Thursday, July 31, 2008

PMS

It is unsafe to let a woman with PMS around her children. It's bad policy. There should be post menopausal women circulating the country to take children off the hands of women suffering from PMS.
I know, I know. This conjures up all the prejudice and sexism of times past. Like women presidents PMS-ing with one finger on the red button. I am sure that I can recall a time when I participated in the normal work force and could function. But, honestly, being a mom is nowhere near being in the normal work force.
First, there is the volume. My kids NEVER shut up. Isn't that awful of me? It's true, though. S talked/yelled/babbled/sang non stop from 6:15 this morning until 2:20 and then from 3:15 until present. I actually LEFT him in his bedroom STILL FREAKING talking. E was pretty taciturn today. He's got his brain cells working on the kindergarten dilemma. His wheels are turning wondering what that is going to be like. The volume is escalating. I'm thinking: if I don't answer, then we won't have a tremendously tedious conversation that involves me boiling down concepts for you and you responding "why" into the most circular of exchanges. He's thinking: if the bitch doesn't answer, I'll just scream the question, "WHY?!"
Second, there is the neediness. These are basic childhood needs: snacks, potty, drinks, t.v., opening toy lids, unzipping shorts. Under normal circumstances, I am happy to accommodate needs. I get it...they're kids. They can't do some of these things for themselves. BUT NOT TODAY! Today, I cannot understand why you need to pee again, you just peed 20 minutes ago. Why you are so short--get your own cup from the shelf. Snack, shmack. You just ate 2 hours ago. No, I cannot unpeel a banana. Go find a monkey.
These are days that I want to be alone. The days where my husband's (probably normal, but not to PMS Me) chewing of salad is deafening. The days where clearly every pair of pants in the closet has shrunk. The days where music on the radio becomes fingernails down the chalkboard. A telemarketer becomes a puppet of Satan. A pimple, a festering boil fit for Quasimodo. In line at the post office this morning, I actually wished the woman in front of me would stub her toe every day for a week, because she needed signature confirmation but was wondering about the extra cost for some doiley she was mailing to her daughter-in-law or some one else who didn't want it.
You see? Under the best of circumstances, I am no nun. Under PMS, I am a package of vengeful fury and wrath. I make Voldemort look like a Girl Scout.
My husband can see it coming. I haven't seen him all day (no coincidence). Too bad my children can't steer clear.

A Diet Afterthought

After a couple of days of reducing caloric intake, I have a significant realization: it is impossible to raise children while BOTH hungry and sober. I wonder what will give first...

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Past Comes Clicking

I knew it was a gamble, but I thought it was controlled. I thought I weighed the odds, and was comfortable with the possible outcomes.
I was wrong.
Today, I looked in my inbox on Facebook. There it was. A name I hadn't seen, heard, or thought of in at least 10 years. PersonFromHighSchool wants to be my friend. Confirm? Ignore?
The cursor of the mouse went back and forth. Confirm? In fact, I do exist. PFHS as my friend? Can't really speculate. Ignore? The button should say Denial. I deny this person exists. I deny that part of my life exists. I deny admitting that I care.
PFHS. It was a jolt. I mean this person had to have sought me out. My maiden name is not listed. My home town is slightly different than the one most frequently listed.
I GET IT. Creating an identity on FB is, in essence a renouncement of my privacy. It's a way of putting myself out there, in the interwebs. But still, I wanted to communicate with the people I wanted to communicate with, not now-strangers. PFHS undoubtedly has grown and changed. She appears to actually have done quite well for herself (she was very smart, gregarious, and so social). I have grown and changed. I feel secure in life (except for aforementioned internist) and have made good choices. I have a beautiful family and a happy life.
So, what's the deal? I can't finger it. The ambivalent feelings that swirl back to me about PFHS herself? High school in general? Is it more the process by which she found me? Do I feel foolish for being out there? Not being private enough? Ambivalent about being found? Will others find me? Is this the first raindrop in a torrential storm of shadowy now-strangers?
I think it's as though I feel spied upon. Like someone saw my photo, weighed the odds, wondered if I were the same person, new name, thought about what I was doing, wondered if I were the same.
I checked out PFHS's profile. I noticed there were like 8 new friends in her feed, most of whom were from high school. Maybe she went on a Facebook binge last night, looking for people. Maybe she was feeling nostalgic. Maybe the intentions are friendly and not nefarious, as I always suspect.
Maybe this is the chance to grow and change, and not be suspicious and cynical.
The cursor moves to Confirm. I click. I hope for the best.

