Life

Do any of you not already know about Annika, and Moreena? If you don't go here.
I am going to make a donation; I just wish I had something raffle-worthy to offer. I'll talk to the Boy about holding a bake-sale. I'll let as many people as I can know about this incredible family, and what they're going through.

Into the future

As I type this, I'm lying on my living room floor, working on my wireless laptop that my new employer paid for (but which belongs to me, yay), with Sex and the City reruns playing in the background (the people in the little box, they move!) and my half-painted walls and half-opened boxes scattered around (not to mention the half-opened bottle of vodka, oops). And what's the point of this? I don't know. New house, new creaky noises, and I'm camping out on the bedroom floor, and the yard is a big mass of mud, and I love it, I totally love it. The park is at the end of our street. Literally--and the bike trail starts at the other end. It's all good.

Why I have the coolest kids

Most nights, after we finish reading stories, I lie in bed with the Boy for a few minutes and we talk and I scratch his back and sometimes sing him a song but mostly just lie there with him until he falls asleep. The nice thing about this is that it's his calmest part of the day and we actually end up getting in some nice, rational conversation, regardless of how crazy the rest of the day was, so I don't go to sleep all guilt-ridden if I've had a day full of ... mothering challenges, shall we say?

Last night we started talking about names, and why we named him what we did instead of something else, and why we named his sister what we named her. "What would you name a little girl?" I asked him. "Kicky," he said, seriously. "Kicky-wicky. Or if it was a boy, and he chewed on his pencils, I'd name him Chewy." Then he laughed.

This morning, the first thing the Girl said to me when she woke up was, "Mama. Do you wanna see da Bad Boy face?"

Who could pass up an offer like that? And what could be better? I'll tell you what: She meant BAT BOY. And if you don't know who I mean by the Bat Boy, what supermarket are you shopping in? She does the face PERFECTLY.

"Papa showed it to me in a book ad Bahns n Nobus," she said. "Silly Bad Boy!" And then she made the face again.

Zen and the art of breaking and entering

Friday 7:00 pm: I'm happily buying paint for the new house.
7:40 pm: I'm heading home so to hop on the computer and put a hold on a billpay item I just realized I hadn't rescheduled until Monday.
7:50 pm: I realize my Internet is down.
7:55 pm: I realize I locked ALL MY KEYS in my car.
8:00 pm: I call the Chica, who kindly logs on for me on her computer.
8:10 pm: We can't access the transaction, which means that IT'S PROCESSING.
8:20 pm: I start breaking into my car so that I can drive to the bank and make an emergency deposit.
8:30: Breaking in.
8:55: Breaking in.
9:30: Breaking in.
9:48: I lose the zen.
9:50: I recover the zen.
9:57: I succeed in using the dandelion digger to wrench open the driver's side door just enough to insert a wire coat hanger far enough to hook the trunk release and pop the trunk. YAY!
10:03: I eat half a banana.
10:07: I crawl into the trunk, insert a rubber-tipped crutch through the ski hatch (which thank heavens I had opened to fit in the paper blinds I'd bought at HD), and push open the lock on the back door.
10:15: I drive to the bank and make the bloody deposit.
10:30: I pour myself a big-ass glass of port, stick in "Nights of Cabiria", and start knitting.

Car: Slightly dented around the edges
Bank account: Saved, thank the Lord
Interent: Still hosed; piggybacking on the neighbor's wireless.
Zen: Hanging on by a thread.

Sorry, ma'am, but that's MY job

I am completely serious about this: My daughter is doing Kegels. She thinks it's hilarious to sit on the potty and start and stop her pee because, she says, "It's going too fast!"

First, this makes for a really damned annoyingly long trip to the potty.

Second, this makes me feel guilty. Aren't I supposed to be the one doing those things? Not that I ever do. I mean, I suppose you should keep in training even if you ain't running in the race, but sheesh, people. Only the 3-year olds have time to sit around on the potty all day.

We went to the park today with our old neighbor who is now our new neighbor a-GAIN, yay, and her kids, and the Boy and Neighbor Girl were making up missions on which to send each other. I got hold of some evidence, one of the slips of paper on which they were writing down their assignments, and this was the Boy's: "Run up to my mom and smack her on the but."

Later he brought his notebook over and asked me to sign the bottom of a piece of paper that already had a lot of writing on it. I did it without thinking. Well, maybe the thought went through my head: "Oh, how sweet, my boy wants my name in his notebook." Then I read what was written above my signature:

My mom is crasee
My mom is werd
Sine here

Beware the dark side, young Jedi.

Another day, another hobby

So now I'm KNITTING!

Oooh, it is so zen.

I am making a scarf. I ran into an acquaintance today at the pool; the kids are taking swim lessons (they swim! they use up all their youthful energy! they throw massive hysterical fits if I do not then shovel food into their faces with 2.2 minutes of their emergence from the pool!) and I was sitting in the lobby, knitting my scarf. "I took a class last year," she said, "so basically, I can make a dishcloth." "Groovy," I told her, holding up my project, "I can make an elongated dishcloth."

Last night, I knitted and watched the copy of "The Thin Man" I'd grabbed from the library. I love those movies. I want to be half of a rich and drunken and witty detective team! Ahh, those were the days. Plus, watching those old movies always sort of throws me back to my teenage years, when we lived in this tiny, rundown house out in the middle of nowhere, and my grandmom gave me a little portable black-and-white TV for my very own, and all I could get on it were PBS and the local ABC affiliate, all fuzzy, and I'd stay up late when I couldn't get to sleep, which was most of the time, and watch old movies on PBS.

I don't where this is going. Except! It bugs me to heck that all the sequels make it sound as though Nick Charles is the Thin Man, when it was actually one of the other characters in the original movie that was the Thin Man. Dang it!

Not that I'm, you know, neurotic enough to care. Or anything.

Oh, I'm so proud

Go Google "thighs strangle".
I think I teared up a little bit, there. It's the accomplishments in life, you know?

The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.

I have always been a Drama Queen. I mean, it's in my blood. When I was a kid, I thought my aunt was Lucy, from "Peanuts". No really. I did. She was so totally ... Lucy. And her aunt, my Aunt Flossie? Oh, man. And her mother, Gram? Take my word for it.

But now I'm all zen. This does not compute. I think the crown is passing.

The Girl and I were eating lunch the other day--and I had to sit next to her, mind you, not across from her but NEXT to her so that she could lean over now and then and grab my arm and rest her head on my shoulder and sigh with the most excruciatingly adorable sighs you've ever heard. Her imaginary friends (who are real friends from school but just aren't, you know, here) sat across from us. She looked up, looked at them, looked at me, and made these huge pouty lips, closed her eyes, and shook her head from side to side: "Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, mmmm!!!"

"Oh boy," I murmered. "SOMEbody's a Drama Queen."

Her eyes flew open. "NO Mama! I not Drama Queen. Dat's a bad guy."

"Ohhhh, I see," I laughed, running my fingers through her hair, "Drama Queen the Bad Guy."

"MAAAAMA! You're PUUULLLING MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIR!!!!!!!!!"

Siblings

I love listening to the kids, even when they're being quarrelsome or naughty. I hope they grow up to be the type of brother and sister who like each other, who keep in touch. It's such a mystery to me, this state of not being the only one. Somewhere, I have sisters. A brother too, perhaps. I wonder, sometimes, if I'd know them if we met. Would there be something in the eyes, the shape of our faces, our walks? Do they know about me? Do they like each other?

Mysteries.

Heavy

Some ... complications have come up with the closing on the new house. We have had to put it off until Tuesday.

And yet I am most definitely not stressing out. This is where I get to put my money where my metaphysical mouth is and affirm that every transaction takes place at the right time, in perfect harmony and for the good of all involved. Divine abundance is in place and there is supply for every demand.

I never did tell y'all what was going on with my uncle, did I? My mother's brother was a favorite of mine when I was a child, but we grew apart after my mother remarried. At one point, he let my mother down, in my view, and as an adult I found him to be rather distant and, well, republican. But last November, just before my birthday, we got a call that he was going to have open-heart surgery the next day. He had a pulmonary embolism and had a history of heart problems. "Today's a lousy day," he told my mother over the phone, "but tomorrow will be better."

The next day we got a call from my aunt. The surgery had not had the outcome they'd hoped for. The doctors had put my uncle in a medically induced coma because after the surgery, the pressure in the right side of his heart was too elevated. They were using a machine to function for that side of his heart and needed him to stay unconscious to buy time, a few days during which they hoped his heart would heal. They would have to take him off the machine before they could close him up; if they took him off and his heart still wasn't working properly, they could do nothing else. Everyone was grim. They wanted my mother to come out to Atlanta.

She was the only one who refused to believe that he was going to die. And he didn't die. He was in a coma for a week, but he made it. Not only that, he's now home, nearly done with therapy, and suffers only some vision problems related to the ordeal. The hospital in Atlanta, I've been told, calls him Lazarus. Since then, he's called me twice. He seems to be a different man. When he talks with me, there is a warmth I don't recall having heard for years. I guess a miraculous recovery will do that for you.

I know how fortunate he was, how fortunate our family was and is, and how things can turn around no matter the odds. So I'm certainly not going to get in a sweat over four walls and a roof. I don't mean that to sound simplistic or glib. Life is full of fear and uncertainty, I just see no reason to pile on more.

Ah...

There it is.

Yesterday I had a date. With my Boy. He got all dressed up; I wore jeans. I offered to put on lipstick, but he said it would make me look awful. "You should just go as you are, Mama."

That's my kinda guy.

First, he gave me chocolates. Then we went to dinner at a local cafe and had sandwiches in front of the fireplace. Then we went to see "Nanny McPhee" (which was absolutely darling, btw--plus who doesn't want to spend a date gazing at Collin Firth?). All in all, a very satisfying rendezvous.

But where's the bad stuff?

