12 Things I've learned after 12 years of marriage

1. Never underestimate the ability of one partner or another to say something insanely stupid. 2. Always assume that if a partner has lied to get out of an obligation, the other partner will blow it within the week, as in "Oh. RIGHT. Friday. We WERE stuck at some work obligation, not sitting home talking about how glad we were not to be out with you guys." 3. If your husband leaves socks by the bed when you are single, he will still leave socks by the bed 12 years later. Cats are easier to train. 4. Asking your husband how his day was and then interrupting him to talk about your day doesn't score any more points with him than not asking about his day at all. 5. At some point in your marriage, you will watch your husband eat a salad and think to yourself, I would rather die than grow old with this person. 6. Children, to be best loved, should be an indistinguishable blend of both parents. One that resembles a partner too much may suffer unfairly for it on occasion. 7. Someone always has to be the bad guy. 8. A sense of humor will not get you through everything. The last laugh is not usually worth it. 9. Couples have been fighting about housework since the first man dropped his spear in a cave. They will be fighting long into the future. Accept your place in this history, know you will fight about it, and be prepared to do it anyway. 10. Couples have been fighting about money since the first woman spent her shells on a new teepee. They will be fighting about it long into the future. Accept that you spent too much on something you didn't REALLY need, and try to do better next time. 11.When people tell their kids that the divorce isn't the kids' fault, they are lying. EVERYTHING is the kids' fault. 12. Don't let your husband know your blog's web address.

The Physics of Parenting

As far as I understand physics, which is not very far, current theories abound on alternate dimensions, alternate realities, wormholes through mulitidimensional spaces, the possibility that our reality is merely a hologram, and a space/time continuum that can be disrupted with a flux capacitor.

Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.

Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."

But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.

First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:

Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.

Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.

Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.

Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.

Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.

The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?

Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.

Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.

THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.

HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)

Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.

HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.

RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!

HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?

RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.

HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.

RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.

HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?

RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.

HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?

RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.

HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.

RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?

HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.

RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.

HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?

RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.

HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?

RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?

HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?

RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.

HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?

RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?

HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?

RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.

HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.

RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.

HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.

RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.

HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.

RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?

HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.

RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*

It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.

On the differences between the sexes

The whole man/woman thing has been rehashed over and over. It's not just that men are able to pack for a weekend in a lunch bag, metabolize whole calorie Coke well into their 30s, and ignore a sink full of dishes for days; men are simply DIFFERENT.
I don't know if I'm more tuned into these differences lately, or if the differences are just rising to the surface, but I find myself asking "who are these creatures? Why do I live with them?"
Men are creatures of habit, that's for sure. Those ratty weekend jeans you've been seeing for the last decade? They're not going anywhere. Unless you "help" them find their way to "charity."
Dinner? Bowl of cereal & beef stew. A natural combination.
Home improvements? If it ain't broke, don't upgrade, repair, repaint, enhance, re-do, remodel, or in any way change it.
Foreplay? Boner in the back. Has that EVER worked?
Babysitting = TV.
Getting dressed up? While I'm scheduling an extra 20 minutes for hair and make up, he's adding 5 for shaving and 15 to watch the last half of the game.

And young men are just as foreign. They wrestle, play with themselves, shadow box, and mouth off in ways girls just wouldn't. They're weird. I was completely right when I thought that boys have cooties. They totally do.

Let me make it clear that I'm not complaining. Exactly. I'm certainly not leading the parade of the normal and sane.

I sometimes think it's like a language thing. I'm American English. He's completely impossible to understand New Zealand accent. He's PC and I'm Mac. From his perspective, I'm a neurotic, always cleaning something, wanting to liquidate kids' college savings for a kitchen, pestering, "Do I look fatter today than yesterday?" lunatic. I get that. I am suggesting that it's simply a matter of where the mind goes. Mine veers left, his hangs a u-turn. We're often going the wrong way on a One Way Street. We wave at each other as we proceed in different directions, equally lost.

To express this difference in a nutshell, the following anecdote:
We drive by the, ahem, Gentleman's Club. Sign says: QUARTER MANIA.