Guilty Pleasures

Another reason I'm glad not to be in SoCal anymore. Phew!

So, I am reading crime thrillers right now. I love crime thrillers, always have. Usually, I have no time for such indulgences and stick to crossword puzzles that I can do or ditch in 5 minutes. On my vacation, though, I read 4 books. Four! That's unheard of. Four novels by two authors. Let me say that of course, I expect these novels to be formulaic at best, predictable at worst. But last night, I stayed up waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay past my bed time to finish a fifth novel. As I groped around this morning seeking coffee, I wondered why.

"Eeeeeeew. Gruesome murder. I hope it's not the first of a serial."
"Eeeeeeeeeeew. Three more. Yup. It's a serial."
"Strange forensic clue. I hope our heroine can ID it."
"Of course she can, and just happens to know 14 people in the FBI to help her."
"Now she's back with her ex husband. I bet her partner is interested in her."
"Ah, yes. The piercing blue eyes of her partner."
"She's leaving the lab after midnight. She just got a hang up on her phone. Stupid."
"Mysterious lurker whacked her on the head."
"I bet he's got a gun."
"Bang. He missed. I bet he's going to find some weird way to try to kill our heroine."
"Oh, garroting. Unusual."
"I bet she gets free and runs."
"Run, Tempie, Run."
"I bet she gets cornered."
"Lost in the woods and her flashlight burned out."
"Where is ol' blue eyes?"
"There he is, firing away. Saved by ol' blue eyes."

Why do I even read these things? I am now actively rooting for the bad guys to kill of my heroine. She NEVER follows protocol, she doesn't have a gun, and she's always out at night. What is WRONG with this woman? She's not a hero, she's a freaking moron.
I'm taking a break and going back to crosswords. I can handle puns for a few days. Don't worry, though. It won't come down to reading literary fiction or anything awful like that.

Monday, July 28, 2008

Skinny Minnie

So, as it turns out, there is no instant slimification. And apparently I have an internist with the worst patient rapport I have ever seen.
Dr. Abrupt: Your BMI is within normal...
Me: Yes, but at the high end. I checked it. And, also, I just don't feel good about the way I look.
Dr. Abrupt: Well, you have to come to terms with the fact that this may be YOU. YOU at 30-something years old after 2 kids. This is you and your body.
Me: OK. Well, what if I want to make ME skinnier?
Dr. A: At your height and weight, you should eat approximately 1200-1300calories to lose weight.
Me: per DAY? (I'm thinking, per meal?)
Dr. A: Yes, but I don't advise because your BMI is....
Me: Normal.
Yeah, it would be the only thing about me that is.
Also, in the news yesterday:
After days (possibly weeks, it feels like weeks) I let S paint. I have never been opposed to messy craft projects as long as they were cleaned after. In fact, I used to let E paint in our shower in our bathroom so we could just turn on the water, add soap, play in colored bubbles and rinse it up. Fun, right? I'm a fun mom, godammit.
But everything is different with S. First, there was the issue of the paper. He insisted the 5 BIG sheets I brought were not enough. I had some more on standby. Second, there was the issue of the color. I had only green, orange, red, blue and yellow. I tried to explain that with these colors, he could achieve any color of his imagination, but he was unimpressed with the facts of primary colors. Then, there was the painting itself. Within 2 minutes, all the paper had a splatter pattern that would have impressed the techs at CSI. Then, came the globules. Just dripping. Big, fat drops that occasionally hit the paper. Mostly, the sidewalk.
Finger painting? Try whole body painting. I went inside for paper towelling (I had a sense...) and when I came out, there he was, nude. Squatting over his work like an obsessed nude Jackson Pollock. COVERED in paint. Really. Covered. I got the hose. I set the nozzle down, went back to turn on the spigot. I returned. Water. EVERYWHERE. He had picked up the nozzle, and wet his artwork, his body, the paints.
Well, an excuse for clean up. I dunked him in the pool. Hosed off the porch. Left the treasures to dry.
I survived another art project. Barely.

