August 31, 2004 | What do I do all day?

Does my outfit for tomorrow need to be ironed? I’ll have all morning tomorrow after the kids are at school. But I should probably just take it out and check it, just in case there’s some sort of Unforseen Outfit Emergency that I’m going to have to deal with, because I am not going shopping for interview clothes the same day as the interview. Phew, clothes look good. Which shoes? These ones? No, they’re scuffed. These? That’s not quite the same black. (God, I envy men their one or two pair of dress shoes.) These? Too strappy. These? Too clunky. Hello, where did these come from? These are awesome! And new! And designer! And I don’t even remember buying them. Yay me and my twelve pairs of black heels.

Does Chickadee’s outfit for tomorrow need to be ironed? Nope, looking good. Shoes? Sneakers. Surely she’ll agree to wear sneakers. What if she wants dress shoes? Well then she’ll be sucking it up and wearing sneakers. Ha!

Where’s her backpack? Did I put it… no, wait… maybe… okay, phew. Yanno, it might have been a good idea to empty it out at the end of kindergarten, in June, instead of just leaving all this crap in here for me to sort through, today. Oh well. Exactly how many rocks are in here, anyway? And fusion beads! A pox upon fusion beads! Maybe in first grade they won’t do fusion beads, please sweet lord, I cannot take any more of the fusion bead proliferation. Save me. Chickadee is glued to the computer… quick check to verify… yes!… evil fusion beads being buried in the trash. Eleventy billion scraps of paper, likewise. All this other stuff… I’ll put somewhere… later. A pile in the mudroom will work, for now. Backpack’s empty!

Milk money… milk money… where’s my pile of change…. Okay, gonna put this change in a ziploc in her lunchbag. Gonna put this change in a ziploc labelled “MILK MONEY” in her lunchbag. She’s going to forget to buy her milk. Her bones will rot and she’ll come home dehydrated. And yet, no one can say I didn’t try. Cuz I did.

What is that smell? Oh, the cantelope is ripe. Yay! Gonna cut that up right now before I forget. I can put some in Chickadee’s lunch; she’ll like that. (I could put some in Monkey’s lunch, too, if I was just interested in giving the cantelope a little vacation from home.) I love my melon baller. Okay, that’s done.

Okay, put the pile of school stuff in Chickadee’s backpack. Is everything here? Amazingly, yes. Wait, where’s the name/bus tag? I know I had it. Where is it?? Oh, crap. It has holes punched in it for a string, but no string. I have to find some string. I don’t have any string! Lessee… I have ribbon. Ribbon will work. I’ll tie it. No, it’s all slippery. It’ll come untied. I’ll glue it. I can’t find the good glue. Hmmm. I’ll glue it with Elmer’s, and then put tape on top of the glue. Sure, why not. I’ve already spent an inordinate amount of time on this neon green name tag, why not turn it into a full-fledged craft! Oy. Okay, glue, tape, bus number written nice and big. Make sure it fits. (”Mama! I’m on the skillway, take that thing off me!”) Put it with the backpack. I need to write a note saying she can get off the bus at daycare tomorrow. Okay. Then who do I give it to? I guess I just put it in her backpack. And resist the urge to sign it “Epstein’s Mom.”

“Chickadee! Remember to get off the bus at daycare, tomorrow! Will you remember?”

“Mom, you’ve told me that about two hundred times already.”

Oh, fine. If I’m this tiresome at six just imagine how uncool I’m going to be when she’s a teenager. Hmph.

I should get those sheets out of the dryer and fold them. Okay, back upstairs. Hey, I wonder if I still have any of that nice paper. I bet the ex forgot a box in the basement somewhere. I’ll go look once the sheets are done.

Down to the basement (pausing on the way to give the 10 minute warning to my little ‘puter addict). Empty the dehumidifier. I’ll start with this stack of boxes. Geez there is a ton of crap down here. Most of it his. Aha! Like how this box of premium ivory vellum is his. Correction, was his. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all that, and besides, he already has a job. I’ll just put the paper by the printer for later.

