MaresyDoats

Buck Up Lil Camper

2010-05-31T14:28:00.000-07:00

Goddamn, I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself! When did I become such a victim?

Here's a few things I know are true:

1. Everything that has happened to me, I have had a direct hand in creating.
2. I am weaker than I wish I was, but I am as strong as I need to be.
3. I underestimate myself daily.
4. Love is always stronger (and better for you) than fear and anger.
5. I still have "it". Maybe more actually. Grin.
6. Just 'cuz something hurts, doesn't mean it's bad.
7. Brownies don't solve anything, but that doesn't make them bad either.
8. I choose. I decide. This is how it has been all along.
9. What other people do or say: NOT about me. Frankly, prolly not even my business at all.
10.If I'm confused it is because I have forgotten to remember all the truths above.

She's Come Undone

2010-05-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

I feel like I am slowing falling to pieces. Little bits of me that I think I need keep coming off. As each piece rips off it hurts, more and more.

The buddists say to lean into the pain, edge into and confront your fear, don't run away, don't try to hide. So, I'm just standing here. Feeling like an idiot. Feeling exposed. Feeling bereft and alone and raw and hurty. I'm shivering and burning up and shaking to pieces. Waiting for it to stop. Waiting to hit rock bottom. Hoping to stop feeling for the bottom and to start to fly.

How far does a person have to break down, fall down, before they can start to climb again?

I can stand in the doorway of an airplane and throw myself out, because I know I will fly. I know the joy of life, of being alive, is right in front of me. I know my fear and angst is temporary. I know it will end just as soon as I jump.

But with this, I can't find the door to jump through. Where is the door, where is the portal to stop the painful moment after moment of rejection and aloneness and undoing? Find me the fucking door and I will jump through it. I'm alone in the unknown and doing my best to be brave and strong and the pieces just keep coming off.

I don't expect there to be some magical happy ending in which I never feel pain again. If I didn't regularly feel pain after all I've lost (and thrown away), then I would not be the human I am. I know there is no door to a magic land of joy and peace. But this ride has gone on and on more intensely than I bargained for. Let me off!

After the Storm

2010-03-29T07:09:00.000-07:00

I went skydiving again this weekend. It was my third jump.

I just reread the previous entry. Even with all the major turns my life has taken since the previous post, that entry is still a powerful and poignant reminder of exactly how liberating that first jump was.

And here's the cool thing: subsequent jumps have been even better.

It is not about how great it is to jump out of a plane. Skydiving is great for me, but that's not the point. The point is, I'm awake now. Jumping out of a plane reminds me how to be awake.

In the past four months I have cried more tears than I ever did as an adolescent drama queen. I have felt more painful and powerful truths and aches than I knew I could bear. But here's the thing: I HAVE bore them, every aching moment of them. And I'm okay. In fact, I am better than okay. I'm finally awake.

No one ever forced me to numb myself. I did it to myself. I did it in tiny steps and never even noticed. I was busy. I was a mommy and a boss and a worker and a million other things to a hundred different people. I wasn't unhappy. I was busy. I was numb.

Last weekend I ran a half marathon. I planned and trained for 12 weeks to prep for the event and I was very confident I would complete on target pace. The part that surprised me was my emotions at the start. As I jogged past the starting line, just beginning the first few steps of 13.1 miles, I welled up with deep and unrecognized emotions and burst into tears. I still couldn't tell you what exactly I was crying about. All I know for sure is that I am awake. I am inhabiting myself.

I've learned that I can have a great day, even after I start the morning in abject tears over the blows to my ego and personal idea of how my life was 'supposed to be'. I've learned that I have no idea what my life is supposed to be. I've learned that the faster I let go of 'supposed to' and embrace the now, the more awake I become. I've learned that its not really about me usually. I've learned that I can live with myself and love myself, even after all the horrible mistakes and misdeeds of my life. I've learned to forgive and to be forgiven.

Forgiveness is a powerful truth. Forgiveness can move through you like a windstorm, shaking everything and breaking down old and well-used barricades. Forgiveness (and forgiving) will scare you and disrupt you and force you down to the cellar if you cannot face it.

And after the storm, if you are me, you clean up the rubble and jump out of another airplane. Because I LOVE being awake.

All Right

2008-11-18T06:17:00.000-08:00

When it comes to skydiving, I believe there are three kinds of people.

The first kind hears the word “skydiving” and thinks: “The Best. Idea. Ever!” These are people who enjoy rock climbing and rappelling upside-down, snowboarding, bungee-jumping, and eating strange foods for fun. For these people, life is a relentless Mountain Dew commercial, with all their experiences flickering by in jump cuts as they endlessly quest for the next big rush. Or so I imagine.

The second kind of person thinks skydiving sounds stupid and horrifying. This person is likely to say something like, “Why on earth would you jump out of perfectly good airplane?” The idea of skydiving is entirely alien and goes against all instincts to this person.

The third kind of person has an instinctual fear of skydiving but also knows deep down that if they could find a way to break through that fear, they would really enjoy it. Hopefully. That is, if they are alive at the end.

I am the third kind of person. I have never been deeply afraid of heights, but I’ve never been real keen on heights either. When I’m pushed to an uncomfortably high place my body begins to war with my mind. My mind says “Hey, it’s alright…this is perfectly safe,” while my body enlists my stomach to climb up my throat in a futile attempt to throttle my senseless brain. The net result: nausea, vertigo, racing pulse, flop sweat…a clear message from my body that death is indeed immanent, so pretty please, with sugar on top, return to safer ground, NOW!

My skydiving experience had been paid for over a year and somehow I never “had the time” to schedule my jump. It probably had something to do with the way I would grow pale whenever the topic came up. “Yes,” I’d say, “I really think it will be great!” but meanwhile I’d be wiping copious sweat off my palms and think to myself, “I’m gonna do it next year.”

I can’t say what caused me to finally schedule my jump, but it had something to do with the fact that every month that went by in which I “just couldn’t find the time” to jump, I lost a little faith in myself. When my friend Sandy, whose husband owns the skydiving company, prompted me with “Hey Mar, fall is the best time to jump because the colors are so beautiful,” I surprised myself by responding, “Alright, let’s schedule it.”

And so, one month later, I found myself donning some warm clothes, packing snacks for the kids, and driving with Brian to Skydive the Farm in Rockmart, Georgia. After signing our names to about 100 tiny boxes (affirming that we were aware it is sincerely possible to die doing this) and watching a brief “you-really-could-die-you-know” video, it was finally time to…wait. So we waited, while the kids played in the hanger with Sandy’s kids, driving an electric car, riding bikes in circles, dodging chutes waiting to be repacked, and generally having the time of their lives. Here’s what happened: we began to relax. Waiting around, just watching people for three hours forces you to chill -- in a way no safety class can chill you. All around you the atmosphere is saying: “What’s the big deal? We do this everyday. No worries, mate!”

The crew at the farm consists primarily of a number of “Mountain Dew” guys (and gals) in their 20s and 30s, with excessive piercing and interesting facial hair. They work to jump, and spend every spare minute hanging around The Farm hoping for another opportunity to crank up the adrenalin. They banter, play with the wandering kids and dogs, scavenge for food, and generally act like it’s just another day at summer camp on Adrenalin Mountain. They chill any lingering freakiness I am harboring. I like people like this. I can hang.

“I’m putting you with Big Steve” Sandy informs me. “He’s the best!” Brian jokes about favoritism as I size up Big Steve. He is not one of the Mountain Dew crowd. Big Steve is in his 40s, 6’5” and well -- a big guy. He has a calm demeanor, slightly graying hair and most importantly, kind eyes. I quickly understand why Big Steve is the “best”. He knows when to crack a joke and when to look into your eyes and connect. He has this uncanny ability to hold your fluttering gaze and reassure you. Big Steve is like the Mountain Dew crowd’s dad. I know I should be getting more nervous now, as I suit up, but I’m with Big Steve and my camera guy is flitting around interviewing me, and I am totally zen.

We load into the bus for the short drive to the airfield. The Mountain Dew boys continue to joke and jostle like puppies. Their banter has a practiced air that makes it clear to me that these jokes, these activities, are all part of a reassuring ritual. Brian and I goggle at each other, “We’re really doing it!” written all over our faces. I expect there will be a moment, sometime on the plane when I will feel that panic, when my stomach tries to eat my head. But for now, I am simply bemused and amused. Everything is so new and interesting. I’m just trying to take it all in.

We board the plane, which has a sliding door (that gives me pause!) and scoot backward, straddling a long bench, our backs pressed against our tandem instructors’ chests. Big Steve shows me the altimeter as we climb and points out landmarks on the ground. As we near our jump altitude, 14,000 feet, the jokes become more fevered and everyone around us begin giving everyone else sliding high fives and fist bumps followed by a peace sign. Another ritual.

Someone opens the sliding door. I fly often for my job on commercial airlines, and I must say -- an open door on a flying airplane feels wrong. Really wrong. I decide that I’ll save my panic for my turn in the doorway and busy myself putting on my goggles and triple checking my harness.

Then Big Steve is walking me (on our knees) to the door, reminding me of the proper position for our leap, and reminding me to keep my eyes open and breathe through my nose. I am looking out over the universe, poised to take the greatest leap of my life, and all I am thinking is “Wow!” And we jump.

Big Steve executes a perfect somersault as we exit the plane, affording me an amazing view of the sky, the planet -- the underside of the plane. There is no lurch. No panic. It is not peaceful. It is not zen. It’s amazing!

I breath through my nose, stretch out my arms and I am flying. The air rushes past me at 120 miles per hour and all I see are blue skies, the haze of our planet and my camera guy, still joking, flapping his arms like a demented bird. I grin like a loon myself and mug for the camera. I’m skydiving! I do not have an ounce of fear left in me. I’m totally There. Time is suspended. The NOW is immense.

The camera guy waves “bye-bye,” Big Steve reaches back and pulls the chute and we whoosh upward, the most jolting moment in the trip so far. “Good chute!” Big Steve yells in my ear. “Alright,” I respond moronically. But, what else is there to say? I don’t want to leave the moment. Right now I am sailing above western Georgia. I am happy. I am free. I am not stuck! “ALLLRIGHHHT!” I scream again. And this time I am saying it to the sky, to the world, to the universe. Because in this moment, everything is perfectly alright. I am all right.

They say, how you do anything is how you do everything. As I deconstruct my jump, I can see my familiar patterns emerge. It took me over a year to schedule this jump. “My life is so busy” I kept telling myself. “I’ll do it soon.” I let the excuses and the anxiety dictate my actions. But I finally became so uncomfortable knowing that I was avoiding something -- avoiding a part of myself -- that I took action. My need for a breakthrough finally superseded all the other excuses.

It was more stressful packing up the kids and the snacks and getting directions to the Farm than jumping out of an airplane. I was more afraid of that moment when I thought I would be afraid than the actual moment of truth ever was. I was afraid of the unknown. I was afraid of looking stupid and scared. I was afraid of my own panic.

I was like Dorothy and her ruby slippers; I had the power with me all the time. My panic didn’t win. It never even really showed up. And if it had, that would have been okay too. I had trust on my side. I trusted the equipment. I trusted Big Steve. I trusted the rituals. I trusted the process. I jumped and I flew.

If you are the first kind of person, the adrenalin junkie, you probably can barely even read this because you are currently hurtling down a mountain somewhere or hanging by your toes from a cliff. You know what I’m talking about and you’ll say “right on!” and then you’ll slam a Mountain Dew.

If you are the second kind of person, the kind who REALLY has no interest in extreme experiences, don’t worry. There are lots of ways and places to find your path to flight. Just don’t stop seeking for that path. That is your challenge.

For the rest of you, afraid to jump but secretly aware you want to do it: Stop listening to the excuses. Release yourself.

Jump. And fly.

Wake Up Call

2008-10-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

"Mama!" my daughter cries from the other room.

"Mama, Mama!" she wails, clearly more asleep than awake.

It is the middle of the night and I am groggy and trying to gage the situation. Will she simply roll over and fall back asleep or do I really need to intercede? I'm so tired and out of it. I fight down a pang of irritation. I am not at my best during minor child dramas in the wee hours. I excel in an emergency, like injury or vomit. But I struggle to rouse myself for simple weeping. I am really hoping she'll just cry herself out quickly and go back to sleep.

"Mama!" The cries continue from the other room. Hubby nudges me, "You're being paged. It's your turn."

He is right. It is most definitely MY turn. I have been travelling, practically gone more often than I am home in the past few months. My guilt urges me awake. My baby is crying out for her mother in a subconscious state because she is uncertain if I am home or not - uncertain when she will see me. I am wide awake with this realization. I am a jerk. I jump out of bed, cross the hall, and ease myself into her toddler bed, barking my shins on the guard rail.

Ribh immediately nestles into my arms, burrowing her nose in my neck, sighing contentedly. Voila! Crisis averted. I snuggle into the tiny cocoon of her minuscule bed, my nose filled with the sweet scent of my child, her sticky finger curving around my neck. I sigh, wishing I could hold her even closer.

In this still moment, filled to the brim with the love of my baby, I realize that my need for her was as deep as her need for me. I need to be with her and she needs to be with me. We are family. We are part of each other. I have been missing her and longing for her and yet busying myself with all the stuff I need to do. I have been defining my role to my family as the person they need to do things. I pride myself by how I am "needed" in action terms. I am needed to do the laundry. I am needed to clean the house. I am needed to organize life.

As I hold her, I think about my family and their needs. I define family on broader terms than most. My family is comprised of not just those to whom I am related by blood. (In fact, sadly, I have blood relatives to whom I feel little in the way of authentic connection.) I define family by connection. It is the little things that inextricable link us. Those tiny moments of deep connection are how we truly know one another and recognize the soul of another. Family is not about need, duty or guilt.

I hold my daughter, cheek to cheek, bathed in her sweet breath - soul to soul. She sleeps deeply once again. I am awash in gratitude. I am thankful for all of my family. My family reminds me that often the most important thing I can do is be present. It doesn't mean I should beat myself up for the time I am away from them. It means I must take the time to connect in all the small ways, whether here or afar. And there is always enough time for that.

"Mama" Ribh sighs as she settles into sleep. I am no longer needed, just loved.

A Few Conversations

2008-05-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

These kids crack me up.

Gabe: Hey! Who is that artist? You know the one who painted that stuff in his garden?

Brian: Hmmm. I'm not sure.

Gabe: Have you heard of Monet?

Brian: Yes.

Gabe: He was one of those artist in that group, you know the...the...the...

Brian: Impressionists?

Gabe: Yeah!!! The Impressionists. That was a great band.

Brian: (playing along) Yeah, the Impressionists were a great band. Of artists. Who painted.

Gabe: (irritated) I know! The band. Of artists. That's a band!

Brian: Okay. If you say so. It's too bad they broke up.

...................................................................................................................................................................

Ribh has been quite rambunctious as well. She has this thing where she is very demanding (she's 3, duh!) and she'll constantly want stuff and then I'll prompt her with "What is the Magic Word" so she'll remember to say please. And she'll be stumped. Like she's on a Pee-Wees playhouse and no one has given her the magic word today, so like, how is she to know?

Ribh Wallis: I want something to drink. I'm soo thirsty. Get me something to drink, Mama!

Me: Ribh, what is the Magic Word?

Ribh Wallis: Hmmm...Is it juice?

Me: Nope. Try again.

Ribh Wallis: Ice cream?

Me: No. (emphasizing) The Magic Word.

Ribh Wallis: Cereal?

Me: Ribh! The Magic Word is PLEASE.

Ribh Wallis: Drink, please.

Ten minutes later...

Ribh Wallis: Hey Mom! I'm hungry! I want popcorn!

Me: Okay. What's the Magic Word?

Ribh Wallis: I don't know. Yellow?

Me: Seriously. You don't know the Magic Word?

Ribh Wallis: Is it puppy?

Me: "Please"! The Magic Word is "Please"!!!! It is not a variable! It is a constant! The Magic Word is ALWAYS "please". Got it?

Ribh Wallis: Okay! Popcorn, "please".

Fifteen minutes later...

Ribh Wallis: Hey! I want to go outside. Mom! Come push me on the swing!

Me: (hopeful) What's the Magic Word?

Ribh Wallis: "Purple?"

Me: Arrggghh. (And now I have officially turned into Jon from the cartoon, Garfield)

And Quin recently informed me that when she grows up she will live next door to me and she will walk to my house every night so that I can make her dinner. I asked if she and Gabe would take care of me someday when I am old and need help and Gabe said he'd be willing to help but would probably be in China becoming a Samurai, ( a Samurai Chiropractor, in fact) so, I'd have to travel. Quin said I could visit her next door whenever I wanted to, but I'd have to bring my own food.

So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.

R U Happy?

2008-02-12T16:08:00.000-08:00

This past year has presented a number of opportunities for me to examine my life: my choices, my attitudes, my passions, my frustrations, my foibles, my idiosyncrasies, and ultimately, my outcomes.

Outcomes. We talk about this a lot at work. In the work world, there is no point (or at least minimal pointed-ness) in activities which cannot be measured and have value extracted via the rubric of bureaucracy and achievement; outcomes, results, data and so on. And frankly, I ascribe to this notion as a work tactic.

The question that has been dogging me lately is this: Does this rubric also apply to my life? Is my life measured in outcomes? Is my happiness, contentment, joie de vivre, measured by results? What is an acceptable outcome? Is the outcome we are all shooting for happiness? Have we been conditioned to live life with the fundamental goal of happiness? And if so, is this really a great idea?

I read an article recently in the Chronicle of Higher Education titled In Praise of Melancholy by Eric G. Wilson. The article explored the notion that we are blindly led to always search for the next big thing, the next job, the next relationship, the next vacation, the next thing that will lead to our next (oftentimes fleeting) experience of happiness. In the process we not only fail to live in the now, we also fail to celebrate the experience of being less than happy. Hell, what about the experience of sorrow, longing, frustration, yearning, and even full on melancholy? One could argue (and Eric G. Wilson did) that these unhappy things can result in a zen-like state which produces amazing results, the least of which are the development of great character and great possibility and even (dare I say it) results!

Does this mean there is something more in this quest for meaning and results than just the blind quest to be happy?

There has been some sorrow and brushes with danger/death in my life lately. The sweet and silly puppy our family was growing to love so well was killed by a car on Christmas Eve. Brian was in two (minor) car accidents in the month of December. A close friend miraculously escaped certain grave injury in a major collision with an 18 wheeler last week. Gabe was struck in the head with a rock over the weekend, cutting his scalp badly. It's been a wild winter.

Yet, none of these events singularly has shaken me. I'm a pretty happy go lucky kind of chick. But with all the durm and strang of life the question keeps popping up: What are your goals and outcomes? Are you happy? Is that even the right question?

I would like to propose some alternate questions:

How are your results? What is the outcome of your life (to date)?

Do you even really know what results you are going for?

Are you driving your life's vehicle?

Do you know where you are going?

Are you celebrating the journey, detours, flat tires and all? (Holy over-baked metaphor there! Sorry!)

Are you living life with regret? Resentment?

The answers I am coming up with are something like this: I am not going to live life in the pursuit of happiness. That will never be enough.

How about the pursuit of Fearlessness?

I'm thinking...

Neighborhood Watch

2008-01-29T05:45:00.000-08:00

Last night I went for a walk with Gabe. As we chatted Gabe notice a Neighborhood Watch warning sign which he inspected closely. The sign looks a lot like this:

Gabe: What's a suspicious person? Is it a criminal?

Me: A suspicious person could be anyone unusual who is hanging around and acting weird. What do you think a suspicious person would look like?

Gabe: Oh, you know, like a ninja.

Me: (incredulous) A ninja?

Gabe: Yeah. Like a highly skilled ninja. (thinking) Except the ninjas are all in japan.

Me: Exactly. How would they even get here?

Gabe: Oh, easy. They travel in the trees.

Me: All the way from Japan? How would they cross the ocean?

Gabe: They'd swim. (Matter of fact) They are highly skilled.

Me: True. Highly skilled. (Wondering now) What would they even do here?

Gabe: (Authoritatively) You know, leap around from house to house on the roofs and trees. Break in and sneak stuff out.

Me: Just because someone is a ninja doesn't mean they are a criminal. Maybe some ninjas are nice.

Gabe: Yeah! (Thinking) They could be a bodyguard. I bet if we lived in Japan, Dad could be a ninja. (Triumphant) And then if we came to live here, we'd have to introduce him around the neighborhood and let everybody know he was a good ninja so they wouldn't be suspicious and call the police.

Me: Exactly.

Wow, the things you learn when you go for a walk with seven-year-old!

The Holiday Letter Post

2007-12-15T04:20:00.001-08:00

Hello New Readers (joining us from Holiday Card Referral Land)! And also; Hello Faithful Readers (my Loyal Internet Lovelies)!

Now is the part where I recap the year with pithy (yeah, right) commentary and glowing reviews of the family's many stunning accomplishments (i.e. Ribh Wallis speaks! Gabe is in college! Quin won Darling Southern Belle of the Year! and so on). So, get a stiff drink (or a big glass of water for you healthy types) and enjoy: The Flannery Year in Review.

For once I'm not going to blather on about how we've moved/are moving/are settling in. We live in Georgia. We know it. You know it. Okay. Moving on.

The kids are HUGE. Not compared with other kids or anything. (In fact, they definitely take after the Maurer side and tend to be diminutive in comparison to the general population, but they make up for it with their enormous brains!) The are HUGE in comparison to the last time you likely saw them, (whenever that was) because they are kids and they grow, like, ALL THE TIME. Duh.

Specifically:

Gabe is in second grade and recently moved into his own "Private Boyland" bedroom in the basement, far, far from the rest of us, which seems to suit him just fine. He freaks me out in his bigness when he goes on the internet and downloads episodes of "I, Carly" (horrible pre-teen Nickelodeon crap) by himself, and then watches it. Ugh.

Happily, Gabe also checks out Monster Joke books from the school library and obsesses over Star Wars and graphic novels. So, his future "Cool Nerd-dom" is secured (says his mother, herself a cool nerd). He loves to read, play video games, play in complicated imaginary worlds in the backyard, go to Boy Scouts, talk about taking a TaeKwonDo class someday (I know, I gotta get on that), and he generally acts like a seven-year-old wonder boy.

Quinlan is in pre-K, which means she goes to school every day, but not at the elementary school with Gabe. Her program is attached to an independent childcare center, which means no buses and an extra stop for daily pick up and drop off. Fun. She seems to be really enjoying the social aspect of school and especially enjoys the daily art projects. And nap time. And snack time (because they give her junk she seldom gets at home).

Quin took ballet classes this spring, which in theory (she says) she enjoyed a lot. In actuality, she cried most days while being pushed into the classroom and then when she finally decided to participate tended to lag about and show extreme confusion regarding the notion of synchronized activity put to music (aka: dance). She did however get to wear pretty costumes and ballet shoes, which was a big hit. I'm considering trying again this spring. Maybe. I'm also considering swimming lessons, which seem far more practical given the logistical torture of three kids and after school commitments.

Quin loves all things girly. She loves clothes, shoes, hair, hairstyling, lip gloss, toe nail polish, dresses, ribbons, shopping and coloring pictures of princesses, fairies and kittens. It doesn't get any girlier than that folks! She is also a tremendous helper who loves to help me clean and cook and boss around her siblings. She is very loving and patient with her sister most of the time and a lot of fun to have a spa day with.

