So, I survived my pukers and poopers, and I think I'm ready to blog again...
Fall brings with it many traditions--football, school, gross germs, and of course, birthday parties. I know that my friends aren't going to be offended by this post because (haha!) I exacted revenge and invited them to E's party. But, I get ahead of myself.
First and foremost, yesterday was my baby's 7th birthday. And I totally forgot. He woke up and asked me what treats I was bringing to school, and instead of playing cool, I said, "treats? Why am I bringing treats today?" And in mid-question mark, mid syllable, it dawned on me. And like in the movies, everything turned to slow motion, and the word t--r---eeeeeee---aaaaa--tttt escaped from my mouth before I could shut it. So, I raced down to the grocery, snapped up some M&M cookies (thankfully, E has pre-baked taste) and delivered them to school in time for festivities.
Crap. Apparently the statute of limitations is 7 years. Seven years before I no longer go into full fledged crazy lady mode for my kids' birthdays.
I used to plan weeks in advance, order custom made invitations and monogrammed napkins, plan menus, and elevate my little celebrity to royal status. But, this year, I got crazy with the High Holy Days, I am looking ahead to our trip to Phoenix next week, and I didn't have a coinciding influx of family to gauge the countdown. And poor E's birthday totally snuck up on me. Also, S had Monday off of school, so my whole week was thrown off. And his birthday party is the week AFTER his actual birthday, which is a new development. And. And. I suck.
But, this brings me to the subject of birthday parties. Which I loathe. In Mobile, the parents don't drop the kids off and leave. Nooo, we get to stay and attempt to "visit" while being crawled on, interrupted by kids begging for tokens, listening to screaming kids and ringing, beeping arcade games. Whatever indoor playplace hell has become birthday central is my own personal misery. All I can think about is the Ebola (wearing microscopic party hats to be festive) leaving the giant slides, the arcade games, the museum exhibits and crawling on to my body, and infecting me with something snotty, achy, painy, and gross. Shiver.
Plus, it is a universal competition among parents to see who can sugar up the kids to the highest level and then send them home--totally amped on cake, frosting, and other sticky carbs--to break off into nuclear family unit torture sessions.
And, of course, birthday parties invariably coincide with soccer games, other birthday parties, Northwestern football games, my nap time, music lessons, baseball playoffs, my other nap time, or something else I'd rather be doing. (Which of course, is ANYTHING)
So, in short, I'd like to say that E's birthday party is this weekend. If you would like to come share in the "festivities" let me know. I'd be happy to invite you.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Good Jewish Mothers Are Always Prepared...
Yesterday, I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to busy to post. In fact, I was so distracted that the chicken soup I started making stayed on the stove with the burner on for 5 hours while I was out with the kids doing music class etc. I had completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly, my soup was not ruined, nor did my house burn down. Woohoo!
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Jaws of Ownership
Ok. Home ownership kinda sucks. I'm not complaining, because of course, there are many hundreds of thousands, millions of people who do not have the luxury of complaining. And yes, of course, I am complaining.
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....
Body Count Update
Another day, another squirrel. I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that our cat is schizophrenic. In the house, he's an affectionate, purring lovey. Outside, he's a murderous, bloodthirsty fiend. The squirrels call him Cat the Ripper. They run in fear, but apparently, they don't run fast enough.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Technicolor Torture
Some things just don't go together. They really just shouldn't even be mentioned together in the same sentence. Nuts and gum. Mayonnaise and picnics, Circus Peanuts, and well...anything.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
OMG! Season Premiere Night!
So, yes. It's only a TV show.
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Pulp NonFiction
I think I need a lawyer. And a good one, too. Like TV sleazy defense lawyer good. Because I think some one in this house has made a deal with the devil. And we gotta get out of that contract.
This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.
I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.
This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.
I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Return of the Roaches
"Okay, then. If you call back, and I'm not here, they've either taken the phone, or taken me hostage. (Small squeaky voice) I. Love. You. (almost a whisper) 'Bye."
That is the phone message I left for M this morning at his work. They--GIANT, MEAN-LOOKING cockroaches--have been something I've talked about before. I'm already known as The Lady Who Hates Her Kids, I'd hate to be known as The Cockroach Lady, but I've just got to share. I assume everyone who's ever eaten at my house is now sorry they did, but I promise you, if you live in South Alabama, and you go through your pantry (not the canned goods, but the plastic bagged pasta, flour, sugar) that you will find cockroach pooh. And when you do, you will feel bad for judging me. Mark my words.
So, I found a teeny bit of cockroach pooh in the cupboard where I keep flour, sugars, medicine, the all important coffee, nondairy creamer. I thought, today's a good rainy day for cleaning off a shelf, I will take everything off the shelves in that cupboard, wipe them down with bleach and put everything back. Not too big a job. Just right for a Monday.
Then, I moved my two white porcelain canisters and stumbled on to a cockroach luau. A freakin' cockroach nightclub. Streamers, disco lights, little cockroach bimbos with cigarette trays like in a Sinatra movie. Little cockroach gangsters with white fedoras. It was a effin nightmare. Cockroaches snorting flour like lines of coke. Giving me the stinkeye, like I'm Narc, checking them out. FOUR GIANT COCKROACHES just sitting on the shelf like they own the place. Like I'm crashing their mojo. They are the rockstars, loungin' around, doin' the drugs, pimpin' the chicks, chowin' down on the white carbs, getting high on the brown sugar, munching the nondairy granules like gangstas.
(Me screaming.)
I take M's shoe and start breaking up the joint, like a bad fight bar scene in a movie. Whacking away. Shrieking, whacking, gagging. Over and over. There are bodies. I get down from the kitchen chair and run to the phone. I dial the 911 equivalent of roach infestation: 1-800-TERMINIX. The woman asks how I'm doing today, "not good. I reply. I just busted up a roach rave in my cupboard, and I'd like some one out here ASAP to nuke these mothers."
