Farewell Sweet Maiden

Pin It One thing I like to ponder is my own death. I have very specific ideas about how to achieve the funeral of my dreams. In our religion we're supposed to have these funerals that are uplifting, focusing on the fact that we'll be together again someday and making sure everyone knows all about that good news, leaving everyone feeling good.

And I know other people want their friends and family to have a big party, celebrating their life. That's so nice, I think.

But I don't want that. I want everyone to cry over me, a LOT. Because I'm DEAD. I'm FREAKING DEAD. I mean, come on. Party on your own time, this is my FUNERAL we're talking about. Show some respect, and by respect I mean, show everyone how you just cannot picture the world without my bright shining light of awesome lightness and how it will pain you to go on for even ONE MORE SECOND. Geez.

Unfortunately, when I tell my husband my final wishes, his response is usually to roll his eyes or laugh at me, or start muttering some more, so I thought I should post my final requests in a more public forum so that if I kick the bucket anytime soon he will have no choice but to obey my wishes. Accordingly, here are my FINAL WISHES:

1. I would like to give the eulogy, via a pre-recorded video. I think that would be really touching. Believe me, nobody will be more broken up over my death than me, you know? I can really lend it that air of gravitas and reverence, what with all of the incoherent sobbing I will do on the video. And also it might really freak a lot of people out which amuses me.

2. If that won't work because I die before I get around to making the video, I would like either my brother Mark or my sister Diana to give the eulogy, mostly because I'm pretty sure they would both fall apart and start crying on stage, which is always good for getting the audience going. Diana would probably get REALLY upset and fall into unflattering snorfle type crying (such is the sisterly love we share) which would be ugly but also super touching. Alternatively, my sister Wendy is an actress AND also kind of a wuss, and my sister-in-law Holly is an ultra-dependable public cryer.

3. If they give the eulogy, I'm at least WRITING IT. I mean gosh. How else will they know how to narrarate the powerpoint presentation I put together with highlights of my life? Besides, I've already spent a lot of time writing the dang thing.

4. I would also like to give the musical number, because hey, how touching would that be, having the dead girl sing at her own funeral. Not a dry eye in the house, that's how touching. I'm thinking I could sing something subtle and understated like My Immortal by Evanescence or Fantine's Death from Les Mis, something like that.

5. If I am in a bad accident, and there is some question about whether or not I am brain dead, I say leave the machines on. Because you never know. I might come back.

6. But if I do appear to be pretty much deadish, please give someone my organs. And then, after they have my organs, please send them a little picture of me to keep on a shelf somewhere, so that when they wake up in the night and look around with their donated eyeballs, they'll see me staring RIGHT at them, kind of like I'm haunting them, but in a nice way. Like that.

7. I hope my husband will remarry quickly. He's an affectionate sort and he would get far too melancholy without someone around to hug him a lot, plus the children would need a mother. Therefore, I think he should marry an old spinster type - someone completely unattractive but with a sweet spirit. If that won't work, he should at least (as I've mentioned before) not marry anyone younger than 25, or smaller than a size eight. (Seriously hon, a 19 year old might be hot, but she'd be REALLY annoying. She'd probably make faces at you if you decided to bake and eat a can of cinnamon rolls at ten o'clock on a Sunday night. ME? I don't judge. In fact, I care so much about your feelings that you can always count on me to sacrifice and eat them WITH you. I'm a giver.)

I think that's it. That's all I can think of right now at least. How about you?

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Losing It

Pin It I recently took a personality test that indicated that I was, among other things, "easily distracted and prone to losing things."

There are so many things to say about my new label (isn't it pretty?), but right now I just want to talk about how I'm prone to losing things. Because boy howdy, am I ever prone.

PRONE. (That suddenly doesn't look like a real word to me. PRONE.)

My mom used to call me the absent minded professor, and I used to think that was sort of cute. But it's not. It's not cute at all. I'm so tired of losing my stuff.

I'm constantly losing things - my keys, my rollerblades, my daughter's lunchbox, my keys again, my shoes, my shoes again, my shoes again some more, my cell phone, the house cordless phone, my keys again, my purse, my debit card, my debit card, my debit card, my purse - all day long it goes on.

I'm so glad I have this valuable new tool, the personality type, to help me rationalize away all of my personal failings.

"Honey, you've got to start putting your keys in the same place every time you get home so that you can find them easily."

"I can't do that!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm an ENFP!"

"That prevents you from trying to keep track of your stuff?"

"I can't fight science!"

Before I knew about my ENFP illness, I was starting to think I had holes in my brain. Perhaps some flesh eating bacteria had crawled inside and eaten away the part of my brain that knew where I put my shoes. Because I sure couldn't find them.

So it's kind of a relief. (WHEW.)

Maybe I should give it a try though, the whole putting-stuff-back-in-a-place-where-it-would-logically-go-so-that-I-can-find-it-again THING. Yesterday I used my debit card to pay a bill online, set it down next to the computer when I was done and then walked around all day long looking for it, mystified. Where could it be? Where? Where where where where where? I couldn't imagine.

Tonight I looked for my rollerblades for twenty minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. And the house is perfectly clean right now. My closet is even organized. I just couldn't find them.

"They've vanished," I said to my husband. "I think they disapparated."

"Look in the garage," he said.

And there they were.

He always knows where my stuff is. I used to just call him at work all the time to ask him where my stuff was, but now, because of his job, I can't do that. (It's very inconsiderate of him to have a job like that, I think.)

Sometimes I think he's hiding my stuff just to mess with me, except I know it frustrates him too, the fact that I can never keep track of anything, ever. He knows the last five minutes before we go anywhere will involve what he calls the "walk and mutter." (Well. Walk and mutter and rant and rave.)

"I can't find my shoes. Where are my shoes? They were just here. They were just here. Who took my shoes? Who took them? DOG, did you take my shoes? Because I will kill you. I will kill you if you took my shoes. Who took them? Where are they? Where? Where? WHERE?! Oh look, right there in the closet."

Sometimes I even lose stuff inside my purse. That might not sound all that strange except that my purse is small, almost like a wallet, and there isn't much inside of it. And yet, within it's non-depths I can still repeatedly lose my debit card and driver's license. Even though they are, in fact, still right there in my purse. I'll be at the check-out and I'll go to pull out my debit card and - uh oh, it's not there. It's SIMPLY NOT THERE. I'll pull everything out, look at it and put it back in and it's STILL not there. I'm frantic. Where is it? Where could it be? Is it lost? Is it stolen? Is it disapparated? In another dimension?

And then, WHAM, suddenly it's there.

It happens a lot. (Sometimes I think it's some kind of brain magic. Just - not a good kind. But kind of tricky, all the same.)

Before Fathers Day, I hid one of my husband's presents. I remember thinking that I would remember where I put it. I remember very specifically saying to myself, oh, sure, you'll remember putting it there, no problem.

Um.

Yeah.

I still can't find it.

Sometimes I'll hide treats from the kids, because if they find the cookies they'll never make it into my daughter's lunchbox. Except then I forget where I hid them. It's kind of nice though because sometimes I'll be having a bad day and I'll open a cupboard door and - Oh, LOOK, OREOS FROM HEAVEN.

YUM, Oreos.

Oh. Whoops, I got distracted. (We INFPs tend to do that.) Sorry - I know that's irritating. I BLAME SCIENCE.

Custard, GOOOOOOD.

Pin It Me: "Hey hon, are you gonna be here soon? 'Cuz I made dinner."

