Daytime Emmy Awards were given out yesterday. Daytime television doesn't really deserve any awards in my opinion. Has anyone under 72 watched daytime tv lately? Who has time? The Today Show? Honestly? I mean, it's basically a 4 hour marathon of insultingly inane "information" designed and (sponsored?) to get you out to the stores and consume stuff. They seem always to stuff in a segment to make you horribly afraid of something, too...ground beef, Botox, nail salons with fungus, contaminated spinach salads, stuff that people in third world countries don't even have, and stuff we are afraid of only because we have the luxury of not being afraid of REAL things (starvation, disease, lions). The Today Show makes me want to banish NBC from my remote control presets. I can picture the producer standing next to the cameraman making the "stretch" signal all morning long, so that a 45 second blurb about a snake in a toilet in Florida becomes an hour long dialog about how once Matt Lauer saw a lizard in his dressing room. I'd rather listen to thrash metal for 4 hours. To make matters worse, they put on Kathie Lee Gifford in the morning...or Kathie Lee, or Kathie Gifford. I'm pretty sure she's drunk all morning long. Her voice is about as relaxed as her husband's overly tucked facial muscles.
ANYWAY, I digress. Daytime Emmy Awards. Yes. Kevin Clash (Elmo) won for performance in a children's show. Which is funny, because kid's wouldn't recognize Kevin Clash if they met him. It's also strange that a tall, handsome black man is the voice of Elmo. Don't you picture Elmo's voice as coming from someone like the "Inconceivable" guy from The Princess Bride?
So, in honor of Kevin Clash, Sesame Street (which I love), and decent children's programming everywhere, I have decided to honor these shows with Zombies. (Those are my awards' names. Because of their degenerative effect on my children...love that electronic babysitter).
Most Phallic Kid's Character: The One-Eyed Penis from Yo! Gabba Gabba!
Most Irritating Kid's Character: Still, Barney after all these years.
Most Annoying New Character Clearly Created for Marketing Purposes: Abbie Kadabby of Sesame Street
Best Soundtrack for a Kid's Show: The Backyardigans
Most Soothing Animated Kid's Show: Little Bear
Most Psychedelic Kid's Show: Oswald (WTF is with this show? Snowmen run the ice cream shop, an octopus voiced by Fred Savage lives outside the water, his best friend is a roller skating daisy, his dog is a hot dog IN A BUN named Wienie, he lives next door to a penguin voiced by Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley. I mean HUH?)
Kid's Show Most Likely to Cause Nightmares: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Stomps through city, terrorizing Wienie...awesome crossover episode idea)
Lamest Idea from a Previously Winning Team: Dinosaur Train from the Jim Henson Studios
(I can see the pitch meeting for that: let's see, what do boys like? Dinosaurs and Thomas the Tank Engine....let's put those together and make 3 dinos purple so the girls will watch. Ugh)
TV Show Most Clearly Made to be a Video Game: Wow Wow Wubzy! (Did you know that Wubzy is a boy?)
Kid's Show Most Palatable to Adults: The Penguins of Madagascar. I would actually watch this show by myself. It is genuinely funny without the use of bodily functions, sight gags, or physical humor.
So, those would be my picks. Of course, the other winners of the REAL Emmys: Rachael Ray, Bold and the Beautiful, Susan Lucci, those stars and their shows don't really exist. They are just filler between the pharmaceutical commercials. But if it weren't for those ads, how would you know that you have Restless Leg Syndrome and need a medication that might cause irritability, dry mouth and death?
Just sit back and watch some Penguins.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Posts from Construction Hell
Hello, my pretties. I have once again returned from the grave...master bathroom. I spent yesterday in the clutches of evil, battling thirty years of oil-latex-oil-latex paint hell on my vanity. It's not just that the previous owners decided that latex could be painted on top of oil, but that both paints should go right on over the cabinet hinges.
Without exaggeration, I pounded each cabinet off its hinge with a hammer for the first 2 hours of yesterday morning. Then, I had to pry each broken hinge off the cabinet frames. Then, I took my new sander and chewed through old paint. Then, I wiped everything down, because oy, the dust, and put a coat of primer on it all. New cabinet drawers and doors will be arriving within the next couple of weeks. But, although I'm pretty sure I've said this before, "we're turning the corner on the bathroom" seems appropriate. I have to paint the ceiling. I have to paint the cabinet frame, and I have to find a competent electrician to wire the bathroom vent fan. Then, THAT IS IT. I swear. Really. I will NEVER do another thing ever.
Until the next thing I do.
Spending my days working in my bathroom, as exciting as the scenery is, has been a longer, more arduous and painful process than originally intended.
There is only one truly positive outcome from this experience (other than the new freaking bathroom): I have a tremendous sense of accomplishment. Even the couple of mistakes here and there (I am not pointing them out, because your eye will be drawn to them when you come to my house and see my bathroom....and when you come to my house you WILL see my bathroom, because we will be having our cocktails in its magnificent newness.) are signs of my learning curve. I learned how to patch walls, seal sinks, level mirrors, strip many coats of wallpaper, level a floor before tiling, sand and prime. And I learned these skills not in the antiseptic context of a brand new house, but in the "holy hell. What kind of crazy, drunk bastard installed cabinet drawers like this?" context of an old bathroom subject to cheap, half assed improvements.
It has been an experience, and I feel a certain affinity for my bathroom now. I feel like the grout we share--it on the floor, me under my nails permanently--will be the construction adhesive that unites us. I lost my construction virginity, so to speak, in that bathroom, and one day when my kids are grown, and this house is for sale, if I hear one person diss that bathroom, they're going to get it. If I can lift my right arm by then.
