the anti-good, the un-blessing, the im-morality

From Farcebook to a member whose photo album contained a photo of her breastfeeding infant:

Hello,

You uploaded a photo that violates our Terms of Use, and this photo has been removed. Among other things, photos containing nudity, drug use, or other obscene content are not allowed, nor are photos that attack an individual or group. Continued misuse of Facebook's features could result in your account being disabled.If you have any questions or concerns, you can contact us at warning@facebook.com from your login email address.

~The Fa[r]cebook Team

From Wikipedia:
"Obscenity (in Latin obscenus, meaning "foul, repulsive, detestable", possibly derived from ob caenum, literally "from filth"). The term is most often used in a legal context to describe expressions (words, images, actions) that offend the prevalent sexual morality of the time."

From dictionary.com:

Antonyms include "good, goodness, blessing and morality."

So, okay, breastfeeding as the anti-good, the un-blessing, the im-morality? The only reason I can’t look at breastfeeding photos is that they so completely awaken my womb. My uterus hurts just looking at them. Must. Have. Another. Baby. Now. Quick, look away!

This other site has asked us to hop on the Farcebook Sucks bandwagon. I'm totally in! I'm entirely on board! BlogHers of the world to unite! MJ asks us to choose one of these images for our blogs:

I pick two! Double the fun!

the kindergartener

Right now, laying, head on my lap, mouth slightly agape, breathing deeply, looking serene and above suspicion, snoozing noiselessly, is my very own seriously five-year-old boy. Kindergarten is hard, man. Its toll has been taken. This little man is worn out.

At these moments, I am unable to reconcile this quiescent form to the fiend who accompanied me yesterday, wailing about puppy notebooks and doughnuts, through the grocery store. You see, yesterday afternoon, I had to go grocery shopping. Now, for those of you who haven’t ventured into my kitchen, let me just explain that by the time I finally admit that I have to go to the market, then what’s left in my kitchen for snacking is uncooked spaghetti, saltines, cheerios and ice cubes; and what’s left for actual meals is, well, plain spaghetti and cheerios. So off we went, at almost 6pm to the market. I pulled into the parking lot thinking, “it’s okay, we can definitely handle this”.

Not so much. It started with me requesting a cart, which the Girl obligingly got. But wait, apparently, to the Kindergartener, a grocery cart looks like a Super-Turbo Mustang Cobra XL7 (or some actual super-cool automobile), that his sister is unqualified to pilot, because he immediately and without warning walloped her and took command of the vehicle. Then, when he was reprimanded, and the vehicle commandeered by the Mother Ship, the crying and evil-eye-throwing began….

And on it went, throughout the entire grocery shopping expedition. He wants to push the caaarrrtt-aaah. I’m the worst mooommmmyyy eeevveeerrr-aaahh. He waaaannntts a puuuppppyyyy noooteboooook-aahh. We’re aaaallll stoooooppiiid-aahhh. Mooommmy-yaa, puh-leeeaasse-ahh. Oh. My. God. How I loathe that add-on syllable-a.

I applauded myself, even if no one else did, for the active ignoring, the going about my grocery shopping business as if there weren’t a four foot tall, red-faced, tear-streaked lunatic stomping behind me. Yay me! Mom of the year for sure. When we got home there was more crying, a sandwich was served to the Kindergartener on the bottom step (the time-out step), there was muttering (from both of us), there were hexes thrown as I passed (it was the Kindergartener who threw them, not me, I swear), there were threats of hunger strikes, and then finally, there was a boy asleep at the base of a staircase next to a half-eaten salami sandwich. I know, cute, right? Ugh.

After the rejuvenating bottom-step-nap, he emerged from a shower to politely ask for the last frosting flower from my birthday cake. NO! The nerve of this kid, the sheer gall, thinking, even for a split second, that I’m going to share my frosting flowers with him. No freaking way, kid. The flowers are mine, take a hike.

So now, today. This morning, I was scheduled to accept a big check on behalf of the organization I work for, from the Del Mar Rotary Club. When I say “big check”, I mean, literally “big”. Like an Ed-McMahon’s-at-your-door-with-balloons-and-flowers type of check. This was a first for me. I had to get up at 5 (a.m.!) to be sure I could get the kids up and out and dropped off in enough time to get to Del Mar by 7. All of this, actually, was a first for me, the Rotary, the big check the getting up at 5 a.m. without having just heard someone, or some dog, barfing.

