*cough, choke*

The Kindergartener has added a new item to the fit-throwing time-out routine.

Introducing...the dramatic cough.

This is not an ordinary cough, but a doleful, wretched, woebegone, street urchin cough that starts at the bottom of his feet and gathers strength as it travels up through his legs and abdomen, into his lungs and out with the ardor and tenor of a tuberculosis victim in the 1800s who is living in an iron lung.

And,YES, IT IS REAL! He will tell you, once the coughing has subsided enough to allow speech. And, YES, IT IS SERIOUS! He will tell you, once his breath has returned. And, NO, YOU CAN'T START HIS TIME OVER JUST FOR COUGHING! He will insist, once he regains his strength.

And tonight? It was All. Your. Fault. Yes, you. I'm sure he did not mean me when he said, "WHY WON'T YOU LET ME BE GOOD? WHY? WHY? WHY?" Because me? I like when he's good. I will totally let him be good. And apparently, he was going to be good!, if you would let him get up. So why wouldn't you let him be good? Why?

Thankfully, he did not want to ask me Just. One. Thing.

Franken-face

There will be typos here an I refuse t fix them. Along with that eye rainbow, my wrist? It is notso good as well..

More on that later. Or l8r...maybe i should use those cheezy IM words here bcuz they're shorter. R u with me? Srsly. We should try. Nah, sry, I can't do it.

When i was little, like 7 or maybe 5, my mom got hurt. Realy hurt. She has a snowmobile flip over backward and land on her little tiny self. My mommy was broken and I my world was shaken. I could not make myself small enough to not rufflye the air around her. I could not move aryund her on her bed slowly enough not to distrupt the universe around her.

Also, my universe was disrupted. My world interrupted. An immortal had been wounded. Sure, I'd seen her sick and maybe injured before, and there was a perm incident (picture here Richard Simmons, but smart and stylish and not at all freakish). But I'd never seen her like this, not bruised and battered and broken all at once. I'm sure that after a little while I became sureof the wordl around me again, but all I recal clearly was that feeling of the earth's spin stiopping because my mom was fragile and injured.

Lst night I hurt myself. I was out kiteboarding for the very first time on the Pacific...no, I was riding my road bike, and had just hit 35mph and skidded out on some loose gravel...no, I was out rock climbing at Joshua Tree....

actually, I have aunique talent for injuring myself doing...um...really nothing. My family, when they hear I've hurt myself, don't usually ask what I was doing or how it happened, they assume I was walking and just ask what kind of shoes Iwas wearing.

So, last night, while walking in my yellow trail runners I tripped over my dogs' leash. This was no ordinary tripping, this was specail katydidnot type tripping. The stars aligned like so: walking very fast, in semi-darkness, on concrete patio, get feet (both) caught in cable dog run (from dogs that got lost a month ago, insult to injurty...or injury to insult, in this case), all forward momentum straight down onto concrete, side of face first, carrying something in my hands, no ability to deflect force from side o fhead. Result? Concussion, fractured cheekbone (barely, but a good Franken-face) and tiny hairl ine wrist fracture. Most noticable...the really colorful bruises and fabuulous face swelling.

The other result? And mostly it's the Franken-face. My children are tippy-toeing all around me today. Being polite and calm and \quietand helpful. Offering to make me tea and get me socks and play Mad-Libs with me. It's freaking me out. Make thme stop. The Kindergartener kisses me everytime he is near me. Just wherever his kiss lands is okay, there is not even apause in his motion, just a turn of his head and a Kindergartener Kiss lands on my left knuckle or my bent elbow.

And also? Totally good excuse to order pizza tonight.

can i ask you one thing?

The Kindergartener is really very bright. He's clever and smart. Just not always.

This morning, he spent a great deal of time just being surly and sort of unlikeable, really, and then wondering why no one would play with him. After about an hour of general grumping, he did...something. Honestly I can't remember what, but something earned him a five minute time out. The new time out spot in our new house is the fireplace hearth. He already knows it well. Very well.

A time out is only five minutes. But there's a catch. The five minutes cannot start until after the accused is quiet and calm. A simple concept, no? Well, today the Kindergartener extended his five minute time out by spending FORTY-FIVE minutes doing this:


"MOMMY, CAN I HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE? PUH-LEEAASE, JUST ONE."
"MOMMY, ONE MORE, JUST ONE MORE CHANCE? PUH-LEEASE, MAMA."
"OH, PLEEEASSE, MOMMY, CAN I HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE?"

*breathe*

"Mama, can I ask you something? Hey, Mama, can I just ask you one thing?"
"MAMA, CAN I ASK YOU ONE THING? PUH-LEEAASE, MAMA!"
"MOMMY! CAN I HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE? JUST ONE. MAMA, JUST. ONE. MORE. CHANCE."

*breathe*

"Mama, can I ask you one thing? Mama?"
"Mommy, one thing. I need to just ask one thing."
"MOMMY, I NEED TO ASK YOU ONE THING!"
"Oh, please. Mama, please."
"PLEASE, MAMA! CAN I HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE?"

