1. I'm not buying in to this Swine Flu billshut. It's the flu, it's bad, it's killed 200 Mexicanos, and a toddler in Tay-has. Okay. 200 people in Philadelphia die every year because they aren't smart enough to turn on a fan in the summertime. We live in brick houses. They turn into brick ovens. The nice part about that is that you can set a DiGiornos on the counter before work and it is baked to perfection by the time you get home. The bad part about that is grandma cooks up like a ham under the same conditions. Take home lesson? Rub her down with Ginger Ale and pin some pineapple rings on her soft spots on your way out the door each morning, just in case she doesn't feel like cracking a window.
2. On a related note, I also don't think that the flu is a punishment from God signifying the end of days. I'm pretty sure the same assumption was made about the Bubonic Plague and Surprise! Still here. Those floods in the Mississippi River Valley a few years ago and the follow up rash of tornadoes? Didn't end the world. It didn't even end the frigging Mississippi River Valley. Oinky ickle piggy mutation germs probably aren't going to do us in either. My kid comes from a strong genetic line that didn't die off when a lot of Philadelphia did. I'm not too worried about his current state of snottiness. In 1957 the Asian flu killed 70,000 Americans. In 1968 the Hong Kong flu killed 28,000. I had SARS once and survived. I think we will be okay. Wash your hands.
3. When I don't like someone, I refer to them as a "Bobrick" in my head. The Bobrick company makes an overwhelming majority of those little metal boxes that we ladies toss our used sanitary products into whilst in a public restroom. Pleasant, no? So much more scathing than jerkoff or douchebag.
3b. My mom doesn't call people douchebags, she calls them douchenozzles, which is OMG SO MUCH GROSSER! The bag is just the part that holds the liquid. The nozzle is the part that goes up inside the rotty, stinky, filthy... you get the picture.
4. After a few tears and long hours of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance I have given all of my post-partum pants away. I'm 32 1/2 years old. Normal, healthy 32 1/2 year olds aren't supposed to weigh under 120 pounds when they stand at 5'7". I'm not meant to be a size 4 ever again. I looked sick. I was sick. My friends were worried. My mother was talking to my coworkers behind my back to make sure I was taken care of from 9-5. It was nice to have women everywhere hate me because I was a skinny mom. Now it's over. Le Sigh.
5. I am on a crusade to end Mothering Guilt of all kinds. If you have a mother, you know what this is. If you are a mother, you really know what this is. It's 2009, folks. Let's make it stop. I think we will all be much happier when it ends. (cue Cat's in the Cradle now so the Dads can get in on it too)
6. I planted basil on Sunday and something ate it all from the top down. When something eats your crops that way out in the burbs or country, that something is usually all cute and hiphoppity or adorably Bambiesque. When something eats your crops on your second story deck in the city, that means you have ravenous climbing/flying giant bugs dangerously close to your sliding glass door that your kid leaves open on the daily.
7. I have a LoveHate relationship with eggs. I don't like when people use eggs to make breadcrumbs stick to chicken before frying it up. I used to think that it was like they were basting a mother with her own child, but then I thought about it and realized that eggs aren't baby chickens at all because they aren't fertilized. Eggs are technically chicken menstruation. So it's more like they are basting a mother hen with her own period. Then eating it. Dipped in catsup. Mmmmm. Visuals.
8. What does a vampire use for teabags?
Your mom's old tampons.
okay, I'm done. Three is my limit for menses references.
9. Girls, do you have a dollar a day to spare? You could put it into savings, you could feed a kid in Ethiopia, you could buy three sips of latte or you could go buy a really good bra (my latest fave is the Bali minimizer) once a month, wear it into the ground, and then toss it. Repeat on the first of every month. I don't know why I didn't figure this out sooner. My bra size is constantly changing, and I have no idea why or how but I've come to accept it as fate. Bras are never the same once they've been washed a few times and your titters start looking all wonky and your pits get those callouses from the pilling on the wire and then the wire itself bends a little and stabs you. Who wants that? Not me. Bras are my new expendable commodity. My teetaws are looking fab due to this revelation.
10. Check your credit card APR's when you get your next statement. That should bunch your drawers enough to stop using them and start paying them down quickly.
Bobrick creditors can kiss it.
Big ups to Lizzi who passed the Honest Scrap award on to me yesterday and to Haley who tossed me the Neno's award. I have talked about Lizzi here recently, but wanted to let you know that I found Haley's blog right before she had a huge surgery which sucks in general but it got us to talking (and talking and talking and talking) and we have way more in common than ladycancer and I love it. And her. I love loving bloggers. It's my favorite pastime.
Yes, that's how you spell pastime. It looks wrong, doesn't it?
4.30.2009
4.28.2009
real moms
Amy Jo challenged me to a meme two years ago, and I've been going through old posts trying to figure out what to keep and toss, and I forgot how much I kind of liked this so I'm reposting, especially since the powers that be are actually making me work at work. Can you imagine? Bastages.
Real moms sleep in someone else's pee. And puke too, if they're lucky. Oh, and touch poop with their bare hands.
Real moms have a slight chemical addiction to caffeine and self soothe with Hershey miniatures.
Real moms wash sippy cups full of rancid milk despite a neurotic aversion to dairy products and the way they smell even when fresh.
Real moms sneak a few beers in with a good friend to talk about marriage and communicating with your almost 13 year-old about sex, drugs, and rock and roll when they should be running numbers for their program and rushing off to pick up their kid, who happens to have just come down with a terrible case of a stomach flu but no one told her because real dads can single handedly deal with a vomiting baby who is practically peeing outta its butt.
Real moms have had a real good dose of sex, drugs, and rock and roll in their day.
Real moms secretly think their C-section scar is sexier than that hot little freckley/moley thing that sits about two inches northeast of their belly button.
Real moms can tell the truth about things that real moms do without feeling guilty.
Real moms are very relieved when they find out that they aren't the only mom in the whole world who sometimes hates being a real mom.
Real moms keep Cheerios all over the floor and furniture just in case real babies get hungry. Real moms just can't bring themselves to try to keep up with the Cheerio shrapnel.
Real moms forget to feed the real cats. And the real dad.
Real moms replace Pfalzgraff with Corelle. Real boy can take all the old stuff to college with him someday. It's totally 90s and all purple, teal, ecru, and green but it'll do.
Real moms can spot a dime on the living room floor from the back yard.
Real moms have a new respect for her Real mom, who did all this at 22. And then again at 25. Sucker.
Real moms are quick on the draw.
Real moms have funny boobs. And a butt that seems to get closer to the floor each day. Real moms make up exercises to do at the desk and in line at the bank that they think no one can notice to get rid of the drag the ladyhumps are experiencing.
Real moms take a break. Real moms know when to ask for help.
Real Lora is going to make several pots of coffee, sort through the basement, clean out closets, run to Target, raid Trader Joes, maybe scramble some eggs, listen to the Beatles instead of Life is a Highway, play with her make-up to see what is worth holding on to, make more pots of coffee that might accidentally get spiked with a bit of Devonshire, organize cupboards, shave her legs past her knees, apply self-tanner, schedule a haircut, vacuum under the couch cushions, and take lots of naps next week while Jake is away on vacation.
(originally posted on 3/24/07)
Real moms sleep in someone else's pee. And puke too, if they're lucky. Oh, and touch poop with their bare hands.
Real moms have a slight chemical addiction to caffeine and self soothe with Hershey miniatures.
Real moms wash sippy cups full of rancid milk despite a neurotic aversion to dairy products and the way they smell even when fresh.
Real moms sneak a few beers in with a good friend to talk about marriage and communicating with your almost 13 year-old about sex, drugs, and rock and roll when they should be running numbers for their program and rushing off to pick up their kid, who happens to have just come down with a terrible case of a stomach flu but no one told her because real dads can single handedly deal with a vomiting baby who is practically peeing outta its butt.
Real moms have had a real good dose of sex, drugs, and rock and roll in their day.
Real moms secretly think their C-section scar is sexier than that hot little freckley/moley thing that sits about two inches northeast of their belly button.
Real moms can tell the truth about things that real moms do without feeling guilty.
Real moms are very relieved when they find out that they aren't the only mom in the whole world who sometimes hates being a real mom.
Real moms keep Cheerios all over the floor and furniture just in case real babies get hungry. Real moms just can't bring themselves to try to keep up with the Cheerio shrapnel.
Real moms forget to feed the real cats. And the real dad.
Real moms replace Pfalzgraff with Corelle. Real boy can take all the old stuff to college with him someday. It's totally 90s and all purple, teal, ecru, and green but it'll do.
Real moms can spot a dime on the living room floor from the back yard.
Real moms have a new respect for her Real mom, who did all this at 22. And then again at 25. Sucker.
Real moms are quick on the draw.
Real moms have funny boobs. And a butt that seems to get closer to the floor each day. Real moms make up exercises to do at the desk and in line at the bank that they think no one can notice to get rid of the drag the ladyhumps are experiencing.
Real moms take a break. Real moms know when to ask for help.
Real Lora is going to make several pots of coffee, sort through the basement, clean out closets, run to Target, raid Trader Joes, maybe scramble some eggs, listen to the Beatles instead of Life is a Highway, play with her make-up to see what is worth holding on to, make more pots of coffee that might accidentally get spiked with a bit of Devonshire, organize cupboards, shave her legs past her knees, apply self-tanner, schedule a haircut, vacuum under the couch cushions, and take lots of naps next week while Jake is away on vacation.
(originally posted on 3/24/07)
(*)(*) (+)(+) (^)(^) (-)(-) (@)(@) (<)(>) (.)(.)
I had jury duty last week. Again.
They didn't pick me. Again.
But some guy showed me one of his camera phone pics from Mardi Gras, which is always nice when you've been sitting at City Hall for seven hours looking at the back of some gross Fishtown lady's bleached and scabby head and trying not to breathe too close to her pitstained Bud Light t-shirt that bulged out all over her ridiculously tight bra clasp.
I pretended I didn't look and was all like "sir, you just showed me pictures of breasts. Here, in the Halls of Justice. You don't even know me. Why would you think that was appropriate?"
And he was all like "er, um, well, I didn't know if you knew that girls really took their tops off in New Orleans and I thought you might want to know".
And I was all like "whatever" but instead of saying whatever I made this face where I scrunch up my left eye and cheek and shake my head a little bit but it was probably lost on him because he was sitting to my right. Looking at boobs.
Then I almost got picked to be Juror 12 and he was Juror 11 and I wanted to tell the attorneys that there is no way I can sit on a jury that is estimated to last well into three weeks next to a dude who showed me titpics on his I phone.
They saved me from tattling by asking me if my husband's career would influence me in my decision regarding the case and I said, "excuse me?". And then the one attorney was all like "well, Mrs. M_, we have found that some wives identify strongly with their husbands and we've had a problem in the past with ladies who can't see past the fact that their husbands are attorneys and they tend to decide with whatever side of the law they practice."
Fists balled, deep breath, pinch my leg, bite my cheek, curl my toes, okay.
