Cheese & Whine

The Lockout

2010-06-29T13:57:00.026-04:00

Ah, summer. When I was little, I would look forward to school vacation in giddy anticipation of those days when the sun would be shining and the air was all warm and toasty. I remember how I'd peek out my bedroom window and get a burst of excitement at the first glimpse of blue sky. It always made me leap out of bed and beg my mother to go straight outside! Forget breakfast! I'll chew on a handful of grass if I get hungry! Just LET ME OUT!!!

So let's talk about kids these days. Oh, I know I sound old. But hell. What is going on with kids these days? They couldn't care less if it's 85 degrees and sunny, 40 degrees and snowing ("Nooo...I don't like building snowmen! The snow gets in my eyyyyyyyyes...."), or 60 degrees with hurricane winds and hail the size of golfballs. It's all the same to them. "Can I play Wii?" No. "Well, then, can I play Playstation?" NO. "Okay, then I'll play my DS..." NO! You are getting dressed and going outside!

Oh, my. Commence the dramatic gasps all around. Outside? A fate worse than death, apparently.

"Nooooo!!!!! Not outside!!! There's nothing to DO outside!"

"I don't understand," I said today, shaking my head with confusion. "I used to find a million things to do outside. I used to collect dirt, add some water, and make dirt soup. I'd look for frogs, pick them up, chase squirrels, collect bugs in a plastic cup and examine them...."

They both stood there, noses crinkled, going, "Ewwww! Mom, you were GROSS!"

"Fine," I said. "Then play with your Legos."

"Whaaaaat?" they replied in horror and disgust. "LEGOS???"

"Okay," I said. "Then why don't you build a fort and play with your toys underneath it."

"A...fort? How do you make a fort? What's a fort? Can we google it? What do you use a fort FOR? Why would I build a..."

"NEVERMIND!" I said, throwing up my hands. "Here's another idea: Clothes, sandals, out!"

More fearful gasps. Oh, dear. Tough crowd.

After approximately 3 hours and 42 minutes involving 12 snack requests and much difficulty with pulling on pants and velcro'ing sandals, I finally got them out the door, heads hanging in defeat.

Two point four seconds later, I heard the door sliding open again.

Oh, dear God, I am going to kill my own spawn.

Two little heads poked in. "Uh, Mommy? We're getting hot."

"GET. OUT. SIDE. NOW!"

The door slid closed slowly, with no enthusiasm. I saw them standing on the deck, looking at each other, communicating with their eyes only. "What is going on? Why would we be outside while the TV is inside?" They shook their heads slowly in confusion, throwing me a sideways glance, to see if I'm witnessing this little pickle I've put them in.

I finally saw them trudging toward the swing set. So I turned back towards the kitchen and the mess that I'd been trying to clean up for the past eighteen hours.

Sixty seconds later, there they were again, staring at me with wide eyes as they slowly slid the door open.

"What now??!?"

"Um, I need...something," said my youngest, as he walked in warily, keeping a close eye on my expression. Which must've been difficult to decipher through the cloud of steam coming out of my ears.

Seconds later, I saw him side-stepping hurriedly to the door, with something hidden behind his back.

"What do you have?" I inquired with irritation. I was quite sure it wasn't something conducive to outdoor activities.

He showed me: His DS and a bag of games.

I confiscated the mind-numbing electronics, ushered him to the door that leads to imagination and wonder, slid it shut, and locked it.

(They had no idea I locked it, and I could still see them, and therefore they were technically "supervised," so hang up your damn phones, you humor-challenged, DSS-calling people.)

Two minutes went by. I heard tug-tug-tug and then a "Heeeeeyyy! That's not nice, Mommy!"

I stood up and pointed to the swingset so hard that I practically dislocated my elbow. "GO ON THE SWINGS! PLAY BALL! DO SOMETHING! YOU ARE NOT COMING INSIDE! IT IS A BEAUTIFUL DAY AND YOU ARE GOING TO ENJOY BEING OUT THERE EVEN IF YOU HATE EVERY MINUTE OF IT!!!"

They backed away in surprise, hands up in self defense from this verbal onslaught, and shuffled back to the swing set.

I turned away and started to head toward - ...

knock-knock-knock

Hooooo, boy.

The little one was standing at the door, using exaggerated sign language and theatrical demonstrations to indicate that he needed a drink and would promptly wither away if I didn't unlock the door and provide him with sustenance.

I marched to the kitchen, grabbed two juice boxes, unlocked the door, tossed one to each of them, and relocked the door.

I turned back to - ....

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The oldest was holding himself down below, jiggling around, face pressed against the door, creating a sweaty pig nose print on the glass, yelling, "I have to do peeee!!!"

I rolled my eyes and let him in, and the little one tried to hide next to him, matching his footsteps, so that he could sneak in, too. I ushered him back to the deck, closed the door, and with an authoritative pointed finger, I mouthed loudly, "Stay out!"

I have to admit that at this point I wished someone was videotaping because boy-oh-boy I could probably rake in some serious bucks with this material. If I weren't so frustrated, I would've been rolling on the floor holding my stomach from laughing.

I finally got the oldest to finish the longest episode of urination in his life, followed by nearly scrubbing the skin off his hands while singing Pearl Jam tunes (complete with background vocals and instrumental inflection between the verses). After much ~~yelling~~ nudging, I got him back outside.

With each knock came a request followed by a quick rebuttal:

"I'm thirsty again."

Drink from the hose. That's what kids do. THAT IS THE FUN OF BEING OUTDOORS.

"I'm hoooooootttttt..."

That's because you keep walking to the door to ask me things and complain. What you need is a good run around the yard with that beach ball you guys made me buy at Target last month. It'll cool you right off.

"I have to pee again!"

We have bushes.

"I'm hungry!"

There's a peach tree to your left and a basil plant to your right.

"How many more minutes do we have to stay out here?"

Twenty-five.

"How many MORE minutes?"

Thirty-two.

"We're getting tired..." (insert pathetic pouty-face)

Here are two lawn chairs. Or would your rather go to your rooms and take a nap? (That one worked like a charm...for about 6 minutes — the longest stretch of peace and quiet yet.)

Next came the little one standing outside the door, holding his behind, mouthing, "I'M GONNA POOP MY PANTS, MOMMY, FOR REALLLL!!!!" followed by me announcing that if I didn't see evidence of this in the toilet he was going to sit in the corner. And not the corner of the inside of the house, the corner of the YARD.

A few minutes later, I quietly hear, "Uh, Mommy? Do you need to see the poop before I flush?"

And with that, I accepted the Worst Mother of the Year award, unlocked the door, and put an end to everyone's misery.

I think that was the longest 17 minutes of my life.

I am now sitting in my bedroom (with the door locked), listening to my youngest shouting excitedly as he plays Mario games on the Wii, and my oldest singing brightly with his earbuds in while his iPod audibly blares Taylor Swift's "Today Was a Fairytale."

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.

Spending frenzy

2006-12-18T17:52:00.001-05:00

Why is it that when you're running dangerously low on money, you spend more?

What? Just me? Oh.

Paul and I had a rare Sunday afternoon to ourselves, so we decided to go out to lunch (and holy calamari, was it good). This makes perfect sense, because we had just had a long talk the day before about how we need to cut back on the daily nonessentials: the People magazines, the Starbucks venti lattes, and all of the other $4-$5 purchases that we can certainly do without. (Thank God the National Enquirer is less than $4. How else would I be kept abreast of the status of Britney's barn door or the size of J-Lo's badonkadonk?). So, since fancy coffee was out of the question, we opted for lunch and drinks instead. Because that's certainly not $4-$5. It's more like $40-$50. So that's okay. According to our new rule. (You see, when we put our minds to it, we have a great deal of willpower and stick to our resolutions. In fact, for the new year, we're resolving to talk nicely to each other at all times. I'm working on how to say "I hope you choke on your ziti" with a loving smile and goo-goo eyes.)

We weren't hungry yet for lunch, so we decided to pop into a store or two to see if we could pick up a couple of Christmas presents. Closest store: Yankee Candle. Location: directly next door to Starbucks. But we held our breath and walked quickly by. And? Saved $8.56 in the process! See how strong we are?

Let me just say this next part really fast and get it overwith. In the course of fifteen minutes and twelve seconds we spent upwards of $150 and we were only supposed to be browsing in the off chance we saw something that someone might like for Christmas and THANK GOD WE DIDN'T CAVE AND GET THE LATTES! I mean. Whew. Because then we'd really be in trouble.

The good news is, I have presents for my children's teachers for every Christmas right up through graduate school. The bad news is, the Discover bill comes in two weeks. Am I the only person who gets heart palpitations when I see credit card bills in the mailbox? Seriously, I think someday the UPS guy is going to find me sprawled out on the front lawn near the mailbox, Discover bill in one limp, sweaty hand, the other hand outstretched toward him, gasping "HELP...ME!" Followed by a perky, "Hey, is that box from Amazon or LL Bean?"

So, tell me I'm not the only one. Please. I know we're all maxed out on money at this time of the year, no matter what our financial status is, so it would be helpful if we could all reassure each other that we're not alone. And then we can all hold hands and sing "Kumbaya." Or "We Are the World." Or maybe we could all file for bankruptcy at the same time, sort of the way we ladies like to go to the bathroom in groups of three or more. Wouldn't that be nice?

Speaking of recipes

2006-12-08T13:20:00.000-05:00

As the scent of pumpkin wafts through my house, I am reminded that a commenter recently requested my pumpkin bread pudding recipe. So, Tisker, I am finally getting around to posting it. I will give two different versions of it.

Pumpkin Bread Pudding: "Whoomp, There It Is!" Version
(because this is what you find yourself exclaiming when you catch a glimpse of your butt in the mirror the next day)

1 1/8 cup half-and-half
1 cup canned pumpkin
1/2 cup plus 1 Tbsp. dark or light brown sugar
1 large egg
1 tsp. pumpkin pie spice
1 tsp. vanilla extract
5 cups 1/2-inch bread cubes (French or Italian bread is best)
1/4 cup golden raisins, optional

Pumpkin Bread Pudding: "I Can Still Fit in My Pants" Version

1 1/8 c. fat-free half-and-half
1 c. canned pumpkin
1/2 c. sugar substitute (I use Whey Low*)
1/4 c. egg substitute
1 tsp. pumpkin pie spice
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 c. golden raisins (still optional - I've never tried them)
5 c. cubed whole wheat bread (stale works best)
Small slice of left thumb, for added protein**

Instructions for both versions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk together the half-and-half, pumpkin, brown sugar, eggs, pumpkin pie spice and vanilla. Fold in the bread cubes, then fold in the raisins, if using. Pour bread pudding into loaf pan. Let the pudding stand for about 15 minutes. Bake until tester comes out clean (about 1 hour or so).

Double recipe: Bake in 9-by-12-inch glass dish - still takes about one hour to be done.

*Whey Low is a sugar substitute that is much healthier than the chemically altered crap that you find in your average store. It actually is sugar: a combination of fructose, sucrose, and lactose, but with only a small percentage of the calories and without the resulting nasty rise in blood sugar that you get from regular sugar. Don't fall for a certain company's "it tastes like sugar because it's made from sugar" business. They start with sugar and then screw with it in 86 different ways so that it's basically become Frankensugar. In twenty years, billions of people will be slowly rotting away, limb by limb, and the Frankensugar will be banned because it has finally been proven not only to keep you svelte, but...to make your limbs rot. And bad stuff like that.

Anyway, although Whey Low is about 35 times the price of regular sugar (okay, slight exaggeration), it is the BEST product I've discovered since, well, fat-free half-and-half. (I literally cannot drink my coffee without fat-free half-and-half. Really. If I discover we're out of it in the morning? I weep.) The downfall is that you have to order it through the mail. But the good news is, it's the same cost for shipping whether you buy one bag or one hundred bags (but then you'd be living on the streets in tattered clothes with just a bunch of Whey Low bags in a rusty grocery cart, and most importantly NO pumpkin bread pudding, and that would just suck to the absolute highest level of suckage).

Oh, and don't get all grossed out about the "whole wheat" factor of this recipe. You'd never know, honestly. Don't knock it until you've tried it! I just pulled a batch out of the oven a few minutes ago, and WHOOOAAAA, MAMA! Put a little fat-free Cool Whip on that stuff, and you've got yourself a lowfat, low-carb, low-cal par-tay!

**Beware the Calphalon bread knife. It's deadly serious. (Or, as was proven a short while ago: seriously deadly.)

Thank God for Tivo

2006-11-30T16:44:00.000-05:00

Survivor, The Office, Grey's Anatomy, and Men in Trees, all in one night?! The stress! I cannot take it! This is why I love Tivo. The plan:

1. Survivor for half an hour until The Office comes on.
2. The Office for half an hour (because I just cannot bear to continue watching Survivor while I know it's on!).
3. Grey's Anatomy for an hour.
4. Second half of Survivor.
5. Pass out on couch and save Men in Trees for tomorrow (Friday night t.v. is famously lame, anyway.)

I remember when I used to get all hyped about getting all dressed up for a night out on the town with my friends. Now I'm all like "I can't wait to put on my pj's and sit my ass in front of the t.v. for THREE SOLID HOURS! And eat takeout food and drink wine! Life does not get any better than this!"

It's sad, really. (Yet why am I so happy?! Wheeeeee!!!!)

Sew what?

2006-11-24T14:22:00.000-05:00

I'm a 38-year-old wife and mother who can barely sew a button onto something.

Here is a good example of why I should've paid closer attention while making my lion pillow in 6th grade Home Economics. Friday night was my 20th high school reunion.

As soon as everyone is done laughing, I will continue.

Okay, then. The outfit I decided on was a little black dress with a little black jacket. The problem was, the jacket's sleeves were too long. But I really liked the way the jacket fit otherwise, and it went perfectly with the dress, so I bought it anyway. I'm too lazy to go to a tailor, but I figured I could wangle something, even if it meant just pinning the sleeves up. Instead, I discovered this handy little glue item called Fabri-Tac, which is good for permanent "hemming" of fabric, or even for minor carpentry around the house. Basically, it's for people who don't know their way around a needle and thread, or a hammer and nail.

So, I turned the first sleeve inside out, folded the fabric, and sealed the hem (permanently!) with Fabri-Tac. Voila! Perfecto! I was so proud of myself! What a waste of time, the needle and thread thing! This was SO much easier! I then turned the sleeve right side out so that I could try the jacket on to admire my hemming job, and OH MY GOD WHAT ARE THOSE WHITE SPOTS AROUND MY WRIST???

Nowhere on the bottle of this glue does it say that the glue might leak through the fabric and leave (permanent!) spots. I tried to remain calm. Well, I thought to myself, I bet my cure-all for any sticky or oily stain (see below) will get rid of these spots. No need to worry.

Brilliant Idea #2: I broke out the Goo Gone, sprayed the ring-around-the-sleeve, and waited a few minutes for it to do its thing. After a few minutes, I scratched the glue spots with my fingernail and...nothing. They didn't budge. Yet, I am still calm! Because, you see, I have MORE tricks up my sleeve (HA HA!)!

Brilliant Idea #3: I found an old toothbrush, which I save for heavy-duty jobs such as this, spray a little more Goo Gone on the spots, and rub them (frantically) with the toothbrush. Hmm. Okay, then! Time to ix-nay the oo-Gone-gay.

Brilliant Idea #4: I run water on the sleeve and slather with dish soap (because that's just as good as laundry detergent, if not better, I'm thinking!). I rinse the soap off and squeeze the sleeve with a dish towel to absorb the water. The dish towel turns an odd purplish color. Could this be why the tag says "dry clean only"?

At this point, I am still cheerful - and hopeful! - until I notice that the spots are still there even after washing. Okay, now I'm starting to freak out juuuust a little bit.

But wait - more brilliant ideas are forming in my head! I'm thinking, if only there were black...paint...or something...that would cover the glue spots. That would be fine, right? I mean, who would know? So what if the jacket cost $50 on sale and I'm slowly mutilating it in 25 different ways? I really didn't care, as long as the spots were no longer visible.

