The middle of the night began like any other. Jesse arrived beside our bed at approximately 2:30 AM and announced, as usual, that he had to pee. Kip grumbled his standard response which alluded to the fact that the bathroom is ON THE WAY to our bedroom, and helpful facts like: " no self respecting boogeyman would hide in a toilet anyway-they prefer dry places like under your bed or in your closet", blah blah, blah while he accompanied Jesse on business, and we began our nightly game of Musical Beds.
I am starting to think that maybe Jesse doesn't have the major sleep issues we have always believed he has. I am starting to suspect IT IS ALL ABOUT THE MATTRESS. Last year, Kip and I did some major wheeling and dealing with a friend of a friend who is Heir to a Mattress Empire, who made a single phone call and got us an INCREDIBLE DEAL on a mattress that is worth a gazillion dollars. We don't own a house; but we proudly invested in one hell of a mattress. Reminds me we need to make a will. There could be a lot of fighting over that thing.
So as I took Jesse's place in his crappy Ikea bed while he snuggled down in my bed on my warm spot no less, it occurred to me that maybe if we got the kid a better mattress he might stay in his own bed most nights. Or-at least I would sleep more comfortably. And with this thought, I began to drift off to dreamland...
Only to be awakened by Annie; who is usually such a sound sleeper we have to hold a mirror under her nose to make sure she is breathing. Nothing will get your heart going faster than a high pitched whine that BUILDS and BUILDS til it is a BLOOD CURDLING SHRIEK. So I jumped over to her bed in the darkness--where she lay screaming and kicking her feet and whaling her arms. I attempted to pick her up-and if you want to know what this feels like, open a blender one day while it's on PUREE and put your face into it. The conversation goes something like this:
ME; Annie-what's wrong honey?
ANNIE: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
ME: Do you not feel well? Are you sick?
ANNIE: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
ME: Annie, can you please stop kicking me in the nose and tell me what is wrong?
ANNIE: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
ME: Do you want a teddy bear (Waaa/Kick combo) Do you have an earache? (Waaaaa/ Head butt into chin) Do you want a blanket? (Particularly offensive--response is a double kick to clavicle) DO YOU WANT ME TO BEND STEEL WITH MY MIND???
(At this point I am thinking; Emergency Room. Because I would love to explain to a group of doctors at 3:20 am that I had to come in because I DON"T SPEAK WAA.)
ANNIE: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
ME: (Head in hands. Bad flashback of Nights 2001-2003.)Annie.....Please. Let Mommy Help You.
ANNIE: Waaa Waaa Waaaa
ME: Wait---did you mean (Hallelujah music plays here) Waaaaaaaa-ter? Water? Is that it? DO YOU NEED WATER? BECAUSE MY GOD---I CAN DO THAT!!!
ANNIE: In my Hello Kitty Cup with ice to the top.
So I ran to the kitchen and Kip met me there and we worked as a team to locate the Hello Kitty Sippy Cup and fill it with the appropriate amount of ice and bring it to her, at which point she insisted we fetch a flashlight so that she could SEE REALLY SEE that we had not been stingy with the ice and that it was, indeed, FILLED TO THE TOP.
Two sips and she was out like a light.
I went to bed thinking that the next day I would work on solving problems that were a little easier: like how to bring about world peace or what to do about global warming.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
RenoVaTions
I had 1/4 of Jesse & Annie's room painted when I decided that Kip had been right all along, and that renovating the apartment over the course of two days, in addition to working this weekend on a design deadline for MUD, was maybe NOT SUCH A GOOD IDEA.
So I just painted three walls. Well, really 2 and 3/4 because the side of the 3rd wall was super tricky and involved painting around shelving which i could not take down because I could not figure out how to work the freaking drill-- so I just made a line with some painter's tape and just STOPPED. I was ALMOST at the end of the wall-about 7 inches from it-but who cares. It's mod. Plus, I don't think it is so noticible given the fact that I tried to hang the new curtains before the paint had dried and the large swatches of semi gloss I got all over the striped cotton fabric make an interesting pattern and sort of keep your eyes from going to the curio boxes that I attempted to hang- but again, because I could not work the drill- had to install by hammering the screws into the drywall. Theory is the same right? Nail...screw...whatever. Although, I am thinking maybe I should not put anything heavy into them just yet. Worked til 2:30 am last night, was up at 7 and stepping in random piles of cat vomit that I could not see because most of the furniture in the apartment is IN THE KITCHEN.
And to think I could have just left things the way they were and finished Harry Potter.
So I just painted three walls. Well, really 2 and 3/4 because the side of the 3rd wall was super tricky and involved painting around shelving which i could not take down because I could not figure out how to work the freaking drill-- so I just made a line with some painter's tape and just STOPPED. I was ALMOST at the end of the wall-about 7 inches from it-but who cares. It's mod. Plus, I don't think it is so noticible given the fact that I tried to hang the new curtains before the paint had dried and the large swatches of semi gloss I got all over the striped cotton fabric make an interesting pattern and sort of keep your eyes from going to the curio boxes that I attempted to hang- but again, because I could not work the drill- had to install by hammering the screws into the drywall. Theory is the same right? Nail...screw...whatever. Although, I am thinking maybe I should not put anything heavy into them just yet. Worked til 2:30 am last night, was up at 7 and stepping in random piles of cat vomit that I could not see because most of the furniture in the apartment is IN THE KITCHEN.
And to think I could have just left things the way they were and finished Harry Potter.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
PRioRiTieS
So the other night at bedtime, I was tucking Jesse in and our conversation went a bit like this:
ME: Goodnight, I love you.
JESSE: Why do you always say that? Why are you always saying you love me?
ME: Because I do, and i want you to know you are the most important thing to me.
JESSE: Really? (dramatic pause) Because I thought WORK was.
At which point I attempted with both hands to force my heart back into the GAPING CHEST WOUND his words had left.
I told him yesterday that I needed to fly out of town on business today, and that I would be leaving Realllllllly Early but I would be home at bedtime. At 2:30 am he appeared beside our bed and asked if I was leaving yet, before jumping in beside me. At 4:45 he was awake again, watching me get ready in the darkness, and at 5:30 he was clinging to my neck and crying hysterically that he did not want me to leave.
At 6:30 am I was on a plane and sobbing. I was the woman in Seat B2 that sobbed for two hours. Silent sobbing--but the shoulder shuddering, tray table shaking, snot dripping onto your blouse kind of crying nontheless. Which must have made the other passengers on the plane feel VERY CONFIDENT AND HAPPY. And all poor Kip could do was to just keep handing me beverage napkin after beverage napkin.
My two hours of sobbing also completely clogged my left ear and covered my contact lenses with protein deposits, so that when I exited the plane, I was almost completely blind and half deaf. Not to mention VERY PRETTY with my puffy swollen face and snot covered blouse.
