Sometimes I just think funny things

Don’t even get me STARTED on rude cashiers.

2010-05-13T15:50:00.002-04:00

(Shhhhhh….)

(Quietly now…)

(**CRASH**)

(What was that?...)

(You knocked over the damn lamp, that's what.)

(**sneaking in on tippy-toes, ever so quietly, so as not to call attention to the fact that I haven't written a thing in five months.**)

(**leaning against the wall unobtrusively, whistling, trying to make you think I've been here the whole time.**)

(**unsuccessfully.**)

So my latest beef? Beef. Or, rather, grocery-related products.

The persona I now assume upon returning home from any trip to the store, whether it's for nine bags of groceries or ice cream cookies flax-infused tofu bars, is that of a grumpy old woman. One who will drive 30 miles out of her way to save $2 on gas, one who complains about the noise, oh the noise, oh the noise noise NOISE NOISE. One whose voice rises to levels previously reserved for discussing war criminals, when ranting about the price of CEREAL.

In other words, my mother.

So, my mother (me) returns from the grocery store, mumbling under her breath about the price of groceries, and WORSE, how the manufacturers think we're IDIOTS, as if we're not going to NOTICE that every product in a cardboard box or plastic BAG has shrunk by at least 25%. BUT THEY'RE CHARGING THE SAME PRICE.

"Hey, folks, our prices have been the same since 1947!! We're here to save you money! (except the joke's on you--we're actually giving you 25% less product for the same price. More money for us…MWAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!!)

This week, however, I returned home from the store, unpacked my [overpriced] groceries, and pulled out the package of chicken breasts to make fajitas. I cut it open and proceeded to slice them into strips.

Only, here's the thing, oh irony of ironies. These boobies babies were so huge, I felt like I should be carving them to serve with a dish of jellied cranberry sauce* and a side of family drama. I counted the number of breasts in the package, looked at the total weight, and after a lengthy mathematical thinking session complete with fingers, toes, and a calculator, deduced that these chicken breasts weighed, like, a pound each.

(once more, in caps, for emphasis)

A POUND EACH.

Aren't whole chickens, like, 3 ½ - 4 pounds altogether? So either these are some seriously giantess chickens (which would haunt my dreams) or these are normally-sized chickens who are really, really well-endowed. Raised by some perv farmer, to boot, who like his chickens to be 50% breast.

"…yyyyeeeeaaaaahhhh, girrrrll…have some more of this chicken feed…thaaaaat's right..." *creepy clucking noises*

In summation, food manufacturers: ripping us off, royally. Chicken farmers: weird freakos who raise unnaturally large chicken breasts.

Which, this week at $top & $hop, were $1.99 a pound!

****

Manufacturers who get my thumbs-up this week? Bausch & Lomb, for putting out a clear, nay, opaque bottle of multi-purpose saline solution. It's salt water you can see!

It's like having an ocean view every time I open my medicine cabinet! See? Even the toothbrush is excited!

*jellied only, please. No whole cranberries allowed on Guwi's plate.

Ornaments and Hope

2009-12-30T12:29:00.003-05:00

Is there any more hateful task than taking down Christmas decorations? And if you have a short memory, as I do, you forget that while having two Christmas trees in the house may look fabulous and festive and you can divide the ornaments so you have a kids' tree and a grown-up's tree (my husband would argue it's the kids' tree and Carolyn's tree), dismantling two trees is not twice the work, but actually five times more work than taking down one. This is an actual scientific fact, backed up by much science-y-type research. By me.

Putting away Christmas ornaments is also, surprisingly, the one task at which I truly excel in the house. I've been collecting for a number of years, and each ornament is wrapped individually and packed away with precision. (Those of you who've ever been to my house may think to yourselves...hm. It's a shame she squanders all of her housekeeping energy to that one area...perhaps if she spread the wealth to other tasks throughout the year, there would be more of an overall benefit. And if you thought that, you would be correct.)

I do find, though, that wrapping each ornament is a mindless task suitable for much soul-searching, especially at a time of year that practically begs for it. (C'mon...it's almost New Year's! Don't you want to think about what you've done with your life this year? What you've achieved, what you haven't? What your goals are for next year? It's required! 'People' magazine says so!)

I find myself wondering, Next time I take out these decorations, where will I be?

Will I be unpacking them in the same house?

Will I still be home full-time or will I be working outside-the-home?

Will everyone I love still be here, still be happy and healthy and well?

Will I still be happy and fulfilled? What can I do next year to ensure that I will be?

What, for that matter, would I consider fulfilling, besides my terrific home life?

Will I be depressed because I'll be (gulp) 40?

Do I have any band-aids, because I just cut myself on the &*^% reindeer ornament?

I realize I can't shake the tree for an answer, like some green, prickly magic eightball. Though seeing an ornament read 'Signs Point to Yes!' just as I'm wondering if I'll finally hit Powerball would make for some sweet New Year's dreaming.

A lot of people use the phrase 'what a difference a year makes' and that couldn't be more true. I've had many years that have been unbelievably wonderful, and just one in particular that was particularly difficult to muddle through. I'm hesitant to discount an entire year as being terrible, even if there were some rotten times. I usually manage to count my many blessings, even during the low times.

Though I have had an overall great year; my blessings of love, health, family, warmth and relative prosperity do not go unnoticed, there are a few people in my life who have had more than their fair share of obstacles and loss to contend with this year. I am an optimist, and I speak now to them in particular:

Friday is a clean slate. The first of the month, the first of the year, and the first of a new decade. The turning of a calendar page does not guarantee an instant bright outlook, but I do believe that having a fresh start counts for something. For these people I love, who have suffered loss and heartbreak, my New Year's wish for you is that when you're unpacking your decorations next year, you feel peace. That you feel hope. That you reflect back on 2010 as the year with more good than bad, more happiness than tears, and a fuller, unbroken heart. I hope that, a year from now, you're reflecting back on 2010 as a year better than the last, in all of the ways that truly matter.

And to all of my friends, I wish the same. I wish you food on your table, a roof over your head, love in your life and peace in your heart. I hope 2010 is a year of promise and fulfillment, and success on your journey, wherever you're headed.

Happy New Year!

A Sort of Homecoming

2009-11-13T09:29:00.009-05:00

I've had a constant eye twitch for the last three weeks.

I've been at rehearsal every night this week till 11:00, which, for someone whose idea of a long night is tucking into her Snuggie for back-to-back tv viewing of Sons of Anarchy and Mad Men, has been exhausting. Muscles hurt that I didn't even remember I had.

I wake up humming numbers from the show, which have been looping through my dreams all night. (And speaking of dreams, I had one that Justin Timberlake accidentally ripped my costume during my opening number, but was kind enough to repair it backstage with his sewing machine. Which he evidently travels with.)

I had false eyelash glue stuck on my eyelid for most of yesterday.

I haven't had a conversation with my husband in well over a week that's lasted longer than 15 minutes, at which point, my head drops to my chest in a puddle of drool.

But. Tonight is opening night. And that, my friends, is the big payoff for all of the madness that precedes it.

It's been an adjustment getting my theatre groove back. At one time in my life, it was all I knew, both for amusement and social purposes. I knew every word to A Chorus Line and Les Mis. Life was divided into pre-show and post-show chunks of time, and I had a vast collection of tights, leg warmers, and detritus from previous productions: gloves full of confetti, a giant lollipop stapled to my wall, and dozens of programs signed by fellow castmembers, pledging eternal fanhood and friendship.

Then came life, and my children, more precious treasures than the Oscar or Tony award I had dreamed of clinching for years. I hung up my character shoes ('hanging them up' is just a figure of speech--I think I lent them out. If you have them, I could really use them back) put away my Stein's pancake sticks, and filed away the books of sheet music and boxes of cassettes. (Yes, cassettes. Shut up.)

It had been awhile since I dreamed of the big time, and I was very happy performing in community theatre productions. It always felt like home to me: the smell of Aqua Net and musty costumes, fresh paint on sets, the tape spikes on the stage for positioning, opening night jitters and closing night tears and champagne. Friendships grew over long breaks between scenes during Hell Week, and there was cattiness and diva behavior, but always there was common ground, and a love for performing.

I missed it. I missed the applause, the costumes, the makeup, the cameraderie, and the part of myself that thrived on all that wasn't dead, but was hibernating like a bear after Thanksgiving dinner. So last spring, I cowboyed up and went for an audition.

And five months later, almost to the day, I'm sitting here on the morning of opening night, with the beginnings of a few jitters (could be coffee, could be jitters. Either way, the false eyelashes should wait until my hands are steady). We ran through the whole show last night for the first time. Watching the scenes I'm not in was such a thrill: the huge sets are truly magical, the spotlights hit their marks, and sitting in the audience just behind the live orchestra, seeing it the way as many as 900 people will see it tonight, gave me chills and left me a little verklempt. There are some astoundingly talented people on that stage, and I'm proud and humbled to work alongside them.

But the biggest thrill of all? How excited my children are for me. They've been singing along with me for months, and now they know the whole show by heart. (Apologies to my fellow castmembers if you hear two young children singing along with you. They know better, but you must admit: the music is tres catchy, non?) My husband has been wonderfully patient and supportive of the long nights of rehearsal for the past few months, (even if he did watch Sons of Anarchy without me this week) and the first thing Sassy said when she woke up this morning was: "Mommy! It's here! It's opening night! I can't wait to see you on stage!"

*tear*

I've heard it said that you can't go home again, but you can find a new house, and bring some of your old furnishings with you. There are features about the new house you'll love, and there are things you'll miss like crazy about the old house, so they'll just have to live on in your memory and a few snapshots. But at some point, the new house is decorated, your pictures are up and there are lightbulbs in every socket, the kitchen stuff is put away and you've found a home for all those random boxes that you packed haphazardly just before you moved. And one day you unlock the door and walk in, take a look around at everything you've created, everything where it should be, and it hits you.

You are home.

A True Halloween Story.

2009-10-30T15:49:00.003-04:00

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a cemetery on Halloween? There were no cheap plastic tombstones from Target, no mummies wandering around with toilet paper dangling from each decaying extremity, no strobe lights or wailing moans or creaky doors swinging on hinges.

There was none of that. But on October 31, 2001, I went to a cemetery to attend my father’s burial.

I know! Didn’t see that coming, did you?

In hindsight, I don’t think any of us much cared about the irony of a Halloween burial and hanging out in a cemetery (except perhaps my nephew, who normally celebrates his October 31 birthday with wild! abandon! Buuuuuuttt, that particular year he had to go to a cemetery to bury his grandfather. Happy Birthday!)

Because my father was, like, insanely Catholic, he had two funeral masses. Actually, he had two because there was one in the town where we grew up, and one down on the island where he and my mother had lived full time for five years. I believe there were about seven priests in attendance between both masses (as I said, he was seriously Catholic) so we joked that it was his assurance of getting straight to heaven—no ‘do not pass GO, do not collect $200’ for him. Like a VIP pass for the hereafter.

We had his first funeral in our old church where most of us received a variety of sacraments over the years, then a few days later headed down to the island for the second mass and burial.

Only it was Halloween. And the really creepy thing? Either the funeral home didn’t provide services in locations that you had to take a ferry to get to, or my mom had decided that it wasn’t necessary. We’d followed in my father’s DIY tradition for everything from fixing plumbing to painting to electrical wiring, so why on earth couldn’t we just take care of the burial? I’m surprised duct tape wasn’t employed at any point.

(It should be noted here, for practicality’s sake, that my father’s earthly remains were in a smaller, hand-carried box. Not the six-foot-long variety. Just to be clear.)

On a blustery October morning, we drove the hour from our hometown to the ferry district, and hopped on the ferry with a number of attendees who were along for the second service. Some people took their cars, some didn’t. We carpooled to the church. All in all, it was a tremendously non-traditional funeral procession. There may or may not have been a Carling Black Label or two consumed, but if there had been (and I’m not saying there was) it was purely in honor of my Dad, and his favorite beverage. A toast, if you will.

The funeral itself was fairly typical, with my brothers sharing tremendous words of love, humor, and respect. At one point, my sister had a coughing fit, and I had a baby bottle full of clean water to mix with formula for my then Baby B. When she really started convulsing I grabbed the bottle, took off the lid and thrust it at her to calm her cough, and when she realized she was drinking out of a baby bottle, we both got a first-class case of the giggles. Which no church service in our family would be complete without.

After church, we made our way to the cemetery, and with the priest’s help, presented my father’s remains to the earth in the most dignified way possible. When the final words had been spoken, my brother produced a bag of peanuts in the shell and passed them out. If you knew my father, you knew peanuts were his favorite snack. He’d sit on the beach for hours, reading the paper, listening to the Red Sox, and cracking and eating peanuts, leaving a sports-bar-like carpet of discarded peanut shells at his feet.

People looked a little confused upon receiving a peanut at a burial, but after following my brother’s lead, proceeded to crack them, eat them, and gently toss the shells into the shallow grave. Some did it self-consciously, some did it thoughtfully and meaningfully (at least, with as much meaning as one can convey with a peanut), and some, like the eight of us and my mother, did it tearfully. What a bizarre, unconventional tribute, but it couldn’t have been more fitting.

We started toward the American Legion for my Dad’s official send-off, and my brothers very quietly called aside the older few of their sons and nephews, and produced a few shovels. As I said, the funeral home had not accompanied us to the burial, and there was work to be done. In the tradition of my father, who’d woken up these same men since they were boys with a loud, Marine Corps bellow and the passing along of a lawn-tending implement of some kind to start the yard project of the day, my brothers handed shovels to their sons and they set about burying my father. Peanut shells and all.

After the American Legion, after the friends had taken the ferry home, we went back to my mom’s house. My ever-practical sisters produced some home-baked Halloween goodies and candy and started costuming their children. I’d bought a costume for my little guy, only ten months old then, and began to dress him as a little green dinosaur. My throat tightened as I remembered going shopping for the costume with my mother the week before. I’d dropped her off, showed my Dad the costume, he’d had a quiet chuckle about it, and I headed home. It was the last conversation I would ever have with him.

Halloween has morphed into a huge, commercial holiday similar in scale to the commercialization of Christmas, only instead of brightly colored festive lights, reindeer and a jolly man in a red suit, people decorate their homes like graveyards. Rotting tombstones, ghostly hands clawing out of the ground, bats circling overhead and blood and gore galore. Don’t get me wrong: I love Halloween. It’s still one of my favorite holidays, and we do the whole pumpkin-carving/costumed trick-or-treating thing with our kids. I love horror movies, too, and I relish curling up with a good scary book.

It’s just…I’ve been in a cemetery on Halloween. It wasn’t scary, or ghoulish, or creepy, or a scream-inducing thrill-a-minute. It was a first-class bummer. I was there for a funeral, just like every other person who’s ever had a legitimate reason to go to a cemetery. It was surreal and weird and heartbreaking. Everyone’s entitled to their own decorating style, but you just won’t ever see my front lawn turned into a cemetery for the sake of entertainment or esthetics.

Peanut shells though? That would be a totally different story.

In which she rends my heart in two

2009-10-16T07:56:00.003-04:00

When Big B was on the last train out of Toddlerhood (just west of Clarksville), I conjured up this little piece of interactive prose:

"Are you a baby?" I'd ask.

"No!" My gangly child would answer.

"Are you my baby?" I'd prod.

"Yes!" He would answer gleefully.

He still plays along, knowing instinctively, I think, that if he ever said, 'Mooooommmm!' or 'Uhhhhh, yeah. I don't think so,' it would be the verbal equivalent of cutting my heart out with a spoon (y'know, it's dull, it'll hurt more). He always ends with a tight hug.

My children are merely trained actors in my own little scripted family drama.

Sassy, of course, plays along too. And because she's just a squishy ball of squishy sweetness, she usually ad libs an extra little morsel of verbal love. Sometimes it's 'Yes, always!' or 'Yes! And you're my best mommy!"

Straight from Central Casting, that one is.

This morning we were snuggling in front of the fire, watching a few flurries tango outside the window (IN OCTOBER) and I prompted her:

"Are you a baby?"

"NO!"

"Are you my baby?"

"YES!"

And because she hates me and wants me to spend the entire day weeping, she added,

"I will ALWAYS be your baby. Even when you're in HEAVEN."

Blame it on the rain

2009-10-13T09:59:00.006-04:00

I let the babies sleep in this morning, recovering from the hardcore partying they did yesterday at the local fall festival PLUS looking for Halloween costumes. Those two are wild! Must hide the liquor and car keys.

After dropping Big B off at school, I looked in my rearview and Sassy was staring out at the rain. "Whatcha thinkin' about, SuperSass?"

"Oh nothing. As you can see, I have a scratchy throat too, like Big B. Also, I was staring at the rain." She continued to watch the drops, transfixed.

Rain even makes the little ones withdraw; thoughtful and melancholy. One of my clearest childhood memories was me sitting in the front seat of my parent's station wagon (very likely also not wearing a seatbelt, but we already know that the 70's were the decade of living on the edge), lulled into near-sleep by the rhythm of the windshield wipers. I watched as a drop of water started gliding slowly south, absorbing each drop it touched along the way, until finally it was a shimmering, amoeba-like blob, only to be splashed violently into the street by the wipers, in the midst of their snow-angel arc.

Fall rain has the power to cleanse, to settle my chatty five-year-old into contented silence, to tamp down the leaves into the beginnings of compost. It grants permission to withdraw into contemplative stillness, to have another cup of tea or coffee or cider, to wrap a sweater tightly around, warding off the chill. Unlike summer rain, which is usually greeted with disappointment over ruined plans and soggy paper plates at a barbeque, fall rain seems expected, part of the deal, making us almost thankful. 'At least it's not colder,' we say. 'Can you imagine how much snow this would be if it were colder?'

Fall rain. Permissable melancholy, accompanied by hot beverages and a warm sweater.

It's a good thing she's got those soft ears

2009-10-08T09:23:00.004-04:00

Why is it that my dog won't eat the kibble that falls on the floor when I'm feeding her? I've seen what you eat, mutt, and trust me: that kibble that's been tainted by *ew! Floor germs!* is sterile as an unopened bag of cotton balls compared to the list of things you've put in your mouth. (Which, incidentally, does include an unopened bag of cotton balls.)

I don't need to be specific. Dog owners will understand. Non-dog owners, well...there's really no reason you need know details. You're better off. Here, Jules will explain. (Warning: Jules explains in a very colorful, NSFW kinda way. But he does have a point. Just not a point you'd want to make to your children or grandmother.)

Best. Birthday. Present. Evar.

2009-10-06T08:32:00.003-04:00

This birthday began with an extra half-hour of sleep and a delicious breakfast in bed. John packed our adorable kids off to school so I could wrap my hands around my warm coffee mug in peace.

I settled in front of the fire for a little pre-shower facebooking. There's someone with whom I share a birthday and I was determined to get to her first (I did! I rule!). John came out and started tying his shoes, and I started complaining. Like I do.

"Y'know, this would be complete if my arms were covered. I'm a little chilly--too bad I don't have a Snuggie! I'd write on facebook, 'I wish I had a Snuggie' but I'm afraid someone would take me literally and drop one off today."

John laughed, we said our goodbyes, and he headed out to the car. A moment later, he came back in.

"Shut your eyes and hold out your hands!" Always willing to be blindly showered with gifts, I obliged.

When I opened my eyes, I was holding a box. and in that box?

A Snuggie. Hilarity ensued.

"I didn't want you to think I ran out and bought you one today!" As we were doubled over laughing, it suddenly occurred to me to ask,

"Honey, this is an ironic gift, right? Or are we as-seen-on-tv shoppers now?"

He just smiled. "Happy Birthday, honey!"

Btw, Snuggies? Totally rock. I'm just sayin'.

The reasons are many, but here's just one.

2009-09-25T13:56:00.006-04:00

She was loud, and effusive, and believed in tight, lengthy, full-body hugs. When she talked to you, she gave you her full attention, and often grabbed your arm when she responded. She loved hosting and attending loud, chaotic family holidays, and when she entered a room, you knew it. You saw her (the female version of my Dad), you heard her, and there was no mistaking it because she was swooping in for a big, wet kiss: Aunt Barbara's here!

She was a sister, a wife, a cousin, an aunt, and a mother to five children. Then she was a mother to four. The loss of her son when he was eighteen changed her permanently, but years later, she'd still grab your arm, enfold you in the full-body hug (even tighter now) and swoop in for the big, wet smooch.

My father's older and only sister, Aunt Barbara was a common fixture in my home growing up. She lived two hours away so I'm sure we didn't get together as often as I think we did, but I remember being kept awake many a night by raucous laughter, wine-soaked singing and bad guitar-playing (usually to songs they'd made up). Old pictures usually depict she, my uncle, and my parents holding up beer bottles or wine glasses, grinning, arms around each other and various string instruments. Pictures of we the cousins had the same grins (beer bottles likely were hidden under the table). Remembering my aunt and her loving family laughing at our house or theirs always intermingled with memories of going to my cousin's funeral and the years that followed. Happiness mixed right in with shock and sadness.

She went on with her life; they all did. She lived to see many more years and lots of grandchildren. Then came the breast cancer diagnosis, and like a houseguest overstaying her welcome, that cancer moved right in and took over. As if she hadn't been dealt her fair share of sadness and tragedy.

They had moved to California by then for a change of scenery, so I was unable to see her in those final days or even go to her service with my parents. If she was anything like she was in the old days, she was thankful for the good days she had, and was still grabbing arms for emphasis and hugging as tightly as she was able.

She was my aunt, and she was loud, funny, and full of life. I'll be thinking of her when I walk on October 18th, channeling just a bit of her joie de vivre.

Best. Compliment. Ever.

2009-09-23T09:48:00.004-04:00

To review the U2 concert would be redundant and totally predictable. I could have reviewed it before I went. "The concert was AWESOME. The end."

Can I have "Captain Obvious" for $200, Alex?

So I will refrain.

Having bought the obligatory t-shirt (and not to segue into a whole thing here, but here's an excerpt from the Concert T-shirt Planning Meeting: "Hey, I heard this whole 'tissue-weight' tee thing is really taking off. It costs 1/3 as much from that third-world country to make them, so one t-shirt will only cost us $.000001 cent to make! If we charge $40 per shirt, we'll be making $39 and...ummm...a lot of change [remember math is not my magic talent]! And tissue weight is more stylish so people will actually think it's fashion instead of a re-usable kleenex with a logo on it! Cool?" "Cool!" the executives chorus in unison. Digressing here? Yes I think so.)

Please to digress.

SO, having bought the oligatory t-shirt, I was wearing it last night (I have this crazy thing about wearing clothes I've purchased. I know! I'm a trendsetter.) and said to my son, fishing for compliments as I'm wont to do, "So, B, what do you think? Do I look like a rockin' mom?"

Without a trace of irony or sarcasm in his voice, "You always look like a rockin' Mom.*"

*tear*

Even though I fished for it, it didn't make it any less sweet, catching a good one.