Brilliant Idea #3: I went in search of some markers.

Unfortunately, a black Sharpie wasn't the answer. I thought these things were supposed to write on EVERYTHING? Well, let me tell you, they do not write on glue. Just so you know. For the future. (Someday you will thank me for this advice.)

On a whim, I decided to try the jacket on again to see if there was anymore length that could be taken off (because at this point I was leaning toward hacking the ruined fabric off with scissors and tacking the sleeves up with mini chip clips), and thankfully it turned out that the sleeve was still too long! Thank God I'm so stupid that I didn't make it the right length the first time! I mean...yeah. That. I guess.

Anyway, I ended up folding the fabric one more time to hide the damage and pinning the sleeves up into a faux hem, and all was well with the outfit in the end. No one was the wiser. (Least of all, me.)

And, in case anyone was wondering, I was NOT late to the reunion, as I predicted I would be. But I did have a semi-bad hair day and a small zit. All in all, though, it was a great time and everything went well.

I did have black rings around my wrists the next morning, however. (I thought Sharpies were supposed to be PERMANENT??)

And finally, a completely unrelated link because I can't seem to stop: This one makes my ovaries itch.

The one where I am early for events for the first time in my life and I think I liked it better when I was perpetually late.

2006-11-19T12:09:00.000-05:00

Every year, I ask Paul to get me one of those "month-at-a-glance" calendars (with large spaces for each day so I can list each event!). It's very important for me to have this to prevent such embarrassing and time-wasting mishaps as:

- Going to a doctor's appointment 24 hours before it's scheduled.

- Calling the doctor's office to see what time my son's checkup is and finding out that it was 45 minutes ago.

- Showing up for a meeting at my son's school an hour early and having to make strained small talk with the person who runs the meeting until the People With Accurate Calendars arrive.

- Going to a hair appointment on a Monday at noon, only to realize that the place is closed on Mondays. And it has been, oh, since it opened in 1972.

You know, stuff like that. Not that I would know anything about these things.

So, yesterday, in anticipation of my 20th high school reunion, I gave myself a manicure, showered, did my hair (which came out smokin'!), and carefully applied my makeup (also smokin'!). Just before getting dressed, I decided to call my friend to see if she and her husband would like to ride with us to the reunion so Paul and I wouldn't have to walk in alone. (Because, frankly, the fanfare that I'm usually greeted with at these reunions is a bit overwhelming. Men screaming my name, women throwing their panties at me. It's embarrassing really.)

Anyway. I got my friend's voice mail. Hmm. Why wouldn't she be at home an hour before we're supposed to be there? Shouldn't she be getting ready? On a whim, I decided to call her husband's cell phone number (because I don't have her cell number, and her pager number said it was no longer in service...um, Sue?? Are you reading this???).

He answers the phone with a cheerful, "Hello!"

I say, "Why aren't you guys at home?"

Him: "Because we're in Maine." (Note: This is not the state in which they live, nor is it the state in which the reunion is being held.)

Me: "Yeah, right. You're in Maine."

Him: "But we are..."

Me, smirking: "So you're not going to the reunion?"

Him: "That's next Friday, Karen."

Me: "..."

Him: "Karen?"

Me: "NO. SIR."

Him: "Um, yes, it is."

Me: "NO! SIR!"

Him, somehow sensing that this conversation is taking a turn: "Let me put Sue on the line."

Sue: "Hi, Karen?"

Me: "ISN'T THE REUNION TONIGHT??"

Sue: "I don't think so..."

Me: "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T THINK SO?!"

Sue, timidly: "I'm pretty sure it's next Friday..."

Me: "HOW 'SURE' ARE YOU TALKING??"

Sue: "About 99.9 percent sure."

Me: "OH. MY. GOD."

Sue: "Are you...?"

Me: "YES."

Sue: "So, you got all...?"

Me: "YES!"

Sue: "Wow."

Me, cheerfully: "Okay, then, I'll talk to you later!"

Click.

*bangs forehead with phone repeatedly* WHY...are YOU...so DAMN...STUPID???!!!

I pull out my Trusty Calendar, and lo and behold, it says "Reunion" on Saturday, November 18th.

Not only did I get the date wrong, I even got the day of the week wrong. Basically? I couldn't have been more wrong if I tried.

Who wants to place bets on the fact that I will be late to the reunion next Friday? And I will also be having a bad hair day? And I'll have a zit the size of Montezuma? And cramps?

Wheee!!!

2006-11-15T10:56:00.000-05:00

It's my second post in, oh, 23 minutes! This is what happens when the laundry reaches the rafters.

I went grocery shopping the other day and made the most unfortunate discovery: Hood Pumpkin Egg Nog. Can I just tell you...OH. MY. GOD. Also: HOLY CRAP. This stuff is so intoxicatingly good, so I-actually-saw-Paul-licking-the-inside-of-his-cup good, your thighs will instantly blow up to twice their original size and you'll say "BRING IT ON, SISTA!" I'm thinking it would also make my recipe for pumpkin bread pudding even tastier instead of using milk. I'm also thinking it would be good to pour it on my Cheerios, and who knows? Maybe bathing in it would be fun!

So, besides the chocolate chip cookies, pumpkin egg nog, and the craving for cheese and french fries (which might be Post #3), I'm expecting the irritability, clumsiness, and crying jags to kick in by tomorrow. And somehow I don't think that carrots, water, and a walk around the block are going to help AT ALL.

Gawd, I love being a girl.

A solution for emotional eaters

2006-11-15T10:37:00.000-05:00

I just read about a great tip for emotional eaters (not that I know anything about that) (I'm just saying), and I thought I would share. Ready? Take notes!

The article said you should keep three healthy food items around at all times - for example, yogurt, carrot sticks, and an apple - and when you crave something unhealthy, you should tell yourself that you have to eat those three healthy items first. It said that 9 out of 10 times you'll fill up on the healthy items and you won't want the unhealthy item anymore (or, at least, won't overindulge). If you still want the unhealthy item after eating the three healthy ones, you should give yourself permission to eat the unhealthy item. (Again, with the hopes that you will now not overindulge.)

I think I'm going to try this! I had always heard that drinking a big glass of water and waiting 5-10 minutes before allowing yourself to give in to the unhealthy food works. I also had heard that going for a 10-minute walk when you feel a craving coming on also works. So, I'm thinking that maybe eating the three healthy foods, drinking a big glass of water, waiting 5-10 minutes, and then going for a 10-minute walk would keep me away from the sweets. However, I cannot attest to this because, unfortunately, I began to read the article just as I was finishing my fourth chocolate chip cookie.

So, how do you all handle it when a craving comes on? Any other expert tips? Do you just give in and hate yourself later? Give in and then exercise yourself silly to make up for the overindulgence? Or do you have super-human willpower in which case I hate your guts?

My mooshy boy

2006-11-09T16:03:00.000-05:00

Jason (putting together a puzzle, not looking at me): "Mommy, I love you."

Me: "I love you, too!"

Jason: "Especially when I'm near you. That's when I love you the most."

Me: *melts into puddle on floor*

If he keeps this up, how will I ever be able to embarrass him in front of girlfriends by pulling out the picture of him sitting on the toilet reading Pinocchio?

My son has expensive taste

2006-11-06T20:19:00.000-05:00

Jason, that is. He seems to have developed a fondness for seafood. And not the run-of-the-mill fish like scrod or cod, mind you. LOBSTER. And SHRIMP. Okay, and tuna from a can and frozen fish sticks, but he always requests lobster and shrimp first. In fact, each time he visits one of his grandparents, he asks, "Are we having lobster?" Answer: "Uh, NO." Jason: "How 'bout shrimp?" Answer: "Uh...NO." Jason: "Can I have tuna?" Answer: "YES! You CAN!"

I find this to be so incredibly cute that I somehow can't help myself when we go to the grocery store and he asks me, "Mommy, can we get lobster?" with that wild-eyed look of anticipation on his face and his little hands clasped together in silent prayer. TWICE I gave in and bought the boy a lobster. And now my freezer is stocked with shrimp. Who do I think we are? We should be eating within our budget (read: Manager's Special 70% lean ground beef). Instead, my four-year-old is sitting at his little table in his little chair with a lobster in his Thomas the Tank Engine plate, asking me, "Mommy, where are the cracker things? And the little pointy things to poke the meat out?"

Last night, he ate so much shrimp cocktail that he appears to have a pinkish hue.

This is the boy who won't touch anything chocolate, doesn't like pizza, ice cream, or cake, and won't eat anything that resembles a sandwich ("I don't eat bread!").

Clearly, he has issues.

Bombs away

2006-11-05T20:15:00.001-05:00

Recently, I went away for the weekend to visit friends. (By myself! Without my children! I know!) Being aware of the limitations on liquids being carried onto the plane, I decided to check my bag containing my liquid essentials (shampoo, hairspray) and carry a small bag with me on the plane containing my valuables ($30 earrings, $15 necklace) and whatever else I needed for the ride on the plane (tranquilizers, Holy Bible). However, as I was finishing up with packing, I discovered these zippered pockets on my carry-on that I never noticed before. So, I decided I could put my hairspray, shampoo, and other potentially explosive devices in one of these (handy-dandy!) pockets. I mean, why stuff them into my overnight bag when I have room in my carry-on, right?

This is so typical of me, to lose track of the entire point of what I'm doing.

So, of course, as I go through security, all of the bells and whistles went off as my Very Dangerous Bag went through the x-ray machine. The security people were very nice about it, though, and let me go back to the check-in area and ask that the Very Dangerous Items be placed in the bag that I had checked. I then had to re-remove my shoes, re-walk through the metal detector, and re-run all of my items through the x-ray machine, because, of course, there was a strong chance I might've picked up a firearm or two during my brief absence. But hey, I wasn't about to complain. I'm all about letting security check and double-check everything at the airport. My main objective is to get to my destination without blowing up into a bajillion pieces en route, so whatever they need to do to protect my safety is fine by me.

On the way home, however, security pulled out the big guns. I had to step into this metal detector that blew spurts of air up and down your body. (I don't know exactly what it was for, but I was quite sweaty at the time so it was rather refreshing.) And then? My bag was once again confiscated when more Dangerous Items were discovered! This time, I was asked to step aside while a very stern-looking woman pulled on some plastic gloves and commenced her search for the hidden explosives. When the woman couldn’t find the source of danger, she began pulling things out of my makeup bag. I had a small bottle of perfume in there, but in my own defense, it was almost empty so I didn't think it would be a problem. Apparently, it was. She asked me if I was aware that liquids need to be put in a “4x4 bag,” and I said I was not. ("What's a '4x4 bag'?" I wondered. But I was too intimidated to ask.) She looked at me with disgust, put the perfume aside, and continued poking around, asking me all kinds of questions about my cosmetics.

Her: "Is this a powder or a liquid?" waving a tube of roll-on eyeshadow.
Me: "Powder."
Her: "Powder?"
Me: "Powder."
Her: "..."
Me: "It's not liquid."
Her: "Are you sure?"
Me, trying to sound reassuring: "Yes, very sure."

More poking around.

Her: "Do you have mascara in here?"
Me: "I think so..."
Her: "Because that's a liquid, you know."
Me, doing my best impression of being agreeable: "Um...er...oh."

She continues poking around, searching for the mascara bomb. She is determined, but cannot find it.

Her, brandishing a slim tube of concealer, so old that the brand name has been completely rubbed off over the years: "What is this?"
Me: "Concealer."
Her: "Powder or liquid?"
Me: "Liquid...I guess. But it’s probably almost completely dried up."
Her, flabbergasted: "Don't you know that carry-on liquids are supposed to go into a 4x4 bag?"
Me: "Um...like I said, I had no idea. This is the same stuff I brought on the plane on the way here, so I didn't think it would be a problem."
Her, thoroughly disgusted with the security at the Other Airport: "Hmph. Come with me. I'll see if I can find one of those bags around here."

I followed her, panicking. What if she can't find the 4x4 bag? Will she confiscate the half-ounce of perfume and the dried-up concealer? The woman walked around, opening drawers, searching for this special bag that people are supposed to put their Dangerous Liquids in. I expected to see this, oh, I don't know, heavy-duty bag of some sort. Maybe something made of bullet-proof material. With chains. And a padlock. Instead she pulls out a GENERIC PLASTIC SANDWICH BAG WITH A ZIP TOP and says, "You’re in luck. I found one." Um, yeah. Because those things are tough to find. She proceeds to place my medium-beige concealer grenade and my Ralph Lauren Romance nuclear warhead into the flimsy bag, DOESN'T EVEN CLOSE IT, hands it to me, and says, "You're all set." I smile and say, "You're shitting me, right?"

Okay, I actually smiled, said thank you, and went on my merry way. But come on. Seriously? What exactly was that flimsy plastic bag going to do to protect me and my fellow passengers? ("Everyone, remain calm! The slightly moist items have been safely placed in an open plastic bag! Please step out of the fallout shelter, return to your seats, and prepare for takeoff!")

When I got home, I found my mascara at the bottom of my carry-on. Apparently it must've fallen out of my makeup bag. So, basically, I could've had an actual bomb at the bottom of my bag and security would've missed it. But one made out of one-sixteenth of an ounce of crusty concealer? They had that covered.

I recently read a story in the newspaper about how a gun made it through airport security somewhere. Shocking. Too bad that person hadn’t tried to sneak dried-up makeup and a teaspoon of perfume past the security people, because they definitely would've caught that.

Re-treating

2006-11-01T06:38:00.000-05:00

The best part of Halloween is - let's face it - the candy. And I'm not talking about the Jolly Ranchers or the mysterious Tootsie Rolls that taste like they're made of wax or the damn Dots and the Laffy Taffy that rip your fillings out. The only reason kids under the age of 14 like those disgusting candies is because their tastebuds are clearly not yet sophisticated enough to fully enjoy CHOCOLATE. This appreciation only comes with maturity.

But this is good news for the adults! We make big to-do's about all of the Mike & Ikes and other crap in our kids' treat bags just to distract them from the yummy goodness that their brains are not quite ready to embrace yet. "Oh, look! You got Gummy Lifesavers!" *waving the package with one hand as a distraction while snagging some Hershey's Kissables with the other* I think I've also said things like, "Wow, you're a lucky boy! Look at all of these lollipops!" *doing a one-handed Vanna White impression while using the other hand to secure a 100 Grand bar*

Almost as much fun as stealing chocolate from my kids is the satisfaction of re-treating the Crappy Candy to the kids with the lousy costumes. We have our Re-treating System down pat: We send the kids out trick-or-treating early, bang out about 12-15 houses (they can't take much more, as their legs are short and tire easily), and rummage through the loot as soon as they get back (see above thieving tactics). As one adult greets trick-or-treaters at the door, the Crappy Candy Thief slips up behind the Greeter, nudges him/her while putting Crappy Candy into Basket of Good Candy, and whispers something like, "The one on the right with the lame mask," and the Greeter re-treats a 12-year-old Michael Myers. See? Everyone's happy. This continues until we are left with 98% chocolate in the kids' treat bags. ("Oh, look, [insert child's name], you have so much chocolate and so few Lemonheads...it's too bad you don't like chocolate very much...here, I found some Sour Patch Kids...")

Two weeks later, Paul and I are both accusing the dryer for the shrinkage of our clothes. And that's when I make up a big bag of Sort-of-Good Candy for Paul to take to work - the stuff that didn't make the cut, like the Baby Ruths, the Whoppers, and the Butterfingers. And eventually our clothes stretch out again. Voila!

Reader Reviews:

"It's an amazing method, and it works!"

"Highly recommended."

"I ended up with 462 Reese's! Awesome!"

Movie Quote Monday

2006-10-30T07:48:00.000-05:00

"I really admire your shoes."

"What?"

"I love your shoes."

"What do ya mean?"

"And I was just thinking: as much as I really admire your shoes, and as much as I'd love to have a pair just like them, I really wouldn't want to be IN your shoes at this particular time and place."