Steeling myself for what has become our every morning argument where the Kindergartener insists that I told him last night, that yesterday was, in fact, Friday; I crept in to tentatively waken him. For a moment, I just studied this creature (and now, thinking of this, I understand why Microsoft Word offers scamp, imp and sprite as synonyms for “demon child”). He was upside-down on the bed, on top of the covers, pillow under his feet, a stuffed frog in a diaper and a Superman suit clutched tightly in his arms. Unexpectedly, when I finally worked up the daring to rouse him, he was quite delighted to wake in the unanticipated, rainy dark. Now, don’t misunderstand, he was still determined that today was not a school day, but was also unperturbed my insistence that, in fact, it was.

After an hour of cajoling, of tiptoeing around him on eggshells, I got him in the car and off to pre-school. Pre-school, in this case, actually means “before school”, as in a place where competent adults will gladly entertain my children in the wee hours of the morning so that I may enjoy the relative serenity of sitting in unrelenting traffic for an hour with a Venti, in a Grande cup, double shot, half-caf, lite-foam, skim caramel, pumpkin spice macchiato, with raspberry syrup and a sprinkle of basil (totally didn’t trip up the barista…still trying). And at pre-school…there was a glitch in the system.

No one showed up. Seriously. No one.

Okay, so instead of bursting into tears, I did what any rational professional woman with no emergency contacts in the same area code would do. I took them with me. Yeah, that’s right, I did it. I took them to the Rotary meeting. I bribed them with promises of doughnuts and puppy notebooks. But here’s the great thing about my kids, even the Kindergartener, they were utterly charming and well-behaved. The Rotarians insisted that instead of sitting in the Fireside Lounge of the Del Mar DoubleTree Hotel, with a stack of my business cards and two ball-point-pens, that they join us for the breakfast buffet.

By the time I got to my office at 10:40, after stopping off for chocolate sprinkle bear claws and spiral-bound puppy pads, driving said kids back to San Marcos for school, stopping into Starbuck’s and vacuuming and washing my car, word was out. Emails were flying and phones were ringing. By 11:15 I’d received four (count them…four) e-mails or phone calls from Rotarians that I’d just met that very day, saying how polite and charismatic my children were. The Rotarians were delighted, word was out, my kids are awesome. The founder and Chair of the Board, popped into my office to say how much she was looking forward to meeting these now-legendary children of mine.

So now, here he is, asleep next to me on the couch. There is pizza sauce on his face…which may not seem unusual, except that we haven’t eaten pizza in days. There is black magic marker all over the back of his right hand…but not his left, which seems weird only because he’s right-handed. His feet smell seriously bad, like old-cheese-left-in-my-car-for-eight-days-bad, while his blonde hair is bright and smells like papaya.

This few minutes, while asleep on laps, is what saves the Kindergarteners of the world from being sold down the river by their well-meaning, but exhausted and fully perplexed moms.

happy birthday to me

In a mere three days it will be my birthday. I make a big deal out of birthdays, especially my own. Shocking, I know. I tend to remind everyone, on a fairly consistent basis, for about a month prior, that my big day is coming up, and I encourage my kids to begin celebrating my birthday at least a week before.


There are three birthdays in my family in the month prior to mine, which I consider warm ups, practice runs, if you will. They are convenient reminders that my birthday is just around the corner. (The only person who doesn't seem to take the hint is my dear brother, whose chagrinned call I can count on usually around October 4th, when he starts to remember that his birthday is only a few days away, so he must've missed mine. It's fun, I enjoy he guilt he feels.) It was after one of these reminders, recently, that Ellie asked me to show her how to make coffee, so that she could bring me a cup on my birthday. It seems the planning had begun.

