Cheese & Whine

An Email to My Sister

2009-01-21T14:26:00.009-05:00

Dear L,

I just wanted to let you know that I have not forgotten about inviting B over for a play date with Jason, but this week is not looking so good. Drew is sick again...two days after I tried to waylay any potential motherly guilt by finally shelling out $15 at the doctor's office so that they could tell me, up close and in person, that he has a virus. "He's perfectly fine," they said. "This is probably the tail end of that barky cough." Awesome. Thanks for the pricey info. Wait, I almost forgot the most valuable part of this visit: "You know, a teaspoon of honey might help his throat feel better." Great. Thanks, Grandma.

Sure enough, less then 12 hours after that visit, the cough had subsided. LIKE MAGIC. Works every time.

On Monday, he started hacking again and got a runny nose. At the same time, Jason started complaining of a sore throoooaaat. (Did I mention that he had gone to a b-day party at Men E. Germ's on Saturday? Coincidence?) Then he was complaining of a headaaaaaache.

Last night, he woke up in the middle of the night (after hours of ear-splitting SNORING) and became rather hysterical because "my legs hurt really bad and I can hardly waaaalk waaaahhhhhh!" So I tried to give him Motrin and he could barely sip it because "my throat is soooo HOT! I can hardly swallow waaaahhhhh!" After threatening him with bodily harm I mean reassuring him that he was fine, he went back to sleep, thank God. Woke up and announced that his legs felt better! So bright and cheery! Got all ready for school and then walked up to me for a hug, looking a little grayish with lower lip trembling. He said he felt like he had to throw up. I ~~quickly~~ gently ~~shove him away from me~~ dislodge his little arms from around my waist and ~~run for my life~~ slowly back away because oh my God do I lose my shit at the mere mention of the words throw and up in the same sentence.

As you know, my kids almost NEVER throw up. I think they've each had two bouts of it their entire lives. So I thought he was pulling my leg because he doesn't even know what nausea feels like. But then I asked him if he knew what throwing up was and he proceeded to describe exactly what happens in practically scientific terms. And I noticed he was beginning to take on a greenish hue.

Meanwhile, I was also noticing that Drew's right eye was swollen and a bit pink and he kept whining and rubbing it. "I got a crumb! I got a crumb!" Pinkeye? I began rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. "Now where is that Valium?"

I made an executive decision that they'd stay home from school (even though coats, hats, gloves, boots, and backpacks were all on and ready to go). Jason went to lie on the couch and started looking kind of gaggy and nervous. I got him a Texas Ware bowl (because we puke in style in this house) (want me to make pasta salad for the next gathering, by the way?), and he sat with that on his lap for a while before the fun began.

Well. Let me tell you.

This child hasn't puked in so long that he was TERRIFIED. I even tried to prepare him beforehand by encouraging him with the fact that lots of kids have this same virus, and they feel sick, too, and sometimes when you're sick you throw up...which can feel really yucky but it's over really quickly and you'll feel sooo much better after you do! But when it actually started, he did that throwing-back-the-head thing ("I refuse to give up this bile! It is MINE!"), and I tried very hard to speak reassuringly as I kept gently yet forcibly thrusting his head back down toward the bowl. The entire time, he's flailing about like a fish out of water while trying to talk to me: "B-gut, M-gummy...grrrgle...gag...g-I do-gn't g-liiiiike...grrrrgle...g-thiiissss...!!!"

Oh. My. God. I have never heard someone talk their way through a full minute of barfing. I kept saying, "Jason, STOP TALKING....it's okay....it'll be over in ONE MINUTE and you're going to feel soooo much better!" Jesus! I wish someone would coach ME when I'm barfing, but do I get any thanks? Noooooo. I get mini fists swinging at my face.

So I pack Drew and Jay-'n-his-trusty-bowl in the car, and we go to the doctor to make sure it's not strep. Well, it IS strep. Again, neither of my kids has had strep, ever. We are freaks. Strep causes headaches? Leg pain? Dramatic puking episodes? Yes, yes, and yes. Huh.

News flash: Drew does not have pinkeye. It looks like he did have a crumb after all. Who knew a foreign object could cause what looks like a shiner? Another fifteen bucks...adios!

Jason announces on the way out that he's starving and thirsty. The doctor calls out to me that it's okay for him to eat if he wants, and that he most likely won't throw up again, "at least not like you would with a stomach virus."

So we go to Panera to get Drew a bagel and Jason an egg and cheese sandwich with sausage please hold the egg and cheese. Every time, I get the same baffled look from the cashier and have the usual verbal exchange.

Them: "You mean you just want sausage?"
Me: "Yes. And the bread."
Them: "No cheese?"
Me: "No cheese."
Them: "He doesn't want egg?"
Me: "He does not want egg."
Them: "..."
Me, feeling compelled to explain: "He's allergic to eggs."
Them: "So just sausage and cheese?"
Me: "NO. Just SAUSAGE. And BREAD."
Them: "Ohh. Hmm. That's funny, huh?"
Me: "Wicked."

This time, though, I hear Jason whimper beside me and watch as he leans tragically against the danish display, gripping his forehead with one hand and his belly with the other, appearing to be in gastric distress. More theatrics ensue. "Moommmmyyyyy...my stooommaaaaaach..."

Uh-oh.

The cashier had just put my empty coffee cup on the counter, so I grab it and stick it under his chin. "No, no, no!" he says and swats at the cup with his mittens. So I'm trying to hold the cup firmly against his chin, block him from the view of food-ordering patrons with my body, and keep his flailing hands away from the cup. He proceeds, with much fanfare, to puke in the cup as I do my "you're okay it'll be fine you'll feel so much better when it's over just wait one minute" routine. The cashier brusquely hands me a bunch of napkins and a cup of water (free! I mean, could this day get any better?) and gives me a curt smile that secretly says, "Okay, you're grossing out my customers. Can you please clean up your germ-infested kid and get the hell away from this counter?" I'm good at reading people, see.

I ditch the evidence and we hightail it out of there with minimal dirty looks (I think) and go to pick up his prescription, get home, I fumble my way through 12 minutes of histrionics to get the damn stuff down his throat, and he's now lying on the couch next to his aptly colored green Texas Ware bowl, which periodically matches his skin color exactly.

I'm thinking about filling up the tub with Purell and taking a good, long soak.

Will be in touch when the germs have evacuated the premises.

And how was your day?

Love,
Me

Back to you

2009-01-05T09:54:00.004-05:00

Finally, the much-anticipated holiday season is over. The tree is at the dump; the decorations, neatly packed in their rightful boxes in the attic. There are no more pastry-and-eggnog-laden parties that leave me with shrunken pants (how does that happen?), and no more family gatherings that conclude with our having to back up a U-Haul to the front porch in order to get all of our stuff home.

But most importantly, the kids are back at school. It was a long, long two weeks, my friends.

The school year involves an endless cycle of trade-offs between parents and teachers. From early September to late November, parents revel in the knowledge that they have nearly 10 weeks to be back to a normal routine after the long summer break. But all too soon, Thanksgiving brings many things for the teachers to be thankful for: namely, four studentless days. This is followed by four blissful weeks when parents can shop for the upcoming gift-giving season without such annoyances as dealing with little people yanking things off the shelves at Target, proclaiming that they need these toys and cannot possibly wait until December 25th, can't you see that, you horrible, horrible mother?

Before you know it, Christmas is upon us. And no one has more feelings of joy and peace than the teachers, who you can hear fa-la-la'ing from miles away as they skip to their cars at the end of the last school day before winter vacation. But parents finally get to breathe a little easier on New Year's Day — that time for us to rejoice, refresh, and resolve to make damn sure we get our kids to school on time the next morning. Maybe even a little early, so we can grab a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts afterwards...and curl up into the fetal position in a booth, sobbing with relief.

