We are remodelling. It is hell. The microwave and the oven are in my dining room. Neither are hooked up. The refrigerator, luckily, still resides in the kitchen, which is getting a new tile floor.(goodbye, fake wood linoleum!)
But not having a kitchen and having all the kitchen stuff packed into the dining room makes it awful hard for me to call myself a housewife. (I do this on my days off so I don't feel guilty about not working full time.) I usually cook and clean and do laundry. Housewively things. But I can't cook without a stove. I won't bother cleaning when there is crap piled up in the dining room. Laundry it is!
Good thing we have the kitchenette in the basement apartment. I can dump some beans from the can in a pot and at least warm them up down there. Because, quite frankly, (and I never thought I would say this...) I miss real food. Not pizza, not Subway, not cereal or PB&J. Vegetables.
That said, tonight is weiners and beans. With ceasar salad and watermelon. I sure wish it would get warm so my summer meals were more enjoyable.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
"Hatfield" vs Erickson
My husband's family is pretty well known about Duluth. His father is active in several social clubs, owns a few properties, and is referred to by most as the "head of the Norweigian Mafia." Everyone knows there are no mafioso that are Scandanavian, but you get the idea. A pretty important guy around here.
So I have to be careful what I say here...
The other day on the way to pick up my kiddos from day care, I was taking my normal route and just happened to be behind a school bus. Where I turn off the #4 onto the dirt road where my daycare provider lives, there is a turn lane that the bus pulls onto to let a couple kids off. I waited patiently behind it. I was in no particular hurry and was enjoying actually listening to the radio, not Russ Bono singing about singing frogs. (Zane's favorite song)
Two boys belonging to one of the other infamous Duluth families got off the bus. They're infamous for their eccentricity, their role in the Apostolic Lutheran sect, their old-fashioned beliefs concerning the roles of women, and their large broods. (Simonsons, Lipes, Bruckelmeyers, etc.)
I watched them both flip the bus the bird as it drove away. Not impressed, I drove past them.
I am one of those people who wears her heart on her sleeve. My lack of appreciation for these two pre-teen boys' antics was probably written all over my face. I'm pretty sure they got wind of it, too, because they yelled something unpleasant at me as I drove past them. One boy, the bigger of the two, picked up a rock and actually threw it half-heartedly at my truck.
Now, my truck is no gem. My kids write their names in the dirt on the sides. The tailgate frequently begs for me to "wash me." There are a couple pretty good dents in it, and the paint is starting to peel off along the bottom of the doors. But I will be damned if I was going to let those little punks act that way toward me. I slammed on the brakes and backed up fast.
The looks on their faces were priceless. I think the younger boy peed himself a little bit. I asked them if they had something to say to me. Both were shaking in their Nikes at this point. They mumbled "no" and stared at me. I suggested at that point then that they not yell, throw things, or wave a certain finger at any other cars again. This was done under threat of me giving them a ride home so we could all three talk to their mother together and figure out how to solve their little attitude problem.
Now, knowing what I know about their family, I doubt their mother would be able to discipline these worthless little turds at all. I wondered what she would say to me, an outsider, chastising her children. I'm pretty sure she would take one look at my short hair, tattoos and ratty clothes and deem my ass unworthy of opinion.
But for the sake of not starting a feud that rivals the Hatfields and McCoys, I sure hope those little shits don't mess with me again. 'Cuz messing with the Norweigian Mafia around here is like playing with fire...eventually you'll get burned. (And as an Italian, I know some pretty good REAL mafia moves, and am not afraid to use them.)
So I have to be careful what I say here...
The other day on the way to pick up my kiddos from day care, I was taking my normal route and just happened to be behind a school bus. Where I turn off the #4 onto the dirt road where my daycare provider lives, there is a turn lane that the bus pulls onto to let a couple kids off. I waited patiently behind it. I was in no particular hurry and was enjoying actually listening to the radio, not Russ Bono singing about singing frogs. (Zane's favorite song)
Two boys belonging to one of the other infamous Duluth families got off the bus. They're infamous for their eccentricity, their role in the Apostolic Lutheran sect, their old-fashioned beliefs concerning the roles of women, and their large broods. (Simonsons, Lipes, Bruckelmeyers, etc.)
I watched them both flip the bus the bird as it drove away. Not impressed, I drove past them.