So Kip changed our return flight home so that I could be back by 7 pm, which I was. Bearing LOTS OF GIFTS. Because really, nothing says "I feel totally guilty about working instead of staying home and raising my children" like a big bag of overpriced airport toys.
But here's the thing Jesse Bear-should you find this post in cyber space some day far in the future. I have never loved work more than you. But sometimes work has been easier. Sometimes I knew more about what the heck I was doing at work than what i was doing at home. Work has never demanded from me some of the things that being your Mom has asked of me. And here's the thing: I LOVE WORK. One of my greatest hopes for you is that you will see that work can be a joyful thing--that you will find something you love to do and do it with all your heart and soul. That you will remember that WORK IS A GOOD THING. So I hope you will forgive me, and know that I tried my best to juggle it all and to be a good mom. I hope you know that I was ALWAYS CONFLICTED. And that even when I HAD to leave you sometimes, that it verily broke my heart each time.
ME: Goodnight, I love you.
JESSE: Why do you always say that? Why are you always saying you love me?
ME: Because I do, and i want you to know you are the most important thing to me.
JESSE: Really? (dramatic pause) Because I thought WORK was.
At which point I attempted with both hands to force my heart back into the GAPING CHEST WOUND his words had left.
I told him yesterday that I needed to fly out of town on business today, and that I would be leaving Realllllllly Early but I would be home at bedtime. At 2:30 am he appeared beside our bed and asked if I was leaving yet, before jumping in beside me. At 4:45 he was awake again, watching me get ready in the darkness, and at 5:30 he was clinging to my neck and crying hysterically that he did not want me to leave.
At 6:30 am I was on a plane and sobbing. I was the woman in Seat B2 that sobbed for two hours. Silent sobbing--but the shoulder shuddering, tray table shaking, snot dripping onto your blouse kind of crying nontheless. Which must have made the other passengers on the plane feel VERY CONFIDENT AND HAPPY. And all poor Kip could do was to just keep handing me beverage napkin after beverage napkin.
My two hours of sobbing also completely clogged my left ear and covered my contact lenses with protein deposits, so that when I exited the plane, I was almost completely blind and half deaf. Not to mention VERY PRETTY with my puffy swollen face and snot covered blouse.
So Kip changed our return flight home so that I could be back by 7 pm, which I was. Bearing LOTS OF GIFTS. Because really, nothing says "I feel totally guilty about working instead of staying home and raising my children" like a big bag of overpriced airport toys.
But here's the thing Jesse Bear-should you find this post in cyber space some day far in the future. I have never loved work more than you. But sometimes work has been easier. Sometimes I knew more about what the heck I was doing at work than what i was doing at home. Work has never demanded from me some of the things that being your Mom has asked of me. And here's the thing: I LOVE WORK. One of my greatest hopes for you is that you will see that work can be a joyful thing--that you will find something you love to do and do it with all your heart and soul. That you will remember that WORK IS A GOOD THING. So I hope you will forgive me, and know that I tried my best to juggle it all and to be a good mom. I hope you know that I was ALWAYS CONFLICTED. And that even when I HAD to leave you sometimes, that it verily broke my heart each time.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Where Have All the Bloggers Gone?
Well, as evidenced by the fact that there has not been an update since July 10, that whole "Guest Blogger" thing worked out REALLY WELL. Remind me not to ask you people to feed my plants or water my cat next time we go out of town, I mean, Sheesh.
So here's a quick update of NEW EVENTS on Veasey Street.
ANNIE GAVE UP HER CHOOPA. (Choopa: noun, small plastic sucking device inserted by parents into squalling newborn's mouth and often not removed for four or five years. Also known as Binky, Paci, and that thing in her mouth that makes it impossible to understand what she is saying, and will cause her to need braces when she is twelve--thereby ruining her first kiss at thirteen-- when either a rubber band will fly out of her mouth as the deal is being closed, or she will lock front teeth with the boy who also had a CHOOPA for the first four years of his life.)
And all it took was some DISNEY PRINCESS COSTUMES. Behold the Power of Ariel! Bow down before the Influence of Tinkerbelle! Who knew that offering a bribe of a blue satin dress with white elbow gloves could be so LIFE CHANGING. And before one of the three of you loyal readers points out that the "Princess" way of thinking may not be the healthiest image for young girls today, let me just say that we always make it a big point to tell Annie that Princesses are really very much like the CEO's of companies...like MOMMY. And then we just stand back and let her Order Everyone Around while Stomping her Glass Slippered Foot and Talking About How Much She Hates Math.
The Princess Costume Collection truly rocked Annie's world, but it was nothing compared to an impulse purchase I also made before I left Target. And that would be.....A NIGHTGOWN. Because as Annie said: IT IS A DRESS YOU CAN SLEEP IN? REALLY? A DRESS FOR NIGHT? A PINK DRESS FOR IN MY BED? CAN I WEAR IT FOR THE NEXT SEVENTY TWO HOURS? I LOVE IT I LOVE IT DO YOU LOVE IT? HEY MR. UPS GUY-DID YOU NOTICE MY NEW NIGHTGOWN? LET'S CALL NONNEE BECAUSE SHE WILL WANT TO KNOW ALL ABOUT THESE NIGHTGOWN THINGS BECAUSE SHE MAY NOT KNOW THAT SOMEONE INVENTED A DRESS FOR BED!!!
Which later lead to what will now forever be referred to as: The Great Underwear Under The Nightgown Debates of '07.
Initially, we went commando. Because we love to give her the opportunity to discard as many articles of clothing onto the bedroom floor for someone else to pick up as possible. And because, well, being Lazy Mom, I figured if we always took them off each night we would never find ourselves in trouble during those times where we don't bathe for weeks.
But apparently the BEST WAY to show your BRAND NEW NIGHTGOWN to the man who brings hamburgers for dinner, the super of the building, the son of your nanny, and the odd workmen that come through the place daily is to LIFT IT UP OVER YOUR HEAD AND SHAKE YOUR TUSH. This move was popularized by Kate Moss at some point in the 80's, but Annie is just a natural.
After Much Discussion (and feel free to join in the debate right here--in the comments section) it was decided that what was needed was NEW UNDERWEAR. With Ariel on it. And Belle. And Cinderella..................
So here's a quick update of NEW EVENTS on Veasey Street.
ANNIE GAVE UP HER CHOOPA. (Choopa: noun, small plastic sucking device inserted by parents into squalling newborn's mouth and often not removed for four or five years. Also known as Binky, Paci, and that thing in her mouth that makes it impossible to understand what she is saying, and will cause her to need braces when she is twelve--thereby ruining her first kiss at thirteen-- when either a rubber band will fly out of her mouth as the deal is being closed, or she will lock front teeth with the boy who also had a CHOOPA for the first four years of his life.)