Husband: "Cool, what are we having?"

Me: "I made something new. It's called Hamburger Roll-Ups."

Husband: "Hamburger Roll-ups."

Me: "Yeah - my mom used to make them."

(long silence)

Me: "They're GOOD, I promise."

Husband: "What are they exactly?"

Me: "Well, you make this meat mixture and you make this dough from bisquick and you roll it up like a jelly roll and you slice it and bake it. And there's sauce."

Husband: "Hmmmm."

Me: "I PROMISE it's good."

Husband: "Why does this sound like an episode of Friends?"

Me: "It's not a beef trifle."

Husband: "You know, if you want, I can take over the cooking again. I can just whip something up really quick every night after I get home."

Me: "I'm perfectly capable of making --"

Husband: "Or I could make it the night before and freeze it. All you'd have to do is warm it up."

Me: "Hamburger Rollups were good enough for me and my brothers and sisters and I think they're probably --"

Husband: "Or, wait, I KNOW, we could starve. Sometimes starving is good. This could be like the first part of the fasting thing you were talking about."

Me: "I'm hanging up now."

100 Great Picture Books

Pin It Yesterday, we went to the library around the corner. The car was out of commission, so the girls grabbed their scooters and Jake hopped in the wagon (his bike is in the courtyard, which is currently being invaded by hornets). I had this bright idea that I would pull the wagon while rollerblading.

The thing is, I used to be an AWESOME rollerblader. I jumped on and off of sidewalks, I could do one footed turns and jumps like an ice-skater, and I was absolutely fearless. I would blade down huge hills at top speed without even blinking. (I was insane, basically.) Not so much anymore. (Insane OR fearless, take your pick.) Now I'm a lot more tentative and a whole lot less fast. The driveway seems very long and steep and scary.

I was trying to go fast enough to keep us moving, but slow enough to retain control over the wagon and myself if I needed to stop quickly. Jake was not happy with my slowish progress. "Mom, you are not going faster enough."

Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you as I huff along on my rollerblades of death.

On the way there, we saw a dead catfish on the sidewalk, which precipitated much screaming. From me. "You guys, you can look, but don't touch it. Don't touch it. Don't touch it! Jake, if you touch it, I'll - DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH DEAD FISH YOU FIND ON THE SIDEWALK!" (Advice for the ages.)

After that we made it there pretty quickly, despite the 170 degree heat. Unfortunately, when we got to the library I realized I'd forgotten my shoes. I wasn't about to haul everyone back home just to retrieve my shoes, so I ended up walking around the library wearing socks and rollerblade liners. (Hey, they were kind of shoe-like. Sort of. If you squint.)

We found our books, cooled down, checked out and rolled away. Back at home, I started cleaning the kitchen and looked over to see this:


YEEEEESSSSS. My DNA manifests itself at last.

Lastly, the local elementary school sent home a list of 100 great picture books. I love anything to do with books, and thought I'd post it for you. I thought my preschoolers were sort of well readish, but there are a lot of books on the list that we haven't read before. I'm excited to take this list with us to the library next time.

100 Great Picture Books, compiled by the New York Public Library

Abuela by Arthur Dorros.
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst.
Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing by Judi Barrett.
Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock by Eric A. Kimmel
Andy and the Lion by Juan Daugherty
Ben's Trumpet by Rachel Isadora
Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey
The Bossy Gallito: A Traditional Cuban Folk Tale retold by Lucia M. Gonzalez.
Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban.
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobodkina.
The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss.
A Chair for My Mother by Vera B. Williams.
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr., and John Archambault.
Corduroy by Don Freeman.
Curious George by H.A. Rey.
The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash by Trinka H. Noble.
Dear Zoo by Rod Campbell.
Doctor De Sota by William Steig.
Farmer Duck by Martin Waddell. The Fortune-Tellers by Lloyd Alexander.
Freight Train by Donald Crews.
George and Martha by James Marshall.
Go Away, Big Green Monster! by Ed Emberley.
Good Night, Gorilla by Peggy Rathmann.
Goodnight Moon by Margaret W. Brown.
Grandfather’s Journey by Allen Say.
Happy Birthday, Moon by Frank Asch.
Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson.
Harry the Dirty Dog by Gene Zion.
Henny Penny illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Seuss.
I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly illustrated by Glen Rounds.
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura J. Numeroff.
Is It Red? Is It Yellow? Is It Blue? An Adventure in Color by Tana Hoban.
It Could Always Be Worse: A Yiddish Folktale retold and illustrated by Margot Zemach.
John Henry by Julius Lester.
The Judge: An Untrue Tale by Harve Zemach.
Julius by Angela Johnson.
Komodo! by Peter Sís.
Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus.
Little Blue and Little Yellow by Leo Lionni.
The Little Dog Laughed and Other Nursery Rhymes by Lucy Cousins.
The Little Old Lady Who Was Not Afraid of Anything by Linda Williams.
Little Red Riding Hood retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Lunch by Denise Fleming.
Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile by Bernard Waber.
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans.
Masie Goes Swimming by Lucy Cousins.
Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey.
Martha Calling by Susan Meddaugh.
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia L. Burton.
Millions of Cats by Wanda Gág.
Miss Nelson Is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall.
Mr. Gumpy’s Outing by John Burningham.
The Monkey and the Crocodile retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Morris’ Disappearing Bag by Rosemary Wells.
Mouse Paint by Ellen S. Walsh.
Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters: An African Tale retold and illustrated by John Steptoe.
Mushroom in the Rain adapted from the Russian of V. Suteyev by Mirra Ginsburg.
The Napping House by Audrey Wood.
Officer Buckle and Gloria by Peggy Rathmann.
Old Black Fly by Jim Aylesworth.
Over in the Meadow by John Langstaff.
Owen by Kevin Henkes.
Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me by Eric Carle.
Perez and Martina by Pura Belpré. Illustrated by Carlos Sanchez.
Pierre: A Cautionary Tale by Maurice Sendak.
The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg.
The Random House Book of Mother Goose: A Treasury of 186 Timeless Nursery Rhymes selected and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.
Rosie’s Walk by Pat Hutchins.
Round Trip by Ann Jonas.
Rumpelstiltskin retold and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
Seven Blind Mice by Ed Young.
The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats.
Stone Soup retold and illustrated by Marcia Brown.
The Story of Babar, the Little Elephant by Jean de Brunhoff.
The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf.
Strega Nona by Tomie De Paola.
Swamp Angel by Anne Isaacs.
Swimmy by Leo Lionni.
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig.
The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter.
Ten, Nine, Eight by Molly Bang.
There’s a Nightmare in My Closet by Mercer Mayer.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff by P.C. Asbjfrnsen and J.E. Moe.
The Three Robbers by Tomi Ungerer.
Tikki Tikki Tembo retold by Arlene Mosel.
The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf as told to John Scieszka.
Tuesday by David Wiesner.
Two of Everything: A Chinese Folktale retold and illustrated by Lily Toy Hong.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.
We’re Going on a Bear Hunt retold by Michael Rosen.
The Wheels on the Bus adapted and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
When I Was Young in the Mountains by Cynthia Rylant.
Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.
Where’s Spot? by Eric Hill.
Whistle for Willie by Ezra Jack Keats.
Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears: A West African Tale retold by Verna Aardema.
Zomo the Rabbit: A Trickster Tale from West Africa retold and illustrated by Gerald McDermott.

