I am a wife, mother, and writer, but not always in that order. When I am not creating fodder for my children’s future therapist, I freelance greeting card verse, invitation wording, and pretty much anything requiring words under the name The Poem Company.
I've lost count of the number of times I've watched the video I posted yesterday. Aside from truly enjoying the message, the video has helped me put into perspective a challenging few days. I do not have a Brady Bunch family, I do not coffers brimming with gold, and I do not have enough hours in the day to do everything I need to do BUT I do have clean water, thank you very much. Can you really quibble about the insanity (that is actually banality) when there are people out there without clean water and shelter? Sadly, I can and do.
On top of miscellaneous family theatrics seen all over the world, the Mister was robbed again yesterday. The timing could not be worse. With the economy the way it is, with people as desperate as they are, I imagine events like this will only become more frequent. I guess all I can muster is: I don't know what to say. Rather, I know what I want to say, but I doubt my audience will be receptive to the message.
So I knit to keep from unraveling.
I've talked to a few knitters, and the pattern the yarn shop had me start with is actually complicated for a beginner project. That makes me feel better about my rocky beginning. I might start to really enjoy knitting, after all.
I enjoy it especially right now. When it seems like everything around you is falling apart, it feels productive to create something tangible. I am incapable of controlling much around me lately, but I can control my knits and purls. So, forgive me, please, if I spend a little time knitting when I should be writing. It's the next best thing to crawling under the covers and hibernating until the storm passes.
Mikey: "OH! I'M SO EXCITED! Let me close my eyes and then you can tell me what it is!"
Jules: "OK, are you ready?"
Mikey: "YES! YES! YES"
Jules: "OK! OPEN YOUR EYES!!"
Mikey: {gasp!!} "DINOSAUR EGGS! You found fossils at Vons, Mama! Are they going to hatch?"
Jules: "YES! But we have to put them in warm water first, ok?"
Mikey: "Let's do it right now! I'm so excited, Mama!"
Jules: "Me, too! How about we make this one hatch?"
Mikey: "YES! I love yellow. This is going to be perfect!"
Jules: "OK. Here we go!"
Mikey: "Here we go!"
{1 minute later}
Mikey: "Is it hatching?"
Jules: "Not yet. We need to be patient."
{2 minutes later}
Mikey: "Is it hatching?"
Jules: "Not yet. Soon. I promise."
{3 minutes later}
Mikey: "Is it hatching?"
Jules: "Almost. Any second now."
{4 minutes later}
Mikey: "MAMA! I think it's hatching! It's going to be a baby T-Rex!"
Jules: "Oh! You're right! Won't be long now. Maybe it will be a T-Rex, but there are plenty of other dinosaurs, too. Part of the fun is waiting to see which dinosaur is going to hatch."
{5 minutes later}
Mikey: "MAAAAAAMAAAAAAA! IT HATCHED! IT HATCHED! It's a....It's a....It's a....Mama? What kind of dinosaur is that?
Jules: "Let me see. Oh. Well. Huh." {Squirrel? Rorschach Test? Where is that dinosaur egg box?!}
Jules: "Hmmm. Well, according to the box it's a protoavis."
Mikey: "Oh. And what is that, Mama?"
Jules: "That, Mikey, is what happens when dinosaur cousins get married."
Mikey is the boy who greets everyone with a hug--whether they want one, or not.
Mikey is the little boy who brings dinosaurs to school to show his principal the difference between an Apatosaurus, a Tyranasaurus Rex, and a Spinosaurus. Then he'll tell her how they lived in Center America and that's where paleontologists can find their fossils.
Mikey is the little boy who knows the alphabet, can count forwards and backwards, and does simple addition and subtraction.
Mikey is also the little boy teachers are suggesting needs a third year of preschool. For all that academic heft, he's a bit of a rascal. He is, as they say, immature for his age. He doesn't sit still during reading circle time, loves to wrestle and put out imaginary fires, and if it wasn't for his ability to hear the theme song to Lazy Town in the shower while the T.V. is set to mute, I would assume he is deaf. By the way, Lazy Town? Freakiest show ever.
Every day when I drop him off at school I remind him to put on his listening ears and to sit still and listen during Reading Circle. Every morning he looks at me with those gumball-sized gray eyes and says, "Of course, Mama!"
Every afternoon I pick him up and ask his teacher how he did. And every afternoon she says, "He's working on it!" Translation: you're lucky your kid is cute and friendly.
Last year, Mikey did better as the year progressed. By the time the school year ended, his listening skills were much improved--enough so that I had high hopes for this year. Right now, they are all but dashed. I'm at a bit of a loss. He doesn't have any problems listening at home. He behaves very well, minus a few typical 4 year old transgressions, and doesn't give me half the problems I hear and see my friends experiencing with their own kids. There is just something that happens to Mikey when he gets around a group of kids that makes him, literally, devolve into some quasi-hominid.
I explained all of this to his teacher on Friday. She suggested I cut out most of his T.V. time and encourage him to play cards, board games, puzzles, etc. Sounds easy enough. She then suggested I tire him out by playing outside and going on bike rides. Again, that sounds easy enough. Then she suggested that maybe, just maybe, he needs to be around more kids his age. You know, so he can learn what is appropriate behavior (i.e., quit hugging everyone), not get so excited every time he sees someone his size, and basically chill out when among his peers. She suggested we socialize. That didn't sound easy at all.