I saw this over at Phantom's and made one on a whim. But there aren't really any ... erm ... negative traits on the board. Don't you need some negative traits? Or maybe no one would have the balls to pick those? What the heck, you guys can tell me my negative traits whenever you want, anyhow.

I see the moon

It's the Snow Moon. Tonight it surprised me as I dropped off the Girl at her father's. As we got out of the car, there it was, glowing round and orange just above the skyline.

"Look!" I whispered to her. "Do you see the moon?"

I have a memory from when I was her age. My grandmother and I had been to my great-aunt's house a block away. We walked home as the sun set, and as we reached the house, my mother was waiting for us out front. She took me in her arms and turned me around to face the eastern horizon.

"Look!" she said. "Look at the moon!"

I know what I remember is an impossibility, but here's what I see: The Moon, orange and round, hanging halfway above the horizon like a giant from some science-fiction novel. So big, it looked as though it was about to collide with the Earth. It stretched completely across the horizon. I'd never seen anything so huge or unearthly, so incredible. I wasn't afraid. I was in awe. I'm still in awe of that moon. I wonder if it will ever return, whether one day my children will tell me that it visited them, too. I hope so. My life would be less without it.

Talking Girl

A continuation. It's Strawberry Shortcake's world, I'm just living in it.

Singing Girl

If you aren't into adorable preschoolers, skip this one.
What's all that extraneous background noise, you might wonder? Popcorn. Being eaten with a spoon. Not by me.
You hear that sad voice? That is one sad voice. Is it any wonder she gets away with shite?

So much big

That's what the Girl said when I observed how big she was getting. "Yesss," she murmered, in that lispy preschooler way, "So much big!"

I start my new job tomorrow. My new job which I am sure not to blog about, just as I never blogged about my last job. Except I will say this: My first assignment, according to my new manager? "Sleep in late."

Can I tell you how much I'm going to love this job?

Somehow, I knew it was gonna be phlegm

As seen over at Holly's, home of the Croc-Loving Child:

You Have a Phlegmatic Temperament

Mild mannered and laid back, you take life at a slow pace.You are very consistent - both in emotions and actions.You tend to absorb set backs easily. You are cool and collected. It is difficult to offend you. You can remain composed and unemotional.You are a great friend and lover. You don't demand much of others.While you are quiet, you have a subtle wit that your friends know well. At your worst, you are lazy and unwilling to work at anything.You often get stuck in a rut, without aspirations or dreams.You can get too dependent on others, setting yourself up for abandonment.

What Temperment Are You?

And the funny thing? I really did know it would turn out this way. Man, I am SUCH a SBFH.

The things you hear...

Scene: The dinner table
Players: The Boy, the Girl, PK
PK: Gigi, eat your turkey. B...
B: [looking up] Yeah, Mama?
PK: B. Honey. Why do you have a rubber band around your head?
B: It's cutting off the insulation!
PK: Oh. Well, then.

Scene: The phone
Players: Old Dear Friend, PK
[Edited to add disclaimer: We are both mostly JOKING in this conversation! Because my friends and me? We give each other shit. A lot.]
PK: So the Girl threw a total hissy today because I put her in pants to go to church. She totally freaked. "We wear DRESSES TO CHUUUUUURCH!!!" I don't know where that came from.
ODF: Well, I guess she isn't going to be a lesbian.
PK: !!What?!
ODF: [giggling a little] You know, if she likes dresses.
PK: I can't believe you just said that! Like lesbians can't like dresses?!
ODF: Well...
PK: I mean, that's such a ... that's so ... that's a completely sexist comment!
ODF: I suppose so, but...
PK: And Hey! You're a lesbian!
ODF: I know. And I hate dresses.
PK: [really just teasing her now] Yeah, but, it's still sexist. You're like, the Sexist Lesbian. That can't be right.
ODF: [sighing] Okay, okay. I'm sorry.
PK: Well, you should be, Missy!
ODF: (I still like suits better.)

Scene: The park
Players: Boy, Girl, the Chicita (the Chica's girl)
C: Gigi! You are a chicken dish!
B: You are roast beef!
G: NO! NO BOY! NO CHICITA! I AM NOT CHICKEN! I AM NOT ROAST BEEF!

Scene: The office
Players: PK, the Chica, Really Sweet Doe-Eyed Intern
PK: [to RSDEI] You want anything from the Donut Haus?
RSDEI: [with a little gasp] The DONUT HAUS?
C: Mm-hmm.
RSDEI: There's a DONUT HAUS? A haus of donuts??
PK: Oy yah, baby.
RSDEI: [as if seeing the face of God] Oh my gosh! That's so ... awesome.

Winter:1, Discontent:0

I'm not sure how it happened. I guess it must have been a gradual process, but it seems so sudden.

I am in love with winter.

I have never liked winter. I was born Down South! I've spent cumulative years walking all hunched over and muttering under my foggy breath! Okay, so winter and I had a sort of a truce going last year, but this year it's all-out adoration. I'm not even bothered by the wind. And I tell you what, I hate me some wind. I am in love with my sweaters, my down duvet, the boho furry collar on my brown coat, the grey skies, the early pink sunsets, the icy lakes, the frosty grass, the cold stars, the hot coffee.

The Boy's school is participating in a February "fitness challenge", and we're supposed to keep a record of how many minutes a day he spends in physical activity outside of school. I've set aside an hour after he gets off the bus (at 4:00) to spend doing some sort of activity--mostly running around in one of the nearby parks. We've chased each other up and down the crisp hills, laughed at the noisy flocks of geese, muddied up several pairs of Crocs, and warmed up frozen hands in the car on the way home. And I've loved it. And I honestly can't say why this sudden change of heart.

I'm going off the Lexapro. I'm going slow. I cut down to 3/4 of a pill when I refilled my script last week. The first few days were interesting--lots of night sweats, dry mouth, nausea, and this interesting shouldn'ta-had-that-5th-cuppa-coffee feeling. But emotionally, I felt fine, even with all the juggling going on around here and some Ex-related drama that I don't feel like detailing. In a few weeks, I'll go to 1/2 a pill. I close on the new house on the 17th, and start the new job on Monday. I think it's going to be fine. I'm optimistic. You know how it is when you're in love.

Terms of Endearment

I realized something tonight, as I hung up from talking with my friend Sally. (Who, by the way, can stage a house like nobody's business. If you're from around here and you ever want your house to kick. ass? You call me and I'll tell you how to get hold of Sally. Plus? She spent two nights over here staging the hell out of the place and drinking wine and looking up our horriscopes on the Internet, and she didn't charge me a red cent. She's a Goddess.)

So, this was the end of the conversation:
Me: Okay, sweets, have a good night.
Her: Talk to you soon, my love.
Me: K, bye hon.

Maybe it's because I'm from the south originally? I don't know. But there it is: I'm a sweetheart-er. A honey-er. A sugarpie-er. And the majority of my friends are, if not also confectionary talkers, nicknamers. Jeannie always calls her close friends by either their last name or their initials. The Chica...well, okay, let's not use the Chica as an example cause we just have the psychic bond at this point and don't even talk, we just do that beginning a sentence and then nodding at the other person thing. But my conversations and even emails with friends are well-seasoned with hons and darlin's and sweets and sugars. And the kids! Depending on the moment, either of them could end up being my punkin, bean, sweetpea, butter, suggie, hon, lovey, darlin, doll, bunny, or pie. Is it any wonder I need to get more exercise?

**********

More blogroll work. I've added some new people that are just awesome, too: Tessa and AJWP--both have ways with words that leave me green, but hey, green looks good on me.

**********

Remember that little fluffball of a kitten that we got back in August? The teeny, tiny, Yoda-eared bitty kitty?

Guess who turns out to be a Maine Coon?

My lord, you should see the size of her. It's like Attack of the 50-Foot Cat. She isn't yet a year old and she's nearly as big as our Big Marshmallow Psycho Kitty Cat, that 16-pound fluff bucket who always gets a double-take when new folks walk in the door. I guess we are just not destined to do petite around here.

If I were any cooler, I'd melt

Just what do you do when your Ex and his wonderful girlfriend ask if they can take the kids on a Friday night, which is usually a night the kids spend with you?

You hang out on the basement couch, eating cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches and drinking TheraFlu, watching the videos of that old BBC miniseries, "Flambards", which was one of those 70s PBS shows that you fell madly in love with and that made you fall madly in love with England so badly that you just had to go there one day, which you did, and where you met the man you'd marry, have children with, and divorce--leading you to your present day pinnacle of coolness.

Man, I love TheraFlu.

Way to go, St. Joe...

Okay, so the house is getting a decent number of showings--about 5 so far and it only went on the market Tuesday. Most people are saying it's too small, which I find interesting, but maybe it's just my new Simple Living perspective, in which I don't see the point of having a huge mansion to clean up every damned day. We're actually going to be going down in living space at the new house, and down in lot size, too. But I digress.

Maybe I should've gotten the St. Joseph statuette instead of the St. Joseph icon card, but see, I read you're supposed to use the Family Version of St. Joe, not the Workman Version, and all the Family Version statues were butt ugly (sorry, Joe, but they were) and since after the house sells I have to put St. Joe in a "place of honor" in the new house, I needed something either 1) a lot nicer or 2) a lot uglier. So I got the card, cause Hey! It can go on the fridge. That's a place of honor chez SBFH. All the good artwork goes there, along with my Anne Taintor magnets and the one that has a picture of Bush with the quote "I am the master of low expectations."

But. Here's what I'm getting to. The card won't go down all the way into the dirt, so Joe's feet are sticking out. I didn't think that mattered, but I might need to go out and get him in there properly. Because after yesterday's first showing, I came home to my newly staged and cleaned and cookie-candled and classical-music-ed house to find A DEAD MOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BASEMENT.

None of you told me that Saint Joseph was the patron saint of practical jokers.

OH NO!

