auld lang syne

So, 2008 was the weirdest year of my life.

You may have gathered that from the more-than-occasional obscenely outlandish posting I've done. I'm pretty good at hiding things when I'm face-to-face with real live people, but it leaks out when I write. But don't worry, you haven't seen it all yet. I like to keep the really bizarre and personal stuff locked inside my head where it is safe and repressed and ready to spring when you least expect it.

That's how I keep you reading, just in case today is the day that happens.
I'm relatively confident today isn't the day.

Things are settling down in my life and I'm finally pretty much convinced that the world isn't going to end and Jake and I (and Dave too, but I wasn't much worried about him but maybe I should have been since he's my babydaddy and all) are relatively safe from firey auto crashes and tornadic disasters when we leave the house and I'm at a point that even if I get stuck in a whirling inferno, I know there isn't much I can do about it anyway so I may as well just have fun while I'm waiting for it to strike me down. Not that it will, but just in case it does we are all going to be okay. Or dead. Or maimed. Or just slightly bruised. But that's okay because it is perfectly normal to be dead or maimed or bruised. Unfortunate, but normal.

See that? I've just saved you from years of therapy.
Whatever has happened has happened, what ever is happening is happening, whatever will happen will happen and life goes on regardless of what has happened and is happening and will happen so just sit back and let the world turn.
Done.
You are certifiably sane.

I'm not sad to see this year go, but I wish I could keep Jake at exactly this age for just a little bit longer. Not much longer, but maybe until mid-summer. He will be three in three months, and three means we have to start thinking about what school to send him to and what to do about our housing situation and what kind of people he will be exposed to and how he will act when he makes that big step out into the world. Last year at this time I couldn't wait to start planning for his education. This year it makes me want to cry.

Proofreading that paragraph makes me feel like a snob. Who the hell has to decide where their kid will go to school? Aren't you just supposed to register your brat with the school district and dump him on a big yellow bus when the time comes? Not here, unfortunately. Here we have public schools and private schools and parochial schools and charter schools and magnet schools and Quaker schools and Montessori schools and academy schools and co-op schools and learning center schools and home schools and community schools and and and. We have so many schools that no one in their right mind knows what schools are in their neighborhood or even where the schools are. Schools hide in the craziest of places in this town. Find me any sort of available space between 3k and 10k sq ft and I'll show you the next location for some sort of squishy mishy warm warm alternaschool. They are in basements and churches and behind store fronts and in the back corners of rec centers. It's weird. It's creepy. It's just the way things are. What ever happened to the good old fashioned brick building with the bell and the flag?

I haven't talked about my health here lately. I'm pretty healthy. Healthier than I was in the beginning of the year. Mentally and physically and emotionally and spiritually and socially and workily. I'm going for cancer screenings every six months now (which beats every three months) and the last time there was a scare it turned out to be nothing. Or as close to nothing as you can get without truly being able to breath. I go back in a week or so for another check.
If I can get through 2009 without having any chunks removed from my body I will consider it a wild success.
My face is still intact thanks to the Great Face-Off of 2007 and I've given up going to the rheumatologist. I refuse to take the medication because of the terrible side effects, and since my blood counts have come back relatively stable for the past two years I'll just go the next time something big happens. My fingers are getting noticeably twisty, but they aren't grotesque. Medicine won't stop that from happening anyway.
I've also dumped my orthopaedist. I'll just go back if I ever need physical therapy again. And if I ever get my ginormous rear end to the gym on a regular basis I'll probably feel twenty times better. Or if I can ever find a Wii Fit. Do you think that Blue Cross will let me write it off on my insurance, or they will special order one for me? I only think it is fair since I'm saving them tens of thousands of dollars by giving up my specialists.

Jake has been as healthy as any little boy could ever be, or I've been such a terrible mother that I haven't noticed if he is unwell. He is happy and normal and as well-adjusted as one could be if I made them. His personality never changes, he is like a Golden Retriever. He definitely has his moments where he is just a total and complete little a-hole, but those times are fleeting, and he usually gets over it pretty quickly.
He loves me more than anything in the whole world and that's a damn good feeling. I love him so much that it breaks me and that's a damn good feeling too. Sometimes I look at him and I choke because I think he is so beautiful. I love the top of his head and the spot right behind and below his ears and the nape of his neck where the hair grows in ten different directions. I love his big eyes that are browner and wetter and wider than a cow's. I hope he never needs glasses.
I don't like his hair when it is combed and his nose is a little wonky, but maybe that will change.
It creeps me out that his little body is so well-formed and almost sexy because it is so lean and muscular.
It disturbs me that I can't keep my hands away from his butt. Why are parents so much into the butt play? Don't say you aren't. I've seen you with your kid(s).
I'm a little glad he is knock-kneed a little bit, just like I am. I hope he isn't self-conscious about it a little bit, just like I am.

I have some pretty lofty goals for myself in 2009. I'm a good bit into starting a non-profit, which I won't bore you with here. For now. I'll wait until I open a bank account and I can hit you up for donations. I'll be sure to get the right paperwork in so you can write them off on your taxes because I'll be darned if I donate somewhere if I don't get something in return so I'll extend the courtesy. I already have a rough draft of the Mission Statement* and the Bylaws and the Articles of Incorporation and an Employer Identification Number and a website that is being tweaked as I type and a group of people who are ready, willing, and able to get out and do some good in the world and not get paid for it. It's exciting. If there is one thing I like in this life is to rally the troops and get something done, and now it will be official.

I would also like to get fit again. Me and everyone else, right? I've reached an age where I can't shove junk into my face and not expect it to land softly and quietly and permanently somewhere south of my neck. Work has been nutsy lately and I haven't had a chance to sneak over to the gym at lunchtime for a few months. Forget going after work, because I have to get Jake right away. The weather has been gross so there is no running amok around the neighborhood to tire out me and the boy. And junk food is delicious! Who knew? I'm officially addicted to things that are really not good for a human body. It has to stop. I feel like I want today and tomorrow to be an all out eatfest but that is just uncivilized. So tomorrow. Tomorrow will be an all out eatfest and then I'll be good again on Thursday. But probably not, because I have a four-day weekend in front of me and I don't want to go at it all slovenly. So next Monday. This weekend will be an eatfest, but not an all out eatfest and then Monday I'm tightening the reins and getting my shiz together.

