I'm here!

Here!

Cheapskate

This was the tag on some dish cloths I bought today: My favorite is: 'Breathe freely is better, easy to dessication, almost unable bacilli.' Like, what a selling point! Anything that can almost unable some bacilli belongs in my kitchen. And the dessication! It's so easy! And when is it not better to breathe freely? With all the dessication and the almost lack of bacilli around here I am sure breathing easy. Thanks dollar store dish towels! It's also good to know that I can use them in clean tables, dishware, crockery, and glass, because I am ALWAYS in those. All the time. And most dish towels? They just cannot accommodate the way these ones do. Thank you Dollar Tree!

Barway Robbery

On Friday K and I went out to party with a few women we used to work out with at the gym, which recently closed. (Which was very sad. It always sucks when a cool local business goes under.) The owners called around and managed to get about ten of us together to have dinner at Via Nove, a fairly swanky restaurant in downtown Ferndale. We've only been in there one other time, this summer, when we decided we would rather spend our measly bar allowance on two drinks and atmosphere rather than the 10 drinks, assorted shots and and basket of fried chips we'd have gotten at Rosie's. And at Rosie's, we're the classy girls, even without going to such extremes as brushing our hair. We had a nice time and even splurged on a salad (which we split, ha ha!) and a couple of drinks apiece, and afterwards some of us went on to explore Ferndilly. We visited the soon to be moved 'Feminine Arts Studio' of Ferndale, which was this awesome lofty building above an underground lounge. It took me a minute to figure out that 'feminine arts' meant 'pole dancing,' which only made me think of Emily, who wants a pole in her living room SO bad. I'm glad pole dancing is becoming popular. It's always a bummer when a market is specific only to strippers, like clear plastic platform shoes or feminine waxing informercials. Why can't the rest of us join in the fun without the social stigma? After that we moved on to Boogie Fever, where at our ripe ages of 27 and 29 I think K and I would have been the oldest people there, if it weren't for the other women we were with. Dodged that bullet! On top of the obnoxious music and the 12 to 1 ratio from man to woman that required a constant blockade of friends around you to help ward off attack, there was a $6 cover and the drinks were MORE than at Via Nove. Robbery! You'd think with all the guys we wouldn't have had to buy anything, but wrong! They were annoying AND cheap. And we'd not only brushed our hair but wore enough lip gloss to slick an ocean. Needless to say, we ended up at Rosie's, where the bouncer kisses us on the cheek when we walk in and the fried chips are always fresh. It was like coming home after being on a long vacation, one spent awkwardly with women well over your own age and tax bracket. Don't get me wrong, these are really nice women, ones that I respect and genuinely like, but sometimes it's nice to sit in a barstool with your buddy who couldn't care less that your shirt only cost you $3 and drink a good beer that doesn't cost $9.

The Young and the Restless

As Eddie is in Kindergarten this year and prying information about his school day out of him requires the jaws of life, we have a verbal agreement that after school he has to tell me at least three things about his day. If I didn't diligently enforce this rule I would miss out on things like 'I only got 4 crackers at snack time. Everyone else got 5,' or 'We played Dodgeball and they told us to aim for the head,' or of course, 'Ms. P was REALLY mean today.' (Which she never is; she's the most awesome teacher ever, the one I prayed he would get all summer long.) Today, however, he finally spilled some of the juicy Lower El gossip I've been waiting for. In Eddie's words: 'H has a girlfriend. Sometimes they even sit together at the tables. But then today he broke up with her. I don't think he told her, but she knew anyway, I don't know how. When she found out she hit him in the face with her paper. But not hard, just soft, like a little slap. It was so funny. Now she's got a new boyfriend but I can't remember his name. It's not N. Or H. It's someone else.' I tried to pry further. Was H upset? Was J upset? Was H going to beat down the new boyfriend in the circle drive after school on Friday? What excitement might ensue???? But he was done. He made it clear that he'd gone well over his three item informative and that was all I was getting until tomorrow. I'm considering upping his requirement from three to four items of interest, just so I can get to the bottom of this drama before H and J are out of memory and their young love is only a tender breeze flowing down the school halls.

