Sunday: Public Service Announcements
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.)
Priorities
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!!
Help me; for I am sad and pixelated
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?
“… all my life i’ve been searching for something, something never comes never leads to nothing…”
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….
Fifth Installment: Friday Facts and Fiction
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.
It’s almost Friday…
… 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.
I’d like to thank The Academy…
… 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.)
I want my MTV!
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!
Does she have a face?
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…?