Ribh Wallis. I barely know where to start with her. I've said it before and I'll say it again, because it bears repeating: That girl is made out of stubbornness. Every molecule of her three-year-old body is innately attuned to the frequency of "having her own way." At all times. She breaks all norms of parenting tactics and strategies that we have painstakingly learned over the past seven years. We thought things might get easier when she learned to speak. Not so much. Now she can more clearly refuse to cooperate in something she would actually enjoy simply because it wasn't her idea in the first place. It's like that.

Surprisingly, she generally plays well with her siblings. This is because somehow she is (marginally) okay with them bossing her around (to a point), because she gets the value of being part of all the super cool stuff they are creating and doing. She is funny and silly and loving and loves to sing and color.

I have high hopes for her. For example, she helped me snap asparagus the other night for dinner and was quite cheerful and cooperative (it was her idea to help, after all). Once we/she figures out how to harness her strength of conviction, she will be a powerful creature indeed. And she's cute as hell to boot, of course.

Brian is enjoying his new position(s) at Life (Coordinator of Clinic Marketing and Patient Education/Lead Instructor for the Second Year Business Program) and has been doing some guest speaking this year to rave reviews. He won an award while speaking at the Sherman Homecoming/Lyceum. He also gets rave reviews from the students taking his class at the College. He has really found his voice in the public speaking arena and is enjoying spreading his wings a bit.

We co-presented a paper on natural birth (Innate Birthing) at the ICA Philosophy Council in Vegas just last week and enjoyed working together again. (We also went to the rodeo finals, drank often and had some amazing dining experiences while other people kept our children alive for four whole days! Huzzah!)

Brian ran quite a bit this spring (ING Atlanta Marathon) and volunteered as a medic for the Western States Endurance Run in Tahoe in June, but has been sidelined by some chronic overuse issues (shocking, no?) and currently gets his adrenaline fix off watching the Packers. It will be interesting to see what he does in February when football is over. He doesn't typically go long without a sporting obsession.

I continue in the Director of Recruitment position at Life and with that continue to travel quite a bit. This year I was in: Orlando (four times I think!), Tampa, Miami, Dallas, Portland, Seattle, Phoenix, Buffalo, Vegas (twice), and I'm sure a few more that I am forgetting. Attached to each of those trips imagine three or more days when Brian is home alone with the children. Yes, he is a saint. I already have slated for January and February 2008; trips to San Diego, Orlando, and Puerto Rico. Send warm thoughts to Brian.

I've not had time for any crafting or hobbies outside of finally getting addicted to the gym and losing 20 or so pounds. Which has been more fun than you might think. And I have a new hairstyle that I am somewhat attached to, surprisingly. I guess my life isn't that exciting when you have to write it down. Hmmpph.

Lastly, we have had two new family members join us this year. We adopted a puppy in August. She is the granddaughter of our beloved Esste and shockingly (and wonderfully) similar both in physical characteristics as well as personality. Her name is Clementine but she is almost always called "Doodle" or "Puppy."

We also adopted an adult cat just last month. His name is Tuxedo and he is gorgeous and fluffy. (You can see a photo of Tux one post down.) He is fitting in our household beautifully, now that he has convinced the kids and the puppy to give him the respect that any alpha male cat deserves. (He might even be more strong willed than Ribh.) Even Brian grudgingly admitted recently that he really likes him. (Shhhh! Don't tell anyone or Brian will lose street cred.)

That's it. As always, we invite you to visit us, call us, befriend us on facebook, or simply think of us fondly, as we think of you! Have great holiday and a Happy new Year!

Love,

The Flannerys

Thanksgiving Post

2007-11-22T03:47:00.000-08:00

I know it's corny, but behold, a list of things I am thankful for this day;

1. The GIANT ROCK I hit with my van yesterday didn't hurt me or my passengers.

The GIANT ROCK, which ever so cunningly positioned itself in the left lane of highway 41 just as it runs beneath a narrow bit of underpass, leaped out and KERTHUMPED right under my right tire pattern in a distressingly kerthumpy way.

The GIANT ROCK then giggled menacingly as I pulled over (half a mile later by the time there was a good/safe place) to survey the damage. The damage, which appeared initially (foreshadowing for those of you looking for a little literary challenge) to be non-existent beyond the wild pitter-patter of my heart and the liters of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Twenty miles later, when my van began making its unambiguous thumpy noises, signaling the dire sadness of my right rear tire, the rock was too far away to be consulted, but I am CERTAIN it was home making a big hatch mark on its wall of victims and chortling to its cronies how it bagged a silver minivan.

I am thankful that I have roadside assistance and that it only took about an hour to wait for them to arrive and untighten the lugnuts which had apparently been placed on my tires by Hercules.

And I am thankful that my rim was only bent (rather than...I dunno...exploded!) when the evil ROCK leaped in its path.

And I was grateful later when I spoke to my claims adjuster who assured me that the likely cost of repairs would not be quite as much as my $500 deductable, but very close. Huzzah! Okay, not really grateful for that part at all. Arrrgh.

2. I was thankful this week to bring the kids to see the lighting of the Lights of Life.

They got dressed up (kinda), sugared up (not MY fault) and ran around the Treehouse at Life singing and cavorting with Santa and some elves.

It's a pretty cool event and I got to make fun of the Student Ambassadors (elves) and see pretty lights and so on.

3. I am thankful for the rain which finally came last night and this morning (major drought here, remember?). Even though Sonny Perdue will likely think it was a direct answer to his insane subjugation of the folks of Georgia to his particular religious views.

Seriously, while I am personally totally DOWN with prayer/meditation/the power of thoughts and many other mystic and spiritual conjurations, I am totally NOT DOWN with the Governor of a state (i.e. public office, people!) leading an entire state in prayer to HIS god under his terms in order to save him from a boatload (he wishes he had enough water to float this particular boat) of BAD political decisions regarding water CONSERVATION and good STEWARDSHIP. The drought is not an act of an avenging god, it is poor management of our water supply and our mother earth overall. Jeesh! You can't just pray your way out of suffering the consequences of being assholes. Let's change our policies and practices and stop bartering in religion.

I am thankful for the rain, but I am not giving Sonny or his god credit (at least not directly).

4. I am thankful for this blog post because it is SO RIGHT ON!

5. I am thankful for the most perfect breakfast ever:

A breakfast like this can smooth over even the most insane moments of GIANT ROCKS, insane Governors and other things that go bump in the night (and day).

The only other breakfast that even comes close to this level of perfection is the chocolate chip pancakes made by a friend of mine far away. But I only get those about every four years, so I will have to cede best breakfast victory to Nutella on croissants and perfect french-press coffee.

The kids feel the same way.

6. And, finally, I am ever so thankful that we have a new family member. Really.

He is sweet and mellow (so far) and potty trained and super adorable. Meet Tuxedo, the Wonder Cat.

Tux came to us from a friend who travels quite extensively and wanted Tuxey to have a bit more attention. So far, he is surviving the steep levels of attention that come with living in my house (read: with three children). He is mostly confined to my bedroom and bathroom, which is fine with him for now.

Tux seems to like the children but is less than enthused by the joyous attention visited upon him by Doodle the Teenage Dufus Hound, who would like to lick Tux everywhere and potentially carry him around on her back like a small prince.

Doodle has moved into the awkward teenage stage of puppyhood, in which she is halfway to ginormous and none of her limbs fit properly and she is just smart enough to know when people are displeased and wants desperately to "be a good dog" but has no clue how to go about it. So she sidles and cowers and wags and bounces and generally acts like the biggest spazz on the face of dogness until she is petted and assured that she is, in actuality, a good dog.

So, when Tux utters the Deep and Dark Growl of Dog Disapproval, Doodle cowers convincingly and wags her tail in fruitless efforts to convey her good-dogness until a hurricane wind threatens to blow us all away.

But, it's only been 24 hours. I'm sure Tux will wallop Doodle something fierce pretty soon, and since Tux is in fact, fully clawed, this is certain to convince Doodle that the Nice Kitty is not to be F-ed with and she will go back to sucking up to me and Hubby as usual.

We do dole out the food, after all.

Sprouts

2007-11-02T18:05:00.000-07:00

Life keeps moving along, whether I'm wordless (as far as this blog goes) or not. My three little sprouts keep growing, both literally (see above) and figuratively. The kids are such a challenge and such a treat. I forget that some of the smallest silly things can be the most valuable to you, my loyal readers (if anyone is left). So, here's a few moments from the last month.

Gabe began his latest opus: A Sponge Bob/Star Wars Comic Book entitled, Sponge Bob Star Wars: Episode One: The Plankton Menace. Sadly, his title page artwork (featured above) was marred by his smallest sister and an errant purple marker. He is still busily working on the rest of the feature.

Gabe has been enjoying Scouting (crazy politics aside) and Hubby may be enjoying it even more. Except for the Insanely Long Popcorn Hoopla Sales Extravaganza and Brainwashing Initiation. (Hey, thanks for buying our popcorn, gang!) Soon Gabe will be able to put on his neckerchief (Hello, another crazy Scouting thing!) and all that and then he'll be bored of it and we can do soccer or something. But it's fun right now. Or so they say.

Hubby and I had a swanky weekend in Midtown (that's the COOL, ultra hip, you-WISH-you were-sleek-enough-to-reside-here part of Atlanta for you non-locals) at our friend's new posh pad (Where Fifty Cent, "Fiddy" to the uber-hip, resides in the same high rise). And we drank some fancy drinks and I wore really high red heels and was unbelievably elegant while moderately drunk, as evidenced in this photo. Seriously. I totally didn't have to attempt to walk back to my friend's Condo of Coolness in my bare feet and hail the world's most overpriced cab ride. Not me. That was some other tipsy chick carrying saucy red heels.

In more plant related news (I seem to have developed a fondness for horticulture), my flowering basil plant has grown roots through the bottom of the pot and has flourished in the red clay of my front yard, despite the drought. It has become a happy home for a bee-zillion (hee, get it?) bees and one ginormously huge and furry spider. I clearly do not need to live within goosing distance of "Fiddy" to be incredibly hip. Or nifty. Or home to horticulture and small fuzzy creatures.

And of course, there was Halloween. Quin was a princess (shocker!) but told me that next year she would like to be scary. She wants to be a "dead bride" like Corpse Bride. Cool.

And now that the costume struggle is over, the great Candy Doling Struggle begins, whereby the kids beg for a piece of candy every ten minutes and I cajole them to do other things and bribe their cooperative behavior with candy promises. The only difference this year is I have only eaten three pieces of their candy (watching my girlish figure and all) and really would like the horrible temptation of evil SWEET SWEET sugar out of my house as quickly as possible, so I am tempted to let them just gobble it all up, throw up and get it over with. What do you think? It's a valid plan, right?

Ribh Wallis was also a princess and finally caught on to this whole Trick or Treating thing with reckless abandon. Until my friend's terrifying Wolfman costume blew her brain out (think of your worst fear and amplify it to a two-year-old's perspective...FREAKED OUT doesn't really cover it) and she covered her eyes, crawled in her stroller and more or less forced herself to fall asleep. Poor thing. But she still has tons of candy.

Gabe was Anakin Skywalker. Again. For a creative kid, he is pretty predictable when it comes to his costuming. Tonight, he is writing a love letter (!!) to his girlfriend (!!!!) in his diary. He showed it to me. He even drew a picture involving hearts!

And that's what's been sprouting around my life.

Wordsmith

2007-09-28T04:40:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about words.

I've been known to throw around a complicated and arcane vocabulary. I like juicy words. I like words which have depth and color rather than utility. Why say "green" when you can say "verdant"? Why say "wild" when you can say "incorrigible" or "fractious"? Why say ANYTHING when you can find another more layered and succulent word. I've been known to call my boss a curmudgeon (he loved it) and my children hellions. (Last week, Gabe called me a buffoon-it's rubbing off!) These words actually spring to my mind more readily than simpler terms. I love learning a new word and storing it away for future use.

As you can see, I clearly have some form of a vocabulary disease. It all comes from reading incessantly as a child. It is not snobbery. I don't feel superior. I can't spell for crap and my attention to details in my writing is atrocious. You'll doubtlessly have noticed that my posts are littered with small errors, poor syntax, dropped words and other crimes against good writing. And furthermore, I'm often known to curse like a two-bit whore when I could have chosen a nice strong and juicy word instead.

But here's the thing. Good writing- good communication- is all about the thing I often lack. Simplicity.

I have been grappling with trying to express my feelings. This might sound crazy to some of you. Trust me. I'm NOT shy about expressing my feelings. If you hang out anywhere near me you will doubtlessly be subjected to my exuberant form of verbal diarrhea. I blather and babble about what I think and how I feel and how I'm getting my period, and whose poop I cleaned up yesterday and more personal information that you knew was possible in a ten minute time frame. But that is, essentially, the problem.

No simplicity. I talk myself in circles. I yammer on and on and after all the words, deep down I am not connecting. I am spilling all the surface stuff and keeping the deep stuff down deep. And when I try to find the words for that stuff-for the super secret, deep dank recesses of my private reserve - I can't spit anything out. My own big juicy vocabulary steeped brain is incapable of forming words. There is no access to "lugubrious" or "confounded" or whatever words would let me stop spinning and start understanding myself.

If I stand perfectly still and stop all the mental chatter I just feel my throat tighten and my heart beat and no words come.

A great friend of mine (the Curmudgeon himself) said something profound to me this week. He said: We are all so busy talking, we forget to listen. In fact, when we think we are listening what we are really doing is processing what somebody else's words mean to US and then we begin formulating what we will say in response, just waiting for our chance to talk again. What we have stopped doing is listening, listening not just to each other's words, but more importantly, we have stopped listening to what is behind the words. We must listen with our hearts and listen for the words coming from the hearts of others.

I think of the days when I held a nursling to my breast and looked into the eyes of my beloved. No spoken words were necessary to hear the words of my child's heart. I think of my wedding day, how I could barely meet Brian's eyes because the emotion was uncontainable, and his steady gaze was stripping away my veneer of poise and my heart was leaping with such joy I had to cry or scream (I cried). There were no words.

Almost any moment in my life of intense transcendent beauty or joy or just rightness that I can recall was wordless. Wordless.

I still believe in the power of words. I know we can make things happen by using words and we can change our lives and the lives of those around us with words.

But more importantly for me, I need to put down my crutch, my bag of vocabulary words, and feel my heart beat.

Feel my heart expand, and break, and expand again.

And then I can feel your heart beat.

And hear your heart-words.

Because you say more with your heart while holding my gaze than all the words in the world.

When in Buffalo

2007-09-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

This week I have been in Buffalo, NY visiting friends and working.

I put it in that order because normally when I travel it is ALL about work and then a little bit 'o fun in the form of maybe dinner with colleagues or whatever. But this time, the fun has been much more significant.

During the day, I've been doing my usual work stuff (visiting schools and doctors, etc), but in the evening I've been hanging out with old school friends; a family of five, including three small children. Sounds familiar, no?(Hang on, how many kids do I have? I thought it was 97.) And slightly insane of me?

What it I told you that last night, ON PURPOSE, we went to a real sit-down (non-fastfood) restaurant, after 7:30 pm, with said three small children? That wouldn't seem like a sound decision would it? But we still had fun. I had twice as much fun as anyone else because they weren't MY three small children and therefore their antics AMUSED me rather than invoked my normal response which would have been drinking in excess and wanting to gouge my eyes out with a spoon.

How is it that other people's kids are CUTE AS HELL when they cry and blow snot bubbles and spill tomato juice on their brother and mine are NOT so cute?

Other highlights of Buffalo: Umm. Falafel?

I'm a freak.

Uh oh.

2007-09-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

Quin: Mama! I brushed my teeth really good! See how shiny they are!

Me (passing the bathroom): Excellent job Quin! Let's get your PJs on now.

Quin: I brushed really good and I used the chocolate toothpaste!

Me (pausing): The Chocolate Toothpaste?

Quin: Yeah! It was so yummy!

Me (with a sinking feeling): Show me the chocolate toothpaste, Quinny.

Quin: It was soo yummy! I LOVE chocolate Mama!

Me: Umm. Quin, That says "poultry flavor", not chocolate.

Sunday

2007-09-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

I've been awfully nostalgic lately.

It began a few weeks ago when I finally unpacked all the photo albums. Even my own girlhood pictures were setting off sentimental connections. The rosy glow of childhood, friends I never see anymore, my once tiny ass.

This week I was showing someone my blog and we started looking through the archives. I don't know if sentimental is the word (maybe just mental) but there are so many strong memories captured there. Some great funny and sweet stuff and then of course the intense drama of the relocation to Georgia and all the drama of leaving the practice and Brian being so far away through it all. I guess the sentimental part was how much I wish I still had time to write like that. I miss having time for that outlet and being able have the satisfaction of a great post.

Today, we were loading some favorite old CDs into iTunes and we loaded up some our favorite musicals that make up some of our musical history as a couple. I know some of you haters (and less cool folk) will be tempted to make fun of us when I say that the soundtrack to Miss Saigon is intensely meaningful to me, but get over yourselves. It is.

I was listening to the ending, where Kim, a young Vietnamese girl, goes to Chris's hotel room to finally see her returning ex GI "husband" who she assumes has come for her and for his child whom he has never met. Instead she meets his new American wife and is told that she and her son will NOT being going to safety in the US as she has thought. Oh! And the perfect clarity of the moment, as Kim realizes that everything she has been hanging her hopes on, the person whose promise to return has kept her alive through unimaginable hardship, all of that is NOTHING-and she is crushed. Crushed in a way you or I could probably (hopefully) never know.

I have always found this plot to be dramatically satisfying but listening to it today as a mother...well. Maybe I'm a bit hormonal right now, but damn! I just began weeping. Knowing that she goes home to her tiny hovel and resolves that the only possible solution, to rescue her son, is to kill herself so that Chris and his new wife will bring him home to the US and a possibility of a real life. She just swallows her intense personal anguish over being forgotten by the man she loves and thinks only of her child's need. Oh, and its so beautiful, the music, and the emotion with which they sing it, and Lea Salonga (Kim) is so amazingly emotive and I just cried and cried. While Hubby mowed the lawn and the girls dressed their Barbies and Gabe played video games. It was nostalgic I guess? Maybe thats not the right word. Maybe I'm just a little too sleep deprived and stressed out? Or just crazier than usual.

So...that's my Labor Day Sunday. Weeping and stuff. Wanna come over and grill out? I'll season your meat with my tears.

And So It Goes

2007-08-18T16:13:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in the living room, messing around with my Facebook page, when I heard the puppy SCREAMING and YELPING from the bedroom. Usually, the kids stop doing whatever they are doing to her and she stops screaming quickly, but this time it continued. I dropped everything and RAN like hell, not sure what I would find.

I found Quin, with a look of panic on her face, and the puppy hanging from Quin's dresser by two laces tied around each rear paw. Seriously.

Quin began blubbering that she couldn't untie her, which I can understand since the puppy's weight had tightened the cords. Frankly, I can't figure out how she even got her tied by both paws without the puppy objecting strenuously. I don't even know how Quin managed to tie anything, since she's not been taught to tie.

Of course, Hubby was gone, so I had to quick hold and untie the puppy and did not get the photo I would have shot to show you the sadistic truth. But you'll just have to believe me. That puppy was done hogtied REAL good!

Sigh. Puppy. Children. 'Nuff said.

Introducing Clementine

2007-08-09T04:10:00.001-07:00

This is how it started. We drove to Peducah, Kentucky and met Hubby's rents at a hotel to pick up the puppy. Actually, as you might have guessed, even the ride there was an adventure, with the 100 degree weather, three children, all the necessary gear, forgotten shoes, forgotten wipes, fast food restaurants and so on. But I'll spare you the gory details. We made it there. So did the rents and the puppy.

Then we spent the night trapped in a hotel room with a homesick puppy who does not know the meaning of the word "no". Or "Quiet". Or even "Shut the hell up, dammit, it's four in the morning!!"

Luckily, the kids slept through the howling and wailing, so we had that going for us. Then we drove home. Clem was pretty tired by then, so she slept great in the car. Shocker.

She is acclimating to life in our madhouse pretty well. She is still howling a bit at night, but now she is MUCH farther away so we can ignore her. She does this amazing bi-tonal howl that registers her highest and lowest register simultaneously which freaks me out on occasion, but then I shut the door and go to sleep. Because I am a seasoned mom. That is to say, callous. Or, as the Dog Whisperer would say, "a calm assertive pack leader". I'm okay with either description.

While her name is Clementine, she has already acquired a nickname. Since she is such a little dope I've taken to calling her "Doodle" which the kids use more often than anything else. After all the thought and debate that went into her name, she is most frequently called Doodle, Twinkle, or Puppy. Go figure.

So far, Clem thinks the kids are just big puppies from her litter, and the kids are doing nothing to disabuse her of this notion. They run together through the house like a wolf pack, jumping and shrieking. Until Clem collapses in a corner of our bedroom which she has claimed as her private "timeout" zone.

She is a bit leery of the stairs. She goes up okay, but as you can see, she is a bit nervous about going down. I like how this photo gives you a frame of reference for how little she still is.

Quin is the child most enamored of the new family member. Of course, Quin thinks Clem is a baby to be picked up, tucked into doll beds, dressed in bonnets. Quin's first thought of the morning is: "Where's the puppy" and her last act at night is to tuck the puppy into whatever bed she can find.

Ribh is too little to really deal with Clem in any meaningful way, so when she is accosted with puppy kisses and nips, she just freaks out and starts screaming, which in Clem's language means "more please" so I have to keep an eye of those two.

But all in all, we are having a blast in puppy land. Now if the temperature would just drop below 100 degrees, we'd be set!

Girls Gone Garage

2007-08-02T06:40:00.000-07:00

We tried something new. Instead of finding and paying for a babysitter crazy enough to watch 5 children under the age of seven...we just brought the party with us. And so, Girl's Night Out (Garage Version) was born.

It seems normal enough at first: a couple glasses of wine, some snacks for the kids, girl talk, kid talk, a wading pool.
And then they party really started ROCKIN'!

I swear the bottle was empty before we let the kids play with it.

And have a tea party with it.

Does this seem wrong? Cuz' I didn't pose this.

And then we caught a bug called a COW KILLER! Which was cool.

And Quin and Ribh decided they loved each other. Which was nice.
And this is why I cannot use this blog for work.

In unrelated news, but news nevertheless: Gabe Turned SEVEN today!

We are off to enjoy an adventurous day which will include a fancy dinner in a revolving restaurant in downtown Atlanta, and whatever else catches our fancy. I'll post more pictures if it's as adorable as I think it will be!

Go Public? Really

2007-07-25T15:50:00.000-07:00

So, I went to this conference about college admissions and recruitment. And there were approximately 57 sessions about the internet (Fancy that! Apparently the internet is BIG with the kids these days! Who knew!) and about four sessions particularly about blogging.

The things I learned about blogging:

1) The kids WANT you to blog about work if you work for an institution of higher education (which I do) and have fundamental blogging skills (which I have) and the whole notion that any information about your place of work in a blog is inappropriate/a fire-able offense (a la Dooce) does not necessarily apply when you do what I do for a living. Huh.

2) If you write a REAL blog, from an independent (i.e. not school hosted) site, it is much better than some slick, grammatically perfect (which I'm not) shiny happy marketing piece that all the cool hip kids these days will spot approximately 87 miles away and will shun like the dickens. In other words, you should blog like a real person and not get all stuffy and huffy about it. Huh.

