Oklahoma! (which is not where we live)

Last night as I was logging off the Internet, I noticed that a line of storms with damaging winds was moving into our area. Thinking not much else about it, a few minutes later I started doing my nightly rituals of lotioning and tucking my pants into my socks (long story, don't ask) when I heard a loud singe-y, popping sound (kind of like a lightbulb blowing, but magnified) followed by complete darkness and silence (but for the wind trying to blow the windows out of the house).

E came into the room and starts peering around for several minutes while I watched (him, not the storm). He then says, "we need to get the kids!" which means nothing short of "we're all going to die! Our house is going to blow away! We'll have to live with my parents!" This, of course, I was not prepared to hear and started denying that it could possibly be that bad - it was just a little wind, right?

So, I go into The MAN's room and lie down with him, while E continues pacing. Our poor dogs were huddled together on the porch probably thinking they'd lived to witness the apocolypse. Between the wind howls, I would yell sporadically from the kid's room to E asking for updates. Would you believe The MAN slept throught the whole thing? He's a sound sleeper for sure (interestingly, I also learned that he's a sweaty sleeper. As I was tussling his damp hair, I recalled that he hadn't had a bath that night and I was rubbing all his boy sweat all over myself. Shooey.)

So, E being the brave and couragous (ie stupid and risky) guy he is went out to inspect the surroundings. That's when he noticed we were the only ones around with no power. We have a l.o.n.g. driveway that's lined with enormous cedars. The wind had split and uprooted three of them causing the power lines to rip down.

He started calling the utility company at 12 am and continued through about 7 am (at which point is was a balmy 53 degrees in our igloo). Oh, yeah, and for kicks we have a well for our water supply. The pump runs on electricity. No electricity - no water. No water, no toilets. MmmmMmmmm.

At around 8:30 this morning we were up and running again. The dogs are no worse for the wear, we didn't have to pee in the woods, and peace has been restored.

Shut up and eat your garbage!

I have a confession. I am a diaper bag whore. There are not enough diaper bags in this world to quench my insatiable appetite for a lovely tote. Functionality is important, but it is secondary to design and color. I'll take a bag from Target as quickly as I'd swipe one up from Coach. My mother "tsks, tsks" me for purchasing so many bags for such a tiny (but fat) baby. I can rationalize every new bag purchase, every time.

So, I've been jonesing for a new one. I've been fighting the monkey on my back like any other addict. In an attempt to cool my needs, I decided to resurrect a former 'must-have' bag; a black and white polka dot Sally Spicer. It was bought in between kids to be used as a gym tote. With the impending arrival of Beans, the tote was resigned to being dumped in the garage atop the much underused lawn mower. We are lazy people.

I was a little hesitant about it since it was just tossed in the garage (you know bugs and all), but I was determined. I reached in and pulled out a jacket that was left in it. When I did so, hunks of pilled material started floating to the ground. So, I'm thinking "what the fuck is that?" and keep pulling it out. The jacket looked like it had been razored and left with very auspicious bald areas. I kind of got a creepy crawly feeling, but my determination and frugality compelled me to continue.

The next item out came from a very dark time in my life. Are you familiar with Michael Savage? Well, if you're not, then I won't elaborate. And if you are, please come back! Anyway, there was a book by him that I bought for $5. The cover looked like it'd been run through a paper shredder. I peered deeper into the abyss of ick, and what did my wandering eyes behold? Rat shit. In my Sally Spicer. Some skank rat climbed in my fancy assed diaper bag, shat all over the place, and brunched on Michael Savage's equally rodent-like visage. Life imitating Art. At any rate, I will be making a rather large, wasteful purchase in the next few days because I'm sure as hell not carrying a rat-turded diaper bag.

in a galaxy light years away

I'd planned on posting about a lovely compliment that a complete stranger offered up last night, but other more .... interesting news has risen which I can't seem to avoid mentioning because of the sheer madness of it all.

Family chaos has been rampant this weekend. My sister received a job offer in NYC which she has to accept/decline by Monday. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal except that she currently lives in CA and would be orchestrating a cross-country move. With a four-year-old. Alone. While still married to her husband who will remain in CA. Which is another issue unto itself. Did I mention she has two days to decide?

E just found out that his sister may be (will likely be - and with just cause) divorcing. This, only months after his brother (who is currently trying to save himself from psycho bitch) announced his. These people (Dh's clan) are not the divorcing kind - whatever 'kind' that may be. They are uber religious. Anyway, it's life in the crazy house.

The MAN has decided he's a 'woman,' which he proudly proclaimed when arguing with E about wearing one of my skirts. E told him he's a man, and men don't wear skirts. The MAN (or woman is it?) launched into a tirade about how he's a woman like mama. Poor boy. I say give him the damn skirt. My uncle wore skirts and full-on makeup as a youth while parading around in stilettos praying into a microphone that Jesus would save us all, and he's a perfectly normal speciman of man (no he's not, but it doesn't work the argument otherwise - though I don't think the blame can be fairly laid upon the skirts, more likely the whacked out family genes that I, unfortunately, share to some degree).

