Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Mir — Wed, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

"We are over-educated useless people!"

Mir — Fri, 14 May 2004 03:34:59 +0000

My friend Marcey came to this startling revelation the other day while we were discussing the fact that although we hold six university degrees between the two of us, neither of us has any practical household skills (plumbing, electrical, etc.). Marcey, however, is gainfully employed... whereas I have fallen into that large crack in the economy reserved for Imperfect Engineers. There are many things that can render an engineer imperfect in today's market; in my case, I stepped off onto the "Mommy Track" and wiping noses and changing diapers full-time for several years has apparently dragged down my IQ by 40 points or more. At least this is what I surmise from my complete and utter failure to solicit any interest in my resume. But hey; I'm flexible. I'm willing to train. I'm open to doing something else. I've applied for a broad range of positions, and the bottom line is always one of two: 1) You've been out of the field too long for us to believe you still know how to be productive in a way that doesn't result in more human beings or 2) You are overqualified for this crappy job and even though you are a single parent with a mortgage payment and would happily give even this job your all, we don't want to talk to you because there are things on your resume that we don't even understand, therefore it would be dangerous to let you work here. I'm sure my parents are very pleased that the thousands of dollars they spent on my education have brought me to this point. I know I am. I've spent a good deal of time over the last year wallowing about my career plight (among other things). But that's over now. (Probably. Maybe. Well, this week, for sure.) I'm working on a whole new strategy to get me in a more forward-thinking place, as I'm often guilty of the woulda-coulda-shouldas. This blog is part of it; perhaps it will give me some accountability I need to keep from slipping back into old (bad) habits. So as regards the career plans: Summer Vacation. School is out in less than a month and the kids and I are taking the Summer off. Why should they be the only ones who get vacation?? I need a break from surfing Monster for hours, and wracking my brain to compose enticing-yet-witty-yet-serious cover letters for jobs I either will never get or don't really want. I need a break from trying to figure out what I want and need out of life aside from being a mom and how I can make that happen while paying a daycare bill that exceeds my mortage payment. And let's face it... the world kinda blew up for me and the kids this last year. I am ashamed to admit that I have sarcastically referred to my ex as "Fun Daddy" so often that my youngest actually calls him that, now. (Oops.) I want a shot at being Fun Mama. I want to build sandcastles and go on nature walks and swing on the swings and not have to race to school in the morning, not be distracted and stressed out and constantly trying to plan for that job that might show up but never does. Sure, I'm going to have to figure it out eventually... but not this Summer. This Summer, I am going to play with my kids. And enjoy it. So there. I'm pretty sure they're just as impressed with my degrees and resume as everyone else. So if you need me in late June, or July, or August, my useless over-educated ass will be at the beach... with no regrets.

Digging in the Dirt

Mir — Fri, 14 May 2004 22:10:51 +0000

Yesterday I mowed the lawn and got my flower beds prepped. Today I got my annuals planted. The frenetic I-must-accomplish-something-tangible drive that I experience these days demands that the outside of the house look good. When I was still married, I didn't care as much. I mean, I cared, but what didn't get done didn't get done. Now I'm paranoid; I'm convinced that if the grass gets too high or my flower beds remain neglected for too long, the entire neighborhood will be gossiping about how I just can't keep it together without a man. How pitiful is that? It's even sillier when you consider that where I live, you're lucky if you know your neighbors' names. Winter lasts... oh... about 8 months of the year, here. So folks aren't out and about all that much except in the summer, and even then a lot of people kind of stay to themselves. Given how few people I actually know in this neighborhood, surmising that my landscaping is even a blip on the radar is probably the height of narcissism. Anyway. Back to my flowers. I planted. I mulched. I watered. I repositioned the resin turtle band figurines which my children picked out last year because all those huge flowers weren't enough decoration, apparently. I got all dirty and sweaty and smelly after a while, which was of course when the oil delivery guy and the cute UPS guy showed up. Oh well. When it was all done I came inside and cleaned up and gave myself a little mental pat on the back for Getting Something Done (the main goal of my life these days). While I was out there working in the dirt, I felt very calm and happy and zen-like. Well, inbetween swatting at bugs, I did. My mind emptied... I thought mostly about the task(s) at hand... the feeling of sinking my hands into the cold soil on such a warm day... wondering what the heck that flowering tree at the front of my lot is that smells so good... methodically picking out rocks for one pile and carefully returning earthworms to the soil in an undisturbed corner.... I wasn't inside for two minutes before I started obsessing over every to-do list and annoying bit of minutiae I need to attend to. I don't get it. What is it about having dirt imbedded under your fingernails and mosquitoes in your hair that makes you more mellow? Do you suppose that if I just stopped showering I could maximize these effects?

"Co-Parenting" Rant

Mir — Sat, 15 May 2004 11:47:19 +0000

If you get divorced in New Hampshire and you have children under the age of 18, you are required by the state to take a seminar in co-parenting before they will sign off on your divorce. This is a fabulous class filled with wise tidbits about why you shouldn't call your ex an asshole in front of your kids, and they show little video snippets of "what not to do" wherein actors guild rejects scream at each other while little Johnny sits on the step and cries. I was awarded primary custody of our two children, and my ex--oops, I mean, my co-parent (positive lingo helps the process, dontchaknow)--has very generous visitation. For any faults he may have, he does love the kids more than life itself, and always wants to maximize his time with them (which is usually a good thing). This weekend the children are at Daddy's, but it just so happens that our church is having a girls' tea this morning. I carefully broached the subject with the ex weeks ago, offering him extra time at another point in exchange for "borrowing" our daughter for a few hours so that we could participate in the tea at church. At 6, this little girl still pretty much lives for any mommy-daughter stuff, and as she's had a very rough time of it with the divorce (6 going on 16, this one) I thought it important that we go. The ex agreed. Well, I'm out at a friend's house last night (I do not socialize on the evenings/weekends when I have the kids unless it's a family thing, so this is a rare treat), having a good time, when my cell phone rings from my ex at nearly 10:00. I answer the phone with great trepidation and ask if one of the children is sick. No, he says, they're not sick. But they won't go to sleep. (Cue overblown "peace-shattering global event" music here.) I bit my tongue, tried not to laugh, and asked him what exactly he wanted me to do about that. "Well," he says, "I just wanted to let you know that I just said if she doesn't go to sleep in the next five minutes, she's not going to be allowed to go to the tea tomorrow." Oh, my. What is wrong with this statement? Let me count the ways:

Our daughter had been threatened with a huge consequence, while our son was "just having trouble settling down."
Our daughter has a slight cold and even the ex admitted that perhaps that was part of the problem.
She is acting up for her father so the punishment is to be less time with her mother.

(I'm not even going to touch the fact that I parent these kids 24/7 without calling him to whine about it, and I certainly wouldn't be calling anyone on their cell phone at 10:00 at night on a rare free evening unless there was blood or fire involved....) So, what did I do? I was calm. I suggested he give her some cold medicine. I asked him to call me in the morning to let me know how it all worked out. This morning I took a deep breath and informed him that he is not to threaten my time with the children in response to misbehavior with him, that he'll need to find another way to deal with it and if I ever did such a thing ("You kids better knock it off or you're not going to Daddy's!") he'd probably haul me back into court, and that I was very disappointed with how he chose to handle this. Like the gentleman he is, he responded with... complete silence. When pressed with "Do you disagree?" he said that no, he didn't. He didn't apologize. (Huge surprise, that.) We're going to the tea, by the way. Okay, I will need to continue dealing with this until the youngest graduates from college... so that's only... 18 more years... ooooohhhhhh yeah... I think I need to go outside and dig in the dirt for a while... maybe bury myself completely....

Sunday evening, already?

Mir — Sun, 16 May 2004 20:24:57 +0000

Ooooooh noooooooo. The kids will be home from Daddy's in about an hour. They will probably be unfed, definitely be wound up, and I haven't gotten enough done in their absence. I have this fantasy, you see, that some weekend they will leave for Daddy's and when they return I will have the house In Order. Don't ask me to define it. I told you it's a fantasy. I can only verbalize parts of it: The refrigerator and pantry would be freshly stocked (I forgot to get to the store this weekend), the house would be clean for a change (I don't think I'm in line for a CFS bust or anything, but it could be cleaner around here), the laundry would be put away (it's still in the basket, albeit clean), and I would have completed all the tasks on my to-do list (ha!). Plus... I would feel refreshed and ready to start the week. I'm beginning to suspect that "refreshed" is an unattainable state for single moms. On the up side: we went to the girls' tea, and my daughter won the hat decorating contest, which put her over the moon. I did get a fair amount of gardening done. And last night I attended an interfaith benefit concert with some friends, plus we had--please allow me a moment of indulgence in a New England expression of reverence--a wicked thunderstorm that lasted several hours. In fact, there was a huge flash and crash and the lights went out while one of the performers was singing "I hear the rolling thunder" in How Great Thou Art. I defy anyone to say God doesn't have a sense of humor. But Sunday nights are hard. Sunday nights--especially the ones where the kids have just come back and I've finally wrestled them into bed--find me fighting those woulda-coulda-shouldas. Sunday nights are lonely. Sunday nights mean it's almost time to get up Monday morning and face another week. Does anyone have easy Sunday nights? It's okay. I'm gonna go finish up a few things and in a little while I'll be listening to one of the many battles of the Chickadee vs. the Monkey while they both talk over the other, trying to tell me all about their weekend. It's way too brief, but the snuggling on Sunday night is the absolute best, bar none. Even though I'm fully aware that our offspring appear adorable to us so that we won't eat them, I fall for it every time. Long live the sticky, giggly kiss!

Small Joys

Mir — Mon, 17 May 2004 14:51:54 +0000

For a Monday morning, today was fabulous. I don't know what I did to deserve it or what horrors lay in wait for later today or tomorrow, but I'll take it. Monday morning is Back To School, and Monday morning is often also Battle of the Cranky Tired Ones. If the Monkey (my 4-year-old son) is overtired, he gets up at the crack of dawn ("crack of darn" as he has aptly named it), comes down to my room, and is as unpleasant as possible until I get out of bed and run away to the relative seclusion of the shower. If the Chickadee (my 6-year-old daughter) is overtired, she just doesn't get up. (I think she's smarter than he is. Don't tell.) At some point I have to drag her skinny butt out of bed to get ready for school, and let's just say she isn't a morning person. Today, well, I think maybe they didn't know it was Monday. The Monkey was kind enough to sleep until 7:00--positively, sinfully late for 'round here--and bounded his way into my bed in rare form. He didn't even smell bad! (Still in nighttime pullups; and yes, I think he'll be headed to college in them.) First we had to play with his stuffed puppies for a while, which I actually don't mind when he's in a good mood. (When he's in a bad mood, I invariably make one of the puppies do or say something unacceptable and then he screams at me.) Then he got all snuggly and cuddly and started talking about his upcoming trip to Grammie's and how much he's going to miss me when he's gone. "You're gonna hafta call me," he informed me, in all seriousness. "I am? What should I call you? Monkeypants? Monkeypants!" Now let me tell you... you may not find me amusing, but in fact, I am just about the most hilarious person on the planet. At least the Monkey believes I am, and I care more about his opinion than yours. This little "misunderstanding" on my part caused him to lose all composure. He laughed so hard I was extremely grateful he was wearing a pull-up. He fell over. He tried to explain to me what he meant, inbetween giggles and gasps. I put on a contemplative expression and nodded at everything he said and responded to every attempt to clarify with, "Okay... MONKEYPANTS!" And I thought I was easily amused. After he stopped falling over so much I of course started just pushing him over at odd intervals for the fun of it. (Point to ponder: I do not allow jumping on the bed, but I am perfectly okay with knocking my children flat to the mattress for my own amusement. Hmmmmm.) After a while we settled down, and who should come bounding along but the Chickadee. She was awake (obviously) and cheery, which was nice even if a little unsettling. The Monkey recounted the hilarity of how silly Mama is that she doesn't know what it means to call someone when they're away, which the Chickadee graciously responded to with giggles and compliments to her brother for trying to set me straight (rather than her new favorite I'm-a-cool-kindergartener-and-you're-a-small-creature little-brother-soul-crushing response of "So what? You're boring"). Then, of course, I had to knock her down on the bed for a while, because otherwise it wouldn't be fair. They dressed. They brushed teeth. I brushed their hair. They ate breakfast. I packed lunches. I announced that anyone who said I was the best Mama in the world would get a rice krispy treat in their lunchbox, and they both did (the Monkey immediately and whole-heartedly, the Chickadee after several other declarations such as "You're the best shower curtain in the world"... I have no idea where she learned to be such a smartass), and they might have meant it. No one cried. There was no bickering. No one spilled their milk. They put their dishes in the sink without me asking. They played together nicely in the car. We arrived at school early. Is it a full moon?

It's like passing a car accident....

Mir — Tue, 18 May 2004 02:38:59 +0000

I have a confession to make. I have been watching The Swan on a regular basis. Smack me. Hard. Please. I watched it tonight. I have no valid excuse, other than that my choices were to sit on my couch and watch that or actually haul my butt upstairs and fold laundry. I'm not out of underwear yet so you can see that this was really no choice at all. (There may have been more choices earlier in the evening, but after the post-bedtime hour of "get back in bed," "if I have to come up there again someone had better be either on fire or bleeding," "could we please have this crisis about your feet in the morning?" my brain had narrowed the field.) (Yes, a foot crisis. Don't ask.) So have you seen this abomination of a program? "Ugly" women are selected for complete, radical makeovers and half of them are then selected to compete in a pageant after their transformations, with one winner ultimately being crowned "The Swan." I think that if there were truth in programming, they'd crown this woman "The Barbie." I think every contestant, after the unveiling, should have to imitate the little segment of Tour Guide Barbie telling everyone good-bye during the credits at the end of Toy Story 2. ("Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, so long, good-bye!") So far, every woman I've seen has received breast implants (except one, who had a reduction down to a D cup), and all have had hair extensions and basically identical Barbie hairstyles at the end. Spooky. Oh, don't worry, enlightened women! This isn't about physical beauty only. No no no. You see, part of the team of Swan miracle workers is a therapist. After your gazillion surgeries, in addition to spending 2 hours a day at the gym with your personal trainer, you get to go to therapy to work out your issues and become beautiful on the inside as well. Hurray! What do you suppose they talk about during therapy? Ugly Duckling: "I've always felt so ugly and like an outsider... I just don't know...." Therapist: "Of course you did, but now get a load of those knockers! Plus they sucked all the fat off your ass and injected it into your lips. Trust me, your troubles are over." Tonight's episode included a contestant who was a mother to three and stick skinny (a major achievement in my book). In addition to a tummy tuck--which I didn't think she needed, being so thin, but okay, there was some preggo-skin there--she was placed on a 1700 calorie/day diet as part of her "rehab." Lemme tell ya, I nearly choked on my ice cream. And we women wonder why we never feel comfortable in our own skins. Every brain cell in my head enters a hypnotic trance when The Swan comes on and then unites with the others, Borg-style, to send a single message: I'm fat. (Let the record show that I'm a size 4. What's wrong with this picture?) One the one hand, I'm horrified, outraged, disgusted. On the other, I'm thinking damn they got all that for free? Bitches. Maybe they'll decide on a mini-version... maybe call it the Chesire Cat pageant, where they only do the dental work... and then I could sign up and get really white teeth (which is about the only procedure I've seen on The Swan which I'd be willing to undergo)? I wish I'd folded the laundry....

My glass is... cloudy

Mir — Tue, 18 May 2004 22:05:31 +0000

Honestly, I'm a glass-is-half-empty kind of person. I don't want to be. I'm trying to change. For me it's something that requires real effort, and of course I suspect that for others it comes easily and that only contributes to my frustration. It's evening, I have plans to help a friend with something tonight after the kids are in bed, and I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. Today I didn't:

pay the bills...
balance my checkbook...
call the lawnmower repair guy...
write the letter I need to write to get my summer camp money refunded...
fold the @&%#! laundry...
receive my child support payment (3 days late, now)...
remember to remind the Ex about the child support payment...
manage to order that fan off of Amazon before it went out of stock...
exercise...
do my reading assignment for my small group study tomorrow...
clean the crap out of the car that I keep meaning to clean.

That's my glass, half-empty. But this is the New Me. No more woulda-coulda-shouldas for this girl, no sirree bob! But ya know, the New Me is in many ways remarkably like the Old Me (who wasn't, in my humble opinion, such a bad sort; just a little more neurotic than necessary). Here's the only way I know to make my glass half-full. Today I didn't:

swear when I took the bills out of the mailbox...
spend any money...
forget to shower...
bite the Ex's head off about the child support...
so much as secretly fantasize about something large and heavy falling on the Ex...
walk into anything...
watch any TV...
run the car into anything...
harm either child, even when said children tracked mud through the house after I'd just asked them to take their shoes off...
harm the child who came over for a playdate and peed all over my freshly cleaned bathroom...
eat anything that was not more or less life-sustaining and appropriately caloric.

This is progress, right?

Where's Waldo?

Mir — Wed, 19 May 2004 11:43:14 +0000

Last night I noted that I needed to help a friend after the kids were in bed. By "help a friend" I of course meant that my friend Eileen is too chicken to color her own hair, and in the logic that only a best friend can have, figured it was somehow safer to come over to my house, ply me with alcohol, and let me do it. I am pleased to report that we did indeed wash that grey right outta her hair and it was a fairly early night. I didn't even dye much of her face. However, lightweight that I am, it seemed somehow wrong to try to sit down and do my reading for my church study group after an evening fraternizing with Mike (purveyor of fine hard lemonades; in this case, cranberry flavor). So, I turned in early and actually set my alarm, something I rarely do as I own two loud, unprogrammable alarm children already. I did it. Got up before the smaller lifeforms, did some reading, hopped in the shower. Enter Waldo. Waldo and I have been facing off for a couple of days, now. I haven't quite worked up the nerve to do something about him, and he hasn't had the decency to disappear. Waldo is a humongous spider. I don't tend to be too squeamish about bugs and other creatures. But I have my limits. Although I firmly believe in leaving spiders be to eat the other, more disgusting insects who have rudely invaded my home, Waldo is too big to be a common house spider. He's too big to ignore. And it appears that he has taken up residence in my bathroom. Upon entering the bathroom Waldo was nowhere to be seen, even when I did an inspection of the shower stall. So I went along my merry way, got the water started, hopped in and started getting my hair wet. Then we came eye-to-uh... hairy belly. (Anyone who thinks the hairy belly is mine needs to leave now.) Waldo had set up shop between my shower curtain and the transparent liner, and I found myself staring at him through the blue-tinted plastic. I think he was laughing at me. A quick mental calculation assured me that there was no way I was going to be otherwise confronted with him or have to touch him or anything, so I went about my business. I washed my hair. I started to shave my legs. I glanced over and Waldo was... gone. Do you have any idea how hard it is to shave your legs, wash, and condition your hair with an industrial sized bottle of Pantene clutched in one hand, ready to strike? He's still MIA. But I have a sneaking suspicion he'll be back. It's the where of it all that's gonna give me nightmares.

But I NEED that!

Mir — Wed, 19 May 2004 18:31:30 +0000

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.

As if I wasn't neurotic enough...

Mir — Thu, 20 May 2004 02:36:03 +0000

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.)

Typical Me

Mir — Thu, 20 May 2004 13:23:35 +0000

Oh.my.God. This is just SO like me...

What is Your Destiny? by Valcion
Name
Color
Birthday
Destiny	Savior of the human race
Date when you fufill your destiny	January 8, 2004

Created with the ORIGINAL MemeGen!

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.

Scissors are Fun

Mir — Thu, 20 May 2004 15:40:22 +0000

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."

Haiku Hijinks

Mir — Fri, 21 May 2004 12:00:40 +0000

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.

Oops

Mir — Fri, 21 May 2004 15:27:10 +0000

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*)

Thank Goodness

Mir — Sat, 22 May 2004 03:12:55 +0000

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.

Even Better!

Mir — Sat, 22 May 2004 13:47:17 +0000

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....)

Caution: Inventions in mirror are dumber than they may appear

Mir — Sat, 22 May 2004 23:38:21 +0000

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. 8) 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.

Simplify Sunday

Mir — Sun, 23 May 2004 20:38:34 +0000

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.

To sleep, perchance to... torment Mama

Mir — Mon, 24 May 2004 03:57:24 +0000

I would like to sit down and calculate how many waking hours I've spent trying to get my children to go to sleep. No, I wouldn't. It would probably make me cry. I accept that this is part of the Mama job description, just as part of being a kid is that you don't go down without a fight, whether you need to cry and whine that you are NOT tired or get out of bed eleventy times or simply work on your headstands in bed and then fall crashing out of the bed with the approximate velocity and force of a herd of thundering wildebeasts and then wonder why the following reception is not more solicitous. I get it. What I don't get is how the very same creature who fought sleep tooth and nail can succumb to it so completely that they will continue to be asleep even once they are technically awake. (No, I didn't typo.) In my world, if you are upright and your eyes are open, that's called being awake, dammit. I came upstairs tonight expecting to spend 60 seconds doing my "rounds" and then come climb into my own bed. Silly me. First I went into the Chickadee's room, turned off her music, and started to switch off her nightlight. She was snoring, so I knew she was asleep. Silly me (again). As my hand neared the nightlight, she started screaming at me. Eyes open, half sitting up, and speaking an ancient tongue with which I'm not familiar. But since her head didn't rotate and the bed stayed on the floor I'm thinking it might be okay. The conversation went kind of like this: Her: VASNEF ERTY BAK FULAR SEN! Me: Shhhh, it's just me, go back to sleep. Her: GERFLU! HASNEK BABA! Me: Honey, shhhhh, it's alright. Sleep, baby. Her: WAAAAAAAAABKET NOOOOOOOOOO!!! Me: Oh for crying out loud... same to you. (I left the room and she stopped.) Next it was on to the Monkey. In the continued yet hopeless campaign to get him nighttime potty trained, I drag his little tushie out of bed every night before I turn in, and take him to the bathroom. Tonight was our usual; I carried him to the bathroom, set him down where he swayed back and forth with one eye open while I pulled down his jammies and pull-up, and sat him on the toilet. Usually he goes right away and we get him put back together and into bed in a jiffy. Sometimes he's too sleepy, and forgets to aim. After several incidents which I will refrain from detailing here, we put an end to vertical urination right quick. All sitting, all the time, buster. But aim is still required because, well, inconveniently enough, the toilet is underneath, not straight out in front. Which brings us to tonight's joy. It went like this: Me: Honey, point down. Him: *snore* Me: HONEY. Point down, please. Him: unngh. Me: HELLOOOOOOOO. Can you hear me? Him: yeah. Me: Good. Please point down, you're going to pee on me. Him: *starts to cry* Me: What's the matter? Why are you crying? Him: *no answer, more snuffling* Me: Why are you crying? Stop it, you're fine. Just point down and peepee please. Him: *starts to list to the left, hands still--maddeningly!--limp at his sides* Me: Do you want to go back to bed? Him: Yes. Bed. Me: Great, just point down and pee and we'll get you right back into bed. Him: *back to crying* I am embarassed to admit... this went on for a good five minutes. I raised my voice... I actually clapped in the child's face (I know, I know, but I was running out of ideas)... and when I was just about ready to forget it and take him back to bed, he peed. All over me. And the floor. And his pajamas. And then he cried. And I didn't kill him. Which I think makes me eligible for sainthood, wouldn't you agree? Only I would like a shower before the ceremony, please.

Gimme my money back (please)

Mir — Mon, 24 May 2004 15:39:04 +0000

To Whom It May Concern: I am writing to you today in reference to the deposits placed with your organization to hold summer camp slots for my children, Chickadee and Monkey IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow. On March 6th, 2004, the children were registered as follows: Chickadee: Weeks 3-6 for Camp By The Lake, and Weeks 7 and 8 at Tap/Ballet Camp Which Isn't Nearly Expensive Enough Already So You Will Require Me To Purchase a $75 Recital Outfit. Pre- and post-care for all weeks. Monkey: Weeks 7 and 8 for Camp For Kids Not Actually Old Enough For Camp But Conveniently Located Down The Hall From Tap/Ballet. Pre- and post-care for both weeks. Total deposits placed with you for these registrations total $360 ($270 for Chickadee and $90 for Monkey). At the time of registration, (which is by the way insanely early for most people to actually know what life is going to look like over the summer, but if you don't register then there are no slots left and people laugh at you when you attempt to find a space for your kids later on) I anticipated being employed full-time this summer, hence the need for such extended childcare coverage. Since then I have realized there is no full-time employment which I can easily procure that will offset the cost of two children in full-time care (and don't even get me started on the guilt of having considered this when I long ago committed to being a full- or at least mostly-stay-at-home-mom). I have read your policy on refunds and although the double-speak and fine print did make my head swim just a bit, it does state that deposits can be refunded "at the discretion" of your organization in special circumstances. Barring that, it states that deposit money can be transferred amongst participants. Well here's my special circumstance: I don't have a job, and child support might be just enough to scrape by on with no daycare, and so I have elected to stay home with my children this summer. However, as my ex is the one who placed the deposit money with you (on his credit card, and then was at my door less than an hour later demanding a check, but I couldn't do the registration because that's only for members of your elite organization and when said ex got a "family" membership which he could've easily added me to with no one the wiser and then I would've been able to take the kids swimming, he expressly pointed out that he was divorced from that horrible woman (me) and so no, he did not have a wife to add), I don't even want a refund. Should you refund the money, it will go to the ex's credit card and then I won't see it for eons. Not because the ex would try to keep it for his own (he is anal to a frightening degree about what he perceives as monetary fairness) but because he is so absent-minded I wouldn't be able to recoup it without nagging and arguing and I'm trying really hard not to do that stuff anymore because it's more aggravating than being poor. So, I am perfectly happy to settle this situation with a transfer of funds to my friend Heather, who is in fact gainfully employed and has also registered her kids in your camp program. Right now you have $360 of my money. Please withdraw my children's registration from all programs except the Chickadee's week 7-8 slot at dance camp (I have promised this to her for so long that I cannot take it away now without sealing my status as The Meanest Mama Ever). Please use $200 of my deposit money as the full payment for dance camp. Please transfer the remaining $160 to my friend Heather's account, and I will work it out with her. Failure to comply with my request will result in my going Hulk on you, so please don't jerk me around for what is a tiny amount of money for you but an entire month's groceries for me, mkay? Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter. Sincerely Yours, Miriam IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow

25 things that go bump in the night

Mir — Tue, 25 May 2004 01:09:34 +0000

The title is a misnomer; few, if any, of these things actually go bump in the night. But they all frighten me. 1) The Swan. 2) The fact that I am compelled to watch The Swan. 3) That weird little dancing bald guy in the commercials for Six Flags who shows up in a bus and jitterbugs around until everyone joins him for a romp at the amusement park. 4) Women who think they can't leave the house without make-up on. 5) Men who think women shouldn't leave the house without make-up on. 6) People who take their marriages for granted. 7) People who don't like kids. 8) People who think I must be miserable because I'm divorced. 9) Hail. (This string of thunderstorms we've been having hasn't bothered me in the slightest; now they're running "hail warning" banners across the bottom of the TV screen and I'm freaking.) 10) How easily my children trust. 11) "Gingy" from the Walmart commercials (though he was quite good in Shrek 2, I'll admit). 12) Teenage drivers on cell phones. 13) Seeing babies/children not properly restrained in carseats/seatbelts. 14) The possibility that I may need to stab my son with his Epi-Pen to save his life someday. 15) The possibility that I may do that and he'll die anyway. 16) Heights. 17) Wasps. 18) Small spaces. 19) Failure. 20) Thongs. (Not the footwear....) 21) The Junior Women's League. 22) The guy at the diner around the corner who fawns all over my daughter and tells me how beautiful she is when we eat there. (We don't go there anymore.) 23) Anyone wearing spandex who is not on a bicycle or in the gym. 24) Minutes 30 to 44 when I'm doing 45 minutes on my elliptical trainer. 25) Life without carbs.

It has come to my attention...

Mir — Tue, 25 May 2004 04:08:03 +0000

... that not everyone was ~~charmed~~ ~~impressed~~ amused that I had my kindergarten school portrait in my profile. After sorting through approximately 6,591 family photos, I cut out this one that I didn't completely hate. (There was another one that was pretty good, an almost artsy kinda profile shot from a birthday party, where my hair looked fabulous and I was about to help blow out the candles... and Julia said it looked like I was getting ready to snort some coke. Alrighty then.) So there I am. This is a move of The New Fearless Me, putting my face out there for anyone and everyone. It makes me very uncomfortable. But I'm told it won't kill me. We'll see.

Tuesday is Chooseday!

Mir — Tue, 25 May 2004 16:53:37 +0000

(And also, I am a follower... wow I almost ~~said~~ typed that with a straight face... and nothing interesting has happened yet today 'round here cept for a game of Go Fish involving a stuffed puppy who regularly drew multiple cards, dirty cheater.) Would you rather:

your best friend overhear you telling somebody else a deep secret about them OR your child overhear you venting your frustrations about your significant other?

have

learn an obscure language only spoken by 15 other people on the planet OR be able to guess somebody's exact birthdate, just by looking at them?

have eyebrows that grow in VERY bushy, daily, no matter how you try to prune them OR make a sound like a tuba whenever you blow your nose?

I knew posting that picture was a bad idea; that was really low writing about my eyebrows!!!

have a job that makes $200,000 a year, but you only get to see your family once a week for 3 hours OR make just enough to survive from check-to-check, but be able to see your family whenever you want?

Carnal Pleasures

Mir — Tue, 25 May 2004 21:43:03 +0000

No, not the first definition. The second one: "relating to the world; earthly." When you're living a no-first-definition-fulfillment kind of life, you learn to maximize the things that do make you tingle. I have two loves in my life that border on addiction: shopping and food. (Yeah, I am aware that I am the only woman in the history of humankind like this. This is my blog. MY BLOG. And I feel like writing about this today. Stop snickering and keep reading, or go away.) For the first, only bargains will do. I'm frugal-minded and--oh yeah, these days--broke, so it's not like I'm one of those crazed Imeldas spending $4,000/pair on shoes every weekend. I like the thrill of the hunt, and knowing that other women would really want to hurt me if only they knew what I'd paid for that. And sometimes, I can't contain myself, and I tell them. I don't mean to... it's just that sometimes it kind of bubbles over. It's part of the high. Other Woman: Wow, I love those shoes! Me: Really? Thanks. Other Woman: Yeah, they're adorable. Me: They're Jones New York. Other Woman *with an appreciative nod*: Oh well that explains it, then. Very nice. Me: I GOT THEM AT GOODWILL FOR FOUR DOLLARS!!!!! Brand new! Tags on! FOUR DOLLARS, I tell you! Other Woman *jolted by my screaming, and perhaps frightened by my little victory dance*: You're joking, right? Me: No!! (And then I run away, cackling, before she slaps me.) For my other obsession, there are a variety of ways to proceed. Chocolate comes first, naturally. But then there's PMS-time (salty foods) and someone-else-cooked-time (nearly anything will do, here, infrequent pleasure that it is) and damn-all-you-with-unadventurous-palates-time (sushi) and someone-else-is-paying-for-a-meal-at-a-restaurant-without-a-play-structure-time (thanks, Dad). Okay, I pretty much just like to eat. Today, I descended into the depths of compound carnal sinning, and I did it with my kids in tow. Corrupt 'em young, that's my motto. Often on Tuesdays we have a doctor's appointment or two in the afternoon, and then some time to kill before I drop the kids with the ex for their dinner night. Today our appointment was early, leaving us a lot more time that usual. I considered heading home. The doctor's office is about halfway to the ex's house, and as I'd just paid $12.79/gallon to fill my car with gas, I decided we were staying out. First stop: Priceless Kids. Let the record show that I do my most giddy bargain shopping for the children. While I'm thrilled to find stuff for myself, part of the maternal instinct is this urge to make sure your offspring have more clothes at any given time than you have ever owned in your entire life. That way, you can lie to yourself that you won't have to do laundry as often. And when they have a growth spurt, you can... start all over again. Yeah. Anyway, I'd gotten a tip at a fabulous bargain site I visit that there were Lands' End nightgowns at Priceless Kids. At 3 for $10. (My pulse quickens just typing it.) Priceless Kids is kind enough to have a little "movie area" at the rear (bonus!) where the kids can hang out and watch Aladdin while I paw through the racks, searching for my prey. I found the nightshirts in question... all nice hefty cotton knit (did I mention that for the ultimate bargain high, it has to be something of really nice quality?)... and was in heaven. I made my selections and scoped out the rest of the store. I just love that stores like Priceless Kids remove brand tags from things that any red-blooded American mother can identify at ten paces. Totally cracks me up. I mean... if you were not the clothing whore that I am, I suppose maybe you wouldn't recognize the font they use on the Lands' End tags. (*cough*amateurs*cough*) But--I swear I am not making this up!--there was an entire rack of girls' shirts sporting various gigantic, shiny "Limited Too" logos on them... with.the.tags.cut.off. Oooooh, sneaky! After a while, I paid for my purchases and peeled the kids away from the movie, and we headed on to stop two: Trader Joe's. I was already light-headed from the first store. But I wanted more! Trader Joe's rocks on several levels. First off, when I shop there (not very often, because they're not too close by) I can pretend that I still live in California. Between the organic/novel/weird goods they deal and all the hippies who either work or shop there, it's a great illusion to enjoy for an hour or so. Next, they have committed themselves to clear and concise labelling for the seven major food allergens, which means I can buy food for my son there without having to worry that maybe they forgot to mention something that might, you know, kill him. And to top all of this off, they carry delicious, fresh, unusual (well, for around here) foods at fabulous prices. I can't say enough about them. In fact now I'm wondering why the hell I don't get my lazy butt down to that store more often. At first, the kids queried every item I put in the cart. "Why are you buying green mayonnaise?" "Ewwwww, mushrooms. Are they like maybe radioactive? Cuz I don't think it's normal for them to be that big." "That stuff looks like grass. Do people eat grass?" "That came from a real live fish? I'm not eating that!" (etc.) After a while, I'd fallen into a deep and blissful trance... it's possible they stopped quizzing me. It's equally possible that they continued and I tuned them out. I do vaguely remember some excitement when they saw the purple potato chips. For the most part I was off in another place, where everything is so yummy you could just cry from the happiness of it all. (As one friend put it: I'm in touch with my inner trough.) And the cherry on top? Balloons at the check-out. The kids want to go back again. Tomorrow. Pleasepleaseplease Mama. My tranquil state lasted for approximately two minutes after leaving the store. My cell phone rang; "traffic is terrible, I'm stuck on the highway, I don't know what time I can be there" (there may have been more, but it's hard to process when you're both driving and counting to ten). Let's just say the rest of the day was not without its hiccups. But now... now, all is right with the world. The kids are in bed. I have a bowl of "Avocado's Number" guacamole (suitable for avocado-loving geeks who think the spoof of Avagadro is giggle-worthy) and a bag of chips. I would happily exchange the bag of chips for a big spoon, but I'm trying to exercise some restraint. Or maybe I'm gonna go grab the spoon as soon as I finish writing this. Some things are private, ya perv.

Ack

Mir — Wed, 26 May 2004 13:27:56 +0000

I feel I must warn: Lee's pad is germy. Alas, he gave me his cold. Okay, maybe I spent too much time there Monday. Learned my sad lesson.... *insert tuba-sounding noseblow here*

This is Mir. This is Mir on speed. Any questions?

Mir — Wed, 26 May 2004 20:46:07 +0000

This cold is kicking my butt. And being the deep, introspective, philosophical being that I am, my deepest musing at this point is... "Will I be well enough to mow the lawn tomorrow, as it is forecast to be the first of 40 days in a row without rain, and if not, exactly how long does the grass have to be before it is considered child abuse to allow my children to play outside?" I am a reluctant asthmatic, and by this I mean that I am one of those folks who mostly outgrew childhood asthma, and whatever remains I largely ignore through denial. There is no medication for asthma of which I'm aware that doesn't have side effects that are more annoying than a little wheezing. But now I have a cold, and my lungs greeted those invading germs with outstretched arms. "Come on in here, guys, she might not even notice!" So I spent the first half of the day waiting for death to come and take me away, but it didn't happen. (Instead, he made a brief appearance to tell me to get my hypochondriac pansy ass out of my pajamas, laughed in my face, and took off.) By the time afternoon rolled around, I had to admit that my biggest problem was difficulty breathing. I'm rather fond of breathing--I do it all the time--so this was a problem, indeed. I realized that if I hoped to get anything at all done today, I would need to get out The Inhaler. A little digging in my purse unearthed my trusty Albuterol inhaler. Albuterol comes from the Greek for "makes your heart race, causes jitters, and imbues an inexplicable feeling of impending doom that is alleviated only with constant motion." Good stuff. It does open the lungs up, which is very handy. Anyway, the rest of the afternoon went pretty well. I put away all of the laundry that's been sitting around in baskets upstairs... and I did four more loads of laundry... put all of those away... cleaned the kids' rooms... took out the trash... cleaned out my car... organized my medicine cabinet... called a couple of friends... alphabetized my sock drawer... counted how many grey hairs I have (don't ask)... and painted the entire house. (Okay, I didn't really do that last one, but only because I don't have any paint.) AndI'mfeelingjustfinenowthanks.

Zoot made me do it!

Mir — Thu, 27 May 2004 01:47:51 +0000

I do whatever Zoot says. Sometimes. Well, tonight, anyway. She made herself a super-cute avatar with a link to the place to make your own. So I spent mere seconds cursing that she hadn't come up with this before talking myself into posting a real picture, and went right on over. Here I am: Now, look at the avatar, and then at the picture to the right. Isn't it eerie how close they are??? Yeah, I know... time for bed.

Facing the Big H

Mir — Thu, 27 May 2004 14:35:45 +0000

Fair warning: gentlemen, you may wish to avert your eyes. The backstory: I have a very uncooperative reproductive system. I have suffered from severe endometriosis since my teens. It's a complete pain in the ass, or, to be more specific, it's a complete pain in the lower abdominal area and sometimes the back, much of the time. My uterus was reluctantly coaxed into hosting the Chickadee and the Monkey until their respective baking times had elapsed, but even that was quite the production. And the bleeding... oh the joy, the bleeding! If bleeding were an Olympic sport, I would be a contender. In fact I daresay I would have a good shot at medalling. I have grown used to the finger prick for iron levels being followed by the nurse exclaiming "Oh geez, THAT can't be right... let me do it again." Move over, Yvonne Goolagong. You don't know iron-poor blood 'til you've had chronic endo. It just Isn't Right, my body. The result of this is that I have spent a large amount of time in my adult life in a lot of pain, or really bitchy, or both. I have had three prior surgeries designed to "clean me out" and take care of my "little problem." Well by the third surgery I'd had enough; I said TAKE THAT STUPID THING OUT and my doctor said no, it's not time yet. Let's try one more thing. So I had endometrial ablation instead. If you don't feel like following the link, let me summarize: ladies have this squishy gross bloody lining in their uteruses (uterii??) that sheds once a month, or--if you have endometriosis--constantly, and to ablate that lining means to laser that junk into vapor so that hopefully your uterus will shut the hell up and leave you alone, bleeding-wise. I had the ablation. The bleeding stopped. Hooray! Life was good. The bleeding came back. Cuz, have I maybe mentioned, my body just Isn't Right? Now, I don't quite understand how this works. My lining was obliterated, there should be nothing left to bleed. But I've always been rather gifted. So I did what any responsible person would do; I ignored it for a while and hoped it would go away. It didn't. So I went back to my OB/GYN and she decided we needed to do "more testing." From my experience, "more testing" usually means "come back a couple of times for really unpleasant procedures and then we'll decide to cut you open again." She did not disappoint. I went in this morning for a sonohystogram, which is a lovely procedure wherein--just in case you do not feel demeaned enough by lying spread-eagle on a table with your feet in stirrups while another woman shoves the gigantic sonogram-dildo-doohickey into your nether regions--your womb is injected with saline while they do the sonogram. The idea is that it helps to visualize any weirdness inside the uterus. This is an interesting theory, and probably sound diagnostic practice, for normal people. However, it turns out that after an endometrial ablation you may have some scar tissue, or in fact be totally yucked up in there in strange ways, and the doctor will take that little harmless-looking plastic catheter and jab around until you cry and still be unable to actually fill the organ with water. Who knew? But before that happens, the sonographer does the "baseline" imaging, which involves only the normal amount of humiliation, unless of course you are me, in which case she will announce "Wow your left ovary is all junked up, it's the size of a grapefruit" and you will feel many things, but pretty is not on that list. Anyway, after an endless period of time which I really couldn't determine because I spent so mcuh of it concentrating on not screaming or throwing up, it was over. I was allowed to redress and led down the hall to Talk With The Doctor. And the doctor said lots of things, and she called my left ovary junky again (ya know, I don't feel any real attachment to it, myself, but still, there's no need to be mean), and spoke of some "puzzling weirdness" that is "probably" normal for post-ablation and there were lots of other things that I could clearly hear being within qualifying quotation marks and the bottom line is: It Isn't Right. Oh, and It's Time. So the thing is, I am not a woman with an attachment to my uterus. (I know some women are, and that's great, and I don't mean to insult.) That thing has been screwing with me for as long as I can remember. I already asked for it to be removed before, remember? So sure, take my uterus, please. (ba dum bump) What I was not prepared for, however, was this issue with my left ovary, which, dammit, has always been the good ovary, the obedient ovary! Nice Ovary, I always called it. (What, you don't name your ovaries?) My right ovary has a history of being problematic. Now my left ovary is so screwed up that the doctor who normally schedules surgery out a minimum of three months is wanting to know what's on my schedule in two weeks. And she is saying she thinks it's time to consider taking it all. I was ready to talk hysterectomy. I was not prepared to talk total hysterectomy. I was not ready to talk Hormone Replacement Therapy. And, well crap, as long as I'm being honest, I really wasn't even ready to talk hysterectomy. Single mom, two kids, who just made the decision to have no daycare over the summer, here. How am I supposed to manage major surgery and six weeks of recovery?? So that's where I'm at right now. Someone will call me tomorrow to see if I can in fact be scheduled for the week that my kids will be off visiting the ex-laws, and that leaves me only... oh... five weeks of convalescence I'll need to figure out, if that works. In the meantime, I've already been told to say good-bye to the left ovary. It's "my decision" (there are those quotation marks again, meaning it's sort of my decision, because either way I'm likely to be unhappy and she doesn't want me coming back to bitch at her about it) whether to leave the other ovary or go whole hog and be done with it. Sometimes it totally sucks to be a girl.

Fun Fridays Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 28 May 2004 02:37:12 +0000

In my daughter's kindergarten class, they regularly have Fun Friday. They do something wacky on Friday afternoons whenever feasible, and instead of "quiet time" they watch a movie. The Chickadee thinks this is about the most fantabulous invention since the Freaky Dismembered Barbie Styling Head. Know what? I am in desperate need of a Fun Friday ritual. As my resources, budget, and attention span are limited, I've decided to turn to all of you, my newfound blogging buddies. I want to write tomorrow. For me, that's nearly always fun. But I do not want to have to think much, because if I think I am mostly going to be thinking about The Big Ovary Decision™ and/or my stupid yucky wheezy cold and/or the fact that Mr. I Will Simply Die Without My Children Because They Mean So Much To Me flat out refused to even attempt to figure out how he could help me manage childcare coverage after I have major surgery because, oh yeah, he'll be out of vacation days, so oh well. Maybe I'll luck out and they'll find some cancer in there and I'll be able to change his mind. Yeah. Anyhoo, you can see where my mind has been today and will likely continue tomorrow... without your help. So here's your challenge, dear readers (that would be... um... my dad... and Kym and anyone else I can slip a coupla bucks to in the next 12 hours): I would like to start a continuing segment for Fridays where I respond to questions left by YOU. Ask me anything about me; consider it a little accelerated get-to-know-me gig. You may specify whether you would like the factual answer or the fictitious answer, or if you don't specify it will be up to me. Or maybe I'll just completely lie regardless of what you ask. It depends. I do that sometimes. That's part of the fun. Leave your queries in the comments on this post, and I'll address them all sometime tomorrow afternoon. If no one responds I will pout. (It's not pretty, trust me.) So come on in and lemme have it, and let's see if this would make a good weekly feature or if I really just need to start going to bed earlier.

File Under: I can't believe I just said that

Mir — Fri, 28 May 2004 12:33:47 +0000

"EXCUSE ME, do I really have to tell you that there is no naked wrestling allowed in this house???"

First Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 28 May 2004 13:10:53 +0000

Awesome; you're game for this! Let's see if it's any fun. Julia asks: What's my ideal job? Where would it be and what would I be doing? I've always wanted to be a taxidermist. In Alaska. Something about all that time with dead animals in a place where this isn't any sunshine for half the year.... (Fiction!) I'm not sure I know what my "ideal" is, otherwise I might actually be working now (and working towards something). If I get to assume in my fantasy that I no longer have a short attention span, then by all means I'll take being a Famous Novelist for Gobs O' Cash please, Alex. I also think I might enjoy being a Personal Shopper, but I suspect that after a while I'd want to kill all the people I'd have to work for. As for the where... I love the heat, hate the snow, hate humidity. If money and friends/family were no object, I'd be in Arizona or New Mexico in a heartbeat. (Fact.) Michele asks: Okay Mir, will you give us the dirt on your divorce?? The story is short and simple: He decided to become a she, she now leads a life of intrigue as a pole dancer at an elite Boston transgender bar, and we are still good friends and she sometimes helps me with my hair. (FICTION!!) The story is long and complicated, and any holding back has less to do with my not wanting to share than with it just being, well, very long. Here's the shortest version I can manage: I was looking for "mate" material (as many of my previous paramours were not) and kind of talked myself into this nice, stable, responsible guy who in many ways was really not my type. He was painfully shy, had never dated (when we met he was 25), and was looking for anyone, I think. We both wanted kids; lots of kids. We married (too soon and too young), we went through infertility, miscarriage, and eventually, arrived at parenthood. At which point, whatever little spousal relationship we'd built up was completely thrown over in favor of Being Parents To The Almighty Children. The ex became involved in a start-up company and his life reduced to work, the kids, and his family. Oh, did you think his family was me and the kids?? Silly! His family is his parents and siblings. I never made it past second-class citizenship, I'm afraid. Anyway, his dad was dying of skin cancer, and we spent every "vacation" with his family our entire marriage (nearly 10 years); before his dad fell ill, during, and after. Two years before we split, his dad died. According to the ex, this was "the first bad thing" that had ever happened to him. (Apparently having our dead offspring scraped out of me was no big deal.) Ex fell into a deep depression from which he made little effort to emerge. It wasn't long before he had some very scary, chronic health issues... all of which turned out to be psychosomatic illness from the depression. The final straw was when he lost his job and completely lost it. He wasn't diagnosed and treated until he'd been in the hospital for his "mystery illness" several times and then confessed to a nurse that he was trying to think how he could kill himself and make it look like an accident so that the kids and I could have the insurance money. I basically had to take him to our local hospital's psych ward and have him committed, during which time I found out that he had punched our then two-year-old in a fit of rage, then lied to me about it. Every fiber of my being wanted it to be over right then. I was All Done. But I stayed, for almost another year. He went to counselling. I went to counselling. We went to counselling. Our couples therapist was a raving lunatic who "sensed the delicate frame of mind" the ex was in and delighted in telling me I was too uptight about everything to make the ex feel like she was on his side. Her solution for everything was "You two just need to go out on a date and have some fun!" (Example of her brilliance: It was a recurring theme that the ex was cultivating a bizarre and sick co-dependence between himself and our daughter, and she had all but stopped eating unless allowed to sit on his lap and be hand-fed by him. I wanted this to stop. She told me I was too controlling. It took our daughter's therapist phoning this lunatic to tell her, Yes, this NEEDS TO STOP RIGHT NOW for her to concede that perhaps he shouldn't do it anymore.) We ditched the couples therapist. We did some counselling with our pastor. Only, I am good friends with the pastor's wife, and so I underhandedly swayed him my way, dontchaknow. He never told me I "wasn't allowed" to get divorced, which was his responsibility, being a man of God and all! Are you getting the picture, yet? As soon as he got a new job, I told him I wanted a trial separation. He kept saying "you don't want a separation, you want a divorce, just say it!" No, I said, I needed some time apart if there was to be any hope of salvaging anything. He fought, he bullied, he spoke of how he'd been a model husband and I was just planning to rip his children away from him. Oooookay. We separated, the bullying got worse; I filed for divorce. The divorce was long and ugly, with the only saving grace being that--although he made a lot of noise about it--he never fought me for custody because that whole nervous breakdown and subsequent lockdown in the psych ward thing meant he would never win, and even he had to see that. Ya know, I could've skipped all the previous and summed it up in one sentence: At the tender age of 33, my ex suddenly discovered that life's not fair and he's never really recovered. (Truth, sadly.) Snowball asks: What (besides my kids) gives my life the most meaning? I have a small pet rock named Gunther who tells me what to do and say, and we will always be together! (Fiction.) This may surprise, it may revolt, it may sound trite... but my faith journey is the most meaningful segment of my life aside from my children. I was raised a mostly-non-practicing Jew, joined a very extreme Christian sect in college, and after a while settled in as a Methodist. (Hint: should you wish to switch religions and still have your parents' acceptance, try switching first to some bizarre and scary faction, so that when you turn to a more socially acceptable alternative your folks think that it's really not so bad.) I have travelled from an angry, "why me?"ish young person to the woman of faith that I am today, secure in knowing that I can handle whatever comes my way, and feeling--for the most part--very blessed. The particular church I'm with right now (I have moved around a lot, so this is the longest I've been in one place for a while) has been a church home for me like no other. I sing in the choir (and I had forgotten how I love to sing!), I'm a commissioned Stephen Minister, and I think I'm here for a reason. Despite my potty-mouth and overall obnoxious tendencies, I do love calling the Christian Community my home. Plus, many of the blue-haired old ladies get a kick out of me. It's a win-win thing. (Fact.) Zoot asks: If you could only eat ONE food for the rest of your life, regardless of nutrition, what would it be? Pigs feet. (Fiction!! *gag*) Just one??? I want to pick chocolate, but too much sugar makes me wacky (yes, wackier than usual... shut UP). I think avocados. You know what a guacamole whore I am. Yummy. (Fact.) Zuska (hi Zus!! *waving*) asks: What toenail color is suitable for sassy Summer wear for both mother and daughter this season? Black. (Fiction, fiction... don't hit me.) Well ya know, Those People (I don't know who they are, exactly, but they seem to wield quite a bit of power) say that pale pink is this season's new black. Oooooooookay. Ignoring the obvious--which is that pale pink ain't gonna be black no matter how far you put your nose in the air, honey--this is a good solution if you happen to like pale pink, but not so much if you, you know, don't. I suggest a trip to your local Gap store, as all of my toenail polishes came from the Gap outlet last season. My Chickadee and I both favor "chrome blue" right now, which is a wild and funky and fun silvery blue (for the toes; on fingers it would just be scary, I think) and matches nearly everything. Plus it is Not Pink, which is handy when the resident Monkey asks to have his toes done as well. (Fact.) Jennifer asks: Favorite book? "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving. Best childhood memory? When I was 8 we headed to Florida for our yearly jaunt to the grandparents, and my parents surprised me and my brother with a detour to Disneyworld for several days. Our family tended to put the DYS in dysfunctional but I remember that trip as being non-stop fun. Favorite smell? Outdoors, right after it rains, mmmmmmm. Secret crush? I don't think I have one. I'm not quite through the whole men-are-useless thing, yet. (Okay, those are all facts 'cept one. But I'm not telling which one.) Debby asks: If I could be any movie star, who would I be? Elmo. (Fiction, mostly... he seems to lead a pretty good life, though.) Glenn Close. She's an amazing actress who has succeeded in spite of being fairly normal-looking and not a Barbie doll clone. And although she's enjoyed critical acclaim, she stays out of the limelight and appears to lead a fairly normal life. (Fact.) Also from Debby: What's my dream vacation? Is it ice hiking or snorkelling somewhere tropical? If you don't know the answer, you haven't been reading very carefully. Hula Dula has wayyyyyy too many questions, yo. But I'll try. Naked wrestling really isn't allowed? Well naturally I discourage it. If I don't get to, why should they?? Was I already working or did I go back to work because of the divorce? I "retired" from software engineering when we made our last move and the ex was busy co-founding a new company. I'd worked full-time before the kids came and part-time from the Chickadee's birth. Then we came here, the kids went to preschool and I worked on some freelance writing. I had some success, but the whole husband-mysteriously-ill-and-also-by-the-way-insane thing cropped up pretty quickly, and I quit writing. When it became clear that we were headed towards divorce, I took an extremely sucky job with a local mortgage brokering company which--to its credit--allowed me very flexible hours so that I didn't have to change the kids' schedules around. I was laid off at the end of last year (seemed tragic at the time; was really a blessing in disguise because that place was chewing up my soul). Ever streaked in public? Yes. Most embarrassing moment? I know a couple at church who used to be in the choir. There are a few of us in the choir who are real wiseasses, and this couple could cut up with the best of them. It was a running joke with the husband that upon arrival for rehearsal, it was time to set cell phones to "pleasure" mode so as not to be disruptive. (Was it less disruptive when his phone rang and we all shrieked "He's VIBRATING!"? I think not.) I think we sustained this joke partially because of how horrified many of the more senior choir members were about it. Anyway, they left the choir (but not the church) and started attending a different service than the one I go to, so I didn't run into them for a long time. Came face-to-face with the husband one day, and this pops out of my mouth: "Gosh I miss seeing you at choir! I think of you every time I set my phone to pleasure mode!" OH. MY. GOD. (Next sentence out of my mouth: "Could we please pretend I didn't just say that?") (I offer you the same deal as Jennifer: Those are all facts 'cept one. But I'm not telling which one.) I know I said I'd answer anything, and do it this afternoon. But I started on this in the morning because this cold is still trying to kill me. Jilbur, I love your idea. I'm going to go take a lot of cold medicine and go back to bed, and will try to come up with something brilliant for you later today.

I bet his parents are so proud....

Mir — Sat, 29 May 2004 01:55:52 +0000

(I actually tucked this away before checking out Amalah's site this afternoon, where she is quite taken with a piece of spam she received. First I thought I'd write about it another time, considering... but now I think maybe it's just a particularly spammy day and I should continue the love.) My ISP has a spam filter. Whether or not it actually catches any spam before delivering to my inbox, I'm not sure. The things that get through still seem typically spam-like to me, but what do I know. I'm just the loser paying these people approximately $729/month for the extreme privilege of receiving this spam faster than ever before... on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full and my broadband connection is actually working. Anyway. A couple of days ago I received a piece of mail from Chester Lockwood. Naturally, I was startled to see the email heading: this has worked for me hardboiled throaty Now, I don't know Chester, but no one has called me that in years, I tell you. So it was a bit jarring. Thinking I could throw that interesting subject line into my blog at some point, I elected to save this piece of mail rather than deleting it. But I didn't look at the body of the message. Tonight rolls around... I am coughing, I feel yucky, I have promised jilbur a story of my great fictitious romances and I just don't feel up to it (I will do it, but not today). Now, I figure, would be a good time to to feature Chester in all his one-lined zinging glory. So I went ahead and clicked on the email, only to discover that Chester is no lucky one-hit savant. Oh no. Chester is a poet! I was expecting a treatise on penis enlargement. I get a lot of those; I'm sure you do, too. Forwarding them to my ex was fun for a while but everyone has to grow up sometime. Anyway, this little ditty from Chester was not about enlarging my penis, but declared that "local babes want a bone." (So do I, Chester. Tell them to walk slowly around the supermarket searching for ringless left hands pushing carts holding something other than beer and ringdings, just like the rest of us.) This was followed by a website address, and then this piece of mastery: A given white glove is thinking. Her daughters hairy mp3 player stares. Any white caw stinks. Her daughters purple computer calculates. Whose well-crafted paper lies or maybe a hairy mouse looks around. A odd shaped fancy golden small white underwares run. His brothers silver spoon got an idea. The well-crafted printer got an idea. Her soft caw is angry. Whose purple odd shaped house smiles. Our slopy printer calms-down however, the fancy hairy laptop arrives and perhaps any little book lies. Our children green tv arrives or maybe their golden silver slopy laptop adheres or a beautiful ram stinks. The green sport shoes smiles. The purple green paper makes sound. Our slopy sport shoes stares. Her well-crafted soft small green tv stares. Whose stupid small white printer sleeps however, a given round-shaped gun calms-down as soon as whose tall fancy glove adheres. His brothers green underwares got an idea. Her daughters bluish bottle stares. Any given soft omprella show its value and still our children smart mobile phone snores. Their tall purple little bottle adheres or maybe his brothers shining white green green recycle bin stares as soon as whose round-shaped small printer stares and still any given round-shaped book fidgeting. The beautiful laptop stinks or maybe her daughters noisy red t-shirt calms-down. Mine fancy caw lies. Our silver baby walks at the place that their odd shaped mobile phone makes sound. Any round stupid balloon calculates. A silver kitchen is angry. Her noisy soda stands-still. A expensive clock arrives however, a tall well-crafted sofa spit while a stupid bottle fidgeting. A well-crafted tall underwares stinks at the place that a given expensive smart slopy sport shoes arrives. I mean, anything I've ever written just pales in comparison. Thanks a lot, Chester!

I love like need have my house

Mir — Sat, 29 May 2004 16:50:52 +0000

Before I forget, I want to thank everyone who participated in Facts and Fiction Friday. I had a good time, and I hope you did, too. Let's play again next week! (Sometimes, it takes remarkably little to entertain me.) My cold is improving, I think. By improving I mean that once I'd been up an entire hour this morning and didn't feel the need to go back to bed, I decided I was well enough to tackle the lawn. It is beautiful here today, bright and sunny and cool and oh yeah, not raining, which is ~~about damn time~~ unusual. Quick check of my lovely self: I spent all day yesterday in my pajamas, so the thought of going outside without a shower was... uhhhh... frightening. But the thought of showering in preparation for lawnmowing? Preposterous. I threw on some sweats and a little extra deodorant and put my hair in a ponytail and called it good. A couple of Advil Cold and Sinus and two puffs on my trusty inhaler and I was soon allreadytogo. Themowerdidn'twanttostartdammit. Ipulledandpulled. Itstarted! Yay! Thisisn'tsobad, Ifeelprettygoodinfact. Imowedandmowedandmowedand wasdoing prettywell... untilthe Albuterol started wearing... off... and I started... coughing again... but I kept going... and going... and g o i n g.... Lawn. All. Done. Must. Die. Now. Thanks. Seeya. No, no worries, it's all okay. I'm fine. I came inside and lay down on the kitchen floor for a while... nice comfy tile... and then I drank, oh, I dunno... about 64 ounces of water... and then I came in here and sat down, and it looks like I'm gonna live. But as a result of this fun morning I am once again woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing about the Joys Of Owning Your Own Home. My house is something of a conundrum. I have lived here for four years. With the exception of the house I grew up in, this is the longest I have lived in any one place my entire life. This is the only house my children know (Chickadee sometimes speaks of "the red house" but I don't think she remembers it, she just enjoys the stories about it). Being well in-touch with my tolerance for stress and change, I made it clear during the divorce that many things were up for negotiation, but this house was not. This is Our Home (mine and the kids) and we were not moving. Part of my motivation was Keeping Change To A Minimum, both for me and for the kids. The other part of the equation is this bizarre little town we live in, and how real estate works here. Moving out of town was never a question; if we stay in this general area (yes), this is the town with the school system we want. Period. But to relocate within town? Heh. Lemme tell ya about my town. When we bought this house, the sellers were relocating back to the midwest and had just had a deal fall through at the last minute. They wanted OUT and they wanted out FAST. They didn't know that our realtor had shown us this house when it was (unbeknownst to her) under negotiation already, and we'd fallen completely in love with it. We would've happily paid their first asking price, which was on the low side for this area. But after the deal gone bad, they reduced the price. Woohoo! We scored our dream house, at quite a bit under market for this area. Four years have gone by, and I have since learned that I live in the "less fashionable" section of town. Heh. I can live with being less fashionable. Remember when I left the garage door open all night? I wouldn't call this a low-crime area so much as a no-crime-other-than-the-occasional-drunk-teen area. The house has appreciated, both due to time and some work we put into it, and is now worth Quite A Bit Of Money. It's also a good-sized house, suitable for the gaggle of children we'd planned on having, but bordering on too big for just me and two kids. So the logical option: sell this house, buy a smaller one, in this town. Well, thanks for trying to make sense, but no. Not here. Sorry. First of all, there are very few small houses in this town that aren't located two feet off the highway. The ones that aren't located in places that make me picture my children very flat and very dead are new construction, and oh yeah, they cost so much money it makes me want to ask what are these people smoking, and can I please have a toke? They cost more than this house, despite being half the size or smaller. This house is A Very Good House, on an acre of land; but it does not have a new kitchen, or fancy bathrooms, or central air conditioning, or shiny titanium appliances, or a roof shingled with gold bullion. It appears that many new houses in the area have many of these things because People Want Them. It was a matter of great excitement for me when the town announced plans to build an "income-controlled" community of 2- and 3-bedroom houses. I phoned my friend Sue, who is a realtor, to ask about the waiting list. It was full. And had been, actually, since before the announcement. Turns out, it didn't matter, because the 3-bedroom houses? About 5% less, cost-wise, than the value of this house. After brokering fees and moving costs? I'd be in the hole. Scratch that. Looks like I'm staying here. Which means I need to mow the never-ending who-needs-this-much-stupid-grass-anyway lawn, and paint the fence periodically (did that about a month ago and it took an entire day and I got a wicked sunburn... and today I chipped one of the posts with the mower), and have the septic pumped, and do all the other things that one needs to do when one owns a house. And I need to remind myself that these are all Good Things, because I really do love this house. I do. In sickness and in health... oh crap. Turns out I'm more committed to this house than I was to my marriage. Is that bad?

I love like need have my house

Mir — Sat, 29 May 2004 16:50:52 +0000

He's got what?!

Mir — Sun, 30 May 2004 02:03:51 +0000

It turns out that if you are spending a holiday weekend alone (i.e., without children), you will be inundated with invitations from friends who are sure that you may well shrivel up and die from a little peace and quiet. This rates very highly in the warm-n-fuzzy department. I have just returned from dinner with friends. The only caveat on my joining them for the evening was that I please not cough in the salad. (I didn't.) I wasn't sure I felt up to socializing tonight but I'm very glad I went. The food was great, the company even better, and had I stayed home, I would've missed this little proclamation: "Daddy's got peanut butter in his nuts!!" Cue abrupt halt to all conversation. Thank you, friends' five-year-old son. Everyone else (4 adults and a 10-year-old, in all) was trying not to laugh but I couldn't keep my mouth shut (shocking, I know). "That's... really more information than I needed." I guess any semblance of decorum was a lost cause after that. (Although I don't think his mother had to kick me quite so hard as she did, under the table.) He laughed right along with us, not knowing why, which made it even funnier. Turns out he was trying to tell us that his Daddy is the only one in the house who likes crunchy peanut butter (nuts in his peanut butter). It just didn't come out quite right. And now I can never look his father in the eye again.

Mailbox Mania

Mir — Sun, 30 May 2004 18:19:54 +0000

So... uh... I forgot to mention one teeny little pertinent bit of information in the peanut butter nuts story. The gifted gentleman in question? My pastor. Church today? A little weird. (Help me, Oh Lord... disturbing images flit through my brain....) I came home ready to tackle A Project. My kid-free weekends are full of Projects, because anyone who's undertaken A Project with their offspring's "help" knows that while it may build memories that last a lifetime, it also tends to make said project take a lifetime. Today, being a bright, gorgeous day even better (warmer) than yesterday, seemed ideal for undertaking The Mailbox Transplant. The mailbox that came with this house was in sad shape from day 1. I suspect it to be original to the property. It is metal, clearly repainted several times but rusting through anyway, tilting to the left as if caught in a perpetual gust, and falling apart. First the flag fell off; that was repaired with an oversized nut and bolt, which meant the flag remained attached but required Herculean strength to be coaxed to move at all. Next, the handle broke off the door, and despite a couple of attempts to re-rig it, it was never right again. I often find the mailbox wide open, which is maybe annoying in the nice weather, but downright gross during a nor'easter. (One could argue you're not truly a New Englander until you've had a mailbox full of snow... but I'd rather retain my Annoying Outsider Who Still Bitches About The Weather status, thanks.) So I've been meaning to replace that mailbox for ages. Unfortunately, I suffer from a unique learning disability wherein I will periodically go to Home Despot, look at the mailboxes, complain to anyone who will listen that "that's an insane amount of money for a plastic box!", leave in a huff, and manage to forget all of this and do it again a few months later. And again a few months later. And... well, you get the idea. Money's tight. The existing mailbox works... sort of. A couple of weeks ago I happened upon a yard sale in the process of packing up. I hopped out of my car to have a quick look, and lookie here! A brand new mailbox, still sealed in the carton, for $10. The cheapest one I'd ever seen at Home Despot was $35. I popped that puppy in the back of the car, threw it in the garage when I got home, and forgot about it, because it then proceeded to rain for two weeks straight. Today I was ready! Yes sir! First, let's extract the old mailbox. No problem. It was attached to the post with... four rusty nails, two defunct yellow jacket nests, and three strange little egg-sac-looking thingies that I really don't want to think too much about. Ick. But I managed to take off the old box with my trusty hammer, a little elbow grease, and a lot of muttering. Time to unveil the new mailbox. I will grant you this: a more observant person would've thought--upon seeing the mailbox carton--"Wow! That has got to be one big-ass mailbox!" But not me. No, I can be kind of oblivious, sometimes. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I thought the mailbox was packed in protective styrofoam. Maybe I thought my new mailbox came with a bonus pony. Maybe I just never really looked at the damn box. I'm really not sure. Regardless, I was stunned to open the box and find... a mailbox exactly the same size as the box it was packed in (minus a millimeter or so all around, if you want to be picky about it). This was not a mailbox I had purchased. This was a mailbox-shaped shed. I had a fleeting image of myself at the height of exasperation, shouting, "I have HAD IT! No more bickering! YOU--go sit on the stairs! YOU--go sit in the mailbox!" It's Really Really Big. The Hummer of mailboxes, one might say. Surprise gave way to delight (dude, I paid $10 for the $50 model! and entire boxes will fit in here!), which soon gave way to panic (what if it was too big to mount on the support pole?). I dragged it down to the end of the driveway to have a looksie. It could be done... maybe. The crossbar that the previous mailbox had been nailed to was too narrow for this monstrosity; the nailholes in the bottom straddled the bar with several inches to spare on either side. Hmmmm. With a platform mailed to the crossbar, and then the mailbox attached to the platform, this could work. Hopefully the neighbors just won't notice that their mailbox would now be cowering in the shadow of mine. I went back to the garage to scavenge. Of course I didn't have any wood scraps the right size. But I did have some plywood that could be cut to size. And because ~~I'd already taken down and totally dented the other mailbox~~ I am woman, hear me roar, you betcha I grabbed a saw and cut myself the most gorgeous mailbox platform in the history of humankind. It only took me a couple of ~~hours~~ minutes. A few more minutes to find the can of nails, and I was in business. Platform nailed to crossbar? Check. Mailbox positioned on platform? Check. Nails pounded through mailbox into platform piece? Check. Now the moment of truth... grab mailbox... give a good pull... shake it a little... still attached? Check! All that was left was The Ritual Of The Sticky Reflective Letters And Numbers. I put my house number on the front, centered as best I could manage, given that the numbers are about two inches tall and the face of the mailbox is about the size of my car. Then I casually checked out the format of my neighbors' information on the side of their box... first initial, last name, street address. Okay. I can do that, and perhaps with some uniformity as a gesture of goodwill and an attempt to blend in, they won't laugh so much when they see what I've done. First initial... last name... street number again... street name. Done! A quick check of my remaining letters ruled out appending the entire Constitution to the remaining space. I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Not bad. And thank God, there's a family down the road who recently took down their perfectly serviceable mailbox in favor of something that looks like a shellacked cat. It may still be a mailbox of some sort, I'm not sure... but there are in fact dangling paws and a tail and--the crowning touch--a large, leering orange head. I may have to walk down there and thank these folks for saving me from having the most obnoxious mailbox on the street.

Fritters, anyone

Mir — Mon, 31 May 2004 14:04:57 +0000

There are words that so skillfully convey their intention that they just taste right. The perfection of them make me want to weep with joy... unless, of course, I'm dealing with life and not just sitting around savoring words. But I gave myself a few seconds, just now, to roll the world "fritter" around in my mouth and brain before I commence Freaking. Out. Alas, I have frittered away my weekend. In my mind's eye I can actually conjure an image of useful time units fluttering away in the breeze as I toss them from a decorative basket, giggling. It's not just any weekend, either. It's a long weekend and it's nearly my last kid-free weekend pre-surgery ("pre-surgery" translating to "when I can hope to accomplish anything in this life"), and my to-do list is still a mile long. Where has my time gone? Why haven't I completed more projects? How many things can I pack in between now and the children's return in a mere eight hours?? In fairness to myself, I did finish a few things that Needed Doing. The weekend hasn't been a total wash, productivity-wise. Also, I hear that enjoying yourself or even just being a slug once in a while is encouraged--maybe even recommended--for well-adjusted humans. (Having never really made it past partially-adjusted, myself, this is a murky area for me.) And while neither my behind or my to-do list will thank Marcey for stuffing me with Edy's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream last night while we made fun of While You Were Out, my soul thanks her profusely. All that remains to me now is prioritizing the rest of the items on the list and deciding how frenetic I wish the remainder of my day to be. Hmmmm. And I need to do this while fighting against the Homer Simpson portion of my brain which has said naught but "Mmmmmm, fritters!" since I woke up this morning. (There is nothing to eat here, I tell you. Crap. Add "go for groceries" to the list.)

Through a glass, ever-so-slightly less darkly

Mir — Tue, 01 Jun 2004 01:32:22 +0000

My Chickadee sometimes drives me completely insane. You know how chickadees were named for their call? "Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeee!" My daughter's nickname evolved because she, too, twitters constantly and loves the sound of her own name (as in, if there's talking going on, it had better be either by her or about her, or she'll set things straight). If I had a nickel for every time I've said "You know, honey... when you don't have anything to say, it's okay to stop talking," I'd be a wealthy woman. Marcey calls her my "prickly pear." Eileen says she's "complex." Her teachers tell me (with a smile that conveys fondness seasoned with exasperation) that "she's got a mind of her own." I forget who told me she's "an old soul" but I find that one particularly apt. And her therapist loves to remind me that "she's got a lot going on in there." My parents and I, of course, got right to the crux of the matter. She's my Mini-Me. (Lord help us all.) Different, of course, but eerily similar in so many of the ways I'd hoped she wouldn't be. There's nothing quite like seeing both your most vulnerable and most spectacular selves blended and reincarnated in the more compact, extra-melodramatic, yet less cynical model. It's been a long couple of years for our family, and through it all I worried most about her. She seemed to bend under the strain more than was possible for a child of her age. My outgoing, precocious little girl went from acting out (not fun; but understandable, and to be expected) to pulling back into herself until I thought I would drop from the fear and exhaustion of trying to extract her once again. Bit by bit, she came back to us, and it's true: kids are more resilient than you think. She's okay. She still seems to feel things more deeply than some, and holds onto angst a little longer, but she's learning how to cope and feel okay (aren't we all?). And she's now a "normal" 6-year-old: obsessed with the tooth fairy, alternately protective and tormenting of her little brother, mouthy as all get-out, loving being able to read, adoring her little friends, and quite secure in the knowledge that I am becoming dumber and more unreasonable with each passing moment. It's a beautiful thing. Ever since the Chickadee could talk, bedtime has been an introspective time for her. The day is done, I'm half-asleep myself, and hoping she'll skip off to dreamland the second I kiss her goodnight... but no. When she was younger, bedtime was when she would Why? Why? Why? about all manner of minutiae. When she was falling apart from the stress of being so angry and not knowing how to express it, bedtime triggered hysterical crying about every wrong--real or feared--ever visited upon the world. I came to dread bedtime. I would talk her down as best I could, and then--more often than not--once I got her settled, go downstairs and have a good sob, myself. I know this weird bedtime affliction. I have it, too. You want to rest and drift away, and your mind wants to first resolve the unresolvable, find evidence that Things Are Right. I don't relish this particular feature of mine and I doubt my daughter does, either. But bedtime is becoming a better time for both of us. As I lay down with her tonight and she filled me in on the last few days' adventures that I'd missed, I stroked her forehead and felt her relax under my touch just briefly. Her tale of the zoo complete, she turned to me and flung her arms around my neck. "Mama, I don't want the doctor to give your tummy a boo-boo! I'm feeling scared about that!" Tears came to my eyes. I'm feeling scared about that, too... but I was also so proud, and grateful, that this little one who once folded in on herself and hid can now recognize and vocalize her fear... and she lets me in to help make her feel better. I know grown-ups who have yet to make it that far. So we talked about it, some, and I offered reassurances and reminded her of the last time I had surgery and how that worked out okay, etc. Bringing up the last surgery caused her to switch gears; she went to a different school, then, and she started remembering friends she hadn't seen in a while, and asking why she'd changed schools, and would she ever see them again, and what about next year, and her friends now? This is how I found myself, this evening, having a heart-to-heart with my firstborn about the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas. We're always choosing our path, and we can always look back and wonder what might have been different, but how does that make you feel? "Kind of yucky," she confessed. (Me, too.) We talked about all the great things the school change had brought... and how next year, when she changes schools yet again, more good things will happen, and maybe a few not-so-good things, too, but it's our choice what we dwell on. I wanted to tell her that I'm no better at it than she is; that if I thought I could get away with it, I'd stamp my feet and demand to know what would've happened if... and but why..., too. But I played with her hair, instead, and talked of all the things that don't change, that anchor us amidst all the stuff that does. After a while she was ready to rest, and I promised we can talk more about this tomorrow. Only I know, from experience, that tomorrow she will content herself with which pretties need to go in her hair and whether the chicks at school have hatched yet and how many things will the Monkey really do at her command before I break up her benevolent dictatorship? She bounces back (until bedtime, anyway). I'm trying to learn from her example, even as I hope to teach her from mine. I'm pretty sure I'm getting the better end of the deal. (Please remind me of this tomorrow when we're late for school and she spills her milk everywhere....)