*This obviously excludes the times when I wear the knee-length, thick, dirty-dishwater-colored sweater I throw on when I go out to the bus. My Sexy Sweater, as John calls it**.

**it's not Sexy at all. Unlike my son, he is, in fact, employing the clever use of irony. Just to be clear***.

***Says Captain Obvious.

Who's Counting? Oh, right. I AM.

2009-09-14T09:21:00.007-04:00

I would hereby like to amend my previously-stated definition of U2 week. There are, in fact, TWO U2 weeks in a year. (there would be multiple U2 weeks, but I have a mortgage and a recently acquired car payment.)

The first U2 week is the one in which they release a new album and you can find them everywhere without even trying. Huzzah, U2 week!

The second U2 week is the week leading up to the day on which I POSSESS TICKETS TO SEE THEM. (MAD props to my ticket connection--you know who you are.)

I count down the days, and eventually, the hours. I play U2, and only U2, in heavy rotation. (It's been in moderately heavy rotation for the last six weeks, and the recently acquired car has now been temporarily christened Bonomobile.) I conjure wildly preposterous scenarios in which I meet him, or get pulled up on stage, or sing with him, or bask in his serenades to me, or all of the above. (None of these Utopian hallucinations depict me simply enjoying the show. That's a foregone conclusion.)

I behave, in short, like the 16-year-old I was when I first saw them. (minus the big hair, parachute pants, and Choose Life t-shirt.) There are a few distinct differences between 16-year-old hero-worship, and that of a [omitted to avoid undue stress to someone whose birthday is rapidly approaching]-year-old. For one, I've eliminated the whole "I will totally meet Bono soon and he'll fall madly in love with me and we'll sing duets together and I will bake APPLE PIES all the time for Edge, Adam and Larry and it will be, like, TOTALLY AWESOME." As I've grown a little wiser and more realistic, this seems somewhat unlikely to ever actually happen. I don't know if the guys in the band even like apple pie, and it might also seem, you know, bad form, to my husband. WITH WHOM I AM MADLY IN LOVE. In case there was any doubt.

The other thing that's a little different about being a Serious Fan in my thirties vs. my teens (and yes, I prefer Serious Fan to Crazy Stalker, if you please)...okay, I can't think of anything else. I have eliminated the desire to become Bono's muse. Otherwise, it's completely the same. (Excepting the mortgage and car payment.)

So, for the second time this year, Happy U2 Week!!! Apologies if you're at a stoplight next to me and I shatter your windows with the sheer artistry that is Adam Clayton's bass, if I interrupt you at Stop and Shop, finger in the air, because I hear 'With or Without You' on the muzak, or if you are my husband or children and are just. Damn. Sick. Of. U. 2. Which, if you are? A POX ON YOU.

Six days, and counting.

photos from www.U2.com

The Second Day

2009-09-02T11:06:00.002-04:00

So I'm past the first day of school. I've been dreading that day for five and a half years, since Sassy was born, and suddenly it's come and gone. I've written previously on other first days, but for some reason this day, the first day of kindergarten for my youngest child, the last first day, if you will, was particularly hard.

Rather than sharing my thoughts on the first day of school, which could be summed up in three words: tearful, exciting, and tearful, I stopped this morning to consider: The Second Day of School.

Because it's all over at that point, isn't it? There will never again, at least in this academic year, be another First Day of School. Now it's just...school. Routine. The day to day. The Nitty Gritty.

I was out last night at bedtime and upon returning, asked John how the kids did while I was out. First day of school excitement and all.

"Well," he said, "Sassy gave me this big sigh at bedtime and said, 'Dad, I really have to go to bed now, I've had a long day. I had school this morning, then I played, then I ate dinner, and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.'" Already embracing the routine of life, that one.

But what about us? The ones who are Left Behind. (Apologies if this is starting to sound like some Armageddon-laced diatribe. I'm going in a different direction here, I promise.) When Big B was a wee bebe, I struggled emotionally with leaving him at day care, as did nearly every new mom I've ever met. I think it took me two or three weeks to not cry on the way to work after dropping him off every day. And my heart tore a little bit when I realized he finally just...got used to it. I didn't want him to get used to it, at least on the inside. I wanted to know that somewhere, in his four-month-old (obv brilliant, this is my son we're talking about) brain, he knew that this day care gig wasn't so bad, but that he really would rather be home with me, playing, taking walks, and being silly. I wanted him to tell me that. To reassure me, 'of course, Mother, this place is safe and warm and they take good care of me, but it's just not as good as being home with you, because that really is the best.' He was happy and content when I dropped him off every day, and although that made it easier on me, somewhere deep inside I craved the satisfaction of knowing he hated it too.

My children love school, and for that I am so, so thankful. We have an unbelievable public educational system in our town, so add another point to the thankfulness scoreboard. I believe it is a safe learning environment in which the teachers and staff are committed to giving my children the best education municipal tax money can buy. My two clambered onto the bus today with bursting enthusiasm and smiles, not looking back, not crying (therefore not ripping my still-beating heart right out of my chest for which I am truly thankful).

I just like to think, in some corner of their brains, behind the letters and numbers and geography and new friends and snacktime, that they're missing me. Just a little bit.

And that they never get too used to it.

'Tis a gift to be Simple

2009-08-09T12:21:00.003-04:00

I love that we have such great friends who can come over for a Saturday night rib throwdown, and, upon leaning in for a hello hug, are told, "You might not want to get too close, I didn't shower today," and they respond, "That's okay, neither did we."

I love that when someone is sick, whether serious or not-as-much, the calls and emails immediate start flooding in with 'what can I do' in the subject heading. They offer dinners, babysitting, carpooling or a sympathetic ear, and not only do they offer, they come through. That's just how my friends roll.

I love that without going further than 10 miles from our home, we can run into old friends, new friends, dear friends, re-kindled friends, kindergarten teachers, and a sister or two. Clearly, Stop and Shop is the new Studio 54.

I love that my sister lives just down the street, and she, her husband, or either of her two children are likely to be passing through our home at any given time for borrowed sweatshirts, shared leftovers, babysitting, fun new treats or [attempting to] borrow a large piece of equipment. I used to fear the drop-in, now I can't remember what life was like without it.

I love mundane errands in the center of town. There's something so satisfying about hitting the post office, the drug store, the bank, the grocery, the consignment shop, and the library without traveling more than 1/2 mile between destinations.

I used to love living in the city, but I'm a small-town girl at heart. And I love that.

The New Phone Book's Here! The New Phone Book's Here!

2009-08-04T16:43:00.012-04:00

I was saving that title for the day when I received my new favorite book, but evidently the Postal Service has better things to do than deliver it to my house today. HowEVer, I wanted to convey my excitement(!!!) that Danny Evans' new book, Rage Against the Meshugenah comes out today, and you should all head straight to your favorite purveyor of bookes and pick up a copy.

Since I'm not one of the select few who received an advance copy (I won't hold it against you, Danny, but don't think I won't be bitter and remember that when MY book comes out...just sayin')*, this recommendation is based on my having been a faithful reader of his blog for the past few years. And that said? As soon as you finish his book (or at the very least, order it), go to his blog and familiarize yourself with his archives. Especially this post. And this one. And this one.

I'm a little biased, I realize, when it comes to being drawn to his writing. He has a boy and a girl, I have a boy and a girl. He has a hot wife, my husband has a hot wife. He battled depression, and some of the people I love most in this world have as well

But. Be assured that even if you're none of the above, if you at least possess a shred of a sense of humor and the ability to read, you won't be disappointed. This guy is one of the funniest and best writers I've ever come across, and oh! added bonus: he has a heart, and a conscience.

So what are you waiting for??? Go buy the book!!!!

And Danny, if you're reading this, of course I'll send you an advance copy of my book. As soon as I find a publisher. And an agent. And actually write a book. In fact, you can haz two!)

Armageddon It

2009-07-27T09:28:00.007-04:00

Is it just me, or are things just scarier in the middle of the night?

I have, on occasion, and only under extreme duress (read: hormonally challenged, only that's BS b/c it happens all the time) exhibited paranoid behavior. But if it's the middle of the night, especially when I'm woken from a sound sleep, the fear factor is ratcheted up to 97.3 on the Richter Scale, a unit of measurement which I've just made up, having no basis in scientific fact whatsoever.

What was I saying?

During daylight hours, an unusual noise might make me hit pause on my stories, put down my bon-bons and go, "Hm. I wonder what that was? I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for that," and continue to go about my [very important] business. That same innocuous noise at 2:00am? The answer is in multiple choice form: a) Very, very bad people are breaking into the house and will inflict all manner of bodily harm on me and mine, b) Armageddon, basically, c) The sky is falling! the sky is falling! in manner of Chicken Little, or d) all of the above. Just ask John how many times I've clawed him in the back (not that way, you pervs) when I've heard, like, the cat clawing the couch. From a sound sleep, it sounds like some Jabbathehutt-sized, warted, drooling sea monster somehow managed to stay alive without benefit of its usual watery depths to track me down, and is flipper-flopping its way up the stairs to get at my peacefully sleeping children.

Naturally occurring weather patterns are not immune to my impaired judgement. In fact, they rank right up there on my list, and just because they're out to get the entire Eastern Seaboard and not only me gives me no comfort in the wee hours.

So despite the fact that I had a perfectly gorgeous, lovely weekend at the beach, frolicking, drinking, eating and frolicking some more, the bipolar weather habits of my region decided to hit us with crazy loud scary storms each night. How thoughtful! you might think of the Weather. Giving you the storms in the middle of the night, clearing the way for warm, sunny, beach weather by day? What a perfect scenario.

Which, yeah, totally perfect, unless you actually pull a muscle doing the 3:00am 'duck and cover.' The first night we were there, the wind kicked up with such colossal force that I was entirely sure that there was a category 5 hurricane going on, and they weren't able to classify it until after we went to bed, and it was going to take the house down and we were all going to die. Or, the huge tree right next to my window was going to crash down on only me, which momentarily made me consider curling up [hiding] in bed with my kids. Or, the wind would shatter the glass and send ginormous shards flying at my eyeballs. Or, the hurricane would be so catastrophic, it would simply annihilate the entire island, Atlantis-style.

Etc.

So, of course, the night was spent tossing, turning, and thinking up scenarios more ridiculous than the last, all ending with a flattened house and no Guwi. And the next morning?

Good day, Sunshine! So we went to the beach.

The next night as I was drifting off to dreamland, I actually verbalized the following (to myself, duh, I didn't want to jinx anything): at least there won't be a storm keeping me up tonight so I can get a good night's sleep. And God laughed. And sent the worst, most cataclysmic thunder and lightning storm I've heard in, oh, EVER, down on my wee, previously sleeping head.

John's favorite was when I was blindly making my way back from the bathroom at crazy dark-o'clock because we had lost power (again!) and CRASH! BANG BANG KA BOOM!!! Illuminated only by a flash of blinding lightning, I might have, just maybe, violently crashed onto the bed in the fetal and pulled the covers over in one swift [clawing, clumsy] movement. And whimpered. Hence, the duck and cover.

Thankfully, as each day dawned sunny and new, my night terrors faded. Sam Adams Summer also helped me gain a little perspective (and four extra pounds). Frolicking helped, too.

Back in my own bed last night, with the window unit in our bedroom tempering the humidity in manner of meat locker, I slept the sleep of the peaceful, burrowed under my down comforter, content in the knowledge that all was right in the world. I was safe, cozy, comfortable, and getting a great night's sleep.

And woke up to a downed tree in my backyard.

The moral is? If I sleep through it, it can't possibly be that bad.

End of an Era.

2009-07-18T09:37:00.002-04:00

There are some people in this world that demand a high level of respect. Their actions, their demeanor, their backstory. You hear them speak and you think, damn. What's he got that other people are lacking?

My father was one of those people. Walter Cronkite was another.

I didn't know Walter Cronkite, of course. Never met him. I would have loved to, and I'm sure he tops the list in our collective unconscious of 'person I'd most like to have dinner with, living or dead.'

My earliest memory of Walter Cronkite was when I about four years old, and living in my old house. I was sitting on the floor in our family room, and I said to my mother, "If Daddy couldn't be my Daddy for some reason, can he be my Daddy?" Which I'm sure was an awful thing for a mother to hear, but I know I meant no disrespect. I just meant, hey, Dad's a great guy and all, but this guy's pretty cool too, no? (For the record, I also asked the same thing about Captain Kangaroo. No idea why the temporary obsession for having back-up Dads, and tv ones at that. I was four. I was probably eating paste.)

There's not a single journalist or anchor in the modern world who inspires the trust and respect Mr. Cronkite did. Not a single one. The news world has changed along with the rest of the world--'Can I have trash reporting for $200, Alex?' Everyone gets breaking news one minute after it happens, and nobody cares whether the source is trustworthy (or whether the news itself is even newsworthy, a la Jon and Kate and Paris and Britney). We don't have to wait for the evening news to find out what happened during the day, we're constantly wired into our computers, our phones, we're twittering, we're facebooking, there's not a news story that breaks that we're not instantly informed of. The messages are everywhere, and the source doesn't really matter. (Sorry, Katie Couric and Brian Williams, but it's true.)

It was different with Mr. Cronkite. He was our source of important stories, he was our comfort when the stories were troubling, and I'm sure the reason why I wanted him to be my backup Dad was that he was gentle and trustworthy and honest. All qualities my father possessed.

When a dear president was gunned down in cold blood, his impartial reporting did not prevent him from being overcome with grief and wiping away a tear. When a rocket shot into space, he broke from his usual decorum to cheer them on. He was a gentleman and a professional, and he was one of a kind.

I miss my Dad every day, even now, almost eight years later. I'd never begin to compare losing my beloved father with the death of a man I'd never met who just happened to do an important job well, with dignity and decorum. He wasn't my father, and though it's sad to know he's gone, I won't grieve for Mr. Cronkite, national treasure though he was. It's not my place to.

Still. It was nice to know he was out there.

You won't mistake this for a Dr. Seuss story

2009-07-13T18:00:00.005-04:00

Not to belabor the category of 'Kids Say the Darndest Things That Sound Dirty But Aren't Meant To Be'....

We've had this cute little birdy bonking into our window the last week or so. He's yellow (or a citrusy green--we debate this point. Endlessly.) and he likes to sit on the arched support for our new honeysuckle bush. He's very tiny, kind of finch-like and for some reason he likes to fly full speed at our window, repeatedly. Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! Silly birdy! Bonk! Bonk! Bonk!

The kids are ridiculously amused by this bird, and at least once a day we catch him bonking into the window. Bonk! Bonk! Bonk! I'm also amused by this, but more because I'm cruel, and I'm really not a bird person. They frighten me, if I'm being perfectly honest. (The first time it happened, I actually hit the dirt because I looked up and this thing was flying right at my head. The fact that there was a barrier between it and me, preventing it from burrowing into my hair and nesting there didn't matter. It was still a bird, and it was flying right at my head.)

Because this is a living thing that has made a repeat appearance at Casa de Guwi, my children decided to name it, as they are wont to do. The wee finchy birdy bird follows in a long tradition of Bob the cardinal, Gary the squirrel and Chuckles the coyote. This time, instead of going with human or clown names, my children decide to be more...how shall I put it...descriptive.

Our new bonking birdy friend's name?

Pecker.

Not only have they named it Pecker, they have made up songs and poems about it, with a play on his name. Hearing "Pecker Peckingham Peckadoodle" sung repeatedly in the car today was beginning to make me feel as though I were in a Monty Python skit. If Monty Python did bits for the 5-8 year old set.

Now that would have made a swell addition to the The Penis Song.

A play in one act: A Question of Licking.

2009-07-06T20:08:00.004-04:00

Scene: two children, an eight year old boy and his five year old sister, over dinner.

Curtain warn...curtain rise.

Sassy: B, if you were something, would you lick yourself?

B: Heh?

Sassy (speaking as if to a toddler instead of her older brother, who is nearly as tall as his mother): If you were something, like a dog or a monkey, would you lick yourself?

B: I don't think so. I mean, that's gross, for one, and for another, why would I? I mean, except to clean myself. But not, you know, for fun.

[Sound of muffled laughter as mother tries to busy herself inside the refrigerator, stage left.]

Sassy: Well, why not? I think you'd probably like to, you know, if you were something, instead of a boy. Because boys definitely do not like to lick themselves. I mean, obviously.

[More muffled laughter, bordering on hysteria, from direction of refrigerator. Mother mutters joke punchline to herself, 'because they can,' and laughter becomes of face-cramping, tear-rolling variety.]

B: And anyway, I don't think I'd think about it so much, if I were an animal. If I needed to lick myself, I would just do it, and not discuss it all night.

moments later...

B: Eeeeuuuuuwwwwww...Mom! She just licked her hand and touched me! Gross!

Aaaaaaand....scene.

Do you have a flag?

2009-06-23T10:38:00.003-04:00

Though I frequently dream about being in Catholic churches, Eddie Izzard administering communion while dressed in a drag cassock was a first. It was purple, I believe, with a hot pink roman collar and silver accessories. As he offered the wafer, he seemed amused that one of his oft-quoted catch phrases also fit the occasion; I'm not sure whether it was "Cake or death?" or "Hoocha hoocha hoocha...lobster!" but either way, I'm quite sure it's sacriligious. But what are you gonna do? It's my dream, dammit.
I'm not sure why I dream about being in Catholic churches--I've officially been an ex-Catholic for close to five years, so the guilt would seem to have subsided by now. (HA! say all of you current or former Catholics. The guilt NEVER SUBSIDES. Welcome to the rest of your GUILT-RIDDEN LIFE.) The funny thing is, I still enjoy being within the physical confines of a Catholic church. My church is simple and lovely, and distraction-free which helps me in particular, because...ooo, look! Shiny cross!
But I do love a really old church--all intricate carvings, centuries-old stonework, tattered flags hanging, flying buttresses. I never think it's a distraction, more of an enhancement. I've been to Ireland several times and am pleased to report there are almost as many churches as pubs. Proximity is convenient should you have something pub-related to confess.
Eddie as a Eucharistic Minister though? While I'd love to see that, something tells me his application would be denied (or, you know, not submitted in the first place). Which is a shame. The purple/pink/silver combo was really striking.

And, why, exactly, did this need to be put into words?

2009-06-17T14:51:00.003-04:00

Random snippets of songs inexplicably whirling through my head today, and my educated guesses as to why:

Burn baby, burn...disco inferno! Burn baby burn...
(we have a family wedding friday night, and I think I'm subconsciously planning out my moves. Yeeeeahhhh, boyeeee....how YOU doin'?)

HU--UHEGHEEEEY! I feel good (da na na na na na na) I knew that I would now (da na na na na na na)
(I have clearly had enough fiber for the day. Diverticulitis: 0, Me: 1. HOO-AH.)

Didn't we almost have it all....A NIGHT to end...without...um...the morning....or something...
(Whitney Houston, get the HELL out of my head. The reason I don't know all the words is because you SUCK. Even though you're stuck in my head.)

You've got to get yourself together you got stuck in a moment, and you can't get out of it...
(Bono, you're my guy, but please stop. This is clearly about all the laundry I have to do today, and you're just stressing me out, rendering me even less productive.)

I never think about the future I just live for today (yesterday, girl...yesterday, girl...)
(Please see above, re: planning my moves, not doing laundry etc. But still! The Smithereens rock!)

Get up off your rumpah and do the damn laundry...HOLLA
(I just wrote it...what do you think? I'm sooo a hip-hop girl at heart.)

peace out, East Coast representin'

Shi Ta Du

2009-06-15T14:16:00.004-04:00

Sorry for the prolonged absence--I know there's been some nail-biting and wringing of hands as all of my reader(s) have wondered...where is she? Has she run out of things to say? (Not possible.) Has she had a mental breakdown? (Possible, but unconfirmed.) Has she had a case of writers' block, which, while not particularly bothersome to others, is frustrating to her because she finds writing to be therapeutic, especially at such a busy time of year and with a lot of things on her mind? (Um. What? Ooo! Cookie!)

The truth is I've been very busy with some foreign investors. I can't divulge a lot of details because it's all very confidential, but a member of a certain royal family has contacted me and we're about to embark on a financial journey together that will change my life!

Wish me luck!

In truth (because I know you were all asking/worrying/wishin'/hopin'/waitin') writing always seems like one extra task to me, on an already crippling pile of tasks, both mental and physical. In terribly busy and/or stressful times, I always table any writing because it seems like just one more thing on my to-do list, an item that doesn't have to get done, because no-one's demanding it of me; there's no deadline hanging over my nearly exploding head. When, in reality, it's one of the few things that keeps me sane. Instead of being at the end of my to-do list, right after 'clip dog's toenails' and 'hobble small tunneling woodland animals' it should be at the top, just after 'breathe' and 'drink gallon of coffee.'

So amidst the chaos of little league games and school winding down, making summer plans, organizing parties and group gifts and going to weddings (yippee! by the way) I will write. I'll be writing seen and unseen, blog and private-like, but I will be writing.

Because I know you've all lost sleep about this, and I can't pile guilt on top of everything I have to do. Those moles aren't going to hobble themselves.

Not exactly Singin' in the Rain...

2009-04-07T11:13:00.006-04:00

As I’ve mentioned before, I danced as a young'un, and was involved in theatre from an early age as well. This suits my somewhat dramatic personality (NO! Surely not!), and as a young[er] adult, I also did a few shows in a Boston-area community theatre. And this one time? I got to be a stripper! No worries, though, it was G-rated stripping, in the style of early burlesque. I didn’t get to play Gypsy Rose Lee, but I was: Tessie Tura, the Texas Twirler! (and only got to twirl batons, much to my husband’s dismay).

Though I once had aspirations of life as a professional actress, as do most people who have any kind of theatrical background, starting a life with John became my priority, as we journeyed together on the road to the American Dream: two kids, a house, a dog, a cat (not John’s Dream, btw, more a nightmare), two cars and messy closets. But the stage, it beckons.

Trying to fit theatre into my busy, disorganized life hadn't been a priority until recently, when a local theatre group announced auditions for one of my favorite shows. With my husband’s support (as well as The Academy’s, obv) I’ve been warming up my rusty voice and singing along to the soundtrack nearly every day. As have both of my children, who now know most of the words. My house is a strange place to be these days, on account of the singing and jazz hands busting out at any given moment.

So I’m breathing, sleeping, and singing this show, which only leaves one problem. This show?

Involves Tap.

All those years in ballet, all those years in my high school’s Show Choir, I never learned to tap. It especially wouldn’t have seemed a necessary skill for the life I lead now. I’d probably benefit more from some cooking or closet organization lessons.

Still...I have made a decision. I have to learn to tap.

[Intermission. Laugh amongst yourselves.)

Not ready to expose myself to others and the inevitable hilarity that would be me in tap shoes, I felt a home-school approach would be best, at least for now. If I do decide to subject any poor souls to being in a tap class with me, I’m going to get the giggles out first, so to speak, in the privacy of my own home.

