Things That Rock My Wednesday

- First session of physical therapy. The electro-current-stimulator-thingie (that's the technical term, by the way) that feels like a massage and dulls the pain from a herniated and/or ruptured lumbar disc. That was so worth fighting rush hour traffic and nearly throwing up from anxiety. I now totally have a girl-crush on my physical therapist, especially after promised to work on my back more on Friday morning.

- Good conversations with sisters. I used up all of my prepaid cell minutes today, chatting with Shanna-Banana and Her Ladyship Cynthia. Both awesome women and great for good conversation. I should call them more often.

- Finding my Martha Stewart magazine from last year, full of good ideas for homemade Christmas gifts. I might actually get on top of that this year in time to make gifts for a few people. The only down side is the number of gift ideas in it that I can't actually use; I don't think I know anyone who wants a pom-pom ladybug for Christmas, and I can only knit so many hats between now and December. On the plus side? There are recipes for truffles. Which will probably end up as my gift to myself. Bonus!

- Realizing that the week is half over, and I get to spend the weekend at the Maryland Rennaissance Festival. Yep, I'm totally into Renn Fest. No, I don't wear a costume. But I might have to get hats for the boys to wear, as they are still young enough for me to turn them into Renn Folke without protest. By next year, I have a feeling Jack will have finally figured out how embarrassing I really am. The clock is ticking, y'all. They grow up so fast.

- The only thing that DID NOT rock my Wednesday? Realizing that Toby's second birthday is less than 2 weeks away and I have made exactly ZERO preparations for the event. Ideas anyone? I considered a follow-up Chuck E Cheese outing, which is what we did for Jack's birthday, but then I realized that this was convenient for... well, nobody but my Mother-in-law, as my brother and his family have moved to Rome and were the only ones who lived near CEC. I'm still toying with cooking up a big pot'o Gumbo and sending out a "doors are open" invitation to everyone who might want to see our little nugget turn 2.

For the record, I am not to be numbered among those who are interested in seeing this milestone. I get really odd looks when I say something about "The Baby" and then people ask how old he is and find that he is nearly 2. Apparently this disqualifies him as "a baby" in some eyes, but don't try to tell me that BECAUSE I WILL CUT YOU. He is a baby as long as I say he is - and as I am the one who pushed all nine and a half pounds of him out into this world, if I choose to call him "The Baby" I am entitled to do so. And I say that with nothing but love in my peace-love-and-flowers-filled soul.

So! Any ideas on how to celebrate The Baby's second birthday? Preferably ones that involve very little effort on my part.... Because, as you may have noticed, I am a tad less than enthusiastic at this prospect.

That face? That is the baby face.

Nap. Desperately Need.

For one reason or another, y'all, I am tired. I mean bone weary, fall asleep at 10 and sleep until 10 on a weekend, where is my coffee because SOMEONE IS GOING TO DIE IF I DON'T HAVE IT RIGHT NOW tired.

This morning was a flurry of driving to's. To the pediatrician's office (15 miles away) to help them combine 2 different sets of medical records in order to have a current immunizations record for Jack. To the gas station to put air (again) in my back right tire, which appears to have a slow leak, and grab cheese and croissants for the kids for "lunch". To the preschool to have both kids photographed and digitally fingerprinted for emergency records. Finally, to home, where it was too late to put Toby down for a nap - which explains why he is now running, pantless, through the living room and screaming like a rabid chimpanzee.

My brilliant plan for this afternoon involves picking Jack up from school, putting gas in my van (which is running on the gasping vapors that are left when even most of the fumes have been burned up), feeding my child something more substantial than cheddar and pastry, and maybe decorating the front yard for Halloween. If there happens to be an extra corpse in the yard when I'm done? Don't worry, it's only me -- passed out like a wino in the unmowed grass.

Tomorrow is my first day of physical therapy. I'm supposed to get rehabilitated for the herniated or ruptured disc in my back, but all I heard was "massage" and I was sold. Mama could use a few thousand of those.

Big Daddy came home on Thursday, to much fanfare. We celebrated with Mexican food at Anita's Restaurant, which was lovely. And also, reminds me of an OverShare I've been meaning to do....

So a few months ago, I was offered a free two-month supply of a new product called "Align" for treating IBS. I asked if there was any sort of catch to the deal, and the nice marketing rep assured me that there was no catch -- but they would appreciate an honest review of the product. After the time I have spent in the doctor's office trying to figure out if there was anything that could be done to help my digestive issues (See? I did warn you about the OverShare) I figured it couldn't hurt. Also, the suggestions of my gastroenterologist all involved things like "Reduce your stress" and "give up caffeine and spicy food" and really, you may as well just start digging now.

So I got the package of little white pills in the mail, I read all the literature, and I decided to give Align a try. (I'm sure there's supposed to be little (TM)'s around that, but I'm far too tired right now to use up the brain power of trying to figure that out, so let's just remind everyone that's a trademarked name. kthxbye.)

With the miscarriage earlier this year, I got a little delayed in testing it out. Once I recovered, though, and got started... I have to say I am impressed. Basically, it's probiotics in pill form. Which means that it's a lovely alternative to choking down 3 or 4 containers of yogurt every day. Especially if, like me, you aren't really a big fan of yogurt. Unless it's frozen and made of chocolate, in which case I make a special exception, but... I digress.

Align worked like quite the charm, and with the back problems and general insanity of attempting to tread water in the deep end of motherhood and housewifery... well, at least it made me regular. Please note that I received no compensation, etc, for that thoroughly articulated and glowing review. I just said I'd give my honest opinion and, once it's available to buy (which I don't believe it is quite yet) I highly recommend Align and will probably buy it regularly. Pun? Totally intended.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go tempt fate with a cup of coffee and some more driving. While I ponder when, exactly, it was that I morphed into an 80-year-old woman.

Happy Tuesday!

Like Buying the Cow a Martini

As a teenager, I decided quite suddenly that I should be a vegetarian.

I thought it would be more healthy, maybe help me lose a few pounds. Also? I lived in Northern California, a stone's throw from Berkeley. This decision may or may not have had something to do with the field trip my English class took to see "Macbeth" at the Berkeley Rep, followed by a walk down Telegraph and a stop at the Berkeley Whole Foods Market.

This also should probably have been the first clue that I would turn out to be something of a liberal. And a democrat. So there ya go, parents - there we see the fruits of molding an impressionable mind in the seat of American Liberalism.

Some of the ideas spawned in me in Northern California have stuck. The vegetarianism, however, lasted just under a week. To be specific, it lasted until my dad threw a few steaks on the charcoal grill.

I guess I'm just a carnivore at heart. I love red meat, and I eat my steak with a "the redder the better" mentality. Just shake a little black pepper on it, flame kiss that sucker, and plate it, please.

I have found, however, that I do actually have a limit when it comes to gratuitous consumption of living things. This epiphany comes courtesy of my husband, and his new favorite story out of Singapore.

I am referring to the delicacy dish of "Drunken Prawn". In the states, we get a dish called "Drunken Noodles" which generally just means there was a splash of some kind of liquor thrown into the sauce. Not so, Drunken Prawn.

A bowl of live prawns is brought to the table. The server then pours liquor over the top of the clamoring prawns, and the diner watches as their dinner gets good and schnockered, grows calm and sleepy.

The final flourish comes in one of two ways. Either the sleepy prawns are then carried back to the kitchen to be cooked up in a broth or some such... OR... for a big finish, the bowl of thoroughly drunken prawns and liquor are lit on fire, thus cooking the prawns alive.

According to T, this is delicious. According to me, that's a big NEGATIVE good buddy.

I refuse to equate the cows grazing in the nearby pastures to a delicious, juicy delmonico.

And you can bet I'm not about to bring the cow a nice martini before digging into my porterhouse.

Tick-Talk : Tick-Tock

I had to pull a teeny-weeny little tick off my arm. I'm pretty sure the head is still stuck somewhere in there. Reason #543267 that living in the country can be a pain in the posterior.

Also? 12 days.

12 days now I have been on my own, playing at "single mom". All I can say is, you moms who do this all the time? Holy crap, I'm not sure how you do it. The total lack of freedom, the inability to so much as brush your teeth without someone pulling on your pant leg and screaming for pizza at 6 o'clock in the morning. Usually I send the boys on their merry way to bug daddy in the morning. He gets a few minutes of quality (read: insanity) time with the boys, and I get to put my contact lenses in and answer nature's call without a play-by-play analysis of the action. ("Mom? Are you going to use the toilet paper, Mom? Because I don't have to use the toilet paper if I'm just going pee-pee. Why are you sitting down to go pee-pee, Mom?")

