Monday, April 28, 2008
I have never been a Monday hater. Until today. Monday needs to get it's butt kicked to Wednesday, possibly Thursday. Let us see....
~Woke up... thought it was Sunday. Rolled over until my not so fantastic husband wakes me, telling me he slept through the alarm. Apparently that's important for me to know. I could see where he thought to wake me up out of my sleep, to let me know that. And besides, he's not really late.
~Woke up the kidlets. One opted to take a bath before breakfast, the other after. Oldielocks took 5,000 years to drag her happy self downstairs, and Middle splashed away in the tub like she was trying out for the summer Olympics, an amazing feat which required her not to get her hair wet. Because washing your hair while in the tub is obviously not the thing to do. Baloney decides she doesn't like her choice of breakfast and proclaims that she is done (over and over and over.)
~went and dumped gallons of water on the Middle, got her to wash her hair, Oldielocks takes a shower. I make lunches, only to find we have many juice boxes with no straws. This is not a zoo, where straws are confiscated, merely a one year old's obsession with destroying anything in a8 foot radius of her tornadic body.
~Finally got Frick and Frack almost out the door, have my gym clothes on complete with fine glitter that Baloney had dumped out the night before. It was all cleaned up, but unless you have ever dealt with fine glitter, you will truly learn that it NEVER goes away. I will be finding glitter in every crack and crevice for months. Yay.
~open the front door to find the front sprinkler head is cracked and spraying the door. Yeah the same door that I have to lock. Nothing like water spraying down your back and of course, I fumble the key. I'm not made of sugar and I'm not going to melt, but seriously, when the water is making your underwear cling to your shorts, it sucks.
~Get on the freeway, and of course, there is an accident. About 5 miles down the road. So we play stop and go, forever, while the tardy time bomb is ticking as I try to get the oldest to school. Once we get past the accident, we put out our wings and fly, and get Oldie to the school one minute late. The gate is still open and I tell her she better make like the roadrunner and get in that gate. She does, and I wipe the sweat off my brow.
~At the gym, working out, doing my sweaty thing. I need to work my arms. But everyone and their grandson is at the arm section. Having a party. Complete with kool aid. I'm not about to take my swampy, glittery self over there and pretend like I'm ready to do some damage. I hang out for a few more minutes, do some crunches and call it a day.
~Went to target. Where Baloney has made it her life ambition to climb out of the seat of the cart. I spend the next 20 minutes trying the get the things I need, preventing the kid from breaking her head, fielding questions about if Shamu likes cupcakes and how many would he eat, and go on my merry way.
~Not so super husband calls, forgot to bring lunch from home...and wallet. I told him that people in Malaysia only eat grubs and leaves once a day, and that he will be fine. Gnaw off a limb if the hunger gets to much to bear. He fails to see my humor in things and in being the softie that I am, I bring him lunch, only because his work is on the way home, after Kindergarten drop off.
~I order Wendy's, and of course get the worker who hates the place, but it too lazy to do anything else with their life. She and I had a moment, and I waited forever for my food, since I was ordering a 9 course meal and they had to pluck the chicken before they could make the nuggets. Wendy's so wasn't worth it.
~Now I am at home for a bit, before the afternoon school rush begins. It's hot out, Baloney finally is a sleep and I just finished eating a chocolate fat nasty pretzel. It so wasn't worth it.
~I'm not even half way through the day.... and yes I realize that my rant is ridiculous, and petty and totally nothing to complain about. But the chocolate pretzel? Couldn't I have just walked away. Damn thing!
Monday, April 21, 2008
"McFlyyyyyyyyyy? Anyone there? I can see you laughing on the other side. Maybe I'll try making muffled noises on the glass, complete with drool droppings...(she hates drool droppings)....."MMMBPHFCFLLLYYYY?"
"Desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm gonna pull the 'Elvis with the double handed grubby palms sliding down the door, lost puppy look'."
(deep elvis voice) "hey little momma..."
Oh I see her laughing, she's coming, she's almost here......anddddddddddd--- doors open! Ha..Sucker! Gets her every time."
I let the monkey in, as you can see by the grimy finger/face/hand/body prints on the door, it's not her first time pulling this scam. The girl is good.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
"Although inspired in part by a true incident, the following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event."
You see, as many do these days, I visit online communities. Many message boards that appeal to me and my obsessions, like Gymboree, Photography, etc. A lot of times I have rolled my little brown eyes.... (yes I have little brown beady Indian eyes... the kind that make you wonder if you will be scalped or rain danced around) at some of things people talk about or what they say.
Anyways I recently had joined a message board, that was....well, a joke. Sort of an online Mean Girls club. There was no initiation ritual like swapping virtual blood or getting computer tattoos, but there was a whole mantra of "what happens here, stays here." I know, a tired cliche, but true. The place wasn't rockin like Vegas where it needed an understanding such as that, seriously it wasn't. More along the lines of
"My cat farted today."
