Bullet Is As Bullet Does

* Spent a lot of time with my arms straight up in the air. In so doing, managed to paint the 13 foot wall in our living room and the stair well in a mellow butterscotch color that warms up the entire house. Who knew that living in a beige world could be so bad for the psyche? Yeah, I probably did, but was too lazy to actually do anything about it until now.

* Moved furniture. Upstairs couch went downstairs, downstairs couch moved upstairs. *phew!* Much better.

* Had friends over for a luscious, lazy cookout on Sunday. Cornish hens roasted over charcoal, more Alabama white barbecue sauce, grilled zucchini, and potatoes and onions. Frosty cold beverages and good conversation. Way too much chocolate cake. A perfect afternoon in the sunshine.

* Bought fabric for the living room curtains. Red with a floral print and a coordinating red and gold-striped pattern - soon our living room will be ensconced in a warm, old-Virginia style. It's finally looking like someone actually lives here. Besides mental patients.

* Jack requested food for his security blanket, Mimi. I handed him some invisible food, which he gratefully accepted with a "Thanks, Mom. That's a six-story burrito!"

* I leave for Vegas in just over a week. I can't decide if the heart palpitations are excitement, terror, or both. I've never been away from the kids for more than a night - and I've only done that twice since Jack was born. I'll be gone for 4 whole days. I know, I should embrace it and not think twice, right? Yeah. But apparently, in spite of my protests to the contrary, I'm a nougaty-soft-centered mommy after all. Luckily, I'll be hanging with my best girl - who has already promised to distract me with the best sushi in Nevada and a visit to the Bellagio. So I might just be okay, after all.

* Jack received a postcard from his pen-pal in California. From Disneyland. I think the universe just experienced a paradigm shift, as he realized that "Tyler is in DISNEYLAND! With Mickey! And he saw Mickey! WHEN CAN I SEE MICKEY IN DISNEYLAND?!" Watching the informational video from Disney World, FL, was one thing. It was all theoretical, you see. But now? Now that an actual three-year-old has sent him a postcard from actual Disneyland? Now it's a whole new ball game, people.

* I'm off to take a shower and get over to the preschool early. They asked the moms to arrive half an hour early today - for a "Mother's Day Suprise". It appears, despite any doubts posed by my inner critic, I am actually a mother. One deserving of glitter-and-glue, paper mache, preschool recognition. Who knew?

Standing on the Edge

... the edge of the kitchen island, in this case. When using a chair to climb atop the kitchen island in order to finish the install of the two-light island fixture, it is wise to note that an 18 month old child is surprisingly adept at moving chairs.

I realized this today as I heard the wooden feet of the chair scraping across the kitchen floor. By the time I had figured out how to climb down from my precarious perch without sending the glass light domes to their doom on the floor, the little bugger had helped himself to several unopened cans of diet Pepsi, and was enthusiastically rifling through the junk drawer on a very intent treasure-seeking mission.

Who knew we had 9-volt batteries in the house? What do we even own that uses 9-volt batteries? The last time I remember the need of one involved being 9 years old and sticking my tongue to both contact points. It was a very important dare. Or something.

I'm also working on finding good uses for several 34 cent stamps, half a hot glue stick, and a match book from some bar in Mexico I have no memory of going to on our honeymoon.

I'm taking 2 lessons from all of this.

First, I obviously need to invest in invisible fencing for the baby for use when working on home improvement projects. Second, if I don't clean out the junk drawers soon, I just might someday end up "that lady" on the news. You've heard those stories -- reclusive woman is found, dead for days, half-eaten by her pets. amidst ginormous stacks of old magazines and balls of twine.

It is definitely time for Spring Cleaning at our casa. Anybody in desperate need of 20 yellow security envelopes? 17 tea candles? A tush-load of ridiculously large paper clips? Because I am flush with all of the above, and will totally hook y'all up. I'm generous and thoughtful that way.

What's that? You have no use for my priceless treasures? Fine then. Be that way. I don't need to give my useless crap to you - that's why God invented eBay. Huzzah!

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum sonatur.**

Somehow or other, I ended up on Gawker. No, really. I swear!

Apparently, my kid is weird. Which is awesome, because that is pretty much the only thing he can plan to inherit from me, seeing as how I already blew his future trust fund on sparkly nail polish and tacky jewelry.

So it starts like this. Yesterday, I post a tongue-in-cheek fluff item on shopping with the kids, and Jack picking out some earrings for me. (I made him put back the ones with skulls, and ended up with big stars instead.) Today, I somehow ended up the poster-child for weird momness.

SO! For the record, and for anyone who is intent on reading too far into anything I may have printed yesterday, here is the Official Stay At Aum Mom Clarification:

1) Jack is three. Picking out jewelry at the store is one step down from helping mom shop for gym socks and only just higher than eating brussel sprounts. It is also way less cool than watching Handy Manny or driving around in his Power Wheels Mustang.

2) The "Lucky Monkey" T-shirt is still awesome, but is really only worn for pajama purposes. What can I say, we're kinky that way. Besides, everyone knows monkeys are funny and laughter is good for the marriage.

3) I <3 the gays. Really. My intention yesterday was really a simple loving poke at my devoutly Mormon mother, who looks heavenward every time I express a non-conservative viewpoint. I think she has to listen to extra hours of Fox News just to wash off my liberal residue after every conversation we have. I'm also pretty sure she had to have a closed confessional with Rush Limbaugh after the gay best man walked her down the aisle at our wedding. But she did give him a hug, risking her status as Mrs. Republican Universe. Because she rules.

4) Mom is currently serving a religious mission in Africa. For the moment this is quite a relief, as she is not currently in range to throw things at me for teasing her. In front of 1,300 strangers who stumbled over here from Gawker and are now wondering WTF?

**"Whatever is said in Latin sounds profound". Because, uh... Yeah. Move it along, nothing to see here.

More Cheer-Giving Non Sequiturs

* A very productive half-hour of violin practice, wherein I totally kicked ass on the "Pepperoni Pizza" song, which is not really a song at all but it's as close as I get until I learn finger position for real notes. Also, I could totally challenge any developmentally challenged six-year-old on that number and maybe possibly have a snowball's chance of winning.

* An uninterrupted hour at the mall's indoor play area, which included several silly dance moves and a raging game of hide-n-seek

* Black nail polish with a gazillion tiny bits of gold glitter in it. I'm way too old for it, and I don't care. It's fierce, and I'm sporting it like a rock star.

* Earrings with giant stars that are totally tacky and fabulous, and were selected by a very serious Jack. I'll wear them tomorrow. With a totally age-inappropriate t-shirt, like maybe the curious george one that says "lucky monkey". Because everyone should have a lucky monkey, and also everyone should have a Jack to pick out fun jewelry. I'd better draw the line, though, at letting him pick out fabulous handbags for me. We wouldn't want to give him "the gay". Not because there's anything wrong with it, but because he'd insist I take him to a professional for haircuts and would probably also refuse to wear all those elastic-waistband shorts I bought him. Who needs a three-year-old with fashion sense?

* And the last thing making me grin tonight? The mortified expression I'm picturing on my mother's face right now. Don't worry mom, I don't really want Jack to be gay. But only because I'm a completely selfish woman who is unwilling to give an inch on my demands for future grandchildren. I can hope the world would be better suited for gay couples to adopt by then, but I'm not willing to bet on it and risk all those opportunities to make rice crispy treats and let the grandkids stay up past their bedtime. Plus, the poor kid would have no fashion role model to look up to in our house (see above-mentioned references to Curious George t-shirts and age-inappropriate accessories).

And that, my friends, is the sound of a pen as it furiously writes me out of the will. Happy Tuesday!

Food, Glorious Food

Food, glorious food. Because that is what we're going to talk about today.

We're not going to talk about the HOA and how I nearly ripped my hair out by the roots this weekend. We are not going to talk about my back tooth breaking on a piece of toast this morning and how I'm making an appointment with an oral surgeon to yank out 3 of my teeth (including the broken one). And we are most decidedly not going to talk about the fluorescent shop light we removed from the kitchen ceiling - in order to replace it with a much nicer island fixture - only to find yet another instance where those glorious Dan Ryan builders neglected to put an actual fixture box, but rather used what appears to have been a claw hammer to knock an unceremonious (and uncentered) hole in the sheet rock in order to yank the bare wires through.

We're not going to mention all that because then you'd get to see what a rage-a-holic I can really be when provoked.

So instead? ... Let't talk about barbecue! Alabama-style white barbecue made with cider vinegar and mayo and various spices. I was planning to do a turkey breast in the rotisserie, but when the time came it just seemed... uninspiring. Then T suggested we give the white barbecue another go. We tried it on some grilled chickens a while back, and it was really yummy but all of the sauce was used in the basting.

This means we missed out on the best part -- the extra sauce for drizzling and dipping and... well, perhaps drinking if things get out of hand. It's THAT good. On the juicy, plump turkey breast it was phenomenal.

What's that? You want a recipe? Oh, very well then.... this is the one we used to great effect. It was spectacular.

