Tuesday, November 01, 2005

tag list: 5 things about me

1. My first crush was on a cartoon -- I was in love with Speed Racer.

2. I've compromised the privacy of my blog by leaving a comment on my sister's blog.

3. I had no idea the love I would have for my kids would be so indescribably deep.

4. I follow my heart.

5. I should follow my head more often.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Petunia report #3


(July #1, Aug. #2)












Petunia is recovering from a nasty bed making mishap. She was on the dresser at the foot of the bed and I clipped her when I snapped the bedspread -- she went down and lost quite a bit of dirt. I got her back together as best as I could, but she was fairly battered. She is still looking a little beaten, but does seem to be bouncing back -- she was much more wilted last week. I'm talking to her, asking her to hang on and build strength until spring when she will get a new pot and fresh dirt.

You can do it petunia, hang in there sweetheart.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

On Earth as it is in Heaven

Not to gynx anything, but everyone is still sleeping and I have quiet to myself. I am drinking coffee and going through bags of clothes from my sister (the one who shops in boutiques and is my fashion idol) -- all this and computer time, the only thing missing is chocolate.

Friday, October 21, 2005

I did it!

"A-i-he, I did it -- I spelled hot dog!" -- Lizzie

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Sex ed

Instead of teaching about birth control and std's, I think they should teach the hygiene habits of teenage boys. I'm confident the information would greatly reduce the rate of teen pregnancies.

I would be willing to bet that girls with a teen brother in the house have a significantly lower teen birth rate than those without. The only flaw in this plan -- that I can think of-- is if the girl thinks it's only her brother who defies cleanliness -- but again, that's what the class would be for.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Perfection




When we moved into this house, Winnie's room was a mess. The wall decor was partially removed wallpaper in white and maroon. When I removed the remaining wallpaper it came off down to the plaster of the drywall in a several small spots all over the room. I decided to cover the problem with lots of action on the walls -- a garden theme was born because Winnie loves being outside -- I wanted to bring it in for her so she could be there all the time.

She was almost two and such a happy kid. I wanted the room to capture her personality and to be a place of childhood wonder. I wrote a story because I thought it would look cool painted as a border around the room. The story is about playing outside.

Today Winnie was up in her room coloring all morning. When she came downstairs calling, "Mom," I thought she was about to ask for something. Instead, she told me she loved the story in her room. She said wonderful things like, "When I read it, I just love it -- it makes me feel loved."

Mission accomplished -- melt.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Jeffrey's home from Mississippi
















He made the paper -- that's his back. The pretty woman is his wife (and Lizzie's Godmother).

Friday, October 07, 2005

Ordinary

I feel normal today. Not super motivated, but capable. Not Mother Teresa patient, but kind.

I am present, instead of being split between enjoying here and wishing I were elsewhere to vegetate with my lack of self in peace.

I'm not joyous, but I am grateful. When you've been struggling, a day like today gets noticed. There is a sigh of thanks to the heavens -- the deep breath waves a contented calm throughout. If it goes away again in the next moment -- I had this reprieve and I'm not taking it for granted.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Rewards

Reward for cleaning: "Oh there that is."

Reward for bad memory: "I own this cd? Cool!"

Alex...

"Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex, Alex..."

The kindergarten crush is still going strong in the first grade. Alex is boyfriend to Winnie and her friend Macey. They asked me if a boy can marry two girls and I said in certain religions they could, but that it's really not a good thing.

But you know...my mind drifted off into fantasy: I don't go for the cult like family that most polygamists set up, but what if the weird religion and pervert aspects were removed? I would love another wife. I'd love to have a grown woman around all the time. I wouldn't want the reverse of another husband, no, I want someone to share the burden, to relate to on a regular basis ...

Anyway, back to boys. As we were walking home from school, the busses were pulling out and Alex yelled out the window, "Hi Winnie!" She was all cool as she yelled back, "Hi Alex!"

Then, as she turned forward again, she did it with tell all flair -- her hands flew to her heart and she leaned over in a, 'did you see that?!' , motion. She beamed, while at the same time trying not to expose the full extent of her joy -- she said, "That was the first time Alex said hi to me from the bus. He actually yelled out the window to me. From the bus!"