I am one of those people who wears her heart on her sleeve. My lack of appreciation for these two pre-teen boys' antics was probably written all over my face. I'm pretty sure they got wind of it, too, because they yelled something unpleasant at me as I drove past them. One boy, the bigger of the two, picked up a rock and actually threw it half-heartedly at my truck.
Now, my truck is no gem. My kids write their names in the dirt on the sides. The tailgate frequently begs for me to "wash me." There are a couple pretty good dents in it, and the paint is starting to peel off along the bottom of the doors. But I will be damned if I was going to let those little punks act that way toward me. I slammed on the brakes and backed up fast.
The looks on their faces were priceless. I think the younger boy peed himself a little bit. I asked them if they had something to say to me. Both were shaking in their Nikes at this point. They mumbled "no" and stared at me. I suggested at that point then that they not yell, throw things, or wave a certain finger at any other cars again. This was done under threat of me giving them a ride home so we could all three talk to their mother together and figure out how to solve their little attitude problem.
Now, knowing what I know about their family, I doubt their mother would be able to discipline these worthless little turds at all. I wondered what she would say to me, an outsider, chastising her children. I'm pretty sure she would take one look at my short hair, tattoos and ratty clothes and deem my ass unworthy of opinion.
But for the sake of not starting a feud that rivals the Hatfields and McCoys, I sure hope those little shits don't mess with me again. 'Cuz messing with the Norweigian Mafia around here is like playing with fire...eventually you'll get burned. (And as an Italian, I know some pretty good REAL mafia moves, and am not afraid to use them.)
How can it be?
I've been trying to figure this out. I tell it like it is. I get so many compliments on my frankness, the fact that I don't sugar-coat shit. But at the same time, that is what I get in the most trouble for at work.
So six of one, half a dozen of another. Should I shut up and be well-behaved or not? Should I speak my mind and deal with the repercussions? How come some people can get away with being sarcastic assholes and I get my ass spanked for it? WHY CAN'T I JUST BE ME? You guys read me cuz you like me, I'm guessing. I say the things we all think, in ways that are sometimes offensive. Sometimes they are refreshing. But sometimes life is offensive. Its hard to be good ALL the time. That's why there are so many alcoholics and drug abusers out there, maybe, they need an excuse for the things they say. Well, I don't need the guise of vices like those to speak my mind. I'll tell you what I think, even if you don't want to hear it. But know that it is always the honest truth. I'll never be kind just for the sake of being kind. Because if its all lies anyway, isn't that just as hurtful?
So yes, your loved-one may die. They are sick. They had serious procedures done. A hospital is a place of death, dying, and disease. It happens to all of us eventually. And if your family member is inpatient, its likely they have something wrong with them. Don't ask me for odds. Don't ssk me for false hope, especially where there is none. Ask me for my professional opinion, and that's what you will get. I wont spare your feelings.
Probably why I get very few day shifts. The boss likes me on nights, when no one is around to ask me what I think.
So six of one, half a dozen of another. Should I shut up and be well-behaved or not? Should I speak my mind and deal with the repercussions? How come some people can get away with being sarcastic assholes and I get my ass spanked for it? WHY CAN'T I JUST BE ME? You guys read me cuz you like me, I'm guessing. I say the things we all think, in ways that are sometimes offensive. Sometimes they are refreshing. But sometimes life is offensive. Its hard to be good ALL the time. That's why there are so many alcoholics and drug abusers out there, maybe, they need an excuse for the things they say. Well, I don't need the guise of vices like those to speak my mind. I'll tell you what I think, even if you don't want to hear it. But know that it is always the honest truth. I'll never be kind just for the sake of being kind. Because if its all lies anyway, isn't that just as hurtful?
So yes, your loved-one may die. They are sick. They had serious procedures done. A hospital is a place of death, dying, and disease. It happens to all of us eventually. And if your family member is inpatient, its likely they have something wrong with them. Don't ask me for odds. Don't ssk me for false hope, especially where there is none. Ask me for my professional opinion, and that's what you will get. I wont spare your feelings.
Probably why I get very few day shifts. The boss likes me on nights, when no one is around to ask me what I think.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Kids, like Gremlins...
Who knew kids were so much like Gremlins?
