There's a Penguin on the Telly

This blog has moved.

2009-08-31T06:34:00.001-05:00

Now blogging under the title "Don't Poke the Bear".

Lost in Translation

2009-08-26T14:30:00.000-05:00

Recently, I had reason to venture into our fine county courthouse, for the purpose of assisting my older son in paying a traffic ticket. He hadn't realized that the court would not accept starter checks and he had not yet received the "real" checks for his new bank account.

I work right around the corner so I offered to write the payment from my checking account, he could write his check to me and all would be good. Right?

Right.

When you enter the courthouse, you pass through metal detectors and have your belongings xrayed and all that. This fine day, the detectors were manned by two deputies somewhere in their early to mid 60s, I'd say.

Also on this fine day? I was feeling a tad ... puffy. 6 weeks of prednisone did nothing for the upkeep of my girlish figure, you understand, and I'd decided to employ the use of specially designed Foundation Garments to help keep things in check.

Anyway. Y'all can guess where this might be headed, no doubt. And you'd be right. I stepped through the gate and the detector went off with a resounding alarm. The deputies gave me the evil eye and pointed to the side. I slunk over as they approached with The Wand.

"Ma'am, are you carrying anything we need to know about?"
Blushing, I whispered "it's my... Foundation Garment. It has metal hooks."
The deputy frowned as the wand beeped at my midsection. "Your what?"
"Foundation garment."
"What is a Foundation Garment??"
Realizing I was about two beeps away from a strip search and calculating the deputy's age, I hung my head and gave him an answer he'd understand.
"It's a girdle."

His eyes widened in comprehension and he blushed too.

"Uh... You can go on through, ma'am"

My son was waiting, looking horrified as I approached the elevator. Another couple was standing there, looking at me curiously. Alas, I was still doing the Walk of Chagrin, and it required one last compound before it would crystallize into bright, bitter Shame.

The deputy turned to his partner and explained "It was her girdle!"

Aaaaaand he said it just as there was a lull in the noise of the atrium and everyone on both levels heard him.

Lord, sometimes its a party to be me.

I wanna new drug

2009-08-26T07:08:00.003-05:00

Items circulating through the brain matter this morning:

my rheumatologist is NOT on my happy list this morning, wtf, this hurts and I'm over it.

I need a new blog. New name, maybe new location. Alas, brain is fogged in and can't think straight.

I'm still going to hunt down the Universe and kick it in the balls six or seven times for L & J and G.

Short Stuff said something downright hilarious to me last night, sounding more like 30 than 3, but the brain fog has hidden it away from me and its pissing me off.

With my new haircut, if I dye it bright bright red and slick it back with lots of gel? I could TOTALLY play Columbia at the nearest midnight showing of Rocky Horror.

Wtf? I am twenty years past the RHPS roleplaying scene.

Ow.

Dear Universe... you suck

2009-08-25T18:28:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I know, Life Is Not Fair and all that bullshit. But sometimes something happens to good people that is so unbelievably NOT RIGHT, you just want to grab the universe by the hair and give it two or three shots to the kisser and then kick it in the balls.

And its not every going to happen no matter how much you really really want it to, so all you can do is sit there and feel helpless and heartbroken and angry and cry a lot and make wishes that can't ever come true. Wishes that you could rewind things, get do-over, somehow make all of this NOT HAVE HAPPENED to two wonderful people who were getting their wish and then it fell apart.

And if you wish in one hand and spit in the other, its no surprise which one fills up first. So you pray, and you keep wishing anyway, and you cry some more and you desperately want your friend not to have to be going through this.

But she is. And so is her husband. And a little outside their circle, so is everyone that loves them.

L & J, I am so sorry you had such a short time with your angel. I am so sorry he had to go so soon. I would give anything to have this just be a bad dream. My heart is broken. I don't have the words, I just don't have the words....

And I don't care if I sound like a five year old.

THIS IS SO DAMNED UNFAIR AND ITS NOT RIGHT AND I DON'T WANT IT TO BE HAPPENING.

Great Literature Being in the Eye of the Beholder...

2009-08-23T19:19:00.003-05:00

My mom is still in the hospital, recovering from surgery. On my way to visit her this afternoon, I stopped at the local bookstore to pick up some magazines for her and maybe some short stories if I could find some she hadn't read yet.

As I was checking out the "new fiction" display, there was no way to avoid overhearing the rant another customer was delivering to one of the employees. The rant-ee had her husband and pre-teens in tow, and was she righteously angry? Oh yes... yes she was. Apparently, this store did not carry a particular book and the helpful clerk had offered to a) order it for her or b) provide her with a list of other stores that did have it in stock. This was simply not acceptable.

"Does NO ONE in this town read? No one? This is APPALLING. I cannot BELIEVE I am going to have to go to another TOWN to find it. We just moved here from TEXAS and this is like STEPPING BACK IN TIME. I cannot believe this. I have never SEEN such a bunch of UNEDUCATED, UNREAD people in my LIFE and they don't even seem to CARE!"

She stomped away to another display and one of her children murmured something about a vampire book on display, which triggered another round. "I am not buying you that, you don't READ your books!" she said, in the sort of smug tone you usually here from eighth-grade girls. "You need to READ some of the books you already HAVE. You're not like ME, I READ all my books, I read all the time! I can't go a DAY without reading!"

I turned to see what kind of woman was delivering these elitist, self-aggrandizing tantrums and discover what books she was shopping for. Elie Wiesel, perhaps? Isabelle Allende? Zorah Neale Hurston? Or perhaps Descartes? Voltaire? Dostoevsky? Faulkner? Barbara Kingsolver? Salman Rushdie?? Virginia Woolf??? Oh, Enquiring Gerbils HAD to know!

Y'know... her entire spiel probably would have carried a LOT more weight if she hadn't been carrying three really trashy bodice-rippers.

Goin through the Big D and I don't mean Dallas... or divorce.

2009-08-22T20:55:00.002-05:00

So amidst my other adventures in recent months, I really began to have trouble keeping up. I chalked various physical symptoms up to this or that... such as the insomnia and incessant hot flashes - hot flashes that were less hormonal surges than pyroclastic hormonal clouds ripping down the mountainside, laying waste to everything in its path in an incandescent flash. My doctor shrugged and suggested perimenopause and I gritted my teeth and thought evil thoughts about the whole thing.

Fatigue became my constant companion. That, too, was easily brushed off. My mom's going through a hellish cancer treatment, there's always some other family drama happening, my job was getting stressful and I have a preschooler. The common response? C'mon, say it with me. All together now: DUH.

And then I noticed joint pain constantly swelling lymph glands and began to suspect there was something else going on... Unfortunately, most doctors attributed this combination of factors to "Stress" and "You're a woman".

Stress? Seriously, they have NO IDEA what kind of stress I can take in the teeth and keep on going. This was not stress.

Luckily, my insurance changed and I had to get all new doctors. And finally started getting taken seriously. This was good, because I started really going downhill. It got so bad that if I tried to vacuum an 8 x 11 rug, I had to lay down for two hours. I really wish that was exaggeration. The joint pain was overwhelming - every single joint felt like it was filled with molten lava mixed with razor sharp broken glass.

And lets discuss the brain fog, the incredible haze of stupidity I found myself flailing in. Or rather, lets not because that was the most humiliating aspect of the entire experience.

This went on from December until the end of June. Each week brought me lower and lower. By the time I was sent to a rheumatologist, I really had to fight to be able to get out of bed each morning. Worse, most people thought I was making everything up, that I was just being lazy or looking for attention because there was nothing apparently wrong. Nothing they could see, therefore it could not really exist.

Let me point out that I am not telling this story to fish for sympathy, not at all. I am telling this because sometimes something small, something unseen but something ridiculously common can lay your ass out like Mike Tyson.

After months of blood work, they finally tested my vitamin D levels. Guess what, I had almost NONE in my body. Who knows why... but the result? It messed me up something fierce.

I had not known that Vitamin D does a hell of a lot more than allow you to absorb calcium and help strengthen your bones. Vitamin D deficiencies can bring some friends after a while, including: high blood pressure, increased risk of certain cancers , multiple sclerosis, several autoimmune disorders, type 1 diabetes, cognitive impairment - including that damned brain fog - and a host of other issues.

Symptoms of a deficiency? Yeah. Pretty much everything I had, including a burning muscle pain. And it took more than 7 months for someone to order this blood test, even though they also told me that the deficiency is becoming more common.

There may be something more going on, but in the meantime, I take massive amounts of D3 for another month or so, and then a lower dose until November, when I'll have the bloodwork run again. I also take my blood pressure medications since I developed hypertension, and my medication that allows me 6 or 7 hours of clear thinking and a respite from the muscle pain.

Pay attention to what your bodies are telling you, folks. I wish I had pushed harder when the first set of doctors blew me off.

****

And now for something completely different. Are you familiar with LOLcats? Jacob MUST have my lolcat book when he goes to bed. This has been going on since Christmas. That book and his stuffed lamb, every night.

I'm pretty certain his preschool teacher thinks I need professional help.

Can I Get a Witness?

2009-08-20T16:58:00.002-05:00

I'm driving home this evening on a fairly busy intermediate county road. Its one of the few roads that connects the eastern and western ends of the county directly, so it gets a respectable amount of traffic.

I'm setting the scene here, see?

And as we're traveling along, I see a person standing in the ditch up ahead... the state has really cut the budget for roadside mowing, so the weeds? They are tall. And thick. And dry and probably scratchy and all that. In short, why in the hell would anybody be standing in the middle of the weedy ditch???

Oh.

OH.

Yeah, as I get close to the guy, I see its a teenager - about 17. And I see why he's standing in the ditch.

He is having a pee.

In the weeds. In the ditch. On the side of the road, in front of dozens and dozens of cars.

Klass. Ur doin it rong.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

2009-08-18T18:38:00.002-05:00

My kitchen table is exactly two and a half steps away from the countertop. Not long ago, Short Stuff and I were sitting at said table. I was finishing a cup of coffee and he was drawing pictures with washable markers. I finished my coffee and got up to set the cup on the counter.

Two and a half steps.

One one thousand, two one thousand aaaaand turn around.

And in that amount of time, this happened:

I looked at my little Picasso and asked "Jacob, what did you DO???"
"I color mah FACE!" (thinks a minute) "It a snake."

And with that we learned the next Life Lesson. Washable markers? Not. so. much.

'Scuse me while I whip this out

2009-08-16T21:49:00.004-05:00

Mom went to the emergency room last night with some complications and they decided to admit her for a couple of days. And when the night nurse came on duty and was checking things over, she remarked on the ostomy mom still currently has after the bowel resection last Halloween. They're planning on reversing it next month.

"I had cancer too," she told my mom. "I had breast cancer and had a double mastectomy. I had reconstructive surgery and they did a really great job."

wait for it.

waaaaaaaaaait for it.

"See??"

Yes. She. Did. The nurse, understandably proud of being a cancer survivor, and feeling that she was encouraging my mother in her battle, and I don't know, maybe feeling some sort of Surgical Sisterhood going on... she pulled the top of her scrubs and her bra up.

And displayed her bare breasts to my startled mother.

And this serves to illustrate that the trait of having the most bizarre things happen is clearly hereditary.

I'm finally ready to admit this. Last week I almost killed a b*tch. With a tampon

2009-08-14T23:52:00.002-05:00

Another glimpse into the embarrassing world I live in.

So there I was in the Super Target near my office... and it was THAT week. And since Jacob was born? It has gotten progressively worse to the point where you wouldn't be surprised to find out that my period is actually one of the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse, moonlighting. It requires strict measures to deal with the horror for at least 3 or 4 days. I'm not going into specifics, just trust me when I assure you that my body does some really horrific things with itself. Not for the faint of heart.

And as I waited in line with my stuff, I realized that we were reaching Critical Mass and there was a limited amount of time before Total System Failure and there was NO way I was going to make it back to the office to deal with it.

Nope. I was going to have to brave the Target bathroom.

Grimly, I scurried into the first stall in time to avoid disaster. And it was... bad. REAL bad. I pull a new tampon from my purse... now, I must admit that things are so bad I have no choice but to use the purple OBs. The Ultras. THE BIG GUNS. These are to your average tampon as a howitzer is to a bb gun. (Even these only last me 30 minutes, so I am totally out of options)

I unwrap it and do what I need to do to prepare it for use. I don't need to share the detail there... I'm sure a lot of you get it. And... I dropped it. And it BOUNCED. It bounced and rolled to a merry stop between the high-heeled wedges of the chick in the next stall.

What do you do? Do you laugh heartily and say "hey, d'ya mind kicking my tampon back over? ha! ha!"?? Do you ignore it? Do you gasp and clutch your pearls?? And as I am running through my mental catalogue of Etiquette for Stray Tampons and coming up with nothing (and hoping to god I had another one in my purse - not that I'd dare use the migratory tampon anyway, yuck)... girlfriend next door finished her pee and stood up.

She was wearing those tight skinny jeans, the kind where you have to do the little dance/hop to get them over your hips? And as she did that, she stepped on the tampon in her high heeled wedge and slipped and fell HARD into the stall wall. And she looked down and started shrieking.

"OMG, what the f***? That's a tampon, omfG somebody left a f***ing TAMPON on the floor and I stepped on the f***ing thing and that mother f***er is HUGE, OMFG, what the f***" yadda yadda yadda as she slammed her indignant way out of the stall and washed her hands and stomped out the door, still cussing and going on about the horror of the enormous tampon she'd nearly broken her ankle on.

Ok and that was bad enough. I finished my business and zoomed the hell out of there and back to work. I called a friend and told her and she howled.

But it got worse. Today? I'm sitting in my office working on expense reports and I hear.... THE VOICE. I told myself it was surely coincidence, but I looked out in the hall and see one of the new contractors talking to someone. And... she's wearing the shoes. Its the chick from the Target Bathroom. I am never leaving my office again, it can only end in tears.

I can't wait for menopause.

He's either got a future on stage or perhaps insurance fraud. Tale of a Toddler.

2008-11-18T11:07:00.002-05:00

Short Stuff, as I have mentioned, is something of a clever monkey and we keep a close eye on his actions lest he, I don't know, disassemble the television or something.

He is, at this point, proficient with stairs unless he gets distracted, but for safety is not permitted to be on them alone. The following incident has occurred three separate times:

The J was playing with his assortment of cars and trucks in the family room while I loaded the dishwasher. Our house has an open floor plan, so the kitchen and family room are kind of like one long room. After a minute or so, he silently got up and trotted down the hallway towards the front door and the stairs. I followed to see him sit down on the bottom step, nodding to himself. Seemingly lost in thought, he patted the carpeted stair and nodded again. Then he bent at the waist and leeeeeaaned forward slowly, until he slid off of his seat and was lying on his stomach a the base of the stairs.

Then, he lifted one leg up behind him and placed it on the stairs. The action was repeated for the other leg, after which he spread both arms out to the side and then put his face straight down.

And then? He began to moan and groan.

If I had not stood there watching this entire set-up, I would certainly have assumed he'd fallen on the stairs and apparently that was EXACTLY what Short Stuff was thinking.

"Nice show," I told him, "You do know I was watching the whole time, right? Cut the drama, silly man."

And he scrambled up and giggled and ran off to play some more.

Don't ask me where he got the idea to do this.

Managing my stress is stressing me out. But who's hungry??

2008-11-17T10:39:00.005-05:00

Some people manage their stress through meditation or crying or painting or racquetball or eating or drinking or whatever. Me? I am prone to handling stress in two ways. If its the minor-but-annoying sort of stress, I dye my hair. If its the I-think-my-head-is-about-to-pop-off-and-roll-down-the-hall kind, I go crazy in the kitchen.

This weekend? Was a go crazy kind of couple of days.

It resulted in two batches of snickerdoodles, lemon lamb ragout over noodles, meat pie, chicken soup with homemade spaetzle, roasted and pureed butternut squash, sweet potato pudding and buttermilk biscuits.

And although this made everyone else delighted, it wound up creating three dishwasher loads of dishes, plus all the things that needed to be handwashed, sweeping up the flour I spilled and cleaning the counters 9 times.

And I seriously need to wash the kitchen floor now.

I need to find some way to manage my stress that doesn't make more work for me.

Also... Short Stuff has been sick this weekend. Not surprising, since I caught the current office plague midweek last week and it knocked me on my tush. Friday night started off badly, my husband and I getting into a rolicking, loud, painful argument after J was asleep that resulted in bitterness and hurt feelings... a horrible, wet sounding coughing from Short Stuff's room around midnight put the argument to rest for good as we both responded to his whimpers. Now, I know better than to stand behind both horses and cows. You'd think by now I would have also learned not to stand behind my husband when he picks up a sick child. Alas, both for J and me, he was immediately sick to his stomach. What is it about motherhood that turns you into someone that might once have covered your eyes in horror at a hangnail, but now lets you embrace a whimpering child without flinching at the vomit coating both of you?

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep after that. By the end of the weekend, we had to make a trip to the after-hours pediatrician and Short Stuff has a humdinger of a raging ear infection and strep. My poor monkey has not had a good weekend.

But the only part of it he's complained about? The part that distresses him to the core? Not the high fevers, not the pain in his head, not the coughing that kept him up all night. Nope. He's horrified and I mean absolutely APPALLED by the fact that he's gotten "boogies." "Is TEWWIBLE!!" he tells me, waving his hands around for added emphasis. Go figure.

And after all that, the thing I felt most like doing was cooking. Clearly, the stress is getting to me.

Oops, all fresh out of supposedly witty titles.

2008-11-14T13:16:00.002-05:00

Rock on with myself. But I have a working, REALLY working, computer of my own now AND a internet-capable cell phone where the keypad is not peeling away and the keys really work. It bites when most of your communication tools take a flying leap at the same time. I had to resort to my old standbys... smart mouth, mostly. It didn't get me far.

Mom's finished her radiation and first round of chemo and had her first surgrey on Halloween. She came home from the hospital last week and is doing well, all things considered. The surgeon said he was very pleased at the outcome of the surgery and he's pretty certain he got it all. For now, she recovers before the next round of chemo.

In which we learn something...

2008-08-22T22:13:00.002-05:00

When I arrived at mom's with dinner (slow-cooked apple-glazed pork loin, roasted ginger cinnamon butternut squash and roasted asparagus. Did I mention I handle stress with saucepans??) tonight, she was looking solemn. (also annoyed)

"I learned something important today," she announced.
"Do tell," says I.
"well... if you spend your days having your ass end nuked, and they tell you that Pampers Ultra Sensitive Wipes will make your daily business more pleasant? They are lying."
"Ohhhhkay."
"And do you know WHY?"
"Um. I am afraid to guess."
"I will tell you. It is because whatever is in the damn things leaves a film. Like baby oil. BABY OIL. Which serves to amplify the radiation and if you thought your parts were burned before???"

She trailed off, looking really, really pissed.

Boy is it hard to think of a response to a greeting like that.

reboot

2008-08-20T21:36:00.004-05:00

We're in Week Three of chemo & radiation in CancerLand out here and it reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally bites. Mom's holding up, I guess, but I've discovered something that feels worse than seeing your child weeping. Moms can comfort their children, making things "all better" with a hug and a kiss and maybe a Hello Kitty bandaid.

But when YOUR mom suddenly dissolves into tears? There just ain't enough Hello Kitty bandaids on the market to make that all better.

She's trying to keep hold of her sense of humor. Surgery looks to happen in October, and she'll have to have a temporary ostomy while she heals. Can't say she's looking forward to that, but my daughter (who has clearly inherited the family twisted humor) has promised to knit her an ostomy cozy. (Like a tea cozy. Only.... not.) She was going to make an octopus, but between the two of them, they decided an octopus was not suitably vile enough to fit the purpose and they have settled on a remora.

It's funny how your whole world can abruptly narrow down to The Disease and its eradication. Ok, its not funny at all, but you get the idea. Still, there are moments of hilarity in which we think we might get through this. For instance, she's opted for the continual infusion pump for her chemo. The port was surgically inserted into her chest, and she has a bag that holds her chemo. Every 2 minutes, it sends another burst of chemicals through the tubes and when it does, it makes a little squeaking noise.

Her cats? Think there's a mouse in that bag. They have spent the last three weeks trying like hell to find that damned mouse. We cannot seem to convince them otherwise.

* * *

My cousin was married this past weekend and mom was unable to go so the rest of us drove out to attend. As late as Friday, I still had nothing to wear, and dashed into a local TJ Maxx on my lunch break. As luck would have it, I actually found a possible dress and squeezed myself into their absurdly small changing rooms to try it on. I must admit that although I was wearing a good suit, underneath of it I was hardly dressed for success. My unmentionables were of a caliber that would probably inspire more laughter than racing hearts... but I had no plans to share them with the general public, so whatever. I'm confident that many a woman out there has done the same thing around Laundry Day.

So the dress appears to fit and I get it zipped most of the way... tug. tug. Oops. Huh. I can't seem to get it to move. Tug. Tug. Tug tug tug TUG. Aw hell. I try and unzip and.... nothing. Nada. It's stuck. I'M stuck. Tug tug tug yank tug. I am really really stuck.

I manage to snake one arm out without dislocating my shoulder, and contort myself and the fabric enough to see that the zipper is actually broken, and as I zipped it up, it was coming open beneath the zipper pull. Yep. I am well and truly stuck and will need assistance to get out of this.