And to top it all off, I totally forgot to tell Annette happy birthday!!! I suck.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANNETTE!

Everyone, tell Annette happy birthday and help me make up for it, will ya?

Why haven't you called?

Sorry, all y'all. This has been a bit of a hectic week...I accepted a new job offer and quit my job of 6 years. I put my house on the market today. I am finishing the never-ending freelance project tomorrow, and scheduling the closing on the new house sometime next week. It's been a little busy 'round here, but wow! So good.

Anyone ever buried a statue of St. Joseph in the yard?

What can I say?

I totally had the hots for the Mover Guy today. And he was so not my usual type. He had facial hair! And kind of longish hair and tattoos. But my god, his voice was divine. And you know, he was really, really good at moving things. I think we could've had a future together.

Yeah, don't go putting me on!

Holy cow, I love you, New Kid.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Psycho Kitty!

1. If Psycho Kitty was life size, she would stand 7 ft 2 inches tall and have a neck twice the size of a human.
2. Psycho Kitty will often glow under UV light.
3. Psycho Kitty can grow up to three feet in a 24 hour period.
4. The liquid inside Psycho Kitty can be used as a substitute for blood plasma.
5. Psycho Kitty is physically incapable of sticking her tongue out.
6. Every day in the UK, four people die putting Psycho Kitty on.
7. Apples are covered with a thin layer of Psycho Kitty!
8. Psycho Kitty is black with white stripes, not white with black stripes!
9. Psycho Kitty cannot be detected by infrared cameras.
10. All shrimp are born as Psycho Kitty, but gradually mature into females.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

How do I get talked into these things?

Everyone say hello to the newest members of the SBFH family: Maestro and Silly Crab. Oy.

And oh yeah...

If you lurk, delurk, please, because it's that Delurking Week thing and it will amuse me. And then I can say hi and all that.

And also--I think my site needs a makeover. What do you think? I've been all "blah blah blah" and "simple is good" and "black and white" for a whole year, and it's getting so that it's even boring me. And it might distract you from the fact that I am not the most consistent of bloggers.

And also also? I am addicted to my heating pad. Oh my lord. There is nothing better than a heating pad, a down duvet, a nice cup of Tension Tamer, and a couple cats.

WHAT AM I SAYING!!!!????? OhmygodIneedtogetlaidRIGHTTHISMINUTE!!!!! STAT!

What, so soon?

Yesterday my son--my 6-year-old son--shunned me at the bus stop. His sister and I walk down to meet him when he gets off the school bus. The stop isn't far, but it isn't in sight of the house, either. To get to our house, he has to walk about a block to the end of our street, and then walk down our street to the house. It is safe, and there are other kids making the walk, too, but you know. He's SIX.

Yesterday we were just within shouting distance of the stop when the bus pulled up and the Boy got out with a few other boys on our street. He looked up, saw us, ran a few steps toward me, stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth, and yelled,

"Mom! Go home! Turn around and go home! Please?"

Sigh.

#62: Tells you things you might not wanna know

I was going to do one of those 100 things lists but I only got to 16 before I got bored with myself. So sorry, no go with the 100 things.

But I will give you this, from the TMI department: A while back Frog wrote about her Adventures with Menstrual Cups, and as we all know, I aspire to ... well, something. I don't know. Something that involves me progressively getting more and more finicky about what I stick up my yoni.

(See how much better this is going to be than that 100 things list? We're already talking about yonis!)

But anyhow, those non-bleached, naturally grown, bean-sprout tampons? Sheesh, expensive. And not so efficient. So I was quite interested in Frog's narrative. And after a few months of contemplation, I'm pleased to tell you (though I imagine you might be somewhat less pleased to be told) that I made a stop at the co-op and picked up a Diva Cup. And to think when I was in high school I was too embarrassed to buy tampons.

The really funny part was me lying on the floor at 6:00 am today, with my legs akimbo, trying to get the damned thing to release its suction or whatever it has to do to get in the ... erm ... correct position. Okay, the Chica nearly blowing coffee out her nose when I told her about it was pretty funny, too. "It sort of reminded me," I told her, "of college, when Jeannie and her friend Jo and I used to get really drunk and lie around on the floor trying to queef The Star-Spangled Banner."

Thing About Me #73: I cannot queef The Star-Spangled Banner. But that doesn't mean I haven't tried.

Screw Huckabies, I heart YOU guys

I was up until 3 finishing a freelance project so I am about to hit the sack but I just had to get all mushy on y'all. Everything around here is in flux right now--and I mean EVERYTHING--but in a good way. You know when so much is going on it just seems like too much to even begin putting down in words? But I will. Eventually.

In the meantime, look at all y'all. Aren't you marvelous? Well, I already knew that.

Oh, and postal rate increase? Obvious sign from God that the time for me to send out all my late holiday cards is past. Ah well.

The Happiest of New Years

Happy new year to everyone!

Last night, the Ex took the Boy to the local First Night festival, and my mom, the Girl, and I stayed home and did our Own Thing, which as it turns out was making pizza and falling asleep reading stories in the big bed at about 8:30. At dinner, I had a little vodka and o.j. and got all sentimental. Staring across the table at the Girl, who was singing herself a little song (something she likes to do, oh, ALL THE TIME), I sighed and said, "Gigi, my lovie, what do you love most in all the world?" And she looked back at me with those big blue-green eyes, blinked those massive lashes, and said, in all seriousness, "Poopie."

What can I say? The other day, while she was sitting on her little potty, she yanked off her sweatpants, put them on her head (she looked oddly like the Duchess from Alice in Wonderland), and told me, "Hello! I am Mr. Pothead. Would you like to shake hands with me?" Um, no thanks, I'll have to pass this time.

The Boy called at midnight on their way home from the fireworks. "I fell asleep on my Papa," he mumbled, "but then I woke up for the fireworks, and they were soooo beautiful! They were red, and green, and blue, and yellow..." "That is so cool, bud," I whispered into the phone. "I'm glad you had fun." "I did, Mama. And Mama? Happy Christmas."

Occupy yourselves

Because I'm kinda swamped this week and don't have time to write all the inspirational, kooky stuff in my head, I am going simply going to direct you to a few of my all-time favorite blogger/photographers. These folks are wonderful and on top of that--as if their lives and stories weren't interesting enough, and they are--they take amazing photos. You might have to look for the photo links, but what? It would kill you to do a little work and burn off some of that holiday food?
Enjoy.

JinkyArt
Profgrrrrl
Mr. Winkerbean (yes, Mark, I am hell with the nicknames)
That Crazy Beth

The Ghost of Christmas Present

Time: 5:30 a.m., December 25, 2005
Place: My bed
The Boy, sitting straight up: Is it Christmas? Has Santa been here? Can we go downstairs?
Me, looking at the clock and knowing the Ex and Monica aren't coming over until 6:00 and I promised to keep the kids from opening gifts until then: No. I don't know. No.
TB: MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!
Me: Not until the sun comes up.
TB: [Heavy sigh]
The Girl (on the other side of the bed): [snore]

5:35 a.m.
TB: Why did you make up that rule? That's a horrible rule!
Me: What? It isn't my rule, it's everybody's rule. That's Santa's rule. Ask anyone. Christmas doesn't start until the sun's up.
TB: That's a horrible, horrible rule.
TG: [snore]

5:40 a.m.
TB, wailing: That isn't Santa's rule! That's the DEVIL'S rule! The DEVIL made that rule because it makes people cry, and the devil loves it when people cry! I HATE THE DEVIL!
Me: [snort]
TG: [snore]
TB: Everyone hates the devil! Does anyone love the devil?
Me: Well, a few people, but they're misinformed. Go back to sleep. I'll rub your back.
TG: [mumble, mumble, snore]

5:45 a.m.
TB: The sky! The sky is turning light! I see it!
Me: No it isn't.
TB: Yuh-huh! Can I go look out the window? I won't go downstairs, I'll just stand by the window.
Me: Sure, hon.
TG: [snore]

5:55 a.m.
TB: Why is moon still out? WHY?? The sun can't come up when the moon is still out!
Me: Sure it can, bud. You see the moon out during the day all the time. Don't worry. Want me to come watch with you?
TB: Yes!
TG: [snore]

6:05 a.m.
Text message from the Ex:
We just woke up. We're on our way.
Me: [Thank HEAVENS]
TB: Is that the sun?? Is that the sun?? Is that the sun??
TG, sitting straight up: Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Happy holidays, sweetie-darlings, from all of us here chez SBFH to all of you out there!

The Mommy's Little Helper Alphabet

Happy Holidays from that Paragon of Parenthood, Orange Tangerine, and me, the one who drinks a lot. Smoochie!

A is for amphetamines, that keep your mommy perky
B is for the Benadryl, that stops her getting jerky
C is for the chocolate, worth its weight in gold
D is for mama’s Demerol, when baby’s one day old
E is for eggnog, spiked with some rum
F is for...oh, don’t even pretend you don't know what F is for, people!
G is for Godiva (see C above)
H is for headache, when Mommy don’t want no love
I is for ice cream that fills the tummy
J is for a jacuzzi to make Mama feel yummy
K is for kisses—the kids’, so gentle; the lover’s, deep
L is for late night, when kids are asleep
M is for Midol, in case you must ask
N is for Nubain, to help labor pass
O is for orgasms—need I say more?
P is for pizza, delivered to the door
Q is for quiet, one minute’s enough
R is for rest (hey, remember that stuff!)
S is for sitters, who cut us some slack
T is for TV getting kids off our back
U is for underwire ‘cause Mama’s boobs are flappy
V is for vibrators that make Mama so happy
W is for whiskey, sipped out of a cup
X is for Xanax, when Mama’s worked up
Y is for “yes, Mama”--better than “no!”
Z is for Zzzzzz, off to bed we all go!

©2005, Psycho Kitty and Orange

I never knew that!