The Mister and I, we're home people. As I have mentioned before, we don't like big parties or crowds or organized clubs. We don't even watch reality T.V.--that's how averse we are to people we don't know.
Mikey, on the other hand, loves to be around people. He greets strangers with a handshake and a smile. "Hi! My name is Mikey K. and I love dinosaurs." He will play with anyone and lights up whenever he sees other children. He really is a people person.
So, on Friday, as I watched him run around the room with Benjamin putting out imaginary fires and then later hold Brooke's hand while her mom and I walked towards our parked cars, I thought to myself that if Mikey needs to socialize and be around more kids, so be it. If he is happy, I am happy. And that's when I realized they weren't lying when they said there isn't much a mom won't do for her child.
So I haven't done much with my flickr group. I'm terrible about adding tags to my pictures, creating witty titles, and sharing pictures. And to be honest, I kind of forgot about it. I need to have an email announcement for it because out of inbox, out of mind. But, that needs to change, and much like I have used this blog to catalog little thoughts and memories and stories that amount to my favorite moment in the week, I will now use this blog for the same purpose, but in picture format.
I had hoped other people would start writing about they're favorite moments, but except for one person, it hasn't happened yet (that I know of). So, I'm hoping other people out there will join me in photographing and sharing those memories you think you will never forget but often do because in the end life becomes about milestones. If you're anything like me, you'll remember potty training, but you just might forget how much you love the smell of fresh wipes and diaper ointment.
You'll remember all your speeding tickets, but you just might forget he loves to sit in his carseat and watch the orange tree leaves rustle in the winter.
You'll remember when so-and-so got divorced, but you just might forget the first time you caught them playing together on their own.
You'll remember the first time you bought a house, but you just might forget how small he looked when he first starting using adult sized bowls.
And I could go on, but I won't because you are probably bored by now. I don't plan to make every picture about the boys. I hope I don't, actually, because it's a bit predictable. But, it's also realistic. Life is all about phases, and right now I am in mom phase. So, expect to see a cute mug every now and then. I won't write much, if anything, on those posts because I am hoping the pictures will speak for themselves.
I don't know how often I will post a picture about Things I Hope to Never Forget, but I am shooting for once a week. Maybe on Wednesdays? I'm still mulling the day in my head. Hopefully I won't get too caught up in worrying about perfect pictures or perfect content, like I sometimes do with my Favorite Moments. It's not about that, but it is hard to let go when you are a perfectionist. I'm trying.
OK. That's it. The topic is officially exhausted. I am curious to see if anyone joins me in the quest to capture elusive memories. Speaking of memories, I hope I don't forget to pack my camera in my purse this week.
I am announcing a moratorium on the pigeon-toe stance. Effective immediately, photography subjects must position feet as one does normally. No more coquette posturing while you (1) look off into the distance and pretend you have no idea you are taking a side-profile picture of yourself in a mirror, (2) gaze, eyes wide and chin down, innocently into the camera like a gamine street urchin, and/or (3) pretend to be some shy, delicate petunia waiting to be plucked from the field of life. You know who you are, blogland.
I've been biting my tongue (but not my lip--that's moratorium for another day) on this issue for some time, but my eyes all but melted when I saw this picture. Point those damn toes north, Oliver Twist, or you'll not be allowed any pudding.
Photo that makes me want to jump inside the picture and kick straight some feet via The Sartorialist.
Save a few regulars, you all are very quiet. I've been working on three separate posts, and the entire time I'm wondering if maybe it's all too boring? momish? snarky? to post. Maybe I annoy you, maybe I don't seem approachable, or maybe I'm not all that interesting and you are just really, really bored at work and I help you kill time. *cough-Steve-cough* That's cool. My feelings are totally not hurt. {sob}
But here's the thing. I've been talking with some of my friends, telling them how I would love to do a giveaway on the blog. The only thing that's stopping me is, well, I don't know who you are or what you like!
At first I thought I would offer some writing services for free. Then it occurred to me you all might write as a career or hobby and wouldn't need me to write your grocery bill, let alone anything else.
I thought I would offer a bunch of books I have (read but mint condition) since I have now run out of shelf space in the office. Then it occurred to me you may not like to read, or if you do, have enough books of your own.
I thought about doing a collaboration with my more crafty blogger friends. Then I thought you all might have your own craft businesses and need more product as desperately as you need a hole in your head.
And so on and so on.
Let me cut to the chase (um, 6 paragraphs in): I want to do a nice giveaway but I am terrified to offer to the internet something no one likes or wants, which would result in, like, 3 people commenting. That would be humiliating beyond words. This, sadly, is the price you pay for writing a blog about nothing. And everything. But just not something. All this to say I hate to do it, but I'm going to get all Nietzsche on you and ask: Who Are You?