After poring over the myriad options available for Learn-to-Tap DVDs, I decided on this little beauty. And yes, friends, the instructor is the same actress from the classic tv sitcom: One Day at a Time.

The one…the only…Bonnie Franklin.

It’s a bad sign when I got hysterical, all by myself, during her introduction. This thing was filmed during her heyday, and her outfit alone is ridiculous enough. She’s wearing suspenders, for the love of Gregory Hines. She’s an incredibly good tap dancer, not that I’m any judge. (If you ever hear me say that I’m an incredibly good tap dancer, you’ll understand just how poor my critical review qualities are.)

Then, I attempted to tap. On the living room rug, in my socks. I’ll let that sink in for a minute. Tap dancing, relying on the rhythm of the feet, is best performed when you can hear the taps on a hard surface. Bonnie Franklin: 1. Me: 0.

I got as far as a shuffle-ball-change-hop-with a lemon twist, or some other nonsense, when the laughter consumed me and I had to stop. Sassy had begun dancing right alongside me and damn if she didn’t actually look like she was tap-dancing. Anyone driving by, glancing through my fishbowl windows, might have called 911 for fear I was suffering some kind of seizure.

I’ll try again, though. I’m sure Savion Glover didn’t pick up tap in a day, even if he'd been able to learn from the great Bonnie Franklin. Which would have been FULLY AWESOME.

To round out my day of tap (otherwise known as ‘The Day the Music Died’) I showed John what I’d learned when he got home. He’d had a bad day.

It’s funny—I can always cheer him up. He was so happy for me he was actually doubled over laughing! He’s the most supportive husband EVER!

Tune in next time for: Tapping with the Rhythmless: Shuffling off to Buffalo (aka Someone Gets Hurt).

Happy U2 Week, Everyone!

2009-03-02T12:30:00.003-05:00

Not quite as exciting as Shark Week, but U2 Week is here! What? You've never heard of U2 Week? I will pause amidst my reverie to explain.

Normally, though U2 is the greatest rock band EVAH, a housefrau such as myself would have to devote herself to daily internet scanning to find the latest and greatest on her boys. If I sat here for 10 hours straight, I'd only brush the tip of the iceberg in terms of available information on the Dublin Four. Not that I've ever sat online for 10 hours reading about U2. Please. Eight is my limit. After that my legs fall permanently asleep.

But you see how a full-time, non-paying, some might say obsessive job might be in conflict with my other full-time gig, taking care of the babies and the house. (which currently has a spotless basement, thanks very much). Enter: U2 Week!

When U2 comes out with a new album, you find them everywhere without even trying. This week alone, they're on David Letterman every night. Let me repeat myself in case you missed it: U2 is on David Letterman EVERY NIGHT THIS WEEK. Please to excuse while I wallow in the beauty. They're also on Good Morning America Friday morning, and there are rumours of free concerts and small club gigs in the large cities nearest me which DO NOT HAPPEN TO ALSO INCLUDE MY SMALL TOWN IN CONNECTICUT BITTER WHY NO WHY DO YOU ASK.

Still and all, I love it when they're in the midst of promoting a new album, and I can't open a paper, magazine, or website without some mention of their bad selves. Why, at this very moment, I am free-viewing their new album on U2.com. You can't download it till tomorrow, but I can listen to it to my heart's content for the next eleven hours till my pre-order automatically downloads in my itunes account.

And it, my friends, is awesome. (One order of bias please, extra gushing on the side?)

So Happy U2 Week! May you see every episode of Letterman, read every article easily accessible online, and of course, enjoy the album. And if any of you members of my vast readership catches them in a small club gig, please keep it to yourself. No need to tell me the truth about Santa on Christmas morning.

OMG...and one time? in this book I read?

2009-02-16T13:06:00.006-05:00

I can be something of a book snob. Specifically, I internally pass judgment on adults who read books meant for teenagers. A few years ago, I started reading Harry Potter to my son, and I remember thinking, 'if I were a few years younger (a 'few' being preferable to saying 'more than twenty but less than thirty') I would have loved these books, read every single one thirty-seven times each, memorized them, and arrived at bookstores well before the midnight release of every single book in the series dressed like Hermione Granger (or maybe Harry--it was the gender-bending 80s, after all). Then I read my son the second one, then I read the third one myself. Y'know. To make sure it wasn't too scary for him.

And I sat up late every night, absorbed, unwilling to put it down until Harry had triumphed, yet again.

Thinking [hoping] this was an anomaly in my cherished reading list, ('JK Rowling may not be Hemingway, but she can tell a good story,' was my typical defense when someone asked if I was enjoying Harry's adventures) I thought nothing of it until I came across Twilight at TJ Maxx the other day. For $6.99. 'Seven bucks?' I thought to myself. 'I can spare seven bucks to see what kind of storyteller this woman is.' I'm fascinated by the author's story--a stay-at-home-mom who had a dream about a vampire, wrote the first book in three months, followed up with three more and has movie deals coming out of her ears.

I read it in three days.

Crow tastes good, especially if you add a little jerk sauce.

I think I was channeling my inner 15-year-old: feeling out of place, a little awkward, never dreaming that the hottest guy in school would want to date me, let alone pledge his undying, undead love for me and promise he will never, ever turn me into a vampire no matter how much I beg...

Okay, my secret's out. That whole vampire thing used to happen to me all the time. It must be my milky-white skin that attracted them.

What I'm most embarrassed about though, is not that I read it, or enjoyed it, or literally devoured it in a few days. What I'm really embarrassed about is that I'm seriously considering going out right now to get the second one, to see if Edward really did turn Bella into a vampire (I don't think he did), or if her father's old best friend, Billy the native american, spills the truth about Edward being a vampire (I think maybe he does but Charlie doesn't believe him) and for the love of bloodsuckers, DO THEY EVER GET PAST THE KISSING STAGE?????

Sweet merciful cupcakes. I need to go read Great Expectations or something. Next thing you know I'll be listening to the Jonas Brothers, painting my nails blue and texting in code.

The vampire magnetism. It beckons.

Shadows.

2009-02-07T10:01:00.003-05:00

Kids fed and happily parked in front of the tv this morning, I went back to bed for a bit to see if I could steal some snuggle-time with John. When I got in bed, Scout was stretched out alongside him, groaning contentedly, with no intention of moving, ever. Figuring a warm, black hairy body was as good as I was going to get just then, I hopped in and she army-crawled her way over to my side and flopped down for a snug.

Scratching behind her ears and giving her little nuzzles, I looked in her eyes, and just for a second, she looked like a puppy again. Her eyes were twinkling behind her velvety ears, and she had that old innocent puppy look, that, “I know I just ate your favorite shoes and an entire loaf of bread you stupidly left out, but look at me. Have you ever seen anyone so cute?” She’s not an Old Dawg, but she’s about to turn five, which I think is the cutoff for Labs not being naughty puppies anymore. She’s a great girl. The best.

I realized, then, the same thing happens with my children sometimes. Sassy will be going about her sparkly way, and I catch her deep in thought or concentrating on painting her nails, or coloring. Her face is completely relaxed, and the new slimness that five brought gives way to a hint of the old chub, just for a second, and she looks like three again. Glorious three, when I could have eaten her cheeks whole and give her unlimited raspberries just to hear her giggle nonstop.

Catching that inner baby in Big B is a little more difficult. At the ripe old age of eight, it’s harder to catch his former plumpness, especially because it didn’t last well into toddlerhood to begin with. It’s there though, when his eyes twinkle in a certain way, sometimes just for a second I can see that two-toothed grin, the line of drool down to his chest, his sparkling blue eyes, and hear that fantastic laugh he’s had since he was four months old, from his belly to his head and cascading forth. When he weighed 15 pounds or so, it would shake his entire body. Is there anything better than body-shaking laughter?

So where does that leave the shadow of my former self? Considering my babies are way closer to their babyhood than I am to my twenties, it leaves my former self buried deep. I have tiny lines in my face that I swear were not there before my last birthday, and I’ve suddenly developed more than a passing interest in products that Reduce the Appearance of Fine Lines and Minimize Pores. Not that I’m So Terribly Vain, but occasionally I look in the mirror thinking, “What the Bloody Hell? Where did SHE come from? And WHY IS MY MAKEUP NOT COVERING HER UP??” I’m not boarding the Pity Express here, it’s just a simple fact: I am aging. As is everyone. My children are aging, my mom is aging (don’t even get me started on the number of times she’s said or done something and I thought, “Holy Dippity-Do, Batman, it’s my Grandmother,”) and I, of course, am aging too. I’m in a great place, I have a fantastic husband and the two best children in the world. We have blessings galore, but that doesn’t erase the fact that I have crow’s feet and ‘medium-sized pores’ according to the saleswoman at Clinique. My former self? She’s living in the Caribbean somewhere, eating seafood and wearing a bikini.

Don’t mistake this for a ‘woe is me’ whinefest. Every birthday my children celebrate brings new and fascinating milestones, talents and insight. They’re growing into amazing people, even as I bemoan the passing of their babyhood. Kindergarten registration paperwork was waiting for me in Sassy’s preschool cubby the other day, and don’t think for a minute I didn’t get choked up. Big B has finally realized his height is an asset when playing basketball, and he scored six shots last week in his game. They’re great kids, and my lame expressions of gratitude and thankfulness for them are only the tip of my personal blessing iceberg.

All the same, former selves are welcome visitors. I don’t need much help remembering my babies as babies, but every so often it’s nice to see, even on a subconscious level, they haven’t forgotten them either.

This has been brought to you by “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handey. Regular posting resumes next time, more in the typical vein of dead pet fish and colonoscopies.

That IS my bag, baby.

2009-01-23T09:06:00.006-05:00

Change of plans on today's post topic. I've been gathering my favorite inaugu-pics from this week, formulating pithy comments on each in my brain, but I've been tagged by my good friend Mama Bee. And the Rules of the Meme (which, for the record, I choose to pronounce internally 'mee-mee' as in, 'it's all about Me-Me.' Yes I know it's incorrect but that's the way uh-hunh uh-hunh I like it uh-hunh uh-hunh), ahem. The Blogger's Oath clearly states that, "I do solemnly swear that I will execute the position of blogger faithfully, er, faithfully execute the position of blogger...faithfully...and will to the best of my ability respond to being tagged for a meme (Me-Me) within five ('three, sir') three hours." And in the words of Sir Izzard, 'those are the rules...I've just made up.'

[Sweet Jeebus Almighty, is there a limit to how much caffeine a body can consume in an hour without vibrating like a cheap motel bed? This cannot be healthy.]

Please to continue now.

This particular MeMe is as follows:

(1) Post a picture of whatever bag you are carrying as of late. No, you cannot go up to your closet and pull out that cute little purse you used back before you had kids. I want to know what you carried today (or the last time you left the house).

(2) I want to know how much it cost :) And this is not to judge, because I’m honestly telling you I was ready to put down some cash; I just got lucky. This is for entertainment purposes only. So spill it. And if there is a story to go along with how you obtained it, I’d love to hear it.

(3) Tag some chicks. And link back to this post so people know why the heck you’re showing everyone your diaper bag/non-diaper bag.

This one is a little tricky for me, hence the following blog-fession. See, I lead a double life. When I'm not blogging hilariously about my own personal hijinks, or participating in said hijinks, or drinking, I actually own a small custom-design handbag company. So for the past four years, I've usually been seen carrying one of my own bags. No 'shoeless cobbler's son' for me, beeyotches. I carry my product proudly, and give out business cards along the way.

But. After the holidays, when I've spent several months living and breathing fabric and sending my kids to school with thread danglies and generally being up to my eyeballs in bags, I like to take a little break, and anonymously carry a bag made my someone other than me. *GASP*

So what does the part-time handbag maker carry when she leaves the sweatshop? Prada? Kate Spade? Coach?

NEIN. In the interest of full disclosure (and for the record, up until two days ago I was carrying my vintage Coach bucket bag to which I once proposed unholy union), I have been carrying this little beauty:

Bought at The Maxx, or TJ's, depending on where you live and how much you love the store, and whether you choose to nickname your shopping venues. I believe it was somewhere in neighborhood of $8.99, fake croc, and for a little bag holds surprising amounts of stuff. (It does not hold, come to find out, enough Christmas receipts to choke a wallaby, still needing to be sorted through). But that's it. Not glamorous, expensive or large (I have no children in diapers, which is FULLY AWESOME) and is my default color: black. Duh. I love glamorous, expensive, large, non-black bags, I just don't happen to be carrying one today.

I believe I must now tag other bag-carrying friends, so here goes:

Ruth: you better be carrying the summer bag I made you since you're in KEY WEST YOU BIZZUTCH.

Donna: I'm counting on you--I know how much you love bags.

Nat: c'mon, you know you want to...let's see your funbag(s).

And now, I feel the need to buy a glamorous, expensive, large, non-black bag.

He Can, and He Did.

2009-01-20T13:04:00.001-05:00

Photo courtesy of www.foxnews.com

Anyone mind if I wallow?

2009-01-16T09:03:00.005-05:00

I wallow. I'm a wallower. When grand-scale news stories hit, I'm glued to the tv, internet, radio, carrier pigeons. I'm the media's bitch when it comes to sucking it all in, refreshing my home page every ten minutes to see if there's any more news, any more stories, anyone else pulled from the proverbial wreckage. Obviously, bad news sells, and I realize I'm being completely manipulated by modern media, with their heartstring-pulling music, their pictures of survivors in shock, the occasional hero tale that surfaces. Conversely, I can't stand to see news stories of tragedy on a smaller scale, cameramen zooming in for a close-up of a grieving mother, her arms wrapped around a folded flag. It's too personal, too private. Not public domain.

Good-news stories are few and far between. So when I see the BREAKING NEWS banner scrolling and after a moment or two I realize that not only is it not bad news, it is, in fact, miraculous news, I'm hooked. It's justification for all the tragedy we've witnessed. For the loss of every stranger's life that I've wept over (and I do), I can wallow in good news for a change.

A pilot who has the courage and tenacity to make a life-changing/saving decision to land in water (which, to the best of my knowledge, flight instructors generally discourage) is just such a story. Yes, the governor of New York gave it a snappy name, "Miracle on the Hudson," and of course there were passengers on the Today show this morning, specifically a family of four with a four-year-old and nine-month old baby. Matt Lauer kept digging for the emotional breakdown, the soundbite that would sum it all up, and most of the time the mom just shook her head. I'm guessing she was still disbelieving that such a magnanimous event happened less than 24 hours previous, and she was alive to talk about it with Matt Lauer. How surreal is that?

Some of the more determined passengers boarded a different plane a mere several hours later; presumably, they really had to be in North Carolina. (As for me, there would have to be something a bit, how-you-say, special waiting for me in the Tar Heel State to get me on a plane within a few hours, like Bono and/or a lot of wine, or some really good cupcakes.) Those passengers were greeted with news cameras (obviously) and solemn hugs from their friends and family.

One thing that really stuck with me was a woman on one of the rescue ferries. She was wrapped in a blanket, and was positively beaming. She said, "This was the greatest day of my life!"

Pardon me, ma'am. It appears as though your glass is, in fact, half-full.

So a trite little shout-out to the hero of the day, Sully the Pilot. Well done, dude. Ballsy move, but it worked. I hope you get a fat raise, or at the very least, some really good cupcakes.

One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, New Fish

2009-01-07T09:31:00.007-05:00

A little over a year ago, Captain Picklepants earned the right to have a fish as a pet.

[I've just made a snap decision--that nickname was okay when he was four, but now that he's eight, it seems a little, well...liable-to-get-you-beat-up-in-the-schoolyard-if-it-ever-leaked-out. My eight-year-old son will henceforth be referred to as: Big B. And trust me when I say, he is Big. Soon to be taller than me. At the age of eight. Hold me.]

Please to continue now.

A little over a year ago, Big B earned the right to have a fish as a pet. We outfitted his room with a mini-tank and went to the fish store up the street (which upon entering every single time, I literally have to hold my breath and stifle the urge to vomit. It's very dark and dank and humid in there, and it smells of fish and gerbils.) He picked out a flashy blue Siamese Fighting Fish and we were on our way. He named his new pal Bluey, and he was a friend and a gentleman. Bluey made it an entire 14 months, which in my experience equates to being a centenarian in people-years.

So Christmas Eve (yes, Virginia, it was Christmas Eve), I'm sprinting about the house, to-do list in hand, simultaneously baking, wrapping, scrubbing the toilet (I promise I'm washing well in between), making my last-minute shopping list, juggling knives and folding origami. I'm sitting at the computer googling the nearest store for some emergency item (all of our christmas gifts, I believe it was) and Big B comes up behind me very quietly and stands there. Which never ceases to annoy me.

"What is it, Buddy? I'm kinda busy right now." Niiiiiice.

Huge, gulping sob escapes. "B-b-b-b-b-bluey d-d-d-d-d-d-d-ied." Sobbing. Actual, heaving sobbing.

This here? This is what I'm great at. I pull him into my best mama bear hug and say, "Oh, my poor sweet guy. I'm so sorry. Bluey was such a nich fish and he lived for so long, you did great with him. My poor sweet buddy." Internally, of course, I'm thinking, "FREAKING fish! Christmas Eve? Are you kidding me? You DIE ON CHRISTMAS EVE?!?!?!?!? MOTHER-FLIPPIN' FISH!!! THANKS FOR THE CHRISTMAS MEMORIES, YOU #&*@!")

We curled up on the couch for awhile, he a sniffling mess, me a human version of home-made macaroni and cheese: comforting, warm, Guwi. I asked him how it happened: did he just find him, floating, or what? A fresh wave of tears.

"He was swimming to the top to get some food, then he just sank back and laid on the bottom and that's w-when I kn-new he was d-d-d-d-d-eaddddd...."

Hm. It occurred to me I should check the situation, just in case Bluey was playing a little trick on Big B. He's a trickster, that Bluey.

Staring at the tank a moment later, I was shocked to discover Bluey was definitely swimming. An odd, vertical swim, but swimming under his own power, not just floating on the tides of his 2.5 gallon tank.

"Big B? Can you come up here for a moment?" Big B shuffles in, stares at the tank for a minute, eyes open wide despite the tears, and looks at me with the most awe-inspired grin in the history of the world. And because I'm an ass, I say it: "I can't believe it! IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!"

After observing a few more minutes, I come to the conclusion that while Bluey is not quite dead ("I'm not dead yet! I don't want to go in the cart!"), he's not exactly winning any triathlons either.

“B, Bluey is definitely still alive, but I think he’s sick. Let’s clean his tank and see if that helps.” Maybe some fresh water, a plasma-screen, a nice Siamese Fighting Fish lady-friend he can kill and eat, something to cheer him up a bit.

While B gathers the cleaning materials, I google, “Betta Swimming Vertical Lethargy” and within two seconds I have my answer. Swim Bladder! An actual condition! Not being someone who cares much about fish as pets, I wasn’t aware that they got sick, or that people actually treated them if they did. Go figure. Instructions included cleaning out the tank and fasting them for 3-4 days to purge their system. As we were about to clean out the tank anyway, and B forgets to feed him 1/3 of the time, I figured Bluey would be good as new by the weekend. Ready to party!

There we are, cleaning out the tank, talking to Bluey, (“C’mon, dude! You can do it!”) and as I’m arranging the last of the plastic ferns in Bluey’s tank just the way he likes them, I realize Bluey is laying at the bottom of his temporary home, not moving, not swimming vertically, no backstroke, side-stroke, no stroke at all. He is, at long last, dead.

Big B realizes this at the same moment, looks at me, and rolls out a fresh wave of tears. “I j-j-j-ust really thought he w-w-w-as going to pull through, M-m-m-m-om…”

A private Viking funeral was held.

Christmas Eve errands be damned. With the clock advancing at an alarming pace, we went up the street to the fish store, I stifled the urge to vomit, he picked out a new red fish, named him Fireball, put him in the tank where he swam happily around, soaking in that homey lived-in feel, and Big B enjoyed him for a week until he died on New Year’s Day.

Which just goes to show you...fish suck. And they ruin major holidays.

The end.

That cool, refreshing drink.

2009-01-06T09:35:00.028-05:00

Well, oh mah sta-a-a-hrs---I seem to have been given a lovely award in the form of lemonade! If I'm not mistaken, the Academy of Arts and Sciences bestows this miraculous honor, so my sincere gratitude goes to them, first and foremost. I'm so humbled and grateful, and I couldn't have done it without the help of my daily dose of psychotropic drugs, coffee, and my new best friend, Mama Bee, who nominated me. I thought the nomination process came through Cannes, but whatever! I'm not picky! I haven't won anything since 8th grade when I was home sick and called into a radio station to win ski lift tickets. Not being a skiier, that was somewhat anti-climactic.

Mama Bee is a very, very funny mom to a girl so cute you could literally bite her cheeks (not that I would, Mama Bee, not that I would), and possesses one of my favorite blogger qualities: she cusses like a sailor. Let's hear it for Mama Bee, everyone...let loose the general rejoicing!

[pause for applause]

Come to find out, this award is not all about me, which is a little troubling but I'll play along. The rules are (that there are no rules! HA!) you have to give props to the person who bestowed the award upon you in the first place, and you have to nominate 10 bloggers that you'd like to give the award to, something about them having attitude and gratitude. A little pay it forward, if you will. Dooce seems to have put my email address on spam alert, so here are ten other bloggers I find scintillating:

1) Holly at Nothing But Bonfires. She's a British girl living in San Francisco, newly engaged, world traveller, a great writer with top-notch fashion sense and who also offered great restaurant advice to me some months ago when I went to London. She's not afraid to share photos of herself from the 80s, and had her fiance design her blog in Tiffany Blue. What's not to like?

2) The Dad at Looky Daddy. He is one of the talented few with the ability to make you cramp up with laughter and well up with tears, sometimes in the same post. He's at home with his three daughters, two of whom are twins (TWINS.) and is an excellent writer. My first stop every morning. (after the afore-mentioned drugs and coffee. which I hope has nothing to do with why I like him. No. No, I'm pretty sure he's just as good when you're sober and sleepy.)

3) Danny at Dad Gone Mad is a reel ryter with a book deal now so probably way out of my wee little league, but this is about who I like, not who likes me. (However, if a small gift of cash or perhaps a lovely handbag will make one like me, I'm not necessarily opposed to a graft situation). If you delve into his archives, be sure to check out The Chronicle of Danny's Vasectomy. I'm quite sure I may have lost consciousness for a moment on account of the laughing.

4) Y at Joy Unexpected. Funny, moving, a fantastic writer and has a four-year-old girl (not that I have a four-year-old girl anymore because she's five now did I mention she's five oh god I need a valium but I digress...) whose antics are adorable and hilarious. Honest and talented, and did I mention funny? (I sense a theme developing here.)