First of all, no one calls me Mrs. I feel that it's insulting and an archaic way of announcing to the world that someone owns me. An advertisement that shouts "My greatest accomplishment in life is that my last name is not the one I was born with and I'm already taken so back off while I put this casserole in the oven and try to forget the fact that I am no longer referred to as anyone but my husband's wife". (Shhhh, hear that? It's the sound of 100 Mrs.'s quickly dropping my feed).
Second of all, identify with who in the whatnow? You are assuming that I don't primarily identify with my own damned self? WOW. Ouch. Clearly we are working off of assumptions. An assumption that says that I am not able to separate myself from nor think freely and apart from the man I married. Because I'm just a stupid girl. Does anyone have any lip gloss? Look at these shoes! I couldn't possibly eat that.
Third of all, I don't really know what Dave does at work. He goes to work at work. He's a lawyer, so I'm guessing he lawys. I know he wears a suit on the days he has to go to court but not on the days that he doesn't. Based on that knowledge, I have no allegiances to either side of the law. My relationship with Dave transcends his profession, and if we talk about work at home, it isn't about job descriptions.
Such bunk.
But they were old men and I don't really have as big a mouth in real life that I do here (why are those of you that know me in real life LOLing right now?) so I said, "Sirs, it's Ms. M_. And no, my husband's career would never influence me."
Then they asked me if "being a social worker would cause me to sympathize with the injured parties" and I said, "you'll notice that my career is not listed as 'Social Worker' but 'Social Work Administrator' and those are two very different careers. Any job I may hold would not cause me to sympathize with an injured party, but the fact that I am human would. However, this does not affect my ability to be an impartial juror because I'm not a complete idiot who can only function upon gut-level emotions and knee-jerk reactions".
And then they excused me from the juror chambers.
And sent me on my way with my $9 check and a pat on the back and a note that said I will likely be called back to duty in one year's time.
They didn't pick me. Again.
But some guy showed me one of his camera phone pics from Mardi Gras, which is always nice when you've been sitting at City Hall for seven hours looking at the back of some gross Fishtown lady's bleached and scabby head and trying not to breathe too close to her pitstained Bud Light t-shirt that bulged out all over her ridiculously tight bra clasp.
I pretended I didn't look and was all like "sir, you just showed me pictures of breasts. Here, in the Halls of Justice. You don't even know me. Why would you think that was appropriate?"
And he was all like "er, um, well, I didn't know if you knew that girls really took their tops off in New Orleans and I thought you might want to know".
And I was all like "whatever" but instead of saying whatever I made this face where I scrunch up my left eye and cheek and shake my head a little bit but it was probably lost on him because he was sitting to my right. Looking at boobs.
Then I almost got picked to be Juror 12 and he was Juror 11 and I wanted to tell the attorneys that there is no way I can sit on a jury that is estimated to last well into three weeks next to a dude who showed me titpics on his I phone.
They saved me from tattling by asking me if my husband's career would influence me in my decision regarding the case and I said, "excuse me?". And then the one attorney was all like "well, Mrs. M_, we have found that some wives identify strongly with their husbands and we've had a problem in the past with ladies who can't see past the fact that their husbands are attorneys and they tend to decide with whatever side of the law they practice."
Fists balled, deep breath, pinch my leg, bite my cheek, curl my toes, okay.
First of all, no one calls me Mrs. I feel that it's insulting and an archaic way of announcing to the world that someone owns me. An advertisement that shouts "My greatest accomplishment in life is that my last name is not the one I was born with and I'm already taken so back off while I put this casserole in the oven and try to forget the fact that I am no longer referred to as anyone but my husband's wife". (Shhhh, hear that? It's the sound of 100 Mrs.'s quickly dropping my feed).
Second of all, identify with who in the whatnow? You are assuming that I don't primarily identify with my own damned self? WOW. Ouch. Clearly we are working off of assumptions. An assumption that says that I am not able to separate myself from nor think freely and apart from the man I married. Because I'm just a stupid girl. Does anyone have any lip gloss? Look at these shoes! I couldn't possibly eat that.
Third of all, I don't really know what Dave does at work. He goes to work at work. He's a lawyer, so I'm guessing he lawys. I know he wears a suit on the days he has to go to court but not on the days that he doesn't. Based on that knowledge, I have no allegiances to either side of the law. My relationship with Dave transcends his profession, and if we talk about work at home, it isn't about job descriptions.
Such bunk.
But they were old men and I don't really have as big a mouth in real life that I do here (why are those of you that know me in real life LOLing right now?) so I said, "Sirs, it's Ms. M_. And no, my husband's career would never influence me."
Then they asked me if "being a social worker would cause me to sympathize with the injured parties" and I said, "you'll notice that my career is not listed as 'Social Worker' but 'Social Work Administrator' and those are two very different careers. Any job I may hold would not cause me to sympathize with an injured party, but the fact that I am human would. However, this does not affect my ability to be an impartial juror because I'm not a complete idiot who can only function upon gut-level emotions and knee-jerk reactions".
And then they excused me from the juror chambers.
And sent me on my way with my $9 check and a pat on the back and a note that said I will likely be called back to duty in one year's time.
4.27.2009
I've started taking Jake to swimming lessons. He's getting along very well, WAY better than I feared.
Jake is, well, Jake likes to do things Jake's way and telling him that Jake's way of doing things isn't quite like the World's way of doing things can get messy.
He won't throw a tantrum. Or whatever it is that he's holding. He just gets really upset that he thinks he has something all figured out and then when you tell him that he doesn't his lip sticks out and you can actually FEEL his tiny little heart break and you can HEAR the tears flood his eyes and while he won't cry about it, I sometimes do.
I don't really want to wreck his independence and creativity, but I can't have him screwing stuff up either. Or swimming doggy style his whole life. (Is there a nicer, less burlesque way of saying that? There has to be. Something about a paddle, maybe? Now I'm thinking about spanking. I have no idea why anyone ever gave me a license to blog.)
Someday that kid will invent something, I'm sure.
I just hope that it is something good. When he is bad, I secretly call Jake the Duobomber. The second coming of Ted Kaczynski. If something goes wrong in his life I will send up a red flag, I promise. The boy is crafty, and sometimes that scares me.
Anyway. Swimming is going very well. Jake loves the teacher and is catching on pretty quickly. Things he won't even do in the tub he will do in the pool. Which is good, because at this rate the pool is the only prayer he has for being completely clean.
After class is over, I take Jake for a treat. Saturday we went to the coffee shop right next to my gym. The gay coffee shop right next to my gay gym. I enjoyed a fat free iced vanilla latte and Jake washed his chocolate chip cookie down with some lemonade and the patrons went wild for my very handsome son and his amazing brown eyes with their milelong lashes and Jake ate that right up too and told everyone his name and age and counted to 25 and told everyone wearing Chuck Taylors that he wears Chuck T's too and sang Life is a Highway and doled out high fives and we all laughed and had a great time and Jake waved goodbye to those that left before us and thanked the baristas for making him a snack on our way out and a bluebird opened the door for us and we walked on plush green grass with bunnies and baby deer and kittens wearing big blue velvet bows all the way to the bus stop.
Kidding about the last part. But just barely.
Jake took a nap on the ride home and I got to thinking how goddam lucky I am to live in a town where gay men feel free enough to tell some chick that her son is beautiful without the fear that she will point her finger and yell GO TO HELL YOU SINNER ASSHOLE KIDDIEFUCKER!!! CALL THE POLICE, HE WANTS TO STICK HIS DIRTY AIDS DICK INSIDE MY BABY!!! Because in lots of towns all over our country, all over our world, a mother would freak the eff out in a minute if a faggot said that her boychild was beautiful.
Never mind the fact that it is totally okay for strange women to tickle random babies in the store, or hug the neighbor's toddlers in a park, and the motives of women are almost never questioned when they stop other women to poke at the kids on the street and ask where they go to school and what block do they live on and where do they hang out and where do they take dance class/karate/soccer/whatever it is kids are into these days.
Reason 876g why I love my town: Unrivaled tolerance and the general attitude that nobody gives two shits who/what/when/why/how you like to fuck, as long as both fuckers are growedass consenting fuckers.
I think we are still concerned with where. I'm pretty sure there are still laws and mores about that.
Jake is, well, Jake likes to do things Jake's way and telling him that Jake's way of doing things isn't quite like the World's way of doing things can get messy.
He won't throw a tantrum. Or whatever it is that he's holding. He just gets really upset that he thinks he has something all figured out and then when you tell him that he doesn't his lip sticks out and you can actually FEEL his tiny little heart break and you can HEAR the tears flood his eyes and while he won't cry about it, I sometimes do.
I don't really want to wreck his independence and creativity, but I can't have him screwing stuff up either. Or swimming doggy style his whole life. (Is there a nicer, less burlesque way of saying that? There has to be. Something about a paddle, maybe? Now I'm thinking about spanking. I have no idea why anyone ever gave me a license to blog.)
Someday that kid will invent something, I'm sure.
I just hope that it is something good. When he is bad, I secretly call Jake the Duobomber. The second coming of Ted Kaczynski. If something goes wrong in his life I will send up a red flag, I promise. The boy is crafty, and sometimes that scares me.
Anyway. Swimming is going very well. Jake loves the teacher and is catching on pretty quickly. Things he won't even do in the tub he will do in the pool. Which is good, because at this rate the pool is the only prayer he has for being completely clean.
After class is over, I take Jake for a treat. Saturday we went to the coffee shop right next to my gym. The gay coffee shop right next to my gay gym. I enjoyed a fat free iced vanilla latte and Jake washed his chocolate chip cookie down with some lemonade and the patrons went wild for my very handsome son and his amazing brown eyes with their milelong lashes and Jake ate that right up too and told everyone his name and age and counted to 25 and told everyone wearing Chuck Taylors that he wears Chuck T's too and sang Life is a Highway and doled out high fives and we all laughed and had a great time and Jake waved goodbye to those that left before us and thanked the baristas for making him a snack on our way out and a bluebird opened the door for us and we walked on plush green grass with bunnies and baby deer and kittens wearing big blue velvet bows all the way to the bus stop.
Kidding about the last part. But just barely.
Jake took a nap on the ride home and I got to thinking how goddam lucky I am to live in a town where gay men feel free enough to tell some chick that her son is beautiful without the fear that she will point her finger and yell GO TO HELL YOU SINNER ASSHOLE KIDDIEFUCKER!!! CALL THE POLICE, HE WANTS TO STICK HIS DIRTY AIDS DICK INSIDE MY BABY!!! Because in lots of towns all over our country, all over our world, a mother would freak the eff out in a minute if a faggot said that her boychild was beautiful.
Never mind the fact that it is totally okay for strange women to tickle random babies in the store, or hug the neighbor's toddlers in a park, and the motives of women are almost never questioned when they stop other women to poke at the kids on the street and ask where they go to school and what block do they live on and where do they hang out and where do they take dance class/karate/soccer/whatever it is kids are into these days.