Did anyone else know that Shirley Jones is the Mother Of All Shopping? I knew she was the mother of all Partridges, but shopping? Who knew?

In other news, I cracked up yesterday when the Girl referred to the carpet-cleaning guys as "those working boys".

Her daycare had its annual Holiday concert, and her class sang "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". She was belting out that song for weeks. The night finally came. She was dressed up and ready to sing! The curtain opened. She was right in the middle. She looked out upon her adoring fans....and wailed like a friggin' banshee. That's my girl!

Later we got in line for Santa. Earlier in the day, in a fit of pissiness because I wouldn't let him tear open the paper on his presents "just a little to see whether there was more paper underneath" (!), the Boy said, "I am SO mad at you, Mama. I hate you!" "Woooohoh," I shot back, "I sure hope Santa didn't hear that!" "Santa!" he scoffed. "Santa is nothing but a FAIRY TALE!!!" I opened my eyes up wide. "Well now, that's just crazy talk," I told him. That night, during the singing, I leaned over to him and whispered, "Hey. What you said earlier about Santa..." "Oh, that," he shrugged. "I didn't mean that." Whew.

So we're in line for Santa. The Girl has been talking for weeks about how she wants to sit on Santa's lap and have him hug her. You already know what happens when we get up to Santa, don't you? More with the banshee noises. So Monica's holding the Girl, and I'm holding her hand, and we're both telling her that it's okay, she doesn't have to sit on Santa's lap, he'll still know what she wants and bring her a present, no worries. We move out of line and wait for the Boy, eat a cookie, get ready to leave. The whole time, she's still sort of crying but also watching that Santa. And when we start to leave, she bursts into tears again and wails, "But I WANNA see Santa! I DO! I DO!" So I took her back into the line, and this time, she did it. She sat on that fat man's lap and grinned like a maniac.

Santa crises averted. Cards still not sent. Carpets clean. Yep, it's just about that time of year.

The last question

Took me long enough, eh?

The most excellent and True-Blue Semi-Cruncy Mama (what, there are more of us?) asks:

You know I love your blog. So, I was wondering, if you would consider adding mine to your blogroll the next time you update? That is, if you still like to come by mine?

To which I reply: I. Suck. At updating the blogroll, that is. I'm so sorry. You guys are so woderful, stopping by, and I just suck. But it's all better now! Because look! I have tidied up! And added people! And everything! (Did I leave anyone out?)

Thanks for your patience, y'all. Now, you get what I promised you.

(Oh, and Trisha? Yuh-HUNH!!!)

Ooooohhhhh, fuuuuuudge

Okay. The first thing you need to understand is that the Boy? He looks just like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story". If you put him in those glasses and cut his hair a bit differently, there you'd be. We used to laugh about it when he was younger, because he had a chubbier face and REALLY looked the part.

Second thing is that the Boy loves that movie. For some reason, he always begs to watch it. Okay, fine, I love it, too, and we own it, so last night we decided to watch. The Boy is asking all sorts of questions about things here and there, the bullies, the dad, the school, what's a "theme", so on, so forth. Then comes the infamous "fudge" scene. And as the narrator says, "Only I didn't say 'fudge'...", the Boy looks at me and says,

"What did he say? Fuckin'?"

"Uhhh," I say. "Yeah. Pretty much. But YOU don't say that."

"Don't say what? Fuckin'?"

"Yes."

Do I even need to tell you what he said then? A lot?

So by now, Ralphie is sitting there sucking on the Lifeboy, and I say to my Boy, "See what happens when little boys say rude words like that? You need to stop saying that, now, or I will have to wash out your mouth with soap!"

You should know that 1) I've never washed my kids' mouths out with soap, 2) I am not a corporal punisher in general, but 3) I went and got the soap anyway. This was a good plan in that he stopped saying "Fuckin" but a poor plan in that he stopped saying it because he went into hysterics and locked himself in his room. So then I'm trying to convince him to unlock the door and come talk to me, that I'm NOT actually standing there wielding soap, and all the time, the Girl is behind me, shouting, "Wash MY mouth with soap! I want to eat soap!! ME TOO, MAMA!!!"

This, folks, is why my life is like a very weird comedy directed by a very drunken person who makes strange casting choices.

Signs

Probably, if your son says to you (through his tears as he leans against you because his sister bit him because she didn't want to share her chair during the cookie-baking session), "Mom? Are you getting pregnant?"...

...it's time to lay off the Baileys. Ah, well.

Help the WASP Girl

Anybody got a killer recipe (and helpful instructions) for potatoe latkes? The Boy wants them. Assist, I beg of you!

Well, that's gotta hurt

The Boy: [seriously] Mom, you know what Tyler sang at me today? He sang, "Bo-oy, Bo-oy, sitting in a tree, K-S-S-S-I-O-P!"

Me: Oh he did, did he?

TB: Yes. He sang that bad song at me. K-S-S-S-I-O-P!!!

Me: Oh my.

[Pause]

Me: Well, if it makes you feel any better, sweetie, he got that song completely wrong. So you know, he didn't really say anything bad about you.

TB: Really?

Me: Really.

[wait for it]

TB: So...how's that song really go?

A Day in the Life

Well. That settles the question of whether I could do away with my Internet connection as part of my current budget-crunching crisis. Answer: NO.

As you might have guessed, the Internet left me for a few days. It must've found someone cuter. Probably that Jessica, with her new site and her darling laugh and her wonderful heart and her amazing courage and her BROTHER WHO IS THE VOICE OF SCOOBY DOO?! Jessica, we hardly knew thee. What next, you're going to drop the bomb that oh, Hugh Jackman happens to be your next door neighbor? And then we are coming to live with you forever and ever. Tell the husband now.

But in the meantime, perhaps it's better. I am the sort who needs clear leads from the Divine, in the order of a large neon arrow and a bouncer to point the way. Perhaps I am being directed to simplify my life? Could be. Things have just been...complicated. Okay, totally nutso crazy around here, happy now?

The stuff that keeps me from lying down in the middle of the boxes and drinking straight from the bottle:

The Girl, singing the "Namaste" song from the Yoga Kids ABC DVD, getting it mixed up with the other song she's trying to learn, wandering around the house tunelessly intoning, "Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Lama Steak! Red nose!"

The Boy, when I told him that Miss Jessica's brother was Scooby Doo's voice, his eyes getting huger and huger: "Whoaaaaaano sir. That is so not true. Is it?" (Doubters everywhere, Jess!)

Last but not least, I give you the recipe for the Best Gingersnaps Ever. These are the ones my mom always makes. They are, she says, from the 1979 Southern Living cookbook. If you find them getting hard, put a piece of bread in with them to soften them up, though you shouldn't need to do.

1 cup sugar
2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinamon
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/4 cup shortening (I use melted butter)
1/4 cup molasses
1 egg, slightly beaten
extra sugar

Preheat oven to 350 F.
Combine sugar, flour, salt, baking soda, and spices. Cut in shortening to course crumbs. Stir in molasses and egg.
Shape dough into 1" balls; roll in extra sugar. Place on ungreased baking sheets--don't flatten--and bake 8-10 minutes, watching carefully. Place on racks immediately.

Learning

It's going to be a busy day here chez SBFH. I'm sticking to my "not telling you the whole sordid tale until it's all over" thing, but I can give you this much detail: The new house will be ready in about a month, and arrangements for what to do with the old house have changed. So within that month, I need to pack the house, fix up several dings and whatnots, and sell the thing. Mm-hmm.

I am fortunate enough to have help in these endeavors. Today will be a busy day. Planned as the annual "Chica/Chica Cookie Baking Bonanza", it has morphed into the "Chica/Chica Sorta Cookie Baking But Mostly Thank You God That I Have A Best Friend Who Offers To Help Me Pack Things Oh How I Love Her Bonanza". (What's with the Chica/Chica you ask? Well, see, you all know her as the Chica, and she is the Chica, but so am I the Chica, if you were talking to her. Get it? A conversation between us would go thusly: "Yo, Chica." "Hiya Chica." "Everything groovy, Chica?" "Chicita, you know it is." See?) (And how do I make her my own? you are also probably asking. Ahhh, the luck of the gods is all I can say.)

Anyway. What was my point? Damn.

Oh. It's gonna be crazy! Crazy days ahead! That was it. But I am learning to be zen with it. And on top of that, the Boy has been learning, too. So many things. And I'll tell you all about it, cause I owe you a nice long talk about the Boy, and I owe it for him as well. But it won't be happening today.

Blog Against Racism Day

It's Blog Against Racism Day.

I was born in the South and lived there for the first 8 years of my life. In the absence of my father, my mother's family was the only family I knew. My people, my heritage, then, were that of my maternal grandparents. My grandfather's family came from Georgia; my grandmother's, from Kansas; anglo-saxon protestants, all. And here's what I was taught, those first 8 years:

• Black people are perfectly nice, but black people and white people should not marry or have any type of intimate relationship.
• Our ancestors owned slaves, and that was nothing to be particularly ashamed about.
• There is nothing odd about a grown man calling a little girl "Miss PK" so long as the man is black and girl is white.
• If you are white and you have black "help", and you are, say, polite to them, you are a pretty big person.

I look back on these "facts of life" and think, "What the fuck?"

It really is true that good can come out of bad. My mother's second marriage was abysmal, but one good thing that came of it was that we moved out of the South and that her husband showed me these lies for what they were, and are. Thank God, is all I can say. B

y the time I was 14, I was sufficiently deprogrammed enough to be absolutely disgusted by my aunt and uncle's determination to move out of their prestigious Mississippi neighborhood because an African-American was moving in, and my God, there goes the neighborhood. Do I think the levies in New Orleans were intentionally breached to eradicate the poor, African-American population of certain areas? No. But do I think those levies were allowed to fall into woeful disrepair because that population was so little valued by the political powers that be as to be off the radar? You bet I do.