Me: wondering if it's possible to get booze for a quarter, and if so, might it be worth it to venture inside? If not that, wondering how a man would put a quarter (instead of paper money) into a performer's G String. I wonder what QUARTER MANIA is.
Him: OHHH. I thought it said QUARTER MAMA...like a midget performer.
Me: And you didn't think THAT was worth commenting on?
Him: Meh.

Midget strippers. He's thinking midget strippers? Who thinks midget strippers...and doesn't check it out?

Power tool porn

Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.

The Green, Green Grass

On my vacation at my sister and brother in law's house, I've been thinking a lot about life without children. My sister and BIL always have some degree of shock when hanging out with kids. This time, in their house, on their fall break, kids seem especially alien to them. Though I have to say...
...their house is spotless. Everything is tidy, and there are no scuffs on the paint, piles of crap on the desks, toys jammed in closets, or massive piles of laundry.
...their garage is spotless. There are no flat soccer balls, outgrown motorized ride-ons, soccer goals, bicycles, or a decade of marriage's worth of old junk.
...there would never be anything to argue about. I forget about life BC, that it is possible to have individual identities that come together to form your marriage. Life doesn't have to be kid-centric.
...they have a whole hell of a lot of free time. Damn, I'm jealous.
...did I mention the free time? Working out, small gardening projects, reading books, cooking huge meals, watching Dancing With the Stars (fine, I would never do that last one, but still), puttering around.
...they live in near silence. I can't believe, when my kids are at the park here, or out with grandma, how quiet a house is. No dog, no responsibilities at all, and the house is totally still. I can hear the keys on the keyboard instead of straining to hear myself think.
...everything is where they put it. Keys? Have a home. Refrigerator? Nobody rifles through it looking for one last Capri Sun. Closets? Drawers? All the clothes still inside. Where they're supposed to be.
...when you turn on the TV, it is not this morning's episode of Oswald screaming at you. I really like that.
And while everything in their house is not new or perfect or exactly how I am sure they want it, it is clean, and tidy, and belongs only to them. It is not shared with fingerprints on all the windows, greasy smudges on all the faucet handles, cookie crumbs under the table.
It's certainly a different life. Would I trade back to life BC? Probably for a month. Just to remember what it's like to wake up when I want to.

Stress Test--Failed

When I was in high school,my parents always planned family trips for the breaks immediately following the end of terms. Later, in college, I would travel cross country to come home for Thanksgiving or winter break, or spring break--right after midterms or finals.
And invariably, after late night studying, snacking, and post-exam celebrating I would be exhausted, and ultimately, sick.
My freshman year at Northwestern, especially, I remember coming home at Thanksgiving. (as the years went on, I decided that chaotic weekend was probably not worth the stress of an 1800 mile journey). I clearly remember laying on the floor, feverish, achy, and convinced of imminent death. My body never has coped well with stress, whether emotional, physical, or mental. I also have a tendency to push through events with unreasonable zeal only to literally collapse when events wind down.
Last week, there was not a single night where all four of us were home for dinner. I spent Tuesday in the car (from 7:20 AM to 6:15 PM), I wanted very much for E's birthday party to be perfect, S's school open house to be memorable, I had somehow tweaked my back and was unable to sleep at night and, and and...Until Tuesday morning, I woke up miserable. Well, waking up would probably be an exaggeration. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my body ached, and my eyelids insisted on drooping. Yesterday, I slept away S's entire school day. And went to bed at 9. Loser? Yes.
But what really strikes me is how much LESS stress I am able to cope with now than I was eight, ten or (gulp) fifteen years ago. In high school, I was taking 7 classes, running the school newspaper, working on college applications, and NEVER sleeping at night. In college, I was taking 3 or 4 courses, writing lengthy papers, and (ahem) socializing heavily. When I was married and kid less, I was working as much as seventy hours a week, running a franchise virtually alone, and traveling on the weekends.
And now? Now, I'm planning how many cookies to deliver to a 7 year old's party and I am beat, fried, frizzled.
What happened? Is it practice? Is the background stress of being a grown-up so intense that it goes on all the time and I don't even recognize it anymore? If that's true, can I stop being a grown up? NOW? Is it nap time yet?