3) That I know WAAAAY way more about blogs and blogging than 97% of the attendees of this conference. Plus I have active an account on Facebook, I know MySpace is dead, I can navigate Flickr and I can say cool things like "Hey boooy, don't be such a beeotch. Get me a brewski!" (Pretty hip, I know.)

With all that in mind: Now I have to decide whether to go public with this blog (by linking it via the school website) and expose all my endless archives filled with countless stories about poop and vomit and other sundries. OR should I make a whole new shiny happy blog which I will fill with cool stuff about the shiny happy world of recruitment but keep out posts about poop, vomit and occasional usage of the word beeotch. But would that really be half as cool as this one?

Plus, if I'm blogging for work, you know this blog would become even more sorely neglected, which would make me (and you, my faithful readers) oh so sad.

What do you think?

Just One More

2007-07-04T06:12:00.001-07:00

Here's how you know the folks in Casa Mar have lost their ever lovin' minds: WE'RE GETTING A PUPPY! For real. Cuz' three kids under the age of six isn't enough of a challenge anymore. BORING! We need to add some spark to our family life beyond the thirteen trips I'm slated to take for work in the next three months.

IMG_1663e, originally uploaded by mollymolly.

Now, this photo does not depict our ACTUAL puppy, because Gabe is the only one who has actually seen her and I didn't send him with a camera. But I'm confident this awesome shot found on flickr is a pretty fair representation of the state of things in our puppy's world. He picked out the smallest and reddest girl in the litter (on our instruction) while he was up north spending some solo time with Grandpa and Granny.

Our puppy was born on June 12th in Wisconsin to the Boober Dog's daughter, the Lucy Dog. So, the new puppy is Esste's granddaughter, which is pretty cool. It also means we have to somehow figure out how to fetch a puppy all the way from northern Wisconsin in late July.

And the current hot topic of debate around our house: What will we name the puppy?

The top suggestions are as follows:

Gabe: "Hermione"

Quin: "Blanket"

Ribh: "Kitty"

Crisby: "Bacon"

Hubby: "Get DOWN, Dammit"

Any suggestions from the peanut gallery? Comments are open, fire away!

A Million Dirty Faces

2007-06-05T06:15:00.001-07:00

Nonny's munchkins, originally uploaded by ICB Mar.

We have spent the past week in my hometown with my mom (known to the kids as Nonny) and my family. Every single member of my family lives here and wanted to see the kids and hang out a bit, so it's been quite busy. This photo is displays all the grandkids. Unfortunately, flickr is not cooperating and won't let me post the rest so I'll have to make another post using a different method to get the rest of the photos up here. Bah!

Haiku and Rock

2007-06-04T19:01:00.000-07:00

This weekend we went to see Sassy's band play at a local pub. One thing led to another and the result: the best damn haiku ever written in O'Leary's Pub. To wit:

your lips and my mouth
meet in clandestine violence
bumping teeth, we laugh

guitar solos make
me offer an "o" face to
all, secret revealed

scribbling haikus
drunken verses in the dark
synapses don't fire

swimming pool beckons
limpid chasms of drunkness
silken limbs afloat

force is strong with him
Jedi paduan learns much
star wars I have seen

i'm not too drunk yet
i'm still not smoking tonight
waiting for drinkage

my transexual
girlfriend does it all for me
like juicy TETRIS

Can you figure out who wrote what?

Cute picture of kids and family tomorrow.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. (and so on)

2007-05-25T10:56:00.000-07:00

Countdown to Mar's Big VACAY: 1 hour and 4 minutes! Squeeeeeee!

Can you tell I'm a bit excited? And I need a drink?

Be afraid.

Flush. Rinse. Repeat.

2007-05-22T18:10:00.000-07:00

The cleanse is over.

The bad news: it was GROSS. I was hungry. And grumpy.

The good news: I'm down EIGHT pounds. That's a lot of gross stuff that came out of me! Wheee! My stomach is noticeably flatter. I have less appetite. My skin looks great.

In non-toilet related news: we are gearing up for the annual family exodus from the Southland/Land of Plenty to the Lands of Origin/of Many Beverages with Alcohol Inside: Wisconsin!

We will go out on Friday night with our local friends in celebration of my 7th annual 29th birthday, and then drag our behinds home in the wee hours to snatch a few hours sleep before loading all the kids, their clothes, their toys, their movies and games, swim gear and the poor Boober's ashes in the family roadster so that we can leave at the heinous hour of 8:00 am in order that Hubby has a chance (a wee, wee chance) that we will make it to Milwaukee in time to go to the Dentist Jam with our friend Chris on Saturday night. It's a long story. Don't ask.

More stories and photos to come. You believe me now, right?

The Big Purge

2007-05-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

Q: How's the cleanse going, Mar?

A: Swimmingly. As in swimming right down the toilet.

I'm currently enjoying day six of the great intestinal scourge of '07. My progress has been augmented by what may or may not be the joys of the shigella bacteria which may be helping to cleans all the crevices of my colon. Needless to say, I have become very well acquainted with all the bathrooms within running distance of my desk.

On the brighter side, I'm pretty sure I'm losing weight. I won't weigh myself until the big cleanse is over on Monday night.

A Caution: If you have seen me or my children in the past two weeks, you may want to go ahead and clean your toilets extra well this week. You may be becoming very dear friends with the old porcelain bus in the near future.

BEFORE

2007-05-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

Remember when I told you, just last week, that I would post again soon and tell you all about my crazy dietary plan, and you TOTALLY DIDN'T BELIEVE ME? Well, look who was wrong! Tra la la!

So, it began with an idea, (a reaffirmation, this is not new) that I should quit bitching and whining about how I've developed quite a fat ass and wishing that I could have brownies every day and only work out like once a week and somehow look like my 16 year old self, and I realized that I should like, I dunno, DO SOMETHING about it. And by DO SOMETHING, I mean do several things and do them on a regular basis, as in DAILY. Damn.

I'm just about two weeks into the project "How the Hell Did This Happen to My Butt" plan.

So the things I do regularly are:

1. Cardio. This is the one that I am typically the best at, so I'll list it first. The NEW ME does cardio AT LEAST four times per week and I actually make myself SWEAT for the bulk of it. I've been known to get all geared up and strap on my ipod and then casual saunter about the neighborhood with brief illusory periods of jogging (downhill) to feel like I did more just walk. But in reality, I've been a big fan of the "working out should be fun and never be uncomfortable, much less painful" club and I have heretofore rescinded my membership. Today I PURPOSELY ran three miles even though it really didn't FEEL like much fun until "Sister Christian" came on my ipod and then I ran and hurt and KICKED ASS because that song is so damn awesome. But it still took me over 35 minutes to run three miles, so...I've got quite a way to go.

2. Strength Training. This is the one where I feel like a complete dumbass because I have no idea what I am doing. I work out frequently at the Wellness Center at the school and all these buff young twenty-somethings come in and heave enormous pieces of metal around while glistening prettily and then hook themselves up to space age contraptions with names like "Nauti-glider" and "Cyber-myo-tonalator" and I am certain that if I were to experiment with any such paraphernalia I would like rip off a limb or knock myself unconscious. So, I convinced one such young buff student type to "train" me. Which generally involves my trainer explaining how to do basic activities like bend my arms properly and then stifling the urge to fall on the floor laughing at my expense when I can barely move the contraption BEFORE any weight is put on it. And I still am grunting and sweating (NOT glistening prettily) and barely escaping knocking myself out. So, I am thusly humiliated twice a week at six o'clock in the morning and then limp off to work. What a way to start the day, eh?

3. Classes. Group classes. The only thing more humiliation that having a young buff man watch me be unable to complete a sit up? Having a whole group of people watching me be unable to perform basic activities. For those of you who know me IRL, you probably remember that I am not known for my COORDINATION. For non-family members, I am the child who was sent to the emergency room at least every other year because I was always jumping on rusty nails, and breaking limbs, and falling down wells and the like. Why? Because, to put it delicately, I lack GRACE. As in NONE. But I now voluntarily go twice a week to classes which involve doing dance-like predetermined steps and exercises which reveal my plump and hearty ass in wrap-around mirrors. It is waaaay fun. There are some yoga positions which should be banned for those who weigh over 110 pounds. I'm just saying.

4. Dietary Restrictions. I know this stuff. I know what to eat and what not to eat. I know that saying yes to Starbucks every single day just because "I had a rough day" is not healthy. Especially when I am picking up that Starbucks at 6:30 in the morning on my way to work. Even with skim milk. I know that raiding the kids' bucket of Easter candy is not in my best interest. I know that chips and margaritas and all the yummy ways I prefer to treat myself are not the appropriate way to develop a healthy relationship with food. I know all this and yet...I do not have a good history in this area. So now I am convincing myself daily that FOOD IS NOT A REWARD and that I DO NOT CARE THAT MUCH ABOUT FOOD. Seriously, I say this to myself about 20 times a day. But it is working. I had three tiny pieces of Dove chocolate on Friday and that was the first time in almost two weeks. And I stopped after three pieces!!! And I drank wine instead of margaritas. (It's a small step, but hey, it's something!)

5. The Cleanse. This step will begin sometime this week once my magic potions come in the mail. I will be doing a nine day detox/liver cleanse/metabolism jump-starter-thingy which I am assured will clean every little corpuscle and crook and cranny of my innards and will allow me to experience the grossest poop this side of muconium. But much bigger. Cool, eh? You're REALLY gonna be checking back for that blog post, aren't you? Oh, and also I'll hardly eat anything and will become a waif overnight! (Right.)

I'd love to treat you all to a BEFORE picture now so that you can oooh and ahhh over the AFTER (slated for sometime late summer when I will appear on the cover of Maxim magazine), but I am just not THAT big of a glutton for humiliation. I mean, I know I am the queen of TMI in so many ways but you'll just have to imagine my zaftig proportions and settle for the airbrushed AFTER which I will release publicly. I just don't feel comfortable with the size of my backyard being spread graphically across the internets. Perhaps I'll post a photo of my flaccid and noodle-like arms and shoulders. Would that do it for you freaks out there who just really need to visualize my progress?

In reality, I'm not so huge, which is exactly what I've been telling myself for far too long to excuse my lack of motivation to do this thing. I'm about 30 pounds over my goal weight. A full 40 pounds over my hs/college weight, but I don't know if that is even realistic at this point in my life, so it not currently in the plan. I'm trying to be realistic although ambitious. I've never been really FIT, even though I was once really thin. So, now I'm gonna try something new. I'll keep you all posted. Swearsy.

May

2007-05-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh! MAY!

This May brings Popsicle stains, wet swimsuits on the hall floor, a discolored lawn where only the weeds dare grow big and strong, and lovely Georgia red mud tracked everywhere. We've been kicking the kids outside (NO MORE video games until you inhale at least a ten square yards of fresh air! I MEAN it!) and I've had delusions of gardening but I have only managed to pull a few stray weeds and ogle a few garden catalogs. But the ice cream truck (the rotten bastard) is back on his route and the kids have been indulged at least once, so IT's ON!

I have been traveling again. One weekend was actually hosted out of a hotel in Atlanta, so Hubby brought the kids so we could have a "nice family experience" between my work obligations. Oh! And did I mention the part wherein Hubby and I forgot what HAVING KIDS actually means and planned to partake in "nice family experience" and "trapped in a hotel room" simultaneously. Needless to say, this ended badly and with much lost sleep, although the kids did get to go swimming twice.

Quin had photo day at ballet school last week. I left work early in order to prep her for such an auspicious occasion. The written instructions said they were to be dressed in their recital outfit, with slippers, buns and "light makeup". LIGHT MAKEUP? On four-year-olds? In a crappy dance class? I bit the bullet and put lip gloss AND hairspray on Quin. The rest of her class was painted up like they were the opening prima ballerina at the Rockefeller Plaza. But Quin managed to prevail. When it came time for her individual photo session we (photographer and I) were cajoling her to pose and not cry and whine. I asked her to show us how she can point her toes (a favorite accomplishment of the last 12 weeks of extensive dance training). She immediately got with the program: She lay on one side, pointing her top leg high into the air and oriented herself spread eagle toward the camera. I told the photographer not to worry, that she was simply channeling a drunken burlesque ballerina.

I'll post photos soon (ETA: did it!). There are some quite cute ones and I have been remiss. And then maybe I'll tell you about my new training program. That is once I can walk again.

Why You Are Glad I Am NOT Posting Photos

2007-03-17T12:19:00.000-07:00

I've been told by several friends lately that based on my blog (or rather the shriveled husk left of my blog) that they feared some dire fate befell me in Vegas. Like perhaps I decided to become a go-go dancer/stripper, or I was kidnapped by a sheik, or I wandered off with the other zombies into the pool of dreams bewitched by the siren sound of the giant singing frog.

In actuality, the trip to Vegas kicked off the month from hell in which I spend three out of four weeks in February on the road. And hubby grew a uterus and the children all forgot my name and then I came home and did approximately 97 loads of laundry. And bought groceries. And sifted through the three foot stack of papers on my desk and answered 587 phone messages.

And then The Scourging Plague of Ought Seven hit our household and I continued to go to work most days while juggling vomiting children, coughing children, feverish children, and just plain pissy children, until the whole thing culminated in the most pathetic and sickest child of all: Hubby. Who is now going on to day seven of Near Death and Complete Uselessness.

Oh! And Nonny (my mom) visited in the midst of all this. Because twice every year I volunteer about 20 hours for this super cool kid's consignment sale in order to have the privilege to not only sell all my kids old clothes for good prices, but to be able to shop about four hours earlier than everyone else, Which is totally worth it because the boys size 7 clothes are totally picked over otherwise. And this is how I can afford to clothe three children. And Nonny helps me get all my clothes ready (because there are super strict rules about how they must be presented) and helps me juggle three children during the process. (Plus, Nonny is a laundry genius and she can make almost any horrifically stained item of kid clothing resell-able, which is CRITICAL. So when I said I did 97 loads of laundry, I actually wasn't exaggerating except that Nonny did about 89 of them.) But of course the sale just happened to immediately abut all my travel so Nonny came and then chaos ensued and then she left and then the raging sickness began.

And THAT my friends, is why there have been no blog entries for over a month.

And now I am going to prop my husband up and pour tepid broth down his throat because he is THAT pathetic.

Vay Goose II

2007-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

The Vegas trip is getting better.

Last night we (friend and I) went to the fabulous Wynn for drinks and dinner. We were seated on a terrace adjacent to a waterfall light show which involved a gigantic anatromic frog singing "It's a Wonderful World" and statues of nude people who appeared to be zombies walking to their deaths in the depths of the waterfall. Then the giant dancing flowers and bullfight began (I kid you not) and I had to change my jaded stance that Vegas was not so great because HOW AWESOME are bullfights mixed with zombies walking to their death and a strong cocktail served to you by a pretty waitress while no children climb up your legs? PRETTY AWESOME.

Then we walked to the Venetian which is exactly like Disney if it were peopled ENTIRELY by drunk gamblers AND I saw the most scantily clad woman of my life. So that was fascinating. There are a lot of breasts in Vegas. I know I shouldn't be surprised but like WOW every other woman was either half naked with ginormous fake tits or looked like Aunt Suzy on her way to the mall. Wild.

And then my feet really really hurt because I was wearing very pretty high heels which were not big fans of the cobblestones of the Venetian, so we took a cab home and crashed.

Tonight, I check into the Hard Rock Hotel, which apparently has the best Friday night parties around for the young and hip (like me, duh!) and a POOL BAR, all for half the price of the crappy hotel I've been stuck at for a conference.

Viva Las Vegas!

Vay Goose

2007-02-08T05:41:00.000-08:00

I am in Las Vegas. It's nowhere CLOSE to being as thrilling as you'd think. I'm here for work. I didn't even leave the hotel yesterday. Last night, after standing in high heels in front of my booth all day, I had pizza in my room for dinner and went to sleep at 9:00 pm. Then I woke up at 5:00 this morning and now I have nothing to do and nowhere cool to go. I'm watching Dawson's Creek and blogging. I'm utterly pathetic.

I swear, I'm not so old and stogy that I am incapable of enjoying the flashy pleasures of Vegas. I'd like to think that if Hubby were here, we'd be going out at night for fine dining and a crazy show or two. But frankly, we'd probably only do that once and then we'd be so tempted by the prospect of taking a nap with no children climbing on our heads, that we'd totter off to our room and order pizza anyway.

Maybe you have to be a certain kind of person to appreciate Vegas. Don't get me wrong, I find this place fascinating and beautiful even with all the garish trappings and cheesy advertisements. But maybe that's what rubs me the wrong way. Everything here is for sale. And they're not going to let you forget it. I just don't have a comfortability with blowing wads of money on a Vegas Experience (nor can I afford it, frankly).

This is starting to sound rather preachy or even worse, Pollyanna-ish (a fate worse than death OR Vegas) and that is NOT my intention. Hey, I can be the biggest consumer whore in the world given my ongoing love affair with the Macy's sales racks and shoe sellers everywhere. I delight in pouring over a Pottery Barn catalog (Which Hubby calls my house porn) and fantasizing how I could transform my house into something from the pages of Dwell (after spending copious quantities of moola). I know how to SPEND! I even really appreciate going out to a great restaurant or buying a fantastic bottle of wine on occasion. I guess I need to go out somewhere interesting tonight (so far, the Las Vegas Hilton is pretty unspectacular) and see some sights and then maybe I'll finally get it. Maybe.

Now I'm off to eat cold pizza for breakfast. Mmmmm. Yummy!

New and Improved

2007-01-17T18:11:00.000-08:00

I just downloaded blogger's new version o' happy bloggerific formatification. Let's see how ya'll like it.

Photos of the bears in progress to come.

I'm frantically packing for a business trip tomorrow and I am addled, hence the sudden need to twaddle with my blog. I'll prolly post the oft promised bear photos at about 1:48 am when I am too keyed up to sleep. (Cuz nothing makes for an awesome business trip like starting it off with 3 hours sleep due to spazziness, coupled with (predicted) airport delays due to the one time the thermometer in georgia drops below 32 degrees and the dreaded freezing rain falls. Perfect timing.)

Wish me luck. Maybe I'll write a nice long juicy blog when I'm trapped at the airport for six hours tomorrow. Or I'll read every issue of US magazine and Star and drink four lattes. You might want to avoid ATL airport tomorrow on second thought. I'll be the dazed one dribbling latte foam and screeching about making bears.

Hole in the Head

2007-01-07T09:34:00.000-08:00

The boy has a hole in his head the size of the Grand Canyon (and that's f-ing really big).

Hole in the Head, originally uploaded by ICB Mar.

That gap represents THREE missing teeth. And while the center one just came out this morning, you can clearly see the impatience of the big old adult tooth ramming its way in behind the jagged gum line.

I don't know whether to swoon from the adorableness of the gap or be horrified by his hillybilly appearance. I just pray the new teeth will look better than the tiny gappy baby teeth did. I also fear orthodontic pleasures are emminent in our future based on the terrifying angles of the adult teeth coming in!

New Year's Resolutions

2007-01-06T10:02:00.000-08:00

Like so many, I struggle with the resolution dilemna. If you resolve something, then you're pretty much doomed to failure. Which will make you feel like shit and send you to swim in trough of remorse and failure (which tastes just terrible!) and you will then be required to rescue yourself with a life preserver of cookie dough and red wine and celebrity gossip rags! (which might sink?? Hmmm. Crap analogy.)

To wit: I considered resolving to blog weekly. But alas, it has already been more than a week since my last blog entry. Hmph. Whatever.

Or, I considered resolving to be more organized, but that is akin to resolving that I grow 4 inches. I AM organized. I just have 87 children and four full time jobs (or so it seems). How about I resolve to have a full time maid and cook? (That's not me, I mean.) How about if I just get all my Christmas stuff put away before February?

I want to resolve to spend more quality time doing cool stuff with the kids. Weeknights, I tend to make their dinner and get them settled in front of the TV and then I do all the stuff I need to do (laundry, cleaning, bills etc) and squeeeeze in a bit of stuff I want to do, like watch last weeks episode of Top Chef or catch up on all the back episodes of Heroes (holy crap, that's a great show!).

This photo represents all my short comings in both of those potential resolutions. While I was watching Heroes, Quin reorganized the christmas decorations (which should be put away) for me and created her own version of Peace. Hey, at least she was being very quiet. That's what peace on earth is all about, right? Right? (I'm sooo pathetic.) If only she has an "s" she could have spelled "escape". Sigh. It always sucks to be confronted by the gap between your intentions and your actions. THAT is the problem with New Year's resolutions.

When Peace Gets Jumbled, originally uploaded by ICB Mar

And finally I have resolved to do more crafty things because it's fun and I LOVE me the fabric store.

Here is my current project: I am going to make a bear for Tristan (small nephew) and Jasper (other small nephew). * Note: I have the fabric all picked out for Mielle's kitty but let's finish this project first!*

I am using this wee wonderfuls pattern book (purchase one here) again with a few minor ammendments. Because, for one, I am making BOY bears!

So, stay tuned for more adorable crafting and tales of woe.

A New Year's Treat: Cuteness (not my kids)

2006-12-28T12:34:00.000-08:00

I am enjoying my respite from work and am actually checking my blog hits (!) and catching up on other blogs I haven't read in an age. I even updated my sidebar with the blogs I more actively lurk. You may notice a new trend: Craft Blogs!

This might sound insane, as in "When the hell does Mar have time to craft??!?" and you'd be essentially correct if you were to exclaim such a thing. But behold, look what I have made!

Christmas Bunny and Rosie Bunny, originally uploaded by ICB Mar.

I defy you to challenge the cuteness. The cuteness veritibly dripped from my fingertips as I hand made the little darlings! I am gifted! I can quit my day job and make millions, right?

For those who are interested in such things, I got the pattern from wee wonderfuls and made some slight ammendments based on influences from loobylu and a ervilha cor de rosa. If you have apropensity to enjoy such things, you might want to think twice before clicking those links because you will get SUCKED IN! And for the love of all things holy, do NOT click on the links of my links or you will be LOST FOREVER!

Dear Annual Review Seekers

2006-12-24T07:33:00.000-08:00

For those of you looking for your Annual Holiday Flannery Update (as directed in your holiday card or email), here it is! Enjoy its toasty goodness in your freezing climes! (Bwaaaahaaaa! It's like, 75 degrees here!)

And now, without further ado, The Year in Review!

A whole year in Georgia, the Land of Plenty! We made it! The kids only say "ya'll" once a week and have yet to say "fixin' to", so I think we're gonna make it. (Ribh has even started talking a bit and I do not detect a southern accent, although she does use a strong gibberish dialect.)

This February I began working full time again, initially as the Clinic Staff Supervisor for Life's outpatient clinic, and in August as the Director of Recruitment for Life University. It's been an adventure balancing full time work, mom-dom and all the extra bits and pieces into a well run household. Frankly, it's a work in progress (not working). The benefit of my new position is that occasionally I "have to" travel and then I get to escape the demands of motherhood (casting Brian in the role of Mr. Mom) and I sleep in a big hotel bed all by myself and take uninterrupted baths and eat food which was not chosen based on its appeal to a three year old.

Brian (Hubby, to regular readers), has been busy with work, developing and teaching new curriculum for clinic education, mentoring, and developing a new position which he will begin next year as the Community Education and Clinic Marketing Coordinator. This means that he will be creating and executing marketing projects to position Life's clinics in the community and creating opportunities and programs to educate patients and prospective patients about the benefits of chiropractic care. And then he will teach all the students to do it. So, he'll stay busy!