Apparently I've done well with conveying the importance of birthdays to my lovely children. This morning at 7:19 I startled awake to a rousing chorus of "Happy Biiirrrrrrthdaaaay deeaaarrrr Mooommmmmy", and was greeted with this when I finally pried my eyelids back:

Raisin Bran and two chocolate cookies. That gigantic mason jar? Full. of. coffee. Those little blue bowls contain sugar and half and half. These children...they love me. This is proof. Not only did they bring me breakfast in bed and remember how to make coffee, but they presented it all on a beautiful tray that was lined with an embroidered antique table runner (which is now hopelessly stained with coffee, and I totally don't care), and get this...they put napkins on the tray. Honestly, I'm a little surprised they knew where I kept the napkins.

They looked on with pleased smiles as I sat up, found my glasses and dug in to the pre-birthday feast, and here's how the breakfast in bed progressed:


I have to give Owen credit, he waited until I'd had a bite of the cereal before taking the spoon and pouring the rest down his gullet. Ellie scarfed a cookie down while rolling around on my bed (note to self: must change sheets), while I drank the coffee gratefully (it was good!).

After I finished the giant mason jar of coffee, we made our way downstairs, with them insisting on carrying the tray down. Daisy happily followed behind licking up the drips of soggy Raisin Bran dregs. I followed them to the kitchen, steeling myself for what I might find. Now, remember, they brought me a bowl of cereal, two cookies and coffee. Here's the kitchen:



and this:

and this:

That last one is my kitchen floor covered with drops of half and half. They had loaded up the electric mixer with half and half and sugar in a valiant effort to make whipped cream with which to top my cookies.

The fun continued after the big kitchen clean up with my first official birthday gift:

Yep, those are paperclips. Who needs Scotch Tape? Not us. Owen was quick to let me know that it was from him too, but Ellie wouldn't put his name on it because there was no room after the XO.

Inside...was a box of "Live Juicy" cards. Little cards with corny Stuart Smalley type messages, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me." I sort of vaguely remember buying them at some church bazaar or having them given to me by someone at some point. I have no idea where Ellie found them, but I'm not at all surprised that she did. I opened the box to shuffle through the cards and see what sort of corny, self-helping, self-loving, to-thine-own-self-ing stuff I could sneer at. Here's the one that stopped me:

Good go you two. Happy birthday to me.

meme defined…putting the "me" in meme

A meme (pronounced to rhyme with theme, I’m told, or perhaps, to rhyme with wem; which, it’s true, isn’t an actual word) is defined by Wikipedia, and some sites that ripped off Wikipedia, as “a unit of cultural information that represents a basic idea that can be transferred from one individual to another, and subjected to mutation, crossover and adaptation.”

Honestly, I have no idea what that means and apparently neither does anyone else. It seems that the fact that a meme is an "undefinable" web-based phenomenon is the definition of the meme. Plus, everyone I ask and everywhere I look seems to have either no definition or a lengthy complicated, contradictory definition. So, I think a meme, for our purposes is a list of questions that allow me to focus on me.

Whatever it really means, here’s the thing…I totally don’t care! I’ve been tagged for my very first meme. Lisa Milton is my new best friend, because she picked me! And I was first on her list, which, I know, doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m her favorite person on the face of the Earth, but the list wasn’t in alpha order, so it must be because I’m her favorite, right? Right?? It’s like I have finally, finally, been chosen first for dodge ball in 7th grade.

Plus, here’s the other thing, this being chosen for the meme thing, is totally feeding my post-8:30 pm self-centeredness. You see, as soon as the small hand hits that middle point between 8 and 9 and my kids are asleep and work is over and the dishes are done (or being capably ignored) and the dogs have been fed—then it’s Me Time! Please understand, I don’t mean the self-searching, meditative, relaxation tape sort of Me Time. I mean the blogging about myself, ROYGBIV’ing my closet, looking at my face much too closely in the mirror trying figure out exactly why the hell my skin is suddenly behaving as if it’s fifteen and a half, plucking my eyebrows, checking my personal junky email Me Time.

So listen up, it’s time to focus on me. Me. Focus people. These won’t be short answers, I must explore the me in this meme.