After what seems like three hours, it's time for February vacation. You see, school administrators seem to feel that our kids need periodic breaks — and lots of them. Apparently, five weeks after the 10-day winter break, it's presumed that my kindergartener is already overwhelmed with tracing the alphabet and playing bingo and gluing macaroni products on construction paper, which, as you can imagine, can be so exhausting.

It's interesting that April vacation always seems to begin directly after the springtime classroom party — you know, that fun-filled day when the teachers stuff our kids full of sugar until their little bodies are audibly twanging as they run amok, then pile them into buses (with treat bags...for the ride!), and send them straight home to us, ensuring that those seven days we spend alone with them get off to a fabulous start. Make no mistake about it, this is their passive-aggressive way of socking it to us parents because they're already dreading that marathon stretch between April vacation and the start of their long-awaited three-month break. But that's okay. We manage to get a certain amount of satisfaction when we come back in late April and taunt them with our smirky, knowing smiles that say, “They're all yours until mid-June, sucker. And by the way, I fed them Laffy Taffy for breakfast.”

Strangely, when that final school day in June comes, we welcome our children home for summer vacation with open arms because...well, the warmth and sunshine clearly makes us all kinds of crazy. But after a few weeks full of such fun-filled activities as visiting parks, going to the beach, and nearly manic chasing of the ice cream truck, we're done. Kaput. Finito. And this feeling of doneness occurs even sooner if you take an early family vacation to somewhere like Sesame Street Village or Storyland. Those sorts of things should only be planned for very late August so that we can mentally survive the experience by closing our eyes and conjuring up soon-to-be-real images of children with new clothes and backpacks walking into a large building with a flag.

So, in direct accordance with The Cycle, I pulled up for drop-off at my sons' school today on their first day back, giddy and euphoric (me, not them). When I spotted their teachers, I found myself shoving the boys gently toward them, impatiently muttering, “Here. Take these.” The teachers, looking refreshed and relaxed, smiled with understanding and led them away as I leaped back into my minivan Dukes-of-Hazzard-style and burned rubber out of the parking lot. I didn't want to be late for my appointment with my old friends Peace and Quiet. After all, I only have five weeks to enjoy them.

WTF??

2008-12-24T21:38:00.002-05:00

Okay, this is just wrong: Sexy Vampire Gets Scissor Happy

Robert, Robert...you're killing me....

And not in a hot, bite-me-real-good kind of way. Thank God there's time to grow it back before New Moon comes out in November 2009.

Cold is hot

2008-12-12T18:48:00.019-05:00

Last week, I decided to treat myself to some stress relief and did one of my favorite things: I went to the movies alone. I made a choice that would change my life, damn the laundry until it reaches the rafters, and grind my Christmas shopping to a halt by seeing Twilight, and I am now completely and utterly obsessed with vampires.

I hadn't read the book yet, so I didn't know what to expect, but my first thought when I saw the male lead was that they really should've picked someone more attractive.

But by the end of the movie, I was so transfixed with every glimpse of Robert Pattinson that I could barely breathe. (If you clicked on the above links, you can clearly see that I need to lay off the crack pipe and stick with the popcorn.)

What is it about brooding vampires that makes them so appealing? Their pale, cold, stone-like skin...their beautiful golden-brown eyes that turn to black when they're thirsting for blood...the way they can fling you over their shoulder and fly through a forest at lightning speed...the way they have no beating heart and are forever torn between wanting you in a sexual way and wanting to crush your skull to pieces, inject you with their venomous teeth, and suck the life out of you. Now that's my kind of romance. It's action...it's danger...it's SMOKING HOT.

I was so in awe of this epic love story that I saw it twice. So far. And the trailer viewings have gotten completely out of control. It's like Romeo & Juliet, but with modern dialogue, sharper bicuspids, and better hair.

I think I need professional help.

To make matters worse, I've been spending inordinate amounts of time conniving early Christmas gifts out of people (Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn). Apparently, this is one of my many talents, because so far I've gotten exactly what I wanted.

I figure whoever doesn't like it can bite me. (Please?)

I try not to focus on the fact that RP is only 22 years old. By my calculations, I figure if I had him and Zac Efron at the same time, it would sort of be like I'm with a 43-year-old guy. Which is actually a bit old for me. So let's just say he could be my Ashton. See? It's all good. (Soooooo good...)

Foreign exchange

2008-12-09T12:20:00.003-05:00

I have had a photocopier/scanner combo for the past year, and for the life of me, I cannot get the scanner to work. It always says that the USB is not connected, but it iiiiiiiiisss. Tired of my whining, a friend came by yesterday to try to help me figure out what’s going on. We Googled some info on the product and came to a page that offered "Online Tech Chat." Very exciting! Nothing makes me happier than not having to use the phone. Well, besides shoes.

I happily type my name and email address into the box and click “Begin Chat.”

Sergio: Hello, Karen. How may I assist you today?

I poke friend and say, “Sergio?? He sounds like a cabana boy! Dare me to ask him what he’s wearing?”

(Friend rolls eyes.)

Me: I have a [company] photocopier/scanner. When I try to scan something, I get a message that says ‘USB not connected.’

“Sergio is typing.”

…8 minutes later, as friend and I alternate between zombie-like staring at the computer screen while waiting for Sergio to STOP the TYPING and discussing what the f*ck Britney Spears is doing NAKED in that VIDEO…

Me, sick of waiting while Sergio presumably pokes keys with big toe at snail-like pace: Are you still there? Just so you know, I’ve checked all connections, and everything is plugged in properly.

“Sergio is typing.”

Me, making sure Sergio knows I don’t have all day for a response: I’m on a Mac, by the way.

Sergio: I thank you deeply for your efforts.

Me, to friend, in a huff: “Is he getting SASSY with me??”

Friend: “Hmm. Maybe he’s just of a different…um, ‘ethnicity,’ and that’s why his wording is coming across…odd.”

Me: “…”

Friend: “Sometimes companies outsource these sorts of things to other countries, like India or Pakistan or wherever.”

Me: “So do you think these big delays that say ‘Sergio is typing’ really translate as ‘Sergio is eating chicken tikka masala’ or ‘Sergio is adjusting his turban’?”

Friend: “Or maybe ‘Sergio is sleeping. It is 2 a.m. in India.’”

Sergio: To rule out other problems, can I ask you to please copy a piece of paper. Place a piece of paper on the screen and press the green button for color copy or the black button for black copy.

Me: Caaaarefully following instructions because WOW! Who knew this photocopier could copy stuff? All those quarters I’ve been wasting at the local library — POOF!

Me: The photocopy function works fine.

Sergio, quickly and with much enthusiasm: This is good to know.

183.2 seconds pass while “Sergio is typing”…not that I’m counting…

Sergio: I must inform you that [company] offers only phone support for Macintosh environment. We would have been very glad to assist you through chat but unfortunately [company] does not offer chat support for this product due to no availability of complete information. Additionally, we are not trained and expertise in resolving the issues with MAC OS. We regret for inconvenience caused and hope you understand our limitations.

Me, to friend, in disgust: “Shouldn’t I have had him at ‘I'm on a Mac’??”

18 minutes pass while Sergio presumably flips through phonebook for support number with his eyelashes…

Me, giving a nudge: Could you point me in the direction of where I could find support for this issue?

Sergio (zzzzzz…wha...?): You can avail complete support on the Macintosh environment through our phone support teams. You can call them @ 800-GO-EFFOFF or 800-696-6969. These service engineers are Macintosh OS specialists and would be able to help you over the phone. This Support is available at the following timings:

27 minutes later, Sergio finds the timings…and also: Bin Laden! But wait, first things first…

Sergio:
* Monday through Friday: 8am-midnight EST
* Saturday: 10am-6pm EST
* Sunday: No support hours.

Me: Great — thank you very much!

Sergio: We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience and look forward to assist you. We also offer e-mail support for MAC OS. You can contact our email support at: www.bollywoodmac/curryinahurry.com.