Without exaggeration, I pounded each cabinet off its hinge with a hammer for the first 2 hours of yesterday morning. Then, I had to pry each broken hinge off the cabinet frames. Then, I took my new sander and chewed through old paint. Then, I wiped everything down, because oy, the dust, and put a coat of primer on it all. New cabinet drawers and doors will be arriving within the next couple of weeks. But, although I'm pretty sure I've said this before, "we're turning the corner on the bathroom" seems appropriate. I have to paint the ceiling. I have to paint the cabinet frame, and I have to find a competent electrician to wire the bathroom vent fan. Then, THAT IS IT. I swear. Really. I will NEVER do another thing ever.
Until the next thing I do.
Spending my days working in my bathroom, as exciting as the scenery is, has been a longer, more arduous and painful process than originally intended.
There is only one truly positive outcome from this experience (other than the new freaking bathroom): I have a tremendous sense of accomplishment. Even the couple of mistakes here and there (I am not pointing them out, because your eye will be drawn to them when you come to my house and see my bathroom....and when you come to my house you WILL see my bathroom, because we will be having our cocktails in its magnificent newness.) are signs of my learning curve. I learned how to patch walls, seal sinks, level mirrors, strip many coats of wallpaper, level a floor before tiling, sand and prime. And I learned these skills not in the antiseptic context of a brand new house, but in the "holy hell. What kind of crazy, drunk bastard installed cabinet drawers like this?" context of an old bathroom subject to cheap, half assed improvements.
It has been an experience, and I feel a certain affinity for my bathroom now. I feel like the grout we share--it on the floor, me under my nails permanently--will be the construction adhesive that unites us. I lost my construction virginity, so to speak, in that bathroom, and one day when my kids are grown, and this house is for sale, if I hear one person diss that bathroom, they're going to get it. If I can lift my right arm by then.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Twelve Steps
I have blogged before about my addiction to Bejeweled (sweet, I got 2 scores of 100K plus yesterday!) and today I am considering the lifestyle of a junkie. Because I did something last night that I regret: I ate Chinese food.
First off, I LOVE Chinese food. What a delicious combination of sweet, fried, spicy and YUM. Sadly, though, I usually order it when I am starving, and of course gorge on it. But like an abusive husband or a recovering addict, the second I finish my food, I instantly regret it. I feel so sorry. I apologize to myself for the oncoming swelling, water retention, weight gain, and stomach cramping. I know I will rue the carb fest the next time I step on the scale. But, oh, General Tso, how I adore you. And potstickers, with your cute and self-descriptive little name, and oh lo mein and greasy egg rolls. The delicious corn syrupy goodness.
As I was sitting in my post-gorge haze last night, I was thinking about how clearly INauthentic Chinese food from the take out place in Mobile, Alabama must be. First of all, the most productive nation in the world couldn't possibly eat that on any regular basis. Three billion people would be in a diabetic sugar coma half the time after their breakfast of sesame chicken. After eating Chinese food, I stumble to the nearest comfortable seating and stay there, in a nearly drunken stupor, listening to my poor liver try to process all that glucose and fat. (My liver actually does make a sound when it works that hard) Second, three billion people would weigh 90 trillion pounds. The total lack of anything resembling a protein or vegetable (I mean there were some vegetables that might have been green once, but were now just a delicious saucy brown.) would suggest an entire country of malnourished souls. And while China has food issues, it's not like EVERYONE is starving in the streets.
Not that I am complaining, mind you. I probably wouldn't eat authentic Chinese food with such gusto as I consume its Americanized counterpart. I think of all so called ethnic food--Indian, Mexican, Italian, British and then I think of its hyper-sugary, overly salted, dumbed down American version. Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Long John Silver's (that's the fish n chips British food, in case you were wondering why I included it)...are secret guilty pleasures, (well except for LJS. I really find the idea of fast food fish completely revolting.) And they are all ridiculously bad for me. When I go home to SoCal, I can find authentic Mexican food--tamales, chile rellenos, carnitas, guacamole that is as it should be--dairy free--food that is not overly salted, fatty, generic re-combinations of cheese, beans and salsa. I have always felt that the Taco Bell menu should be used in permutations and combinations math classes. The restaurant receives massive orders of beef (?), cheese, rice and beans and then recombines them in various proportions and ways. Maybe I would have done better in math class with that kind of hands-on explanation. But regardless, the resemblance between The Bell and real Mexican food is purely coincidental.
When I have had the good fortune to be in Italy, I think of the fresh mozzarella and tomato salads, the light, flavorful pasta sauces, the delicious meats not bathing in thick red gravy. All washed down with a remarkably palatable wine that cost next to nothing. And all the skinny Italian women walking blocks and blocks in their stiletto heels, not waddling in a post carb stupor.
So, while I'd like to blame the cultural wasteland of America for my revolting food binge last night, I will accept personal responsibility for it. I pigged out. Gross. Wish I could sit in the freezer until the fat in my blood separated out and hardened and I could skim it all off. (Wow, that turned out more graphic than expected.) I am filled with regret and plan to start over with Step number one: accept that I cannot just eat a small quantity of Chinese food, and therefore should never eat any.
I should stick to the other bastardized food imports, perhaps: pizza for dinner?
First off, I LOVE Chinese food. What a delicious combination of sweet, fried, spicy and YUM. Sadly, though, I usually order it when I am starving, and of course gorge on it. But like an abusive husband or a recovering addict, the second I finish my food, I instantly regret it. I feel so sorry. I apologize to myself for the oncoming swelling, water retention, weight gain, and stomach cramping. I know I will rue the carb fest the next time I step on the scale. But, oh, General Tso, how I adore you. And potstickers, with your cute and self-descriptive little name, and oh lo mein and greasy egg rolls. The delicious corn syrupy goodness.
As I was sitting in my post-gorge haze last night, I was thinking about how clearly INauthentic Chinese food from the take out place in Mobile, Alabama must be. First of all, the most productive nation in the world couldn't possibly eat that on any regular basis. Three billion people would be in a diabetic sugar coma half the time after their breakfast of sesame chicken. After eating Chinese food, I stumble to the nearest comfortable seating and stay there, in a nearly drunken stupor, listening to my poor liver try to process all that glucose and fat. (My liver actually does make a sound when it works that hard) Second, three billion people would weigh 90 trillion pounds. The total lack of anything resembling a protein or vegetable (I mean there were some vegetables that might have been green once, but were now just a delicious saucy brown.) would suggest an entire country of malnourished souls. And while China has food issues, it's not like EVERYONE is starving in the streets.
