August 11, 2005 | What do I do all day?, Friends

Dear Friends,

Today Joshilyn blew my cover, and pointed out that this trip is to be our own personal BlogHer event. That’s an interesting way of putting it, I think. This is JUST like BogHer, really, except fewer strange hats and a lot more people saying, “Hey, how are y’all doin’ today?”

I was sort of getting into the swing of the southern dialect–not speaking it, myself, but finally resisting the urge to say “HUH?” every time someone spoke to me–when we stopped for coffee this morning and the young man who greeted us at the counter sounded JUST LIKE ME. “YOU are NOT from GEORGIA!” I declared in triumph. He looked frightened, but admitted that he was from Massachusetts. “One of my kind!” I sighed happily. He made the other barista wait on me. I have no idea why.
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August 10, 2005 | What do I do all day?, Friends

You know the saying about how “getting there is half the fun?” No. Not even close. Not even a quarter of the fun. Actually, just not fun at all, compared to being there. Not that there’s anything WRONG with getting there, just that it’s wasted time in comparison to the rest.

Mir’s Handy Travel Tips:
DO bring lots of reading material.
DON’T bring a book about the ebola virus if you are predisposed to anxiety.
DO transfer important items to your cool new purse.
DON’T forget to remove your girly leatherman tool which now belongs to the security dude at the airport.
DO catch the handy train that will take you from one end of Gigantic Airport to the other.
DON’T compulsively stare at the hugely fake boobs of the two women dressed like strippers, precariously balancing on their stiletto heels and lurching about every time the train speeds up or slows down.
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August 9, 2005 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

Do you remember those commercials they used to run on TV every Summer–I don’t know who sponsored them, maybe the Humane Society?–that would start out with someone cracking an egg onto the sidewalk, and the deep male voiceover voice says, “It’s hot outside. Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Hot enough to FRY A DOG’S BRAIN.” And then they cut to a shot of poor Fido, trapped in the backseat with the window just barely cracked, and they’d talk about how dangerous it is to leave your dog in the car on hot days.

I had a dream this morning where I thought I’d woken up and booted up my computer. And in this dream–where I was sure I was awake–I decided to check the weather for my vacation destination, which is indeed in a warm part of the country. So I went to Yahoo! Weather and entered the information and the 5-day forecast came up. You know how they give little graphics for the type of weather? Sunny, you get a sun. Partly cloudy, you get a sun with some clouds. Etc. Well, in my dream–which seemed perfectly logical and wherein I was certain I was awake–the forecast graphics were little groups of gorillas with red eyes.

Well, I didn’t know what that meant. So I went to the graphics key (in my dream) and it told me that gorillas with red eyes means “Hot enough to FRY A GORILLA’S BRAIN.” Wow, I thought. That’s really hot, I guess.

And then I woke up.
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August 8, 2005 | What do I do all day?

On the one hand, I’m leaving in a few days, and I have a lot to do before I go. On the other hand, with the kids gone, it does feel a little bit like I have an unlimited amount of time to do… whatever.

(Fortunately, I’m super-good at doing whatever. Especially when “whatever” means “not getting out of my pajamas all day on Sunday but eating ice cream for breakfast and watching a bunch of movies.”)

After my scintillating day, yesterday, I figured I’d better get back into the groove, today. Lots of things to do in the name of Trip Prep! Also it tends to keep the voices in my head to a dull roar.
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August 6, 2005 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

Some days unfold seamlessly–the hours slipping by, flowing from one moment into another and requiring no effort or vigilance. They just are, and in them, so are you.

Some days feel impossible and endless–the minutes dragging, the effort just to keep putting one foot in front of another feeling herculean. They feel like slow strangulation, every instant a choice between fighting for breath or succumbing.

Somewhere inbetween are the ghost days.
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Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Another sign of the Apocalypse has come to pass, and you probably didn’t even know. Oh, sure; your life is busy. I understand. That’s why I’m here to fill you in.

You would know to take cover if it started raining frogs or the four horsemen came galloping by. But you might not know that the end of the world could also be heralded by tiny Batman undies. Yes.

So, be ye informed: That time has come, and that time is now. The Time Of Tiny Batman Undies… in BED. For SLEEPING. And staying DRY. Woooooooooooooo!
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August 4, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave feedback on the last post. I know that most folks stop by here for The Funny, and sometimes when I post on more serious topics, the crickets chirp loudly and I do my Elephant Man impersonation here, alone in my bedroom at night (”I am not an animal! I am a person!”) while wondering if I always have to balance a ball on my nose while juggling two live chainsaws and a baby.

Anyway. I’m glad that I had more than crickets to keep me company on that last bit o’ rambling. So, thanks.

As a reward for indulging me while I stared, mesmerized, into my navel, I now present a few other important skills I hope that my offspring will attain at some point in my lifetime. (Yes, mine. Not theirs. It doesn’t count if I don’t live to see it. Because I’m a selfish bitch that way. Also other ways, but let’s try to stay on topic for right now.)
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August 3, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony, Growing

There are so many important lessons we parents are responsible for teaching our children. How to share. How to take turns. How to partake of a meal in a way that won’t get you thrown out of a restaurant or never invited back to a friend’s house. How to put things away when you’re done with them so that Mama doesn’t step on them in the dark and hop around cursing while holding her injured foot.

I struggle every day, hoping that I am helping my children become people whom I will be proud to know. Especially because I believe example is the best teacher, and sometimes my example isn’t all that I wish it was. Other times, I am at a loss to explain why things have happened as they have; either because I simply don’t know or because the full scope of the situation is beyond what they can understand.
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August 2, 2005 | What do I do all day?

The acne solution I use on my face at night–combined with the heat and some sweating–is bleaching out my pillowcases. Note to self: Get a new face, or consider sticking to all-white bedding.

A few hours in the sun helps with the acne, but causes me to burn and freckle (not tan) even with sunscreen. Also, my children do not appreciate me calling out “Mama McWhiterson wants to see your TUSHIE!” as I tug on their swimsuits and admire their tan lines.

There are two more months of Summer left. Naturally, I cannot find the white shoes I neeeeeeeeeeed, because the stores are full of… boots? Cognitive dissonance… brain… hurts.

But I can find the world’s cutest dress sandal on clearance and in my size! That’s right, SANDAL, singular. Just one. But, see, I have TWO feet. So close, and yet so far. *sob*

My daughter got herself a Get Out Of Being Traded To The Gypsies FREE card today when she offered to swap ice pops with me. Not impressed? She had a BLUE one. The LAST blue one. In a single moment, the past seven years were suddenly all worth it.

August 1, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Baby Boomers, Gen Xers, Generation Y, Sandwich Generation… they all pale in comparison. Today’s youths face issues us old fogies can never comprehend. Namely, they are wusses.

My own children are a crystal-clear demonstration of this new ruling class. They are unimpressed with tales of long hikes in the snow (uphill both ways, barefoot). Tell them that there were no superhero band-aids, though, and they recoil in disbelief.

I fear that in their bid to become poster children for their generation, my kids are going to empty my bank account, kill themselves, and drive me insane. Not necessarily in that order.
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