5) C. Monks at Utter Wonder. Dry, hilarious, his Blogvent Calendar is not to be missed. Also has a real, published book on real paper and everything. Listing him here should increase his sales by at least 400%.

6) Linda at All & Sundry. Tales of life with her two boys and husband are absolutely adorable and hilarious, she's a great photographer and an even better writer. (Also? The things that come out of her husband's mouth reminds me so much of my husband's wit, it's scary.)

7) Nat at Marmite Breath. Another expat Brit married to a Naval Man (Purposely written to make him sound dashing, b/c he is. Naval Man.) Crafty (hands-on crafts, not sneaky), warm, hysterical, great story-teller. She has an special expression for photos that is unparalleled.

8) Kristin at Better Now. Why she does not have a book out yet is beyond me. Hands-down one of the best writers on the internet, in my humble opinion. She's a single mom of an adorable boy, and bares her soul daily for our edification. You owe it to yourself to stop by, and you will get hooked.

9) Donna at Spuddy Buddy. A real flesh and blood friend who moved away and took her adorable husband with her, then went and had a baby that I HAVE NOT HELD YET, which is unacceptable. Smart, funny, I laugh, I cry, I like her even better than Cats!

10) Ruth at Do WE Amuse You? Okay, I may or may not be related to her. She keeps claiming it's so on account of her marrying my brother, but I've yet to see proof. Reading her blog makes me alternate between wetting my pants and needing CPR. And she's got this groovy music function on her page playing "Faithfully" by Journey right now. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little verklempt.

So there you have it--my 10 Lemonade Awards. I had trouble choosing just ten, but what can I say? I'm a rules-girl.

night-night, Four.

2009-01-04T23:24:00.004-05:00

Five years ago tonight, at this moment, I was sound asleep. I was blissfully unaware that nine hours from then, I would be holding my new baby daughter in my arms. I had no idea that from the moment she took that first breath, she'd take mine away day after day with her very presence. I had no idea that starting with the first sound that came out of her mouth, a throaty cry, she wouldn't stop talking for nearly five years. (Seriously. She doesn't ever stop talking. Ever.)

She is a sunny, happy, sing-songy, delightful little girl, full of mischief, drama, and plans whispered behind two cupped palms (not yet aware that carrying out said whispered plans is a bit easier if your accomplice can actually hear you). One was darling, two was practically edible, three was delirious, and four was glorious. And now it's five. My imagination isn't broad enough to foresee what the year will bring. Hers is, though. I'm guessing she has all kinds of plans. (Some of which she's shared, and includes but is not limited to: losing teeth, playing tee-ball and soccer, and being a Daisy Scout.)

So Happy Birthday, cupcake. You're a goof and a doll, and I love you to to the moon, and back. You are the apple of my eye, you make me happy when skies are grey, and you're My Girl.

And don't you dare stop talking or planning or singing. We live for it. Daddy, your Big Brother, and Me.

I'm ready, Five. Bring it on.

Housekeeping.

2008-12-31T11:28:00.008-05:00

You didn't think I was going to write about actual housekeeping, did you? Well, okay, here's a short story: my house is overrun with toys, candy, laundry, Christmas decorations, and an abundance of electronics with cords I trip over on a near-constant basis. It might be cleaned up at some point in 2009. The End.

(p.s.: I just made some cleaning progress in the candy category, specifically, Reese's mini-cups, aka the best kind of Reese's. See how productive I am!?)

December was long, busy, and deliriously fun. When I have time to catch my breath, I'll share with you:

1. The Death of a Fish

2. My Soon-To-Be-Five-Year-Old-Daughter's Unique Wii Bowling Style (in which she beats everyone she plays, mercilessly but with a touch of sparkle and panache)

3. How To Shop and Re-Shop for a Husband Who Swears He Has Everything He Needs

4. Magical Christmas Moments Including Singing a Duet With My Eight-Year-Old Son in Church on Christmas Eve, and

5. Eating My Weight In Sushi. (That last one doesn't really need further elaboration. We went out for our anniversary and ate a ton of sushi. How's that? Hemingway couldn't have been more concise. Then again, if Hemingway wrote it, someone would surely have died at the end, alone, in the rain.)

My New Year's wishes for you include all the best life can offer: love, health, happiness, safety, and contentment. And if you're on my Christmas card list and just got a card today, it's because I've started a new trend of sending out New Year's cards. Or, Christmas cards 49 weeks early. I'll let you decide.

Either way, I wish you Peace.

xoxo,

Guwi

ps: Just to be clear, numbers 1 and 5 are unrelated.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2008-12-04T17:55:00.005-05:00

As some of you know, while blogging is my full-time gig for which I am handsomely paid, I also have a side biz making darling handbags. We normally do custom-design purses and bag parties, but at the moment we have some adorable Ready-Mades, and with a simple email, one (or many!) of these little beauties could be headed to your door to give, or to keep for yourself.

And the best part? They're 15% off!

So what are you waiting for? Click away, my internets-friends!

Have a jolly.

I Heart This. I Heart It So Much.

2008-12-03T16:14:00.002-05:00

Posting twice in one day...I know! Crazy. This couldn't wait though...the laughter. It consumed me.

See more Jack Black videos at Funny or Die

Even "The Chupacabra Gave You That Candy," would have been a better option.

2008-12-03T09:29:00.009-05:00

My three-year-old son, happily munching on his advent calendar candy, asked me who put it there.

Caught offguard and panicking, a few options ran through my head. Santa? It would seem an obvious choice, but a) he's up north making all the goods, and b) wouldn't we lose some of the special Santa magic if he came every night instead of just one? "Is there someone in the kitchen? Oh wait, it's just Santa again. Hey S! Grab me a beer, will you?" Eye-rolling and heavy sighs commence.

Elves? I had a mental image of a bunch of creepily grinning elves darting throughout the house, climbing up the walls and across the ceiling, leaving candy in their wake. Way too nightmarish for a three-year-old, I thought.

Jesus? Not an option.

So I said the first inoffensive thing that popped into my head (and if you've been reading here awhile, you know that not everything that pops into my head is inoffensive.)

"Who brings the candy, you ask? Why, the Christmas Fairies, of course."

The Christmas Fairies. The CHRISTMAS FAIRIES. I had so many options here. I could have said, "It's a mystery, a magical Christmas mystery!" I could have feigned innocence. Hell, I could have 'fessed up and said, "Mommy does, honey. It's just a little extra Christmas surprise for you."

I had to go with the Christmas Fairies, or as I like to call them, The World's Most Redonkulous and Least Imaginative Imaginary Holiday Icon Who Also Haunt My Dreams. It's not like you can write a Christmas Carol about them.

Here come the Christmas Fairies
Here come the Christmas Fairies
Right down the Christmas Fairy lane
Twinkie and Blinkie and all their unicorns
Pulling on the reins.

I mean, really, WTF? Was I thinking?

Here we are, five years later, and CP and now Sassy are still totally on board with the whole Christmas Fairy thing. I grumble every night as I'm stuffing candy into the wretched little numbered pockets, not very fairy-like at all, if I'm being totally honest.

So the big question is now: do I tell them? Or at the very least, do I break it to my son? I can just see him at school, "I got the fully AWEsomest taffy last night in my advent calendar. Those Christmas Fairies ROCK." Dull stares. Crickets.

I don't mind telling him I invented an extra piece of holiday magic I thought he'd enjoy, but watch out! It's the slippery slope! Won't he then wonder what else I've invented over the years? What about the Easter Bunny, Mom? What about Santa? WHAT ABOUT THE TELETUBBIES?

It's one thing to make up innocuous little stories to amuse myself. ("Mommy? What makes the traffic lights change?" "Squirrels. There's little squirrels in there.") It's another to dash a child's best dreams, to basically strip him of the very innocence we try to maintain, before society strips him of it without asking permission.

Do I let him continue to believe this hastily concocted fib or do I come clean? Will I suffer consequences? More importantly, will he? Will my boy be in therapy for decades, and in a crucial breakthrough the therapist traces all his problems back to the EFFING CHRISTMAS FAIRIES?

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to make up stories about stupid holiday symbols.

Memories.....

2008-11-30T19:11:00.003-05:00

Sweet Jeebus, could there have been a more lame placeholder than yesterday's post? I was literally in the car and remembered I hadn't posted, and I couldn't bear the thought of failing at this goofy challenge with two days to go. So I grabbed John's iphone and started pecking the words out, all the while getting nauseous from motion sickness, and kept having to stick my head out the window like a giddy dog. It's cuz I love you guys. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

So what did I do this month? Let's recap:

I crabbed about raking leaves.

I was violated.

We elected a new president, and I wept. Early and often.

I dropped a ball.

My newlywed imaginary half-daughter had a baby, and was thrown in the slammer.

My daughter was asked to be a flower-girl. Survey says....NO.

I was hit upon.

I learned the dangers of BUI: Blogging Under the Influence.

We invented a new Olympic Event.

I taught my son some new words.

I shared some of my OCD behavior.

I Gave Thanks.

So as it turns out, when I have motivation, I can perform a task consistently, on a daily basis. With that in mind, I'd like to introduce a few new monthly challenges which address areas of my life I'd like to improve upon, consistency-wise.

NaLaFoMo (National Laundry Folding Month)

NaTeeFloMo (National Teeth Flossing Month)

NaFiMaSoInFoDinMo (National Finally Make Something Interesting For Dinner Month)

DoReMiFaSoLaTiDo (National Julie Andrews Month...I just wanted to see if you were paying attention).

There was laughter, tears, frantic nonsense, and in the end, we all learned a little more about each other. Group hug, shall we?

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you...The Christmas Season.

FaLaLaLaLaLaLaLaLa.

2008-11-29T20:05:00.002-05:00

So, we're on our way to my not-reunion. Our real reunion was cancelled due to lack of ticket sales, so we're meeting at a bar. Because what more do you need to reminisce than good friends and beer? Hopefully we'll have good stories tomorrow!

Questions I've been asking myself today

2008-11-28T17:29:00.002-05:00

1. Why, oh why, do I think it's okay to eat an oversized-dinner portion for lunch? Do Thanksgiving leftovers come with a 'free pass to eat a 4,000 calorie meal twice in two days with no ill side-effects?' (Still, mmmm....stuffing is sublime.)

2. Where has Polish Pottery been all my life?

3. Should entertaining a large crowd and cleaning up after actually cause physical pain? Or is this a sign of getting old?

4. Why can't weekends always be five days long? This idea, she makes sense.

5. Who drank all my damn red wine?

6. Is tryptophan real or am I just really lazy? (See #s 4 and 5.)

7. WHY DID NO-ONE MAKE A CHOCOLATE PUDDING PIE THAT I COULD EAT BY MYSELF WITH A SPOON?

On Gratitude

2008-11-27T22:24:00.003-05:00

The dishes are cleaned, the food is packed up. The crystal is cocooned in bubble-wrap for another year. Desserts are wrapped, the coffee urn is empty. Tables and chairs are put away, and borrowed dishes are set out to be returned to their owners, empty of the bounty they came with.

In the quiet of the post-holiday-hosting house, I reflect on true gratitude. Everyone is thankful for something different; my children dutifully said they were thankful for us and their home and their extended family, but I think they were secretly thankful for leftover Halloween candy and video games. Those in good health, especially recently cured of ailments, tend to be thankful for life. If we lose a family member or close friend, it tends to make us more thankful for those we do have, living and breathing right alongside us.

As for me, I'm thankful for my children and my wonderful husband, and our health, first and foremost. Maybe not the most original gratitude item, but certainly true. We have what we need plus a little extra; a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food on our table and gainful employment. I have a big, crazy, noisy family whom I adore. An amazing circle of friends, and a quiet town filled with fresh air and nice people in which to raise my family. A great church that lets us be who we are, welcomes everyone, and inspires us to think about life in fresh new ways. I have a pretty great life, and I'm thankful for the air I breathe and the people who surround me and send love my way. I'm not sure what I did to deserve it, but I do feel truly blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving. I hope yours was as much fun as mine was, and that you have a million blessings to be thankful for, too.

Today's To-Do List; Hindsight:

2008-11-26T23:50:00.004-05:00

1. Host new kid on playdate
2. Get babysitter so I can spend $3,678,437.08 at Target and grocery in peace
3. Put away delicious food ingredients for tomorrow's 5,000 calorie feast, heat frozen pizza and taquitos for dinner tonight
4. Make soup
5. Place first batch of soup in blender to puree: overload; invent new cuss words as soup sprays wildly all over counter and freshly cleaned stove
6. Put soup outside to cool, where bears will hopefully not find it
7. Start load of table linens in washer
8. Arrange tables in interesting, feng shui way in only possible layout that will seat 25 people
9. Wash last of soup dishes and soup spills so kitchen may be violated in new and interesting ways seven short hours from now
10. Realize blog has been neglected for the day, NaBloPoMo is in jeopardy, run to dash off lame list that will have to pass as today's post.
11. Sleep...delicious sleeeeeppppp......

A little pre-holiday baking...

2008-11-25T22:36:00.002-05:00

Sassy announced to me this morning, "Mom, I would like to make a recipe book, then I would like to use the recipe book to make a pie."

Mmmmmm....I am all about the pie.

"What kind of pie, Sassy?"

"Weeelllll, I would like to start with bananas and peaches, then add 2 cups of water, 3 cups of milk, 4 cups of flour, and 5 cups of sugar. And mix it up really well [this accompanied by frantic mixing motion] and put it in the oven, bake it for ninedyleven minutes, and it will be so, so good!"

"Um. How about if we use a recipe from one of my books for the crust, then put the fruit in after?"

"No. That's not how it works."

"Okay then, how about if we make apple?"

"No."

"Cherry?"

"No."

"Strawberry-Rhubarb?"

"No."

"Shoo-fly?" She actually gives this one some thought.

"No."

"You know, Daddy's favorite pie in the world is pumpkin. Want to make him a pumpkin pie?"

"Mommy! I have a great idea! How about if we make Daddy a pumpkin pie???? He'll be so, SO happy and he'll say, SASSY! YOU MADE ME A PIE, WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!!!"

"So not the first pie then? Pumpkin pie instead?"

"Yeah, I like my pumpkin pie idea better."

Yeah, me too.

Almost Five

2008-11-24T17:28:00.004-05:00

1) "Mom? I have to go rehearse now. My teacher says she wants me to sing Ariel's song in front of the class next week." Just you? The whole song? I ask skeptically. "I know! Isn't it cool???" I flash back to my own second grade year, when I maybe, just maybe, might have brought in my ballet slippers and somehow finagled Sister Carol Marie into letting me dance to a Beach Boys song in front of the whole class. I wince, then repress memory. I suggest we maybe talk to the teacher before planning a one-girl showcase for the entire preschool class.

2) "I have a GREAT IDEA! Let's color the whole page PINK and then turn it over and color the other side PURPLE. Wouldn't that be the best?"

3) "[insert heavy, dramatic sigh] I'm so very sad today because you took away my candy? for three days? because I lied? about turning on the heat in the kitchen and said I didn't? About that. I'm so sad. [insert resolute tone] But that sure means I will NEVER. EVER. LIE. AGAIN. EVER. Because I really, really like candy. But tomorrow is a really, really exciting day. Because I get to have candy again."

4) "Can I make a native american costume tomorrow? Because I really really want to be that for Halloween next year. That's a really good thing to be, because they hunt for bears. And next year I want to hunt for candy. So that's how we're alike. Hey, mom, something interesting. You have a pack of mint gum and I don't. So that one there on your desk might have some mint gum in there. Do you think so? Maybe I can have some tomorrow. When I can have candy again? Do you think so?"

5) "Mommy, I will always love snuggling with you. Even when I'm a mommy too, I will still crawl in your lap and snuggle and kiss your eyes. Because I know you love that."

And that. That is why I love almost five.

Could it be...SATAN????

2008-11-23T19:08:00.005-05:00

So I was helping out in the church kitchen this morning, like you do, (you mean you don't?) and the woman washing the dishes asked if I would dry. "Alrighty then!" I said cheerfully. (A cheerful demeanor is necessary when you're helping out at church. It's the law.)

I went over to the drawer to grab a towel, and recoiled in horror, because it was one of those weird microfiber nightmares that stick to your fingers. (EEeeeeewwwww I can feel it as I type those words.) I said something like, "Oh my GOD I can't stand those things. I can't even touch it!" (and when you're helping out at church, you actually try not to say 'Oh my GOD.' It's sort of frowned upon.)

The woman looked at me strangely and proceeded to wash the dishes. "Try that drawer," she said helpfully. And a little apprehensively.

I opened the next drawer down, pulled out another one, and was AGAIN GREETED BY THE HORROR THAT IS THOSE AWFUL TOWELS. I dropped it like a flaming bible and said, "Are there NO towels in this kitchen that I can touch?" and proceeded to rummage through the drawers, exclaiming to myself in disgust every time I touched another one.

"AHA! I found a normal towel!" I held up my trophy in triumph and, looking up, saw that the woman washing dishes had stopped what she was doing and was staring at me agape, as were three other people who happened to walk in at that very moment. "Cotton," I said confidently. "It's the fabric of our lives."

Little do they know that the joke's on them: I'm just doing my best to avoid being asked to help in the church kitchen anymore. I'll just let them think I have some sensory overload disorder and I'll never have to host coffee hour again.

But ugghh. Those towels. *shudder*

Typhoid Mary Calling, will you accept?

2008-11-22T16:56:00.003-05:00

I hate to do this YET AGAIN but am phoning it in for today. I just had a coughing spell so extreme (Extreme Coughing! Find it on a tweener network near you!) that I actually thought my lungs might have found their way into my cupped hand. [open hand, peek nervously, breathe sigh of relief. No lungs!]

So again, a video for your amusement. I will make an effort tomorrow to try 25% harder to come up with something clever.

Krinzie Smith: Baby Mama, Convicted Felon (or is it Menial Sinner?)

2008-11-21T22:35:00.003-05:00

I was recently informed that my newly-married, new-mother pretend daughter is in the Big House.

Yes, it's true. Krinzie is in jail.

Evidently, and I'll have to confirm the details when I get a copy of the police report, Krinzie didn't want to 'do kung fu', and she got badly hurt. To make matters worse, she climbed to the edge of the top of the branch.

She is a ne'er-do-well, and a daredevil, and it's a darn good thing she was caught before anyone was seriously hurt.

Baby Mary is with her Daddy, John Smith, who is understandably upset and confused by this whole thing.

Sassy has a plan, though. She is going to karate-chop her out, break the chains, push the door and then she’ll be free.

*sigh* Had we known about her proclivity for crime, we could have staged an intervention. I mean, when I think of the things she'll experience in prison, I wonder if she'll ever be the same.

What am I thinking? This is Krinzie! She'll be out before you know it and probably tap-dancing on Broadway or climbing Mt. Everest! She can do anything!

(Except, y'know. Be.)

sleeeppp....sleeepppp in your cereal....

2008-11-20T11:43:00.002-05:00

Sassy and I were discussing breakfast options this morning.

"Cereal or eggs, Sassy? Which would you like?"

"How about....Ambien Frosted Flakes?"

"...?..."

"Do you mean Amazon Frosted Flakes? That supposedly organic substitute for the stuff Tony the Tiger has been shilling all these many years?"

"No, Mom. I really mean Ambien Frosted Flakes." Like, duh, she seemed to say, eye-rollingly.

If you ask me, the cereal companies are totally missing the boat on a great flake marketing opportunity. And just to make it sound a little dreamier, how about Sleepyflakes? Snoozyflakes? Yawnyflakes?

[sleep-deprived parent of hyper toddler]: "You mean to tell me that I can legally give this stuff to my kid and he'll sleep? And it's organic? Four, please. Scratch that. I'll take a whole case."

Drug-infused cereal, coming to a fine grocer near you. Brought to you by Sassy, Queen of Dreamland.

Why yes, it was the first thing that popped into my head.

2008-11-19T13:17:00.003-05:00

John was playing with his iphone, his new nightly activity (I know, hot!). So, in amazement, he informed me that google has a new voice search function. He queued it up for me, and when the voice prompt came up, I said in a clear, firm, and loud voice, “MIDGET P*RN.”

That’s just when I heard the tiny voice immediately behind me on the stairs. “Mom? I’ve tried everything and I just can’t fall asleep.”

For the record? For a tall kid he can creep really silently down the stairs. Also for the record? Google voice search works juuuust fine.

Man alive, there are some strange websites out there.

Because Eloquence is his middle name. (which, obviously, would have made a much better choice than Hussein.)

2008-11-18T21:12:00.002-05:00

Okay, a lame cop-out post, but still. I can't help it, I love this picture. 2), my chest cold has hit full force, which affects my ability to form a complete sentence. Completely. And sentencely. D) and finally, my mother is here. If she gets wind of the fact that I'm on the computer, she will play Mah-Jongg for four hours and then my blogging streak is ALL SHOT TO HELL.

Twinkie Swimming

2008-11-17T13:31:00.002-05:00

Captain Picklepants is home from school today, with the beginning of the chest cold I'm already knee-deep in. See also: up to my chest. So we picked Sassy up from preschool and as we passed a delivery truck with a snackie cake graphic on the side, he commented, "I'd sure like to buy that truck, but I'm guessing they'd take all the twinkies out first."

Suddenly I was 10 years old again, yearning for the junk food my mother would never buy.

"Can you imagine," says the only adult member of this party, "if you had a swimming pool filled with unwrapped twinkies, like thousands of them, and you got to just dive in, and swim amongst the twinkies?"

Delighted, my children ran with this idea. "Right, that'd be awesome! And you'd be naked and just roll around in them!"

"...?..."

He quickly realized the flaw. "Okay, maybe not naked, because, well, that's gross." No! "But you could wear a bathingsuit so it would be a little cleaner."

"That would be better. But what about your hair? No-one wants hair in their food."

"Good point! You could wear a shower cap. And maybe more of a scuba suit so your germs wouldn't get out. That's much better. A scuba suit and a shower cap. But you'd need your mouth open so you could eat the twinkie cream. Uuuhhhhaaaallgghhh..." Does a frighteningly accurate Homer Simpson impression, despite never having seen the show. Then continues:

"But, imagine if you could actually swim inside the twinkie? Like if you were a super-small guy from Super Mario Bros., and you could fit inside the hole and swim in there? Awesome."

"It could be an Olympic swimming event! Twinkie swimming!" Now I'm totally caught up in it. "We could line up the twinkies like lanes in a pool, and say, On your marks, get set, GO! And they'd all dive into the twinkie holes, and when they came out, they'd be like, urgh! I'm so full!"

Then we all sat there in silence for a minute, comtemplating. Visualizing.

"Olympic Twinkie Swimming," says he. "That would be so AWESOME."

Hola! Donde esta Guwi?

2008-11-16T21:09:00.003-05:00

Okay, two unacceptably lame drafts saved + one chest cold barreling down my lungal area like a semi = Guwi needs to go to bed and phone it in for today. Hopefully coherence and better writing return tomorrow. Also? The laundry fairy, because WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT SHE BLEW OFF HER SHIFT AGAIN TODAY. She is so fired.