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

Reality

2006-10-18T07:09:00.000-04:00

If any of the women who read this blog has The Uglies today, or even if you don't, take heed. We should all stop being critical of ourselves because THIS is reality.

Movie Quote Monday

2006-10-16T12:07:00.000-04:00

(answering phone)

"Hello, you've reached the winter of our discontent."

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

Corruption of the innocent

2006-10-14T13:45:00.000-04:00

Somehow, I seem to have kept my children in a plastic bubble of sorts all of these years. I have no idea how I pulled it off, or even if it was deliberate.

There was one incident, about six months ago, when one of them said something like, "...that stupid toy..." or whatever it was they were talking about, and I swiftly corrected with "You mean 'that silly toy.'" And it was repeated back: "I mean, 'that silly toy.'"

Then, there was another incident where Jason said, "Oh, my God!" and I swiftly corrected with "You mean, 'oh, my gosh.'" And he looked at me appreciatively and repeated, "I mean, 'oh, my gosh!'"

And that's all. Really and truly, it is. I know! They are four and six years old. How have I escaped potty mouth for so long?

(Okay, I do think I heard one of them say "shit" once, but we ignored it, and it was never heard again. Obviously, that was learned on the schoolyard from one of the Other Kids.)

Also? When Drew, um, releases gas, he just ignores it. If I say, "What was that?" he looks at me like, "What was what?" When Jason does it and I ask him what it was, he bends completely over with his back toward me, touches his feet so as to give me the best possible view of his rear, and says, "It was my bum! It burped!" How cute is that? I mean...come on. Personally, I think this is how everyone under the age of eighteen should explain a release of flatulence to people.

The other day, however, one of Jason's classmates came home with him to play. She is a very sweet little girl, who happens to have an older sister (maybe ten years old?). We drive by Burger King, and she says, "Oh, look! It's Booger King! King of Boogers! HA HA HA! My sister always says that because she loves boogers! HA HA HA!" And Jason laughed hesitantly (because he has been taught to be polite), and I see in the rear view mirror that he looks a little bit puzzled. He doesn't know what "boogers" are. But he is intrigued.

Great. And so it begins.

At our house, the little girl announces, "I can burp, you know!" and proceeds to try to force herself to burp (unsuccessfully, but she makes a noise which she hopes will sound believable). And then she laughs. HA HA HA! So, Jason makes a noise, sort of like the one she made, and he laughs. HA HA HA!

Lovely. I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach.

The little girl went on to tell "jokes," like "What does a house and a tree make? An apple! HA HA HA!" Jason thought this was hysterical. So, he joined in: "What does a bird and a ball make? A popsicle! HA HA HA!"

And then things began to turn.

The little girl (heretofore called "LG"): "What does bird poop and a bee make? Dog poop! HA HA HA!" And Jay gives the hesitant little (polite) laugh. (Poop is funny?) LG: "What does a school and a lamp make? A FART! HA HA HA HA HA HA!" (LG apparently thought that one would bring the house down.) Jason: "ha ha...ha!...ahem..." (What's a fart?)

Brokenhearted and full of despair, I am now sobbing in the kitchen and swilling cabernet straight from the bottle. What is that stupid little girl doing to my child? Who invited that little shit here, anyway?? I mean...my GOD....

You know you've had too much caffeine when...

2006-10-12T13:41:00.000-04:00

...you hobble around the house with one bare foot and one sneakered foot because you don't have time to put on the other shoe because THERE ARE THINGS THAT NEED TO GET DONE AND THEY NEED TO BE DONE RIGHT!!! AWAY!!!

...you decide to use the upright vacuum cleaner instead of the Roomba because it will save time.

...you develop an eye tic that lasts nine hours.

...your thoughts are wildly fragmented. (I should go to Home Depot...I think we need milk...and thumbtacks...I want to go to the movies this weekend...I wonder if Rudy Giuliani will run for President...Why is there a seagull in my backyard? We don't live near the ocean!...I love fried clams...I should scrub the grout in the kitchen floor...)

...you eat lunch, do a load of laundry, and give yourself a manicure simultaneously.

...your four-year-old comes to give you a hug and tell you he loves you, and you say, "Not now, I'm cleaning the toilet! Can't you see that?!"

...you hear Nick Lachey singing and start rolling your eyes and yelling psychotically at the radio, "Get OVER it, Nick! I mean, my GOD! The girl was dumb as a stick!"

Beware the Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte. (Crack is probably cheaper, anyway.)

What a pain in the ass

2006-10-09T19:24:00.000-04:00

It just took me five whole minutes to settle myself into a chair. I've been busy, you see. Busy flinging myself down flights of stairs with casseroles of broccoli. And now I am black-and-blue in the most inconvenient place for a person who can't do all that much walking and standing.

What happened was (because I know you are all dying to know), I slipped on the bottom stair while carrying a casserole dish containing broccoli (there might be a quiz, so remember, it was a CASSEROLE DISH containing BROCCOLI). Thus, I could not see my feet and could not navigate where to place my foot on the stair and I overestimated how large the stair actually was and okay I had a big glass of wine with dinner and that's probably why I slipped. Shoot me.

So, Paul heard me fall and ran at lightning speed to see what happened. I, of course, was curled up in the fetal position at the bottom of the stairs, wailing in agony, and rubbing my behind. He helped me up, picked up the (casserole) dish (of broccoli), and said, "Oh, too bad, it chipped." So now I feel even worse because my leftover broccoli (which was in the casserole dish) might have glass chips in it and it will have to be thrown away. The horror! (I come from a family who adores all vegetables, so it's a mortal sin to waste them.) Dragging myself up the stairs, rubbing my butt, and moaning about the possible loss of my broccoli (which was in the casserole dish), I begin to wonder where Paul went. I stumble into the kitchen, glass chips falling off my shirt, and I see him standing at the stove happily scooping himself seconds on pasta. THIRTY SECONDS after my near-death experience, and he's already back to being worried about his stomach. When I express my displeasure with his lack of concern, he's all flabbergasted and says, "What else am I supposed to do? I'm still hungry!" Ah. Well, okay, then.

In search of some genuine concern for my well-being, I call my mother today and tell her, "I fell on the stairs yesterday when I was bringing the broccoli [en casserole] downstairs to put in the refrigerator!" And she said, with concern, "Are you okay??" I said, "Yes, but..." And then she interrupts, with even more concern, "What about the broccoli? You didn't have to throw it away, did you?"

I know! I mean, food is very important on my list of, well, Important Things, but come on. It's kind of sad when your LIFE is less important to people than pasta and vegetables.

Anyway, my ass hurts. The End.

Movie Quote Monday

2006-10-09T12:46:00.000-04:00

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces."

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

Do I stutter?

2006-10-04T18:05:00.000-04:00

Why must I say things multiple times before people understand what I say? I've always felt I had a good grasp of the English language...until I got married and had kids. I swear, the three people living in my house are trying their best to make me feel like I'm losing my flipping mind.

Getting the kids ready for school in the morning, this is me:

"Drew, come on. Time for school. Get your shoes."

(Drew wanders over to the couch.)

"Drew, I said 'Get your shoes.' "

(Drew looks over at me with a blank look.)

"Shoes," I say. "GET YOUR SHOES."

(Drew sits on the couch.)

"GET! YOUR! SHOES!!!"

Drew goes to get his shoes and shoots me a look over his shoulder like, "Okay, okay! Keep your pants on!"

"Jason, didn't I ask you to wash your hands?"

No response.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you supposed to be washing your hands?"

"Oh. Yeah."

He continues to watch Curious George.

"Jason. Hands. Wash them. NOW."

Twenty-five minutes later, shoes are on, hands are washed, and we're out the door...well, almost.

"Come on, guys."

They veeeerrrrryyy slllooooowwwwwlllllly step across the threshold onto the front stoop and pause side by side for some unknown reason.

"Come on, guys. Let's go!"

Still pausing.

(Gee, what do we do now? Bend one knee and step down with the other foot onto the first step? Is that even physically possible? And what then? Should we do it again and again until we reach the bottom of the stairs? Won't we be tired? And what should we do once we get there? Which direction is the car? Is it that large, gray thing to the left with the four wheels and the booster seats inside, or is it the green thing with the leaves to the right that resembles a bush? Hmm. Best to wait for further directions from The Stutterer so as not to make a grave error in this multiple choice dilemma.)

"GO. TO. THE. CAR."

I see slow steps. I see more bewilderment with this strange world called Outside and this taxing exercise called Stepping Down the Stairs and this difficulty with Finding the Car.

I see SMOKE coming out of my EARS.

"GO TO THE CAR RIGHT NOW WE ARE GOING TO BE LATE FOR GOD'S SAKE YOU GUYS ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY IF THERE WERE COOKIES STUCK TO THE CAR YOU WOULD'VE BEEN THERE TEN MINUTES AGO!!!!"

Let's not even get into how slow they are when it's raining. The harder it rains, apparently the more difficult it is to move one's legs. Must be, you know, the rheumatism acting up from the dip in the barometric pressure.

And then there's Paul.

For 11 years, I've been telling him that I cannot remember everything that everyone in the household has to do every day of the week. All I ask is that if he's coming home late, or going somewhere after work, or whatever else might ~~keep him from getting home in time to save me from this hell that is our household at dinnertime~~ prevent him from getting home from work at the usual time, to please let me know that day because -- let me repeat this for the umpteenth time -- I CANNOT REMEMBER EVERYTHING THAT EVERYONE HAS TO DO EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK. You'd think that seeing the 236 notes I have taped all over the kitchen cabinets at any given time with reminders for me about doctor's appointments, field trips, bills to pay, calls to make, etc., would keep this simple request fresh in his mind over the past ELEVEN YEARS. But no. Inevitably, Paul will come home two hours late one night and I'll be ~~ripping my hair out and having a nervous breakdown because the kids are driving me insane~~ frantic because I had no idea where he was. And he will look at me like I have two heads and say, slowly (because that's how one must talk to Karen in...order...to...make...Karen...understand), "Karen, I told you three weeks ago that I had a dentist appointment tonight at 6 o'clock."

Ahh. Silly me.

Ahh. Silly me.

Sorry, force of habit.

Sorry, force of ha- *bangs head on wall*

My current addiction, and some bonus recipes!

2006-10-03T13:33:00.000-04:00

After my crackupuncture appointment this morning, I had about 10 minutes of free time before I had to pick Jason up from preschool, so I decided to treat myself to a $4 cup of coffee at Starbucks. Actually, I DETEST Starbucks coffee - even the smell of the place makes me throw up a little in my mouth - but I like the frou-frou drinks, as long as they're not strong and contain a lot of sugar and whipped cream. HA! Actually, that's a lie, because I'm the nonfat-sugar-free-no-whipped-cream customer that pisses everyone off with the list of instructions prefacing the actual name of the frou-frou drink. But I would LIKE to be the calorie-and-fat-oblivious customer who orders the Venti Praline Caramel Latte with whipped cream and chocolate shavings (oh my God does that sound good or what?).

Man, do I go off on tangents.

So, I noticed they have a "light" version of frappuccinos, and I decided that sounded mighty tasty. I asked the Coffee Barista (as I've heard they like to be called) if they contained sugar, and she said they do contain some, but it's reduced and they add Splenda, and it's made with nonfat milk. Great! So I ordered a medium (tall? whatever) light caramel frappuccino, and oh, let me tell you folks: It was to DIE for. I think I had a frou-gasm on the way back to the car. They have to be lying that this stuff is "light"! Ah, who cares. I am going to be so broke by the end of the week.

In other earth-shattering news, I think Jason is going to be a chef. When I picked him up from school, he was all about recipes for some reason. "Mommy! Do you know how to make a cake? You need flour, sugar, a couple of scoops of tuna, and a batch of honey! Then you put it in the oven for nine minutes until you see three Os* and then you take it out of the oven and then you eat it!"

Hmm.

And here's a couple more Secret Recipes he shared with me on the ride home:

Apple Banana Soup

one apple
one big banana
2 scoops of tuna

Mix it all together, and eat it with a spoon!

Squash and Banana Chicken (which, oddly, contains neither banana nor chicken)

one squash
couple of teaspoons baking powder
one scoop of tuna
some fish
some lobster

Put it in the oven for seven minutes until you see the three Os.*

BAM!

____________________________________________________________
*The timer on the oven shows "0:00" when the time is up. Work with me here, people.

Movie Quote Monday

2006-10-01T18:02:00.000-04:00

QUOTE #1:

"Honey, how are you doing?"

"Oh great, considering I desecrated your Grandma's remains, found out you were engaged, and had your Father ask me to milk him."

QUOTE #2:

"So you're monumentally busy?"

"No, not monumentally."

"She's gone. She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen."

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

I hate thinking up titles, so this post doesn't get one.

2006-09-29T10:01:00.000-04:00

It's normal to buy wine at 9 a.m., right?

In my own defense, I got on the wrong highway. I was on my way to Wild Oats to buy some very expensive food for my children's special diets (dairy-free, gluten-free, egg-free, dye-free, preservative-free, oh-my-God-shoot-me-now-free), and I turned onto the highway heading north instead of south. So, seeing as I only have 150 minutes from the second I drop Jason off at preschool until I have to pick him up, I was freaking out and cursing like a sailor because I was WASTING PRECIOUS CHILD-FREE TIME. Ever the economizer, I think to myself, "Well, let's see if there's something I can accomplish in the North today, because obviously there is no time for running errands in the South." Aaaaand...BINGO! This is the way to the liquor store! The one that has the cheapest prices for some of my favorite brands of wine! (Ah, what the hell, here's another one.)

I walk into the store, looking Absolut-ly (HA HA!) smashing as I always do at 9 a.m. after dropping off the kids at school. Baggy tee-shirt, yoga pants (I don't do yoga, but I'm all about the stretchy pants of the same name), and hair perfectly finger-combed. (Don't judge me. My kids looked sharp as a whistle this morning, and that always means that I, in turn, look like a homeless person. I cannot make us all look pretty in 1.5 hours. If I look good, they look bad, and it makes me look bad if my kids look bad. So, one of my many sacrifices as a mother has been to accept that I look like crapola in the early morning hours.) (However, I look very much like a S.U.P.E.R.M.O.D.E.L. by the time Paul gets home from work. Go on, ask him, People From Paul's Office. Go! And let me know what he says, so I can beat him over the head with one of these inexpensive bottles of wine that I bought this morning, if necessary.)

Anyway.

Take two: I walk into the store and figure I'll just see what's on sale, seeing as it's the weekend and all and I fully intend to sit back and swill me some vino tonight while re-watching the Lost season finale with my guy, who missed it in June because, um, someone deleted it from Tivo accidentally. DAMN that person!

So.

Take three (follow along, people!): I find some inexpensive-yet-decent wine and get in line at the cash register, and at this point I feel much better about leaving a store carrying alcohol in a brown paper bag at 9 a.m. because the guy in front of me is purchasing a super-size bottle of what looks like generic vodka. You know, the kind that comes with the handy-dandy handle so you can heave it onto your shoulder and balance it there precariously as you huff and puff your way back to your car? Happy Friday, sir!

After giving the cashier the evil eye for not asking me for my I.D. (it is entirely possible for a bedraggled woman with bags under her eyes to be under 21, you discriminatory BITCH), I come home with my unplanned, yet much loved, purchase.

And there you have it. That's all I've got. Colleen has Friday Feast on her blog, and all I offer on mine is...Feeble Fodder Friday. (Tune in next week for more of the same!)

Now you can all go slap yourselves in the head for wasting your time here. Go do something worthwhile, ya buncha bozos.

I'm in McLove

2006-09-27T15:46:00.002-04:00

Analyze this dream: I'm sitting in my living room. "Paul" (and I use that name loosely) is sitting on the coffee table (of all places) and he looks JUST LIKE Patrick Dempsey. And he's giving me that same look that Derrick gives Meredith on Grey's Anatomy. (For those who watch, you know The Look. Sigh.) And I get that overwhelming feeling of love...you know, the butterflies that make your stomach flip over and your breath catch?

