Family Jewels

For the past few weeks I've been walking that very sharp edge of reason, a hair's breadth away from total nervous breakdown. In that spirit, I thought to myself "you know what would be the icing on this crazy cake? A bathroom remodel!" And so, I started the massively daunting task of fixing up our matchbox-sized master bathroom. I've spackled, I've sanded, I've painted, I've prepped, and I've picked out new light fixtures and a new faucet.

Of course, no home improvement project is complete without a trip to the Home Depot. And, since we're throwing caution and sanity to the wind, it seemed like a great idea to go in the middle of the week with both boys in tow. Which I did. And survived to relay the tale. Not to mention share another reason to love Jack.

Our home depot has shopping carts that look like race cars, complete with upper-deck seating for a toddler that includes dual steering wheels. This is like catnip for Jack, who will usually sit for at least a whole 10 minutes before beginning the arduous process of melting down entirely. On this particular day, he lasted for a whole 15 minutes before deciding he needed to try to climb down into the shopping basket section of the cart.

Don't ask me why he wasn't buckled in - if you have to ask, you don't have a two year old. (the belt lasted about 2 minutes, before he was possessed of demons who would not be chained by such a torture device.) I was busy discussing the relative merits of mold-resistant paint for the bathroom with the twenty-something "paint expert" when Jack decided it would be more fun to ride in the basket section of the cart.

The problem with his brilliant idea was that that basket section was a full 8 inches lower than the upper section he was climbing from, so as he stepped down into the basket with one foot he went considerably further down than he was expecting, thereby giving himself his very first experience with the crushing of his man parts.

There were tears and screams as his two little hands desperately covered his injured bits. I held him and rocked him and did my best to comfort him while the paint guy winced sympathetically at his plight. Bless his heart, the guy disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a Mickey Mouse sticker. He handed it to Jack and said "here you go, buddy. Maybe this will make you feel better."

Jack happily took his prize, peeled the paper backing off, and very gently and deliberately placed it directly on his injured crotch.

I covered my face while I laughed until I was pretty sure I might puke. Paint Guy made his strategic retreat. And, as we beat feet for the checkout line, Jack happily pointed out his Mickey Mouse crotch to anyone he could make eye contact with.

Kids teach you humility, for certain. Of course, I'll get my revenge when he starts bringing the girlfriends home. I only wish I'd had the presence of mind to get photographic evidence. I'm evil like that.

Miles to go....

My good friend and convenient neighbor just gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. They named him Miles. Here he is.

DISCLAIMER: May Cause Mysterious Failure of Your Birth Control


Beyond the fact that I feel like I just got a new nephew, I am ecstatic to finally have someone else in a very special club with me. That would be the "I had a 10 pound baby club."

Okay, so technically Miles was 9 lbs 14 ounces, but after a woman has endured labor and delivery (via the natural exit route) of a baby that size, you give her the 2 extra ounces and damn well call it a 10. She earned it. (For the record, Jack was also an eleventh-hour "gimme", since he weighed in at 9 pounds 15.6 ounces. We called it a 10. I dare you to argue.)

I realized this week that we have officially entered the time of life when it is all about the babies. We got married before any of our friends, got pregnant before any of them, and so for a long while we were somewhat alone on this island. We coped - we made friends with more people a little older than ourselves who were in the same family groove with us. Sometime in the last year, though, people started catching up. And now we have no less than 8 friends and family who have either recently given birth or are now pregnant.

Babies! They're the new black.

Reasons to Love My Husband.

- Uses words like "nefarious" and "esoteric" in casual conversation.

- Watches "Gray's Anatomy" with me even though I know he'd rather be scraping his eyeballs out of their sockets with a rusty pocket knife.

- Gets choked up when someone we know announces a pregnancy

- After all he knows about me and my idiosyncracies, he still believes I'm extraordinary in a good way. What more could I ask for??

Secret That I Cannot Explain...

I just discovered my newest obsession. It's a website calledPostSecret. The basic premise is that you design your own original postcard. Your design must incorporate the sharing of a secret - one you have never shared with anyone. The card is mailed anonymously to the site and, voila, you have shared your deepest darkest truth with the world in the complete safety of anonymity.

