Monday, January 31, 2005

Things are busy busy busy but I'm sitting in front of the computer anyway

I have to post something, because I promised myself I would.

I have about three entries half written, but I don't have time to finish them. There's much ado at the casa of Stoli! Job interviews! I might be teaching a class! Like, at a college you've heard of! And I have a babysitter than can sit for me EVERY MORNING if I need her to!

But most importantly, tomorrow is my first training, and they pay like, ALOT, so I need to be decent or they won't ask me to train anymore. The upside is that I got to go to Barnes and Noble ALL BY MYSELF to prepare for this training, and I ate most of a chocolate mousse cheesecake (did you know B&N has Cheesecake Factory cheesecakes in their cafes? DIVINE.)

So I need to head up to my attic and find a suit that is not a size 8, because, well, I'm not a size 8 anymore.

The cheesecake didn't help that, but DAMN it was good.

Thursday, January 27, 2005

It's a cooking class - for LOVERS

Tonight, I am going to a cooking class with the neighborhood Newcomer's Club, otherwise known as the "How Much Did YOU Pay For That..." club. Anyway, it's for LOVERS. Of course, husbands are not invited.

I was really hoping for a beer and a cigarette but I suppose this is better than nothing.

Anyway, since I need to go coif, I cannot post about yesterday's job interview, or my bold emails to local university deans begging them to let me teach, or the MULTIPLE responses I got from said universities using words like "delighted" and "when can we meet?". These things deserve much more attention than I can give when I need to apply makeup for the "My House Is Nicer Than Yours Club" outing.

So instead, at a friends' suggestion, I will eave you with my first (and last) creative writing attempt since the eighth grade. I will not reread it before posting, because if I do, I'll never post it. So here it is:
Switch with Me

Theresa knew she was there. The goddamned car was there, that was for sure; she would recognize the chop shop bodywork anywhere. Anyone could tell that the front of the car had been smashed to bits; the amazing thing was that they had been able to piece it back together at all. Earlier, she had squatted beside the car and peed. Twice. The second time, she let the air out of the front tire, and felt a quiet satisfaction to know that it would need to be towed away. There was no spare.

That was earlier; she had been here all day. Every day.

Theresa sat staring at the door of the bar, fixated by the sputtering neon. “Udweise.” Flicker. “Udweise.” Every third flicker resurrected the “B” and the “r” on opposing ends of the sign, making it clear who was responsible for bastardizing the three neon frogs beside it. An omen, she thought. And that throbbing again, just below her left elbow.

“Udweise, definitely udweise.”
“Honey, go blow your nose, for God’s sake! You sound like a three year old,” Theresa scolded as she packed the trunk with bags of extra diapers and wipes.
“Id’s udwise to pud thad stuff in last-ud.” BLLAAT! Theresa rolled her eyes at the wet sound of Michael blowing his nose. For Christ’s sake, she could hear the goddamn snot filling the tissue.
“Whatever! Just go back inside and wash your hands…pleeeeeeeease? We need to go!”
Theresa continued to bellow commands as Michael shuffled inside. She stopped only long enough to smile at Parker in his rear facing car seat as he watched her through the rear window. Back and forth, his eyes followed her. He yawned; she smiled. Theresa climbed into the driver’s seat and impatiently honked the horn.

Absently rubbing her arm, Theresa snubbed out her cigarette. Michael would kill her if he knew she was smoking again. She hesitated for a moment, then lit another and inhaled deeply. I’ll have to finish this pack before I got home, she thought with some remorse. These, she knew, would be her last cigarettes, once and for all.

Fixated on the peeling green steel door (how does a steel door peel??), she smoked and waited. Another SEPTA monstrosity rolled by, and Theresa strained to catch a glimpse of the people inside. She noted an old black woman with several small children at the back of the bus. Graying and hunched over, Theresa guessed she was their grandmother and wondered if she had gotten stuck with the chore of raising them.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…” Theresa sang as she bicycled Parker’s legs. She loved this game almost as much as he.
“The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down…” Parker squealed in delight. Michael came out with the last of the bags and she gathered Parker up to meet him at the back door. He planted a kiss on Parker’s forehead. Parker giggled and drooled his approval.
“All set?”
“Yup,” he said. “Cat’s fed, lights are out, and I’m hungry already!”
“Don’t forget that it’s Lent…no meat tonight. I think they’re having a pasta station, so lay off the prime rib. ”
Ignoring her last remark, Michael took Parker from Theresa’s arms and planted a deeper kiss on Theresa’s lips. “And dessert?” he asked, plopping Parker back into his car seat.
She smiled. “I don’t know what they’re serving, but I was hoping we could have dessert in bed…”

The grandmother smacked the little boy. She saw it just as they pulled out of sight, and she could see him screaming. He had dropped his candy bar and Theresa could barely make out smeared chocolate on his face (blue eyes staring). He was filthy, and would need a bath.

