Don't Bogart The Madness, My Friend

Bread*!

2010-04-18T17:10:00.023-04:00

People. Have I told you that cooking is not my forte? Don't get me wrong; I can follow a recipe, make basic dishes, even occasionally turn something out that makes my family ask for seconds. But throw in something like "capers" or "reducing" and all of the sudden I'm no longer in my comfy world of crockpots and cream of soups.

Just know I speak the hand to God truth when I say this will never, ever be a cooking blog.

But I have discovered this fabulously easy, holy crap that's freaking good recipe and I am feeling the need to share it. Trust me when I tell you that you need to make this recipe. Want to impress your family, friends and neighbors? Need to soften up your boss before asking for that raise? Longing to have a cooking one-up on your mother-in-law? This is it, people.

Bread.

Yes, bread. Simple, heart-warming, delicious, bread. Bread that you can make with your very own hands in your very own kitchen, no fancy tools required. Bread that will elicit moans of delight from the mouths of those you deign to share it with. Bread that you will want to make in double and triple quantities, because, hey, it really is that good.

I bow down to Trent at The Simple Dollar for posting this recipe. Trent, you have my taste-buds' undying love and devotion.

For those of you who are ~~anal retentive~~ detail oriented bakers such as myself, I am reposting the recipe here in easy-to-copy-and-paste-into-Word format.

I give you ... Bread.

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Ingredients
¼ cup milk
5 tsp sugar (or 1 ½ tbsp)
1 tsp salt
5 tsp butter (or 1 ½ tbsp)
1 package active dry yeast (21g or 2 ¼ tsp)
2 ½ to 3 ½ cups unbleached white flour
Corn starch or nonstick cooking spray (just used to prevent the bread from sticking to the bowl or pan)

Equipment
One large mixing bowl (a second one is useful, but optional – you can get by with one if you’re willing to wash it in the middle of the process)
One spoon to stir the dough
One ¼ or ½ measuring cup
One 1 tsp measuring spoon
One bread pan (i.e., meatloaf pan)
One hand towel to cover the bread dough as it rises

Directions

Warm up your mixing bowl – the best way to do that is to just fill it with hot water, then dump out the hot water, leaving the bowl rather warm. Mix up the yeast according to the directions on the packet (normal instructions are to add 1 c. water). Stir this until there are no lumps in the yeast. Let sit for 5 minutes.

Melt the butter in the microwave, then add it, the milk, the sugar, and the salt to the yeast liquid and stir it up until everything looks the same (a very light tan liquid). Then add two cups of flour to the mix – don’t add the rest yet. Your bowl should look something like what’s shown below, where the spoon is in the bowl.

Start stirring, and then add the flour about 1/4 cup at a time every minute or so. It will stick to the spoon big time at first – don’t worry about it. Keep stirring and adding flour until the dough is still slightly sticky, but it doesn’t stick to your hands in any significant way. Also, it should largely clean the sides of the bowl, leaving just a thin layer of floury stuff. It’ll look something like this:

Now comes the fun part: kneading. Take a bit of flour between your hands and then rub them together over the top of an area on the table where you’re going to knead the dough. Do this a few times until there’s an area on the table lightly covered in flour. Then grab the dough ball out of the bowl, slap it down on the table, and start beating on it. Do this for ten minutes. Just take the dough, punch it flat, then fold it back up into a ball again, and repeat several times. You can also take it in your hands and squeeze and twist it.

When the ten minutes are up, shape it into a ball (like shown below), then either clean up the bowl you were using before or get out another bowl. Coat the inside lightly with either corn starch or nonstick cooking spray, depending on your preference, then put the ball of dough inside the bowl.

Put a cloth over the bowl and sit it somewhere fairly warm for an hour. If you have a warming area on your stove top, that’s a great place to put it – set the warming area on as low as it will go, as I’m doing in the picture above. This is a good time to clean everything else and put the stuff away, but leave the flour out and the floured area on your table untouched.

Here’s what the dough looks like before rising ...

... and then an hour later after rising, still in the bowl:

It should be roughly double the size that it was before, but don’t sweat it too much if it’s larger or smaller than that, as long as it rose at least some amount.

Punch the dough down (three or four good whacks will cause it to shrink back down to normal), then lay the dough out on the floured area and spread it out in a rectangle shape, with one side being roughly the length of the bread pan and the other side being about a bread pan and a half long.

You may need to put a bit more flour on it and on the table to prevent sticking. Then, roll it up! The roll should be roughly the same size as the bread pan, as shown below.

Tuck the ends of the roll underneath, with the “under” side being where the seam is. Then spray the bread pan down with nonstick cooking spray (or coat it with cornmeal) and put the loaf inside of the pan.

Cover that loaf up with the towel, put it back where it was before, and wait another hour. This is a good time to clean everything up, then go do something else fun. The loaf should raise some more:

Put the loaf in the oven at 400 degrees Fahrenheit (200 degrees Celsius) for thirty minutes. When it’s done, pull it out and immediately remove it from the pan to cool. It’ll look something like this, hopefully:

Let it cool down completely before slicing.

(If you copy this into Word, you're going to have some extra spaces. But once you delete them, it should be ready to print!)

****************************************

It's so easy to tweak this recipe just a bit and get some unbelievably good variations. Prior to the roll-up step, add cinnamon and sugar to turn your bread into a mouth-watering dessert. Or replace the salt with garlic salt, and prior to roll-up add Italian seasoning (and maybe some parmesan cheese) for the perfect pasta accompaniment. Personally, next time I'm going to add sugar and cocoa because really, you can't go wrong with chocolate.

Let me know how yours turns out ... bon appétit!

*Props to Marcus for cementing this word in my mind forever, along with the laughter and good memories that come with it. Long live D&D nerds! ;-)

The Tale of The Bed and The Condom (it's not what you're thinking)

2010-04-13T16:20:00.012-04:00

Memory foam is a fabulous invention.

Memory foam mattress pads are even better. Like sleeping on a wee bit o' fluffy heaven.

Until, that is, you add children who like to sleep with their parents but still occasionally wet the bed. Oh, and cats who act out in stress by peeing on your sheets.

At that point, your wee bit o' fluffy heaven becomes a big effing piece of shit from hell. It sucks up the pee smell and it's impossible to clean, and when you try to clean it anyway it's impossible to dry, and it's OMG WHY THE HELL DID WE EVER BUY THIS THING?!?

So.

After one episode of goddamn-it-why-aren't-you-in-your-own-bed child pee and three episodes of stressed-out cat pee in the space of exactly 6 days, we decided that we needed to either really clean the thing or just get rid of it already. I don't know about you, but sleeping with the enchanting smell of urine under my toes is just not high on my list of best ways to spend my down time.

After pouring about a gallon of Nature's Miracle on it, the pad had evolved into smelling like chemical-treated urine. So. Awesome. We made the last-ditch decision to pull it off the bed and clean it in the bathtub, using the shower head to soak it thoroughly in the desperate hope that we wouldn't have to throw $125 of "innovative, hypo-allergenic, temperature-smart, open-cell therapeutic foam*" out the window. Or, out the slider and off the deck, if you will.

We spent about an hour wrestling the damn thing into the tub and soaking it down. I'll tell you what, if I ever live in a house where basement flooding is a problem, I'll just line the floors with memory foam. That crap sucks up water like nobody's business. We did our best to (very, very carefully) dry it out, but after almost another hour of employing every drying technique we could think of, we still had a water-logged, 500-pound behemoth on our hands. Oy.

But! A genius plan came bubbling up out of the depths of my ~~foolhardy~~ brain. For the sake of fun and adventure**, we hefted the dripping pad back in the bedroom, on top of the bed. No, we did not put it directly on the mattress. Come on, do you really think we're that stupid?

You know what? Don't even go there. Do not even go there, people.

Anyway, we laid it on top of a couple sheets so that we could spread it out nice and flat. Then we proceeded to suck every last drop of water out with our fabulous, industrial-strength steam cleaner. Quick as a wink, our pad was good as new and ready for us to lay down for a stink-free good night's sleep.

Or, maybe - just maybe - my genius plan of using the steam cleaner did not work out quite so well. And maybe - just maybe - it took us another hour of hard labor to admit that. And maybe - just maybe, people - we ended up dragging it back into the tub with the admittedly stupid idea that it would just dry on its own. For thirty two days. But whatever.

Either way, in the end, we had ourselves a clean, dry, non-smelly mattress pad.

{pause for applause}

(Hey, I applauded, okay?)

(Quit looking at me like that.)

The night we declared the pad to be bedworthy, I announced to my husband that I had purchased a new mattress accessory. Voilà! Enter the queen size vinyl mattress protector! We had a ~~huge fight~~ ~~loud argument~~ ~~heated discussion~~ nice chat about the pros and cons of topping memory foam with a layer of vinyl. Despite his reluctance, N gracefully bowed to my request that we try putting the vinyl on top of the pad, where it would actually do some good in the event of yet another urine-fest. Or, I may have possibly said something snotty along the lines of the vinyl would go on top or the pad would go in the trash right then and there. I'm not really sure. Details, they slip my mind at times.

Lying in bed that night, after weeks of sleeping on an incredibly uncomfortable mattress, I blissfully reveled in the return of my beloved wee bit o' fluffy heaven. Sleepily, I turned to N and cuddled close. He lovingly put his arms around me before speaking.

"This mattress protector ... "

"Yes?" I yawned. "It isn't as bad as all that now, is it. Admit it, you can barely feel the thing." Even 90% asleep, I feel the need to not only be right, but also have the last word about it.

"It's ... it's ... it's like we've put a condom on our memory foam."

I laughed so hard, I peed.

*So says the Product Description on Amazon***
**aka, sheer stubbornness
***I may have manipulated the Product Description a smidge for the purposes of this post

Red

2010-04-01T09:50:00.013-04:00

Beyond Snapshots is giving away a gorgeous red Lola epiphanie camera bag. They asked for photo entries that represent red.

This is Kays, warming up after a couple hours of Christmas tree hunting. To me, this is what red means ... holidays, soft sweaters, cute hats, sweetheart lips, and that hint of color in the cheeks of a child who has been playing in the crisp, cold winter air.

Go here to enter your own snapshot for a chance to win the bag - but know if you do, I might be forced sneak into your house one night and steal it. 'Cause, yeah, it's that awesome.

You can see a much clearer copy of this pic on my Flickr page. Blogger is not so hot on the uploading of the photos.

Please Call Back When Someone Nicer Is Available To Speak With You

2010-03-31T09:01:00.006-04:00

Ring ring ...

Me: "Science Department*, this is Jennifer."

Old Man: "Yes, can I speak with Barbie Balooma?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know who that is; there's no one in our department by that name."

{Confused laugh} "Oh, okay, sorry, bye."

"Good bye."

(5 minutes later)

Ring ring ...

"Medicinal Chemistry, this is Jennifer."

"Hi, I need to speak to Barbie Balooma."

"I'm sorry sir, you just called here and I couldn't help you. Are you looking for someone in the Higher Education Science department?"

"No, she's in the Finance department."

"Well, this is Science. If you have internet access, you can go to www.collegename.edu and look up her name in the search bar on the home page."

{Very confused Old Man voice} "Hmmm, I guess I'm just doing everything wrong here! Okay, well, then, good bye."

"Good bye."

(2 minutes later)

(Conscience gets the best of me; I look up 'Balooma' and 'Barbie' before hitting paydirt on 'Barby' - it's Bamahloo, by the way)

Ring ring ...

"Hello?"

"Hello, sir, you just called me asking for Barby Bamahloo. I was able to look up her number and would be happy to give it to you."

"Oh, if you would look it up for me, that would be great!"

"I already looked it up for you sir; I have it right here."

"Oh, well, just let me get a pen, hold on just a second ..."

(click)

*headdesk*

(2 minutes later)

(Feeling pissy)

{Sigh}

{Grab phone}

{Begin dialing}

{Phone rings on my end}

{Switch to ringing line}

"Science Department, this is Jennifer."

"Hi, you just called me but I disconnected you."

"Yes, yes you did. Are you ready for the number?"

"I'm ready, go ahead."

"It's 555-123-4567."

"55 ... what?"

"555. 123."

{repeats} "555. 1 ... ?"

"1. 2. 3."

{repeats} "555. 123. Okay."

"4. 5."

{repeats} "4. 5."

"6."

{repeats} "6."

"7."

{repeats} "7?"

"Yes, 7."

"555-123-4567?"

"You've got it sir."

"555-123-4567. Okay, thank you so much sweety!"

{eyeroll} "Mmm-hmmm. Have a great day."

"Buh bye!"

(click)

I get karma points for that, don't I? Please tell me I do.

*Names have been changed to protect the bitchy

Hello, My Name is Jenn and I'm ...

2010-03-25T11:57:00.022-04:00

... ? I don't know about you, but I just can't finish that statement with a few pithy words. I'm pretty sure that I'm not alone in my multi-facetedness - doesn't everyone have a lot going on with their personality? No? Just me? Well, alrighty then. Why don't I list a few things that make me such an *ahem* interesting person, and you can pick and chose whichever ones make your skirt fly up, mmmkay?

... a reader. And I don't just mean someone who reads books, I mean someone who would breathe the printed word if possible. I took a test today (yay for the Internets!) and learned that I read at 750 words per minute. If that doesn't mean anything to you, well, we really can't be friends now, can we.

... a smidge bit stubborn. And by smidge, I mean unbelievably. Don't tell my husband I admitted that. I blame my dad. Don't tell my dad I said that.

... an overly proud parent. I'm sure all my Facebook friends are tired of hearing about my two incredible, smart, beautiful, talented, amazing children. Too bad. That's what the hide button is for, guys.

... a dog trainer. Part-time only, due to the necessity of having room for another job that actually pays the bills. I love dog training. I hate people. Surprisingly, this does not cause problems as often as one might think it would. Clients tell me I'm great (shut up! they do!), but after 3 years of training, working with hundreds of dogs of all breeds, ages, and behavior issues, I still occasionally feel like I have no idea what I am doing. Please do not read the previous sentence if you are interested in hiring me.

... a full-time executive assistant. And I just got interrupted by work. Really, the things they expect of me around here.

... a fallen-away Catholic. Baptism, First Communion, Confirmation, and Church Marriage all under my belt, and here I sit, feeling completely apathetic about ever going to mass again. In my world, being gay is not a choice and everyone deserves the right to get married. I think that abortions within the first 4 months should be legal, because it's not my right to impose my religious beliefs ("life begins at conception") on anyone else. Yeah. Not so much fitting in with the Catholic crowd these days.

... a person who believes in ghosts, psychic powers, and aliens. After seeing Sheena as a child, I spent years believing I could talk to animals. Some days, I still do. What?

... a pill-popping downer. Don't worry, the pill-popping cancels out the downer part. That's what my doctor says anyway.

... an obsessor, with no ability to let things go. Especially when those things are me doing something stupid and/or embarrassing. Or when I get utterly screwed over by random store employees. Have I told you the Hollywood Video story? Let's go with the short version, which is that I am on year 10 of my Hollywood Video boycott. Fuck those fuckers. (Mom, if you're reading this, please edit the last sentence to 'darn those meanies.' And put the bar of soap down, okey dokey?)

... a statistic in the 'morbidly obese' column. I don't know what the hell I'm going to do about that. Lord knows I need to do something.

... a dreamer. I dream of being an author, editor, crazy cat lady, and lazy woman of leisure. I dream of having a home with built-in bookcases in every room, including the kitchen and all bathrooms. I dream of getting 9-10 hours of sleep per night on a regular basis. I dream of the Pacific Ocean, Magic Mountain, and Claim Jumper. I dream that I am sitting at work and all of the sudden get this overwhelming urge to ... you know what? Never mind.

... a woman with little tolerance for females of the happy clappy persona. I am not interested in befriending someone who farts rainbows and shits sunshine. Come now, sit here on the bitchy bench with me. Isn't that better?

... a straight-arrow. The anti-partier. Bor. Ing. I'm just too old/tired/fat/broke to be fun.

... an odd duck. I can't listen to someone's voicemail without leaving a message. I only like even numbers, especially when it comes to setting my alarm or the microwave. I'm anal-retentive at work but a complete slob at home, even though the results of my slobbiness drive me insane. I want to be more liked, and am seriously annoyed with myself for the wanting. My Sahara-Desert-dry skin sucksass but I can't be bothered with lotion. Random smells make me gag, but I can handle my kids' vomit without blinking. Oh, did I go a bit too far there? Oops.

... a girl whose brother is dead. It's been seven years, and I still haven't learned to live without him.

... a wife and mother. Most days, I feel that I am not particularly good at being these things. My husband and kids kind of got screwed. Sorry guys.

... a Pampered Chef hostess currently having a catalog party. Want to buy some cookware?

Diary of a Snow Shoveler

2010-01-05T13:09:00.005-05:00

Being a So Cal transplant here in Virginia, I rather enjoy the snow. The majority of my friends and neighbors hate it. We don't usually get much, but this winter there has been a lot more than normal. So I'm sending out this little piece of humor to all my local friends who tell me I'm crazy for loving the snow, and my back-home friends who are jealous that we are getting snowed-in :-).

DIARY OF A SNOW SHOVELER

December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses Print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9 - We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a lovelier place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snow plough came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life!

December 12 - The sun has melted all our lovely snow ... such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14 - Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snow plough came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15 - 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

December 16 - Ice storm this morning. Fell on my rear on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17 - Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. God I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20 - Electricity's back on, but had another 14 inches of the darn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The dam snow plough came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22 - Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white crap fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to pee. By the time I got undressed, peed and dressed again, I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob who has a plough on his truck for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the butthole is lying.