My friend's fertility doctors just were just evicted because of a hospital merger with a Catholic affiliation. Apparently, the hospital will no longer offer tubal ligations or fertility treatments. Cause it's messing with the natural order of the world or some shit. It feels freakishly like 1955.

Craziness for all! Happy weekend, dear readers.

Good times

In almost exactly two months, Beans will be celebrating her first birthday. While, for most people (ie normal people probably. whatever), the first birthday is a very big deal (circus animals, pony rides, jump tents?, magicians), for me ... not so much. Well, it is a big deal in that I have been dreading it for, oh, about ten months.

The MAN's birthday also fills me with an overwhelming desire to hit some Xanax, but his is at least in the summer. This means outside. As in no people trolloping allover, in and out, and through my house. All of his parties have been, um, outdoor venues. To enjoy the fresh air, people, the scenery! Seriously, though, the thought of having people over for whom I have to prepare (buy) food, entertain (*snort*), and socialize with (read: hide from) is my idea of a very, very, horrible time.

I hate planning birthday parties even more than I hate going to birthday parties. Don't you wish I was your mama with all this freaking cheer and shit?

Since the party will be in March, the weather will be questionable at best (the week she was born in went from 75 to 40 for highs). Unfortunately, I am going to be forced to allow the masses into the house. I would rather pull out each and every eyelash I have one by one than do this. I should explain. In just the immediate families, there are 15 children! 15 children! 15 children under the age of 14! Madness. So it's not so much the meandering adults, but their wild, rollicking offspring knocking around all over the place.

We vowed to not have these ginormous parties when we had kids, but you'd have thought we'd told people we were selling our young to the gypsies - the horror of it all. So, we're having a party. Let the good times roll.

Wake me up, before you go-go

Overnight, a Canadian coldfront (the absolute best of kinds for winter lovers like myself) moved into the valley. The highs were 32 for the day and dropping. We went to sleep at an appropriate hour (as opposed to the late nights I generally keep reading blogs, online shopping, and reading and the ones E is forced to keep because I ignore his exaggerated sighs, tosses, and dirty looks because of the gleam from my laptop). I was sleeping, deeply sleeping, when I was awakened by the most hideous sound; a sound that I have been trained to ignore since The MAN came screaming into the world: the alarm clock (because who the hell needs an alarm clock with two kids in the house, right?). The alarm clock was bleeping out, and when I looked at it I saw that it was, indeed, 5:00 AM. The time of reckoning.

As I mentioned, as an aside, the other day, my aspirations to get to the gym at a hideously early hour were halted by my more intense need for sleep. This was the third morning that I faced off with the alarm clock, and this was the first that I forced myself out of bed (bleary, bloodshot eyes, matted hair and all). There was a battle of epic proportions being fought within my foggy consciousness, and somehow (albeit miraculously) I hauled my ass out of bed. My clothes (being the highly prepared person I am) were stacked on my nightstand. I tossed off the old, piled on the new, popped in some contacts, and even graciously bothered with brushing my teeth, before pulling on a hoodie and hitting the highway to hell. One long workout complete with free weights and cardio later, I found myself sweaty and stinky and sleeping away in my snug little bed. And damn proud of myself to say the least. One day down. Holla.

that old time religion

To say that I hail from "religious" stock would be a vast understatement. Now, don't be deceived - they are all sorts religious. It's not the "kind" of religious that matters, just the religious. We boast several Pentacostles (eek!), a few Catholics, a handful of Apostolics (the long-haired, makeup eschewing folks), some Jehovas Witnesses (have you seen them at your door?), a crapload of Baptists (more than I could even begin to count) and many more. Now, E and I do attend church - regularly, but he more than I by a longshot. We go to what is marketed as a 'nondenominational, contemporary" church that meets in a high school gym and what our families not-so-open-mindedly think of a as a cult (which it's not ... is it?!). I have no problems with God and like to speak to him about my crap fairly often, but I'm not on such steady ground with "religion" itself. In my experience, "religion" can lead to some pretty, ummm...scary stuff. You know?

Anway, an uncle of mine recently passed on, and he was a really cool dude (though not someone I would consider myself 'close' with). He used to manage a package store near a local university. My fondest memories of him, as a kid, were being chased around his house by his "shocker," a dandy lil' thing he picked up during his package store days. Those blue sparks scared the bejesus out of me, and it was thrilling!

Ask anyone who knew him and you'd be told he was one of the best people they'd ever met (a shirt off his back kind of a guy). He was married to the same woman for 52 years, parented four semi-successful human beings, and never stepped foot in church his entire life. And this is what most people would tell you about him. That he was a wonderful, wonderful, man, but tsk..tsk.. he's never been "saved."

He went into the hospital to have a hernia repaired, and they discovered an aneurism in his stomach. A day or two later, he died rather instantly. When the phone calls were being made to spread the news of his passing, it was with great glee and relief that each caller relayed to the receiver that "he was saved the morning before he died."