Ode to Gadgets

Mir — Tue, 01 Jun 2004 18:19:08 +0000

This afternoon we went to the store and bought a watermelon roughly the size of my new mailbox. It is in this watermelon's honor that I offer you... the Top 5 Gadgets I Love Most. 1) The Melon Baller: What a tremendous invention. I mean, it's so simple, yet so brilliant. Here I am with my watermelon, and the Chickadee wanting some right now pleasepleaseplease oh puhleeeeeeeezeMama, and no hip waders in sight. No worries. I have a melon baller! No longer do I have to grab a knife suitable for filleting an entire steer and hack this thing to bits while withstanding the tidal wave of sticky watermelon juice. I can grab said knife simply for sawing that bad boy in half, and then go to work with the melon baller. All the extra juice stays neatly contained in the rind, I have two gigantic rinds rather than an endless pile of rind-bones, and let's face it--shaped food is more fun to eat, particularly when you're a little kid. Everybody wins! And by the way? My melon baller isn't even the thousand-dollar Pampered Chef version. I think I got it at the Dollar Store. Works just fine. 2) The Can Crusher: Every woman, and I mean every single woman should own a can crusher. Heck, even if you don't drink Diet Coke with Lime, in which case I wonder what kind of freakish life you lead without this nectar of the Gods, but okay, you still need a crusher! GO GET ONE RIGHT NOW! I leave my cans in a designated area until I feel like killing someone. It usually only takes a day or two. And then I head on out to the garage and start crushing cans. Can I tell you? It's soooooo gratifying. The cans make a very rewarding THWCH-EEEEEK sound as they crumple into hockey pucks. Plus it saves room in the recycling bin, and the children think you're some sort of savior environmentalist when really you're just replaying every idiot encounter word for word except it ends with said idiot's head going THWCH-EEEEEK. 3) The Wireless Card: Requires no explanation, really. I remember when I thought surfing the 'net in my pajamas was the height of sloth; I was aiming low. Now my laptop lives under my bed, and when I really want to be a lazy American I just pull it out and surf without even pulling back the covers. Yeah, baby. 4) The Weemote: Oh, your kids don't watch TV? Mine don't either. When they're at school. Or asleep. Anyway, when they do, I don't have to change the channel for them anymore. Nor do I have to fly into action as a one-woman censor because they're crossing inappropriate channels. This was well worth the $10 or so I spent on it. 5) The Digital Camera: Hi, I'm Mir... and I am... the world's worst photographer. Also, I am lucky to remember to clean myself and keep track of both children every day. I have no interest in remembering to drop off and pick up film--particularly because it involves large sums of money, which I tend not to have--for pictures which, on the whole, will suck. In fact, I am such a terrible photographer, I take pictures that are capable of both sucking and blowing, simultaneously. (One could argue that that makes me a gifted photographer, but one would have to have quite a lot to drink before feeling the need to make that assertion.) Thanks to going digital, I am still a lousy photographer, but I am improving (because I take a lot more pictures than I used to) and I'm not losing any money. Sweet. Yes, I really did just put the advent of affordable digital photography into the same category as scooping melon flesh. It's part of my charm.

Cramps. Make. Me. Cranky.

Mir — Wed, 02 Jun 2004 03:04:44 +0000

So... uh... Nerds On Site? Some news flashes for you: 1) The word "tomorrow" refers to the day following this current one. It's not complicated. Saying that the user counter feature will be back online "tomorrow" for three days straight is not only incorrect usage, and false advertising, but it's not a good way to make a loyal user out of a client with PMS. 2) The date "May 31st"--although perhaps a seemingly safer substitute for the word "tomorrow"--was yesterday. That's the day before this current one. Do not promise a fix by a certain date, after days of lying about tomorrow, and then fail to deliver, unless you wish to be ridiculed. (Maybe they like that sort of thing...?) 3) Your little scripty thingie has the annoying habit of bringing the page load to a screeching halt when it can't figure out what to do. This slows things down and often makes the following apps just whimper and fail to execute. When my blogroll doesn't load, I get annoyed. 4) Fast Online Users is my bitch, now. But thanks for the laughs. (Just imagine if they had touched my chocolate....)

The Purpose-Driven Snacker

Mir — Wed, 02 Jun 2004 17:18:41 +0000

As of today I have completed a small group course of study based on Rick Warren's The Purpose-Driven Life. I am still finishing up the book, and I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to feel completely inadequate. Ha! No! Just kidding. I recommend it to anyone who feels their life must surely be part of a "bigger picture" and wants to learn more. Rick Warren is a fascinating guy with an interesting take on things. Many of his ideas transcend "things that make you go 'hmmm'" and head straight into "things that make your head want to explode." As a divorced Christian reared in Jewish guilt, this is the kind of thing that makes my heart sing, I tell you. Anyway. To mark our last meeting, we decided to have a potluck lunch together. This is partially because Methodists love to eat and partially because Warren actually talks about the role of eating together in fellowship several times (both within the book, and on the companion video the class uses). He points out that Jesus often dined with the disciples and taught during meals. This is, he says, because "it is impossible not to be relaxed while eating." Thus, this is a good time to learn. It is impossible not to be relaxed while eating?? Well, now I have learned... that Rick Warren is not a woman. Which I think I may have already known. But just for the record, yes, Rick Warren has never tried to scarf a meal down while refereeing two bickering children discussing when their "butt's birthdays" are (yes, really), Rick Warren has never eaten an entire bag of oreos after being laid off in the midst of a nasty divorce, and Rick Warren has most certainly never had a meal or even a snack while his heart was broken or he had PMS. Check. I do agree with the "teachableness" (is that a word?) of feast times, though. You want me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior when there's a big basket of Pepperidge Farm Raspberry Milanos in front of me? Sure thing. I will also revere the lint in your belly button if you throw in a scoop of Ben & Jerry's World's Best Vanilla. So he may be on to something about the connection between evangelism and eating, but I don't think relaxation has anything to do with it. I could be wrong, though. If you think I am, come on over with some snacks and we can discuss it.

One duck in the row, anyway

Mir — Wed, 02 Jun 2004 20:43:42 +0000

I know you have been losing sleep ever since I wrote the letter asking for a refund of summer camp deposits for the kids. You have been waiting on pins and needles to know the outcome of this very pressing matter, I know. Well, pace no more! Rest easy. In their infinite wisdom, the association in question has magnaminously decided to refund the overage in the form of a credit on our account. Errrrr... okay. Of course, "our" account is, in fact, the ex's account. This means the cost of swim lessons will now be covered for the next several sessions, and I can maybe recoup some of that money from him. As soon as I learn how to squeeze blood from a stone. But I now have the illusion of having a small victory, there, and at least I don't have to think about it any more. Too much. Well, there is the small matter of choosing between bringing it up to the ex or stabbing out my own eyeballs, but I can decide that one later. Mine is a life of ambiguous triumphs.

When bad choices happen to good kids

Mir — Thu, 03 Jun 2004 13:35:52 +0000

We all have to face it sometime; and we can be left weak with worry and doubt. Is my child normal? Did I do something to deserve this? Should we increase therapy to twice a week? Relax. Bad choices sometimes happen to even the best of children. It happens because their brains aren't yet fully formed, and--in some cases--because they are male. Learn to accept these transgressions for what they are: perfectly normal. Practice going to your "happy place" when the urge to devour your young hits. Your children will survive to adulthood, and you'll have the grey hair to prove you worked hard to get them there. I offer you a few recent examples from my homestead: Monkey: Moooooooo-oooooooom! Chickadee keeps copying me! Chickadee: Moooooooo-oooooooom! Chickadee keeps copying me! In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to tell her that a simple "Am not!" would've served her better in this instance.... Monkey: *snakes his hand up under my shirt* Me: No, buddy... that's private. You don't belong under my shirt. Monkey: *rubs his hands together, I kid you not, and with the most charming of smiles reaches out does the double-honk on my breasts* There is no therapy fund in the world to cover this train wreck.... Chickadee: Oh yeah? Well... well... when I'm old enough to drive, I'm gonna go live with Daddy!!! Would it be poor form to throw a party now, or should I wait...? Monkey: Mama, I love you bunches and bunches. Me: Awww, that's sweet, buddy. I love you bunches and bunches too. Monkey: And Mama? I will love you forever. Me: I'll love you forever too, sweetheart. Monkey: And it's okay that sometimes you scream at me all mean and your face turns red. See what I mean about being male? He could've had a pony out of this one if only he'd known when to stop talking. Chickadee: Mama, I've almost read this whole book! See? Me: That's great, honey, but I need you to get dressed for school now. Chickadee: "So, sometimes, even Mamas make mistakes." The irony of this being the favorite book of the moment is not lost on me, by the way. Me: I'll make you a deal. Put the book down and get your clothes on. If you do it quick enough, you'll still have time to finish the book after. Okay? Chickadee: Okay, Mama! Me: *leave the room* Chickadee: "My Mama says there definitely isn't any ghost--" Me: CHICKADEE! GET DRESSED! Rule one of disobeying: it helps to at least attempt to be sneaky. If you can't read without doing it out loud, it's mighty hard to get away with it. Monkey: *crash* *thump* WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! Me: *running into the bedroom* Honey! Are you okay? Monkey: WAAAHHHHH! My head! My leg! My arm! (All appear to still be attached.) Me: Poor baby. What happened? Monkey: I don't know. I fell. Me: I see. Were you jumping on the bed? Monkey: No! Me: Are you sure? Monkey: I wasn't jumping on the bed! I was trying to climb the wall like Spiderman! Obviously the house rules need to be made more explicit.... Monkey: *crash* *thump* WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!! Me: *running into the family room* Honey! Are you okay? Monkey: WAAAHHHHH! My head! My leg! My arm! (All appear to still be attached.) Me: Poor baby. What happened? Monkey: I don't know. I fell. Me: Chickadee, did you see what happened? Chickadee: WELL I DIDN'T PUSH HIM! Monkey: Yes you diiiiiiid! Chickadee: NO! He ran into my fist when I was just sitting here! Hmmmmm.... Note to self: go over both the concepts of full disclosure and more plausible cover stories, again. Me: Monkey, please take your finger out of your nose. Monkey: It's itchy. Me: Then go get a tissue. We do not put fingers in our noses. Monkey: A tissue doesn't work. I have to get the itchy part way in there. Me: Monkey, putting your fingers in your nose is gross. There are germs in your nose, and you're getting them all over your hands, doing that. Monkey: That's okay, Mama... my hands are already germy cuz I put my finger in my tushie before. Really, I didn't even know where to begin with this one. I could keep going, but you get the general idea. Breathe deeply... think happy thoughts... and forge ahead. It's okay. Chances are, you have at least one friend with a story that trumps even your worst. Whenever I'm feeling discouraged in this area, all Eileen has to say to me is "Mama, can you get the snack out of my nose?" (a legendary story in her house) and I feel better. And when all else fails... a quick reminder that this is all going to be wonderful embarrassment fodder when they're older is remarkably cheering.

For the love of God, does anyone have a valium?

Mir — Thu, 03 Jun 2004 17:36:56 +0000

My dear Chickadee--for a brief period of time--delighted in telling me lies about her time with Daddy, because it frequently (okay; always) evinced a negative reaction and she was looking for some power and control. I thought that phase was finished. Only today, on our way down to Daddy's for their weekly afternoon with him, she started telling me that she never rides in a carseat in Daddy's car anymore, and in fact when they went to the zoo last weekend (a long trip from here, through Boston traffic) they just brought some pillows and blankets and she lay down in the back. I remained reasonably cool. I reminded her that lying to me is a poor choice, and asked her to reconsider her story and tell me again when she was ready to tell the truth. But the more adamant she became, the more my agitation progressed. Finally I told her the conversation was over; I would ask Daddy when we got there and if I found out she was fibbing she was gonna be in big trouble, missy! We rode in steamy silence while I wondered what had triggered this regression and she fought back tears. Well, please pass the asshat tiara. Thanks. There is only one thing that makes me angrier that blatant dumbfuckery, and that one thing is blatant dumbfuckery that seems so beyond the realm of possibility that I actually end up disbelieving my child because I can't believe my ex is that stupid. The tiara? Yeah, I didn't believe he's that stupid. But he is. THAT stupid. And worse, would you like to hear the brilliant excuse he placated me with? Of course you would. He said: "I forgot." Lemme tell you, I felt all better after that. (Whaaaaaaaaaat??) He forgot what? He forgot that our children are precious cargo and they are much safer in carseats? He forgot that the shoulder strap crosses her little neck in such a way that even a fender-bender could snap her spine? He forgot that you cannot wear a seatbelt while laying down on the seat and that this might be both illegal and a bad idea, say, in major metropolitan traffic????? ("She was wearing the lap belt and just kind of sideways," he mumbled while studying something of great import on the wall.) The dicey part is this: legally, Chickadee doesn't have to be in a booster. It's recommended, but in our state the law only applies up to 40 pounds (she is 5 pounds past that); after that, it's merely a recommendation. But according to the Law of Rabidly Protective Mama of Skinny Girl, it's mandatory, get it? I am very proud of myself for 1) not making a scene, 2) apologizing to my daughter for not believing her, 3) not raising my voice, and 4) not ripping his head off with my bare hands. And he kept saying that it wouldn't happen again, he knows it's not a good idea (that admission makes me feel worse, by the way), so I was approaching normal blood pressure levels and headed back to my car when he said, "You know, I can only take one carseat when we fly to my Mom's." Dumb.F-U-C-K.Er.Y. Let's assume, for a moment, that this Ivy League educated, doctorate-holding man is really stupid enough to think this is okay. Just assume, for the fun of it. Okay. Now. Even if--after all the preceding discussion--he still thinks this is a dandy way to operate, he would have to have never once MET me to think that now TELLING me this is in any way, shape or form a good idea. I stopped. I turned. Very quietly, I said, "You need to figure out how to get two carseats there, and use them both. Check one with your baggage. It's not optional." Then I said good-bye to my kids and drove back home, wondering how I am going to handle this without putting my innocent child in the middle of yet another power struggle.

It's Thursday, yo!

Mir — Thu, 03 Jun 2004 22:13:39 +0000

It's Smackdown Day, yo. Get over to Amalah's and spread mullet love. Also, if you like, leave me Fun Friday questions ('kus are optional). All those mullets... ick! Antidote: fact or fiction queries for Friday.

Last call....

Mir — Fri, 04 Jun 2004 13:25:25 +0000

Last call for Fun Friday Fact or Fiction questions. I know everyone was busy at Amalah's dry-heaving over the pictures of little ~~whore~~ pageant babies yesterday, but today is another day. Last Friday was loads of fun and I'm sure there's lots of very stupid things I've done that I haven't told you about yet, so don't be shy! If y'all leave anything for me, I'll address it this afternoon. (This morning I've decided to actually remember my appointment with my shrink, for a change.) If no one leaves anything, I'll just... ummmm... have to find something else to do. You know that's how I usually get myself into trouble....

Second Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 04 Jun 2004 17:09:17 +0000

Not as rousing a turn-out as we had for the first one, (note to self: threaten to pout again, next time) but enough to make a post, for sure. So here we go... more facts and fiction from your hostess based on your questions! Fraulein N asks: What's a book, movie or TV show I'm embarrassed to admit I like? I just loved Britney Spears in Crossroads!! (Fiction. Haven't even seen it, nor will I, unless you're holding a gun to the head of one of my kids.) I can't think of a book I'd be embarrassed to admit, as I tend to either love a book and evangelize about it or lose interest and never finish it. Ditto with movies. Now... ummmm... TV is a different story. I watch lots of schlock television. And I have no excuse. So here goes: When I was in high school, there was a show on PBS called Degrassi Junior High. It's produced in Canada and was kind of the granddaddy of After School Specials meets canuck-90210. Lame really doesn't begin to describe this thing. Anyway, during my first year of college I ended up doing a rather intensive program for treatment of teenage depression and drug use (just so we're clear, I was in the former group), and one of our regular sessions was based on this show. Oooooooh it was great; all of us poking fun at the bad acting, the predictable storylines, the accents! It was torture. This is not the show I'm confessing to liking, by the way. This is known as exposition; bear with me. Well, I've recently come to find out that those brilliant Canadians never let this masterpiece actually die. After Degrassi Junior High, there was Degrassi High (duh), and most recently I've discovered that Noggin now shows the latest version, Degrassi: The Next Generation, in the evenings. I have been strangely compelled to watch this program. I don't know if it's nostalgia or just brain damage, but I think I've seen every episode. And I'd like to tell you that it's far superior to the original, but that would be stretching the truth. By quite a lot. (Fact. Maybe I should check into some sort of support group? Degrassiholics Anonymous?) Kira asks: Do I think I'll date/marry again? What are you talking about? I'm already married. To Brad Pitt. Bitch. (Fiction!!) Well that's the proverbial $64,000 question, isn't it? I'm a very social person. Despite what you might find me saying on my down days, I figure it's pretty much impossible that I will never date again. Never is a long time. So yeah, I'll date. Get married again? Hmmmm. I dunno. I would like to, but I don't know that it's in the cards for me. I'm still a little too raw from the last couple of years' events to consider a risk of that magnitude, again. (Truth.) Also from Kira: What's my favorite food to turn to when I'm in an unhealthy state of anxiety or fear? Mustard. Perhaps you saw the picture of me at the Smackdown yesterday...? (Fiction, thank God.) I'm afraid that in this way I am something of a typical girl. Gimme chocolate! Candybars, cookies, brownies, cake, whatever. As long as it's chocolate, I'm happy. And it's truly a wonder I'm not a much larger person. (Fact.) Debby asks: What's my favorite movie and book of all time? Didn't I already declare my love for Britney's masterpiece, above? *snort* Last week I said that my favorite book is "A Prayer for Owen Meany" by John Irving. If I have to pick just one favorite, that's it. But give me a little time and latitude and I'll generate a whole reading list. I devour books, and if I read something I like by an author I haven't read before, I then go out and read everything else they've ever written. I'm weird that way. Favorite movie... hmmmmm.... That's much harder, because I don't actually watch a lot of movies. The simplest answer is "The Princess Bride," although the book is even better than the movie (that's always the way, though). I'm also a sucker for "The Big Chill" and the first two Alien movies. (Truth.) Debby also asks: Nightgown or jammies? I sleep in the nude. In the shower. Upside-down. (Fiction.) I was a strict jammies kinda gal for years and years. Recently I've leaned back in the nightgown direction, leaving me with a fairly even mix in my slumbertime apparel. (Truth, but I feel so ambiguous, now!) Oliquig asks: What was my best vacation ever? There are two (real) answers to this. In terms of the location, it's definitely the week I spent in Maui. I really never knew perfect weather and gorgeous scenery like that even existed. Had I been there with someone other than my husband it would've been perfection. In terms of the company and/or my state of mind, it would have to be the weekend I spent camping in western Massachusetts last year. It was my first trip without my children that was not for a funeral or an educational reason... I got to see Garrison Keillor at Tanglewood... and I was newly in lurve with the prince who had not yet turned back into a toad. If I could bottle how I felt that weekend, I would be rich. And what was the worst? Okay, which is sadder: That the answer to this one is my honeymoon, or that I didn't even have to think about it for a nanosecond to know that? (Truth.) The ex and I were young and stupid... I believe I may have touched on that previously... anyway... we were completely ripped off by the agency we used to book our honeymoon. It was so horrible--as in B-movie unbelievable, including no running water in what was supposedly a 4-star hotel--that we returned after just two or three days (in my ever-continuing attempts to block it out entirely, I can't remember which is accurate). This would be a bad omen under the best of circumstances, but let's just say that the rotten accommodations turned out to be the least of our problems. The ex suffered from... uuhhhhhhh... anxiety. Yeah. Extreme anxiety. That's all I'm gonna say about that. (Unless he pisses me off again, in which case I may need to share more....) And lastly, from our dear Oli: What's the funniest thing my kids have said that I had to not laugh at because it was bad? "Someone should impeach Bush's ass." (Kidding, but wouldn't you all be envious if my kids were that astute?) I can't think of a specific one (and someday if you have kids, Oli, you'll understand the mental atrophy that comes with raising them), but I have to say that it is always adorable to hear a toddler swear, and even moreso if he/she chooses a phrase that makes it crystal clear that these words are from your very own mouth. I mean, sure, there's that second of utter horror, but a teeny little voice saying "Oh, dammit aww" or worse is always funny. And some of the things the kids say to each other slays me. (Michele did a great entry on this last month.) Yeah, I do tell them it's not appropriate to threaten to poop on each other, or step on each other's eyeballs, etc. It wasn't an issue of speech, but I will always have a very clear memory of the first time my very patient Monkey had had his fill of his big sister's manhandling and hauled off and hit her. I had to leave the room because she was howling with indignation and I didn't want her to see me laughing. (Truth) Chewie apparently came along after I finished this week's post, then got very upset that I was "ignoring" her... so I'm editing just for her! (MWAH!) She asks, re: my 100 Things list: Aliens?? Ummmmm... yeah. I don't really have any details... never met any, myself. I just think it would be pretty narcissistic for us to assume we're the only intelligent beings in all of creation. I don't think there are any sentient beings here in our galaxy that we're just sort of missed, or anything, but yeah... I think they're out there. (Truth, though I may be wrong; it's what I think.) And also from Chewie: What sort of "ookey spookey" stuff has happened to me that I believe in the paranormal? Call my hotline to find out! It's only $4.99/minute! (False, although if I'm unemployed for much longer, I'll consider it....) 1) I had a friend in high school who got "after images" from rooms based on what had happened there before, and there were places that freaked him right out. After some digging, we discovered that one of the places that skeeved him out so bad (he was never even willing to tell me what exactly he saw there) had been the site of a gruesome murder. 2) I met a woman in college who knew things about me that there's simply no way she could've known (I had told no one), and she clearly didn't want to know them, either... but said it's happened to her that way her entire life. 3) Because of 1 and 2, I believe in people having of a variety of 6th sense abilities... although I also believe that people who are truly gifted in this way almost always wish they weren't, and don't advertise it. So I'm skeptical of "professional" psychics and whatnot, but I do think the real deal exists. 4) My grandmother haunted her home after she died, and in particular hassled my mother. Yes, I believe it. 5) I've stayed at a haunted inn. Didn't see anything weird, myself, but heard enough of the stories and believe the owners to buy it. 6) I used to study this stuff when I was a kid/young adult, and basically concluded there's too many things left unexplained for it all to be explainable without a little spooky ooky, y'know? 7) I am otherwise a very facts-oriented person. Going once... going twice... aaaaand... that concludes this week's installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. Thanks to everyone who played!

Guilt... it's what's for dinner!

Mir — Sat, 05 Jun 2004 01:55:43 +0000

Guilt is a wonderful thing in parenting. Not the kind of guilt that some parents (*cough*stupidex*cough*cough*) use to abdicate their day-to-day parenting responsibilities because it's just more fun to be a travelling carnival, but just a little dab of guilt will do ya, sometimes. On the heels of yesterday's don't-you-lie-to-me-young-lady-oops-you-didn't debacle, I had an early morning chat with the Chickadee just to tie up loose ends. By the time we headed to school I think things were more or less resolved; she seemed fine, and I felt better. But the littlest smidge of guilt remained throughout the day. Let it fester? Heck no. The fix: A rare appearance of... Fun Mama! Dinner tonight? Ice cream sundaes. Oh yes. We so did. Two kinds of toppings. Cherries, even. Sprinkles everywhere. You have never seen two children eat so fast in your life. They crouched protectively over their bowls, glancing up now and then to check that I wasn't going to morph back into Practical Mama and take their sundaes away. By bedtime they seemed relieved to welcome back my usual, directive-barking persona. And truthfully, I am more comfortable in that role. But I'm pretty sure we were all due for a little detour into frivolity... and sometimes you have to put care and feeding of the soul ahead of the food pyramid.

Blogging Questionnaire

Mir — Sat, 05 Jun 2004 12:57:11 +0000

(Shamelessly lifted from Zero Boss, who gives a pretty good genealogy of the thing if you feel the need to trace it back a ways....) 1. Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog? Now that's just silly. I try to look hot at the grocery store so I can get a date. (No, it's never worked.) 2. Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered? My profile photo is cropped and decolorized. Cropped because it was a photo with my son, and for right now I'm not sharing pics of my kids, and decolorized because in my hyper-sensitive overcritical mind, black and white was more forgiving than color. 3. Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you? Dorks, yeah baby! Creeps not so much. 4. Do you lie in your blog? I prefer to call it creativity, though even that is used sparingly. What's the point if I'm not gonna tell the truth? 5. Are you passive-aggressive in your blog? Why be passive-aggressive when you can just be aggressive, I say. 6. Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop? Uhhhhh no. I don't think anyone would tell me not to stop! 7. Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping? Yes, and yes. 8. Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones? I've never had to delete a comment (yet) although I probably would, if it came to that. And real women never fake it. 9. Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after? I had to read Jay's commentary to find out what this means. And, uh, EWWWWW! NO! 10. If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less? They'd like me more. I whine less in real life (unless you are related to me). 11. Do you have a job? Besides raising my kids...? Not at the moment. But come the end of summer, my parole's up. 12. If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it? In a heartbeat. Where can I find this ~~sugardaddy~~ person? 13. Which blogger do you want to meet in real life? I am too lazy to link them all, but they can be found on my blogroll to the right: Kym, Mindy, Snowball, Zoot... oh heck... just about everyone I have linked. Though if I had to pick just one, it'd be Kym, because I've actually "known" her for years. 14. Which bloggers have you made out with? This blogging thing is a little darker than I'd thought.... (And none.) 15. Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have? Less. I am perpetually broke in my tightwad mind, even when I'm really not. 16. Does your family read your blog? Yes. I have since wondered if that was a wise choice, but it's too late now. 17. How old is your blog? Only about a month old. 18. Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care? No, and no. But ask me again in a year.... 19. Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar? This is my secret blog.... 20. Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing? Nope. 21. Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes? Crap, I'm supposed to be making money doing this?? 22. Is blogging narcissistic? Of course. 23. Do you feel guilty when you don't post for a long time? Hasn't happened yet, though I suspect if/when it does it will be more a matter of needing my own personal fix than caring what anyone else thinks. 24. Do you like John Mayer? Who? 25. Do you have enemies? Not that have successfully gotten to me. 26. Are you lonely? Hell yes. 27. Why bother? Why not?

Now if only I had the slippers to go with...

Mir — Sat, 05 Jun 2004 13:49:32 +0000

And from Mindy, we have this morning's ~~armchair~~ computer psychology analysis. Turns out I'm still a little fragile. Who knew?
Heart of Glass

What is Your Heart REALLY Made of?
brought to you by Quizilla

... and today I learned

Mir — Sun, 06 Jun 2004 01:40:14 +0000

1) It really is possible, after having attended too many parties to count at Eileen's house, that I will still meet several new people at a party there. Whose names I will not remember. 2) At least one of those people will have a very difficult time concealing their surprise at my single mother status. (While not a Stepford community, this town is not exactly a haven for the non-rich or divorced, and the non-rich divorced are an even larger anomaly.) 3) Small children will happily play in a kiddie pool even if it's only 68 degrees outside. 4) Adults will watch those children from the safety of the screen porch and talk about how old they must be for thinking those kids are nuts. 5) Somewhat larger children will turn said pool into a battle station and splash/scare away the smaller ones while filling up their super soakers. 6) My son will trail any pack of larger boys no matter what they're doing or how hard they try to shake him. 7) My daughter manages to roll with the ups and downs of a big social gathering better than I expect, but draws the line at being shot full in the face with a super soaker. 8) I can stop a 10-year-old boy in his tracks and wither him with the Displeased Mama Death Stare when I explain that not only should no one be getting shot in the face, but that goes double for little girls half your size. 9) 10-year-old boys who use phrases like "on accident" (got him some good learnin', he did) will nonetheless deliver eloquent apologies when afraid that the Strange Crazy Lady might be about to beat the snot out of them. 10) If my son gives Eileen a big hug and a special thank-you for "those yummy brownies you made me" and she's had a few beers, she will insist he have another one. 11) A four-year-old on a sugar high will nonetheless go right to sleep after an afternoon of chasing the big boys. 12) No matter how fabulous the day, my daughter will insist on one last squeezy hug after being tucked in, and during said hug will ask (again) how many more days until I have to go to the hospital. 13) It is possible to be utterly exhausted from an afternoon of doing not much more than eating and checking on the children's whereabouts every so often.

Heeeeeeeere, Cujo!

Mir — Sun, 06 Jun 2004 18:44:49 +0000

Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease. What the heck. It's dark and rainy, I'm tired and cranky, and now that I think about it... I could be rabies. I've been called worse.

One week. And two weeks.

Mir — Mon, 07 Jun 2004 00:50:29 +0000

It's time, once again, for my regular Sunday Night Wallow. Aaaaaahhhhhh. Doesn't matter how long or action-packed my week is, I can settle right back into that familiar time-triggered neurosis as if I never left. It's familiar, and comfortable; I relax down into the invitation of a hot bath and then am stunned to find myself drowning in a chilly swamp. I'm kind of like the lab rat who can't stop ringing for kibble even though each pellet comes with an electric shock. The children have one week of school left. Kindergarten graduation--which promises to be a gala event, judging by the flurry of preparations and what little tidbits I'm gleaning from the Chickadee--happens this Thursday evening. Then Friday is the last day of school, and then I get to wonder what I was thinking until Labor Day. I have two weeks to go before my surgery. I plan to spend that time doing the expected things. This week, while I still have three school days to myself, I will take care of any "business" things that still need tending to. The next week, the kids and I will clean house and grocery shop and I will try to create some Quality Time. Oh, and I will get them packed for their trip to visit Fun Daddy's Family (otherwise known as "the people who pretend I never existed"). Interspersed across those two weeks, I will eat a lot of cookies, and do a lot of sit-ups (the theory being, the stronger your abdomen is before they slice it open, the sooner you can get out of bed without grimacing), and according to a piece of mail I received yesterday, I will attend... four pre-op medical appointments. One appointment to talk about what I'm doing and ask "all" my questions. (I will never ask ALL of my questions. I am, however, keeping a running list of those that are especially pertinent and/or don't make me look like a total idiot.) One appointment for a pre-admission hospital interview. One appointment for a pre-op physical. And one appointment for pre-op bloodwork. My paperwork also contains my surgical date, with a hand-highlighted footnote cautioning that "Surgery time is very tentative." I would like to know exactly how many appointments you get if the surgery time is firm...? So, truth be known, I'm a little nervous. Okay, a whole lot nervous. Kind of terrified, actually. But I know everything is going to be fine. I do. I just wouldn't be me if I didn't dream up every possible morbid complication or tragic ending to this little life detour. Ditto for sharing my warped humor on these things; it's the speaking aloud and mocking of all my worst fears that renders them less powerful. So my friends should indulge me, and laugh, dammit, not just look really uncomfortable when I comment that I just got my hair done and boy will I be pissed off if I have to have chemo. So yeah baby, Sunday night! Lay it on me. Mile-long to-do lists, one baby tooth hanging on by the merest thread (but its owner shrieking if I so much as look at it), air conditioners needing installing, laundry, and oh yeah, a buttload of woulda-coulda-shouldas. Maybe, if I'd been, well, psychic, I would've set up some childcare for this summer (and hit the lottery to pay for it, too!) and so I wouldn't have to be so stressed out about recuperating and tending to the kids. Maybe, if I'd been... hmmmm... someone else, I'd either still be married or be in a relationship, and not facing this alone. Fact: I felt more alone while married, most of the time, than I have ever felt while single. 'Nother Fact: Any time I catch myself pining for a significant other my stomach turns and that episode of the Simpsons with the Malibu Stacey doll replays in my mind. "Math is hard!" "Let's go make some cookies for the boys!" Most Annoying Fact: I am so not alone, but Sunday night with the TV on just for noise because you're the only adult in a very large and lonely house is not interested in how many wonderful friends you have. Sunday night is an obnoxious bitch, that way.

Sunny days, everything's A-OK....

Mir — Mon, 07 Jun 2004 13:49:53 +0000

Swiped from Mindy, and now I have that stupid song stuck in my head. Plus I feel the need to go count the silverware....
The Count's Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder It started with a simple affection for counting and
the terror it induced in others, didn't it?
But now it's turned into a full-blown
life-consuming chaotic nightmare of order,
repetition, zealousness, and perfectionism.
You used to be so grand, but now you find
yourself obsessively worrying over the littlest
things--like, maybe if you don't check the
light switch at least once every two minutes,
the electricity will go out (and damnit, you're
a vampire--that shouldn't be a problem!), or
maybe if you don't wash your hands until your
seams are coming out, you'll get some fatal
disease. Get yourself some treatment.
Which Sesame Street Muppet's Dark Secret Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Burnt Bagels

Mir — Mon, 07 Jun 2004 17:10:26 +0000

During my divorce, just about every item in this house became hotly contested property. His feeling was, the filing cited "irreconcilable differences," the law defaults to a 50/50 split in this case, and he was already behind because I was keeping the house. Therefore, he deserved half the items within the house at a bare minimum, and probably more. My feeling was, I let him leave with both his face and his testicles intact, and he should've said thank you. Well, that, and the small matter of his salary being five times mine, while my household would contain three people and his reduced to only one. And so it went. I cheerfully offered up any items that 1) were his before we married or 2) I didn't use. I'm generous, that way. Needless to say, he complained--loudly and often--about the inequality of "stuff." I also learned that I am, bar none, the most selfish human on the planet because I planned to keep the pots and pans I use every day to cook for my family, rather than splitting the set with him--the man who had to be taught to boil water (I wish that was a joke)--so that he could feel better while he took the kids for Happy Meals every single visit. Good times! Let's change gears for a minute. I grew up with many, many "advantages" in my life, for which I am very grateful. I grew up in a house with a trash compactor. I grew up in a house with a microwave, when most people didn't have them. (My children didn't believe me when I told them that.) I grew up in a house with furniture you weren't actually supposed to use. Stuff like that. I grew up in a house that had a toaster that pulled out of the wall, then slid back in when you were done with it. I never once thought this was remarkable until I realized that most people's appliances, you know, just sit there and take up space. I did not grow up with a toaster oven. That seems odd, now, given all the other stuff we had. But apparently my folks were not toaster oven people. (Please don't ask me to define toaster oven people.) So yes, I was sheltered... I didn't really understand what a toaster oven was, or why you might want one. Fast forward a bit, to a few years ago. Find me standing by an endcap at Target, puzzling over some very expensive toaster ovens which have been marked down to 90% off. For $9.24? 90% off? Well of course I need one! I did the logical thing: I called my friend Marcey on my cell phone. Me: Hey, it's me. Her: Hey. Where are you? Me: I'm at Target. Hey, do you have a toaster oven? Her: Yep, why? Me: Well there's a whole display here of DeLonghis that are 90% off. I was thinking of getting one. Her: That's great, you should definitely get one. Me: Yeah, that's what I thought. Only. Ummm. What do you do with a toaster oven? Her: What? Me: What do you do with it? I've never had a toaster oven. Her: *peals of laughter* You toast things with it, stupid. Me: *peeved* Yeah, I know that. But I have a toaster. So why would I need this, too? Her: *still laughing hard enough to make me feel like an idiot* You can cook things in it... nuggets for the kids, fish sticks, stuff like that. You can make grilled cheese in it. Well, toasted cheese, but same difference... you are joking, right, that you don't know what to do with it?? Me: KKKKKKK oh, I think the connection is... WHHHHHHH... call ya later. Hmph. I bought the toaster oven. I brought it home, and cleared a space for it on the kitchen counter, and spent a while looking back and forth between it and the monster 4-slice bagel-capable toaster that was now looking decidedly grumpy. Oh, well. The toaster oven and I grew to become close friends. Marcey was right; it was way easier to make grilled cheese in there than to muck around with a pan, and a little batch of nuggets or fish sticks or fries cooked in there much more quickly than in the oven. Sure, I continued to make toast in the toaster, just because it was there. But I was very pleased with my purchase. Okay. Back to Ye Old Division of Goods. The ex likes him some toast. Or some english muffins. Or any other bready, carb-y substance except bagels, because he is unnatural. Anyway. A 4-slice toaster is--in my reality--a family appliance, but when you don't cook and have been known to eat a big plate of, well, bread for a meal, a 4-slice toaster makes perfect sense. I magnaminously offered up the toaster for his use. Here the ex surprised me, with uncharacteristic solicitude. How would I toast things? He wanted to know. What, was I just never going to give the kids toast any more? (I suspect that was his real concern, weird though it was.) I explained that the toaster oven made perfectly fine toast and he was more than welcome to the toaster. Away he (and the toaster) went, and I didn't give it a second thought. Several months later, along came Mother's Day or my birthday or something. I can't remember which it was. In the interest of good co-parenting, we have a tacit agreement that we will help the kids shop for appropriate holiday gifts for each other. Once they are old enough to shop and pay, themselves, I will do a little dance, but until then, we engage in this niceity for The Sake Of The Children. While certainly not the chief complaint of my married life--though a problem that bothered me more than I like to admit--was the issue of gift purchasing. Mars and Venus; I get it. Men are different than women. Duh. Okay. But still. I shop ahead; I love to purchase gifts for loved ones; I am excellent at surprises (which is a nice way of saying I'm a great liar); I love to find just the right thing and usually do. And it goes without saying that I manage all of this on a shoestring budget. Then there's the ex. On Christmas Eve, or the day before my birthday, or the night before Mother's Day, his face would take on a look of vague constipation. "I have to go out for a while," he would say. He would be gone forever, then return and shoo me upstairs, where I could listen to the sounds of inept wrapping if I chose to listen in. The next morning? Gifts I had no interest in, or use for... gifts clearly plucked off of holiday displays under signs reading "She'll Love This!"... and when the credit card bills came, 9 times out of 10 I would discover that my completely useless, thoughtless gift cost way more than a thinking person would spend. You know where this is headed, right? Whatever post-toaster Occasion it was rolled around... and the children proudly presented me with... a toaster! Wow! Just what I totally didn't need! Excellent! I have a little island-table thingie in the center of my kitchen, and the shelf on the bottom is where that toaster has remained since receipt. I never even opened the box. Occasionally the kids used to ask about it; I would explain that the toaster oven makes toast, and that we'll open the toaster if we someday find ourselves having some sort of Toast Crisis, but until then we're saving it. They buy it, though the ex is clearly irked. Then again, he is always irked so it may be unrelated. Lately, my toaster oven has started toasting unevenly. My bagel comes out burned on one side and still lukewarm on the other. This is probably due to several years accumulation of crumbs and lord knows what else in there, but despite a couple of cleanings and general poking-arounds the problem remains. It still works, and in cooking mode it doesn't seem to have this issue, but an unevenly toasted bagel is a real problem, you know. But I can't. I just can't! I will not open that toaster. I will never use that toaster. That is the Toaster of Stupidity; the symbol of all that I lost in nine years of marriage to someone who barely knew me and knew he didn't and just didn't care. (After multiple arguments over the whole gift thing, I was informed that I was simply ungrateful. I think that was after the year that I was given a stepping-stone craft kit for Mother's Day and tried to explain that the idea was that he and the kids make me the stone, not that he present me with a complicated gooey craft to make my long days alone with the kids even longer.) It is the Toaster of Cluelessness. Verily, I say unto you, it is a Toaster of Betrayal!! Black and Decker probably didn't have that in mind, I know, but what can you do.... So my bagel's burned a little on the side. That's okay. And I may be attaching a wee bit too much symbolism to the toaster--maybe--but that's okay, too. Sometimes a woman's just gotta take a stand.

And how was your evening?

Mir — Tue, 08 Jun 2004 01:30:33 +0000

Highlights from my Monday evening: The Monkey declared "Oh Mama, THANK YOU! This is a dinner of all my most favorite things!" (Yes, I am a whiz with fish sticks, curly fries, and salad. Put the first two in the oven myself, and with the help of a pair of scissors to the corner of the bag, tossed the salad onto the plates.) I was willing to bask in the glow of this unsolicited appreciation, until I realized that after about two bites, the Monkey had stopped eating. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he wasn't hungry. The Chickadee regaled us with a tale of how R (a girl in her class) has a sister who's old enough to be getting married (big news in and of itself), and she is getting married, and so R gets to be in the wedding! So she gets to have a new dress, and new shoes, and probably something new to wear in her hair! I commented that this was very exciting, R must be thrilled. Oh yes, she is, Chickadee agreed. It's a lot of fun to get to be the flower girl, I said. Oh no, Mama, she's not the flower girl, that was already taken. Oh, really? Well what is R doing in the wedding, then? Chickadee set down her fork, wiped her mouth with her napkin, and declared, "She's going to be the reindeer!" Alrighty then. Somehow these events set the tone for the night. There was no sense or order to be found. I pleaded with them to finish picking at their dinner. I implored them to get through their showers more quickly, or at the very least, stand under the water instead of off to the side, whining about being soapy. I chased around a naked Monkey with a pull-up, then tried to explain to Chickadee that she'd done a marvelous job of brushing that one 2" section of hair, but that the rest really needed to be combed out as well. Once I finally had them tucked into bed, I realized we'd forgotten to brush teeth. I retreated downstairs for my quiet "me time." The phone rang... it was a good friend I would've loved to chat with, but calling from a cell phone in upper Mongolia, from the sound of it. We gave up after about two minutes of "Ar* *** **e** ... *el*o? . Then the Monkey was up, saying he couldn't sleep. Got him settled back down. Came back downstairs. The phone rang again. This time during the course of the call both children got up. Bathroom run for the Chickadee, more complaining about being unable to sleep from the Monkey. Spent fifteen minutes explaining to him that it was not going to be any less dark outside if he was in my bed. Got him settled back down. Came back downstairs. Started to answer some e-mail. Then the Chickadee was up again, saying she couldn't sleep. While leaving her room, the Monkey called me back in again. Time check: 9:55. If I see any hint of this happening again tomorrow night, we're topping off the evening with Benedryl cocktails all around. Sheesh.

I did a bad, bad thing.... (edited! recipe included!)

Mir — Tue, 08 Jun 2004 14:41:58 +0000

I promised the scheduler at my doctor's office (the one who was able to pull several hundred strings and get my surgery scheduled for the one week the kids will be away) a batch of cookies. She probably thought I was joking. Now, to be sure, I joke about many, many things. But I never joke about dessert. Some things are sacred. So great is my admiration for this woman, I decided that she deserved Really Good Cookies. Naturally that meant I headed over to Bakerina's. I recalled she'd posted an excellent-sounding recipe for chocolate chip cookies. But, alas, the recipe was a link to Theresa at Flying Piggies (which is now defunct); so in a panic I mailed Bakerina to beg for the recipe. Bakerina, being the lady that she is, didn't require much grovelling at all. She passed along the recipe last night, and I woke up this morning Ready To Bake. First problem: we're having a teensy bit of a heat wave here. It's going to be 95 degrees today. (No, I don't have central air; and the AC units I do have aren't in the windows yet.) Second problem: I scanned the recipe and realized a stop at the store was in order (taking up precious early-morning-coolness time). Okay, I'm not fazed. I can do this! Third problem: I should not be allowed to make any recipe that involves an entire pound of butter and an entire pound of cream cheese (have mercy!). By the time we'd dropped the Chickadee at school, made the grocery run, returned home, and I got the mixer going... I'd already gained 5 pounds. The Monkey was "helping" me, which consisted mostly of dancing around the kitchen singing "Coooooooookies! Cooooooookies!" and asking when it would be time to lick the beaters. The recipe yields a bathtub's worth of mouth-watering batter. Fourth problem: I have one oven, two cookie sheets, and will probably now be baking until my appointment at the office this afternoon at 4:45. Fifth problem: this is the most amazing chocolate chip cookie I've ever had in my life. I don't want to eat anything else. Ever. Again. I will no doubt be a huge hit at the doctor's office, but that presupposes that there will be any cookies left when I get there.... SIXTH PROBLEM: In attempting to save you, my dear friends, from a similar downward spiral, I omitted the recipe. But it turns out that you'd all like to join me in the Pit of Gluttony. The more the merrier, I say. Just don't touch my cookies. Ingredients: 1 pound unsalted butter 1 pound cream cheese (2 8 oz. packages) 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar 1 1/2 cups brown sugar 2 eggs 2 tablespoons vanilla extract 5 cups (dip and sweep) all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 4 cups (about 1 1/2 pounds) chocolate chips Cream butter and sugars. Add eggs, cream cheese, and vanilla extract and beat until well-incorporated. In another bowl, combine flour with baking powder and salt. Add by cupfuls to the wet mix. When that's all mixed together, fold in the chocolate chips. Bake at 350 for 14-18 minutes. (Bakerina says 18 minutes for 1/4 cup scoop cookies, I found 16 minutes ample for heaping tablespoon dropfuls, which fit about 8 cookies to a standard sheet.) Bakerina cautions not to overbake because they will lose their "lovely cheesy tang." So watch them, and they seem to be done just when the edges are starting to darken. Enjoy, and thanks again to Theresa (originally) and Bakerina (swooping in, hero-style) for the recipe!

Mixed Omens

Mir — Wed, 09 Jun 2004 00:14:42 +0000

On the bright side: Theresa's decadent chocolate chip cookies did thrust me into minor celebrity status this afternoon. From the first bite, the heaping plate I'd brought to the doctor's office circulated around at light speed to everyone who remained, and several employees came over to me, eyes full of awe and wonderment, to ask what exactly was in these cookies. So I think it's safe to say they were hit. Also, nothing bad can happen to you in a place that has this blessing on the wall, right? (Discovered today when I used a bathroom I hadn't been in before.) On the down side: it seems my doc was triple-booked today. When I was finally ushered into her office an hour and a half past my appointment time, she was flustered and apologetic. In my experience, even the most delayed appointments rarely evince an apology from a doctor, so I was impressed that she seemed genuinely embarrassed (though my guess is that she wanted to get home, too, as it was late). This wasn't a huge problem to my mind. Sure, it would've been nice if she was on time, but the kids were off with the ex and I was reading schlock magazines, so it was okay. But then we started talking, and it became clear that she had forgotten that I'm, you know, having surgery in a week and a half. With her. There is a very fine line between "harried, overworked professional who hasn't had time to refer to her notes" and "OH MY GOD I'm letting this person filet me like a fish and she barely remembers who I am or why I'm here." I quietly freaked out for a few minutes while she flipped through my file and then started in on the standard hysterectomy spiel. The window of opportunity for bolting from the office was remarkably short, as it turned out. So we spent our hour in discussion, and except for the part where she felt the need to tell me a rather gruesome parable about what can happen if you don't follow the doctor's post-surgical orders, it was all fine. (Trust me, you don't want to know. It involved intestines in places they didn't belong due to unbridled libido. I was quick to assure her that "nothing in the vagina" was not so much a post-surgical order as a way of life for me at this time.) (Did anyone hear that thud? That was my father reading my blog, and fainting.) More good stuff: it sounds like the hospital stay will be shorter than I'd expected. Also, she doesn't use staples, only stitches, so there is no staple extraction before you go home (I hadn't decided which sounded worse, having them put in or taken out, but neither really appealed). Lucky me, I even got a nice big bag of hormone patches to take home! Yay! You know how I love free stuff! I guess I'll go through with it. But if I go in for my pre-op physical next week and she still doesn't remember why I'm there, that's going to be the end of my thin veneer of calm.

Better layers than circles, I guess

Mir — Wed, 09 Jun 2004 13:27:47 +0000

For some reason this meme is bringing Dante's Inferno to mind rather prominently, but I'm sure that's a coincidence. Yeah. Seen everywhere, but most recently at Mindy's and Zoot's and you know I wanna be just like them when I grow up. LAYER ONE:

Name: Miriam
Birthdate: August 17, 1971 (gifts not required, but always appreciated)
Birthplace: Ithaca, NY
Current Location: Lost in New Hampshire
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Darkest brown, a color I used to hate but have since become much more fond of as I watch it retreating under grey!
Height: 5'6"
Righty or Lefty: Righty
Zodiac Sign: Leo (power, Min!)

LAYER TWO:

Your Heritage: Polish and Russian
The shoes I wore today: Ummm... I'm barefoot... but I threw on some sandals that were by the door to take the kids to school.
Your weakness: Bargains
Your fears: not being able to protect my kids
Your perfect pizza: Hawaiian
Goal you'd like to achieve: Raising my kids to adulthood with only manageable scarring; figuring out what I want to be when I grow up (and doing it).

LAYER THREE:

Your most overused phrase on AIM: "LOL!"
Your first waking thoughts: "Can I go back to sleep?"
Your best physical feature: My eyes
Your most missed memory: Going out for slightly-longer-than-recommended lunches with Andrea at IBM.

LAYER FOUR:

Pepsi or Coke: I like to straddle the fence sometimes... Diet Coke with Lime, or Pepsi One.
McDonald's or Burger King: McD's
Single or group dates: Dates?? Um, single, as long as I'm fantasizing.
Adidas or Nike: Nike.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Ewwwwwww.
Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate
Cappuccino or coffee: Yes, please.

LAYER FIVE:

Smoke: No
Cuss: Only when I'm angry. Or frustrated. Or hanging with the girls. Or... oh shut UP.
Sing: Indeed
Take a shower every day: Absolutely
Do you think you've been in love: Yep. It's great for a little while and then sucks for a long time. Not sure I recommend it.
Want to go to college: Again? Geez, how many degrees does a person need?
Liked high school: Nooooooooooooooooo!
Want to get married: Uhhh... I want to win the lottery, but it doesn't mean I'm going to....
Believe in yourself: Where it counts, absolutely.
Get motion sickness: Ick, yes.
Think you're attractive: Physically? Um, no. (Not Quasimodo or anything, but nothing to write home about.)
Think you're a health freak: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Sorry, what was the question?
Get along with your parent(s): Taking the 5th on this one, for my own safety.
Like thunderstorms: Yes!
Play an instrument: Not any more... played cello for several years.

LAYER SIX: In the past month...

Drank alcohol: Yes
Smoked: No
Done a drug: Do my migraine meds count?
Made Out: *sniffle* No
Gone on a date: No
Gone to the mall: No, thank God.
Eaten an entire box of Oreos: Not this month. Woohoo!
Eaten sushi: Yummy, yes.
Been on stage: No
Been dumped: No
Gone skating: No
Made homemade cookies: Yesterday!
Dyed your hair: I dyed Eileen's hair, does that count?
Stolen Anything: No

LAYER SEVEN: Ever...

Played a game that required removal of clothing: Yep
If so, was it mixed company: I'm sorry, do people do that not in mixed company??
Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Yep
Been caught "doing something": I'm not sure I'm getting exactly what this refers to, but I have a strict policy against being caught.
Been called a tease: Only once, by a very stupid boy who had a very strange notion of a single kiss being an invitation to sex.
Gotten beaten up: Nope
Shoplifted: When I was about 5.
Changed who you were to fit in: Would that work?

LAYER EIGHT:

Age you hope to be married: Again? Ummm... when I'm smart enough to get it right. What age is that?
Numbers and Names of Children: I have two kids, herein referred to as the Chickadee (6-yr-old girl) and the Monkey (4.5-yr-old boy).
Describe your dream wedding: Uhhhh... one that results in a healthy, lasting marriage?
How do you want to die: Never
Where you want to go to college: I did my undergrad in the snow belt and grad school at Stanford... and if I'd known then what I know now, I would've done it ALL in Northern California. Ahhhh....
What do you want to be when you grow up: Why does everyone keep asking me that?? Shut UP!
What country would you most like to visit: Italy

LAYER NINE:

Number of drugs taken illegally: Just 1, but I never inhaled. Or was that I never exhaled? I can't remember.
Number of people I could trust with my life: At least 5, probably more. Lucky me!
Number of CDs that I own: Maybe 30. I just started allowing myself to buy frivolous things for myself (like music) just recently.
Number of piercings: 3 in my left ear, 1 in my right, 1 in my navel. All but the standard 2 in the ears have closed.
Number of tattoos: None, though I have often pondered one.
Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper: Oh geez, I have no idea. As if my hometown paper or our little local rag here will somehow catapult me into celebrity....
Number of scars on my body: Hmmm. Too many.
Number of things in my past that I regret: Also too many, though in my right mind I wouldn't change a thing; they're all part of who I am.

Irrefutable proof of a Deity

Mir — Wed, 09 Jun 2004 17:54:45 +0000

It is 98 degrees outside. Right now. Today. It's not even July yet. And I'm not even going to detail the hour I just spent, adjusting the two little air conditioners which are permanent--one on each floor--and then a complicated maze of fans trying to urge the airflow to cool the entire house. I have got to borrow someone's husband to come help me put the other air conditioners in. But then... divine intervention. In the form of a phone call. A play date/dinner invitation from one of my favorite people on the planet. She would still be one of my favorite people even if she didn't have central air, but I'm just sayin'....

Third time's the... same as the first two.

Mir — Thu, 10 Jun 2004 01:28:21 +0000

I have many talents as a mother. I make a mean pot of Kraft macaroni and cheese. I can fix almost anything (well, not in my own life, but for the 10-and-under set I'm a whiz). Sometimes I surprise the kids with something fun. I can keep track of multiple medications and dosage schedules. There is an assortment of character band-aids on hand at all times and I know how to use them. I have eyes in the back of my head. Many, many motherly talents do I possess. The care and feeding of loose teeth is not part of my repertoire. I don't believe there is any sort of instinct for compassionate handling of a 6-year-old who wiggles a tooth all day long, declares it hurts and it needs to come out, but who screams if you touch it. If such an inborn trait exists, I am lacking. My daughter is not impressed with my standard response of "If it hurts, pull it out." And I suppose that may be why she howls whenever this is the topic at hand and I approach her mouth. The Tooth Dilemma has been an important kindergarten issue, it turns out. For weeks, then months, the Chickadee's classmates were wiggling and then losing teeth, while she kept asking when it would be her turn. Finally, about a month before her 6th birthday, we were doing our nightly let's-check-your-teeth ritual (I would try to wiggle some of her front teeth, all of which were firmly rooted and unbudging) and we found a wiggler. And there was much rejoicing! And I don't think her hand left her mouth for about three weeks straight! Great was the glory of the loose tooth! The novelty wore off when the loose tooth became the monstrosity that is a very-loose-but-still-hanging-on-and-hurting-tooth. That lasted about a week, during which time I contemplated sneaking into her room and extracting the tooth while she slept just to stop the whining. And then--on her 6th birthday, no less--she lost her first tooth. At Daddy's house. I had a little twinge. Okay, fine, I had a great big surge of "Oh this is just fanfuckingtastic, Fun Daddy gets all the glory once again!" if you want to get technical. She brought the tooth home, and it took her three days to come to grips with parting with it. I wondered how long the ritual of placing the tooth under the pillow at bedtime followed by a tearful morning-after confession of "I couldn't do it, Mama!" could last. In the end her love of cash won out, and the Tooth Fairy (having spent the previous nights groping under the Chickadee's pillow in the dark) finally hit pay dirt and was able to complete her transaction. I was hoping to rest on my laurels for a while after that, but shortly thereafter the tooth next to the gap started to wiggle. And then a permanent tooth began growing in behind it. Being the caring, sensitive mother that I am, and not wanting to alarm my daughter given this turn of events, I referred to her as Shark Girl and told her if we were lucky, she'd sprout a third row of teeth as well. After a while, that tooth reached very-loose-but-hanging-on status and the whining once again commenced. One night I was on my way out to choir practice when she was fussing over it, and I offered to pull it out. One gentle tug brought screams (but no tooth). I left amidst tears, wishing the babysitter Godspeed. Well imagine my surpise when I arrived home to hear that the babysitter had pulled it for her. I was relieved, but again... that pang. It just felt like I should've been involved somehow. So when we arrived at the third loose tooth I was certain that I would get it right, this time. I would not frighten her nor call her endearing yet possibly scarring names, and I would know Just The Right Moment to swoop in and catch that tooth as it tumbled from her mouth. But that tooth defied logic and gravity. It could be persuaded to lie perfectly flat both frontwards and backwards, but was still--magically, freakishly!--attached. And tonight, with five minutes before I needed to leave for a meeting at church, I realized that I wasn't sure I could take another Babysitter Extraction. I grabbed hold. I began to twist. She began to scream. I chickened out. Let's be clear: the Chickadee's other nickname is the Swan, not as in plastic-surgery-addicted-reality-show-fodder, but as in the one who spends an hour dying in the most melodramatic manner possible. I don't think I was actually hurting her. But with two strikes against me for inept tooth handling, I didn't feel comfortable proceeding. The babysitter showed up. I offered to try again; she declined. I asked the sitter (trying to stay as casual as possible) to please leave the tooth alone. I left for my meeting. I was less than a mile from the house when my cell phone rang. "Mama, I was waving good-bye to you and it just fell out!" Craptastic. It feels like a failing, having missed the actual event not once, not twice, but three times, now. I don't know why. I don't remember reading that Real Mamas Catch The Tooth but nonetheless I seem to believe that if I were truly good at this whole mothering thing, I would at least occasionally be witness to the event. Will she remember, when she grows up, that her mother was somehow mysteriously absent for these illustrious milestones? Will it taint her memory of my care of her? It's doubtful. But just to be on the safe side, once the fourth tooth gets really loose I think I'll just put a little piece of duct tape in there any time we have to be apart....

Warning: Sap Ahead

Mir — Thu, 10 Jun 2004 16:22:18 +0000

Tomorrow is the last day of school. Tonight is kindergarten graduation. My daughter's class is putting on a program rather than doing the caps-n-gowns thing, but I suspect it will be a three-kleenex event, anyway. And I don't even tend to be that sentimental of a person... it's just been a long year, for all of us. Amongst my various tasks for today is to ready the teacher gifts. The gifts? No problem. The cards? I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. Dear Monkey's teaching team, Thank you so much for another great year at The School. Monkey has had such fun and learned so much this term. I'm not overly thrilled about his new Spiderman addiction but I'm going to attribute that to the other little boy monkeys in his class rather than to you. Although he is a fairly easy-going little guy and probably would've been fine anywhere, you continued to be sensitive to his (few) needs and provide a haven for him when our family needed it most. Oh, and thanks for remembering the food allergy protocols, always having special safe snacks on hand for him, and, you know, not poisoning him. We really appreciate that, too. Have a great summer! Mir and Monkey I managed to get through that one pretty well, actually. Here is where I lost it: Dear Chickadee's teaching team, Thank you so much for another great year at The School. Chickadee has had such fun and learned so much this term. As you know, it was a very difficult year for her, and I cannot find the words to express my gratitude to you for your part in arriving at June with a happy, well-adjusted child. Thank you for not giving up on her. Thank you for giving her extra attention when she needed it. Thank you for keeping the lines of communication open and never once making me feel like her problems reflected some shortcoming(s) on my part as a mother. Thank you for not killing her or even losing your patience with her when we had that little medication glitch that rendered her symptomatically ADHD for a week (eek). Thank you for giving her a safe place to spread her wings. Thank you for showing her that she is smart. Thank you for allowing her to become the benevolent class know-it-all and to discover that her peers value her smarts. Thank you for bringing in books just for her, when she'd exhausted the class library. Thank you for helping me to see that she can and will find her way. Thank you for loving her. (And for putting up with me.) Thank you for helping to foster her excitement over switching schools next year, even as I am agonizing inside over the sure knowledge that there simply cannot be such wonderful teachers anywhere else. Have a wonderful summer and feel free to come visit or maybe even move in with us.... Mir and Chickadee Do you see how hard this is?? I am going to be a complete basket case at graduation tonight.

Why are you here??

Mir — Thu, 10 Jun 2004 20:23:34 +0000

What on earth are you doing reading me when it's Thursday, for the love the God?? Get thee to Oliquig's House of Smackdown for extraordinary photographs narrated by tamponacular haikus! Do the 'ku, yo!

Excellent news!

Mir — Thu, 10 Jun 2004 21:40:24 +0000

My ex's opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, the official word is in... I'm only one-quarter evil! Now... decisions, decisions. Do I advertise myself as slightly evil (first banner) or mostly good (second banner)? Cast your vote and the winning banner will take up residence in the right-hand column. (Yeah, I know a few minutes ago I told you to go away, and now I'm asking you to vote. That's the 25% evil, get it?)

Graduation

Mir — Fri, 11 Jun 2004 03:03:58 +0000

That much cutesy cuteness, all in one incredibly cute place doing a cute presentation? Should be illegal. At the very least, they should offer lemon slices or decontamination or something on the way out to help you restore a more natural ph. Kindergarten graduations are not ph-balanced. First they saturate you with the ultra-cutesy-cuteness of a giggling gaggle of 5- and 6-year-olds, then afterwards they ply everyone with cake! At bedtime! They should have been giving out insulin with the diplomas. So we sat and watched, and I took a million pictures (oh, look, there's Chickadee with red eyes... there's Chickadee with red eyes, chewing on her hair... there's Chickadee with red eyes, poking the kid next to her... there's Chickadee with her eyes shut, waving at me...), and maybe got a little teary, and spent a lot of time trying to convince the Monkey that the world was not, in fact, going to end if he was not the the center of attention right this very second in the middle of everything. Oh, and, the ex and I made nicey-nice. Cuz it was so damn cute and sweet in there, we couldn't have been rude to each other if we'd tried. The only problem was when Fun Daddy decided to let the children run wild afterwards, and didn't pay much attention to the time, and then I had to be the heavy and reel them in on my own and try to get them home and put them to bed. Wow, deja vu... it was just like being married again, except this time I didn't have to bring him home with me! But I digress.... We survived, and the children are asleep or smart enough not to let me know they're awake. I'm cobbling together the final bits and pieces of the teachers' gifts and cards. And also thanking my lucky stars that I don't have to go through this again for another two years. I may have recovered, by then.

Scattered

Mir — Fri, 11 Jun 2004 13:31:40 +0000

In the sugar coma induced by graduation, the end of school, and all the trappings therein, I completely forgot about Friday Facts and Fiction. Got questions? Leave 'em if ya got 'em, or maybe we'll just skip it this week. I will be spending the morning mowing the lawn, cleaning up the carnage that is my kitchen after hacking up a 40-pound seeded watermelon so that the Chickadee's class could include a seed-spitting contest in their Field Day activities, and dealing with laundry. Don't you just wish you were me? You know you do. Last night I dreamt it was a week or so after my surgery, and I had no pain whatsoever. However I had developed a rather severe post-surgical case of narcolepsy. In the short course of the dream, I spontaneously nodded off at the mall (that's how I knew it was a dream; I never go to the mall!), the supermarket, and the movie theatre. I'm still trying to decide if that gets filed under "big fear" or "wish fulfillment." Hmmmmmm.

Third Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 11 Jun 2004 22:43:15 +0000

"Just the facts, ma'am." (That seems cuter and less wordy than explaining that I am being dragged out on a girls' night, shortly, and won't have a ton of time to devote to this, and so will just be giving the facts today.) Janet asks: Harry Potter or Frodo, and why? Color me perplexed. Of course we know Janet is fond of elves, so the motivation for asking about these two is clear. But which one? For what, exactly? Sex? Companionship? High adventure? Freaky Friday-ish swapping? I'm not clear what the intent is, so I pondered this long and hard... ... and then I realized, whatever the specifics, Harry Potter wins every time, for me. I enjoy both stories, but I view Frodo as a more 2-dimensional character than Harry Potter, who I think has been given the benefit of better character development. (And, dude, who wants to either have or be hanging out with someone who has hairy feet?) Lee wanted to know if my dream included me falling asleep while spitting watermelon seeds, though I doubt he intended his question to be used for this. It didn't. But that would've made it a less disturbing dream, I think, because then I would've just chalked it up to "stuff on my brain." Also in the "why in the world are you using my comment for this?" category, Michele wanted to know if I would mind hacking up another watermelon for her. Um, no. As in, I would mind, and, I won't do it for you or anyone else. My kitchen floor has been wiped down twice and mopped once, and it is still sticky and my OCD-ish self is having a great big freak out and recalling that this, people, is why the good Lord invented the melon baller! AAAARRRGGHHH! So, I love you... but NO. Getting all kinds of serious on my ass is Kym, who asks: What do I see as my children's three strengths and weaknesses each? Funny; the end of school has brought about quite a few discussions on this very topic, so it's actually been on my mind. For the Chickadee: Pro: she's brilliant. Con: she knows it, and is easily frustrated when she can't master something immediately. Pro: she's incredibly empathetic. Con: she has trouble dealing with her feelings, and feels everything to the max, big or little. Pro: she can often figure out how to best get what she wants. Con: she is often manipulative. For Mr. Monkey: Pro: he's very easy-going and basically happy. Con: on the rare occasions when he is affronted, he tends to react explosively (truly his father's son, in that way). Pro: he finds joy in the weirdest little things. Con: once something has made him happy, he expects it to remain static forever, and seems truly bewildered when it doesn't! Pro: he remembers everything! Con: he remembers everything! HA! And there you have it... everything you never really wanted to know on a Friday. Thanks for the questions! With any luck, I will have some very entertaining stories upon my return, as I believe I heard the word "karaoke" mentioned during the planning phase of this evening....

I'm getting too old for this crap

Mir — Sat, 12 Jun 2004 14:29:05 +0000

Yes, I am ancient. Geriatric. 32 going on 99. Would you like to hear about my wild evening? Of course you would. First of all, I was the youngest in our group of six. The friend who invited me along is just a few years older than me, then we had four ladies in their upper forties. One may have been over fifty. Not that this has anything to do with the price of tea in China or what it means to find oneself trapped in skanky karaoke hell, but it just seems like it needs to be pointed out. I'd offered to be the designated driver, because I'm off ibuprofen, NSAIDs, and alcohol until my surgery. Things wouldn't have been much different if I was drinking; see my "100 Things" list for details, but "me drinking" means I have one drink... maybe two if I'm feeling wild. And something I didn't put on my list but I realized last night was this: I never get drunk in public. I rarely get drunk, anyway, but on the few occasions that I have? Either in my home, or the home of someone I trust. I do not understand the allure of making an ass of oneself in front of lots of strangers. I just don't. You know how this story goes, right? The karaoke place is the lounge of a local Asian buffet place. Four of us got there, ordered appetizers, and they ordered scorpion bowls. By the time the additional two friends showed up, my three compadres were already tanked... and it was about 8:30. Shortly thereafter the karaoke started, and all the dregs of society started showing up. It was quite the conundrum, deciding which was worse: the very loud, bad music, or the scary people who were now surrounding us in droves. First, it goes without saying that we were the oldest people there. Second, it turns out that I was inappropriately attired. I had no idea. Women there wore either black leather or nothing much at all (bonus points for combining the two). Also, our table was short about a dozen piercings. One of the friends-of-my-friend latched on to me for meaningful conversation. Joy. It went kind of like this: Her: Mir, I'm so sorry that I sound so drunk. Me: Don't worry about it. Her: But really, I am, and you won't hold this against me, will you? Me: Nope, what happens at karaoke stays at karaoke, hon. Her: *laughs so hard at my not-funny joke that I fear she will wet herself* Me: So, are you gonna go up there and sing? Her: Oh no! How embarrassing! I couldn't! Me: Oh, you can't be any worse than any of the rest of these people. Her: Mir, I have to apologize, I'm so sorry that I sound so drunk! Me: Ya know, you really don't sound all that drunk, except for the fact that you keep apologizing for it. Her: You won't hold this against me, will you? Me: Um, I have to go to the bathroom. Through creative trips to the bathroom (so concerned was the waiter over my drinking only water and diet coke, I somehow ended up with more liquid than anyone else at the table, and did in fact have to visit the facilities multiple times to keep from exploding) and various seating shuffling therein, I managed to work my way over to the two latecomers. They were a really nice lesbian couple (the same woman who kept apologizing for being drunk announced as soon as they were away from our table "Did you know that they're LESBIANS???" and did I mention one of them was her sister? so nice) who were not getting tanked, so I had a nice time over there with them, for a little bit. But then the three drunk ones got a little out of control. During one of my trips to the facilities, they apparently made friends with the table behind us through a request for the salt shaker. Table behind us? Big group of smoking, overly-pierced high-school-dropout twenty-somethings doing body shots. And to them I say, good for you! But to our group I wanted to say, For the love of God, you are middle-aged married women who could be their mothers, stop fraternizing!! But I didn't, of course. The young table found our table terribly amusing, and the boys (men? I suppose they're men) in particular found the drunken flirting of the "aged" hilarious. This was where I starting thinking about crawling into a hole and dying. I would've left, if I could. But oh yeah, Mother Mir, designated driver! I couldn't leave, because they wouldn't leave. So I stayed, and prayed for a power outage. Two of our group decided to set up one of the guys from the young table to do a song. They spent a good twenty minutes up there perusing the songbooks to pick just the right tune to debase him. And that was a ~~drunken~~ great idea, except they picked a song no one had ever heard of, so when his name was called and he decided he was game, it was a bust. He didn't know the song, no one in the place knew it, and the DJ ended up going on to the next person on the list. Wow, they sure got him good. But somewhere in the midst of this master plan, the most senior member of our group was treated to a peek of said young man's dual nipple rings, and was so ~~drunk~~ astonished that she reached out and petted him. Which he thought was hilarious. Dudes, check it out, I'm being groped by grandma! By this point, I was checking my watch about every... oh... twelve seconds. ("Mir, I am so sorry that I sound so drunk!") The Nipple Groper left for the bathroom and didn't come back. After various permutations of members of our group going to check on her, it was discovered that she was busy puking her guts out. Alrighty then. It's a party now. Could someone please pass me the blue mascara? And, ohmigod, could you maybe go ask that cutie if he wants to dance with me? Bad flashbacks, man. So between the sober couple and myself, we're trying to figure out how manage this, who's driving whom, etc. The other two were now alternating dancing and coaxing the amused young guys into buying them more drinks. One trip back from checking on Pukefest 2004, two of the young guys stopped me and drew me in close enough to hear them speak. Guy1: Hey! Are you babysitting tonight? Me, surveying what the other women are up to, and probably turning crimson: Yep, I guess so. Is it that obvious? Guy2: Oh yeah. *they both laugh* Good luck getting them outta here. Me: Uhhhhm yeah. Thanks? Because I am a logical person with a good head on my shoulders, I chose to focus my remaining energy on hating The Toad (the one who appeared to be a prince, was my first post-split involvement, and promptly turned back into a toad as soon as my divorce was final). It was his fault. All his fault! If he was still around--and not, you know, an asshat--I could've either been happily spending the evening with him; or if I was stuck in this situation with him at least he could've helped me see the humor. But no, he used me and discarded me and look at me now, here in karaoke hell. All his fault. Yeah. Assignments were made. The couple would drive the puking Nipple Groper and her friend, I would drive the friend who got me into this in the first place. I was encouraged to go ahead and gather my friend and be on our way; they would wait for the puking to stop and then do the same. Those of us who were sober exchanged pleasantries and goodbyes. My friend didn't want to leave. Surprise, surprise. I talked her into it. She tried to get out of her chair and fell on the floor. At this point I decided to just proceed as if everything is hunky dorey, because there is no way in hell that this is actually happening or is a part of my life. Clearly I'm having a very bizarre, embarrassing nightmare and will soon wake up. We were, at this point, the center of attention. And why not? My friend is sprawled on the floor laughing her ass off, I am clearly mortified and trying to pull her up again even though she outweighs me by quite a bit. We were better entertainment than most of the karaoke, to be sure. I steadied her on the way out to the car, whereupon she nearly got into an altercation with a young lady talking on a cell phone. This girl committed the sin of laughing (at her conversation) as we walked by. My friend was sure she was being laughed at. Oh Lord. I managed to talk her out of that one and get her into the car. She talked a lot on the way home, but I didn't understand most of it. She thanked me for taking care of her; that much I did get. At one point I asked her to not bother trying to talk to me because I don't speak Drunkish. And so, dear friends, I arrived home after midnight. I was tired, I was grumpy, my hair reeked of smoke (can I tell you what I hate more than smelling like smoke? I can't, because there isn't anything), and I felt ooooooooold. OLD. What was fun about that evening? Am I actually supposed to enjoy that? Anyone wanna come over and watch a movie tonight?

Seek ye crap information elsewhere

Mir — Sat, 12 Jun 2004 20:53:51 +0000

I am all done being useful to my fellow humans. Last night took it all out of me, and I don't plan to be even slightly utilitarian again to another person for quite some time. But before I disappear to tend to my own needs (yes, I have a need to clean the house, and maybe make some dinner, and watch a movie), let me make it crystal clear how much I am just not the go-to girl for ye olde random internet searcher. A sampling: "Lonely local slutty girls on Maui" I am lonely, but not for you, scumbag. Nor do I live on Maui, nor has anyone ever described me as slutty unless they were in fact using sarcasm to communicate that I was dressed like a nun. "gingy Shrek stuffed" Ummmm... huh?? "miriam mcdonald from degrassi pictures" I may have confessed to watching this teeny-bopper program, but you'll still have to find your teenage porn elsewhere, bud. "ENTP hoarding" Yes, I have an entire closet full of ENTP types I'm hoarding for just the right time. And you can't have any!! "sonohystogram" (3 hits!) Ummmm yeah. Sonohystogram (I said it again). I had one. The information I shared about it would be superfluous to someone trying to learn more about the procedure. It was probably superfluous even for those who like to listen to me whine, but there you have it. Also? The link to my site? About 6 pages in on the search results. If you're that desperate for information, call your doctor. That is all.

