HOME ALONE

Glenn and Alex went to my FIL's for a couple of hours - my mind is positively SPINNING with all of the things I could be doing right now. I could do shots of tequila at the coffee table, I could listen to death-metal really super loud, I could smoke a carton of something, I could use really really foul language at the top of my lungs and watch a violent movie, I could invite the dirt-neighbors over to party, shit I could leave without a diaper bag...
OR
I could paint my toe nails, do the dishes without somebody pulling my pants down (either one, G or A, of course they have very different reasons for doing so), and finish my book.
Hmmmm.
I guess I'll go with option B, with a violent movie thrown in.
But really this is like a goddamn celebration - what a treat!!! I haven't been alone in my own house for more than 20 minutes in months! WOOO HOOOO!!

So the library had

'Truck Day' today, fire trucks, construction vehicles, school buses, all sorts of cool things. I thought for sure Alex would dig it, since he is crazy about vehicles of all kinds.
He didn't.
He didn't mind looking at the trucks from afar, but as soon as I tried to put him near one, or God forbid in one, he lost his mind. A fireman spoke to him, and you would have thought he had been approached by the grim reaper. It's embarassing when a nice man is trying to give your child a cool shiny gold sticker shaped like a badge, and your child screams and tries to climb over your shoulder and run away.
It was very disappointing for me (cause everything is really about me, when you get right down to it). I was looking forward to this all week (yes, my life is fairly empty - it's been raining a lot) and Alex might as well have been at the Dr.s office getting shots. I think this must be Karmic (is that a word) payback, since I have a pretty good idea that I was exactly the same way when I was little, and I am sure my mum must have left many events feeling gypped.
I remember the story of trying to put me in dancing lessons, and I just stood in the corner and cried until she took pity on me.
Field Hockey - I clung to the chain link fence and screamed 'don't leave me here!' - I was like 9 at that point.
Anything new or different, and I spazzed - so I guess I can take credit for this part of Alex's personality. Not that Glenn was an outgoing daring child, I think he was pretty much the same way. We'll be lucky if Alex doesn't grow up to live in a bunker in remote Montana, wearing a tin-foil hat and kleenex box shoes. Poor kid -

Good lord.

I can't describe how pleased I am that there is an X-Files marathon on today.
This morning I was thinking about my upcoming day and what I needed to get done, and it all involved cleaning and I said to myself 'it would be cool if there was an X-Files marathon on today that I could watch while I was cleaning' and lo and behold, there is. Seriously, I had that conversation with myself. It's small things like this that make me happy.
Also, I talk to myself probably more than is healthy.
Anyway... it's nice to take joy from little things, to appreciate and notice when you have a positive response to something. To think about what you are happy about, instead of what is pissing you off. I'm going to do more of this, and less of that I think - it's good to be alive and healthy.
Luke Wilson is in this one, I'm digging it.

Oh shit.

I gave my son the WORST. HAIRCUT. EVER.

Sorry monkey - mummy really isn't trying to make you look like Elmo, I promise. It just turned out that way.

Working parents

As a SAHM, I really appreciate you. I bitch a lot about how bored I am or other trivial issues that plague my stay at home days, but I don't have to leave the house and go to work everyday like you do. I don't have the stress of knowing that if I don't work so many hours, my family won't be able to eat. I don't have to agree with people that annoy me (mostly) or sit in an uncomfortable chair all day or wait until __ to eat or stand at a bus stop or train station or sit in traffic or drink shitty office coffee. All of those things you do to provide for your families is really wonderful - not to mention that you come home from work, and work some more - because you never stop being a parent, regardless of where or how you spend your days.
I know many working parents that are simply happier people having professional and outside interaction, and made the choice to work accordingly - but the stress must be incredible at times, trying to stretch yourselves all over the place, whether you are working by choice or neccessity.
So while I complain about the things I complain about, I understand that my husband has a lot to complain about too, and I appreciate him so much. How hard, to leave your baby every day and go to work with people you may not like or respect. And it's not about leaving your baby with a daycare provider or a spouse or family member - you're still leaving, you're missing things, and that must be hard.
Although on some days it must be really nice too - I say this as Alex is throwing himself on the floor and kicking his feet b/c his book fell off the coffee table. In other words, for no reason...

Daddy

Mondays are boring. Actually, so are all the other days of the week - but Monday is especially painful. The house seems empty, lonely without Daddy - it feels like we're all waiting for something to happen. (pretty sure it's the 5:24 train) Scout sort of lurks around, Alex grabs the phone and hands it to me constantly and runs to the stairs, wondering if Daddy is up there.
It just seems quieter in here - Glenn isn't a particularly noisy person, but he has a presence that we all sort of revolve around. If he isn't sitting here next to me he's in the other room singing some nonsensical song in one of his creepy voices, or puttering here and there doing some Glenn-thing. Of course it is also a lot neater when Glenn is at work, which is one good thing - he generates a lot of mess I've found. Just about as much as Alex. The two of them pull out thier 'toys' as they go, flitting from interest to interest and leaving the piles behind them.
So, we'll call Daddy every now and again today see how he's doing at work - and what a good man, a good provider he is, to work so long and so hard for us. We are very lucky - we love Daddy.