And, NO, I am not looking for demographic information to show advertisers. If I was, I would just say so. I am just painfully insecure and terrified of rejection. (Because I'm sure you haven't guessed by reading anything I have ever written)
Oh! Speaking of advertisers, if you would like to advertise (for free) send me an email via the link to the right. I have a few spots available and am always looking to for pretty blinking things. Maybe that could be a giveaway? I guess it depends on how many people email me.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to go finish a few blog posts you may or may not like. ;)
I'm the mom who's friendly, easy going, and remembers your child's name. I'll greet you every morning, ask you about the weather, and email links and articles I think will interest you. But, unless I've known you for 20 years and you are part of my inner circle, that's as far as it goes.
I don't do lunch. I don't do parks. I don't do mom groups, Gymboree, Little Gym, or Musical Munchkins. I am a recluse. Imagine my horror, then, when this morning I received a call from a mom on Mikey's soccer team. The team that started just last week. She wanted Mikey to have a play date with her son today at 1:15. Nicholas goes down for a nap at that point, so I told her it wouldn't work...but that [gulp] Mikey would love to do a play date any time this week or next in the mid-morning.
She suggested tomorrow morning. I agreed, and started to feel woozy.
I suggested a park in the area. She said to just come over to her house. I agreed, and then passed out.
Tomorrow the boys and I are headed over to the house of a person I have known for all of 30 minutes on Saturday. Do normal people invite into their home people they don't know? Is this what social people do? I can only assume she's burned through all her friends and spotted me, fresh meat, from across a green soccer field. I picture the worst: me sitting next to a prized Precious Moments collection while 3 of 17 cats weave in and out of my trembling legs. Then, my hostess will remark casually that little Colin was up all night throwing up, but he was so excited for his play date she didn't have the heart to cancel.
Indeed, I fear my hostess tomorrow is:
A swinger.
A Shacklee representative.
A Scientologist.
A serial killer.
I called the Mister to express my concerns and remind him where I keep a copy of my life insurance policy. He wasn't as quick to make the connection between play date and fiery depths of Hell. Instead, he had the audacity to suggest my hostess could also just be a nice mom thinking about starting a book club. Yeah, right. What are the odds?
The weather has been unbelievably hot lately. Even on days where it only reaches the low 90s, the air is so still, so heavy with the city's sweat, it feels closer to the low 100s. And as the temperature rises, so do the tempers. The town is a tinderbox, and a flippant remark or careless driver can set off a firestorm as easily as a dry bush under the midday sun.
Fast food consumption goes up when it's hot. At least that's my pattern. It's too hot to cart the kids in and out of car seats and across parking lots only to spend the next hour pleading with them to hold out for just five more minutes while I find the right brand of cereal. They smell my fear like predators and poke at me with cries, whines, and constant requests to go potty down every other aisle. I sometimes get so flustered I forget half the items on my list, and so there are days I open the refrigerator and am shocked to find only a withered cucumber. Didn't I just buy that loaf of bread? And what happened to the peanut butter? I am still learning to shop with two growing boys in mind. I bought a pint of blueberries the other day thinking it would last the week. They ate the entire carton at snack time, and Nicholas had the nerve to look offended at the site of his clean plate. On these days I glare with envy at their slim, bottomless tummies and head towards McDonald's with just the slightest bit of guilt.
Under these circumstances, Omar had to know he had it coming.
At my McDonald's there is a driveup where you order the food. After which you make a sharp left turn and stop at the first of two windows. At window #1 you pay; at window #2 you pick up. I finished ordering and made the sharp left turn only to narrowly avoid hitting a pimply-faced teen standing in the drive-through and leaning languidly into window #1.
What the?!
My thundering engine 5 inches from his body was no match for the harp-playing angels and chirping birds floating above his head. This young man had eyes (and ears and brains) for no one but the beautiful young maiden, Leticia, perched inside window #1. I put the truck in reverse, made a 10-point turn in the curve of the drive-through, and re-approached.
"Hi. I almost hit you." I looked at his name tag. Omar.
Omar slowly tore his eyes away from the furiously texting Leticia and looked at me. I looked back, and played connect the dots with his pockmarked faced. It spelled out Dude, I'm in love. I gave him a look that said Dude, I'm in no mood. Leticia was too busy texting to give me my total, so Omar hoisted himself into window #1 and stole a quick glance at the register before sliding back down.
"Your total is $11.52." He rested his right elbow on the window ledge, propped his head on his fist, and held out his left hand for me to place my money, all the while staring at Leticia. I looked around for hidden cameras. Finding none, I determined that this pathetic exchange in time was my reality.
I gave him my card and watched as he hoisted himself into window #1 to process the order. Naturally, perched as he was like a freakin' lovebird, he fumbled for an indeterminable amount of time with the machine. Leticia entered an order and smiled at a reply to her previous text. Omar handed me back my card and receipt and resumed Leticia Watch. I waited, then realizing Omar would not be moving again, collapsed my side-view mirror, put the truck in reverse, and created enough berth between me and him so as not to hit him. I inched past Omar and made it to window #2. I looked in my rear view mirror and watched as the next driver behind me maneuvered around Omar.
Young love. It's sweet, passionate, endearing, and a pain in my ass. As I watched Omar hoist his scrawny little body into window#1 again, I knew I had no choice but to quash that little Love Connection like the Anti-Chuck Woolery.