I should probably find my briefcase. I have no idea where it is. Hmmm. I have this amazing briefcase my mom sent, but it’s been in quarantine in the garage since receipt because (like everything that comes from her house) it reeks of smoke. I should check it out. Ick. It’s better, but not fabulous. I’ll try spraying the inside with Febreeze, and then setting it out in the sun for a while. And crossing my fingers. And hoping that the people who interview me are all smokers with no sense of smell.

Okay, time to fetch the boy child. Off we go. He’s collected, and then we’re headed down to the ex’s, where I drop them for dinner. Back home again… this time to blissful silence.

Print resumes. Lay out clothes. Set alarms. Empty Monkey’s lunch bag. Start to pack tomorrow’s lunches. Go through the mail. Do dishes. Vacuum. Tidy up. Make phone calls. Keel over dead from exhaustive attention to all this minutiae. Wonder how in the world I think I’m going to be able to handle a full-time job and two kids and keep the house from falling down around our ears. Well, no matter, as tomorrow will be a little exercise in polish-me-up and reject-me-again, in all likelihood.

Thank goodness I’ve got my positive attitude to keep me going.

Retail Therapy

It is totally okay that I went and spent every penny I saved on groceries yesterday at Trader Joe’s this morning, because food is necessary for survival. And I totally wasn’t going to survive without sweet potato french fries, guacamole, organic fig bars, and eggplant cutlets. Really.

August 30, 2004 | Detritus

I was reading this post and found myself feeling very jealous that Melissa’s boobs got to go on an excursion. I mean, just look how happy they are! You go, girls! But what about me? Because, after all, everything is either totally about me or damn well should be. My girls want some action.

Let’s face it; last summer, I had a tonsillectomy (thank you, children, for bringing home the most vicious strain of strep throat known to mankind to take up residence in my tonsils). This summer, I had the hysterectomy. The way I’m going? I’ll probably end up with a double-mastectomy next year, because I am really running out of things to remove. And we all know that summertime may be misrepresented by the media as sun and sand and fun, but in reality (at least, in my reality) summertime is all about being sliced open and having troublesome body parts fished out. Yeah. You can see how my time may be running short.

Tonight, I lay on my bed with my children–freshly scrubbed and sweet-smelling–snuggled up on either side. I was reading along in our evening book when I heard definite giggling. I put the book down and turned towards my son. He had a huge grin on his face, and was caressing my breast with the delicacy and concentration of a great artist. (So lightly, in fact, that through my shirt and new slightly-padded bra, I hadn’t even felt it.)

“Stop that!” I said, while moving his hand away. But–I couldn’t help it–I chuckled a little. Which was, apparently, tantamount to saying, “Yes, please, this is both enjoyable and hilarious, feel free to use both hands.” A bit of wrestling ensued when I found myself fending off four hands intent upon groping me with a clumsiness that rivalled even the most drunken high school encounter. Eventually, order was restored. I issued my standard Why Mama’s Breasts Are Private And Touching Them Will Result In Years Of Therapy For All Involved speech. We finished our reading, and the kids went to bed.

Only, now I’m sitting here wondering two things. First, will anyone other than my demented offspring ever really look at my breasts ever again? They’re not spectacular, or anything, but, well, they’re boobs, and the last time I checked, 50% or so of the population was male. I’m not looking for full-out ogling, or anything, but the girls would probably enjoy an outing and a little discreet admiration. Sadly, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards for us any time soon. Oh well.

Second, when I go to add the money to the therapy fund over this, do I put it in for the kids or for me?

What do I do all day?

Training wheels: Discarded.

Bicycle: Still a slave to gravity.

Temperature: Over 90 when we concluded that we’d had enough riding for today.

Air conditioning: Cranked.

Reader Rabbit 2nd Grade: Played for an hour (then I peeled the child off the computer).

My super-special scrambled eggs: Devoured for lunch to gleeful proclamations about how much Monkey hates them and it’s great he’s not home.