Throw in a side of potatoes and onions -- (1-2 red potatoes per person, cut in 1" cubes, with 1/2 to 1 medium onion cut into strips. Add salt, pepper, and 1/4 to 1/2 cup butter. Bake covered at 425 until the potatoes are tender, usually about 30-40 minutes). Tah-dah.

Comfort food makes it all so much better. Between the fried chicken and the turkey barbecue, my outlook is positively cheerful these days.

No, really. It is.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Here, eat some turkey and be off with you. I have dental appointments to make.

Drug Precautions Translated

Azithromycin may cause:

• upset stomach
• diarrhea
• vomiting
• stomach pain
• mild skin rash

Translation: You will throw up. A lot. And it probably would have been better for you to skip the pulled pork with extra spicy barbecue for dinner, even though you thought all that red pepper would open up your sinuses. And you should definitely have stopped for extra TP on the way home.

Advair may cause:

• headache, dizziness;

• nausea, vomiting, diarrhea;

• dryness in your mouth, nose, or throat;

• stuffy nose, sinus pain, cough, sore throat; or

• hoarseness or deepened voice.

Translation: You will still throw up (see above). The next day, you will be dizzy but very glad you opted to have only toast for breakfast. Your nose will suddenly start to run, even though that was the one symptom you had managed to avoid up to now. You will get even more dizzy later. But you will sound like Kathleen Turner from her "Romancing the Stone" days and find the sound of your own voice strangely hypnotic. Then you will realize you are likely high on all the meds and decide to lay down, drink lots of water, and catch up on Ugly Betty. But not before you blog about it through the fog of your infectious, medicated stupor.

"This is what you want, This is what you get...." -PIL

Once upon a time, boys and girls, there was a small, infectious particle. It was a lonely particle, and it drifted on the breeze, nary a friend in the cold, cruel world. One day, the little germ at last found a warm home in the lush bronchial flesh of a woman who was working in her garden. There, he found, at last, a friend. Her name was pollen, and pretty pollen was an allergen - spawned of a lovely and delicate blossom.

Together, Pollen and Germ made a happy little home amongst the gently waving cilia of the respiratory tract. Before you could say BobsYerUncle, they had multiplied into a growing family. Times were good, the weather was hot and dry, and before long they had their own little stream flowing through the property. It was a lovely stream, fetid and sticky, and it flowed from the streaming Phlegm River at the sinuses all the way down to the alveoli, where it joined with other streams to form the rippling waters of Lake Mucus.

So happy were Pollen and Germ, and all of their many progeny, that they dug in and decided that THIS! this is where they would forever rest, and allow the future generations to rise up and populate this paradise they had discovered.

So, like, yeah. I'm sick. Really, disgustingly, Darth-Vader-wheezes, fevers of 101.1, coughing that makes other people wince, and more phlegm than I care to ponder - sick. After much protesting and dragging of my feet (because for some insane reason I don't want to go to the doctor, even though I do know that is insane) I finally have an appointment this afternoon with the family physician. He's going to poke, prod, listen, and nod, and then either tell me I'm a big pansy and I need more fluids and rest (which would actually be the preferable outcome in my mind) or he's going to say that I have bronchitis and possibly some rogue bacterial infection which will require that I add a prescription for heavy antibiotics to my already ridiculous personal pharmacy.

But, my friends, do you want to know what love is? Love is when your Mommy-in-Law cancels her whole day - manicure, yoga, and other delicious feminine delights - in order to come over and rescue you. She came in with an armload of groceries and toys for the kids, and put me expeditiously to bed. She made homemade fried chicken and green bean casserole, and left me with mashed potatoes to warm and a big bowl of fresh-cut fruits for dinner. She brought 4 kinds of soup and a big loaf of crusty french bread. Also, she kept Jack content and quiet while I crashed out for a solid couple hours' sleep, shivering under my blanket while the fever ravaged my system.

The nasty bug may still rage, but that was quite possibly the best nap I have ever taken in my life. Plus? She didn't bat an eye when I burst into exhausted tears and said "I'm so glad you're here" as she came through the door. She put me to bed, and when I woke up... everything was just fine. More than fine, actually.

So being sick REALLY sucks. But being rescued when you think you're about to die of exhaustion and drown in your own phlegm? That really rocks.

It rocks even more with some homemade fried chicken.

Someone Call Bunny Protective Services

Or "Max and Ruby vs. Charlie and Lola, a study in brief"

Max and Ruby are indeniably children, and yet there is no mention of parents. There is a grandmother, infrequently present, as well as a Bunny Scout Leader. There is also one "Mrs. Huffington" who seems to utilize Ruby for babysitting services.

Ruby is obviously a very capable child with a maturity far exceeding what is expected at her tender age. She is, however, incapable of effectively communicating with or disciplining her brother. Max, on the other hand, is obstinate and argumentative. Ruby, presumably the "parental figure" of the family, is often caught up in imaginary play and daydreaming.

A cursory review reveals a disturbing scenario wherein Ruby, a child herself, is apparently the head of the household. She is left with duty of feeding, bathing, and clothing her brother, as well as putting him to bed. There is no doubt that protective services should immediately be called to find out how these two children have been left to their own devices for survival.

Charlie and Lola, on the other hand, make frequent reference to their parents, even though the parents are never actually directly observed. Lola is a precocious child, prone to dramatic outbursts and emotionally attached to familiar objects. Charlie, the eldest of the two, is practical and patient in his dealings with his sister. He is adept at encouraging her to face the unfamiliar and accept reality. The parents are, presumably, present on a reliable basis.

It is for this reason that Max and Ruby have been unceremoniously ousted from our TiVO recording schedule and replaced with the adventures of the artistically-tempered Lola and her practical and level-headed brother, Charlie.

Also? They talk with cool British accents, which Jack imitates to my unending delight.

Oh, and also, also? This whole post was to distract you from this end part, wherein I reveal that we have traded in my sleek, sexy little Malibu Maxx for a Dodge Grand Caravan. It has cool, automatic sliding doors and such. It has a six-dvd changer for the t.v. screen in it, a 5-cd changer, and a cassette deck. It has wireless headphones and more storage cubbies and cup-holders than you can shake a stick at. And? It's a minivan.

I just heard my Cool meter shatter as the bottom dropped out.

And how was your week?

Thoroughly Thinking Thoughtful Thoughts. Thoughtfully.

Did you hear? Because I was a little slow to pick up on it...

Letters from A Broad is the cheeky blog of my favorite ex-pat who tears up the French countryside and gets to mess with her kids in TWO languages.

And she went and named me a "Thinking Blogger".




Yes, it's the "5 Blogs That Make Me Think" meme.

You'll notice that .. this post? This one you are reading? It is not called "5 Blogs That Make Me Think". That is because this is not the post in which I will be fulfilling my obligation to pass the award along to 5 blogs that make me think. That will have to be the next post, because I am going to have to actually put some thought into this one. And figure out which 5 blogs have not been tagged with it already.

I have been so busy with the kids, the HOA, various home improvement projects, signing up for violin lessons and pondering my navel... that well, I just have not found the time to compose a coherent entry in order to live up to the whole "thought-provoking" hype.

Oh, you caught that, huh? Yeah. Violin lessons.

It's kind of a long story. Still interested? Here you are...

I have wanted to learn to play the vioin since I was a little girl. I am, however, one of ten children. This meant that since my 4 older sisters played the Clarinet, we had 2 Clarinets available in our home and so.. well, I played the Clarinet. I'm grateful that I had that opportunity, don't get me wrong. I was even pretty good at it. But by the time I hit high school, band was most decidedly un-cool, and what with my cluelessness of clothing and make-up I needed no further handicap to my coolness factor. From then on, I stuck with tinkering on the piano at home. At school, I started taking pictures and got a permanent hall pass for journalism. It also got me free admission to all the school sporting events, and the chance to discretely crush on most of the school athletes up close. (especially the soccer players. I really had a thing for the soccer players.) But! Back to the topic at hand....

The desire to learn the violin came back a few years ago. I even asked for a violin for Christmas 3 years running. The problem, it seems, is that nowadays most violins are mass-manufactured in China - so while they are exceptionally inexpensive, once you get your hands on one you must allow it to be totally taken apart and put back together (kinda like The Million Dollar Man) in order to make it decently playable. By the time that is done, the cost is no longer quite so reasonable, and so.. well, no violin for me.

But then? Then I read THIS article in the Washington Post, and something snapped. I was gobsmacked. Really? REALLY?? Joshua Bell -- the man who played the score for The Red Violin, my favorite movie of all time and the music that brings me to tears every time I hear it, was ignored by Metro riders?

As someone who stops to listen to street musicians at every opportunity, at least I am content that I would not have walked on by had I been at L'Enfant Plaza that morning. In fact, I'm fairly confident that Metro Security would eventually have been forced to escort me from the premises with my screaming children.

SO! T and I discussed this article. Then we discussed, once again, the possibility that I could take violin lessons. Then, my much-wiser-than-his-other-half husband suggested I could rent an instrument from the music shop down the road. I called them to confirm this outrageous idea, and found that - yes - I could indeed rent a violin there. I could also take lessons from an instructor there at the shop. Oh, and the instructor? It just so happened that she was Concertmistress of the National Symphony Orchestra for 25 years. And, as of Saturday morning, she will be listening to yours truly as I coax the sounds of a dying animal out of the instrument to which she has devoted her life. Awesome!