Now, (I would NOT say this in real life to anyone - other than E or a few close friends) that is just the most effed up thing I've ever heard. I mean I'm glad and all that everyone else can rest in peace knowing his eternal salvation is secured, but to say that if that hadn't happened, his life would have been of less value, that he wouldn't be remembered as the incredible guy he was, or the life of goodness that he lived would've played second fiddle to the fact that he didn't meet everyone else's expectations of showing your religion just bites at my ass.

It's sort of like a criminal who's committed unthinkable acts of violence 'accepting Jesus' on his death bed and suddenly there's not enough redemption to go around, and everyone can rest easy knowing he's been redeemed. As if.

I'm not really looking for an answer here, more it's an explanation why I have a problem with religion and how people can pollute it so thoroughly. Blah.

rock on, rock on...

Word.

"I have special parts," was the proclamation uttered by The MAN in an attention-grabbing decibel. Now, generally speaking, there are really only two ways a conversation can go following a revelation such as that. Thankfully, as it turns out, The MAN had been hitting a little Mr. Rogers Neighborhood during his down time this morning. Crisis adverted. That Mr. Rogers (rest his soul) sure knows how to turn a phrase, doesn't he? And by the way, I should be so lucky as to realize that my parts are special as well. Somewhere. Deep down. As they suffocate under a thin layer of chub. They are mighty special parts.

faust

As I anxiously glance at the bedside clock and type like fingers are on fire, I'm beginning to think I've made a deal with the devil. I'm twenty minutes 'til bedtime after months of burning the midnight oil. And even more months of sleeping until 8:30 everyday (yes, I'm abundantly aware that I am portraying myself as either a slovenly loaf or a rockstar - I prefer rockstar).

I'm very, very good about going to the gym. I will most certainly get myself there despite inclement weather, death flu, and boredom. Lately, though, life has been pushing my gym time to the backseat. I've come to the sad conclusion that if I am to drop these last ten pounds, then I've got to haul my lazy, warm-bed-loving ass out of bed and get there at 5 am. Yes, you read that correctly. 5AM. I need to go that early so that E can slumber at home with the kids and still get to work by 7 or so. I need five days, and there's no other way. Ho-hum. Hence the deal with devil. I've come to the point that I'd rather be exhausted than chubby, though, so here we go.

Think of me at 5am and say a quick prayer that no one gets hurt and no alarm clocks are injured in the making of this nightmare. And go on ... tell me how pathetically lazy I am sleeping in 'til 9 on a regular basis. Pathetic, no? No more, my friends. No more!

the facts of life

After many emails, planned and replanned dates, and several months, my bestest friend and I met for lunch at a frou-frou French restaurant. To be honest, I had actually been kind of apprehensive about it all.

We met in college close to eight years ago, I guess. It was a literature class, and when she walked in on the first day of class, I thought to myself, "we're going to be excellent friends," before I even knew her name (which is strangely the same name as one of my dogs). Weird (and makes me sound like a psychopath, but I'm sure it's not the first time I've 'fessed to something strange). We ended up (by pure coincidence) getting the same BA degree, and we also went through grad school for the same thing. I was her maid (or more correctly - and more horrifyingly - MATRON) of honor in her wedding, read a passage I had selected for her and her man, and waaaaa!ed through the whole thing. We don't live in the same town, but we're within decent driving distance; in spite of this, we probably only see each other a handful of times each year.

I imagine it's mostly (or completely) my fault. Truly, I have to work awfully damn hard not to be a hermit. It's true; I'm sure you find that hard to fathom about yours truly. I think it's why I'm so fond of winter. People stay in their own homes and are far to concerned with staying warm to stand around yapping. It's not really that I want to be a hermit, but it's not something that bothers me about myself so much. Yes, I know how convoluted and backwards that sounds. Welcome to my stream of consciousness.

Anyway. This whole debacle with my family over the holidays has really sent the ball rolling, so to speak, on making some life changes. For one, to actively focus on being a human being and not a hermit. Meeting my girl for lunch was step one. I know this sounds completely stupid, but I can justify not doing a lot of things because I'm "busy," but really...who isn't?

My pregnancy with The MAN really shook some stuff loose. How is this related? I'm getting there. Patience my people. There weren't many people (okay, no one) that I spoke to about my ~feelings~ after he was born (which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea because I'm pretty - okay, for damn - sure I had PTSD). Therefore, I lug them around with me like a pile of dead weight. Even now, though it's not as heavy as it once was. During my second pregnancy, I just wanted to pretend I lived in a bubble so I wouldn't have to talk about with anyone (there really were only two responses "everything will be just fine" or "everything is going to hell;" and I didn't want to hear either). I wanted to wrap myself in bubble wrap and gestate in private. Even though I couldn't do that, I sure tried my best.

My friend and I began trying to get pregnant at the exact same time (my second, her first). She is still trying and is in the midst of infertility hell. My Beans is the concrete manifestation of probably the *most* painful thing she's ever faced. How could I want to have lunch? I mean, I wanted to see her ... I have for months. Beans is beans, and I KNOW my friend doesn't look at Beans with any sense of anger or whatever, but she's kind of the elephant in the room if that makes sense. We talk around her. If my friend wasn't in infertility hell, her baby would be the same age as Beans. While I was/am completely aware of this, I also had/have issues of my own concerning pregnancy and childbirth (none of which I am very forthcoming about in real life).