Last night I put the kids to bed and anesthetized my pain, just a little, with a few glasses of Pinot Noir. Also, I might have gone off the reservation just enough to leave myspace messages for a few friends. And quite possibly a celebrity. Actually, I'm pretty sure I did, because he replied this morning. Tip of the hat to him, by the way, as it now makes for a much better story.

Singapore Sling 2007 (as we will now officially refer to this particular Big Daddy business trip) has just been extended by another few days. Instead of returning home on Tuesday, as originally planned, Big Daddy T will be home at the end of the week some time.

I am, obviously, thrilled at this development. *cough*

So tonight the boys and I are ordering pizza and having a Disney marathon. For the rest of the week? Well, at least I have the Fall Season Premieres of some seriously good television to look forward to. Almost as good as a glass of Pinot for dulling the pain, y'all.

Mamarazzi. (Mamarazzo?)

Mamarazzo (TM). noun. : Mother who is obsessed with photographically capturing every moment of her children's lives, especially for scrapbooking. Which she never actually does, and therefore when her laptop finally gives up the ghost it consequently obliterates every photo she has ever taken of her children because she was too distracted, busy, and/or lazy to ever back up all the files.

Not that this has actually happened. But the sudden realization that it actually could go down like that? Has me scavenging the interwebs for a good backup drive. Does anyone still use zip drives any more? I think I still have some extra zip discs from college....

Jack! Want to be in a photo with Mama? No? Okay. I'll take a picture of myself then. All... alone. Oh! You DO want to be in the picture? Quick! Jump in!

Okay, Toby! Your turn! No? Can Mama just take your picture, then?

"No, you most certainly may NOT!"

Okay. That's how you want to play it? Photo by surprise attack it is.


Shoot. I really gotta start scrapbooking this stuff.
Right after I figure out what's causing that funny smell in the playroom. And fold the laundry. And unload the dishwasher. And reheat my coffee. And figure out what to make the boys for lunch... which reminds me, we really need to hit the grocery store before the weekend......


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

UPDATE: I had no idea how appropriate the above photo would be for today.
As we arrived at Jack's preschool for today's drop-off, I fluffed his out-of-control hair and said "you know, buddy.. we're really going to have to cut your hair a little this weekend."

In front of the half-dozen or so other parents , Jack turned to chastise me with a twinkle in his eye. "If you do that again, I am going to BEAT YOUR BUTT!"

A heartbeat or two passed while I got over my shock, then I looked around at the other parents (standing horror-stricken around me). I managed a shrug and a very weak "Jack, I don't know where you get this stuff..." But I wasn't fooling anybody. And instead of the conspiratory "oh, I've so been there" smiles of sympathy I hoped to see, there were pointedly averted gazes.

Note to self:
1) Must find new way to reproach my child. (For the record, I don't actually beat his butt. I only threaten. Which is about as effective as karate chopping a waterfall.)
2) I really hope the averted gazes were in attempt to avoid bursting into laughter, rather than an uncomfortable judgment on my parenting skills. I'm gonna go with that. Yeah.

Sweet Things.

Pumpkin Pie Recipe and photos are up over at (much-neglected) Eat, Drink & Be Married!

Sweet tooth not satisfied? How about Jack's first day of school. Guaranteed to give you a few cavities - and possibly a case of the weepies. Or maybe that's just me.


Life with kids? It's a pretty sweet deal.

Thursday.

I survived. That's what I can tell you about this week, y'all.

Jack had his first day of preschool Monday. It was kismet - he and his school were meant for each other. Of course, it doesn't hurt that his teacher told me - after the first day - that she fell in love with him instantly. I'm totally okay with my kid being teacher favorite at this age. Note to self: be sure to give her a nice gift basket for Christmas.

T headed out for 2 weeks in Singapore, and now I'm just getting into the rhythm of the pick-up/drop-off routine and trying not to lose my mind being a "single" mama.

Of course, it helps that Toby naps during school times, so there are actually 2 quiet hours in my afternoon now. Today, I got the dishes done, moved some furniture, and still had time to rest my weary back for a few minutes before I had to wake Toby up to go get Jack with me.

It's a living, folks. But, all is not routine and dreary 'round these parts. Stay tuned for tomorrow, wherein I provide photographic evidence of the Pumpkin Pie I baked from scratch. Photographic is the only evidence available since, of course, the pie was consumed in a family orgy of gluttony. Pumpkin Pie is T's favorite, and with the exception of a sugar overage in the particular recipe I tried, I think he might have been reborn in the lightly-spiced goodness of the gourd.

I'm trying again tomorrow with a lower-sugar recipe and the remainder of the pumpkin that I baked and mashed. And if it happens to disappear in the next few days? Well... we'll just pretend we're all mystified by that.

And by "we", I mean you, me, and my hips, of course.

The Internets Were Broken.

I might have a problem. With the household internet acting up, and the wireless crapping out entirely for a few days, I began to get the shakes. When I logged into bloglines I had something like 200 new entries to catch up on. I caught up on my must-reads, then gave up and hit the "mark all read" button. It was all just too much to process.

I sepnt most of this week getting ready for Jack to start preschool next week. He has his first honest-to-goodness "school supplies" list, and I had a little moment of nostalgia as I stuck sticker labels with his name on his box of crayons, glue sticks, baby wipes and plastic snack cups. My handwriting even looked like my mother's to me.

By high school, I was begging her to please, PLEASE not label every notebook and pack of pens with my name. I think, though, that after 30 years of labeling kids' school supplies ... well, it was a hard habit for her to break. I still smile every time I look at the lid of the laundry hamper I've had since college. "Melissa R." Some habits are hard to break. Others, you don't want to break; they're your only coping mechanism for learning to let go.

Jack will be in preschool 5 days a week this year, in the afternoon class. This will be Toby's first real time alone with me, since last year half of our "free" time was spent driving to pick Jack up from his old preschool - 45 minutes away. The new school is just down the street, through the "downtown" part of our little town. I have visions of Toby and I dropping off a cheerful Jack at school and heading to the coffee shop for a bagel and a little face-time. Once I finish sniffling.

I think I need to find more things to write his name on.

And Then I Shaved The Cat's Rear End.

The long weekend was much more desperately needed than I realized. We took as much advantage of it as we could, grilling out for the first time in weeks, taking the kids to one last outing to the pool, and wandering the mall for a few hours. It had been years since I slurped on an Orange Julius, and - good grief - did I forget what a sugar rush those suckers cause.

Stressed is an understatement for what I have been feeling lately. First came the smiley-face-and-legal-threat-filled email from a woman demanding I change the name of my portrait business. She felt it was too similar to hers, which is patently ridiculous but, in light of the drama with the HOA last year, I'm in no hurry to ever get involved in a legal case again. So, bingo, name changed.

Thursday, a kid from the neighborhood comes around raising money for the local baseball team. Apparently they were invited to the Tokyo invitational, and the fundraiser was soliciting donations to pay for books for the pediatric unit at the local hospital. I was in the middle of putting Toby down for a nap, and the kid pointed vaguely down the street - "My folks, do you know Kathy and Dr. X?" "Nope." Kid continues. I'm tired. I feel guilty enough that I write him a check for the lowest donation amount. I put Toby down, then get on the internet and double check the kid's story.

Yup. You guessed it. Total fabrication.

So this morning the company gets an angry phone call from me. Apparently, I have until midnight tonight to postmark a cancellation, and they'll return my check. Also? If I enclose a "statement" about the lying piece of crap sales guy who fed me his cock-and-bull story? They'll "put it on file". Yeah. Thanks for that.

And in case you're not done hearing me whine? Poor Cassie, our long-haired cat, has been getting horrid snarly knots lately. We've been cutting them out one at a time as we found them, but lately they've been coming fast and furious. So, today? I shaved her butt.

Officially? I am not in the greatest of moods today.

There is, of course, only one solution. The boys and I? We require ice cream. STAT.

Learning To Play Well With Others.

If you're just joining us, my interactions with the rest of the world have always been somewhat... eccentric? Tense? Yeah, there's not really a good word for it. I tried the local MOMS Club, and we still go to the big events - the Christmas Party, Easter Egg Hunt, etc. Basically, the events which are likely to include the most participants, and therefore the least amount of actual interaction required. The kids have fun, I chase the kids, I talk to the few souls brave enough to approach the "weird one". (You know... HER. The one whose interests include computers, t.v. shows we don't watch, and some bizarre thing called a "blog"...)

I do better one on one, as long as the other person is easy on my neurotic self. Somehow, in the three years since we moved to the Eastern Panhandle, there have been only a select few who put me at ease and don't make me paranoid that every move or sentence is being weighed and judged.