I'm totally hooked on this idea. I am soooo submitting at least one card.

In the Mood....

Yesterday I got my very first mood ring. It cost just over three dollars at the country store at Frying Pan Park. I went with the boys and my sister-in-law and her 4 kids - we had an outdoor picnic, looked at all the animals, went on a tractor ride, played on the playground, and bought "cows tail" candy and old-fashioned hard candy.

Spring has officially arrived.

I even managed to get some sun on my all-too-pasty face. Not too much, mind you, and only on my face and forearms - I stay covered, baby. Okay, so not really to protect from sun as much as to cover my body until I whip it back into shape, but hey... whatever works, right?..

So, yeah. Mood ring. Yeah, so I'm not thirteen years old, and I don't have patchuli incense in my room or a lava lamp.. but still. Mood ring. It Rocks.

Deep Thoughts.

You know, it's damn near impossible to find a card to appropriately express to a close friend, with love and sincerity, the sentiment "Congratulations On Your Vasectomy!"

Hello, I Have Issues.

Yes, I know it comes as something of a shock. (*cough*)

I'm not entirely ready to discuss everything that's going on right now - I'll just say I know I have been sadly slacking in posting of late, and I promise I will get better. I mean that in several ways. I'll explain later.

In the mean time, to feed the teeming dozens who hunger ravenously for brand-spanking-new details of my sordid life of scandal... here are some tidbits for a Tuesday...

Toby napped in his crib today. For 3 hours. This marks his longest daytime nap (in or out of the crib, but especially in) since... well, since he came home from the hospital.

I bought Jack a big huge cool dragon kite at Costco on Sunday, which we attempted to fly yesterday. We live in a neighborhood called "Crosswinds". Yesterday was, of course, the first day since we MOVED here that there was not a hint of wind. But I ran around and let the kite drag in the air behind me so Jack could chase it, anyway, because I had promised we would fly the kite. See, a Mommy of my word, indeed. It was pure joy to watch him, red and out of breath with running and laughing.

I filed our taxes today, and the healthy little refund that Uncle Sam owes us will go a long way to paying down our balance on the credit card. Team Goal: Get that bad boy paid off by the end of the summer so we can start hoarding cash in our savings account Scrooge McDuck style and one day afford that mini-van. And a new tattoo.

And, just because I can:



Yeah, if I didn't know better, I'd think we created them in a lab, too.

The Birthday Princess.

Totally cheating and back-posting this. Maybe nobody will see it.... heh.

Boo Bands

The last week or two has gone by in a blur. While T was in California we had to learn to cope without him, and once he came back there was the inevitable adjustment to re-including him in our daily lives. Along with that was the not unexpected friction which, thank goodness, we finally appear to have made it through. Things are settling back into a comfortable routine of sorts.

This is, of course, both good and bad. When things are comfortable and routine, I get a sense of accomplishment at how smoothly life can run. On the other hand, I also have ample time to consider just how crazy I actually am. In my defense, though, lately it seems everyone else in the world is crazy, too.

But I digress. Toby had his first rice cereal tonight - marking his first culinary adventure beyond breastmilk.

Jack has become obsessed with bandaids, which he calls "Boo Bands" (I suppose because Bandaids cover boo-boos?) and almost every day finds an "owie" (whether real or imaginary) and demands it be covered with a "boo band". Somewhere in the back of my head, I remember a time when bandaids covered a multitude of ills. There are a lot of times, recently, when I wish things could still be so simple - that a piece of plastic and gauze could mend all of wounds life can inflict. And though I find it totally inconvenient at times (it's difficult to argue with a 2 year old, even if you ARE certain that he originally asked that that bandage go on the OTHER finger five minutes ago) I also find it incredibly charming.

I finally decided that things are in such a bizarre state it is only appropos that we should mark this time with professional photography. In that vein, we now have an appointment with JC Penney portrait studio this weekend.

I am still dealing with the reverberations of this momentous decision. It will take me months to cope with the involuntary self-loathing spawned when I immediately started planning perfectly color coordinated outfits for all of us to wear. Seriously - I even bought the boys matching shirts. I really ought to be flogged in the town square and forced to watch reruns of The Tony Danza Show until my eyes fall out.