“Bubble bubble toil and trouble,” she mused. That’s what she had always sing-songed to Parker in the bathtub. The smell of baby shampoo drifted up in her memory…baby shampoo and Sebulex. Parker had fought a nasty case of cradle cap, and she had bought him Sebulex to try and get rid of it. It didn’t work.

Mustn’t think of the bath.

Theresa looked at her watch. Six o’clock. Still an hour until bath time. I’ll be home for bath time, she thought, gently caressing the bottle of Sebulex jammed into her coat pocket.

She avoided the other. For now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a blonde woman exiting the bar. She felt the rush of adrenaline…but it wasn’t her. Not yet. Again, Theresa rubbed absently at her elbow. She brought her attention back to the task at hand.

Did she have kids? Did she ever struggle with that scaly, yellow mess…scrubbing, brushing? No. Theresa knew that she didn’t. Rachel Malone had no children, no husband, and no living parents. She appeared to have no friends either, not unless you counted Jack Daniels and José Cuervo. Rachel Malone was nothing but a no good fucking drunk…a lowlife alcoholic with nothing at all to do but dwindle away her goddamn unemployment checks on beer and cigarettes.

Theresa took another deep drag off of her Parliament. Another bus rolled by, honking at a group of teenagers carelessly strolling in the street.

“The horn on the bus goes beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep…”

Watch out…someone could get hurt, she thought. Oh yes, someone could get very, very hurt.

Michael climbed into the back seat next to Parker. “And away we go!” he cried cheerfully.
Theresa put the car in reverse…and hesitated.
“Switch with me,” she said. “I might have to nurse him on the way, and it’ll be easier if I’m in the back.”

Theresa dozed lightly as they drove along, waking every so often to gaze at her son, and softly caress his cheek. Opening her eyes, she saw Michael smile lovingly at her through the rear view mirror.
“Love you,” he said simply.
“Love you too, hon.”

That thought was interrupted as the green door slammed open again. It was only six-fifteen, and yet the woman stumbling towards her car was obviously drunk.

It was her.

That fucking BITCH, she thought to herself, that cocksucking mother-fucking cunt is drunk, and she’s headed to her car, for Christ’s sake.

Theresa cradled her arm, rubbing absently, and slowly rose from her vigil.

She fumbled for a piece of Bubble Yum and popped it into her mouth while they waited for the light to change, sticking her purse back at her feet. Parker was still asleep, thank God, and she hoped they’d arrive at the party without having to pull over. That would be a first.
Theresa opened her mouth to say so as the light turned green and Michael maneuvered into the intersection.

What happened next replayed over and over in her mind in sick slow motion. She and Michael had rented The Matrix, a lifetime ago, it seemed, and when she recalled the events of that horrible afternoon, they recurred with that same stop motion, the same dizzying camera angles. Stop, spin. Burning rubber. Stop, spin. Twisted metal.

The white Bonneville barreled into the intersection, and she thought, “My God, he’s going fast.” SHE, she had to remind herself later, SHE…but still that thought, “God, he’s going fast,” always arrived stupidly before she could keep from thinking it. The car didn’t stop. It didn’t swerve. It did not slow down.

Do not pass Go; do not collect $200.

And then it was on them, IN them. She saw the glow of the woman’s cigarette and had time to wish that she still smoked. With her left arm, which had been slung carelessly over Parker’s sleeping feet, Theresa tried to shield her infant son, but it was no use.

She saw his tiny body ejected from the car seat, which of course they had forgotten to buckle in the chaos of leaving the house. He slammed into her arm, breaking it in two places. Theresa watched in horror (Stop, spin) as Parker flipped feet first over her arm and somersaulted through the back windshield.