They start out all cute and fuzzy, snuggly and cooing. Then, seemingly overnight, they become green warty troublemakers. Send them out into the neighborhood to play, and they multiply. Get them wet, and they boil, a rancid scent rising from the fouled waters. Feed them after midnight? Yeah, right. Then they turn into teenagers!
They start out all cute and fuzzy, snuggly and cooing. Then, seemingly overnight, they become green warty troublemakers. Send them out into the neighborhood to play, and they multiply. Get them wet, and they boil, a rancid scent rising from the fouled waters. Feed them after midnight? Yeah, right. Then they turn into teenagers!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Epic love is infinite.
Heroic, majestic and impressively great are the words used to define EPIC. Some people are so epic I can't get enough of being around them. Epic people make you want to be better but they aren't necessarily heroic, majestic or impressively great. Sometimes epic-ness is subtle. Sometimes it is not.
Being a parent is daily bursts of subtle epic-ness. It is the common thread that keeps all of us sane yet we look for the mountain-top epic-ness, often ignoring the idea that the key to surviving and thriving in this life is merely just taking the next breath. Sometimes as a parent you have to give your children the next breath so that they can go on.
I'm not a fan of parenting websites in general. Most books, websites, blogs and even pamphlets on parenting don't even scratch the surface of how completely epic it is to be a parent yet I keep reading. I want to be an epic mom.
Don't play the result. I read that expression today in an interview with Michael J. Fox. We all know how it ends, right? We are born, we live and we die. Life is epic, no matter how it's lived and no matter how someone tells me to live so why is do l keep seeking some sort of epic, majestic and impressively great advice or wisdom on the right way to live, love or raise my children? The result won't be favorable if I don't focus on the process.
Reading the interview today reminded me that the epic-ness of my life with my kids lies in the moment. Each moment has the potential to be epic but if I'm not actually there in that moment, then I am merely existing as I await the next grand gesture or memory making moment that they might remember when I'm pushing up daisies.
I try to remember to continue to smile when they are driving me crazy. I try, but its hard. All I want sometimes is peace and quiet for five whole minutes. If the quiet went much beyond that, I think I would die. Every moment is precious, epic in its own right. Will they remember me as an epic mom, when all I did was yell and cuss? Probably. They're my kiddos and I love them, and that goes on forever. Epic.
Being a parent is daily bursts of subtle epic-ness. It is the common thread that keeps all of us sane yet we look for the mountain-top epic-ness, often ignoring the idea that the key to surviving and thriving in this life is merely just taking the next breath. Sometimes as a parent you have to give your children the next breath so that they can go on.
I'm not a fan of parenting websites in general. Most books, websites, blogs and even pamphlets on parenting don't even scratch the surface of how completely epic it is to be a parent yet I keep reading. I want to be an epic mom.
Don't play the result. I read that expression today in an interview with Michael J. Fox. We all know how it ends, right? We are born, we live and we die. Life is epic, no matter how it's lived and no matter how someone tells me to live so why is do l keep seeking some sort of epic, majestic and impressively great advice or wisdom on the right way to live, love or raise my children? The result won't be favorable if I don't focus on the process.
Reading the interview today reminded me that the epic-ness of my life with my kids lies in the moment. Each moment has the potential to be epic but if I'm not actually there in that moment, then I am merely existing as I await the next grand gesture or memory making moment that they might remember when I'm pushing up daisies.
I try to remember to continue to smile when they are driving me crazy. I try, but its hard. All I want sometimes is peace and quiet for five whole minutes. If the quiet went much beyond that, I think I would die. Every moment is precious, epic in its own right. Will they remember me as an epic mom, when all I did was yell and cuss? Probably. They're my kiddos and I love them, and that goes on forever. Epic.
There are starving children in Africa, you know
My kids eat their dinner. The rule at our house is that we eat our dinner or we go to bed, but this has been a relaxed rule since Zane and Nora began eating real food, people-food, if you will. I want the little beasts to have a wide variety of foods that they like. When Brian and I began dating, I recall there was a certain young man that would only eat corn dogs and chicken nuggets, both high in nutrients (preservatives are nutrients, right?)and I didn't want to have to fight the vegetable battle with the new batch of kids too.