Seek ye crap information elsewhere

Mir — Sat, 12 Jun 2004 20:53:51 +0000

Timing is everything

Mir — Sun, 13 Jun 2004 19:37:07 +0000

I am not having my most fantabulous day. I didn't sleep very well, I got up and started getting ready for church... only to discover that discomfort was turning into stabbing pain... and back to bed I went. Probably another ruptured cyst. If you've never had a ruptured ovarian cyst, here's the medical protocol: 1) Call the doctor's office. 2) Wait for the doc on call to call you back. 3) Describe symptoms to doc on call. 4) Doc on call tells you to go to the ER for an ultrasound. 5) Head to ER, wait for 3-4 hours. 6) Have ultrasound. 7) Doctor comes in, looks at films, and declares it was a ruptured cyst. 8) Doc gives you a prescription for pain pills. 9) Go home, take pain pills. As I've already been through this routine multiple times, I figured I'd save everyone a lot of time and money and just skip straight to step 9. A quick rummage in my medicine cabinet and... yes!... one lone vicodin, left over from the last time this happened. Praise the Lord. (Now before anyone gets all maternal and scolding on me, I did make a note of the time and the pain level and vowed to pursue the proper channels if it got worse or lasted longer than 8 hours.) I went back to bed. But first I had a little chat with the Big Guy about how I get it, I need to have surgery, I'm having the damn surgery already, next week in fact, and these little cosmic reminders are neither necessary nor endearing. Hmph. I got up around 1:00... feeling better but not great... and commenced hobbling around the house and getting myself into a dither over all the tasks that lay as yet undone. The kids will be home around 6:00. Hmmmm. I took the trash out; after which, I seriously considered another nap. Okay, clearly I was not going to be getting much done so I should just get rid of that idea right now. Focus, Mir. Pick a few small, lightweight tasks and call it good. Okay. During the school year, I pack lunches in the morning by retrieving the lunchbags from backpacks, emptying out the debris, wiping down the inside of the bags, and then filling with the new lunch. If I were a better mother I'd probably empty out those lunchbags the second the kids get home, leaving them sparkling clean and ready for the next day... but I'm not so I don't. Sue me. On Friday--the last day of school--we brought home roughly twelve tons of school-related junk which is still exactly where we dropped it in the mudroom when we got home. Emptying out and putting up the lunchbags would be a light task, and I would be very glad to have done so today rather than suddenly realizing, say, two weeks from now that there was still rotting food hanging about. I retrieved the bags (which are soft-sided lunchboxes). Strawberry Shortcake for the Chickadee, Thomas the Tank Engine for the Monkey. Both were mercifully empty of edibles. The Chickadee's lunchbox held an impressive assortment of found objects... toothpicks, trading cards, a bottle top, and some "Funny Money" from someone else's Lunchable. The Monkey's bag was empty, but felt too heavy. Odd. Then I remembered the small zippered pouch on the outside. This pouch isn't big enough to hold much of anything, but I do sometimes slip a nutrigrain bar or other safe snack in there for him just in case the school (which provides snacks) finds themselves short for him at some point. So I unzippered the pouch expecting to pull out a cereal bar, and instead I found the Ultimate 4-year-old Stash of Treasure. I was laughing and cursing as I emptied it out. I don't know why it struck me as so funny; had the Monkey been here when I discovered it, I probably would've hollered at him. But oh, at that moment, there was nothing in the world that could've made me feel better. 6 Danimals yogurt cup lids. 9 little juice box straws. 4 deflated yogurt tubes. 2 cheese pouch wrappers. 5 apple stems. 3 snack-size ziploc bags. 3 red plastic sticks from the hand-i-snack thingies. And a partridge in a pear tree. (Okay, no bird; but it wouldn't have surprised me.) That was way better than the vicodin. There is an odd comfort in a child's proclivities.

"... wormy, squirmy mac and cheeeeeese..."

Mir — Mon, 14 Jun 2004 13:38:42 +0000

School is out. Have you heard? No more school. At all. Until Labor Day. It's a small child's Christmas and Easter and several lost teeth all wrapped up in one gigantic Mama-frazzling joy! In the two-and-a-half hours since this day began, my children appear to have had the caffeine equivalent of a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew, apiece. "MAMA CAN WE GO TO THE BEACH TODAY???" Why sure, sweetie... but you'll have to wear a sweatshirt since it's only 66 degrees outside... plus since this is, you know, New Hampshire, the water isn't going unfreeze for another two months... but what the hey.... "MAMA LET'S PLAY DOCTOR! YOU TAKE CARE OF ME!" Ooookay... this would be different from my day-to-day activity how, exactly...? "MAMA I WANT TO READ YOU THIS BOOK!" Oh boy! The same book you read me last night? And twelve times before that? You do know you have an entire bookshelf full of a range of books...? Oh, but this is the most wondrous book on the planet, because it contains the words "balloon butt". Alrighty then. "MAMA CAN WE GO TO THE SUPERMARKET?" Now that we can do, but I'm still disturbed that my children treasure trips to the store because of the "Play Place" there... which is essentially a big room like our family room, complete with crayons and a wide-screen television. "MAMA I'M SICK! COME QUICK!" What's the...? Oh, I'm not finishing up on the computer fast enough for you, I see. Just a couple more minutes. "CAN WE PLAY OUTSIDE??" Of course, but if you'd rather that Child Protective Services not interrupt, you really need to change out of your pajamas, first. I know I've only told you to get dressed five times so far this morning, so naturally you still haven't done it. "MAMA I AM GOING TO SING YOU A PRETTY SONG!" Hence the title of this post. I am one lucky lady. And of course, fill in the obligatory hounding-me-while-on-the-phone interlude, which I could type out for you, but it was pretty predictable. School's out, and I will not be having another uninterrupted phone call until September. This will almost certainly be the last summer that I have the luxury of staying home with my children. I pray that I will find a way to appreciate it.

But wait... there's more!

Mir — Mon, 14 Jun 2004 18:35:23 +0000

If you're a regular reader, you know that I am still recovering from the shock of the karaoke night from hell. I thought time would mellow me out on this one, but not so much. The more time that passes, the more pissed off and shaken by it I find myself. Lucky me. But I have good news! Good news indeed. First, I scraped together the courage to say what I needed to say to my friend; namely, that I love her dearly, and I am worried about her. That I will never participate in such an evening again. That I fear a night like that may indicate there's more going on than she has shared, and I am here for whatever she needs. That she scared me. That I don't want to judge, or lecture, but I needed her to know how unsettled I felt. I spent the weekend debating speaking my mind. I'm glad I did. And I'm glad she accepted it as gracefully as she did. And now I wait and see. But the better news is this: you know how often you go through something sucky, and the only thing that really cheers you up is the knowledge that it could've been worse, or--better yet--that someone else had it worse? I'm sorry for being happy about this; I really, truly am. But I can't help it. Both of the other drunks threw up in the nice lesbians' car on the way home. If anyone who did not in fact used to live in my body ever vomits in my car, I will not be held accountable for my actions. Now I know it could've been much worse, and I feel better!

How To Be A Hero

Mir — Tue, 15 Jun 2004 00:00:43 +0000

(Or, "Sometimes It Really Is That Easy.") Serve octopus for dinner. (Bonus points for adding a grinning mouth. Two demerits for trying to sneak broccoli onto the plate, under a veil of cheese sauce.)

Deux Menage-a-Trois!

Mir — Tue, 15 Jun 2004 12:14:40 +0000

Hey, that's all the French I know. Unless you would like me to order lunch. Which I can do. Bagette. Fromage. See? Practically bilingual, I am. (That's counting English as a language I speak, which I'm sure some would argue....) I did not write last night. I was busy. Because I have not yet figured out quite enough ways to fritter away my spare time, I got Yahoo! Messenger installed and found myself getting down-n-dirty with some of my fellow bloggers. First it was a wild (if brief) romp with Mindy and Jilbur. I couldn't keep up. This is both the fun and the curse of blogging; you meet folks you adore, then get all bummed that they live so freaking far away. But there may be a real-life meeting in the works, and if that happens, look out, Boston! I have a feeling the three of us could do some serious damage (or at least draw some very disparaging looks from passersby). After these fair ladies had left me because they, you know, have lives, I came across Genuine. Who has a web cam, and uses it. So I got to see him shoot milk out his nose! Okay, not really, but it was pretty funny to watch him laugh in herky-jerky slow-mo webcam time. He is adorable, as are his two children whom I got to watch, puppet-like, run in for goodnight kisses, and then Mrs. G. showed up and it was all so adorable I wanted to kill myself. But the mesmerizing images of the webcam kept me right at the computer, giggling. So I talked Gen's ear off for a while, then I did the same to Mrs. G., and eventually I felt so warm and fuzzy that I had to go sleep it off. By the way... got a problem? Genuine will solve it for you. Maybe. Well, he'll definitely offer. Though I'm thinking I may have offered to slay a vorpal bunny in his honor and chances are excellent that that's never gonna happen, so we may be even. (Though, Gen? Where's my promotion?? I thought last night was special, baybeeeee!) Oh, did you think from the title that this was going to be a... uhhhh... action post? Shame on you. Like Kira, pretty much all I have left to me now is offhand remarks about questionable dinner foods. Alas.

Day Two: is it September yet?

Mir — Tue, 15 Jun 2004 19:18:09 +0000

Haha! Just kidding! I am really not wishing for September already. We are having a fine time, me and my offspring. Never better. You so wish you were me. Here's how the day has gone, so far: 5:45 AM. Monkey arrives in my bed. I open one eye, tell him that he may stay as long as he is silent and doesn't move, and go back to sleep. 6:00 AM. I remove feet from my hair and turn on the Disney Channel. Did you know that the remote works under the blankets? Technology is wonderful. 6:45 AM. Monkey informs me that my pajamas are very pretty, and he is so hungry he could eat a hippo. Flattery will get him everywhere. 7:30 AM. I stick my head in the Chickadee's room to ask if she might like to join us downstairs. I think she actually bared her teeth at me, but I left so quick when she started snarling, I can't be sure. 8:30 AM. Everyone is up and fed. I sit down at the computer, the kids hit the playroom. 8:35 AM. Yahoo! mail isn't working. Bah. And the playroom is trashed. 9:00 AM. I head up to take a shower. The family room and kitchen are trashed. 9:12 AM. I get out of the shower to piercing screams from the floor below. Still dripping, I remove the cover over the vent in my floor and shout down "What's going on??" Instantly all screaming ceases and a twin angelic chorus answers "Nothing!" 9:20 AM. I corral the kids upstairs to dress and brush teeth. 9:21-9:59 AM. Mayhem. 10:00 AM. We leave for the supermarket. And there was much rejoicing! 10:14 AM. The kids get checked into the Kid Stop at the supermarket. 10:42 AM. I discover that Breyer's is on special this week, 2 for $5. God is good. 10:55 AM. I attempt to check the kids out of the Kid Stop at the supermarket. 10:59 AM. I shout loudly enough to be heard in the next county, "HELLO! I bought you ICE CREAM! Which is MELTING! Get your butts out here!" 11:12 AM. We arrive home. I shoo the children into the back yard and tell them to play while I put the groceries away. 11:15 AM. Chickadee comes inside and informs me that I ~~am a terrible mother~~ forgot to give them sunhats. I give her the hats and send her back out. 11:17 AM. I peek outside to see Monkey sitting astride the baby swing, resplendent in Chickadee's floppy butterfly hat. Chickadee is using Monkey's Flaphappy octopus hat to collect caterpillars. 11:22 AM. I put the last of the groceries away, ball up the profusion of plastic bags, and sit down. 11:23 AM. The children come inside. It's too hot. It's too windy. There's nothing to do. There's too much bird poop on the swingset! 11:55 AM. Lunch. Monkey eats nothing; Chickadee clears her plate. 12:15 PM. Yahoo! mail is still being flakey. ARGH! In my frustration, I survey my surroundings... which resemble an explosion at Santa's toy factory. I demand that this room be cleaned up right now! 12:18 PM. I am happily (?) cleaning my shower (bought cleaner at the store, finally) when a tearful Chickadee comes in to report that Monkey simply will not help her clean up. She is slaving away, in fact she has cleaned up most of it, really she is doing the work of several children, and he just won't cooperate! 12:19 PM. A rousing rendition of "It's a Hard Knock Life" is avoided (she was on the verge, I swear) by Monkey's appearance and immediate reporting of Chickadee smacking him in the head. 12:20-12:25 PM. Mama Lecture #32, "Can't We All Just Get Along?" The children roll their eyes, they get stuck that way, and they have a brief nap. 12:26-1:15 PM. I do chores and the children bicker over who will pick up what. 1:16 PM. I announce that we are going to the Post Office to mail the Mother's Day packages. (Better late than never. Shut up.) 1:17-1:50 PM. Mayhem. 2:07 PM. We arrive at the Post Office, and I stand in line with the kids thinking "Wow, I haven't been to this branch in a long time." 2:08 PM. Our turn. The lady behind the counter remembers us, and nods towards Monkey and says "That isn't the little guy whose hair used to all stick up, is it??" Wow. That means she hasn't seen us since Monkey's fuzzy baby hair days. She fusses over the kids while I vow to be nicer to them this afternoon. 2:13 PM. We drive through Dunkin Donuts and get an iced coffee for me and a lemonade coolatta for the kids. I give them each a straw and tell them to bend one of them so they will know whose is whose. 2:14 PM. Chickadee bends her straw. 2:15 PM. Chickadee bends Monkey's straw. 2:16 PM. Monkey realizes he doesn't know which straw is which, and starts to cry. 2:17 PM. Mental note: no good deed goes unpunished. 2:32 PM. Arrive home, park children on couches in family room, put on movie. Suggest they take a little quiet time. Perhaps insinuate that if they get off the couches before the movie ends they might come to great bodily harm. 4:05 PM. That's better. Recharged, refreshed, and... only four more hours til bed. Piece o' cake.

One big happy... bug

Mir — Wed, 16 Jun 2004 12:06:46 +0000

I take back any complaint I may have made--tacit or implicit--about my children's behavior yesterday. They are angels. Shortly after I finished writing yesterday afternoon, it started. "Mama, my tummy hurts." "My tummy hurts, too, Mama." "I haveta go to the bathroom...." Those four hours til bedtime? Never longer. But knowing what I then knew? Their behavior earlier in the day? Awesome. Also? I would like to personally apologize to anyone who was in the Shaw's Kid Stop or my local Post Office yesterday. Cuz... ummmm... I'm just really, really sorry. I didn't know. So we made it through... and by bedtime they seemed... uhhh... empty. Thank God. Monkey actually cried to go to bed, and went right to sleep (he'd had the worst of it, I think... having proclaimed at one point to me "Mama, did you know that your tummy is connected to your tushie??"). Chickadee was feeling a bit better and so had to play around for a while, but even she, eventually, dropped off to sleep. All of which left me free to begin my own journey with this particular little virus starting about half an hour before I'd intended to go to bed. Yay! One would think--with my oldest now being six--that I would have figured out by now that no illness passes me by, no matter how obsessive-compulsively I wash my hands over and over. But this is part of the amnesia that keeps us moms nurturing our young instead of running, screaming, into the night. We conveniently forget that which is horrible. And so we do things like, say, tend to two children stricken with a tummy bug for four hours, put them to bed, and then have a sandwich. A bologna sandwich. Sometimes my stupidity amazes even me. I had a great post planned for last night, too. But given the circumstances it seemed wiser to just hang out in the bathroom and wish for the sweet kiss of death. I may pen it, later, after I run out to the store and buy up all the Immodium, Emetrol, and Pepto they have the on the shelves. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go open all the windows and spray my entire house with Lysol.

Mir and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Mir — Wed, 16 Jun 2004 20:43:21 +0000

(With my apologies to Judith Viorst. And my apologies to everyone who reads me, because I really have turned into quite the whiner of late.) Ladies, do you ever have that... not-so-fresh feeling? (Guys, take this as your cue to exit now if you are squeamish.) Alright. I thought last night was bad. Ha. Once again, I have forgotten that if I assume there is nowhere to go but up, I merely haven't spent enough time envisioning down. We got off to a slow start today. Just when I thought we were all just tired, drained, and cranky... my shower was interrupted by "Mama, can you clean my undies?" Call it an aftershock, if you will. (That's the most pleasant-sounding thing I could think of to call it.) Finally we were all up, cleansed, and clothed... and it was time to head to Daddy's for the afternoon. (Wednesday isn't his regular afternoon, but I had a doctor's appointment, plus it's his birthday.) By the way... martyr or damn fine human? You decide: despite being the purveyor of the Toaster of Cluelessness, the ex is receiving this little slice of geekdom from his children for his birthday today. (Don't worry; we got it on clearance at Target.) Anyway. I dropped the kids and headed off to my appointment; number 36, I believe, in the series. I checked in. I sat in the waiting room. A nurse called me back. She asked me a battery of questions, but didn't appear to be paying much attention to the answers. So when she'd finished her list of medication questions and reiterated, "So you're not taking any type of medication at all?" I couldn't stop myself from casually responding, "Nope, nothing other than cocaine." It took her a minute. A very long, worrisome minute. Then she looked so panicked I felt sorry for her, and had to confess that I was just kidding. I was parked in an exam room and instructed to take off my clothes and don the latest in paper fashion. I did. I sat, and sat, and sat some more. I read an entire copy of Allure. About an hour later, my doctor came in, apologizing for the delay. She recapped our last visit--and this time remembered that I'm having surgery, woohoo--and said today was just for a quick pre-op physical to make sure I was healthy enough for surgery. Okay then. She listened to my lungs and heart, felt my thyroid, did a quick breast check, and then directed me to the stirrups. Bear in mind, at this point, I've had exactly one piece of toast since last night's ill-fated Bologna Sandwich of Doom. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I'm wearing overgrown paper towels. "Again??" I blurted out, regarding the stirrups with horror. She apologized, but said they have to check for infection pre-op; so yes, again. I slid down, grumbling. She disappeared up to the elbow and I hastily (and probably loudly) reminded her again that I'd had a cyst rupture on Sunday, so please don't press too hard. No problem, she said. And she only poked me until I wanted to scream, not until I wanted to vomit, so I suppose she was true to her word. Eventually all foreign objects were removed from my much-beleaguered nether regions, and she left me to dress while she checked out my swab under the microscope. "Have fun!" I offered as she headed out the door. I used my wadded-up paper gown to scrape the three pounds of Artificial Slime away, then redressed. And waited. And waited. And then the doctor came back, and said "Good news. You don't have bacterial vaginosis." But the thing is, she didn't look all that happy. "Um... I sense there's a 'but' coming...?" I hedged. Well, she explained, my cervical mucus was showing an elevated white blood cell count, which could indicate an infection of some kind. I very much wanted to offer my own hypothesis, which is that perhaps my cervix is just all kinds of pissed off at having been poked and prodded a gazillion times in the last month, and what with the ruptured cyst and the stomach bug, calling in a few extra warrior cells just seemed like common sense. But I didn't. Instead I asked, "So what do we do now?" and she started to write me a prescription for some sort of vaginal cream, saying that certainly I wouldn't mind using this cream for a few days. "Sure!" I said. "Heck, lord knows I'm gonna need a warm-up for Sunday's marathon of magnesium citrate, enemas, and medicated douches! A little vaginal cream will just help get me in the mood! And then I'll be all ready for you to slice me open on Monday!" She stopped writing and looked up. I offered a weak smile. She started to laugh, and told me I've got "quite a sense of humor." What a relief. I'll be the funny lady in the OR, having a panic attack, but with the intestines and vaginal canal clean enough to eat off of. That is so reassuring. She gave me the prescription, went over my oh-so-fun "cleaning" regimen, again, to make sure I understood what all was required, and then sent me over to the lab for bloodwork. I checked in. I sat in the waiting room. They called my name, and looked over my paperwork, and told me to come back on Friday, unless I wanted to wear a little plastic bracelet for five days. I did my best impression of a deer in the headlights and she explained that part of my bloodwork was to be a type and cross-check, after which I would need to wear a bracelet until surgery stating my information. "But, if I come back on Friday, I still have to spend my whole weekend wearing a paper bracelet with all my medical info?" "Plastic bracelet," she corrected. "Fine, plastic. You can't just give me the bracelet to put on on Monday morning?" "Oh no, I'm sorry, hospital policy states that we must attach it ourselves." Fine. I'll go back Friday. And I'll proudly go to church on Sunday in all of my O+/Allergy to E-mycin glory, I suppose. By this time, I've been at the doctor's for an hour and a half. I am still tired, and cranky, and hungry... and now, also sore from being manhandled. Most of my precious kid-free time has elapsed, but I need to go to the store. For. Prescription. Vaginal. Cream. Alrighty. Target is out; I go there for prescriptions, normally, and the pharmacist is a nice man intimately acquainted with the children's and my prescription needs. If I bring my prescription there, I am setting myself up for a life without Target, and that's just wrong. Walmart will do. They're so disorganized no one will even notice me. Besides, that way I can pick up all my other embarrassing supplies at the same time, and be done with it. So it's off to Walmart, where I drop off my prescription and begin loading up my cart. First: clear sodas and sports drinks. Check. Pull-Ups for the Monkey ("I wanna pee in my pants when I'm sleeping and you can't stop me!"). Check. And then... a voice from above. A page loud enough to be heard throughout all 277 acres of the Super Walmart, calling me back to the pharmacy. Well, that can't be good. And it wasn't. Sorry, we don't have any. We can order it, and you can come back tomorrow. Oh, but that would violate the fill-the-prescription-and-not-show-my-face-in-that-store-again-for-40-days-at-a-minimum rule, so no thank you. I take my prescription back and shove it in my pocket. Fine. Well, I'm here, I'll buy all the other stuff, at least. I swing my cart over to Health and Beauty, trying to act casual. A bag of pads, no problem. The Pepto I'd really wished I had last night, easy peasy. A quick check to make sure no one is looking... and... magnesium citrate ("pleasing lemony flavor!" Who the hell do they think they're kidding??). Still no one around... store brand enemas. Now it's a party. Hooboy. Okay, all that's left is one medicated douche. Only, first of all, you cannot buy one douche. You can buy 2, or 4. But not just one. Apparently it is going to be such a rocking good time, I am going to want to do it again, as soon as possible! And to add insult to injury, douches come in a million varieties. Who is buying these things?? And who is in charge of naming them after air fresheners? There I stood, dumbfounded by the myriad of choices, and so stunned to find myself in this situation that I did, indeed, ever so briefly, wonder if "Country Flowers" could, in fact, be Super Special Douche Code Words for "medicated." (They're not.) Eventually I found the medicated ones. (FYI, medicated douches come in sad, plain, discreet packages. They are very jealous of their multi-scented cousins with windswept Harlequin Romance ladies on the front.) Done. Hooray. I checked out without incident (although honestly, a "CAN I GET A PRICE CHECK ON AN ENEMA, PLEASE?" would not have surprised me even a little, at this point) and came home. And sat down. And have not moved, since. I mean, look. It's one thing to talk about this stuff here, with maybe a dozen fellow bloggers who are at ease with Too Much Information in cyberspace. This? I love. So much. In fact, I may change my site's name from Woulda Coulda Shoulda to Douche-a-Rama With A Side of Vaginal Cream. It's all good. But to go through a day like this? Have to get poked and prodded, read a magazine all but naked, discuss things pertaining to my vagina with a pharmacist not once, but twice? And then I'm to be expected to drive to another store so I can share the joy with another pharmacy? No. Not today. It will have to wait until tomorrow. My cervix needs to rest, dammit.

This is my brain

Mir — Thu, 17 Jun 2004 16:03:39 +0000

Stolen from Oliquig, found here. This is apropos of nothing at all except it seemed kinda cool and I am still recuperating from yesterday's adventure, plus I have a ton of stuff I should be doing other than blogging, today. (Like, say, doin' the 'ku.) My brain-ed-ness (I don't even care if that's not a word, so there) profile: Mir, you are somewhat left-hemisphere dominant with a balanced preference for auditory and visual inputs. Because of your "centrist" tendencies, the distinctions between various types of brain usage are somewhat blurred. Your tendency to be organized and logical and attend to details is reasonably well-established which should afford you success regardless of your chosen field of endeavor, unless it requires total spontaneity and ability to improvise, your weaker traits. However, you are far from rigid or overcontrolled. You possess a degree of individuality, perceptiveness, and trust in your intuition to function at much more sophisticated levels than most. Having given sufficient attention to detail, you can readily perceive the larger aspects and implications of a situation or of learning. You are functional and practical, but can blend abstraction and theory into your framework readily. The equivalence of your auditory and visual learning orientation gives you two equally effective sensory input systems, each with distinctive features. You can process both unidimensionally and multidimen- sionally with equal facility. When needed, you sequence material while at other times you "intake it all" and store it for processing later. Your natural ability to use your senses is also synthesized in your way of learning. You can be reflective in your approach, absorbing material in a non-aggressive manner, and at other times voracious in seeking out stimulation and experience. Overall you tend to be somewhat more critical of yourself than is necessary and avoid enjoying life too much because of a sense of duty (*my note: crap, they've met The Toad! He ratted me out!). You feel somewhat constrained and tend to sometimes restrict your expressiveness. In any given situation, you will opt for the rational, and learning of almost any type should be easy for you. You might need certain ideas explained to you in order to fit them into your scheme of things, but you're at least open to that!

Party in my pants!

Mir — Thu, 17 Jun 2004 21:53:53 +0000

Would you like to know how much five days of cream for "elevated white blood cells in the cervical mucus" costs after insurance? Of course you would! $20.00. For five days. Though technically, I will only use it for four days, as yesterday I gave up without it. So that's $5.00/day. Damn. This had better be the most fantabulous thing I've ever put inside my... uh... well, you know. (I think I already said vagina and vaginal enough times, yesterday, to keep the frightening Google hits coming for quite some time.) Truly, this is the most action I've seen in a long time. Between this and the anticipation of that twinpack of medicated douches, well, I'm all aflutter! Or is that atwitter? Afuckit.

Packing Panic

Mir — Fri, 18 Jun 2004 01:47:02 +0000

(Or, "How To Make Something Really Simple Incredibly Complicated.") When I was married, packing the kids for a visit to the in-laws meant locating an appropriate piece of luggage and filling it with clothes and some other stuff. It might've taken half an hour, tops. Now that I'm divorced, packing the kids for a visit to the ex-laws means hyperventilating and thinking about it and hyperventilating some more and weighing the options and finally, arriving at the day before the trip with nothing packed. First Issue: Quality. If I pack their older, "play" clothes, I will be bad-mouthed as the terrible mother who doesn't dress them properly. If I pack their newer, nicer clothes, they will come back ruined ("Well, Daddy lets us use permanent markers!"). Or not come back at all. Lord knows that Daddy may come through with rice krispie treats and chocolate milk for breakfast, but he didn't know which clothes belonged to our children when he still lived with them. Now? Anything I pack for Chickadee stands a 50/50 chance of going home with her cousin of the same age unless I charge her with the responsibility of tracking her stuff. Call me crazy, but I don't think that at 6 she should have to be policing her clothes. Second Issue: Quantity. My ex's mother is a laundry addict. So the ex doesn't ask for many outfits. But as near as I can tell, all laundry is washed at her house in hot water, dried on nuclear heat. Does packing more clothes mean less lost to the laundry? Or merely more items laundered at the House of Hot and ruined? I just don't know. Third Issue: Coordination. I know I need to just let go on some things. It should not make me want to climb out of my skin and howl at the moon to know that when I carefully fold matching articles of clothing into cute little packages, the ex can still pluck an orange striped shirt and red plaid pants and pair them up. I have to hope that with the help of the other adults around on this trip, this may not happen. Or that everyone will have the good sense to recognize that if it does, it is not my fault. But, well, everything is my fault as far as this group is concerned, so why not one more thing to obsess on, right? Fourth Issue: Health and Safety. Theoretically, the ex has his own Epi Pens, sunhats, sunblock, vitamins, medications, etc. But if I pack mine in the suitcase, at least I know these things are making it on the trip. On the other hand, it's his job to remember this stuff on his own, or figure it out. (After losing Monkey's Epi Pen just once, I have to say he's gotten better about these things.) Fifth Issue: Lovies. Fun Daddy now has more toys at his house than we have here. But if I insist that only items from his place make the trip, there is nothing of everyday there with them. Conversely, if I let them take their "regular" lovies, they may be lost. Sixth Issue: My babies should not be allowed to spend eight entire days away from me in a discipline-free vacuum amongst people who think I'm pond scum. But what I do or do not pack doesn't influence that one, I guess. If not for the fact that I will spending a good portion of their absence in the hospital (preferably in a morphine haze), I might have to spend the week having a prolonged we-miss-our-kids pity party with Zoot.

It's Official! It's Official!

Mir — Fri, 18 Jun 2004 18:32:18 +0000

First Official Announcement: It is now Summer. I know "they" say Summer commences on June 20th (21st??), but "they" (who are they? uppity bastards) are wrong. Summer has begun when I trip the circuit to my bedroom by running both the air conditioner and my hair dryer at the same time. This auspicious event occurs just once every year, at the start of Summer. After that, I reset the circuit, say "duhhhhhhhhh" a couple of times, and remember not to do it again. Until next Summer. Second Official Announcement: I would lose my head if it was not attached. I was just over at Lee's and got about halfway through his WILF list before realizing omigosh it's Friday already!!! (This brain blip may be partially due to this morning's power outage, but that's stretching matters.) (Yes, Lee, I will now always think of you when I use the phrase "due to.") So if anyone wants to leave me Fun Friday Fact and Fiction queries, g'head, and I'll tend to them tonight. Right now I have to go smell my armpits to see if I remembered to put deodorant on this morning....

Fourth Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 18 Jun 2004 22:59:52 +0000

Welcome again to another edition of Friday Facts and Fiction, where I address your questions by telling the truth, lying pathologically, or sometimes both. This is not altogether different than my blog entries in general, but I do address your questions in some way.... Anyway. Onward! Kym asks many things: ... how did my pits smell? Well, I did remember to put deodorant on this morning, but it's been a long day.... (Truth.) ... am I nervous about my surgery? No. (Fiction.) Yes. (Fact.) Shut up. ... what am I most nervous about? Hospital food. (Fiction.) Want it straight up? Dying. That's my big full-out-uncontrolled-anxiety fear, though not a very realistic one I guess. It's something I can't help considering when undergoing something like this... not because it would be such a tragedy to me (I mean, I wouldn't know, right?) but because the thought of my kids growing up without me (read: being raised by the ex) terrifies me. The more realistic fear is of being alone and miserable when I get out of the hospital. Most of the time I am fine with being single. Times like this? I feel very sorry for myself. (Truth; I'm pitiful.) ... whatever happend with my thoughts about going back to school? Where do I stand with that? Already did it. I'm a lawyer now. (Fiction, though that really would've come in handy during the divorce....) Kym was privvy to my Big Plan over the winter, when I decided to go back to school to become a radiologic technologist. The program is two years of intense study, followed by licensure and then, decent money, normal hours, and high employability. It all sounded good to me. Unfortunately, the only program in my state is over an hour away, I missed the deadline for 2004 and was told I was "welcome to apply for 2005," and due to the way my post-divorce arrangements came out, waiting another year made it virtually impossible, financially. Now there are ways I could make it work (thanks, Dad), but I'm not sure I'm willing to wait three years for my new career. I'm exploring other avenues (not that any of them have led anywhere, yet, but who knows). And to be perfectly honest, there is a very indignant, snobby portion of my brain insisting "I already have plenty of degrees!" (Fact.) Milady Zoot asks: ... did I remember deodorant? Yep, see above. For all the good it did me. (Fact, ambiguous though it may be.) ... how long have I ever gone without wearing deodorant? Once, I went for, like, 11 years! (Fact!!) But after that, puberty hit, and I've worn it every day since. (Gotcha.) I hope you enjoyed your hippy phase, but I have always been freakishly fastidious about personal hygiene, because I just find the alternative too scary. It's one of the reasons I could never go on Survivor. By the third day I'd be a quivering heap, sobbing for antibacterial soap. ... what's the last item of clothing I bought? A red leather cat suit. Meow! (Fiction; I know you're all stunned.) Okay, just in case you didn't think I was pitiful from my answer to Kym, above, here's your chance. I last bought... a package of white socks. Hanes. So, who wants to come clubbing with me? (Boring Fact.) The ever-sex-crazed (what up with that, girl??) Debby wants to know: ... have I ever had sex in a car? Could you be more specific... like, type of car, number of partners? (You know, my Dad hasn't commented on here in a while. This sort of thing may be why.) Okay, sorry, nope. (Fact.) ... what's my favorite kind of cereal? Grape Nuts. (Fiction!! God, I want to vomit just typing it. Whose bright idea was it to market dirt-flavored gravel as food???) Hmmmm. Honestly I love most cereals. I'm Seinfeldian, that way. Oddly enough, one of my favorites right now is Grape Nut Os, which taste nothing like their predecessor. (Fact.) ... favorite holiday? Don't even feel like coming up with an interesting lie for this one. It's Christmas, hands down. That's what happens when a little Jewish girl grows up and converts, I guess. (Fact.) ... what KIND of deodorant do I use? Teen Spirit, of course! (Fiction, but I have been waiting years to tell someone that!) I am currently using Arrid Total in "cool shower" scent. I switch between that and Secret Platinum Unscented depending on what's on sale and what coupons I have. (Fact, and now you can be just like me, right down to the armpits! Yay!) Dear Chewie asks: ... do I wear make-up much? Only when I'm awake. (Fiction.) I have never been much for make-up. I wear it--lightly--for special occasions, only, and no matter how many Mary Kay parties I go to or how many times I'm roped into someone "doing my face," I just can't get into smearing all that stuff everywhere. I mean, yeah, sometimes I like the way it looks, but it seems like too much trouble. (Fact.) ... do I have many people to really trust? Trust no one. Did you learn nothing from The X-Files, woman??? (Fiction.) I trust different people for different things, you know? But I am blessed right now. I may still be lousy at asking for help, but it is always there when I need it. (Fact.) ... do I ever wear a thong? Nah. I never wear underwear. (Fiction! Can you imagine me with my clean issues, going commando? Frightening.) I do wear thongs when necessary to eliminate panty lines. I hate them. Everyone says, if you find the right one it's nice and comfy; as a result, I now own about 8 different thongs, none of which I like. And why is it that the less fabric panties contain, the more expensive they are? Sorry, that's another rant for another day.... (Fact.) And last but certainly not least, Jennifer asks: ... do I have a crush on anyone? Someone asked this on a previous Friday (Debby?), and I said no. Then I thought about it some more and decided that was pitiful, so I am now making a more concerted effort to find men to drool over. (Fact? Fiction? Even I'm not sure, on this one.) ... how long do I take to get ready to go somewhere? About three hours. (Fiction!) Hmmm. From shower to out-the-door, including blow-drying my hair, about 50 minutes if I'm trying to look nice. But I don't wash my hair every day, and I don't shave my legs every day, and I'm rarely trying to look anything other than dressed, so there's a lot of variables involved. My skills in this area aren't put to the test very often, ya know. (Fact.) ... what do my kids call me? Her Royal Majesty Queen Mother. (Fiction, but maybe I'll work on that one....) They call me Mama, although if the whining gets bad it sounds more like "Moooooooooooooooooomaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!" Also, Chickadee is at that adorable age when she thinks it's hilarious to call me by my first name in the stern voice of a librarian who just sucked some helium, so that's an interesting twist on things.... (Fact. How do I make her stop??) Okay, that concludes this week's installment. As always, thanks for playing! Please don't let any of the information herein bother you. Discontinue use if rash occurs.

Saturday: Cleaning Dos and Don'ts

Mir — Sat, 19 Jun 2004 15:05:12 +0000

1) Don't wait until facing major surgery to clean your microwave. Trust me on this one. 2) Do pour bleach in all the toilet bowls to soak for a while. 3) Don't assume that surfaces above head-level do not accumulate dust just because you can't see them. 4) Do enlist the children's help in tidying up their messes. 5) Don't forget to check their work before they leave on vacation. 6) Do blame yourself for not being more specific. Do say, "Please tidy up the playroom." Also remember to say, "And that does not mean just pick up all the crap and shove it on the shelves or kick it to the perimeter." 7) Don't forget about the bleach in the toilet bowls before adding cleanser unless you have a deep fondness for ammonia fumes. 8) Do pick up all floor detritus before vacuuming. 9) Don't bother picking up tiny little pieces of annoying toys that you hate, anyway. (Ooops!) 10) Do take breaks often; then when you feel like you're not accomplishing anything, at least you have an excuse. 11) Don't buy "freshly scented" abrasive cleaners thinking they will smell any better. "Green Apple" scented Lysol Tub and Tile cleanser is just as noxious as the original--perhaps moreso. 12) Do take the garbage out. 13) Don't notice how grody the trash can is... you have enough other stuff to do today. Put a clean bag in and call it good. 14) Do feel free to remove to the basement/garage/closet anything that needs to be put in a proper place, someday, but not right this second. 15) Don't worry about getting everything done; prioritize and do what you can. 16) Do finish anything that will either drive you batshit if left undone or you wouldn't feel comfortable asking someone else to do for you during your convalescence.

Guest with the Rest

Mir — Sat, 19 Jun 2004 21:22:07 +0000

Have you visited the most mouth-watering blog in the blogosphere yet? If you said yes, gold star! If you said no, look very ashamed, or I will bop you on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. While Bakerina is away, the mice are not so much playing as having a party to end all parties. I can barely keep up. But I did wander over and post a guest entry this afternoon, just cuz Bakerina was silly enough to grant me access. And because I'm so pleased that I finally finished cleaning the house. And because I don't want to go tend to any of the other million things I should be doing. Check it out, won't you?

Fickle

Mir — Sun, 20 Jun 2004 13:23:44 +0000

I was riding high on the... uhhh... high (high high high!) of my clean house yesterday as I prepared for an evening of pizza and sympathy with a few friends. My last supper. Courtesy of Pizza Hut. I should just move into a trailer and be done with the facade, I know. Anyway. I was feeling good. Six friends had been invited. In the end, one made it. Well, that's okay. Other people have lives, too (so I hear), so I was not to be deterred from my high! Alright! Excellent friend, you and me, baybeeeee! Let's eat some pizza and watch a really bad horror film! Okay! Rock on! We had a good time. About halfway through the movie the ex and my children called, having landed safely in ex-law land slightly earlier that evening. Monkey got on the phone first: Me: Hey baby! Where are you? Him: I'm fine. Me: No, silly, not how are you, where are you? Him: I'm at Grammie's! Me: No way! Him: Yes! And I had CAKE! Me: No! Him: Yes! And it was CHOKLIT! And I ate it all! Me: Mmmmm, that sounds yummy. Him: ByebyeIwuvyou. Me: I love you too! Are you done talking to me? Him: [already gone] Oooooookay. Well, at least he said he loved me. Monkey was sent to fetch Chickadee, and after several agonizing minutes of small talk with the ex I suggested that perhaps he needed to go extract her from whatever she was doing so that I could speak with her. Finally she came to the phone. Me: Hey baby, how are-- Her: MAMA! Grammie made me a new blanket and it has my name on it and she also made one for S [girl cousin of the same age] with her name and so I grabbed S's blanket and said "Oh, this is MY blanket" and S laughed so hard she fell over!! Me: Wow. Sounds like you and S are back to your regular stint as Frick and Frack. Her: [sounding a bit worried, and annoyed that I didn't get it] No, Mama, it's okay, S thought it was funny. She laughed. Really hard! I didn't do anything wrong! Me: Oh sweetie, I didn't mean you did anything wrong! I just meant you and S are like sisters when you get together, and I think it's great you love each other so much. Her: Oh. Okay. ByebyeIloveyou! [sound of phone clattering to the ground] Well. I'm glad they're having a good time. And I'm sure the novelty will wear off after a week and they might even be glad to come home to me next weekend. So my friend and I finished watching our movie and eating cookies, and we said our goodbyes and she went home. In retrospect, it may not have been my brightest idea ever to eat supreme pizza so close to having had a tummy bug. Live and learn. I went upstairs and unwrapped my brand new bottle of Pepto. I gave it a good shake (per package directions). The lid flew off. In my freshly. cleaned. bathroom. I'd say half a bottle of Pepto is about... oh... six gallons? Fortunately, after a few hours of major blood and guts on film, even with a slightly upset stomach I had to giggle a little while cleaning up the splattered slaughter of the Pink Monster. I'm telling ya... someone is trying to make tomorrow look good in comparison. And I really wish they would stop already.

Be right back....

Mir — Mon, 21 Jun 2004 10:10:16 +0000

Well boys and girls, I'm off to the hospital. I should be back online by Thursday or so. In the meantime, I've handed keys over to Jilbur and Mindy, so that they can pick up the mail and water the plants and let you know I'm alive... stuff like that. Let me just leave you with these parting words: reproductive organs? We don't need no steenkin' reproductive organs....

So far so good ...

Mir — Mon, 21 Jun 2004 19:03:22 +0000

Jilbur here with the first Mir status update! I got antsy and didn't wait for the email Mir told me expect, and yes, you can expect me to be that kind of guest blogger ... Anyway, I phoned the hospital myself, and as of now (around 3PM EST) she's still in recovery--but I'll follow up within the next hour or two to report that she's safely in her room! And! Nothing very entertaining! on this! guest blog entry! But stay tuned! I'd like Mindy and me to be able to truthfully say that we drove Mir's stats up while she was gone, because I'm certain that any increase in traffic will stay with her upon her return; so everyone do your part and refresh! refresh! refresh! Do I sound like Dr. Bronners yet! Okay!

Everybody breathe ...

Mir — Mon, 21 Jun 2004 23:11:36 +0000

I just got off the phone with the lead nurse on Mir's floor: she's in her room, sleeping. So--that's the end of Chapter 1 in the gripping saga, How I Went To The Hospital and All My Neurotic Friends Showed Me How Much They Love Me.

Whew!

Mir — Tue, 22 Jun 2004 16:32:36 +0000

Pant, pant... I am here at last, and as usual, Jilbur is a bit quicker than I am. Curse you and your New England ways!! I am soooo relieved to hear that Mir has come though OK, and that she so far does not appear to have a wrench or anything else left behind where it doesn't belong. We can only hope that her doctors read this article as well before starting in on her...

Data! we want data!

Mir — Tue, 22 Jun 2004 23:36:54 +0000

If this were my blog, I'd go on a rant about the incredibly annoying day I've just finished up on, but as I am supposed to be on my best behavior, I'll just say that here is the info that I would have posted three hours ago if I didn't instead have to play a maddening game of "Hurry Up And Wait" with my beloved, frequently enriched-by-me Firestone dealership: At about 3PM EST, I phoned Mir in her room and let me tell you, I was shocked, just shocked. She sounded ... GREAT! I haven't been this surprised since after labor when they put my baby on my belly, and it actually looked like a baby and not like one of those aliens in the Weekly World News. Anyway, it was a very brief convo because her pal was visiting, but my goodness, she's no cheap narcotics date, this girl: she sounded as alert on Vicodin as she would have been after a triple-double cappucino on a Sunday morning. And apart from the knowledge that she was no longer actually on an operating table, I got little else in the way of detailed info except: she's already had a little walk down the hall, even (next stop: the surgical-convalescent Olympics!), and that her doc said they thought that the state of her previous interior looked unmenacing. Innocuous. I don't know--I'm just a guest-blogger; fill in the good-news adjective of your choice. Mindy, I'm two up on you, girl. Not that I'm counting ...

Tussling Over the Convalescent

Mir — Wed, 23 Jun 2004 01:19:57 +0000

OK, Jilbur, that does it. I was going to comment on your entry, but since you are being sooooo petty, I am just going to make it into a post! Humph. I am very glad indeed to hear that Mir is chipper. I did let her know before her operation that I felt much better than I ever believed possible after each of my c-sections, and that her fears were probably worse than the reality. Having said that, heed my warning: do not stretch out the intervals between pain medication dosages. Payback is a bitch. Reading Jilbur's comment about Mir being out of bed already, I remembered all the cruel feats they expect you to perform after abdominal surgery. For one, they insist you get up and walk that very day, if only to the door and back. They try like hell to make you go further, but a loop to the door and back pretty much lets the nurse check that one off. For another, they will not let you have any kind of solid food until you can demonstrate resumption of peristalsis. That's right, you must fart for your supper. To quote Mir, you're welcome. The first time I heard this particular request, I was flabbergasted, and then amused. I finally asked a nurse why in blue blazes (as it were) eveyone wanted to know if I was farty, and she calmly informed me that once I was tooting again, they could be sure that my digestive system was operational and could tolerate an overcooked chicken breast and an oatmeal cookie. So, Mir, fart away, It's likely to be the last time you'll get to do it, boast about it, and be rewarded with food for your efforts. Unless of course, you decide to meet up with Jibur and me in the fall! We'll think up all kinds of fun feats and rewards!

Ow! Ow! Ow!

Mir — Thu, 24 Jun 2004 12:24:11 +0000

No, that's not me after surgery. That's me, at home, reading Jilbur and Mindy's posts and laughing so hard my stitches threaten to let go. *wiping tears* Tis true! I'm home! And I owe my girlfriends many thanks and trinkets of appreciation, for not only did they hold down the fort and make me sound ever so much more heroic than I actually am, but they also had a care package waiting for me upon my return home (damn, they work fast!) and I am just about the luckiest uterus-less lady in the world, I think. So there. If you simply must have all your reproductive organs ripped out, this is definitely the way to have it done. So, first: a round of applause for Mindy and Jilbur, please!! Yeah! Next: I am still a bit woozy and whiney, so I will regale you only with a few pertinent highlights for now, and save the rest for a later time, I think. But you've all been so wonderful to hang about and wait for updates, I have to share just a little bit.... 1) I actually had an argument with one of the intake nurses, while in pre-op, because she wanted me to sign a "sterilization authorization" release. Not a big deal, right? Except that my last surgery was an endometrial ablation and tubal ligation (say it five times fast). In other words, I've already been sterilized. She still wanted me to sign the form. I felt rather strongly that this is how people end up leaving the hospital with the wrong foot missing. We were at an impasse, and finally we were saved by a smarter nurse (and I didn't have to sign). 2) My anesthesiologist? So cute! I wanted to pinch him. All over. He wanted to talk about my nausea tendencies after surgery... I wanted to squeeeeeeeze him. My friend who was with me on surgery day asked me if I thought I'd seen a wedding ring, and I replied that I hadn't noticed, but that after the guy knocks me out and watches them pull out several misbehaving organs, it seeemed doubtful that a date would be in our future. Alas. 3) I remember NOTHING from post-op other than my doctor about an inch from my face saying very slowly "NO CANCER" (that was at my request), and a lot of "9, 9, 9!" (They ask you to rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10, and apparently I wasn't all that happy with the morphine to begin with.) 4) The hospital where I had my surgery has the nicest nursing staff in the world, and the worst food. To wit: one nurse, after waking me out of a sound sleep in the middle of the night because she had to take my vitals, gave me a back rub (a good one, too!) to help me get back to sleep. However, the three identical "clear liquid" trays I was served (despite Mindy's sound advice, it took me a while to get those toots going) were uniformly frightening. Chicken broth or beef broth... didn't matter... they were both just dirty-looking salty water. And yellow jello??? Who eats yellow jello? And once I'd graduated to solid food... well... I wished I hadn't. Ick. 5) There is no hormone patch in the world that will stop your emotions from taking a roller coaster ride. What Jilbur did not tell you about my first trek on two feet was that they got me up and I started to sob, and continued to do so until they put me back to bed. I have no idea why. And the two nurses walking me acted like it was perfectly normal. 6) My doctor, the one who had the habit of forgetting who I was or why I was there? Will now be granted sainthood. She was supposed to come by around 5 last night to discharge me... and as things usually go, it got later and later and now there was a question of who would come get me and when, and she was still willing to discharge me if I could make arrangements, but she discovered that my prescriptions needed to be filled that night because the floor nurses wouldn't be allowed to give me enough medicine to last til the next day. I then discovered that I hadn't brought my wallet, and the prospect of having to send a friend to fill a prescription for me when it was now getting to be quite late and everything... well... I may have gotten a little frantic. My doctor patted my arm, told me to sit tight, and said she'd be right back. She returned with my prescriptions. Which she'd just driven to the pharmacy to fill, and paid for herself. She told me to pay her back at my post-op appointment but not to worry my head about it. Nice, huh? Alright, that is all for now, as I am still quite tired and cranky and drugged. I am soooooo glad to be home in my own bed. And I am sending out huge gigantic thank-yous to Mindy and Jilbur for being such amazing hostesses in my absence... when I am no longer loopy I will come up with a more appropriate thank-you, but for right now you'll just have to settle for a teary "I LOOOOOOVE YOU GUUUUYS!!!"

Scintillating recovery news!

Mir — Fri, 25 Jun 2004 00:44:06 +0000

There is big news happening here in my house, and I know that there are hundreds--nay, perhaps thousands--of you out there, waiting with baited breath to hear every thrilling detail of my miraculous recovery. I do not wish to disappoint or even leave out a single marvelous detail of this riveting journey, so I am here to relay every moment with the full fanfare each of those moments so richly deserves. I am. I will. Just as soon as I pry the cap off of this bottle and take a couple more of these magic pills which take me from wanting to curl up and die all the way to giggling a little while I wonder if it might be a good idea to curl up and die. It's been kind of a long day. But the good news is, Lee and the missus have welcomed their newest bundle of joy! Stop reading my drugged ramblings here and go congratulate them! Anyway, back to my day. Well. It's been very exciting. My phone rings a lot, mostly when I'm sleeping. So I answer the phone and someone who loves me tells me how good I sound, and I play along until they stop talking. Then I hang up the phone and wonder who just called me, and then I fall asleep again. That's sort of fun. Then, of course, there is my very busy schedule of hobbling to the bathroom to pee because I can't remember if I've peed recently or not. It's very important to empty the bladder regularly so as not to get a bladder infection, you know. After abdominal surgery there would really be no way to know if you have a bladder infection, anyway, because everything already hurts so much there's no way you'd notice, but there ya have it. So that all keeps me very busy, but somehow I manage to sandwich in Puzzling Over Intake, too. That consists mostly of staring at the little bottles on my nightstand and trying to remember what I took when, and can I have some more now and if not, when can I? Also I hobble into the kitchen periodically and grab something and bring it back to my bedside and consider eating it because I suspect there is a large hole being burned into my stomach from all the wonderful meds I am taking without eating. I have all sorts of yummy foods here and they all taste like... yellow jello. I think my taste buds have been permanently scarred from the Liquid Diet experience. Oh, I also seriously considered taking a shower. That took up a good portion of my day. It merited serious consideration for an extended period of time. In the end, though, I opted for a nap instead. To compensate, I brushed my teeth about four times (that was easy enough, since I was in there peeing five hundred times, anyway). It's amazing how a full schedule like that can make a day just fly by. Will ya look at that... bedtime, already? Wow. Well, I am feeling a bit fatigued. I really shouldn't push myself, so.

Houston, we have... clean pits!

Mir — Fri, 25 Jun 2004 15:00:13 +0000

Another exciting day of progress here at Post Op Central. It is barely 11:00 AM, and I have been up! I have eaten crackers! I have had nice cold water! I have showered! I have shaved my armpits for fear of frightening visitors if I didn't! I have donned the silky soft loungewear that Jill and Mindy sent me! (I love them, the loungewear and the ladies, and I wish to marry them all!) I have seriously considered vomiting! But I haven't! Yet! Still considering! Stay tuned! I have a visitor coming in about an hour, which is probably just enough time for me to get downstairs and... ummmm... die... before she arrives. Anyone who leaves me a nausea-battling tip that works will win my undying gratitude....

Another exciting revelation... this one from the nurse on call

Mir — Sat, 26 Jun 2004 13:18:31 +0000

"Listen, honey. You're our least favorite kind of patient. You're young, you're healthy, and you tend to just not get it that you've just had major surgery and it's going to be a while before you feel yourself again." Well. That was edifying. Please allow me a moment to gather up my nausea, fever, pain, and--oh yes--my bruised and battered ego before meekly thanking you and hanging up the phone.... So that was yesterday afternoon, after which I did the smart thing, which was go to bed for the night. At about 4:30. It's quite amazing what fiften and a half hours of sleep can do for you. You don't really feel any better, afterwards; but there is security in the knowledge that you're about half a day closer to "normal," whenever that may be arriving. All the narcotics are now out of my system, and I am surviving merely on mega-doses of advil. I was hoping that would help with the nausea. And it did, a little. Problem is, it appears that the main source of my nausea is this teensy little satanic hormone patch on my ass. The same patch that will stop me from growing a beard, dying of osteoporosis at 40, and all those other good things. Yeah, that one. Apparently the other major function of that "practically invisible" little disk is to make me feel like I'm on an airplane stuck in turbulence. All. the. damn. time. I am puzzled as to what is so redeemingly feminine about chronic pukiness, but then, I've never really understood much of what it means to be a fetching female in today's society, so perhaps it will become clear to me later on. When I'm no longer walking around my house with a bucket for constant company. (By the way: so far, mint in various forms seems to be the forerunner for best combatant. I will think of some reward for whomever suggested it... probably just my slavish and undying gratitude.) Oh, I was also blaming the vicodin for the disturbing nightmares I was having, but I'm still having those, so I guess it wasn't the drugs. Several nights in a row I had really terrifying dreams about my daughter (never my son; I wonder why that is) and woke up in a sweat. Last night I was free from witnessing a freakish accident befall my eldest while I watched but couldn't act, but instead dreamt I was back in a junior high talent show and about to perform--as part of a very glittery and large-haired trio--a meaningful lip-sync routine to "Our Lips Are Sealed" by the Go-Gos. Granted, still nightmarish, but I am striving just to be pleased that it didn't involve my child. Small favors, and all that. In other news: I need to pull myself together by tomorrow. My children are coming home! It may be the hormones... in fact, let's go right ahead and blame it on those evil hormones, let's! But I got off the phone with my offspring last night and bawled like a baby. My son--who is quite possibly the most adorable boy-child ever to walk the planet and don't argue with me because anyone who has ever met him will tell that it is so--started doing the whole "I sending you lots of hugs! Here they come! You catch them? Don' worry, I got more here in my pocket, but I will take them out tonight so Grammie don't put them in the washing machine cuz then they get all gooey!" And I got a little sniffly. But he is a lovebug by nature, so I held it together, and sniffled bravely, and soldiered on. But then my daughter--little miss I am far too independent to require actual love unless I'm sick or have a booboo--told me she missed me and started making kissy-sounds into the phone. And I was a goner. Up until that moment, I'd been too busy either anticipating the surgery or dealing with the pain to actually miss them in a palpable way. But then, move over evil pukey hormones! There's a new bone-crushing force in town! And its name is "I want to hold my babies!" *sniffle* So. Then. Today will be about baby steps, and working my way back to human. I can do this. I will do this. Besides, I'm way too much of an anal perfectionist to be anybody's "least favorite kind of patient," dammit. I feel an Irene Cara song coming on! Oh wait, it's easy to confuse that with the nausea... hang on... okay, I'm alright.

Yay, yay, and hey--by the way--yay!

Mir — Sun, 27 Jun 2004 15:53:26 +0000

Yay 1: Despite a rather horrid night of asleep and not and nightmares and awake and general ikkiness, since rising this morning I have not considered vomiting even once. And I ate some breakfast, even! I mean, yes, okay; I still feel very much as though I was run over by a truck. But today I envision a small delivery van, perhaps something from FedEx Ground, rather than the large semi that had previously been featured in the Recurring Movie Of My Own Creation Explaining How I Came To Feel Like Complete And Utter Excrement. YAY! Yay 2: I was able to corral my brain cells into attending to an entire DVD this morning! (Yes, I am aware that I am quite possibly the only person the planet who had not yet seen it. Shut UP.) (Besides, this way, I'm well prepared, now, to wait another two years before seeing the next one....) (Did I mention, shut up??) I did one single activity--granted, I pretty much only had to sit there, but still--for two and a half hours. Up until today, post-surgery, I was pretty lucky to hold my attention to an activity for about two and a half minutes. Besides enjoying the movie, this gives me great hope that they did not, in fact, accidentally remove my frontal lobe along with my uterus and peripheral organs. And there was much yay-type rejoicing! Yay 3: The children will be landing in just a few hours, and I think I will have enough time to manage both a shower and a nap before they get here. At which time I am confident that I will smother them in so much ikky gooey Mama love that they will roll their eyes and beg me to stop. But not before I have kissed them a million gazillion times. It will be a lovefest of heretofore unknown proportions. And I will use every ounce of energy I can muster to drown them in a week's worth of pent-up maternal instinct, and when I am just inches from death, they will leave again. And I will go to sleep. And tomorrow I will get up, and perhaps feel even a smidge better, again, and then they will come back, to stay. And my parents will arrive. And I will be delirious with joy! I believe this is as close to perfect as life gets when there is an area of your body roughly the size of a basketball that is simultaneously numb and burning with the fiery heat of searing pain. Trust me.

Quotable Quotes

Mir — Sun, 27 Jun 2004 23:38:11 +0000

(Or, "The more things change, the more they stay the same".) Monkey: Nice Mama. *said while gingerly patting me all over, as if I were made of the most delicate porcelain, or perhaps hair-trigger explosives* Chickadee: Want me to sing you a song I learned? It's about my BUTT! Monkey: Mama, you need to be resting. I get you a blankie. Chickadee: I am not being fresh. I'm being mouthy. Both *upon viewing my incision, which they had clamored to see*: Eeeeeewwwwwww! GROSS!! Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

My 100th post: It's All About the Hair

Mir — Mon, 28 Jun 2004 15:58:09 +0000

How momentous to cross this esteemed barrier on such a scholarly subject! But that's just who I am... a woman who knows when to hold 'em, knows when to fold 'em... knows when to walk away... knows when to yap about my hair as if it were important. And I do it all for you, dear readers. Yes I do. So let's get to it, shall we? I have--I am told--gorgeous hair. It is thick and shiny and silky and curls into perfect corkscrews. And up until recently it was a beautiful mahogany; now it is a beautiful mahogany shot through with rather more silver than a woman of my age should have, but I think it adds character, don't you? (Plus I used to dye it, and I don't care what the big wall of hair color at Wallyworld claims, I will not find a perfect match to my color there no matter how long I look.) Just about everyone I have ever met has reached out and traced the path of one of my curls almost as if they couldn't help themselves, and proclaimed, "People pay all kinds of money to have curls like this! You are so lucky!" I am so lucky, that of course I started chemically straightening my hair the moment I could afford it. I hate my curls. Hate them with a passion! They frizz up in the heat and they dent in bizarre ways when I sleep on them and they tangle something fierce unless I keep it short, at which point I resemble a large poodle. I fought the battle of the curls longer than I could stand it, and then I discovered that I, Too, Could Have Straight Hair. It's quite simple, really. I pay an astonishing amount of money every three or four months to have my hair "relaxed" at the salon. This is a long and smelly process during which I read magazines and try not to pass out from the fumes and remind myself that I love having straight hair. After that, I return home. Where every other day I wash and condition and then gloop my hair with expensive straightening products, blow dry it out with my ionic hair dryer and round brush (the former costing about the same as a small boat; the latter running at about a week's worth of groceries), and proclaim myself pretty! The system works pretty well. The thing about having my hair relaxed, though, is that if I don't go through the blow-drying ritual, I am left with... uhhhh... sad hair. My poor hair is now shunned by both the Rebel Curlies and the Cool Kid Straights, stuck in a purgatory of in-between. The corkscrews are gone, but my hair still has significant wave. And thanks the combination of modern chemicals and the fact that most everybody has different types of hair on their head (that accordingly respond more or less to said chemicals), my hair is curlier in the back than in the front, where some rogue locks will actually hang stick straight with no prodding. It's a look that could only be most generously referred to as interesting. So by now, you have either wisely stopped reading, or you're thinking, "Hey Mir? Why are we talking about this? Why now?" And I assure you this is a very timely topic because I have spent an entire week in hair purgatory. Spending 25 minutes with your arms in the air, drying your hair section by section, isn't really on the list of Important Priorities after surgery. As you well know from my previous posts, taking painkillers, sleeping, and peeing are pretty much all I've been able to juggle this week. But as I have slowly improved I've managed a number of showers... after which I have watched my hair twist into some awful configuration and had only enough energy to combat it with a woman's best friend in times of need: the ponytail elastic. Well, my friends, I am here to tell you that yesterday I cleared a very important hurdle. I shaved my legs! Yes, I had to sit in the kids' tub to do it. Yes, it took a long time. Yes, I had a moment of panic afterwards when I realized I wasn't sure if I could, in fact, get out of the tub again. But by golly, I did it and lived to tell the tale. Now today, my dad and stepmom are arriving, and my children are coming home to stay, and really, the hair was the last obstacle between me and Some Semblance of Normalcy. When my head isn't in a bucket, nothing stands between me and my Semblance of Normalcy, dammit. So, behold! It is Semi-Normal Mir! Fully cleansed! With straight hair! In deep need of a nap, now, but Back To Herself (Kinda)! It's amazing how one little thing can make you feel so much more in control. And sooooooo exhausted. How many days do you suppose I can go without washing my hair again...?

"This is your conscience calling"

Mir — Tue, 29 Jun 2004 02:21:08 +0000

My conscience phoned me this evening. My conscience is, of course, a dear friend who knows me too well. It was early suppertime, and my father was being Super Grandpa and making french toast for the kidlets, and I was merely taking bacon out of the package and spreading it on a paper-toweled plate in readiness for the microwave. Then the phone rang. "Are you taking it easy?" she demanded. There I stood in my kitchen, phone in one hand, plate of bacon in the other, trying to open the microwave with my elbow. "Yes, of course. We're just making dinner for the kids." "We? I bet you anything your parents can do that themselves. You cannot push yourself! You need to be taking it easy! What are you doing?" "I'm... uhhhh..." I slammed the bacon in the microwave and used my free hand to drag a chair over to the phone. I dropped into the chair. "I'm sitting down! I'm fine!" Now my dad was laughing at me, and ever the ham for Daddy, I stuck my legs out straight in front of me. "It's okay! My feet are up!" Now my father was in virtual hysterics, I was giggling, and my conscience lectured on about how I will regret it if I do not take the proper care of myself during my convalescence. Can I tell you how much I hate it when my conscience (real or imagined) is right? It is 10:30 PM, and I haven't had a nap today, and I should be asleep. But I am awake, and writing this entry, because I had a fabulous day with my children and my dad and my stepmom, and I feel like I hardly did a thing other than sit or stand around, maybe the stairs a few times, maybe some very light lifting, maybe a little more walking than before, I don't know, and sweet lord Jesus I am in so much pain I cannot sleep. So along with the 72 other little informational stickers on the bottle about not operating heavy machinery, drinking alcohol, or driving while taking vicodin, they should add another little cheerful sticker, perhaps with a keyboard icon, stating that the amount of time for it to take effect so that you can close your eyes and rest is just long enough to write in your blog. And I thought, when I came up here to put my jammies on and such, that I was just imagining things or being a big wussy. (Both of which, by the way, may still be true.) But then I was getting changed and uhhhh... hmmmm... how do I put this delicately and in such a way that Genuine doesn't start begging for a picture of my pubes, again? Well, when in doubt, out with it. Okay. I have several new bruises in my incision area. And as my dear sweet Monkey only used me for a fulcrum once today in a way that brought tears to my eyes, and the affected area is not one sporting a new mark, I can only conclude that my extended time today upright and in motion caused some bleeding... uuhhhhmmm... somewhere under there. Which is disturbing, to say the least. But does perhaps explain the excrutiating pain. So now I am just completely screwed, because my conscience was right, and at some point my parents will read this and yell at me. But it is too much fun having them here and having the kids home to just lie around like an invalid! *grumblegrumblegrumble* *ow*

Snippets

Mir — Wed, 30 Jun 2004 02:23:22 +0000

Monkey hopped in bed with me at 8:30 this morning (much later than usual; divine) after making a very wide circle around the bed while soliloquizing as only a four-and-a-half-year-old can about how he was going to be so very careful not to touch my ouchie belly and be very gentle with his nice Mama. Then he got in bed and snuggled up and patted me for a while. Chickadee spent her day alternately mouthing off to me and clinging to me. I think I would like to understand what's going on in her head, sometimes, but then I realize that with this complicated little one my heart is better off not fully getting it. My skin hurts. Even in places it doesn't appear to be bruised. I am aggravated with myself for not healing faster (as if I could control that, because dontchaknow I don't have nearly enough reasons to beat up on myself; not being in control of my body's rate of healing is a failure worthwhile of my concentrated self-loathing). In the midst of what seemed like a very long day, I mustered what felt like my last ounce of energy, and walked down to the mailbox. I had six pieces of mail. They were all junk. I almost cried. After I got the kids to bed tonight, I collapsed into the sofa and finished the first book I've read since before the surgery. It may not have been my best choice, but I finished it (which felt good) and it's certainly a must-read for anyone feeling like life is hard or unfair. (Moral of the story: it could be much, much worse.) Although I am still doing too much, it is heavenly to not have to cook meals or clean up after them. And better still to have other adults around.

The Almighty Avocado

Mir — Wed, 30 Jun 2004 19:10:14 +0000

Today's entry is inspired by the Blogging for Books contest over at The Zero Boss. This week's subject is an act of compassion that changed your life. I had always wanted children. I was the kid who kept babysitting well into high school because I just loved being around little kids; and I was the sitter they all clamored for because I didn't talk on the phone and read fashion magazines, I played! Once I hit my twenties I became serious about seeking a man who was "mate material" and met my standards for being an excellent prospective father. I found the man who fit the criteria (I thought) and we were married in less than a year after our first date. We were both in grad school, and knew kids would have to wait a bit. But we were unanimous in our parenting goals: kids, and lots of 'em! The more the merrier! As many as we could afford; the sooner the better. We waited the prudent almost-year after marrying and then threw birth control to the wind. And waited. And waited. And saw doctors. And were told we were young and impatient. And we waited some more. And some more. And we told no one. Because it was somehow shameful, this. Not being able to get pregnant? At our ages? When we had played by the rules and been fine upstanding members of the church and our community? It didn't compute. And if we didn't talk about it, maybe it would go away. And every month I spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests, and every month my period came and I cried. And we told no one. And after well over a year, and having become somewhat numb to the entire ritual, I was late. And I tested. And it was positive. And my husband was thrilled, and I was terrified. We talked about it, and decided not to tell anyone until it was confirmed and documented and whatever else it is that doctors do to put a "genuine pregnancy" stamp on things. So I went to the doctor and she confirmed I was indeed quite pregnant. And we decided to wait just a little bit longer to tell folks; just give it a little bit of time to let it all sink in. So we waited. And life went on. And with each passing day I felt more excitement and less fear, until finally just a couple of weeks before the end of the first trimester we decided it was time to tell the world. We told our families. And I went to work and sent out a clever little email to my coworkers, inviting them to drop by my office for celebratory cookies. And my husband announced at his dissertation defense to the entire room that we were expecting. We divulged that this was not just any baby, but a long-awaited one, and we wanted to share our joy with everyone. And life was grand. And far too many of you know how this story goes, I'm sure. I started to spot, we had an ultrasound, and our fears were confirmed. No heartbeat. Arrested development weeks earlier, which---it appeared---my body was refusing to recognize and tend to properly. With the shock still settling in around me, I was scheduled for a D&C, after which I developed a serious uterine infection. There I was: home from work, living 3,000 miles from most friends and family, getting my first bitter taste of how my husband and I lacked the ability to support one another through a crisis. There was nothing to do but sit around and woulda-coulda-shoulda myself most of the way to insanity (the fever was helpful, there) as I wondered if I had just experienced my one and only pregnancy and would not, in fact, ever be a mother. Clearly my body was broken. I could not get pregnant; I could not stay pregnant. Hell, I couldn't even recover from a simple procedure like a D&C with a little dignity. A message was being sent to me, loud and clear. It was all so at odds with what I'd always thought to be true, I felt I was on the brink of madness. This, I was sure, was how people lose their minds. There is a level of cognitive dissonance from which one just cannot recover. I spent I don't know how many days trailing my fingers along that precipice, wondering when I would---inevitably---roll off. I was saved by a bowl of guacamole. My friend Andrea---a good and true friend, but a relatively new friend, at that time, from work---came over one afternoon as I lay listless on our sofabed, watching (sort of) television. I hadn't showered in days. I also hadn't eaten for several days, which I think my husband may have shared with her when she called prior to her visit. Anyway, Andrea showed up with a grocery bag, came and said hello to me in the living room, and then disappeared into my kitchen to make the biggest bowl of guacamole I've ever seen. Among her many talents, Andrea makes a mean bowl of guacamole. Once it was complete she came and plunked herself down on the fold-out bed with me and asked what we were watching (I don't remember). She brought the huge bowl of guacamole and an equally huge bag of tortilla chips, and a calming aura of complete and utter acceptance. She didn't ask me how I was. She didn't offer platitudes. She didn't seem ill-at-ease. She didn't try to cheer me up. And she came bearing one of my most favorite foods in the entire world. Since that day---years ago---I have met many other amazing humans who have gone way above and beyond the call of duty in my life. What is notable about Andrea and the guacamole is this: Andrea was single, and had no interest in kids. It had been a running joke between us that she utterly failed to understand why in the world I wanted this so much. When the boom fell and I was surrounded by well-meaning people who had Been There and Done That and still had a remarkable ability to say and do the most insensitive things, the person who pulled me from the brink had very little understanding of what I was going through. Maybe that's what made it easier for her; I don't know. All she knew was that I was hurting. She knew I was hungry for something I wasn't getting. And she knew that avocadoes would draw me out of my haze in a way that flowers and cards couldn't. I don't know how she knew what to do, but the simplicity of it was incredible. We ate most of the guacamole, and played cards, and talked about nothing. We did speak, briefly, of my grief. I should say, I spoke and she listened. She heard me. She was with me; nothing more and nothing less. By the time she left, I no longer felt crazy. Sad, yes. Disappointed, angry, confused; of course. Still wounded. But whole. A great while, two children, and many experiences later, I underwent a training course to become a Stephen Minister. It took me fifty hours of training to learn how to do what Andrea did for me those many years ago: listen, love, and just be there. (It is also worth noting that Andrea is a non-religious person; and as she is a fellow lover of irony I had to add that in.) In Stephen Ministry we are often characterized as "walking along" with a person in need. That is much more difficult for most of us than we realize. Had Andrea not done it for me, back then... well, even assuming I would've healed on my own (which I am not, by the way, convinced would've been the case), I would not have understood the necessity of this type of care. Now I aspire to it, all because of one bowl of guacamole.

Pity me!

Mir — Fri, 02 Jul 2004 13:39:41 +0000

I'd like to believe I've weathered the storm of major surgery and all that entails fairly well. I've whined, sure, but I think I've kept it to a minimum. I have walked even when I didn't want to, I gave up the narcotics early on and braved my way through with just advil, and I haven't asked for (much) pity. Well, now's the time. Last night, while my children were with their father, my father decided that I deserved a night out at a restaurant. A nice sit-down meal, at a place I wouldn't take the kids. (That part was easy. I never take the kids out to eat.) He is one swell guy, my dad. I love him to pieces. And I do not blame him for the fact that both my stepmom and I had a very unpleasant gastronomical reaction to the cuisine at the restaurant we chose, you understand. It could've happened to anyone. But let's face it, no one here is surprised that it happened to me. (Although I am sorry my stepmom was also afflicted, at least it saved me from searching the sky for my own personal cloud of locusts, this morning.) It was a very long night. I spent most of it trying to decide which pains were stomach-related and which were surgery-related, and wondering just how much of a masochist I would have to be to go ahead and take some advil when my stomach was revolting. Also I had a bizarre nightmare-I-thought-was-real-til-I-woke-up where my father insisted that my stepmother had to be taken to a hospital... 400 miles away. Like I said; long night. And the very saddest part of my sad sad tale that is so sad that you are in fact sobbing on my behalf this very moment? I missed the Haiku Smackdown for the second week in a row. Oh, the humanity!! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to walk outside. I suspect a large piano or maybe an industrial safe is going to fall on my head. Maybe I'll chance some advil, first. Edited to add: just in case a large object doesn't smush me like a bug, if you'd like to leave me Fact and Fiction Friday queries here, I'll address them tonight. No reason to miss that two weeks in a row, as well.

Oh, it's Saturday?