Frick! I'm surprised my head didn't explode from the sheer effort of not responding. Not trying to explain the futility of his actions. Not explaining how extending his time in time out begging for One. More. Chance. was oxymoronic. Or something. So, instead I hid in the kitchen and made pancakes. Like, a lot of pancakes. Really. A lot.

Eventually, after a serious bit of breathing deeply, (I think I even heard, *deep breath* "Namaste") he was quiet. OhthankGod. So I started the time. And after five peaceful minutes, he got up and joined us for breakfast (pancakes).

but not about vaginas

Ohdeargod. I've just had a conversation with the Adolescent Boy about s-e-x. I did not, however, spell anything. Yay me! His class is doing the "Puberty Unit". I knew this, as he's mentioned it 47,000 times in the last three days. And each time he's mentioned it I've responded in my most casual nobigdeal, Icantotallyhandlethis tone. About ten times this week we've done this:

Me: Yeah? That's great. Really important stuff. Do you have any questions?
Adolescent Boy: No. I'm good.
Me: Alright.

Me: Are you sure?
Adolescent Boy: Yeah, I'm good.
Me: Alright.

Awesome parenting technique, right? Be stiff and uncomfortable and sort of hold your breath when you talk. That totally encourages open conversation, right?

So tonight, after the Kindergartener and the Girl went to bed and the Adolescent Boy was dragging his feet clearing the table, he told me that they watched the "Puberty Movie" in Social Studies today, and I just decided to go with my gut. Make myself say stuff. Say something different than "Do you have any questions?" Progress, right? So it went like this.

Me: So you guys watched the Puberty Movie?
Adolescent Boy: Uh huh.
Me: Uh huh. Was it good?
Adolescent Boy: Good?
Me: Well, was it weird?
Adolescent Boy: Well, it was very specific.
Me: Oh. Specific.

So then I decided that if I wanted him to talk about this, then perhaps, I should, I don't know, talk about it too. So I just grabbed the broom and swept the perfectly clean kitchen floor in order to keep it all unofficial and non-threatening, and I started blathering. I think I blacked out for a minute, so I'm not sure what, exactly, I said, but I went on for a couple of minutes and the end result was this,

Adolescent Boy: Well. I guess I have one question.
Me: Alright [whistling casually].
Adolescent Boy: How does it only let sperm out and not urine?

Me: Oh. Urine and semen, which is the fluid that sperm, uh, live in, come from different places in your body. Urine is produced by your kidneys, back here [showing general kidney area on my body, for reference] and stored in the bladder [again showing the general area of the bladder] and semen and sperm come from the testicles...[here, I realized (too late) that I couldn't show the general testicular area on my body, so I began flailing in his general direction], and so different parts of your body are involved, so when a man ejaculates [totally didn't snicker] only semen is released...from the vas deferens [have no idea how I remembered this, but think it would be a great band name, and oh, what do you know, but it is!].

And then I just shut up. I came out of my near fugue state and shut the hell up and swept the already super clean floor while he rearranged his perfectly arranged backpack.

Adolescent Boy: And condoms.
Me: Condoms?
Adolescent Boy: And it showed people having sex.
Me: [inaudibly, I hope] What?? [*gulp*]
Me: It did?
Adolescent Boy: Yeah, it showed these cartoon people having sex. With a condom.
Me: Condoms are really important, because they protect people from getting diseases that are transmitted through sex.
Adolescent Boy: And from getting pregnant!
Me: Yes. And from getting pregnant.

More sweeping and backpack arranging.

Adolescent Boy: And erections.
Me: Right, erections.

At this point we wandered into the living room where he sat while I folded laundry. And what transpired then...it was perfect and awful and funny and spectacular. We covered everything.

Me: AIDS is rampant in Africa, something like 25% of all Africans are HIV positive. We should go online and find some organization that's doing something about that and donate.
Adolescent Boy: Or just send them condoms.

Adolescent Boy: I used to think erections were really called boners.
Me: Yeah, that's just slang.

Adolescent Boy: People who have five kids, if they didn't have twins, would have to have had sex at least five times.
Me: That's true. Most married couples, and it's different for everyone, have sex pretty regularly, like a couple times a week. Sometimes less and sometimes more. But sex is an important part of a healthy relationship. It's important.
Adolescent Boy: Like Grandma and Papa even.
Me: Yeah.
Adolescent: So I guess parents must have to wait until, like way after the kids are asleep.
Me: Yeah.

Adolescent Boy: I didn't really realize where babies come from.
Me: You didn't? We've talked about it.
Adolescent Boy: But not about vaginas.
Me: That's true.

And then we sat together on the couch and talked about uteruses (uteri?), cervixes (cervixi?), dilation, contractions, and birth canals. I told him the story of his birth and the Girl's and the Kindergartener's.

Adolescent Boy: So I was the only one born perfect.
Me: What?
Adolescent Boy: Well, the Girl wasn't breathing and needed CPR and the Kindergartener had those breathing problems and the oxygen tubes. But I was perfect.
Me: You still are.

it was a pop-tart

This is the result of a run in with my toaster this morning. When I put the Pop-Tarts in the toaster, they were in one piece. But when the Pop-Tarts popped, only one corner of each pastry came out of the toaster, the rest sort of slumped over and crumpled up. So here's what I did:

First attempt

1. Reach fingers into toaster

2. Burn fingers

3. *$!##%$@!** frick!