Disturbing.

So I confess this to Paul to get his take on it, and because I think it's kind of funny. Bad move. I've been harrassed about it ever since. "Oh, okay. It was ME, but I looked like DR. MCDREAMY. Seriously??" I'm all like, "It was YOU, though!" And then, grasping at straws, "He had your SOUL." *Paul bursts into laughter.*

I don't know how I knew it was Paul, but I just did. It was New and Improved Paul! It was "McPaul." And hey, I refuse to feel guilty about the dream for the simple reason that Paul knows the name of every supermodel who ever lived. Every time I say, for instance, "Who's Molly Sims? An actress?" He sits right up, puts his trough of ice cream down, LOWERS THE VOLUME ON THE T.V., and says, "She's a [deeeeep breath] supermodel."

Anyway, so, yeah. I'm in McLove. And when Derrick told Meredith he was in love with her: "I've been in love with you...forever," I got all McTingly (stop!). I am so deliriously happy that Grey's Anatomy is back on again that I think I might need McTherapy (just...stop.)

Oh, don't even get me started on The Office. That's another big one. (That's what she said.)

Movie Quote Monday

2006-09-24T16:52:00.000-04:00

"You can forget it! You're out!"

"Don't you do it! Don't! You... I got nowhere else to go! I got nowhere else to g... I got nothin' else."

"Damn you! Goddam you! Nobody D.O.R's after eleven weeks! Nobody!"

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

In Utero

2006-09-19T06:57:00.000-04:00

Jason, snuggling with me in my bed: "Mommy, did you know I used to be in your belly?"

Me: "Yes, I know. What was it like in there?"

Jason: "It was cool and wet, and there were lots of bones!"

Me, obviously concerned at the thought of my child being cold: "You were COLD?!"

Jason: "Well, I was swimming so I stayed warm."

Me: "There was enough room to swim in my belly?"

Jason: "Yes! I swimmed and swimmed and it was so much fun!"

This explains a lot of the discomfort I felt in the third trimester.

Me: "What else did you do in my belly?"

Jason: "I played. With a train."

Me: "Where did you find a train in there?"

Jason: "I brought it with me."

Me: "..."

Jason: "I ate some food, too."

Me: "What kind of food?"

Jason: "Corn on the cob."

And there you have it. You always wondered, and now you know.

Movie Quote Monday

2006-09-17T20:57:00.000-04:00

"You know what your problem is? You are so goddamn bored, you have to invent things to bitch about. You don't have a single thing to do on this earth except for your hair. ... You just needed something to fill up your useless, nail polishing, toe polishing, rich bitch, sun tanning days."

________________________________

For more MQM fun, see:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

My teeth are clean, and so is my bathroom

2006-09-16T16:00:00.000-04:00

Paul wanted one of those electric toothbrushes for his birthday, and lucky me, it came in a two-pack! I just tried mine for the first time today. I'm thinking I should've looked at the directions first ("directions? for brushing your teeth? HA!" said I). Apparently there must be some mention of when exactly to press the button, and I'm thinking it's not until after you've already brushed a bit pre-buzz and gooshed the toothpaste around so it's not just, say, balancing on the bristles when the action begins. Why do I think this? Because I applied the toothpaste to the brush, pressed the button, and off flew the toothpaste with amazing propeller-like speed. It circled around my head a few times and finally landed on the toilet seat. Oops.

So, still refusing to look at the directions (I mean, give me a BREAK), I reapply the toothpaste and do the heretofore assumed preliminary brushing and THEN turn the thing on, and I immediately begin to dry heave violently from the unbearable tickling sensation. Eyes tearing and gag reflex in full swing, I open my mouth to get my back teeth and commence to spray the ENTIRE BATHROOM AND MYSELF with toothpaste spit. It was EV. REE. WHERE. Lovely. (It's worth noting that toothpaste in the eyes? Burns. BADLY.)

So, although I did have to spend 20 minutes afterwards cleaning the spittle off of absolutely everything, my teeth feel awesomely clean (see? I didn't need DIRECTIONS!)! I think this toothbrush is going to be ~~gathering dust in the back of the vanity~~ fantastic! Life-changing! JUST. SWELL.

New digs and old digs

2006-09-14T09:33:00.000-04:00

First, I have to give credit to Kelly of Nello Design for my great new look. Love it! My only complaint is that I specifically asked her to fix my picture so that I look like Eva Longoria, but she COMPLETELY ignored my request. Nice.

If anyone checks out Kelly's site, you'll notice she's taking a break (literally) from posting. She broke her foot and is currently going through the hell that is dealing with chronic pain and incapacitation. So let's talk about that a little bit, shall we?

I'm quite familiar with the whole chronic pain thing. Just about two years ago, after months of working out hard at the gym, I reaggravated an old condition in my knees. And also? Acquired NEW injuries in my legs! I went straight from the fittest I've ever been in my life to a complete and utter couch potato. I literally sat just about all day, every day, with my legs up. Not a doctor around could figure out why my legs felt so completely horrible that I could barely walk. And I saw quite a few doctors, let me tell you. It just went on and on and on. In fact, I'm still not completely normal, two years later. At the current rate of healing, I don't think I'll be completely in the clear for at least another year. Depression, anyone?

Anyway. The hardest part of dealing with all of this has been trying to take care of two small children and run a household while in constant pain. I swear Paul must be a saint to have gotten through the past couple of years with me. And my kids...the poor things. I think for a full year there wasn't one nice thing that I said to them. Everything was said with gritted teeth and a growl. "Go wash your hands!" "Eat your lunch!" "Here's your damn Christmas present! Hurry up and open it!"

The only thing that has helped me is acupuncture. My acupuncturist is like God to me. How serious am I? If I see a needle, or even just a sharp object of any kind, I drop to my knees and cry in relief. Just from the mere sight. Okay, I don't really drop to my knees because that would hurt. But my acupuncturist is the only person who figured out what exactly was/is going on in my legs and was able to treat the problem. She is straight from China and used to be a doctor there at an orthopedic hospital that deals only in Traditional Chinese Medicine. If not for her, I'd still be a miserable, bitchy...witch. Snapping at everyone in my house and lying on the couch crying all day. I still have some days like that occasionally *cough yesterday cough*, but it's only when I've done way too much. Thankfully, I've gotten to the point where I can handle more and more activity, but the process has been excruciatingly sllllloooooowwwwwww. At least I have the comfort of knowing that when I feel a little setback, I can run to the phone, dial a number, and say, "PLEASE. HURT. ME." The person on the other end says, "I have opening at 6 p.m. I put needles. It hurt very bad for day or two. Then you feel relief." And it's not even an obscene phone call. Awesome!

However, the point (ha ha) I'm trying to make but am taking forever to spit out is that when you are in chronic pain, no one cares. NO. ONE. Seriously. Way back in Paragraph 3 when I said "I'm quite familiar with the whole chronic pain thi-...," right about THERE is when the sound of outclicks was absolutely deafening. I doubt there's even anyone still reading this. I'm probably talking to myself now.

As if that's ever stopped me.

Chronic pain is right up there with mental illness. No one wants to listen to you when you're in pain. It's so boring! When people can't see the problem, they therefore think it's "all in your head." And after awhile you start hearing the digs. "What would happen if you had a full-time job? What would you have to do, quit?" Um, YES. Or? I'm pretty sure that's what the terms "short-term disability" and "long-term disability" are used for in the World of the Working. When you can barely shower, dress yourself, or stand long enough to open a can of soup, you are somewhat DISABLED.

For the past two years, I've repeatedly told people (in ever so few words so as not to KILL them with BOREDOM) that I can't do this or that because, well, I can't walk around like a normal person without keeling over in agony. And it's not like I offer up this information for no particular reason. It's usually in response to someone asking me things like, "Hey, did you take the kids to see the fireworks on the 4th?" or "Did you notice that new store in the mall?" or "Any plans for vacation this year?" Answers: "I'm pretty sure that would involve a certain amount of walking, which is something that's hard to do when you can't walk" and "I don't even remember where the mall IS" and "Only if we can find a place with Lazy Boy recliners on the beach and scooter rentals." And I'm usually greeted with a blank and/or disgusted look. Because I certainly don't LOOK like there is anything wrong with me, so therefore I must be insane. Maybe if I cut my legs off and bled profusely on the floor I might see an ounce of understanding and concern. Then again, maybe people would just be disgusted by the mess I was making. So, the way I handle it is, I don't even bother answering people truthfully anymore. I just answer "No" to all their questions and that seems to cover everything. Kind of like when someone says, "How are you?" and they expect you to say fine even if you have been given three months to live. No one wants the details unless they're happy ones.

Don't get me wrong, though. I don't hold it against anyone for reacting like this. Honestly, I don't. It seems to be human nature for people not to understand what they can't see. I'm sure I've been guilty of the same sort of thing before. In fact, I'm positive I have. The only good thing about having chronic pain is that it turns you into a more caring, empathetic person. I mean, now, I see someone with crutches, or even just limping, and I well up with tears and my heart aches for them. I want to carry their purse, help them into their car, fix them lunch. I feel for them.

So, hang in there, Kelly. You'll get better. It just takes time. If worse comes to worse, at least you know that you can turn to God. I'm seeing her tonight at 5 p.m. I'm sure there must be One in your area. Oh, and if you didn't live a gazillion miles away? I'd fix you lunch. And then I'd tell you to stop your whining and get your damn foot off my coffee table.

It's a good thing I'm so organized

2006-09-12T12:55:00.000-04:00

Today was Jason's first day of preschool. The "day" began with Jason awakening at 1:32 a.m., clutching his blue blankie and standing next to my side of the bed snuffling and sighing and finally "AHEM!"ing loudly until Paul and I finally responded with a deeply concerned, "WHY ARE YOU OUT OF BED??" Jason: "I saw something at my door and I was scared!" Paul, ever the comforting father: "It was probably a shadow. Just go back to bed." Jason, in a shaky voice: "I don't want to! I saw something!" Me, ever the comforting mother: "GO BACK TO BED." (In my own defense, I had been in a deep sleep and was only half awake. Otherwise, I would've said, "PLEASE GO BACK TO BED"..."HONEY"..."OKAY?")

I lie completely still and hold my breath. Paul lies completely still and holds his breath. Paul finally caves and hauls himself out of bed, throwing me a look of utter disgust (I can see this from behind my eyelids). "Come on," he says to Jay. "I'll show you there's nothing to be afraid of." That's the last thing I remember, so I'm assuming it went well.

6:00 a.m.: "GOOD MORNING, MOMMY!" There he is again, next to my bed, like a permanent fixture. Fine. We go downstairs. Where it's so early, I figure I have plenty of time to laze around and drink coffee for awhile. Surely a full hour will be adequate time to get both kids ready for school, even if I need extra time to take pictures of Jason in his going-back-to-school outfit before we leave.

As usual, however, there is the slow buildup of chaos as we approach 8:20, which is when we should be leaving the house.

7:20: I decided, well, I probably should start getting us organized. I promptly realize I don't know where Jason's backpack is.

7:30: Found it. Open it to reveal information papers that really should've been filled out and sent to school with him today. Oh, well. It can wait until tomorrow.

7:35: Scrub dirt spots off backpack. Totally forgot that it was dirty from summer camp. Lovely.

7:40: Realize I don't have a new lunchbox for Jason. I have to use the old, ripped one from last year. How embarrassing! Oh, well. I'll look for one on eBay today.

7:45: Begin packing lunchboxes and backpacks.

7:55: Declare backpacks complete and set them by the door.

8:00: Realize I need to send an extra set of clothes and underwear for Jason. Empty and repack his backpack with new items.

8:05: Give the boys breakfast. They kept saying they weren't hungry before, so I almost forgot to feed them. It's their fault, not mine.

8:10: Find homework(!)in Drew's backpack that needs to be done in, oh, the next ten minutes.

8:12-8:14: Drew does homework.

8:15: Get them both dressed in between reminding them to hurry up and eat.

8:20 (which is when we should be leaving): Realize Drew's fingernails need to be cut. I CANNOT send him to school with icky fingernails. I quickly cut them.

8:23: Drew announces he has to go to the bathroom. Fantastic.

8:25: Grab camera and have Jason pose at front door. He smiles. I press button. Nothing. "Low battery." The story of my life. Run down the basement to get spare batteries.

8:28: Take picture and am thrilled that I get a couple of really cute shots...but then immediately want to kill someone when I realize that the shots are blurry. Some sort of setting is off on the damn camera. Resolve to kill whoever messed with it. Too late to figure out what's wrong, so the pictures will have to do.

8:32: Realize I'm, um, not dressed. And I haven't brushed my teeth. How did I miss this?

8:35: Dressed in sweats and armed with a headband and breath mints, I am ready to roll.

8:36: Guide the sloth-like children out the front door ("Come on! Hell-Ooooo!!! While we're young, please!") Slam door with flourish. I should know by now that the Flourished Door Slam is always immediately followed by the exclamation, "SHIT, I forgot my keys! Now we're really going to be late!" This is exactly why we keep a spare key hidden outside...in a tree. Or something. (As if I'd tell you all where it's really hidden. What do you think, I'm an idiot? Clearly this post proves that I am NOT.)

8:40: We're finally on our way, just barely avoiding the dreaded Walk of Shame to the office to sign Drew in late. Whew.

8:50: Jason arrives at school, on time. See? I KNEW I could pull it off in an hour. I always amaze myself at how I work well under pressure.

9:02: Arrive home. Vomit. Fling myself into a chair. Sob quietly in relief. You know, the usual.

But I think I do get extra points for Best Dressed Preschool Boy Ever.

I could've eaten him right up this morning, including those cute little Buster Brown shoes. I might suck at life in general, but damn I'm good at dressing my kids.

Movie Quote Monday

2006-09-10T20:53:00.000-04:00

"Once you have a man with no legs, you never go back, baby!"

"We can make it, baby! Me and you! ...BITCH!!!"

"Is there a problem, officers?"

"When I was growing up, if we wanted a Jacuzzi, we had to fart in the tub."

"It ain't cool being no jive turkey so close to Thanksgiving."

_________________

Feel free to join MQM! Leave your link in the comments so we can come by and take a guess at your quote, too.

More MQM fun:
The Colleen Scene
No Diet Coke for Mommy

Optimism and Pessimism

2006-09-07T20:52:00.000-04:00

[For the SNL fans, you can add your own Debbie-Downer "bwaah-bwaaaaaaahhh..." sound after the "Me" responses.]

Him: "We should go to the beach next weekend with the kids."
Me: "It's probably going to rain. It always rains on the weekend when we want to go somewhere. Why bother?"

Him: "Did you notice how well the flowers that I planted filled in?"
Me: "Yeah. But now they look like they're covering a casket."
(Okay. But they do. I mean...come on. Doesn't that picture reek of cemetary?)

Him: "It's such a nice day. We should eat dinner out on the deck tonight. What do you think?"
Me: "Have you ever heard of Triple E? Call me crazy, but I'd rather reduce my risk of death by 100% and eat at the dining room table."

Him: "I'm looking forward to Christmas this year! Aren't you?"
Me: "I don't know how we're going to pay for all the presents. We'll probably have to take out a loan this year."

Him: "I can't believe how grown up Drew is starting to look!"
Me: "I know. His whole babyhood was a blur. I miss him being a baby. He was such a cute baby, but he doesn't look like a baby at all anymore. Even Jason doesn't look like a baby anymore. It gives me this sick feeling in my stomach whenever I think about not having anymore babies. Can we talk about something else?"

*Paul begins to play pretend Russian roulette with his thumb and forefinger*

Him: "It's starting to feel like fall. I love the crisp air, walking in the crunchy leaves, going apple-picking. I think it's my favorite season of the year!"
Me: "Shit it's getting cold. I hate wearing jackets."

Him: "Wow, you look fantastic tonight!"
Me: "Really? Because I feel fat. Do I look fat in this? Maybe I should change. I hope you'd tell me if you think what I'm wearing is unflattering. You would, right?"
Him: "..."
Me: "I look terrible, I know. I can see it on your face. I'll go find something else to wear."