I have driven through Mississippi and seen people living in shacks. I have heard my own blood relatives--educated, intelligent, morally upstanding people--argue with me that other human beings differ from me because of the color of their friggin' skin, argue that people are overly sensitive over the use of the word "nigger". There's no hate for them in that word, and that makes it all the more hateful. Ignorance is hateful to me. Blindness and fear and the wall we build that separates us from other human beings is hateful.

I had the privilege a few years ago of hearing Maya Angelou speak. I think that woman is one of those rare human beings that radiates wisdom. To be in a room with her is a spiritual experience. She quoted Terence: "I am a human being; nothing human can be alien to me." What do you do when you hear the vitriol that spews out now against illegal aliens (read: Mexicans), fanatics (read: Muslims), deviants (read: homosexuals)? There is only one argument. I am a human being. Nothing human--nothing--can be alien to me. Don't shake your head. Don't walk away. Don't keep the peace. Speak the truth. Refuse to back down. Refuse to stand by silently while more children are taught to fear and hate. Your silence will never be taken as disagreement, only as acquiescence. Be a human being instead.

Edited to point out--I hope it's clear that the labels in that last paragraph are slurs and bullshit?

November is the damnedest month

But I am not going to go into it until I am out the other side. THEN, people, will I have a story for you! For now, I am concentrating on maintaining my metaphysical positive zen attitude thing, and to go into gruesome detail (you thought the PUS was gruesome!) would surely be counterproductive.

In the meantime, I still have two questions to answer, and some pictures to reveal. There also seems to be some interest in 1) whether I have actually seen anyone about my festering stomach (answer: Hell yes! Come on, do y'all think a hypochondriac of my fine caliber would just sit on something like this?), and 2) origin of the Thanksgiving quotes. Although I hate for them to lose their mystique, I will oblige.

The first quote was uttered by the Boy during a viewing of "The Polar Express". There's a moment when a little boy is complaining that he found his present, and it was just stupid underwear. The Ex said to the Boy, "Wow, that kid isn't being very grateful, is he?" And they Boy said, "NO! He's being awful!" "You think?" asked the Ex. "You wouldn't do that?" "Oh, no," said the Boy, "I would never, never, NEVER..." [and this is where we all expected him to say "act that way" or "be that rude" or "be ungrateful for what I have"] "...wish for underwear!"

The second quote had to do with the recipe I chose for Thanksgiving dinner. It's a lovely turkey breast stuffed with a spinach/feta combo. The first and only other time I made it was about 17 years ago, when my family came to visit me for Thanksgiving. It was my last year in college, and all my roommates had gone elsewhere for the holidays, so my mother, stepfather, and grandmother came to stay with me. My stepfather, as has been discussed before, was a rather...dysfunctional...man. My mother was in one of the most profound passive-aggressive phases of her life. And my grandmother was suffering from dimentia and was convinced that we were all simply really good impersonations of her family. Oh! It was a holiday to remember, I'll tell you what. And of course, being the college girl and not at all the masterful (ahem) chef I have become since, I had never dealt with a turkey breast before and had not properly prepared for the recipe, which calls for the breast to be flattened and then rolled. So I found myself in the kitchen with a not-quite-thawed turkey breast and nothing with which to flatten it save a hammer; a stressed-out mother, a senile grandmother who kept asking me who the heck I was, and my stepfather (issues unsaid); and NO CODEINE. I think this puts the second quote in perspective for you.

Last but not least, the third quote was the Girl's attempt to discuss something that happened before she was born...back when she was in utero, when she was "so so little, I was just a yoni!"

And FINALLY, the lovely Krupskaya, chez Edit Barn, asks:
What would be your most perfect ideal day with the kids? And the most perfect ideal day without the kids?

Hmmmm. I think the most perfect day with the kids would simply be a day in which none of our issues came to bite us in the collective ass. One during which the Girl didn't throw a fit, I didn't get stressed out, the Boy didn't get manic, and we all really just appreciated each other and managed to be kind to each other and have fun and enjoy everything around us. A calm day, I guess I'm asking for. We have lots of fun around here, but calm is something we don't get much of. And oh, I do miss the calm now and then. Not that I'd trade these children for a world of calm, but since we're talking Fantasy World here...

And without them? Heck. I guess I would love to just spend a day doing nothing but lovely relaxing selfish things, like watching movies and drinking coffee and wine and getting massages and pedicures and manicures and so forth. Oh, and since we are, as has been mentioned, in Fantasy World, all those things would be performed by an available, functional Hugh Jackman look-alike, who would also (close your eyes, children) fuck my brains out.

Weren't expecting that part? Oh, how you disappoint me.

Awwwwww fuji

Yeah, "wound infection". Shall we just not go there? We shall not.

But. One, this is why I adore you people: You are all hopeless codeine junkies. What a time we would have if you were here. (Oh! And Suzanne wins the cookies!) Two: That dear woman Orange sent me an email of concern regarding said wound, which was really sweet (the email, not the wound, misplaced that modifier but I'm too tired to fix it, cope), and which was also so disgusting that I must present an excerpt:

I'm putting my money on a surgical wound infection, complete with a pocket of pus inside. And if that pocket ruptures, the pus will come oozing out of the incision site, to your lasting horror. So my advice to you is CALL THE SURGEON RIGHT NOW if you're not already on your way to his/her office. If there is pus, get that doctor to work on squeezing it out and please, avert your eyes. I don't know if you'd smell anything, but you might want to have Altoids or gum just in case...
Dr. Orange, signing off
P.S. What do you mean, naked hot French men are what got you into this trouble in the first place?

See? Doesn't that make you want to rush over there and see what more that woman has up her sleeve? You know it does.

What's more entertaining than pus? My 3-year old's running commentary while I write this: "Mommy, I am soooo unhappy. Cause you messed up with my compooter. So, so unhappy. We will not play with this ever again. [heavy breathing] I need this stuff out of the way so I can do yohga. I'm gonna do yoh-ga. Because I just wanna. Do yoh-ga. I need McGonnigal to run OUT OF THE WAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!"

What's that? What's that I hear? Might it be the sweet, sweet sound of codeine calling me? It might, it might.

It was....blooood poi-soning!

And if any of you get that reference, you're welcome to come have a cookie.

But anyway, something is up with the general area of one of my oh-lookie-how-nicely-those-healed-up sutures, and it is not a happy something. Doctor tomorrow, Tylenol with codeine tonight. I knew that stuff would come in handy! Plus I had to go to Target and buy some chubby lady pants to avoid aggravating my wound. Good excuse, eh? And while you ruminate over that fun mental image...

Best Thanksgiving quotes:
"I would never, never, NEVER...wish for underwear."
"The last time I saw this turkey, I told it to fuck off."
"When I was so so little, I was just a yoni!"

Here's what I love:
I love it that the Girl thinks that if she kneels down in the middle of the floor, rolling herself up in the fetal position and hiding her head, that she's well hidden. I love that I grew up knowing what it was like to wake up to the sound of tractors working before the sun was up. I love it that my kids have each other. I love it that I have a new soft purple robe. I love being cold at the park, knowing that soon we'll be warm at home. I love my crockpot. I love paper. I love the moon. I love my family. I love my friends. I love Tylenol with codeine. I love that spell check wants me to replace "fuck" with "fuji". Mwaa.

Fearless

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday. Ours was very low-key and very lovely. We have a lot to be thankful for, and I'll try to fill you in over the next few days. Thanks for all your good thoughts--they helped, they truly did.

But I still owe you some answers. The amazing Jessica asked:
What would you do if you had absolutely no fear in your life?

This is such an important question to me. I've spent a good deal of time over the past few years finding the answer. I used to be so afraid of everything. Afraid of failing people, afraid of succeeding, afraid of leaving, of being left, of what could happen if I made the wrong choice. Afraid of getting old, of being alone, of being poor, of losing people, of being hurt, of hurting others. And then one of those things I was afraid of happened, and guess what? It turned out okay. And then another one happened, and damned if that didn't turn out okay, too.

I've really developed a rather metaphysical belief system over the course of these frightening times. One of my favorite statements is that the opposite of faith is not doubt--it's fear. And fear is like a magnet. What you believe will eventually consume you, you know? You just can't do it. You can't live in fear all the time. Well, you can, of course--plenty of people do--but I choose not to do. When I realize I'm afraid of something, I try to sit with it, and just let it be what it is and listen to what it has to tell me, instead of running headlong in the other direction, as I used to do. And it helps, it really does. So this is the part of the answer where I tell you that my spirituality has helped me a great deal in my life, not because I think, ladida, nothing bad can ever happen to me, but because I know that nothing can ever happen to me that I will allow to crush my spirit. Does that make sense?

So I guess I'm a lot more fearless than one would guess from my surface. Because I'm a somewhat cautious person. I tend to evaluate risk and whether it's worth it, so I won't, for example, be sky-diving anytime soon, even though I'd love to try it. The risk of being hurt and not being there for my kids is not worth it to me. It isn't that I'm afraid, I just don't evaluate it as a worthy deal, if you see what I'm saying.

The big fears I still have tend to be for my kids. I become filled with the fear that they won't be happy. I'm not fighting it, exactly, but I am trying to learn what I need to learn from that fear so I can move past it.

What would I do if I got past all the fear? If I had absolutely no fear? I would be the friggin' Buddha, you know? I think it's a nearly impossible goal to achieve. People think no fear means running around doing crazy things or being oblivious to danger, but I don't think that's it. I think it's realizing exactly what the human spirit is capable of becoming, and realizing that nothing stands in our way of reaching that, unless we give it permission to do so. And that is probably the scariest thing of all.

Neeext..

Sorry about that. Busy week catching up from the past two crazy weeks. Yeesh.

Holly, who is even way cooler than you think she is, asks:
If you had 10 days off from work to do whatever you wanted, what would
you spend the time doing?