I also want to be a bit more disciplined about housework. I rearranged my bedroom yesterday and there was literally an inch of cat hair and dust behind my tall dresser. When I blew my nose after a good sneeze there was mud in the tissue. That is unacceptable. I wish I was a better OCD person. I've got the O part down, but I'm way to lazy to get the C part right. As soon as I'm done with this post I'm going to devise myself a job chart and pick up some shiny star stickers at the drugstore. I've been making Jake do a few chores here and there (easy stuff, come on now, I'm not that mean) so maybe he'll get a job chart too. I'm not sure if they will be translatable to blogger, but I'll see what I can do to get them up here, for my other OCD friends who are more successful with their C's and don't have time to make a chart but could really use one.

And I'm dedicating the 120 minutes between 8pm and 10 every Thursday to reading something pleasurable. I am just starting another one of my fuzzy wuzzy touchy kissy classes (on Emotional Health and Development this time) and I have a dozen books I'll have to read for that, and I'm up to my neck with picture books, and my Google Reader is only as full as you are busy, and the real news scares me so I'm sticking my nose back in books this year. It's been a long time.

While I'm promising things that may or may not happen, I'll say I'm going to cook more too. I'm really quite good at it, I just hate to do it. Maybe if I start using my kitchen I'll learn to love it.

And I'm giving another shot at meeting my goal for 2008 again. I did pretty well about not buying a bunch of stuff and using what I have and getting rid of what I don't need. Maybe I can do really well this year. After I buy new boots. Mine are officially broken and smelly. I'm not stockpiling anymore, and if you know me in real life you know that was a terrible problem that I had and I'm happy to say that I am free from the bondage which had controlled me longer than I can remember. I am a bit panicked right now because there are only about 4 or 5 rolls of toilet paper in my house, but I used to panic if there were only 20. Seriously. It was keeping me down. I have so much extra space in my linen closet that I plan to magically transform those shelves into a little greenhouse area. Now that Bailey is seemingly gone for good, I can have plants again. She was good for mass amounts of cuddles and eating plants and that is about it. There is a huge window in that closet and it hasn't been used in years because it was covered by all the paper products and toiletries that I was hoarding.

Well, I don't want to promise anything more because this is getting awfully long, and that job chart is hanging over my head. Pressure, pressure, pressure.

Happy New Year everybody. I hope the next is better than the last, no matter how good things have been for you.

and finally, that Mission Statement:
*Wednesday Spaghetti was formed to increase public awareness of the need for families, caregivers, and peer groups to spend quality time together in an in-home, casual dining setting in order to discuss general life issues, household guidelines and practices, personal habits, issues, and goals, educational habits, issues, and goals, employment habits, issues and goals, family habits, issues, and goals, physical health-related issues, emotional health-related issues, spiritual issues, relationship issues, community events and resources, and other such topics; to support and conduct nonpartisan research, educational and informational activities to increase public awareness of the importance of togetherness, communication, and good nutrition; to provide simple to make, nutritious meals to any family or group in the community, regardless of race, color, creed, religious beliefs, ethnicity, economic status, or location at no cost to the family or group.

always greener

I went to college about 40 minutes outside of Philadelphia, in West Chester, PA. I grew up across the state from West Chester, in Erie. When I chose West Chester U, I knew that I was uprooting myself from everything and everyone that I knew. I was starting over, as much as any eighteen year old could start over. I guess it's more accurate to say I was starting.

When I visit Erie, I get a little nostalgic. I miss my friends, I miss the way we were when our biggest problem was our parents. I miss the lake. I miss the food. I miss my pets, my grandfathers, my $5.25 an hour job scooping ice cream at the mall and volunteering at the nature center on Saturday mornings.

When I visit West Chester, I miss me.

When I was in college, I was fun. And one of the smart kids. And excited about the future. Now I'm tired, and surrounded by people who are smarter than I. And resigning myself that I guess my future can be exciting, but it takes work. And I'm tired.

When I was in college, I met my husband. We were next door neighbors in the dorm. We started dating a few weeks into our first semester during freshman year and we were so in love and so happy that the rest of the world didn't matter and we couldn't screw up because there was nothing to screw up. We were always Dave&Lora, no matter where we went. We had the same major, the same friends, the same dorm (then the same apartment), the same life. Now I feel lucky if we can both stay awake and see each other for a half hour after Jake goes to bed and the dishes are(n't) done.

When I was in college, I knew that I had grad school ahead of me and that would buy me some time before I had to start a career. Now I have two degrees. And a job. And a house. And a car. And a cat. And a child. And I don't have any idea how I can buy myself a government-subsidized two-year buffer between this and the next step. I don't even know what the next step is. A new house? A dog? Middle age crisis? Retirement? Marital bliss? Strife? Menopause? My next steps have somehow been morphed into waiting for Jake's next step. I'm not sure I get to use my own staircase for quite some time. I guess I'm okay with that. I guess.

When I visit West Chester, I am reminded of all the possibilities that were laid before me. Possibilities that I never even thought possible. We could have moved back to my hometown instead of moving to Dave's. We could have relocated to the other side of the country, to a different country. We could have skipped grad and Law school and stayed out in the burbs and bought a split-level with a two-car garage and got jobs with the county or the school district and started a family like normal people instead of having a near-decade long party in the city, carousing and carrying on like a couple of crazy people. Our Saturdays could have been spent doing yard work before juggling soccer games and ballet classes and eating something vanilla instead of getting cranky and exhausted from traipsing all over the city looking for something spicy and new and exotic to try. I'm 32 years old and I've never mowed (mown?) a lawn (yard?). I've never cut the grass. We could have skipped school and traveled abroad and gotten worldy and obnoxious before settling on a place to call home. We could have split up and spent the rest of our lives wondering if that was the right choice rather than getting married and having everyone else wonder if that was the right choice. We could have done a million things, but we didn't even consider one of them. When I can't sleep at night I wonder if I would be able to rest if things were different. If things were different I would probably stay up thinking things would be better if they were as they actually are.

Does anyone ever win?