December 23 - Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she did but I think she's lying.

December 24 - 6 inches. Snow packed so hard by snow plough, I broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snow plough, I'll drag him through the snow by his balls and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was too busy watching for the darn snow plough.

December 25 - Merry frisking Christmas! 20 more inches of the darn slop tonight - we're snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God, I hate the snow! Then the snow plough driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a frisking idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to stuff her into the microwave.

December 26 - Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27 - Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $1,400 to replace all my pipes.

December 28 - Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. My WIFE is driving me crazy!!!

December 29 - 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30 - Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plough driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars, not only the beating I gave him but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel up his BUTT. The wife went home to her mother. 9 more inches predicted.

December 31 - I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8 - Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

OMG OMG OMG I WON! Sort of.

2009-08-06T09:05:00.014-04:00

I entered a story contest and I WON I WON I WON HOLYCRAP I WON†!!!

†Disclaimer: Don't get too excited. Read more.

Goodnites, a type of pull-ups for older kids who are still having problems staying dry at night, is currently running a contest that asks people to share special bedtime moments, routines, tips, etc. The set-up on their website is:

The few moments you share with your child at bedtime – whether reading a chapter of a favorite book, making up a fairytale or wishing your child sweet dreams with a kiss – can become moments treasured and remembered forever.

If you have a special bedtime routine, story, moment and/or tip, we want to hear from you. Your entry could be selected and featured as a weekly "Bedtime Moment of the Week," and you will be entered for a chance to win a Grand Prize bedroom makeover for your child, an inviting space to share more lasting memories together.

By sharing your special bedtime moment, you’ll help parents who may be in the dark over nighttime issues with their kids, like bedwetting, put the focus back on what really matters at night. Help us shine a light on special bedtime moments.

You can enter once per day, as many times as you like over the course of the contest. I entered three stories; my first entry apparently sucked*, as it was delegated to the sad, dusty little corner of nothingness reserved for, well, supremely sucky stories. My second entry was a bit better - it was chosen as a "featured moment" in Week 2, which means it was close but no cigar (or, in this case, no $25 Amazon gift card).

BUT.

BUT!

My last entry was chosen as the WINNER! of Week 4.

That's right people. WINNER!

As a weekly WINNER!, I am now eligible to win one of the two $2500 grand prize awards, which, according to the official rules, is a check that "may be used toward a children’s bedroom makeover."

Think about that.

10 weekly winners. 2 checks.

Nice odds, no?

Well, it would be if odds mattered. Sadly, it's not that easy. Dammit. The grand prizes will not be awarded by random drawing of weekly WINNERS! Apparently, that's too boring, too dull, too unfun for the ~~bastards~~ folks down at Goodnites. Instead, the weekly WINNERS! will be judged against each other, using the same criteria that made us WINNERS! in the first place: Originality (25%), Creativity (25%) and Relevance to Bedtime (50%).

So instead of a 20% chance to win $2500, I am now thrown to the ~~sharks~~ judges, my sweet little story up for discussion and dissection against nine other ~~crappy~~ ~~not as good~~ equally worthy WINNERS!.

The grand prize winners will be chosen "on or around" August 15th. Oh goodie. That gives me at least 10 more days of obsessing and stressing and nerves and re-reading my story over and over again and ~~plotting to off the other WINNERS!~~ ~~devising a way to bribe the judges~~ hoping against hope that my story wins. Because really, it's not about the $2500. It's not!

It's. Not.

Okay, well it is a little bit. But mostly, it's about receiving validation that my story, *my writing*, is good. Good enough to stand up to judgement and come out on top.

Huh. Do you know how hard it is to blog with all of your fingers crossed?

www.goodnites.com/na/Contest/WinnersList-Archive.aspx

*Despite the judges' judgy judgyness, I stand by my first entry. It is most definitely better than quite a few of the ones picked as featured moments, and in my completely unbiased opinion it is in all reality more than worthy of being a WINNER! Obviously, the judgy judging judges** got it all wrong that week.

**This is no way refers to the top-notch, discerning judges of Week 4.

Sit. Stay. Good blog reader.

2009-07-31T14:26:00.027-04:00

Okay, so my last entry was a wee bit depressing. I get that way sometimes. What can I say? I'm over it. Nothing more to see here, people, move along, move along. Let us all forage ahead into this (new and much less emoish and/or low-on-meds) (but high on parentheses) post. I'll hold your hand, I promise.

Did you know that I'm a dog trainer? No? I am forced to point out that you must have been remiss in reading my profile. Go ahead, go check it out. I'll wait.

...

Yeah, it's short. I'm not one for going on and on when a few succinct sentences will do, as I'm sure you can tell by my concise, to-the-point, no frills previous entries.

What?

Anyway, I fell into dog training when I needed a p/t job that would allow me to work around my husband's (then normal) working hours. My dilemma came in the fact that I'd rather clean all the bathrooms in Grand Central Station with my tongue* than work in customer service, yet I also keenly felt the need to avoid living in a cardboard box, screening my cell phone calls for creditors and my mother-in-law.

So.

Being left with few options, I jumped on the opportunity to apply for the dog training position open at my local PetSmart. The minor detail that I'd never owned a dog didn't slow me down in the slightest. After all, how hard could it be? I lied my way through the interview and Voilà! A new job was all mine.

Two years later, I left PetSmart as quote "the best trainer they'd ever had" unquote (thank you Manager Joe, you are obviously a man of keen and savvy business sense) to become the head trainer at my local humane society. Not only the head trainer, but also the program creator and curriculum writer. People, they *headhunted* me. I'm, like, all in charge and stuff. SO. RAD.

I no longer have to lie about my experience. Well, not much. There is still that bit about how I got started in the dog training world. Seriously, you expect me to tell clients I learned from PetSmart? Ha. Dream on.

The coolest thing is I *love* training. I dream of making training my full-time job, which due to the low pay for all non-Totally-Overboard-Dog-Whisperers and/or non-English-Dominatrix-But-Somehow-Still-Cute people such as myself, will not happen until my husband is recognized for the genius he is and given an approximately 92.8% raise. For now, I toil away the days as an Executive Secretary (impressive, no?) and spend my (precious little) spare time working hard as a free-lance trainer.

>>Note: You know that saying "choose a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life"? Two words: totalcompleteabsoluteutter bullshit. Missed the mark on that one, Confucius, my friend. Reeaaalllly missed the mark.<<

I've begun branching out to working with private clients and teaching things like agility and therapy training. Of course, I still have my classes at the humane society; my little program has taken off and is doing quite well for itself. Clients love me and are recommending me left and right. Well, maybe just left. ANYWAY. Point being, I'm making a (small, inconsequential) name for myself in my little town. Yee haw!

(If you ever tell anyone I said yee haw, I'll hunt you down and teach your dog to pee on your leg.)

(Don't doubt me. I have the power**.)

This past weekend, due to the (spectacular) behavior of dog that I (spectacularly) trained, I interviewed with a local vet who wants to be able to recommend a (spectacular) trainer to her clients in need. As a result of said interview, I now have a vet pimping my services. *And* she wants to me to run classes at her clinic.

I so rock.

I made business cards (which I would love to share with y'all because I worked really hard on them and they look freaking awesome and professional and not homemade at all but seeing as how they have my phone number on them I think I'll take Paranoid Interweb Guidelines and Why You Should Never Post Personal Info for $1000, Alex) and I am working on a tri-fold flyer (flier?) showcasing all my (spectacular) training services. I need to come up with hourly prices and packages and shiny pictures and a website and reference quotes from previous clients and OH MY GOD I'M A REAL PROFESSIONAL NOW.

GAH.

I must needs go locate a mop, as my head has just exploded.

*gold star if you can name that one
**gold star and a cherry on top for that one

Living With the Lack of Me

2009-07-28T21:34:00.023-04:00

On a random whim today I looked up an old childhood friend. We're talking from waaaay back, like pre-k back, childhood BFF. I figured it would be pretty much impossible to find her because, really, it's a big big world (points to anyone who knows that one) and her name isn't all that uncommon. Imagine my surprise when I was able to track her down in less than 30 minutes, and confirm it was definitely her in less than an hour. You know why?

Because she has a career.

Because she has made something of herself.

Because she has done something with her life that has actually had impact.

I'll admit it helped that she's still using her maiden name. But basically, she's worked hard and her name is out there for all the world to see.

I had a fleeting thought about contacting her but dismissed that readily. After all, what would I say to her? "Hi, not to be stalkerish or anything, but this is the girl you were friends with back in preschool. I moved away, we kept in touch for a few years, letters, visits, blah blah, do you remember me? You do? Awesome. How did I find you? Oh, well, your career in the sports world made it pretty easy for me to track you down. No, I swear I'm not a stalker! You just kinda randomly popped into my head and I decided to see if I could find you, just to say hi. No, I've got nothing better to do. No, I pretty much don't have a life. You do? Well okay then, have a good one, gotta go, bye!"

Yeah. That wouldn't be awkward at all.

Honestly though, there was no way in hell I was going to drop her an email. And my whole instantaneous rejection of the idea of contacting her got me to thinking. Why? What would be so bad about just sending a short-but-sweet message?

But I knew why.

I don't want to tell her about my life. I don't want to admit that while she went to college on a gymnastics scholarship, I had a baby at 17 and trashed my high school GPA. I don't want to admit that while she earned her bachelor's degree, I chose to work full-time at some random job and dropped out of community college. I don't want to admit that while she built a career and worked on her master's degree, I continued to flounder around in the working world, trying to make my way up the administrative assistant ladder. I don't want to admit that while she followed her dreams, I let mine die, smothered under the weight of bills and jobs and family responsibilities.

I am ashamed of myself.

I feel like that's a horrible thing to say. After all, I am completely blessed. I have an amazing, utterly wonderful husband. He is my heart and my soul and the love we have is more than I ever dreamed possible. I have two gorgeous, healthy, incredible children. They are my living, breathing miracles, the personification of everything that is wondrous in this world. The three of them are, quite simply, everything to me.

Material things? Got those too. A home. A job, a car, cable and a cell phone. A laptop with high-speed internet connection. I may be on a budget, but at least there's enough money in my bank account to create a budget. I'm going on vacation next month, for God's sake.

My life is not bereft.

But the things in my life that I am proud of, the things that I feel lucky about, did not come from me. They are not things I had to work for. Not things I earned or achieved. Everything that is good in my life was given to me; whether by fate or a quirk or the grace of God, everything important has come to me without any effort on my part.

But my education? Nothing. Wasted potential. My career? Non-existent. Wasted potential.

Just ... wasted. I've done nothing with myself. Nothing my parents can be proud of, nothing for my children to look up to, nothing for my husband to brag about.

Nothing that gives me an ounce of satisfaction with myself, with my efforts. I can't even say, hey, I tried dammit. Because I didn't try. I just dropped out. I feel like such a loser, sitting here at almost 32 years old with no education and no career.

It sucks.

Of all the things that make me unhappy about myself - my weight, my fitness, my housekeeping ability, my appearance, my bumbling social skills - my lack of a college degree and career are the only things that I feel like I had 100% control over and simply blew. Things could have been so different, if only ... if only.

It's all on me.

There are no excuses. Nothing for me to hide behind. No one for me to blame but myself. I stand alone, pulled down by the weight of my own shortcomings.

The thought of shouldering these regrets for the rest of my life makes me want to sink down to the ground and weep. The weight of this burden is unbearable heavy, yet I see no way to change this outcome. I am held fast by the extraordinary realities of my life - chains that I willingly embrace and clutch tightly to my heart. I unequivocally refuse to give up an inch of what I have been given.

But oh, the yearning, the sheer ache, for what could have, should have, been earned.

Blogging on Blogs

2009-07-15T12:11:00.010-04:00

In case you are looking for some insight to my character, I thought I'd post my daily internet "must reads" for your perusing pleasure. I am quite sure that clicking on these links will open a whole new world of understanding for you in regards to who I really am, my loves and hates, my passions and my obsessions, what drives me and what makes me the shining light of humanity that I truly am.

Or hey, it'll give you something to do if you're bored.

othejoys.blogspot.com
I love sarcastic humor, and this blogger has it in spades. But although she writes about her children and her life as mommy bloggers tend to do, she also throws in some wonderful gems that are insightful and thought-provoking, and have nothing to do with the joys of parenthood. An (almost) daily poster, you can't help but be envious of her ability to pull a great post out of just about any situation.

http://www.blogantagonist.com/
A total non-mom blog. This blogger writes about anything and everything, which although includes stories about her two sons and her life as a stay-at-home mom, it also showcases her thoughts on gays, education, politics, music, and life in general. Quite possibly my favorite blog.

http://www.mattlogelin.com/
Matt Logelin's wife, Liz, gave birth to their first child (Maddy) and died 27 hours later. This blog is all about his life as a widowed father. Matt is a fabulous writer and photographer, and his blog brings both laughs and heartache on a regular basis.

themeanestmom.blogspot.com
Now this is a mom blog, and it's one of the best! Jana Matthews is a stay-at-home mom with 4 kids, 3 of which were born a mere 8 months apart (a daughter and twin boys). She's got a parenting style that her kids hate but other moms love, and she writes about their day-to-day life in hilarious excerpts. Plus she's constantly giving cool stuff away - what's not to love?!

http://www.joyunexpected.com/
Y, the blogger at Joy Unexpected, posts about life in L.A. (that's California, not Louisiana, people) as a stay-at-home mom with three kids. She struggles with her body image, weight loss, and other typical women's issues, and she writes about them in a compelling, honest way that just draws you in. Y never pulls any punches, and her impact is a great one.

barefootfoodie.com
I just recently started reading Barefoot Foodie. This blogger had a baby a few months ago, so her posting has slowed down a bit. Still, when she manages to hit the internets, she makes up for her lack of posting with her no-holds-barred, most-people-only-talk-about-this-stuff-when-they're-trashed, be-careful-you-don't-snarf-on-your-keyboard style. Awesome ... and not for the faint-hearted or easily offended!

http://www.mcknob.com/
I was originally drawn to Crystal when I stumbled across a link to her Crazy Chronicles, the autobiography of her terribly difficult, sometimes disastrous, life. The CCs are extremely heart breaking and extraordinarily compelling. But what keeps me coming back are her 'everyday life' posts, full of self-deprecating, sarcastic humor. This is a chick who isn't afraid to laugh at herself (or her husband, kids, and anyone else she encounters that lends her some blog fodder).

iservethequeens.blogspot.com
Jen is a beautiful writer who draws pictures and tugs on heart strings with her words, but is so down-to-earth that you want to chill out with her over beer and pizza. She draws you in to her world and leaves you with the hope that tomorrow is always a better day.

http://www.dietgirl.org/
Shauna lost 165 pounds - half of her body weight! She blogged about it on the way, and now as a successful loser, she continues upon her journey of life, love, and maintaining diet happiness. She's funny and real, and more than worth the read even if you're not a card-carrying member of Weight Watchers.

crasspollination.blogspot.com
A departure from my norm, this is a blog authored by an ER nurse. Skewering doctors, patients, and co-workers alike, Nurse K brings to life the most ridiculous, annoying, and downright absurd realities of the ER. Occasionally her medical jargon is over my head, but for the most part she's right on the level of the layest of lay persons.

cakewrecks.blogspot.com
"When professional cakes go horribly, hilariously wrong." So says the subtitle of this blog, and it's an apt description. Jen does a fabulous job of adding witty and entertaining running commentary to go along with the pics of the Cakes from Hell. Good times.

notalwaysright.com
Customer service sucks because customers suck. Read hysterical, true stories about customers from hell told from the employee's side of the counter.

failblog.org
Ever had something go completely wrong? FAIL. Ever witnessed something ridiculously, stupidly wrong? FAIL. Ever want to be highly entertained by these sorts of things? FAIL BLOG. 'Nuff said.

http://www.fmylife.com/
Fmylife stands for f**k my life. And why might some one's life be f**ked? Read all about it here. Prepare to laugh your ass off at other people's miseries.

Life in Haiku

2009-06-17T13:31:00.008-04:00

Alarm goes off, yawn
Headless chicken, that is me
Crazy rush - still late

I sit at my desk
Wandering the web like mad
Still so very bored

To work at what makes
Us happy, lucky are the
Few who manage it

Want to edit books
Or even better, write them
Dreams die over time

My husband on nights
10 minutes is all I get
While I am on days

The hypocrisy
Trainer's dog barks at the door
Won't you please shut up?

More hypocrisy
Trainer's dog craps on the floor
Send him to the farm

Numbers on the scale
Disgust and demoralize
Give me the ice cream

Landscaping, windows
Paint, floors, bathroom remodel
Home improvement dreams

They say money can't
Buy happiness; my response?
What total bullshit

I don't ask for much
New books, the beach, time alone
Must go play lotto

Come live near me and
Be my friend, or at least a
Cheap babysitter

Piles of laundry
Sit silent yet accusing
Please God, send a maid

Must give credit to
The man who blogs over here
Spread the haiku love

Good Thing They Aren't This Cute All The Time

2009-06-01T22:44:00.005-04:00

Kays: Mom, why does JT have to do everything I do? I don't want him to follow me around and copy me all the time.

Me: Honey, people only imitate others when they think that person is the best. JT wants to be just like you because he thinks you're the awesomest.

Kays (pure wonder in her voice): JT, is that true? Do you really think I'm awesome?

JT (big grin): Kays, you are the bestest awesomest!