I'm actually very ashamed of myself because I've wanted to avoid her because I don't know what to say, how to act, how to make up for having a second baby when she's fighting so hard for one. I have horrible, nightmare pregnancies (even the one that was normal, wasn't) that no one in real life understands or could even attempt to; you'd think being on the receiving end of a lack of empathy would help me reach out more to someone who's going through something similar, but different.

Today, at the frou-frou French restaurant, it ALL came out. There were tears and explanations, and talk. I mean talk about things that I haven't talked about with anyone. We were there for four hours, getting the evil eye (you know the one) from servers (in our defense, there were plenty of empty tables and we left a good tip!) and getting it all aired out. I learned things about her that I didn't know (and wouldn't have guessed in a trillion years) even though I thought I already did. I learned how similar we really are, why she's my best friend ever, and why I have to (despite myself) be the kind of friend she needs right now.

It was a day that was unexpected, a conversation that needed to be had, and an understanding that I didn't think we could reach. Despite myself.

Rub-a-dub-dub (Beans in a tub!)

blogger ... you moron!

Despite my four - yes, four! - attempts at uploading photos, they are still not viewable. The blogger gods are conspiring against me. Tomorrow, blogger, you SOB.

a mole in the hand

Back in the day, long before personal hygiene and fear became deciding factors in the activities in which I chose to participate (no, no, dear readers, not wild sexcapades...), I had a nasty little pastime pleasure. I hadn't thought much of this 'activity' over the past twenty years or so, but being the parent of a three-year-old boy whose interest in icky things is growing by the day, I began a little visit down the dark and cobwebby corridors that store my childhood memories.

During the summers between second and fourth grade, I would trek up the drive to my friend's house. It was way cooler on her end of the street, primarily because my mom did not reside there and hers did. Her mother 'did nails' (ie manicurist) which was the pinnacle of ubercool. She wore slinky spandex leggings and oversized, off-the-shoulder sweatshirts, and had the biggest, tattiest, mop of bottle hair my young eyes had ever seen. And her most redeeming quality? She left us the hell alone to do whatever important things it is that third graders do (like feeding chocolate drops - ie rabbit turds - to the next door neighbor because he wouldn't leave us alone).

Part of my extracurricular activities at my own parented house included collecting Cabbage Patch Kid figurines. My friend, being the only child of a generous and rockin' mom, had everything Cabbage Patch, including a nifty little collector's suitcase which had a clear cover and housed a dozen or so figurines.

While playing around her driveway one afternoon, we noticed the carcass of a tiny little critter. We thought him to be the cutest, most intricately pointy little fellow that we'd ever seen. A mole, my friends, a mole. As a way to immortalize his profoundly adorable form, we decided to donate a slot in the collection suitcase to him. On our treck to the porch to gather the suitcase, we noticed that the yard and drive were littered with tiny little mole remains. So we gathered them up and gave them each a special resting place. We were just finishing up our little craft, when cool mom walked out and saw just what her enterprising daughter and equally disgusting friend had been up to. Cool mom took one look at our shriveled curio, drew back her spandex clad leg, and sent the collection suitcase sailing over the deck with our 'treasures' going airborne in a sad explosion while she screeched, as only a purebred redneck can, "Get those G-damn rats off my effin porch! Dammit!

So not only did I witness the horror of mole desecration, but I was also schooled in the proper usage of profane language. I *so* loved cool mom. Needless to say, that was my singular experience in collecting anything; aside from shameful childhood secrets. But just between us.

a snowball's chance

Foiled again by the dredges that are TDOT (Tennessee Department of Transportation)! You know the phrase, 'a snowball's chance in hell?' Well, 'hell' can be easily interchangeable with Tennessee (sadly in more ways than one, and yet here I am). A snowball's chance in big orange country is slim to none in case you aren't following this tirade too well.

When I was younger, we used to actually see snow pretty regularly during the winter months. Over the years, though, it's dwindled from a foot or two, to a few inches, to a light dusting, to a few pathetic twirling flakes. The MAN has seen one snowfall since he's been in the world. I know you northerners are bemoaning snow as we speak, but OH! to a see a snowfall again! Anyway, for the past several days the weather drones have been flirting around with a snow forecast estimated for tonight through tomorrow. Now, it bears mentioning that a snow forecast 'round these parts (even something as little as trace amounts - nil) sends people trampling one another on their overzealous mission to acquire the necessities for surviving a lone trek into the Arctic circle: bottled water, milk, bread, canned goods, etc. It's like a kamikaze mission heading into a store if there's been mention of any small (however unlikely) possibility of snow.
So to say snow is a big deal would be a ridiculous understatement.