Mir — Sat, 03 Jul 2004 13:00:10 +0000

Poor Sheryl thinks I'm writing this from inside of the safe that fell on my head, because I didn't post again yesterday. It's okay, Sheryl! I'm here! Nothing fell on me! I slept most of the day. Boy, that sounds pitiful. Okay, yes, it's true; someone dropped an anvil on my head and I am bravely typing from the ICU.... I only got one Friday Facts and Fiction question, and continued to feel pretty gross yesterday, so I didn't feel in a huge need to come post. But to answer your question, Kym is the reason I started blogging. I've known Kym for years as part of a parenting after infertility/adoption group, and after I read her blog a few times I decided I wanted to be one of the cool kids, too (heh). When I "retired" from engineering back when Monkey was a baby, I did nothing but care for the kids for the first year. Then I realized that without something that was just mine, it was likely my brain would melt. I then spent about a year trying to launch a freelance writing career... which was starting to pick up momentum when my ex started falling apart. It was a brief and not very illustrious run. After reading Kym for a while, I realized I could use this as a way to get myself writing again (it's like exercise; I'd been away so long, I didn't even want to start, but it felt sooooo good once I got back into it). Unfortunately, life circumstances being what they are, I'll be heading back to a Real (Boring) Job in a couple of months as I've yet to have anyone offer me a multi-million-dollar book deal, but it's been a great outlet in the meantime. In other news: Chickadee's first grade class assignment came in the mail yesterday. She's been put with a teacher with a name that clearly dictates that the kids will be calling her Mrs. Last Initial (one of those names that looks like many of the vowels were stolen by rogues). Despite a few frantic phone calls to check with friends who are still in town on a holiday weekend, we so far haven't tracked down any friends in the same class. (Though we did hear several thumbs-up reports on Mrs. Last Initial as being an excellent teacher.) And I think I managed to distract Chickadee from the stress of not knowing if a friend would be in her class with extended hoopla over the supply list and bus instructions. Unrelated (switch gears with me, won't you?): Leave it to me to decide at 5:04 on the Friday of a holiday weekend that I need to get off this satanic hormone patch immediately, if not sooner. Bah. I'll be clinging to sanity and dry land until the office reopens on Tuesday; then I'll be relating my tales of seasickness and woe with as much pitifulness as is necessary to get my doctor to try me on something else. And now... just for Sheryl: a brief warning that I only have about 24 hours left to go before my folks leave, and as such I may not be posting again until after they go. Do not panic!

That blogroll meme thingie

Mir — Sat, 03 Jul 2004 18:20:20 +0000

Is it contagious? Apparently, yes. Seen at Genuine, Zoot's, and Mindy's... among others. There are TWO rules when answering these questions: 1) Only ONE answer to each. Of course its tough - thats the point! 2) Each blog/blogger may only be used ONCE What blogger inspired you to FINALLY start a blog? Kym What blog do you visit the most often everday? The Zero Boss, probably because he posts like 5 times a day. What blogger do you think you have the most in common with? Kira Which blog can you be sure will make you pee a little you laugh so hard? Miss Doxie Which blogger leaves you the best/funniest comments? Genuine What blogger do you wish would update more often? Jill, although I think we may have recently shamed her into doing so. Yay! Which blog do you wish more people would read? papernapkin Which blog do you learn the most from? Bakerina What blog is your newest addition? So The Fish Said Who has been on your blogroll the longest? Other than Kym, whom I'm not allowed to name again? Michele, I think. Whose blogroll would you LOVE find yourself on? Finslippy's, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't know/care that I exist. Whose blogroll were you the happiest to find yourself on? Lee's, and I haikued my little heart out to get there! (And if we're not talking about times that I shamelessly whored myself through Japanese verse and generally made myself an incredible pain in the ass until I was added, that would have to be Martha's.) If you could write like any blogger, who would it be? Amalah What blogger are you the happiest you've "met?" Miiiiiiiindy! Which blog do you recommend the most? ZOOT ZOOT (probably because I haven't let that stupid saying-her-name-twice thing die a natural death...) Who is the next person you'll add to your blogroll? Lauren Who is the blogger you hope to meet in "real" life? All of them. I can't pick just one, and you can't make me. So there. Which blogger you admire the most? Snowball, because she lets her ex live and if our situations were reversed he would be dead. Long dead. Who would you trust with your blog while you were away? During my surgery I turned the keys over to Mindy and Jill. Though there are certainly others I would trust as well. Which blog has your favorite design? Philip How many blogs are on your blogroll(s)? 27 at the moment.

Happy Aidan Day!

Mir — Sun, 04 Jul 2004 13:20:15 +0000

Happy Independence Day, my fellow Americans, and Happy Aidan Day to the Genuine Clan on the holiday birth of their third Genuine Kid. This news is so fresh, Gen hasn't even posted yet (I found out from the proud auntie)! Welcome to the world, little one.

The Sound of Squeaky-Clean Silence

Mir — Sun, 04 Jul 2004 21:53:41 +0000

Hear that? Neither do I. I'm alone, for the next 24 hours or so. Ordinarily a busy mom lucky enough to have a day of silence will barely be able to contain her glee, and I am usually no exception. Today, however, marked the end of a week of having my father and stepmother and kids all here together. Prior to that, I hadn't seen the kids for over a week, and hadn't seen my folks for several months. And now it's Sunday night; my least favorite day ~~ever~~ of the week. Grandma and Grandpa hit the road 'round lunchtime to a high-pitched chorus of "byebyeweloveyou!"s at the door. The kids headed off with their dad to see fireworks tonight and spend his day off tomorrow milking the Fun Daddy Entertainment Machine (patent pending) for the Bestest Fun Ever. (Good thing I'm so unbothered by that, wouldn't you agree?) And then there's me. I'm alone in a very empty house. I am also exhausted from the odd fusion of Second Post-Surgical Week with Blissful Week, and so will probably just spend most of my liberated hours sleeping, but right now... I'm gonna sit here for a bit and try to stare down the aloneness of my home. My father gets very uncomfortable when people "notice" him here on my blog. He once commented on a post and someone commented on his comment and he called me up all weirdly kinda-sorta-not-exactly perturbed about it (and has not commented, since). This post is going to make him famous, and grumpy. Sorry, Dad! I have to point out that my father is perhaps my biggest fan; not only supporting me in every choice I've made in my life (good and highly questionable alike), but in reading my blog faithfully and more or less telling everyone with whom he comes into contact to read it, too. I'm at a point in my life where I feel like I have screwed up one thing after another and he is still so proud of me, it's just plain embarrassing. But, okay; I have half his DNA. Then there's my stepmom. A part of our lives for the last ten years or so, no obligations to me or my children whatsoever, and I am hard-pressed to remember a time when she wasn't around. It would have been quite enough if she just made my dad happy (she does) and nothing more, but she's enveloped my little family in such genuine love and kindness (particularly when times were hard) that if my father is ever dumb enough to screw things up with her, I might have to hurt him. So, why am I telling you this? Without this exposition, my readers would surely believe this next bit was fiction, or at the very least, highly embellished. I swear on my children's heads that the following is 100% true. This week: I didn't wash a single dish. I didn't cook a single meal. We ate like royalty and the kitchen was always clean. My children had the time of their lives even though I felt like crap. I never shopped for groceries. I napped whenever I wanted to (well, 'cept that time we were taking Chickadee to a doctor's appointment and I was really wishing for a nap in the waiting room...). Instead of hearing "But Mama, why can't you?" I heard "I'm gonna go get Grandpa!" or "Grandma is going to do this with me!" My lawn was mowed. My flower beds were weeded. The hedges were trimmed. All of the laundry is done. My refrigerator and freezer and basement freezer are full of prepared foods. I was reminded to take my medicine. I was sent to my room to rest (and it didn't bother me one bit). I had adult companionship when I wanted it and a Get Out of Socializing Free card for when I didn't feel up to it. Chirping smoke alarm? No problem. A bag of fresh 9-volt batteries appeared as if by magic, because after all, if one is chirping we may as well tend to all of them. (Yes, for a brief and greedy moment I'd wished a big hunk of paint had fallen off one of the walls... that might've been interesting.) Also? Before they left? They cleaned my house. Now, I consider this a huge thing under any circumstance. But as my stepmom put it, she has a "high tolerance for mess." They have someone clean for them at home and so don't have to do this stuff very often. Don't you think that if you never even cleaned in your own house you sure as heck wouldn't be looking for other people's houses to clean? I wouldn't. Heck, I'd be all, "Well it was lovely being your personal slave for the week and everything, but I have to leave now and I put my towels in the hamper. Seeya!" But no. When they were finishing up and getting ready to leave, I was running around the house between the two of them trying to get them to stop cleaning. "No, don't vacuum there!" I pounced on my father. "That's... uhhh... the wrong attachment for that carpet. Plus we never use this room." "No, don't bother dusting," I answered when my stepmom offered. "I dusted right before I went in for surgery, and since I normally only do it every 6 months or so, really, don't worry about it." Because you know, all of this, it makes a person uncomfortable. Either I'm in the presence of people a whole lot nicer than me (likely, but disconcerting) or I'm dying (less likely, but even scarier), no? I felt like I had to try to stop them, or at least slow them down. I wandered from project to project--vascillating between wonderment and guilt and extreme joy--as my floors began to shine, the bathrooms sparkled and fairly oozed fresh un-bathroom-y scent, and the dishdrain in my kitchen which has been full of miscellaneous tupperware-type and other unidentifiable plastic things since 2001 was emptied. Did you know that if it's empty, you can in fact put things in the dishdrain and in a little while they will be dry? And then later, you can put those things away somewhere?? Neither did I! But the proverbial cherry on top... I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I tell you. If I hadn't walked in on this project already underway, I would've attempted to throw myself down as a human shield and prevent its execution purely to save face. (What face I had left to save after a week of excellent imitation of a large human slug I'm not sure, but anyway.) My stepmom cleaned my fridge. I don't mean she wiped down the outside or even that she wiped down a couple of shelves inside. I mean she took. everything. out. With bleach or sheer willpower (I'm unclear which) she cleared all surfaces of that gunk that you never know what it is but oh my God shove the 10-year-old nearly-empty pickle jar back into that corner and cover it up before it spreads! This woman was undeterred by my penicillin collection. She barely batted an eyelash over my fossilized guess-whether-it-used-to-be-a-fruit-or-a-veggie assortment in the crisper drawers. All I know is, there was a flurry of activity, and at the end? Cleaner than when it came from Sears. And we don't share genetic material or anything! That is LOVE, people!! So I may sit here tonight in an empty house, feeling a few woulda-coulda-shoulda pangs trying to creep in, but on the whole I'm feeling pretty darn warm and fuzzy. And you have to be a special kind of talented to feel even warmer and fuzzier each time you open the door to the fridge and stand there being chilled to the bone and yet so deliriously elated because it's so pretty inside you are afraid to touch anything. If you have a drink nearby, please raise a toast to my dad and stepmom. Short of, you know, not having had my body sawed open the prior week, nothing could have made this week better. I am humbled by and grateful for the blessing of these two in my life. I love you both and thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything. (I am also feeling like a serious wussy for not having followed through on my threat of stealing a sparkplug so you couldn't leave.) Your delightful presence would've been enough without all of the work you did, but that you're so darn fun to be around and you think of (and then do) everything? Unbelievable. Thank you.

The Sound of Squeaky-Clean Silence

Mir — Sun, 04 Jul 2004 21:53:41 +0000

Craptastic!

Mir — Mon, 05 Jul 2004 15:15:28 +0000

So, you know that fabulous hormone patch that I've just been raving about? The one that is causing me to lurch about my house as if I was on the deck of a ship caught in a tsunami? The one that has caused me to offer my soul to the devil, pleasepleaseplease if I just go ahead and vomit will you then stop making the house spin and move so, because there is only so much more I can take?? While laying crosswise on my bed and attempting not to regurgitate my breakfast, this morning, I decided to have a little gander at the information leaflet. "CombiPatch is meant to be used only by women who still have a uterus (who have not had a complete hysterectomy)." Next: put pamphlet down. Check hysterectomy scar. Check discharge paperwork. Note cartoon question marks and exclamation points that are now floating above my head. Suffice it to say I'm not feeling huge waves of confidence and warmth towards my doctor at the moment.

Craptastic II (That Sinking Feeling)

Mir — Tue, 06 Jul 2004 13:11:48 +0000

At 9:00 sharp I called my doctor's office... and found out that my doctor is in surgery all day. (I should have known this; Monday is her day in the OR--and the day I had my surgery--and yesterday was a holiday.) The chirpy woman on the phone assured me, as my voice rose in pitch and leaked desperation across the phone line, that she would give my message to "someone." Yes, someone. In the meantime, late last night I experienced the joy of my first hot flash. It was... sweaty. And this morning I have an inexplicable desire to kill kill kill but lucky for my children, this overriding feeling of being hung over (no, I have not been drinking) will render me too slow and crabby to act on it. "This just in on Newscenter 5... we are receiving reports of a woman in a small New Hampshire town walking into a Target pharmacy and holding the pharmacist at gunpoint... no, wait... not gunpoint... witnesses are reporting a complicated small utility weapon resembling the Rocky Canyon Rescue Hero grappling hook... anyway... she has taken the pharmacist hostage and is said to be screaming something about hand over the estrogen and nobody gets hurt.... Tune in later for the complete story at 11!"

And that's why it's important to floss

Mir — Tue, 06 Jul 2004 18:00:56 +0000

I used to go to the dentist every six months like clockwork. I was never afraid of going; I enjoyed the feeling of squeaky-clean teeth and never had a cavity and found the whole process rather soothing. (I had years of orthodonture, you know. You never escape one of those visits without something being twisted, tightened, or otherwise painful. Bi-yearly cleanings are a cakewalk.) Then in grad school I started falling off the dental hygiene bandwagon... no time, no money, my teeth look fine, I brush twice a day.... Then at some point the ex more or less got up one morning declaring that we must go to the dentist! and before I knew it, we had back-to-back appointments at a local office. Dr. Braces (I do not remember his real name, but I do remember that he had a mouthful of braces) was young and enthusiastic. Emphasis on young. It is my firm belief that no medical professional should ever be younger than myself. And this incident was ten years ago, which puts me in my early 20s, so imagine my panic. What, is this Doogie Dentist, D.D.S.? And he wants to put sharp pointy things in my mouth? I tried to soothe myself with the knowledge that surely Dr. Braces was older than he looked (please, God). And I tried not to be creeped out by how excited he seemed about my teeth. And I let him clean my teeth and poke around in my mouth. Well, Dr. Braces had some bad news for me. "You see, Mir," he explained, barely able to contain his excitement, "years of using hard-bristle toothbrushes is starting to wear down the enamel on your teeth and cause your gums to recede just a bit." He paused for me to soak in this information, but then rushed on with great glee, "I think we need to have you come in for a deep sub-gum cleaning! The receptionist will make your appointment!" Then he danced around the room a little while explaining that he would numb my gums and then peel them back a bit and clean deep at the base of my teeth. Maybe I was on drugs. I'm not clear. I returned for the deep cleaning, marvelled over how I truly couldn't feel a thing, and went home. About an hour later the novocaine wore off and it felt like someone had hit me in the mouth with a sledgehammer. For about a week. I had the predicted mature adult reaction to this train of events: I stopped going to the dentist--any dentist. Fast forward to last week. The ex called to ask me to meet him at the dentist's office with the children on his assigned afternoon. The kids had appointments and it made his life easier to meet there rather than for me to bring them to his place and then him drive to the office with them. No problem. (Yes, the children go to the dentist regularly. What sort of mom do you think I am?) Then the ex said, "You know, they're really super nice and very gentle at this office. You should make yourself an appointment while you're there. You'll like them." My ex is funny that way. For the better part of three years I was more or less either invisible or infuriating, to him, and here he is concerned about my teeth. Genuinely concerned. And urging me to go in because I need to, and it's free (on the dental insurance he carries for me). He is nothing if not weird. Anyway, I thought about what he said. I was still thinking about it when we got there (my dad had to drive since I was still only a week post-op). I asked how far out they were scheduling introductory appointments and after a glance at the computer screen the lady behind the counter said "probably six to eight months." Perfect! Plenty of time for me to cancel! I started filling out my paperwork. I flinched a little when I filled in "1994" as "date of my last dental visit." Imagine my shock when I turned in my paperwork and was happily informed that they'd just had a cancellation; how about next week? OH GOD NO! my brain screamed. "Sure, that sounds great," my traitor mouth replied. Crap. Crap crap crap crap. I do not WANT to go to the dentist!! Well next week was, in fact, today. I have this theory, and it's a completely stupid theory, but it goes something like this because I am a very slow learner: When life is feeling kinda gross and sucky, why not do yet another gross and sucky thing in an effort to distract oneself from the original suckitude?? (See how that makes no sense whatsoever?) It's okay that I have to go to the dentist! I told myself. It will keep my mind off the nausea and hot flashes! Yay! Yes, my first post-surgical stint behind the wheel of my car was to the dentist. How pitiful is that? (Yes, I remembered how to drive, and the car started.) A Happy Hygienist got me started, and she was sooooo happy I wanted to slap her, but I didn't, because I am a wonderful person. Also, she took me to a machine which takes a panoramic x-ray of your jaw that wasn't entirely unlike a mini-MRI tube for your head, and I was afraid that if she smelled my fear she would leave me in the machine to die. She managed to maintain her joyful happiness through the entire appointment, even when I confessed that "1994" was in fact the correct date and no, I don't ever floss. "You must floss sometimes!" she chirped. "No, I mustn't," I replied. "I brush. Often. But I do not floss." "Why not?" "It hurts." "It shouldn't!" she cried in horror. "That's what I thought, too. So I don't do it any more." You could tell she thought I was quite the enigma. Oh dear. So. She scraped some stuff off my teeth, continually telling me how for ten long years of accumulation this really wasn't bad at all, and then she polished me up with cherry-flavored gunk, and then made me hold the mirror and watch while she flossed my teeth. "See all that blood?" I said. "That's why I don't floss. Ow." "If you flossed regularly you wouldn't bleed!" (Ya know, they always say that. I think it's a scam, myself.) Then Happy Hygienist took the little measuring tool and measured my gum loss in several places. Which seemed bad. And was, as it turns out. Dr. Serious came in, then, to look over my teeth and talk to me About My Dental Health. He declared two cavities in need of filling. When I was visibly bothered by that, he rushed to assure me that only two cavities at my age is not that big of a deal, they're both small, and they're both in molars I've had for over 20 years. He then examined one tooth extensively and announced that he was going to refer me to a periodontist for the gum loss along this particular tooth, because it may well be in need of repair. I asked how such a thing is repaired (I'm new to this, remember; I used to think all the dentist did was make your teeth shiny). He said there are "a variety of available methods" but that his guess is that it will require a "graft of some sort." That's when I fell out of the chair. Well, no, I didn't, but I probably would've if I hadn't been lying down, already. I also resisted the urge to stick my fingers in my ears and cry, "I just had surgery and you can't make me and I can't heeeeeeear you, LALALALALA!" He then went on to ask me if I ever clench or grind my teeth. I said, "I have two small children, what do you think?" Dr. Serious--being a serious sort--didn't seem to find that very amusing. But then he went on to say that depending on what the periodontist says/finds/does I may need some sort of nighttime mouthguard to prevent further gum loss due to excessive jaw-clenching. The moral of my cautionary tale? ~~Don't go to the dentist.~~ Floss your teeth every day.

Karma smiles a little... on my butt

Mir — Tue, 06 Jul 2004 21:54:08 +0000

My doctor called me as soon as she was out of surgery. I described my symptoms and she said (wait for it...): "Well that sounds awful. You shouldn't use that patch!" Thanks, Sherlock. So I am now wearing a new, progestin-free, estrogen-only patch on my hiney. It is not the Vivelle Dot, so it is approximately the diameter of a softball, but fortunately 1) my buttocks are quite ample enough to accommodate and 2) no one sees it but me (right now; probably for the forseeable future; okay I have to stop thinking about this now before I cry). Should this patch give the desired result, when I go for my post-op appointment I'll ask for the reduced acreage of the Vivelle Dot. Also I will ask why she prescribed me something that specifically stated it was not appropriate for my condition. But today, I was all about thank you and you're so great, because I wanted a new patch before I killed someone. Answers will have to wait. For now. Follow-up report on my level of seasickness to come in a few days....

The Good, the Bad, and the Unbelievable

Mir — Wed, 07 Jul 2004 17:26:06 +0000

Happiness is:

snuggling with both (happy) children in bed this morning before getting up
a trip to Target
finding really nice "not recognized by system" sheets that should've been salvaged and getting them for $7.49
getting some fresh air
having the energetic, limber, 14-year-old sitter come by to run the childred ragged while I take a nap
someone from church calling to say they have some meals to drop off for me and the kids.

Happiness is not:

nerves deciding to start regenerating in places that still hurt
pushing two kids in a grocery cart, even if only for 20 minutes
having a small boy pounce on me from behind and then declare, "Why you owing? That's your back, not your belly!"
another migraine
realizing the coffee I had with my migraine medicine was rather too close to the proposed naptime.

Huge happiness mixed with incredulity is:

following the incredible saga of a long-time internet friend (who is going to kill me when she reads this) who appeared to be suffering from a mysterious disease for the last few months and did, in fact, give birth to a perfectly healthy baby boy a couple of days ago and didn't know she was pregnant until a couple of hours before he was born.

Does she have a face?

Mir — Thu, 08 Jul 2004 02:00:37 +0000

As is my custom on an evening when I'm feeling too yucky to read or do anything else productive, I turned on the TV. And I've just caught the last twenty minutes or so of Picture Perfect. Can I just admit here that I have no idea what Jennifer Aniston's face looks like? Honestly. And I watched "Friends" for years. And she seems to be in every dumb movie I come across. I see her all the time. I have no idea what that woman's face looks like. If it was shown to me in a line-up, I'm not sure I could pick it out. The first issue is her hair. Her. perfect. hair. Hair I covet, in a scoffing "sure if I wanted look perfect" kind of way. Have you heard about me and my hair? I may be a little obsessed. I know this. Regardless. This chick's hair cuts diagonally across her face in such a way that it never obscures her vision, yet always looks vaguely sultry and polished. My hair never does that. No one's hair really does that, right? Right?? I want to kill her. Kill her, and steal her impossible hair for my very own. (She also doesn't have any grey, because she's not a bitter unemployed divorced mother to two, plus her foils probably cost the same as my mortgage. Still, that's really no excuse.) The second issue I don't understand. The hair thing... okay, it comes down to envy. Makes sense, I suppose. In a pitiful loser sort of way. But this other thing; I can't explain it. Her boobs are fake, right? They are positively mesmerizing! (I am heterosexual and normally breasts do not demand my attention this way. Please help me.) They don't move. I strongly suspect her of wearing a bra of coconut shells. And yet, in every scene, if my eyes stray from her hair for even a moment it is to behold the unmoving, consummate roundness that is her freakish bustline. Also she's one of those Lily Nipples types (always in "bloom"). Is it very cold where they film? Are there marbles glued to the front of the coconuts? Tomorrow when I reread this post, can I blame it on the hormone patch...?

I want my MTV!

Mir — Thu, 08 Jul 2004 14:54:22 +0000

Sadness. Deep, dark, depressive sadness. I live a life of sacrifice, frugality, and chastity. Really all that is left to me is television and maybe ice cream. Do these people not understand that they are toying with my emotions by screwing up my television?? Prior to this morning, I owned a perfectly serviceable, if somewhat old, television. Recently the sound on this unit had started to go kind of wonky (yes, that's the technical term). You'd be sitting there, watching TV, not a care in the world, and then you'd hear the voice of Charlie Brown's teacher coming through the speaker. Your chosen program would still be on, but the audio track would switch to "Wah wah wah wah wah? Wah wah wah! Wah wah wah." It was disturbing, to say the least. I handled this turn of events as I handle all matters involving potential expenditures. I declared that we were in need of a new television. I declared that I would, in fact, be buying a new television very soon. And then for months I kept an eye on the ad circulars and tried to convince myself that "wah wah wah" didn't sound all that bad with most of the stuff I watch, anyway. I was waiting, you see, for the Perfect Television. The Perfect Television had a few requirements. First, I have a smallish entertainment center which will accommodate--in theory--a unit up to 27". But as most new TVs are now sporting side speakers which greatly increase the overall size, I was looking at either finding the elusive 27" set without side speakers or sacrificing screen size to get the thing into its assigned position. Next, I figured that if I was springing for a new TV, I should probably move up a notch on the technology ladder and get one with a flat-tube display. No point in buying new old technology, right? But that poses the problem of the last consideration, which is that I do not like to spend large sums of money. So we've been putting up with "wah wah wah" for quite a while. While my parents were here, there was many a Television Debate in which I insisted that yes, I was going to purchase one very soon, I was still deciding, but really, almost there. And then the 4th of July circulars came, and lo and behold, there it was: a 27" flat-screen television without side speakers. For $250. And free delivery. Far be it from me to malign one of the corporate electronics giants. I will refer to the store in question as Excellent Purchase, and I'm sure their anonymity will be protected. I ordered. I scheduled my delivery. They arrived precisely on time this morning, and I batted my eyelashes and said I'd just had abdominal surgery and am prohibited from heavy lifting, would they be kind enough to bring it in for me? And remove the other television? The delivery guys were very nice. The new unit fit into the entertainment center as if it had been built specifically for it. They turned it on. And then all three of us adults said, "Oh. Look at that line down the left side." (Simultaneously, the two underage ones chorused, "I wanna watch this!") Yes, a fuzzy line down the left-hand side of the picture. On my brand. new. television. They had already removed the "wah wah wah" TV to their truck. They suggested I keep this one "for now," and have them swap it for another unit, which I could arrange through my local Excellent Purchase store. The defect was noted on the paperwork. I tipped the delivery guys (it wasn't their fault), and they left. Then the fun began. I called my "local" (still a toll call for me, by the way) Excellent Purchase. Where after three attempts I had spent a total of 24 minutes on hold and never spoke to a human. Strike one. I called the website's 888 number, where I was connected to a rep who told me she would transfer me to service. I emphatically stated that I was not in need of service, I was in need of replacement. Oh yes, she said, I know. But Service may know some trick for you to try. Ummmm... okay. Service? Wanted to know why the hell I was calling them about a television I'd owned for 30 minutes. They told me to call Daewoo. (I told you it was a cheap television. Shut up.) I called Daewoo technical support, and they told me (surprise!) that the store should give me a replacement. Strike two. Back to the Excellent Purchase 888 line, where I spoke to a woman who was either very drunk or possibly a succubus. Well, she supposed they could replace it, but I really shouldn't have accepted delivery in the first place, and she can't schedule it for me because the only way to handle this is to schedule a return and then place a reorder, which can't be done for at least 24 hours because... ummm... it may have had to do with the alignment of the planets, I don't know, or maybe she was just pissed off that I interrupted her while she was busy feasting on someone's spleen. And when I made it clear that I don't think "free delivery" should mean "stay home three entire days while we attempt to correct our mistakes while making no apologies" I was met with... silence. Strike three! I may get my replacement; I have to call again tomorrow (I think I'll have a vicodin, first). But you can bet your fanny I won't be shopping at Excellent Purchase ever again. Pbbbbllllt. I am going to need extra ice cream tonight during "Whose Line Is It, Anyway?" I tell you.

I want my MTV!

Mir — Thu, 08 Jul 2004 14:54:22 +0000

I'd like to thank The Academy...

Mir — Thu, 08 Jul 2004 15:53:35 +0000

... because it's such an honor just to be nominated. Jay has selected the seven finalists for the first Blogging For Books competition, and I made the cut. It was a lovely warm-fuzzy to find on an otherwise annoying morning, so thank you, Jay! I really enjoyed both writing for the contest and reading all the entries. When's the next one?? (Edited for the confused, to add: No, it's not over. Andrea Buchanan will be selecting the final winner, who will then receive a signed copy of her book.)

It's almost Friday...

Mir — Fri, 09 Jul 2004 01:24:18 +0000

... and you know what that means! Leave me your queries for Fact and Fiction Friday in the comments below, and I will address them tomorrow. If you're new to this, here's how it works: you, my readers, leave questions of any sort (it has tended to be nosey questions about my life, but you can ask anything). I then answer them. Sort of. Well, I always answer them. Sometimes I tell the truth, and sometimes I don't. (Get it? Fact and Fiction, see how that works?) Sometimes I tell you whether I'm being truthful or not and sometimes I don't. Sometimes it's amusing. Sometimes it's lame. Sometimes no one asks anything, and then I cry. For hours. So leave your questions, dammit.

Fifth Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 09 Jul 2004 16:01:52 +0000

I love how threatening to be even more pitiful than usual just draws the questions out of everyone. It doesn't make me feel like a melodramatic attention-demanding freak at all. Really. Let's get to it before I think about that for too long, mkay? Genuine asks, how can he keep one sibling from killing the other, or--perhaps more importantly--him from killing them both? Thanks for asking, Gen! I love when people give me parenting advice, and so will seize any oppotunity to dispense some, myself. Preferrably of the sort that makes me look like a cross between Carol Brady and Mother Theresa, and makes the questioner feel like primordial pond scum who foolishly reproduced through mitosis while thinking about... ummm... nothing. On account of being single-celled. (Fiction. I hope.) My kids have a couple of years on yours, but what I have found to be true is that no matter how badly they are nudging and annoying each other, they prefer being together to being apart. A simple "if you cannot play nicely together you will be separated" is often enough to head off trouble around here. When it isn't, they play alone in their rooms for a bit, and whine and cry about how they want to play together. The following reunion usually goes more smoothly. (And if that doesn't work, that's why God invented DVDs.) As for you? Take a deep breath, walk away, count to 10; do whatever you need to do to remember that someday you will look back on these frustrations with fondness. (Fact.) Zoot wants to hear about my most embarassing moment, but there are soooooo many to choose from! Well, my neighbor came over while we were playing outside last week, and we sat and chatted, and after a while I asked how her husband was doing because I hadn't seen him in a while. She said I hadn't seen him because they were getting divorced and he moved out several months ago. Oops. Or there was the time in college (when I lived in a curfewed dorm) when my roommate and I had the munchies really badly (because... ummmm... cuz we were just hungry. yeah.) and the only vending machines were in another building, so we ran across campus, after-hours, in our pajamas, in search of food... and were caught on our way back through our window, still laughing our asses off. Bummer. How about the time when I was still working as an engineer, when Chickadee was a baby, and a coworker opened up my closed office door--thinking I was out to lunch, and wanting to leave some papers on my desk--only to behold me sitting at my desk, eating a sandwich, with my double-electric pump slurping away as it jutted out from my bra? Ah, memories. (I will leave it as an exercise for the reader to determine the truth of the preceeding.) Zoot also wants to hear about my dream date. Egads. Oh, it involves windswept strolls on the beach, diamonds and fast cars, and a Fabio look-alike who adores me and spends endless gobs of money on me. (*gag*) I haven't been on many actual "dates." Part of that is because I got married too damn young, and part of that is the whole college/grad school "hanging out" mentality where no one has any money, anyway. My ideals involve the person, not the setting. And apparently those ideals for the person--which I'd thought were reasonable before I realized that most people are selfish idiots--are such that I'm about as likely to get that dream date as I am to meet Santa Claus. Know a nice single guy with a great sense of a humor who loves kids and bright but neurotic women? Send him my way, and I'll tell ya all about our date! (I'm serious. Send him now. No, don't. Crap.) mc uncloaked from lurkdom long enough to ask how and/or when did I know I wanted kids. Right about the time the contractions started, I knew.... (Fiction! Fiction! Be right back; I have to put more money in the kids' therapy fund....) As I've discussed on here before, I am the sort of masochist who always wanted kids, even as a child myself I was always enchanted with little ones. So the "how" was easy, for me. The "when" was a bit more complicated (both in deciding and because we faced fertility issues), but the criteria there included the obvious like being married, having enough money for diapers, etc. For those who haven't always desired offspring, I have no idea how you decide. I know folks who swear "there's never a perfect time" and "once you do it you rise to the task" and that may be true, for some. On the other hand, I know people who truly believe themselves incapable of the sacrifices parenthood calls one to make, and I think that's a worry worth heeding. One of my parents felt very deprived of, heck, I don't even know what... something... due to the impact of us kids, and it colored (still does) our relationship. Kids know when they're viewed as burdens. I may rant about my kids, sometimes, but I cannot imagine my life without them, and they are the highest calling I've yet to experience and I hope they always know that. (Fact. When did I turn into such a sap?) Busy Mom wants to know the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow... ... but she neglected to return and clarify which type of swallow she meant, so I'm going to have to demand that she bring me a shrubbery before I can answer. Amy had a lot of fun with some wine last night and professed her love for me, wanting to know only if I loved her in return. My dear, I love you as much as is possible without it becoming weird and scary and causing your husband to file a restraining order. (Fact.) Also I am thinking of moving to my own domain, and am seriously considering naming it Miralah.com. Just because I want to be cool like you. (Fiction. Well, the site name. I really do want to be as cool as you!) Pam wants to know if I have any extra digits or extremities, and if so, are they creepy? How did you know? I have a third nipple. It's on top of my left foot, which came in handy when I fell asleep nursing in the rocking chair and dropped the baby on the floor. (Fiction. No need to call the cops.) Sorry, nothing extra. I'm plenty creepy with just the requisite number of appendages. (Fact.) Julia wants to know why I'm too chicken to consider lasik. It's very simple. I feel that if a surgery doesn't result in the removal of actual organs, it's not worth my time. (Fiction.) It's very simple. Lasik involves having your eyeball sliced open while you are awake. And there is huge chance of improved vision, but also a small chance of blindness. All in all, not my idea of a good time. (Fact. Ick.) Lisa wants to know if I feel like I'm wasting my life on domestic chores and would I like to join her Lifewasters Anonymous support group? Yes, and yes. Crap. That wasn't very anonymous. Mad wants to know if I would ever consider marrying again. Welcome to Friday Facts and Fiction, Mad. I'm going to guess this is your first one, because someone asks me that almost every week. Not that it makes me feel like a lonely loser, or anything. No, really. It's okay. I'm not crying, there's something in my eye! (I'm sorry; it had to be done.) Under the right circumstances (and no, I don't know what those are, as they've yet to present themselves), yes, I would consider it. It seems very unlikely for the near future, though. (Fact.) I love Debby, but she is a wiseass. She wants to know the true meaning of life. Say it with me, everyone... 42. Suckah. Jennifer asks three questions, but I'm skipping the book one since I've already answered that twice. So... ... how did I choose my children's names? Why, do you have a problem with me naming them Chickadee and Monkey? Well, do you?? (Oh, you figured out those aren't their given names? Dang.) I am crazy into the meanings of names. Perhaps because the traditional translation of Miriam is "bitter" (despite modern baby-naming books trying to soften it up by claiming it means "strong" or "stubborn"). Chickadee was conceived after years of infertility, one definite miscarriage and a couple of probable ones... and the same week my grandmother died. I am convinced my Grandma made ordering up my mini-me her first order of business in Heaven. I was determined to name her after my Grandma Rose. But we needed a middle name, too. On an infertility listserv I belonged to at the time, a long-time member popped in to announce the joyful news of having adopted a little girl, named a beautiful and unusual name I'd never heard before, but reportedly meaning "God has answered me." I proposed this name to my then-husband, and it turned out that we both liked it so much, we used it for her first name (her middle name is Rose). It suits her, and I don't think Grandma Rose minds a bit. With Monkey, again we delved into the baby books and debated the various meanings. We quickly settled on a less-common name that means "he laughs." (Never was a name more perfect; this boy has the most frequent and jubilant laugh of anyone I've ever known.) That left us to months of debating his middle name. The ex wanted Matthew, but both the chosen first name and our last name have two syllables, and--as I cautioned Genuine during the hot debates to name baby AJ--a repetitive syllable pattern (in this case, 2-2-2) often sounds weird. We finally negotiated down to using Matthias, which was "close enough" and solved my obsession with the syllable thing. Both children also have initials that form words. We did that on purpose. We're weird. (Fact.) ... what is the best part of my day? Breakfast. Or lunch. Maybe dinner. Or any time I'm having a snack. (Fiction, honest.) This is a tie between waking and bedtime. Monkey hops into bed and snuggles with me in the morning, and provided that he isn't too starving hungry or carrying a load in his pull-up, this tends to be an awesome one-on-one time for us. Conversely, Chickadee is not a morning person, but often causes me to melt into a large puddle all over her room at bedtime with some random profundity. It's easy to let the hustle and bustle of everyday get me caught up in enduring my life rather than enjoying it. Those precious "just being" moments with my kids bring me back to what's important. (Fact.) Regular Cinderella want to know if I'm pretty when I cry, which I think officially makes her weirder than me. In the category of the-truth-is-stranger-than-fiction, I'll go for full disclosure: When I cry, my normally hazel eyes glow electric green, my nose turns bright red, and my smattering of freckles are intensified on the background of whitest-white-mixed-with-angry-red-splotches. This may be why people ask me questions on Friday rather than risk me crying. It may also be why--when I caution the children "don't do that unless you want to make me cry"--Chickadee shrieks with glee, "Do it! Cry! Mama looks crazy when she cries!" Janet wants to know why lilacs smell so good. That's a great question. I can only guess their amazing scent is designed to offset any irritation generated by the incredible mess the petals tend to make. Shiz asks why do people get sick when they travel, why did the dinosaurs die, and where is the hidden treasure? Air is recirculated on airplanes and therefore if anyone on board has some germs, you'll be breathing them; everyone knows the real reason dinosaurs became extinct; and if I had any idea where the treasure was I sure as heck wouldn't be sitting here blogging when I should be on Monster finding myself a job. (Yeah, I know my answers are getting shorter. I'm getting hungry.) (Truth, kinda.) Shelly wants to know why fools fall in love. Because they're fools. Duh. Alrighty... thank you all for playing! For some reason, although I fed them just a few short hours ago, my children seem to think they need to eat again, so it's time for me to go. I hope that you enjoyed this week's installment as much as I did. And that you have all vowed never to shop at Excellent Purchase even though this morning I did manage to get the TV debacle somewhat straightened out.

"... all my life i've been searching for something, something never comes never leads to nothing..."

Mir — Sat, 10 Jul 2004 00:38:24 +0000

Really, I am only doing this post to cheer up Zoot and show her she's not the only freak magnet out there. As we all know by now, there are plenty of freaks to go around! Also, between Friday Facts and Fiction and hitting the grocery store today, my energy is pretty well tapped out. (Yes, ladies and gentlemen--nearly 3 weeks post-op, and I still possess the energy level of your average door stop.) So, behold! A smattering of searches that have led folks to my blog this month: "diet drinks sodas unhealthy for kids June 2004" Oooookay. Which is more puzzling? The fact that someone is searching the internet about something so obvious, or that there's a date inserted as if perhaps it's new news? Hmmmmm. What's next? "guns kill people July 2004"? "grow your teeth July 2004" This had to be the same person, right? Please? If there's more than one person like this out there, I'm afraid. "magnesium citrate pleasing lemony flavor" My theory is that this was this person's second search. The first one was "magnesium citrate nauseatingly sweet yet bitter lemony barf flavor," but it didn't turn up any hits. "groper site:blogspot.com" I'm a little terrified that there were 176 matches for this search. I'm even more terrified that my site is on the second page of results. Eep. "dental deep cleaning scam" Oh yeah, a few days after relating my joyful dentist tale, seeing that on the list made me feel all warm and fuzzy. "burnt bagels" I'm number four! I'm number four! I'm number--huh? What's that? Yeah, that is a weird thing to search on I guess. Do you suppose the searcher was mad when they discovered my entry had very little, if anything, to do with bagels (burnt or otherwise)? "side effects of a sonohystogram" Okay, it's becoming obvious that there's not a lot of information available on the internet about sonohystograms, because I average about 3 searches a week that include that infernal word. But this poor sap? May now believe that the side effects might include: total abdominal hysterectomy (with bilateral salping-oophorectomy; say it five times fast!), broken TVs, coconut bras, and gum disease. But if they think that, they deserve it. ... and my personal favorite... "woulda" It may be my favorite because I'm the first Google hit. Or it may be my favorite because pondering what this person was hoping to find makes me giggle. A lot. I have to go now, cuz I just did a search on Google for "the" and it's probably gonna take me all night to get through the results....

Help me; for I am sad and pixelated

Mir — Sat, 10 Jul 2004 03:18:30 +0000

Tonight I had a brilliant idea. And it was the following: Hey! In spite of never letting anyone take my picture--hence the paucity of pictures of myself that Don't Completely Suck--once a couple of years ago I had to have my picture taken for the paper. And I behaved! And wore lipstick, even! And I think I still have that picture! And wouldn't that picture be nifty on my blog? Only, it isn't nifty at all, for BlogSpot is evil. BlogSpot takes my bee-yoo-tee-ful picture of me, and shrinks it down in such a way that I am actually scary in the thumbnail to the right. So I have tried and tried to make a version of this picture that is exactly the teeny-tiny size that BlogSpot craves, so that it will not smush and pixelate and distort my poor self so, but BlogSpot is not deceived, and it continues to contort me no matter what I offer it. Why? Why does BlogSpot hate the One Only Sorta Kinda Decent Picture Of My Head that I have? How can I make it stop hurting me? I have spent hours looking at the template code. I can't figure out where it is receiving the direction to smush the profile pic (the pic itself isn't much bigger than the thumbnail, so if I could tell it to just use the full-size version that would be fine and dandy). Can anyone help me?

Priorities

Mir — Sat, 10 Jul 2004 12:40:54 +0000

Me *opening the blinds*: Oh, it's a beautiful day outside! Him *digging in the pantry*: Yes! It's a beautiful day for Sponge Bob Bubble Berry Poptarts!!

Sunday: Public Service Announcements

Mir — Sun, 11 Jul 2004 15:21:56 +0000

1) Taking the kids to a playground and then for ice cream because "all we'll have to do is sit there and watch them" is more strenuous than it sounds, no matter how well-meaning and sympathetic the friend with this idea may be. 2) Quickly-melting ice cream is a tragedy of catastrophic proportions to an overheated, overtired child. (Otherwise known as, No good deed goes unpunished.) 3) Do not write out a list of "things to deal with next week" right after balancing your checkbook unless you feel like having a good cry. 4) Do not assume that because you are not having hot flashes, your hormones are in proper balance. To wit: feeling a little crazy? Crazy like a single mom to two kids, or crazy like I wonder what it actually feels like to strangle someone? There is a subtle yet important difference. 5) Bring additional child distractions to church in the summer because Junior Church is not offered. "Watch me put this toothpick up my nose!" is probably not the reaction to the sermon that the pastor was hoping for. 6) Don't forget to call your mother. Even if you feel lousy. Just don't. 7) I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. (Corollaries include--but are not limited to--I am a bitch, Yes I want to go to sleep now, Don't touch my Advil, and No matter how much you love your children, sometimes you wish they would disappear.)

Putting more money in the therapy fund

Mir — Sun, 11 Jul 2004 22:45:19 +0000

After my earlier post, I realized that I was in dire need of some rest and rejuvenation. Okay, if you want the truth; I sat down on the couch and while "helping" Monkey with a jigsaw puzzle (a complicated task, considering he shrieked at me any time I dared to touch one of the pieces, yet any time I pulled back he would again exhort me to help), I fell asleep. For about a millisecond. And it is not fun to wake up to "You have to stop resting because we need to find Spiderman's eye!!" So I hatched a brilliant plan. First, I fed the children a snack. Next, I allowed them to pick a movie to watch. Then, I explained that I needed to either lie down for a while or sell them into slavery, therefore it would behoove them to watch their movie and let me rest. My bedroom is directly above the family room and sports a one foot square vent in the floor (designed to allow heat from the family room woodstove to rise to the bedroom; not that I've ever used the woodstove because I figure it would just be simpler to take the small ones directly to the burn unit and skip the rigamarole). I pointed out that I could hear them through the vent, they should call me if they needed anything, but they should not need anything, please. Chickadee was kind enough to chime in, "We know, we know, not unless we're on fire or bleeding." I guess she does listen, sometimes. Thus it was that I retreated to my bed and was able to relax for about an hour. Fine; I fell immediately into the deep slumber of the dead and the children ate the contents of my medicine cabinet just before burning the house down and wandering the neighborhood in their underwear. I jest! That would never happen! And if it did I certainly wouldn't tell anyone! Okay, kidding aside, they came upstairs when the movie ended, and we had a lovely and not at all dysfunctional time hanging out on my bed. It all started when Chickadee picked up Snuffles. Chickadee: Mama, where did you get this? Me: Snuffles? I already told you, Wendy got him for me when I was in the hospital. (This is true. My friend Wendy not only babysat me my entire surgery day, she bought me Snuffles to keep me company!) Chickadee: Yeah, but what does he do? Me: Do? Chickadee: Yeah, do! Like does he play music or something? Me: No, he doesn't play music, Silly. Monkey: Silly! Chickadee: Oh. Me: He talks, though. Chickadee: Oh. WHAT? Monkey: He TALKS? Me: Of course he talks. Wendy got him so he could take care of me. He has to talk. Monkey looked skeptical. Chickadee had that waiting-for-the-punchline look. So of course I did what any of you would've done in that situation; I invented a little voice and started bobbing Snuffles back and forth the way that one does when illustrating that a stuffed animal is talking. Snuffles: Of course I can talk! I had a lot of stuff to tell Mama at the hospital! Monkey: *laughs so hard he falls over* Chickadee: *small giggle* Like what? Snuffles: Oh, I had to remind her to hold something over her tummy when she sneezed or coughed-- Chickadee: How come? Snuffles: Cuz if you don't, after they cut your tummy, your insides fall out! Chickadee: Really?? Snuffles: Sure! And also, I would remind her to take her medicine and stuff. When the nurses were busy. Me: Yeah, Snuffles took care of me after I came home, too. He's a very smart bear. Do you know what bears like to do? Monkey and Chickadee: What? Me: Hibernate. Snuffles: Yeah! I loves me some sleeping. Sleep, sleep, sleep! Let's all go to sleep! *Snuffles flops over on his back and starts to snore* Monkey and Chickadee: *much giggling* Me: Oh, yeah. Snuffles loves to sleep. Know what used to happen after I came home from the hospital, before you came back from Grammie's? Monkey and Chickadee: What?? Me: Oh, I would wake up and say "Gee, I think I'm hungry. I think I should go downstairs and get something to eat." And then Snuffles would say... Snuffles: No! No downstairs! No need to eat! Just sleep! Sleep sleep sleep! *Snuffles flops over on his back and starts to snore* Chickadee: Mama! He must do something besides sleep. Sometimes. Doesn't he? Me: Well... not really. Although he did wake up when you two came back from your trip. Know what he said? Monkey and Chickadee: No! What?? Snuffles: Who are those little creatures??? Me: Now Snuffles, you know I explained this, those are my kids, my son and daughter, and we love them very much-- Snuffles: No! No we don't! They are LOUD and they don't SLEEP and also? They smell funny! Really! Monkey and Chickadee: *laugh and laugh, and smell each other and laugh some more* Snuffles: Let's run them over with the car! Me: Um, wait, what?? Snuffles: I don't like them, let's run them over! SQUISH! Flat! Flat is good for sleeping. Get your keys! Monkey: *laughs so hard he falls off the bed* Snuffles: Oh look! One down! Excellent! Now, how can we silence the little girl? Chickadee: *grabbing Snuffles and stuffing him under a pillow* Mama, I think Snuffles is a little crazy. Me: Yeah, I think you may be right. Uhhhh, let's let him sleep and go start some laundry. Snuffles: Hey! Let me out of here! I'm not done!

And now, an important lesson about estrogen

Mir — Mon, 12 Jul 2004 17:33:15 +0000

I know that I have been concealing my post-hysterectomy hormone issues so well that you are all shocked and amazed to learn that estrogen--or the lack thereof--is a major issue on what is left of my rapidly-failing, hormone-deprived brain. Nonetheless, for those readers who are female, I have some important information to share. (For those readers who are male, either skip this entry or read ahead and then feel superior as you bask in testosterone. I don't mind. Someday your prostate will be as big as my deformed ovary was, and then I will have sweet revenge.) Women need estrogen. It does lots of stuff. It helps prevent osteoporosis and life-crippling mood swings and... uhhhh... other good things like that. So if you are lucky enough to have a total hysterectomy well before the menopause years, your doctor will want you to take estrogen to enhance the quality of your life and prevent you from suing her later on. It will then take approximately until you have reached what would've been your menopause years to figure out the correct balance of dosages and whatnot, but hey, it's only time and your sanity, right? That is not today's issue. Accepting as a given that the magic hormonal balance will not be struck any time in the near future, the focus in the meantime should be to minimize any sense of freakishness while waiting to feel human again. Here we have a lovely picture of the Mylan brand estradiol patch. (Sorry, Genuine, that's not my butt.) This is the first patch I tried after the whole Combipatch seasickness disaster. (And in case I forgot to report, discontinuing the progestin source cleared up the nausea quite nicely.) Now, this isn't a fabulous picture, although the model does have a lovely derriere, and I think mine looked like that, once, maybe when I was 16 or so, but anyway (could you please stick to the topic at hand?), what you may notice right off about this picture is that the Mylan patch is enormous. Huge. Super-gigantic. In fact, should you look very closely, what you will realize is that it looks an awful lot like an overgrown version of another product that you probably wouldn't want people to notice you wearing. And let's remember our priority here: minimizing any sense of freakishness. Would you feel comfortable and attractive with a gargantuan corn pad stuck to your ass? No, you would not. And in fact this patch is thick enough to show through clothing, and has enough writing on it to actually be read through light-colored cloth, all of which means that one's sense of Total Freak will be expanded about a thousandfold. Therefore, the Mylan patch is a poor option unless you enjoy that sort of thing, which by God I hope you don't. Okay, now we have determined that the Mylan patch was made by misogynists. Surprise! So what other option do you have, because in the name of all that is good and pure you can feel your bones crumbling this very moment?? Relax. There is a better option. Climara patches deliver the same product, at the same dosages (four to choose from! oh boy!), in a clear, small, wafer-thin patch. They're so damn cute, you can use them to make flower petals for the logo! Ain't it grand? Plus, where else can you check out a multimedia presentation of all the things going wrong with your body now? And for added fun, if you apply the new Climara patch right after you've gotten out of the shower--before you've put on your glasses--you may then spend several fun-filled minutes on the floor, frantically searching for the dropped patch, because in fact the patch is firmly adhered to your posterior but without your corrective lenses, you couldn't see it. Not that that's ever happened to me, this morning or any other time. Ahem. But with Climara? You can totally go back to feeling like a freak for non-hormonal reasons, like because of your hair and the unforgiving humidity. Yay! I hope today's lesson has been illuminating. I'm all about bringing education to the masses.

Quarantined

Mir — Tue, 13 Jul 2004 13:44:08 +0000

Our house is infected, so I'm afraid you can't come over today. It wouldn't be safe. You don't want to catch it, do you?? And here I sit in the middle of it, guilty. I've infected my children. I thought I was taking all the proper precautions, but as we are prone to puppy-piling and sticky kisses, I guess I should've known this would happen. Plus it's been overcast for several days... that couldn't have helped, you know. All three of us have a severe case of Slugbutt. It started with me, of course. The kids were perfectly fine, and I spent a lot of time on the couch trying to keep up a brave front. "Oh, that's a beautiful picture!" I would croon, lifting my head up to view it. "Did you build that tower all by yourself?" I would admire, complete with the required hair-tousling. Maybe I should've washed my hands more. At first, their worry turned to mania. Five minutes resting would be rewarded with the cyclone effect in whatever room I'd left them. I pushed them out the door to the yard when it got too bad inside, and they would run around in circles until they fell down. But I didn't mind, because this was a sign that they were still healthy and strong. Back inside again, they clamored for snacks and activities and attention, and--still dragging--I did my level best to meet their needs yet shield them from my affliction. But all that is over, now. I can toss aside the facade. The television is on Noggin... as it has been for about a day straight. The children lounge on the couches in their pajamas, barely picking at their cereal, declaring that they're too tired to move. They've cocooned themselves in blankets (blankets? in July??) and are pretending to be babies in adjoining cribs. So other than the occasional "goo goo!" and the drone of various animated creatures on the TV, all is silent. And the guilt... the guilt is overwhelming. This isn't right, for children. They should be running, jumping, shouting; playing. I never meant for them to come down with it. Honest. I must try to nurse them back to health. I must be strong for them. And I will. Right after I rest a little while....

Enrichment! Or not.

Mir — Tue, 13 Jul 2004 17:44:41 +0000

New at Domino's Pizza! Two-for-one deal on Tuesdays! New at Woulda Coulda Shoulda! Two-for-one deal on Tuesdays, inspired by the fact that I cannot get that insipid Domino's commerical out of my head! So, I was going to tell you about my sad failure to enrich my children's lives with great classic literature, but it's Tuesday! And so! In lieu of pizza! I will tell you about two such failures! Yay! (I apologize for the excess of exclamation points. The Hormone Demons have decided I need to have a little headache. For about four days. And so I am currently drinking my body weight in tea in an attempt to caffeinate the headache right out of my... uhhh... head. Yay!) The ex and I were (are) bibliophiles in a frightening way. Before the first small creature arrived in our home, we had already amassed "all our favorite" books from childhood. Numbering approximately 500 volumes, I kid you not. (Neither of us really grasp that whole concept of something being favorite all that well.) I looked forward to reliving many of these books with my children. First literary enrichment gone wrong: I read "Little House in the Big Woods" to the kids over about a week or so of bedtimes. Every little girl wants to grow up to be Laura Ingalls, right? It sounds exotic and fun, churning your own butter, salting venison, and all that other stuff. Um, no. It did to me, but my children are part of the new, hip, ultra-spoiled generation. What did my children learn from "Little House"? That the funniest thing in the world is a child wrapping a corncob in a handkerchief and pretending it's a doll. Chickadee actually wrestled the book from my hands to verify that section, herself, so sure was she that I'd made it up. As for Monkey, he spent the entire week grabbing random objects, wrapping them in his blanket, and introducing me to his "new baby." I especially enjoyed his new baby, the toothbrush. But wait... there's more! It's a twofer! Second literary enrichment gone wrong: I remember absolutely loving "The Wind in the Willows", and was in fact delighted to procure a vintage, oversized edition complete with color pictures. We're reading it now. Only, I did not remember that Mole and Rat have this habit of calling each other asses when they quarrel. Repeatedly. I am running out of suitable substitute insults. Also? Toad is in dire need of some lithium. And at least once per sitting we have to get into a prolonged discussion about why these animals are wearing suits and ties. I am weary. Time for more tea, and further rumination on how all my attempts to shape my young into educated beings always backfire....

You know you are a loser geek when...

Mir — Wed, 14 Jul 2004 01:49:12 +0000

... after comfortably settling yourself into bed with your laptop, and turning on the TV in preparation for "Whose Line Is It, Anyway?", you see a commercial for "Sex and the City" now on TBS and remember oh yeah! and then suffer major angst over which program to watch because that's quite a choice to have to make, and then you decide to go with "Sex and the City" but OH NO for the love of God you cannot remember which channel is TBS and damn your cheap self for not getting a cable box (with online guide) for this television, and for a moment it appears that all is lost, but then the day is saved because you brilliantly surf on over to your cable company's website and locate the channel for TBS. Phew! Geek.

News, both wet and dry

Mir — Wed, 14 Jul 2004 13:27:26 +0000

This morning I was scheduled for replacement delivery of my new television. I received my automated call yesterday, informing me that delivery would occur between 8:30 and 10:30. So I was laying in bed this morning at around 8:15, willing myself to get my lazy butt up, but reasoning that I had another 14 minutes before I absolutely had to be up. And then the doorbell rang. Ooooops. It was, of course, my friends The Nice Delivery Guys, who were either unsurprised to find me in my pajamas and a 15-year-old college sweatshirt or prudently pretending oblivion in the hopes that I would tip them again. It's raining outside (again), and they tracked mud all over my kitchen floor, but I did not care! Because they had my replacement television! We had a nice chat while they unhooked the old (new) TV and then brought in the new (new) TV. They finished in record time, and we turned it on. And saw... a fuzzy line down the left-hand side. Exactly like the other one. Helllooooooooo? Alan Funt? Are you out there? This is a set-up, right? My new buddies The Nice Delivery Guys and I stood around and pondered our course of action. I filled them in on the saga of getting this replacement and told them I wasn't sure I was up to the task of going through that again. Then Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 made a call on his cell phone and told me "it's all taken care of, call this number in 10 minutes." Well. That was... mysterious. Ooookey. I bid them farewell, feigning cheerfulness at the prospect of seeing them again soon, and promising to be dressed, next time. ("That's okay," Nice Delivery Guy Number 2 answered with a grin, "you're wearing a lot more than the lady at our last delivery!" Ummm... ewwww?) I closed the door behind them, grabbed a spare towel, and started working on the muddy footprints left behind. Damn rain. All this mess on my floors, and what do I have to show for it? Another defective TV! Wow! Naturally I was working myself into a pretty good funk when Monkey came careening around the corner shouting "OUTTA MY WAY I GOTS TO GO POTTY REAL BAD!!!" I got "outta his way" right quick, but I was puzzled. As I have mentioned here on numerous occasions, my dear sweet Monkey sleeps the sleep of the dead. As such, he continues to wear a pull-up at night and soak it regularly. In the continuing yet hopeless attempt to get him nighttime potty-trained, I usually get him up and take him to the bathroom before I turn in for the night, with varying degrees of success. Since my surgery I have abandoned this delightful ritual, as lifting fortyish pounds of snoring potatoes and then being peed upon is kind of a post-op no-no. And quite honestly, even with this late-night trip, he's only been dry in the morning a limited number of times. Now he was flying into the bathroom, and peeing... well... a lot. When he'd only been up for about fifteen minutes. Peculiar. I checked his pull-up. Dry as a bone. Dry as the Sahara! Dry from 8:00 last night until 8:45 this morning! And there was much rejoicing, and dancing, and perhaps even a little bit of singing, because it is possible that we have a special song invented for just such an occasion as this. It is also possible that my darling boy enjoys shaking his booty, and other... uhhh... bits, naked, to such a song; and that an onlooker might conclude we celebrate a dry night by making him practice for a Chippendales audition. It is also likely that this accomplishment--revelry aside--was 1) a fluke, 2) an indication that Monkey is dangerously dehydrated, or 3) both. But we take joy where we can get it, here! And we got us some! Following the celebration, I called the mysterious number Nice Delivery Guy Number 1 had given me. It was a direct line to the department manager at my local Excellent Purchase. He promised to take a television out of the box and test it at the store before letting the guys deliver it, and he promised it on Friday. Not too bad, I suppose. Besides, third time's the charm... right? By the way... dry pull-ups? Are great for cleaning up muddy footprints.

... and then the phone rang

Mir — Wed, 14 Jul 2004 20:49:29 +0000

I was rather enjoying a long, dragging, tedious day of being trapped inside by the rain with two small cranky beings. Okay, maybe "enjoy" is the wrong word. But I was managing. Then the phone rang this afternoon, and the caller ID informed me that it was the ex. In the middle of the day. On a day when he doesn't see the kids. Uh oh. I answered with great trepidation. Something wrong? Bone to pick? Laid off unexpectedly? (I'm almost afraid to say that last one out loud, so completely screwed would all of our lives be if that were to happen at this point.) "I've been filled in!" he announced with glee. "Want to hear all the gossip?" Beat. 'Nother beat. OH. No crisis. Phew. Okay, yes, fill me in, but damn you for nearly giving me a heart attack. I have mentioned before that we made our move to this town during the technology boom, while the ex was a founder at a start-up which paid him piles of money but then subsequently sucked out his mind and soul and after a while, fired him. I could tell you the entire story, but as the overused saying goes, then I'd have to kill you. Suffice it to say that it was a very messy business, both on the career and personal sides, and was--not coincidentally--no small part of what eventuated in our split. Bad Stuff, in short. Last week the ex mentioned that he'd heard "rumblings" of further problems at The Evil Empire. Today he got the whole scoop and couldn't wait to dish on the misfortunes of those who'd tossed him out like yesterday's garbage. "You were the only other person I could think of who would really appreciate this news," he said. And we discussed it for a bit, pros (what comes around goes around) and cons (we still own quite a bit of stock, and no matter how much fun it would be to watch them fold, we stand to benefit if they don't), like... friends. That can ruin a perfectly okay day. I don't want to be friends with my ex. Neither do I want to hate him (I worked my butt off to get past that one; my therapist may have a beach house somewhere, now), but this sort of friendly discussion about mutual interests? No. No! I don't want it. Go away and please return to being an insane yet predictable idiot over there so that I can continue to believe that I had no other choice but to kick you out. Don't go actually giving me glimpses of the basically good human you used to be, because that makes me feel bad. Shades of grey, in this particular realm, are not appreciated. Let's go back to the restraining order. Let's go back to where you see a car in my driveway at night and call me up hollering about what a slut I am. Those things are easy. Those things I know how to process. This? This is complicated, and wholly unwelcome. And how much of an asshat does that make me, when I know plenty of people who would--in all likelihood--cheerfully give their right arm to have a civil conversation with the father of their child(ren)?? This kind of anger drops into my lap out of nowhere and mocks me with its unashamed lack of logic. Maybe it's too soon; I don't know. But a small, tired part of me thinks that it will always continue to taunt me, at the most unexpected times. I always joke about how "there's just no pleasing me." It isn't nearly so funny when it turns out to be true.

We now return you to the farce that is my life

Mir — Thu, 15 Jul 2004 14:21:26 +0000

Well, that was over in a blink. Welcome back to the realities of my life. It may not be glamorous, here, but at least it's familiar! (I may have postcards made up with that printed on them. The pictures will be things like the crumbs under my kitchen table and the bathroom sink clogged with Polly Pocket detritus.) Offered for your consideration: 1) Monkey awoke this morning with a pull-up weighing approximately five pounds, sagging down to his knees with the weight of a gallon of urine. 2) The ex emailed me as soon as he got to the office to share a too-long missive about how much traffic sucks, and as a result he got to work late today and surely I won't mind if he's an hour late to pick up the kids, right? Of course I don't mind. Just because I've now had the kids here, without help, for ten consecutive days and I am still popping Advil like tic-tacs doesn't mean I don't want an extra hour with them! (I'm not crying; there's something in my eye!) Being the calm, mature adult that I am--on the third day of rain and fifth day of headache--I replied with, "No problem. I'll do my best not to kill them before you arrive." 3) Today being Day 5 of The Migraine From Hell, I put in a call to my doctor. She'll call me back. Maybe. If the phase of the moon is favorable. And if by some miracle she actually does call, I will spend the entire conversation trying not to giggle, since (thanks to Debby) I will now forever picture her with a Mylan patch stuck to her forehead. 4) Remember how the whole precipitating event for the Great Television Adventure was my old TV channelling Charlie Brown's teacher? What could be crueler than receiving not one, but two defective televisions in a row? Why, discovering that the "wah wah wah" issue is in fact related to the cable itself. No, that hadn't occurred to me before. Yes, I am an idiot. Yes, my old TV has gone... somewhere... with the delivery guys, and didn't even need to be replaced. Yep. Everything's back to normal.

Pondering...

Mir — Thu, 15 Jul 2004 23:02:36 +0000

... whether or not this migraine is now a permament part of my life. ... whether my doctor was surprised when she called me back and I burst into tears when she asked me to tell her how I was feeling. ... whether I will repeat my embarrassing tearfulness at my appointment with her tomorrow or merely rip her head from her neck, screeching "You did this to meeeeeeeeee!" ... whether I will have the presence of mind to haiku, later, after the kidlets are in bed. ... whether I should not write semi-serious stuff in my blog, as I actually heard the crickets chirping here after discussing my PTDD (post-traumatic divorce disorder!). ... when did BlogSpot make all these changes to the editor, whereby now inserting HTML tags into the text results in weirdness and sometimes hilarity, but rarely the result desired?? ... whether it's possible that the two "damaged" TVs actually have that line because of something about the cable feed, itself. But the old TV didn't have a line, so I'm thinking no. But that would so be typical of my life, so I'm thinking maybe. (Obviously, this is going to keep me up tonight.) ... how many questions will you all leave me for tomorrow's Facts and Fiction Friday? Watch me bat my eyelashes and point out that my head may explode at any moment so you'd best ask while the asking's good! You know what to do; leave your questions in the comments and if I'm still in one piece tomorrow, there will be the baring of my soul and the creation of outrageous lies and maybe some funny stuff in-between.

Sixth Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 16 Jul 2004 15:30:14 +0000

Wow, I got lots of questions this week! Ordinarily I work on the post throughout the day and then publish sometime late afternoon... but out of sheer fear that if I wait there will be a couple dozen more questions, I'm putting it up early, today. Genuine asks, what would be my ultimate job? I've always wanted to be a particle physicist, on account of my deep love for math and small, sterile laboratories. (Fiction.) I've love to actually earn a living writing. Any publishers or wealthy, handsome men out there reading this? "Will write for cash!" I know this comes as a huge shock, because there are so few bloggers who are wannabe-writers... (Fact, well except for the bloggers wanting to be writers bit.) My true love Kira asks... ... what was the worst thing that happened to me this week? This. stupid. migraine. I'd love to come up with a creative lie but I am far too busy screaming at my little packages of Axert, "WHY?? Why have you forsaken me so and stopped working on the evil headache that has taken over my brain????" ... what was the best thing that happened to me this week? Monkey waking up dry that one day. It gave me hope that he may be nighttime potty trained before college. (Fiction; well, it did give me hope, but it's not the best thing that happened to me this week.) Actually, the best thing that's happened to me this week, my dear Kira, is getting you onto IM. I haven't laughed so hard in a verrrrrry long time. (Fact, and not just because you asked the question.)

... what's my first memory? There's a very prominent memory of mine, and I don't know how old I was... but young enough to be in a highchair, which is where I was... and my mother was screaming something about "no more wire hangers".... (Fiction, and if my mother reads this I am so dead.) Okay, seriously: I don't know if it's my very earliest memory, but it's certainly one of them. My mom put me down for a nap (and I was in a regular bed from quite a young age, due to my habit of climbing out of the crib) and when she came back to check on me, I was gone. Panic and various scrambling ensued--including a hysterical phone call to my father, and him rushing home--but I, of course, knew none of this until later. What I remember was thinking that it was too bright in my room, and that it was nice and cozy and dark in my closet. I can easily conjure the memory of the closet door opening and waking me up. I was quite pleased with myself, and didn't understand why my mother was so upset. (Fact, and this story is the second-most-told in the Chronicles Of What A Difficult Child Miriam Was. The first-most-told is about the day I decided to wash my hair with Desitin.)

Jennifer asks... ... what color are my bath towels? Black. All black. (Fiction.) Ummmm... the ones in my bathroom are all either slate blue or lavender. The ones in the kids' bathroom tend to be Buzz Lightyear and Disney Princess colored. And last but not least, the guest towels tend to be whatever-I-received-as-random-wedding-gifts colored. Hmmm. Might be time to invest in some new towels. (Fact, and now I would like to know how this knowledge will enrich your life.)

... how many televisions will be delivered before I demand a refund? I just invented the entire television saga because I couldn't think of anything else to talk about. (Fiction, but oh how I wish it was fact.) Honestly, if I still had the original TV, I would've given up on this after the second delivery. But I don't, because I am a moron, so at this point I pretty much have to just hang on until I get a working TV. At which point I plan to make a big stink until they give me a discount or a gift card or something, because this has been ridiculous. (Fact.)

Chewie is just chock-full of questions despite having given surprise birth less than two weeks ago and now being a mom to 4 under 6. Knock it off; you're making us lesser moms look bad! Ahem. Anyway... ... would I say I have good days/bad days or good hours/bad hours? What makes you think I have anything but bad; have you seen the way I whine around here? (Fiction. It is. Shut UP.) Hmm. I think I tend towards good/bad days. I'm a champion grudge-holder, and that extends into taking a bit of time to break out of a funk. That's not to say that I couldn't have something good happen in what is otherwise a lousy day, but I do tend to categorize the entire day based on my overriding mood. (Fact.)

... how many days until school starts? Too many. Way. too. many. (Fiction.) Would you believe, I don't actually know? This is the first year Chickadee will be in public school, and her packet of info had everything we'd need to know except the date that school starts! Our town publishes the school calendar and bus schedules in the local paper sometime in August. So I'll know then. Until then? "Sometime around Labor Day" is my best guess. (Fact.)

... tell me more about that woman who had a baby and didn't even KNOW she was preggers! Well, Chewie, I love nothing more than to talk about this friend of mine and the miracle of her mystery illness turning out to be a perfectly adorable baby boy. But I also think that if the lady in question has time to be hanging out on my blog, this indicates two things. 1) She truly is Superwoman, and 2) She needs her own blog, to tell her own story. Also, you're a nut and I love you!! (Fact, baby!)

Hula Doula is also full of questions! Like... ... have I always been a natural beauty? Er, sure thing. People often mistake me for Cindy Crawford. (Fiction, and, um, bwahahahahaaaaaaaa!) Well, let's see. I'm a little confused here. If by "natural" you mean "eschewing make-up and most other time-consuming and expensive beauty efforts because I am a lazyass," then yes, I have. If you mean "natural beauty" as in, I am actually beautiful, then I would like some of what you're smoking, please. Heh. I have always been thin--through no fault of my own, might I add, as I have a very deep relationship with all manner of junk food--so my theory has always been, at least I'm thin! As in: I hate my hair... oh well, at least I'm thin! I cannot believe I still have acne in my 30s... oh well, at least I'm thin! Etc. Someday my metabolism will slow down and I'll blow up like a blimp and have a nervous breakdown. (Fact.)

... why do I make her laugh so hard with my brilliant writing? Mostly, because I live to serve and entertain my fellow humans. (Fiction.) Mostly, because you are very easily amused. Which I really appreciate, by the way. (Fact!)

... am I sugared up good now? Alas, the migraine makes me nauseous, so other than sipping at my trusty ice water, there's not a lot of chocolate gluttony happening here (yet another reason to be sad...). (Fact.)

... do I need a hug? Always! And unlike Monkey, I bet you won't try to cop a feel after you hug me, either. (Fact, I hope.)

Kym asks... ... why haven't I told my damn doctor to change me to 1mg Vivelle Dot like my smart friend Kym keeps telling me to do? Because I am really enjoying this feeling of pain-mixed-with-imminent-insanity, of course. (Fiction.) I dunno, Kym. Sometimes I think I'm just not very bright. I have a very hard time asking doctors for help, even when I know I need it. For something as intangible as balancing out my hormones, I fear that I will just be told to "wait a little bit longer" and I keep thinking I shouldn't make a nuisance of myself until it's critical (I don't want to be the boy who cried wolf, er, the woman who cried not enough estrogen). But rest easy; I have an appointment to see the doc this afternoon, and I plan to lay it all on the line. Let's hope she has some answers. (Fact. Wish me luck.)

... do I get a little halo light effect with my migraines? Silly. I have a halo all the time! (*snort*) Um, I've always called it an aura, but I think we're talking about the same thing, yes. When it's really bad, everything I look at appears to be covered in fluorescent cilia. Delightful. (Fact, though not actually delightful in the conventional sense.)

... if I were a fruit, what fruit would I be? Heehee. I think I'd like to be grapes (a single grape?). They're versatile. You've got grapes, which are yummy, anyway. Then, you can also have raisins. And more importantly, you can have wine. If only I were so multi-purpose! (Fact, because it's striking me as more amusing than any fiction I could come up with.)

Janet is getting all serious on me, wanting to know whether I would choose to eat all the foods I like but have to become a Satanist or be stuck with foods I hate but get to remain a Christian.

Janet, hon? Did I mention that I've had a migraine for about 6 days, now? Are you trying to kill me? Okay. Hmmm. I think I've gotta go with sucky food, because as much as I like to transfer all my needs for acceptance and affection onto my snacks, I don't think I could completely reorganize my brain to jive with Satanism. Plus, many amazing things have happend in my life that I believe wouldn't have been possible without God. I'm guessing that after a while Jesus would reward my choice and send me some Oreos. (Fact, mostly kinda.)

Tani asks, if my ex asked me to get back together, would I laugh in his face or run away screaming?

What do you mean? If he asked I'd be ecstatic! (Fiction! That was actually hard to type.) Neither. I'm pretty sure I would either vomit or pass out, or maybe both. (Fact.)

Lisa wants to know if I'd like to help her blow up the cable company.

Lisa, that sort of violence only increases the violent dischord of the world we live in. I'm shocked and disappointed that you would even suggest such a thing. (Fiction.) Let's be civilized (read: sneaky) about this. I'm thinking more along the lines of a little bit of voodoo resulting in all of them having migraines for a week. That would bring them to their knees, and then they'd be ripe for our demands. (Fact. Do you know anyone who knows voodoo?) Debby asks--in an effort to be less of a wiseass--which famous actress would I like to be, and why? Uh... Deb? You are now officially both a wiseass and senile, because not only did I answer this already, you were the one who asked!! (If you're too lazy to go back to the original post, my answer was Glenn Close.) Julia asks about casting for the movie of my life, but I will have to plead the 5th on that one, rather than risk offending anybody. She also asks, what room would I have redone on Trading Spaces and what would I like to see?

Ohhhhh that's a hard one. You know, I just loved that "Prisoners of Love" bedroom that Doug did.... (FICTION! Crap; there goes my dad, again.) I'd be hard-pressed to decide between my kitchen and my family room. My kitchen is decorated in cheap, chintzy, early-70s-meets-country and could use a serious overhaul. I would love to have stainless steel appliances, corian counters, no more baskets-of-fruit wallpaper, and all of that sort of stuff. On the other hand, with just me and the kids, I'm not exactly spending a ton of time dishing up gourmet meals. The family room sports some very poorly-designed built-ins that could probably be re-engineered to actually hide most of the small ones' mess and give the illusion of a nice room. Plus this whole area is beige. Yawn! (Fact, but who would I swap with? I need to start meeting more of the neighbors.) Sheryl and Aurora are debating my living space: small New England Victorian, or large apartment with wood floors?

Don't look now, but I'm typing on my laptop from down in your basement right now! (SQUEEE SQUEEE SQUEEE!) (Fiction, though that'd make an interesting if totally formulaic geek thriller movie.) Sorry, you're both incorrect. I live in a largish, unimaginative, boxy colonial... as does everyone else in my neighborhood. No, they don't all live in my house, we just all have basically the same house. (Though it is in New England, so Sheryl gets some points, there; and it does have wood floors, so points to Aurora!) I once discussed how this house is really too large for us, now, but the market here is such that it would cost too much to move somewhere smaller. And as I have lived in this house longer than any place else in my life save for my childhood home, I am rather attached to it. I hope y'all can still love me even though I am so rude as to not live in the digs you'd imagined. (Fact.)

