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May I please have a personal assistant?  I'm not going to go so far as to say I NEED a personal assistant, but pshew, it'd be nice.

I'm not as busy as a lot of moms, true.  I don't have an "outside the home job."  But, I'm crazier than a lot of moms, and lemme tell you, that leaves a lot of slack to be picked up.

Here is my ad:

NEEDED.  PERSONAL ASST.  SALARY SAME AS BOSS!  HRS FLEXIBLE (ANYTIME, 24/7)

• make phone calls to physicians, utilities, contractors that I'm too neurotic to make
• remind me of my schedule.  Do not be fooled by the fact that I have 2 planners and a wall calendar.  I have no idea what the hell is going on.
• force me to exercise.  I WILL play Bejeweled for hours on end, just to say "I didn't have time today."
• plan meal calendars
• set aside "me" time
• organize paperwork
• make to do lists of reasonable length and content.  None of this "re-line all drawers with scented paper" crap that's never gonna happen
• hide the cookies
• prepare correspondence for regular post.  I'll dictate, your handwriting is neater
• schedule nap times, screen calls during naps, maximize my nap efficiency
• remind family members of any upcoming responsibility so they complain to you
• deal with unwanted interactions
• refill my meds

All other errands and responsibilities will be gladly handled by me, your empathetic boss.  I will cook your planned meals, chauffeur to appropriate activities, and do all housework.  I require excellent time management skills.  Forceful, but kind personality required.  Smart asses need not apply.

Security warning

I suppose there comes a certain time when a security blanket slowly declines in necessity and disappears. A time when sleep comes easily on a mere pillow. When good dreams are assured without its presence. I suppose there is a time when that happens.

I just haven't reached it yet.

No. I'm kidding. Sort of. I mean, it's true, I DO have a security blanket. Only now it's not for security, so much..exactly.

When I was a kid, I suffered from chronic ear infections. Nothing comforted, eased, and consoled quite like an antibiotic and my blankie. The blankie was a crocheted affair of green and yellow and white. The stitch was open and airy and Blankie was always cool and soothing on my aching ear. Blankie was a fantastic companion, but mind you, only at night. I, unlike Linus, didn't drag poor Blankie everywhere. For even at that tender age, I understood needless travel would shorten its lifespan.

And to good purpose, might I say. Blankie stayed with me even as medical science cured my ear infections. Blankie spent each day tucked safely under my pillow, and each night as a cool cushion atop my pillow for a nightmare-free sleep. Blankie ventured out to grandma's house and on vacation, but only under constant vigilance and care.

Blankie led a very sheltered life. But an important one. Instead of earaches, eventually, Blankie eased parents' punishment and broken heart.

Blankie eventually moved to Evanston with me. Blankie did a lot of propping up my head while I read away many a winter's night. Blankie eventually went international, moving with me to Toronto. Blankie stuck with me when a husband replaced it as preferred cushion, consoler, and confidant.

Of course, after 31 years, Blankie eventually wore out. The light, airy stitches gave way to holes. The green, yellow white varied yarn faded to a mossy blech color. The nail polish crust in the center softened, but never quite disappeared.

In the interest of preserving Blankie (perhaps the Smithsonian will want it someday), I decided it needed to be retired. Not given away or (perish the thought!) thrown away, but retired. I found Blankie a safe bin in my closet, protected from dust bunnies and comfortably far from the Goodwill pile. Blankie took up good company with its old friend, Teddy, who retired when my first puppy thought it was a chew toy.

What does some one do when she finds herself in her early 30s and in the market for a new transitional object? Knit one, of course. I obtained some purple (if I'm makin' my own, I'm choosin' my color) yarn and set to work. But, let's be honest, people. I wasn't knitting the Mona Lisa. I didn't make beautiful, scalloped stitches. I didn't go back and fix mistakes. I was knitting for speed. Blankie was fading fast--I don't think there was another wash left in it--and the replacement needed to be ready to step up. Quickly.

Well, haste is not, probably, the best quality for a knitter. Purple Blankie cannot be trusted. As it turns out, slipped stitches in a knitted blanket can become lethal in your sleep. I woke up a few nights ago to find Purple Blankie's mistakes wrapped around my neck in an attempt to strangle me. I'm not inclined to find its motives, be they vengeance, feelings of inadequacy to Blankie, or anger at being left under the pillow all day. Whatever the reason, Purple Blankie is out to get me, and it must be stopped. Just look at those traitorous tentacles:

Fortunately, my parents took a road trip last fall and brought me all kinds of crap from the attic of their house. Some of the crap was crap, but there are 3 promising Purple Blankie replacements: None of the candidates are as soft as Blankie or even Purple Blankie for that matter. All of the candidates have the drawback of being partly or entirely pink. None of the candidates appeal to me in that basic, essential, I will cradle your head and make your sleep more comfortable way.

There was a reason those inferior blankies were left in the attic all those years. They suck. However, in these busy times, a woman just isn't able to carve out a weekend to knit herself a new blankie. The blankies sold in stores now are over-hyped microfiber, not knitted covers. The microfiber fails to stay cool and cushiony. It gets all hot and matted. Good for covering drooly babies, not good for guaranteeing my comfort on the pillow. Ergo, I find myself choosing between the losers who didn't cut it as my security blanket when I was an infant.

My life has come full circle.

I'm testing out my options. I'll let you know when one of the losers emerge as a 'winner.'

Oldies but Goodies

After the first few days of school, I've decided that I need a vacation. It's a shocking transition from kids ALL THE TIME to kids NONE OF THE TIME. It's also hard for them to go from daily freedom to a highly structured day at school, but let's be honest: that's their problem.

My problem is that I move from the job of referee, cruise director and short order cook to my autumn job of short order cook, chauffeur, tutor, and launderer. While both jobs have their up and downsides, they are both actual jobs. There really was no vacation time between jobs, either. And I want one.

However, the economy is in the toilet. M doesn't deserve to be saddled with the kids full time as he is going back to school as well. And, I'm not able to go jetting off to Monaco for a week of James Bond-style elegance, high stakes gambling, evening gowns, spa days and sight seeing. So I have a perfect staycation in mind.

Here's what I want: a week at the local retirement home. Yes, you heard me. Nuts? Hear me out:

In the morning, I will be woken at a decent hour. Gently, since no one wants to startle old people lest they wake up and die.

I'll be cooked healthy, low sodium meals. And, if I'm feeling lazy, some one will actually feed me.

Therapeutic massage? Yes, please.

I could have a physical therapist who would come and exercise me while I just sit in a chair.

I could sit outside in the shade and knit, undisturbed.

Nobody would notice if I spilled on myself.

