Woulda Coulda Shoulda

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2005-07-06T18:28:00.001-05:00

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Movin' on uuuuuuuup!!!

2004-11-13T07:55:00.000-05:00

That something better I promised? I think it's ready.

Come see me at my new place, won't you?

Later, Blogger!

No. Just... NO.

2004-11-12T22:25:00.000-05:00

I'm the one and only Yahoo! search result for "uterus grew back".

I was kidding. Ewww.

(Yeah, I know I've been neglecting my blog duties. Sit tight, my pretties... something good is coming down the pike very soon, trust me.)

Mixed metaphors or channelling?

2004-11-12T12:23:00.000-05:00

This morning I happened upon Unexpected Disaster Mess #37 and blew my cool. I mean I lost it but good; the kind of scene where the children freeze, watch me with rapt attention, and then scurry away as quickly as possible before I decide to eat them.

A plant had been upturned. All over a nearby stack of... well... stuff. Clothes, papers, a bunch of stuff I've been meaning to put away. Anyway, as per usual, no one had done it, of course. I launched into my "everyone makes mistakes but I can't help fix it unless someone comes and TELLS me" speech, and both kids insisted that it wasn't them. The steam curled out of my ears as I sputtered.

"You two are like CIRCUS ANIMALS!!"

This perked Monkey up considerably. I'm sure he was envisioning a life of cotton candy and popcorn, and maybe even funny hats. Who knows. Chickadee just cocked her head to the side and was clearly debating the relative merits of pointing out that I wasn't making any sense.

I meant to say they were like barn animals. (Cuz that's much better parenting, don't you think? Accusing them of being barn animals?) I have no idea where the circus part came from. I might've been channelling Jenny. Jenny, can you account for the whereabouts of your psyche at about 7:30 EST this morning??

Lights! Cameras! Gawking!

2004-11-11T22:26:00.000-05:00

How do you know when you have a keeper of a babysitter? Take this simple test to find out!

You should keep your babysitter if:
A) The kids love her
B) She's reliable
C) She lives across the street
D) She's bright enough to call you "just to let you know" that a house a few doors down is on fire, there are multiple fire trucks and ambulances on the scene, and please do not freak out, they are all fine in your house, which by the way is not on fire, and also the kids are sleeping through the whole thing
E) All of the above

If you answered E, you're correct! You are also me! (So stop it, because that could get confusing.)

Usually on Thursday nights I head off to choir, come home, walk the sitter back across the street, and then relax in front of the TV. Tonight, I had to spend an additional ten minutes just getting to my house, because my street had turned into a veritable carnival. The sitter and I then walked past not one, not two, but THREE fire trucks en route to her house, which is--wait for it--only two doors down. We also passed everyone who lives within a five mile radius, I think.

Once I had her safely delivered to her door ("Are your parents home?" I asked. "They're probably standing out on the street watching the trucks," she laughed) I hustled back towards my house, as usual. But the people. My god. There wasn't a raging inferno or anything; maybe there had been, earlier, but by then there really wasn't anything to see other than a lot of rescue vehicles with flashing lights. And I cannot imagine that the rescue workers were finding all these milling, chatting people at all helpful. Yet there everyone stayed, like they were all on line for free food or something. I didn't recognize most of my neighbors, on account of I'm a bit of a hermit, and there were enough people there that most of them probably weren't actually neighbors. Likewise, most of them didn't recognize me, so I shouldn't have been surprised when they eyed me suspiciously. It could have been that I was walking away from the hubbub, which clearly hadn't occurred to any of them as a viable course of action.

Or it could have been that I yelled out, "Dude! Where's the keg at?" as I pushed my way through the throng. Either way.

She gives great encore

2004-11-11T13:18:00.000-05:00

Because I have all the memory and learning capacity of a paramecium, I turned on my Ben Folds Five CD in the car again today. When "Song for the Dumped" came on I immediately hit the button to skip to the next track, and Chickadee threw a hissy fit.

Her: NO! Go back! I like that song!!
Me: Honey, I don't think we should listen to it.
Her: But I LIKE IT!
Me: *wavering; hey, I like it too* Well, I guess we can listen to it, as long as you understand they use some bad language in this song that we will not be repeating. We don't use words like that, right?
Her: Right. I know, Mama.
Music: Well fuck you too! Gimme my money back, gimme my money back, you bitch!
Her: Mama?
Me: Yes, honey? *thinking: ooooohhh no*
Her: I would never talk like that. I would say, "May I have my money back, please?"
Me: MMmmffflllggg!
Her: Why are you laughing??

Cold feet

2004-11-10T00:33:00.000-05:00

One Christmas, my ex--who was infamous for being a lousy gift-purchaser--accidentally bought me something wonderful. Well, he paid full price (which as you know I would never condone), but it was wonderful anyway. He bought me a pair of "wicked good" slippers from LL Bean.

I despise the New England habit of labelling things as wicked in order to convey their fabulousness as much as the next transplant, but friends, these slippers live up to their name. They are soft and warm and comfortable and last forever and I may just marry mine this winter. They are that fab. Everyone who sees my amazing slippers covets them, and I am forever gently rebuffing folks with, "NO! THEY ARE MINE MINE MINE AND YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!"

In fact, the ex coveted them as soon as they arrived. So I did the appropriate thing, and waited two years until a pair in his size showed up at our local Bean outlet and then got him some. There's wicked good, and there's wicked expensive. I'm not saying these slippers aren't worth their full retail price, I'm just saying I'm cheap. Anyway.

Winter rolls around and you will find me in my wicked good slippers just about every moment that I'm here in the house. I'm wearing them right now! (And what are you wearing? Oh, wait; that's a different sort of entry altogether.) It is one of my greatest hopes that I will die with these slippers on and people will fight over who gets to pry them off my cold, dead feet.

It was only natural that when I found myself in a relationship, post-ex, the object of my affections would one day find himself admiring my slippers. And admire he did. And I returned the favor by visiting his place and laughing so hard I nearly peed when he pulled his ratty K-Mart slippers out from under the bed. Because I am sensitive that way. But once again, I found myself making regular trips to the Bean outlet to search for slippers.

I have mentioned this man here, before. He was a dear friend from my college days... a relationship where the occasional spark always managed to come at the wrong time... timing never worked in our favor... and I assumed he would forever be my "what if" guy. A few months after I filed for divorce, the planets aligned themselves and I no longer had to wonder. It was long-distance, but manageable. Things were amazing. For a while.

The children and I spent Thanksgiving with this man and his family, last year. We had a wonderful time down at his family's house (the kids have known him as a family friend since birth, so there was no explanation necessary for them other than "we're spending the holiday with friends"). The next day the kids went off to spend the weekend with my ex, and I was supposed to commence with a rare long weekend with my paramour.

I forget many of the details, but the Cliff Notes version is this: a delightful family-centered holiday and full approval from his entire family of not only me, but my offspring, as well, had freaked him right the hell out. He handled it with all the grace and dignity and self-awareness of your average bachelor, of course. First he picked an argument over nothing, then he commenced telling me how this was no longer any fun for him, and by the time he was into the full-on little-boy tantrum over not having everything in the world his way, I'd hung up on him.

My weekend was spent crying, drinking, sleeping, and waiting for him to show up on my doorstep to apologize. All of my friends were out of town for the holiday. I felt completely alone, humiliated, and bewildered. Saturday night I sent him an email asking if he was going to head back home without even talking to me (I couldn't take it any more), and he immediately mailed back that he was already home and had been since shortly after our phone call. And that was it.

Well, I thought that was it.

The following day (Sunday afternoon) he called. He was wracked with remorse. He was afraid he'd screwed up the only good thing in his life. He loved me and couldn't imagine losing me. We talked for about three hours. I told him I wasn't sure I could move past this. I did what any woman in my place would do: I told him I wasn't sure, and let's see what happens if we take it slow; and then I started polling all my girlfriends.

The overwhelming opinion was that he'd had an attack of cold feet not uncommon to his species. Many of the women I spoke with assured me that good, trainable men had done the same and lived to be acceptable, sensitive mates. It's a big step, picturing not only a life-long mate but children, for a bachelor, and all that family togetherness just tripped a circuit in his brain. Give him another chance, most urged.

So I did. He made it up to me every way he knew how, and when I finally came to trust that Thanksgiving was an isolated incident, I came out on the other side telling myself we were stronger and better as a couple and he was growing and learning and all that sort of stuff that I desperately wanted to believe.

The Bean outlet didn't come up with a pair of slippers before Christmas. So I bought him other presents, and he bought me some presents, and we had nearly a week of bliss together while the kids were at their dad's.

Sometime in February I found the slippers. Sure; it was early to be buying them for next Christmas. But they're hard to come by, and I could just put them away. I brought them home and tucked them up in a closet, smiling to myself to think how much he would love opening them next Christmas. Then I would tell him how far in advance I'd bought them, and he would make fun of my extreme bargaining tendencies, and I would threaten to return them... it would be great.

In March, the divorce was finalized. Huzzah! We planned a party. I bought the food; he bought the alcohol. He invited his friends and family and we planned to burn my marriage certificate. We spoke of the future.

And then, Monkey spiked a fever the day of the party. I called to cancel; I told him we'd have to do it another day because Monkey was sick. He kept saying things like, "But everyone's already planning to come!" and "Can't you just give him some medicine and put him to bed?" My stomach tightened. "Look," I hissed, "I was looking forward to this as much as you were, but my child is ill and I can't have a party tonight. I'm sorry my life is interfering with your fun."

It took a few more weeks before it all fell apart, but of course it did. He was too busy running away and hiding to even do me the courtesy of breaking up with me; finally I told him I was tired of this, and I'd told him long ago not to ask me to choose because he wouldn't win. He clearly wasn't ready for an adult relationship, and I had enough children already, thanks. He didn't ask me to reconsider. He didn't protest. He seemed relieved.

Me? I went on with the rest of my life and quietly shattered into about a billion teeny tiny pieces. Where I'd once been so pleased that I'd managed such a healthy recovery from my divorce, I now suffered all the trauma twofold--everything I'd put off acknowledging about the loss of my marriage, and everything that goes along with losing a fantasy romance. I started resigning myself to a life of loneliness, because only an idiot would go through that again.

I forgot about the slippers until I started cleaning out closets a few weeks ago. There they were, a reminder of the hope I'd once felt. I toyed with selling them on eBay along with a scathing, witty diatribe about their origins. Maybe it would be one of those famous auctions where the price goes sky-high because people are so entertained to hear about how bitter I am! Maybe he would come across the auction and be gripped with regret! Or maybe I should just grow the hell up.

Yesterday, I took them back to the outlet and returned them. The saleslady didn't even bat an eyelash when I confessed I'd bought them so long ago. "No problem!" she chirped. "Any time you have a receipt you can return any time!" No public humiliation for him; just some money credited back to my account, and the small hope that his feet--always so metaphorically chilly--are literally cold this winter, as well.

My feet are toasty in my pair. Maybe there's hope for me thawing, yet.

Nothing to see here; move along

2004-11-09T13:25:00.000-05:00

I haven't the heart to embed a pic of myself in the post so that it flashes right up at you when the page loads. Heck; turning the loyal Blog Explosion surfers to stone isn't explicitly stated as grounds for expulsion from BE, but I'm guessing that if word got around, I'd be in trouble.

But you all responded so kindly to the pic of just my eyes and specs (although someone said my eyes are brown and I cried because they're hazel and I felt so misunderstood). It became a real personal challenge to figure out how to snap a pic of myself either by stretching my arms or using the mirror. The result is here for your viewing pleasure. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I kid! Obviously, that's not really me. That chick is way better looking than I am; also in better focus, with some actual color balance, and not smiling the big ol' fake smile of "dear sweet Jesus make this photo be halfway presentable or I am going to smash this here camera into tiny little bits and never let such a device anywhere near me ever again, amen." Also, her eyes aren't hazel. So eventually I gave up, accepting that I am to be slightly blurry and yellow-tinted (you can't use an attached flash in the mirror, ya know), and vowing never ever ever to promise the internet a picture of me ever again.

Call off the alert

2004-11-09T11:26:00.000-05:00

Good news! I survived.

I did half an hour on the elliptical trainer, then ~~collapsed onto the floor weeping~~ stretched out for a while. While my hindquarters are still markedly jiggly, I'm feeling the burn, baby.

Unfortunately, Mary only placed second in the Minnesota-wide mathematics competition, and Laura's bundt cake fell apart. It was touch and go there, for a bit. In the end it was okay, though; the town welcomed Mary back with open arms and some dude in a tophat declaring in a thick Scandinavian accent, "Tank you, Mary Ingalls, for putting Walnut Grove on da map!", and Pa said the cake still tasted "mighty fine." Phew.

In other news, Big Company strikes again! They must've heard I've kicked the sugar and all, because even though I turned them down on their offer to be a Vice President of Finance, they're back begging at my door, again. Today they've contacted me to let me know I should apply to be a Vice President of Management Effectiveness. And let me tell you, it's about time they recognized my abilities.

My first decree as VP of Management Effectiveness shall go like this: Hey, get your heads out of your butts and try actually matching people to jobs for which they're qualified, and then when they apply for those jobs, call them back and hire them. Big Company--heck, most big companies--could use some work in this area. I'm gonna have my work cut out for me.

Also, once I'm a VP, I don't think I'm allowed to use the word "gonna" anymore. Pity.

Step 13

2004-11-09T09:57:00.000-05:00

I will exercise until my ass and thighs no longer jiggle like a bowlful of jelly when I walk, or until I get tired and need to lie down.

Please stay by your phones. I am headed upstairs to remove my wardrobe from the elliptical trainer, watch reruns of "Little House on the Prairie" on the Hallmark Channel (they're actually great for exercising; it's hard to wimp out while watching a little girl rescue her entire family from a flood or build a house out of logs ya know), and ride like the wind to... nowhere. If I'm not back in an hour, please call 911. And send coffee.

"Hi, Mir!!"

2004-11-08T20:49:00.000-05:00

My name is Mir, and I'm a sugarholic. Today marks the first day of the rest of my life (at least until the Christmas season is fully upon us and it becomes my civic duty to eat a lot of sweets again). I plan to take it one day at a time, working my way through all twelve steps of recovery. But I'm really gifted, you know, so I've made it most of the way through the program already.

Step 1: I admit that I am powerless over sugar, and my life has become unmanageable. Today I marched my fanny down to the grocery store determined to pick up the fixings for a healthful, protein-rich dinner. Pork chops were on sale for about $.12/pound as long as you bought the gargantuan family pack, so I brought home about twenty pounds of pork chops and after I divided and repackaged and froze most of them, I prepared a lovely dinner. Yay me. My children performing delicate surgery on the sugar-snap pea pods to extract the peas and then decorate the table with empty pods didn't faze me in the slightest, so grounded was I with my large glass of water and delightfully lean, rosemary-crusted pork.

Step 2: I have come to believe that a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity. Well, duh. Obviously it's gonna take a whole lotta power to restore me to sanity. It's been years since I believed I could do it myself, candy or no. I hope God is up to the task.

Step 3: I made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as I understand Him. This was another no-brainer. My understanding of God is that He'll help me with this if I ask, but He's just gonna shake his head and laugh if I continue to leave the Halloween candy on the counter. That seems fair. So here's the deal: I vanished the rest of the candy, and He has to keep me from baking cookies. I think that's reasonable.

Step 4: I made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. I can't seem to find a job, or a life, but I'm quite able to find anything high in calories. What does this say about me? It says I'm lazy. Maybe if I focused more of my time and energy on some other stuff, I'd be less compelled to stuff my face.

Step 5: I admitted to God, to myself, and to another human being the exact nature of my wrongs. God and I had a long talk. He was very understanding. Much moreso than I was, with myself. And when I confessed to Chickadee that I sneaked some Milk Duds out of her bucket, well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.

Step 6: I am entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. But damn if He isn't slow. Sheesh.

Step 7: I humbly asked Him to remove my shortcomings. Well, I'm not so great at humble. And it may have been less a request and more of a business proposition... something about how if I stop eating candy, maybe he could drop a job in my lap, or, you know, whatever He saw fit. I'm a little fuzzy on the details, because somewhere in the middle I was struck by lightning.

Step 8: I made a list of all persons I had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all. I'm still working on this one, because if my ex is to be believed, the affected number somewhere in the thousands. But if I limit the list to people directly affected by my sugar-mania, it's just the kids. (Phew.)

Step 9: I made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others. Giving the children--who are in sugar comas, themselves--more candy at this point would be wrong on many levels. So I 'fessed up to all my pilfering, and bought them some celery and granola bars. They're still not speaking to me, but I think they may come around when they figure out how much college tuition costs.

Step 10: I have continued to take personal inventory and when I was wrong promptly admitted it. Well, sure, the first part is working out great. Fortunately, I am never wrong, so I haven't had to do that whole admitting thing. (Who said this was hard?)

Step 11: I have sought through prayer and meditations to improve my conscious contact with God as I understand Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for me and the power to carry that out. We're in total agreement on the candy thing. He's quite silent on most other matters in my life right now, but I have a feeling that we'll be speaking often once I find out more about that high F.

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I am trying to carry this message to other sugar addicts, and to practice these principles in all my affairs. This is really the greatest step of all. So empowering. Hey, I'm here to tell you that consuming your body weight in candy corn will not improve your job situation. Steam some vegetables! You'll thank me later.

Who wants a rice cake?

The Stay-Puff Marshmallow Monkey

2004-11-08T00:49:00.000-05:00

It's November. It's November in New England. It's winter coat weather.

Chickadee adores her bus driver, and with good reason; that woman is remarkable. You couldn't pay me enough to get up early in the morning and drive around an entire busload of children. Half the time, I don't want to cart around the two who share my DNA, so really, I don't know where she gets her deep reserves of cheerfulness and goodwill, but I applaud her. The only downside to her great zeal for transporting our town's youth is that Monday mornings just don't come quickly enough for her liking. She is always early on Monday mornings.

Go ahead and take a guess which day of the week is the hardest one for us to get out the door on time. Go ahead! I'll wait.

Yeah.

Our bus stop is about a block away, and on Monday mornings, we drive. Heck, most Monday mornings, I'm in the process of driving over there when the bus comes around the corner and I end up screeching to a halt to run Chickadee over to where the bus driver has stopped to wait for us. We run over and I shove her on the bus while panting, "Sorry! Thanks for stopping!" and all the kids on the bus point and laugh. It's a delightful way to kick off the week.

Today, I was determined to get to the bus stop on time. And we did it! (Unfortunately, my fellow mothers were not quite so lucky. A mom from several streets over pulled up and hustled her child onto the bus, and after the bus pulled away someone else flagged it down before it turned back to the main road. Nice to know I'm not alone in my Mondayitis, at least.) I got everything and everyone packed and into the car and we made it to the bus stop with a minute or two to spare. Huzzah!

Given that we only drive a block, on a residential street with no traffic, I don't insist that the children buckle up for our jaunt to the bus stop. In fact, I may or may not back the car out of the garage at 45 mph while hollering, "Don't bother with your belts! No time! Must drive!" Part of my worry this morning--the first morning that the children have donned their winter coats--was that Monkey wasn't actually going to fit under the 5-point harness on his carseat. So we jetted to the neighbors, packed Chickadee into the bus, and then I tried to buckle him in to continue on our way to his school.

That's when things got ugly with Monkey. It pains me to use "ugly" and "Monkey" in the same sentence, because he is perhaps the most gorgeous boy-child ever to walk the face of the earth (based on my completely unbiased opinion, of course, and those big green eyes). But Monkey's new winter jacket is warm and fluffy and wonderful, and also transforms him into the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Monkey in a way that is nothing short of alarming.

Parents of little ones are familiar with the 5-point harness: two straps come over the shoulders, buckle in a plastic clip at chest-height, and then two smaller clips hook into the strap that comes up between the legs. If I pulled one strap over his shoulder, by the time I got the second one situated, the first one had sunk and disappeared in his lovely fluffy jacket. When I got the chest clip fastened, Monkey started making elaborate choking and gagging sounds while I tried to figure out where the clips for the crotch buckle had gone. (How many google hits do you suppose I will get for "crotch buckle" now? Ewwww.) I took him out of the seat and tried to loosen the straps to no avail. (The straps on Monkey's seat are adjustable... as long as you don't actually have the seat correctly buckled into your car. Once situated, the adjustable straps no longer adjust. Gah.)

Meanwhile, Monkey was entertaining himself by beating his chest and otherwise poking at his coat to see how fluffy he could make it and then how quickly he could squish it down again. If that jacket were white he totally could've gone on a city-wide rampage, all cute and adorable yet huge and frightening all at once!

I finally gave up. "Monkey," I said, "go sit in Chickadee's seat." Chickadee sits in a belt-positioning booster that uses the regular (adjustable!) car seat belt. He sat down and I buckled him right in, no problems. A huge grin broke over his face.

"I'm ridin' in Chickie's seat all the way to school? Really, Mama? REALLY?"

I found his excitement hilarious. I mean... hello... it's a seat and a seatbelt. The big deal is...? But as we drove I began to see that a whole new world had opened up to him and he must've felt like he'd won the lottery.

"This not squishing me AT ALL, Mama!" "Hey, I can turn around and look out the BACK! I'm not stuck!" "If it gets a little too tight, I just pull it like this and it's fine!" "I am just like a big kid, sitting here like this!"

He raved and gushed all the way to school. Part of it was the novelty, sure. And another part may have even been the thrill of being king-for-a-day (king-for-a-drive?) when used to being ruled by a tempermental princess. But a large part of it was just Monkey's special kind of joy at being big enough, a goal he spends much of his time pursuing.

"Good morning, Monkey," called out one of the teachers as we walked into the classroom.

"My coat is so puffy!" he answered happily. "I had to ride in my sister's seat! It was SO FUN!"

Monkey is nearly five years old, and around 38 pounds. Legally you can move a child to the regular car seatbelt (with a booster seat, please) once they reach 4 years or 30 pounds, whichever comes last. The seat he's in now allows the 5-point harness until 40 pounds, and I was trying to get him there before switching him to a belt-positioning booster. I've always reasoned that he's small for his age, and he's better protected in the 5-point harness.

But today was eye-opening for me. Monkey is my baby. I try not to treat him like a baby, but, did I mention that HE'S MY BABY? He's my last baby. I will never have another. Chickadee has been such a mini-adult her entire life; I was thrilled when Monkey came along, all cuddles and goofiness and childishness. I needed a little reminder that he's going to grow up whether I want him to or not, and it's okay, and he's still my baby even though he really isn't a baby anymore. He's old enough and big enough for a booster seat. So I came home and put the other booster seat in the car for him, and put away the old seat.

It's bittersweet. Of course, I must confess that my epiphany may have been spurred along just a little by the realization that I wasn't sure I could take another winter of buckling in and out over the puffy jacket....

Just one more reason why I love her so

2004-11-07T21:26:00.000-05:00

Despite Kira's staunch refusal to have a sex-change operation and marry me, I do love her like a soul-mate.

Behold but a sampling of the wisdom that issues forth from her on a regular basis:

"Where the heck are all the single Christians? I mean, do most people require the horrors of marriage to drive them into the arms of God?"

You can see why I am quite smitten.

Higher, too

2004-11-07T13:15:00.000-05:00

It's started already. People are falling under the spell of the new me with my fabulous new glasses. Fame and fortune are within my grasp; as is utter humiliation. To wit:

The scene is the church kitchen. Choir rehearsal has finished, and I am hiding in the kitchen sucking down a cup of coffee before it's time to go upstairs for the service. I'm chatting with a fellow choir member. We are having a deeply spiritual conversation about the relative merits of various coffee makers.

Him: So yeah, it works pretty well, but it has one of those permanent filters, and so the coffee always tastes a little plasticy.
Me: Mmmm, plastic coffee!
Him: But you can use a regular paper filter, I guess. That would probably fix that problem.
Me: Uh huh. And how long have you been enjoying your plastic-flavored coffee?

The door swings open and the choir director sticks her head in. She looks around until she sees me, then points at me.

Her: Can you do an F?
Me: *blank stare*
Her: A high F. Can you hit a high F?
Me: Oh. Yeah, sure.
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WAIT. Why?
Her: Will you be at rehearsal on Thursday?
Me: Yes...?
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WHY??
Her: Yoooouuuu'll see!
*The choir director leaves and I swear we can hear her cackling all the way up the stairs.*
Me: Ack...?
Him: I think you've just been the victim of a hit-n-run solo.
Me: Goody.

You see, I do not mind singing solos. Truth be known, I'm a bit of an attention monger (shocking, I know). We've started rehearsals for our Christmas concert and I usually get assigned something extra and so yes, fine, a solo, excellent. But there's a big difference between "Can you hit a high F for maybe an eighth note duration amongst the entire choir of voices" and "Can you hit a high F for perhaps a very long time when yours is the only voice singing."

Because, friends, I am an alto. Okay, fine. On the off chance that my voice teacher from high school is reading this: I'm technically a mezzo, which means my range falls inbetween an alto and a soprano. But in most standard choral arrangements, one is either an alto or a soprano.

For those of you who don't sing, that means that I sing low. It means that while the chirpy ladies in the front row are singing melody just as perky as can be, I am in the second row singing some sort of low funky harmony filled with lots of sharps and flats and other weirdness, but no high Fs. I like it that way.

I'm ready to work up a new ad campaign for the makers of my frames. "Look smart, sexy, hip... and more like a soprano. Just see if you don't." I mean, it's possible the choir director was just smoking crack or something, but I tend to think it was the glasses.

Please check back next Thursday for a full-fledged panic attack, depending on what I find out. Also, if you'd like to come to our Christmas concert this year? It's on Sunday the eleventeenth of Pretendember. I hope you can all make it.

Spec-tacular

2004-11-06T19:19:00.000-05:00

Hey, guess what! It is incredibly difficult to take a picture of oneself if one or more of the following conditions is true:

1) You're a lousy photographer.
2) You have normal-length arms.
3) Your fancy camera has a big-ass zoom lens, thereby assuring that there is no way to get the lens a decent distance from your face.
4) Your fancy camera's LCD display does not swivel so that it can be seen from the other side of the camera, and therefore half the pictures you take are either of the top of your head or your chin.

Who knew?

I promised a picture of the new specs, and I shall deliver. Too bad I can't share a picture of my whole face, but, well, I never got one that didn't feature freakily enlarged facial features on account of the above-mentioned issues. Not sharing those has nothing to do with my personal vanity, you understand. It's just that I don't want to detract from the beauty of my new glasses. That's it.

Ahem.

Here they are!

What you can't tell from this picture, because I suck, is that they are a deep plum purple. And the side pieces are all hammered and texture-y and nifty. Also, I am naked and sticking my tongue out. (Just kidding. I'm not naked.)

I can see clearly now

2004-11-06T14:23:00.000-05:00

I think I forgot to mention that yesterday my new glasses finally arrived. I dragged the children out in 50 mile-per-hour gale force winds to pick them up, because I'm just that good of a mother.

Anyway, remember how these new glasses are going to make me look younger and thinner and sexier and blahdi blah blah? I'm not convinced. However, it's amazing how--when one has adapted to seeing poorly--finally being able to see clearly is such a shock. I mean, I knew my old glasses were scratched and spotted, but what a difference to put on lenses I could actually see through! So that part was pretty good. Briefly.

First problem: these glasses are smaller than my previous pair. (Please wake me when the trend towards ever-smaller frames is over, otherwise my next pair will be featuring lenses the size of Junior Mints.) That's all well and good, but it means that I can see the entire frame in my peripheral vision. I will adjust to this, after awhile, but I haven't, yet. No, right now I'm still doing a passable impression of your dog in his Halloween costume... "WHAT'S THAT THING?? Oh, it's attached to my head. Okay. WAIT! WHAT'S THAT?? Oh, right, the thing attached to my head. Hey I'M GONNA GET THAT THING... that's attached to my head. Dammit."

That may be interfering with the attractiveness aspect, just a tad.

The other problem is that now that I can see, um, I can see. As in, I woke up this morning and looked around my house and my horror at the squalor I beheld was heart-stopping. It's possible that my old glasses aren't entirely responsible for me being a lazy housekeeper, but try to work with me and the flow of the story here. Thanks. So I woke up and put on my new, clear glasses and realized that my house is disgusting, and said to myself, "Self," (I said) "I need to do some serious cleaning right now." Then my self answered ever-so-sweetly, "Pssst! Take your glasses off again and we can have breakfast and check email first!" So of course I did that; but afterwards, I started cleaning.

I cleaned all the bathrooms. I cleaned all the bedrooms. I changed sheets and towels and started laundry. I put away the Halloween decorations (shut up). I put away the clean dishes that have been sitting in the dishwasher for... ummm... well, I put them away and how long they were there is irrelevant. I reloaded the dishwasher. I cleaned the scary science experiments out of the fridge and dumped out containers and put them in the dishwasher. I filled and took out two gigantic bags of trash. I cleaned the kitchen. I picked up the various toys and books that have vomited forth from the playroom to every corner of the house. I spent some quality time with my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. I sorted through a week's worth of mail and two weeks worth of school detritus from my little darlings. Then I stopped and had some candy corn.

What?? I said I got new glasses, not that I had a brain transplant.

I still need to vacuum and mop, but if I did that right away, then I'd have nothing to focus on except the fact that I still haven't raked and it's a beautiful day and I really should, so I'm trying to pace myself.

People, I polished my tea kettle. For real. I'm not sure what came over me. (Note to self: stop reading the "Little House" books with Chickadee.) I was a little worried about that, but then I realized that as soon as the kids come home, the entire house will be a shambles again. And at that point, should you come visit me, I can distract you from the mess with my shiny, shiny kettle. See how nicely that works out?