Not that I am complaining, mind you. I probably wouldn't eat authentic Chinese food with such gusto as I consume its Americanized counterpart. I think of all so called ethnic food--Indian, Mexican, Italian, British and then I think of its hyper-sugary, overly salted, dumbed down American version. Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, Long John Silver's (that's the fish n chips British food, in case you were wondering why I included it)...are secret guilty pleasures, (well except for LJS. I really find the idea of fast food fish completely revolting.) And they are all ridiculously bad for me. When I go home to SoCal, I can find authentic Mexican food--tamales, chile rellenos, carnitas, guacamole that is as it should be--dairy free--food that is not overly salted, fatty, generic re-combinations of cheese, beans and salsa. I have always felt that the Taco Bell menu should be used in permutations and combinations math classes. The restaurant receives massive orders of beef (?), cheese, rice and beans and then recombines them in various proportions and ways. Maybe I would have done better in math class with that kind of hands-on explanation. But regardless, the resemblance between The Bell and real Mexican food is purely coincidental.
When I have had the good fortune to be in Italy, I think of the fresh mozzarella and tomato salads, the light, flavorful pasta sauces, the delicious meats not bathing in thick red gravy. All washed down with a remarkably palatable wine that cost next to nothing. And all the skinny Italian women walking blocks and blocks in their stiletto heels, not waddling in a post carb stupor.
So, while I'd like to blame the cultural wasteland of America for my revolting food binge last night, I will accept personal responsibility for it. I pigged out. Gross. Wish I could sit in the freezer until the fat in my blood separated out and hardened and I could skim it all off. (Wow, that turned out more graphic than expected.) I am filled with regret and plan to start over with Step number one: accept that I cannot just eat a small quantity of Chinese food, and therefore should never eat any.
I should stick to the other bastardized food imports, perhaps: pizza for dinner?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Catharsis: theirs and mine
The school year is underway, and I celebrated with a cathartic activity. I purged the kids' rooms of 3 bags full of trash and two bags of charitable donations and I feel so free! I tore through the office with 2 bags each of trash and recycling, and the free space is liberating. There is no clutter, no stray Legos to step on. I go through this physical removal of junk a few times per year when I realize that even when I pick up the house, it is still cluttered. I do it when I realize that there is physically no more space in which to put our crap. I vow a few times per year that I will not acquire any more crap, that I will not cling to stray papers, that I will sort, file and pitch everything appropriately as it comes into my hands. I make these resolutions every time. Obviously, the fact that I go through this so often reveals how well I keep my resolve.
So, I open the kids' closets: broken Transformers, half-sets of Lego kits, chewed upon bits of Mega Blocks, games with missing pieces, Ben Ten aliens even more freakish for having been eaten by Clooney. This summer, the boys and I tried to cull this junk, and all I heard was, "NOOOO. You CAN'T throw this out. This is the left arm of my favorite Jedi!" or "NOOO. I am sure I will find the 33 missing pieces to this puzzle! PLLLLLLEAAAAAAAASE don't throw it away." But yesterday, in the silence, Clooney offered no protest at all when I threw away little cut up shreds of Pokemon pictures. He didn't complain when I pitched half of a lunar module with football stickers on it. He didn't blink when I gave away four ridiculously small and completely worn out tee shirts.
Gone. Poof!
The crappy promo gifts from the school fundraiser? Outta there. The torn out pages of birthday party catalogs? Gone. The no-longer bobbling bobble head Star Wars figures from MacDonald's? Later. The cracked remains of old birthday party loot bags? Bye. Some unrecognizable candy treat that E's been storing in his drawer? First, treated with disinfectant so it won't breed in the garbage can, and then pitched.
The clothes drawers now house tidy stacks of completely stain-free, wearable clothing. The closets are neat rows of bins and cubbies, the contents of which are clearly labeled. The baby books are appropriately updated and now house last year's report cards.
If laying claim over chaos is a sign of improving emotional health, then I am a postcard of mental perfection.
Now, of course, I need to go through my own closet, which is its own special brand of hell. I pull out a really cute skirt, ask myself if I should pitch it and I reply, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I am SURE I will be wearing a size 2 by the time winter comes again!"
So, I open the kids' closets: broken Transformers, half-sets of Lego kits, chewed upon bits of Mega Blocks, games with missing pieces, Ben Ten aliens even more freakish for having been eaten by Clooney. This summer, the boys and I tried to cull this junk, and all I heard was, "NOOOO. You CAN'T throw this out. This is the left arm of my favorite Jedi!" or "NOOO. I am sure I will find the 33 missing pieces to this puzzle! PLLLLLLEAAAAAAAASE don't throw it away." But yesterday, in the silence, Clooney offered no protest at all when I threw away little cut up shreds of Pokemon pictures. He didn't complain when I pitched half of a lunar module with football stickers on it. He didn't blink when I gave away four ridiculously small and completely worn out tee shirts.
Gone. Poof!
The crappy promo gifts from the school fundraiser? Outta there. The torn out pages of birthday party catalogs? Gone. The no-longer bobbling bobble head Star Wars figures from MacDonald's? Later. The cracked remains of old birthday party loot bags? Bye. Some unrecognizable candy treat that E's been storing in his drawer? First, treated with disinfectant so it won't breed in the garbage can, and then pitched.
The clothes drawers now house tidy stacks of completely stain-free, wearable clothing. The closets are neat rows of bins and cubbies, the contents of which are clearly labeled. The baby books are appropriately updated and now house last year's report cards.
If laying claim over chaos is a sign of improving emotional health, then I am a postcard of mental perfection.