And now, one of my favorite youtube videos which rather sums up how I and my chest are feeling right now.

Ba Dum Bum (chhhhh). (that was a drumbeat indicating a bad joke)

2008-11-14T13:05:00.003-05:00

I called my mom just now to check in on her, she's not working anymore and has...lots of time to herself.

Anyway, when she answered she sounded a big groggy, and indicated she had been napping. I said, "Oh, I'm sorry! Did I wake you up?"

"Well no," she said. "I had to get up anyway to answer the phone."

An oldie but a goodie. Well-played, lady, well-played.

Sing Hallelujah, C'mon Get Happy!!!

2008-11-13T14:39:00.003-05:00

Things that are pissing me off today:

My Bangs. It's only supposed to be a gentle 'sweep,' not 'laying straight across the forehead after being tightly rolled around a sausage.' Seriously. I left this style in 1990 with my fitted spandex miniskirt and big sweater. Frontal hair: You're on notice.
My Headcold. Really? Is it really already time for the swelling and the soreness and the sniffling? I thought I had at least until after Christmas break, when all the kids have been traveling and sledding and slobbering and letting their germs have playdates with each other. I think it's a bit early for this, don't you?
The Rain. Dear Cold November Rain: You suck. Love, Guwi.
The Dishes in My Sink. Enough already. I've had rabbits that didn't multiply this quickly.
My Laundry. Please see above.
Friday Night Lights. For not running in one night, as a season-long marathon. Coach Taylor, Tim Riggins...I wish I knew how to quit you.

And the number one thing pissing me off today?

Just....uurrggghh. Whatever.

An Open Letter

2008-11-12T17:46:00.003-05:00

Dear Creepy Middle-aged Guy hanging out at the bowling alley arcade at 4:00 in the afternoon,

I walked into the entrance of the closet-sized arcade in this small-town bowling alley, and I'm pretty sure you pulled the simultaneous wink, nod, with a forward-head-thrust move on me, which, last time I checked, translated loosely as, [insert Joey Tribbiani voice] "How you doin'?"

Which, fine, thanks for asking, but if I interpreted your body language correctly (and kudos on not letting go of your joystick), the answer is: I'm not interested. Here's how not interested I am:

a) I am herding not one, not two, but three children under the age of 8 through the arcade to find the non-violent, non-crime, non-hooker games. Really? Do you really think that is the best time to lay that little beauty of a look on me? At least wait till I set the kids up on Crime-Fighter Clown-Killers IV: I Loves Me Some Ho's, they're distracted, and we can hit the lounge for a drink and a smoke.

b) Thanks for the compliment, but if I wanted to hang out with Guys Who Still Live In Their Mother's Basement Past the Age of 42, I would've married one of my ex-boyfriends instead of the Prince I've got. (Who, for the record, only lived in his parent's basement briefly while in college. Maybe a few months. Did I mention he was in college? That's the only time that scenario is even remotely acceptable.)

c) You need a new belt, your pants are falling down. Also, I've got two words for you: Benzoyl Peroxide.

d) You might want to lay off the bean dip before hitting on the local MILFs.

e) Next time you're surfing the internets for some unspeakably frightening websites, check out this cool site called "monster.com." It's all about monsters...oooooo! Monsters! You'll thank me later.

Best regards,
Guwi

ps: If this place ever installs a Lady Pac-Man, forget all of the above, because IT IS ON, BROTHER.

Magical Moments

2008-11-11T10:30:00.005-05:00

I wrote awhile back that a few of my nieces and nephews are hitting milestones, some headed down the aisle with their beloveds. We saw my nephew and his lovely betrothed the other night and despite the fact that I'm twelve years past my own wedding day, I love love LOVE hearing wedding details. Love the cake, love the music, love the vows, love it all.

So after discussing the color scheme, dresses, tuxedos and music and the myriad of details that go into the planning of a wedding, the bride-to-be sweetly asked us if Sassy would like to be a Flower Girl.

"Would I?! Would I?! I mean she?! Of course I (ha!), I mean she would! Why don't you ask her?"

So the din surrounding the table full of people hushed, and Lovely Bride-to-Be leaned over to Sassy, whom she was seated next to, and quietly said, "Sassy, would you like to be a Flower Girl in our wedding?" Breath was held, tears welled in [my] eyes, and we all leaned forward expectantly to hear the sweet words come out of my daughter's mouth...

....!

....!

....!

....!

....!

"No."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

2008-11-10T16:26:00.003-05:00

Wasn't it Eddie Izzard who said, "Watch it, California, you're supposed to be the crazy state!"

Then The Dad summed it up better than I ever could have.

You go, The Dad.

Anyone have a Cat-to-English dictionary?

2008-11-10T10:42:00.003-05:00

I never realized I need to be surrounded by other warm, living beings on a near-constant basis, but I end up being really out-of-sorts when the routine in off and someone in the house is missing. Scoutie is at the vet overnight to cure her of her heartworm ailment, the prevention of which we missed in Puppy-rearing 101.

Even Stupid Cat misses her--she normally goes around the house meowing loudly and urgently, and today it's even MORE loud and MORE urgent. At least it's not 4:00am, the time of her usual appointed rounds, circling the house meowing loudly and urgently, as if to say...what? WTF is she saying?

"I'm bbboooOOORRREEEDDDD. I want something to eeeaaAATTTTT. And while you're at it can you rub my bbbuuuUUUTTTTT I will put it in your face so it's cccoooonnnnnvvvVVVEEENNNIIIEEENNNTT."

Or words to that effect.

So Scoutie is at the nice new vet's place, we picked a new one a little bit ago. She likes it pretty well, except when they put her on a scale. I'm right there with you sister, I hate it too.

So a quiet house till the babies get home, time for a coffee and a quick post, then the day proceeds with its typical glamorous, star-studded pace. I don't want to get you too excited but I may make something chicken-related for dinner tonight. I'll get back to you as soon as I know.

So...yeah, NaBloPoMo! Bringing out the daily mediocrity in all of us, coming to you this November.

Which is the right side of bed to wake up on anyway?

2008-11-09T08:41:00.002-05:00

It's only 8:40 in the morning, and already I'm hoping I can shake the Crabby McCrabby mood in which I woke.

I think it began when Sassy crawled into bed early this morning, and I squished in for a snuggle. Heaven, right? Yes, until she started fwapping me in the face with her 'pillow willow,' this weird squishy thing with the most horribly textured fabric on the outside. So after I asked her to stop and she continued, I might have, just maybe grabbed it and thrown it angrily across the room.

I'm guessing it's more the fact that I did that than that she was fwapping me with it that put me in a funk.

So she got me out of bed to get 'cereal please Mommy is it time for cereal yet,' and I stumbled into the kitchen and pulled out a few choices. She made hers, I made mine, and we both poured our respective bowls. I turned around to empty a new huge costco bag of cereal into a tupperware container designed just for this purpose, and as I had overpoured my bowl, started to empty a bit of it back into the full container. Which also now contained milk, which Sassy had thoughtfully poured into my bowl without my knowledge.

"Oh, Sassy," I groaned, "I didn't know you'd poured milk into my bowl. Now we have to throw out the new box of cereal.

Now if you're really, really smart, but only then, you might know what came next.

"But, Mommy," said through the beginning of tears, "I was only trying to he-- he-- help..." now dissolving into full-on weepfest.

So we sat down and hugged it out. "I'm so sorry I made you feel badly, Sassy. I didn't mean to, and I know you were helping, because you're so helpful, right?" Emphatic nod of head. "See, Sassy, sometimes Mommy acts like an as*&ole, even though she's really not, she gets frustrated and really effing rude. And she's so sorry. Here, give this Mommy a kiss, she really effing loves you."

"F*&k off, Mommy."

It's okay. I deserved it.

Krinzie Smith: Baby Mama

2008-11-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

So, as it turns out, Krinzie is in a delicate condition. According to Sassy, she's due in two days. Which would explain why we haven't seen the newlyweds, evidently they didn't want people to know when she must have been so obviously showing. Or, it's like on that episode of Fringe, where the couple had sex, she got pregnant and delivered a baby in a span of 20 minutes, and the baby started aging and died an old man within moments of being delivered.

Come to think of it, Krinzie could be featured on Fringe. Maybe we're already living an episode of Fringe.

Okay, now I've freaked myself out.

Back to the happy, expectant couple. So Krinzie is due in two days, with a girl that she'll call Baby Mary. After further clarification, her given name will actually be 'Baby' (think Dirty Dancing), her middle name is Mary. So her name will actually be Baby Mary Smith. (Which will make a great name for a goth band when Baby is a teenager, which should be about 20 minutes from now.)

Speaking of bands, the day when Krinzie 'gets her baby' (and for the purposes of conversing with my young daughter, we're going to leave it at that kthanx), they get to go to a musical band, starring one of Krinzie's friends who is 18. One of Krinzie's other friends in the band is 21 (there always has to be the 21-year-old, for the buying of the booze). John Smith's friend is 8, and also in the band, which must be awkward when their sets need to end at 7:30 so he can make bedtime.

And the name of the band? The Rhombo.

*sigh* If I were half as creative as my four-year-old daughter, I'd be on my fifth novel by now.

So what is this Mother's Little Helper and where can I score some?

2008-11-07T13:21:00.004-05:00

Yes, yes, yes, my husband thinks he's pretty cool with his blogjacking episode. We all do, too, honey. We think it's just marvy that you know how to use the internets to hack into my blog. On which I have changed the password, and no, it does not rhyme with a female body part, so next time you're trying to break in to share your vulgar, four-letter-word thoughts, you can leave "Mulva" out of your password guesses.

And now, back to me.

Evidently my calendar "system" (aka, a paper calendar on the fridge) is not working because I finally did it--I missed a parent-helping day at Sassy's preschool. She attends a co-op, so there's a lot of volunteerism and mandatory parent-helping, which is usually fun and involves a lot of paste and life lessons spelled out in macaroni. So this morning, my car-pooling friend picked Sassy up, I went to pour a coffee and go over weekend plans with John. A few minutes later, the phone rings, and it's my car-pooling friend indicating that there were villagers with pitchforks at school wondering where today's parent-helper was, and where was the damn home-made, organic, gourd-flavored snack?

So John dashed out the door to cover me because at 6'5" he really misses sitting in chairs that were designed for 35-pound children, while I ran to the store to pick up the healthy, organic, incorporating-all-food-groups-but-only-if-they're free-range snack of pretzels in those tiny yellow boxes, and juice.

And headed to school with my tail between my legs because you know all those balls supposedly in the air? Yeah, I dropped one of those.

Sassy was thrilled to see me, John got to give me a hard time veiled in preschool politeness ("Oh look, everyone, Mrs. Sassy's Mommy is here! Did you have a nice nap, Mrs. Sassy's Mommy?") and I got to spend the morning exploring symmetry by pasting differently colored shapes on black paper, sitting in the tiny chair, and wondering why I didn't have a coffee before me because APPLE JUICE JUST ISN'T THE FUEL MAMA NEEDS, POPPETS.

Tune in next time for the continuing story of the mama who falls off the Supermom wagon and ends up living in a van down by the river, with only her daughter's imaginary friends for company.

Alright, everybody be cool

2008-11-06T19:39:00.005-05:00

THIS IS A BLOG-JACKING

Carolyn asked me to fix her computer and I stumbled across the link to update her blog. I have to say, my mind is absolutely spinning with the possibilities here. Just think about the all the options you have when you jack your spouse's blog (5 years ago that line could have only been something from the adult entertainment industry and frankly I'm getting a little nauseous thinking about what that would have meant).

Anyhow, back to the blog-jacking. I'm sitting her frothing at the mouth like Amanda Plummer in Pulp Fiction thinking about all of the fun that I can have with this. I thought about posting pictures of Carolyn during her awkward teen years until I found out that this is a central theme of this blog already. I thought I might tell stories about her adorable idiosyncrasies and some of her hysterical brain farts (BTW, fart is her least favorite word and I ask that all of you use it often and creatively in all of your comments moving forward). Unfortunately, self deprecating humor is also another central theme in this blog.

Then I realized that the best option is to do nothing at all. Remember the episode of Seinfeld where Jerry's girlfriend told him that she did "something" to an item in his bathroom and it drove him crazy. I think that the perpetual nervousness she'll have that I might have logged on and shared to much on her blog might actually drive her over the edge. I can just picture her jumping out of bed in the middle of the night to check on her blog because she had a dream that I wrote about the embarrassing thing she did one night after a friend's wedding.

I love you to honey bunny!

*************************************************************************

"Jane, you ignorant slut."

Well aren't you just the cleverest little monkey, hacking into my blog? You'd like to think you could divulge all kinds of secrets about me, but as you mentioned above, that's sort of the main theme around here. So have at it. Go ahead. Hack away, pal.

Just wait till I start telling the world (or the small part of it that reads here regularly) your dirty little secrets. Don't worry, I'll think of some.

Watch your back, friend. You might want to sleep with one eye open, that's all I'm saying.

Exultation.

2008-11-05T09:01:00.005-05:00

I have a confession to make. This whole past year, since I saw Barack Obama speak in February and have been touting his leadership qualities to anyone who would listen, I was secretly afraid. I was afraid it wouldn't happen, that it couldn't happen in America today, that people just weren't ready to elect this man, the deck was stacked against him, that all his momentum would lead to a crushing defeat and we'd all be saying, "It was a nice thought, but it just wasn't his time yet."

I have never been so thrilled to be proven wrong. The voting public in this country made me so proud yesterday, and I've never been more honored to be American than I am today.

Watching the news coverage last night, I was astonished watching people spill into the streets to celebrate. The only time I've seen anyone in this country hug total strangers and dance in the streets is to celebrate their team winning the World Series or Super Bowl. Americans, I thought to myself, just don't do this over an election. Foreign citizens are this passionate about their country's leadership, but not us.

I've never seen, in my lifetime, this many Americans jubilantly united over a single idea.

I let the dog out before I went to bed, and as I opened the door, I strained to hear the shouting and cheering in the streets, but the winds of change didn't carry the joyful noise all the way to my little town in the country. But when I closed my eyes, I could still see them in the streets of our great cities, waving their arms, hugging, cheering, weeping, holding their children up to witness history being made. The people I saw felt liberation, exultation, inspiration.

It's a new day in America.

photo courtesy of boston.com

Sap, Party of One?

2008-11-04T08:41:00.009-05:00

Lots of things fill me with emotion. Actually, let me re-phrase that: there are very few things in life that don't have the potential to fill me with emotion. You'd expect that the birth of a child or a loved one getting married or the death of someone close to me would affect me, and you'd be right. Not unlike most people there, I am. (Thank you, Yoda.)

Where I really let my freak flag fly is when I get emotional about things you wouldn't expect. Like bad tv shows, reading obituaries of people I've never met, reading certain children's books, and voting.

Today, when I vote, I will leave with a huge lump in my throat. And my son will roll his eyes.

I don't know what it is exactly that moves me about the act of voting. I think it's somewhere along the lines of getting choked up during The Star Spangled Banner. This pure act of patriotism, this privilege that we are entrusted with, something about it speaks to my inner sensory meter and it pushes my Verklempt: Yes, Please button.

I read about citizens of countries who aren't part of the democratic process, who would, quite literally, die for the right to vote and I get choked up.

I see veterans wearing hats emblazoned with the name of the naval destroyer on which they served, heading into the polls, and I get choked up.

Just the other day I read an article about a local man who recently attained citizenship and was thrilled to have the opportunity to vote in his first election. I got choked up.

So it only makes sense that when I head into the polls today with my two children, to cast my vote in (cliched but true), the most important election of my lifetime, I will feel the familiar tightness come over me and when the Registrar hands me the ballot, I'll only be able to nod my thanks instead of speaking it. I'm so honored to have a voice in choosing our next leader, that even if my candidate doesn't win (please oh please oh please) I will still be left with the sense that I participated in greatness, along with millions of other privileged individuals.

(And a sticker. I'll also be left with a sticker. Which I will wear all day even if I have to duct tape it to my pajamas tonight.

So vote early and often. And I'll see you at the polls--I'll be the one clutching the box of Kleenex.

edited to add: Forget the sticker, I want one of Holly's homemade cupcakes!

Rear Window.

2008-11-03T14:13:00.006-05:00

"blah blah blah colonoscopy blah blah blah..."

"I'm sorry? What was that middle part again?"

"Colonoscopy."

"Um. No thanks, I'm all set with that."

******************************************************************

And so it began: a short hospital stay over the summer leading to the nutty hijinks that is a colonoscopy this morning. The end.

When I make jokes about feeling old, people try to reassure me, "But you're so young!" they say. "What are you, 31, 32?"

"I just turned 38 in October."

"Oh. Well, that's not so old."

It's not the number that gets me, it's the various and sundry ailments that I've had the good fortune of recovering from over the last few years.

Remind me to tell you about that goofy day when they found a blood clot in my lung. Oh my HA HA HA HA HA that was a silly day.

Or when the doctor thought I had SHINGLES. "How old are you again?" he asked, flipping through his chart. "36. I'm 36."

"Hm. We don't see that too often from someone your age."

And most recently, my summer stay at the spa, or as I like to call it, "Three Days in the Hospital Where They Do Nothing But Ask Really Personal Questions and Deprive You of Bad Hospital Food."

Which brings me to this morning, or, "Aren't You Going to At Least Buy Me Dinner First?"

I am utterly freaked out by discussing anything of a personal nature, even with medical professionals. It usually results in much blushing and eye-rolling on my part and much foot-tapping impatience on theirs. So for the purposes of modesty, I'll be omitting the part called "Colonoscopy Prep" that occurred in my home yesterday. Trust me, you're welcome. Let us never speak of it again.

Flash forward to this morning, all gussied up in my finest hospital-wear, back a-flappin', a lovely IV port sticking out of my elbow, beyond tense and totally freaked out. If I go to my happy place in my mind (the beach) I can kind of ignore the situation at hand. Then the doctor starts going over the procedure and is surprised when I hold up my hand, Diana Ross Stop in the Name of Love-Style.

"I'm good, really. I don't want to know exactly what's going to happen. You just do your thing and I'll pretend I'm...elsewhere."

"You know, you will be asleep. You're not even going to know what's going on."

Thinking to myself, Yeah, okay. As if I'm not going to know that you're...doing that thing you were just describing.

So they wheel me into the Procedure Room (How Polite!), slam on the brakes, and the anesthesiologist comes over with this big, ginormous needle and proceeds to inject it into my IV port.

"It'll just take a minute then you'll be sound asleep. After a short while, you'll wake up feeling very refreshed."

REFRESHED. I don't know about you, Buster, but to me, refreshing is more of the crisp mojito on a hot day variety.

The last thing I remember saying,"Y'know, I've never been a drug user but this is pretty coool..."

And then I woke up in recovery. Literally with no recollection of what had just occurred. How scary is that? I had no idea. Had they not even told me what was to happen beforehand I would have woken up thinking, "Haircut? Nosejob? Manicure? What? What happened?" I was half-expecting to look down to find I was kidney-less in a bathtub full of ice cubes.

The nurse who pulled me back from beyond was very funny and sweet. And possibly a bit taken aback when she was commenting on the office's recently remodeled digs, and I responded sleepily,

"It's totally the nicest place I've ever been so&*mized in."

I blame the drugs.

It's the most wonderful &^%$ time of the year.

2008-11-02T14:36:00.004-05:00

Why is fall cleanup so depressing? You'd think it would be a joyous occasion, a celebration of things to come, mostly food-related: Post-Halloween (mmmmm...chocolate), Thanksgiving (mmmmm....turkey), Christmas (mmmm...cookies), New Year's Eve (mmmm...champagne). Crisp air outside, crackling fire inside. Rosy-cheeked children throwing leaves at each other.

Mmmmmmm.

Instead, it's, mmmmmm...rotted pumpkin, mmmmmm...rotted leaves and uurrrggghhh...heavy lifting of patio furniture into the shed. 99.9% of fall is spectacularly wonderful. The remainder sucks harvest ass.

Tomorrow I'll be looking ahead to holiday entertaining, menu-planning, shopping, wrapping and baking. Today, the quantity of leaves in my yard and on my deck are pissing me off. And something's been having a little scooby-pumpkin-snack on our deck. Mere feet away from our bedroom. I think it's either the chupacabra or a killer squirrel.

Mmmmmm....chupacabra.

Welcome to My Madness.

2008-11-01T10:20:00.003-04:00

Happy November 1st! Or, as I like to call it, the first day of a very long month in which I will try to write on this site daily, which should amount to expanding your knowledge of my breakfast habits, various and invasive sundry procedures I'm undergoing this month and mining their depths (so to speak) for humorous aspects, a little soul-searching, some laughter, a few tears, and at long last, a new President, which will have nothing directly to do with me or this blog, but which is just A BEAUTIFUL THING FOR EVERYONE INVOLVED. WHICH IS TO SAY EVERYONE.

Can I get a WOOT WOOT?

(Yeah you're right. I definitely can't pull that off. Apologies.)

You'll get to know me better, I'll hopefully get to know you better (I might have a de-lurking day, so keep your panties poised for that) and in the end we'll all hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

("someone's blabbing Lord, Kumbaya. Someone won't shut up because she has this idea people want to read what she's thinking every minute of every day please make it stop, Lord, Kumbaya...")

You know those times where you drink too much and talk everyone's ear off and they're all looking at each other like, "Oh God, who invited her and when will she pass out?" and you're all, "I LOVE you, know knnooow tthhat, donchoo?"

Or was that just me?

Anyway, I think it'll be kinda like that. So in anticipation of all this wondrousness, Happy November 1st. Let's make with the Nambly Pambly.

Say Whut?

2008-10-31T15:20:00.003-04:00

My husband took the day off from work today, trying to burn up some vacation time before he loses it. We had the pleasure of bringing Sassy to preschool and hanging around for their Halloween parade. Is there anything cuter than 32 4-year-olds in halloween costumes?

So after overdosing on all the cuteness, we decided to go on a little date to Starbucks. Once we remembered what it was like to have an uninterrupted conversation over coffee, we got very silly and I mentioned I wanted to carry a notebook to write down blog ideas for the next month.

"Oh, right," John said. "Nambly Pambly."

"...?..."

"Your thing. The blogging thing. Pablohomo?"

*blank stare*

"Do you mean NaBloPoMo?"

"Oh, you're right. That makes MUCH more sense."

Goin' to the Chapel, Part Deux

2008-10-28T18:05:00.004-04:00

Krinzie and John Smith, sitting in a tree...F-I-G-M-E-N-T.

I'd like to introduce you to my imaginary-half-son-in-law, John Smith. Krinzie and John met at a local orchard, whilst picking apples. (I swear I'm not making this up, but my daughter does seem to have my sense of fairy tale romance. Perhaps this has something to do with Disney Princesses. Hm.)