I hold the bodice up and go in search of the 18 year old attendant. We do not fit into this little closet of a changing room together, so the girl stands in the open door and starts yanking on the zipper for all she is worth. I am trying not to fall on my butt, because this girl has got some serious upper body strength and I'm close to flying backward with every attempt she makes.

Finally, she gives one last savage yank on that zipper and it practically FLEW downward. And so, alas.... did the dress. She exerted so much force on that last pull, not only did she rip that broken zipper open, it pulled the dress clear OFF of me and it fell onto the floor.

Just as three women entered the dressing area.

And there I stand, trying to gather the shreds of my dignity.

Go figure.

* * *

Also? I don't think I hear myself thinking, lately. Mostly I just get this high-pitched humming noise that could possibly indicated that I've shorted out my brain. Overload. Syntax error, does not compute. In the family roles, I've apparently been cast as the worker bee, the "fixer", the problem solver.

I CAN'T FIX THIS AND IT PISSES ME OFF MIGHTILY.

In Which She Attempts to Channel her Inner Martha Stewart and Winds Up with Jerry Lewis

2008-07-08T08:33:00.001-05:00

Since mom has been ill, I've been pitching in by cooking their dinners. It's no trouble, since I find it just as easy to cook for five as three and its especially important as we battle stage 3 cancer, that she keeps to a healthy diet.

Which sets the stage recently for a planned meal of herbed pork loin chops, roasted new potatoes, steamed sugar snap peas and a wilted spinach salad with organic balsamic dressing.

And therein lay my trouble.

Now, mom has allergies to msg and sulfites, so finding a balsamic dressing without them is not an easy task and I was not up to the chore of making one from scratch. (I know. Major demerit on the Martha scale.) But I found one - Annie's Organic - and decided I was good to go.

This was a brand-new bottle, plucked by the store shelf by Yours Truly. Unopened... with a plastic sheath sealing the top of the bottle. This is key.

I think this also what's known as foreshadowing but what the hey. We're going with it.

Anyway, I peeled away the plastic seal and flipped the bottle over to blend the contents as the balsamic vinegar had settled to the bottom. Flip down and flip back up and....

You know, somebody at Annie's Organics bottling plant gets a big fat FAIL in my book. I do not expect to have to check whether the cap of an UNOPENED bottle to see if it is firmly screwed into place. And so it was that as I flipped the bottle upright, the cap flew off and three-quarters of the contents erupted out of the bottle in a balsamic geyser of epic proportions.

The velocity caused the deluge of dressing to kind of spread itself out in midair and it seemed to hang there like something out of The Matrix long enough for me to realize that things were about to get very messy and there was not one dang thing I could do to prevent it.

Time returned to its normal speed as cold vinaigrette splattered onto my head, all across both sides of the kitchen, the stove, down my shirt... there was balsamic vinaigrette in my BRA.

The sound of the splatter drew my daughter and parents out to the kitchen to behold my fragrant disaster. To her credit, my daughter started helping me clean up the mess with just a bare hint of a smirk.

Cooking with Gerbil... kind of like vaudeville dinner theatre.

It's all about the numbers

2008-07-07T08:33:00.000-05:00

1 diagnosis.
3 weeks of emotion from all sides.
8 doctor's appointments.
1 round of chemo lasting 40 days.
3 choices of how to receive the chemo drugs.
0 prescription drug coverage.
4570 in cash for the chemo pills
5 trips to the hospital weekly to recieve chemo injections
1 decision to use the implantable continuous infusion pump
1 procedure to insert the pump
15 days of external radiation following chemo
1 surgery to resect the bowel, with a stoma and temporary ostomy
30 days of adjuvant chemo
1 surgery to reattach everything
7 days of meals to prepare
1 entire house to be scrubbed down
10 skeins of yarn to finish the ''chemo blanket'' my daughter asked me to help knit
25 years since I last held knitting needles.
8 gazillion deep breaths.
1 pair of 'big girl panties' that I keep yanking up so I can keep my 'game face' on.
6 million tears my mother is trying very hard not to let anyone see

all comes down to 64.

64 percent.

Our chances of a 5 year survival.

Sure, better odds than Vegas. Still a little overwhelming.

Lather, Rinse... oh my.

2008-06-18T20:03:00.004-05:00

The heck with good days. How can you tell if your toddler had a GREAT day???

Look closely. Very closely.

The lighting is bad but that is ONE DAY'S DIRT, washed off of His Shortness just barely a half-hour ago.

Now excuse me, please. I gotta go get the scrub brush. Again.

No wonder that child was asleep five minutes after his bath!

Answers

2008-06-17T19:39:00.000-05:00

Somewhere, I once read that God answers all prayers, but sometimes the answer is no.

She's got colon cancer.

Although its a large mass and fully blocking the intestine, it hasn't metastasized. They can't stage it until she's had an endoscopic ultrasound to determine how far its penetrated the intestinal wall.

So she'll start with chemo to shrink the tumor and hopefully kill the cancer cells before she has surgery.

Who knew that a horrific case of food poisoning could possibly save a life? But for a popular fast-food meal on her way out to Aunt F's funeral - she of the cabbages - my mother would have suspected nothing. She had no pain, no symptoms... she's young. But that fast-food meal was bad, and the distress it caused didn't go away and her doctor became worried.

And so she had to have a colonoscopy, which we are learning, freaks people out enough that they refuse to consider having one.
But she relented, so she has the chance to beat this.

And now that the worst shock is over with, we can plan our attack.

Waiting.

2008-06-16T19:39:00.000-05:00

For what seems like forever, I waited.

First, it was to learn if my son had accumulated enough credits.

Then, to be certain he'd passed the last math course.

And last, for the DAY.

And then this past wednesday, my son graduated high school and my heart almost broke with pride and relief. Its been one hell of a fight to get him back on his feet and back on his way. The wait was so worth it.

And now I'm waiting again, for different answers, answers to darker questions.

My mother had a colonoscopy the very same day and they found a mass. They did a biopsy and a CT scan and told her its genetic, but because of her medications, she can't remember what they referred to. We know she'll require surgery, whatever is going on.

So.

Its kind of draining, going from one emotional extreme to the other, back and forth. Forgive me if I'm a little distracted this past week.

I'll be sitting over here, waiting.

Let's see now...

2008-06-12T17:27:00.006-05:00

When Short Stuff and I get home in the afternoons, I'm more than ready to ditch the business suit and pantyhose in favor of frumpwear... er, clothing more suited to racing around like a lunatic with a gleeful toddler.

Since the toddler in question is lightning quick and climbs like the monkeys he loves, its better to bring him into the bedroom with me while I change.

Unless you happen to be standing there in your unmentionables as you're trying to get your pantyhose off and you hear the whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the venetian blinds being yanked skyhigh... the venetian blinds which normally prevent anyone walking past the front of the house from being able to see into your bedroom.

And you drop to the floor in a horrified crouch and crawl toward the the window cord as your child waves frantically with one hand as he pounds on the window with the other to get the attention of the Perfectly Polished group of Uber Mommies strolling past with their perfectly groomed perfectly perfect dogs.

Pride of the neighborhood, that's me.

2008-06-07T20:23:00.004-05:00

Short Stuff can count to twelve (depending, of course, on whether he wants to), which has become part of the bath time routine, counting the stairs as we go. If he's in a good mood, you can ask him what number comes next and he will tell you. If he's in a GREAT mood, he will give you answers such as "What comes after five?"
"Ohhh. Hmm. Grandma."

He and I are on our own for most of the weekend, since my husband is valiantly trying to complete the work on his property. I find that nearly every single time, Short Stuff is the cure for what ails ya. We began our morning in bed with our cups... mine a stoneware mug of strong coffee, his a sturdy sippy of soy milk. Neither of us speaking, just leaning into each other and a vast mound of pillows. What a great way to start the morning.

My parents found a vintage Radio Flyer bicycle and this thing has to be the smallest two-wheeler EVER. They refurbished it and brought it over tonight and Short Stuff is infatuated with this thing. He spent the better part of the evening climbing on and off of this thing like a monkey. Since I knew they were bringing the bike over, I took his Shortness to Target this morning to shop for bike helmets. I knew he had a generously-sized cranium but good lord. Toddler sizes did NOT fit. We now have a gorilla-sized bike helmet and a rinky-dinky bike. Seriously, the training wheels on this thing are smaller than my palm.

We also had to find a new pair of shoes for someone, since his disappeared at the sitter's during the week. She has torn her house upside down trying to find them, and on Friday, we think we maybe have figured out where they went... seems a certain somebody has figured out how to work her kitchen trash can, reeeeeaaaaally quietly while Sitter is getting lunch on the table. How do we know this? Because she discovered her TV remote control in the trash can and J has been fascinated with the concept of trash. Ah well, he was about to grow out of them anyway.

Sitter really had a tough week. Did I mention that we had the Dreaded Fingerpainting Episode? Medium of choice was NOT paint. He got the wall, every inch of the pack and play, the floor, the other wall, himself, more of himself, even more of himself, ohmylorddidyouROLLinit??, the books, the bedding... and when I arrived to pick him up, he was very pleased to announce that "I POOP!!" The poor sitter looked like she needed a drink.

I could use one myself. Although we had a fabulous day, I swear he has more energy than both of his siblings ever did... and that's combined. I also discovered today that in the same amount of time it takes me to walk from the family room to the kitchen table to set down a cup, the little monkey dude can scale a seven foot bookcase. From behind the Super Yard Gate, no less.

I'm beginning to suspect that I might need to consider hiding my car keys.

Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

2008-06-06T17:17:00.000-05:00

Fabulous. The FIOs issue still isn't fixed, and I'm still trying to read, comment and post using buttons about the size of your average pillbug, on a screen about 1.5 inches tall. If, after 15 phone calls, the issue is not resolved tomorrow afternoon, I am going to be sorely tempted to freak out.

Anyway.

I'm in a funk.

For one, I took a risk and well... I don't think you can say it failed, since I got up the guts to try, but it didn't have a happy ending. I attempted to extend an olive branch to someone who used to mean a lot to me and it was met with frozen silence.

I will have to accept this.

For two, there's a situation at work that's causing more tension and its required a lot of effort to sidestep and avoid being dragged into drama.

The rest of it really isn't worth mentioning. So I won't. And besides... fiddle-dee-dee, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day and all that.

This is only a test...

2008-06-04T04:45:00.000-05:00

If this had been an actual emergency, you would have recieved further instruction. This is only a test. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

So. My husband claims that he doesn't dream and never has. I maintain that he just doesn't remember them when he wakes. Except last night....

Apparently he had snuggled very close in the night. Cute, right? While he was cuddling up, he began dreaming that he was in a house with his friends. And it caught fire. And my husband, concerned for his friends' safety, screamed out warnings.

Except he really did shriek ''FIRE'' at the top of his lungs.

Two inches from my face. People, there is no sleeping through THAT. The flood of adreneline through my body was instant and effective. I was off that bed and bursting into our son's room, bent on rescue, before I realized that there was no problem beyond my husband's volume control.

I suppose its a bit unfair to be annoyed at him for a dream, but oh, couldn't he have dreamed about bringing the sleep-deprived wife coffee and chocolate instead?? And maybe a nice back rub?

I'm just going to count my blessings that he wasn't dreaming about stomping on spiders.

How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm

2008-06-01T05:18:00.002-05:00

Now that I have returned to the Land of the Internet, I can shamelessly whore out some pictures of my cuties from our trip.

The drive out was educational. I learned many things, notably that Short Stuff really WON'T sleep in the car more than about 20 minutes, no matter how long the trip. (Or, as we learned from last summer's ill-fated drive to the beach, what time you make the drive. We left at midnight, thinking he'd sleep the whole way, right? Wrong. SO wrong.)

I also was reminded that he really hates holding still, and he fillibustered the entire way on The Evils of Carseats and Why He Should be Let Loose. And since he's still not mastered the english language, he held forth in the universal toddler language of Shriek.

Also? My daughter had PMS. What I won't do in pursuit of relaxation, hmm?

Judge for yourself if it was worth it.

That first morning came EARLY.

Sitting on the front porch with his sister...

playing a little zim zam...

And so is born his fascination with "trackers"

Long walks with his sister were great fun

As were the face-making episodes

Gardening with his grandmother

Relaxing? not one bit. But Short Stuff had an absolute BLAST. So it was worth it.

As Nature Abhors a Vaccuum, so doth the Universe Abhor my Dignity

2008-05-31T15:34:00.003-05:00

You may now find me hiding under my bed while I wait answer from the Witness Protection Program to see if they'll give me a new identity even though I haven't witnessed anything because this one? Is dangerous to my sanity.

Let's begin with this morning.

After much drama, we finally had Verizon install the FIOS today (the install still isn't complete because the order is screwed up AGAIN and can't be fixed til Monday but I now have TV and 'net. OMG. I already love FIOS).

My husband has been without tv and internet for a week and a half and its gotten on my last working nerve. the technician was scheduled to arrive at 8:00 because a certain husband thought that would be best. Never mind the fact that all of us were up frequently in the night and Short stuff normally gets up and eats breakfast at 8:00.

The house? Wrecked. WRECKED to the 15th power of OH SH*T. I get up and start zooming around performing the Dance of the Unfortunate Wife, speed-cleaning lest I suffer great embarrassment. I had been cleaning last night but didn't finish and our bedroom and my husband's office were the worst of the freaking lot, not helped by our being out of town and his frequent trips to work on his house. Stuff was flung everywhere like it was poo and this was the Monkey House at the National Zoo.

And so despite my pleading, husband forgets to do any kind of sweep. And then the guy arrives, woefully promptly, and I have not had a chance to fully restore the bedroom to presentable order when the tech arrives and i have to show him where the tvs are. I apologized pathetically for the mess.

But. It gets worse.

I fail to notice until AFTERWARD that there is two crumpled wrappers on the bureau in front of the TV. Two crumpled personal-type wrappers. REALLY personal. As in... prevention-of-siblings-for-Short Stuff kind of personal. My brain promptly short-circuited from mortification.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!

(worse, those were not um... recent. Are you kidding? We're parents of a toddler. Given the choice between intimacy and sleep? Puhleeeeeese.)

I confront my husband furiously and he giggles like an idiot and says "Oh yeah, i found those behind my nightstand.''

Ever hear of a TRASHCAN, butthead???

After husband and child head off to Grandma's house for the weekend and internet and TV is restored, I head out to do my errands. Some of these errands took me back to the Land of the Big Red Dot.

Idiot pre-adolescent girls were apparently playing VOLLEYBALL in the aisle. And they MISSED. Well, sort of. They nailed me smack in the back of the skull. My inner curmudgeon erupted.

Let me just say that it doth not take a village to scare the living lights out of 3 foolish girls. It only takes One Angry Gerbil, who can do a fairly accurate imitation of Krakatoa when a volleyball is unexpectedly applied to her coconut.

But wait.

So now I'm heading home in a torrential rainstorm. Visibility has been reduced to "Are you joking??" and I'm heading carefully at reduced speeds. However, I have my window cracked because my stomach is feeling slightly touchy and something about having the window open keeps it from getting worse.

Except that an extremely large SUV came barrelling past on the left, and hit some standing water, sending up an impressive rooster tail of storm water.

Which flooded into my open window and hit me full in the head and neck and drenched me but good.

I give up. I think I'm going back to bed now, before I'm attacked by a mob of squirrels on a sugar rush, or something.

Riddle me this.

2008-05-28T17:23:00.000-05:00

Why is it... I go away for a long weekend to my mom's farm where there is no internet (not even cell reception) and no tv and that is relaxing.

I come home and there is no internet and no tv...

and that is a crisis.

Irony, party of two? Your table is ready.

No service until Saturday. My husband is losing his mind.

Um.

2008-05-21T17:18:00.002-05:00

We moved into our current house last May, and while we are friendly with the neighbors on either side, we don't know anyone else. That's not so uncommon for this area, and honestly, we are usually quite busy. We're also one of only two houses on this particular stretch of road.

But someone apparently has been paying some attention to who WE are.

I arrived home with Short Stuff, and crammed under my front door is a religious tract. (Let me be clear - I am not against mission work, so long as one respects my polite response that I am happy with my faith and leaves it at that. In my view, the world is large enough for all. )

But this particular tract, and the accompanying note, is written entirely in Korean. (but no signature, mind you)

And as my husband is Korean, this is very clearly targeted specifically to our family. And its clearly not from anyone who knows us, because my husband knows very little Korean and he definitely doesn't read it.

What in the heck...

I am a bit put off, to tell you the truth, because I'm not exactly certain how this group found out that my husband is Korean in the first place, especially considering his last name is anglicized. And its not a group that any of his family have ever belonged to.

Someone's been prying, it seems. Oh boy does THAT bother me.

Also....

We're having FIOS installed next week. (which with our 'computer' is kind of like getting a Ferrari so you can haul your trash to the dump. but anyway.)

As part of the package deal, we're getting the FIOS tv, too. The same analogy may apply, but I wasn't too heartbroken at giving up the Direct TV. Now in comparison to Comcast? Direct TV was my darling... I adored them. Except for one problem... losing the signal in bad weather.

Tonight, Direct TV called to query about our service cancellation. I explained the package deal with FIOS.

'we can offer you a better deal!'
'There's also the issue that we lose the signal every time it rains. Sort of an issue when there's a tornado warning you need.'
'we'll send someone to fix that!'
'You... what??'
'We'll send a technician to fix it! Immediately!'
'You can't.'
'Sure we can!'
'Okay, I don't want to argue with you but I don't think you're grasping the problem. How are you going to fix atmospheric conditions interfering with the satellite signal reception??? Does Mikos Cassadine* work for y'all over there??'
'Huh?'
'Never mind.'
'We don't want to lose your business! We'll call you in a few days.'

Great. So now Direct TV is shaping up to be the boyfriend/girlfriend you can't break up with.

And in case you wondered? The bird is still at it and now my entire front door and two windows are covered in beak marks.

** Two points if you got the joke.

Now that's just Bull.

2008-05-19T19:18:00.000-05:00

Short Stuff and I were on our own this weekend and he was in fine form. Despite cutting another troublesome molar, he was running in fifth gear from the moment his feet hit the floor in the morning until his head hit the mattress at night.

We went out on Saturday to run errands and while trying to cross from the curb at one of the dreaded warehouse stores, we were very nearly run over by some jerk who decided that speeding up so that I had to jump back was hysterical. Mind you, this wasn't a teenager, either, it was a guy well into his fifties, driving a very expensive Mercedes. And just as he shot past me with that smirk on his face?

He hit a pothole he wasn't looking at and he blew a tire.

And I? Turned and said loudly ''Your mother would have told you it served you right for being an ass!''

Good Lord, one of these days I might get my butt kicked but I laaaaaaaaughed all the way to the car.

The rest of the weekend was a jubilant blur of running toddler feet and the excitement of being! almost! two! and! everythings! fun!!

We watched a Baby Einstein dvd about farms and everytime the cow puppet or the illustration appeared, Shortness yelled ''Booooool!''

At first I thought he was saying moo. ''That's a cow'. I said, nodding, "And the cow says mooo.''

''No! Boool!''

Lather, rinse, repeat. And then it dawned on me. Puppet, illustration... NO UDDERS. Bull.

He's right, its not a cow, its a bull.

Dang. Forget being smarter than a fifth grader, I'm not even smarter than a guy not yet two!

Tell me everything.

2008-05-16T22:28:00.001-05:00

My daughter came down for a visit tonight. She's been having problems with vertigo, so my husband picked her up on his way home and I told her I'd drive her home.

It was getting kind of late, so we stopped off at a convenience store for a cup of coffee. I was stirring my usual gazillion creamers into my cup of caffeinated goodness when a woman not much older than me approached the coffee bar and struck up a cheerful conversation.

''I thought I was the only person who drank coffee this late!.' she chirped.

''Nope,'' says I. ''Love the stuff.''

''Oh me too, me too. Had to give it up though, doctor told me I had to. I got right sick on Mother's Day. ''

''Really? I'm sorry to hear it.''

''I don't think it was the coffee that did it, though. My intestines, they twisted all up! Couldn't pass a damn thing!''

Now, all my life I've noticed that people feel compelled to tell me the most unexpected and often outrageous things. An older friend once remarked that I've ''heard confessions that would make a crack whore blush for shame.''

Not knowing any crack whores, personally, I've never been able to prove her theory. But anyway, my daughter made a funny noise but the woman went on, still as chipper as she could be.

''Yeah, they tell me I could have died!! It's a bad thing, I tell ya. A woman I worked with had it too and they had to cut her leg off! She couldn't pass a thing neither and she got gangrene! I'm tellin' ya, if you can't go, better go to the doctor and make sure your intestines are ok. I coulda got gangrene!!''

People, it is damn hard to make a graceful exit from a random conversation about gangrenous intestinal torsions. I could think of only one thing to say.

''Good talking to you. I do hope everything comes out okay in the end.''

But I didn't say it. You could say... I didn't have the guts. But I wisished her well and she beamed and waved goodbye to us as we left.

I waited until we got in the car and then I told my daughter. She smacked me.

Huh?

2008-05-14T16:55:00.001-05:00

I look forward to Wednesday's paper because of the Food section that runs weekly, with recipes, wine reviews and other fun stuff that makes a kitchen geek like me happy. The weekly sales flyers for local groceries are usually in Wednesday's paper as well. I just glanced at the Safeway flyer which boldly proclaims a GRAND RE-OPENING of one particular store nenearby.