Wake Up Calls

So, according to all statistics and probabilities, smoke detectors should have only a fifty-fifty chance of chirping at night. And yet....this morning at 4:28, I was roused out of a horrible nightmare by the freaking smoke detector. Chirp.....did I dream that? Must have. Snooze. Chirp! Grr.
So, I roll over and tap M. "Smoke detector's chirping..." Snooze.
Clatter. Chair being dragged around. Cursing. No chirp. Excellent. Snooze.
M: "Why didn't you take it down?"
Me: Huh? I don't know. Too dopey? Too short?
M: Whatever. Grrr.
As far as I am concerned, anything that happens in the creepy, dark, lonely hours of the night is a man's territory. I stay in bed and a.) cower in fear b.) go back to sleep c.) get ready to call police/fire department in case of invasion/accident.
Apparently, sound asleep M had a different idea.
So, this morning, I woke up angry at M anyway, but for a different reason. I had an anxiety nightmare about E starting Kindergarten. I didn't know how to dress him, where to drop him/pick him up, apparently he was starting in the middle of the year and none of the teachers knew me or him, and oh, yeah, the teacher looked like Frankenstein. Dream me was lost in the carpool line and couldn't find Dream E. Dream M was flirting with some blond mom who knew the ins and outs of the system. She and Dream M went and picked up Dream E and drove him home. I got lost on a shuttle bus and then walked 12 miles home barefoot.
I gotta quit eating Japanese food. Gives me strange dreams.
I have a Dr. appointment today. Do you think that science has invented a magical weight loss pill that works instantly since the last time I went? Pfizer thinks the money is in Viagra, but I'm telling you. Instant slimification is where the future lies.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Things that go BOOM! in the night

Rednecks love stuff that blows up. Where does that come from? I have spent time at beaches all over the world. This is the first time I’ve been to a beach where every night, something blew up. Fireworks, mostly. But still. Symptoms of a larger fascination.
Monster trucks, NASCAR, guns, turkey fryers, demolition derbies, rubbish fires (slow burn, but still combustion in some form), ATVs, backfiring 1976 Chevy Impalas, muffler-less motorcycles and man-oh-man, those Army Navy surplus stores.
Tree Huggers in the Northwest abhor explosions. I am sure that Oregonians and Washingtonians have gone their entire lives without hearing the distinctive burst of gunpowder. It would disrupt their Zen. Northeasterners are very wary of combustion in any form and generally contact homeland security.
But Southerners, bless their hearts, they love the big kablewie. The payoff at the end of a short fuse. The bliss of explosion, cheap cans of beer, and the inevitable woo-hoo. And the woo-hoo is a big part of the bliss, let me tell you. The audible confirmation, the seizing of glory and responsibility for the detonation of some small combination of fuel and oxygen.
My current theory, andof course, I am qualified to opine on this subject based on my newly acquired status as blogger, is based on the Redneck’s stunted maturation on some Freudian level. The adolescent love for the fart joke. These grandiose displays of noise and occasional flames are nothing more than overgrown infatuation with the fart. Passing gas, for those of you who are not 5 years old, or a redneck, is HILARIOUS. I mean the sound, the accusatory glances, the wafting odor. Terrific. The apex of bodily function. The primeval proof that we exist. What better metaphor to extend a more existential affirmation of our existence than a manufactured fart? A synthesized, amplified cry to the world about one’s being. Ta-da. I am human. I am here. You can sense me. Woo-hoo.

Another Classic Tune

(sung to Hey Jude)
Hey Boobs, an Ode to Plastic Surgery

Hey boobs I won’t let you sag,
I’ll take a small boob and make it bigger
Remember it goes over my heart
Then I can start to make it bigger

Hey boobs, don’t be afraid
You weren’t made quite big enough
The minute I get it under my skin
Then I begin to make it bigger.

Any time I feel the pain, hey boobs, refrain
I Carry the weight on both my shoulders
Don’t you know it’s a fool who keeps an A cup
Gotta make the world a little fuller

So let it out, and let it out, hey boobs, begin
You’re waiting for some one to perform on you
And don’t you know, it’s you just bigger…
Hey boobs, you’ll do
The movement you need is from your shoulders

Hey boobs, don’t make it sag,
Take your A--cup and make it bigger
Remember to put it over your heart
Then you can start to make it bigger

Ta ta ta ta ta ta ta, ta ta ta, hey boobs. Ta ta ta ta ta ta ta hey boobs…..

