Sneaking One In

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

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

(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

Best.

Website.

Ever.

!!!!

http://notalwaysright.com/

{howling}

{rolling on the floor}

{wipes tears}

My Kingdom for a Title

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

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!

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.