Oh, and in just over an hour I will officially be one year closer to 30. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Fracking Sweet!

I have a confession to make. A word of warning, however. Once read, the following cannot be unread or forgotten.

I have converted. I am totally hooked on the new Battlestar Galactica.

T got back from California on Saturday and, so enamored of the show is he, we had to stop on the way home to buy it. Best Buy carried the mini-series (which effectively served as the Pilot episode) and Season 2, but not Season 1.

SO, I have now seen the mini-series, and I am having a jones the size of Texas to see season 1, but so far not a single retailer in our immediate area is carrying it. (Damn you, Wal-Mart!) Every place seems to have season 2, but not season 1. Today, T will be attempting to locate a copy of season 1 by making a strategic sweep of the mall near his office.

If you have not seen this show, I urge you to go out NOW, RIGHT NOW, Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just go buy this show in its entirety and prepare to prostrate yourself in front of the television until summer. It's THAT good.

What? You need further convincing? Well, let me share a few key tidbits:

1) Sexy Robots.

2) Starbuck is a girl. A really hot girl, with serious muscle who smokes cigars and makes wise-ass comments.

3) You need another addiction in your life.

You may not even LIKE Sci-fi, but that's okay, because this is just an awesome story that happens to take place in the middle of an intergalactic war...

Did I mention Sexy Robots?

Jelly Bean, Vermouth... Symbiotic, Patriotic...

Last day on my own, and I can't get "It's the end of the world" by R.E.M. out of my head. I'm not sure of the significance, but I'm pretty sure it can't be good.

Yesterday, I greeted the sitter with a great deal of enthusiasm. I may have frightened her - being 13, I doubt she quite understood the intensity of my desperation to get out of the house after 5 days of uninterrupted child rearing. I put the neurotic energy to good use and upped the number of sprints in my power walk/run cycles, which means that I did about two and a half miles yesterday.

The extra half-mile came in handy as I was rationalizing that second Krispy Kreme this morning. And, of course, the caffeine in my cup of coffee totally cancelled out the effects of that third one. *twitch* Don't tell me I have a problem. *twitch* I can quit any time I want to. *twitch* No, my hands always shake like that.

24 and a half hours to go. Hopefully I can still fit in the car by tomorrow morning, otherwise T will be taking the blue bus home from the airport.

You lose some.. you lose some.

So here's something fun - looks like something went wonky with T's flight schedule. I would swear in court that the return flight was originally scheduled for Friday morning, but the online itinerary is now saying Saturday so looks like I'll be on my own for another night. *sigh* Ah well.

Not so bad, but all this really means is that the box of Entemenn's on my counter will make it to the playgroup tomorrow, but the Krispy Kremes, sadly, will have passed away quietly by then. A curbside memorial service will be held on Tuesday morning (trash pick-up day). Box Of Krispy Kremes will be survived by the extra pounds on my rotund posterior. In lieu of flowers, please send Aerobic Workout DVD's in memorial.

We are thankful for your compassion at this difficult time.

I haven't finished my coffee yet. Yeah, that must be why I'm still registering a 5.0 on the Crazy Richter Scale this morning.

Home Alone, evening 2 of 5

So what did I do with my second evening home alone with the kids? I'm so glad you asked!

Jack didn't nap today so, after spending 2 hours at the grocery store and watching ungodly amounts of television, he went to bed half an hour early - 7:30. This will lead to one of two possible results. Either he was so tired that the early bedtime will spur on his circadian rhythms and he will sleep in until 8am, or he will awake totally refreshed somewhere around dawn and begin his ritual of jumping up and down on my bed shouting "Mommy! waaaaaake UP!" in his trademark sing-song screech. He hates anyone to be asleep while he's in the room. I dozed off for a few seconds during hour 4 of Jimmy Neutron only to have him poke me firmly in the eye and say "Mommy! Lights ON!". Daddy made up a game with him where they pull one ear lobe and say "lights off" and the eyes close, and then repeat on the other side while saying "Lights on" to get the eyes to reopen. Needless to say, daddy can be very thankful he is on the other side of the continent at present, which is the only thing saving him from a smack upside his head. What was he THINKING?!