"Okay. What's your phone number or customer ID?"
"No. Not Okay. Not okay by a longshot. Okay would be hanging streamers and getting a mariachi band for their fiesta. Okay would be whippin' up an apps platter of potato skins and wings. Okay would be NOT HAVING BUGS the SIZE OF RODENTS IN MY CUPBOARD!!!!!!"
"So. Not ok. May I still have your phone number or customer ID?"
The Terminix man is coming tomorrow morning between 8 and 10. Quite frankly, I don't care if he bathes my house, and everyone in it in carcinogens and chemicals. I want those roaches dead more than I've wanted anything in a long long long while.
That being said, I am COMPLETELY revolted by the orgy of Bacchanalian eating and crapping that has been going on in my coffee cupboard. I go back to wipe up the corpses from the whacking, and ANOTHER roach is out on the shelf feeding on one of the dead ones. These things have no freaking soul. I mean, the body's still warm, and so the other one's thinking...'cool. Hot breakfast. This place is way better than Day's Inn.'
Everything is dead. I get bleach, gloves, and paper toweling. I begin the post mortem clean up. Gagging, wretching, trying not to think that I eat food from these very cupboards. I lift up the Splenda container and am satisfied. Even cockroaches know that artificial sweetner will kill you.
Then, I lift up the paper sack of flour. The bottom is completely eaten away. Flour spills everywhere, and with it, a cascade of baby cockroaches.
THAT IS IT.
I squash as many babies as I can find. I am the killer of babies. I am now a Roachicidal maniac. I am stomping, whacking and squishing anything that moves. Or even flutters in the breeze of the air conditioning. I am in a killing frenzy.
I see something in the corner of my eye, and notice there is a Jabba the Hutt roach in the sink. I think of the scene in Return of the Jedi, when Jabba has Leia on the chain. Those disgusting drooling aliens and rats, all gorging on food, and ogling the gladiator fight with the gross slimy thing. I suppose Jabba the Roach here was most recently in my cupboard, relishing the spoils of my baking supplies. Savoring the debased lifestyle of filth. Crapping with total disregard on the lids of my canisters.
Leaving everything, I head to Target. I buy, of course, roach traps. New flour, new sugar, new brown sugar, new anything that goes in a cupboard and $120 worth of BPA-free canisters. I come home, start tossing. If it's open, it's out. Grains, cereals, chips, crackers, any disgusting snack food my kids have on the shelves. Pasta, coffee, everything in a canister. Those effers are going to break an antenna trying to get into the vacuum sealed armor I bought. Tomorrow, the guy is going to come, and kill the relatives of the sleazoid family I killed today. Tomorrow is going to be a very bad day in roachland.
In the mean time, I have a tremendous mess to clean up. Flour, packaging, old shelf liners. It's all gotta go. Thankfully, tomorrow is trash day. So long, corpses. So long, infested packaging. So long, roaches.
That is the phone message I left for M this morning at his work. They--GIANT, MEAN-LOOKING cockroaches--have been something I've talked about before. I'm already known as The Lady Who Hates Her Kids, I'd hate to be known as The Cockroach Lady, but I've just got to share. I assume everyone who's ever eaten at my house is now sorry they did, but I promise you, if you live in South Alabama, and you go through your pantry (not the canned goods, but the plastic bagged pasta, flour, sugar) that you will find cockroach pooh. And when you do, you will feel bad for judging me. Mark my words.
So, I found a teeny bit of cockroach pooh in the cupboard where I keep flour, sugars, medicine, the all important coffee, nondairy creamer. I thought, today's a good rainy day for cleaning off a shelf, I will take everything off the shelves in that cupboard, wipe them down with bleach and put everything back. Not too big a job. Just right for a Monday.
Then, I moved my two white porcelain canisters and stumbled on to a cockroach luau. A freakin' cockroach nightclub. Streamers, disco lights, little cockroach bimbos with cigarette trays like in a Sinatra movie. Little cockroach gangsters with white fedoras. It was a effin nightmare. Cockroaches snorting flour like lines of coke. Giving me the stinkeye, like I'm Narc, checking them out. FOUR GIANT COCKROACHES just sitting on the shelf like they own the place. Like I'm crashing their mojo. They are the rockstars, loungin' around, doin' the drugs, pimpin' the chicks, chowin' down on the white carbs, getting high on the brown sugar, munching the nondairy granules like gangstas.
(Me screaming.)
I take M's shoe and start breaking up the joint, like a bad fight bar scene in a movie. Whacking away. Shrieking, whacking, gagging. Over and over. There are bodies. I get down from the kitchen chair and run to the phone. I dial the 911 equivalent of roach infestation: 1-800-TERMINIX. The woman asks how I'm doing today, "not good. I reply. I just busted up a roach rave in my cupboard, and I'd like some one out here ASAP to nuke these mothers."
"Okay. What's your phone number or customer ID?"
"No. Not Okay. Not okay by a longshot. Okay would be hanging streamers and getting a mariachi band for their fiesta. Okay would be whippin' up an apps platter of potato skins and wings. Okay would be NOT HAVING BUGS the SIZE OF RODENTS IN MY CUPBOARD!!!!!!"
"So. Not ok. May I still have your phone number or customer ID?"
The Terminix man is coming tomorrow morning between 8 and 10. Quite frankly, I don't care if he bathes my house, and everyone in it in carcinogens and chemicals. I want those roaches dead more than I've wanted anything in a long long long while.
That being said, I am COMPLETELY revolted by the orgy of Bacchanalian eating and crapping that has been going on in my coffee cupboard. I go back to wipe up the corpses from the whacking, and ANOTHER roach is out on the shelf feeding on one of the dead ones. These things have no freaking soul. I mean, the body's still warm, and so the other one's thinking...'cool. Hot breakfast. This place is way better than Day's Inn.'