Yesterday, I was out with The MAN and beans and we took the interstate on the way home. There was this wet, white slime all over the road. Hmmm, I think. What is this nasty stuff slinging all over the sides of my newly cleaned vehicle? Two exits later, my query is answered when I come up on a giant TDOT truck spraying their lovely salt brine all over the major roads (the backroads were hit today). They were spraying salt brine in anticipation of trace amounts of snow! This, to me, is insane. I know people have to commute and all with inclement weather, but COME ON PEOPLE! It's just an freaking inch of snow that we probably won't get in the first place!

I would like nothing more than to see the weather soothsayers miss the mark, see us dumped with two feet of snow, and see all that slimy salt shit go to waste. My northern friends, the envy I feel toward you, is simply immeasurable.

call the po-po, ho-ho

The other night after the rest of us had eaten dinner, The MAN decided he was finally hungry. Normally, we'd force him to eat with us, but seeing as he was just coming down from a hunger strike, we conceded. I asked if he wanted cereal. He said yes. A few minutes later, he bellows out ... "but I don't like those po-po cuffs!" MAN in da 'hood. We almost keeled over. E said, 'yeah, I know. Most people don't.' Are you, readers, familiar at all with Tyler Perry and Madea? Well, that's what we called him all night. Madea.

dreamweaver

Tell me, wise and experienced readers, have you heard of this before? I hadn't until earlier this morning. Someone referred to it as a hallucination. When reading her story, I was like "Oh. I've had that. Well, that's unnerving." Turns out, it has a name. Hypnagogia. *shudders* So now that I'm sharing my bizarre experiences and causing the internets to question the functionality of my mind, let's talk.

As of late, I've had MANY of these experiences (and I've been reliving all of them today since finding out this is an actual 'thing,' which majorly freaks me out. Something about it *not* being a freak occurrence is just unsettling, but I'm not sure why). I've had a difficult time drifting to sleep (did we lock the doors? is the oven off? are the kids breathing? when is JCrew getting in that new dress?) since I can remember. I *thought* that staying asleep wasn't a problem for me, but if this is happening, then maybe it is? I can say that it takes a stick of dyno-MITE! to get me out of bed in the morning - good thing my two are sleepers or there'd be trouble.

My most common 'hallucination' *shudders again* is waking to see a curtain draped over the bed and dropping down (kind of like a parachute does when litte kids mushroom it into the air?) on me. I feel like my breath is being taken. Another involves a spider, man, critter of some sort loping across the ceiling toward me. I've even screamed out at E and jumped from bed swatting at whatever it was that I 'saw' at the time (thankfully, E sleeps like a log and hasn't awakened to find me 'hallucinating'). Don't be mistaken about dear old E, though, because he has issues all his own (like making weird farm animal noises when he's asleep and jerking like he's standing in a bucket of water holding an electrical appliance), but I digress.

During my last month of pregnancy, I woke to find E attempting to scale the headboard of the bed - literally about a foot away from my head. I started screaming about how he was going to fall on me, crush Bean before she even broke out, and kill us both. I slept on the sofa and was so enraged with him for being such a wacko. I vowed to never sleep in the same room as him again. He, of course, denied it and said I was dreaming (ie losing any shred of sanity that I still had at that point of the pregnancy). To this day, he denies that it happened. I always thought he was just being an ass about it, not wanting to take responsibility for being a freakoid.

Turns out, after my internet research on hypnagogia, I might be the one wearing the freakoid pants in our house. I'm starting to think I was having one of those 'hallucinations,' but I'm certainly not going to cop to it to E. Better he think himself crazy, as think that I am (which he undoubtedly does anyway).

By the way, just so you don't go thinking you're above this whole freaking-during-sleep-hallucinating-crazy-business, you know the feeling that you're tumbling down stairs (or falling in some way), and you're jarred awake? Yep. That's hypnagogia, too.

speak no evil

I curse the day I breathed in the germs of the death flu (or contracted them via the internets ...ahem). Damn the death flu (which, by the way, I'm still not so sure it IS the flu, and if it's 'just a cold,' then I'm even more pissed off by it). Would you believe that this is now DAY 9 of the illness from hell? Nine.long.days. No, I haven't been to the doctor, because I think I'd have to be half dead to drag myself to the office with a ten-month-old in tow. E came home early Friday because I thought I was going to spend the day bowing at the toilet. Instead of improving just a little each day, I get worse. And worse. And worse.

This morning E was leaving and says 'see you in an hour.' I open my mouth to speak and this squawk comes out, mostly air with a little shrill escape of sound. Yes, dear readers, my voice is no more. Not a single peep. You can imagine the absolute handicap this puts me in living with a three-year-old who forgets (from time to time) his volume control. Wild hand gestures, stomping my feet, and banging walls like a psychotic will have to do.

I went in to wake The MAN, and I knew he would not be pleased with my muteness as he is not one for change. I smiled when I walked in, and he asked me what was for breakfast. I mouthed cinnamon rolls, but no sound. He glared at me. I smiled back. He glared some more, then stood on his bed and began jumping up and down "TALK TO ME! TALK TO ME!" I start gesticulating like an ostrich trying to mime him my problem, peeping out "my voice, my voice!" He looks like a crazed animal and starts getting all freaked out and asks "WHAT NOISE?!" WHERE'S THE NOISE?" Dear God, if it wasn't *so* NOT funny, it would've been funny.