Aurora also asks if I am happy.

Let's just say that I'm happier. Happy is definitely in my sights, and sometimes (though fleetingly) in my grasp. I'm the sort of person who might not recognize happy if it walked up and smacked me in the face, so this is more progress for me than someone of a more zen-like persuasion might realize. (Fact.)

Liz has bugs on the brain. Poor Liz. She asks if I have ever eaten chocolate covered crickets, have I eaten any type of chocolate bug ever, and if I did, would I do it again?

Yes, yes, and absolutely. They're better than Nestle Crunch bars, I tell you. (Fiction... gaggy, gaggy fiction.) The real answers are: No, NO, and PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS BEFORE I PUKE! Ahem. Thank you for playing. (Fact.)

That concludes this week's installment of "Friday Facts and Fiction." Today's rendition was brought to you by the letter Q and the number 13. No animals were harmed in the making of this blog.

Goody! Goodies!!

Mir — Fri, 16 Jul 2004 21:43:40 +0000

I have been having a very goodie-ful week, for which I am very grateful. At this moment I feel exceedingly warm and fuzzy... though that could be a hot flash or maybe the drugs. No matter! First I demonstrated my prowess at blogger foot identification, earning me the label of part-time foot fetishist, and... a book! Next I wrote about food as love, earning me the Blogging for Books crown and... a book! Then I hit the doctor's office, whimpered about my week-long migraine, and earned a plain brown paper bag containing... a book! Wait, no. That's not true, but it would've been nice for the general flow. No, I got a plain brown paper bag full of assorted hormone patches and happy pills, all served up with a huge side of sympathy. I take back anything less-than-complimentary I may have ever said about my doctor. She took her time with me today, comforted me, and got my primary care doctor on the phone and demanded an action plan for solving the headache issue. (My GP? Wanted me to go to the Emergency Room for a shot of demerol. Um, no thank you. But I guess I get to do that tomorrow if the happy pills don't work.) In short: I know feet, I loves me some guacamole, and I'm not crazy. And I got some awesome freebies! What more could I ask of a Friday?

Mmmmm... toes

Mir — Sat, 17 Jul 2004 16:47:50 +0000

Last night I took lots and lots of (prescribed) drugs and slept for about twelve hours and today I am... better. Not completely, but mostly. Hurray! Although this is the ex's weekend, our little social butterfly has two birthday parties to attend, today. I handle birthday party detail (no matter whose weekend it is). It makes sense, I guess. I'm the one who shops for and wraps the gifts, I'm the one who knows the kids and moms in question, and I'm the one who can get through these things without making an ass of myself. Usually. So, today--still feeling a wee bit headachey and more than a bit hung-over-ish from the meds--I got the birthday stuff in order, shuffled Chickadee inside when the ex dropped her off, got her dressed in her party finery, did her hair, and set out to Party #1. Everything went fine until I bid her good-bye (along with my standard admonishment to use her very best manners) and she sped off with the pack of other 6-year-olds. I then turned to the mother and offered her my cell number, in case of emergency, and we chatted a bit as she wrote it down. No problem. With joy in my heart, I turned to leave and said, "Thank you so much, Esmerelda!"* I was halfway out the door when I realized. Her name. isn't. Esmerelda. "NO!" I whirled around in a panic. "That's not right!" I exclaimed, still wracking my brain. "JEN! Your name is Jen!" "I wasn't going to say anything," she said with a wry little chuckle. "Oh my God!" I continued, both feet stuffed in my mouth, now, "What is wrong with me? I know your name is Jen! I know that! I'm so sorry! Esmerelda is someone else's mom!" It was at this point that I saw the first glint of fear in her eyes. But you see, I couldn't stop talking. I had already crossed the line from flustered to full-out babbling. "You know, I had a hysterectomy a few weeks ago, did I tell you that? I did! Just about three weeks ago. And my hormones, oh you wouldn't believe it, it's crazy, my hormones are all screwed up and it's affecting my mind, I forget things, I call people by the wrong name! Obviously! HAHA! I can't stop talking! Help me! I am discussing my ovaries with you and we barely know each other! Please, I need help!" "If you leave right now, I will pretend your daughter was adopted and therefore free of whatever mental illness you are clearly suffering from." "It's a deal." And away I went, whispering this solemn prayer to myself as I drove away: "Dear Lord, please give me the strength to be silent when I return to pick her up." * No, I didn't call her Esmerelda, nor is her name Jen. You never know what some freak is going to Google. But the real names in question? About as disparate as Esmerelda and Jen. Truly a noteworthy social gaffe on my part.

Laundry: the great thought-provoker

Mir — Sun, 18 Jul 2004 01:24:08 +0000

Hey, it's Saturday night. Those of you with lives are... not in front of the computer. Perhaps you are out on the town, or socializing, or just enjoying a quiet evening with those you love. But not me! No sir! Ever the rebel, I have seized the evening to catch up on laundry. Before going to bed early. Cuz I'm such a wild one. Look out. Moving on.... Here are the things upon which I have mused, tonight: 1) No matter how long I leave the clean laundry in the basket--even if I've moved said basket upstairs to the convenient location of trip-me-on-my-way-to-bed-every-night--the clothes do not put themselves away. Ever. They will still be there when it's time to do laundry again. Well, most of it is still there. Not the stuff I already pulled out. Because... 2) It is possible for me to wear all of the comfortable and non-ancient underwear in my drawer and out of the clean laundry basket before either child runs out of clothes. That can't be right. I'm bigger than they are. I should get more stuff. Note to self: stop buying things for those spoiled kids. 3) I have a pair of panties that feature cartoon pictures of... panties. They make me happy. I may have giggled while I put them in the dyer. 4) Bras do not like to be alone. When the washer stops, I open the lid and begin my routine. Grab a handful of clothes... shake them apart and put in dryer. Grab another handful... shake apart... hang shirt that can't go in dryer... put the rest in the dryer. Grab a third handful... which is actually a huge mutant knot of bras that spent most of the spin cycle having an orgy... and one of Monkey's socks. Put sock in the dyer, spend 20 minutes disentangling the bras and hanging them up. 5) How many times do you suppose I will have to find coins, rocks, acorn caps, and assorted unidentifiable tidbits at the bottom of the washer before I will remember the check Monkey's pockets? Whatever number you said, you're wrong. Add at least a dozen. I'm slow. 6) The bras flaunt their mating, but the pajamas are just sneaky. They multiply in the dryer. How many kids live in my house, anyway? 7) If I stick my head in the dryer and ask politely, can I trade in some of the extra pajamas and get back some of the missing socks? Please? 8) Oh, look! There's all the stuff I hung up to dry, the last time I did laundry. I wondered where it was. I should take it upstairs. Well, maybe later. Or maybe I'll just forget. ("A boat? Hey, I saw a boat! It went that way!") 9) The ex has his own stash of socks, undies, and pajamas for the kids. Naturally, sometimes I end up with things from his house, and he with items from mine. We do our best to launder and return. So far we've been pretty good about buying things that are different enough to easily identify as belonging here or there. But there's this one pair of Buzz Lightyear underwear. I didn't buy them; he did. I keep sending them back to his house. He keeps sending them back to mine. They've travelled back and forth--unworn--at least five times, now. Somehow Monkey got his hands on them and wore them this week. That's fine. But I seriously considered throwing them away rather than putting them in the dryer. They're not mine, and the ex is too dumb to recognize them as his. Those tiny Buzz undies are irking me. (But I didn't throw them out, because that would be wasteful and cause me to howl at the moon in anguish.) 10) Sheets and towels left in the dryer? Also don't put themselves away. But they do make me say colorful things when I toss the first handful of wet clothes in on top of them.

We interrupt this blog with a message from our sponsor

Mir — Mon, 19 Jul 2004 12:58:16 +0000

On days like today, when I am sitting here in migraine-land waiting for my doctor's office to call me back, when I am wondering exactly how many hours of television my children can watch before CPS comes to take them away, I like to remember that I have a fan club. It's true! Stop laughing! I have a fan club. My dad is the president, of course. (Hi, Dad!) But much of his adoration is disregarded because of that pesky genetic connection. He can't help it, you know. (Plus, if you'd known me through my tween and teen years, you'd be pretty impressed with how I turned out, too.) Anyway. For reasons I cannot explain, I have discovered the natural leader of the Mir Pep Squad. I don't know why she is so taken with me. All I know is that every time she sends me an email--as she nearly always does after I see her at church or some other function--I can actually picture her waving pom-poms in the air. The woman in question has plenty of kids and grandkids of her own. Her attachment to me is puzzling. But her zeal is unmatched. Here's the email I had waiting for me this morning:

Hi lady, So good to see you but sure wish you were feeling a whole lot better. Nothing is easy, is it? Just seems like when your down your down! However, I know you and you're not going to stay down long. That is not the Miriam I know. I know going thru the 'change" normally can be difficult but artificially can be a bit more difficult. Just keep that positive thinking going and the right combination is going to be found. Also, I am delighted to hear that you are doing something with your writing. I think that there is a hidden future there for you but, and I do understand this, the real world is first. However, you are extremely talented and smart and you are going to land on those two feet and be one super great lady, not that you aren't already but one who has the world by the tail. Go for it, my friend. I care very much how you feel so if I can do anything for you please just ask! Love to you, xxxxx

It didn't fix my migraine or anything. But it did make me smile. I hope every one of you has someone who shakes their pom-poms for you.

Vacation Bible School: Day 1

Mir — Tue, 20 Jul 2004 02:03:09 +0000

We just loooooove Vacation Bible School, around here. Love it! It involves staying up late for a week straight (as our church elects to hold it in the evening so that even those who work can participate), good snacks, and someone dressed up as a big cartoon character. This year's curriculum involves a gigantic dog. Really, what's not to like? Back before my surgery, I signed up to work during VBS. Then I sort of neglected to inform all the Powers That Be that I wasn't feeling so hot. So tonight I showed up to discover that yes, I was still fully expected to do several hours of kitchen duty every night. Ohboy. It wasn't so bad. We made popcorn tonight so mostly I just stuffed popcorn into little bags. And it was so hot in the kitchen (with several pots of popcorn going at a time) that when I saw someone pouring a cold drink from the fridge I asked for one, too, without asking what it was. It was Pepsi. Full strength, all-the-sugar-and-caffeine Pepsi. Guess whose migraine is gone (for the moment)? *cue the cherubim singing the Hallelujah Chorus* Now the kids, they get to have some real fun. First everyone gathers in the sanctuary for singing and such, then the different age groups split out to the various "stations" for different activities. Monkey happily slid in with the 3-and-4-year-old group and made friends with the closest child and was happy as a clam. Meanwhile, I'm standing in the back having an important discussion with the other kitchen staffers about whether or not we have enough cups, and Chickadee was running back and forth between her class and me, wanting "hugs" and "another hug" and "maybe I could just hang here with you" and "my sensors have detected that your attention has shifted away from me for a minute and that must be rectified." Yeah. So I slipped away down to the kitchen as soon as possible. I only got to see the kids when they came to the station near the kitchen, of course, but I was able to witness a few choice tidbits: --Monkey sitting backwards during the puppet show for a full two minutes or so, and not understanding what everyone else was laughing about (um, son? didja hit your head?) --Monkey finding an unravelling thread on his carpet square and commencing trying to pull the entire thing apart --Chickadee reading the bible verse on the placard VERY LOUDLY ahead of the teacher leading the group (see, I really can't win... he does dumb things and she does smart things and either way I'm left wishing I was elsewhere) --Chickadee picking Monkey up against his will and carrying him into the kitchen to see me (where they both got sent back out; surprise!) Later I was informed--by a pair of teachers who could not control their laughter during the retelling--that Monkey latched himself onto one of their legs during a game, and had to be removed bodily after some failed negotiation. I was mortified. No, no, they assured me... it was funny, it's okay. He was enjoying himself. Um, okay. More money in the therapy fund. We got through the evening, and returned home well after bedtime. For me, it's all worth it because they're exhausted and actually go right to sleep. But I'm guessing I won't be so patient if Chickadee is still clinging to me at the end of the week... nor will the teachers likely find it quite as amusing if Monkey is velcroing himself to them every night. We shall see what the week brings.

The Migraine Report

Mir — Tue, 20 Jul 2004 13:53:10 +0000

(Or, Have! some! more! caffeine!) So impressed was I by the effects of last night's Pepsi, even though I woke up headache-free (a small victory in itself) I decided! to have! some tea! immediately! It is possible that my caffeine tolerance has changed a bit since all this mucking about with my hormones. I mean, if you need someone to churn some butter with the spasmodic unconscious shaking and flailing of the arms, I'm your girl. I should probably not be your first pick if you need someone to carry something breakable, at this point, however. Or if you're looking for someone calm. That would not be me. Because I am about to jump right out of my skin for no discernable reason. Right now I need to go herd the children through showers (we are switching to morning cleaning routines for the week of VBS). You might want to pray for them, as I suspect there may be shampoo in eyes and not a whole lot of sympathy on my part. But! I! don't! have! a! headache! WOOOOOOOOOOOOT!!

Vacation Bible School: Day 2

Mir — Wed, 21 Jul 2004 02:18:19 +0000

Second verse, same as the first.... Not too much different to report, tonight. Although it's worth pointing out that from the time we shopped for VBS supplies (a few days ago) and the children spotted the 10 little boxes of instant pudding, Monkey has talked of nothing else save how much he was looking forward to the night we would have pudding for snack. What night are we having pudding? Is tonight the pudding night? I can't wait for the pudding!!!! You guessed it. He took one bite out of his pudding cup and brought it back to me in the kitchen. "I don't want any more." Tonight, by the way, was a Jewish-girl-turned-Christian's fantasy VBS night. Tonight's biblical hero was Esther. There was pseudo-Purim happening in our Fellowship Hall, I tell you. Very interfaith and somewhat odd, but fun! Plus there was a great song about Esther at the end during the rock-out-with-the-band time, and Chickadee got up and sang and danced as part of the backup singers! Much fun. Apparently, I carried the Holy Spirit home with me tonight, and also it is highly contagious. This is why you should all go to Vacation Bible School, because IM'ing with those speaking in tongues is quite amusing. I will leave you with the following. Upon settling down at the 'puter to blog and chat with a friend, I experienced this: Jules : stll no headace genericmir: So far so good. Jules : yaayyy!!! Jules : I'm not drunk btw..I'm havnikeyboarisues Jules: brb genericmir: LOL Jules : I got my ear pieredagain genericmir: You have pie in your ear? Huh? Jules : pierced genericmir: Oh, where? Jules : need a second hole inh rightear Jules : dmnit genericmir: LOL Jules : I SHOLD E EAY ONYOU ICE Iave no bttere Jules : ROFL genericmir: English please? Jules : TESTIN Jules : yay Jules : I have a keyboard again genericmir: Oh good, because I thought you were speaking in tongues. Jules : was more like speaking in thumbs

Technical difficulties

Mir — Wed, 21 Jul 2004 12:52:24 +0000

For some reason, BlogSpot has decided in its infinite wisdom that maybe I only really wanted the left-hand side of my page. I have no idea where the right-hand column is. Which means I can't access my blogroll. *weeping* Maybe they'll fix it... eventually. Edit: Thank you, Keri! I'm a dork. Apparently my missing column is at the bottom of my page--I have no idea why--but at least you've saved me from my blogroll withdrawal. Regardless, I am still miffed with BlogSpot. And my page is Not Pretty which is just going to render me cranky until they fix it.

Call it creativity (or just call for the Calgon)

Mir — Thu, 22 Jul 2004 00:41:14 +0000

(I still haven't figured out how to fix my screwed-up page layout. So I'm going to do the mature thing and ignore it and hope it goes away. Carry on.) Children are a never-ending source of a fresh world-view, aren't they? I mean, they just come up with stuff that some of us stuffy old adults would never even think of. Say you were... oh... I don't know... say you were perhaps not feeling in top form for ~~weeks on end~~ a few days. Or that you'd been charged for two TVs--neither of which worked--and found yourself spending all of your spare time on the phone with a large electronics conglomerate trying to convince them to stop stealing your money and, I don't know, maybe fix their error and give you the TV you thought you were buying. Should you find yourself in one of these situations (or a similar one), do not be alarmed when your offspring find some creative ways to pass the time while you are ~~sleeping~~ otherwise occupied. My home is just bursting with new games that I know are going to be all the rage very soon. And because I love to share the joy, here are some soon-to-be-favorites for which you should all be on the lookout:

Land mines: In this game, one small child takes an entire deck of Go Fish cards (the type is unimportant, although the Thomas the Tank cards work well) and strategically places them all over the floors of the house. Be sure to put at least one card on every stair. When someone steps on a card, everyone yells "BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!" loudly enough to be heard in Australia.
Emergency: A game of skill and cunning, this one requires uncanny timing and healthy lungs. The object is to appear to be playing quietly until any adults in the vicinity have lost interest; then, one child begins shrieking about an alleged injury at a pitch capable of breaking glass. By the time the resident adult has come tearing to the scene, all children should be loading the "injured party" (usually a Polly Pocket) into the toy ambulance.
Pool Party: If you have anything that can hold water, you can have a pool party. Extra points for carrying your chosen receptacle out of the bathroom and leaving a river of evidence on your way back to the playroom. Extra special bonus points for later daring to complain about whatever toy you ruined by putting it in the water!
Tornado: When nothing else seems entertaining, just take out everything. Go ahead, take it all out! Scatter it to the four corners of the room, or--better yet--across the entire house. When directed to clean up, plead fatigue.
Covert Art: Sure, you're old enough to know what you can and can't draw on, and what you're allowed to use scissors for and what you're not... but that's all part of the fun! Go ahead and use that green crayon on your sister's school forms! Sure, cut up your little brother's prize art project! He won't mind! Or maybe he will, and that makes it even more fun!
School For The Wicked: Take great care in dressing all of your dollies--all 472 of them--for school. Line them up and begin addressing them as their mother. Be sure to mimic every obnoxious thing your mother has ever said to you, including any swear words you may have overheard her saying on a bad day. Make the dollies cry.
Bedding Romp: This game can't be played as often as the others, but it's loads of fun on days you can manage it. Wait patiently for the one day out of twelve when your mother actually manages to make all the beds in the morning. Then, don't just play in your bed, make it look like you had a grand mal seizure in the thing. Be sure to hide your pillow after ripping up all the sheets!

You're very welcome for sharing. No need to thank me.

Is it wrong...

Mir — Thu, 22 Jul 2004 13:17:04 +0000

... that late last night, as I stood in my bathroom, waxing the hair off my upper lip, surrounded by piles of boxes of various and sundry hormone patches, I started hatching a scheme to market said patches as dual purpose for hormone regulation and hair removal? Just remember, you read about it here first.

Target = Popularity at a Price I Can Afford

Mir — Thu, 22 Jul 2004 21:18:16 +0000

Guess who just picked up the deluxe 24' Slip-N-Slide on clearance? (I'm not above buying my way into the Mama Hall of Fame.)

More about Target, my one true love

Mir — Fri, 23 Jul 2004 01:22:52 +0000

It's true; I am a wanton slut for Target. I will do unspeakable things to get to spend half an hour cruising the endcaps there. Now you all know my weakness. In addition to the Slip-N-Slide that is going to make me very popular here this weekend, I picked up several other have-to-have deals, and my heart went pit-a-pat as I did so. How adorable are these?? I didn't want to make the picture super-gigantic, so you may not be able to see, but those kiddie-sized gardening gloves actually have a different bug finger puppet on each finger. I may have in fact cooed while I was putting them in my cart. I mean, the kids' "help" with my gardening is spotty at best, so they may as well enjoy their gloves, right? All 4 items shown to you here? Under $7 for the entire lot. Because it was all 75% off. This is why when I grow up, I am going to marry Target and have its babies. (Yeah, the no uterus thing may interfere, but since it's a fantasy, let's just gloss over that part.) But while I am waiting? The pictured items are going into the top-secret Mama storage room to await--here is where I confess exactly how twisted I am--next year's Easter baskets. (Be gentle; it's a sickness. I can't help it.) I also purchased the Sid's Room Toy Story Action Figure Set, mostly because my life feels incomplete without that freaky doll head on the erector set spider body. But if anyone asks I will claim that I bought it because Monkey is a Toy Story freak and the set was 50% off. For Chickadee? Pink rain boots with butterflies on them. For $3.24. Are you beginning to understand?? It's not like I could've just left them there. I'm only human. There were other things, too, but I'm starting to get all hot and bothered. I'd better stop talking about it, or before you know it I'll be back there again tomorrow. But I hope that this has perhaps elucidated for the un-Targeted why I feel so passionately about The Happiest Place On Earth. By the way, having spent some time there today? Made me realize that life is too short for crappy customer service. I'm going to dispute the erroneous charges from The Great Television Debacle through my credit card company, and leave Excellent Purchase to clean up their own mess, because I am done. The second defective TV has now been in my house for over a week and despite four telephone calls on my part, they have neither arranged for a replacement nor picked up the piece of crap they left here. Though they did manage to find time to charge me, twice. The replacement television? Will come from Target. And it will love me like a good television should.

But Target is not a substitute for...

Mir — Fri, 23 Jul 2004 03:38:55 +0000

... Friday Facts and Fiction questions. As Jules just reminded me. So leave your questions here and I will address them tomorrow. By the way? Tons of people are now doing the open-forum questions thing. But as far as I know, I started it, and I'm the only one who actively wastes time coming up with fake answers in addition to the real dirt. So accept no substitutes! Pick my brain and behold the debris it spews forth!

Seventh Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction

Mir — Fri, 23 Jul 2004 15:00:34 +0000

We have a busy day ahead of us, so I'm going to put this post up early today. Please accept my apologies if you meant to ask a question but hadn't gotten to it yet. There's always next week! But if I don't post now, I won't get to it until late tonight. And why am I explaining this? I'm such a dork. Ahem. Anyway. Genuine asks, in the book of my life, which chapters are the best reads? You've probably already read about that time when I was two and I fell down a mining shaft... riveting stuff.... (Fiction.) This may be perceived as a cop-out answer, but I hope that the best is yet to come. I strongly suspect that my late thirties and my forties are going to be the most interesting, yet. But, okay... if I have to stick to the chapters already written, I'd guess my freshman year of college makes the best read thus far. Keep in mind that I'm a sucker for a coming-of-age drama, but there you have it. I turned 17 the week before I started college. I was an old soul but a young kid, and it was my first big grappling with reconciling the two. I screwed it up rather badly, but it makes for an interesting story, I suppose. (Fact.) Angela asks, what did I want to be, as a child and then as a teen, when I grew up? I've always had a fascination with large axes. People made fun of my desire to be the first famous female lumberjack, but I didn't care! (Fiction; I'm lucky I can use scissors without hurting myself.) Oh how I hate to be a cliche, but sadly, that doesn't stop me. As a child, I debated to myself--often--whether I would settle for a life as a famous actress, or whether I'd take the high road and be a famous novelist. No joke: in fifth grade I wrote a short story for Mrs. Simons (in the first person, natch) about a little girl with an unhappy home situation who considers killing herself, but whose problems are basically all solved because she manages to get to an open casting call for "Annie" and lands the lead. On Broadway. Mrs. Simons disregarded the cry for help that this piece so obviously was, and gave me an A+++++. (Yeah, Mrs. Simons was a little loopy that way. I got lots of pluses in her class despite being a mental health train wreck.) As a teenager, I decided that nothing would stand between me and the Broadway dream. My older brother wanted to study music, in college, and my parents threatened not to pay his tuition if he didn't major in something more practical. He got his degree in civil engineering and is now a jazz musician. Having watched my brother's situation before mine, when I announced that I wished to major in drama I was not surprised when my parents threatened not to pay my tuition. I countered with the suggestion that if I could not pursue my major of choice, I simply wouldn't attend college. Checkmate. I majored in theatre, and went on to become a software engineer. (Fact, and proof that truth is stranger than fiction.) Regular Cinderella asks, when the summer ends and I turn back into a pumpkin, what do I plan to do for work? I was thinking of getting a job at Hooters. I hear the tips are awesome. Heard of any specials on push-up bras over at Fishing For Deals lately? (Fiction!) Well, it's been made abundantly clear to me that I will not work as an engineer again. And freelance writing feeds my soul but not my bank account. I am trying to find an entry-level job that could potentially lead to more writing, but so far I haven't found much. The other possibility is that if I work at the daycare center we've used for years--although the pay isn't superb--I get half off tuition, effectively rendering that a very cost-conscious choice until Monkey starts public school. I've discussed working there with the director several times, but so far they've had more employees than openings. And, um, barring those options? I may just go work at Target for a while. For the discount. (I need to concentrate on the discount, and not on the fact that I hold a Masters degree from Stanford and I would be working at Target with all the local teenagers.) (Fact, *sigh*) She also asks how I'm feeling, because she is a sweetie! I'm feeling pretty darn good, thanks! I'm giving a big shout-out to the Vivelle Dot, as I think for the first time in a month, my hormones are actually regulated again. The anti-depressants aren't hurting matters, either. Heh. The migraine situation seems to be under control, finally; which is good because I was about one headache away from the padded room. (Fact.) Aurora asks, did my children understand what surgery I was having and why, and why did I have to have a hysterectomy, anyway? It was fairly straightforward to explain to the children that they had poisoned my insides when they'd lived there, and that I now had to submit to a painful and potentially deadly procedure thanks to them. (Fiction, don't get all ruffled. No therapy fund in the world could cover that.) I discussed the history behind the surgery in this post, if you'd like to catch up. My son is a very happy-go-lucky kind of guy, and young, besides, and so was happy with the explanation that I had an owie the docs were going to fix. Okay, Mama, tralalala, was pretty much his reaction. My daughter--older, and more sensitive, to boot--was a harder sell. She actually remembers several previous, smaller surgeries I've had to deal with the endometriosis. So in her case it was a matter of saying, "Remember how Mama gets lots of belly aches and they've done some little surgeries before to try and fix it? Well now they're going to do just one more thing, and it will fix me up for good and after I get better I won't have those belly aches ever again." She worried about it a lot, because she's like that. But they were away visiting my ex-laws for the first week, so by the time they came home I was up and around and they could see that I was moving a little slow but perfectly fine, otherwise. Someday when it's time to have the birds and bees talk with Chickadee, I will explain what they actually did.(Fact.) She also asks what state I live in. I am a proud resident of the Live, Freeze, or Die State. Here in New Hampshire we know how to have a good time... in the snow. (Fact!) Jennifer wants to know if she should get her own blog. Well, Jennifer, that depends. Do you like to write? Can you happily prattle on about all manner of minutiae in a way that compels people to read your blather despite its inherent lack of import? Would you like to get sucked in to a huge time-waster? Do you want to be one of the cool kids? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you need a blog! But, uh, don't forget me when you're famous. Chewie is so brain-drained from four children, she asks a series of questions about how I manage my orgasmic Target jaunts, and how do the kids handle them? I just lock the kids in the bathroom with some snacks whenever I need a Target fix. Cuz shopping with kids is impossible, as you know. (Fiction. I swear that I only considered doing that once.) As it happens, yesterday I was kid-free for my trip, as the ex takes the kids one afternoon a week. Of course I try to limit my purchasing of stuff for the kids to the trips when they're not with me. However, I have been known to take them to Target with me, and they know the drill. We get one of those bench carts so they can both ride, and they either ride or walk (but they must stay right beside me or get strapped back into the cart). They know I only buy items with red tags, and further know that if they behave they're likely to get a small bit of bribery (usually a special snack, because my kids are all about food). And as I rarely get out of Target without a cart full of stuff, I have sometimes bought future gifts for them while they were with me... I just distract them with something and shove the items in question under other stuff in my cart. And I'd love to tell you that they're perfect angels there, but sometimes they act up. And then we leave. And there is lots of crying. Mostly by me. (Fact. Please pass the Kleenex.) Janet wants to know what, short of a brain transplant, would make her blog funnier. Ummmm... a sex change operation? I would come laugh at that. (Fiction; I would never laugh at you. Maybe with you. And please no hate-mail about transgender stuff because I'm joking for crying out loud.) I don't know, Janet. My guess is that you just haven't had enough trauma in your life! I don't exactly set out to be funny, most of the time. It's more like I've learned that humor is a great coping mechanism. I'm a huge proponent of the "Well, ya gotta laugh or scream, and laughing is more fun" philosophy. My MO is basically to turn all of the annoying aspects of my life into blog fodder, thereby robbing them of their ability to drive me nutty. While I appreciate that others' enjoy my writing, the truth is that I do this as much for my own sanity as anything else. Humor heals. (Fact. I feel a little bit like L. Ron Hubbard right now.) That concludes this week's installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. I hope that you found enlightenment; I didn't, but I lose things all the time and find them later, so there's still hope.

Saturday ponderings

Mir — Sat, 24 Jul 2004 13:47:09 +0000

Two items are rolling around in my brain this rainy morning. First, Chickadee has her first loose top tooth. She's lost three bottom teeth, and as soon as I got used to the adorable little gap, two permanent teeth sprung up and she now looks essentially the same as she did before. (When the third tooth decides to make an appearance is when the fun will begin, as her jaw is tiny and the two teeth already grown in have taken the entire spot left by the three vacancies.) Of the three teeth already lost, she lost one in April, one in May, and one in June. She is determined to lose this tooth in July. I fear finding her tying herself to the door or something similar to try to yank it out. Second, I am trying to be a mature adult. It isn't working. Because I am a bratty child. I have laid actual money down with several friends on the conviction that if my ex remarries, it will be a mail-order bride type of situation. (He is painfully shy and also has some very old-fashioned ideas about what a woman "should" be.) As he normally takes the kids to Saturday swimming lessons, he conveniently let slip that he was having company this weekend, of the female persuasion. When I offered to cover lessons, he said no, that was fine, because her bus from New York wasn't getting in until late. Later when I asked if it was someone I knew he said no, it's someone he's just met. He's just met someone who is now taking a bus from New York to stay at his house? The mind boggles. And let's be clear: it's not jealousy, it's more like morbid curiosity. And maybe a wee bit of concern for the girl involved. Of course, there's always the chance that this will turn into some fabulous blog fodder....

As in, the ancient ruins?

Mir — Sat, 24 Jul 2004 16:34:19 +0000

We have our first Mystery Female update. Chickadee reports that her name is "Inca." I'm guessing it may actually be Inga, but who knows. Sounds mail-order-ish to me, either way. But Chickadee's hair was neatly combed out and beautifully done up--which is quite a change from the nest of snarls it usually is after swimming--so I'm thinking I can get behind this Inca person. I also had a nice laugh at the ex's expense and watched him turn all red because he parked waaaaaaay to the side of my driveway at both pick-up and drop-off, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing about the Mystery Female in his car. I suggested he bring her in to say hello and he almost choked. Heh. And no, I didn't even get a glimpse. Curiouser and curiouser.

My own private after-school special

Mir — Sun, 25 Jul 2004 00:00:27 +0000

So the kids and I had a fabulous day; we met up with friends and ran some errands at the mall with the merry-go-round. That meant an errand, a ride on the carousel, an errand, ice cream, a couple of errands, a ride on the carousel, and then home again. Not a bad way to spend a day for the six-and-under set. Then we had dinner at our friends' house, came home, had showers, and headed to bed. I am not one to bill myself as the world's greatest mom. I mean, I get the job done. Some days better than others. On certain issues I could use a lot of work. On other issues I may be slightly ahead of the curve. Who knows. As all my fellow parents know, the kids didn't exactly come with a manual so we're all muddling through as best we can. Anyway. Chickadee copped an attitude with me for most of the day. At six, this is not unusual, but it felt... different. I wondered. I decided I was reading too much into things or perhaps projecting. Until my friend leaned over after a particularly mouthy exchange and whispered, "Somebody's angry about Daddy's new girlfriend." Well, it was imagining until she said it. Crap. Ooooookay. I figured I'd tackle it at bedtime, if we made it through until then without me harming her. As she got herself settled under the covers tonight I lay down on the bed beside her and asked her if there was anything she wanted to talk about. "Nooooooo." Oh, okay then. I was just wondering if you felt okay about meeting Daddy's friend today. Immediate tears. Oy. "I think Daddy likes his new girlfriend more than he likes me!" I could hear the tender music swelling in the background, I tell you. It was so corny I would've laughed except that it was real and my heart was bending under my little girl's crying. Then I realized... here I was embarking on this discussion on a night when Daddy forgot the bedtime phone call. Because his "friend" is here. We've been apart for about a year and a half and he's forgotten to call a grand total of three times. Great. I said a quick and silent prayer that she hadn't noticed the missed call. (And maybe added in a few curses towards the forgetful father....) So I did The Right Thing. I kissed her and hugged her and told her how she and her brother are the whole world to her father and me, and how I know that no one will ever be more important to us than them, but that adults need other adults and what makes Daddy happy should make us happy too. I praised my stepmom and pointed out how happy it makes me that she makes my dad happy, and how great it is to have another person in my life to love. I even conceded (in my best conspiratorial tone) that I hadn't known quite what to think of her when we first met, that of course I didn't love her immediately because we needed time to get to know each other. I did everything I could think of to act like this was a really exciting thing. And when her sobs finally turned to yawns I reminded her that she can always talk to me, and always talk to Daddy (unless he forgets to call; bastard) (no, I didn't say that), and that we will always help her feel better. I feel like I ran a marathon. And I have no idea if I did the right thing, or if she really feels any better. At least if this was made-for-television I'd have a commercial break to review the script.

Hi! My name is Dumbass

Mir — Sun, 25 Jul 2004 22:37:01 +0000

Remember that television I bought? The one that I bought because the sound was wonky on my old set? The one that came with a display weirdness, and--as it turned out--also had the same sound wonkiness? Remember how Excellent Purchase brought me a second set, with the very same problem? And then I couldn't get them to answer my calls or figure out what to do? Remember how I am not very smart? On a suggestion from a friend, I replaced every piece of co-axial cable hooking up the various devices sitting on my entertainment center. Third time's the charm! The third replacement fixed the pixelated line down the left side, and the TV is just fine. The sound is better, too. I spent $250 on a new television and lost about four days of my life to the Excellent Purchase Television Debacle because I had a frayed piece of cable. This entire incident has prompted me to want to fix every area of my life where I am Just Not Very Smart. Because television viewing is a metaphor for life, dontchaknow. (Well, okay, not so much, but I was in a groove for a minute there.) Next thing you know, I'll be changing my oil every 3,000 miles and actually reading the directions that come with appliances. Scary. Anyway. Now that I've bared my stupidity, and because I'm turning over a new leaf, would anyone like to tell me how to fix my stupid page display? I changed BlogSpot templates, even, in an effort to get my right-hand column back where it belongs... and even that didn't work. Someone who understands this CSS stylesheet stuff, please, please, take pity on me and help me get my page pretty again. Otherwise, I'm going to start sneaking into your homes and fraying your cable wires. Trust me, it's annoying.

Hi! My name is Dumbass

Mir — Sun, 25 Jul 2004 22:37:01 +0000

But before I played Musical Cables...

Mir — Mon, 26 Jul 2004 00:15:29 +0000

... the kids and I played "if we don't start cleaning this place up, Mama's head is going to explode." I'd say that for a Sunday, today was a total success. We got up, we ate, we went to church. Where there was a VBS "demonstration," which involved any teachers and willing children who'd attended this past week's festivities going up front to sing along on some VBS songs with the band. So I sent Chickadee up with the other kids (no point in trying to tear Monkey away from his coloring), and she came back to me a verse later. She didn't want to sing alone. (The other twenty people up there weren't cutting the mustard, I guess.) So I went up with her, and we sang and did the required motions to each song. I am so very pleased that I wore a nice shirt and a skirt and my sexy sandals (okay, maybe I should not have been wearing my sexy sandals to church, anyway) to stand in front of the congregation with my arms in the air going "na na na na na na! na na na na na na!" We came home and had lunch, and then realized that the tidiness situation at Casa Mir had reached Code Red. I set the kids to work on the playroom and family room with the gentle reminder that anything that was still on the floor after the allotted time was going to be vacuumed up. It's amazing how motivated even the laziest child can become, upon hearing that. So! We tidied, I vacuumed the entire lower floor; I considered vacuuming upstairs (because I was feeling pretty good) and then decided I'd better not push it. I brought the vacuum up to remind myself to vacuum the top floor tomorrow. I did dishes and cleaned the kitchen. Then the kids wanted to play outside. I let them out, only to watch them disappear in the tall grass. Hrm. Okay, I feel alright, I should try mowing. So I mowed most of the lawn. (When the kids lost interest in taking every single toy out of the garage and leaving it in the driveway for me to kill myself on, I called it good and went back inside with them.) After a rest and a snack I still felt okay, so I cleaned the bathrooms. Then after dinner Chickadee and I cleaned her room (which had become frightening) and sorted her miscellaneous belongings into the new storage cart I'd bought her at--where else?--Target. This is the best I've felt since my surgery and the cleanest the house has been since I was left to fend for myself. Yay! But... you knew there was a but, right? There always is, with me. And that goes double for Sunday nights. *sigh* I had The Talk with the ex about Chickadee's meltdown last night, and he was appropriately concerned and apologetic, I guess. But he was still very reluctant to talk to me at all about Inga (at least I have a name confirmation now), saying, "You'll just have to trust my judgement." To which I snarkily replied, "Oh, like you trusted my judgement the night you called me up screaming because there was a car in my driveway?" He did admit that this is a "serious" relationship, and that probably he handled the meeting badly. Chickadee spoke with him for a while and I heard her sounding not very happy... I overheard "Well I'm not used to her, Daddy, and you're just gonna have to give me a little time to be!" and I was very proud of her. But after the phone call I pulled her onto my lap and asked her if she felt better, now that she and Daddy had talked about Inga, and she replied, "I don't want to talk about her any more" and stomped off. That wasn't really the tidy resolution for which I'd been hoping. Setting aside my concern on my daughter's behalf, now that it's Sunday night and I have precious little left to clean and I can no longer direct my ire at Excellent Purchase (my television has a really nice crisp picture, by the way), I'm left with my own baggage. And as shallow and whiney as I know it is, I am stunned to hear that my ex is in a "serious" relationship while I'm still single. I'm not jealous in the sense that I want to have him, but certainly jealous in that I wish I had someone. That would elevate my Dumbass status to Loser Dumbass, by the way. Just in case you're keeping score. I know that when the time is right I will meet someone. But in case you hadn't noticed, patience is not my forte. But grudge-holding? I'm great at that! And while the conscious part of my brain says "Good for him, I hope they'll be happy" there's a darker corner that whispers "Um, isn't he the guy who blew up your life, kinda repeatedly? He doesn't deserve happiness. Especially not before me!" I need a bigger nametag. I think I just went from Loser Dumbass to Bitter Loser Dumbass. The nice thing about the kind of woulda-coulda-shoulda Sunday nights that I have, is that I am probably the only person I know who looks forward to Monday morning.

Bustin' Out

Mir — Mon, 26 Jul 2004 14:48:37 +0000

The sun rises on Monday morning, and I am sane again. Phew. Thanks for the kind comments on my post from last night. Logically, intellectually, I am fine. Emotionally, even, I'm mostly fine. The thing about being lonely is that it's not a constant thing; it lurks and jumps out and bites you every so often. But it's all good. Just think how much more I'll appreciate the love of my life when he finally shows up! (If I don't deck him and say, "What TOOK you so long??") This afternoon I'm giving myself a little gift. The sitter is coming for a couple of hours and I'm going out to do... ummm... not really sure, but I'm going out without the kids. I reasoned that up until yesterday, I'd been planning to pay someone to tend to the lawn, and now that I've mowed, that freed up some spare money. Besides, I love our sitter--as do the kids--and I even feel a little guilty that I often pray she starts getting ugly. She's fourteen now and totally gorgeous. There's that whole life-sucking boys thing so many pretty girls succumb to. I figure we'll only get to have her another year, maybe two, unless she gets really bad acne or something. Anyway, I am woman, hear me roar... or more likely, see me go clearance shopping... but whatever, it's about a little nurturing for me. Which is also why I gave myself my first post-surgical pedicure last night. It's much easier to be brave with blue chrome toenails, ya know.

View 'em and weep

Mir — Mon, 26 Jul 2004 16:47:22 +0000

Just for Genuine, who is always wanting nudie photos and has apparently offered to ride up on a white horse purely for comedic value, I offer you the source of my freakish power and spotty self-assurance. Behold, and be amazed!

Spending some money on some stuff

Mir — Tue, 27 Jul 2004 01:08:03 +0000

Apparently today was my day to spend money on things. First of all, this morning as the children were eating breakfast from our endless supply of poptarts (because when I run out of poptarts there is much gnashing of teeth and roaring), I realized that we had No Food. Poptarts are not food. They would work for breakfast, but I had been staring down the barrel of a grocery run for about a week. My first clue was when I offered Blue Box for lunch yesterday and Chickadee started to cry, "Not macaroni and cheese again!" My six-year-old. Said she was sick. Of mac and cheese. That's dire straits, right there. So I did a quick run-down of the area. No milk. No bread. No yogurt. One egg. No fresh fruit. No cheese. No ham. No turkey. No salad. No goldfish. If anyone was wanting ketchup and mayo on a Ritz cracker for lunch, I was all set; but other than that... not so much. Off to the grocery store, where I filled my cart with various goodies that either the kids won't eat or I wouldn't be buying if I was a better mother. Ha! Just kidding! It's not like I was buying bags of sugar, for crying out loud. Did you know that many popular sugar cereals are now coming in reduced sugar versions? It's great. There are reduced sugar Froot Loops and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (both favorites around here), and they make me feel all warm and fuzzy until I remember that it's probably the artificial color I should be worrying about rather than the sugar, and then I feel so conflicted that I have to say, "Oh LOOK! It's Spiderman on the box!" And then Monkey commences with the Little Boy Elation Death Grip on the box and I know that despite my most wholesome intentions I could never get out of the store without purchasing that cereal, so I may as well stop worrying about it. I bought bananas, to hide in fruit smoothies... and veggie medley, to garnish dinner plates and allow me to pretend that my children eat vegetables. It turns out that I spend a lot of money on food that I either throw in the garbage or try to pretend doesn't exist. What a wonder that I don't enjoy my forays to the supermarket more. I also fell hook, line and sinker for the enormous display of "Buy 1 get 2 FREE!" on Coca-Cola six-packs. It seemed like a great way to try out the new C2. It's gooooood. Damn them and their half-sugar soda. I already regret having tried it. I'd finally made my peace with diet soda, alternating between Pepsi One and Diet Coke with Lime. Sure, neither one is as good as a traditional Coke, but I was at peace with them and--more importantly--I wasn't adding any calories to my life. Now they come along with their regular-Coke-tasting soda, the bastards. I will have to horde my stash and only drink them under the most severe circumstances. Like when I have a migraine. Or when I'm out of chocolate. Or if my TV breaks (for real, this time). My grocery store also does this very amusing thing that I like to refer to as the Meat Lottery. There are regular prices on items, then there are "Shopper's Club" discounts that change each week that you get with the little thingamabobby you keep on your keychain, then there are these random instant coupons on meat. To play Meat Lottery, you walk down the butcher's case and look for the large red "Manager's Special" stickers on a package of something that isn't tripe or tongue. These coupons start at $.50 and go up to about $4.00. On a good day, a jackpot in the Meat Lottery will yield me half a deep-freeze full of supplies. Today? $2.00 off on ground beef. Good enough. Burgers for dinner! Eventually I was done shopping, and came home and filled my fridge and my fruit basket and my pantry. Then I balled up the eleventy hundred plastic bags I'd brought my stuff home in and tried to stuff them behind the kitchen trash can where the other eleventy zillion plastic grocery bags live. The trash can jutted out of its normal spot from the force of all those plastic bags, and for the millionth time I considered throwing the extras away (no! bad for the environment!) or bringing some of them back to the store to recycle (no! too complicated and requiring of advance planning!). Oh well. That was this morning. This afternoon, the sitter showed up, and I went out to browse clearance at a large department store. I found an adorable little necklace with Chickadee's initial for a pendant on clearance for $4. It was surrounded by gigantic bling-bling rhinestone intial pendants roughly the size of Chickadee's head, and I nearly missed it, sitting there all unassuming and tiny and cute. That goes into the stocking-stuffer pile for Christmas. After some debate I also treated myself to a pair of sparkly, strappy, come hither black heels. They were 85% off. I will probably never wear them, because such shoes would be a bit of overkill for playing Meat Lottery or driving the kids to the pediatrician, I think. But they were a perfect match for a sparkly, strappy, sexy outfit I got at that same store, also at 85% off, two years ago. (That outfit? Still in my closet with the tags on. But trust me, it's killer.) It occurs to me that I may not miss having a mate quite so much as I mourn the retirement of all the really fabulous clothing in my closet. I mean, the ex never took me anywhere, but at least I got to get dolled up for the company Christmas party once a year. The grand total between shoes and necklace? $15ish. And if you saw the shoes--and the outfit--you would totally agree that I needed them. I picked up the mail when I returned home, and I had a package! Oh boy, a package! Wait, I don't remember ordering anything. I don't recognize the return address (EI Inc.?). Maybe I won something! I shook the box a little. It rattled. Hmmm. I was halfway through opening it when I remembered that I'd called in refills for all of our prescriptions to the mail-in service. That rattling would be the sound of antihistamines and other medications. Not so very exciting. And while I love the convenience and reduced cost of the mail-in service, it tends to mean a large bill all at once. Three months worth of medication for three people who are all on at least one daily med. My family is the reason drug company moguls drive fancy cars. It didn't help that I'd used up my previous three months of migraine medication during the Week Of Migraine Hell, as my chosen migraine prescription costs about the same as cocaine. This evening, as I was throwing about twenty burgers on the grill (oops... guess that was a bigger package of ground beef than I'd realized), I wasn't fretting over the money I'd spent today. I was enjoying watching the kids play in the yard, practicing walking in my 4" heels (just in case), and calling friends to beg them to please come over for dinner.

The Shoes

Mir — Tue, 27 Jul 2004 20:39:19 +0000

(Or, It's Really Hard To Take A Flattering Picture Of Your Own Leg.) You asked, and you shall receive. Because I am all about the giving, and the love, and most importantly, publishing multiple pictures of my feet on the internet. Well, here it is. I do believe even Martha would be proud of me. These are shoes that no sane person would buy. These shoes were originally $46--which is probably a deal for Nine West--and they are constructed of approximately $.65 worth of raw materials. $.35 of that? Is just for the sequins along the straps. Which I was unable to capture well in the picture. Because I was far too busy wondering why my leg ended up looking like it belonged to a large woman named Helga. But taking a picture of your own leg, when you are, you know, attached to it, and trying to turn it at such an angle that the beauty of your frivolous shoes can be properly beheld, it's hard. I considered letting Chickadee snap my picture, and then I had one of those flash-forward moments to her sitting down to dinner with her dad and saying, "This morning Mama let me use the camera! She had me take a picture of her in her pajamas with some really spiky heels on! And then she put it on the computer and sent it to everyone!" And really, that just seemed like a can of worms not worth opening. So you are just going to have to trust me when I say that not only do I not have Helga legs, in these shoes, my legs go from average to yowza in the time it takes me to buckle them. (When I'm not contorting my ankles to photograph my shoe on my foot, of course.) It's really a pity that these shoes are going to live on the closet shelf. On the other hand, I've never had a broken leg and am not really eager to have one, so maybe it's a good thing....

When I grow up, I want to be... employed

Mir — Wed, 28 Jul 2004 02:04:04 +0000

The time has come for me to resume my job search In Earnest. I resolved to take the summer off... remember my plans for this summer and how great it was going to be? It's been just like I pictured it! Except not at all! Because it turns out that a hysterectomy can really throw a kink into your beach plans. You wouldn't think you'd need a uterus for building sandcastles or anything, and really it's not the uterus itself, but the post-surgical time period where you hope for death for about five weeks just does not put you in a frolicking, beachy mood. Who knew? Anyway. August is nearly upon us. Chickadee starts school on September 1st. I have about a month to find myself a job. My resume is ready and the panic attacks have returned. All I need to do now is... get a job. It sounds so simple. It is so anything but. I am remembering why I stopped this routine back in May. Here's how it goes: Sit down at computer, bring up Monster, search on jobs in the immediate area. Note that I am either not qualified for or break out in hives at the sight of 99% of the listings. Hey! Failure Analysis Engineer! That sounds like it's right up... oh, that's not what I thought it was going to be. Failure Engineer, maybe. It's the analysis part (and the requirement for a degree in Engineering Physics) where I fall a bit short. Okay, no matter. Who needs dumb ol' Monster, anyway? I'm gonna search America's Job Bank. Except that, on AJB, I can't search just by area. I need a keyword. Okay. I try various combinations of keywords that yield no matches until I find myself typing keywords like "royalty" and "dictator" and "piles of money" in idle frustration. (After that, I switch to trying to Google the ex's new woman based only on her first name and the newest snippet of info--gleaned because she gave the children musical toothbrushes--which is that she is a chemist for a large health and beauty conglomerate. Strictly speaking, this is not standard job search procedure. Also, there are a lot more chemists out there with that name than you might think. I got bupkus.) And so my hour of job hunting leaves me with... zero leads. Would anyone like a copy of my resume? I'm a highly qualified and experienced engineer, if it happens to be the year 2000. If you're picky and want current qualifications, I write. Lots. And often. About nothing. But that's sort of an art, you know. Also I am an expert shopper, genius room designer, television critic, ice cream connoisseur, micro-manager, bargain maven, and--with the correct hormone patch on my derriere--relatively bright human being. It really seems to me like I ought to be able to shoot a little higher than assistant manager at Taco Bell. And yet, here I sit. A month is a long time. I'll find something. Something with decent pay, that I don't hate. Right? These things have a way of working themselves out, I know. And any amount of woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing my career choice, staying home with my kids, my marriage, my divorce, any of these things, doesn't change that. But I still think it's a crying shame that there are no local job openings for royalty.

My morning giggle

Mir — Wed, 28 Jul 2004 13:04:43 +0000

TV: Thanks so much for your help! Monkey: Thanks so much for your help! TV: No problem! Monkey: No problem! TV: We need to go now. Monkey: We need to go now. TV: Okay, thanks again. Monkey: Okay, thanks again. TV: Arrivederci! Monkey: I have a wedgie!

Ooooohhhhh... who are the people in my bloggerhood?

Mir — Wed, 28 Jul 2004 16:04:11 +0000

A couple of posts down, where I confessed trying to Google information about my ex's new ladyfriend, Jennifer asked if my ex reads my blog. Hell no. That would be the short answer. The long answer is more complicated, of course. Part of the reason that starting this blog and writing again after such a long hiatus has been so cathartic for me is that my ex never really "got" why I write, or appreciated anything I wrote. I've always found that puzzling, given that he is a bibliophile... but he doesn't want real life in his readings, and I'm kind of a Real Life type. I don't write sci-fi, therefore I write nothing that interests him. Shortly before our marriage started its final descent, a couple of years ago, I entered the American Mothers, Inc., yearly Arts Competition. My essay took first place in the state, second place nationally. "That's great," was his response. That was all. So, no, he doesn't read my blog. I doubt he reads any blogs at all. He doesn't have a single inkling that I am writing again, and I won't be the one to tell him. If I had to guess, I'd say that some of the stuff I write here might upset him. But the ratio of incriminating, embarrassing things I could reveal about him to the items I've actually shared herein is overwhelmingly in his favor. I think he'd realize that; and if he didn't, I wouldn't much care. However, the deeper, implied question here is one I'm now considering. Who does read my blog, and how do I censor myself, if at all? Would I be horrified if, say, my ex somehow did find my blog? There are enough troublemakers in the world that it's not impossible that someone will someday put together enough puzzle pieces and appoint themselves the Character Police and alert him that I've been talking about him. Would that devastate me? Um, no. I talk about my ex here. I talk about my kids here. I talk about my friends here. Sometimes I talk about my parents here. I strive to censor as little as possible, but neither do I print anything that I would be horrified to have the people in question read. At the same time, I don't use real names of people unable to consent to being discussed (either because of age or oblivion). If someone's out there Googling me, they're unlikely to find my blog. Despite my previous suspicions to the contrary, it turns out that I am not, in fact, the only Miriam in the world, or even in New England. But say someone hunts me down and finds my blog. They've found me. What then? That's great. I'm grateful for every person that takes the time to read what I write. This blog allows me to keep my folks updated on the day-to-day, stay in touch with friends who are busy and/or far away, blow off steam, chronicle my journey, re-acquaint myself with my love of writing, and meet many amazing folks whom I otherwise wouldn't even know existed. As far as I know, that's why I'm here writing. According to my stats program, for every comment I receive there are over 10 readers who remain silent. So tell me, readers... you're in my bloggerhood... why are you here reading?

Most wives need... more wives

Mir — Thu, 29 Jul 2004 00:42:51 +0000

I feel the looooooove, people! *sniffle* I expected a few introspective, convoluted answers to my "bloggerhood" post below, and instead I found over three dozen "I like you! Lots!" comments. Aw, shucks. I like you, too! Don't ever change! And special kudos to those of you who delurked just to say that. I cannot promise to never alienate any of you with some of my more bizarre ruminations, but I'll do my darndest to keep y'all around. Speaking of which, what do you suppose a small boy who manages to make "arrivederci" rhyme with "I have a wedgie" (ah-ree-va-DED-gie turns to ah-hav-a-WED-gie) does for an encore, just when you've decided he is perhaps a special kind of linguistic savant? Why, he listens intently to the bedtime story's description of wolves howling at the moon and intones, "I think that may be their way of communicating." Well alrighty then, Einstein. If we could just keep your fingers out of your nose and get you to stop peeing the bed, you'd be ready for college. Anyway. This post is not about either of these things. This post is about how polygamy has gotten a bum rap. (That promise? About not alienating people? See, now, why I am reluctant?) Now I, probably not unlike you, had always assumed that polygamy was some weird Mormon sex fetish thing. Then I saw the story about Tom Green of Utah on Dateline NBC a few years back. They devoted an hour to the inner workings of this polygamist household. The topic of sex was touched upon, but only briefly (the "head wife" is responsible for scheduling the husband's sleeping schedule). Most of the story centered on how the wives run their day-to-day lives with the kids. Can I tell you? I've had extensive discussions about this with my girlfriends and (now ex) sisters-in-law, and we all agree. The concept is brilliant. How is it that the mainstream has shunned this possibility so? I think it's all the men who couldn't possibly handle multiple wives, who are walking around trying to convince every one that this is a bad idea. Yeah, I see you, there, shaking your head. Just stick with me a minute here. First of all, what struck me most about the Dateline special--other than the interesting sight of one "team" of children being driven into town in a van to go shoe shopping--was how much the women genuinely enjoyed one another. They referred to each other as sister-wives and had nothing but praise for one another. I don't think it was an act. Picture it: you've got four girlfriends right there in the house with you. You don't like to do laundry? Fine, hand it over to the sister-wife who loves her some Tide. Need a few minutes to yourself? Direct whichever of those twenty-five rugrats are yours to go bother one of the other moms so you can pee in relative peace. Stuck on a word in your crossword puzzle? The sheer volume of other adults in the house greatly increases the odds that someone will know the answer. (Okay, I doubt any of Green's wives do crosswords. I'm just sayin'.) Once the kids are all in bed at night? You can stay home and actually hang out with other adults, or if you want to go out for something, there is never a need for a babysitter. Secondly, can we talk about this nighttime scheduling thing? My guess is that the head wife is well-loved by the other sister wives. The ones with more libido slip her extra cookies and hand-wash her delicates for some extra nights with the love machine. The ones who are just as happy to sleep alone and not have to deal with a midnight grope put just the right amount of starch in her crisp blouses in return for more nights "off duty." Who amongst us that have experienced long-term relationships haven't relished a reunion after a few days or weeks apart? It probably keeps things interesting. Furthermore, who says polygamy must contain polyamory? I have had more strategy sessions than I should probably admit about how to set up a "sister wife commune" based on a friend's happy marriage, where the rest of us put out in every way except in the bedroom. We sister wives would still be reaping 99% of the benefits of marriage, with an able-bodied male around to do things like bring in a paycheck, fix leaky faucets, and move heavy objects. That whole built-in babysitter thing is a huge plus for those of us who are mateless, you know. If I had a few sister wives hanging around the place, I'd feel way less guilty about going out on a date once in a while. ("Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not dating right now. I'm still looking for some additional wives to help me out.") The benefits for the husband are obvious, too. The beleaguered man who spends a day in the rat race, only to arrive home to no dinner, a frazzled wife, and wild children? He would be no more at the sister wife commune. Heck, I could have dinner on the table every single night if I had four other women there with me every day. No problem. And with five moms to tag-team even the most disobedient children? There wouldn't be any Mommy Meltdowns. You could just hand off to the next in line while you went outside and ate some chocolate and counted to ten. Naturally the entire house would be in order by the time the husband arrived home. Everyone benefits! I am full of good ideas, I tell you. Especially when I am dreading going back to work.

Commune House Rules

Mir — Thu, 29 Jul 2004 14:25:22 +0000

I knew the wisdom of this idea would resonate with the thinking women out there (and with Genuine, who not only skipped over the bit about polyamory not being a requirement, but also forgot that I am also still on double-secret 6-week probation!). Now all that remains is to figure out some of the particulars. To this end, I had a long and serious discussion on the phone with my friend Marcey this morning. She is also a single mom, and we have long toyed with the idea of merging our households, except for the part where it ends up being less like "Kate and Ally" and more like "Thelma and Louise" (cliff-diving optional, but not out of the question). We came up with some salient points I want to share, since everyone seems so interested. 1) There must be at least four wives. What two women get along 100% of the time? No one, that's who. Only two, you still have some lonely times. Three wives, and two are talking smack about the third behind her back when she does something dumb. Once you reach four, everyone has a decent shot at having at least one confidante at any given time. 2) The husband is completely optional. As was pointed out in both the comments and by Marcey, with enough career wives, you have the money to pay for whatever man-related services (gutterbrained or not) you might need. 3) Women with undisciplined brats need not apply. Is there anything more aggravating than a mother who looks at her child whomping on another child and coos, "Oh Junior, play nice," and then goes back to painting her nails? You must believe in firm discipline for your children. You must be perfectly okay with other women disciplining your child if you don't catch an infraction immediately. And you must be willing to do the same for the other kids, too. It takes a village to keep a child from becoming a spoiled selfish brat. 4) Menopause Wife is not one of the positions. Marcey and I were arguing over this spot until we realized that, technically, that wasn't going to be a position. Unless there are so many wives that it is decided by concensus that someone is needed to have hot flashes for the entertainment of the younger wives. But by the same token... 5) Some of the wives need to still be fertile (read: of sound mind) and not have killer PMS. It's a known fact that women who live together tend to--after a while--cycle together. If everyone has bad PMS, there are going to be some very unhappy times at the commune. So those of you out there who say things like "I've never understood the big deal about PMS"? I hate you, and will talk smack behind your back, but come on over, because someone has to keep things running when everyone else is bawling into their ice cream and I've run out of hormone patches and am swinging from the chandelier. 6) Kira and I get the first turns with either the husband or the stud we hire. Just because. I'll even let Kira go first. 7) Laundry Wife gets to scold the children for stained clothing left in bizarre places. (That one doesn't even need further explanation, does it?) 8) Cooking Wife is not allowed to utter the words Atkins, low-carb or wheatgrass. Tofu will be voted upon, and organic is fine. (Likewise.) 9) I totally get to be the Shoe Shopping Wife. But if there's enough interest, maybe we can periodically rotate positions. Or not. Because it was my idea, dammit. 10) No Mormons allowed. Okay, I know that's discriminatory. But they'd probably suck all the fun right out of it. And who wants to live in Utah, anyway? Just remember, this isn't about serving men; this is about making our lives easier. 11) There must be babies. Part of the misery of being a single mom is the scarcity of delicious fuzzy infant heads to smell, and the knowledge that that part of your life is probably over. While I realize that most women with babies have husbands they actually like, this is about the good of the commune. We need some babies to keep the place happy. So come on over. I think that about covers it, for now. Leave me suggestions for additional rules, or feel free to apply to join. Especially if you make lots of money. I think we're going to need a really big house.

Life is Good (six ways)

Mir — Thu, 29 Jul 2004 19:14:27 +0000

At last check, I had 50 58 comments on the "bloggerhood" post, many from folks I never would've "met" otherwise. Thank you again for coming in, hanging out, and being willing to share yourself with me! *** Chickadee asked me this morning, "Is my sandal supposed to do this?" This was the sole opening up from toe to mid-arch like an old leather taco. Um, not so much, hon. I was thinking of trying to glue it, but then I noticed her toes hanging off the edge, too. That kid just keeps growing. Ran out this afternoon to the same store where I'd gotten my strappy heels and found her the last pair of sandals in the next size on clearance. $5 I can do. *** Zoot has generously offered up Mr. Zoot for the good of the commune. I figured it would've been too forward of me to ask for this, but now that she's offered? I have only two words: HUBBA HUBBA. And he can build a deck! (Yeah, that's why I want him... his carpentry skills.) (Don't you love how Zoot loves me even though I blatantly drool all over her husband at every opportunity?) *** My darling children are with their dad for the afternoon/evening. And speaking of him? I am being duly rewarded for my calm, adult attitude about his new paramour. He's being downright nice to me. Which--I won't kid you or anything--is a wee bit creepy, but on the whole, good. It also makes it easier to see that this is a Good Thing for everyone involved. It's true that if he's happy I end up happier. *** Through one of the couponing boards I frequent, I signed up for a diaper study. I'm now getting about a month's supply of pull-ups for free in return for filling out a few surveys about them. Sweet. (Yes, I have completely given up on the notion of getting Monkey nighttime trained, thanks for asking.) *** Right now? I'm sitting on my deck, in the shade... it's a beautiful day... I have my laptop and big soda... and I am so spoiled that you would hate me if you didn't loooove me so much. There is clean, unfolded laundry upstairs calling my name. But I can't heeeeaaaaaaar it! This is the life.

Pass the Advil and ask your questions

Mir — Fri, 30 Jul 2004 00:24:21 +0000

Well, the bubble burst a little. Surprise! But those few hours of contentment were nice. So, you know how thrilled I've been about finally being on the right medications and hormones and all of that, and feeling pretty much myself again? It's been great. Right up this evening, when I started cramping and spotting. And... uhhh... not to get too technical here, but that area is no longer connected to anything, supposedly; so I for one am kind of puzzled as to where that blood might be coming from, ya know? Plus... cramping? From what? Phantom cramps? Or maybe my uterus grew back? (This is when I totally need to have a Medic Wife on hand.) Now don't go getting all worried on me. I'm gonna ride out the evening and call my doc in the morning if anything weird is still going on. Right now? I'm practicing my denial skills. La la la! So! In lieu of detailed discussion about my bizarre and embarrassing medical issues (whoops! too late!), let's start getting in those questions for Facts and Fiction Friday. Ask away, and I will answer your queries with truth, or humor, or by scraping the bottom of the barrel in such a way that you wonder why you bother coming back here. That's the excitement--wondering what you'll get. You know you want to play. Leave your questions and prepare to be amazed! Or possibly perplexed! I cannot promise talking meatballs, but I can promise you... words. Lots of 'em. ("Oh, I was totally hoping for talking meatballs, but lots of words sounds even better!") Oooookay, time for me to stop talking now. Ask away.

Eighth Installment: Facts and Fiction Friday (part one)

Mir — Fri, 30 Jul 2004 13:10:39 +0000

(Apropos of nothing, I feel compelled to point out that BlogSpot has endorsed me for the position of Shoe Shopping Wife. My banner ads are now for shoe stores! Sweet.) This week's edition may be a bit briefer than usual (I can hear you cheering there, in the back!); the kids and I are getting ready for a jaunt to the beach. That pretty much means that they are busy piling up every toy in the house by the beach bag, and I am sitting here wondering if I remembered to shave. Anyway. Let's get started! Heather asks, what's the most peaceful place I've ever been? This one time? When someone locked me in the trunk of their car? It was nice in there. I fell asleep. Curled into the fetal position. (Fiction.) I have never considered myself a terribly outdoorsy sort of person, but during my first cross-country drive I was seriously tempted to stay in Jackson Hole. My dad and I went horseback riding on a mountain, and I could've believed we (along with our guide, and his dog) were the only people in the universe that day. It was very Zen. (Fact.) mc asks, would the people who know me in real life recognize the person I am here? Well that's easy, since my blog is triple-top-secret. No one else here at the correctional facility has any idea that I have a laptop stashed in my cell's commode. (Fiction. Sorry for the visual.) Quite a few folks from my "real life" read my blog, including my parents and several friends. I have been told on multiple occasions, "I could just hear you saying that!" I think I'm pretty true-to-life, here. The difference perhaps lays in my willingness to expound on my neuroses. Most of the time, when I get really tied up in something that's bothering me, I will self-censor with my friends--at a point--because I realize I'm whining and I don't want to drive them away with my incessant complaining. Here, this is for me, and you can read it or not. So I'm more likely to let it all hang out. (Fact.) Jules asks a long, convoluted question about watermelons growing in my stomach and regenerating uterii, but points out that I don't need to answer. In the interest of soothing the minds of anyone who was worried after my post from last night: I posted about my spotting/cramping to a hysterectomy support board, and someone said it was probably internal stitches dissolving. Good enough for me. Also, so far so good, this morning. (Fact.) Alektra wants to know my favorite babyword from my kids that we still use. Sorry, there are no baby words around here. Both of my children popped out with 5,000+ word vocabularies and impeccable diction. (Fiction. Wasn't that a really bad movie, once?) I gave this one a lot of thought. Sadly, most of my favorite babyspeak has gone the way of the highchairs and diapers. Chickadee used to hold up her arms and say "Uppy doo!" when she wanted to be picked up. She never just said "up." Cracked us up something fierce. And my favorite with Monkey has always been the various permutations of him pronouncing his sister's name. She used to get so angry with his mispronounciation and I tried to tell her she'd miss it once he could say it properly. Now sometimes I catch them playing and her telling him to call her what he used to. Heh. We do still call Oreos "yo-ee-yos" just for fun! (Fact.) Janet is sucking up to me something fierce, complimenting my intellect, visage, and feet, and wondering just how insane my ex is. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. (BWAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA Fiiiiiiiiiiiiction....) My ex went through a really difficult time, handled it badly, and I think now--as he puts his life back together--also realizes that we weren't a very good fit for one another. We might've made it, had he not had such a huge crisis... but I'm one of those "everything happens for a reason" kinds of people, ya know? He's not insane. He's just really different than I am. I hope that in the final analysis we'll appreciate our time together because of the two fantastic kids we got out of it, but that both of us will find greater happiness elsewhere. I was not the right person for him, nor he for me. (Fact.) Marcia wants the dirt on the ex's new woman. She's a mail order bride and rodeo clown. (Fiction. I hope.) I know very little about her, and the ex is being very tight-lipped so I'm not asking. I know she's working out-of-state on a 6-month assignment. I know she's a chemist. I know she was nice to my kids. I know the ex seems much happier. I very much doubt I'll learn more prior to hearing either that she left him or that they've set a wedding date. When I'm not feeling sorry for my pitiful single self, I'm very glad to know she's around.(Fact.) Kimberly wants to know where I would live if I could live anywhere in the world. I believe someone asked this before, and I joked about Alaska (because really, someone who hates the snow as much as I do should just not be allowed to live where I do), but said I'd go to Maui. Weather-wise, that's true. Culture-wise, I'm not sure. If price wasn't an object, I think I'd move back to northern California. I miss it there, both for the weather and the culture. (Fact.) Shelly wants to know how the job-hunting is going, and what's the worst job I'll settle for? Well, I've just been hired as the new CEO of Victoria's Secrets. Free thongs and angel wings for all my readers! (Fiction. Ow.) Since resuming my search, I've sent out two resumes and felt out three possible contacts in addition. It's slow going. Should I be unable to find something along the lines of what I really want (blogging for pay aside, I'd like to get back into technical writing), I will probably apply for a job at Target. I'm sure the job itself sucks, but it's Target. And I'd get an employee discount. But yeah, it's not exactly how I pictured my life. Maybe I can hang up my diplomas in the employee break room...? (Sad, sad fact.) Aurora wants to know if I'm closer to my real-life friends or my blogger friends. I don't have any real life friends. Also? All the comments on my blog are just you, and my other personalities. (Fiction. No offense to Sybil.) On the whole, of course I'm closer to those friends I can hang out with in real life. I do have a few "internet friends" from waaaaaay back, pre-blogging, with whom I have a very strong bond. I would say I'm as close with a couple of them as I am with my "real life" friends. But blogging friends? I'm meeting fabulous folks, here, but I've only been blogging for a few months. Relationships take time to build. (Fact.) Jennifer asks how serious I am about working in daycare. I am serious in the sense that I would like to pay less for daycare. I am not so serious in the sense that I do love children, but I have never felt "called" to work in childcare as a serious gig. I'm good with kids but I don't see it being my career. (Fact. Thank you for the offer of advice, though!) Jen wants to know where she can get a Wife application. The form is about twenty pages long, and needs to be filled out in triplicate and notarized. Send me a self-addressed, postage-paid mailer and I'll get it riiiight out to ya. (Fiction.) I had no idea that my commune scheme was going to generate all of the enthusiastic interest that it did. And now I feel I'm caught with my pants down, completely unprepared to organize our progress as necessary. Who's gonna be Paperwork Wife? This is her job. (Fact. Inasmuch as the commune becoming reality is fact, that is.) My current time is up; the beach is calling! I will answer the rest of the questions later today. Enjoy your day and don't forget the sunscreen!!

Eighth Installment: Facts and Fiction Friday (part two)

Mir — Fri, 30 Jul 2004 19:40:26 +0000

We fought the beach, and the beach won. A sandy time was had by all. Monkey and I are still the whitest white people on the planet. (Chickadee has browned up a bit, but Monkey and I are still casting a fierce glare off of ourselves.) The children are now exhausted and "resting" in front of the TV, and I am finishing up your queries rather than looking in the mirror to see how badly burnt I became through the SPF 45 sunblock. Genuine wants to know what we would be writing about, if we were collaborating on a book. "You Too Can Overcome Your Obsession With Nudity," by Genuine as told to Mir (fully clothed). (Fiction.) Hmmmm, Gen, I dunno. Is that an offer? I think I could probably put some sarcasm into that Genuine Romance for you and double your readership ya know.... (Fact, maybe.) Angela wants to know what superhero I've always dreamed of being or having. Remember Gleek, the monkey on Superfriends? Mmmmmmm. (Fiction. Ewwwwww.) As a child, I often dreamt of being part of the G-Force from Battle Of The Planets. I don't know why that particular show caught my interest so much. I think I liked that they were a family and fought crime together. Or maybe it was just the part where the one guy would put out his magic watch (or whatever it was) and shout "TRANSMUTE!" and they'd all change. Who knows. Now that I'm grown-up... hmmm... Spiderman is kinda cool (Monkey told me so). Tobey Maguire isn't too hard on the eyes, either. (Fact. Heheheheh.) Tonya wants to know the secrets of Target markdowns, like how do you know if the price is as low as it will go, and why would one size be red-tagged but another not. Stick with me, grasshopper. I shall teach you the way. First of all, there are scanners all over Target for a reason. Always scan everything. Items that are marked down corporate-wide will be reduced in the computer system regardless of whether the markdown team has gotten to them or not. Items are often lower than marked, if already red-tagged. So, scan, scan, scan. Second, it used to be true that final markdowns at Target always ended in a 4. I'm not positive that that's the case, anymore. But if something was $3.74 or whatever, you knew that was the last price drop. Those little red tags? Have a number in the upper right corner. That's the percentage off. It's usually 15, 30, 50, or 75. The stuff that hits 90% off rarely has time to be retagged before it's sold. If you see something you're dying to have and it's at 50% and there's an entire wall of them, you can probably wait. But if you want an item and there's only a few left, it can be a gamble to wait. As for some sizes being tagged and not others, sometimes that's on purpose and sometimes it's an oversight. Always ask. The day that my friend and I bought all the cute Sunny Patch Kids stuff, the entire display was clearly marked 75% off and several items my friend was buying were in the computer as 50% off. The cashier gave us the additional markdown with no problem. But occasionally they do intentionally not mark down everything in what seems like it ought to be a "set" of the same stuff. I heart Target. Alrighty, I think that wraps it up. Looks like everyone else is out enjoying their Fridays as well. My snippet of good news is that one of the resumes I sent out actually yielded a request for further info, so that's sort of exciting. I'm trying to pretend it's exciting and might actually turn into a job. Play along with me; it's fun! As always, thanks for playing Facts and Fiction Friday with me. Answers to your queries are crafted from organic materials right here in the good ol' U.S. of A.