John is from North Carolina, where they're now living, but Sassy promises they'll come back to visit.

Sassy gave the happy couple a cooking bowl and some broccoli, wrapped in purple paper. She flew down personally to give her the present, and is going back tonight at midnight to visit her again.

Do you think it'll be awkward for the newly married imaginary couple, for their flesh and bone friend/sister to be the third wheel? I'm guessing she can be really bossy, especially considering she's the only one who...exists.

Mazel Tov, Krinzie and John!

Goin' to the chapel and we're...gonna watch my fictitious half-daughter get ma-aaa-aa-rried

2008-10-27T10:19:00.005-04:00

What is it with last-minute weddings lately? First my niece, then my daughter's imaginary friend.

Yes, Krinzie has gotten married.

While discussing plans for our busy weekend on Saturday, we mentioned to the kids that we'd be attending mass at Grandma's church on Sunday. To which Sassy replied, "That's because Krinzie is getting married tomorrow."

Of course she is. She has an age that fluctuates with Sassy's mood, so why on earth wouldn't the logical next step be marriage? My first two questions were, 1) who is she marrying, and 2) are we paying for it? Evidently Krinzie is a good saver but either very secretive or very indecisive, because she paid for the wedding herself (Woo Hoo! Go Krinzie!) but did not share the groom's name with Sassy. I'm fine with whomever she decides to spend the rest of her life with, as long as it's not Michael Jackson or George Hamilton. (Although, if there's anyone I can picture marrying a figment of someone's imagination, it's Michael Jackson.)

The bride and her [not-Michael-Jackson-] groom are currently honeymooning in Northern California. She wore a pink and purple dress, and the entire ceremony happened during the priest's homily. We were quite surprised that the Catholic Church allowed the wedding, but we thought it was very progressive of them.

I'm really looking forward to buying the happy couple a wedding gift, and I have a few ideas:

1) Wedding china from Atlantis

2) A weekend stay at Hogwarts Castle

3) A unicorn.

I don't know--it's so hard to shop for a wedding present without the benefit of a registry. Maybe I'll just give them cash. I think I have a spare monopoly game around here somewhere.

*sniff* They grow up so fast.

me+13=geek. You want proof? You got it.

2008-10-24T10:31:00.011-04:00

I've been trying to come up with an appropriate post transition from my last entry, because it didn't seem appropriate to just jump right in makin' with the funny. However, if there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that sadness is best accompanied by a humour chaser. Therefore, I'm expanding my recent willingness to humiliate myself through old photos, and am today giving you the gift that keeps on giving: a page from an old diary, with the added bonus of being partly ballet-related. You're welcome.

First, behold:

Notice, if you will, the bubble-cursive letters. This style dates back to the 13th year of life, when flair and roundness were favored.

Next, the translation:

Once again, I have tons of things to tell. School started. Wow yippee! Ballet started too. I got the part of Clara in the "Nutcracker". fun fun. My birthday was 3 days ago, I'm finally 13, Yeah! I haven't really had a party yet, but I will soon. I slept over Christine's house last night. It was so much fun! We ate so much junk food. Also, Chris's sister knows this girl named [name omitted to save her from needless humiliation]. She has a younger brother named Bill. He is 13. We were talking to him on the phone last night for so long. Then, later, Everyone told me that in my sleep I said, "Billy, hold me!"and when I woke up for some unknown reason, I said "Jesus H. Christ." Just like that! Right out of the blue!

Enthralling, isn't it? Let's deconstruct.

Exhibit A: Note the attempt at nonchalance over receiving the part of Clara in the Nutcracker. I can safely say that was the biggest thrill of my life, up until that point, anyway. How sad is it that I thought I was too cool for my Diary? (I'm also too sexy for my shirt, but that's a story for another day.)

Exhibit B: Love that the highlight of a slumber party at my friend's house was 'eating junk food.' My mother never bought junk food; not out of any great health concerns, but that shit was expensive. If she did, it was of the old-school generic variety, white bag with black letters: POTATO CHIPS.

Exhibit C: Talking to a boy on the phone for 'so long' was, in my thirteen-year-old life, about as good as it got. Especially an unknown boy, which was always way more exotic and held more potential for the coveted 'make-out session.'

Exhibit D: As a Catholic schoolgirl, saying "Jesus H. Christ" was like buying a First-Class ticket for the Express Train to H-E-double hockeysticks, so I had to put a disclaimer in my Dear Diary with the Just like that! Right out of the blue! as if to say, "Are you there, God? It's me, Carolyn. About that blasphemy I mentioned: I didn't mean it and it was in my sleep so really it wasn't even me talking it was the devil and please don't send me to the fiery pits of hell and I'll promise I won't have impure thoughts about Billy or any other boy until I'm at least 30 and also I'm sorry about looking at the playboys in the attic I promise I don't remember what those hard girls look like amen. p.s. thanks for the junk food that was AWESOME."

If I turned this blog into a self-deprecating humiliation-fest, fueled by my many diary pages and old photos, I'd have material to last a lifetime.

Or until I'm sent to H-E-doublehockeysticks.

Amen.

Helen Stevenson, 1935-2008

2008-10-21T18:36:00.014-04:00

__________________________________________________________
The woman, at least 15 years past any formal ballet training or performance, moves her feet along with the music. Combinations come back to her as though they were executed the day before. They’re not done well or thoroughly, but the memory lives in her sole and soul, and she feels a familiar lump in her throat over her childhood and the artist she once foolishly considered herself to be, hours spent dancing, gossiping, competing, sometimes dramatically weeping over lost roles or friendships or inferiority. Watching live performances still moves her to tears, whether it’s an old friend, his talent never failing to astound her, or a professional company on tour she’s fortunate to see. The music swells within her and she tries, unsuccessfully, to hold back the emotion.

I was never a great dancer. If I were being completely honest, I’d say on a good day, I was marginally okay, and on a bad day had all the grace and talent of a toddler learning to walk. I went to endless rehearsals and classes, sometimes wishing I had an excuse not to (and sometimes resorting to outright subterfuge; Halloween night 1983 comes to mind). I rarely practiced at home. I showed up late. I’d fall behind during difficult combinations, or gloss over steps I hadn’t mastered yet. But still I persevered. World-class ballerina wasn’t in my realistic sights, though I did (and sometimes still do) dream about it. I was never the Sugar Plum Fairy or Snow Queen or soloist, and my heart ached for those roles. But persevere I did, and it was all for the big payoff: Opening Night. I drank up every minute of live performances. I loved the backstage prep: makeup, warm-up on stage, giggling in the locker room, putting on tights and tutus and pointe shoes. Standing in the wings, heart pounding, palms clammy, mouth dry, until that magical moment when wham! I was under the hot lights, in front of the audience, smiling enthusiastically if it was called for; attempting (not always succeeding) serenity or poise or agony if it was not. Quick changes, role changes, shoe changes, running behind the backdrop to get to my entrance on the other side of the stage, quiet as a mouse and pressing my costume down at my sides, lest I give away the myth of the scenery. Every performance ended too quickly. Once the cast party had ended, my thoughts raced ahead to the next night’s performance. Immediately upon the curtain falling after the last show, right after the glorious curtain call, tears were shed for graduating friends, great parts swept up with the fake snow and the general drama of it all. More than that though, the tears were shed for the doneness of it all. Another show has ended, go in peace.

But this story isn’t about me. Rather, it’s about a Director, Artist, Visionary and Friend, and, apart from my family, the greatest single influence in shaping the person I turned out to be: not a principal with the New York City Ballet, or even a part-time dancer with a local company. But I am today a person with music, art, and dance in her soul, if no longer in her feet, and I have Helen to thank for that.
My mother and I disagree on when I first started ballet; she thinks it was at age 4 or 5, I’m pretty sure it was 7. Regardless, a local woman had started a ballet company and my mom thought I’d enjoy it. She enrolled me in a class and signed me up for a role in the Nutcracker. I was hooked from the first, and in the Company’s first home, the town rec center, Helen created magic and art from an amazingly talented pool of people in a small town. Nutcracker was her annual standard, but lengthier and more difficult ballets were performed in the spring. It might be an original work one year, or the full-length Sleeping Beauty the next. There was always a Spring Gala between Nutcrackers, and I, along with people I still count among my dear friends, ate it all up.

My early memories of Helen are of her sitting in her chair, calling out direction, speaking the steps in time with the music, and, wonder of all wonders, smoking. I’d dash in 5 minutes after rehearsal had started, and she’d bark out my full name, followed by, “you’re late!” without missing a beat of the music. She sometimes wore preppie ponytails in her hair and when she was amused, which was often, there escaped a loud cackle of a laugh that I can still hear clearly. She had high standards, likely because she herself was so dedicated. As far as I knew she ate, slept, and breathed ballet and expected us to do the same. She was occasionally visited by her son in those early years, a student at a local prep school where her husband was a teacher.

The Company would move to another recreation center in town, but not before Helen and her husband experienced unthinkable tragedy: losing their only son in a motorcycle accident. I don’t remember specifics of that time, but knowing the adult members of the Company, my impression was that they rallied around her, kept the classes and rehearsals going, and slowly she eased back in. Presumably, she focused her energies on her art, but I would never dare to assume what was in her head then, just that it was a very dark time for her; the depths of her pain I can only imagine.

I stuck around another few years a little ways into high school. A more devoted ballerina would have sacrificed social life and sports for her art, but I found it too difficult to balance endless rehearsals with what I imagined would be my insanely busy social scene and budding athletic talent. As it turns out, neither lived up to my high expectations.

Fast forward to me at the age of 20 or so, living at home with my parents, taking what would become a very long break from college, missing my friends who still had another few years before they’d graduate. I decided to take a ballet class at my old company; a lot of my dance friends were balancing work, school, and for a few, families, to take classes and continue to perform. Dancing as an adult was worlds apart from dancing as an adolescent. I was a little more responsible about attending, I managed to work in a social life on top of dance, and most of my angsty drama was gone, replaced by dancing for the sheer love of it and challenging myself more than I ever had. I still didn’t get those plum roles I’d always dreamt of, but I did learn how to make it through rehearsal with a hangover which, sadly, I did with more frequency than I care to admit.

Helen had gotten a little older too, and as an adult, I began to think of her more as a friend than an authority figure, though my respect for her did and does run deep. Cast parties were riotous affairs; once the Company’s youth went home for the night, the wine would flow for some, and the stories from everyone. Helen had such a wicked sense of humor, delivered with an old-school preppie inflection, followed by a giggle that grew to her trademark cackle. She had the greatest memory for everyone who’d ever passed through her Company, and those who’d never left. Some of those stories I tell and retell, but once we began to relate as adults, much of it stays in the vault, where it belongs.

Over the years, Helen began to pass a lot of the directing and staging responsibility along to her teaching staff, some of whom had begun with the Company as wee children, and had grown into beautiful dancers and great directors. I only stayed a few years as an adult, moving onto my life with John and eventually our two children. I attended as many performances as I could and wallowed in the swelling music and remarkable talent of those onstage, though admittedly was always left with the bittersweet sensation of a performer who sits in an audience. I was under no pretense that I could return, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss it.

The last time I saw Helen was at her retirement party in 2007. It was something of a mini-reunion of our cast of characters, former dancers wishing her well, coming out of the woodwork to celebrate her immeasurable artistic accomplishments. Helen was suffering from some health issues then, and though it was a fun night, seemed exhausting for her. I didn’t get to talk to her as much as I would’ve liked with so many people there, but I did lamely try to choke out something about how much she meant to me, and how grateful I was to know her. I doubt it was even that eloquent. Along with my love for drama comes great passion, and my ability to talk through strong emotion has gone downhill with every year I age.

I’ve thought about Helen often since then, and like a lot of people do when it’s too late, wish I’d kept in better touch with her than just sending Christmas cards. She and her husband and a few friends from the ballet attended my wedding nearly 12 years ago, and aside from making the rest of us look bad on the dance floor, completed my circle of friends and family, and it wouldn’t have been the same without them. Helen and I (and anyone else who knew her well) had a few private jokes, and she and I used to hold out our index fingers as if something delicate was dangling from them, and we called it ‘giving you the finger.’ I’ll admit, its origin is a little foggy to me, but when I said goodbye to her that last time, I looked back, and we both simultaneously gave each other the finger, and cracked up, me through my tears and her from a chair where she was growing weary.

Better words failed me that night, and I couldn’t say what I really felt, so here goes: Thank you, Helen, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for teaching me to feed my soul through art, music, and dance. Thank you for laughing out loud, for bringing your passion for artistic pursuits to a small town, which you left the better for it. Thank you for insisting on impeccable timing, sharing the stories, and passing on the lessons I didn’t realize I was learning.

Most importantly, thank you for your friendship. I will treasure it always.

Like Bill the Cat, only with grey hair...

2008-10-16T09:28:00.001-04:00

I know it's such a cop-out to turn a post into a link for another website, but this is totally cracking me up today and I wanted to share the love.

I feel a little bit bad for the guy, but only because I don't like to see old people teased.

Still. This is funny stuff.

I just made you see underwear...

2008-10-14T11:40:00.003-04:00

Why is it that I always seem to catch people doing things that should be done in private, and when I do, it always seems to happen in slow motion? If you've seen "Along Came Polly," remember that scene where Ben Stiller and Phillip Seymour Hoffman are playing basketball with two big sweaty guys, and Ben Stiller's face gets shoved against one of the sweaty guys bellies, and it's in slow motion, and he's emitting this gutteral, slow-mo groan? yeah. A bit like that. Thank you, youtube, for the visual aid:

Cases in Point:
1) Driving along the beach in Revere, MA on our way up the shore one day, we were at a stop sign, and there was a woman crossing the street in front of us whose bikini days should have long since come to an end. The man she was with tugged at her bathingsuit ties, undoing her top, and her floppy jubblies came crashing out and down, in all their gelatinous glory. Right in front of our car. No court would have convicted us had we caused an accident. And they? Both doubled over laughing, as we looked on in horror, mere yards away.

2) Along the same stretch of beach (thank you, Revere, for causing my temporary blindness) John and I both happened to glance up at one of the porches overlooking the beach, just in time to see a woman reach down the back of her bathingsuit, thoughtfully digging around for...something. Awful. Just awful.

3) Most recently, I was waiting at the service desk at our local Large Grocery Store, and a middle-aged man was none-too-patiently waiting for his much older mother. The man was dressed in raggedy sweats, and just as he called out, "Come on, Mom!" he reached his hand wayyy down the side of his pants for a good scratch, exposing his tighty-whities which had long previous ceased to be tight, or for that matter, white. I would have more appropriately called them, "Bunchy Grundies." I closed my eyes in silent revulsion, but the image was already burned onto my retinas.

I'm sorry to have to expose you to this, and I apologize for the imagery if you were eating (or even breathing) but it begs to be asked: Why am I frequently in the wrong place at the wrong time, when people are about to do unspeakable things to their bodies that are better left in private, or one step further, UNDONE?

Little Umi, You Haunt My Dreams.

2008-10-08T17:02:00.012-04:00

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FOR THE FAINTHEARTED, OR THOSE EASILY FREAKED OUT BY LIFELIKE BABY MONKEY DOLLS.

Meet Little Umi, The Most Incredibly Lifelike Baby Monkey Ever!

Where to begin? First of all, I really can't fathom what type of person would buy such a horrible freakshow of the non-nature art world, but just supposing one was in the market for a 'masterpiece of sculpting,' let us deconstruct to make sure we're getting our money's worth, at 5 easy payments of only $27.99. (which, according to my calculations carefully performed on a calculator, comes to approximately $139.95. You're welcome. I'd hate for anyone to burst a blood vessel around here trying to do math. Or is that just me? I digress.)

So for your $140, here's what you get:

1) A Fake Monkey Baby You Can Bring to the Grocery To Freak Out Your Friends and Neighbors!
"Oh, hello, Sally! Why yes, we do have a new addition to our family! Meet Little Umi!" Sally, not recalling that you were pregnant, makes an assumption that you've decided to adopt. Peeking into your new pink pram, she catches sight of Little Umi and her excitement turns to confusion. Then realization. Then fear. Sally suddenly remembers she needs hummus, and hightails it to the natural foods department, desperately hoping to run into a mutual acquaintance in the deli.

2) Tool for Oral Fixation Handily Included!

It's 2:00am, and you and your husband are sleeping soundly. You hear a cry in the night, and hastily wake your husband, hand him the pacifier, and bark in his face, "Little Umi is crying! She needs her BINKY!" Your husband, bleary-eyed, takes the pacifier, stumbles out of bed, and halfway down the hall, realizes he's about to give a pacifier to a fake baby monkey made out of lifelike silicone. He comes back to bed, and when asked if mission was accomplished, responds, "Little Umi is one happy f*&king monkey." After being hit over the head with your alarm clock, he thinks to himself that tomorrow would be a good day to start having an affair.

3) A Fine Collectible!

Delicately positioned between your Lladro wedding figurine and your Waterford toasting glasses, Little Umi will stare dully out at you from your Hitchcock dining room hutch, her lifelike silicone skin and wispy hand-rooted hair begging to be touched and held. Twice a day, you reach in, caress her face ever-so-gently, thank heaven for your little blessing, and quietly close the cabinet door. Then, you go online to buy a new Baby Bjorn so you can take Little Umi on her Sunday afternoon walk.

Now don't forget, Little Umi is available for a limited time and high demand is expected, so order NOW.

"I'm not old, I'm 37," no longer applies.

2008-10-07T10:36:00.005-04:00

I've tried to sit down and write a post twice this morning, and both times came up with the stupidest, most depressing entry ever. I think it has something to do with the fact that I turned 38 yesterday and I've never struggled with my age before but for some reason I feel closer to death today.

See? Depressing, right? (No! Surely not!)

So I shall instead post three things that have made me happy in the last 24 hours:
1) The Red Sox are going to the AL title series.
2) I had a wonderful birthday, complete with sushi and apple pie and a gift certificate for a THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE HOLY HELL WHAT TIME DO THEY OPEN???
3)

Okay, two things. I really did have the most tremendous birthday, loads to be thankful for, health, a roof, warmth, a family who loves me, sushi and apple pie. It just seems that after all the dust settles and the birthday glow is gone, suddenly I just feel...older. I don't know why, 38 really isn't all that old (despite the fact that my husband's taunting says otherwise. He's two years younger, so that's his job. He does it admirably.) Somehow though, after 35 I started to feel older than my years.

So this year, I vow to not only feel my age, but perhaps even younger. Exercise? Vibrant lifestyle? Drinking like I did in my twenties? I have no idea how. But my promise to you is that 365 days from now, I will not post a 'woe is me I am decrepit' post.

A year after that? I can't make the same promise. I will be 40, after all. (Oh God. I just decided I'm going to try the 'drinking as I did in my twenties' first. I'll let you know how it works out.)

Have a nice day! :)

Krinzie Kan Cook!

2008-10-03T14:30:00.008-04:00

I don't know if I've ever written about Krinzie, my daughter's imaginary friend. Krinzie is both friend and sister, and happens to live next door to my sister up the road. She moved there from Africa, where she lived in a dark purple house that was painted like a giraffe.

(and for the record, I'm not nearly imaginative enough to make any of this up.)

Krinzie has aged and regressed in the 18 months or so that we've known her. She seemed to have birthdays every! day! for awhile there. If you've ever thought you were losing your ever-loving mind, try singing happy birthday to an imaginary daughter who's turning 57. For the 6th time in a week. When she previously had turned 42, 9 and 21.

There used to be some other sisters, one of whom was named Nouvana, but I'm not sure what happened to her. Back to Africa? I don't ask for details.

Not unlike the 'Not Me' character in the Family Circus cartoon, Krinzie sure gets into crazy hijinks sometimes, boy howdy! She spills things on the floor, uses my lipstick, and once hid my keys and I couldn't find them for 45 minutes. Ha ha ha! That crazy Krinzie!

Recently, Sassy snuggled into bed with me. Not one to turn away the all-too-infrequent snuggle from my 4 1/2 year old, I cuddled right in and went nose to nose with my girl, until I realized nose-to-nose was, more aptly, nose-to-foul-morning-4-year-old breath.

"Eeewwww, Sassy!" I said. "You have wicked kitten-breath! No, wait, tiger-breath! Actually it's worse than that--your breath smells like day-old lobsters!"

Without missing a single beat, my precious girl replies, "That's because I went over to Krinzie's house in the middle of the night, and we ate crabcakes."

uuuhhhhhhhh....oh. That is so totally not what I expected to hear.

F*&king Krinzie. How many birthday cakes have I made her and I don't get a thank-you, let alone a stinkin' crabcake.

This is bullshit.

and this one time? at band camp?

2008-10-02T08:55:00.005-04:00

When one's twentieth high school reunion approaches, one goes through a series of stages. In no particular order, these stages include:

1) Feeling old (especially when nieces decide to get married)
2) Starting to do a little online research on 'alli', the latest otc weight-loss miracle
2b) investing in some Spanx (see #2)
3) joining facebook and having a virtual pre-reunion (also having lots of people you don't remember find you, "Oh HAI yes of course I remember you from biology class junior year are those your kids they're just darling I have to run I'm undercaffeinated ha ha talk to you in November")
4) finding old pictures and lamenting that anyone around you knew how to work a camera.

At the moment I'm in the "finding old pictures" stage (though the first four stages are ongoing), and while I've enjoying seeing old shots of my family and friends, I can't help but think, Why On Earth Didn't My Mother Intervene or at the Very Least Find Me a Large Rock To Hide Under?

Holly started a new feature in her blog entitled Bad Decision Tuesday, and though I can't promise Tuesdays or even any specific day of the week, I will periodically be sharing humiliating photos for your viewing pleasure. You're welcome.

I'm not sure if you knew I was a Liza Minnelli impersonator in my youth, but isn't this all about getting to know each other one frightening bit at a time?

The only thing that makes me wistful for this time is my waist size and pronounced cheekbones. Otherwise, this is just a horrible, horrible car wreck of a moment captured in time.

What little I remember about this particular performance is that I was singing 'New York, New York' and I think this was actually at a daytime assembly, and not a night-time performance.

In essence, I was so White-Hot, they saved me for a matinee. But not just any matinee. A matinee in front of the entire high school. I'm guessing I was pretty tickled with myself. This, in a nutshell, goes a long way toward explaining those hundreds of dates I had with cute lacrosse players and college guys.

Music and theatre gave me lifelong gifts: an appreciation for the arts, a creative outlet, loads of great memories hanging out with talented people. I'm also left with the gift that keeps on giving: pictures of me with black eyeliner, satin vests, and glittery hats.

I'm going shopping for some spanx now. Maybe I can find some black satin ones, edged with glitter. Just for old times' sake.