But wait! Apparently, there’s more helpful info on the way because “Sergio is typing”!

Sergio: Do you have any more queries for us?

Me, amazed that it took 6 more minutes to type that question: I think that’s all.

I sit and wait for about 11 more minutes because “Sergio is typing” and, well, you just never know what Sergio is up to...

Sergio: May health and happiness be yours in all seasons.

Me: Yes. You, too. Have good…seasons.

The four-letter word

2007-05-17T13:54:00.005-04:00

Something happened when Jason turned five. He stopped being my baby. He somehow became my best friend, closest pal, comrade. So mature, well-informed, and grammatically correct. Capable of intellectual conversations about the weather. Taller, thinner, and more GQ with his clothing selection.

Also, he discovered that poop is funny. At least it is to him.

This is how our day begins:

Me: "Jason, what would you like for breakfast?"
Jason: "You mean, what do I want for poopfest?? HA HA HA!"
Me: "Would you like a waffle?"

...

Me: "Jason, it's time to get dressed."
Jason: "It's time to get pooped! HA HA HA!"
Me: "Here are your clothes."

...

Me: "Come on, guys. It's time to go to school."
Jason: "Come on, Poopy Drew! It's poopy time! HA HA HA!"
Me: "Put your jackets on, please."

This is how our day ends:

Me: "Jason, it's time to put your pajamas on."
Jason: "I want to wear my poop-and-pee-pee-jamas! HA HA HA!"
Me: "And then we'll go brush our teeth."

Do you see a theme here? I, being the well-informed parent, am NOT feeding into this bad behavior by responding to it in any way. I don't give the slightest flinch, I resist the eyerolling, I keep a handle on any desire to correct and/or scold. I am Supermom. (Superpoopymom!)

I wish I could say it was working for me. But one day I counted 40,261 times he said the word "poop," including all poop-like variations such as "pooper," "poopy," and his favorite: "poo-poo-head."

When these didn't get the reaction he was looking for, he started adding the "pee-pee" references out of desperation.

Still, I never gave in. I wish this was the part where I could say, "So here is the lesson behind this post: Stand your ground! Do not give in, and they will stop the behavior!"

But he is now six. Still my best friend, ever taller and possibly even thinner, extremely bright, can talk politics with the best of them. His intellect seems far beyond his age. Although, at this very minute, he's in the living room watching Madagascar, shaking his fanny, and singing, "I like to poop it, poop it!"

The bathroom humor clearly never stops being funny.

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

2007-04-27T11:15:00.002-04:00

I have been having the most bizarre, vivid dreams lately. Not nightmarish at all - just really...real. The one I had the night before last was so real that I actually dreamed that I had a dream, and in the dream I woke up and realized that it wasn't a dream at all. As you can imagine, when I really woke up from the actual dream, it took me a good two to three minutes to shake it off and realize that it was a dream.

Still with me? I was hoping the italics would help...?

The weirdest thing is not the usual dream oddities that make you embarrassed to even tell someone about the dream, such as how you were eating an ice cream sundae out of the toilet that was on your high school English teacher's back porch (which, by the way, looked more like the boat from Gilligan's Island). No, it was that there wasn't very much odd at all - it was believably real. And that's what made it so hard for me to shake the dream off and realize it wasn't real. (Again with the italics. I know. Not helping.)

Anyway, this was the dream.

Paul was an actor. And he had an on-screen kiss with this not-particularly-attractive girl with a hawk nose and long, brownish hair. This upset me. I didn't like it. But I was willing to let it go. Until...

I somehow found out he'd also slept with her. Like, in the biblical sense. Just a one-time thing, he said. He's all "oopsy" and casual about it.

I was hurt, humiliated, and rip-roaring mad. But he felt that I should just forgive him and let it go. I angrily told him to pack his things and get out of the house.

He smirked as if I was being ridiculous and calmly said: "I will," and proceeded to sit in my rocking chair. He covered himself with a bath towel, closed his eyes, and said, "I'm just going to take a nap first."

I, of course, wanted to kill him. I felt my hands were tied and it was very frustrating. It's not like I could push him physically out of the house! He was so obviously trying to piss me off!

In the meantime, each time I looked through this one window of the house, I could see the offending girl through a window in the house next door. She was on the second floor, making faces at me and snickering. It made me feel very belittled.

The first person I decided to tell, in my dream, was my friend, Sue. We were at a bar, on these high barstools with backs. We ordered margaritas (because that's what always helps release the hard truths), and I began to tell her what had happened. Suddenly, in the middle of what I was saying, before I could even get to the point, she falls backwards for no apparent reason, and she and the barstool end up on the floor. Instead of jumping up to help her and see what's wrong, I sat there seething because I hadn't been able to tell her what had happened, and dammit it's an important story to tell! Strangers rushed over to see if she was okay before I did. I felt a little guilty about that. But not so much, because I was really annoyed with her for FALLING in the middle of my fricking STORY.

This is the point where I dreamed that I woke up and hoped that it had all been a dream, but I realized it had actually been real. And I got this horrible feeling in my gut because I knew that I had to deal with this situation. Then, I really woke up. I sat up and tried to figure out if I was still dreaming about waking up or if I really woke up in all actuality. (See slanty words for clarification.)

I heard Paul coming upstairs to get ready for work, and I slowly start to realize that it didn't happen. It was a dream. Really. So, of course, I say to Paul in a groggy voice, "Wow, you were SUCH an asshole last night!" Paul, not particularly surprised to be greeted like this in the morning, was just like, "Hmm? Did you say something, hon?"

So anyway, usually I'm all befuddled by such dreams and I keep thinking, "But what does a snake in the refrigerator drinking Tabasco sauce mean?" This one, however, I was able to psychoanalyze immediately.

Paul as an actor: It's a bit of irony, because in all actuality he's the WORST candidate for an actor. Any time he's ever tried to pull one over on me, he has this permanent "doh!" look on his face and it totally gives him away. He really needs to give it up, and never play poker.

The girl with the brownish hair and the hawk nose: Clearly, it was a Giada DiLaurentiis look-alike. I don't find Giada to be particularly attractive, but Paul has made it clear that he thinks she's hot. (He never really told me this, but the drool trickling out of the corner of his mouth while he watches her making gnocchi has always made me wonder if it's about the dumplings or...the dumplings, if you know what I'm saying.)

My telling Paul to pack his bags and get out, and his smirky, casual attitude about it: Any time we've ever gone to bed mad, I absolutely cannot get the man to go sleep somewhere else. He insists that "it's my bed, too, and if you don't want to sleep with me, you go sleep somewhere else." (Which is the husband version of "I know you are but what am I.")

His saying "I will" and then sitting in my favorite chair to take a nap: He always says "I will" whenever I ask him to do something, but he refuses to do it right away, as if to say you're not going to tell me what to do, sister. And usually he's doing something I'd rather be doing myself, like lounging on the couch watching t.v. or using the computer, while I'm sweating over a hot stove: thus, the favorite chair metaphor. Are you following?

Covering himself with a bath towel: Okay, I'm still pondering this one. But I'm sure it's just another symbol of some other annoying thing that Paul does.

Seeing the girl in question through a window in my house: We have a window that has needed a shade for, oh, about eight years now because it provides a direct view into my house for anyone who happens to be on the second floor of my neighbor's house. Thankfully there isn't much nudity and debauchery going on in my kitchen (most days).

Sue, falling off her barstool in the middle of what I was trying to tell her: This is so obvious. Being a stay-at-home mom, I don't run into many opportunities for real, adult conversation during the day. So, when Paul comes home, or on the rare occasion that a friend comes over my house to visit, I am DYING to talk to someone about SOMETHING. And it drives me INSANE the way my kids interrupt every. single. thing. I. say. before I can finish a frigging SENTENCE. It's like mental torture to be CONSTANTLY interrupted by little people asking asinine questions and to have to keep trying to remember where the hell I was in my thought process and go back to the beginning of stories over and over until you know what? NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR THE STORY ANYMORE EVEN THOUGH I'M STILL ITCHING TO TELL IT!!! I have been known to say, as the person I'm speaking to is jumping up yet again to see what the kids are up to, "Listen, if there's no blood involved, let's ignore them and PLEASE JUST LET ME FINISH SAYING THIS ONE THING!!!"