Vacation, Day 1

Saturday afternoon, we pile in the car. Resolved. Resolved to put the packing process behind us. We are going to forget S carrying a VERY expensive camera case around. We are going to forget about how he dumped out my purse and hid my credit & ID cards. We are going to forget how we asked E to help and all he could do was whine. The vacation has begun. THIS IS FUN.
We are on the road. We decline S’s kind offer to share his music class CD. I can’t take it. He offers to sing a collection of his favorite TV shows’ greatest hits. Terrific. Wonder Pets save the Triceratops. “Pushy in the tushy. Pushy in the tushy…”(only S can’t say “sh,” he says pus and tus). “Thank you, dear. That is lovely. Oh, yes. I’m so glad you’re adding a rhythm to it. The dance remix. Super.”
We’ve gone 8 miles.
We get to the ferry line 10 minutes before the ferry departs. I am so pleased with my timing. I am so pleased that I am taking my family on this adventure instead of just driving to the beach. We park in the first available slot, #55. The sign says “ferry holds 18 vehicles.” I do the math. We’re completely screwed. A suped up pick-up is in front of us. Black, roll bar, over-size nubby tires. Two guys inside with I.Q.s less than retarded dolphins. One guy is sitting on the ledge of his window, underwear hanging out, no shirt, no shoes, Miller Lite cap, cigarette dangling from his mouth (already filled with chewing tobacco), angry stretch marks mapping his overweight torso. He’s drinking beer as his buddy sits in the truck listening to pounding music. He’s cursing and rude. He gets on the next ferry. We do not. At least our surroundings improve. The ice cream truck drives by. This guy has world’s easiest job. 65 cars lined up in a row, hot, bored, and miserable. The kids get some unnaturally colored Popsicle-type product. S has day-glo blue all over his face, shirt, hands, legs. E drops his off the stick into the grass. We all got problems, kid.
Two hours later…HOORAY! We are on the ferry. The breeze is refreshing. S loves it. E doesn’t really. I am deflated about my idea to bring the kids on the ferry. Should have taken the flippin’ bridge.
We unpack the car. The groceries I bought are dragged up 3 flights of stairs. S has done his best Lord of the Dance impression on the 2 loaves of bread I bought. They are about an inch and a half tall now. We open the door and through a narrow hallway, I see it. Majestic movie music swells in my ears. I stumble, seeing nothing but the light at the end of the hallway. I emerge on to the balcony, TRIUMPHANT. Our condo is front and center to the beach. The view is magnificent. The journey is forgotten. Our family vacation begins. I have arrived. Now, where’d we put the booze?

Friday, July 18, 2008

Slave Labor

So, I'm thinking, sweatshops are kind of a double edged sword. On the one hand, child labor is horrific. Don't get me wrong. Also, children are unreliable when it comes to quality control. I mean one nicely stitched Nike, and the next one...you know, they are fighting with the kid chained to the sewing machine next to them.
On the other hand, what do sweatshop owners hold over these kids to make them work? I mean, I can't get my kids to do ANYTHING. Right now, we are in U.N.-level negotiations over cleaning the playroom. We're up to $1 and E only has to clean his own stuff. S's stuff stays. (Lotta S's there). What the heck? I beg, encourage, and reward them to clean up after each individual activity so there isn't a GIGANTIC mess at the end of the day/week/month. But, no. A tornado could sweep through that room and it would be cleaner--the twister might take some crap with it.
If I could just borrow a Malaysian sweat shop owner for, like a week. That would be awesome.
In other news, M went out last night, so I went to bed at 9. Which is good, because E was up before 6. How is that possible? After nearly 12 hours of sleep, how could he not voluntarily (and quietly) go downstairs to thoroughly, energetically clean the playroom and let me sleep? Would that be asking too much?
Despite the $2 incentive (negotiations went poorly), I am repeatedly called into the theater of operations to neutralize skirmishes between E and his brother, who represents rebel opposition. Whenever his older brother begins to clean the playroom, S feels the need to pull out a bunch of toys. It's sadistic. Or just being 3.
Enjoy your Friday, hopefully I'll be back on Monday with vacation shenanigans.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Moles and Other Things We'd Like to Excise

It's true. I've seen the picture. Sarah Jessica Parker ditched her mole. A friend of mine who watched the SATC movie will be so relieved. It's the good news/bad news of the day.