A few hours spent in West Chester reminds me that I haven't changed much over the past adfla;dfhtteen years since my freshman year. I've grown up, I guess. And out and down, unfortunately. My hair is different. Thankfully. I shower more often. I wear less eyeliner and more moisturizer. I don't wear sweatpants in public. I pay more than $5 to drink for eight hours straight. I'm afraid what might happen if I were to put in a full shift of drinking. Especially if it only cost $5. I have a lot of the same friends, and my newer friends share the same qualities as I cherish in my old friends. I still like to laugh, to talk, and to hang out. Now I get a chance to do it with a two-year old who thinks I'm wildly hilarious way more than I do it with people my own age who are preoccupied with their lives to pay attention to my jokes. I still want the same things out of life. I want to be happy and healthy and optimistic and surrounded by people and places and things that make me happy and healthy and optimistic.

And I am. Relatively speaking. Everything I need is in a 500 mile radius or a mouseclick away from where I stand.

Sometimes those 500 miles and clicks are short, and sometimes they are long, but they always hold everything I need.

next comes the stalking of little nell...

It's over.

Is everyone okay?

We spent Christmas Eve with Dave's parents in Jersey, eating way too much ham and potatoes and broccoli and my should-be-famous crab pasta that will make you strong if it doesn't kill you first. Jake enjoyed opening presents and called shenanigans on me when I said we had to go so we would get home before Santa got there. When I finally got him in the car I told him to look up in the sky to see if he could spot the sleigh, because by my watch, Santa should be somewhere close by. "no", Jake said. "he's prolly still at home doing paperwork".

What? Who says that?

Oh, right.

My kid.

Sometimes he says stuff that is so far off the wall that I wonder for his normalcy and hope that he got it off the television. I know he watches some different things at daycare than he watches at home, and I'm totally out of the loop about new Christmas specials and now that every Tom, Dick, and Diego has a Holiday Spectacular, I can't keep them all straight. Maybe Santa does paperwork in Mexico. Or where ever it is that Diego runs around, unattended by grownups and accompanied by carnivorous cats and Spanglish-speaking geographically-inappropriate creatures.

Anyway, Jake wasn't so much into looking for Santa with me, but I got so into it that when I saw a plane come through the clouds somewhere over Gloucester, I almost lost it. For about three seconds I really, truly thought that I saw him. It's funny what being a parent does to your rational thinking. My heart stopped and my breath caught in my throat and my guts dropped and I got so excited all I could do was point. By the time my finger hit the glass I realized what was going on and just laughed.

Santa is fun, isn't he?

Jake was so tired when we got home he hardly cared about leaving cookies and carrots and an apple and milk for the crew. He fell right asleep and even slept in a little Christmas morning. I was up at 5.30 like a ten year old.

Because I'm so mean, I put Jake's socks, underwear, undershirts, two books, and an Eagles sweatshirt on top of the big box because I know how neurotic he is about doing things in order from top to bottom. He was a pretty good sport about it until he got to the undershirts, when he said "i don't even know what this is" and tossed them aside. He was excited about the Polar Express book, and wanted to read it immediately before opening Where the Wild Things Are and his Geotrax, but we didn't let him. Christmas is no time for literacy. He was pretty excited about the Geotrax, and didn't really have much to do with Dave and I for the better part of the rest of the day.

Note to parents everywhere: The Geotrax set is practically life-size. It takes up just about all of Jake's room, and that is with all his furniture pressed into one corner to make room for it. Here it is in my living room. Also, isn't it disappointing when your kid isn't wearing cute pajamas on Christmas? Somehow your kid pooping in his pants on Christmas Eve because he is too busy with his new Hess Truck and then him falling asleep wearing whatever old jams your motherinlaw has lying around her house isn't one of the dancing sugar plum visions.


It turned out to be a really nice, quiet day yesterday. Jake was a little confused because I think he thought that Santa would be there in the morning to give him his presents. When he woke up he asked to go see Santa, and all day he kept telling people that Santa didn't come.

That's sad, but I think he'll get over it. Next year he will really get it. Or not. Whatever.

I'm back at work today, and it isn't as quiet as I hoped it would be. My colleagues are out but both units on either side of our little area are jam packed and everyone is talking about what they got for Christmas.
Seriously?
We are adults.
These people have lists as long as their arms about what they got.

Dave and I exchanged a little bit. He got two work shirts and four ties, a bag of undershirts and two packs of socks. I got a giant Monty Python box set and I bought myself a bag of underwear and a pack of socks.

Maybe we are doing it wrong. These girls next to me have new (non-engagement of course, because why buy the cow?) diamond rings and one girl got a new car. The other has on a new jacket and boots "that only cost $500". What?!?! I know she is only making $22K, and her boyfriend works at Pep Boys. What the hell is going on over there? People are funny.

I want $500 boots.

Dear Santa,
Next year I would like $500 boots. And I would also the peace of mind that the money couldn't have gone to something better. Like Sallie Mae, or the mortgage. Or a new furnace, or Jake's college fund. Or AmEx or maybe a new kitchen counter with a sink that doesn't leak. Screw the boots, just pay off my bills and give me the $500.
Love, Lora
PS- Thanks for the underwear. I think it is really cute that you picked it out all by yourself, and you know how much I like bagged underwear.
PPS- Now that I have new ones, I was going through my underwear drawer to clean out anything that I wouldn't want to be wearing during a car crash and I was wondering if it is weird to not want to throw away underwear because I have some really good memories re: a few pairs. Is it? Weird, I mean?
Thanks, Lora

Okay. Onward. Now to the New Year and to devise a plan about how to get Jake to behave now that Santa has been and gone. I'm considering telling him that Martin Luther King, Jr. is watching, so he better be good for goodness' sake.

When I was growing up, Christmas blew. My brother and I were carted all over town to see a million different relatives that seemed to belong to everyone but us. Step-parents and their parents and their kids and their sisters and their neighbor's cousin's dog's breeder's mothers. Times two because both my mom and dad remarried.

I hated it. Brian hated it.
We hated it.

There were years that we didn't make it to either sets of our own grandparents' because our parents were too busy trying to make their new(ish) spouses happy. Do you know how that feels? I hope not. Because it makes you feel very tiny and unimportant.

Now that I'm grown up and making the rules I don't go anywhere I don't want to go on Christmas Day. Before Jake was born, Dave and I went downtown for Chinese and a movie. Now that Jake is here, we call up Jade Garden and order in about $100 worth of chowgeneralhunanfoogoodness and park ourselves in the living room all day.

Our friends sometimes drop by to get a break from the Christmas Day madness. Sometimes they eat. Sometimes they fall asleep.