So, Jack went to bed early and without fanfare. T called a half hour later to say that all is well on the left coast, except that it rained all day. (I was somewhat appeased by this. Does that make me a bad person? Don't answer that.) He had lunch at In'N Out Burger, and had the brass cajones to say that it was less than the Ambrosia of the Gods. I'm sure my memory has embellished the goodness somewhat, but the image of those freshly cut potatoes going into the oil to make fries that are actually made of POTATO... is almost more than I can bear. Don't get me started on the burgers. *drool*

SO, I consoled myself with a bag of gummy bears (Don't worry, hon, I didn't eat the whole thing. Quite.) and ordered "In Her Shoes" on pay-per-view. I even managed to watch the whole thing without crying once - which is totally impressive considering the hormonal mess I have been lately. (I cried all the way home from the airport when we dropped T off on Sunday.) It's definitely not something T would have wanted to watch with me, so I felt totally decadent gnoshing on my gummy bears and deciding that Toni Colette really is more attractive than Cameron Diaz, if only because if you squint and turn your head sideways I kinda look like Toni. Especially if it's a really really dark room.

And now I'm going to head to bed and, after checking the kids one more time and setting the house alarm, I'm going to curl up on T's side of the bed and snuggle up to his pillow. It still smells like him.

Wherever you are tonight, Babe, I miss you.

Ka Lee For Nee Yah!

T headed out last night for California and the Game Developer's Conference. But I'm not at all bitter. Not at all. I swear. I mean, sure, he'll get to meet Will Wright - creator of Sim City and, more importantly, the brains behind The Sims, which is possibly the most addictive game in history (Or at least a close second to World of Warcraft) and he'll get to drive around in the California sunshine and eat subs on REAL sourdough bread and... but I'm not at all bitter. Really.

I'm really not a "gamer". I didn't grow up with computers - I wasn't allowed to touch our family IBM 386 until I was in high school, and even then it was only for word processing purposes. While my brothers were getting nintendos and segas and playstations I usually got books or clothes. I can only assume it was because I am a girl, and therefore would have no use for the possible career opportunities involved with computers because I was *supposed* to be married by 19 and making babies. SO, I got a late start in the computer arena and had to teach myself html from books and website tutorials at age 21 (because, to the great disappointment of my 432785743826 relatives, I remained unmarried until the ripe old age of 23.)

But I digress. I got into gaming after meeting T, starting really with Diablo 2 (which was totally a gateway drug to WoW.) And now I don't have much time for it, but I still the over-the-top culture of it all. And sure, GDC is more about hard-core game building than about Lara Croft lookalikes in tight leather (see E3 ) but just to sit in a room with some of those creative brains would be like catnip for me. I find a lot of similarities between the creation of some of the game storylines and the creation of a good book. Many of them create totally inclusive worlds with histories and storylines that rival many epic book series currently in print.

Besides the fact that T will be hanging in San Jose, near my old Walnut Creek stomping grounds in the SF Bay area. I've been trying to get back to Cali for about 8 years now. I'm still working on it. Unfortunately, he found me when I tried to hide in his suitcase and informed me I would never make it through security that way and didn't I realize the children might get hungry before Friday. To which I replied "Children? We have Children? I'm sorry, I was distracted by that shiny thing over *there* - on the west coast. Yes, that - see? It's called Sunshine."

Candy In My Heels Tonight, Baybee

Tuesday night was a watershed in motherhood for me. It was my first night out without ANY kids since before Toby was born. (5 months and 2 days, but who's counting?) I drove T's car (the blue batmobile) out to Melissa's house for drinks with the girls.

Turns out, Melissa's house USED to be our friends Dave & Tracy's house. Totally bizarre - two couples we know who don't know each other, but one bought the house from the other over a year ago and I just found this out. The world suddenly felt very, very small.

T had both boys all to himself. I felt a mild terror as I pulled out of the driveway in a car without car seats. As I cranked up the radio, though (to many many decibels over child-safe volumes for the first time in eons) my apprehension gave way to a feeling suspiciously close to that time I "borrowed" my mom's minivan to take my friends out for milkshakes at 2am. "So THIS is what freedom feels like!"