E's been at me for several days to get to a doctor. The MAN goes to preschool twice a week, and tomorrow is one of those days. So E says, "you should go to the doctor tomorrow while he's at school. Do you think you could take Beans with you?" Umm. Sure. And that, dear considerate E, is why I am still holed up in this godforsaken sick den miming like a mute! Maybe tomorrow will bring news of antibiotics. A girl can dream.

Cats in the Cradle

I remember when The Man was still a shrivelly little pink chicken of a baby, I was watching Oprah or The View or one of those daytime chat shows. Kate Hudson has just had her baby and was gushing on and on about how she was just SO in love with her baby, how she could just eat him up. It was like everytime I turned on the tv (which was, admittedly, FAR too frequently back in the day), I'd see another celebrity yapping on about the glorious wonders of new mamahood (Gwyneth really chapped me from time to time going on about her blissful existence with Apple) daily, and it was rather annoying. It just further highlighted the colossal nature of my failure to do the most natural thing there is: carry and deliver a baby. I did not feel that I was in love with The MAN at all. I felt like someone had commissioned me to puppysit and didn't leave the instructions. It sounds horrible, I know. I really wasn't even almost prepared to feel that way. I should say that I very much wanted to be pregnant and have a baby, but nearing the last trimester of my pregnancy, the shit hit the proverbial fan. By the time I had an abruption and he was delivered in an emergent section, I just wanted it over. It was really the worst nightmare I could've imagined. In fact, I couldn't have imagined that it could be that bad. No one I knew had psycho-crazy pregnancies. Certainly no one knew how to talk about it with me, so we all pretended. What's worse is that it didn't end when he was born. I would say close to almost four months, I was shuffling to and from doctors' offices trying to "fix" what pregnancy had broken.

It probably took me a solid year to feel like a functioning person again and not some broken down pudgy old hag. It was a brutal first year. I hate that he was cheated out of a normal mama, but I'm glad he doesn't remember it, too. I look at him now and I can't remember a time when he wasn't here, a time before he existed. I can completely and wholly identify the feeling of mine-ness when I see him. SO much love that it can't even be articulated. So much a part of me that there is no place where I stop and he begins. He's a boy now, gone are his rounded features and chubby fingers. No more rocking him and "Sweet Baby James," no more gooey baby kisses, and cuddling him to sleep. Each day he gets a little more him and a little less me, and that's how it should be. I'd like to have bottled up that time with him that I wished away and spend it all now. I'd like to freeze-frame each day, each turn of phrase that leaves me stunned (and usually keeling over with laughter), and pause every hug that I can steal from him. He's like no other. He's The MAN.

one night in bangkok

I would consider myself to be computer literate. I do almost all of my shopping online, I buy movie tickets (yeah, sure I do!) online, and I email. A few years ago, when braving the information that I may find on preeclampsia (the little *glitch* in my ability to be a 'normal' pregnant woman and the almost the demise of my life in general in '04), I found the preeclampsia foundation forums. Forums? I was stunned. Click a link, several other links open, click one of those, and even more open. Who knew? Not me, for damned sure. Me, who had completed FOUR graduate level courses for my MS online! Anyway, in an effort to learn more about me (ie the pregnancy-induced crippled part of me), I joined the forums. I'm now very active and function as a moderator there. Through connections I've made in my role there, I've discovered blogging.

Now, I clearly don't want to paint myself as a moron. Truly, I guess I was just busy with life. It seems, as background noise, I had heard of an explosion of blogging. Funny word. That was about it. Nothing more. Then I started reading. I couldn't believe what was out there. One led to another led to twenty and so on. I am just in awe of all the truly capable, entertaining, intelligent, damn funny people out there who I get to *know* in a virtual sense. Too effing cool.

For someone like me (don't lie folks, you know you're out there!!!), it doesn't get much better. I wouldn't say that I'm not a good friend in real life - I am, to a very selective crew. You know? I can mingle, I can small talk (somewhat pathetically, but hey?), and I can be pleasant on occasion. But, seriously, online I can be ME. The me that doesn't have to mingle, small talk, or be pleasant. I actually find that I am *more* pleasant to my virtual peeps than my real life ones, probably because I can log off when I need to instead of hiding behind the cabinets when you come to my back door for a visit. I can say what I want, I can hog up all the space and talk about me or my kids or the endless supply of lint between my toes. I can say nice things, I can say mean things, and I can do it all I want, when I want, and as freaking long as I want. A selfish endeavor, I suppose. It really is a most excellent outlet! Thanks to all you fellow bloggers for stretching my reality just a little bit!

Sarah Sylvia Cynthia Stout

I think I may be the garbage that needs to be taken out. Perhaps I underestimated the vice grip of this death cold - perhaps (despite my ranting denials) it is the death flu. E and the kids all had a bit of nose business going on, but seem to be on the mend now. I, however, am starting day 6 of purgatory. No better, but much worse. MUCH worse. Clearly, I should have partaken of the flu vaccine that I ensured every other member of the house had. I really haven't had much to say that hasn't fallen under the realm of my convelescence.