And all it took was some DISNEY PRINCESS COSTUMES. Behold the Power of Ariel! Bow down before the Influence of Tinkerbelle! Who knew that offering a bribe of a blue satin dress with white elbow gloves could be so LIFE CHANGING. And before one of the three of you loyal readers points out that the "Princess" way of thinking may not be the healthiest image for young girls today, let me just say that we always make it a big point to tell Annie that Princesses are really very much like the CEO's of companies...like MOMMY. And then we just stand back and let her Order Everyone Around while Stomping her Glass Slippered Foot and Talking About How Much She Hates Math.
The Princess Costume Collection truly rocked Annie's world, but it was nothing compared to an impulse purchase I also made before I left Target. And that would be.....A NIGHTGOWN. Because as Annie said: IT IS A DRESS YOU CAN SLEEP IN? REALLY? A DRESS FOR NIGHT? A PINK DRESS FOR IN MY BED? CAN I WEAR IT FOR THE NEXT SEVENTY TWO HOURS? I LOVE IT I LOVE IT DO YOU LOVE IT? HEY MR. UPS GUY-DID YOU NOTICE MY NEW NIGHTGOWN? LET'S CALL NONNEE BECAUSE SHE WILL WANT TO KNOW ALL ABOUT THESE NIGHTGOWN THINGS BECAUSE SHE MAY NOT KNOW THAT SOMEONE INVENTED A DRESS FOR BED!!!
Which later lead to what will now forever be referred to as: The Great Underwear Under The Nightgown Debates of '07.
Initially, we went commando. Because we love to give her the opportunity to discard as many articles of clothing onto the bedroom floor for someone else to pick up as possible. And because, well, being Lazy Mom, I figured if we always took them off each night we would never find ourselves in trouble during those times where we don't bathe for weeks.
But apparently the BEST WAY to show your BRAND NEW NIGHTGOWN to the man who brings hamburgers for dinner, the super of the building, the son of your nanny, and the odd workmen that come through the place daily is to LIFT IT UP OVER YOUR HEAD AND SHAKE YOUR TUSH. This move was popularized by Kate Moss at some point in the 80's, but Annie is just a natural.
After Much Discussion (and feel free to join in the debate right here--in the comments section) it was decided that what was needed was NEW UNDERWEAR. With Ariel on it. And Belle. And Cinderella..................
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
MERDY'S GUEST BLOG
The actual move is over--but because there is still so much to unpack I have decided to do the smart thing AND RUN AWAY TO KALAMAZOO. In my absence, in order to maintain my loyal readership of 4, I will have some Guest Bloggers. Guest Bloggers will receive my gratitude and oh, maybe a MUG. Email me your entries people. Just try it: it's like literary skinny dipping--fun to do at least one time by monnlight while intoxicated. So here is MERDY'S BLOG:
As a fellow MudChick (MC), I too have a nickname given to me by Lorrie - it's Merdy. Don't know why or how and along with Peedles, she is the only one who calls me that. And I answer. Because as Peedles said, when someone you respect gives you a nickname you don't ask why, you just answer and sign that name to all your emails to her. I no longer own my PYOP studio so does that make me a former MC or a MC alumni...or maybe I'm a MC for life? Someone recently asked me what my career goals were and I had to think about it for a minute. My response? I sold them along with my studio.
I don't really understand the blogging world, but Lorrie tells me it's the wave of the future, that to be in business you have to blog. So here I am blogging...on her blog. I don't know why people want to put all their thoughts, rants, pictures, glimpses into their lives and the lives of their family and friends in cyberspace for all the world to see. But as a reader, it's a great way to keep up with the lives and mental state of my few friends who have, own or write? blogs. Maybe one day I will see the light and have my very own blog to write about blogging on.
I've been meaning to guest blog for a while now since I told Lorrie about my new business venture. Always trying to help out, she said she would put a link to my site on her website. After a careful surfing session of ournameismud.com I determined that she has no links section! Thanks anyway Lorr. Ah, but then she said I could guest blog and plug my business here. So to all her faithful readers (are you up to 3 now?) it is www.hipflops.com - custom flip flops for any occasion!
I meant to write this yesterday but here is how my weekend went: As a New Yorker, I am always jealous of the people who LOVE Central Park, and can't get enough. Jealous of the rollerbladers who glide by effortlessly up a hill or down a hill and can weave in and out of the pedestrians, cyclists and dogs, stop on a dime. No knee pads, elbow pads or wrist guards, no helmets. Or my friends who enjoy sitting in Central Park on a hot summer day, enjoying "all that New York City has to offer." So this weekend I decided that I would try to be one of these people and I met my friend in the park. Brought my chair, the paper, ipod, the works. It was sorta fun. I caught up with my friend, saw some half naked guy, (who should not have been half naked in public or private for that matter) do yoga, and listened patiently to a grown man argue with the ice cream vendor that his cone broke when he opened the package and wanted a new one (just give him a new one already so I could get my Chipwich dammit). I'd rather be by someone's pool with a clean bathroom nearby and liquor cabinet within an arms reach, especially on a hot summer day.
The following day, yesterday, I went to get breakfast with my cousin. I was feeling dizzy and decided to stop at the Bagel store for Gatorade. As she was handing it to me, I passed out, right there on the table. As my cousin was trying to revive me, luckily a nurse was there and helped her get me down on the ground and elevate my legs. I came to on the floor of this Bagel store (yuck!) and saw some concerned folks looking over me, getting ice, calling 911. I also saw some people going about their business ordering their bagels with schmear not paying me any mind! None of the employees tried to help or offer me water...unbelievable. The ambulance came, I went to the ER and was released within a few hours, all chalked up to dehydration. I am now content to sit in my air conditioned apt. making hipflops, letting everyone else take advantage of all New York City has to offer.
So, sorry this blog is late. I was on the floor of a Bagel store, in an ambulance, in the ER. I gotta take a shower...STAT.
Again, it's www.hipflops.com and thanks for the link Lorr! Love, Merdy
As a fellow MudChick (MC), I too have a nickname given to me by Lorrie - it's Merdy. Don't know why or how and along with Peedles, she is the only one who calls me that. And I answer. Because as Peedles said, when someone you respect gives you a nickname you don't ask why, you just answer and sign that name to all your emails to her. I no longer own my PYOP studio so does that make me a former MC or a MC alumni...or maybe I'm a MC for life? Someone recently asked me what my career goals were and I had to think about it for a minute. My response? I sold them along with my studio.
I don't really understand the blogging world, but Lorrie tells me it's the wave of the future, that to be in business you have to blog. So here I am blogging...on her blog. I don't know why people want to put all their thoughts, rants, pictures, glimpses into their lives and the lives of their family and friends in cyberspace for all the world to see. But as a reader, it's a great way to keep up with the lives and mental state of my few friends who have, own or write? blogs. Maybe one day I will see the light and have my very own blog to write about blogging on.