Reason 876g why I love my town: Unrivaled tolerance and the general attitude that nobody gives two shits who/what/when/why/how you like to fuck, as long as both fuckers are growedass consenting fuckers.
I think we are still concerned with where. I'm pretty sure there are still laws and mores about that.
I know you're probably so incredibly tired of me getting awards.
It's like watching the pretty girl get all the red carnations on Valentine's Day in eleventh grade homeroom, I'm sure.
I hated the pretty girl who got all the red carnations on Valentine's Day in eleventh grade homeroom.
I never got a carnation on any day in any grade, so these awards are kinda sorta a really big deal for me in processing the rejection I felt as a teen.
It's fun to be the coolkid every once in awhile, even at 32 1/2 years old.
All weekend long I was thinking how incredibly awesome it was that I saw mention of one of my very best flesh and blood friends, Mara, on one of my very best internet friends, Lizzi's, blog.
It made me feel both connected and responsible for a connection and part of a community where we all have a voice and make a difference in each other's life.
I'm assuming Lizzi and Mara know each other through Jakezilla, or maybe I'm really just overly self-important and I think the whole world revolves around me and my blog.
Anyway, Mara in DC typed something that made a difference in Lizzi in Arizona's life and they publicly shared some really deep and personal stuff about themselves for the whole world to see.
That's pretty damn special.
Thank you so much Mara, for the Honest Scrap Award and Lizzi, for the Neno Award. And thank you even more for becoming friends.
May the two of you discover just how much you have in common right down to the tippytippy toes of your souls.
4.24.2009
I've talked a bit about Wednesday Spaghetti here over the past year or so. I started it last spring when I was going through this whole "life sucks now that I'm a mom and I can't go out and do whatever the hell I want because you can't bring a baby to 99% of the places where my friends hangout because that's just trashy but goddam I miss my girls but I just don't have it in me to hang out late night anymore because I have a 3 foot tall alarm clock that doesn't have a snooze button".
So I invited my friends over, and promised them spaghetti.
And they came. With wine. And cheese. And cake. And their kids. And a friend.
And then they kept coming.
And those that couldn't be in my kitchen started making spaghetti every Wednesday in theirs.
And then they started kicking their husbands out and bringing their girlfriends in and they started enjoying themselves. Really, really enjoying themselves.
And I was happy.
And then I thought, "wow, this is really good for everyone involved. I don't feel like such a loser anymore and we talk about really important things like books and boys and babies and booze and bras and bitches and brats and other B words that I can't talk about in mixed company. When people leave here they are different than when they came, in a good good way. Maybe I should go big with this".
So I started doing the legwork to turn WedSpag into a Non-Profit. There's a mostly-done website, and a logo, and an Employee Identification Number, and I've drafted a few appeal letters to local grocers for noodle and sauce donations, and I've been putting together some literature regarding the importance of families and friends turning off the television and sitting down at a table and eating and talking. And not getting up anytime soon after the plates are licked clean. And just being comfortable with their time together.
It's hard to have comfortable dinners together sometimes.
That has to change.
I have plenty of contacts in shelters and hospitals and schools and other places that can help me help others. I have friends that have contributed time and skills and even dollars to help me get all this started. It's a good feeling.
I don't know what the future of the non-profit will be, but I know what the future of my table holds, and it's a whole lot more of what's going on now. It's amazing how many people I can cram into my little South Philly Rowhouse. No one ever seems to mind if they are sitting on top of someone else. No one minds if there is a brat running around (I think). No one ever seems to mind if someone starts crying or shares something huge. No one ever seems to mind if there is an unfamiliar face across the table.
Unfamiliarity never lasts long in my house.
It's my favorite talent I possess, making people comfortable.
And it's inexpensive, it costs about $3 to make a pound of spaghetti. Fresh bread and cheese and salad comes cheap in my neighborhood. Someone else brings the booze and dessert.
It's good.
Please let me know if you are interested in getting in on this. The social part- starting your own WedSpag I mean, not the non-profit part.
I would never ask you to work, but I never say no to people who offer.
4.23.2009
i wish i had that cup of coffee in that picture.
Mara over at In so many words... gave me an award that "is dedicated to those who love blogging and love to encourage friendships through blogging and seeks to find the reasons why we all love blogging. Each person who receives the award is obliged to show thanks by posting the award on his/her blog, giving a shout out to the person who gave the award, and to answer the following question: Why do you love blogging?"
First I'll tell you why I love Mara. I probably already have somewhere in my archives, but bear with me.
I met Mara millions of years ago when we worked at a bar together.
She wore a lot of glitter on her face and hung out at warehouse parties and raves. I did not.
She was a teenager. I was 25.
I didn't think we would get along. I was wrong.
You wouldn't have known it by looking at her back then, but she is one of the smartest, bravest, kindest people I have ever met in my whole entire life. Mara owns Mara and everything that Mara does and Mara tells the world to either lend a hand or fuck off while she works hard to change the things that need to be changed and keep strong the things that need to be kept strong.
There aren't many people in the world you can say that about.
Thank you, Mara, for being such an amazing person and for teaching me that I can't judge a book by it's sparkleysparkley glowstick-slinging awesome-sneakered incredible-titty teenaged cover. It's a lesson I've held close to my heart all these years and it has allowed me to find the beauty and value in people no matter what they look like. Or do from 2am until the break of dawn.
And I miss your eyeshadow and think you should totally bring it back especially now that you have a High Power Government Gig at the DC Castle.
And why do I love blogging?
Because it puts me in touch with so many people that would otherwise be strangers to me. Including, and most importantly, myself.
4.21.2009
earth week
I bitch and moan a lot because of all this pressure to go green or go to hell but going green is so expensive and I don't really have the bank required to buy those crunchy all purpose cleaners that don't really clean anything anyway but they smell nice. I found a great glass cleaner "recipe" online that costs about 8 cents. Well, maybe 18.
1/4 cup vinegar (I had regular Heinz white vinegar)
2 cups water
1tsp dish detergent
I added a little bit of blue food coloring and mixed it in the Windex bottle with the Mr. Yuk sticker on it so the boy wouldn't be tempted to drink it. Not that it would hurt him, but whatever.
Glass cleaning works better with old newspapers, so if you aren't already doing that you should try it.
I've also been putting some of the crappy vodka that someone brought over last Christmas on a cottonball and using it to wipe the computer screen and the television. It evaporates right away and doesn't leave streaks. I'd imagine that it probably works to disinfect toilets and sink handles too.
The only other thing it works for is to flare my temper and give me a raging headache, and that's no good for anyone.
Me? I'm not so good with the vodka. I get punchy.
I think I've hit a major milestone lately because I'm starting to associate the smell of vinegar with the concept of clean rather than the idea of 1970s vaginas! This is huge!
Also, I've finally run out of the store-bought wood soap that I've had kicking around for a couple years, so I refilled the bottle with one part olive oil and one part distilled white vinegar and one part water and it has been working wonders on my prized Ikea crap. I know you aren't supposed to store it for very long, or in a plastic bottle, but I've already violated both those rules and the world hasn't come to an end. I feel like buying a glass spray bottle is both dangerous and wasteful. I've also heard you can wipe your furniture down with a little oil and water and then use some vinegar and water to clean the residue, but that sounds like a lot of work.
My genius Re-use tip of the day is to take your empty tissue boxes and use them as mini wastebaskets in the car or by your bed. They are generally cute, and probably match your decor since you bought them because they did. They are also good for storing cotton balls and Q-tips and stuff because they are a lot more compact than those horrid bags and weird rectangle boxes that cotton stuff comes in. I keep my nail files, polishes, removers, clippers, and cotton balls in a tissue box. I'm famous for not being able to keep that kind of stuff together. They make nice portable snack boxes too. You can keep granola bars and raisins and chocolates and whatever else you like to dip into during the day partially hidden from your co-workers on a shelf. Jake loves to fill them with cars and crayons and then stack them up neatly in the corners. But he also likes to step on them so maybe this would be a better idea for grownups.
If you are anything like my sneezy snotty drippy self these days, you have tons of empty tissue boxes lying around. Let me know what you come up with!
1/4 cup vinegar (I had regular Heinz white vinegar)
2 cups water
1tsp dish detergent
I added a little bit of blue food coloring and mixed it in the Windex bottle with the Mr. Yuk sticker on it so the boy wouldn't be tempted to drink it. Not that it would hurt him, but whatever.
Glass cleaning works better with old newspapers, so if you aren't already doing that you should try it.
I've also been putting some of the crappy vodka that someone brought over last Christmas on a cottonball and using it to wipe the computer screen and the television. It evaporates right away and doesn't leave streaks. I'd imagine that it probably works to disinfect toilets and sink handles too.
The only other thing it works for is to flare my temper and give me a raging headache, and that's no good for anyone.
Me? I'm not so good with the vodka. I get punchy.
I think I've hit a major milestone lately because I'm starting to associate the smell of vinegar with the concept of clean rather than the idea of 1970s vaginas! This is huge!
Also, I've finally run out of the store-bought wood soap that I've had kicking around for a couple years, so I refilled the bottle with one part olive oil and one part distilled white vinegar and one part water and it has been working wonders on my prized Ikea crap. I know you aren't supposed to store it for very long, or in a plastic bottle, but I've already violated both those rules and the world hasn't come to an end. I feel like buying a glass spray bottle is both dangerous and wasteful. I've also heard you can wipe your furniture down with a little oil and water and then use some vinegar and water to clean the residue, but that sounds like a lot of work.
My genius Re-use tip of the day is to take your empty tissue boxes and use them as mini wastebaskets in the car or by your bed. They are generally cute, and probably match your decor since you bought them because they did. They are also good for storing cotton balls and Q-tips and stuff because they are a lot more compact than those horrid bags and weird rectangle boxes that cotton stuff comes in. I keep my nail files, polishes, removers, clippers, and cotton balls in a tissue box. I'm famous for not being able to keep that kind of stuff together. They make nice portable snack boxes too. You can keep granola bars and raisins and chocolates and whatever else you like to dip into during the day partially hidden from your co-workers on a shelf. Jake loves to fill them with cars and crayons and then stack them up neatly in the corners. But he also likes to step on them so maybe this would be a better idea for grownups.
If you are anything like my sneezy snotty drippy self these days, you have tons of empty tissue boxes lying around. Let me know what you come up with!
4.19.2009
earth week
Well, here I went and bought five or six of those supposedly eco-friendly re-usable grocery bags at the ShopRite and TraderJoes because I thought they were exactly the thing to buy to help save the planet by being overcome by the world.
First, in my defense, let me just say they are the most amazing one-dollar items I've ever bought. The handles are long enough to put over your shoulder so you can carry all of your groceries into the house at once. It's heavy, but it sucks way less than running back and forth, especially if you are living in the city and get stuck parking a block away from your front door. They hold tons more than the regular grocery bags, and I even have an insulated one to load up my frozen foods in.
I felt a little douchey the first couple times I had them. I always hated the total tools that walk around the grocery store with their own bags. Holier than thou bunch of a-holes, judging me for buying Velveeta and various foodstuffs wrapped in plastic. But now I'm over it.