Stuff I Think Is Dumb

Pin It 1. The fact that dogs, when you take them to the kennel, you can’t just leave them there forever. Why isn’t that an option? WHY?!!? I would pay them a LOT MORE if at the end of the dog stay, they would just keep the dog and send us pictures once in a while. Alternatively, they could have a “Break the Bad News” option where upon arriving at the kennel to pick up the dog, the kennel people tell your children that Fido went to live in heaven while they were on vacation. That way, you get the whole NO DOG thing, but also, your kids wouldn’t blame you for it. (Quick, somebody write a business plan. We could be billionaires.)

2. My hair. It turns out it really DOES make a difference if you have a professional color your hair or if you try to do it yourself. A BIG difference. It's the difference between feeling like a pretty, pretty, princess and feeling like a giant dishwater colored turd.

3. I would like to announce that I have crossed over into the realm of bloggers who receive free stuff. Did I get a Dyson? No. Did I get a Wii Fit? No. I got (Are you ready for this? It's really exciting.) - a BOX OF FREE POPCORN. GLORY HALLELUJAH. I HAVE ARRIVED.

4. I think it's dumb that in large group settings with people I don't know very well, I sometimes get overly anxious and self conscious. Sometimes when I think of something to say, I get all excited to say it and instead of just SAYING IT like a normal person I get all wound up and sick to my stomach and end up blurting it all out in one overly intense, awkward ramble of words. (On the other hand, give me a microphone and a podium and not only will I not be self conscious, I will totally ROCK YOUR WORLD.)

5. Swim skirts on large women. I'm allowed to say this, because I am currently nine thousand pounds. Here's the thing. We know you're fat under there. We know this because we can see the rest of you. Trying to hide the thighs specifically is kind of pointless. Set your thighs free. Let them come out and run wild and free with your arms and your back fat. Yes, that's right. You can do it. Come on out here and join the rest of us tubbies. I may not speak for the fit people of the world, who might sometimes prefer that we hide our unsightly cellulite from view beneath a swimming burka, but seriously - we're swimming, not going to church.

What do YOU think is dumb?

How I Lost One of My Best Friends and Got In Touch With My Jerky Side

Pin It One of my best friends is (was?) a gal named Terri.

We met when we were about nineteen and hung out together for the next few years - sharing an apartment, a circle of friends, and a crush on the same guy. As we got older we drifted into different social circles and circumstances and gradually drifted apart, but we would still talk on the phone now and then and keep in touch. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding and drove all the way from another state to attend my baby shower.

We were the kind of friends who didn’t have to talk every month, but when we DID get around to talking, it was as if no time had passed at all, and we would laugh and giggle and feel nineteen again.

A while back she called and left me a message. It was a bad week for me. I was in the middle of two hundred things at once so I didn't call her back. It wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes we would play phone tag for weeks before actually getting in touch with each other, and it was almost never urgent.

The next week, she called me again. I was in a non-social kind of mood that day, so I didn’t call her back, but made a mental note to call her the next day. I didn’t get around to calling though, because mental notes are pretty much useless when your brain is a sieve.

The next week, she called me again. I didn’t call her back, but thought, MAN, I really need to call her back.
The next week she called me AGAIN, sounding understandably peeved. This time I thought, MAN, I really need to call her back, with a side order of wait, before I call I have to think of a good excuse for why I didn’t call her back the first three times. So I made a note to call her RIGHT AFTER I thought of a good reason.

Pllllllbbbbt.

The next week she called me again and left a message saying, “I guess you’re never gonna call me back. I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you mad at me or something?”

Ashamed of myself, I finally called her back and apologized.

Oh, except I DIDN’T. I felt dumb, because I’d created this big dramatic thing out of thin air, simply by not calling back. I was too embarrassed to call and tell her the truth - HEY, I’m sorry, I’m a lazy and THOUGHTLESS JERK. I thought she would just be mad if I called her, and I hate drama, and because I’m a cowardly coward who cowards I thought, ah, well, we never talked all that often anyway. So basically I threw our friendship away. Swish-swish-swish, into the trash. Over NOTHING.

Because I’m a self-involved idiot with the emotional maturity of a gnat.

I ask you, who DOES that??!

When I told my sisters about this on Saturday they sat and stared at me for a minute, speechless, shaking their heads at my complete and total social idiocy and dorkitude. I know they were wondering what was missing in my SOUL that I would do that to somebody. So yes, I know. I KNOW. I KNOW!!! (Don’t tell me in the comments – I KNOW! I KNOW!!!)

Why didn’t I call her? Why did I put my own feelings of embarrassment ahead of our friendship? ACK!

I know what the answer to the question is of course. I didn’t call her because I’m a JERK.

I kept thinking, you know, if I had her email address, I could just post about it and send her the link to my blog instead of calling her to apologize (like an actual grown-up). Because heaven forbid I should have to feel awkward for two-and-a-half minutes or actually ask for forgiveness for something I did to hurt someone. But that would kind of be a jerk move. Also, I don't have her email address.

So today? TWO YEARS LATER? (I KNOW - SHUT UP.) I'm going to call her.

Wish me luck. On the phone call, and on perhaps someday achieving emotional maturity.

And Then I Bought A Five Gallon Drum of Purell

Pin It Earlier this week, I helped to chaperone a preschool field trip to the Las Vegas "Zoo."

Guys? I'm using the word zoo, very, very, very loosely, here. It has animals, but it is not affiliated with the city, and not accredited, and it is also just – NOT RIGHT.

I would describe the condition of the place, but when I googled “Las Vegas Zoo -SAD” it zipped me right over to a very funny post on this blog, which describes it perfectly:

Two words come to mind when trying to describe the Las Vegas Zoo
accurately:

1. Ghetto
2. Sad (so very, very sad.)

Yeah. What she said.

What I'm really concerned about though, is the little sanitation issue they seem to be having. If bird flu ever gets off the ground, this is where it will start, because the place is COVERED with pigeon poop.

Now I’m not a germophobe. If my kid drops a piece of his sandwich on the ground, I’ll sometimes pick it up, blow it off and hand it back to him. Good for the immune system and all that.

But when we walked toward the entrance and I saw hundreds of pigeons milling about, I started to get a bit nervous. We paid our admission and once we were inside the gates, I could see that 90% of the structures were made entirely out of pigeon crap.

I was a bit disconcerted.

“Oh look,” I cried, “There’s poo EVERYWHERE.” I laughed nervously, aware that my voice was just a little too loud. I looked at one of the other moms. “Look! Poo! All this poo! It’s on everything! Oh. Wow!”

I spent the next hour trying to make sure that my children didn’t touch anything and obsessive compulsively wiping Abby and Carter's hands off. "Did you get poo on yourself?" "How about now?" "How about now?"

At one point in time the pre-school teacher tried to get the kids to sit at one of the picnic tables to have a snack and I loudly objected.

“But look! There’s poo on it.”

“They can just not touch the top of the table,” she said calmly.

I laughed loudly. “Ha ha ha ha. Um.”

“They’ll be fine.”

I laughed again. “Ha ha ha ha. It’s on the benches." I pointed at one of the kids. "Look – he’s sitting on poo! That’s – that’s – really bothering me a lot.”

After snacktime, we walked around the zoo, all three acres of it, checking out the lion, the alligator, and the chimpanzee (who delighted my children my picking his nose and eating his boogers – they GOT that, it was their kind of comedy).

Did I mention that there was a lot of poo? Everywhere?

So basically? I do not think we will be coming back.