Searching

With a couple of entries under my belt, I'm finally showing up on the Google search radar. These are a couple of searches that have led people to this site, for your reading pleasure: how dose alcohol efffect daily living perfume samples strippers jingle bell rock the first dradle song photo meshuga This is so far my favorite part of having a blog. I'm considering doing an entry like this one, only with more stuff about strippers and alcohol, just because I'm already reaching out to that demographic. And it would be fun to write about.

Winter Schtuff

The weather here has been warm the past few days, a Michigan warm at 40 degrees, which is fine by anyone who has ever had to shovel their car out of their driveway at 6 in the morning. The last time we were able to walk around in spring jackets and look at Christmas lights was when we lived in Arizona. It was more fun there, though, because you could laugh at the natives toting hats and mittens in what they considered 'chilly weather.' I think this Christmas is going to be our best yet. We're in our first home, and both of the kids are old enough to really get into the festivities. We're just broke enough that every present we're buying is a huge event, so we appreciate it - but not so broke that the kids are just getting a bunch of dollar store stuff and Clint and I are re-wrapping small appliances for each other. I guess it's a good combination. I'm sure when you have too much dough the holidays are just about who spends the most of it. We have a ton of family to spend time with, and everyone's healthy. And the weather's good. Did I mention that? Eddie had his first school concert the other night. They sang 'Oh My, I Want A Piece of Pie,' a classic tale about a poor soul on a journey that ends most unfortunately without a piece of pie, and a couple of other classic holiday ditties like 'The Dradle Song' and 'Jingle Bell Rock.' He was so excited to put on his button up shirt and his shiny shoes and the little chicken actually SANG a bit, and about halfway through the show he even managed to take his hands out of his pockets and do the hand motions with everyone else. I have to give it to them, these kids really belted the music out. The music teacher, from what Ed said, put the fear of God into them, like if every last person in the back row of the gym couldn't hear 'That's the Jingle Bell Roooooooockkk!!!' it would go on their transcripts and not a one of them would get into a good college. Whatever she did, it worked. We've got a video of it, and as soon as Clint gets it to me I'll post it. And just because no post would be complete without a picture of one of my kids, here's a picture of Eddie chair dancing at a club downtown, compliments of my limited Photoshop experience:

Discipline

All right, I know I said I'd be writing every day, but damn... all that RESPONSIBILITY is killing me! And there's me being pretty lazy, too... But now it's a new month, and almost a new year, so I'm going to start over. I'll write at least every OTHER day. Let's kick off my new found motivation with a picture of Eddie being as obnoxious as humanly possible: I was actually trying to take a picture of Clint. This beauty was the last in a series of me trying to get a good shot of the kids in front of the Christmas tree after we decorated it. They wouldn't cooperate, and then when I settled on one of just Daddy, well, you see what happened. You can click on that image to go to the whole debacle on Flickr. In other exciting news, we brought Rosie to have her hair cut for the very first time. Luckily, we found a gay man working at a Fantastic Sam's and she now has an adorable bob that accentuates her curls rather than the bowl cut I intended for her. Here she is listening to some vicious gossip: Diva! I'll have to take a few more of her to post later, but for now that's pretty much it. It's been a busy few weeks. We had to give up Pumpkin the Wonder Cat (surprise) and we've had a birthday party, and the holiday kickoff, and lots of leaf raking... But I'll catch you tomorrow.

