Tanqueray (for my dad), Seagrams (for pasta sauce and deperation). Why are you looking at me like that?

An inventory, so I know what's in here. Very important and inspired by my friend, Andrea. She's brilliant. That's why we're friends. And that's not the vodka talking. I'm drinking amaretto today, remember?

What my freezer lacks in flames, it makes up for in automotive magnets. Sigh. Time for another drink. Bottoms up!

What's In A Name?

2010-06-25T19:32:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend, an actual IRL friend, who has known me for several months, referred to my son as "Red." She stopped immediately and tried to correct herself, but she could not remember the boy's name. Because she reads my blog, he is Red to her.

This cracked me up. I love it. Even though the red has faded from his hair, the nickname still suits. His temper remains hot and fierce, so Red he remains. It never occurred to me to be upset by it. Never in a million years, until something else name-related happened to a different friend of mine and illustrated just how twisted people could get about minor, minor shit that should be laughed at.

A day after Aimee called Red by his nom de blog, I read a Facebook post from a blogger friend. She had a reader reprimand her for referring to her son as "the boy" rather than using his actual name. Apparently, this woman felt it was demeaning to call him, "the boy." To her, it sounded like Heather was referring to a dog. And it made me think.

I don't know about you, but I rarely call my dog, "the boy." I almost always call him "the dog" or "the beast" or "the originator of all great stinkosity." In fact, I can't remember ever calling my dog, "the boy." It makes me wonder about this reader and her relationship to her pets. It also makes me extremely glad she isn't a reader of mine, since I have been known to refer to my son as FAR WORSE things than "the boy." You know, like, the little shit. Or the youngest turdball. Or the Spawn of HELL!

The poor woman would have had an aneurysm and her dog would have gone to someone who called it, "the dog." OH, THE EVER-LOVIN' HUMANITY!

My point is this: let's not take ourselves too seriously, eh? Relax. When something minor gets your panties in a twist, don't spread the wedgie, for Pete's sake. Relax. Go commando. And find something you actually liked to comment on. You'll be a much happier person, I promise.

And yes, Heather now calls her son "The Boy" all the time. Which I love and have decided to do as well. Because, dude, you give me that sort of ammunition? I'm gonna use it. Even if it isn't my fight.

CRANKY (Understatement of the Year, Anyone?)

2010-06-25T07:43:00.000-07:00

It's going to be one of those days.

A less than 4 hours sleep day.

A needing coffee but I'm out of cream day.

A lots to do and no energy to do it day.

A mean momma day.

A children putting themselves up on craigslist day.

A, the dog is limping and I suspect the BOY of doing something, but I can't be sure, day.

A, my children are bored and restless and it's fucking raining in JUNE and are you KIDDING me, GOD??? day.

A cereal for dinner because Mommy is going to bed at 6:12 pm day.

This burst of positive thoughts and sunshine brought to you by the letters F and O. As in F*&$ off.

That was directed to the crap-ass day. Not you guys. I would never tell you to F*&$ off. Particularly if you want to bring me some half and half.

Backyard Tour

2010-06-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

Remember this post? Yeah, I promised pictures and then didn't deliver. But the good thing is no one is surprised when it takes me weeks to deliver the goods. That's fast becoming my claim to fame. Sad, I know.

But I do deliver. Eventually. Mom and I worked our heinies off for two Saturdays, and damn it all if we didn't forget to take before pictures. Just picture less awesome and way more cobwebs.

This is the overview. It gets cooler.

We hung geraniums and a clock, put up a table and found $3 cushions for the chairs we already had. Cute, isn't it? The perfect place for ~~a cup of morning coffee~~ a cold beer while grilling dinner.

Yes, the tablecloth on the dining table matches the corner table. Because I, erm, Target, is awesome that way. Of course, it would be better if the umbrella matched, but that is a really nice umbrella with solar powered lights in the spokes. That's enough to make me overlook the brown fabric.

The grilling area. We bought a new cover for the grill, hung the pegboard, and then, in a fit of inspiration, dug out the old enamel signs Mr. Clairol had in the garage. We moved the table, an old crushed ice Formica, into place to give him a little more surface area. And underneath?

Yes, that is a bin for the cover. Because I am plastic bin queen. Oh, the fridge? Yeah. We're awesome like that.

Dew, beer and bbq sauce. Everything the super grill master needs for superior BBQ. This was my mother's doing. I was going to find an old one on Craigslist, but she couldn't bear the idea of an old fridge for her son. (She refers to him as her son and trust me, he's her favorite. Even before my brother and me.)

