May 23, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I fear that Julia–Master (mistress?) of All That is Funkalicious in Graphics–is going to kill me, or at least spend a loooong time guilting me, when she sees that I’ve removed the cool banner she made for me. I do love that supercool night sky background, and all of the nifty text transformations that Those Of Us With Cheapo Limited Edition Photoshop can only dream about. But this place isn’t meant to be about being flashy, and Sundays bring out my desire to simplify in a way that little else does.

Feel free to leave long, wistful, deeply yearning comments about how the previous banner was quite simply the most beautiful and perfect creation you’d ever seen, and how Julia should rightfully be given her own island nation to rule. She’ll appreciate it, and it may shorten the number of days she won’t speak to me.

The kids and I made it to church on time (*flex*) this morning, with a minimum of frustration, and after a long talk about Last Time’s Behavior (”So, is it okay to run down the aisle screaming “MAMA SHE TOOK MY CRAYON!” when you are supposed to be sitting quietly and I am up in the choir loft singing?”) today’s behavior was exemplary, if I do say so myself. During the children’s sermon the pastor asked what would happen if it never rained again, and the Monkey immediately piped up, all serious-like, “All the lakes would dry up!” and there was a collective oh-isn’t-he-just-so-precious murmur from the congregation. During Junior Church the Chickadee chose to forego her own project in favor of assisting a friend who needed help (the teacher pulled me aside to fill me in on this, with profuse admiration). If I’d been any warmer and fuzzier by the time we left church, I would’ve needed to strip naked for ventilation.

So we returned home and I tried to preserve this feeling the way that any good mom does; I decided we need to Make Goodies.

After some discussion and digging in the pantry, we decided to try the recipe on the back of the Golden Grahams cereal box for s’mores bars. This is like making rice krispy treats with some chocolate melted into the marshmallow goo (and different cereal, obviously). The glow started to fade as both children danced around the kitchen, underfoot, and I tried not to drip molten goo on either of them. By the time I’d sprayed my hands with Pam before mixing it all up (and then discovered that this particular little Hint from Heloise only works in making your hands non-stick for about 2 seconds) and found myself up to my elbows in solidifying graham glop, I’d evicted them from the area. So much for my Norman Rockwell afternoon.

But all was forgiven about one hour and seventeen skirmishes later, when–being the fantabulous mom that I am–I parked the kids in front of A Bug’s Life with two s’mores squares. And oh, how it brings me back to a simpler time… a time when I could drink an entire cup of coffee before it got cold. (Just did it; a little slice of heaven.) Only now everything is better by a magnitude I never knew possible, because I have something chocolate to eat with my coffee two little complications who love me even when I’m cranky.

May 22, 2004 | My name is Grumplestiltskin

A top 10 from today, if you’ll indulge me….

1) Disappearing patterns on pull-ups. The point of these little gems is to motivate your child to stay dry all night. In the commercials, a small child appearing barely old enough to walk, much less scale the potty, runs triumphantly to mommy to display that the pull-up still bears the decorative print and Mommy wow, I’m a big kid now! The kid in the commercial has been wearing that pull-up for less than 10 seconds. I can attest that putting spaceships on the Buzz Lightyear pull-ups was really stupid, because a four-year-old boy will run triumphantly into your room in the morning to declare “Buzz wiped out all the evil alien ships!” Yeah. Buzz and the three glasses of water you sucked down at bedtime, buddy.

2) Children’s chewable vitamins in a variety of shapes and colors. Fun shapes! Bright colors! Fun to eat! Um, no. Fun to argue over, as in why-does-she-have-a-monkey-and-I-have-an-elephant and I-only-like-the-pink-ones and awwwww-I-had-a-lion-yesterday.

3) The Miracle-Gro sprayer attachment thingie for the hose. I may be dumb (no comments from the peanut gallery, please), but I’m not blind. The whole idea of this gizmo is that the perfect, proper amount of fertilizer is being mixed evenly into the spray, yes? Funny, that perfect amount turns the first 30 seconds of spray dark blue, progressively lightening for the next 30 seconds, and then for the rest of the watering session I’m just an idiot with a big stupid bottle nozzle attachment on my hose.