And so it is, forever and ever -- until you die --boys will have the power to do that to your heart with just a, "Hi."

Make sure you get one who knows that about us. And make sure you get one who uses the knowledge for good, not evil.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Where is your father?

Winnie: "Mom, we were using chalk where we weren't supposed to and some got on the carpet," says she, without realizing that it is also all over her -- first time ever worn -- cream colored shirt and light colored skirt and covering quite a bit of exposed skin.

Her cause for concern comes from our earlier discovery of the fact that the chalk dye is a perma dye. This time round we are dealing with blue.

(enter chalk covered cohort)

Lizzie: "It's okay, it will come out."

Mom: "Don't touch anything! Get in the bathroom, get those clothes off and get in the shower."

(Mom gets clothes off as gingerly as possible to avoid further contamination. Girls get in shower. Mom goes to laundry room to treat stains, sometimes speed counts -- with this kind of stain it is our only hope. Mom treats carpet and returns to bathroom. )

Mom: "How are you doing in there? You better hope that stain comes out of the carpet. Ready to have your hair washed?"

Both children: "Why do we have to wash our haaaaair?"

(Noticing contents of garbage can)

Mother: "Who's hair is this in the garbage can? Lizzie, did you cut your sisters hair?"

Lizzie: "No!"

Mother: "This is Winnie's hair. Winnie, did you cut your hair?"

Winnie: "NO!"

Lizzie: "Maybe it's Frankie's hair."

Mother: "It's a chunky, long piece of blond hair -- it's Winnie's color. Lizzie, when did you cut Winnie's hair? Is it from her pony tail or the stuff hanging down the sides? When did you cut her hair?"

Lizzie: "It's my hair. I cut a little bit of my hair, I have a little bit of that color."

Mother: "Lizzie, your hair is dark brown..."

Monday, October 03, 2005

Personal autonomy is an unprovable theory

(I've been tagged for 55 words max)

I'm working the switchboard -- it's low rate hour on mother's day: pets, husbands, stepchild, other mother, children, parents and grandparents, sisters, friends, ornery neighbor, calendar days to remember, flying time and grocery stores. I am blessed beyond reason. I am broken to the core. Balance is a funny little word. Where is my village?

Saturday, October 01, 2005

And She Was

Brian. Brian can't read my blog -- not that he can't, he won't. He thinks blogging is pretty idiotic and is embarrassed for people who reveal themselves out loud using this particular format. Granted, there is a certain amount of psychic trauma waiting to happen -- someone reaching out with intimate details of their lives and someone ready squash them for it. but I think the shame belongs on the squashers and not the sharers.

I do remember being in my twenties and having soul bearing be like, "what the hell are doing?" type stuff. I was just realizing that I didn't know everything and was in fact, a bit wrong about a whole bunch of stuff -- it was embarrassing to think about much less admit. Now if I get an ear, I'll tell it in the check out line (okay, that's kind of a problem -- my sister calls it "diarrhea of the mouth", when your talking mouth overrides your brain's pleads for you to, "shut up talking to strangers about that shit.")

Mom's do it to each other all the time. Many of us are so starved for adult conversation that our private musings just spill out if someone strikes a neuropathway to the adult section of our brain. There is a lot that goes without saying between mother's --that kind of spewing is pretty much understood. Very few respond with proper mortification at the inappropriateness or idiocy of those moments. I find it very reassuring when someone spews my way, "whew! Not the only one, check".

I think Brian has some of it right -- he is fairly dead on about things most of the time. While I do read some things and wince (my own included), I gotta land on the side of personal expression in blog form as a fantastic idea -- the cat's ass. I hate that I have to say and/or type the words blog, blogging and blogger --perhaps it's the teenage punk in me that needs to keep distance from all things lingo. But other than that, I love it.

My sister was a blogging pioneer of sorts. She should be filthy stinking rich. Between her and her geek husband, they practically invented the internet and should have been .com millionaires, at least. One of her web sites is the now defunct, Litweb. It was place for writers to gather and journal, write poems, stories, collaborate, and talk about all things literature. People wrote to her and talked about how much the journaling aspect meant to them. Some say journal, others say blog --I say, "filthy stinking rich and buying me a house".