So in order to expand their palates, I make a variety of foods. Some are kid-friendly, some are not. Tonight was burritos of the bean and cheese variety and rice with black beans and corn. It wasn't spicy or bitter, two characteristics in foods that the little folks balk at. But from all the whining and protesting, you would think I was feeding them deep fried snake balls dipped in jalepeno fire sauce.
We ate outside at our new picnic table,too, and perhaps it was the novelty of that situation that set them off. Neither Zane nor Nora would eat their dinner. This resulted in me yelling at them, then threatening them, then standing sentinel at the end of their table, making sure they stuffed something into their pie-holes besides their juice boxes and their raspberries. I almost pulled out the guilt trip my folks used to use on my ass on meatloaf night. (Coincidentally I still despise meatloaf) My mom would put on her "I'm soooo disappointed in you" puss and then tell me about the starving children in Africa, specifically in Ethiopia at that time.
What I really wanted to tell her was to box up my meatloaf and send it over there. None of those Ethiopian kids were that hungry, anyway, I was sure. Tonight the Africans would have been the recipients of beans and rice and burritos. I wonder how those kids feel about Mexican.
So in order to expand their palates, I make a variety of foods. Some are kid-friendly, some are not. Tonight was burritos of the bean and cheese variety and rice with black beans and corn. It wasn't spicy or bitter, two characteristics in foods that the little folks balk at. But from all the whining and protesting, you would think I was feeding them deep fried snake balls dipped in jalepeno fire sauce.
We ate outside at our new picnic table,too, and perhaps it was the novelty of that situation that set them off. Neither Zane nor Nora would eat their dinner. This resulted in me yelling at them, then threatening them, then standing sentinel at the end of their table, making sure they stuffed something into their pie-holes besides their juice boxes and their raspberries. I almost pulled out the guilt trip my folks used to use on my ass on meatloaf night. (Coincidentally I still despise meatloaf) My mom would put on her "I'm soooo disappointed in you" puss and then tell me about the starving children in Africa, specifically in Ethiopia at that time.
What I really wanted to tell her was to box up my meatloaf and send it over there. None of those Ethiopian kids were that hungry, anyway, I was sure. Tonight the Africans would have been the recipients of beans and rice and burritos. I wonder how those kids feel about Mexican.
Friday, June 10, 2011
While I was on maternity leave, I got a new checking account at the bank across the road. I am a grown up now, and have to balance the account. My old checking account was so far off, there was no hope of balancing it. I still don't think there is, and the balance remains (I think) at zero. So I have been pretty diligent about this so far. Luna is almost 4 months old, so that means I have kept up on this for over 2 months. It's really not so hard. Mostly because I don't have internet banking access anymore.
That was a real kicker. I would look and see how much money was in my account on a daily basis, and spend accordingly. Nevermind that checks hadn't cleared. Nevermind that there was going to be an automatic withdrawal the next day. But like I said, grown up. Reality. FUCKING INTERNET BANKING BULLSHIT! I can't tell you how many overdraft fees that shit cost me.
That was a real kicker. I would look and see how much money was in my account on a daily basis, and spend accordingly. Nevermind that checks hadn't cleared. Nevermind that there was going to be an automatic withdrawal the next day. But like I said, grown up. Reality. FUCKING INTERNET BANKING BULLSHIT! I can't tell you how many overdraft fees that shit cost me.
Garage Sale Maven
I should get flashers for the back of my Suburban. A big sign warning that "I Brake For Garage Sales (and Squirrels)". I love when folks plop all their shit out on folding tables and expect others to pay good money for it. The flags at the end of driveways are my dream come true. And its getting to be that time of year where everyone is cleaning out their houses and having these wonderful little bazaars.
This morning I got a tackle box, two pairs of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and some sunglasses for Zane. Since he is 3, he isn't very particular about whether or not someone has worn his clothes before him. God bless the child for not being picky.
The garage sale is one of the only places I buy books (aside from Amazon) because the volumes of material I read are grossly extensive. I purchase kids' toys and books at yard sales, because if they are in decent shape, they are usually a pretty good deal.
I only wish there were yard sales in Minnesota in January, since that is the only time I want to spend the time getting all my old, used up crap together for a sale. In the summer, I am more about enjoying the sunshine and fair weather. (Note I didn't say "nice") Can you see that, though? Old ladies slogging through the snowbanks to come peruse my kids' too-small clothes? Not so much.