Trouble is? That is - no joke - I think the seventh 'grand reopening' for this same store in the last 15 months. Why can't they just run a flyer that says Big Sale instead of touting a chronic case of GRAND REOPENING. Can't be too grand if it takes you seven tries to get it right. This irks me enough that I don't want to shop there.

This morning, my headache seemed more determined than ever and whenever I stood up, I felt sick and dizzy. It decided that it would be wiser to stay home and rest than to get behind the wheel of my car and risk a problem.

At roughly 9 am, someone knocked on the front door. I got out of bed and opened the door.... no one was there. And wouldn't you know it, no sooner had I gotten back into bed than the knocking repeated.

Again... no one at the door. I stepped onto the porch and looked around. There wasn't even anyone on the street.

About the fifth incident, I yanked that door open fast as heck and glimpsed a flurry of brown feathers streaking into the bush. Go figure.

All day long, a dang sparrow has done battle with the storm door and the side windows like he's got a starring role in Hitchcock's classic. Nothing I have tried has dissuaded this feathered Don Qixote and he's still at it even now. I hope he has a headache to rival mine, that's all I can say.

All I wanted was a long nap but I got a woodpecker-wannabe instead.

Mother Nature's on my short list today.

This blows

2008-05-13T06:04:00.000-05:00

Last night, Short Stuff was happily playing in his bath when he looked up and noticed the showerhead. 'Dat?' he wanted to know, so I told him and gave a simple description of a shower.

He looked down and considered this. Then he pointed at the faucet and in an unsure voice said 'bath?'

'Yes', I told him. That's where the water comes out for your bath.'

He pointed up at the shower and said 'Daddy', then at the faucet and said 'me! me!'

'Yes, Daddy takes a shower and Jacob takes a bath.' Grand communication all around! He then proceeded to dump water over his head with his toy watering can, giggling 'Daddy!' as he pretended to shower like Daddy. All was sunshine and roses until he lifted his face and managed to pour water right up his nose.

I lifted him out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel as he flapped frantically at his face. I held up a tissue but he batted it away.
'Blow your nose,' I told him and snorted air to remind him what to do. He snatched the tissue away and held it to my nose instead. Getting nowhere fast, I turned to reach for the nasal aspirator tha was sitting on the counter, saying 'Jacob, you need to blow your nose!'

No sooner had those words left my mouth than Short Stuff leaned into my collarbone and blew his nose, exactly as I told him he should... long and hard, straight into my shirt.

Consider the role of Mom.

Cook, doctor, housekeeper, entertainer, peacemaker, librarian.

Handkerchief.

The Great Mother's Day Debacle

2008-05-12T17:04:00.000-05:00

Debacle. (noun) The American Heritage dictionary defines it as both a total, often ludicrous defeat and also a violent flood. Both shall apply.

If you've seen the Weather Channel recently, you may know that the Washington DC region has been a bit soggy. Waterlogged, even. People, it has been damn wet. Now, I'm perfectly aware that as far as unfortunate weather goes, we're getting off a lot easier than an awful lot of people.

But its still not a treat to find out that your basement is going to try and moonlight as a fishpond, especially if a good portion of your treasured gazillion and one books happen to be down there. We noticed a puddle seeping across the floor last thursday, but it was easily contained and besides, we were sort of having a possible tornado about 2 miles down the road.

Yesterday, however, we got six inches of rain in a single day. Short Stuff was visiting my husband's parent while my poor husband was trying to finish up the work on his rental property, which decided he wasn't overworked enough and sprang a big leak in the skylight. I told him not to worry about doing a Mother's Day dinner with me, that leak had to be dealt with before it ruined the drywall. Besides, my parents, youngest sister and my older son were coming over so I'd have a good time anyway.

We had just finished up supper and my son went downstairs to check the basement. Unfortunately, it was leaking again, much worse than last week. I ran to get some towels and he got a pushbroom to sweep water into the sump pump. (because 30 years of settling house has resulted in the side of the basement with the pump being ever so slightly UPhill from the leaking side) I see that the window well is full of water, which points to a problem with the gutter.

I grab a hoodie and go outside to survey the problem. Apparently, last week's storm blew a bunch of stuff onto the roof and it has now clogged the gutter, which is sending cascades of water down into and around the window well and contributing significantly to Lake Basement. I can't do anything about the gutter at the moment but I grabbed Jacob's plastic wading pool and used it to cover the window well, hoping to divert the water. Feeling clever in the face of a problem, I turned to go back to the house.

You know how sometimes when you fall, it seems like slow motion? And you have time to consider how badly the impact is going to hurt? Well, that did not happen. The very next thing I was aware of was the back of my skull bouncing off of the ground. I guess both feet slid out from under me in a spectacular failure of bipedal action and I had to have gotten some impressive lift because it was my head that struck the ground first, followed by the rest of ragdoll me.

son of a... OUCH. I? left a dent in the water-soaked ground. Not a big one but still.. And then I had to roll onto my stomach and push myself up since I'd knocked myself damn silly. Utterly soaked and covered in mud, I made it back into the house and staggered into a wall as an encore. And it was raining hard anough that no one even heard me yell.

So now I have a whopping headache, a mild concussion, a bruised arm and a bruised butt. But my books are dry and by golly, tonight I'm going to bed with a glass of wine and look into what I might need to do to change my name to Grace and get it over with.

Also...

2008-05-11T13:04:00.003-05:00

For the last few weeks, I've struggled with something and argued with myself over whether it really deserved my attention, much less anyone else's. Is it an actually an issue for me, or am I just whining?

And each and every time, I told myself that I was whining and put the thought back on the figurative shelf... upon which it fell off and rolled in front of me again. So I'm thinking that I probably ought to take a good look at it and get to know it a little better.

We've all had friendships that went away. Sometimes there's a big, ugly incident that triggers a blowout and the bridge to that friendship is effectively dynamited right out of existence. And sometimes they just sort of wither slowly until you realize with surprise that you're looking at a friendship that's got about as much life to it as that Christmas Pointsettia that you put in the sunroom and forgot about and now its dried out and cracks into withered pieces when you touch it. Sometimes you just don't know what the hell happened.

I've apparently been "fired" from some long-term friendships over the last few years... one for noticing that the friendship had gotten painfully one-sided and having had the balls to say "wow, this really hurts". And with that, what I thought was a close friendship of more than 25 years was freaking gone. Oh. Way to define my value in THAT relationship. Yikes. Okay, squirt on some emotional bactine and carry on. Only a flesh wound.

A couple others where contact ceased abruptly. Emails no longer answered, phone calls go unanswered, messages unreturned. There's really not a lot to do beyond acceptance, and you know, I think at some point in our lives we all go through this experience. Growth happens. And sometimes parts of the old you don't fit anymore or are worn out. It happens.

But it got me thinking about the value of friendships to ME.

Although I am welcoming of new persons into my life, I appear to have this stumbling block about forming new bonds. I am perfectly content to refer to someone as my friend but reluctant to think that I, myself, might be friend-worthy. I was a painfully shy kid and teenager who wanted to make those around her comfortable and happy. Occasionally, this made me an easy mark for the self-styled Alphas and that sort of reinforced the shyness. I'm pretty certain that's where it started, and a failed and unfortunate first marriage didn't help matters all that much.

But at the same time, it also made me appreciate the few close friendships I formed and as the Divine Ms. M has been known to say, I love these people on bagels.

There are a few people with whom I have been friends with now for more than twenty-odd years and some less than that and some I've never seen in person.

They will tell me if I screw up or if I piss them off. They will give me honest opinions when I ask for them, even if I don't like the answer. They will tell me what I need to hear, not just what I WANT to hear.

These women will answer the phone at midnight and hold my hand through the direst of times. They were there when my daughter's illness emerged and she tried to take her life, my heart exploding into a million crystal pieces of pain. They gathered the pieces for me.

They were there when my son fell from grace and developed addictions to alcohol and marijuana, like others in his family tree. Their hands helped hold me up as I struggled to get him help whether he wanted it or not. Their hands held mine when I was the one to dial the number for the police.

And their hands applauded when we finally made it through and he put himself back on track, clean, sober and determined not to fall again.

Their hands cleaned my house when I lay dangerously ill with pre-eclampsia (they cleaned my house!!! The whole thing.) They phoned me and emailed me when I was hospitalized early to keep my spirits up. They sent me fabulous handmade hilarities to distract me. And when my youngest son was born prematurely, I didn't even need to call. All of them, they were already there.

Some of them are mothers themselves, some are not.

But all of them have mothered my heart and soul through the best and worst of times and for each and every one of them, I would walk barefoot on glass.

And for them, especially, I am also wishing them a Happy Mothers Day because there isn't a Better Friend than I Deserve Day. Cheers, babes. I simply could not have done any of it without you.

Beyond rubies... all of you.

"Thank you Robert Smith!! Disintegration was the best album ever!!!"

2008-05-11T07:37:00.009-05:00

If I ever doubted that I'm just not 20 anymore, the morning after a Cure concert is definitely a confirmation. My butt? Was dragging in the dirt. The concert was great although it was a little startling to see Robert Smith about 30 lbs heavier... why I unconsciously expected him not to have aged, I do not know. The only real downside to the concert was the acoustics of the Patriot Center, which caused just enough echo to muddy the sound. And oh yes, the pissed-off looking blonde chick sitting with Her Man next to us. She sulked and pouted through the whole thing and plunked this incredibly huge shiny black plastic purse (only half the size of a VW Bug) down and refused to move it should anyone have this misfortune to need to squeeze past her. I know that three persons finally deliberately stepped on the thing; someone should have punted it, really.

I actually considered it, but I was tottering in a pair of shoes borrowed from my friend (because I am SMRT, s-m-r-t), as I had forgotten mine and did not realize until we were getting ready to leave her house. I figured that attempting a field goal in heeled sandals was probably tempting fate. Also, it would be out of place to be aggressive and bitchy at a Cure concert, after all.

A highlight for me was actually checking out the crowd. There were some excellent Goth ensembles (I covet that one chick's pillbox hat. Truly.) and plenty of 40-somethings reliving our youth. There was one guy in a sports jacket and every time we looked at him, we had to grin because he was the HAPPIEST looking guy I think I have ever seen in my life. He looked like Drew Carey and he was completely, absolutely rocking out with a grin that never faded. It just made you happy to watch him.

Oh and... a certain friend has apparently been reading my blog because a box showed up at my door yesterday. A long cardboard box containing... (drum roll, please)

That's right. Stress Relief in a Box. A zim-zam game.

Said friend is now owed about a gazillion favors. Thank you to the power of about 23 trillion. I AM NOT WORTHY.

Oh and Happy Mothers Day to all.

Do not adjust your set, we are experiencing Technical Difficulties

Also? Between Blogspot & my stoooopid Motorola Q (or maybe its actually Sprint, I don't know), I have been having a terrible time posting comments on a large number of blogs. Lately, it especially seems to have issues with Wordpress and some templates. So if you don't see comments from me, I AM reading but its a toss-up whether I can leave you a note.

Why can't I be you?

2008-05-09T10:00:00.001-05:00

That's not a question actually, it's me singing. Badly. The husband gave me my Mother's Day present already. Cure tickets for tonight's show at the Patriot Center. Color me ecstatic... also relieved since I found something to wear that ISN'T a business suit. (I asked my friend just what an aging, puffy Cure fan wears to the show, anyway. Her reply? ''Duh! BLACK!!!'' Oh right. my mistake.) And my coworkers have all been looking at me funny but that might be because I was singing Lullaby to myself when they came in.

and in the ''ExCUSE me????'' department...

As my friend Velocibadger says... sometimes the jokes just write themselves. A trio of Texas 17 years old are in a heaping mess of trouble. Drugs are bad, mmmkay? Robbing a 90 year old grave, stealing a skull AND MAKING A BONG OUT OF IT????? Not even my wisecracking teenager could think of a response to that news story, except to say faintly ''Wow. Bet their moms are proud.''

I'll take Women Who Need to Get a Grip for 500, Alex!

2008-05-08T17:52:00.001-05:00

Short Stuff is watching one of his Baby Einstein dvds that he got from his grandmother - he prefers the one on shapes because he thinks the lion hand puppet is funny. The DVD also features some computer-generated characters, notably a box of crayons which jump out of their box and dance and run around. Three of the crayons have long eyelashes and three do not.

And there I sit with my son, and I catch myself muttering about the continuity errors in the BE episode because sometimes the yellow crayon has long eyelashes and sometimes it doesn't. I have to admit, that is an embarrassingly stupid thing to notice.

In addition, the house was stuffy when His Shortness and I arrived home. While my boy played, I took a few minutes to change out of my work clothes. I am definitely no fashion plate and my at-home wear could possibly be called frumptastic... if you were generous. I live in mortal fear of the What Not to Wear show.

Since I was hurrying, i grabbed the first things that came to hand, an old tshirt that shows too much (imaginary) cleavage and a pair of yoga shorts that i would not be caught dead wearing outside of the house...

Fast forward about 3 hours to my husband looking at me with a puzzled expression. ''Are you wearing those shorts like that on purpose?''

And I sighhhhhhhed. ''yeah, I know they're super short. I just needed to throw something on so I didn't sweat to death.''

''Um... I meant the fact that they're inside out.''

oh snap.

Its a wonder they let me cross the street by myself these days.

Commercials that make me angry

2008-05-07T20:11:00.000-05:00

Most television commercials annoy me although rarely I'll find one that I like (The Dove commercials/ads using ''real'' women for example) or makes me snicker (Trunk monkey!! I WANT A TRUNK MONKEY!!).

But there's currently an ad for a roomba vacuum that I really do not like. The sarcastic 'mom' of the house is talking about why she needs her roomba because her kids are (shot of two piglets running down the stairs) and her husband is a (image of a donkey's hindquarters as seen through a doorway.)

An ass.

(Although to be specific, that shot would be an ass's ass, but anyway.)

We all have days, no doubt, where we think our spouse is indeed behaving like an ass (and that goes for us chicks too, lets face it. ).

But ... what the hell? Add to the commercial all the aggrieved sighing and eye-rolling she does. That doesn't make me want to run out and buy a vacuum, it makes me want to hand the woman a freaking Midol and a sympathy card to her 'family'. And I have a rather bent sense of humor...

Has that commercial actually made anyone laugh? Is it just me?

Boo

2008-05-06T09:14:00.000-05:00

I went to bed early last night and was just sliding down into delicious sleep when an unusual noise caught my attention. It sounded sort of like very heavy breathing. 6 or 7 deep breaths and then quiet for about 15 seconds and then it repeated. My husband was downstairs watching a game, so I assumed it was Jacob and began to get up. The breathing sounded really odd for a sleeping toddler, so I figured I'd better check on him.

As I walked toward the door, I noticed that the baby monitor was not even turned on. Oooookay. That heavy breathing sound is still going. One notch up on the Creepy Scale.

I opened the bedroom door and stuck my head out into the hall. No noises. I turn around and take a few steps towards our bathroom and the breathing sound is perhaps a shade louder. And it seems to be coming from the direction of my husband's closet. Oh boy. Ohhhh boy.

Now, some of you may recall that a childhood black cat, (appropriately named Lucifer, with a fondness for the taste of human leg flesh) has left me with a lifelong case of Not Liking the Dark... but only inside houses. Hey, its a sensible sort of phobia. the stupid cat never jumped out and tried to gnaw my leg off when I was outside, so why worry there? Clearly, if the ghost of Lucifer the cat was ever coming back with a nice bottle of chianti and some fava beans, it was gonna be INSIDE where I'd meet my doom.

So right about now, I'm feeling a tad nervous.

Also... if I were in a horror movie, I would be the first dumb beyotch to die because I? I am the dumbass who has to investigate the noises herself. No calling the Strapping Husband - who, I might add, took enough Wu Shu kung fu lessons over the course of his lifetime that he could probably totally kick the Suspicious Noise's ass, whereas I am more likely to have to smother it with the laundry or my freshly ironed freaking tablecloth. Better yet, maybe I could show it my cellulite and horrify it to death.

Oh no. Summong backup doesn't occur to me. I gird my loins and creep stealthily towards the closet. As I reach it, now I hear the noise coming from the window. Its outside, and as I put my ear against the heavy insulated glass window (you didn't think I was about to open it, did you??) I can faintly hear that it sounds sort of like screaming, but the glass muffles it so it sounded like heavy breathing in the room.

I do not pee myself with relief, because I reeeeeally didn't want to open the closet.

I go downstairs and turn the back yard light on. I seeeeee nuthink! So, continuing my dumbass 'please prove Darwinism's natural selection and remove me from the gene pool' tendencies, I step outside. Yep. Definitely screaming.

By this time, my husband has noticed me acting all Secret Squirrel and comes out to see what's going on. His eyes go really wide, but I am no longer worried. I've figured it out, y'see.

'What the hell is that?????' my poor city-boy husband wants to know.
'Raccoons', I reply. 'Two of them.'

If you've never heard it before, mating racoons sometimes shriek like banshees. And these two had been um... busy for a while by the sounds of it. Good lord.

I sheepishly 'fess up to my Lions & Tigers & Bears, Oh My routine upstairs and we share a good laugh. And then I notice that my husband was standing there in his fruit of the looms (we're so klassy!) and I smirked because I might go first, but at least I was wearing pants.

Cheeseburger in Parody...

2008-05-05T14:17:00.002-05:00

Sometime, people, sometimes....

I was running a few errands on my lunch break and got caught waiting for a very very long, very very slow freight train to pass. I started to drift off to some mental happy zone after something like the 45th car until a flurry of motion caught my eye.

The little car next to me was occupied by a man around 50, dressed in a suit, looking professional... or at least under normal circumstances he would have been. We were not dealing with normal, here. This guy was fuh-REAKING out. He was gesticulating madly, flailing about, shouting and tossing assorted gestures at the train, which clearly was inconveniencing him. Train rage?? Actually this went far beyond mortal rage to full-on apoplexy with a side of mental.

He went on and on and got redder and redder and I just kept staring in fascination. He looked like maybe he was doing a weird in-car combo of Thriller's zombie dance, the electric slide and the tarantella. By the time the last freight car rumbled past, I was making bets with myself on whether he'd have a stroke or piss himself first.

As he hit the gas and squealed away, I see that his license plate holder advertised him as a Parrothead AND he had a Grateful Dead bear sticker on the bumper. Hold up, here... most followers of either are known for genial mellowness. That certainly did not match up to the image of him furiously dancing around in his car seat like Rumpelstiltskin on PCP.

Clearly he needs to spend a little more time in Margaritaville.

Spring Cleaning, House and Head

2008-05-03T21:31:00.003-05:00

At some point yesterday, it occurred to me that I might have lost my grip. The husband was out of town for the majority of the weekend, Short Stuff was napping off his apple juice high (seriously. Having only recently mastered the Juice Box, compliments of his older sister, receiving the rare juice box puts him into a state of complete giddiness. Ok, so does farting but come on, he's not yet two) and I was attempting a deep cleaning of the house.

Serious cleaning is difficult for me. Not because I hate cleaning - which I do, but I hate living like a pig even more so it works out. Clutter is one thing, grime another. Anyway... difficult. right. Why? Because I'm AD freaking D. I started by doing dishes and as I started to wipe down the counter, I realized a drip of coffee had run down the front of the dishwasher. And as I cleaned that up, the floor attracted my attention. While I hunted for the lemon cleanser, the dining room table caught my eye....

it always works this eay. I end up trying to clean three rooms at the same time and at one point? I found myself ironing a tablecloth while remembering that there was a laundry mangle in the Williams Sonoma catalog that could zip this baby through in about a minute and...

Whoa. What the ripe hell... what is WRONG with me? Its a KITCHEN TABLECLOTH. Nobody cares. NOBODY CARES.

And lets face it, Williams Sonoma is very very very bad for me. Its shiny, glossy, heavyweight pages of expensive crack. Even if its really well-made crack. I need this catalog like a hole in the head. I've managed to wean myself from all other catalogs but not this one.... when I see a "new" one (they just shift the stuff around and put a new cover on and throw in a few seasonal items but really... its the same stuff every month) in the mailbox each month, I practically salivate. I am a kitchen-crap marketer's dream, I really am.

Is there a 12 step program for Donna Reed poseurs? I might need an intervention sometime soon. Or at least an extended session with power tools. Yeah. That's it, somebody hand me the nail gun, I need to FIX stuff instead of y'know, go to that Stepford place in my head.

Also? Forgot to mention that I got the best Secretary's Day (you can call me an Administrative Professional all you want. I is what I is.) gift EVAH. They gave me a gift certificate.

to GAMESTOP.

Bwah-hahahahahahahahaha!!!!! Awesome. I was most pleased.

Last, Short Stuff is at times too smart for his mommy. He was happily playing with his toy kitchen, and he fell silent for about 30 seconds. Not unusal when he's concentrating on something and then he dashed across the room, so everything was business as usual.

Except he's standing on tiptoes, trying to reach across the gate to the chair where his overnight bag is sitting. Huh? I walk over and realize he has stripped himself naked from the waist down. And he succeeds in snagging the bag and pulls out a diaper. And I look for the other diaper, the one he'd been wearing. It is crammed into the toy trashcan of his toy kitchen and it is freshly wet.

Oh boy! He's using the toilet if he has to go when we put him on it, but he has yet to fully grasp what the feeling of needing to go is and giving us warning. So he peed, and was apparently planning on changing his diaper by himself.