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.

Midnight Mayhem

There is a recently not-renewed, failing in the ratings, extended miniseries on TV right now. It is poorly acted, poorly scripted, and completely terrible. The plot represents something like Melrose Place meets Survivor. Only rather than getting voted off the island, our characters are individually picked off by a sadistic and really stealthy mass murderer. So, I confess, I have been watching every episode of Harper's Island.
Last night we made the mistake of watching it last thing before bedtime. Then, I had to go outside in the dark all alone, to let the dog pee. When I come inside, M is waiting around the corner and scares the living daylights out of me. In the total dark of the house, he's whispering "die, die, die" as we go up the stairs. In the dark bedroom, I turn on my nightstand light, and he's like 4 inches from my face, making the I'm about to stab you gesture and wearing a psychopath expression. Absolute cardiac arrest.
By now, I have enough adrenaline in my blood to run to Pensacola, and it's unlikely that I will be dozing off anytime soon.
M raises his eyebrows at me in the universal husband signal for "hey, baby..." and I respond with, "doing it would be more terrifying than the movie." And that is his punishment for scaring me.
I tell him that we should hope neither kid wanders into our room in the middle of the night, as I will be in heightened self-defense mode, and will probably knock him out. (Actually, E DID wander in to our room, and I managed to differentiate his profile from that of serial killer, and slept with him in his room for a while. He was having nightmares--and really who am I not to empathize with that? Also, his room has REALLY spooky noises at night.)
Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I can hear M's breathing start to become more shallow and even and quiet. I am feeling bitter that he can just go to sleep unaffected by the terrifying slaughter of a bunch of twenty-somethings alone on an island in the Pacific Northwest. (As a side note, what family knows only beautiful people, consists of only beautiful people, and manages to stay beautiful despite being hunted through the beautiful forests and beautiful rustic towns of Washington State?) My bitterness grows. I am lying there, thinking of the gruesome dis-arming of one of tonight's characters. I am also irritated that I have been sucked into this idiotic show. It's B-A-D. I start silently speculating how many weeks of the show are left, and whom, among the final 7 are going to make it back to civilization. Then, I realize I am STILL awake, and still affected by this stupid show.
So, I sneak up right above M, grasp him suddenly, and give him a scary "argh!" He sits upright in bed, totally disoriented and scared. I feel better about everything, roll over to sleep, and leave him lying next to me, adrenaline pumping.

Do as I say, dammit!

In my life, B.C. (Before Children) I was relatively competent. I ran an office alone, set sales records in my region, and was on track for consistent promotion.

I do not say any of this to brag, but rather to say that my prior success makes my current situation all the more lamentable.

Currently, I am in charge of three "issues" we're having at the house. These are issues I do not usually cover, as they involve bills, contractors, or things usually under the purview of M. But, for whatever reasons, (I answered the phone, got indignant and said, "OF COURSE I can handle it, what do you think I am, INCOMPETENT?) I am shepherding these projects.

Issue number one is the pool. The pool is green. Not tinged green, not green-ish, I mean completely opaque neon pea soup green. According to the dude at the pool store, the chemicals are not far enough off to create said lime jello pool, so that it must be the sand in our filter requiring change. I contacted the pool guy. No response. I left another message. No response. I am in charge of making the pool swimmable, but I can't even get the cleaner guy on the phone! (It's disgusting, no?)

Second issue is a fraudulent charge on the credit card. I have been sitting on hold, arguing with operators, demanding supervisors for two weeks. I am getting the brush off. No refund has appeared on my statement, and I'm getting pretty testy. I felt like I was being intimidating and demanding, but obviously I have not. I kind of thought that even if I am unable to make my kids follow directions, I still had some sway over grown ups.

Third, is the water delivery service. We have ten, count 'em ten, empties in the back, and NO WATER to drink. Granted, this is no huge catastrophe given that there is, you know, water coming out of every spigot in the house (apparently, I have nothing to do with the utility payments). So, it's fine. But, since we're paying for the service, it sucks not to have any of its benefits, for however short a time.