I don't care if Oprah's people used your website as a model. I don't care about web awards for all of your award winning websites you or the geek created. Okay, I care -- that's really cool about Oprah's people -- but where are the millions? Why aren't you on Oprah, talking about how you bought your mom, dad, and your sisters, houses with pools.

I love having a creative outlet to share. And now I don't have to dink around with writing my memoirs -- Simon and Schuster, internet...it's all the same to me --except for that whole money thing again. When I finish an essay or random thought and hit that orange bar -- green print soon appears and it says, "files published 100%."

When my kids hit the therapy years, I can just go to file and hit print -- "Here, this might help."
And then there is that ever nagging thought of a mother "what if I died and my kids had to be raised by their father?" Here I am in print. It's not all of me, it's a heavily edited version of me, but I think they would get the idea -- they could know a little of their mother this way. I love the death cheating aspect of publication -- of the written word in general. My private journals are different from my blogging stuff. If you think I'm wordy here -- I'm downright concise compared to the ramblings in my journals.

It's not about narcissism, it's about; fear not -- be who you are (unless you are a selfish soul sucking jerk -- in that case, authenticity is over rated).

Brian file:

I sent out an e-mail to friends and family of the, "I can call Mia now!" post.

Brian's reply was: "fuckkin awsomsauce!"

Have I mentioned I love him?

"TECH SUPPOOOORT!"

My husbands days are stressful -- you take someone with heavy duty organizational issues and stick them in a daily situation where organization would be really helpful...

There's a lot of double booking, missed appointments, reorganizing, re-booking, phone calls, phone calls, phone calls and of course, the actual appointments to go to. That's the getting the work side, there is also the doing the work side. We have a crew, but communication is a funny thing -- it is definitely necessary to go to the jobs to check for and put out any fires.

Some people are skilled leaders and they manage chaos with ease and grace, my husband is more like Bill the Cat most of the time. I'm still amazed by what he gets done in day, especially given the schizophrenia and all.

Today he's trying to get to a bunch of places to collect money in order to make payroll before the banks close. He's calling home to have me map quest places because he doesn't have the address files with him...

Instead of cracking under the pressure today, he's cracking me up instead. He's all, "remember that scene at the end of that Tom Cruise movie where his mind program is failing and the matrix is glitching and everything around him is melting and he hollers 'tech suppoooort'? That's me all day, TECH SUPPOOOORT!"

I like it. I'll put it in the files, next to "SERENITY NOW!" from a Seinfeld episode and, "MY EMPIRE IS CRUMBLING!" from Brain Candy.

Friday, September 30, 2005

Did I say several hundred for the survey?

Thousands, with an s.

It's complicated why a homeowner would need this kind of survey in order to landscape their own yard, but it's a small town loophole, usually not a requirement that is actually required of anyone.

Do I cry? Do I march over with pictures of my children and give a speech on injustice and rip his head off about who he is really screwing over with this shit?

He has no idea -- people like that never do. They never think beyond, "I'm intelligent and you are not going to screw me out of the .58 cents you over charged me on my phone bill even if I have to sit on the phone eight hours to prove it."

When I get mad I feel a good Norma Rae -- piece of my mind -- tirade is going to open someone's eyes. The long since disillusioned self knows that he would only demonize my children and convince himself they have it coming too -- he sleeps just fine.

Cry.

"I can call Mia now!" -- Lizzie

Lizzie got her first party invitation from a non-relative. She RSVP'd, ASAP. She got an answering machine and left a message. She has been bugging to call back and I keep telling her she will see her friend this afternoon at school.

Well, the phone rings and I think it may be the little girl calling back so I tell Lizzie she may answer the phone. She didn't make it to the phone on time so the answering machine picked up and Lizzie was there to hear it -- she comes running downstairs, "I can call Mia now! I can call Mia now!"

I said, "Was that Mia's mom?" to which Lizzie says, "No! He said, 'If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again'!!!"