4 jobs I have held:
1. Waitress at Western Sizzlin’ steakhouse (let me assure you, the website is far, far better than the food) where I was the worst waitress in a one hundred square mile area, and once dropped a steak plate on a baby’s head. We both cried.
2. Economics tutor for the UNC Bears football team. Okay, not the whole team, but two key players. Or two cute players, I can’t remember…let me just picture them for a minute and maybe it will come to me…

Right, sorry, back to me….

3. Telemarketer for a health club in college. If I called you…I’m sorry, really. I had to buy books.
4. My current awesome new gig.

4 films I could watch again and again:
1. The Princess Bride, mostly for Mandy Patinkin. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!”
2. A Knight’s Tale, Paul Bettany…just yummy. The woman who played Jocelyn completely annoyed me, but still…Paul.
3. Independence Day, like no. 3, but with Jeff Goldblum, enough said.
4. A Beautiful Mind, for so many reasons.

4 TV shows I watch:
1. Scrubs
2. The Daily Show
3. The Young and the Restless (mostly only on weekday holidays like Labor Day). What?? Shut up. I’m still smart.
4. The New Adventures of Old Christine

4 places I have lived:
1. Basalt, Colorado
2. Greeley, Colorado
3. Basalt, Colorado
4. San Marcos, California (Yay me!)

4 favorite foods:
1. Dove dark chocolate
2. Scrammbled eggs
3. Half and half, for me it’s food
4. French Dip (something I actually miss as a vegetarian)

4 websites I visit everyday:
1. Bad Mom, Mama Milton, katydidnot (I know, it’s mine, probably didn't technically need the link), finslippy, i obsess., Ready or Not (consider yourselves tagged)
2. icanhascheezburger (I know, I’m sorry, but it’s riotously funny)
3. Google
4. LA Times Crossword Puzzle

4 of my favorite colors:
1. ecru cerulean thistle
2. chartreuse chiffon vermillion
3. almond sepia raspberry
4. cyan ultramarine tangerine

4 places I'd like to be right now:
1. My mom’s living room
2. The Louvre
3. Hiking up Smuggler
4. Exactly where I am

4 names I like but wouldn't or couldn't use myself:
1. Clementine (no one would let me, they thought she’d be called Clemmy)
2. Edward (Dylan said it wasn’t a name and gave Owen the middle name West instead. Dylan, Owen thanks you, he agrees, it's not a name.)
3. Jack (taken x 5 in my family)
5. Lisa…a shout out for letting me focus on me!

click, click, click

There is a certain man, here in San Marcos, with whom I am becoming very close. He has been over to my house three times already, and is on his way over again. He’s met my children and my dogs. He knows that my car is always a mess, and still he comes back.

Sadly, I speak not of a new beau, but of the tow truck driver from ABC Towing. You see, I have a battery problem. The battery on my car is dead…again. The first time was about four weeks ago, just as we were ready to head out to the beach.

We spent about fourteen hours, that morning, gathering the beach gear: three boogie boards, two beach chairs, an umbrella, a cooler filled with healthy snacks and water, a dump truck, a monster truck, four buckets, a rake, two shovels, a beach ball, swim suits, rash guards, two books, my iPod, four beach towels, one beach blanket, flip flops for everyone, five gold—en rings, and four bottles of SPF 120 sunscreen. We packed ourselves into the swimsuits, topped with shorts and t-shirts, put a hat on every head, smashed all the gear into the car, piled into the steaming car and buckled up. All with almost no yelling, and Owen only laid down on the ground and cried once. Success!

Okay, off we go.

Crank the ignition…click, click, click.

Nervous laughter, make sure the car is in park, depress the brake pedal, try again…click, click, click.

Wipe sweat from brow, adjust rearview mirror, turn off radio, try again…click, click, click.

Apparently my battery isn’t in such good shape, and while we were doing Operation Beach Prep, a door was open, lights were on and battery juices were sucked away. So Marcus, of ABC Towing, came and saved the day, leaving with a smile and a helpful hint, to be sure not to leave the car doors open again. Of course, absolutely, shut doors, every time. We became good at Operation Beach Prep and got our time down to four minutes and sixteen seconds.