*Paul shoots self with real gun this time*

*I can't hear gunshot because I'm busy slamming dresser drawers upstairs, whining, "I NEVER have ANYTHING to WEAR! I'm so SICK of this!!!"*

Mars and Venus

2006-09-07T14:44:00.000-04:00

Scenario I

I'm grouchy: This usually is because I'm worried about finances or family issues. Or maybe it's because I haven't left the house for five days straight and Paul's working 92 hours a week at his job as a sjdokradsjk and I can't get a break from the kids. Or it's PMS. Or I've cut too far back on the carbs. (It's a scary thing when all of these things happen on the same day. Trust me.)

How I handle it: Snap at everyone in the house. Or I don't talk to anyone at all. I put on The Face and give everyone The Look. If you touch me, I will cut you.

He's grouchy: This usually means he's feeling neglected or rejected (see above). Or the baseball game was preempted by a State of the Union Address. Or there are no cookies in the house.

How he handles it: Ice cream. Playstation.

Scenario II

My pants feel tight: This means, obviously, I have put on a few pounds.

How I handle it: Cut carbs. Exercise. Smaller portions. Wear Fat Pants until Normal Pants fit comfortably again.

His pants feel tight: "These pants shrunk in the dryer!" he exclaims, full of wonder and amazement at this curious phenomenon. When I point out that he's had the pants for over five years and they've been washed a gazillion times already, he presents with a look I can only describe as: The Fly-Catcher. He has absolutely NO clue what I'm talking about.

How he handles it: Shrugs. Puts on ~~bigger~~ different pants. Eats a trough of ice cream after dinner. Gets himself a Snickers when sent to the store to buy toilet paper. Waits it out because the ~~smaller~~ shrunken pants always stretch back out again for some unknown reason in, oh, a week or two. (I. HATE. MEN.)

Scenario III

I'm feeling affectionate: Everything is right in my world. (And all the planets have aligned and hell is getting a little chilly.) Or I've lost a few pounds because my Normal Pants fit. Comfortably!

How I handle it: Hug and slobber over the kids. Hug and slobber over Paul. Hug and slobber over the laptop. No one is spared. This condition usually lasts about 15 minutes. Unless the Normal Pants are actually LOOSE (the mere idea makes me want to french kiss my computer screen), in which case the condition lasts for at least 20-25 minutes or until I gain five pounds, whichever comes first.

He's feeling affectionate: I just cooked a meal that he's enjoyed very much. Or he just got a call from a friend who has free tickets to a game of some sort. Or it's Nip/Tuck night. (It's a scary thing when all of these things happen on the same day. Trust me.)

How he handles it: Playfully groping and grabbing me every time he walks by. No hugging. That would be boring. Pays no attention to The Face or The Look. (Which prompts me to move on to the Slamming of the Cabinets and Drawers.)

Do you see a pattern here? Follow along, people! No wonder men aren't as moody as women! If we didn't worry so much about what we eat, we would all be more pleasant, more affectionate people who believe in the Dryer Fairy! Wouldn't that be ~~sad~~ nice? Women clearly need to ingest more carbs, more fat, and more calories so they can be happier people! *she says as she shoots a Look at her husband on the way to the freezer for a lowfat, reduced calorie, no-sugar-added fudgicle*

My life is complete.

2006-09-06T13:49:00.000-04:00

It's finally happened, at long last. I had been awake most nights, waiting and worrying. I was wondering what exactly was going on and how long I was going to be kept on the edge of my seat. Where is she? Is she even real?

Why, yes, she is! I have seen Suri Cruise! You can take a peek at some pictures at The Green Straw, along with a lot of other interesting pictures of celebs. Enjoy!

Movie Quote Monday

2006-08-31T06:48:00.000-04:00

First, Colleen, the winner of last week's contest, can find her prize here. While she is joyfully occupied with licking her computer screen, let's figure out this week's quote (and hope that she doesn't blurt out the answer in 10 seconds...AGAIN):

"I'm not gay!"

"What was Streisand's eighth album?"

"Uh, 'Color Me Barbra.' "

"Stud!"

"Everybody knows that!"

"Everyone where? The Little Gay Bar on the Prairie?"

_______________________________________

Tomorrow is Drew's first day of school, so if I'm absent for several days it's because me and the Jay-bird are busy carousing the town Thelma & Louise-style. Wheeeeee!!!

We are finally members of the 21st century

2006-08-30T20:14:00.000-04:00

So, guess what? Paul and I recently purchased a snazzy new telephone with caller I.D.! Okay, what actually happened was our 11-year-old telephone bit the big one (yet another electronic item to break down in our home), and we then had no choice but to buy a new one. And it's pretty much impossible to find a new phone without caller I.D., because apparently it's the new "thing" and all the cool kids have it.

Up until now, I had thought that the occasional "Don't you have caller I.D.?" I got from family and friends was a bit odd. No, we don't have caller I.D. And we don't have a helipad in our backyard, either. Shoot us. I mean, come on. What's the big deal about answering the phone and inquiring, "Hello?" and waiting until the person answers to find out who it is? These high-tech gadgets can be so ridiculous. And it's so rude to screen calls, anyway.

Also, I had been cursing my sister (sorry, Jan!) for years because I have to "unblock" my phone number by dialing *82 before dialing her number because "I'm sorry. The person you are trying to reach does not accept private calls." Well, I work from home and pardon ME if I don't want the technologically advanced and potentially irate people I am calling to see my phone number and call me back. Each time I call my sister, I forget to dial *82 first and I have to listen to that stupid recording and then redial. And each time, I sigh disgustedly and say..."Oh, bother!" Or something like that.

Actually, even my parents have blocked their number, because, as my mother said, "We don't like the idea of people knowing that we're calling." Um, okay. Have I mentioned that my parents also have caller I.D.? Now that's just messed up.

Anyway. Now? This is 21st Century Karen:

[brrrrrrrinnnggg!]
Walks to phone and waits...aaaaaand BINGO! Smith, John! I do NOT want to talk to John Smith! I do not know who he is! I am not answering the phone! *cackles evilly*

[brrrrrrrinnnggg!]
Walks to phone and waits...aaaaaand BINGO! It's the dentist! Probably calling to confirm an appointment! *wracks brain to remember who's due for a cleaning* Oh! "Paul! You have to answer this! It's for you!" Whew. Close call.

[brrrrrrrinnnggg!]
Walks to phone and waits...aaaaand BINGO! It's my friend, Kathy!
Me: "Hello, KATHY! HA HA! I know it's you!"
Kathy: "Are you drunk?"
Me: "HA HA! I have caller I.D. now! So I knew it was you, see? Isn't that rad? I mean, cool?"
Kathy: "Um, yeah, okay. Anyway..." *rolls eyes* (which I know because I HAVE CALLER I.D.!)

[brrrrrrrinnnggg!]
Walks to phone and waits...aaaaand... What the...? Private caller?! So how do I know who it is? Who is this JERK with the blocked number??

[opts to answer phone the old-fashioned way to see who the hell is calling]
"Oh...hi, Mom!"

Well. She had better get used to dialing *82 before my number because today I'm calling the phone company to have private callers blocked.

Thought I wouldn't find a way to get back at you for not letting me do the overnight skate at Roll On America in 1982, Mom, didn't you? Hmph.

Movie Quote Monday...on a Tuesday

2006-08-29T20:26:00.000-04:00

Shamelessly stolen from Colleen's blog, and just for fun:

"Those aren't pillows!"

First one to guess correctly gets M&Ms.

He lurves me!

2006-08-26T17:44:00.000-04:00

Jason has recently decided that I am his absolute favorite person in the world. First, let me just say that I am okay with this. More than okay, even. In fact, I think it's absolutely adorable and I hope he always feels that way. Well, until he gets married. Because that "mama's boy" thing is really unattractive.

So, every morning, I hear Jason shutting off his night light and banging his door open in enthusiasm. Then I hear the little footsteps on the rug as he enters our bedroom, blue blankie in tow. He walks to my side of the bed and stands with his face within inches of mine. I open my eyes to this cute little face and a huge smile (how can someone wake up that happy every morning??). Then he climbs into bed with me, curls up with his blanket, snuggles into my arms, and makes yummy noises. So sweet!

After saying "I love you" to me in English, Spanish, sign language, and through physical demonstration ("thiiiiiiiiiiiis much!" with arms stretched as far as they can go and face turning red from the strain), he says, "Mommy, can we go downstairs now?" Well, of course! It's 5:50 a.m., so I must hurry to begin my morning of coffee-swilling and chair-sitting! As soon as my foot hits the bottom stair, a small boy is suddenly wrapped around my right leg. I determinedly drag the leg/boy into the kitchen because I NEED CAFFEINE. I have mastered the coffee-making whilst dealing with the 35-lb. growth. I just leave the ~~offending~~ leg outstretched and hop a bit when necessary. More yummy noises from down below. So cute!

After peeling off little arms and legs, I finally get to sit in a chair and sip my coffee. Exactly 2.4 seconds after my first sip, he asks me, "Mommy, can I sit on your lap? Please?" This is the part where my nice, hot cup of coffee begins its rapid descent into Chillville. But how can I say no to him? He's so darn CUTE! He sits on my lap and wraps my arms around him tightly and says, "Squeeze me tiiiiight!" Then I'm usually treated to a string of niceties, like "Mommy, you are my bestest girl!" or "I will ALWAYS love you!" or, simply, "I love you so-so-so, so-so-so, so-so-so (oh my God when is it going to stop?), so-so-so, so-so-so MUCH!" And still I think it's adorable! Although a bit over the top.

This lovey-dovey behavior continues throughout the day. I sit down to put his socks on, and he insists he has to walk to the other side of the room first, put two little fingers up near his head to make "horns," digs at the floor with one tiny foot, and comes charging at me full force and knocks me over in a big "Jay Hug." He brings me things, like pencils and raisins and cracker crumbs from the floor. Why? "Because I love you!" he says, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Later, I make him lunch with him hanging on my leg. After lunch ("Mommy, you are a great cooker! These hotdogs are super-good!"), we go outside and he picks me ~~weeds~~ flowers, which he hands to me and says, "These are for you, Mommy! You are the bestest mommy in the whole world!" He keeps his arm around me if we're walking and must climb on my lap if I sit down. Love! It!

However, around suppertime, I'm beginning to feel a bit touched-out. Even a teeny bit claustrophobic-like. Okay, smothered. At this point, I find myself saying odd things like, "Daddy will be home soon and he will give you lots of hugs! Won't that be nice?" or "How about you sit by yourself for a little while and watch t.v. while I make supper, and then we'll sit together and read a book (maybe Chicken Licken because that's a surefire mood killer)!" And he agrees, but occasionally he will shout out something endearing in the meantime to remind me that he still, in fact, loves me. A lot! Sometimes he pops into the kitchen to "visit" and I get this: "Mommy, I will never, ever, EVER leave you!" while clinging to my ~~apron strings~~ waist.

And then I am frightened.

This is usually the point where I fire up the Roomba.

Celebrity Smackdown

2006-08-24T07:24:00.000-04:00

The top five celebrity tidbits that have enthralled me and/or disgusted me this week:

1. Paramount Pictures supposedly dumped Tom Cruise's film production company because of his "erratic" offscreen behavior. This news made me so happy that I must certainly be evil. However, Tom's production partner reportedly shot back a retort that TOM dumped THEM. Which is the Hollywood equivalent of I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I. In any case, I hope Tom doesn't find this all to be a bit...depressing. *gasp!* Maybe he should start stocking up on vitamins just in case.

2. Have I heard the song that goes along with this picture? No. Do I care? Um, no. Will I be clicking on this link all day whenever I feel the need for a jolt of joy? Hell to the yeah. Don't judge me. I love me some Justin.

3. Is Patrick Dempsey getting too big for his britches? "Said the [sic] obviously male [sic] source: 'Patrick may be a big part of the show, but it's not his show.' " Uh, as far as the majority of the female population is concerned, yes, it is. Show him the money!

4. This one calls for subcategories:

(a) Please tell me that Jessica Simpson and Dane Cook are not an item. Oh, Dane, please say this is just part of your new material...? You're going to segue into a Chicken of the Sea joke now, right? Right??

(b) Clicking on the "size" link in the lower right hand corner of the screen makes the picture quality a bit better. And it makes Britney's cleavage and belly a little less in-your-face, which alleviates the agida.

(c) Whoever said "You suck!" while Britney was talking deserves a Teen Choice Award.

(d) KFed's performance? (chorus) Some white trash flavor mixed with a little bit of Oh. My. God.

5. Supposedly, you can never be too rich or too thin. Until you can grate a block of Parmigiano Reggiano on your chest, that is.

The one where I suck as a friend.

2006-08-20T16:14:00.000-04:00

So, Paul and I had yet another date -- the second weekend in a row! We're on a roll! The way we justify it is that we haven't been able to take a real vacation this summer, so we deserve to spend a little extra money. That, and the fact that the 11:15 a.m. showing of Talladega Nights was only five dollars.

This is also the second weekend in a row that we hated the movie we chose. I know, I know. Commence the throwing of the rotten produce. Everything I've heard about this movie has been positive, particularly from readers of this blog. But I have to admit I felt like I was watching a bizarre Saturday Night Live skit that just plain wasn't working FOR TWO HOURS. After rolling our eyes at each other in disgust for the tenth time in five minutes, Paul and I whispered to each other, in unison, "Wanna go?" And we bolted out of the theater, screaming, "I want to go FAST!"* After our escape, we tapped our fists together and exclaimed, "SHAKE AND BAKE, BABY!!!"** And then we went to get a pizza.

It soon became apparent that we had chosen the wrong restaurant. As soon as we sat down in our booth, Paul ducked for cover and started talking softly with his chin practically resting on the table. I suddenly realized that either (a) Paul had seen some Suspicious Activity at the bar, such as someone opening a bottle of white zinfandel (with plans to SERVE it to someone who might - gasp! - DRINK it!), or (b) our afternoon date was in danger of being interrupted by Friends We Haven't Seen for Awhile. I immediately put on a baseball cap and these. And we spent the first half of our meal talking on the down low, hands covering the sides of our faces, and side-glancing at the table where our friends were seated. It's not that we don't like these friends, it's just that we're really stingy with our time. We figured we went there to spend some time together, and we weren't about to get sucked into a conversation with people we haven't talked to in awhile and miss out on our precious alone time. Basically, we're snobs.

Finally, the friends left. (Can I still call them friends at this point? Probably not.) Exactly five minutes later, another long-lost friend came in with her husband and kids. How freaking annoying is THAT? More ducking. More inconspicuous disguises. Again with the shifty-eyed conversations. Twice they got up to go to the restroom and had to walk past our table. TWICE. At these nerve-wracking moments, I would start talking loudly in Spanish so as to be even more convincing that of course they shouldn't bother looking in our direction because they don't know anyone who speaks Spanish! The first time one of them went by, I nervously spouted, ¿Cuya idea era de venir a este restaurante?*** The second time, I loudly stated, ¡Maldígale para sugerir la pizza!**** It was not a relaxing lunch. It was very, very tense.

Why am I like this? I don't know when it happened that I became a snob, but I've noticed that over the years the joy of seeing old friends in public places has been replaced with horror and disgust. The nerve of these people, showing up in places where I want to be. Infringing on my private time. Bastards, all of them.

I'm just kidding, though. It really depends on my mood, whether I'm happy to encounter old acquaintances or not. Most of the time I'm quite pleased and rather friendly! Really! Except for the times that I'm not.

I'm already showing signs of becoming a crotchety, bitter old woman, aren't I? Well, at least I know Paul is also showing signs of becoming a crotchety, bitter old man. So we can be crotchety and bitter together when we're old. Because Lord knows we will probably only have each other after this post.

________________________________________
*If you have not seen the movie, you will not get this.
**See above.
***"Whose idea was it to come to this restaurant?"
****"Damn you for wanting pizza!"