So what's the problem?
I read a bunch of articles about how if you are paying less than something like $3 per bag your bags are probably made in China under unfair labor laws using horrible processing methods that release toxins into the air and water and using dyes that kill baby cute things and then they are shipped over to America on giant leaky tankers because that is a bunch cheaper than flying them FedEx or something and then we use them for awhile but when they finally rip we throw them out in regular trash because even though they are made of plastic, they are made in a way that we can't recycle them so they go to landfills where they don't decompose and then our grandchildren dig them up fifty years later because they are living in a housing development built on old landfills and somehow get the handle around their neck and then they die.
It's so sad, isn't it?
But I've got the bags and I'm using the bags and if they rip I swear to all that is holy (holey) I will patch it using something else that has ripped and been rendered useless. It just has to even out in the end.
Because I'm a crazy cat lady, I still have need for plastic bags. I usually get enough from CVS or Target or where ever but if I'm running low I leave the re-usables at home.
Also, the grocery store I go to requires you separate your produce in those cellophane bags. I used to tie them shut and tear them open when I got home to get the fruit out, but now I just twist them closed and can use them again when I need them.
See? Green can be free. Kind of.
First, in my defense, let me just say they are the most amazing one-dollar items I've ever bought. The handles are long enough to put over your shoulder so you can carry all of your groceries into the house at once. It's heavy, but it sucks way less than running back and forth, especially if you are living in the city and get stuck parking a block away from your front door. They hold tons more than the regular grocery bags, and I even have an insulated one to load up my frozen foods in.
I felt a little douchey the first couple times I had them. I always hated the total tools that walk around the grocery store with their own bags. Holier than thou bunch of a-holes, judging me for buying Velveeta and various foodstuffs wrapped in plastic. But now I'm over it.
So what's the problem?
I read a bunch of articles about how if you are paying less than something like $3 per bag your bags are probably made in China under unfair labor laws using horrible processing methods that release toxins into the air and water and using dyes that kill baby cute things and then they are shipped over to America on giant leaky tankers because that is a bunch cheaper than flying them FedEx or something and then we use them for awhile but when they finally rip we throw them out in regular trash because even though they are made of plastic, they are made in a way that we can't recycle them so they go to landfills where they don't decompose and then our grandchildren dig them up fifty years later because they are living in a housing development built on old landfills and somehow get the handle around their neck and then they die.
It's so sad, isn't it?
But I've got the bags and I'm using the bags and if they rip I swear to all that is holy (holey) I will patch it using something else that has ripped and been rendered useless. It just has to even out in the end.
Because I'm a crazy cat lady, I still have need for plastic bags. I usually get enough from CVS or Target or where ever but if I'm running low I leave the re-usables at home.
Also, the grocery store I go to requires you separate your produce in those cellophane bags. I used to tie them shut and tear them open when I got home to get the fruit out, but now I just twist them closed and can use them again when I need them.
See? Green can be free. Kind of.
I'm sure you're dying to know...
I survived the party, and I had an embarassing amount of fun even though I kinda thought that it would be much more than dollar store variety sex toys and lotions that smell like a middle school girls bathroom. Remember Salon Selectives? That appley strawberry stuff from the mid/late eighties?
Yeah, the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when my brain clicks at that smell? I don't want it in the bedroom.
Crying about World Geography and a 12 year old boy who doesn't like you back isn't something you want to bring into your marriage.
I thought that since we were in the privacy of the home there would be things that I couldn't get at the eighty million novelty stores here in town.
I was in the market for something that I couldn't get at home on a regular basis.
Something BIG. And black. That paid my bills but didn't complain about living in a drawer.
I settled for something that wouldn't send me to the ER, and hot pink. I will not be giving a follow-up report here.
But I was thinking more along the lines of things that looked like those hookahs you can get for dessert at the Turkish Restaurants. Things that looked like a giant squid that you could put in the center of the room for like, when you had your friends over or something.
That wasn't even in the catalogue. This is why I hate America and it's Puritanical values.
But it wasn't a total loss! Someone had the forethought to invite my mother in law.
Holler.
Not.
And the house we were in is plastered with pictures of Jacob because he is the Second Coming around those parts.
Luckily Dave's mom knows that I have the ability to talk like a sailor without actually saying any curse words and I'm quick with the jokes and despite the fact that I asked if I could put a few things in my butt and won a dirty word contest hands-down and came in second in the contest where we all got in a circle and passed a double-sider between our thighs like a sick game of Hot Potato it wasn't too far off from the time we spent together at Easter.
You don't know how upset I was that I came in second at something. I'm trying to convince myself that it's not a bad thing that some other chick has more experience at slinging mutant cock than I have.
Yeah, the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when my brain clicks at that smell? I don't want it in the bedroom.
Crying about World Geography and a 12 year old boy who doesn't like you back isn't something you want to bring into your marriage.
I thought that since we were in the privacy of the home there would be things that I couldn't get at the eighty million novelty stores here in town.
I was in the market for something that I couldn't get at home on a regular basis.
Something BIG. And black. That paid my bills but didn't complain about living in a drawer.
I settled for something that wouldn't send me to the ER, and hot pink. I will not be giving a follow-up report here.
But I was thinking more along the lines of things that looked like those hookahs you can get for dessert at the Turkish Restaurants. Things that looked like a giant squid that you could put in the center of the room for like, when you had your friends over or something.
That wasn't even in the catalogue. This is why I hate America and it's Puritanical values.
But it wasn't a total loss! Someone had the forethought to invite my mother in law.
Holler.
Not.
And the house we were in is plastered with pictures of Jacob because he is the Second Coming around those parts.
Luckily Dave's mom knows that I have the ability to talk like a sailor without actually saying any curse words and I'm quick with the jokes and despite the fact that I asked if I could put a few things in my butt and won a dirty word contest hands-down and came in second in the contest where we all got in a circle and passed a double-sider between our thighs like a sick game of Hot Potato it wasn't too far off from the time we spent together at Easter.
You don't know how upset I was that I came in second at something. I'm trying to convince myself that it's not a bad thing that some other chick has more experience at slinging mutant cock than I have.
4.17.2009
I have this joke that I say aloud for the benefit of myself and no one really gets it but I think it's wildly hilarious.
It goes "why does everybody always say that about me?".
Not technically funny, right?
But I always pull it out anytime someone asks me 'how do I get myself into these things' or 'how do I know someone like that' or 'why am I so weird' or 'why would I ever try eating that in the first place' or 'why would I say something like that out loud'. I pull it out because it reminds me that people notice things that I do, for better or for worse so the things that I do better have purpose.
It's fun to get myself into these things. Like tonight Diane and I are going to my cousin's house to look at dildos (-es?) with my family. It's not like I suggested it. My cousin requested that everyone come over for her birthday and someone will be there selling artificial manhoods. And there will be drinking. I hope.
It's interesting to know "people like that". I'm proud of the fact that half of my friends are smarter than normal and the other half would have been burned at the stake 100 years ago or that some of them look like they escaped from a traveling Midwestern sideshow. I'm not happy that I'm the bearded lady, but whatevs. Moustaches are a sign of dignity and maturity in a lady, and I have them all over my body. They're like grey sideburns on men.
I like being weird. I always have been. The words 'weird' and 'strange' appear in my yearbooks one hundred times over and not one of them were meant or taken as an insult.
Peanut butter and mayonnaise is incredibly delicious together. I've been eating it all my life. It exes out the stickiness of it.
And as for why I am saying things out loud, it's because as soon as I put them out there other people start chiming in. Everybody pretends they don't want to talk about poop and kinkiness and raw human emotion, but they sure don't hold back once you bring it to the table.
Have fun this weekend. Spring is finally here for most of us. Go out and do something weird and wild and wonderful that you will remember forever.
It goes "why does everybody always say that about me?".
Not technically funny, right?
But I always pull it out anytime someone asks me 'how do I get myself into these things' or 'how do I know someone like that' or 'why am I so weird' or 'why would I ever try eating that in the first place' or 'why would I say something like that out loud'. I pull it out because it reminds me that people notice things that I do, for better or for worse so the things that I do better have purpose.
It's fun to get myself into these things. Like tonight Diane and I are going to my cousin's house to look at dildos (-es?) with my family. It's not like I suggested it. My cousin requested that everyone come over for her birthday and someone will be there selling artificial manhoods. And there will be drinking. I hope.
It's interesting to know "people like that". I'm proud of the fact that half of my friends are smarter than normal and the other half would have been burned at the stake 100 years ago or that some of them look like they escaped from a traveling Midwestern sideshow. I'm not happy that I'm the bearded lady, but whatevs. Moustaches are a sign of dignity and maturity in a lady, and I have them all over my body. They're like grey sideburns on men.
I like being weird. I always have been. The words 'weird' and 'strange' appear in my yearbooks one hundred times over and not one of them were meant or taken as an insult.
Peanut butter and mayonnaise is incredibly delicious together. I've been eating it all my life. It exes out the stickiness of it.
And as for why I am saying things out loud, it's because as soon as I put them out there other people start chiming in. Everybody pretends they don't want to talk about poop and kinkiness and raw human emotion, but they sure don't hold back once you bring it to the table.
Have fun this weekend. Spring is finally here for most of us. Go out and do something weird and wild and wonderful that you will remember forever.
4.16.2009
I Me Mine
People ask me all the time why I don't make a career of this.
This, this, this... writing thing. Why is it so hard to find a word for this medium? I hate to say "blogger" (omg! you like, have a diary on the computer? that's so dh,md!), but "writer" is taken by people who are on a payroll.
Why don't I quit my day job? Why don't I do something that I love? Why don't I do grant writing? Proposal development? Something that I'm good at? Something that comes almost effortless?
Well, I like my day job. It's useful to me. I'm useful to it. It pays well (enough that I'm not starving). The benefits are better than the pay. And I don't mean the insurance/days off/pension, but that is pretty good too. Better than yours, I'm willing to wager.
Plus I need a hobby, and this is it. A blog takes up way less space than an afghan or a counted cross-stitch kitten mural. I don't ask you why you aren't getting paid to do sodoko. soduko. sodoku. Those number box things.
I'm relatively confident of my writing skills. If you can digest 13% of what I slap up I consider it a compliment and a success. I can only handle about 10% of what is thrown at me throughout my day and I'm doing pretty okay in life.
The rest just kind of slides around the side and falls at my heels as I pass by. I never even know what hit me, nor feel the need to pick up the pieces. Most times.
Enough people read this- or at least subscribe- that I'm guessing that I'm well liked enough to make some cash. But I don't.
I hate blog ads. I hate product reviews. I hate flashy commercial boxes messing up the order of a layout. I hate being given some damn crap under the pretense that I will say nice things about it. I don't even like half of the things that I bought with my own dollars by the time I get them through my front door. I completely understand why people have them, but I just can't handle all that crap all over the only thing that I have total control of. There is too much crap all over everything else in my life.
I just had a therapeutic break through.
I control this. Me. No one is the boss of me over here, unlike the rest of the world where someone is always telling me what to do and how to be. Jakezilla is my anorexia.