Here are some other fun comments about the zoo, also brought to you courtesy of Mr. Google:

• This is by far the worst "zoo" I've ever been to. I have no idea why they have so many chickens running around, except maybe to eat all the mice I saw.
• This zoo is a city haven...for the pigeons.
• This zoo is a real DUMP, and the folks that run it are to blame along with the city of Las Vegas. The poor, poor animals. May God forgive you all for this sick place!!!!
• I strongly suggest just not going.

Yeah, me too, buddy. ME TOO.

And now I must be going. So little time, so many things to bleach.

Yum, LARD

Pin It IMing the other evening, my friend Azucar and I somehow got to talking about the horrible, no good, very bad culinary pranks our parents liked to play on us. AZ reminded me about powdered milk and wheat gum (VOMIT). I cannot talk about that particular bit of wretchedness without having horrifying flashbacks, but luckily AZ just posted about it here.

(Ooooh, also, my sister wrote about powdered milk a few months ago on her food blog, here. I love how in the comments my brother's wife says he is still traumatized, and my mom tries to disavow her role in it. NICE TRY, MOM.)

My mom had other cooking quirks. For a while there she had this thing about gluten, or as I like to call it, wheat dregs. Once she made us gluten and oatmeal cookies. Let me repeat that. GLUTEN AND OATMEAL COOKIES. And she told us they were treats. That is NOT. RIGHT.

We were not allowed to have chips or any kind of sugary cereal. No Fruit Loops or Fruity Pebbles for us. No sireee, we ate Wheaties. Except, and I've never been able to quite figure this out - they let us put brown sugar on TOP of the Wheaties. And they would just - hand us the bag. Here kids, eat this nasty brown tasting cereal because it's good for you, except, also, HERE'S a SHOVEL and a bag of sugar - knock yourselves out. TELL ME HOW THAT MAKES SENSE.

My mom used to lock the fridge. To be fair, she did not really have a choice. There were NINE of us. Defensive measures had to be taken. She had this bungee cord and she would hook one end to the fridge handle and one end to a hook on the wall, and if you tried to open it and actually managed to get it unhooked, it would basically snap you so hard you went unconscious.

Sometimes, if the fridge was unlocked and mom was in another room, we would just rush it and take anything we could find and run away to another room where we would eat it, crouched in corners, stuffing the food into our gullets while keeping a watchful eye on the doorway. I once ate seven raw hot dogs, just because I could. Because they were there. (This explains so much about my eating philosophy. Oh, look, there it is! Hurry, hurry, hurry EAT IT NOW! EAT IT NOW! BEFORE IT'S GONE!)

I remember very clearly that my mom came after us for that one. She said, "Who ate those hot dogs? WHICH ONE OF YOU ATE THOSE HOT DOGS?! They were raw. RAW! You ate RAW MEAT. What are you?! ANIMALS?!"

I pretended to know nothing. "It wasn't me," I said. And then I threw up on her. (So I think she figured it out.)

If we were very good, my mom liked to serve a little dish she called Chocolate Treat. Chocolate Treat consisted of four ingredients. Peanut butter, unsweetened cocoa powder, powdered sugar, and a dash of milk. She mixed the ingredients together until it was the consistency of thick frosting, and gave it to us to eat with a spoon. So basically her philosophy was, "Here my children, eat Wheaties for breakfast and then you may have a nice bowl of lard."

This is me and my older sister. (I'm on the right.) See the nice healthy sheen on our hair? TOTALLY FROM THE LARD.


Ah, memories. So, what foods did your parents inflict on you?

Accidents Happen, Part II (This Time Not Fictional)

Pin It I'm ALIVE and feeling much better. Thank you for the well wishes and the comments (and the sometimes a little bit scary intensity). I have been watching the comments on my last post with excitement, gratitude and fascinated interest, but I have not had time to post because I was in an accident yesterday.

DUN. DUN. DUN.

I was backing out of my garage when I was completely blindsided by a large truck.

Luckily, I'm fine. There is a hole in our bumper, but there were no injuries. I keep reminding my husband that he should be grateful I'm alive, but he keeps rolling his eyes at me.

O.k., so technically, it was our truck that I hit, and technically, it was just sitting there behind me in the driveway. So I guess it wasn't really that I was blindsided as much as that I - sort of forgot the truck was there.

(Hey, I had IMPORTANT THOUGHTS in my brain. You try writing the great American novel in your head and also not hitting stuff with your car. It's HARD.)

Besides, it was kind of sneaky of my husband to just park it there in the driveway. Usually he parks on the street. He was kind of asking for it. I did NOT point this out to him when I told him what had happened:

Me: "Honey, I hit the truck."
Husband, staring at me blankly: "With what?"
Me: "With the car."
Husband, spluttering: "How did - how - it was parked - did you even --"
Me: "Um."
Husband, now examining hole in the car: "How did you not see it?"
Me: "I'm not sure."
Husband: "Did you look?"
Me: "I'm sorry?"

This is the hole I made in the bumper:



To my husband's credit, he didn't get angry, he just sighed a lot. He had to know it was coming. It's been almost ten years since I've been in an actual accident. Granted, I tend to run into stuff, but it's usually it's more like - a house or a building or something.

NOTE: Things I've run into: the house, the boat, the car, the garage door, a pole, the door of a loading dock, a shopping cart holder thingie, my bicycle, and my husband (I TOTALLY didn't see him.)

Oh, I just remembered something. When I was 19, I stopped at a 7-11 to get a Big Gulp. When I was done, I pulled out of the parking lot, looked to my left, saw that it was clear and proceeded to make a right turn - directly into into a parked public transit bus.

The bus driver came out of the bus and had pretty much the same reaction that my husband had.

Him: "How did you not see it? It's a BUS."

Me: "Um."

I did not want to tell him the real reason - that 95% of my functioning brain cells were currently devoted to thinking about boys, and it had not occured to me to look to my right. (In my defense, I DID look left. So if you want to look on the bright side, I was actually half-right.)

---------------------

In other news, my weight loss efforts are off to a fine start.

The other day I somehow found myself at Golden Spoon (as you do), a nearby frozen yogurt place. Basically it's ice cream, but they try to make you feel all virtuous and healthy for eating it, which would be fine if I wasn't eating enough for four people and topping it with cookies and chocolate sauce.

Once inside, I stood in front of the counter for a WHILE, trying to figure out what would be more virtuous, calorie-wise: a Mini vanilla with yogurt chips or a Small vanilla with strawberries. Standing there, I started thinking about how many miles I would have to walk to burn off the calories in that yogurt. It dawned on me that I could NOT eat the yogurt and that would save me a LOT more calories. I could walk out. I could put the spoon down. I could do it.

And so you know what I did?

I ate the MEDIUM yogurt, and then also, I put snickers on it.

So really, this isn't so much a weight loss victory story. It's more like - a cautionary tale. Because once I start thinking like that, denying myself stuff that is more or less healthy (shut up) and fits within my calorie budget/plan for the day, I'm headed for a downward spiral of disordered thinking ("even fewer calories if you throw it up" "even fewer calories if you don't eat anything at all, all day," "hey, I've heard people on meth lose a lot of weight,") and I give up.

I'm a regular font of inspiration, I know. You're welcome.

Why My Children Will Need Therapy - Reason #462

Pin It (Thanks to the foot post, I now know more about poop and fish eyes than I ever, EVER wanted to know. You're all DISGUSTING. Or rather, your children and animals are disgusting, but in a kind of awesome way. So there's that.)