Kays (big eyed and amazed): Ooooooh! {Gets up and runs around the table, kisses her brother on the cheek}

JT: I love you Kays.

Kays: I love you too! {Gives him another kiss and a huge, neck-strangling hug}

Me: {heart melts}

Kays (to me): I gave him two kisses because he loves me and I love him and I am an angel.

JT: I am an angel too!

Me: {heart drips onto floor}

Kays: JT, quit copying me!

Me: {heart reforms rather quickly} {sigh}

The Butterfly

2009-05-31T00:30:00.031-04:00

This post is in honor of a butterfly. I took from this butterfly the chance to die peacefully, and I owe it more than a blog post. But this is all I have.

This is not a funny post. It is not tongue-in-cheek. It is, perhaps, overly dramatic, but it's also an accurate reflection of my feelings this evening. I'm sure that most people reading this will roll their eyes and/or think I'm crazy, and that's fine. I may one day look back at this and do the same. But for tonight, at least, this is what my heart needs to share.

We got our kids a butterfly habitat for Christmas and despite their protests, it sat empty through the cold winter. Finally, with Spring's arrival, we were able to send in the order for the caterpillars. They got here last week and we watched four fat, fuzzy caterpillars spin chrysalises (is it spin? create? develop?). I followed the directions and carefully attached the chrysalises to the side of the mesh wall, and we all waited patiently for them to emerge as painted ladies. They hatched sometime between last night and 1:00 this afternoon, when I checked on them for the first time today. Three of the four were out of the chrysalises, with two of them looking beautiful. The third, though, was laying on it's back on the bottom of the house. I knew this was a very bad thing. It wasn't moving; I guessed it had possibly starved to death ... ? I wasn't sure, but I knew I didn't want the kids to see one of their precious butterflies dead. I slid a piece of paper underneath it and was startled when it started kicking. Changing tactics, I spent a couple minutes trying to get it on it's feet, knowing it could not stay on it's back/wings. One of the others started fluttering around, freaking me out because I had the damn house door open and God forbid it fly out.

My hands were shaky, nervous of hurting it while trying to help it, worried I might let the other two out. I finally got it on its feet, placed near the mesh wall in the hopes that it would climb up high like the others. It didn't try to climb, though, and I saw that it's wings were bent and much smaller than they should be. I hopped on the internet, hoping that maybe it would still be okay. I knew better, really, but I didn't want to admit it. However, multiple websites confirmed my fear - butterflies who fall to the ground before their wings are dry will die. Their wet wings can't touch anything or they won't be able to properly spread out. Deformed wings = dead butterfly. But one website said that if the butterfly can climb up onto something, like a twig, it may be okay. It also said the twigs should be in place before the butterflies emerged, but whatever, it was too late for that. I grabbed a stick out of the yard and spend several nerve-wracking minutes trying to get this little butterfly on top of it. The poor thing kept falling off and I was worried that I was damaging it even more. I finally got it to stay on and tried to position the stick in a way that would allow the butterfly to eat (there were some sugar-water-soaked tissues on the floor of the house). I thought I had it set but after I got the door zipped shut I saw that I apparently pinned the butterfly's extremities between the stick and the tissue. So I reopened the door and started all over. I *finally* got it situated and was able to observe it eating. I was also able to see that it was missing half of one antennae and that one wing is definitely bent, almost wrinkled over on itself. It was obviously very damaged and there was no way it would survive.

I was then faced with a dilemma - should I leave it in the house until it died? Take it outside? What would I tell the kids? They had already seen all three; the dying one had been on its feet on the floor at that point, so it hadn't looked bad to them. Earlier we talked about the fact that sometimes butterflies don't emerge from the chrysalis, but this was different ... they knew it had already been "born" and they didn't know it was hurt. If they saw it dead, well, there's a big difference between just being told that a pet has died and actually seeing it lying there. Maybe I was unduly worried, but Kays loves animals of every kind and gets perhaps overly attached to anything living in our house - even the ladybugs that for some reason congregate in her room. I really felt like this was not something she needed to see.

So despite the fact that I finally had the damn thing in a good final resting place, I decided to take it outside. I went through the arduous process of getting the stick out of the house with the butterfly still on it - picture a lot more falling off and stress - then I grabbed a sugar-water tissue and headed outside. I walked around the yard for several minutes, trying desperately to find a safe place for the butterfly to rest until it died. The biggest problem was the tissue; I knew it would attract ants and other insects, and the thought of the butterfly being eaten alive horrified me. But I didn't want to get rid of the tissue, because starving to death wasn't okay either. I was a mess, just wandering around and getting more and more upset as I watched this beautiful insect crawl around on the stick, attempting to spread out its deformed wings while hanging on for dear life.

I finally realized that there no safe spot outside, no place the butterfly could die in peace. I considered putting it on the ground and stomping on it, but I just couldn't. I couldn't. So I tried putting it on a flower, one that was blooming high off the ground and appeared to be free of ants and other bugs. But as I placed it there, it fell to the ground, landing in the grass. And try as I might, I couldn't get it back on the stick. I don't know why - maybe it was just too weak to hang on, maybe the blades of grass were sticking to its wings. I didn't have any time to figure out the problem, because just about then, Kays (who was supposed to be napping) walked out onto the porch and asked me what I was doing. Then JT (who was also supposed to be napping) followed her out and immediately headed straight for me.

DAMN IT. DAMN IT ALL TO HELL.

I gave up. I just freaking gave up and walked away, throwing the stick on the ground and the tissue into the trash. I left that poor butterfly in the grass, left it to live out the remaining hours of its life on the ground, at the mercy of whatever crawled by, with no food, no flowers, no nothing. I deliberately didn't leave the tissue, knowing that the sugar would attract ants without fail. I could only hope that it would die before anything found it. It was the only thing left that I could do, having completely fucked up in every other way.

Walking back into the house, I was overcome by remorse. Why the fuck did I decide it had to go outside? Why was I so worried about the kids seeing a dead butterfly? Why couldn't I have just left it alone? Instead of dying peacefully and unmolested, it spent its last hours being traumatized by *me*. Poked at by *me*. Dumped on the ground by *me*. I'm such a fucking idiot. It would have been less cruel to just stomp on it, end its pain instantly. But nooo, I had to draw out its life because I couldn't bring myself to kill it outright. Why didn't I fucking think things through? How did I not see that I was making things a thousand times worse? I killed it in a much more painful way than if I had just left it to die inside the house. In my haste to get it away from the kids, I put a helpless little creature through hell for no damn reason. No fucking reason at all.

So now it's midnight and I want to go outside. I want to find it. I'm torn between wanting it to still be alive so I can bring it back inside, and hoping it's dead so its pain is over. I know it's just an insect, just a bug. I KNOW. But it still had the ability to feel pain. Surely there was instinctive confusion when it couldn't fly away, riding the wind it felt on its wings. Surely it felt panic or fear with everything being so terribly, terribly wrong. I caused that. I took what would have been a relatively painless, calm death and turned it into something from a nightmare.

The sight of that little butterfly fluttering without being able to fly, struggling to just hang on while its world went crazy, won't leave my head. The guilt I feel for the absolute fucking stupidity of my choices weighs heavily on me. No, it wasn't a kitten. It wasn't a puppy. It wasn't some cute and cuddly beloved pet, it wasn't even an animal. It was just a bug. But it was a bug that I purchased, I brought into my home, I encouraged its development process. I was a part of its life, and then I ended that life in torture, plain and simple.

I'm not going to be able to forget that for a long, long time.

[EDITED TO ADD:
It's 9:00 in the morning of the next day. I re-read this and it is obvious to me that exhaustion and stress had a large impact on how I reacted to the entire issue. I won't change anything that I wrote, because that was how I was feeling last night. But while I'm still sad that the butterfly died, and still feel responsible for having made that death a very bad one, I'm not consumed by the experience like I was yesterday. For any of you thinking I've lost my mind and need to be committed, quit worrying. After all, I lost my mind a long time ago ;-).]

[EDIT #2:
Shortly after I posted the first edit, our fourth and final butterfly emerged from its chrysalis. Yay! I had pretty much convinced myself that it had died inside, which happens on occasion. But I glanced in the house to check on the others and there it was, perfectly formed and flitting about. The kids and I spent some time observing them, which was cool. Then this afternoon, before N left for work, we all took the house outside and let the butterflies go free. What a gorgeous sight ... the bright orange and shiny black against the blue, cloudless sky ... breathtaking. The bitterness of yesterday was eased quite a bit by today's experience, for which I am entirely grateful.]

Comedic Timing

2009-05-25T08:27:00.011-04:00

So the other day, N and I were sitting around contemplating the cuteness of our children. This wasn't so much a narcissistic thing as it was an amazement and wonder thing, since we have yet to figure out how the two of us produced the two of them, gorgeous as they are.

I'm sure all parents feel their children are beautiful, but trust me when I say mine really, really are.

{pause for your moment of eye-rolling}

{I know you're eye-rolling, don't deny it}

ANYway, we weren't discussing their looks on this particular afternoon, since for the most part we have become immune to the big blue eyes and sweet little smiles and perfectly puppy-dog-cute looks they use to try to play us. Mainly, we were talking about how we love the personalities and behaviors they've been showing lately. We were sitting around watching them play a computer game, and our conversation went kind of like this:

N: I love how JT has such enthusiasm for *everything*. It doesn't matter if we are playing a game or going to the park or just getting a snack, he loves it all. He's such a happy kid.

Me: Yeah, it's kind of contagious, you know? It spreads to everything, like, "Woohoo, let's take the garbage out!"

N: That's what I mean. It's like his goal in life is to get you to see the most mundane events as a great time. I love it.

Me: And Kays has gotten so freaking smart lately. The most unexpected things randomly pop out of her mouth, leaving you stunned that a 5 year old would know that.

N: Yeah, like yesterday when she named all the planets like it was nothing. I had no idea she could do that.

Me: I know! Dude, *I* couldn't even name all 9 planets.

{pause}

Me: I probably shouldn't have admitted that.

N: {looks at me askance} Seriously?

Me: Whatever. Move along, there's no more ignorance to see here.

N: Ohhhh-kay. Well, I'm just saying I wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow she piped up with, "Hi! I'm 5. And Pythagorean's theorem is A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared."

Me: {snort}

N: Hey, Kays! Can you say, "Pih-thag-uh-ree-uhn?"

And Kays turns around, waits a beat, then replies in perfect deadpan, "Hi! I'm 5."

Then she turns right back around to her game, 100% satisfied with her smartassedness.

She's already keeping us on our toes. And here I thought we'd have at least a few more years of parental laziness. Dammit.

Power to the People, Part II

2009-05-19T10:32:00.018-04:00

Remeber this post? Well, here's the conclusion. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's been 9 months, blah blah whatever. Do you want to know what happened or what?

Well then, stop with the bitching and read, dammit.

...

N, having previously worked for a bank, knew that calling on a Sunday afternoon would get us nowhere. Instead, he planted his tired ass in the parking lot on Monday morning, after a full night's work, to wait for the bank to open so he could talk to someone in person. Why he thought he needed to talk to them in person was beyond me. I got the waiting-for-a-business-day thing, but in my (correct) opinion, a phone call on said business day would have sufficed. Ring ring, chat chat, kiss kiss, have a nice day, thankyouverymuch! Yes no?

But I digress.

N was told by a ~~minion of Satan~~ cashier that the fees wouldn't post until midnight so there was nothing that could be done until Tuesday morning. Technically, the fees were still pending. So even though our balance had a huge red negative, technically we weren't overdrawn.

Yeah, right.

So N, ~~not having learned his lesson the first time~~ determined to get this taken care of, was once again in the parking lot on Tuesday morning (N's new hours* are 7pm to 7am, which means he normally goes straight to bed upon arriving home). On Tuesday morning, N was directed by a ~~minion of Satan~~ cashier to ~~Satan himself~~ the bank manager. ~~Satan~~ The bank manager appeared to be listening politely while N explained that while we would be happy to pay the $10 transfer fee, we were requesting that the o/d fees to be reversed because it was only by bank error that they were there in the first place. Pull the money from our card, charge us the ten bucks and reverse the ~~ridiculous~~ o/d fees sitting there in gloating triumph on our account. To our credit, N had deposited his paycheck over the weekend so we did at least have a positive balance at the time of this little meeting, even after the ~~staggering~~ o/d fees were assessed. Also to our credit, we were not repeat offenders - this was only the second time in over two years of being with BofA that we had overdrawn.

The one snag was that I had requested the o/d protection to be moved to my credit card so long ago that ~~Satan~~ the bank manager was unable to access any record showing that I did so. He had to take N's word that I had indeed called and asked for this change.

Does this sound unreasonable to you? Of course not. It wouldn't sound unreasonable to any normal human being with half a brain and a modicum of customer service savvy.

Apparently, though, "normal", "brain", and "customer service" were not the words of the day. ~~Satan~~ The bank manager told N that really, there just wasn't anything poor little ol' him could do about it. He didn't have any proof that such a change had been requested and he just couldn't make $175 in fees disappear. Out of the goodness of his heart, however, he magnanimously reversed $43 of the charges.

Forty. Three. Dollars.

Out of one hundred seventy five.

Forty three dollars!!

N was totally exhausted at this point (working all night and then losing sleep two days in a row to deal with Satan and his minions will do that to a person), so he just accepted the verdict and left the bank. He called me on his way home, too tired to realize that was probably not the best course of action ... I have been known to ~~kill~~ maim the messenger in times past (my bad).

Let me tell you, I was LIVID. INCENSED. PISSED-OFF beyond all description. Smoke was pouring out of my ears and my eyes glowed demon-red. My hands turned into claws and my mouth grew fangs. I was growling and cursing in languages that no longer exist. If thoughts could kill, ~~Satan~~ the bank manager would have been all the way past dead and into decomposing, right there at his desk.

My co-workers were startled, to say the least.

Recalling that I look horrible in orange and that jumpsuits really aren't in style this season, I managed to pull myself together. I called (remember, ring ring, chat chat, and all that?) and without getting into the back-story of Nathan's conversation with ~~Satan~~ the bank manager -- no need to clutter up conversation with details -- I calmly and professionally explained the problem to the cheerful representative who had the ~~shitty luck~~ privilege of answering my call.

Said representative was very sympathetic (possibly picking up on the fact that I was almost beyond reason at this point) but told me I would have to speak with the manager, who - surprise, surprise - was not available at this particular moment, and could she take a message? I wanted to tell her to shove her message-taking into a place normally reserved for toilet paper, but I restrained myself. I politely said I'd be happy to leave my name and number so that ~~Satan~~ he could call me at his earliest convenience.

Not *my* earliest convenience, mind you. His. His freaking convenience, which, by the way, I had the sneaking suspicion would be NEVER. But alas, one who intends to win the game must first play the game, so I gave my contact information and sweetly thanked the message-taker.

And then I sat at my desk and waited for the phone to ring.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And at 5:00 pm, when I shut down my computer and left the office for the day, I was still waiting, unsurprised and unamused.

In the car on the way to pick up the kidlings, I called the BofA Big Brother customer service number. I tried to avoid the pointless exercise of explaining the issue by just asking flat-out to be transferred to a specialist, since I knew a ~~peon phone answerer~~ first-line customer service rep wouldn't be able to help me. However, the ~~man who likes to waste everyone's time~~ gentleman insisted on hearing my story, on the off chance that I was wrong about his lack of assisting ability. I rapidly spit the whole thing out in about 12.42 seconds and amazingly enough, was told that he just didn't have the power to reverse these fees. (Obviously, Satan hordes every last drop of power at BofA until there's just nothing left to go around.) The ~~time-wasting~~ gentleman transferred me to ~~a higher power demon~~ account specialist.

The ~~higher power demon~~ account specialist got an earful, and although it was a polite and professional earful, it was an earful nonetheless. By the time I finished talking, it was Rocky-Mountains-sparkling-crystal-clear how aggravated I was. I explained exactly what I thought of bank managers who blow off the concerns of customers in good standing and then try to pacify said customers with a random refund that has no correlation whatsoever to the fees in question. I explained that I did not appreciate being ignored for an entire business day by said manager, who was apparently too incompetent to actually pick up the phone and address the issue at hand. I explained, as I had to every single person who had previously heard this story, that I would be more than happy to pay the transfer fee. I explained that if this was not taken care of, RIGHT. NOW., I would feel the immediate and unavoidable need to close my accounts. All of them. Done. So long, goodbye and thanks for all the fish.

The ~~only person worth a crap at BofA~~ account specialist, being on the receiving end of this deluge, waited patiently for my ranting to finish. She responded with exactly the right note of empathy and apology (hey, I know when I'm being played). Then, within about 3.68 seconds of hearing me out, she hit a few teeny tiny little buttons on her keyboard and POOF! All account fees reversed.

Deleted.

Gone.

Vanished like cocaine up Kate Moss's nose.

No $10 transfer fee, no nothing.

Free at last! Free at last! Thank ~~the only person worth a crap at BofA~~ God Almighty, I'm free at last!

And that, my friends, is how you stick it to The Man.

*These were new hours when I started this post 9 months ago. Yeah yeah, blah blah.

How The Mighty Have Fallen

2009-05-15T09:44:00.026-04:00

It's already apparent, at the tender age of 5, that my daughter has inherited her mother's grace.

Which is to say, she has none. Sorry baby girl.