I can make jokes about eating disorders here because I can.
Those pants don't make your blog look big. Your fat ass makes your blog look big.
Reason number 847 that I spend so much time here. I'm the biggest thing going around this pop stand and nobody that matters can tell me any different.
I think I could handle getting paid in one hundred word increments, but I'm not in a rush. In the mean time, I'm going to start lifting my archives off of here and rework them and mash them up and then I'm going to pay the good people at Lulu.com to sew them between two covers. Then I'll make a shameless effort to let everyone I know that they can buy something that I wrote and I edited and I published all by myself, on my own terms and I'll get about 4 cents for every copy sold.
And if I make 96 cents from that, maybe I'll look into bumping up my midlife crisis and changing careers.
Bear with me while I do this. I have no idea where to start and I don't want to ask for help. If it's done by the end of the year, that's great. If not, that's great too. If my words lag a bit here, I apologize. If they don't, well, I apologize for that too.
I'll keep you posted.
This, this, this... writing thing. Why is it so hard to find a word for this medium? I hate to say "blogger" (omg! you like, have a diary on the computer? that's so dh,md!), but "writer" is taken by people who are on a payroll.
Why don't I quit my day job? Why don't I do something that I love? Why don't I do grant writing? Proposal development? Something that I'm good at? Something that comes almost effortless?
Well, I like my day job. It's useful to me. I'm useful to it. It pays well (enough that I'm not starving). The benefits are better than the pay. And I don't mean the insurance/days off/pension, but that is pretty good too. Better than yours, I'm willing to wager.
Plus I need a hobby, and this is it. A blog takes up way less space than an afghan or a counted cross-stitch kitten mural. I don't ask you why you aren't getting paid to do sodoko. soduko. sodoku. Those number box things.
I'm relatively confident of my writing skills. If you can digest 13% of what I slap up I consider it a compliment and a success. I can only handle about 10% of what is thrown at me throughout my day and I'm doing pretty okay in life.
The rest just kind of slides around the side and falls at my heels as I pass by. I never even know what hit me, nor feel the need to pick up the pieces. Most times.
Enough people read this- or at least subscribe- that I'm guessing that I'm well liked enough to make some cash. But I don't.
I hate blog ads. I hate product reviews. I hate flashy commercial boxes messing up the order of a layout. I hate being given some damn crap under the pretense that I will say nice things about it. I don't even like half of the things that I bought with my own dollars by the time I get them through my front door. I completely understand why people have them, but I just can't handle all that crap all over the only thing that I have total control of. There is too much crap all over everything else in my life.
I just had a therapeutic break through.
I control this. Me. No one is the boss of me over here, unlike the rest of the world where someone is always telling me what to do and how to be. Jakezilla is my anorexia.
I can make jokes about eating disorders here because I can.
Those pants don't make your blog look big. Your fat ass makes your blog look big.
Reason number 847 that I spend so much time here. I'm the biggest thing going around this pop stand and nobody that matters can tell me any different.
I think I could handle getting paid in one hundred word increments, but I'm not in a rush. In the mean time, I'm going to start lifting my archives off of here and rework them and mash them up and then I'm going to pay the good people at Lulu.com to sew them between two covers. Then I'll make a shameless effort to let everyone I know that they can buy something that I wrote and I edited and I published all by myself, on my own terms and I'll get about 4 cents for every copy sold.
And if I make 96 cents from that, maybe I'll look into bumping up my midlife crisis and changing careers.
Bear with me while I do this. I have no idea where to start and I don't want to ask for help. If it's done by the end of the year, that's great. If not, that's great too. If my words lag a bit here, I apologize. If they don't, well, I apologize for that too.
I'll keep you posted.
One of Jake's first words was "clock".
Well, almost. He didn't get his L's down until much later.
One of Jake's first words was...
Anyway, I tell Jake a story about clocks every once in awhile. It goes something like:
"When you were a tiny little baby in my belly, I would go to the doctor and he would put a special machine against my tummy so I could hear your heart beat. It was the most beautiful sound in the world because it let me know that you were happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
And then when you were born, you used to lay your head on my chest and listen to my heart beat. It was the most beautiful sound in the world because it let you know that I was close by, keeping you happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
Every time you hear a clock go 'tick tock tick tock' you can always think of how important our heart beats are to one another and how much we love each other and how we will always keep each other happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
The End."
So I bought him a little alarm clock for his birthday, which he loved until he accidentally set the alarm off one day. Now he hates it.
Jake hates noise.
I swear I didn't train him this way. Some problems are just inborn I think.
He screamed and cried and when I asked him what was the big deal, because I told him that the alarm would go off if he played with the little switch and clocks were meant to be seen and heard but never played with he said, "oh mommy, it was awful. why would your heart ever hurt me like that?"
Gah.
And in other news, April 15th will always be tax day, will always be Hope's annivbirthday, will always be my first boss' birthday, will always be the day my granddad died, and will always be the first day that my boy ever looked me in the eye and said "i don't like you". I knew it was coming. And it did.
It didn't hurt too bad because it was a final ploy in getting me to stay in his room last night after telling me "he loves me, he needs me, he can't live without me near him, that we are best friends, that we are very good buddies, that i make him happy and when i am gone it is very very very sad, and that- and I quote- the world is too big and scary and dark without me next to him".
Well, almost. He didn't get his L's down until much later.
One of Jake's first words was...
Anyway, I tell Jake a story about clocks every once in awhile. It goes something like:
"When you were a tiny little baby in my belly, I would go to the doctor and he would put a special machine against my tummy so I could hear your heart beat. It was the most beautiful sound in the world because it let me know that you were happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
And then when you were born, you used to lay your head on my chest and listen to my heart beat. It was the most beautiful sound in the world because it let you know that I was close by, keeping you happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
Every time you hear a clock go 'tick tock tick tock' you can always think of how important our heart beats are to one another and how much we love each other and how we will always keep each other happy and healthy and safe and warm and growing.
The End."
So I bought him a little alarm clock for his birthday, which he loved until he accidentally set the alarm off one day. Now he hates it.
Jake hates noise.
I swear I didn't train him this way. Some problems are just inborn I think.
He screamed and cried and when I asked him what was the big deal, because I told him that the alarm would go off if he played with the little switch and clocks were meant to be seen and heard but never played with he said, "oh mommy, it was awful. why would your heart ever hurt me like that?"
Gah.
And in other news, April 15th will always be tax day, will always be Hope's annivbirthday, will always be my first boss' birthday, will always be the day my granddad died, and will always be the first day that my boy ever looked me in the eye and said "i don't like you". I knew it was coming. And it did.
It didn't hurt too bad because it was a final ploy in getting me to stay in his room last night after telling me "he loves me, he needs me, he can't live without me near him, that we are best friends, that we are very good buddies, that i make him happy and when i am gone it is very very very sad, and that- and I quote- the world is too big and scary and dark without me next to him".
4.15.2009
4.14.2009
recovery
Holy crap, when the hell did Easter become a real holiday? I'm beat. There are tiny foil wrappers balled up in my lint trap. Plastic grass laden cat puke in every room. Renegade egg shells stuck to the bottoms of my feet. Ill-fitting pants on everyone I know. Toothaches. Bellyaches. Brainaches.
I thought we got all that out of the way four months ago.
One of the crappy things about having kids is that you have to do all the stuff that you hated to do when you were a kid all over again. I had over a decade-long hiatus between the time I was 18 and the time I had Jake. I almost forgot what it was like to have to be somewhere to eat something that you don't even like with people who you swore you wouldn't see until December. If then.
One of the good things about being me is that I only have to do it in very small doses because I'm a lucky bastage and people don't expect me to be anywhere I don't want to be as long as they can take my baby.
No one has done any work at work for two weeks and their only excuse is "well, it's the holiday". Kids come to the office with their parents because the schools are closed. That is not acceptable. I come to work to get away from children. Not see more of them.
I haven't spent more than 45 minutes alone with my boy since last Monday. He has only slept in our house three times since then. He's making the rounds, my gypsy child.
Whenever I get a chance to pass by him in someone else's house he is using words I swore he's never heard before, doing things I never thought a kid his age could do. He looks huge. His hugs feel different. His knuckles are more pointy and less denty.
I didn't tell him about the Easter bunny, so it was a total surprise for him on Sunday morning, or so I hear. I slept until ten, fifty miles away. He colored eggs for the first time on Saturday night, but I didn't get to see him do it. I was holding down a house party where the boys were doing shots of vodka, ham, and chocolate. Mixed together. True story. Fair trade.
I'll see Jake again tonight right before he goes to bed, and start making up for lost time sometime tomorrow between work and life and spaghetti.
Then life will settle to a din for a couple weeks and then summer will start and we'll be out and off and at it again.
I thought we got all that out of the way four months ago.
One of the crappy things about having kids is that you have to do all the stuff that you hated to do when you were a kid all over again. I had over a decade-long hiatus between the time I was 18 and the time I had Jake. I almost forgot what it was like to have to be somewhere to eat something that you don't even like with people who you swore you wouldn't see until December. If then.
One of the good things about being me is that I only have to do it in very small doses because I'm a lucky bastage and people don't expect me to be anywhere I don't want to be as long as they can take my baby.
No one has done any work at work for two weeks and their only excuse is "well, it's the holiday". Kids come to the office with their parents because the schools are closed. That is not acceptable. I come to work to get away from children. Not see more of them.
I haven't spent more than 45 minutes alone with my boy since last Monday. He has only slept in our house three times since then. He's making the rounds, my gypsy child.
Whenever I get a chance to pass by him in someone else's house he is using words I swore he's never heard before, doing things I never thought a kid his age could do. He looks huge. His hugs feel different. His knuckles are more pointy and less denty.
I didn't tell him about the Easter bunny, so it was a total surprise for him on Sunday morning, or so I hear. I slept until ten, fifty miles away. He colored eggs for the first time on Saturday night, but I didn't get to see him do it. I was holding down a house party where the boys were doing shots of vodka, ham, and chocolate. Mixed together. True story. Fair trade.
I'll see Jake again tonight right before he goes to bed, and start making up for lost time sometime tomorrow between work and life and spaghetti.
Then life will settle to a din for a couple weeks and then summer will start and we'll be out and off and at it again.
4.09.2009
Girlios,
If you ever want to feel really good about yourself, borrow someone's less-than one year-old baby and take it in public. But before you do, get your hair did and put some makeup on. You will look like the hottest mom ever and all the other moms will be jealous and will hate you because you have time to apply eyeliner and all the dads will look at you and wish their haggard wives look more like you do. If you really want to be hated, put on a flashy giant fake diamond ring.
Don't tell anyone that this isn't your kid or your real jewelry at any cost.
I'll tell you the secret to looking like a real mom. Ready? Before you leave the house, get a little bit of yogurt and smear it on your shirt. Just a little bit and you will pass as a mom, even to the keenest of judges. Babysitters and aunts will always clean up smudges. Moms are just too damn tired. If someone tells you about it, roll your eyes and say "story of my life".