Second attempt

1. Reach fork down into toaster

2. Scoop out one small crumble but push half of other Pop-Tart down further into toaster

3. Minor shock

4. Mother$!*&#r

Intermission: Burn tongue on hot Pop-Tart jelly *ssss*

Third attempt

1. Remember about electricity

2. Unplug toaster

3. Retrieve tweezers from bathroom

4. Tweeze up one half square centimeter of Pop-Tart

5. Lose tweezers in bottom of toaster

6. *sigh*

Fourth attempt

1. Pull crumb tray out from under toaster

2. Notice that there is still a barricade to interior of toaster

3. Damn GE engineers

Fifth attempt

1. Turn toaster upside down

2. Shake toaster over counter

3. Gather up four additional centimeters of Pop-Tart and the tweezers

4. Yay!

Sixth attempt

1. Turn toaster upside down again

2. Bang toaster on counter

3. Gather up additional bits of Pop-Tart, trying to determine which are current crumbs and which are older crumbs, based on interior jelly temperature

Seventh attempt

1. Look for screwdriver to take toaster apart to get last few Pop-Tart crumbs

2. Get a life

If I worked this hard at other things...well, who knows where I'd be. Is Pop-Tartaterian a thing? I could be one. Instead of a vegetarian I mean.

donny osmond...*swoon*

I was surfing through my FORTY or FIFTY channels last night, and ran across the Osmond Family Reunion concert on PBS. Yay me! Now, while I realize that I could have watched this before, when I got only TEN channels, I probably wouldn't have, because I wouldn't have been surfing through all FORTY or FIFTY channels. I have a thing for Donny Osmond. I had these exact dolls, with their tattered pink and purple taffeta.

So last night, when I found Donny, and all the other Osmonds, I just had to watch for the rest of the show a minute. I wanted to call and become a member of my PBS station, because Donny said so. And ohmygod, he might even answer the phone. I watched Donny singing and walking along the edge of the stage doing the touch the hands of the fans bit, and thought...oh, I could be one of those women. And honestly, I don't know if it was really oh! I could be one of the women! Me! or, oh...shit, I could be one of those women.

My Donny love is embarrassing, which probably means I'm unworthy of him. So I'm coming out, in hopes of being worthy. To start, here's something I don't think I've ever told anyone. I went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in Chicago on my honeymoon, and it was The. Best. Part. of the trip. Clearly I should've held out and married Donny.

So tonight, as I watched, I had to admit, that as much as I wanted to be A Little Bit Rock 'n' Roll and Get Up and Dance with him then, I still love him and his goofy rockin' out to Will it Go Round in Circles with his overwhite teeth and swoony voice.

I loved him in the 70s, I loved him in the 90s and I still love him now. (Is he married?) I'm officially adding Donny to my secret boyfriend list. What about you? Who's your secret Secret Boyfriend? Come out with me, it feels good.


Andohbytheway...I don't remember the Osmond who looks like a cross between Colonel Sanders and Kenny Rogers. No wonder he never had a doll in purple and pink taffeta made in his likeness. And Jimmy? He looks exactly the same. Weird, no?

and made mischief of one kind...and another

This hangs in the doorway to one of the Little People's rooms.

Can you guess which one?

The night Max wore his wolf suit

and made mischief of one kind and another

his mother called him "WILD THING!" and Max said "I'LL EAT YOU UP!"

anti-social with tendencies of idealism

I was in Target today, looking at blank books and journals, while the Little People picked up school supplies for their new schools. I kept picking up the blank books thinking about how I've never journaled and always admired those who do. I don't like my handwriting. At times it looks too big and swirly like a 7th grader, other times it looks just illegible and inconsistent. The inconsistency in my handwriting bothers me, I feel conspicuous when I write, like people will judge me based on my handwriting. Big and loopy=dumb. Big and scrawly=ego maniacal. Small and pointy=hostile. Small and exact=fastidiously accurate. Slanted to the left=anti-social.


I was editing a proposal at work this week, and was entirely too conscious of what my handwriting would reflect as a supervisor. I looked at one page of my editing and immediately thought of the scene in 16 Candles when Jake intercepts the "who would you do it with?" note. I was actually so displeased with my writing on one page, that I tossed the whole thing and edited it on the computer instead.

Later that day, as I handed in the ream of paperwork to the Girl and the Kindergartener's new after-school deal (37,000 forms to fill in with the same 16 pieces of information in about 2,000 different ways) I began to worry. Toward the end of this nightmare in triplicate, my handwriting was getting worse and worse, and I honestly sat there thinking that the school director would look at these forms, and shake his head in dismay at one more too-busy to care single mom. "Look how she just scrawled her daughter's name here...tsk, tsk, tsk."


At any rate, I began thinking about how people always say that journaling is so good for the soul, and how I will never be able to do it, because one can hardly delve into delve-worthy subjects if one is preoccupied thinking about whether or not it looks like she may as well be writing "Do you think Jeff Goldblum likes me?" or "Stu asked Stephanie to the homecoming dance!"