Oh, man. I would just stay home, and relax, and pack, and clean, and go to a couple of matinees, and sit around the coffee shop, and go for walks, and sleep in, and hang with the kids. And I know that is a damned boring answer, but ahhhhhh. I would feel so much better after those 10 days. And really, this is the sort of stuff I'm likely to dream about. I'm not so much Activity Girl. I enjoy travel and all that, but more than anything I enjoy a relaxing pace. Not having to be somewhere do something have something be someone get something Right This Minute. But because of my wonderful (and I really mean that, it's wonderful) flex schedule, I spend a lot of time at home working, and when the kids are here, I end up pretty much concentrating on them--their ages and temperaments don't allow for a lot of multitasking, although that's beginning to change a bit. So I always feel continuously behind--behind in cleaning, behind in projects, behind in any sort of cultural/social/aesthetic/community building/political activism/everything but the kitchen sink sort of way.

So that's a long answer for: I'd stay home. :)

Aw, go on...

Jo(e), whom I completely idolize, by the way, asks:
What are the three nicest compliments you've ever gotten?

This is difficult. Not that I get so many compliments, but to pick three as being the nicest...that's tough.

Okay. One, I think, would be when I was 14. I was horribly, horribly shy and had an extremely low opinion of myself in just about every way. I was tall, I thought I was fat (I had been a fat child but had just shot up in height so actually was fairly thin), I was insecure, and I had one of those beautiful early 80s poodle perms. Yay, me. Anyway, I was staying with relatives out in the middle of nowhere in Georgia, and this little girl from down the street came over for some reason one day. She was probably 7, maybe 8? And when I came to the door, she just stared at me, and then she said, "How old are you?" And I told her, and she said, "You're beautiful." Which was totally not what I was expecting to hear. And although it didn't particularly change my self image going forward, for just that one moment, I really believed it. And it meant the world to me. So that's one.

Two. What's two? I guess I can't point out a single incident, but I would say two is when people I respect tell me they think I'm a good mother. That means a great deal to me, because it's such an important part of my life.

And three, I guess would be that there are people in my life who trust me with their friendship. Again, not a single compliment, but one of the greatest I can imagine receiving.

Last supper

Catherine, she of the beautiful children, incredible writing, and completely reasonable neuroses (and I mean that in a pot who loves hanging out with the kettle sorta way, as you surely know), poses the question:

What would your last meal be?

Sounds easy to answer, doesn't it? Probably was easy to answer, when you sent it, hon. But then. Oy, then. My beloved tempe burger has been poisoned for me forever, as it were. This is sad beyond knowing. Believe me. This tempe burger, from a local hippie hangout, is the Holy Grail of Tempe Burgers. And now...ruined. Ruined forever by my friggin' gall bladder episode, which has had one of those Pavlovian effects on me. Sigh. That happened once with gingerbread cookies. Which also sucked. Because my mom taught me how to make gooood gingerbread cookies. They stay kind of nice and chewy instead of getting all hard like most gingerbread cookies do. And they were perfect--PERFECT I TELL YOU--with a nice cup of Earl Grey.

What? Oh. Right. Last meal.

You know, I can't think of any particular type of food that I would want to finish out life with. Don't get me wrong...I am definitely one of those people who really dig food. I love cooking. I love hanging out in the kitchen with the person cooking. I love having people stop by unexpectedly and stay for dinner. I love planning a big get-together with theme food. I love desserts. I love appetizers. I love nearly all cuisines. I love simple. I love complicated. I love eating out. I love ordering in. I love choosing the right beverages to go with the food. I love kitchen stores. I love kitchens.

But here's the thing: the reason I think I love all this stuff so much is that I'm Southern. And meals, in my family, when I was young, were all about love. Now, I'm not going to get into the pros and cons of that; believe me, there are a lot of cons and I have played ball with most of them. But they don't negate the pros: sitting down to eat with the people you love most in the world, gathered around a warm table, talking with each other, laughing, taking their time to enjoy something that involves all the senses in one way or another. Baking cookies with the Chica and our kids every holiday season, enjoying a glass of wine while the kids get their fingers full of dough. Nourishing other human beings. Being warmed by a hot soup, and feeling it make its way to the frostiest parts until you're cozy again. The taste of fresh, homemade lemonade on a blazing day, the way you can feel it go down your throat. Wrapping yourself up in a blanket on an overcast fall day, quiet, with a good book, a pot of tea, a fat cat, and a few perfect gingerbread cookies.

And that's what I would want for my last meal. My family and friends around the table, happy from a long, full day, really hungry, grateful to be nourished, grateful to be fed, grateful to be together. The sky darkening to a heavy blue, the first star coming out, and the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen windows. The children growing sleepy and leaning on their parents shoulders, the coffee brewing. And all the time in the world to finish that meal.

Would you do me a favor?

Whatever good vibes you've got, would you send them to my Uncle Jim in Atlanta? We need healing waves of goodness. Thanks; you know I appreciate it.

Home sweet home

The wonderful What Now--who has a beautiful new site, lookie! It's gorgeous!--asks:
If you were going to build a house out of a food product, which food would you choose and why?

Ah HA!

Well now. Let's presume that I am looking for durability rather than tastiness. Because frankly, I need to lose weight already without having to worry about having a snack attack and eating my house. Looks, probably not such a big priority; if the material is right, I should be able to slap a coat of paint on the sucker, hang a wreath, and be done, non? Therefore, the answer could be none other than...

Twinkies and peeps. I think we can all rest assured that my home will be standing through the chilliest of nuclear winters. Plus, small vermin may very well be discouraged or at least genetically mutated over time to something more manageable. We have durability and stress-resistance under all sorts of extreme conditions, and if I play it right, I can use the creamy filling as mortar.

Moving on

The ever-fabulicious Trisha asks:
Do you have a sock philosophy?

This is my kind of question. Let us move from undergarments to footwear, my friends.

Generally, I am a barefoot sorta gal. I prefer to feel the ground under my feet. Used to drive my poor mother crazy. I have even been known to walk barefoot in the snow because it just seemed simpler that way. When I was little I liked to practice walking like a Jungle Princess over rocks and twigs and stuff without making any noise (not that I ever got the hang of it).

Even when I put on shoes, I'm really awful about not wearing socks. Which is why I love the Crocs. The Crocs, they do not get icky and stinky, and if they do, you just put them in the dishwasher. Bow to the Crocs, oh my people. (I know they're ugly. Don't mess with my happy place.)

Still, there is something to be said for a good thick pair of white socks on a cold day. I do not like mucking about with socks that pretend to be stockings. (And btw, if we count stockings as socks, I prefer stockings to pantyhose any day. Stockings do not end up around the tall girl's knees.) I do not like socks that are ashamed to be socks and want to pretend they don't exist, ending up around the arch of my foot. If I must Sock, give me a sock like this one. I did have those long stripey toe-socks when I was a kid, but we won't talk about that.

Go give T a smooch.
[Edited to add link to Crocs. Because you NEED THE CROCS.]

Most of me is back...

but not my gall bladder. It's gone bye-bye. The doctor was cute, on the plus side. Also on the plus side, HELLO Demerol. Wowee.

So, after that lost weekend, I'm back home and want to thank you all for the kind thoughts. I will get back to questions soon. Promise!

Well, crap.

My birthday was lovely. Until about 7:00, right after dinner. Which is when I started having the lovely gallbladder attack that I am currently still having. Shit.

If you don't hear from me for a few days, don't worry.

You might want to skip this one...

Orange, that paragon of difficult questions, asks:
What sort of grooming maintenance, if any, do you do in your underpants zone, and why?

Um. Okay. Everyone but Orange, go grab a coffee. Or something.
Truth? Being the single gal, I can afford to give in to my mostly lazy nature. So every now and then, I'll think, Holy crap, the yoni area needs some attention. And I will pull out the electric clipper that the ex left behind, and voila. We here at SBFH go for the Runway look. The Whole Enchilada smacks a bit too much of prepubescence, and who needs to go back there? Not I. Plus, lord, the itching when one of those grows back in. The waxing we have done, but frankly, mother of god, that hurt worse than labor. And since I am, ahem, the only one giving that area any attention at the moment, I feel I can go the cheap and easy route in routine maintenance.
Not pretty, per se, but there you have it. It's sort of a feast or famine of personal care.

...and it continues

The lovely and talented Amy asks:
Where did you go to college? Or, more importantly: why didn't you call me from San Diego??

And the answers are:
I went to Colorado State University, home of the Rams. Yes, the Rams. Which means that at every football game, they trotted out a Bighorn Sheep with the BIGGEST BALLS KNOWN TO MANKIND. You can imagine how that went over with the drunken frat boys. (Any fraternity readers, and I'm sure there are sooo many of you...yes, I WOULD call it that, at this moment in particular.) Also home of the infamous College Days Riots of 1986. A fine institution of learning, indeed.

And secondly: Because someone won't give me her phone number! Ask T, I don't bite on the phone. Sometimes I eat a little bagel, but only if I'm really really starving, and I'm quiet about it. Honest.

Thanks for writing me, Amy!

And so it begins...

Roxie (Roxie, Roxie, Roxie), thank you, sweetie, for my birthday greeting. And wow. Okay. I stand by my word. People, blame Roxie, not me.

Roxie asks:
If you were being held captive by a weirdo, and that aforementioned weirdo said he would spare your life only if you eat a pair of underwear, and he gives you a choice between eating his underwear or the panties of someone whom you do not know/have never met would you: eat his underwear, the stranger's, or none at all.

And here's my answer:
Do I get to see the undies before making my decision? Because although I realize the bigger issue here is likely the possibility of what's...ahem...in the underwear, my primary concern, rightly or not, would have to be how BIG are these underwear? Because I am not a goat. So, say I have the choice between Psycho Kidnapper Guy's boxers and some stranger's thong, I have to say I'm probably gonna pick the thong. This is assuming, of course, that I can rely on Psycho Kidnapper Guy keeping his word and letting me go. More likely I will wield my Super Psychic Scorpio powers on him and get away before dinner. In fact, I think this scenario is in my Action Heroine's Handbook, right between "How to Run in High Heels" and "How to Use Your Thighs to Strangle a Man".