Like Cinderella, I am wakened each morning by flights of sweetly-singing birds

2008-05-03T06:05:00.000-05:00

... and I poop sunshine and rainbows all day after that, right?

Man, I am NOT a morning person. I used to be, back in the days when I could look forward to a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Now I just count myself lucky if I remember to put pants on before stumbling downstairs for coffee. Right side out is a bonus.

It takes a few minutes, naturally, for my consciousness to climb out of its fog. Especially if I have been jarred out of a sound sleep. And if you'd lived with me for oh... 8 years, you'd possibly have figured this out.

So... the fact that I LAUGHED when told, in my bleary, uncaffeinated state, that someone's uvula was SWOLLEN and omg the doctor couldn't see him untill 11...

well. That really shouldn't be held against me.

And... for the love of pete... go gargle with salt water, you aren't going to fall over and die.

We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Insanity

2008-05-01T20:14:00.001-05:00

Last week was very bad. My co-workers visitation and then his funeral mass... and then he was laid to rest in Quantico. This week has simply been a daze of too much work and massive sleep deprivation, compliments of erupting molars and perimenopausal insomnia.

Why am I in this handbasket and why is it so hot?????

Anyway. Its been rough pulling my brain back into sunnier climes. Pass the chocolate.

On the other hand, I've decided that I'm taking Short Stuff out to my mom's farm for Memorial Day Weekend. My husband's niece is graduating from college in NY so they're all driving up there and I'm going to retreat to the ol' family stomping grounds. The more I think about it, the more excited I get. I think my youngest sister is going with me, so it will be me, my mom, my sister and Short Stuff. Can't wait.

We did this year's March of Dimes March for Babies... which out here was more like WADE for babies. We slogged through torrential downpours but had a good time anyway. Jacob is a NICU grad... by grace, good luck and good medical care when I landed in the high risk unit with preterm labor, he made it through 34 weeks and day 1 of week 35, my body couldn't take any more. We are so luck and so blessed.

I vividly recall Mother's Day 2006, when I realized that I was not having Braxton Hicks contractions at all and the roller coaster began. And I remember hearing the tearing sobs of the woman in the triage bed next to me who was 6cm dilated at 24 weeks. And counting to myself at thinking ''okay, we hit 28 weeks four days ago. So he'll probably live. Oh God, please... let him live.''

And despite my developing severe pre-eclampsia and going through repeated episodes of PTL, we made it. And we got through NICU. And he hasn't looked back.

And so we walked this year, like we did last year, so that maybe someone else won't have to, you know?

And in more cheerful new, Short Stuff evidently enjoyed his supper SO much last night, he broke into The Cabbage Patch. You have not busted a gut until you have seen a 21 month old doing The Cabbage Patch. Don't ask me where he picked it up.

Why Being Married is So Awesome

2008-04-17T19:39:00.000-05:00

There are plenty of reasons why being married is a Really Good Thing but I listen to stories from my single friends and coworkers and I'm reminded that perhaps a petty but valid reason is Not Dating. Seriously, there are some strange people out there. And I've dated my fair share...

There was the Man Who Juggled. He really was a nice guy but everywhere. we. went. he juggled. He carried juggling balls with him so that if we were in a crowded place, say the Metro? He'd start juggling so everyone would look at him.

There was the nimrod on a first date who suddenly stopped his car on a suburban street, turned it off and said ''I thougt we could just skip dinner and have sex here.'' And tried to put the moves on. And when I growled at him to get his car back in drive and take me back, he pouted. Seriously pouted. Next day he called and whined that I'd ruined the evening and why did I say I didn't want a second date?? And when I said 'don't you think you were awfully pushy?' he replied ''Pushy would have been NOT STOPPING'. 'No,' sez I, 'That would have been a FELONY. Don't call me again.'

And there was the guy I'd dated for six months who did a drive-by breakup. No, really. He drove past my house, slowed his work van, leaned out the window and put the cooler he'd borrowed from me on top of my car with a 'I'm breaking up with you' note taped to it and the drove away. HE NEVER STOPPED. Seriously, I have to be the only woman in America ever dumped by drive-by.

But the winner, the hallmark of Bad Date experiences definitely had to be Elvis (not his real name but he had this Elvis thing going). Who picked me up wth this ginormous biker friend of his, nicknamed Tiny, naturally. He said Tiny's car was in the shop, was it okay if we gave him a ride? Tiny really was a good-natured guy, even if he looked scarier than hell without its makeup, so all right, whatever.

And then he mentions he needs to drop a check off to his brother at at Arlington Bar and Grill. (DC area bloggers are probably laughing at me already) Tiny looked uncomfortable, but I chalked that up to the car being the size of a Geo Metro and Dude was huuuge.

We get to the little strip mall and Elvis says he'll just be a minute and runs in. Tiny gets out, looks around, and starts shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally he leans into the window. 'Um, I'm so sorry but... you don't want to wait out here.'
'Oh, that's ok, I'm fine.'

He looks queasy. 'No, really. You need to go in, its not a safe area. Really not safe.'

I began to have some bad feelings about this but got out of the car. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, Tiny says in a strangled voice 'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.' And I see why he looked so miserable for me.

Despite the name, it is NOT a bar and grill.

It?

Is a very seedy pasties-optional STRIP JOINT.

Mother of God.

Elvis is freaking nowhere to be seen. I go find a seat at the far end of the bar and chain-smoked like Beelzebub on a bender, watching second-string NASCAR while trying to avoid glimpses of writhing entertainers. And suddenly this tiny, smarmy little weasel appears at my elbow, asking to bum a cigarette. I hand one over without taking my eyes from the tv screen. And then... oh dear lord and THEN the weasel spoke.

'Soooooo... come here often?'

Kid you not, he said that. I stared at him in utter disbelief. And then Tiny, bless him, stood over me and did that puff-up thing that large men can do. 'She's with ME,' he snarled and weasel? He not only left me alone so fast, he left the place altogether. Tiny began apologizing all over himself once more. Eventually we got out of there. And you can guess the evening ended pretty quickly. and there was not a second date...

Know what's worse? All these guys appeared to be perfectly normal. i'm so grateful my husband actually proved to BE normal. And if, heaven forbid, I ever find myself single again, I'm just going to get 50 cats and be done with it.

I need a Zim Zam

2008-04-16T21:04:00.004-05:00

Back when I was a kid (Hah. Hah. No there weren't dinosaurs but I'm pretty confident that Australopithecus was still keeping it real...) I had a game called Zim Zam. It was kind of like tetherball only with a tennis ball on the cord, and the pole was about 5 feet tall with a metal coil at the top. You won by getting it to either the top or bottom of the coil, depending on whether you were hitting it forehand or backhand. Let me tell you what, I could smack hell out of that tennis ball with a backhand... before long, no one wanted to play with either me or my stepdad, as we were known to hit it hard enough that we usually split at least two tennis balls every summer.

WHACK!!

I can't play tennis thanks to Zim Zam because when I tried? Yeah. I hit it as hard as I did my zim zam game and sent the ball through the chain link fence. Um, whoops.

But it was GREAT stress relief. Fabulous stress relief without having to chase a ball all over the place and crash dramatically into walls in front of amused gym-goers like you would in racquetball. (I am nothing if not about as graceful as your average three-legged arthritic cow)

I'm kind of sort of maybe feeling a tad stressed out these days. Its a combination of sleep deprivation (two jobs and perimenopause do not A Cheerful Gerbil Make), some worries about family and a bunch of other stuff, and I usually lock everything down in order to fix whatever issue crops up, but the more you shove things into that emotional closet? Well, eventually you can't get the door shut and you gotta do some housecleaning. Or work off some of the stress and beating a two by four against a tree really sort of makes people look at you funny. And I really think beating a two by four against hateful people I encounter would not do much to make friends and influence people.

Well, it might influence them. Just not in a good way.

At any rate, this too shall pass. Hopefully before I get TMJ.

Is life telling me something??? For the last three weeks, my inbox has been flooded with advertisements for bras. Not the cute kind, either. The armored, "supportive" This-Bra-Strikesa-Fear-Into-the-Hearts-of-Men kind. The kind that not only lifts, separates and contains but could probably stop bullets, or at least angry squirrels. The kind that makes you think of Frau Blücher. Ok, Universe, I get it. I don't LIKE it... but I get it.

Also, back to Short Stuff recognizing his parents unseen? Tonight, he heard a toilet flush downstairs and perked right up. "DADDY!" he announced excitedly. "Daddy POOP."

Taxing my Patience

2008-04-15T20:06:00.001-05:00

Yeah Mid April around here gets annoying because no matter how good the intentions, how early the program gets purchased, the taxes invariably get done at the last minute.

And someone's failed to keep track of necessary items. Also had been adamant about me not going through the massive amounts of papers and setting up a filing system. Not that anything's being hidden... quite the opposite in fact, since a year after moving, the office remains cluttered with bags and bags and bags of papers and old bills and receipts and a gazilion expired coupons...

Did I mention that I'm a secretary? And a damn good one?? This is making me NUTS. Especially last night when the past four years of returns were needed in pdf format.... and paperwork from the purchase of the SUV.... and a meeeeeeelion other things. And frustrated foot-stomping was heard multiple times, and none of these incidents happened back to back. Oh no. It made more sense to wait until I was almost asleep each time.

The end result? We finally both went to bed at 2am. But I didn't fall asleep until closer to 4am. The taxes are finished and someone has a deadline to bring me a file cabinet because I am NOT doing that again.

But he is kinda cute. And he puts up with me. AND he keeps me stocked with cheese. (man I love cheese) So I guess it all evens out.

We interrupt this program...

2008-04-14T21:37:00.000-05:00

A friend and coworker was killed in a terrible car accident yesterday. I'm just a little preoccupied and horribly sad.

Testing... testing....

2008-04-12T07:07:00.003-05:00

A few days ago, when I arrived at my sitter's to pick up Short Stuff, they were all in the backyard playing. My sitter's trainee remained out back with the two boys while Fabulous Sitter greeted me and we walked around to the back gate together. The other little boy came rushing to us, because if I was there, that meant his mommy was sure to arrive any moment. But Short Stuff? Fugeddaboudit. He was not about to end HIS outside time. Finally, oh soooo slowly he shuffled towards us, scowling and clutching a big stick. My sitter laughed and said "He's such a boy. If we go outside, the first thing he does is find a stick. He doesn't do anything with it, he just wants a stick."

All boy indeed.

This morning he showed his boy-ness again. My husband had to go do some more work on his house and my dad was meeting him up there at 8:30 to help. Since I have to work today, Short Stuff is spending the day with his paternal grandparents, but he and Husband had to leave the house by 7am to get there in time. While Husband was packing up the car, I went in to wake my little boy up. He was sleeping soundly... so soundly that he never even opened his eyes when he stood up in the crib and started to reach for me.

But then his arms froze... he reached out, started to pat my chest and gave the right boob a firm, full-handed honk. Eyes still closed, he smiled and said "ohhhh, my MOMMY!"

I guess he wanted to make sure.

Talk about your bear of very little brain...

2008-04-11T20:19:00.005-05:00

I spent twenty minutes writing out this long, reflective, self-scolding post and then accidently hit Alt-dumbass, Shift-something or other and POOF. Like the fairy of Little Bunny Foo-Foo fame... it was GONE.

Well then.

Um.

The only thing I have now is an observation made this evening as I was on my way to pick up my older son and give him a ride to his friend's house...

I'm sitting in traffic on Route 1 (ironically, nearly the exact place where Journey Man was spotted) and there's a group of about 7 or 8 you adults making their way up the pathetic excuse for a "sidewalk" on the side of the road. (Really, the only part paved is where there's a small creek that goes under the road). They all looked to be in there very early twenties, with the saggy pants and boxers showing and huuuuuuuuuge tshirts on. One of them's horsing around, smacking his friends in the back of their heads, trying to pull their jeans down, that sort of thing. You could see that the others were tolerating it but they looked irritated.

As they reached the little "bridge" that went over the road, Klass Klown smacked at one of them again and he whirled on him and cocked his fist back. Was he going to hit him? I don't know. What I DO know is that as Klown jumped back to dodge a blow, laughing... he fell off the pavement and flat out disappeared.

Yes indeed, he fell into the creek, ass-first.

Sometimes, that karmic payback is swift. And really cold. And kinda wet.

It was the best of nights, it was the worst of nights... OK. There was no best. Nope.

2008-04-10T23:39:00.000-05:00

Ok, this second job thing has proven to be um... educational.

I know it wasn't a full moon tonight but DAYUM. And pickles.

When I arrived for my shift, three cars of people were engaged in an arm-flailing screaming match in the parking lot. Some white woman (customer) went OFF on the poor black man in line behind her for apparently being black. What ... the... hell. He started yelling back at her for being a crazy white beyotch (which oh she most definitely definitely was) and we thought they were going to start throwing punches. Just as the manager was getting ready to call the police, she decided to leave. Good lord.

Some guy flapped his hands in my face - I have no idea why.

That was the tip of the Krazy iceberg tonight.

I am reminded why I am naturally an introvert. People are scaaaaaary. If you need me, I'll be hiding under thebed.

2008-04-09T16:33:00.000-05:00

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This primal scream has been brought to you by 4 hours of sleep, stress and The National Partnership of Numbskulls.

How was YOUR day?

You put your left foot in, you put your left foot out

2008-04-07T23:37:00.000-05:00

I was walking down the hall yesterday and as I approached the elevator, there was a man standing with his back to me. He was impeccably dressed in what looked like a very costly suit, very polished, Very Important Looking.

And then he squatted once, twice, and on the second downward lunge, he grabbed his crotch and gave things a good shake. Then he stood and shook his tush a few time to settle things out. Since it was obvious he didn't know I was there, I dodged down the side hall and re-emerged like I was just arriving to the scene and hadn't witnessed the readjustment dance.

Ah yes. You can put us in expensive clothes but we're all still monkeys underneath.

April Showers...

2008-04-06T10:41:00.004-05:00

... bring really biiiig puddles. Late last summer, our neighbors put in a wooden privacy fence. All well and good, especially as he likes to go out into the generously-sized yard and hit a few golf balls. Although he has a net for them, a few would go astray. Not so with the fence.

Unfortunately, the presence of said fence has had one notable drawback... its at the bottom of the slight decline of our yard, which means no drainage. If it rains, we have a small lake under the trees. The robins are enjoying this greatly, as they're out there splashing around in it. The squirrel? Well, he's not so pleased, since his favorite napping place is the small sapling that's right in the middle of of the water and to get to it now he either has to eat his squirrel wheaties and make one hella leap off the top of the fence, or climb one of the larger trees and try and drop down, flying squirrel-like. I have seen him miss just once and that was one pissed-off rodent. Apparently he doesn't have a problem digging up nuts and grubs and such in the rain, but he draws the line at getting a bath.

And have we discussed the woman suing Victoria's Secret over a bra injury yet? Seriously. She's suing for a "bra malfunction" that resulted in a slice to her boob. She claims that said boob injury will negatively impact her desire for a modeling career, which makes me scoff ever so slightly. What, breast augmentation leaves no scars? Come on now. Unless you plan on topless modeling, I suspect your hooter scratch isn't going to be an issue. And probably every woman who's ever owned an even slightly off-the-wall cat (which does seem to be a prerequisite for BEING a cat) is likely to have some mark left from a time when the cat decided to climb straight up and over the front of her. Can I get a show of hands? Uh-huh, there you go.

VS, naturally, insists that the woman's misuse of their product is probably responsible for her injury. Now think about that. How in heck does one MISUSE A BRA? I mean, I can give you a few suggestions, being somewhat left of center in the whole brain department, but that's beside the point. Now, I myself narrowly escaped a bra injury when I worked in DC but someone else was wearing it. She and I had decided to get some lunch and as we were walking up 19th street, her underwire failed spectacularly. (She was quite generously endowed) This underwire actually shot straight out the side of her sweater, rocketing past me to clatter against the side of the building. Naturally, we laughed ourselves sick but we never once considered that we could SUE for something like this. I mean really!

Sometimes the General Public astounds me.

Also, while I'm thinking about boobs and bras and such, I have a funny-NOW-but-no-so-much-THEN tale to share because clearly I don't get enough people laughing at me in the couse of a normal day.

When I was pregnant with Short Stuff, I didn't have a very easy time of it and was confined to bed rest more than once. I also swelled right on up to uncomfortable proportions, including the chest. My cups? They runneth over and flooded the place. I went from a 34b to "oh mah gawd its GODZILLA" (you know, if Godzilla were a chick and had boobs. And I refer to classic 'zilla and not that STUPID movie in the 90s) Anyway. After I'd hit the 40E mark and left it behind, there were days when bras seemed more torture than support. And so it was that once day after my shower, I was still feeling overheated and desperate and I decided that I was just going to lay there in my undies. It's not like my husband was gonna care, right?

I heard slow, measured footsteps on the stairs and knew my husband was coming up to check on me. Yeah. I couldn't have been more wrong. The door burst open and my poor teenaged son's eyes bugged out of his head and he threw himself backwards, nearly falling down the stairs in the effort to escape the horror he'd just witnessed. That had to be the ONLY time in his entire life he'd actually walked up the stairs like a normal person, so it didn't even occur to me that what I heard was anyone other than my husband.

It seems that he'd come by the house for a visit and I hadn't heard him come in. My husband said "Oh, go on up and see your mom!"

He certainly did. To his chagrin, he REALLY saw his mom.

Newton's Second Law of Gravity

2008-04-05T17:12:00.004-05:00

Eventually, what goes up must come down on ME. I appear to be some sort of walking, talking skeet shoot. I have had not just the bird-crap-at-unfortunate-moments (meeting my grandparents' very proper, elderly aunt and it not only hit me in the head but ran down my cheek. Talk about your first impressions), dead pigeons, irons, etcetera, but today was golf balls. I was headed to the grocery to pick up something for dinner and was struck by a random golf ball falling from the sky. Had I been near the golf course, I'd have understood this. But no. I have NO idea where that thing came from and I'm very glad I was in the car because that left one helluva dent.

I discovered something this week. GROUNDHOGS HAVE LONGISH TAILS. Seriously! I did not know this! I thought they had little stubby tails, I guess and trust me, in my family? There's a long groundhog history.

My mom is an avid gardener. She puts in 6 or 7 gardens around the house each year and could practically start her own nursery with the number of plants she puts in. Unfortunately, one year she attracted the attention of a very fat groundhog who had a taste for the good life - as in, $1500 worth of plants eaten within two weeks.

My stepdad bought one of those humane traps and caught the cat, a squirrel, the cat, a turtle, the cat, the cat, a rabbit, the cat, the cat, the cat, the cat, the cat, the turtle again, the cat, the cat, the cat.... so he gave up on that idea. Next, he filled in one of the burrow entrances (they usually have two) , tossed in a couple of poison gas sticks, and filled in the other entrance. The next morning, there was another burrow entrance and the depleted "gopher killers" were now laying below the burrow in the woods.

Next, he got an air-powered BB gun and much entertainment ensued... not because he was shooting an animal but because he was completely UNABLE to. Someone would spot the groundhog and raise the alarm and he'd grab the BB rifle and try and run around the house before it took off. This didn't work so well. One afternoon he actually spent hours hiding in the gigantic forsythia bush, waiting for his furry nemesis to appear. Finally, as dusk approached, he got his chance. The groundhog waddled into view, pausing to nibble at some hosta. My stepdad raised the rifle to his shoulder, stepped out, took aim and fired.

And since he had completely forgotten to pump up the gun, the pellet rolled leisurely out of the barrel and dropped into the grass.

Lather, rinse, repeat. This little sitcom went on for months and one day the starts aligned and he got a bead on it and shot it, hitting it in the face.

And damn if that groundhog didn't sit up on its haunches, scratch its cheek and look around, pissed off to no end. Spying my dad, it came barrelling right at him as my sisters and I watched from the deck. My dad yelped once, lifted the BB gun over his head and brought it crashing down onto the Groundhog from Hell. THE GUN BROKE IN TWO PIECES. No joke. My stepdad was now running back toward the house while the groundhog tottered unsteadily towards the woods, shaking its head and wondering what the hell just happened.

Eventually the situation was resolved but my poor dad will never hear the end of it. We're pretty rotten that way.

Lavendar's green, dilly dilly, lavendar's blue

2008-04-04T20:29:00.005-05:00

If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you.
Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, And the lambs play;
We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, Out of harm's way.

A certain young man told me that he "luff" me this evening, for the first time, while I was giving him his bath. Oh, I get hugs and "MY momma", but that "luff"? Pure bliss.

Of course, he then poured water on my head and giggled like an imp, but what the hey. I'll take it.

***

Another big freaking delay on the Beltway! But this time, no Naked Guy! Instead? PRODUCE. yes indeed. DC-area traffic delayed by vegetables. You always knew they were bad news.

***

I'm starting to identify with the concept of cranky old woman in a housecoat yelling "You kid! Get the hell outa my yard!" As the weather's started to turn slightly warmer, we're getting groups of teenagers sitting on the corner outside my house. I'm not too pleased with this, since I've found three very small ziploc baggies in my yard. VERY small. With graphics on them. Do the math.

This is a mostly dark corner, and there are only two houses that face this street - mine and my neighbors. So its a prime spot for Not Attracting Attention, get what I'm saying?

