My next trick: HMO grumbling
You people are all so very sweet. Really. I love you all. Here, have a pony. No, wait—have two. But honest to Jesus, folks, you have PLEASE got to stop emailing to tell me that my data is recoverable. As I spelled out earlier today, it turns out that my MacBook had a Seagate drive with a known habit of, oh, BREAKING INTO PIECES. Apparently the heads snap off and scratch the disk all to shit as an added bonus. The result is that yes, I probably COULD pay upwards of two grand to have 20% of my data recovered in fragments, or I could just practice that thing called acceptance and move on with my life and my money. So.
But hey—three cheers for our hero Otto, because when he was at the Genius Bar the guy tried to give him another Seagate drive and Otto persuaded him to “make a mistake” and give him a different brand. Not that it was necessary, because now that I have automatic back-ups my computer will never die again. HMPH.
Anyway. Moving on! Let’s talk about how much I hate our HMO! read more…
Wrong punchline
So I’ve been having nightmares for a week. I’m sure we could delve into the deep, dark, psychological reasons why—though I think I’ll save that for my new therapist, THE LUCKY WOMAN—but it’s a pretty complicated scenario to interpret. See, the kids left for the first of their summer trips with their dad, yesterday, and all week I’ve been dreaming about something awful happening to them. Huh. I WONDER WHAT THAT’S ABOUT.
My darling husband has been so eager to distract me from The Crazy that he asked me approximately 294 times yesterday if I was okay, and he also suggested we go out on a date last night to take my mind off of things.
He offered to take me out for sushi, which was when I realized that perhaps my moping was scaring him. (Otto doesn’t eat sushi.) So we headed out last night for our wild evening of freedom. read more…
Did you hear the click?
Yesterday was the first day of summer vacation.
Yesterday I was trying very hard to make some of that “magic” I hear so much about, while still managing to get my work done and do those fabulous, exciting things like going for groceries because we didn’t have any food.
Yesterday afternoon my children had already decided they couldn’t stand each other, and there were tears and bickering and pouting and I gave up. “I HAVE WORK I NEED TO FINISH!” I bellowed. “YOU TWO NEED TO GO PLAY OUTSIDE. NICELY. GOOD-BYE!” And then just to rub salt in their wounds (because I’m SUCH A GOOD MOM) I blurted out, “Hey Monkey, why don’t you work on your bike for a little bit while you’re out there?” read more…
Love fakes it til it makes it
Love fights the good fight, and speaks its truth as best it can, and trusts that things will work out the way they’re supposed to.
Love prays a lot. Love tries to figure out What’s Best in a situation where nothing feels optimal, where everything feels potentially catastrophic, where animosity and differences of opinions and realities seem neverending.
Love is staggered by what seems like a ridiculous solution where everyone loses—where a judge plays King Solomon (love’s worst fear) and rather than accepting either truth, chops up the innocents and waits for the other players to relent. Which, of course, they won’t. Can’t. On either side.
Love despairs and tries to put on a brave face while dying on the inside. read more…
No more pencils, no more books
Today is the last day of school, and that means my children have survived an entire year of learnin’ courtesy of the great state of Georgia, and the more things change, the more they stay the same.
For example, I was still scrambling around this morning putting together teacher gifts, just like every year.
And I was hacking up a watermelon for a class party, last night, while complaining about it. That didn’t used to happen until June, back up north, but BELIEVE ME, it happened.
And I promised my daughter pink hair (new, true) and completely failed to deliver (not new) just the way I am always a GIANT SUCKING DISAPPOINTMENT to my daughter. Oh, wait. Strictly speaking, I suppose my INABILITY TO DO ANYTHING RIGHT is not limited to the end of the school year.
Would you like to take a turn flogging me? My arm is getting tired. read more…
Your children, entrust them to me
I am one of those people who has felt like a full-blown adult ever since I was about six. I’m not saying that I’m MATURE, because lord knows I am NOT, but neither am I one of those “Oh, gosh, when did I become the grown-up??” sorts of people. I can’t remember NOT feeling like a grown-up.
(I do remember feeling mighty aggrieved when I wasn’t being treated like one, as a kid and particularly as a teen. I see this same frustration in my daughter and when it’s not DRIVING ME UP A WALL it cracks me up. I think we should isolate the chromosome responsible for this premature sense of adulthood and learn how to extract it from prepubescent girls and inject it into politicians, instead.)
So when I do stupid things, I am never one to blame my age/inexperience or to think “Gosh, I should’ve known better because I’m an adult.” I just figure I do stupid things because I’m stupid. And yet here I am, responsible for two other human beings like I have a clue, or something. read more…
The &#$^! magic of berries
On Saturday we got it into our heads that it would be a great idea to go pick our own strawberries at a local farm. Because that would be a great way to spend a morning! And we all love strawberries! Right? Sure!
Okay, so, the first problem was that MY CHILDREN ARE TRYING TO KILL ME. And after begging to go berry picking they then refused to get ready to go and then took out everything they own and left it on the floor upstairs. At least, that’s what it looked like. So I had one of those really charming teachable moments where, instead, I had a GIANT HAIRY HISSY FIT (that’ll learn ’em!) and declared that we were going nowhere. In fact, we’d never have strawberries again, if that was how they were going to be! WE’LL JUST NEVER DO ANYTHING FUN!
Sometimes I wonder if during my hysterectomy they forgot to remove the PMS. The alternative is that I just happen to be a melodramatic shrew, and that can’t be possible. Ahem. read more…
Close, but no
Me: Haircuts this afternoon.
Him: Not for me! You’re not cutting MY hair!
Me: No, not for you. You’re all wild and shaggy. Just Otto and Chickie.
Her: Yeah, cuz he’s a… a…
Me: Hippie.
Her: Hobo!
Me: No.
Her: Yes! Same thing.
Me: A hippie and a hobo are NOT the same thing.
Her: Practically.
Me: Ummmm… NO. A hippie is free-spirited. A hobo is HOMELESS.
Otto: Dude, have you been sleeping in empty railroad cars again?
Him: What?
Her: Oh, whatEVER.
I guess this makes it official
I’m pretty sure that the most obnoxious thing ever said to me about my blog was not a criticism of my parenting or some sort of personal indictment (though—let’s be clear—I’ve gotten plenty of those, too), but a dismissive, “Well, blogging’s just a fad, and it’ll pass, so enjoy it while it lasts.”
This was said to me by someone who’s always regarded my writing as a useless little hobby.
Well, I’ve been enjoying the spoils of this silly little fad for over four years, now, and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the greatest part about it. Because, clearly, the greatest part is getting to do what I love every day. And clearly the greatest part is having a chronicle of my kids’ lives that they’ll be able to refer back to when I’m old and senile and need them to change my diapers. And obviously the greatest part is that I took a hobby started at one of the lowest points of my life and leveraged it into a career that now helps support my family. read more…
In spite of it all, love grows
Dear Otto,
Happy anniversary, darling! I know I’m a few days late. I’m sorry. This is rather representative of our entire relationship, though, that it somehow just doesn’t work out the way we thought it would, timing-wise. This is not to say that it doesn’t work out, just that planning has become something of a farce ’round here.
Nevertheless, we’ve made it an entire year. It’s official and everything—even our alumni magazine announced the news in its latest issue, so I guess you’re stuck with me now. Nineteen years behind us, one of them married, and do you know what? I still think it was the very smartest thing you ever did. (It was also the smartest thing that I ever did, but I have done so very many stupid things it really wasn’t much of a contest.) read more…