So, what the hell? Am I totally ineffectual in all things not related to laundry or kids? Have I fallen out of professional authority, and lack the skills necessary to generate results from other people? Is it a strange confluence of events where it's not me, it's them? (A statistically unlikely, but more attractive option at this juncture.) What am I failing to do? Why am I tempted to quit altogether and let a man handle this? I concede, I AM incompetent. You fix it!

Maybe I should stick to the laundry, it never questions my authority.

Tempting Fate

Short post today, as I have not been home most of the day:
1. Went to Target without kids. You know how batters in the on-deck circle swing bats with weighted doughnuts on them, so that when they're up, the bat is light in their hands? It's like that and grocery shopping with the kids. You go with them only to appreciate how much easier it is when you get to go without them. M pushed one cart and I pushed the second, and there was no whining, no begging to leave, no one begging for some sort of glow in the dark sugary cereal. So, so, so much better of an experience.
2. Went out to lunch at a new place. We shared a gourmet pizza of dubious healthfulness, had a lovely, ice cold beer, came home and...napped. The beer really helped--there was none of that senseless suggestive eyebrow raising (husbands, we see it, we just choose to ignore it), we craved that nap before the kids had to be picked up from camp. We ran upstairs, quick as newlyweds, stripped off our khakis, and dove under the covers. We snuggled down in the cool, clean sheets, and...slept. For 45 whole minutes. It was indulgent and magical.
3. We have E's friend over for a sleepover tonight. The three boys play so nicely together. In fact, this is one of my favorite friend playdates because this friend has three siblings and is so used to treating them nicely that he includes S in all of their playtime. It's wonderful. Not quiet, per se, but undemanding.
I'm sure karma is going to come kick me in the butt for this, but what a pleasant day. (Dare I speak it aloud?)

Mini Vacay

There is nothing like two days away from your kids to realize that two days away from your kids is not NEARLY enough vacation.
M and I had so much fun in Biloxi. We ate well, he gambled, I sat by the pool, meditating on margaritas and pelicans. I read a book. I slept for 11 hours each night AND took a nap. Now that I am refreshed, though, I'd like to go back and party.
Such is life, I guess. I have been on very few vacations that lasted too long (strangely, those that come to mind involve my children. I don't think I've ever been on holiday with just M and wanted to come back to my "real" life.)
People in casinos amuse me. A little old lady gave me a lot of slot machine advice. A little old man was just bursting to tell some one (me) about the $80 he won. And this random couple told me the machine I just sat down on was never going to pay. People have a strange mix of camaraderie and competition at casinos. Somehow, they are sure it is a zero sum win--if I win, they can't and I better not mess with their system/chair/machine. But also, there is still the common nemesis of the House. Everybody has their strategy to beat it.
We, naturally, didn't beat it. But we certainly enjoyed staying at it! The weather was so beautiful. I sat gulf side in a lounge chair for 4 hours. I got up twice to cool off in the pool. When was the last time a mom didn't have to move for 4 hours AND didn't have SARS? Relaxing. Quiet. Nappish.
I want to go again today.
PLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE?

Statistics Never Lie

Sometimes, it's important just to admit you were wrong and move on with life. E's class is taking a field trip today to Pensacola. That's far. And long. And there was NOOOO way I was going to either A) ride a school bus with 60 screaming kids for that long or B) drive behind said school bus for that long just to herd a bunch of wild midgets around a bunch of overfed semi-wild animals. And the kids are going all that way in a school bus without seat belts. Which, of course, being a negligent parent, never occurred to me until MK called. And reminded me that it was a long way from here. And it was far. And there were no seat belts. And who would be there if something happened?
After our phone call, I was feeling alarmed, and agreed to keep E home from school today and take him to see Disney Earth instead. After all, we were just at the zoo two weeks ago in New Orleans, he's been to the Pensacola Zoo before, and he really likes playing hooky. Then M and my dad started in with their "facts."
As it turns out, in the decade from 1991 to 2001 there were just over 400,000 traffic accidents involving school transportation. Of those, there were 26 fatalities. Of those, 19 were kids as pedestrians leaving the bus and getting hit by another vehicle. So, really saying that the 3 hour ride without seat belts is unsafe violates all statistical likelihood. In fact, saying that it is statistically unlikely for something to happen on that trip is a significant understatement. Shoulda listened to those rational men.
And now, MK calls me to say that her son, E's cohort in overprotectionhood, has pink eye and will be home alone today. And E is behaving like a butt-faced penguin this morning. I would love for him to be gone until 4 o'clock today.
Should have bet on the odds. Dammit.