And then I realized that this is my space, and I like it because it doesn't matter if I cross my t's more to the left or more to the right, it doesn't matter if the lower portion of my y's are looped, or not-looped, it doesn't matter if my o's connect or not, because for whatever reason, my thoughts seem to connect here. In Times New Roman 10-point. (It's Times New Roman in the compose window, just not once I've hit that orange Publish button). And when I push that Publish button, that's like when other people close their journal and put their pen away. After dotting their i's too high.

clearly i don't understand the concept of wordless wednesday

Thank you to the kind person who offered to help move boxes before or after work. But...um...now that you've seen this, how happy are you that I said "No, thanks, you're nice to offer though"?











My very kind co-worker wrote me this email today:

I can help with your move on Friday or Saturday, all day or any time of day (either your previous home or your new home). My specialites:

1. Check off box numbers as the movers move them out or in.
2. Unpack boxes, especially kitchen stuff
3. Make beds, make sandwiches.
4. Take kids/dog to the beach for some fun.


Clearly, she is fabulous and wonderful, and has NO IDEA what I'm like when I'm not in the office. Numbered boxes...hahahahahahaha.






I'm sure I only have three children. Really. I'm sure. Only three. But I packed up the Little People's bathroom last night, and there were eleven toothbrushes currently in use. Is this indicative of a disorder of some kind? The Girl is the responsible party here.

And then, I found another four (!) toothbrushes in the bottom drawer

In the Girl's closet...I'm scared, are you scared? I'm scared.

And last...someone locked the downstairs bathroom door from the inside. I'm not going to name names but it rhymes with bindergartener.

Click here for some actually wordless Wordless Wednesday.

warning: emotional rant

I’m in the middle of moving (again). I found a house that’s only a few minutes from my office. The schools are better and kindergarten is full-day instead of half-day. It’s a bit closer to the beach and a much nicer house for the same price. That’s all good, what is not so good is that all three of my children had to start at new schools yesterday. A difficult proposition for anyone. But exponentially harder when one is in sixth grade. Or perhaps exponentially harder for a mom whose experience in middle school was what mine was (or what Aunt Vin’s was).

On our first day yesterday, I was taken aback by just how utterly discourteous the middle school secretary was. She was obtuse and insensitive and just really pretty awful to me and my boy. I had to interrupt her after a bit to ask her who she was, which she seemed put off by. We spent about 10 more minutes with her sighing every time I asked a question (When will he get his schedule? How will he find his classes?), and being plainly rude to the Adolescent Boy (asking him if he’d really signed the I’ve Read the Rules and Won’t Bring Weapons, Soda, Cell Phones, Skateboards or Drugs to School notice, because his handwriting was awfully neat for a boy, while she looked suspiciously at me). I finally stopped her and said, “What’s happening here? Can you imagine what it’s like to be a middle schooler starting a new school, with TWELVE HUNDRED students mid-year? We need to work this out so he has a good experience.” Well, at that point, she just started calling me ma’am and speaking directly the wall beside me.

When I picked him up, at the end of day, yesterday, he was patently stressed, utterly anxiety-ridden. I had to hold my breath while he decompressed. If I’d have crossed my eyes at him or moved my earlobes in an untoward way, he would have just disintegrated into a puddle at my feet. And I couldn’t blame him, because I was like that from the moment he left my sight that morning until he was back with me. So I waited for him to settle back into himself, but also feared that he never would settle all the way back in, because a day in a new middle school matters to the soul of a person. And this morning, I had to send him back into the jaws of the beast that is middle school (and, yes, I know I’m being melodramatic, and I don’t care, so let’s move on). He got out of the car, and I watched him pitch his shoulders back, hook his thumbs in the straps of his backpack, shake the hair out of his eyes and walk back into the fray.

He was never more than a nano-millimeter from my thoughts today. I was willing the other middle schoolers to talk to him, willing him to be able to find his way to his classes, praying and praying that he would find just one person in the twelve hundred to befriend him. And you know what? Thank you, Travis, who spoke to him for three minutes at lunch, it helped, it mattered, and it was important. Thank you, Mrs. Peterson who talked to him, made sure he knew where he was going and got him into a good lunchtime club for Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Why does it have to be this hard? Why can’t schools make this better, somehow? Throughout this process of registering three children for new schools, I interacted with probably fifty people, most of whom seemed to have NEVER done this before. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand why schools don't do more to help new students get in the groove. Now, I know that many of you blog-friends are teachers, and what I’m saying is likely as insensitive as Mrs. Horrible McRudely, school secretary, but please…help me understand.

And yes, I know, I’m being unreasonable. And unreasonably emotional. I understand that I am operating solely from my inner Worried Mom (or perhaps from my inner Wounded Sixth Grader), and not from Rational Adult Partner to School Personnel. I know this, and I DON’T CARE. YES, I want the teachers to baby my children. I want them to hold their hands, ask them if they are okay, to take them to their classes and YES, force some of the other students to be their very best friends. Is that so much to ask?

am i alone on this one?