Husband and Short Stuff are out of town tonight, leaving me alone with two rodents who are very cute, but no so much use in the Home Defense arena. I was reluctant to go out and confront the 6 or so teens that were loitering out there, making a lot of noise. A few years ago? Yeah, I'd have been raising hell but now, you just never know. Hells bells, a kid who'd been my former neighbor, a young man who'd always been polite and respectful, who took care of his younger brother and sister, a BOY WHO'D BEEN IN MY HOUSE moved to a new area. And got mixed up in a gang. And he got in a stupid, STUPID argument with another kid. And he, along with a third idiot, escalated this argument to the point where they stole some guns and drove to this other kids neighborhood and shot him to death in the street. WTF?

So, I wound up calling the community security patrol and the guy came dangerously close to whining at me. "What do you want me to DO????"
"I want you to drive past this corner. When they see the patrols, they decide its a bad idea to be hanging out."
"But what if they aren't doing anything I can see?"
"I'm not asking you to get out and confront them, I just want you to DRIVE PAST."

Dear lord, it was like pulling teeth. Finally, he understood that all I wanted was exactly what he's supposed to be doing every night - driving through the neighborhood. And sure enough, the teens decided they needed to be somewhere else.

I really don't feeling like I'm too much the wuss to yell at a bunch of kids acting like nimrods. But at the same time... I REALLY don't like that anymore you can't trust that nimrods won't seriously hurt you.

And the ever-lovin' cheese stands alone

2008-04-03T18:46:00.000-05:00

So! I mentioned this part time gig, right? As a checker! In a grocery! And they threw me on a register this week! Before I finished training! Because a live body is better than no body! Even if that body hasn't even been shown how to work the freakin' phone!

Good lord.

And last night, I got left on the registers alone, with a long line of annoyed customers because... who knows. Seriously. My second day on the job, I've got 14 people in line and no one to be seen. That went over well. Especially because they were all trying to hit the mega sale before it ended and the carts? They were overflowing. Thank heavens I am a quick learner because that was sort of like rolling your car onto the freeway in order to learn to drive a manual transmission...

No one appears to get along with each other, either, and they complain about their jobs in front of the customers. Hoo boy. This is going to be a treat, I can tell.

I can do this. Hell, I have teenagers, this ought to be a doodle.

(Does that make me a can-do optimist or one really dumb bunny?)

And last night, adding insult to ... well, insult since injury actually took the night off, I stepped onto my scale and my jaw dropped. I mean, I'd noticed my pants seemed a tad loose but.. had I REALLY dropped ten pounds? Oh frabjuous day, calloo callay I was SERIOUSLY chortling in my joy and I called the husband to witness. Uh right. The scale? It was sitting on one of those godforsaken SOCKS and not weighing accurately. I hadn't lost any weight at all. The socks get me again.

What we have heah... is a FAILyuh to communicate

2008-04-02T19:17:00.001-05:00

I don't normally fuss about work. But some days I really just want to kick the wall. There's another woman with whom I am having ongoing communication problems. I am trying NOT to have problems but dayum. It takes both persons to identify the issue and solve it and one of us? Ain't interested. She hears what she WANTS to hear and makes snap assumptions about nearly everything. And do not think she wants to share her sandbox, either...

dude. If she were a dog on Animal Planet? She'd be the really food-aggressive Chow mix that just ripped your fake arm apart for being near her food bowl.

She never says anything nasty, her words are carefully chosen. But her delivery and tone leave you thinking 'am I imagining things??'

I approached her today with a 7 Habits in mind - Seek first to understand, then to be understood - and carefully stated that it appeared we had very different communication styles that seemed to be causing some misunderstanding... could she please help me to see where something I might be doing could be bothering her?

Well. That? Was not well recieved. I tried. I really did. Not sure where to go next with it, and its beginning to drive me bats. Everything appears to be recieved as some sort of accusation. She used to be in management, or so I understand. So did I but I don't LIKE being a manager, I'd rather just fix problems. And so I chose to go into admin work and frankly? I'm very good at it.

But the perception I'm getting is that not only does she resent not being a manager, but she really hasn't got much respect for this job, nor anyone else who performs it.

I've run into that a lot... I'm not a scientist, not a broker, not a lawyer, not anyone who makes decisions that might be written about or discussed with awe. That's ok. I USED to have a Very Important Job with people reporting to me and a lot of stress and crises and budgets and all that.

But life is short. And I'm happy doing what I do so that Other Very Important People can accomplish their jobs. So we all win.

Except that its getting very frustrating to work alongside someone who speaks to you as though you're the poor cashier on her first day at McDs during the lunch rush... AND THAT PERSON HAS THE EXACT SAME JOB.

Point? I haven't got one. Just a rant to get it off my chest so I can get it out of my system and go in tomorrow and again try and make things work better.

The Naked City

2008-03-31T19:17:00.001-05:00

DC traffic... it's always something aound here. Everybody's heard about what a zoo DC traffic can be. And sometimes you just don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Like today... a backup on the Beltway, partially caused by an accident. And I guess one of the participants caused a bit more rubber-necking than usual... seeing as how he was apparently naked and all. After what was reportedly a minor fender-bender, dude got out of his rental car, stripped down to his birthday suit and ran around the traffic lanes for 45 minutes.

Now that I think on it, this is the second or third naked traffic incident in the last few months. What the heck? It isn't even all that warm out. I don't imagine that streaking down the road in 40 degree weather is really going to show a man at his best, but obviously thats the least of their worries.

and can you imagine trying to explain why you're late to work? ''Yeah, I'm gonna be late today... Naked Guy.''

DC traffic... it used to be exploding tankers on the beltway, now its nudity. Always something.

Day planners only work if you use them.

2008-03-30T09:06:00.001-05:00

Some weeks ago, I found a really great day planner that was small enough to fit into my purse and even better... it was on clearance. But... I haven't exactly used it for its intended purpose, which is NOT to be a paperweight on my antique vanity.

Which brings me to where I am going to be spending my morning, instead of relaxing at home with coffee and a book.

The state vehicle safety and emissions inspection line.

Gah. Both my inspection and my registration expire at the end of March and I have been so preoccupied, I didn't give it any thought. Nor did I plan ahead when I drove across town to the one place that's open on Sundays... so I lack reading material and a sustaining beverage. I'm debating whether its worth it to leave the end of this line of cars, drive over to Borders Books, stock my car for the long wait and return.

hmmm. I have to wonder about this????

**

So i'm back with books and a caramel latte and only one additional car got in line while I was gone.

Also? On my way back, I was treated to the cutest sight. A black SUV decked out in silver hearts and streamers and a Just Married sign.

The occupants? The happiest-looking elderly couple EVAH. My heart? It glows. There go two people with the best wishes this total stranger can send after them.

Turkeys and Tags and Birds Without Shame

2008-03-29T10:59:00.003-05:00

So we have this very very large shrub at the corner of the house, next to the living room window. It's apparently a wonderful place if you happen to be feathered, and I often hear birds chirping from its leafy depths. The last few weeks have led me to realize a few things... first, that shrub is THE birdy place to be. The club of choice. Birdland, if you will. Any birdy who's SOMEbirdy is there.

Second, Birdland seems to be the place to find your birdy hookups. And if you happen to be a birdy hooking up... you then move to the No Tell Motel, which would be the top of my front door. Yes indeed. Any hour of the day, unsuspecting passersby could find themselves witnessing a little birdy action taking place on my front door. No wonder the chipmunk moved out. I mean REALLY.

I was driving up to my mom's shop this morning to drop of some things and noticed what appeared to be a turkey up on the small hill. "Oh neat," I thought "Man, I haven't seen wild turkeys around here for... well... a really long time." And I went on my way.

When I was returning home, that turkey was still there, now joined by about a dozen more. And as my car got closer, I realized that they weren't turkeys at all. They were buzzards. And more were landing... lots more. And oh. Ick. They were handling the ah... roadside cleanup detail because apparently the department of transportation has been lax about deer on the road. Not exactly the charming tableau I thought I'd been seeing. Bleah. There are times when nature ain't so cute.

I've been tagged. Thankfully, its a meme and not like a toe tag... although there have been days this week where it felt like that was entirely within the realm of possibility.

But I digress.

Mommy Brain tagged me and this is how you play:

Rules are:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. (Weird? Oh, I got yer weird, never fear)
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I know how to spin. And I don't mean ellipticals or whatever the heck people are referring to when they talk about spin classes. I mean taking tufts of carded wool and making yarn out of it. And yes, I have both a spinning wheel and a drop spindle, and Rumplestiltskin ain't my name.

2. I hate whistling. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my teeth curl. It really, really, really drives me up the wall. I don't know why, there's just something about whistling that hurts my ears and makes me want to run away.

3. I read really quickly. I can finish a 600 page novel in about 2 hours, with full retention. And I will re-read books I like, which means I have more books in my house than anyone knows what to do with.

4. I am afraid of the dark, but only indoors. I used to have this scary crazy black cat when I was a kid, and he would hide under things and jump out and bite you in the dark. So, unless there was a light on, we were certain Lucifer was gonna get us. That cat has been dead more than 20 years and I STILL hate being in the dark in the house.

5. Although I love horseback riding, white horses make me uncomfortable. I am not certain why.

6. I hate the smell of vanilla unless it involves food.

7. I am a great big geekazoid and own and play more video games than my teenaged son. Ok, well I don't get to play much anymore, but I can lay the serious smackdown on the boy when I choose to. My favorites are FPS, survival horror (gimmie some zombies and I am a happy chick) and RPGs.

I am closing my eyes and hitting links at random, so here's who gets tagged:

Velocibadger, for many reasons including Im in hur blog, taggin hur brayn

The former South Carolinian, now in Ohio

Catwoman

Suzie who now has me thinking of the Holy Handgrenade of Antioch

Lone Grey Squirrel

The Reluctant Housewife

Guinevere

Although I smacked... er... TAGGED everyone at random, really anyone can play.

And because I have to go to work, I'll alert everyone that they were tagged sometime later today.

"HEY! I'm walkin' heah..."

2008-03-27T06:41:00.000-05:00

So I'm driving my tired butt home from training at the part-time job last night (Best phrase by management last night - 'omg I forgot you were here.' This bodes well.) and its about midnight. No other cars on the long street through my subdivision. Then I see this big ass raccoon, ambling along, in the street. Its not crossing the road, its walking IN the road.

Well, i don't want to hit it, so i slow way down... and it neither gets out of the road, nor does it hurry up any. I come to a stop and honk the horn just a little.

That got a response, but not what I expected . The raccoon whirled around to face my car and kind of did this back-arching thing and i'm pretty sure it was growling or hissing or whatever raccoons do because its mouth was open, although I sure as hell was not getting out to check. (I have tangled with raccoons on my grandmother's farm and they can be right nasty little SOBs) That raccoon had had enough and by golly, he was going to stand up for his furry right to the road. Raccoon had balls, you gotta give it that much.

So we sat there, staring at each other for a minute and I guess some semblence of survival instinct finally said ''Yo raccoon... you versus toyota equals splat.'' It whipped around again and bolted for the other said of the road.

I continued on my way and last I saw it, the raccoon was waddling up the sidewalk as fast as he could go.

Jacob Makes a Fateful Discovery

2008-03-25T20:24:00.001-05:00

My thoughtful husband went to Target to pick up some OTC medicine for my stomach (because having a cold wasn't enough for me, I gotta go for the gusto) earlier this evening and took Short Stuff along for the ride.

He decided to introduce Jacob to The Toy Aisles (cue theme for 2001: A Space Odyssey) this is the first time that Jacob really NOTICED the toy section, and by that I mean the little guy had an epiphany.

My husband said he stopped dead in his tracks, clenched his fists, his arms rigid at his sides, and looked slowly around at the wondrous sight. He then took a long, deep breath and began flapping his arms up and down frantically, squealing a jubilant ''EEEEEEEE!!!!'' as he raced down the aisle, clearly overcome by the idea of All. These. TOYS.

My husband got him an inexpensive car and muttered to me that he may have made a tactical error by introducing him to the toy aisle concept.... but maybe Jacob wouldn't remember next time?

While his daddy was running the bath, I asked Jacob if he had fun at the store with daddy?

He put his hands on my cheeks and leaned forward, looking at me with his serious expression.

''Caaaaaaar,'' he whispered, almost reverently.

Oh, I suspect he's going to remember.

She's Cold as Ice

2008-03-24T19:11:00.000-05:00

Sure enough, I now have Jacob's cold. I can't take cold medications so it tends to put me a little off of my game.

However I put on my big girl panties and went to work, to wage my daily battle against... well, whatever I need to battle. There's always something.

But I'm trying to be sensible, drinking plenty of liquids and all that, and that was why I had a 32 ounce cup of ice water in front of me. HAD is the operative word, here.

Naturally, being a klutz who's somewhat foggy in the head, I knocked into it when I leaned down to open one of my file drawers. Although I managed to catch the cup before it tipped all the way over, I splashed a generous amount down my chest. Including a few pieces of ice, some of which slid down into what COULD be called cleavage (if one were feeling generous) and lodged there.

And even more naturally, because we are very busy, someone Very Important walked into my office to tell me a painfully long story while that ice melted into my bra.

It is not considered Acceptable Professional Office Behavior to reach in and grab ice out of your tatas, so all I could do was try to look as though I was not considering such action and wait for the Very Important Executive to leave.

At least I was wearing black, so the dampness didn't show but let me tell you what... Boobs On Ice will definitely wake you up faster than a double shot of espresso.

Happy Easter Y'All

2008-03-23T21:08:00.004-05:00

Once again, I say "Oh we'll just do something small." Once again, I spent waaaaaay too much time in the kitchen. Originally, it was just going to be my husband, Short Stuff and me. Then the teenager decided he wasn't too cool to have Easter dinner with his mom (yay!) so we quickly threw a shopping list together and made plans for an actual Dinner. That also meant I had to empty the dining room table so we could put it to its intended use, rather than World's Flattest Filing Cabinet.

And then my daughter called to say that she'd be able to come for dinner after all too (yay v2.0)and was there going to be chocolate cream pie (a family tradition)? Aw heck, the stores are now closed and I have no pie crusts, nor pudding. But I do have The Joy of Cooking and a ridiculous Can-Do attitude about Easter Sunday Dinner , and lo. I made 5 individual-sized cream pies - two vanilla and three chocolate. And lo. That was an enormous pain in the ass. And an even bigger mess. And my super-flaky crusts kept breaking as I tried to get the pie beads out of the shells, but Common Sense gave my Inner Martha a savage beatdown and said "Bitch! You wanted pie, you shut up and make PIE!" Common Sense knows that broken crusts tastes the same.

And someone else was hoping for sweet potatoes. Someone else wanted mashed potatoes. Asparagus, broccoli, wild rice... I see why people go OUT for Easter dinner, but I was on a roll. Good grief, this was easier when I was a kid and only had to worry about my sisters eating my coconut egg out of my easter basket. How many years until I can pass the baton of holiday dinner responsibility on, I wonder?

I was ALSO insane enough to make parkerhouse rolls from scratch WHICH a certain someone who will remain nameless observed that they sort of kind of maybe looked like labia... which made the teenager's ears turn scarlet with embarrassment and made everyone decide maybe we didn't want any more rolls with dinner. We're Klass right here, folks. I KNEW I should have gone with Pepperidge Farms brown & serve....

No one squabbled, I only cut myself twice, nothing blew up. A good day. Well, other than the rolls. You can't have everything. Not even on the good china.

Second Verse, Same as the First

2008-03-21T09:37:00.003-05:00

A little more snotty and a little bit worse...

Yep. Short Stuff has come down with Nasty Cough and Cold #433 for the year, with a side of Really Green Goop and Occasional Fever. So he and I are home today... I really absolutely needed to toss a load of his clothes into the wash, so as he sat playing, I turned on the TV in search of perhaps Sesame Street to occupy him for a minute.

What I got was Little Einsteins. Now, I've had friends tell me LE is kind of like Kiddy Crack, but I'd never experienced the.... oddness that is Little Einsteins. Classical music? Check. Great, we love it around here. Classical artwork? Ok, that's good too, if perhaps a bit of an advanced concept, but art is A Very Good Thing, so I'm down with that.

Characters and story? Okay, we have entered into some sort of preschooler twilight zone. The story appears to center around a Mommy Cello in Italy, who is hatching baby cellos out of five different-colored instrument cases arranged in a nest.

Wha?

And THEN, for drama, one of the baby cellos falls in a RIVER, and the LE kids have to help it find its MOMMY.

Ok, now we had some weird shows when I was a kid, and I never have quite figured out how I felt about Time for Timer on the ABC network but.... Italian cellos hatching out of a nest?

What is IN their sippy cups?? I think it fermented.

2008-03-20T20:51:00.003-05:00

I am having a bad day. A really really bad day.

I was certain that today was going to be kind of amusing but I surprised myself.

This is so bizarre, you just can't make this shit up. Ok, taking a trip in the WayBack machine... you know my grandfather's house? the one I had to evict the scary crazy deerkiller guy from and THEN fend off frozen squirrels in ziploc bags falling on me (really) and an entire befeathered turkey wing -btw do you know how freaking big a whole wing is??? - in the refrigerator (really really) and a nightmare-inducing pile of deer legs that will never be scrubbed from my brain...? That house.

The house my grandfather built - every bit - with his own two hands, on land HIS grandfather gave him, from the farm that has been part of generations going back and back...

There's a family renting it who have a connection, too, through his uncle, who had been my grandfather's best friend for more than 80 years.

And some months back, they approached my sisters, telling us of odd happenings in the house. Footsteps. Voices. Things moving. And they asked permission to have it checked out. And asked permission to take part in a Maury Povich episode if they were careful not to gve any identifying information. Ha-ha, we said, sure, knock yourselves out!

The show aired today. And it wasn't an entertaining story to me, although I was really expecting it to be. They had some photos, they had some EVP recordings.... and really, they covered very little on the show.

It still felt like a solid punch. My grandfather died in that house, in a horrible, stupid accident. And really, if he's still hanging around, i have no doubt its because he wants to. You have no idea how he felt about that place, and how he never, ever wanted to leave it.

This is the view from the back steps... or at least the right half of the view

We were all mildly amused about the house being featured on Maury. We figured we'd giggle like idjits at it, and really, it WAS pretty silly. All the same though, now I don't know what to think. And its really difficult to explain that you're upset because they say your house is haunted by your grandpa after all and... and... seriously!

But... listening to one of those recordings and watching the show was an enormous emotional shock I simply wasn't expecting. It feels just like it did when my mother called to tell me he'd died that Halloween a few years ago. I miss my grandfather terribly. I loved him fiercely. And apparently I'm not nearly as over it as I thought I was.

But .... I just do not know how to process this Slice O' Weird. How in the EFF does this shit keep on keepin' on?

DAYUM.

Up the attic steps to the "haunted chest of drawers"
.

The day I finished cleaning out the horror from scary guy... this is what I saw.

No words necessary.

Things that make you go hmmmmm.

2008-03-19T07:05:00.001-05:00

So I was supposed to begin training at my new second job last night. I dutifully arrived ten minutes early, ready to get started. I could see how busy they were, so I patiently waited. And waited. and waited.

And finally the manager comes to tell me that they're soooo shorthanded this week, gee could I come back Saturday??

Well THAT makes sense, doesn't it? I want to work, you need people, but.... okay then.

Cabbages... the last time my mom went out to her farm, my uncle wasn't doing too well and had to go into the hospital. Mom called Aunt F to tell her and F replied with great concern ''Oh no! DO YOU NEED A CABBAGE????''

Um. Huh? Local color notwithstanding... does anyone understand the cabbage thing? Is there some significance to illness or emergency and cabbage?? We have no clue and alas... we recently lost Aunt F to a stroke, so we may never know.

And what is up with Blogger? I wrote out a post last night (and let me tell you, doing this on a handheld is a special excercise in stupid, i think... ) posted, saw the message that it was complete and then went to bed. This morning? Nada. My thumbs? They were irked, having done all that work for nothing.

A Sign of Things to Come

2008-03-17T21:12:00.000-05:00

So I was giving Short Stuff his bath, and when he'd finally shriveled into a prune-like state, I lifted him out and wrapped him in a towel. Bathtime is his Best Thing and it puts him in a faaaaaaabulous mood, tonight being no exception. Beaming, he threw his little arms around my neck for a big hug.

Before I had a chance to get all mushy from the concentrated dose of cuteness, though, he pivoted and threw his arms around the TOILET and gave IT an even bigger hug, laying his cheek against it and crooning ''awwwwwww''

Dude.

I figure either toilet training's gonna be a snap, or he's practicing for college frat parties.

Your momma don't dance

2008-03-16T19:47:00.002-05:00

... and apparently she doesn't pay attention to the laws of gravity and physics, either. And if she'd put things away, this wouldn't have happened.

I fell off the toilet. Yes, you read that correctly, I FELL OFF A TOILET. Stone cold sober, too.

Men gots it easy. They can just shake things and go on with their lives. Except some of them are convinced there is a Toilet Paper Fairy and if you leave an empty cardboard tube, the Toilet Paper Fairy will replace it with a fresh, spongy roll of that heaven-sent stuff, and therein lies part of my problem.

Second, we all know one merely RENTS coffee and at some point, you're going to be finished with it. Sooner rather than later if you happen to drink um... 5 cups?

And well. I sort of kind of forgot to restock the cabinets although I had the foresight to cart the resupply upstairs and leave it outside the door.

I know, I know, I know.

And I was SURE I could reach it if I just stretched a little more.... just... one... more.... inch....