Embrace your inner screw-up

Mir — Sat, 31 Jul 2004 02:20:38 +0000

I believe I once characterized my town as "not exactly a Stepford community," but something close. I lied. It is, in many ways, worse than Stepford. Tonight I had a new friend over for dinner. D and I met through another dear friend, and upon discovering that we are both newishly (is that a word? she brought wine; consider yourself forewarned) divorced, we bonded instantly. So we've known each other a while, but it has taken some time to finally coordinate a get-together. We ran into her at the beach today... and when I discovered that we were both going to be kidless tonight, I invited her for dinner. I was thrilled when she came over. D and I both know a third woman--also through the same friend who introduced the two of us--who is also newly divorced. This third woman, let's call her Cleo (that's short for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial), is quite something. She's been separated and (I think) even legally divorced much longer than either D or I have, but downplays that fact quite a bit. And by downplay, I mean she boldface lies about it to most people. She's told us the truth, because we're divorced, and part of her really does want some acceptance and kinship with other women like her. But to watch Cleo in action at a party is mind-boggling. She pretends she's still married. She cannot abide the thought of being rejected by anyone she perceives as the "elite" of our snobby little town. Cleo also confessed to me and our mutual friend, one night, after quite a few drinks (her, not me) that she was sleeping with her divorce lawyer. Oooooh, classy! This was, mind you, after she'd insisted to me on multiple occasions that she was nowhere near ready to date. I guess I just misunderstood. Technically, she didn't say she wasn't ready to screw. Needless to say, I wasn't halfway through my glass of wine before I felt the need to share with D the story of Cleo spilling the beans about schtupping her lawyer. We laughed until we cried. D has also been present for many of Cleo's long, intense soliloquies about how she just isn't ready to get involved again. For some reason, dissing this poor woman over pizza and wine was a fabulous evening. So, okay. We made fun of this woman who so desperately wants to fit in with our town's "society" that she will lie, deny, and otherwise cloud the realities of her life to appear more acceptable to the ladies of the Junior League. I'm a very cheap date, and one glass of wine will do that to me. Mea culpa. The reality? I feel so sorry for Cleo. I do. Life is too short to pretend to be someone you're not. Guess what? My marriage crumbled. I'm divorced. I'm still a worthwhile person, I still deserve to live here, and if you so much as look at me sideways like you feel sorry for me in any way, I will occupy myself elsewhere, thanks. This is my life. Good, bad, indifferent, it's mine. I'm not going to lie about it or dress it up for anyone. You don't like it? Fine. Enjoy your self-appointed time as judge and jury. But you're not worth my time. Even here in Stepford, I've had no trouble finding myself a plethora of friends who love me for who I am. I think it's beyond sad that Cleo is so unsure of herself (or is it of the rest of us?) that she dare not chance embracing her reality, lest she be rejected. And her inability to be honest infuriates me, because she's condemning me and D and all the other imperfect women along with her, in her refusal to risk being herself. I want to shake her. I want to tell her that anyone who can't deal with her reality--my reality--isn't worth it. But of course I have no control over her. So I will just make fun of her behind her back. All the while, reaffirming my decision to basically write off anyone who can't deal with me on my terms. I didn't say it was rational. Or mature. But really? Pretending you're not divorced? Continuing to wear your big-ass diamond? Lying to people so they won't think less of you? It makes my skin crawl. Is there any greater self-hatred? Hi, my name is Mir, and I'm divorced. I'm also a cheap date, and well-buzzed on a single glass of wine. I'll make you a deal. You be yourself, and I'll be myself. Flaws and all. Doesn't that make it all more interesting?

I'm scary. Booga booga!!

Mir — Sat, 31 Jul 2004 15:42:22 +0000

I've just come across another blog that is referencing me as proof of why divorce is scary. "Please tell me it won't happen to me!" she pleads. In the words of my esteemed, dearly-departed grandmother: Oy. Vey. Apparently, as I am highly educated and obviously brilliant (no, I never joined MENSA; those people have no sense of humor), it is just so wrong that my life didn't work out precisely as planned. How do marriages go wrong when you're so smart is the implication I get. Last time I checked, there were precious few guarantees in this life. Would I have liked things to be different? Hell yes. Is this the way it worked out? Yup. Will I still be fine? Yup. Am I grateful for my blessings? Every day. Is my life a cautionary tale? Not particularly. It's just a life. Do I know far too many people who've been forced to endure way more hardship? Sadly, yes. I'm not scary. I'm human. And I'm going through exactly what I need to go through to get to where I'm supposed to be. I won't claim I always do it with grace, but I'm doing the best I can. Sometimes I wish it were easier, but the truth is that I tend towards being an ungrateful pain in the ass... and I need a good smattering of difficult to juxtapose the good stuff and make me appreciate it. I have absolute faith that I'm where I need to be. You can sit around being afraid of the things that might happen, or you can live. Seems like a pretty easy choice, to me.

And now back to our regularly scheduled... rambling

Mir — Sun, 01 Aug 2004 18:54:15 +0000

I swear it was not intentional that I ended up doing two rather heavy posts in a row and then dropped off the planet. It just kind of happened that way. My weekend was not spent in deep contemplation of my marital status; honest! Yesterday I made a trek to Logan Airport with friends. As I told another friend, before we departed, I would rather pluck out and digest my own eyeballs than voluntarily drive into Boston to the airport. I never fly from there. Because getting there is enough to make you want to get out of your car while you're sitting in bumper-to-bumper standstill traffic on the bridge and jump off the bridge. Boston is a great city, and all, but unless you live inside the city limits or take the train in, I just don't see the point. Anyway. The reason for the trip was that my friend's husband is headed to Africa on a mission trip. This is my friend who took me to my surgery and stayed with me all day. So eating my eyes in an effort to get out of the trip seemed ungrateful. Down we went, flying over the miles of highway between here and there, until we reached the outer limits of the city. Then? The last four miles took longer than the entire rest of the trip. I sat in the back with my friends' five-year-old son and fed him wheat thins and had endless discussions about how many lamp posts we'd passed, how many airplanes we saw, and how actually if you stop poking at it, your penis will stop being big. (Yes, really.) I think my friends were really pleased to have me along! We made it to the airport and unloaded and everyone said their goodbyes (more wheat thins and airplane discussion for me and the 5-year-old while the couple had a last few moments), and then we drove back home again. My job--as I understood it--was to keep my friend from being too sad and whatnot. I took my position very seriously. I have no idea what I babbled about for the hour and a half that it took us to get home, but I'm fairly certain I talked the entire time. There was a lot of laughing. Probably because I divulged quite a few of my recent highlights as an idiot, including things like losing my temper with my children at bedtime and then hollering, "Use the hamper and put your clothes in the potty, NOW!" Yeah. So after that exciting adventure, we ran some errands, and had some dinner, and then once her kids were in bed we watched Pirates of the Carribean, which neither of us had seen before because we live under rocks. We both loved it. It turned out to be an excellent choice for the end of an emotional day. And any time I get to see a somewhat-recent movie, I'm happy. That was Saturday. Today, I've done church, errands, lunch with (other) friends, and various puttering around here at the homestead. Chickadee starts dance camp tomorrow and I'm still scrambling a bit to make sure we have everything we need. Lest you think I've put off the preparation for too long... well, I have. You're right. But the Amazing Foot Growth Spurt Girl needed both new ballet slippers and new tap shoes, and I wasn't shelling out money for two new pairs of shoes until I was sure her feet weren't getting any bigger. (Now that I've typed that, she's gonna grow two shoe sizes before camp ends; I know it.) So all of that stuff is just about ready, now. I predict huge meltdowns tomorrow morning, regardless of my preparation, but that's part of the joy of kids, right? Right?? Heh. And now, I have a date with a power screwdriver. Wow. That came out a lot dirtier than I meant it to. Ahem. Um, I have to go put together one of those toy storage bin doohickies. This is me, in my never-ending quest to get the toys up off the floor, where I just keep spending money on storage items and never really accept the reality, which is that we have plenty of storage area, just very lazy toy owners. I'll keep dreaming, though....

And now for something completely different, except not really

Mir — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 01:22:03 +0000

I know that I tend towards the melancholy, soul-searching, where-is-my-life-going sorts of stuff on Sunday night, but that is not what I have for you tonight. Nope. Tonight my ex was kind enough to switch the channel from "vague discontent" to "is it really possible that a person could be so smart and yet so lacking in common sense." Be sure to thank him for his (unwitting) efforts when you next see him. Which, for most of you, will be never (and thank your stars for that as well), and for those of you who might happen to run into him, don't bother, because I doubt you could get a word in edgewise, anyway. My ex has plenty to say. Oh yes. First, he wants to tell you that he is "a very involved father." He used that phrase this evening no less than three times. I may have physical custody but he does "just as much" for and with the children as I do. Uh huh. I registered our daughter for camp; I paid for camp; I took her to the pediatrician for a physical; I submitted the health forms; I took her on no less than three shopping trips for the various gear she requires; then went shopping two additional times without her for her dang shoes; labelled all of her gear; packed her backpack; and in the morning will pack her a lunch and take her to camp. But he wanted me to understand that this was a joint venture. Because he gave me some sperm six years ago, I think. Ooooookay. Next, we have been tossing around the idea of starting Chickadee in piano lessons. This has somehow turned into I am not fulfilling my obligations as a good mother because she is not already in lessons, and when I pointed out that I am trying to figure out the whole job thing and what my schedule is going to be before I make another time commitment, he suggested I leave it to him to handle, during his visitation time. Which led to my pointing out that visitation will change once school starts, because right now he gets the kids at 1:00 one day a week. And before I knew it, he was gesticulating wildly about how I can't just cheat him out of those hours of visitation, they'll have to be made up elsewhere. And as I stood there looking at him like he had two heads--no, that's not right, more like he was going to sprout a second set of arms, ala Stitch--I found myself telling him that while he seems to believe my primary goal in life is to keep him from his children, my priority lies in letting them be kids. Well, he was having none of that silliness. I make them go to bed far too early for his liking (he wants to keep them later, since he's not the one who has to get them up for school), and he could handle the piano lessons (leaving me to travel to his town any time he's away on business or late for visitation; oh yeah, bringing that up really ticked him off), and I was just being difficult. Don't get me wrong. As much as he irritates the living crap out of me, I appreciate that my children's father does love them and want to be a part of their lives. And he does the best that he can, I guess. But this constant insistence that all things be equal is making me batty. It rather reminds me of being married. You know; it's like being told--after I stayed up all night breastfeeding and changing diapers and then spending the day with a colicky infant and screaming toddler and he came home from work and played with them for half an hour before bed--that we were equal parenting partners. Um, no. We weren't then and we aren't now. I fail to understand why acknowledging that I bear the majority of the parenting duties threatens him to the point where he becomes agitated if I do not agree to his delusional assertions that he does exactly as much as I do. I know this, of course. Usually I try to just nod and agree rather than argue. It's pointless to argue. Nonetheless, I just don't get it. Want to hear the scariest part of this? Somehow we resolved this little scuffle; we agreed to disagree, or deal with it another time... I don't really even know... and I remembered that I'd wanted to tell him that the kids had gotten into a big discussion about how Daddy should get married again and have more babies! (Yes, they really did. Mostly Chickadee saying she wanted a little sister, but Monkey was brought on board when he figured out this would mean he could have a shot at being a big brother.) I was curious to see what he would say. Keep in mind that this is a man who bemoans his financial situation at every possible juncture; there's never a moment's hesitation in telling you how poor and badly off he is. His reaction to the kids' discussion? "I really miss having kids in the house all the time. I probably will have a couple more if I can." Because children are replaceable, dontcha know. And they're a must-have accessory in all the finest homes. Hunter Douglas blinds, real oak floors, and oh yeah, a couple of smallish people to run around. I mean, okay, whatever floats his boat. I don't begrudge him having more kids. People do that all the time. But his reasoning scares the bejeezus out of me. And don't even get me started on what sort of impact that would have on our kids, and on one very sensitive little girl in particular. Right now, all he offers them is Fun Daddy with the toys and the fun activities. If Fun Daddy has other kids, other financial obligations, and a wife who is (rightfully) going to want him to spend most of his time with her and their kids? My kids are going to tire of him, and quickly. But at least we can all agree that when that happens, it will somehow be my fault. Ah, the many rewards of motherhood.

Muffin Wisdom

Mir — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 16:47:51 +0000

Me: Hmmm, should we check them and see if they're done yet? Him: Yes! Let's check! Me: Okay. *turning on oven light* Whatcha think? Him: They're done! Let's eat them! Me: Really? Are you sure? Him: Yes...? I want to eat them! Me: Look closely. Do those look the way you think muffins ought to look? Him: *nose pressed to the glass* Hmmmm. Mama? They're kinda flat. Me: Yeah, they are. They're not ready yet. Him: Cuz muffins is supposed to be kinda round on the top, right? Me: That's right, buddy. Muffins should be round on the top. Him: Like my head! Me: Right, like your head. Him: I want the muffins to be round like my head! Then I will eat them! With my head! Me: Good plan.

Off to a tragic start

Mir — Mon, 02 Aug 2004 20:41:38 +0000

So I arrived at camp today bursting to ask Chickadee all about her day, and just in time to miss a boy about twice her size decide she was standing too closely to his Foosball (sp?) table. Said boy shot one of the sticks directly into her stomach, and she screamed. I don't blame her. The rec room where all of the campers meet at drop-off and pick up is utter mayhem. I don't know how many counselors where in there, but there were way too many kids, running around like maniacs, and apparently some of them were impaling smaller children for sport. The counselor who brought my sobbing, hysterical child to me was embarrassed and apologetic. Which she wouldn't have had to be, if the kids had been properly supervised. So instead of an animated retelling of what should have been (and maybe even was) a very exciting day, I got to listen to weeping all the way home. And very. punctuated. declarations. "He meant to hit me!" "He was a very bad boy." And my personal favorite, "If I was his mother I would spank him!" Hell hath no fury like a six-year-old traumatized. No good deed goes unpunished. Why is that such a hard lesson for me to learn? Now that we are home and somewhat calmed down, things are better... for Chickadee. She is alleviating her collected stress by tormenting her little brother, who is just happy to have her back after a day away. He is gamely playing along with every rotten thing she keeps doing to him. Then a moment of clarity dawns and he says, "Hey! Stop that!" And then it all begins anew five minutes later. Fabulous. Time for me to go fix "I don't want that!" for dinner.

Stronger than the Bat Signal

Mir — Tue, 03 Aug 2004 03:28:19 +0000

I have a very special signal I beam out into the cosmos when I'm dead tired. That signal can be picked up, far and near, by everyone who knows me. I don't mean to broadcast it; I wish I knew how to turn it off. My only thought is "I want to go to sleep," and yet the signal blares and my kindred respond. Do you hear it? It's coming your way! "Now would be a good time for you to pick up the phone and call me--with an enormous problem or deep melancholy, if possible--and talk to me for an hour or more." I'll just be unplugging the phone and going to bed, now....

Hey, you! Get off my donut!

Mir — Tue, 03 Aug 2004 14:08:01 +0000

I believe with every fiber of my being that my children are here to teach me necessary life lessons. (Narcissistic much? Why yes, thanks.) Chickadee teaches me to cope with many of my less-desirable character traits, as things that make perfect sense while I'm doing them suddenly look really horrible when I see them mirrored in the smaller version of myself. Chickadee and I are the president and vice-president of Dramaholics Anonymous. We're developing a twelve step program to break the cycle of Everything That Ever Happens To Me Is So Very Important The World Should Grind To A Halt Because I Said So. One day at a time, my friends. One day at a time. ("Hi, my name is Mir... and I've been melodrama-free for... twelve minutes." "Hi, Mir!") Monkey is my little peek into uncomplicated joy. I used to think--I'm ashamed to say--that he just wasn't very bright. I reasoned that you have to be a little bit dumb to just be happy most of the time. It's not true; he's plenty smart. It's just brains without neuroses (which is rare, I think). And he knows how to go with the moment, take joy wherever it springs, and be happy just because. If anyone ever robs my son of this quality I will personally beat the snot out of them. I am in awe of his basic contentment. Also, I am a natural ham, and his easily-amused factor feeds the clown in me. This morning we dropped Chickadee at camp and as we were driving home, I asked Monkey if he thought I needed some coffee. "YES!" He shouted. "You're needing some coffee! Cuz I'm needing some chocolate munchkins!" Dunkin Donuts is guaranteed to make his day. And when it's that easy--and I get coffee out of the deal--who am I to deny him? The drive-through line at Dunkies was loooong. Well, we weren't in a hurry or anything. But I felt annoyance setting in... and I checked my watch and warned Monkey that we'd probably be in line for a while. "Can you push the person in front of you up a little?" he asked hopefully. "Hmmmm. I dunno. I can try. Hey, you! Get off my donut!" Monkey craned his neck to survey the line of cars as they all rolled up one space. He burst into delighted laughter. "Mama! You're very good at that! Let's do it again!" And so we passed five minutes in the drive-through, shouting at all the other cars to get off our donuts, and laughing and cheering every time the line moved. I think I may have been a little disappointed when we made it up to the order box. Now we've had our coffee and munchkins, and the rest of the big, bad day awaits. One of the things I need to do today is pay bills. I am seriously considering writing "Get off my donut!" in the memo box of all my checks. I'm learning.

Ow, my arteries are hardening

Mir — Tue, 03 Aug 2004 18:11:33 +0000

With God as my witness, I will never grocery shop while hungry again! Wait. No. Nevermind that. I'm always hungry. How could I possibly keep that promise? I can't. Anyway. I have been thoroughly defeated by my latest Bad Move At The Supermarket. I'm saddened, and ashamed, and I hope that coming clean about it will draw enough ridicule that I'll think twice before repeating the same mistake again. I waited on line at the deli as usual. My number came up, and my automatic request issued forth: "One pound of Land O' Lakes white, please." While the deli guy was weighing that out, I saw it there. Right next to the cheese. And before I knew it I was speaking again without any intention of doing so. "And a half pound of the cotto salami." The name, of course, comes from the Italian. "Cotto" meaning "delicious," and "salami" meaning "lard." It's no surprise that I like salami. I'm a huge fan of fat. I advocate a revision of the food pyramid wherein bacon is elevated to its own--essential--food group. But bacon is expensive, and messy to cook, and makes the entire house smell. I don't eat it often. Salami? Is cheap, requires no cooking, and does not alert the entire neighborhood to my imminent gluttony with its aroma. On the downside, I'm pretty sure it's made of snouts and tails and ears. At least with bacon I can pretend there is some redeeming nutritive value. With salami... uhhhh... the deli mustard made me do it...? I bought it two days ago. I just finished it off; reasoning that the sooner I finished it, the sooner it would be gone and I could stop eating it. I feel relieved (if a little nauseated). Please don't let me do that again.

The uterus that keeps on giving

Mir — Wed, 04 Aug 2004 01:00:31 +0000

That would be my uterus. That keeps giving me crap. From beyond the grave. Or, I guess, the Biohazard Disposal. Oh God, where is my uterus, now? Is it angry that it was dissected and disposed of? Is this why it continues to talk to me? (What, your uterus doesn't talk to you?) Today was my 6-week post-op check-up. I think those three hyphenated things in a row looks weird, but that's what it was. Anyway. I headed in feeling great, because I am a moron and am excellent at forgetting that if I feel good, it's only temporary. But first there was surgery week... and wishing for death. Then there was nausea week... and wishing for death. Next came fatigue week... during which I wished mostly for more hours in the day to sleep... which was an improvement. But that was followed by migraine week... and more wishing for death. It's been a long haul. I'm finally starting to feel myself again. I still want to marry Target and have its babies, but I also plan to continue my torrid affair with the Vivelle Dot, because it makes me feel pretty and keeps my bones from disintegrating. The part where I can remember words and stuff is very nice, too. The last week or two has been lovely, what with the Dot giving me back the energy I needed to really rededicate myself to Target. The best of both worlds, if you will. So there I was, sitting in the exam table in my fashionable paper gown, feeling good. And my uterus--or at least its voice--piped up from the great beyond. "It's not over yet!" There was also a small cackle. Nasty little thing, my uterus. "So, how are you feeling?" asked my doctor. "I feel really great!" I gushed. "Much better than I have in a long time. My energy's coming back, the pain is down, the hormones are great, oh my gosh you really just don't know how much you depend on your estrogen until it's gone, huh?" And it was all going along friendly like that, and she had me lie down so she could inspect my scar. "Hmmmmm," she said, while palpating the angry red ridge I now sport. "Hmmm." "Hmmm?" I asked. "See how this is all raised?" she asked me. "Yeah?" "That's called keloiding, and it won't go away on its own. It's a sign there's too much pressure on the incision site... you may need to slow down a little. You can buy a box of 'scar sheets' over the counter and use them until the ridge subsides." "Uhhhh, okay." Scar sheets? "Of course, you'll have to shave your pubic hair off for a while to use them." "Oh, great! Cuz I'd really been missing that wannabe porn-star look you gave me for the surgery!" There was one of those pauses, then. You know the kind. In that pause, the doctor is deciding whether I'm funny or just possibly a little psycho. She laughed, and I exhaled. She directed me to the stirrups while explaining that scar sheets are like big rubbery bandaids, and if I wear them for a few weeks they should help minimize the appearance of my scar. Alrighty then. On the off chance that someday someone else besides me or a coroner will see beneath my panties, I agreed that it sounded like a good idea. Besides, a big scar sheet plastered to my mons might balance the patch on my ass and realign my chi or something. While in the elegant stirrups position with the doctor parked between my knees, I mentioned that I'd had some spotting, but had figured that was just some internal stitches dissolving or something. Here is where she lapsed into med-speak. For ease of reading, I will translate what followed. She said: "Let's just take a look in here." That meant: "After I insert the speculum, which is a joy in and of itself, I am going to use this large Q-tip looking thing and do my best impression of Roto-Rooter." She said: "Is this what you've been seeing?" while holding up said Q-tip thing with some gunk on the end. That meant: "You are foul and disgusting. I decided on this speciality because I like to deliver babies, and now I am extracting the vaginal equivalent of snot from you and you should be ashamed." I admitted that yes, I had been having some discharge. She said: "Well, you do have some granulation tissue in here. That's sort of overzealous healing." That meant: "Granulation? Is exactly as gross as it sounds. That stuff I just removed from you is pus." She said: "I'm just going to apply a little bit of silver nitrate with this swab to the areas of granulation to take care of it." That meant: "I will now spend half an hour jabbing around and painting your entire vaginal canal with stuff that looks like the silver paint pens you once used to write 'I love Bryan Adams' on your spiral notebooks." She said: "You may have some greyish discharge now from that treatment." She meant: "I bet that hurt like a mofo." After what felt like about six hours, I was allowed to sit up again. We then had a brief discussion about my "treatment plan" from here on out. My uterus cackled from the beyond, again, as my doctor told me she wasn't surprised that I was healing a little slowly. She said that's common in perimenopausal women. I laughed and reminded her that I'm only 32. She told me that according to my lab results, I was perimenopausal. Which explains so much. Like the migraines (hormone fluctuations). And frequent periods (ovaries trying to pop out the last few good eggs). And oh yeah, being a raving lunatic bitch most of the time. So I guess the saga of All My Broken Girl Parts isn't quite over, yet. Though I do think the end is in sight. And my most fervent hope at this point is the same as what any one of you would be focused on in my place: Lord, please don't let me be in a car accident and have to be taken unconscious to the hospital where my clothes are cut off to reveal a half-shaved pubic coiffure topped with a scar sheet. Amen.

Resume revisions

Mir — Wed, 04 Aug 2004 15:37:47 +0000

My resume is boring. It doesn't even begin to capture the real me. This could be why I'm having trouble finding a job, because my resume makes it sound like I only have a selection of mainstream skills. I'm thinking of making up a new resume that includes all of my special skills. I'm not sure what sort of job it would land me, but I'm guessing I'd really like the people who hired me. Help me decide which of the following deserves to be included in my updated resume. 1) I can juggle. (Everyone should know how to juggle.) 2) I can walk on stilts. (Not as useful, but a fun party trick. If there are stilts available.) 3) I cut hair. (I've been cutting hair for years, and have yet to lop anyone's ear off or cause them to wear a hat for weeks.) 4) I drive a stick shift. (I'm always surprised at the number of people who can't.) 5) I'm a pretty good cook, and when I am happy in a workplace I often bring in treats I've baked. (Who doesn't want a snack wench on board?) 6) I remember to water plants. (This speaks to my meticulous nature, don't you think?) 7) I know CPR, the Heimlich manuever, and the "Stop, Drop and Roll" song. (Safety is my middle name.) 8) My Christmas shopping is always done by August. (Project Manager, anyone?) 9) I'm good at fixing things. (This skill is pretty much all that stands between me and Chickadee deciding she doesn't need me any more.) 10) I sing in a church choir but tell the entire internet intimate details about my vagina. (What workplace doesn't value diversity?) (Side note, what details about my vagina wouldn't be intimate, exactly?) There are probably more that I'm forgetting. But look at that! Ten important skills, right off the top of my head! I should have job offers pouring in in no time.

Inventory

Mir — Thu, 05 Aug 2004 01:53:28 +0000

Neosporin Scar Solution Sheets: Weird, and sticky. My resume: Still boring. Hate it. Paris Hilton: Too stupid to live. Proof that money can't buy class. My toenails: Fabulous. The polish I bought yesterday is bee-yoo-ti-ful. Blogging for Books: Making my brain hurt. My son: Deliciously fuzzy and vulnerable with a fresh haircut. I nearly ate him up a dozen times today, and he went to bed just before I tried to get him to promise never to grow up. Tap shoes in the correct size: Purchased this afternoon amidst heavy guilt, after having been told for the second time that the ones I found at Goodwill are too big even with socks on. My daughter: Caught an hour after bedtime, in the bathroom, with a hand mirror and a guilty expression. I have no idea. "Sex and the City" on TBS: Creating angst. Sex or Whose Line? Whose Line or Sex? I need more television time, clearly. My mailbox: Possessed. Opens randomly. Monster Networking: On crack. "Monster thinks you should meet the following people! Joe, a taxidermist! Susie, a mortician! And Pat, a fortune teller!" Silver nitrate: So gross, I can't even say. Unnatural things are happening. Make it stop. Moths: All over my house. Annoying. My fifty-seven phone calls to a "friend" who is supposed to be helping me make an important job contact: Still unanswered. Weekend plans: Include meeting the lovely Jilbur. I am giddy with anticipation. This list: Random. All done.

Just one of the many services I offer

Mir — Thu, 05 Aug 2004 21:08:50 +0000

The time has come to turn away from crude discussions of my reproductive anatomy, adhesive items on various parts of my body, hormone levels, and toes. It's time to classy this place up. And you know how I hate to disappoint. So let's talk about breasts. More specifically, let's talk about how most women feel the need to wear a bra daily, but may suffer from any or all of the following: 1) Lack of piles of money 2) Cluelessness about how to fit oneself for a bra 3) Strict preferences regarding lingerie, such as it should not have feathers or animal prints or an integral water balloon 4) An age over 18 (hence not being shaped the way the bra people seem to think one ought to be shaped) 5) Unwillingness to use duct tape to create cleavage, as they do in pageants 6) Insufficient time to spend in a dressing room trying on eleventy hundred bras 7) Insufficient self-esteem to withstand trying on eleventy hundred bras. I, myself, suffer from items 1, 3, 4 and 5. This doesn't generally stop me from purchasing bras; it takes some time and ingenuity, but I've managed to find some styles I can tolerate. I am picky enough (both with regards to style and cost) that I don't venture out for more bras until the current batch starts looking pretty ratty, but I always have at least a week's worth of bras in the rotation. These bras fit me properly and render my breasts, uhhhh... breast-shaped. (That sounds redundant for a bra but every woman reading this knows that that's not necessarily a given in today's lingerie.) Okay, now that you're all picturing my boobs (nothing to write home about, by the way), let me tell you about a good friend of mine. She is the first Bra Phobic I've known, I think. Let's call her BP for short. I love BP. But in spite of being quite a few years my senior, no one ever taught this poor woman how to shop for lingerie. The result? BP owns only two bras, both purchased during the Reagan administration. Both are shapeless, linty, and grey, and do nothing for her. Every single time I've gone shopping with BP and she has tried on clothing for my review, I have tacked on "... but it would look even better if you had a bra that actually fit" to my critique. And yet she resisted. Today she called me with some time to kill and I convinced her to head over to Marshall's with me. Once there, I told her I needed to look at bras. That made it easy to suggest that she do a bit of browsing, as well. By the time I'd made my selections for the dressing room, she was standing one rack over--holding nothing--with a panicked look on her face. I had to help her go through and pick out some things to try. Her requirements are interesting. No underwires, she said. Too uncomfortable. I pointed out that when an underwire bra fits properly, the wire can't be felt. This was news to her. Okay. I managed to slip a couple of underwires into the pile. Nothing shiny, she said. The fabric has to be very soft. So she and I felt up a few dozen bras, comparing fabric notes, much to the snickering of other shoppers around us. Nothing black, she said. Why? I don't own any black shirts, she countered. Oh yes! I exclaimed. They require that black bras be worn only with black shirts, or the Bra Police come after you! She acquiesed on that one (but not until I'd been smacked by a flying Bali). Nothing with lace, she said. Too itchy. I showed her that much of the "lace" now available is a spandex blend, soft and stretchy. Okay then. By the time we got to the dressing room, I needed a nap, I tell you. She started complaining from the adjoining fitting room before I even had my shirt off. I tried to talk to her down; I explained that every woman has to try on a bunch of bras before she finds the right one, just have some patience. Meanwhile I tried on my first selection and it fit. (That never happens. Note to self: take BP bra shopping more often. She is a lucky talisman.) So I was done, and free to help her. I got dressed again and hovered outside her fitting room door. "This one is just wrong!" she wailed from inside. I asked if she wanted me to look, and she said something about gouging out my eyes if I opened the door. Okay. But on the next one she started making "well, maybe" sorts of noises and I convinced her to let me in. The straps were twisted, and adjusted to different lengths. BP hadn't noticed this, but was commenting that it almost fit. I fixed the straps for her. Then it fit! And there was much rejoicing! And BP went from being bra phobic to delirious with glee, working her way through the pile--in her excitement--with the fitting room door half open so that I was there to assist her with straps and such ("I draw the line here," I cautioned her, "cuz I'm not coming over to help you get dressed every morning"). It was hilarious. Never have you seen a woman so excited by Olga and Warners. When I made her put her shirt back on over one of her selections to see how different she looked, she nearly wept. "Hey!" she said, "I have two separate boobs! Who knew!" Amused, but growing weary, I managed to get myself kicked out of the fitting room by asking her how it felt that I had now had more nipple-viewing time with her than her last boyfriend. So, she pretty much hates me now, but has four new bras. I'm trying to come up with a succinct way to add this to my list of unusual skills for my resume, but I'm afraid that "Practical Bra Fitter" doesn't really convey the right nuance. More importantly, I think I may have found a crusade I can really get behind. Wouldn't our tax dollars be better served in the public schools if there was a Girl's Health unit on bras, rather than all that time they spend putting condoms on bananas while everyone giggles? Hey, I could teach it, even. This week, Measuring and Discovering Your True Cup Size. Next week, Just Say No To Sequins. Special bonus session on important issues like Avoiding The Uniboob, Really The Entire Thing Belongs In The Cup, and Exposed Bra Straps Aren't Sexy No Matter What Anyone Says. I think I'm on to something.

Anatomy of a dance camp backpack

Mir — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 12:28:14 +0000

Main compartment: * Plastic bag containing swimsuit, goggles, and towel * Lunch bag containing sandwich, juice box, yogurt, baby carrots, and cookie * Tap shoes * Ballet slippers * Leotard * Five unfinished pieces of boondoggle Front pouch: * Water bottle, freshly filled with ice * Morning snack (trail mix) * Afternoon snack (cereal bar) Time to pack: Twenty minutes. every. morning. Expression of gratitude from the wearer: "Camp is kind of boring, Mom."

Explaining the obvious to the oblivious

Mir — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 20:59:54 +0000

So Chickadee was injured at the Foosball table on the first day of camp. On the third day, the same boy came over and started hassling her while I was standing right there (that one has a bright future, lemme tell ya) and I was able to scare him off. This morning (day 5) I was run over by a 10ish-year-old boy (he did say sorry, but I have a huge bruise) who was retrieving a 4-square ball; and at pick-up, we were in the room not one minute when Monkey was beaned on the head with a ball. I was trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. But that was enough, don't you think? I spoke with the head of the dance program, who referred me to the camp director. The camp director was summoned via walkie-talkie and showed up all perky and happy and maybe all of 22. Not that I have anything against people who are 22. There are many fine people in the world who are 22. But I don't know many 22-year-olds who 1) have their own kids and/or 2) actually know how to safely manage a large multi-aged group of children. Miss Perky Director put on her interested look and nodded and nodded while I explained my concerns. Perhaps a child of 6 should not be in a play area with pre-teens. *nod* No discipline of which I was aware was taken with the boy who injured her. *nod*nod* 4-square is a great game, for outside, but not so much when in the middle of a large rec room. *nod* I should be able to walk into this room without being knocked over by a large group of running children. *nod*nod*nod* This is a great opportunity for my child for which I am paying a significant chunk of money and I don't think we should have to be afraid for her safety. *nod*nod* "Well I completely agree with you, Mrs. Paininthebutt," she chirped. "And here's my suggestion. I think you should talk to the leader of the dance camp about this." Thanks, Miss Perky, but she was the one who referred me to you. Next? "Our ratios are mandated by the state, and always adhered to!" She spouted. "That's one counselor to every fifteen kids, and sometimes we have even more than that!" A silence fell between us as she beamed at me and I just stared. I tried to scrape up something to say (that I hadn't already said) that would penetrate her perky glow. I decided to try a different tack. "Miss Perky," I said with an ingratiating smile, "I know you have a wonderful program here. That's why we chose it. And I certainly don't mean to make a fuss or cause problems if things are going along smoothly. I suppose it's possible that we've just had a string of bad luck. Am I the first parent to approach you about the safety of this room? If so, perhaps I'm overreacting." Her smile faltered. Ha! "Nooooooo..." she admitted, as her face flushed a bit, "you're not the first parent to complain about how wild it gets in here." Her brow furrowed for a moment. Then a flash of triumph crossed her face. "But all the complaints have been from parents in the dance program!" She began nodding again, relieved. "Riiiight," I nodded along with her, locking my gaze on hers. "And do you suppose that has anything to do with the fact that the dance girls are as young as 6, and the rest of the campers are 8 and older?" Her brow furrowed again. "Yes!" she agreed. "Many of the dance girls are very small, too." Oh good Lord. Watching her nod was mesmerizing, as long as I could continue to squelch the urge to smack her. "So maybe these small, younger girls could be in a separate area...?" (And maybe you could get your head out of your butt?) "Hmmmm," she said. "That's a good idea. I should talk to the dance leader about doing that." "Well that would be wonderful, I think. I'd love to see that in place for next week, it would certainly ease my mind." Now we were smiling and nodding together; her, considering what a brilliant idea this was (this is a huge facility, so why I had to suggest another space is beyond me), and me, thinking that it is one of life's greatest ironies that I can't find a job but this dimwit is being paid to keep my child safe. We'll see what Monday brings. If Miss Perky hasn't found a solution, maybe I can go nod at the facility director for a while, and she'll be fired and I'll get her job. That'd be kinda cool.

Luck

Mir — Sat, 07 Aug 2004 02:25:27 +0000

This entry is for the second Blogging For Books contest over at The Zero Boss. This month the topic is servitude, with the directive to write about the best or worst experience you've had working for someone else. I held my first non-babysitting job at the tender age of fourteen, and landed my first career job as a software engineer at twenty-three. During the intervening nine years I held a variety of positions. Two--vastly different--stints as a waitress. Tutor; teacher; camp counselor. Lab assistant. Library assistant. Assistant editor. Some of it was fun, some of it was awful. I was very clear, always, on the bottom line. Work = money. Money = good. By the middle of 2002, it had become clear to me that my marriage was falling apart. I had two small children and had stopped working two years earlier to the admonitions of "you won't work as an engineer again if you step off the track now." I knew that I needed a job before I could ask my husband to leave. I considered the various employment opportunities that would allow me the flexibility to continue staying home with my kids--at least part-time--but would still yield enough pay to make it worth my while (read: pay more than the cost of daycare for two). I despaired. And then, in January of 2003, we refinanced our house. The loan officer came over with all the paperwork and as we filled out forms and chatted, he mentioned that he was a single dad to a young son, and being a loan officer was great money but flexible enough for him to work around his kid's schedule. That seemed like a pretty clear omen, to me. We talked a few more times and then I went in to interview with his boss. I was hired on the spot. In February I began working for Big Mortgage Company as a loan officer, and I threw myself into learning this completely new undertaking. I was assigned to my local office, then after a couple of weeks the boss changed his mind and sent me to a different office, two towns over. That was... weird. But the original office was large, and impersonal, and the office I transferred to was smaller. The site manager there trained me herself and was very accessible for questions, problems, etc. What had originally been grumbling over my commute turned to gratitude that I found myself in a more helpful environment. By late March I had a few loans under my belt, some of my confidence restored, and things at home came to a head and I asked my husband to leave. I went in to work and requested a meeting with my boss. I explained (as briefly as I could) that my circumstances had changed; while I was enjoying my work as a loan officer, I felt it too risky at this point to continue working only on commission. Did he have an opening for a loan processor, where I might be salaried, until I felt more back on my feet? I was surprised when my boss showed great concern. He said the last thing he wanted to have happen would be for the company to lose me, and that he would find me a spot. Give me a day to figure out where to put you, he said. I returned to my desk feeling huge relief. And the next day he called me back in to say that he'd decided I could work directly for him. Business was good; his head assistant and processor had more work than they could handle. The pay was nothing to write home about (compared to my previous salary as an engineer, anyway) but it was better than I thought it would be. For four months I reported directly to the boss, learned nearly every aspect of the business, and learned to like my job. I worked primarily with two twenty-something guys who reminded me very much of the little brothers I was glad I'd never had. But they were entertaining in their own way, and mortgage rates were down and we worked our tails off processing millions of dollars of business for BMC. Then the boss called me in to tell me he had a proposition for me. He was thinking of starting a specialty division. How would I feel about being trained as the specialist that the loan officers could come to for processing? It sounded great. I went home with a stack of materials nearly as tall as me, and spent my spare time boning up on the ins and outs of financing "problem" loans. Not what I'd pictured myself doing... but spurred on by my boss' constant confidence in me, I embraced the future. About a month passed, with no word on the progress of the new division. The boss spent most of his time out of our office and at other branches. One day when he surfaced, I asked him what was happening. He kind of waved his hand in the air and said there were problems in another area; his time and attention was needed to deal with those issues before we could move forward. Then he seemed to have an idea, and said maybe I could help with the current crisis. Could I go back to my local office "for a few days" and help out with some things? Sure, whatever he needed. Back to the first office I went. I found the person I was told to report to, was filled in on the current project, and set to work. The problem was with a particular lender refusing loans due to paperwork inconsistencies; it required an elaborate pipeline from us to them with our processors and various lawyers in-between producing everything in triplicate. It was intense, to say the least. Within a week I was permanently reassigned to that office (and someone from the other office brought me my desk contents in a box, which remained unpacked on the floor). I worked extra hours. I stopped in to work while my kids had dinner with their dad; I worked weekends when they went to see him. Two more people were added to our "swat team" as we waded through hundreds of files and implemented a new tracking system. After a month of this, I asked my boss for a raise. I pointed out that I was no longer a processor, I was now carrying a lot more responsibility, and had been with the company quite a while. He told me he needed to think it over but would get back to me. A week later I had heard nothing. Another week passed. The third week, I dropped him an email to ask him if he'd had any more time to consider what we'd talked about. The next day I arrived at work, and my desk had been reassigned. The apologetic girl working there said she didn't know what was going on, she'd just been told to move. I wandered around for about an hour, trying to track down the boss (there were five offices to choose from, and infinite highway in-between), before I was paged to the phone. It was the boss. "Hey, do I still have a job or what?" I joked into the receiver. There was a long pause. "I'm reassigning you to Little Title Company," (BMC's sister company, down the hall in the same building) he said. "For now. I haven't quite decided what we're going to do, but go on over there and see the supervisor, she'll give you something to do." No explanation. None of the warmth or concern that had previously been there. I had a box full of stuff, and directions to head to a different company, to do... well... I wasn't sure. I took my box and went to Little Title Company, and found the supervisor. I introduced myself, set down my box, and burst into tears. Despite giving a soggy first impression there, the move to LTC proved favorable. There were four of us in the entire office. The supervisor loved me immediately. She confided that she really had no idea what was going on in the boss' mind, but she was delighted to have landed me, and assured me I would enjoy their office more than that of Big Mortgage Company. She was right. The four of us shared plenty of work and great joy at no longer working for BMC (three of the four of us were prior BMC employees). Within a month I was the supervisor's "favorite unlicensed paralegal." (Thusly dubbed because I one day asked her what the difference was between what I was doing and what she was doing, and she'd laughed and said she had a license and made more money.) When I enquired as to the arrangements between the two companies, I was told that the boss and BMC still cut the paychecks, but we were a separate entity. "And that," the supervisor confided to me one day when the other two women were at lunch, "means that I am the personnel boss around here. And if he tells me to cut someone, it's not gonna be you." So I'd recovered from the shock of being treated like chattel; I'd found a new, better working environment. I was appreciated, it seemed, for the first time in a long time. I gushed often about how glad I was to have been moved. Thus it was, with great surprise, that I was called to see the Human Resources Director of Big Mortgage Company one afternoon. She pulled me into a conference room where my supervisor was already seated, and the moment my rear hit the chair, she declared, "BMC has elected to terminate your employment." I stared at the HR woman in disbelief. I turned to my supervisor, who was choking back tears. Tears. I asked why. The woman from HR smirked and said that the official reason was business slow-down. I was welcome to file for and collect unemployment, she said. "But off the record? You have a lousy attitude," she growled at me. The HR woman sat in the cubicle of BMC closest to the LTC offices. Apparently I'd been overheard complaining about my time there. I was stunned. In retrospect, there were of course a million things I wanted to say and do. Right at the top of that list was telling that very ugly HR woman that her prized designer hat (which matched her purse) made her look even more desperate and cow-like than usual. Next on the list was asking my supervisor to speak up on my behalf... but it was clear, from the way it all transpired, that she'd pleaded my case and been told that if she didn't put up and shut up, she'd be next. The meeting was brief. I'd been hip-deep in a file when I was called in, and it was still spread in piles all over and around my desk when I went back into the office. The HR lady followed me as I started to pick the papers up, and reiterated that I was being dismissed immediately. I was to take my belongings and leave. I had never been fired before. I went home and cried for the rest of the day. I was in the middle of a nasty divorce and I'd been fired. Someone who had nothing to do with my work and knew nothing about me other than that I was not a company pom-pom waver had been allowed to decide my fate. I'd worked my tail off and this was my reward?? What was the point of even trying? I was shaken to my core, for longer than I would like to admit. If I ever run into that HR woman, I will tell her two things. First, I will thank her for saving me from turning into someone who is just grateful to have a job, because a job means money, and in drastic times money can seem more important than self-respect. I might never have quit BMC or LTC. I was overworked, underpaid, and disregarded... and I never would have left, because I was newly single with two kids and in my frustration and guilt I felt trapped. Being unemployed was terrifying. After a while, it was liberating. The world didn't end. My priorities came into focus. My re-entry into the working world was a rough one, but I am so much better equipped, now, to find the job that will provide for my family without the proverbial bartering of my soul. Given the opportunity, I will first thank her for that. Second? She needs to hear about that stupid hat.

For the uninformed

Mir — Sat, 07 Aug 2004 03:50:58 +0000

How is it possible that so many of you have left comments asking me what the heck boondoggle is? Did none of you ever go to summer camp? So. It's Friday night, and I hear that lots of folks go out and do stuff with other people at times like these. But me? I'm just sitting here wondering which is scarier: the fact that so many of you don't know boondoggle, or the fact that this guy seems to be the repository of more boondoggle knowledge than should be legal.

Berry tired

Mir — Sun, 08 Aug 2004 00:15:57 +0000

I may have mentioned before that I often suffer guilt over being the "utilitarian" parent, and not doing many wheeeee-happy fun things with the kids...? Oh, did you miss that particular self-deprecating obsession somewhere, perhaps, in the midst of my fifty-seven other neuroses? Well, I worry that I don't spend enough quality time with my children. I had hoped that this summer was going to give us lots of great memories and opportunities for me to just relax and enjoy my little people. Mostly this summer has given me a big scar and a crash course in menopause, and that has cut into our beach bunny time. The clock is ticking and I'm still trying to make a few memories here before I either return to work full-time or have a nervous breakdown. Today's adventure: blueberry picking. We met up with friends, set out to the farm, and the magic moments ensued. Each child had a little bucket. The blueberries were everywhere and the nice lady at the farm stand explained to the rapt children how to pick the very best ones. "See here," she said, pulling down a cluster-laden branch, "you want the ones that are big and nicely dark, but also have a full coat of frost on them." Frost? I've never picked blueberries before. I didn't realize that the whitish coating was a ripeness marker. I also didn't know that berries taste way better when fed to you by a child proclaiming them to be "nice and fwosty," so there ya go. They had a blast. Monkey picked very deliberately, bringing each one to me for approval. "Look at this beauty!" he would exclaim, over and over. It was kind of like picking berries with Rainman. Prior to this trip, Monkey--known far and wide for his legendary pickiness about food--swore up and down that he didn't like blueberries. He's always so polite about it, though, that it keeps you from strangling him. ("No thank you!" as he happily shoves the bowl of fruit away.) Today, when he brought a huge berry to me for approval, I gasped. "What, Mama??" "That one is far too beautiful to go in the bucket with the rest of them, buddy." "Really?" "Really. It would be too sad. You'd better eat it. I bet it's delicious." I tried to keep my expression neutral. He looked at me, then the berry, then back at me, then popped the berry in his mouth. "Mama!" he said after he bit into it, "you were right! It is alicious!" I couldn't resist planting a kiss on top of his head. But he'd already moved on to another bush. "Look at this beauty! Nice and fwosty!" Heh. Chickadee is a bird of a different sort, of course. When we got our buckets at the stand, I offered to weigh her before and after picking to make sure we paid accurately. The lady behind the counter had just laughed and said they'd yet to meet the kid who could eat the bushes clean, and it wasn't a problem. "Mama, why don't you have a bucket?" she'd asked as we made our way to the berries. "You're gonna share yours with me, honey. Is that okay?" "Okay, Mama. I'll be your bucket!" Well, my bucket was very busy. My bucket only came over to where I was picking after I'd called her a few times, and my bucket-bearer always had a full mouth. I would drop handfuls of berries into the bucket and Chickadee would admire them and pick out a couple to eat, then go back to dropping one berry in the bucket for every ten she put in her mouth. All six-year-olds should have their mouths full as much as possible if you're trying to have a pleasant day, I've decided. Mouthiness was at an all-time low. It's very hard to sass and eat at the same time. The kids picked and ate for a while, then played hide-n-seek with each other through the rows of berry bushes, then picked and ate some more. About six pounds of berries and umpteen "ready or not here I come"s later, we headed back to our friends' house for playtime and dinner. Oh, we got fresh corn at the farm stand, too. I was flabbergasted when Chickadee didn't want a second ear of it at dinner, but she was probably still full of blueberries. I'd be hard-pressed to tell you which was better, the plump berries or the sugar-sweet corn. It was a very yummy day. I'm exhausted. Having fun is more tiring than I remember. If I want to double the points I earned today, all I have to do is make blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Hmmmmm....

Be afraid... very, very afraid

Mir — Sun, 08 Aug 2004 12:19:20 +0000

After church today, the kids and I are taking a road trip to meet up with the Jilbur family, who are on vacation not too far from here. I have long thought that it was potentially dangerous for Jilbur and I to be allowed to gab freely for a few hours. During more than one IM conversation she has caused me to pee a little, you know. But I was ignoring the real danger. "Mama! Mama! She's six like me, right Mama? Does she like ponies? Will she want to dig in the sand and make mud castles? Do you think she has a Tinkerbell bathing suit like mine? Does she like blueberries? How many teeth has she lost?" Chickadee + Jellybean? Stand back. I suspect we're in for a wild ride this afternoon. Tales--and if you ask very nicely, pictures--to follow afterwards.

All that... and several bags of chips

Mir — Mon, 09 Aug 2004 02:31:47 +0000

We came (early). We saw (the Jilbur clan). We conquered (a lovely restaurant where the waitress and the elderly couple sitting next to us complimented all the children's behavior). I think it was love at first sight all around; except perhaps for Howie, who ended up spending a lot of time with three small busy people forming elaborate plans for crustacean domination and rock climbing, while I rudely hogged his wife for my own entertainment. Tomorrow will yield a full report, I promise.

Life's a beach

Mir — Mon, 09 Aug 2004 14:45:22 +0000

It's true; the Mir clan and the Jilbur clan had a meeting of the minds (and sand) at the beach yesterday. I had a message on my machine when I got home (late) last night, from a friend, saying--and I am not making this up--"I was just calling to make sure that you got home alright and weren't abducted or murdered by any weird internet people." Heh. How little my friend understands. If anyone should've been scared, it was Jill and family. Thanks to light traffic and overestimation on Mapquest's part, we arrived half an hour early, whereupon I did the polite thing: called Jill's cell and demanded to know why they weren't home. I'm a real pleasure to have as a guest. So, the tale of our grand adventure, complete with a few pictures. I have promised Jill not to show any pictures of her without her approval, so you'll have to settle for a few glimpes of our adorable children. Click the pictures to biggify. The day was perfect. Perfect! Warm but not too hot, a nice breeze, puffy fake-looking clouds, soft white sand, and giant seagulls that looked like they might take off with a small child if you didn't keep a sharp eye. I haven't been to the ocean in years and it's trips like this that make me wonder why not. We were trying to set up our various beach paraphenalia and the three children were running around us in circles, delirious with the impossible task of trying to decide what to do first. Swim? Look for shells? Climb rocks? Dig? Get sand all over the freshly spread blanket? Too many choices! In addition to being an all-around nice guy, Howie earned the title of Intrepid Explorer And Kid Herder Extraordinaire, as this was pretty much the view Jill and I enjoyed of our families for most of the day. Howie led several expeditions, pied-piper-like, off to the tide pools and climbing rocks. My children, who had barely lifted their gaze to say hello not an hour earlier, were now trailing him in admiration. On the various return trips to show us their spoils, Monkey--who took quite a long time to remember Howie's name--kept saying "He is really good at finding neat stuff, Mama! That guy is great!" Later, when he'd finally mastered it, Monkey could be heard hollering "Hoooooooowiiiieeeeeee!" far and wide, comfortably assuming that Howie had been placed on this beach to keep him amused. And what, you ask, of the two young ladies on this excursion? I present for your consideration, the children formerly known as Jellybean and Chickadee. For the duration of our visit I believe they were more or less a Jellybee or a Chickabean. I have not seen my daughter get along so easily and so well with another little girl with the exception of her cousin of the same age. And they were very tolerant of Monkey, as well. The whole encounter made us mamas proud.There were some elaborate projects which we only sort of understood, although it was all very serious and important to them. We knew better than to interrupt, for the most part. One thing was certain: all delicate undertakings are best completed with a pair of goggles on your head, apparently. At one point I noticed Chickadee was bleeding from a couple of leg scrapes (climbing rocks is not without some peril), and as I tended to those, Jellybean began to complain that she'd hurt her toe. Later when Jill and I fetched bags of snacks from the snackbar (that would be the aforementioned "several bags of chips"), I had not gotten Chickadee the exact same kind of chips that Jellybean had, and there was some gnashing of teeth and wailing. I think it's safe to say that they bonded. As for Jill and me, we sat on the sand took our time getting to know one another. It was a couple of hours, for instance, before I flashed the entire beach to show her the patch on my butt. (She asked to see it!) We considered taking a picture of our feet for blogging purposes, but decided that only two pairs of feet didn't make for a very interesting picture. Then we thought perhaps we could manage some impressive sand sculptures, so decided to go that route, instead.. Behold... Driphenge! Jill is a very talented builder, er, dripper, of sand. She has schooled me in the way of sand dripping and I will never be the same. Also her creation is about four feet high. Really. Honest. Do you want to see the patch on my butt? (See how that's a great way to switch topics?) Anyway, there was some sand sculpture but mostly there was gabbing. And laughing. And maybe a little bit of snorting. And possibly I was so involved in yammering away with Jill at one point that the girls waltzed up with handfuls of seaweed and we were talking about how cute they were being and I suddenly jumped bolt upright saying, "I am not panicking. I'm not panicking but where is Monkey?" And also possibly I was about two seconds away from hysterics when Howie located him for me, wandering down the beach trying to find us. But I'm not saying for sure because wouldn't I be a lousy negligent mother if that had happened? Indeed I would, so I'm sure nothing like that transpired at all. Don't give it a second thought. So there was much beachiness, and the children were quite disappointed when we finally said it was time to get moving, so that we could go eat dinner. And the collective cry of "I'm all sandy!" rose up as if they had just now realized that, by gum, there was sand pretty much everywhere, and what had been delight while playing was now the bane of their little existences. And so the trek from parking lot to beach--which had been a mere skip, on the way in--stretched out into hundreds of miles on the return journey, as we adults struggled under our loads and tried to convince the children that yes, they could indeed keep walking even with sand in their shoes. Sheesh. We coaxed them along with promises of the shower at the end where we could rinse off our feet and shoes. Everyone was rinsed and patted dry and sand-free and then... stepped back into the sand. "I'm all sandy again!" We drove back to their cottage, de-sanded as best we could, and got dressed. During this time I had a moment of wishing I'd lost my child at the beach, as he managed to slip on the steps and fall a most spectacular fall and scream for a full three minutes about how his socks were very bad and slippery and he was never wearing them again. Jill earned huge points as solicitous nursemaid by bringing Monkey some ice and applying it per his directions. On to dinner! Fabulous seafood for the grown-ups, hot dogs or spaghetti for the little ones. Someone made a rocket out of a foil gum wrapper and shot it into the air at our dinner table. It was very impressive. That same someone was rather loose with her asparagus. In a moment of clarity I realized why the children were garnering so much praise for their behavior. Ahem. Anyway. Despite a few trips to us under the table, first by my daughter and then by her newfound soul sister, because--as she explained it to me this morning--"I was hugless, Mama!", overall the children were quite marvelous. As we discussed how it was a long drive home and we would change into jammies before we set out, Chickadee reminded me that I hadn't brought toothbrushes. Oh. Right. Well, your teeth can be dirty just this once, honey. "Noooooo I don't want to get a cavityyyyyyyyyyyyy!" The day was saved by Jill, effectively sealing her hero status in my children's eyes forever. Jill had Oral-B Brush-Ups in her purse! To make your mouth fresh! And so! The children! Got to brush their teeth in the restaurant bathroom! Which was really exciting! (And I commented to Jill that I would never think of the same thing, again, when asking someone "Do you have that not-so-fresh feeling?" To which she responded that that would be a fabulous marketing idea as well, then she chanted, "Rip, slip, brush, ahhhhhh!" as in the commercials and we guffawed at our cleverness much to the bafflement of our children. Chickadee was kind enough to pipe up, "Yeah, Mama, I saw that on TV, when the people on the stairs decide their mouths feel yucky!" Note to self: my children watch way too much TV.) There were goodbyes and many hugs (Monkey tackled Howie) and then, alas, we were on our way back home. I got the kids changed into their jammies right there in the restaurant parking lot, because we are fancy and that's the logical follow-up to brushing your teeth with a finger-mitten in a public bathroom. As we drove off into the dark, both children complained that they couldn't possibly fall asleep, they were wide awake! I heard the first snore about a mile after we got back on the highway. When we got home, I carried them each up to their beds. Monkey mumbled, grabbed his blankie, and was still. Chickadee answered my "night, baby" with "night Mama... I like Jellybean." Know what? I loves me some weird internet people.

What color is my parachute? Perplexed.

Mir — Tue, 10 Aug 2004 01:40:05 +0000

I'm aware that, technically, perplexed is not a color. But I expect you to work with me here a little bit, plus I am a pathological liar. Only for the purposes of imagery and feeding my offspring, though. (Tonight at dinner I told my son that rice pilaf tastes just like macaroni and cheese. Which is more wrong; that Mr. Picky actually agreed with me and ate it, or that I told him that in the first place?) So, this whole job hunt thing. It's getting down to the wire. I have widened my search quite a bit from where I started. Now I'm pretty much looking for anything that pays more than minimum wage, during daytime hours, and doesn't require heavy manual labor. 98% of the jobs listed in my area? Are either minimum wage, at night, and/or for construction workers or truck drivers. The other 2% are for secretaries who have pleasant dispositions. I suppose I could fake a pleasant disposition for a little while, but eventually even the most oblivious boss would figure out that something was amiss. I've spent the evening combing through job listings and I've realized that there are many things that are intrinsic to this whole job search process that I just don't get. Not that me not understanding stuff is anything new, but here's the most recent crop of huh-provoking items floating around in my brain: Do the various branches of the armed forces really have success with recruitment via places like Monster? Are there a lot of people browsing job openings who stop, slap themselves on the forehead, and realize that really here is the answer to all their financial problems; join the military and make less than minimum wage and probably risk their lives, to boot? With all due respect to everyone, menial task jobs that assert "experience required" really drive me bonkers. I guess that's to weed out the cretins. But, really? Eighteen years of school and I'm not qualified to apply for your crappy job because you can't be bothered to spend an hour training me on some proprietary piece of software? Ooooooookay. Job openings where you send your resume and cover letter to the Giant Black Hole In Human Resources and receive Ye Olde Generic "thank you but no human will ever lay eyes on your paperwork you insignificant serf" email back are annoying. Extra special bonus aggravation points if the confirmation email shows that your carefully formatted resume has been converted into a garbled, formatless text-only file. If you would like to join my shit list and leap to the top of the rankings, please offer me a valuable networking contact and then drop off the face of the planet. Tell me countless times how you are going to be able to help me out but then never answer your phone or return any of the two dozen messages I've left you this summer. No, really, I like it. How wonderful that we won't ever be running into one another here in our very small town where our children will be attending the same school. What's that? Oh, we will be seeing each other? Well how 'bout that. How wonderful. Shall I rip your head off immediately or would you prefer that I launch a tortuous and slow campaign to make you wish we'd never met? Really, I insist it be your choice. Would it make more sense to flip a coin or to consult my Magic 8 Ball to figure out how much daycare and which hours to enroll my children in, if the school year starts before I find something? Oh, wait; I know! Ouija board! I am so smart. This must be why potential employers are banging down my door. I am either far too brilliant or way too snarky to get a regular job. And no, we're not voting on which one.

Little help, here...?

Mir — Tue, 10 Aug 2004 15:09:00 +0000

Things I learned today that are going to make my head explode: 1) Getting Chickadee up for school is going to be impossible. We had to get out the door early this morning to get her to therapy before camp, and she was very nearly strangled in the process. Shouting, "If you are still in that bed when I come back I am going to remove you by your hair" may not have been my finest hour as a parent. 2) The same HMO that doesn't bat an eyelash over paying for my daughter's mood stabilizers is trying to tell us we've used up our allowance of therapy appointments. Ummmm... she's diagnosed with a major disorder, for which she is on medication, for which the standard treatment includes continued counselling. What's wrong with this picture? Anyone? Beuller? 3) Due to this little approval snafu, we cannot have another therapy appointment for a month, even though... 4) ... after the therapist tried to bring up "Daddy's friend" to Chickadee, she first manufactured a story about how said friend was the meanest person on the planet, then proceeded to dump out every bucket and bin of playthings within her reach. The doctor's office was trashed when she brought me in to see. I was horrified. Chickadee thought it was hilarious. I was mortified. 5) Guess who gets to bring Chickadee to her next appointment in a month? The doctor thought it might be time to have a little chat with Daddy. Do you suppose Daddy will bother hearing anything she has to say? Maybe since it's not coming from me, it may penetrate his thick skull? Nah. Too much to hope for. 6) It's been so long since I took my car in for an oil change, I forgot that you have to pick what grade oil you want. 7) I was so rattled by this morning's adventure that when Monkey and I sat in the oil change place's waiting room and he dropped his chocolate munchkin on the floor and started to cry, I picked it up and blew on it and let him eat it. I let my child eat food off the floor. Food off the dirty car place floor. My son is going to die because I was out of resources to deal with crisis by 9:00 this morning. And how is your day shaping up?

Halt! Procreation Police!

Mir — Tue, 10 Aug 2004 20:47:16 +0000

(Today's fabulous idea brought to you by the sudden proliferation of Extremely Stupid Parents in my area.) The scene: A busy road (double yellow line and all). Riding with traffic (good) is a man on a bike with no helmet (bad), pulling a bike trailer containing a toddler with no helmet (unforgivable). Officer Mir: I'm sorry, sir, please pull over. Man: Is there a problem, officer? OM: Yes, I'm afraid there is. You see, neither you nor your minor child are wearing bike helmets, and this is a very busy street. Man: Oh. Well, you see, a helmet would mess up my hair, and I haven't bought one for Junior yet... also, we don't live too far from here. OM: I see. Well, the law's the law, sir. I'm going to have to confiscate your testicles. Man: I-- uh... what? OM: Your testicles. Please hand them over. An infraction like this, well, it's clear that you're too careless to be allowed to continue breeding. Hand them over, please. Man: Can't you just give me a warning or something? OM: This is a warning. If I wanted to throw the book at you, I'd be taking your penis as well. Testicles, please. Both of them. With or without scrotum, your choice. Man: I promise to wear a helmet next time! OM: I'm sure you will. Sir, are you going to hand them to me or would you like me to get them myself? Man: *wimper* The scene: A busy parking lot at a major supermarket. A harried mother is pushing a grocery-laden cart and talking on her cell phone while her preschooler stands in the back of the cart, leaning over the side. OM: Ma'am? Could you pull over here, please? Woman: I'll have to call you back. Officer? Yes? OM: I'm just going to remove a few of these bags from your cart so that you can see the clear graphic illustration of Stick Figure Child falling out of the cart and cracking his head open because Stick Figure Mother allowed him to stand up in the cart while it was in motion. Have you see this before? Woman: Oh... ummm... yeah, but Junior's never fallen. He's very careful. Junior: *smiles and puts fingers in nose* OM: It's not about careful, ma'am. The parking lot is full of potholes. A standing child in a moving cart is a serious safety hazard. I'm afraid you'll have to be written up for this. Woman: Oh, dear. Well, okay, fine, just give me my ticket so I can get home. My ice cream's melting. OM: It's not quite that simple. I'm going to have to ask you to gently remove your ovaries and place them on the ground where I can see them. Woman: I-- uh, what? OM: The law's the law, ma'am. It's clear that you're too stupid to be allowed to procreate. It's too late for this little one but we can stop the cycle before it begins anew. Ovaries, please. Woman: But you can't-- I can't-- you just-- shit! OM: Watch your language, please, ma'am. Ovaries? Woman: *wimper* It's a dirty job, but oh how I would love it.

This deserves its own post

Mir — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 13:43:26 +0000

And let's just get it out of the way up front: I know this makes me look shallow and bitter and hag-like. I'm okay with that. It's too good not to share. On the heels of a perfectly pleasant chat with The Ex Who Continues To Boggle My Mind, I have new information on his MOB (Mail Order Bride). He allowed as how it was probably natural and normal that I had some questions about the lady in his life, and I should go ahead and ask. So I did. Hold on to your hats, folks. Everything you never wanted to know about the ex and his MOB: They met through some people he works with. Well that's nice. It's good to meet people, and know people who can help you do that. She is in grad school, and looking to transfer somewhere local. Fair enough, you say. Innocuous, even. Wait. Grad school. Hmmm. Isn't school for those... a bit younger? Why yes! She is 23 years old. Have I mentioned? The ex is 36. THIRTY. SIX. And not a "ladies man" by any stretch of the imagination... so... WTF?? She has been married and divorced once already! That was the comforting information offered in defense of why it's okay that she's only 23. She's mature, you see. If you've been married and divorced by 23, that makes you all grown up. Understand? Me neither. She's from Russia. As in (he didn't say this but I am fairly certain), not a citizen of this country. But he's sure her feelings are genuine, despite his mother's concern that he's being used. Oh. Okay. If I were a nice person I'd figure out a way to offer her a no-strings-attached Green Card just to see, but I'm not, so let's just enjoy this drama as it unfolds for our amusement. She is 23 years old. In case you may have missed the math, he is thirteen years her senior. Old enough (technically) to be her father. And--oh yeah--let's take a quick inventory. A 36-year-old physicist, who never dated prior to marrying at age 26, who is paying half his take-home pay in child support, whose picture appears next to the definition of "wallflower" in Webster's, and believes the entire world has wronged him. What a catch! I can see where she couldn't resist his charms. This is not his first relationship. This I found surprising. But whatever. The first one, didn't work out because the girl was "too young" for him. She was 22. *cue sound of my jaw hitting the pavement* She is afraid that I think she's a mail-order bride. Huh. I wonder why she thinks that? This is a perfectly plausible, natural situation. Really. Excuse me a minute... no, I'm okay, just choking on a little something I think.... She is 23 years old. Gah. Gah! Gaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!! My life has turned into a predictable yet surreal schlock novel. When do we get to the chapter where my life resumes so I don't have to sit around obsessing over this weirdness because the alternative is to consider all the problems in my own life?

Haha. Ha.

Mir — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 16:22:40 +0000

Wouldn't it be funny if I came across a perfect job listing for me; local, big company, as a writer/proofreader, and I got all excited about it and whipped out a cover letter and my resume and emailed it off with glee and then in one horrible stomach-turning moment reread my letter and realized it contained an error? My letter. Defending my suitability as a proofreader. Containing a careless error. ~~That's entertainment, baby.~~ Yep, that'd be funny.

Hey, wanna look at the math on my butt??

Mir — Thu, 12 Aug 2004 00:10:05 +0000

Number of days I am supposed to wear each hormone patch: 3 Number of hormone patches I am prescribed as a monthly supply: 10 Number of hormone patches that come in a single box: 8 Number of hormone patches I should receive as a 90-day supply from the mail-in service: 30 Number of hormone patches I actually received as a 90-day supply from the mail-in service: 24 Number of boxes that was: 3 Number of people I spoke to at the mail-in service on the phone today: 4 Number of times those people told me that my insurance company will "only" authorize a maximum of 30 patches as a 90-day supply: 8 Number of patches that would come in 4 boxes: 32 Number of patches over the approved maximum that would be: 2 Number of times I told those people that I am not asking for more than the maximum; I am asking for the allowed number, which I was prescribed: 8 Number of times I was told that since they come 8 to a box, I was only allowed to have 24: 2 Number of times I asked if it made any sense to them that I was being shorted necessary medication not because the HMO said no, but because the packaging didn't fit their math: 2 Number of times I had to explain this comedy of errors to the customer service rep at the HMO before she fully grasped what had happened: 3 Time at which I called said rep: 4:53 Number of times she said "you poor thing": 5 Number of times she went over the math again and laughed: 2 Number of memos she drafted to the medication standards review board to alert them to the scintillating news that Vivelle Dot comes 8 to a package: 1 Number of faxes she sent on my behalf regarding this matter: 3 Number of times she warned me that rather than increase the maximum to 32, they will probably decrease it to 24: 4 Time at which the HMO rep finished up: 5:17 Statistical chance of the eleven things she did actually fixing this: 1% Number of times I thanked her, anyway, because she was a coherent and kind human: 6 Number of freebie patches I will continue to receive from my doctor's office in the wake of this train wreck: More, please. Number of times anything medical in my life turns out to be straightforward: 0

tothedump tothedump tothe dump dump dump!

Mir — Thu, 12 Aug 2004 18:10:43 +0000

Live Free or Die! And haul your own garbage, sissy. Truly, I live in the land of promise. And gun racks. But that is a different story. Long ago and far away, when I was a young girl, I dreamed of my life when I was all grown up. My dreams were very detailed. Oddly enough, although I often dreamt that I would have two children--one boy and one girl--I never once thought that those children would, in fact, cry if one of them found out they'd missed (or was going to miss) a trip to the dump. Yep, going to the dump is cause for major celebration. The dump is a happening spot. Many locals travel there each and every week, and word is that it's the best place in town to get some good gossip. Me? My feeling is, hey, it's a dump. It's smelly and crowded and I most certainly do not want to talk about people behind their backs over by the comingled plastics. But I am apparently in the minority. I pay a monthly fee to have my garbage taken away by an independent hauling company. This is because my garbage cans smell like someone died inside them, are often infested with earwigs (WTF?), and I would rather gnaw off my own leg than put those cans inside my nice clean car. I intend to someday put a hitch on my car and get a small trailer--as most townies do--to haul the smelly stuff. For now, I only visit the dump with my (non-smelly) recycling. This means I only have to go to the dump once every few months. Monkey and I loaded the car, which is to say that I loaded the car while he danced in circles of unbridled joy around and around me. "I will help you! I can put the cans in! I can throw them newspapers very high up! We're gonna do the re-psychic-ling!" Because I am a moron, I brought my empty newspaper container inside and filled it from the stack threatening to topple out of my garbage cabinet. Once the container was full? That's right. I couldn't lift it. So we dragged it to the door and then partially unloaded it and... okay, eventually I got it into the car and I don't think I gave myself a hernia. Then I carefully tucked in the big plastic garbage can full of cans and bottles. (Approximate contents: 20 flattened gallon milk containers, 5 flattened orange juice jugs, 46 flattened Diet Coke With Lime cans, 2 soup cans, 1 Tide container, and 3 beer bottles. I am a party animal, I tell you.) And we were off at last! We drove across town and arrived at the dump in record time. I haven't ever been there during the week, I realized as we pulled in. Unlike Saturdays--when it is an absolute zoo--it was very calm and sort of nice. Ahhhh. In a fit of goodwill I made our first stop the "Still Good" shed to let Monkey poke around. The idea behind the "Still Good" shed is that--stay with me, now--you leave things there that are... still good. For other people's use. The reality of our town's "Still Good" shed is that people leave any old crap they don't want to have anymore, so it's rare to find anything of use there. But I let Monkey look around for a bit and then we got back in the car and headed up the hill to the recycling. Now the fun began. First we had newspaper races; running back and forth between the recycling trailer and the back of the car, grabbing handfuls of newspaper and throwing them over the little retaining wall inside the trailer. After a bit my container was light enough to lift, so I took it inside the trailer and we just took turns seeing who could throw sections of the paper highest on the mound. Monkey was still trying to wing the Target flyer with all of his might when someone else came in, and thankfully she was amused at his efforts. Often I get the "how dare you let your child be here in my way when I have important gossiping to do" glare from people when I let the kids help. Newspapers done, we moved on to the comingled bin. I passed containers to Monkey and he chucked them into the bin. Great fun. Lather, rinse, and repeat at the aluminum cans bin. The cans take longer because the opening is higher up, and Monkey has to throw them in one at a time, and screams at me if I dare to put anything in, myself. Two people ended up waiting behind us and both of them were pleasant. The woman smiled at Monkey and the man said "Instilling good habits early!" and ruffled his hair. This was lovely, but weird, because no one has ever been nice to us at the dump before. Maybe they were from a different town. Or maybe the Real Recyclers come during the week and I'd made the mistake of always coming on Saturday when the Gossipers Masquerading As Recyclers were running amok. I can't say for sure. We drove back down the hill and stopped at the Book Shed on our way out. We tend to be much more successful at the Book Shed than we ever are at the "Still Good" shed. Granted, the Book Shed is overrun with cheesy Harlequin novels, but there are sometimes good finds there. Monkey picked a book and we picked a book for Chickadee and I picked a few books and we found a couple of brand new coloring books. A successful trip, all in all. We returned home and I was puttering around, drinking a Diet Coke With Lime, and when I finished it I tossed it into the recycling can. Monkey peered over the edge of it and said, "I think we're gonna need to go to the dump again soon!" Maybe we can have the next birthday party there. Instead of goodie bags I'll just give each kid a big sack of crushed cans to chuck into the bin. And everyone can take a trip to the Book Shed and pick out an ancient volume of Childcraft to take home. Hmmmmm....

Samaritan tendencies

Mir — Fri, 13 Aug 2004 00:04:58 +0000

Some people have a soft spot for stray puppies and kittens. Others give money or food to panhandlers; no questions asked. Still others always have a cookie for a small child. One friend of mine always manages to come up with a box of clothes for a new mom. Me? I feel sorry for day-old baked goods. I mean really, just look at them. One day old and suddenly they're half price like there's something wrong with them. I have children! I'm lucky to eat food that's only a day old! Heck, I'm lucky to eat at all. Pretty, pretty baked goods... in danger of being thrown away like so much trash, just because the baker overestimated yesterday's demand. Is this the fault of the little cakes? The buns? The donuts?? There's so much sadness in the world, already. Must needless pastricide weigh on my soul as well? No. It shall not. All of which is a very roundabout way of explaining why I am eating sweet potato pie. In August. It's an act of supreme altruism, really. Stop looking at me like that.