Of clogged drains and rotting apples

2006-08-19T08:46:00.000-04:00

I've been Googling my morning away, trying to find some natural remedy for clearing a clogged drain. I've been a Liquid Plumber girl for years, but I feel that I need to do my part in protecting the environment by finding a chemical-free solution. Oh, and the LP costs about $6 a bottle, so it's getting rather expensive. But the environmental thing is the main reason. Really.

Anyway, I am very excited about my find and feel the need to share it with the ENTIRE WORLD! Pour approximately half a cup of baking soda on the drain, and follow that with approximately half a cup of vinegar.* This will immediately foam! Wait approximately ten minutes and then pour approximately one tea kettle full (measurements are not exact) of boiling (or just very hot) water directly down the drain. Voila! Cheap, easy! And most importantly, of course, no chemicals involved!

*Apple cider vinegar is not recommended. I don't know anyone dumb enough to use it, of course, but I just thought I'd throw it out there for the stupid people. I'm sure there have to be some idiots out there who might try it if they didn't have any white vinegar. Or maybe even consider sherry vinegar or balsamic vinegar for a split second. I know! It's unbelievable how some people have absolutely no common sense. How could you not know that the bathroom will end up smelling like exactly what you poured down the drain? I mean...guh. C'mon, people.

It goes a little something like this.

2006-08-17T09:04:00.000-04:00

So! What do I have to do today? Oh, yes, I have to call the - "MOMMY!!! Can you help me wind up my yo-yo?"

Wind up the yo-yo. "Please go play, Jason. Mommy is busy."

Now where was I? Oh, I really should call the doctor about that mole because it has a weird shape and is getting bi- "NOOO NOOO NOOOOOOO!!! JASON STOP SIIIINNNGGGIIIIINNNGGG!!!"
*screech, screech, screech*

"Jason, stop singing! Drew is trying to watch Blue's Clues."

Okay. So. I have to remember to call the - "DREWWWWW!!! STOP KICKING MEEE!!! MOMMY DREW KEEPS DOING IT AND I JUST WANT MY TURN WITH THE MAGNADOODLE AND HE KEEPS KICKING ME OVER AND OVER AND...WAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!"

Place Drew in the corner for kicking. Wipe Jason's nose. Pat him reassuringly. "Don't worry, your brother is being punished. We do not kick!" Jason gives me a hug of gratitude for having his back.

Now, what do we need at the store again? Toilet paper? Or was it horseradish? Ohhh...no, it was - "MOMMY!!! JASON KICKED ME WITH HIS FOOT AND HE HURT MY LEG!!! *screech, screech, screeeeeeeeccccchhh*

Place Jason in the corner and say, "I thought I said we DO NOT KICK! Did you like it when Drew kicked YOU?" Jason says, "No. But but but...he steered me wrong! He told me I could use the Magnadoodle and then he wouldn't let me use it and he steered me wrong, Mommy, he steered me WRONG...WAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" (Where on earth do they pick up these phrases?!)

"Drew, let Jason have a turn with the Magnadoodle!"

Where was I? Oh...maybe it was cheese that we needed? *gasp!* I think I left a candle burning in the kitchen and I forgot to turn off the gas on the - "MOMMY! DREW IS PEEING IN MY TONKA TRUCK!!!"

And we all died. The end.
...
...
Magnadoodle? $14.99. Tonka truck? $19.99. Being able to complete a thought without interruption? Priceless.

I have the uglies.

2006-08-15T09:44:00.000-04:00

Does this ever happen to you? You go to bed looking like yourself and you wake up seven hours later looking like you've spent many grueling years working on the plantation in the hot sun? Well, that's what happened to me yesterday. I shuffled into the bathroom, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and screamed in horror. GAAAAAHHHHH!!! Where did those bags come from? Who drew those lines around my eyes and mouth?? And my hair is another story. It's been thinning and drooping for days now. Limp and lifeless. Blah, bland, flat. And I bet it would be really gray if not for the fact that it has instead turned an attractive blondish-brown over the years. (I know! I've been lucky!)

So, does this happen to anyone else? The overnight aging thing? No? Just me? I think it's stress related. Whenever I go through a period of time when I'm really anxious or upset about something, it seems to mess up my face and I can't stand to look at myself. And then, when the anxiety eases, I wake up one day and POOF! I look like myself again! (Read: the bags and lines are ~~slightly~~ a lot less noticeable.) And my hair is once again bouncy and lively. (And even blonder, I think!)

But then there are days when I'm happy and anxiety-free and something different happens.

They say you begin to look like the people you live with, but this is ridiculous.

So, this is my little family at a farm we visited this past weekend. The boys had lots of fun petting the animals, riding the ponies, and playing in the sprinkler park. Then, obviously we lost our minds from all of the outrageous FUN, and we painted beards on everyone's face (okay, not Paul's) and made total asses out of ourselves by asking a random person to take our picture. The woman didn't say much. She just gave us a quizzical look, took the picture, and handed the camera back. Clearly she has no sense of humor whatsoever. Or maybe she just doesn't like bearded folk.

It's baaa-aaaaack...

2006-08-11T20:10:00.000-04:00

As some of you might remember, my Roomba bit the dust a couple of weeks ago. I just received a new one via UPS, and Jason is THRILLED that it is back! If you look closely at the picture, you will notice that in his rush out of the bathroom to save his toys from being "sucked up by that thing," he didn't quite have time to pull his pants all the way up before climbing onto the coffee table in fear. I've never seen those chubby little legs move so fast.

Just look at him, pleading with me. "Mommy, make it stop!!!" Okay, I'll admit it. I deliberately redirected the Roomba in Jason's direction a few times just so I could hear the scream and watch the dance of panic. I have clearly hit rock bottom in my quest for entertainment. But really, what is wrong with this child? He wasn't afraid of the defective Roomba I sent back. And this new one is the EXACT SAME model. (Did they send me the evil twin?)

Actually, I'm beginning to think the other Roomba's problems went far beyond a Failure to Charge. I think its mental condition was on unsteady ground from the very start. A touch of schizophroombia, perhaps. I had just assumed that it was supposed to wander aimlessly from room to room, going over the same area over and over again, until I would find myself yelling, "The dirt is GONE there, you dumb-ass! What about the rest of the damn room?!" In fact, I guess I can see why Jason developed a fear of the thing. He's used to hearing me talk to it as if it's a real member of the household. "Get away from there!" and "Man, you're stuck there AGAIN? Don't you ever LEARN?" and "Don't you go in that bathroom! Don't you DARE eat up my rug!" One time, I heard the thing struggling in the other room. I went to see what was going on and it was trying its darnedest to get in between the chair and the wall and it kept getting stuck and making a frantic squeal. ("There's dirt in there, by God, and it's my job to get it!") So, I scolded it. "How many times are you going to get stuck there before you realize that YOU! DON'T! FIT!"

Another strange thing was, it would often give off a cheerful series of beeps that indicated it was finished when half the room hadn't been touched. And it never, EVER, found its way back to its "home base" to recharge, a feature that is touted on the box. Well, it's just a robot, I reasoned. What do you expect?

But this one! This one gets the job done on a timely basis! No goofing off; no wandering aimlessly. It has intelligence! And determination! If I even dared to try to nudge it in a different direction with my foot, it would not give in. "I. Am. Going. THIS. Way. Lady." And I backed down. (And I NEVER back down. Just ask Paul.) And when it finished the entire first floor, it found its way back to its charging base and announced its arrival with a triumphant, "Da-da-da-dah da-daaaaaah!" ("Charge!" It even has a sense of humor, people!)

How silly of me to endure two pregnancies that wrecked my body in too many ways to count, followed by two major surgeries, followed by thousands of hours of lost sleep and teething and potty training and cleaning up vomit in the middle of the night and Poopapalooza when all I really had to do to be fulfilled in life was drive to Target and fork over $280 for a household member who is self-sufficient, doesn't talk back, and cleans dirt instead of creating it. I mean, DUH.

A trip to the circus and a strangely perfect day

2006-08-10T14:11:00.000-04:00

Okay, the circus was actually Walmart. But there were rides and peanuts and smelly things!

I've noticed the dirty, chewing-gum-infested Flintstones car ride outside Walmart (and I always have to convince whichever child I have with me at the time that it's out of order), but I had never noticed that Walmart had a carousel in the entryway to the store. For only 50 cents, my child can have 30 seconds of nonstop fun! Which is only, let's see...almost 2 cents per second! The deals are unbelievable at Walmart! And it was such fun for Jason, the little two-seater carousel. (It looked almost like he was doing pirouettes.) He had a ~~grimace~~ grin on his face the entire time and exclaimed ~~“I’m getting really dizzy!”~~ “Wheeee!” over and over again! Unfortunately, the ride was a little too quick for Jay ~~who had been trying to get off since Second One~~ so he was very disappointed. Ah, well. He can always ride it again the next time we go shopping. We’ll just have to make sure we leave the house 30 seconds earlier to allow enough time for shopping.

After Jason's nausea subsided, we went inside and he immediately spotted the candy aisle. “Mommy, can I get a treat?” “Well, of course!” said I, and then proceeded to read the ingredients list on the 537 varieties of candy (with Everyday Low Prices!). My kids are allergic to various things, so I have become an Expert Ingredients List Reader. So, I finally narrowed it down to two possibilities: gummy bears and Circus Peanuts. But I give the boys gummy-bear-type supplements every day (which I will plug here because they are so scrumpdillyicious and therefore easy to administer to children), so gummy bears usually aren’t considered to be a treat by their standards. Jay opted for the Circus Peanuts. I felt sorry for the poor boy, because these things have to be the most disgusting idea for a candy EVER. Does anyone even buy them? That is, besides moms like me, who are desperate to find treats that only have ingredients like “sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, glucose, fructose, maltose, artificial flavoring, and artificial colors” in order to avoid the nasty allergens? And also, why have “peanut” in the name if the only thing “peanut” about them is the shape? They are ORANGE. And they taste like FAKE BANANA. And they have the texture of STALE MARSHMALLOWS. Yet Jason seemed to find them to be a tasty mid-morning treat. (Shhhh!)

Onward to the smelly things. Tell me, how can people be so filthy that they literally emit enough of an odor that it permeates the air throughout an entire store? No matter where I went, I smelled Stinky People and it was turning my stomach. Jay kept yelling, “I smell POOP!” People would turn to look at him, and then he’d laugh and jump around. See? There was even a clown at the circus.

So, eventually we ran into The Family That Doesn’t Bathe. (Not surprisingly, they were nowhere near the soap aisle nor the deodorant aisle.) I literally had to hold my breath as we walked through the fog of stench that surrounded them. WHAT would cause people to have such a horrific odor?? It was like they all rolled around in manure before dressing.

I gagged all the way to the checkout area, while the clown yelled, “I smell POOP!” a few more times because that is SO FUNNY when people turn to look at him and then give me a look of barely concealed disgust. I hissed at him, “If you don’t stop saying that, I will take away your Circus Peanuts!” He said, “I don’t want them anymore. They taste yucky!” (I guess it must’ve been the fifth one that finally convinced him.)

We finally escape to the parking lot where the air was a lot clearer, and I commented, “That was awful!” And Jason said, “Someone pooped in the store! That was funny!” (I can see how he would find poop to be humorous, given my reaction to it when I encounter it in odd places at home.)

So, today, in the hopes of spending some April-fresh quality time with Jason while Drew was at the last day of his summer program, we attended a children's event at the library. The librarian ran a science-related workshop with activities that centered around books. Despite the fact that Jason is taking Albuterol for asthma at the moment, which causes hyperactivity (oh, dear), he only monopolized the librarian's attention half of the time. So things went really well. He basically shot his arm up to answer questions, or to pose questions, or to make nonsensical comments every 20 seconds or so. The librarian was very patient. Even when Jason jumped up and led a conga line around the room for about five minutes before she could call order to the room again. And after all of that, we still got free M&M's, Chips Ahoy cookies, and there was a reporter there who took our picture for a local newspaper! This is fantastic because I was having a really good hair day and Jason’s clothes had no stains! (Okay, this is the only part of our great day that I'm lying about.)

And after the workshop – yes, there’s more! – we picked out some cute children's DVDs from the library to watch later, went out to lunch, ate some really good food (he actually ate something! at a restaurant!), and we even had a really cool waitress. We picked up Drew, who had “a wonderful day!” according to his instructor, and both boys are now sitting angelically in front of the t.v. watching the new DVDs, eating microwave popcorn, and sipping juice. I can hear myself breathe. And I swear I just saw a pig fly across the front yard.

Stay tuned for an upcoming story about how the roof fell in after I hit "Publish Post."

I need sleep.

2006-08-09T12:29:00.000-04:00

UNINTERRUPTED sleep.

Jason, fortunately, is a wonderful sleeper. He’s a Power Sleeper. He will go from giggling to snoring in about 2.5 seconds. And he’s out for the night.

Drew, on the other hand, is part Power Sleeper, part Broadway star. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, we will be awakened by him humming a tune and occasionally bursting into song. It used to be cute little children’s songs like The Itsy Bitsy Spider, sung at the top of his lungs, with some vibrato added to the last note (a.k.a. The Big Finish). But the other night, apparently, he was a cowboy. And on a steel horse he rides. And he’s wanted: dead or alive. And he even sings his own backup! “Wanted…” (“Waaan-teeed!”) “Dead or aliiiiiive…” Then, after The Big Finish: “Mix ninety-eight point fiiiiive!” (In case we were wondering exactly on which radio station he heard the song on that particular day.) And just when we think the show is over, we hear him segue into “Shakira, Shakira!” And I can only assume he pushes his pajama bottoms down over his hips and some belly-dancing takes place. I don’t know. All I know is I WANT QUIET!!! So, I stand outside his door and demand it. For fifteen minutes. Do you know how long fifteen minutes is? Well, it’s twice as long at 3 a.m. as it is at 3 p.m., I'll have you know.

Last night, it seems my brain was on Karaoke Alert. Paul came to bed around 1 a.m., and my first instinct when I felt someone getting into the bed was to immediately sit up and protest. “Oh, NO!!! Not again! Drew?!” and I start feeling around to see where he is. I find a head and pat the top to make the identification. Yes! The prickly buzz cut! It’s the Singing Sensation himself! What, am I going to get a serenade tonight?

I say: “Drew, go back to bed!”
Paul, in a stage whisper: “Karen! What’s wrong with you? It’s me! I’m just coming to bed!”

More patting, more proof. I know that head anywhere. He can’t fool me by calling me by my first name!

“DREW. Go back to bed right now.”
Paul: “Karen! It’s me...” then, sheepishly, “...your husband.”

Finally I comprehend that it is, in fact, Paul coming to bed. And Drew is asleep in his own bed. And we both burst into laughter.

Remember the days when you could go to sleep when you were exhausted (from a day of, oh, I don’t know, doing nothing that even vaguely resembles the rigors of parenting) and you’d sleep like a rock? Yeah, well, if you do, I certainly don't want to hear from you. Misery loves company.

A lousy movie and a typical man

2006-08-06T17:48:00.000-04:00

Paul and I had a date today. The kids were at the in-laws' for most of the day, so we decided to go to the movies and out for an early dinner. We saw Lady in the Water, and dare I say it was the most ridiculous film I've seen in a long time. I think I'd like to have some of what M. Night Shyamalan is smoking, just so I can briefly get a glimpse of what it's like to be that out of touch with reality. On second thought, if what he's smoking costs more than $7.50 a bone, it probably wouldn't be worth it. That's how bad this movie stunk.

But here's the part where Paul becomes the Essence of Typical Maleness.