I've been meaning to guest blog for a while now since I told Lorrie about my new business venture. Always trying to help out, she said she would put a link to my site on her website. After a careful surfing session of ournameismud.com I determined that she has no links section! Thanks anyway Lorr. Ah, but then she said I could guest blog and plug my business here. So to all her faithful readers (are you up to 3 now?) it is www.hipflops.com - custom flip flops for any occasion!
I meant to write this yesterday but here is how my weekend went: As a New Yorker, I am always jealous of the people who LOVE Central Park, and can't get enough. Jealous of the rollerbladers who glide by effortlessly up a hill or down a hill and can weave in and out of the pedestrians, cyclists and dogs, stop on a dime. No knee pads, elbow pads or wrist guards, no helmets. Or my friends who enjoy sitting in Central Park on a hot summer day, enjoying "all that New York City has to offer." So this weekend I decided that I would try to be one of these people and I met my friend in the park. Brought my chair, the paper, ipod, the works. It was sorta fun. I caught up with my friend, saw some half naked guy, (who should not have been half naked in public or private for that matter) do yoga, and listened patiently to a grown man argue with the ice cream vendor that his cone broke when he opened the package and wanted a new one (just give him a new one already so I could get my Chipwich dammit). I'd rather be by someone's pool with a clean bathroom nearby and liquor cabinet within an arms reach, especially on a hot summer day.
The following day, yesterday, I went to get breakfast with my cousin. I was feeling dizzy and decided to stop at the Bagel store for Gatorade. As she was handing it to me, I passed out, right there on the table. As my cousin was trying to revive me, luckily a nurse was there and helped her get me down on the ground and elevate my legs. I came to on the floor of this Bagel store (yuck!) and saw some concerned folks looking over me, getting ice, calling 911. I also saw some people going about their business ordering their bagels with schmear not paying me any mind! None of the employees tried to help or offer me water...unbelievable. The ambulance came, I went to the ER and was released within a few hours, all chalked up to dehydration. I am now content to sit in my air conditioned apt. making hipflops, letting everyone else take advantage of all New York City has to offer.
So, sorry this blog is late. I was on the floor of a Bagel store, in an ambulance, in the ER. I gotta take a shower...STAT.
Again, it's www.hipflops.com and thanks for the link Lorr! Love, Merdy
Saturday, July 07, 2007
A Boy From Chelsea... OBVIOUSLY
This is Jesse's latest creation from Build a Bear. Obviously, you just can't have too many stuffed animals dressed in pleather.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Again with the boobs thing.
As my faithful readership can tell (all 3 of you that are now left) I have been BUSY BUSY BUSY and unable to blog. But thank goodness my friends continue to send me PSAs about breast cancer and stuff. I mean, I BEG them to send me porn, but I guess this is as close as they feel comfortable getting. Anyway; once again-let's pause for a moment and think about saving second base:
PLEASE TAKE THE TIME AND DO THIS. Thank you for your time!
From a nurse:
I'll never forget the look in my patients eyes when I had to tell
them they had to go home with the drains, new exercises and no
breast. I remember begging the Doctors to keep these women in
the hospital longer, only to hear that they would, but their hands
were tied by the insurance companies. So there I sat with my patient
giving them the instructions they needed to take care of themselves,
knowing full well they didn't grasp half of what I was saying,
because the glazed, hopeless, frightened look spoke louder than the
quiet 'Thank you' they muttered.
A mastectomy is when a woman's breast is removed in order to remove
cancerous breast cells/tissue. If you know anyone who has had a
mastectomy, you may know that there is a lot of discomfort and pain
afterwards. Insurance companies are trying to make mastectomies an
outpatient procedure. Let's give women the chance to recover
properly in the hospital for 2 days after surgery.
Mastectomy Bill in Congress
There's a bill called the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act which
will require insurance companies to cover a minimum 48-hour hospital
stay for patients undergoing a mastectomy. It's about eliminating
the 'drive-through mastectomy' where women are forced to go home just
a few hours after surgery, against the wishes of their doctor, still
groggy from anesthesia and sometimes with drainage tubes still attached.
Lifetime Television has put this bill on their Web page with a
petition drive to show your support. Last year over half the House
signed on.
PLEASE!! Sign the petition by clicking on the Web site below. You
need not give more than your name and zip code number.
http://www.lifetimetv.com/breastcancer/petition/signpetition.php
This takes about 2 seconds. PLEASE PASS THIS ON to your friends and
family, and on behalf of all women, THANKS.
PLEASE TAKE THE TIME AND DO THIS. Thank you for your time!
From a nurse:
I'll never forget the look in my patients eyes when I had to tell
them they had to go home with the drains, new exercises and no
breast. I remember begging the Doctors to keep these women in
the hospital longer, only to hear that they would, but their hands
were tied by the insurance companies. So there I sat with my patient
giving them the instructions they needed to take care of themselves,
knowing full well they didn't grasp half of what I was saying,
because the glazed, hopeless, frightened look spoke louder than the
quiet 'Thank you' they muttered.
A mastectomy is when a woman's breast is removed in order to remove
cancerous breast cells/tissue. If you know anyone who has had a
mastectomy, you may know that there is a lot of discomfort and pain
afterwards. Insurance companies are trying to make mastectomies an
outpatient procedure. Let's give women the chance to recover
properly in the hospital for 2 days after surgery.
Mastectomy Bill in Congress
There's a bill called the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act which
will require insurance companies to cover a minimum 48-hour hospital
stay for patients undergoing a mastectomy. It's about eliminating
the 'drive-through mastectomy' where women are forced to go home just
a few hours after surgery, against the wishes of their doctor, still
groggy from anesthesia and sometimes with drainage tubes still attached.
Lifetime Television has put this bill on their Web page with a
petition drive to show your support. Last year over half the House
signed on.
PLEASE!! Sign the petition by clicking on the Web site below. You
need not give more than your name and zip code number.
http://www.lifetimetv.com/breastcancer/petition/signpetition.php
This takes about 2 seconds. PLEASE PASS THIS ON to your friends and
family, and on behalf of all women, THANKS.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Boobs Mitchell Says....
HELP SAVE SECOND BASE:
http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=2
http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=2
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Stressed is Desserts spelled backwards
What good is having a blog if you can't bore all four of your faithful readers to death with a long diatribe about the pressures you are under? Because if I hold it all in; the stress will continue to manifest itself as THESE HORRIBLE THINGS that appear on my face and do not disappear under two tons of maybelline concealer. (And by GOD if I am going to have to suffer from hormonal acne; I want a hickey or two to show for it.)
So here it is: free floating random stress. Welcome to the jungle.
First of all- I am MOVING. And I will not go into the hell of moving because the best way to deal with how horrible it is, is to just keep going through it. Eventually you come to the end of it, and you find yourself in an office where you can't locate anything you need, and then you realize that you have thrown it away because at some point in the move you looked around AND JUST WANTED TO LIGHT A MATCH.