My sister, Kim, told me that she has always known me to take people as I find them - and accept them at face value. I don't spend my time analyzing people for every flaw, I just shrug, accept that they are who they are, and if we connect I add them to the "friends" list unless or until they do something heinous enough to warrant removal from the Circle of Trust. (*insert demonstrative, DeNiro-esque, "Circle of Trust" hand gestures here*) - (*pause will I giggle at that movie again*)
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So I can't help but be wistful when I read something like this. Not the least because I read both Amalah and Sweetney religiously, and they never fail to hit the nail on the head in their far-wittier-than-my narratives on raising children with a sense of humor. (And a well-timed glass of Pinot.)

BUT. Just when I think I'm doomed to smother my husband with the necessity of also being one of my only Buddies, something amazing happens. Something life-altering. Something that makes me a bit less wistful to hang with the cool kids.

My violin instructor, Nancy, is an amazing woman. She raised 5 children (including a set of twin boys) with her (also a professional violinist) husband, and had a 25-year career as Concertmistress with the National Orchestra. She has been all over the world, to places I have only dreamed about, and now shares a home with one of her sons and his family. Two of the three grandchildren have left the house, and the last one is a senior in high school. I haven't got around to asking her how they ended up selling their home in Potomac and moving out here to the hills, but once I saw her home I really couldn't imagine asking.

We always spend a good portion of our time (when I'm supposed to be learning the finer points of violin basics) engrossed in conversation about everything from family and motherhood to religion to literature. After a few months of this, she asked me to join her at her home for lunch one afternoon.

T worked from home so that I could sneak out after I got the boys fed and put Toby down for his nap. I drove over to her home with absolutely no idea that I was about to have one of the most memorable afternoons of my entire life.

The home is on a good-sized lot. The front yard is full of gently landscaped plants, and a giant holly bush towers over the front stoop. The house itself is a sprawling maze of rooms, each filled with thoughtful pieces of art, antique furniture pieces, momentos, and brick-a-brack I could spend the next several months looking through with relish.

We lunched on the screened back porch after serving ourselves healthy portions of her homemade quiches (crab or sausage) in the well-appointed kitchen. The pot rack hung heavy with cast iron pieces, a surprising tell about her zest for cooking. Then, I tasted the quiche. OH MY GOODNESS, y'all. Heavenly. Divine. A little green salad, some garden grown ('natch) tomatoes, and from-scratch peach cobbler for dessert. All of this with a view of the back yard, planted and landscaped like an English Cottage, and a gentle breeze rustling through the branches of the old-growth trees.

We followed lunch up with hot cups of tea, and I was like a delighted grammar-school kid when I got to choose from her varied collection of tea cups and matching saucers. I picked the one with the sunflowers. Then, she brought out her box of tea spoons.

The old Whitman's Sampler box was faded, with a crumbling hinge on the lid. Inside were those collector spoons that you can buy in shops all over the world - spoons of every shape and description, some dating back to the 1880's. One by one I pulled them from the box and studied them, the places they were from, the intricate sculptures on the oldest ones. One antique spoon had a hinged iron maiden, with tiny spiked doors that opened and closed.

We spent the end of our afternoon ensconced in the library of the house. I pondered the Civil War surgeon's kit that had belonged to her grandfather, with it's foot-long blades (still sharp!) and the bullet fragment actually removed from the leg of some unfortunate confederate soldier. She listened to a few of my poems, giving encouragements, and then we talked a little about poetry, literature, life...

I left with an ancient copy of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass", on loan from her collection (I'm still mulling over his poem about lilacs and death, written after Lincoln's assassination), and a zip-lock baggie of ginger creams.

I left with so, so much more than that.

If I could design the perfect way to spend a quiet afternoon in good company... I'm not sure I could have brought anything forth from my limited imagination that would have begun to strike the same chord in my soul as that perfect, lovely day.

Let the photos do the talking...

Living somewhat in the country, as we do, means the chance to attend a real, country, county fair. After waiting out several days of thunderstorms (during which the parking lot at the fair apparently turned to quicksand and required tow trucks to get the cars free) we were able to drive in on relatively dry roads and enjoy the incredibly humid experience. Jack rode rides, the kids tasted funnel cake and corn dogs and other artery-clogging goodness. The end of summer, marked appropriately. If we stick around here, it might need to be a new tradition.

I have a lot to talk about, including the possibility that I might go to my 10-year reunion after all (yes, I know, I already decided definitely not to go. But then San Francisco started messing with my head, promising sourdough goodness and a visit to china town....). Also? All of T's business travel means that I could get a big chunk of the airfare paid for with his points. You see my dilemma?

I spent a novel-esque afternoon at the home of my mentor and friend, Nancy - violin teacher extraordinaire - which I will detail for you later. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life, and is probably best recounted after a decent night's sleep. I hope to achieve a restful sleep once my allergies subside (thanks to the rain, and subsequent re-blooming of every pollen source in the immediate area...)

But, for the present, in lieu of actual wit or wisdom, I present PHOTOS. Because I finally found the cable to download them from the crappy camera. Still working on that battery charger for the DSLR....

Happy Wednesday!

My Man Candy.

Looking so much like their father that, if I didn't have the stretch marks to prove they're mine, I'd wonder who he got to mother them.

Toby, reminding me why I have to nibble on his face at least once a day.

The most recent hair. Also? Beginning to look my age - and not in the good way.

A good reason to get up in the morning, no? Of course, this was seconds before Tobin not-so-gently removed himself from his brother's embrace and smacked Jack over the head.
Good times.

Name That Line

"Baby Chimp! Take the banana out of your ear!"

If you can name this line? Then you - too - are watching entirely too much kid television. Plus, the lispy duck kinda bothers me. I mean, Ming-Ming is cute and all, don't get me wrong, but since Jack already turns all his L's to W's, I'm thinking it might be best to avoid cartoon animals with speech impediments. (It sounds reawy reawy cute and awl, but I suspect we're going to need a speech therapist before too much wonger...)

I always thought I'd be good at limiting my kids television intake. I mean, Toby is not yet 2, and of course now there's all those reports that TV will make your child's brain explode if they even glimpse it before their second birthday. T3H TV IS H4X0R3D YOUR BABY BRAINZ LOLZ etc etc etc.

Then again, I suppose that my Mother of the Year trophy is safely FUBAR. I base this on the fact that both children are in their pajama tops with no pants, Toby's diaper looks like it might just blow at any second, and the dog is enthusiastically chewing on a toy car. Me? I'm scribbling in my notebook and taking this moment to record it all for posterity.

Photos of the chaos will follow eventually, if I can ever find the cord for the crappy camera because, of course, the good camera is still in need of a new battery charger.

So, to recap: Mother of the Year - NO. Excuse Maker of the Year - Still definitely in the running.

Twisting On The Vine

Have you ever watched one of those time-lapse videos of a vine growing up a post? It spins , going round and round the pole, reaching a little further each time, until it finally finds the next support structure to grab hold of.

I feel like that's where we're at right now. We're in the go-round stage.

Big Daddy T returned from his last 2 week trip to assess the house and worry that I was getting depressed again. The house was a bit cluttered, admittedly, but after having 2 uninterrupted weeks of parenting (half of which time was also spent entertaining at teenage girl) I figured I was entitled to be a little bit behind on the housework.

In fact, I can't remember the last time I had a truly "down" day. I have a few down minutes here and there, but over all things are overwhelmingly positive.

I think what he is picking up on has more to do with the spinning. This sense of impending change, a sort of building tension, making me antsy and nervous. I have spent the last month slowly cleaning out closets and organizing boxes of unidentified junk for donation. Slowly clearing out enough space to get my office set up downstairs for when I start my new job.

Did I mention that I'm likely going to be working from home soon? Yeah. Part-time. It's been shaking out for weeks now, and I'm still not sure exactly when it will start or how it will shape up. All part of the going round and round, and not actually getting anywhere.

I feel like I'm sitting in a race car, idling at the starting line. The engine is revving, the turbo is wound, and I'm just waiting for the little man to drop the flag so I can slip it into gear and actually... you know... go somewhere.

In the mean time, I'm making meaningless plans and putting one foot in front of the other. Spin, spin, spin. Practice my violin, make shopping lists, count calendar days. Lay awake in my bed, next to the window. Listen to the rumble of thunder and the drumming of the rain covering the silence out there in the muggy shadows of night. Wake up to the soft gray light of misty morning, and wonder if the sun will come back in time to enjoy one last golden day of summer at the swimming pool. Looking for one last chance to get seared in the sunshine, to make the cooling balm of fall that much more soothing when the leaves begin to rust and the pumpkins fatten on the vine.

But, for now, the vine is twisting - round and round and round.

Flushing Money Down The Internets

As we all, by now, are aware... the internet is a series of tubes.