La da deeeee la da daaaa

we went to my parent's house today, an unplanned trip - Alex was bored and dog-torturing by 10:15 (not even Elmo's drunk friend Telly was an acceptable diversion) so in the car we went to York. I love going to my parent's house. I have been wanting to move back home since about 2 weeks after I moved out, which was right about when my parents realized that and moved 2 hours away from me - I think they realized that chances of me ever leaving the nest were slim, so they'd take the decision out of my hands. Anyway, we went to the beach there, Alex had a blast - he didn't nap at all, so his fun was of the frantic, edge-of-control variety. Anyway, the beach and it's frequenters never cease to amaze me. On the one hand I wonder what in God's name some of these people were thinking - or why they weren't thinking at all, apparently - when they decided to strip down to small bits of nylon and spandex, and on the other hand I am happy for them that they are comfortable enough to say 'fuck you all, look at my rolls or look somewhere else'. That's cool, good for you - but there has to be some bit of decency, some small little part of your common sense that is whispering 'hey - hey!! Check out the rear-view before you do this!' It was actually quite amusing. I also wonder where everyone has been hiding so that they haven't heard of this phenomena called skin cancer - I saw a lady that was so tan she was purple, for real - purple.
I of course kept my shorts and tank top on (I was with my dad, after all, can't be parading around in a bikini - icky) and judged people, something of a hobby of mine. But man, if you're putting yourself out there in 6 pieces of string and 4 patches of fabric, expect to be judged.
So there.

Alex is toying with me.

I KNOW he's hungry, he keeps making the 'more' sign and running into the kitchen and climbing up onto his chair. But he will not eat his cereal, he took two bites and then pushed it away. It is infuriating. And I'm not making him anything else, he needs to just start cooperating at mealtimes. I can't afford to make him 3 different meals in the hopes that he'll like one of them - GO HUNGRY!! GRRRRRRRR!!!!

My Medicine Box

I like to be prepared. I like knowing I have all sorts of remedies. I have a big shoe box - not one that a pair of sandals or something came in, but a running shoe box - full of medicines.
I have vitamins, I have decongestants. I have dramamine, tylenol, aleve, ibuprofin. I have 3 different kinds of pills that will help you sleep. I have heartburn relief. I have at any given moment no less than 3 bottles of infant's motrin, and at least two bottles of infant tylenol. And children's benadryl, even though it's now akin to baby heroin apparently. (I just like knowing it's there) I have homeopathic remedies, and drops, and powders and sprays and sucky-things. I have 3 thermometers - one ear, one traditional, one rectal - teething drops, expectorants, I think I even have some prenatal vitamins left in there.
This isn't my first aid box you understand - that one is bigger. This is merely a box of happiness, a box of peace of mind.
I hope everyone has a box. (tee hee hee - but seriously.)

Have you ever encountered a crazy old lady?

Like, for-realsies crazy, not fun quirky eccentric crazy but scary malfunctioning-cyborg crazy?
I have. I used to live next door to one. Not just next door like the next house, but like we shared a wall next door. She was awful. Her name was Priscilla, and she had a Jack Russell Terrier named Irwin. I have never hated an elderly person, or an animal, like I hated those two. And at first it made me feel guilty. But then I got over that. This bitch was so crazy and just mean to the core that we actually called the police on her - can you imagine, calling the police on a little old lady? What I really wanted to do was punch her in the face, so I guess it was the better decision on our part. She would stand outside her door and scream obscenities at nobody. She would knock on everyone's door at all hours and just harass the shit out of them for no reason.
One time - get this, this is funny - some new people moved in across the way. They went out, and didn't lock thier door. She let herself into thier apartment, moved thier fucking furniture around, and left a note on thier stereo telling them what number the volume should be at.
She would leave her stupid little mean shit dog outside in his pen for hours and hours - and if you've ever heard a Jack Russell bark, you can imagine that misery up close and personal for 3 or 4 or 5 hours at a time. She would slam her door shut over and over and over again at 2 in the morning, so hard the building shook. She was obsessed with hating the maintenance dude, who seemed like a perfectly nice guy. Anything or anyone she was angry at, she'd call it 'Cushman' (his last name) for instance: 'Goddamned Cushman door!!' she'd scream, when she couldn't get her screen door to shut right. Or 'Goddamned Cushman car!!' when somebody parked imaginarily close to her car.
I find, generally, that hating is a waste of energy. But I hated her. She made me have panic attacks towards the end... what an awful woman. She smelled funny too.

Damn train whistle

The train tracks are across the street and behind those houses at the bottom of a hill. (we literally live on the wrong side of the tracks) At first it was cool hearing the train, Alex would make his choo-choo noise and once or twice a day we'd walk down to the end of the street to watch the train go by, and we always walk down to the train stop to meet daddy's train at 5:30 every night. So at first living near the train was fun - it is far enough away so as not to be scary, and close enough to be a good distraction for a cranky toddler.
The bloom has worn off that rose, let me tell you. Something has changed over the last week so that those asshole train drivers (conductors? whatever) are blowing the shit out of thier horns, like through the entire center of town, starting at 5:30am and going right through to 11 at night. I hate the fucking train now. I just can't add another source of white noise to my sleeping environment, or my husband will start sleeping on the couch (he doesn't like the 2 fans and AC - sorry man, gots to have 'em). My son's room sounds like a raging inferno I have his white noise machine up so loud just to drown out those sons of bitches and thier heavy horn hand.
So I filled out a complaint form, I wonder if it'll do any good. Seriously, it's terrible. I don't know how the people on the other side of the street deal with it - I'd be throwing eggs and dirty diapers and paint-filled balloons at the train if it were going through my backyard, being a loud stupid whistley assface.
I hate noise. I was hoping now that we live in the sticks it'd be nice and quiet here... nope.
At least we don't still live next to the crazy old lady.
Oh man - new blog. Crazy old lady. She was a piece of work.