Everyone will tell you that you look well-rested and beautiful. If you are anywhere under 300 pounds, people will tell you you look thin. Then you smile and say that you are breast-feeding because that really makes you a good person.
It's free, and you will be doing something nice for your friend/sister.
Don't tell anyone that this isn't your kid or your real jewelry at any cost.
I'll tell you the secret to looking like a real mom. Ready? Before you leave the house, get a little bit of yogurt and smear it on your shirt. Just a little bit and you will pass as a mom, even to the keenest of judges. Babysitters and aunts will always clean up smudges. Moms are just too damn tired. If someone tells you about it, roll your eyes and say "story of my life".
Everyone will tell you that you look well-rested and beautiful. If you are anywhere under 300 pounds, people will tell you you look thin. Then you smile and say that you are breast-feeding because that really makes you a good person.
It's free, and you will be doing something nice for your friend/sister.
4.08.2009
Karen left me a comment the other day that said "your readers are wonderful, feel free to take credit".
You are. But I can't.
Every time I think about paring down what gets put up here or maybe shutting my mouth a little bit you guys come at me with a level of support and opposition and discussion and argument and disclosure and receptiveness that totally blows me away.
I learn more here in the blogosphere than I can ever imagine learning out on the other side of the box about certain things because we can be candid with one another, and we can be totally open because we will likely never see one another, and emailing gives us the benefit of organizing and editing our thoughts without being interrupted by the listener (reader). It's amazing.
There is a listening exercise we do here at work that sits two people across from one another. Folks are given a topic (we start out easy, breakfast- for example- or the morning commute) and for three minutes Person A has to talk. Person B has to listen without nodding, "um-ing", "uh-uh-ing", interrupting, etc. Then it's Person B's turn to talk.
Have you ever done that in face-to-face conversation? Truly listened with no pressure to respond? It's wild. It's awkward for the talker at first, but then there is such a huge outpouring that it is hard to stop talking after the minutes are up. That's when things are just getting good.
We have such pressure as listeners to agree and respond that we stop listening and start thinking about responses. I am totally guilty of that. I'm a terrible listener. I'm a very attentive reader. If I can "listen" to what you write, I gather every word. If I'm sitting with you, I feel the need to somehow interject to show you that I care, that I'm hearing, that I'm processing. But sometimes I don't. It's a terrible habit and I'm working on it.
Or maybe I'll just hang out here in the blog world where I don't have to change at all. That would be easier.
Anyway. My readers are great.
And I think maybe they like me too, which is good for my self esteem on these days when I feel like I might be giving the impression that I'm angry and sullen and outlandish and brash and bossy and I'm walking around looking like I got punched in the face with a 10 pound sack of pollen and attacked with a squirt gun full of snot.
Donna over at ...The Obnoxious SAHM... awarded me with the Sunday Spotlight award. I've been not-so-secretly stalking Donna for a few months now. I love her because she is able to talk about things that affect us moms without whining or condescending or sounding like a lunatic or without coming across like she would rather be anywhere other than where she is at. That's not easy to do. Plus she is hilarious, and I hold truly comedic people in the highest esteem. Pretty comes and goes. Smarts can be wasted. But funny is forever. And Donna is a riot. And she is pretty and smart. And that's why I stalk her. To learn.
Then as if that didn't make me feel like I'm eligible to sit with the cool kids at the lunch table, Mamalouise at Rhyme and Reason gave me the Kreativ Blogger award. And the rule is to share seven things that I love.
1. Right now I'm really into the fact that my gym installed personal televisions on all the elliptical machines so I've been taking lunch at 3pm and spending the hour watching Ellen. When's the last time you exercised for an hour and giggled most of the way through it? If it's been more than a week, you've gotta try this. It makes me feel like a million dollars.
2. I'm growing things from seeds! I feel like a goddess. But I'm a little scared that they will die. I have tomatoes, cosmos, and forget-me-nots in the pelican room (worth the click, if just for the pics so you can see how I live and what I look like hungover) and I'm so afraid that I will kill them off and have their little green souls weighing on my conscious for the rest of my life. This is more stressful than childbirth. At least I could've called 911 if Jake started to whither.
3. I love making Swiss Miss hot cocoa my way. Two packets in 8oz of water with three half and halfs. It will cure what ails you. Mentally, at least.
4. I love my job. I can take every bit of it home with me. I oversee social service agencies all over the city that provide parenting education. I need parenting education. I get paid to learn how to parent. How can I lose? My fingers are crossed that we get funding for another year, at least. I have much more to learn. I don't want to seem braggy, but I do notice that my kid is different from (what I am implying here is "better than") most other kids, and I'm hoping at least 60% of that is my doing.
5. I get motivated (OCD) in the spring and the fall and it makes me feel like I'm in control of my destiny (my closets). I love Spring Cleaning and that New School Year feeling. I feel like I can accomplish anything (Manic episode). I miss Kevin Nealon's subliminal message bit. I can't get on You Tube here at the office (war camp), but I'll definitely look to see if there are some clips of the skit (tranny porn) online.
6. I just typed "I love weird porno" but then I erased it. You probably don't want to know that. I like watching people do things that I don't do. If I cared about things that I do on a regular basis, I'd wallpaper my house in mirrors. One Girl/One Guy porn is about as exciting to me as watching someone flip the laundry from the washer to the dryer.
7. I love being the boss of my own blog and freeing myself from the pressure of giving out rewards once I got them. I feel like four cents whenever I do it, and I know that I'm going to stop getting them eventually because of it, but I'm getting over it. I'll start again if they implement that policy with the Academy Awards. Like if they say you can get the Oscar, but only if you give out fifteen Oscars in your acceptance speech.
You are. But I can't.
Every time I think about paring down what gets put up here or maybe shutting my mouth a little bit you guys come at me with a level of support and opposition and discussion and argument and disclosure and receptiveness that totally blows me away.
I learn more here in the blogosphere than I can ever imagine learning out on the other side of the box about certain things because we can be candid with one another, and we can be totally open because we will likely never see one another, and emailing gives us the benefit of organizing and editing our thoughts without being interrupted by the listener (reader). It's amazing.
There is a listening exercise we do here at work that sits two people across from one another. Folks are given a topic (we start out easy, breakfast- for example- or the morning commute) and for three minutes Person A has to talk. Person B has to listen without nodding, "um-ing", "uh-uh-ing", interrupting, etc. Then it's Person B's turn to talk.
Have you ever done that in face-to-face conversation? Truly listened with no pressure to respond? It's wild. It's awkward for the talker at first, but then there is such a huge outpouring that it is hard to stop talking after the minutes are up. That's when things are just getting good.
We have such pressure as listeners to agree and respond that we stop listening and start thinking about responses. I am totally guilty of that. I'm a terrible listener. I'm a very attentive reader. If I can "listen" to what you write, I gather every word. If I'm sitting with you, I feel the need to somehow interject to show you that I care, that I'm hearing, that I'm processing. But sometimes I don't. It's a terrible habit and I'm working on it.
Or maybe I'll just hang out here in the blog world where I don't have to change at all. That would be easier.
Anyway. My readers are great.
And I think maybe they like me too, which is good for my self esteem on these days when I feel like I might be giving the impression that I'm angry and sullen and outlandish and brash and bossy and I'm walking around looking like I got punched in the face with a 10 pound sack of pollen and attacked with a squirt gun full of snot.
Donna over at ...The Obnoxious SAHM... awarded me with the Sunday Spotlight award. I've been not-so-secretly stalking Donna for a few months now. I love her because she is able to talk about things that affect us moms without whining or condescending or sounding like a lunatic or without coming across like she would rather be anywhere other than where she is at. That's not easy to do. Plus she is hilarious, and I hold truly comedic people in the highest esteem. Pretty comes and goes. Smarts can be wasted. But funny is forever. And Donna is a riot. And she is pretty and smart. And that's why I stalk her. To learn.
Then as if that didn't make me feel like I'm eligible to sit with the cool kids at the lunch table, Mamalouise at Rhyme and Reason gave me the Kreativ Blogger award. And the rule is to share seven things that I love.
1. Right now I'm really into the fact that my gym installed personal televisions on all the elliptical machines so I've been taking lunch at 3pm and spending the hour watching Ellen. When's the last time you exercised for an hour and giggled most of the way through it? If it's been more than a week, you've gotta try this. It makes me feel like a million dollars.
2. I'm growing things from seeds! I feel like a goddess. But I'm a little scared that they will die. I have tomatoes, cosmos, and forget-me-nots in the pelican room (worth the click, if just for the pics so you can see how I live and what I look like hungover) and I'm so afraid that I will kill them off and have their little green souls weighing on my conscious for the rest of my life. This is more stressful than childbirth. At least I could've called 911 if Jake started to whither.
3. I love making Swiss Miss hot cocoa my way. Two packets in 8oz of water with three half and halfs. It will cure what ails you. Mentally, at least.
4. I love my job. I can take every bit of it home with me. I oversee social service agencies all over the city that provide parenting education. I need parenting education. I get paid to learn how to parent. How can I lose? My fingers are crossed that we get funding for another year, at least. I have much more to learn. I don't want to seem braggy, but I do notice that my kid is different from (what I am implying here is "better than") most other kids, and I'm hoping at least 60% of that is my doing.
5. I get motivated (OCD) in the spring and the fall and it makes me feel like I'm in control of my destiny (my closets). I love Spring Cleaning and that New School Year feeling. I feel like I can accomplish anything (Manic episode). I miss Kevin Nealon's subliminal message bit. I can't get on You Tube here at the office (war camp), but I'll definitely look to see if there are some clips of the skit (tranny porn) online.
6. I just typed "I love weird porno" but then I erased it. You probably don't want to know that. I like watching people do things that I don't do. If I cared about things that I do on a regular basis, I'd wallpaper my house in mirrors. One Girl/One Guy porn is about as exciting to me as watching someone flip the laundry from the washer to the dryer.
7. I love being the boss of my own blog and freeing myself from the pressure of giving out rewards once I got them. I feel like four cents whenever I do it, and I know that I'm going to stop getting them eventually because of it, but I'm getting over it. I'll start again if they implement that policy with the Academy Awards. Like if they say you can get the Oscar, but only if you give out fifteen Oscars in your acceptance speech.
4.06.2009
ancestor worship.
I keep this page bookmarked on my computer at work, quite like others have little proverbs and pithy sayings post-ited all over their cubicles. You can also check out a scan of the original here, I often do. It is a list of epigrams recorded by my great-grandfather's students at Morningside College way back in 1921 and published in the school paper. Don't you wish your great-grandfather had a following so strong that you had a record of what he had to say? I know you be hatin'.
Sometimes you just need to read a little something that gives you a swift kick in your pants. Something to motivate you to get out there and do something. Be something. I like to draw on the words of my family and friends. I like things to be as personal as possible. I keep little notes from loved ones tucked in drawers, wallets, and books. They might be meaningless to the rest of the world, but to me it is Pen & Ink proof that someone, somewhere loves me enough to sign their name to it.