Then darkness, but only for a moment. Not like the darkness that came later, slithering through bar parking lots, peering through apartment windows, phone calls to old employers, friends. The cigarettes. The Valium. Not like that. This was a blissfully ignorant darkness. Shock, wearing quickly. Confusion. Denial.

Rachel dropped her keys, apparently right into her puddle of piss, from the looks of it. Good then. Theresa moved closer, reveling in her memories, gaining strength from them. She picked up her pace.

She couldn’t pick up Parker’s sock, still lying in the car seat (how could it still be in the seat?) no matter how hard she tried. Couldn’t move her arm at all, in fact. Theresa looked up to see Michael, but Michael wasn’t there. Later, she found out that he was impaled by the steering wheel and killed instantly - she couldn’t see him now because he was no longer in the car. It wasn’t until she got to the hospital that they told her that the force of the accident had thrown the whole front steering column, her husband attached, into the engine compartment. In the weeks following the accident, she had felt enormous guilt for not running to him before the ambulances arrived, for not seeing him one final time. For leaving him to die alone.

But for now, she did not question where he had gone; she thought only of her son.

At first, she tried in vain to crawl out the back window, but she didn’t fit. In her mind’s eye, she looked like Jackie O in her bloodstained pink dress, reaching backward for nothing at all. (Stop, spin). Finally, retreating into the back seat (stop) and (spin) getting out of the car.

She went to him, lying in the middle of the street.

Blood soaked his tiny overalls, and filled the hood of his jacket, but he was STARING at her with those gorgeous blue eyes, and blood was trickling down his forehead but he wasn’t blinking and why was he staring and then finally (stop, spin) she understood that his head was turned the wrong way and why could she see the back of his jacket? How could she look at the back of his jacket while he kept staring (?) but deep down she knew. Of course, she knew.

The driver of the other car (she, “he” was a she named Rachel) had been drunk, had run the red light without a moment’s hesitation and had ruined Theresa Jacoby’s life in a single solitary moment. She had gotten eighteen months probation. A technicality, the DA said. “I’m terribly sorry,” she added. And that was all.

But that had been six months ago, and Theresa had lived that moment again and again in her memory. She had realized with horror that, had she not changed seats with Michael, he would be the one living this nightmare.

“Switch with me,” she had asked him.

Theresa had spared him the pain, she thought, but then, dammit, he should have let her drive for once. Maybe if she had driven, it wouldn’t have happened at all.

At the same time, Rachel seemed to show no remorse, and her routine, it seemed, didn’t so much as hiccup after the accident. Her days were always the same, as far as Theresa could tell. Up at eleven, at the bar by noon, home at six thirty, back out by nine.

But not tonight.

Theresa came upon Rachel still fumbling for her keys.

“You bitch”, she said.

Rachel, her hands wet with urine, wiped her bangs away from her face and looked at Theresa with blank eyes. Stupid, drunk eyes. She had no idea who Theresa was.

But that was alright. She would.

“You ruined my life. You killed them both.”

Yes. Now she got it. Recognition quickly turned to horror as Rachel registered the gleam in Theresa’s right hand. She frowned lightly. “Heyyyy now…isssh that a gun?”

Theresa raised the pistol and aimed it at Rachel. “You never got an ounce of blood on your hands,” she said. You never saw his stare…the blood…you passed out before you even hit us. You killed two people and you don’t have to live with the memory. You don’t even remember.”

Rachel turned to run, and tripped over her own feet. How easy, Theresa thought. She looked on in distaste as Rachel tried to crawl away, right through the puddle of Theresa’s own urine. Smiling, giddy with anticipation, Theresa stepped on Rachel’s back, grabbing her hair and spinning her onto her back. She pushed the barrel of the gun into Rachel’s face.

Theresa paused and let Rachel’s fear register. She reveled in it.

“Switch with me,” she said, turning the gun on herself.

Still smiling, she pulled the trigger.

She was going home. And it was bath time.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

It takes a village...and a straitjacket

The middle child gets a bad rap - not the biggest, not the smallest, always ignored. At our house, the middle child is quiet and independent and falls right into the stereotype, though we tried to avoid it. While Riley talks his way into trouble ("Well, second of all, I am just going to eat this one pub (??) of candy before dinner"), and ensures that I am enforcing my own punishments ("Mommy, you forgot to take away this action figure"), Bella does whatever she chooses without drawing attention to herself. It's pretty easy for her - the girl will not utter a single word to someone unless she's known them for a full month. An old friend of mine who recently relocated to the area once probed my neighbor, "Have you ever actually heard Bella speak? Because Lisa insists that she can..."