Now, of course, I need to go through my own closet, which is its own special brand of hell. I pull out a really cute skirt, ask myself if I should pitch it and I reply, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I am SURE I will be wearing a size 2 by the time winter comes again!"
Friday, August 21, 2009
Dog Look Alikes
M and I watched a movie called I Love You, Man starring Paul Rudd and Jason Segel in which Segel's character had a dog named Anwar after Anwar Sadat, President of Egypt.
I have decided that if we as a society are now likening our pets to heads of state, Clooney is most like Kim Jong Il of North Korea.
Quite the comparison, yes?
First off, he is short. (Obviously.) And has lunatic hair. (Obviously) And he is the tyrant of our slightly battered and misunderstood nation. First, I am starving (well, dieting, but still very very hungry) like most of North Korea. Like the N. Korean leader, Clooney runs all his nefarious activities underground (well, on the rug where they're pretty hard to spot at first). He is a tyrant, too: very loudly making his claims from his little cage as though he rules the universe.
But then there's this issue with hostages and prisoners and whatnot. Just as North Korea wanted to be taken seriously by the West, and only released his journalist prisoners to the high-profile President Clinton, Clooney demands to be taken seriously and refuses to poop for anyone but M or me. When E takes him out, Clooney refuses to negotiate, and sits in the yard refusing to conduct any, uh, business.
It is precisely this stubbornness in the face of reason, this refusal to break down barriers and open the yard to all members of this household that merits the comparison.
And though I usually shy away from labels, I currently would put Clooney on the Axis of Evil list. He is spite pooping in the house, and barking constantly ALL NIGHT LONG since we have kicked him out of the bedroom. Nothing burns through my patience like chronic noise.
So, all in all a comparison between Clooney and Jong Il may not be as flattering as a half pug's resemblance to Anwar Sadat, and yet, I have all the makings of a well-armed lunatic burning in the heart of my half shih-tzu.
I have decided that if we as a society are now likening our pets to heads of state, Clooney is most like Kim Jong Il of North Korea.
Quite the comparison, yes?
First off, he is short. (Obviously.) And has lunatic hair. (Obviously) And he is the tyrant of our slightly battered and misunderstood nation. First, I am starving (well, dieting, but still very very hungry) like most of North Korea. Like the N. Korean leader, Clooney runs all his nefarious activities underground (well, on the rug where they're pretty hard to spot at first). He is a tyrant, too: very loudly making his claims from his little cage as though he rules the universe.
But then there's this issue with hostages and prisoners and whatnot. Just as North Korea wanted to be taken seriously by the West, and only released his journalist prisoners to the high-profile President Clinton, Clooney demands to be taken seriously and refuses to poop for anyone but M or me. When E takes him out, Clooney refuses to negotiate, and sits in the yard refusing to conduct any, uh, business.
It is precisely this stubbornness in the face of reason, this refusal to break down barriers and open the yard to all members of this household that merits the comparison.
And though I usually shy away from labels, I currently would put Clooney on the Axis of Evil list. He is spite pooping in the house, and barking constantly ALL NIGHT LONG since we have kicked him out of the bedroom. Nothing burns through my patience like chronic noise.
So, all in all a comparison between Clooney and Jong Il may not be as flattering as a half pug's resemblance to Anwar Sadat, and yet, I have all the makings of a well-armed lunatic burning in the heart of my half shih-tzu.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Exercising my right....and my left
I have written before about denial, and what a powerful mechanism it is. Yesterday, I talked to Cici, who I think I've mentioned is in phenomenal shape, and is not only an instructor in various forms of exercise, but is also very knowledgeable about physical therapy and the mechanisms of the human body.
She has this mentality of a competitor, which I have never had, but envy very much. She drives herself in a way I can't even imagine. Her motto is probably something akin to "Pain is weakness leaving your body." Whereas my motto is more like "Pain means you're doing something you shouldn't be." This disparity is readily apparent if you were to take one look at us. Her body fat is someplace in the viscinity of 0%. Mine is somewhere around bacon.
Regardless, she has agreed to take me on in the short term as a client to move into respectable shape. So, yesterday, she starts to explain the basic tenets of Pilates to me. Pilates, (which until recently I thought rhymed with Pirates) is a method of exercise developed by this guy who had chronic pain. It is all about Resistance and the ever-popular "core strength" the skinny people keep talking about. I'm all about resistance, too...to exercise. But, I am determined to lose this damn weight.
We have a fundamental agreement, Cici and I: our working out relationship is completely separate from our friendship. I don't want to use that time to visit or chat. I want to learn and improve my health. Also, no laughing. At me, specifically.
So, anyway, she is explaining to me about centering one's body and posture. She tells me to put my pelvis in neutral. (I am thinking that neutral sums up about all my body parts) but she tells me to make a level triangle between my hip bones and my pubic bone while laying flat. I am too embarrassed to admit that I can't find my hip bones under all my, um...skin. Then she has me methodically move my legs while keeping the rest of my body quiet. (Um, creaks and cracks are part of the package.)
Then, what every overweight person LOVES to hear upon their first foray back into exercise, "girl, you are weak." Fortunately, we have the Rules and I do not take this as a personal insult, but rather a declarative sentence regarding my total lack of muscle tone. She tries to align my body properly and says, "you don't mind if I touch your body to help you, do you?" I don't. Really. Except that it's mortifying. My belly resembles a partly deflated latex balloon: really soft and puckery.
Oh, God. This is awful. How did things get so desperate?
I think a high calorie alcoholic beverage will fix this feeling.
She has this mentality of a competitor, which I have never had, but envy very much. She drives herself in a way I can't even imagine. Her motto is probably something akin to "Pain is weakness leaving your body." Whereas my motto is more like "Pain means you're doing something you shouldn't be." This disparity is readily apparent if you were to take one look at us. Her body fat is someplace in the viscinity of 0%. Mine is somewhere around bacon.