Pop Quiz

Q: Your living room and kitchen are getting out of hand and need to be brought back to reason, what do you do?

A: Part 1 --Pull out three bins of winter clothes from the closet and begin the seasonal switch over, of course.

Part 2 -- Write about it.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Hey,

Who brought the word sycophant into popular use? Take it back -- put it back in the dictionary it came from -- it doesn't belong out here. People using this word -- stop it now, really -- you and I both know this is not a regular word for you -- you may like how it sums up a jerk ass butt lick in one big fancy word, but again, stop using it -- all forms of it.

Thanks

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Part 2: Oh, but then there is that silver lining

Okay, so I'm upstairs in my room which is practically all windows -- I'm watching TV when a surveyor guy goes by the window (they are measuring the house too) -- I had not previously given either one of them a good look, which turns out to be too bad, because I could have been having a lot more fun lurking rather than brooding all day. Whew, he was CA-UTE!
He was a little young for me to be lurking after, but -- koo koo ca choo, y'all.

Every silver lining has a thread of shit

I'm fighting retaliation urges right now as I watch the surveyors, surveying my yard. They've been doing it since around 8 this morning and they don't appear to be packing up to go anytime soon. How much do surveyors cost per hour? There are two of them.

They are here because I have one of those neighbors who thinks everyone is out to get him and he's not going to let it happen while he has a breath left in him. The neighborhood association of one -- making sure we don't have too many shovels propped up against the back of our garage (counting my shovels? I should take a picture of where they are and what he would have to do to get a gander at them in order to be bothered by their number -- the number being "proof" that we are running a business out of our home.)

His list of gripes goes well beyond shovel amounts, but they're all just about as petty. The fact that he is paying so much attention to come up with the stuff he does (he logs how many times my husband comes home in a day because his truck has our logo on the side and "this is not a business district!") -- it should give me the creeps, but mostly it's just an annoyance.

I'm usually over it pretty fast because there isn't a lot you can do about that type of person, other than hope they eventually burn themselves out and take their hate bait elsewhere. But this one is costing me money and I could really use that money for something else.

This is because of the retaining walls we put in. Before you build the walls, you must first have materials. When Rich dropped the materials in the yard, fuck face called in that we were dumping illegal fill in our yard. By the time the county came to check it out, the retaining walls were up. We got a notice to cease all work being done until the yard was surveyed because it is illegal to change the grade of your yard without submitting a grade changing plan.

We didn't change the grade of our yard, we put rocks in front of the existing grade...blah blah, hundreds of dollars to prove it, blah.

I wish I was all, "look at my beautiful yard and suck it, Dan", but I'm not, I'm angry that there are people like that and sad about the money and can't a person make a living? Why does it bother you so much? Do I give a shit about the cars and van on your front lawn? That van is pretty rusty -- should I really have to look at it? And when you mow, your lines aren't even -- what gives? Fuckin drunk ass mower.

Seriously, I do believe that is part of the problem. He has that tell tale gin blossom nose. I don't know how much you know about serious drinkers, but I can tell you this much -- someone is always doing them wrong. Find a friggin program already old man.

My favorite retaliation thought, that I'm not going to follow through on, but it's fun to think about anyway is: I have two dogs and one weighs a hundred and thirty pounds -- think of the clean up involved here. Currently, the poop goes in a double plastic bag and is disposed of properly -- wouldn't it be fun to not dispose of it properly? Wouldn't it be fun to collect a gargantuan stinky barrel full of it and store it in a non capped garbage can? And wouldn't it be great to store that garbage can right by the shovels, uphill from Dan. Our house is clear on the other side, wouldn't bother us any...

...Nuisance.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Do you have to go to the bathroom?

I was putting away dishes this evening (evening meaning: several hours in on a days worth of answering kid's questions). Lizzie came in the kitchen and asked, "mom, what are you doing?". I bit my tongue on "what does it look like I'm doing?" -- instead I went with, "I'm pooping on the floor".