Dear Coffee,

I just wanted to let you know that I love you. You are always there for me, sweet and dark and awake. You help me handle a very alert little person when I am stumbling around with eye boogers intact and sense of humor still slumbering upstairs with it's head under the pillows.
You gurgle cheerfully as you are being born, you steam invitingly when transitioning from the pot to the cup, you look that perfect shade of beige after I add cream and sugar to you (although you aren't as sweet and tasty with just milk, I'm afraid, one thing you need to work on). After a few sips I find myself once again capable of speech, sometimes able to string even 5 or 6 words together at a time maybe even occasionally cracking a weak joke. I don't know what I would do without you in my life Coffee - sometimes when I'm not paying attention I run out of you, and then I have to make do with some other form of caffeine and I just want you to know that I never ever stop thinking of you.

I am having trouble breaking into the

mommy club around here. Mothers are hard to meet. For me it's harder to make friends with a mother than it was to ask a guy out on a date. Sweaty palms, fluttering heart, inappropriate comments coming out of my mouth - all signs of nervousness. But I gotta do it.
Do any of my friends want to hear about Alex's latest tooth, or give me advice about how to handle eating problems? Nope, not at all. And do I really want to hear about the latest drunken escapades? No, not really - it's hard hanging on to friends when you have moved into a different place emotionally. Not to mention that now that I live in Ipswich I might as well live in Kansas for the amount of visits I get from friends - not that I was ever Ms. Popularity, now that I think about it. Oh, I get the obligatory once a week phone call that usually occurs as I am putting Alex down for a nap so I don't get to the phone, and then I can hear 'you never answer your phone' - right. Cause it is ringing off the hook, folks.
How deep are my friendships? When you tell a friend about something scary that is happening in your life, don't you expect them to check back in with you, find out how you are doing? That is what I would think, anyway. When I was part of an online mother's forum, those ladies that I had never met in person knew more about me and my life than friends that I have had for 10 years.
So I guess when you get married and have a kid, you really begin to understand the levels of friendship that were not apparent before. There are people who are truly interested whether or not they can relate personally, those who pretend to be interested but at least make the effort to pretend, and those that pretend that nothing's changed.
Don't get me wrong, I know we're all busy, working, going out, whatever - but a true friend takes the time to follow up. This could also be said to me - but I really only give what I get these days. And I suppose that isn't much in either direction.
Whatever - I'm lonely, and I have nobody to talk to. It's too hot to play outside.

Ways to make a toddler mad

that you might not have thought about:
1. draw smiley faces on the bottom of his feet - apparently the bottoms of your feet aren't that easy to see. oops.
2. draw a smiley face on his butt - he can feel it, but definitely can't see it. again, oops - btw, we were coloring tonight and he was hogging the paper.
3. bungee-cord something open that he usually gets great enjoyment out of slamming shut repeatedly
4. take one of his shoes off and then get distracted and forget about the other one.
5. get his blankie out of the crib for him and leave it on the counter by mistake.

Poor Alex... in my defense though if the kid would just learn to speak many of these would not be issues.

I love kits and packages and

compartments. I love airplane food - not for the taste, obviously, but for the neatly packaged meal. I bought these plastic plates like you'd get at a cafeteria, the ones w/ the different sections? I bought them to use for Alex, but I use them at every meal. I LOVE them, I love seeing my food all nicely separated and laid out in a grid for me. I love frozen dinners - again not the taste, I've yet to discover one that doesn't taste like the box it came in - but they're just so cute and neat.
I also love coloring books, and paint-by-number things. I find blank paper daunting when it comes to creating. I love filling out paperwork, and checking boxes and 'initial here'ing.
I love word searches - only not the hard ones with backwards words, my brain doesn't work that way - and I love putting little things together. I must say though that I have also developed a skill for starting projects and not finishing them, so the putting things together I try to avoid unless Glenn is home to finish the job when I get either bored or frustrated, and one or the other is sure to happen sooner or later.
I think you can all get a good mental picture of what kind of old lady I'll be... one of those ones who has to be rescued from her piles of shoe boxes and empty egg crates b/c she can't get out of her kitchen.