I did manage to knock down another book, though, [in my attempt to avoid sleep since both my nostrils (since the first time ever) sealed off completely and breathing through my mouth while sleeping makes my lips hurt] while reading into the wee hours of the morning. This one was The Glass Castle. Another good one. It was a memoir. I sort of hate memoirs, though, because as a reader I feel one way, but I get a strong nudge that the author clearly wants me to feel another. Take this book, for example: I found myself wanting to inflict physical pain on the main character's parents they were such louses. At every turn though, I was made to feel that I shouldn't. Bah! Still ... a very good book.

My favorite memoir (and the one that led to my almost boycott of my beloved Oprah) was A Million Little Pieces and My Friend Leonard (this one led to quite a spectacle on the elliptical trainer at the gym - but I digress) by James Frey. LOVED, loved those. Also, Running with Scissors by Augusten Borroughs (and I think there's another one he wrote that I enjoyed, but I can't remember the title - a character named Pig-something, maybe?). And there are a couple books by Haven Kimmel that I enjoyed (A Girl Named Zippy and She Got Up Off the Couch). So, despite my said hate of memoirs, it's almost all I find myself reading. Kind of like blogs. It must be the vouyeristic (yeah, I know I misspelled that one!) quality in my character. Still, there's nothing much better than reading about other peoples' lives. Especially when my consists of little more than Kleenex and Vicks.

useless

I still have not managed to evict the snot monsters, and now everyone else has them, too. As a result, I have nothing to talk about other than snot, headaches, my stuffy nose, and my lack of rest. I will spare you the bliss that is my existance at the moment.

cleanup

Whatever that funk that The MAN was growing up his nose last week has, unfortunately, found it's way up mine. I don't think it's the flu, because I *know* flu. My nose feels like it's going to explode, and my face is throbbing. Thankfully, my allergy therapy meds are like street heroin and tough as shit; they make me feel just drunk enough to not care a helluva lot. Who needs Claritin and Allegra when they don't make you sleepy and drunk? I want the hard core allergy meds, and I'm glad I've got them - I've been chewing them like Nerds all day. It seems Beans has also caught the funk - she's all snotty (and crabby!). I spent a good portion of the day scrubbing the house from top to bottom (shout out to Aunt Becks!). Something about cleaning feels like penance to me.

My mother/father tried calling today, but I didn't answer the phone. While we were out to dinner, she left a letter under the door. It sounded remorseful; I'm sure she is ... I'm just not so sure that I'm forgiving. I do feel an immense amount of sadness for her (after I took a good 24 hours to filter out the rage), though, because she's working with what she's got, I suppose. When you know better, you do better (and I think I've come to accept that maybe she doesn't know better, kwim?).

In my sick stupor, I renewed my gym membership. I hit pre-Beans weight about three weeks ago, and now my sights are set on pre-MAN weight. This would tally to about ten more pounds. Ten more pounds, and I'm fighting weight. I'm giving myself until the end of February. That's pretty reasonable given I abandon E and the munchkins nightly to hit the elliptical and sweat my ass off (hopefully I'll do just that). Haircut, summer clothes, swimsuit (!), and vacation (and, really, my mental stability are hinging on my ability to kick ten more pounds). Tomorrow is day one; sick or not, here I go!

Oh yeah, I think we've actually settled on a babysitter (it bears mentioning that we have never left the munckins with anyone besides the grands and that always came with a fair dose of guilt so those visits were VERY few and far between -- secondly, as anyone who can read can tell, seems the grands aren't an option anymore period.)! WAHOO! I can't imagine what we'll do without soggy, airborne goldfish for entertainment! Vwaaahahahaha!

fallout girl

A couple hours ago, we had just seen my sister and her daughter off to the airport. We had just unloaded the vehicle, and put the kids down for a nap. I was hugging E goodbye (I had a couple weeks' worth of groceries to buy today) when he nonchalantly (though I could tell he was being kind of weird) told me something that he 'accidentally' uncovered at my parents house. I, at first, brushed it off. He elaborated and told me he had already discussed his findings with my sister to get her take on the matter. She confirmed what he suspected. She wanted him to wait until she was on her flight home so that she wouldn't be here when the confrontations started to roll. He told her fine, but then thought better of that decision. Good thing he did.

I have no intentions of discussing just 'what' those findings were, I only want to say that if I *thought* my relationship with my mother couldn't get worse, I was incredibly mistaken. On the surface, over the past decade, our relationship has had all the appearances of 'normal,' even close. Undercurrent, however, were all sorts of land mines waiting to blow when no one expected it. Today was such a day. I can honestly say that no one, in my entire 29 years, has ever done something so malicious, so vile, so unforgiving to me. Ever. Not a stranger, or an enemy, but my mother - the person who gave me life has taken into her own hands the destruction of it. I never imagined she could be so selfish, so hateful.