Do the math. Hit the door frame with the top of my forehead. Rock ON with my graceful self.

We came, we saw, we blog partied.... and other random thoughts

2008-03-15T06:52:00.004-05:00

1,489 participants in the Ultimate Blog Party this year. It was pretty fun; I found some really interesting blogs and according to my site meter, I appear to have run off quite a few people. Heh. Sorry 'bout that folks, hope you won't need extensive therapy to recover. I really do need a warning sticker.

At any rate, I found some great new blogs to add to my reading list... if I missed yours, forgive me... Momnesia. What can I say? At any rate, just drop me a note and I'll fix it.

* * *

Optimism and Google

Ok, you. The google searcher who asked about "Bailiff Whack his Peepee" (I'm Number 1 with a Bullet on Google, folks! SO proud) at 10:48pm, 12:57am and 2:14am and clicked on the link to my blog EACH time... is that optimism, or do you need a sign? (Here's yer sign...)

* * *

My husband has recently discovered Facebook. His entire family has joined this interest and the other night I heard him talking really loudly. I thought he was yelling at a basketball game but when I listened more closely, the context was really out of place. So, I wandered downstairs to check it out.

He and his whole family were all on Skype and Facebook, having a high old time. Did I mention his parents are in their mid-eighties? My MIL burst into song, my FIl and my husband were having an argum... er, lively debate about IMing and other people were chatting about who knows what. It was cute. I get a kick out of my inlaws.

* * *

Commercials that Drive Me Insane

the Crayola toddler marker commercial. Is this woman crazy? Lets put a piece of paper on a WHITE carpet and hand a marker to a two year old. Is this commercial underwritten by Rug Doctor? Inquiring Gerbils Want to Know.

Also? This made me snort.

Who's Your Daddy??

2008-03-14T20:11:00.002-05:00

My husband and i have a routine worked out with Short Stuff... Daddy drops him at the sitters in the morning and I pick him up in the afternoon.

Lately he's been QUITE the daddy's boy, but never as much as today.

I knock on the sitter's door and i hear her exclaim ''Jacob! Jacob, your mommy's here'' and as she opens the door, Jacob rushes forward, excitedly squealing "Daddy! Daddy!" He stopped dead when he saw me and frowned. "No momma, nooooo momma!"

And flung himself down on his face, shrieking and kicking his little legs. My sitter was watching, her mouth agape. "Jacob! Don't you want to see your mommy?"

And my little imp stopped shrieking, sat up and looked at her. "No," he said, matter of factly, "My DADDY."

All the way home he asked "My daddy?" in this hopeful voice, and if I asked "What about mommy?", he'd growl like a pissed-off rottweiler. This went on all night.

Needless to say, my husband thinks this is very funny. That's all right, the tide will turn and in the meantime? I know something he doesn't.

Jacob had grapes, broccoli and apple juice today. And that means he's working up something really.... special.

Just for Daddy.

When Worlds Collide

2008-03-13T19:39:00.000-05:00

So I'm coming up on a stoplight and there's a white Odyssey minivan on the left, a souped up red Mitsubishi with a body kit and other Fast & Furious wannabe modifications on the right. Naturally, the stereo in the Mitsubushi was pumping out some bass-heavy stuff. Nas, unless I miss my guess.

But the minivan? Blaring even LOUDER. I mean ear-shattering. Journey. JOURNEY. "Don't stop Believin" and let me tell you what, the soccer dad behind the wheel was ROCKING OUT. He was dancing in his seat like he had a bad case of fleas, tossing his head and just WAILING out the tunes.

The look on the Mitsubishi kid's face was a study of fascinated horror and disbelief. He was being drowned out by a soccer dad and it was PRICELESS.

The only thing that could have made the scene better was if Soccer Dad was playing Tom Jones or something.

But you gotta admit. Journey? That's pretty good too.

Evil On Two Feet

2008-03-12T13:49:00.000-05:00

No really. ON two feet.

I'm talking socks, here. Notably used socks. I wage a daily battle against the cotton hellspawn and i swear they breed like bunnies.

My husband, From Whose Feet Springs Grimness, swears up and down that he doesn't leave those horrid, crumpled piles of used socks on the floor... the stairs... the couch... the bed....

You know how a dog pees on things to mark his territory? I've accused the man of doing much the same thing, only with socks. And its reached a point, where like the apprehensive dog owner, or even the Giant of Jack lore, i enter the house, look around suspiciously and sniff.

''I smell... waugh!! SOCKS!''

i don't know why it is that I can face down a reeking diaper full of intestinal nuclear-grade waste, with a side of baby vomit down my shirt and never even blink. But socks? Something about their wrinkled crumpled sweaty piles of evilness just gives me the creeps.

And lets not discuss the teenager's socks. I haven't quite recovered from last week's stomach-turning episode. (I am buying new shoes for that kid and i think the old ones have to be declared a HazMat.)

Is there a solution? I have no less than 4 hampers in the house and I DO find socks in them... maybe the others are acually escapees. Is there an evil Sock Fairy, who scatters her foul footwear to mark those who offend her?

I don't know. All I can say is...

This situation stinks.

Why You Should Always Run that Internal Spell & Grammar Check or... THINK before you speak.

2008-03-11T09:05:00.002-05:00

So the other day, I was taking some computer test and the older woman administering said test was chatting amiably, explaining the layout of their cramped little computer set up. I stared at key keyboard for a moment, which dated from about 20 years before the Age of Ergonomica (yes I made that up) and said something about familiarizing myself with the board.

"Oh yes," she says cheerfully, "I have to do that to. But then, I've always been a hunt'n peck-er."

Think about that for a moment.

And we looked at each other. And she turned absolutely scarlet. Now, for a double entendre, it really was rather tame, but she looked completely mortified. I suspect the strongest word out of this woman's mouth might be "poop".

So I said "Well, guess I'll get started on this test!" And turned to the monitor as she slowly slunk away.

Recognizing when you've reached THAT age - a handy guide

2008-03-10T12:35:00.001-05:00

There's a really easy way to tell when you've achieved that certain level of maturity...

It's not when 20-somethings start calling you ma'am.

It's not when you start getting grey hairs. Nor yet when you start wondering when hell skirts got so short. Not even when you think that a night of dancing and vodka & Red Bulls is just too much work.

Its not when you look at a cute guy and your first thought is not 'rowr!' but 'good lord, comb your hair', not when you slam on your brakes and your arm insinctively flies out to protect the passenger, not even when your idea of being hot has more to do with flashes...

None of it.

What DOES tell you that you are now of THAT age, ready to ake your matronly place in the Halls of Maturity?

Its when your MOTHER now views you as peer and forwards raunchy sex jokes to you, to your dad's utter horror. And THEN calls to ask if you got it.

Please pass the Clorox and the qtips, I have some grey matter to santitize.

Being a parent: the stuff no one can prepare you for

2008-03-09T20:18:00.000-05:00

now, granted, our family has been through a wringer in the last 18 months, getting my older son back on track. But there are worse things and some of them came calling tonight.

My son came over for a few hours and was pretty subdued and quiet and after watching a movie with me for a while, he told me what was wrong.

One of his former classmates, a bright and beautiful young girl, killed herself last week. She would have been 19 next week. She was struggling in her first year at college and despondent over her failing grades although by all accounts, she let no one know. She hung herself.

There is nothing that can prepare you for your child asking why... WHY did this happen?

She could have had help if anyone had known... and if anyone could have convinced her that failing school is not failing LIFE.

There was a memorial service at the high school and my son had gone, although he was embarrassed he hadn't been dressed up. ''What you wore is not the important part,'' i told him. ''Only that you were there.''

We talked at length and it was hard on both of us. Some years ago, I lost a friend to suicide as well.

He'll never forget this. And the questions will always be there.

If you can, spare a prayer for Kristin and her family and her friends. For comfort, for peace, and for the strength to heal.

And maybe a small prayer for my son, who's learned some hard lessons in the last year, but perhaps learned the hardest one tonight...

Now THIS is the life

2008-03-09T07:18:00.004-05:00

Bless my husband and everyone who looks like him. The man took pity on me (well AND his mom who was starting to get the shakes from Grandson Withdrawal, I think), packed up Short Stuff and headed off for an overnight visit. Jacob, naturally, was pleased as punch (apparently, punch is generally quite pleased, according to Those in the Know) since visits to Halmeoni and Harabeoji mean ALL BABY, ALL THE TIME, woooooooooooooooooooooooooot NO NAPS YAYYYYYYY party party party!!!!

So, I went to bed around nine, in a glorious nest of ALL the pillows and ALL the covers and ALL THE BED. Woke up, made coffee. Ate cold pizza for breakfast. Fired up the PS3. Am continuing to sprawl, in my lounge pants with my hair all freaky looking and IT IS GOOOOOOD. There comes a time when a Mommy requires some recharging of her batteries and I'm going to have the whole day all to myself to do so. (cracks knuckles) AND the Clever Husband had given me a gift card to Gamestop for my birthday, so I have two new games to play. Bwaaaaahahahahaha.

* * *

IF I COULD GET LOOSE, I WOULD GIVE YOU SUCH A SMACK... or A Very Gerbil Moment

So I had to run up to the local grocery last night to return a DVD for the husband. I'm getting out of the car when suddenly this truck that was bigger than Tom Cruise's EGO came flying around a curve, and careened into the spot next to me. I had barely enough time to slam my car door shut and flatten myself against my car. The fecking driver smirked at me. I saw red. Not just red, but all the way past Rose Madder... beyond Cadmium Red and well into the throes of ALIZARIN CRIMSON. (woe be those that paint for we shall be stuck calculating how to get That Shade forevermore...)

The guy wasn't a teenager, either. Looked to be about mid-thirties. Ooh. we are having one of those "sorry about your penis" moments? And as he headed across the parking lot, I took a step after him to give him a piece of my scattered mind.

Yeah. Not so much.

My head jerked back and I just about fell down.

I'd cleverly slammed my hair shut in the door.

And while we're at it, some pics because I haven't posted any in months and months

I call this: Jacob Sings the Blues. I should point out that he isn't actually crying, he's yelling at me with his eyes squinting shut because I wouldn't hand him the Gibson guitar leaning against the wall behind me. AAAAAAngry boy! "EuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuHHHHHHH"

Chicks Who Blog...

2008-03-08T13:57:00.005-05:00

That time is upon us again... the Blog Party. The best kind of party... lots of company and you don't even need to vacuum first! AND, nobody cares if you're wearing lounge pants and there's legos on the stairs.

I'm supposed to be posting some sort of introduction, here.

I'm 41. Married. Three children (20, 18 & 20 mos). Actually yes, that is on purpose, thanks for asking. We have kind of a wacky life... typically suburban with a side of ludicrous. I'm used to having bizarre things happen on a regular basis and we just roll with it.

The GerbChildren

On the other hand, I don't exactly fit the Suburban Mommy Mold... not in my neighborhood at least. I'm a Game Geek of the first water and would rather watch action or martial arts movies than classically defined chick films.

On the other hand, I know all the words to Red Grammer's Down the Do Re Mi and I can make my own Play Doh. And I think rolling around the floor with 20 month old Jacob is the best way to spend an afternoon.

We have no cat, we have no dog, but I have some of the most spoiled gerbils known to man. Or woman, for that matter. I love me some rodents! My two current boys are Raisincranz and Guldens-stern. ( They always have food puns, and we've had such names as Indiana Scones, Elvis Parsley and Poi George.)

The rodents

And on to the party. (Sorry guys, its a Chick Thing although you might still find some cool new blogs to read through the link up top.) Ladies, feel welcome to click the link and join the party. It'll be as fun as we make it!

Out of the mouths of Babes, redux

2008-03-08T07:54:00.000-05:00

My poor husband was up much of the night, so he was trying to catch an extra hour of sleep this morning. Jacob needed a diaper change and as we walked up the stairs, he pointed to the closed bedroom door and said "Daddy? Daddy night-night?"

"Yes", I assured him. "Daddy is sleeping."
"Ohhhh," answered Short Stuff and appeared to consider this.

And then he launched into an uncannily accurate imitation of some SERIOUS snoring.

I laughed so hard, I woke up the poor husband.

For those that asked Google..

2008-03-07T08:24:00.000-05:00

... just who said ''bailiff whack his pee pee''?

if i recall, it was on the 1971 comedy album titled 'cheech and chong', track 5 - Trippin' in Court. you can't download it here, so try iTunes or something.

also... 'someone kicking someone else's butt''.....?

really????????

ok then.

at least the 'braless children' searches have stopped.

Dear Unknown Coworker

2008-03-06T15:07:00.000-05:00

Thanks to you, i have learned that there is actually something far worse than onion breath.

Onion crap.

not only was i unable to step further into the ladies room due to that utter wall of oniony ass you left behind (and my bladder hates you)

... but i don't think i'll be able to face down any more salad for a while.

Resentfully,

Gerbil

I was channel flipping recently

2008-03-06T05:48:00.004-05:00

And stumbled across "Keeping Up with the Kardashians."

What a freaking train wreck. Really. And yet, I kept watching it, even through the commercial breaks, trying to understand just what the hell was supposed to be the appeal of this bunch of nutcases. Have you seen it? Apparently one of the daughters was a Paris Hilton friend, had a sex tape released by an exboyfriend aaaaand... spends a lot of time and money on herself. That's all I could divine.

BUT... After about the third commercial break, a pattern dawned on me.

All the commercials were for:

Pregnancy Tests
Various versions of The Pill
Tampons
some ridiculous thing called Re-phresh or something like that, which as near as I could tell, is sort of like Febreze for one's hoo-hah.

And so on and so on. Just when I thought the show's demographic was teenaged boys, the commercials suggest otherwise. The show was horrendous but at least I got a pretty good laugh.

No wonder I hate tv.

My brain is a blank... i wore it out today. So I give you a story instead.

2008-03-05T20:50:00.004-05:00

And its even a true story, although a few of you have heard it before.

THE GHOST COW OF DAYBROOK

(cue eerie music)

My mom's parents lived on a farm in this small town area. Very small town. I'm probably related to half the county. And the farm was sort of out there... it was a good 45 minutes into the nearest big town if you wanted to shop for something other than canned Del Monte peas, green beans and a bag of corn meal that may very well have seen the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

My grandparents were born here and although they went on (and out of state) to become IBM engineers, they retired back to my grandfather's family farm.

Note. This is not the farm of The Deer Stalker. Not the Leg Pile. This is the farm from the twilight zone. Just trust me on this.

Anyway, we'd been out for the morning and were coming back over the winding, twisting roads, when a local man flagged us down.

"D'you lose a cow out here?" The word Cow was stretched into additional syllables. That was one helluva drawl.

"Nope," my grandfather answered. "She's right here!" And my grandmother smacked him one in the arm.

"Somebody done hit a COW! On this road," the man insisted, "and they kilt it! Kilt it dead! But when we came back with the truck," he paused, I couldn't tell where it was for intentional dramatic effect or he was simply overcome by the gravity of the whole cow thing. "it.. it was GONE!"

My grandfather gave him a measuring look, thanked him for alerting us, and we continued on our way. From the rear window, my sister and I could see the man standing in the middle of the road, watching us. There was some joking about Zombie Ghost Cows and all, but we were fairly smug in the knowledge that obviously the cow hadn't been kilt dead at all, but probably just stunned senseless and it wandered away after it recovered a bit. I mean, come ON.

Fast forward a couple of hours. There was no cable television out here, and after dark, there just wasn't a hell of a lot to do. My grandfather was having his regular evening nap and my grandmother, sister and I were playing card games at the kitchen table and drinking really asserific coffee. All of a sudden, we heard this really odd noise. I mean REALLY odd. I'd never heard anything like it before and it was really creepy.

We all kind of looked at each other sideways and didn't say anything. You know, that sort of "if I pretend I never heard that, then it couldn't have really happened" kind of thing. We silently continued the card game for a few more minutes and then we heard it again. It was a kind of low, guttural sobbing that cranked into this long "OOOOOOOOOOOO", capped off by a rising wail.

It was definitely the sort of thing that would freak a body out.

Calmly, I got up from the table and went to wake my grandfather. And then of course, the noise didn't happen again and he got cranky and went back to sleep. Clearly, we were on our own. The third time it happened, I grabbed a flashlight and my grandmother grabbed my left arm and my sister grabbed the right, and we went out to investigate, all Lions and Tigers and Bears, OH SHIT!

We circled the house. Nothing. Out by the spring house. Nothing. chicken house? All quiet. Feed shed. Nothing there. Nothing anywhere. And as we were heading back to the house, feeling a little silly, we heard it AGAIN. Oh dear lord, it was coming from up the hill.

FROM THE OLD FAMILY CEMETERY.

We didn't say a word, but all three of us scrambled for the house and got jammed in the doorway like the pack of idiots we were, clawing and flailing to get back into the house. Finally the bottleneck broke free and all three of us thundered through the living room, up the stairs, into the big bedroom and all three of us jumped into the big iron bed and under the quilts. And we STAYED there, too.

Did I mention that my sister and I were adults at this point? Not that it mattered because we were all handling it like 5 year olds and there was nothing on this earth or the next that could have gotten us out from under those covers until daybreak.

So. The next morning we all pretended like nothing had happened, but I was out with my grandfather, counting the cattle as they came in for feed, and trying to describe what we'd heard. 12... 13... 14... 15. Hey. wait a minute, we only have 14 cattle. Count again. No we come up with 15. And then at that moment, the last animal in line lifts its head and.... you got it. That gawdawful noise from last night.

It was the McCoy's bull. It had broken out of its pasture last night and gotten stuck in the cemetery. And we got teased quite a bit about that Ghost Cow of Daybrook.

Out of the mouths and all that

2008-03-04T07:33:00.004-05:00

This past Friday was Dr. Suess Day and some of us went to a local elementary school to read books to kids. Part of the suggested curriculum was to discuss the book after it was read. This is what I got from the kindergartners:

Me: "And does anyone have any questions?"

a wee, tiny solemn-faced little girl raises her hand.

me: "Yes dear?"
tot: "Miss Gerbil, are you wearing... stockings??"
me: "Why... yes, I am."
tot (nodding) "I thought so. Thank you."
me: "You're welcome."

Also? I'm feeling tres Put Together this morning. Pinned my hair up in a chignon, hose with NO snags in them yet, my dark brown knit only-designer-top-that-I-own and my chunky fabulous smoky topaz pendant that I TOTALLY got for dirt freaking cheap but nobody knows that except well... everyone NOW but anyway.

I strutted just a bit as I exited my room. Shoulders back, chin up, feelin' GOOD.

And I went out and got coffee and all and completely failed to notice the big ol' splotch of toothpaste directly over my right nipple.

Because I'm just Klassy like that.

Not Feeling the Target Love

2008-03-03T05:59:00.003-05:00

Nearly everyone I know loves the Land of the Big Red Dot known as Target. And ye cats and little fishes, you find nearly as many of them dotting the landscape as Starbucks. But I have to admit, I don't understand the fuss. Sure, I occasionally shop there because its convenient, being barely a mile from the house. My husband, on the other hand, loooooovvvves Target and delights in spending a couple of hours wandering through every nook and cranny of the store.

I just don't get it. Maybe its because the Target nearest us just plain bites. Truly, it does. Its staffed by what has to be the culls from every other Target. The Minor Leagues of Target, right here. I have yet to experience anyone on the sale floor who is not engaged in earnest (and often hand-wavingly energetic) conversation with a coworker about their social activities in the last week and who dissed who, to the exclusion of absolutely everything else, including I don't know... their actual jobs? They see absolutely nothing wrong with blocking entire aisles (and those are fairly wide aisles) with multiple carts piled high with cardboard and other retail detritus and then walking away, abandoning their crap to become some sort of consumer obstacle course. We needn't discuss the general attitude should I, a lowly shopper, need to intrude upon their space for any reason. Dude. I have news for you. This is a Target, NOT Tavern on the Green. Get the hell over yourself, all I need is some help reaching that item on the top shelf so I can support the economy just a little bit, mmmkay?

It frustrates the hell out of me. Plus, our Target seems to be poorly stocked, often failing to carry the same items that the Target across town does. Even the presence of Starbucks there doesn't sweeten my sullen view of The Target That Sucks because its staffed by the same Targetistas. (Besides, Starbucks might be padding their bottom line but the caramel macchiato goodness also pads MY bottom line. If you know what I mean.)

The best answer, of course, is to simply not give them my money. Alas, I have my moments when convenience overtakes my sense of consumer justice and I find myself doing the walk of shame through the red doors (which, by the way Target, you really ought to fix those. Its really aggravating to have them get stuck as they're trying to open. Don't make me kick you.) I justify myself by murmuring that really, with the price of gas these days, I'm really saving money by not driving across town, really truly. And some part of me knows that really? I'm just freaking lazy.

I feel cheated. I read all these stories of True Target Love and the fabulousness of the big red dot but... i got nothin, man.

Speaking of Thermoses...

2008-03-02T12:31:00.002-05:00

Speaking of thermoses....

In my family, we have phrase that indicates the the conversation is about to take a sharp turn off track in a manner which might make no sense, but there's no way to logically segue into the next topic, so.... "Speaking of thermoses" is that phrase.

This can be traced back to my great-aunt L, who I have mentioned before. We were all sitting around the kitchen table in a great gathering (probably after a funeral) when she abruptly slapped her palm onto the table and announces "Well, SPEAKING of thermoses..."

which we weren't.