Regardless, she has agreed to take me on in the short term as a client to move into respectable shape. So, yesterday, she starts to explain the basic tenets of Pilates to me. Pilates, (which until recently I thought rhymed with Pirates) is a method of exercise developed by this guy who had chronic pain. It is all about Resistance and the ever-popular "core strength" the skinny people keep talking about. I'm all about resistance, too...to exercise. But, I am determined to lose this damn weight.
We have a fundamental agreement, Cici and I: our working out relationship is completely separate from our friendship. I don't want to use that time to visit or chat. I want to learn and improve my health. Also, no laughing. At me, specifically.
So, anyway, she is explaining to me about centering one's body and posture. She tells me to put my pelvis in neutral. (I am thinking that neutral sums up about all my body parts) but she tells me to make a level triangle between my hip bones and my pubic bone while laying flat. I am too embarrassed to admit that I can't find my hip bones under all my, um...skin. Then she has me methodically move my legs while keeping the rest of my body quiet. (Um, creaks and cracks are part of the package.)
Then, what every overweight person LOVES to hear upon their first foray back into exercise, "girl, you are weak." Fortunately, we have the Rules and I do not take this as a personal insult, but rather a declarative sentence regarding my total lack of muscle tone. She tries to align my body properly and says, "you don't mind if I touch your body to help you, do you?" I don't. Really. Except that it's mortifying. My belly resembles a partly deflated latex balloon: really soft and puckery.
Oh, God. This is awful. How did things get so desperate?
I think a high calorie alcoholic beverage will fix this feeling.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Everything's coming up Julie
(Hallelujah chorus plays in background)
School has started! School has started! Scho-oo-ool has started. Of course, E has developed a life threatening case of coincidental ear ache. So, I am rushing him to the doctor (tomorrow). I am giddy. Beyond giddy. I am thrilled. The prospect of carpool lane is glorious. Who cares about the stupid half hour wait? Small price to pay for an entire morning of sweet freedom. I find myself singing for no reason--then I remember--E's at school and I am singing!
LALALALALA
School for S doesn't start until next week, but he's pretty happy to be by himself for a little while.
Everything is starting to come up Julie again. The house is returning to some sense of normalcy. All I have to do in the bathroom is patch the ceiling and paint it. (Seems small after everything else I've been through...did I mention I found f'in wallpaper on the ceiling? I cried.) I should also seal the grout, but I bought the aerosol kind that takes 2 minutes. The house no longer reeks of some polluting adhesive, I no longer have to balance precariously in the kids' bathtub to shave, and there will be a mirror to style my hair in by Saturday. The cabinet refacer dude is going to come and take my cabinet doors away and refinish them, and all will be well with the world, my bathroom will be all new, and I will be able to go potty in the middle of the night, without having to navigate the obstacle course of Hot Wheels in the hallway.
I am bursting with happiness.
The next time I decide to do a project, somebody, PLEASE stop me. One of you kind readers stop by my house and slap me. No more projects. Although I WAS thinking that the kids' bathroom could use a little updating....
LALALALALALALA
My manicure no longer has grout around the cuticles. My toes no longer have mastik stuck to them. My bed no longer has the crusty dusty crap from the floor in it. My housekeeper is here, and in this glorious post-renovation hell, looks like Jesus.
LALALALALALALA
All my paperwork for crap is done and filed away. All my back to school shopping is done. I have decided to go to a personal trainer 2 days a week once S starts school so that I can work on getting skinny again, so I can feel good about myself. I am going to cook at home more, eat out less, and be healthier for all of us.
LALALALALALALA
My car is cleaned out, vacuumed, and emptied of all swatches, samples, and testers. All summer crap is out of it, and it is filled with story books and entertainment for whichever brother has to sit and wait for the other to finish some activity. We have started soccer for S, E's soccer starts in a month, every one is signed up for music, and I have a new book on my Kindle to amuse me.
LALALALALALALA
The dog is getting groomed this week, and has successfully transitioned out of my bed at night into his kennel. No licking, smacking, scratching, walking, whimpering, snoring canine in my bed!
LALALALALALA
Now, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is Ana going to scream up the Gulf and level my house? Probably.
Oh, well. I'm singing today. Maybe in the rain tomorrow.....
LALALALALA
School has started! School has started! Scho-oo-ool has started. Of course, E has developed a life threatening case of coincidental ear ache. So, I am rushing him to the doctor (tomorrow). I am giddy. Beyond giddy. I am thrilled. The prospect of carpool lane is glorious. Who cares about the stupid half hour wait? Small price to pay for an entire morning of sweet freedom. I find myself singing for no reason--then I remember--E's at school and I am singing!
LALALALALA
School for S doesn't start until next week, but he's pretty happy to be by himself for a little while.
Everything is starting to come up Julie again. The house is returning to some sense of normalcy. All I have to do in the bathroom is patch the ceiling and paint it. (Seems small after everything else I've been through...did I mention I found f'in wallpaper on the ceiling? I cried.) I should also seal the grout, but I bought the aerosol kind that takes 2 minutes. The house no longer reeks of some polluting adhesive, I no longer have to balance precariously in the kids' bathtub to shave, and there will be a mirror to style my hair in by Saturday. The cabinet refacer dude is going to come and take my cabinet doors away and refinish them, and all will be well with the world, my bathroom will be all new, and I will be able to go potty in the middle of the night, without having to navigate the obstacle course of Hot Wheels in the hallway.
I am bursting with happiness.
The next time I decide to do a project, somebody, PLEASE stop me. One of you kind readers stop by my house and slap me. No more projects. Although I WAS thinking that the kids' bathroom could use a little updating....
LALALALALALALA
My manicure no longer has grout around the cuticles. My toes no longer have mastik stuck to them. My bed no longer has the crusty dusty crap from the floor in it. My housekeeper is here, and in this glorious post-renovation hell, looks like Jesus.
LALALALALALALA
All my paperwork for crap is done and filed away. All my back to school shopping is done. I have decided to go to a personal trainer 2 days a week once S starts school so that I can work on getting skinny again, so I can feel good about myself. I am going to cook at home more, eat out less, and be healthier for all of us.