My poor Kays is a bastion of bumps and bruises, scrapes and scabs. It doesn't help that she plays as hard as she can, full-out balls-to-the-wall every time she goes outside. It really doesn't help that she prefers to wear dresses, so her long legs and arms have absolutely no protection between them and the hard, hard ground.

If CPS ever gets a look at her, I'm gonna be in trouble.

JT, on the other hand, has an innate sense of balance and poise that showed up early on. He learned to walk at 9 months, with a lot less of the bumbling and stumbling than one comes to expect from a child at that stage. In 3 1/2 years, he's only had one goose-egg that I can think of. He puts his whole heart into attempting to do everything his adored big sister does, but somehow manages to come out of it with none of the damage that she inevitably accrues. And even on the rare occasions when he does happen to faceplant, he usually bounces right back up, relatively unscathed. It's almost eerie, really.

She's gonna hate him when she realizes this.

It's safe to say that I have, for the most part, stopped worrying about JT hurting himself while he's running pell-mell down the driveway or climbing onto ~~random pieces of furniture~~ toys that are made for climbing. Not that I don't worry a little bit - hey, come on now, I'm a mom not a heartless bitch ... okay, well, that aside, I'm still a mom - but point being, he just doesn't make friends with the asphalt (or dirt or carpet or etc. etc.) nearly as often as his sister.

So earlier today, I felt as much shock as I did horror as I watched my baby boy stumble and fall ... right down the stairs.

Fell.

Down the stairs.

Down.
The.
Stairs.

Our dog, who outweighs JT by a good 15 pounds, pushed past him in a rush, and JT - who was decidedly *not* holding the rail like he's been taught to do - couldn't keep his balance. He wobbled, wavered, tripped and went down. I was standing at the top of the landing, just a few feet away, and it was like I was watching in slow motion. I saw every little misstep, but I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

I watched my child pitch head-first down the staircase.

Instinctively, I knew I couldn't just reach forward and grab him, as I would very likely overbalance myself and take us both down. Visions of broken arms, legs, necks, were all running through my head even as my body's auto-pilot kicked in. I dropped my butt straight down on the stairs, reached one arm out for the rail and the other for my son.

Four steps into his downward flight, I grabbed him.

My hand came clamping down on his ankle like a boa constrictor around a particularly feisty rat. I actually knocked his shoe off in the process. I pulled him up and into my lap, and clasped my arms tight around his little body. JT went from screaming incoherently to wailing at the top of his lungs, clinging to me with all his strength while tears dripped off his face. I held him.

I held him.

With the amazing resilience that kids are born with, JT was dry-eyed and happily walking down the rest of the stairs less than 5 minutes later. I watched him, his chubby little fingers grasping the rail and his sturdy little feet placing themselves carefully upon each step. He didn't hesitate, had no fear of what could have been. That was left up to me; that burden of sitting there, feeling sick to my stomach and shaky in my limbs, was all mine.

I know that there will be many times in my boy's life that he will again feel the terror of that long, scary fall. Sometimes it will be because of an unexpected shove, a hit from behind ... sometimes he will miscalculate the distance from one step to another ... sometimes it will simply be because he's too damn busy to watch where he's going. My job as a mother is to stand there behind him as often as possible, ready to be his lifeline and pull him to safety.

And for those times that I just can't reach him, those spectacularly bad times in which a hard landing just can not be avoided, I hope and pray I will have taught him how to get back up, grab the rails, and get on with life, as quickly and confidently as he did today.

Irony at it's Finest

2009-05-06T09:50:00.003-04:00

Two days ago,
my shoelace came
untied
while I was in my last
running cycle
on the treadmill.
Foolishly,
I ignored it and
kept running.
Amazingly,
nothing untoward
happened.

Yesterday,
I took the precaution of
double-knotting
my laces.
And then,
during my last
running cycle,
I tripped
over nothing.
Amazingly,
nothing untoward
happened.

I am
taking
today off.

They Say Exercise Is Good For You

2009-05-01T14:34:00.018-04:00

I am not a visual person. No, really - I cannot picture a scene inside my head to save my life. When I read, I don't imagine the look of the characters in the book. I had a hard time in my Bradley birthing class because I couldn't see "my happy place" during labor practice. When I was active in sports, I could never visualize myself executing the necessary moves correctly.

Oddly enough, I could *always* picture myself falling off the balance beam, scratching a serve, hitting the high jump bar, and other spectacular failures.

It seems this predilection has carried over to my current workout of choice, the treadmill. Without fail, every time I get on the treadmill I start having these visions in my head. Visions of me tripping (not a huge stretch, as I do this often), falling off, hitting my head on the metal shelving behind me and bleeding all over the gym floor, giving myself both a concussion and the need for a blood transfusion. Or my shoe comes untied and I step on the laces, causing me to fall forward, go under the front bar, hit my head on the rowing machine in front of me, break my neck and instantly die.

I see these scenarios and various others of the same ilk, always centered around my sheer klutziness and always resulting in extreme embarrassment, injury, and/or fatality. I see them in great detail, going so far as to observe the stunned reactions of my fellow gym goers and the staff members. I see them in color - high def even. I can hear the shocked gasps followed by the murmured conversations about my lack of grace (the women) and how I might have had better luck on a stationary bike (the men).

Am I alone in my calamitous visions of self destruction?

I feel like I may be all by myself on this one. It would seem to me that it takes a particular dose of crazy to have a front row seat at the Theatre O' Death & Dismemberment not once, not occasionally, but every. single. freaking. time! one gets upon one's treadmill and begins one's workout.

Sometimes I think this may be God's way of telling me to get off the treadmill. You know, like that joke about the guy who was caught in a flood and refused to get on the rescue bus, boat, and helicopter because "Jesus will save me!" And then he drowns and when he asks Jesus why, he gets told, "I sent you a bus, a boat, and a helicopter - what more did you want?!"

I wonder if I'll recognize that helicopter when it comes for me. I can see it now ... crash-landing right on top of me.

Sneaking One In

2009-04-21T16:15:00.006-04:00

Yes, I'm still alive. No, I don't want to talk about it.

Oh, you didn't want to hear about it in the first place? Well, alrighty then.

I've often thought about blogging over the last several months. I love to write. I enjoy sharing my thoughts in ways that make people laugh. Not to mention I spend 8 hours a day in a private office (ah, what a nice window) in front of a computer that is hidden behind a privacy screen. And lucky me, my proverbial plate at work is often, shall we say, not full enough to sustain Keira Knightley on a speed binge. One would think this would lend itself to the occasional blog post.

Not so, my friends.

I'd love to share with you my long, dramatic, impressive reason for not being able to put together a cohesive paragraph or two for my adoring public. Really, nothing would make me happier than to tell you The Tale of the Wordless Blogger. Sadly, such a tale does not exist. I simply have nothing to say. Everything that has popped into my mind over the last several months that made me think, "Hey, I should blog that!" has simply refused to come to life on my computer screen. At first, I was confused. I was frustrated. Had I lost my ability to communicate through the wonders of the blogging world? Was this the dreaded writer's block? And how could this be, seeing as how I'm not actually a writer? But then it dawned on me. The problem is not my writing, it's the material I've been blessed with {snort} to write about. All I've got are stories involving the minutiae of my life. My routine, everyday, non-entertaining life. Somewhat diverting to me but pokemyeyesoutboring to everyone else.

I had a fabulous idea for a novel a couple weeks back. I recently decided that I need to make some major changes in regards to my health. My dog is on a pooping-inside-the-house spree. I have a new training job and I passed a training-related test. I'm taking a trip back home later this summer. Kays is starting kindergarten this fall and JT is getting along famously in speech therapy. These are all things that crossed my mind as blogging fodder but are so mind-numbingly prosaic that I just couldn't bring myself to post about them. So here I sit. All ready to type and nothing to type about. After all, I've got a reputation to uphold. I am clever, I am droll, I destroy keyboards with snarfed Diet Coke! I cannot just fling random crap at my blog and hope it sticks.

Right?

Well hell.

...
...
...

{now feeling much better due to the wonders of modern medicine}

{and ellipses ... never underestimate the power of a well-placed ellipsis}

The light bulb has come on, people! I am standing up to The Man! Throwing off the yoke of oppression! Refusing to conform to a higher standard of writing! Who needs standards, anyway?! I can post what I want when I want and not give a shit if it's any good or even grammatically correct!

From this day forward, I am a CRAP BLOGGER and PROUD OF IT!

{crouches in the corner and cries}

Who Needs Money When You Can Have Baked Goods

2008-09-18T14:39:00.007-04:00

Soooo ... our girl lost her first tooth! After almost a week of wiggling, it just popped right out while I was helping her floss on Tuesday morning.

(Okay, maybe I dug at the roots with the flosser just a little bit. Sue me.)

Kays was super excited that it finally came out, although the blood threw her for a bit of a loop. She got over it pretty quickly though when she realized it wasn't hurting her. Actually, she went so far as to enjoy using a few Q-tips to plug the hole. Something about looking like a walrus was mentioned (walruses being a source of hilarity around here). Yes, I am such a creative mommy, thankyouverymuch.

Of course I ran and grabbed the camera. I've learned my lesson about living a long ways away from extended family - you don't enjoy the moment, you document it on film!

Let me tell you, it's pretty hard to get a sweet, awww-look-at-my-growing-girl picture of your daughter when all she wants to do is stretch open her mouth with her fingers and poke her tongue through the hole in her teeth. But I persevered and did manage to capture some cuteness.

I dropped her and JT off at school that morning, where of course she had to run into every. single. classroom. and show her (lack of a) tooth off to every. single. teacher. in the school. They all made a very ego-stroking big deal of it and she had a very lovely day.

I, however, spent all day on the web and telephone, talking to family, friends, co-workers, the women on my mom's board, the janitor and the Fed-Ex guy about how much a tooth is worth these days. And not just any tooth, mind you, but a *first* tooth.

{Enter sunbeam coming through the clouds and heavenly chorus of angels here}

What I learned is that there is no standard. In this day and age of economic upheaval, the minimum wage earned for shoving a tooth under your pillow has been shot all to hell. The suggested amounts were all over the place.

Some people said $5.

{Pause while you clean the spit from your huge guffaw off your screen}

(You did guffaw, right?)

Some ~~cheapskates~~ ~~husbands~~ people said 50¢.

{Pause while you shake your head sadly in despair for tighwad cheap meanies}

(Are you done shaking?)

Basically the suggestions were of no assistance, and I was pretty much at a loss as to what was an appropriate amount. This was quite bothersome, as I wanted my daughter's first Tooth Fairy experience to be a glorious childhood moment.

Hey, I'm a first-timer here. Give me a break.

After many calls to the husband, who finally quit answering his cell phone using the convenient excuse that he was "working" - yeah, I'm on to you buddy - I finally decided that the Tooth Fairy would be bringing $2; four quarters and a one dollar bill. Kays loves quarters but is also starting to get curious about paper money, so I thought a mixture of the two would work quite nicely.

~~I snuck into her room~~ The Tooth Fairy arrived at around 11:00 pm EST and did her thing. She is pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.

Wednesday morning Kays wakes up all excited. (This is extremely deviant from the norm, as she takes after her mother). She immediately goes for the prize and is giggling like a hyena. Happiness abounds in Casa de Madness.

Then she turns to me and asks, "Is that all?"

All? ALL?! Excuse me?!

I took a deep breath and ~~smothered my instinct to beat some manners into her~~ calmly replied, "I think so honey. What else were you expecting?"

"Oh," she says, disappointment obvious in her voice. "In Barbie Fairytopia, the Tooth Fairy brings so-and-so a cupcake. I thought I would get a cupcake. Or a lollipop. Did the Tooth Fairy forget my candy?"

Are. You. Kidding. Me. ????

I agonized all day - AGONIZED, I TELL YOU - about how much money to give her and she just wants a damn cupcake.

Fecking Barbie Fairytopia.

Power to the People, Part I

2008-08-20T15:25:00.007-04:00

(or, Holy Shit, That's A Lot Of Linkage!)

So. Let's talk banks. Specifically, let's talk bank fees.

Uh-huh.

As a young adult,

{Insert pause for hysterical laughter at the idea of an 18 year old being an adult}

I opened my very first checking account with Wells Fargo. I don't really remember why I chose them; knowing me, it was probably because their ATM was the closest one to my house. I must say that I lucked out; Wells Fargo treated me well over the years. I didn't always have a ton of money in my account ... I clearly remember being anal about balancing my checkbook each month due to the fact that I occasionally had a total of 12 cents left by the 31st. And every once in awhile, I took one too many trips to Barnes & Noble that ended up in a stack of shiny new books and that 12 cents turned into a big red minus sign on my account balance. But in all honestly, Wells Fargo charged reasonable overdraft fees and hey, I deserved them. In over 10 years, I never had a problem with them that wasn't solved on the first phone call.

Sadly, the East Coast has not yet reached the enlightened plane required to enjoy the privilege of patronizing certain West Coast businesses, Wells Fargo being one of them. (Claim Jumper and Del Taco being two more, for which I am rendered completely and hopelessly bitter. But my food addictions are another post entirely.) When we hit the road, we were forced to choose a new bank. Since N moved here ahead of me, by default (ha!) he was stuck with the thankless task of finding the financial institution most qualified to handle our complicated banking needs.

{Insert pause for hysterical laughter at the thought of us having banking needs beyond, "Here's our [ridiculously small amount of] money. Don't lose it."}

Surprisingly, he learned there are only two banks that do business on both the East and West Coasts - Bank of America and Washington Mutual.

Okay, I admit, I took his word for it. I sure as hell wasn't going to be doing the legwork myself. If he ~~lied his ass off~~ ~~pulled a fast one on me~~ is mistaken, please, refrain from letting me know about it, m'kay?

Washington Mutual, affectionately if somewhat nauseatingly referred to by customers as WaMu, has a good reputation. But even though they do exist here in Virginia, they are somewhat few and far between. There are a total of 5 within 20 miles of my house. On the other hand, Bank of America (shortened to BofA and pronounced "boffah" if you're lazy) (like me) has more than ten times that many. Dude. BofA had a bad rep back in the day for completely shitty customer service. So completely shitty that the thought of leaving my beloved Wells Fargo for the Big Bad Nasty made me cringe. And whine. And complain. And kick. And scream. And bitch. And moan.

Well, you get the picture.

But in the end, N convinced me to give them a try. He had heard rumors that BofA was turning things around and really working to regain a good rep in the banking world, plus the convenience factor was undeniable. So I ~~gave in~~ agreed and we stepped over to the Dark Side. That was two and a half years ago.

Up until last week, I have actually been quite content banking in the Land of the Dark Lords. There are ATMs all over the freaking place (including at my work, which is handy for those ~~indulgent~~ emergency lunch purchases) and the banking centers have pretty decent hours for us working peeps. The new ATMs are high tech yet user- and eco-friendly; no more ~~cursing up a storm~~ ~~screaming in the drive though lane~~ being SOL due to the lack of available deposit envelopes! The online banking options are a god-send to those of us who are time-challenged and/or due-date-challenged. And we have yet to suffer from buyer's remorse over any of the BofA products we've ~~been suckered into~~ purchased after careful consideration.

However.

We learned our lesson early on that one does not want to overdraw one's checking account, lest one feels so inclined to pay through the nose in o/d fees. Awhile back, during which time I was ~~lazy and forgetful~~ suffering from Mommy Brain, I let the checkbook-balancing routine fall a wee bit behind and well, let's just say the results weren't pretty.

After recovering from my minor fee-induced heart attack, I swiftly took steps to ensure it would nevah. happen. again. ! No, I did not purchase money-managing software to effortlessly whip our budget into shape. No, I did not enroll in financial success workshops to release my family from the burden of debt. No, I did not sign up for online banking. No, I did not push myself to stay on top of all things monetary.

Oh no.

I got a credit card, baby! Woohoo!

Now now, before you go all postal on me, let me reassure you that I did not go charging up the card with frivolous purchases. Not a single one of my purchases were frivolous!

I kid, I kid. The card came with a zero balance, and still has a zero balance. The point of the card was to link it as a backup for our checking account, in case we were to overdraw. See, BofA automatically links your savings account to your checking account as your backup. In theory, this default works just fine ... you o/d your checking, they dip into your savings and transfer the needed funds to cover your oopsie(s). You are charged a relatively small $10 transfer fee and o/d fees are a thing of the past.

In theory.

However, when your savings account has all of $3.42 in it on any given day, this theory gets shot all to hell.

The fun part is when BofA takes your entire savings balance and puts it in your checking, since everyone knows when you o/d, $3.42 is gonna cover it every time.

Right.

So you get a $10 transfer fee and then, surprise! You still get o/d fees when (shockingly) your savings transfer didn't quite cover your o/d transactions. Nice. Hence the need to a nice, shiny new credit card with {gasp} thousands of dollars of available credit just sitting there, waiting to fly to the rescue should one be so ~~stupid~~ ~~careless~~ unlucky as to accidentally o/d in the future.

Like, um, me.

Now in my defense, I will say that while I used to be the accountant in our little family, my ~~sucker~~ loving husband took over those duties from me awhile back. I was a bit overwhelmed with my SAHM duties (we really don't need to go there again, do we?) and things like, oh I don't know ... coughbillpayingcough ... were getting neglected. N had sizable chunks of downtime at his old job and he nicely offered to get us back on track. Yes, he's a saint. Yes, I'm a lazy bitch. What, you didn't know this already?

