This is the End.

I don't want to be too Chicken Little-ish about this--but the end is near.

This is how I know--it's 7:28 AM. I already want to kill my kids.

This is how it started:
S runs around with Clooney--the time is barely 6 AM. They are chasing each other around my bed, on to my bed, off of my bed, around the corner, up the stairs, down the stairs over and under the table downstairs. (Wonder why S always has stitches in his head?) Finally, at some point, I asked if they could not thump quite so hard on the floor.

Immediately after: the heaviest rope toy we have thumped down 14 stairs.

E comes in and asks me to cut a watermelon for him. I ask about the time. It's 6:35. Who, besides a starving child in Somalia, needs a fresh watermelon cut for him before 7 AM? Mind you, I bought special chocolate chip muffins for the kids so they could obtain their own butt-crack-of-dawn breakfast specials. They can have a nosh and then I'll make a healthier breakfast when I wake up. Or not. But fresh cut fruit waited until 7:17. At which point, I had to beg E to put down his book and eat his much desired watermelon.

He ate two cubes and went back to his book.

Sometime during the cutting of the watermelon, S screams like a girl. I run in, expecting profuse amounts of blood, and find only a cockroach (a large one, the size of a small hummingbird) twitching, gasping in the throes of death and under intense scrutiny from S. E, shrieking like a diva, has already left the room. S is contemplating the thick body, the 'very fragilest antennae' and the desperate, uneven spasm of the legs. E said he wouldn't leave his bed perch until the thing was gone. S said we shouldn't get rid of it that it was 'intgergesting.'

I smacked it and flushed it. End of cockroach.

In the interim, S has had a hugely high fever since Friday. We fought it all day Friday, and yesterday it flared up in the afternoon, as fevers often do. This morning, the poor thing is covered head to toe in a rash. He often gets these towards the end of a virus, but they itch him nonetheless. I sprayed some Benadryl on there and ohmygod, you have never heard such a sound. Apparently, the skin is raw or he's been scratching, or it's not the kind of rash you should spray Benadryl on. But he was hopping and whimpering and screaming, and writhing. (Kinda like the cockroach, actually) I'm blowing and shh-ing and blowing and shh-ing.


In the end, I gave him some liquid Benadryl. Which, I am sure, is only going to succeed in making me drowsy.

So, now it's 7:44 and they've fought about where they're going to play. And what they're going to play. And the dog is tuckered out from the chase of this morning. And now I'm up. And the day has begun.

But it's one of the last, I promise. The Apocalypse will not be ushered in by four horsemen. It will be brought, kicking and screaming, by my two boys trying to ride an 11 pound dog, wanting a ridiculously sweet snack.

That hits the spot

I love Target. Everyone I know loves Target. I also love Lowe's. Not everyone I know loves Lowe's, but that is their personal shortfall.

Target's appeal isn't just to suburbanites like myself. My husband's sister-in-law (does this make her my sister-in-law?) is a city type who treks out to the suburbs for a Target trip. Its appeal, unlike Lowe's, is definitely skewed to women. Mostly, it seems, Type A women. Hipsters, grandmas, college kids, everyone can find something at Target. I think it's so universal that the nickname Tar-jay is unnecessary: no one feels compelled to make Target more upscale than it is anymore. Target is consumer heaven.

True, I have resolved to be less consumerist. To need, want, crave, have fewer accessories and crap cluttering the house. But the thing about Target is I can buy OTHER stuff there, too!

At Target, I can stroll through aisles of bins, baskets, and sorters, visualizing my hyper-organized alter ego. I can imagine cupboards and drawers lined with fashionista-patterned shelf paper. I can see office supplies stored away in tiny paper-clip sized totes. In Aisle 34 I can compartmentalize, label, and stow the disorder, both metaphorical and literal, of my life.

In Aisle 26 in the pharmaceutical section, I can picture myself thin. Healthy protein bars, diet supplements, vitamins, shakes, sketchy products containing 'magical herbs' all beckon and promise me a bikini ready body by summer.

Conversely, in the freezer section, I can satisfy all hormonal and emotional related food cravings. Everything from greasy potstickers and southwestern egg rolls to a rainbow of ice cream flavors and Chipwiches are ready to repair a damaged psyche or PMS.