I cut people's signatures off of birthday cards. The part where it wishes me well and tells me how much I'm loved.
Or the PS's off of letters because they are usually just a good natured afterthought.
I use xeroxed copies of silly things people have put in my yearbooks to mark my place in novels.
I have my autograph book from elementary school on my bedside table.
I wish I could have met the man who said "I want to tell you, the study of mathematics clears up superstition". I would have agreed, and told him that it also clears up a whole lot of crazy that I have bouncing around in my brain and when I have trouble dealing with the world I close my eyes and figure prime factors or common denominators or invent useless theorems that no one cares about. And he would have probably looked at his feet and I would have realized that maybe that isn't what you are supposed to say in 1921.
But I'm guessing he probably did a little of that too.
Sometimes you just need to read a little something that gives you a swift kick in your pants. Something to motivate you to get out there and do something. Be something. I like to draw on the words of my family and friends. I like things to be as personal as possible. I keep little notes from loved ones tucked in drawers, wallets, and books. They might be meaningless to the rest of the world, but to me it is Pen & Ink proof that someone, somewhere loves me enough to sign their name to it.
I cut people's signatures off of birthday cards. The part where it wishes me well and tells me how much I'm loved.
Or the PS's off of letters because they are usually just a good natured afterthought.
I use xeroxed copies of silly things people have put in my yearbooks to mark my place in novels.
I have my autograph book from elementary school on my bedside table.
I wish I could have met the man who said "I want to tell you, the study of mathematics clears up superstition". I would have agreed, and told him that it also clears up a whole lot of crazy that I have bouncing around in my brain and when I have trouble dealing with the world I close my eyes and figure prime factors or common denominators or invent useless theorems that no one cares about. And he would have probably looked at his feet and I would have realized that maybe that isn't what you are supposed to say in 1921.
But I'm guessing he probably did a little of that too.
fire safety give-away
This is a Re-post, so if you already left a comment, you are free to go!
I mentioned last week that I have such a phobia of fire that I have a hard time relying on myself to communicate the need for Fire Safety to Jake in such a way that doesn't risk giving him the same crippling complex. And how I have totally relied on Firefighter Dayna to teach my kid about it from inside the box. Dayna has dropped a Fire Safety care package in the mail to me, and I would like to give it away to one of my readers.
You know I'm not a give-away or promo blogger, it's just that this is so important to me. Both the safety part of it and the not passing along anxiety part. And the fact that some of my anxiety is lessened by passing along safety awareness.
Anyone can win, just leave a comment. You don't have to be a parent or a teacher, just someone who knows a little kid.
And if you really want to get into it (although the winner will be picked on Thursday April 9th at noon using Random.org, not by how good your story is) please tell me about what you wanted to be when you grew up when you were little and why. I'd love to know, especially if you ARE what you always wanted to be or if you do what you do because someone inspired you.
I mentioned last week that I have such a phobia of fire that I have a hard time relying on myself to communicate the need for Fire Safety to Jake in such a way that doesn't risk giving him the same crippling complex. And how I have totally relied on Firefighter Dayna to teach my kid about it from inside the box. Dayna has dropped a Fire Safety care package in the mail to me, and I would like to give it away to one of my readers.
You know I'm not a give-away or promo blogger, it's just that this is so important to me. Both the safety part of it and the not passing along anxiety part. And the fact that some of my anxiety is lessened by passing along safety awareness.
Anyone can win, just leave a comment. You don't have to be a parent or a teacher, just someone who knows a little kid.
And if you really want to get into it (although the winner will be picked on Thursday April 9th at noon using Random.org, not by how good your story is) please tell me about what you wanted to be when you grew up when you were little and why. I'd love to know, especially if you ARE what you always wanted to be or if you do what you do because someone inspired you.
4.05.2009
rants
If you know me in real life, or if you saw my Tweet (again, I'm sorry with the runover), you know that my biggest televisionary pet peeve is the appearance of a wedding ring in every damn commercial that involves a man and a woman or an adult and a child. Or genitalia. Or housekeeping.
If I believed what I saw on television, everyone with herpes is happily married and taking Valtrex, and the bride (it's always the man who has it), who loves her man despite his viral infection, still doesn't get scabby.
Kitchens are cleaned using a rag in a lady's left hand. Men don't clean. Especially married ones. That's why they have wives.
Erectile Dysfunction clearly only happens to old married men who still want to stick it in their 75 year old naggy saggy baggy wives. Eww. I've seen a lot of 75 year old women, and I don't want to bang any of them. I've seen quite a few 25 year old women who may or may not have a thing for sugar daddies, and I might consider pharmaceutical enhancement for the chance to get some of that sweet sweet candyass.
Every couple out on the town in their stupid leather interiored sensible car hold hands over the console, the man always drives and her hand is always on top, a gilded symbol of holy matrimony.
Every time people are sharing a bed (why people have to share a bed to advertise lotion or laundry detergent is beyond me) a ring is flashed. What married people do you know who loll around in bed all day? With their hands over the covers? Wearing jewelry?
Every mommy giving her new baby a bath in the sink is very careful to leave her rings on and the camera man is sure to focus in on her left hand that caresses her baby's pudding head. Really? Did you ever wear your rings when you had a newborn? Puke oozing between your wedding band and engagement ring, poop encrusted below your diamond, every prong a potential skin gasher?
Every daddy hanging out in underpants with his underpantsed son (this is why I shy away from Hanes. They still show little kids in their drawers) wears a ring.
It goes on and on and on. Pay attention when you're sitting in front of the tube tonight.
I'm still stuck on inferred messages. What kind of message are the ad execs sending?
And yes, I did say everything I said I said about the Hare in class and I also brought this up. I've been in class with these people for years, and they are only alarmed if I DON'T speak up. It was totally relevant. There was an ad for Courvoisier picturing Herbie Hancock dressed up fancy, rocks glass in an outstretched left hand, ring leading the way. The ad said, "I'm married, but I'm sexy. I'm taken, but get another one of these in both of us and we'll talk about that.". I'm not accusing Herbie of being an adulterer, I'm blaming the booze people for making him look that way.
What message are we sending to an unwed mother? She is just as capable of loving and caring for her baby as a married mom. What are we sending to those effected by venereal disease, married or not? Single people? Bedfellows without commitment ceremonies? Gay people? Children?
Is marriage really that important? Why? Can't we all just love one another and try to make our lives pleasurable? Can't we be good people/good parents/good sexual partners/good drivers if we aren't married to a member of the opposite sex? If we aren't married at all? If we are married and don't wear rings? I'm often mistaken for a single mom. Heads are shaken.
Or the opposite happens. People want to be my friend because they think I am living a similar lifestyle as they are, but when they find out I'm married they aren't interested in me anymore.
America really has to get over this.
And while I'm angry and spouting stuff that most people keep inside their brain, tune in later when I might talk about how I am furious at the alarming number (I didn't say ALL. Pitchforks down, please) of Holier than Thou Ultra-Conservative Religious Right Wingers who lack love, compassion, tolerance, and every other word that pertains to the message Jesus sends. Why are there more Atheists in my life doing God's Work than Christians doing WJWD? Why are so many of my Christian friends down on me for supporting basic human God-given rights? My Muslim friends don't seem to mind. My Buddhist buddies are into it. My friends who don't subscribe to any faith are the most selfless and eager to share what they have of them all. What is becoming of Christianity in America?
That is all. Something to think about/stew over on a sunny Sabbath.
If I believed what I saw on television, everyone with herpes is happily married and taking Valtrex, and the bride (it's always the man who has it), who loves her man despite his viral infection, still doesn't get scabby.
Kitchens are cleaned using a rag in a lady's left hand. Men don't clean. Especially married ones. That's why they have wives.
Erectile Dysfunction clearly only happens to old married men who still want to stick it in their 75 year old naggy saggy baggy wives. Eww. I've seen a lot of 75 year old women, and I don't want to bang any of them. I've seen quite a few 25 year old women who may or may not have a thing for sugar daddies, and I might consider pharmaceutical enhancement for the chance to get some of that sweet sweet candyass.
Every couple out on the town in their stupid leather interiored sensible car hold hands over the console, the man always drives and her hand is always on top, a gilded symbol of holy matrimony.
Every time people are sharing a bed (why people have to share a bed to advertise lotion or laundry detergent is beyond me) a ring is flashed. What married people do you know who loll around in bed all day? With their hands over the covers? Wearing jewelry?
Every mommy giving her new baby a bath in the sink is very careful to leave her rings on and the camera man is sure to focus in on her left hand that caresses her baby's pudding head. Really? Did you ever wear your rings when you had a newborn? Puke oozing between your wedding band and engagement ring, poop encrusted below your diamond, every prong a potential skin gasher?
Every daddy hanging out in underpants with his underpantsed son (this is why I shy away from Hanes. They still show little kids in their drawers) wears a ring.
It goes on and on and on. Pay attention when you're sitting in front of the tube tonight.
I'm still stuck on inferred messages. What kind of message are the ad execs sending?
And yes, I did say everything I said I said about the Hare in class and I also brought this up. I've been in class with these people for years, and they are only alarmed if I DON'T speak up. It was totally relevant. There was an ad for Courvoisier picturing Herbie Hancock dressed up fancy, rocks glass in an outstretched left hand, ring leading the way. The ad said, "I'm married, but I'm sexy. I'm taken, but get another one of these in both of us and we'll talk about that.". I'm not accusing Herbie of being an adulterer, I'm blaming the booze people for making him look that way.
What message are we sending to an unwed mother? She is just as capable of loving and caring for her baby as a married mom. What are we sending to those effected by venereal disease, married or not? Single people? Bedfellows without commitment ceremonies? Gay people? Children?
Is marriage really that important? Why? Can't we all just love one another and try to make our lives pleasurable? Can't we be good people/good parents/good sexual partners/good drivers if we aren't married to a member of the opposite sex? If we aren't married at all? If we are married and don't wear rings? I'm often mistaken for a single mom. Heads are shaken.
Or the opposite happens. People want to be my friend because they think I am living a similar lifestyle as they are, but when they find out I'm married they aren't interested in me anymore.
America really has to get over this.
And while I'm angry and spouting stuff that most people keep inside their brain, tune in later when I might talk about how I am furious at the alarming number (I didn't say ALL. Pitchforks down, please) of Holier than Thou Ultra-Conservative Religious Right Wingers who lack love, compassion, tolerance, and every other word that pertains to the message Jesus sends. Why are there more Atheists in my life doing God's Work than Christians doing WJWD? Why are so many of my Christian friends down on me for supporting basic human God-given rights? My Muslim friends don't seem to mind. My Buddhist buddies are into it. My friends who don't subscribe to any faith are the most selfless and eager to share what they have of them all. What is becoming of Christianity in America?
That is all. Something to think about/stew over on a sunny Sabbath.
4.03.2009
"well behaved women rarely make history"
I was sitting in class the other day, and we were discussing Intentional Communication, and the idea that so many things can be inferred by a simple statement, so watch your tongue/think before you speak/hold your body appropriately.