Behind my bewreathed front door you will always find peace and solitude and friendship on Christmas Day. No one is fighting for space in the kitchen. There is never a line for the bathroom. No one is getting their cheeks pinched by a weird aunt or trying to keep their cleavage out the creepy uncle's line of sight. No one is on the verge of puking as a result of keeping their questionable habits a secret from grandma. No one is pretending to be nice. No one is pressured to be good. No one is pretending like they didn't make out with their cousin before they knew they were cousins because their moms weren't talking for 15 years and how the hell were they supposed to know that they were actually related plus it doesn't count because they were drunk and it is dark at 3am so they didn't notice they had the same nose. (what?) There are no screaming children. No screaming sisters. No fine china. No dry turkey.

Just.

Quiet.

And a double order of Singapore Noodles. With curry, of course.

You are welcome to stop by. You don't even have to talk. You can knock on the door and walk right up the stairs and crash on my bed and cry if you need to.

Please stay out of my underwear drawer.

Merry Christmas everybody. I hope that your day is peaceful and full of all that is good in the world.

As always, when I put something up here that may hit a nerve with one or more of you, I'm tempted to take it down, or make it nicer, or throw a joke in there, or do something that makes my words a bit less harsh.

But like always, I won't.

Now that I'm less roiled up and have some actual food in my belly and not just a pot and a half of coffee sloshing around in there and I am looking down the barrel of two days off in the middle of the week I'll just say that no, it's not okay to push your beliefs- and I didn't necessarily mean religious beliefs- I mean your beliefs about any assemblage of people or way of doing things or color of skin or amount of dollars in a wallet or direction of eye slantation or political affiliation or anything. It's just not okay to push your ways on my child. It's not even my job to push my ways on my child.

It is your job to show my child that no matter what you believe or what you look like or what you earn or how you speak you can be a good and kind and productive person. That's why I picked you to spend time with him. It is my job to make sure that he sees our differences and respects them and grows up to be a man who is knowledgeable and capable and willing to make his own well-thought decisions about things.

Of course I want him to live as I live. All parents do. If your child lives like you that gives you some sort of validation that you aren't such a shitty person after all because someone is following in your footsteps. Who doesn't want that?

Well, me.

It would be nice if he grew up to be just like me.

Then maybe I wouldn't think I was such a shitty person after all because he would think it was awesome to be just like me and I love love love when people are just like me because I tend to get along better with myself. I mean them. I mean us. I don't know what I mean.

Maybe you can help me out here.

Gently.

Gently.

Keep your private stock out of it.

Good.

Thank you for helping me realize that I just want my boy to grow up to be a good man, no matter if he is like me or like you or like neither of us.

Now get off your internet and have the merriest damn Christmas ever.

fifty million elvis fans

(An open letter)
(aka, I'm mad and politely passive aggressive)
(and don't make me get aggressive)
(because I will)
(but I'll be nice)
(because it's Christmas)
(An open letter):

Dave and I are making an effort to raise a very open-minded, tolerant, accepting child. We feel that living in Philadelphia gives us the opportunity to expose our son to many different cultures and faiths and ethnicities and the customs and practices that go along with them. It is easy to take him to different street fairs and festivals and parades and neighborhoods and allow him to taste different foods and play with children who look nothing like him. We allow him to build relationships with people who are completely different than we are so he can see what an amazing, beautiful, diverse, painful, gorgeous place the world is.

Sounds terrible, no?

Apparently a few people think it is.

It started before Jake was even born. At family dinners, at parties, at baby showers, at bridal showers, in my blog comments, in my email box, in my mailbox. I felt more at liberty to be a bit more vocal about what Dave and I were deciding for our child because I was pregnant and angry and no one faults a preggo for being angry and outspoken. People bit their tongues for a couple years because there was nothing really to say. We didn't baptize our child Catholic (or anything) because we aren't Catholic and I think it is in the utmost disrespect to make a promise to God you do not intend to keep, even if the priest was willing to take a few extra dollars to overlook the fact that we don't tithe and we didn't get married in the Catholic church. If Jake wants to be baptized later he can damn well do it on his own time. I'll be there for him. I'm not putting on a show in front of family and friends for one day when I don't intend on making good on what I was supposed to be symbolizing. I hold a firm belief that God loves everyone, whether they have been dipped or not. Instead of a baptismal party, we held a kegger three months after Jake was born to introduce him to our loved ones.

And it was good.

And the problem didn't end there although I whole heartedly wished and hoped (and prayed) that it would.

Why can't we show a child that there are ways to do things that are good for the proverbial goose but not necessarily for the whole damned gander? Why are people so sure of their beliefs that they are willing to impose them on people, on spongey little absorbant babies, as truths? I believe that there is still a world outside my window, that my sweet boychild is safe and sound about two miles down the street, that the spigot will flow when I turn the handle, and a tossed rock will make its way back to earth, but I'm not making any guarantees. I've seen some weird wild stuff in my days so who knows what will happen next. Not you, that's for sure. Or you. Or you. So keep your damned mouth shut or I'll shut it for you while you are in front of my child. We have chosen you to play a part in his life because we feel that he will benefit from your company. Don't spoil that for yourself. Don't spoil that for my son.

All I'm trying to do is raise a non-douchey, un-bigoted, moral, kind, gentle, virtuous, generous human being in the best way I see fit. I want him to know there are several very viable options for living and if he chooses one that I have not, I want to know that it is not out of spite or malice, but out of exposure and education. If you have a problem with that, I say find some other brat to hang out with. Leave mine alone.

Thank you for listening. This is as close to a post on religion as you'll ever find here, I promise. I don't ask you about yours, you don't ask me about mine, and we all feel secure in our faith and beliefs. Right? Right.

Do you hear what I hear? That tiny little clicking noise in the background? That's the sound of the unsubscribe button on feed readers all over the country.

Whatevs. I feel better.

And btw, I didn't make or buy that shirt, but it's wildly hilarious. It's from Dave's (gay!!) uncle.

I have this theory that all traffic should stop in Downtown Philadelphia when the temperature dips below 30.

Hear me out on this one.

I know that many of you, well, most of you because most of you are either Canadian or Snowbelters. Or from Texas, but you would die here too so you are on my side. I know that many of you are suffering temps much colder than we are here but in my defense, you have cars. And garages. And parking lots. The only people who get a reprive from my rant are those of you in NYC and Chicago. And maybe the one or two of you in Toronto. The rest of you can warm up your car before you get in it and park within a reasonable distance of your office. Here your car is typically about a half mile from where you are. A half mile is a long way to walk when it is freezing outside.