As it turns out, Toby cried for over an hour while I was gone but T, bless his heart, decided not to call me in a panic. Which totally saved my night, because I would not have been able to enjoy the evening as much as I did had I felt I really needed to be home to comfort my little cherub. So, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding at home, I settled into Melissa's comfy sofa and engaged in deliciously frivolous conversation with the girls over a glass of Rum Punch.

For a few glorious hours I felt like my old self -- not Mel the wife or homemaker or the mama, just plain Mel... who is still just crazy enough to entertain a room full of women by shaking her groove thing to the Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack.

Don't bother searching for Flickr photos of THAT particular adventure, I made everyone sign an NDA. Suffice it to say you would, indeed, have known this boogie was for real...

Control Issues

I'm creating a new category for OCD. It won't have any medical credibility, but it's the only way I can think of to explain my own little mental-trap.

I create mental checklists obsessively. Laundry. Dishes. Vacuum. Pick up Toys. Make Beds. Feed Kids. Change Diapers.

The caring for the kids stuff takes priority, especially the whole feeding and changing thing. But I've found that no matter what I'm doing, or how heavily I am sweating in the midst of some back-braking chore, I feel like I'm somehow failing in my duties. If I'm bathing the kids, I feel like I should be doing laundry. If I'm doing laundry I feel like I should be entertaining the kids. When I'm entertaining the kids I feel like I should really be vacuuming.

I know that SuperNanny Jo Frost would say I just need to make up a strict schedule and stick to it - that the kids and I both need the benefit and security of a routine. The problem is, when I get into a routine I start to freak out too. PK described it the other day as that feeling where you know that you were not cut out to work on an assembly line -- the not knowing exactly how the day is going to go is the only thing that keeps the repetetive quality of the tasks from driving you insane. (This is the part where I again mention that PK has to get out of my brain because IT'S BEGINNING TO SCARE ME. Seriously - she is the only other person I have ever met who absolutely cannot stand White Noise.)

But back to topic. This morning I am so overwhelmed by all the chores we left undone when we headed out for a weekend at a mountain cabin, I don't know where to begin. I keep starting and stopping, getting halfway through one task before getting sidetracked by another. In the mean time, Toby was napping in 10 minute increments because I hadn't gotten around to putting him down in his crib until now (where he is presently screaming his head off at the indignity).

I never watch Desperate Housewives - I just couldn't get into it, too campy, too snarky or something - but I got the last few minutes of it when I recorded Grey's Anatomy last night, and I suddenly felt an uncomfortable kinship to Bree Van De Kamp. Here is a woman who is a total control freak with a life that is totally out of control. For a show that I consider way too over the top to be relatable, I felt a squirmy sense of recognition at the concept.

I can't help but feel that on some level, my inner control freak has become so overwhelmed by all the variables I am unable to control (and my innate resistance to hyper-scheduling) that I am paralyzed to the point of near-total inability to act.

Poison Control

Mental Subtitle: Ode to the Mr Yuck Moron Who Completely Ruined My Thursday.

Toby is in the opening stages of the teething game. Basically, he gnaws on everything in sight, gets cranky for no apparent reason, and uses my juggies as human chew toys. This is all lead-up to explain why we had the homeopathic teething tablets out on Wednesday night. It also explains why, after that sleepless night, I was slow-moving and cranky on Thursday morning.

I popped downstairs to check email and order a (very belated) wedding gift for my brother and his new wife. Jack was contentedly absorbed in the Backyardigans. As I finished up in the office, I heard him heading up the stairs. I clicked "submit order", gathered up Toby and my coffee, and headed upstairs after him.

I entered my bedroom just in time to see him taking the bottle of pills from his mouth. 'Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. What does he have?' is the only thing I remember thinking. I set Toby in the bassinet and was to him in 2 strides, doing my level best not to scare the shit out of him, but hell bent on getting that bottle out of his hands.

For anyone unfamiliar, the teething tablets to which I am referring are tiny white tabs about the size of the birth control pill. They are powdery and soft, and dissolve instantly on contact with liquid or with the tongue of a 2 year old. The bottle holds 250 of the pills, and had been about half full the night before. As I took it from Jack's hand, it held about 20 tablets.