And she launched into some completely different discussion and the phrase took on a life of its own. Its kind of where my brain is today. Big shock, I know.

* * *

I have two new gerbil pups in the house... Indiana Scones finally passed on to that great toilet paper roll beyond, at the advanced gerbil age of 4 1/2. I now have a black and an argente (golden) pup and we have named them Raisincranz and Guldens (like the mustard)-stern. And given their colors, this horrid pun works on two levels. Bonus.

* * *

I got a worried call from my mom recently... my sisters and I jointly own my grandfather's property in New York. We've had our ups and downs with the property after my grandfather's death, notably the renter who trashed the place and turned the basement into a veritable abbatoir. (surely you don't think I'm kidding. )

He was, among other unsavory things, a very very busy poacher and he did his dirty work in the basement of my grandfather's house. Trust me, you do NOT want the photographic proof, although there are bloggers who can back me up on this one.

Anyway, the current renters are very nice people and knew my grandfather. However, they've approached my sisters a couple of times and mentioned that there appears to be some paranormal activity going on and its beginning to freak them right out. Supposedly, they emailed a list of the incidents to my sister, but she has yet to forward this on. I am not certain what to think of this but am dying to know what's got everyone worked up.

We've got quite the history in that house anyway. My great-great grandfather deeded the land to my grandfather when he married, and my grandfather dug the foundation and built the house himself, brick by brick. My grandfather actually died of an accident in the house on Halloween, a few years back. It was pretty grim. For many years, he'd told all of us that he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered there on the farm. But when we had the funeral, the director of the OTHER funeral home called the one handling Grandpa's arrangements and said " I have MRS Lastname here!"

Uh... what?????

My grandmother had died nearly 10 winters prior and Grandpa had told us he'd scattered her ashes in her beloved garden. So uh... what the heck???Sure enough. Grandpa had apparently forgotten to ever pick up my grandmother's ashes and they'd sat in the basement of the other funeral home for like TEN YEARS. Oh man. You know when he got to the pearly gates, my grandmother had a few things to say to him.

So, we retrieved Grandma. And scattered her ashes over her prized rhubarb patch. Grandpa? well, Grandpa's in his blueberry bushes, a good distance from the rhubarb because you KNOW she wasn't speaking to him. My family is wondering if any activity might be Grandma, still pissed off at being forgotten in the basement.

* * *

We had to replace the washing machine recently. All I can say is... when you do laundry 24 hours prior, and you come back and it looks like the segment of Creepshow where the asteroid lands on Stephen King's backwoods farm and he touches it and starts growing green, fuzzy fungus???? Yeah. That is bad.

I actually spent two hours trying to eradicate the slimy crap that had taken over my washing machine, not because I thought I could restore what was an old and dying machine ANYWAY, but because I was too grossed out to even have this crud in my house. Like it was going to ooze out and get us all in our sleep or something. So we bit the bullet and got a front loader and it does a wonderful job... except, did I mention the 2nd floor laundry hookup? Right. The washer is now preparing us in case we ever move to California or something because everytime the spin cycle begins, everyone in the house thinks we're having an earthquake. In my mind, its a small price to pay to for mold-free laundry.

* * *

Irony I Have Known

Not so long ago, I witnessed a fairly bad rear-end collision on my way to work. The guy in the van pretty much obliterated the back of the little Nissan, which had inexplicably stopped dead in front of him.

He was on the phone, shrieking at someone and I saw the girl who'd been driving the Nissan staggering by the side of the road, nearly stepping into traffic. I went to assist and had her sit back down while I called emergency. She was 6 months pregnant and luckily, the fire station was literally just up the road. Emergency asked me to remain on the scene until they got there.

As a police officer hurried over to where we were waiting, the girl looked up at me and said shakily, "I really need my cigarettes." And my heart? it sank a little. (I'm not making judgements about smoking, i know exactly what a nightmare it is to quit... but while pregnant? Oh man.)

I look into the front seat and sure enough, there's a carton in there. Apparently, that's what caused the accident. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and without thinking, slammed on her brakes as she reached for it.

The brand?

Wait for it.

KOOL.

Some things have to be seen to be believed.

Return to Pooh Corner

2008-03-01T11:51:00.002-05:00

...or something like that. My mother always said "Life is what happens when you have something else planned." And the last months were no exception around here. Nothing particularly earth-shaking, just life. And lots of it, to the extent that I had very little spare time for much of anything else.

That and I STILL haven't gotten the computer fixed (the adage of the shoemaker's children going bare comes to mind).

Ah well.

Jacob's doing fabulously - 20 months now (how is that possible??? Time seems to have sped up.)and beginning to show a mild interest in potty training. We're not pushing it but if he has a successful episode we make much of it.

However, pride can go before a rather unpleasant fall...

(Warning: the following post contains brief nudity and bathroom humor. Literally. Parents will nod sagely, all others may experience nausea and disgust.)

Sooooo. There we were on Wednesday night... Jacob's happily splashing around in his bath - his favorite activity of the evening. He looks up suddenly, and looks very concerned. "Oh," says he, "Ohhhhhhhh. Ooh." And small bubbles began issuing forth, prompting some squirming and worried wrinkles across his brow.

Being an experienced mother (like that means diddly), I said "Jacob, would you like to sit on your potty??"
"Yes! mm. YES!"

And I scooped him out of the bath and set him on his Winnie the Pooh potty and noted the clenching of tummy muscles and more squirming and then he held veeerrrrrry still and got that faraway look. And I congratulated myself for recognizing the signs of impending poopdom.

And yes, Jacob pooped his first Potty Poop, a great grand stinker right there in the Pooh Potty. And daddy was called to witness this, The First Poop. And daddy ran off to call the grandmother and tell HER. (And I thought to myself "good lord, only parents celebrate CRAP, no wonder everyone thinks we're insane). Jacob was terribly pleased with himself and after getting cleaned up a bit, went back into his bath so I could clean the Pooh Potty.

Except he'd no sooner sat down then he sits bolt upright and looked freaked out. And I grabbed him up and sat him back on the pot and he proceeds to go again. Hmmm. I was sure he'd been done. And that one was um.... not so er... well.... firm.

But finally he's done and gets cleaned and back into the tub. And as I am cleaning the little potty, KA-BLAMMO.

Assplosion.

In the bathtub.

Yeah, they all do it at least once, but this? This was especially bad. I learned later that he'd been fed apple juice and lots of it - a sure fire recipe for tush-related disaster.

Ack. Ack. I grab the child and stand him on the rug while I try and grab bathtoys before they're... awwwwwwww noooo, Jacob sat down on the rug, making a big brown assprint and... no! oh hell no... he stands back up, grabbing my pants legs as he does and now I have handprints of... augh!!!! the wall! not the wall! Ohhhhh the guest towels. Ladies and gentlemen, a veritable shitstorm is taking place in my bathroom. I'd rate it about an F3 on the Fujita scale.

finally, the bathwater finishes draining, I grab all the toys and plunk them into the sink for a good cleaning & I start scrubbing down the boy. I get a diaper on him, send him in to daddy and proceed to disinfect the bathroom. Ten minutes later, the child is back in the tub and incredibly pleased with himself.

1 - he was highly praised for pooping on the potty. 2 - his tummy feels SO much better and 3 - he got TWO baths.

Mommy? After the boy went happily to bed, mommy got BEER. and an awful lot of laundry.

Grrr. Arrrrrgh.

2007-06-15T20:52:00.000-05:00

So I mentioned that I tore out the poison ivy last week, hmm? I expected a problems, so I attempted to dress for the occasion, including gloves and plastic bags over my arms. Sadly, I still managed to get 4 very small spots of ivy rash on my right arm.

I've been dutifully applying some special ivy gel on it (calamine does nothing for me) as directed all week, and covering the spots loosely with bandaids to keep me from bumping them on stuff.

Sooooo. Guess who is apparently allergic to the adhesive they use in bandaids? And has bright red bandaid-shaped welts on her arms for three days after they get removed?? And who pretty much looks like an extra for Resident Evil? (from the right elbow on down, anyway)

And the ivy's trying to resprout. This is war.

Nothing much in the way of hilarity for the rest of the week, I'm afraid. Jacob was sick with a virus and has not been sleeping or eating well, plus he's teething again. Unfortunately, he's tried teething on me and I have a tiny bite on my shoulder that looks like the world's smallest vampire had a nosh.

We're all ready for the weekend.

Scenes From a Day

2007-06-13T08:05:00.000-05:00

Calling in to the pediatrician's office about the baby's fever of 102:

appointment nurse: and is he complaining of stiffness in his neck?
me: He's 11 months old... he doesn't act like its stiff.
AN: but is he complaining?
me: he's 11 months old, he's not that verbal yet.
AN: So he's not complaining of a stiff neck?
me: Ma'am. He's 11 months old. He can say DUCK. What the hell???
AN: So.... that's no?

So about that BRAIN problem there...

2007-06-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

The OTHER reason I've been slow to return to blogging...

I think I mentioned some time ago that I'd been having some neurological problems? Right. They started appearing not too long after my pancreas declared itself a Sovereign Nation and began its saber-rattling (stoooopid organ.)...

Anyway. The whole pancreas thing gets a little annoying but I can tolerate it just about all of the time. But the brain issues... that was worrisome.

Liiiiike calling my husband by the wrong name, which I have never, ever, EVER done. Worse? Calling him by my exhusband's name and we've been split for 17 years.

Or moments of utter and complete disorientation. Absolutely, positively not knowing where I was. Falling down stairs, tripping over nothing, walking into walls, slurring my speech, stuttering, losing words, insane memory problems, dropping things because I couldn't feel them in my hand... etc etc & lather, rinse, repeat.

Now certainly all of this is symptomatic of Momnesia (what Pregmentia turns into) Or a drunken stupor. In fact, someone at work finally came out and asked me if I was drinking, and I most definitely was NOT. (but at that point, I was about ready to start!)

I asked my doctors a few times if they thought it could be related to the pancreas problems, since it started about the same time that the pancreatic revolt became a noticeable problem.

Apparently the idea that I might have the audacity to start wondering about coincidences was laughable. They didn't think it could be the issue, thereby launching me on a 6 month campaign of blood tests, CT scans, MRIs, you name it, it got tested. We determined that I don't have cancer, I have a perfectly functional thyroid, I don't have hydrocephalus, I don't have lupus, I don't have a vitamin B deficiency, I DO have a lesion on my brain but its absolutely inconsequential and almost definitely from any one of a dozen good knocks I've taken on the ol' coconut in my days....

then they referred me to a neurologist.

And it was about that time that I decided I was going to have to give up the pumping for my son... I was sick all the time, the supply was dropping and he was perfectly happy with the formula we were supplementing with. I'd really wanted to make it a year but it just wasn't working that way... and so, three weeks before my appointment with the neurologist, I stopped.

And butter my butt and call me a biscuit.

What do you think happened??

I started to get better.

I kept my appointment and what a freaking waste of my time THAT was. That man? Was an ass. A HUGE ass. An entirely insulting, patronizing, undescended testicle of a man. He accused me, pretty much, of making the entire thing up. And the only thing that hauled him up short was the discovery that my gastroenterologist happened to be someone he knew.

I'll spare you the ugly details. I'm still pissed as hell weeks later and am drafting an official complaint, which he will certainly receive a copy of, certified mail.

And then after three weeks of noticeable improvement, I asked my gastroenterologist if he thought that the breastfeeding, combined with the malabsorption issue I have from the pancreatic insufficiency, meant that I just wasn't getting what **I** needed to function?

"Absolutely!" he told me, "I think you hit it right on the head."

And I was all agog. I've heard that phrase before and wondered how it felt... well now I know. Because how freaking ironic, really. My determined effort to feed my son with my own body was actually kicking my own ass. And all those tests, all this time...

and the solution was as simple as a can of Isomil.*

But the silver lining? I got my first grilled cheese sammich in a long long time. And it was awwwwwesome.

* please note that I take no particular position on the formula/breast-feeding debate - its a PERSONAL choice. I wanted to breast feed. That was MY choice. And then I couldn't nurse anyway and had to pump. Still my choice. And now that we've had to switch over? He's healthy, he's happy, he's well-fed. That's all I need. The odds of anyone else having the exact same set of circumstances and timing as to cause this to repeat? Right. About the same odds as my life getting less weird.

Gardening... like putting out Timed-Release Neighbor Bait

2007-06-11T17:19:00.000-05:00

Or something.

I've now met a good number of our neighbors... weeks after we actually moved in. At first, I was far too busy unpacking to notice that no one was really speaking to us (except to tell us they were putting in a fence).

But eventually I noticed that the neighborhood wasn't exactly brimming with welcome. Oh, they weren't lobbing molotov cocktails at the door or anything, don't get me wrong. But it was definitely a bit more distant than I'd expected.

Or at least... it was until I'd sunk some cash and considerable effort into reclaiming the side garden from the wilds. I love gardening and I'd been horrified at the significant neglect. There were saplings growing out of the azaleas that were clearly 5 years old or more. One of the rhododendrons was brown and crunchy, and I had a poison ivy TREE overwhelming the other one. Plus, the weeds came to my nose. I live in a suburb - a busy one at that - and I saw no reason to let that garden continue to well.... FESTER. Armed with shovels, rakes and various sharp implements, I tore into it. (literally)

Ok... see the light green bushy stuff there at the top right? sort of below the tree leaves... yeah. That. That's part of the poison ivy.

On my third weekend of Operation Weedkiller, I reached a point where I could lay some garden cloth in one section and put in some astilbe, hosta and impatiens. A thin layer of mulch on the new plants gave the illusion that I'd gotten much more accomplished than I really had. Let's face it, sometimes we need that illusion. It was starting to get a little overwhelming and I was desperate for results.

And whaddya know. As cars were pulling up to the stop sign (I'm on a corner lot), people were calling out to me:
"Hey looks great!"
"Oh, that's so wonderful!"
"Looking good!"
"Thank you SO MUCH!"

Thank you? Huh??? That one threw me for a loop. And then, people on walks began to stop and engage me in conversation and I began to piece things together.

They knew we were renters. (the horror) Ah but wait... it seems that since the owner began renting this house out, its been getting trashed. And when they move out, the owner has to fix it back up... and this last time, the property got to be an eyesore. And since this is a busy street, it seems EVERYone knew about the blue house on the corner.... I believe it. I've found all kinds of messed up nonsense in and around the property that bespeaks "not my house so I don't care". Now I don't know these people, but I know what they've managed to do to this house and it ain't pretty. Call me bitchy, but if you go through life breaking everything you touch and refusing to do anything about it? That's just trashy.

So when the neighbors saw the For Rent sign go down, they all figured they were getting another renter who wouldn't care what the place looked like. So they didn't bother coming to meet us.... until they saw me busting my ass. Later that night, I called my husband, who was visiting his mom and told him I'd apparently bought us significant neighborhood goodwill through sweat equity. Every week I do a little more, and every week, more people come to talk to me. It's hysterical. (and a little gratifying).

I figure I've got about another month's worth of work on the main garden... maybe by then I'll have figured out what to do about the sad state of the hedges in the front. I've put some flower boxes on the deck... two of kitchen herbs, one of lavendar and two of red geraniums. Plus, I've got two huge pots of tomatoes started and am anticipating fried green tomatoes...

This weekend saw the removal of the poison ivy. It took me THREE HOURS and it filled up four black lawn trash bags. Good gravy. Then I dug out more weeks, cut down the rest of the saplings that weren't in plain sight and set out some purple echinacea, some black-eyed susans and some asiatic lilies. I want to get more of the echinacea & black-eyed susans... plus some red-hot pokers if I can find them and maybe some spirea. Also more impatiens. I'd LOVE to put in some peonies but am not sure how well they'd do.

My rhododrendon appears to have shrunk! Actually, the ivy had extended a good 18 inches above the poor shrub.

One of the nice things about this garden is that part is full sun and part is shade, so I can have both a sun and a shade garden.

In other news, Jacob has decided the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous. He crawls lightning-fast now and figured out stairs this weekend. (whimper) He also now greets random strangers with a hand flung wide and "HI!". And he has learned the word "Duck".

I've got most of the house pulled together, artwork hung on the walls and the new oven was installed this weekend. They had to special order it because of the size (sigh) so I was ovenless for all this time. I promptly got up on sunday and made buttermilk biscuits and a blackberry cobbler and I think my husband thought he'd died and gone to heaven. I was mildly annoyed... I often cook a Sunday breakfast. It shouldn't have been some kind of shock.

Oh, and we have a patch of four-leafed clovers just off the deck. It does nothing for my brand of luck, however, because I have been finding the darned things where ever I go, all my life.

Status Report: Project Unpack All The Sheeeeit

2007-05-15T20:52:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I completely BITE as a blogger lately. What can I say? Moving house is kicking my ASS.

The good news is that I have more than half of it all unpacked and put to rights and even pictures on some of the walls!

And my dad kindly brought over a twenty foot ladder to try and clear the bird nest from the dryer vent. My vent was entirely blocked to the point that three cycles would not dry a dish towel. And that meant trips to the laundromat, which was kind of a scary experience and NOT cheap, either. Good news! The dryer was not blocked by a nest.

Bad news! It was blocked by SEVEN nests. Seven bird nests. Every year that grackle would build a new nest, just shoving the old one further back. I cannot understand how the previous tenant didn't burn the house down.

And oh! Have we had entertainment at the many discoveries, such as all the broken glass around the house. This was confusing to me until I noticed the dents in the siding.... right above the piles of glass.

Oh. Apparently the household children amused themselves by throwing drinking glasses against the side of the house a la Callahan's Crosstime Saloon... only, you know... outside.

We're still waiting on the replacement oven, which had to be ordered.

Jacob thinks the new house is faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous and can now crawl at lightning speed and is mastering cruising.

I'm low on sleep, sore & zombie-like but nearly finished. Back soon, I promise.

Why Courteous Driving Can Be its Own Reward

2007-05-04T07:35:00.000-05:00

So I'm driving to work yesterday morning... the route I take could still be considered semi-rural for a portion of it, and with all the construction in the area (that never changes), there are a good number of dump trucks. And where there's construction, there are also porta-potties. And porta-potties do not empty themselves, knowwhatImeanVern?

So. I'm cruising along in my now-running-like-its-supposed-to Camry and there's these two trucks, a dump truck and a sort-of-tanker-like truck with a hose on it. In some circles, this would be known as a "Honeydipper". The dump truck is following the other, and they are in the right lane. I'm getting to the point where I, too, want to be in the right lane since my exit is coming up soon.

Ah! Both trucks signal to move to the left lane. When they move over, I happily move into the right lane. Now there is a smallish grey car behind the dump truck and it isn't thrilled to be there, and it puts on the right turn signal, indicating a desire to join me in the right lane.

I am positioned in such a way that I need to either speed the heck up so he can fall in behind me, or slow down and make a space for him to get in front of me. I'm feeling courteous, so I slow, and indicate that he can get in front of me. And he does. And he starts to accelerate.

And the trucks hit a bump.

And the hose on the tanker flaps a bit...

And there was apparently some residual content from its last um... pick up... that remained in the hose.

And it splashed.

And because I was a courteous driver and allowed the grey car to enter the lane ahead of me, I was not the car that was basically shat upon.

Now, it wasn't much - maybe a gallon or so - but when you are on the way to work on a fine spring day, any amount of random shit hitting your windshield has got to be a bummer.

But oh! 'Twas not ME heading for the car wash that fine morning. Perhaps the 4 leafed clovers came through.

So your lesson today, folks, is to also extend courtesy to your fellow drivers because you never know what kind of shit you might avoid as a result.

Some days are just a waste of makeup

2007-05-02T21:58:00.000-05:00

Except that I hadn't bothered with makeup. And maybe that was the problem.

It all started on Monday afternoon when the teenager & I stopped at the new house to pick up some of his stuff to take back over to his dad's. We get back in the car, I turn the key and.... nothing. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. We pop the hood and stare in dismay at the most corroded-looking car battery EVAH. I am telling you that my car battery looked like it had LEPROSY. And mind you, this is only a three-year-old car.

Conveniently enough, my husband pulled in about two minutes later and the guys commence with the car talk and the cleaning of batteries and the debate over the best way to jump start a car.

But then we find that my jumper cables are missing. So Husband heads out to buy new ones while the teenager & I cool our heels.

After a delay, we get the car started and I head across town to drop my son off. As we are pulling into the parking space, the car dies. My son looks at me in alarm.
"Did you just turn the car off??"
"Look, how many old cars have I driven in my life? You do NOT kill the engine if your battery's run down. That was not me."
"oh... crap!"
"No kidding."

So now I have to get a jump start from my ex-husband. Who was kind enough to actually do it and not give me too much flak.

At this point, I'm suspecting that it wasn't the battery but the alternator. Well, I don't even make it back home. I don't even make it a mile... the car chooses once again to die just as I enter an extremely busy intersection and my bladder and I have a brief struggle for supremacy as we remember that when one's engine cuts out, one also loses power to vital functions such as STEERING. I convince the bladder that if it, too, mutinies on me in the next thirty seconds, I will fail to remember that it is considered useful if not actually vital and tear it from my gut and fling it into traffic at the same time I attempt to overpower the steering through manual force and desperation.

Well, I got the car to the side of the road, with dry undies to boot. And I call my husband and then I call Geico and demand the roadside assistance I have been paying for and I have that sucker TOWED.