Lazy (and grumpy) (and meme-y)

Mir — Fri, 13 Aug 2004 14:19:48 +0000

It occurs to me that we haven't done Fact and Fiction Friday for a while. It is also very clear to me that between the grey, rainy day, a couple of very mouthy children, and my continued joblessness, I am in one heckuva crappy mood. So rather than inviting you all to my pity party, let's do some questions. Ask 'em if ya got 'em. You might get to learn something interesting about me, or you might--once and for all--conclude that I am just weird. I'll be back with answers this evening, provided that I manage to restrain myself from killing anyone today. Editing to add this meme from Mindy's; perhaps it will give you some ideas for questions. Mostly I just love that I know so many fellow Leo bloggers so I figured I'd join in. Anyway: Pick your birth month and cross (strike) out what doesn't apply to you. To strike out you use the S tag. So for the cross out you would surround the "strike out" with ~~strike out~~. Then post the whole list for the next person or link back to here. AUGUST: Loves to joke. ~~Attractive.~~ ~~Suave and~~ caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. ~~Too~~ generous and egoistic. Takes ~~high~~ pride of oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful ~~and cautious~~. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. ~~Learns to relax.~~ Hasty ~~and trusty~~. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

I've lost track what number installment: Fact and Fiction Friday

Mir — Fri, 13 Aug 2004 21:13:35 +0000

I'm back, and I haven't killed anyone. Instead, I drank about twelve cups of coffee. All of today's answers were typed on the ceiling! Let's get to it. Alektra wants to know what music I like. (I am skipping the Monty Python bit, as we've both had it before and you did not specify the breed of swallow or its cargo.) I listen to mostly twangy country music. (Fiction!) Know what happens when you play a country record backwards? The guy gets his wife back, his truck back, his dog back.... I like lots of different kinds of music. Right now I'm listening to lots of REM, Alison Krauss, Dar Williams, They Might Be Giants, Paula Cole.... This question is nearly moot because I can't listen to a lot of what I really like with the kids around. They kinda dig TMBG but I'm thinking they need to be a little older for Alanis, ya know? (Fact.) Rae wants to know how I handle sibling rivalry. What's that? (Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahaha!!) It depends on what happens, exactly. I encourage my kids to work things out themselves whenever possible, and they parrot me word for word by the time I get to "... otherwise I will work it out for you and you won't like it." If they're squabbling over an item, they have to find a compromise or the item is put up. If they're flat out being mean, rude, or otherwise hurtful to one another, they are disciplined immediately, either with a time out or the loss of a marble from their jars. (We keep jars in which they receive marbles for good behavior and lose marbles for infractions; once full, the marbles can be redeemed for a prize.) If they are just relentlessly squabbling, they are separated (which they hate, because they prefer to play together.) I often reiterate that in our family we love one another and treat each other with respect, and always ask the offender "how would you feel if it happened to you?" For the most part I've been very lucky because I'm told my children get along very well with one another. I don't know that my methods are stellar; ask me in about 14 years! (Fact.) Snowball is getting all heavy on me today. Girl, I'd rather have this discussion over stiff drinks, but I'll see what I can do. ... why do we make incredibly stupid choices in relationships despite being intelligent and educated women? I can't answer for you, obviously. For me? There are many personality aspects which go hand-in-hand with my fabulous intellect of which I'm not terribly proud. I tend to look for someone who is opposite me in those ways, to kind of balance me out. So I chose my ex because--when I met him--he appeared to deal with adversity much better than I did. I always said things rolled off his back (and I wished I could be more like that). Unfortunately years of suppressed anger erupted, and lo and behold, he ain't the paragon of calm I'd once supposed. My bad. Then I chose the next guy because he knew how to have fun, enjoy the moment, and not take everything so seriously. That was a great idea, except that he absolutely couldn't deal with when life needed to be taken seriously. Oops. Bye-bye. Knowing that I do this doesn't seem to change the fact that I choose poorly. So what were we saying about how smart I am? Duh. (Fact, egads.) ... have I checked into hitman prices? There was a period of time when I fantasized about it. Constantly. Now I realize that the longer he's around, the better I will come out looking, in comparison, to the kids. He's an annoying but useful foil. (Fact.) ... any progress on the mail-order poolboy? I'm thinking that if I don't find a job in another week or so, that'll be my new business venture. Rumpus Rentals, I'm thinking of calling it. I'll be like the next Heidi Fleiss, but, you know, smarter. (Heehee.) Steph wants to know if I've thought about writing a newspaper column. Yeah, I kinda lied on my answer to Snow, above. Instead of hiring a hit man to kill my ex, I've decided to bump off Dave Barry. Then I figure, fame and syndication are mine as I step into his vacant shoes. (Fiction. I love ya, Dave, although I prefer you as Mr. Language Person to your recent string of daddy-columns.) I've thought about it. Haven't done anything about it, yet. Some of that is because I've got other things needing more of my attention, right now. Some of that is because I'm a chickenshit. (Bawk bawk.) Samantha asks two good questions I've already covered in previous installments, so I'm skipping her but giving her a little link plug here so that she won't feel unloved. Pamalamadingdong wants to know if I love her. Who are you, again? (Kidding! Don't hurt me because I'm certain you could kick my ass.) Pam, I love you even though I don't understand you. As a fairly unathletic asthmatic, runners puzzle me. I have never had the urge to run "just because" and I'll cop to being a little suspicious of what the allure might be. But I totally respect your endeavors and also, wish I had your legs. (Fact.) Randi wants to know if I have any animals, and if so what, and if not, why not. Wait, can we go over that one more time? If I have what I have and if I don't why I don't and why isn't there anything to DRINK here??? (Fiction, I'm not actually that easily confused. I'm not. Shut up.) Currently I have no pets. I am frightfully allergic to cats and birds, somewhat allergic to dogs--although I love them--which I think are probably the highest-maintenance pet one could have, and unfond of rodents and reptiles. As a grieving infertile I picked out a mutt puppy with my then-husband, and he turned out to be a handful and a half once the kids came along. He needed a lot more attention than he got, I'm sad to say. Once I booted the husband, this already-hyper dog appointed himself alpha male on speed, and I had to crate him any time someone came to the house to keep him from attacking. Not Good. So Huckleberry has gone to live with my sister-ex-law and her big goofy dog, on a farm, and is much happier now. Someday when my kids are older and I have some money and time, I'd like to have a dog again. (Fact.) Shawn wants to know what exactly are my so called "outdated" technical skills. Well, I used to be able to tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue, but now it takes me so long, people aren't impressed. (Fiction. Heh.) I am degreed in experimental psychology with a concentration in human-computer interaction. As a human factors engineer, I did software GUI design and evaluation, including rapid iterative prototyping, focus groups and beta evals, usability testing, benchmarking, and all of that kind of stuff (I figure at this point in the sentence, you are either nodding in understanding or wondering what language I've lapsed into). It's a narrow field and having a 4-year gap in my resume doesn't exactly make potential employers leap for joy, especially when HF engineering is often considered "fringe" and funding for it is being cut left and right. (Fact.) Genuine is still obsessed with my hindquarters. I'm trying to decide... is that sadder for him or for me? Sheryl wants to know my favorite smell, and whether there is a memory connected with it. I love the smell of skunk. It reminds me of the time Huckleberry managed to get sprayed in the mouth late at night, and I stood in the kitchen--after his bath in vanilla extract--eyes watering from his skunk breath, feeding him item after item from the fridge, trying to find something that would alter the scent. (Fiction. Well, the part about liking it!) I'm gonna cheat and name two, because they're very different and because I'm a dirty cheater. First, I love the smell of baking bread. Any kind of bread. Even a hint of that smell will make my mouth water immediately. No memories there (other than happy times spent being carb addict). The other scent is ground/grass right after a storm in the summer, when the moisture is evaporating in little puffs of steam and seeming to pull the essence of the earth up with it. That smell evokes my time at summer camp; uncomplicated joy. (Fact.) Chewie is full of questions because she has locked her four children in the closet, I think. ... do I read the Bible frequently> Hardly ever, undirected. I don't know why. I sign up for bible studies and small group stuff as often as I can to "force" me to read it more, though. Given how much I enjoy it when I do do it, I wonder why I'm not more compelled to do it on my own. (Fact.) ... do I journal outside of this blog? Oh sure. I have three other journals, and I'm working on a novel. And... hmmm, when did I last feed the kids? (Fiction. How many hours do you think are in my day, woman?) ... do I sometimes sneak into the children's bathroom late at night to use their handheld shower head? Only you would ask that, dear. I know that you and your handheld shower head have a... errr... special relationship, but I simply haven't gotten that desperate yet. (Fact. Dad? Dad? Chewie, you made my father pass out, again.) My one true love Kira blames me for her purchase of purple toenail polish, and wants to know if I'm proud of that. First of all, when you said you only had the boys there to advise you, I was sure you were going to tell me you bought black or maybe bright green. So bright purple is quite tasteful, I think, given that your guide was the Tiny Testosterone Trio. Secondly, of course I'm proud, but I'm still prouder of your use of "better gopher blog fodder" as casually as if that's a phrase you bandy about on a regular basis. You are smooth, girlfriend! You can carry off bright purple on the tootsies; I know it! (Fact. Smooches!) That concludes this week's installment of Friday Facts and Fiction. Thanks for playing! Answers contained herein may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without express written permission from the moths on my kitchen ceiling.

I'm such a rebel

Mir — Sat, 14 Aug 2004 00:11:15 +0000

Things I can do on a Friday night when my kids aren't here:

Consume my body weight in pepperoni pizza.
Take off my pants and throw them in the washer (when I drip sauce on them).
Walk around pantsless for the rest of the evening.
Turn my music up loud enough to make the china rattle a little.
Watch anything I want to on TV.
Shout at the Olympic commentators to STFU already and show something interesting.
Ignore the laundry.
Crank up the air conditioning.
Admire how clean the kids' rooms are.
Eat sweet potato pie. Straight from the pie plate. In bed.
Stay up as late as I like and know that no matter what, I can still sleep 8 (okay, 10) hours.

Awwwww

Mir — Sat, 14 Aug 2004 22:51:31 +0000

I'm feeling so touched, and so honored, and so popular. *sniffle* I've had my first troll! This is a sign that I am now a blogging great, right? Once you start engendering mindless hate, it's time to declare oneself successful...? Where should I deliver my humble speech about how I'd never imagined this much attention would come my way, and I'd like to thank all the little people? The place is all tidied up, now, but in fairness I did want to address this comment, as the commenter clearly worked very hard on it. In my Procreation Police entry, this genius commented that sterilizing stupid people was a great idea, and I should start with myself. Upon reading this I of course wept, wailed, gnashed my teeth, and grieved deeply that a gentleman of such obvious brilliance had found me lacking. I then made immediate arrangements to sell my children to the highest bidders, so convinced was I that these many misguided years I've only been doing them a grave disservice. I will use the money from the transaction to buy more marshmallows for the Easter Bunny, as he comes to tea here quite regularly. *snort* Oh, sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Dear Average Joe, thank you so much for sharing your thoughtful opinion with me. Your wisdom has been taken under advisement and I have decided the only proper course of action is to heed your suggestion and have a total hysterectomy. Immediately. Or better yet, two months ago. After which, I will write about it on my blog so often that everyone who visits will be up-to-date on my entire medical history within five minutes of reading. Everyone, that is, except for cretins who have the time to type out predictable sophomoric insults but do not have the balls to leave their real contact information. Feel free to drop by my blog any time you feel like sticking your foot back in your mouth, and please accept my condolences that your parents didn't love you enough to buy you a bike helmet.

As the wild weekend winds down....

Mir — Sun, 15 Aug 2004 21:20:56 +0000

Things I can do on a Sunday afternoon while waiting for my children to return:

Read the Sunday paper pre-trampling.
Put away the laundry (finally).
Remove stained and outgrown clothing items from children's wardrobes and bury the evidence.
Eat Doritos for lunch.
Finish reading the novel I started yesterday.
Marvel a little bit about how much I've missed devouring a book, uninterrupted, like that.
Make travel plans.
Make lists of things to do in preparation for said travel.
Admire how clean the kids' rooms are.
Do more laundry.
Pay bills and balance my checkbook.
Use vulgar language in reference to my checkbook.
Watch the Olympics. When my interest flags, amuse my ignorant American self by trying to pronounce the foreign Olympians' names.
Check the clock... three or four hundred times.

Rain rain go away

Mir — Mon, 16 Aug 2004 14:06:41 +0000

I. am. so. sick. of. rain. Today is the first day in two weeks that we didn't have to get up early and hustle out the door to camp. I figured we would sleep in--which is to say, Chickadee and I would sleep in while Monkey would slide into bed with me at his usual time but be placated with Disney Channel--and then come up with something fun that we could do today at a leisurely pace. Thanks to a weekend with Fun Daddy and a grey dawn, both children slept quite late. We're all up now... sorta... and we're all cranky. The children are annoyed that they can't go out to play. I am being followed around by a cartoonish ticking bomb which taunts me with my continued conundrum: Preschool tuition is due in two weeks. Two weeks. I can take a job someplace like Target and every penny I earn will go directly to school, or I can hold out for a decent-paying job and try to figure out how to pay the bills in the meantime. This little game of financial roulette is wearing me out. But, it is what it is (as a wise friend of mine is prone to declaring). It can't rain forever and I won't be unemployed forever. It just feels that way. Why yes, I would like some cheese with my whine, thank you so much! Do me a favor and spread a little cheer today. Go on over to The Mommy Blog and wish the fabulous Mindy a very happy birthday!

In other news...

Mir — Mon, 16 Aug 2004 15:40:39 +0000

... I'm so pleased to be the number one Google match for grasshopper linguistic "six ways". To the person who found me with that search: Ummmm... I don't wanna know.

Pasta Kiddiano

Mir — Mon, 16 Aug 2004 23:59:55 +0000

No, a bomb did not explode in my kitchen. We had spaghetti for dinner. I happen to love spaghetti and meatballs. Six years of being a parent has not yet taught me how ill-advised it is to serve this meal to those under the age of ten. Or maybe it has, and I just don't care, because occasionally we're going to eat what I like, so there. My refrigerator and pantry are chock-full of kiddie convenience foods. Why no one has yet revolutionized the spaghetti dinner for children is, quite frankly, a mystery. This is a market begging to be cornered. And let's be clear; I am not talking Spaghettios, here. I'm talking the whole meal, that a family (read: even adults) can enjoy together. I would relish my meal much more if I didn't have to watch my children eat theirs, orangutan-style, while I try to eat. If any of you work for Kraft, listen up! A new line of products could be hitting the shelves, synergistically revolutionizing the traditional spaghetti dinner. Behold: The Pasta Kiddiano^TM Line! Pasteurized Processed Crustless French Bread Slices^TM. Do your kids like bread? Of course they do! Do they love the crust? Heck no! Does the crust make a huge mess all over your table while they attempt to eat every molecule of squishy white bready goodness without ingesting any crust? Oh yeah. So here's your solution. Not only do you get your french bread yumminess in a low-mess version (crust sold separately for discriminating adults), but every slice is exactly the same size. No more bickering over who got the bigger piece! Pasteurized Processed Bread-Sized Butter Slices^TM. To go with your bread, of course. Again, equal amounts of food per slice, to minimize bickering. Quickly and easily cover the entire surface of the bread with a uniform coat of butter, without spreading! It's genius! Spaghetti Roll-Ups^TM. Intended for children too young to properly twirl pasta on a fork, this pasta was fashioned after the already popular Fruit Roll-Up concept. (Edited to add: upon further reflection, I realize these are more like Fruit-by-the-Foot. But I prefer the Roll-Up name so it stays. Sue me.) Each Roll-Up cooks to al dente perfection in your boiling water without uncurling. When placed gently upon your child's plate, he can simply peel off the start of the super-long strand and suck up an entire dinner's worth of pasta without the troublesome use of hands or silverware. Shakey Cheese Sleeve Singles^TM. Everyone knows that a standard canister of parmesan cheese ends up with a gigantic parmesan hairball in the center, necessitating heroic measures such as slamming the container on the table repeatedly to free it. And there is really no way to measure the amount of cheese dispensed on each shake, resulting in that tiresome bickering over who got more cheese. Let's not even get into what happens when the shorted child decides to shake out "just a little bit more." These Singles come in a small, easy-to-open package which peels back to reveal a soft, round sleeve of parmesan cheese. This ring shape slips easily over the end of the Spaghetti Roll-Ups^TM, smoothly dispensing an even dusting of cheese as the pasta is consumed. Slurp-Ad Tube Salad^TM. Love the tidiness of Go-Gurt Yogurt tubes? Then you'll love this. Green salad is finely chopped and mixed in the no-mess tube with a healthy dollop of ranch dressing. Each tube contains an entire serving of vegetables! This one is especially good for children who tend to just lick the salad dressing and leave the leafies. The perfectly blended tube distribution ensures that even the pickiest eater is consuming actual greens! Chocolate Chip Meatballs^TM. Yeah, that's disgusting. But it's the only way they're gonna eat them, so why not? Okay, the meatball one need some work. But the rest? Gold, baby.

They say it's my birthday

Mir — Tue, 17 Aug 2004 13:36:25 +0000

(NA NA NA NA NA NA) Kira has threatened me with bodily harm if I do not share that today is my birthday. So hey! Guess what! Today! is! my! birthday! I am not so much a fan of the whole birthday thing. There is no traumatic birthday-related drama in my past, or anything. Maybe it goes back to the unfairness of how us summer birthday kids never got to bring cupcakes to school. I don't know. It's not a big deal. Birthdays just tend to make me a wee bit melancholy. So, I got up this morning and opened my presents from the kids. My ex struggled as a gift-giver even when we still liked each other; now that we've split things have not improved. (Remember the toaster?) The children gave me a locket in which I can put their pictures. I'll have to do it, of course, because it did not occur to the ex to actually put pictures in there. I'm having flashbacks to the year he and Chickadeee gave me the stepping-stone kit. Anyway, I could find some teensy weensy pictures of my kids, I guess. Except the necklace? Is a piece of junk. I fully expect it to break the next time I pick it up. Their other gift was the 5th Harry Potter book, which I did actually want (although the ex took the previous four, so now I own just the one). Then the kids helped me to rip open a box from my mother. It contained--among other things--a gorgeous pair of earrings. It's hard to be glum when your earlobes are sparkly. That's a fact. La la la! We will be heading home to be spoiled by my dad and stepmom this weekend. (I could say that's my favorite part of my birthday, but then, inevitably, someone would be offended; so let's just say I'm looking forward to it whole bunches.) Now, I am trying to eat breakfast and the kids want to know when are we baking caaaaaaaaaaaaaake??? So I guess in a little bit, here, we'll be baking me a cake. Monkey magnaminously offered up the rocketship pan I used for his last birthday cake. Hee. Tonight we will have friends over for a gala celebration event. There will be pizza. And cake. Woot. Our children will run around like small maniacs while my friend tries to convince me that this year will be marvelous... or at least, much better in comparison to the crappy year I've just had. Or maybe we'll just resort to the old "when child X is this age I'll be age Y" sort of thing. You never can tell, with us. We're wild. Here's to 33. May it be... less sucky.

So blue-hoo-hoo hoo (we don't know what to do!)

Mir — Wed, 18 Aug 2004 01:30:02 +0000

My children have a special radar that would be precocious and maybe even charming if it didn't result in their being completely demonic. It works like this: if it is my birthday, or Christmas, or any other day on which it is really, really important to me that they behave... their heads spin the full 360 degrees while they speak in tongues and vomit pea soup. I'm kidding. Their behavior is so repugnant it often makes me wish they were only vomiting. Because that? Could be cleaned up. So tonight, our friends arrived, and the fun began. My friend's daughter is Monkey's age. Usually--as threesomes of children go--they are a suitable combination, because Chickadee gets another girl to play with but Monkey gets someone his age. And my friend's daughter (let's call her Boing) enjoys playing with them both. But tonight, silly, tonight was my birthday and so my children were tuned into that weird make-mama-cry vibe. They tormented Boing, they tormented each other, and they took out every. toy. in. the. house. While screaming. Shrieking, really. Hope sprung eternal, and my friend and I ordered our pizza and chatted inbetween dispute resolutions and hoped that things would settle down. They didn't. Well, maybe the kids were just hungry. The food arrived and thus began another session of "Dining With Primates." Half a package of napkins and quite a lot of whining later, we excused the children from the table so that we could eat in peace. We reasoned that--fortified with nutrition--perhaps they would play together nicely. We were wrong. Interactions had reached a fever pitch when my friend suggested we call them back for cake and ice cream. "Let me get this straight," I said. "They're acting like hoodlums, so we are going to reward them with enough sugar to make their heads explode?" "Pretty much, yeah," she answered. Well alrighty, then. So long as we're clear. I had made a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. The children so lamented the plainness of my plan that I'd agreed to color the frosting for them. I perused my Wilton coloring gels and settled on "sky blue." Later tonight I will write a friendly letter to Wilton to let them know that they have misnamed this particular gel colorant. My cake is Cookie Monster blue, as independently verified by myself, my children, and Boing. Very, very blue. Vibrant blue. Blue like the big furry guy himself. So here was this chocolate cake, with blue frosting, and a half-gallon of Bryer's chocolate and vanilla patchwork ice cream. Normal children would be delighted. Our children? Well, I was already at my wit's end. I was cutting cake and my friend was scooping ice cream, and all I could hear was a litany from the ungrateful beasties: "I want cake! I want ice cream!" (Really?) "I don't like cake!" (This from Boing. Weird, but fair enough. But we'd already promised no less than four times to give her only ice cream.) "I need a fork!" "I need a spoon!" "How come I don't have any yet?" "Why aren't we lighting candles and singing happy birthday?" To this last, I replied that I wasn't really in a candle and singing kind of mood because I'd been too busy trying to keep them all from killing each other. My grumpiness had reached a zenith. I didn't feel like cake; I didn't feel like celebrating. I felt like putting my children to bed and enjoying some silence. Hmph. Eventually everyone was seated with dessert and for a few blissful seconds, the only sounds were of eating. Ahhh. Then Monkey turned to me and--holding out his empty cup--demanded, "Hey, where's my drink??" "In your stomach...?" I ventured. Perhaps it was one of those "you had to be there" sorts of moments. The tension had been building, and somehow this was the dam break. My friend and I looked at one another and dissolved into hysterics. The children regarded us with curiosity, then puzzlement... and then shrugged and returned to their dessert. We were still giggling and snorting a bit when my friend nudged me and pointed at Monkey. Together we watched as he methodically shoved handfuls of cake into his mouth. His hands were blue. His mouth was blue. His teeth were blue. And his hands worked in perfect concert, right, left, right, left, delivering a steady stream of cake crumbs into his chewing mouth. We lost it all over again. We laughed so hard, tears squirted out our eyes and ran down our cheeks. Through it all, Monkey's pace never flagged. He was unbothered by our laughter. When I managed to squeak out, "MONKEY! FORK!" he just smiled a peaceful blue smile my way and replied "No thank you." Finally I had to turn away from Monkey or risk peeing in my pants. Whereupon I was just in time to behold Chickadee balancing her whole slab of cake on her fork and attempting to enclose the entire top of it in her mouth. This provoked fresh howls from my friend as I tried to stop laughing long enough to shout, "CHICKADEE! BITES!" Chickadee dropped the cake in surprise, grumping back, "I was taking bites." "Um, Mommy?" said Boing to my friend as we were still trying to catch our breaths, "I don't like cake. Monkey and Chickadee has blue teeth!" It was about then that I suggested "Revenge of the Frosting" would be an excellent title for a horror film. Thus draws to a close my Very Blue Birthday. Thanks to all who left me birthday wishes! If any of you would like a slice of cake, come on over!

Huh

Mir — Wed, 18 Aug 2004 13:44:43 +0000

Hey, I woke up today and... I don't feel any different. Still 33. Thank God that's over. Anyway. If I'd found a glimmer of hope in the possibility of a job I wouldn't hate, I would be waaaaay too superstitious to talk about it. Especially here. Because I wouldn't want to jinx it, or anything. So I wouldn't say anything but it would be on my mind constantly and I'd really be wanting to say something and not holding out for any other reason than my basic Murphy's Law approach to life, which says that if I breathe a word, I won't get it. Hypothetically speaking, of course. But if that happened, you know, I sure would appreciate some happy rainbows and fluffy bunnies type thoughts and good karma and all that stuff. I'm just saying.

Dial 1-800-SAVE-MIR

Mir — Wed, 18 Aug 2004 17:58:07 +0000

So once upon a time, in a land kinda far away during a time that was... ummm... a while back, I had this boyfriend in college. We were in loooooooove. Cuz I was all grown up and knew everything, you see. I was 19! An adult! Worldly! And he was really different than all the other men I'd known in my vast experience (which wasn't very vast or worldly). And by different, of course I mean insane. But I was in loooooooove! We dated for a couple of years. It was Serious. I assumed we were going to marry. He was local to our university town, and so I got to know his parents pretty well, and became fairly close to his mother. She was very sweet and wonderful. Also insane. But sweet. And totally accepting of me. Kinda. There was that time she took me out to lunch to tell me about the evils of pre-marital sex and how her son and I were needing guidance, and while I tried not to choke on my iced tea I suggested that A) her son wasn't exactly a blushing virgin before I came along and B) what we did in private really wasn't her business. She still liked me after that. But she did tell her son I was "too forward." (Because bringing up sex to your son's girlfriend is okey dokey as long as she blushes and begs forgiveness, I guess.) You see, this guy and his mom belong to... ummmm... an extreme religious sect. I won't say which one. That's not necessary. But in the beginning of our relationship, when our love was fresh and new, I of course responded to any expression of this rather interesting faith-base with, "You know that's bullshit, right? No? Well it is." I'm sensitive, that way. After a while, I became convinced that the only way to adequately talk him out of this nonsense was to better acquaint myself with his beliefs, and somehow in there--perhaps insanity is contagious?--I lost my mind and decided to become One Of Them, myself. My poor parents. Beside themselves, they were. But yeah, I converted. Not just to Christianity but to a very extreme and cult-like version of Christianity. I'm amazed they (my parents) still speak to me. (I'm still a Christian, but a nice, friendly middle-of-the-road Methodist, now.) Anyway, things happened. Things like, me planning my life, while this boyfriend felt that a woman's place in life was to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. It became clear to me that we were not the match I'd previously supposed. I broke up with him... it was messy... his mother tried to talk me out of it (because anything can be worked out, even her son's addiction to porn I suppose). That was a fun time, yessir! Yeah, baby. Okay. I would like to go through that again as soon as possible, or maybe never. Good times. For a while, we didn't speak. I was still friendly with his mom. Then after a while we were able to stay in sporadic touch, friendly catching up and whatnot. That was fine. Then he married someone so completely batshit insane that it made his family look downright normal, and Batshit Crazy Woman correctly surmised that his entire family wished he had married anyone other than her, perhaps even me, and I think she forbid him to ever talk to me again. For many blissful years, I haven't heard from him. However, like clockwork, I receive birthday wishes from his mother every year. I think she put my birthday into her computer in 1991 and every year when the date pops up she finds herself composing her to-do list for the day. And it goes something like: TODAY I MUST: * call so-and-so * do laundry * read the bible for several hours * curl hair * send Mir email and attempt once more to save her soul from the flaming pits of hell I'm touched, really, that someone is so concerned about me. I don't mean to make light... much. Every year my effusive birthday email arrives, telling me how much she loves and misses me and how God's plans for my life are still unfolding, etc. At some point last year, she emailed my ex because she'd lost her email addresses and his was the only one he could find. He did give her my address, but briefly (and, I gather, bitterly) filled her in on the divorce situation, and then I was treated to a mid-year missive on the sanctity of marriage and how she just knew that I could work it out if I really prayed enough. I'd mailed her back, thanking her for her concern, telling her that I would take her suggestions under consideration but that---while I was not going to get into it---I had done what was necessary for the safety of my family. She hadn't responded, and I'd assumed (hoped?) that I'd finally managed to get myself off her birthday list. But no! Now, you see, my soul is in grave danger! Necessitating not just a birthday email from her, but a follow-up email from the old boyfriend to whom I haven't spoken for 9 years or so. When I knew him in college, he'd been raised in this faith but was... hmmmm... I'm not sure how to put it. He wasn't unreligious, but let's say his practice was still fairly lax. It seems that years of being married to the Batshit Crazy Woman has caused a renewal of his faith, which I applaud. I mean, if you're not smart enough to get out when it's obvious that things are bad and getting worse, finding a way to blame it all on God just seems like good sense. Anyway, I made the mistake of responding to his email. I didn't say much; I was pleasant, gave a very brief update, figured we were done. How wrong I was. What came back? A long email about how his faith has grown and strengthened and he and BCW have been through very rough times, abuse even, but with God on his side they've found their way through and it's not easy but blah blah blah, I don't know, there was more, but it was hard to read while I was smacking my forehead on the desk repeatedly. Oh, but this gem did jump out at me: "I have come to realize that if I put God first and glorify Him, everything else will fall in place. The storms of human life may rage about me, but I am untouched." I cannot tell you what a relief it is to be so edified, especially considering the source. I now see what a disgrace my life has become and how I've made baby Jesus weep. I wanted to call up my ex immediately to set things to rights, but naturally first I took off my shoes and went into the kitchen to bake something for him as an offering of my perfect wifeliness (fortified by my renewed commitment to God and Gold Medal All-Purpose Flour). Also? He'd asked me if I was "still writing" and I'd said yes, some freelance stuff, some blogging, and he asked for the blog address. It was then that I realized what I'd unwittingly stepped into. And once I publish this entry? Well I can't very well give him the address, now can I? One problem solved. Sometimes, I wish for salvation. I do. Sometimes I turn heavenward and ask for a sign---anything---to show me I really am on the right path. But I'm fairly certain this is not how salvation arrives... and that it may indeed be my clue that I'm doing just fine.

Purplexed! Purplexed!!

Mir — Thu, 19 Aug 2004 01:20:50 +0000

No, I have not forgotten how to spell. I am purplexed! As in, I am truly, madly, and very deeply in love with the rockalicious Kira, who not only sent me an entire package of goodies for my birthday but included the surest way to my heart: nailpolish! For my toes! Called "purplexed" which is a delightful play on words because it is purple! It is nailpolish geek nirvana, I tell you. And as soon as I paint my toenails with it (which is happening any moment now, because I have priorities) I am going to tell everyone I run into that I am feeling so very purplexed and then I will titter merrily to myself while they dart away from me, frightened. Kira, will you marry me? We can register at Target, although I'm looking through the registry choices and I don't see the one gift we both need listed, anywhere. Hrm. Anyway. Back to the package! In addition to being purplexed I can also be relaxed, because there's a whole kit of yummy relaxing Bath and Body stuff. I can relax in the tub while eating the world's most sinful molasses cookies that Kira baked her own damn self! They are so good that you are hating me just a little, right now, because I have some and you don't. Also? Homemade jam. Homemade raspberry jam. Which I am totally planning to drip on my purplexed toes as I drool over my toast tomorrow morning. It was all wrapped up all girly-like with pretty ribbons and doo-dads and pretty things and then packed in paper and then? Topped with plastic bugs. For the kids. Kira and I are soul-mates. You have no idea how much I wish she lived closer. (Or how much I wish she had a penis. Life is cruel this way, sometimes.) I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy. And purplexed! Teehee!

The Packining

Mir — Thu, 19 Aug 2004 13:51:20 +0000

Packining is what happens when you simultaneously pack and panic. Packining is what happens whenever I try to pack for a trip, but particularly when I am trying to pack for a trip that is supposed to start tomorrow morning and I haven't done the laundry yet and I have one additional child here at Chaos Central and despite my proliferation of lists I remain convinced that I am going to forget to pack something absolutely crucial, like children's vitamins, and then my children will die because I'm a negligent mother. Guess what's happening right now! Go on! Guess! The idea is, the kids and I will head out first thing tomorrow morning in our traditional style of Embarking On The Trip To Grandma and Grandpa's House. We have a set routine for this. We get up in the morning and pile into the car, whereupon the small ones start screaming for a video before we've even pulled out of the driveway. I churn out one Logical Motherly Reason after another about why we should wait to start the VCR until we're on the highway. In the meantime, we stop at Dunkin Donuts to get me a coffee of sufficient size to ensure that I will need to make a bathroom stop before we even get out of the state. We also get adequate donut and chocolate milk supplies to make sure that the only thing keeping the children from crashing against the roof of the car is their seatbelts and the various blankets, pillows, and eleventy billion stuffed animals and books tucked in around them. (Videos! Crap! I haven't been to the movie store yet!) The drive is about six and a half hours. Since the addition of the portable VCR to our artillery, the journey is quite bearable. I arrive at my parents' all stiff and glazed over, but the children have had a marvelous trip and tumble out of the car thrilled to see their grandparents, or, maybe, crying about me turning the movie off. Rather than pay much attention to this, I generally toss out a couple of quick kisses and hugs and then stumble my way into the bathroom to stretch my legs and pee out the last of my coffee. But before we can do that, I need to pack everything that three high-maintenance humans might require in the wilderness of a house and town much more civilized than our own. Huh. Now that I've said that I feel a little silly. But the packining! It does things to my brain, I tell you! Just for example: we are going to an honest-to-goodness theatre show while we're there. I am really more excited than I ought to be. But... what to wear? And you understand, I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about the kids. I'm going to be out in public in my hometown, and we may run into people who used to pick on me in junior high. So it is of the utmost importance that my children look as though they just stepped out of an ad for the Gap. Because that'll show those bitches! Yeah! After all, it's too late to change myself, but as long as I'm saving money for the kids' therapy, I may as well utilize them to the fullest extent of dysfunctional pride. Also: I have to be careful about what I choose to wear around my mother. The last time we were there? There was a long and somewhat confusing exchange about my eyebrows, ending with her assuring me that I was lovely and also telling me I should probably get them professionally shaped rather than doing it on my own. Um, huh? And that was tame. So I need to pick my clothes carefully, you see. And just because my parents have a washer and dryer doesn't mean I can avoid packing all kinds of extras, because you just never know with kids. I mean, really. The one trip I don't pack extras will be the one with projectile puking and state-wide blackout conditions. It's best to be prepared. Don't even get me started on what would happen if I neglected to include one of the many Cherished Objects Without Which The Children Cannot Survive. That class of items is doubly fun because they cannot be packed in advance. I have to scurry around finding them all right before we leave. Good times. Well, I'd love to chat some more, but I have to get back to running around the house like a chicken with its head cut off. Did I mention that I am also having my first ever cavities filled this afternoon? That was a tour de force of scheduling on my part, don't you think? Then again, I've never experienced packining while drooling, and that may add a whole new dimension to things. Or just make everything a little damp. I'll let you know.

Anybody seen my facial muscles?

Mir — Thu, 19 Aug 2004 20:55:37 +0000

The cavities have been filled for several hours, now, and I am still bearing a frightening resemblance to a stroke victim. I am not even going to tell you what happened when I tried to eat a cookie. But, loving mother than I am, I marched my deformed self straight to the movie store after my dentist appointment and picked up travel movies for the kids, because I love them so and putting movies on stops them from talking for 400 straight miles. Now I'd like to walk over and let our neighbors know we're going to be out of town, but my speech is still a little slurred. And they'd probably think I was drunk or something. So I guess I'll just sit here and make funny faces for a while longer.

All my bags are packed...

Mir — Fri, 20 Aug 2004 11:50:33 +0000

... and now I'm gonna have that song stuck in my head all day long. Ugh. Well, we're off in a cloud of dust. I won't promise Facts and Fiction Friday today, but I'll post something tonight after we arrive. Perhaps a poignant moment on the interstate. Perhaps a tale of the tollbooth guy. You never can tell what wonders lay on the open road! In my absence, talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. Let's see. Insane college boyfriend is still mailing me multiple times daily, in spite of my having avoided all of his questions and now--last night--having flat-out stated that I wonder where all this sudden interest is coming from, and I have no time for another correspondence. So: Cultboy, still just mildly insane and nothing more, or marriage about to implode? Discuss.

Moooooo

Mir — Fri, 20 Aug 2004 20:01:03 +0000

We have arrived; the trip was uneventful. Today's big news? New York has a lot of cows. And we, apparently, like to moo at them. Because that is entertaining no matter how many times we do it. Also? I need to sign Monkey up with a child talent agency to do some commercials for... water. He asked at one point if I'd brought anything to drink, and I said, "Only water." He responded. "Water? Water?? I love water!!" But that may have been a result of the bovine fumes.

Good Eats

Mir — Sat, 21 Aug 2004 01:18:05 +0000

I love eating with my parents. I do. The food is plentiful, cooked by excellent cooks, and I don't have to do a damn thing. We had wine and cheese before the meal, just like civilized folks. (Well, things got a little crazy with the cheese plane once the kids figured out there was cheese to be had, but anyway.) After dinner I am pleasantly full and still don't have to do anything (like clean up). And still later, after I've settled the kids down for the night, we have dessert. Just us adults. With coffee, even. I hardly ever make coffee at home. Not because I don't like coffee, but because it's kind of silly to make a pot of coffee for just one person. So here's how the dessert conversation went tonight: Stepmom: Look, we have pie! Me: Oooooh, pie. Stepmom: We also have fruit. Me: Fruit? Is there something wrong with the pie? Dad: No, that pie is goooooood. Stepmom: The pie's fine, I just meant there's fruit if you prefer. Me: Wait, you're placing a coconut meringue pie in front of me and asking if I would prefer fruit? What? Dad: *laughing* I think she wants pie. Me: Of course I want pie! Stepmom: Okay, then have pie. Dad: Oh, no... wait, do you know what else you can have? *walking over to microwave* Me: BEANS! Mass hysteria ensued. We had reheated beans to go with dinner, and forgotten them for several hours in the microwave. I still went with the pie. As did my father. But my stepmom is doing Atkins, so she had a Peppermint Pork Rind Bar or something. And we all had coffee. And everyone was happy. The end.

I laughed, I cried, it was better than... um....

Mir — Sat, 21 Aug 2004 22:35:22 +0000

We went to see a regional theatre production of "Cats" today. I have relinquished my title of The Only Person On The Planet Who Has Never Seen Cats. I am still, however, proud holder of the Only Theatre Major On The Planet Who Hadn't Seen Cats During The Formative Years title. It was a lot of fun. The children would've enjoyed it more, I think, if they hadn't been sharing a room last night and so awakened this morning at "the crack of darn" to torment each other. At one point, Monkey--who was sitting on my father's lap--commenced shaking his head back and forth wildly for no apparent reason. This is what you do if you are four years old and realize that you are in imminent danger of falling asleep at an inopportune time. It kept him awake, but he may have whiplash and I think my father might've sustained permanent sternum damage. Chickadee whispered various things to me throughout, including (but not limited to): "Are all those people kids?" "Why do they like dressing like weird cats if they're grown-ups?" "How do you know?" and "Look, smoke!" The star of the production according to Chickadee was the smoke effects. Now playing... "Cats"! Starring... smoke! For me, it was an enjoyable production on its own, enhanced by the fact that it afforded me many flashbacks to my days in college as a theatre major. Ah, memories. ("Meeeeeemory... all alone in the mooooooonlight....") Memories of dance classes, with everyone in leotards. Memories of yummy men... in tights. Memories of how those yummy men could dance. Memories of how every single one of them was gay. It appears not a lot has changed since I left the world of theatre. During one particularly... uhhh... flamboyant solo, I found myself expecting the actor to start tap dancing. In a loincloth, maybe. It wouldn't have surprised me. But I would've been laughing too hard to cover the kids' eyes, so it's just as well that the choreographer had something else in mind. I did not run into anyone I knew in junior high, which was fortunate. The kids looked appropriately spiffy for about five seconds after they got dressed. By the time we got to the show, Monkey had green marker all over his pants and Chickadee had managed to will about one-third of her hair out of its twin plaits and into a fuzzy halo around her head. Both of them were also covered in dog hair (because the world's sweetest but hairiest dog lives here). If we'd encountered anyone I'd once known I probably would've introduced the children and then said something stupid like "They're normally much tidier but I dropped them in one of those mud puddles out there! Ha ha!" Because I'm weird like that, and the last few days of rain had left the theatre parking lot a bizarre labyrinth of mud swamps. My father did see a coworker and introduced us over intermission. My father, my number one fan, apparently makes periodic announcements at his office that all employees must read and love my blog or face immediate termination. So this poor woman, who was really just wanting to get her kids settled with their snacks, immediately started telling me how much she loves this blog. My dad was standing right there so I didn't think it was a good time to tell her he hasn't really ever fired anyone for not reading it. Instead I said something stupid because that's what I do best. Then I tried to placate my whining children with delicious and nutritious Tic Tacs while everyone around them ate chocolate cake from the concession stand. So, Cindy? It was very nice to meet you, and let's just pretend I said something witty and my children were perfect and I bought them some cake. Great; thanks.

Trees, flowers, fish and perspective

Mir — Mon, 23 Aug 2004 00:20:27 +0000

Did you know that my daughter is an amazing tree climber? Neither did I. We were out in the yard this morning and she asked if any of the trees were good for climbing. We found a suitable one and she hung by her knees from the lowest branch while my stepmom and I snapped a few pictures. The next thing I knew, she was waaayyyyy up in the branches and I was trying to keep the panic out of my voice as I called up, "I think that's far enough, honey!" Later, I held my breath as she descended. She came down a bit slower than she'd gone up, but with the same alacrity. I was just flipping through the photos on my camera and I still can't believe how high she went. The grin on her face in those shots is about a mile wide. Monkey--once my fearless acrobat--was placed on the lowest branch for a photo op and spent the entire time alternating between "Cheeeeeeeeeeese!" and "Alright alright get me down from here now!" Chickadee patted him on the back and told him it was okay and she'd help him climb if he wanted. He declined. Once down, he ran all over the yard picking dandelions for me and declaring, "Mama had a baby and its head popped off!" while flicking the tops off and giggling. This afternoon my dad and I took the kids fishing. We trooped down from the parking pull-off to the rocky embankment and climbed down towards the water, whereupon Chickadee caught a fish on the first cast. We admired it in all its tiny splendor and then my dad unhooked it and tossed it back. A few minutes later she reeled in her second fish; larger than the first, but still too small to keep. She was delighted anyway. While the three of us fished, Monkey scrambled up and down the rocks, setting up his "house" and working on his "experiments." He also upset the worm container several times ("But I didn't mean to!" he always reassured us) in his travels, but for him the fishing itself held little allure. After Chickadee tired of it he asked for a turn. He held the rod for about a minute and said, "Grandpa, I think maybe you should do it now, I'm kinda busy." Inbetween these two gala events, I had the dubious pleasure of speaking to my mother on the phone in an attempt to set plans for later in the day. Communication between my mother and myself is not effortless and smooth. Today was no exception. I think we managed to work out my latest transgression to where I was no longer The Most Thoughtless Human Ever and downgrade it to my being simply Somewhat Rude, but the entire interaction left me drained. To my memory, it has always been this way between us. In fact, it's not as hard as it used to be (though still incredibly taxing). We set our plans to meet for dinner. Dinner was fine. About halfway through our time at the restaurant, while Monkey was discovering that he could slide down the leather booth seat with minimal effort and Chickadee was whining for me to puhleeeeeze help her with the word search on her kiddie menu, my mother turned to me and said, "Do you ever feel like it's just too much and you can't possibly take it for even another second?" "What?" I asked. She gestured ever-so-slightly with a tilt of her head towards my children. "The kids?" "Yeah," she said, "don't you ever feel like it's more than you can bear?" I stared at her. "No." She looked skeptical. "No," I repeated, "never." And I tried to find something else to focus my eyes on so that I wouldn't have to bore a hole through her skull with my Glare Of Disbelief. It's no secret that we have very different takes on child-rearing, but still. I was floored. I'm not a very patient person, and my children often drive me nuts. I often long for a break or savor my time alone when I do get it. It's not that I'm some sainted soccer mom who lives to cater to my kids' every whim. It's not even that I think they're the most splendiferous humans ever to grace the planet. They possess ample abilities to be gigantic pains in the rear. My daughter has attitude from here to next week and my son is prone to raising his voice to glass-shattering pitch during tantrums. I lied to my mother tonight. Sometimes, I do feel like it's just too much and I can't possibly take it for even another second. But it's not what she meant. Not what she thinks it is. Today, when my daughter stretched up to touch the sky, full of the pride of her newfound talent and the giddiness of her new vantage point, it took my breath away. Today, when my son scurried amongst the rocks with his perpetual smile, offering us all crumpled leaves and using an overgrown plant as his "utility seatbelt," something caught in my throat. Sometimes, it is too much. And sometimes, as I tuck my children in for the night, when they smell of toothpaste and fresh air and they collapse down into the covers as only a very tired, very content child can, it's just right.

Crisis

Mir — Tue, 24 Aug 2004 01:54:21 +0000

Today was an uneventful day; I got about two thirds of the way through my book before realizing that I've read it before. (Alas, poor brain cells... I barely knew ye.) My father took the kids outside and gave them rides on the tractor and then set them to work picking up scraps around the woodpile. Everything was going along smoothly. Then it happened. This afternoon, Monkey asked for a "Kira cookie." This will apparently be our household name for the most amazing molasses cookies on the face of the earth, which--courtesy of my beloved Kira--we have been happily gorging on since we embarked on our trip last Friday. It was then that I discovered there are only two Kira cookies left. I shared this info, and suggested we save them. I have two children. If you think there's no dilemma here, you haven't had one of these cookies. Let's see.... If I eat one, they can split the other one. No, they'll complain about that. Hmmm. If one of them does something really naughty, then I can have one and the other child can have one. That might work. Or, I could eat them both, and shred the ziploc a little bit and leave it on the floor, and blame my parents' dog. Decisions, decisions....

My ears are bleeding

Mir — Tue, 24 Aug 2004 13:30:25 +0000

I always thought nothing could possibly grate on my nerves more than listening to my children bicker. But today there is a piano tuner here. He is ostensibly tuning my stepmom's piano. What he is actually doing is hitting each key approximately eighty gazillion times as loudly as possible. Kill me, please. Have I mentioned that Chickadee is going to start taking piano next month? With a keyboard, of course, as I haven't the money or space for a real piano. Thank God. (Note to self: do not increase money or space.)

On the road again...

Mir — Wed, 25 Aug 2004 01:36:47 +0000

... I just can't wait to get back on the road again.... Actually, I could wait. A long while. If my folks decided to pick up their house and move it just down the road from mine, instead of being so selfish and inconvenient as to live in another state, that would be fine with me. But in the current arrangement, all good things must come to an end and I must reload my car and spend my day tomorrow traversing three (small) states before making it home to my own bed. I spent some time tonight loading the car and marvelling at the sheer magnitude of stuff that we brought and have accumulated during our stay. That was in addition to the obligatory stint of cramming myself into one of the carseats in order to weave the complicated web of portable VCR suspension straps between the front seats and adjusting the little screen to appropriate child viewing height. It's a three or four movie trip, and I risk swerving off the road often enough between passing the tapes and various snacks back and forth. Getting the screen adjusted before take-off, I've discovered, is imperative. In the morning, we'll shove our jammies into my suitcase (the kids' is already in the car) and get dressed and round up the dozen stuffed animals and do a last sweep of the house for forgotten objects. There will be kisses and hugs and a last snapsot or two, and then we'll be on our way. Back home. Back to our routine. Back to the job search. Back to school. Back to our own beds. Back to quiet evenings on my own. Back to reality. Hmph. Reality is way overrated. Like the tedious drive back, it's necessary; but I still kinda wish I could skip it. Despite my promises prior to the drive out, I forgot to regale you all with the tale of Pat the Androgynous Tollbooth Person. I don't know why, but being unable to discern an adult's gender is very unsettling to me. I wondered for a good long while and still feel the encounter was a bit creepy. We'll just have to hope that something even more interesting happens on the way home (although how do I top Pat? maybe a fully-garbed and drunken clown at one of the rest stops?) for me to ponder once I'm back and without coffee and company and climbable trees to conquer. For now, I'm just steeling myself to get back on the road. See you tomorrow night.

Lemon-scented frustration

Mir — Wed, 25 Aug 2004 23:47:38 +0000

So you know how I was getting all nostalgic last night before my vacation had even, technically, ended? Know how I was saying that it was time to come on back to reality, blah blah blah? Reality was here waiting for me! Yessir! Reality welcomed me home good and proper. But wait. Let's back up, first. Our trip today was uneventful in spite of the fact that today is apparently Close All But One Lane Of The Road Day in the northeast. Road work was happening everywhere. No matter; the trip was a little bit longer than usual but not too bad. But I was thrown off my game early on today when I realized that something horrifying and strange is happening. I don't want to alarm anyone, but in all three states I went through today, there appeared to be some sort of vegetation blight. It was very odd. Everywhere we went, there were trees--not all of them, mind you, but a good portion--with red leaves. I'm an intelligent adult (at least that's what all those pieces of paper in my basement say) and since it is August and many of us are still waiting for summer to arrive amidst the forty days and nights of rain interspersed with cold snaps, I know this anomaly cannot possibly be the start of fall, because that would just be Wrong. Bad. So I will just conclude that there has been a local outbreak of a rare and terrifying plant disease. Do not panic! But do lock up your ficuses (ficii?) and be extremely wary. In retrospect, all of those incongruous red leaves jumping out at me from the countryside may have been a harbinger of how strange and displeasing this whole return-to-reality thing was going to be. So, we drove and drove and then drove some more. Monkey fell asleep and despite my hissed threats Chickadee poked him until he woke up. We all arrived home stiff and crabby and tired. I assigned the children each a few items from the back seat to take inside. Oh, sorry, my mistake. Did I say I asked them to bring their toys in? I meant to say that I charged each smallish child with carting several tons of manure. At least, that's what I'm guessing, based on their reaction. By the time each one had managed to carry in two stuffed animals and a small blanket, I'd made twelve trips between the garage and mudroom and completely emptied the car. Then I set the children free (they ran to make sure none of their toys had evaporated in their absence) and walked back outside to get the mail. Junk, junk, bill, junk, junk, bill, junk... job offer? No, job offers are for people who have good luck. For me, we have a lovely consolation prize: a beautifully typed form letter thanking me for my interest and participation but regretting to inform me that the position has been filled by someone cooler and savvier and probably prettier. But I know that there must be a silver lining to even this, so I content myself with the fantasy that the person they hired has genital warts. That helped. Back in the house, I am now trying to figure out how to proceed with the rest of the day given that I would like to scream and yell and cry and maybe kick something. As none of these activities go over very well with the kids, I decide to channel my anger into tidiness! Because that would be mature and adult-like! And also because reality smack number two has just come along in the form of Chickadee bringing me a cup "of water" that she says she found "with a tissue in it." Well, honey, that's not a tissue. That's your cup of milk from the morning we left which has congealed and clumped and for the love of God get the bleach because if I have to smell this cup for one more minute I am going to hurl. And so began the cleaning. I unpacked! I started laundry! I did dishes! I cleaned the whole kitchen! (Which I'd sort of done before we left, but that cup of rancid milk made the whole place smell so I did it again.) I put out the trash! I recycled! Cleaned out the fridge! Scrubbed toilets! And so on! Until everything was tidy! And fresh! Strangely, none of this changed the fact that I am still unemployed. Or that five days of vacation is just about enough time to make coming home really, really suck. But it smells better in here, now. To celebrate the joy of being back home in my fabulous life, I capped off the day by discovering and then removing a tick from my daughter's stomach (one of my less favorite parental duties, that) and putting the children to bed early for their own safety. I don't think there's too much left for me to clean. I may just have to park myself in front of the Olympics and have some ice cream. I'm pretty sure that the person who got that job is also lactose intolerant. Sucker.

Thursday headline: still cranky

Mir — Thu, 26 Aug 2004 15:59:06 +0000

Nine hours of sleeping like the dead has not cured me of a severe case of selfpityitis. Neither has directing the small ones to clean their rooms. Or all of us "lounging" (read: being slugbutts) in our pajamas all morning. I may have to break down and make an appointment to see my therapist. She's a lovely woman who never tires of listening to me tell her what a horrible human I am. Or maybe she's just thinking of all the things she can buy with the gobs of money my insurance company gives her. I'm not really sure. Kira and I have exchanged a tearful reunion via email, complete with expressions of our undying adoration for one another, commiseration over the difficult five days away from our nightly IM snort-fests, and her promising to share the recipe for the amazing Kira cookies. "... but I have to WARN YOU," she wrote me, "They contain SHORTENING. So. You know, trans fats and all. The guilt is killing me." Shortening? Trans what, now? Do you not know me at all? Have you not been reading my blog lo these many months, the ultimate repository of my narcissistic wallowing? If I don't deserve a little shortening, then who does, I ask you! Anyone out there with a must-have cookie recipe that uses actual lard? Because desperate times call for desperate measures, you know. It's best to be prepared, just in case things get worse. And speaking of food (when am I not speaking of food?), a friend called this morning and invited herself over for dinner. Which is fine with me. But it started out as "I will bring dinner over to your house" and somehow devolved into me mentioning that I needed to make a grocery run and ending up with a shopping list for said dinner. At least this way I know I like what we're having, right? And I will have company (kids will be with the ex for dinner), which is good because it serves to mitigate my self-loathing a little. But in other news, I have a gmail account, now, thanks to Beth. Which means I am cool. Managing my various email account could now officially be considered a full-time job, but alas, the pay leaves something to be desired. I should be better by tonight. Tonight, I will start up my grill and have an excellent meal. You know how playing with fire cheers me right up. Everything tastes better when cooked over an open flame. Also, burning effigies of people who pissed me off is good, too. Sometimes ya gotta go with the simple pleasures of life.

What I know, and what I wonder

Mir — Thu, 26 Aug 2004 20:24:34 +0000

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.

Tender bits of non-sequitorial goodness!

Mir — Fri, 27 Aug 2004 04:18:58 +0000

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.

The way-ay-ting is the hardest part....

Mir — Fri, 27 Aug 2004 14:15:11 +0000

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....

Playing with fire

Mir — Sat, 28 Aug 2004 15:15:18 +0000

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.

Paint

Mir — Sun, 29 Aug 2004 18:43:46 +0000

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.

Girls' Days

Mir — Mon, 30 Aug 2004 13:48:57 +0000

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....

Inventory

Mir — Mon, 30 Aug 2004 21:55:25 +0000

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.

Who let the boobs out

Mir — Mon, 30 Aug 2004 23:59:28 +0000

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?

Fickle Frugal

Mir — Tue, 31 Aug 2004 17:16:59 +0000

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.

An afternoon in my mind

Mir — Tue, 31 Aug 2004 21:04:55 +0000

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.

There she goes

Mir — Wed, 01 Sep 2004 13:27:13 +0000

Last night I not only set Chickadee's alarm, I turned it up to volume "wake the dead." She's something of a sound sleeper. So this morning, when Monkey and I were making his bed and getting him dressed and I still hadn't heard her alarm, I went into her room to see if maybe her clock was five minutes behind everyone else's. She'd turned the alarm off. And was sound asleep. "Chickadee! Get up! You turned your alarm off." "That's cuz I'm tired." "Oh, you're tired? Well nevermind, then. Go back to sleep. That's more important than the first day of school." "Mooooooooooooom!!" Heheh. I'll have to be careful about that. By the second week of school she may just agree with me and fall asleep again. Today, however, was exciting. Even though we did our first year of "real school" last year, Chickadee attended private kindergarten at our daycare center. (Public kindergarten here is only half day, so if you work--which I did, when the year started--and need daycare, you have to go private.) This meant that I drove her to and from school, and she missed the ultimate hallmark of Being A Big Kid: riding the bus. So we got up and dressed and brushed and scrubbed and braided and fed... and we still had about half an hour. The kids asked to watch television for a bit and I agreed. They sat there while I finished writing a note on Chickadee's lunch napkin (yeah, I'm that kind of mom... barf bags to your left) and getting ready. Then we took some pictures, and headed out to the bus stop around the corner. We were early. On account of I got tired of the two of them bouncing around the house at warp speed. I figured they could run off a little energy outside, instead. We stood at the bus stop and made meaningful conversation for a while. "I'm cold." "Do you want a jacket?" "No." "Okay. Chickadee, put Monkey down." "I want her to pick me up! I'm cold!" "I want you to stop. Do you want a jacket?" "No." "Okay then. Put Chickadee down." "I like it!" "Oh good lord. Nobody touch anybody else!" "Okay. Mama? I'm cold." Then we were saved by the family whose driveway we were standing in. I may have mentioned before that I've found the whole Getting To Know Your Neighbors thing kind of difficult, here in New England. First of all, there's the whole 9-month-long winter thing, which means folks just aren't outside all that often for the majority of the year. Also, I find folks around here rather standoffish most of the time. I have no problem with being friendly and starting conversations and whatnot, but neither do I want to garner a reputation as That Crazy Loud Pushy Woman Down The Street. My reputation as That Divorced Woman is enough, thanks. So out of this house came three girls and their mom, and despite having been neighbors for several years, I had never seen any of them before. Ever. So I stuck out my hand and introduced myself, and the mom had to shift her cigarette to the hand holding her coffee in order to shake my hand. I just kept smiling in spite of the fact that I loathe smoking and the smell of smoke, because I was Being Neighborly and saying "ewwwww GROSS!" is not a good way to start a relationship. (I know that some of you, even some of you whom I adore, are smokers. Do not send me hate mail. I do not hate smokers, I just hate smoking, and if you're being honest, even those of you who are consummate slaves to the cancer sticks also know that smoking is disgusting.) So we moms chatted a bit while we waited for the bus to come, and the kids didn't talk to each other at all, unless you count Monkey's running soliloquy ("My name is Monkey! And I am not getting on the bus, but my sister is, and I am here dropping her off, and then I will go with Mama in the car to my school cuz I am still just little but I really like my school and someday when I'm bigger I'll ride the bus, too!") while the girls all studied their toes. But I was mostly just grateful that my children didn't start pointing out how disgusting smoking is, because that's usually what they do when they see a person with a cigarette. There are many semi-famous stories in my family about my antics as a child. One of the most infamous is the tale of my first day of kindergarten, when my mother dutifully walked me down to the bus stop with her camera in hand. I had been instructed to step up onto the bus and turn around for a picture, but when the bus finally arrived I was so excited that I flew up the steps and completely forgot to wave until I'd reached a seat halfway back. I waved out the window, but my mother was furious. And our photo album holds a blurry picture of my backside running up the bus steps. There is no greater taunt of a payback than a child just like you. This morning I tried to get a picture of Chickadee getting on the bus and all four girls crowded in so fast that I didn't even get an adorable blurry tushie shot. I stepped up onto the bus, myself, to talk to the bus driver about the protocol for her getting off at daycare this afternoon. By that time, Chickadee had made her way to the back, been greeted by several thrilled cohorts (our local bus routes are plotted by drunken, blindfolded board members throwing darts at a map, I think... several of the kids she knew don't live anywhere near us), and forgotten that I existed. It's a good thing I had the foresight to take a picture of her back while we were walking out, this morning. Monkey and I smiled and waved while the bus pulled away. We said good-bye to the other mom and walked back to the house. Monkey waxed philosophic the entire drive to school about how there were lots of kids on that bus and he couldn't wait to ride the bus but riding with me in the car was pretty good, too. I got him settled in down at his classroom, then was wished luck on my interview by the director while I was on my way out. I thought that was very sweet. Sure, she has a vested interest in me continuing to have the money to pay tuition, but still. And thus begins a new era for our family. I'm drowning any little "gah my babies are growing up" vibes in a huge cup of really good, over-priced coffee. After a while here I'll go see if I remember how to put on make-up. It's an exciting day for all of us. They are going to be so impressed with me this afternoon, they will hire me on the spot. Or I'll cry and tell them I didn't get a picture of my baby on the bus and are they trying to kill me? Yeah. I am Mama, hear me roar!

Fantasy meets Reality

Mir — Thu, 02 Sep 2004 00:19:18 +0000

I'm just sitting down to breathe, now. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Much better. The kids are in bed, all the paperwork Chickadee brought home for me is filled out, tomorrow's lunches are packed, and I interviewed and lived to tell the tale. The Fantasy: I have most of the day before my interview to relax, unwind, and prep at a leisurely pace. I arrive early and fully prepared. The Reality: After I drop the kids, I go to the store for a portfolio to carry. I am halfway out of the shower when I realize I didn't shave my legs. I am fully dressed and wondering why I feel funny when I realize I forgot to put on a bra. The first pair of pantyhose have a run; the second pair twist around into a tourniquet on my left leg until I remove them and start over. The perfect pair of (new) shoes I'd picked out had fallen off my heels twice by the time I made it down the stairs (had to switch to another pair). I spent so much time living my own private comedy of errors that I neglected to eat lunch, and this company's campus is bigger than my alma mater's so I had to park about eight miles from the entrance. I arrive barely on time, frazzled, and starving. The Fantasy: "Are you Mir Idiotboy'slastname? Come right in; we've been waiting for you. Our finest manager is waiting to interview you, and might I say that you are looking lovely and professional today!" The Reality: "Line forms over there. Go check in with the other 300 patsies." The Fantasy: "I see here from your resume that you're well educated, with a varied background. Let's talk about why you'd be a great addition to Big Company." The Reality: "Can you work lots of overtime? We require overtime from all of our employees, particularly during tax season. Can you work until 11:00 PM when necessary?" The Fantasy: "You're exactly the type of person we need in Division DoGood. Oddly enough, your strange combination of experience is just what we need over there." The Reality: Interviewer: Blabbity blah blah blah overtime blah blah OVERTIME blah blah blah. Blah? Me: Um, isn't it true that in Division DoGood overtime is less of an issue, due to the nature of their work? Interviewer: Huh? I work in Division GimmeMoney and I don't know jack squat about Division DoGood. They're totally different. Me: Right, that's what I'm asking. As you can see from my resume, I'd probably be a good fit in Division DoGood. I thought that was the position for which I was interviewing. Interviewer: Yeah. Um. You should talk to someone else, I guess. Hey, you're right... looks like you're just what they're looking for, I guess, except that I don't know anything about them. Well, it was nice to meet you. Go stand back over there. Me: What the...? The Somewhat Strange But Good Reality: I was able to locate someone who actually had a clue, and basically had to narc on my interviewer and point out that he, you know, didn't interview me. The bad news is that no one seemed surprised, but the good news was that I was passed off to someone from Division DoGood who talked to me for a few minutes and then took my resume to "personally hand off to the hiring manager" and told me she would make sure I was brought back for the next round. So let's all have a very restrained, quiet, not-too-excited, non-fate-tempting WOOT and keep all those appendages crossed until we see what happens next. And as if that wasn't enough for one day.... The Fantasy: I pick the kids up from daycare; they are thrilled to see me; Chickadee tells me all about her bus ride, her first day at school, her time at aftercare, and gives me an especially big hug and kiss in thanks for the note I put in her lunch. The Reality: I pick the kids up from daycare; they are having so much fun that they don't want to leave; I extract tiny uninformative factoids from Chickadee under great protest. The bus was okay, the school work was too easy, her dress was covered in paint from some project at aftercare, and--my personal favorite--"There was a note in my lunch?" (On your napkin, I told her. Oh, she said. They gave us napkins with our milk.) But hey, we made it. All of us. And there's a tiny glimmer of hope on the horizon. Also? There is a napkin in Chickadee's lunch for tomorrow that says, "HEY! Read this napkin!!"

Why I love therapy

Mir — Thu, 02 Sep 2004 14:52:24 +0000

Me: Blahbity blah blah summer blah blah surgery blah blah hormones blah blah medication blah blah anxiety blah blah I probably should've come in sooner. Therapist: *nodding* *listening intently* Thank goodness you're feeling better. Me: Yeah but blahbity blah blah lonely blah blah stupid ex blah blah cattle call job interviews blah blah Russian child bride! Therapist: *makes snarky comment about the ex* Me: *snorting into my coffee* I love you. In a non-lesbian, non-stalking, completely appropriate doctor/patient kind of way, of course. Therapist: *laughs* Me: Anyway, blahbity blah blah medication blah blah wait and see blah blah lonely lonely blah blah must find a job blah blah oh guess what, I'm a moron and sent email to The Toad when I was feeling really low blah blah still lonely blah blah hate men yet want one blah blah I'm a MORON. Therapist: Cut yourself some slack. You've had a hard year. What you're feeling is completely normal. Me: Oh. *pause* Yeah, I think you're right. Therapist: See you next week. Me: Okay!

"Hey Mama...

Mir — Thu, 02 Sep 2004 21:33:34 +0000

... that napkin didn't say anything!" "Yes it did. What did it say?" "It said 'read this napkin' but then it didn't say anything else. That was just silly." I think maybe tomorrow's napkin will say "Whatever you do, don't read this napkin!" How long before her teacher calls CPS, do ya figure?

Ode to a grasshopper

Mir — Fri, 03 Sep 2004 11:47:34 +0000

You are so green, you are so buggy. We caught you yesterday (it was muggy). And now today to school you'll go for everyone in class to show. This unit on insects, it came with bug buckets! Someone brought a frog (it caused a big ruckus). Please don't die on the bus; that would be sad. Just keep hopping like you're really quite mad. Enjoy the ride, look after my girl... by the way, she thinks the trip will make you hurl.

Aim high!

Mir — Fri, 03 Sep 2004 19:23:07 +0000

I have been kind of marking time until Big Company calls me to schedule my second interview. I've also been becoming convinced, with each passing hour, that I will never hear from them again and this isn't so much a job possibility as another exercise in Why I Suck, but I'm neurotic that way. It's a gift, really. So you can understand how it was that I got all excited when I received an email today from Big Company with the subject line, "Regarding your resume submission to Big Company." When you submit your resume to Big Company online, they have one of these fancy schmancy job-matching systems. The idea is that if you input enough information, their database can automatically match you up with appropriate jobs and let you know when things are available. It's a great idea, even if you do have to spend about an hour answering all of their various questions in addition to attaching your actual resume. It has about forty screens of info you have to get through; you know the sort. Education Level (please select one of the following): o Eighth Grade (and a license to drive a thresher) o High School o Some College o Associate's Degree o College Degree o Some Graduate Work o Master's Degree o Business Degree o Doctorate o Super Egghead Ruler of the Universe Computer Proficiency (please select one of the following): o I like Pong on my Atari. o I can program the clock on my VCR. o My 486 is really fast. o Basic Windows proficiency. o I write little scripts for fun. o I heart Linux. o There's a Cray in my basement that I built myself. So I'd filled all of that out, a while ago, and then this week I went in to interview as a Case Manager for Division DoGood. In my perception, this is a reasonable match for me. The position is a step or two above entry level, but humbly acknowledges that--having been out of the workforce for a few years--I need to start over a bit and work my way up. This position also sits on a ladder wherein I could advance quite a bit, over time, if I so desired. Believe me, I've given myself quite a few pats on the back for figuring out the perfect solution to my job needs. And it's true that I think pretty highly of myself, sometimes, but it's also true that I tend to sell myself short, on occasion. Which is why it's such a relief to know that Big Company has analyzed my education, experience, and skills and has assessed me in a completely objective manner. Big Company was contacting me today to let me know that I have been matched with a new opening, and I should please follow the links to formally apply for this spot. I was congratulated on meeting their criteria and encouraged to act quickly, if interested. Me, a Case Manager? Pshaw. That's so beneath me. No, today Big Company would like to invite me to apply to be their Vice President of Finance. I'm not quite sure how to break it to Big Company that I can barely balance my checkbook, that me in any position anywhere that uses the term "Finance" is most certainly a sign of the Apocolypse, and that I'm about as aptly suited to VPship in their organization as I am to being the Vice President of the United States. I mean, I can see that they really put a lot of thought into this career match. And I hate to disappoint. It's quite the conundrum. Also? My confidence in Big Company as a pillar of the business world is somewhat shaken. On the other hand, I do feel sort of powerful. Could someone peel me a grape?

Gee, my hair smells confused

Mir — Sat, 04 Sep 2004 15:52:50 +0000

I have recently discovered--through my stepmom--the miracle that is Infusium. Chickadee has been swimming all summer long and her hair has all but turned to straw. I'd switched to a sun-n-swim type shampoo, and that was helping, but her hair was still a long way from feeling like hair. During our trip home, Grandma broke out all her Infusium products for Chickadee and goodness and softness were restored to her world. So I returned home and bought the shampoo, the conditioner, and the leave-in spray treatment. On account of I'm an awesome mother. And possibly also because I'd used them on my own hair and really liked them, too. All of these new potions had been living in the kids' bathroom, and this morning I stole the shampoo and conditioner back for my own use. There I was in the shower, sudsing up, and reading the shampoo bottle. Because, well, the bottle was right there. Large letters at the top inform me that this is the Original Infusium. Damn straight, I think while I lather my hair. Accept no substitutes! But halfway down the bottle, in slanty print--this conveys excitement, you see, because the news is so fabulous that even the font can't stand up straight--it boasts "New Formula!" Huh? I checked the conditioner; same thing. Someone in their marketing department needs to stop inhaling the hair products. Otherwise I am totally going to apply to be their new Vice President of Finance.

Now for the second random pop culture reference of the day

Mir — Sun, 05 Sep 2004 02:15:56 +0000

Tonight at bedtime we commenced an all-too-common search for Monkey's beloved "teetee." Teetee is a most ratty and disgusting security blanket. Monkey does not sleep without teetee. And in our family it is understood that you may joke about almost anything, but you do not joke about teetee, or--more specifically--teetee's whereabouts. So I cannot explain to you how it was that I stumbled upon teetee and found myself transported back to a time when I used to turn up my boom box and sing into my hair brush. I casually strolled past my unsuspecting son, then began waving his blanket in the air above my head while shaking my behind, leaping side to side, and belting out: Oh Teetee you're so fine You're so fine and you're ALL MINE! Hey Teetee! Hey Teetee! There are two ways this could have gone. I fully expected it to go the first way, really. Monkey could have started screaming and crying in indignation about this mistreatment of his beloved rag, and I would've stopped immediately and been ashamed. But I guess it's my lucky day, because it went the second way, where Monkey thought that I was the most amusing and hilarious person on the planet. And that's how I ended up butchering "Mickey" for a full 20 minutes, all the while getting the best workout I've had in months, dancing around like a fool and dangling this germy atrocity all over my children and acting like a cheerleader on acid. Sometimes it doesn't take much to lift my spirits.

And on the seventh day, God talked too long

Mir — Sun, 05 Sep 2004 19:48:18 +0000

One of the things I like about being a Methodist is that our services tend to be right about an hour long. And unlike some other religions, we have them on Sunday mornings. Not Saturday nights, not in the middle of the week; there is not an expectation that one must attend endless hours of religious training every week or somehow be lacking. One hour. Totally doable. Now before I'm pegged for the heathen that I am, I'll also point out that there are myriad opportunities (at least in my church) for further fellowship and study, and I avail myself of these activities quite often. I consider myself to be very involved with my congregation. It's not that I don't want to give more time to my church family. It's that my church family seems to genuinely like me and I'd like to keep it that way. And the Sunday morning thing? Includes the children. I love my children. Heck, I adore my children. I love them and hug them and squeeze them and call them embarrassing goofy little names and pretend to eat their feet even when those feet smell like sweaty socks. But my children are only going to sit quietly in rapture for an hour or more if Disney animation is involved. So that peaceful, calm feeling that washes over me when I attend worship on my own? Is not so much a part of our family Sundays. During the "regular season" (which is basically the school year), the children attend the first 15-20 minutes of worship, and then right after the children's sermon, they leave for Junior Church. It's lovely. That's just enough time for me to gaze adoringly at them from the choir loft, make some really severe faces and "cut it out right now" hand gestures, and remind Chickadee to actually take Monkey with her to Junior Church. It's perfect, really. Today? Was the last day of our summer season. There was no Junior Church. Choir won't be singing until next week, so I had to sit with the kids. And our pastor has returned from sabbatical, which is wonderful, but all summer long we've had guest leaders who have all been uniform in their brevity. Our regular pastor is incredible, but no one is ever going to accuse him of being a man of few words. Then add into the mix the fact that today was Communion Sunday. And to top it all off, there was a baptism. It was a loooooooooong service. The kids picked up junior bulletins and about six thousand crayons on our way in. Chickadee then selected what turned out to be the only pew with a large enough crack between the seat and the back for crayons to fit through. Color color color PLINK color color PLINK PLINK color color "hey I can't find the blue crayon!" "It's on the floor, pick those up, and shhhhh." Monkey then scrambled around on the floor grabbing crayons while the pew of little old ladies behind us cooed over Chickadee, commenting on how well-behaved she was being. Chickadee responded to this praise by kicking her brother in the head as he was on his way back up. First hymn: balance hymn book on Chickadee's head with one hand while using the other to hold a snuffling Monkey who has shimmied up my side, bringing half my hemline with him. Excellent. Baptism: "Looka the baby, Mama! Look at him! BABY! Look over here! BABY!" Children's sermon: Chickadee hovered dangerously close to the altar candles, while Monkey piped up with periodic repetition of the pastor's tale as if he was on perpetual time delay. Scripture reading: "Dear, would they like these?" kindly offered the woman right behind us, holding out a couple of Dum-Dum lollipops as I litigated another episode of Crayongate. "Bless you!" I gasped as I grabbed for them. Monkey settled to unwrapping, while Chickadee held hers tightly and declared she wanted to save it for later. Mentally adding it to the list of Things I Never Thought I'd Find Myself Saying, I leaned over and whispered to my eldest, "You are going to unwrap that lollipop right now and put it in your mouth and suck on it slowly and not say a single word until it's gone." Wide-eyed, she obeyed. Communion: "Body of Christ, broken for you." "MAMA! I want some-a-dat bread!" Sermon: "Is it time to go?" "Now is it time to go?" "When will it be time to go?" One hour and twenty-seven minutes later, we narrowly escaped... me with the remaining shreds of my sanity, them with their hides intact (if a little sticky from the lollies). "They're so darling... and so active!" all the ladies noted as I gathered up papers and crayons. I just smiled and told Monkey to put his shoes back on.