When E first told me, I was stoic. I needed to buy groceries, could we talk later? I got in the car, and over the course of thirty minutes, fell completely apart. I had to pull over because I was hyperventilating and couldn't catch air. I was so sick, I could've vomited. I finally managed to call my dad. I explained the situation to him, and I thought - amidst the shock - that he sounded a little angry himself. Turns out he was trying to formulate a working excuse for my mother. That's what he's done since I can remember; I'm not quite sure why I expected more.

I'm not sure what happens from here. I know that I can't be in the same room as her, that I can't look at her, and can barely tolerate thinking of her. For the first time, since I've known E, he's not taken a diplomatic public stance ... he's as enraged as I, which only confirms the vileness of what she's done. I feel like I have a unmanageable ball of anger, resentment, hurt all globbed together and lodged in the center of my soul and the pit of my stomach. I guess, in hindsight at least, something of this magnitude was bound to happen.

The MAN

[The scene - E and the MAN driving home after a trip to the home improvement store]

The MAN: I'm The MAN.
E: (laughing)
The MAN: Why are you laughing? Are you laughing because The MAN is funny?!

We think, though we're not sure, that this has developed from his adoration of Johnny Cash. He now refers to himself in the third person as The MAN. Not in black, just The MAN.

Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde

I swear The MAN is nurturing a split personality. Yesterday, while the three of us were out, the boy was a SAINT, a saint I tell you. He allowed me to stroll him from store to store while I hopelessly sought out new spring wares (something about temperatures in the teens makes me want to buy sandals to wear around the house and pretend I'm in Bora Bora) for FOUR hours, in the Phil & Ted's under-compartment with nothing but Beans' butt to look at. He didn't beg relentlessly to go to the germ pool (soft playground at the mall), and he came without protest when it was time to leave the germ pool. An angel. Truly.

Then we arrive at dinner. God help us all. He was throwing his loopy arms all over the place, swinging his head with foam and venom, eyes bulging out. Gnashing and gnarling at any and all. CRAZY!

Today, he wakes up all "I love you, Mama! Did you make me waffles?" He didn't complain or gripe when I dressed him, rushed him, and tossed him in the car to leave. Perfectly normal - even stellar toddler - behavior.

We arrive at the grands' house to pick up my sister and Shirley. He trips out again, snarling, gnashing, and throwing himself around, telling my sister he's going to throw her out in the road, and knocking Shirley upside her curly head.

It's like someone literally flips his switch. Mouths hang open in abject horror at the sight! Complete strangers wonder 'who fathered this child?' Yet as soon as we leave to be on our merry way, he's as charming and reserved as ever. One and a half more days, and the body snatchers will be gone!

On a similar note, he's never hit. I'm telling you, he is *the* most laidback, easy going guy ever. He says please and thank you, and even says excuse me when he interrupts. My niece, who is in school and much more experienced in the ways of the world, was sneaking blows the day after Christmas which I chose to ignore. Bad idea. The MAN has no concept of when it's appropriate to hit (I see the fallacy in this statement as it should never be 'okay' to hit, but kids normally do hit when they are angry, right?) and just enjoys the 'act' of beating on someone; he'll be laughing with you one second, then haul off and knock the shit out of you the next - still laughing. It's wonderful, really. Now everyone's talking about all The MAN's bad habits. Like I said, two weeks of fun = two months of deprogramming. Oy.

the grind

E went back to work today, and I was blown off by the out-of-towners (praise be!). As a result, The Man, Beansy, and I had a very nice day. There were no fits, no screams, no lack of naps -- all was right with the world. The floors are shiny, the toilets urine-free, and the house as quiet as an empty cathedral. Bliss. I'm not going to sully it with a retelling of the dinner events that transpired later in the day. I'm beginning to loathe the repetitiveness of dinner conflict; perhaps we should move our fellowship to brunch?

Anyhow, a good day. I'm sure I'll more to say tomorrow. The JumpZone is on the to-do list with The Man and Shirley. Should be noteable.

Did I say no resolutions?

Okay, so I did. And, truthfully, I haven't made any. Over the rollicking 'vacation' I finally managed to pick up a book. And read it. It wasn't by Shel Silverstein or Doctor Suess. It wasn't about a bear, a bus, or a train. It didn't have pictures. It was quite good. While I'm not generally on board for hocking other people's work; I'm going to do it anyway because it was such a good read. In fact, it was this book that has pulled me, kicking and screaming, back into reading something on paper and written for adults. And so, to continue in this, I am 'resolving' to read more. To keep it up. As an English Lit grad and former English teacher, I should probably be ashamed of myself and my fall from grace. Whatever. It's all about redemption in '08!

The book is The Almost Moon by Alice Seborn (she's the one who wrote The Lovely Bones which is being adapted for film). I was perusing the book shelf at Target (my favorite place on Earth), and saw it (while juggling a VERY grabby Beans in a Bjorn). I read the excerpt. The first line was about how a mother/daughter relationship descends into murder. Needless to say, with my jolly holidays, it piqued my interest.

The mother suffers from mental illness. The daughter is her reluctant caretaker. The novel begins when the mother is murdered. It unravels and provides backstory from there. VERY good read. Made me realize maybe I don't have it *that* bad. But still.

So, go. Read. And tell me what you're reading!