Universal Balance

So, I'm not Buddhist or Zen or Hindu. I'm not even very knowledgeable about those faiths. But those Eastern disciplines evoke in my mind an idea of Universal Balance. The yin and yang. I'm starting to see glimmers of that balance in my life--in my children of course. First, a definition from dictionary.com:

yin and yang
–noun
(in Chinese philosophy and religion) two
principles, one negative, dark, and feminine (yin), and one positive,
bright, and masculine (yang), whose interaction influences the destinies of
creatures and things.

My first born is Yin. E is often moody and unpredictable. Since school has started, he bemoans his lack of time alone (what five year old craves time alone?). He is pessimistic and worries constantly. Very Yin. S is Yang all the way. Yang is all about earnestness and eagerness. He is on it, whatever it happens to be. He is physical and optimistic. He accepts punishment as though he really understands the concept of justice ("yeah, I blew it. No TV. Sucks to be me.") A complete opposite of Yin.

So Yin and Yang have an agreement at my house. I don't know if it's an actual spoken agreement, or if it's just the way the universe crumbles. Only one of them can behave on any given day. Yesterday, Yang actually helped me clean out the playroom. We swept cockroach body parts, (survive a nuclear winter, my ass. They couldn't survive my kids' psychotically messy closet. It was like a cockroach chainsaw killer went berserk. Limbs everywhere. Ew.) sorted toys, and took out trash. He explained to me all the streets we needed to take to run our errands. He even played nicely for an hour and a half BY HIMSELF, on the ground, at Starbucks. That is some kind of Yang, let me tell ya. On the other hand, Yin was late for school yesterday because of his foul, foul mood. He was whiny, bitchy, and complained about everything. He didn't want to eat dinner, he didn't want to watch the end of Diego Saves the Moon. He didn't want to clear the table. He WOULDN'T go to bed. He was a wretched little boy.

This morning, Yin is downstairs at 7. He is dressed, asks politely for cereal. Holds the dog, takes him out, asks me how I slept, for pity's sake. He is ready to go to school on time, backpack in hand. Whoa. Yin, is that you? Yang, this morning, is in bed screaming at his dad. He does not want the proffered cereal. He does NOT want to play with the dog this morning. He WILL not clear his bowl. He is lying on my bed moaning for chocolate milk. Yang is a pain in the butt today. Universal balance people, it's out there.

Instant karma's gonna get me. Instant, huh? Can we have that for dinner?

The Bloom is Off the Rose

Monday. E toddled into my room this morning and announced he was NOT going to school today. I guess his Kindergarten euphoria was limited to three days of early dismissal.
M has decided to take the day off. He needs a break from his work. He has been working seven days a week this summer. I think the reality of another semester has hit. It begins in less than a week, and he hasn't had a break yet. After speaking to my sister describe the steps I need to take to actually lose weight, I have given up forever the dream of a size 6. S...well nobody really knows what S wants. I just heard Clooney deflate. He misses his kids.
Everyone is flat today.
Weekends are fading into that school year blah. Saturday recovery, Sunday preparation. Laundry up to my eyeballs. Groceries. Blah. Not even preseason football or the Olympics revved me up.
I'm back on to my crime novels. Tempe just sent Mr.-Eyes-As-Blue-As-The-Carolina-Sky home after a break-in at her house. I am waiting for the attacker to climb out of the closet. As ANYONE who watches slasher films or reads crime novels knows, you NEVER EVER send handsome cop home after the break-in.
In other breaking news, I painted my toenails.
I can sense your envy.

Wake Up Calls

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