But adding to the stress of moving is the fact that my father is also moving. From a pallatial estate in Kalamazoo to a one bedroom. And rather than get a dumpster-he decided that the best way to deal with his accumulated possessions WAS TO SEND THEM TO HIS CHILDREN.
(And I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Dad. I love that you have put the time and effort into choosing things for me and my children that are precious and symbolic of treasured memories. I do. Really. Please don't cut me out of the will.)
Amongst a lot of GREAT STUFF ( really Dad, thanks) the following items arrived by UPS while I stood knee deep in receipts from 1989, surrounded by half packed cardboard boxes:
A Stamford High yearbook from 1986. I graduated in 1981. My siblings did not attend this school.
All the pictures of my older sister after she had just given birth to her first child (apparently even a father cannot tell us apart at that particular moment in our lives)
A four foot high paper mache sculpure of acrobats on trapeezes.
ME: (on phone) Dad-thanks--erm, you know I live in an APARTMENT, right? It's an awfully big sculpture...
DAD: I always knew you loved it.
BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Merely letting off a little of the old steam...squeezing the end of the balloon to make rude noises. Not too much though, in the end I think the only thing holding me together is the stress itself.
So here it is: free floating random stress. Welcome to the jungle.
First of all- I am MOVING. And I will not go into the hell of moving because the best way to deal with how horrible it is, is to just keep going through it. Eventually you come to the end of it, and you find yourself in an office where you can't locate anything you need, and then you realize that you have thrown it away because at some point in the move you looked around AND JUST WANTED TO LIGHT A MATCH.
But adding to the stress of moving is the fact that my father is also moving. From a pallatial estate in Kalamazoo to a one bedroom. And rather than get a dumpster-he decided that the best way to deal with his accumulated possessions WAS TO SEND THEM TO HIS CHILDREN.
(And I do not mean to sound ungrateful, Dad. I love that you have put the time and effort into choosing things for me and my children that are precious and symbolic of treasured memories. I do. Really. Please don't cut me out of the will.)
Amongst a lot of GREAT STUFF ( really Dad, thanks) the following items arrived by UPS while I stood knee deep in receipts from 1989, surrounded by half packed cardboard boxes:
A Stamford High yearbook from 1986. I graduated in 1981. My siblings did not attend this school.
All the pictures of my older sister after she had just given birth to her first child (apparently even a father cannot tell us apart at that particular moment in our lives)
A four foot high paper mache sculpure of acrobats on trapeezes.
ME: (on phone) Dad-thanks--erm, you know I live in an APARTMENT, right? It's an awfully big sculpture...
DAD: I always knew you loved it.
BUT I AM NOT COMPLAINING. Merely letting off a little of the old steam...squeezing the end of the balloon to make rude noises. Not too much though, in the end I think the only thing holding me together is the stress itself.
Friday, June 15, 2007
HAPPY FATHER'S DAY
Dear Kip,
This is your sixth official FATHER'S DAY. Seven years ago we would have spent it sleeping late, enjoying a brunch of Eggs Benedict and several Bloody Marys, and then futzing around- unemcumbered-- throughout the day--doing any damn thing we pleased. Not today. Today we are not together because in addition to being an Amazing Father, you continue to be an Awesome Husband--supportive of me in every way. So while most guys today are enjoying a round of golf or just relaxing, you are taking care of our babies so that I can pack for our move, and do what I need to do for MUD--the third and neediest child of our union.
Happy Father's Day! Like Jesse wrote in his card: YoU Are ThE GrATisT DaD. (Upon hearing Jesse say that, Annie told me you are "the very, very, very gratist.") I agree.
It seems like just yesterday that Jesse had the rotovirus-- when you leaned over to fetch the diaper you had dropped, leaving him naked on his back on the changing table above you, he had explosive diarrhea-- which landed right on top of your head, and you stood up with poop dripping down the side of your cheek and YOU DID NOT KILL ME WHEN I LAUGHED. In fact, you laughed WITH me. Thank you for being that kind of dad--the kind who sees the humor even when you are knee deep in poop.
Remember when you used to throw Jesse up in the air and I would say "DON'T DO THAT!" in my SanctiMommy voice which I used to warn you against dangers that lurked everywhere--and you would laugh and say "Relax-I'm not going to DROP him" and then you were tossing him up in the air on the streetcorner and his head HIT THE STREETLIGHT? Thanks for being the kind of dad who turned to me and said "Ok, I'm not going to do THAT again."
Thanks for being the kind of Dad who is there for the shots. (At some point, they are going to figure out that if it's bad...Really Bad...It's ALL YOU, Special time with Dad and oh yeah-a throat culture and a needle or two.) Thanks for always being strong enough to do what has to be done for their own good. I remember when Annie had her accident; seeing you in the emergency room with her, holding her tiny hand down while they stuck needles in it--the tears gathered at the corners of your eyes--but still, holding her hand steady, doing what needed to be done.
Thanks for being the kind of Dad who helps pick up. When I announce I am the Evil Witch and will throw away any item left on the floor in fifteen minutes, you are always on the side of the "Good Guys". "Let's clean up and show that Evil Witch a thing or two" you say, and as a team leader; you melt me.
Thanks for being the kind of Dad who finds all of the flatulence that occurs in this house hysterically funny. Annie is going to be quite the little lady--except for when someone pulls her finger.
Thanks for being open to learning about how we can be better parents, and better people. A lot of men would have gone and surfed porn when "The Secret" was popped in the DVD. A lot of fathers would grow weary of a mother who quotes "SuperNanny." You are always open and receptive, and as a result I think we have both grown along with the kids.
You are an amazing Dad. You talk to your children about important things like teamwork, honesty, and love. In the middle of the night, after the worst possible nightmare, they find comfort in your warm embrace and the knowledge that you are always there for them--like a rock-- a safe haven. Pappa Bear.
Forgive me for all the times I have told you how you should do something differently.
You are doing it so well.
You are
so very loved.
XO
L
Why Do We Blog?
"My story is important not because it is mine, God knows,
but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are
you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours.
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I,
of these stories of who we are and where we have come from
and the people we have met along the way
because it is precisely through these stories, in all their particularity,
as I have long believed and often said,
that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally."
-Frederick Buechner
but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are
you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours.
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I,
of these stories of who we are and where we have come from
and the people we have met along the way
because it is precisely through these stories, in all their particularity,
as I have long believed and often said,
that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally."
-Frederick Buechner
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Awwwwwwww some
We keep a list attached to the refridgerator door with a magnetic pen beside it. Everytime we run out of something--cheerios, toothpaste, pickled onions, etc. it must be WRITTEN ON THE LIST. It is part of an overall complex system of household management. I grocery shop once a week and I rely on The List to keep the cupboards stocked.