Coupons: Clipped and organized.

Groceries: Purchased, loaded, put away.

Savings between coupons and store rewards: $32.73. I rock.

Four fresh cases of Diet Coke With Lime: Purchased at $2.22 each and making me very happy.

Pipecleaner insects: Carefully crafted, and enjoying the pipecleaner flowers.

One over-tired little brother: Retrieved from school, and spreading exhausted crankitude to all in his path.

Cereal and milk: A delicious and nutritious dinner.

Showers: Coming up next.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Monkey started school today. Chickadee doesn’t start until Wednesday. Last year, Monkey went to school only three days a week, so twice a week we had some alone time while Chickadee was at school, and she complained bitterly about not getting the same. So today and tomorrow? Estrogen Central, baybee!

We took Monkey and all of his assorted gear to school, got him settled in (”You can leave now, Mama, cuz I’m gonna be pretty busy playing here”), and then went to Chickadee’s old room to visit with her teachers from last year. There was much hugging. I love her old teachers so much; I kind of want to grab them all, shrink them down, and put them in my purse for safe-keeping. Then it was back up to the front desk to puzzle out payment schedules and such. There is an advantage to having been a patron of the same school for four years; when I explained that Chickadee would be coming to aftercare but I wasn’t sure how many days, or when, and that it was all dependent on finding a job, the director just waved her hand in the air and said “we’ll only charge you for when she’s here, don’t sweat it.” That was a huge relief. (I am already having panic attacks over Monkey’s tuition given that I’m still unemployed.)

It turns out that Chickadee will be headed to her old school for aftercare on her very first day of school. That wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I have an interview on Wednesday afternoon. (This is your cue to cross your fingers, legs, toes, and eyes.) But today’s visit got her totally jazzed about her return on Wednesday, and in a rare stroke of luck, her regular bus is the one that goes to the old school, so the change to her routine will be minimal. Phew.

Then it was time to start our day of girlitude! First stop: Dunkin Donuts, because that’s how all great outings start in our family. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at this fine dining establishment, with me savoring my coffee and Chickadee managing to yammer non-stop inbetween slurping juice and demolishing a sprinkle-covered donut. Nothing but the best for my children. “This isn’t a very healthy breakfast,” she noted at one point.

“Nope,” I agreed. “But once in a while it’s okay.”

“Right! Cuz today is a girls’ day!”

And you just can’t have a girls’ day without some chocolate and sugar, right?

I’m finishing up a few chores inside, here, and next I’m off to find my wrenches. One of my biggest regrets about this summer is that we never did get in enough bike practice to get Chickadee riding without her training wheels. I’d promised her, back in June, that she’d be riding on two wheels by September. We’ve got two days for me to keep my word. If it doesn’t work out, well, I guess we’ll go get some more donuts….

August 29, 2004 | Friends

Well, that last post was a laugh a minute, huh? I am nothing if not inconsistent… sometimes. *rimshot*

So hey, guess what! Even when I am feeling miserable and whatnot, I occasionally make the effort to pretend to be a productive member of society. And this can be difficult, because I have very few useful skills. I try to play to my few strengths. Now, the wallowing thing, I am amazing at that; it may be my greatest talent. But there’s not much call for it in social circles. So sometimes I have to play to my other strengths, such as painting.

Are you painting a room? You so want me there. I work for cheap (read: nothing, or snacks), I’m fairly speedy, and–insofar as one can be talented at slapping paint on the correct surfaces–I’m pretty good at it. It’s going on my resume, just as soon as I reconstruct it from those copies and disks I set on fire a few days ago. Anyway. Yes, I’m your woman for a paint job. My reputation is known far and wide (read: by every friend of mine who’s ever had to paint a room).