Everything is dead. I get bleach, gloves, and paper toweling. I begin the post mortem clean up. Gagging, wretching, trying not to think that I eat food from these very cupboards. I lift up the Splenda container and am satisfied. Even cockroaches know that artificial sweetner will kill you.
Then, I lift up the paper sack of flour. The bottom is completely eaten away. Flour spills everywhere, and with it, a cascade of baby cockroaches.
THAT IS IT.
I squash as many babies as I can find. I am the killer of babies. I am now a Roachicidal maniac. I am stomping, whacking and squishing anything that moves. Or even flutters in the breeze of the air conditioning. I am in a killing frenzy.
I see something in the corner of my eye, and notice there is a Jabba the Hutt roach in the sink. I think of the scene in Return of the Jedi, when Jabba has Leia on the chain. Those disgusting drooling aliens and rats, all gorging on food, and ogling the gladiator fight with the gross slimy thing. I suppose Jabba the Roach here was most recently in my cupboard, relishing the spoils of my baking supplies. Savoring the debased lifestyle of filth. Crapping with total disregard on the lids of my canisters.
Leaving everything, I head to Target. I buy, of course, roach traps. New flour, new sugar, new brown sugar, new anything that goes in a cupboard and $120 worth of BPA-free canisters. I come home, start tossing. If it's open, it's out. Grains, cereals, chips, crackers, any disgusting snack food my kids have on the shelves. Pasta, coffee, everything in a canister. Those effers are going to break an antenna trying to get into the vacuum sealed armor I bought. Tomorrow, the guy is going to come, and kill the relatives of the sleazoid family I killed today. Tomorrow is going to be a very bad day in roachland.
In the mean time, I have a tremendous mess to clean up. Flour, packaging, old shelf liners. It's all gotta go. Thankfully, tomorrow is trash day. So long, corpses. So long, infested packaging. So long, roaches.
Monday, September 14, 2009
From an Alternate Universe
My goodness. What a busy day. I woke up so cheerfully when the alarm clock chimed this morning at 5:00. It was as though I had slept among clouds. I was able to run 3 miles this morning without so much as an ugly thought crossing my mind. My legs carried me, and the uplifting music on the ipod reminded me that indeed, aspiration is inspiration.
By the time I came home, the boys were stirring in their beds. Their angelic lashes sweeping and fluttering on their delicious cheeks. Rise and shine, little ones! How I love waking them and helping them dress and brush their teeth. And this morning, we thought it would be silly to sing songs like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke as we dressed. The older one has a charming Cockney voice. Everything went amazingly smoothly this morning. Except, shucks! I stubbed my toes. On days like this, I reconsider our choice to have only two children. It's a daily miracle to watch them grow and change.
After the kids and hubby had left, I tidied up; although they had left hardly any evidence they had whirled through here at all. I started a delicious dinner. I am very excited about it--everyone is sure to love a roasted red pepper and tomato chicken cacciatore. The boys are SUCH adventurous eaters.
After school, everything was organized so well, that all of our extra curricular activities went swimmingly and we had time to spare. A mother at our playgroup was so frazzled--so much to do, so busy, so frenetic. I told her to find her inner Zen and do more with less. Serenity is a daily gift. Although not everyone, sadly, can live their lives with the focus and the inner quiet I am blessed with. In fact, at the little playground after school, I heard some child, clearly unloved, unsupervised and not told every day what a precious little soul he is, playing with my son. That child, making gun noises, and playing so roughly, actually said, "let me go, asshole. I'm here to kill some wookees."
Honestly. Some people are just letting our entire society's fabric rot down to its core. Where are we, if we lack civility, peace, and love for our children.
By the time I came home, the boys were stirring in their beds. Their angelic lashes sweeping and fluttering on their delicious cheeks. Rise and shine, little ones! How I love waking them and helping them dress and brush their teeth. And this morning, we thought it would be silly to sing songs like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke as we dressed. The older one has a charming Cockney voice. Everything went amazingly smoothly this morning. Except, shucks! I stubbed my toes. On days like this, I reconsider our choice to have only two children. It's a daily miracle to watch them grow and change.
After the kids and hubby had left, I tidied up; although they had left hardly any evidence they had whirled through here at all. I started a delicious dinner. I am very excited about it--everyone is sure to love a roasted red pepper and tomato chicken cacciatore. The boys are SUCH adventurous eaters.
After school, everything was organized so well, that all of our extra curricular activities went swimmingly and we had time to spare. A mother at our playgroup was so frazzled--so much to do, so busy, so frenetic. I told her to find her inner Zen and do more with less. Serenity is a daily gift. Although not everyone, sadly, can live their lives with the focus and the inner quiet I am blessed with. In fact, at the little playground after school, I heard some child, clearly unloved, unsupervised and not told every day what a precious little soul he is, playing with my son. That child, making gun noises, and playing so roughly, actually said, "let me go, asshole. I'm here to kill some wookees."
Honestly. Some people are just letting our entire society's fabric rot down to its core. Where are we, if we lack civility, peace, and love for our children.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Brent Musberger Must Retire
There's Fresh Cinnamon at Stage of Life!
http://www.stageoflife.com/StageRaisingaFamily.aspx
Feeling your age? Loving college Football? Think Kirk Herbstreit is hot? This blog's for you!
Hey baby, I want to know, if you'll be my girl?
http://www.stageoflife.com/StageRaisingaFamily.aspx
Feeling your age? Loving college Football? Think Kirk Herbstreit is hot? This blog's for you!