I would not be responsible for anything, ANYTHING at all. I could watch daytime TV. I could eat sugar free bonbons.

I could probably get a sponge bath if I didn't feel like doing it myself. Clean enough. Meh.

I could sit in the corner, petting my dog and talking to him without anyone looking twice.

I could sit in the corner, talking to myself without anyone looking twice.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be sent to any low-rent crappy, pee stinkin' old folks home any more than I want to take a Carnival cruise or stay at the Motel 6. I want an upscale, resort-atmosphere retirement lifestyle. Warm pool, aquarobics, little suite of my own home sweet retirement home. I want meds to bliss me out and chill. I'd like nice, friendly staff who push me around for a walk in my chair. I'd like to sit and do sudoku in peace with all my daily needs met by some one else.

If you need me, I'll be at Leisure World. Sweatin' with the Oldies. Making crafts and eating meatloaf. Without a care in the world. But I'm only staying for a week. Don't EVEN THINK of stickin' me there for good.

Parents back to school: grade C+

It's back to school, here in Alabama. I wish I could say we go back to school so early because our education is longer, better, or in some way distinctive from other places--in a positive way--but, alas. In mid-90 temps, the kids go back to school, instead of waiting until after Labor Day when temps and therefore the cost of air conditioning would be lower, but no. We end school in the lovely month of May and go back in the soupy, hot August. I will never understand.

By and large, there's a good vibe around here about going back to school. While the kids aren't doing the 'woohoo' dance around the living room, I do think there's a general consensus that it's time to do something besides lounge around the house, play Wii, watch TV, swim, and eat bonbons. In fact, if school started later in the day, and the boys could just chill in the morning instead of being herded out the door, school would be mighty fine. Nobody, but nobody wants to get up before 6:30.

I hate packing lunches in the morning. I hate pouring juice, opening the bag o' ham and smelling deli meat before coffee. I don't like trying to think of something new and exciting to send. I don't like not being able to default to peanut butter and jelly. Not that I want to actually kill the allergic children at school with my pb&j, it's just that I'm lazy. I don't like signing a jillion papers and sorting through the 20 fliers and handouts. And I'm not even a kid.

But, yesterday the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. I could hear the refrigerator kick on and off and the ice maker deposit the ice into the bucket. I lounged. I ran errands in a timely, efficient fashion without being interrupted, begged to stop, harrassed for lunch and/or snacks, or having to referree.

I got a latte and ran errands in civilized clothes. I browsed at the shoe store, since I was out, and though I found nothing, I didn't have to hear, "BUT YOU PROMISED WE ONLY HAD TO MAKE ONE STOP AND THIS ISN'T IT!" Which was a relief.

I washed laundry and put it away. I picked up Legos without having a new trail laid out behind me. I went for a walk. I listened to music I like in the car. And when there was no music that I liked, I sat in silence. Life is very different without the kids.

Not once did I get begged for a (unhealthy) snack, did I have to break up a fight, did I have to play Lego or Wii, or in any way intervene in the childhoold plague of boredom. It was a big contrast to the whining and bickering of Sunday.

I ran into a friend at the grocery who said I looked "liberated" without my kids. I felt liberated, too. Like I could enter into a conversation without my children turning into clinging interrupters. I felt adult, and decently dressed and ready to be out "in the world," rather than rush-showered, unmade-up and frantic to finish everything before the kids became unruly. Everything was rather zen and relaxed, and kind of the way I expected it to be on the first day of back to school.

And then some woman had to wreck it. She overheard my friend and me talking about the return of school and what a relief it is to have a break, however short, from our kids and to move through the day as adults. But, there was this woman. Late 40s, maybe, clucking her tongue and reminding us how fast everything passes by. How she's taking her third child off to college. And how her heart is breaking. And how just yesterday, her college student was a toddler.

I GET IT. But, nostalgia, people, is for people who have the luxury of looking back. Those of us with elementary-aged kids, are still in the midst of 'the shit.' We have no light at the end of our tunnels, and feel as though we will be running errands, chauffering to activities and participating as PTA parents forever and ever without end. I know, your college student/adult child grew up so fast, you just blinked and it was over. This is the process of parenting. I WILL, surely, feel the same way when I take my baby off to college, but for now, parents of adult children: STOP TELLING ME TO ENJOY THIS.

Did you enjoy this? Running around to lessons, activities, whatever after school birthday/event/thing was going on? Did you enjoy buying whatever obscure school supply the teachers have sent you scavenging for? Did you enjoy kids growing out of shoes, and complaining about the seams in the socks, or whining about dinner, or complaining about bedtime, or "forgetting" to wash their hair in the tub, or flooding the bathroom, or hating their uniforms, or, or or or? No, this is the grind. This is the elbow grease of parenting that will, someday, gods willing, lead to the joy of accomplishment: having a successful child who wants to continue a higher education and, simultaneously, still loves me enough to want me to drop him off at said college.

There are moments--we all have moments--of pure happiness. When a child is so sweet, so likeable, so smart, so kind, that we never want him to change. But those moments are scattered among the realities of life, and the challenge of being a good parent--oh, fine, of being a mediocre parent--is to remember those moments when your child has left Legos in the tub, or underfoot, or has left food crumbs for the cockroaches, or has failed to let the dog out before the dog's bladder gave out, or or or. Mediocre is my realistic goal. It's back to school, and I'm shootin' for average.

Somewhere over the double rainbow

In an effort to put some space between ourselves and our kids, KH and I decided to haul our 5 total kids down to the beach. We smuggled in our margaritas, sat back and munched on junk food and 'supervised' the kids as they played in the white sand of the Gulf.

As I sat there, crouching under my wind-blown umbrella, I got to thinking about my favorite beaches and how it is, exactly, that I am now spending my beach days in Alabama.

For comparison, I'll use the beach down by my parents' house. It's not Malibu or Santa Monica. It's not Newport or Huntington. It's a small beach, depth wise, but continues on for a nice while and enjoys year-round surfers and sunbathers. I could use my favorite spot in the world, Poipu beach, but alas, I can't even comprehend Alabama and Hawaii at the same time, and if I force myself to, my head will explode.

KH is one of my psycho skinny friends. Despite 3 kids, the woman rocks a bikini. Unlike the women in the family next to us. Each woman was boasting at least 18 inches of combined cleavage/butt crack. They had thick, leathery skin with unappealing wrinkly tattoos. They herded their children around with childish aggression and whined much like their own offspring. At one point, a woman said,"I didn't dig dat hole in da sand fer you to climb in! Git outta der! Dat's my hole."

KH and I burst into laughter.

