Better

The painting bug has bitten again. Our living room and dining room are now 'burnt pumpkin', and last night, when we lit candles, it was like sitting inside of a jack-o-lantern. Here is a small sample of the color: I'm thinking fuscia for the hallway. I'll keep you posted.

Hippies They Are Not

We've all had a cold the past couple of days and, tired of being homebound, I decided today to be proactive. First thing this morning I went to the gym, telling everyone the kids just had allergies and to let them use their sleeves for the snot, and after a good sweaty workout that actually cleared my head a bit, we left to run errands. I gave the kids each a decongestant, fearing that the constant sniffling would give them sinus infections, and booked out to make the most of the two hours before nap time. We'd made it almost two blocks before the kids announced they were starving (what?? graham crackers for breakfast isn't enough to tide you over until dinner???) so we stopped at China One. China One is special in that, for the extraordinary price of $4.50, you get enough food to feed a small country, or the Stuart family for two days, if you don't mind congealed egg drop soup for breakfast. We were half way done eating when the Triaminic took hold. Forks hit Formica tables and both sets of eyes rolled back into their respective heads. Eddie insisted on laying across two chairs with his blonde head dangling dangerously close to the sticky floor while Rosie emitted a noise not unlike that of am emu who is starving to death but hasn't fully lost his will to live, starting with a quiet but high pitched whistle and turning into a full out siren screech that she didn't seem able to quiet. Or want to. Hard to say. We almost didn't make it out before her head started to spin, but I did manage to get a box and pack up our leftovers, which means we'll have more than graham crackers for breakfast tomorrow! Despite all odds, I then managed to drop off a prescription and visit Ed's allergy doctor, which is where, of course, the medicine wore off, leaving me trapped in a small room for an hour with two wild, hyperactive children with tummy aches (from sesame chicken? maaayybbbeeee...) who insisted I read a book about a purple gorilla with terrible seasonal allergies over and over. And over. Which left me wondering. Do animals suffer from allergies? And to what? People hair? How do they get these animals to take Nasonex? Because I can't get my 5-year old to do it. And not only did I manage all of this, but I DID THE DISHES TOO. That's right, people, three days worth of them, because I had to rewash a stuffed load that I'm fairly certain acquired MORE mashed potatoes during the wash cycle than it had when it was loaded. Mashed potatoes: Mother's Helper. The point of this entry, though, is not to gloat about how well I can plow through a day ignoring the symptoms of a slimy, green illness, but to let you all know how well we'll all be sleeping tonight. After a double dose of Triaminic.

Young Democrat

Eddie told me today that, if a replacement was needed, John Stewart would make a fine new daddy. 'He seems nice,' Ed said, and 'he's so funny, anyway.' I think I need to stop watching Comedy Central with the kids around...

Dodging the Teen Angst Bullet for Another Couple of Years

Today in the car we all needed a pick-me-up so we popped in one of the kids' favorites, Madonna's 'Hung Up On You.' It's an upbeat little diddy really meant for 17 year olds with suspiciously dilated pupils to rave to, but I figure it's never too young to introduce children to the darker aspects of American culture. Both of them sang along, being well versed in the lyrics. I was admiring how good their sense of timing has developed when Eddie got really into it and shouted 'ring ring ring goes the telephone! your lights are on! but there's no one home!' He then paused and took a moment to reflect on the song's deeper meaning. He caught my eye in the rear view and said, "You know mom, I think she's really got to go somewhere, like the store or a party or something, and she's running late, and she's calling her buddy to go with her and her buddy's not answering the phone. And she's obviously home, because her lights are on. I think Madonna's going to just leave without her, because what? Like her legs are broken so she can't answer her stupid phone? Her legs are not broken, I bet. I would leave without her too." I agreed that I would probably just leave too, and the friend could always catch me on my cell later. He nodded in agreement. I can only hope that through his teen years we continue to communicate so candidly when discussing his favorite pop music. Of course, it would also be great if he only loved the music because it gave him a good back beat to jump off of the coffee table and onto the sofa with, like now, and not because he feels it accurately portrays his own misery and loneliness. I guess we'll have to see.

Bathroom!

We just painted our bathroom, transforming it from the shy, beige wallflower that it was into the Tim Burton movie it's always wanted to be. I can't walk into it now without thinking I need to adjust my boa and fishnets, and why can't I seem to apply enough eyeliner??? More. Also, I got a B+ in my damn JavaScript class, which is a relief not only to myself, but to all of the people who've listened to me whine about how I was going to flunk. Yeah community college!

Cruise

The Woodward Dream Cruise is this weekend, which means everyone who lives within 20 miles of Woodward is leaving town to do something that doesn't involve squeezing their car through 2 mph traffic. We, however, will be toughing it out, eating $6 dollar corn dogs and breathing in exhaust from the thousands of old men that will be tunneling down MY road in their classic cars. Why? Because of this: Uncle Jordan He has been waiting for the Cruise since last year's ended. And it's not that I don't like the cruise, really, it's just that I know he's going to make us actually look at the cars. I'll let you know how it goes.

Sticking With The Bathtub Picts

Eddie and Aaron gettin' done bathed. Click here to see more at Flickr.

Should I Be Relieved Or Grossed Out?