But the winter garage sale is an idea. I wonder if it could catch on, and how much I would have to pay the kids to tend the cash box. How long could their shifts be without being considered abuse or neglect? And would folks turn out? I may try it, if the mood strikes me. But more likely it will be October, before the snow is plowable.
This morning I got a tackle box, two pairs of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and some sunglasses for Zane. Since he is 3, he isn't very particular about whether or not someone has worn his clothes before him. God bless the child for not being picky.
The garage sale is one of the only places I buy books (aside from Amazon) because the volumes of material I read are grossly extensive. I purchase kids' toys and books at yard sales, because if they are in decent shape, they are usually a pretty good deal.
I only wish there were yard sales in Minnesota in January, since that is the only time I want to spend the time getting all my old, used up crap together for a sale. In the summer, I am more about enjoying the sunshine and fair weather. (Note I didn't say "nice") Can you see that, though? Old ladies slogging through the snowbanks to come peruse my kids' too-small clothes? Not so much.
But the winter garage sale is an idea. I wonder if it could catch on, and how much I would have to pay the kids to tend the cash box. How long could their shifts be without being considered abuse or neglect? And would folks turn out? I may try it, if the mood strikes me. But more likely it will be October, before the snow is plowable.
Wrong kid, wrong place...
So I got a call the other day. For anyone who knows me, I rarely answer my telephone. Bill collectors, salespeople, and other nuisances make it virtually impossible. Anyone who understands this position is a big fan of voicemail. I use it, everyone else should too. And for the short, informational shit, I appreciate a text message as much as the next person. Basically, I hate the phone. But anyway, this call.
It was Duluth Edison Charter School, where my oldest daughter will be going next fall. The sweet woman left a message about taking a placement test of some sort. Except at the time I listened to the message, I was cooking supper, watching two toddlers, and revelling in the sale of my second manuscript. In my helpless wasteland of a brain, I processed it as my oldest son's school. I informed him that he would have to go Friday to take a placement test. He was not thrilled, but not disgruntled, either, since it wasn't until late morning. He merely took five bucks and went and hopped on the bus.
An hour later, his guidance counselor, Andy, called me. Seems they had no clue what test Eli was there to take. I had no clue either. Until I called the number that the phone call had come from only to discover it was a completely different school. WHOOPS! MY BAD! Andy must think I am a total flake, since I can't keep track of who is doing what where.
I think Eli was tickled to have 5 bucks and the rest of the day with no chores. I wonder how Casey will place, since she is at Adventure Zone with her school patrol for the time this test is being administered. Can anyone say FLAKEY MAMA?!?
This rarely happens, but when it does, I feel like a boob. Sorry kids, Mommy's on crack again.
It was Duluth Edison Charter School, where my oldest daughter will be going next fall. The sweet woman left a message about taking a placement test of some sort. Except at the time I listened to the message, I was cooking supper, watching two toddlers, and revelling in the sale of my second manuscript. In my helpless wasteland of a brain, I processed it as my oldest son's school. I informed him that he would have to go Friday to take a placement test. He was not thrilled, but not disgruntled, either, since it wasn't until late morning. He merely took five bucks and went and hopped on the bus.
An hour later, his guidance counselor, Andy, called me. Seems they had no clue what test Eli was there to take. I had no clue either. Until I called the number that the phone call had come from only to discover it was a completely different school. WHOOPS! MY BAD! Andy must think I am a total flake, since I can't keep track of who is doing what where.
I think Eli was tickled to have 5 bucks and the rest of the day with no chores. I wonder how Casey will place, since she is at Adventure Zone with her school patrol for the time this test is being administered. Can anyone say FLAKEY MAMA?!?
This rarely happens, but when it does, I feel like a boob. Sorry kids, Mommy's on crack again.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The Black Widow Strikes!
Last week I bought life insurance. On my husband, myself, and our 7 children. You would think the insurance man would jump for joy, having earned a commission on 9 policies. But he earnestly tried to talk me out of policies on the kids. REALLY?
I have seen too much to not have policies on the little sheisters. A cabin could explode, a rogue car could careen into our front lawn, etc. I think I would rather be prepared for these things than not. He thinks I am insane. Maybe I am. Maybe not.