As luck would have it, the manager was working the window. The manager who, if his frazzled appearance was any indication, was covering for Omar on break. It took me three times to explain to him that one of his employees was blocking the drive-through. Poor fella couldn't comprehend what I was trying to say, so when he followed my thumb and saw Omar's dangling ass outside window #1 (he was processing an order) he had to catch himself to keep from falling out of window #2.
"OMAR!" Nothing.
"OMAR!!" No response. Never underestimate the racket harp-playing angels and chirping birds can make.
"OMAR!!!" I watched to make sure the shower of spittle didn't hit any of my fries. Through clenched teeth the manager advised Omar to "get his ass back inside." I adjusted my sunglasses and didn't even try to hide my chuckle of delight as Omar slinked his way past the long line of lunch-hour cars and into the kitchen.
Love burns hot, Omar. But a hot, pissed-off mom paying for a bag of fried heart disease burns hotter.
I'm so sorry I've been quite today. We leave for a family vacation in Lake Tahoe on Wednesday morning, and I've been busy all day drilling dull pencils in my eyeballs as punishment for procrastinating on, hmmm, everything.
I got my "smart card" at Curves today, and according to their system, I burned 235 calories in 20 minutes.
I've reached the conclusion that 235 calories is nothing when you eat 5,000 calories at dinner because you haven't slowed down to eat all day.
We took the truck into the shop on Thursday, and 7 mortgage payments later, it's in tip-top shape. Woohoo.
You know how else you burn 235 calories? Procrastinating and then running around like madwoman trying to get everything done.
If I don't buy an athletic bra soon I'm going to have to tuck my boobs into my sweats before I work out.
The Mister made me a green smoothie and put in so much agave my teeth saved me the trip to the dentist by jumping out of my mouth and into the trash. I am now nursing a migraine and trying to flush out the world's worst sugar rush with a gallon of water.
And, hey! Guess what! We have a giant Expedition and with the car seats and all our gear, we can only fit 4 people! We have one of the biggest cars on the road and I'm pretty sure we're going to have to coat my mom in Vaseline if we expect her to fit in the truck with us. So, if you see a Grapes of Wrath type vehicle on the 395 this weekend, honk and say hi.
See me writing this post? That's called procrastination.
For once I am happy to be outside among the bugs. The bugs out here, while annoying, are at least tolerable to some degree. I can't say as much for the bugs inside my house. While shopping in Trader Joe's yesterday evening, Mikey starting acting like a little boy on the verge of a stomach flu. For an emetophobic like me, it was very bad news.
I don't know why I am this way. I don't know why I have to shoulder this phobia like an albatross around my neck. I do know the inability to comfort your child because of a fear you can't control is excruciating. Devastating. Debilitating. But not as much as the fear itself. The fear always wins, and the disappointment I have in myself collects in my stomach like bile, leaving me to feel just as nauseous.
I can postulate any number of reasons why I am plagued with this phobia. I threw up as a child often due to severe motion sickness. And by severe, I mean my mom would bring a change of clothes for me on simple trips to the grocery store. I remember clearly one trip to Canada when we were living in upstate New York. I had to be younger than Mikey. I kept vomiting, over and over, into diapers. I was crying and my parents were bickering with each other. It must have been so exhausting for them, dealing with a child who couldn't go more than a quarter mile in the car without baptizing the contents and passengers. Some therapists believe the trauma triggered my phobia. Others say it's hereditary. My mother has a phobia, as does my maternal grandmother. Most likely, it a combination of both: a perfect storm of nature and nurture.
Back to Mikey. We got home, and he threw up on the Mister as he was putting him to bed. I was outside, feigning some important task. If you have a phobia, especially one like mine, you are aware. There is no other way to describe the incredible ability you develop to read body language. And so, when my radar starts to beep, I leave. But when I heard his screams, I couldn't deny the mother in me any longer and came running back.
I bumped into the Mister on his way to change out of his sopping clothes.
"What happened?"
"He threw up."
"What can I do?" I pushed the words out of my mouth like flat, heavy stones.
"Comfort him."
It was like a slap in the face. I looked at my sobbing Mikey, wet and scared and feverish and defeated by his own intestinal tract. I asked him what happened as I steered him towards the linoleum of the bathroom.
"I f-f-frowed up!" He was beside himself. So was I.
The mother in me wanted to pick him up, press his soiled little body against mine, and rock him into good health. Instead, I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath as I gingerly tousled his hair and grazed his shoulders with my fingers. I murmured trite platitudes as my chest tightened, my breath shortened, and the cold sweat of fear trickled down my neck and formed rivulets between my shoulder blades.
I don't hate much, but I hate emetophobia.
I've looked for treatment. I've consulted therapists. It is, I discovered, one of the more common phobias. People don't admit to it often because on the Official 1-10 Scale of Cool and Acceptable Phobias it ranks a meager 1. Instead, you'll hear things like "social anxiety" or "claustrophobia" or "agoraphobia." For years I used these labels, too, but I stopped once I realized there might be other people like me, and that by being honest I might be rewarded with a comrade in fear. I truly, really, believed I was the only person with this phobia until I googled it in 2003. I was shocked to discover it had a name, and that celebrities like Joan Baez, Denise Richards, and Matt Lauer have it, too. Oh, and Howie Mandel. Probably. It's been rumored his OCD regarding germs is about emetophobia.