Anyway, she talks, she's just selective.

So we were at $100 playgroup yesterday at my friend's home. Not a good friend, mind you, just a friend whose home is much larger and nicer than my own. She has three children as well, though her house is not terribly childproofed for young ones...I suppose that's because her oldest is five, and would never dream of pursuing the antics that my middle one thinks up.

So here we are, sipping tea and eating hors d'oeuvres and being decidedly civilized on a Tuesday afternoon while the testosterone flowed freely (Eight boys, and my two girls. Eight.) and from upstairs I hear...well, I hear nothing from Bella, which is definitely trouble. So I go upstairs and there is my daughter, along with two other little brothers (yes, but she was the ringleader I know it) feeding massive quantities of food pellets to two guniea pigs. OK, the boys were mostly throwing massive quantities of food pellets though the air and all over the room. Bella, however, had opened the cage and was attempting to brush these two little guniea pigs just like she does with her My Little Pony dolls at home. With the little girl's hairbrush. You know - the kind with little rubber ball tips that hurt when you press too hard and that get hair all wound up in them? Like, guniea pig hair? Yeah, those.

The poor little things didn't know what to do - here they are standing in the largest pile of food they'd ever seen - a windfall! - but at what price? Bella is no budding cosmotologist, I can tell you, and I have the brush scars to prove it.

So, after about 10 whole minutes with three grown women, a vacuum cleaner, a hefty bag and a dustpan and broom, we managed to make the room presentable again. Sort of.

Now here's the goofiest part. The baby was due for a nap right smack in the middle of playgroup, and I needed to go home to put her down. I asked my next door neighbor if she would bring Riley home, since, well, testosterone boy loves playgroup and so do I. She offered - can you believe it? - to keep Bella too.

"Really?" I asked. "Are you sure??"

There were some jokes tossed around about how many grownups it takes to watch Bella, haha, but yes, they would collectively watch my daughter and I could come home and clear the dishes from two days ago (hey - Vincent has the flu, give me a break).

About 45 minutes later, Bella walks in the door covered in magic marker. My neighbor proceeds to assure me that it is washable marker at least three times before I ask, "Hey, why are you so sure it's washable?"

Well, because she drew all over the oldest daughter's bedroom door, her carpet, and her doll collection, that's why. And they were able to wash it out.


Playgroup is at my house next week. I hope no one is plotting revenge.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Powdery snow is not good for building snowmen. HELP!! I'm melting!!! Posted by Hello

The Magic of Snowstorms, part two

Vincent is sick with the flu and while he actually went to work today and yesterday, his absence in the labor of this household has caused me to *gasp* get behind on my blog entries. We will now return to our regularly scheduled blog entry from yesterday...

See....this is what I'm talkin'' about. Sunday we went outside and jumped into the snow with wild abandon. We went sledding down our little hill. We went sledding down our neighbor's driveway. We treated the shoveled sidewalk like a luge track and went sledding down that. Even Adelyn went sledding for the first time - at least I think it was Adelyn - she was bundled so tightly that I couldn't really see her face.

Who is this child?? Posted by Hello

I love living in a town where all of the neighborhood has children the same age as mine, and we can all walk out of our back door and just play. Later, I will tell you how I hate living in a neighborhood where I cannot escape my neighbors, nice as they are, and get some privacy, but usually I adore them. I'm just not that private. See? Here is yet ANOTHER photo of my children, for all to see:

Snow bunnies Posted by Hello

Later, I walked all by myself to Starbucks for a fat free caramel macchiato. It was the first time in weeks that I was able to savor an entire cup of caramel sweetness without interruption. Though the air was cold and I forgot my gloves, the sky had that magical pinkish glow and the world was quiet and it was the best cup of coffee that I have ever had in my life.

(Of course we will do the addition - though you can allegedly make one yourself, how could I move to a house too far to walk to Starbucks if I want one? Besides, I'd have to get my espresso maker out of the basement.)