4) Milk in the light-block bottle. Precious vitamins can be leached out of the milk by dangerous light striking the plastic container. Oh my! Guess what? There are no vitamins in water, which is what we’ll be drinking with lunch when I buy the light-block bottle on sale and forget that since it’s not see-through, I can’t see when we run out.

5) Sneakers with velcro for little kids. Isn’t it great when they can be self-sufficient and get their own shoes on? Isn’t it somehow less great when they discover that they can stick the velcro to their socks, the carpet, their sister…?

6) Slip-on sneakers for children who always complain their shoes are too tight. I’m not naming any names, mind you. Just keep in mind that if a six-year-old stumbles on her way down the garage step, the resultant regaining of balance may end with one shoe outside the garage. And she will be laughing too hard to go retrieve it. And her brother may find this an excellent excuse to start throwing his shoes. You can do what you want; I’m just sayin’.

7) Cup-holder holes in the arms of movie theatre seats. Let’s face it: everyone knows those things are never quite the right size for your soda, anyway. They are, however, just the right size for small arms… practicing making anchor ropes out of windbreakers… feet… and dropping candy through.

Candyland. I’m just putting it on the list because I would rather chew off my own leg than play this never-ending repetitive simulation of purgatory.

9) Pizza pans with holes in them for crispier crusts. Do they make the crust crispier? I have no idea. Do they make a gigantic crumby mess all over the counter when you cut the pizza? Hell yes.

10) Vibrating toothbrushes for children. I used to have big blue blobs of toothpaste on the bathroom counter. Now I have big blue blobs of toothpaste on the counter overlaid with a fine mist of light blue toothpaste-and-spittle spatter. (And also, “Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts” is now stuck in my head, though strictly speaking that is not the fault of the toothbrushes.)

P.S. Shrek 2 gets a big thumbs-up from me, although I would like to watch it again without hearing “What’s funny, Mama? Why did that make you laugh?” two hundred and fifty-nine times.

Detritus

I am a Gauntlet Adventurer. I strive to improve my living conditions by hoarding gold, food, and sometimes keys and potions. I love adventure, fighting, and particularly winning - especially when there’s a prize at stake. I occasionally get lost inside buildings and can’t find the exit. I need food badly. What Video Game Character Are You?

(And the sad part is, I think this one was more accurate than the girlfriend test….)

May 21, 2004 | Detritus

You Are A Professional Girlfriend! You are the perfect girlfriend - big surprise! Heaven knows you’ve had enough practice. That’s why you’re a total pro. If there was an Emily Post of girlfriends, it would be you. You know how to act in every situation … to make both you and your guy happy. What Kind Of Girlfriend Are You? Take This Quiz

It must be my professional girlfriend status that has me beating away the men with a stick. Oh, wait, those are mosquitoes. My mistake.

I confess. What was proud self-assurance this morning turned down the path of woulda-coulda-shouldas by evening. But I’m all better now that I know I’m a perfect girlfriend. That will come in very handy on my next date. Which will be happening in 2012.

It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

So I’m having a pretty good morning… got the kids off to school without major incidence… came back home and was cleaning and such and thinking about how yesterday really wasn’t too bad… I’d feared it would be a very difficult day for me because it marked an event about which I feel great ambivalence, and a fair amount of regret… but all in all it was okay. I got things done. I didn’t feel the need to have a major wallow. I felt alright. By evening I’d felt a hurdle had been overcome and I was (dare I say it?) doing some good growing. All of this I was reviewing this morning, and I gave myself another of those little mental pat-on-the-backs (honestly, if I don’t do it, who will?).

Then the phone rang. It was my therapist; did I realize we have a session scheduled for this morning that I’d missed?

You know, I love irony as much as the next smartass, but it is possible to have too much of a good thing.

So I did the big ol’ Homer Simpson DOH! and apologized profusely for my ditziness… checked my calendar, where indeed I found the appointment written clearly right on today’s date. She was very nice about it. But nothing is quite so deflating to the ego’s well-being as knowing that your therapist thinks you’re a flake.