Why am I the only one who sees that it's wrong for a girl to think that Diet Coke is the girl and Coke is the boy? This is all wrapped up with body image and self-image and unrealistic portrayals of women in the media. Come on people!

wrong in so many ways

I don't know if it's because the Little People were gone for two weeks and I'm so happy they're home that I'm hanging on their every word, or if they're just extra-interesting right now, but here's another exchange that caught my attention this morning.

In the car on the way to school, the Kindergartener saw a Coke truck and pointed it out with "a Coke truck! I love Coke..." *sigh*. The exchange that followed was wrong in so many ways.

The Kindergartener: A Coke truck! I love Coke....
The Girl [appropriately sing-song teasing voice]: Are you going to marry it?
The Kindergartener (I loved this): Yeah, I am. Can I?
The Girl: Then you're gaa-aayy because Coke is the boy and Diet Coke is the girl. So you're going to marry a boy.

Me: What??
The Girl: What what??

[Thinking about how best to tackle all of the problems in that one sentence.]

Me: Girl, it's not okay to make fun of someone for being gay.
The Kindergartener: I'm not gay!
Me: Right, you're not gay. And if you were, then it wouldn't be nice to make fun of you for it.
The Kindergartener: I'm not gay! What's gay?
Me: It's when a man loves another man and wants to date him or marry him. Or when a woman loves another woman and wants to date her or marry her. And that's fine.

[Much pondering]

Me: And, Girl, why is Diet Coke the girl and Coke the boy?
The Girl: Because girls drink Diet Coke and boys drink Coke.
Me: All the time?
The Girl: Yes.
Me: Why do you think that is?
The Girl: TV I guess.
Me: Well, yeah. Probably.

My solution: Turn off the iPod, turn on NPR.

what happens in vegas...often ends up on the internet

After fourteen days of holding it together pretty well, last night at 6:15, I was done for. I was, as you know, counting the minutes until I had the little people back within arm's reach, and Things got in the way of My Plan.

I pulled off the interstate in a place that I truly, completely dislike. Las Vegas. Blech. And then...I disintegrated. I sat in this parking lot, and just lost it. I cried. Like serious girl crying. Even though I knew that in a matter of a few hours I would be a mom again. But it just didn't matter. At that moment, at 6:15, when I found out they were still three hours out? I just lost it. So I put the seat back, put my feet up on the steering wheel, laid down and cried.

After about 15 useless minutes of this, I pulled out my handy, internet ready Moto Q qwerty keypad phone. And my blog friends pulled me out of my funk. I chuckled at Mrs. G and her snarky teenage self. I finished off Bad Mom's bad teacher limerick and snickered at Lisa's attempt at the pluralization of vulva. I was also pleased to find out that I wasn't the only one confused by the Bossy B in Canada. You helped, friends. Even though some (Smart Sister? Jen?) think we are imaginary friends or invisible friends or...um...stalkers. We know better, don't we?

At any rate, I remembered that if this most nerdy pursuit of blogging could make spending three hours, on three different occasions, at the Escondido DMV enjoyable, then certainly it could help with Las Vegas on a Friday night. And isn't that sort of sad? That it took me that long to realize that Las Vegas on a Friday night could be fun?

So, I pulled myself together, still pondering the plural of vulva (it is either vulvas or vulvae, by the way, but just FYI, don't Google it, it's far better to go straight to dictionary.com for the plural of that one, because the results when you Google "vulvas" are rather...indelicate). After several deep breaths, I looked in the rear view mirror to check the damage of the tear-fest and saw inspiration there. There, right behind my car was Dollar Tree. Beckoning me, like a burning bush. Or something. I think I heard choirs singing. Surely, my first ever foray into a dollar store would be blog-worthy.

Here's the thing about a dollar store that it took me a while to understand: everything is a dollar. A dollar! I know! That's what I said! But it's true. I asked. A lot. Ahem...sorry about that Lady Working at Dollar Tree.

Huh...Dollar Tree...who knew?

These fabulous flip-flops? A buck.

These bras? $1.

Victoria's Secret who?

For the post-crying hangover...guess how much?

A dollar.

The one buck bible, the Vegas version.

These eye-catching plates? Only. One. Dollar.

Tiniest bottle of laundry soap ever. (That's my key to show scale.)

$1. Seriously cute too.

A rubber duck for a buck? Anyone?

And finally...my favorite, these flip flops.

Uno dinero. Or whatever.

Toenail clippers...$1

Nail file...$1

Blue nail polish...$1

A pedicure in a parking lot...priceless.

by the numbers

After...
15 days
360 hours
21,600 minutes

And after today...
10 hours of driving.
640 miles.
3 hours of waiting.
3 truck stops.
4 gabillion kisses.
20 twizzlers.
4 bottles of Vitamin Water.
1 speeding ticket.

3 children in their beds.
1 content woman.

almost home

I remember now what Christmas felt like when I was little. Because tomorrow my babies come home, here, to me, where they belong. And I am aching with the anticipation of smelling their heads and hearing their little voices right next to my ear and holding their hands and telling them to wash their faces and wear clean socks. And yes, I know that they will be beside themselves to see me for a few minutes, and then, in the next few minutes, they might argue with me or with each other about something. And, of course, they will be tired and grumpy from two weeks away and unkempt from the car ride. And that is the beauty of Mama. They know they can be awful and grouchy and it just won't ever matter; I will always love to smell their heads. Even when their faces and socks are both dirty.

bossy's excellent road trip...a plea for inclusion

Dear Readers,

Some of you have secret boyfriends. Sinful interests in men other than your husbands. And not just one Other Man, but for some of you, many Other Men, for some you (Stephanie) whole bands even!