Yeah, so Sunday we all played together and came inside and made hot chocolate and watched LOTS and LOTS of TV (I'm just not a great mother, OK?), and while I did not actually have sex during this snowstorm I loved it still.

All of us...the down jacket makes me look even fatter than I actually am! Or could it be the caramel macchiatos? Posted by Hello

Monday, January 24, 2005


Adelyn exploded last night. She has had terrible diarrhea all week and was sitting on the kitchen floor when she pooped, and the poop filled her diaper and shot out of the back of her pants in little greenish poop puddles on the floor.

Puddles of poop. On. The. Floor.

Which I would have stepped on if my husband did not notice the poop and scream like a little girl.

Thank God I married a Metrosexual.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

The Magic of Snowstorms, part one

Let me be clear - the magic of snowstorms when you are single, or at least childless, is this - lying around all day, watching John Hughes movies and drinking beer. Surfing the internet. Making comfort food that takes, like, ALL DAY to cook. Having sex with your boyfriend or husband, or yourself, if you're really desperate (Where are all of those alleged love children from the Blizzard of '96 anyway?).

Napping. Then napping again.

Now, children are a miracle and boy I adore mine, just look at the shrine of pictures already for a blog that is less than one month old. However, the children get cold very very easily and do not like Being Wet In The Snow, particularly when it is still snowing. They are not great shovelers as toddlers and preschoolers (we have not allowed Adelyn to try shoveling yet, but my guess is that she shows little promise, being that she can't even crawl yet). They cannot clear snow off of the minivan, and they demand to be led around the yard in their sleds. Going down the slide into a snowdrift is not nearly as fun for them as sliding into Fall leaves. Plus, they get very very antsy being stuck inside all day, and they begin to demand that I CALL SOMEONE to come over and play. Basically, the Magic of Snowstorms for children does not occur until AFTER the actual storm is over.

Riley bravely attempts to slide in the midst of the blizzard. Notice the mailtruck in the background - I guess they were serious about that rain, sleet and snow thing! Posted by Hello

Today, snow is blanketing the Northeast, and we are all Stuck. Inside. All. Day. Near as I can tell, there are no John Hughes movies on, but I wouldn't know, because we are watching The Little Mermaid for the third time. I am extremely grateful to have made chicken pot pie, from scratch except for the cheater pie crust, and it is morphing into mouth watering comfort food as we speak.

Can you smell it? It is AMAZING. I will post the recipe later if I get a chance.

And I actually did nap, but mostly because I'm not feeling well. I suppose there's still time for sex after the kids go to bed, and HBO has a new movie every Saturday night.

I started this post with the intention of bitching about being cooped up and unshowered and covered with flour. But it looks as though snowstorms are still magic at our house, even as the snow contunues to fall.

This may seem like the first time I'm doing this, but it's really not

I used to keep an online journal at iParenting, but I had a hard time writing without cursing, so it didn't last terribly long. Anyway, you can read along from the early days here. It follows the span from when Riley was about six months old, until Bella was about four months old.

In a normal person, that would span the course of about five years, but for me, it was more like a year and a half.

I'm really 33, so this isn't that bad...

You Are 30 Years Old


Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

I suppose a little younger than my real age isn't bad. But with all of the drinking I thought for sure that I'd be about 19.

No, who am I kidding? Thirtysomething is who I am. Now would that make me Hope, or Nancy?

Friday, January 21, 2005

Twelve Steps

This is how pathetic I am:

Last night I went to Target in order to exchange my new shower curtain liner for the right color. Do you know I was actually trying to scrub the mold off my old one? They are $5.99 at Target. NEVER SCRUB A SHOWER CURTAIN LINER. What a waste of like, 20 whole minutes of my life. OK, my MIL's life mostly, when she was visiting after Adelyn was born. Cleaning is not generally a high priority in this household, but I do welcome out of town guests who like to scrub my filthy home.

Here's how uninvolved I am in my own housecleaning:

When my MIL came to visit, I found her in the downstairs coat closet. "Vincent asked me to tackle the closet," she says. I am so out of the cleaning loop in my own home that 1) I didn't know the coat closet was a problem and 2) my husband had absolutely no hope that I would notice, so he had to beg his mother for help and finally 3) I had pretty much forgotten that we had a coat closet in the first place.

Of course I let her clean it. I am not an idiot.