I must preface this post by saying - I love my daughter and I am NOT AFRAID OF HER.

Still.

The other night I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, typing clickety-clack, clickety-clack and chortling to myself, when I felt this PRESENCE.

I looked to my left and the girl from The Ring was standing RIGHT THERE, two inches from my face and I screamed in terror. Except, OOPSIE, it was actually my six year old.

(See, she’s really pale, with long dark hair, and when she’s had a nightmare, she has crazy eyes. So you see how it could happen... Right? Um... Right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

For years I’ve worried about what kinds of things my children will say about me in therapy as adults, and I think for Sarah, it will probably stem from that moment, when I scared the living daylights out of her.

She cried, and I felt like a monster, and slapped myself several times because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN, she’s your darling, tender hearted, sweet, kind, brilliant daughter. And then I took her back to bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

But then. BUT THEN.

Last night, there I was in my bed, innocently sleeping and minding my own business, when again, I felt this PRESENCE. I woke up and looked to my left, and sweet mother of a badger, there she was again, staring at me with the crazy eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, in a creepy zombie voice. (Or possibly it was just a scared six year old voice. My imagination - now and then it tends to run up and down the hall, waving its arms and screaming in terror.)

I bit back my screams, held out my arms and she crawled into bed with me. I spooned her and patted her back while she told me about her dream about a poisonous snake in the house.

“How long were you standing there?” I whispered.

“A long, long, long time, mommy,” she whispered back.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She turned around and looked at me serenely and yet still with the crazy eyes, then said, “I was trying to wake you up with my MIND.”

Um. Ahem. Well. I see.

You know, I love my child, but from 1AM until approximately 3AM (the premium creepy hours), I think I might be just a leeettle bit afraid of her.

Oh, GROSS.

Pin It Oh. Hi there! GLAD YOU STOPPED BY. (I don't know why I typed that in all caps. Just because I'm REALLY GLAD.)

Recently, I have had some people* accuse me of never talking about anything important. Why use your blog to discuss so many shallow things, when you could be using it as a FORUM, they ask me. A FORUM for discussing Important Issues. (To which I respond - um, have you read my blog? Ever?)

But I do not want to be accused of never tackling the hard issues, so today, I will attempt to answer an age-old question - one that children and teenagers and certain very immature adults have tried to answer for many tens of years: "What's grosser than gross?"

(I mean - sure - we could talk about world peace, but I think that's sort of been done to death, don't you?)

So please keep in mind - when I tell you this story, I'm doing it FOR THE WORLD.

The other day I gave myself a pedicure. I always have to give myself a pre-pedicure pedicure, to sort of - take the initial winter crust off, so to speak. No way am I going to just - show up at the nail salon with my feet in their natural condition. (The horror.) They give me enough crap as it is, what with the clucking and the whispering and the aggrieved expressions.

On the bright side, the house we are renting has soft water and it's done wonders for my skin and my feet, making them no longer impervious to the effects of the foot razor callous thingie. (I think that's it's official name.) (I LOVE those things. There is something hypnotic about watching the skin peel off. It's like pulling off rubber cement you've let dry on your hand, or peeling off sunburned skin.) (Hmmmm. That last one - that's actually kind of gross. Gross, but nevertheless fascinating and addictive.)

So anyway, I was sitting there using the foot razor callous thingie to unveil the new skin underneath (like opening a present that's been wrapped in REALLY disgusting paper) and flicking the dead skin off onto a towel. My son chose that precise moment to fall or walk into a wall or something (I can't remember what happened exactly), and when I heard him crying I had to very quickly abandon my repulsive little project. As I got up, I accidentally dislodged the towel and dead skin went flying all over the bathroom floor. I groaned, but went to check on Carter.

After ensuring all of his limbs were still firmly attached, I came back into the bathroom.

Gah.

You guys.

My dog was there.

And he was LICKING the dead skin off of the floor and eating it.

Enthusiastically.

I think I dry heaved for ten minutes.

(My floor is really clean though.)

(Top that.) (Er, but only top it if it's rated PG.) (Think of the CHILDREN.)


* Fictional people

Pillow Talk

Pin It

“Honey, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes.”

“REALLY?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

He turns over. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“HONEY. I’m just saying - I really, REALLY love you. I really do.”

“You mean, as opposed to my fake love.”

“I know you love me, but I love you so much that sometimes I think my head might explode. I love you so much that if we weren’t already married I might stalk you. That’s the kind of love I’m talking about. Do you love me like that?”

(Long silence) “Hon, I’m really tired.”

“Clearly, our love is dead.”

“Go to sleep.”

“How can I sleep knowing you’re all cold and dead inside?”

“Try.”

“If I had a stroke, would you put me in a home?”

He fake snores.

I steal back some covers. “Fine. I'll leave you alone. But I can't believe you won’t even say those three little words before we go to sleep.”

“I ALREADY DID.”

“But you didn't really MEAN them."

“Here’s three words for you, and I really, really mean them: YOU’RE A DORK.”

“So romantic.”

“And yet, so true.”

My Husband is a Patient, Patient Man

Pin It

“Hon, I think I have narcolepsy.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But it says right here on Wikipedia ---“

(muttering) “Oh freakin’ A. Here we go...”

“It says a person with narcolepsy is likely to become drowsy or to fall asleep, often at inappropriate times and places.“

“(silence due to excessive eye rolling)”

“Oh my gosh. That’s SO ME.”

“That’s so everybody. That’s called – being an adult with small children.”

“And it says daytime naps may occur without warning and may be physically irresistible... Holy crap. I TOTALLY HAVE NARCOLEPSY.”

“You don’t have narcolepsy.”

“But what do you call it when I fall asleep instantaneously after I lie down?”

“Really, really annoying.”

They Are So Going To Take Away My Chick Card

Pin It So... Shoes. I’m afraid I don’t understand the whole shoe thing. I know that a lot of women love shoes, buy lots of them, covet more of them, and - I really don’t get it. They’re JUST SHOES. They cover your feet. You step on them. They protect your feet from snow and dog poop and dirt and pokey things. I’ve tried really hard to understand (and yet I still really don’t understand) what makes one pair of shoes cute and another ugly.

I don't get purses either, for that matter. My family had a white elephant gift exchange on Christmas Eve. You could contribute a joke item or a nice item, as long as it was under the price limit. The item I opened was a purse. I opened it and stared at it, because I had no idea if it was supposed to be a cute purse or a joke purse. I didn’t know how to react. Should I laugh? Should I be happy? So I looked around at the other girls in the circle who all made encouraging faces at me and said, “Oh – SO CUTE!” and then I pretended like I understood and enthusiastically said, “Yes, very cute, very cute.” I traded it a minute later for two photo albums and an iTunes gift certificate.

But I need new shoes. I really do. The dog chewed up my one pair of appropriate for winter church shoes and next week it's either fuzzy slippers or tennis shoes if I don't do something soon. Specifically, I would like boots. Looking around at church on Sunday I realized that 95% of the women in the room were wearing boots. And I thought - this is like a post-Christmas miracle, a sign from God that, yes indeed, boots were the way to go. He hath allowed mine eyes to temporarily discern shoe related fashion trends, and I have no choice but to take heed.

I don’t have any boots, unless you count short boots you wear under jeans, and my friend Liza recently told me that not only shouldn’t I count them, but really, I should burn them and never buy another pair ever, ever, ever again. And I’m thinking, "O.k., if ankle boots are ugly, why do they sell them?" Is there a crafty shoe designer out there saying, “Ha ha ha ha ha, I know these are butt ugly, but some loser will see them and buy them, and then everyone else will point and laugh. That’ll be awesome.” Why are they trying to trick me into looking dumb?