Suckers

Anyone who knows our family knows that a good portion of our lives revolve around Eddie and his Allergies. Granted, he's not one of those wheat/dairy/nuts/everything under the sun allergy kids, but even looking at pictures of things furry or damp or dusty sends him into sneezing fits and brings to the surface of his skin dry scaly rashes that are nearly impossible to get rid of. However, we manage to avoid most of his allergens, and we're lucky to be able to do so. We live(d) in a pet free home that I diligently dust and vacuum, and aided with a healthy dose of Zyrtek we manage to visit our pet-loving family members without him going into asthmatic shock as he did as a toddler. His allergist, who's been on our Christmas Card list for a few years now, can't believe how well he's doing. Unfortunately, a few days ago, we found this in the cold, wet driveway: Something about a warm, purring, wriggly little body in your hands sort of removes all fear and apprehension, all LOGIC from your mind. Of COURSE Eddie would be fine if this poor starving kitten slummed it with us for a while! We're not even sure he's still allergic, right??? Besides, it'll be a BASEMENT cat! Just to kill the mice! Clint resisted for about 20 seconds, until I smooshed the putty-like kitten up against his face a couple of times and he agreed, "It would be nice to get rid of the mice." We named her Pumpkin, because she's our Halloween cat. He was in the car buying food and litter and flea bath before I could tell him what a bad idea it'd be, us getting a cat when walking by a pet store makes Ed sneeze. We told Eddie we we're her foster parents and might only be able to keep her for a little while, until permanent parents came to claim her. Like the humane society, where we're probably going to end up taking her when Eddie goes into anaphylactic shock. She's only ventured out of the basement a couple of times, when she smells Taco Bell and hears the Daily Show starting, long after the kids have gone to bed, but she's skittish enough that it doesn't last long. Her domain is the basement, or what we now call Pumpkin's Dungeon. It's nice to have a pet around again, but I'm hoping she won't get too comfortable and start LAYING on the FURNITURE. Because then we'd for sure have to get rid of her. Good thing cats hate laying on warm, cushy couches. I don't know what I was thinking.

Mulberry Armoire

Fall has always been my favorite season. I appreciate all of the seasons, really; I love the pulled muscles from shoveling three feet of snow in the winter, I love the scorching seat belts in July, I love mud-drenched spring... but autumn has always been closest to my heart. Which is why today when I stepped outside to see that our God awful tree had puked ALL OF ITS LEAVES in the backyard last night I was a little disheartened. I was sort of wondering when they'd start falling, the leaves, but a little worried too. See, we've had nothing but trouble from this thing since we moved in. In the spring, the bastard of a mulberry dropped these horrid little caterpillar fuzzies all over the backyard/deck/driveway for nearly a month, and then took until July to get any leaves at all. Fuzzies, right? Doesn't sound too bad. Until you realize they get wet in the April Showers and turn into green slime that turns a normal walk out to the car into a Slip'n Slide Adventure. And there's No. Way. To get rid of them. However, I gave the stupid tree a second chance when it gave our kitchen and back yard a bit of shade this summer, getting us through the worst of the heat. The leaves are huge and really, not a bad shade of green. Unfortunately for the tree (Because I now fully intent to hack it down in the summer) I was VERY disappointed when, after all the lovely maples on the block had turned beautiful shades of orange and red, the leaves of my coffee table waiting to happen stayed that exact same green. Like so many other people that choose to live in this fine state, color changing is something I anticipate and admire every year. It's one of those things that makes living in Michigan okay, like the seven months of sub zero weather and salt damage and shoveling is sort of all right, because dammit, we have FALL, and it's PRETTY. But my stupid tree apparently doesn't subscribe to this belief, because the leaves never changed, and then instead of dropping leaves one by one in fall's crisp breezes, it took a giant dump behind my house and now I have this: And This: In one day. There was nothing thoughtful or romantic about it, just a giant "I'm done for the year," like your husband going to bed with a belch and a ball scratch, just done, no "Have a nice winter, see you in the spring," or anything. It's the last hurrah before we see the damn caterpillars again. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go rake. And curse.

Treasure Found In The Pit

I'm cleaning out my 'office' and I found our old digital camera, the one I had when Rosie was born. I also found the cord that attaches it to the computer, uniting the two for the first time ever. I found this gem: and this one: and this one of myself: Can you believe these were just sitting in memory for over two years? That picture of me was when I was pregnant for Rosie. Click of any of them to see the rest of the picts I found at Flickr.