And for those of us that don't have a car, it's a long walk to the subway or the bus, and a long wait for it to finally show up. Have you ever walked six blocks just to feel the breeze of a bus that runs every 20 minutes blow by you? And then had the next bus show up 10 minutes late? No? I thought so.

Have you ever had to wait at the longest red light in the world only to have a bunch of jerkoff left turners barrel through the intersection after your light turns green and theirs has turned red? I have.

I had a few errands to run this morning for work, and walked a total of about a mile and a half. I can cover that in about 25 minutes at a fair clip. I have a wintercoat that can be more accurately called a hooded sleeping bag and a giant scarf that doubles as a blanket. I have on two pairs of pants and three shirts. Shearling boots. But no gloves. Pockets weren't doing so well because I had things to carry. My trip was practically doubled by waiting for traffic. And this time of year we get a bunch of jerky douches who are in town to see the Nutcracker and stop at Tiffany and drink $14 martinis for lunch. A bunch of jerky douches who don't know how to drive in the city and think that they have every right of way because they have a car that costs more than my annual household income pulls in.

Grr. Elitists. I'm so much better than them.

I've been missing for so long that I haven't written about the party, or Jake's sickness, or anything else. I could write it all and bore you to death or I could just let it go. I'll save us all some much needed holiday time and say that the party went well. The best part about parties at my house is watching people catch up after not seeing each other since our last party. Our friends have become friends with each other and I swear no one comes to see us anymore, they just stop by to see who else has stopped by.

Jake got sick and I stayed home with him. It was good the first day, because we just laid around together and he told me he loved me and thank you for holding him all day long. When I was little and sick I would be so upset if no one would hold me, and couldn't fathom what my parents had to do that was more important than making me feel better so I made sure to hold Jake all day while the chores piled up around us. It helps that the boy is hardly ever sick. I think I may have stayed home with him 4 or 5 days total in his whole life, and that includes his surgery and recovery.

Then I got sick and took some Pediacare because it was all I had because I am hardly ever sick either. It didn't work but it's okay because Jake was at the grandparents so I could sleep the day away.

Then Dave got sick and just coughed and sneezed for 12 hours.

Now we are all better and ready for Santa.

Oh, wait. I promised to let you know about my outfit for my Christmas party on Friday. Because, if nothing else, this blog is dedicated to fashion. I thought it would be cute and styley to wear one of those trendy little sweater dresses, because nothing says 'adorable" like adding a half-inch of cableknit bulk around each inch of your ever expanding hips, thighs, waist, and bust. To counteract the woolen pudge, I figured I should probably wear my AbovetheWaist-to-AlmostKnee Spanx. Which have the crotch removed for easy bathroom access. Am I the only one who's mother taught them to cut the crotches out of their pantyhose? If so, I highly recommend it. It will save you hours of yanking and tugging and hundreds of drunkpee induced runners from all the drunkyanking and inebriatedtugging. Just remember to sit like a lady. And don't expect to get laid if anyone sees you without your skirt on. It doesn't look cute to have your business bulging out of your nylons. But on the upside, just incase you do get laid, you don't get swampcrotch like you would if you left the crotch in.

Yeah...

Anyway. I hope the boys all got bored with this post and gave up at the word dress. Because they really don't need to know this stuff.

So since it's winter I had to wear tights (crotch intact) over the Spanx. I bought some Jessica Simpson tights at Macys, and opted for the M/L size because despite my near-normal appearance, my legs make up about 75% of my height. I figured the S/M size would put my crotch around mid-thigh. Not cute. Instead, I had a horrible case of the slouches all around the tops of my knee-high boots. I looked like I had elephant knees. Emphasized by the fact that my Spanx kept rolling up at the bottoms and cutting into the soft part (read:all) of my thigh and eating the tights so I had a crease in what was supposed to be a nice svelt line.

So, fatty fat dress, not one, but TWO slippy slidey waistbands, rolly polly muffintopped thighs, and saggy baggy knees. It's a good thing that my boobs looked ginormous and my makeup was fabulous and my hair turned out nice and the bartender was heavyhanded or else I would have been a little self conscious.

If you are on my email list, you know I'm not sending cards this year. I've gotten a handful, but it just seems that it is falling out of vogue. It's sad. But it's green! But I miss it. But it's easier! I used to send out at least one hundred cards, and received about the same. This year I think there are ten over there. I'd get up and check, but then I'd have to get up and check.

In leiu of cards, I've been making an attempt to reach people over email, and I exchanged a few emails with an old friend recently. I knew Marleah when I was in the 8th grade and she in the 7th. Her mom was my English teacher for a semester when my regular teacher was out for knee surgery. Or something. Probably rehab. Who knows. Anyway. Marleah always came into our 5th period English class to say hi to her mom and see if she couldn't bum a couple more dollars off her. I was jealous. I wanted my mom to be close and I wanted a couple more dollars too. A few years later, we ended up working together at the Baskin Robbins at the mall. We rocked. Any time someone ordered a milkshake, we would make a giant one because the rule was that we could drink the leftovers. Mr. T. never said what constituted a leftover, so we were always kinda heavy-handed with the milk and doubled up on the shake part too.

I haven't seen Marleah since probably 1995. Holy crap. I'm getting old. I found out she was reading this blog via another McDowell kid's blog. Small world. I always think that no one I know reads this, but that isn't true. She asked for my address and said she had something to send me. I figured it was a New Baby announcement, or maybe a change-of-address postcard, or maybe she found an old pic of us dressed in our pink and blues at the old job. I never imagined it would be this:

Lora,
I have been meaning to send you a note and the holidays seem like a perfect time to do it. I just want you to know that I love your blog and have enjoyed reading every day for months now. You have the best sense of humor and are truly such a talented writer. Checking Jakezilla is my favorite break at work!

Mike and I don't have kids, and part of the reason is I'm so afraid of all these crazy, nutso, over-the-top moms that seem to completely lose themselves to being a mom. I love how you show all the time that it is still possible to be you- to love your kid to pieces but still remember that it's fun to get away, and take stock of which beauty products you used that morning, and go to a bar, and hang out with your husband and take pictures with your cat. Your recent post about making the decision to have Jake was so helpful to me too. I don't know what we'll decide, but I owe you thanks for helping me think in a new way and see that to be a mom doesn't mean I would have to give up being myself.