So, I'm getting excited about our trip to the beach Saturday. A trip with all the benefits of being away from home and few of the downsides. I thought I'd recap some of my "favorite" memories of past trips this year in an effort to permanently exorcise these demons.
First, The Cruise.
I've retold this story many times. I concede that S was sick and felt awful. So did I. Still would have rathered a boat ride on the Styx. I didn't eat one dinner in peace. He fussed for a 3 hour bus ride to the ruins of Chichen Itza. THREE HOURS, people. When we got there, M took S so that there was some possibility of my enjoying the ruins. Two things to keep in mind if you ever make your way there. One, the Maya built the city square in such a way that a simple clapping hand could be echoed throughout the area. Just imagine how far the voice of a screaming two year old carries. Second, the Maya had a giant well into which they threw child sacrifices to their gods. I have stood upon the precipice, and in my most spiritual moment ever, pondered whose gods were in charge.



Second, The Flight
Earlier this summer, we took a family trip to Vancouver, BC and from there went to visit my family in Southern California. M stayed in BC a few days longer than the boys and I to see friends in other cities. The boys and I traveled from Vancouver through Seattle to Orange County. First, I had to check in. Sam is clamped in my legs while I struggle with the automated kiosk. Actual real-life agent is of no assistance. Then I have to schlep everything through U.S. customs. Like a rat through a maze. Only I look more like a donkey: car seat, carry-on, mammoth suitcase, less mammoth duffel bag, kid backpack that kid no longer wants to carry, booster seat, purse. I need my own freaking Sherpa to get me through the airport. Clear customs. Walk the wrong way to the gate. See, I thought our gate was actually IN the airport. Turns out, it's in terminal North Pole, and we have to walk forever to get there. Our flight is delayed. I ask Useless Agent #2 if this is going to compromise my connection in Seattle. "No problem," replies UA #2. We board and sit on the plane for 30 minutes because they can't seem to balance the luggage any better than I could. I ask Useless Flight Attendant#1 if there is any way she can advise my connection that I will be late, but hopefully not too, and they could hold the plane. UFA#1 assures me there is a shuttle that will whisk me to my connection. Upon arrival, UA#3 assures me there is no such shuttle. UA#3 refuses to book me on next flight leaving in 12 minutes. Then UA#3 answers the phone. To person on phone: "You'll have to hold on, I've got someone bitching up in my face." UA#3's name is Lori and now that I have been booked on a much later flight, I have time to talk to customer service at gate C12. But first, I have to take (the wrong) elevator. Have a charming conversation with a hottie from Australia, stop at Burger King, take two, count 'em 2 subway trains to Terminal South Pole. Still, only 10 minutes...could have made the flight UA#3 (Lori) wouldn't book me on. Flight's delayed. Order an adult beverage from UFA#2. UFA #2 graduates to Hero #1 when she comps me a rum and Coke. S spills ENTIRE drink in my lap. Hero #1 graduates to Best Friend Ever when she comps me a second drink. BFE stops by with treats for kids. I love BFE. S is now shredding Sky Mall. Very methodically, into teeny tiny pieces. He is going on 13 hours without a nap. Me, too. We touch down. We gather our supplies, trudge off the plane, wet underwear on, Sky Mall in a billion pieces on the floor. I hope BFE didn't have to clean it up.
I can't believe I still get excited about vacations. This one should be fun, though. REALLY. Short drive, no sightseeing, no schedule. It'll be great. It'll be great. It'll be great....

