i haven't experienced ebola, necrotizing facsiitis or like, oprah's book club

I've never been one to get all freaked out about potential epidemics. 

I never got mad cow disease.  I'm pretty sure I didn't get SARS or what's the one with the mice?  Hunta virus.  (Smart Sister just fainted.) 

I haven't experienced Ebola, necrotizing facsiitis or like, Oprah's Book Club.   But Swine Flu?  I has it.  (Smart Sister just fainted again.) (Both from the potential exposure to Swine Flu from reading this post and by my use of lol-esque I has it.)  (Not really.)  (Yes, she did).

There is a school next door to my house that has been closed due to an outbreak of Swine Flu. (We're waiting while Smart Sister dips her laptop in Purell).  And when I say next door to my house, I mean somewhere in the general vicinity of Southern California-ish.  (Poor Smart Sister.)

So the Little People and I are pretty sure we have it.  And what I mean by pretty sure we have it is that I'm pretty sure I could get away with calling in sick tomorrow and Friday and going to Joshua Tree for a long weekend. 

And then we're thinking of exploring the recent E.Coli Scare because Yosemite.

and you took my silk scarf and dug my lip gloss out of my purse

It was summer. You were two months old. While your mom worked, you and I spent our days together. You cried. I cried a little bit too. I set you in the swing, wound it up and sang you songs. I sang the songs that I heard Mama sing to you. And some Duran Duran. You fell asleep in the swing, and I lay on the floor under it so I could keep pushing it after the winding ran out.

It was dark. You were two years old. While your dad cleaned the kitchen after dinner, you climbed onto my lap, and we read Pat the Bunny. Judy could pat the bunny. And so could you. You turned yourself around and looked back at me and around your pacifier, you said, bunny. And then I said what does the bunny say? And you scrunched up your nose and squinted your eyes. And you? Looked just like a bunny.

It was winter. You were seven, nearly eight. You climbed into my car with your sleeping bag and your backpack, and you went to college with me for the weekend. We ate Cookie Crisp cereal for breakfast and didn't tell your mom. I put your hair in French-braids on the first night, and you left them in all weekend and looked frizzy and unkempt when we went ice-skating on Sunday.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon. You were twelve. We were in the school auditorium in rehearsal. I arrived after work, and you took my silk scarf and dug my lip gloss out of my purse. I sat in the second row with my script and yelled at you to enunciate. You rolled your eyes and smeared your lip gloss and said I AM.

It was midday. You were nineteen. You tracked snow in through my front door, and then you spent the day in my kitchen and made homemade soap for your mom and two chocolate cream pies for your dad. You gave me some of the soap and kept me company and made me smile while the world fell in around me.

It is April 28th.  You are twenty-three.  You own a house and a wedding dress and a dog.  I love you.  I love to sing you songs.  And pat bunnies with you.  I love eating Cookie Crisp cereal with you and sharing my scarves and my lip gloss with you.  And I love making chocolate cream pies and soap with you. 

Happy birthday, Pierced Niece.  Jessica Rose is biting her toes. 

because hello? for reals?

The Girl?  She is a total suck up. 

I have no idea what she wants, but I'll probably give it to her.  Because hello?  For reals?  Her mommy is the best katydid mommy in the whoel katydid world.

And she really says it like that.  Who-el. Two syllables.

The whoel world.

and you will explain to her about jumping rope and huck finn. and she? will freak the fuck out.

I have always been one of those moms who opts her kids out of standardized testing.  Ever since I learned that all standardized test are optional, I've been opting them out. 

When you opt your child out, the school principal will call you.  She will start saying things about how your third grader needs the practice for the SAT and the MCAT and the LSAT and the GRE.  And then you will say things about third grade and jumping rope and reading Huckleberry Finn.  And then she will say things about assessing your child's strengths and challenges and individual teaching plans.  And then you will just keep saying I want to opt her out, I want to opt her out.  Opt out.  Please, we're opting.  Out.  

And you will start to feel a little bit desperate, because, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it's easier to quit the gym than to opt your child out of standardized testing. 

But you will hold firm and opt your child out.  And your child?  Will melt the fuck down. 

And you will explain to her about jumping rope and Huck Finn.  And she?  Will freak the fuck out.

And you will explain about the third grade and the tests being optional.  And she?  Will fall down and die.