A blog is a cool way to connect with people you know, people you once knew, people you don't know, and the people that don't know those people. You really make an impact on all of us when you post. I always feel a little guilty that I get so much from reading about your experiences and do nothing in return. I hope a salted caramel hot chocolate will suffice. Thank you for always making my day!
-Marleah

I know I've said it a million times, but the nicest thing you can say to me is that I'm funny. The second nicest thing you can say is that the things I write have somehow made you feel like a normal person or made you realize that life is what you make of it and you don't have to fit some sort of silly mold.

There is such a lack of honesty when it comes to womanhood, and I thought that even if 90% of people think I'm a horrid person and an unfit mother there might be 10% who need to hear that they aren't alone when they want to put their kids in a ditch and run away from it all. Or feel that it is important to keep some part of themselves intact rather than sacrifice it all to be SuperMommy. Or pretend from time to time that they are 22 years old and the world is simpler than it really is. There is such a pressure to be the best housekeeper, the best cook, the best soccer mom, the best PTA parent, the best dressed, the best, the best, the best that a girl could seriously drive herself nuts trying to be half as good at everything as she aspires to be. And if you think about it, 10% of everyone is a whole hell of a lot of people. I needed that 10% to be there for me too so I knew I wasn't alone in all this madness.

So thank you, Marleah, and everyone else who has told me over the past few years, that something I've said has really hit home. I'm trying, and it means the world to me when I hear that I'm doing a good job and I feel so much better to know that I'm not the only one who is certifiably insane.

What?

Normal people don't read this blog. Only awesome people. And awesome is rarely normal and usually insane. Think about it.

The party went off without a hitch. I'm still sorta hazy, and my head is still pounding, but it was a lot of fun. The worst thing that happened is that some little kid I don't know stepped on a cactus in the pelican room, but that's nothing. My aunt got the spine out and the kid got an extra piece of cake. Remember, the standard I set for party tragedy is based on the time someone busted through my front door swinging a two-by-four full of 6 inch nails in one hand and a baby in the other. And that was just the beginning. Child impalement is nothing.

Good times.

Jake took this picture of me this morning. I like it. Sure I'm trying not to puke and my head is splitting, but I'm talking to my best friend from high school and we were in deep convo over something silly and I look content because I was so happy we were together. And content she was the one puking all morning and not me. I'm not a big fan of the barfing. Oh, and the fuzziness gives me a youthful appearance.


Jake also took this picture, which more accurately captures the results of drinking a bottle of whiskey. I'm posting it so I remember why one shouldn't drink a bottle of whiskey. Public humiliation works wonders.


I'll get a better weekend recap post up tomorrow, I promise.

In a mad dash to get it in on time, I slapped together a post over at Philly Moms. As always, stop over and leave lots of comments so all my new friends think I'm well-loved.

This recession isn't all bad, just mostly bad.

making memories

I took Jake to see Santa and the light show at Macy's* Saturday morning. Macy's on a weekend is absolutely nothing like Macy's on a weekday. Lots of white people on a Saturday.

Lots.

And white people love them some healthy snack foods. Lots of lilychildren in plaid and velvet and cableknit and fairisle eating pretzels and apples and drinking water out of Siggs. Oh, and the pitterpatter of tiny little Uggs and shearling Crocs.

It was weird.

One lady told her kid that he can't have a granola bar like Jake was having because "they are nothing but sugar and are really just glorified candy bars".

Wow.

And I thought I was overly retentive about the snacking. No wonder the world at large has a general distaste for the whites. If I wasn't so damned well adjusted, I'd be stabbing myself in the mirror on a regular basis.

Anyway, the lightshow was much better than it has been in the past, and Julie Andrews narrated the stories. Jake thought it was awesome. I thought it was awesome that Jake thought it was awesome and then I got a little teared up because I was smack in the middle of holiday memory making and I felt like a total ass and then I looked around and saw that most of the moms were actually crying and even some of the dads. Buncha pussies.

Did you know I like to channel Julie Andrews in the privacy of my own home? Ask me to do it for you. I'm really good at oldentimeytheatersinging. If I were born 40 years earlier I would've given the world the gift of my voice, but I was born in the 70's so it turns out that I just sound like old people did when they were young. And I have horrible stage performance anxiety. I wish they had a little blue pill for that.

We went upstairs to the Dickens Village, which is scary what with all the ghosts and creepy herky jerky moving mannequins and the seasonally employed Dickens Villagers who speak in terrible dramaclub brogues. "Ga'day! 'ahpey Critmahs!" to which every damned person in line wanted to reply "shoove eet oopyer arse!" and Jake said "no, no, watch my mouth. it's merry chrisssmas".

Brat.

Jake wanted to see Santa, and they have a great system there. Instead of one Santa in the middle of the place like at the malls, you wait in line and then you are taken back to see one of many Santas. They are in little booths that are super cute, and the Santas are always beautiful. I think I explained that right. Sadly, the only other way I can come up with to tell you how it is set up is like a peep show. You are in your own private room and you get about ten minutes but there aren't any slots to put quarters in.

And the floor isn't sticky.

The Santa was so nice, and told Jake that he had been waiting for him. He told Jake that he has been good (Jake said, "yeah, i been real real very very good!") and that he is so special and he loves him and since he is so good and special, he will get presents this year. Jake told him he wants Geotrax (we've done a pretty good job at telling Jake that he really wants Geotrax this year). Santa asked him if he wants anything else. "nofank you".
S: Do you want any trains
J: nofanks, i have trains. i have two thomases
S: How about some trucks
J: nofanks, i have plenty
S: Do you need any cars
J: i have tons and tons. i need geotrax. thanks. bye.

And then we tried to get a picture, which worked. Marginally.

Santa told me I was a lucky mommy to have a little boy who only wanted one thing.
Santa doesn't know I'm mean and I tell my kid that you only get one big present because I don't want a spoiled little asshole on my hands five years from now because he didn't get a million things and doesn't understand that Santa runs under the same economy that we all do and times might not be so good down the road here.

You would think the preChristmas memories would stop here, but no. I took Jake out for a sandwich and hot chocolate at the Cosi on 12th and Walnut where I like to hangout on weekends when I dump the boy on Dave. Jake thought he was a man, with his hot (read: warmish) beverage and the NYTimes in front of him. He took sips and sighed, and every time I tried to talk to him he said that he needs quiet because he "hasta read".