I sprung for the big mother policy on my husband, just because I know I'd be up Schitt Crick if he kicked off before these kids were grown and gone. Yeah, I can support myself and a couple of 'em, but I would hate to have to choose. Or move into a teeny little house while they were all still around. So half a mil on him should keep me set, and 100K on me. After all, he can hire a decent maid/cook/hooker for that.
So now I just have to wait for the inevitable. There will be an accident. Someone will die. Then it will be investigated and someone will bring up that I just bought these insurance policies. Jesus Christ! Can I not mourn in peace? No, I will be accused of orchestrating some sort of bizarre fireworks accident. Something. Maybe I should just forget it. Am I better off?
I have seen too much to not have policies on the little sheisters. A cabin could explode, a rogue car could careen into our front lawn, etc. I think I would rather be prepared for these things than not. He thinks I am insane. Maybe I am. Maybe not.
I sprung for the big mother policy on my husband, just because I know I'd be up Schitt Crick if he kicked off before these kids were grown and gone. Yeah, I can support myself and a couple of 'em, but I would hate to have to choose. Or move into a teeny little house while they were all still around. So half a mil on him should keep me set, and 100K on me. After all, he can hire a decent maid/cook/hooker for that.
So now I just have to wait for the inevitable. There will be an accident. Someone will die. Then it will be investigated and someone will bring up that I just bought these insurance policies. Jesus Christ! Can I not mourn in peace? No, I will be accused of orchestrating some sort of bizarre fireworks accident. Something. Maybe I should just forget it. Am I better off?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Favorite Celeb Mommy
Reese Witherspoon. I love that talented bitch. In the world of celebrity moms, she is my favorite. Remember how her Vanessa Lutz kicked pedophile ASS in "Freeway?" No? Well, you're missing out. Watch it.
I love movies and I love me some smutty gossip rags. They distract me while I'm waiting for the doctor or getting ripped off by the people at the oil change place who always tell me I need a new goddamn air filter. I especially love the idiocy and narcissism of the celebrity world.
I like how when they have a babies, they act like they are the first to do so and that we NEED to hear about their unique experience. Then they let us in on the secret of how to get rid of all that accumulated back fat when you only have a three part time chefs and trainers and nannies and.....yeah, thanks guys.
Back to Reese, why am I writing about her? Here is a favorite Reese quote, "If you are not yelling at your kids, you are not spending enough time with them."
TRUE DAT, Ms. Spoon! But my very favorite has to be when she was quoted as saying this; "There is something timeless and important about making people laugh, about being the bright spot in their day."
I laugh all day. I have to. I choose to. I see everything as potentially hilarious. Oscar Wilde quipped about this when he said, "Life's too important to be taken seriously."
TRUE DAT, Mr. Wilde, it IS too important. It is my opinion that taking things too seriously can be as dangerous as not taking them seriously enough. That is why I weave laughter into your day using my potty mouth. I do the yelling for all of us, as we spend way too much time with our kids. I try to strike a balance. Sometimes I fail.
I love movies and I love me some smutty gossip rags. They distract me while I'm waiting for the doctor or getting ripped off by the people at the oil change place who always tell me I need a new goddamn air filter. I especially love the idiocy and narcissism of the celebrity world.
I like how when they have a babies, they act like they are the first to do so and that we NEED to hear about their unique experience. Then they let us in on the secret of how to get rid of all that accumulated back fat when you only have a three part time chefs and trainers and nannies and.....yeah, thanks guys.
Back to Reese, why am I writing about her? Here is a favorite Reese quote, "If you are not yelling at your kids, you are not spending enough time with them."
TRUE DAT, Ms. Spoon! But my very favorite has to be when she was quoted as saying this; "There is something timeless and important about making people laugh, about being the bright spot in their day."
I laugh all day. I have to. I choose to. I see everything as potentially hilarious. Oscar Wilde quipped about this when he said, "Life's too important to be taken seriously."
TRUE DAT, Mr. Wilde, it IS too important. It is my opinion that taking things too seriously can be as dangerous as not taking them seriously enough. That is why I weave laughter into your day using my potty mouth. I do the yelling for all of us, as we spend way too much time with our kids. I try to strike a balance. Sometimes I fail.