Not that that's a big "issue" of mine or anything.

So! That's the official psychoanalysis of my dream. Don't get me wrong, Paul is a great guy regardless of the fact that my dream makes him out to be a jerk. And, truthfully, he's more than welcome to have himself a little fling, as long as it involves skinnydipping in the Amazon. Because any guy who cheats totally deserves a penis fish.

(If you're completely confused right now, you are obviously not a Grey's Anatomy fan, and, sadly, I have nothing better to offer you as a conclusion to this post. Move along now. Scoot, scoot.)

On a bender

2007-04-22T17:05:00.000-04:00

Ever hear of this?

I had the t.v. on this morning while I was doing my work (which is the absolute BEST way for a copy editor to make sure they catch every error, I've heard), and an infomercial came on for this exercise ball. Being the infomercial whore I am, I saw about 3.4 seconds of the pitch and was already sold and halfway to the phone with credit card in hand.

Well, actually, the first thing I do when I come across an infomercial is scoff. And then I roll my eyes. And then I bolt for the phone. (This all fits within the 3.4 second timeframe.)

Anyway, I call the 800 number and hear a recorded voice, and I immediately thank the Lord above because now I don't have to deal with listening to umpteen offers after I've completed my purchase. I can just place my order and hang up. Yay!

This conversation (for lack of a better word to describe the occasional word or series of numbers said to a non-person who is giving you canned instructions over the phone) went like this:

Non-person: "Please let me see if I have your correct information. Your last name begins with the letter __, is that correct? If it's correct, say yes. If it's not correct, say no."

Me, dumbfounded: "Yeeeeessss..." (How in hell do they know my last name?)

Non-person: "Please let me see if we have your correct address. Is it _______? If that's correct, say yes. If it's not correct, say no."

Me, wondering if I've accidentally called the Psychic Hotline: "Y-yes."

After giving my credit card number to Non-person, "she" says: "Please say the expiration date as you see it on your card. For instance, if the expiration date is May of 2008, say '05/08.'"

Me, shocked into silence because the expiration date on my card IS May of 2008!: "What the f-...??"

Non-person: "I'm sorry. I missed that. Can you please say the expiration date again?"

Me, in a small, frightened voice: "05/08."

Non-person: "Okay. Your order is now complete. If you would like to upgrade your order from a Bender Ball with video to a Bender Ball with DVD for only $2 more, please say 'okay' now."

Never one to make snap decisions about money, this is me: "..."

Non-person: "I'm sorry. I missed that. If you'd like to upgrade to a DVD, please say 'okay' now."
Me, figuring what the hell it's only 2 bucks: "Okay."

Non-person: "Great! Now. Let me tell you about these fat-burning dietary supplements that you can have for only $25 per month. Taking these all-natural supplements while using the Bender Ball will provide the ultimate fat-burning so you can get the most out of your workouts! They will be automatically delivered to your house each month, for your convenience..."

*I press the '0' to see if that's The Secret Button That Shuts Up the Non-person*

Non-person: "...and you can cancel at any time. If you'd like to take advantage of this terrific offer, please say 'okay' now."

*Slaps self in head because SHOULD I HAVE PRESSED THE POUND KEY? IS THAT THE SECRET BUTTON??*

Me, hoping this will be the opposite of 'okay': "NO."

Non-person: "I can understand your hesitation. But this is such a terrific, one-time offer I will give you one more chance to take advantage of it. If you would like to, please say 'okay' now."

Me: "NO. No. Nonononononononono. No!"

Non-person: "I'm sorry, I missed that. If you'd like to take advantage of this terrific, one-time offer, please say 'okay' now."

Me: "No."

Non-person: "Okay, that's fine. (It is? Really? Why, that's just...terrific!) I'm sure you're thinking 'No, please, not another offer,' but I just have to tell you about our new DVD workout designed..."

Me, hoping that a combo-type rejection is more convincing: "No (punches '0') no (punches '#') nononono (punches '0#0#0#')."

Non-person: "...tighten your buns..."

Me, weeping quietly: "No. Nononono. No. Thank you."

Non-person: "I'm sorry. I missed that. If you'd like ..."

*I then begin banging madly on the 0 and the # and screaming "NOOOOOOO DEAR-GOD-IN-HEAVEN NONONONONO!!!!"*

Non-person: "I can understand your hesitation. But this ..."

*I'm now stabbing myself in the eyeballs repeatedly with the phone antenna.*

Finally I work up the guts to just hang up. And I pray that my original order went through even though I didn't complete the phone call (because it was such a terrific, one-time offer of $12! for the ball AND the DVD!). And then I congratulate myself for not allowing myself to be sucked into paying ten times as much money for a bunch of things I never wanted in the first place (unlike that time I ordered a food chopper after watching an infomercial and ended up getting three for the price of one with your one-year subscription to People magazine!) (The two "free" choppers have since been gathering dust in my closet, and the one-year People subscription was something like 24 bajllion dollars. Another terrific, one-time offer!) (Also, the one chopper I really wanted is...somewhere unbeknownst to me.) (Not that I've ever looked for it because who the hell needs a food chopper when you have Ginsu knives?)

I still cannot get over what I was put through just to place a simple order. They're sooo lucky I didn't hang up before I gave my credit card number (even though they probably already knew that, too). Some companies have such...BALLS.

I need a vacation from this vacation

2007-04-17T15:10:00.001-04:00

It's that time again. School vacation. Time for the kids to relax and stop stressing out about their ABCs and coloring inside the lines and whether they want to use the monkey bars or the seesaw or whether to read Horton Hears a Who or Green Eggs and Ham. Because week upon week of that business can be so exhausting. These kids need a break, and lots of them! Once Christmas break is over, they have six harrowing weeks to get through until February vacation. And then they have to stick it out for another five or six weeks until April vacation. And THEN! Then they have to wait EIGHT MORE WEEKS before they begin their three-month-long summer vacation. My God! Can you imagine how tired these poor children are??

So these seven days (or 168 hours but who's counting) have so far been spent running around the house in various stages of undress, screeching, throwing toys all over the living room floor, playing with the remote control for the t.v., and almost constant begging for McDonald's french fries and pizza.

And you should see what the kids have been up to.

Yesterday Paul had the day off from work and it was a rainy day, so we took the boys to an inside playground-type thing. You know, where the kids run wildly from one activity to another while the parents sit staring blankly into space and occasionally glancing at their watch or cell phone to see if adequate time has been spent amusing the children so they can get the hell out of there.

Anyway, the kids had a blast, to the tune of $18.90. It was money well spent, because they were both in a zombie-like state on the drive home, and that's exactly what we were looking for. Paul and I kept giggling and stealing glances at each other, because we both knew what was going to happen when we got home. NOTHING.

Jason: "Mommy, want to play a game?"

Me: "Sure. Let's play Who Can Get Their Pajamas On the Fastest!"

Drew: "Daddy, can I watch t.v.?"

Paul: "There's no time to watch t.v. because as soon as I'm done shoving these hotdogs and Smiley fries down your throat you are going to bed."

There is nothing better than the Guilt-Free Parent pass you get after allowing your children to run around for three hours at one of those indoor playgrounds (and paying good money for it).

And today is yet another rainy day, so we're stuck indoors. Tomorrow our car is going to be in the shop AND it's supposed to rain again, so we'll not only be stuck indoors, we will have no means of escape.

Hold me?