Hey baby, I want to know, if you'll be my girl?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Do as I say, not as I YouTube
Sometimes it occurs to me that M and I are raising our children in the most fucked up way possible. For example, we often say sentences that end in phrases like "the most fucked up way possible." Not only is that ruining their sense of grammar, but it's a little vulgar.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
The Rhymes With Bucket List
Every night (evening. I generally try to be in bed between 8:45 and 9:15.)when my brain is finally quiet (not functioning, mind you, I literally mean quiet. Without children shouting, dogs barking, music blaring) I begin to think about the next morning's Cinnamon. Sometimes, I just go through the incidents, accidents, and funnies from the day. Sometimes, I think about something that makes me wildly angry or annoyed. Occasionally, I get nothing.
Last night was one of those nights. Yesterday was completely uneventful: I think I'm getting sick, so I took a nap, rested, did laundry, rested and did nothing. The things that really outraged me are political in nature, and I try to avoid politics here. And, so...
I am brought back to my untimely ageing.
This time, though, I was thinking about my TV crush and his wife, who just had a baby together. To quote Carrie Fischer's character from When Harry Met Sally, "He's never going to leave her." Sad, but true. I mean TV Crush MIGHT leave his ex-Playmate wife, but that certainly doesn't mean he's going to take up with me. Sadly. Then there is the whole coming to terms with the fact that my TV crush is married to an ex-Playmate. In my fantasy life, in addition to being handsome, he is thoughtful, and deep, and funny, and charming, and not at all self-absorbed. How to reconcile THIS with the fact that he's married to a woman whose film credits include "Buxom Blonde #1" and "Bombshell #1" and "BJ Cummings"? I am pained. Really, couldn't he be married to a slightly overweight woman with a really interesting face and a compelling daily blog?
Though, while I complain about this woman's ALLEGED shallowness, (We don't want to get sued or anything.) I am going to reveal a deep, dark secret of my marriage.
We each have a List. A list of people (must be reasonably considered celebrities. Putting your hubby's best friend or your next door neighbor would be cheating. Not to mention highly suspect.) with whom, given the opportunity, we would each be allowed to fool around with. It's a free pass. Because, hey, who wants a pesky thing like your marriage to get in the way of a once in a lifetime opportunity to fool around with a B list TV star?
So. Now that I have shared the concept of the list, and I highly encourage you to make one, I will share the contents of my list with you. No snickering. Seriously. Stop it. My list is in no order, because of course, opportunity arises when you least expect it.
1. John Cusack (nostalgic romp)
2. Johnny Depp (intellectual, French romp)
3. David Boreanaz (every week in my living room via TV romp)
4. George Clooney (goes without saying romp)
5. Matt Damon (how do you like them apples romp)
6. John Mayer (just to confirm the rumors romp)
7. Daniel Craig(British Bond romp)
8. Hugh Grant (yah, I said it. I like floppy hair. And accents. Oh, just shut up.)
9. Jon Stewart (smart, well-informed newsy Jewish romp)
10. Depends on what Oscar Party I get invited to....
So, the list lacks a certain degree of diversity. But this reflects no personal bias, but rather a lack of completely hot roles for minorities in Hollywood movies. Also, as some one once pointed out to me, my list has no women on it. Thanks for that observation.
So. If you, gentle readers, know any of these handsome gentlemen, and one night y'all are hanging out, and he happens to remark that he'd really like to hook up with a middle aged housewife, don't fail to give him my name just because I'm married. Thanks.
Last night was one of those nights. Yesterday was completely uneventful: I think I'm getting sick, so I took a nap, rested, did laundry, rested and did nothing. The things that really outraged me are political in nature, and I try to avoid politics here. And, so...
I am brought back to my untimely ageing.
This time, though, I was thinking about my TV crush and his wife, who just had a baby together. To quote Carrie Fischer's character from When Harry Met Sally, "He's never going to leave her." Sad, but true. I mean TV Crush MIGHT leave his ex-Playmate wife, but that certainly doesn't mean he's going to take up with me. Sadly. Then there is the whole coming to terms with the fact that my TV crush is married to an ex-Playmate. In my fantasy life, in addition to being handsome, he is thoughtful, and deep, and funny, and charming, and not at all self-absorbed. How to reconcile THIS with the fact that he's married to a woman whose film credits include "Buxom Blonde #1" and "Bombshell #1" and "BJ Cummings"? I am pained. Really, couldn't he be married to a slightly overweight woman with a really interesting face and a compelling daily blog?
Though, while I complain about this woman's ALLEGED shallowness, (We don't want to get sued or anything.) I am going to reveal a deep, dark secret of my marriage.
We each have a List. A list of people (must be reasonably considered celebrities. Putting your hubby's best friend or your next door neighbor would be cheating. Not to mention highly suspect.) with whom, given the opportunity, we would each be allowed to fool around with. It's a free pass. Because, hey, who wants a pesky thing like your marriage to get in the way of a once in a lifetime opportunity to fool around with a B list TV star?
So. Now that I have shared the concept of the list, and I highly encourage you to make one, I will share the contents of my list with you. No snickering. Seriously. Stop it. My list is in no order, because of course, opportunity arises when you least expect it.
1. John Cusack (nostalgic romp)
2. Johnny Depp (intellectual, French romp)
3. David Boreanaz (every week in my living room via TV romp)
4. George Clooney (goes without saying romp)
5. Matt Damon (how do you like them apples romp)
6. John Mayer (just to confirm the rumors romp)
7. Daniel Craig(British Bond romp)
8. Hugh Grant (yah, I said it. I like floppy hair. And accents. Oh, just shut up.)
9. Jon Stewart (smart, well-informed newsy Jewish romp)
10. Depends on what Oscar Party I get invited to....
So, the list lacks a certain degree of diversity. But this reflects no personal bias, but rather a lack of completely hot roles for minorities in Hollywood movies. Also, as some one once pointed out to me, my list has no women on it. Thanks for that observation.