Is it bizarre that I'm doing this? Probably. But I can't think of anything in the years since I became a mom that I have anticipated this much.

So there you have it. Read that WP article, watch the videos, stop and smell the frakking roses, and then get out there and try something new. Carpe Diem! Seize an opportunity to enjoy the beauty around you, lest you are left with the sinking realization that you let it all just pass by.

Oh, and this is the part where I confess that the house is a bit of a mess and the vegetable on tonight's menu happens to be ketchup. But I'm not aiming to reach perfection in result, just looking for perfect appreciation of the journey. So there's what I thoughtfully thunk for today.

Don't Panic!

No catastrophe here, just borrowing a morsel from The Hitchhiker's Guide. It seems somehow fitting for the day.

Happy Birthday tooooo meeeeee. Started the day off with emails from both of my parents (Hi Mom and Dad!) from Africa. Not fair to make a girl cry before breakfast, but it was still a great way to begin the day.

So I'm twenty-eight now. Huh. Go figure.

I came across the following song that John Mayer wrote for some Esquire contest where readers were asked to write the music to go with his lyrics. I don't know anything more about it, except that I could have written in myself. So this year, it's my birthday song.

For Every Dream
By John Mayer

I keep a note that I wrote on a taxi-cab receipt
It says "Don't you go and listen to nobody but me"
I hit the big time for a nominal fee
You lose a friend in the end for every dream that you see come true

I got scars upon scrapes, I've got bruises on breaks
Masochistically committed to see how much of this I'll take
Three years under water, and I ain't even got the shakes
I'm going deeper and deeper and deep

I've got dreams to remember, I've got days to forget
I've got a phone call in to God but he hasn't called back yet

I've spent nights in the sunshine, I've spent days in the rain
And twenty-eight years later, I don't even know my name

Oh, now, don't fret. Don't read it with all that bleakness, think of it as thoughtful poetry rather than literal and defeatist. Here, I'll add my own verse to the end to wrap it up properly.

I've been in it and through it and back out again
I have swallowed the sun, been washed clean in the pain
From this high cliff it's all smaller but it still looks the same
I'm gonna take a flying leap and ride the waterfall back down

I've got ashes to gather, I've got rose-buds to spread
I've got to give a stern lecture to the voices in my head

I've made war on the past, I've made peace with a ghost

And twenty-eight years later, I'll recover what it cost

And now, for something completely different!

Me at age 8 or 9-ish.

Approximately 20 years later
(or 10 minutes ago, depending on your perspective)

Please note the lack of focus in that second photo is intentional. Unvarnished, unadorned, and unashamed... but still not willing to put it all in glorious hi-resolution detail.

Besides, nobody else needs to count the freckles. Let's just say I have about 100 per birthday and leave it at that, mmkay?

Oh, also? Please note that the hair in the first photo was UN-intentional, and I can only plead 1987. Really. Plus, Mom cut my hair until I was in college, so I can hardly be blamed for my childhood ignorance of styling products or fancy-schmancy "sideways" parts.

Wait, is it just me? Or has my nose gotten much, MUCH bigger in the last 20 years?

So, um... Happy Birthday to me! I will now celebrate by putting on a bra before the alarm system repair guy arrives. Huzzah!

Alo-Ha-waii, Kona Come Over?

So Walmart carries Millstone Kona Blend. Who knew? But here I am, sipping a warm, strong cuppa and enjoying a few moments of quiet.

This week is Spring Break for the district where Jack goes to preschool. I had determined to take at least a few field trips with him, while we have the freedom. This proved to be easier said than done, especially with my allergies and Toby's nap schedule.

We found out there is a zoo near here, but it's one of those ones that is bigger than it should be and not enough animals to fill the space. Plus, the hilight is a petting zoo area and I think the hay feed would make my head (or at least my sinuses) explode.

I looked around for play gyms or anything else that would be new and exciting for the kids, and not overly expensive. The pickins were pretty slim, and as lunch time crept up on us yesterday I finally threw my hands up in exasperation and decided to just GO.

So I packed us a quick pic-nic lunch of PB&J, sweet potato chips, apple slices, raisins, water bottles, and honey bee grahams for dessert. Threw clothes on all of us, loaded into the car, and off we went.

Once at the park, we found a table in the shade and nibbled on lunch. The weather was more lovely than it had any right to be, really. Seventy degrees and just a few puffy clouds adorning the sky. We spent a good two hours soaking up the sun (Note To Self: BAD MOMMY! Next time, remember the sunscreen. Luckily, nobody seems overly sun-baked today.) Ran a few errands (including stopping by Walmart to pick up the aforementioned Kona Roast) and headed home.

The boys took an afternoon nap while I made preparations for a hamburger cookout, and when T got home we munched on burgers, corn on the cob, and leafy spring salads. After hands and faces were washed up and dinner had been cleared, we settled into the family room with frosted mini-cupcakes to watch "Happy Feet" for Family Night.

At the end of the day, and before Mumble the penguin met the elephant seals on his way to the Forbidden Shore, both boys went willingly and contentedly to bed. T and I settled in for a quiet evening of folding laundry, and while he watched the DC United game I quietly drifted off to sleep on the sofa under a freshly laundered jersey sheet.

If only life could always be so Tropically Serene. Maybe some day we'll move to Hawaii, where I can soak up the cheering rays of the sun and enjoy a more relaxed pace of life more often. And, of course, the Kona Coffee.

Bullets Over Bored Way

Miscellaneous Thoughts I am Having This Morning:

- We are out of coffee. Yesterday T went to 7-11 and got two cups of their new "extra-perky" blend, with guarana, ginseng, crack, and ground puppies. It did not taste especially good, but it sure did get me moving. Must get grounds at the store today.

- Setting a goal to send every member of my immediate family a Birthday card for the next entire year. Fitting, as my birthday is this week, that I should start now. Wrote down the dates of every single birthday for siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews. Must remember to buy stamps.

- Wishing we could move overseas. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but I don't think that a trip there would be sufficient to absorb what I need from the surroundings. I would love to pick up and move to Rome with my brother and his family this summer. Even more, I would love to pick up and move to Paris like my neighbors are doing. I know many Americans find the French to be dodgy, but I have been in love with French culture since I was 12. C.L. do you hear me? Can I get an "Amen"?

- Pondering completion of the downstairs bathroom. I have 4 tiles left to cut to finish the vinyl tile floor. Need to pick up a wood plaque to mount the light fixture over, since builders ripped a hole in the drywall to run the wiring rather than cutting a nice, neat one. Dan Ryan Builders has my permission to kiss my alabaster keester, thankyouverymuch. Must install new sink faucet, plus one in master bathroom. Must remember to get t-shirt printed "Home Remodel Goddess".

- Realizing taxes must be finished. Cursing TurboTax and my cheapskate inability to just hire a freaking accountant. Wondering if we should stick refund into savings or go ahead with plan to upgrade kitchen countertops.

- Jack is calling for me to fix his "Dora The Explorer" computer game. Must remember to get a new optical notebook mouse (Parent Hack: notebook mouse is the perfect size for preschool hands). Must go fix Dora before the universe implodes.

Future not-so-Tense

It's a simple formula.

T's Nintendo DS + Elite Beat Agents = My Undoing.

But at least I can console myself with leftover crepes from yesterday's breakfast. Rolled up with sliced strawberries and drizzled with "sweet-and-sour-cream" (sour cream whipped with confectioner's sugar) it makes me want to throw our lives to the wind, sell the house, and head off into the sunrise to open a Bed & Breakfast up in some tiny coastal town in Maine

I could be content serving breakfast to the guests in the morning, and then leisurely enjoying my days drinking coffee on the wraparound porch for the next 50 years. I really, really could.

Especially if I can bring the Nintendo DS.

No Foolin'

So tell me... Did you know April is National Poetry Month? I certainly did not, at least not until I stumbled across several references to it this weekend.

April is also the month of my birthday, which is only days away. I am, of course, giddy with relief at surviving yet another year. Of course, I'd be much more giddy if I was somewhere far away and tropical... but back to the matter at hand.

I'll forego my annual "We're Pregnant!" April Fool's joke this year (for which my mother will thank me). Instead, I offer a poem I wrote recently. Yes, I do sometimes write poetry. I like to think that after I'm gone someone will discover the scattered scrawlings and declare me a dead genius. Because being a dead genius is a convenient way to dodge all the pressure inherent in being one while alive.

Then again, I'll be dead, so it really won't matter if I'm just declared "Dead Crazy Scribbling Lady With Many Many Cats And A Husband Who Went On To Marry A Victoria's Secret Underwear Model". So we'll just stick with "Future Dead Genius". I might even have to put that on a T-shirt.

In any case:

Of Prophets and Poets


sculpting words
trim and discard
shape and smooth

cast ashes of body
distillation of soul
refined in sorrow
to the vastness of time

searching, grappling
to name the unknowable
to touch the face of eternity.

And Yet.