LALALALALALALA
My car is cleaned out, vacuumed, and emptied of all swatches, samples, and testers. All summer crap is out of it, and it is filled with story books and entertainment for whichever brother has to sit and wait for the other to finish some activity. We have started soccer for S, E's soccer starts in a month, every one is signed up for music, and I have a new book on my Kindle to amuse me.
LALALALALALALA
The dog is getting groomed this week, and has successfully transitioned out of my bed at night into his kennel. No licking, smacking, scratching, walking, whimpering, snoring canine in my bed!
LALALALALALA
Now, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is Ana going to scream up the Gulf and level my house? Probably.
Oh, well. I'm singing today. Maybe in the rain tomorrow.....
LALALALALA
Saturday, August 15, 2009
The Throne
From the ongoing The Bathroom saga: I went toilet shopping.
I wasn't originally going to replace the toilet in The Bathroom, but after slavishly working to replace every inch of everything in there, it felt somehow sacrilege to put an old crapper back in.
I go to Lowe's, my new Mecca. (Can you get a frequent shopper's discount?) I start looking at toilets.
Holy crap.
Truth be told, even I, who notice crooked grout lines, did not know there were so many freaking toilets to choose from. Low ones, high ones, oval seats, round seats, one piece, two piece (the bikini model), tall tanks, stout tanks, toilets that look like Roman columns, toilets that look like Grecian Urns. There were cream ones, bisque ones, bright white ones, regular white ones, pink ones, ones with seats that looked like seashells, ones that looked like some sort of bizarre recliners. TOO MANY CHOICES.
So, I start to narrow down the selections. First, I look at price. There are $100 toilets. $300 toilets. $700 toilets. $700 for a toilet? Does it shpritz my tush when I'm done? For $700, it had better. Does it scrub itself? For $700, it should. For $700, it should pleasure my lady bits when I sit on it. $700 for a toilet, when at least half the world is still crapping in a hole. (Not one, collective hole, mind you. Gross.)
Next, I look at features. Appropriately, when it comes to ranking features, the basic comparison is a flush rating. One star flush? That's not going to cut the mustard around here. Three star flush? That's going to probably handle a kiddie pooh, but not the I-Just-Ate-A-Chili-Dog-And-Hope-I-Make-It-Home turd. Five star flush? Now we're talking! Per the box, the Champion Toilet can flush a bucket of golf balls. Who the hell tests that? Is that going to be the flush power I need? The toilets in our house in Columbia could handle Hot Wheels, but not cell phones. So, that's probably, what...four star flush? Also, is there any kid in the universe who uses the appropriate amount of toilet paper? I mean, either they are wiping massive diarrhea with ONE single ply square OR they use a half-roll wad to kill a silverfish in the tub. Will a five star flush handle that?
In the end, I did buy the Champion toilet. It's going to be installed Monday. It had better live up to its name, that's all I have to say.
I wasn't originally going to replace the toilet in The Bathroom, but after slavishly working to replace every inch of everything in there, it felt somehow sacrilege to put an old crapper back in.
I go to Lowe's, my new Mecca. (Can you get a frequent shopper's discount?) I start looking at toilets.
Holy crap.
Truth be told, even I, who notice crooked grout lines, did not know there were so many freaking toilets to choose from. Low ones, high ones, oval seats, round seats, one piece, two piece (the bikini model), tall tanks, stout tanks, toilets that look like Roman columns, toilets that look like Grecian Urns. There were cream ones, bisque ones, bright white ones, regular white ones, pink ones, ones with seats that looked like seashells, ones that looked like some sort of bizarre recliners. TOO MANY CHOICES.
So, I start to narrow down the selections. First, I look at price. There are $100 toilets. $300 toilets. $700 toilets. $700 for a toilet? Does it shpritz my tush when I'm done? For $700, it had better. Does it scrub itself? For $700, it should. For $700, it should pleasure my lady bits when I sit on it. $700 for a toilet, when at least half the world is still crapping in a hole. (Not one, collective hole, mind you. Gross.)
Next, I look at features. Appropriately, when it comes to ranking features, the basic comparison is a flush rating. One star flush? That's not going to cut the mustard around here. Three star flush? That's going to probably handle a kiddie pooh, but not the I-Just-Ate-A-Chili-Dog-And-Hope-I-Make-It-Home turd. Five star flush? Now we're talking! Per the box, the Champion Toilet can flush a bucket of golf balls. Who the hell tests that? Is that going to be the flush power I need? The toilets in our house in Columbia could handle Hot Wheels, but not cell phones. So, that's probably, what...four star flush? Also, is there any kid in the universe who uses the appropriate amount of toilet paper? I mean, either they are wiping massive diarrhea with ONE single ply square OR they use a half-roll wad to kill a silverfish in the tub. Will a five star flush handle that?
In the end, I did buy the Champion toilet. It's going to be installed Monday. It had better live up to its name, that's all I have to say.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Julie, 5:16
I decided that neglecting Cinnamon in favor of my bathroom was not expediting the bathroom project, nor was it helping you, gentle reader, get your daily dose of Cinnamon. So I have taken vows of recommital to post every day, but of course now my computer's monitor is broken, which just about sums things up. I will be posting on M's computer, which has an ergonomic keyboard, which however nice for the wrists, lends itself to typographical errors, so bear with me.
So, often I hear abut these phenomenal stories of superhuman strength. Like somehow, a child became trapped under a car, and then the child's father was improbably able to lift the car to rescue his child.
I have a a parallel experience, though certainly not under such dire circumstances. While starting to grout The Bathroom, it became clear that my cordless drill would never have enough torque to turn the stirrer attachment to mix 25 pounds of grout mixed with three quarts of water. Because of my single mindedness, my deterimiation to finish this project, and my pride, I wasnt about to allow the lack of proper tools deter me from my purpose. So, I filled up that bucket, I stuck my hands in that Known To The State of California To Cause Cancer mix, and I stirred, kneaded, and wrestled it like a giant unwieldly challah. I worked, mixed and massaged that giant freaking bucket of grout like a Wagu cow. And I put that grout up on those walls in a masterpiece rivaled only by Pompeiian mosaics.