Not that I need a therapist or therapy at all. I mean, I could’ve dealt with the slow breakdown of my marriage, the “100 Years Divorce” (okay it didn’t really take that long, it just felt that way), the saga of Dr. Husband and Mr. Idiotboy, taking a seriously crappy job because of impending divorce, getting treated like crap at seriously crappy job, getting laid off from seriously crappy job, realizing no one was going to hire me to do anything better, watching my savings dwindle, one child with life-threatening food allergies, one child with chronic clinical depression starting at the tender age of four, and maintaining a house and raising two kids all on my own… on my own. I could’ve. It’s just that I figured that would all be a lot more complicated if my head exploded.

Having missed this morning’s therapy session, I give you (for those who asked, and for those who didn’t, too bad) the event from May 20, 2003 that renders me a complete asshat: Just a few months post-separation, I had my first date in about ten years. It was too early, I wasn’t ready, and my choice of partner was–to be kind–questionable. From this evolved a relationship that alternately gave me hope and made me doubt and loathe myself. It destroyed a dear friendship. It nearly destroyed me. I learned my lesson but I think “ignorance is bliss” is applicable here.

The rub is this: I hold a grudge. Always have. (And I do love how–when discussing this topic with my father a few days back–he tiptoed around this particular “feature” of mine as if perhaps I don’t realize that I am a demanding bitch.) In this case, although I am now A-OK with myself and the world and myself in the world and even this person no longer being part of that, I’ll be damned if I can stop being pissed at him. I literally sat him down on multiple occasions to reiterate please handle with care, I am damaged right now and I can’t take more and please don’t move forward if this isn’t what you truly want. He ignored me, because he is a hopeful and selfish bastard. And I will move on, I will love again, I will find the one I seek… and he will continue to walk the walk and talk the talk until the enormity hits him and he runs away as fast as his legs can carry him (again and again and again)… which means I should feel sorry for him. But I don’t. It’s about the most infuriating thing in the world, I think, to see such a gifted person so incapable of love when they should damn well know better.

I don’t know if my missing my appointment falls under the “there are no accidents” category or the “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” category. Either way, I don’t feel half bad. Onward and upward! (*insert annoyingly repetitive “I’m Still Standing” music here for maximum cheesiness*)

Detritus

Many, many thanks to the folks at Haiku Smackdown for an evening of great entertainment at yesterday’s Smackdown. I laughed, I cried… it was way better than “Cats” (yo!). Please do check it out, if you haven’t already.

Parental advisory warning: Some of the haikus are raunchy, and some are well beyond that. (You might need to skip a few, Dad.)

Let me tell you, it is impossible to wallow and ‘ku at the same time. Can’t be done. I went to bed with a crick in my neck and a happy heart.

May 20, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Important discovery: I can have oodles of time to myself to blog, pay bills, and do dishes, and still garner Fun Mama points, if I allow the Monkey to cut up his Spiderman coloring book while I do so.

He has spent most of the morning cutting out every little spider in there and then running to me to present it… whereupon I shriek a fake little scream of horror, he laughs himself silly (remember, he is easily amused), and then he runs off to find me another one.

“Mama, you don’t like spiders, do you?”

“No, honey, not very much.”

“Mama, spiders and Barbies freak you out.”

“Yes, sweetheart, they do.”

“That’s okay, Mama… I love you anyway.”

My name is Grumplestiltskin

Oh.my.God. This is just SO like me…

I mean, leave it to me to flipping save all of humankind and not even notice (or get credit). Thanks, Liz. I think. (Tell ya what… I’ll bring the butter for your toast and you can bring whatever goes well with the spoils of righteous–if somewhat oblivious–victory and we’ll make a celebration of it.)

More typical me:
1) Discovered this morning that I left the garage door open. All night. With the door to the house unlocked.
2) Woke up with a migraine, took my meds, asked the kids to play quietly, went back to bed for half an hour.
3) Got up to what can only be described as a spectacular explosion of the arts-n-crafts chest all over the kitchen.
4) I am brooding over a really bad decision I made a year ago today that came back to bite me several times, hard; and it might be cathartic to write about it, but as there is no spin I could put on said decision that wouldn’t make me look like a total asshat (I’m stealing the word, but giving credit where it’s due) I’m just gonna shut up and get back to wallowing.

Editing to add: If I fill in “Miriam” instead of “Mir” I’ll be creating some super-weapon in August of 2007. Apparently my more formal self doesn’t know how to harness her powers for good.