Shameless

Hi! Hi guys! Remember me? I used to bl..blouse? No, that isn't it. Blat? Nooo, not quite right, but...something. Bloop? Bloog? Bl..bl..B-L-O-O-O-O-G. Yes. Yes! That sounds right. I used to bloooogggg around here. Blog. So, hi! Hi, blog!

Okay. So. Guess what? I'm in San Diego! And dang. It's nice here. Not that I've actually left the hotel, but such is conference life. Conference high point: Explaining to one of the most intelligent and pre-eminent tech guys in the my field how to make Haloscan work with Blogger. I knew this thing would pay off one day!

Low point: Missing out on getting to meet one of my favorite fellow Blog Mamas. But at least we got to talk on the phone. Hi Beth! (wave, wave) Also low point: Realizing I can't keep up with the Europeans any more. Sigh. My Irish ancestors are rolling in their graves right now. I'm officially getting old.

Or at least officially getting older: 38 on Saturday. So here's where my shamelessness comes in: I've been flogging this blog for a whole year. I never keep up with anything this long. I must like you guys. So email me. Everybody email me and say hi, pretty please, 'cause I'm just feeling like getting mail. It's what I want for my birthday. Which is not nearly a good enough reason, but tell you what, if you email me, you can ask me one question and I promise to post the questions and answers here. Which when I think about it, isn't a particularly compelling reason to take the time to write me, but oh well. Work with me, here. And if I get enough email, I just might post a picture. For a day.

Mwaa!

Wuh-ohoh

Your Birthdate: November 5

With a birthday on the 5th of the month you are inclined to work well with people and enjoy them. You are talented and versatile, very good at presenting ideas. You may have a tendency to get itchy feet at times and need change and travel. You tend to be very progressive, imaginative and adaptable. Your mind is quick, clever and analytical. A restlessness in your nature may make you a bit impatient and easily bored with routine. You may have a tendency to shirk responsibility

Um, okay, we get it

I realize I'm being kind of a Betty, but I just think that if you have a big-ass "I stand with President George W. Bush" bumper sticker on the back of your SUV, that kind of says it all right there. But you want to add the Jesus Fish, fine. But THREE Jesus Fishes? Was that really necessary? Was it? I just don't think so.

But of course you do

Me: Hey, B, does Ellen in your class have a little sister?
Boy: Nope. But Janie has a little brother.
Me: Oh, really?
B: Yep. His name's Rico.
Me: Rico?!?
B: Mm-hmm.
Me: Cool.
B: But we call him Laser Head.

Why I love him even though the incessant whining and wailing and moaning has been driving me batshit

So yes, he's been totally spoiled (notice the smooth use of the passive there) during his week of Pain and Suffering (tm). I cleared out Barnes & Noble--and if you have a kid (or a grownup) who likes dinosaurs, you must have this book--and the Ex and Monica came through with these little beauties. One of these comes with an octopus, and the Boy took it with him into the shower last night.

B: This octopus should have a leg here [pointing to a spot between two of the octopus' legs] and here [ditto] and here [ditto] and here....
Me: But octopuses [octopii? Hand me that Tylenol with codeine again] only have eight legs, hon.
B: Nuh-uh! They have 1000 legs!
Me: No, babe, only eight.
B: [staring at me as though I've lost my mind] Then why do they call it "1000 LEGS UNDER THE SEA"?????

Must. Get. Out. Of. House.

Mother's log, day 5
Child, male, age 6, has finally become immune to the promise of ice cream. Throat seems to be improving steadily, but Tylenol with codeine has caused sever nausea yesterday, resulting in the pleasant task of applying anti-nausea suppositories. Child has remained indoors for 5 days. I sense a mutiny brewing. Will need reinforcements, or else will need to begin taking Tylenol with codeine myself.

Tonsils the size of a planet

The Boy is doing fine. His tonsils and adenoids were indeed huge, and after the surgery, while he was still asleep, I heard him breath silently for the first time in his life.

He handled it like a trooper. The doctor said, "When we went to give him the anesthesia, he started to negotiate, but a couple of whiffs and the negotiations ended." He woke up about an hour later and didn't quit eating ALL DAY. They kept him overnight because they wanted to have him on an IV drip, in case he got stubborn about drinking, which I guess a lot of kids that age do, but all the nurses ended up laughing about it. "Sheesh," said one, "the poor kid's gonna be peeing every 5 minutes between that thing and the million popsicles he keeps sucking down."

So now we're home, and other than complaining that his throat feels "all clogged up", you'd never know he had surgery a mere 24 hours ago. It's going to be fun trying to keep this kid quiet all week. I'm so glad!

Stranger than strange

So here's what I did yesterday: Met the Ex and his new girlfriend and the kids for coffee. And here's the strange part: It was fine. I like her; she seems very sweet. And she had excellent shoes. She's quite a bit younger than him (and me), but she didn't seem so young in person. And she was lovely with the kids, and they like her very much. The Girl talks about "my friend Monica" all the time. And no, that isn't her real name.

So she, according to the Ex, was stressed beyond belief to meet me, which amused me no end because I am, like, the least stress-inducing person I know. But I told her that as long as she was good to my kids, she never needed to worry about me.

And it was fine. Really. I was fine. I actually felt happy for him, and happy that this person is kind to my kids. And it's all good. How strange.

Ice cream and jello will only get you so far

Okay, people. The Boy's getting his tonsils out on Monday, and I need to prepare. We're talking a week of soft food, here. Send in your suggestions/recipes NOW, please. Please. I'm begging you. Help. Me.

Who, me?

Okay, that's freakily accurate:

You Are Likely an Only Child

At your darkest moments, you feel frustrated. At work and school, you do best when you're organizing. When you love someone, you tend to worry about them. In friendship, you are emotional and sympathetic. Your ideal careers are: radio announcer, finance, teaching, ministry, and management. You will leave your mark on the world with organizational leadership, maybe as the author of self-help books.

The Birth Order Predictor

As seen at Profgrrrrl's.

The Luck of the Lost

So here's a nice thing: I went to a boundary meeting tonight (remember that nagging school district overcrowding issue that's been hanging around?) and after driving around in circles following some other driver who I hoped knew where he/she was going, I pulled into the parking lot of the building where the meeting was being held. Another car pulled in next to me, and the woman who got out said to me, "I'm so glad you knew where you were going; I just followed you." I laughed and told her we were just lucky the guy in front of me wasn't headed to McDonalds.

Anyway, we ended up walking in together, sitting together, and after talking in the parking lot afterward for 2 hours, I just got home. Turns out she lives in the neighborhood we're moving into. One good thing to come out of the boundary meeting, if nothing else. I do so like people, if you know what I mean.

I'm blogging, and I can't get up

Damn, people. Keep me away from this thing for a week and then I go all nutty and everything with the blogging, blogging, ceaselessly blogging.

But this post is too great not to point out. Beautiful spiritual story--and it ends with poop! So you know, it goes with everything! (And happy New Year, Els dear.)

PK needs to make up for lost time

Seen at Frog's, the Need Meme, from Googling "PK needs"...

PK needs a IRC server or something. [Obviously, I am not editing these.]
PK needs emphasis in Year 2 or 3.
PK needs to respect other keepers.
PK needs to go. [Actually, I'm okay, thanks.]
PK needs a plane renewal.
PK needs to conform. [Good luck with this one!]
PK needs a private key.
PK needs at most ~O( XY + E( XY )) per edge insertion. [Hell if I know what this means, but it sounds promising. And nasty. Yay!]
PK needs to clarify what they mean by “reaching beyond denominational barriers to demonstrate the power of biblical unity.” [Or not.]
PK needs to host a poker tourney. [I think this fits in nicely with the biblical unity.]
PK needs help. [Don't we all, honey.]
PK needs the Power of Oil! [I knew I was gonna have trouble with that edge insertion.]

I could have gone on forever...you'd be sooo surprised at what I need, apparently.

What's he watching, Lifetime for First Graders?

The Boy has been saying some things lately. Some strange things. Things that lead me to believe that maybe his Papa is not monitoring his TV intake closely enough.

For example. Witness the scene earlier this evening, while he was getting into his pajamas:
Boy: Mom. You know, you don't need to spend a fortune on sewing materials. There's an easier way. With the Buttoneer, you just hook [strange hand gesture here] and pull, and voila! Buttons.
Me: ... the ... Buttoneer.
Boy: [nodding emphatically] Mmm-hmmm!
Me: Ahhhh-huh.

Ten minutes later, lying beside me in his bed, reading stories:
Boy: Mom. Tomorrow, can you please slice two slices of cucumber and put them in my lunchbag?
Me: Oh, I'm sorry, hon, we don't have any cucumbers right now.
Boy: DARN IT!!
Me: I'll be happy to pick one up at the store next time, if you'd like.
Boy: YES. Pick one up tomorrow, and slice me two slices before bed tomorrow night, and I will put them on my eyes. It's so refreshing!
Me: Oookaaaay.

But you know, he does have a point.

And the angels sang...

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and so forth, and so on...

We--yes, we chez SBFH--are (tadada) ...

OFFICIALLY

done with diapers!

Done. Finis. Finito. Buh-bye, stinky-ass Pampers. Woot! Yee-haw!

In about 5 minutes I will sit down and cry a little tear that my days of following around those little fat diaper bottoms are now past, but for now, I will revel in the Happy Dance of the Potty Trained Children.

Amen.

About a boy

I've been wondering for a while about posting the story of my Boy, and the wildness of this journey we're on. I will still do it, because of course all our stories take different turns, but in the meantime, go read Flea's post, and you will be a good way down the road to our destination. And of course, the ride with Flea is always a pleasure--even when the road is bumpier than hell.