Over in the clothing section, I can peruse the Target-ized versions of the latest trends. In fact, that white denim skirt I picked up is sure to fall apart after 10 washings, but then again, it will probably be out of style after 8. Tshirts are plentiful, and actually they wash pretty well. And I can always wear more shirts. The ever-useful yoga pants are right there, too. Comfy Saturdays. Solved.

And the shoes? The pleather wonder of the shoes? I actually never buy the shoes. For one thing, there is an inverse relationship between quality of shoe and weight of shoe, such that the wedge heels Target sells can only be worn by people with magnificently strong quads. I mean Mr. Munster had sleeker footwear. But, the kids' shoes are perfect..cheap and crappy sandals for summer? Check. Galoshes to splash in puddles (once)? Check.

Kidswear is perfect at Target. Especially for boys, who really don't care about clothes anyway. Graphic tees for summer? Yup. Swim trunks. Done. A dress shirt for that one night a year when the kids need one? $10 and done. Of course, the ever popular Spiderman underwear and Spongebob pj's are an excellent bribe if you're stuck with kids through the store. "We can get those if you behave through the grocery section."

For whatever reason, Target also has an 'intimates' section. And since I'm married now, and have only bad underwear and worse underwear instead of date underwear and monthly underwear, I can pick up a 12 pack for like $8. Perfect. The occasional night shirt can be found, too, if you're willing to pick through a bunch of Disney-fied grown up sizes (sleep shirts that have a dwarf on them that say "SLEEPY." Not even the most sex-deprived husband is going to want to caress a body clad in dwarfs. OHHHH. Maybe that's why they sell those.)

There's the toy section, but I'm skipping that, because I just can't take the chorus of "I want that" right now.

Finally, I suppose, are the groceries. Every packaged, high-fructose syrup infested, refined-flour having, artificially colored, flavored, preservative-laden food you can imagine awaits at Target. Individually wrapped baked goods, salty snacks that appear to have more salt than actual salt, and every sweet smelling NEW and IMPROVED cleaning agent you can imagine. I do love the new and improved.

I could spend mornings, days walking through Target's glistening aisles. The soothing fluorescent glow reflects off of the clam packaging to remind us that our homes could be decorated with the likes of Liberty of England, our bodies clad by fashion moguls of Izaac Mizrahi, and our kitchens accented with Graves designs. It's all possible. Everything from off-brand plasma TVs to Dora The Explorer umbrellas lies before you.

It's America. Made in China. And I love it.

Today's Etymology Lesson

I love words. I love puns. Last night, the mascot from the Bay Bears rolled his googly eyes at me: kids eating pizza. Kids offer Ted D. Bear a piece of pizza. He shakes his head no. Kids insist. I say, he can't--he's stuffed.

Thanks. I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

So, one word keeps resurfacing this week. Actually, it's just the root of a word. The Greek root of a word. Perhaps it should be my mantra.

Idio-.

Say it with me i-dee-oh. Doesn't mean what you think it does. It means "proper to one" or "peculiar." (Dictionary.com: the ultimate word authority.)

Here are some of its appearances this week:

Idiot: "Particular, skill-less agent" Or, the one of the imbecilic names my kids keep shouting at each other in the back of the car. Even when M and I are doing something phenomenally nice for them--taking them to Steak and Shake and a baseball game--name calling persists. What is their deal? Morons.

Idiopathic: "of unknown origin, particular to one." Or, the 'diagnosis' of Sam's not eating syndrome. (SNES) Idiopathic Constitutional Growth Delay happens to be one of those phrases physicians toss around that sounds like it means something, but doesn't. Shall we break it down? We have idiopathic. Constitutional--well, we could argue that the teapartiers have Idiotic Constitutional Growth delay, but that's something altogether different. Constitutional? His mettle seems above average. Growth? Well there does seem to be little of that going on. Delay? That implies that the growth will happen. Just late. Figures. I'm always late for everything.

Idioms: I do love watching kids explore language. And I LOVE it when they fall short on the idiomatic expressions. For example, Sam keeps asking if I'm grabbing his leg. It took me forever to realize that he meant pulling his leg, as in teasing him.