May 19, 2004 | I'm dating the television

I’ve come to that time of the evening when I paint “NERD” across my forehead, put on my jammies, turn on “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” and get into bed with my laptop. (All of the aforementioned really happens except the forehead painting part….)

Julia and I often chat on AIM and watch “Whose Line” together (well, as together as you can from several states apart) at this time of night, and I kind of wind down from the day, and all is grand.

Tonight I’m feeling a little jittery. First of all, Waldo is still at large, and as my bathroom is connected to my bedroom and I can no longer find him in the bathroom, I’m just a tiny bit worried that he may kill me in my sleep. In addition, the Monkey is having a rare difficult night and has already been up to tell me he’s “wone-wy” at least four times (I get the good mommy award for not once snapping back “Yeah, I’m lonely too, but I’m not bothering you when I should be sleeping!”). It’s hard to relax under the certain knowledge that you won’t know when, but at some point in the night a flailing bedhog will be upon you. (But on the plus side, he might scare Waldo away.) And last, tomorrow is likely to be a Very Sucky Day and the only thing I’m even better at than wallowing is anticipating a good wallow.

Anyway. What’s a girl to do with all this on her mind? Read weird crap on the web, of course. I’m still trying to wrap my head around this article about a prison in Indiana which is instituting a dress code for visitors. Among the various edicts listed in the article is this gem: “underwear is required to remain invisible.”

I’ve long suspected that I lack many of the feminine wiles of my sexier counterparts. Now I’m really stunned. There’s a way to make underwear invisible?? There are hours, nay, days of my life, cumulatively, that I’ve spent shopping for undergarments that won’t leave panty lines. If any readers know the Underwear Invisibility Incantation, please enlighten me. (Thank goodness there’s no one in prison I need to visit. Yet.)

My name is Grumplestiltskin

Panic. Complete, total, utter panic.

I was sitting here… minding my own business… finishing up the Mother’s Day gifts for the grandmothers (yes, thank you, I know today’s date… there were technical difficulties beyond my control and… why am I explaining this??)… when the phone rings.

It’s Eric, or maybe it’s Erik, I really don’t know, and he’s calling me from the 401 area code, and I have no idea where that is, but if I haven’t mentioned before that I love having Caller ID, I really do, and I would like to thank the Ex for the early days of post-separation insanity wherein he felt the need to call my house a hundred times a day, prompting me to get said Caller ID, anyway, back to Eric, he’s calling to inform me that my bank is making exciting new changes to their online banking this Summer! Hurray for them! And I am just about to hang up on his cheery earnest script-reading self when he jubilantly proclaims that as a part of these changes, customers will no longer be able to receive e-bills online through the bank. But stay tuned for exciting new functionality….

“Back up,” I said. “I can’t get e-bills anymore? Why not?”

There is a pause. Eric or Erik clears his throat.

“Ma’am,” (nothing endears me to a young twerp more than being called ma’am as if I’m twice my actual age, let me tell you), “you can still elect to receive e-bills through arrangement with your various billers, just not through our online banking.”

“Ummm… you said the bank is bringing an updated interface and exciting new functionality… this sounds to me like a revocation of services. How is that beneficial?”

Eric or Erik could be heard flipping through his script. I don’t think he knows what revocation means. But I’m guessing he could tell that I was annoyed.

“Ma’am,” (there it is again) “I’m really not sure why they’ve decided to do this, but I’m sure there will be even better functionality in its place once the upgrade is complete.”

I resisted the temptation to ask what functionality would be better than the extraordinary convenience of having all my bills linked to my checking account in one place, save for the bank perhaps paying off those bills before I ever even saw them. With someone else’s money (natch).

I also resisted the temptation to scream “You fool! Do you have any idea how long it took me to get my finances organized to a level where I no longer break out in hives every time I log on to my account? DO YOU???”

Furthermore, (and here is the very nicest part, because I’m all about loving my neighbors, figurative and otherwise) I have resisted the overwhelmingly strong urge to include the name of my financial institution in this post. I was asked to “stay tuned” and that I shall, and if the Summer brings me the banking travesty I fear it may, then I will of course put links to my bank’s online consumer grievance area all over my site.

Bah.