Love Blooms

2008-10-01T16:37:00.004-04:00

When I wrote recently that some of my nieces and nephews were hitting major life milestones, I thought I'd have a little time to get used to the idea. Going to showers, giggling in the corner and having the younger set view us as decrepit old ladies, being the crazy aunts and uncles in the Himalayas of the seating chart at the wedding, dancing badly and drinking too much. Tearing up during the speaking of vows, warmly hugging new members of my large and ever-increasing family.

Soaking it all in.

However, one of my darling girls had other plans.

Behold, the adorable couple:

The full recounting of their romantic story is here.

*sniff*

OW. OW IT HURTS.

2008-09-19T12:30:00.001-04:00

Ouch...OUCH my teeth hurt from all the sweetness. We interrupt this contentious election season to bring you something truly adorable...having nothing to do with lipstick, pigs, or failing economies. Cuteness for the sake of cute.

Enjoy.

I think that I shall never see..

2008-09-11T09:25:00.004-04:00

a poem as lovely as a tree. Or, some people being uber-overzealous about saving aforementioned trees. I'm as much in favor of saving the earth as the next left-wing liberal, but even I think this is a bit...what's the word...

Fuh-reaky.

But it did make me giggle. Mad props to C. Monks for finding it first.

Time Passages

2008-09-08T09:47:00.009-04:00

I’m a fair-weather friend to my blog-- I only show up when it’s convenient for me. Also, I gossip about it when it’s back is turned.

Once again, my children have started a new school year, and my youngest, my baby, has started 4’s preschool. I know it’ll only be a matter of time before I’m dropping her off at college. See if you can guess which overused cliché fits here:

a) It seems like only yesterday she was learning to walk!
b) The house seems so empty without her!
c) I’m going to blink and 10 years will have gone by!
d) All of the above.

Here’s the irritating thing about clichés, though. They’re clichés for a reason, just like tourist attractions become popular for a reason. At the core of every cliché and every overcrowded tourist destination, there’s a little smidgen of truth. Disney World is a ridiculously fun place to go, and my home is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

I don’t think I can contribute anything new or insightful to the www about being a parent, watching a child hit a milestone, but a blog is nothing if not a place to brain dump, so here goes:

My children are getting older and wiser at a shocking pace and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

(Where are you going, my little one, little one…)

I’m afraid their childhood will disappear in an instant, and I’ll be left with a hard drive bursting with photos, guilt that I didn’t do more, be more, play more and nurture more, and an extra 35 pounds.

(Where are you going, my baby, my own…)

With every birthday and new school year, with every new concept they learn, they need me just a tiny bit less.

(Turn around and you’re two, turn around and you’re four…)

I’m terrified that if I don’t appreciate every moment, if I don’t give thanks for every dazzling smile, new discovery or proud accomplishment, however small, there will be payback.

(Turn around and you’re a young girl going out of the door.)

I have many older siblings who are wrestling with their children’s milestones, seemingly light-years away from mine. There’s another nephew greedily anticipating his driver’s license, a freshman finding her way around campus, a 19-year-old facing possible deployment, and two, potentially three wedding engagements in the same year. And I know this with utter certainty: as proud and frightened and thrilled my brothers and sisters are when they look at the sixteen children between them, I don’t think there’s one who wouldn’t give anything for just one more afternoon in the sun, watching their small child play at the beach, chasing waves and hermit crabs, putting a small hand in theirs and just plain needing them.

I can still do that with my children, but not for much longer. So I will wallow in it, this day of a comparably tiny milestone—my daughter’s first day of four-year-old preschool. Next year her brother goes to a new school for 3rd graders, and she starts kindergarten, and I will be in this place all over again, but with more grey hairs and melancholy. It’s my annual ritual; I feel if I don’t stop to pay homage to these important days in the lives of my children, they’ll go unnoticed. And someday when they’re driving to a job, finding a college classroom or walking down the aisle, I’ll wonder where the time went.

At least this way, I’ll know.

Hello? Is this thing on?

2008-05-02T08:56:00.008-04:00

BOO!!!

I know you're not used to seeing anyone around here, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to give you a good scare. HA! GOTCHA! Now I must blow the dust off this rickety old shack, because *DENISE THOMAS SUCKS AND TAGGED ME.

Not being a pantywaist, I must rise to the challenge and give my fan(s) what she (they) want(s). Okay, enough with the parentheticals.

So, I must share six unimportant things about myself? Wow. That's a tough one. I will SEE if I can come up with anything that qualifies as unimportant.

I did not learn the rules of Paper, Scissors, Rock until about a year ago. I always just went along with the game, "Oh, damn I lost," I’d say, and assumed my opponent was being honest and would tell me if I won. My husband thinks this is highly amusing, and regularly challenges me to a game, because he knows he'll win.
Though I am not an organized person on an everyday basis, my Christmas ornaments are put away with Martha-like precision. I think I was traumatized by treasured handmade ornaments melting and breaking over the 11 months they were in the attic as a child, because it was accomplishment enough in my house for my mom to take down the tree by Easter. Wrap them individually? That’s just stupidity. (She has eight kids, it’s a wonder she possesses any measure of sanity whatsoever at this point.)
Speaking of my childhood, as the youngest of the Motley Eight of us there exists no photographic proof of my existence prior to the age of 6, where I guess I just started acting interesting enough for someone to take my picture. Much to my chagrin, my mother told me not long ago that “we took the pictures, we just never developed them,” adding just LOADS OF POSITIVE ENERGY TO MY SELF-ESTEEM. If you know me at all, you know this is not unimportant to me in the least, that I complain bitterly to anyone who will listen (which at this point is just my kids and only because they have to). However, I figured these topics should be unimportant to the reader, not the writer.
I check my alarm 4 times every night before I go to sleep. Paranoid? Mmmmmm…maybe just once in awhile.
I have a sugar canister with a wooden spoon which, no lie, was one of my favorite wedding presents. It was from Crate and Barrel, came with a bunch of other goodies, and probably cost all of $6. A few holidays ago, my brother did something unspeakable to the wooden spoon, thinking he was being funny. I had to throw it away because EEEEUUUUUWWWW GERMS ON A WOODEN SPOON. CANNOT STERILIZE. Now, I get a little bit irritated EVERY MORNING when I have to get a regular spoon from the drawer for my sugar. I have looked for a similar item and cannot find it.
I’m 99% confident I will win PowerB$ll one day. This is my long-term investment plan. I think it’s pretty sound.

So there you go. I could write volumes on other unimportant items in my life, but I don’t want to lose my VAST readership. Keep it relevant, brief and witty, that’s what I say.

Who wants to play Paper Scissors Rock? Anyone?

Now, I tag...Donna, Natalie, and maybe I'll see if I can get Ruth to come out of hiding.

*Denise Thomas does not, in fact, suck at all. She’s very funny and manages to keep TWINS in one piece, for God’s sake. I’m just picking on her because she’s making me write for the first time in many moons. (by 'keeping the twins in one piece,' you understand I mean--separately. Just thought that needed clarification.)

Yes We Can Song

2008-02-05T16:40:00.001-05:00

Expanding on the earlier theme...I have chills. And yes, they are multiplyin'.

Ba-Rock the Vote!

2008-02-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

This has never been a political blog, as you may have noticed. I tend to keep my political views to myself, or at least limited to a close circle of people. Perhaps it's because I haven't been inspired by a candidate in so long, and talking ad nauseum about my disgust with current office-holders gets old and is exhausting, not to mention very negative. And I am CHEERFUL, DAMMIT! (usually). Sometimes it's difficult to remember there are issues that affect the larger picture, this country and the world, when I'm knee-deep in the everyday life of making lunches, driving to and from preschool, supervising homework and going to doctor's checkups.

However.

I am now officially a card-carrying rider on Barack Obama's Bandwagon.

While I've liked him from the start, I tend to keep mum about which way my voting will swing. I'm a registered Democrat, but at primary time, there are a lot of choices. Even during a November election, I don't always vote blue.

As my state's voting day grew closer, I solidified my position. While I am without question not a Hillary Clinton fan, I didn't want to join the Obama camp based on his charisma alone. I wanted to be able to refute claims of his inexperience with hard facts; school myself on his positions on healthcare, education, how he plans to get out of this mess in Iraq. I read as much as I could about him and his opponents, and felt comfortable with my choice.

Then came the blue icing on the primary cake. Last night I had the good fortune to attend a rally with 17,000 other people and hear him speak. I knew I would be moved. I knew I would be inspired. I knew I would leave with hope.

What I didn't know is that suddenly I am quite certain that this man holds the key to healing what ails this country.

I realize that one person does not have a magic spell to cast, waving a wand and suddenly finding our citizens fed, healthy, educated, safe and prosperous. I know one person does not just say, "Okay, folks! War's over! The End!"

But I also know it takes a born leader to pave the way. I know that hope goes a long way. When people feel hope, when there is positive energy instead of national malaise, amazing things can happen.

Barack Obama offers hope to a country badly in need of this precious commodity. He can help heal the deep divide left by the current and past administrations. If we elect this guy, I truly feel this will be a better place to live. I think we can gain back some worldwide respect for this country that's been lost over the last dozen years. I think we can bring some of our military home to their families. I think we can lend a hand to some of our citizens living in poverty and without medical care.

If today is primary day in your state, I hope you'll vote. I still get a chill every time I vote, regardless of who I pulled the lever for, because I'm so honored to have the sheer privilege of having a say in who leads this country.

Today not only was I honored, I was finally proud of who I voted for.

Dizziness Galore and Stories of Cat Regurgitation. You've Been Warned.

2007-10-23T14:36:00.001-04:00

My new computer monitor is making me dizzy. I was on it for 1/2 an hour the other night, right after we hooked it up, and I was incapacitated for the whole night, the room spinning as if after a really bad (or good) night out. HDTV has the same effect on me. Big, clear graphics do a number on my equilibrium. I think I'm subconsciously trying to keep my husband from upgrading our tv. Either way, it makes me feel like a giant wuss.

I wish I could say we upgraded our monitor just because we're cool and groovy and decided to go to a large electronics hellhole and spend a lot of money. The truth is, my brother and sister-in-law gave us one they weren't using, because our Stupid Cat unexpectedly fried ours with her puke.

Yes, that's right. Stupid Cat, laying atop the monitor because it's "warm" and "fuzzy" and "quiet" decided to have a "puking incident" measuring 7.2 on the Richter scale right where she was sleeping. Atop the monitor, you recall. I ran to get paper towels to clean it up, but was 5 seconds too late...it had already run down through the vents on top and when I got there, the inside of the monitor was going, Tsssszzzzzztttt, smoke actually came out and the odor of burning cat puke was akin to what I imagine the seventh level of hell smells like. And the pictures in my screen saver started getting all wonky and wavy gravy.

STUPID CAT SHORTED OUT MY COMPUTER MONITOR WITH HER SICK.

If replacing it had actually cost us any money or GOD FORBID if she did that to the hard drive, this post would include a link to craigslist advertising a free 13-year-old cat, hairball control cat food included (but not guaranteed to work).

Stupid cat.

********************************************************************************

In other dizziness-related happenings, Sassy was spinning in the kitchen this weekend, because she's three, and three-year-old girls like to spin. (Fortunately she has a stronger stomach than her mommy.)

"The whole ROOM is spinning round and round! The whole HOUSE is spinning!" Then she turns to John to shout a warning to him as she's swaying back and forth.

"Daddy! Hold on tight!"

At least she didn't puke in my monitor.

And also? They give you Purple Kool-aid.

2007-09-25T15:24:00.000-04:00

I was driving Sassy to preschool this morning, and was giving a lift to one of her little friends. As we drove by our church, she said to him, "That's my church. Do you have a church?" When he said no, she politely said, "I'll share my church with you. Would you like to come to Sunday School with me?"

I think the next step is to take her to the airport with a bunch of kids' bibles and have her hand them out with a free carnation.

So now you're up to date.

2007-09-22T10:54:00.000-04:00

In light of the fact that the news world is buzzing about this topic, I thought I would weigh in. Isn't this what the blogging world is about? Normal, everyday people sharing opinions about important world events? So to break back into the blogger world, I have decided to come out of my self-imposed exile, to present you with this: the most important event in the world today.

Man Hides Sex Toys in Sausage.

So, this guy evidently didn't want to be judged for having sex toys and transporting them across international borders. Okay, I can see that. But he chose to hide them in a sausage? Isn't that redundant? Do you think the people who found them thought he might actually be incorporating the sausage into the sex toy reindeer games? Because....eeeeuuuuwwww.

Hey, is that a sausage in your sausage or are you just happy to see me?

What was his thought process? "I must disguise this phallic sex toy from the customs authorities...but how? Shall I slip it inside a sock? A plushie furry animal?" (that's another whole ball of freakwax, that's for sure.)

"Eureka! I shall incorporate it into my recently purchased sausages! No-one will ever think to look there!" No, I don't think they would, but was he still planning on eating the sausage after?

Guh. Forget I said that, it's just too skeevy to contemplate.

**********************************************************************************

So, yeah. How are you guys? Good, good, glad to hear it. Capt. Picklepants is a college graduate and Sassy has gotten her drivers' license, but otherwise same old, same old. I did think I might want to write about transitions, kids getting older, me weeping like a lunatic dropping Sassy off for her first day of preschool, but that seems to be the hot topic lately amongst some of my favorite bloggers, so I didn't want to be quite so mainstream. Also, I was too lazy. See also: sucky in comparison.

In order to bring you up to date, here are a few things that happened since I last wrote:

1. Easter came and went; I just threw out the rest of the candy yesterday.

2. Summer came and went. We went to Maine, had a blast, swam in our pool a lot, ate many popsicles, and (I) drank many margaritas.

3. School started. I cried. Then realized I get four whole hours to myself per week. Thought about hiding sex toys in sausages, just for fun. Decided actually accomplishing tasks around the house might be more productive. Also, less of a likelihood for me to make evening news.

4. Came across dildo-stuffed sausage story. Felt moved and compelled to write about it.

See? You really haven't been missing much. Oh, I also won Powerball and have done some redecorating: turns out barstools covered in whale foreskin aren't over the top after all. Now, dildos, wrapped in sausage, covered in whale foreskin? There might be a market for that.

And now that I've just thought of that, I'm so, so fearful that there is.

Baby, It's Cold Outside.

2007-02-14T08:53:00.000-05:00

Mad Props and full credit to The Bleat for this unspeakably fabulous woman, who sums up everything I feel as a wife and mother; chiefly, that tantalizing undergarments should include Lollipop Cuffing. Because how is it possible to feel sexy without Lollipop Cuffing?

And John, if you're reading, this is your Valentine. Muffy on a swing in her Bubble Duds. I get more romantic every year, don't I?

On this special day, this Dieu de Sint Valentino, I would like to also thank Ms. Winter. I have decided that the personification of Winter is not, in fact, an Old Man, but a bee-yotch wearing a tee-shirt that says "50 is the New 30," who enjoys toying with children, teasing them, lowering their winter-time fun expectations to new lows, and who, if I hear my daughter say one more time, breathless with anticipation, "Mommy, is it going to snow ALL THE WAY today? So we can go OUTSIDE and make a SNOWMAN with a big carrot on his nose? Is it?" I will slap. And I will slap Ms. Winter hard enough to make sleet shoot out of her eyes instead of tears.

Usually this time of year, we in the frigid and meteorologically unpredictable northeast are lamenting the piles of snow and lack of sun. We long for watching a ball game on a warm afternoon, having a margarita on the deck, or playing frisbee on the beach.

But. This year, I have two small children with all kinds of brand-new winter duds, desperate to try them out; make a snowman, build a fort, go sledding, do something, ANYTHING related to wintertime fun.

Let's recap:

1) White Christmas. Negatory.

2) White January. A piddling amount. I don't even think piddle would have turned it yellow.

3) However, a Warm January? Check. The first two weeks I went outside on a regular basis in short sleeves.

4) Snow days? Today is the first. ON VALENTINE'S DAY. Ergo, my son isn't even happy about a snow day because there was a party scheduled for today complete with cookies (which I made, yes) and the giving and receiving of valentines.

It's mid-February and we're just getting our first snowstorm. And the worst part is? It's not even the kind of snow they can play in at the moment. It's big, nasty, heavy, wet, biting, painful sleet and freezing rain, which will turn to snow later, which will guarantee that my poor husband will be in the seventh level of hell shoveling it off the driveway. The poor thing. I may even make coffee for him after so he can warm up. I'm sweet like that.

So thank you, Ms. Winter. Thanks for dashing children's dreams, raining sleet on their snow parades, and rendering new snowsuits useless. You show your face around here, and the slapping will begin.

(Yes, I realize I'm just tempting fate here. I'm sure the second she reads this she'll dump snow on us for weeks. I know. It's my own little internet rain dance. I'm very in touch with the spirits that way.)

p.s.: Happy Valentine's Day!

Up, Up and Awaaaayyyyy....

2007-02-08T16:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes full days with children are really trying, and sometimes things just fall into place, and you wonder how your angels could ever possibly give you a hard time when oh my GOD they are just so precious.

I was flitting around with Sassy all day, doing errands, having fun, and sometimes she just...sparkles. She has this sing-songy voice, uses words like "wonderful" and "terrific" to describe how she's feeling or how her breakfast is. Her lilting voice melts my heart, and she's like a delicious little walking slice of happiness.

I was seeking comfort today, being so cold and brittle outside, so I popped a pan of brownies in and started making a cappuccino. I'd let the dog out so I asked Sassy to let her back in as I was steaming my milk, a delicate process, as you can imagine.

"Okay, Mommy! That would be a big help, wouldn't it? If I let Scoutie in the house? I'll do it right...NOW, okay, Mommy?" Hops off her kitchen chair, skips over to the door, and starts calling her beloved pooch.

So I'm steaming the milk, humming along with the Indigo Girls, and she's getting increasingly...squeal-y, and I thought she was excitedly calling the dog. Then through the hissing of the coffee machine, I hear the words, "....my ballllLLLOOOOOONNNNNNNNNN'S FLOATING AWAY!!!!!!!!"

She runs to the front window and I get there just in time to see her balloon being pommelled by the brute force of the wind, blown across our busy road, and lodge itself in a tree across the street.

Her outburst at that moment can best be described as gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking. The sob welled up from deep in her belly, tears, literally shooting out of her eyes, she threw herself in my arms and wept the cry of the grief-stricken.

Her balloon. Her heart-shaped birthday Disney Princess balloon that had been kicking around the house for the last month, still played with, still loved, still cherished, despite the fact that it had lost most of its helium and all of its balloony-ness. Her balloon was gone, and not only was it ripped from her hands, she helplessly stood by and witnessed its cruel captor take it away, and trap it in a place where she could see it. Taunting her. So close, yet so far.

She collapsed in my arms, and sobbed. And sobbed. Every so often, she would lift her head and forlornly moan, "Bawwoon. My bawwooooooon....it's over dere, across the stweet...my bawwwwooooonnnnn......."

I calmed. I comforted. I may have wept one or two tears myself, in sympathy for her sadness. Then, to her rescue, came Captain Picklepants. He came up behind us, and with a barely detectable lump in his throat, said, "If my balloon flew away like that, I'd be sad too, Sassy." And joined us for a hug party.

Then he lit up with an idea and ran into the other room. Needing only a little assistance from me, my boy, my daughter's hero-of-the-moment, blew up a latex balloon and tied it with a pink ribbon. We drew a face on it and bopped it back and forth for awhile, until she was laughing again.

"Thank you, C.P. Thank you so much for making me feel so, so better. I'm not sad anymore!"

It also helped that I served a big bowl of warm brownie and vanilla ice cream. Every child-rearing book in the world rails against using food as comfort or reward. But she's gotta learn sometime...a fresh-out-of-the-oven brownie and some melty ice cream on top really does make you feel better, even if it's just for a minute. How else will she learn the meaning of comfort food? Otherwise she might think it's food that lends itself to physical comfort, like prunes or whole grains. Life lessons start now.

Except for the one about tough breaks. You know, losing something and having to deal with loss, even if it hurts? Parents not offering instant gratification, thereby placing too much importance on frivolous objects of impermanence?

Not at three years old. At three years old, I will ask her Daddy to bring home a new balloon, heart-shaped, with Disney Princesses on it, and one for her other hero, Captain Picklepants. He cheered her up when she needed it most, so he deserves one too. Tough-luck lessons will start next time.

After all, how many times in your life do you get a chance to mend your child's broken heart? If I can, I will, dammit.

Then I'll figure out a way to free the trapped balloon across the street, dangling and shredded mess that it is. That's just the height of cruelty, staring her in the face.

F*&king balloon.

Previously, on...

2007-02-07T08:46:00.000-05:00

Lost is on tonight Lost is on tonight LOST IS ON TONIGHT!

Yeah, I'm a little excited. John makes fun of me endlessly for that, because when it first came out, I scoffed. Can you believe that? I actually scoffed. I thought it was another Survivor reality show.

Forgive me, Oh, Lord, I knew not what I was thinking.

This is how it works: John finds some groovy new show he wants to watch, sometimes with some level of science or science fiction, or God Forbid, Math, as is the case of Numb3rs. (I can't do the backward three, so that spelling will have to suffice.) I scoff, heartily, but I watch it with him anyway, despite the fact that we have another tv and if I really wanted to, I could watch something else by myself. But. This is our thing; we watch tv together. It's very interactive, actually, with much speculation going on as to the next move of the onscreen characters.

Wow. When I really describe it that way, I realize the phrase "needing to get out more" was actually coined just for us. But I digress.

So I scoff. Then I watch one or two episodes. Then (which you'll see coming but only if you're really, really smart) I get hooked. Then I become one of those obnoxious fans that speculates as to the next move of the onscreen characters.

"Oh my God. He is totally going to keep that secret from Kate. Can you believe that? Can you believe Sawyer would do that? I mean, here we thought he was this sleazeball who couldn't care less, but really he's a nice guy. This is so awesome. But what about Jack?!"

All this, mind you, is coming out of my mouth, not my husband's. Who is no doubt thinking, "Please shut up just please stop talking I'm trying to watch the show Oh my GOD why do you think I pick shows I think you won't like I just want one minute's peace I'm so tired please make it stop."

But. I still think he'd prefer I enjoy the show, because when I don't? It's so much worse--then I make fun of it while he's trying to watch.

"Are you kidding me? You don't honestly expect us to believe that a nuclear bomb could be smuggled under a woman's maternity dress, all the way into the Super Bowl, without anyone so much as picking up on it, anyone at all, along the way? This is so ridiculous. I want some ice cream, do you want some ice cream?"

Adult ADD. Get diagnosed.

Meanwhile, back in John's head, "Oh my God she's driving me crazy didn't husbands drink in bars in the 50s like every night? I think I'm just going to start going out with the men every night to the corner bar because at least in a noisy bar full of men I could have some PEACE AND QUIET BECAUSE SHE'S DRIVING ME INSANE."

He adores me.