Idiosyncrasy: Um. Hello? In Chandler Bing parlance: Have ya MET me?

I found some other fun words prefixed with Idio: idiolatry (self-worship, inflated ego) idioticon (a dictionary or glossary of a particular idiom or sub-language) idiorepulsive (repulsed away from one's self, as in heat). Also, there were some fun idiot words: idiot pills (barbituates) idiot's delight (solitaire. Note: no mention of Bejeweled).

So, an informative morning. Let the idiocy continue.

Drum Roll, Please

So, while I confess I feel incredibly shallow for caring soooo much how the house turned out, I am awfully stoked by how incredible the house turned out:

So, if you've been to my house, you know what a turnaround this is. The results were so worth the wait. Even though I didn't lift a hammer on this project, I did work hard. A special shout out to M who didn't say a word about how much this cost. Except for the red chair in the family room. Which was expensive and, "looks like it was dug out of a dead old lady's basement and sold at a garage sale." Rich old lady, indeed.

Some thoughts on S's first day of summer, or the limitations of a capitalist society on the domestic manager

My dad used to say, "another day, another dollar." Which I have amended slightly: "...spent." Not having a grown up job that pays real green American dollars is depressing. When one is gainfully employed in the public or private sector (as opposed to the fantastically well paid and growing domestic sector), one showers, dresses oneself, consumes a breakfast, perhaps prepares a lunch to take along, and commutes to the appropriate place of business.


In the domestic sector, a shower is a luxury snatched during unpaid breaks, a breakfast is snarfed down in record time over the sink so as to minimize dishes, and the commute is just one long circular trip from one child's entertainment venue to the next.

In the real world, one interacts with adults, actively solves problems, resolves conflicts, fulfills responsibilities, sets goals, and is subject to a process of peer review. One's employment performance is rated by the efficiency of goals set and met, one's dynamic with coworkers and management, one's quantifiable achievements as put forth by the workplace expectations.

The domestic sector is an arbitrary process of occasionally succeeding. The expectations are vague at best, impossible at worst. The dynamic is a constantly evolving power struggle. Employment performance is based on whether or not your child matures to become an anti social psychopath or a stripper. Short term achievements (matching socks) are often overlooked.


That life, the external existence is the very core of human experience. Since Neanderthal times, the boundary between domestic and external has defined our very survival. In modern times, this process of offering labor in exchange for monetary compensation and marginal benefits is widely considered a benchmark by which we esteem our fellow humans.

WORK IS EVERYTHING.

And then. Then, there are those of us in the domestic sphere. We, the huddled masses yearning to accomplish something which is recognized as an accomplishment. We, the downtrodden voiceless of the home maker, mother, wife. We, who cannot log on to the Internet or enter an automobile without spending (in varying quantities) money that we did not earn. We, who toil under the dictatorship of wee tyrants--be they toddlers, preschoolers, tweens, teens, or *worse* adult children at home. We, who thanklessly undertake Sisyphean tasks of unutterable futility. Laundry (because every 7 year old needs to change clothes hourly), feedings (because every 5 year old needs a processed carbohydrate every 33 1/2 minutes, cleaning (because no child or husband has discovered that the giant bin next to the door filled with shoes is there to deposit shoes into) and entertainment (because every child needs something to distract them every second of the day, unless he is watching TV, in which case he requires someone to deliver processed carbohydrates on a silver platter).

We, WE who defend Internet purchases because (hey, they sent me an email advertising a sale) and because we cannot take our dastardly mini-bosses out into public lest they humiliate us further. We, who agree that while a $50 pair of shoes may not be indulgent, the fact that this is our third pair this week might be. We, who understand that Lego translates from Swedish into "bare foot piercing pain most approximating the searing agony experienced when Romans nailed Jesus' foot." And that these mini weapons of podiatric destruction must be searched out and removed before inflicting this pain on dozens. And that should these Swedish foot piercers be trapped in the Dyson, they must be removed lest our bosses miss the one blue 2 dot rectangle that will irrefutably transform a rickety stack of bricks into the 3 ion-cannon blasting space ship driven by radical space pirates capable of destroying the universe if able to achieve hyperspace.

WE KNOW THESE THINGS.

