I think I need to lie down now
I’ve had a busy day, and it’s only 11:30.
This is what I did right after my shower this morning.
So I came home, and played compare and contrast.
Come to think of it, this was different, too.
My brain is full; may I please be excused?
Things are getting busy. Busy is good; there are lots of reasons to love busy.
For one thing, someone as precariously balanced as myself can really benefit from having absolutely no time available to actually THINK. The thinking and me, we don’t get along so well. It often leads to bickering. I’ll be okay, well, FINE, I’ll be ONLY SORT-OF MENTAL, and then I’ll start thinking, and the thinking, it leads to absolute conviction that things are EVEN WORSE than I first supposed!
So in that sense, I’m thrilled to be busy. Instead of my usual feeling that life is hard and then you die, I am instead mostly just longing for naps.
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Beating a dead… cheek?
I used to be a champion grudge-holder. Really first-rate. It took little to draw my ire and–once provoked–that was pretty much it. Oh, sure… I might, for some reason or other, act as if I’d forgotten whatever perceived transgression had occurred. But I never did. It was always there.
It takes a lot of energy, being that angry all the time.
The irony, of course, is that now that I don’t do that anymore, I joke about the kinds of things I used to genuinely feel, because I realize it was extreme and I think it’s funny. And the sort of people I used to detest take it as truth rather than comedy. This tends to upset me, for a while. But I just can’t generate the kind of single-minded hatred I used to. I guess I’m getting old.
(See? Like that. It’s a joke. And dumbasses everywhere are going “Oh no! She’s upset she’s not MORE EVIL! How disturbing!”)
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Allowance
Chickadee and Monkey received their first-ever allowance today. I’m pretty sure that Christmas is going to pale in comparison. It’s THAT exciting.
I suppose we’re late on the bandwagon. That’s partially due to the fact that, hello, they’re provided with everything they need and plenty of stuff they don’t, so it never seemed like they were needing cash or anything. (Heck, when they need cigarettes, I make sure they get ’em; that’s just the kind of mom I am.) Then it can also be attributed to the fact that I have long pondered whether I wanted to listen to the immediate and prolific cries of “NO FAIR!” if the older child receives more money than her brother, or whether I preferred to defer to an unnamed date in the future when she finally figures out that she’s older but he’s getting just as much as she does.
But more importantly, I’m just lazy. And it turns out that this is complicated.
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Clean for a cause
I love Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. So do you, unless you have no soul. What’s not to love about a little sponge that cleans absolutely every atrocity your children can visit upon your house?
Get this: For the forseeable future (until they meet their goal of $15,000), for every submission of a great usage of Magic Erasers you’ve discovered, Mr. Clean will donate a dollar to The Hands On Network, a growing charity that helps volunteers keep communities clean. (Some of its affiliates are working on Katrina-related projects right now.)
Go submit your tips and you’re not only joining in the well-deserved lovefest for a miracle product, you’re raising dollars for a worthy cause.
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Mr. Clean, the Hands On Network, Proctor & Gamble, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Hot Dog on a Stick, Viagra, or the Nigerian government in any way. I have not been compensated or bribed in any manner for posting this message, although if someone wants to offer, let me know. Mr. Clean Magic Eraser has not been shown to be an effective deterrent to Eastern Equine Encephalitis or telemarketers.
Fit to be Thai-ed
What do you do when your kid is declared peanut-allergy-free after over four years of dietary limitations? You go out for Thai food with friends, baybee!
The poor child had been primed for tonight in a most unconventional way. After years of only being allowed approved snacks at school, it just so happened that his first day as a “free man” brought a snacktime project of making edible schoolbuses. Out of… twinkies. With Rolos for wheels. And tootsie rolls for… okay, I STOPPED LISTENING at that point because HELLO, you people not only fed my kid TWINKIES, you then felt the need to allow him to enrich them with MORE CANDY? As stupefied as contemplating this willful administration of sugar rendered me, I then realized that the teachers had an ENTIRE ROOM full of kindergarteners hopped up on power twinkies. At that point I blacked out from the terror.
Anyway, his teacher said that she thought “perhaps all the exciting new food” had upset his stomach, whereas I thought that “perhaps all the massive quantities of sugar and preservatives” had merely shocked his system.
The logical follow-on activity was to take my picky, sugar-pickled child out for strange (to him, anyway) ethnic food!
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A slightly whorish antidote to crickets
Oh, the chirps from the last post, THEY ARE DEAFENING ME as I sit here working and wishing for email to distract me.
So. Two quick things:
1) Apparently Cafe Press is running some Summer Blowout thing right now that is only good on women’s apparel (sorry, guys, but this is the winter of your discontent, or something). This means that if you are a GIRL and want a GIRL’S T-SHIRT, you should clicky clicky on the side there and go buy one for $2 less than usual. Then you will be both pretty AND smart! (Disclaimer: I believe the discount will work on the white ladies’ shirt but not the colored one, doubtless for some Very Important reason known only to the Consumer Shirt Deities. I don’t make the rules.)
2) If you are one of the VERY BEAUTIFUL people who has purchased from my dorky little store, please remember to send me a picture. I am easily amused! Indulge me!
Oh! I lied. There is a third thing, although it is not whorish.
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Right here, right now
There are a few things in this world that can bring me to my knees in reverence. The pure elation–or hard-won growth–of one of my children. Really good, labor-of-love cuisine. A perfect melding of personalities. Selfless attention to those in need. Desire born of spirit rather than excess hormones. Honesty. Correction: Difficult honesty.
It’s easy to be honest when there’s nothing at stake, and too few people willing to be truthful when it matters.
Sometimes, I make excuses for those who are dishonest with me. I’m trying to convince myself that I can’t expect more. That it’s my (unrealistic) expectations that lead to my inability to find peace, oftentimes, rather than the guile of others.
And sometimes, the kick-start of someone else’s honesty reminds me that the truth of any moment is perfect. Such a perfect moment is a moment I can actually BE in without commentary or judgement. For a change.
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Ding Dong, Ding Dong!
Ladies and gentlemen: At the tender age of five-and-three-quarters, my son just enjoyed his very first (“may contain traces of peanuts”) Ding Dong. His comment, when I asked him how it was? “MMMMMMMMM!!!”
Party at my place, tonight. Nutter butters all around! Oh, but not for Puppy. Though Monkey swears his new collar says he’s allergic to doctors’ offices.
Today, my friends, is a Very Good Day indeed.
Iron Monkey
My ex can tell you (and just might, given the opportunity) that the first television show I ever became hopelessly addicted to was Iron Chef. Not the sucktastic Amercian version that they now have on The Food Network with Bobby Flay (Bobby knows his barbecue, yes; no offense meant), but the original show dubbed over from Japanese to very! perky! English!! Chairman Kaga was regal and kooky, the secret theme ingredient was just as likely to be turnips as an aquarium churning full of stingrays, and the guest tasters always included some insipid Japanese actress who looked and sounded like truly atrocious anime sprung to Hello-Kitty-imbued life.
It was perfection.
The best part was always when the Chairman would introduce his iron chefs and they would rise up out of the floor, looking very still and serious. Iron Chef… Japanese! Iron Chef… Italian! Iron Chef… FRENCH! The French chef held a pear, you know. Because he was French. And the French are known for their… pears. Anyway.
Tomorrow morning I’m taking my baby to his own personal Kitchen Stadium, quite possibly to poison him.
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