Tender bits of non-sequitorial goodness!
- 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.
What I know, and what I wonder
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.
Thursday headline: still cranky
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.
Lemon-scented frustration
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.
On the road again…
… 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.
My ears are bleeding
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.)
Crisis
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….
Trees, flowers, fish and perspective
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.
I laughed, I cried, it was better than… um….
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.
Good Eats
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.