While these sunbathers were definitely good for the ego, they weren't the most attractive or quiet of neighbors. Then I think of the potential beach neighbors in Southern Cal: Mother/Daughter clones of blond hair, silicone parts, fake tans and nails. Both honed by personal trainers and/or eating disorders into perfect Barbie-esque figures. Guys spending too much time at the gym gazing at their chests, forgetting to work their bird-like legs. All, parading down the beach, adjusting their suits, preening as they seek the eyes of all beachgoers. These people are seriously hard on the self-image. I can handle sitting next to one skinny minnie, but not a beachload of fake ones.

So, there's that tradeoff. I think I prefer the eye candy. At least, I can speculate who's real and who's 93% silicone. It's something to talk about. Jabba the Hutt and Co. weren't really conversation starters so much as a sad, sad joke.

Also, there is the quality of the beach itself. The beach in Southern California is subject to all sorts of liberal, tree-hugging, preservationist, beautifying laws. I realize that Alabama would sooner surrender its Confederate flag collection than legislate environmental protection, but it does have some benefits.

The Cali beaches are pristine stretches of sand, dotted with mounds of sea kelp and mussel shells. Loud, crashing surf foams and races up the beach and retreats in mesmerizing consistency. The beach air smells of salt and drying kelp and marine life.

Things were a little different down at the Gulf. Though the white sand is indeed beautiful, the water on the Mobile bay side of Dauphin Island is sometimes, um, gross. All of the river runoff from a state populated by litterbugs runs into the bay and yields a soupy mix of all kinds of detritus that belongs in a landfill.

The boys ran off to play in a little pool left by the tide. We watched their heads bob and play as they explored as boys often do. But when they came back, they reeked of swamp. S explained that they found a catfish skeleton in the pool. W said the algae on his face was splashed on there and promised he didn't put his face in the water. E had some brownish stain on his pants. T had a cut on his leg. "Where did you get that?"

Shrug. "A bed."

"A bed?!"
"Yah, there was a mattress in that pool."

Oh, hooray. Our kids went swimming with trash. We're a long way from Kauai, Toto.

They're BAAAAACK

Like the swallows to Capistrano, our swallows have returned to our chimney. Actually, I found out they're swifts, not swallows. A subtle difference probably only noticed by swallows, swifts, and REALLY observant bird watchers. This is a chimney swift:

And this is a swallow:

(Don't those swallows look a little pissed about being mistaken for swifts?!)
So, I was supposed to call the chimney sweep last year after the swallows left their nest and headed on their migratory route to Peru. But, you know what often slips your mind in the day to day chaos of life?
Calling the chimney sweep.
To be fair, if I were, say Mary Poppins, or a Dickensian waif, or maybe even some kind of post-industrial revolution activist, calling the chimney sweep would have been MUCH higher on the list. But when the birds aren't ACTUALLY in the chimney chirping their heads off, it's easy to forget that they'll return. Last week, the mother bird, who apparently is a very clumsy nest builder, (appropriately, she found OUR house) fell down the chimney three times. Yes. Three times. Three times, my kids and/or husband came to me and said, "there's a bird in the house. Go get it."

By the time I get to the bird, it has 1) fallen down a chimney 2) landed in a foreign place where windows masquerade as exits 3) been stared at by small, noisy people and 4) been sniffed by a dog, which probably in bird instinct seems a lot being inspected for dinner. (Fortunately, Cat has not been in the house for these incidents.) The little bird is shaking and when I pick it up, its little heart is on the brink of exploding. I take it outside (check for Cat) and wait for the little critter to emotionally regroup and fly off.
When drunk mama bird finally gets her nest built, she'll lay eggs and then we'll have squawking babies in the chimney. They are so loud, it's like having a chorus of pissed off squeak toys in your chimney. At dusk and dawn when mama feeds them, they flutter and compete for her food. It strongly resembles the chaos on our side of the chimney with yelling and competition for attention.

Which prompts me to hope WE don't disturb the birdies: can't you just see mama bird rolling her eyes? "JESUS, people. I just got these noisy whelps down for a nap and you're down there in the middle of the day raising all kinds of hell. Help a mama out and shut it!" So, when mama fell down the chimney for the final time, I called the chimney sweep. Who is coming today. I'll probably be disappointed when it's a two-toother from the country instead of Dick Van Dyke, but whatevs. BUT here's the real problem. While "researching" for this blog, I came across this:

Chimney Swifts are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1916. Nests, eggs and birds cannot be removed from chimneys. However, if you see them around your chimney, be sure to close the damper to prevent them from entering your house.Chimney Swifts are fascinating and extremely beneficial birds, even though their sounds are not music to everyone's ears. Two parents and their noisy young will consume more than 12,000 flying insect pests every day. Unfortunately their numbers are in decline due to loss of habitat-first large hollow trees, and now open and large masonry chimneys.

I suspect that the Alabamian two toother is probably pretty soft on the enforcement of the 1916 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but this leaves me with a bit of a moral dilemma, no?
The moral dilemma has an element of karma thrown in there, too: if I evict drunk mama and her family, will I be attacked by 12,000 more mosquitoes every time I go out to the pool? But, crap. The guy is probably on his way! What to do?! What to do?!? Do I sit and listen to screaming birds for the entire rest of the summer? Do I oust a threatened and beneficial migratory bird species? ACK! I can't take the pressure. I think I should just close the flue and hope for the best. I'm setting up a poll. Vote on the birds' fate. This will have the ancillary benefit of seeing just HOW many readers I've lost since my hiatus.