So. If you, gentle readers, know any of these handsome gentlemen, and one night y'all are hanging out, and he happens to remark that he'd really like to hook up with a middle aged housewife, don't fail to give him my name just because I'm married. Thanks.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Man Lives My Fantasy
Why, in all of my dreams, does it go so much more smoothly? And so much less embarrassingly? And end so differently? And, why, in my fantasy does my body look, um, better?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
NEW! NEW! NEW! Parenting Made Easy!
I have another parenting tool that is impossible to live without! YOU will wonder how you ever survived without The Difficult Discussion System: Discs 1 through 100.
My discs cover difficult conversations for every age, every situation. They are all labeled with keywords to help you identify the conversation you need to have quickly and easily. Each conversation is customizable, easy to use, and reusable for siblings. Also available for download on itunes.
A sample disc would be #27. "Going to the Grocery Store."
Soothing female CD voice: "OK, kids. Mom needs to go grocery shopping. Everyone needs to get in the car."
(Moaning and groaning in background.)
SFCDV: "If everyone behaves, keeps their hands/feet/bodies to themselves, uses kind and respectful tones of voices, listens to me, follows directions, does not nag/complain/whine/kvetch/throw any fits of any kind, doesn't touch anything, uses his/her inside voice, and cooperates fully, there might be a special treat at the end. (Bakugan, Pokemon cards, Barbie outfit, piece of made in China crap that is currently all the rage among children your demographic.)
(Slight hmms of interest in the background)
SFCDV: "If children cooperate at this juncture, select track 6. If children continue to complain, select track 8"
Track 6: "I am so glad you guys decided to have a positive attitude and join me on this chore. I know it is not fun to run errands, but this family requires work as well as fun, and I am glad you are helping with the work so that we all may have some fun." (Cheerful kiddie music plays now.)
Track 8: "It is so disappointing to me that you kids have decided to have a negative attitude. I don't think that we will be able to pick out a treat at the end of our shopping errand. I know that it is not fun to run errands, but this family requires work as well as fun, and you have made a choice that takes away some of our fun together. Now, we are still going to the grocery store, but if you continue to complain, I will have to take away other privileges, and we will all be able to have even less fun. So, you have a chance now to turn your attitudes around before you have further punishments." (Soothing new age music plays)
I think this sample demonstrates the universality of certain conversations every parent has OVER AND OVER. It simply makes no sense for every parent to repeat him/herself every time the grocery store errand, for example, arises. The calm voice, scripted by child development professionals, prevents frustrated parents from cursing, swearing, idly threatening, or losing their tempers. Thus, children are raised with consistent discipline, and do not have to be yelled at by enraged parents. Frustration on all sides is eased. Additionally, the new age music for the negative reaction tracks is scientifically proven to soothe, relax, and enhance compliance in children. Parents no longer have to sigh exasperatedly, freak out, claw at their hair, or in any way endure the stress of parenting! Simply get into the car, fasten your child's seat belts, and play the track appropriate to your situation. The Difficult Discussions CD System will handle everything from there! It's that easy.
Other conversations addressed with the DDCD System include:
"It's Time for Bed"
"Have you done your homework?"
"Pet responsibilities, parts I and II"
"Respecting our siblings--physical behaviours"
"Respecting our siblings--verbal behaviours"
"Candy is not a snack"
"Chores help the house go 'round"
"He did it--personal accountability"
And the bonus tracks:
"Dinner is its own reward: negotiating how many bites before dessert"
"Because I said so: No means no."
So, save yourself from rehashing the same conversations over and OVER. Buy the Difficult Discussions CD System now. Have better behaving children tomorrow! Only 10 payments of $59.95! A bargain at twice the price! Do peace of mind and stress free parenting really have a cost?
*Manufacturer assumes no responsibility for children who firecracker live animals or play with fire. DDCD Systems makes no guarantee for your child's behaviour. Use only as directed. Parental supervision required.
My discs cover difficult conversations for every age, every situation. They are all labeled with keywords to help you identify the conversation you need to have quickly and easily. Each conversation is customizable, easy to use, and reusable for siblings. Also available for download on itunes.
A sample disc would be #27. "Going to the Grocery Store."
Soothing female CD voice: "OK, kids. Mom needs to go grocery shopping. Everyone needs to get in the car."
(Moaning and groaning in background.)
SFCDV: "If everyone behaves, keeps their hands/feet/bodies to themselves, uses kind and respectful tones of voices, listens to me, follows directions, does not nag/complain/whine/kvetch/throw any fits of any kind, doesn't touch anything, uses his/her inside voice, and cooperates fully, there might be a special treat at the end. (Bakugan, Pokemon cards, Barbie outfit, piece of made in China crap that is currently all the rage among children your demographic.)
(Slight hmms of interest in the background)
SFCDV: "If children cooperate at this juncture, select track 6. If children continue to complain, select track 8"
Track 6: "I am so glad you guys decided to have a positive attitude and join me on this chore. I know it is not fun to run errands, but this family requires work as well as fun, and I am glad you are helping with the work so that we all may have some fun." (Cheerful kiddie music plays now.)
Track 8: "It is so disappointing to me that you kids have decided to have a negative attitude. I don't think that we will be able to pick out a treat at the end of our shopping errand. I know that it is not fun to run errands, but this family requires work as well as fun, and you have made a choice that takes away some of our fun together. Now, we are still going to the grocery store, but if you continue to complain, I will have to take away other privileges, and we will all be able to have even less fun. So, you have a chance now to turn your attitudes around before you have further punishments." (Soothing new age music plays)
I think this sample demonstrates the universality of certain conversations every parent has OVER AND OVER. It simply makes no sense for every parent to repeat him/herself every time the grocery store errand, for example, arises. The calm voice, scripted by child development professionals, prevents frustrated parents from cursing, swearing, idly threatening, or losing their tempers. Thus, children are raised with consistent discipline, and do not have to be yelled at by enraged parents. Frustration on all sides is eased. Additionally, the new age music for the negative reaction tracks is scientifically proven to soothe, relax, and enhance compliance in children. Parents no longer have to sigh exasperatedly, freak out, claw at their hair, or in any way endure the stress of parenting! Simply get into the car, fasten your child's seat belts, and play the track appropriate to your situation. The Difficult Discussions CD System will handle everything from there! It's that easy.