And I don’t even know, maybe Liza is wrong and they really ARE cute. I mean, who decides what makes it cute? Four teenagers named Chelsea at Hot Topic who quickly spread the word amongst their fashionista friends? And what if they're just messing with us? How can we know for sure that the shoes are cute and we haven't just all been suckered? HOW CAN WE KNOW? For example, look at these Balenciaga DESIGNER shoes! JUST LOOK AT THEM! What in the -


I would buy my shoes at Nordstroms, where the clerks tend to help you out and let you know what looks nice and what looks stupid, but I’m way too intimidated by the shoe department there. Back when we had actual money (oh, money, how I miss you) I would buy clothes there but could never bring myself to buy shoes. The shoe people frightened me. I was too scared to do much more than very quickly walk by the displays, sometimes twice but at full speed, not making eye contact with anyone. "Who, me, buy shoes? Oh, no, I'm much too busy walking around here, no, don't look at me, don't look at me, DON'T LOOK AT ME - Ayeeeee!!!" So I won't be shopping there. Plus I'm broke. DANG it.

That brings me to my other criteria… I need them to be, and this is key, cheap. I’m thinking I would gladly pay approximately two dollars.

No, I’m kidding. I would gladly pay three dollars.

O.k., FINE. I’ll pay more than that. But, when I’m talking about cheap, I just want you to understand the level of cheapness I’m talking about. Cheap. Cheap but cute. And quite obviously, I will need help figuring out what is cute, and what is not cute, and what is crossing the line into tacky, and what will make me look like I just came from a rodeo.

So – help me?

Please?

P.S. I have ginormous calves. GINORMOUS.

P.P.S. (You guys, thank you so much for all of the nice comments on the last post. They really made my day. I was waiting for everyone to call me nuts, and instead you are all just - awesome and real. And I would answer back to every comment saying, thank you, thank you, but that would get really boring for you to read. But thank you. I really do read and LOVE every comment to pieces. Ahem.)

The Life Cycle of a Blog

Pin It

• Get a blog – lie and say you are just doing it to keep in touch with people
• Write a few self conscious posts. Get no comments.
• Post all the time! Sometimes multiple times per day! You have so much to say! All the time! Wheeee!
• Comment other places. Get a few comments back.
• Become addicted to comments.
• Compulsively check comments. When comments are low, let it affect your mood that day.
• Install site analytics/tracking.
• Wonder why Blogger Y is looking at your blog for 12 hours straight. Figure out Blogger Y probably clicked on your blog and then went to sleep.
• Wonder why a certain IP address is looking at your blog 20 times a day. Get freaked out. Realize it's you.*
• Check out other blogs. Wonder why they have awards and you don’t.
• What’s a meme?
• Watch traffic go up. Pretend you don’t care.
• Watch traffic go down. Pout.
• Get awards. Give away awards. Get more awards. Give away awards. Start to be very, very afraid of awards. Write post mocking awards. Never get another award. Sulk.
• Give your blog a makeover (Obviously, I skipped this step ;>)
• Put up ads.
• Have a couple of well received posts. Become self conscious about posting afterwards because you cannot measure up to yourself.
• Guest post places. Suck at it because when you guest post you are supposed to have an actual point and you, my dear, do not have one.
• Get writer’s block. You have nothing to say. Nothing at all. You SUCK.
• Decide to stop worrying about what people think and just - write stuff
• Watch traffic go down, down, down. Wheeeeee!
• Realize you will never be Dooce and become o.k. with that.
• Discover that even when people don't comment, life still has meaning.
• Stop being a total blogging freak and get a little perspective for Christmas
• Stop checking site analytics because you've realized it makes you crazy(er.)
• Achieve blog zen - blog because you want to, not because you have to

Don't pretend you don't do some of this stuff. Maybe not all of it, but some of it? Right?

Anyone?

Anyone?

Just me then?

Okie-dokie.

P.S. *Nicki, you know I'm lookin' at YOU. Hee. That still cracks me up.

How You Know You Have a Little Problem Called PMS

Pin It (Warning, squeamish men might want to leave the room, because at some point I'm gonna say the word PERIOD. Oops, see, I just did it.)

Christmas Eve:
4:00: At brother and sister-in-law's house, go back and forth between laughing and being incredibly negative, at rapid speed. It's good to keep people off guard.

6:15: Relentlessly correct everything your husband says. When he privately expresses irritation, get all teary eyed, because how could he be so MEAN? Demand that he forgive you, or Christmas is RUINED.

8:00: Realize you brought a dumb white elephant gift. Burst into tears and leave the room. When people ask why you are crying, tell them you don't know, that you just feel pathetic.

8:15: Realize you only brought a couples gift and not separate white elephant gifts for you and your husband. Burst into tears. Again.

9:30: Someone says something nice. Start crying because people are JUST SO NICE.

10:35: Sister does something amazingly nice for you. Sob.

And again.

And again.

Christmas Morning and Afternoon:
Apparently, you are given a respite for Christmas morning that allows you to behave in a fairly normal way. Hallelujah, it's a Christmas miracle. Ponder previous day's teariness, wonder why you were falling apart... You are not usually such a huge cry-baby. What is WRONG with you? Ponder, ponder, ponder - see chips and dip, lose train of thought.

Christmas Night:
7:00: Fly home because you have to be at work in the morning, and husband and kids don't need to be back till Friday. Say goodbye to husband and kids. Cry.

10:00: Land. Find car in long-term parking, covered in ice and snow. You forgot to put windshield ice scraper in the car. In between using an old gardening glove to try to get the ice off the windshield, cry and shake fist at the sky.

11:00: Realize on the way home that the gas light is on and you are below empty. Realize you have entered some type of twilight zone land with no convenience stores anywhere near the highway. Panic. Weep. Locate 7-11. Calm down again. Put gas in car.

11:15: Get on freeway. Try to relax. Take wrong turn, end up in West Valley. Get back on freeway. Swear a lot. Call husband. Ask him to help. Get upset when he reminds you he is 400 miles away. Fail to make the connection. What does that have to do with anything? Why can't he do something to help? WHY? WHY?!!!

11:30: Get off the freeway and onto icy surface streets. Slide around a lot in little car while screaming and cursing. Drive approximately 15 mph toward a stop sign, start skidding anyway. Narrowly avoid accident.

11:40: Very slowly, very cautiously drive into neighborhood. Very slowly start to turn into snowy driveway. Before your front tires even get over the curb, get stuck. Try to go backward. Nope. try to go forward. Nope. Call husband. Tell him you love him, you worship him, and that you will never be separated from him again, ever, ever, EVER. Because you need his snow moving capacity.

11:45: Change into snow boots and parka. Shovel snow. Shovel some more. Shovel again. Try to drive car. Still stuck. Try to push car. Still stuck. Cry. Bang head against car. Fall down in snow. Cry some more, and for added drama, pound the snow with your fist. Curse the heavens.

12:05: Decide to just leave the car there in the street and deal with it in the morning before work. Car is sticking out into the street and will probably get hit, but you do not care. If the car gets hit it was obviously the will of God. Go into the house and change.