And yet, the Prophet.
listening, eyes closed
to the crush of the tide
walks onward in faith
to where the sand
meets the shore
at the end of the world

where life
is but a test
the painful birth
before the endless waking dream

And yet.

And yet, the Poet.
looking, eyes wide
hears the crush of the tide
tumbles on the breeze
to where the sand
meets the shore
and the shore meets the sky

where life
is truth
and living it
the only dream

-MRK, 2007

How You Like Me Now?

The new hotness. I've been toying with some ideas for a while, but the other night I finally got the bug and felt the need to do an honest-to-goodness overhaul of the site design. So, I fiddled around on the net, found some cool people who give away code so I didn't have to use my brain too much, and then played with graphics until I was content.

I like it.

You want to know what else I like? Lazy afternoons in springtime weather, when the buds are pushing up through the dark soil and the Bradford Pear tree (which doesn't really grow pears at all, or any other fruit for that matter) is in full bloom and the world seems ripe with possibilities. And the flu is almost (but not quite) a thing of the past.

My sister did a guided imagery exercise with me yesterday (which is much less new-agey than it sounds) and I realized that I have been carrying around a lot of needless, useless pain. That sounds more melodramatic than I intended, but the point is that I am making a conscious effort to replace it with Good Things.

So today, the boys and I (phlegmy coughs and all!) went to lunch at the new Panera Bread in town, and then went to the nicer grocery store because, while the prices may be a few cents higher, it is clean and organized and well-lit and was infinitely good for my sanity. The boys' too -- Toby contentedly munched from an economy-size tub of goldfish (yup, I was totally "that" mom, the one who lets her kid eat the snacks before they're even paid for) and Jack drove his imaginary car around in front of the shopping cart while we bought supplies for T to make his specialty Corn Macque Choux with Shrimp this weekend, and all the necessary items for an old-fashioned family burger cookout on the trusty Weber.

Our grill is probably about 10 years old, but it is still fairly new to us. We scored for $20 it at a funky junk shop when we first bought this house. The junk shop (which we spent many many hours wandering) closed down last year, and every time we go by the vacant building I get a little nostalgic for the place. The grill, however, is still going strong and has done all right by us. More than all right, actually.

Maybe it's the change in the weather, or the fact that we are finally starting to put the sickness behind us... maybe it's the good talk with my sister, or the inspirational adventures of Mary at Mom Writes. Whatever the reason, it is finally beginning to feel like spring.

Not a moment too soon. Now go outside and blow a few bubbles. Watch them dance away on the breeze until they are overcome by the freshness of the air and burst with joy. Spring has (finally) sprung.

Once more, with feeling...

So I know that you're just dying to hear the rest of the story about how T and I met. Admit it! You're awake nights, sweating and panting....

Scratch that. It was just a flashback from last night, since T really was awake, sweating and panting. Get your mind out of the gutter, he was also puking. The UberSickness has descended upon our household, and so far Jack and T have been the first victims in the assault.

I'm pretty certain it's the Flu, since the vomit seems to be coming between bouts of sternum-crushing, phlegm projectile coughing. I'm also pretty certain that I'm doomed, since an illness of this magnitude will quite likely spell the end of me after the physical drain of the past few months, but hey! Let's look on the bright side! The Celiac Disease test was negative, and at least I can console myself with mountainous piles of French Baguettes. Mmmm, bread.

Now, rather than attempt to put energy I really don't posess today into continuing the story, I'm going to play along with an old meme that circulated a while back, but which I was too lazy to actually do. (Besides the fact that I never actually got tagged with it, which gives me the sneaking suspiscion that nobody is really that interested in reading my answers. Of course, that's just tough bananas because here I go anyway...)

5 things you probably don't know about me.

1. I am blind without my specs.

I alternate between contact lenses and glasses, but I almost never wear the glasses outside my house. Mostly because my eyes are my best physical feature, and my glasses make them look very small. Technically, it's not truly "legally blind" until the corrected vision in the better eye is worse than 20/200. However, ask my husband what I am like when I wake up and have to paw around blindly for my glasses in the morning, and he will tell you to go find an angry grizzly bear with an eyeful of angry bees.

2. I have no allergies.

At least none that I have found yet. I had a childhood allergy to strawberries that I outgrew (thank goodness!). I always feel vaguely guilty around people with severe food allergies, but then they usually say something about how they've never had a single cavity and I start gorging peanut butter in front of them...from the jar ...with my bare hands ...because I can.

3. I am a pack rat.

My inability to surrender to the need to throw away seemingly-useless items has caused more than one marital spat in our house. I've tried to overcome the compulsion, but the occasions when I find a critical use for some piece of junk I really should have thrown away have given me a primal fear of potentially discarding something useful. That, and I probably watched way too many episodes of MacGuyver as a kid. Who knews when I'll need to turn thirty-year-old silk flowers into a tasteful arrangement for an impromptu wedding reception? I ASK YOU?!

4. I am an exceptionally fast reader.

I blame my mother. As a kid, I spent many a sick-day home from school reading and re-reading the likes of Agatha Christie, Tony Hillerman, and Mary Higgins Clark. Mystery novels were my first love, followed quickly by Fantasy series, and tail-ended by Science Fiction. It's a bit akward at times, trying to find other suburban moms who can have animated conversations about Stranger In A Strange Land or RingWorld. Luckily, I have also found a deep love for stories exploring atypical human experience. The Glass Castle, by Jeannette Walls, is the most recent one that springs to mind. It's brilliant, and emotional, and reading it will change you. In a good way.
I read like I am dying of thirst and each book provides a few drops of water. And I know I'm not the only one.

5. I am abysmally poor at vocalizing my feelings.

I think I get it from my father. I tend to bottle things up, and assess the world in the quiet sanctuary of my internal monologue. I find a bikini wax less painful and scary than asking for help or favors from friends. I am great at giving good advice or analytically discussing a topic or situation, but when my feelings get involved it gets ugly. I flounder, unable or unwilling to bare myself to others. I can easily say "I love you" when I mean it, and those I have said it to usually know me well enough to know how much more I would like to say if I could. I feel pretentious telling someone out loud what I see in them that is extraordinary. It is only in my writing that I am able to articulate those feelings, and a rare moment when I do so.

So there you have it.

Now move it along, nothing more to see here...

No Longer Happier With The Box.

Remember when the best part of Christmas morning for the rugrats was playing with the box their gift came in?

You know you've passed the point of no return when you hear the following:

T: Hey, Buddy! I brought you a present!

Jack: What is it???

T: (in the patient, sing-song voice parents use to let kids know when to be enthusiastic)
It's a pennant! It's a special baseball flag! It says "Washington Nationals"!

Jack: Wow! A pennant!

*pause*

Jack: (in the sing-song voice kids use to let parents know they're humoring them)
... and did you bring me something else? Something to play with????


And thus the child experiences the first of many parental disappointments.

We are so being shipped off to a nursing home some day.

Thursday Doesn't Even Start...

Because I'm over here floating in the ether. Mood swing much? Oh, my dears, you have no idea.

Still happy about Vegas. Still relieved that the carpets were salvaged from yesterday's puke-a-palooza.
Still waiting to hear back on the Celiac results. (3 weeks and counting. JOY!)
Still pretty much a lump of flesh, perpetually exhausted and hating every minute of it. I am fairly exhuberant by nature, and this chronic fatigue stuff is really pissing me off.
Still kicking against the weight of it all, though, and inventing new ways to be amused. Like watching Toby walk around with his brother's underwear on his head like a hat. Because, for at least 30 seconds, that makes it all just a bit more bearable.

I dunno about you, but I am quite thoroughly done with this "tired" business. I'm not sleepy, I'm not hungry... I'm just weary in my bones.

It must be the lingering winter. Or maybe the slow drain of being in one place for too long. Or maybe the lack of fellowship, the remoteness of this place.

Some days? You just want your mom to let you stay home from school and watch her iron and nibble dry toast. You're not really sick, but once in a while a kid just needs a day off.

I haven't been tagged with the "Real Moms..." meme, but this would be my inadvertent contribution.

Real Moms don't get sick days, but they sure could use one once in a while.

Robert Smith never told you that, baby.

Shiny Happy Glamor Mama

I'm cannibalizing most of this post from an email I just wrote to my sister. I know, shamelessly lazy, right?

Blame the cleaning fumes - Toby overdid it with a bagel this morning and threw up all over the living room. Which, of course, made Jack throw up in sympathetic reflex.

Which didn't make me throw up, exactly, but I do believe I might have died just a little on the inside. That's a little like throwing up, except the yucky stuff stays on the inside - where it hunkers down and contentedly gnaws away at the soul.

Thank goodness for the Hoover Steamvac. Otherwise? I'd be typing this on my "personal time" from a mental institution... with a white-coated guy named Bubba watching to make sure I wasn't attempting to send threatening letters to celebrities or something.

Not that I would do that. I prefer to take comfortably benign pot-shots at my celebrities by cursing at them on the telly. Then I rewind it for my hubs so he can agree with me that, yes, Paris Hilton is totally shameless and no, it's not just that I'm insanely jealous of her obscene wealth and thoroughly wasted youth. It's not that at all. I mean, I would never use the equivalent gross national product of a third world nation to dress my dog in one-of-a-kind designer clothing. I might buy myself a very small country, declare myself Empress, and require that all of my royal subjects refer to me as "Domina", after the Roman fashion. Oh, and also? They would be required to constantly tell me that I have great hair, that my jeans totally make my butt look spectacular, and that motherhood is the ultimate expression of glamor.