My mum

made me a family of cabbage patch dolls when I was 7 years old. Sewing not being one of my mother's strong suits, these dolls - especially the first doll she made, Cecelia - were kind of funny looking - but I loved those dolls. I still do, in fact - they're in my bedroom. Cecelia, Margie, Katie Baby, Emily, Mark, Julie & Gary (the preemie twins) - she made me a little doll family, and on Christmas morning I came down to the living room and it was set up like a nursery, with each dolly in it's own bed and each w/ birth certificates - it was the best Christmas ever. Margie had a face made out of nylon, and eventually her face got a run in it. So Mum set up our kitchen like an operating room, with toilet paper tubes for IVs and surgical masks and everything, and we operated on Margie and gave her a brand new pale pink face, she was so pretty. My mum would sing me lullabyes every single night, until I was about 12 - yes, I was a strange kid - and she understood my neediness but didn't let it overcome me. When I was a horrible, nasty, asshole teenager and said something mean to her she sang 'I don't like you, but I love you... seems like I'm always thinking of you...' you know that song? It's an oldie - anyway, it was the perfect thing at the perfect moment that made me just stop and remember who I was, and who she was. (it only lasted a minute I'm sure, and then teenageriness overtook me again) When my mum went to field camp for a few weeks when I was young I would sleep with her sneakers (???) in my bed, wearing her t-shirt every night.
When I was 19 she stayed up all night with me while I cried when my boyfriend, my first love - that she hated - broke up with me and I thought my heart was broken. She has been a constant source of support and love and wisdom and humor and strength my whole life, if I am a good mother - a good person - at all it is because of her and all she has given me emotionally.
To have the shadow of a possibility cross in front of my sunshine mother is a hard thing, one we all go through eventually as we get older - but one that I am not remotely prepared to face, and hope with all my heart I don't have to. I don't know how to be a person without my parents, both of them.

Neighbor fireworks

SUCK. I wish these assholes would stop this baby-waking shit and go to bed. So what if it's only 10:25 on a Friday night? I have a toddler that I would like very much to sleep through the night, so take your damn stupid noisy ass fireworks and shove them up your butts. They aren't pretty or sparkly or colorful, they are just fucking noisy. What fun is that??
The fourth of July is like New Year's Eve. I always have great expectations for it, I think I'm going to do all sorts of fun things and really enjoy myself and instead pretty much the opposite happens. Stupid holiday... stupid neighbors. Stupid explosive noisy things.

Our neighborhood

seems to be in a constant state of construction. We live on a fairly quiet street in a very small town, so you'd think that sitting outside would be an enjoyable experience. Right now I am listening to no less than 5 different types of power tools, a lawnmower, a leaf blower, and a fucking annoying barking dog that is going to take a dirt nap if he doesn't shut the fuck up soon. It sucks. I can smell paint or stain or something, the old man w/ the yard bordering ours is out watching his son mow the lawn and bellowing instructions at him, the dudes working on the house across the street are chattering to each other in a language I don't understand - but somehow it all sounds crude and vulgar - and the mean gray cat next door is yowling.
See people? This is why I was inside, minding my own business.
There are 2 houses across the street from us, multi-families - the Dirt Houses, we call them. The people who live there are always ALWAYS outside on the front stoop, smoking, drinking cheap beer out of cans, and throwing some sort of ball around in the street, shirtless, barefoot, and dirty. The guy who lives there that is seriously always out there has been shirtless and barefoot since March, no joke. Seems like a nice enough guy, I suppose... but don't they have to go to work at some point?
Anyway, it's strange - the rest of the neighborhood is nice and well kept and tidy, until you come to the Dirt Houses. Apparently in the eighties the 2 houses were occupied by Hells Angels, and the cops refused to come up to this neighborhood b/c it was too dangerous. This is coming from the Dirt Grandmother though, so who knows how true it is - she was well into her third paper bag when the story was told so it may be a bit embelished.
What a boring blog. Sorry.

I am so lazy.

I can hear Alex in the office doing something that involves ripping and squeals of delight, and am I getting up to see what he's doing? No. Instead I am watching Elmo.
What is wrong with this picture? So many things...
It's hot out, so I am using that as an excuse. I hate the heat. I don't care that a few short months ago I was complaining about the cold, it really doesn't matter - I will complain about absolutely anything and everything. It's a hobby, almost an occupation. I can complain for you, if you let me know what needs complaining about.
Uh-oh, now I hear the sounds of rage... I don't hear tears yet, should I get up? Oh there he is. All is well.
I don't like seeing Elmo's feet, they freak me out - you don't usually see Elmo's feet, just his upper body. And that is how it should be - oh God, there's Elmo w/ no clothes on, and his legs look like red furry chicken legs. Creepy.

What is it about Elmo?

Why do kids go nuts for this redheaded monster? I don't get it. And why the hell does Elmo refer to himself in the third person? Elmo is an egocentric little bastard, according to my husband. I responded to that statement by saying that children in general are egocentric little bastards, so they must be able to relate to him well.
Anyway, Elmo - yeah, he is annoying as hell. BUT he he sure is a lifesaver when you have a grouchy kid. Alex can be tossing himself on the floor, kicking his feet, being a nasty little specimen and if he hears that squeaky voice he'll freeze and then race to the source eyes wide and smiling.
We went to a strawberry festival this weekend, and Elmo was there - well, not the real Elmo, I'm assuming he isn't as tall, and probably talks more than this one did - and Alex was HORRIFIED. I mean, clawing at our legs to be picked up, eyes wide, mouth open - apparently Elmo has his place in Alex's reality, and that place is 2 dimensional and surrounded by black plastic.
Can you imagine how freaky that must be for kids, to see these characters from tv out and about? Personally I am not a fan of people in costume, even Santa - it's just not right. Some things belong only in my imagination, assisted by electronics - when those lines are blurred all hell could break loose. One day I could be walking along minding my own business and suddenly see a gigantic man-sized purple teddy bear covered in spikes, smoking a cigarette sitting on the front steps and swearing at me or something - you never know where it stops.
Okay, I've gotten off track here... what was I talking about? What a bunch of nonsense.