12:10: Phone rings. It is your neighbors, your lovely, lovely neighbors, who have noticed that your car is stuck in the road. They are coming to help dig you out. Meet them outside. Shower gratitude on them. In three minutes, the car is in the garage. Weep. Hug them. Weep some more. (Seriously though, how AWESOME are my neighbors? Love them. FLOVE them. SO MUCH FLOVE.)

Morning of the 26th:
8:05: Open the garage to shovel driveway before you go to work. Notice neighbors kids have shoveled driveway and sidewalk. Cry.

Hear Carrie Underwood song. Cry all the way to work.

At work: Get period. Realize the period may be related to weepiness. Cry, because for several years, when you were having kids and nursing, the period was a non-entity - no crazy hormones, no intense pain, nada. Realize that, apparently, both the whacked out PMS hormones (and you thought you just had gotten emotionally MATURE - ha!) and the intense, fever inducing pain are back. Cry.

So... yeah.

I think I may be dehydrated. Excuse me. (Sniffle.)

The Birthday Party: A Parable

Pin It 1 And on the 17th day of the twelfth month it came to pass that the daughter of the Queen turned five years old.

2 And behold, it was decreed that a festival should be held and that children should come to pay homage to the young princess.

3 And when the Queen beheld the large number of children in the land, and heard their cries, and saw their eagerness to attend the festival, she knew that she could not invite one save she invite all.

4 And behold, the Queen prophesied that a great number of children would be out of town, and so it came to pass that the Queen did invite a large number of children,yay, even five and twenty children, to the royal festival.

5 And lo, the royal treasury was bare, and so the Queen did visit the market of one hundred cents and did purchase all manner of goods for the royal festival, and behold, when she laid them before the King, he declared that they were good.

6 And behold, the Queen had prophesied incorrectly, and on the day of the royal festival a great number of children appeared, yay, even all children appeared, save only one, and they arrived bearing gifts and tidings of great joy.

7 And there was much decorating of baked goods, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, for the Queen had only one can of purple sprinkles, and there was no yellow frosting, and behold, this did make the children with baked cookies in star shapes exceedingly angry, and the Queen was afraid, for the noise which the children maketh, it did cause her to tremble and quake.

8 And behold their wrath was mighty and the Queen bowed down before them and did work to entice them, yay even to distract them with games and dance and merry making.

9 And behold, the royal dog was freakingeth out, and the Queen did place him in the royal garage, so that he might not pee himself, for so great was his anxiety because of the children.

10 And after much merry making, behold, the Queen looked at her devils food cake, and looked at the King, and cried, woe unto me, for this cake shall not feed such a great number, and thou must travel to the market, and purchase more cake to feed these children who have come to pay homage.

11 But lo, the King said, Nay, oh ye of little faith, fear not, for this cake shall be enough.

12 And the woman despaired, but she began to cut the cake.

13 And lo, there was much rejoicing in the land, for as it turnethed out, there was enough cake, and there were even some children in the land who did not like cake, but who desired only ice cream, and so the cake was enough to feed many children, even five and twenty children, and the news of this great miracle spread throughout the land.

14 And the King said, Woman, I have been called out of town, and must go. Peace be unto you.

15 And the woman wept because there were a large number of children still present, yay, even five and twenty children and the woman cried, oh, surely I am a cursed woman among all women.

16 And behold, the children brought many gifts, and they brought them forward, in a great swarming mass of gift giving, even an obscene amount of gift giving, and behold, the children would not sit down and give heed to the princess, for they were making merry.

17 And behold great was the wrath of the princess when the children would not give her heed.

18 And the princess did endeavor to make the children listen to her, else she would scream and cry out to the people to leave the land.

19 But behold the Queen did show them mercy, and did exile the Princess to her room, until she could get a grip.

20 And behold, after five minutes, the Princess did return, and she did make amends to her people, and brought them good tidings of great joy.

21 And she did bestow upon them gift bags of assorted colors, and the children screamed with joy.

22 For the candy, it was good.

23 And soon, the mothers of the children did return to the land, and they did say unto the Queen, Behold, you are indeed a mighty and brave Queen, for when we droppethed them off, never had we beheld so many children at festival, and our fear was great, and much did we doubt thee.

24 But you are indeed a true and wise Queen and we shall not doubt thee again

25 And the children left, yay, even all five and twenty children, and the young princess and her cohorts were banished to their rooms, but with many amusements, and the Queen did fall onto the couch and did slumber for half an hour, until she was woken by the Princess, who did come bearing thanks and praise, for she hath enjoyed the royal festival exceedingly

26 And behold, how great was her joy.

27 And behold the Queen was joyful also, for she did love the young Princess exceedingly.

28 And behold, the royal festival was ended, at least for the space of a year.

29 And lo, I say unto you, if ye shall learn a lesson from reading this tale, then take heed, and do not invite a large number of children to the winter festival; yay, only invite a small number of children, lest ye suffer the consequences, even like unto the Queen.

30 And if ye have read all of this, yay, even to the end, now tell me, what think ye of my tale? Thinketh ye that I hath too much time on my hands?

31 Yay, verily verily, it may be so, for behold, the Royal King, he is gone, even again, and I am lonely, and so I say unto you, that she who leaveth a comment, shall be greatly blessed in the eyes of the Queen.

P.S. Lest ye doubt this tale, I hath provided this moving picture, that ye may see and believe upon my words.

(had to remove the video - it kept making my posts republish in the feeds :>)

My Nemesis: The Phone

Pin It I have PHONE issues. I don't like talking on it, don't like calling people, don't like answering it. Sometimes just the sound of it makes my stomach twist into knots. I don't mind getting together in person with people, and love having conversations that go on for hours, but there is something about the phone that makes me want to throw up.

If I'm going to answer the phone there are certain "criteria."

I will NEVER answer the phone unless I know who it is. If an unfamiliar number shows up on the caller ID, forget it. They're getting the answering machine, baby.

If I know who it is, even if I like or dearly love the person, I usually let the machine get it so that they have to leave a message - then I know what they want. Usually they say something like, "I'm just calling to say hi, call me back." And then I nod and put calling them back on my list of things to do. I'm not sure what I think they're going to say. "I'm calling to tell you that you SUCK and I HATE YOU." It could be. That could happen. So I wait, just to make sure.

If I know who it is, and I urgently need to talk to them, I will think about answering it, but probably I won't. Because I'm ridiculous. We put a sofa up for sale on Craigslist and a lady called and wanted to buy it. I heard her leaving that message, and did I pick up the phone before she hung up? No. I waited till the next day, and when I couldn't think of any other excuse for not calling her, I called and left her a message. And then didn't pick up the phone when she called back. It took a long time to get that dang couch sold.

I have one sister-in-law who has learned all of this about me and she will call and just talk and talk and talk into the answering machine and literally SHAME me into picking up the phone. "I know you are there. I know you are sitting there listening. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone Sue. You can do it. Just pick it up. Come on. I have things to do. Places to go. Just pick up the phone." Sometimes I pick it up. Sometimes though, I just turn the volume down and hide in my room until she hangs up, and then I email her.

One of my friends told me a while ago that she doesn't have caller I.D.

I looked at her incredulously. "You don't have caller I.D.?"

"No."

"So you just - answer the phone WITHOUT KNOWING WHO IS THERE?"

"Yeah."

"That's insane."

I mean really. To have NO IDEA who might be on the phone. Ever. And to pick up the phone ANYWAY. I literally cannot imagine what is going on in her head.

I made a new friend once and after the third or fourth time she called me I was ready to go totally nutso. It seemed like she was calling ALL THE TIME.