Oh, but I digress. Last night.

Anyway, I get to the return counter at Target, and the woman looks up at me and says, "Hey...are you here like, every day?"

Hello. My name is Lisa, and I am a Target-oholic.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

If you don't hear from me in a few days, call 911

I think I'm slowly bleeding to death. I know this is probably TMI, but seriously, I got my period for the first time since Adelyn's birth on Monday and I have since been wearing both a super tampon AND a maxi pad at all times. I have ruined several pairs of underwear, a pair of Gap jeans, and some jogging pants (of course I don't jog - let me clarify - these are MATERNITY jogging pants that I find too comfortable to give up. That thing about your maternity clothes BECOMING your clothes after three children? Horribly, TRUE.).

So when I collapse from anemia or blood loss or something, and I'm home alone all day with children too young to dial 911, how long do you think I have before the angels start singing and dwarves begin advising to "head into the light"?? Ugh. Just pray that it will be quick.

On another note, I'm throwing resumes out there in hopes to begin counseling part-time. This will allegedly finance our SUPER-DUPER HOME ADDITION and provide me with granite countertops and a Jacuzzi bath tub. Oh, and wall ovens. TWO of them.

Problem is, I don't much feel like doing counseling. I LOVED my old job but, in social work, three kids in day care does not leave one with a huge profit. Even so, we would have come out ahead and I considered going back to work. But, my husband pointed out that I could work part time evenings and weekends and I'd only need to work for like, one shift at McDonald's and bring home the same amount of money. That hurt my ego, dammit. I have a masters degree from a fucking Ivy League Institution (who would strip me of it quickly if they hard the language coming out of this keyboard!) and I deserve a High Paying Job! Vincent also points out that social workers contribute nothing to the economy and that's why we are so underpaid.

Vincent's little "I'm an MBA" theories really piss me off sometimes.

So, for the past few years I was actually doing administrative social work, systemic stuff regarding child weflare policy, and advocacy for child welfare families in accessing other social services and education. For some perspective on my role, Vincent points out that if I had the same hierarchical level in his corporation, we could have granite countertops and a chef and HE could stay home with the kids (you see why he pisses me off now, don't you?).

Unfortunately, you can't really do that systems stuff part time - so it's back to therapy, which I also enjoy, but not nearly as much. I've also looked into some other interesting jobs, and one organization (one you know!) called to schedule an interview with me as I was typing this. It is next Wednesday morning, and the ids are at preschool, but I have no idea yet who will watch the baby.

After having the same job for 10 years, this job hunt stuff is giving me chest pains.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Three peas in a pod Posted by Hello

kisses Posted by Hello

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Attention Target shoppers

Well, my little experiment didn't work. I thought that if I didn't go to Target for a few weeks, I'd save us the inevitable $100 per shopping trip that I usually spend on each Target extravaganza.

Isn't it funny how you can always count on the fact that some diapers, shampoo, and a cute (not so) little turtleneck can always spring you almost exactly $100??

I've been absent since Christmas Eve, about three weeks.

Anyway, I headed over there tonight with my Red Target Visa and my 10% off coupon, and, low and behold, I spent...


Imagine that.

Friday, January 14, 2005

They may not get to college, but they'll know how to somersault!

OK, so we have decided to spend the children's Christmas money on The Little Gym instead of putting it into their 529 accounts. We have never spent any gift money given to them and have always contributed instead to a college fund. You know, because they're bright little buggers and we expect them to go to college and drink and have sex as much as we did.

Uh, wait a minute. Hmmm.

Of course, I worry that our silly priorities (Why plan for the future?? Our kids need GYMNASTICS classes!) sometimes give Americans a bad image, and...well, that and our frequently narcissistic foreign policies, and yes, I do think this guy is Satan's spawn, but hey, who wants to talk politics and religion on a, ahem, "Mommy Blog??"

Oh wait! I don't have any readers!


I feel much better now.

Will be going away for the weekend to visit family in Virginia. Looking forward to traffic on the DC Beltway.

Thank God for DVD players!!

Yeehah! More conspicuous consumption!

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Why I am still 30 pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight

Well, the US Health and Human Services Secretary says "it's not too hard" to eat less and exercise. Fruits and vegetables should be increased to about 4 1/2 cups a day.