Kids and dogs

do all kids enjoy animal torture, or is mine a budding serial killer? I just caught a glimpse of him running after the dog w/ a toy golf club in his hand, swinging maniacally and laughing with glee.
Poor Scout jumps when the wind blows now... Alex seems to really enjoy the feel of Scout's flesh being twisted in his hands, and his ears - oh so tuggable. Scout is a good dog - he takes it, for the most part, with a doggy smile, content to receive any kind of attention - even abuse.
Of course Scout is always where Alex is, and vice versa - I think Scout just trails the baby waiting for random snacks, and Alex thinks Scout is just the best thing ever. A stress reliever, a toy, a friend, all in one compact little furry body. How great is that?
Probably 2 or 3 times a day we have to separate them, let Scout go decompress somewhere like a veteran returning from a war, one where attacks are swift and come out of the blue and are delivered via unexpected and imaginative items. A roll of toilet paper - would you think that could be a weapon? Well it can. Just ask Scout. Hand to hand combat is hard when you don't have thumbs, so Scout is just screwed all around.
If I want Alex to leave someplace he doesn't feel like leaving, all I have to say is 'do you want to go see your doggy?' and he'll leave willingly. If he's cranky waking up from a nap I can bring Scoutie in his room with me and there's a smile.
And seriously - my hoover has nothing on Scout. What fabulous, previously undiscovered cleaning skills this dog has.
We love our doggy.

Packing to leave the house

I am a serious over-packer. Like, bad. We could be going to the supermarket and I'll bring food and clothing and entertainment for 2 days, minimum. When we go up to my parents for the day I bring this massive bag that I got from LL Bean - easily the biggest bag I've ever seen - and it is crammed full of things. Now this isn't all Alex's fault. I like to blame it on him, but I've always been this way.
We're going away for a week at the beginning of August - mind you, it's still 5 weeks away - and I've already started my list. There are things I want to buy - hang on, I just remembered something else - things I want to not use until then, things I need to order, you get the idea... we're going to need to rent a u-haul to go. We'll need to rent a trailer for Glenn's books alone, then you add mine, Alex's...
oh, and Scout can't come with us. So I'll need to pack his bags too, so he can go stay with auntie for the week. It'll be a nice vacation for him too.
Back to my list... I love lists.

I had a request

from a friend to discuss what an asshole fat-free dressing is. Until she pointed it out, I had never given it a lot of thought - but since my friend's diet consists largely of these big huge obscene salads covered in everything you could ever dream of on a salad (which, coincidentally, renders said salad completely unhealthy and in fact quite fattening), I consider her something of an expert.
Fat-free salad dressing: you are a mother fucker. You tout yourself as a tasty, more healthy version of your cholesterol and saturated fat laden cousin when in fact you are a shadow of flavor, a sort of salad glaze rather than a proper dressing. I think the worst offender may be bleu cheese - fat free bleu cheese is certainly a joke played on us health-conscious consumers, perpetrated by advertising assholes who realize that the majority of us are willing to buy into the myth.
Fuck you fat free dressing, I hate you. Don't waste my time.
And for that matter, I'm all set with sugar free candy too - that is some bullshit if I've ever seen bullshit.

WTF

Somebody recently asked me how often I vacuum the inside of my couch. What the fuck? Why would I do something asinine like that? If NOTHING else, that is my go-to place for change and pens. Where would I store my quarters and barrettes and small toys? And why the hell would I waste precious time out of my life vacuuming something that never ever sees the light of day?
Now, don't get me wrong - I'm not a total slob. I'm maybe 35% slob. (which has decreased from like 60% slob 4 years ago) But seriously, what a colossal waste of time. That, in my mind, is akin to washing walls (walls - why??) on a regular basis, or cleaning underneath my obnoxiously heavy couch.
I should also mention that my son has a pathological fear of the vacuum cleaner, and my dog is convinced it is something that needs to be torn to bloody shreds of rubber and plastic. It's really a big ordeal that involves getting everyone out of the house to avoid major trauma.
I can live with 35% slob - if you can't, then don't come to my house. But look at it this way: I am spending 25% more of my time doing other, less menial things than a 10%-er. I have more fun than really clean people, in other words.

By the way,

not all crayola markers have washable ink.
Just thought I'd share that.

Monday - BAHHHHH

Why do Mondays suck so bad? They suck almost as bad as Sundays. I hate Sundays too - they're depressing, and I can't figure out why. Last night I was ready for the weekend to be over by dinner time, ready for my week to start. That doesn't make any sense to me. I can't seem to enjoy myself in the moment, I'm always thinking - whether it's dread or excitment - about what is coming. Such a waste.
Anyway, today Alex and I are going to walk to the supermarket and I have decided I am going to perfect making Chicken Marsala this week. If I have to make this shit 5 times, I am going to - I need a specialty. We'll probaby go and check out the cool kids fountain at Bradley Palmer later on, I want to organize our bedroom today... in other words, I'm not really doing anything today.
I had a dream the other night that I had graduated from Veterinary School and gotten a job I was really excited about, and I woke up bummed out. It's odd little glimpses into my subconscious like this that makes me wonder when I am going to freak out at the lack of personal direction my life has. Maybe I won't - who knows. I love staying home with Alex, I feel lucky - both that I get to raise him personally rather than partially by proxy, and that I just don't have to get up and go to work. There is no time like summer to be psyched I don't have to wrestle my thighs into dressy clothes and go sit behind a desk all day, other than fall and winter and spring that is.
It's just that my brain is getting bored. And I do not care what anyone says, toddlers - aside from being cute and fun - are pretty intellectually boring. Yeah yeah yeah, discovering new things, viewing the world through the eyes of a child - that shit is lovely. We all know that. However it doesn't replace an adult's need for adult pursuits, unfettered by diaper bags and nap times. So we'll see. If I weren't so goddamned lazy I'd write, or do something creative that I absolutely have time for.
But I am, so instead I'll organize closets and watch time slip by so quickly...
Mondays suck.