My friend Marcey had called upon me to assist her in painting her kitchen this weekend. I was thrilled. Okay; I’m weird. But, um, did you read that last post? I needed diversion. Badly. And besides, the last time I helped Marcey paint, we laughed so hard, my stomach was sore the next day. It was three of us for the family room job: Marcey, Eileen and me. Marcey and I had already done the trip to the neighborhood paint store, gotten the perfectly matched paint and all our supplies, and figured out The Game Plan. Eileen brought alcohol, and what’s interesting to note here is that she and I were drinking, but Marcey wasn’t. However, it was Marcey who engaged in a stunning display of manuevers that resulted in a paint can being dropped in the middle of the kitchen floor, spilling half its contents and denting in an entire side.

For a few movie-slow-motion seconds that stretched forever, we were all frozen. Marcey, crouched in disbelief over the ever-widening pool of paint; Eileen and I, rollers forgotten in our hands, blinking at the carnage.

“Wow,” said Eileen, finally. “You’re never gonna be able to get the cover back on that thing.”

“Yes, the cover is what I’m most concerned about at this moment,” snapped Marcey. And then we all laughed until we cried, while I ran to stand the paint can back up and scoop what I could back into it. We still had enough paint to complete the project, and even got the floor clean. But that was the birth of a never-ending supply of jokes about how if you wanted someone to throw paint on the floor, Marcey was your woman, or are you sure you want the paint on the walls, because all the coolest people just drop it on the floor, etc. When Marcey asked if I might be able to help her with the kitchen, I said I’d be there.

“Someone’s gotta come over and make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” I couldn’t resist adding.

“Shut up. I hate you. See you later,” she grumped. See how irresistable I am?

Marcey is in the process of beautifying her kitchen. Her new counters arrived on Friday, and her new floor will be in on Monday. This past week she single-handedly stripped down the wallpaper, as evidenced by all the wallpaper crumbs still hiding in every available cranny of the room. The wallpaper in question was ugly under the best of circumstances, but against new counters and flooring it would’ve been intolerable. To whomever designed the bushel baskets of apples print which isn’t even recognizable as such until your nose is three inches from the wall: shame on you.

So I showed up on Saturday night to paint. I started priming while Marcey tended to her daughter and got her settled in for bed. Periodically she would holler down the stairs that she was feeling guilty that I was painting her kitchen. I told her to take her time, I was fine. And I was. I finished taping the cabinets. I sang along with the radio. I rolled with gusto and then switched to the slanted brush to cut in around the edges. My mind emptied. I was being useful.

I was nearly done priming when Marcey joined me, and together we admired the paint color when we opened the can, then got the topcoat done in record time. Even though she’s having new vinyl put in tomorrow she refused to drop the paint on the floor for old times’ sake, so for entertainment I had to sit down squarely on the lid while I was edging near the baseboards. Ick. She laughed at me, of course, but in the final analysis I had one painted buttock and she was completely coated, so it was okay.

I wonder if there’s a way to get that painting zen mindset to linger a bit. If not, my kitchen wallpaper came in a close second for world’s ugliest wallcovering, so maybe I should start scraping.

August 28, 2004 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

One morning when we were quite young, my older brother and I were up before our parents, eating cereal and watching cartoons.

“Wanna see a neat trick?” my brother asked me. Of course I did. My brother could make the sun rise, as far as I was concerned. He dug out some matches, struck one, and lit the corner of a paper napkin on fire. I oohed and aahed and then he blew on the napkin–to extinguish his tiny flame–and instead of going out, the flame doubled in size. He yelped and dropped the napkin on the carpet. I ran to our parents’ room and screamed that the house was burning down. My father came running and with one good stomp it was all over. Except for the scorch marks on the carpet. And the hairbrush (bristle side down) spankings that my mother administered afterwards.

Later in childhood, I never lost my fascination with the ability to focus sunlight with a magnifying glass until wisps of smoke began to rise. This was best done outside, of course, but I have a very vivid memory of sitting on my bed and methodically burning hole after hole into a sheet of paper. I stopped when I burned a small hole in the bedsheet.

I still find fire fascinating. But as an adult, you don’t light napkins for kicks or go outside and burn up some unfortunate ants. The occasional blaze in the fireplace, sure, or a rare night by the campfire, yes. I now have a healthy respect for fire and take all the recommended safety precautions. Because I’m a grown-up now, and I know to be careful. And I don’t want to get hurt.