Before we tore anything else in the kitchen apart, like the floor, we decided to let the oven self-clean. Isn't that why we paid the extra $150 when we bought it? So that when it got a little too disgusting I wouldn't have to actually expend effort to investigage or clean? Why don't all of our appliances have this ability? Or our children, for that manner? We did it right before we went to bed, which filled the house with billows of 300 degree burning stench, like a 7000 pound wet mouth St.Bernard that had never eaten a good, hard, teeth cleaning buscuit was trying to gum down our home. This encouraged all of us to retire early, upstairs, where we tried to sleep and pretend we weren't mere feet above the Bog Of Eternal Stench. But this morning? Gone. All of the scented candles are put away, as are the gas masks and wild animals looking for something good to roll in. I am left with this thought, though: what is now charred to some dark corner of my oven, and will it efffect the flavor of the next batch of pizza rolls?

Putrid Rotting Flesh

Today Clint and I decided to face something we've been trying to ignore for a little over a week: a putrid, rotting smell emanating from our kitchen. Armed with gas masks and rubber gloves, we searched the entire kitchen looking for the decaying litter of kittens or a sock of Clint's that didn't make it into the bleach load. The smell seems to be coming from the stove, but there's nothing under it (we pulled it out) and the inside and the broiler seem to be clean. There wasn't anything under the fridge either, or in any of the cupboards, but there is definitely something decaying in my kitchen, and the smell actually seems to be worsening by the hour. Any suggestions???

Bath Time

Washing Babies

Powdered Baby

Now that I'm going to write all the time (right?? right??? like EVERY DAY, ME) I'm trying to work out a schedule. This is difficult, because my days are already pretty jam packed with picking dried food off of the kids, dodging chucked Lego bombs and trying to ignore the kids altogether to watch Dr. Phil and fold laundry. Really, the only free time I have is during nap time, sweet sweet nap time, that brief hour and a half in the middle of the day when only ONE child is awake, and he is old enough to be bribed into submission with chocolate milk and free reign of the TV. Unfortunately, little Rosie does not always agree with my definition of napping, which involves her total submission to sleep in a quiet and orderly manner and not making a noise for AT LEAST an hour. She seems to think that by 'nap' I mean the total destruction of her crib and anything that lies within arms reach, including the piles of crap that always cover her dresser, stacks of diapers, stuffed animals, boxes of wipes and baby powder. Yesterday after 'the hour' I went up to find her on a bare mattress, naked, covered in powder, her pillaged booty (including her own bed sheets and dirty diaper) covering the floor around her crib in mountains, capped off with two tubs worth of wipes draped like crepe paper over the whole mess. Apparently she had been trying to clean up the powder with the wipes, and lord knows it takes TWO TUBS worth to do the job. (That's over 600 wipes, people! And I am cheap! I will use them again anyway! They're pre-powdered, now, as far as I'm concerned.) She was singing herself a song, rubbing powder into her armpits with a wipe. As she caught sight of me she looked up and said "I smell pretty now, momma! Smell! Smell!", punctuating her statement by jabbing her finger into her pit, encouraging me to take a whiff. And really, how can you argue? A lovely baby armpit? I wanted to eat her like a chocolate truffle, a pudgy, juicy one, because although the mess took me an hour to clean up, she gave me MY hour first; she couldn't sleep but she didn't cry or call out to me. She sat and entertained herself for a FULL HOUR, and by God, can you really ask for anything more from a two year old? I think not.

Seven Years

I thought it would be quaint to begin this blog with the romantic, though perhaps rambling, story of how my marriage began, as my husband and I are sharing our seven year anniversary this month. I was in the final stages of mentally editing the amount of alcohol consumed and the unconcerned blowing of money (that now makes me cringe) that we partook in during our first months together while we were sitting across the table from each other last night, avoiding cleaning up the chunks of food that coated our post-dinner kitchen. While I haphazardly pushed the kids' dishes around in the trails of spilled rice he looked me in the eye and told me that I needed to start writing again, needed to start doing anything creative so I would stop hiding under the couch cushions and growling like a rabid animal when faced with daily stresses like, say, bathing. I replied that he was right; I didn't know what was keeping me from just editing the 30 short stories I'm 'almost done with,' or start the blog I've been meaning to create for like a year. I told him that I chickened out every time I tried to write. He agreed with me that my lack of motivation definitely had something to do with my gigantic 'chicken department,' and then went on to say, "I know what you're afraid of. You're afraid that the rest of the world will get a glimpse of you running down a dark alley in your post apocalyptic wasteland of a world in a not too distant future, casting spells to aid you in the major drug heist you're trying to pull off with the Tijuanan gangs whilst avoiding the fascist regime that the US government has become and - are you riding the unicorn in that story? Or was that the one where you're the undercover government agent on a secret mission in Prague?" I nodded numbly. "Prague," I mumbled. "Anyway, you've kept all that stuff secret for so long and now you're afraid to let the rest of the world enjoy the time travel and mind control and flying tigers and stuff." I looked at him, realizing that when HE said it, yes, it all sounded ridiculous. But really, a dark alley? A fascist regime? A POST APOCALYPTIC WORLD WITH FLYING TIGERS??? I'd read it. And so I decided, sitting there, that I would write again. Regularly. And I told him so. Just thinking about it gave me the energy to load the dishwasher, in a way that ensured that at least half of the dishes would get clean, even. And that is why I love my husband. Because he will poke at my bare eyeballs and yank on my hair until I do something, and he will do it without apology, if only because otherwise he would be trapped in a marriage with a raving lunatic whose chin needed to be wiped clean every few hours. And that is the important story, not the one with all the drinking and money spending and the suspiciously brief engagement. Maybe next year I'll tell that one. Maybe I'll even add a unicorn, to make it really interesting. But until then, I'm going to force myself to sit down every day, cocktail or no, and write at least a page, even if it's only for a blog that only my dad will read. Thanks dad. I know you'll be out there in cyberspace mentally editing every entry I make. Let me know if I overdo the unicorns, okay? And ahthankyou.