Up she goes

2007-04-13T12:41:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the unannounced absence. I've been busy coming to grips with the fact that my metabolism has slowed to a snail's pace. Did you know that some medications can do that? Me neither! So you can imagine my intrigue when I heard my doctor say to me in a cheerful voice: "You've put on some weight, my dear!"

"Really?" said I. "And why, may I ask, do you think that is? Seeing as I've been eating the same way I've always eaten and yet my jeans are beginning to fit like I've grown myself a second ass?"

"Well," said the cheerful doctor, "That's the unfortunate side effect of the medication you're taking."

"Oh," said I, with relief. "Well, that explains it, then. It's good to know that if I had actually eaten the cookies and cake and chocolate I've passed up over the past six months for the sake of my figure, I would look much worse. Thank God it's only ten pounds, because we all know how easy that is to lose. Whew! Also, thanks for not telling me this before I started taking the medication because I really hate being warned about such things. I'd much rather go to sleep one day looking like myself and wake up the next day looking like Rosie O'Donnell."

Once we (cheerfully) established the reason for the weight gain, she moved on to the rest of the physical exam. Taking a peek underneath my paper dress to look for suspicious moles, she felt the need to ask, "Have you ever tried a low-carb diet?" (This is the doctor's professionally polite way of saying, "Holy crap, do you have any butter for these rolls??")

"Yes," I said, with a smile. "In fact, I watch my carbs all the time. You fucking bitch."

...
...

Okay, so those are things that I would've LIKED to have said. In actuality, I just sat there, hunched over in horror and shame. And then I cried all the way home. Just what I've always wanted! A slower metabolism than the one I've been fighting with for 39 years! Let me tell you, there is nothing better than hearing that it doesn't matter what you eat, you will continue to gain weight unless you decide to stop eating completely. Can you say "worst nightmare"? Can you say "SHOOT ME NOW"??

The good news is, Dr. Cheerful Yet Condemning feels that once I stop taking the medication, I will lose the weight. The bad news is, she doesn't recommend I stop taking the medication. The good news is, I talked her into letting me reduce the dosage. The bad news is, that might not be enough to do the trick. The good news is, if it doesn't work, I'm reducing it even more without telling Dr. CYC. The bad news is, she will not be happy with me at my next appointment. The good news is, I can blow off my next appointment to go to the gym because my acupuncturist gave me the go-ahead to do some light exercise (!!!!), which should also help with the dawdling metabolism issue. And all's well that ends well, right?

You see, what the little 90-pound doctor is just not getting is that pumping me up with medication that sabotages my efforts to keep my weight at a reasonable level is not the way to alleviate my anxiety and frequent bouts of crying in front of strangers. In fact, the discovery of a muffin top when I ~~lay down on the bed and~~ button my pants only increases the anxiety and the crying in front of strangers. How difficult can this be to understand? Maybe if I tie her to a chair and stuff some Twinkies down her throat, she will have an idea of what I'm talking about.

Mmm. Twinkies. Hostess really needs to come up with a low-carb version of those.

Things I hate and love and love to hate

2007-03-30T16:42:00.000-04:00

Hate:

1. People who stand around the condiment counter at Starbucks chatting with a friend (incidentally, also clogging the area yet with no coffee purchase whatsoever and therefore NO NEED FOR CONDIMENTS) as they slowly remove the covers from their coffee cups and vacantly look around for Sugar? Cocoa powder? Oh, wait, maybe powdered sugar. Hmm. Nutmeg? Oh, silly me! I got whipped cream on my latte so I really don't need anything! Maybe a straw, though. Oh, wait. It's a hot beverage, so maybe a straw isn't necessary. Instead I'll just pull out one napkin from the dispenser at a time until I have, oh, about a week's supply and then sloooooowly put the cover back on my coffee cup and continue my conversation with my coffee-less friend (with the hyena laugh) while ignoring the seething little sweaty woman behind me.

2. People who see you backing out of a parking spot and still insist on walking behind your car as if they have a death wish, and when you don't see them and have to jam on your brakes they yell and shake their fists in fury. Oh, sorry about that. Next time I'll be sure to stop backing out when I see you coming 50 yards away. HEAVEN FORBID YOU SHOULD STOP WALKING FOR FIVE SECONDS.

3. The new self-checkout lanes at the grocery store, which could be a lot of fun if they would stop stopping every three items to tell me to wait for a cashier. Isn't this defeating the whole purpose of SELF-CHECKOUT? After the fourth time it stalled on me today, I expected to see smoke coming out of the top of the computer and to hear the automated voice saying Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson! Why can't they make computers that work? All I wanted was some green grapes and a box of Lactaid IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

4. The way the sun beating through my car windows makes me nauseatingly hot, yet when I step outside the frigid wind is enough to make me scream. MAKE UP YOUR MIND, WEATHER.

5. The fact that the little boy who came to my house today for a playdate felt the need to announce he's allergic to dust. YOU'RE SHIT OUTTA LUCK IN THIS HOUSE, MISTER.

Love:

1. The little one-year-old boy toddling by my car holding his mom's hand and giving me the biggest toothless grin. He must've known I needed it. Also, he had a little fisherman's cap on. Ouch, my ovaries.

Love to hate:

1. Izzie and George slept together. I mean, huh? And a little bit of ew. Mixed with just a dash of hmm.

2. Sanjaya Malakar. As much as I want to strangle this creepy little girlish boy, I am seriously considering trying out that ponyhawk. I mean, how could you possibly stay in a rotten mood and keep a straight face when you keep catching glimpses of yourself with that 'do in the various mirrors of your house?

Wow. Just...wow.

2007-03-19T13:20:00.000-04:00

Anyone hear about this?

How in hell did the flight attendant "crew" come to the conclusion that this was the best "option"? To strap a corpse into a seat next to a VERY MUCH ALIVE MAN who was, incidentally, SLEEPING and therefore UNAWARE of the VERY MUCH DECEASED WOMAN dangling from the seatbelt next to him and propped up with pillows? And to think that this was what they considered to be the option that would "cause the least disruption"? To whom? The people in coach who no longer had to be subjected to sitting in the company of a corpse for NINE HOURS? I suppose they felt it was a better choice to place the mental trauma on one passenger instead of a whole bunch of passengers. (They're good at math, you see.) Besides, I'm sure they took into consideration the fact that if the passenger bought a first class ticket, hey, he can afford counseling more than the chumps in coach.

At least they had the respect and decency to bump the dead woman to first class (probably because they knew she wouldn't be ordering the lobster), but...seriously? This poor man had to sit next to a dead woman for NINE HOURS? While her daughter was "grieving beside her"? Can you take a moment to imagine the whole scenario of the stated slippage of the corpse periodically, and of the whole readjusting of the corpse, the tightening of the seatbelt, and the "propping with pillows" by the ultra-intelligent and innovative flight attendants?

Also, have I mentioned NINE HOURS?

Who do you think the Alive Man talked to after giving his statement to the press? I'll give you a hint: "Atty. Phil Indablanc."

And these are the same flight attendants who are now supposedly highly trained in what to do in the event of another hijacking by terrorists. I don't know about you, but between this and the inconsistent and irrational security system at airports, my fear of flying just went right back up to Code Red.

Curses

2007-03-15T09:48:00.000-04:00

I have this thing. It's sort of a superstitious-type of thing, where I feel that if I talk about something (out loud, where people can hear me), sort of like, "it's a good thing THAT'S not happening!", I'm therefore "cursing" myself and my good luck will automatically change. Because it does. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I know, I know. You're thinking, "Well, you're supposed to follow up these statements of good fortune with 'Knock on wood!'" But yeah, that part of the superstitious thing doesn't work for me. There's no warding off the evil after the words have been uttered from my mouth. Apparently my words have Super Powers.

So. Because of this problem I seem to have with the inability to tell people about my good luck, I give you this story. About my neighbor. Actually, my neighbor's cousin's nephew. Okay, it's really about that nephew's wife. Or was it his sister-in-law.