Only, I still play with fire. A different sort of fire. I make poor decisions. I love people who hurt me. I get burned and come back for more. I talk the talk and I walk the walk and then I put myself in harm’s way because I’m mesmerized by the brightness of the flame and reason that I’ll be able to keep it from getting too close. It always gets too close. I’m left wounded and bewildered, trying to puzzle out whether this is the nature of human relationships or if there is something fundamentally wrong with me.

Then I retreat for a while. Curl up within myself, tend to my injuries; slowly journey back to health. Emerge restored. Restored, yet isolated; lonely. Where I am drawn, again, to the sparkle and the dazzle of those who will–albeit unintentionally, most times–singe me if I let them.

There must be a middle ground between seclusion and the inferno. I am weary of trying to find it.

August 27, 2004 | Detritus

Just FYI:

The period of time inbetween leaving a message at the pediatrician’s office and when the nurse finally deigns to call you back is more than ample to find multiple nauseating pictures of severe poison ivy rashes on the web. None of those pictures will exactly match what is now whining and spread on the couch before you, but they will make you rethink having a snack.

UPDATE: Ding ding ding ding! We have a winnah! Poison oak, anyone? I’m off to grind up oatmeal for a bath. My poor tree-climbing baby….

What do I do all day?

• The Atomic Fireballs are the fault of Dollar Tree. I just went in there for Antibacterial Hand Gel (the last item on Chickadee’s school list), honest.
• Because I live under a rock, I hadn’t heard of the Texas woman whose kid got snatched from the car. I regularly leave my kids buckling in the car while I return my shopping cart, and I am now writhing in paroxysms of guilt. Thank you.
• My friend brought me raspberry chocolate chip ice cream tonight. I didn’t know I liked raspberry chocolate chip ice cream, but where has this raspberry chocolate chip ice cream been all my life? And also, could we come up with a shorter name than raspberry chocolate chip ice cream?
• The school bus schedule has been published and I am too stupid to interpret it. If I read correctly, we have to walk a block to get on the bus, but that same bus–in the afternoon–will drop Chickadee right in front of our house. Huh?
• I let my kids stay up late tonight for a number of complicated reasons, not the least of which was that they’ll be headed to the ex for the weekend, tomorrow, and I won’t have to deal with the overtired crankiness meltdowns sure to occur. I am evil.
• What am I supposed to do with myself once the Olympics are over? It’s hours of viewing enjoyment and nearly endless opportunities for snark.
• And speaking of the Olympics, I am not telling you about how Kira and I discussed “BOUNCE” as it relates to men’s track events tonight. On account of we are pitiful and hard up and I wouldn’t want to tell you about that. (I charged Kira with blogging about this, but she declined, saying something about how her priest reads her blog…?)
• We had our first choir rehearsal of the season tonight. It only took about an hour before I said something that came out totally wrong and in trying to correct it I babbled and made it worse and was completely mortified. People were still laughing at me when I left. It’s so nice to be back.

August 26, 2004 | Detritus

I now know that the number of consecutive Atomic Fireballs I can consume before my mouth goes completely numb is six. I’m not sure I really needed to know this, but I wondered, and decided to figure it out. And I did. Yay me. No one can say that I didn’t do anything productive this afternoon.

I very much wonder what goes through the mind of people at the supermarket who unload their carts and just leave them there. Can anyone explain it to me? I’m not talking about carts abandoned at the Outer Siberia end of the parking lot or carts left rolling around in a whipping thunderstorm or anything. I’m talking about carts left on a gorgeous, perfect 75-degree day less than 10 feet from the carriage corral. WTF? Are they in full-body casts, unable to go the extra few steps? Were they abducted by aliens moments after placing their fridge packs of Pepsi in the trunk? Are they fugitives from justice and spotted a cruiser? There must be an explanation other than the ol’ “some people are stupid to live” thing.