After telling you that Huck Finn's mother would let him take the tests.  And you will start yelling about how Huck Finn didn't have a mother!  And she will start yelling about how she wishes she was an orphan toooooo!  Waaaahhh!

So you'll give in.   You will let her take the god damn tests.  And then the night before the tests begin?  She will flip the fuck out. 

She will yell about how she has to have blueberries!  And bananas!  And how she needs to eat a healthy breakfast like OATMEAL!  NOT! COLD! CEREAL!  And how she needs at least ten hours of sleep!  So would everyone please BE QUIETER!  And how she needs gum!  But not THAT KIND!  It has to be PEPPERMINT!  Because PEPPERMINT(!) helps make Japanese factory workers smarter!

And then you will drive her to the principal's house and drop her off with her sleeping bag, a bag of god damn blueberries and nasty note written on the back of the school flyer which gives parents and students helpful tips for testing week. 

but we had heart shaped waffles

[Via Yahoo IM]

pierced niece: hi

me: hu

me: ho

me: hi

me: sorry

me: oy

pierced niece: haha

pierced niece: did you have programs at your wedding

me: no

me: we didn't really have anything

me: but we had some heart shaped waffles

[Later…]

pierced niece: hi

me: effective whole-family centered rehabilitation programs. In fact

me: gah, sorry wrong window

pierced niece: i had a dream i was being beat up by two girls and you were just standing there watching

me: i would kick their asses

me: i'm sorry my dream self is such slacker chicken

[Later still…]

pierced niece: what did you give up for lent

me: internet

pierced niece: whoah

me: no

me: i'm surprised i wasn't struck by lightening for saying that

pierced niece: me too

keep believing

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

~ Alfred Tennyson

Keep Believing, Angie.

Which was less than ideal, given my state of coffeelessness

 

At 6:30 this morning, I spilled a giant box of Nerds on my kitchen floor.  And while, given my love of nerdy men, this sounds like it could be a euphemism for something interesting?  It was not.  It was just a million tiny little round candies spilled on a tile floor.

 

   

I tried vacuuming them up.  But my vacuum?  Just rocketed them around the room, ricocheting them off the refrigerator and dishwasher and patio door at warp speed, cracking windows and knocking over vases filled with daisies.  Okay, so actually, it was me that knocked over the daisies with the vacuum cord.  But whatev.  Nerds, everywhere.  And again, not in a good way. 

 

Then?  I tried sweeping them up.  Which was less than ideal, given my state of coffeelessness.  Because here's the thing about Nerds.  They are tiny, hard, round things which, when you sweep them around your kitchen floor, just roll to the other side of the room, which, if you haven't had coffee, you don't realize.  You just keep walking around the perimeter of the kitchen sweeping Nerds toward the center of the room, and it's not until you've circumnavigated the kitchen several times that you think didn't I already sweep over here?  I really need a maid. 

do you see...why i needed...a new camera?

I was all set to post a post about my first perfect ponytail day of the new year, but then I was all are you kidding me? 

Because   hello? 

Do you see    why I needed a new camera? 

This one  seems to have   a First Grader stuck in the view finder. 

Do you see?    Do you? 

And then my head exploded.  The end.

just like, totally, hats for your eggs!

I had to buy four, yes, four Easter egg coloring kits.  The First Grader  poked out the little circles on the back of the first one to make the little egg tray?  And the directions were printed on the back, which now had twelve egg holes in it, but nothing except sad white hard boiled eggs to put in it.  (Okay, actually, I did that).  And it wasn't a regular egg dye kit where you just throw together water and vinegar and hope for the best.  It was all oily.  And marble-y.  And glitter-y.  So I needed the directions. 

The second one, fortunately, although also now egg-holed was just the vinegar and water kind.  And I?  Only had balsamic vinegar.  So the Girl was all whatever, it's fine, we can just use balsamic.  And the First Grader was all it's all brownish, boohoo.    And I was all frick!  (Because that was me too.  Not the Girl). 

So then I went back to the store and got a totally awesome kit that came with all these little felt egg hats.  I know, right?  Like little berets and beanies and cowboy hats.  But for eggs!  Awesome, no?  And also another of the oily, marble-y, glittery kind. 

And then?  I got all of this ready and my kids were like, meh, eggs, who cares.  They plopped the eggs in the cups for like four seconds each, dried them off and then they were like there's nothing to doooo, we're booored.  And I?  Was like you have hats!  Just like, totally, hats for your eggs!  Do you know how many kids in this world don't even have any eggs?  Let alone HATS for their eggs? 