So N did his spreadsheet-tracking, online-bill-paying, actually-looking-at-the-mail magic. And for a long time, it worked quite nicely. Bills were paid, money was flowing in and out (mostly out) without a hitch, the ~~hate mail~~ overdue notices quit arriving in the mailbox. N was ~~overworked~~ happy, I was happy, life was good. Then, due to circumstances beyond our control, N was forced to get a new job. And as everyone knows, when you are a shiny brand-new employee it takes awhile before your direct deposit kicks in. For the first few paychecks, one is forced to actually retrieve said paycheck from one's employer and physically take it to the bank. Oh, the horrors.

And when one forgets to deposit said paycheck on payday yet one's bills are on autopay, one is most likely up shit creek without a paddle. (Thanks, Mom, for teaching me that sweet little idiom. It's one of my very favorites.)

Over the course of one horrific weekend, we incurred approximately $175 in overdraft fees.

One hundred. And seventy five. American dollars.

!!!!!

That's like five thousand dollars in Madness money. Seriously. Just looking at the negatives on the computer screen made me hyperventilate. After my initial breakdown, I promptly proceeded to ~~kick my sainted husband's ass~~ nicely ask N to call the bank and see what the hell happened. After all, I had this lovely credit card sitting there with a zero balance. We should have had a (relatively) small $10 charge and then moved on with our no-direct-deposit lives. Why, then, had the ~~minions of Satan~~ BofA system pulled the $3.42 balance from our savings and then, when we (shockingly) came up short, gleefully charged us over and over?

I was incensed, to say the least. Yet I reigned in my initial reaction because really, this was all just a ~~stupid~~ simple error and could easily be corrected. Right?

***************************************************************
To be continued when my brain recovers from the over-linkage shock
***************************************************************

Well, there goes my productivity for the next 2 weeks

2008-07-24T13:06:00.004-04:00

Best.

Website.

Ever.

!!!!

http://notalwaysright.com/

{howling}

{rolling on the floor}

{wipes tears}

My Kingdom for a Title

2008-06-26T16:15:00.044-04:00

So, how's life out there in Reader Land? Yes, yes I am still alive and kicking. You know the story - so much to do, so little time. Sadly, it's the blog that gets neglected. However, since my husband specifically took the time to bitch about the fact that I haven't blogged in two and a half months, I decided I loved him enough to put some of my word vomit on paper, as it were.

Honey, this one's for you.

Life is chugging along at the Casa de Madness. Summer has hit and our little corner of the world now resembles a bug-filled steam room. Humidity: love it or kill yourself. Growing up in Southern California did not prepare me on how to properly swim my way through the muggy air in this state. We've been here awhile but apparently the last two summers were "mild". People kept saying this, but honestly, I just dismissed it and assumed I was acclimating nicely. I told everyone back home how the "humidity isn't that bad" and that I "didn't understand why it's so hard for people to deal" with the weather here.

Now I understand. Now I am on my knees, begging forgiveness from He Who Punishes Those Who Make Stupid Statements And Think They're Slightly Superior When In Reality They Do Not Know That Of Which They Speak.

Mercy, I beg of you!

The biggest joy of summer is that our community pool opens and we can once again submerse ourselves in the wondrous Big Blue. Kays and JT had their first swim lesson yesterday, courtesy of one Miss Ashley. Ashley, despite her lack of years, did well putting up with my darling daughter's antics (just watching her I was tempted to shove her head under the water for awhile). Kays is in that stage where she thinks she is being funny but in reality she is being ... well ... let's just say she's not. At all. She also has a very real fear of putting her head under water, which is somewhat counter-conducive to swimming. I'm hopeful that with lessons she'll be able to jump off the diving board by the end of summer, although I'm not--haha--holding my breath.

JT on the other hand, appears to be my child right down to his fish-in-water bones. He is a natural swimmer even at the tender age of 2. Doesn't mind going under and has *no fear* when it comes to the pool. Tip for parents of daredevil children: Do not take your attention off your child for even two seconds while at the pool, or you could possibly find yourself grabbing for said child after he has jumped off the side and gone completely under.

Not that I would know anything about that.

{ahem} Have I mentioned the recent addition to the Madness family? No? Well then, let me proudly introduce Clover Creamsicle Marmalade Goldie Madness:

Clover was abandoned by some assface who walked into my store with her and let her loose. We found her just running around, scared out of her little guinea pig mind. Because she was free, I was ~~easily talked into~~ hounded mercilessly by my co-workers until I agreed to take her home. Our dog Tucker really loves her (or wants to eat her, I'm not sure which), but she's not too keen on him. She is warming up to us, though, and comes up to the door of her cage to greet me each day. Really she just wants a carrot, but it's nice to pretend I'm loved.

Tip for anyone adopting a guinea pig: They pee. And poop. They feel no compunction about doing such activities upon your person. Cuddling time should always include at least one spare towel.

Moving right along ...

We've had a lot of 'firsts' over the last couple of months. Oh, those proud moments when your child shines so brightly that you are almost overwhelmed by your parental joy. Those moments you just rush to get recorded in Junior's baby book; those times you snap a million photos so you'll be able to look at them all and reminisce for years to come.

Those moments like when your daughter cuts her own hair ...

Those moments like when your daughter swallows a quarter and chokes on it, necessitating an ambulance trip to the hospital and a surgical procedure to remove it ...

Those moments like when your son decides he loves his new Cars underwear *so much* that he throws a screaming hysterical fit when he pees in them and Mommy dares to remove them from his stinky behind.

Those moments like when your older (stronger, bigger) child gets a little exuberant and pushes your younger (smaller, clumsier) child a bit too hard, leading to a face-plant on the grocery store tile floor and a lip half-bitten through, bleeding like a stuck pig.

I'm telling you, moments like these are ~~happening way to damn often~~ rare and meant to be treasured like precious jewels.

Jewels, I say.

And for those of you who say TV is bad for children, I leave you with this enlightening anecdote ...

Upon arriving home after work last week, Kays marched over to the DVD player and put in a movie. Me being the ~~scheming~~ ~~harried~~ opportunistic mom that I am, I immediately saw the chance to go to the bathroom *on my own* without having two children attempting to beat down the door because they apparently feel the need for supervision and parental guidance at all times. I mean, really. Sometimes Mom just needs to take a crap all. by. her. self. !

So I'm making a beeline for the bathroom when the previews hit the screen. Apparently what began to play was not what Kays expected to see (not, um, that she has the previews to all our movies memorized or anything), because I immediately hear her sweet little voice exclaim,

"WHAT THE HELL?!"

Oh my baby girl, how I love thee.

Regrets

2008-04-08T11:45:00.002-04:00

You know, growing up I was never skinny. I never even had that kid phase of "all knees and elbows". I have always been solid.

I wasn't, however, fat. I *thought* I was fat, I *believed* I was fat, but in reality, I was healthy. Actually, looking at pictures, I was freaking hot. Curves, toned muscle. How did I not see that? I think a lot of things contributed to my feelings, but when you get down to the bottom of it, I wasn't stick-thin and I wasn't going to like my body until I was.

I regret that now. I regret never enjoying being in my skin. I regret that for years, I was fit and healthy and strong, yet I never could see that. *Now* I know what fat is. *Now* I know what out of shape is. And guess what? It sucks. I have to wonder if I will ever be happy with myself, if when I get to goal I'll be satisfied, because I never have been. I don't know how it feels to look at myself in the mirror and like what I see. I hope that one day, I will.

I've made a vow that I will do everything within my power to keep my kids from feeling the way I did as they grow up. I will not encourage them to eat less if they say they want seconds. I will not allow their coaches to tell them they are getting to heavy for their chosen sport. I will not be so focused on my own weight issues that by default they become focused on their own.

Instead, I will perpetuate a healthy lifestyle. I will serve healthy foods, so having seconds is never a problem. I will encourage them to participate in sports that don't focus so highly on body weight. I will be at goal before they ever realize I had weight to lose.

I realize I can't *make* them feel happy with themselves. But I am going to do every damn thing I can to help them know what self-confidence feels like.

Because I don't want them to look back on these years with regret.

Stay Awake, Staaaaayyyyy Awaaaaaaaaakkkkeeee!

2008-03-29T08:17:00.007-04:00

I am not a morning person.

Not. At. All.

Never have been, never will be.

And I somewhat resent being saddled with two children who think the rising of the sun signals the start of their day. Because when my kids wake up at the freaking crack of dawn, who do you think they come running to? Who's side of the bed do they climb on? Who's covers do they pull off? Who's ear do they scream in? Me, that's who. Not Daddy, oh no. Never him. Always. Me.

{Are you listening, Being In Charge Of All Things Ironic? This isn't funny!}

As far back as I can remember, I've needed more hours of sleep than the average person. Even as a kid, I was a ~~pain in the ass~~ wee bit grouchy if I got less than about 9 hours of sleep. Luckily, when you're a child this is not so difficult to attain. My parents insisted on a 9:00 bedtime while I was growing up, so pretty much by default I was usually rested and happy. (Being a parent now myself, I personally believe that by about 8:00 their tolerance for dealing with 3 kids started crumbling, resulting in us being hurried along to bed before they completely lost their minds and gave into the urge to do something crazy, like running through the neighborhood naked and screaming mindlessly. What, you've never felt that urge? Oh. Okay. Moving right along, then!)

Things started changing when I hit the tender age of 14 and began my freshman year. Ah, high school. That institution of crowded hallways, smelly gyms, lockers glued shut with old gum, sadistic math teachers, and a starting bell that rang at 7:18 am.

7:18 people! I don't even have to be at work that early!

Between sports, homework, family time, and hours on the phone (remember those calls when you'd use 3-way calling to get 18 friends on the phone?), I started running short on sleep pretty early on. Luckily, I could usually sleep in on weekends. My mom dragged us all to church on Sundays, but that didn't really interrupt my sleeping schedule.

When you've been a Catholic since birth, you can sleep through mass even with all the standing and kneeling and praying in unison. Trust me.

Sadly enough, I eventually graduated and was tossed into the cold, cruel world as an *ahem* adult. I managed, for the most part, to continue my pattern of ~~slowly losing my mind~~ not getting enough sleep during the week and sleeping until noon on weekends. Hey, it worked for me. Life went on, years passed, and I didn't think much of my sleeping habits.

When I found myself pregnant with Kays, I learned I was in for months of sleepless nights. I read the parenting books, took the classes. I found out that for a newborn, "sleeping through the night" meant a 4-5 hour stretch. Hah! What a crock. Why don't you call it what it is, a nap long enough to give Mommy hope that her sanity will one day return and short enough to keep that from actually happening. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a child who started sleeping through the night {insert eyeroll here} at about 2 months old.

Unluckily for me, I then learned The Ultimate Truth. Kids are morning people. Early morning people. People who could easily be mistaken for roosters, except they get up earlier than a real rooster ever would. People who aren't content to lie in their crib and amuse themselves while mommy resides in Dreamland for another hour or two. Oh no. Kids want mommy, and they want her right. Now!

Four years and a second child later, mornings haven't gotten any better. Now there are two miniature delinquents screaming delightfully in my ear. Twice the volume for half the price! Joy.

This morning, my lovely little bugger of a son came toddling in at the asscrack of dawn. Climbed over my lump of a husband, who didn't even twitch (damn the man). Flung himself with great enthusiasm upon my head and shoulders. Shared his joy of the morning with me in his ~~ear-splitting~~ adorable baby boy voice. And for a second, one sweet second, I contemplated letting him play by himself until I could open my eyes without sandpaper scraping the inside of my eyelids. I mulled over the wonders of actually rising from my bed feeling rested instead of like something the cat hacked up.

One second. And then my brain was flooded with the memory of That Day.

That Day, in which I was just a smidge too tired. That Day, in which I didn't open my eyes. That Day, in which I whispered the fatal words.

"Just go play, honey. Mommy is sleeping."

In my defense, I really was asleep in every way that counted. I have only the vaguest memory of me speaking to my then three-year old daughter. I didn't rise up out of unconsciousness long enough to even contemplate actually getting out of bed myself. My lips shaped the words, my vocal chords gave sound to the murmur, but my brain did not engage. All systems were definitely not Go.

Kays, being the obedient, dutiful daughter that she is {snort}, skipped right off to enjoy a morning of entertaining herself.

A three-year old.

Entertaining.

Herself.

Uh-huh.

A half hour later, Kays was back. Having completed her morning "project", she came to show it to me. Upon hearing her persistent little voice calling for me, over and over, I tried to once again tell her that Mommy was sleeping. However, she kept at it until my sleep-deprived brain slowly caught up with my Miss Independent mouth. I cautiously slitted open my eyes.

And promptly had a heart attack.

As a scream rose up into my throat, a very bright and very harsh light blinked on in my head. Not blood, not blood, NOT BLOOD! She was too damn happy for it to be blood. Standing there, smiling for all she was worth, pleased as punch with herself.

My poor abused brain just refused to process the situation and went into auto pilot. Just get the kid cleaned up and all will be well, right? Yes, yes, a little soap and water and we can pretend this never happened.

As I led her toward the bathroom, I stumbled across Part Two of her little morning adventure.

Not paint, nope. Nothing as simple as that for *my* daughter. She went for the artistic impact that only lipstick can have. Being the inspired artist that she is, she skipped right over the subtlety of a nude shade. Didn't bother with the daintiness of a pale pink. No prissy colors for my girl.

Did you know that soap and water won't remove dark red lipstick from a child's skin, hair, or your hallway carpet?

In the end, I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed. One might argue it was simply my overwhelmed little mind finally cracking up, but I ~~hope~~ know it was because I knew I had no one to blame but myself. How could I be mad? So I laughed. I laughed, and installed a baby gate on her bedroom door.

By the way, take it from someone who has been there ... a three-year old can climb over a baby gate. So can a two-year old.

There will be no sleeping in for Mommy at the Casa de Madness. Happy yawning, people.

Finally, Some Service Around Here!

2008-03-16T09:44:00.009-04:00

Apparently, I am a lightning-rod for bad customer service.

I will admit, I have expectations when it comes to those in the service industry. My expectations are: I expect good service.

That's it. That's the sum of my expectations.

These days, that's apparently asking too much.

Although N swears the problem comes from living in the great Commonwealth of Virginia, I don't agree. I think customer service everywhere has gone downhill. I know that when we lived in California, I dealt with my fair share of bad service there as well. To this day, I refuse to step into a Hollywood Video because of the treatment I received in a CA store about 7 years ago (no, I won't let it go, thankyouverymuch). But I think that as I get older, as my kids get ~~more difficult to deal with~~ ~~more obnoxious~~ older, and as life continues to add balls to my juggling act, I have become less tolerant of stupidity, especially from those in a customer service position.

Let me preface this by saying I currently work in retail. I am a dog trainer, part-time anyway, and I work at a chain pet store that rhymes with "lets fart". Before I went back to a regular day job, I worked about 30 hours a week in this store. I was not always in the training room; I spent quite a few hours each week on the floor with customers who just didn't understand why choke chains and shock collars don't belong on a 10-week old puppy, or why crating their six month old Lab 10 hours a day might create a problem with excessive energy when he's finally let out. However, I will say that in my 1 1/2 years in this job, I have never - NEVER - had a customer complain about me to my managers. I have never offended anyone to the point of contacting our corporate office. In fact, I have had quite a few customers take the time to tell my managers how helpful I was. I *know* how shitty a day in customer service can be. I *know* that people suck. But I also know that if you choose to work in a customer service position, you have to suck it up, keep a smile on your face, and remember that the stupidcluelessmotherf'ingpos customer is always right. Even when they're not.

So.

I like to think that because of my experience in customer service, I am more understanding toward others in that same position. When I go out to eat and my rare steak is served well-done, I never take it out on the waiter. When I am in Target and my on clearance outfit rings up at regular price, I do not get upset with the cashier. I do, however, expect those people to do their best to fix whatever problem I am experiencing at their establishment. I do not appreciate being given 'the look' and hearing some version of the words, "I don't know how/want/care to help you."

Is that asking so much?

Apparently it is, as I could fill several pages of this blog with bad customer service stories. However, if you remember way back to the title, this entry isn't about bad service (ha! fooled you, didn't I?). It's about that rare, wonderful, lovely moment when you feel like a valued customer, like your business and perhaps even happiness mean something to the sales person standing in front of you.

In Richmond, there is a fabulous children's hair salon called Pigtails and Crewcuts. Now, you may be asking why one would ever have need for a hair salon specifically catering toward kids. I would have asked that myself, prior to having a 2-year old. However, when your child believes down deep in his soul that haircutting is a torture specifically reserved for the Seventh Level of Hell - and said child feels the need to share his belief with the entire world (or at least the locals within a 5-mile radius) - you suddenly grasp the importance of a hair salon that can deal with that perspective.

I took the kids to P&C after a disastrous experience at SuperCuts (let's just say it involved a screaming, sobbing child, sticky lollipop covered in bits of hair, a bitchy stylist, and a crooked hairline that cost $10). Being a stay-at-home mom, it was nice to just pop in mid-week, when the salon was relatively empty. P&C does not take appointments, so if you show up and it's busy, you're just screwed. Luckily, we could easily avoid that problem. Our first visit was excellent; JT had a blast playing with the train table (both before and after his torture session) and Kays loved getting her first mani and pedi. Plus, they got great hair cuts and the price was lower than I had anticipated. It was a good day.

However.

When you are a working mom (or, for those ~~annoying people~~ of you who would argue that all moms work, a mom who works outside the home), it's not so easy to just swing by the salon at 10am on a Tuesday. In fact, when said salon's hours are 9:30 - 5:30, it's pretty much impossible to *ever* swing by during the week. They've got that covered, though, because they are also open during those same hours on Saturdays. It's all good, right? Well, yeah, except when you're a freak with a second job that has you working every Saturday from 9am to 8pm.