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Cruel and Unusual

Good morning. This morning, the next door neighbor's gardener actually beat S to the wake-up call. I'm up and at 'em.
Yesterday, I enjoyed the rare trifecta of experiences not sanctioned by the Geneva Convention. Worse than water boarding. We've already studied the sleep deprivation techniques practiced by children. This adds to their torture repertoire.
After breakfast and treadmill (which kicked my butt):
I mentioned my Himalayan laundry piles earlier this week. Monday, I really got on that and did it ALL. Yesterday, I carried up a heaping basket of clean laundry and was sorting it on my bed. S reaches across said laundry basket, tries to get a sippy of milk, and takes down 16 ounces of Coke Zero (my preferred after-work out hydration). On my bed. Ew. On the white carpet, natch. On the dust ruffle. And, in order to completely send me over the edge, a big heap of CLEAN laundry. I cried. S cried. Cruel.
Lunch:
I discovered a new pet peeve. I was at a self-serve cafe yesterday, (in itself a peeve) and I was refilling S's drink, when a woman came up behind me and started filling her cup with ice. WAIT YOUR TURN. The ice will be there, the cup will be there. Your food won't be exactly waiting for you by the time you sit down. "Excuse me," I say. "It's okay," says she. Grr.
Now, I should mention that we (S & I) went to aforementioned cafe early in the lunch rush. S would not cooperate while dressing, so he wore flannel fighter jet pajamas, backwards bulldozer pajama shirt stained with yesterday morning's water coloring fiasco, uh, project and Crocs. He looked awesome. Especially when he decided he HAD to pee, stood up, ran across the cafe barefooted into the men's room. I grabbed the shoes and followed, too late. The people waiting in the self-serve line stared (another reason not to like self-serve--lots of witnesses with nothing else to do but stare at the crime you're about to commit.) S comes trotting out of the bathroom, barefoot (ew) announcing his successful urination. I chastise him using my "public mom" voice of sternness without threat and we retreat to the table. Unusual.
Last, and not to be overly dramatic or anything, but impossible to overstate--A person on hold with a physician's office awaiting a refill on psychotropic medications should not, and I mean should NEVER be subject to Barry Manilow's Copa Cabana as hold music. Ever.
Cruel and Unusual.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Sex and the Suburbs

I'm awake. Or so my 18 oz coffee cup is telling me. The rest of me disagrees. I haven't set an alarm clock in nearly 6 years. Every morning, the sound of MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE wakes me up before 7. Who needs an atomic clock?
So, last night as I was dozing off, I decided what I really wanted was sitcom kids. Not real kids. The kids who are more like props. They sulk up the stairs at night (stage right) with exaggerated pouts after dad says something funny about staying up late to watch porn. Those kids don't even exist before 7 AM. I'm thinking specifically of Ray Romano's kids on Everybody Loves Raymond. He and his wife, Debra had, I dunno, 27 kids? There was cereal on top of the fridge and toys in the cubbies, but that was about the only evidence of kids you could find. The kids occasionally stopped by to roll their eyes at their parents' zany mayhem, but stayed mercifully out of the show the rest of the time. Also, Charlotte and Miranda (Kristin Davis' and Cynthia Nixon's characters on Sex & The City)...did any one EVER see their kids? It was funny when Samantha bought the baby a vibrator. It was heartwarming to see Charlotte's joyous adoption. It was better to see their unreasonably high heels and sexual capers out in the real world. You NEVER saw them at Mommy and Me classes.
Right now, I have a visual of RLM teetering around on stilettos in Mobile. Carrying a thousand dollar handbag. Wearing a vintage tutu. At music class. Galloping like a pony. RLM is envious of my urban friends who wear cute clothes and have personal trainers.
Remember how the suburban mom world freaked out when Faith Hill got the soccer mom haircut? It's because we NEEDED her to retain her glamour. It's our crack cocaine. Without sexy moms and their size 2 post-baby waistlines, their Pantene-Commercial hair, their not-Isaac Mizrahi for Target-purses, I'd be full-fetal at the Cuckoo's Nest. I need to know Julia Roberts weighed 200 pounds during pregnancy and is hot again. Because otherwise I'm doomed. DOOMED, I say. Doomed to sensible shoes, yank-into-a-ponytail haircuts, tunic-style tees, and waking up before 7 for the REST OF MY LIFE.
But we also need them for another reason. We need that implied pat on the back. The self assuring, "yeah, they have all that. But I'm actually RAISING my children." We need to feel self righteous about teaching our kids about values, and non materialistic happiness, and not having nannies. It's the suburban mom's self assurance: I opted out of those shallow, "glamorous" things so that I could raise my family properly.
The only vintage tutu out there for most of us is the hand-me-down we put on Madison/Addison/Parker for her ballet class.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Someone's Got a Case of the Mondays!