The Land of Milk and Honey

I'm home after nearly a week of visiting the land of sin itself: Las Vegas. Our trip didn't turn too sinful, though, partly because we couldn't find a dealer and partly because my feet were hamburger by day two. We did however start every morning off with a healthy dose of liquor and slot machines, which for the two of us lent the affair an air of dangerousness. This is where we stayed: On the last morning we sat at the quarter slots with Starbucks, a lemon glazed pastry and two rum and cokes in front of us one last time, thinking tomorrow we'd have to go back to harsh reality, away from the smiling faces of the waitresses who won't judge you as long as you toss a dollar their way with the delivery of those free drinks. There's something about experiencing the euphoria of a perfect caffeine/beer buzz with you're mom that's life altering: when the two of you find winning four hands of quarter black jack in a row more fulfilling than actually sight seeing... it's indescribable. We did see two shows: Folies Bergere, the one with all the scantily clad women wearing feather headdresses, and 'A Tournament of Knights,' a dinner show. It was a good time, but I'm a little bummed we missed all the Cirque de Soleil shows, especially Ka, which is supposed to be awesome. We probably would have explored a bit more, but on the first night I wore brand new heels all over and into my feet were torn several giant blisters. By day two they were infected and really REALLY gross, so by day three I had to perform home surgery under the influence of nearly six screwdrivers and some Darvocet, a task I nearly fainted completing. I distracted myself by humming little prayers to the Lord in Heaven that I wouldn't lose one or both of my feet to infection for the vanity of not wanting to wear my sneakers to see a bunch of thonged women dance around on stage. By the last day my feet felt good enough to wander around a little, but for most of the trip they were tucked daintily under a slot machine where I wouldn't accidentally bang them on something and shoot howling pain up my stupid legs. It was a nifty little trip into the desert, but boy it's good to be home to the kids. On our way home from the airport it was all I could do not to nibble their faces off. I think they did okay being away from mom, perhaps because of the steady diet of cheese curls and chocolate milk Clint fed them. That's alright, I guess, considering what my mother and I subsisted on while we were gone. Viva Las Vegas!

Strippers

I just spent 20 minutes convincing Eddie that the 'past' and 'future' are real concepts. He was convinced that both were merely pretend places that crazy things happen in. (Yes, he watches to much TV.) It was so tempting to try and explain the like 10 different theories I have about time and space, but decided that at the risk of turning him off from science forever (or turning him into a total nerd) I'll wait until he's six. I'll save my ramblings for next time I'm at the bar and Kendra and I run out of snobby day cares to trash. Also, I'm headed off tomorrow morning for a mystery vacation! My mom wants to celebrate her birthday with a bang this year, so she's picked a destination and is bringing me along so the party will, in fact, be started. I don't know where we're going yet, but I'm bringing my laptop and assuming there's wireless (there had better be wireless) I'll post some picts and stuff. No doubt the week will be filled with strippers and cognac and much other debauchery, so tune in for the excitement.

Midwestern White Trash

Sorry I haven't written in like, um, a week? Two? I've been busy, doing, um, stuff, and yeah... sorry. We've been out of ice, you know? Yesterday we were all in the car, rocking out like we do to a Cake song "Sheep Go To Heaven," which is a pretty rockin' song, but maybe not something entirely appropriate for the children. If you take a glance at the lyrics you'll notice that he mentions 'Goats go the Hell' several times, but I couldn't find a site that didn't omit the singer screaming jubilantly 'GOOOO TO HELL!' over and over at the end of the song. Perhaps you have to hear the joyful nature in which he's shouting this phrase; there's obviously no ill intent in his direction, so I didn't feel that it was inappropriate for the kiddies. Until I hear Rosie in the backseat, smooshing her forefinger into her lower lip thoughtfully, say 'I think I'd like to go to Hell someday. He says 'Go to Hell. We should go to Hell,' like it was an advertisement for the place, like he was screaming 'Goooo to Cedar Point!' Kids hear EVERYTHING. Let's see, what else have we been up to... we carved pumpkins, which means pumpkin seeds for me, (yay!) and we're on our SECOND fundraiser of the year already at Eddie's school. Anyone want an Entertainment book? Only $20! If you don't buy the book, you know I'll getcha when they're selling wrapping paper and chocolate pretzels in a month! Oh, and I got my hair cut. It's now mid-western white trash, requiring absolutely no styling and only minimal washing. What a time saver! I'll take a picture when I've charged my camera batteries, which I've been neglecting to do, like everything else. I want to make sure the lighting is appropriate so the roots are visible; it really adds to the effect, really says 'I've only spent $11 on my hair in the last year!' Not much else going on, other than some sublime fall weather. It's wet AND cold out today. Might even snow a bit later! Woo!