I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?

Oh, yeah. Puking kids, and the necessity to clean up said emetic explosions before any of the pets tried to make a snack of it. Now just try and tell me that motherhood ain't glamorous, baby.

While you're contemplating your response to that, I'll be over *there* - digging up another bottle of Febreze and attempting to convince my living room to smell more "Mountain Mist" and less "Post-Kegger-Frat-House".

Motherhood Is...

... letting your three-year-old stay up an hour past his bedtime because he's having so much fun playing "let's make soup" with miscellaneous items from the family room junk pile.

... spending another half-hour helping him search for tiny plastic Dora and Boots figures - the ones that have been attached to his little hands for the better part of a week and which have suddenly gone missing.

... finally putting him to bed with only Boots, discovered behind the media cabinet, and with a gentle admonishment to take better care of his things and a promise to search with him again in the morning until Dora is found.

... promising that Dora will be okay on her own for just this one night. She's a tough chick, that Dora.

... going back downstairs and searching on your own for another half-hour or so, until you finally find Dora tucked behind the living room sofa.

... sneaking back upstairs to tuck the tiny figurine into an impossibly soft little fist, and hearing a tiny, sleepy voice whisper, "Dora? Thanks, Mama. I love you."

... knowing that - at that moment? - you could die happy, knowing those would be the last words you heard in this life.

It's A New Dawn, It's A New Day...

Sometimes a single thing can turn the tide and make you see the world with new eyes. Today? It's all about Vegas, baby, Vegas!

You see, in just a few weeks I will be having a birthday. I usually think as little about my birthday as possible, as the closer I get to thirty the more I realize that I missed the boat on the whole college career scanario. Not that I can't go back to school and punch that card, just that I will be doing it as one of those "non-traditional" students -- the mom who talks about her kids and school pageants while the other kids are discussing last night's raging kegger. I knew those moms when I was in school the last time, and they found the casual youth of those around them disconcerting, to say the least.

But I digress.

You see, the thing about this particular birthday is that it brings with it two very cool events. The first is that my sister-in-law, one of my most favoritest people in the whole world, is coming out to DC for her brother's wedding and will, in all likelihood, be spending the evening of my birthday with us at my brother's house. This is a very very cool thing. She also brings with her the third, and newest, of their baby girls. Hi Baby Ava! I can't wait to meet you and shower you with auntly adoration while I secretly pine for a little girl of my own to dress in unholy amounts of pink until she won't let me any more. You'll remember me as the crazy aunt. That's okay, I sorta expect it.

The other thing about this birthday that has me excited? T broke down and told me about my present early, since it requires some coordination effort on my part. You see, I have never been to Las Vegas. Well, there was that one half-hour layover at the airport there on my way to L.A. the time I went home with my friend Natalie for Thanksgiving from college and got sick and spent Thanksgiving day puking in her bathroom but still felt cool because I had shopped at a receord store called "Vinyl Fetish".

BUT! Other than that? I have never been in Vegas. And, until recently, have never had a real reason to want to go. I mean, I know it's supposed to be a blast and all that, but really - have you met me? I'm all in for a good time, but my hedonism these days generally extends as far as checking out the cute waiter at Ruby Tuesday's only after he takes the time to be nice to my kids.

But you see... Dr. Allie, and her other half, the Amazing Wonder Steve? They happen to call a little town, just outside Vegas, their home. Allie and I met when we were both 13 years old. At first, we were mortal enemies. You see, her ex-best-friend Julie claimed me for a friend when I first moved there and so, naturally, since Julie hated her so must I.

The problem was, while it was one thing to go with the party line as the new kid who was just glad to have a friend, it was quite different to dislike one person for the sake of another in the long-term.

Especially since I'm not the type of person to dislike people in general. Oh, I know - I really don't do well with "people", but that has more to do with my lack of ability to pick up on social cues and such. On an individual level, I find something to appreciate in the majority of people who cross my path. I began to get very uncomfortable with this whole "We Hate Allison" thing. My mother, being much wiser and more practical than I, suggested I invite Allison out to a movie and make my own decision about her after actually - you know - like, talking to her and stuff. (Ah Momzer. What an incredible lesson, hard for me to learn then yet so easy to see clearly now.)

That was the beginning of the end for Julie and me. She couldn't forgive me for fraternizing with the enemy, and I had found the most important girlfriend of my life. We were more like sisters. Even the few fights we had were more akin to sisterly squabbles, and usually? Usually they were my fault. She was always more mature than I, more willing to shrug off the judgment of others, more quick to forgive when forgiveness was sought.

We have waxed and waned over the years, sometimes going months without talking and then just as suddenly picking up right where we left off. She was the maid of honor at my wedding. She is perhaps the best listener I have ever met, and one of a very few people in this world that I trust to forgive me my foibles and love me for the person underneath - the one who loves her back and is honored to know her.

She was still nearly a child when she decided she wanted to become a doctor. Today? She is well on her way, making me incredibly proud while she's busting her butt in medical school and refusing to quietly accept injustice she can put right.

And now? Now, in honor of my birthday, T has given me a pass to spend a long weekend in Vegas with my Best Girl. All by my lonesome. I can't think of a birthday present that would have put as much spring in my step and twinkle in my eye as this one.

Break out the Green Boots, Allie. I'm comin' to Vegas, and I fully expect to come home with a second husband, as witnessed by a Korean Elvis Impersonator. (Just kidding, T.)(Mostly.)

....The Way The Fortune Cookie Crumbles

It was ... a week.

T's car broke down. $400 later it was fixed. The next day, it was 70 degrees outside and glorious spring seemed at last on its way. Two days later, we got 6 inches of snow and T's car got a flat tire.

This afternoon? One of our two female cats got into basement storage and managed to get her paw hooked on a fishing lure. $200 later and one seriously exhausted and pissed off cat later, she's doing just fine and we're totally exhausted.

If anyone happens to get the karma gods on the phone in the near future? Let them know we're ready for a little reprieve. And a long vacation somewhere tropical. OO! And a pony. K? Thanks.

Moving on... there's a story I've been meaning to tell, and as it is a fairly long story it will have to come in installments. I realized the other day that I have never properly told the story of how T and I met, and how it is I managed to go from tormented BYU co-ed to progressive, analytical, feminist housewife and mom.

So be on the lookout for installment #1 - Wherein I detail my exploits working after-hours at the dollar movie theater, take an impromptu flight to the East coast, put in a stint as towel girl at a Gym, go on several blind dates, develop a crush on a good friend, and eventually end up delivering paychecks for a company that dealt in some kind of voodoo known as "DSL". (Which, at the time, I had never heard of. I know! Such a luddite. Who would have known what the future would hold?)

For now, I will leave you with this lead-in:

I stood resigned in my pink-and-yellow checkered vinyl apron, grease-spattered black polyester pants, and pink rubber visor. The attractive guy on the other side of the counter stared absently at the passing crowds. His date, a tiny blonde with an impossibly large chest, delicately picked her nose with one perfectly french-manicured fingernail and ordered a small buttered popcorn. I found myself loathing these people, resenting the casualness with which they enjoyed a free Friday night.

To be continued.....

Giving Birth Control A Run For The Money.

In case you missed the most jaw-dropping characteristic of my life (or at least the one most people find the most memorable), I happen to be one of ten kids. That's ten natural kids. No adoptions, no multiple births. 10 individual, opinionated, and very loud children. It was a sort of controlled chaos at our house, and looking back I realize that (at least in the group I came up with) there was more order in our house then than there probably is in mine now.

The point, though, is that I am most comfortable in a crowd. Stopping at 2 kids has never been, for me, a serious consideration. I don't want to have 10, mind you, or even half that number. But the 3-4 range? Sure, I'm on board - so long as there is access to plenty of therapy, because my kids deserve a mom who is on the "fun" side of crazy. Without the proper tools to keep myself in check, I would run a very real risk of turning into more of the "No wire hangers! EVER!" flavor of crazy mother, and nobody wants that -- least of all me.

It's the spacing, the readiness for the next one, that is the burning question of the era. I'm not ready to open that can quite yet -- there are still too many issues to work out health-wise, and a few other life twists to get settled before we will be ready to see what our combined genes can create on the next try.

I have to say, though... with the first two results like this? Some days... it's hard to stay reasonable and rational about it all....


Thank heaven for the occasional reality check. Like when Jack decides to try out "biting" as a punitive measure against his parents, or Tobin's recent decision that every morning MUST begin with "The Upside Down Show", even if he wakes up at 5am and has to scream at full volume for 30 minutes in order to communicate this to Mama.

It is on those days that I remember to check the supply levels of the Anti-Pregnancy-Arsenal.

So we are currently stocked through about 2010. And as a bonus? In case some sort of post-apocalyptic nightmare should ensue? No chance I'll have to fend off the invading Zombie armies with a bun in this here oven. Talk about a win-win.