Another of my mother's fabulous ideas. She hung extra hooks on the back of the pegboard for wet towels, bathing suits and life jackets. Very cool and very practical. She is so brilliant!

He was very surprised and a little overwhelmed by everything. I knew it was a hit when he noticed the fridge and just shook his head. When he opened it to find it stocked with beer and Dew? Well, that's just a little bit of heaven in his book. And he loves the pegboard with all his grill tools in reach. No more running inside for tongs or a basting brush. We grill so often, they don't really have a chance to get dusty. I even bought him a designated spray bottle, though that's more so my ironing water doesn't mysteriously disappear.

And the fact that it makes it easier to pawn dinner prep off on my husband? Never crossed my mind. *wink*

2010-06-23T07:57:00.000-07:00

I'm in the midst of another horrible bladder infection. It hurts to sit at the computer, so for a couple of days, it'll be dark here and on Facebook.

Take care, children and drink lots of water and cranberry juice for me, eh?

Clearing the Debris

2010-06-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

As Father's Day approached this year, I found myself facing a dilemma. I knew it would be a hard day. I still miss my father terribly. But he's gone and there is another father in my life, the one that has given me children, has partnered with me in the raising of them and does a pretty spectacular job with the whole husband/father gig. I wanted the day to be about him, not a memory.

So I walked a tightrope. We redecorated the patio (pictures when I have a working camera), made waffles and sausage, tried to wait on him hand and foot, let him pick the movies, etc. etc. And when I was overwhelmed by the sadness, I'd disappear for a little bit and cry. Until Mr. Clairol found out what I was doing and started to take care of me. Damn him.

I'm still trying to sort through the emotions of Father's Day. It's hard, because I don't want to just pack them away as is my tendency. It's taking a toll on my eating, my sleeping, my interactions with others. Especially my interactions with others. My mind will wander in the middle of a conversation and I come to, staring at someone staring at me, waiting for a response I can't give. I hate that, but for the moment, I simply can't help it.

I'm ready to be done with sad. Unfortunately, I don't think sad is done with me.

Happy Father's Day!

2010-06-20T09:06:00.000-07:00

When I fell in love with Mr. Clairol, I was a single mother. When he proposed, I was saying yes for both Drama Queen and myself. I knew going into this he was going to be a wonderful father. But after we had more children, I realized "wonderful" was a completely inadequate word.

He was the one to get up with the babies, bringing them to bed so I could nurse them. He was the one to walk the halls when they wouldn't sleep. He is the one that bathes them, takes them to the park, cuddles with them on the couch. Not that I never do those things, but he is the primary in those fields.

He has taught them to care for pets. He has tickled them into quivering puddles. He has busted his ass to make it to open houses, winter concerts, and play performances. He has chaperoned school dances and perfected the "hairy eyeball" glare, sure to make even the cockiest teen boy step back from his daughter.

And this is where, in my opinion, he really shines: he has taken another man's daughter as his own. He has never uttered the word step-daughter. She is his little girl, no qualifiers. His love for her is no different from the children he has seen born, the children that share his blood. That is rare and so precious to me, there are no words to explain it.

So thank you, honey. From me and our children and my parents. You are a rockin' dad!

Not Funny

2010-06-19T08:25:00.000-07:00

From now on, I will be carrying pepper spray when I shop. Why? Because I was molested in the produce aisle of my local Ghetto Grocery.

I was probably asking for it. I was waiting to select a couple of zucchini and you know what sort of women buy zucchini. When the man ahead of me noticed, he graciously let me in. He even help a bag open for me. And them he stoked my breasts.

No, you didn't read that wrong. Go back. Take it all in.

Open handed, both hands, the perv ran them along the sides of my boobs! After a moment of disbelief, I shot him a dirty look and said something to the effect of, "oh no you di'int." I honestly can't remember what exactly I said to him. I've been thinking about this incident for about two weeks now and how lame I was.

I could have done a lot of things differently. Grabbed his hands and broken his fucking fingers, for instance. Called him a sick, pathetic pervert and whacked him upside the head with the zucchini. Better yet, shoved the zucchini up his nose. Or, I could have alerted the manager, like a sane, rational person.

But I didn't. At first, I told myself it was an accident, but come on. Granted, my rack takes up an inordinate amount of space, but the sides of my boobs are not easy access. And both hands? No. This was a deliberate fondling, a violation, and I did nothing. That pisses me off, people. Especially because that's a mark in his success column. Which means he'll do it again. Not acceptable.