I've been pretty quiet up until now about my sinful sinning. Some of you may know that I do pant over Jeff Goldblum on occasion, but only a few of you know that I have another secret crush. A platonic girl crush, on Bossy. And Bossy is taking a road trip. And looking for places to stay. And so...please help me help Bossy see that She. Must. Come. To. San Diego. (specifically, my house).

Here's what I've got so far...it is up to you to help me perfect my appeal to Bossy....

Also...I've heard that there's a zoo and a some sort of cool aquarium deal and some beaches or something too. And while I realize that these will not be quite the draw that my couch and my vacuum and my panda bear and my dog and my hair will be, Bossy could maybe check them out while she's here. If she wants. Or we could just hang out. Whatever. I'm cool. But here's what I have...

I have plumped the pillows and checked under the cushions of this cozy couch for things that might disturb Bossy's sleep. Luckily, I didn't find anything that could disturb her sleep, but I did uncover a mummified Barbie doll (toilet paper and packing tape, that's what the Egyptians used, right?), an oldish banana, and my turkey baster (actually, I didn't even know I owned a turkey baster and apparently forgot that I keep it under the couch cushion). So, here is my cozy couch, which I think is just right for Bossy:

I have a dog, just like Bossy's, except maybe...uh...slightly smaller, like teacup size. Here she is sounding the call to other dogs, mounting her own campaign for Bossy's dog to accompany her on the Excellent Road Trip.

And here is my other couch, which is just right for Bossy's brontosaurus dog:

Activities on the agenda for Bossy's time here in San Diego (specifically, my house), include a demonstration of my Roomba, who I am determined to love, even though it doesn't actually pick up anything. I spent $199 on it, and it worked well once, and even though Roomba doesn't actually vacuum, per se, it does bop around the house rather joyfully and keeps the dogs and the Kindergartner entertained for minutes at a time. And Bossy? She hates her vacuum. So Bossy can enjoy Roomba with us while she is in San Diego (specifically, my house), and try it out and perhaps even consider replacing her sucky...er...non-sucky...vacuum with another non-sucky vacuum.


















I know, I know, how will I pay for all of this big fun? I have a plan and it starts with auctioning this beaded panda bear that I won in a recent contest (he is accompanied by Sid Hartha who is wearing a scarf, a la Bossy) to get gas money for this leg of Bossy's trip. Bidders?


















And finally, the coup de grace. This is my hair, which I vow to grow, in Bossy's honor, for 289 days, and then cut off (at least twelve inches), in Bossy's honor, for Locks of Love. If. Bossy adds San Diego (specifically, my house) to the road trip itinerary. (Okay, I'll do it anyway, even if Bossy doesn't make San Diego (specifically, my house) because I already told the Girl about it and she's totally in.)
















So mark your calendars, the Girl and I have appointments to chop our locks on Thursday, October 23rd, 2008, 289 days from today. (I went ahead and made an appointment for Bossy, same time/same place, just in case we become best friends and Bossy decides to move to San Diego (specifically, into my house) and live with us.)

So, Readers, what do you think? Is it compelling? Is there enough here to convince Bossy to come to San Diego (specifically, my house)?

Thanks,

katydidnot

PS-I have a roommate, but I checked with him and he's cool with having Bossy and her dog as houseguests forever a while. Here's a picture of him, hanging out. Here. In my house. Just so Bossy will know who he is if she sees him. Where he lives. Here. In my house.

devolving

Without the Kindergartener, the Girl and the Adolescent Boy, I have no inspiration. No muses. I got nothin'.

And I'm supposed to be blogging every day. But today, I just don't think I can.

I cannot blog, I cannot write. I am in need of a meme. Or an assignment. I have ideas. Some fairly well-formed. But nothing I can quite...um...whatever.

I thought that once I started writing this post, it would become something. Maybe some awful melancholy lament. Maybe some humorous representation of my longing for them. But it isn't turning into anything, is it?

I just can't make anything but choppy sentences.

Sentences like...I miss you. Come home. Right now. Seriously. I'm devolving.

Me mommy. You kids. *grunt*

ear flaps...in or out this season?

Have no fear...Adventure Dog is here!

He is so fast it is like he's *invisible*.

Perhaps you remember this post? The one in which my

charming, manly brother worried that Aunt Meanie and

I had turned his dog gay? Yes! You remember now.

Well...I'm delighted to inform you that Adventure Dog

and his Fearless Master are both still completely heterosexual

and still enjoy that uniquely heterosexual activity that is...

bird hunting!

Although, based on my brother's fashion choice it wooks wike

he and his twusted fwiend might just be hunting wascally

wabbits.