Anyway.

So, this person has a couple of kids (I think), and I've heard that he (or she) has had a completely illness-free household for, oh, something like seven months or so. And even before those seven months, there was only the occasional illness blip of the "is-it-a-cold-or-is-it-just-allergies?" variety.

After hearing this (about the neighbor's cousin's nephew's wife) (or his sister-in-law), I can't help but lie awake at night and think, "When will the bomb drop? When will this poor man/woman be hit with the runny noses, coughs, and the (HELP ME JEEBUS) horrific and grotesque Stomach Bug? How is he/she escaping the dreaded (and often simultaneous!) vomit and diarrhea?" I mean, really, how could these people leave their houses daily (and I think I've heard their kids attend the same Germs R. Plentiful Elementary School that my own children attend) and not catch...something? That has to be some sort of miracle, don't you think?

Several times over the past seven or so months, I've heard that this man (or woman) has been warned by the children's teachers that "something is going around" in the classroom, and yet, still, nothing. These children seem to have superhuman germ-defending powers. Maybe they take these vitamins, like my own kids (not to say that my kids ALSO have superhuman germ-defending powers, because, HA - I wish!).

In any case, I'm a bit envious that this man (or woman) is able to discuss their family's luck with avoiding illness out loud - to other people, even! (As opposed to talking to themselves about it in the bathroom with the door locked and the water running SO THE EVIL GERM GODS DON'T HEAR.) Because if I were them, I'd surely have a sore throat, a whining husband with an itty-bitty cold (I feel soooo siiiiiiiick...I must lie on the couch watching NESN allll daaaaay so I can go to wooooooorrrrk tomorrowwwww...*insert forced cough and wet, slurpy sniff*), and my living room would be covered in vomit by the next day.

Thank goodness I know enough to keep such good fortune quiet.

insert static sound

2007-03-11T21:51:00.000-04:00

We will return to our regularly scheduled programming immediately after the Three Weeks That Are Making Me Realize That Giving Birth Wasn't That Bad After All are over and I can once again speak to my family without crying and shaking my fist while screaming, "WHEN am I EVER going to have TWO MINUTES to MYSELF?!?!"

Lots of blogging going on in my head, though. It's really too bad my computer isn't telepathic. Oh, the stories I could tell!

Breakfast strips

2007-02-14T19:45:00.001-05:00

This makes me want to cut myself. Just for the fun of it.

Holy mood swings, Batman!

2007-02-09T18:56:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I was such a sweet, considerate person in so many different ways, it was ridiculous. Almost but not quite to the point of being nauseating. And today I seemed to be starting off on the same foot. Until I went shopping.

Jason and I took a trip to Walmart to buy some Goo Gone and contact lens solution (because they go so well together). Unfortunately, they were out of Goo Gone, and I was very sad. Because I am still trying to remove the permanent glue from my $50 blazer. KIDDING.

I ended up spending $54 on a beautiful new set of dinner plates, dessert plates, and mugs - things I would never expect to like at Walmart, where circus peanuts and clowns abound. But I just couldn't resist, because they are the exact color I have been looking for and appear to be nicer than the plates I'd been eyeing at Crate & Barrel (emphasis on "appear" - I am a highly suspicious Walmart shopper). It should be noted that they are breakable dishes, and this became glaringly apparent when one of them slipped out of my hand in the store and not only fell down, it first went up. And then went down. Which only increases the velocity of the impact of said plate on the floor, resulting in many more pieces than one would imagine a single plate could create. VERY. EMBARRASSING. Jason: "Wow, Mommy! That was really loud! And look how it shabbered!" He thought it was cool! Awesome, even! And he got to use the word "shabbered" for the first time in a sentence! Oh, to be five.

And that's when I became The Bitch From Hell. I mean, I didn't get angry about breaking the plate. I was truly embarrassed and wanted to crawl into a hole. But I have absolutely nothing else to blame my bitchiness on, so there you go.

We approach the checkout area, and I see long lines. The only thing I hate more than shopping at Walmart is spending extra time in Walmart because of the LONG freaking LINES. But then I saw a lovely cashier, smiling and shrugging in my general direction, because no one notices that her line is empty. I smile back at the lovely cashier and move over to her line. We continue smiling at each other (lovingly), and she even said a few words to Jason with a (lovely) smile. And then she announced the total of my order. Normally, this would be the part that pisses me off and sets off heart palpitations and profuse sweating. But no. I wasn't upset with the total. I was upset when I looked at the credit card swiper and saw some sort of greeting on the screen in a Foreign Language I Don't Speak. (To avoid inadvertent Google hits, the language will remain unnamed and heretofore be referred to as FLIDS.) So. I'm a little taken aback because, hey, ever since I was born in the U.S. of A., understanding English and English alone has allowed me to function in this country just fine. And now I'm expected to understand FLIDS in order to pay for my stuff? Why? Because the majority of shoppers at Walmart are presumably of the nationality which speaks FLIDS?

Well. I think, okay. I'll play along. Sort of.

After swiping my card, the signature screen came up. You know, the one where you have to tap "OK" or "Cancel" after signing your name? However, above the signature line are two words in FLIDS instead. So, I sign my name and put the pen down. I look around innocently, humming a little tune. I can feel the cashier looking at me. She finally says, "Did you hit 'okay'?" I say, "It doesn't say 'okay.' It says [word in FLIDS]." She sharply turns the screen I signed her way so she can see it. I notice she has lost her lovely smile. She angrily taps on the word in FLIDS that apparently translates as "OK," flips the screen back toward me, and says, "It's the SAME THING." I say, "Sorry, I don't speak [FLIDS]." She shoots me the nastiest look and turns her back to me.

Then I notice the screen I signed had gone back to the "home" screen and says to "Select a language: English or [FLIDS]." I didn't get to choose a language! So, apparently, the cashier chose FLIDS before I even got there because she was assuming that her next customer would certainly be of the nationality which speaks FLIDS! The nerve! The presumption! She deserved what she got from me!

I walk away with a feeling of self-satisfaction (because I showed her that English is the primary language around here!). And then I get the most sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. When did I become such a spiteful and rude person? Who am I, anyway?? I'll answer for you: A schmuck.

That incident bothered me for the rest of the day.

And, with much shame and remorse, that's all I have to say. I am off to confession.

(Oh my God! I am not only a two-faced bitch, I am also a LIAR!)

When did I become such a wimp?

2007-01-29T11:00:00.001-05:00

At some point during my first pregnancy, I began to cry at the drop of a hat. At the time, I blamed it on hormones, as we women tend to do. But are my hormones still out of whack seven years later? Every day of the month? Constantly?

It all started when I was driving on the highway at around five months into my first pregnancy. I heard a siren and saw an ambulance speed by, and I got all "fa-fa-fa-fuh-fuh-fuh!!!" Because someone was hurt. Possibly very badly! And it bothered me for the rest of the day. Seriously!

Then I began to notice that the littlest thing would get me all choked up. A man tripping as he's climbing up steps (he must be so embarrassed! WAAHHH!!!), a child nervously calling his mother in the store (OH! MY! GOD! What if he can't find her?! He must be so scared! WAAAHHH!!!), a cashier not saying "thank you, have a nice day" to me after handing me back my change (she doesn't care about my patronage OR the status of my day! WAAHHH!!!). You know, stuff like that.

And now? I cry when I'm sad, upset, and HAPPY. Or worried. Or touched. Or happy that I've been touched. Or worried that I won't be touched and therefore happy. Well, sometimes I cry when I'm touched, actually, but that's a whole nuther story. The point - because there is one! - is that I'm a blubbering mess about many things, many times a day. But the thing that seems to get me the most lately is my kids and their godforsaken cuteness.