Ebay

Isn't it so easy to get caught up in the action of Ebay? I caught myself involved in a heated bidding war over a pair of salt and pepper shakers that looked like sneakers today, and was into it for way more than my rational self would have approved of before I realized what was going on. Now before you go thinking I was just randomly bidding on things let me tell you I have a rather impressive collection of salt and pepper shakers, if I do say so myself. And I do say so myself. Today I added a pair of crabs and some vegetables to my collections, oh happy day!
Otherwise I don't collect anything. Except books, and shoes I suppose - but I am not compulsive about shoes, I just don't ever get rid of them. I probably have over 50 pairs of shoes, but really wear maybe 4 or 5 pairs. I can't get rid of them, they all have a memory attached - the horribly uncomfortable white ones I wore to my wedding that made me pretty much a cripple for the first 2 days of my honeymoon - how could I get rid of those? But I will surely never wear them again. The stinky black heels that were the only things my fat pregnant feet would cooperate with for work - can't lose those. The flip flops that saw me through 3 summers but now feel almost like bare feet - and not in a good way, pavement gets hot - way too many memories and beers spilled on those suckers. Oh and those super cute paisely sandals I got on sale that are like wearing boards strapped on by fishing wire - fucking ridiculously uncomfortable, but really nice looking. Yes, my shoes are safe from the threat of downsizing.
My books - they too are integral members of our family. I reread books, so they all have a chance at future usefulness. But if my books were people, we'd be leaving a serious ecological footprint behind us. Hardbacks, paperbacks, pretty books, beach books, I love them all. I have to actually talk myself down when I see signs psted around town for book sales. I want to roll around naked in a pile of books a la' Demi Moore.
Glenn is as bad as I am, if not worse - his books are all important, meaningful, don't let Alex touch them books that are expensive and have shiny pages and beautiful illustrations and good 'reference material' - Glenn has a serious book collection. Mine are friends, his are colleagues.
Alex has his own collection too, although his treatment of them leaves a little to be desired. He has this one book - well, it's half a book now, the cover and first few pages met with a tragic toilet accident a while back - that makes him laugh as soon as he sees it. I got it at a book sale - see?? - so I can't replace it. We love books here in this house. If we ever ask you to help us move, say no - 70% of the boxes are filled with books.

I'm sorry bloggie-blog :- (

My poor, malnourished blog, I have neglected you for far too long. I am sorry, I will rectifiy that immediately. I have so many things that have been annoying me, interesting me, amusing me lately that I don't know where to start.
Lets see... my last week has been occupied with snot removal - I have developed a technique that I think is very effective, and should probably be studied and emulated worldwide. I squeeze the snot sucker, stick it in, and then as it is doing it's job I give it a little wiggle back and forth, up and down, and skippy-do - out come the boogies. Yes, my son has been sick with one of those nasty colds that makes his upper lip shiny and his little voice sound funny. I feel bad for the poor guy, he keeps pointing at his nose and grunting - since he is basically a cave man with only slighty better language comprehension skills - and getting angry when I don't do my signature move w/ the snot sucker. He's been keeping me on my toes lately, Alex has...
we got him this tricycle that I had been obsessing over for months, and I swear he feels like King Shit when he is being pushed around on it. He grips the handle bars with panache, occasionally leans over with his elbow on the back of the seat and twists around and looks at us, as if to say 'faster, Jeeves, I have an appointment to keep'. He surveys those he passes with a slightly mocking look on his face, obviously feeling superior compared to all the second-rate means of transportation he sees passing him. He screeches here and there with glee, it pops out before he can catch it and totally ruins the 'I'm too cool for school' thing he has going.
I want to get an alarm for this thing. I want to put it on our car insurance policy. I want to get the optional basket that hangs on the handle bars (even though there is this super cool dump thing in the back) and I want to get the little bell so he can announce his arrival to his loyal subjects. This tricycle is better - so much better - than my first car.
Ahhh - my first car. The jeuvo. It was a manilla folder colored - or egg colored, depending on the observer and the light source, hence 'juevo' - 1983 Nissan Sentra. That car was a flaming piece of shit, and was a constant source of embarassment. Of course it got me from point A to point B - with no style at all I might add - for a couple of years, so that part was cool. The tape deck that sat on the floor and was connected to the dashboard by a single wire - not cool. The uncomfortable ass melt your skin ripped naugahyde upholstery - not cool at all. The color - not fucking cool. And you know the most ironic part? My first 'real' car that I got, a Blazer that I paid $223 a month for for 4 years, was the same goddamned color. I didn't pick it, just so you know - it was one of those things that sort of fell into my lap. I sure as shit would not have picked ANOTHER car of that pus-color putridness. Anyway, the Sentra... I maxed out my mother's AAA card with that thing, they actually refused to come. The driver's side windshield wiper would fly off when the wipers were on high - and naturally, when your wipers are on high is when you really need them the most. I drove home from college for winter break during a blizzard, with my arm out the drivers window wiping the windshield every 15 seconds with a squeegee I stole from a gas station somewhere on the turnpike. I think I twitched for 2 hours after I got home, I was so tense. I had to have the heat on high all the time, or the damn thing would overheat the second the speed dropped below 25 mph.
Anyway, what was I talking about... oh yeah, nothing in particular. Business as usual.
I won't forget you again Blog, I promise.