Lack of Cinnamon due to Ensuing Apocalypse: Film at 11

Among the things--Angry Birds, Smartphones, porn--that have killed productivity, I think Facebook is the worst for me. For one thing, I feel that people are pretty thoroughly updated on my life if they stop by my wall. There are photos, anecdotes, my usual whines; probably more than they wanted to know about me anyway. This has yielded my blog redundant for some people, I think. Also, after crafting witty and pithy status updates, my creativity is pretty sapped for the day. There's not much amusing fuel left in the old tank. And, Freud would be happy to know that a whole lot of my creativity is sublimated into exercise. Yes, that whopping 33 minutes per day of running sucks the impulse to share my witticisms with the 18 people who follow my blog right outta me. So. There it is. The pathetic list of excuses why there has been no Cinnamon for 5 weeks. Also, there was vacation, illness, the saga of Michael's dentistry, parent visits, kid birthdays, TBall, and assorted other crap to fill every moment of my life. One friend responded brilliantly when I told him that kids suck the life force out of us--"the life force is long gone, their just sucking out the marrow of the bones now." True dat. Incidentally, a little earthquake hit Japan while I was on hiatus. While all kinds of people have made insensitive and cruel remarks about this tragedy, I have been completely rapt with the photos, images and personal stories from the events. I am impressed with the Japanese spirit of resiliance and discipline and patience. I admire their preparedness for tragedy, and their dignity in the face of the Worst Case Scenario. No riots, no looting. No distressing images of the worst of human nature. I have found more images of people clutching beloved pets, holding one another, supporting each other in grief than from any other event I can recall. Which is partly why I find American response to the tragedy doubly offensive. Aside from the people making mass runs for anti-radiation drugs, and horrendously inappropriate comments about nuclear disaster, and scoffing at the need for foreign aid because Japan is such a wealthy country, I find the "This Tragedy Across The Pacific Is All About Me" attitude both typical and disappointing. So, I was not surprised by the CNN headline announcing that survival shelter sales have increased by as much as 1000% in the U.S.. First, I am surprised there are survival shelter sales in the U.S. Second, if Survival Shelter sales were as much as 1 in the last decade, then the sale of one this year probably skews statistics. Third, is the Japanese disaster really mentioned in the Mayan End of Days? Fourth, if the Mayan End of Days is really this accurate, then screw the diet, I'm going out drunk, fat and happy. Just to make sure I cite my sources, the CNN article can be found at CNNMoney.com: http://money.cnn.com/2011/03/22/real_estate/doomsday_bunkers/index.htm First, people are putting up to a $5000 down payment for their own personal survival bunker for the Mayan End of Days. People: End of Days is End o' Days. The condor gods or quetzl-I'd Like to Buy a Vowel Gods aren't going to spare you just because you had the foresight to buy a shelter! Your non-believing, non Mayan, small-pox bringing ancestors sealed your doom a long time ago. Second, if you don't feel like you can pony up the cold, hard cash for your own personal survival bunker, then you can reserve a spot in regional superbunkers. These facilities house just shy of 1000 people and you all live under ground together until the End of Days alarm turns off. These are my FAVORITE people in the story. Have they not seen the brilliant Brendan Fraser work, Blast From the Past? Brendan and his parents seek refuge in their shelter after a bomb scare, spend decades under there, and eventually inadvertently re-release him into the wilds of present day Los Angeles. Hilarity ensues. People are signing up to move underground with as many as 899 strangers?!? It's like the cruise from/to Hell. Trapped until the end of the End of Days with fellow nutjobs all crazy enough to pony up money to live in a shelter? How would peace be enforced? How would some one not lose sanity and start offing his fellow bunkermates? How BADLY do they want to survive the End of Days? I'm just saying, that if I'm going out in a blaze of Quetzl Apocolypse, I want to go out with my friends, those people who decided that they would rather weather the worse with me, than survive in a hole with strangers. Even IF it is a luxurious hole: "The company’s reservations, which require a $5,000 fee, spiked 1,000 percent in the week following the Japan earthquake and nuclear disaster. Vivos’ doomsday bunker under construction in Nebraska is bigger than a Walmart at 137,000 square feet. Built to withstand a 50 megaton nuclear blast, it will accommodate 950 people in apocalyptic luxury for up to a year. It will offer suites on four levels, plus a medical and dental center, kitchens, a fully-stocked wine cellar, pool tables, computer room, pet kennels and a jail. A hardened lookout tower 350 feet high will provide a panoramic view of the ravaged landscape, and tight security will prevent radioactive mutant zombies from getting inside." Phew. I just HATE when the radioactive mutant zombies get in. Finally, I leave you with this one little thought about All of this Apocalpyse. I mean sure, the islands of Japan actually moved 12 FEET after this quake, and the Earth's rotation changed because of the force of the energy released, and sure, there's all this war in the Mid-East, and starvation in Africa and Asia, and moral decay in the U.S., but I'm not ready to prepare for the end just yet. There's still a margin of error. Even if some of us are reluctant to admit it: "The company’s website features a countdown with the days, hours, minutes and seconds to Dec. 21, 2012. But that date may be a false alarm." MAY BE. Just maybe.

Auld slang lyin'

I'm relieved that I made, and failed to keep, my new year's resolution early. It really saves me from the crowds at the gym the next couple of months. While I have exercised on and off since my kids were born, I was in a real, um, inert phase there for a while.

Now that I'm back into either walking or 'running' every day, I feel
a) entitled to eat a little bit more
b) more aware of my health in general
c) I should do other small things to be healthful

and, I don't dare tell CC about this, because someday when I'm off this kick, she'll use it to try to motivate me (curse her and her positive motivation):
d) like I kinda look forward to exercising each day.

Shh. It's totally the kind of thing I don't want to get out there.

But don't expect to see me at the gym or the health food store anytime soon.

I have one simple goal, for one simple reason:

I want to be skinny.

For vacation in March.

I finally have a deadline. I hope I have the willpower to make the goal happen. I doubt it, because let's be honest; seasonally available Oreos are both rare and delicious. Also, unless there is a global run on cheese and bacon, there is still a TON of food out there that I love.

I don't want to have abs or anything. I want to weigh 8 lbs (ideally 10) fewer than I weigh right this second. Well, not this second, but what I will weigh in a few days. (I've got the major PMS bloat, which makes me both heavy and MEAN.) This is not an unattainable goal. As long as there is somebody around to duct tape my mouth shut after a single helping of every meal. And as long as somebody invents a calorie-free way to approximate the nearing bliss of cocktails. (Let's keep it legal. Heroin would be great, of course, but the track marks would really distract from my figure in a swimsuit. No matter how much weight I lose or don't.)

Look. I'm vain. I get it. Do I care about my heart? Not really. Blood pressure's fine. Cholesterol is manageable. I visit doctors when I'm supposed to, and promptly ignore them. I don't want to run marathons or be a fitness model, or have washboard abs or be able to wear sleeveless dresses again. I just want the clothes I already own to fit better.

The journey of a 10 pounds starts with a single step. Maybe if I write everything down, I'll eat less.

I'm even drinking water right now.

Actually, that's not true. I'm drinking diet soda.

I need to work on the honesty of my food journal.

I guess I broke that other resolution early, too.
Shit. The whole new year's shot already.

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.

Conspiracy Theory

They're out to get me. It's a plot. A conspiracy. An evil league of evil doers completely set on two things and two things alone: making me insane and destroying my worldly posessions.

Shhhh. They'll hear me. I don't want them to know that I am on to them. They might attack in a new way. Do you think they can read this? Are they online now, watching me?

M made a paper boat for them on Sunday. They set it out to sail on the pool. Naturally, it got wet. S turned it into a wadded ball and put purple marker on it while it was still wet. He threw it up on to the ceiling where it stuck like a spitball. Until I got it down. But it left a purple stain on the ceiling.