Also, I am a bit miffed about the whole vacuuming situation. I just vacuumed, seems like. Probably I didn't; probably it was a month ago, but I swear it seems like it was just last week. I cannot tell you how much I adore the school that Monkey attends; we have been patrons there for coming up on five years and it is a marvelous place run by incredible people. They have four different playgrounds on the premises. Every single one of them is sand. Sand as far as the eye can see. Sand under the swings, sand under the slides, sand all around the climbers, and a little extra sand in the sandbox. Nice and soft and lovely and cheap.

Guess who comes home five days a week with two sneakers filled to the brim with sand? We have devised multiple complex rituals for dealing with the sand; taking shoes off and emptying them out before we even enter the house, taking shoes off very carefully and dumping the sand in the trash; dumping out shoes before we even leave school, etc. Monkey is a charming child who is incapable of grasping the importance of not filling my entire frigging house with sand. There is no procedure that will sway him from his delight at seeing little piles of sand on the mud room floor. One day I was literally mid-sentence praising him for doing such a good job with his shoes and disposing of the sand properly, when he took off his jacket and sand poured from both pockets as he giggled.

It's a good thing he's cute.

Chickadee's school, on the other hand, is everything you'd want in a public elementary school. The playground is bedded with gravel. It toughens those kids up and more importantly, children tend not to come home with shoes full of rocks because that would be uncomfortable. She spends a lot of time in the nurse's office having her various boo-boos soothed, but my floor and I thank her. I plan to leave her all of my Magic Erasers in my will.

Anyway, I knew I needed to vacuum, but feeling my bare feet go CRUNCH CRUNCH across the mud room floor as I headed to the laundry almost sent me over the edge. Meanwhile, although it was the most annoying cleaning hurdle, trekking back and forth to tend to everything else was just spreading the sand out. So I figured I'd better save it for last.

Once the vacuuming and the mopping is done, I may take a shower and snap a picture of the new specs. Or I may take a nap. It's too close to call right now. But before I do any of that, I have to get this thing that keeps hovering right by my eye... oh, right. Crap. Nevermind.

Date night

2004-11-05T21:23:00.000-05:00

I think maybe someday I'll have an actual date that involves leaving the house, on the weekend, but maybe not until after I'm dead. Don't ask me how that would work, logistically, because I have no idea. It made sense when I wrote it. Honest.

Anyway, after my snarky moment that produced the last post, I decided to share with everyone the Softer Side of Mir and give you a view into what has become my traditional Friday night. Uncut and uncensored! Wooooo!! Cover your children's eyes cuz this is gonna be wiiiiiild!

Or not. But it will be less bitchy than some of my previous stuff.

My wild no-holds-barred evening started with... a salad. I tried to warn you. I just get all freaky on the weekends. Well, the truth is that I have eaten so much candy this week my body staged a revolt and demanded something green. And I thought it best to give in before my brain got the brilliant idea to throw out the remaining candy. And anyway, it was necessary to have something semi-healthful to prepare myself for the veritable orgy to follow.

Deep breaths.

Okay, here's the truth of my wild and crazy evening. I popped a bag of kettle corn in the microwave. I grabbed a beer (not a bunch of beers, or even some nice wine... one. single. lite. beer). And I turned on What Not To Wear. Did you know that it's been clinically proven that there is a limit to how sorry you can feel for yourself while watching Stacy and Clinton tell some poor sap how fashion-retarded they are? It's true.

Also? Being single means you can eat popcorn in bed. (It also means that's the most exciting thing that happens in bed, but I'm trying to be positive, here.)

Watching this show totally makes me wish I wasn't such a sharp dresser. I could get behind having $5,000 to spend on a new wardrobe. But--alas--although my shortcomings could fill several volumes, I could actually be a poster child for "The Rules" that Stacy and Clinton are always trying to drill into people's heads. Carmindy would scold me for generally eschewing make-up, though. And the very fact that I am sitting in bed drinking beer, eating popcorn, and fantasizing about being on a television show aimed at the style oblivious, is a sign that I need a whole lotta help.

Don't all be jealous at once, now. I worked long and hard to attain my glamorous lifestyle, you know.

Newsflash: it's not anonymous!

2004-11-05T18:55:00.000-05:00

So, hi, friends, and newcomers from Blog Explosion. You do all realize that when you rate blogs, it's not anonymous, right? Because, um, I'm not gonna name any names, here, but some people who have me blogrolled have recently gone to Blog Explosion and given my little ol' blog a lousy rating.

This leads me to believe one or more of the following:

1) You're stupid.

2) You have lousy taste.

3) Someone held a gun to your head and forced you to blogroll me (and really, if that happens? please contact the news because I think such a story would be fascinating), and then you thought you were rating me anonymously and I wouldn't know it was you.

4) You're drunk.

I mean, hey. Whatever. It's not a huge deal. But why blogroll me if you think I suck? I don't get it. Of course, there are lots of things I don't get. Like low-carb pasta. Or thinking that exercise is fun. Or decaffeinated coffee. Or refusing to enjoy movies that have subtitles. Or brazilian bikini waxes. The list goes on; this is just to show you that I'm fully aware that lots of things in the world puzzle me and I've made peace with this confusion. This particular thing, though? I think may be predicated on the notion of some sort of stealth and incognito-ness, and if that's the case, I just wanted to let y'all know you're mistaken.

And also busted. Thanks, by the way.

I've been frying my retinas; what's her excuse?

2004-11-05T11:48:00.000-05:00

I've decided to spruce up the pit a little. You know; if I'm gonna be spending most of my time down here, I may as well be comfortable. I've added imaginary flokati rugs and a groovy lava lamp, just because. On the non-fictitious side, I've finally dug out and dusted off my lightbox, and just spent my first half-hour of the season sitting in front of it.

Now I am blind. But! So much happier! Well, not really. After about a week of consistent use, I will stop wanting to sleep all the time, though. Which will, of course, give me more time to lay on the rug eating candy and admiring my imaginary lava lamp.

It's good to have goals.

You may recall how thrilled I was to have a 100% successful round of eBay auctions. No dumb questions, and all of my buyers were lovely people who paid me on time. Naturally this gave me a false sense of hope and impelled me to tempt fate by posting up twice as many auctions the following week, and now I am paying for my foolish optimism. In each and every auction description the following line appears:

Shipping: I will ship this item within the U.S. only.

Confusing, yes? That's why a nice lady emailed me yesterday to ask if I will "ship international." I was very tempted to reply that I only ship internationally for those who meet my stringent grammar requirements, and thus I had to decline her request. Instead I was polite in my response, but a feeling of dread has come over me. The morons have found me again.

How long would I have to sit in the glow of the lightbox before I am either immune or just too blind to read my email?

Greetings from the pit

2004-11-04T21:04:00.000-05:00

For a while there, I had my funk on. I mean for real. For the last couple of days, I have been honing The Wallow into a delicate art form, reaching sublime heights of self-pity and hopelessness. I have consumed naught but Halloween candy and coffee, slept more hours than I care to admit, ignored my phone, discarded my mail, and sported the Sloppy Ponytail Of What The Hell Does It All Matter Anyway.

I was down deep, and wanting nothing more than to burrow deeper still.

If this were fiction, now I would tell you about how the perfect job offer fell out of the sky, or my friends gathered around me and sang Kumbaya, or some crisis with the children forced me to pull myself together, or that I was reaching for a jar of spanish olives at the grocery store and my fingertips brushed those of a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Who was rich. And fell in love with me immediately. You know; something good, like that.

None of these things happened. My friends are marvelous. I adore my friends; each and every one of you (and you know who you are, or if you don't I will smack you later) is regarding me with puzzlement, and concern, and helplessness. And love. I know that I am loved, even as I know that what I need--in large part--is not going to come from one of you, much to our mutual chagrin. I know that if I could figure out what it is that I need, and if that thing were something any of you could offer, I could ask and it would be provided. Reality is, of course, so much more complicated than that. But this hypothetical is a comfort, even down in the pit.

Anyway. Salvation has not arrived just yet, but the multiple hesitant overtures from those I love, together with two little faces regarding me as Someone Who Is In Control, have served to prod me into grabbing those proverbial bootstraps. Picture me, dear readers, leaning over some very shoddy boots and trying to grab their straps. I am of course having great difficulty with this task, as both hands are full of candy corn. But pretend I stuffed the candy corn in my mouth, and am now pulling the boots up. They're ugly, and uncomfortable, but there I am, pulling them up, anyway.

So that's how it came to be that I was sitting at the computer this evening, half-heartedly surfing the job ads in my local paper, when a friend phoned. I almost didn't pick up; but this is a friend with whom I haven't spoken for a while, so on the last ring before my machine grabbed it, I answered. In no time at all, I found myself embroiled in a lively debate wherein my friend insisted that she knows a woman with an adam's apple. I was trying to explain to her why most people call women with adam's apples men. This discussion became more prolonged than you might believe possible; but she lives in West Virginia, if that's any explanation.

[Side note, since she's probably already pissed at me for mentioning that: my ex's family is from West Virginia, so nothing gives me quite so much joy as ragging on West Virginians for being hicks. In fact, in a bizarre six degrees of inbred-ness twist of events, we had been friends for years before figuring out that her mother is best buddies with one of my ex's aunts. Go figure. And that was how I came to learn--during my divorce proceedings--that I was not only refusing to work and robbing my ex blind, but also having an affair! After recovering from the shock of the entire state of West Virginia knowing this before I did, I informed my friend that she should let the gossipy aunt know that if I was having an affair, I was sorely disappointed in the lack of sex.]

Maybe it was the extended banter about the suspected hermaphrodite that lifted my spirits, initially. A giggle or two turned into laughing fits and threats of incontinence (from her). As we talked I was still scanning the jobs. "OH!" I exclaimed. "I have to read you this one! What a great job!" The mirth ceased as she waited expectantly.

"Food Demonstrator," I read in my best serious voice. "Immediate openings for local supermarket, Thursday through Saturday 11 am to 5 pm. You pick the days. Up to $9/hr!" Here I paused to collect myself for what came next. But I couldn't quite pull it off--my voice cracked as I added, "Must have own card table."

We howled. Howled. Not that you need your own transportation, or a valid driver's license, or some sort of certification. No. A card table. I mean, sure, we'd love to hire you based on your love of demonstrating food, what with the complex process of lifting it up and putting it into one's mouth and all; not everyone can handle that. But no card table? I'm so sorry. We hooted and cackled and added our own commentary until we could barely breathe. I was wiping tears from my eyes during a pause when she said,

"Well? Do you have a card table??"

"SHIT! No!" And we were off in fresh gales. We laughed so hard and so long that the next time she threatened to wet her pants, I had a horrible thought.

"Hey! You're gonna pee, but I think maybe I'm bipolar. This is bordering on a manic episode," I said. Real friends know when to laugh and when to be serious. She didn't let me down.

"Oh no," she said, her voice low. "I think maybe you should... buy a card table!"

That was a long and pointless story to let you all know that I think I'm going to live. I'm not out of the pit or anything, but there's a ladder here. Even though I am apparently so lacking that I cannot even get a job as a food demonstrator. But if anyone wants to pay me to show them how to eat candy, let me know.

Limbo

2004-11-03T13:33:00.000-05:00

One of the joys of moving to public school and first grade is that Chickadee's world had suddenly expanded due to "Specialists." Every day her class "does a Specialist," which is grade-school-speak for going to music, or art, or gym. Part of the excitement is leaving the classroom and switching teachers as well as locales, making Specialist time quite special indeed.

While most of the Specialists are doing similar things to what she did in private kindergarten last year, the attainment of a gymnasium full of equipment has been the pinnacle of exotic change. I struggle to follow along as she tells me stories on Monday afternoon ("Monday is Gym Specialist!") of elaborate games involving some children being wolves with rubber chickens while others are hunters on scooter boards, pulling tote bags. I have to admit, it sounds fun (if a bit complicated).

Early in the year, they had a limbo contest during gym. My Chickadee excelled at this, and no wonder. Those are some tricky little birdie feet she has, and very flexible knees, all to go along with her surprising strength that seems impossible for a wisp of a kid. But limbo she did, and limbo she has ever since. "Evvvvvvvverybody liiiiiiiiimbo!" she'll call out as she drops her shoulders back and shimmies under my arm resting on the bathroom doorway. "Hey Mama, put your hand on the counter," she'll exhort as we're standing in the kitchen. Once I comply she's dancing under my forearm with a huge grin. "Look how low I can go, Mom!"

It occurred to me today that once again my daughter and I are reflecting one another through a filter that renders us similar but oh-so-different. She is dancing with abandon, relishing how low she can go. I am living that other limbo, seeing how low I've sunk, and waiting for the inevitable shift in balance that will send me crashing to the ground.

Today I have been unemployed for exactly fifty-four weeks. I have formally applied for thirty-five different jobs (that doesn't include networking and informational contacts). It would appear that I am still without employment.

It feels like every other statement out of my mouth starts with, "Once I...." Once I get him out of the house, I can start figuring things out. Once I have the divorce finalized, I can move on. (Um, the divorce has been finalized for eight months, now. Apparently I am awaiting a written invitation to start living again.) Once I have a job, I can make some financial decisions. Once I don't have to pay for daycare anymore, I can work a crap job and actually have some money. Once I start dating again, I... hmm. I don't actually know what that last one would mean, other than that hell has frozen over.

My world has been in limbo for so long, I'm not sure I'd know how to resume moving forward if the perfect moment smacked me upside the head. In the meantime, I find myself wistful and jealous to behold my daughter's giggles as she contorts her body to slide under obstacles. Me? I've been treading water in a very small, very cold pond for what is starting to feel like eternity. I'm tired. A review of the choices that brought me to the present shakes my confidence to the point where doing nothing seems safer than trying anything.

Limbo: It's probably a nice place to visit, but it sure sucks to live here.

Even my politics come back to food in the end

2004-11-02T16:35:00.000-05:00

In my state there is no sort of identification check at the polls. You walk in, give your name, and get a ballot. Three different people mark your name off a list, which is a wonderful system of checks and balances and a good use of time considering that I could walk in there and pretend to be my neighbor, a friend, or just about anyone with a common last name. Polling fraud? No way! Not here! Thanks for your vote, Ms. Smith!

The political signs in everyone's yards and along the sides of the road baffle me under the best of circumstances. I mean, okay; this is America! Land of the free and the home of the billboard! I get that. And I even sorta kinda get putting a sign in your own yard, if you feel passionate about letting everyone know your political preference. But on the roads? On highway ramps? Why?? This has always confused me. Worse yet are all the people standing along the roads with signs today. Can someone point me to a documented case where an informed voter (heck, even an uninformed voter) was driving to the polls with every intention of casting her vote for Candidate X and then passed a person waving a Candidate Y sign and thought to herself, "Self, I've had this all wrong. Look at that font. Behold the red stripe of freedom. And the sign holder is clearly freezing in the drizzle so he must be right about Candidate Y!"? I don't think so.

Now for some useful information: The antidote for eating way too much Halloween candy is to drop the kids off for their dinner with Daddy and then purchase a quart of hot-and-sour soup from the cheap Chinese takeout. Eat until you feel sick. This will enable you to walk past the candy bags for once without grabbing something. (For an hour, anyway.)

Ready, willing, and filled with dread

2004-11-02T10:43:00.000-05:00

Chickadee has the day off from school today, and will be coming with me to the polls. I'm trying to figure out how to make this a learning experience without letting her catch on the to fact that I dread just about everything about election day. Maybe I can tell her that we vote and then we spend several days waiting to hear who really won and then everyone argues about it before, during, and after and that's just lots of FUN! No? Hmmm.

I've also been informed that a decision will be made today about the That Job I'm Not Thinking About and I will hear tonight or tomorrow. So that, on top of it being election day, is just about too much for a control freak like me to take. I need some more snack-size Butterfingers.

Indomitable... kinda

2004-11-01T22:30:00.000-05:00

I want to write about something meaningful and deep and all that, but my mind keeps returning to my plethora of interview-related faux pas from this morning. (What is the plural of faux pas? Faux pases? Faux pax? Faux pas de deux?) I may as well just bare all and hope that by allowing the entire internet to see what a dork I am, ultimately I will be able to stop thinking about it for a while. You know, sort of a delegation of responsibility.

Okay, team! Listen up! You, over there, spend the next few hours pondering what a tremendous misfit I am, and when you tire of it, pass the baton to the next person. But I need to move on to some other issues, like why it is that you can buy the Equate brand equivalents of many of my favorite beauty products for half what the name brands cost, and the ingredient lists appear to be identical, but it's possible that "other ingredients" is actually code for "goat urine."

Okay, so, my morning included (but was not limited to) the following:

1) Spending half an hour walking around my house in my bathrobe, clutching the outfit I intended to wear, strolling in and out of different patches of sunlight and artificial light, trying to determine whether my blouse was the same navy blue as the color in the pattern of my blazer. (Can you tell that one too many times I have left the house in an outfit that matched in my bathroom that was later revealed in full sunlight to clash horribly?)

2) Spending fifteen minutes applying cover-up to my eleventy billion pimples because at 33 years old stress will still cause me to break out like a horny teenage boy.

3) Pinching my eyelid in my eyelash curler so hard that my eyes watered and I had to muster every ounce of willpower to suck those tears back into my eyeballs because I had already applied my mascara, dammit.

4) Brilliantly getting the idea to generate Mapquest directions to my destination because the directions sent to me didn't take into account my starting point, and I was just so sure there was a shorter and faster way to get there. Well, there was. Too bad I missed the very first turn. Then I figured I could wing it, getting to Road A at a different point and then following the directions to turn on Road B to get to Road C. Road A comes to a T (which way?) and then as you're starting to wonder if you chose the right direction it forks (which way??) and then turns into Road X for a while (WTF????) and then I have a nervous breakdown and call the interviewer to confess that I am either almost there or very lost.

5) Realizing, as I screeched the car to a stop at my destination, that OH MY GOD I am wearing navy clothing, navy shoes (pretty, pretty navy shoes) and carrying a black purse. Why have the fashion gods not struck me dead right here and now? An oversight. What to do? Aha! Leave the purse in the car! Carry cell phone and keys. Better to be a loser juggling belongings when the time comes to shake hands, than to let it be known that I am the only adult woman in America who never learned to coordinate her bag with her shoes.

6) Fumbling through the same information I already imparted in the previous two interviews (albeit with different people) in this odyssey, realizing how lame it all sounds, trying to cheer myself with the silent reminder that anything starts to sound stupid if you say it often enough. (Toy boat, toy boat, toy boat, toy boat....)

7) Being not so much interviewed as made to sit through various descriptions of what the job might entail, what has happened before, what the expectation is for the future, and being offered Dunkin Donuts munchkins (I declined). Then being asked if I thought I could handle it. Do you suppose anyone, at that point, says, "No, I'm sure I can't. I'll just be going now!"? Seems unlikely. And yet, I didn't feel like I was able to offer any concrete evidence for my superiority over anyone else. Unless the munchkins were part of the testing, and declining them demonstrated strength of character rather than what it really was (enough stress and nerves that they might've made me puke).

8) Leaving with no indication of what might happen next, or when.

9) Getting lost again on a different route on the way home. What can I say? I'm talented.

The only uplifting thing I can tell you with certainty, after all of that, is that my hair looked really nice today. Should they be determining this position on smooth shiny hair, it's in the bag. Should they be deciding based on any other factors, well, did I mention how nice my hair looks? Yeah.

You know, sometimes things seem really bleak. And sometimes I come home and have a whole bunch of snack sized candy bars and then decide that's a poor excuse for lunch and then try to balance it out with a lot of coffee. After that? Things are still kinda bleak, but who the hell cares. Did you know that there are inside-out Reeses cups? If you don't picture your son puffing up like a blowfish and asphyxiating while you eat them, they're really quite good. Tra la la!

Dontcha just hate...

2004-11-01T13:03:00.000-05:00

... when you pinch your eyelid in your eyelash curler?

... when you forget to bring the packages you meant to mail on your way back from the appointment just beyond the post office?

... when the appointment "just beyond the post office" turns out to be about ten miles beyond the post office and you get lost--twice!--on your way there?

... when you go to what you think is the final interview in a loooong process and the person interviewing you says, "We're in the preliminary stages of talking to people, of course"?

Me too. Happy &*#$^@ Monday.

All-points bulletin

2004-10-31T08:22:00.000-05:00

Please study the attached mug shot carefully. These criminals are said to be armed with sugar and dangerous. Last seen somewhere in the New England area, they are guilty of previous tantrums, giggle fits, and all-around hyperactivity. They are particularly dangerous when in disguise, as they then believe they are not responsible for their actions, e.g., "It wasn't me, it was that other knight," and "Well that's what dragons DO, I couldn't help it."

Forced to wait an entire day to launch their latest campaign to rot out all their teeth, tensions are running high and the infighting has begun. Even with the time change, dark cannot come soon enough. The hours until nightfall will be fraught with tension and they are to be considered most volatile until then. Please keep your distance and speak in quiet, calm tones.

Desperation may cause these suspects to turn to cannibalism. The public is warned to stand back and only dial 911 in case of actual bloodshed or fire. Most importantly, do not attempt to bargain or withhold candy. Comply quickly and they will leave you unharmed. Refusing to meet their demands may result in the suspects forcing you to sniff their stinky feet, followed by consumption of your underwear.

Let's stay safe out there, people.

So dainty

2004-10-30T20:37:00.000-05:00

Me: Please spread your legs a little wider so I can get this lotion on you.
Her: You mean like I'm gonna pee in the woods?

I'm so proud.

What a rollercoaster

2004-10-30T11:40:00.000-05:00

On the one hand, it's not nice to play on the weaknesses of others.

On the other hand, there's one born every minute. (Corollary: those of us who are smart enough to realize and utilize that fact, are obligated to pay homage to Darwin.)

I just netted over $100 on just a small handful of eBay auctions. My two highest-selling items? Went for three and four times what I paid for them. And one of those was worn by my daughter for over two years before the resale.

Now I am but a shell of my former self, having cycled through all five stages of eBay in a matter of minutes. Friends, I am spent. For the love of all that is holy, can I get a cold drink over here??

Stage 1: Denial
Holy cow. I don't think that cost that much new. Some people are really stupid. Or desperate. Or rich. Maybe it was a mistake. There's no way they're going to pay that. The email will come any minute now, saying that their cat walked across the keyboard and placed the bid while they were busy tending to war-ravaged amputees at the local shelter.

Stage 2: Anger and Resentment
You know, if they try to get out of this I'm going to have to slap them with one of those "your bid is a binding contract" emails because my time is valuable! I don't want to be jerked around and if they think I'm gonna let them off just because they got a little overzealous and now they have buyer's remorse, they have another think coming! I've got my NPB form open RIGHT OVER HERE and I'm not afraid to use it!

Stage 3: Bargaining
If all of that money actually comes in, maybe I could buy myself a little something. Just a little something. Why do I have to use it all for bills? Or to buy more stuff for the kids? A round of fully paid auctions almost never happens, so if it does, surely I deserve a little reward....

Stage 4: Depression
Who am I kidding? I'm already planning on spending money that I'm never going to see? Now we start with a week of hell. I believe "waiting for buyers to contact you, honor their purchases, and actually send fundage" is one of the rings of hell in updated version of The Inferno, actually. I'll get everything ready to ship and it'll all just sit there on the dining room table and I'll never see a single cent. Why do I bother?

Stage 5: Acceptance
It'll work out. Damn, I should figure out a way to bottle Chickadee's sweat. It apparently makes clothing very valuable.

Thank goodness I have the fortitude to ride out these turbulent times.

Half-full, dammit!

2004-10-29T22:20:00.000-05:00

I'm working on my positive thinking.

My new glasses are still not ready. Laundry is threatening to take over my home. One child started to disrobe at the Dollar Store this afternoon, and the other one has started saying, "Whatever!" in response to anything I say that doesn't reinforce her need to be Queen of the Universe. Despite my fervent prayers for the six tons of leaves in my yard to perhaps just blow elsewhere, the task of yard clean-up is still waiting for me to get a grip and grab a rake, already.

BUT.

Our neighbor met me at the bus stop this afternoon, bulging bags in hand. She was kind enough to make some goodie bags up for the kids, saying that she wanted to make sure they got some candy that was safe for Monkey. I was touched by her thoughtfulness. At worst, some people seem to think severe nut allergies are invented by overprotective parents; and at best, most people are bewildered as to why that excludes 90% of popular chocolate candy from being safe. (Although many of your favorite candy bars don't contain peanuts, they are manufactured on shared equipment and have "may contain" warnings.) When the bus arrived and the girls ran over, she added, "I threw a couple of Reese's cups into Chickadee's bag, too."

"Oh, I don't really even like peanut butter," Chickadee demurred.

"Try again, Chickadee," I prompted.

"Thank you, Mrs. Neighbor!" she obliged.

"Better." I tickled her under her chin as we headed for home. "You know," I said, "you probably do like peanut butter. It tastes a lot like the sunbutter we eat all the time. Would you like to try one of the Reese's cups?"

"Nah," she replied. "I had one at Daddy's once. I didn't really like it. You can have them."

And that's when it dawned on me. Halloween's on Sunday. I don't buy foods that aren't safe for Monkey; I don't want them in the house. Much of what he receives trick-or-treating isn't safe, and I buy the contraband from him for a nickel a candy. Chickadee also has the option of selling me some of her candy (just because she hates it when he has more money than she does). He works (ha!) hard collecting the candy, and I pay him real money for it. So I don't just throw it away; that would be wrong on so many levels.

I eat it. Because I don't want to be wasteful. It's a matter of principle, really.

Halloween's on Sunday. I have plenty of nickels. And soon I'll have Reese's cups and Butterfingers and all manner of yummy candy that I never buy anymore.

If that's not a half-full glass, I don't know what is.

More like Frenziedween

2004-10-29T07:29:00.000-05:00

Gah. Is Halloween over yet?? It's starting to feel like a month-long extravaganza. I have a huge stack of paper pumpkins and renderings of witches and the like that I've been forbidden to throw away. First we spent the beginning of the month choosing and finding and refining the necessary costumes, and since then it's been an exercise in patience. For me. The children are not patient. The children ask every single day if it's Halloween yet.

And today, what fun! Halloween parties at school! Because heaven knows it's not like they're going to have enough junk food this weekend! Great!

In their continuing quest to convince me that all the hype about our school system is exactly that--hype and no substance--Chickadee's school was kind enough to send a notice home yesterday to inform me that there will be a costume parade today. Way to give advance notice! The parents are supposed to attend this thing. It's a good thing I'm an unemployed slacker, I guess. I won't have a problem getting there. But less than a day's notice? I'd be annoyed, if I had a life. Heck, I'm annoyed, anyway.

Chickadee's costume for this year is... ummmmm... bulky. I managed to talk her into taking last year's Madeline outfit rather than her new costume. I reasoned with her that it's so big, she'd have trouble getting it there and getting dressed on her own, etc. Really, I was thinking more along the lines of "if she spills juice and smears cookies on her new costume before Halloween I'll cry." The added bonus with the Madeline costume, of course, is that it demands a dress and tights and fancy shoes to go with it. Chickadee was all over that action. So that was resolved. My facial tic didn't come out until she spent twenty minutes pulling her tights on, smoothing out every wrinkle and ultimately settling the waistband somewhere around her armpits.

Monkey's school takes a different approach to Halloween. You could call it the "dealing with a buildingful of preschoolers in costume is second on our list of preferred activities right behind plucking out our own eyeballs with rusty tweezers" approach. I can't say I blame them one bit. I was relieved to hear that they would not be hosting a dress-up shindig. In its place, the brilliant teachers there decided on the logical alternative to a costume party.

A pajama pizza party. Of course. That's what they do for Day of the Dead in Mexico, I hear.

So you'd think that would've cut way down on our prep time this morning. Ha ha. It is to laugh! You see, on a regular morning I get Monkey out of bed and remove his soggy pull-up and wipe him down and then leave him to get dressed in the clothes we picked out the night before. On a pajama pizza party morning, he insists that he's ready to go RIGHT NOW and runs up and down the hallway like a lunatic, screeching "PIZZA PARTY! PIZZA PARTY!" while the bottom of his pull-up drags along on the floor behind him on account of being loaded down with approximately twelve gallons of urine. When I try to point out that we still need to get him ready, he will twirl in place like a ballerina, declaring, "I'm already in my pajamas! I'm ready!" After a while, I will lose patience, grab him, throw him down on the floor, and sit on him long enough to remove his pull-up.

"Ewwww, Mama, that's really gross," he commented, as I rolled up the specimen to throw it away.

"I agree. Try peeing in the potty next time." But it was too late; he was off and running down the hall again, this time naked from the waist down. "Hey! Put on your underpants!"

On the next pass he swooped past me, grabbed his Super Grover underwear, and went flying back down the hallway again. "Me and Super Grover are going to a PAJAMA PIZZA PARTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

Oh, well. At least I reasoned that a pajama party is a good place for bed head, and thus was able to skip the wetting and brushing of Monkey's hair.

Finally, everyone was ready to go. We headed over to the bus stop, my hair still wet from my quick shower. The neighbor girls came outside to greet us and the littlest one took one look at me and said, "You look scary in the morning." Isn't that adorable? So cute. I only cried a little. Also I may or may not have told her she looks rude in the morning, under my breath before her mother came out. The bus pulled up and The Coolest Bus Driver In The World (whom we already adore) was dressed head to toe as a wizard: wig, beard, hat, robes, the works. The girls were delighted. Off they went.

At Monkey's school, squarms of little ones in jammies were at the various play areas when his teacher asked me if my shirt glows in the dark. (I'm wearing my dancing skeletons shirt today, naturally.) I said I wasn't sure, but I didn't think so. She suggested I duck into the (dark) bathroom to check. So I did. And guess what? The skeletons glow! I emerged and announced this exciting finding, whereupon I was mobbed by a flock of pajama-ed pygmies, shoving me back into the bathroom so that they could all see, too.