We know the nuanced difference between the wanky plea for attention and the gut wrenching scream of an imminent ER visit. WE negotiate peace daily, re define boundaries and political alliances, WE keep the shoulders to the grindstone, desperate to keep our unyielding miniature bosses in relative calm.

WE pay ourselves in Land's End capris and Merona flip flops. WE award ourselves bonuses of TCBY and puffed rice treats. WE rationalize our self denials as necessary for the benefit of an entire family. WE have transitioned from a time of external perceived value to a current de-valued status:

MOM.

We are moms. And our day came and went. And our bosses continue. And like AIG and Goldman Sachs, our bosses have rewarded themselves with a 12 week vacation bonus. And we, WE pay for that most dearly of all. On your toes, moms. Summer's startin'.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaack

So, didya miss me? Didya?
In the post-diluvian, parental invasion chaos, I haven't been to the computer much. Except to visit Facebook, play Bejeweled, monitor the oil spill, laugh at cats in clothing and type up a million sign up sheets, notes to school, notes to moms, thank yous, requests for money, and organizational charts, lists, and calendars.
So, the end of the school year is like tax season for accountants. This year was punctuated with the added emotional burden of S's graduation from preschool. True, we now celebrate a graduation from a school that didn't exist 40 years ago. Our standards have lowered. Let's be honest. More than 60% of Mobilians won't finish high school. We have to get our celebrating in while we can. And while I hope that S (and E for that matter) will be celebrating many more educational milestones, this one was a tear jerker.

In honor of the newly-updated house, I have touched up the cinnamon. It's sleeker, cooler, and more in line with the GORGEOUS-ness of my house. So, yah. The modesty hasn't changed. There will be pictures. Immediately AFTER the housekeeper comes. There's no way I'm posting pictures the way it looks now. It's the weekend. Everyone's been home for like 3 days. Ew.

Also, we are in the midst of putting a new liner in the pool. Which I would also photograph except that the pool man is an unprofessional slacker who has left every tool he ever owned, along with all the parts, accessories and hardware strewn throughout the pool so that the empty pit is a death trap and the surrounding metallurgy is a tetanus hazard. Nice.

And in the end, today is notable for one last reason. It is my birthday. Another one. On the one hand, I am thankful I keep having more. On the other hand, I keep having more. Talk about your double edged swords. To celebrate my birthday, I've made some resolutions.

1. To express myself more candidly. Stop laughing. Seriously. I have come to terms that my opinions and ideas are largely unpopular in this region. I'm not going to stifle them any longer. I'm here. I'm a paradox. The completely intolerant liberal. Love me or leave me.

2. To find more happiness. Stop laughing. I'm trying to reconcile this to number 1. I'm hoping that being more open with my identity will foster in me a more relaxed sensibility. This, in turn, will lead to a lower stress level and a happier moi.

3. I will be more fun with my kids. I once saw a mom bravely eat Bertie's Every Flavor Beans from the Harry Potter movies. She ate ear wax and vomit. And laughed her ass off. I should be able to do that.

4. I will fund pharmaceutical research into making a new medication for myself and people like me. The new drug will have the mandatory 'X' in its name: Chillaxin. Chillaxin is for people suffering from anxiety, OCD, depression, children, husbands, birthdays, insufferable regional politics, unacceptable carbon-based fuel disasters, summer schedules, carpool, lack of carpool, stacks of laundry and housework. Chillaxin should NOT be taken by people who are pregnant or who may become pregnant, as those women clearly need institutionalization. Chillaxin may cause side effects, including but not limited to: incurable needs for naps, addiction to wine and/or hard liquor, intense cravings for cookies, irritability, unexplained credit card usage, and sexual dysfunction. Chillaxin has not been tested in humans. Chillaxin is a narcotic-based product. Women taking Chillaxin will require additional competent supervision for their children. Do not take Chillaxin if you are: single, childless, male, have normal blood pressure, or normal hepatic function. Do NOT take Chillaxin and operate heavy machinery (including washers, dryers and vacuums.) Chillaxin has not been approved by the FDA. But its developers are not afraid to threaten the FDA into compliance.

So, we all have goals. I'm glad to be back. See you tomorrow.