Yep. I'm screwed.

Now, I have a husband. And to be completely honest, he's an exceptional person, both as a mate and father. I know that if I asked him, he would ~~pop a few Excedrin and~~ happily take the kids to get their hair cut. But because I am anal retentive, I like to do these things myself. I like being able to make sure JT's cut is short enough to spike up but long enough to lay down flat, that Kays doesn't end up with unwanted bangs, that no one's eyes get poked out with scissors, etc. etc. I know I am anal retentive and I usually deal with it fairly well. It makes me a great admin assistant, a good home decorator, and one day I'm sure I'll be a wonderful PTA fund-raising organizer. However, it makes for bad times when I can't find a way to get the kids to the salon myself.

Shortly before starting my new job, I realized that nature had taken its course and once again the kiddos were looking at the world through hair-obscured eyes. Being a procrastinator, I waited until the last weekday prior to my new employment start date to take the kids in. Being a reading freak, I got lost in my newest Janice Davidson book and lost track of time.

Leaving at 4:55 + a 25 mile drive at rush hour - a salon that closes at 5:30 = bad bad bad.

Bad.

When I got off the freeway at 5:32 with still another 3 miles to drive, my frustration with myself and traffic and life in general hit the breaking point. But instead of, oh, I don't know, calling my husband and taking it out on him, I had the brilliant idea of calling the store. Gold star for me!

I think a tiny part of me was hoping they'd pick up and tell me that, yes, of course they understood that I was an idiot and yes, of course they'd be happy to stay open late and accommodate my unreasonableness.

Instead, I got the answering machine.

Did I hang up? Oh, no. I did not.

I listened to a voice telling me that their operating hours were "Monday through Saturday, from 9:30 to 5:30, no appointments necessary!" I looked at the clock and felt my blood pressure rise. I heard that beep, and I unloaded.

"Hello, my name is Jenn, and I just wanted to let you know that I really, really love your store. But your hours suck.

"I'm a working mom,
{Not really a lie, I was working p/t}

"and I left work early today so I could bring my kids in.
{A total lie, but I needed to create a better excuse than simply being daft enough to lose track of several hours. Yes, I'm a horrible person.}

"I left work early, but I hit so much traffic that I wasn't able to get to your salon prior to 5:30.
{Not a lie at all. I did hit a lot of traffic. I did!}

"I realize that for most working moms, it wouldn't matter that you guys close at 5:30 because you're also open on Saturdays. Unfortunately for me, I work a second job that takes up my Saturdays. I start work before you open and get off after you close. This leaves me totally screwed. Honestly, I realize that my situation is not your responsibility, and that for 99% of the working world, your Saturday hours cover their needs. But I just wish that you had one night - one night - with extended hours. 6:00? 6:30? Just a suggestion. It would be really great. Anyway, I'm not going to leave my number because this is more just frustration than it is a complaint. Hopefully I'll be able to bring my kids in sometime soon. You've probably already deleted this, but if you haven't, I just wanted to say thanks for listening. Hope I didn't ruin your day. Bye."

{Pause for my collective audience to recover from their attack of 'Holy Shit This Woman is a Piece of Work-itis'.}

And with that, I drove around until I found a random chain hair salon and got the kids their hair cuts (and once again had to fix the crookedness of JT's hairline after we got home).

Joy.

Later that night, I noticed I had a voice mail message on my cell phone. I had accidentally left my phone in my car while inside with the kids doing the hair thing, so I figured that's when the call came in. I don't think anything of it, just retrieved the message.

"Hello, this is Mr. Owner at Pigtails and Crewcuts.
{Oh. My. God.}

"I just wanted to let you know that I got your message and I'm sorry that we have been unable to accommodate you. I value all of our customers, and I'd really like to help you out. Maybe we can work something out and do a late appointment one night.
{Seriously dying of shame at this point.}

"You definitely did not ruin my day; I am always happy to hear from our customers. Hopefully we can make this work for you. I'm getting ready to leave the store, but I'd really like to talk to you, so please call me on my cell phone, XXX-XXXX. Hope your night gets better. Bye!"

I'm telling you, I damn near fell over. The owner of the store not only listened to my message in its entirety, he *got my number from his Caller ID* just so he could return my call.

Dude.

Seeing as how I now felt like a total ass, I so was not calling this man back on his cell phone. I wanted to apologize for my message, though, so I figured I would just call the store and leave another message. Coward, thy name is Jenn. I hit up my own Caller ID, figuring since it's now several hours past closing, I'm good to go with this plan.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello?"
{Shit! Shit shit shit!!!!}

"Um, hello Mr. Owner? This is Jenn the Cowardly Bitch, I left you a message earlier ... ?"

"Oh, yes, Ms. Freak Of A Customer Who Makes My Job A Living Hell. I'm so glad you called!"

Ha.

Actually, the conversation went very well. Mr. Owner was at all times professional and courteous, yet still managed to be personable and funny. He even said my message amused him, with my opening statement that used the words "love" and "suck" in the same sentence. I assured him that I realized how ridiculous I had been to leave that message, and that we most definitely did not need special accommodations; I would just unclench and let my husband bring the kids in. All in all, I was extremely impressed with how he handled the situation. By the end, I even felt comfortable enough to give him my last name and my kids' names when he asked for them, to help him remember us when we next came in.

My Saturday work days are numbered, so chances are by the next time haircuts are needed, I'll be able to take the kids in myself. I'm actually looking forward to it; I plan on apologizing in person and then making up for my behavior by buying a bunch of unneeded expensive hair accessories from them.

It'll be fun, I'm sure.

Although now that I think about it, he probably took that personal information and marked us down on the Moronic Pain In The Ass Customers list in permanent black marker. He's probably just waiting for our next visit so he can surreptitiously snap head shots to tack up next to our names on that list.

Dammit.

Hell.

Crap.

Eh.

Hey, if we've gotta take mug shots, at least our hair will look great.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(In all seriousness, I highly recommend P&C. Take a look at their website, because they have locations all over. They rock.)

Tears in my Heart

2008-03-07T08:47:00.004-05:00

I have no words to express how I am feeling this morning.

Last night, a woman was given devastating news.

This woman is an acquaintance from a message board. To be perfectly honest, I don't consider us friends. We don't email. We don't start threads addressed to each other. She is just one of the regulars on the board, as am I, and we have interacted through various posts over the last couple of years.

Yet my heart is breaking for her.

Hers is a story of years of infertility, miscarriages, and failed attempts at pregnancy. She has posted her troubles in bits and pieces, never asking for sympathy, never raging against circumstance. She was simply sharing parts of her life, as we all did. On a message board full of mothers, she was the much loved "mother to be". We all assured her that somehow, someday, she would have a baby to call her own.

She and her husband were in the process of adopting when the country they were working with all but shut down international adoptions. Our board bemoaned the unfairness of it, offered up advice and sympathy, prayers and good luck wishes. Then lo and behold, a new fertility treatment, experimental but with a high rate of success, was made available to this couple. They chose to go for it, to give one last shot at pregnancy and new life. The women on our board were thrilled; posts abounded with excitement and happiness. We held our collective breath, waiting as the days and weeks crept by, devouring every post she made that talked about blood tests and numbers and hormone levels. As the days passed, more and more posts were made with that flavor of certainty, that "this is it!" feeling.

And it was.

It was, two times over. Twins.

I cannot begin to express the unrestrained joy of a mom's board learning that there was another one of us in the making. If cyberspace can have a party, we threw a humdinger. With each post, each new doctor appointment, each mention of morning sickness, each question of maternity clothes, we celebrated.

It has been 20 weeks since that fateful procedure. Less than that since the confirmation of the pregnancy. Even less than that since the news of two heartbeats in one womb.

And now, this woman has learned that one of those heartbeats is housed in a body not meant for this world. A brain that will never develop. A life that will never know quality.

This woman, this mother, is being told by doctors that she should heavily consider ending her baby's existence before she ever draws a breath, so as to give her twin a better chance at life.

Is there any more devastating a choice?

Is there any heavier sorrow that could fall upon a mother?

How can one ever find peace and healing in circumstances like this?

I do not know this woman. I have never met her, never spoken to her on the phone. I do not know her last name or her husband's name. I do not know when her birthday is or what movies she likes best.

But I can feel her pain. It is palpable, even though a computer screen. I can hear her ravaged heart spilling into her words. I can see her confusion, her complete lack of understanding the why of it all.

I do not know this woman, and she does not know me. But we are connected on some level, connected through motherhood, through that unconditional love for the lives we bring forth into this world.

And my heart is breaking for her.

Scratch That

2008-02-28T13:03:00.006-05:00

Here I was, all ready to post an annoyingly cheerful blog about how swimmingly my new job is going, and how the kids have taken to daycare like ducks in water. (Despite the fact that Kays got pink eye after only 3 days - it was a mild case and she handled the drops well. We chalked that up to the hazards of daycare and moved on.)

However.

The flu invaded our house on Sunday night. Monday at the doctor's office, the tests confirmed: both munchkins had it. JT also had an ear infection and sinus infection.

Joy.

Four days later, they are finally back in daycare. N took Monday off, I took Tuesday, and he covered Wednesday and today (in case they were sent home from daycare; we weren't 100% positive they'd make it through an entire day). Luckily, he can work from home, so his boss is somewhat flexible in situations like this. I, however, am not yet out of my third week at a new job and have already begged for time off. Nice.

To top it off, I am sitting at my desk with a fever, the chills, a massive headache, and neck pain. I want to go home and hide under the covers. Instead, I am so apprehensive about asking for even more time off that I'm sitting like a lump at my desk, wearing my jacket, hoping I just die right here to lessen the misery.

Welcome back. Yeah, right.

Torn

2008-02-10T01:23:00.000-05:00

The world as I know it is changing.

Up until tonight, I thought it was changing for the better. You see, I am a stay-at-home mom. Technically, I have a job, but it's part-time and at night/on weekends, so it doesn't really count. My job is to stay at home with my kids.

I've never felt I did this job well.

For any of you who read my previous blog (which has been deactivated; RIP ourgreatfamily.net), you know I've had issues with the SAHM thing from the get-go. I'm not going to rehash it all. Suffice to say, I have very little patience, a quick temper, and I'm not too interested in doing things my kids want to do. I don't want to make a mess with Play-Doh or paint, run around outside in the heat and humidity, or "find" them in the same place a million times. I don't want them to help me in the kitchen, because it takes longer and makes a bigger mess. I don't want them typing on my computer because, dammit, I'm trying to write a blog here. And yes, today is going to suck, because we didn't get up and at 'em early enough and now it's almost naptime and when you wake up we won't have enough time to do anything before I have to go to work, so no, we can't go anywhere fun.

I'm also not so hot on the housekeeping end of things. SAHMs are, for the most part, expected to take on the majority of the house chores. Makes sense, considering we are home all day while our hard-working husbands break their backs to bring home the bacon. Unfortunately for me (and my husband), a toddler and a preschooler were more job than I could handle - the housekeeping took a back burner to trying to keep up with them. I just never could quite grasp that golden schedule that seems instinctive for so many other moms. Maybe it had something to do with coming home from work at 10:00 pm and finally getting to eat dinner, then spending some time actually connecting with my husband - or vegging out on the couch if connecting was just too much work - taking a shower, and going to be at midnight (or more likely 1:00 am), just to get up when I hear JT calling for me at 7:30 the next morning. I was tired. So very tired, all the time. Most days, I was proud to get us all dressed and keep the TV time to a minimum. Housekeeping, well, not so much.

I have beat myself up one side and down the other over this for the last two years. I haven't really come to peace with it, but lately things have been getting better. The kids are older, they play together (not usually nicely, but still). They're less messy with projects, so we tackle a new one now and then. I'm getting used to being a zombie, so the lack of sleep is not as hard to deal with. Overall, I think we were on the way up.

However, we still have one major problem. We are broke. Flat broke. Not despairingly broke - we can still pay the mortgage, run the heater, and buy groceries - but definitely poor. Our heater isn't on much, our groceries tend toward Top Ramen, and we are on a budget that is tighter than a homophobe's asshole, but at least we are limping along. It's just hard to never get ahead. It's hard to not be able to afford gymnastics lessons for your little girl, or Mommy-and-Me music classes for your son. It's hard to not be able to have fun family outings, because they cost too much. It's hard to swallow your pride when your parents pay for the airfare so you can see your nieces be baptized.

Not as hard as living on the street. I know this, and I'm trying not to have a pity party here. But, it's hard.

So I've been looking for jobs. With two kids, a dog, and an SUV that gets 14 mpg, the expenses of me working all day are fairly high. I set my salary requirements to the top of the bar for someone in my field (administrative assistance) with my experience (years) and education (not much). I sent out resumes, lots of resumes. I interviewed, which in and of itself creates difficulties like paying a sitter and buying a new outfit. I watched people's faces try to hide the shock when they asked my salary requirements and I told them. I went home, pissed off that I had spent next week's grocery money for what was just a waste of time.

And then, lo and behold. My phone rang and I was offered a position. Ironically, I had already made up my mind about this particular job - the interviewer was a jackass who made me feel stupid and small. I didn't want his damn job, thankyouverymuch. Luckily, I had an out, a non-confrontational way of saying "stick this job where the sun don't shine" ... the salary was not high enough. I couldn't swing it; there simply was no way. I asked for the weekend to think about it, but I knew I was going to call back on Monday and turn it down.

For some reason, I did not do this. When I called on Monday, I asked if the salary could be raised. I wanted three thousand a year more. I felt audacious asking for this - surely they'd laugh at me. But who cared? I didn't want the job anyway. However, my request was seriously considered and I was told to call back that afternoon.

Shortly afterward, my husband called me with some very, very bad news. He was being sent home from work, pending an investigation of his actions. He told me that obviously, no matter what the offer was, I needed to take that job. We were both devastated. Was he fired? He didn't know. But if he was, well, God help us. I needed a job, and I needed one now.

So I accepted.

Luckily for me, they raised their offer by twenty five hundred. I was shocked, as I had fully expected to be told "too bad so sad" on raising the salary. It was a nice bonus, but all I could think was at least I had a job. If N was going to be fired, we might still be able to hang on by the skin of our teeth.

N, as it turns out, was not fired. His offending action was ridiculously innocuous, and for anyone else would have resulted in a slap on the wrist. Thanks to the very bad relationship he has with his supervisor, however, N was suspended for two days, then ended up with a formal write-up for his file.

But he still had a job, for which we were more than thankful.

In the chaos of this week, the stress and subsequent relief, the scramble to find a child care center, the plans, the budgeting, the everything, I haven't thought much about what it means for me to have a job.

I am thinking about it tonight.

For one, it means we will have a bit more money each month. Not much, but enough that we should eventually pull flush, and hopefully even get ahead. Maybe even one day having the luxury of family vacations, children in extra-curricular activities, and doing the much-needed up-grades to our home.

For another, it means we will have much better medical benefits. No more surprise bills for hundreds of dollars, because N's insurance doesn't cover this or that. No more deciding not to have our children get a non-required vaccination because we can't afford the percentage that would be our responsibility. No more hours on the phone, setting up payment plans with doctors' offices.

It will also mean that my kids are at a child care center all day long. 7:15 am to 5:15 pm. For 10 hours, they will be in the hands of teachers who are paid to help them make a mess with Play-Doh and paint, watch them while they run around outside and enjoy the playground, laugh with them when they play house in the pretend kitchen, show them how to type their name on a computer keyboard. Every day will be fun, filled with friends and projects and activities and games.

And I won't be there.

I'll never be able to say I was good at being home with them. I might have ... I believe we were on the way to getting there ... but we never quite nabbed that prize. Their time at 'school' will be so much better than their two years at home with me. And for them, I am glad that they will finally be getting the environment they deserve.

But for me, I'm sad.

I'm sad, and I don't want to let them go.

I'm sad, and I want to call my employer to tell him this was all a mistake. That really, I'm meant to be at home with my children, giving them the best life possible, so thank you but I don't need this other job.

I'm sad, even though in my heart of hearts, I know I'm doing the right thing. I need to work; we need the money. I picked a wonderful child care center, and they are going to be receiving all the attention and caring and simulation they need to thrive. They are going to love it, I know.

But I'm sad.

I have a lot of things to do tomorrow; household chores and whatnot. I have schedules to write down and details to be ironed out. I have meals to plan and preparations to be made.

But I want to shut it all out and just hug my children. To watch them play, to see the sunlight reflected in their beautiful eyes and feel my heart lift at their laughter. To be their mom, their one and only, their love; to make every moment count. I want to stop time ... but they can't wait to start school, to have such a new and wonderful adventure. They don't know that tomorrow is going to break my heart. They don't know that I want just a little more time to prove that I really can be a great mom. That it's in me to give them everything they need, that I'm capable of doing right by them. They don't know that I'm dying a bit inside to let them go.

I didn't even know. I didn't know this was all inside me, until it hit me that I have one more day before our little world changes. One short day.

I start work on Monday.

And God, I don't want to go.

Not To Be Repetitive ...

2008-01-09T08:51:00.002-05:00

But I've got another movie post for you.