And that's why, when the second teacher arrived, she thought the entire room was empty. She was really confused. I have no idea why it didn't occur to her that I'd just taken the entire class into the bathroom in the pitch black dark so that we could all admire my shirt. Also the look of panic on her face when all the children fled out of the bathroom, screaming (all I said was "boo," sheesh), was unnecessary. Just call me the Pied Piper. Or not.

I'm gonna go dry my hair, now. And maybe turn off the lights and look at my shirt some more.

Name that domain!

2004-10-28T16:44:00.000-05:00

I am very seriously kinda sorta maybe almost committing to moving to a real site sometime in the near future. Blogger has pissed me off one too many times. So after that whole thing I'm not thinking about resolves itself sometime next week, I may start taking steps to get off this cheap server and freeload elsewhere. Ha!

The problem is, I very much like my site name. There is really nothing more apropos for my usual state of mind than "Woulda Coulda Shoulda." But--in case you haven't noticed--typing that out as part of a domain name is a gigantic pain in the rear. I need a domain name that's a little easier on the fingertips but retains the spirit of my theme.

So! A contest! Name my new domain! Leave suggestions in the comments. The winner will receive my undying adoration, and maybe some cookies if I ever get around to baking some more. I'm all about incentives, no? So gimme your best shot.

Better than dumpster diving

2004-10-28T12:26:00.000-05:00

I was really hoping to pick up my new glasses today, but I called just now and was informed that they're still not ready. "They sent me the wrong lenses! Twice! Well, the first ones were wrong. The second ones were scratched. Hopefully I'll have them done tomorrow." I suspect all of that to be elaborate code for "Tuesday I took the day off, Wednesday I had to sell some other people some stuff, and today I'm mostly surfing Amazon and spending the big hunk of money you gave me on Monday." Hmph. So, tomorrow; maybe. Pardon me while I tilt my head a little like I'm really interested in what you're saying, but in reality I'm just peering at you through the one teeny tiny spot on my glasses that isn't blurry.

Alas.

But! I am quite cheerful today, nonetheless, because I have friends who are just like me. Camaraderie can come in many forms, but the bond forged over a bargain high is a beautiful thing. Excuse me a moment... there's something in my eye....

I knew it had to be something amazing, because it started like this:

8:40 AM, the phone rings. Caller ID: friend's cell.
Me: Hey! What's up?
Her: ...
Me: Hello? Are you there?
Her: ...
Me: Bad connection. Call me back!

8:41 AM, the phone rings. Caller ID: friend's cell.
Me: You there?
Her: ...
Me: Hello? Hello?
Her: ...
(line goes dead)

8:42 AM, the phone rings. Caller ID: friend's cell.
Me: Bark once for yes! Did Timmy fall down the well??
Her: ...
Me: AAARRRGGGHHHHHH!!! Call me back you dork!

8:48 AM, the phone rings. Caller ID: friend's home phone.
Me: Something is seriously wrong with your cell phone.
Her: I know! I know! I'm sorry! But I was so excited, I wanted to call you right away, and I think my cell battery is dead.
Me: Well what's the big excitement?
Her: I went to the dump this morning!
Me: Wow. That is exciting!
Her: Shut up. Remember how I told you they clean out the Still Good Shed on Wednesdays?
Me: Yeah?
Her: Well it was completely empty this morning except for ONE bag. One lone bag, sitting in the corner.
Me: And the bag contained...?
Her: Oh, just some clothes.
Me: ??
Her: Just some size 4, gorgeous, dry-cleaning-tags-attached Ann Taylor clothes. Gosh, I wish I knew someone who was a size 4!
Me: I'M A SIZE 4!! Pick me! Pick me!
Her: Oh yeah, that's right. There's a couple of purses in here, too. I'm bring it all over to you later.
Me: Yay!

Do you think it's a trap? I mean, it's so hard for me to digest that my town is so full of over-rich people who simply have their expensive clothes dry cleaned before they leave them at the dump like garbage, it's not much of a stretch to believe that the next time there's a PTA function the lights will go out and a black light will sweep the room, illuminating the invisible ink that was used to scrawl "THE WEARER PICKS UP EXPENSIVE CLOTHES LEFT AT THE DUMP" on the front of my blouse. It could be something like that, you know.

Then I realized, all of the rich snooty people around here already despise me, anyway. So what the heck!

My friend arrived with her arms full. Oooohhhhhhh. Pretty, pretty clothes. Silk pencil skirts. Cashmere twin sets. A little black dress. And two black purses. The first is a fun medium-sized leather bag from Banana Republic. Very cool.

The second? Is a satin Kate Spade bag. Not a knock-off. (I looked it up!) Be still my cheapskate heart. The only way I'm gonna get to own a Kate Spade bag in this lifetime is to get it from the dump. I can live with that.

Once I top off my new ensembles with my cool new glasses? I'll be unstoppable. In the sense that I will be making a lot more trips to the dump. Yeehaw!

Real hobbits!

2004-10-28T06:26:00.000-05:00

Janet, have you seen this?? Thanks to my friend Mike for the link. What a story!

It is genetic

2004-10-27T20:42:00.000-05:00

The following is an actual exchange I had on the phone with my father this evening.

Me: I'm glad you're feeling better. Maybe now you'll stop coughing up green stuff.
Him: Yeah. If I'm gonna cough up green stuff, I want it to be large-denomination bills!

See? I can't help it. And the kids never had a chance.

Case in point: I present, for your consideration, Halloween of 2003. Chickadee was Madeline, right down to the red pageboy wig. Monkey was Buzz Lightyear, complete with inflatable wings that hindered his ability to walk through doorways. They were cute. They were adorable. They were nearly invisible. Why, you ask? Well, my dad and stepmom were here visiting over Halloween, and were coming out trick-or-treating with us. So they brought costumes!

Take a good look. You can click on it to see it larger. Do you think anyone looked at the kids? Really not. It may be hard to see because it's so dark in the picture, but my father's mask included long, curly, purple hair. They were the hit of the neighborhood. If the picture is fuzzy, it's because I was laughing really hard when I took it. I mean, I thought I was quite the daring sort with my glow-in-the-dark fully-jointed skeleton earrings. Those two put me to shame. My sense of humor pales in comparison. Nobody lost an eye, but the fun and games did sort of come to an end when the little girl around the corner took one look at my dad and burst into tears. Monkey kept patting her and saying, "It's okay, that's just my Grandpa! He's silly!"

[Readers from my father's office: This is the point at which--if I was feeling evil--I would suggest that you rally to have him wear this mask to Friday's meeting. But I would never do such a thing. I'm sure you could come up with that idea all on your own, right?]

"My blog exploded and all I got was this lousy site crash"

2004-10-27T17:09:00.000-05:00

If I had spent more than a few minutes reviewing my general luck and Blogger's track record thus far, I could've predicted that as soon as I signed up for Blog Explosion, all of BlogSpot would take a dive.

I couldn't get into my blog all morning, and then this afternoon when pages started loading again, I couldn't get into the dashboard to post.

Welcome, Blog Explosion visitors! This is my blog; chock full of "Page Not Found" juicy goodness. I hope you've enjoyed your visit and... hey! Where are you going??

When my new glasses come in? And I'm irresistable to men? The first thing I'm doing is finding me a nice rich guy who wants to buy me my own domain and Movable Type and perhaps even a pony. Just because. Then he will also sweep me off my feet with his listening skills, compassion, sense of humor, and sexual prowess. Hey, if you're gonna dream, dream BIG, I say.

Last night I had two extremely vivid dreams. In the first one, I was surfing Blog Explosion (GEEK! GEEK! I had a DREAM about BLOGGING because I need a LIFE!) and found my ex's blog. I seriously doubt my ex blogs. He's the sort of person who would view such an endeavor as a complete waste of time. But in my dream, he had a blog, and it was wildly entertaining because it was composed of approximately 120% bullshit and fabrication about what a wonderful guy he is. Now this would be weird enough. But in my dream, he also had my site listed on his blogroll. This is how I figured out it was a dream, and woke up. If he'd found my site, he would've been able to keep it to himself for a maximum of five seconds. It was too improbable; I woke up and laughed out loud.

In the second dream, my one and only post-marriage ex-boyfriend (not to be confused with my ex-husband) resurfaced to tell me how losing me was the biggest mistake of his life, and how sorry he was that he'd treated me so badly. I was very confused, in this dream, as his confessions were gratifying but also served to remind me that I'm not quite over this schmuck. There wasn't any laughing when I woke up from that one. There is something profound but deeply disturbing to be learned from the fact that I am having a harder time resolving the loss of a less-than-a-year boyfriend than the loss of a nearly-ten-year marriage. I don't care to know what that knowledge is. I mean it. If you know, don't tell me. I suspect it involves the word "loser."

Then, of course, all of these exciting things happened to me today, but every time I sat down to blog, Blogger was still broken. All of these thrilling events have since flitted out of my brain to make room for more important things. Like that I have to provide chips for Friday's Halloween party at school, or that Chickadee's hair is crunchy and if I don't get her into the shower tonight, CPS will probably be here tomorrow. Sorry. No tales of my day for you! Bad Blogger!

Plus, you have no idea what I have to put up with, here. Monkey is laying on the floor at my feet, chanting "I'm a Yankees fan! I'm a Yankees fan!" (When I asked him what a Yankees fan is, he said he didn't know. Phew.)

Frustrations

2004-10-26T22:55:00.000-05:00

In case I haven't mentioned it--which I'm sure I haven't, on account of I've been so successful with my Great Plan--I have this Great Plan in place. It goes a little something like this: think about anything, anything at all, rather than thinking about the Perfect Job Which I Might In Fact Get But Maybe Not. If I think about it, I vacillate so rapidly between the unfamiliar glow of hope and a dark cloud of deep despair (because if I don't get this job? I give up) that I become very dizzy and need to lie down and also consume large amounts of carbohydrates. Hence the Great Plan. What am I thinking about? Why, lots of things! All kinds of things! But not that whole thing I'm not thinking about that I can't mention because that would require thinking about it! Haha!

See how that works? It's genius.

In the meantime, I am pondering various frustrations of varying levels of pettiness. It keeps me occupied.

Baseball takes too long and is on too late at night. It's like passing a car accident; I want to stop looking, I know I should go to sleep. But I watch. And watch. And watch. And then I am sooooo sleepy. Me so tired.

All of my insurance-related paperwork gets mailed to my ex. He's the insurer, so all bills go to him. So when the dentist figured out that they undercharged me for my fillings this summer and then sent me a notice, I had to get it from him; so I got it late, and I paid it, but not before they sent him a second notice. Which meant I had to explain to him that yes, I really did pay them. And it's none of his business. Except it is. But it isn't. Crap. Can I please just have a couple of fillings in private? Please??

I may have to break up with ELIDEL MAN on account of he's pissing me off. First of all, I am now receiving chirpy happy "Eczemails" from the Elidel people with frightening regularity. Each and every one of those emails assures me that eczema is a very manageable problem, even moreso with non-steroidal ELIDEL! However, we've now had frost a whopping two times--i.e., it's not even winter yet--and not only is my creeping crud back with a vengeance, both children are afflicted as well. We are all slathering on the ELIDEL (as directed) and are still the poster family for scary skin.

I'm not at all sure about this Blog Explosion thing, yet. I mean, I'm digging the new blogs to browse. I hope some folks who come across my site decide to stick around for a while. But then I read things like the guy complaining that "half the blogs" Blog Explosion took him to were housewives talking about exactly the same things. And maybe I was missing the point, but his blog didn't strike me as so unique that he was in a position to cast such aspersions. Anybody can sign up for Blog Explosion. Just like anyone can get on the internet. Likewise, anyone can make sweeping generalizations that make them look like a dumbass. I'm just sayin'.

My eBay auctions are doing really well. Um, Mir, why are you complaining about that? Well, it's all fun and games until the auctions end and I have to see if the buyers actually bother paying me, you see. And right now, many of my leading bidders are newbies. I will not be counting these particular chickens until they're in the bank (makes for an interesting mixed metaphor, there).

I still have not raked the leaves but the next plague has arrived. Oh, lord help me. The pine needles. THE ENDLESS PINE NEEDLES. They're even worse than the leaves. I'm running out of time and yet I just cannot bring myself to tackle the yard. The very thought makes me panic. And time is running out, because the snow will be here before I know it. Hold me.

Blah blah blah blah I hate Microsoft blah blah blah. Remember how excited I was to order more memory for my failing desktop dinosaur? It's installed, but the computer doesn't seem to be running any better. Turns out that apparently Windows 98 can only utilize a certain amount of memory (which I already had). I tried to keep reading about why that is and what it all means but first I got very annoyed and then I just nodded off.

Eloquence cannot be purchased. Apparently, millions of dollars a year is not enough money to guarantee you won't say something like "This is a God-given gift that I have been gifted with" when you're interviewed on national television after the game. That player has a name, but he'll hereafter always be known as Gifty Smurf to me.

Thank goodness I lead such a full life that I have absolutely no time to think about that whole thing I'm not thinking about.

My child, my self

2004-10-26T18:33:00.000-05:00

"Are you in your pajamas? I hear you playing, and I know you're not playing if you're not ready for bed."

"Where did you put my pajamas?"

"They're right THERE."

"Where?"

"Right in your room! Don't make me come in there!"

"On the floor?"

"Yes."

"Are they folded in a little pile?"

"Yes."

"Are they my favorite green?"

"Yes."

"And nice and fuzzy?"

"Yes...?"

"The same ones I wore last night?"

"YES...!"

"Hmmm. Haven't seen them!"

(It's really hard to scold when you're fully cognizant of being the source of the culprit's smart-ass gene.)

I prefer being on top

2004-10-26T12:45:00.000-05:00

When I paint. Sheesh. You're sick.

A friend of mine has been "in the process" of painting her family room for something like six months. I couldn't take it any more; when I saw her this weekend, I told her to pick a day because it was time to finish painting. She picked today, and I went straight over there after dropping the kids. We sponge painted the entire room. I did all of the work near the ceiling, because she has a bad shoulder and shouldn't be reaching. And really, I find that Zen mood that overtakes me when I paint settles in better when I'm perched on a ladder or a chair. It must be the additional concentration.

Despite my single-minded attention on the task at hand, I discovered myself singing along with the radio. The station we were listening to was an "oldies" station, and many of those "oldies" are from when I was in high school. That made me feel pretty oldie. Wah. But that is not my point. My point is that amongst the Beatles and the Billy Joel and the James Taylor and all the other stuff they played for three hours while we painted, I knew all the lyrics to all of the songs without even thinking about it.

No wonder I can't seem to remember anything or learn anything new. My brain is already full of useless information like the fact that the Pinball Wizard plays by sense of smell (okay, if you must know, for one moment I also wondered how supple his wrist really is) and that sharing a drink they call loneliness is better than drinking alone. I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are... dude, that's profound. It's also an excellent beat for sponging to, which is crucial for a task like this. When "doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore" started twanging out of the radio, we had to stop and have some donuts.

I'll grant you that serenading my friend at the end of the morning with a hearty belting-out of "We are the champions, my FRIEEEEEEEND" is kinda fun, but if I had my druthers, I'd really rather remember to actually take my trash out on, say, the day that the truck picks it up.

But I guess that would be asking too much. No matter. When I'm up there painting the ceiling, anything is possible. I crooned it all directly into my paintbrush--with feeling--so it must be true. I'll keep on fighting to the end. No time for losers, cuz I am the champion of the wooooooooorld!

But I still have all my hair

2004-10-25T19:23:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what it was. It could be my earlier post, or maybe it was just that I'd finally had enough of this constant headache that I get from trying to focus my gaze inbetween the teeny splotches all over my lenses. But today, I bit the bullet, and went to pick out new glasses.

First, I considered all of my options. I could just get new lenses, because I like my frames just fine. But, the earpieces are actually worn enough above my ears that they cut into my head. Also I can't give up the glasses for the time required to get the new lenses cut, on account of I broke the previous pair, and the pair before that has the wrong prescription. So unless I want to wear my sunglasses all day and all night for a week, that's not a fabulous choice. Then I considered going to Ye Olde Optical Cattle Market where they will give me a 20% discount with my health insurance, but the trip itself and the waiting and the crowd and the abysmal selection stands a good chance of sending me over the edge.

Then I spent a moment considering lasik. I'd almost convinced myself that the whole getting-my-eyeball-sliced thing was tolerable, but then I remembered how much it costs. Alrighty then.

I settled on returning to the small specialty optical place where we got Chickadee's last pair of glasses.

Chickadee has worn glasses since before she turned two. We got her first pair at a children's specialty optical shop down in Boston. Two years later, when she was four, we sought a new pair of frames in vain. I was loathe to make yet another trip to the city just for frames, yet the local Optical Cattle Market didn't carry a single pair of frames in a size small enough for her. Not poor selection; no selection. In addition to being astonishingly brilliant and cute, Chickadee has a very narrow face, even for her age and size. In desperation, I had the Optical Cattle Market order an identical pair of frames for her new glasses. This served two purposes; first, it was a style we liked that we knew fit her, and second, it meant that the next time she needed new lenses, we could drop off the "spare" pair for cutting and fitting, and then swap the finished lenses to the newer frames. Happiness all around.

When Chickadee turned six, I had hoped that she had grown enough that she would be able to choose from the array of standard children's sizes at Optical Cattle Market. No dice. Again we searched in vain, and this time, Chickadee was heartbroken. "I've had the same glasses for four years," she wailed. "I want something new!" Fair enough, I thought. I undertook a search of epic proportions in our area, and promised her that if we couldn't find anything locally, we would make the trek to Boston.

It was during this search that I found the small specialty shop. Fabulous selection. Fair prices. And--most importantly--the very best customer service I have ever encountered. They promised to find us something or order new stock until we found something we liked. The owner worked with us, and made Chickadee laugh while he did (no small feat with the Princess of Standoffishness). Chickadee found THE frame she wanted... and they had a small scratch. I asked if they could order new ones. Nope, sorry; that's a discontinued style. But that means we can offer you a heckuva deal. They didn't lie. That was the cheapest pair of glasses I've ever purchased for her. They were ready in record time. He did the honors with the sparkly nailpolish (our solution to the scratch). He's already fixed them for her twice. And at last count I think she had about three cases from there, as well as a Hello Kitty bracelet.

Good service is becoming an endangered species in today's world. The last time I was there, I told the owner: I don't have much money right now, but when I'm ready to replace my glasses, I'll come back.

I still don't have much money. But I went back, anyway, because he earned my business.

And it's a good thing he did. Because once I told him I was ready to look for new frames, he told me what he really thinks about my current frames. Ouch. Did you know? These are boring. They do nothing for me, they drag my face down, they are old-ladyish! Um, these are the most hip frames I've ever had, I insisted.

That may be, he answered. But that doesn't mean they are hip.

Good thing I have all those oodles of extra self-esteem laying around so that this encounter slid right off my back. No, really, I'm fine. I am just curled up in a fetal position in the corner because, um, I'm basking in self-love. I'll be done in a few minutes, if you want to come back later.

Anyway. He made me try on all sorts of frames I never would've picked up. What with how boring and old and face-draggy I am, and everything. But he totally respected my caveat that I couldn't even look at the expensive frames, and only offered me choices from the lower-priced lines. One pair? Was orange. OR. ANGE. Have mercy.

I was the only one in the store, and we quibbled over styles for quite a while. I don't know about these, I would venture, peeking into the mirror at my foreign-looking reflection. (As anyone who wears glasses knows, part of the problem with picking frames is that--hello!--you can't see without your glasses on, which renders the whole evaluating the new look thing kinda difficult.) Those are fabulous, he would answer. You look younger, and thinner, and totally sexy. I must say, they did sort of grow on me when I happened to catch my reflection laughing hysterically. I mean it, he insisted. Great! I said. I'll take two pairs of those, and a couple of pairs of the "very rich" and "getting laid on a regular basis" frames, too!

Now, you'd think that exchanges such as these would've been the highlight of my trip. But I am here to tell you that they were not. The best part of this visit came shortly after I walked through the door, when I was explaining that the reason I need new glasses is because I am a horrible person and I wipe my glasses on my shirt, and this has caused the anti-reflective coating to peel off in a bizarre spotty manner. The optician took my glasses, cleaned them with official spray and a special cloth, and then held them up to the light for inspection.

"This isn't from being wiped on your clothing," he said, "so don't worry about that. It's corrosion."

"Oh, good. Huh?"

"Corrosion. I've seen this before. Do you use hairspray?"

"Sometimes...?"

"See the pattern, like a fine mist of dots? That's hairspray that was allowed to settle on the lenses and wasn't cleaned off promptly. It eats through the coating after a while."

Let's just break that down, shall we? I spray something on my head that is capable of corroding my glasses. Once that had properly sunk in, I stopped being pissed off about my glasses, and started being really grateful that I'm not bald.

After about 45 minutes, I picked my new frames. The price was fair, I guess. (That is to say, I need to take a second mortgage to pay for them, but such is life with lousy vision.) Best of all, I was assured that I will just love the new, daring me! I'll take a picture when they come in, maybe. But if my hair looks crappy you are not allowed to say a single word. I had to promise to throw out my hairspray.

But wait! There's more!

2004-10-25T11:26:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that my mind isn’t the only item that’s gone AWOL around here. If you spot any of the following, could you please return to me? I would offer a reward, but what could be more rewarding than my undying appreciation? Okay, fine. I’ll give you a cookie.

Amongst the missing:

My patience. The way to express to me that you love the dancing skeleton placemats and appreciate my having both purchased them on clearance last year and remembered to put them out this year is NOT to attempt to fill in all the little cut-out holes with bits of your breakfast. This results in you not eating your breakfast and a gigantic mess. Also, it angers the undead, who will now come kill you in your sleep. Yes, really. Well, you should’ve thought of that before, I guess. Stop crying.

75% of the anti-reflective coating on my glasses. You know how they tell you only to use the special little cloth they give you with your glasses? And never dry wipe them, and don’t use towels, and all that stuff? They weren’t kidding. It turns out that after three years of misuse or so, most of the coating will wear off, yielding a bizarre sunburst pattern across the lenses. It’s hard to see through. So I will wipe them on my shirt hem, trying to improve their clarity. Oops.

Even the slightest head-nod to fitness. I hate to exercise. Sometimes I try to overcome that hate. Other times, I decorate my elliptical trainer with clothing that I’m too lazy to put away. About half my closet is hanging from the trainer right now.

The lids to half of my Tupperware smidgets. Destroyed in the dishwasher? Left at school? Thrown away by accident? Carried off by elves? The world may never know.

My ability to share. Honey graham Life cereal? Oh, you don’t like that. Trust me. Have some Froot Loops, instead. Yeah, that other cereal tastes horrible. I had a coupon, but it’s nasty. I should probably just throw it away. Or eat two bowls of it after I take you to school.

Five or so gloss sticks. I have a whole bunch of those lipsticks that come with one stick of color and then a stick of gloss to apply after you’ve used the color that doesn’t come off for several weeks. (Oh, look! I’ve still got a little “forever fawn” on my lips from my interview two weeks ago!) At last check my make-up bag was chock-full of lipsticks with nary a gloss in sight. That would almost make sense, if I wore lipstick a lot. But I hardly ever wear it. Where have all the glosses gone?

Any desire I once had to finish cleaning out the basement. Hey, you can walk around down there, now. And I can find most of the stuff I actually use. It no longer stinks of dead mice. What more do you want?

The good thermometer. I suspect it to be colluding with the smidget lids. Now I am left with the thermometer that insists my temperature is around 96 degrees. It’s possible that I’ve been sending Monkey to school with a fever, but how would I know?

My illusion of being a mature adult. I should not laugh upon hearing that someone painted most of Daddy’s kitchen with blue paint. First of all, it’s not nice. Second of all, the children need to understand this is serious business. Third of all, karma is a bitch. (But it was funny.)

The box of staples. They’re here, somewhere. I bought them. I refuse to buy more when there is a perfectly good (and mostly full) box lurking around. They can’t hide from me forever, you know. Don’t tell me how much a box of staples costs; this is a matter of principle.

My tact. Just kidding! You can’t lose something you never had. Good lord, your ass looks HUGE in those pants. Do you even own a mirror?

Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most

2004-10-24T21:24:00.000-05:00

There was a commercial break in the baseball game, just now, so I went into my bathroom to take my nightly meds.

I picked up my cup and turned on the water. Then I noticed the cup was wet.

I have no recollection of using that cup today, save for when I brushed my teeth this morning.

But the cup is wet. Which probably means I already took my pills. More specifically, it most likely means I just took my pills within the last hour or two.

No recollection.

So. Which is the more logical course of action? Assume that I am old and senile, already took them, and miss a night if I'm wrong? Or wonder if I have gremlins or poltergeists who were thirsty, and risk a double-dose by taking my meds now? Gah.

I guess it's time to start using one of those weekly pill container thingies. From there it's only a matter of time before I start stuffing dinner rolls into my purse at a restaurant, you know. But given that that's likely to happen if I screw up my meds a few days in a row, anyway, what the heck.

Gone Hauntin'

2004-10-24T14:30:00.000-05:00

I want to tell you all about how I haven't blogged because I'm having this fantabulous, exciting, and productive weekend. The weekend's been okay, but mostly I haven't blogged because I am lazy.

Last night I found myself trapped in a room full of Yankees fans. Oh, the horror. Watching those poor misguided souls cheering for St. Louis just because they're sore losers... it was so pitiful. I assuaged my sadness with copious amounts of french onion dip and the occasional caring observation, such as, "You know the Cardinals are going to lose, right? I mean, you've prepared yourself for this eventuality?" Sure, I had a few things thrown at me, but at least I had the good sense to head home to watch the final inning in peace. That probably saved me from an actual beating.

Today I had to pick from amongst various invitations and ultimately did what everyone knew I was going to do--went to church and then came home and took a nap. I'm not going anywhere else. I'm all social-ed out for the weekend. It's time to tend to all of the things I should've done during the week, and try to get them done before the kids get back tonight. I'm thinking--for example--that maybe I should put out the Halloween decorations. Of course, at this point, I'm so far behind that if I wait another week I don't have to deal with them at all, and that's tempting. But neither do I want to listen to an entire year of how I am the world's most negligent mother because I never cleared a spot in the yard for the witch who rides the broom with a pinwheel at the end, either.

Yes, a witch with a broom that sports a pinwheel. Scary, no? We're a regular house of horror.

We also have a little skeleton dude named Mr. Freaky. Mr. Freaky has light-up red LED eyes in his skull, and he dances and sings "Superfreak" with slightly modified lyrics. I'm a very spooky guy / The kind you don't take home to mother. Monkey and Mr. Freaky are special friends; Monkey likes to imitate his dance and sing along, especially on the part where he goes, "Hey hey HEY HEY!" It's a thing of beauty. And really, Mr. Freaky is the most normal guy I've ever had in the house, so I'm pleased to be able to provide a positive male role model for my son.

If you need me, I'll be trying to pull apart my bagful of "scary eyes" window clings.

Relapse

2004-10-23T12:06:00.000-05:00

I went back. Spent the whole morning doing it, actually. And now? I'm so afraid. Hold me.

What does it say about me that--upon reading people saying perfectly nice things about me--I turn around and deliberately insert myself into a situation where people are going to make me cry? There is something very, very wrong with the self-preservation portion of my brain. I suspect the bill-paying portion of my brain has taken it hostage.

I had a bid on my first item before I'd finished putting my listings up. The bidder has 0 feedback. And it gets better! She registered... yesterday! I'm just waiting for the email. "Hi!!! I live on Venus, and was wondering if you might ship to my friend's cousin's daughter's baby on Neptune, perhaps even before I pay you??? Also, do you accept barter payments like roosters?" With any luck she'll be outbid before it comes to that.

My fragile psyche

2004-10-22T13:13:00.000-05:00

Verily, I am a delicate flower.

Stop laughing.

My therapist seems to think I need to spend some time journaling about my strengths and the things I like about myself. And she didn't seem all that amused when I agreed, but asked what I would do after that. (What do you mean? she asked. Well, I said, since that's only going to take about thirty seconds....)

It's a funny thing. When my children are wonderful, I give thanks to God. When they're demonic, I'm right there, ready to accept the responsibility and ample helping of guilt for being an inadequate mother. When things in my life go well, I'm lucky. When times are tough, I'm reaping what I've sown. Somewhere I've erred--I'm always sure--and so today's hard times are the result of some indiscretion(s) on my part in days past. So I should just suck it up.

When I write it out like that, I know it's stupid. But it's a hard habit to break. Also, I think because some people in my life eschew responsibility so completely *coughcoughexcoughcough* I am loathe to accept events as "just happening." I see some sort of perverse dignity in assuming culpability for even the most mundane annoyances.

Now imagine Dr. Phil drawling at me, "And how's that working for ya?" Then please imagine me smacking him, because he needs a good smack and if I could be the one to deliver it, I could die happy.

Anyway. Yeah, it's not really working for me. There's got to be a more constructive way to handle my assessment of life, one that will lead to a happier me. And I don't know that it starts with figuring out what's positive about my life and myself, but stay tuned for a future Mir-themed lovefest. It promises to be a really riveting thirty seconds, I promise.

However, today is not that day. Today, as I was driving home from my appointment, wondering if I was really up to the task of trying to loooooove myself and all that sort of stuff, I began to wonder if I could even cope with a marginal level of self-esteem, so foreign would it be to all that I'm accustomed to. Right before my brain popped a gasket, my cell phone rang. It was a friend, wanting to go shopping.

You don't have to love yourself to go shopping. Sweet relief. Hey! Know what I like about myself? I like when I find signs that say CLEARANCE. Also? I like when I buy things for other--more worthy--people.