And then I paid the price for two days. Yesterday, I could not, for love or money, move my right arm. Today, while sore, it is at least functional.
But I HAD to get it done.
When I related this story to my friend Cici, she told me a similar story. She related the tale of an unappealing, yet gargantuan piece of furniture her husband inherited. The piece was expensive, but all kinds of ugly. Over time, and several relocations, she asked her husband to take the piece to his office, or to stick it in the attic. Of course, since it wasn't a priority for her husband, said ugly piece sat in the dining room for a long time until Cici reached the breaking point. She took that piece, weighing upwards of 100 pounds, lugged it up a flight of stairs, and then, impossibly, up the attic access door to rest in peace in the attic. Her husband was shocked that she managed to get it there, and probably equally shocked that she didn't drop it through the attic floor, the second floor, and the first floor ceiling.
She HAD to get it done.
I remember also when I was a kid, my mother trying to prune a palm tree in the front yard. She got to working on it, and after several hours, had in fact made serious inroads into the overgrown plant, but had blistered her hands into hamburger meat.
She HAD to get it done.
I don't want to be sexist about this, although surely M would argue that it's the opposite of sexist: I see it as women willing to sacrifice for the overall benefit of their household; he might see it as masochistic work on non-urgent projects and therefore maybe borderline stupid, but I don't want to put words in his mouth. But what is it about women willing to go to such extremes, such super-womanly lengths to get a job done? Why would men never attempt such feats for their house? Why is my arm so sore I can barely feel my fingers on the keyboard?
I don't get it, but what I DO know is that my bathroom is 75% done, and I am so eager to finish, that if I could work without waking my family, I totally would work all night. So, excuse me. I have a bathroom floor to lay, and then a large cross to which I need to nail myself.
So, often I hear abut these phenomenal stories of superhuman strength. Like somehow, a child became trapped under a car, and then the child's father was improbably able to lift the car to rescue his child.
I have a a parallel experience, though certainly not under such dire circumstances. While starting to grout The Bathroom, it became clear that my cordless drill would never have enough torque to turn the stirrer attachment to mix 25 pounds of grout mixed with three quarts of water. Because of my single mindedness, my deterimiation to finish this project, and my pride, I wasnt about to allow the lack of proper tools deter me from my purpose. So, I filled up that bucket, I stuck my hands in that Known To The State of California To Cause Cancer mix, and I stirred, kneaded, and wrestled it like a giant unwieldly challah. I worked, mixed and massaged that giant freaking bucket of grout like a Wagu cow. And I put that grout up on those walls in a masterpiece rivaled only by Pompeiian mosaics.
And then I paid the price for two days. Yesterday, I could not, for love or money, move my right arm. Today, while sore, it is at least functional.
But I HAD to get it done.
When I related this story to my friend Cici, she told me a similar story. She related the tale of an unappealing, yet gargantuan piece of furniture her husband inherited. The piece was expensive, but all kinds of ugly. Over time, and several relocations, she asked her husband to take the piece to his office, or to stick it in the attic. Of course, since it wasn't a priority for her husband, said ugly piece sat in the dining room for a long time until Cici reached the breaking point. She took that piece, weighing upwards of 100 pounds, lugged it up a flight of stairs, and then, impossibly, up the attic access door to rest in peace in the attic. Her husband was shocked that she managed to get it there, and probably equally shocked that she didn't drop it through the attic floor, the second floor, and the first floor ceiling.
She HAD to get it done.
I remember also when I was a kid, my mother trying to prune a palm tree in the front yard. She got to working on it, and after several hours, had in fact made serious inroads into the overgrown plant, but had blistered her hands into hamburger meat.
She HAD to get it done.
I don't want to be sexist about this, although surely M would argue that it's the opposite of sexist: I see it as women willing to sacrifice for the overall benefit of their household; he might see it as masochistic work on non-urgent projects and therefore maybe borderline stupid, but I don't want to put words in his mouth. But what is it about women willing to go to such extremes, such super-womanly lengths to get a job done? Why would men never attempt such feats for their house? Why is my arm so sore I can barely feel my fingers on the keyboard?
I don't get it, but what I DO know is that my bathroom is 75% done, and I am so eager to finish, that if I could work without waking my family, I totally would work all night. So, excuse me. I have a bathroom floor to lay, and then a large cross to which I need to nail myself.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Missing the Show
I once read a short story by Kurt Vonnegut, maybe, called "All Summer in a Day." I read it in elementary school when schools still wanted kids to read, in a program called Junior Great Books. In any event, the summary of the story is essentially this: humans have colonized another planet, and it rains on this planet every day, all day and night. Most of the kids in the protagonist's class don't care about the rain, because they were born on the alien planet. But the protagonist remembers life on Earth, and misses the sun and playing outside. One day a year on the alien planet, rain stops for one day. The protagonist's mean classmates lock him in a closet, and he misses the one day of sunshine and playing outside.
Some story to give to a fifth grader to read, eh?
In any event, last night was the Leonid meteor shower, one of the best meteor showers on Earth. It happens every August, and last night the peak of the shower occurred.
Every year, I wait for the Leonid shower. Every year, I peak outside, brave the mosquitoes and look to the heavens. Some years it rained. Some years, it was cloudy. Some years, there was a full moon outshining the meteors. Some years, we lived in urban areas so light polluted that the stars were obscured. Last night, though, was the lamest excuse for not seeing the Leonids EVER.
I went to bed, thinking of the meteor shower, making a mental note to go outside whenever I woke up for my midnight potty break. (Yet another benefit of children--I can no longer sleep through the night without having to pee.) At 2 AM, I was awake, but not for the meteors. I was awake, because the whole night, my arms and shoulders ached from the Grouting of the Bathroom. I got up, got Advil, and returned to bed, so preoccupied with my burning elbow joint, that I forgot altogether about the meteor shower.