Denial Intersection

Conversation with myself:

ME: That blog post? The one about BlogHer '07? You DO know you completely avoided even mentioning SXSW, which would have included body-rocking music and enough creative geniuses to make your head explode, right?

MYSELF: Yeah, I'm aware. But really, did I need to even mention it? Because, that's like telling a kid you're thinking they can have a can of spinach for their birthday, and then mentioning that Christmas? It is also cancelled. Why mention SXSW, when there was never any doubt that 1) I am not nearly well-informed nor trendy enough to be comfortable there and 2) There is no way I could fly myself to Austin, all alone, let alone stay long enough to actually see a fraction of the sights.

I: She has a point, there. Plus? She'd be the weird one, gawking at people she recognizes only from the internet, and would probably be escorted out by security before she found anything really good to see, anyway.

ME: What? Sorry, I missed what you said, I was busy fantasizing about that parade scene in Ferris Beuller. That would be really fun, don't you think?

MYSELF: And she wonders why I hesitate to talk about places I'm not socially equipped to go to...

Wrapped Around His Chubby Little Finger

Jack has been begging for the movie "Flushed Away" for weeks now, and we finally picked it up at Wal-Mart last night.

I also threw away all our old sippy cups and have been getting one specific (discount) kind, mostly for Toby. So I got Jack a "Cars" cup with a straw, to be his "special cup" that he doesn't have to share. Because that's important when you're three and you're constantly hearing "share it with your baby brother".

We were standing in the checkout line to get those items and a few other things, and Jack said "Mama, I think I need to get a toy." I patiently explained that he was getting a movie and a cup, and that was quite enough, really. He considered me for a moment, then said "But, Mommy? I really do need just one more thing..."

"Oh, reeeeally? And what might that be?"

"I need a kiss!"

I admit it, I cracked up. "That," I giggled, "I think I can do." And I did. And then? I gave him an extra one for being too precious by half.

Breakfast In The Spin Zone

It is safe to say we eat eggs at a rate that very nearly justifies investing in our own chicken farm. I finally gave in and started buying the packs of 3 dozen ("Fresh from Amish Country!") at our local grocer.

I love eggs. They are filling, a great source of protein, and I don't find myself starving an hour after eating them. Cereal generally leaves me tearing through the cupboards within an hour, grunting like a wild boar as I hunt for something to fill the aching void in my stomach. But Eggs? They keep me comfortably hunger-free until at least lunch time.

I suspect, however, that my family may be tiring of eating the same breakfast at least 3 mornings a week.

The tip-off came this morning, as Jack surveyed his plate of twice backed potato cubes and 2 neatly cut eggs over easy.

"This is too much eggs, Mama."

"Really? It's the same amount you ate last time."

"But too much eggs is not good for me. It makes me pee."

"..."

I find myself awed by his evil genius. Not only has he learned, before the age of 4, to make excuses to avoid my cooking... the next time he gets overly absorbed in "The Upside Down Show" and forgets to head for the bathroom in time? I have a sneaking suspicion I will hear "Uh-oh... I had uh accident. But it wasn't my fault, Mama. It was the eggs."

Adrift Again... But I Digress.

Ah internet. When I started taking this blogging deal a bit more seriously, and posting away with zest and zeal on a regular basis, I had no thought of the future. It was fun, pure and simple. It was a place to vent my spleen, a forum to show photos of these little boys who make every day intense - and intensely joyous.

And so here we are. Time has passed, children have grown and learned to back-sass their mother and point out various parts of their male anatomy when they remove their diapers at random..(Hi Tobin! Mama would like to point out that running nude through the living room is not, in fact, an acceptable way to tell me it's bath time.) I find myself wondering if there is supposed to be some larger purpose to all this.

Last year, at just about this time, I was in a dark and dismal place and finally seeking professional help to get through post-partum depression that paralyzed my life for so many months. I was exploring the blogosphere and finding out that there was a sisterhood out there. All these women, they were living disparate lives and still finding a way to bond and make connections of varying strengths. I was gobsmacked -- I wanted in. I wanted to meet people and find myself a chair at the table of this newfangled coffee klatsch.

Many months, many posts, and many experiences later... I find that I have, indeed, drawn from the experiences and strength of these women.

The untempered, always hilarious honesty of Dooce made me realize there are others who look at the world a lot like I do - but with infinitely more wit.

The unsinkable MochaMomma unwittingly became one of my inspirations, and my internet fairy-godmother.

The classy-sassy CrankMama made me laugh, made me think, and got me to confess to the world that I'm a lot kinkier than you might think.

The intelligent and eloquent AgnosticMom helped me to, at last, find the words to articulate my view of life, the universe, and everything.

And Dr. Allie. She is my lifeline to a past I am finally learning to assess without the rose-colored lenses of denial- and without the icy tang of bitterness. She is the one who has known me the longest and the one who truly saw me long before I saw myself.

There are others... they are there on the blogroll for any who want to find them.

And now? Now I find myself pondering. Last year at this time I was hell-bent and determined to attend the BlogHer conference this year. I wanted to sit with these women. I wanted to bask in their company and discuss motherhood and business and global politics and really great shoes.

But as the time approaches, and as I find myself enmeshed in home improvement projects and the nitty-gritty of raising two incredibly active little boys -- not to mention the two cats, boxer puppy, and one Beta Fish named "Ultra" -- I find that a year has gone by and I have not really found a niche for myself. I'm wondering what I would gain from going to the conference and, more intimidating, what others could possibly gain from me. And then I'm wondering if it would be worth the expense and sacrifice for the hubs and kids for what I would get out of it.

And my shoe collection is shamefully sparse these days.

I find myself stuck at an impasse on this one, wishing my rantings had more relevance to anything beyond these four walls.

Oh, and totally restraining myself from cleaning out the brand spankin' new Kohls (SHOPPING IN THE STICKS! Head for the hills, my friends... hell freezeth over.)

Tummy Troubles

So I'm basically going to now re-paste from an email that I sent to my momzer and a few other close types today. I wasn't gonna, but then I thought "Hey! The whole world is completely DYING to know the intimate details of my digestive system!" SO! Here you go...

Since my gall bladder was removed in 1997, I've had IBS. (Hooray!) The last few years, I've also had intermittent "attacks" that feel like what I felt with gallstones. Not pleasant, to say the least, but rare enough I didn't worry over much about it.

When one of these attacks started Friday-ish, I chewed a few tums and waited for it to pass as it usually does. Eventually it did, only to come back with a vengeance a few hours later. Lather, rinse, repeat until yesterday.

Yesterday. Immediately following yet another root canal (I think this makes #7, with another 4 or 5 to go before all is said and done, but I digress...) another attack started,. Even though I had an appointment with my general practice for the next day, the pain was intense enough that I hauled myself over to the ER at the nearby hospital. They ran several tests, checked liver and pancreatic enzymes, and everything looked pretty good. Since I was slated for a Celiac Disease panel to be run at my doc's office, they decided to go ahead and run it off of the rivers of blood they had already sucked from my poor little body.

The results from the Celiac Disease test will be back in about a week.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I headed towards home with prescriptions for Prevacid and an anti-spasmodic.

Today, T and I discussed it and decided that - since our insurance does not require a referral for a specialist - we would cut out the middle man and attempt to get me into a specialist ASAP. Found a Gastroenterologist covered by our insurance and called them up. They were booking 2 months out (!!!) but had happened to have a rare cancellation for this afternoon, and could I come in at 3:30? ( You bet yer sweet bippies I could! )

SO! After taking a good history (first time a doc has actually paid attention and asked good probing questions about family history and my possibly inter-related symptoms) my new favorite Doctor (one of the top 10 docs in the DC area according to Washingtonian Magazine, as evidenced by the framed cover on the wall of her office) said she wants a CT scan ASAP.
I'll be going for an abdominal/pelvic CT scan on Thursday morning, which could rule out several things right off the bat. (ovarian cysts, obvious masses, and other stuff I can't remember because the boys were with me and generally screaming as loud as they could.)

So after the CT and once the results from the CD serology tests are back, I will find out if I need to have an endoscopy and biopsy done, and possibly a colonoscopy. (FUN for kids of all ages!)

For the present, the Gastro Doc says she definitely wants me to take the daily Prevacid, and use the anti-spasm drug for my "intes-tynes" (must be said with a slow, west-virginia drawl) as needed.

If anyone wants to know more about celiac disease, http://www.wikipedia.org has some good info.

I guess that's really it for now. Could be nothing. Could be something. Either way? It'll be taken care of, and the tummy aches should soon be a distant memory. If the CD test is positive, you will know it because you will distinctly hear the reality-shattering scream of pain and loss that accompanies the realization that I actually have to give up bread. Because bread? Is life. And Bread and Cheese and Red Wine and Chocolate? They're like a family... the staples of edible joy that make life worth living. And I would really really miss bread.

But hey. That's all the future, and for the moment it's neither here nor there.

Between the boys being sick, family tragedies, and my own tummy troubles... well, I've been incommunicado of late, to say the least. I'm not gone for good, just out in the Big Blue Room experiencing the life I had previously been watching through the window.