Sadly, this is one of the harder phobias to successfully treat. Even worse, of the four types of emetophobia, I have the more difficult to treat fear of others vomiting. For whatever reason, the usual techniques in the psychiatrist's arsenal just don't stick. There is no purple pill for me to take. And believe me, this morning when the Mister left for work and left me to take care of Mikey until 8:30 tonight, I would have swallowed an entire bottle if I thought it would help.
Somehow, I survived. I had him lay on blankets and had bowls at the ready. I allowed him to take slow, controlled sips of water and juice and waited to see what would happen. We had a couple of close calls when his stomach started to feel "crazy" again, but he never threw up. It didn't matter. If you have a phobia, you know the anxiety of waiting for an event to happen can be more incapacitating than the event itself.
By dinner time, Mikey was almost back to normal. Whatever bug made him sick had left, leaving in its place guilt and disappointment in myself. I'm disgusted I can't be there for my boys when they need me. I don't want to be a perfect mother; they don't exist. But I don't want to be so imperfect, either.
So I keep looking for a cure because I will not let this fear control me. My stubborn, relentless, terrier-with-a-bone personality finally has a purpose. I won't give up. I won't stop researching. I won't die with regret.
We have an office in the backyard. An office. Not a "studio" or "artist's suite." It's an office. Actually, it's a 200 square foot rectangle attached to the garage. When we first walked through this house and saw the office, we immediately fell in love with the idea of working outside the home, especially since the commute was only 10 steps from the family room. The set up seemed so ideal! Late nights in the backyard with the windows and doors open...the sound of crickets and owls keeping us company while the stars twinkled above our angelic little heads. It was simple. Organic. Romantic.
We must have been high as kites.
OK, I don't hate it. I love the office is out of the house and out of sight. No messy desks for company to see. No important papers for grubby little fingers to grab and dispose of. No reminders of work while we're trying to watch T.V. But I swear to God it's me against every single bug on the planet out here.
A few weeks ago I was typing away when I heard a rustle under my feet. On the floor were piles and piles of receipts that Mikey tossed like confetti. I never bothered to pick them up (I was under the illusion Mikey would do it) and suddenly it occurred to me that all sorts of furry creatures could have taken up residence in the pile of paper at my bare feet. Knowing I have sausage toes any animal would love to gnaw on, I promptly shit my pants, slapped wings on my heels, and flew inside to get the Mister.
Jules: "There are creatures at my feet in the office."
The Mister: "And?"
Jules: "Pony up, dude. Get rid of them."
The Mister: "How do you know there are creatures at your feet, and why do I have to get rid of them?"
Jules: "Number 1, I heard rustling. Rustling. And at my feet, where things shouldn't be rustling. Number 2, I don't do bugs or creatures--you knew that getting into the deal."
The Mister: "So get the broom and sweep up whatever it is with the paper and toss it in a garbage bag."
Jules: [...]
The Mister: [...]
Jules: [...]
The Mister: "Fine."
Minutes later, with me directing the operation from the doorway, the Mister starts grumbling.
The Mister: "I don't hear anything."
Jules: "Just wait a..."
The Mister: "I don't hear anything. You're hearing things."
Jules: "Yeah, I'm hearing rustling. And you're not because the creatures aren't deaf and if you would shut your yapper for 5 seconds you would hear rustling, too."
The Mister: "It's been five seconds and I don't hear anything."
Jules: [...]
The Mister: "Fine."
Ten minutes later the Mister conceded there might have been an extremely large bug of some kind under the paper. I passed out. And then I woke up disgusted and went inside to watch T.V., satisfied that I was right, as usual.
Since then, the floor has been clean of even the smallest filament of paper. The bugs, unfortunately, are not deterred. I'm now being attacked from the sky.
Take last night, for instance. I was minding my own business trying to write a press kit. I'm right in the middle of a thought, and look off in the distance to assume my "I'm so thoughtful" pose. The one where I furrow my brow, look important, and lift my chin towards the ceiling to find ideas. Then, from left field, I get pelted with a flying object perilously close to my left eye. I look down and there is a beetle, a scarab, for you Egypt fans, doing the backstroke on my desk. After I was done running up and down the street screaming, I came back into the office and proceeded to create office supply catapults in vain attempts to launch the little piece of walking dung out the window. Instead, I managed to fling it somewhere on the floor. With my Jimmy Dean toes firmly in mind, I shut everything down and went inside to take 5 boiling showers.
It will only get worse as summer wears on. I imagine by August I'll be typing with one hand and tossing molotov cocktails under the desk with the other. Just tonight, I had to take a break from typing to remove the flying ant looking thing from my letter C key. Except I got too aggressive and accidentally squished it into the letter D. I had the head on C and the ass on D. One wing flew off and landed in between H and G, and the other was acting as a bridge between the head and the ass. It was great. I tried to use an index card to scoop up all the body parts, but of course they all fell into the depths of my keyboard. So, as I type, I am pulverizing bug body parts.
I am so throwing away this keyboard when I'm done with this post.