That kid's a riot.

*that's not from this year, this year the Magic Christmas tree is back. But I like that you can see the pipe organ pipes**.

**"pipe organ" sounds like a euphemism.

My tree is up, my hair is short and red, my grocery shopping is all done for next week's big party, my Christmas shopping is done, my Christmas shipping is planned, I've adequately bathed myself in self-tanner so I don't look like a candycane, I found a great wintery coffee, my bills are paid, I have an eight year plan for my student loans and credit cards, I'm not tired, I don't have a headache, my best friend in the whole world is going to be at my house in one week's time, Dave seems to like me alright, and Jake is good most of the time.

Last night I was lying on the couch pretending to watch Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay after I had spent a few great 55 degree hours with the boy at the park and the pizza place and around the house and as I laid there I spent some time taking stock in what I have. Not what I don't have. I didn't give one thought to what I don't have because that is just stuff that I want and not stuff that I need. I sat and thought about what I actually have under my roof and in my brain and at my desk and in the car. I have a lot. For the first time in a long time, I was completely happy about the way things are and I closed my eyes and thought about Christmas and how I'm almost over the fact that I hated it for so long and I can look forward to five or six years of really good Santa and Magic ones instead of rehashing crappy Christmaspast moments over and over for no reason but to make myself scroogey. Things are good. And I smiled. And I probably looked retarded, lying there with my eyes closed and my mouth smiley but I was happy. Dammit.

And then my neck got a crick and I got off the couch and went to bed and had terrible nightmares about Jake running into traffic on 10th and Passyunk while I tried to give directions to an out-of-towner and another one about a man who stole little boys and gave them a really good Ricky Schroeder in Silver Spoons life for about a year and then sent them out into the woods to go see a cool fort but really the man had a cannibal feral son out there and the cannibal feral son would hunt the boys and rip them up limb to limb and hang their parts in a tree and eat them when they dried out and became jerky. And then I woke up and went to work and I'm still trying to get over seeing a tiny arm hanging in a tree with a freckle right in the middle of it just like the one Jake has.

Aren't you glad you come here?

You know those Bud Light Drinkability ads?

Yeah, so does Jake.

Last night we were driving down 76 and Jake says "oh hey guys! drinkablity!"

me: "What?"
Jake: "watch my mouth (as if it were a big new word to me). der-ink-ah-bill-it-tea. drinkability! right there! on that beer!"

And here I was worried about letting him watch children's programming for fear that there may be a toy commercial and he would want that toy and then he would whine and I'd have to be mean because there is no way in hell he is getting the Diego adventure train when I have a three-foot long GeoTrash box waiting in the cellar for Christmas morning.

Speaking of toys, Diane took about a dozen unwrapped toys out of my basement to give to the poor kids she works with. Jake was okay with the idea that we were giving a giant pile of toys to give to Diane to give to Santa to give to little boys that needed toys. When he went to bed that night he told me he was happy because he was helping, which is good, because I was afraid to mention it again. As long as he is bringing it up and he is happy, I'm happy.

We are such good people.

and the winner is...

Congratulations to Luisa!
To choose a winner, I listed everyone's name on random.org in the order they entered. Then I randomized it.
Then I listed the number of entries (1-12) and randomized it. The number 4 came out on top, and Luisa was number 4 on the list.

See?

So much easier than drawing names and no trees are killed in the process.

And I couldn't find a hat I wanted to cram my hand into.

Lucky for me, I have some things to send over to Luisa and the box isn't taped up yet so I can slip her prize right inside. I'll let you know as soon as she gets it what she's won. I have to ship overseas, so I should probably look into the rules about doing so. I'm thinking non-breakable, non-perishable, downhomeAmeridelphia goodness. We'll see what I can come up with!

Right now my head just keeps picturing that farmer and his wife with the pitchfork and the pointed roof. I'm quite sure she wants none of that Depressioneraesque nonsense over there in Belfast. I'll go have a gallon of coffee and the ideas will start to flow, I'm sure.

I have three dollars and some change on my Starbucks card I won over at Cheese Party. Now I'm regretting the fact that I bought a spinach feta wrap with it yesterday and bought a Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate for a friend the other day on the card's dime. Solid food is over rated, and so is sharing. If not for all that I would have enough for three grande something or others instead of just one. And seeing as how I've been up since 2.30am for no apparent reason, it's going to be a three grande day. Or a two venti. We'll see.

Sometimes when I'm wide awake in the middle of the night I just lie there and think about ridiculous things like clothes and bills and health and hair and the state of our nation but last night I got up and went through some old things. I dug out my yearbooks, but didn't look through them. I'll save that for another day.
I found the photo book the orthodontist gave me when I had my braces off. A before (hideous mangle) and after (amazingly perfect) layout that took five years in the making.
I dug out a (Trapper Keeper kitten) folder of things I had written in high school when I took two or three Independent Studies in Creative Writing. Teen angst is so embarrassing. Maybe I'll get over it and post some of it here. I have this overwhelming urge just to burn it all but then I'd probably be mad in forty years when I have nothing to do on a Tuesday afternoon. It's so humiliating to remember being so angry/sad/confused/hopeful/naive/young. Mortifying to have it all on paper. And then to top it off, in a momentary teenaged lapse of all that is sensical, I thought I'd write down what all of those poems were actually about. Ohgod! I really didn't need to relive that at all. Especially at 3am. That paper is getting destroyed. It will be therapeutic, I'm sure.

I don't know what my damn problem is. Written documentation of human emotion is what will get me in the end. I don't want to feel anything because- holy crap what if I get hurt somehow?- but I can't stop writing about the things that I feel. And writing about feelings proves I have feelings and if I have feelings I might not make it through the day without choking so I better write everything down so those feelings don't get all pent up inside and explode all over the place. Trust me when I tell you, that is a messy, messy cleanup job. You do not want to be part of that janitorial team. How is a girl to live in this cyclical vortex?

Does Google have a font that I can use when I type the word feeling? Something that starts out navy blue and razor sharp on the "f" and fades to a fuzzy robin's egg by the time you get to the second "e" and warms to a glowy marabou pink for the rest of the "e" all the way through the "i" and maybe I can make the "n" bright red and the "g" will be on fire.