Sometimes, when you spend money on the internets, you sign up for recurring subscriptions to fileservers and game services and then forget that you signed up for said services. In which case (*pointedly NOT looking at Big Daddy, of course*) it becomes, quite literally, an exercise in flushing money down the tubes of the internets.

Approximately 7 years ago, Big Daddy T signed up for such a service - which he promptly forgot all about. Every few months I would point to the electronic debit from the billing company on our checking statement and say "what's this? 9 dollars? Can we cancel this?" "Oh - Yeah. Forgot about that". Lather, rinse, repeat in about 3 months.

SO, 7 years, $750+ dollars later (at 9 dollars a month) I finally got hold of the billing company. (Not literally holding, just on the phone, though actually holding - preferably by the throat - would have been quite lovely.)

A man with an incredibly thick Indian accent picked up the line. "Hello! [Evil Billing In Perpetuity] Company. This is Alan, how may I assist you today?"

"Hello, Alan. We have this bill. It comes out of my checking account every month, and I want to cancel it."

Alan gets some information, looks it up in (presumably) his computer and says "Oh! It says that for questions on this account I should refer you to this number. XXX-XXX-XXXX".

"Okay. Who is that, exactly?"

"That's the company you have the recurring contract with."

"Uh. Okay.. then who are you?"

"We are just the billing company - we just collect payments for them."

Okay. I should have figured this. I say thanks, google the number he gave me, find that it is - indeed - the company I thought it was. I start calling - only to realize they are located in L.A., and of course it's 6:30 in the morning there.

Finally, I log into the website (which has no clear, easy cancellation buttons) before realizing that it's the BILLING company website. Log on to the actual website, cancel subscription, pat what remains of my hair into place. I choose to ignore the piles of hair on the floor - those which I yanked out by the roots while painfully navigating 2 hours of my life I will never, ever get back.

2 hours of my life, $750 of our cash, and plenty of hair.

Do you know what I could buy with $750???

The time and the money are, admittedly, a loss. The hair, however, I am busily weaving into a hair shirt of torture - to be employed in the case that the man ever again signs up for anything on the internets which involves automatically recurring payments.

Celebratory Sushi

What better way to celebrate five years of married bliss than with plate after plate (after plate!) of picture-perfect sushi? And it would have made for perfect pictures if I could ever remember the camera on these outings. *sigh*

Ah well. We dropped Jack and Toby off with my friend Molly and headed to our favorite local sushi joint. We ordered fancy, spicy, tangy, sweet, beautiful plates of sushi, and then we sat ... and ate.. and talked. The silence was golden, and I got to hear all about Big Daddy's adventures in Germany and Austria.

Did you know that there are different kinds of marzipan? Apparently what you get if you order it in Germany has granola and raisins and such in it, while in Austria it is more like the pistachio-flavored paste that I have always thought of as marzipan. Yes, it was all romantic discourse on our dinner date. Actually, for me, this WAS romantic discourse. Since I can't yet travel in Europe myself, living vicariously through my husband really is the next best thing.
His next trip, at the end of this month, will be to Singapore.

I listened, with rapt attention, to the tales of his adventures... and this is when I realized that I have truly become The Stay At Home Mom. He goes, and I stay at home, and somehow this seems to work for us. I was a little worried that it would be too hard, being on my own so much of the time. So far, though? As long as I can immerse myself in his experiences, researching the locales on Wikipedia, daydreaming about dining in some little cafe (making sure to try the schnitzel) without any of the hassle of actually getting on the plane and going there... and as long as each return brings me a little souvenir of the places I have gone in my head... I think I'm going to get along just fine.

Stayin' Alive - The Power of 5

Little old lady that I am, my sciatica has been acting up something fierce (following an all-too-brief reprieve when I started running). I finally bit the bullet, followed the advice of Dr. Allie, and made an appointment with an Osteopath to get some OMM (which, I have learned, stands for "osteopathic manipulative medicine"). In the mean time, I'm going to get an appointment with a massage therapist and see if I can get some relief besides Ibeuprofen. Because the amount of Motrin I have consumed lately has probably left my liver nicely pickled. And, really? I can think of better ways to pickle a liver.

Speaking of my liver, the amount of bile in my life has significantly been reduced now that The Man is HOME. The boys and I hauled our tushies to the airport yesterday to retrieve Big Daddy. (I think that's T's new name. Big Daddy. It has a much nicer ring to it.)

So Big Daddy arrived with arms full of gifts from the wilds of Germany and Austria (he got to go see Salzburg while he was across the pond this time. I'm not jealous. Not at all. Really. Why are you looking at me like that??)

Okay, so I'm a little jealous, but I was easily soothed with a box of fancy German Chocolates. And, of course, my anniversary gift.

Today? It's our fifth wedding anniversary. Five glorious years, 2 beautiful boys, and piles of memories. Apparently, the fifth anniversary is the wood anniversary. And Big Daddy used a little ingenuity to figure that - Trees? They are made of wood. And since tree sap comes from trees, and since Amber is just petrified tree sap.... well, thus I somehow scored a pair of beautiful amber earrings. Which are glowing in my earlobes at this very moment and, yes, they are lovely, aren't they? And thank you for noticing....

Being the much less creative sort than my hub cap, I managed to find a small wooden basket to hold his symbolic-but-not-nearly-as-cool gift. Which he will get later tonight, so I won't spoil the surprise here.

Five years ago, at about this time, I was running around like an escaped lunatic. I was registering for nursing courses, attempting to shuttle back and forth across town, and hoping to make it to the ceremony on time.

My wedding day was easily the most stressful day of my life. In fact, it's the first and only time I have ever actually hyperventilated. (Thank goodness future-Doctor-Allie was there, paper bag at the ready...) The funny thing is, though, that none of the stress came from the actual "getting married" part. Marrying Big Daddy T? That was easily the least stressful decision of my life. He is the yang to my yin... the PB to my J. He's my bestest bud, an amazing father to the boys, and unconditionally patient and loving to his neurotic and unpredictable wife.

Plus? He's really, really great in bed. (Hi Mom!)

I'm a lucky, lucky girl. Thanks, babe. 8 years together, 5 years of marriage... and it's still you and me - 'till the wheels fall off.

Happy Anniversary.

Toothless in West Virginia.

You may remember that I have chronicled several of my horrific dental experiences. This is due to the fact that - my teeth? They are bad. I brush obsessively. I floss. I Listerine and Act rinse. And yet - my teeth? They still break. Yes, they are bad.

When Toby was born, I left the hospital and went immediately to the dentist's office for a root canal. Months later, after post-partum depression and lots of therapy, I realized I had neglected to get a crown on the tooth. I realized this because the tooth? It broke in half. The dentist removed the broken half - luckily the back side of the bicuspid - and left me with the other half. I've been needing to get an appointment with an oral surgeon to get the rest of the tooth removed.

Today, nature did the job for me. Mostly. The remainder of the tooth broke off on a piece of toast.

Yes, you read that correctly - a slice of toast.

I'm officially an old woman. Who wants to volunteer to come pre-chew my food?

Boy Howdy - Boy Crazy In 6 Easy Lessons

Somewhere along the line, I forgot what it is like to be a fifteen-year-old girl.

Specifically, there are a few rules that I have been schooled in, thanks to V and her self-assured wisdom of all things.

Lesson 1: The pool that has the water slides and the cool fountains and dumping buckets is fun, but is much less cool than the very small and boring pool down the street. This was ruled on once it was established that the "boring" pool comes equipped with several very cute teenage lifeguards. Apparently, looking cute in your string bikini in front of cute boys is WAY more important than actually having fun at the pool. (Like, DUH!)

Lesson 2: Being seen in public for 15 minutes before getting into the pool is just cause to spend 35 minutes in the bathroom applying makeup. Which will wash off 10 seconds after you get into the pool, leaving raccoon rings around your eyes. Which you will then spend the next 15 minutes wiping away with the back of your hand. Apparently, this all evens out - with bonus points for looking hot before you got into the pool. Especially when you realize that those lifeguards? They're, like, really cute.

Lesson 3: When the man at the coffee shop has his, er, barn doors open, as it were, the only acceptable way to deal with this is to mention to the person next to you - as loudly as possible - that "That guy's fly is open." Thus, you have done a good deed in informing him of his unfortunate situation, while saving him the embarrassment of telling this to his face. Or ignoring it altogether, which was my vote. Consider me re-educated in this matter.

Lesson 4: Bra straps are MEANT to be seen and, the brighter and more contrasting the color, the bigger the points for fashion statement.

Lesson 5: It is never acceptable to pass gas or perform any variety of bodily function in public. In the privacy of your aunt's car, however, it is imperative to let loose as loudly and often as possible. The stinkier the fart, the bigger win. Bonus points if you manage a silent-but-deadly emission and successfully assign blame to your innocent (and lacking in verbal skills to defend himself) cousin until after the stench has dissipated.