So, two weeks passed, and we had to pick up Smart Sister and her family at the airport, scheduled to land at 9:54 pm. No problem. Being the organized, efficient mom that I am, I decided to clear the trash out of the car and bribe my son to vacuum it, so that we could all fit in the car. Let’s just say this…three children, eating on the run, printing out MapQuest directions for everywhere we went, sand from the beach, blah blah blah…. The cleaning out and vacuuming took a fair bit of time.

Finally, after an entire afternoon of answering Owen’s near-constant “How many hours til they get here? We’re going to the airport with you, right? Right? Because you’re not allowed to leave us alone anyways, right? Three hours? How many minutes is that?” we ended up rushing out the house at 8:57 in pajamas (well, not me, I wasn’t, I learned my lesson from the walk to school). I shoved them out the door, in the dark, having forgotten to feed them dinner. Pile in the car, assign seats, buckle up, crank ignition…click, click, click. Oh, well, sure, of course. Fuck! Operation Clean Car should have been called Operation Drain Battery.

Marcus! To the rescue! He even turned around on his way to another call in Encinitas after hearing my plaintive plea for immediate assistance because Smart Sister would be landing ANY MINUTE! As Marcus left, I heard him chuckle. Here’s why though … apparently under the hood of my car, is a boat battery, held in place by, I’m totally not kidding, a yellow bungee cord. Marcus kindly recommended a garage that could put an actual car battery in for me that would fit into the vehicle battery chamber deal without the assistance of bungee cords. I assured him that I would take care of that first thing in the morning. Needless to say, I did not. Smart Sister had arrived, and we wanted to go to the beach.

Next time, we were on the way to the movies. Someone, who shall remain nameless but whose name starts with o-w and ends with e-n, “maybe, probably could’ve, by accident, but maybe Ellie did it, possibly might’ve” turned his light on “because Ellie told him to, when he had to find a Lego piece”. Marcus came back again, and quite nicely suggested that I join an auto club. He’d even found the number and written it on the back of one of the ABC Towing cards. A whole new meaning to a guy giving me his number.

So tonight, I walked outside to call the kids in for dinner, and the hatchback was up. Oh, fuck it all. Dear Lord in heaven, this has to be a joke. Please God, let it have just been opened that second, please. I calmly (by calmly, I mean I slammed the hatchback with every ounce of muscle I possessed, growled several curses under my breath, stubbed my toe getting in the car, let loose another string of curses that would even rival my father and slammed the car door behind me) got in the car. I then said another prayer…then took it back, letting God know that I really didn’t want to waste an answered prayer on a dead battery, so could He please this time, disregard. Crank ignition…click, click, click. Of course, why did I even try?

I actually tried calling a few different tow companies this time, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to face him, but alas, no one else was available. One company even suggested I call Marcus at ABC. So after wringing my hands for thirty minutes while dialing tow company after tow company, I hit speed dial 7 on my cell phone, swallowed my pride, and asked Marcus to come over. When dear Marcus pulled into my driveway tonight and got out of his truck, his face was downcast, head shaking slowly side to side. He lifted his face ever so slightly, looked up at me and said, in the most sadly exasperated voice, “you didn’t join the auto club, did you?”

I just hope that the neighbors believe I’m having a torrid affair with the tow truck driver. Scandal and intrigue are better than being a twit.

palpable

Tonight, I am having trouble holding up under the weight of my son’s ache. I want to digest his pain for him.

Looking at him, over the dinner table, I want to cry, which is absurdly not helpful. He is devastated over a C+ in math. It isn’t really the C+, it is a new school, a new city, few friends, more people, different teachers, the miles and miles between here and home, and so much more from Before. He thought I’d be angry about the C+. I’m not. I’m so proud of how he’s done with this move. So impressed with his buoyant spirit, his sheer will, his resilience, and his utter determination. And tonight, I am watching his sorrow, his unbelievably valiant effort to stop the tears before they overrun his lower lids. He’s managing it. So am I. But barely.

Now…now, he’s sitting next to me, talking to my dad, his Papa, his truest companion on Earth, his kindred spirit. Actually, he’s not talking. He’s listening. Because he can’t speak and continue to hold stoically to the tears that are in his eyes and choking him at the back of his throat. And I’m trying, so hard, to do the same.