For example, I brought Jason to a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese's recently (also known as: Suck E. Prizes) (or: The Place That Makes Me Want to Stick Straws in My Ears Until I Hit Brain Matter Because Oh Dear God the NOISE). On the way in, I told Jason, "It's very crowded in there, so every once in awhile you need to look around for Mommy and wave 'hi' to me so that I know where you are, okay?" He said, "Okay, Mommy." And I thought, "That went right in one ear and out the other."

So, we go inside, and Jason finds his table of friends and begins to mingle. I start talking to one of his friend's moms, and all of a sudden I hear, "Mommy!" I look over, and there is Jason, waving his hand wildly. "Hi, Mommy!!!" So cute! And it's nice to know the boy can follow directions when he knows they're important. I tell my friend why he's waving, and she thinks it's adorable.

We continue talking, and not 30 seconds later, I hear "Hi, Mommy!" and see the little blue-eyed boy waving to me again from across the room. Well, we started CRACKING UP. I said, "Wow, is he taking this seriously or what?"

Two minutes later: "HI, MOMMY!!!" This time he's waaaay across the room where I can barely see him, frantically waving, with a big smile (because he knows he's being a good boy for doing what I say!). So now my friend and I are practically on the floor, hysterical with laughter.

Thankfully, as he got more and more occupied with playing games, the novelty wore off and he only called out to me occasionally. Because my wrist tendinitis was beginning to act up from all the waving.

And even this, as funny as I found it to be, gets me all choked up every time I think of it. Because really, how cute is he?? Why does he have to be five years old next week? WHY? Can you imagine how much I'm going to cry when I'm LOOKING BACK at these sorts of things, when my boys are teenagers and ignoring me completely?? WAAAHHHH!!!

Because I need to know

2007-01-25T18:28:00.000-05:00

When you eat a peanut butter sandwich, do you have to get up out of your chair periodically to dance and jump around? Also, do you feel the need to squeeze the peanut butter onto your fingers and paint pictures on the dining room wall?

Just wondering.

And I'm really really really trying to remain calm, as you can see by how I'm typing all...calm (screw the thesaurus right now). Because if my true feelings were to come out? I WOULD BE TYPING LIKE THIS!!!!!!!!! And banging on the keyboard LIKE THIS lwejro-9qqrj[92u4512j417 k1n5 109u501 po5mpou0=12451pk5\-1951515] 510oi5i !!!!!!!!!!!!

From 4 p.m. until 7:30 p.m. every night, I totally understand the fascination with hallucinogenic drugs. It's a good thing I'm stuck in this JAIL with these little itty bitty people who are slowly killing off every bit of sanity in my brain with each eardrum-bursting rendition of the Power Rangers theme song or else I'd be wandering the streets searching for a dealer.

THE END

nafkjqut[o1j53 poj1097-12]k5 [192591-5i 16519=5]];[p50-23o]2!!! 15kj92u4 0-p-32.l5
"@!-___+__?!!!!@!!!

Spain: The new continent

2007-01-21T17:36:00.000-05:00

There's no better way to boost your ego than to take an I.Q. test, don't you think? I mean, there's just nothing like being asked questions about topics that were always your worst nightmare in high school to make you feel inadequate as an adult member of this planet and even maybe a little bit, oh, STOOPID.

I took part in a research study over the weekend, and part of the research involved taking an I.Q. test, which I was kind of psyched about because I've never had my I.Q. tested before (at least not formally). So, being the English ~~wiz~~ ~~wizz~~ whiz that I am, I started out feeling very competent. Okay, brilliant. I was thinking, well, this isn't so bad! I might be smarter than I think I am, and won't it be fantastic if I can brag to everyone I know about my genius I.Q.? That would be SO COOL, and I'm sure my friends and family would be so ~~nauseated~~ proud!

After the English section, I was asked to do all kinds of things with colored blocks to create designs. And again? BRILLIANT. Okay, I got a little stuck on the last design, but it was quarter of twelve and I was ready to break for lunch. If they want you to perform at your best, why don't they serve snacks, for cripe's sake?

After lunch, I did a section on figuring out math word problems in my head without being able to write anything. I was surprised at how well I did, considering the fact that I'm pretty much mathematically crippled. But even with what I think I might've gotten wrong, I figured I was still doing quite well. Hey, everyone has areas where they are weaker than others, right? Unless you're some sort of freakish...freak.

But then. Oh, then. Then, then, then. Then came the Geo questions. I have always had problems with anything Geo. Geography, geometry...geographical, geometrical. The subjects I have hated since, oh, FOREVER. And what happens to me when I'm asked about something having to do with either of these subjects is that my brain freezes into a huge cube of icy matter and becomes completely useless. Unable to process information. Incomprehendo. Mucho.

So, the Test Administrator announced that the next few questions would be about continents. You know, like "What continent is X on?" Stuff like that. As soon as I heard the word "continent," I became nervous. And peed myself. ("Ohhh...I thought you said INcontinent! HA HA! Silly me!")

I'm KIDDING. I did not pee myself. I was too busy trying to keep myself from fashioning the plastic top from my Dunkin Donuts coffee cup into a mock knife with which to gouge my eyeballs out. (Check out the grammatical correctness of that last sentence, will you?) Because that would've been so embarrassing!

Test Administrator: "Where is X (something with a tilde) located?"
Me: (Anything with a tilde is surely Spanish!) "Um..."

I could NOT think of what continent Spain is on! I knew that North America and South America were definitely out. I mean, duh. But I'll be damned if I could think of another fricking continent because of the Brain Freezing Problem.

Test Administrator: "You can just guess if you don't know."
Me: "But wait...I know this!"

Two point four seconds later...

Me: "Okay, Spain."

OH. MY. GOD. Why didn't I just stick with "I don't know"??

A little later...

Test Administrator: "What is the capital of Italy?"
Me: "Oh! I know this!"

Silence. For three full minutes.

Me: "...Milan?"

Doh! Why do I feel that this might be the wrong answer? Oh, well. At least it's not as ridiculous as the Spain answer. Surely.*

A little later (after much, much more CORRECT, GENIUS-QUALITY answers were given)...

Test Administrator: "Who was President during the Civil War?"
Me: "Oh, boy."

Silence. Nervous giggles. Okay, when the hell was the Civil War again? Was it the 1800's or the 1900's? Did I forget to mention I also hated history classes?**

Me: "I'll just have to guess because I have no idea."
Test Administrator: "That's fine. Go ahead."
Me: "Theodore Roosevelt."

The Test Administrator was very kind, I should point out, and never once burst into hysterical laughter, peeing herself from my sheer ~~incontinents~~ incompetence. She was really, really nice. I'm quite sure she waited until I had left the building before pointing her finger at the door I exited, shrieking "OH MY GOD WHAT A DUMB-ASS!!!"

I did make her laugh once, though, when she asked me this question: "Why is it important for people to know history?"
Me: "So that they won't make complete asses out of themselves during an I.Q. test."

Go, me!
_____________________

*Rome. The answer was ROME. I had to GOOGLE IT. And then it was so obvious! Oh, yes! You mean the place where I actually VISITED and LOVED and am DYING to see again?? Ah. I knew that.

**My most vivid memory of history class is that Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin. And what exactly am I going to do with that information? Hell if I know.

Look out below!

2007-01-12T10:14:00.000-05:00

Thank goodness for Jason, or else I'd have virtually nothing to blog about.

A little background: When Jason saw that the flags were at half mast at his school last week, he asked me, "Why are the flags down?" I didn't know quite how to explain it, so I did the best I could on short notice. It went sort of like this: "A President died. Not 'the' President. That we have now. It was a President from a long time ago. So they put the flags like that out of respect. For him." Jason, whispering and looking concerned, "He died??" I said, "Yes, but it's okay. He was...old." He then saw his classmates waving to him from his classroom, and all concerns about how old people tend to die disappeared. Thank GOD. I find these types of questions to be very difficult to answer without causing distress to both the child and myself. Especially myself.