Lesson 6: The final, and most important, lesson. Shoes are evil and should only be worn to school or church, or under threat of the aunt who swears that if you cut your foot on a broken beer bottle in front of the common area she is not going to be the one to drive you to the emergency room, and you can jolly well walk there on your injured foot and maybe you'll learn your lesson. Politely acquiesce to your aunt's wishes, and slouch away under protest in a pair of flip-flops. Take them off as soon as you round the corner, and enjoy a barefoot walk in the sunshine. Your aunt? She will notice, but the sight of you wandering, young and lithe and carefree (and shoeless) will suddenly remind her what it was like to be fifteen (on the good days). Instead of giving you a hard time about it, she will wordlessly hand you a fistful of baby wipes to clean your blackened feet and suggest it's time to pop some popcorn and watch a chick flick on cable. And maybe paint each other's toenails while we talk about those cute lifeguards.

Teen Angst Revisited.

I recently started receiving invitations to my 10 year reunion.

Now, the fact that this event will be in beautiful Northern California in October might seem like an incentive to hustle my buns out there and reconnect with my past. Right? Yeah, you would think.

Now, that's not to say that there isn't anyone from my angst-ridden youth that I would like to reconnect with. There are plenty of folks I would love to see again and find out where their lives have gone in the past 10 years. And yet. I am incredibly reluctant to go.

I went to an affluent high school in the East Bay. We moved from Utah just before the start of my freshman year. By the time I left for college, it would be the first time I had lived in one place for more than 2 years since starting kindergarten. It was not until my senior year that I finally seemed to find my groove and a circle of friends around whom - while they shared little in common with me - I could finally relax and be myself.

All of my good memories from California have to do with either family events (a trip to Maui with my family when I was 16 was pretty rawkus) or with that Senior year. That was the year that Adam, a soccer player I had assumed too cool to be bothered with a geek like myself, taught me how to use the dark room and develop my own photos. It was the year I took photo after photo of the athletes and sporting events, both for the school paper and for my Senior Project. It was the year I took 2 periods of Ceramics class and cemented my regret that I never applied to art school. It was the year of my first kiss, my first R-rated movie (The Spitfire Grill - still one of my favorites), and my first car accident (I got rear-ended by a Toyota).

This reunion would be my first time back to Walnut Creek in 7 years.

And the thing is. The thing is, I don't think I'm going to go.

Financially, it doesn't make sense to spend so much money on something I am ambivalent about. Emotionally, I am totally focused on the present and future right now, and there is very little time to dwell on the past. Taking a stroll down memory lane, having the opportunity to say "you were horrid to me". This does not appeal to me nearly as much as a lazy afternoon at Ocean City with the boys.

There are individual people I would like to see again. of course. But they are few and far between... And high school as a whole? Is not something, at this point, that it seems worthwhile for me to revisit. That girl doesn't really exist any more -- she really never did. The girl I was then was a hollow attempt to be what I thought I was supposed to be.

It took so many years to realize I didn't have to try - that just being myself really comes quite naturally. It was the trying to be someone else, for other people, that was hard. Once I let go of that, I realized I'm actually quite happy with who I am.

So, yeah. Reuniting with my graduating class? Revisiting a time in my life when I was so desperately insecure and painfully aware of the fact that I looked at the world in a different way than most people I had ever met - and unable to see that as a good thing?

I think I just made my final decision.

Somehow... I don't expect to be desperately missed.

That's really okay with me.

Reap The Teenage Whirlwind...

Stanley Steemer apparently overbooked themselves (playing catch-up after one of the techs fell off his deck and put them behind) and so... no clean carpets for me.

Which means I get to do the clean-up all over again whenever they get around to calling me back and rescheduling. Which, in this house, is probably not a bad thing. Especially since the dog shredded several household items since Friday. Ain't life grand?

Our teenage niece (the daughter of T's eldest sister) is spending the week with us.

I had forgotten, somehow, the mix of budding empathy and general scorn for the universe that comes with being 15. Which she is. Today. It's V's birthday. She turns 15 today and will be starting high school in a few weeks.

We are celebrating by heading out to the pool. I figure we can roast the day away in some cool water (slathered in 50 proof sunscreen, of course) and have a picnic before heading back home. V was keen on the idea, and the thought of toting her unsuspecting baby cousins around in the deep waters. Me? I'm just glad I invested in board shorts. The comparisons to a teenage girl will not be in my favor. Which I am totally fine with.... so long as my butt and thighs are firmly covered from human view.

Yesterday, we happened to be driving home after doing some shopping at Target, when I started waxing philosophical on all things adolescence. The exchange that followed gave me a reason to smirk wryly at my ceiling as I fell asleep last night.

"You're at an age where everybody is just trying to figure out who they are and who they're going to be."

"I already know who I am. I don't care what other people think."

"Well, you know who you are right now. You're going to keep evolving, becoming the person you're going to be later on in life. You won't always be the person you are at fifteen, and who you are won't always be dictated so much by who your friends are. You're going to learn a lot in the next few years, especially. High school is rough. Your priorities are really going to change."

"Oh. Whatever. Anyways."

And thus, she firmly cemented that - any attempt to vicariously "know then what I know now" - by passing on the wisdom of a lifetime to this young padawan?

Totally whatever. Anyways.

Barefoot in the Kitchen.

Having the carpets periodically cleaned is NOT an optional activity in a house with 2 small boys, 2 hairy cats (BLACK!) and 1 very large dog.

Today is the day that Stanley Steemer is coming to remove a year's worth of juice stains, funny-smelling patches that we blame on the dog (because that's less disturbing somehow than blaming the children. Even if they are the more likely culprits than the ridiculously well-housebroken Gizmo). Then, there's the built-up cat hair, ground-in dirt and the occasional coffee or soda spill. Even after going through gallons of Resolve over the course of the year? The carpet still looks like we threw several wild parties and maybe dragged dirty diapers around on it for good measure.

So today was a flurry of activity, getting the house prepped to be deep-steam-cleaned. Rolling up rugs, moving small tables off onto hard floors, and vacuuming the entire blasted house. Also? Many MANY loads of laundry. (Look honey! You finally have clean underwears!).

And so! Once all that was wrapped up, I sat down - sweaty and sore - to catch up on my blogroll and perhaps even add to that other blog of mine.

That's when I realized it.

I'm done. Done with the shopping blog... because? Because with 2 kids and a hefty mortgage and the expense just to get the things we absolutely MUST have (note to self: make eye doctor appointments, find dentist who accepts new insurance, check flex spending account for enough funds to get the thousand dollars of dental work I still need this year)... it's really not any fun any more to spend time looking at things I'd really *like* to have, but cannot justify spending money on.

And so.

And so, I will no longer be updating What Mommy Wants. I'll leave it up for archival purposes for a while, but beyond that... it is finito. Done. Kaput.

But fear not! Lest you crave more of my Buddha-like wisdom than can be gleaned from only the pages of this written wonder that is Stay At Aum Mom... I present to you....

"Eat Drink and Be Married".

I started it almost 1 year ago as a place for T and I to write about our foodie exploits. Okay, so we're dissociated foodies - enjoying homemade lamb curry and frozen fish-sticks, sometimes in the same weekend. That said, we do manage - once in a good while - to make some pretty impressive delights.

And so, hopefully to be updated on at least a weekly basis, and with guest posts from the Man Himself (hopefully a periodic article or two on the gastric delights he will be enjoying as he travels the globe) please to be bookmarking Here. Be nice to him. Remember, the man doesn't just cook (things like rosemary braised tuna steaks with stuffed portabella mushrooms and brown sugar and mustard-glazed salmon filets with homemade whipped potatoes) ... he also does the dishes when he's done.

Picture This...

So the local coffee joint (a very cool, crunchy granola, mom'n pop place) allows local artisan types to sign up for 1 month of wall space at no charge.

It's also worth mentioning that this "coffee bar" was, undoubtedly, originally built to be a regular sort of bar. One wall is bare brick face, the other houses an envious bar, complete with stools and kick rail, that runs the entire length of the building.

Several weeks ago I happened to be chatting with the owner and proprietor of the place, Mike. Talk turned to photography. I mentioned my fledgling portrait business and - blam - Mike told me about this awesome way that the shop helps local artists out.

So today was the day to put up my wall for the month of August. Which I did. 10 of my favorite pieces of work, neatly (and symmetrically!) now hang against the several-hundred-year-old brick wall.

I have only shown my work to a very few people. I have never displayed anything I have created for general public consumption before, with the exception of the poem that won me an award in the fifth grade. I got my picture in the paper with the other regional winners, and my poem published in the local paper. I was, of course, mortified.