Ticket to ride

Mir — Mon, 06 Sep 2004 23:44:46 +0000

We met up with friends and went to a local orchard and picked about thirty pounds of apples today. Then we went back to their house and made apple crisp, and applesauce, and husked corn and marinated meat and got ready for the barbeque to come later. But before we started cooking for the BBQ we went out on our friends' circle to ride bikes. Chickadee fell over. And fell over again. And fell over a few more times, after that. She wobbled, and crashed into a mailbox. I would let go and gravity would just reach up an invisible hand and WHOMP grab her entire bike and throw her to the ground. I kept asking if she needed a break. No; she was fine. Help me up! Again! And somehow, finally, it clicked. And she rode. And rode. And rode some more. She must've made about a hundred laps around that circle today. There was some wobbling, and some decidedly ungraceful stopping, but there was an awful lot of big-girl two-wheel riding. And we all whooped and hollered and cheered and I blinked back tears, even as I giggled to behold the ramrod-straight back, the look of concentration, the stiffness of her arms (which clung to the handlebars for dear life), and the jerky steering. It had the potential to be the sort of picture-perfect day with which I am entirely unfamiliar. It almost was. And while it would make an amusing story if it hadn't actually happened, the part where Monkey ran too close to her and the resultant slow motion horror film included him falling to the ground and being run over--first by the front wheel, then again by the back wheel; all while I stood frozen, too far away to help--kind of ruined it for me. Monkey's okay. He has an impressive hematoma on one of his legs, and some tire tracks that I may have to explain tomorrow at school, but he's alright. I thought for sure one or both of his legs was broken. Nope. His pride was badly injured and he's pretty banged up, but in the final analysis it was a tiny scrape on the pinky finger of his left hand that he deemed the most critical injury, so I guess he's fine. Chickadee just about had a nervous breakdown. She went from such pride to feeling like she'd done something horrible. It was an accident, of course; we all knew that. But she was worried that I was angry with her (I had scooped up Monkey and run back into the house in a flurry of incoherent screaming, I think) and waited anxiously for word that Monkey was okay. Once we returned with a healthy verdict, she collapsed on me in a puddle, crying and begging forgiveness. Poor little girl. In the end, all was well. We ate dinner and went out to ride some more, and Chickadee's newfound two-wheel glory was restored (and Monkey stayed far away from where she was riding). We came home and got everyone clean and tucked into bed, and they fell asleep right away. Their memories of today will be happy ones. The only problem now is that I still feel like I was hit by a bus. I will lie awake in bed tonight and recount all the ways in which I screwed up today. I should've been able to prevent the collision. I should've been close enough to intervene once it happened. I should've been able to say something soothing to Chickadee right at first, rather than screaming like a loon and making it worse. I should've been able to stay calmer, comfort Monkey more, so that he wouldn't have cried so hard he started gagging, all while I fought panic and tried to ascertain if he was badly injured. I should've known what to say to Chickadee afterwards to make her feel better right then. I should've, I should've, I should've. I wish I was the kind of person who has stories about things like the amazing day that my oldest learned to ride her bike without training wheels, and how it was fabulous and memorable and she was so proud and so were we and then we had ice cream. What I am is the sort of person whose story about what should've been an uncomplicated and happy day ended up including a huge scare which injured one child and may have ruined the day for the other one. I'm the sort of person who feels like I'm forever taking one step forward and two steps back. Sometimes, I really dislike the sort of person I am. I wish I could find the key to making things less complicated (even if only in my mind). So, hey, guess what! Chickadee learned to ride her bike today. Isn't that great? Tell me it's great. Help me distill that from the rest.

From maternal guilt to parental superiority

Mir — Tue, 07 Sep 2004 17:06:55 +0000

Okay, I'm over the whole Tragic Biking Accident thing, now. Thank you for your comments. Special thanks to my Dad for reminding me about the incident where my finger was slammed in a car door upon our arrival at a cast party. Yep, I did the silent scream in a Friendly's parking lot, and won a trip to the ER, and lived to tell the tale. (Parents know the silent scream; the longer it lasts, the greater the chance of serious injury.) That hurt like hell; but in looking back, now, all I really think about is wanting a Fribble. Mmmmmm... Fribbles. So I'm okay, as are the kids. Monkey did his usual fussing this morning over... ummm... everything, and he was quite surly until I managed to stuff a couple of pop-tarts into him, but then he was fine. All of which is SOP for mornings around here. Onward and upward. I haven't bitched about my ex for a while. He continues to reach greater heights of dumbfuckery, and I just can't keep it all to myself anymore. It wouldn't be fair. Mr. Very Involved Father proposed a schedule of visitation--early in the divorce proceedings--which more or less had the children going back and forth every day. This was typical of his pattern; he wants what he wants, and as the children are prized possessions rather than sentient beings with their own schedules and needs, they should be available for his use as he sees fit. Hang on... my eyes rolled so far up in my head, just then, that they got stuck. Ow. Okay, better now. Anyhoo, we managed to negotiate down to every other weekend and one dinner and one afternoon a week. I'd been unsure about that afternoon thing. It was fine while Chickadee had half-day kindergarten and Monkey was in preschool, but what about once "real" school started? "Don't worry about it," my lawyer whispered confidently, "that'll just go away once school starts." Well now school has started, and Mr. Very Involved Father has already told me more than once that "that time will have to come from somewhere else." I don't think he appreciated me laughing at him, either, but I couldn't help it. I mean, as much as I'd love to have that watch from "The Girl, The Gold Watch and Everything," at the present time I don't know of a way to manufacture more hours. When I pointed out that it wasn't like I had extra time with her, that we were both experiencing a decrease in time due to school, he continued to grumble. Keep in mind here, too, that he lives about half an hour away, in traffic. It's not like the kids can just skip down the street to see him. Transportation in this scenario is a significant time suck. So, there we were, school about to start, the ex all miffed (probably in his mind, I had purposely manufactured the school schedule to try to rob him of his precious time on account of I am the Devil's Henchwoman), and me hoping that the visitation thing will somehow--mercifully--resolve on its own. School started last Wednesday and Thursday is usually his afternoon with them. Imagine my surprise on Tuesday when he informed me--with shuffling of feet and darting of eyes--that he had a business trip this week, and would have to miss Thursday's visit. Would that be okay? I was stunned. Yeah, that'd be fine. First week of school is going to be hairy, this works out better, actually. Oh, good, he said. And he was probably going to visit an old friend on his way back, so he'd be back Sunday, maybe Monday. Oooookay. Here's where my brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "Something's fishy." Traditionally, because I have so much more time with the kids than he does, if he's not being a total pain in my ass, I allow him to have the kids on Monday holidays when he's off work. Mr. Very Involved Father had just given up his Thursday afternoon and the potential of an entire day on Monday. Hmmm. Know what? He's been at his current job for a year and a half, and has never once had to travel. Not once. Mr. Very Involved Father calls to talk to the children every single night that he's not with them. Although he has just a cell phone (no regular phone) and is therefore, theoretically, always reachable, he does the calling. He has a knack for calling just as we sit down to dinner or at otherwise inconvenient times. But he insists on being the one to call us, rather than vice versa. From Thursday through Sunday, he consistently called just minutes before the kids were going to bed, wanting to know if he could call back later. Um, no. The kids are going to bed, talk to them now. "Oh, what time are they going to bed?" he would ask. If you have known me for five minutes then you know that I am a loving but very strict parent. It was one of the greatest strife-builders in our marriage. He believes in parenting through Fun and Stuff, and I believe in being consistent. The children go to bed at 7:30. They've been going to bed at 7:30 for years. I did not change their bedtime. I am not somehow unpredictable in this way. I allowed some flexibility over the summer, then two weeks before school resumed I went back to Regular Bedtime. This is not news. And yet there he was, calling again and again, to say he was in the middle of something (dinner, headed to a movie, etc.) and could they maybe just stay up a while to wait for his call? Ex? The earth's axis called. It wanted me to let you know you don't make it spin. Yesterday, he didn't even call. Now, normally--given his bizarre control needs over the whole phone call thing--if he doesn't call before bed, too bad so sad for him. The kids don't notice and they go to bed. But yesterday Chickadee mastered her bike! And she wanted to tell Daddy. So we called--fifteen minutes before bed--and he wanted to know if he could call us back. Shoot, there go my eyes again.... So they talked for a few minutes, and then I got on the phone to remind him that we'd need to discuss transportation for the next day (today), as it's dinner night and usually I deliver the kids to him at 4:00. Well, Chickadee often doesn't get off the bus until 4:00, so clearly something would need to change. The ex told me he'd have his dinner with his friends and then call me on his way back home. He didn't call last night, or today. As I sit here, it's 1:00 and I still haven't heard from him. I will give you three guesses as to where he went on his extended weekend. Now let's be clear: I don't begrudge him going to spend some time with his honey. But I hate being lied to, and for someone who claims to be a Very Involved Father he certainly gave up his visitation in a hurry, dontcha think? Which brings us to the reason that he lied. He is constantly angling for more time with the kids, and wouldn't it look bad if I was able to bring up that he sacrificed his time for a booty call? Oh my, yes. I cannot wait until the kids are old enough to draw their own conclusions.

I did it all for the apples

Mir — Wed, 08 Sep 2004 00:02:59 +0000

I've still got... ummm... at least fifteen pounds of apples. Fresh, juicy, orchard-ripe apples. We'd demolished the Labor Day apple crisp at the barbeque, so I decided to make another one. I swear to you, I finished filling the dish and got it into the oven, and the bag of apples was just as full as it had been before I started. Freaky. If I were a better person, I'd see this as my opportunity to feed the starving masses. But I'm not, and so mostly I see it as me having way more apples than necessary. The recipe I used tonight was a new variation, using crushed ginger snaps in lieu of flour in the topping. Oh. My. Good. Ness. I kept picking bits off the top while I let it cool for all of about thirty seconds. Then I dished myself a generous bowlful and realized--horror of horrors--I was out of vanilla ice cream. Hot apple crisp. No vanilla ice cream. Jesus wept. What's that they say? Desperation is the mother of ingenuity? (Yes, I know that's not it. Shut UP.) I grabbed the half-gallon of chocolate/vanilla patchwork and carefully dug out a few vanilla squares. What other choice did I have? And then... bliss. Sweet bliss. Later, as I licked my bowl (hell yes I licked the bowl) I contemplated the possibility that I don't even like apples. It's possible. If I could make an entire pie plate of that crumbly, buttery, gingery topping without experiencing guilt and/or heart disease, that's what I'd be doing. But you put that magic stuff on a mound of apples and--voila!--it's practically healthy. I can work my way through a few apples for absolution. Do you think the kids will believe me if I tell them it's yucky? Oh, wait. Better yet! I'll tell them it's delicious and good for them. That's perfect. They'll never want any, then!

Monkey Wisdom

Mir — Wed, 08 Sep 2004 14:42:57 +0000

"Mama, milk is very cold." "Yes, that's true." "And milk can be made into ice cream!" "Yep. Yummy." "And that is why ice cream is cold." "Ummmm... well... uhhhhh... okay." "I'm smart!" "You certainly are. And cute, too. Don't forget cute." "Yep. And you are cute, too, Mama."

Dude! BlogSpot is bummin' my flow!

Mir — Wed, 08 Sep 2004 19:20:41 +0000

I spent about two hours, this morning, rending my clothing and trying to get BlogSpot to publish my posts. I finally left for a hair appointment that ended up being longer than Titanic, and when I came home, my screen was still flashing the dreaded yet cheerful: Percentage of your blog which has published: 0% (HAHAHAHA you sucky loser with the free trailer-trash blog!!) So now, in addition to being slightly high due to the fumes still circulating my head in the name of beauty, I am seriously cranky. And it's raining. As it nearly always is on days when I empty my checking account at the salon to have the poodle frizzies yanked out of my hair. And I have to go stand out in the rain to get Chickadee at the bus stop, because, well, it would probably be mean to leave her there to find her own way home, even though that would be the logical hairdo-saving measure. And I still haven't heard from Big Company. Don't they know how pretty I just went and made my hair, for them? I go to all this trouble, and they can't even be bothered to call me once in a while. Bastards. My newest get-rich-quick scheme: Chocolate covered Xanax! In a pretty box, with an enclosed coupon for a free edition of Movable Type! Who's in?

Creeping crud

Mir — Thu, 09 Sep 2004 02:11:52 +0000

(Or, What The Hell Is Up With My Skin?) So I mentioned my hair appointment that I had earlier. I always feel a little pretty when I leave the salon. But of course we can't have a feeling like that lasting for too long, because then I might turn into a well-adjusted human with a shred of self-esteem, and then what would I write about? Hmmmm. Now what could I do to make sure that I return to my normal, mutant-feeling self as soon as possible. Let me think. I know I know! I'll go to the doctor to address all of my various bizarre and disturbing skin issues! Yay!! I experienced the onset of adult acne (after a relatively oil-free teenage run) in my twenties. My one greatest hope for the hysterectomy--other than it not being cancer, and, okay, hoping that I would stop bleeding all the damn time, and all that--was that once my hormones were levelled out, my acne would calm down. I half got my wish. The acne situation has settled down significantly and for that, I am truly grateful. But perhaps you remember my post operative check-up where I was told that my scar was healing abnormally, and furthermore, I had something called granulation tissue up in that region where I would really not like to have anything at all unless it is attached to a very handsome, very wealthy man. I was told to use scar sheets to smooth out the keloiding of my scar, and swabbed with some silver nitrate to treat the granulation. My doc then told me to see either her or my regular doctor if either situation hadn't shown improvement in a month. I have continued religiously shaving hair that should not be shaved unless your normal means of income is people stuffing bills in your g-string, so that I can wear these big funky oversized rubbery band-aid things that will supposedly smooth out my scar. So far the only change that I've noticed is that, oh yeah, I have less pubic hair. Which makes that nasty red ridge a lot easier to see. But at least I paid $27 for that box of scar sheets. The granulation tissue has been a bit more of a mystery, as I don't spend a whole lot of time contemplating my vaginal cuff. (Truly, prior to the hysterectomy, I had no idea my vagina had a cuff. But I've been enlightened and now you all will suffer the consequences.) But there are a few telltale signs that are even more gross and disgusting that the usual Too Much Information sorts of things I share here, and suffice it to say that I'm certain that this "overzealous healing" is still plaguing my nether bits. And lo, there was granulation; and verily, I say unto you: it was ikky. These two things are cause enough to visit the doctor. But because I take such excellent care of myself and furthermore, have had just such heart-warming experiences within the medical profession of late, I was prepared to continue on with a strict regimen of denial. Can you see my granulated vaginal cuff? Do I have to display my pubic hair to anyone other than the spiders in the shower? No, and no. Out of sight, out of mind; and there's a $15 copay saved, to boot. I am nothing if not economical. But you see, dear ones, my mutinous skin has betrayed me once again. Clearly enraged that I would not take my abnormalities to the doctor post haste, my cells held a meeting and decided that if I had just one more malady, perhaps I would cave. And so it came to pass that I developed a tiny patch of eczema on the inner wrist of my right arm. No biggie. It itched, a little. I found myself taking my watch off, more often than not, so that nothing would rub against it. It would flare, then fade, then flare again. It flared and itched maddeningly and I scratched it raw, and still I held firm! I can cope with this! I do not need to see the doctor! Skin changes are often to be expected in post-menopausal women (natural or surgical), and I will triumph without medical intervention! I could've done it, too. But then, you see, the fates pulled out the Big Guns. A second patch of eczema. On my face. Specifically, under my nose. Hi, I'm Mir, and I seem to have a little bit of mystery eczema action going on here right in the middle of my face. Or, perhaps, I'm a sloppy cocaine addict. Your call. So, yeah. I can't be having that. I fought the good fight for several weeks; I applied Aquafor and Eucerin and Neosporin (when I couldn't help scratching it and it got gross-looking) and switched to sensitive skin facial products and resisted the urge to use cover-up except for interviews (because, um, it's hard to land a job when people think you might be snorting coke or picking your nose or both). It's not improving. Tomorrow morning, I'll inflict myself upon my doctor, and insist that she please fix all of the things wrong with my skin before I have a nervous breakdown. Bonus points if she can give me just one ointment for all three deformities, but I'm not counting on that. I hope to emerge from my appointment on the road to some sort of healing. That seems like a reasonable expectation, and an acceptable trade-off, for what is likely to be another episode of Really Not Feeling Even A Little Pretty.

Was it something I said?

Mir — Thu, 09 Sep 2004 15:08:19 +0000

Geez, a little idle chatter about your vaginal cuff and an imaginary cocaine habit, and all the commenters run away and hide. Well, except for my dad, and I guarantee you that post made him nauseous. But at least he loves me enough to comment. Or maybe it was that he needed to type something to distract himself from blacking out. As predicted, I'm not feeling particularly pretty right now. I don't know whether it was my doctor's grotesque sketch of my nose and the location of the eczema patches, or maybe it was her comment about my discharge resembling pudding ("Thanks, now I will never be able to eat pudding again," I countered), but either way, I'm humbled. And also, ikked out. But there you have it. Not pretty. I have a prescription for some mystery gel, and a handful of Elidel samples in adorable little mini-tubes, and reassurance that my skin will someday look like skin again. So that's excellent news, I think. Now I think I've earned a trip to Wendy's! Thanks, Jilbur! (Um, Dad? Don't click on that link. You've been warned.)

The price of health

Mir — Fri, 10 Sep 2004 02:06:25 +0000

Meet my new boyfriend. Isn't he dreamy? I just love a man in tights, with a really oversized square chin, and a life-size tube of eczema ointment. Oh yeah, baby. I've just been over at the Elidel website and have learned that I am oh-so-wrong, it is not Elidel, it is ELIDEL, because ELIDEL MAN is flying in to save the day, and non-steroidal ELIDEL is so impressive, you must say ELIDEL in all caps at all times! Otherwise, ELIDEL MAN stops doing that thumbs-up thing and kills you in your sleep. Anyway, I went to the Target pharmacy today armed with two prescriptions. Then I did a quick inventory of all the little samples of ELIDEL the doctor had given me (five small tubes) and decided I could wait to fill that one. I would just fill the mystery ointment presciption for now. No problem. I dropped off the script and went to browse around, and came back to discover that my 5-day supply of mystery ointment would cost--after insurance--$35. Um, for $7/day that ointment had better cure the issues for which it was prescribed as well as remove cellulite and make my hair shinier, dontcha think? Hmph. Needless to say, I was so bummed about this unexpected expense, that I had to make several other purchases to justify my bill. To wit: $35 for a medication when normally my copay is only $10? Let's see. These two pillows are normally $20 each, but are on clearance for $5 apiece. If I buy them, I have effectively saved $30, so that balances out the excess cost at the pharmacy. Yeah, I know. It made sense when I was standing there. And they are really nice pillows. All of which brings me back to my new boyfriend. Given the outrageous cost of most pharmacueticals, the newer and shinier ones--such as new non-steroidal ELIDEL--often have money-saving offers on their websites. So I went over there looking for a coupon (which I found, yay) and found my Prince Charming. He says he doesn't care if I have a job. He says I'm beautiful in spite of this itchy crud under my nose, and promises that he can make the itching and redness go away. He says the fact that I'm taking charge of my skin treatment needs is sexy. I just hope ELIDEL MAN will be paying when I go in to fill the prescription.

Why do fools... mop the floor?

Mir — Fri, 10 Sep 2004 19:28:04 +0000

Chickadee will be getting off the bus in about ten minutes. Last week, she stayed to play with the neighbors for an hour one day after school. So of course we have to reciprocate. I invited the girls to come here, today. Have I mentioned that these neighbors have twin 7-year-olds and an 8-year-old? All girls. So they are all coming here this afternoon. And Monkey makes five! Five children in my house. Four girls ganging up on my little boy, most likely. I can hardly wait. And because I'm just not very smart, I cleaned the house. Because I don't want the neighbor to think I'm a slob. But even as I mopped the floor this afternoon, I said to myself ("Self," I said...) why am I cleaning when I'm about to have a swarm of small children descend upon the premises? If I were a wee bit smarter, I would've waited until after the neighbor girls left and my kids go off with Fun Daddy for the weekend. Now the house is going to be an even bigger mess than it was before I cleaned it, and I won't have any energy to do anything about it. Woe is my foolish self.

Sunshine and bunnies and apple crisp

Mir — Fri, 10 Sep 2004 20:48:49 +0000

Hold me. There is a swarm of little girls playing out a very complicated scenario at the dollhouse. There is giggling, and sometimes whining, and often yelling. Fortunately, I am deterred from intervening much by this 38-pound weight that has attached itself to my leg. Monkey gave up trying to get through the cloud of estrogen about 10 minutes into the playdate, and is now contenting himself with trying to break my ankle. So, while I'm trying to go to my happy place, and thinking of fluffy bunnies and Godiva chocolate and true love and all that, I remembered that quite a few of you had asked for the apple crisp recipe. Typing it out will give me something to focus on other than the sound of my teeth grating together. This recipe comes from The Joy Of Cooking. Preheat oven to 375. Pare, core and slice into a 9" pie pan or dish: 4 cups tart apples. Season with 2 tablespoons lemon juice or kirsch. (My note: Kirsch? Huh?) Work like pastry with a pastry blender or with the fingertips: 1 1/2 cups crushed gingersnap cookies 1/2 cup packed brown sugar 1/4 cup butter 1/2 tsp salt (if the butter is unsalted) 1 teaspoon cinnamon The mixtures must be lightly worked so that it does not become oily. Spread these crumbly ingredients over the apples. Bake about 30 minutes. (My note: And for the love of God make sure you have vanilla ice cream on hand.)

9/11

Mir — Sat, 11 Sep 2004 15:27:07 +0000

Three years ago today, I forgot to do a "first day of school" picture of Chickadee before taking her in to meet her new teacher. She bounced off to her first day of preschool with hardly a backwards glance. Monkey had to be peeled off my leg amidst snuffling and whining, and embarked upon his first day of daycare. I returned home, heady with the possibilities of this day: my first day without children or an office job. My first day to start my new career, to really try to make a go of writing. The phone was ringing when I walked back into the empty house. My husband told me to turn on the TV. And so I spent my first day of "freedom" glued to the set. Later, I washed my face and debated whether I really wanted such an incongruous hallmark of the day... and decided that yes, tragedy notwithstanding, it needed to be done. I arrived to pick up Chickadee and made her hold a "My first day of school! September 11, 2001" sign while I feigned cheerfulness and snapped her picture. Thanks to Karen for the pointer to this piece by Garrison Keillor. It seems appropriate, today.

How to insult me

Mir — Sun, 12 Sep 2004 18:37:01 +0000

Apropos of nothing, I am sitting here thinking about my favorite insults from friends. The incidence of people referring to me as "hussy" has increased exponentially since my divorce. Not because I actually am a hussy (alas!), but because the ex's version of taking the high road was to make some reference to my perceived impurity at every possible opportunity. And so it has become something of a joke to call me that. Want to make me giggle? Call me a hussy. Want to make me snort? Call me a wanton hussy. Oh, the shame. One night when I was bemoaning my idiocy over something or other to my true love Kira, I kept saying "I'm such a MORON" and Kira--in her infinite wisdom--calmly replied, "You're not a moron, you just don't always bring your brains to the table." Truer words never were spoken. And the mental image of my brains accidentally left behind in the bathroom drawer with my hairbrushes and mascara doesn't hurt, either. And let's not forget that I am the very meanest Mama in the whole entire world. I'm rotten! Dastardly! Inhuman! How my children have survived my horrible parenting will be a mystery for the ages. And it's all worth it just to listen to them first accuse me and then harumph, "You're not supposed to laugh when I say that!" Two weeks ago I helped my friend Marcey paint her kitchen, and last night we finally put up the wallpaper border and finished the job. A border isn't a big deal; in the grand scheme of all the work we did in there, it was inconsequential. But somehow we did seem to have more than our share of instances where we were both standing on chairs, wrangling dripping border and passing various tools (the level, an exacto knife, the smoothing tool) back and forth to the colorful commentary that often accompanies trying to hang something straight in a house which is not. About the time Marcey realized she had wallpaper paste in her hair, she exclaimed, "Well this is just great. This should be the easiest job in the world and here we are, Dumbass and Dumbassier, screwing it up!" I waited until we had the border up and then requested that she call me Dumbassier as often as possible because it has a very elegant ring to it. I wonder if I can find a job opening for a Dumbassier Wanton Hussy Mean Mama Who Didn't Bring Her Brains To the Table...?

Getting There

Mir — Mon, 13 Sep 2004 00:00:07 +0000

Today's post is an entry in the third Blogging For Books contest being held over at The Zero Boss. I encourage you to visit Jay and check out all the entries. This month's theme is Adaptation. I held an instructional packet of information in one hand, and grabbed the strip of photos as they scrolled out of the booth's slot with my other. Panic was rising in the back of my throat and I stole a look at the photos while trying to act casual. Wow, and here I'd thought my student ID was the worst picture of me I'd ever seen. These were even less flattering. I looked glazed, exhausted, and confused. All of which I was, come to think of it. I'd never had jetlag before and wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a nearby bench and go to sleep. Instead, I took a deep breath and walked back over to the ticket window. "Hi, ummmm," I looked down at my information sheet again, "I'd like... uhhh... a student pass..." I trailed off and pushed my photo strip and some money into the tray under the window while consulting my guide. "Zones 1-4, please." The man behind the glass looked at me over the top of his glasses. My accent had tipped him off, of course, and now a quick visual once-over confirmed what he'd heard; I was an American student. I worked up a tired smile and he glanced away as if affronted. He passed back my identification card and transit pass without even looking at me. Welcome to London; please have correct change ready and keep to yourself. A semester abroad sounded amazing. Despite having been raised in a small town and then going to college just an hour from home, I really did want to see more of the world. And the London program in my chosen area of study was superb. The fact that I didn't need to know a second language was certainly a draw, too. At 19, I wanted something different and exciting, but I was also lazy. England! Perfect. Different and exciting, yet easy. Except it wasn't. I had previously lived a life of walking and driving, and had never once partaken of public transportation. A sturdy intellect in most other areas notwithstanding, I was somewhat legendary amongst my friends and family for my ability to misread maps, forget oft-travelled routes, and generally get lost in ways that most people wouldn't consider possible. London, it turns out, is a gigantic city. One of the first suggested tasks--after getting out of the airport and checking in at the hotel--was procuring a transportation pass to ride the subway and the buses. I followed all of the given directions and mentally checked off each item as it was completed. But it was slowly dawning on me that for the duration of my stay I was going to have to navigate on my own, and live at the mercy of the train schedules and locations. The map of the London Underground my disgruntled ticket-seller had handed me may as well have been written in hieroglyphics. To add to my uneasiness, I was in one of the first groups from my university to travel after Pan Am Flight 103 blew up over Lockerbie with 35 of my fellow students on board. The travel abroad division at my school was now standard-issuing "safety measures" guides in our packets, and there had been several bomb scares in London train stations before we arrived. I'm not so great in swarms of people. I'm worse in swarms of people, underground, where there might be explosives. And despite strict adherence to the suggested guidelines ("Don't wear college sweatshirts or other paraphenalia," "Don't walk around with a map in your hand"), people always seemed to know I was American even if I never opened my mouth. I felt lost; exposed; constantly on edge. In reality, the Tube is easy to navigate. For anyone smarter than me, that is. I agonized over every trip, in the beginning. I watched people feed their passes through the readers on the turnstiles as if it was second nature, yet I seemed to always put mine in upside down or otherwise get it stuck as I slammed into the unyielding turnstile bar. The larger, multi-lined stations activated my fear of crowds, and I would challenge myself to count each measured breath in and out as I scoured the walls for clues of which staircase led to which train or tried to peek a look at the map stuffed in my bag. Once in my haste I ran down multiple staircases only to discover that I was on the platform for the correct line, but the wrong direction. Running back up, across the station, and down again (just in time to watch my train pull away without me) was lesson enough to keep me from repeating that mistake. Buskers and panhandlers made me uncomfortable until I realized that even they more or less kept to themselves. The musicians left an instrument case open for donations and made music in the corner, at moderate volume. Beggars sat against the wall, holding a cup and staring into space. They sort of blended in and became part of the decor; larger stations had them, smaller ones, usually not. It didn't take long to sense that I was much safer at night in this network of stations, underground, than I would've been walking around campus after dark at home. All trash receptacles had been removed from Tube stations after the last bomb scare (so as not to have places bombs could be easily hidden). It was something of a running joke that you always wanted to be sure to spit out your gum before you went through the turnstiles. But danger was a hard concept to grasp amidst that brightly-lit and tidy labyrinth. It all seemed too polite in there to pose any sort of threat to anyone. Assimilation happened much like osmosis, and brought with it a confidence I'd never expected. I became just another regular at my favorite bakery, market, pub; I didn't think twice about trekking into unknown territory to see a show or visit some attraction. As I steeped myself in the city's culture I shed many of the things that made me stand out. I drifted into commonality. I stopped wearing my sneakers in favor of my sturdy brown shoes (I never saw a Brit wearing sneakers outside of a gym). I constrained my mane of hair in sleeker styles than I used to favor (although long curly hair was very common back home, most women around me either had short hair or wore long hair up). I swapped my backpack for a messenger-style bag I found at a flea market. One day I realized that--more often than not--I was travelling with ease. When I wanted to be, I was invisible. The regular back and forth to classes was routine, and the nightly jaunts to this or that destination required only a quick map consultation before I set out. Where I'd first been overwhelmed, I now felt unlimited possibility. Claustrophobia had given way to welcome breaks in my day to sit and think of nothing at all as my seat swayed ever-so-slightly and the tunnels rushed past the windows. I learned and experienced all sorts of wonderful things during my time abroad. At the end of the term I boarded my flight home, ambivalent about leaving it all behind. We took off and the flight attendants served tea and scones. I savored every bit--keenly aware that this was to be my last authentic tea--then tried to read for a while. My gaze wandered from my book and stared out the window at the blanket of clouds below. Eventually, I dozed off, and dreamt I was riding the train.

Return of the Killer Apples!

Mir — Mon, 13 Sep 2004 17:38:30 +0000

Well, okay. They're not particularly murderous. Nor did they go away, say, on a short jaunt to the beach or something, and then unexpectedly return. Basically, there's just been a huge honkin' sack of apples sitting on my counter ever since we went apple picking on Labor Day. And like the loaves and the fishes, no matter how many apples I take out of the bag, it remains full. I knew we'd reached code red when I was packing lunches this morning. My hand reached towards the bag and immediate, stereo harmony blared from the kitchen table: "I don't want an apple in my lunch!" Okay, okay. I get the picture. Sheesh. So this afternoon I hopped in my car, drove over to my friend Marcey's house--she wasn't home, of course, because as a productive member of society she has a job ya know--broke in, and stole her whatchamacallit. Now, ignoring the fact for a moment that I broke into my friend's house and stole something from her, aside from that, I'm sure you're wondering what sort of whatchamacallit could be so important as to merit burglary, and what in the name of all that is lucid does this have to do with apples? But I haven't gone 'round the bend just yet, honestly. My booty from this mission was this contraption. In a little while I'm going to roll up my sleeves and start decimating that apple pile. Come hell or high water, I am going to use them up. I will assemble and then freeze crisps and pies and reclaim my countertop for... ummm... other stuff. And next time we go apple picking, I will exercise a modicum of restraint. Unless the apples are really gorgeous. Or smell awesome or are super-crispy. Or if the kids are just having so much fun I can't bear to tell them to stop. Or... oh, crap. Who's coming over for dessert?

My son, the toaster pastry

Mir — Tue, 14 Sep 2004 00:10:48 +0000

pick·y: adj. Excessively meticulous; fussy. I thought I knew picky. I thought I knew picky eaters. And then, I met my son. It is at the core of maternal urges to nourish one's young. My youngest has stymied my attempts from the beginning. He had multiple nursing issues, and a delightful habit of projectile vomiting. When we finally moved on to solids, he loved to grab the spoon from my hand... so that he could play with it. Cheerios on the tray? Those were fun to stick to his head, sure. Then came the food allergies. And somehow we arrived here, at age four-and-a-half; and while I refuse to battle my child over food, I am still amazed. Sometimes, when the job search seems particularly bleak (when would that be? oh, all the time, thanks), I consider posting a billboard outside the house. "COME SEE THE AMAZING AIR-EATING BOY! BEHOLD: 38 POUNDS OF NOTHING BUT AIR AND POP-TARTS! JUST $1 TO WITNESS THIS MIRACLE WITH YOUR OWN EYES!" I could continue staying home, then. I mean, sure... I'd probably have to mop more often, what with all the people trampling through, but I could live with that. Monkey has consistently ridden the bottom of the growth chart. The doctors assured me that as long as he was gaining (be it ever-so-slowly or not), I shouldn't worry. And I'll confess that if he'd been my first I probably would've dropped to the floor and died long before now, what with the constant worry that he would one day simply evaporate. But I'm more easygoing now, or at least I have fewer brain cells left to assign to issues like this. He's happy, he's relatively healthy, yes. But he's just so weird. My boy just loves him some pop-tarts. Mmmm mmmm good! And he's picky, remember. So you'd think he'd only like certain pop-tarts. But you'd be wrong, because he's picky but he's weird. Any fruit-flavored pop-tart is fine and dandy with him. He hearts pop-tarts. He eats one or two for breakfast every single day. (Yes, please send me hate-mail about what horrible crap pop-tarts are. Given that it's the only meal the child can be counted upon to eat, I will get right on eliminating those from his diet.) Monkey loooooves blueberry pop-tarts! He will not eat blueberries. Monkey loooooves cherry pop-tarts! He will not eat cherries. Monkey loooooves strawberry pop-tarts! He will not eat strawberries. Are you seeing a trend, here? Anyone? Weird. I think some of it is a textural issue. Similar to the pop-tart phenomenon, Monkey loves fruit-flavored yogurt, but only if it is so processed and smooth that there isn't a single tiny particle of identifiable fruit matter remaining. But I shouldn't complain about fruit. He eats apples, now. And for a long time, he wouldn't eat any fruit at all, so this is a major triumph. But I've been putting the same apple in his lunch bag for nearly a week, now. He hasn't touched it. When I ask if he still likes apples, he says he does. "Why haven't you eaten it, then?" I asked. "I dunno," he said, deep in thought. Then: "I guess I wasn't feeling apple-y today." In case you're wondering, he hasn't been feeling sandwich-y or green bean-y or cheese puff-y or raisin-y or even tortilla chip-y this week, either. The child regularly returns home from school with a full lunch bag. If I tuck a yogurt in there, it'll be gone. (And as that can't be resealed, I have no guarantee that it's even being eaten; it's possible it just gets tossed after one bite.) Everything else is right there. And the yogurt? 4 ounces. So let's see... if he eats the entire container... 16 ounces in a pound... that means he's chugging along an entire day at school on the power of... 1/152nd of his body weight in nourishment. Call me crazy, but that just seems impossible. There are foods that Monkey loves besides pop-tarts. Sure. They include: crackers, bread, yogurt, cheese, french fries, and mac-n-cheese. And there's a secondary tier of foods he'll sometimes eat on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full and Mercury is in retrograde: apples, salad, hot dogs, cold cereal, grilled cheese, McDonald's cheeseburgers, and sunflower butter. And altogether, that's not such a horrible diet. Throw in a few glasses of milk and a multivitamin and call it good, I say. Me, I have a serious ongoing relationship with food. I have my favorites, but I'll try anything, and I like most everything. I just cannot understand the complete lack of pattern when it comes to this kid's consumption. The rule in our house is that you taste everything on your plate. Once tasted, if you don't like it, fine; you don't have to eat it. But you must taste it. Tonight was a typical dinner in my house. Before dinner: With apple crisp baking in the oven and meatloaf being reheated in the microwave, Monkey walks into the kitchen and announces "Ewww, what stinks?" During dinner: I spend most of my meal explaining that french fries are made from potatoes, and mashed potatoes are like smushed-up french fries, and besides that, they're really yummy. Furthermore, meatloaf is really just like a cheeseburger except without the cheese, with the added bonus that you can dip it in ketchup, Nature's perfect condiment! It's a hard sell, and Chickadee and I clear our plates while Monkey whines that he doesn't like this, he doesn't want this, why did I make this ("To torture you," I answered. "Mama, did you really?" counters Chickadee)! Nothing touched his lips until the final minutes of the meal. Monkey took a deep breath, stabbed his fork into his mashed potatoes and extracted a tiny morsel, and put it in his mouth. Shock registered on his little face. "Yum!" he said. "See? I told you that you'd like that! Have some more!" "No thank you," he demurred as he set down his fork. "May I please be excused?" Weird. After dinner: We are in the middle of our bedtime reading when Monkey bursts into tears. "Honey!" I cry out, "What's wrong?" "I'm... I'm... hungry!" he snuffled. "I see. Do you think maybe you should've eaten more dinner?" "No! I think maybe I'd better go to sleep right now so I can wake up and have some pop-tarts!" Well, then. I have to give him credit for knowing what he wants, I guess.

Maternal ambivalence

Mir — Tue, 14 Sep 2004 14:59:06 +0000

This morning started out like most other school mornings: Monkey came and had his snuggle and play time in bed with me, and once we heard Chickadee's alarm, we went to get her up. She didn't want to get up (shocking). She was too tired to get dressed (astonishing). She couldn't possibly brush her teeth (how interesting). It was when I had half-dragged her to the bathroom and she stood on the stool, listing to one side, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and she started crying that she needed to lie down, that I began to suspect something was amiss. Fine, go lie down. While you're at it, hold this in your mouth for a few minutes. Then came the moment every mother dreads. No fever; go to school. High fever; commence coddling. Low fever? Crap. Barely even a fever, really. Lower than what the school considers the cut-off point, even. Maybe I could give her some cold medicine and still send her...? It was at this point that my inner Mama Bear smacked me upside the head. Hello! a shrill voice scolded me. She's only been up for ten minutes! By this afternoon that fever will be taking charge! Hmph. And here I'd had a big day of... ummmm... stuff... planned. Oh well. Monkey ate his beloved poptarts and chattered on while I packed his lunch and Chickadee lay in bed with a book. I dosed her up with medicine before we left. We ran him over to school, then returned home. For a little bit, it was lovely. Then the medicine kicked in. Then, by all accounts, Chickadee was perfectly fine! She played and read and asked for more breakfast and generally made me wonder why I'd let her stay home. Only now, she's parked on the couch in front of the television, and getting shorter by the minute. I think the medicine is starting to wear off, and it's taking with it her resolve to remain upright. I'm probably a lousy mother for being delighted to see her clearly unwell. But those few hours of normalcy were making me feel like I'd been duped. If you're home sick, be sick, dammit! I am so going to hell.

Mir attempts to pay her car insurance

Mir — Tue, 14 Sep 2004 21:12:27 +0000

(A drama in way too many parts.) Part One: May-ish: An auto insurance premium notice arrives, with a due date in July. I am horrified at the amount, but reason that surely it must be the premium for an entire year. Nope; it's the payment for only 6 months. I pass out cold. When I come to, I call my insurance agent. He is unavailable, on account of he is never available. Part Two: June-ish: My agent still has not called back, so I call him again. We go over my policy. We make the startling discovery that your insurance finally figuring out that you're divorced and taking away the multi-car discount makes things way too expensive. We play around with reducing my coverage. It sounds like this: Me: Well can we reduce my Bodily Injury coverage from a gazillion? Him: It's really better to keep it at a gazillion. Me: Okay, just for kicks, tell me what the lowest amount I can have that at is. Him: *sounds of furious typing in the background* You can lower that to $5,000. Me: Great, let's do that. How much does the reduction from a gazillion to $5,000 save me? Him: Let's see, that will save you... *more typing* $2.14 a year. Me: No, really, dude. Him: Sorry. Please don't call me dude. Part Three: Still June-ish: My agent promised to "look into some things" for me after the last call, and calls back a week later to cheerfully inform me that I need to continue paying his country club dues. But! He offers that I can lessen the bi-yearly shock and anxiety by paying my policy in monthly installments. In fact, they can set it up to automatically deduct the payment right from my checking account, if I like. Okay, that's fine. Let's do that. Losing medium sums of money each month rather than gigantic piles of cash twice a year may soften the blow. I give him all of my financial information, social security number, shoe size, and number of sexual partners. (It's 7.) (That's my shoe size, you pervert.) I am informed that the first payment will be deducted in July. Part Four: July: The payment is not deducted when it was supposed to be deducted. A week passes, then two. I figure they are running behind. Then I receive a nastygram informing me that my car insurance has been cancelled for non-payment and I smell funny. I cry. I call my insurance agent, who is--surprise--not available. Part Five: Still July, but barely: My agent calls back and says he's not sure what happened. (Duhhhhhhh.) I give him all of my information a second time. He assures me that all will be fine now. Part Six: Augustish: One day while checking my online banking, I see that a double-payment has been deducted. That would be July and August, I'm assuming. Okey doke. All set. Part Seven: September: I receive a nastygram informing me that my car insurance has been cancelled for non-payment, I smell funny, and on account of my "delinquency" I will no longer be allowed to make monthly payments. I bang my head on the desk repeatedly. Part Eight: Yesterday: I call my insurance agent. I leave a message with his lackey. I inform him that I am shopping around for new insurance coverage, because I am a patient woman but this is just ridiculous. Lackey sucks up to me but knows absolutely nothing. Part Nine: Today: Lackey calls back. Where is my agent? Oh, he's working on it. He just needs to gather a wee bit of information from me, if I don't mind. Now, was this regarding my homeowner's insurance or my auto insurance? I talk very quietly and very slowly, and find myself thinking about cheating on my boyfriend, even though he's been really good to me. I was deep in a fantasy about this annoying little guy, so that shows you exactly how close to the edge this entire drama has pushed me. Part Ten: Stay tuned! (On account of it's so darn fascinating. For my next trick, I'll be waxing poetic about my gas bill.)

100 words about my current state of mind

Mir — Wed, 15 Sep 2004 12:57:20 +0000

So tired. Need more tea. And sleep. But sleep is unavailable, so I’ll make do with tea. Went to bed too late. Fell asleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside. “I’m poopy! Clean my butt!” I am so using that against him when he’s a teen. Cleaned, changed, and tucked him back into bed. Went back to sleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside. “Bad dream!” A quick rock in the chair and tucked back into bed. Eventually I fell asleep; he came back. “Get in!” I snarled. He stole the covers. *weeping* So very tired. (Happy, Philip?)

Bad girl, bad girl... whatcha gonna do??

Mir — Wed, 15 Sep 2004 17:49:07 +0000

I'm supposed to be over at church, right now, watching a video presentation about "Bad Girls of the Bible." It's the first session of a new study group, and even women who won't be able to attend regularly (which I will not, because I am going to be working soon you know) were encouraged to come see this "meaningful and surprising" video. Bad girls, bad girls, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? Bad girls, bad girls.... Guess why I'm not there. Go on! Guess! You might think it's because every time this particular bible study has been mentioned, every woman's head automatically turns in my direction, and I've decided to be a little bit less predictable. You might think that, but you'd be wrong. You might think it's because I'm not interested in the bad girls of the Bible. But that's not right, either, because I am all over any story of a woman who was supposedly bad turning out to be okay. For no particular reason, of course. So that's not it. No, I'm not there because attending that session today would conflict with my Grand Plan For Excessive Wallowing. It's an awesome plan, really. Who doesn't love a full-scope wallow, once in a while? So, here's what happened. Yesterday, I called and left what will be my last message with my contact at Big Company. I dunno what's happening there, but from here it looks like... nothing. I'm clearly being given the corporate cold shoulder. (Was it something I said?) So I decided: one more cheery phone message, then move on. And then I woke up this morning--after not enough sleep--and decided that I needed to stay home today just in case Big Company calls. We all know Big Company is not going to call, right? But if I stay home all day and cancel my plans just to sit by the phone, then I'll really have exclusive wallowing rights tonight when I have to face the fact that they are not going to hire me. Because being unemployed and perpetually rejected with two kids and a big mortgage isn't wallow-worthy enough, ya know. Not if you're me. If you're me, that's small potatoes. But missing "Bad Girls of the Bible," on top of that? That's wallow gold. I can just see me now: "Not only did those bastards never call me back, they hindered my devotion to God! Now I'm jobless and damned! And it's all their fault!!" I'm available for parties, by the way. Call 1-800-BAD-GIRL to make a reservation. The wallowing keeps me pretty busy, but mention this blog for a 10% discount and I'll do my best to work you in.

Bargain high, baybeeeeee!

Mir — Thu, 16 Sep 2004 13:46:03 +0000

Last night was rough. As predicted, the "magic call" never came, and once the kids were in bed, it was just me and the apple crisp. And, truth be told? I'm kinda all apple crisped out. This morning I decided I needed a little TLC from someone who really loves me. So, after I got Chickadee on the bus and Monkey settled in at school, I headed to Target. You can't be sad at Target. That's a fact. I was just in time to see the price team start to mark the backpacks down from 50% off to 75% off. This, my friends, is undeniable proof of God's love for us. Do you feel it? I sure did. My pulse is still racing, a little. My current deal with the kids is that at the beginning of each school year they get either a new backpack or a new lunchbag. This year they got new lunchbags (purchased on clearance, last year). But of course we'd gone to Target for other school supplies and each child had made their preferences for new backpacks emminently clear to me. And because I am the meanest mother in the world, I gently responded with, "Tough. You got a new lunchbag. Move on." But today? Brand spanking new rolling backpacks for each of them. The ones they'd already picked out. Well, that's not entirely true. My children opt for "character" items, given complete freedom. I tend to shy away from character stuff because then when the next character comes along, the current one is thrown out of favor. Also, Monkey is into superheroes that make my eye twitch a little, and I may not be able to change the fact that he is cursed with a defective Y chromosome, but neither do I need to buy him licensed Spiderman gear. So I do "encourage" (read: insist) that they choose items with slightly more generic themes; bugs or flowers or something that won't become uncool as soon as a new show premieres on Nickelodeon. (I know someone is going to bring this up, so: Chickadee's Hello Kitty backpack was puchased last year after hot debate, which Little Miss Chicky herself was able to settle by pointing out, "Mama, she's just a kitty. Just a kitty, sitting there. How could I stop liking her?" And so far, so good. But her current obsession, Strawberry Shortcake, needs to go away very soon.) So it was with much swooning and fluttering of my heart and trembling of my knees that I picked up the flower bag for Chickadee and the frog bag for Monkey and realized I was getting both of them for under $10 total. And should the children balk at these selections, next year? I will help them to see the light. As in, I will inform them that these are the backpacks we have and I am not buying any others and there are children starving in China so hush up, eat your pop-tart and knock it off, already. I would have been happy with only that. But I am here to tell you that Target loves me so much, it never wants me to leave with less than a cartful of goodies. There were Dymo label makers for 75% off (how popular am I gonna be when everyone else is giving mugs and candles for teacher gifts and we're handing out these?), and organizational folder bin thingies, and all sorts of Targety goodness. Thus my faith in the world was restored. Because, sometimes--to quote my dearest Kira--shallow is deeper than me.

Reality returns

Mir — Thu, 16 Sep 2004 18:54:53 +0000

Even a really fulfilling Target run can only carry a girl so far. Is the entire world populated with idiots, or do they just all congregate in Human Resources? I know some perfectly nice, decent human beings who work in HR. But I am beginning to suspect that they really don't; like maybe they made it up and are really drug runners, or something, because the level of pure imbecility I'm encountering in my job search is astonishing. I just received an email from Big Company regarding my application for employment. I've left so many messages for my contact, I assumed that this was a message in response, or--at the very least--some sort of information-bearing missive. But I was wrong, because this email was a form letter to me and everyone else who interviewed there on September 1st. This mail states, among other things, that they've had so many interviews it will naturally take them a couple of weeks to sort through everything. My math skills aren't fabulous, but hasn't it already been a couple of weeks? I know, I know; I should take this as good news. It means I'm not out of the running, yet. But come on, people! Don't refuse to return contact for two and a half weeks and then send along a cheery note about how you're working really hard and please stay tuned. For one thing, we all know that stack of resumes has been sitting on the corner of your desk, untouched, while you spent an entire week on the phone trying to arrange for flavored coffee in the breakroom. And for another thing, signing off with "Please do not respond to this message!" kinda negates the warmth and fuzziness you were attempting to convey. Other job-related things that are pissing me off today: Spelling: You want me to work for you? Try to convince me that you're at least a high school graduate in possession of a spell check program. Don't typo all over your listing and expect me to be impressed. Mystery: There is a time and a place for being vague. Your job ad is neither the time nor the place. If you don't list the actual position and/or locale, I am going to assume your operation is sleazy and the responsibilities therein unsavory. Flexible schedule: A flexible schedule implies that your schedule is, you know, flexible. When did third shift and every other godawful permutation of working in the dead of night become euphemized as being a flexible schedule?? "Local": A job site which shall remained unnamed but may perhaps rhyme with "got slobs" gives you the option to search in either a single town or to check a little box to "include surrounding areas." If I fill in my town and check the box, 95% of the matches with which I am then presented are jobs located in Boston. It's true, Boston is a surrounding area for me in much the same way that Los Angeles is a surrounding area if you live in Silicon Valley. Yes, I am aware that there are lots of jobs in Boston. No, I don't consider that to be local. The Navy Reserves, already!: GET OFF OF MONSTER! NOW! There is no one with sufficient brain damage to visit Monster, see all of your cheery, bolded ads, and run right out and enlist because goshdarned if being a restaurant manager for Uncle Sam doesn't sound like a mighty fine time. What a waste of money and space. It's becoming more and more clear that the only position suitable for a person of my grace and superior mental capacity is benevolent dictator. Perhaps I can find myself a nice island nation somewhere in the tropics.

The bus needs to get here earlier

Mir — Fri, 17 Sep 2004 11:33:58 +0000

This is Mir. This is Mir wrangling children on a school morning before she's had some caffeine. Any questions? Me: Put that Polly down and get yourself downstairs to eat right now! Her: But she wants to come too! Me: FINE. But get down here. Him: Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin! Vitamin! Me: I'm getting it, buddy. Her: Mama! Come look! Me: What? No! Come down here! Him: Gimmegimmegimmegimme! Her: Mama! You have to see! *Monkey drops his vitamin on the floor* Me: Chickadee! Has Polly done something amazing and stupendous that is far more amazing and stupendous than all the things she did upstairs? Did she come to life? Is she wielding a little knife? If the answers to these questions are "no," I don't care. *Monkey drops his vitamin on the floor* Me: Put that in your mouth right now or I'm going to put it in your ear. Her: Nooooo! But she did something you can't do! She did a double flip down the stairs and you couldn't do that! Me: Yeah, well, that's because I'm not made of plastic.

Can't sit still

Mir — Fri, 17 Sep 2004 16:17:50 +0000

I'm feeling pulled in a hundred directions today. Maybe it's because I need to sit down and pay bills (and I would rather do almost anything else). Maybe it's because the lawn needs to be mowed but it looks like rain. Maybe it's because I have a whole list of things I should be doing and I can't decided which one to do first. Maybe it's because Blogrolling seems to be having a freak-out and I can't sit here and read blogs and get my daily fix. Then again, maybe it's just because I'm nearly out of clean panties. Thongs... nature's little reminder that you shouldn't wait until all your comfy undies are in the hamper to start some laundry. You're welcome.

Mistaken

Mir — Sat, 18 Sep 2004 01:48:23 +0000

It was a particularly rough evening 'round these parts. If you happen to be a rather emotional, precocious 6-year-old, Friday nights are not your time to shine. In that case, Friday nights would hallmark the end of an entire week of being your most wonderful and obedient self for the school community, and starting about when the bus drops off on Friday afternoon would be a good time to unleash a week's worth of angst and votriol upon your unsuspecting family. The result? Four hours that feel like forty. You can understand, perhaps, how relieved I was to finally tuck the children into bed. Poor Monkey was safe for the first time all evening (in bed, there are no grumpy big sisters who thwack your head if you look at them wrong). Chickadee did the standard dragging of the feet during bedtime preparation... followed by histrionic sobbing related to everything from supposed remorse about her earlier behavior to broken crayons... and of course topped it all off with the classic "but I didn't know I had to go potty, before!" move ten minutes after lights out. The temptation to curl up in bed, myself, was strong. But I had things to do, and it was only 8:00. So I busied myself in the quiet, hoping to clear my mind and my to-do list before turning in. thump THUMP thump thump THUMP Craptastic. Which child is doing calisthenics? My money is on the demon girl, but it sounds more like the boy's room. Hmmmm. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll stop? thump... thump... THUMP THUMP THUMP Is it possible to have a cardiac event at 33? I'm about one Mama tantrum away from a coronary, I'm thinking. I've had it. It's been a long week and I just don't think I can handle even one more confrontation where I try to convince the little people and myself that I am in fact the person in charge here. THUMP thump thump thump THUMP I'm glad I didn't see the look on my face as I flew towards their rooms. My guess is that one glimpse would've turned any living thing to stone. I threw open the door to Monkey's room, first. Sound asleep. Well, at least now I knew. I flung Chickadee's door open, triumphant. Also sound asleep. What the...? thump thump thump THUMP THUMP THUMP! Know what else Friday nights are good for? Moving big heavy things. In the dark. Across the street at the neighbors' house. I was so embarrassed about all the nasty unmotherly thoughts I'd just been having about my angelic slumbering children, it didn't occur to me until now (a couple of hours later) to wonder if the neighbors were being robbed. Oh well. I suspect they are just noisy and inconsiderate. Yes. Casting doubt on my beautiful babies, that way. For shame.

Rolling in dough

Mir — Sat, 18 Sep 2004 17:44:05 +0000

I'm rich! I'm rich! The ex came to pick the kids up for swimming lessons, this morning, and brought me the child support check. Only three days late. Let's go blow it all on fast living and shiny things! Or, you know, the mortgage. Either way. I'm flexible. My ex has never missed a child support payment. Neither has he ever once paid me on time. It's a charming little tribute to his passive aggressive tendencies. I always get the money, but I always have to remind him. Have I mentioned that I'm really, really looking forward to being gainfully employed again?

Not bad for a rainy Saturday

Mir — Sun, 19 Sep 2004 01:07:11 +0000

I've just finished crawling out from under six (6!!) loads of laundry. Ahhh, my soft comfy cotton bikinis! How do I love thee? Let me count the ways! You are cheap; you cover my bottom; you do not wedgify me (yes, that is a word, because I made it one); you are soft and stretchy and do not cut off my circulation. I love you, and you love me; and I promise not to let the laundry go so long, next time. There is something gratifying about cleaning and folding and putting away what feels like every piece of clothing in the house. But still, it's not really a festive way to spend Saturday night. Especially when you've had the grueling day that I had. The kids and I managed to stay busy, inside, today. They watched a movie while they ate lunch and I tended to some chores. Afterwards, we decided to break out Chickadee's crayon maker. This was a birthday present that she received months ago. Somehow we'd never gotten around to using it. But it seemed like a fun rainy day activity. C'mon, guys, let's whip up a batch of crayons! After that, we can churn some butter and maybe pull some taffy! I'm all about being rustic. Out came the box, and mere hours later I had wrestled the crayon maker from the packaging. First, I read the instructions in French. Then I remembered that I don't know French, and found the leaflet that had the instructions in English. The first thing I noticed is that this contraption does not include the lightbulb. Not that you really need the lightbulb... unless you actually want to use it... to make crayons. But no matter! Because I am ever-prepared! And it takes... ummm... a 60 watt bulb! No problem! Wait. A 60 watt "small base" bulb. A chandelier bulb. For whatever reason, I actually had a chandelier bulb. Phew! Crisis averted. So we got the bulb installed and read the directions and dug out the baggie of broken crayons that I have been saving for just this occasion. Chickadee carefully picked through the bag and assembled her chosen pieces in the melting tray. We consulted the directions again, closed it up, and started the timer. Nothing happened. Well, the timer ticked, but the bulb didn't come on. My daughter gave me all sorts of helpful direction while I tried to troubleshoot: "Mama, maybe I didn't put enough crayon bits in!" "I think maybe we should hit it a little?" and my personal favorite, "You must have done it wrong!" It turned out that she was correct; while wrestling with the bulb, I'd unplugged it. Whoops. Okay, we plugged it in, and there was light! The kids stood there and stared at the apparatus expectantly. After about 30 seconds, Monkey wandered off, while Chickadee whined that it was taking too long. I agreed to sit and watch with her. It wasn't long before we spotted some melting. How exciting! But, hmmm. There are three slots for making three crayons at a time. One of the slots was filled with liquid crayon. One was about half melted, and the other remained stubbornly solid. I flipped through the instruction manual again, where it clearly stated that only Crayola brand crayons should be used for their superior melting ability, blah blah blah. Marketing ploy, right? Alas, no. My baggie of broken crayons? I have no idea what's in there. Some of the crayons are Crayola. Some are RoseArt. Some are generics from restaurants. Some probably aren't crayons at all (old, petrified candy?). I have no idea. And Crayola was not joking about wanting you to use Crayola crayons in their spiffy crayon maker that runs on a high-tech chandelier lightbulb. The timer indicated that it was time to crank up the melting platform to allow the wax to pour down into the waiting crayon molds. We cranked; it poured. Sort of. One of them poured. One of them poured a little. And this little piggy went "wee wee wee" all the way home. No, wait, that's not right. (But I've always wondered about that. Does that mean the pig peed all the way home? And if so, why??) No, the last one didn't pour at all, because none of the crayon bits had melted because by gum they were not Crayola brand crayon bits, but inferior unyielding crayon bits made by devil-worshippers. Chickadee's chin started to quiver just a bit. I rushed to assure her that this was just our first try. We'd wait til the wax cooled and see what we had, and of course we could try again and the second batch would be even better. She nodded, trying to be brave. I sent her off to play for a few minutes, and then she returned and we opened up the mold, together. The one successful crayon broke as we took it out. Chickadee picked up the halves--one in each hand--and intoned, "This was quite disappointing." "Yeah," I agreed. "Kinda sucky." It was a teachable moment, but as you can see I didn't really learn from her mature example. I felt we all needed a little pick-me-up after the crayon debacle, so I made bacon for dinner. I mean, I made whole wheat french toast for dinner. And a little bit of bacon to go with it. Please note for the record that although my son has been known to elevate picky eating to heretofore unknown heights, his father has somehow taught him to adore bacon. I'm so proud. He is truly my son. I got a little teary, watching him sway back and forth in his seat in pork fat rapture, humming just a little, as he stuffed bacon into his little face. Chickadee made sure that every molecule of her bacon was coated in syrup before it went into her mouth, pausing every now and then to say, "This is really yummy." All in all, an acceptable day. Thank goodness for the healing power of bacon. I mean, sure, it would've been nice if the crayons had worked out. But I have clean clothes, I have bacon, and I'm not complaining.

Lemme tell 'bout this ex-boyfriend of mine

Mir — Sun, 19 Sep 2004 21:30:45 +0000

(I have titled this post thusly for the pure, evil joy of knowing that at least one past boyfriend is reading my blog and probably jumped out of his skin when he read that.) (Sorry, hon.) (I'm laughing with you, honest!) Break-ups tend to be messy things. I mean, here's this person you've loved--for some period of time, at least--and now either you're telling to them to get lost or they're telling you they don't love you anymore. No fun, either way. And even in the case of a "mutual" split, there's nothing fun about parting ways with someone who used to make you feel pretty. Then, perhaps, there's the temptation to go back. He's changed, you tell yourself. Or maybe I just didn't give him a fair chance. Maybe things are different now that some time has passed. Deep in your heart of hearts, you know it's a bad idea. But some past loves are hard habits to break. Up until now I have never split with someone only to reunite later; I'm pretty good at making a clean break. But this one guy is different. I know he's bad for me but I still miss him, terribly. I have hoped against hope that things have changed, even though I know that's not rational. When times were good, they were the best. I spent money on him, he spent money on me. Being together was easy and effortless. I was organized and he helped me keep everything going smoothly. Likewise, he was always telling me what an asset I was to him. It was grand. I don't know when things started to fall apart. He stopped responding to me, somewhere along the line. There were promises broken, again and again. He was busy all the time. I dunno. I guess things like that happen, but it all started feeling like a lot of time and effort and money for nothing in return. Life's too short for that, you know? But lately, he's been saying he wants me back, and I've been considering it. I know the pitfalls are there waiting for me, but I just keep thinking maybe this time it'll be different. Oh eBay, why do you torment me, so? You know how he lured me in, right? First it was the amazing deals, the thrill of the hunt and the glory of the snipe and kill. Then before I knew it, I was selling, myself. Yes. It's true. I want to tell the whole story! Pride be damned! So there I was, selling away, making a pretty penny off my kids' outgrown clothes and such. I was living the American dream. But I should've known it couldn't last. The fees went up. Buying went down. And then--oh, God, it's really hard for me to relive all this--there was that whole thing where suddenly the whole world had internet access, and suddenly it was like "Wow, who let all of these morons onto the internet?" Before I knew what had happened, the magic was gone. I would list a SIZE 4 GYMBOREE DRESS LIKE NEW and he just stood there and watched as the emails came in, good lord, first it was "What size this dress is?" and then "if you should please this dress brand is for sale?" (huh?) and "I want to bid on this dress but is it in good shape?" and "Could you please mail me the measurements of this dress, neck to hem, shoulder to shoulder, waist to hem, wrist to ankle, nipple to butt cheek, and also count the polka dots because if there isn't an even number our religion prevents us from wearing it?" There was just no end to the stupidity, and for what, I ask you?? So that my auctions could end just a few dollars above the starting bid, and then the buyers would either mysteriously vanish from the face of the earth or begin a steady stream of communication designed to drive me insane? ("Dear seller, I will be sending Paypal shortly" followed by "Dear seller, how do you sign up for Paypal?" continued with "Oh, I guess I can't do Paypal then, how about I send you my gum wrapper collection?" and finally "Oh well you don't have to be such a bitch about it, yes yes, auction terms, whatever lady, I'll send you a money order whenever I feel like it. Maybe. Could you please mail my package out today?") I tried to work it out, for a while. I did. But my last batch of auctions, I had more non-paying bidders than people who followed through. So I ended it. No more, I said. And I walked away. It was liberating, in a sense. Today I've been cleaning out closets. And yes, I very much enjoy my friendship with my local children's consignment store, but it's not the same. It doesn't make my pulse quicken. The consignment store is fair, I suppose, given the middleman component... but the money is never as good. (On the other hand, I never get stiffed.) I filled several bags of items for the consignment store but I have a stack of high-quality, excellent condition, name-brand items that I'm considering--just considering--taking back to eBay. It'll be different this time. I know it will. Really. Shut up.

Monday, Monday

Mir — Mon, 20 Sep 2004 17:49:46 +0000

I would love to tell you that I haven't blogged yet today because I've been busy getting a job, or being pampered at a spa, or winning the lottery, or being wooed by the man of my dreams. Alas. None of these are true. I haven't blogged yet today because I have been very busy with, um, boring stuff. When we got up this morning it was 40 degrees outside. But the forecast claimed it was going to be 70, later on. I managed to talk the shivering children out of their sweaters and snowsuits, but the originally planned t-shirts and jeans weren't thrilling them. By the time we made it out the door, each child was wearing no less than four top layers. Any guesses on how many of those 8 pieces of clothing will make it home this afternoon? Anyone? The bus was early and Chickadee ran to meet it, never even saying goodbye, nevermind a kiss or a hug. This, of course, convinced me that some horrible bus accident or school explosion will happen today and Chickadee will die and I will live the rest of my life regretting that this morning I told her she eats oatmeal like a cross between a sloth and an orangutan instead of giving her a kiss and telling her I loved her. I may have forgotten to take my meds last night. After I got Monkey situated at school, I returned home to finally take a shower. I could've showered this morning before taking the kids, but that would've involved getting up even earlier. And did I mention how cold it was this morning? Anyway, aside from my legendary butchering of my ankles while shaving my legs, a shower doesn't usually result in bodily injury, for me, but I was in rare form today. Somehow I smacked my elbow against the wall hard enough to make me see stars. It still hurts whenever I bend it. (Yes, Dad, I know--don't bend it.) So then I got ready pretty slowly because it can really slow you down to whimper and swear while you're trying to get dressed and such. Then I remembered that we were down to the last pop-tart (horrors!) so I did a grocery run. Sadly, I didn't go to the grocery store, but instead went to a large, faceless, soulless megastore which happens to carry pop-tarts for way less than the supermarket does. There I pondered such timeless quandaries as "Why does a 5-count Swiffer Duster pack with a handle cost less than half the 10-count Swiffer Duster pack without a handle?" I do my best meditative thinking there. I also picked up a loaf of challah off the "Oops, we baked too much!" rack. It looked so sad and lonely. But I just made french toast this weekend, so I'm not sure what I'll do with it. Maybe I'll try a bread pudding recipe. Top it all off with a trip to the bank to deposit the tardy child support check, and there you have my extremely thrilling day. Don't everybody wish they were me, all at once. It could cause a rift in the space-time continuum, or something. Next up: an intensive narration of the process of filing my nails. Just as gripping as this entry! Don't miss it!

Hey now

Mir — Mon, 20 Sep 2004 19:58:15 +0000

Blogrolling appears to have woken from its stuporous slumber. Praise be. Chickadee did indeed survive the day, and I got my kiss... after she told me she didn't want to come home with me. Hmph. Since when is playing with three neighbor girls more fun than hanging out with me? What? Always? Fine. Hmph. I walked back home from the bus stop, alone, to the calls of "Nice backpack!" from the neighbors who were putting blacktop on the driveway. The thing I do for that little ingrate. I'm off to pick up the child who loves me....

The misbegotten bread pudding

Mir — Tue, 21 Sep 2004 01:26:22 +0000

I feel like I am filching from Bakerina, in using this title (and you must read her Tale of the Accidental Pie if you haven't), but I guarantee my tale will be much less intricate, interesting, or gastronomically delightful. And with an intro like that, how could you not read on? I'm a whiz with a story hook, no? So. The sad, lonely challah bread I found at the store. I made it promises of greatness and brought it home. Little did I realize that, oh yeah, there are other ingredients involved in bread pudding, many of which I neither thought to purchase or had on hand here at home. So I pulled out my first recipe and realized I was missing half of the ingredients for which it called. Well, look, there are plenty of fish in the sea (even the sea of bread puddings). I will simply find a different recipe that is more in keeping with what I have available here in my modest pantry. Also I will steer away from the recipes which call for egg yolks because I hate separating eggs and then wasting half of them. So I looked through all of my cookbooks. Then I poked around on the internet for a while. Then I concluded that no matter which recipe I used, I was going to have to improvise. What better way to improvise than to enlist the help of one of my favorite assistants? Yes, while Chickadee played at the neighbors', I reality-checked my recipe tweaks with a 4-year-old who thinks pop-tarts are the perfect food. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And my expectations were low, so what the heck. First, I apologized to the challah. (I wanted to pretend I thought I was doing something lovely for it, but what with the High Holidays and all I figured it was best to be honest.) Then I buttered the baking dish and sliced the challah into strips, and let Monkey rip it into cubes. The recipe called for only 3/4 of the loaf, but I let him have at the entire thing because I figure only about 3/4 of it ended up in the dish. Then I started mixing up the custard, and that's where I started offending the culinary deities. I had no cream; I didn't have enough eggs. I poked around in the pantry and looked up substitution charts and melted a whole lotta butter and pulled out some white chocolate and eye of newt and mixed it all up. "Can I lick the spoooooooon?" begged Monkey. Visions of nursing him through a night of salmonella poisoning danced through my head. I tried to buy him off with a piece of white chocolate, but he was unimpressed. Oh well. Into the oven it went. Chickadee came home and I set out dinner: roast chicken, asparagus tips, and apple wedges (we're still working through those never-ending apples). The complaining began. I reminded the children that there was bread pudding in the oven for dessert, for anyone who ate a decent dinner. They kept complaining, but did eat a fair amount. Then: the moment of truth. I cleared the dinner dishes and went to take out the pudding. The children stood as close as I would allow, and watched me pull the pan from the oven. "That's not red!" protested Chickadee. "Bread pudding, honey." "Oh. Why is it all lumpy?" I tried to explain that this was not pudding that comes in a big creamy blob in a little plastic cup. She was skeptical. And really, I'd been there for the creation of this thing, so I couldn't say much to assuage her fear. I had no idea if this would tempt the tastebuds or be just another experiment gone awry. It smelled good, though. The suspense continued as I hustled the kids through showers and into their pajamas, and then we headed back downstairs for dessert. I dished it up. The kids watched me expectantly. I took a bite. It's yummy. The children both preferred the crusty top to the custardy bottom, but they both ate it. Would you like the recipe? Here it is: rip up a challah loaf into a baking dish. Put a pot over medium heat and melt some milk, sugar, spices, vanilla, white chocolate, some other random stuff, and a whole mess of butter. In a separate bowl beat however many eggs you have. Temper the eggs with the hot mixture, combine, and pour over the bread cubes. Bake for an hour in a water bath. See? Easy. No, I cannot give you measurements or any more detail than that. Yes, you should say thank you to the challah for being sturdy enough to stand up to that sort of brazen mistreatment. No, you should not make this if there are only three people in your family. It serves... ummmm... twenty? At least? I don't know. Guess what we're having for breakfast tomorrow?

Little Boy Lost

Mir — Tue, 21 Sep 2004 12:49:24 +0000

My son is all about repetition. But as he gets older, his needs become more complicated, as do the scenarios he invents. A year ago, we started thusly: Him: Mama, say "I wish I had a little boy." Me: I wish I had a little boy. Him: Wah! Wah! Wah! Me: Oh, little boy! Where did you come from? Him: I'm lost! This would then be followed with liberal doses of snuggling and tickling. Time passed, and the drama started taking on a life of its own. It started sounding more like this: Him: Mama, say "I wish I had a little boy." Me: I wish I had a little boy. Him: Wah! Wah! Wah! Me: Oh, little boy! Where did you come from? Him: I'm lost! Me: Oh, you poor thing. Where are your parents? Him: My parents died! Me: Oh, that's sad! Would you like to come live with me? Him: Okay! His sad tale continued to grow, and so it was more or less on autopilot that I had the following discussion with him, this morning, as we walked home from the bus stop: Him: Mama, say "I wish I had a little boy." Me: I wish I had a little boy. Him: Wah! Wah! Wah! Me: Oh, little boy! Where did you come from? Him: I'm lost! Me: Oh, you poor thing. Where are your parents? Him: My parents died! Me: Oh, that's sad! Would you-- Him: In the flood. They died in a flood. Me: Wow. That's very sad. Him: And when they built our house, all that they were selling then was straw, so they built our house out of straw, and then it blew down in the storm. Me: Goodness. So, let me get this straight. There was a storm that blew down your straw house and your parents died in a flood? Him: Yes! Wah! Me: My, my. Well, I'll see you around. Him: Mama! Ask me to live with you! Me: Oh, sorry. Okay. Would you like to come live with me, little boy? Him: Yes. Maybe. What kinds of toys do you have? Me: Toys? I don't have any toys. I have some rusty nails you could maybe play with. Him: Maa-maaaaaaaaaaa! Me: Um, I mean, I have Rescue Heroes! Him: I like Rescue Heroes! Me: Oh, good. But first you have to go to school. Let's go get in my car. Him: What's school? Me: It's where you go and get tied up and beaten all day. You'll love it. Him: I'm just a baby, you know. Me: Well, this'll toughen you up. Get in. We were opening the car doors when I realized that two elderly women had been walking around our circle behind us. From the looks on their faces, they'd heard every word. They didn't seem all that amused, either. I smiled and waved and offered them some bread pudding. They mumbled something about calling CPS and ran off. Huh.

Where will you be six weeks from today?

Mir — Tue, 21 Sep 2004 17:58:11 +0000

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.)

My tax dollars hard at work in public education

Mir — Tue, 21 Sep 2004 21:38:10 +0000

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.

Maybe it's a big magnetic field... of suckiness

Mir — Wed, 22 Sep 2004 15:17:41 +0000

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?

Meanest. Mama. EVER!

Mir — Wed, 22 Sep 2004 20:52:35 +0000

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?

Frightening would be an understatement

Mir — Thu, 23 Sep 2004 02:03:12 +0000

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.

I should stop blogging now

Mir — Thu, 23 Sep 2004 17:07:13 +0000

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.

Party time!

Mir — Thu, 23 Sep 2004 22:19:16 +0000

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'll send you a postcard fom hell

Mir — Fri, 24 Sep 2004 12:36:12 +0000

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?

And now... a word about Fall

Mir — Sat, 25 Sep 2004 15:09:25 +0000

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!

Three more reasons

Mir — Sat, 25 Sep 2004 18:20:52 +0000

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.

When insects attack

Mir — Sun, 26 Sep 2004 02:59:19 +0000

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.

Eureka!

Mir — Sun, 26 Sep 2004 19:10:33 +0000

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.

In which I prosper (and profit!) through denial

Mir — Tue, 28 Sep 2004 02:03:22 +0000

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.

This is the alternative

Mir — Tue, 28 Sep 2004 17:00:06 +0000

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.

All the fun you can fit in 2.25 rooms

Mir — Wed, 29 Sep 2004 02:30:21 +0000

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.

Return of the Tired

Mir — Wed, 29 Sep 2004 15:20:00 +0000

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!

Sins of the Mir

Mir — Wed, 29 Sep 2004 18:48:17 +0000

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.

Grocery beatitudes

Mir — Thu, 30 Sep 2004 01:05:28 +0000

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.

The most handsomest

Mir — Thu, 30 Sep 2004 18:10:54 +0000

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.

The mice are back in town

Mir — Fri, 01 Oct 2004 12:29:48 +0000

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.

Saturday morning

Mir — Sat, 02 Oct 2004 13:33:52 +0000

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.

Credit where credit is due

Mir — Sat, 02 Oct 2004 19:24:11 +0000

(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.

Date night aftermath

Mir — Sun, 03 Oct 2004 14:57:54 +0000

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.

How not to make Kira's molasses cookies

Mir — Mon, 04 Oct 2004 01:37:36 +0000

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.

Next time I'd prefer the lightning bolt

Mir — Mon, 04 Oct 2004 15:52:04 +0000

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 Lastname. 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.

Prednisone, emissary of evil

Mir — Mon, 04 Oct 2004 23:51:39 +0000

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.

Tuesday's Child is full of grace

Mir — Tue, 05 Oct 2004 13:08:23 +0000

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.

Just a day of recycling, driving, and dealing

Mir — Tue, 05 Oct 2004 22:04:48 +0000

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.

I think I forgot to eat supper

Mir — Wed, 06 Oct 2004 01:31:03 +0000

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.

In which I accept fatigue

Mir — Wed, 06 Oct 2004 17:50:17 +0000

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.