WOE unto thee who takes that last of any item and does not write it on The List. The next seven days will sound like this:
"This would be a beautiful day...IF WE HAD ANY APPLESAUCE."
"You wanna know why she's crying? I'll tell you why she's crying. Your daughter wants APPLESAUCE."
"We were discussing APPLESAUCE, not PMS. Don't try to change the subject."
"I would have cooked tonight, but the recipe called for APPLESAUCE."
"I realize it is the 9th inning, but you need to go to the store RIGHT NOW for applesauce and I am not kidding. Yeah well, maybe you should have thought about the two seconds it takes to write the word applesauce on The List"
(Note to Readers: I Know! It's a wonder he stays with me.)
So today I went to reach for The List to go shopping--and found The List WAS MISSING.
Someone had removed the entire thing from the door of the refridgerator--a crime that would surely mean death, divorce, or at the very least no sex for several weeks.
(Note to Readers: I Know! He really is a great guy to put up with it!)
So I tore through the house cursing a blue streak in my mind. When I do this, I resemble Muttley the dog on Wacky Racers--the one that was always muttering "smukumrackumshmakumsuchum."
(Note to Readers: My memory is not what it was. If you remember this show with Penelope Pittstop, please post in comments)
FINALLY, I locate The List in Jesse's room, on his desk.
Underneath "Garbage Bags" he has written
I LuvE MoMmy.
Which means there is enough sugar in this house to last for a long, long time.
WOE unto thee who takes that last of any item and does not write it on The List. The next seven days will sound like this:
"This would be a beautiful day...IF WE HAD ANY APPLESAUCE."
"You wanna know why she's crying? I'll tell you why she's crying. Your daughter wants APPLESAUCE."
"We were discussing APPLESAUCE, not PMS. Don't try to change the subject."
"I would have cooked tonight, but the recipe called for APPLESAUCE."
"I realize it is the 9th inning, but you need to go to the store RIGHT NOW for applesauce and I am not kidding. Yeah well, maybe you should have thought about the two seconds it takes to write the word applesauce on The List"
(Note to Readers: I Know! It's a wonder he stays with me.)
So today I went to reach for The List to go shopping--and found The List WAS MISSING.
Someone had removed the entire thing from the door of the refridgerator--a crime that would surely mean death, divorce, or at the very least no sex for several weeks.
(Note to Readers: I Know! He really is a great guy to put up with it!)
So I tore through the house cursing a blue streak in my mind. When I do this, I resemble Muttley the dog on Wacky Racers--the one that was always muttering "smukumrackumshmakumsuchum."
(Note to Readers: My memory is not what it was. If you remember this show with Penelope Pittstop, please post in comments)
FINALLY, I locate The List in Jesse's room, on his desk.
Underneath "Garbage Bags" he has written
I LuvE MoMmy.
Which means there is enough sugar in this house to last for a long, long time.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Steve Irwin is Dead
Steve Irwin is dead.
I am guessing most of you know this already, and can probably recall exactly where you were and what you were doing when you got the sad news about The Crocodile Hunter.
Jesse was five at the time. And maybe because we didn't want to ruin what looked to be a perfectly good day, or maybe because we just knew it would lead to incessant questions about life, death, and stingrays: WE CONCEALED THE CROCODILE HUNTER'S DEATH FROM HIM.
It has been a Year Long Version of Weekend at Bernie's. ( Except we didn't schlep a corpse around,and there were no umbrella drinks.) And it hasn't been particularly easy; there has been many a moment when I questioned my decision--but a few glasses of pinot usually removed all doubt.
For example, a few months ago, we were at the aquarium in Charleston with the cousins. Joseph--one of the "older" cousins--turned to Jesse, (who was admiring the Crocodile Hunter Action Figure in the gift shop), and said matter-of-factly: "HE'S DEAD ." Which was a bit of a problem, because after all we were having a swell day at the aquarium so why ruin it--especially when a peaceful cocktail hour was almost in reach. And so I sunk to a new all time low; debating wether or not Steve Irwin was dead with a nine year old who knew the truth, in front of my five year old who I did not want to hear it. Sorry, Joseph. Think of me as your Wacko Aunt. BTW: that thing I said about your mom smoking crack was wayyyyy out of line. My bad.
But today, at our house: THE CROCODILE HUNTER HAS DIED. (again)
It happened because several children in Jesse's class told him that Greg Wiggle is dead. Now this is JUST NOT TRUE and my gosh, if someone is going to lie to my child then it better be me.
Greg Wiggle is NOT DEAD. He has retired his yellow jersey--given it over to the understudy SAM as a matter of fact (I know this because I am a Wiggelette) because he suffers from an odd disease that causes him to become nauseous when he wiggles, and that is THE TRUTH.
(And let me just say-there is a HUGE Wiggle/Crocodial Hunter connection which comes into play--Steve having starred alongside the Fab Four in WIGGLEY SAFARI--in which he sang, danced and interjected "aw Crikey" into a bunch of musical numbers. I think if you play the video backwards, it says Dorothy the Dinosaur choked to death on a ham sandwich, but that could be a rumor.)
So anyway: I told Jesse today that Greg Wiggle was NOT in fact dead, but felt compelled to cop to some passing of someone--so I told him the truth about Steve Irwin--thinking enough time had passed, Discovery Channel has been usurped by Nick Jr., and his feelings for the Australian Icon safely transferred to Ned, of Ned's Declassified--who BTW- BETTER NOT FREEKING DIE ANYTIME SOON.
Jesse has been sad off and on throughout this beautiful day. He wants to know if the stingray "is sorry." He wants to know how Steve's children feel. Mostly: he wants to know if Kip and I will ever leave him.
But in between these moments, he plays and sings, and annoys his sister, and paints pictures, and experiments with feeding the cat legos. So really; maybe it isn't Jesse who has the problem with change and loss and the whole circle of life thing.
One of these days I will need to break the news to him that all those times he was able to call Spiderman on his direct phone line, his dad was in the bathroom on his cell. I will have to tell him that the magic ring I let him wear to school when he is worried about something is really something that was picked up at a tag sale and has no powers. We will have to discuss Santa, the Easter Bunny, and our own personal "Valentine's Pixie."
In the meantime, drive safely Ned of Ned's Declassified. I am counting on you to be with us for awhile.
I am guessing most of you know this already, and can probably recall exactly where you were and what you were doing when you got the sad news about The Crocodile Hunter.
Jesse was five at the time. And maybe because we didn't want to ruin what looked to be a perfectly good day, or maybe because we just knew it would lead to incessant questions about life, death, and stingrays: WE CONCEALED THE CROCODILE HUNTER'S DEATH FROM HIM.
It has been a Year Long Version of Weekend at Bernie's. ( Except we didn't schlep a corpse around,and there were no umbrella drinks.) And it hasn't been particularly easy; there has been many a moment when I questioned my decision--but a few glasses of pinot usually removed all doubt.