I know, given the fact that you are now reading this blog - wherein I lay open my most humiliating and personal thoughts and experiences for the world to see - it may seem like a bit of a contradiction for me to say that I am hesitant to put my work out there for critique by the masses. I have no explanation for this phenomenon, other than to say that I don't usually run into strangers who know me from this blog. When it does happen, my reaction is generally to get exquisitely, painfully self-conscious, and escape as quickly as possible. Go figure.

SO. My photos are now up, along with a flier detailing the number and email address at which I may be reached to schedule a photo session. If the reaction of the regulars and staff at the coffee shop is any indication, maybe this won't be so bad after all. At least nobody threw up. That's a good sign, right?

I *heart* my geek.

My husband projects an image of gruffness and cool when serious, is charming and flirtatious when playful, and full of masculine machismo when surrounded by other manly-manly-men types.

Only those of us who know and love him best know the deep, dark, dirty truth. My husband is a consummate geek. A geek who happens to be married to an adoring but mercilessly snarky wife.

Take, for example, this IM exchange we had today. I was ecstatic to find a copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" for sale at a local kids boutique. Jack and I made plans to read it before his "quiet time" this afternoon. I had to share my find with T, for whom this book also holds a special place in childhood nostalgia.

ME: We went to the consignment shop after coffee. The boutique in the back? It had "Where the wild things are". I bought it for 8 bucks. I regret nothing!

HIM: That's okay, I'm going to GamesWorkshop which I found down the street and spending 300 dollars on miniatures.

ME: Huhwhat? No you're not! Especially not if you want the carpets cleaned, you're not. We have Stanley Steemer coming in on Friday.

HIM: Clean houses don't make me happy! My spiritual center is found within pewter army men with laser guns.

ME: That is wrong on so many levels.

HIM: You should incorporate that statement somewhere in your life. I suspect your life would improve by a good margin for at least 10 minutes after saying that.

ME: Sure. It can be my "incantation of +10 life quality". Now roll for the bonus!

HIM: Come on now! My bag of dice are feeling tender - I don't touch them as much as I used to!

ME: I won't be touching your "bag of dice" either if you spend 300 bucks on pewter figurines. Might wanna take that into consideration...

HIM: Touché.

Breaking Radio Silence

Hello, internets. How have you been?

I'm hanging in there - quite nicely in fact.

A couple of things have happened recently that we should probably discuss.

First up: Jack, my 10 pound wonder-baby, who entered this world with a shriek and made all the other babies in the hospital nursury look like toy dolls, turned 4 years old. I know several "mommybloggers" who write letters to their kids on their birthdays. I do write the letters, but I do it with an ink pen in a journal made of actual paper. Some day, each of my boys will get their own book of those thoughts, written in my own handwriting.

That said, I will mark here that he's like a tiny version of me, only smarter and with better intuition. He is also the most intelligent, funny, and sensitive kid I know.

So. The next bit.

After some discussion, T and I were able to agree that the sting has passed enough to talk about something I was actively not talking about. You might remember vague references to "something that happened" over the past few weeks. There's no easy way to say it, so here it is.

We had a miscarriage.

All things considered, we were very fortunate. It happened early. It happened away from home, and (because it was early) I was able to deal with it without Jack understanding that anything was going on. He was too distracted with all the wonders of our vacation.

So, we're okay. It was tough there for a bit; we were already in pregnancy mode around here - making plans, tossing around names. But we're taking a short break from procreation and just focusing on enjoying this little life we have built for ourselves. Also? We're being very thankful that I didn't go nuts.

A few years ago, this would have devestated me and risked a depressive relapse. Today? I'm sad, but fully accept that sometimes life doesn't go the way you plan, and you have to be thankful for what you have that is going right. In my case, these 2 little boys that make my days so insane and delightful? They are going pretty damn right. Apparently, all that therapy and my cursory foray into Buddhist practices? Actually worth the time and trouble, after all.

It doesn't hurt that Toby has also learned to say "Yeah!" in the affirmative, and now uses it proudly - and with great gusto - at every opportunity.

"Tobin, are you ready to take a bath?"
"YEAH!!"

"Tobin, would you like to have a snack?"
"YEAH!!"

It also doesn't hurt that he usually accompanies this with the international symbol for "GOAL!", arms raised victoriously over his head. It's a good life lesson - to celebrate every small accomplishment as though you just scored the winning shot in the World Cup.

I intend to do some dishes later. I will then follow this up with a very embarrassing end-zone victory dance. Thankfully, only the children and the dog will see this. The children think it's hysterical. The dog thinks I'm insane, but is quickly distracted with a well-time liver snap.

As for my own inner-critic? I just crank up the Mika and drown her out.

The Frailties of Youth Revisited.

I was not, at all, a rebellious teenager. The worst vice I could claim to the age of 18 (other than the very occasional diet coke) was staying up into the wee hours of the morning reading books. This made getting through the following day's regimen of chemistry lectures, english homework, and trig equations somewhat problematic -- especially considering I thought school in general was about as useful as a third nipple.

I grew up. I went back to college for a second time and found that I had hitherto untapped brains, ones that allowed me to.. like.. take notes, and study for exams, and.. read the assigned material. I know - what's your superpower?

Last night, however, I revisited those days of yore. At approximately 6pm on Sunday evening, I discovered that by not checking the mail box on Saturday I had left my copy of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" in the box for an entire day. 24 whole hours! Wasted!! I resolved to remedy this situation as quickly as possible and, as of about 7pm, I was earnestly engrossed in the pages of this cultural phenom.

Every few chapters I would glance at the clock, marking the minutes that had ticked by. When the big and little hands rolled around to the 12 and I was 3/4 of the way through the book, I gave up trying to put it down and get to bed and surrendered to the superior might of the book. My will was weak, my flesh was willing, and when I finally looked up with a sigh from the final lines, it was 3am.

My husband is exasperated, to say the least, with my total lack of adult control.

Then again, by finishing the book in roughly 7.5 hours? I have cleared the way for him to begin reading it immediately. So he's pretending not to notice that I'm swatting at imaginary insects and wearing a matching set of luggage below my eyelids.

When HE is the one seeing fnords and carrying on conversations with the coat rack? I'll turn a blind eye, too. Because I love him, and because I've totally been there.

The book? It should come with an FDA warning label. S'all I'm sayin'.

Long Live The King

The king has returned. The man? He is back in the castle. All is right with the world.

We celebrated his homecoming by heading out for sushi at the new-ish local place, where they have something called a "Good Time Roll" that includes tempura flakes, cream cheese, and cherry brandy sauce. Need I say more? Yes, the good times... they rolled. And then the children spontaneously combusted at the shock of things going back to normal, and Mommy and Daddy crawled into bed in a stupor and immediately passed out.

I took a mental health day today. For all our sakes, this had to happen.

First I hit up ye olde Haircuttery and had a few inches hacked off my (crooked since I chopped it myself in a fit of frustration) hair. The back is now textured, tapered, and fluffy, while the top and front are still long and shaggy. It's not a bad look for me, and somehow manages to toe the line between Too Much Punk Rock and "oh no!" Mom hair. Pictures to be posted sometime next century or when I find the stupid battery charger, whichever comes first.

Following the haircut I headed over to Kohls and picked up a few things to get me through till I lose enough weight to move completely into the next smaller size. Thank providence for their sales, I got out of there for under 30 bucks with a couple decent shirts.

Capped off the day with a 3 mile jog and a few minutes of David Beckham footage. That man? He is easy on the eyes.

Finally, got the news that my Gram had surgery today, it went well, and it looks like she's going to be okay. I've been actively trying to not think about her being in the hospital - a necessary tactic when one is half a continent away. But she is on the mend, and expected to recover quite nicely.

Remember when I said that everything was going to be okay? I love it when a plan comes together. Cheers.

Search-A-Palooza 2007

My recent favorites among the search terms that have led some poor, misguided souls to this site:

stories of having pants taken down by a woman for the first time for sex and spanking
For the record? A woman has never taken my pants down for sex OR spanking, nor have I ever blogged about such an experience. If it ever happens, though? I'll be sure to post all the sordid details, in between hits off my crack pipe and swigs of Jack Daniels.

jumping jacks dilate cervix
Sadly, jumping jacks at full term will only make the baby angry and very likely cause you to rupture something. I do not recommend this as a means to induce labor, nor to dilate the cervix. Believe you me, I tried.

moms being tickled
And here I thought I had heard about every fetish there was. I mean, if a conservative Congressman can have a diaper fetish catered to by hookers and still help run the country, I guess anything is possible. Just be aware? Anyone who attempts to tickle THIS mom is likely to end up with a sharp knee or elbow thrust in the direction of very tender body parts. (Shoot, there's probably a fetish for that, too, out there somewhere.)

homemade bazooka bean cans
This might be the coolest way anyone has accidentally google'd me - ever! I mean, it's gotta be like a snipe hunt, right? Beans! Explosions! ... Add in a box of matches and a dark room and this is pure (fifth grade) comedy gold!