Brian has also finished his second go at the Chicago Marathon this fall (3hrs 43 mins and 50 secs) and is training for another marathon in March with a goal to complete his first Ultramarathon (he's planning a 50 miler) this year, and dreams of a hundred miler in his future. This means he is working on figuring out what foods (real food folks, like pizza and cheese cake!) he can carry and digest while running for ten hours! And, furthermore, he is developing a distance running club and the school and mentoring students as they train to do marathons and such. Needless to say, this training has cut into his golf game, but on the flip side, he has never been more fit.

Gabe is six this year! He is enjoying school and loves to read Captain Underpants books and all things Star Wars. Brian's 30 year old Star Wars action figures are getting to enjoy a second life with the next generation. Just this week Gabe lost his front tooth and now has the best jack-o-lantern grin around. His also gets a lot of attention for his gorgeous long wavy hair.

Hang on to your daughters folks! He's a heartbreaker in the making! (And wicked smart too!)

Quinlan turned three in February. She continues to have a passion for mothering. She mothers dolls, animals, Christmas ornaments, her little sister, her older brother, imaginary creatures, her Papa and anything else she can get to hold still. She also has developed her "Uterine Tracking Device" and helps me find things and put things away where they belong. It's pretty amazing. Gabe had led me to believe that small children are just incapable of understanding how to clean up without being told exactly what to do every step of the way. Quin appears to have innate talent in this arena. Whooo hooo! As Brian say, "Alright! Now there's two of you!"

I took Quin to see the Nutcracker Ballet last week (see photo above). She loved it! (and I loved having girl old enough to do it with!) Now she is attempting to go "on point" and so on. I guess ballet classes will be on the agenda next year.

Ribh Wallis. Man, I don't even know where to start. She is a trip! She's almost two and already has us bamboozled. Ribh appears to have all the strength of will of her mother and her father SQUARED! When she sets out to defy parental dictates she can occasionally out-stubborn Hubby and me. (See previous posts below to detail this point.)

She is also charmingly snuggly, obsessed with butterflies and bugs, capable of eating mountains of food, highly nap resistant, musically inclined, and the most outrageous character we have produced yet! As she begins speaking I'm sure the stories will develop rapidly. Right now our saving grace is the fact that we have no idea what she's taking about 75% of the time.

And finally, the sad news: We lost our good friend and sweet hound, Esste, this October. She was almost 12 years old and quite ill at the end. We miss her terribly and I'll still be looking for her sleeping under a pile of wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Rest in Peace, Boober.

We were sadly didn't see much in the way of visitors this year. I'm telling ya, there's lots of cool stuff to do down here! Come and see us! We'll be home sometime this summer, so make an appointment now because we'll be going six ways 'til Tuesday.

Love to All! Happy Holidays!

The Post Wherein All Chaos In the Universe Rests With Me

2006-11-19T03:33:00.000-08:00

Oh me, THE CHAOS!

Seriously, Chaos Alert Levels have been upgraded to not just RED but Super Double FIREY BURNING RED around here lately. Hence, the utter lack of blog updates or photos to answer your pleas for assurance that we all remain hearty and hale in Georgia. Avert your eyes from the Firey Red Alerted Chaos contained within!

I have been traveling. A LOT. Like pretty much part of every week and most every weekend. That perpetual joy has been peppered with the viral spore of a thousand airports and a thousand school children compounded by lack of sleep and poor spinal hygiene which as we all knows equals a crappy immune system and extreme susceptibility to a full rolling ague from each viral invader and for each family member. Sweet!

But lo! They are still cute! See below:

Gabe is Anakin Skywalker. Ribh is a chicken. Quin is a princess.

The Run Down:

Ribh Wallis: Is pretty mad at me for being gone all the time. Whilst I am gone and she is in the loving care of her father, she is an Angel Child. When I return home she releases The Demons of 1000 Angry and Outraged Moments of Abandonment and Outrage and punishes me with the Shrieking and Freaking Tantrums to End All Life on Earth including head thumping, clawing, and the stubborn endurance of a triathelete. It's pretty impressive. And ever so fun. It does not come with an off switch. Seriously.

Quinlan: Will only wear dresses. Especially a somewhat oversized tank top (size 4/5) that wears like a minidress and is pink, which she has taken into her head is a "ballerina dress" and therefore will drop trow the moment she arrives home and will pull said "dress" out of the bottom of a clothes hamper (dirty) to wear until FORCED to wear something else. She also talks incessantly which is alternatingly adorable and will make you want to gouge your ears out. Like this:

"Mama."

(two second pause)

"But MAMAAAA! I'm TELLING you SOMETHING!!!!"

"What!"

"Yesterday, I went pee in the potty!"

"Great!"

"MAMAAAAA! MAMAAA! I AM TELLING you something!"

"Yes?"

"The sky is blue!"

"Yup."

"MAMAAA! MAAA..."

"Yes, Quin! What?"

"My doll is wearing a dress."

And so on.

Gabe: Is obsessed with Star Wars and Captain Underpants. In his parent teacher conference, I was told that he routinely spaces off for a half hour at a time during school periods set aside to work independently. Then, when just five minutes remain to finish the given assignment (a math worksheet, writing projects, etc.), he busts through a half hour's work (sloppily) and turns in his completed assignment. And it's usually accurate. So, his teacher and I have come up with a plan to encourage him to do his work FIRST (rather than counting the fibers in the carpet) and then he can earn STICKERS by doing MORE WORK and then if he earns enough stickers he gets a new Captain Underpants book at week end. Whee! Hey, it's working!

Hubby: Ran another marathon and kicked butt as usual. Now he is immediately back in training for the next one in March. He has enlisted a group of students to train with him, so that's a bit more fun. At least, as much fun as a 26.2 mile run can be. Hubby should ALSO be up for SAINTHOOD for the lengthy solo parenting excursions while I was away and especially because the house never fell down ONCE! Pretty impressive is it not?

Me: Ummm. I'm Nuts. Any questions? Hey, and remember all that stuff I told you about the kids and how exasperating they are? I am told by Hubby, my mother, and pretty much anyone who knows me, that each and EVERY ONE of their exasperating habits signals a clear and direct genetic link to the WOMAN WHO SPAWNED each child.

And finally, THE SADNESS: Our Esste Dog, The Boober Hound, died on October 30th. She was almost 12. She was doing quite poorly for the last month. She had stopped eating and was so emaciated and weak that she could barely greet us with a tail thump. I still miss her daily and find myself reaching down to pat her phantom head and stroke her ghostly ears. Plus, I now actually have to clean the spilled food off the kitchen floor. So, for those of you who knew her, take a moment to think fondly of the Best Houndy Who Ever Was Ridden By Three Children. This, honestly, has been quite hard on us. Sniff. She was such a Good Girl.

Ready, Aim, FIRE!

2006-09-30T07:33:00.000-07:00

This week has been interesting. This week, Hubby's "new" car started on fire.

Picture this: You buy a new shiny car.

Granted, it is a used car, but it is not the rusted decrepit heap you (or Hubby, rather) have been driving for the past six years. It is shiny, and has a snazzy rear spoiler, and a PINSTRIPE, and a functioning AC unit, and a non-tinny audio system! OOOOH OOOH, and did I mention that it does not smoke copiously and overheat when driven farther than 4 blocks. THAT is super cool, let me assure you!

Like all used cars, the salesman told us that THIS WONDERFUL car has been driven for the past 5 years by a 90 year old woman, who knits doilies in her spare time, brushes her cat, and drives to church once an week to worship chastely, and drives to Publix once a week to buy crackers and sweet tea. This seemed quite possible (no, LIKELY) at the time, but perhaps that impression came from the noxious fumes from the engine of the overheating Subaru which addled our brains.

So we buy the sleek and pristine Saturn in all its Granny Glory (TM). We marvel at its spotless exterior which has never been backed into by my mother-in-law and we marvel at its spotless interior which has never experienced the smeary love of three children on a road trip. There are no hidden dirty diapers under the passenger seat and no footprints on the hood. It seems too good to be true. Perhaps we should have NOTICED THAT! (Foreshadowing stomps by and is ignored due to extreme exhaustion and the high of spending thousands of dollars we really didn't want to spend JUST YET.)

We drive the new green Granny Glory-mobile to and fro and marvel in its non-overheatingness and all is well. And the one day, the sweet new granny mobile won't start.

"Oh well" says Hubby. He gets a jump from a co-worker and doesn't sweat it. In the morning he jumps his new car again with the minivan and again that night after work.

"Hmmmm" says Hubby, "I think something must be wrong with the battery or alternator".

Others may have been more panicked at this point, but we are from WISCONSIN, and dead batteries are like MOTHER'S MILK to us. In Wisconsin, you send your ten-year-old out to jump the car in the morning. It's no big deal.

We agree that we need to bring the car back to the dealership to have the alternator looked at by a professional. We have a busy week (involving the fact that we have three kids and two full time jobs)and jump the car several time a day. Ho hum.

FINALLY, the day arrives when Hubby has 20 minutes of free time and I have 20 minutes of free time SIMULTANEOUSLY!! Whee!!! We are both at work. Hubby pulls the van up to the car and hooks it up to receive its customary jump so that we can drop it off at the dealership. He comes into my office to get the keys to start the new car. My assistant says "Hmmm. Look at all that smoke outside. I wonder what's burning?"

We look outside with interest and remark, "Oh, that's our CARS! ON FIRE! Awesome."

The End.

Just kidding. Not about the fire. About the "The End".

So we pull the firey melted jumper cables off the smoking melted remains of the Saturn's battery and engine. We ascertain that the fire department is not needed. We pry melted jumper cables out of the quarterpanels and front bumpers of both vehicles. We curse a bit. We remark on how fortunate it is that Hubby did not blow his hands (or his head for that matter) off. We CURSE some more, and with greater vehemence. We inspect the smoking ruin of the interior of the engine of the Saturn.

We consider what kind of voodoo the chaste and benevolent "granny" must left on this car that would cause this kind of ruin within weeks of purchase. Or else the car has absorbed her pure and benevolent ways and considers us to be crass interlopers with grubby-handed offspring. Which we are.

So now we have entered the hell (or purgatory) of negotiations with insurance agents ("Yes, you will have to meet your deductible on each claim separately and I will probably return your phone calls only after you leave 37 messages threating my life") and car salesmen ("What do you mean, our responsibility? You didn't buy the extended warranty which costs approximately half the value of the car. Too bad.")and so on.

Think of us kindly. And for those of you in Wisconsin, don't let your ten-year-old jump the car anymore. And for once and for all; NO, HUBBY DIDN'T SWITCH THE RED AND BLACK ENDS! It was freakish thing. The car is possessed by Southern Baptist offense with our Northern Heathenish ways.

Verbal Jazz and Politics

2006-09-14T16:58:00.000-07:00

Hubby has the WHOLE WEEK off from work and tonight he has sashayed off to hear jazz and drink martinis, whilst I sit home and juggle children and fend off telemarketers.

Actually, the call tonight wasn't a telemarketer, but a political pollster and I gotta admit, I'm a sucker for pollsters 'cuz I just love to add my subversive views to the whole mix. Think of how my libertarian cum liberal cum fiscally conservative pro gun stance messes with their magic matrix. SQUEEE! Mom, stop reading now. I had to giggle when they asked if I'd heard of George W. Bush. Scary to think that they get some "no"s. It's always a good night when someone asks what your opinion of the president is and then writes it down and submits it to someone somewhere. Not that my opinion is all that original these days. They kept claiming the poll was "strictly for statistical purposes," which is like saying the war is strictly for checking out if our rifles work, but okay, whatever you sophisticated and savvy pollster tricksters. Mom, you can start reading again....I'm done talking politics.

So Hubby is off in Urban Male World after spending an entire week taking naps and entire days downloading music and reading Blink. Because September is "use it or lose it" time as far as compensatory time in our workplace goes. But you'll notice, I still went to work. I'd discuss why but I'm still trying to keep work out of the blog, so forget it. How's that for taunting?

Speaking of downloading music, how is it possible that we (Hubby and I) are in our mid thirties and haven't discovered Radiohead until recently? Sad isn't it when reality TV (Rockstar) is your entree to heretofore undiscovered music? How many sentences in a row can I write in the form of a question? (Ugh. Did you catch the finale of Rockstar? Lukas Rossi. Bah. King of Poseurs.) I guess you have to factor in that we both grew up in Wisconsin. Now that we are in Georgia, we are working hard to make sure our kids don't think Freebird is the national anthem. Gabe's current favorite is still Greenday but Quin is quite taken with James Blount and asks for Beautiful about 20 times a day. (Did anyone follow the logic of this paragraph? Jeesh!)

Gabe has now requested that I write an entire paragraph about him. (He actually called it a "long sentence thing" and I interpreted that as a wanting at least a paragraph.) His reading skills are taking off rapidly and we can no longer spell things in order to keep them secret. Damn. Since when do first graders have vocabularies which include "plethora" and "horrify"? Admit it. He's a veritable genius. He would like you to know that he also likes Jack White of the White Stripes and the Racontour's song "Steady as She Goes". Oh, and he's the master of Sonic Heroes on PS2. Okay Gabe, is this enough yet?

This post has become the opposite of a well-crafted writing piece and frankly, I gotta get Gabe through the tub and into bed in the next 15 minutes. So, suck on yet another sugary, meandering and strangely political puff piece. Yum!

Excuses

2006-09-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

Hi.

Like anybody will even read this since it has been 40-some days since I last posted.

An entire month has come and gone. All of August in its sweltering beauty and daily afternoon thunderstorms,...kaput.

And now September has arrived. As uncrisp and un-fall-like as September can be in the Southland. We are looking forward to another 75 days of air conditioning.

And we are nearing the one year mark of being true country fried Southerners. We say "ya'll and fixin' to" with reckless abandon and nobody even hollers "Hey Billy Bob, we don't say fixin TA, we say fixin TO". In other words, we fit right in.

We attempted a pseudo-Brush Run party yesterday and gathered together the old crew which is near enough to attend (Peter) and a gang of students from the Chiropractic school and we ate garlic dip and enjoyed a few libations. But the whole thing was over by midnight and nobody sat around the campfire until dusk...so it just wasn't the same. Maybe we'll do better next year.

I have a new job at the school, which keeps me even busier than the old one. But I am enjoying it immensely, and am even getting to travel a bit here and there.

I'd like to claim that my job is so crazy that I legitimately don't have time to blog...but I guess that would be a cop out. I don't have (or don't choose to make) the time to blog the way I really want to, therefore, I don't blog almost at all, except occasionally to pacify the six of you out there who check back here regularly because you KNOW me and you want to see what the kids are doing down here in the Land of Plenty.

My formerly growing audience of people who read this blog because it WAS an interesting place and my writing WAS actually compelling in some way has long since returned to dooce or some other person who posts well written things on a regular basis. So, in a way, the condition of this blog makes me feel like a failure and I never like to revisit the scene of my failures. So, hence, I never come here. Sad, but true.

So, for the six of you who miss hearing from me: here ya go. I posted.

Maybe I'll be in a better mood next time and I'll post some photos.

In The Immortal Words of Judy Blume:

2006-07-14T02:44:00.000-07:00

Eat it, or wear it!

Whilst I was in the other room attempting to download vacation photos, someone was "helping" Ribh get some dip for the carrot chips I had given her to snack on in her high chair.

Apparently, Ribh isn't interested in having shiny happy sour cream masque applied to her entire head. And she wasn't afraid to say so.

Quin, on the other hand, seemed to be of the opinion that Ribh really needed a specialized hair and inner ear beauty treatment.

And furthmore, she wasn't too thrilled with the timeout that resulted from her efforts.

We're baaaaack!

A Sign of Life

2006-06-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

I exist.

I am crazed...with preparations to embark on the family road trip extraordinaire!

We will leave tomorrow morning from sunny, smoggy, sweltering Georgia and drive across the country in a minivan loaded with children ( and don't forget the family dog) and peanut butter sandwiches to breezy Wisconsin. We are planning to make it to Milwaukee in a single day.

Hubby plans to have a large drink, brimming with alcohol, as soon as we arrive, regardless to the time of arrival.

I will shoot numerous photos and hopefully relate a few heee-larious stories of madcap adventures on our Great American Roadtrip and subsequent tour of the Shining State of Wisconsin. 'Cuz we're gonna see all of it folks, God help us! We will be visiting every relative who ever had the (mis) fortune to share a snippet of DNA with our clan. Our kids will smear peanut butter onto every sofa from Milwaukee to Crandon to Eau Claire to Mondovi. They will never forget us (or remove the stains from our visit).

Hey, it could be worse, we could be going to Iowa. ('Nuff said.)

A Sign That I Should be Blogging More

2006-06-06T03:58:00.000-07:00

I am lying inertly on my bed, feeling rotten and slightly feverish.

Gabe approaches with a piece of lined notebook paper and a pencil.

Me: Umpff. (weakly) Hi Buddy.

Gabe: Mom! I made this sign! It says: "Do NOT disturb Gabe!"

Me: Oh. What's it for?

Gabe: It's for me 'cuz Quin keeps bugging me!

Me: (silence) Huh. But Gabe, can Quin read?

Gabe: (long silence, thinking) Yeaaah?

Gabe returns to the living room where I hear him lecture Quin about his sign and then he sits and watches cartoons while holding his sign in his lap. I continue to lie inertly and feverishly on my bed and watch Kathy Griffin (who is my new favorite comedic genius).

End Scene.

*Aren't you glad I came back to blog about the hilarity and great doings in my life? It was really funny at the time. I swear. Maybe it was the fever?

Gradjamacation

2006-05-27T17:44:00.000-07:00

My Baby graduated yesterday.

It was just from Kindergarten, and I am philosophically opposed to the way schools and parents over-celebrate every little childhood accomplishment as though each and every minor achievement is deserving of pomp and circumstance. But still. Sniffle. He's done with Kindergarten.
I cried when he started Kindergarten and today I cried when he finished.

He has grown up so much this year. He has: Learned to count to 1000, learned to read Frog and Toad chapter books himself, learned to count out change, learned to tell time (and not just on a digital clock) and learned how to write stories about his life.

He has also learned how funny a fart is and how superior boys are to girls (excuse me?) and how his school is better than all the others in our county.

He has learned how to be a great teacher's helper and he has learned how angry and disappointed his father can be when he comes home from school with notes about bad behavior.

He learned how to ride his bike without training wheels and he learned how to buckle his own seatbelt.

But he still needs to be tucked into bed every night and he still needs help tying his shoes. He caught in a world between being my baby boy and being this humongous boy-child, moving independently about the world.

I love you Gabe and I am so proud of you.

13 Things (and a bonus item or two)

2006-05-12T04:40:00.000-07:00

I'm still alive..and so are my children.

This working full time gig is kicking my ass blog-wise.

Things which have occurred since I last blogged:

1. Kids have all been snotty and sick and feverish at least once.
2. Ribh has achieved fully accomplished bipedal status and runs around all over the place.
3. Hubby finally got the Social Security office to accept our application for Ribh's social security number, which should arrive in the mail in approximately 27 weeks.
4. I did 800 loads of laundry.
5. The Boober Dog is getting more and more arthritic and pitiful everyday and some days can barely make it down the stairs and outside to pee more than once.
6. Hubby and I attended a Chiropractic Conference where we both taught. (Hubby a headlining speaker in fact. Me? Just a fun little adjunct.)
7. I cleaned the toilets once (sad isn't it).
8. I spent 40 plus hours in my minivan simply commuting. And listening to books on tape. If only I had a computer in there.
9. I walked during my lunch hour 3-4 times per week and worked up to doing 9 sets of a 40 step flight of stairs each time. Whew! (And yes, my arse hurts...but hopefully is shrinking!)
10. Went to the Birthday Party of Noah; Gabe and Quin's stream-stomping-buddy. Drank a few margaritas and watched the kiddos play crazy German party games (because Noah's mom is a German nutball).
11. Went through caffeine withdrawal and then learned to enjoy coffee without sugar (see number 13).
12. Took an afternoon off from work with Hubby, left the children in child care, and took a nap together. Just the two of us. At the same time. With no children in the bed. Or even in the house! Bliss.
13. Gave up sugar 2 weeks ago. Holy schmoly, it ain't pretty. Lost 3 pounds though.

We are driving to South Carolina to go to a rugby tournament this weekend. I'm sure that will be interesting, but you'll probably never hear anything about it ever again from me.

I will leave you with a favorite link, to which I had every intention of doing a tribute...but never got off my arse and made it happen. Enjoy.

Camping: How to Lose Your Mind in 24 Hours or Less

2006-04-18T18:10:00.000-07:00

Are you READY?!!

1. Upon arrival at campsite watch as son adopts a series of small, fragile woolly caterpillars and names them each Arthur. Help him make homes for them in a small cup. Explain that caterpillars need some rest and shade when it is 89 degrees outside.

2. Gather several of the woolly mini-monsters for your enthusiastic three-year-old. Feign delight as she names them (Blackie and Brownie) and declares to the world vociferously that caterpillars LOVE her. Apparently these are THE BEST CATERPILLARS EVER!!!

3. Watch as children hug, cuddle and squeeze the caterpillars unmercifully, lamenting when they become limp and unresponsive. Help children adopt new (obviously ubiquitous) caterpillars. Compliment children as they wear listless caterpillars like fur stoles.

4. Visit neighboring camp site. Allow your children to befriend heavily (southern) accented children who ply them (while you are busy setting up the tent and cooking dinner) with sodas, juices, chips, and Easter candy.

5. Declare that there is just enough time to go to the beach before making dinner. Change all children into swim wear. Change self into swimwear inside dinky tent which as already reached Finnish Sauna levels of heat and humidity. Wonder where shade is.

6. Drive to beach. Unload children and beach gear. Circle asphalt parking lot on foot, dragging three complaining children, searching for way into beach. Finally find notice sign declaring that beach will not open until Memorial Day. Think: "Ummm. Hey, I understand that rule in Wisconsin where it MIGHT be 67 degrees on Memorial Day, IF you're lucky. But...uuhhh...It's like, 90 degrees in Georgia RIGHT NOW!!!" The campground is open. Where's the freakin' WATER!!!!" Concede that there is no way to "sneak into" the beach. (Totally fenced off.)

7. Calmly load crying and complaining children back into car, promising to douse them with water from the faucet back at the campsite. Distract them with talk of dinner. Promise them marshmallows if they eat dinner.

8. Begin making dinner. Realize propane bottles for campstove are all empty. Send Hubby to nearest gas station (10 miles away) for more propane. Allow children to drink juice at neighbor's campsite while waiting.

9. Upon Hubby's return, discover that problem is with propane connector being loose rather than propane bottles being empty. Finally manage to connect propane and light camp stove. Make dinner (the famous "camping casserole"). Have dinner universally rejected by all children and Hubby. Force kids to ingest a portion of dinner and hence a smattering of protein to offset the sugar. Make a large margarita for Hubby. Make a large margarita for self.

10. Drink margaritas and watch children prepare marshmallows (extra rare) until children appear somewhat sleepy and force them into bed at 8:30. Watch fire, drink more margaritas, and play "lightsabers" with the flashlights in the campfire smoke with Hubby.

11. Wake up every 30 minutes all night long. Curse the existence of bathroom 50 feet from tent and wish for a shotgun to shoot out glaring street light in front of busy bathroom.