See what I mean? That clearly can't happen without tremendous foresight and evil planning? How did they convince M to make the paper ship? How did they know? How did S know to use purple marker instead of yellow or some other slightly less conspicuous color? How did he know to throw it up on the ceiling directly over the TV so that I notice it every time I sit down?

They must have been planning. For a long time.

How did they know that leaving sticky lollipop residue on the cabinets would cause navy lint from their uniform shorts to adhere and leave dark, sticky mess all over my cabinets? How many experiments did they secretly run to determine the stickiest adhesive? The most obvious color of lint?

I think I am being regularly drugged while they conduct their experiments. It's why there are never enough hours in the day...I'm telling you...

Shhh. They're right here. Watching. Always watching.

I just want my theory to be written down. Just in case something (else) happens to me. So there's a record. I think they just put something in my drink...EUYHRIKLFWEUISQWUI#*#(&@$

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Objects in mirror sound angrier than intended

Someone left a comment here at notcinnamon the other day, which just made my week for two reasons: one, hey! A comment! Woohoo! two, he remarked that my blog is so real-life.

And my blog IS so real life. In so many different ways. First, I have bucked the trend of embracing parenthood and married life as just one beautiful, unicorny miracle after another. I'm just not buying it.

Second, as I do in my actual life, my blog just sometimes blanks out for days on end.

Which brings me to my parents, who call and say, "you haven't blogged, you haven't called! We're beginning to wonder."

Wonder what? If I'd fallen off a bridge, been in a car wreck, gone insane, or somehow disappeared, then surely a morgue, a hospital, a mental institution, or a milk container would have notified you as next of kin or asked if you'd seen me. Sure, it's not Facebook, and you wouldn't instantly receive my status update: JULIE "is kidnapped. In trunk of '87 Cutlass, traveling west on I-10, near Pascagoula," but eventually you'd hear about it through the appropriate channels.

In fact, what I have been doing is FAR worse than falling off a bridge. My butt and the driver's seat of my car are becoming molded to one another. It's like some horrible evolution. Instead of developing webbed feet from being in water, I've developed carpool ass, which is changing the contour of my body to be more commuter friendly. Without exaggeration, I pack up my car as if for a road trip: water (it's a bazillion degrees out and I'm giving up soda), protein bars (trying to eat healthy and don't want to just grab junk), Kindle (reading in carpool line slows imminent mental dulling), walking shoes and clothes (for exercising during carpool, but I don't want to run errands in the Springhill Walker uniform, so I pack it and change behind the reflective dashboard solar blocker thingy), cell phone (so as not to be incommunicado), calendar (to schedule more crap to do during the upcoming days/weeks/months), cooler with snacks and cold drinks for kids, music class materials (for S, not me), lap desk (for E to do homework during S's music class), reusable grocery bags (to save the planet), insulated grocery bag (so everything I just bought doesn't spoil in bazillion degree heat), library books to return, coupon folders, extra car seats, baby wipes, car wipes, umbrellas--you name it, I've got it. And I'm schleppin' it around because I just NEVER KNOW. How is this possible? When did I become this person? Where did the day go?

It's not like everything in the day is slavishly devoted to my family and my errands, and my kids. But, if I want to visit with friends, or meet for coffee, or have lunch out, I have to wedge it into the day with a crowbar. And, the worst part is, I don't have an out-of-home job! HOW is everybody doing it? What is it that everyone is neglecting that is suddenly going to explode from neglect and bring us to our knees? Am I the only one worried? Am I the only one waiting for Martha Stewart to show up and say, "Hmmm, I see you have not been following the six month plan for rotating your furniture cushions. Just go ahead and throw that couch away now. It's gonna be useless." What am I forgetting? I have to be forgetting something, because right now I'm functioning like a super-saturated solution. Everything's going along ok, as long as no one adds one more crystal of sugar. Cuz then we're doomed. Everything's going to come to a grinding halt, and we're going to be paralyzed in a maze of rock candy.

So, no I didn't call. No, I haven't blogged. I haven't updated my Facebook status. (To my current knowledge I still may be "waiting for the weekend! Or "wishing summer would end!") My butt has melded to the seat in my car, and I can't move. I'm supermom! I'm doing it all and loving it. Right? RIGHT?!?

It's all about perspective

This has NOT been a good week for me, as you know if you have Facebook. There were missed appointments and failed chemistry, over-schedules, under-schedules, nourishment mishaps and general chaos.

By Saturday, I was nearly fetal, rocking in the laundry room, wondering what the hell had happened. The week started off okay. Boys went to school, things were good. And by Saturday, the laundry had clearly embarked on a breeding program that pandas should learn from, the domestic Lego factory has exploded, S is drawing on walls, and my brain chemistry is about as stable as Chernobyl.

Getting to total insanity isn't an instantaneous leap. It's a journey. Wednesday certainly represented stop 1. At that point, it finally became clear that E needed a haircut. Unlike S, whose hair is fine and wispy and curls only at the ends in a most charming 1970s, Greg Brady sort of way:

E's end-of-summer hair is all thick and unruly and not so much attractive, and may have some sort of avian nesting in it, a la high school Greg.
I always cut the boys' hair. Usually, everything turns out ok. But, I think because the cut involved a total reshaping of their hair, things got out of control. In a hurry. The boys look like they encountered a strung-out Flowbee in a back alley.

Flowbee 1, Boys 0.

Unfortunately, the bad haircut epidemic spread like Swine Flu. M's normal easy-peasy clipper 'do looked more like Wrigley Field's checkerboard outfield than hair. While a groundskeeper would have been proud, M is not terribly fond of the effect for the first day of classes.

In the end, they'll have to do what everyone with a bad haircut has to do: wait. Wait. WAIT for it to grow.

At least I learned my lesson for the week. I pretty much gave up after that. I started no projects, undertook no crafts. Because, apparently, when you're off, you're really OFF. The bad news for E is that I didn't figure it out until his hair looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and Calvin.

Yup. That's about it. Poor thing. Oh, well, I don't feel TOO bad about it. And this probably makes me the worst woman, mom, human in history (well, maybe not worse than Hitler, or Attila the Hun, or whoever invented reality TV) but It's not my hair, after all.

If it were MY hair, this would be a MAJOR EFFING TRAGEDY.

A lesson on appreciating what you don't have until you have it

Stop me if you've heard this one before....2 kids walk into their bedrooms....

(Drum Roll)

...And don't sleep!

Last night, I slept so hard, and so thoroughly, that at one point I had to pee, and did so without completely waking up. My dreams were epic-length, and good (for a change) involving Hawaii and mai tais. When the alarm went off this morning, I felt stoned, deep in sleep.