Uncooked Dough

Today I actually SPLIT THE BACK OF MY PANTS. Straight down the middle, right between the left and right butt cheek, like a pressurized tube of biscuits they popped in a neat seam. Like, I should be working out instead of sitting in front of my computer. Over the weekend I finished unpacking. This was a chore I began some nine months ago when we purchased the house and somehow neglected to finish. Some of the boxes were packed with stuff we actually needed, too, like we've all been sharing the same two towels for months now because no one wanted to scavenge through the disaster also known as 'the basement.' But now we have a full linen closet! I also found a bunch of pictures and knick knacks I forgot about, and three huge boxes of CDs. I had the urge to throw away the CDs, because why bother keeping them? In case the computer AND the Ipod crash at the same time and we're left completely music-less? Maybe they'll make good garage sale fodder. Who knows? I repacked them, and they're in the basement with the rest of the crap I can't bring myself to toss. The kids can sort through when we die. Let the guilt of filling the landfills rest of THEIR shoulders. Next stop: The Office/Storage Room. Maybe next weekend. Who knows what treasure lies within!

Man Smell

My friend FINALLY used one of the purfume samples out of a Real Simple, because of my last post. Unfortunately, it happened to be the new Ralph Lauren For Men, and it spawned an argument between she and her husband about 'who she'd been spending time with.' On top of that, she'll be getting shit from me, because now I'm using SECOND HAND perfume samples, waxy paper all sucked dry of it's lovely man scent, already rubbed against a foreign wrist like a dirty whore. AND she neglected to buy a pack of Pull Ups at CVS that were on sale, down to the ultra low clearance price of 4 cents a Pull Up. It's the kind of sale that only happens once in a lifetime, and she passed it up. Having two toddlers potty training, few events are more devistating than passing up Pull Ups at 90% off, diapers that normally sell at prices similar to cotton filled gold. Of course, it's only Wednesday. Perhaps her week will make a turn for the better before Friday!

Now With Extra Gluttony and Sloth!

Businesses that haven't yet devised Dollar Menus, but should: Liquor Stores Strip Clubs Therapists Pharmacies Falafel Kings (I'm sure I'm missing some here) I'm thinking the Dollar Menu would be an especially wise business choice for the above locales if they'd be willing to institute a drive through as well, like any of my neighborhood liquor stores. I'd be saving time AND money if I could drive through the Spot Stop and get a couple to go shots of vodka and a dollar-sized club soda! And really, why do the grease soaked fast food chains have such an edge on this market? I'd way prefer a drive through hummus and pita dish than chicken nuggets! And think of all of the people who'd be working through their problems if they could sit in the comfort of their own cars and get a mini-therapy session. Afterwards they could drive through the pharmacy and get their prescribed meds off the dollar menu! And if all that failed they could go to the drive through strip club and get a value lap dance. Through the car window. I'm sure there's some way that could be worked out... I have some details to work out, but I think I'm onto something here...