As I've been processing this, I realize that I started this post as a funny story. But it isn't funny. Because when a strong, confident woman can be touched like that, in public, and doesn't feel like she can do anything but laugh it off, something is w.r.o.n.g. I'm the mother of two daughters and if any fool touched them in that way, I'd rip him to itty-bitty shreds and feed him to his own dog. Why on earth wouldn't I do the same for myself?

Perverts of Ghetto Grocery, you are on alert. The next one of you to touch me is getting a zucchini up his ass. The hard way.

O 69...Again, Damn It!

2010-06-18T07:58:00.000-07:00

Oh Lord.

They sucked me in.

I had great intentions. I was on the Bingo schedule for this month, and I was going to say "no thank-you" for the rest of the summer. But for whatever reason, they begged me to stay through the summer!

WHAT? ~~Why the hell do you think I've been screwing up the register for months straight?!?~~ I don't get it. I thought they'd have politely asked me to leave by now. I've had some pretty spectacular screw-ups. But no. They're desperate for people and I, sucker that I am, agreed to keep coming in.

Get in line to smack me upside the head.

Lessons

2010-06-17T11:19:00.000-07:00

Today, during my Zumba class, I found a new hero. I want to be her. She is my new goal.

She's in her 30's, one of those white girls who is firmly convinced of her own hotness. Dark tan, highlighted hair, cutish face, mom-bod. No MILF here. Heavy hips, smallish chest, had some jello happening. If I passed her in the store, I wouldn't look twice. But she walked into that Zumba class, 20 minutes late, strode to the front of the room and proceeded to show us all what Zumba is about.

She-ra fuckin' owned that room. I could not stop watching her.

At first, I snorted a little. She was sporting a hot pink sport bra and her tank top was pulled down below her boobs and up above her waistline. Her pants were low and tight. I see a twenty year old hottie sporting that and I don't think twice. I see a woman in her 30's wearing that and I want to stage an intervention. Especially when she doesn't have the body for it. But as I continued to watch her, I realized what she lacked in hot body, she more than made up for in self-esteem and sheer attitude. She was watching herself in that mirror, obviously proud of what she saw. What I was feeling wasn't scorn. It was envy.

She was having a great time, she had the moves down cold, her energy was high and damn it if she wasn't radiating sex appeal. If I were attracted to women, I'd have asked for her number. Since I'm not, I just made a mental note: That is what you're striving for.

I know I'm never again going to have to tight little body that belonged to my teens. That's okay. And when I get to where She-ra, queen of Zumba is, I'm definitely not going to be buying the "LOOK AT MY TITS" wear she prefers. But I am going to stop worrying about how my ass and boobs are flapping around. I am going to wring every drop of fun out of the class and stop feeling self-conscious about how I look and am I in rhythm and oh shit, I can't do the mambo crossover. I'm gonna dance. I'm gonna clap. And eventually, I'll work up the moxie to look in the mirrors once in a while.

Eventually.

Bridges

2010-06-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like you have an event planned to perfection, only to have it fall to shreds in your hands? Please say yes, because otherwise, I might feel like an epic failure.

My co-leader, Aimee and I planned a lovely BBQ and bridging ceremony for our Daisies. We were going to a local park, highly recommended by a mom in our troop. We would BBQ, have brownies and Daisy cookies, hand out the patches each girl had earned and perform the bridging ritual for the oldest Daisies. Easy-peasy. Right?

Heh. Turns out the mom got the name of the park wrong. We issued evites with the name we were given, planned for a nice evening and got there to find the following:

a) The only BBQ was in use.
b) There was NO BRIDGE.
c) There was NO BATHROOM!

For those of you not brainwashed by the cult of Juliet Lowe, when a girl moves from one level to another, it is called bridging. Typically, the ceremony involves a small, portable bridge (like the kind frequently found in preschools). The girls cross from one side to another, symbolizing their ~~journey from child to woman~~ journey from level to level. It's all very full of pomp and bull shittery, which you know I just love. Or not. Whatever. I can fake it with the best of them. Just ask my ex-husband.

Aimee and I are not defeated by the little things. No, the spirit of the almighty trefoil runs strong in us. Her lovely husband ran home and got their grill. We set up on tables by the playground. We used the small bridge up on the play structure for our ceremony. Despite numerous melt-downs, a bitten-through tongue and a bloody nose (assorted girls and parents, not us), we soldiered on and I don't think I'm being delusional when I say that everyone had a decent time.

But damn, am I glad that's over.