I promise to report back when next I come in from the cold. Because I just KNOW you're hanging on every word as soon as the phrase "spastic colon" comes up. You're masochistic like that... and you should probably seek help immediately.

No Words.

It has been a strange few days. Without going into over-much detail on a topic which I'm still struggling to wrap my brain around, my brother and his darling wife had to bid farewell to their baby girl this week.

They never got to say a proper hello. She was 37 weeks due, and was gone before she got to come into the world.

I'm a bit weary today. I'm taking a few days to rest, nurse a toothache, and wait for the icy roads to clear. In case anyone is looking for me.

-MeL

I've Been Writing. Just Not Here.

I've been flexing my writing muscle lately. Just little things, self-assigned essays here and there on a myriad of topics. I feel like I'm working up to something good, but not a clue yet as to what it might be.

For the moment, though, here is this morning's pontification on the drive home. Not today, of course, as today is late winter and not nearly as pretty as it was back September. In that vein, let's call this "September's Drive".

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Route 9 meandered through the hills on those outlying reaches of Northern Virginia, winding between upstart neighborhoods with their sprawling estates and shiny sport utility vehicles. The new construction was incongruous to the sprawling landscape, and the houses gazed at each other across their grassy meadows as though surprised to find their suburban splendor exiled to this lonely place.

The road curved off and away, further out into the countryside. Only here and there was the blank horizon dotted with ramshackle houses and the occassional unmarked dirt road. Out on the down slope of an unremarkable hillside stood a solemn old farmhouse. Antiquated plows and harvesters tucked snugly up under the well-seasoned planks of its eaves. An ancient American flag was stretched and tacked to the exterior wall, flanked on either side with buntings that had long ago faded in the eastern sun.

Soon fences rose up and dotted the hillsides, blending into the slopes. They blurred into weathered rows of trellis, clamboring with thick vines and heavy with fat, purple grapes. Modest, hand-painted signs named the myriad vineyards. A few announced seasonal dates, hours for tours.

The landscape dropped off sharply as the hills rose higher and higher into the Shenandoahs. The trees swooped up on either side of the road, ensconcing it swiftyly and silently in dappled shadows before shuttering out the sun entirely. The dark woods, foreboding in the bare starkness of winter, were lush and green and comfortable in the shaded relief from the
late-summer sun.

Here, tiny cottages and run-down trailers hid among the rich foliage. Small signs of civilization began to peek out at the road - a small restaurant with signs advertising Keno games, a faded yellow pawn shop, an incongruous elementary school. The curves in the road grew sharper as they slalomed back down the side of the mountain, as though the road were enjoying an exuberant frolic down the slope after the relentless climb to the top.

The trees and vines fell away without warning, and a gleaming cement bridge crossed the broad expanse of the river. Below, the calm water was dotted with the fluorescent craft of the river-rafters and the occassional kayak, heading off downstream in pursuit of the frothier adventures to be found there.

There was a sharp bend in the road, a billboard announcing a new housing construction project just down the way, and suddenly the empty farmland stretched away and was filled with the imposing form of a huge cathedral. In the sunlight it was the color of dried blood, capped with an alabaster spire that stabbed into the clear blue sky. A small cement sign, just past
this incomprehensible house of worship, announced the entrance to a modest subdivision.

At last, then. Home.

You Don't Know How Lucky You Are.

So I had typed up a very explicit retelling of the ordeal with the dog and his rectum yesterday, but it appears that blogger has more sympathy for your sensitivities than I do. The whole post somehow got eaten, and I am left staring at a blank page at oh-dark-thirty.

I should be sleeping, but I have been panting over my Stylehive bookmarks, attempting to get some good stuff up there in a vain attempt to be worthy of the listing they gave to AlternaMom on their blogroll. I'd link to it, but my internets tubes are apparently clogged, and I'm too lazy to look for a direct link on the google at the moment.

Did I mention that it is snowing? Like REALLY snowing? We've been instructed to expect upwards of 5 or 6 inches by morning, and just an hour or so away there was apparently a Thunder-Snow-Storm which lasted 45 minutes or so. I've never seen lightning in the snow, but I suspect it's one of those things I would regret missing if I gave into this assinine urge to go to sleep and maintain my sanity. So, I've been sitting here on the sofa, just listening in the silence for a muffled crack of thunder.

Time to surrender, though, or the next "crack of thunder" I hear will be the dog barking at me to put him in his bed... or it will be T, barking at me to get myself into bed.

Did I Not Mention I Was Taking A Vacation?

Oh no no, not a real vacation. Just a "Blogation" as it were. Things have been so insane, so ridiculously busy, that I actually managed to misplace my blogging bug for a bit. But
Fear Not, devout, adoring masses. (*cough*)

Why, just this morning I got to remove a 14 inch strip of pig hide from the dog's rectum. WITH MY HANDS.

SEE? I'm full of all kinds of thrilling adventures to share! You can rest assured I will continue to thrill you with such anecdotes as "How I ate a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast, and topped it with the very last of the smoked salmon, and how I feel absolutely no guilt about that."

Oh, and the Chai-Spiced Coffee Creamer? Sounds heavenly in theory, but I have found it is not-so-much-heavenly in the actual consumption. Ah well. A drop or two combined with (look away Mocha) .......powdered creamer (from WalMart, no less. I'm an insult to coffee lovers everywhere, ain't I just?) and the Chai stuff is at least somewhat palatable.

Ah well. My afternoon Toffee Coffee from Barney's Coffee and Tea Company pretty much made up for it. I sipped it while the boys clamored about the indoor play area at the (not-so) local mall. I also shelled out the 3 bucks so the boys and I could take the 3 minute "train" ride on the mini train that drives around the ground level of the mall. They loved it, and my feet loved the rest.

All in all? A good day. I capped it off by purchasing a pair of funky black pants from the Suburban Mom Uniform Supply Company (also sometimes called "Old Navy"). They're cute, they were on clearance for $6.97, and if you squint really hard and turn your head to a 41 degree angle they even make my bum look almost perky. Also, it might help if you are legally blind... and perhaps brewing some cataracts. But I'll take what I can get. And... Hey! New Pants!

The One With All The Herpes

So all these red things on my face that look like horrific cold sores? Turns out they're actually.... horrific cold sores. Huh! Go figure.

Apparently my respiratory virus plus oodles of yummy life stress equals a rampaging herpes simplex the likes of which has never before been seen (outside a dutch brothel, anyway).

Well, okay, that might be overstating it just a bit. I mean, really... it's only 10 or so ugly, weeping, crustules painfully scattered across the landscape of my face. See? Not so bad when I put it that way, hmm? What's that? Oh, I'm desperately sorry... no, I wasn't aware you were eating. My bad. Totally.

Long story short? T, the best husband in the known universe, picked up my prescription for Valtrex from the pharmacy - because apparently the same drug is used to treat the facial outbreaks as the sexually transmitted ones.

So T officially gets to be known at the local (small town) pharmacy as "that guy whose wife has got The Herpes".

Oh joyous day.

And A Time To Every Purpose...

So as I recover from The Plague(tm) of 2007 and begin to peep, in charming, prairie dog fashion, out from behind my candy-colored pity party, I find several key points to ponder.

1) Paint. Changing the colors of ones environment quickly evolves into a sick obsession; once the door is opened on the sheer god-like control of it all, well... that power cannot be easily surrendered. I may need to check into a twelve step program soon. Right after I answer to the stair well -- it's begging to be coated in a smooth layer of Glidden's "Creme Brulee".

2) Skin. My epidermis is showing, and it is in open revolt. I have an appointment with my friendly family physician in the morning, at which point I am fully prepared to hear her say something along the lines of "OhMyHolyHellWhatInTheWorldAndYeeHaw!" as she glimpses the horror that is my face. At first, I thought they were a couple of cold sores. Then? They bred. Like rabbits, they mated and spawned and filled the canvas of my freckled face.
Truth? Methinks that perhaps the stress is beginning to have just a weeeee bit of an effect on my person. Ed McMahon, if you are listening? I could totally use that 10 million and a life of leisure. My disfigured face thanks you, my husband thanks you, and my children will thank you when the nightmares have ceased.


3) People. People are something of an enigma for me. I don't do well with them, and they seem generally baffled by me. You might call me "quirky" but you would be understating it. You might call me "eccentric" but I lack the requisite trust fund to rate that particular adjective. At the end of it? There are those who "get" me and those who don't, and I really need to learn to let go of the inevitable disappointment that comes with realizing that one of my friends really doesn't "get" me.

4) Sleep. I must either get more of it, or get more books on Da Vinci so I can figure out how to be more like him and learn not to need so much of it. Oh, and also? I must figure out how to get my children to do it much more often. 5:30 is an ungodly hour to be awake and demanding to watch "The Upside Down Show", even if I am weirdly obsessed with Shane's strangely perfect-shaped bald head. When the pre-dawn wake-up and USD Show demands have spanned several weeks in a row? It's time to break out the tranquilizer darts and consider suspended-animation beds for the munchkins. If you don't believe me? YOU try attempting to navigate a universal remote in the dark before coffee.