It's All About Me

A friend gave me a few magazines the other day, which is great, because she always hands them over in near perfect condition with all of the perfume samples and coupons still intact. The first thing I do when she hands over her still current Real Simples is ravage them like a starving man would a microwave burrito: I tear into all the little samples and shiny pages and wrinkle them and bask in the glow of the $4 purchase I would have never been able to bring myself to make. Sometimes I even read the articles. This month there was one about narcissism. I love the little human interest bits so I devoured it carefully, taking note of each trait a person might posses if they were, in fact, a narcissist. A few hours after my reading was complete I began to wonder: what if I was a narcissist? What if that was, in fact, why my friend gave me this stack of literature in the first place? Was she gently trying to imply that I needed to deal with my personal ego problems? I went over the article again, filling in the blanks with my own personality. I DID like to talk, all the time, mostly about myself. Aren't I the one who had to start a blog? So I could have another place to ramble on about what else?? MYSELF? This really had me worried. Not because I was potentially a narcissist, but because SOMEONE KNEW. And when I realized that little gem, well that made it all clear. The problem is really that I am WAY too concerned about what people think of me. If a stupid magazine article could send me reeling into self-doubt and worry then I clearly didn't have a problem, at least not with narcissism. Isn't a narcissist one who thinks the world of them self? My real problem materialized before my eyes: I am INSANE and I spend too much time analyzing everything, AND I don't give my friends enough credit. Because really, I know they would come directly to me if they had a problem with me, or at least they'd find a more creative way to deal with it than sending me secret messages through Every Day With Rachel Ray, ones that I would need a decoder ring to understand and 3-D glasses to appreciate. And if I was THAT big of a bitch they wouldn't hang out with me anyway. Or they might. Just because I'm so cool. It's hard not to want to be around someone as kick ass as ME! Right? RIGHT???

Artichoke Hearts

Last night a friend of mine, who happens to be an interior designer, came over to bask in the glow of my pumpkin walls and drink some wine. Needless to say, by the time she left we had all new paint colors picked out, colors like 'gold field' and 'artichoke heart.' It's exciting to think that my house might not look like something out of a Halloween special soon! The thrill ride never stops around here, I tell you.

Despite The Warm Drink

I almost wasn't able to sit down and write today because when I went to mix my drink there WAS NO ICE. Is the strenuous three foot jog over to the sink from the fridge really too much for anyone in this house, save me, to bear??? It's terribly obvious which one of us was looked over in the government's search for new CIA operatives. The one willing to risk life and limb crossing the kitchen to refill the ice cube trays, that's who. Anywho, we spent a lovely weekend up north at our friend's cabin on a lake, sitting around campfires and hiking through 'the woods.' I am the only person over five this weekend who might refer to the tiny wooded area behind the cabin as 'the woods' or, Kendra's favorite, 'the forest', but it was the perfect size for a bunch of hyperactive toddlers to tear around in. I'm sure it felt like they were roaming through uncharted territory like a group of little Magellans. For me it was a weekend of pure debauchery, and I have an empty case of Silver Bullets and a near empty jar of Blue Cheese salad dressing, which I bought specifically to dip celery in, to prove it. For the nutrition. It's fair, if you only do it once a year, to finish an entire jar in one weekend. Right? (Besides, I ate most of it standing over the kitchen sink.) It was a little damp and rainy on our first morning but the weekend ended up being beautiful. On Saturday we trucked the kids to the beach in sweat shirts so they could play in the sand, but before too long it was sunny enough that they were stripped nearly naked to allow for swimming. It went from this: To this: Rosie had a love affair with that statue up there, Gus. She hugged and kissed him and whispered into his ear so that no one could hear her sweet nothings. And if she noticed him while playing she'd truck back up the steps to where he awaited her, only to give him a pat or two before fumbling down the wood back to the beach. Sometimes she'd shoot him a stern look, like he'd been up to something while she was busy filling her buckets, but in the end she always forgave him. Have I taught her nothing? "Gus, I found lipstick on your shirt and a matchbook with a number in it. We need to talk." "Oh Gus, you know I can't stay mad at you! Hold me!" Their summer romance will have to wait until next year to rekindle, unfortunately, because a mid-September visit up north was pushing it. Maybe a year's worth of time passing will find them grown apart. Poor girl.

Mr. Stewart Speaks

I wish I'd seen this on Monday, but better late than never. It's worth watching. Click here to see John Stewart's first show after 9/11.