Thanks to ~~mom~~ Santa, N got a movie gift card in his stocking this year. For us, this is a really awesome gift (as was the gift card to O'Charley's). See, we don't have a lot of money for extras, and when we want to go out without the kids, money becomes a big problem. To go to a movie, you have to pay the sitter (2 hour movie, 15 minutes of previews, 30 minutes round-trip traveling, 10-15 minutes of getting there early, and 15 minutes of "show sitter the ropes" time = $35, and that's just for a 2 hour movie). You also have to buy tickets (2 adults = $18). So, we're looking at $50-$60 just to spend a bit of time in a theater. I cringe to think we might want to add dinner or even theater popcorn to that.

No wonder we so often choose animated kids' movies ... it's cheaper just to bring them along. (And hey, Enchanted was damn funny.)

But with the magic of a gift card, the expense of the theater is shouldered by that wonderful little piece of plastic. So we went out last Friday night and saw the movie Juno.

*************************
DISCLAIMER: Although I don't think this post will ruin the movie for you -- it's pretty clear what the plot is from the previews -- I will be discussing a few specifics. I'm really not going to reveal much, but you may want to wait to read this until after you've seen the movie. And trust me, you should definitely see the movie.
*************************

Juno is about a 16 year-old girl who gets pregnant after sleeping with her best friend. She decides to have an abortion, but then can't go through with it. Instead of keeping the baby, she opts for giving it up for adoption. This all happens in about the first 15 minutes. The movie is really about following Juno through her pregnancy, and showing what it's like to be not only a pregnant teen but an adoptive parent hopeful as well.

This movie hit home for me in a way that it won't for many people. See, I found myself in the same situation at the same age. Pregnant at 16. It's an enormous, terrifying, overwhelming place to be in. And just like Juno, I was a "good girl" (although, unlike her, my boyfriend was a loser that I would have been much better off without). It shocked just about everyone, I think, who heard about me. It shocked the hell out of me, that's for sure. Looking back, I don't know why I was so surprised; I don't know how I had convinced myself that I wouldn't get pregnant. Hello ... unprotected sex = pregnancy ... duh! (It also equals STDs, and I can say that it is only by the grace of God that pregnant was all I got.)

Juno experiences that same feeling, that shock of, "Oh my God, it's not real, it's not real, that's not a plus sign, it's not real, oh my God, no no no nononononoooooooooooooooooo!" But she gets past it pretty quickly and decides on abortion with relative ease. When that option becomes unacceptable to her, she grabs onto adoption and holds it with both hands, no looking back.

I was very much the same. I considered abortion, but never very seriously. I don't know why, honestly, because obviously I didn't have extremely high morals at that point. But I just couldn't do it. Oddly enough -- or maybe not so much -- keeping the baby was also never a serious consideration. It just wasn't going to happen. That pretty much left me with adoption.

Just like Juno, once I settled on adoption, there was no going back. From the moment I chose my child's adoptive family (and my first choice was *it*), the baby was no longer mine. I was just growing it for this lovely couple that couldn't grow their own child. I gave birth a month after I turned 17, and I never once regretted that I didn't leave the hospital with a baby girl in my arms. She wasn't mine. I could never give her what she needed. She already had parents, two wonderful people, and my place was only to say goodbye and walk away.

You have no idea how many people thought I was being cruel to "give away" my child. *I* had no idea that my choice was going to be regarded with such scorn. Honestly, the mindset of most of the people in my life was that keeping the baby, finishing high school through a continuation program, going on welfare, and letting my parents raise my child was perfectly acceptable. Or Jesus, go get a quick abortion, because even that would be better than "abandoning" my baby at birth. I was stunned at the number of people who honestly believed I was making the wrong choice, not only a bad one, but a horrible, heartless one.

I can say now, with complete certitude, those people are ignorant jackasses.

I do, however, have to allow them a bit of slack. You see, society, for all it's advances, is still in the dark ages in regards to adoption. I don't know why, but considering the fact that adoptions themselves have changed quite a bit, it's amazing to me that society still regards adoption as the least-favorable, most difficult, often worst choice for a young pregnant woman and her child.

I don't understand.

I don't understand why it is considered easier to get an abortion, when it has been proven that so many women who have abortions often have psychological fall-out for years afterward.

I don't understand why it is less of a stigma to rid yourself of an unwanted child than it is to carry that child to term.

I don't understand why anyone would feel it is better to stop a life before it starts than let a child be raised by someone other than the biological parents.

I don't understand why anyone believes giving a child to an adoptive family is wrong and cruel; that life with biological parents is always the best option, even when that life includes things like welfare and food stamps, never feeling equal to your peers because your are so poor, watching your mom work two or three jobs to pay the bills because she dropped out of school after she had you, and knowing your dad took off before you were born because being a teenage father wasn't part of his life's plans.

I don't understand.

For those of you thinking I must be exaggerating, that everyone knows giving a child up for adoption is selfless and wonderful, think again. I had every one of these things and more said directly to my face.

Then, of course, there are the women who think they really are doing the right thing by encouraging (or pushing, or demanding) the pregnant girl to get an abortion. They say, "Well, *I* couldn't go through with adoption, that would be too hard, so this teenage girl certainly shouldn't have to shoulder that burden," when in reality, they have no idea what choice would be the most burdensome to the girl. Encouraging an abortion just because *you* think it's easiest is beyond absurd. Who are you to decide what is going to weigh on her conscience 1, 10, 20, 50 years from now? Who are you to decide what's *easiest* for someone else?

And please, do NOT spew that rhetoric at me about adoptive children missing a piece of themselves, or feeling abandoned, or wishing they'd never been born. Ever heard of open adoption? Look it up. Open adoption wipes out the issues caused by old-school adoption, when the child could, and often did, have unanswered questions about his/her bio parents. Plus, for the birth parents, open adoption offers so much flexibility. You choose from "I'll tell you everything you need to know, contact me if an issue comes up, but I don't want updates on the child" to pictures and letters to actual visitation (which is what I have). The pregnant mom gets to decide what her comfort level is, then she chooses a couple who agree and are comfortable with the same.

Do all teenage pregnancies end in a life cycle of poverty and parent-absenteeism? No, of course not. But statistically, that is a very common result - actually, the most common result. Do all adoptions, especially in regards to open adoption terms, work out as wonderfully as mine did? Again, no, of course not. Adoption isn't a guarantee of a perfect life. It's a chance. Sometimes it's the *only* chance a child gets.

Is it easy? Hell, no. Giving a child up is never easy. But it doesn't have to be as difficult as it once was. If more people would research and actually *learn* about adoption, I believe it would become more acceptable to society as a whole. In today's world, adoption falls into a wicked catch-22. It's not a common choice, so people don't know much about it. People don't know much about it, so they don't consider it as an option. People don't consider it as an option, so it's not a common choice.

See the cycle?

More people than I care to count told me that, "Once your baby is born and you hold it, you will change your mind. After all, that baby is your own flesh and blood." Um, no. I chose my child's family when I was four months along, and I never wavered. I never even thought "what if". Because, you see, I love her. I love her with all my heart. I love her so much, I couldn't keep her. I couldn't do that to her.

And you know what? I made the right decision. My baby girl has the perfect family who loves her more than anything, and a life that is so much better than whatever I could have cobbled together for her. Do I miss her? Of course. She *is* my flesh and blood, and there will always be ties between us.

Sure, I've wondered over the years what it would have been like if I had decided differently, or changed my mind as so many thought I would. It's been hard at times, knowing that my firstborn was growing up somewhere else, somewhere that I wasn't. But my daughter has a mom, and it's not me, and she is more lucky for that than she knows. She also has her dad, her sister, her grandparents. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She has her parent's friends, the ones who are so close they are just like family. And she also has me. She has my husband, who loves her deeply. She has my children, who adore their big sister. She has my parents, my brother, my best friends. She has the biggest family of any child I know. She is surrounded by love.

That's the beauty, and perfection, of adoption.

Seen Any Good Movies Lately?

2007-12-19T14:40:00.000-05:00

First of all, for all you people who are bitching at me to blog: Step. Off. ! I told you in my very first post that if I was actually being a good mom, I wouldn't have time for this crap. And between two birthdays (yes, I birthed both my children in the month of December; please send your pity and money to VA) and the upcoming holiday (for which I have not bought a single present), I've been ~~slowly going crazy~~ busy. I promise to post something substantial soon(er or later).

(Honestly, I love you all and I am gratified that you want me to blog. Please have patience and just send me a kick in the ass every once in awhile.)

Despite my busyness, I have been reading my emails. Not responding, mind you -- that would take too much time -- but reading. And the other day I received a forward from a relative of mine regarding a certain movie. Now this relative is older, and tends to forward anything and everything that lands in her inbox. I usually just roll my eyes and delete them. Occasionally when they are just too outrageous, I will track the rumor down on Snopes and send her a link. But for the most part, I just ignore.

However, this email was one of several that I've received about this movie, and I just couldn't take it any more. Upon reading it, my eyes glazed over and my brain went into melt-down mode. My fingers hit 'respond' and started typing without any prompting from the ol' grey matter. And apparently my "don't-chew-out-older-relatives-because-you-will-just-offend-them-and-get-the-family-up-in-arms" button was on vacation, because I went off on a rant worthy of Dennis Miller.

This is the email that I received originally:

THE GOLDEN COMPASS, IS A SOON TO BE RELEASED MOVIE WITH NICOLE KIDMAN.........AS CHRISTIANS WE NEED TO GET THE WORD OUT ABOUT THIS MOVIE, IT IS COMING OUT IN DECEMBER, AN ATHEIST PRODUCED IT, IT IS MARKETED FOR CHILDREN AND IN THE END THEY KILL GOD!
CHECK IT OUT WITH THE 'SNOPES' WEB-SITE BELOW. http://snopes.com/politics/religion/compass.asp

I did manage to preface my response with the following:

No offense or anger or any negativity toward those who have forwarded this email is intended. I am simply stating *my own* feelings on this message that has been busily making the rounds.

And then I kinda lost it ...

Actually, no one kills God in this movie. The movie doesn't really have anything to do with religion. The books do, but the movie is a watered-down version of only the first book, and the studio took the religious tones out. If you actually read that Snopes article, it quotes the president of the Catholic league in saying that the movie is not the problem.

Honestly, it's a PG-13 movie, so I wouldn't take my kids to see it anyway. But my feeling is if my faith is strong, and I'm raising my kids to have that same faith, then a movie--which is *fantasy* and about *entertainment*--is not going to harm them, even if the book it was based on has anti-religious themes. I'm much more worried about the exposure they will get to sex and violence through movies then about them seeing one that brings up religion.

The outrage over this movie is somewhat bemusing to me, seeing as how the movie doesn't include the religious themes of the books. So many people are passing this email around without doing any of their own research on what they are protesting. The Snopes article isn't the only one written on this, but it's the one everyone is linking to. However, even in the Snopes article, it is directly stated that, "In 'His Dark Materials,' Pullman's criticisms of organized religion come across as anti-authoritarian and anti-ascetic rather than anti-doctrinal. (Jesus isn't mentioned in any of the books, although Pullman has hinted that He might figure in a forthcoming sequel, "The Book of Dust.") His fundamental objection is to ideological tyranny and the rejection of this world in favor of an idealized afterlife, regardless of creed."

(By the way, if you want to read a thorough and non-biased article on the movie, go to http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200712/religious-movies).

One thing that every Christian passing around warnings about this movie seems to miss is that the movie is not anti-Christian. It's anti-religion. Pullman doesn't like religion, and he wrote a trilogy of books about it. Part of the trilogy was made into a movie, and now the Christians have their panties in a wad. Why??? Why not Jewish people? Where are the Hindu protesters? Muslims? Anyone? No, it's just the Christians. I wonder why that is. Are Christians less secure in their faith than people of different religious persuasion? Do Christians more strongly feel the need to de-cry anything that challenges religion in general?

Not this Christian. My faith is strong enough to be perfectly fine with the existence of a movie based on a book written by someone who is anti-religion. I've questioned the practices of my church enough to not have a leg to stand on when it comes to others who question as well. And you know what? Someone else's doubts might start an interesting theological discussion for me, but they are not going to change my core beliefs. I'm fine with an atheist making a movie about their beliefs. I'm fine with an agnostic person making a movie about their beliefs. I'm fine with a Jewish or Muslim or Hindu or WHATEVER person making a movie about their beliefs, or lack of. I am sad and disgusted that us Christians can't seem to be tolerant toward beliefs that aren't our own. Even beliefs that go *directly against* our own are still valid beliefs, for the person believing them.

My heartfelt wish is that this email would shrivel up and die. It's misleading and in some cases an outright lie. I would love to see the Christians of the world get up, get off their computers, and go volunteer in a soup kitchen or collect toys for homeless children. I'd love to see us *really* make a Christian difference, instead of worrying about a silly fantasy movie.

*****
Looking back, I realize that although I still truly believe in everything I wrote, I most likely really hurt the relative who sent me the original email. I'm sorry for that, I really am. I should have just vented to my husband, like I usually do (he puts up with a lot of venting). But since I did send it, and I can't take it back, I can only hope that some free thought starts taking the place of knee-jerk, sheep-like reactionism.

Or at the very least, that I won't be getting more forwards any time soon.

Happy Holidays y'all.

Signed,
The Spreader of Truth and Light; aka, The Killer of Bad Forwards

Eat 'Em and Weep

2007-11-22T10:54:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving to all the readers out in Blog Land!

Over here at Casa de Madness, we are having a fake Thanksgiving. On our first T-day in Virginia, we learned, much to our sorrow, that Thanksgiving without family and friends in attendance just isn't the same. No matter how much food you cook, or how good it is, without a big crowd in the house the day just feels like one of those obscure national holidays, like Learn to Grow Your Chia Pet Day. Or something. Point being, it just doesn't feel like a proper Thanksgiving.

That said, we are still taking advantage of the Thanksgiving Rule of Eats, in which one is required to stuff one's self to the point of being sick, then wander off to take a long nap. (Hear that kids? Napping will not be a foreign concept for you today. You. Will. Nap!) We will not, however, succumb to the restrictions of traditional Thanksgiving fare. Oh no. We will be tossing the turkey-and-stuffing rule out the window, thankyouverymuch. I present to you my menu for the day:

My favorite appetizer, Savory Cheesy 'Shroom Bites, in which one takes crescent rolls, cream cheese, parmesan cheese, and mushrooms, mixes them properly, bakes, and then eats as hot as one can stand. One word: freakingfantasticallydeliciousYUM.

Pot Roast for dinner. Yes, pot roast. No turkey. I don't eat anything that says gobble. My pot roast is a mouth-watering concoction of tender beef spiced to perfection with my secret spice recipe (which I cannot share even upon the threat of death) (mainly because every year I just pull yummy-smelling spices out of the cupboard and cover the meat with them), carrots, potatoes, and mushrooms, all simmered together in a fabulous beef bullion-brown gravy sauce mix.

Homemade mashed potatoes. From scratch. Milk, butter, cream. Oh yeah.

{insert some sort of vegetable here; one must keep somewhat of a pretense of healthy eating for one's young children}

Dessert this year will be something new, Pumpkin Cheesecake. I'm not a big fan of pumpkin, but my friends who have made this recipe assure me that it won't matter, as supposedly this is the most delish cheesecake on the planet. We'll see. I have a back-up of ice cream and apple pie, should my friends let me down.

Considering I will be presenting this veritable feast to my (not so) huge family of four, that's a lot of freaking food. But alas, one must concede to at least one tradition on days such as this. It may not feel like Thanksgiving, but we are going to give it our best shot at changing that.

Happy eating, everyone!

(Oh, and Julie, don't go giving me any crap about the mushrooms. When you're here, I'll cook without them. Until then, my food will be fungus-filled!)

Whimper

2007-11-21T23:21:00.000-05:00

The laptop I use during the day, for posting and other internet-related good stuff, is a piece of trash. Literally. N, who is a computer geek by day, was told by his boss that it wasn’t worth fixing and to just throw it out.

N brought it home instead.

He formatted the hard drive, installed the necessary virus and spyware programs, and viola! A free laptop! Nothing to complain about there. Well, it does have ~~some major issues~~ a few annoying quirks, but whatever, it works.

One of the annoying quirks is that the internal wireless card doesn’t work. This would be a major problem if N had not managed to get his hands on an external wireless adapter (I don’t ask where these things come from; it’s better that way). Having the external adapter means I can ignore my kids while ~~looking at naked men~~ accessing the internet just fine. Alas, the wonderful, wonderful external adapter is dead.

Dead!

I am cut off from the internet! No email, no entertainment gossip, no yahoo groups, no checking in on my favorite blogs, no posting my own genius blather!

Apparently either a child or a dog stepped/jumped/fell on it, bending it rather nastily. And as my husband rather bluntly informed me, bent electronics = no workey.

Jonseing for my internet fix, I tried using my desktop computer yesterday to take care of business. The desktop is in my bedroom, so I waited until the munchkins were engrossed in their movie of the day, then snuck out of living room. It took less than 10 minutes for them to notice.

“Mommy! Why aren’t you watching the movie, mommy?”
(I’m working, honey. You can watch by yourself for awhile.)

“Mommy! Are you done yet?”
(No, babydoll. I’ll be done in a little bit. Just watch the movie, okay?)

“Mommy! JT is sitting on me!”
(JT, share the couch! Sit next to your sister, not on her!)

“Mommy! Tucker is licking me!”
(Tucker, come! Good boy.)

“Fish-ee, fish-ee, fisheefisheefishee fiiiiiissssssshhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

This last one came from JT, who ran into my room wailing and scared out of his little 2 year old mind. Apparently the diver-capturing-Nemo scene is overwhelmingly scary for toddlers. Who knew.