12. Morning dawns. Try to keep children asleep as long as possible by remaining perfectly still on mostly deflated air mattress as your ass digs deeper and deeper into the ground. Give up at 6:30.

13. Try to keep children reasonably quiet and mostly inside tent as long as possible since other people's tent are a mere 20 feet away. Give up at 7:15 am. Apologize sweetly as your neighbors emerge from their tents, bleary eyed.

14. Try to make breakfast quickly to stave off toddler from eating dirt, twigs, and rocks. Try to console other children over "escape" of caterpillar pets. Tell them that "Blackie" and "Brownie" and "Arthur I, II, and III" went home to see their mamas.

15. Since the beach is clearly out of the question, plan a family hiking trip to enliven the day. Load toddler in sling onto hubby. Fill pockets with sippy cups. Drag children along nature trail, pointing out natural wonders, like the small stream, the wild flowers, and the litter.

16. Take priceless photos of Natural Wonders (kids) in front of "Natural Wonder" (waterfall over dam).

17. Beg Park Rangers for band aids after Quin falls and splits her knee open. Clean up blood.

18. Drag children back to campsite. Uphill the whole way. Quin will no longer walk and must be carried. By Mama.

19. Try to feed children PB and J sandwiches. Children are too hot and too tired to eat. It is too early to drink margaritas.

20. Relent to their pain (and your agony) and start up minivan, put in Disney movie, and crank up the AC.

21. As children mercifully drift off to sleep, admit defeat, pack up tent and all the camping gear, and drive home.

22. Upon arrival at home turf, blast the AC, take lengthy shower, eat hidden stash of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and kiss own mattress (with tongue).

23. Take three and a half days to recover sufficiently to download photos and write post.

Why I'm a Slacker

2006-04-13T09:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything new for three reasons:

1. This week Ribh has decided that she can walk. And walk. And crash. And walk again.

2. Easter preparations: Cooking eggs. Buying candy. Trying to keep Quin out of the candy. Dying eggs. Trying to keep Quin from decorating the walls with egg dye. Trying to keep Quin out of the candy (repeat ad nasuem). Trying to keep Quin from eating the chicken bouillon cubes (!!??! WTF!!?!).

3. Preparation for our First Annual Easter Weekend Camping trip into the mountains (yes, mountains) of North Eastern Georgia. Come back next week for photos and stories. Because we are crazy people taking a one-year-old, a three-year-old, and a five-year-old tent camping in the mountains. Wheee!

Rantings, Ravings and the Hierarchy of My Web Site

2006-04-05T18:09:00.000-07:00

I realize the last post was a little vague. Frankly, the subject matter is a little too risque for me to describe in any more detail and maintain the tone of this blog. Then I would have even more hits from searchers looking for nudity in suburbia. So, if you are easily offended, think on it no further. Also, Hubby wanted me to point out that the bulk of said risque activity was perpetrated by Dr. P, not his oh-so-straight-laced self. Ahem.

Not to let a post go by without a steaming heap of controversy, I have to report that I have been embroiled in a little controversy in an online mom's group to which I belong. It is a group for AP (AP = Attachment Parenting, read "Granola Crunchy") moms and is generally a place of mild mom talk about cracked nipples and snotty noses and such. Last week there was some debate about vaccine reactions and vaccine safety. I (thankfully) kept out of it and let the debate rage without sticking my nose in. This week the controversial subject was Fluoridated Water. One particular mom, who had defended vaccines last week was now defending (mostly) fluoridation and went so far as to say that the so-called evidence "will never change the minds of those who see fluoridation of water as government interference in their lives".

At this point, I flipped out. (I trust this revelation of my getting a bit too worked up over such an issue won't shock most of you.) I then posted that I felt that all the "facts" which back up government justification of public policy and many mainstream health procedures are complete manipulations of data and all the other such ranting you have come to expect of me. In my defense, I did clearly state that this other mom was more than entitled to her own opinion but then I tore apart every thing she had said.

Of course, she responded defensively and with hurt feelings because she felt personally attacked. I relented a smidge and ate crow and apologized for hurting her feelings but stood by my stance that I did not agree with her opinion and didn't care for the way she had characterized people who disagree with public policy as simply being against government interference and I continued to discount her so called "facts" as being a slag heap of manipulated data.

And now I am "a figure of controversy" in my little online community. It's not like I chased her down (as a friend of mine once did) and threw a full Big Gulp cup into her open car window. (But I kinda wish I could).

I guess it is little online scuffles like this that make me happy that I have this blog, which all about ME and MY OPINIONS and anyone who says elsewise will have their comments deleted and will be banned. BANNED I tell you, BANNED! Bwa ha ha ha! I get to throw my weighty opinions and biases around and y' all have to either suck it up or skim over the blather and wait for me to post photos of the kids again. This is my little fiefdom and I am Queen Mar!

The Hamburger

2006-04-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

The boys have been playing the game from the movie, Waiting. This is what happens when grown men cohabitate.

Tonight heralded some new renditions of the game, namely, "The Hamburger" and "The Other Woman". I mean, HOLY SHIT! You have NO IDEA! They are so proud of themselves, that even I get to see all their "creations".

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you DON'T WANT TO! (This means you, Mom!) But if you do...HOLY FREAKIN' CRAP!

You have no idea what I have been exposed to. Or rather, has been exposed to me. I'm afraid to go to sleep now.

The Simple Life

2006-04-02T17:16:00.000-07:00

This weekend I cleaned out my car. Or I guess, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should say, my minivan.

Not only do I drive a minivan, I drive a minivan so full of carseats that I can barely transport any adult persons and furthermore, if said adult companion were to be so intrepid as to attempt to ride in my terror of a Mom-mobile, they would likely emerge with a small feast of old snacks and moldy fruit bits attached to their posterior. Really. It's not pretty.

As the weather is heating up quickly, I decided that I must maintain some sense of cleanliness and avoid the inevitable smell that would soon emanate from my minivan. So I took the afternoon to vacuum it out.

While I crawled around cursing and vacuuming, the children crowded around asking questions about my activities and trying to "help me" until I screamed like a fishwife and threatened death to the next child of mine who wasn't playing nicely in the street, where they belonged. They complied and I followed my vacuuming with the liberal application of Armour-All and a damp cloth.

When I emerged, sweaty but victorious from my van, this is what awaited me.

Ribh had decided to go swimming in the dog dish. And her siblings had apparently obliged her need to cool off with a hosing off of her head. With the garden hose. Why she wasn't crying is beyond me.

Then she tried to ride Gabe's bike. (Notice the awesome "Plumber's Butt" she is sporting.)

Then she crawled over to me (as if I was going to pick her up in that state.) And yes, she is still crawling. Apparently, she will be brilliant rather than athletic, this one.

See how brilliant she appears. Cute though, right?

Simple minds are easily amused.

And the big kids got put in Time Out when they climbed into my clean van in their muddy states after I had clearly told them not to touch the van and not to turn the hose on their little sister, AGAIN!

This post was totally worth waiting for, was it not? Sigh. Well, at least I managed to upload some of the pictures y'all are always clamouring for! The final photo is worth clicking on to blow up and view the studied expression of innocence Quin is working.

Separation Anxiety

2006-03-26T07:40:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been considering abandoning this blog. I am having so much trouble finding the balance between working and mama-ing and housework that the idea of the hour or so it takes to write a decent blog post seems Herculean to say the least. I might as well commit to knitting spring jackets for all the kids or making four course dinners every night.

Puh-leeze. I can barely manage to work out about once a week or so, much less blog a few times a week. And then I guess you'd still expect the entries to be good if not entertaining and engaging; nay, award winning!

I am such a type A personality that I cannot stand to do something without doing it with all the excellence I can muster. Ideally, I can write a kickass entry while three children hang from my body in alternating poses of desperation and maternal need. I can hold off a fair amount of whining and leg clutching with the liberal application of an episode or two of Little Einsteins while I make dinner and wash jelly out of the rug but I have had to abort several sub-standard entries (kinda like the last one) which just cannot allow me to be proud of what I have written. This blog is meant to be an outlet for my creative side, and it's just not fun when I cannot take pride and satisfaction in what I've written.

I frequently write blog entries in my head while driving to work or walking on the track during my lunch break. But I never find the time to vomit them into the internets and hence the universe is saved from my meandering musings. But I miss it. So much so, that I have decided not to kill this blog just yet.

I have held off my consideration of blog-icide with this final act of desperation:

I am going to commit to writing at least one entry per week (barring vacations and other acts of God) and I am going to take the time to make it a thing for which I can be enjoy the creative act. I am doing this for me, because I have so deeply enjoyed writing again. And now that I've told you all about it, my pride will keep me on track on finding the time for this small pleasure.

Maybe next week I will commit to becoming a clown for children's birthday parties (and terrorizing adults, like Dr. P) or some other insanity. Please stop me. I beg you.

Kilroy Was Here

2006-03-15T04:29:00.000-08:00

Upon leaving a japanese restuarant:

Hostess: Have a great day. Arigato.

80's Dork (me): Domo (domo) Domo (domo).

I have problems.

And furthermore, just so this song will now be stuck in your head for the remainder of the day:

Domo Arigato
Mr. Roboto (domo, domo)
Domo Arigato
Mr. Roboto (domo, domo)

You're wondering who I am - (secret
secret - I've got a secret)

Machine or mannequin - (secret
secret - I've got a secret)

With parts made in Japan - (secret
secret - I've got a secret)

I am the Modren Man.

I've got a secret
I've been hiding under my skin

My heart is human
my blood is boiling
my brain I.B.M.
So if you see me acting strangely
don't be surprised

I'm just a man who needed someone
and comewhere to hide
To keep me alive - just keep me alive

Somewhere to hide to keep me alive.

I'm not a robot without emotions - I'm not what you see

I've come to help you with your problems
so we can be free.
I'm not a Hero
I'm not a Saviour
forget what you know

I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control

......

The problem's plain to see: Too much technology

Machinesto save our lives
machines de-humanize.

The time has come at last - secret
secret - I've got a secret

To throw away this mask - secret
secret - I've got a secret

Now everyone can see - secret
secret - I've got a secret

My true identity - I'm Kilroy
Kilroy
Kilroy
Kilroy !

Lamb Cakes

2006-03-11T10:37:00.000-08:00

You know how they say "March comes in like a Lion and goes out like a Lamb or else March comes in like a Lamb and goes out like a Lion"?

On March 1st, in Georgia, it was in the sixties and sunny. I was thinking: I wonder what the Lion will look like, because this is obviously Lamb weather.

Today, March 11th, is 80 degrees, sundrenched, breezy, and altogether another world from where I come from.

I'm used to the Northland, where March is the month where you finally take off your down parka and only need two quilts at night. March, to me, heralds the change from below zero weather to a balmy 15 degrees ABOVE zero. In March, you might only have to shovel the driveway ONCE a week.

This week I had to dig out the kids' shorts and sundresses, because SPRING is here, and frankly, it's more like summer in Northern Wisconsin. Up at the Lake House, this kind of weather isn't typically seen until August.

So, let me enjoy it, because by Easter I'll likely be bitching about the heat and humidity. (Wow! The Girls can wear Easter dresses without snowsuits this year!)

But for now I will enjoy the birdsong and spring peeper while I sip margaritas on my patio.

Gramma Nonny

2006-03-08T16:08:00.000-08:00

Nonny was here for almost two weeks and I only have a handful of pictures to document her existence in our world. Hubby took these few pictures, at my insistence, the day she left, right before he drove her to the airport. Gabe was already at school and I was already at work. Pathetic, is it not?

While Nonny was here, she stayed home with the kids and their new Nanny-type, Rebecca (known to Quin as Wo'becca). She taught Rebecca where to find all our sundry household items and taught her the complicated system we have whereby Quin cannot ingest dairy products and Gabe can, but Ribh drinks breastmilk AND they all can now have milk sometimes, but only if it's the super crunchy non-pasturized, non-homogenized, practically-dripping-right-off-the-cow kind which I drive 45 minutes every other Sunday in order to get.

Nonny kissed the kid's skinned knees and pushed the kids on the swing, and made them snacks, and read the same old books aloud over and over again. She brought a magical suitcase from which she extracted small gifts like stickers and note books and animal pencils on a daily basis. She endured their squirming bodies in her bed, in her bath, on on her lap any time she sat still long enough to make one.

That final morning, as I drove to work , I was thinking about how much fun she was having with the kids, playing with them, seeing all their little idiosyncrasies and listening to them talk. (And talk. And talk.) I thought about much time WE had managed to squeeze in to talk and how she had let me run on and on about my new job and new challenges and lack of sleep and the crazy circles my brain keeps looping through.

I thought about how Nonny made the transition period from full-time stay-at-home Momdom to full time (actually much more than full-time when you count my commute) working mom so much less traumatic for all of us.

I had thought her whole visit was really all about being a hands-on Gramma for her grandkids so far away in Georgia, and all this time she was really just being a Mama. Because she knew all along what I had forgotten: Even her grown up, independent, doctor-type kid so far away in Georgia needed her Mama.

She was just being MY Mama and showing her love for me in all her small kindnesses like mending and button-sewing and dinner making. Because being a Mama is forever.

And then I missed her so much it hurt, and she hadn't even left for the airport yet.

I love you, Nonny. *Sniff*

Title Change

2006-03-06T16:14:00.000-08:00

I've decided to embrace my whimsical side and drop the esoteric, high-brow, and wordy title for a nonsensical, retro-inspired, equally wordy title.

Hey, it's my blog. Sue me. Go ahead.

The Whimsical: I fought with the bank today about their moronic bank procedures which they insist are designed to "improve customer service" and "make sure your most important checks all go through", but they are REALLY designed to create as many opportunities for bank fees (and copious hair pulling) as possible. The pod people at the bank speak their egregious lies and half truths with a smile because they know they've got you over the barrel and they can suggest that you take the hanks of hair you've pulled out of your head and knit a nice koozie for the steaming cup of "eat my shorts" they are about to serve you, and you'll just have to run out and take knitting lessons. Because they are the bank, and they are IN CHARGE OF THE MONEY!

But, it more whimsical news, I called around and found another bank which only has like two policies which are totally asinine. Which is a great improvement over the 87 Policies of Shite employed at my current bank. AND they are going to give me $50 for my trouble in switching banks, which is much better than a toaster or "totally free checking" in my book. And the checking is totally free. Ha!

In other whimsical news, I cleaned the house this weekend, and did the laundry, and watered the plants, and watched amovie. So, that was a great weekend, because now I can FIND STUFF. Hubby kicked my butt in the Oscar poll, but since I've won for about 11 years prior, I can be gracious.

Also whimsical: Quinlan cut off her beautiful glorious long hair in one fell slice and I bawled and then swept her off to the mall for additional shaping and molding. So, overall, her hair looks pretty fine now but things were pretty tense for a bit there. THREE YEARS of LONG PRETTY SILKY hair people! Now chin level or shorter. Oh, THE HUMANITY!

The Ultimate in Whimsy: this school report by Gabe (as transcribed by his teacher).

Dd is for Dad

My dad's full name is: ("Hubby", the Boy knew the real thing)
My dad weighs: 36 pounds
My dad is 27 feet and 12 inches tall.
My dad's favorite hobby is: cooking beef (!)
My dad's favorite thing to eat is: beef
My dad's favorite color is: peach (ha ha ha ha ha!!!)
My dad's favorite TV show is: The United States of America (huh?)
My dad's favorite song is: U2 Vertigo
My dad's favorite place to go is: The Bank (true dat!)
When my dad was little, he lived: in Iowa (NOT!)
What my dad likes best about me is: my big brown eyes (awwww!)
My dad sometimes gets upset when I: do bad things
I make my dad happy when I: get green smiley faces
I love my dad because: he is fun

Onward With Whimsy!

Memo: Schedule Changes, Effective NOW

2006-02-23T04:35:00.000-08:00

Life has been moving pretty quick lately. My days look a little like this:

6:00 am: Up. (bleary but functional) Main-line caffeine.

6:50 am: Leave for work.

6:50 to 7:45: Sit in heavy traffic. Listen to NPR. Think to self: Wow! World News! Hey, Cheney SHOT somebody? Really?

7:45 am: Begin working. RUN from various locations and tasks, from people management to problem solving to simple cleaning and sorting.

10:00 am: Realize Ribh must be hungry and I need to pump NOW, before large wet milk stains mark the front of my uniform and fail to impress my new co-workers.

2:45 pm: Wonder when lunch passed me by. Snarf down lunch at desk while reading a full inbox of work email that accumulated whilst I was tearing about.

4:32 pm: Realize I was supposed to have left work over 15 minutes ago in order to get home in time to relieve my child care provider.

4:35-5:30: Sit in traffic. Listen to same news stories repeated. Huh. Still baffled by the Cheney shooting thing. When did this happen exactly? For real? Oh, and the Olympics. Interesting. Sacha Cohen blew it. Shucks.

5:30 pm: Get tackled at the front door by Gabe who wraps his arms and legs around my leg, rendering me shackled and crippled as I enter the house. Ribh crawls quickly to my feet (not quite walking yet, the little monkey) and immediately begins mewling to be picked up. Quin is busy putting some babies to sleep and doesn't even notice I'm back. Ribh is now pulling my shirt up and patting my breasts while whining. At least SHE missed me/my boobs.

5:40-8:25: Clean up clutter, mail, laundry, think about making dinner, write bills, dishes, feed children, break up squabbles, water plants, begin dinner, administer time-outs, baths and nurse Ribh all while in the three pointed monkey death grip of at least one child at all times.

8:26: Start telling the kids to look for Papa's car. Papa is coming home! Papa! Papa!

8:34: Hooray! Papa is here! Tag! He's IT!

8:45: Watch TV while Hubby reads 16 books and puts the big kids to bed. Snuggle with my babe. Sigh. Smile. Eat popcorn for dinner.

9:15: Tell Hubby where to find his half-made dinner. Exchange first physical contact of the day with Hubby. (Smooches, I mean. Jeesh people, don't get dirty now. Remember what I have been through all day. This not a sexy encounter. Just nice to see my sweetie and actually get a hug and a kiss.)

9:30-10:30: Watch TV with Hubby. Nurse Ribh to sleep. Drift off with the TV still on.

12:06:Ribh, who has had little interest in my painstakingly expressed bottles of milk, is now as hungry as the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal and wants to make up for lost time.

1:24: Nurse on other side. Consider putting a towel over my head. (See link above if this confuses you.)

2:39: Switch sides. Think about work. Fall back asleep. Dream about work.

3:47: SWITCH! Realize the horror of your dream about work.

4:56: SWITCH even though breast are now shriveled like prunes. It's the only way to keep her asleep.

5:07: Think about work, even though baby has fallen back asleep. Remind self that I could sleep for a whole 'nother 45 minutes or so. Give up. Get up. Make Hubby wake up and move into my freshly vacated but ultimately necessary "Warm Body" position so that The Babe will stay asleep.

6:00: Throw together a lunch, so I will have something to eat at my desk. Locate breast pump. Find more bottles. Look for up-to-date photos of the kids to bring to work.

6:22: Leave early. MUCH less traffic. World News on NPR. Have time to stop at Dunkin' Donuts for coffee. Sigh. Smile. I guess I'll be getting up a little earlier from now on. If anyone wants to actually speak to me, call my cell between 6:20 and 7:00 am.

I'm tellin' ya, it's a whole new world.

Knatty Soldiers

2006-02-16T09:49:00.000-08:00

My final task this week in getting Banana and Honey Girl ready to go home to Wisconsin was to dread Banana's hair. Yes, DREAD it, as in Bob Marley, Rasta, beatnik (does anyone still say that?), super granola Dreadlocks.

I personally think the dreadlocks are a great idea. Banana is a funky and creative stay-at-home mom who is launching her own business making the world's cutest soft-soled baby shoes and she is therefore able to do any damn thing she wants with her personal appearance. I would consider it myself if it were not for my need to present a conventionally professional appearance. My oh-so-cutting-edge nose ring is enough of a kick in the teeth for the corporate world I am about to rejoin. It will go so well with my new smock inspired UNIFORM! (I KNOW! Freak out! A smock-like UNIFORM! At least it will forestall any morning closet angst.)

Producing dreads is a 57 step procedure which involves special shampoos and rubber bands and salty spray and strange powders and basically shredding and matting the hair until it gives up and forms formerly silky hair into a perfect tube of snarls and split ends. And then you have to let them MATURE. Like teenagers. This is tedious business. (Like teenagers.) This also involves spending 10 to 20 minutes on each section of hair, all but pulling the hair out by the roots while back-combing ferociously and spraying chemical about to aid the process. The process is so painful that the instructions at dreadheadhq specifically state:

This does involve some pain. - So What? Are ya gunna squirt some? Are ya? Sniffle sniffle. Do you wanna wear the daddy pants? Do ya?-- Take it like a knatty soldier. You're gunna have plenty of phatty dreadlocks baby!

The process is especially arduous when trying to keep a three year old, an 18 month old, and a one year old out of your way whilst simultaneously keeping them from making each other scream every ten minutes. Which is frankly NOT POSSIBLE. It worked best when all three girls were asleep, but that didn't happen often. So each tediously painful dread was worked with a child hanging from one of our breasts and much cursing and interruption. If anyone got pissy (BANANA), the other would quickly counter with: "What? Are ya gonna squirt? Are ya?" And so we persevered on through THREE DAYS of said activity.

Here's the photographic evidence:

The Before Picture (Notice how thrilled Banana is looking.)

Sectioned off, but no dreads formed yet. Banana is still quite chipper.

Working the final dread, just hours before Banana's flight. Banana smiles while clutching a pillow for support.
After: Banana grins while the blood trickles down the back of her neck.

After: Rear view (we wiped up the blood.)

And then I loaded Banana and Honey Girl into the minivan and drove them off to the airport for their nightmarish journey home. The month of sisterly hanging out ended quite abruptly. And now they've been gone a few days and my house is clean again. But soo quiet. And lonely.

I'm gonna squirt.

Switched at Birth

2006-02-11T08:44:00.000-08:00

Imagine our dismay when our friend Mike came to vist from out of town and we discovered that his long lost twin brother was lurking in our toy chest ALL THIS TIME!

Exhibit A: Mike

Exhibit B: Papa Happy Family

Creepy, isn't it!

Dopplegangers reunited.

Who do you look like?

Blue Smiley Blues

2006-02-10T05:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Gabe came home from school with a "blue smiley face".

This might sound like a (generally) good thing, but it's NOT! Each day all the children in Gabe's (kindergarten) classroom begin the day with a star with their name on it on a Green Board. The Green Board represents perfect behavior, a clean slate, innocent until proven guilty and all that tripe. If a child misbehaves, the child is asked to get up and move their star from Green to a Blue Board. Eventually, they can be further downgraded to a Yellow and then a Red state (plus an expense paid trip to the Principal's office. Oooooh!). It's color coded criminal justice.

The kids are send home with a chart with a smiley face colored in marker representing "their day" (As if behavior is the only important marker of how their day went. What about academics, socialization, attitude, etc.? But, I also DO appreciate the behavioral feedback. So I can't gripe too much.) Gabe has only had a Yellow once. It was a frowning face rather than a smiling face. I think it was during his first week of school.

Gabe was doing really well after he settled into the school routine. Initially, he was having lots of blue faces for "not following directions" which meant (according to my phone conference with his teacher) that he was frequently thinking that he could negotiate behavior with his teacher, by ignoring her instructions. He would argue that he didn't like her instructions and so on. She finally convinced him that she was the teacher and he was the kid and that he just plain had to function within those parameters.