*Shhhh. Be vewy, vewy, quiet*

i win again

I totally screwed up! I was hatching this whole big plan to reward you, my faithful fans, my reader community. My counter (katyhits, down at the bottom) was close to 5000, so I started thinking that I could do this whole contest deal, where my 5000th visitor would win some bitchin' thing like this beaded panda bear thing I have or some old book I had laying around. The only snag was how to determine who was the 5000th visitor and how they'd prove it.

And then finally...just yesterday, as I sat in the one and only position that I can be in without crying (it's a version of Child's Pose from yoga but on my couch with my laptop in front of me) I figured out that you (my reader) could capture the image of your visitor number by saving the counter at the bottom as a .jpg that you could email to me. Brilliant!

So, right after I figured this out, I decided to test this theory where you could save your visitor number as a .jpg. And guess what? I win! I am my own 5000th visitor. Awesome. Seriously. I wanted to keep the beaded panda bear anyway.

it only hurts when i breathe

Warning, warning, warning

Bending quickly to wrap one's tresses up like so, may cause serious injury resulting in inability to move and severe crying.

Hi there. I have fallen and I can't get up (except of course to retrieve laptop, camera phone, book, ibuprofen and remote).

I stepped out of my shower this morning bright and early at 11:02, feeling completely ready to take on my Saturday. On the agenda for today...take down Christmas tree, drink coffee, get pedicure, go to store and buy fire logs, enjoy first fire of the year, read my book, make banana bread, write fantastic, shameless blog post to get Bossy to come to San Diego, and perhaps, if I were feeling really inspired, which I totally was, paint (it was going to be an interpretation of poppies).

But instead? I stepped out of my shower, swung my head down to wrap my locks as pictured above, and then... Something. Happened. My back? The end part of my spine? It...um...hurts. But really, it only hurts when I move. Or stand. Or sit. Or breathe. Or laugh. Crying is okay, that doesn't seem to make it hurt. Which is lucky, because there was some crying.

You know what else is lucky? I have two new movies to watch. Last night I rented The Bourne Ultimatum and The Good Shepard. I was feeling optimistic, obviously. So now, I am lucky that I can't actually, like, move or anything, so I can watch them both as many times as it takes to understand why the frick the entire US Government Top Secret People Agency...Must. Catch. Jason. Bourne.

Um...bytheway? Can you just bring me that blanket and walk my dogs for me? Thanks, you're the best.

the grocery store as a good time

My sisters and I whisper and laugh just a little bit about my mom and how she grocery shops. (Yes, you do, I’m not the only one). It takes...um...about six months for her to make one trip through the store. And when she's done? Her total is usually only about $34. Invariably, she buys a quarter pound of sliced turkey, one loaf of Oatnut bread, a half gallon of skim milk, a tomato, two baking potatoes, Mint Minanos, an Entenmann's cheese danish, a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and an avocado (if she's feeling particularly plucky). And this takes her approximately an hour and ten minutes. If there are no lines.

While my mom shops, my dad sits in his truck, in the parking lot, with the heat pumping out at 90 degrees and Rush Limbaugh on his xm Radio at 17,000,000,000 decibels. Neither my mom nor my dad seem to be aware of the passing of time when they are at the grocery store.

Recently, City Market in the town where she lives, underwent a major expansion. Huge. It was already about 25,000 square feet. Now it's more like 25 acres. There were a couple of times, during the remodel, that we feared we'd lost her for good. But sure enough, after about four hours she wandered out clutching her two small grocery bags. But seeming slightly dazed.

When I go to the grocery store, I become an automaton. I am a machine. Produce, cereal, bottled water, vitamin water, snack aisle, milk, cheese, yogurt, bread, DONE. Fork over $200 and my canvas shopping bags and I’m out the door in less than 18 minutes.

Last Friday, I went to the grocery store. The Little People were in Colorado, and it was my first day of blissful bachelorhood. I didn’t have to hurry to pick them up from school, hurry back to the office, hurry to relieve the babysitter, or worst of all, hurry them through the store with me.

And guess what? I became my mom. I may well have spent two or three hours in Von’s last Friday. I wandered the aisles in no particular order, retracing my steps a dozen times, as if I’d lost something. I spent time just gazing into my cart admiring the look of a grocery cart filled with only grown up foods. Grocery store as a good time…who knew? Besides my mom, I mean.

unquestionably, unequivocally, achingly missing

The bottom step, the time-out step? It is unoccupied. My kitchen table? Unoccupied. Three of my four bedrooms? They are unoccupied. The yard, the garage, the living room floor where we play games? Unoccupied, unoccupied, unoccupied. My heart? Also unoccupied. My time? Mostly unoccupied. My brain? Preoccupied. With the space around me that is normally filled with my children.

The Kindergartener, the Girl and the Adolescent Boy are in Colorado with their Grandma and Papa (and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends). They are there, with all the people who love them best of all. Except for me. And I miss them. Achingly. It's been six years days without them. Nine and a half centuries days to go.

228 hours. 13,680 kid-free minutes to go. Not that I'm counting. The longest I've ever been away from them before? Three days. And now? Tonight? I miss them. Achingly.