CRAPtoberfest, indeed

You know, I am a semi-firm believer in metaphysics. (That sounds kinda nasty. Hmm.) So I should know to be careful with what I throw out there into the karmic brew of the universe, right?

Right?

Would any of you like to guess what I spent my Saturday doing? I'll give you a hint: Take my determination to talk about bad crapping incidents and my pseudo-shame over the idea of spending an entire day at a scrapbooking orgy. What the hell, toss in a little barfing for good measure (pun completely intended).

On the up side, I lost 8 pounds. In ONE DAY. Wowee!

P is for Penis, that's good enough for me

The Boy's class has been studying the human body. He's learned so many cool things! It's kind of neat to have him lecturing me on the skeletal system, or taking him to the therapist while he's wearing his "brain hat" that he made in school.

On Wednesday, he brought home a project: a book on which each page was a letter, and he had to come up with a part of the human body that starts with that letter, and draw a picture. Need I ask you to guess which human body part begins with the letter P? No, I thought not. Thank the dear Lord that he's more of an abstract artist than a realist.

Oh, and by the way. Everyone stop over at Jessica's and give her some love for her prize-winning BM! Love you, love your poop, Jess! Mwaa!

And all that crap

I think I've uncovered the secret to getting people to comment. Talk about constipation. Oh, sure, an eloquent post will touch people's hearts, but if you want folks to pipe up, you need to touch their colons.

Go on. Say something about poop now. You know you want to.

For that long-lasting crunch

I'm in my Happy Place, because guess what time of year it is! Canning season! In fact, I will be up much too late tonight waiting for the dehydrator to finish it's job on this year's bumper crop of peaches. Sadly, I missed the Sustainable Living fair this past weekend, but I did briefly consider buying a goat at the farmers' market, and after about 3 glasses of wine yesterday, standing in the midst of a load of pinging jars of peach jam and green tomatoes, the Chica and I had a brief little fantasy involving drop spindles.

Ah yes, it's the time of year when I make my plan to be Ma Ingalls. "Ma Ingalls?" said the Ex. "You can't be Ma Ingalls, you aren't married."

"Hey!" I shot back. "So I'm the liberal, divorcee Ma Ingalls, minus the prejudice against Native Americans and without a man. Don't mess with my Happy Place!"

And this weekend I will make my annual ritual sacrifice to the gods of suburban motherhood and attend (oh god I can't believe I'm actually going to tell you this) ... Croptoberfest. I know, I know. It isn't a habit, I swear! I can stop whenever I want!

Do you think the neighbors would mind if I put a few sheep in the back yard?

Straight from the Chiquita's mouth

This is not my story, but the Chica gave me permission to blog it. Because people, it begs to be blogged.

The Chica's daughter, the Chiquitta, had her first loose tooth. She's been wiggling it and wiggling it, and yearning for it come out so that the Tooth Fairy will come. The Boy, being an old hat toothwise (he's on his fourth loose one), has been assuring her that she will indeed clean up. The Chica and Mr. Chica have bought a darling sparkly Tooth Box, and all is prepared for the Big Day.

Yesterday, during school, it happened. In the middle of her first grade classroom, the Chiquita pulled on the tooth--and it popped out! Aaaaand...she dropped it! Oh no! She fell to her knees searching for it, and found...

a rock.

When Mr. Chica picked her up from school, she proudly held out a small, tooth-sized, tooth-shaped piece of quartz, which (declares the Chica) looked nevertheless nothing at all like a tooth, and said, "Look! My tooth fell out, and here it is!"

Says the Chica: "He looked deep into her eyes and realized that she had absolutely, beyond a doubt, convinced herself that this was her tooth. So. He said, 'That's great, honey!' And he brought her home, and we both oohed and aahed over the rock, and put it in her Tooth Box, and the Tooth Fairy came and took it and left her a dollar and three Pegasus Ponies to guard her Tooth Box in the future. And now the rock is wrapped up and hidden in my dresser, and I will treasure it always, and one day tell her the story of her very first rock."

Tell me why

Why, why do I watch movies that I know are going to be depressing, even if they're also going to be good? Why, for example, watch "Requiem for a Dream" when I could just hire someone to come pull out my brain by way of my left ear, then squinch it all around and shove it back in through my navel? I mean, great movie, but probably not so good for the psyche at the moment.

To jump on the freaky-ass dream wagon that's been making the rounds, last night I dreamt that James Dobson was actually this psycho pervert and I was trying to expose him, which actually put me in danger of being assassinated. Could I be feeling the need to become more politically active and stand up against all the nasty crap I see happening in this country? Hmmm.

Every, every minute

My next-door neighbor passed away Saturday. It wasn't unexpected, but it seems surreal and sad. The last time I was at Dr. Zen's, she told me, "You know, everything falls into place if we can grasp how short our lives truly are, how little time we have on this earth." And she's right, it really does. Sometimes it hits me at the oddest moments, like in the line at Starbucks or driving down a street at night. All these spirits, burning, flaring up, flickering out, on and on.

Proclamation

The scene: The kitchen, just after dinner. The Girl, who turned up her nose at dinner, wants dessert.

PK: Well, you may have yogurt or a smoothie.
G: Mmmmm ... dat snot uh nopshun. Puddin!

Curse you, curse you Comcast

I could gripe a bit about how my router and cable modem suddenly decided to put an end to their relationship, but what good would it do us? When it's over, it's over.

Needless to say, I spent the entire weekend without Internet access, and what do you know? Wow, did I get a lot done around the house. Coincidence, surely.

Turns out, I can't affectionately call the Girl "my little nugget". I tried, and she immediately began denying that she was a chicken. Yes, I shop almost exclusively at Whole Paycheck or Vitamin Chalet or the organic section at Safeway, yet my child immediately connects the words "chicken" and "nugget". Irony, y'all, it's all about the irony.

How I learned to stop worrying and love the Bug

Am I the only one who is unreasonably intimidated not by other mothers, necessarily, but by the thought that other mothers are judging me and finding me lacking? I know I've mentioned this before, but it just gets weirder and weirder. Help me out with your pseudo-psychological theories and win a prize. Okay, well, that's a lie. Win nothing, but do it anyway.

Despite having (probably typical) moments of guilt over my less-bright parenting moments, I generally do believe that I'm doing the best job that I can with the kids, and that I'm not doing anything horribly wrong. Not so you'd pass out from horror if you witnessed my parenting in action, you know? And I'm not particularly shy about meeting people, or insecure, or in need of validation--I have good friends, both near and far, and I don't feel the need for everyone to like me or to be the most popular or anything like that. And despite the Boy's behavioral challenges, I think he's a sweet kid. I don't think he comes across as a little monster or anything--he says please and thank you, he often shows kindness, he feeds his cat, he plays with Legos, you know.

So why do I feel the laser beam of Mommy Drive Bys just waiting to fire upon me? Why do I imagine that other mothers are thinking all sorts of nasty thoughts about me and planning ways to avoid me? What is my problem?? Sheesh.

And on a totally different and less self-absorbed note (thank heavens), the Boy's first grade teacher KICKS ASS. This is the teacher that he was switched to at the last minute, sending me into one of my infamous Complete Bitch Breakdowns, but oh, has it ever turned out to be wonderful. Do you know what she did on Friday? He found a cricket in the classroom, and he wanted to keep it, so she helped him catch it and poke holes in a plastic bag so he could take it home. Now, I have always had the icks over crickets, but this was just such a cool thing for his teacher to do, and he was so excited--you should've seen him!--that I was immediately and completely cured. Thirty-seven years of cricket hating, poof!

We looked up crickets on the Internet and built his new pet, Cookie, a nice little cricket home in a jar turned on its side. We put in some sand, rocks to hide under, a nice little twisty stick, a damp sponge, and some bits of bread and apple. I closed the opening with some fine green netting I had lying around (it had been a ribbon on a gift) and screwed on the jar ring. Things to know about crickets:

• Only the males make noise.
• Cookie wasn't a male.
• Cookie was, however, smart enough to figure out how to chew through the netting.

Good thing about that New Love For Crickets I've got goin' on.

Intellectual savant? Idiot savoir?

I have this impression of myself, that I'm pretty much scattered and clueless and obtuse. So why, then, do I get so freaking impatient when people just don't get it? Isn't that sort of the pot calling the kettle black? And there's no particular "it" here, either; just ... so many things.

You can tell it was meeting day, can't you?

I know what I want to say

Are this president and administration to blame for a natural disaster? For the rise of terrorism? For the state of unrest in the world? For global warming? Of course not. These are all problems that are either out of a person or government's control or that have been boiling up for years. Certainly, the appalling poverty and underlying violence in New Orleans that is contributing to so many of the problems now took longer than 6 years to reach these epic proportions. But here's what this administration and so-called commander-in-chief ARE responsible for: Dealing with the problems they inherit in a reasonable and intelligent manner, even if doing so is fucking difficult.

Does anyone remember the Carter administration's reaction to the energy crisis of the 70s?
Does anyone remember Clinton refusing to play the endless budget-extension game?
Does anyone remember presidents who spent their time in office working their asses off to create a stronger national infrastructure? Who tried to promote world peace instead of world war?

I am so angry and sickened by the wasteful, stupid, selfish, arrogant attitude of this president and this administration. Refusing to encourage conservation during times of crisis, and instead encouraging reckless waste and spending to "keep the economy growing". Bullshit. Bullshit!! It's a nice rosy piece of wool that these people keep trying to pull over our eyes. When are we going to notice we're suffocating? How can I even be surprised at the greed and obscenity that keep pouring forth, at the ineptitude and decadence, when we've given over the soul of this country to a leadership that ran and won on an agenda of hate and intolerance? I'm sickened. Just sickened.

2008 is too far away. I want this bastard impeached. NOW.