"Why does she keep CALLING me?!!" I complained to my husband.

"She's called you three times in three weeks."

"I KNOW it. It's INSANE."

My husband broke out the slow and special voice he uses when he thinks I'm not quite getting it. "Honey -- she wants to be your FRIEND. That's what friends do. They call each other. They talk on the phone. They don't just - email each other once in a while."

"They should. They should just email each other." And the thing is - I DO want to be her friend. I just don't want her to CALL me.

On Sunday the phone rang and I waited for the caller ID to announce it. (We have talking caller ID.) It announced the name of one of my friends, Diana, who was coming over later that afternoon. My husband started to pick it up and I shrieked. "Don't answer it, don' t answer it, don't answer it!"

He stared at me. "Why not?"

I blinked. I wasn't really sure.

He answered it.

I started jumping up and down mouthing, "I'm not here, I'm not here!!"

"Sure, she's right here." He made a face at me and handed me the phone.

I hit mute and said, 'I cannot believe you just did that."

"You need to talk to her, she's coming over later and wants to confirm."

I shook my head. "I can't talk to her right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm NOT HERE."

"But you ARE here. You do, in fact, exist in this moment in time."

"But I'm NOT READY."

"TAKE THE PHONE. You like her. She is your friend. You are wasting her time. Stop being a such a FREAK."

And of course, Diana and I had a perfectly nice conversation. I'm still mad at my DH though. Because really. Way not to enable me.

Family Bulletins #151 - #156

Pin It Dear Abby,
Late breaking news: I am the MOTHER. That means you do what I say. That does not mean you listen and then whine a little and then think it over and then cry and then roll around on the floor and then stare at me balefully and then wait until I start counting to three and THEN you do what I say. It just means you do what I say.
Love,
The Tyrannical Being Who Is the Destroyer of All Fun
P.S.: Don’t stick your tongue out at me. I can see you.


Dear Dumb, Stupid, Hateful Dog:
Have you seen 101 Dalmations lately? Yeah? Well, two words:
Puppy Coat.
Love From,
The Woman Who Was Not Happy With The Little Present You Left On The Carpet This Morning
P.S. I hate you.


Dear Husband,
The dog left you a present. Enjoy!
Love,
The Woman Who Is Ready to Send The Dog Off To The Farm - The Farm Where All Evil Dogs Go To Die Retire


Dear Children,
The wall is for holding up the roof. It has sufficient texture and color already. You do not need to fortify the wall by plastering it with boogers at night. Heaven knows you are constantly looking for excuses to get out of bed at night - so GET OUT OF BED and WIPE IT ON A FREAKING TISSUE. Good gravy. I mean, you know I hate boogers, right? So why would you make me pick old hard, dried up ones off the wall with my fingernail? Ugh.
Love,
The Woman Who Cannot Believe Such Gross Creatures Could Possibly Be Her Offspring Because Really, That Is Just Sick And Wrong
P.S. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.


Dear Sarah,
Stay in the backyard means stay in the backyard. It does not mean open up the gate and go in the front yard and walk down the street to where your friends are all congregated. It means stay in the yard that is in the back. The BACK YARD. When you nod and say, “Yes mom, we will stay in the backyard,” I assume you are agreeing to Stay.In.The.Back.Yard. The one in the back. This is not an acceptable response: “OOH, you meant the BACK yard. Oh. Sorry.” If you want to play with your friends in the front yard, ask me. But don't act like you had no idea what I was talking about. I know you speak English.
Love,
The Woman Who Is Buying A Padlock For The Gate Tomorrow


Dear Carter,
Listen. We've gotta talk, mommy to three year old. I know it feels nice and apparently this is perfectly normal and - all that jazz, but you can't - handle it all day long. And you really can't take it out of your pants and point it at people. That kind of behavior will land you in jail someday. Seriously. Put it away.
Love,
The Woman Responsible For Teaching You How To Become a Functioning Member of Society, Lord Help Us All

The Proper Care and Feeding of Magical Creatures

Pin It Yesterday's post and comments reminded me about our little - Christmas problem. We have some Santa - issues.

For a long time Sarah was under the impression that Jesus lived in heaven with Santa Claus and Frosty the Snowman. In her mind they are all magical creatures with special powers, and it's hard to disabuse her of the notion because - well, Santa is magic, right? And Jesus is - well, not magic, but powerful. (It's a fine line.) I'm surprised, frankly, that she is not terrified of little baby Jesus. Because the girl is petrified of anything even faintly magical.

I remember when she first found out about Santa Claus. "An old man is going to - come into my house? In the middle of the night? From out of the fireplace? And he steals food? And - and he's watching me, right now?" She was terrified. She wanted nothing to do with this Santa Claus man, and she didn't care if he left her presents. She just wanted him to STAY OUT OF HER HOUSE.

Every time we tried to talk to her about it, to reassure her, she got more upset. She made me promise that I would tell him not to come by, that we were fine. She asked me to meet him at the store to pick up the toys, then bring them home for her to open on Christmas morning. On Christmas Eve, when other kids are telling stories about how Santa Claus is coming to town and gleefully watching out the window and listening for sleigh bells, she's making us check the locks. We don't talk a whole lot about Santa around here. When we do, it's in hushed tones.

Her fear of magical creatures does not start and end with Santa. When I was filling out the paperwork for pre-school a few years ago, there was a sheet that asked, "Does your child have any special fears," and I dutifully wrote, "Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, magic people, mean fairies, etc." I thought the teacher would understand this extended to leprechauns.

On St. Patrick's Day, stupid me, I sent her to pre-school not realizing there would be a whole leprechaun THING. (Here in my neck of the woods, people go nuts over every holiday. EVERY holiday. This is the only place I've ever lived where there are treasure hunts on St. Patrick's Day - where the leprechauns leave treats for the children. ) The teacher decided it would be fun to tell the kids that leprechauns were in the preschool bathroom that morning wreaking havoc, and proceeded to show them how the bathroom is a big mess, with drawers open, and toilet paper strewn about.

Cue the other children laughing with delight. Cue the other children looking for the leprechaun and finding the treasure and happily eating candy. Cue Sarah getting hysterical. Cue Sarah refusing to use that bathroom for the rest of the school year. Cue Sarah peeing herself rather than having to use that bathroom.

I think she is starting to grow out of it because she DID allow the Tooth Fairy to come by - I think because the Tooth Fairy deals in cash, and she is currently fascinated with the whole concept of money.

I asked her tonight if she would like to go see Santa at the mall and she responded with a nervous smile, "Uh, sure. Maybe." Followed by nervous laughter and darting eyes. Carter patted her on the back then made an imaginary gun with his fingers and said, "Don' worry Sare, I shock him for ya, pow pow." Great. My kid wants to off Santa. But at least he's doing it for his sister, and that's sort of - nice. Right? Right?

Right?

P.S. Any of you who are Harry Potter fans recognized the post title. My kids? They would not recognize it. Because we can't watch Harry Potter. We can't watch anything marginally scarier than Barbie and the Island Princess. Elmo Saves Christmas was alarming. Barbie Fairytopia FREAKED. THEM. OUT and they refused to walk upstairs alone for a month, because, you know, there might be evil barbie fairies hidden in the playroom. If I were to show them Harry Potter? They would probably need counseling.

P.P.S. Thanks to a commenter I just realized that "The Proper Care and Feeding of" is not from Harry Potter but from Dr. Laura. So my first P.S. makes - not a lot of sense. But you get the idea.