The facilitator brought up the fable of The Tortoise and the Hare. You're familiar, right? The rabbit thinks he can beat the turtle so he challenges him to a race, but the rabbit ends up making a few pit stops and while he does the turtle trudges ahead and beats him to the finish.
We had to brainstorm the messages in the story. Of course there is the big "slow and steady wins the race" moral of the story, and then there is the minor ones.
*over confidence will get you nowhere
*stick to the task at hand/ keep your nose to the grindstone
*keep your eye on the prize/ don't veer off course
*turtle good/ rabbit bad.
"Hold up". I said.
Because I always have something to say.
That's a bunch of crap. There is nothing I despise more than straight conformity and "lessons" that make us behave. Fitting in everywhere you go. Really? How do you stand out? How are you heard? How do you let go and be you for a little while if you are busy sitting on your laurels in the middle of the crowd on the straight and narrow path somewhere all the time?
Garbage.
Vanilla.
Useless.
The rabbit stopped for a nap. Without sleep we are nothing.
He stopped to check out a rose garden. Wouldn't you?
He stopped for a bite to eat. Bites give us strength.
He stopped in to see a friend. Friends give us everything.
So what he didn't win. It's a race. It's not that important. He seems to be doing okay in life. He's a damn rabbit who can communicate with turtles and navigate a community, for gadsake. Do you know what he must be capable of?
Being the Hare is only bad when you are forced to sit still or move slowly all day. When you are forced to obey. To serve. To submit. F that BS.
When you are a strong, productive, effective member of society, it is a virtue. You get a whole hell of a lot more done than the guy trudging along from start to finish. All the turtle did was walk down the street. The hare lived. Felt. Loved. Savored.
Take time to be a Hare. If only for a moment. Eat. Rest. Breathe. Cherish.
Half way through this post I remembered that I've kinda already said this stuff here. It must really get me. Right in the goat.
Obviously I don't believe in All Hare All the Time. We'd be a hot mess. But from time to time, stop listening to the Man and start listening to your heart.
Be Yourself.
The facilitator brought up the fable of The Tortoise and the Hare. You're familiar, right? The rabbit thinks he can beat the turtle so he challenges him to a race, but the rabbit ends up making a few pit stops and while he does the turtle trudges ahead and beats him to the finish.
We had to brainstorm the messages in the story. Of course there is the big "slow and steady wins the race" moral of the story, and then there is the minor ones.
*over confidence will get you nowhere
*stick to the task at hand/ keep your nose to the grindstone
*keep your eye on the prize/ don't veer off course
*turtle good/ rabbit bad.
"Hold up". I said.
Because I always have something to say.
That's a bunch of crap. There is nothing I despise more than straight conformity and "lessons" that make us behave. Fitting in everywhere you go. Really? How do you stand out? How are you heard? How do you let go and be you for a little while if you are busy sitting on your laurels in the middle of the crowd on the straight and narrow path somewhere all the time?
Garbage.
Vanilla.
Useless.
The rabbit stopped for a nap. Without sleep we are nothing.
He stopped to check out a rose garden. Wouldn't you?
He stopped for a bite to eat. Bites give us strength.
He stopped in to see a friend. Friends give us everything.
So what he didn't win. It's a race. It's not that important. He seems to be doing okay in life. He's a damn rabbit who can communicate with turtles and navigate a community, for gadsake. Do you know what he must be capable of?
Being the Hare is only bad when you are forced to sit still or move slowly all day. When you are forced to obey. To serve. To submit. F that BS.
When you are a strong, productive, effective member of society, it is a virtue. You get a whole hell of a lot more done than the guy trudging along from start to finish. All the turtle did was walk down the street. The hare lived. Felt. Loved. Savored.
Take time to be a Hare. If only for a moment. Eat. Rest. Breathe. Cherish.
~*~~**~~~***~~~**~~*~
Obviously I don't believe in All Hare All the Time. We'd be a hot mess. But from time to time, stop listening to the Man and start listening to your heart.
Be Yourself.
brim
I had a bout of insomnia last night and sneaked into Jake's room around 4 or so to watch him breathe and listen to his heartbeat. He was fast asleep and I was quiet as a mouse but about three steps in to his room he stirred and said "what is it mommy? is everything alright? are you okay?".
Oh come on! That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I don't know where he got it, he has never come into my bedroom in the middle of the night. Mostly because I tell him to stay in his room because it is dark and he could fall down the stairs and I'm not one to baby proof my house. It's good because he never does that creepy kid thing where it's dark and all of a sudden there is a face in your face but bad because he calls for me to help him into the bathroom. I'm constantly shooting myself in the foot with the rules I set.
It hit me the other day that I don't see much of my kid. The 150 minutes between 5pm and bedtime are so grueling sometimes that I didn't realize how few the minutes actually are. And morning? Forget it. Weekends I see enough of him to wear me out. Mostly.
That's sad.
Not so sad that I want to quit work, because I am not cut out for stay at home momming, but sad.
This morning the daycare lady called me about 5 minutes after I left. My heart dropped. She has never called me in the 3 years she has been caring for Jake.
Then she told me to hold on a minute. Panic.
Then Jake got on the phone "mommy i love you and i wanted to tell that to you one more time so we both have a good day. be safe and come back for me when you're done. i'll be here playing".
Holy crap. I don't know what con he pulled to make his lady drop breakfast time for 6 mouths to dial my number but I'm glad he's tricky like that.
Jake fills my heart and my soul and my life to the tip top. I don't need anything else. I don't want anything else. I don't think of anything else. When we are together the world melts away and I don't have to pay attention to anything other than him. My ears are closed to all other sounds. My eyes are closed to all other sights. I can only smell the top of his head and that spot behind his ear. I can only feel his grubby little hand in mine or his little body straddled over my hip. I still carry him every once in awhile because I like talking to him eye to eye. It's a quite spectacular way to spend a few hours per day, as long or as short as they seem.
I know that won't last forever, and when it starts to end I will do my best to fill my time with things I used to love, things I can show Jake are worthy of loving. Books and music and bumming around town doing nothing mostly. Cooking. Eating. Visiting with friends. Maybe we can do some of that together, but most likely we will do it apart. But then we can talk about it later. Or not.
That's how it goes.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
That's how I know I'm doing all this the right way.
Don't forget about my Fire Safety Give-away!
Oh come on! That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I don't know where he got it, he has never come into my bedroom in the middle of the night. Mostly because I tell him to stay in his room because it is dark and he could fall down the stairs and I'm not one to baby proof my house. It's good because he never does that creepy kid thing where it's dark and all of a sudden there is a face in your face but bad because he calls for me to help him into the bathroom. I'm constantly shooting myself in the foot with the rules I set.
It hit me the other day that I don't see much of my kid. The 150 minutes between 5pm and bedtime are so grueling sometimes that I didn't realize how few the minutes actually are. And morning? Forget it. Weekends I see enough of him to wear me out. Mostly.
That's sad.
Not so sad that I want to quit work, because I am not cut out for stay at home momming, but sad.
This morning the daycare lady called me about 5 minutes after I left. My heart dropped. She has never called me in the 3 years she has been caring for Jake.
Then she told me to hold on a minute. Panic.
Then Jake got on the phone "mommy i love you and i wanted to tell that to you one more time so we both have a good day. be safe and come back for me when you're done. i'll be here playing".
Holy crap. I don't know what con he pulled to make his lady drop breakfast time for 6 mouths to dial my number but I'm glad he's tricky like that.
Jake fills my heart and my soul and my life to the tip top. I don't need anything else. I don't want anything else. I don't think of anything else. When we are together the world melts away and I don't have to pay attention to anything other than him. My ears are closed to all other sounds. My eyes are closed to all other sights. I can only smell the top of his head and that spot behind his ear. I can only feel his grubby little hand in mine or his little body straddled over my hip. I still carry him every once in awhile because I like talking to him eye to eye. It's a quite spectacular way to spend a few hours per day, as long or as short as they seem.
I know that won't last forever, and when it starts to end I will do my best to fill my time with things I used to love, things I can show Jake are worthy of loving. Books and music and bumming around town doing nothing mostly. Cooking. Eating. Visiting with friends. Maybe we can do some of that together, but most likely we will do it apart. But then we can talk about it later. Or not.
That's how it goes.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
That's how I know I'm doing all this the right way.
~*~~**~~~***~~~**~~*~
Don't forget about my Fire Safety Give-away!
4.02.2009
rhythm
I refused to post anything on April Fools Day because you would have been "whatevs" about anything I said because I'm such a jokester. Not that I have anything new or controversial to share.
Although I did have a brief moment this morning when my ovary said, "hey Lora! You know, have you ever considered that you might actually like being a new mom the second time around?".
And I was all like "bitch, please. Babies are just like (I really really want to type "anal sex" right here but that is so incredibly wrong). I only need to do it once to know how I feel about it".
Motherhood is actually enjoyable now. It doesn't hurt anymore. I'll even admit that it feels good, now that I've figured out a way to do it that works. I don't want to mess it up by tossing something else in there just for the sake of novelty.
There ain't no degree of Spring Fever nor any datepage on my Lady Calendar that is going to convince me otherwise.
Jenn over at My Life with the Crazies!!! has awarded me with the Lemonade Award! Thank you so much Jenn, that totally made my day! You know the award is supposed to be handed out, but I'm totally cheating. It's my blog, and I can do what I want even though I feel terribly guilty about it. I'd rather send everyone over to my profile, and ask you to click randomly on a few of the blogs listed at the bottom. I don't follow junk, so I promise that even if it isn't something you would normally read, it will be good.
My blog is like Outback Steaks. No rules, just right.
And that's how I justify likening babies to buttsex.
And now I want to start a blog called Babies to Buttsex.
Or call the SAT people and ask them to add in a babies:buttsex question.
Although I did have a brief moment this morning when my ovary said, "hey Lora! You know, have you ever considered that you might actually like being a new mom the second time around?".
And I was all like "bitch, please. Babies are just like (I really really want to type "anal sex" right here but that is so incredibly wrong). I only need to do it once to know how I feel about it".
Motherhood is actually enjoyable now. It doesn't hurt anymore. I'll even admit that it feels good, now that I've figured out a way to do it that works. I don't want to mess it up by tossing something else in there just for the sake of novelty.
There ain't no degree of Spring Fever nor any datepage on my Lady Calendar that is going to convince me otherwise.
~*~~**~~***~~~**~~*~
Jenn over at My Life with the Crazies!!! has awarded me with the Lemonade Award! Thank you so much Jenn, that totally made my day! You know the award is supposed to be handed out, but I'm totally cheating. It's my blog, and I can do what I want even though I feel terribly guilty about it. I'd rather send everyone over to my profile, and ask you to click randomly on a few of the blogs listed at the bottom. I don't follow junk, so I promise that even if it isn't something you would normally read, it will be good.
My blog is like Outback Steaks. No rules, just right.
And that's how I justify likening babies to buttsex.
And now I want to start a blog called Babies to Buttsex.
Or call the SAT people and ask them to add in a babies:buttsex question.
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