All of this, of course, is refreshing. But it only happened because of the hellish night before:

At around midnight, I hear S coming down the hall. He is pulling his gigantic down comforter across the floor. I can hear him dragging it, not because goose down is especially noisy, but because it is laden with Lego pieces and it is slowly shedding them on the hardwood. I hear S awkwardly open my door knob (door knobs are tricky when you should be asleep) and proceed into my room, thumping down on to the floor by my bed. I hear Clooney sigh in confusion? annoyance? fatigue as S tackles him, reels him in and grasps him in a headlock.

Silence returns.

Moments later, I hear E's door open, E's "stealthy" footfalls on the floor, traipsing into my room, attempting to climb over his brother, and into my bed. I whisper-yell him onto the floor, "down there, with your brother. No room up here." The Clooney sighs again, S scoots to a side, E tucks in under the comforter.

Silence returns.

Clooney begins to whimper and cry. He is hot. He hates being stifled under a giant dead goose, and wants to be set free. I whisper-yell to S to set the dog free. His paws click click click over the hardwood, mute as he travels over the rug, and click click click again as he looks for a cool place to stretch out.

Silence returns.

I have to pee. Navigating the bodies on my floor, I proceed to the bathroom, slam my shin into an open drawer, and stare confusedly at the empty toilet paper dispenser. Half-sleep is no time to be looking for refills. Kleenex it is, then.

Silence.

S wakes up and panics when Clooney is no longer in the broiling death grip. He rises, and searches the room for his furry sidekick. His whisper calls to the dog increase in pitch as he begins to panic, and whisper-yells at me: "Clooney's gone. He ran away."

While I am too befuddled to explain that Clooney lacks apposable thumbs and therefore is unlikely to have escaped from a house where the only exits have door knobs, I stammer through a guarantee that in fact, the dog surely must be home.

Stumbling. Searching. More looking for the dog. "HERE HE IS." As expected. I hear, in the dark, Clooney's put-out sigh as he is again captured and returned to his own personal sauna.

4 AM. Suddenly, I am awake. Very awake. I remain this way for 35 minutes before dozing off again.

6 AM. Alarm. My sleep, awkward, interrupted and shallow, is over. I round up dopey children to start another day. Another in a seven-year-long string of cranky days caused by irregular, unreliable sleep.

The children are difficult to rouse. There is a Hansel and Gretel trail of Legos leading from the floor-comforter back to S's bed. The night of musical chairs has taken its toll. Perhaps, but not necessarily the most annoying thing happens as M rises:

M goes into E's room and calls, "E must have slept in S's bed last night." M's footfalls proceed down the hall to S's room: "Wait. There's nobody in here, either. Where is everyone?"

Not only had he not heard the night's busy goings-on, he managed to walk by the little bodies on his way to rouse them. While I can't quite put my finger on why, that seems unfair.

When Mother Nature calls

First, I'd like to attribute my absence to something interesting or dramatic. But, mostly the reason is lame: it's hard to be funny or creative when it's hot and my baby went off to kindergarten, and I have a cold. Poor me.

On the other hand, now that the boys are liking school, I am feeling funny and creative again. Laugh, dammit.

Recently, M and I have been discussing the vehicle situation. His car, at 11 years of age, is ready to be sent to the bullpen for back up use. It is going to be used in middle relief for his dad when he comes for the winter. M is going to be using my car for the winter since a) it's leased, and could use fewer miles b) I like new getting new cars. Let's be honest, it's mostly b.

In our effort to reduce costs, reduce our carbon footprint, and set a good example for our children, we have been looking at smaller vehicles. Jetta Sportswagon (oooh. It has sport in the name, it must be zippy!)

However, this last week of carpool has me changing my mind. For example, if I want to pick up 2 kids (a pair of friends' siblings, maybe, or a friend for each boy), I couldn't do it. And more important, if carpool continues to involve ME waiting on the street for an hour before school lets out, I don't want a small carbon footprint. I want comfort!

I want to watch TV, take a nap, snack, maybe play solitaire, listen to music, organize my photos, really anything that will keep that hour from being a galactic waste of my life:

Yah, that's more like it. I could stretch out, snooze. Catch up on some DVD watching. Maybe check in on Oprah. Much more luxurious.

But, today, I was in carpool line and had a different thought. What I REALLY needed at that point was luxury of an altogether different variety:

So, I have proposed to M a different type of utility vehicle, I'm setting a new trend in mom-mobiles. I say screw carbon footprint, screw less-is-more, screw the planet. There are some certain necessities I should have while sacrificing my time for my children. I should be able to utilize that wasted carpool hour to live life to the fullest.

I mean look at this, I can enjoy a fake fire on rainy days, check out my widescreen tv, have some wine, start dinner, enjoy the view, whatever. I mean, hell, I could VACUUM if I were so inclined. My friends and I can visit, let their babies play on the floor. THIS is the vehicle of the future for moms of the USA. No more stinky gyms to wait in, no more cramped waiting rooms at doctor's offices, no more unpleasantness, no more coolers to store groceries while you run other errands--use the fridge! Schlep your kids in luxury. One child can do homework at the table while the other finishes piano lessons. Prepare dinner while watching a live HD feed of TBall practice. The versatilty, the convenience.

I'm sold. Look for me around town. Honk and wave. I'll be in the cockpit of this bad boy:

Parking could be a bitch, but it's totally worth it.

Motivational Me

This morning, before God was awake, S came running into my room, chasing Clooney in wooden dutch clogs, on steroids, followed by a herd of elephants, a gaggle of geese, a troupe of howler monkeys, and a 1980s hair band cranked to "11."
It was going to be that morning. So, I politely send him to his room, and advise him that there will be punishment for slamming the door.
And in his most adult voice EVER, he says, "Well, thanks for telling me!" and slams the door.



I'm in the shower. Nude. Soapy. Thinking, mistakenly, that perhaps the 7 minutes it takes me to shower could be moments spent alone. E comes in, snivelling and crying, with a touch of whine and cheese thrown in for good measure. "Please tell S to turn off my light and get out of my room so I can sleep." If, by sleep, he means silent kung fu against invisible opponents of a Bakugan/Pokemon/Ben 10 hybrid enemy, then sure. So, I scream out of the shower, "S! Get out of your brother's room. He wants to go back to bed! You've awoken everyone in this house by running around with the dog! LEAVE! YOUR! BROTHER! ALONE!" That'll do it. Screaming things from the shower, where children know you are incapable of quickly darting out and catching them in mid-evil doing, has always worked in the past. Right?
As I am drying off, and have slammed the door to the bathroom shut with my drippy foot, S comes barging in, T-shirt half on: "Did it ever occur to you that I was tired, too?"