My girl just looked up at me, thumb in mouth, and said “why did we move, Mama?” I can’t remember right now. All I can feel is the palpable melancholy that is sitting next to us tonight. Most days, I know it was right. Most days, I know we’re better here, all of us. But today…today is not that day. Today my son is aching. He is collapsing under two years of hard.

I grasp that I am, in fact, over dramatizing. I can tell you that in between, just tonight, he has been distractedly ensconced in building Spongebob’s house out of Legos with his brother and his dogs. He’s fine. He’s happy. He’s well-adjusted. And, still, I want to take his pain. And indeed, I have taken it, but I have taken it too, not taken it away.

my manic has reached new heights

This totally shouldn't be funny.

Must wipe tears...laughing so hard...can't talk...must breathe...send help.

my nerd cup runneth over

I was supposed to be rockin’ out (or whatever the country equivalent of rockin’ out is) at the Toby Keith/Miranda Lambert concert right now at Coors Amphitheatre, in ultrahip Chula Vista, California. Instead, I am home, in all my stuffy-headed, ears-ringingly-plugged-up, scratchy-throated, deep-sexy-gravelly-congested-voiced, bloodshot-eyed, coughing up-yucky-stuff glory, attired in my yellow garden gnome pj’s, blogging to you all.

Sadly, I can’t even pretend to have stayed home because I’m so extraordinarily sick. My date, (read: concert-ruiner) cancelled! Okay, I know, I should’ve still gone. I was in the car, on the way there, decked out in strategically torn jeans, red heels, a white lacy off the shoulder tee-shirt deal, hair gloriously flattened into straight perfection, peacock feather earrings and all. I should’ve just kept going, found some yummy citified cowboy lurking around the amphitheatre and asked the cute country lurker to enjoy my extra ticket. But alas, I went to my new office instead.

Don’t judge! It was supposed to be my first concert. At 34, finally, I was going to go to a real concert, at an amphitheatre and everything. I just couldn’t do it alone. Where does one park? Does one sit or stand? Is one obligated to buy a CD, even though I always end up making them completely unplayable within two days because I can’t be bothered to ever put one back in the case? Would I be safe alone? Walking back to my car alone at 11pm? Or midnight? Or whenever a real concert ends? Does one dance and girate? I just couldn’t make myself do it. So I went to my new office and spent quality time with my magnificent database.

They should reprint my business cards. My name should read Lamely McNerdington. My title should be Associate Director of Extraordinary Geekiness. That said, I think I looked pretty appealing with my bare feet (newly pedicured for the concert) up on my desk, keyboard on my lap, red heels tossed carelessly by my desk, hair knotted at my neck with a pencil...like the opening scene of a Meg Ryan movie.

Shut up. Leave me my illusions, I need them.

I also need Nyquil. Who has Nyquil?

buy me comic books, play mad-libs with me

I. Am. Sick. I don’t feel good. I feel poorly. I am stuffed up, my throat is scratchy, the roof of my mouth itches, I have a headache and I am coughing. Also, I have sneezed four times today.

I sort of delight in being sick. I proclaim my sickness to anyone who will listen. I walk from room to room telling whichever poor sap I happen upon about the onset of symptoms and the likely dramatic course they will take. I am currently, definitely sick. Booyah.

I don’t think I’ve always been like this. I don’t recall being sick very often as a kid. However, before I was 10…

Broken arm—six times. 1) Riding my horse Rabbit, on a birthday ride with my brother. He thought it would be fun to make my horse gallop, so off he went on Buck, knowing that Rabbit would follow blithely along with whatever the horse in front of him did. I wasn’t ready, so off I went. 2) Roller-skating on my fresh and fabulous (descriptors here, not the brand name, though it would be a good one) red, white and blue, lace-up, big-girl skates. 3) Jumping on the trampoline at the Pony Club Rally when I was bored to tears watching my sister ride the dressage course. 4) Sledding at BFF Jamie’s house. 5) I’ve blocked it. 6) Cannot remember, but pretty sure my brother was at fault here too.

Broken leg while skiing on…I kid you not…Panda Peak at Buttermilk Mountain. Sadly, this wasn’t a deceptive name for a double black run, but really the kiddie hill, with a slope no greater than the typical Target parking lot.