Oh, so I was at the playground (another in the f*ck post saga, I'm crabby)

today again, and I was doing my shadow-Alex routine but trying to modify it so he felt like he had a little more freedom. He was running in front of this lady, and he tripped and fell (in the sand) and laid there for a second, checking out the ground. In the meantime, the lady looked at me with this look of disbelief on her face, and said 'are you going to help him up??'
I wanted to reach down and pick up a handful of dirt and throw it in her judgemental, sour face.
No, he can get up by himself, he's not hurt. Are you going to be wiping your kid's butt when he's 23? I'm not planning on it.
What is up with other mothers? Mind your own goddamned business. Unless you decide to be a little tiny bit friendly, then please feel free to speak up. Douche bag.

The f*ck post

I don't know if I have a cold or allergies or what, but I am getting Goddamned sick and tired of swallowing snot. It is fucking gross, and I want to puke. Not to mention the fact that I can't lay down w/out feeling like I am going to drown.
I have nasty fucking cramps and I'm tired.
I am tired of these stupid fucking commercials, all of the stupid ones - go fuck yourselves stupid commercials.
Crash is a really good movie.
Why didn't Joaquin Phoenix win an Oscar for Walk the Line?
If my dog gets any closer to me he'll actually be in my butt.
Alex was a real peach tonight - a real little gem, just a non-stop laugh festival. I think this tooth that is coming in has a shitty attitude wrapped all around it or something.
If my uterus had a name this week, it would be Rico. He'd be hairy and swarthy, and his breath would smell and he'd have bad teeth. He'd wear a dirty whitish-grey t-shirt, and he would use language almost as bad as mine. He'd yell a lot, and kick puppies, and his feet would stink. He'd have hair coming out of his ears and he'd only eat food that comes wrapped in wax paper. He'd come to visit and fart on your couch, he'd use all of the toilet paper and not say anything about it, he'd use just about all of the milk and just leave a little sip in the carton. His visit would feel like it would never end.
That's where I am. BAAAAAAHHH!!!!

Spring

oh Spring - for the love of God, when are you going to get here? Sure it's sunny, but these gale-force winds are getting tiresome. I'd like a little warmth, I'd like to take a walk without having tears streaming involuntarily down my cheeks in my eyeball's desperate attempt to keep themselves moisturized against the obnoxious hurricane that no matter which freakin direction I am walking is ALWAYS dead-on in my face.
Beer, I want beer outside. I want burnt grill food (cause I'm a better-safe-than-sorry kind of meat cooker) and I want the coconut smell of sunscreen.
Now don't get me wrong, when it's hot out I'll be longing for the cooler weather and the first shades of fall. I will always bitch about something. But for real, this has been the longest stretch of ass-cold weather in recent memory. I needs some sunshine and outsideness without chapping.

Choosing a haircolor

This has become such a process for me. It is almost as bad and it takes almost as long as picking out which kind of tampons I want. My hand wavers between dark blonde and light ash brown, with a only little quiver betraying how big of a decision I consider this to be. I eye the home-highlighting kits, and pick one up with a rebellious flourish. I read the back, and put it down. I go back to the 'safer' colors, and think - what image am I trying to portray? Do I want to come across as serious, classic, understated? Or fun, wild, down for anything cool girl? Do I want this to be a life-changing haircoloring experience, or merely something to hide the pubic-hair-like-grays I am now getting (don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about)? Should I get the box with the young sexy girl pouting on the front and the metallic lettering, or the one with the woman in a business suit, swinging her hair in a jaunty fashion? What to do, what to do?

Curtains

So I have floor-length curtains in my living room, with wrought-iron hold back things. Usually when Glenny gets up with the baby either they're not open when I get up or they're just open, not tucked behind and fluffed like I like them to be. Today, they're fluffed. What a good guy.

So sweepy

my eyes have little gritty bits of sand wrapped all around my eyeballs I think.
Last night Alex decided he just didn't want to hang out in his crib all night, so he cried.
From 10ish to 2ish. With me going back and forth between my bed and his.
And then we ended up on the couch together.
And he was up extra early today.
Tonight, he is shit out of luck if decides he's feeling sociable.
I want to get on the bus to leepy land and not get off until tomorrow morning.

Playground vs. grass

Who wins? In Alex's mind, grass hands-down. We went to this kick-ass playground yesterday, really cool - lots of slides, lots of climbing options, forts, tire swings, regular swings, little front-loader toy things, teeter-totters, this crazy bouncy platform thing - seriously, this is a top-notch playground. There were a couple of other kids there having a blast, taking full advantage of the facilities and the sunshine. What was Alex doing, you ask? Why, my kid was completely fascinated with the grass and the bushes surrounding the playground. In fact, walking on the sand must have been akin to walking on coals for him because he spazzed out when I tried to get him to play with the stuff he should have been playing with. He preferred the open land, he preferred to run unfettered in the grass, testing the flexibility of bare branches and figuring out the mechanics of the chain link fence. Part of me wanted him to go down the slide, swing on the swings, you know - do normal kid stuff. But another part of me was pleased at this quirky, non-conformist side of Alex that is emerging. Choose left or right, you sayt? Well, no. I think I'll go up. Thanks. Play with these blocks? Nah - instead I'd rather take the box that they came in apart and drive it around the house. Given his choice of cute stuffed animals at the bookstore, does he pick the kitty or the puppy? No. He picks the Llama.
I love my little wierdo.