Huge

inferno

glorious

shooting

flames

orange

burning

heat

10000

sulfuric

matchheads

Or something like that? I don't know, I think it would be nice of them to do that for me. Lucida Grand sounds dramatic but it's not at all.

Also, I found two mixtapes that my grandfather made for me. If anyone knows of a place I can have these switched from cassette to CD I'll be forever in your debt. I know his voice is on at least one of them, he left me a message something about always taking time to enjoy the music no matter what I'm doing in life. There is also a circa 1979 recording of me talking to him about some sort of preschooler gibberish. I'd really like to have these forever. It is so sad when someone's voice isn't in the world anymore. We always have pictures and memories and things (and ghosts) but we don't always have a voice. If I wasn't such an effing whackjob who cringes at the site of a microphone or videocamera, I'd make a tape of myself tonight. But to work up the kinda nerve it takes to do that I'd probably need about eight glasses of whiskey and that isn't really the kind of tape I want floating around postmortem.

contest results

...will be drawn randomly out of some sort of small contained area tonight and posted tomorrow morning. Then I will buy the prize on Thursday morning and send it out Thursday noon. I would do it tomorrow but I am broke as a joke and can't afford it until payday so there is still time. Plus, I really want to buy a double prize because that is the way I shop this time of year. If you get one, I should get one too. Oh, and the prize will depend on the winner. Personal prizes are way better than generic prizes any day of the week.

So go ahead and get your thirteenth hour entry in tonight.

piecey at best

Soup weather is finally here! I'm enjoying a tub of Maryland Crab Chowder as I type. It's most decadent and delicious. I like my soup with lots of saltines.

Lots.

Like one sleeve per bowl lots. Broth is so damned wet, I need to thicken it up somehow. Eating runny foods really grosses me out. Especially runny eggs. Sometime when we are one on one I'll tell you what undercooked eggs reminds me of.

Exactly.

Great. Now I can't get "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" out of my head.

I like these days where the sun is warm but the air is cold. It makes me smile, and it makes me sing.

Out loud, on the sidewalk, right in public. Usually something seasonal and standard, like Baby It's Cold Outside or Winter Wonderland or It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Christmas.

Luckily I live in Philadelphia where the sidewalks aren't all that crazybusy so no one really notices except for a few old men who see my joviality as an open invitation to smile.

Not that anyone really notices you in this town anyway.

Old men really like me.

Must be because I'm so classic.

I stopped in for happy hour a few weeks ago with a friend, who suggested that all crazy people be supplied with a valise and a Bluetooth so they look like business people instead of lunatics.

I hate Bluetooths and the people who refuse to take them off when they aren't using them. Why would anyone want to look like they have a hearing problem circa 1973?

Jake loves the Christmas tree.

For the past two nights he has asked if we can lie down together on the couch and look at the beautiful tree. I know it's just a ploy to stay downstairs past bedtime but I can't say no.

The decorations are red and silver this year.

Did I ever tell you that I have my grandmother's ornaments? They are about 60 years old, give or take. They just might be my prize possession. They aren't in mint condition, but I don't intend to be perfect by the time I'm that old either.

I feel perfectly crappy lately. I've been on a huge eatfest ever since I saw a bathing suit picture of myself from last summer and decided that it was high time to put some pounds back on. Unfortunately, the pounds didn't come back but I gained a good amount of pudge. Totally not my intention.

I'm rolling out of my pants and my top gut touches my bottom gut when I sit down and my butt is inching southward. I'm aiming to get to the gym every weekday this month. Or devote an hour to exercise. Shouldn't be to hard with Comcast exercise On Demand and workout videos on You Tube and maybe a Christmas miracle will happen and I'll get that Wii Fit I've been pining for.

I'm making cookies on Sunday when the boys are out watching football. Drop by if you want to help. By help I mean watch. I hate when people "help" in the kitchen but I love when people keep me company. I'll let you lick the spoon since I'm so healthy now.

Thanksgiving was good, btw. I miss my own family's cooking anytime I am away. You know I'm not in love with the food in Philadelphia. It is mainly because everything tastes like garlic bread. Or processed pig. I like my Thanksgiving food to be full of parsleysagerosemaryandthyme. And butter. And moisture. And potatoes. Basil and oregano and non-brined foods have no place in November where I come from. Sigh. Maybe next year I'll cook. Maybe I'll make the paper again.

I feel that I have to make a note that although I didn't like Thanksgiving dinner too much, the aunt that made it is a fantastic cook every other day, and one of the only two good cooks out of all my millions of inlaws. I don't know how they all get to be overweight when the food is only subpar. We stopped at the other good cook's house earlier in the day but didn't stay for dinner. Dammit. Her Thanksgiving rocks.

Neither one of those aunt's reads this, btw. I guess I'll have to call them and tell them that they win.

Jake had fun on vacation. He made a snowman and snowangels for the first time in his life. I wasn't there, but my dad was and that's kind of neat. Both Jake and I got to do some firsts with my dad, 30 years apart. I like when life cycles around on itself like that.

He also went swimming and got to go to a huge indoor water park.

He saw Santa, but didn't really get it. He is still asking me why he "had to sit on that guy'. We told him about Santa, but never really showed him Santa.

I guess he saw a picture of Jesus. I guess like a burly old Jesus, not the nice handsome young teen Jesus like the one that sits above the lightswitch at Kat Kat's house or the contorted bloody one that they show on the Spanish channel (!Sabado Gigante y Jesus Sangriento Espantoso y Muchas Chichis, todo en un lugar!) . Now he thinks the Geico Caveman is Jesus, but we don't let him say Jesus because Jake says it as a curse when he is mad and not in holy blessed adoration so now when he sees the Caveman he says "there's that guy with the bad word for a name".

I'm such a good mom.

You should bring your kids over and let them hang out with my kid.

payton is six months old!

and looks like she is a lounger, just like Jake was.
I remember this was about the time he started sitting up by himself, thus beginning the first in many horrifyingly heartbreaking head smashings as he learned to sit, crawl, walk, and run. Weebley wobbley babies are gross. Have fun with that, Brian and Ad. Hopefully Payton can make it through her first year without stitches.

(this is still one of my favorite pictures. it shows what a good mom i am and how i never do anything comical at my baby's expense.)

last chance!

Last chance to enter the contest. You know, the one where you talk to me about me and what you like about me? Yeah, that one.

I don't intend to do much work at work today, but I would look really busy reading your comments and emails. So by playing, you are actually helping me keep my job.