I crushed three fingers on my left hand when they were closed in the tremendously heavy 20-foot-high-Howarts-style yellow doors to my elementary school. Whose brilliant design was that? Install the largest doors ever made on a school for five- to seven-year-old children, and make sure the doors swing closed as fast and hard as possible and remain impervious to attempts to wrench them open if a child’s digit is trapped between them and the door jamb. Oh, but maybe Mrs. Harrison was really Voldemort, the incarnation of all that is evil, and that’s why the extra reinforced doors….Maybe a well-timed Alohamora would’ve opened them.

Now, get ready to cringe. Honestly, this one is gruesome. I had boiling water poured on my torso, thanks to my brother, who brilliantly tried to serve me a hot dog by tipping it out of the pot of boiling water which he’d just, that very second, removed from the stove, causing my skin to peel off in sheets while I was being submerged in a bathtub of cold water and bawling to the point of catatonia while waiting for the ambulance. And by the way, brother dear, while I’ve refreshed your guilt, can I borrow ten bucks?

Last (at least last that I can recall), I knocked out my two front teeth by the roots (the permanent adult ones) while jumping from rock to rock on the river on a school field trip in 5th grade. I then had to walk, blood gushing in torrents from my unoccupied tooth sockets, about seventeen miles back to the trail head to where the ambulance could reach me. Then upon arriving at the hospital, the effing ER nurse put my teeth back in my head.

Without. Any. Drugs.

By the way, BFFs Sarah O. and Kendra had found the knocked out teeth in the river…what luck!

*giant exhale*

So there. That’s the deal. The next time I’m sick, whether a cold, the flu, bad leftover Chinese, appendicitis, tonsillitis, bad hair day, whatever. Feel badly for me. Give me sympathy. Send flowers. Buy me comic books. Play Mad-Libs with me. Tell me you can’t believe I’m still up walking; I’m a trooper; a stoic example of grit and courage. Come on, I’ve earned it.

By the way…my brother is nine (9), yes, nine, years older than me. So that’s no excuse. He wasn’t just a dumb little kid. Ugly, sure, but not dumb.

thursday thirteen no. 109

13 things I dig about my new job, in no particular order (but just skip down to no. 12 now):

1. In describing the relationship this organization has with Simon & Schuster Publishing, someone said, "They want to date us, but they don't want to be monogamous. This is okay, because we want to play the field too, see if Pearson Publishing's a better date."

2. I get to wear really good grown up work togs everyday.

3. When I arrived yesterday there was a super cool name plate deal on my door…with my name on it!

4. I decided to be a real grown up and take out my nose stud. This is good, but makes me sad too. I like it, but ok, time to be a grown up.

5. New business cards, with my name in print, and a good title below.

6. It’s about reading to kids. The whole deal. The whole organization is for reading to kids! Next to my office is a bookcase full of children's books. Corduroy, Where the Wild Things Are, Harry the Dirty Dog, Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. We reviewed The Story of Ferdinand (you remember him, the bull that would rather smell roses than fight?) at a meeting yesterday.

7. Oh. My. God. Raiser’s Edge. The. Very. Best. Fundraising. Database. There. Is. andIgettouseiteveryday!

8. I get to be the boss of people. Which, I know, the fact that I like that, probably means I won’t be a good boss. But still…it makes me giddy.

9. There was a philodendron on my desk with a "Welcome, Welcome, Kate" note attached.

10. I have the third best office, which shouldn’t matter, but totally does.

11. New computer…Windows Vista…Office Vista…heavenly.

12. Men…in uniform…just all the time.

13. …Drumroll please….cha-ching! They’re paying me for this.

no more watermelons please

Okay, okay, I give. Higher Power…you win. I did it; I went to the dumb Rotary interview today. Called the real job, the good job, the should-have-been-happy-with-what-you-have, the-grass-is-not-always-greener-on-the-other-side job, and told them I had a personal crisis I had to attend to. I know, I know, but the Director said she had something else come up and it was fine because she couldn’t meet with me anyway.

On my way to said interview today, a watermelon flew out of the back of the truck in front of me (the bed of the truck was full of watermelons, so I’m glad it was only the one watermelon) and hit the front of my car and burst into a million pieces on impact!