The kids and I have begun accumulating our supplies for our shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child. My favorite part of Christmas is doing the shoe boxes; bar none. We pick out the largest shoe boxes we can find (because it has to be a shoe box, but big ones are okay) and then cram every single corner full of stuff. These boxes go to disadvantaged kids all over the world and are, in most cases, the only Christmas presents they receive. Chickadee packs a box for a girl and Monkey packs a box for a boy. And they love it. And I imagine that the children who receive our boxes truly appreciate what we've done, unlike my spoiled rotten overprivileged American children who have too much crap already. Furthermore, I imagine my children are learning something about generosity and compassion (and I rather enjoy this fantasy so if you disagree, hush up).

There are "recommended" lists for what to pack. Please include basic hygiene items, they ask. Also school supplies, for the older children. Small toys and non-perishable candy are good choices. I will take the kids to the dollar store and have them pick out some items, and there are certain things (like bars of soap) that I just have lying around. And then there are the things where I say to myself, Self, if I were a child in a third-world country, what would I really need?

And on days like today, I answer: Self, if I were a child in a third-world country, what I would really need would be a Pez Jungle Mission Survival Kit Candy Dispenser. Children everywhere deserve a safe place to live, clean water to drink, nutritious food to eat... and Pez. I just believe Pez to be a basic, inalienable right. All the better if your Pez happens to come in a combination flashlight/magnifying glass/compass/clip/ruler/dispenser. And better yet when I find these beauties on clearance. Ah, the joys of democracy.

Of course I got packs of Pez refills, too, because you can't have your Jungle Mission Survival Kit running out of candy. And then I went looking for toothpaste and toothbrushes, and found toothbrushes that giggle when you shake them. Really. Suddenly a heartwarming scene flashed in my mind... children opening their shoeboxes, oohing and aahing over the contents, and then... being terrified of the enclosed, cackling toothbrush. Hmmm. Well, they'll get over it. I bought two of them. And bubblegum flavored toothpaste, which I refuse to purchase for my own children. Because I am mean. Unless you are a disadvantaged child, in which case, I will buy you all manner of things.

That lifted my spirits considerably.

Um. Yeah.

2004-10-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

*crickets*

So, either everybody died or my last post was my most boring yet. Okay.

The school meeting went well. The ex had the good sense to not say much, other than to agree with things I'd already said. So that went well, at least. I'm not sure we have any concrete answers, but at least we've set the stage for improvement and if it doesn't arrive, it will be easier to enact change (I think).

I know some folks took issue with the vitriol in prior posts, so let me clarify something. My hackles go up when I feel my kid isn't getting the best. I fully understand that her teacher is a person--most likely a wonderful person--and further am quite cognizant than any problems to this point are likely the result of oversight or incompatibility, maybe not even laziness, and certainly not malice. I get it; I do. In today's meeting the teacher spoke very kindly of Chickadee and I do believe her when she says she adores my daughter.

That may or may not make her the right teacher for my child. That remains to be seen. But no; I did not rip her a new one or otherwise behave inappropriately. I vented here, then I went there and smiled and spoke in unthreatening "I" statements and all that good stuff. I'm very good at playing grown-up when I need to.

Not the point of the meeting, but: my 6-year-old has been "informally assessed" as reading at a 4th-grade level. It's nice to hear at least they're not going to argue with me about her being advanced....

Gathering acorns

2004-10-21T09:52:00.000-05:00

There is something about Fall that causes my brain to present the image of squirrels hoarding acorns to accompany my every task. Perhaps this is because I am so poetic and metaphorical! Or perhaps it's because there are about four hundred squirrels in my yard, fighting over acorns. No matter. October is the month for battening down the hatches, readying for Winter, and gathering (figurative) acorns.

I've just finished walking around my house and lowering all the storm windows. One of the things I love about my house is that it is very well-lit. One of the things I hate about my house is that it possesses no less than six thousand windows, all of which are original to the structure (circa 1970). If you don't live in a house with old-fashioned windows, allow me to enlighten you. My house is a typical colonial for this area, which is to say that I have double-hung windows with storm inserts. The main window runs on a track of metal imbedded in the wood. This track probably performed marvelously for a week or two after installation. Since then, each and every track has experienced one or all of the following: 1) bending of the metal due to mishandling of the window, 2) warping of the surrounding wood due to age, 3) stickiness due to being painted shut one or more times. Opening the main window is a task in and of itself. Also, I don't know who invented the concept of the double-hung window, but I would sincerely like to meet him, and slap him. Hard. Should I manage to get the lower pane where I'd like it to go (either up or down), the upper pane invariably slips down a few inches and then refuses to budge.

Assuming that I am able to master the opening of the main window, the fun begins. First I need to raise the screen on the storm track. Depending on how many gazillions of insects have nested, mated, and/or died along the edges of the track, this may or may not be an easy task. Once the screen is raised, I am faced with determining which of the two storm panes is the one I should lower. Ideally, one pane is already fitted to the top of the frame, and one is a bit further down, and the lower one is the one to be brought down. But if I'm very lucky (and with so many windows, I am always lucky), both storm panes will be at equal height, and I will subsequently choose to lower the one that was, in fact, keeping the entire shebang in place, and my attempts to move a single pane will result in all three pieces (screen and two storm panes) crashing down on my unsuspecting wrists. Bonus points, of course, if the resulting crash also causes the top pane of the main window to slip a few inches and then get stuck!

The very saddest part of my annual window wrangle? While this is not the draftiest place I've ever lived (that honor goes to my first "independent" apartment post-college, which was not only roach-infested but so drafty the wind could move the metal venetians a full four inches from the window at a gust), lowering the storms is an exercise in futility because every single window sash is so warped, there's a steady breeze under each window, regardless. I should invest in some weatherstripping, I know. But, Jesus wept, did I mention the six thousand windows?

Next on my list is the switchover to flannel bedding. Each child has a flannel quilt courtesy of Grammie, the Mad Quilter. Grammie (my ex mother-in-law) may hate my guts and I may have a few not-entirely-kind opinions about her, but she makes a heckuva quilt. I was able to keep the kids' Winter quilts here on the logic that they sleep here most of the time, which saved me the fun of pointing out that--as far as I can tell--the ex hasn't actually changed/washed the kids' bedding at his house since he moved in. Ahem. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Flannel quilts. Gorgeous, they are. And warm. Once we get those out, it's time to break out the flannel sheets, and even The Children Who Hate Sleep cannot resist the lure of the fuzzy snuggly stars-and-moons sheets and the fuzzy snuggly snowmen sheets.

The one bone of contention around The Time Of The Flannel Sheets? The kids fight over which sheets go on my bed. On account of, I am a tremendous dork, and my two sets of flannel sheets are the same as the flannels for their beds. So Chickadee argues that I need to have the stars-and-moons like her, and Monkey counters that I really want the snowmen, like him. Heh.

Once we hit the time change, it will be time for me to get out my lightbox. I have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which I'm sure is a huge surprise given how you have just never seen a mood more stable than mine. Hahahahahahaha, I crack me up. Hee. Yeah. Anyway, SAD is a great thing where as soon as the days get shorter, I more or less find myself locked in a constant debate about whether I would rather jump off a cliff or just sleep all day. But some cool scientists figured out that people like me with this little brain glitch could be "reset" with the application of more light! So they invented these incredibly expensive lightboxes (thank you to the person who invented eBay, for those of us with SAD who are, nonetheless, cheap). My lightbox is a big rectangular thing which gives off light at a level of 10,000 lux or something, which is science-speak for "pretty damn bright." I park this baby on the desk and sit in front of it for twenty or thirty minutes each day during the cold, dark Winter. Although I remain pasty white and my retinas are somewhat singed, the end result is that I do not end up as a headline like "Woman Snaps: Squashes Children, Then Self, In Storm Windows."

In a little while I will head out for the last elusive piece of Winter gear: snowpants for Chickadee. Once those are acquired, both kids will have everything they need. Then I can look forward to the first blizzard with only the usual amount of dread, rather than the panic that accompanies knowing that there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth and accusations of neglect because I have not assembled all twenty-six pieces of outerwear required for a New England storm! (Why do I live here, again?)

This afternoon is our Big Meeting with the teacher and the principal. This, too, goes along with my mental acorns, as I am eager to have this situation squared away before we're into the additional stressors of Winter. We had friends join us for dinner last night under the guise of my having cooked too much and being friendly. Truly, I was being selfish; I was dying for some adult cameraderie, first of all, and also I needed someone to go over things with me, pre-meeting. The children ran amock while my friend helped me organize my thoughts and prioritize the salient points. I'm ready. I'm calm. I have a complicated child, yes. Her needs are not being met. Here are my ideas/suggestions, and here are my expectations. Let's come up with a plan.

I'm happy to be making progress, but once I get all of this other stuff done, you know what that means. I'll have to rake the leaves. *sob*

I'm melting

2004-10-21T06:29:00.000-05:00

"Mama, you must be made of blankies, cuz you're so soft and warm!"

In which groceries give me a headache

2004-10-20T13:32:00.000-05:00

Wednesday is usually a good day to play Meat Lottery. The "Manager's Special" coupons abound, as the previous weekend's rush is over and the stocking up for the coming weekend has not yet begun. Today I didn't spot a single coupon. Perhaps my fellow Lottery lovers beat me to the butcher's case.

But! No matter! Because I was armed with my coupons. Oh yes. Not just my regular coupons--which I carry in a stupid little accordian-style cardboard case like the geek that I am--but additional coupons that came in the mail because I am so special. Every so often my store sends out four weeks' worth of coupons, with identical dollars off coupons slated for each week. And $10 off of $100 is found money, baybee. The cupboard was bare when I set out this afternoon, so I was ready for some serious shopping.

Did you know that Wednesdays are now "Cheap Chicken Wednesdays?" Well they are. Doesn't that just make your whole week? I know it does for me. Not just because I'm happy to get a nice rotisserie chicken for $3.99, but because "Cheap Chicken Wednesday" makes me giggle. Perhaps because I am something of a cheap chicken, myself. I am still waiting for someone to give me my own day, however. Anyway.

I spent about fiften minutes figuring out the relative cost/benefit ratios of the various granola bars, while simultaneously remembering that I had neglected to pack Chickadee a snack. Oops. Perhaps it was because my mind had blown a circuit when she requested--in all sincerity--a cup of mandarin oranges be included in her lunch today. I'm sure she lived. Anyway, I did recall my oversight and experience the appropriate guilt while I tried to compare prices, and coupons, and keep straight which bars come 8 to a box and which come 6 to a box. I think there should be an International Granola Standard, by the way. It would make things so much easier.

Then--head still throbbing from Granola Calculus--I found myself facing the Popcorn Debacle. Pop Secret was buy one, get one free. And I had a coupon. Great, right? No! The coupon was for $1 off 3. And it was buy one, get one. My head almost exploded right there in the snack aisle, I tell you. I finally settled on buying 4 boxes, but there were no less than thirty-seven varieties of popcorn from which to choose, so that took another 15 minutes.

Oh! Look! Hummus is on big sale! So cheap! So delicious! I could send it in the kids' lunches instead of ranch dressing, to dip their carrots in. Yes, it was there in front of the six different varieties of hummus that I officially lost my mind. Have you met my children? Hummus?? What exactly was I thinking? Well, the good news is that I will happily be eating hummus for months.

Onward I forged. Salad dressing. Juice boxes. Milk. Bread. Cereal. All that good stuff. In no time at all, my cart was full, and I was really having to throw my weight into it to make it around the corners. Excellent. Time to check out.

Total Bill: $105.44. Woo! Except: $24.74 in Rewards Savings, and $5.00 in Manufacturer Coupons. Bringing my total to $75.70... too low to use my $10 off coupon.

Yes, I briefly considered how many more chickens I would have to buy to get up to $100. Alas. These are the trials and tribulations of being on a budget; I wanted to save that $10, but I just didn't need that much more stuff. Hmph. Such is life as a cheap chicken, I suppose.

And for my next trick, I will make Dr. Atkins cry

2004-10-19T18:54:00.000-05:00

Well, technically, Dr. Atkins is dead. But I figure that I lay claim to making baby Jesus weep so often, and so many regard Atkins as a man of similar stature, and--oh, look, I just made them both cry--anyway, if he was alive, or if he can cry from beyond the grave, I single-handedly devastated Dr. Atkins today.

Also? I keep typing Arkins. Is there a Dr. Arkins? A vet, perhaps? Oh dear lord, I am babbling. Which is, as we all know, a common side effect of Carbohydrate Poisoning.

There is one of those humorous lists that circulates the internet which includes the item: "I hate it when some skinny woman tells me she 'forgot to eat.' I've forgotten a lot of things in my day, but you have to be a special kind of stupid to forget to eat." World, I have a confession. I am a special kind of stupid. I forget to eat. Often. When I am stressed out, it's not unusual for me to stop eating. I'm a freak.

However, this is generally because there is nothing in my house that I want to eat. The corollary to my special kind of stupidity is that if there is that ONE magical food which SPEAKS to me when I'm stressed, I turn into a puppy. Which is to say, I eat and eat and eat some more and try as I might to leave that food source alone, and no matter how many times you smack me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, if that food is anywhere that I can get to it, it will soon be history.

The rest of this story is--of course--redundant. But I'm going to tell you, anyway.

Yesterday, Chickadee and I stopped at the store for a few things. I found a loaf of challah on the "Oops, we baked too much!" rack. The incident with the bread pudding still fresh in my mind, I knew better than to set my sights on a cooking project. I was just buying it, I told myself, because it was cheap, and would give us some bread with dinner, and it was no big deal.

Go ahead. Ask me where the challah is. Ask me.

I've been a very naughty puppy.

God, I love challah. It was an act of love, really. Um, yeah, love. All day long love. Which sounds so much more interesting than what it really was. Which was complete and utter gluttony; non-nutritive eating spurred on by an attempt to soothe my brain with delicious, fattening simple carbohydrates. And butter. Mmmmm, butter.

And now? I'm so ashamed. Also full.

But if there was another loaf around here someplace? I wouldn't be typing right now, I can tell you that much. Ow. Stop that. Mmmmm, bread. Ow!

Apologies all around

2004-10-19T12:10:00.000-05:00

I'm having a day of retreat, reflection and general penance.

I'm sorry that it's raining today. Monkey is on his first ever school field trip and I'm hoping the excitement of riding the big bus will outweigh the fact that he's likely to come home with pneumonia.

I'm sorry that after an extended breakfast-time detailing of today's plans my daughter still felt it necessary to insist to school officials that I was picking her up today, necessitating a phone call home to verify that no, she is to take the bus. Mostly I'm sorry that I have so little grip on how to communicate with that child.

I'm sorry that I inadvertently hurt someone's feelings on a discussion board this week when I neglected to choose my words carefully. I'm not sorry that I tried to fix it, but I'm sorry that the person in question has decided there is nothing I can say that changes the fact that the world has somehow now been shaken to its core. I feel bad, but I'm just walking away and hoping it becomes clear that no one (especially me) is that important.

I'm sorry that I've not been able to respond with greater enthusiasm to those who are checking up on me. It's ungracious and ungrateful and I am not fit to lick the shoes of those who love me, so I'll just be happy that I'm kinda like nicotine... gross and horrible for you, yet addictive.

I'm sorry that I've been crawling into bed early and missing my nightly chats with Kira, because she is just so darned cute. Damn you, Mountain Time Zone!

I'm sorry that my ex felt the need to tell my children to keep something stupid from me, not sorry that they told me anyway, and oh-so-sorry that I tried to discuss it with him. No secrets. Secrets bad. Don't do it. His response? "I didn't know it would upset you." Look! It's the POINT, sailing right past you! Grab it, quick!! That entire discussion made me more melancholy than I've been in ages, for reasons too complicated to articulate. I am not surprised, no. But it still makes me sad.

I'm sorry that 1) someone felt the need to do this search, 2) my site was a match, 3) my site was on the last page of search results, and 4) that person followed the link hoping to find this very important piece of information. Sorry, dude. Also? Seek help.

Feed me

2004-10-18T14:30:00.000-05:00

It should be impossible to be as cranky as I was, yesterday, for longer than a day. Theoretically, I mean. But as we've previously discussed, I am quite gifted. At least when it comes to spectacular bottoming-out of the moods. My funks may modify and adapt here and there, but I'm pretty good at the sustained grumpiness thing.

So! This morning was spectacular. I don't even remember what happened. All I know is that one minute I was bellowing "EAT. YOUR. BREAK. FAST!" for the forty-seventh time, and the next thing I knew I was standing there with a little cup of Del Monte mandarin oranges in my hand delivering a sermon of epic proportions. It would have been a thing of beauty if I wasn't more or less venting my spleen in a batshit crazy manner. The children fell silent and listened to my missive in awe... not so much because of the power of my words, no, but more because they correctly surmised there was a excellent chance of my head spontaneously combusting.

"You BEGGED me to buy these for you. These were your FAVORITE FOOD in the ENTIRE WORLD and you CRIED when I didn't buy them so I bought them and I stocked up when they were ON SALE and now you DON'T LIKE THEM?? What does that even MEAN? One day you loved mandarin oranges and the next day an alien landed here from MARS and sucked all of the orange-liking brain molecules from out of your HEAD? So now I packed them for you for snack and instead of eating them you ASKED YOUR TEACHER FOR FOOD like I had just NEGLECTED to pack you something? FINE. FINE. I will NEVER pack you mandarin oranges EVER AGAIN. Pardon ME. But PLEASE don't tell me you want something SPECIFIC from now on because I am NEVER buying you something SPECIAL since you can apparently just RANDOMLY DECIDE not to LIKE it any more!"

Yep, that's pretty much how it went. I doubt you'll be able to find it in the Annals of Excellent Parenting so be sure to get a good eyeful, here. Insanity caused by snack cup. I'm sorry, Your Honor. It was the oranges.

That, of course, set us up quite well for what followed, which was a post-breakfast sibling skirmish wherein I declined to hear either side but reprimanded them both; and then both of them were crying by the time we struggled out the door and caught the bus already waiting. Yay!

After dropping Monkey I decided that--to help lift my spirits--I would go get a cup of real coffee. The coffee place right near his school is inexplicably closed, so I drove further down the road to a relatively new, hip coffeehouse. Perhaps if it was a pick-me-up I was seeking, I should've known better than to walk into such a place in my usual "bus run" outfit (polarfleece top and sweats). Oh well. I'm sure all those dirty looks were just because those people lead horrible lives, and not because I wasn't wearing a bra. The paralysis that overtook me when faced with the Big Board O Drinks led me to blurt out an order for chai when I really wanted coffee, but without caffeine in my system I wasn't quick enough on my toes to rectify the error. No matter. I got my nice frothy steamed milk in there, so that was fine.

Once home, I sipped my chai, ate some toast, and started getting ready for my interview. At which time my computer decided to have a complete nervous breakdown. I entertained the idea for myself, as well, but instead spent two hours getting my resume to print while thinking up new swear words. That's a great way to get the blood pumping, by the way. Yeah. I showered, I dressed (all my clothes fit today, thanks for asking), I assembled my things. I hit the road.

I got lost. I drove past my destination. I did make in there in time, but between the computer problems and my scenic route I suspect my eye was twitching just a little. Not that anyone would've noticed that because I was looking so fabulous! And my pants were staying on so nicely, and everything! And... and... my earrings! Are so SHINY!

In a rare moment of clarity, I paused in the car before I headed in to my interview. I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that--current mood notwithstanding--this was an opportunity not to be taken for granted. Let the rest go, do what you came here to do. If all else fails... blind them with the shiny earrings. Yes.

Given the nature of the position and the fact that this is neither horseshoes nor hand grenades, I won't say much. What I will share is that I learned there were over 70 applicants; about a dozen were granted interviews; as of my slot (and I'm not sure where I fell in the mix) only one other had been granted a final interview. I was also asked to return. If you are so inclined, please do think fluffy bunny happy rainbow thoughts, but quietly, so as not to rile the fates who have nasty senses of humor. It may be a few weeks before I have more news and until then I will be tiptoeing around trying not to spill any bad karma on myself.

I've already gotten a head-start on pleasing The Powers That Be with my incredible maturity and restraint because of this exchange after my interview:
Chirpy Voice: Welcome to Taco Bell, would you like to try a value combo today?
Me: No thanks, can I please just get a chicken quesadilla?
Chirpy Voice: Chicken quesadilla? Would you like that in a value combo with a taco and a drink?
Me: Nope, just the quesadilla.
Chirpy Voice: Very good, any sauce with that?
Me: No thank you.
Chirpy Voice: And would you like to buy a Border Somethingorother Card that gives you money off with the purchase of each value combo?
Me: No thank you.
Chirpy Voice: Anything else?
Me: No thank you.
Chirpy Voice: Please have $2.58 ready at the window.
Me: Thanks.

A weaker woman would've screamed "GIMME MY DAMN QUESADILLA!" by the second sentence, you know. I so deserve that job. I am a saint.

Little Miss Can't-Be-Right-Ever

2004-10-17T17:27:00.000-05:00

During church
Pastor: You know how hard it is when you're learning to ride a bike?
Monkey: Yeah! One time I was riding my bike and my wheel FELL OFF! Mama should FIX THAT!
...
Pastor: This week marks the beginning of our annual stewardship campaign, so it's time to start thinking about your financial commitment for the coming year...
Me: Let's see, 10% of nothing is, wait--don't tell me--

During fellowship
Me: What? No, I haven't found a job yet. Thanks for asking.
...
Me: What? No, the Family Festival falls on a weekend when I won't have the kids, so I probably won't be coming.
...
Me: What? Oh, thanks. TAKE THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!

And then
Friend: Does Chickadee want to come hang with us during the party?
Chickadee: Can I please do that instead of going to the Little Kid party?
Me: Hmmm, okay, I think that'd be alright.

At the party
Them: Where's Chickadee?
Me: I let her accept this other invitation because I am a poor excuse for a mother and you only invited her out of kindness and pity on my single mom status, and rather than taking this as a golden opportunity to teach about honoring commitments I was mostly just happy she didn't ask me for a pony this week.
...
Everyone: Blah blah blah my husband blah blah blah couple-things blah blah blah money money money.
Me: Look! Coffee! In a shiny pot!
...
Everyone: Dance lessons horseback riding soccer library group enrichment shopping my husband blah blah blahbity blah.
Me: Mmmmm coffee.
...
Random Woman: Blah blah blah new to town blah blah I think the whole dump phenomenon is so charming, and the Still Good Shed is such a great idea!
Me: Don't tell anyone in the Junior League that you took stuff from the Still Good Shed.
Other Random Woman: My best friend is president of the Juniors.
Me: Oh. Wow. That's great. I need some more coffee.

Back home again
Monkey: Candy? Can I eat this candy?
Me: No, you've had enough sweets for today.
Monkey: WAAAAHHHHHHH!!!
Me: Go change your clothes.
Chickadee: Monkey won't give me--
Monkey: Chicky took my--
Me: Give it to me, whatever it is.
Them: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!
Me: Head. going. to. explode.
...
Me: Dinnertime!
Chickadee: Meatloaf? I hate meatloaf!
Monkey: What're these green things? I don't want them.
Chickadee: I hate ketchup.
Monkey: I'm not hungry.
Chickadee: Why do you make us such gross stuff?
Monkey: Yeah, Mama.
Me: Did anyone here make anything else for dinner that we can eat, instead?
Them: *blank stares*
Me: Right. Then it appears this is all we have. Eat it or don't.

It's like being a hermit. Except with a lot more driving around. And responsibility. And whining. And feeling like a misfit. But other than that, exactly the same. Sort of. (Even my metaphors suck, today.)

Saturday night's all right

2004-10-16T17:33:00.000-05:00

What I should've done today: Rake leaves, put away the deck furniture, rake leaves, take down the shade cabana thingie on the deck, rake leaves, mow the lawn, and rake leaves.

What I ended up doing today, on purpose: Vacuuming the entire house, dusting the first floor, washing Monkey's school bedding, sorting through piles of papers and mail, wrapping birthday presents for a party we're going to tomorrow, giving Monkey a haircut, patching and painting a wall that has needed some attention for longer than I will admit, letting my ex take apart and diagnose my computer, doing dishes, sorting children's clothing, mopping, and talking on the phone with a friend about how we should get together but our (respective) children really seemed to be enjoying a lazy day at home.

Things I did today, but wish I hadn't: Sliced open my thumb while trying to open the paint can, cleaned up half a bottle of liquid soap that mysteriously attacked the bathroom counter (suspect still at large), removed an entire handful of pebbles from the dryer's lint trap, killed three houseflies upstairs, and recycled all of the pretty catalogs tempting me to buy things.

What I have bought today since receiving the (late) child support check: a big-ass bucket of Legos and a memory stick for my limping computer. See Mir recklessly squander cash. Squander, Mir, squander!

What my children are doing right now: Sitting fed, scrubbed and pajama-ed in front of the world's most annoying video, having a grand time.

What song I could happily live the rest of my life without hearing again: Whoop, we found it! Whoop, we found it! Whoop, we found it! How about YOU?

What I will do tonight after the kids are in bed: Finish reading the book I'm working on, admire my clean house, feel guilty about not raking the leaves (maybe), start some more laundry, make a pot of tea, watch Trading Spaces, pay bills, balance my checkbook, and vow to do the raking tomorrow.

Important morals of this story: Raking is possibly my least favorite task in the entire world, being handy does not preclude being clumsy, my life is dull, and I probably won't rake tomorrow, either.

Irresistible

2004-10-16T09:10:00.000-05:00

Chickadee: Our phone number is XXX-XXXX and your cell phone is XXX-XXXX.
Me: Very good, honey.
Monkey: Yeah, well, MY phone number is seven eight nine eleven STINKY BUTT!

The tides of change (via telephone)

2004-10-15T14:21:00.000-05:00

*RING RING*
What he said: Let's set an up interview as soon as possible, here are the particulars, here is what we're looking for, can you come in Monday?
What I heard: This is the job you've been waiting for; right salary, right hours, people who give a damn. You are perfect for this. Can you come in Monday?
What I said: Let me check my calendar... why yes, Monday would be fine.
What I thought: OH MY GOD I HAVE TO GET THIS JOB THIS IS IT THIS IS THE ONE THIS IS THE SIGN THINGS ARE GOING TO BE OKAY. But I should stay calm. BUT THIS IS IT!

*RING RING*
What she said: Thank you so much for your letter, and have I ever told you that last year I had a little girl name Bumblebee? Well I did, and Chickadee reminds me so much of Bumblebee, but I certainly apologize for the occasional mistake with her name, there. And I think you may have misunderstood some of what we talked about yesterday, because I am very fond of Chickadee and she is just delightful and I'm sure that things are going well. But I've checked with the principal and we're a go for that meeting next week and I know everything is going to be just wonderful.
What I heard: Backpedal, backpedal, backpedal, oh shit I really stepped in it good, the principal yelled at me, I remembered what this job is about and realized I've totally bungled the care of your child and please God don't sue us or make a ruckus. Cuz BUMBLEBEE and CHICKADEE are so similar and that's an honest mistake. And everything else I said? Well ignore that, it wasn't what I meant. Did I mention please don't sue?
What I said: Thank you for keeping the lines of communication open. I look forward to our meeting. I'm sure we'll be able to reach an appropriate resolution so that we can refocus our efforts on Chickadee's needs.
What I thought: Keep paddling, bitch.

*RING RING*
What she said: Fill me in on what happened... okay... I think you did all the right things. Well, this may explain quite a bit of Chickadee's sudden school aversion, huh? Go have the meeting and let's follow-up afterwards. I can step in if need be.
What I heard: You're doing okay. And I'm here to help.
What I said: Thank you so much for the support.
What I thought: It's going to be okay. Thank God.

ROAR!

2004-10-15T07:54:00.000-05:00

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for indulging the release of my inner Mama Lion yesterday. I received so many supportive comments as well as the rushing in of my beloved contingent of cyber-soulmates to check on me. I am so grateful to have so many compassionate friends in my life.

This morning was hard. Chickadee was up early. She came down the hall to cuddle with me, then retreated to her room with a book. Rather than lash out upon the intrusion of Bouncy Little Brother, when I peeked in after some giggling I found she'd tucked him into her bed with her favorite stuffies and was reading him a story of his choosing. All was bliss until I announced it was time to get ready for school... and then yesterday swooped down in on her and the peace shattered. She was tired, her stomach hurt, her back itched, she didn't want to go.

We huddled up; we talked about what it means to do her best in class (listen, be polite, follow directions); we talked about how sometimes, maybe, her teacher might be wrong, and how we will deal with that (she will continue to behave, and strive to use her words appropriately, but also come to us for feedback/help). I let her know that I am her champion no matter what, and I expect that she will continue to do her best while we work out the lumps. She gets it.

She's brave, my girl. Woe unto the person who tries to squelch that out of her.

How to raise my blood pressure

2004-10-14T15:22:00.000-05:00

Want to make me furious? Here's a simple how-to guide:

Call me on the phone about my child.
Call her by the wrong name. Repeatedly. Do not apologize when I correct you (on the third mispronounciation).
Ask me WHY today's "incident" occurred, even though I wasn't there, and you were.
Ask me how to handle said incident, even though you have been teaching for...? What? Forty years??
Speak of my child as though she is making your job so difficult, and you are weary of trying to bend her to your will.
Complain about how much work it is to adapt the curriculum to meet her needs because she's so much further advanced than the other students. (I really love this one. Because, I'll be the first to tell you my kid's exceptional. But I don't believe for one second that she's the only child this teacher has ever encountered who's this smart. Puhleaze. Hello? Your job is to TEACH. Try it.)
Ask me questions about her "condition" and "history" in such a way that makes it clear that you are hoping I'll tell you none of this is your fault, but something inherently wrong with my child that no teacher could possibly manage.
Point out--several times--that my child announced that I don't have a job and we don't have much money. Don't show any sensitivity whatsoever to my embarrassment therein or the fact that "I AM SCREAMING FOR ATTENTION" is the only more attention-grabbing thing she could've chosen to say.
Fumble to find something nice to say about my child. Come up with a feeble, "She reads all the time." Less than a minute later, tell me that she reads too much.
After we get off the phone and I call the ex and get my kid's side of the story, let me find out that in the midst of this battle of the wills my child cried and the other children taunted her and called her a crybaby and you did NOTHING to stop them.