He should know better, really
We have lived with Nora for a little over two years. We should know better than to leave her alone, especially when she is mad. Last Thursday we sent her to bed angry. Not because she wanted ice cream and couldn't have any. Not because Justin "the Bieb" Bieber was on TV and we wouldn't let her watch. But because we made her come inside and take a bath before bed. If you have any concept of just how grubby two-and-a-half-year-olds get after a day of playing outside, you understand why bathing is a necessary evil. Plus I had to work early Friday AM, so I was saving Brian an early wakeup. Baths always help the little people sleep a little sounder, a little longer.
Friday morning came, I shot off to work. At 648 I got a text message that Nora, in all her fury, had treated herself to a "spa day" using Desitin and diaper wipes. Apparently her hair would not need conditioner for the next 4 weeks, according to Brian. I asked for pictures and got a grainy image of her bed smeared in white, surrounded by diaper wipes. Not exactly what I was looking for, but whatever.
Friday afternoon, I picked Nora up from daycare. Yes, she was mighty greasy. But nothing a few Dawn baths couldn't handle. I headed for home, wit the grand idea of pitching her in the kitchen sink and scrubbing her good. Except when I got home, the ENTIRE dining room floor was covered in Fruity Pebbles. WHAT THE FUCK?!?
I phoned Brian, worried that some sort of cereal bandit had broken into the house. Not so, he affirmed. While he had snuck upstairs (not sneaky at 235#, my friend) to take that weak picture, Nora had decided to spoon feed Huckleberry (the dog) her breakfast. Brian had been in too much of a hurry to clean up the cereal, the Desitin, the diaper wipes, AND the 2-year-old.
Living with my husband is sometimes like living with FOUR kids 3 and under, except he makes bigger messes. I love him dearly, but he was REALLY DAMN LUCKY he wasn't home for that one.
Friday morning came, I shot off to work. At 648 I got a text message that Nora, in all her fury, had treated herself to a "spa day" using Desitin and diaper wipes. Apparently her hair would not need conditioner for the next 4 weeks, according to Brian. I asked for pictures and got a grainy image of her bed smeared in white, surrounded by diaper wipes. Not exactly what I was looking for, but whatever.
Friday afternoon, I picked Nora up from daycare. Yes, she was mighty greasy. But nothing a few Dawn baths couldn't handle. I headed for home, wit the grand idea of pitching her in the kitchen sink and scrubbing her good. Except when I got home, the ENTIRE dining room floor was covered in Fruity Pebbles. WHAT THE FUCK?!?
I phoned Brian, worried that some sort of cereal bandit had broken into the house. Not so, he affirmed. While he had snuck upstairs (not sneaky at 235#, my friend) to take that weak picture, Nora had decided to spoon feed Huckleberry (the dog) her breakfast. Brian had been in too much of a hurry to clean up the cereal, the Desitin, the diaper wipes, AND the 2-year-old.
Living with my husband is sometimes like living with FOUR kids 3 and under, except he makes bigger messes. I love him dearly, but he was REALLY DAMN LUCKY he wasn't home for that one.
Scared of the Basement
So the little shits are supposed to be cleaning up the basement (AKA the kid lair) before they go to their other parents' houses for two weeks. I am scared to go look. I keep hearing sounds that resemble whale communications, screams from Nora (nothing out of the ordinary there) and an occasional crash. I want to know what is going on, but I am scared to open the door.
There was a disaster earlier today involving the bathroom sink and Zane's watering can down there. I know because Casey came and asked me if she could use the shop vac to suck up water. Dear God! I'm afraid to ask.
Maybe if I just ignore them a while, it will end up being fine. I know there are no whales down there, so maybe I will look tomorrow. Maybe I won't. It might be one of those situations where it is just best to keep the door shut and pretend it doesn't exist.
There was a disaster earlier today involving the bathroom sink and Zane's watering can down there. I know because Casey came and asked me if she could use the shop vac to suck up water. Dear God! I'm afraid to ask.
Maybe if I just ignore them a while, it will end up being fine. I know there are no whales down there, so maybe I will look tomorrow. Maybe I won't. It might be one of those situations where it is just best to keep the door shut and pretend it doesn't exist.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Did Someone Say "Publish"???
So, I have been reveling.
Last week, I got a very leading email inquiring about a manuscript I sent out a million years ago. Was it accepted elsewhere? Did I retain all the rights to the poems published in other places? It ended abruptly with "call me after 5" (which I took only to mean that it was someone's home number) and the number.