Having some rudimentary medical training, I scanned the contents of the bottle for the ingredients... sugar, mostly, coffee (okay, so he'd be hyper for a while)... nothing that caught my eye until "uh-oh" BellaDonna.

All I know about BellaDonna is from reading some Agatha Christie novel where some country squire or other poisoned his cheating mistress with it or something along those lines. Poison being the operative word here.

I read further along the bottle and found the warning right there on the side "In case of accidental overdose contact the poison control center immediately." And, as luck would have it (and long experience, from that time he tried to drink tire cleaner, and that other time when he got hold of the Febreeze) we have a Mr. Yuck magnet on the fridge. I grabbed the clueless Jack and the cordless phone, left Toby screaming in his bed, and ran for the kitchen. I silently thanked God for all that dialing practice I got over the years trying to win concert tickets from radio stations. I got a bored sounding female voice on the other end of the line.

I quickly explained the situation as calmly as I could, told her what he'd taken and about how many, and waited. She sounded confused as to what exactly it was Jack had swallowed. I explained again and offered to read her the NDC number from the side of the bottle. She declined and said "no no, that's okay. How long ago did he take this?"

Tick. Tock. "About 2 minutes ago."

"You need to take him into the nearest Emergency Room immediately. They're going to need to give him charcoal and he'll require observation."

Tick. Tock. "Okay thank you."

A panicked phone call to my neighbor later (she decreed that she was following me to the ER and would take Toby in the waiting room while I went with Jack) and we were on the road. Jack seemed unbothered by mommy barely keeping a lid on her TOTALLY BLOWN MIND until we got in the car and pulled out of the driveway with me muttering under my breath. "Mommy. You scaring me." Crap. "Don't worry baby, there's nothing to be scared of. Everything is going to be okay."

The receptionist at the ER looked at the bottle of pills I handed her. "My son just swallowed half of these. Poison Control said to come straight over." They rushed us back. Doctors and nurses came in and out, took the mostly-empty bottle, made phone calls, had hushed conversations. Our assigned doc patted my hand and said "how are YOU doing?" and it was all I could do to keep from sobbing into his scrubs and screaming "I am a TERRIBLE mother and how did this happen to my baby?! is how I'm doing." I stripped Jack down to his diaper and he was examined. More hushed conversations.

Tick. Tock. Minutes pass. The doctor walked into the room and said again "how are YOU doing?.. because the good news is, he is going to be totally fine."

As it turns out, they called poison control themselves and talked to SOMEONE WITH A CLUE who informed them that Jack would have had to swallow about 3 bottles of the tablets before there would be enough BellaDonna to actually have an effect.

The guy they talked to said "Next time, tell her to call us first. We could have saved her the trip." And bless his heart, the doctor (who I now love so much I may let him father my next child) informed him that, indeed, I HAD called and somebody over there is a total asshat for scaring me unnecessarily and not bothering to actually look up what it was Jack had swallowed.

And so ended my horrific adventure. Jack was fine, and basically I paid 75 bucks for a cup of apple juice. (Which is what the nurse gave him, then said to push fluids on him the rest of the day just to be sure.)

And of course, OCD Mommy that I am, the kid peed like a racehorse from all the water, juice, and milk I was shoving at him for the next 12 hours.

Inflammation Of The Mast.

Hello. My name is MeL, and today I manually cleared a clogged milk duct in my breast.

Not something I ever thought I would say.

But, yeah, I was coming down with the beginning symptoms of mastitis (inflammation of the breast due to infection from a clogged milk duct). This whole babymaking business is just one adventure after another, I tell ya. I felt like I was coming down with the flu over the past few days, and today I realized there was a hard knot on the left side. Massaging and nursing didn't fix it, but after reading Ask Dr. Sears and finding that I did, indeed, have the little white blister indicating a clog, I followed the directions and Voila! I am feeling much better already. The knot is gone, and hopefully I will be feeling all better by tomorrow.

I refuse to feel ill this weekend. I get to go to Bryce and party with T, PK, JK, and co. for an entire weekend. This may or may not involve me attempting to get on skis once again, depending on how the kids do and if T feels up to handling them alone for a while. Also on the up side, 3 days of opportunities to smack PK on the ass. If you've never had the joy of doing so yourself, you so totally don't know what you are missing.