Good-ish morning to you. I went to bed at 8 last night. Just curled up and left the kids eating dinner. I heard silverware falling, demands for drinks, refills, seconds. Ignored it all. At some point, M came in and answered the calls of the wild ones and put them to bed.
I am desperate not to run today. And S has music class. Another Mommy and Me activity. WHY? Look, I get that I don't want to spend every hour with my kids, but I am PAYING money for an instructor with (presumably) some interest in doing some activity with kids, so WHY do I have to participate? I always imagine alternate life me (attorney, skinny, living in an awesome loft in Vancouver, madly in love with my husband and eating exotic cuisine) watching real life me. ALM is so disappointed. She is wondering why any one would dance in such a way. She knows that children will grow and develop without knowing what the "percussion family" is by age 3. RLM isn't so thrilled either. RLM is thinking--I went to college. I used to be able to read a book, discuss it with my friends, analyze it in ways that grown ups do. I used to not call my peers grown ups. I used to listen to music in my car. Music that didn't mention frickin' farm animals every other verse. I used to listen to music that I like. RLM is in crisis this morning.
I know the only way to lose weight is to geton the treadmill and run. I have been running 3 miles every other day. I am currently trying to push the time under 33 minutes. My kids did a "craft" in my office yesterday while I was trying to figure out facebook. Unless their craft was to make confetti, I can't make heads or tails of it. I could pick that up instead of getting on the treadmill. Alternately, I could sit here for a while longer.
Also, I should consider feeding my family. M says the "diet starts today." As if my diet ever stops. I add alcohol to it occasionally, but I never eat more. Then there is the Mt Everest of laundry sitting in my bathroom. The kids, of course, have drawers full of clean clothes. I am rummaging past the granny undies reserved for periods to find something clean to wear. I have no clean clothes, even after I get the undies sitch resolved. If you see me today, don't comment on my clothes. I will either be exceedingly overdressed (hey, I wore this to a wedding last year, it's clean!) or wearing something that doesn't fit (I haven't been a size 6 for 6 years. I am sure these pants are in style. If I pin them, no one will notice they don't fit. OWWW. Except me.)

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Sunday Evening

Holy crap. It's hot out. Really hot. We scarfed down some pizza for lunch. It has been a long 10 days of house guests and I have consumed more adult beverages than usual. I feel like I need to drink nothing but water for a month.
We went to E's new school this afternoon for a new student social. Why does everyone in Mobile already know each other? Why do all the moms look like they got dressed at the sorority this morning? They all look so young. Their husbands also have the recent frat boy look, though somehow the men look a little softer and paunchier than they presumably did in college. Otherwise, it was a pleasant and short enough exercise. We talked to some friendly people, which is always encouraging. Disappointing, though was the full outline of fundraising activities for the year and no mention of the basics: what day does school start? Is there a way to coordinate carpools based on neighbors? Shouldn't there be a pamphlet to cover the FAQs? Is this the first time you've had new students?
Also, as it turns out, I'm computer illiterate. A side effect of being over 30, no doubt. My knowledge is archaic. I can use the guide words on the top of a dictionary page. I can navigate a card catalog. I can barely set up a facebook account. This is something every third grader in the country can do. It's startling to see your painful unpopularity appear on your screen when you log in. I have 2 "friends." Crap. This whole network of finding people idea is depressing. I had fewer than 2 flesh and blood friends in high school, and I have the grim discovery that the people in high school who had a hundred real world friends still do. So, now here I am, 30 something years old watching all the popular kids socialize again. While I press the refresh button, hoping someone will Pleeeeeeeeeeeease be my friend. Again.
What is the cyberequivalent of low self esteem? I used to eat a whole can of whip cream. Is there a feeling depressed emoticon? A virtual nerd table in a virtual lunchroom? I spent the last fifteen years, a ton of time in therapy, all of college and several boyfriends overcoming the trauma of high school, only to stumble back into the middle of a pile of steaming insecurity by creating a lousy facebook account.
I need some whip cream.