Other conversations addressed with the DDCD System include:
"It's Time for Bed"
"Have you done your homework?"
"Pet responsibilities, parts I and II"
"Respecting our siblings--physical behaviours"
"Respecting our siblings--verbal behaviours"
"Candy is not a snack"
"Chores help the house go 'round"
"He did it--personal accountability"
And the bonus tracks:
"Dinner is its own reward: negotiating how many bites before dessert"
"Because I said so: No means no."
So, save yourself from rehashing the same conversations over and OVER. Buy the Difficult Discussions CD System now. Have better behaving children tomorrow! Only 10 payments of $59.95! A bargain at twice the price! Do peace of mind and stress free parenting really have a cost?
*Manufacturer assumes no responsibility for children who firecracker live animals or play with fire. DDCD Systems makes no guarantee for your child's behaviour. Use only as directed. Parental supervision required.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Concrete Thinking
So, S has had a big couple of weeks. First, he started 4K and has learned to write his name and be a big boy. He also got the chance to play soccer with the 5 year olds because his coach thought he was a little bit above the 4 year old level. (Which of course, S had to confirm by spending the entire soccer game on Saturday looking at the clouds.) Then, his music teacher asked to move him to the next level class in her sequence.
She approaches me, "I don't think S is really into imagining and playing with us. And the class for his level is really all about imaginary play. Today, for example, I asked the class if the crickets in my pocket made a staccato sound or a legato sound. And his response was, 'c'mon. We know there are no crickets in your pocket!' I think he might be a little too concrete for that class, and possibly, mature enough for the next level. And while I am happy to move him up, I think you really need to spend time at home cultivating an imagination. Where would we all be after all, if Thomas Edison didn't IMAGINE the light bulb? Sure, we need people to build the light bulb, but children are truly losing the capacity to imagine."
OK. Go ahead, and move my child up. And I don't want to be contrary, because I know my child is imaginative. (Actually both of them, are) And, furthermore, I know that I am not simply a parent in denial who cannot handle a constructive suggestion from the music teacher. But...
People wonder all the time about their children's propensity for success; they wonder how successful, imaginative, creative, brilliant, their children are. I hear things like, "MY child can read at the fourth grade level and he's only 5." or "My child is fluent in six languages. Children pick them up so readily when they are 3." or "MY child can hit the ball out of the park in the t-ball league and he just started last week." I understand why parents brag, I probably brag about my children, too. I understand that sharing your child's success affirms your success as a parent. I KNOW everyone needs that affirmation. But, I have to say that when it comes to imagination, my S is not coming up short.
Here's what I got for you, music lady: S doesn't lack imagination--he just lacks the time and patience for your small scale, rinky dink insect in the pocket gag. He has Dr. No, Bond Nemesis, Take Over The Planet With A Death Ray Imagination. He hasn't got time for shadow puppets, he is cultivating big plans for an underwater lair and minions. He's seen it all, done it all, and is on to The Next Big Thing. S is going to be controlling a corporate empire of newspapers, diamond mines, and water farms which will only be shared with those hoodlums willing to part with one hundred million dollars.
How do I know this? HOW do I know that S's plans are on such a grandiose scale and so damn evil?
Allow me to share:
S has had a messy day. Not a particularly accident-filled day, just a lot of reckless behaviour that has resulted in my cleaning up several doozies. First off, he spilled an entire bowl of cereal this morning on the floor. So, I got out the mop and cleaned it up. The mop and bucket were still out, S was playing in the bucket's bubbles (disobeying instructions), and tipped over the bucket. I decided that he could clean the mess of sudsy water. I was very clear, "get out one towel and dry up the floor." I came back to find one WEEK'S worth of bath towels, just folded from the dryer, still warm in fact, spread all over the floor. In addition to the entire family's bath towels, every single rag from the rag cupboard was out. TWO LOADS FULL OF TOWELS WERE SPREAD OUT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.
I flipped.
But, you see, in his evil genius imagination, that is exactly what he had planned. A child with no imagination might have thrown a temper tantrum, or even used my best towel or favorite shirt to mop it up. But only a child with BIG PLANS in mind could execute such hostility with such flair, such panache as to completely send me over the edge.
Me, laying there on the table, with the laser about to fry me in half: "Do you expect me to punish you?" Sam, laughing maniacally: "MWHAHAHA. No, Mama Bond, I expect you to go insane."
Imagine that.
She approaches me, "I don't think S is really into imagining and playing with us. And the class for his level is really all about imaginary play. Today, for example, I asked the class if the crickets in my pocket made a staccato sound or a legato sound. And his response was, 'c'mon. We know there are no crickets in your pocket!' I think he might be a little too concrete for that class, and possibly, mature enough for the next level. And while I am happy to move him up, I think you really need to spend time at home cultivating an imagination. Where would we all be after all, if Thomas Edison didn't IMAGINE the light bulb? Sure, we need people to build the light bulb, but children are truly losing the capacity to imagine."
OK. Go ahead, and move my child up. And I don't want to be contrary, because I know my child is imaginative. (Actually both of them, are) And, furthermore, I know that I am not simply a parent in denial who cannot handle a constructive suggestion from the music teacher. But...