For lunch today I had a Whopper Jr. with onion rings (they have Matchbox cars AND Dora toys in their kid's meals - a heavenly combination in my household).

Tonight I ate about 4 servings of penne with alfredo sauce. I did, however, add peas and tricolored peppers to the alfredo.

Uh, and pepperoni.

Aren't onions vegetables?

Macaroni face LOVES to eat! Posted by Hello

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

What the fuck???

While I appreciate being able to say FUCK as often as I wish -

Fuck Fuck FUCK!!

I am infuriated that the first half of tonight's post was completely washed away. It was about moving or expanding our house and our little town that we live in and our neighbors and how I wished someone was reading this blog and could throw in some objective advice - and eblogger has gone and tsunamied my post.

(Is it too early to make tsunami references with anything but horrified reverence? I saw a South Park episode once that talked about how AIDS was finally funny, as was anything, as long as you waited 20 years first. Anyway, just to clarify, the tsunami is decidely NOT funny but I do like the mental image of my words being swept off the page. I have a sick sense about me -sorry if I offend. But you know, I watch SOUTH PARK for God's sake. Read on at your own risk.)


The upside of this is that I have something else to ramble about in another post. Writer's block my ass.

Money money money money...MON-ey!

Tuesday afternoons are all about playgroup. And while we don't indulge in bloody marys like some other moms (moms who are much luckier than I am), play group has turned into a $100 affair.

Once a week.

Every. Week.

First come the appetizers, for the kids and the adults. Seven layer dip, cheese and crackers, grapes, pretzels, you name it. Then we progress to pizza - always from the same pizzeria - two plain pies (cut in tiny pieces) and one white spinach and tomato (the ladies got class). Finally, the kids have dessert (usually glazed donuts, sometimes cupcakes or cookies as well) and the moms have tea and cake (cheesecake, apple pie, etc). The hostess buys everything for that week, and the playgroup moves from house to house on a rotating schedule.

Now, this is my only playgroup experience, and aside from drooling over the cocktails served at other people's functions (I would chug mojitos every day, given the opportunity), I have no basis for comparison. There are six boys, 4 -5 years old, and three younger siblings (two of them mine). Do people usually do all of this fussing and cutting cheese and buying cheesecake and the like for playgroup? Weekly? I thought we'd just drink diet cokes and watch the kids body slam each other until they passed out. Guess not. Anyway, I so desperately enjoy the socialization that I could care less if it cost me $200 every time I did it.

Which is probably why we are struggling for money to build our addition. That and I like granite countertops and double convection wall ovens. I am like, so totally awesome in the kitchen and would love to actually have counter space with which to express my culinary expertise.

And an hour a week at The Little Gym for Riley and Bella. A girl can dream, right?

Monday, January 10, 2005

Am I crazy?

Am I seriously considering spending almost $600 to end two of my little buggers to The Little Gym once a week, for a paltry hour? To the utter dismay of my husband, the answer appears to be yes.

I've had this blog set up since New year's Day and haven't been inspired to write anything yet. But I think that I need to just get used to writing again, and the rest will hopefully follow. How's that for a leap of faith?

So back to my rambling, as the children are watching PBS - God love PBS and their lack of commercials - and I figure I've got about 10 more minutes before someone drags me away from the computer. Can it possibly be worth that much money to get a structured activity for one afternoon a week?

Hmmm. As I'm writing this, my oldest, just over 4 years old, is head butting me and begging to have a friend over to play.

So much for PBS.

Worse, he's head butting me in the vagina because I am sitting in the chair in front of the computer with my legs slightly apart. But I got him back by farting on him, so it's all good.

Ah, the indignities of motherhood.

Yes, and here comes the 2 1/2 year old, playing with her brother's batman figures. "The batmans are dancing," she claims, and I have to wonder what sort of impact her brother's testosterone will have on her adolescence.

"Batman is a tree," she says.

Batman is a tree! Posted by Hello

I applaud her imagination.

Once, I told Riley a joke:

"Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side!"

He responded by running to the front window.

"There's no chicken," he said. "You made a mistake!"

So ALARMINGLY literal. I repeated the joke for Bella, my 2 year old. She laughed, thank God. It's amazing how two children can be so different. It makes me wonder what the third one will be like...

Well, the littlest princess awakens and the day must go on. At least I can watch Oprah while I nurse.