Aaaaanyway. Lost is on tonight and I'm so very excited, because in addition to getting to watch one of our favorite shows, it takes place on a tropical island so we can escape for an hour and pretend it's all hot and we're at the beach. Surrounded by a bunch of freaks called The Others who like to taunt and torture us, and a random assortment of ill-placed wild animals, horses, polar bears, and some large dark freaky thing that casts big shadows of doom.

I can't wait. Pass the sunblock.

Could This Get Any More Glamorous?

2007-01-29T14:05:00.000-05:00

Potty-training hasn't come easily for me. Well, not me, personally. Obviously. That is obvious, isn't it?

Round one: Captain Picklepants showed interest at 20 months old, so we bought him a potty and started down the road. The loooooong road. Survey says: WROOOOONG!!! You started too early--he wasn't ready yet. Points added for being a first-time parent, points deducted for transitioning all the way into size 6 diapers. The next size up? Depends.

Eventually, he taught himself. He'd had some success, but it was inconsistent. When we brought Sassy home, C.P. was a newly-minted three-year-old. We decided to take a break from the potty-talk (swearing still fully allowed and encouraged) so he wouldn't equate the loss of his babyhood with the arrival of his sister, thereby setting the stage for bitterness later in life. Or something. Also, we were exhausted. However, he took it upon himself to ditch the Huggies and do it on his own, and didn't look back. By the time Sassy was three weeks old, he was fully capable of using the potty on his own. Which was awesome, because changing two kids' diapers would surely have driven me over the edge. Despite the fact that one of them was practically fastening his own clean diapers. "It's okay, Mom. I've got this one. You relax."

Fast forward to Sassy's Journey on the Road to Independent Toileting. Everyone says girls are easier. I say, it's easier to try to thread a needle with a down comforter, dredged in peanut butter. She has opinions. Strong opinions. About when, where, and how she chooses to relieve herself. She's had some success, and for the most part, tinkles like Tinkerbell, with very little effort and in the right place, keeping her Dora undies dry and clean.

But the poo? It eludes her.

She'll actually run up to me after she's soiled her diaper and in some last-ditch attempt at denial, assert, "Mommy. I DIDN'T poop in my diaper!" Move along. Nothing to see here, folks.

So during the day, she gets to wear underpants, and she does very well going to the potty. She wears elastic-waist pants, does everything herself, washes admirably and comes out to get a sticker.

Earlier today I was in the kitchen, as all women should be (duh!), and I hear her come around the corner from the direction of the bathroom, with sort of a shuffling gait. Just as she's almost in the kitchen, she starts crying and yells out, "Mommy! The poopy! It's in my pants it's on my leg it's on the floooooooorrrrrrrrr!!!"

I run out to help her, and she's standing there, in the unmistakable pose of someone who's just had an unfortunate incident occur in her pants, slightly bent over, bum sticking out, legs apart. Arms straight out. Crying.

I scoop her up, and as I'm heading to the bathroom, I have to hop and sideswipe the line of teeny weeny poopies, which are still popping out the bottom of her pants like she's got a candy dispenser full of peanut m&ms in there. Just as I reach the bathroom, out pops the payoff: the Baby Ruth.

It's a good thing I find this type of thing amusing, because seriously? This is what new mothers dread. The ones who are debating staying home vs. going back to a paying gig are imagining themselves in just my very situation. Cleaning up barf one day and poop the next. Got pets? Poof! I'm an orderly!

I laugh because I can, and because I have to. Truly, there's no place else I'd rather be and I'm so thankful I have this opportunity. Just like a paying job, there are good days and bad days. Some days, everything goes great, you're productive, projects come out beautifully, you get a glowing review, and at the end of the day, you think, "Damn. I'm really very good at this."

Other days, you're on your hands and knees, washing crap off the floor.

Once she was cleaned up, we settled on the living room rug for a rousing game of Chutes and Ladders: Dora Style. Sassy went through her monologue of positive thinking, her potty plan, as it were. "Next time I have to go poopy I'm going to run to the bathroom and say Mommy I have to go poopy and I'm going to FLUSH it down and say bye bye pee bye bye poops! Won't that be so GREAT??? And then NO more poopies on the floor."

She reaches across the game board to give me a hug. "You're the best mommy EVER, Mommy."

Some days you get the glowing review anyway. It all evens out, in the end.

M&Ms, anyone?

Local Grandma Kicks Ass, Takes Names

2007-01-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

Which is worse? Having to take care of a sick child before she knows how to aim, or being sick yourself, with two small children to take care of?

Sassy had the barfing flu earlier this week. Thinking I was immune to this type of thing, because I Am Mommy, Hear Me Roar, it didn't even occur to me that the Mighty (Me) could fall. Hugging the toiletbowl yesterday morning for several hours seems to have proven me wrong. Yet again. Where is all this mother's intuition I thought I had? It must have been flushed down yesterday morning.

So there's poor Sassy, unsure of what Preschooler etiquette is in these situations, watching me in this, the most vulnerable of positions, so she starts to cry. In between sessions, I'm trying to comfort her in all my cold sweaty glory, and I finally make it into my bed. So she tries to crawl in with me (is she comforting me or herself? At this point the lines are blurred) and just then it hits me again, only I've been wise enough to put a receptable within arms' reach. I'm curled around the bowl, she's in the bed with me, holding my hand and crying her eyes out. In a sitation like this, there's only one thing a grown woman could do.

I called my Mommy. Who was there within 20 minutes, with enough time to get Captain Picklepants off the bus, make lunch, read books and generally not neglect them as I would have done had been alone.

She did proceed to tell me all about her own incidents of stomach upset, through all seven of her pregnancies, in detail. What sort of receptacle she herself used, where she usually ended up, was it a lot or a little, etc. Which was such a comfort to hear. However. The person who does the favor gets to call the shots, so I just tried to tune it out.

Still, it brought up an interesting point. Which is to say, I am a total baby when it comes to this kind of thing. Let's compare: when she had my twin sisters, there were four other kids already, and my oldest sister was five, at the time. Six kids, under the age of five (plus my brother and I still to come). When she had morning sickness, there was no-one to call, she was usually on a military base, so she might've had a little help. For the most part though, she had to do it all herself. Ergo. Me = Big Wuss.

But. She came. She did dishes, fed my kids, and played with them when I couldn't. They watched a little more tv than is normal, but so what? They were fed, clothed, relatively clean and happy, and it had nothing to do with me.

I could've done without her puke stories, though. It almost made me go back for Round 47.

I hope none of you were reading this while eating breakfast. If so, I apologize. But did I ever tell you about another time I was sick and I had to grab the...

Not That They're Not Big Enough

2007-01-25T08:40:00.000-05:00

Sassy isn't feeling well. Sassy caused me to put the couch cushion covers in the wash two nights ago, to rid them of the puke odeur.

Two mornings later, she's not so much unwell as she is unfriendly. So as John was getting ready for work, Sassy and I snuggled in my bed under the blankets (ow, ow, twist my arm, stop it that hurts) while I tried to sweet-talk her into a better mood. My eyes were closed while I came up with ways to do this.

"Whatre you doin mommy?" She said in her best, breathy, 'I am Princess hear me sigh,' voice.

"Just thinking."

"Whatre you thinking about Mommy?" She asked sweetly.

"Actually, I'm thinking about when you were a baby in my tummy, and you were so tiny (yeah, tiny like a rhino is tiny) and sweet, before you were born."

She pulls all of her features down into one little scrunched up frown, her eyes and nose and mouth actually meeting in the middle. Puts on serious, breathy voice.

"Mommy. I don't want to come out of your boobies."

Was I Born Blonde?

2007-01-24T13:39:00.000-05:00

Recent witty repartee during a particularly lengthy game of Trivial Pursuit, around 1:30 am, after many beers:

Good Friend D: "Question: what is a castrated bull called?"

Insert bad vasectomy jokes here.

Good Friend D: "I'll give you a hint: 'The only things to come out of Texas are...'"

Guwi, drunk and incredulous: "That's horrible! They call castrated bulls QUEERS?"

Sitting on the Lap of Luxury

2007-01-23T08:26:00.000-05:00

As everyone knows, I am a hypocrite. I disdain excessive displays of wealth, yet I feel my financial future will be secure only if I win a major PowerBall prize, like in excess of $300 million. (But I would so totally do wonderful things with the money, it would be like starting a philanthropicaledical foundation, I'd give to sick kids, homeless people, Africa [how do you write that check? Is it: Pay to the Order of: Africa? Just wondering so I can be prepared.]) As you can imagine, knowing what a compassionate person I am, I'd make the lives of so many people better--give till it hurts they say, and I'd be in unbearable pain. What with all the giving, and all.

After all the giving, then I'd buy a house on the beach. Hence the hypocrisy.

Every so often some dickweed comes along that make wealthy people look bad, even to other wealthy people. Someone with such insane wealth that not only do they frivolously spend their money on frippery, they reinstitute the caste system in such a way that it's a wonder the "help" doesn't pee in their coffee on a daily basis. (Maybe they do. Maybe the boss thinks that's what expensive coffee tastes like. In which case: HA!)

On a frigid Sunday afternoon, we were flipping back and forth between home improvement shows and the Travel Channel; some show called, "Wildly Wealthy People and Their Yachts Made Out of Beaver Pelts," or somesuch. Featured was the afore-mentioned dickweed, so offensive in his status-seeking, that as he golfed off the back of his boat with his buddy while his staff retrieved the balls and kept score, he indicated that he always competes with friends at this game and always emerges victorious, because the staff, "knows who signs their paychecks. I'm undefeated." In his case, I think his staff and friends are urinating in his coffee.

Next up is the Christina O, which Aristotle Onassis converted from a navy frigate into a luxury yacht, for the 1954 bargain price of $4 million dollars. After his death, it sat unused for twenty years and fell into disrepair, and was refurbished by some friends of his (who likely had some guilt after their own incidents of coffee-urination) at a cost of $50 million. They shined it up like a new penny, saving some of the original touches, Baccarat light fixtures, mementoes of Maria Callas, JFK (how weird was it that JFK was frequently aboard the yacht of his wife's future husband?) and other celebrities. A teak deck restored to its gleaming original self, a dining room outfitted with Limoges china and Waterford crystal, the helipad, and who could forget Ari's bar? Gleaming wood and glass showcasing models of ship development, ornate carvings on whale's teeth, and oh yes, the barstools covered in whale foreskin.

The barstools covered in whale foreskin.

The poor whale! The poor guy who had to retrieve the poor whale's foreskin! Evidently, this was Ari Onassis' own personal F--- You to the animal kingdom. Whose idea was this, and how on earth was it not illegal? Or was there a booth for animal foreskin coverings at the boat show? Can't you just picture perusing the offerings, making choices? "Let's see honey, should we get the silver-encrusted knobs for the bridge, or the platinum? And the couches in the lounge? Should we cover it with elephant or whale foreskin? Oh, such decisions, this is just too difficult! I need a cocktail!"

As you'd imagine, Ari used to chide ladies about this when they'd sit on the stools. "Excuse me, madam, did you know you're sitting on the world's largest penis?" Classy, that. The only difference between behavior like this and a frat boy at a sports bar is the fact that one of them uses woven gold for toilet paper.

Everyone swears they'd keep their values and remain unchanged upon coming into a large sum of money. I don't think I'd remain totally unchanged. I think I'd buy more expensive shampoo, and maybe get pedicures more often. But covering furniture in whale's foreskin? Who does that?

Everyone knows the best people use panda bears.

The Mirror Has Two Faces.

2007-01-17T08:46:00.000-05:00

Mad props to Ruth for re-joining the blogosphere. She has many a funny story to tell--encourage her to write more often so we can all laugh more. Cuz isn't that what the world needs now? Oh wait--that's love, sweet love. My mistake.

So speaking of that, have you ever wondered if, when you were in your mother's womb, you might have started out with a twin, but then for some inexplicable reason, the twin didn't make it and was absorbed by either your body or your mother's?

No? Then just watch In the Womb: Multiples on the National Geographic channel. The whole special is really groovy, and sciency, and technical-y, but then there's this thing. About how 1 in 8 people started out as a twin. Think of 8 people you know. Holy hairy lumps with teeth, Batman! One of them started out as a twin.

More information was divulged: there is a type of twin called a "mirror-image" twin, where they're facing each other during the pregnancy, and they have a tendency toward one being right handed and one being left. In some cases, a heart is slightly on the right side of the chest. Y'know, like would look if you were skinless and looking in a mirror. Duh. They said these are the most likely candidates for twin-banishing, as the phenomenon is called.

I look over at John and he's frozen. The look on his face is rather color-less, you might almost call it ashen.

"I'm left-handed."

My God. Did we just meet? Of course I know you're left-handed.

"Do you remember that when I was born, my heart was slightly on the right side?" Further facial color-drainage activity.

"Yeah, 1 in 8, honey. I guess you're that one. Maybe that twin is in that tiny lump on your neck. A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!"

May I introduce you to Melvin, the Neck Twin. Melvin likes pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain. He is not into health food, but he's into CLINGING TO MY HUSBAND'S NECK FOR THE LAST 34 YEARS! A HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!

And champagne. The lush.

John, his color returning to normal and being a guy, then pointed out that our next romp in the sheets would be like a threesome, what with Melvin the Neck Twin, and all.

Except the threesome would be with a guy. A hairy, teeth-filled little lump-guy, in fact. And THAT has turned my husband off to the idea of threesomes. For. Ev. Er. Thank you, Melvin.

Hopefully this whole mess won't end up like "The Dark Half" by Stephen King, where the ingrown twin really takes over and starts to act kinda nasty.

Maybe we should just keep giving Melvin pina coladas. Keep him drunk and clueless. Rather like I was when I met John.

Love, sweet love. That's what I'm talkin' about.

Early Bird Special, Anyone?

2007-01-12T10:50:00.000-05:00

The best part of waking up...is going right back to sleep again.

I have been a slug this morning. I've been on the verge of a cold every day this week, and it turns out to be a false alarm. Then this morning, lots of unfortunate symptoms, so I got C.P. ready for school, and went back to bed with Squishy and dozed while she watched tv.

And yes, I am absolutely thrilled that I can do that, but it's truly a rarity when I actually do.

Finally got up, stumbled into the kitchen, made coffee and sat at the table while we played Squishy's new favorite game, "Who Lives Where?" a really cute wooden memory game with animals painted different colors, little roofs you have to pick up, etc. She loves it, and truthfully? She beats me every time. Not by a little, by a lot. As in, there are ten animals each when two people play, and by the time she was done ("I winned, Mommy, I winned!") I still had eight.

I still had eight.

I'm hoping this has nothing to do with my Brain Age, but more to do with the fact that I was still drinking coffee #1, and truthfully I wasn't really paying attention. Because if I really did measure my brain age? I think I'd be eligible for cheap movie tickets.

Either that, or I have insanely talented children. Who also beat me at bowling. I took them last week, my sister joined us, and I came in last.

I used the bumpers.

But then she's so compassionate. She hasn't reached that age yet where she competes for everything and needs to win it all. After she beat me at "Who Lives Where?" she said, "Mommy, I'll help you find your animals so YOU can win TOO." So sweet. And soooo condescending.

I'm going to practice. Then I will totally kick her ass. Those animals won't know what hit them. I'll be like the Ken Jennings of "Who Lives Where."

Such high aspirations I have, no?

****************************************************************************

I've decided to rename Squishy for blogging purposes. That was really a nickname we used when she was a baby, and it seems a little dated, so I'm going to start calling her Sassy. She called herself that for about a year, sometimes Princess Sassy, and trust me--it suits her like Chanel.

I'll be putting out a press release later to inform everyone of the change.

I know I've more than enthralled you loyal readers enough for today, I don't want to overwhelm you with witty insite. So have a lovely day, and weekend--a long one for some.

peace out.

It Got Weird, Didn't It?

2007-01-11T09:07:00.000-05:00

I feel like it's the morning after a party, and I've done something really embarrassing while drinking, and I have that cringe, that sheepish feeling as the realization hits me that yes, I did hug and kiss everyone in sight (with tongue) and there was dancing on end tables. (Much more difficult that dining tables, due to the square footage. I'm just that talented of a drinker.)

I was like POST-crazy, yesterday, man! I was like, hey man, I'm going to post some more and have a little more coffee, man, and then post AGAIN!

I'm not usually that hyper. Typically those words frolic through the meadows of my head, but don't actually bound over the gate, freeing themselves from their confining existence.

Man.

So...yeah.

So what's up with the Adsense ads? I know it's the virtual pink elephant in the room and I'm not supposed to write about it and otherwise call attention to it. I'm not talking about clicking on it, I'm talking about the content of the ads? I'm new to this, so maybe these are like the starter ads, they give you the ones no-one else wants.

Yesterday, my ads consisted of Godislove.com, and websites offering large amounts of money with no credit or collateral. It's as if the Ad Fairy wants me to save the souls and credit of the internet, and is starting with my readers.

Boy is she going to be disappointed. Here you go, here's two readers for you! You're welcome!

Not that I have anything against soul-saving, I'm just not in that business.

(Ironic. I'm wishing I'd get more content-specific ads than religion, so what do I do? I write the word "God." That'll give me different ads! I can't help it. I'm compelled. Hey, you're on a tightrope! Don't look down! "Wow! The people look like little ants from up heeeeerrrrre....")

John speculated last night that this is like the time Tivo thought he was gay, because he kept recommending all the gay series on Showtime. I think it was because of that one time we taped the Rosie O'Donnell Gay Cruise special. Man, one time, and we're branded.

And yes, I do call my Tivo "he." If it was Tiva, I'd call her "she." Duh.

(And no, I have no problem with homosexuality. I just have no more room in my life for new shows.)

*****************************************************************************

So did anyone else see "Ellen" the other day? (How was that for a segway?) Tivo taped it for me because the Indigo Girls were on, and I love me some harmonic girl-singing and acoustic guitar. Annnnyway, they weren't on because of some fool scheduling conflict, but the guy was on who saved the other gent from getting hit by a subway train in New York last week. It seems this young guy started having a seizure, and fell onto the tracks, so Hero-guy (not to be confused with Hero-Guy on Sesame Street) jumps on top of him, covers him up, and the train runs safely over their heads.

So everyone's lauding this Hero-guy, as they should, because how many people would do that? In front of his two young daughters? Just jump, because someone's life is in danger, so risking one's own seems the natural thing to do? I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't do it, definitely not if my kids were with me. I mean, let's be perfectly honest, when it comes to your kids, you put their safety and mental well-being first, and watching Mommy jump into the tracks and disappear under a speeding train for a few minutes might not actually pave the way for lifelong mental health. I'm all for saving people's lives, I just don't know if I'm that kind of selfless.

But. This guy did an amazing thing, and he should be congratulated. The kid's Dad was on tv last week, praising him, and why shouldn't he? The guy saved his boy's life. So Hero-Dude is on Ellen the other day, and he's looking a little...how should I put this...pleased with himself. He's telling the story, and his girls are there, and Ellen's talking to them in that wonderful way that she has, and then the gifts start coming. Gap donated a $5000 gift certificate. The NJ Nets donated two season's worth of basketball tickets. Beyonce (the 3-year-old's favorite) got on the phone to congratulate Hero-dude, and gave them tickets and backstage passes to her next NYC concert. Ellen gave his girls a mac-daddy computer, with guaranteed upgrades every three years till they graduate high school. Then? There was the giant SUV that Chrysler gave him, along with a year of parking in the city and 2 years of insurance.

This was starting to look less like Ellen and more like "The Price is Right." There's the Dude, racking up all his pricey schwag, and he's appropriately thankful and all, but something was nagging at me.

Don't we all want our heroes to be a little more humble? The firefighter who says, "It's just my job, ma'am," as he hands a bawling mother her toddler? The Good Samaritan who stops to help you fix a flat tire and waves away your $20 bill as he gets in his car? The ONE guy who gets up on a crowded bus to give an 8-month pregnant woman her seat and quietly gets off at the next stop? Do we have a right to ask heroes to behave a certain way?

I mean, this guy did a pretty powerful thing. He acted, without stopping to weigh the consequences, and quite literally laid his life on the line to save a perfect stranger's life. Doesn't he deserve a little kudos?

Absolutely. I guess I just wished he didn't enjoy the attention so much.

But what the hell do I know? If he saved one of my kids, I'm sure I'd feel differently. I'd probably buy him a car myself.

It was just a little nagging feeling, that's all. Usually I just take a Tums.

Good day to you all. :)

Stand Up and Be Counted.

2007-01-10T17:33:00.000-05:00

So according to the blogosphere and other reliable sources, it's De-Lurking week. All readers must post comments, to Announce Your Presence!!! I read Guwi's blog and it is Scrumtrelescent! And I don't care who knows it!

Yes, so to all (HA) my readers, leave comments, so when lurkers come to my page, they don't point and laugh and say, "Carolyn only has TWO regular readers! Can you believe it! Oh, look, there's one more! She has THREE readers! AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!"

So pretty please, with sugar on top, leave a comment. It is for you, my devoted readers, that I write. If I know there are more of you, I might actually make an effort not to post total crap on a daily basis. Inspire me to greatness! Further Glory! Pulitzer Prizes!

(they do have those for blogs, right? Cuz that's really the only reason I'm doing this. I was totally promised a Pulitzer Prize.)

Tomorrow, hopefully, something readable may appear here. Let me know. I'd love to read it.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

2007-01-10T09:54:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year!

There, that's out of the way.

As you loyal reader(s) may have noticed, I've made a few changes to my blog. Pretty, isn't it? And yes, I've started using AdSense. According to the Terms and Conditions, I'm not allowed to encourage anyone to click on it, but just a word about why it's there: cash. We like cash, no? I've never met anyone who said, "Y'know what I can't stand? Cash. It just...irks me." So as a stay-at-home-mom who's always trying to come up with new ways to generate more of it, I thought I'd give this a try. And that's all I have to say about that.

Have I sold out? Possibly. But haven't people done far more objectionable things for money? Methinks so, yes. Oops--I said a little more about that. Now that's really all I have to say about that.

In accordance with the new look and the ads, I've resolved to write more frequently. I know you all check daily, with breathless anticipation, to see if I've posted again, and are heartily disappointed when I haven't (which is 99% of the time) but I thought I'd try a little experiment here; try to follow me, it gets complicated. I like to write. I might, one day, like to write for money. I've never disciplined myself to write with any regularity, so I thought this would be a good forum for that. Groundbreaking, isn't it? It's almost as if I invented the blog. (which I did, with Al Gore, and my brother.) In a nutshell, if I ever expect to write and get paid for it, even a little bit, I figured I'd have to do it regularly to see if I can actually do it, before someone expects it of me, pays me to do it, and my reaction is of the "wha?" variety.

A post about posting! Riveting, isn't it?!?

So tomorrow, or perhaps later today if I'm up to it, the real posting will commence. Laughter, tears, tears from laughter, pee from tears from laughter, you'll find it here. Fresh. Daily. Like the coffee that I'm having too much of right now, you'll find it here every morning.

Unless I get bored with it. Then you won't.