And they were like meh, egg hats, who cares?

And I?  Was like are you kidding me?  It's like the Village People, BUT EGGS! 

Young Man, there's a place you can go, I said young man, la la la la la laaaa...

new info is in on george

You remember George? 

And you remember my crazy Russian neighbor?

New info is in on George.  Apparently George?  Who was, like, represented as unemployed, mid-40s and living with his mother?  You remember my son, George, he ees beink seengle like you,  no?  My George, he ees physics, maybe you vill be meeting my George?

Well, George?  Is not so much unemployed as employed in Moscow as Director of International Business Relations at a major Russian magazine catering to the richest echelon of Moscow's elite.  How this ees physics I don't know.  And he's not so much mid-40s living with his mother as he is well-established older gentleman who splits his time between Moscow and California and supports his aging (if crazy) mother. 

[nothing. because hello, has he met me?]

The Adolescent Boy:  I'm having an allergy attack.

Me: You should take a Benedryl.

The Adolescent Boy: Where is it?

Me: In the spice drawer.

The Adolescent Boy:  The spice drawer?

Me: Yeah, the drawer in which we keep the spices.  Cinnamon.  Nutmeg.  Thyme.

The Adolescent Boy:  Yeah, that's just kind of a weird place to keep the Benedryl.

Me:  [Nothing.  Because hello, has he met me?]

*To each other*

The Girl: It would be more weird if she said the Benedryl was in the medicine cabinet.  Because it's Mommy.

The Adolescent Boy:  And less weird if she's said it's in the file cabinet where we keep the Halloween costumes. 

 

Me: I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW. 

Smart asses. 

to which they might've been all come back lunchtime, four dollar.

My usual coffee place was inexplicably closed this morning.   So I went to another coffee place which is in the corner of this old house that was probably inhabited by sixteen surfers and their bongs in the 70s.  And the porch where you go to get the coffee is all sort of buckle-y and sway-y. 

I got my coffee, turned to go pay, tripped on a buckled plank and spilled the coffee.  All of it.  They gave me a new coffee.  I turned to go pay, and a guy in a crisp white shirt and paisley tie came around the corner yelling into his cell phone about how the TronTek is a better deal than the BioTron (which, incidentally, I think is probably more about HeMan action figures than, like, biotech sales) ran right into me.  And my new coffee.  And then yelled at me.  I might've been all fuck off.  I might've also told him how to get to Macy's to buy a new stupid shirt when he was all coffee stains, big meeting, blah blah blah. 

They gave me another new coffee.  Which I actually got to the cash register intact.  Where I handed over my Visa.  To which they were all credit card machine broken, cash only.  To which I might've been all fuck me.  To which they might've been all come back lunchtime, four dollar.  To which the guy in the coffee shirt might've been all OKAY, SO WEAR RAINCOATS IF YOU'RE COMING BACK FOR LUNCH to everyone getting coffee.  To which I might've been all bite me.

Also?  The coffee people didn't really have an accent, I just thought it made the story better.

good salami. but still. salami. and 63 eggs.

Guess what happened after I took this photo of the broken eggs I dropped in the parking lot at Vons, because I have no idea why I thought I might need a photo of broken eggs.  Shut up.  Guess what happened right after this photo?

I dropped and broke my camera. 

My brand new $350 Nikon lover.  Dead.  And you know what I'm most bothered by?  I'm bothered by the fact that broken eggs are the last picture it took.  Broken eggs that I thought I might be able to work into a post but really had no idea how.  I just thought, heh, I broke a few eggs at Vons.  Must! Take! Photo! 

And I didn't even break all the eggs.  And that?  Oh suck.  That's so lame. 

Also?  It's not even like I needed the eggs.  I already had like four 18-packs in the fridge.  And basically nothing else.  I had 63 eggs and, like, old cake, havarti, gouda and salami.  Good salami.  But still.  Salami.  And 63 eggs. 

I don't know why I always think I'm almost out of eggs.  I've never run out of eggs in my whole life.  Right now, there are three 18-packs of eggs in my fridge.  And I'm out of bread and milk.  And lightbulbs.  And, like, spoons.  And ground coffee.  I have a 10 pound bag of whole coffee beans in my freezer.  But I don't own a coffee grinder.  And I never have.  But I have coffee beans.  And probably 54 eggs.  And a broken camera.