I didn't want to get my hopes up, because that usually only leads to disappointment. I did, however, wait until after the kids had gone to bed so I could hear this poor guy out. I called my husband and read him the email. He said it sounded promising, and that I should call the guy. I paced. I sweated. I fantasized.
Finally, when the last little beast had lain down to bed, I sat at my desk and read the email again. It DID sound promising. I picked up my phone, dialed the number and got a woman, who was probably the editor's wife. She didn't sound suspicious that I was calling her husband at 8:30PM. I took that as a good sign.
I answered the editor's questions that he had asked in the email. He followed my answers with "then I have good news for you" at which point I think I began holding my breath. The room began to waver, and I got hot. Hotter than I think the 56 degree Duluth day warranted. Baking in the sun in Arizona July hot. I had to remind myself to breathe, both in and out, as he told me Slipstream would be publishing my manuscript. I thanked him profusely, told him he had made my life and then promptly hung up on him.
I don't think he was done telling me what he wanted to tell me though, because he called me back two minutes later, and I almost didn't hear the phone I was hollering so loudly. My neighbors must think I am out of my skull, or severely abusive to my children. Because who yells "YES" at the top of their lungs from their front porch at 9PM? This gal, that's who.
I answered the phone and made a list of all the things Slipstream needed from me ASAP. This included a publicity photo, which I ended up taking myself with my phone, after desperately searching through my pictures of myself (all 4 of them) and combing the internet for someone who could pass as me. Did I mention my hair is at the worst possible length for photos? Did I mention that my double chin was nearly a goiter? Did I mention the bags under my eyes were even more pronounced after 5 straight night shifts? Did I care? NO!
I am getting a book. My very own book. 33 pages of all me. Mine, my own. Slipstream is going to market it for an entire year on their website. It's so surreal. And now I have to con writerly folks I know into saying something nice about this manuscript so their names can draw folks in. I hate asking for favors like that. But the things they say are the best part of the whole deal.
That and the prize money!
Last week, I got a very leading email inquiring about a manuscript I sent out a million years ago. Was it accepted elsewhere? Did I retain all the rights to the poems published in other places? It ended abruptly with "call me after 5" (which I took only to mean that it was someone's home number) and the number.
I didn't want to get my hopes up, because that usually only leads to disappointment. I did, however, wait until after the kids had gone to bed so I could hear this poor guy out. I called my husband and read him the email. He said it sounded promising, and that I should call the guy. I paced. I sweated. I fantasized.
Finally, when the last little beast had lain down to bed, I sat at my desk and read the email again. It DID sound promising. I picked up my phone, dialed the number and got a woman, who was probably the editor's wife. She didn't sound suspicious that I was calling her husband at 8:30PM. I took that as a good sign.
I answered the editor's questions that he had asked in the email. He followed my answers with "then I have good news for you" at which point I think I began holding my breath. The room began to waver, and I got hot. Hotter than I think the 56 degree Duluth day warranted. Baking in the sun in Arizona July hot. I had to remind myself to breathe, both in and out, as he told me Slipstream would be publishing my manuscript. I thanked him profusely, told him he had made my life and then promptly hung up on him.
I don't think he was done telling me what he wanted to tell me though, because he called me back two minutes later, and I almost didn't hear the phone I was hollering so loudly. My neighbors must think I am out of my skull, or severely abusive to my children. Because who yells "YES" at the top of their lungs from their front porch at 9PM? This gal, that's who.
I answered the phone and made a list of all the things Slipstream needed from me ASAP. This included a publicity photo, which I ended up taking myself with my phone, after desperately searching through my pictures of myself (all 4 of them) and combing the internet for someone who could pass as me. Did I mention my hair is at the worst possible length for photos? Did I mention that my double chin was nearly a goiter? Did I mention the bags under my eyes were even more pronounced after 5 straight night shifts? Did I care? NO!
I am getting a book. My very own book. 33 pages of all me. Mine, my own. Slipstream is going to market it for an entire year on their website. It's so surreal. And now I have to con writerly folks I know into saying something nice about this manuscript so their names can draw folks in. I hate asking for favors like that. But the things they say are the best part of the whole deal.
That and the prize money!
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