Here's our exchange in the car on the way to school this morning:

Driving up to Drew's school to drop him off, Jason again sees some flags at half mast.

Jason, sounding sad: "Oh, Mommy, look. Drew's president died, too!"

Me (after laughing for a full five minutes and almost running us into a bus): "Jason, it's the same President. They put the flags like that everywhere to show respect because he was a very important man."

Jason: "He died because he was old?"

Me: "He was VERY old. I think he was something like 92 years old."

Jason: "92! That's a big measurement!"

Me: *laughing again*

Jason, very seriously: "Mommy, I think maybe someone killed him."

Me: "No. No one killed him, Jason."

Jason: "Well, why did he die?"

Me: "Like I said, he was VERY OLD."

Jason: "Mommy, you know what I think?"

Me: "What?"

Jason: "I think a coconut fell on his head."

I'm beginning to think I need to limit the cartoon viewing.

National Delurking Week

2007-01-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

This week is National Delurking Week. So, for all of you who pop in, read, and run, this is your opportunity to out yourself and actually *gasp!* comment. Because, I've been thinking, if a reader laughs all by him/herself at his/her computer in his/her house while reading one of my posts, and no one else is there to hear it, does it still make a noise?

Think about it.

What the bleep is on Joey's head?

2007-01-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

Drew, my six-year-old, got the most recent Nickelback CD for Christmas from his dear, dear aunt (Hi, Jan!). Now, two weeks after Christmas, I can officially say I am sick to death of Nickelback. In fact, I dread bringing him to school because I know what I'm in for on the ride. He knows every track he likes by number ("I want to hear 3!" "Can I hear 5?" "I want to hear 6 again!") Also? Should I be concerned that today I heard him singing "Whadda hoe is a Joey hey?" It's not a big deal, right? I mean, obviously he doesn't know what the words actually are, so... C'mon. Tell me I'm not a bad mom. Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

The thing is, I don't believe in censorship. I figure the more I coddle my children and cover their ears and eyes, the more these things will be appealing to them as they grow up. I don't want my kids to become teenagers who swear ten times in every sentence and date sleazy girls. To me, the obvious way to avoid this is to let them listen to rap music with explicit lyrics and learn all about the fascination with loose women and drugs and violence right from the get-go so that we can get it out of the way. If I act like it's not a big deal, they won't act like it's a big deal, right? I'm also considering having Porno Night once a week so we can get that out of the way, too.

KIDDING!

Okay, the truth is, I have very few moments when I'm alone in the car and can listen to the music I like. And I don't do Disney music. And I would surely run us all into a tree if I had to listen to the Wiggles. I'd much rather listen to Justin bringing sexy back, or Nellie being promiscuous, or Fergie being fergalicious. I figure, I don't ask for much, and I have to put up with a lot. So what if my four-year-old sings "Smack That" while he's playing with his dinosaurs at preschool? Let's review the lyrics: "Get on the floor" Not bad. "Give me some more" He probably thinks they mean cookies. "'Til you get sore" From chewing. Of course.

I could take a Wiggles song and read something nasty into it, you know. You can't tell me there isn't some hidden meaning behind "The Wiggles Groove." And what about "Nicky Nacky Nocky Noo"? Come on! Those guys are giggling to themselves while they're singing these seemingly G-rated songs! All men really think about is sex, and that's a fact. Are we to believe that they really sat down one day and wrote an entire song about hot potatoes, cold spaghetti, and mashed bananas without having one thought about 9 1/2 Weeks? That's where they got the idea for the song, people! In fact, there's one part in that song where it sounds like there's something missing, and I bet it's where they bleeped out the part about cold ice cubes and erect nipples. They're MEN. This is to be EXPECTED.

There are always correlations between children's songs and "adult songs," anyway. Children join hands and sing Ring Around the Rosy, dancing in a circle and falling to the ground, joyfully laughing. But little do they know that this song is about people dying of the plague. And how the imaginary posies in their imaginary pockets are there to keep away the stench of rotting corpses, because when they "all fall down"? That's when the people keel over and DIE.

And when Fergie struts down that table in her "London Bridge" video wearing a half-open button-down shirt and a pair of underwear with the British flag on the butt, she is doing it for the CHILDREN. So they don't feel left out. They can sing along and think that it's merely the club mix version of "London Bridge is Falling Down," but little do they know Fergie is actually singing about how she wants to drop her panties whenever she sees hot men. (Or, I suppose it could also be interpreted by the children as "I see London, I see France, I see Fergie's underpants.")

Clearly, from early on, the message was that we should all sing together, young and old. And I figure I was stuck singing "I'm a Little Teapot" 42 times a day for what seemed like decades, so I'm thinking it's time for my boys to sing a little 50 Cent "In da Club" with their favorite girl. This will teach them fairness and how to be a team player.

See? I am not a bad mother. I am doing my job as a mother.

The House of Wooden Stairs (a.k.a. Death is Merely a Misstep Away)

2007-01-06T13:00:00.001-05:00

Paul fell down the stairs the other day and scared us all (I mean, what would we do without his paycheck??). (Oh, and he's not hurt, thank God.) So, I'm a bit on edge (ha ha) about the stairs in my house. To make matters worse and ensure that I will not sleep again tonight, this just happened this morning:

Jason: Can I go upstairs to get my Leapfrog?

Paul: Maybe later.

Jason: Why can't I go now?

Paul: Because you have enough toys down here.

Jason: Okay.

Two minutes later: BANG-BOOM-CRASH-WHOMP-BANG-CRASH!!!!

Me, running to the stairs like a crazy person: WHAT HAPPENED?!?!?!

Paul: He's okay. He dropped a toy.

Me: "..." (one cannot speak when one's heart is lodged in one's throat)

An hour later, when I've finally calmed down and can actually speak: Jason. You scared me. Half to death. WHAT. HAPPENED.

Jason: I was coming down the stairs and I just couldn't hold the Leapfrog any longer so I just dropped-ed* it.

Me: Why didn't you just put it down on the stairs??

Jason: Well, I never thought-ed* of that...

Me: I thought you fell all the way down the stairs and really hurt yourself!

Jason, a bit condescendingly: Mommy. Come on. I'm not made of Leapfrog stuff, so it didn't SOUND like I felled-ed.*

Needless to say, I had no idea how to respond to this statement. (Have I mentioned that he's four? And that I don't think he's aware of that fact?)

____________________________

*Question of the Day: At what point does a four-year-old understand how to make a word past tense? Because, as cute as it may be, it might not be so cute if he tells the girl he's dating, "I goed-ed to the store and bought-ed you a flower that I thought-ed you liked-ed. Are you happy that I gaved-ed it to you?"

Shut it down

2007-01-03T16:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Citizens of Karen's Town, U.S.A.:

News flash: Christmas is over. Why must it take you up to six months to realize this each year? Okay, so you haven't had a chance to take your lights down...or put away your stupid lawn ornaments...or deflate your hideous 10-foot blow-up Santa. This, I can allow on January 3rd. But why are you still turning the lights ON? Why must I still have to see the jerky head movements of your faux reindeer "grazing" on the dead grass? Why do I have to look at that ridiculously huge Santa smiling and waving, still trapped inside that ball of wasted electricity? STOP FLICKING THE SWITCH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

I'm just saying.

Love & kisses,
ME

Um, hello?

2007-01-01T07:59:00.000-05:00

I am back from my unannounced holiday break. Commence the sighs of relief and the cries of joy.

First: Happy New Year! I hope everyone has a fabulously happy and healthy 2007!

Coming up next: Karen Shows Her Age.

So, last night was the ever-exciting New Year's Eve at our household. We ~~put on our sweats~~ got all dressed up in our finest evening wear, ~~watched The Office on DVD and gorged ourselves with Chinese food~~, went out on the town and partied like rock stars, and ~~fell asleep on the couch at 9 p.m.~~ rang in the new year with champagne and sloppy french kisses!

Crazy kids, us.