We go into the restaurant next door to the theatre, and he, being the polite gentleman he is, opens the door for me. I, being the strong, independent woman that I am, proceed to open the next door into the restaurant by myself, and I hold the door open for him to enter. He, being the hopeless hornbag that he is, is busy holding the door open for the slinky sexpot who was heading toward the door with her boyfriend. The only problem is, I don't think he realized that she was beyond the Necessary Distance for Polite Door-Holding (she was, like, 50 yards away). But he apparently was so captivated by her high heels and swaggering walk and the boobs falling out of her top that he didn't notice this faux pas. He stood there like a doorman, back plastered to the open door, goofy smile on his face, while she sauntered up to the door. And she looks over at me, Mrs. Frumpy Housewife, struggling to hold the heavy inside door to the restaurant, sweat dripping from my brow, waiting for my husband to get his wits together and remember that he's, um, MARRIED, and then I see the ~~wench~~ girl toss me a lopsided, knowing grin, that said, "Your guy is checking me OUT! Nah-nah-na-nahh-nahhhhh!"

I LOVE that.

So, while I'm waiting for Paul to snap out of his trance, I'm all like, "Ahem! TODAY would be nice!" And Paul doesn't even hear me, he's so hormonally imbalanced. "Wha...hmmm...??" he mumbles, while not even looking at me.

Years ago, I would've made him pay all night for this behavior, but this time I just had to laugh. Men are so pathetic.

Sitting at the bar, I couldn't help but comment: "Wow, you were willing to hold the door a long time for that girl, huh?"
Paul: "What?! I mean, yeah, she was taking a long time to get to the door, so I just held it until she finally got there."
Me: "How nice of you to wait a full five minutes for her to get to the door."
Paul: "It was NOT five minutes..."
Me: "It was at least four."
Paul: "Well, I couldn't just let the door go. That would be rude!"
Me: "Did you see that I had opened the next door by myself and was holding it for you, waiting for you to take it?"
Paul: "No, I didn't, because I couldn't believe how long it was taking that girl to get to the door and I wasn't looking at you." (No way!)
Me: "Did you happen to notice the knowing smile she gave me as she approached the door?"
Paul: "No, I really wasn't looking at her face at all!"

I rest my case.

...and my other favorite topic.

2006-08-06T10:28:00.000-04:00

Wearing my sneakers. "I'm going bowling, Mommy!" Of course, you don't wear your OWN shoes when you bowl. He's so smart! He also put on his backpack and packed a "lunchbox" (actually a bug collection box) with the essentials: a juice box and cookies.

He insisted he wanted to wear Paul's shorts and socks. AND he wanted to wear this to the grocery store. See what I have to deal with?(Note: I did not let him.)

Practicing his come hither look.

Doing the buffalo stance. (Am I dating myself with that one...?)

Could you get angry at this face?(If you close your eyes, it can be done.)

Fake love.(In reality, he's trying to break Jason's neck.)

This must've been April 1st, because clearly they were pretending to get along. "April Fool's, Mommy!"

A peek at one of my favorite topics of discussion...

2006-08-05T11:41:00.000-04:00

Although Drew was given these pink glasses at the dentist, Jason has since adopted them. I think they are the funniest thing EVER. He knows that no matter how angry I am, if he puts these things on and flips up the lenses, I will smile. Damn it all, I WILL SMILE!

Plotting his next move.

Jason: Superhero.(That is a cloth dinner napkin around his neck, secured with a chip clip.)

Jason, trying to describe the way he wants his haircut to come out.

Grandpa, obliging.(Just kidding, Dad! You give the BEST haircuts! We especially appreciate the house calls!)

And finally, Jason, after finding out that Chicken Licken had Sucky Lucky.(He decided on a lollipop instead of marshmallows to cheer himself up.)

Stay tuned for a peek at the Drewster, coming soon!

Parental double talk

2006-08-03T15:14:00.000-04:00

I just wanted to inform all parents of the world -- just in case you all weren't aware -- that we are not supposed to spank our children, or yell at them (HA!), or tell them they are "bad." And it is our job to teach them not to hit (thus, the no spanking rule) and not to be a bully. And you should use discretion with allowing them to use toys that even vaguely resemble a weapon of any kind. And this includes water squirters. (I refuse to call them the G word! Because that is Very Bad! But I do not say this to my children because we should not say the word "bad"! Because that is...not good!) And many parents do not allow their children to play with toy swords, or even to shape their thumb and index finger into the shape of a...G word. Nowadays, kids get punished if they are caught playing "G and robbers" on the playground using their fingers as makeshift G's. So we all need to teach our children not to play this way because it is completely unacceptable.

In other news, Chicken Licken never got to tell the King that the sky was falling because HE WAS BRUTALLY ATTACKED AND CANNIBALIZED BY FOXY LOXY. And that's okay! Because that is storytelling at its best! In fact, this book is clearly labeled "For beginning readers," because apparently it is a good idea to introduce the concept of murder at the age of five. And for those who have children who begin reading a bit earlier than others, you will be happy to know they can become aware of this important societal danger at the age of four.

The thing is, I remember "Chicken Licken" fondly. In fact, when I noticed the book mixed in with the 98,327 other children's books in my kids' stash, I was so excited! I grabbed the nearest child (who happened to be Jason) and insisted that we read it right away! And Jason was excited because he loves when people read books to him. So we got right down to business.

Let's see. The acorn falls on Chicken Licken's head, so he must tell the King that the sky is falling. On the way, he meets Henny Penny. And then Ducky Lucky. And Goosey Loosey and Turkey Lurkey. Oh, how Jason and I giggled at these funny names! It was all coming back to me now, those wonderful childhood memories!

So! They all become great friends and agree to go with Chicken Licken to inform the King about the sky situation. On the way, they meet Foxy Loxy (another funny name! more giggles!). Foxy Loxy offers to show them all the best way to get to the King's...residence (presumably a castle, but this fact is not clear). Instead, he leads them into his den, where his wife and kids are waiting for their dinner.

Me: "Jay, what do you think happens next?"
Jay smiles and says: "I think they invite them all over for supper and they eat lots of food, like hotdogs and marshmallows!"
Me: "You could be right!"

With much anticipation, Jason turns the page and I read: "The foxes gobbled up Chicken Licken, Henny Penny...Ducky Lu...what the...??" Jason's face went from happiness to horror, and I was dumbfounded. Why do I not remember this? More importantly, why do I specifically remember liking this book? Because, you see, this is how it ENDS. No one called 911 to try to head off this tragedy. Mel Gibson did not show up to save the day (probably because he was drunk). Nothing was done! Foxy Loxy and family gobbled up the group of new friends with the adorable names. The End. And at this point, I suppose it's our cue to say to the child, "That was a great story! Now go choose another book! How about 'Silence of the Lambs'?"

Jay, in horror: "Mommy, why did Foxy Loxy do that? Why did he eat them all??"
Me: "Because Foxy Loxy was b-...not a nice fox. And he wanted to feed his family."
Jay, curious now: "So, what this book is saying is that it's socially acceptable to lure groups of people to your house so that you can eat them for dinner?"
Me: "Apparently so. Want some marshmallows?"
Jay: "Okay!"

And this, my friends, is how Jeffrey Dahmer became twisted.

I don't quite know what to say.

2006-07-31T14:35:00.000-04:00

So, I have this thingamabob at the bottom of my home page that tracks the comings and goings for this site. Most of the time, I don't know for sure who exactly is visiting me, but I can make educated guesses. And I am very educated, as you all know. But now I feel sort of censored. And I also think I might be getting a touch of Laughinginchurchaphobia. You know, when you're in church (or, for others, like Jason, temple) and it's really quiet and there's that Holy Echo of the pastor/minister/rabbi followed by excruciating silence going on and you feel that giggle start to bubble up in your chest? And you just know that if you let forth even the tiniest bit of air, or even allow your pursed lips to separate ever so slightly, you will completely lose all self control and start cackling hysterically and make a total ass out of yourself? Well, that's sort of like how I feel right now. The only things I can think of to say other than, "Today is really hot! Really. Hot! And humid! And I had Cheerios for breakfast!" are these...Other Things...that are bubbling up in my chest and my fingers are twitching over my keyboard in evil anticipation.

But no. No! I won't. (deep breath)

Alrighty, then! So, does anyone do the Colgate Trick for zits? You know, where you put a dab of toothpaste at the first sign of a zit -- when you first get that little tingly, itchy spot and telltale bump? (I call it the Colgate Trick, because that is my brand of choice, but truthfully it could be any brand of toothpaste -- but it must be PASTE, not GEL, or it won't work. Trust me.) Anyway, today I noticed The Tingle and subsequently did The Trick. And then I felt The Burn (because you must feel The Burn, or else you did something terribly wrong), and the bump is slowly disappearing. Hurray!

However. It should be noted that one should not answer the door whilst in the midst of the Colgate Trick. Particularly if the area which is being treated is directly underneath your nose. Because that's kind of a gross area for just about anything to be. Unless it's a mustache. And you're a man.

I am SO embarrassed. You would think the minty-fresh smell beneath my nose would've reminded me, but no! No, it did not. And here I was thinking that the UPS man was staring closely at my face because he was mesmerized by my beauty. What can brown do for me? Well, brown obviously cannot tell me to go wash your face, you coke addict FREAK. It would rather stare and then laugh at me after I shut the door. Presumably.

Anyway!

This brings back memories of when I was nursing Jason. Because that's when I REALLY became addicted to coke. (Kidding! Hi, Mom!) Jason would nurse enthusiastically for about ten seconds, and then the eyes would begin to droop and the sucking would become slower and slower and slower...and then he'd be asleep. And I'd be ~~shaking him~~ stroking his arms and rubbing his feet gently to wake him up so we could continue our feeding, and he'd wake up periodically to feed for, oh, about ten more seconds before taking another snooze. So, you know how you're supposed to nurse every two hours? And you're supposed to count from the beginning of one feeding to the beginning of the next? Well, that would leave me with, like, 25 minutes between feedings. Just enough time to hide in the bathroom for a good, long cry followed by a row of Oreos.

Needless to say, I pretty much became a fixture on my living room couch and spent most of my time ~~jostling him about~~ following the directions of the La Leche League ~~Nazi~~ advisor who came to my house to help me -- such as, removing his clothes so that the frigid air would keep him awake. The problem was, Jason seemed to really like being cold. He would snuggle down even more deeply in my arms and, honestly, is there anything more precious than listening to a newborn snore? I mean, really! I would often be heard ~~cursing like a sailor~~ cooing things like, ~~"Will you WAAAAKKKKE UUUUUUUUUP?!?!"~~ "C'mon, my sweet little baby boy! Time for num-nums!"

But where was I going with this again? Oh, yes, my experience today reminded me of when I spent so much time with my shirt unbuttoned that I lived in dread fear of forgetting to button up before answering the door. Because then the UPS guy might've given me a Joey ("How YOU doin'?).

(Can you tell I do most of my shopping online, by the way?)

So, yeah, that's about it. Just a little funny I wanted to share about my embarrassing experience. With the UPS guy. And the face spot. And my fear of unintentional flashing. And...

My sisters have the goofiest-looking kids! (Hi, Lynn and Janice!) And I hope no one from Kentucky comes to Michigan in October because people from Kentucky have really dumb accents and they smell really bad! (Hi, Suzanne!) And the administrator of the Febbie Moms board is stoopid! (Hi, Andrea!) And I would love to track mud across a Certain Someone's gleaming floors just to piss her off! (Hi, Hollie!) And it's no wonder Bush comes from Texas because all Texans are losers! (Hi, Elyse!) And I think Some People cheat at Weboggle! (Hi, Jenn!) Not to mention the Daily Quiz! (Hello, Sharen!) And, just in case she decides to drop by, MY BOSS IS A JERK! (Hi, Kim!)

Oh, and anyone from the Flamingo board is...a poopyhead. (Hi, girls!)

Ahhh. That's better.

Wait. One more thing: All you people who are visiting this board from Germany? And Japan? And the Isle of Zurupka? You are welcome to drop by anytime! Please, don't be turned off by the fact that my blog is written in English. And I do love to return the favor by visiting your blogs, which are highly entertaining! Oh, and Shunichi? Your last post? I know EXACTLY what you're saying! Jisou doraibu touhou toppyoushimonai mata! All the time!

Appliances gone wild! And other curious tales.

2006-07-29T21:34:00.000-04:00

Everything in my house is falling apart.

First, my mini food processor -- which I practically use daily except on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday when we get takeout -- fell out of a cabinet and the power button got jammed. Completely unfixable. Back to jarred minced garlic we go.

Then, my good friend Roomba betrayed me. When I hit "power," instead of darting forward to enthusiastically clean the floors of my house, it gave a weird "boo-boop!...pfffttt..." And then nothing. Dead.

And THEN, my treasured Bissell Perfect Sweep floor sweeper bit the dust (har, har).

And LAST NIGHT, Paul decided he wanted to try making a new blended pineapple/rum beverage that he saw Jacques Pepin making on t.v. (he's a metrosexual, I tell you!), and the blender starts oozing liquid all over the counter during the blending process. So after hurriedly pouring the beverage into glasses, Paul discovers that a rubber piece that goes around the blades in the blender seems to be missing...somewhat. There's still a little piece left to it, and he's all like, "Weird! Wonder what happened to the rest of it?" and proceeds to taste his creation. "Mmmmm! It's very refreshing!" he says. So I give it a taste, while still wondering "But where did that other piece of rubber go?" and WOW! The Pineapple Burnt Rubber Colada was quite refreshing! But Paul disagreed about the rubber flavor. He said it was just power of suggestion. That is, until I poured the contents of my glass into the sink and we watched chunks of rubber go down the drain. Yum!

As if I want to deal with all of this after cleaning the shizzle outta ma bathrizzle. (For those who aren't as jive-tastic as I am, that's THE SHIT OUT OF MY BATHROOM.)

So, I went for the cheapest appliance replacement first: I went to Target to replace my Bissell. Pizzle Swizzle. (Stop it!) Because the floors in this house are getting really gross. And today I'm sitting here enjoying the peace and quiet that is my household. Paul is playing softball, and the agreement is: If he wants to spend four hours every Sunday during the summer playing softball, he must find someone to watch the children. Thankfully, my in-laws are good like that. And I definitely need the break after my loooooonnnnng week of single motherhood.

Because yesterday? You know, the First Day Paul Was Home With His Family? While he was ~~using every excuse in the book to leave me alone with the kids~~ mowing the lawn and running errands, I attempted to take a "break" by splitting the kids up. Because they do not do well being in the same room together for more than, oh, THREE MINUTES.

"Mine, mine, mine!!! I had it first!"
"Jason, STOP TALKIIIIINNNNGGGGG!!!"
"Mommy, Drew kicked me in the ear with his foot!!!"

So, I ~~drag~~ bring Jason upstairs to play in Drew's room, using some positive reinforcement: "Jay, you play so nicely by yourself. How about you do some puzzles in here for a little while? There you go! Look at you, playing so nicely!" (Jason smiles proudly.)

I go downstairs to see Drew quietly sitting in a chair drawing on his Magnadoodle.

Ahhhh. I can feel the muscles relax throughout my body, and I decide to have a nice glass of iced tea and who knows? Maybe read a magazine! So I walk over to the -

"MOMMY!!! CAN DREW COME UP AND PLAY WITH ME?"

Shizzle.

I go upstairs and say, "Jay, how about you play by yourself for a little bit longer? You do such a good job playing by yourself!"

Jay: "But I want Drew to come play with me because I'm all done playing by myself because...because...because the puzzles are boooorrrriiinnng!"

Me: "Okay, in five minutes (translation: half an hour) Drew will come up to play with you."

Jay: "Okay, Mommy! It's a deal! How many minutes is five minutes?"

Me: "Um, five. Just count to 500 fifty times and it will be five minutes. Okay?"

Jay: "Um, okay."

I go back downstairs, get a glass, and begin making my iced tea, and just as I put in the ice cubes -

"MOMMY, I'M ALL DONE COUNTING! IS IT TIME FOR DREW TO COME UP?"

Fine.

I bring Drew upstairs and tell them both to promise me that they won't pull the curtains down or tear the sheets off the bed or take turns jumping off the top of the three-tiered bookcase. Because these are the pathetic things I need to say to my kids. "Okay, Mommy!" they say. "Mommy, can I give you a big Jay Kiss before you go downstairs?" says Jay. And Drew: "Me, too! A big DREW Kiss!" And they are both SO CUTE I just want to EAT them! (See? This is how God keeps mothers from killing their children. If they looked like trolls they wouldn't make it to the age of three.)