Yeah, I know you're close to retirement. I know you probably picked first grade because it's generally easy. My child deserves an education as much as every other child in that room, and she deserves for you to KNOW HER NAME and treat her LIKE SHE MATTERS. She doesn't like you much and I don't blame her one bit. Get off your lazy rear, put away your cookie cutters, and do your job! Maybe if she stops getting the vibe that you find her exasperating, she'll behave for you.

By the way? Check her folder for the letter I just wrote you. I look forward to our meeting with the principal. I suggest you bring a lot of duct tape with you, so that you can later reattach your head. Or is that your ass? It's just so hard to tell.

Warning: Steep learning curves ahead

2004-10-14T12:33:00.000-05:00

I like to consider myself a person of above-average intelligence. But every now and then I come face to face with the realization that I am full of crap. Woe is me.

Today I am expecting a couple of Very Important Phone Calls. So I dutifully puttered around all morning, sans shower, so that I would be available for these calls. Naturally, the watched phone never rings (except with a telemarketing call from Florida). Before I stepped into the shower around lunchtime, I placed the phone on the bathroom counter so that I wouldn't miss a call. But Murphy's Law clearly dictates that if I want the phone to ring, I have to be in the shower, shampoo in my eyes, with the nearest phone at least three rooms away. My carelessness cost me those calls. Was it worth it? Was it??

I shaved my legs again, today. (Wow! Twice in one month, not due to weather or sex! It's a record!) Which is to say, I sliced my legs open in multiple places. I've been shaving my legs for 22 years, people. TWENTY. TWO. YEARS. You'd think I'd have gotten the hang of it, by now. My legs haven't changed shape; I don't have Parkinson's Disease or some other sort of tremor-producing disorder. What's my excuse?

Now I'm looking around my computer desk. It is covered in a thick layer of dust, which I am writing about instead of eradicating. There are bills here in a stack that I am trying to will out of existence (it hasn't worked so far, but I'm no quitter), and also a couple sets of file folders that I bought for getting myself organized. The files are still empty. Rather than get organized, I'm going to sit here and be pissed at myself for buying them in the first place. Because that's productive.

There must be something else I should be doing, right now. I'll be sure to screw it up and report back.

Fringe benefits

2004-10-13T18:33:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. I blog for the goodies.

Sure, it didn't start out that way. But since I started blogging? People have sent me all kinds of things, for no reason other than that I have been on their blogs at the right times or answered some silly question or entered a contest. I love to win things. And I love to get free stuff. And the LOVE, people! I'm feeeeeeeling the LOVE!

Nothing says love like free stuff. That's a fact.

I'm sorry... I'm just a little verklempt... hang on... I'm okay....

Just look at what I got in the mail today! For no reason!! I ask you: what is better than chocolate? Why, chocolate you're not expecting! From Harry and David! Just because! When Sheryl offered to send me something for being her bazillionth (I think) commenter, I figured it would be a "little something." I did not figure on a box of macadamia shortbread chocolate-covered hearts. Hearts! They are almost too beautiful to eat! But not quite, because it would be against the laws of nature for anything involving chocolate to be too gorgeous to eat. So eat I have, and they are delicious. And I love Sheryl and her generosity so very much, that you must all now go to her site and share the love, because I am not sharing these delicious treats with any of you because they are MINE.

Uh, I mean, if you were here, of course, I would willingly share, but, oh well, you're not, so, um, sorry about that. But I will think of you while I'm eating them. Honest.

And it was with great compassion and a touch of sadness that I answered the children's inquiry about my package with, "OH WELL, these have NUTS in them and that means they are POISONOUS and you can't have ANY. Darn!"

Because I'm sensitive, that way.

Woulda Coulda Shoulda: second-guessing my every move, and digging the freebies. Now with even more gluttony!

Flu shot with a side of guilt

2004-10-13T12:15:00.000-05:00

As I'm sure you're aware, unless you live under a rock or something, there's a huge shortage of flu vaccine this year. I don't really understand the particulars, on account of I didn't pay any attention. What I heard was "vaccine shortage" and from there my neurotic Mama mind spun into overdrive. The details are unimportant. What is critical is this: if I have to live through another Year Of The Flu, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

Three years ago, we all got the flu. But not at the same time! No! Because that would've been manageable. No, that would've been a picnic. Chickadee got sick first, then my ex, then Monkey, then me. There was slight overlap between each of us. The end result was a solid MONTH of flu in our house. And three of the four of us suffered secondary infections as complications; nothing that killed us, obviously, but it was pretty grim. And I'm sure you haven't noticed this from reading my blog because I am so loathe to talk about myself... hahahahahaaaaaaaAAAAA... where was I... oh yes... um, anyway, you may not have noticed that my immune system and I are not on such good terms. There are probably a few things I'd like to do this year even less than go without a flu shot, but right now I can't think of any.

So when I found myself, this morning, slanting my way into the doctor's office for my sinus malady that has set my world a-spinnin', I asked if they had any vaccine. Turns out that they'd just gotten some. And on account of my exalted status as both an asthmatic and general frequent flyer at their establishment, I qualified to receive a shot. Huzzah! Except, then the guilt came rushing at me from all sides. I explained to my doctor that our pediatrician hadn't been allotted any vaccine yet, and as Monkey is also asthmatic, and younger, he probably needed the shot more than me. Could they give my dose to him? Well, no, because he's not a patient there, and blah blah blah policy blah blah blah you need to stay healthy blah blah blah call the ped again next week. Oh. Um, okay. I guess.

To take my mind off of this moral conundrum, the doctor set about examining me for the true purpose of my visit, which was to spend some time shining a light up my nose and remarking that it was really quite amazing that I could breathe at all. I was treated to a description of my nasal passages that is too disgusting to reproduce here because it's just gross and not even funny. But! Do not despair! Because then the doctor started talking to me about nasal lavage, which--as luck would have it--my dear Jilbur and I were discussing, just yesterday. Except yesterday, it went like this:
Jill: You just boil some water and add some salt, and use a bulb syringe to shoot it up your nose, and tilt your head way back and it runs down your throat and out your mouth.
Me: That would make me puke.
Jill: No, really, it's great for your sinuses.
Me: No, really, I would vomit. I'm gagging just thinking about it.

And today, it had the added dimension of true medical wisdom and techspeak:
Doctor: So you can just boil some water and add some salt and use a bulb syringe to shoot it up your nose, and then you can either tilt your head to the side and let it come down the other nostril, or tilt your head back and it'll run down your throat and out your mouth.
Me: That would make me puke.
Doctor: Hmmm, well, I don't know if vomiting is a common side effect, but if that sounds too complicated to you, you can actually buy a special kit with a bottle and a tube *at this point she started gesturing with her hands* and the tube can be placed just so and then if you like, you can tilt forward so it runs out your nose instead of down your throat.
Me: A bottle with a tube?
Doctor: Yes, and a nozzle.
Me: A bottle with a tube and a nozzle?
Doctor: Yes.
Me: Do they actually market that as The Amazing Nasal Douche or do they call it something else?
Doctor: Erm...
Me: Brings a whole new meaning to that "not so fresh feeling," dunnit?
Doctor: *laughing* Well, don't try it with Massengil....

I elected to take my chances without the benefits of sinus douching. I may take longer to recover, but at least I'll still have my dignity.

And anyway, she gave me an entire bagful of goodies, steroid nasal spray (yay! more steroids! I'll be posting pictures of my beard, soon!) and all different kinds of delicious medicines designed to make the damn floor hold still. She swears I'll feel better by Friday.

On the way home, I called the pediatrician's office again to see if any progress was being made on getting vaccines for the kids. It seems that Monkey is on the "short list" but they're still waiting to get a shipment that may or may not be coming. They'll call me back in a few days with an update. I hung up and again felt that wave of guilt for having gotten my own shot. It's not rational; my getting a shot doesn't affect whether they do, one way or the other, but there you have it.

What in the world did I used to do for entertainment before I had kids and all these delightful health concerns?

UPDATE: Many thanks to Dawnie for providing this informative link. It has pictures!!

Porkbutt

2004-10-12T16:25:00.000-05:00

I was organized today, on account of today I had to take Chickadee into The Big City for her bi-annual appointment with the fancy schmancy eye doctor. Now, I know I'm revealing myself for the country hick that I am when I say that any time I have to go down thataway I plan my entire day around it. I don't mind if you know how much I hate driving in (or even near) the city. I am many things, but I am not a particularly aggressive driver, and I am not fond of those who are.

So, for me? Heading down to Boston takes a certain mindset.

First off, I came home from the grocery store yesterday with a slab of pork butt because it was on Manager's Special (read: very cheap). I called my friend Marcey to ask her what pork butt is good for and she laughed at me for a long time. First she just laughed over food being named "pork butt." Then she laughed that I bought meat that I didn't know how to cook (but this isn't new; I will buy anything if the price is right and figure it out later). During the course of our conversation my children ran around calling each other "PORKBUTT!" while I wondered why on earth I ever cook anything.

So I did my research last night, and decided to make pulled pork. This would be easy; I can do it in the crockpot with minimal supervision, and dinner will be ready when we get home and I won't have to worry about cooking when we will probably be getting in late. Perfect. So this morning I seasoned my butt (haha) and slapped it in the crockpot and got everyone off to school and reminded Chickadee that I'd be picking her up early.

In theory, I should've now had the morning to catch up on chores, search the job listings, eat bonbons, whatever. But by the time I got back from dropping the kids, everything was a wee bit... slanty. Tilted, if you will. Hrm. Nothing spices up your day like a wee bit of vertigo. Especially if you've been fighting a cold for two weeks. And usually get dizzy when you have a sinus infection. Just what I need! Grrr. Okay, no problem, I will call the doctor's office and get in there before I need to get Chickadee.

Except, I called the office, and then lay down just for a minute to wait for them to call me back. And when I woke up two and a half hours later, they still hadn't called. When I called again, they couldn't fit me in before I needed to leave. So we won't be taking care of that little issue until tomorrow.

In the meantime, my house was beginning to take on the lovely aroma of pork butt (much nicer than it sounds, really) and I was realizing I needed to drive. To Boston. With my child. While I'm all dizzy. Are we having fun yet?

I got myself ready to go, trimmed the fat from the pork, shredded it up with a couple of forks, and added a box of maximum strength non-drowsy sinus relief and a Diet Coke with Lime. Then I swallowed a bottle of barbecue sauce. Wait. Well, something like that. I'm a little fuzzy on the details. (Hey, at least I wasn't concocting my own crystal meth, gimme a break.) Voila, dinner! Voila, ready to drive for a while!

Chickadee was in a snit when I picked her up. I'm not sure why. It's just as well; it was taking all of my concentration to drive, so she read a book and I tried not to let anyone run us over. The drive down was uneventful. I then handed over a hunk of money for the privilege of sitting in the waiting room for an hour and spending five minutes with the doctor so that he could say, "Excellent! See you in 6 months!" Yay.

Back in the car and headed north, we encountered the stop-and-start traffic that is typical in the Boston area when no one seems to know how to merge properly. Today's experience was enhanced by most favorite traffic phenomenon: Cool Dude In A Hurry. Here we all are, on Route 3 headed out of Boston. It's a work day, it's around 4:00. I know it must come as a huge shock that there is traffic at this time, particularly if you drive a very sporty-looking low-slung vehicle. Surely his innate fantabulousness should've caused the cars to part much like the Red Sea, just to allow his passage. And quite likely Cool Dude In A Hurry was annoyed with everyone on the road, but as I had the good fortune to be the car right in front of him, I was the main target of his wrath.

He hollered at me. He shook his fist. If I allowed more than twelve inches between my bumper and the car in front of me, I drew his verbal disdain. If I touched the brakes--clearly a sadistic move designed to evoke his ire, having nothing to do with the flow of traffic or the person in front of me slowing down--he rolled his eyes and screamed at the ceiling of his car. The best part was how the left lane was closed off with cones, because they've been doing construction on Route 3 for about, oh, eight years. So I can see how it was a complete surprise to this fine gentleman--any time there was a missing cone and he revved up to pull out to the left and pass all us patsies--to discover that, oops, that's just a missing cone, and the lane really is still closed. He would zoom halfway up alongside our car, then wrench the wheel and fall back in line behind us again, cursing all the while.

After what seemed an eternity, traffic sped up as the left lane reopened. Cool Dude sped past us with a screeching of tires and a flick of a certain finger. I smiled my most serene smile and waved at him while calling out, "I'm sure you're going to get there much faster now! Have a nice day!"

Chickadee observed this with a small smirk. "Hey Mama," she said. "That guy was a real porkbutt."

"Yes he was, honey."

We collected Monkey and came home to what should have been a stress-free evening. The pork was done. I piled it high on whole-wheat bulkies next to mounds of coleslaw. When I set the plates out next to tall glasses of milk, it was a thing of beauty. Personally, I thought it was a delicious dinner.

But after about two dozen swappings of "you're a porkbutt" and "no, YOU're a porkbutt!" and "do you know that's actually a pig's tushie??" I had to leave the table. I was dizzy again. I'm not entirely sure it was my sinuses, though. Half an hour later, Chickadee had eaten her sandwich and elocuted at length about how coleslaw is the most disgusting thing in the whole entire world. (It's so disgusting, that after I told her I didn't want to hear that, she ate half of it. Please don't ask me to explain.) Monkey had eaten a couple of crumbs that fell off his bulkie roll. At my insistence, he licked the coleslaw. And made a face. Then he licked the pork. And gagged. Then he said he was full. It's amazing how a few molecules of food can really fill you up.

I'm about to start the bedtime thing, after which I'll need to figure out what to do with the remaining pulled pork. Perhaps I should eat it all, and then my pants will fit again!

How will I top this when we make the trip again in six months? Perhaps I can whip up some liver and tripe before driving down there with pneumonia, or something. I'll start planning just as soon as the room stops spinning. But right now I have to go get the little porkbutts ready for bed.

Discovery

2004-10-12T08:04:00.000-05:00

I'm a multi-tasker. I have a deep appreciation for anything that functions well in multiple capacities.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was, this morning, to discover that the Vivelle Dot box is exactly the right size for squishing bugs that have wandered into the tight quarters of my master bathroom.

Their current tagline is "Works well. Wears well." But I think, "Sanity, strong bones, and insecticide" is so much catchier, don't you?

My kingdom for a... belt

2004-10-11T12:25:00.000-05:00

You'd think that I would be learning, as I go along in the interview process. Each new job interview is another opportunity to hone my skills, perfect my schtick, and transform myself into the job candidate of which potential employers dream.

You'd think that, if you'd never met me.

After the shoe fiasco prior to my last interview (where I discovered just moments before leaving that my pretty, pretty shoes didn't actually stay on my feet; minor detail), I figured that I would head off any trouble, today, by laying out my entire outfit the night before. Which I did. I took everything out last night, checked it all over, tried on my shoes, and patted myself on the back. The outfit was superb. Killer black pants. Electric blue french-cuffed blouse. Shoes that fit. Jewelry. Good to go.

So this morning, I putter around, take my shower, and begin to dress. And then I remembered something. I'm an idiot.

No, I didn't remember that I'm an idiot. I remembered that I bought these pants about a year ago. Before my surgery. When I weighed just a little bit more. When my waist was just a wee bit larger.

In short, when the pants fit me. Which now? They do not. Yes, mark the day. It's officially the first time in history when a woman is complaining to you about being too skinny. The pants looked marvelous when I put them on. Until I moved. At which point, they slid down to the top of my bikini panties and threatened to fall off.

And I'm thinking that losing my pants during an interview could be problematic.

Not to be flustered by this small challenge, I set about looking for a belt. Except I don't have a belt. Why don't I have a belt? I don't know. But apparently I don't. At least, I don't have one I could find. Well, hrm. Maybe I can make do, and if I leave my blouse untucked, you won't be able to tell....

Except that the blouse? Didn't fit, either. I have a closet full of stupid clothes, people. My very beautiful blouse was not quite fitted enough to leave untucked, and couldn't be tucked in without a belt given that my pants were plotting an escape.

Now I was starting to panic, a little.

New blouse! Yes! This one could be left untucked. Long enough to cover the pants issue, fitted enough to look professional. A strategically-placed safety pin inside the pants... and... yes. Good. Wait. Now my jewelry is the wrong color. Whose idea was it that women have to coordinate all this crap? Now instead of bold blue with my black pants, I'm wearing tweedy grey, and I look like I might be stopping at a funeral after this. Find jewelry with some color. Okay. Splash of pink, there we go. Fix hair. Apply make-up. Walk slowly, so that my pants stay put.

Yes, that's just how all the books say you should prepare to knock 'em dead at an interview. "Exude confidence! Dress for success! Try to keep your pants on!"

I'm pleased to report that I survived the interview, fully clothed. And I didn't roll my eyes even once, even though I was being asked really deep questions like "Describe your greatest weakness" by an earnest young thing who was probably born when I was in junior high.

But I'll confess... I lied. I said my greatest weakness is that I sometimes lack tact.

Actually my greatest weakness is that I can barely dress myself. But I didn't want to sound too shallow.

So this vampire walks into a bar...

2004-10-10T15:50:00.000-05:00

Yeah. Um. I'm kinda hoping Jay gives us a slightly more upbeat topic for next month's contest. Despite the myriad of stories from which I struggled to choose just one example of my grappling with insanity (yes, just trust me, I had lots of choices), it would seem that my last post left a thick cloud of The Serious in here.

And--believe it or not--having completed the piece, gotten it out of my head and off my computer, I am not in the mood for gloom. Time to lighten up.

So! A riddle, of sorts.

What do you do when you're at church, lining up with the choir, and are suddenly accosted by an 80-year-old woman gushing about your outfit in the following manner: "You look SO ADORABLE in that, and I'm just looking at you thinking that if I wore the same thing I would just look so frumpy and dowdy, but on you it is SO ADORABLE!"

Well, if you're me, you murmur a hesitant thank you--wondering if perhaps you heard wrong, or she doesn't realize how incredibly backhanded that sounds--and consider never wearing that outfit again, and then turn to the pastor for rescue. He has heard this exchange and the moment your gazes meet, his mouth twitches. With no further ado, you both succumb to a mutual and decidedly unholy giggle fit.

Even the House of God isn't impervious to my force field of farce.

Tumbling Down

2004-10-10T12:46:00.000-05:00

Today's post is my entry for the fourth Blogging For Books contest over at The Zero Boss. This month's topic is Insanity, with the charge to write about a time you were pushed to the brink of insanity (figuratively or literally), and how you lived to tell the tale.

“You have to keep him,” I said in measured tones, trying to keep the waver out of my voice. “Please. I don’t think… I can’t keep him safe. We have two small children. It’s not safe.”

“I told you yesterday, I cannot admit him unless he meets the criteria.” This counselor was the same one who had sat with us the previous day, asked a million questions, and then told me to take him home. I had stared at her in disbelief while he continued to stare at the floor. It wasn’t enough, she’d said. Yes, he needs help. No, we will not help you. She was rough and unsympathetic, and I wondered how in the world she’d landed this job. Or was the nature of her work so terrible; it had turned a once-compassionate person into this?

“Part of your criteria is the risk of him hurting himself or others. He is at risk to hurt himself. He has admitted that. Repeatedly. He needs round the clock supervision.” She looked at me as if I’d just suggested we order pizza. I felt my face glow hot with frustration.

“I’m out of control,” he offered in a slack monotone, out of nowhere. His voice was low, his gaze fixed on his shoes.

“What do you mean?” she countered, without kindness. “That tells me nothing.”

“I’m out of control,” he repeated. “I am.” At this, she actually rolled her eyes. I wanted to smack her.

“I need more,” she said.

“I…” his hands came up, and his head sunk down into them. “I punched my son.”

In my peripheral vision I saw her eyebrows going up and her head turning to gauge my reaction, but she seemed a million miles away.

“You what?” I was on my feet. I didn’t remember getting up.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. I could barely make out the words. “I’m so sorry. That day… with the door… he tried to close it on me… I snapped… I couldn’t tell you, I was afraid…” he glanced up at me. “I was afraid you would hate me, and you do, and you should.” He curled around himself and rocked slightly. “You’ll take them away now.”

“You.” I gaped. “Oh. My God.” The pieces were flying to assemble in my head, making me dizzy. “I am so stupid.” The crash, the scream. Me, running down the stairs. My baby, screaming and red, hair on his forehead damp and curling from the force of his pain. And him, standing there, stricken, cradling him, saying he’d opened the door into his stomach. By accident. Crooning over and over that he was sorry, Daddy’s sorry, don’t cry sweetie, it’ll be okay. I had tried to take him, to comfort him, and he just kept crying, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” and so out of what I’d thought was misplaced guilt, he’d refused to relinquish him, saying he wanted to comfort him.

It had been a week, and the baby hadn’t made it through the night once since then. He would awaken and cry every night. I would gather him up and bring him to the rocker, where he would cling to me—little hand entwined in my hair, sobs tapering to hiccups—until sleep found him again. I’d heard him sneak along the hallway to peek in on us and I would wave him back to bed without even looking up.

I was being steered out of the room now by the counselor. “I need to talk to him alone, please. Wait out here.” I allowed her to lead me, let her place me in a waiting chair. Her face was softer now. “Do you need a cup of coffee or something?” I shook my head and swiped at my eyes, then stared at my wet hand as it dropped back into my lap.

That morning, the children had sat on the couch watching “Josh and the Big Wall” while I’d rushed around, making phone calls and trying to find a friend who could watch them for me for a while. “Keep walking / But you won’t knock down our wall! / Keep walking! / But she isn’t gonna fall!” played in the background as I made arrangements, gulped my tea, and wondered how much longer I could do this. The Veggie Tales French peas kept singing while I’d told myself to just keep walking.

Now, unbidden, that music popped back into my head, double-time; taunting. “It’s plain to see / Your brains are very small / If you think walking / Will be knocking down our wall!” Over and over it ran in my head, complete with the sequence where the walls tumble down, much to the chagrin of the peas. The kids had laughed and laughed. Those dumb peas! They should’ve known better! A small yelp escaped my lips… something between a wail and a giggle. I’m a pea. Look, the walls fell down. How ‘bout that. “Won’t you join me in my irritating leettle zong?” “Eet would be an honor!”

I waited until the counselor came back to talk with me. We finished up and I was allowed to go up to the ward with him while he was checked in. I couldn’t look him in the eye. Before I left, he sobbed. Told me how much he loved me, and the kids, and how sorry he was, about everything. “Get some rest,” I told him. “I’ll be back tonight.”

The French peas serenaded me all the way back to my friend’s house to gather the children. I walked in the door and there was my two-year-old, face lighting up and entire body jiggling with joy to see me appear. I ran up the stairs to him, folded him into my lap, and cried into his fuzzy hair until I could no longer breathe. Finally, gasping for breath, I turned my face up to my friend (who was hovering nearby) and murmured, “I didn’t know. I should’ve known.” She was confused. I lifted the baby’s shirt and lightly traced the bruise on his stomach. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” I covered his face in little kisses and he giggled and squirmed. “Go play for a minute and let the mamas talk, okay?” My sweet boy, all empathy, patted my cheek and toddled off to find the other kids. Then I collapsed into my dear friend, who let me sob out my grief until I was spent.

The previous year had been a blur of tragedy and sickness. I’d soldiered onward always assuming that improvement was imminent. We would get through. He would get better. We would rebuild. I was selfish to be tired. They all needed me, and I would be there because that was my job. Except that I hadn’t done my job; everything had fallen apart, and when you’re a little animated French pea looking at the dusty remains of a great big wall, recovery seems a ridiculous notion. “Keep walking / But you won’t knock down our wall!” It’s funny because they’re so convinced they’re right, their helium-infused voices so triumphant, and they turn out to be so wrong.

I spent the next few months as a disinterested bystander to my own life. I accepted the prayers and praise that were heaped upon me for the wonderful way I was handling everything. All the while I was standing outside myself, observing, wondering when I, too, would snap and reveal my true weakness. I was already gone. I could not accept that my life as I knew it was over, yet had not even the slightest urge to find a way to move forward. Each day ticked by as I watched myself glide through the surface tasks of survival. Underneath, I was wrestling a demon that I feared would devour me as soon as I stopped moving.

Late one night, as I tried to sleep on the couch, I cried for the first time in ages. This time, it wasn’t for him, or for the kids. It started with a little sniffle because the throw I was huddled under didn’t cover all the way to my feet, and I was cold. Then it became a torrent. It was for me, for the life I’d lost, for the sacrifices I’d made, the assumptions I’d allowed, and the hardening of my heart. It was because I couldn’t do it any more, and I felt like a failure. It was because it sickened me to be blaming myself. I barely recognized this person so wracked with doubt and despair. Somehow, I stepped back into myself, and what I saw there terrified me. The demon and I stood face to face. Silence stretched between us. “I can’t,” I whispered at last. The demon evaporated, and I sat there—motionless, with cold feet forgotten—until pink dawn crept over the windowsills.

In the time that followed—the separation, the divorce, and his angry insistence that I was to blame—I continued to grieve, of course. But I was me again. The French peas stopped taunting me. It was hard. No; it was awful. But it was mine. It was the only way I could see the future again. It was the only way I could see myself again. It’s such a relief just to be still, sometimes. Even amongst the rubble.

The Full Puppy

2004-10-08T17:43:00.000-05:00

True to his word, my ex delivered the goods this evening. We were all quite amused; and for a moment--as the kids and I giggled and flipped through the dozen or so poses he'd put the puppy through on the copier--I had a sudden glimpse of the man he used to be, and the family we once were.

Then I realized my wistful moment was a byproduct of stuffed animal porn. That helped to put the nostalgia in perspective.

Ummmm... expensive bug bites??

2004-10-08T15:26:00.000-05:00

Chickadee and I were driving to Monkey's school to pick him up, and she asked me to turn on the music. I punched up the Ben Folds Five CD I'd been listening to, earlier. "Song For The Dumped"* started.

My hand went to the knob, and stopped. A glance in the mirror revealed Miss Chickadee bopping around in her seat, rocking out to the beat, and generally appearing unmindful of the lyrics. Maybe I'd just let it play. Turning it off would take more explaining.

As we walked into the school, Chickadee turned to me and asked:

"Why do they itch? Will they stop itching if they give the money back?"

* For the unfamiliar who perhaps don't feel like following the link, the lyric in question is "Gimme my money back / Gimme my money back / You bitch."

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

2004-10-08T08:53:00.000-05:00

Well, are you? I bet you are.

No, really. I mean, it's so clear. Anyone who's anyone is pondering it right this very minute.

See? That's right. What I'm thinking... what you're thinking... is that it's high time to take control of the masses through the reckless use of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride.

Doesn't it give you a little shiver of delight, when we're in synch like that? Oh, baby. Yeah.

Actually, I had some assistance in arriving at my master plan. This morning, all I had on my mind when I woke up was getting Chickadee ready for her class pictures. That was Plan Numero Uno for the day, and I was not to be swayed from my goal!

Except for two things.

First of all, the children came back from their afternoon with Daddy last night and Monkey had forgotten his blanket and puppy at Daddy's house. Much tragedy ensued. We have multiple, identical blankets which pass muster, but there is only one Baby Puppy. Monkey was verging on hysteria as my poor ex was trying to get out of the house without having to promise to deliver the goods that very evening. The ex proposed that it would be grand fun to take Baby Puppy to work with him the next morning (today) and then when child and dog reunite this evening, Puppy could tell Monkey all about his day! Monkey wasn't falling for it. His whining was reaching fevered pitch and in desperation I found myself shouting out with a kind of crazed glee:

"Hey Monkey! I have a GREAT idea! Let Daddy take Baby Puppy to work tomorrow, and then Puppy can make a xerox copy of his BUTT on the COPIER for you! Wouldn't that be GREAT??"

And ya know, I am ashamed. I don't know what came over me. But it will never be said that I do not understand the mind of a four-year-old boy, because that was just the ticket. Monkey clapped his hands and agreed that for a photocopy of puppy hindquarters, he could survive a night without his pal. Peace was restored.

So at 6:30 this morning I was single-mindedly focused upon how to make the morning go smoothly and yield Chickadee at her most calm and beautiful for pictures--or maybe I was still drooling on my pillow--and Monkey burst into my room and demanded that we call Daddy and remind him to xerox Baby Puppy's butt. That was diversion number one. Although I have to admit, it was an entertaining phone call.

The second diversion from Operation Pretty Picture came as soon as I tried to lift my head from the pillow. I'm still fighting a cold, and my sinuses let out a collective groan when I moved. It probably didn't help that Monkey coughed all over me while I was trying to raise my clogged head, either. A round of cold medicine for everyone! But I was out of daytime cold meds for me, and I gave the last dose of the children's cold medicine to Monkey. Well, that's okay. I'll go to the store after I get the kids to school.

As yet unaware that this was to be the day I would plot to control all of humanity for my own evil purposes, I went on with my morning as usual. I only had to tell Chickadee to get out of bed forty-seven times, and after a brief attempt to do something "fancy" to her hair, we settled on one of her standard styles. Her clothes had been negotiated the night before, thank God. Breakfast was served, lunches were packed, and we were halfway to the bus stop when I realized I hadn't washed her face again after she ate. No matter; I whipped a tissue out of my pocket, spat on it, and quickly rubbed off her milk moustache. (Nothing says "I love you" like washing your kid's face with saliva.) (With the possible exception of her response being, "Mmmmm, minty!")