That's pretty much it. I'm sure I have pondered other things, but really.... how could they compare to these questions for the ages? Unless, of course, someone has discovered a useful purpose for belly-button lint. Then? My mind will be blown wide, once again.

In Which I Ponder The Nature Of Time

The month of January is nearly half over, and I don't think I have yet come to terms with the fact that it is now 2007. The world, of late, has become quite insular for us; most of my time has been spent working on home projects and caring for sick kids. That is, until today -- when I became the really and truly sick one around these parts.

Have you ever had one of those colds where your nose just runs, perpetually? Not snotty, sticky mucus or anything... just a river of clear saline. It appears the thick stuff is still cheerily lining my sinus cavity, where the pressure builds toward the ultimate goal of actually blowing the top off of my skull.

And so it is that I take an involuntary break from organizing the newly converted guest room-turned-playroom to recline and sip heavenly, spiced tea. I spent the entire day doing my level best to NOT think about all of the projects and chores that remain undone, without much success. Of course, it doesn't help that T was in a football coma on the sofa. His intermittent outbursts would indicate that the New England/San Diego game was pretty intense, but keeping track of playoff games is entirely outside my realm of possible ways to fill my brain at the moment.

And so it is that I post-and-run, off to rest and recover and attempt to clear my body of this raging viral misery. Cheerio, dah-lings.

Ring In The True

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850

Ring in the true, indeed.... and the truth, dear internet, is that I have been avoiding you. It's not you, it's me. You see, for once The Crazy was not mine alone, and the world actually lined up behind me in that whole "without pants" brand of insanity.

So, I took a nice break and enjoyed many hours of absorbing the wonder of my boys as we celebrated our holidays and generally hid away from the world in our little suburban kingdom. It was incredibly lovely, to tell the truth. Because when I say the world went a little nuts? Well, that's maybe the understatement of the year. So far.

So, I'll just give my list of excuses and we'll move on because - frankly, dear internet - I'm a bit knackered by this year already.. but that probably has more to do with the Hercules Virus my children bestowed upon me as an extra special Christmas present. It is currently raking my throat over hydrochloric acid and coating the backs of my eyeballs with sandpaper. So I'd like to think it's really just that, because after The Year that was 2006, I figure we're about due for a better 2007.

In Brief:

- Mom returned from Africa for emergency surgery - the particulars of which I will not detail here, as they are her particulars and not mine. That was the first wonky detail -- which was compounded by the fact that my parents are somewhat insane in their own right and decided to keep it something of a secret.

I cannot begin to clarify the numerous horrors involved in finding out a parent has returned unexpectedly from a foreign continent for a critical surgery that is taking place in one day and you had no idea because you were the last to know that said parent had already been in the country for a week. SO! Note to parents: I'm in enough therapy already, thankyouverymuch. It is stunts like that which pose a very real risk of emptying your grandchildren's college savings accounts to pay for mommy's psychiatric interventions. When things like this happen? Tell your kids. That's pretty much what family is for. Got it? Good. Glad we cleared that up.

- Next? The little brother, he is getting married. In about 10 days. Which means that I won't be able to fly out to be around for the festivities - not that I would actually be going to the wedding itself, as it is a Temple affair and I am an unwashed heathen who regularly defiles her eternal soul with Starbucks and Wired Magazine. But it would have been nice to be within a few hundred yards when my only younger sibling takes the plunge. But, ah. I digress.

- Across the street is a beautiful house, about twice the size of mine, that has been vacant since the most recent owners were evicted. They purchased the house last summer, lived in it for 3 or 4 months (during which time, apparently, they failed to make .. you know... mortgage payments) and then the bank quietly foreclosed. All of this is simply the preamble to state that the house has not exactly been as vacant as we believed, as it appears there are squatters making use of it with some frequency. I know this because we (the direct neighbors) have secured it no less than 3 times only to find it again open within a few days. The empty beer cans in the basement were a bit of a tip-off as well.

This would be the part where I try not to dwell too much on what connection this could have to the recent car break-ins in the neighborhood, and decide that maybe the 40 bucks a month for our ADT security system isn't a waste of resources after all. Especially considering the fact that the local Mayberry Deputies have assured us there is not a darn thing they can/would/are willing to do about this situation. The last hope is finding out which bank actually holds the title and attempting to encourage them to take measures of their own to secure the property.

The real tragedy of this? The house is spectacular. Hard wood floors, brand new paint and such... *sigh* perhaps I'm just bitter I didn't come up with the idea of squatting there first?

And on that note, dear friends, I am spent. So, happy holidays and happy new year and happy Wednesday, come to that. I'm here, I've just been dozing, and I'm full to the brim of stories to tell and musings on the vast spectrum of events in this mad existence. Stay tuned. It's gonna be a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad year.

Blue Christmas...

Christmas seasons past have, for us, often included multitudes of gratuitous celebrations, typified by an immense over-abundance of baked goods and adult beverages. So far I attended a Holiday Cookie Exchange. We have got only T's office Holiday party on the calendar for next weekend... and no babysitter lined up for that event. That's it for adult gatherings. Oh, there'll be Jack's preschool "Jingle Bell Party" to attend, and the MOMS Club party as well. Those will be just me and the kids, though.

There is, of course, the HOA Caroling event to look forward to. If I wasn't stressing out so much about all of the negative feedback on .. well, pretty much everything I have done to get the ball rolling on this event, I would probably be looking greatly forward to it. Probably.

This is the first year - maybe since T and I met - that I have considered not devoting an afternoon to the concocting of the traditional Christmas fudge and one or two experimental varieties of my own creation.

I sat down to write the holiday letter to our friends and family... and came up with a very depressing catalog of the past year. Consciously, I am aware that I lead a very charmed life in many ways. There have been so many positive things in our lives the past few months that it seems a bit pathetic for my holiday spirit to be in such dire need of a jump-start.

But T and I find ourselves on something of an island this Christmas, with no close friends in easy striking distance for a short visit with the kids. Even fewer in number are those brave souls willing to traverse the distance across our mountain to our cozy abode.

So there it is. A loneliness born of circumstance, and a holiday season tempered by the realities of a somewhat gloomy December. There is, however, beauty also in sorrow. There is warmth to be found in the somber quiet of the sleeping season.

I stopped to pump gas on my way to the Cookie Exchange. I was in T's little car with the heater that can only try so hard to produce warmth. I had promised to plug a few gallons into his tank so as not to leave him on empty for his drive to work the next morning. The air was bone dry and bitterly cold; each exhale of breath made a ghostly halo under the stark floodlights.

From the inky expanse of sky they came, dancing and swirling on invisible currents of razor-cold air. Tiny and dry, like fine paper confetti. If you listened intently, you could hear the individual touchdown of each nonchalant flake as it clacked against the pavement.

The first snow of winter.

It was too dry, too impatient to stick as it landed. Instead, the singular flakes kept their distance apart, swirling and drifting across the charcoal expanse of road like a thousand sparrows in cloud of flight.

It was a brief dance. The flakes gradually retired off into the darkness - until they fell no more, leaving the night once again clear and cold and deeply silent.

Solemn. Heartbreaking. Beautiful.

And perhaps I have spirit, after all. The spirit of the Solstice, that deep winter day of the longest dark, when we celebrate the beginning of a new journey to the long days of sunshine ahead.

And on Earth, Peace... and good will toward Men.

You Can Share My Umbrella....

Have I ever mentioned that I am really not good with - well - people?

I should clarify a bit. I'm a loyal friend, a good listener, and I do my utmost to be thoughtful and sensitive and helpful and all those things that are valuable in a friend. In short, I'm somebody you'd usually be glad to have on your team.

The problems arise when I have to communicate with people I don't know very well. If there's not an immediate connection - that spark of recognition when you meet someone who floats on the same wavelength - then I tend to flounder a bit. I fail to pick up on cues and misread tone and body language. I get antsy at uncomfortable silences in conversation. I rabbit on at a manic pace, desperately seeking a talking point that will elicit some spark of interest from the other party. In the end, I usually end up apologizing for all the bouncing around and do my best to slink away with a shred of dignity while the other person is left to puzzle over what in the world I was getting at and why I looked so terrified.

I can't recall exactly when I realized that my skills in verbal conversation where somewhat uneven, but I suspect it was fairly early on. It's something to do with why I started writing in the first place. It was only through conversations with myself, as it were, in a piece of writing that I began to find my path to really reaching other people.

It is in that vein that I present, with a wee bit of abashed pride, my first foray into publication. My article on LDSwoman.net went up today (in the "Time For You" section) along with some spectacular photos that superbly capture the mood of the piece. The photos are not mine, though I could wish they were. And although the irony of being published for the first time in an LDS-Inspired forum is not lost on me, I am incredibly impressed with the concept of the site and the combination of the striking photography and inspirational content brought a tear to even my cynical eye. And, crankypants that I am, tears that don't involve rage or frustration are a rare treat for me these days.

So go read it. And tell your friends to read it. Then tell them to come here and read about my experiences with accidentally purchasing adult novelties on someone else's credit card, just so it's clear I don't claim to be some sort of fountain of great wisdom. I'm just a girl who had a story to tell, and who tends to tell much better stories when I'm having the conversation with myself. Because I don't do so well with, you know... other people.