People wonder all the time about their children's propensity for success; they wonder how successful, imaginative, creative, brilliant, their children are. I hear things like, "MY child can read at the fourth grade level and he's only 5." or "My child is fluent in six languages. Children pick them up so readily when they are 3." or "MY child can hit the ball out of the park in the t-ball league and he just started last week." I understand why parents brag, I probably brag about my children, too. I understand that sharing your child's success affirms your success as a parent. I KNOW everyone needs that affirmation. But, I have to say that when it comes to imagination, my S is not coming up short.
Here's what I got for you, music lady: S doesn't lack imagination--he just lacks the time and patience for your small scale, rinky dink insect in the pocket gag. He has Dr. No, Bond Nemesis, Take Over The Planet With A Death Ray Imagination. He hasn't got time for shadow puppets, he is cultivating big plans for an underwater lair and minions. He's seen it all, done it all, and is on to The Next Big Thing. S is going to be controlling a corporate empire of newspapers, diamond mines, and water farms which will only be shared with those hoodlums willing to part with one hundred million dollars.
How do I know this? HOW do I know that S's plans are on such a grandiose scale and so damn evil?
Allow me to share:
S has had a messy day. Not a particularly accident-filled day, just a lot of reckless behaviour that has resulted in my cleaning up several doozies. First off, he spilled an entire bowl of cereal this morning on the floor. So, I got out the mop and cleaned it up. The mop and bucket were still out, S was playing in the bucket's bubbles (disobeying instructions), and tipped over the bucket. I decided that he could clean the mess of sudsy water. I was very clear, "get out one towel and dry up the floor." I came back to find one WEEK'S worth of bath towels, just folded from the dryer, still warm in fact, spread all over the floor. In addition to the entire family's bath towels, every single rag from the rag cupboard was out. TWO LOADS FULL OF TOWELS WERE SPREAD OUT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.
I flipped.
But, you see, in his evil genius imagination, that is exactly what he had planned. A child with no imagination might have thrown a temper tantrum, or even used my best towel or favorite shirt to mop it up. But only a child with BIG PLANS in mind could execute such hostility with such flair, such panache as to completely send me over the edge.
Me, laying there on the table, with the laser about to fry me in half: "Do you expect me to punish you?" Sam, laughing maniacally: "MWHAHAHA. No, Mama Bond, I expect you to go insane."
Imagine that.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Live Long and Prosper?
I had to go to the Dr. to get the girlie bits checked out today. Ugh. Worst. Exams. EVER. But, I survived. I also had ample time to check out all the women who came through the waiting room. There were the super skinny, perfectly coifed Spring Hill Moms. There were some former SHM's turned grannies. There were some women clearly having a harder time of it: raggedy clothes, and damaged teeth. There was a woman in front of me who said she couldn't fill out the registration form--could she not read or write? Had a muscle condition? She was having a rough day, regardless, when they told her she wasn't on the books for today, she began to cry. And I felt fortunate.
And I was trying hard not to touch anything. And reading the brochure on the physician's OTHER partnership--a weight loss clinic. That's gotta be a lucrative market. Then, I was reading Prevention (while trying not to touch it), or some other magazine sitting on the faux Louis XV coffee table, and I was reading about health and humor and longevity and blah blah.
First, I started to wonder if decorator for the doctor's office just Googled "women art" and hung posters of everything that turned up. Then, I wondered if a positive attitude really does affect your health. Then, humor: "laughter heals" the magazine says. A good attitude and sense of humor help you age, cope with disease, and to some extent improve your health. That's great, I think. I'm funny. I should live to be 90!
Then, I realize, that my humor is not positive. It's really a way of living with everything negative and ugly and dumb in the world around me (and in myself, of course). My humor might really be a symptom of a very crappy life outlook. Well, that's not good.
So, I thought about my morning. And how I was a little bit foul with my friend, MT. I made fun of the clerk at the fitness center who was trying to explain her billing policy with bank transfer. First off, there was no way I was going to give this mental giant my bank information. Second, her nose hair was very distracting. Third, she did this REALLY ANNOYING thing that people do: she pointed to a brochure and read it aloud to me. People do this with Powerpoint, displays, presentations, seminars, and informational sessions all the time. I CAN READ. Tell me something that is not on the freaking sheet/screen. She blathered on and on and ON about when I would have to transfer the money for my monthly bill to be paid on time. The sign reads: Transfer on the 25th of each month for bill to be paid by the 5th of the next month's deadline.
Self Explanatory?
NO. Agony ensues. She proceeds to explain thus, "So, let's say on the 25th of August, you needed to pay your monthly dues. So you would have to transfer the money on that day, for it to be paid by..."
Let me guess--the 5th of September? By the time she finished explaining her bank transfer brochure (which was ONE PAGE), MT's three year old looked as bored as I felt. "So," I interrupt. "Do you take credit card?"
Just stop talking.
She asks if we want a tour of the facility (which is one, big, round room.) We promise not to touch and to check it out on our own. At which time, she points to every compass point of the room and tells us what's there. Thanks.
In the end, I decided not to join, not just because of the permanently befuddled front desk nose hair, but because I'd feel guilty paying to use a cardio room when I have a treadmill and the weather's cooling off, and because I'd only go to one class per week.
Long story, short. I was laughing at this woman, which is humor. But being mean, which is NOT a positive outlook. So am I gonna enjoy great health and longevity or not?
Dammit. I'd like to know so I can plan for imminent death. Or make a hair appointment.
And I was trying hard not to touch anything. And reading the brochure on the physician's OTHER partnership--a weight loss clinic. That's gotta be a lucrative market. Then, I was reading Prevention (while trying not to touch it), or some other magazine sitting on the faux Louis XV coffee table, and I was reading about health and humor and longevity and blah blah.