While shock value has it's merits, I wasn't going for inappropriateness alone -- poop humor is big with the pre-school and elementary crowds -- I was going for the kill. Even though I said the word "poop" -- no laughing. The child was only confused, "huh?". Trying to clear things up I said, "Never mind, I was just being a smart alec". Lizzie said,"What about alec? ...Do you have to go to the bathroom?"

I think my improv needs work.

Monday, September 19, 2005

When I get time to sit down at the computer

I always check my own blog first, to see if I've written anything new while I was away.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Have I mentioned the mug shot?

I just signed a release of information form so I can volunteer in the health room at my kid's school.

I once had a friend of mine run a background check on me. He had a website he used for doing checks on potential employees for his business. Nothing came up, but I don't know if the school uses the same data base. On the one hand, that's good for me if it might not show up -- but the other hand wants to know who else has crap that's not coming up and now they are working with my kids?

If mine does come up, that's fine -- it's nothing that would prevent me from working at the school (moral of the story: Don't date your neighbor. Especially if you live in a duplex. And you are an active alcoholic. And he's a pathological liar.) I had two charges against me and I almost took the felony because it was a cheaper ticket -- no kidding (when you are actively using -- it's all about the money). Thank goodness for appointed people.

Criminal damage to property = pants on fire said I ripped his door screen trying to get in his house. A second part of my logic for almost taking that ticket was because it wasn't true so I didn't care if it was on record. "Huh?"

The actual charge that took was a disturbing the peace, or something like it -- which I most certainly did. I wasn't going to go down over a bunch of lies without a show. Plus, I loved him, so it was all heartbreak, disbelief and anger all at once. He didn't just lie about the door -- he went into this whole "rabbit boiler" story. So, naturally, I went and put a pot on the stove to prove I wasn't.

I heard the boys connecting as he told them about his state trooper brother-in-law. They began using insider lingo. I could see the concern on their faces as he was talking to them and I felt any chance for fairness slipping away. It was bad when me, alcohol, and nothing to lose got together that day.

Why didn't I calmly say things like, "uh, pardon me, this guy comes home every day and flips fuses so I have to reset all my clocks." Or just...something calm. Something sane.

I've got no problem looking people in the eye over having a minor record -- I've grown. What would be rough is if the pictures were sent with the information.

The one thing I know about never wanting to see my mug shot -- ever -- is that one day, I will. If I were just sad looking, or trashy looking, or even Nick Nolte-ish with my drunken self -- fine--but I was not.

I've never seen the photos, but I've got a pretty good idea they ain't right. The profile is probably standard, but I remember giving a big ol Cheshire grin and wide eyes (to laser out "Fuck you" as hard as I could). I was wearing a Miller high life sweatshirt too -- it really wasn't looking good for me that day.

Oh, there's plenty more to that day -- it will all be in my book; "Things Not to Say While Being Arrested" (while they were finger printing one hand, I was waving my pointed finger, "And another thing!", with the other. )

I laugh at my own lapse and boldness now (in that, horrified by the entire scenario, way). You know how some things come back to you and you wince? Not that day. When memories pop in it's pure amusement --"wow!", followed by unbelieving shake of the head, and again, "wow!" ("whooooweeee! Girl done lost her mind!").

You can't be embarrassed by temporary insanity...Unless there are pictures to go with it.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Is it possible that there are young children who do not get enough exercise?

My kids must burn a days worth of energy on squirming alone. Then there's the energy used in remaining upside down as much as humanly possible (a lot more time can be spent this way than you would think). Once they are upside down, the kicking starts. Kicking for balance, kicking to move cushions around, kicking to tip things over, kicking to lift chairs, kicking to make mom think you are going to break any number of things with your feet at any moment, "even though you've been told not to go upside down by the windows" (how many times do I have to tell them?).

"What can I move with my feet while I'm upside down like this? Hmmmm."

And I'm describing idle mode.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Exhausted blogging

Don't do it.

I had to edit that last entry. Usually I leave my stupidity hanging out without care, but I couldn't do it this time.
Tired babble? Fine.
Rageful rants? Saves on dishwear.

Stream of conscious writing from a brain beyond tired? I can't bare to have record of what goes on in there sometimes.