I know I haven't posted more than a couple of times in over a week. The few pots I've made were crap at best, too. I have been busy, but not any more than usual. This coming week is busy for me; at our home we are hosting my dad's birthday party on Saturday, Mikey's school "End of the Year Party" on Wednesday, Mikey's birthday on Thursday, and Mikey's birthday dinner with the inlaws on Sunday.
But the real reason I haven't posted? I just don't have it in me. I can't seem to write anything that isn't absolute shit--some pathetic, half-assed platitude on the state of humanity.
I want to be good. I want to inspire (eh. maybe just amuse) and have one of those blogs people check constantly for smart content. I want to be great, but I feel mediocre.
It's like my mind has PMS and I just need to #$&^* ovulate, already.
Today's my first full day back at work. Things were gong along swimmingly until about 9:30am. I was watching Nico watching me as he held on to the back of his chair. I knew he was waiting for me to look away so he could practice a few steps. I obliged, and looked down at the marketing book in my lap (I was doing a quick market analysis of a company before I started drafting their sales letters). I looked up in time to see him land bum-first on the ground. He must have hit his face on the chair as he fell, because when he turned to look at me his chin, chest, hands, and arms were covered in blood. For one split second I watched, shocked, as his little heart pulsed a few beats of blood from his mouth like the last tablespoon or so of ketchup in a squeeze bottle. Squirt. Squirt.
I picked him up and ran to the kitchen. Squirt. Squirt.
He looked at me with those big Hershey's Kisses eyes and smiled a bloody, toothy grin--like one of those deranged hockey players thrilled to have picked up another red badge of athletic prowess. Squirt. Squirt.
Eight saturated paper towels later, I decided to take a peek inside his mouth. I thought his upper lip was caught on his teeth, so I called the doctor and they had me come right in. Unfortunately, my fiddling with his mouth opened everything up and he started bleeding again. Thankfully it slowed down quickly, and by the time Nico and I got there the bleeding was nothing more than a fuschia tinged saliva--slow enough that the doctor could pull away his lip and look inside.
(Paper Towel No. 9)
Diagnosis: torn frenulum. That little membrane that attaches your upper lip to your gums? Nico doesn't have one anymore. He's now a hanging loose, free frenulum-ing kind of guy. According to the doctor, this isn't a big deal. The membrane doesn't serve much of a purpose. Translation: It's a bummer it had to happen but it's nothing for you to run home and Google.
The best part of all of this? Nico's attitude. Other than the initial crying over the pain (which wasn't much and lasted all of ten seconds) the only thing that really got him upset was when I told him he couldn't eat the paper towels. His response when I pried them away from him was priceless. For the amount of tears he shed you would have thought he, oh, I don't know, ripped his frenulum. It turns out the missed opportunity to ingest Bounty is a far greater tragedy.
(Reason No. 342 why life isn't fair: They don't let me eat paper towels.)
Nice touch with the crocodile tears, Nico. You almost convinced me to let you have the paper towels again. Damn you and your hold on my heart. Squirt. Squirt.
I am sick as a dog with what feels like traffic pylons up my nose. I have slept no more than 6 hours since Sunday because Nicholas has miniature traffic pylons up his nose and, frankly, they just don't make for a good night's sleep. I can only assume the plastic from the pylons leaching into my brain is what prompted me to make the asinine decision to check my email. I scrolled through the contents from the carrier pigeon of masochism:
Junk Mail [delete]
Junk Mail [delete]
Forward [delete]
Business [put off until tomorrow]
Baby Center 15 Month Update: Your 15-Month Old: Week 1 [RED ALERT! RED ALERT! Delete without reading! Nothing good will come from this! DELETE! DELETE!]
Naturally, I read it.
90% of toddler are walking by now.
Not mine!
Talking.
Nope!
Silly dance routines for attention.
What the???
Puts finger to mouth and says "shhh."
Who exactly would he be shushing?
Now, I'm not worried. That much. At this age Mikey wasn't doing any of the these things either, and now his teachers and pediatrician all agree he is a gifted little boy. [Take that Baby Center!] Besides, Nicholas is doing things that are advanced for his age. He "reads" books for months now, talks on the phone, tries to put on his own clothes and socks and shoes, and throws tantrums. He shouldn't be throwing tantrums for at least another 3 months, but my boy's advanced!
I'm going to put a positive spin on this. I've decided that Nicholas is not a slow learner. If you look at the evidence, you'll have to agree he is brilliant.
No walking.
Walking v. Having someone sherpa you around town. The choice seems obvious to me. Then again, I'm a dozen macaroons away from looking like Mazy.
No talking.
Who needs words? Everything you need to convey can be done with a well timed grin and doe-eye flutter of lashes. Or screaming. Kicking works.
Silly dance routines for attention.
This is for amateurish toddlers who don't know how to command attention by grinning, eyelash fluttering, screaming, and/or kicking.
Puts finger to mouth and says "shhh."
Why would a screamer let on to knowing this skill? Clearly counterintuitive. Rather than put a finger to his mouth, it makes much more sense to jab those fingers up the nostrils of an admonishing parent. Every good escape plan has a diversion.