So I’ve resigned myself to posting less, which blows because I’m already having a blast with this blog. I’ve got ideas for posts coming out the yingyang. (No, not that yingyang! Minds out of the gutters, people!) Anyway, I’ve got a lot to write about and no way in which to write it.

My ~~diabolical~~ sensible plan, for the moment, is to type posts on the laptop in Word, save them to my thumbdrive, and post them from the desktop computer after the kiddos have gone to bed. We’ll see how that goes. I’ve had problems going from Word to html before, mainly that the formatting goes all to hell and it’s a complete pain in the ass to fix it. Hopefully blogspot won’t be as craptastic as my other posting forums.

I’m working on obtaining a new external adapter. We’re on a tight budget, and this is definitely not on the list. Santa might bring one to me, but if he does then that’s about all I’ll get. I’m not sure I’m willing to sacrifice the child-like glee experienced upon opening present after present on Christmas morning, but I just may grow to be that desperate. Until then, just know that I love and adore all of my (three) readers, even if I’m MIA. Don’t forget about me.

Oh, and if anyone has a Wireless-G Notebook Adapter just lying around, please send it my way. Karma will shower many blessings on you (and I’ll worship you forever).

New Clothes

2007-11-16T20:09:00.000-05:00

I hope all (three) of my fans out there like my new look. The green was getting to me. I liked the format, but just couldn't do the vomitous color any more. I think I'll be sticking with this ~~boring~~ soothing white for awhile.

Blogspot, please come up with more templates. Please.

Letting Yourself Go

2007-11-16T10:17:00.000-05:00

So I was reading a thread on the message board formerly known as CAM regarding women who, upon becoming stay-at-home moms, becoming fat, or just plain getting older, stop taking care of themselves. Everyone on the post agreed that mothers (and just people in general) feel better when we take the time to take care of ourselves. That was the easy part. No so easy was the definition of "take care of yourself." Even more not so easy was what our husbands, co-workers, friends, and neighbors think of us when we start slipping. Well, the start of "slipping" depends on your definition of "take care of yourself." So if your definition is different than mine, then your downhill slope is higher and steeper than mine. And what right do you or anyone around me have to judge me? And why should my husband get a say in how I look? And just how far do I have to go before "taking care of myself" is synonymous for "pleasing others"? You can see how this went on and on. It became a thread full of snotty, self-righteous posts, with judgements thrown left and right in the guise of "helpful advice." But in between the cattiness and maliciousness, there were some hard questions and for me, some even harder truths.

Many mothers have a tendency to put their kids, husband, chores, bills, shopping, and other routine necessities ahead of themselves. Yes, that is a generalization, but one that I believe is pretty darn true. It's what we've been programmed to do ... take care of your family, be the rock, the glue that holds everything together. That's fine, but unfortunately, for a lot of woman, m-o-t-h-e-r spells martyr. Personally, I think it's stupid to believe you can continue putting yourself last and still be a happy person. If you haven't had time to take a bubble bath, read a book, see a movie, get a pedicure, or just enjoy a couple hours to yourself, then (in my very humble opinion) you have priority issues. I'm not saying you should lock your kids in a closet on a daily basis so you can lounge around eating bon bons (mmmm, bon bons). I'm saying that you will be a better mother, a better wife, a better person (and more fun to be around!) if you take the occasional break. To me, that is just common sense, and in all honesty wasn't the topic of the CAM thread. I got distracted when starting this post and had to go off on that little rant. Hopefully I have enlightened someone's life. Back on subject now!

The focus of the thread was that apparently, to be happy with one's self, attractive to one's husband, and pleasing to those in one's presence, one must take the time for basic hygiene, dressing nicely, styling hair, and applying makeup. Without those four items, according to some of these ladies, a woman just won't feel good about herself, her husband's eyes will start to roam, and the other moms who see her will think she's a lazy slob.

Being clean is something I think everyone is on board with (or should be, for Pete's sake). I don't know many people who disdain things like soap, toothpaste, and/or deodorant (with the exception of Matthew McConaughey, who is hot enough to get away with it). Dressing nicely, well, I'm more in favor of dressing appropriately. You work in an office, feel free to torture yourself with fashionable-but-excruciating heels and deal with runs in your nylons. You stay at home with your kids, then clean, decent-fitting clothes is about all I think anyone has the right to expect. Are jeans nicer than sweat pants? Yes, of course, but if you're having a true, we're-staying-home-today day, or a I'm-pmsing-and-none-of-my-jeans-fit day, or an I-haven't-done-that-particular-load-of-laundry-yet day, then by all means, wear your (clean) sweats or yoga pants or whatever. Even if you have to (gasp!) run out to the store, it's not the end of the world.

Stylish hair, eh, anyone who knows me is aware that hair's not my thing. If it's clean, brushed, and not hanging in my face, I'm good to go. I'm not gonna judge a woman who throws her hair up in a ponytail or clippy every day. (In all honesty, I'm going to envy them for having hair long enough to pull back. Damn butchering crazy person disguised as a hairstylist.) If hair is your thing, and you pay lots of money to have it cut and highlighted and styled to a T, then more power to you. I'm sure your hair looks better than mine, and I'm okay with that. Just don't bitch about how expensive your salon/colorist/stylist is, and no punches will be thrown.

Now, on to makeup, which, even though you don't know it yet, is the entire point of this post. I have always been a makeup-free person. I have lots of makeup, expensive, high-end makeup, but I rarely use it. I have fun with it when I'm going somewhere that requires me to look nice, and I'm good at doing full-face, out-on-the-town makeup, if I do say so myself (hey, my mom told me so!). But I don't wear makeup on a daily basis. Never have, even when I worked in an office. In all honesty, it's mainly because I'm lazy. I don't want to have to get up 30 minutes early so I can put gunk on my face without being interrupted forty two million times by my (darling) children. I don't want to have to spend 15 minutes at night washing it off, then applying three kinds of facial lotion to my extremely dry skin, made drier by the very makeup I'm wiping off. I don't want to have to haul out and then put away my makeup case every day, which, because I only know how to do full-face, is pretty damn big. If you haven't gotten the picture yet, I'M LAZY. I fully admit it!

It doesn't help that I'm married to a man who prefers me to be bare-faced (and bare-a--never mind, not going there). He is not into what he calls the "fakeness" of a made-up face. It also doesn't help that I've never really liked my looks and have always thought of myself as a tomboy, both of which have led me to a "why bother" attitude. So, for thirty years I've been facially au natural. Thirty years, people! By now, it's more than a habit, it's a lifestyle.

But this CAM thread got me to thinking. I've been trying to feel better about myself lately. I've had some issues with self-esteem, depression, weight gain ... in general I've not been real happy with myself. I'm taking steps to fixing that, and so far I'm happy with the results (except in the weight area, which appears will be the bane of my existence for life). So I'm open to new ways of doing things, suggestions toward Becoming A Better Me. (Is that a book? It sounds like a book. Hmmm.) I am a dry sponge, and the CAM thread was a downpour of non-filtered water. I soaked up the bad along with the good, which was a bit damaging to my psyche. Luckily, good sense (aka my husband) came along and wrung me out, helping to get rid of the excess bad and leaving me slightly damp with mostly good. Ooookay, enough of that metaphor. End result is I was willing and ready to try wearing makeup on a daily basis to see if it would help in my Improve Jenn campaign.

Enthusiastic as I was, spending a ton of time messing with my face was still a flat-out no go. Not happening, sister! But I've watched What Not To Wear enough times to (somewhat) remember Carmindy's 5 Minute Face technique. She rarely uses it; she seems to prefer the full-face method that I have (ahem) mastered. But occasionally there will be a busy mom on this show who bluntly informs Carmindy that makeup time simply does not exist in her life, and out comes the whole 5 minute thing. Light foundation, a bit of eyeshadow, a swoop of mascara, puff puff of blush, and some lip gloss. Voila! A ~~glamorous~~ ~~whole new~~ subtly improved you in just 5 itty-bitty minutes. I figure I'll give it a shot.

I'm into Day 3 of the Makeup for Jenn strategy. To my surprise, the 5 minute thing really is pretty easy, although it takes me about 10. To my delight, I look much better while still appearing natural. To my dismay, no one has noticed. Not. One. Single. Person. I had to point it out to my husband on Day 1 (although I will allow that it was the end of the day, he was tired, and some of makeup had rubbed off. But please, that does not get you off the hook. The foundation and mascara were still there, dammit!). My co-workers have said nothing. The moms at gymnastics class, nope. Not even a "Mommy, you're so beautiful" from my kiddos (yes, I have gotten that in the past, thankyouverymuch). So what now? Do I go on? Is it just a big fat waste of time to put on makeup which is apparently so light and natural looking that no one notices? Is it worth the effort I'm putting into this if the only person who likes it is me?

See, this whole thing is about me. Me me me. Being happy with myself. Being confident and secure in my skin. But sadly, when it comes to looks, I need the reassurance of those around me to be convinced that I'm good to go in that department. Maybe at some point in the distant future, I will be so full of self-esteem that I will be able to look in the mirror, blow myself a kiss and tell me, "You look HOT baby," and believe it, then walk out the door and maintain that confidence, even if not a single soul compliments me. That would be a good place, indeed. Well, it would be a good place if it were true, not if I had William Hung syndrome and was just really, really good at fooling myself. But I digress. I am not in that place, and do not know if I will ever get there. And in the face of what I think of as such a huge change, the silence of those around me is a bit depressing.

For now, I am going to continue along the Path of Makeup. It's only been a few days, after all. Maybe my friends have noticed, but they just can't come up with a nice way to say, "Wow, you look great! It's a nice change from the old you." :-) Maybe they just aren't the noticing type, or maybe they aren't the commenting type. Who knows. I figure I'll start with improving my own impression of myself, and worry about everyone else a ways down the road. Whether that improvement will continue to include makeup, I can't tell you. I do know that I bought an eyelash curler last night, which was such a girly-girl, beauty queen thing to do that I cringed while using it even as I rejoiced at my lovely, up-turned (!!) lashes.

Non-makeup vs. make-up, slightly amused

Non-makeup vs. makeup, cheesy grin

Pass Me a New Pair, Please

2007-11-14T13:33:00.000-05:00

I began writing a post on the amazing properties of Mommy Goggles, which polish up the best parts of motherhood to such a rosy glow that we simply can't see the horrible parts (and as an added bonus make our own children, no matter how hideous, look truly beautiful to us) when my own gorgeous daughter called to me.

"Mommy? There's a musical instrument in my room."

Since Kays is supposed to be taking a nap, I'm not quite sure why she is affected by this. We do not have musically inclined poltergeists in our house, so said musical instrument is, I assume, laying harmlessly and quietly on her floor.

"Kays, don't worry about it. Go to sleep."

"But Mommy! I need to put it away!"

God knows, when your child wants to clean up, you do not stand in her way. Encourage that ~~slave~~ tidy gene!

"Okay, honey, bring it in here and then go back to bed."

Kays brings said instrument (a tambourine, if you're interested) into the living room and lays it carefully, lovingly, in the music bucket. Yes, we have a music bucket. Don't ask.

Mission accomplished, she comes over to me. "Mommy, I'm not sleepy. I want quiet time."

In our house, quiet time is mommyspeak for, "Go away. Go to your room, shut the door, and don't bother Mommy for the next two hours. Mommy needs a margarita and a bubble bath."

(Come on, now, anyone who knows me knows I don't do margaritas!)

My daughter, however, only knows that quiet time means she doesn't have to nap. Seeing as how I have this idea for a post about Mommy Goggles and I need some time to myself to get a-postin', I graciously allow her to have quiet time. Pull out the laptop, get comfy in the recliner, and--

"Mommy, there's a frog in my room!"

(This is not nearly as dramatic as she makes it seem. It's a rubber frog. A realistic rubber frog, but rubber nonetheless.)

"Kays, just put it in the hallway if it's bothering you." Which is a load of crap, because my daughter is a boy in disguise, and loves things like frogs, snakes, lizards, bats, bugs, spiders, etc. I could go on and on. But I won't.

Despite clear instructions from her mother, who is desperately trying to get her (very funny) thoughts on Mommy Goggles posted and does not need any further interruptions from small children who should been unseen and unheard at this time of day, Kays walks out of her room to put the frog in the animal bucket. Yes, we have an animal bucket. Don't ask.

She's putting the toy away, so on one hand, that's good. However, she's deliberately leaving her room, so in the other hand I'm seeing lots of bad. Instead of reprimanding her, I start counting. In Casa de Madness, the short people get to the count of 2 to stop doing whatever it is that they are currently annoying the tall people by doing. If the tall people get to 3, the short people are in Time Out. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Time Out (yes, it must be capitalized) is extremely unappealing to the short people in Casa de Madness, so the counting threat usually works well.

It also helps that when the word "THREE!" is spoken aloud, a short person will be sitting in Time Out, come hell or high water. No threats without follow-through here, no siree. We are lean, mean, Time Out-enforcing machines.

"One. Two." Long pause while I debate if it's really worth it to say three out loud, thus ensuring a histrionic fit and scattering all post-worthy thoughts to the wind. However, as per the above paragraph, once began, the Time Out countdown cannot be stopped. "Three. Time Out."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I don't want Time Out! Nooooooo! I'm in my room! I'm in my room! I don't wanna nononononononooooooooo!"

(Insert eyeroll and loud sigh on my part.) I enforce the Time Out, during which my precocious spawnling cries and carries on. "Kays, if you are this upset and grumpy, maybe you should nap instead of having quiet time."

Ominous pause.

(If you have ever spent any time with a small child, you know this is the pause in which said child is sucking all the air out of the room so as to have more with which to scream.)

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I'M NOT TIRED! I'M NOT SLEEPY! I DON'T WANNA LAY DOWN! NO NO NO NO NONONONONONONONONONOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Oh. My. Lord.

The screaming, pleading and sobbing (real, honest-to-goodness crocodile tears, nach!) continued even as I put her back in bed. She didn't stop as I told her to have a good nap. She didn't stop as I kissed her then walked out her door. She didn't stop as I sat down in the living room and tried to concentrate on my blog. She didn't stop as I yelled over her noise for her to quiet down and go to sleep. She didn't stop as my Mommy Goggles slowly cracked, splintering in front of my very eyes. She didn't stop as I stood up, crushed my Mommy Goggles into crystallized dust particles, ground them into the carpet, and stomped down the hallway to her room. She didn't stop as I (dramatically, I admit) threw open her door and asked her if she'd like to spend the rest of the day in her room. She didn't stop until she held out her arms to me and said, "You made me so sad."

Kill shot.

I take her into my arms, dry her tears, and love on her. We talk about her time out. We talk about napping, or at least trying to nap even if you're not tired. We talk about listening to Mommy. We talk about how we can't always do what we want. We end with a kiss and hug, and a compromise that she will try napping for the next 30 minutes.

I lay her into bed, cover her up with her blanket du jour. Turn on her Baby Einstein lullaby CD, and walk out of her room filled with a warm, loving, perhaps even rosy glow for my baby girl. Once again, I sit down and start ty--

"Mommy? I'm thirsty!"

Looks like the universe's supply of Mommy Goggles is funneling into Virginia these days.

Pessimistic

2007-11-12T12:16:00.000-05:00

Hello, my name is Jenn, and I have been addicted to reading for 30 years, 2 months, and 19 days. I read books, magazines, newspapers, and the back of toiletry bottles when I'm stuck in a bathroom. I read while eating, while watching TV, while on the computer, while driving (only at the red lights people!), while working ... you get the picture. It's a problem, I fully admit, but I have no intention of correcting it. I've gone so far as to seek out interesting and witty reading items, which is how I was introduced to the world of blogging. Lately I've taken to reading blogs by random people, and am greatly entertained. So greatly, in fact, that I have bookmarked several of them and check them pretty much daily to see what's new. And of course, it's a (seemingly) short jump from reading to writing. It doesn't seem so hard, I tell myself, to type out some anecdotal evidence of my daily life, post a few times a week. Then my friend Julie starts blogging more often, and I take this as a sign that I should once again attempt my own blog.

You may know that I had a blog, still do, actually, on my family's website. Problem is, I am getting spammed beyond belief and I just don't want to deal with that. I'd like to have a blog where people can comment (I kid myself that people will actually be reading this) and I'll be able to read through them without having to delete 100s of comments on sex, sexual techniques, sex-enabling drugs, sex-enhancing surgical procedures, sex-finding websites, and Ghandi's secrets to sexual bliss (well, okay, not the last one ... it might be worth the spam for that one). I'm fine with my sex life, thankyouverymuch.

So today I decided to grab the bull by the horns, the tiger by the tail, even carpe diem! Hence, my new blog. I am not deluded enough to think this will be a daily thing. In all honesty, if I get my kids out and about like a good little SAHM would, I won't have much time for this. But I like to write, so I'm giving it a shot. Besides, one might consider watching videos to be, in truth, good for one's children. How else are my kids going to learn Spanish (thank you Dora), interesting animal facts (thank you Diego), different music styles (thank you Backyardigans), names and uses of tools (thank you Handy Manny and Bob the Builder), how to be a good friend (thank you Clifford and Strawberry Shortcake), how to be a neurotic, overbearing parent, do everything wrong, and still save the day (thank you Finding Nemo), how to be a jealous, scheming, two-faced leader and still end up a hero (thank you Toy Story), how fighting can kill your enemies, impress your future wife, and make you king of everywhere the light touches (thank you Lion King), and how to appropriately use the term "bite me" (thank you babysitter who let my sponge-like children watch Freaky Friday).

After all, I can't be expected to cover all that. Right?