We waved at the bus and then I took Monkey to school. After we said our goodbyes, I headed to Wallyworld for cold medicine. Mind you, I am not a fan of this store, in general. But this morning it had several things going for it: 1) It is the closest store to Monkey's school, 2) It was open at 8:00, and 3) Stuff is cheap there.

I thought I was just selecting cold medicine. A twin-pack of Nyquil. A "value" pack of daytime maximum sinus relief caplets. And two children's elixirs; nighttime and daytime. On my way back up to the registers, I happened upon some Summer clearance, and picked up snorkel sets for the kids for $.50 apiece. I was feeling rather pleased.

And then it happened. I was pegged for the evil, plotting genius that I am.

Wallyworld cash registers will not allow you to buy more than three pseudoephedrine hydrochloride containing products at once. Because Wallyworld is all about taking care of their customers. (As long as you're talking about dangerous substances like decongestants, that is. If you need some assistance in housewares, go to Target.)

I put the Nyquil back. I think I still have some of that, here, and I was in need of the daytime stuff and I figured I'd look like an asshat if I put back either of the meds for the kids. The poor cashier--all of 18 or so--was very apologetic, rambling on about how she doesn't understand why they have that rule, she was so sorry. Little did she know that my brilliant plan was hatching even as she fumbled with the blue plastic bags.

Are you with me? Of course you are. Let's get started. Listen carefully to the sound of my voice. I'm here to help. Your sinuses are getting very clear... clearer... clearer... and you want to do my bidding....

Caller ID enriches my fantasy life

2004-10-07T14:20:00.000-05:00

Because I signed myself up for the Do Not Call Registry as soon as it became available, instead of receiving eleventy billion unwanted calls every day, I only receive one or two. This reduction is a good thing. However, it has rendered my standard methods for dealing with telemarketers rather rusty.

It used to be, if I saw an "Unavailable" or unfamiliar number on the caller ID, I would scoop up the phone, say hello, and if there was even the slightest pause, I would hang up. That pause is when the person manning the Telemarketronic A5000 machine realizes there's a human on the other end and scrambles to pick up the line and sell you something, you know. Nowadays, I'm off my game. Those unfamiliar calls might be job leads. They don't come with enough regularity for me to identify and reject them as quickly as I used to.

Today, the phone rang and the Caller ID said only "UTAH" along with the phone number. Since I was pretty sure I hadn't applied for any jobs in Utah, I figured this wasn't a call that was going to change my life. And yet... I picked up the phone.

"Dooce? Is that you?"

Silence.

She must have been stunned into speechlessness by my charm and precognition. That's alright. It turned out that Target called me about five minutes later to ask me for an interview, so it was a good thing I wasn't on the phone (being sold something useless or having an imaginary conversation with one of the only normal people in Utah).

On the other hand, I'd love to know what she thinks I should wear to my interview.

Let them eat sushi

2004-10-06T21:09:00.000-05:00

You know what's really, really cool about being a parent? Children are an endless source of entertainment, and you can torment them in endless ways that are not technically considered abuse.

This morning at breakfast--horror of horrors!--we had Thomas' Toasting Bread but no cream cheese. Because I am a horrible, negligent mother. Chickadee shouted down the stairs as I offered Monkey cinnamon toast with butter that she wanted some, too, but with green cheese.

"Green cheese???"

"No, CREAM CHEESE. Geez."

"Green cheese please???"

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!! CREAM. CHEESE. Comes in a big plastic thing?"

"Oh. Okay, sure thing." I went and rummaged in the fridge. "Um, Chickie? Bad news. We're out of cream cheese. Butter?"

Well, she handled it pretty well. She stomped and pouted and whined and complained, of course. But she ate her toast with substandard, inferior butter and we made it to the bus on time. As she boarded the bus, I called out, "Love you, honey. Have a great day!" She turned around with a smile, and my own grin spread in anticipation of the reciprocal farewell.

"GO BUY SOME CREAM CHEESE TODAY!"

Okay then.

I had a pretty busy day while the kids were at school. Not too bad at all, really. Here's what I did:
* not sleep
* drink a lot of tea
* chat with the prednisone demons
* shave my legs
* blog about shaving my legs
* apply for a job at Target
* drop off a load of stuff at the consignment store
* pick up a Halloween costume for Chickadee
* putter around the house
* completely forget to buy cream cheese

Oops.

So the time came to get Chickadee off the bus, and I was trying to get her all jazzed about this fantastic costume I'd found for her, and she wanted to know if I'd been to the store. She's single-minded that way. I have no idea where she gets that. (Shut up.) I did a quick time check: if we left to pick up Monkey straight away, we would have time to run to the store (there were a few other critical items we needed, as well), come home and have dinner, and still make it to Open House this evening. Fine; let's go.

We flew through the store, grabbing essential items here and there. Monkey demanded to visit the lobsters. I obliged, and found myself staring into the sushi case. I love sushi. I almost never splurge on sushi.

Did I mention the whole not sleeping and general self-loathing thing I've had going on lately? I picked up a package of sushi. Cuz I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, I like sushi. Take that, prednisone!

Back home, I scurried to fix the children sandwiches (their request) and hurry them along so that we could head back over to school. Everything was fine until their meals were in place and I sat down at the table with them. As soon as I opened my container, all eating ceased. It was demanded that I demonstrate my chopstick prowess (I did). The ingredients of the individual rolls needed to be listed (with the inherent segue to convince Monkey that yes, it's real seaweed and people do eat it). I managed to talk Chickadee out of tasting a hunk of wasabe, but she did accept a few grains of rice soaked in the soy/wasabe mixture and declared it... okay. Monkey wanted to eat the little strip of spikey green cellophane that separates the ginger from the sushi.

Confessions: I handed it over and told him to go ahead. And I was disappointed when he figured out it wasn't food before he put it in his mouth. Then I gave Chickadee a piece of pickled ginger and told her I was sure she'd like it (she didn't).

See, I'm like the poster child for finding the silver lining, really. I could sit around and bemoan the fact that my child is a scrawny, undernourished, picky eater... or I could continue to delight in the bizarre ways that he approaches discerning what is acceptable nutrition and what isn't. Conversely, I could just appreciate having a child who'll eat almost anything that doesn't eat her first, but instead I consider it my personal mission to ferret out the few foods that will disgust her; just because it's entertaining.

Don't worry. I'll get mine. After the Open House, we came home and I got the kids to bed. I cleaned up a little bit, and while I was thinking about how much I enjoyed my sushi, I thought Gee, I'm really glad Chickadee was so adamant about going to get the cream cheese.

And then I realized... they'd eaten the last of the cinammon bread at breakfast. And I didn't buy more of that.

In which I accept fatigue

2004-10-06T12:50:00.000-05:00

I love prednisone, yes, I really really do, because my leg, it very nearly looks like a leg, today. It doesn't even itch. See? Here I am, not scratching! Hurray!

But, oh how I hate the prednisone. Hate hate HATE. The prednisone? It is opposed to sleeping. The prednisone says, let's stay awake a really long time so we can fully enjoy the mess we've made of your already precariously balanced emotions. Why waste this time sleeping, says the prednisone! There are things to regret! Things to worry about! Countless opportunities for feeling inadequate! Sleep is for people who like themselves! And while the prednisone is coaching me through this misery, I don't even feel tired. So, sure, I stay up, until I look at the clock and think, Damn, I need to get up in about... um... 5 hours, sleep might be a good idea. And then I turn out the light and lay there. And lay there. And turn over. And lay there some more. And finally doze off! And wake up again. Etc.

So I dragged my sorry self out of bed this morning and made breakfast and packed lunches and got one kid to the bus and the other one dropped off at school and came home and crawled back into bed. And lay there. And turned over. And lay there some more. And got up again.

And drank an entire pot of tea. And determined that exhaustion was not going to be an obstacle to my day! For I am brave, and strong! Sleep is for the weak!

What better way to invigorate myself and lift my spirits than to have a nice long shower and shave my legs? I'll let you in on a little secret. Come closer. This will just be between me and you (the entire internet). I hadn't shaved my legs since the incident with the mowing and the wasps. That was two and a half weeks ago. But my afflicted leg was so lumpy, and painful; I couldn't bear the thought of trying to shave it, and shaving just one leg seemed even weirder. So today, buoyed up on more than my usual helping of self-hatred and about two hours of sleep, I dared to survey my legs.

Have I mentioned that I am a very dark brunette with very pale skin? And that I am descended from hairy stock? (Sorry, Dad. I won't tell anyone about the hair on your ears.) (Whoops.) As I gulped my caffeine and worked to focus my eyes, I realized I had two options: shave my legs, or go buy some little colored beads and start braiding. Never in my life have I been so grateful to be single. Yeesh. I put a fresh blade on my razor and hopped in the shower.

When I got out? The prednisone said, You suck! You're a loser! But Oh my your legs are so nice and smooth! And then I was happy for a minute. See? The prednisone loves me, really. It doesn't mean to be mean.

Then I took my smooth, loser legs down to Target and filled out a job application. Because back when I was a highly paid engineer I'd thought to myself, Self, this is quite nice, but wouldn't it be more fun to someday be divorced and broke and unable to find a job befitting a person of our education and intelligence simply because we prioritized the raising of children over the climbing of the corporate ladder? And perhaps I didn't fully imagine the part where having clean-shaven legs would, in fact, be the pinnacle of my existence; but all in all, the experience today did serve to make me feel that at some point I inadvertently slipped through a rift in the space/time continuum and am no longer living a life I recognize as my own.

On the bright side, there is no hair growing in my ears. Yet.

I think I forgot to eat supper

2004-10-05T20:31:00.000-05:00

Low blood sugar, you know. In addition to the crazy prednisone. So that's what I'm going to blame the following random thoughts on, if pressed. But don't press me; I prefer to be gently squeezed. (Also blaming that last statement on the lack of food, because it reads a lot dirtier than I intended, but I am too lazy to rephrase or delete it.)

Chickadee fell asleep on me while we were reading in my room before bed tonight. That hasn't happened in... ummm... I couldn't even say. Years. She grinds her teeth in her sleep. She is six-and-a-half years old and she grinds her teeth in her sleep. I sent Monkey to wait for me in his room and carried Chickadee's leaden, sleep-warm body down the hall to her room. Once there, I sat on the edge of her bed, just cradling her in my arms with my lips barely brushing her forehead. She makes my heart ache.

Monkey and I have a bedtime kissing ritual which must follow a strict pattern. I kiss him, first. Cheek, other cheek, first cheek again, second cheek again. Forehead. Nose. Chin. Then a nice loud *smack* on the mouth. We giggle, then he does the same to me. Except he is laying in bed, and I am leaning over him, so I pretty much have to "offer" the proper spots for him to reach. If I'm feeling very silly, I keep offering my cheeks in rapid succession, over and over, until he is laughing so hard that he can't kiss me any more. Most of the time I just offer both cheeks twice. Sometimes I do something inbetween. No matter how many times I offer my cheeks, no matter whether I offered each one the same number of times or not (usually I do), when I try to offer my forehead Monkey will scold me for not having the same number of kisses on each cheek. And then whichever cheek he kissed last he will shove to the side so as to kiss the other one once more. Usually this drives me batty. Tonight it was exactly what I needed.

In an effort to shake off my melancholy, I retreated to the basement to do some more organization. I figured I'm on a roll and should go with it. Several minor heart attacks later, I concluded that once you've had a mouse problem, every scrap of insulation said mice have torn down is masquerading as a twisted rodent corpse. Gah.

Is John Edwards kinda sexy or have I just experienced too much trauma this evening to think straight? Or perhaps my vision is colored by the fact that I have to look at him next to Dick "Pod Person" Cheney? This is way more entertaining than the presidential debate was.

Just a day of recycling, driving, and dealing

2004-10-05T17:04:00.000-05:00

Another fine excursion to the dump, today. My car was packed to the gills with recycling; I've cut another path through the basement and expanded the walking room in the garage with the number of cardboard boxes I removed. The stack of discarded Boston Globes no longer threatens to topple out of the garbage cabinet and knock me senseless every time I go to throw something away. The "Still Good" shed offered up some bakeware (I defy anyone with children under the age of 12 to say there is such a thing as too many mini-muffin tins) and a few comparable plastic pieces for the kids' kitchen. I hit pay dirt in the book shed, scoring the two Shel Silverstein books we needed to complete our collection, two trivia card sets, and about half a dozen other kids' books. Grabbed a little piece of fluff for myself and called it a day.

Thus invigorated, I then embarked on the Shuffling of the Children. Due to poor planning on my part (surprise!), I'd forgotten I was going to the dump today when I'd written the note for Chickadee to be excused early for a doctor's appointment. The dump is on the same side of town as her school. Our house is on the side of town where Monkey's school is located. But as I am a moron, and decided I wasn't up for arguing with the nazis in the office about removing Chickadee even earlier than requested, I drove across town to fetch Monkey, then back across town again to get Chickadee, then back the other way once more to the doctor. Phew.

At the doctor I got to confess to having changed Chickadee's medication dosage without approval. I rushed to blame it on her therapist having suggested it last week, adding that I had made an appointment as soon as possible to get official sanction. Luckily, I am brilliant and the doctor is pretty easygoing; she agreed that was the thing to do and didn't have a problem with it. That was a relief, because I strongly suspect that if Chickadee hears another adult tell me that I am wrong about something it will only serve to confirm all her suspicions that I am not only the dumbest person on the planet, but possibly trying to poison her, as well. She's charming, that way. We do not need to present this child with any more evidence to support her hypothesis that I should be ignored.

This doctor keeps a continuum of smiley faces from 1 to 10 on her bulletin board. Number 1 Smiley Face looks like he's had some extremely good weed and is currently watching the sunset and eating brownies. Cheesecake brownies, perhaps. It's that kind of smile. Duuuuuuuuuude, says Number 1, I can't stop smiling! Number 10 Smiley Face has just lost his entire family to the raging inferno that consumed his home. Perhaps the firemen came too late, and--upon realizing the house and family couldn't be saved--decided to pass some time by taking poor little Number 10 out back for some non-regulation activities. Number 10 is far too busy wailing and gushing tears to say anything at all. You kind of want to scoop up Number 10 and comfort him and tell him everything is going to be okay, but on the other hand, you look at his face and feel like nothing will ever be okay for him ever again. Plus, he's just a sketch of a face. Anyway, you get the idea. The faces go in degrees of emotion from Number 1 down to Number 10, with Smiley Face Number 5 being the Switzerland of Smiley Faces.

Monkey demands to see the Smiley Chart first thing every time we go to this office. It's not his appointment, but he is mesmerized by that chart. The doctor is always game to indulge him, and asks him to please point to the face that best describes how he feels on the inside. Without fail, Monkey chooses Smiley Number 1, every single time. Monkey is high on life. Yay Monkey! Unfortunately, in the year that Chickadee has been seeing this doctor, she has chosen Smiley Number 10 more times than I like to recall. We've had a rough few weeks and so I steeled myself as the doctor ruffled Monkey's hair and said, "Okay, Chickadee, your turn! Show me which one is you, today." Chickadee studied the faces for a moment and then turned away and flopped down in the chair next to me.

"None of them," she declared. The doctor raised her eyebrows and asked Chickadee to look again, and pick the one closest, even if it wasn't exactly right. "None of them are even close," she insisted. I exhaled. Loudly.

"Chickadee, honey, please just try to pick one," I urged.

She picked Switzerland. Smiley Number 5 probably winked at her and said, "You and me, kid. They can't crack us. We're inscrutable!" (And Chickadee, being Chickadee, then thought to herself, "I have no idea what inscrutable means, but it sounds good.") All in all, it was kind of a relief. Except for the part where I imagined the Smiley and my daughter chatting. But that's not really her fault. We talked a bit, finished up with making our next appointment, and headed out to Daddy's house for dinner.

I have now had an entire hour all to myself and I have no idea where it went. But I do know that I am totally going to have nightmares about disturbing Smiley Faces tonight.

Tuesday's Child is full of grace

2004-10-05T08:08:00.000-05:00

Look! Up in the sky! What is that? It's a bird! It's a plane! It's--

Oh, wait. Did I say up in the sky? I lied. Look down there on the floor. Do you see it? Do you??

Yeah. That's right! It's... my ankle! Still puffy, in fact covered with black and blue marks (apparently the next time I really want to hurt someone? I should scratch them), but fairly readily identifiable as an ankle.

And there was much rejoicing! Even though the crazy prednisone caused me to wake up every hour last night. No matter. (And, side note to RC: I do know better than to call the doctor's office and complain that the medicine isn't working fast enough. Clearly the people who do that do not have blogs and reading audiences who will hang on their every grumpy, whining word.)

So. Recovery appears to be underway.

To celebrate, I'm going to the dump. With a friend. Never let it be said that I don't know how to par-tay! I know I've waxed philosophical about the dump before, so I won't bore you again. The important thing to note about today's trip is that I have been inspired by recent events to finally finish cleaning out my basement. In addition to my usual recycling, my car contains about a gazillion flattened cardboard boxes and several items for the "Still Good" shed. I am going to get the basement cleaned out or at least get some serious aggravation going in the process.

I stood in the shower this morning under the hottest water I could stand, willing myself not to scratch; trying to empty my mind and just float like the steam that surrounded me. It sort of worked. Then, of course, when I got out I realized I'd stayed too long and we needed to leave for the bus immediately if not sooner. We ended up running the last little bit while the bus driver chuckled at us, and I felt tears well up. So I guess my prednisone-altered mood is still pretty fragile. Oh well. If you need me, I'll be the one weeping over by the comingled containers.

P.S. I really was born on a Tuesday. And I've been accused of being full of a lot of different things over the years, but grace was never one of them. I cannot imagine why not.

Prednisone, emissary of evil

2004-10-04T18:51:00.000-05:00

So, the doctor told me that I could split up my daily dosages of prednisone into two or three sittings, if I liked, because it might be hard on my stomach. Naturally this caused me to pick up my prescriptions at Target and then stand there in the checkout line swallowing all five pills at once. Because, I don't know, for some crazy reason my priority is to make my leg stop swelling and itching, please, for the love of all that is holy.

I came home and puttered around a bit, then fell face-first into my keyboard as a wave of exhaustion overtook me. Huh. Maybe the prednisone makes me sleepy? So I caught a nap for an hour before I had to go pick Chickadee up at the bus stop.

During that hour, the evil prednisone army of emotional instability appears to have taken over mission control. Not--mind you--that I'm claiming to have been an archetype of emotional stability previous to this, but trust me. If I am feeling worse than usual in such a marked way, it is time to hide your children and valuables and pretend that you don't know me.

The general course of the rest of my afternoon follows.

I have to get to the bus. I am so tired. Sooooooooo tired. I feel as if I have never slept in my life. I feel like crap. I AM SO ITCHY. My shoe doesn't fit around the swelling. I must now limp to the bus stop to pick up the child most likely to cause me to go insane and feel like the very worst parent in the entire world and in the meantime I am really quite a saint because I am dragging myself down the road for this ingrate instead of sleeping which is the only thing I want to do right now and oh yes by the way I am dying here you know!

Then there was a little bit of weeping. And I went and got Chickadee.

Now I have to get her into the car and go get Monkey and oh my God I didn't plan anything for dinner or get to the store but I guess I'll think of something and is it really necessary for a preschooler to bring home eighty gazillion sheets of paper every single day and oh look, I just committed the cardinal sin of touching one of those papers which I wasn't supposed to touch and now he's having a breakdown and perhaps the earth could open up and swallow me right now but probably not because the school, so far as I know, has no history of large, instantaneous craters. Oh well.

A few more tears.

[Sidebar: On the way home, we were stopped at a light behind a white van. The door opened, and the driver--a woman a bit older than myself--leaned out and threw up on the road. Then she closed the door and drove away when the light turned green. That was disturbing.]

Yes, you may go play while I make dinner, please; no, don't argue and torment each other unless you want me to... oh, nevermind, fine, kill each other, just let me know who's still alive and needing dinner when you're done. Where did all of these dishes come from and why didn't I put them in the dishwasher like a normal productive human... oh... because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes I never put away so great, fiiiine, I will unload, reload, because if I don't do it it will never get done, story of my life, oh my god could I wallow some more here, well, probably, but I still have to make dinner. Um, fish sticks... smiley fries... the fries are mocking my pain with their cheerful little smiles, you know, and what else, let's see, vegetables for garnish since no one will eat them because they would rather die from malnutrition than admit that I make delicious well-balanced meals and I am a miserable, insignificant speck in the universe except that most specks do not have to break up skirmishes or cook stupid smiley fries.

Wah.

Eat eat eat. Shower shower shower. Get dressed get dressed get into your pajamas right now or I am going to cry. Brush your teeth brush your teeth brush. your. teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeth. Yes, Mama is turning purple. No, I am not crying. No, I just don't feel very well. No, it is not okay to put your toothbrush in your brother's ear in a midguided attempt to cheer me up. No, pantsing your sister is not acceptable retaliation. Okay! Let's go to sleep! Well, you go to sleep. I am just going to stay up and do some chores and scratch for a while and chat with the voices in my head....

P.S. The swelling hasn't gone down at all. Yay, prednisone! Drug of crazy-making but no actual useful results! Yeah, I'm impatient. But the voices in my head totally say that life is hard, I'm entitled, and if you're mean to me I have permission to squirt hydrocortisone ointment in your eye.

Next time I'd prefer the lightning bolt

2004-10-04T10:52:00.000-05:00

I got about three hours of sleep last night. It's very difficult to sleep while in the act of scratching or while trying not to scratch. And it turns out that if you do manage to fall asleep, you will then scratch hard enough to wake yourself up. Ow.

Cheerful Voice: Good morning, Primary Care of Countryville, how may I help you?
Me: Good morning, um, I'm a patient of Dr. MainDoc's and I was wondering if I could be seen today, please?
CV: Certainly, I can have the triage nurse give you a call back. Name please?
*sounds of phones ringing*
Me: Mir--
CV: Please hold. *click*
Me: *scratchscratchscratch*
CV: *click* I'm sorry about that. Name?
Me: Mir Idiotboyslastname.
CV: Date of birth?
*sounds of phones ringing*
Me: August seventee--
CV: Please hold. *click*
Me: *scratchscratchscratch*
CV: *click* Alright, I'm sorry. Let's see... here you are. Is this your correct phone number?
Me: Yes.
CV: And what seems to be the problem?
Me: I got a few wasp stings about a week ago and they've suddenly puffed up again.
CV: And are you having any pain or itching?
*sounds of phones ringing*
Me: Yes. YES. Make it stop, please.
CV: Please hold. *click*
Me: *scratchscratchscratch* *banging head on the desk*
CV: *click* I do apologize. So, moderate itching?
Me: No. Itching as in I can no longer find my ankle because of the swelling.
CV: Oh dear. I'll have the nurse call you.
Me: Thank y--
CV: *click*

I wait. To pass the time, I eat some cookies.

*phone rings*
Me: Hello?
Businesslike voice: Hello, this is the triage nurse from Primary Care of Countryville. Is this Mir?
Me: Yes, hi. Thanks for calling back so quickly.
BV: You're welcome. What can I do for you today?
Me: Well, I got some wasp stings about a week ago and yesterday they started swelling up again. Now my leg is pretty swollen and red.
BV: How long ago were you stung?
Me: A week.
BV: Are you swollen everywhere?
Me: No, just in large areas around the stings.
BV: Does it hurt or itch?
Me: No, I was just sort of hoping you'd let me drive over there and give you $15 because I don't have anything else to do today.
*crickets chirp*
Me: Sorry, yes, it's very painful and itchy.
BV: Okay, let's have you come in. Let's see... Dr. MainDoc isn't available today, but Dr. BackUp can see you this morning at 9:30.
Me: Great, thank you.
BV: See you at 9:30. *click*

My doctor is very popular, so she's almost never available. Dr. BackUp is the one I see about 99% of the time that I call for a same-day appointment. And that's fine, because he's very nice, and it turns out that we have an alma mater in common. We often spend my appointments reminiscing about the foods we miss from our old campus. Except that, of course, I graduated in 1992 and I'm pretty sure he didn't finish until last year. When he was 14. Because he can't be much older than 15, now, if looks are to be believed. And call me old-fashioned, but I firmly believe that all doctors should be older than I am. Or at least appear to be old enough to drive. Anyway.

Dr. BackUp arrived with perfectly gelled, spiked hair and that smile that makes me just want to pinch his cheeks and give him a lolly.

DB: Good morning! Long time no see.
Me: Hi, yeah, the last couple of times I came in I saw Dr. MainDoc.
DB: Ah, okay. So what's happening today? Wasp sting, it says?
Me: Three of them, actually. *pulling up my pantleg and removing my shoe and sock*
DB: Oh my GOD! *trying to regain his composure* That's something, huh? How long has... uhhh... that been going on?
Me: I woke up like this yesterday morning. Pretty, dontcha think?
DB: *suiting up in latex gloves* Well... uhhh... it's something, alright. That looks really painful.
Me: It IS really painful. I am seriously considering gnawing off my own leg. Can you fix me, please?
DB: *trying to keep his face neutral as he pokes and prods and realizes that he, too, cannot locate my ankle despite my having left it in the usual place the night before* Well I'm certainly going to try to fix you. Wow. This is really something.
Me: You already said that.
DB: Yeah, I guess I did. Did you know you're allergic?
Me: I'm allergic?
DB: Okay, I guess that's a no. Could just be because you had multiple stings. It might not happen next time.
Me: There won't be a next time. I'm not going outside ever again.
*crickets chirp*
Me: Kidding.
DB: Oh! Haha! I get it. This is really something.
Me: Yes, maybe if you could just give me something for the pain and itching but not the swelling, I could join a sideshow somewhere!
DB: Ha! Haha! Well, let's get you some steroids and some topical ointment, too, and see if we can't get this taken care of.
Me: Yes, good. Thank you. How fast will it work?
DB: Oh, it shouldn't take too long. I'm going to put you on a course of prednisone. Have you ever taken it before?
Me: Nope.
DB: Okay, it's a course where you start out high and taper off. So you take buckets of pills every day for a few days, then smaller buckets, then taper down until eventually you've either finished the entire course or died of old age.
Me: Oh! Haha! Okay, I get it. Sounds lovely.
DB: Okay, lemme just write these up for you. Stop scratching.
Me: *whimper*
DB: By the way, how are your migraines? Are the meds I gave you working out?
Me: Huh? Oh, yeah. Actually I had a hysterectomy this Summer and had a bad bout right after, but now that the hormones are regulated I've been headache-free!
DB: You had a hyst? I don't even see that in your chart.
Me: Well then, my confidence in the practice here just continues to expand.
DB: Lemme just get you those prescriptions.

Then it was off to Target. Where I had a completely new Target experience! (And you know, I'm always at Target, and I didn't know there were new things there for me to experience.) Yes, I stood at the pharmacy, forked over my prescription coupon, and then proceeded to roll up my pant leg and smear ointment on myself while the pharmacist rang me up.

I am so classy.

How not to make Kira's molasses cookies

2004-10-03T20:37:00.000-05:00

Pre-dough preparation:
Spend the day tending to whiny children, and scratching your leg. And telling whiny children to please stop telling you to stop scratching your leg. And wishing you had something yummy to eat. Read Joshilyn's account of her so-called Virtue Cookies and think to yourself, "Self, that is a tragedy. Those things are an insult to all that is cookie-like." (Joshilyn rocks, for real; but flax seed? In cookies?? Oh sweetie, NO.) Get kids to bed, and be thrilled to be able to scratch your leg in peace. Look again for yummy things to eat in the pantry. Find none. Decide to make cookies.

Ingredient check:
Print out your email from Kira with the cookie recipe. Read through the recipe and rummage through the pantry. Check the flour for bugs. Realize the sugar canister is low. Dismantle entire pantry to find the half-full sack of sugar, circa 2001. Bang sugar on the counter. Wake up oldest child with your banging. Send child back to bed. Microwave sugar briefly. Note that this causes the sugar boulder in the center to turn amber around the edges. Throw away hardened sugar and hope the remaining sugar is enough. Check supply of crisco sticks. Gather up no less than five partially-used sticks. Throw out the ones that look like ear wax. Scratch leg.

Make the dough:
Put industrial mixer up on the counter and begin mixing wet ingredients. Add flour mixture gradually, marvelling that this is perhaps the first time you've ever used this mixer without sending a cloud of dry ingredients all over the counter. Be mid- mental pat-on-the-back for this while dumping in the last of the flour mixture... which the mixer promptly spits back all over you, the counter, the floor, and the children's lunch boxes. Swear. Copiously, if necessary. Scratch leg.

Prepare the dough for baking:
The recipe tells you to roll the dough into small balls, but doesn't specify what size, exactly, "small" might be. Roll a couple of different sizes to ponder this issue. Giggle a little at "small balls" because you are a child. Notice that despite your diligent hand-washing during this process, there is definitely calamine lotion under your fingernails still. Wonder if this will affect the cookies. Settle on a ball size (ball size! ha!) and prepare two cookie sheets to go into the oven. Open the oven door with one hand and try to scratch your leg with the hand holding a cookie sheet. (It won't work.)

Bake the cookies:
The recipe states to bake for "about 10 minutes" and cautions not to overbake. "Don't let the cookies get brown," it says. Um, yeah. Molasses cookies? Are brown. Well, no matter. Simply bake for 10 minutes. Tra la la! After ten minutes, note that the cookies are brown (but--in all fairness--they were brown before they went into the oven) but much rounder-looking than the cookies Kira sent you for your birthday. Decide they need to cook longer. Wait one minute for them to flatten. Wait another minute. Look up Kira's phone number and call her after another couple of minutes. Inform her slightly puzzled father (when he tells you that Kira is busy) that this is Kira's crazy internet friend and it is a matter of some importance that you get some cookie clarification right now. Fully prepare to ask to talk to Amma if he continues to refuse to get Kira. When Kira comes to the phone, rudely cut off her "wow, it's so neat to finally hear your voice" kind of stuff and demand to know what the hell is the matter with these damn cookies that aren't baking properly. Be informed that the cookies get flatter when they cool, and the cookies that have been baking for 16 minutes now? Are inedible. Swear again. Decide that the ensuing frustration and embarrassment means that it's okay to scratch your leg some more.