(Gosh! I am so torn on this one: I totally get that he has to be able to FUNCTION in a setting in which someone has authority over him. The world is like that. Sometimes authority is a good thing, or at least a necessary evil. But I hate the argument that you must obey " just because" someone is in a position of authority over you. I will NEVER say "because I'm the Mama and I say so". BUT sometimes I really need him to just obey because I am juggling more things than he can be cognizant of at his age. I want him to obey ME and his teacher and his Papa but not to just blindly follow ALL authority just because they are AUTHORITY. We will have to work on debriefing this notion of blind authority as he gets older and can better handle the complicated reasoning and rules. Aargh.)

Anyway. Now he gets Blue smilies for infractions such as "not being quiet" and "knocking down Maddie's blocks". (I wonder where he gets the excessive talking from?)

Yesterday the infraction was: "Playing in the bathroom". When I questioned him about it he said that he didn't know he wasn't allowed to play in the bathroom because "never in his whole life" had anyone told him he couldn't. I wasn't sure what to make of this but I still decided to enforce the new punishment we had agreed upon for a Blue smiley: No computer, no TV, no friends over to play for that day.

Secretly, I was more afraid of this punishment than Gabe was. I figured he would follow me around forlornly begging for TV or other entertainment. Hubby doesn't get home until after 8:30 most nights and the (long, long) hours between 5:00 and 8:45 are often filled with TV babysitting while I make dinner, clean up the house, nurse the baby, and attend to all the other mundane but critical details of family life. This punishment meant I was facing a whole evening with no respite from his five-year-old demands.

But, he surprised me. He played with Play-Doh for over two hours! He destroyed his bedroom playing dress up and digging out toys that have been buried in toy rubble since just after their post-Christmas gluttonous discarding. He, in essence, kept himself cheerful and occupied all afternoon and evening! I totally underestimated him.

So, now I am going to need to seriously reconsider my use of television to occupy the kids. When I start working, evenings are going to be even more hectic, but it will be even more important that I use that time to connect with the kids. I think I better think it out again.

And Now I Shall Taunt You a Second Time

2006-02-06T14:30:00.000-08:00

For Those Dying To Know: Yes. I am now gainfully employed. I got the job.

I will begin working (full time, mind you) in just two weeks.

Eeep! (more on this later)

I cannot, however, tell you much of anything about my job. My employers know I have a blog and have expressly (and kindly) informed me that I am NOT allowed to blog about my job. Duh.

To be honest, I could probably tell you what my new job title is (beside the honorary: She Who Is All Knowing and Excessively Cute To Boot), but I am going to err on the side of caution and just say that I will be in a supervisory role within an institution of higher learning. But I am not teaching. I will be using the skills my children have helped me hone over the past six years and I can't wait to put someone into time out. God help 'em!

So, call me if this is not enough detailed information for you. If you don't have my number...you don't really need to know.

Better Than D'oh

2006-02-02T05:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going for a job interview this morning. I have not yet ventured into the closet for the humiliating Dance of Doom with my myriad wardrobe pieces that don't quite fit right. FUN!

The Nursing Strike has waned, with only brief interludes of crying, picketing and so on. Poor baby now has a nasty cough which wakes her (and me and Hubby) about every half hour all night long. Then occasionally she will cough so hard it causes her to vomit into my snuggly bed. Yummy!

In happier news, Banana Girl has invented a new mommy catchphrase which exactly sums up the frustration bordering on violence moms feel toward their offspring on occasion (Yes! We all feel this way sometimes! It's okay. It is the hallmark of a real Mama. Just own it and move on.)

Honey Girl: "Mama? Agua? Mama! Mama! Mama! Agua!" (While forcing a Dora sippy cup upon Banana for no discernible reason whilst Banana is fully in the throes of an early morning "Dammit, I Really didn't Feel Like Getting Up Yet, Much Less Have You Dribble Water All Over My Pajamas" moment.)

Banana Girl: "Child! I want to squish your brains!" (with squeezing hand gesture)

Me: Bwaa Ha ha ha ha!

Try it! It feels good! It is on point emotionally without having the realistic possibilities of other common threats (I could just choke you etc...). In fact, it is just silly enough to snap a mommy back to reality and help her see how ludicrous her epic battle of reasoning with toddlers can be. So, give in, throw out a fabulous but impossible threat and get on with your day.

I'm Going To Squeeze Your Brains!

I'm telling you, it's sweeping the nation!

On Strike (Until Mama Goes Nutso)

2006-01-30T16:46:00.000-08:00

The Tyrant in her Throne

On Saturday night Ribh unveiled the Tortured Baby Bird Screech of Epic Proportions of AGONY and woke Hubby and me with a start at 4:23 am. She proceeded to flail, weep, gnash her teeth (what there are of 'em), and thrash about wildly, while steadfastly refusing to either a) go to sleep or b) nurse.

That's right folks: It's a NURSING STRIKE!

A nursing strike is an interesting little "phase" in which babies can no longer stand the declining conditions in their difficult work day and protest by constructing tiny placards which read: NO MORE BOOB UNTIL I GET MY OWN REMOTE CONTROL (and I mean a REAL one dammit!) and SEE HOW YOU LIKE ENGORGEMENT, YOU INCESSANT SNOT WIPER (MY NOSE IS MY OWN BID'NESS), and STOP TRYING TO FEED ME THAT HEALTHY CRAP WOMAN, I SEE YOU EATING FUDGE IN THE PANTRY!

Actually, the babies will METAPHORICALLY construct said placards because frankly, their actions (or inactions boobwise) read louder than words. Ribh indicated quite emphatically at 5:00 am that she was NOT HAPPY and my SHOVING MY BOOB IN HER MOUTH was not helping matters. So, we got up and went to the living room to watched cartoons and HGTV until 8:00 am when everyone else got up.

Last night, the protest continued. This time, it began with a blood curdling screech at 1:27 am which I was able to quell (sans nursing, of course! I might have had ACID MILK for all she was interested) by sleeping propped up against the headboard and pat-patting for 15 minutes. But the moment I shifted positions, she reiterated her position against Mamas Who Suck and Cannot Hold Perfectly Still while Traumatizing Their Spines and followed by reciting her position paper (quite loudly) contending that HER mama particularly sucks and should quit thrusting her acidy boob into her mouth because her teeth hurt and she is sick of wearing hand me down clothes. Then she threw up and blew a giant goob of snot into my hair.

We went to the living room again and continued our negotiations in 30 to 45 minute intervals, during which I would drift off to sleep and would awaken spasmodically as she realized she had forgotten to mention that she wants more Baby Einstein Videos and less Dr. Phil in the afternoon and that she would like to be back inside my uterus where nobody bothered her with demands for sign language communication and patty cake.

Hubby replaced me at the negotiation sofa at 6:40 am when he got up to get The Boy ready for school and he must have managed to bridge the communication gap much better in his negotiotiations, (although I shudder to think what he may have promised her to elicit such a response) because when he brought her to me in bed at 8:00, she relented and nursed and slept for two whole hours without screaming or kicking me in the kidneys even once.

Please pray for a speedy resolution or send a skilled arbitrator. Sleep deprivation is stripping me of even my most rudimentary skills and I am likely to recite from The Aristocrats when I go on my job interview later this week or begin grocery shopping in my underwear. Help!

Good Night, Sleep Tight

2006-01-27T15:58:00.000-08:00

My Quinlan is growing up oh so quickly. My little Peapod is now chattering away non-stop, dressing and undressing herself ad naseum (to the tune of piles of clothing littering every room in the house. Seriously! Make it stop! She's not even three yet!). And her busiest enterprise of all: mothering every possible "baby" she can find.

She specializes in shepherding Ribh around the house and helping her baby sister achieve levels of mischief heretofor unattained by 12-month-olds. Recently they emptied a plant onto the living room floor and then flooded the delightfully filthy remains with water for the purpose of

A) Science Experiment : to see if plant particles would continue to thrive if water (which likely came from the toilet) was added
B) Creative Expression: a la performance art (for Mama to enjoy).

This creative expression included mud rubbed into Ribh's hair aboriginal style and dirt art on Dr. P's expensive bachelor wide screen TV and precious speakers. (Psst. Don't tell P. He doesn't know about that. I cleaned it up. He'd freak.) I didn't take a photo because while I was thinking about it I threw the girls in the tub and then the phone rang and then the girls wanted OUT and Gabe wanted IN and then I just cleaned it all up really fast while all three kids ran around nude and the phone rang some more.

But Quin's "sleeping babies tableaus" abound. Here is a photographic sampling. Trust me when I assure you that this a mere smattering of the myriad baby beds which crop up on every possible surface all day long.

Quin at "work", putting a few "babies" to bed with a purloined washcloth and dishtowel.

Dora rests with a dirty dishtowel and a bit of "night reading" in the form of "The God Particle", a book about Quantum Physics.

Two Polly Pockets sleep next to a Happy Family Mama doll and her counterpart, Happy Family Daddy, is doing the Brokeback Mountain thang with Storm Shadow of GI Joe fame (Don't Ask, Don't Tell says Joe) around the corner of the communal bed.

And here, Hello Kitties sleep in a bed made entirely of bread crusts.

Overheard Recently:

Quin: (eyeing up Gabe's new Robot Dinosaur, undoubtedly calculating which towel would work best to swaddle him to sleep) Gabe! Your Dinosaur is SOOO CUUUUTE!

Gabe: (scornfully and protectively) He's not CUTE Quin! He's a ROBOT! (Translation: keep your Family Bed, granola eatin' ways OFF my scary new toy!)

The Swiftest Flight

2006-01-23T04:48:00.000-08:00

My sweet baby, my last little nursling, is ONE today.

It is so hard to see my last baby leaping from babyhood into toddlerville with such reckless abandonment. She cannot wait to walk and run and jump like her older siblings. She lurches around while clutching my one finger for support, desperate to ambulate like everyone else around her. She wants MY food, MY glass of water, MY bottle of beer. She sometimes has to be pinned down to settle down enough to nurse and finally go to sleep and other times slurps down her milk rapidly while scanning the room for her next opportunity to leap into interesting toddler projects, like flinging my things about the room and stealing her sister's dolls. She cannot bear to miss a single thing.

With your firstborn, you delight in every new accomplishment, from the first smile, the first laugh, and each physical milestone is crowed over and foisted upon every person you meet. "My baby, he sat up today! My baby, he walks!" But the last child grows too fast, too swiftly accomplishing things that once done can never be taken back.

This baby, I want to tie her feet together to keep her from walking, holding her to me forever. I wallow in the smell of her hair and neck and her lingering baby scent. I breathe in her sweet milky breath. I kiss her dippled baby hands and immensely chubby knees. I stroke her immeasurable silky cheeks and cornsilk hair. I let her fall asleep against my chest at night and do not move her sweetly sweaty weight for hours, breathing in rhythmic unity, knowing she will only allow this for such a short time yet. The effortless trust of a baby is a gift only given once and must be cherished above all gifts.

And so today, as I prepare to make her a cake and gather friends and family, I cannot help but cry a little, and hold my birthday girl a little closer, a little tighter, a little longer.

Happy Birthday Baby Bird!

What's New?

2006-01-22T18:33:00.000-08:00

What's new here:

1. Holy Cows! I actually WON the Blogging4Books thingy! If you wanna check out the other winning entries you should go here. You should go read them. But notice who got First Place, people! (Ahem.)

2. I went to go see Brokeback Mountain this weekend. Good movie, but a wee bit uncomfortable. You know what's even more uncomfortable than watching gay cowboys simulate anal sex on the big screen? Watching anal sex simulated on the big screen with your Dad.

Your Dad who is GAY. (Ahem.)

3. You know what's maybe even more uncomfortable than watching Brokeback Mountain with your Gay Dad? Watching 40 Year Old Virgin with your Gay Dad AND your husband. And laughing and laughing while people talk about fucking, on and on and on.

Okay. That's all for now. I gotta go take a Silkwood Shower or something. I feel dirty.

To Whom It May Concern

2006-01-20T13:23:00.000-08:00

I might as well admit it: I'm gonna suck for the next week. Or month.

Due to glorious company invading my new home.

And they really are glorious. This week brought Banana Girl and Honey Babe (who walks and talks now and is barely a babe) along with my Dad, Papa Greg. We have been running around like dervishes, sightseeing (the Georgia Aquarium again! That's three times this week! Eeek! And three exclamation marks in a row! Blogging is for alarmists!) and shopping and whatnot.

Papa Greg leaves next week but Banana and Honey Girl stay until Quin's birthday in mid-February. Then Kris will visit for a few days with her little bundle of baby love. And finally my mom, Nonny, will arrive a few days later and be here into early March. Since the computer is located in the guest bedroom, there may be limited blogging. But I will be heaven, hangin' with my Peeps! Whoo hoo!

Whale Poop and Martin Luther the King

2006-01-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

Today, in celebration of Martin Luther King Day, we decided to go on a field trip. Since Gabe had no school and Hubby had the day off work, we got up early, packed a bulging diaper bag full of snacks and diapers and toys and headed into the a big city to go to The Georgia Aquarium.

Apparently our bright idea was shared by about every other parent in the tri state area. The Aquarium was...a Zoo (heh). Seriously though people, avoid the Georgia Aquarium during national holidays that let all the kids out of school. Ugh. This is no time to supplement your kid's education. Unless you plan to educate them on curse words and shrieking.

There were fish. A lot of 'em. And other critters, like scuba guys (and gals, let's not be sexist here).

And then we sunk Gabe and Quin in a capsule to the bottom of the deepest tank. Okay, not reea-lly.
And then Gabe petted a sting ray. And some shrimp. And a sea star (star fish thingy). And slid down a slide. And Quin climbed on garbage cans (because they wouldn't allow her on the slide because she was too young. WTF? Hello, it's a covered slide people!).

And then there was this really really huge tank (it can hold the volume of 25 olympic swimming pools) with more fish and whale sharks.

Even Ribh thought that was pretty astounding. She crawled around. And nursed. So that was cool.

And we pointed at stuff and said, "Hey, look at that big fish!" and "Kids, look at how the whale just pooped!" (I couldn't let a whole post slip by without mention of poop. 'Cause whales poop too. Really.)

And then we drove home and all the kids fell asleep in the car. We wanted to sleep too, but alas, MLK day isn't for sissies and the kids ALL woke up the second we entered the driveway and had no use for further sleeping.

And then the Aquarium called me to tell me I'd lost my wallet there. So, I'm going back tomorrow apparently. Wheee!

Saturday Morning Live

2006-01-14T07:52:00.000-08:00

This morning, after the kids dragged us out of bed at 7:00am, we set them up in the kitchen with bowls of sugary cereal (it's ORGANIC though!) and cartoons a'blaring and crawled back in bed to see if we could eke out a few more minutes of hibernation.

Within 15 minutes Gabe discovered our dark and silent hiding place and crawled into Hubby's side of the bed.

"Papa! Where's Mama?"

"She went to the store."

"What store?"

"A store you wouldn't want to go to."

"WHAT store?"

"The Poop Store."

(giggling) "Ewwwww!"

Silence reigns for a full 30 seconds. Peace.

"Papa! Let's watch some football. Do you want to watch football with me?"

"You want to watch football? I like watching football with you."

"Yeah. But I think we should watch a few cartoons first. Just like, ten cartoons."

They not only won't let us sleep, but they are forcing cartoons on us. Who's running this zoo?

King of All Media

2006-01-11T19:24:00.000-08:00

Forget Howard Stern. Gabe is The King of All Media.

He can control all of the electronic equipment in the house better than most of his babysitters.

He is so techno-savvy that he seized my camera in the car last week and took a film series I believe he would have titled: "My chronicle of My Sisters Watching Baby Einstein" in which there was a frame by frame accounting for each new scene on the TV interspersed with shots of his sisters in their respective car seats. I didn't even know he did this. (Bad Mama.) Here are a few highlights. I've deleted the shots of the TV screen. Sorry. (You're not missing much. Yellow car. Candle. Kinetic device. Overwrought children leaping about.)

He is a modern genius boy, but that doesn't stop him from enjoying Shark Boy and Lava Girl 3-D old school style with the 3-D glasses and all on a regular basis. (Seen here with Mom.)

And tonight, while waiting for his dinner, he chose to watch a TiVOed performance by U2 and cranked the volume WAAY up without any prompting. He's too smart for his own good. Except he thinks U2's guitarist is called "The Hedge".

The Way We Were

2006-01-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

Blogging For Books has issued this challenge: Write about your "Ex". Here is my entry:

We all have significant ex-relationships, ex-friends, former existences which haunt our lives and thrill us with their memories in unexpected times and places. These relationships and experiences are no longer ongoing and cannot be changed or re-lived. They are OVER and yet they still have the power to inspire us and to even intrude in our current pursuits of not only a better and more inspiring life but a nice, normal, stable existence. (At least that's what I'm going for usually. Well, maybe not normal, but stable, yes.)

The most meaningful Ex in my life, the former relationship that constantly intrudes on my current relationship, is my "ex-life", BEFORE CHILDREN.

It is both frightening and maddening the way the past can linger and taunt you with its "grass is greener" nostalgia. The Ghost of My Life Before Children is constantly clamoring to remind me of HOW GREAT IT WAS when my life was mine and mine alone. The BC Ghost fills my memory with taunting images of sleeping in every weekend and not wearing clothes smeared with peanut butter and jelly.

If I were to listen to the BC Ghost, I would be convinced that not only was I 30 pounds lighter before squeezing out my three offspring, but I had shinier hair, whiter teeth, a sharper wit, and less gas. The BC Ghost REALLY likes to wax nostalgic about the convenience of my former life. According to BCG, my life was all about last minute vacations in which I could lie on a chaise lounge while cabana boys brought margaritas, shopping sessions that lasted for days and produced clothes that ALL FLATTERED MY FIGURE, and a romantic life that would make Casanova (not the Heath Ledger one) envious.

Another issue with the BC Ghost, is that Hubby has his own BC Ghost and the two of them conspire together at times to leave us both certain, that not only was life better and more convenient BC, but that our spouse is conspiring to compound the pitiful effects.

For example, my BC Ghost tells me that "back in the day" on the weekend, Hubby would have helped me clean the house and fold laundry (just one load for our tiny family) and then we would snuggle on the sofa and watch TV before making a gourmet meal together, CLEANING THE KITCHEN TOGETHER (please don't laugh yet), and then going to movie at the last minute without ever thinking about babysitters or budgets.

Hubby's BC Ghost tells him that on weekends "back in the day" he would play golf all day Saturday, and then sleep til 10 on Sunday, be served breakfast in bed, watch Sports Center until his svelte and scantily clad wife met him at the sofa with Buffalo wings and beer as the football games started, and then, after the Packers soundly trounced whomever they were playing, he might mow the lawn or go for a run, just for fun.

Now, you can see, dear internet, where these depictions of what a weekend could/should be will create resentment, frustration and even occasionally, despair. We have been DUPED into thinking that our lives BC were a freakin' Disneyland of pleasure and free time and that we were the lords of our own little idyllic fifedoms and had spouses who were more like slaves than partners. Bah!!! YOU KNOW it was never that way. Our Ghosts of our own Ex-lives have done what so many Exes do in the retelling: They Lie.

Because, you know what? My ass IS bigger, but that is MY fault because I don't make time to work out and I eat more crap more often. Period. And my hair is SHINIER because now I can afford to occasionally get it PROFESSIONALLY COLORED rather than just use Nice 'n Easy like when we were poor childless students. And yes, I haven't slept for more than four hours straight in six years due to constant pregnancy and nursing, but I still get enough sleep overall and even take naps sometimes with a snuggly little snoozer tucked under my arms or pressed against my back. And THAT is a heaven of its own.

And poor Hubby has much better golf gear now, even if he goes less often, and he gets to share football with his children who gamely cheer for whomever he cheers for and then steal his Buffalo wings (which he made quite capably by himself) and then afterwards he throws the kids on the bed for a half hour while they giggle hysterically and beg for more.

And when we do (gasp) go to a movie or even out to dinner, we appreciate it ten times more than we did BC. We are like dieters sneaking a pint of Ben and Jerrys, as we sneak off for our moments alone. Ahhh! The anticipation! It's like dating again.

There are trade-offs for every complaint and tirade of parenthood from my saggy boobs to the eight loads of laundry per week. My life is indeed much different from the world I inhabited BC, but I cannot ever adequately quantify the joys and humor and charm brought into my world by the three little ones who have joined us in our own brand of chaos.

As my Grandpa used to say to my Grandma in those crazy moments of solidarity and pride in that chaos which is unique to being a family; "I'm glad we're Us". And by that I certainly mean the WHOLE CLAN of us, warts, saggy boobs, and all.

Because you know that soon enough I will be waxing nostalgic about "when the kids were little" and then "when the kids still lived at home" and then "when the kids DIDN'T live at home AGAIN" and so on. And so I will strive to keep those ghostly exes in the past and try to ignore their persistent reminders of how great it was when I didn't have to clean up 27 Polly Pocket pieces out of my bed before going to sleep or wipe poop off the toilet seat before using it myself. Sigh.

Who Knew Mommy Bloggers Could Be This HOT!

2006-01-06T08:09:00.000-08:00

Do you know that I get AT LEAST one hit every day from someone doing a web search for "Slutty Moms"? All because I once mentioned that my other blog was named "Slutty Moms" or some such obnoxious comment.

Think how disappointed the searcher must be when they click over here and get to hear about whatever cute thing my child did or my diatribe on how I was mad at the buttinski lady at the store.

Perhaps I could build up my online following if I mentioned more risque content regularly, like how my teething toddler abuses my nipples and how I enjoy house cleaning naked (ha!) or something.

But instead you just will get to hear about how I had food poisoning last night, delerium, a high fever and some seriously sexy fecal incontinence. Let's see what kind of searchers hit on that phrase!

Who Wants To Go Shopping With Me?

2006-01-03T18:29:00.000-08:00

Scene: Old Navy. I have ventured cross-county to a location I have never frequented before because the other Old Navy store is in such a heinous and over-traversed locale, I figured this one would HAVE to be superior.

My Mission: New PJs for Gabe, because his old ones are all at least one size too small and look quite foolish.

My accomplices: Gabe, Quin and Ribh (because shopping with no children or even one child is for sissies.)

My Method: Three children in a grocery cart (a "buggy" to southerners). Ribh sits in the child seat. Quin in the basket (despite stern warnings on cart NOT to do so) and Gabe hanging off the side (despite stern warnings on the cart NOT to do so). I should note that no child is restrained by a "belt". But we'll get into that later. My preferred method involves rapid choosing of clothing and frequent distracting of children before bolting with cheap merchandise.

And now, without further ado, The Debacle:

Strange Woman: Oh! Oh! Your baby! Is standing! He could fall!

Me: (Standing two feet from cart, trying in a sweater over my clothing) Ummm? Oh yeah. Thanks. (Thinking to self: Whatever!)

Strange Woman: Oh! The Baby! The Baby! He could fall!

Me: Thank you! SHE'S fine. Got it! (Removing sweater quickly.)

Strange Woman: But the BABY! Could fall! I've seen a baby fall before! (Not moving any closer to us, but wringing her hands and so on)

Me: Yes. I understand. It's okay. I'm almost done.

Strange Woman: I've seen a baby fall before and HAVE TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: Yes. SHE'S FINE FOR A MINUTE! (Beginning to be quite annoyed ON PRINCIPLE. Sheesh woman! I have three children. I know what I am doing. Leave me alone!)