So, BabyCenter, you're going to have to reevaluate your parameters. Maybe include kids who think on their feet as well as walk on them. You can keep talking about the babies who like to dance, but don't forget the ones who like to orchestrate. And maybe, everyone now and then, celebrate the babies who don't do well at crafts, but are just plain crafty.
You are probably reading this in a nondescript hotel room in Atlanta, Georgia. How's that going? Are you having fun on your second long business trip in one month? If I was a counting girl I would probably bring up that between your business trips, client dinners, business parties, and late nights at work you have been gone more than you were here in the month of April. Lucky for you, I am totally not a counting girl. Not. At. All.
Things around here are great! Super!! I do believe the second your plane left the ground 83,000 people from Craigslist emailed me that they need to see our various items for sale RIGHT NOW. Naturally, they were all males with emails like, "Larry_the_Love_Man[at]yahoo.com" or "Beer-n-Bitches[at]gmail.com." They seemed really interested and should be here around 6:00pm. Wish me luck!
Mikey decided last night that his stomach hurt so bad that he needed to go to the hospital. I offered him chocolate instead. He was happy with the outcome, and so was I. I could be wrong, but I don't think his stomach was really hurting him.
Oops! I almost forgot. We had a little incident with your computer. It was totally Nicholas' fault, but I have to give the little guy credit for figuring out how to open your computer, rip out half the keys, and then close it again all before I reentered the room. I thought it was really cute the way he was tossing these things in the air like confetti until I was, like, "Hey, we don't have confetti. What are those things?" So I took a closer look and then was, like, "Oh, SHIT!" and I dropped to the floor and was rolling around with Nicholas trying to pry from his pudgy death grip the letter Q and the Shift key when Mikey came around the corner, took one look at me giving Nicholas a half-nelson and was all "Wrestling! So fun!! Me, too, Mama!"
As much as I would have loved to wrestle with Mikey, it just wasn't the time. You understand, right? I felt a little guilty because instead of wrestling I looked up at Mikey, wild-eyed, and screeched, "Mikey! You have GOT to help me get these little pieces away from Nico or daddy is going to be really mad at mama because NICHOLAS broke his computer." And then Mikey looked at me full of pity and calmly walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Mama. Relax. It's ok. We'll just call Handy Manny. He can fix anything."
Of course! Why didn't I think of that?! That's exactly what we needed: an animated Wilmer Valderrama and talking tools. So I bit the bullet and made the long distance phone call to Sheet Rock Hills. Manny said he would be here sometime between Larry and Ruben (that's Beer and Bitches), but I might have to call him off because I have most of the keys already put back. So you see, I have everything under control and there is nothing for you to worry about. I mean, well, I guess if you had to worry about something--you know, if you were so inclined--it's that I can't find the letter S. But, again, totally not something for you to worry about. I'm pretty sure it's either under the sofa or just rounding the curve in Nicholas' duodenum. If it's under the sofa it will be back in place by tonight. If it's in the smaller intestines, well, it will most like be in place within 24 to 48 hours. Either way, plenty of time before you get home! Honestly, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. I bet you would have never known anything was amiss.
OK, that's it. Not much else to report. Pretty boring, really. I'll talk to you later. Have a safe flight, and I'll see you when you get home. You know, right before you leave again to go play golf with your dad. Just saying.
Carey over at The Ink Spot tagged me yesterday to participate in what has to be the best game of tag ever. I have to share 5 songs I am embarrassed to admit I like. Only five?! If the last twenty-four hours of my life attest to anything, it's that I would have an easier time listing 5 songs that I'm not embarrassed to have on my iPod. Here are the rules:
Like to the person who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 5 songs you are embarrassed to admit to others you like and tell why.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blog.
Let each person know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
I tend to describe my taste in music as "bat-shit crazy," or, as the Mister likes to say, "all over the damn place." There is absolutely, positively, no rhyme or reason. If you read my blog regularly, you shouldn't be surprised. Rock, Folk, Pop, Country: I am an equal opportunity consumer of crap, and impossible to peg by my taste in music alone. I've spent the better part of the last day and a half trying to catalog my music. I think I've narrowed it down to five genres. The Empowered Woman
Employed mainly in my early twenties during periods of romantic discord and/or long dating droughts, this often maligned genre is best appreciated by females en mass, e.g., "Breast-Fest," "Lesbopalooza," "Girlapalooza," and "Lilith Fair." Frequently used on long road trips where a Subaru Outback is recommended, but not required. Also known as "Angry White Female," "The Lesbian," "90s Chick Music," and "Ironic Intelligentsia." Alanis Morisette, anyone?
Artists include, but are not limited to: Sarah McLachlan, Sheryl Crow, Shawn Colvin, Joan Jett, Fiona Apple, Suzanne Vega, Bonnie Raitt, Pat Benatar and, last but not least, everybody's favorite...
The Indigo Girls
Please listen to the audience singing. It is 99.99999% female. There are, like, three guys in the crowd and two of them are there on the off chance the girls they just started dating will sleep with them. The other guy is security.
The Urban Cowgirl
Mainly a byproduct of years of Sunday drives with my parents, my brothers, and one of two stations available on FM radio. Dukes of Hazard, The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour, and The Mandrell Sisters (dammit, why wasn't I born blonde!) only exacerbated matters. The death knell? Dolly Parton. Dolly flippin' Parton.