For example, a few months ago, we were at the aquarium in Charleston with the cousins. Joseph--one of the "older" cousins--turned to Jesse, (who was admiring the Crocodile Hunter Action Figure in the gift shop), and said matter-of-factly: "HE'S DEAD ." Which was a bit of a problem, because after all we were having a swell day at the aquarium so why ruin it--especially when a peaceful cocktail hour was almost in reach. And so I sunk to a new all time low; debating wether or not Steve Irwin was dead with a nine year old who knew the truth, in front of my five year old who I did not want to hear it. Sorry, Joseph. Think of me as your Wacko Aunt. BTW: that thing I said about your mom smoking crack was wayyyyy out of line. My bad.
But today, at our house: THE CROCODILE HUNTER HAS DIED. (again)
It happened because several children in Jesse's class told him that Greg Wiggle is dead. Now this is JUST NOT TRUE and my gosh, if someone is going to lie to my child then it better be me.
Greg Wiggle is NOT DEAD. He has retired his yellow jersey--given it over to the understudy SAM as a matter of fact (I know this because I am a Wiggelette) because he suffers from an odd disease that causes him to become nauseous when he wiggles, and that is THE TRUTH.
(And let me just say-there is a HUGE Wiggle/Crocodial Hunter connection which comes into play--Steve having starred alongside the Fab Four in WIGGLEY SAFARI--in which he sang, danced and interjected "aw Crikey" into a bunch of musical numbers. I think if you play the video backwards, it says Dorothy the Dinosaur choked to death on a ham sandwich, but that could be a rumor.)
So anyway: I told Jesse today that Greg Wiggle was NOT in fact dead, but felt compelled to cop to some passing of someone--so I told him the truth about Steve Irwin--thinking enough time had passed, Discovery Channel has been usurped by Nick Jr., and his feelings for the Australian Icon safely transferred to Ned, of Ned's Declassified--who BTW- BETTER NOT FREEKING DIE ANYTIME SOON.
Jesse has been sad off and on throughout this beautiful day. He wants to know if the stingray "is sorry." He wants to know how Steve's children feel. Mostly: he wants to know if Kip and I will ever leave him.
But in between these moments, he plays and sings, and annoys his sister, and paints pictures, and experiments with feeding the cat legos. So really; maybe it isn't Jesse who has the problem with change and loss and the whole circle of life thing.
One of these days I will need to break the news to him that all those times he was able to call Spiderman on his direct phone line, his dad was in the bathroom on his cell. I will have to tell him that the magic ring I let him wear to school when he is worried about something is really something that was picked up at a tag sale and has no powers. We will have to discuss Santa, the Easter Bunny, and our own personal "Valentine's Pixie."
In the meantime, drive safely Ned of Ned's Declassified. I am counting on you to be with us for awhile.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Rose's Blog Topic
Rose asked: What song is your child singing right now in public?
Well, Rosita--that would most likely be 100 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL. Kip and I felt that teaching him that little ditty would be educational, since after all, counting is involved.
Well, Rosita--that would most likely be 100 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL. Kip and I felt that teaching him that little ditty would be educational, since after all, counting is involved.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Busted
Last week, Kip and I had to both fly out of town on business. This caused great anxiety for Jesse--not so much that we were boarding a plane together (after all--if a problem occurs mid flight, Superman will appear and rescue you as evidenced by the documentary SUPERMAN RETURNS)--but because it involved me making a statement involving our departure and return times, and Jesse has begun to suspect I am A BIG FAT LIAR.
I don't know when we started telling Jesse that we were going to "MEETINGS" when we would go out to socialize. In my usual lazy mom way, I must have had a EUREKA moment when I realized he did not cry, cling to my legs, or throw himself repetitively at the elevator doors as they were closing; if I simply told him that Mommy and Daddy had to go to work. And thus began the mythology of the nighttime meeting. If Mommy changes out of her black sweater and takes a shower, chances are, she is going to A MEETING. MEETINGS often occur on a weekend night. Mommy and Daddy are always in a great mood after a MEETING. One night Jesse turned to me and asked me why my breath always smelled so funny when I come home from my MEETINGS, but beyond that he rarely has complained--having made the association between WORK and HAVING MONEY TO BUY STUFF.
So for the most part, I am totally advocating this whole LIE TO YOUR CHILD thing. I'm thinking it might even be to my advantage when he grows up and talks about what an amazing work ethic his Mom had--if I can just remember to have a damn breath mint before I walk back in the door.
But back to our legitimate trip last week.
JESSE: I don't want you to go on this trip! ( Read this aloud with a realllllllly whiny voice)
ME: Oh honey, you know Mom and Dad will be back right at bedtime.
JESSE: But you LIE Mom--you LIE all the time.
ME: (lying) I DO NOT LIE. What do you mean?
JESSE: You always SAY you will be back at bedtime, but you never are. The movie is always over and I always have to watch tv and wait for you on the couch. You are ALWAYS late. You never come home when you say you are going to come home (read this and dissolve into dramatic tears.)
ME: (said with six years of accumulated guilt about working and occasionally going out for a glass of wine with friends) I am SO SORRY Honey! I will try to be on time.
(Go back and forth about ten more minutes with more tears and begging)
ME: Honey-I promise, this will ALL BE WORTH IT. Mommy and Daddy really have to work hard so that we can have all the things that make our life so great: so we can spend more time together and go do stuff together, and stuff like that. But I promise I will not be late. (Blappitty Blah Blah--eventually get out the door in time to make the flight.)
And of course, as luck would have it-our return flight is delayed an hour and a half--which meant that every reassurance I gave about what time we would be home was meaningless. Of course we would not be home in time for bedtime, and of course Jesse would still be up waiting for us....
Which he was. And like a 16 year old caught sneaking back into the house after curfew, I apologized for being late. Surprisingly, he was nonplused. And I soon discovered why.
"It's okay that you are late" he said, "I know what you were working for. We're getting a FARMHOUSE."
I don't know when we started telling Jesse that we were going to "MEETINGS" when we would go out to socialize. In my usual lazy mom way, I must have had a EUREKA moment when I realized he did not cry, cling to my legs, or throw himself repetitively at the elevator doors as they were closing; if I simply told him that Mommy and Daddy had to go to work. And thus began the mythology of the nighttime meeting. If Mommy changes out of her black sweater and takes a shower, chances are, she is going to A MEETING. MEETINGS often occur on a weekend night. Mommy and Daddy are always in a great mood after a MEETING. One night Jesse turned to me and asked me why my breath always smelled so funny when I come home from my MEETINGS, but beyond that he rarely has complained--having made the association between WORK and HAVING MONEY TO BUY STUFF.
So for the most part, I am totally advocating this whole LIE TO YOUR CHILD thing. I'm thinking it might even be to my advantage when he grows up and talks about what an amazing work ethic his Mom had--if I can just remember to have a damn breath mint before I walk back in the door.