Why Eddie Rocks, Part 2

On the news today the newscaster introduced the next story with this teaser: "Who lives longer: women with children or women without?" I had to chuckle under my breath. Me: Gee, let me guess. Ed: Women with children, of course. Me: You think so? Why? Ed: Well, because if the kids are good kids they'll take care of their moms so they can live longer. Right? Me: Of course. You are totally right. (And by the way, according to this study women with kids DO live longer, as long as they don't have over five. Who knew?)

I Know It's Only September

The weather's really cooled around here over the past week, and the tips of the leaves on our maple tree are starting to orange, enough that it's obviously turning into fall. Which means.... Halloween is almost here! As far as holidays go this one's always been my favorite, the holiday I anticipate more than my birthday or Christmas or even Pulaski Days. All that candy! All the costumes! And, now that I'm an adult, I can indulge in the best Halloween pastime ever: scaring the crap out of 12 year old pumpkin smashers who should be at home where they belong and not out running the streets like a bunch of punks. The pumpkin smashers belong in the same group as the kids who steal other kids' candy, along with the little weenies who take more than their share out of the buckets people leave on their porches when they get sick of having to look surprised at every Cinderella and Spiderman. I march around every year trying to catch those kids. It's the fear in their eyes that I love to see, the look of horror you get indicating what they're sure of: that this crazy woman in front of them with the kid on her hip is going to call the police and they're not only not getting any candy, but they're going to spend the rest of their life in prison, too. I really aim for that level of terror. You know, so they won't do it again. Consider it a public service. Halloween is for little kids. There should be a participation age limit, and those kids should be over it. Anyway, last year Eddie was The Human Torch and Rosie was a bee: Click for more. Ed was a trooper. He ended up with a nearly full pillowcase of goodies, most of which Clint and I ended up eating after Eddie passed out from exhaustion at the tail end of a serious sugar buzz. The bag he's holding in that picture was full within 20 minutes; the pillocase was in addition to that bag. Rosie, on the other hand, was NOT into it. I don't understand why. Being out two hours past bedtime in the freezing cold dark, plodding around dressed in something bulky and uncomfortable doesn't sound like fun? What if you were accompanied by a bunch of people you don't know wearing scary costumes? Or what about the flaming, evil eyed pumpkins? Or the scary sound tapes? I can't imagine what she was fussing about. This year, though, I'm hoping she'll get the costume = candy thing and will be a little more willing to participate. I'm going to start prepping her now. After dark tonight we're hitting the neighbors' houses. I hope they have candy stocked already. If she's still not buying it, there's no reason she can't help me bust the pumpkin smashers. She gives a damn good evil eye. I think the glare of a toddler might take their fear to a whole new level, actually. It works for her around here.

Saturday Morning

Me: Why can't it ever just be a cuddle without becoming molestation? Him: Why can't it ever just be a boob grab without becoming a Federal case?