I'll try again tonight, and I'll look to the meteorological sites to see if the show continues tonight...otherwise...I wait another year. Sniff.
Some story to give to a fifth grader to read, eh?
In any event, last night was the Leonid meteor shower, one of the best meteor showers on Earth. It happens every August, and last night the peak of the shower occurred.
Every year, I wait for the Leonid shower. Every year, I peak outside, brave the mosquitoes and look to the heavens. Some years it rained. Some years, it was cloudy. Some years, there was a full moon outshining the meteors. Some years, we lived in urban areas so light polluted that the stars were obscured. Last night, though, was the lamest excuse for not seeing the Leonids EVER.
I went to bed, thinking of the meteor shower, making a mental note to go outside whenever I woke up for my midnight potty break. (Yet another benefit of children--I can no longer sleep through the night without having to pee.) At 2 AM, I was awake, but not for the meteors. I was awake, because the whole night, my arms and shoulders ached from the Grouting of the Bathroom. I got up, got Advil, and returned to bed, so preoccupied with my burning elbow joint, that I forgot altogether about the meteor shower.
I'll try again tonight, and I'll look to the meteorological sites to see if the show continues tonight...otherwise...I wait another year. Sniff.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
A Confession
There is a sociological phenomenon known as schadenfreude which is most often described as deriving pleasure in others' misfortunes. I like to believe that most of the people I know experience it, at least once, even if it is only watching the guy who just passed you on the highway at a million miles per hour get a ticket. I suppose it is in poor taste to experience schadenfreude with people one knows...so of course, I won't admit to it.
I know it is in poor taste to experience schadenfreude when it comes to one's children...so of course, I will own up to it.
Since we have been in Southern California, I have taken the kids to the beach nearly every day. The beach here is something nearly unrecognizable compared to their beach experience in the Gulf of Mexico. The sand here is coarse and dark colored, and occasionally slick with natural oil seepage. The ocean is cooler, more opaque, and certainly more rough. The roar of the surf is loud, even when the waves are relatively small--3 to 4 feet.
I put those kids on their body boards and stand in the wash of the surf, patiently waiting to send them on their way with a firm push toward shore. I wait for the big ones, as they claim to want to ride the big ones, and I let go as the crest of the wave breaks around them. Sometimes, they ride the wash all the way up to the shore, whereupon it recedes from under them, stranding them on the beach. I feel proud of them for those accomplishments: they hung with it; they rode it all the way. Sometimes, the wave takes them only a few yards, requiring them to kick and walk back to me. Sometimes, less often, the waves overwhelm them, tossing them headlong into the water, flinging the body board up into the air, bathing the kids in kelp and sand and bubbles.
They come up snuffling the water out of their noses, brushing their hair away from their eyes, squinting against the salty water, finally opening their eyes to find me. Laughing my ass off.
I know it is in poor taste to experience schadenfreude when it comes to one's children...so of course, I will own up to it.
Since we have been in Southern California, I have taken the kids to the beach nearly every day. The beach here is something nearly unrecognizable compared to their beach experience in the Gulf of Mexico. The sand here is coarse and dark colored, and occasionally slick with natural oil seepage. The ocean is cooler, more opaque, and certainly more rough. The roar of the surf is loud, even when the waves are relatively small--3 to 4 feet.
I put those kids on their body boards and stand in the wash of the surf, patiently waiting to send them on their way with a firm push toward shore. I wait for the big ones, as they claim to want to ride the big ones, and I let go as the crest of the wave breaks around them. Sometimes, they ride the wash all the way up to the shore, whereupon it recedes from under them, stranding them on the beach. I feel proud of them for those accomplishments: they hung with it; they rode it all the way. Sometimes, the wave takes them only a few yards, requiring them to kick and walk back to me. Sometimes, less often, the waves overwhelm them, tossing them headlong into the water, flinging the body board up into the air, bathing the kids in kelp and sand and bubbles.
They come up snuffling the water out of their noses, brushing their hair away from their eyes, squinting against the salty water, finally opening their eyes to find me. Laughing my ass off.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Travel Plans
Sometimes the travel gods are with you, even when the weather gods are against you. We were delayed in Gulfport for 2 rum and cokes (that's an hour and a half in non-traveling-with-kid time). Then we had to race like maniacs to catch our connection in Dallas. We ran on to the plane, and promptly sat on the tarmac for 45 minutes. (That's eternity in measuring by alcohol time.) We arrived in San Diego about an hour late in what was not the worst, certainly not the best, day of travel we've ever had.
The kids managed to stay awake, despite extreme fatigue, the lateness of the hour, and a dose of Benadryl. When we got to SD, S was literally staggering down the jetway. He groggily offered up his hand to be held...to a total stranger. He was beat. So was e. But they managed to stay awake, jibber jabbering with their aunt the whole hour long drive back to grandma and grandpa's house. How is that humanly possible? It was past midnight in their time zone. I was holding up my eyelids with toothpicks.
In the navigation process from SD back to Orange County, grandpa made a wrong turn, and the accidental f bomb crossed his lips.
"Don't worry," assures E, "we watch fuck stuff all the time."
Vacation is under way.
The kids managed to stay awake, despite extreme fatigue, the lateness of the hour, and a dose of Benadryl. When we got to SD, S was literally staggering down the jetway. He groggily offered up his hand to be held...to a total stranger. He was beat. So was e. But they managed to stay awake, jibber jabbering with their aunt the whole hour long drive back to grandma and grandpa's house. How is that humanly possible? It was past midnight in their time zone. I was holding up my eyelids with toothpicks.
In the navigation process from SD back to Orange County, grandpa made a wrong turn, and the accidental f bomb crossed his lips.
"Don't worry," assures E, "we watch fuck stuff all the time."
Vacation is under way.
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