First, I started to wonder if decorator for the doctor's office just Googled "women art" and hung posters of everything that turned up. Then, I wondered if a positive attitude really does affect your health. Then, humor: "laughter heals" the magazine says. A good attitude and sense of humor help you age, cope with disease, and to some extent improve your health. That's great, I think. I'm funny. I should live to be 90!
Then, I realize, that my humor is not positive. It's really a way of living with everything negative and ugly and dumb in the world around me (and in myself, of course). My humor might really be a symptom of a very crappy life outlook. Well, that's not good.
So, I thought about my morning. And how I was a little bit foul with my friend, MT. I made fun of the clerk at the fitness center who was trying to explain her billing policy with bank transfer. First off, there was no way I was going to give this mental giant my bank information. Second, her nose hair was very distracting. Third, she did this REALLY ANNOYING thing that people do: she pointed to a brochure and read it aloud to me. People do this with Powerpoint, displays, presentations, seminars, and informational sessions all the time. I CAN READ. Tell me something that is not on the freaking sheet/screen. She blathered on and on and ON about when I would have to transfer the money for my monthly bill to be paid on time. The sign reads: Transfer on the 25th of each month for bill to be paid by the 5th of the next month's deadline.
Self Explanatory?
NO. Agony ensues. She proceeds to explain thus, "So, let's say on the 25th of August, you needed to pay your monthly dues. So you would have to transfer the money on that day, for it to be paid by..."
Let me guess--the 5th of September? By the time she finished explaining her bank transfer brochure (which was ONE PAGE), MT's three year old looked as bored as I felt. "So," I interrupt. "Do you take credit card?"
Just stop talking.
She asks if we want a tour of the facility (which is one, big, round room.) We promise not to touch and to check it out on our own. At which time, she points to every compass point of the room and tells us what's there. Thanks.
In the end, I decided not to join, not just because of the permanently befuddled front desk nose hair, but because I'd feel guilty paying to use a cardio room when I have a treadmill and the weather's cooling off, and because I'd only go to one class per week.
Long story, short. I was laughing at this woman, which is humor. But being mean, which is NOT a positive outlook. So am I gonna enjoy great health and longevity or not?
Dammit. I'd like to know so I can plan for imminent death. Or make a hair appointment.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Keep On Rockin' Me
I don't know when it happened, but sometime along the way, I got old. I mean REALLY old. As OLD as my mom was when I was a kid. I know I've talked about this before, but it was a vivid experience this time.
Yesterday, as I was drinking water (only OLD people drink water on purpose. "It's good for you.") in my family vehicle, wearing something that can only be described as borderline mom jeans and a tunic style shirt to cover my slightly overweight midsection, I found my toe tapping to the EASY LISTENING STATION on the radio.
Just shoot me. Clearly, my life is over. Nothing good happens to you once you start listening and (enjoying!?!) easy listening. Nobody has ever had rockin' sex to easy listening, nobody has ever written a fantastic novel while listening to James Taylor, nobody has EVER accomplished ANYTHING while easy listening music was on the radio--except maybe a nap.
Easy listening exists, as I see it, for two reasons and two reasons only: to have music to play in nursing homes and dentist offices that offends nobody; and two, to keep people from panicking in elevators. Except for maybe the music of the Carpenters--their music is still played to remind us to eat a sandwich every now and then.
(Too soon?) I can't even be funny ABOUT easy listening.
So, there I was. At a stoplight. With my mom 'do. My mom outfit. Not rockin' my mom mojo. Listening to schlock music. With my new mom manicure. Holy crap. Where did the reality of my life skid off the road of my perception? Why am I no longer 26? Why am I no longer listening to edgy, "cool," "obscure" bands? Why does the volume in my mom-mobile not go up to "vibrate?"
What the hell happened to my hip? By this, I mean my hip-ness, not my actual hip which is fine, because I'm in my 30s, not my 70s, thank you very much. Yet.
Next week, I'll be watching 60 minutes. And carrying my purse around the house for safe keeping. And saying things like, "when I was your age, we had to walk to school. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways."
Crap. I'm feeling old and creaky this morning. Maybe I should get some Metamucil. Might make me feel better.
Yesterday, as I was drinking water (only OLD people drink water on purpose. "It's good for you.") in my family vehicle, wearing something that can only be described as borderline mom jeans and a tunic style shirt to cover my slightly overweight midsection, I found my toe tapping to the EASY LISTENING STATION on the radio.
Just shoot me. Clearly, my life is over. Nothing good happens to you once you start listening and (enjoying!?!) easy listening. Nobody has ever had rockin' sex to easy listening, nobody has ever written a fantastic novel while listening to James Taylor, nobody has EVER accomplished ANYTHING while easy listening music was on the radio--except maybe a nap.
Easy listening exists, as I see it, for two reasons and two reasons only: to have music to play in nursing homes and dentist offices that offends nobody; and two, to keep people from panicking in elevators. Except for maybe the music of the Carpenters--their music is still played to remind us to eat a sandwich every now and then.
(Too soon?) I can't even be funny ABOUT easy listening.
So, there I was. At a stoplight. With my mom 'do. My mom outfit. Not rockin' my mom mojo. Listening to schlock music. With my new mom manicure. Holy crap. Where did the reality of my life skid off the road of my perception? Why am I no longer 26? Why am I no longer listening to edgy, "cool," "obscure" bands? Why does the volume in my mom-mobile not go up to "vibrate?"
What the hell happened to my hip? By this, I mean my hip-ness, not my actual hip which is fine, because I'm in my 30s, not my 70s, thank you very much. Yet.
Next week, I'll be watching 60 minutes. And carrying my purse around the house for safe keeping. And saying things like, "when I was your age, we had to walk to school. Uphill. In the snow. Both ways."
Crap. I'm feeling old and creaky this morning. Maybe I should get some Metamucil. Might make me feel better.
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