I go downstairs, get my iced tea and my (new! August issue!) Cooking Light magazine and sit down in ma rizzle chizzle (stop it! ROCKING CHAIR) and -

"MOMMY! WAIT TIL YOU SEE WHAT DREW DID TO THE WINDOW!"

Dear God.

I go BACK upstairs (what is this, the 238th time now?) and see that Drew has pulled the curtain rod off the wall and it is laying on the floor in two pieces. But wait! There's more! As I walk over to ~~kill him with my bare hands~~ scold him, I see a toy dump truck that seems to have a glistening sort of...wetness...in the back of it. I look closer and realize that IT IS PEE. I say, "What is this?!?"

Jay: "Drew did it!"
Drew: "Jay did it!"

I calmly (because that is how I am when I become so enraged that I fear if I open my mouth a vile, pea-soup-like substance will spew forth and my head will begin to spin around a la Linda Blair) dump the contents of the dump truck into the toilet and place it in the bathroom sink.

I hear Paul come in from outside and cheerfully ask, "Everything okay, honey?"

I go downstairs, give him a brief description of the State of the Household and a quick rundown of Why I Need to Leave Before I Go All Psycho On His Ass, grab my pocketbook, put tha pizzle ta tha mizzle, and bought me a new Bissell.

I have to stop looking things up on Gizoogle.

Gag me with a cashew

2006-07-26T21:16:00.000-04:00

Because I happen to be eating cashews. And I am watching America's Got Talent. And guess what? America is pretty much not talented. At all.

Every night during this time of the year known as Grey's Anatomy and Lost Are Not On For Three Months, I seem to be stuck watching stupid shows because there's NOTHING ON. But this show takes the cake. A man with horns strategically placed on various parts of his body, tooting them to the tune of America the Beautiful. A man pulling birds (apparently dipped in fluorescent green food dye) out of his coat, shirt, and, seemingly, his ass. A 72-year-old "rapping granny" who couldn't have won a karaoke competition at the senior center, yet the judges commented that "Rapping Granny really knows how to wow the crowd! And she can really RAP!" Are they shitting me? They would give a million dollars to this woman and proclaim her a "Superstar"? Is someone really going to give her a record deal? SHE WAS WEARING A HOUSEDRESS. AND ORTHOPEDIC SHOES.

Okay, now a man is juggling candelabras (candelabrae?) -- WHILE LIT -- to the tune of "Tequila." I can only assume the song is a reference to what was coursing through his veins while dreaming up this idiotic act. A judge's comment: "You know what? That wasn't bad!" Well, I've made a so-so meatloaf and spot-cleaned my floor, and I don't see anyone offering me a million dollars for pulling it off. Candelabra Guy's plea to the audience at home: "Hey, everyone! I didn't drop anything, so vote for me!" while clasping his hands in prayer. I mean, does this guy think he's going to be performing in Vegas if he wins?

Oh. My. God. Is it September yet? I need me some Grey's Anatomy. And Lost. And The Office. I like to look forward to sitting my butt down at night for hours at a time and watching some quality t.v. Because that's what one does when one has nothing exciting going on in one's life.

Oh, wait. Now there are transvestites doing a dance routine on stilts. Gotta run.

Loosen up my buttons, baby

2006-07-24T20:31:00.000-04:00

As I've told Certain People, I had absolutely no idea who posted about the whoopie pies on my blog. MY blog. How dare they! Does Blogger allow this?! I actually had to read the entire first paragraph before beginning to piece it all together. "Hmmm. And they're even pumpkin ones. And the person who made them is named Paul...? Ohhhh, wait a minute. Did I write this?" Perhaps one of the reasons I had a little trouble figuring out what was going on was because this Person confessed to eating only three whoopie pies and I knew that I ate FOUR of those bad boys. So you can understand my confusion. Apparently when I'm half in the bag I still have the presence of mind to lie about what I eat. Anyway. Needless to say, I'm wearing stretchy pants today, and I probably will continue to do so for the rest of the week.

Enough about my alcohol-induced dementia.

Let's talk about how Paul needs to move to Toronto. That's where he is now, at some training thing through work for some computer-related thing that he needs to know for his job as a...computer guy. Honestly, and I am not kidding: I do not know what his job title is. All I know is he gets paid every two weeks and the money is directly deposited into the checking account. I've asked him several times over the past ten years what his job title is and every time I hear this: "sjdjodio of diouifldj CMX123897." Sometimes the poor guy comes home and is all hyped about something that happened at work and wants to talk about it. This makes my brain ouchy. When he begins to talk about the trials and tribulations of working in the dkjfoeksfxmc department as a sjrkojejri, it feels sort of like someone is trying to pick my eyeballs out with chopsticks. Usually the gist of the conversation is something like he did some computer thing that some other computer guy helped him with and someone in the dkjroeris department complained about something computer-related and that resulted in some sort of computer malfunction and he's therefore concerned about...something about computers. So I try to be supportive and ask appropriate questions at appropriate intervals, like "Wha...?" Eventually, he ~~thankfully runs out of steam~~ gets it all off his chest, and the conversation comes to a close. After a brief silence, I usually ask, "Is it this Thursday you get paid or next?"

So, tell me, do other men have an easier time understanding social cues than Paul does, or is it one of those Guy Things? I mean, how can one not know that when one's audience is rolling their eyes, picking at their cuticles, and foaming at the mouth, there is a strong possibility that they might not be interested in the topic of choice? I will admit that when there's wine involved in our little chat, I have a very difficult time trying to hide my impatience and I've been known to say things like, "You know what? I have no freaking idea what you're talking about. How is this helping you?"

Ah, well. Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Paul needs to move to Toronto.

Because my house is cleaner. And my kids are calmer. And I don't have to cook dinner. Well, I suppose I should say I don't have to THINK ABOUT cooking dinner. Because often that's what I do. I think about it. And then I suggest we order takeout. But you know what I had for dinner tonight? Watermelon and cheese. And twelve green beans. From a can. And I feel so much calmer today! And when I'm calmer, my kids are calmer. And when my kids are calmer, my house is cleaner. So clearly Paul has to move to another country. So I can stop the dinner thinking and we can all be calm. And clean.

I'm sure my relaxed state has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my mother came by to give the kids a bath ~~and clean the kitchen and fold the laundry~~. It's definitely dinner-thinking related.

Besides, if Paul moves to Canada, I'm pretty sure we can still do the direct deposit thing.

Whoopie Pies

2006-07-22T23:21:00.000-04:00

Who thought up this concoction which consists of two cookie-type pieces of cake with a sweet cream filling sandwiched between? Whoever it is should be shot. First the ginger Joe-Joe's; now the pumpkin whoopie pies. Which Paul makes. What kind of man makes pumpkin whoopie pies? Well, my husband does. He also is good at buying clothes for himself as well as for me. He doesn't like the term "metrosexual," but I would have to say it fits him.

Anyway.

My neighbor had a cookout tonight, and here I sit, feeling a bit loopy from a huge glass of white wine followed by a Diet Coke with vanilla Absolut (because, of course, I am still dieting). And because of the calories I've saved with my alcoholic beverages, I have eaten THREE pumpkin whoopie pies (am I even spelling whoopie right? thank goodness for the backspace button because otherwise they would be spelled like this: whopeoieee piesol). They are so delicious, but they are like swallowing a pumpkin-flavored bomb. In my case, three bombs.

I need some sleep.

I have to say, the neighbors are a freaking riot. Most of the people there were police officers, and I would love to know who's driving them home seeing as they were all doing the multi-fisted beer-drinking thing. At one point, one of them put on a Superman suit (I kid you not), and dove into the pool. I am so tired of laughing. My face hurts. It was nice to have a night of being silly, though. Next week Paul will be away on a business trip from Monday through Friday. That should make for some interesting stories.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow because Paul has a softball game, which means he will drop the boys off at his parents' house while he plays, and I will have some quiet time. Maybe I can actually clear off the dining room table and clean the microwave, which contains spattered chicken bits from three weeks ago. Yuck-O.

Okay, tomorrow is going to be a low-carb day. We HAVE to get these whoopie pies out of the house. I am nauseous just thinking about them.

Yeah, I know this is a boring post so shut up, Jana. I am more amusing when I'm on the brink of a nervous breakdown, so I guess that's what everyone should wish for if they want anything funny to read. Give me 12 hours with my kids. Alone. That's usually all it takes to bring me from lighthearted laughter to screaming psychopath.

Nothing like a cheeseburger with a Valium chaser.

2006-07-20T18:24:00.000-04:00

That was my dinner. And rightfully so.

I have had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I remember when I used to live for summer. Now summer only means stress, stress, and stress. Followed by a little more stress. I thought this summer would be easier to get through because my oldest son is in a summer school program, and my youngest is going to summer camp three days a week. Three full days. Well, let me tell you something. If anything, things are even crazier this summer. And that's saying a lot because last one was a doozy.

From the moment Jason gets home from camp, the chaos ensues. Who's running around naked while the other one is pulling things out of the cabinets and the phone is ringing while the naked one is pulling all the cushions off the couch and the one with the clothes is thinking about removing his clothing because it looks so freeing and uninhibited to streak around the living room just like his brother! I can't take it when they're doing the streaking thing, because then all kinds of things are bound to happen, like "Drew, I have to pee! Do you have to pee? Let's go pee together! Mommy, we're going to make X's in the toilet!" Or, my personal favorite, when Jason approaches me holding his thingamajig and wincing. "Mommy, look at how big it is! It's yuuuge! Why is it so big? I don't like the way that feels. It feels yucky! Make it go away!"

I should've had girls. I get girl stuff. The Barbies and the tea parties and the dollhouses. And us girls don't have this genital fascination. Why would we? Our private parts are boring, particularly when we're four years old. So I just don't get this boy stuff. I don't know what it's like to have a penis. I find myself asking my husband things like, "Does it feel funny when it gets yuuuge?" And Paul stops to ponder about that for a minute, because, of course, he loves to talk or think about anything penis. And he loves to be the authority on any subject. So, to be an Authority on Penis...wo-ho-ho. Let me tell you, the man is in his freaking GLORY. He slowly and thoughtfully slips on his smoking jacket, lights a cigar, leans back against the kitchen counter, and says, "Well, I suppose it might have a slightly odd sensation when it gets yuuuge, but not necessarily in an unpleasant way."

Okay, question answered. I walk away and leave Paul Heffner coughing disappointedly in cigar smoke because his profound Penis Knowledge is no longer needed. I approach ~~Dirk Dingler~~ Jason and try to be reassuring. "It will go away. Try thinking about baseball..."

But I digress.

Before I went off on a penis tangent, I was talking about my THNGVBD. So yeah. I thought sending the little guy to camp would help matters, but I would have to say I do not think that was the answer. But he does love camp, so that's a good thing. It's a wonderful, religious camp. A Jewish Community Camp. Which is perfect for Jason because he was baptized and everything. And for his First Communion he will receive the Body of Christ from the priest and solemnly respond, "Shalom." And that's okay because Paul and I are advocates of religious pluralism.

But seriously, it is a wonderful camp that welcomes children of all faiths, and the people there are sincerely nice and caring. And they have professed their undying love for my son. To my face. And what mother doesn't instantly bond with anyone who ooh's and aah's over her child? And besides, Jason said they teach him lots of things, like swimming, sports, and art crap. I could only assume he meant "arts and crafts," but I wasn't sure, so I asked, "What's art crap?" He said, "Mommy, it's when you stick things on paper and glue sparkly things on and make designs with stuff! Look, Drew made some art crap, too! (pointing to a paper that Drew had decorated)" I decided that was just too cute to correct, so I let it be. But I guess the camp counselors tried to correct him the next day, because when he came home he said he had a good time in “ARTS AND crap,” with exaggerated facial expressions while enunciating the “arts and.” This didn't strike me as much of an improvement over art crap. But by the end of the first week, he was all about the “ARTS AND CRAFFFSSSS,” with much emphasis on the saliva projection on the “FFFSSSS.” “By Jonah, I think he’s got it!” I thought, as I wiped my face with a tissue.

Now where was I? Oh, I guess I was going to tell you about my THNGVBD. Well, now I'm too tired from rambling on about penises and art crap and my son's Cathlish/Jewlic religion. Suffice it to say that my day consisted of things like screaming and crying and dressing Drew in Paul's clothes and Googling word combinations like, "grout feces removal" and hanging Paul's clothes on the front porch to dry so I can send them to the dry cleaner. Don't ask.

I finally decided that I at least deserved a decent meal after my hellish day, so I reheated a four-day-old hamburger, slapped on some cheese, and followed it up with a Valium. And some Crystal Light lemonade. Because I'm on a diet. But then I figured, what the hey, I just consumed about 20 grams of fat with that cheeseburger, might as well have a little dessert. So I had...ready for this?...six. SIX (coincidentally pronounced "SICKS") ginger Joe-Joe's. Which is the fault of a friend of mine who will remain unnamed. M A N D Y.

So if a "friend" of yours recommends these cookies, DO NOT BUY THEM. I might as well just cut to the chase and superglue the entire contents of the box to my thighs.

So here I am.

2006-07-18T20:45:00.000-04:00

Blogging. I'm a blogger.

I really need to get a life.

Well, I do have a life. But it's a crazy one. It consists of four people: my husband, Paul; my six-year-old son, Drew; and my four-year-old son, Jason. Oh, and me. That makes four, right? Ahem. So what makes life so crazy, you ask? Well, let me tell you. My kids. Make me crazy. A lot. They are adorable, mind you. Although I might be a tad biased.

But they are so different in pictures. Look at them, sitting there, all...quiet! And so neat and clean! And smiling! It's hard to imagine them drawing on lampshades, peeing in plants, and trying to push the t.v. over just for fun, isn't it? Well, looks can be deceiving, my friend. Oh, the stories I can tell you about my darling boys.

But that will have to wait because right now I need to go duct-tape them to their beds.

Cheese & Whine

The Lockout

An Email to My Sister

Back to you

WTF??

Cold is hot

Foreign exchange

The four-letter word

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

On a bender

I need a vacation from this vacation

Up she goes

Things I hate and love and love to hate

Wow. Just...wow.

Curses

*insert static sound*

Breakfast strips

Holy mood swings, Batman!

When did I become such a wimp?

Because I need to know

Spain: The new continent

Look out below!

National Delurking Week

What the bleep is on Joey's head?

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

Shut it down

Um, hello?

Spending frenzy

Speaking of recipes

Thank God for Tivo

Sew what?

The one where I am early for events for the first time in my life and I think I liked it better when I was perpetually late.

Wheee!!!

A solution for emotional eaters

My mooshy boy

My son has expensive taste

Bombs away

Re-treating

Movie Quote Monday

Reality

Movie Quote Monday

Corruption of the innocent

You know you've had too much caffeine when...

What a pain in the ass

Movie Quote Monday

Do I stutter?

My current addiction, and some bonus recipes!

Movie Quote Monday

I hate thinking up titles, so this post doesn't get one.

I'm in McLove

Movie Quote Monday

In Utero

Movie Quote Monday

My teeth are clean, and so is my bathroom

New digs and old digs

It's a good thing I'm so organized

Movie Quote Monday

Optimism and Pessimism

Mars and Venus

My life is complete.

Movie Quote Monday

We are finally members of the 21st century

Movie Quote Monday...on a Tuesday

He lurves me!

Celebrity Smackdown

The one where I suck as a friend.

Of clogged drains and rotting apples

It goes a little something like this.

I have the uglies.

It's baaa-aaaaack...

A trip to the circus and a strangely perfect day

I need sleep.

A lousy movie and a typical man

...and my other favorite topic.

A peek at one of my favorite topics of discussion...

Parental double talk

I don't quite know what to say.

Appliances gone wild! And other curious tales.

Gag me with a cashew

Loosen up my buttons, baby

insert static sound