End of practice round:
Remove first batch of cookies from the oven. Taste one. Great taste! For a hockey puck. Yeah, 10 minutes next time. Get second batch into the oven, decide to try a second cookie just for kicks. Now that they've cooled, these first cookies are now suitable for paving a walkway. Throw away first batch. Put more calamine on your leg.

For the next hour:
Continue rotating cookie trays in and out of the oven until all of the cookies are baked. Despair that not a single one of them is as beautiful as the ones Kira made. Test for consistency; ah, yes. These ones taste and feel right, at least. Victory is yours. Do the triumphant leg-scratching dance.

The next morning:
Offer to pack some of these yummy cookies in your children's lunches. Listen to them howl in indignation that you dared to bake without them. Remember that no good deed goes unpunished.

And then? Scratch your leg.

Date night aftermath

2004-10-03T09:57:00.000-05:00

I had a wild date last night, and I'm paying for it, this morning.

We smuggled drinks into the theatre, you see. We passed the bottles back and forth while we giggled, and by the end of the movie? The popcorn was gone, the bottles were empty, and we were up way past our bedtimes. Flying high on our mischief, I guess you could say.

This morning? My head is screaming in protest. Church was out of the question, in my sorry shape. (Cue the lightning bolt.) I'm dragging around and feeling my age... twice my age, that is.

So, if this were a story that included another adult and maybe some groping? It would've been totally worth it. In reality, this is another one for the "no good deed goes unpunished" files.

Yesterday was cold and rainy. The kids and I spent our day doing a whole lot of nothing. Well, they had swim lessons in the morning. But other than that, not a thrilling day. They were tired and cranky and so I came up with this brilliant idea to have a little bonding time. So we went out and borrowed the "Home on the Range" DVD. After dinner, we had showers and changed into pajamas and set up our "theatre" in the family room. I popped the kettle corn, and Chickadee insisted that we drink water out of bottles like you get at the actual theatre. Okay.

We turned out the lights, snuggled on the couch with a blanket, and watched the movie. And shared two bottles of water. And stayed up late.

Have I maybe mentioned that the kids have been more or less perpetually sick since school started?

Perhaps when your kids aren't feeling well, they sleep. My children view illness as a great reason to get up a little early. Like, say, two or three hours early. Monkey's little sniffle of last night has morphed into full-on honking this morning. Chickadee is leaving soggy tissues everywhere. And I am offering up sacrifices to the sinus deities, bargaining and praying for the ability to breathe through my nose again. At least it was easy to convince myself that the choir wasn't going to miss me this morning.

Trust me; on this alone I could've built a solid case for self-pity. It's one of my specialities. But my life? Is like one of those commercials for Ginsu knives. But wait! There's MORE! You also get... a bizarre delayed allergic reaction to last week's wasp stings! These impressive monster hives will coat most of your leg, drawing disgust and fascination from your offspring! And to go with this lovely bonus gift, you also get... no adult benadryl! Enjoy scarfing down half a box of children's benadryl while scratching and scratching! (Bonus chorus of giggling, snot-sucking, and chanting of "don't scratch, Mama!" may be purchased separately.)

I shudder to think what might happen to me if I went on a real date. Wait, my mistake. That wasn't a shudder. Just a tremor from the benadryl. Nevermind.

Credit where credit is due

2004-10-02T14:24:00.000-05:00

(Or, And now for something completely different.)

The ex took the kids to swim lessons today, and when he brought them back he helped me take out the air conditioners. Then we went through a ton of stuff in the basement and he crammed his car full with a load of boxes. (Yes, he moved out over a year and a half ago. Speed is not one of his attributes.) He even disposed of a dead mouse for me (another one).

He was helpful, and polite, and downright normal. It's a little disconcerting, but I'll take it.

Wonders never cease.

Saturday morning

2004-10-02T08:33:00.000-05:00

I should not be surprised when the neighbor's dog pounces on Chickadee a week before school pictures and leaves a horrible-looking scratch down her cheek.
Neither should I be surprised that--in retelling this story to a friend--I am laughed at for belaboring the photo angle just seconds after saying that a millimeter to the left and she would've lost her eye.
Friday nights are hard.
Sometimes they are unexpectedly made easier with Instant Messenger.
I am going to hell.
My children will allow me to sleep in on Saturdays, if by "sleep in" you mean "come tattle on one another relentlessly until I get up."
It seems I sent Jay a whole lotta traffic last month.
Which is why I'm quite sure he will nominate me for a Diarist Award. Seems only fair.
Apparently this is the last quarter I'd be eligible in the "new" category. (Hint, hint.)
I am uncomfortable plugging myself. But not so uncomfortable as to render me unable to do so.
I am going to hell. Possibly for all the immoral and annoying things I do, or maybe just for being repetitive.

The mice are back in town

2004-10-01T07:29:00.000-05:00

I lay awake in bed last night to the pitter-patter of little feet above my head. The plummetting nighttime temperatures have once again convinced the local rodent population that Casa Mir is an acceptable hotel.

When I was in college, I lived two years in a quaint little apartment just off of campus. Both years, I had mice. After some initial disgust I turned it into a matter of pride; I am woman, hear me slay the uninvited. I bought traps; I baited them myself; and I kept a single sheet of paper on my fridge titled "DEATH TOLL" where I made a mark for each mouse taken down in the fight. The mice there--much like my fellow underclassmen--were not the brightest. It was not uncommon for me to rebait the traps in the evening and hear them snap in the cabinet beneath the sink just moments later. I don't recall ever having a tripped trap that didn't yield a kill.

Now years and miles have passed, and I find myself in the land of Clever Mice. Either they have gotten smarter, or I have gotten dumber. Quite likely both. I do thank my lucky stars that (knock on wood) I have never seen rodent evidence anywhere in our living space. The day I find a mouse dropping in the kitchen is the day that I lose what is left of my mind and dedicate myself to the Cult Of Autoclaving while I alternate trying to sanitize the kitchen with boiling water and shrieking "Ick! Ick! Ick!" No, these mice are very polite. They hang out in the basement and the attic. They do not run across my toes while I'm watching TV or otherwise make grandiose appearances. I could adopt a "live and let live" attitude save for two things.

First, I store all sorts of things in the basement. Never once did I think to myself, "Self, what could be better than all of this storage for my Christmas decorations and whatnot? Why yes, if only all of my treasured items could be coated in mouse feces, that would just be more than I'd dared hope for!" Last Winter I concluded that I either had a very serious mouse infestation or just a couple of mice with acute Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Either way, I do not look back on my time vacuuming up poop pellets as one of my more cherished memories.

Second, I never use the attic, so you'd think that mice up there wouldn't be bothersome. But if you think that, you have obviously never lived in a house with mice. All day long the mice sleep. As soon as you turn out the light to slumber, yourself, the mice wake up and commence with the Running and the Scratching. They run back and forth and back and forth, oh the Running! And then! Then! They stop! And you feel sweet relief, but only for a moment. Because then, then comes the Scratching! The Scratching is not only supernaturally deafening, but it sounds very much as if there is an entire horde of militant mice up there chewing up the house. Even if you could manage to tune out this cacophony, you would still be lying awake, poised for the ceiling to collapse and deposit Indiana Jones-like quantities of rodents on your bed.

So, ignoring the mice was pretty much out of the question. I took them on, last Winter, confident that I could handle it. I set traps. The first day, I caught one mouse. I never caught another. I would set four traps at a time in the basement, and in the morning they would all be sprung but empty. That was puzzling. But I perservered! I bought different traps. They didn't work, either. The Pooping and the Running and the Scratching continued. I despaired.

It was with a heavy heart that I went out and purchased the poison. I have no issues with killing vermin. I have serious issues with animals dying in my walls and stinking up my house. That's never happened to me, before, because I've always been too afraid to use poison on account of hearing a million stories about mice that die in bizarre locations and stink out their host families. But I'd given the traps my best shot, and it was time for the big guns. I started with the little bricks of poison.

The theory behind this stuff is that it makes the mice thirsty. Oh, so thirsty! So the dying rodents politely go back outside to expire whilst they search for water. Now, I don't know about anyone else's house, but--shhhh, don't tell the mice!--there is actually water inside my house, so I was a bit skeptical. I laid out a box worth of poison bricks in my basement and a second batch up in the attic. The next day, the bricks I'd placed in the attic were gone. I spend some time wondering whether this meant there were enough mice to consume every particle, or that the mice were large enough to carry them away. Neither option was appealing. The basement bricks showed more promise: each and every one was nibbled to some degree.

According to the package directions, you should continue baiting until the bait is left untouched. I used up my poison bricks and then moved on to the poison pellets (because the sight of an entire brick disappearing was a bit too unnerving for me). After about ten days, the Running and the Scratching ceased.

Bliss. Briefly.

Then came the aftermath. I went down to the basement to fetch something, and there lay a tiny, adorable, dead mouse on the floor. Yuck. I disposed of him, and looked around for others, and went about my day. A few days later I found another one. Etc. Nowhere on the package does the poison state, "Warning: May cause dead mice to randomly appear underfoot." But, hey, better on the basement floor than rotting in the walls, right? Right?

Eventually, the bait remained untouched, and no more surprises turned up.

Guess what I found in the basement a couple of days ago! Go on, guess! I'd hoped it was a fluke. And then the nighttime scrambling in the attic started up again. So it's time to buy some more poison, and steel myself to face life's tough decisions. Like, do I really want to get that pizza out of the freezer down there, and risk finding belly-up invaders, or could we just eat cereal for dinner tonight? You know what they say... "Out of sight, it doesn't exist!" No? Crap.

The most handsomest

2004-09-30T13:10:00.000-05:00

Everything I ever needed to know about good self-esteem I learned from my son.

Today Monkey is having his class pictures done. Last night, I asked him if he wanted to help me pick out what he would wear. He's coming up on 5 now, you know, so I figured he might want to have a say. Little did I know.

"Let's try on this shirt," I said brightly. He eyed it and then slipped his arms in. It was too big, on account of you don't actually grow all that fast on the all pop-tart diet. "Okay, not this one. Take it off, please. How about this red one?" That one fit, and he spun around for me to admire him.

"This one is very handsome," he told me. "Do you think I should maybe wear a tie?" I raised my eyebrows. He pointed back into the closet. "There's a tie hanging on that hanger. I think it would make me even more handsome." I bit my lip to keep from laughing and brought the tie out for his inspection. "Oh, diggers and trucks! This is perfect!" he exclaimed.

I couldn't resist giving him a squeeze as I laid the shirt and tie out on his chair. "Okay, honey, go brush your teeth, please."

"Okay, Mama." He trotted out to the bathroom and then spun around and came back, a single finger perched in the air to signal a matter of great importance. "Um, Mama?"

"Yes, love?"

"Which pants will I be wearing?" I choked just a little, but managed to keep a serious face.

"These jeans, I think," I said, showing him the jeans I'd taken out before we picked the shirt. He tilted his head at his dungarees and shook it ever so slightly.

"Mama, don't you think I would be even more handsomer in some nicer pants with my red shirt and my tie?"

"Oh!" Clearly I hadn't realized the can of worms I'd opened, here. "Well, maybe you're right. Shall I pull out a pair of church pants, do you think?"

"Yes, please." He watched me like a hawk while I dug through his pants drawer, and pulled out a pair of cuffed khaki chinos.

"Do you think these are okay?"

"Yes, those will be lovely." (I swear to God I am not making this up. If you have never seen a small boy declare his pants lovely, you simply have not lived.) "Um, Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Do those pants have the... uh..." he was gesticulating wildly, and I waited. "The ummm... thingies... that are for trapping a belt?"

"Oh! Belt loops?" He brightened.

"Yes! Belt loopses! Does it have those?"

"Yes, these pants have belt loops. Do you suppose you need a belt as well?"

"Mama," now the rolling of eyes; yes! Clearly I am so brain-damaged, my ability just to breathe with regularity is astonishing. "Of course I need a belt to look handsomest!"

"Okay, that's fine, I'll take out your belt, too. Anything else?" He pondered for a moment.

"Nice shoes?"

"They're downstairs in the mudroom. I think you're all set, buddy."

"Okay. You are going to be buying lots of my pictures because I am going to be so handsome you can't stand it, I think."

At this point, I had to laugh, because it was a necessary release to prevent the melting of my brain and heart from excessive adorableness. "I think you are exactly right, Monkey."

Fast forward to this morning. Breakfast was peppered with practice smiles and running commentary on how he would not paint today, and he would be very careful not to get dirty, and he wondered if any of his friends would be nearly so handsome as he. (Probably not, we concluded.) Chickadee doesn't have photos until next week, so she ate in sullen silence and whispered to Monkey that his tie was stupid when she thought I wasn't listening. This didn't produce even the slightest damper on his mood of self-adoration, thankfully.

We arrived at the bus stop and Monkey went to each of the three neighbor girls, in turn, to announce, "I am wearing a tie today. Because I am handsome." He took their giggling for agreement, and threw his arms around my legs as the bus arrived. "Bye, Chickie!" he called out. Then: "Mama, I am so excited to be so handsomish for pictures. Let's get me to school!"

I brushed his hair one last time and gave him a kiss as he ran off to show his tie to his friends. "Ohhhhh, Monkey, don't you look handsome!" gushed one of the teachers.

"Yes!" he agreed. I should be embarrassed, I guess. But why? He's very matter-of-fact about his elite status. His joy is contagious. He is--after all--the most handsomest. We should all be so kind to ourselves.

Grocery beatitudes

2004-09-29T20:05:00.000-05:00

Blessed are the "Shopper's Club" specials: for they shall fill thy freezer and pantry.

Blessed is the glorious crockpot: for it shall prepare delicious meals with minimal effort.

Blessed are the children who will refuse to eat the bounty of the crockpot: for they are cute and therefore shall not be slain.

Blessed are the toaster pastries: for they shall sustain The Child That Never Eats.

Blessed are the hurricane-ravaged groves of Florida: for they shall raise the price of orange juice and vex the nations.

Blessed are the multigrain rice cakes: for they are cheap and give the illusion of providing healthy snacks for the little children.

Blessed is the salad that comes in a bag: for it shall be tossed with the snip of the scissors.

Blessed are the large brown eggs: for brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh. (You're welcome for sticking that commercial jingle into your brain.)

Blessed is the cheerful cashier: for she shall punch three $25 spots on thy rewards booklet even though thou only purchased $63 of groceries.

Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad: for the children still will refuse to eat: but now there is a vast array of sustenance for them to abhor.

Sins of the Mir

2004-09-29T13:48:00.000-05:00

I am still chuckling after reading Jay's confessions for the week. He has invited fellow bloggers to step up to the confessional as well, so here goes.

I have recently sinned, both in action and in my heart. This past week alone, I:

Told Chickadee the atomic fireballs are all gone. They aren't; they are in my nightstand drawer and I have been eating them steadily while watching TV before I go to bed.
Avoided several friends when they called and told them later that I was out, hoping that they would then believe I truly am busy and not sitting around wallowing.
Scanned multiple items at Target and when I decided I didn't want them, left them by the scanner instead of putting them back.
Told my son that if he woke me up again I was going to take his blanket away and possibly make him sleep outside.
Forgot to tell my mother that I received that package she sent. (Hey Mom! Got it! Thank you!)
Thought of a kick-ass invention idea for the Invention Convention and am trying to figure out how to get Chickadee to think it's her idea and develop it without me actually telling her, because that would be wrong. (Okay, I'm not sure I'm sorry about this one, if I can really manage some sort of subliminal suggestion scheme that works.)
Received neighbors' mail in my mailbox, decided it didn't look important, and threw it away rather than walk back outside and either deliver it or leave it for the postlady.
Fantasized about my Culligan man delivering more than soda ash.

Like Jay, I'll take suggestions on my proper penance.

Return of the Tired

2004-09-29T10:20:00.000-05:00

Let's take a quick inventory of my day thus far, shall we?

12:00 (Midnight): I think to myself, I should really go to sleep now.

12:45: I actually turn out the light.

1:25ish: I look at the clock and wonder why I'm still awake.

2:17: I am awakened by snivelling.

Him: *snivel* *whine* *whimper* *snotsucking*
Me: Huh? Wha? Monkey, what's the matter?
Him: I can't find teetee! Waaahhhhhhh!
Me: Oh, honey. It's okay. C'mon, we'll find him.
I get out of bed and follow him back to his room, where we commence searching for ye olde nasty comfort rag in the serene glow of his Thomas night light.
Him: It's gone! It's gone! My teetee! Gone! WAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
Me: Hang on, I'm still looking....
Him: Teeeeeeeeeeeteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Me: AHA! Here it is, buddy. It was stuck between the sheet and the blanket. Okay, now come lay down and go back to sleep.
Him: Teetee? You found teetee?
Me: Yes, baby. Here. Lay down and--
Him: WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Me: ????
Him: I WANTED TO FIND TEETEE. NOT YOU. LOSE HIM AGAIN!
Me: I am going to try very hard not to get angry at you right now, but it is the middle of the night and you need to stop this and go back to sleep.
Him: I WANTED TO FIND HIM! BAD MAMA!
Me: Yeah, okay. Good night. I'm going back to bed, thankyouverymuch.
Him: NOOOOO DON'T LEAVE ME!!

Those of you without kids? Run out and have some as soon as possible. This is way better than just getting to sleep at night. Yes.

I ended up going back to my bed and down to his room again a few more times before I could get him to be quiet. There's nothing like a few laps in the middle of the night, I say. Now you all know the secret to my youthful figure. And that's how it was that...

... 7:22: OH MY GOD I OVERSLEPT IT'S LATE GET UP GET DRESSED WE'RE LATE GET MOVING!!!

7:41: Crap, I never got groceries. Lunches... lunches... who wants... crackers? Yummy crackers! With... um... raisins! Yes! And... napkins! And a juice box! And... pickles? Oh well. They never eat what I pack, anyway.

7:58: We round the corner to the bus stop (in the car, on account of it is still pouring) in time to see the bus come around the opposite corner and start slowing for the stop. Yesterday's little assisted-drag to the bus stop apparently didn't scar Chickadee for life, but did teach her something, because that girl hopped out of the car, waited for my signal to cross, then sprinted over to the bus, turned and ran back to me, kissed me, and ran right up onto the bus. Ahhh.

8:08: Monkey kisses me good-bye and runs off to play with his classmates.

8:22: I return to the house and have a refreshing and nutritious breakfast of... granola bars. I really need to get to the store.

11:29 (now): I finally leave for the store. Because that's the sort of immediate action kinda woman I am. Look out, world! I have coupons!

All the fun you can fit in 2.25 rooms

2004-09-28T21:30:00.000-05:00

I cleaned the bathrooms tonight. I guess I was needing a little boost, a little reassurance that I do actually take care of things around here once in a while. Also they were starting to smell weird.

I'd told myself that the toilets were merely victims of hard water. Those blooming science experiments sprang up overnight, really. It's not like I'd neglected to clean for weeks or anything. That would really be gross, don't you think? Yes it would. So it must be the hard water. I have no idea what the Culligan man is doing here. Perhaps we have wild monkey sex in the basement in front of those large tank things that are most certainly not a water treatment system.

Anyway.

I set to cleaning, revelling in the unfolding cleanliness and fresh scent as I scrubbed. Nothing beats a clean bathroom in a house with small children. It's a fleeting joy, yes, but quite lovely. I started in the downstairs half-bath, of course, because it's the smallest and easiest to clean. The biggest challenge in that bathroom is locating and hanging up the hand towels. Monkey prefers a hand washing method akin to sprinting, and it often results in towels yanked from the rod and left languishing behind the door. Chickadee, on the other hand, often confiscates the towels for various purposes and I'm lucky to find them at all. In other words, I scrub the toilet and wipe down the counter and sink and change the towels and I'm done. That's just the warm-up.

Upstairs, I tackled the kids' bathroom next. I found myself having a flashback to my own childhood. The house I grew up in had a blue bathroom. Everything in that bathroom was blue, including the sink. One of my chores was to clean the bathroom sink, and I invariably thought to myself--as I scrubbed the field of toothpaste dots off the blue porcelain--that all sinks into which toothpaste is spat should be white. But as I started cleaning the children's white sink I realized that colored sinks may serve an important purpose. It's possible that if the sink were a color other than white, I might have gotten my lazy rear in gear and cleaned it sooner. As it was, I spent the bulk of my time in there chiselling away at the toothpaste. Toothpaste in the sink, which I'd been able to ignore until I was armed with Clorox. Toothpaste on the mirror, which I'd known was there but hadn't felt like acknowledging. Toothpaste on the floor and the counter and the door, which made me wonder if I should perhaps tape the children to the floor and put cones on their heads (like the ones they put on dogs so they won't eat their stitches) every time they brush.

Finally all that was left was my own bathroom. I've always considered the master bath here to be a full bathroom, but I've since been informed that a bathroom with a shower stall and no tub is a 3/4 bathroom. So, I'd done the half bath, the full bath, and was on to my 3/4 bath... which seems like it should've been somewhere smack dab in the middle, complexity-wise. I know what you're thinking. Surely after Toothpasteville my bathroom was a relative cakewalk. But here's the thing. I'm the only person who uses my bathroom. That leaves me free to clean in there even less often than I clean the rest of my house.

I'm considering shaving my head. Cleaning up the accumulated hairballs and scraping the congealed hairspray-and-dust shellac off of my counter does that to me. Bleah. But on the upside, I've got a nice buzz going from the mildew remover I used in the shower. Woo!

I'll be admiring all 3--sorry, 2.25--rooms once again before I go to bed. Once the kids get up, all bets are off. My little slice of accomplishment will disappear in a fine mist of toothpaste splatter. There's a brilliant metaphor in there, somewhere, but I am far too distracted by all these shiny faucets to figure it out.

This is the alternative

2004-09-28T12:00:00.000-05:00

That denial thing sure was fun while it lasted.

Did you know that it takes 3,000 cows to supply the NFL with enough leather for a year's supply of footballs? It's true. I know this because I am brilliant. Or because it says so on my Sorrento Trivia Stringster, because there is very little food in the house and I'm eating string cheese. 3,000 cows dying for football? That's just wrong. I protest! I shall go on an all-bacon diet in support of the bovine community. Because I care.

It's raining, which is enough to put me in a funk under the best of circumstances. I should be delighted that it waited to start until after the kids were off, this morning, but instead I am obsessing over the fact that I sent them to school in their matching Veggie Tales fleece jackets instead of in their rain coats. Further proof of my substandard mothering skills, and all.

So I have spent my morning doing my hermit impression--which, really, is coming along quite nicely, but needs a bit more practice to achieve perfection--which means I have not gotten the necessary groceries or made any of those important networking contacts that everyone assures me will land me that great job. (Which great job is that? I have no idea. But I'm assured that I will know it when I see it. Personally I fear it's on the other side of a bright white light, but that's another story for another time.) Now I am steeling myself for an early pick-up of Miss Chickadee so that I can take her to the therapy appointment that I demanded when calling her therapist last Friday.

Me: We don't have an appointment scheduled until the middle of October. We need one now. She's not doing well, I gave it some "adjustment" time like you suggested, and she's just getting worse.
Therapist: Hmmm. Well, what's going on?
Me: Besides the usual? Besides the defiance, the screaming, the crying, and the lashing out? How about her daily trips to the nurse with her mystery ailments? How about the big hole she cut in her dress today for which I am seriously considering locking her in the basement??
Therapist: How about you bring her in on Tuesday?
Me: Fine. Good.
Therapist: How about you consider some Valium, also?
Me: No thanks, I'm kind of used to these feelings of rage and inadequacy, now.

Okay, those last two lines are fictitious. But as anyone with a young child in therapy knows, any child therapist worth her salt is as much in the business of teaching the parents how to more effectively parent the child with problems as she is in the business of treating the child. And on Friday, I was in serious need of intervention. It had been a long week.

The kids went to their dad's for the weekend, Sunday night was uneventful, yesterday went off without a hitch. Now how long will it take me to learn that no good deed goes unpunished? This morning was one struggle after another because--oh, yeah--I had committed the cardinal sin of forgetting for one day that I have a difficult child. (Skip the hate mail, please. I love that little girl more than life itself, but no one is ever going to accuse her of being easy.) This morning was my refresher course. And so it came to pass that we parted on very poor terms this morning, which probably means she had a rotten day at school, which means that picking her up early is something I'm not exactly relishing. But the therapy part, that's good, of course. If I don't kill her before we get there.

I have grown to quite adore the other mom with whom we wait for the bus. Her daughters are delightful, and she herself is a take-no-nonsense yet kind woman. She witnessed this morning's fiasco (which culminated in Chickadee--who was sullenly refusing to traverse the last 60 feet or so to the bus stop--being dragged by me over to the waiting bus and placed bodily inside, while she cried; yes I am the world's meanest mother) without passing judgement and then comforted me after the bus pulled away. Meanwhile, Monkey skipped in little circles around me and patted her dog and little cartoon birds and butterflies danced around his happy-go-lucky head. The other mom gestured his way and said, "He's really different than she is, huh?"

"Yep," I agreed. "God decided to cut me a break the second time." We laughed. She was sympathetic and encouraging. I felt a bit better.

Now, as I try to prepare myself to head out into the rain to face the child whom I cherish but rarely feel capable of handling, I wish things were different. I wish things were easier, for both of us. But--as a wise friend of mine is prone to saying--it is what it is. Yesterday was a gift and today it's time to get back to reality. We'll get where we need to be. And it could be a lot worse. I could be one of those 3,000 cows.

In which I prosper (and profit!) through denial

2004-09-27T21:03:00.000-05:00

I could tell you about all of the things I should've done today, but since the denial thing is working out so well for me right now, I can't. What responsibilities? What job hunt? What paralyzing panic?? Tra la la! Oh happy day, happy day, let me tell you all about my happy day. I'm sure I can return us all to my regularly scheduled angst tomorrow. But! Today!

Today I received an early morning invitation to go shopping. Oh, dear. My little cartoon devil hopped onto my left shoulder while the cartoon angel perched on the right. As I held the phone to my ear and considered my response, they battled it out.

Devil: Shopping! Yay!
Angel: Money is tight right now. Do we really need to go shopping?
Devil: Shopping! Love! Shopping! Fun!
Angel: Do you hear me? We can't afford it right now.
Devil: Shopping! We're going shopping! Yay!
Angel: Jesus loves you. But you have the IQ of a sea sponge.
Devil: Shopping!! Buy! Stuff! At... Target? On clearance!
Angel: Let's go.

So I accepted, and my friend came over to pick me up. While I was waiting I did a quick inventory of what I needed. Well, it did appear that both kids could use some socks. And Monkey was low on undershirts. There. I could shop for things we truly needed--and not very expensive things, at that--and help my friend shop (she had a much longer list) and have a nice day. My friend arrived with a bagful of undershirts her son had outgrown.

Devil: Ack! One less thing to buy? Damnit!
Angel: Wasn't that sweet of her to bring those? So thoughtful. Think of all the money we can save, now.
Devil: More money to spend on other stuff! Shopping! Yay!

We stopped for coffee, which she purchased. (The only thing better than really good coffee is really good free coffee.) At the first store, I bought a 6-pack of socks for Monkey and some underwear for me. My total: $7. I also acted as fashion critic and bargain hunter for my friend, who ended up with two stuffed bags to my petty purchases.

Second stop: Target. I don't know how long we were there. We just kept going until the cart was overflowing. Heh. Time tends to stand still in Target, you know. I shared all of my standard how-to-find-the-deals wisdom and once again managed to make sure my friend was making multiple purchases while I bought... more socks (this time for Chickadee). I also found a 16" oscillating fan for $3.74. So my total at Target was a mere $8 while my friend's bill ran to three figures (but look at all you saved, I crowed).

After that was the children's consignment store, where I didn't find anything I needed. Then it was off to return some of my friend's previous purchases at yet a third store (because she had foolishly shopped without me and I had since found her more, cooler stuff for less money). Declaring the day's adventures successful, we headed back to my place.

While stashing some of her children's Christmas presents in my basement, we negotiated the sale of some of my stash. Get your mind out of the gutter. I agreed to sell my friend a few of my previous finds. She ended up with more toys to check off her list and I ended up with a nice crisp $20 bill. Then she left, inviting me to bring the kids over to swim after school.

It was now nearly time for the bus, and I had accomplished... ummm... nothing. Did I want to take the kids on a playdate after school? Were there other things I should be doing?

Devil: It's sunny! And hot! And Summer is over and this is probably our last chance to go swimming!
Angel: Don't we have laundry to do? And cleaning? And maybe a job to look for?
Devil: Laundry? Look at all those new socks! No need to launder! And have you noticed how everything just gets dirty again when we clean?
Angel: Haven't we spent enough time playing today already?
Devil: Isn't today already a wash no matter what we do now? Goooooo swiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmiiiiiing!

So we went swimming. And stayed for dinner, which I did not have to cook. Both children ate like there was no tomorrow. And Monkey ate broccoli! Which was proof positive that I made the right choice. Or that I have entered into some sort of pact with Satan himself. But I do not care. Because tra la la and whatnot.

Somehow I managed to extract the children from their play, get them home, administer showers, do the bedtime stuff, read a chapter in our book, and get them into bed clean and happy and exhausted, only five minutes past bedtime. Without a single meltdown.

Let's recap: I spent the entire day shopping; got to spend time with a friend whom I haven't seen in quite a while; purchased a few necessary items; helped out my friend and reduced my ridiculous toy inventory; had a lovely evening of exercise and fun; made it to bedtime with nary a tear or crisis. And ended the day $5 richer.