There are no LEGOs on the floor to step on and curse about. There are no dollies sitting at the kitchen table or tucked in for naps on the couch. There are no boys banging in and out of the front door looking for food. The dogs and I are pacing. Walking from room to room, wondering where everyone is.

And tonight? When I called, after I'd talked to them, I swallowed the lump in my throat and asked my mom how they all were. "Really, Mom, how are they? Do they miss me? Are they okay?" And you know what? She actually laughed at me. She said, "oh yeah, Kate, they're heartsick, you better come get them". And then I heard the Kindergartener's fantastic whoop of delight and the Girl's machine gun laughter in the background. They are where they are loved best of all.

And me? I guess, all of that stuff I'm always on about? About how I dig my space and time for myself and how I'm totally okay on my own. That is, apparently, just a lot of bullshit.

i'll buy the popcorn at least

Truth be told, I'm one of those people that should only watch easy-to-follow, not brainy movies, like romantic comedies or kids' movies, when I'm alone. Because anything else? I get totally lost. I have no friggin' idea what's happening. I would love to have someone explain it to me as we go along, but I don't want to be one of those people. One of those people who you hear stage whispering to her friend...

Me: Hey...who is that guy?

You (*You* get to play my friend in this little skit): It's his boss, you know...from before.

Me: Oh. Right. His real boss? Or the one pretending to be his boss?

You: His real boss. The other one got blown up with that runaway bus.

Me: Right...by the Russians...

You: No, the Argentinian guy.

Me: Argentinian?

So I kind of need someone to go with me to explain it all to me at the end of the movie. And that conversation? After several, probably exasperating minutes of explanation, it would end with...

Me: Ooooh. Okay. I get it. Wait...who was the guy with the mullet then?

I wish I could say this was only true with movies like The Bourne Postulation... Ultimatum... Imposition..., that I'm sure, absolutely no one, including Tom Clancy Robert Ludlum (frick! it was wrong when Bossy was here), understands. But sadly, this is not the case. You correctly assume that this has also occurred in movies as simple as The Italian Job. Though, to be fair, this almost certainly can be blamed on me focusing on Marky Mark and His Funky Stuff rather than the plotline.

Today, I went to see National Treasure: Book of Secrets. I kept up pretty well until about two-thirds through. Then, I noticed that I had no idea what the connection was between the opening scene/premise of the movie (Abraham Lincoln's assassination) and the treasure that Nicholas Cage and that yummy guy with the blue eyes were hunting: the City of Gold. I knew only that the discovery of the City of Gold was critically important to Ed Harris's character because...um...something. Anyway. I was sure that somehow, the fact that Ed Harris's character's last name was Wilkinson and that Lincoln was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth would definitely come into play to tie everything together at the end. Apparently no. It meant nothing. What-evah.

And now? I'm watching the end of Mr. Brooks with Kevin Costner and that one guy I always confuse with James Gandolfini. And actually? I'm not even sure if James Gandolfini is his real name or his character's name in The Sopranos (if, in fact, James Gandolfini is the guy from The Sopranos). And the only thing I know for sure? About this movie, Mr. Brooks? Is that Kevin Costner's character's name is Mr. Brooks. Alvin Brooks, I think. In fact, as far as plot line goes? I'm not even sure this is the same movie that I was watching an hour ago. Totally. Lost.

So...if any of you have seen Mr. Brooks? Will you please try to explain it to me? But, also, understand that the conversation will probably end with me saying...

"Wait...who was the guy with the mullet then?"

Now...do any of you want to go to the movies with me? I'll buy the popcorn at least.

be it resolved

My New Year's Resolutions (I like to keep it real, yo)


1. I will train my dogs to do fantastic tricks and be obidient family members train my dogs to be well-mannered train Daisy not to chew up my clogs buy more clogs.

2. I will prepare a weekly, creative menu of vegan delights for my family each weekend prepare or order in a healthy, vegetarian dinner several nights each week get the little people to try eggplant and tofu buy some eggplant-colored clogs.


3. I will become organized in my personal business, including balancing my checking account each month, setting up automatic bill-pay and researching my 401 (k) investments stay on top of my personal financial matters pick up my mail often enough that the mail carrier does not have to keep sending it back to the post office as unclaimed mail every three weeks.



4. I will painstakingly research all viable presidential candidates and their positions on salient topics seek unbiased commentary on the leading presidential candidates try not to vote for Ralph Nader again.

5. I will maintain a personal schedule of 8 hours of sleep each night with consitent bedtime and waking patterns get an average of 7 hours of sleep each night go to sleep before 1am on weeknights and take longer naps on Sunday.

6. I will follow the manufacturer's suggested maintenance schedule for my vehicle, including oil changes, tire rotations, tune ups and other basic repairs and maintenance get the oil changed in my vehicle more often than every time I have to have it repaired from an accident try to remain insurable and maintain my vehicle well enough to keep it within 50% of Kelley Blue Book value.

7. I will write at least one well thought out, curturally meaningful post each day that is both engaging and jocular post something either funny or somewhat interesting every day use more actual curse words (less frick, more f*ck) and Less. Over. Punctuation. and strikeouts (obviously starting tomorrow) in this blog.

What are your resolutions? First draft and final draft.