So. This brings us to Tuesday, when Enterprise picks me up to take me to their office to rent one of their snappy little cars so that I can actually go to work.

And we get to the office and the woman says to me "Ma'am, did you know that your driver's license is expired?"

And I blanch because I have been having some neurological issues since January and I forget things... sometimes important things.... and this is one of them.

So they offer to drive me to the DMV to renew my license and then I can call them back and I can rent a snappy little car and I can go to work.

It being rush hour in the DC area, it takes us a half hour to get to the DMV and there is - of course - a lengthy line. But I am pleased with myself because I have everything I need with me to renew the license... I have a shiny new utility bill with the new address on it, I have my proof of insurance with the new address on it, I have my secondary identification, I am ready to rock and roll.

I finally get to the front of the line to get my number to wait in line for actual service and the woman says to me "We need your birth certificate. We need PROOF OF LEGAL PRESENCE. We can't give you a license."

Never mind that I have had a driver's license in Virginia since 1982. If it expires, you cannot get it renewed without your birth certificate to prove that you do have legal presence and are not going to hijack a plane and fly it into the Pentagon.... (9/11 prompted this change as some of the Virginia hijackers managed to con their way into getting driver's licenses which allowed them to be able to enroll in the flight school)

Ok, I understand this requirement. But my birth certificate is lost... gone, poof. And getting a copy from NY is neither easy nor cheap. And forget about quick! It will take about two weeks, and that's the expedited way....

The clerk helpfully points out that if I GO to an office of public records, I can get a copy for 12 dollars and it will be much faster. I just looked at her. Because of course driving all the way to New York State is an option, especially with an expired license. This is the Virginia DMV, at your service.

Eventually I made it to work and back and $150 later my car is working just fine. As for the rest of it, well... don't ask, don't tell and its costing me $70 to get that stupid certificate sent to me. It better be printed on some fine handmade paper for this.

And the final touch? As I was standing outside the DMV, calling my mother for a ride, I happened to look down and see a patch of clover. In this patch of clover, I counted eight 4-leafed clovers. That's just rude.

I wanna thank you Lord... for the poop

2007-04-30T21:25:00.000-05:00

Now I remember why I did not move out of that townhouse years earlier... moving is a royal pain in every single part.

As you can imagine from my long hiatus, things did not go quite as smoothly as originally hoped. It started when Verizon cheerfully informs me that my internet connection will take a whopping three weeks to set up.

Things just sort of mushroomed from there. I think the incident that really captures the essence of the experience was the oven. Now, I was SO excited to have a double oven in my new kitchen. DOUBLE OVEN, people! For someone who engages in The Grand Bake every year, resulting in hundreds of dozens of assorted cookies, this was like winning the lottery. Ok, maybe not but you get the idea.

Anyway. We'd been eating takeout every night for a week while we dutifully schlepped stuff across town. (My original intention of unpacking as we went fell by the wayside. Or perhaps its now buried in the dining room under Mt. St. Oh-Crap-We-Have-Too-Much-Stuff) But finally, my body cried for mercy. I had to have REAL FOOD. And it was excitement that I planned out my first real meal in the new place. I put two potatoes in the upper oven to bake at 350.

350. This is key. NOT 859. Not 1587. 350.

So after a bit, I headed back toward the kitchen to finish prepping the rest of the meal when a suspicious noise stopped me in my tracks. Jacob was looking a little desperate, and well he might! He did have banana/plum/grape for lunch and the plums and the grapes, they were doing their job. My son... he reeked.

I picked up the squirming baby and headed upstairs to his room where the trusty Diaper Genie awaited. And man... it was bad. A thirteen-wiper!! As I was finishing up the sordid details, I hear a deep, loud BOOM!!!!! At first, I thought something had fallen over. I deposit Jacob in the family room to play while I investigate.

IT WAS MY OVEN. The glass door was... well... it looked like it had gone ten rounds with Tyson, Holyfield AND Sugar Ray. All armed with sledgehammers. There is powdered, splintered glass everywhere and as I gape, the oven door eeeeeeeeaaaaased open and KERASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelion splintered little glass pieces rains down on the stovetop. And the floor. And the counter.

I was stunned speechless. My double oven had not even survived a WEEK. I will of course be getting a new oven but the whole thing just completely freaked me out. But for one crappy diaper, I would have been standing at the stove when it went all Krakatoa on me.

I told you God had a sense of humor. God indeed saw fit not to vaporize my sorry ass with the oven door, but He fixes it so I owe a debt of gratitude to the lowliest function of human biology.

And that pretty well sums up the last 10 days so far.

Home Is Where the Heart Is or: Where the heck did I put the Maalox???

2007-04-18T20:21:00.000-05:00

Eeeeeyeah. As stated, we're in the throes of hell... er, MOVING. And this is requiring no small amount of lip-zipping on my part as my family seems bound and determined to test my patience.

My mother called and after I finally located the cordless phone, which had been shoved far down underneath the bedding (???) and then Jacob made an unexpected sideways lunge in my arms and also pinched me with his near hand, so my voice sounded - at best - strained when I answered.

I am not certain what message my mother thought I was sending, but she unleashed The Mother of All Snarkiness on me and before I could even explain that she was entirely mistaken, she snapped "And I am soooooooooo sorry for annoying YOU!" and then hung up on me.

She hung up on me.

SHE HUNG UP ON ME!

Ooh. Ooh that made me so ma... I mean angry. (there's one of her sayings - dogs go mad, people get angry.) Whose mother hangs up on them??? Are we middle schoolers???

I refrained from calling her back to ask if she was smoking cat litter or something, and the Husband came home and asked what had me fired up.

So I started to tell him and he HELD HIS HAND UP IN THAT 'STOP' GESTURE. Hold up, here. Did my husband just tell me to basically 'Talk to the Hand'???????

Oh no he didn't.

Oh nooooooooo he did not.

I can see that the next five days are going to be a test of my sociability, much like a bad-tempered stray dog is tested for food aggression. And the end result might well resemble it, too.

Yeah. I have PMS and I am moving house. With PMS. And I can have neither cheese nor chocolate. Just don't make a move toward my coffee, that's all I can say.

Also? In my Recommended Daily Serving of Schadenfreude, the No Home Training Trio clogged their toilet so badly they had to call Roto Rooter. And having the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old-boy, I was greatly amused, especially as I had to listen to them argue last night. While they were having sex, apparently. And I really didn't need to be exposed to either encounter and am still considering how I can effectively bleach my own brain.

And lo, the husband has redeemed himself in my eyes, having now hauled two full SUV-loads of boxes over to the new house. I am apparently even scarier than I thought.

We're moving.

2007-04-18T06:54:00.000-05:00

No, really. We're moving right now. Sort of.... in a haphazard, inefficient what-the-heck-is-WRONG-with-me kind of way. The bulk of the moving activity will actually occur on Saturday, then we have the March of Dimes Walk America on Sunday morning - a worthy cause to which I'd committed myself MONTHS before the whole moving idea came up.

Jacob was pre-term, and we were so very very fortunate that my doctors got the pre-term labor stopped three times, buying him precious additional weeks in utero. Believe me, I know JUST how lucky we really were and not a day goes by that I don't offer a prayer of thanks... not only for my son but also my friends' children who were also pre-term. And also a prayer for the mothers whose stories don't include a baby in their arms, but only in their hearts... because all the medical advances made can't yet give every story a happy ending.

Premature birth is reaching epidemic levels in this country and no one quite knows why. ONE IN EIGHT pregnancies will end in a preterm birth. I'd go to the ends of the earth for my own children... and if my walking a few miles can help prevent another family from going through this, well... there we'll be.

(March of Dimes for more information. And cheer us on Sunday morning.)

And then we'll go back to moving furniture and boxes in the afternoon, tired but happier for the knowledge that we just might make a difference to someone else's family.

Line up & place yer bets

2007-04-13T06:50:00.000-05:00

All righty. Let's review what we've got. It is Friday the thirteenth. I... am Gerbil, attractor of All Things Bizarre. You know I'm in for it today. You just know it.

For those that have not truly experienced what it means to be Gerbil, I share a tale from my DC commuting days...

I worked in an office down on 20th & M, near the old glass-enclosed FCC building, where bomb threats were a weekly occurrence and people could not seem to grasp that evacuating to the sidewalk across the street wasn't the safest option ever... what with all that GLASS.

But anyway. There was a bookstore at 18th & I Street and I spent many a lunch hour in there, especially since the bus ride home was so long... better have a fresh book on hand! (I read really fast)

So one day, I'm walking through the aisles and there was a homeless man poring through a paperback as I approached. "Oh, excuse me," said politely, "Am I in the way?" "Not at all, thank you," I replied and THAT was the full conversation. I found a book & returned to work.

Later that evening... I'm heading out to catch the last bus home and start cruising up 20th street in my professional attire and sneakers (de rigeur for the DC commuting woman of the late 80s. Even if I looked like I was all of 15 at the time.). All of a sudden, who do I spy coming down 20th street in my direction? Why yes! It is Homeless Dude, he of the bookstore. What a coincidence, I've NEVER seen him around here...

And then he caught sight of me... and I kid you not, he dropped all of his plastic bags at once, DROPPED heavily to his knees, THREW his arms skyward and HOWLED:

"IT IS A SIGN FROM GOD! WE...... ARE..... SOULMATES!!!!!!"

me: "eep."

And all of a sudden, what had been a crowded street was utterly deserted as fellow commuters scattered, not wanting to be part of this potentially unpleasant scene.

Picking up his things again, the man trotted along beside me, chattering happily (again, I kid you not) about martians and nazca lines and the CIA and all that jazz, and I was thinking to myself "how does this HAPPEN??" when all of a sudden....

This woman came bolting (and I mean BOLTING) out of nowhere, grabbed me by the arm, started shaking me by it and shrieking "OMG, I haven't seen you in so LONG!! OMG, how are the kids, how's the DOG???"

Now... I don't have a dog. I don't know how this woman is. There's a large homeless guy talking about tinfoil hats* and I'm just this shy quiet kid from the suburbs and my brain is starting to overheat.

Now the woman is tugging on my arm and the homeless man said kindly "G'wan and walk with your friend, I'll see you tomorrow."

And as the strange woman led me away , she leaned over and growled in the scariest voice EVER... "RUN!!" And by now, I am totally freaked so I ran. She still has hold of my arm, too. But ladies and ge'men, I am running. Run, Forrest, run.

Finally, she looks back and says "ok, we can stop now" and it was only then I realized that this woman was bailing me out, even if she was scaring me into the bargain. With dizzy relief, I thanked her and resolved to have the guys at the office walk me to the bus stop for the next few weeks.

So uh, yeah. That's more on the intense end of things, but weirdness is standard fare around here.

I even had to start my day with assisting my very elderly gerbil... y'see, poor Indie is one antique rodent. And one of his teeth fell out, making it very hard for him to eat & gnaw. So I have to trim his remaining teeth and his diet is supplemented with baby food (I have to mark the jars so as not to mix up Gerbil with Jacob).

Apparently poor Indiana Scones (i told you all their names were puns) attempted to eat himself a big ol'... something. I don't know, it LOOKED like someone attempted to sneak him a Cheerio. Anyway. He got a hunk of it stuck in his mouth behind his teeth. Wedged. STUCK FAST as my late great-aunt would say... that gerbil was fast. And he couldn't shut his mouth, not could he now eat.

So it took me 15 minutes to gently extricate the thing from his maw, upon which the grateful rodent relaxed and in doing so, peed on me. Thanks, Indie. You're so welcome. (He's actually my coolest rodent. Extremely tame & friendly and likes to ride around on my shoulder.)

Weird? I got yer weird right here. Bring it on.

*in the 80s, DC decided that "you couldn't necessarily hospitalize the mentally ill against their wishes". This was primarily a cost-cutting measure and a great many mentally ill persons were turned out of long-term psychiatric care to live on the streets without any treatment at all. Mostly, these were the poor who had no insurance to begin with.

One of these things is not like the other...

2007-04-11T06:55:00.000-05:00

So there I was, all alone, watching some dumb something-or-other on Bravo (I don't even remember. That's how much Not Attention I was paying it...) and eating my way through a bag of some kind of faux healthy chips we'd purchased before we left.

There were sweet potato chips, blue chips, beet-dyed red chips (I forgave them their association with BEETS and ate them anyway. Chips couldn't help it. I blame society.) and these things were supposedly organic (ie they could get away with charging a heckuva lot) but they were junk and they were satisfying a need. So down the hatch they went. Besides, we'd opened the bag before we left for the weekend and I didn't want them to stale...

Until....

until, I detected something vaguely... stringy. Puzzled, I pulled it from my mouth and tried to figure out what the 2 inch long, tapered, bi-colored brown stringy thing was... with tiny hair-like things on the tapered end...

......

.....

!!!!!

oh sweet heaven.

I am telling myself that of COURSE it is simply a piece of fried potato skin.

It is NOT, I repeat NOT a spider leg.

Did I mention that I'm incredibly arachnaphobic? And now I think I might be chip-phobic. Either way you look at it, I am not eating any more chips.

So.

2007-04-10T18:28:00.000-05:00

We're back. We lived through the experience. Everyone but the turkey but I'll get to that later.

Let's start with the drive out there. We (me) decided that we ought to leave on Saturday morning rather than Friday, especially after speaking to my mom. There were snow showers predicted along I-68 and visibility can get dicey... I did NOT want to be hauling SUV ass through bad visibility and possible icing, call me crazy. Go 'head.

Anyway, it took some convincing: "But... we can get there by midnight! And Jacob will be asleep!" They were valid points, but in the end, Safety won the day. That and I promised we could be On The Road FIRST Thing In The Morning...

Is this a guy thing??? My dad is the same way. All travel plans MUST involve being On The Road before the asscrack of dawn. Anyway, I dutifully informed the teenager to be ready to go by 7am.

Right. So there I am, doing copious amounts of the dreaded Baby Laundry because Jacob is teething and very drooleriffic with a side of puke-o-rama and he managed to yak directly into a basket of clean laundry. Then I managed to misplace the basket that contained all my husband's clean socks and underwear. (I did NOT do that on purpose. Honest.) I bustled... I rushed... I carried items from one area to another... I spent an assload of time getting absolutely NOTHING accomplished. I figured I'd be up at 5am anyway and I could finish it then.

Eh. Not exactly. The morning dawned with us oversleeping and then we were treated to threatened Teenaged Drama, as he called and informed me that if he wasn't allowed to smoke, he wasn't going. I said "We'll miss you." In the end, he did want to go and girded his loins and dealt with it, but he had to put me through an hour's worth of drama-rama phone calls just jam-packed with... well. We all know teenagers in our lives somewhere so I'll just let you nod your heads knowingly. It did not help me get my shit in gear, I'll say that. Again, I'm ADD. Divert me from my focused course and I'll flounder and chase my own ass in circles until I can get focused again and if you piss me off into the bargain? Just throw chocolate. And coffee. The ass you save could be your own.

So uh... yeah. We hit the Beltway at NOON.

The drive out was actually pretty good, no fights or anything. We DID hit snow showers just outside Frostburg and about the third brief whiteout, my husband conceded that I was right and driving through that crap at night would have been a Very Bad Thing. I, the good wife that I am, (no comments from the peanut gallery) refrained from pumping my fist and yelling "SNAP!" But I thought it.)

My mom's farmhouse is pretty cool. The original part of the house is a log cabin that's somewhere around 160 years old. But... none of the rooms have DOORS. And there's these weird vents in the floors that are basically really big holes with a vent thingy on them and it freaked me out. Why? Because once upon a time, the only heating system was the fireplace downstairs and those holes were to let the heat rise up into the bedroom. And did I mention that This Old House had no - let me repeat that - NO insulation?? None???? And I mentioned snow, right?

It snowed all the freaking time. Didn't stick, but it was FRICKIN' FREEZING, MR. BIGGLESWORTH. Dude, I'm pretty certain that **I** had a shrinkage problem going and the first night just about turned poor Jacob into a GIRL when he wet his diaper and his ass got cold. 4am and my husband and I are bundling the baby up into quilts and pulling him into bed with us and feeling like the freaking Donner Party or something, freezing our collective asses off in the middle of nowhere. Certain that I had things well in hand, my husband promptly went back to sleep. So did Jacob. I, on the other hand, was paranoid about squashing the poor kid or something and did not sleep again.

My parents asked how we slept. And I did not say "For the love of PETE are you kidding me? We were colder than a polar bear's ASS in there!!" I said "um, it was a little chilly." And then my mom actually said "Wow, we were really sweating in our room! Of course the heat vent there is directly over the propane heater, but I thought you guys might want the blue room because its prettier."

Dude. Seriously. Screw the frills, ok? I don't care. I just don't want a Baby-sicle in the morning. Or a Me-sicle for that matter. Luckily, my stepdad took matters into his own hands and cranked that heater UP the next night.

While visiting at my aunts, I'm sorry to say that the flock of turkeys decided to go for a walk. Down the middle of the road. Did I mention that in front of the house we have the ONLY straight-away within miles??? When people come around either blind curve and hit this straightaway, they accelerate fast enough to make Chuck Yeager envious. So, as you can imagine would happen, one of the turkeys was hit by a truck. And um... when a domestic turkey is hit by a Ford F150 pickup doing at least 85?? It was dramatic. It was Turkey Supernova right there. To call it an Ex-turkey really doesn't quite cover it. There was were feathers 15 FEET AROUND from point of impact. I can guarantee the poor bird never knew what happened to it. Um. Wow.

And my dad, teenaged son and husband experienced some down-home male bonding. Naturally it involved gunpowder in a couple different ways. And it made a lot of noise. And things blew up. They were ridiculously pleased with themselves.

Also, my aunt makes some kind of alcoholic beverage that she calls Apple Pie. And they poured me a shot to taste... now, I am not big on Strong Drink. I can't stand the taste of anything that has "proof" on the label, KnowWhatIMeanVern? So I looked at the shotglass with some skepticism initially, especially since a key ingredient in this potion is EVERCLEAR. Everclear. The grain alcohol recommended by stupid highschoolers everywhere, at least back in the mid-80s. (Although my aunt did tell me that often make it with moonshine but I wasn't gonna ask about THAT. I was already feeling way too cliched.)

Uh, let me just state for the record? They were right. The stuff really DID taste like a pie made with granny smith apples. And it will knock you on your everloving keister if you're not careful. But I was careful, because I was not about to experience an Everclear hangover in a house with only ONE bathroom... and a toilet that may or may not flush without a bucket of water poured into it to help it along. But uh... WOW. Yummy.

Jacob cut a second tooth and has begun biting everything. He also finally grasped crawling. And mom's house was a mass of ladybugs (remember the Hitchcock movie The Birds? Replace the birds with ladybugs. There you go). It was a constant effort to keep Jacob from eating ladybugs. They taste naaaaaaaasty. We won't discuss how I came by this knowledge.

The trip home was long and poopy. Literally. It was Blowout City alllllllllll the way home. At one point it became clear that we absolutely HAD to take the next exit and find somewhere to change the baby, especially as the teenager was beginning to curl into a fetal position there in the back seat from the noise and stench. When a baby can outclass a teenager's butt? That, my friends... is an award-winning butt.

So we were in Rockville. I suspect that R.E.M's Don't Go Back to Rockville was perhaps intended as a warning to parents of diaper-wearing children because there was no fast-food joint anywhere off this exit. We spent 15 minutes searching and finally found some gentrified strip mall near the courthouse. Husband gingerly carried Baby into some japanese restaurant to beg the use of their bathroom. "No problem!" he was told "Just use one of the tables!"

Um... ew. I'm so sorry to admit that desperate times call for really desperate measures. He went to the very back of the restaurant, away from customers and stood between the Baby Rump of Doom and the unsuspecting public. He did not yet know what awaited him but it took him TEN MINUTES to change that baby. And all but two of the wipes. And he came out looking grimmer than hell and holding baby clothing with two fingers like...like... well, like I don't know what but he dropped it onto the sidewalk and whimpered.

Even I had to feel bad for him.

I silently bagged the toxic waste masquerading as baby clothing and handed my husband the Purell. I thought he was gonna DRINK it there for a minute. It was that bad. He buckled the baby back into the seat. Jacob gave everyone a really happy-sounding sigh and a coo and we got back onto the road.

Minutes passed and my husband took a deep breath. "That," he said kind of shakily, "was really, really unpleasant. I hope they wash their tables. I should go tell them. I can't believe I did that. ON A TABLE. WHERE PEOPLE MIGHT EAT." he shuddered. "I hope no one noticed how bad it really was."
"Did you ... get any on the table?"
"No... but if anyone was counting wipes, I think by number 23 they'd know what was happening." He shuddered again and we both knew one more blowout was going to be a problem because he'd gone through all his pants by now. Could we make it home before the Butt of Doom decided to cry havoc once more???

Race against the poop. Story of my life.

We finally crawled into the house somewhere past 9 last night and then my husband had to turn around and go to his parents for Easter there. I was so exhausted, I slept right through his repacking of the car. He forgot: bottle liners. Diapers. Baby shampoo. A sleep sack. Baby food. and a few other things. Somehow, he did remember the BABY. "I thought it was all THERE." he huffed at me, forgetting that he was the one who packed the car for the ride home, not me.

So tonight, its just me and the rodents, who didn't notice I was gone in the first place. And because I'm old - or more accurately a PARENT - by heaven, I'm going to bed EARLY. Ahhhhhh, that's decadence right there.