I'm sorry, S. Was my sleeping waking you? While I have plans to entertain them with friends and food and swimming and everything unicorny and rainbowy and chocolate chip cookie and milky, sometimes I have to question why I torture myself? There comes a point when even the softest, newest, most naive, most emotionally invested, by-the-book social worker would understand seeing children bungee corded to the luggage rack at 65 on the highway outta town with me holding an open container and crack.
*Thanks to photobucket.

When you're hot, you're not

Just when you think you've got it wired. They. Keep. On. Coming. Back.

So, sometimes you think your kids/pets/husband really like something. My dog has two favorite non-squeaky toys, duck and frog; my husband well, you know; and the kids have a favorite restaurant, outfit, plan of attack. I'm anticipating it. I'm prepared. I'm ready.

Here comes the curveball.

I've done it right, a few times, but not many. For example, when S was teething, he really liked these $1 orange squirty trucks to chew on (much like the dog, actually). My mom, sensing his affinity for these, cleaned out the dollar store's supply of squirty orange trucks. Those suckers were EVERYWHERE. Under car seats, in restaurant booths, wedged in crib rails, EVERYWHERE. He loved those. In fact, they were such a significant part of his life that I saved one in his baby box. We will preserve the memory of the orange truck for future generations.

But, despite the success of the orange truck episode, I've had more than a few failures. Yummy crust chorken? Kids LOVED it. Thought it was chicken, when it was actually pork, hence the name, but they loved it. A good dinner standby. Hand-panko breaded, lightly fried in olive oil, served with a pasta of some sort. Everyone was happy.
Until they weren't. Last week, yummy crust chorken was greeted with moans, groans, and temper tantrums vowing never to eat again. WTF did chorken ever do to them?

Comfiest shorts EVAH were another failure. S loved them--elastic waistband, lotsa pockets, soft, comfy. Not awful and the worstest like those other shorts. Until, apparently, the Velcro on the rear pockets became too much to endure. Now I've got a drawer of outcast shorts whose butt pockets have the misfortune of closing.

I have heaps of no-longer liked Goldfish crackers, not-so favorite frozen Go-Gurts, rejected half-boxes of frozen waffles, flip flops abandoned and forsaken, reject Legos that are of a worser kit. Haphazardly rejected former friends. Old necessities forgotten like last night's trash.

What is with the switcheroo? How does something go from must-have to dust-shelve so quickly? How are such fickle children ever coached into semi-permanent conditions such as loving their parents? Each other? A future spouse? How do goldfish won at carnivals survive? Why don't those poor things just cast themselves into a toilet upon their first opportunity--knowing, surely that they will be starving in 48 hours when their winner/child grows weary of their very existence? Dogs, cats, rabbits, rodent pets everywhere should be training to learn new tricks, dances, MAGIC routines to try to engage those flighty children for just a day longer. Another moment of sustained interest... poof.

We promised each boy a "big boy" room upon his entry into kindergarten. E got a room featuring scale actual photographs from Voyager of all the planets and sun (including the planet-ling, Pluto, which was at the time of the installation of said photographs, still a planet). They're those Post-It adhesives that peel off without damaging the walls (who's thinking long term?). The room is dotted with glow in the dark stars, and has a 64" hand painted (by moi) headboard of the planets and solar system that glows in the dark. Would you not have considered this the coolest room EVAH?

Well, I am sure it is about to be the UNCOOLEST room, evah, because brother is getting his room redone in honor of kindergarten. It's light gray, features new distressed black furniture, and is going to feature a 6' Millennium Falcon and a 4' Death Star. I think actual planetoids are going to pale in comparison with fake ones proven to destroy Alderron.

But, no matter, because E will be able to move into the coolest room EVAH,because S has decided he doesn't like sleeping in his room anymore. S, who would not, for love or money, sleep on the floor in the hotel room on our vacation last month, has decided the only place he feels comfortable sleeping is on the floor immediately adjacent to my bed.

So, let me sum this up for you, in case you are confused:

• Former coolest room ever decorated with actual space-science stuff = no longer cool & older child's stuck in it
• New coolest room ever, decorated with life size characters from Star Wars = abandoned. Resident of former coolest room ever wants to occupy new coolest room ever, while actual resident of current coolest room ever wants to occupy my floor
• Former my room = camp. Younger child has forsaken furniture and wants to sleep with his dog on my floor with blankie, comforter and pillow, risking life and limb to sleep next to me, who nearly steps on him during my 47 nightly pee breaks

Clear? Crystal. My family is nuts. I don't even know why I try. I should wake up every morning as though I am a droid and my memory of things past should be erased. A blank slate. "What cereal do you like?" "Duh, mom don't you know?!?!"

I have no freaking clue.

Going back for more

Some people say the definition crazy is to repeat the same activity, expecting a different outcome. Maybe. I dunno. But if not crazy, then it as least, rather dumb.
And yet.
In July, the family will be heading out to Southern California for 10 days. Southern Cal never changes, so it's not exactly a favorite tourism spot for us, it does have the benefit of family. And FAMILY = BABYSITTERS. They're like fresh recruits. New blood.
M and I had entertained the ideas of going to Vegas for a couple of days sans kids from there, or to San Diego for a baseball game and an overnight break, we decided, in the end, to TAKE THEM WITH US.
So, now we are going overnight to San Diego with the kids. In a hotel room. Walking distance from the stadium. The night before we travel home.
As M is booking the room last night, I am thinking that we are completely nuts. Off our rockers. Are memories so short that we don't remember the acute pain and suffering of the last trip? Are we gluttons for punishment?
I have spent this morning surfing around for a nice getaway for the two of us. Maybe Santa Barbara or Cabo San Lucas? Maybe we'll revisit the Vegas issue. But, I can't just lie down and be mowed over by kids on the rampage in San Diego, can I?
I have 'sucker' tattooed on my forehead, don't I?

There's Lazy and then there's LAZY.

In my eternal quest to lose weight, I found this completely shady quack of a doctor who runs a 'weight loss clinic.'

Ironically, said physician is obese. He has a nurse who takes vitals, and calculates BMI. He meets with each patient for the initial visit, and if the BMI is above 'normal' will prescribe any legal weight loss drug, which he keeps in his office, already packaged. All in exchange for a nice crisp $100 bill. Cash.

Perfectly on the up and up, no?

So, around February, I went for a refill. Which, amazingly, I got from the nurse! Awesome. Hopped up on the scale, got my refill, paid my money and went on my way.

But now, I'm out. And, like a junkie, am thinking of new ways to get my fix. According to the scale, I fall under the parameters of "normal." I was thinking about finding a friend to go, and get the script for me, but then I realize, I would be telling her that she's fat enough to get a drug, while I am not. And I can't really think of any one who would go do that for me after I've called them fat.