Who does this shit happen to? Have you ever, in all your life, heard of such a thing?

But okay, HP, I get it. Rigorous honesty. Gratitude. Priorities. I’m totally on board.

I’ve learned, I repent, I will be good. I promise! No more watermelons please.

be kind...it might be me

Everywhere I go, I am that girl. The one who has lost her credit card, or has locked her keys in her car. The one whose voice is recognizable over the phone to her insurance agents. The one who is at the head of whatever line you’re in that has just stalled.

I have wrecked my car five times in two years, all but one of which involved my car and some immovable object: a large cement column in a parking garage, my brother’s truck, (parked unwisely behind me), a parked car on the street, a stopped car in front of me at a stop sign (they had no taillights, so maybe it wasn’t wholly my fault, though my insurance agent disagreed), and a deer (I cried when she died). I have also recently had the back passenger door handle ripped unceremoniously off my car by a black bear. Yeah. That’s right. He wanted the leftover bits from our on-the-go dinner burritos from the previous night. Olé. When I called my insurance agent last month to find out about switching my insurance to an agent in California, I’m pretty sure I heard kazoos.

Last year, on my way home from Nevada, I lost my wallet - driver’s license, credit cards, old receipts, unused Sam Goody and Gap gift cards, everything. I had all my cards replaced, and then swiftly proceeded to lose everything again, but not all at once. First, I lost my debit card, I have a bad habit of putting it in the back pocket of whatever jeans I’m wearing that day and then, well… laundry, bottom of closet, under the car seat, etc.

Okay, no debit card now, so I switched to my Amex. I went skiing with my son, Amex tucked securely in zipper pocket of my super-cool new Bonfire ski coat, until I pulled my Blistic out of the same pocket on the Sam’s Knob lift, and down went the Amex. My Amex card was now cryogenically frozen on Snowmass Mountain. Alright, my Visa card is still available. Twenty gallons of gas, $55.00; new pink embroidered clogs, $99.00; groceries to feed three kids for one week, $237.00; losing your last credit card, priceless. So here I was, left with my Target and Nordstrom cards. Surely everything one family of four could need can be purchased at these two retail giants.

Now, for the driver’s license. I don’t really know where it went. Conceivably with the Amex? Perchance at the bottom of my closet? Perhaps with the socks in the dryer? I can’t be certain. So off I went to the DMV (located conveniently in the Mall) to replace the driver’s license. The photo was so startlingly awful that I had to pretend I’d lost it again and to get another photo. A small setback: if you’ve had your photo taken within the last month, they don’t retake the photo, they just reprint it and charge you $35! Okay, well, Plan B then: wait two months, “lose” it again, and get a new photo. The new photo wasn’t quite as bad, but still, that was one of the pros in the pro/con list of reasons to move to California: will be able to get a new driver’s license, perhaps with a better picture. I’m planning on going in to take care of this on Wednesday. However, I seem to have misplaced my Colorado license when I was buying a new pair of copper, peep-toe heels last Friday. I think getting the California license will be more of a challenge without the Colorado one in hand.

So, the next time you’re in line at the grocery store, and the line stalls; or you’re at the movies and every line is moving but yours; or you’re crossing into California and suddenly the border checkpoint line backs up; be kind. It might be me.



Update: I haven't found my driver's license. To replace: write off to Colorado DMV for a copy of my driving record (six to eight weeks out) and take the written test in California; OR, show up at DMW, with birth certificate and take the written test. If I pass, I can wait at the DMV for six to eight days to take the driving test. Yeah, that's right the driving test, like behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. Seems unwise for me to go that route, no?

Update: Got in my car last night to pick up sister and family at airport. Dead battery. Of course. Tow truck guy took pity on me and came to my house first. *whew* Got to airport on time, 10pm, with three children in pajamas, plane was delayed for over an hour. Superfun.

Update: Lost cell phone today. Called FedEx/Kinko's, Albertson's and Big 5 Sporting Goods to no avail. Searched house and car. Nothing. Later found in the pocket of the shorts I wore out to breakfast this morning.

I am tired.