Tomorrow is Christmas, It's Practically Here!

Tomorrow my husband comes home. In my world, this is much cooler than Christmas. In fact, if you wanted to combine Christmas, New Year's Eve, July Fourth, and my Birthday all into one uber-holiday, still this would not come close to the unadulterated joy that I am anticipating on seeing my man.

In spite of the fact that we have not had an actual evening out all alone since... um... wait, wait.. I know we've had at least one since Toby was born... I suppose last year's Office Christmas Party? Yeah, that would be last December. Merciful heaven, I really should stop trying to remember that, because it's really too depressing to fathom.

BUT! I digress!

In spite of this, we somehow manage to be ridiculously happy and in love. (If you just threw up a little - in your mouth - just then? You should probably stop reading now, as this is only going to get more syrupy.) (It's my blog, I'm allowed.)

When I was a little girl, imagining what it would be like to be married, not a single one of those naive fantasies even came close to the real thing. Instead of the galant white knight who worships the ground I walk on? I got a guy with a sense of humor who does dishes and changes diapers.

Okay, so he worships the ground I walk on, too. But, really, after a few babies? That whole "Does dishes" thing? That's about as sexy as it gets. Like female Viagra, but better (and completely minus the risk for priapism).

We laugh at the same things. We're both obsessed with "So You Think You Can Dance". We're both also obsessed with good food - the more exotic, the better, as long as the taste blows the mind. He bathes the kids, and even though I give him a hard time for having a seat and reading the latest issue of "Wired" while the kids splash around in the tub, he really does get them washed and into their jammies and ready for me to tuck into bed with a kiss and a pat.

After two whole weeks of parenting without a partner, I have realized just how much I depend on him to help me keep this place running. I have also realized how much I depend on him to keep ME running - to keep me sane, and fill my days with laughter and insightful commentary on this mad old world we live in.

And so it is, with heart in throat, that I have realized once again just how fracking lucky I really am. With my Grandma in the hospital, everything we have been through the last weeks and months, and my last nerve beginning to fray as I clean up the second broken glass and third pile of animal vomit, I pause to consider that I have every reason to be a total wreck at this point.

Every reason but one. And in a few hours, he'll be winging his way homeward with stories and presents and one of his world-famous bear-hugs.

Everything is going to be just fine.

Ninja Parenting: Birds and Bees Edition

Jack: "Mommy? When I was a baby in your belly, how did I get out of there?"

Me: "Well, we went to the hospital, and the doctor took you out."

Jack: "But how did he take me out of there?"

Me: "Umm. For now? Let's say through my belly button."

Jack: "But how did the doctor open your belly button?"

Me: "I'm not exactly sure. Ask me again when you're older, okay?"

Jack: "Okay, Mommy! Can we have ice cream for lunch?"

Worth Having Kids Just To Hear Lines Like These.

"M0m-eeeee! Toby ate all my bikini bread!" (zucchini bread)

"You're the best mommy - EVAR! ... Can I have a marshpillow?"

"Today is Pips's Birthday! [his imaginary friend]. Can you make him an imaginary train cake?"

Him:"Mom? I really miss Dad."
Me: "Me too, baby. But I'm glad I have you to keep me company."
Him: "I'm glad you have me to keep you company, too."

But I'm Really A Cynic.

Conversation on moving to the Czech Republic:

T: There's a lot of hold-over from the Soviet days here. Gray buildings, beaten down people.

Me: Is it totally depressing???

T: Not at all. But nobody smiles at each other on the street.

Me: Would I be comfortable there? I mean... I smile at everyone on the street. It's almost a nervous habit, really....

T: You'd be fine. I mean, you might want to tone it down a little, in general....

Me: You're saying the people there wouldn't like me?

T: No, no. They'll love you. But I think they'd be annoyed by your optimism.

Aum Parenting. Don't Try This At Home.

Having been a single mother for almost 2 weeks now (Hi Honey! Buy me something pretty in Prague! Like a handsome Czech manny!!!! (male nanny) Kthxbye!)

Yeah, so it's safe to say that the Zen has been decidedly absent from my own particular parenting zoo this week. Case in point: I once again emoted on my poor hair. This time, I dyed it a lovely shade of medium-chestnut brown with auburn-ish hilights, and it's actually quite lovely, so that's not such a bad thing. Right? Wrong. You see, after dying and drying, I found my neck was all sweaty and the one longer layer in the back was sticking to it and making me too incredibly hot and sticky and I'm hoping this run-on sentence will distract you from the fact that I then reached back and snipped off a half inch or so of hair from my own head. It's actually pretty straight, so it could be much, much worse, but for the record - I do not recommend cutting your own hair in a fit of freak-out-ish-ness. It's not for the faint of heart.

Have I mentioned I'm not going to blogher? Oh, I have? Well, how about in the last 24 hours? No? Okay. So, I'm not going to blogher. But I am at least going to book a nice long pedicure and massage or something when T gets back into town. Or I'm going to spend a month on a commune, growing veggies in the sunshine and reading. I haven't decided which. I'm leaning towards the former, though, as my feet are in dire need of some serious attention. There have been rumors of a neighborhood petition to ban me from wearing sandals outright. It's not pretty, baby.

So pretty much I'm hanging onto sanity by a thread at this point. I'm more anxious than ever to find out about the Prague move on way or another, because if we are not headed to points European as a family, we are at least headed someplace that gives me access to civilization. Preferably, someplace in striking distance of a Metro station - I have not been to downtown DC in so long, I really couldn't tell you when it was. And some small part of me? She needs Georgetown with its snobby vintage shops and funky jewelry stores, Adams Morgan and its spectacular Ethiopian food (Hello Meskerem!), and even the National Zoo. Those silly pandas and their shenanigans...

3 more days. Then? I can go back to being only partially insane, instead of the raving lunatic I have become. A little sanity goes a long way, my friends. Especially when it comes to child rearing.

One Word Meme

Spotted on CurlyGirl. Shamelessly borrowed (Nobody tagged me. Because nobody EVER tags me. Except with the Thinking Blogger award, which I never managed to give away, because everyone I would have given it to had already got it, as far as I could tell.) I have a lot of exposition in there, don't I? That's why it's good this is the ONE WORD meme.

1. Where is your cell phone? purse

2. Relationship? spectacular!

3. Your hair? faded

4. Work? never!

5. Your sister? which?

6. Your favorite thing? sleeping!

7. Your dream last night? none

8. Your favorite drink? Coffee

9. Your dream car? 442

10. The room you’re in? kitchen

11. Your shoes? none!

12. Your fears? death

13. What do you want to be in 10 years? thin

14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? family

15. What are you not good at? living

16. Muffin? bran

17. One of your wish list items? time

18. Where you grew up? California

19. Last thing you did? dishes

20. What are you wearing? clothes

21. What aren’t you wearing? lipstick

22. Your pet? obnoxious

23. Your computer? Dell

24. Your life? insane

25. Your mood? exhausted

26. Missing? Husband!

27. What are you thinking about right now? sleep

28. Your car? minivan!

29. Your kitchen? rules

30. Your summer? vanishing

31. Your favorite color? green

32. Last time you laughed? today

33. Last time you cried? dunno

34. School? someday

35. Love? surrounded!

There. Now I tag Allie, Stitches, and 1LDSmom. I've shown you mine now, ladies. Time to show me yours... *grin*

Reasons To Stay Sane and Flash a Smile.

* Baking waaaay too much zucchini bread.
We had several zucchinis (zucchinii?) that were teetering on the brink in our refridgerator, so yesterday I bit the bullet and baked my little heart out. I used to bake all the time, but have got out of the habit in recent years. So! We now have zucchini muffins, zucchini loaf, and a yet another zucchini loaf baked in a bundt pan. I'm stocking the freezer, and we'll be eating it for breakfast from now until New Year's, I expect.

* Funky Beaded Necklaces
I have quite a collection, now. I love the way the beads rattle together when I run down the stairs to grab something-or-other that one of the boys forgot (and absolutely must have in time for bedtime). I like fidgeting with them when I'm watching t.v. or thinking really hard about something. Like today - I was thinking really hard about what the hell I was going to do with all that zucchini bread. And there they were, handily around my neck, clickety-clacking between my fingers as I pondered this earth-shattering question. And then - BAM! - the answer came to me. This, THIS, is why we bought the World's Biggest Chest Freezer and stuck it, half-empty, in our basement. Tah-dah!