A Trip To The Woodshed...

"A trip to the woodshed" was my dad's euphemism for a spanking. It wasn't totally inaccurate, as a spanking in our house usually involved picking out which 2x4 from the toy block box you were going to get a swat on the behind with. Before anyone goes calling CPS let me say that, first of all, you are twenty years too late. Secondly, it was never a violent spanking and really the whole process of choosing the block was by far the worse punishment than the actual pat on the backside with it.

Of course, my brother Andy - always the comedian of the family - is the only to actually manage to make my dad laugh so hard he got out of the spanking altogether. He did this by coming back to Dad with a 1x2 block that was about 3 inches long. But that has always been Andy. This is the guy who, after getting married as a 30-year-old mormon, emailed from the honeymoon cruise to say:

"This is AWESOME. Oh, and the boat is nice too."

... All of which has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the jazz band playing at brunch on Sunday at Beans In The Belfry was a fantastic group called The Woodshedders.

Their website describes them as "an acoustic Hot Club *Gypsy Jazz style quintet". I would say that pretty much covers it, but if you still aren't sure what the hell I'm talking about check out some >Django Reinhardt.

Now Listening To: Hungaria. Django Reinhardt with Stephane Grapelli. Sheer genius.

In Absentia

In the small break since I last sat down to ponder my existence in written form (a fancy way of saying "think out loud in print") I realized how addicted I am to venting my spleen on here. All the thoughts seem to build up in my head, like so many buzzing insects, until I sit down and release the pressure valve. Then, I move on with a little more quiet in my brain.

Well, except for the voices in my head. But since I was told that they're loud enough for other people to hear them, too, I don't worry so much about them any more.

*cough*

T's Mom came down on Friday to spend the weekend. It was like having the Mommy Mafia roll into town; she came armed with a cooler full of food to make all the meals for the weekend. I'm not talking hamburger helper, either. We gorged ourselves on orzo with fresh chopped veggies and shrimp, broiled salmon filets, and a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and (pause for dramatic effect) Home. Made. Hashbrowns. Not those grated, deep fried, heart attacks you get at the drive through. Sliced potatoes sauteed and browned with onions. You'll have to excuse me for a moment while I wipe the drool from my chin.

Mama S also arrived with an unexpected surprise for me: a brand-spankin-new Coffee Pot that really looks more like something you'd find in the back room of an experimental NASA workshop.

This coffee machine is to the old machine as HDTV is to the old black and white wooden box tv's. It has a pre-set timer so I can have coffee brewing up before I'm even out of bed the next morning. It beeps when it's done. It lets me choose strength, hot plate temperature, and I can pause it while it's brewing to pour myself a cup without any of those annoying drippies. We're talking twenty-third century coffee technology here, people! As I type this, I am sipping a cup of heavenly brew which is also missing that funky 'je ne sais quois' flavor we got from our old and overly-used carafe. It's a delicious extravagance, for which I am supremely grateful.

Add in brunch at my favorite spot, Beans In The Belfry, and it was a flawless weekend... all the way up to last night. I watched the Oscars out of mild curiousity; mostly I wanted to see how John Stuart would do with hosting. (I think he did great, but it was funny to see how akward it got at times when folks couldn't laugh at themselves. Hollywood types take themselves WAAAY too seriously.) But I digress.

Finally wrapping up the weekend and heading to bed after the Oscars, we stumbled upstairs around midnight to find that Jack was sound asleep in a puddle of his own vomit. The next 40 minutes was a blur of waking him up and stripping down both him and his bed; he got his second bath of the night, a clean pair of pajamas, and a lot of soothing. It became clear that he wasn't actually feeling sick, and most likely just ate something that disagreed with his little tummy. Of course, by then he was wide awake and asking to watch TV. This meant that I ended up in the recliner with him for another half hour watching recorded episodes of Jimmy Neutron.

When I finally stumbled back upstairs around 1am, got him back to sleep in his room, and climbed into my own bed... well, let's just say that I vaguely remember brushing my teeth and I still haven't figured out what I did with my pants.

Just a typical weekend of ups and downs in the bizarre universe that is our life.