So, I'm telling CC my predicament. (If only CC weighed 100 pounds more, she could go get me a refill.) And I tell her I have a new plan: I have these ankle weights...

CC, an exercise buff and Skinny Minnie gets all excited. "Hooray! You could walk early in the morning before it gets hot. That would be great for you."

Sorry to disappoint, but I was thinking more like putting the weights on under my jeans and drinking a gallon of water so that my BMI was pushed out of 'normal' for the weigh-in.

CC's eyes register the cheat. The energy I have spent calculating an easy fix could easily have gone towards legitimate exercise or healthier menu planning. She shakes her head upon its slender neck. "You're nuts." she says.

Which is true. Do you think there's a quack out there running a 'psyciatric clinic?'

Forecast

My biorhythms are off. There's a whole lot of evidence that points to my being out of synch. Including the fact that I had to retype rhythms like 15 times because I couldn't spell it correctly.
Everything is off today. My ears are all echo-y. The kids are squirrely and it's pissing me off in a disproportionate fashion. M snuck up on the kids and me at breakfast and BOO!'d us. It actually just pissed me off.
I've gone through the usual suspects. But I've taken my medication. I'm not hungover. I don't think I have a cold. Which leaves only one possibility.
Oh, no.
Dread.
Crap.
PMS.
Perfect Month, Shot.

I think for a while, doctors were prescribing Yaz (or another medication with an X or a Z) for people with severe PMS. But I think they found that caused people's hearts to explode or something. They actually have a term for severe PMS, (though doctors have a term for everything) which is PMDD. Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder.

I love that. PMDD. Because BFH (bitch from hell) just doesn't have the same clinical ring to it, does it?

Well, my PMDD is flaring up. And like other things that flare up--herpes, hemorrhoids, shingles--my self-diagnosed PMDD is making me cranky. I can't even stand myself. Lesser humans might as well start beating themselves with shovels when they see me. Save me the trouble of having to go get my shovel.

I'm very very intolerant. And mean. OOOOOO-WEEEEE. Mean. Like one of those horrible rodent things...badgers or wolverines. Snarly, even.

Today's plan was to:

1. Wait for the painters who have come to fix the flood (finally)
2. Pick up the house just a bit
3. Run a load of laundry
4. Shower
5. Head over to the Eastern Shore to let the kids play with friends in the fountains there
6. Pick up something easy to make for dinner
7. Make dinner
8. Go to bed

Today's plan has been amended to suit the shift in my mood:

1. Where the hell are the painters? It's 9:20. I went down to the paint store in the Loop at 6:40 this morning to make sure they had paint to use. The least they could do is get here during business hours.
2. The housekeeper was here YESTERDAY, for chrissakes. How could there be crap to pick up already? We weren't even HOME for most of the day. Ingrates. Slobs. They should pick up after themselves.
3. Heaps. Mounds of laundry. I'll run some towels. At least they don't need to be ironed.
4. Ugh. Shower means hair wash. Hair wash means blow dry. Blow dry means actually taking cool air, heating it, and then blowing it back into the house where we pay to have it cooled back down again. When it's a million and half degrees outside. Sounds like a BRILLIANT idea. But, of course, if I don't blow dry, I go outside looking like a homeless person or Courtney Love. And since I already have a face breakout rivaling that of a hormone-riddled teenager, I should probably stay away from the whole grunge ensemble. I'll look like a meth addict.
5. Herd the little ingrates into the car. Pack the little ingrates' clothing. Make sure there's sunblock so the little ingrates don't get skin cancer. Pack food so the little ingrates don't starve. Haul them across the bay while listening to them bicker and squabble in the back seat. Listen to them complain about how cold the water is/how hot the sun is/too many kids to play in the fountain/not enough kids to play with. Drive ingrates home. Listen to them bicker and snipe in the back seat.
6. Pick up something easy for dinner. "I don't like that. I won't eat this. I want to eat bubble gum ice cream with cookies for dinner." Bring food home. Make dinner. Beg and bribe ingrates to eat dinner. Clean up dinner.
7. Drink. Alcoholic beverage consumption does not actually need to be put on the To-Do list of a non-alcoholic. However, as I am beastly unpleasant to be with (even for myself) a cocktail is an imperative. There might even be more than one. Drink is definitely on the To-Do list of some one suffering from self-diagnosed PMDD.
8. Go to bed. With a heating pad, no doubt. By 9. Yell at the kids who won't be asleep before me. Toss and turn with nightmares generated by the foul vapours of my own body chemistry. Hope for the best.
   

Tomorrow's forecast: ominous, dark, unpredictable thunderstorms of illogical ranting and raving. Followed by irritability and crankiness for the next 5 to 7 days. Then, clearing. Partly sunny. But only partly--did you expect miracles?

Let's do THAT again

You know how when you watch something weird on TV, you think, "that's weird. Why would any one spend their time on that? Like rhythmic gymnastics? Or synchronised swimming? OK. The effect is cool, but wtf?"

Those women spent hours in sequined, ride-up swimsuits with noseplugs and swimcaps so they could tread water at the same time? Wha?

This is how I feel about family vacations. We spent hours planning, cajoling, begging, bribing, rewarding, so we could take the kids to see stuff we hope they'll like/learn from/enjoy. Wha?

The trip to New York began with hours on the Internet and Google Maps. How far from here to here? How long can we spend there? What is the rating for this attraction? Is this age appropriate? Is this too far to walk? M spent time poring over the subway map. Which train? Which transfer? How long to get there? Yankees tickets or Mets? Afternoon or evening? Weather forecast? Seat map? Seat costs? Subway? Cab?

Suicide or Homicide? Both?


While, from an objective point of view, my kids were well behaved on the entire trip, the amount of energy required to generate that result was completely ridiculous. In the same way humans can tread water without sequined suits and lipstick, can't children just enjoy zoos and restaurants and cool museums? Why did we need to rehearse, explain, map out, and BEG (LITERALLY BEG!?!) for cooperation?

Would I, on my own have gone to see the Museum of Natural History? (Well, subtract for the moment that would I, on my own, have gone to NYC?) No. Would I have gone to the petri dish of a hands-on technology center? No. Would I have gone to places that guaranteed hot dog/chicken fingers/ mac and cheese on the menu? No. Can my kids appreciate that while this trip is a family endeavor, it also represents a great deal of sacrifice on the part of the parents?

Hell, no.

So, here M and I are. In our sparkly leotards, dragging a foil ribbon on a stick behind us. Practicing a somersaults. Twirling, spinning, dancing like little gymnasts. Trying desperately to entertain our children and open their eyes to the world.

And they're too busy punching each other's nuts in the hotel room to notice.