Strange Woman: Why don't you have her buckled up? She could fall! And have to go to the Emergency Room!

Me: She just wiggles out of the belt. I'm almost done here. (My other children begin climbing my body while asking questions about what the Emergency Room is and who the weird lady is)

Strange Woman: I saw a child fall and have to go to the EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: I appreciate your help. We are leaving now!

Strange Woman: That's illegal! (Grumbling and grousing unintelligibly)

Me: Huh? (Get me the Heck outta here!)

I rush to the checkout and quickly purchase my single pair of pajamas. As I replace my check card in my wallet, Ribh leans over to grab the credit card swipey thing while her brother moves the cart away from the counter and.....WHOOOMP! Down she goes!

Everyone near the checkout freezes in HORROR! I grab Ribh, quickly assess the damage (she is scared but not hurt) and try to make a run for it, but......that voice! Here comes the Harbringer Harpy of Horror again.

Strange Woman: I TOLD YOU SHE WOULD FALL!!!! NOW YOU NEED TO GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!

Me: SHE IS FINE! WE ARE NOT GOING TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM! WE ARE LEAVING NOW!

Strange Woman: (To everyone in the area) I told her to buckle that baby up! That kind of behavior is illegal! She shouldn't be allowed to......

Me: (Running out the door) Dammit! I KNOW she MADE that happen with all her freakin' insistence that the baby would fall. Ribh stands in the cart (buggy) every freakin' day and nothing happens and then this freak comes along and.....! Arrrrgghhhhhhhh!

Another, Nice Woman, In the Parking Lot: Is your baby okay? Oh, Good! That lady was totally crazy! What did she think was illegal? She's nuts!

Me: Sigh. Thank You! I really needed that validation!

So, to sum up: Ribh is totally fine. She fell on her butt mostly (well padded) but we checked her and cleared out any subluxations in her spine when we got home. NO need for a trip to the ER.

Furthermore, I still defend my position as the parent of my own children to know that A) Ribh does not stay seated and secure in the crappy little belts that are meant to secure very small and immobile children in the seats in shopping carts and that in order for me to shop I must occasionally allow her to stand and wiggle around a bit while I stand nearby and do my thing. B) Just because I have small children does not mean I need to stay home in a freakin' padded cell lest my child should bonk themselves somehow in public. C) That woman pretty much MADE the event occur by her insistence that it WOULD occur plus her ability to totally distract me past my ability to listen to my own instincts. D) NO trip to the ER was ever indicated even if I was some doctor-running freak. (Which I'm not.) E) SHE should be illegal. Damn! That really pissed me off!

Numbers Trivia ( And Nonny is caught in a LIE!)

2005-12-30T10:04:00.000-08:00

3.5: Hours of sleep I got last night after Ribh's excessive wailing and waking. I swear, everytime she twitched anywhere NEAR the top of her sleep cycle, her head immediately spun around three times and she started SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS. And while I was willing to let her sleep with my boob in her mouth, even THAT was not appeasing her last night. Plus, after all the nursing she did do, what with the smorgasbord of milky treats I left out for her all freakin' night long, there wasn't an ample supply of milk available anymore after about three in the morning and this Mama was getting sore and crabby. Not to mention that I am STILL fighting the Healing Crisis of Epic Proportions which left me feverish throughout the entire holidays and coughing every three to five minutes.

3: Hours of sleep I got after Ribh and my family got up this morning and Hubby (my savior) let me collapse back into my bed alone! Whee!

55: Number of minutes it took to disassemble the Christmas Tree this morning. After the three days it took put the dratted thing up, I'm pretty pleased. I still need to organize and wrap up all the ornaments and what not. But I do not need to clean up a million embedded needles.

18: The number of children I will complain have been "hanging from my body" when I am feeling overwhelmed by the collective force and chaos of my children. I come from a long line of gross exaggerators. This one is minimal. And feels quite accurate at times.

987: My favorite number* to use when establishing that there was really really A LOT of something. As in: It only took me 987 hours to put up that damn Christmas Tree From Hades. Sometimes I say 897, just to mix things up.

*I believe the birth of my use of this number began in childhood. I was recently watching the movie Annie (You know, the one with Albert Finney) and when the orphans escape from Miss Hannigan and run around New York trying to find Annie to warn her that her "parents" are really Hannigan's evil brother Rooster and Bernadette Peters (and who wouldn't be terrified of THAT) the orphans finally find Fifth Avenue and they realize they are at Number One Fifth Avenue, but they need to 987 Fifth Avenue, which apparently is Daddy Warbuck's address.

The utterance of this line of dialogue struck such a chord with me, a familiar twang of recognition spread through my body and I was reunited with the dialogue which begat my favorite exaggerative number. Aww, how sweet! And so, in celebration, I will bestow one more life changing line of dialogue from the movie Annie: "Buddha says, A Child Without Courage is like a Night Without Stars, Come!"

2: The number of times I have been the "Shalvaysta" in my entire life. This may be meaningless to you, but apparently it is even more meaningless than I ever suspected.

"Shalvaysta Day" is a family tradition of my childhood based on a Finnish tradition in which the last person to get up on December 31st is declared the "shalvaysta" or the Laziest Person in the house for the entire year! Cute huh? My mom was raised in a Finnish community in Northern Wisconsin and she taught us this little bit of folklore and I have handed it down to my family. But wait, it gets trickier! (Hang on family members who read this blog! Here comes the part when you will find out it is all A LIE!!!)

I look up the proper spelling of the word "Shalvaysta" on the trusty internet in order to appear intelligent and ya know, FACTUAL, and here the whole story falls apart. There is NO "Shalvaysta day" on December 31st! There is no mention of any word resembling Shalvaysta, which probably just means "sucker".

Actually, July 27th is "Sleepyhead Day" or Unikeon Paiva in Finland, and the last one up, the "Laziest Person", is actually called the "unikeko". And furthermore, this person is roused by throwing water on him or best yet, wrapping him up mummy style in his bedsheets and dumping him in a nearby lake! So, Big Brother Matt, you got off cheap all these years with just a little good natured ribbing. There could have been water play and cutting a hole in the ice so we could dump you in the lake. Well, not in July. But you get the picture.

I don't know if my mom's little backwater community somehow bastardized their cultural observances and brought "Laziest Person" days to the wrong solstice (the Fins are known to drink quite a lot) or if my mom just got creative on her own and somehow transported the holiday into New Years Eve Day in order to get her slacker children out of bed over winter break, but just to set the record straight: Tomorrow IS NOT "Shalvaysta Day" and you can all sleep in as late as you want without fear of recrimination. (I know many of you are enjoying such huge sighs of relief as you read this.)

But watch out on July 27th! I may even have to locate a nearby lake.

Meet Bubbles Kitty

2005-12-26T10:36:00.000-08:00

Ribh enjoyed her first Christmas.

She crawled through drifts of discarded wrapping paper and toy packaging and made friends with all her new toys, one by one. But her new Bestest Friend is Bubbles.

Now I know Bubbles may not seem like much to crow about for crafty folks like Loobylu (who could whip up a creature that would put Bubbles to shame using only items she carries in her purse and the grunge that accumulates under the sofa cushions.)

But I don't possess such crafting skills and am so impressed by Bubbles adorable little freakin' knit self (hand knit in Peru by the folks at blabla) that she has already become The Mama's favorite and will therefore likely become Ribh's favorite as well.

And here the little shy darling is modeling some new leggings by trying to pull them over her head. How droll is the little cheesecake pose?

And finally, she contemplates other ways to showcase her many burgeoning talents for her mother's blog readers.

Beware folks! This one is going to be clamouring for this kind of acclaim all the time in the near future. I can just feel it.

Ransom Note

2005-12-22T10:52:00.000-08:00

Hostage: One wee silky My First Hello Kitty, abandoned in our minivan by visitors from Milwaukee.

(*note the way we have bound her wee arms behind her back to prevent escape)

Ransom demanded: One case of squirt and a bottle of vodka.

But you'd better send the vodka and squirt soon or else poor Hello Kitty will be abandoned yet again, but this time to the whims of my multiple offspring. Bwa Ha Ha Ha!

( A few of you didn't know what a freak I can be yet, didcha? Now you know.)

WE MUST NOW INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO BRING...

2005-12-21T14:14:00.000-08:00

YOU ARE EXPERIENCING A TEST OF MY ANNUAL "HOLIDAY" LETTER. IF THIS HAD BEEN AN ACTUAL ANNUAL HOLIDAY LETTER IT WOULD HAVE ARRIVED IN YOUR ACTUAL MAILBOX AND WOULD HAVE BEEN ACCOMPANIED BY PHOTOS OF MY SCRUMPTIOUS CHILDREN WHICH YOU COULD AFFIX TO YOUR REFRIDGERATOR. TOO BAD! THIS IS ALL I HAVE TIME FOR THIS YEAR. ENJOY:

Okay. So the big news for all of you who have been living under a Mar's World News Blackout: WE MOVED TO GEORGIA. As in The Southland. The Land of Plenty. The Land of Nefarious Accents and Unseemly Language Usage. The Land of Roads which go hither and yon with ne'er a bit of logic behind their direction nor naming procedures. The Land of the World's Coolest Aquarium. We are officially Southerners.

In other news this year, we added the third (and final) installment to our family with the arrival of Ribh (Yes! Yes! It's pronounced "Reeve" people. Got that already? Let's move on.) Wallis Flannery in January. She was born in front of the kitchen sink with her Mama cursing and her Papa catching with minimal hoopla, as it should be, to our way of thinking. She is growing (and growing and growing, especially those thighs!) and will likely be walking by New Year. She is much beloved by her sibbies and already showing the dramatic bent which is so often characteristic of "The Baby" of the Family. Especially my family. Wheee! She's dern cute tho'.

Quinlan is almost three, going on 16, with her obsessions with clothing, makeup and "being a princess". She is into everything. Really. She is almost magical in her ability to scale great heights and hidden depths to find all things that have been forbidden to her. She has adapted her vocal chords to the point where her Pterydactyl Shrieks have escalated to noises only dogs can hear at times, but overall she is adapting well to longer being the "baby" and becoming a Southern Belle (egads!) all in the same year.

Gabriel has graduated from hanging out at home with us slackers and bon bon eaters to showering and shaving daily before going off on the big yellow bus to kindergarten. Under the southern accented tutelage he has mastered concepts such as phonics and AB patterns and monetary exchanges with alacrity. He also enjoys hanging out with the neighborhood children and emulating Scooby Doo and Shaggy whenever possible. Especially if cookie dough is involved.

Brian (Hubby) is missing his former students and patients but loving life and Life (His new employer) in the Southland. He especially enjoys golfing in winter (when he can get away) and never having to chip ice off his car. He is enjoying being a "City Boy" and loves the company we have finally attracted now that we are no longer residing in Iowa.

I am also missing both students and patients from Iowa but I am content that we are (once again) where we are supposed to be. I have had several major life lessons this year in surrendering control and finding my creative spark once again. It has been good for me to release myself to my creative inclinations and I've managed to refine and teach my Innate Birthing classes and birth my latest offspring, this blog. (Two offspring in one year! It's like Irish Twins or something equally freaky, huh?)

And now's the part where I get all sappy: We have so much to be thankful for this year. I am so grateful for all my friend and family who helped pull us (me) through some really difficult moments this year with kind words, hugs, copious babysitting hours, drives to Iowa, and loving ears who listened to me bitch and kvetch. I want you all to know how much your love (And comments! Yaay for those who post comments!) has meant to me. My faith in the universe was tested this year, but it was the support each of you gave to me and my family that allowed me to see how truly rich and blessed I am.

And so, Tra La La! And Ho HO HO! Merry Christmas to all!

YOU MAY NOW RESUME YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM.

The World's Longest Delay

2005-12-15T13:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we drove to the airport twice. Once to drop off our visitors and once to pick up our visitors. Because far far away, in the land of snow and sleet, an airport called O'Hare lost its everlovin' mind.

But don't feel sorry for me. Consider my guests (which include a six months pregnant woman and a toddler) who spent six hours in limbo at the airport. And then they came back to my house and we drank vodka and Squirt (except the pregnant woman). And then, this morning, as I was loading the van to drive them back at the airport, they got another call informing them that their "new" flight was cancelled.

But wait. Just now, as we were putting shoes and jackets on all the kids so I could bring them to the airport for their "new new" flight, my guests received a call informing them that their flight was, once again, cancelled. Until tomorrow afternoon. Vodka and Squirt for everyone! Cheers!

(This means there will be no new blogging, unless there is drunken blogging.)

Southern Comfort

2005-12-13T03:23:00.000-08:00

Ooops, I did it again. I went awol all week. This week's excuse: COMPANY! Wheeee!

Thursday and Friday were spent preparing for said company. Which means I actually vacuumed all the rooms in my house AT THE SAME TIME. (By which I mean on the same day, not that I somehow overrode the laws of physics and managed to simultaneously exist in more than one place. Jeesh people, don't be so literal!) All the toilets in my home were excrement free momentarily and I made a major shopping trip to Harry's, the mecca of all kick-ass gourmet foods. (I probably shouldn't mention the excrement and food in the same sentence, but that's just how it turned out.)

The company, my college roommate and her husband, my college boyfriend's roommate (confused yet?) arrived with their delightful offspring, Lily (17 months), on Saturday. Since then, we've been busy eating the delightful snacks from Harry's, hanging out, drinking a smidge (ha!), and watching our children roam about snatching each other's toys and sippy cups.

We did make the pilgrimage to Gladys Knight's (and Ron Wynan's) Chicken and Waffles for, you guessed it, Chicken and Waffles. Well, we had the super crispy chicken and delicious malted waffles, Chris and Tracy and Lily had Waffles and Waffles, because they are vegetarians. We had planned to take the children to the Children's museum, but naptime interceded and the meltdowns appeared to be in earnest, so we aborted that plan and opted for some serious napping, and not just of the child variety. We also went to an outlet mall and went out for dinner sans children last night. Clearly, it has been a spectacularly thrilling visit for my company so far.

Today we are planning a trip to the new Georgia Aquarium, which truly is lauded to be spectacularly thrilling. Then we (I) have delusion of a quick trip to IKEA to spend a bit of my Christmas money while we are downtown. This will likely be interrupted by nap needs, but, hey, its 6:30 in the morning, so anything still seems possible.

I am also planning to make cheese fondue for the first time ever for dinner and have MORE COMPANY (with children) over to see if we can maximize our household capacity for sippy cup battles and shrieking. Don't worry, I bought plenty of wine.

Photos to come, I promise.

Woe is Tree!

2005-12-07T13:25:00.000-08:00

Where have I been for the past week (well, almost)? I've been putting up my freakin' Christmas Tree. Really! It's been so so fun! (Are you catching all the heavily dripping sarcasm?) Do you want to hear all about it?

On Saturday, we braved the drizzling rain and set off for the cute little local Christmas tree farm I had seen featured in the local county newspaper. The fact that the establishment was featured in the Paulding County Reporter, which arrives free in my driveway every Thursday morning should have been my first tip that this was not a great idea. But alas, I was striving to achieve Super Mama Nirvana with an adorable family trip to cut down our Christmas tree, so we went anyway.

Actually, I am making the process seem much easier than it actually was. Just before leaving the house to set out on this excellent adventure I had a complete meltdown of some type (Over nothing really. Never underestimate the power of female hormones) and spent a half an hour crying in the closet and then mopily apologizing to Hubby and Dr. P for being so insane. The girls were crying and Ribh pooped everywhere just before we left and Gabe was mad because I wouldn't let him bring along some toy and Hubby was getting aggravated by all the hoopla and we hadn't even left our house yet!

We arrived at the tree farm ( I only cried two more times on the way there) and discovered that they had none of the usual varieties we like to get (Douglas Fir) but instead had wild and shaggy "southern varieties" that frankly, sucked. I swear, each and every tree on this rinky-dink tree farm was either a contender for The Most Lopsided Christmas Ever, or sadder than Charlie Brown's worst Christmas nightmare, or a combination of both. Whoever trimmed and shaped these trees was doing it while wasted and blindfolded!

To top it all off, Quin was in total nap-needing meltdown and demanded (by wailing incessantly) that she be held at all times. Since I was slinging Ribh, the lot fell to Hubby to lug Quinny's snotty whining self and the saw as we trudged around it search of a tree that only mostly sucked. Gabe was in charge of the camera, so all photos are courtesy of a five year old and the only member of our party who wasn't whining and crying.

So we picked a tree that only generally sucked and cut it down and paid our $24 for it (Thank God! The only good part of the whole debacle) and drove home, stopping about 15 times along the way to re-tie and ascertain that the tree was still affixed to the roof. Good times!

We brought the tree inside and wrangled it into our tree stand and fought to find a "straight" position considering its hopelessly subluxated (not straight) spine and finally poured some water into the stand and watched in run out like a mini river. I then sent Hubby to the store to buy a new stand to replace the old one which had apparently cracked in the move to Georgia. We got the tree into the new stand, mopped up all the water and began to string lights.

Okay, first of all, how is it that lights which are only one year old and were perfectly functional when they are packed away become completely non-functional after sitting in a cushy box and eating bon bons all day for 345 days? Why do I have to buy five or six new sets of lights every freakin' year??!! Why, I ask you, why??

Also, why does my husband NOT GET that lighting the tree is not a FUN THING that I do JUST FOR FUN!?! Every year I have to beg and plead for him to help me and every year he says the same lame thing: "But Honey, you like to do this". Note to Hubby: I like Christmas. I like Christmas trees. I like presents and carols and ornaments. I do NOT like doing all the decorating myself. I would like it to be a family activity in which people stop watching the football game for like a half hour and smile at each other and light a fire and have a glass of wine or hot chocolate and maybe create some holiday memories. I know I have to give up this dream, but DAMN! It seems so simple and reasonable when I start out each holiday. Sigh. Okay, THAT rant is over now.

But wait, there's more. I paused in the tree decorating extravaganza to nurse Ribh to sleep and was interrupted by a loud crash accompanied by a pitiable screech. Hubby and I convened in the living room where we discovered Quin UNDERNEATH the tree, which had toppled onto the floor, again. Hubby began cursing and picking the dratted thing up and poor Quinny scooted into my arms. We mopped up the water all over our floors again. Dr. P came upstairs and informed us that some of the water had seeped through the floor and was running down the casement window in his bedroom. We also now realized that the tree would doubtlessly need addition tethering to keep if from toppling again. We aborted the operation for the night and went to bed (in tears again on my part.)

The next morning we discovered The World's First Horizontal Christmas Tree. Luckily, I had been too overwrought to remember to refill the water the night before, so we didn't have to deal with the flooding again. We determined that the tree is so unstable (because of its crooked trunk and unbalanced shape) that it was a lost cause. We began searching on the internet for artificial trees.

I will try to streamline this post (too late) by simply saying that I searched the internet, many stores in person and a few tree lots and finally settled on a non-pre-lit tree that I got from some guy on Craig's List for only $60 bucks. I drove 45 minutes each way to pick it up and of course, when I got it home I discovered that it had no tree stand. It only took about three to four hours to assemble properly, and then I had to light it and "help the kids" decorate but three days later I finally have the whole thing up with light and ornaments and the works. I think it may become a permanent part of my living room decor because it was so much damn work to get it there!

Without further ado: Behold! The Holiday Tree!

You Never Know Where the Conversation Will Go

2005-12-02T15:45:00.000-08:00

Gabe and I discovered a large-ish spider crawling on his towel as he got out of the bath. He was (understandably) creeped out by this and asked that I "get it" for him. I proposed wrapping it in toilet paper and throwing it in the toilet, which he was all for.

But then, as I flushed the toilet, the questions began.

Gabe: Mom, where did the spider go?

Me: I flushed it. It went in our septic system.

Gabe: What else could we have done with it?

Me: Well, we could have put it outside, but it would freeze at night and it would die. We could leave it to crawl around our house but I don't want it to crawl around on me when I am sleeping so I would rather not keep it in our house.

Gabe: Me neither!

Me: Actually, I kinda squished it a bit when I picked it up with the toilet paper.

Gabe: So, it's dead. Spiders can die?

Me: Yup. It's dead. Everything dies eventually.

Gabe: Even you and me?

Me: Yes, but we probably won't die for a long long time and we will be very old.

Gabe: Old, like Papa (Hubby)?

Me: NO, much much older. Like a Grandpa.

Gabe: (Aghast and a bit emotional) But I don't want to be old.

Me: Why not? (starting to feel bad for all my frank talk)

Gabe: I don't want to have hair grow out of my nose.

Me: (Chortling) It's okay Gabe. You don't have to let hair grow out of your nose, even when you are very old.

When Babies Find Markers

2005-11-30T17:46:00.000-08:00

The budding artist's first masterpiece. Her own face. It's like one of those tribal tattoos.

I couldn't pick just one photo 'cuz she's just that cute! And brilliant.

And yes, the marker was washable! Hooray!

Signs That I AM My Mother

2005-11-29T16:23:00.000-08:00

1. Quin cannot find one of her favorite high heeled dress up shoes. After she asks me six times where it is and I tell her each time that I do not know, I finally tell her that I have eaten her shoe and she will have to wait until I poop it out before she can play with it again. (Now she keeps asking me to go to the bathroom and get her shoe out of the toilet. Ruh Roh!)

2. Peevers loves to nurse when we take a bath together. I subversively try to keep my breasts under water and laugh at her when she repeatedly dips her head into the water while trying to get ahold of my nipple. Good times. Good times.

3. Gabe became insanely emotional when I told him he could not have a piece of fudge after school. He told me that he was very very sad. I told him that being sad about fudge is good for his heart and will make it grow big and strong. Then we had a contest to see who could make the saddest face. I won.

4. Both of my older children know that making up new words to a song is a sure fire way to make new friends and gain influence. Even Quin, not even three yet, can sing a great alternate to Twinkle, Twinkle involving her potty chair and her brother's favorite toy that is clever enough to win her an audience at the White House.

5. The kids were fighting over which seat they sat at the kitchen counter. Without even pausing, I implement a system in which their assigned seat is determined by even and odd days on the calendar. Gabe gets the pole position on odd days and Quin does on even. (What they hell am I gonna do when all three are fighting over something?) I tell Gabe that he gets the odd days because he is so odd.

6. You have probably heard half these stories from me already because, like my mom, I think every good story bears repeating. And repeating. And repeating.

* I should say that neither my mom nor I are half as evil as this post may seem to indicate. All of these examples should be seen in a light of the good natured ribbing the kids knew they were all along. If you still don't think it's funny then..I wouldn't joke that way with you. Gosh!

The Best Thanksgiving Snake

2005-11-28T04:53:00.000-08:00

It was a quiet Thanksgiving. The after dinner entertainment was provided by Otto.

He's "The Best Snake Ever" according to Quin and now even according to Cynthia, who was initially a bit nonplussed by the after dinner program.

We ate. We drank. We played with a snake.

Who wants to come next year?

Mermaids Don't Wear Underwear

2005-11-25T07:07:00.000-08:00

Quin has recently discovered the joy that is Walt Disney's Princesses. I have tried to channel this interest into more alternative ass-kicking Princess types but alas, the marketing geniuses at Disney have Quin's number. She pretty much embodies their demographic for girly girls.

So I relented and dragged out my favorite Disney Princess classic, The Little Mermaid. Quinlan's immediate rapt response to the under-the-sea sugarfest: "She's a mermaid mama! She's so pretty!"