V for Vendetta

Remember remember the Fifth of November the gunpowder treason and plot; I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot. "November 5, 1605, a solitary figure is arrested in the cellars of Parliament House. Although he first gives his name as John Johnson, a startling series of events begins to unfold under torture. Guy Fawkes, as he is really called, is one of thirteen who have conspired to blow up the parliament, the King, and his Lords, thereby throwing the whole country into turmoil, out of which these traitors hoped to raise a new monarch sympathetic to their cause, and return England to its Catholic past." Guy Fawkes (or Guido, as his homies apparently called him) and these other 12 are remembered as freedom fighters, and were armed with a butt-load of gunpowder and a spiffy little plot. There were Catholics in that Parliament House, too, their own guys, and it was still worth blowing them all up to overthrow the Protestant Government. I hear some people call that kind of thing terrorism... 'V' was so close to where my mind has been lately, to see this story, to have someone explain so beautifully such a terrifying thing. I can't get over the enormity of trying to overthrow a government, of taking my rights in my hand and declaring I am entitled to them. 'An idea is bulletproof,' he says. The ideas of personal freedoms and liberties, those things enabling us to put tacky bumper stickers about what an idiot the President is all over our Suburbans, we cannot take for granted. How many North Koreans will have to die from starvation and destitution before someone will take that nutbag Kim Jong-il out? What if I was living in some bull shit country where I couldn't go to church (or had to) or had all of my Internet content censored? Could I deal with life without Dooce? And how could I think of all of this without considering all the little ways we allow ourselves to be separated from even our neighbors: television, computers... Lord, I don't even want to talk to the lady next door if my hair doesn't look okay, and all that separation breaks us down, I think. If we're not close, we're not unified, and it just seems like we're all sticking our noses into our little lives and not paying attention to the trends in the world around us, like stories about the terrorist 'freedom fighters' we keep hearing in the news... Just a minute ago on the news they were discussing a 9:00 curfew put in place in Western India because of a series of explosions in a Muslim majority town. I simply can't imagine being attacked because of my religion, or attacking because of it. I also can't imagine having a curfew keeping me off the streets... How long can a country remain such a peaceful place to live as the US is? Was 9/11 a taste of things to come? Is this forever? Am I really naive for even wondering?

Brunch

In this order: Multi-Vitamin Two cups of coffee, black Leftover lemon Chicken in puddle of soy sauce One crust of half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich Small glass cheap merlot, left over from last week And my mother wonders why I need Nexium. (Most items were consumed standing, though, so they at least didn't count calorically. (And yes, I'm making that a word.))

Fighting the Chicken Gene

Eddie had his first day of Kindergarten today. He attends in the morning and we're down to one car, so we were all violently dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to ensure enough time to bring Daddy to work before making our way to school. He confidently marched in at 7:55, having gone to a pre-K program last year in the same building, but after about a half an hour of the teacher trying to make them dance and sing and do other ridiculous things Ed refuses to do in front of anyone other than his sister, he became wary of this 'teacher' dictator and her little fascist regime. He squeezed my hand and dove under a nearby table, the 'safe zone,' and sat hiding behind a blanket, trying not to cry. He was one of the brave ones, though, because at least four of the other kids were breaking under the pressure, blurting out national secrets and begging for mercy when they were asked to sit Indian style on the alphabet carpet. One boy wouldn't keep his shoes on and repeatedly asked for juice out of his backpack (which he couldn't have; that's why there's a drinking fountain, punk!). Each time the teacher told him no he would nod, looking satisfied that he'd been given a thoughtful answer to his question, but not 30 seconds would pass and he'd interrupt whatever she was speaking about to ask again. With his socked feed. So Eddie was all right, comparatively. I took off about nine, secure with the knowledge that he was safe under the table, and he let me go without a fight. When I picked him up he was smiling and happy, like I think he knew he would be. He already has a couple of comrades and is looking forward to tomorrow. Truth be told, I'm more worried about Rosie than Ed, as he usually keeps her occupied all morning. Today went smoothly enough because she had a play date with her buddies Tucker and Mason, but tomorrow. Tomorrow we have to face a morning with just the two of us. Maybe we'll kick off our girlie time alone with breakfast mimosas and manicures. That ought to take her mind off of brother.

The List

Eleven Things I Know About Food: 1. I am never on a diet. 2. Self-hypnotyzing myself into not wanting to eat is a life change, not a diet. 3. It never works. 4. Your children's leftovers contain no calories. 5. If you eat alone and there's no proof that any food was actually consumed, you haven't eaten. You might still be hungry. 6. If you take a diet pill with your meal it cuts the calories by a third. 7. If you work out before you eat it cuts the meal's calories in half. 8. If you do both you can eat two meals. And desert. 9. Abandoned chicken nuggets are still game, as long as they haven't been under the car seat for more than a day. Fries last a week. 10. Beer contains no calories. If it did, the caloric content would be listed on the label along with all the other nutritional information. And lastly: A shot of whiskey and some good music allows for the proper digestion of all food, especially that which is fried.

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.