Artists include, but are not limited to: Eddie Rabbit (I Love a Rainy Night!), Juice Newton (Playing with the Queen of Hearts!), Kim Carnes (Bette Davis Eyes!), and of course it goes without saying this Urban Cowgirl would be lost at sea without these islands for safe harbor:
I present to you Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers!
The Tween
Sometimes I forget I'm thirty-five and find myself drawn to music only a twelve year old would love. This genre requires a positive attitude, a sense of humor, little knowledge of music and a love of all things sweet and saccharine. To be honest, the reason I love this song is because my dad used to sing it to me and we would dance in front of my mom to a routine choreographed by yours truly. I can see my lace-up suede boots flitting underneath my swirling gypsie skirt as if it were yesterday...
Artists include, but are not limited to: Paris Hilton (Stars are Blind! ...And my ears, Deaf!), Hanson, Justin Timberlake, Jessica Simpson, Britney Spears (pre-breakdown!)
And now, the moment you've all been waiting for...meet The Archies, a band that NEVER EXISTED!
The Midnight Toker
Classic rock. This style of music is best appreciated in your mom's basement with herbal cigarettes. And I love it. The music, not the cigarettes. I've actually never taken any drug in my life, other than that required by surgery. In fact, I barely drink and have been drunk twice. I'm just too into world domination to be messing around with mind numbing substances. True story: when the Mister and I first started dating he was quite shocked to see my CD collection and preprogrammed stations in my car. Flabbergasted, he turned to me and said, "You know, for someone who's never smoked pot before you sure do listen to a lot of loadie music."
Artists include, but are not limited to: Bad Company, Boston, Journey, Tom Petty, Eagles (!!!), Moody Blues, Fleetwood Mac, ZZ Top, Allman Brothers, The Who, Jethro Tull, and many, many more.
The Perimenopausal Woman
To enjoy this music you must be no less than 57 years or age. Or me. A weight problem is a bonus, but not mandatory. Also preferred are many male friends, most of then gay. Membership in a country club is a required, as are charitable civic duties. Must like preparing theme dinner parties and hosting high school reunions. You can be college age, but you must be drunk in a bar with friends and receive a monthly stipend from mom and dad. Sorry, no exceptions.
Artists include, but is not limited to: Christopher Cross, Billy Joel, Kenny Loggins, Air Supply, REO Speedwagon, Bonnie Tyler (Total Eclipse of the Heart!), Rod Stewart (!!!), Lionel Richie, Elton John, Carly Simon, and the one who made his fortune off touching you and touching me...
Now I have to tag seven people. You all know how I loathe to tag people. This was so fun, though, that I don't think too many of you will mind. You don't have to do the videos. I did because my picks were so old I wanted to make sure those of you born in the 1980s knew who I was even talking about. Bah. I can't do it. Same rules as before: do it if you want, and let me know if you do. I want to laugh at you commiserate with you.
My cookies are, frankly, quite nice. And I churn out a pretty fine dice. So could somebody, please Explain if cooking's a breeze Why the *#&%! do I always burn rice?!
Spring is great and all, but I could do without the flying insect infestation. My house is teeming with gnats, mosquito eaters, and these skinny brown things that look like flying finger nail clippings. Disgusting.
I was trying to have a simple adult conversation with the Mister the other day when a gnat flew into my eye. Come on now, really. Where the hell am I, Bali? I live in the desert. Shouldn't these creatures be harassing people blessed to live near water?
I don't like flying insects, especially when they try to enter my body via my eye sockets.
(This picture scares the crap out of me. I refuse to look at it as I scroll up and down this post to edit. Picture borrowed without permission from EHSO--but seriously, they can keep it.)
Speaking of bugs, I've been doing research on dust mites to get a better grip on Mikey's allergies. Did you know 10 percent of the weight a pillow older than 2 years can be attributed to dust mites and their droppings? No wonder I never feel rested when I wake up in the morning. I've been sleeping on bugs and shit. I almost used my Websters Unabridged Dictionary as a pillow last night but realized a lost cause once I read mattresses house anywhere from 100,000 to ten million dust mites. Mites are especially happy when people are on said mattress because according to at least one website, they prefer warm, moist environments. My God.
Oh, and dust mites feed on dead skin cells. I knew that, and you probably did, too. But here's something I didn't know. You know all that dust in the air you see when the sun hits it just right? The dust storm that happens usually after making your bed or fluffing your pillows? Yeah, not dust. At any given time, 80% of that flying particulate is your dead skin cells, aka the dust mite all-you-can-eat China Star Buffet.
I'm Catholic. All this talk of excrement and body parts and warm, moist environments is enough to give me the vapors. I'm pretty sure the only solution to all of this is to burn the beds and sleep on the floor with plastic sheeting to keep us warm.
I do not have a Brady Bunch family, I do not coffers brimming with gold, and I do not have enough hours in the day to do everything I need to do BUT I do have clean water, thank you very much. Can you really quibble about the insanity (that is actually banality) when there are people out there without clean water and shelter? Sadly, I can and do.
2008 Resolution #17: Read 8 fiction books for pleasure. Click 