"OMG, you said farted."
"I always say farted. Sometimes I even say *whisper* "fucker fart."
"Me too! I am so glad that I can share that here. I feel so "me" now that you know."
Intelligent conversation? You decide.
The thing I noticed quickly about this board was, while it claimed you could say what you want, mainly it was to say shitty things about people. Oh wait.... they had another message board for that? Specifically for "shit-talking." Oh and to answer the next question before you ask, yes these are women, ADULT women. Moms, even. Some even grandmas! My grandma would just shake her little redhead and in all her wisdom, ask why they just don't tell the person how they feel? Why say it to someone else? The world doesn't care if you hate/dislike/ think Willamina is a bitch. To them, the only reason Willamina is a bitch, is if she believes in fairies and gnomes, and bases her comments on that. Because a belief system is sooooo lame. And that damn Willamina talks way too much. And responds to topics she wasn't sent a gold invitation too. Now, Willamina has a strong opinion, but really? It's easier to ignore the annoying ones than it is to take the time to dwell on their everyday wrongdoings. Pointing out cheap shoes on someone else takes the attention away from dealing with the ugly low self esteem outfit some can't seem to take off.
Now, not all of these ladies did this. I have the utmost respect for many of these women. I have "known" them for a long time. They have incredible stories and strengths. There are several that watched the hands play out, such as myself, and you can definitely tell who was wearing the whiskers and tails in this catty game.
"If on a regular basis, you feel the need to share your negative opinions of women, with whom you really know nothing about, you are catty. If you hang out in cliques - be it personal or professional - and you seem to always find the time to strike up the latest gossip in reference to women you work or socialize with, you are catty. If you live with several women and have managed to cause division between them, you are catty. If you get a thrill out of persuading others to dislike individuals whom you dislike, you are catty. This list can go on and on, but why waste the time when you already know yourself." Monica Mi'Chelle
The best part is, they break their own rules. If Fannie Mae steals a candy bar, everyone turns a blind eye. But if that bitch Martha does, she is sooo lame. And fat. And eats hairy tacos. And it will go on and on for threads on end. So they can steal candy bars, but no one else can.If anyone else does, you get exiled to the foreign isles of Bitchdom. But if you are in good favor, you get to wear your "Lemmings Rock" shirt, and eat ice cream.
I left because I didn't have the time to tote around an online "Mean Book." And I would never want my children to behave in such a way, as children or adults. So I took my toys and went home.
And yes, I soooo did.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Maya Angelou
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The weird thing is, I can eat tuna fish. Not in mammoth size portions or more than once a month, but Tuna and I do have a thing going. Today I decided the kiddos (who enjoy tuna, of course) should have tuna fish sandwiches for lunch. So I, being mother of the year for the eight year in a row, decided to make tuna fish sandwiches. I got out the can opener and started turning the handle.
Then it hit me. Why tuna fish in a can is the NASTIEST thing, ever. I wouldn't like tuna fresh from the ocean either, scaling and gutting are for people with nothing to do. I can think of 900 things I would like to do more, like peeling glue off my arm hairs. I get the can open and the stinky, grody, nasty fish slimy goodness is spilling all over my hand, into the sink. I felt my gagger swinging back and forth like a pendulum, and my innards lurched. It took everything in my amazing, well built body, (my story, my embellished descriptions) not to hurl. I finished squeezing all the puke water out of the can and dumped that pile of rankness into a bowl.
I mix it up for the kids, boil my stinky hand until it is sterile, and go about the day. Until lunchtime. I decide, the healthier option would be to eat the tuna without bread. I even thought about shoving it into a tomato, but slimy tomato +slimy tuna + globs of mayo = definite vomitication. (If that's a word)
I doctor it up a bit with onion and pickles. I get out the spoon and put a heaping spoonful into my trembling mouth. My stomach, tongue, taste buds all betrayed me. I sent that tuna flying so fast into the trash can, I should get an award. Tuna Yakker. I could be the talk of the tuna community. I compromised with the horrid little fish, and spread it onto a wrap, with lettuce, and extra pickle. Not the same as bread, but nowhere near as foul as tuna, from the bowl.
God I hate fish.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I don't know what to think about being thirty. I don't think it is any different than 29. Am I supposed to throw away my skirts and tanks and start wearing dockers and blouses? Like the real silky see through ruffly blouse things. Should I start wearing my grandma's Mary Kay pink lipstick, and chewing trident? I dunnno.
I could sit here and list all my accomplishments that I have had in the past thirty years, but really, who, other than me, really cares? That doesn't define who I am. I am so much more than a pile of trophy's, high school honors class, self sufficient girl. Did I go to college? No. Did I build a career in the corporate world? No. Did I marry, wait 5 years and have 2.5 kids, white picket fence?- no, at least not in that order. Did I adopt orphans from all over the world and achieve world peace? Again... no.