Hubby has always enjoyed this film as well. In fact, we watched it together on one of our first dates. The movie prompted a long standing feud between us in which I insist that the Little Mermaid was washed ashore stark naked after her transformation by the Sea Witch. Hubby insists that the Little Mermaid must be wearing underwear at least, since she has a sea shell bra thingy. This makes no sense because in her normal mermaid form, she has no damn legs and therefore, no CROTCH. I'll admit there is some confusion as to where merpeople hide their most private nether-regions. Obviously, they must have some naughty tingly bits somewhere or there would be no little merpeople, but I still contend that you need a crotch in order to wear underwear. I mean, what's a little mermaid to do as she dresses; scrape off her scales, slide legless underwear over her flippers and then reapply scales? I think not! The girl/fish has no underwear. Period. Hubby is dead wrong on this one.

Hubby seemed to have a generally different take on the film now that he is a parent to three and a father to two girls. Gabe remarked that Ariel father was being mean and Hubby staunchly defended Triton and told Gabe that Ariel should be in BIG TROUBLE for disobeying her father and chasing after boys and what not. I'll bet he'll insist all the more blindly that Ariel is wearing underwear because he cannot stomach the image of his innocent little girls running around after "princes" sans drawers. It's always tough being confronted with your daughters' inevitable sexuality. Poor Hubby.

But Quinny loves the Little Mermaid now and wants me to sing the "Mermaid Song" to her daily, if not hourly. She also has latched onto the song "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music, so we watched part of that yesterday too. Gabe just likes the Goatherd song but Quin calls all the girls and Maria "princesses" and asks to watch Leisel dance around the gazebo with the telegram boy over and over.

Hubby is so screwed when her hormones kick in.

Why I'm A Humongous Slacker (At Blogging That Is)

2005-11-23T09:03:00.001-08:00

They say that most bloggers just bonk out/blog out/poop out within the first year. I am ashamed to say I can see how that happens. I think of myself as too good of a writer with too much to say to let that happen, but just look at my thread count for the month; pitiful!

I've been feeling plenty guilty for blogging so infrequently lately (and not just because some of you have been nagging me with pleas for new entries). Here is the list of reasons (excuses) I've been compiling in my mind:

1. I assume ya'll are tired of hearing about poop and vomit. It is a recurrent theme in my life but it seems so frequent and redundant lately that writing about it seems a bit boring and would be like rubbing my own face in it (figuratively). So, I haven't been writing about the many poop and vomit related escapades in my life recently (and always). It has nothing to do with squeemishness over poop and vomit, just its ubiquity.

2. I'm not totally freaking out for once. This may seem backwards, but freaking out feeds me or something. The more I freak, the more I write. So, now I just stay home and clean up poop and vomit and I have nothing to rant on about. Go ahead and call me Drama Queen. I will smear some poop on you.

3. I now have a TiVo in my bedroom and I can chill out and watch Starting Over or some other silly guilty pleasure to numb my brain. Okay. That's totally pitiful. But honest.

4. I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THE DAY GOES! I swear, I have a list of projects and books to read and my birth initiative to get off the ground here in Georgia and yet every day flies by with my being proud if I just managed to feed the kids a healthy dinner, read to them before bed, or empty the freakin' dishwasher, much less paint the bathroom (also on The List) or blog.

5. You've heard all my standard rants already. I've been known to repeat myself. To excessive lengths. Just ask Hubby. So, I'm trying to actually have something to say before I sully the internet with my ramblings. Maybe I'm setting the standard too high.

6. Since only like three of you comment with any frequency, I don't really feel like I know what you guys want me to blog about. I mean, I don't blog to please anyone, BUT it is gratifying to write things that you know others are enjoying. So gimme some love, people!

7. I have been a lot of trouble with my internet connection and frequently get booted off mid post, so I am anxious about writing some huge and definitive essay on, say, The Quality of Poop Expressed by a Potty Training Two Year Old, only to find it lost to the ether forever. Heartbreaking, I tell you.

8. The worst thing is: THE CONSTANT INTERRUPTIONS! Seriously, since I started this post, two and a half hours ago, I have been delayed by the neighborhood children arriving (damn school holiday breaks), the phone ringing, the dog barking to be let in, the neighborhood children ravaging my house, changing a poopy diaper, kicking the children out of my house, the dog barking to go out with the kids, an adult neighbor arriving to chat, making lunch for my children, kicking the neighborhood children out of my garage, putting Quin (already asleep on the sofa, naked, amidst the bedlam) in bed for her nap, the dog barking to come back in, nursing Peevers to sleep, and trying to get Gabe occupied working on some school work. So, I need to REALLY REALLY have something to say in order to break through the chaos and interruptions and write a nice juicy blog entry.

So, inspire me, hire me a doorman, or comment already, and maybe you'll get some sugar from me in the form of more frequent posting. And quit sending me harrassing emails. I have access to copious quantities of poop and vomit.

Cutest Photo Montage Ever!

2005-11-15T04:45:00.002-08:00

The kids and I went to Ellen's house, which is more "in the country" than my subdivision in order to take the kids tromping around in the woods behind her house. It was raining all morning but we decided a little water wouldn't hurt them (our kids are tough, I tell you) so we put them in galoshes and headed into the woods.

All the way to the creek, we wove a tale about the "Root Children" who live in the forest and kept a look out for signs of their presence. We entered their territory through a secret arbor and saw other signs that they had been there in the placement of fallen trees and little nests.

The kids were loving the story and kept looking for "Root Children" as they played.

They splashed in the creek. They fell in the creek. They filled their galoshes with water. They picked up trash (Ugh, yes, even in the deep woods there was trash). The babies watched them contentedly. The big kids got drenched up to their waists (up to the neck in Quin's case) and still continued to giggle and play. My kids acquitted themselves well as the backwoods rednecks we secretly are and I was proud. There is nothing sweeter than filthy clean-living munchkins in my book.

We finally dragged their sodden bodies out of the creek and up the hill to the house, dumped the water out of their boots and threw them in the bathtub.

Gabe has been telling me that he wants to go back to "Noah's Secret Woods" to look for the "Little Guys" again soon. Maybe tomorrow. Sigh. This makes me so happy.

You may also have noticed I (and the kids) have made new friends. Isn't life grand?

For more photos of the Secret Woods Adventure, click here.

Things That Go Bleargh in the Night

2005-11-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

Last night, dark stillness was interrupted by the cry of a child.

Here's the cool part: Hubby got out of bed to go investigate.

Prior to moving to Georgia, we ALL slept in "the family bed," which was really two beds pushed together on the floor of our bedroom. But now, the big kids sleep in their own bunkbeds and seldom get up for anything. We, in turn, sleep in our own humongous bed with only Peevers to contend with (and she is way easy)! And, our bed is not even on the floor!

And the coolest thing about all these changes: When big children cry in the night, Hubby gets up to contend with them since he is closest to the door and I am attached to Peevers.

But the REALLY REALLY cool part: Hubby got up and figured out what was wrong (Gabe had puked in his bed) and then went ahead and got Gabe settled on the sofa and STRIPPED THE BED AND PUT THE SOILED BEDDING IN THE WASH AND BEGAN TO WASH IT!

What a great morning! Even though I have a puny child home from school today, I am just so thrilled that the Mommy Default Button wasn't depressed during the night, I am celebrating anyway.

Let's Have a Little Debate, Shall We?

2005-11-04T05:19:00.000-08:00

1. Why do nerds in teen movies think they have ANY chance of getting the hot and popular boy/girl?

Remember the 1986 film, Lucas? Corey Haim was the adorable (think: puppy) nerd with hugely oversized glasses to match his hugely oversized crush on blandly lovable Kerri Green (who you will remember as the "it" girl from Goonies, NOT Martha Plimpton, who I actually adore.) Lucas was your classic undersized weakling academic misfit who hung out with his fellow outcast, Winona Ryder (!) with whom he may actually have had a slight possibility of hooking up. And yet, he foolishly goes out for the football team in order to impress the popular girl.

There are so many things wrong about this premise.

I have hung out with many a nerd/outcast/non-jock type in my teen years and we (I mean, they) hated the freakin' jockish and popular crowd. Because, as a whole, the popular sect are all a bunch of entitled jerkwads, who even if they deign to act civilly on occasion, are worthless when it comes to actually having a rewarding conversation. No self-respecting outcast actually wants to hang out with a bunch of popular assholes. I mean, give me a bunch of goth skaters and art geeks over the vapid loveliness of the richies any day. Plus, nerds are smart enough to calculate that they have no real chance to fit in with this group.

Even when they all give Lucas the big slow clap (you know, that gradually increasing, emphatic jock clap) in the end of the movie, it was more like: Man, dude, We can't believe you were stupid enough to take off your helmet right before you caught the big Hail Mary pass and then allowed the other team to tromp on your skinny neck like that just to get a stupid football jacket. We admire your admiration of our superiority and your sacrifice to us. Now please give us the space our superiority demands already. And try to stay away from our wimmin folk. That is what a slow clap means, people.

As an adult and a parent, I think I will be totally concerned if my children begin to run a bit too mainstream. Thus runs the path to Madness and Sheeple-dom. This is not something to which you should aspire, people! (Remember Mr. Pine and his purple house? Anarchy! That's the ticket.)

2. And this leads me to another point. Why are movie nerds so transparently not really very nerdy/unattractive? And why do they become "attractive" once they dress up conventionally and fit it with the ridiculous jock group? Glasses can be wicked cool people!

I am thinking of She's All That, with Freddie Prinze Jr. and Rachel Leigh Cook. She was this totally cool and brilliant art nerd who for some reason didn't realize that she just needed to get contact lenses and some Abercrombie clothes to fit in with the glam crowd. Of course, her makeover is delivered, My Fair Lady style, by Freddie Prinze Jr. himself, who naturally falls in love with his Eliza now that he has fixed her up. Why the hell can't he fall in love with her in her original interesting modern goth get up? For that matter, why did Eliza Doolittle have to "be a lady" before Henry Higgins found her acceptable? It's class warfare being taught to teenagers on the big screen with the main-est of the mainstreamers cast in the roles of royalty. I call bullshit! NO more elite status for Sheeple! Let's give credit and elevated status to those who are willing to be different!

And how about Can't Buy Me Love (1987) with the coolest nerd in history, Patrick Dempsey. He pays to get Pygmalioned by his beautiful and shallow neighborhood hottie, and she actually learns to love him, blah blah blah. I guess this one has a little twist, because they both learn to reject the "go with the crowd" idiocy of their crowd and "be themselves" and so on, but they both still end up as attractively styled blandly mainstream version of "themselves".

Pretty In Pink is the only movie I can think of where the outcast doesn't have to change into a Sheeple Girl to get the guy. BUT, they originally had her NOT get the cool guy and had to change the ending to make it happy enough to please audiences and furthermore, I still cannot see Molly pining after this dopey Rich Boy in the first place. Just because she hangs around with Duckie (which, hubba hubba, who wouldn't want a little Jon Cryer action anyway!?) doesn't mean she can't attract any interesting guys. She is a strong, interesting, attractive girl. She wouldn't be sitting home crying every day in the real world. She'd be like, "These high school guys are dorks. Let's go get coffee by the college and pick up some cool art students." I know this. Really. This is what we did in high school when the guy pool seemed to be drying up.

3. I must stop watching VH1's I Love the 80's 3D or you will be subjected to many more posts like this one.

4. Oh yeah, and why do I LOVE to watch these movies, even though they push all my buttons? Gah!

Mr. Pine's Purple House

2005-11-03T08:42:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Suburbia! (Hell, that is.)

This is where I live. Scarier than the last week of Halloween photos, no?

This setting and home are so terrifyingly unlike my usual taste that it is taking me a while to really settle into that "homey" feeling.

I had a British book when I was kid, called "Mr. Pine's Purple House" which featured a row of identical houses much like this. The protagonist, the aforementioned Mr. Pine, could never find his house in the eerie conformity of his neighborhood and retaliated by painted his house bright purple. Of course, this inspired others near him, and soon the row of houses looked like something from the San Francisco hills. It was my early introduction to anarchy. Thanks Mom and Dad!

Sadly, I am bound by community covenances as well as strapped by a lack of cash, so my house will never be purple. I'd never go for that option anyway. I'd love to do some kickass landscaping and add a bunch of trees and shrubs (A Shrubbery!) and such out front, but that will have to wait for a bit. But in its defense, it has a nice large lot, tons of trees out back, and a great school district. So, there you have it.

The inside of the house is much more personalized. I have plans for more creativity inside eventually as well. I have prepared a flickr slideshow for those of you who want a peep inside for now. Enjoy.

THAT'S IT????

2005-11-01T16:56:00.000-08:00

I FINALLY WIN BIG AND THAT'S ALL I (DON'T) GET???

I've got a whole freakin' bag of freakin' Tootsie Pops because it's the classic give away for cheap-os. All the public give-aways feature bags full of Tootsie Pops and freakin' nasty ass Dots! NO MORE POPS! NO MORE DOTS! I WANT MINI CANDY BARS!

Okay. I think. I've had. Enough candy. Today.

Ummm.....I knew it was an urban myth all along.

My life is pretty pedestrian these days, so I gotta take my thrills where I can.

I'm gonna post pictures of my new house tomorrow.

Oh yeah, and I went to IKEA for the first time today and that was pretty damn cool. Be grateful I didn't bring my camera and you aren't treated to photo after photo of gleaming rows of merchandise. Because it was lovely. And I am broke, so it seemed extra lovely. Sigh.

Perhaps I'll go sifts through the Dots and Pops for more chocolate now.

I'm a Wiener!

2005-11-01T16:38:00.000-08:00

I was just eating some of the kid's Halloween candy and I was opening a Tootsie Pop. Without even thinking about it, I opened the wrapper all the way up to search for The Indian Shooting a Star on it. Weren't you supposed to win something if you got a Tootsie Pop wrapper that had The Indian Shooting a Star on it? It seemed like such a big deal when I was kid. The action is so deeply ingrained that I am still searching for The Indian in my 30's!

AND HE WAS THERE! What do I win? Tell me! Tell me!

Self Portrait

2005-10-30T17:22:00.000-08:00

I have been experimenting a little with self portraits. I am considering participating in Self Portrait Tuesday. In the meanwhile, I am having some difficulty because my camera lens is too big and fancy for me to just hold out my camera at arms length to capture myself. I have been getting around this by playing with the mirror.

This early attempt is blurry, but seemly.

Here, I am training (in vain) to get the angle right in the mirror and am looking at my own reflection rather than the camera.

And now I'm like, "Screw it!" and I'm being silly.

So, that's me. I told you that you couldn't see my boobs! That's my other web site.*

*Holy cows! I was gonna put in a fake URL for sluttymoms.com as a joke and then I checked and there totally is one and you totally DO NOT want to go there. Well maybe you do, but my mom and many of my more conservative readers do not. Really.

You Wanna See Something REALLY Spooky?

2005-10-29T06:50:00.000-07:00

This is exactly what Gabe will look like if he becomes a Goth Teen. Eeeek! (Just like his Mom, back in the day. Awww!)

We went to "Spooky Science Night" at his school and he copped a typical cool kid attitute and didn't want to wear his costume. He perked up at my idea of scary black eye makeup.

As I was applying the makeup, he squeezed his eyes shut and squirmed and whined and protested that I was TOUCHING HIS EYES! I tried to explain that you can only make "black eyes" by touching the eyes with makeup and had to fight with him to finish the second eye.

After he viewed these digital images outside his school he said, "Black eyes, yuck!" and I said, "Tough, suffer."

Gila Monsters

2005-10-27T13:19:00.000-07:00

More photos from the Zoo.

Peevers checks out the Gila Monster.

Gabe and Quin cavort on the Gila Monster.

Are you all bored of photo week yet?

Any requests?

No, you cannot see my boobs.

Don't Be Scared

2005-10-26T06:18:00.000-07:00

Gabe insists on being a ghost for Halloween. He has a whole box full of dress up clothes including Batman. For a while he was asking to be a "toilet paper mummy". When we moved, I saved an old sheet to make him a kick-ass mummy ensemble. But now he is set on being a simple ghost. It's an easy costume, but it almost feels like I'm cheating by simply cutting a few holes in the sheet and throwing it over his head. I tried to bribe him with promises of "spooky makeup around his scary eyes" if he dressed as a mummy, but he wasn't interested.

So, here he is, at the zoo, in costume. He was kind of a big hit in the sea of store-bought superheroes and princesses. People would point and giggle and say "Oooh! What a scary ghost" and he would respond "It's just me!!" with a five year old's scorn and derision. He was also stumbling around knocking into people because he wasn't keeping the eye-holes in place.

It did occur to Hubby and me that he was only lacking a pointy cap to make a much less acceptable Halloween costume which would have the potential to get us driven from the zoo and perhaps the entire state altogether.

Quin wasn't into dressing up that day either. They have four separate opportunities to dress up in their costumes, so we'll see what the rest of the week brings. They are pretty cute though, no?

Pumpkin Baby

2005-10-25T11:46:00.000-07:00

Peevers at the Zoo in her "Trick or Treat" outfit. She is looking just like Gabe at this age.

Photo Week Entry 2: Fat Lip

2005-10-24T05:10:00.000-07:00

Quin fell down so many times yesterday I think she may be brain damaged. Seriously. She was wandering around crying "I bonked my head" at least 20 times yesterday.

At one point Hubby was mowing the lawn and I was going to the bathroom and my neighbor came into my house carrying Quin because she was crying and BLEEDING all over my driveway. She had split her lip pretty good. This is how it looked a few hours later. It looks about the same today. Poor little pitiful chicken baby.

It's Photo Week at I-C-B!

2005-10-23T18:09:00.000-07:00

In celebration of my finally finding my CF card reader and getting my camera up and operating again, I will post a new photo (or more) every day this week. Don't miss out on the fun people!

Here is Dr. P and Otto. He is a Red Tailed Boa. (Otto that is.)

And here is Gabe petting Otto. Proof that snakes are NOT, in fact, slimey.

And here is Quin's filthy little face expressing her glee in petting Otto, who is, in her words, "The best snake ever!"

Ya'll come back now, ya hear!

Saturday Night Drama

2005-10-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

Quin has enough temporal amnesia that when she untied her balloon and it drifted up to the ceiling of Kid's Land, she fussed and then forgot that she had ever had a balloon within three minutes.

Gabe held on to his balloon all afternoon. He left it in the car when we went grocery shopping "to keep it safe." When we got home with the groceries and he got out of the car he suddenly let out a small cry of dismay. I looked up just in time to see his balloon floating above the van, free and taking off fast.

Instantly, I started putting positive spin on the situation.

"Wow! Look where your balloon is going! It's going on an adventure up into the sky!"

His eyes began to fill with tears.

"Look honey! Your balloon is going to float up high into the sky by the airplanes! Maybe somebody on an airplane will see your balloon!"

His lips continued to quiver and his cheeks got blotchy as he protested. "But, I don't want an airplane to get my balloon! I forgot that my balloon would float away!"

I swear, his heart was totally breaking over this balloon. I tried to distract him with helping me bring in the groceries but he kept returning to the subject of the balloon. He was trying so hard to process his loss.

"I miss my balloon, Mama! Maybe my balloon will fly up by an airplane and a boy in the airplane who is sad will open his window and get it. That's a great idea I think."

And now, fifteen minutes after being being tucked in bed, Quin is fast asleep, but Gabe came out with tears streaming down his face.

"Mama, I need to say goodbye to my balloon."

After I assured him that he could draw a picture of his balloon tomorrow and many other assurances of how he will not have to spend the rest of his life balloon-less, I convinced him to stop crying and go to sleep.

Such a tender heart, that boy. And such a penchant for drama. My Good God Gertie! A balloon! A simple yellow latex balloon! What will happen when his first girlfriend breaks up with him?

More Adventures in Bureaucracy Land

2005-10-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

Idiotic Woman at County Health Services Office: Okay! We have your child scheduled for his mandatory vision and hearing test next week. Is there anything else I can do for you?

Me: Yes, I need to know where I can pick up a vaccination exemption form while I am there.

IW@CHSO: I'm sorry ma'am. We don't do that.

Me: I believe you do. I need the form or card which allows me to provide an exemption from vaccinations.

IW@CHSO: Oh! We don't do exemptions, but we do provide vaccination services and forms.

Me: Yes, I know that. That is why you will also have the exemption allowance form as well.

IW@CHSO: I'm sorry ma'am, we DON'T do that here.

Me: Georgia law allows for a medical and a religious exemption. I need the form which your office should provide for the school. Just like the eye/ear/dental exam I just scheduled with you.

IW@CHSO: You'll have to ask the school about that then.

Me: And they told me to ask YOU.

IW@CHSO: But ma'am, we don't do that.

Me: I understand that you personally are not aware of such a thing, but I need you to find out because I have been referred to you as the source of the form I need. You may need to ask around your office.

IW@CHSO: (pretty pissed at this point) Ma'am, we DON"T DO THAT!

Me: Well then, can you tell me who does?

IW@CHSO: NOT US!

Me: But you are the Department of Health who administers the state-wide vaccination program?

IW@CHSO: (defiantly) Yes, Ma'am.

Me: But you don't have the state mandated vaccination exemption form or any information on where I can get that?

IW@CHSO: No, Ma'am!

Me: Fine. I'll call around some more.

IW@CHSO: (click. No "have a nice day", "sorry I couldn't help you", "good luck", nothin!)

Can you imagine if I didn't know my state rights or have lots of information backing my decision not to vaccinate? How quickly would I just give in and get the freakin' poison injected into my son just because all other avenues were closed to me and the state is united in trying to make me look like some jerk off for not following all the other sheeple? Arggghhh!

* Edited to add: I did make some more calls to people who actually HAVE sent a child to school in Georgia without vaccinating and I found out that THERE IS NO FORM. So, the IW@CHSO was somewhat right, because, true true, her office doesn't DO that. But you'd at least think she could tell me: There is no form. You just write down on a piece of paper that you are not vaccinating due to X reason. That's it. Finito.

I'm not sure this lackadaisical approach is a good thing, because you can clearly see where it can lead to further confusion over the issue. You see, most states have a designated procedure which a parent can follow, rather than just be bounced from one under-informed bureaucrat to the next until they give up, prove they know what said bureaucrat does not, or set the office on fire. Georgia appears to operate under the "Stun Them With Our Stupidity" principle.

I'll tell you how it goes when I bring my little "manifesto" to Gabe's school. Bwah-hahahaha! Can you tell I'm just itchin' for a fight?

Status: Ubercool

2005-10-20T17:16:00.000-07:00

My boy, my sweet little bear, is getting so big suddenly. He walks differently and talks differently and swaggers around independently, like a...male. It's kinda freakin' me out.

Today, when he got home from school and burst in the front door he saw that I had company (a girlfriend visiting). He quickly and smoothly shifted gears from his usual excited report on his school day, coolly slung his backpack on the floor and said, "Hey. What's up?"

It was like he morphed into a swaggering teenager in front of my very eyes. What will he have left to communicate his cool when he is fifteen? Will he just stroll past me and grab a beer out of the fridge while scratching his nuts?

However, an hour later he ran naked into the kitchen and demanded, in front of the same company, that I wipe his butt. Guess who's ubercool now? Mom...the buttwiper.

Wait, maybe he is the cool one. He can get chicks to wipe his poopy behind on demand! Damn, I've been played!