* Sudden rain showers
It was overcast most of the day yesterday - not to mention muggy. It's that antsy sort of weather, the kind where you know that the intent is to rain, but Mother Nature just can't seem to get on with it. Then, unexpectedly, you hear a timid rapping on the back door. You turn, thinking perhaps it is an uninvited guest - maybe a neighbor coming to tell you that the fence is falling apart into his yard again. But before you have the chance to finish the thought - or rise from your chair, you hear the rest of the downpour and realize it's a thunder-boomer. Also - if you happen to be me (and I do - happen to be me, that is) you remember that you left the windows of the minivan cracked open and then you go running out into the storm in order to roll them back up. Of course, you get soaked to the skin in the process and spend the next half hour looking like a particularly bedraggled form of drowned rat. But you don't mind, because it's the first time in a long time you remember being out in a summer rainstorm.

* Fried Green Tomatoes
Thanks be to T's mama and her stop at the Sweet Corn Man's veggie stand. 3 green tomatoes have been camping in my fridge, just waiting for me to get up the gumption to wash them, slice them, and dress them in raw egg and cornmeal wrapping. Today? I had gumption to spare. And they were delicious.

* My Better Half
The bad news? T's Czech adventure was extended by another week, and I won't get to see him tomorrow as planned. The good news? He calls just to hear my voice and regale me with tales of eating pork knuckle and wandering the streets of Pardubice. And he insisted they get him back in time for Jack's birthday on the 24th - because it is important. As much as I worry about him being something of a workaholic, he's setting a good boundary line between work and life at this new job. Just knowing that he's spending half the time thinking "This would be so much cooler if Mel was with me to see it" gives me a really, extraordinarily, spectacularly big smile. Love rocks.

Lots of words... too few illustrations.

My battery is dead and I cannot, for the life of me, locate the battery charger for my camera. So the search will continue, and there are still no photos of the boys or our Ohio excursion. Also? I just realized we didn't take any photos with my sister. Because I am a moron.

So I'm sitting here and feeling rather sorry for myself - not the least of which because I will absolutely, definitely, and completely NOT be going to BlogHer in Chicago at the end of this month. Because there are people there I would really, really like to sit next to and learn from. Also? I would like to find MochaMomma and give her bum a good firm "hello" smack, and then wait for her to figure out who the hell I am. Because once she placed the face, she'd appreciate my unhinged brand of humor. And my fabulous shoes.

I've been thinking about this blogging thing again. Why do I do it? Now that I have family reading it, I have to admit to a certain level of self-censorship. I really need to quit that - to stop holding back because of what it might reveal about me to family. It's difficult, though. It's so much easier to be completely genuine when I have no idea who I'm talking to. It's the same reason I can have ridiculously fantastic conversations with total strangers at parties while I struggle to put my thoughts into words with people I have known for years.

I should clarify that - with some people I have known for years. There are a select few who know me, love me, and forgive (and even sometimes embrace) my meandering stream-of-consciousness ramblings (yes, I do that in person, too). My husband, for one. My friend the Rocash. Dr. Allie. Sheena. Trucker Man Dan. There have been others, but these are the ones who have known me longest and best, and were never frightened off when I start rambling aloud about the nature of existence or pontificating on the nature of morality or the idea of "God" as a way to describe Unified Field Theory, or vice-versa.

I like to talk a lot. Many times, I talk about things about which I have only a very rudimentary understanding. Other times, I talk about crochet patterns or recipes for a better breakfast burrito. (I have a killer one if anybody is interested.)

The problem, though, is that I live in the suburbs. Instead of bringing some sense of community, a "We're all in this together"-ness, I find it a place of isolation. A place where neighbors know very little about each other, unless somebody's husband is having an affair or someone forgets to mow their lawn.

So, in the end, I think the biggest reason that I keep on with this Blogging business is because it is often the closest I can come to having a meaningful conversation. Okay, so the conversation is mainly with myself - but, again, that is something I do in person, as well. It's a habit handed down from my mother, who always said that sometimes it was the best conversations she ever had. Of course, people look at me funny from time to time - like when I'm in the grocery store and don't realize I'm doing it. "Let's see... we need eggs, bread, milk, cheese... Oh! No, wait, I bought cheese yesterday, didn't I.... well, hummus and pitas, then. Something else snacky..."

A few things have happened lately that have made writing here difficult. One is the sheer weight of responsibility in being a wife, a mum, and a housekeeper, cook, maid, and taxi driver. The other, more recent and pressing, is a personal matter that I told my husband I would not blog about. I had no idea it would be so difficult.

Because, in the end, the people I want most to talk to about things are the ones who will just listen. I'm a great listener, too - don't get me wrong. But when my head is full, sometimes I just need someone to listen while the pressure valve releases. Someone who won't judge, or look at me differently because of the self-revelations that may be mixed in with all the chitter-chatter.

My sister mentioned that she and I have always got along - that she always knew I didn't judge her. I simply take people as I find them and, if they want to know something from me, I try to pass it along as best I know how. I don't assume everyone wants my advice. I don't expect everyone else to live according to my blueprint for their lives. I figure everyone is on their own path, and the best I can do is maybe talk when I have something to say, and keep my mouth shut if somebody doesn't want to hear it.

I think this is the one place that I can talk, and it doesn't matter if anyone wants to hear it or not. It's the one place I can have a conversation with myself, and let anyone who wants join in. Very few people have jumped into the discussion, to be sure... but as long as I live the conversation will continue in one form or another.

If I had the chance to describe life on the simplest level, it would be something along these lines: It's all one long conversation that began before I was born and will continue after I am gone, and for a brief, small moment I get to take part in it.

Come Fly The Smelly Skies...

So T made it across the Atlantic and over to the Czech Republic.

When I flew to Las Vegas, I followed the prescribed protocol for items to pack in carry-on luggage, and put the rest in my checked bag. Because T was travelling internationally, he was advised to avoid the hassle of attempting to retrieve checked baggage by taking only 1 carry-on for the entire 5-day trip. Also? My husband has the dark and swarthy looks, including the so-brown-they're-nearly-black eyes, of a Middle Eastern gentleman, especially when rockin' his summer tan. This is especially bizarre, as his heritage - the best we can figure - is actually mostly German and Scandinavian. Even so, on the best of days, he can expect to be stopped and searched at least once on every airport outing.

It is worth noting that the following items were removed from him at the security checkpoint at Dulles:

- Deoderant
- Toothpaste
- Lotion

And so... poor T. His flight was not made any safer (or more comfortable back there in coach) by the confiscation of his toiletries. On the contrary, he merely arrived in Prague with the prospect of spending his first day there sweaty, smelly, with dry skin and bad breath.

May the TSA personnel who did this to him be cursed with horrendous body odor and incurable halitosis. And shingles, for good measure.

Hopefully he enjoys his birthday, in spite of the inconvenience of it all. It's the last time his birthday will start with a "2"... next year is the big 3-0. Just don't tell HIM that. He might spontaneously combust...

Happy Birthday, Baby. You are - officially - older than I am once more. Order a Pivo to celebrate and give yourself a big hug from me and the boys. You deserve it.

Ways Not To Spend A Sunday.

I don't recommend spending your afternoon counting the minutes since your husband left to catch his flight to a far-away land. It's really not productive, and does nothing to get that sinkful of dishes clean.

I also don't recommend checking your email on a Sunday afternoon unless absolutely necessary, as it may possibly contain delicious little tidbits such as the following:

14:00, It has been noticed that our city water is brown.
Independent Fire Company IS using a Hydrant in our neighborhood to fill their truck for a Drill.
Calls are being made to see if there is anything out of order with this. In the interim:
-Do NOT wash clothes
-Do NOT Drink water
-Do NOT Bathe

They report that they are done drafting from our Hydrant, but the backwash (stirred up rust, dirt, etc. from idle pipes) could be in place for up to 24 hours.

That is just so freaking awesome, I can't begin to tell you.

Also? I do not recommend reading the newspaper, as it lately contains mostly bad news. Sitting on a chair to read the news online is also not a good idea, especially if your back is messed up and the pain increases exponentially upon remaining in the same position for very long.

Finally.. I do not recommend eating leftover pizza for lunch while whining on the internet about what a crappy day you are having. It definitely upsets the stomach.

I'm going to go watch a movie with Jack and giggle about all that laundry we need to fold and put away. See it? That laundry? Over there? It's gonna stay there at least one more day. Because the one thing I do recommend doing on a Sunday is taking a nap with a snuggly almost-four-year-old who tells stories about magic cars who visit far away lands. Lands where there are castles. (Because that's where Daddy is headed. Faraway Prague, and its castles.)

That's not a bad way to spend a Sunday.