But back to our legitimate trip last week.
JESSE: I don't want you to go on this trip! ( Read this aloud with a realllllllly whiny voice)
ME: Oh honey, you know Mom and Dad will be back right at bedtime.
JESSE: But you LIE Mom--you LIE all the time.
ME: (lying) I DO NOT LIE. What do you mean?
JESSE: You always SAY you will be back at bedtime, but you never are. The movie is always over and I always have to watch tv and wait for you on the couch. You are ALWAYS late. You never come home when you say you are going to come home (read this and dissolve into dramatic tears.)
ME: (said with six years of accumulated guilt about working and occasionally going out for a glass of wine with friends) I am SO SORRY Honey! I will try to be on time.
(Go back and forth about ten more minutes with more tears and begging)
ME: Honey-I promise, this will ALL BE WORTH IT. Mommy and Daddy really have to work hard so that we can have all the things that make our life so great: so we can spend more time together and go do stuff together, and stuff like that. But I promise I will not be late. (Blappitty Blah Blah--eventually get out the door in time to make the flight.)
And of course, as luck would have it-our return flight is delayed an hour and a half--which meant that every reassurance I gave about what time we would be home was meaningless. Of course we would not be home in time for bedtime, and of course Jesse would still be up waiting for us....
Which he was. And like a 16 year old caught sneaking back into the house after curfew, I apologized for being late. Surprisingly, he was nonplused. And I soon discovered why.
"It's okay that you are late" he said, "I know what you were working for. We're getting a FARMHOUSE."
Friday, June 01, 2007
Peedle's topic
So, when asked to suggest a blog topic, Peedles wrote:
"I, too, have been in an unblog-o-liscous state of mind. Sometimes life needs to be LIVED not BLOGGED....yeah yeah....I know you see through it....it really means I have a new man and something more fun to do...."
Which means that while P is currently getting a little "sumpin sumpin", I am left to stare at my two children and say: "CAN YOU PLEASE SAY SOMETHING ADORABLE AND WITTY FOR GAWD'S SAKE--MOMMY HAS A BLOG TO WRITE."
Perhaps the fish will die this weekend. Or maybe I will let you know what happens when you exceed the suggested serving size of sugar free candy. Inspiration can be lurking just around the corner--so watch where you are stepping.
"I, too, have been in an unblog-o-liscous state of mind. Sometimes life needs to be LIVED not BLOGGED....yeah yeah....I know you see through it....it really means I have a new man and something more fun to do...."
Which means that while P is currently getting a little "sumpin sumpin", I am left to stare at my two children and say: "CAN YOU PLEASE SAY SOMETHING ADORABLE AND WITTY FOR GAWD'S SAKE--MOMMY HAS A BLOG TO WRITE."
Perhaps the fish will die this weekend. Or maybe I will let you know what happens when you exceed the suggested serving size of sugar free candy. Inspiration can be lurking just around the corner--so watch where you are stepping.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
KIP'S TOPIC
Kip suggested I blog about the following:
"Why can children swim for hours in 60 degree ocean water, and when I go in up to my knees I want to throw up?"
Well, honey, let's see. While several possibilities spring to mind, I'm going to go with: BECAUSE YOU ARE AS OLD AS DIRT.
Here is a list of other things your children are currently able to do that YOU CANNOT.
1. Sniff their own toes. (For this-I am grateful. You have other odors you like to discuss--it's enough.)
2. Look styling while wearing the cammy shirt with the cammy shorts. And the Batman flip flops with the Pirates of the Caribean necklace. (You have got to stop playing it so safe--throw out the J CREW catalog and live a little, darling. )
3. Exist for hours on nothing more than three spoonfulls of LIFE cereal. ( You and I still believe that LOTS of people eat a whole chocolate cake in one sitting.)
4. Two words, baby: MONKEY BARS. (followed by slides, soccer, tag, and general bouncing off the walls, that for us results in weeks of soreness, stiffness, and sometimes not being able to get out of bed)
5. Manage to get somene to assist them with their personal hygene by sitting on the pot yelling "I am FINISHED...O DAD...I said...I AM DONE..."
Perhaps together we have managed to create two superbeings whose wonder powers only activate occassionally. They sometimes seem to be impervious to cold, hunger, and slapstick humor. I can attest that they can go HOURS and HOURS and HOURS without sleep.
But the most annoying thing that they CAN do which you seem unable to do is to COMPLY WITH MY ORDERS. They seem a bit clearer about who the boss is, my love. Perhaps you could work on that? XO
"Why can children swim for hours in 60 degree ocean water, and when I go in up to my knees I want to throw up?"
Well, honey, let's see. While several possibilities spring to mind, I'm going to go with: BECAUSE YOU ARE AS OLD AS DIRT.
Here is a list of other things your children are currently able to do that YOU CANNOT.
1. Sniff their own toes. (For this-I am grateful. You have other odors you like to discuss--it's enough.)
2. Look styling while wearing the cammy shirt with the cammy shorts. And the Batman flip flops with the Pirates of the Caribean necklace. (You have got to stop playing it so safe--throw out the J CREW catalog and live a little, darling. )
3. Exist for hours on nothing more than three spoonfulls of LIFE cereal. ( You and I still believe that LOTS of people eat a whole chocolate cake in one sitting.)
4. Two words, baby: MONKEY BARS. (followed by slides, soccer, tag, and general bouncing off the walls, that for us results in weeks of soreness, stiffness, and sometimes not being able to get out of bed)
5. Manage to get somene to assist them with their personal hygene by sitting on the pot yelling "I am FINISHED...O DAD...I said...I AM DONE..."
Perhaps together we have managed to create two superbeings whose wonder powers only activate occassionally. They sometimes seem to be impervious to cold, hunger, and slapstick humor. I can attest that they can go HOURS and HOURS and HOURS without sleep.
But the most annoying thing that they CAN do which you seem unable to do is to COMPLY WITH MY ORDERS. They seem a bit clearer about who the boss is, my love. Perhaps you could work on that? XO
Paris Hilton Paints Pottery!
Dear Paris,
Just when I thought there was absolutely NOTHING redeemable about you--you go and do THIS!
I know that if I only had a couple of weeks before I had to serve time in the slammer, that I too would seek a creative outlet of some kind. Since I paint pottery for a living, I most likely would take up collage. Or sewing. Or glass blowing. Or maybe I would spend that precious time in a corner at Chippendales with a bottle of pinot and a sketchpad.
The Paint Your Own Pottery Industry is probably all a-buzz with the release of this photo. As I type, some studio owner in Kansas is running to Kinkos and having brochures made that say "Painting Pottery is HOT!" I'm sure they appreciate the fact that you have made painting pottery "cool" again.
My gosh, I hope they have crafts where Lindsay is.
Best,
Lorrie
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