If this is being bad? I don't wanna be good.

Devil: What're we doing tomorrow?
Angel: Oh shut UP.

Eureka!

2004-09-26T14:10:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I didn't put it all together, sooner. The answer has been right under my nose all along! Actually, right on my toes.

Part of my employment woes, you know, are that I don't want to return to the sort of job I used to hold. And I'm having some difficulty convincing potential employers of my credibility for other sorts of jobs, the types of which usually require extensive previous experience. But now I know what job is calling my name and I will have no trouble breaking into, on account of my undeniable talent in this area.

I'm gonna be a... a... what the hell are those people called? I'm gonna be one of those people who name nailpolish colors!

The idea took shape in this way: I was doing my toenails, earlier; taking off the old polish and applying the new. And as I perused my rather impressive assortment of polishes, I realized that the colors I favored last season and the ones I typically reach for, now, are very different. How so, you ask? Well it's really quite the delineation.

Last year, I wore the following: Ink Chrome, Pink Chrome, Think Pink, Bronzeberry.
This year, I have consistently reached for: Diamonds, Twilighting, Purplexed, Techno.

Now you may be thinking, surely the difference is based on color palette, somehow. Perhaps I have adjusted my tastes to suit this season's hottest styles. Well, that would be a logical thing to think, I suppose, if I wasn't sitting here in clothes I purchased ten years ago. Fads, schmads, I say. I am not motivated by "the latest thing" very often. No, my friends. The difference lays not in the colors, but in the monikers.

That's right. Bombastic is the new black, ladies!

And who better to name a bunch of nailpolishes in obtuse and specious ways than yours truly? That's right! No one! Because I? Eat words for breakfast! No, not Alpha-Bits. I meant... oh shut up.

I was born to take this industry by storm. I'm very excited about it.

Look again at the polish names I listed earlier. In last year's list, I'm betting you can read the names and know what colors you're getting. In the second list--with the possible exception of Purplexed, which is excused on account of being such a cute and adorable play on words--I daresay the average human would have no idea what colors are denoted. And therein lies the beauty of it all.

Diamonds? Kind of a peachy rust color. Twilighting? Silver sparkle with a hint of lavender. Purplexed, yes, is purple; but the darkest purple possible, kind of an oil-prism-in-a-puddle dark. And Techno is light green. Of course.

I am bursting with ideas for next season's hottest colors. I'd love to share them all, but I can't divulge all of my secrets, you know, because of copyright considerations. Also, outstanding warrants. But anyway. I can share a chosen few if you promise to keep it under your hats. Do you feel all warm and fuzzy now?

First, I will find just the right color to dub Conflagration. Oh yes. Next? Just wait til everyone is wearing Frenetic. Uh huh. But all the ladies on the catwalk will be sporting Clandestiny! (See how I brilliantly merge 'clandestine' and 'destiny' for that one? Sometimes I astound even myself.)

Best of all? While my new vocation will bring me fame, fortune, and oodles of money, it should still leave me with ample time to blog. And paint my toenails.

When insects attack

2004-09-25T21:59:00.000-05:00

I have angered the athropods. I have made one too many of their brethren go splat beneath my shoe, sucked up too many important members of their legions in my vacuum. Now? I am a marked woman.

Pride should prevent me from relating the details of my wasp encounter earlier today, but since when has that ever stopped me? So. If you must know, I was outside mowing my lawn, and I guess I must have disturbed a nest when getting close to the bulkhead in the back. As I turned away from that spot, a wasp landed on my sock and stung my ankle. I flicked it off and ran around front (not knowing how many of his brothers were also in pursuit), and saw a second wasp on my sneaker. So I kicked my sneaker off in the driveway and ran inside. After what I thought was a reasonable period of time, I went back outside to retrieve my shoe. But the wasp was still on it. So I carefully shook him off and moved a safe distance away and put my sneaker on. And got stung a second time (sneak attack). I went back inside. Watching my leg swell, I summoned all my courage. This was hardly fatal; I would go out and finish mowing. I went out back and started up the mower again... and was immediately stung a third time inbetween the first two stings. Whereupon I admitted defeat (or screamed and cried, whatever) and decided that I was finished for the day.

When I hobbled inside--noting that three wasp stings on the same leg adds up to a heck of a lot of pain--I found that a veritable horde of earwigs had congregated around the threshhold. While I'd been dancing with wasps, they'd all sent out the signals to their distant cousins that now would be a great time to come on in and get comfortable, because I was gonna be too slow to do anything about it. I managed to evict just one; the rest are now hiding in here, somewhere. Let's see... they came in the mudroom door, which means they're probably all hiding in our shoes waiting to pinch off everyone's toes.

In the meantime, I appear to have yet another infestation of grain moths, which means that tiny little moth larvae inch their way across my kitchen ceiling with disgusting regularity. Every time this happens, I get all ikked out and end up throwing away half the food in my pantry in a desperate attempt to dispose of moth headquarters. I rarely find the source. Each tiny worm gives me another grey hair.

And let's not forget my musical friends! I estimate there to be at least a dozen crickets singing the blues in my garage. When I open the garage door--day or night--I can watch the crickets run in as if this is the grand opening of the first cricket McDonald's or something. They resist my attempts to shoo them back outside, and so late at night they can be heard mournfully chirping about their sad fate, left to perish amongst the empty cardboard boxes and gardening tools. Do you speak cricket? I think they may be saying, "We know the Big Macs are here. We'll keep looking."

If you see a cloud of locusts headed my way, don't worry. Maybe they'll eat the earwigs and scare the moths. Of course, they might try to kill me, but I'm not worried. I shouldn't have any trouble fighting them off with my swollen, venom-filled leg. Ow.

Three more reasons

2004-09-25T13:20:00.000-05:00

Yellow jackets who are pissed that I've been spraying their hives all Summer.

Go ahead. Ask me why that's three reasons.

*whimper* Lawn's mowed.

And now... a word about Fall

2004-09-25T10:09:00.000-05:00

Hatred. Maybe even complete Hateration. Hatingnessism, perhaps.

Oh, did you want more than that? Picky, picky. It's always more, and then certain people come around here accusing me of being verbose. Which I just don't get, as I am so loathe to prattle on about myself. HAHA! Sorry, that was a little too much sarcasm, even for me. Ahem. Okay, regardless, so many of my fellow bloggers have been waxing philosophic about their deep love for Autumn that I do feel I must elaborate.

Now, for normal people, Spring is the season that is hardest on the allergy-prone. And I have trouble with my allergies in the Spring, too. But for reasons that I don't understand--mainly because I haven't thought about it too much--Fall is much harder on my allergies than any other season. The onset of Fall finds me wandering around with squinty, itchy eyes and an aching face that feels very much as if my sinuses were filled with caulk. You're not going to catch me breaking out into a spontaneous rendition of "I Feel Pretty" in the Fall. Add to this the fact that the kids are back to school and already bringing home every cold germ in the western hemisphere, and I am just not a happy upper respiratory system.

Yesterday, I was driving to my therapy session, and realized that I was quite wheezy. Having a lot of trouble breathing, in fact. So I whipped out my albuterol inhaler and had a couple of puffs. Problem solved. Well, wheeziness solved. New problem: my entire body was now shaking and jittering with an audible buzz. My hands shook, my thighs trembled (not in a good way), my toes tapped, and I was dizzy. I spent the first half of my session giggling at glass-breaking pitch and reassuring my therapist that I had not developed an amphetamine habit, it's just that albuterol makes me a little wiggy. TEE HEE! OH DID MY BOUNCING LEG KNOCK OVER YOUR PLANT? TEE HEE! I'M SO EMBARRASSED, I'M SO TEE HEE SORRY!!! ALSO TEE HEE DEPRESSED! TEE! HEE!

Let's review: Please choose between breathing easily or not being a total asshat. Hmmmm. That can be a tough one.

But! You say. Surely I am enjoying the Fall foliage here in New England, an area famous for its splendorous displays in this season. Yes. Sure. I have no job, dwindling savings, high-maintenance children, and an ex who stubbornly refuses to fall into a large pit in the earth and be consumed, and some red and yellow leaves make me realize that I am but an insignificant speck in the great circle of life.

Tee. Hee.

Also? Those pretty leaves? Very pretty on the trees, I'll grant you that. Not so pretty on my lawn. And pine needles... don't even get me started. (Oh, hey! I think I just figured out the allergy thing. Didja see the little lightbulb going off over my head? I'm allergic to pine. Ding ding ding!) Not so much pine in the Spring, I'm guessing. But nowadays, there are about eleventy gazillion pine needles falling in my yard. And those pine needles need to be raked. Otherwise, all of my grass will die and the neighbors will tie me to my basketball hoop pole and bludgeon me to death with pinecones and buckets of sealcoating because by the way I never sealed my driveway this season, either.

I tried to outsmart the whole Fall Raking Extravaganza, last year. I started out with a regular rake and about five minutes and sixty-seven sneezes and five or six really inflammatory obscenities later decided that was not working for me. In that period of time, I had successfully raked an area about a foot square. That left me... ummm... an acre minus a foot, to go.

So, being the logical person that I am, I hopped online and searched for a tool to expedite the raking process. And lo, what to my eyes should appear, but the Rake-O! And at a bargain closeout price, no less! This contraption was a big wide thing with wheels on each end and prongs inbetween, designed to be pushed, rather than pulled (less strain) and about three times as wide as a conventional rake. So I ordered myself a marvelous Rake-O. But I should've Known-O that the Rake-O was a piece of Crap-O. I Tried-O to make it Work-O, but my stupid Rake-O would move about a Foot-O before it got Stuck-O. Complete-O and Total-O waste of Money-O. Yo.

Next was The Wrangling With The Ancient Rider Mower, which spends most of its time in my shed housing the local insect population. This mower has been professionally fixed on three occasions and jump-started and otherwise home-tinkered on countless others. The only thing it is good for is dying. At dying, this mower is a real champ. Naturally, it was broken when I struck upon my brilliant idea to hook up the feed tube and mulching bins and just suck up my yard debris. At the time I had a relatively mechanically-inclined assistant on hand to help me, and between the two of us we were able to more or less rig the mower as a gigantic yard vacuum. A few hours later, clean-up was complete. Woot!

This year? The rider is broken again. My assistant from last year suffered a demotion (I'll let you figure out which letters were stripped from his assistant status) and is no longer on hand to fix the infernal thing. I am watching each leaf and pine needle fall and trying very hard not to weep.

Of course, when the weepiness really threatens to overcome me, I just have a couple of puffs on my inhaler. TEE*sob*HEE!

I'll send you a postcard from hell

2004-09-24T07:36:00.000-05:00

So, um, where was everybody last night? I cannot believe that my jovial party invitation didn't yield more takers. Go figure.

As always, my true love Kira was on hand. This is why she is my true love. And while I was happy to wallow, I find that hard to do when Kira is around. She brings out the best in me. If by the best, you mean the penchant for heartlessly having fun at someone else's expense, of course.

[We have some conversation about my daughter, and my frustration therein.]
genericmir: And I wish the ex would DIE.
genericmir: I'm going to hell.
kiwords: LOL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: You should SEE his profile on Match.
genericmir: He sounds like Prince Charming.
kiwords: I was telling someone today, I don't want to HURT my ex, I just wish he'd DIE. See?
genericmir: I totally get that.
[Then, a bit of discussion about the recent excitement in Kira's world.]
genericmir: I was seriously tempted to post the ex's entire personal ad.
genericmir: But I stopped myself.
kiwords: OH, you know we're DYING to see it!
genericmir: He sounds like a FINE catch, lemme tell ya.
genericmir: I have never heard so much bragging and embellishment in my entire life.
kiwords: I BET! If only you could insert in his bio "PS I am a big huge LIAR."
[multiple snarky comments from me unsuitable for a family blog deleted]
kiwords: Oh dear. His bio interspersed with your clarification...ROFL
genericmir: LOL
genericmir: Wouldn't THAT be a treat.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: Except posting his ad would up the chances of him finding your site.
genericmir: exactly
genericmir: So you wanna see what he wrote? Cuz I am DYING to share it with someone.
genericmir: heehee
kiwords: OH I DO I DO!
kiwords: PPPPPPLLEASE?
[Text of ad deleted, but Kira's comments while I share it with her are priceless. Imagine these interspersed into the cutting and pasting of a looooong text.]
kiwords: Ok, I would hate him.
genericmir: heh
kiwords: It seems like he might HURT himself, what with the way he READS and IS INCREDIBLY ACTIVE, all at the same time.
kiwords: Wow.
kiwords: Oh the RESTRAINT!
kiwords: ROFL
kiwords: I cannot BELIEVE you were able to NOT POST THIS!
kiwords: Ick! Ick Ick Ick!
genericmir: Get this: Appearance best feature: Calves
genericmir: CALVES!
genericmir: I love a man with some juicy CALVES!
kiwords: Ok, I just spit on my monitor. ARE YOU HAPPY?
genericmir: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!
genericmir: VERY!
genericmir: THis is cheering me up IMMENSELY.
kiwords: I saw this GUY the other day? And WOW, he had HOT CALVES! I was ALL WET over his CALVES!
genericmir: LOLOL
kiwords: I got the BEST CALVES OF 2004 CALENDAR the other day! WHOOOEEE!
genericmir: Oh... baby... yeah... that's it... oh my gooooooood... your CALVES... are soooo... CALVISH!
kiwords: I just loooooove the way they...um...curve...right there from the BACK of your knee to...um your ANKLE! FLEX, BABY!
genericmir: I can't believe I'm touching your CALVES... I can hardly breathe... is it good for yooooouuuuuu???
kiwords: And there's this PATCH here? Where the HAIR IS RUBBED OFF! WOW, How....BRISTLY!
kiwords: ps we are going to hell.
genericmir: I notice your calves lead down to your freakishly tiny feet... oh wait, NO I DON'T... because I AM MESMERIZED BY YOUR CALVES!
kiwords: Where we shall laugh and still have better company than we did when married.
genericmir: Sounds good.
[Still later, after we compose ourselves, and make fun of his picture.]
kiwords: That entry would turn me right off. I mean, he probably doesn't realize this, but it screams "CONTROLLING, COLD, EGO MANIAC"

Have I mentioned that I heart Kira so very, very much?

Party time!

2004-09-23T17:19:00.000-05:00

There's a party at my house tonight. You're all invited! Unfortunately, it's a theme party. Specifically, a pity party. So you all may bring cheese, and chocolate, and crises; and I will supply copious quantities of whine and bread pudding, and we will watch the season premiere of ER and take a break from wailing about our difficult lives to make snarky comments about how ER just hasn't been the same since George Clooney left.

It promises to be quite a night. I hope you can come.

But first! I must settle the children in with the babysitter, who will entertain them for about fifteen minutes before putting them to bed and eating all of my food. She also likes to drink my Diet Coke With Lime--which is fine with me; I'm a good sharer--but it remains one of the great mysteries of the ages what she does with the cans. Maybe she eats them. They are never anywhere in view. After this happened a few times, I searched the trash and the recycling. I can't figure it out. Perhaps she thinks her consumption of my liquid ambrosia will anger me, and so she seeks to cover it up. Oddly enough, I'd rather she drink twice the quantity of soda and leave the stupid Go-Gurt tubes alone. After she sits on Thursday nights, I invariably find myself running late in the morning and packing lunches, only to discover that there is only one tube of Go-Gurt left. My kids love Go-Gurt. For an adult or a teen? Well, it's only two ounces of yogurt. I'd think anyone over the age of 8 could resist the lure of yogurt in a tube. Maybe I'll just ask her to please eat two if she must indulge, because that at least leaves me with an even number.

So, I will get the kids ready for bed, kiss my consumables and my offspring good-bye, and head off to choir practice. Where many lovely and well-meaning people will ask me if I have found a job yet. Also the creepy old widowed guy will ask me far too many personal questions and I will end up insulting him right to his face in ways that he doesn't quite get. Because I am the model of a good Christian. And while all of this is happening I will smile and assure everyone that I am just fine and the right job is out there waiting for me, and please do not worry yourselves because everything is great! Let's sing now!

And then I shall come home and give the sitter a bunch of money to thank her for eating my food and watching my television, and then we can start the party. Woooo!

I should stop blogging now

2004-09-23T12:07:00.000-05:00

I fear that I can blog no more, for there is no way to top the information divulged in my last post. That was the pinnacle of my comedy career (and, technically, I didn't even have to write the funny part!). I should just stop now, because what would be a logical follow-on to that??

Nothing.

Oh, except maybe selected excerpts from his entire profile? Yeah, that might be good. Also the part where his lower age bracket for women is thirteen years younger than himself (ikky! ikky!), but still, no. I've had my fun at his expense.

What I will share is this: there's a very good reason why I was content to lash out at him, yesterday, and enjoy stirring up a few laughs at his expense. Nay, as long as I'm going to do this, I'll do it right. There is a reason, probably not even a good one. My willingness to post what I did was a direct result of huge amounts of frustration and anger.

I have often spoken of how my ex bridles at the slightest hint that he is anything less than a stellar father 110% of the time. To hear him tell it, he's raising these kids single-handedly, rather than swooping in a couple of times a week to feed them chocolate chip pancakes for dinner. That's annoying. But I'm used to that. What is infuriating to me is how--in crisis times when I really could use some assistance--it is always all about him and never about the kids. So, when I really need some support? I invariably find myself faced with an additional fire to put out, rather than anything akin to helpfulness.

Last night when the ex called to talk to the kids, I got on the phone with him to explain what had happened with Chickadee. I pointed out that this was the second time in less than a month that she had pretended to be sick to get out of school. I was asking for input on whom to call first, her teacher or her therapist, when he heard her wailing in the background.

Ex: Why is she crying? Is she okay?
Me: She's fine. She's crying because I told her we're not going to Family Information Night, because she's "sick" and needs to go to bed early.
Ex: Family Information Night? What's that? Why wasn't I informed??
Me: Ummm, it's kind of like a fair, with stuff for the kids, and then booths for the parents about the PTA and stuff.
Ex: You should have let me know! What if I wanted to participate? You're supposed to keep me informed!
Me: Um, Ex? It's Wednesday night. Don't you work late on Wednesdays? Would you have been able to come to this?
Ex: No, but that's not the point--
Me: And do you have a deep interest in the Junior League, the Newcomer's Club, or Scouts?
Ex: The point is that I am supposed to have the option to participate in everything!
Me: No, the point is that none of us are going and you are making a big deal out of nothing.

He then asked to speak to his children. No further input on how to handle this brewing situation with Chickadee was given.

Welcome to divorced parenting. I'll be your host. As the custodial parent, you can expect to tend to all the crap that is part and parcel of child-rearing, be the enforcer, the day-to-day provider, and the magical solver of all problems, while your ex-spouse complains about missing face time at a school event he never would've given a second thought to while you were still married.

Allow me a moment to indulge my petulant inner child: It's not fair.

Last night, I lay down in bed with Chickadee and tried to pry from her anything that might be bothering her. I told her I love her, over and over (she needs so much reassurance these days), but that it's not okay to pretend to be sick to get out of school. I told her she can tell me anything but we have to be truthful with one another to get problems fixed. Today, I play phone tag with the teacher and the therapist. I chat with a friend who also has a high-maintenance child and compare notes. The teacher calls and has no idea what the problem might be, but for not the first time I wonder if this very old-school teacher is a good match for my very complicated daughter. My heart is heavy with the knowledge that my child is crying out for help that I don't know how to give.

Last night, the ex got off the phone with me and called his mother to complain about me. Can you believe how she just leaves me out of these things, he probably said. Who does she think she is! I'm a very involved father! This morning, he went to work with donuts on his mind. Tra la la.

It's not fair.

Frightening would be an understatement

2004-09-22T21:03:00.000-05:00

So I was chatting with my dear Jilbur this fine evening, and she asked me for my zip code. I gave it, along with a snarky comment about how she must be sending me a sympathy card (it's been that kind of a day). Nope, no card. What she offered, instead, was a link to Match.com profiles for available men in my area.

Now that, dear readers, would've been scary enough. Some of those pictures reminded me that I am indeed a stranger in a strange land. Heh. But the ultimate horror was not to present itself until later, as I continued to page through with a mixture of fear and fascination.

I wondered; how can you really know someone from the information they choose to present to you on a dating website? These men could be animals. They could be killers, rapists, WWF fans, taxidermists! How would you know? How would it be possible for someone like me--a skeptic, at best; a pessimist, at worst--to bridge the gap of disbelief and allow that not only are there good, available men out there, but they are advertising themselves this way? Perhaps I am being a snob, I told myself. Perhaps I should at least allow for the possibility.

Whatever infinitesimal chance at open-mindedness I'd had was erased by a single profile. The gentleman in question sounded fabulous. Great education, varied interests, funny, and a father to boot (waxing smitten on his kids, no less). He claimed to love a multitude of romantic activities that I haven't had the pleasure of since long before my marriage. He sounded to good to be true, really. Because he is.

Yes, the ex has a profile on Match. Given his penchant for science fiction, I guess the majesty and extent of his truth-bending shouldn't surprise me. The clincher? In the same sentence where he claims to be a very devoted father, he gets the kids' ages wrong.

P.S. Adding a clarification: I neglected to share that a couple of weeks ago the ex claimed that he and the MOB have decided to "just be friends for now," which I of course took to mean she dumped him. But I was sitting on this info because I wasn't sure it was true. According to Match he's been active in the last day, so I guess she's history.

Meanest. Mama. EVER!

2004-09-22T15:52:00.000-05:00

Ways to not impress me with your supposed illness: talk non-stop in a low, gravelly voice to demonstrate how ill you are; devour the contents of your lunch bag and ask for more; ask to go outside to play; complain about staying inside; complain about not getting to watch television; later torment your little brother about what little TV you did get to watch in his absence; insist that you feel fine now in spite of how tragically afflicted you were just minutes ago; pitch a screaming hissy fit when you find out that no, we will not be attending "Family Fun Night" tonight on account of--oh, that's right!--you're sick.

Things that will happen to you when you've executed all of the above and more: television will be taken away; you will complete all work sent home by your teacher plus some extra worksheets I just happen to have; you will find a way to make up to your brother that you've been so pissy (writing "OUTSTANDING" on his latest artwork was a clever solution, I'll grant you that); I will loudly inform our friends on the phone that no, we won't be there tonight, because you are far too sick to go out, but please enjoy the festivities without us; you will have the first shower and a bland dinner and go to bed early.

Any suggestions on how to delicately word a note to the school letting them know that I'd prefer not to be called unless there is delirium or vomit?

Maybe it's a big magnetic field... of suckiness

2004-09-22T10:17:00.000-05:00

This day is shaping up just swimmingly, lemme tell ya. It's 11:15 and I haven't even had a shower yet. It's that kind of day.

I woke up with a sore throat. No biggie. Just the start of a cold, most likely. But it didn't put me in the most stellar of moods, I suppose you could say. So the fact that the children were rather, uhhhhh, high-spirited, let's say, this morning, was perhaps not fully appreciated by my cranky self. Nevertheless, they were washed and dressed and fed and ushered out the door at the appropriate time. I packed lovely lunches that no one will eat, and even wrote Chickadee a touching note on her lunch napkin (making use of that age-old term of endearment, "Mrs. Grumpy Gills").

I returned home fully intending to take a shower, first thing. But I should probably check my email first... and maybe catch up on blogs... and golly I am really tired and yucky-feeling, maybe I'll just lie down for a little bit.

There are very few perks to being unemployed. Freedom to take a nap when you feel crappy is one of them.

Nestled snugly in bed, dozing, I glared at the phone when it rang. Have I mentioned my deep and enduring love for Caller ID? I heart my Caller ID. My true love Caller ID let me know that this was a lady from church calling, most likely about the bible study group I'd missed last week but that was meeting again today. I was not in the mood for a guilt trip or even exchanging pleasantries, so Caller ID and I decided to let the machine pick up. Problem solved.

Only, things did not go according to plan. Ordinarily my answering machine treats callers to my most cheerful self saying something along the lines of, "Hello! You have reached 555-1212! And this is NOT the Department of Motor Vehicles! HAHA! But if you're calling for us and not the DMV, leave us a message and we'll call you back! Tralala! Bye!!" I'm blessed with the number most often misdialed when folks are trying to reach the local DMV, so it's not as bizarre as it might seem, although I promise it is at least twice as chirpy and annoying as it reads.

So, the phone rang and rang and then I heard the click as the machine picked up, and instead of transmitting my beautifully-crafted message of joy and love and suburban wit, the greeting sounded like this:
"... *clickclickclickSNERK* ... JSHDG PSSSSSSSSSSSK ... KKKKRRRRWWWWWWWWW ... GLSJGLK BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!"

For some inexplicable reason, my caller hung up without leaving a message. Perhaps because she suspected Satan was now inhabiting my answering machine. It's hard to know.

This was perplexing, sure, but I was still only about half-awake and I thought to myself, "Perhaps my darling children have been fooling around with the machine and accidentally recorded a new message. How charming." And I was all set to go back to drooling on my pillow when the phone rang again. Caller ID identified the caller as "Smallville, Town of."

One of my friends teaches at the high school, and when she calls me from school it comes up as "Smallville, Town of," but this was the middle of the morning and she never calls me then. Between the second and third rings my feeble brain managed to piece together that if the high school comes up that way, there's an excellent chance that all of our schools do, too. Like, perhaps, including the elementary school?

"Hello, Mrs. Chickadee's Mom? This is the nurse at Small School. I have Chickadee here in my office, and she's complaining of a sore throat. She has a very low fever, 99.2, which is sort of borderline."

I adore my children, you know. It's not that I'm insensitive to them in times of sickness. But my daughter? Is a bit of a hypochondriac. She'd been fine this morning at breakfast. Trying not to sound too much like a horrible parent, I asked the nurse if she could give her some tylenol and send her back to class. She agreed that that would be fine, she'd administer the tylenol and call me back if Chickadee wasn't feeling any better. I thanked her and hung up.

Hmmm. Tylenol sounded like a good idea. I took some, myself, and went downstairs to have a look at my answering machine. I replayed my greeting and this time it sounded very much like someone had extracted the digital chip, put it in the blender with a few minor demons, and cranked it up to "ice crush." Weird. Just for kicks, I hit "PLAY" to listen to my saved messages:
"SJLHDG KKKKK ... KILLKILLKILL ... PSSSSSSSS ... QQQPPPPPEEEE ... EEEEEEEEEE"

That first message was pretty old, but I really don't remember anybody leaving that as an important missive. Hmmm. The chip is scrambled? I don't know. Great. This is just what I need. What I want most in the world right now is to have to buy a new answering machine. Fabulous! Yay! Perhaps I could also stick something sharp in my eye so that I can make this feeling last!

What I need is some caffeine. A nice hot cup of tea will make me feel better. But so would lying back down. And being the woman of action that I am, I opt to head back to bed... where the phone wakes me about .035 seconds after I fall asleep. Only this time, my answering machine--set on tollsaver mode, also known as "if there's already a message, pick up immediately"--picks up before I can get to the phone, spews its garbled confusion, and the caller hangs up. All before the Caller ID even has time to identify who it was. But lucky for me, then my cell phone starts to ring! So I get to run down the stairs!

"This is the nurse again. Something is wrong with your phone, I think. Anyway, Chickadee isn't feeling any better. Could you please come pick her up?"

Out I go to pick up my dying swan (who seems fine, if a little pale), and it occurs to me on the drive back that on the off chance that anyone tries to call me about a job, they are not going to be able to leave me a message. I start to hyperventilate. We arrive home to... the blinking "new message" light on the machine. Oh dear lord, no.

"BEEEEEEEEP. Hi, Mir? I think there's something wrong with your outgoing message. Anyway, hope you can join us for bible study today!"

So, apparently some sort of cosmic event scrambled all the existing messages on my machine, but now it's fine. Interesting. I'm sure I'll want to spend some more time thinking about it, but for right now, who wants a popsicle?

My tax dollars hard at work in public education

2004-09-21T16:38:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I'll just theme today "Perplexing Conversations I Have With My Offspring."

Me: So how was school today?
Her: Undefectable.
Me: What?
Her: Undefectable.
Me: C'mon, honey. What did you do today?
Her: Un. De. Fect. Able!
Me: Ummmm. Okay. What do you think that word means?
Her: That it's not, y'know, affected by, um, stuff.
Me: And how is that at all relevant to your day at school?
Her: It just is.
Me: Uh huh.

At this point, I started thinking maybe she's smarter than I'm giving her credit for. Maybe she's getting at something that is simply beyond my ken, rather than being silly. I will just let the matter drop, and ponder my daughter's gifted and quirky nature.

Her: Mama?
Me: Yes, honey?
Her: Can I eat my lunch? I'm hungry.
Me: Didn't you eat your lunch at lunchtime?
Her: Nope, I didn't have time.
Me: You didn't have time? Why not?
Her: I was busy.
Me: Busy with what?
Her: I was pooping!

Sometimes? It just does not pay to ask.

Where will you be six weeks from today?

2004-09-21T12:58:00.000-05:00

You'd better be at the polls, my friends. (If you'd like to skip that, the only acceptable alternative is giving me large sums of money, you know.)

Just a friendly little Public Service Announcement, courtesy of my favorite civic-minded hussy:

The U.S. presidential election is EXACTLY six weeks from today. Are you registered to vote yet? If not, then why not?

FOUR sites to get you to register to vote, and to get your friends to register, too:

Just Vote.

Federal Election Commission.

Rock the Vote.

Declare Yourself - Register to Vote. They're trying to get 1 million signatures, and so far are only at the halfway mark.

Please register, and tell your friends to register. No matter what your party affiliation, it all means nothing without the participation of our citizens.

Register today.

And then VOTE.

(And then, you know, if you still wanna give me money, that's cool, too.)