Instead I have surfed in the ocean, planted many flowers, only to have them die and buy new ones...and have them die again. I have danced in the rain and choked on my own spit. I have done somersaults off the back of a horse and heard babies take their first breath. I have met and married my soul mate and gotten 25 staples in my stomach. I have eaten hot dogs in New York city, Beignets in New Orleans, and Indian fry bread in New Mexico. I have watched children take their first step, utter their first word and laugh until they cry. I have lived in a hospital and lived in a tent, in the dirty streets of Mexico. I have jumped with my children on beds in the Hard Rock and watched fireworks in the hills of Ohio. I have ran out of gas in the middle of the night, toilet papered more houses than I can remember. I have danced on balconies in Atlantic City and driven in underwater tunnels. I have sang every nursery rhyme and held onto my children for dear life. I have spent many a nights watching them sleep and many a day ripping my highlighted hair out. I strive to make sure that people know that they matter. I have been on TV, and on a bathroom wall. I have owned a 65 mustang and a soccer mom minivan. I like to say I work at Hooters, but really I am everything I ever wanted to be. I wipe snot off my kids faces (with my bare hand), and wear MAC make up. I jump on my husbands back and prank call him all day long. I've laughed as much as I have cried. Attitude makes a memory worth remembering.
And, at thirty, all this, has always been enough for me.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
The other morning, after breakfast, I sent the kids upstairs to get dressed, like every day. This is the routine. It should be robotic by now. I'm busy making lunches, dressing small ones, getting dressed, saving Russian cows, all my normal stuff, so I am only glancing in the room as I walk by, shouting reminders to hurry and get ready. I never defined the whole "You better be ready to go." phrase, after all, we have been doing this for how many months, it should be ingrained in my child's little brain by now. 7:40 hits, and we need to be walking out that door. I'm grabbing shoes, and see Middle, sitting on her bed, reading books, in her PAJAMAS! Remember the whole part about her being sent upstairs to get dressed, etc? Funny, because she couldn't. Er... she chose not too. And well, when you make choices like that, life isn't going to pick you up and get you dressed, no sirrreeee, it's going give you a boot to the butt and send you on your merry way. Time for life to show Middle the way.
I jingle the keys and tell her to go get in the car. She glances up, and I could just see the fear oozing out of her face. It was almost laughable. She hopped off that bed like it was the gates to hell and spun around the room wildly. What do you think she did next? MOST children would frantically grab at their clothing and run. But this is Middle, and Middle detours off the "most children" beaten path and blazes her own trail. She walked out of the room,flung herself on a laundry basket in the hallway and started wailing. "Mama Mia, Mama Mia, mmmmaaaaamaaaaaa mmmmmiiiiiaaaaaaaa.!"
I am not joking. I wish I was. I felt like I was at an Italian funeral for Chef Boyardee or something. Whose kid does that? The whole wailing and who the hell is Mama Mia? Are we Italian? The kid throws up when she eats spaghetti sauce, so really? What the holy canoli!
I handed her a pair of shoes and she wails all the way to the car. Life sucks when you don't get dressed.
My first hurdle of the day was solved. Later as we did her sight words, she was getting frustrated, and kept insisting that "as" was pronounced as "ass". Which, to a kindergartner, I could totally see why you read it as "ass." It is an "s" and not a "z" . I tried to teach her "az", please, Mrs. Teacher, know that I did not purposely teach my child to read it as "ass".
But just now, as I started typing, she was playing with cars in the hallway, singing, "She wore them Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the furrrrr..." She only knows so much of the song, but even I have to admit the chorus is catchy. I take a glimpse and she has her sister's diaper cover on her head. On her head. Because you never know when that will be the latest style.
I love that kid.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
She's getting ready for softball one day, and was sent downstairs to get her stuff together. She tries to open the door to the garage and can't. I hear a few minutes of groaning and thumping, along with some agitated mutterings. I come down there to solve the mystery. She is yanking up and down, left and right on the door.
"It WON"T open!!" slam, bang, tug
"The door won't open?" I step towards to try and open it, and notice something.
"NO IT WON"T! WHO did this? UGHHHHHHH!" More yanking and tugging.
"Have you tried everything?"I ask.
"YES!" She slams her body against the door, hangs her body on the handle, kicks the bottom part.
"This...is....a....DUMB....door and .....(heaving breathing) it is stuck!!! With CEMENT!!!" as she claws her way through the finish.
I lean forward and unlock it. Yes, you read that right. UNLOCK the door.
She looks at me, bright red, sweaty and flustered. "Well, who would lock it?"
"Uh the same person who probably put your bag in the hall closet, where it always is." As I open the hall closet door to reveal the bag.
"OH....hhahaha... I thought that was the hall closet." And gets her bag and goes on her merry way.
And she's the "smart" one. Like I said, the kids amaze me.