Local headline

Scientists To Train Fish To Catch Themselves. What the feck fun is that?? Must be a slow news day.

Who invented these toys? Because your days are numbered.

My son is playing with 3 things right now, working them like a concert pianist - the Elmo guitar, his Mickey Mouse airplane, and his Animal Train. All of these toys can go to hell. They are loud, tinny-sounding, annoying, they invariably run out of battery juice in that special time a half hour before nap when Alex grows his fangs and horns. They have made me purchase batteries in bulk. I can unscrew a tiny little eyelash-sized screw in 4 seconds flat and swap out batteries faster than my dog can scarf down a stray cheerio. As soon as I hear the toys take on a nightmarish quality I know I need to get the pit crew together before my molar-monster realizes what is happening and loses his mind. When the lights dim and the songs slow, my son stands up and bunches his fists, turns red and grunts in that way that means 'PEON! GET OVER HERE AND FIX THIS, OR IT'S OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!'
I must say though that his favorite - and my least favorite - toy is his big ass tonka truck. My In-laws gave him this toy, this large, heavy, metal, rolling harbinger of destruction. This fucking toy causes more damage to person and home than a wrecking ball, and he wields it with panache. He whips it around corners and into calves and unsuspecting doggies with glee, listening for the inevitable yelp. And if anything accidentally falls into the 'dump' part of his dump truck, forget it. Everything stops and he shoots the offender a look, walks around the side, removes the object in question and drops it on the floor like one might drop a used kleenex. This dump truck is not meant for dumping, or trucking - it is SOLELY a means of bringing pain.
I'd like it if he would play with silent, fluffy toys - but I have a feeling he'd take them apart and bastardize them into something sharp and unrecognizeable. My little Dr. Frankenstein.

Sheets tucked in, blankets smooth.

My husband would sleep on a pile of laundry if I let him. He would just fling himself into bed willy-nilly, pillows askew, sheets untucked, blankets crooked - the very thought gives me the chills. In a bad way. I bet he would sleep on the bare mattress if presented with the opportunity, and that is just downright disturbing. You might as well sleep in a cardboard box in the corner of an abandonded building.
This is something I have observed to be true with many men. Why is that? Is it strange that I need to make the bed before I get in it? I don't think so - if I see a bit of exposed mattress, that offensive blue floral print winking up at me, I will be assured a sleepless night.
And another thing - I can't sleep on the couch. Snooze yes. Sleep, no - that must be another male thing. Maybe if you have breasts you can't really sleep on the couch. My mother has long held the belief that having breasts impairs one's ability to parallel park, but I find that it may be related to size rather than just the mere presence of breastage since I am a good parallel parker.
Food for thought...

Fuck

I love swearing. It's fun. I relish the way the words roll off my tongue, the way I can work them into the middle of regular words to add emphasis to my point, the way they add a sparkle to mundane phrases like 'No thank you' or words like 'unbelievable'. I am a swear-artist, I paint beautiful landscapes of obscenities when I talk and share them with the world.
A life without swearing would be a dull, grey existence.

Testing 1,2,3

Well hello there. I've decided to give this whole blogging thing a try, in hopes it will provide a much-needed outlet for my mind.
Being a stay-at-home-mom (saying that makes me simulaneously psyched and want to cry) I have a pretty decent amount of time on my hands. Yes yes yes, I have housework and childcare and all that other bullshit to do, but really I'm not spending my days studying quantum physics or having deep philosophical conversations with my toddler. Although he is quite the budding sophist. Anyway, I spend my days doing fairly mundane tasks sprinkled with sweet moments of love that you really can't understand if you don't have a kid. I hang with my boy and my dude (my dog) and we watch Sesame Street - Mr. Noodles, by the way, is most likely Osama bin Laden in disguise - and Word World, we go for walks and play at the playground, we have food battles 3 times a day and naptime - oh, blessed nap time - once a day, and generally things cruise along.
But I don't really have a way to express all the crazy, creepy, strange, ugly, flighty things bouncing around in my cranium. So here we are.
The thing that is weighing most heavily on my mind right now is the smell of goddamned red peppers. Karen - downstairs neighbor, landlord - must be cooking something nasty involving those disgusting vegetables and undoubtedly my house will smell like shitfood for the next 24 hours. Cooked peppers - green or red actually - are my nemesis. I want to puke in a paper bag, bring it downstairs and leave it on thier porch and set it on fire. Even the smell of burning puke would not be as bad as the smell of thier dinner. Not that Karen is a bad cook, she isn't - I've had her food and it is invariably yummy. But not the shit-fest she is cooking up tonight.
Another thing that is annoying me right now is - and by the way, blog, I love you, you make my ramblings much more important when they are outside my skull and I can look at them from different angles - hmmmm. No, there's nothing strong enough to overpower the smell of that shit.
I have to go.